Chapter Text
Eyes wide, Ingrid scoots backwards a foot or two. The sudden attention is, if not exactly painful, at least disconcerting. It makes her uneasy, leaves her feeling jittery in much the same way she often found herself on the eve of battle. Actually, it’s almost worse in a way. She’s trained extensively for combat, she’s fought tooth and nail to ensure her own survival and that of her friends and allies. It is a type of danger she is well acquainted with. This, however – the almost predatory looks on her friends’ faces – scares her. It’s a feeling only made worse as she scans those three faces and sees in them a unified purpose. A sinister, if potentially enjoyable (if the two previous performances is anything to go by) purpose.
She takes a deep breath, meets the gaze of each of her friends. She can tell just from those brief moments of eye contact that all three of them are of one mind, and that her chances of fending off a simultaneous assault from all three is pretty much nonexistent.
Her dire predictions are right.
Dorothea’s first demonstration revolved around Mercedes’ breasts. The second, Annette’s feet. Given the structure of Dorothea’s “lesson plan” thus far, Ingrid is sure she knows what the next target is.
And she’s right about that, too.
Almost as if the moment had been prearranged, all three of them are upon her. And just as she’d imagined, evasion and defense are all but impossible.
Mercedes proves to be the most immediate threat. She does, after all, have the toughest job. Ingrid’s legs are muscular. Powerful. Keeping them pinned is going to take all of Mercedes’ strength. She’ll also probably need a little help from the others to keep Ingrid distracted, which is why Dorothea heads for her arms. With a surprisingly agile maneuver that no one knew she had in her, Dorothea gets Ingrid’s arms up over her head, holding her wrists and keeping her off balance so she can’t scrape together enough leverage to win free. Annette is the final nail in the coffin, throwing herself over Ingrid’s midsection and centering her weight on the blonde’s hips to keep her from wiggling around. Poor Ingrid finds herself pulled taut, flat on the floor like a freshly laundered sheet stretched out to dry. Her eyes are wide and more than a little fearful, but there are other signs that suggest that as much as this might scare her, she’s still very much looking forward to it, too. Her cheeks are bright red and she nibbles almost coquettishly on her lower lip as she awaits the inevitable.
After what seems like an eternity of letting her stew, Dorothea laughs. Ingrid’s mixed emotions – her reticence, her embarrassment, her veiled enthusiasm – are so adorable that she can’t help but laugh. She leans in for a gentle, almost chaste kiss on the forehead. “It’s your turn, dear Ingrid. You know it’s only fair.”
Ingrid isn’t sure what strange definition of “fair” is involved here, but she’s fairly certain this isn’t what she’d consider an appropriate use of the word. Still, she nods. Nervously, but she nods. She has no time for anything else anyway, as Annette’s enthusiasm refuses to yield to restraint. The redhead dips low. She doesn’t bother starting slow, doesn’t bother with a soft approach.
She flicks her tongue straight into Ingrid’s belly button.
The young knight shudders and moans softly at the sudden and intense sensation. She’s never known her stomach to be so sensitive, but apparently it is, and now that the others know it, too, there’s no way they’re going to back down. Mercedes, terribly amused by the lapse in Ingrid’s normal stoicism, tries to keep a straight face as she continues wrestling with Ingrid’s ankles. Eventually, though, she can’t contain herself any longer and a few giggles escape her. She at least has the presence of mind and respect for her former classmate to at least try and muffle the laugh with her hand.
Dorothea, however, is nowhere near as conscientious. She takes Ingrid’s hands in her own, stroking her palms, dancing over the little callouses that have formed from use of sword, spear and shield. She showers her cheeks with kisses, smiling to herself every time a stray touch draws a little sigh or gasp from her friend.
Annette, meanwhile, is a machine. She simply cannot get enough of Ingrid’s midriff. She brushes her lips against the sensitive skin over and over again, rakes her fingers along a set of very sensitive ribs, and is rewarded with a series of breathless giggles.
“Annette… st-stop… you’re… you’re driving me crazy!” she manages to gasp out.
Mercedes responds in her stead. “I think that’s the idea.”
It finally sinks in just how dangerous this situation is. How hopeless. Ingrid’s freedom is forfeit, at least until the other three have had their fun, and she resigns herself to her fate. That’s a little uncharacteristic of her, she tells herself. She’s never been the type to give up easily, but she’s also a practical minded sort. She knows that there’s no escape from her current predicament. Not unless she employs more force than she’s willing to.
But it isn’t all bad. If she’s going to be a captive, she could have worse jailers.
And if she’s honest with herself, she’s actually enjoying this. More than a little.
The realization takes the rest of the wind out of her sails. She’s never thought too hard about this sort of thing. About… intimacy. Even when she was betrothed, her thoughts never really lingered very long on the subject. She simply wasn’t interested. There were far more important things for her to concern herself with. Now, though, it’s all she can think about. Her awareness has narrowed, her focus limited to just the three vixens tormenting her with forbidden delights. Dorothea leans forward for another kiss, and Ingrid finds herself not just returning it, but eagerly returning it. She’s never really kissed another woman before. Not in this way, at least. The sensation is new and it makes her head spin. And then there’s Mercedes, who has taken to gently stroking her thighs. First with the flat of her hand, then with just her fingertips, walking them up and down the delicate skin and making her nerves tingle with excitement.
It’s Annette, though, who continues to be the most frustrating, but also the most fun. The little redhead offers no quarter at all, worrying the lines of muscle that stand out against the skin of Ingrid’s abdomen, or digging her fingers into a pair of happily squirming hips.
The pleasant little detente lasts for several minutes. There are no words exchanged, and the room is largely quiet except for the soft, but unmistakable sound of skin against skin, and an occasional gasp or sigh. Eventually, Annette looks up from her work. She finds Ingrid’s eyes closed, her lips locked with Dorothea’s. Of more immediate interest, however, is what Annette can see just a little closer to home: a small, pink nipple – stiff and straining against the fabric of Ingrid’s camisole.
Annette begins to reach in that direction. Her plan is simple: to simply tug Ingrid’s shirt to one side so she can get a better look. But her hand is only halfway there when Dorothea stops her. The songstress holds out her own hand, index finger upraised. She gives the redhead a little waggle of that finger, which is enough to stymie Annette for the moment.
“Uh uh… that’s not how the story goes, Annette.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
“Try this.”
Dorothea grabs the hem of Ingrid’s shirt and hauls, pulling it up so far it bunches under her armpits. Ingrid herself is shocked. Perhaps even a little scandalized. Her hips buck and her legs try and kick. Annette nearly loses her seat and is only saved from a sharp fall by Mercedes and Dorothea’s quick thinking. Mercedes stretches herself out across Ingrid’s thighs, using her entire body to pin the blonde’s legs against the floor. Dorothea takes similar measures with Ingrid’s arms. The joint effort gives Annette enough time to recover. She adjusts herself as well, and with the three of them working in conjunction, poor Ingrid is well and truly helpless.
Annette, however, is not willing to take any further chances. Inspired by the view, she turns the aggression up yet another notch, showering Ingrid’s midriff with kisses.
Somewhere, amidst the barrage of affection, Ingrid bucks against the women holding her down. A hand wraps around the back of Dorothea’s head, fingers clenching in her hair and keeping her close. Ingrid lets out a desperate moan, one that is muffled by Dorothea’s lips pressed tightly against hers. She shudders, the heels of her feet drum against the floor, and Mercedes is hard pressed to keep her from breaking free.
The frenzy eventually passes, but Annette seems completely disinclined to stop. That is, until she shifts her weight and her forearm brushes against an unexpected wet warmth between Ingrid’s legs. Startled, she jumps back a bit, staring at the blonde still lying sprawled underneath her, held down but squirming with clear intent. Annette is fairly certain she knows what she’s just witnessed, but she feels the need to clarify, regardless.
“I… Ingrid? Did you-”
Mercedes, being far more worldly than her diminutive best friend holds no doubts about what she’s just seen and has to stifle another giggle as both Annette and Ingrid awkwardly dance around the subject. Dorothea is smiling too, but decides that letting things play out on their own will be far more amusing than interfering. She pushes back just enough to give the young scion of House Galatea an opportunity to voice a reply.
At first Ingrid says nothing despite the awkward, pregnant silence that’s settled over the room. But then again, the red of her cheeks says plenty. Eventually, however, Dorothea decides that perhaps her intervention is necessary after all. She gives Ingrid a playful nudge and a kiss on the cheek to try and coax her into confessing. It works.
“I… I did.”
Annette’s eyes are bright with mirth and she looks entirely too pleased with herself. “Just from me kissing your-”
“Yes!” Ingrid replies with probably a bit more volume than is strictly necessary.
Dorothea laughs again. Ingrid’s embarrassment is adorable, but perhaps it’s in everyone’s best interests to grant her somewhat of a reprieve. “To be fair, it wasn’t just you kissing her stomach. I like to think I played some part in it all.”
Ingrid’s eyes flash towards the smugly grinning Dorothea, her expression clear: “You’re not helping.” But she can’t keep sufficient heat in the glare, and it quickly softens. Her normal confidence wilts in an instant. Her hands shuffle awkwardly; she doesn’t know what to do with them.
This time it’s Mercedes who interjects with a suggestion. “Well, I don’t have a lot of experience myself, but I’ve heard that if you enjoyed the performance, it’s usually customary to offer up a coin or two to your host…”
And now Ingrid’s face has gone even redder. She chews on her bottom lip, her eyes downcast, but it’s only for a moment. She lifts her gaze, her jaw now set with determination. All her body language suggests that she’s decided something important. She nods, more to herself than to any of the others, and then practically throws herself at Dorothea, bearing her down to the ground through main strength and exuberance. She settles atop her, strong thighs clamped firmly about her waist and then leans down to give her a long, luxurious kiss. The next few moments are spent rolling about on the carpet, with each woman taking turns being on top, then on the bottom, then on top once more. Their limbs tangle awkwardly. Ingrid ends up with her arm pinned underneath her at one point, but mounts a stunning reversal that leaves Dorothea gasping but with her legs wrapped tightly around Ingrid’s waist and hips. Somewhere during the struggle, one of the straps of her nightgown – an affair so elaborate it’s almost impractical – ends up getting pushed off her shoulder, allowing one of the songstress’ breasts to peek out past the edge of the fabric.
Acting completely on instinct – and perhaps some small desire for “vengeance,” Ingrid reaches out and cups that bare breast, following up with a gentle squeeze.
Dorothea makes a little humming noise of satisfaction, one that goes just a bit sharper when Ingrid decides to playfully bat at the erect bud atop that breast with a fingertip. “Someone’s feeling audacious,” she teases.
Ingrid doesn’t even bother to deny it. “Not at all. Just giving you what you deserve for all your… hard work.”
The four of them share a brief laugh before the game changes yet again. With her three close friends working together, Dorothea is quickly stripped to naught but her skin. Ingrid kisses her. Then Mercedes. Then Annette. And by the time Ingrid’s lips return to hers, she’s been brought to her feet, guided over to her bed and gently laid down atop it. The three other women shuffle positions once more, and Dorothea now finds herself half in Mercedes’ lap, those gentle healing hands massaging her chest. Annette has settled down at the end of the bed and is happily toying with one of her feet, lavishing one kiss after another on her ankle or on the tips of her toes. Her other hand, index finger crooked, is insistently scratching the sole of Dorothea’s other foot, causing her to jump and squeal and laugh herself silly whenever the ticklish sensations become too much for her to handle.
And then there’s Ingrid who starts by emulating the tactics Annette had utilized upon her: kissing and nibbling at the sensitive skin of Dorothea’s belly for a short while before very slowly and very deliberately starting to kiss a path downwards.
The opera diva’s eyes fly open and she half sits up as she realizes just what it is her friend is about to do. She smiles warmly, clearly enjoying herself but nevertheless a touch concerned for her inexperienced friend. “Are you sure?”
Ingrid meets her eyes and musters up a sheepish smile. Her shoulders twitch up and down in a small shrug, but she doesn’t pull away. As with many other things in her life, she’s not about to let a little nervousness keep her from something she desires. And there is no doubting that she very much desires this.
And so, just like with everything else that’s ever intimidated her, instead of shying away, she decides to meet the challenge head-on.
She’s never encountered a “challenge” quite like this one, but that’s not really relevant.
Or so she tells herself, anyway.