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“Follow me, my lady.”
WIth four little words, one of the finest assassins produced by the empire of Russia leads Wanda Maximoff deeper into the Ca’ di Perle, to those places only known to paying guests and approved guests. The dusky-haired witch has little doubt that some of the Venetian upper crust keep a permanent tab on file and the serene Mistress of the place welcomes them at all hours.
Considering the ivory and dove décor, the witch intrudes in every sense, her golden skin and her dusk-dark waves an offense of a gathering summer evening upon the spare winter snows. The copper sheen of her cloak contains in a handspan of woven thread more colour than the whole of the pleasure house.
She ascends the staircase and through a set of doors flanked by the carved plaster pillars of two maidens, one bearing a lyre tucked against her side and another a flute. An education at the feet of Doctor Strange supplies their identities to her immediately; Erato, the muse of love poetry, and Euterpe, the muse of music.
More arresting is the a marble statue of a veiled woman holding a lyre and gazing pensively. The image so resembles Natasha that Wanda comes to a complete halt.
“Polyhymnia,” the Russian whispers. Her grey-blue eyes flicker with warmth and unspoken awe. “The patroness of the sacred arts of dance and poetry, the quiet arts.”
“The patron muse of the Ca’ di Perle, isn't she?”
Approval burns through the crinkling gaze, and the soft film of a diaphanous veil swirls around the courtesan when she inhales. “Very few are perceptive as that, my lady. We do her honour after every performance. Would you wish to know the custom?”
“I do,“ Wanda says. Her gaze traces the long, plush line of the marble arm, the way stone gathers in filmy, impossibly delicate folds beneath a carved girdle wrapped around her waist. “Is it aught I may participate in?”
Natasha nods, the exaggerated dip of her chin better announcing movement under the swaddling layers of soft blue. “The artist presents a token at the statue's feet in thanks. So too might a patron pleased by the showing of the arts. A scroll or a gem are customary depending upon the nature of the performance, but nothing is too small.”
Or perhaps even a book of untold mystical value, laid there by an unwitting Venetian trader admiring the solicitude and grace of well-educated companions. Wanda indicates the polished door chased in a thin cream border to offset the white paint. “Such things you teach me. I shall not forget. But once again, I have waylaid you from our destination.”
Natasha uses a small silver key to unlock the salon and stands aside for her guest to survey the interior. “Is this to your liking? We have three other rooms suitably arranged for different performances.”
Fingertips touching the frame of the door connect Wanda to the embedded wards, a tactile impression overlaid by the visual aspect. She needs a moment to attune herself to the enchantments woven around the studio. A cunning twist of a spell dampens sound by reflecting the waves within, providing a richer auditory effect. The protection against teleportation stands out for she knows to look for it.
Anyone trying to jump unwelcome within stands to receive a nasty electrical jolt, probably enough to stop the heart if persistent. She exhales and delves deeper, teasing out the subtle mental effect that radiates a soothing air. Skillful as the mages of this particular dimension are, they haven't buried anything unexpected or questionable in the room. She relaxes her attention and turns to the attendant courtesan. “Such a beautiful space. You are fortunate. I imagine there are not concert halls so lovely and intimate as this.”
High praise in a city as grand as Venezia and every bit as proud, the capital of a Mediterranean empire. For all Natasha is Russian, she blushes the warm shade of a tea rose and dips her head, lest any semblance of pride rest upon her narrow shoulders.
The door through which they enter opens into an oval chamber, this perhaps the one area that the architect had thought would make it unique in comparison to other rooms in Venice. The overall tidiness and lightness all assist in maintaining a pristine, welcome air. Such is shared by the courtesan who turns and waits to close the door behind Wanda once she has entered the room.
And time she takes to explore those nuances is considerable, for why not? The cost is dear enough. Wanda executes a slow turn. The oval studio features ceilings as high and airy as the salon, floors and furnishings designed from the same pale beech bleached nearly silver-white. Demure sky-blue walls richly lined by thick, long draperies elevate the illusion of space, and Wanda wonders whether a bolster pillow might float if she dropped it to the ground. Arched windows hide from the quiet street without behind sheer curtains, a bundle of snowy flowers on muted grey leaves further banishing any inference of a world outside the doors.
The marble fireplace does not burn, though supplies lie to the side. She hasn't dressed a log in years. Snapping her fingers to conjure fire has its advantages. Anticipation crawls in a glacial frisson down the column of her spine after spying the lounge and the oddity behind a sweep of white gossamer sheers. How many private salons feature a four-poster bed?
A pleasure house without a bed would not be much of a pleasure house to most. It carries the only thing of colour, aside from herself, a sapphire quilt trimmed in opalescent tassels that have no business being near a mattress. Is there nothing in Venice without adornment, save herself? She muses on how her doctor must relish her responses from the safety of the Sanctum. Even now he might be floating between the Windows on the World, spying her bemused expressions and Natasha's restraint.
The oil lamps in their low sconces have been lit, as dusk is already upon them, and the dark clouds seem to enhance it even more. Where it is dark and uncomfortably wet outside, the patron room seems to be a paradise of cozy tranquility.
Grey-blue eyes look towards Wanda, before Natasha steps further into the room, towards the dining table where a flagon of red wine has been placed with two glasses. Another sideboard carries a jug up mulled wine and two cups, leaving the choice of beverage to them. "What do you prefer?" the Russian asks over her shoulder. "More of the spicy mulled wine? Or a glass of pinot noir, my lady?" The voice ripples across the room to where the sorceress is, a gentle voice disrupting the silence that seems soothing compared to the hushed conversations going on outside in the salon.
The witch leaves little sense of someone trembling with uncertainty, all the more so given how her gaze ricochets like a shuttle on the loom, drawn back and forth in stitching lines about the studio. A smile curving her lips seals certainty of the necessary arrangements to be to her liking. A spark of delight erupts, lending brilliant levity in those vast twilit eyes. She trails her fingers along a serpentine corbel of the table, catching a ghostly image of herself in one of the large silvery frames hanging on either side of the bed, the contents of which are hidden behind the pale white draperies.
How strange to look so subdued . The thought locks a notion, something she pushes away. Thinking of the debonair gentleman reclining in an upright chair, fiddling with a pen, brings a wash of heat detonating from her navel. Strange holds her captive within the strictures of emotion or thought, and the fascination she cannot risk with the stakes so high here.
Wanda is still cloaked enough in that sheen of slick shadow, overlaid upon the embroidered corset and the long black dress, sheer as oil. On anyone else, they might be a passing strange combination. But it fits the exotic elements in her, the mix of cultures, the effusion of the unexpected. She enters Natasha's circle of space not like a rock striking a placid lake, but immersing herself in a different fashion. The bearing about her shifts ever so slightly, the smoothness of her gait polished and rounded, the sway to her walk a touch more pronounced. The upward sweep of her gaze mirrors arcing curve of a scimitar carried as far east as men know to go meeting those expressive, lovely eyes. "Always a pinot noir, I think. You Venetians have corrupted me to your tastes. We can save the mulled wine for later, I think. Water might be needful, too, but I have little doubt the cellars here maintain the purest of vintages."
A nod. And slender fingers that reach for the flagon to pour some of that dark red beverage into a glass, in the moment Natasha reacts promptly to the dusky-haired girl's expressed current preference. Turning then to face Wanda, the veiled courtesan approaches with the glass she hands to her charming company. If any sharpness might have been noted in the darker haired woman's gaze remains a mystery, as the Russian meets it with demure gentleness.
"There is a flagon of water on the other table," she informs softly, gesturing towards one of the smaller tables in the vicinity of the four poster bed. "As for wine, our Mistress makes sure there is a good standard met to please our patrons." Her gaze darts briefly towards the door and Natasha exhales with a relieved sigh that makes her veil dance ever so slightly. “Our guests have varied tastes in wine as much as in their appreciation for the arts. One prefers the lamentations of a violin in a requiem, another the delicate turn of a dance to glistening harps. You remain a riddle to me, my lady." A second glass of wine is poured and finds its way into her grasp, fingers curling about the stem, as her eyelids lower just so, and her eyes take on a thoughtful expression.
The Mistress knows the contents of a witch's wishlist. Strangely simple, strangely evocative. Whether they are delivered in kind remains very much in the future, even as she reaches out to accept the glass in those long, graceful fingers. "Lovely," she replies, on account of what unclear. The fluidity of motion about her makes a study of physical poetry, even when she opts to stand still. Though the public mask is off, shifting to another self, even as she seeks a seat to perch upon. "We seek to indulge ourselves in Venetian culture if we are here, surely. My lord encourages me to explore the world and sample it from the perspective of a local, rather than a foreigner. That is not to say foreigners are incapable of appreciating and adapting to our culture; a good many of them, in fact, can. Especially when guided on what the appropriate norms are, I think they embrace the glories of your art and culture wholeheartedly."
And how not, with Venice’s shocking freedoms and breathtaking liberties conspiring to make the rest of the world seem a bit dimmer? She does not blunt her gaze, holding a full regard of the lovely courtesan in all her elegance and modesty revealed. The wine is lifted to her lips. "I would learn everything I can, but as we have but a night… Perhaps an emotional response is the best description for what I seek. Art evoking that strips away the veneer of all our artifice, and invites you to surrender to pleasure at its core."
Natasha’s gaze is lowered when the sorceress begins to speculate about artistic qualities of worth. The way in which she averts her face to take a sip of the wine - in a gulp that may appear a touch hasty - suggests a certain loosening of restraint. The glass is lowered, and the veil shifting back in place, as courtesan turns to regard Wanda where she has settled herself, meeting the sorceress's assessing gaze. "All art properly done rouses even the hardest heart. No one can fail to respond to a gentle touch executed with grace or a vision of such beauty. I firmly believe that is common to the human condition, my lady. Highborn or low, we celebrate the remarkable,” the Russian states then, with perhaps surprising determination that might not fit the picture of demure regard she usually displays. And as if realizing that slight lapse in tone, there is a hint of rosiness that manages to climb further up than the veil can hide, a blink of a pair of expressive eyes before they are lowered again.
"Forgive me if I distressed you. I meant not to imply any performance was less important than others. Only that if I am to spend the limited coin of time, let me experience something memorable to hold to my heart." Wanda inclines her head a degree, inviting this explanation to the direction of the question as she picks up on the apparent unease swirling around the Russian.” You must think me a barbarian at civilisation's very gates.” She draws her hand to rest upon the upholstered chaise, her glass still supported in her long, slim fingers. A tilt here and there send the pinot noir running in a slow churn, racing after itself, the lower fathoms barely dislodged, and those above spinning faster. "I am sorry to disturb the harmony of the house. Perchance my own experiences lend me different lenses. A hazard of being too well traveled, and not softened by the graces of Venezia." Her smile is restored in sunny force, gravity of a star punching down and around. "Let us talk no more of it. Tell me instead what you do enjoy."
"It's hard to tell," Natasha begins, in her attempt to reply to Wanda's question. Her fingers join others that already hold her glass. Those lovely features are still hidden, her expressive eyes all of a window into the Russian's soul the sorceress will get. Expressive eyes that ease into a relieved expression, only to widen at the next request.
"What I enjoy...?" she echoes, with a smile that is more audible than evident on almost completely hidden features. As if becoming aware of that, the graceful courtesan shifts the glass to be held in just one hand, while the other lifts to undo the clasp that fastens the veil to the scarf. "What I enjoy, is to be unveiled," she smiles then, as the diaphanous flutters and releases her face, only to hang down at the other side. Her flame-dark brows lift, complementing those heart-shaped lips that curve ever so slightly.
"Persuaded... conquered... in a way that allows me to pay homage to the arts according to our culture." The skin is pale, delicate, unblemished; the cheeks show off a slight rosiness. "But as we are here, I believe it is in order, if I get a little more comfortable." And with that said, her hand draws the scarf off her head, where it covered long strands of rich strawberry red hair, held together loosely by a ribbon. Both veil and scarf the Russian deposits on the table, in a loose heap of light blue silk, before she turns around to face Wanda again, the glass of wine still in her hand.
So this is danger incarnate . But for the length of her hair, Natasha Romanova reveals herself to be as glorious as the Black Widow of Wanda's acquaintance -- and perhaps more. But this White Widow is another creature, subdued in a velvet sheath but no less dangerous for it.
The sorceress, as most practitioners of the Mystic Arts, has a particular capacity to see deeper than the skin to the condition of soul and body. Confidence and utter control radiating from the courtesan lap against her mystic awareness.
Wanda leans back slightly, the spill of her garments ensuring she is utterly clad from her shoulders down to her toes, where the serviceable leather boots polished and oiled to a lovely, lustrous ink sheen captures the light. Her colours are a tad bold for this sort of place, but then the evening sky rarely takes on pallid shades. She supports herself still with the heel of her hand driven into the cushions, but even so, the young woman barely surrenders anything for height or, more practically, owning the space she occupies. "As we are here, we should take your measure in every way. Quite." She gently runs a finger down her collarbone, concealed under the bound twist of the cloak. "And," her voice changes, softer, almost a whisper for a boudoir, "I would give honour to the arts properly. For you have committed yourself to master your arts, and I wish to learn what it truly means." An interesting proposition, perhaps. Her gaze tracks after every movement, and lest it be thought she dares to be passive, there's a keenness to her luminous eyes that leaves little beyond knowledge.
Those long strands of living flame bring a ghost of a smile, a sharpening of focus to the razor fine edge of undoing. So has every predator ever gazed upon prey, assessing and measuring. "Pinch your nipples," she says simply. Direct, to the point, so utterly unlike other facets of her persona. "Do it. Through your garments."
Natasha had been at ease, perhaps lured into a feeling of security. Her act of undoing her veil and scarf is in fact a rather unusual occurrence, as such would most often happen through the guest's very own hands. But then again, the conversation with Wanda eased her manner in such a way that she seemed oblivious of the implications, such perception perhaps helped along by the foreigner’s refined interaction, and her not pushing for invading Natasha's bubble. Or perhaps she expected less of a woman, when her clientele may be diverse indeed.
It seems the golden-skinned young woman's stage is set quite well, as this sudden twist and change of tone takes the Russian completely by surprise. Or so it seems. Lips that curl when Wanda confesses her wish to learn the Ca’ di Perle’s techniques shift into a slightly shy cast, bottom lip is caught by a line of impeccably white teeth. The request -- brief, efficient and to the point -- set Natasha's cheeks flushed in a deep red. Desire answers to her self-control, judging from the way she lowers her eyes, that faint line appearing briefly between her brows, the deliberate hesitation with which she lifts her hands crossing before her as her fingers splay on her curves that are wrapped in the light blue silken gown. An exhale catches fabric from the way her chest falls before it rises again, in the moment her grasp tightens, catching each nipple between digit and thumb, and then administering that pinch, with a slight flutter of her eyelashes.
"Good. I don't have to tell you twice," Wanda observes without so much as a beat missed. She sips her wine, the distillation of broken and crushed grapes settling upon her tongue. "Look at me, Natasha." Names hold power, and perhaps she knows that, intoning the radiant courtesan's like a token, an incantation of some terrible goddess descended to Earth. If they even have such tales of God's in this realm. The pause lasts but a moment, or perhaps many, until compliance is gained from the red-cheeked Russian. "Unless you are permitted, you will keep eye contact when answering my questions." A pause. There's another clause in there, unspoken. "You may ask permission. I may grant it. Cast those pretty eyes down demurely and you'll soon find how good I am at keeping all attention on me."
She slides her feet forward slightly, the glimmer of the lacquered leather peeping out beneath the puddled surf of her long cloak. More than likely Natasha is used to all manner of guests, the demanding ones, the men and women eager to exalt in her grace and purity out of some imagined harem, or to recreate a fantasy from an unbesmirched, graceful companion the likes of which they lack in everyday acquaintance. In her way, Wanda isn't quite the same; not so much playing with her food as fine tuning an instrument. She sits perfectly comfortably, a magistrate staring down a pupil, a maestra observing a particularly talented student approach difficult work. Her gaze is unfaltering, taking it all in.
"Describe your nipples right now. How pinching and twisting them makes you feel," she speaks as if finding qualities of the wine to discuss. "Show me the way you want me to tug and twist on them if we were standing on a balcony over the Grand Canal, where anyone could see if they looked up."
And Natasha lifts her gaze when thus told, her eyes flickering slightly as she hears Wanda speak her name and more instructions follow. "Ask permission for lowering my gaze?" she echoes with a slight tremble to her tone, as if she were not quite believing her ears. "Very well, my lady." And while she may be used to a variety of guests, this woman indeed poses a new challenge. Like a pupil she listens, and oh how even more blood rushes into those cheeks, and her gaze becomes slightly unsteady, threatening to drop, as her bottom lip once again is caught. All because of the request, her next test. the Russian inhales deeply, remembering that she should keep her eyes focused on the dusky-skinned young woman.
"My nipples a-are hard and pointed, my lady," she confesses, her eyelids fluttering. Her fingers continuing to touch and tease where the fabric still bars the view. She does not lower her gaze, but the expression shifts a little, and despite those words that slip past her lips, the blush remains on her features, testimony to the layer of modesty that is stripped from her in this little exercise. Her gaze becomes distant as if picturing the very situation Wanda conjures. And her voice takes on a slightly dreamy quality. "You'd stand right behind me, so I couldn't back away... Subjecting me to the glances of those below." Her tongue flicks over her lips moistening them, as Natasha continues to speak. "Your hands on my breasts." Her fingers continue to tease pert nubs that rise against the light blue silk. "My arousal evident for anyone to see." She blinks, as if awakening from a dream, awkwardness there in her gaze as the courtesan’s gaze focuses on Wanda, awaiting her verdict. An epitome of innocence that has been somewhat spoiled.
The slight intake of breath alludes to deep concentration alighting upon the pretty assassin put on the spot to conjure a reaction. As soon as her clear eyes start to drop, the witch sits up slightly as though to paid put to her suggestive warning. Her appetite for seeing the discomfort of another is a fickle, elusive thing and the slight arc of her smile settles in once the woman resolves to holding her drowning deep eyes. "You want to be dripping wet?" A confirmation. She pauses then for Natasha to repeat that, to confirm in a heartbeat what she desires.
Contrary to what the sorceress may have wished for, a confirmation of that desire does not come from the Russian, her grey-blue eyes clouding instead, and a slight blink there, but nothing more. True, such could be taken as a 'yes', at least there is no contradiction forthcoming.
Wanda sips the pinot again, crushed grape settling upon her tongue. "Imagine leaning forward over that balcony. Poised with your legs wide apart, so anyone can see your desire." It is then she rises to her feet, pushing up from the couch with the assistance of her hand. The shiver of her cloak breaks around her tenebrous gown. Water she claims from the side table, poured almost to the brim. She dips her finger to test the temperature, then gestures. "Stand still. Present your breasts to me. Cup them."
Natasha focuses her gaze again then on Wanda, when the witch continues in her relentless recitation of a sexual fantasy. Holding her gaze then, the Russian dares to contradict the request. "But even with my legs apart, no one will be able to see, with my dress..." Her eyes widen when she sees Wanda rising to her feet in a visual demonstration of a dancer's perfect command, following the sorceress on her way to the far end of the room towards the four poster bed where water will be poured. Every step conveys a grace rarely seen. With a slight sideways tilt of her head, but not averting her gaze, Natasha presents her clothed breasts as told. The ripe fullness more than spills over her palms.
The reaction is quite simple. She draws near to Natasha, so the black rose and resin perfume dusted on her skin enfolds them both. The distance is short, a constraint that they're not quite a step apart. Then she takes the cup and pours its contents entirely down the front of the woman's dress until it turns filmy, exposing everything and nothing. Two sharp pinches upon those pert nipples assure they stand arrogant and hard, peeking through soaked draperies. "The additions I requested are outside. Go fetch them."
Flinching ever so slightly when the front of her dress is drenched in cold water, Natasha stills en pointe. The corners of her lips twitching, a low sound of protest rising in her throat when she feels the water run all the way down over her chest and further. Another sound then, at the pinches administered with the sorceress's own fingers, a sound somewhere between a gasp and a moan. Before the Russian freezes. "Additions? Which additions? I will not leave this room, my lady." Words, uttered with an overall polite tone, a layer of shocked tremble hardly discernible beneath the thin layer of her composure. "Not in this state." She lifts her chin, a glimmer of inner steel on display for all those guileless grey-blue eyes widen.
The mask she wears only sinks so far. Rain traipses against the windowpane and joins the puddles on the worn cobblestones outside the Ca’ di Perle, smearing the vision of the beautiful city into a blurred, subdued watercolour. The witch smiles inwardly, confirmation found.
"Because I cannot carry what I requested by myself," answers Wanda simply. She tips her head as the oil lamps plays across her features, gilding her in a darker shade of antique gold where the night falls upon her skin. The slow deliberation of her steps draw her towards the door, and she nods to it. "Do you fear anyone is outside in the hallway? That they might see you en deshabille? That they might know your face?" If this is a boundary, then so be it as a boundary, and she would know of it. The curiosity lingers there in eclipse, limning the outline of her presence. Fingers skim along her lips as she holds Natasha within the scope of her features. So many things to learn, so many cunning details. “What additions indeed? Rope.”
"And you think, I am stronger than you are?" asks the Russian softly. Her autumnal brows wrinkle slightly at the information of the addition being rope, but it is the question, that draws a breathed "yes" from her lips. "I am not permitted to be seen unveiled outside in the hallway and especially the salon, my lady." Natasha admits, lowering her gaze. Just for the fraction of a second! Before she looks up, only to meet that inquisitive gaze again. "I'll need both the veil and the scarf."
"Then you shall not be unveiled, beautiful." Wanda drifts towards the discarded material and descends into a kneeling position to claim it, as graceful as any priest about to give an offering before an altar to the gods. She is a good deal more cautious, perhaps, about descending to her knees, but there is reason for that, too. The diaphanous fabric scooped up, she ensures not a dot of dirt marks the surface after an initial survey, and then proceeds to use the assistance of the chaise or nearest table to stand again. Simple enough, even as her cloak churns and rolls around her like a thrashed copper sea. "As you need." The door stays absolutely shut and no move made to open it before the veil is in place. "It shall not be for long we are out there, and then we shall resume." The corner of her mouth lifts in an uneven mezzaluna, suspended for a brief moment as the banked smolder of her gaze rises again.
Once all is well, if the door is opened, the quiet corridor has little to disturb it. Oil lamps, surely, the muffled sounds of life in any refined Venetian house. No guards, no guests about. But there are several coils of rope in several different widths, each smooth enough to the touch. A pair of candles, scented sweetly with beeswax, and a rather unremarkable little box of rosewood inlaid by several other lighter woods, like oak, alder, and the like. The pattern of diamonds upon the top and sides makes discerning where the lid is rather difficult, and it smells sweet in its way too: honey, olive, and a note that might bring to mind the tartness of fruit.
Rather clear, then, why Wanda might seek some assistance. There are more than a few pieces there. The tools of corruption needn't always be the obvious or profane ones; sometimes they can smell sweet and lend themselves to artistry. Evidently she enjoys a soothing, feminine fragrance, if the candles are anything to go by. Not the common things found as aides d'amour ; the rope, perhaps, but it's a finely woven thing made from something very different than coarse hemp.
Natasha remains as she is, blinking slightly when the sorceress switches from stern magistra to the considerate person that will respect the Russian's own rules. The scarf is accepted and wound about her head, the ends of it used even to cover where the drenched fabric clings to her breasts, and then the courtesan attaches the veil with two clasps to the scarf, reducing the extent of what is visible of her face to the tiny frame that leaves only her expressive eyes and brows on display. To Wanda's assurance she nods, following along with unobtrusive yet so efficient grace as to keep the stay outside of the studio as brief as possible. Her cloudy blue eyes are bound to widen, less in alarm and more in curious wonder at the things she finds; the rope, well, it does draw a soft and ever so slightly worried sigh from her lips; the two candles of beeswax she lifts to her nose, drawing in the scent even through the thin fabric of the veil. Even the wooden box is regarded with fascination, and were it only to admire the simple beauty of the wood inlay work.
And with all those things gathered and divided between the two of them, the pair returns to the studio, shutting the door behind them without anyone taking much of a notice. Placing the candles and the box onto the table, Natasha undoes the veil, and removes the scarf once again, folding both neatly, before she deposits them beside the other things on the table. Her cheeks have taken on the more relaxed pallor, that is usual for redheads, yet still, when her eyes lift to meet the gaze of Wanda, a brow lifts in silent question, a flicker there in her gaze giving away a certain curiosity, even if the slight unrest felt just before they went out to get the things may not be forgotten.
The box has its own elegant fragrance, the kind only found with woods that carry a heavy natural resin. The tinge is almost sweet, a hidden effect behind the unguent in their heady, wholesome basenotes. Presumably some kind of shellac or seal was used to keep the oils from seeping into the wood, and perhaps not. Those beeswax candles themselves are nearly as aromatic, the true thing, and rather soft to the touch. Natasha's own body heat begins to warp the taper to the imprints of her fingers. Another time, Wanda might laugh; the mask, however, is solidly shifted to another element of her persona. Or perhaps, it's displaying the real one as the Russian adept removes her own veil, and in turn, might see her patron do the same. Perhaps not.
Her glancing smile turns a moment devious, the blunt angle of her gaze drizzling over the courtesan's shapely form and noting surely all the differences between a courtesan known and a courtesan unveiled. She reaches for one of the selections of fine, diamond-braided rope, unweaving one end. The length coils among her fingers, measured out by touch, until she reaches approximately an arm's length. "Turn around."
How do shy creatures that are usually veiled react to unexpected circumstances? In Natasha's case, her grey-blue eyes flicker as they land on the unreadable expression before her. Laughter might come from another woman, not her. She shifts to the line of rope as the sorceress reaches for it. A moment of hesitation blooms as the request sinks in, her mien softening and distant, albeit still slightly lowered. Then there is a nod, and Natasha obeys, pirouetting upon her toes. So simple a movement calls for the utmost of control over herself, and the supple muscles of her legs flex when she lifts up. After all, this is her stage, her native terrain defined in the holy glow of the licked flames and polished ivory setting.
Such physical perfection is rightly a spectacle in itself. Wanda clenches her fingers tight, reminder bound in every scaled diamond. Don't be beguiled by her. You know better. She glides up on soft-soled footsteps behind, holding that smooth length of rope with an obvious expertise refined by practice or odd pursuits suitable to some foreigner in a world dependent upon sail. It means that spanning a prima ballerina in secure knots and lengths is hardly more difficult than lashing a crate to a hook or not. Though far more artistic, when one gets right down to it. Provided that there is no resistance, the first loops will span Natasha's shoulders, weaving gently around and pulling flat against the sodden material. A point to that water.
She does not hear Wanda's approach, and so when a line of rope is suddenly slung about her shoulders from behind, the courtesan flinches, and a low startled sound escapes her lips. And it is that sound maybe, that reminds Natasha she has a voice after all.
"What are you doing, Lady Maximoff?" the Russian inquires, her voice trembling slightly as if from a suppressed incredulous giggle - - or because the action in its sudden all-encompassing capacity of tying her up frightens her. "What do you intend?" Perhaps it is that she cannot fathom a motive that keeps the courtesan in the assumption she is safe. Or not.
A virtuoso performer . Strange's words haunt her even so, manifesting in the silence of Wanda's mind.
"Expose you." Two words, shots fired straight to the heart of the matter, are whispered in the lovely redheaded woman's ear without a trace of mercy. Two words dripping with promise, adamant shafts fletched in the evocative lilt of the sorceress's accented mezzo-soprano voice.
There is a shiver rippling through the Russian's body, when Natasha hears those two words, a slight blink of her eyes there, but no resistance forthcoming, when the sorceress continues to wind the thin rope about her frame.
Here, behind closed doors and sturdy walls, one cannot be corrupted and ruined to an audience. Thin bands weave in their loose stricture around Natasha's chest, slithering in a narrow embrace that betimes turns taut, largely when the long ends of the rope are tugged by harpist's fingers. Wanda threads them through an open loop left for safety's sake, adjusting when something appears to snag on the robe. "Drive you to worship the Muses with pleas and cries of pleasure. Is that not the highest calling in Venezia, darling?"
Another tug on the rope pulls the one circuit beneath the Russian's breasts up beneath them, acting as something of a brassiere, at least for the band. "You can blush all you like while you can't hide what you desire. And isn't that the surest way to give thanks to Polyhymnia? Dripping a puddle of your own wetness, drenched in desire, and coming aware to your own aching need?" A kiss is brushed onto her cheek.
A faint rosiness begins to reclaim her pale cheeks at the question of giving thanks to the divine patrons of the arts, grey-blue eyes lifting in the same moment her head turns, trying to catch a glimpse of Wanda. But no direct reply will be forthcoming. Just a somewhat affirmative downflit and the lap of her tongue against her lips. Her head turns back then, her eyelids fluttering as she continues to listen, and her cheeks pinken even further, the skin feeling hot beneath the kiss Wanda brushes against it.
Another pull; Wanda isn't making it uncomfortable, but certainly felt, running her finger under every length to be sure nothing is constricted overly much. Her gaze then lifts to see whether the ceiling supports any sort of hooks or bars, something suitable for her intentions. Otherwise that chair is seeing a second life.
"Your hands are left free for this, unless you wish otherwise. Let's open your legs and secure them, so can't close them. We're going to watch your undoing." A tap of her fingertip against Natasha's hip trails down. "Yes?"
Strangely enough, it will be the remark about her hands that has Natasha straighten, her chin lifting just so, as she meets Wanda's eyes, turning her head if she needs to. And with an expression aglow with contradictory emotions, the Russian dares to utter her choice. "I do," she says.
Two simple words, that slip past her lips with a slight tremble in her tone. "Please. Bind my hands as well." After which her eyes close, possibly overwhelmed by her own audacity to speak thus, and to reveal so much in so brief an admission. There won't be any objection to Wanda announcement of her further plans, but another shiver will be felt against the touch of the sorceress's finger trailing down her skin.
One must have keen eyes to glimpse the pair of hooks that have been cleverly disguised at the ceiling of the studio room, painted all white as to blend in and not to cause alarm. But it is likely Wanda spotted them upon her arrival. Whether she uses them is another matter.
Wanda radiates a particular warmth to her presence infused by the dash of spicy resin and rose attar lying upon her tawny skin. It enfolds her, a lingering signature at the threshold of detection. Guiding Natasha a few steps forward, she finally circles around to determine the symmetry of the bands spanning the shelf of her collarbone and the delicate indentation under the swell of her bosom, tugging the robe taut and straight beneath the bite of the wider rope. She stands back to assess with all the impassive regard of a statue or an asp, then the Russian is taken by the shoulders and spun to face away.
"Bounce on your heels," comes the command, simple as such. Trust treated by denial of knowledge of seeing ; the exercise will test other senses, perhaps. Natasha isn't permitted to watch. For someone ever veiled but for her eyes, perhaps this is an intentional ruse. A gentle scrape of nails down the arch of her elegant spine to her tailbone dances down the hidden contours, leaping vertebrae, teasing the skin.
The courtesan’s face is lowered, her part spoken for now, as she endures -- no, experiences -- the care the sorceress takes with her preparations. Such ropework is no easy task, and the knowledge Wanda displays in this area does speak for some prior practice. They may be akin in that fashion. Natasha feels more and more immobilized, wrapped in rope that is arranged in a particular manner, following a strict pattern, the logic of which does not disclose itself that easily. Familiar with a bit of discomfort, but also a faint tingle, the bane of courtesan to suspect and yet to be denied. When she is turned to face away, Natasha swallows, then tries to bounce on her heels when thus told.
A shiver then, at the scrape of nails down her back, marking her as the prey, the helpless victim, where the slightest strain against her bindings is almost impossible.
A touch… then nothing. A chair is pulled across the floor, its feet scraping soft in a rasp. Legs squeak, and two slaps are followed by another hiss, metal on material. Several sharp tugs repeat that sound, altogether as one hoists a flag. Or, as it happens, a woman. Wanda is efficient about her work, though not rushed, altogether too aware of what she is intending, how it must be executed.
Then further ropework will follow, but this more difficult to achieve than the prior task. She brings a second rope over, thinner and shorter, to loop once around Natasha at the widest part of her upper arms. "Bring your elbows together."
Why? They're going to be bound rather close together in another rope coil, thrusting her breasts forward in a gratuitous display made doubly so by the ropes spanning top and bottom. Fabric must already be pulling across them. Rope spooled in a neat twist over her arms won't stop at the top; they will be joined by another figure-eight twist enfolding her wrists, much tighter than the upper bondage.
And it gets worse. But it is what she requested, was it not? Natasha inhales sharply when she brings her elbows together as told, and feels her arms now bound right down to the wrists, in a movement that has her torso indeed bulge forward, wet light blue silk straining about her swollen breasts.
There is more to come, that much is for sure, given the sounds of the chair and what occurred around them, preparations that happened behind her back. Should anyone look and see this courtesan's face, the sight of conflicting emotions may be striking, intrigue overbearing for now, the faint cautious nibble on her lower lip, her cheeks flushed, and her full chest, even in the restricted state it is in currently, heaving with her slightly agitated breath.
A tender kiss alights upon the bare swatch of skin below Natasha's sun-filled locks, a hushed pearl of breath blown out to moisten the kiss and cool it with no hint of bite. Reminder of the woman behind the impersonal maestra practicing her art, even as she forges the Russian into a position of her liking. "Your nipples are trying to cut through your dress," Wanda purrs into the conch of her ear.
A caress runs over the peaks of her silk-shod breasts, so feather light it might fail to register fully to straining nerves. One playful pinch to the left nipple assures it stands hard for exactly what the witch intends. She tugs Natasha by the elbows backwards towards the dangling rope, but not close enough for it to rest against her bound arms. Instead, another element comes into play. She uses a second of those thin ropes to link the top and bottom portions of the chest harness together in the front, immediately pinching the entrapped flesh outwards to display the courtesan's bosom all the more obscenely. Two coils around the base of each breast assure they take on exceptional roundness, entrapping blood in a way that leaves the swollen curves throbbing to the weight of her very pulse. A pinch, then, might be very different as the effect of that cautious constriction will probably assure Natasha cannot hide her stiff nipples. And what might a cunning girl do with that?
Again, there is a tender gesture, as if to calm her, and yes, for a brief moment it seems Natasha relaxes. Until that remark is purred into her ear, the bound maiden's gaze dropping at once, startled, only to see that it was merely a tease. But the caressing fingers of the sorceress she sees all the more clearly, and seeing the touch that is so feather light -- too feather light to feel with all the thin rope straining about her cleavage. The Russian watches helplessly how her nipples do rise, as if due to a secret command, as if they were yearning to feel, to press against the touch that is so torturously measured.
Threading the ends through behind the graceful ballerina, again Wanda checks to be sure the mechanism isn't too tight, too confining. When satisfied, she reaches around to grip both silken handfuls of flesh firmly, caressing and cupping them. "Tell me how you feel."
It makes her cheeks turn a deep shade of red, her eyelids fluttering at being so easily played, like an instrument that is forced to react with giving a tone, a string that is made to vibrate from the skilled touch of a harpist -- whether it likes to or not. The nipple Wanda pinches is already hard and pointed, a surprised gasp coming from the courtesan at the sudden move and the sensation, as she is already pulled backwards. What follows confuses her at first but then, it all makes all the more sense, when thin ropes are attached to enhance the forming quality, when her breasts start throbbing through the carefully constructed restraint. Grey-blue eyes flit downwards, only to see her breasts pushed upwards and presented, and upon all that exaggerated roundness nipples that push so pointedly against the wet fabric, that it makes her inhale deeply, and her eyes cloud. The scent of her is unmistakable.
Are you watching, beloved? I have her wrapped up, and I might step away with her blindfolded, none the wiser. But what is the fun in that?
Of course the Sorcerer Supreme cannot answer. Let him question where she learned such skills with shibari and suspension.
While that uttered command is spoken, Wanda reaches for the rosewood box and sets it lid aside carefully. Fingertips gather the balm within, and she gently paints a line on the bare skin of the courtesan's thigh above the knee, still shielded by the exquisite, modest robe. It isn't something that burns, but the hint of wintergreen does leave a tingle. A tender massage starts such; it's perhaps curious and different from being bound with her hands behind her back, but the knowing touch acts much like the kiss. A reminder that cruelty isn't part of the performance here . Yet.
Or perhaps it's the greatest cruelty of all.
A shudder is felt in her slender bound frame, when Wanda's hands claim her silk-covered breasts, and Natasha swallows when confronted with the question. How does she feel? The answer comes hesitantly, offered with a voice that is hoarse and barely above a murmur.
"Helpless... afraid..." She blinks. "No... not afraid..." Her eyes flicker ever so slightly. "Shamed... I should ask you to stop...but somehow, I can't..." A tinge of despair and something else there in her tone. When the hands let go of her she exhales, when sensations draw her attention elsewhere, the soothing touch against a thigh granting her a moment to recover, or so she hopes perhaps.
Shame rendered in all its grey-blue shades might be a plea, if only they could land upon the endless thalassic depths of the witch's knowing gaze. Standing behind her denies Natasha that relief or clarity, further off-balancing their respective stature: one free and one bound, one controlling and one controlled, one seeing and one blinded. Fingertips creep up the length of Natasha’s toned thigh, measuring the tension knotted in the long muscles like a trainer checking upon a prize racehorse with utterly different intentions and results. Eventually more of that balm joins the initial daubings, massaging in olive oil and beeswax as a carrier for the tingling oils hidden at the surface. Such a connection means if she rubs her legs together, her skin rubs smoothly and offers little purchase. "Shamed that you like it? Shamed that you're offering yourself this way to me?"
Of course, there is tension evident in the thighs of the ballerina laid open, and in fact in all of her slender tied up body. But as her hands and lower arms are bound at her back, Natasha has little choice but to endure those probing touches of the dark-haired witch, a slight twitch there of her leg when she feels more warming substances being applied to the skin of her long legs, skin that is so delicate and sensitive especially at the inner sides. "Yes!" is the breathed reply to Wanda's questions about her being shamed, before she falls silent, her body squirming ever so slightly -- as she cannot really move much in her current state -- against those almost casual teasing touches.
Teasing fingers trail upwards, grazing a scratch through the silk that would leave pink lines without the fabric sheathing her body. The witch swirls around the divot of the navel, teasing up to the flank where the harness begins. Then it begins, a light tickle that runs up and down, searching for those tender points. Wanda deliberately avoids touching erogenous zones except the exquisitely receptive underside of Natasha's breasts, tracing back and forth in unpredictable patterns across the engorged orbs. It's all to madden, to tempt her into discovering the extent of her limits. Arms pulled back and bound cannot protect her clothed body, and the clothes do nothing to conceal her with any modesty. The wet material is altogether too good at displaying what is beneath. The sorceress knows it.
"I could slide my fingers between your legs and find you wet, couldn't I?" Her desultory statement cuts through the air, even as she gathers the ends of the dangling rope.
Natasha’s permanent blush takes on a darker tinge when confronted with the next question. She turns her head far enough that she can shoot Wanda an astonished glance. Whatever she expected from a rough foreign courtier, it probably wasn't this. Wanda marks that to her success. A tremble races along the courtesan’s bottom lip before she catches it.
Her free hand nudges at the Russian woman's knee, pushing her feet further apart. "How often you must daydream of having your robes stripped from you, and your nakedness explored and tasted, your beautiful body discovered and tested. A hard cock driving into you while you're held open and bare. A warm tongue splitting your folds apart as you cover your face with your hands."
When her feet are pushed further apart sNatasha shudders, but if it is because of what she suspect will happen next, or because of the graphic description of what the essence of her daydreams will be left to speculation.
While each statement is made, a circuit of rope winds around Natasha at the left thigh, folding in a descending coil to the knee.
When the end is tucked through a loop, it might be again cause to wobble in a fight for balance. Another twist captures her ankle, a secured knot engaging another loop the rope is fed through. Then, without a sound to betray herself, Wanda pulls the rope upwards through the eyelet drilled into the ceiling beam. Slack vanishes and inexorable motion hauls Natasha's leg up and out, forcing her to stand unbalanced on one foot while her thighs spread apart. She has plenty of room to bend and flex the limb to find her comfortable footing, but the semi-suspended pose is in its way immobilizing. Cool air surely teases above the fluttering edge of the robe.
One leg is lifted and wound in more rope, and Natasha can do nothing to prevent it. Maybe she does not even wish to. Either way, it will demand some effort on her part to manage the trick of standing on one leg, with the other suspended. The moment her leg is pulled up by the rope, she lets out a small cry, aware as she is of her current increasingly vulnerable state. So exposed and completely on display.
One last touch: pulling her hair back from her face, pulled into a hasty bun, akin to ballerinas in practice. And from there, no hiding. Not even from the peek of rose between her legs, nor the heady pressure on her breasts, or the look in her eyes. Natasha is the subject of a painting in the flesh, a sculpture come alive.
One of the silver mirror standing somewhere in the corner becomes the prey of the witch. Wanda slips away to gather the last device in her performance art.
Wanda leaves Natasha to hang in her glory of display, those choice of angles arranged in a manner that leaves the ropes caught through the eyelet ring behind her. Nothing to interrupt that silken line of her nubile body captured within the radiant lines of white and pale cream rope. The assassin shuts her eyes, wrapped up in her own thoughts.
After she saunters away, her cloak swirling around her in a churn of a midnight ocean. The oblong glass is placed directly within Natasha's line of sight, the silvered foil angled where her exposed body and its reactions cannot be concealed from her gaze. Wanda makes a few small adjustments to her liking, and then withdraws to gather another cup of water. She leaves the bound redhead to admire the effect of being opened like a flower, still modestly attired, the hanging banner of her dress doing nothing to conceal the sculpted inner curves of her thighs and her sex from the mirror's unrelenting gaze.
Natasha at least is still somewhat attired, this being the touch of irony to the arrangement Wanda has treated her to; clothed, yet bared to the view. Her cheeks are still flushed a deep red, and a slightly startled sound leaves her throat, when she reads the intention of the sorceress correctly, as the foreign woman goes to fetch the mirror from the far side of the room. Yet that faint tingle of excitement remains, and so her protest subsides. Even if those grey-blue eyes widen, when Wanda confronts her, presents her with the reflection of a clothed courtesan that is still on display. The first urge is, of course, to avert her gaze -- which Natasha does, biting her lip, closing her eyes even for a moment as if she were afraid, rather than blessed by flowering desire. If this is a place of art and illusion, she plays her role under the spotlight to the hilt.
Moments slowly drag by while Wanda sips the cool liquid, positioned almost out of sight. Natasha must turn her head rather sharply to even catch sight of the golden-skinned young woman, and that at the peril of her body rotating within the skein of rope, right foot supporting the ballerina pirouette. That said, the ropework is sufficient to bear up her weight easily if she slid, and the is no more than a few feet away to assist. She has slack enough to move without constriction that would test her fortitude, though her arms cannot aid her except to allow her fingertips to just feel the curve of her backside, angled such she might barely, barely reach to the hidden sanctuary between her thighs that's so marvelously on display. But for the moment, that semi-suspended flight is her own to grapple with.
At least until the amused, golden-skinned creature moves behind her again. That won't be for a few minutes. Until she's sure Natasha appreciates her predicament.
Held somewhat in the supporting net of not too constricting rope, artfully arranged about her form yet still stressing the essence of her as a ballerina -- a creature of movement forced to stillness -- Natasha remains like this for some time. She forces her breath to calm down. With Wanda withdrawing to the background, hereyes open after a while, and she wets her lips with the quick flick of her tongue. Her gaze is downcast, looking to where she can see her chest heave with her breath, wet silk clinging and straining about her unusually pronounced, exaggerated feminine curves. It is then that she dares to lift her head, fiery hair awash over her brows and cheeks.
To look and see the unfamiliar angle of her thighs, spread apart in this unlikely manner, and between them, the view of her sex, exposed and vulnerable, and yet so yearning. It seems almost as if her bound hands will attempt the feat, of fingers brushing against her own backside. In fact they do lightly move against the curve, but then refrain from venturing further.
The moments of tranquility, they might inspire the faint hope that her journey of this performance may already be over. That Wanda merely wished to stress this point: the confrontation. To present eyes that usually should be averted with the deeper truth and appreciation. Were it not for that faint tingle in her core, she might wall herself off from the obscene, elegant display. Those firefly embers dancing through her veins draw Natasha out of her contemplations just as she rotates to catch sight of Wanda, a dark silhouette drifting on a silver sea.
Surely she has not been forgotten by the maestra, her audience of one?
Never. Abandon for what end, exploring another corner of the room where the cupboard doors open and shut? The telltale creak of hinges lasts a second and no more. To pirouette around unseen within the scope of the mirror and Natasha is there, a wraith captured in silver, smoked at the edges of the glass. Wanda sips the water slowly and regards the work, and then redouble her designs as they unfurl like a delicate meadow flower to the sunshine.
Her return comes on deliberate steps, a swat of her hand aimed at the outer curve of the courtesan’s backside. The sting will last but a second before the softness of her palm caresses Natasha, rubbing in a trace of the balm used upon her legs to avoid the rope chafing or biting too deeply. Oh yes, she saw those fingers traipsing lower.
"Watch the mirror when you pleasure yourself." A simple suggestion, that.
From that angle, the mirror captures only the strain. Wanda tugs the hem of the summer-sky robe a little higher, tucking the trailing edge into another twist of rope that leaves Natasha’s blushing folds yet more visible. The courtesan is free to observe the woman circling around to her side, nothing to block the view. Long fingers start to caress her rounded breasts, nails running lightly along them. Silk does little to keep her from feeling pinches and tugs on stiff nipples, drawing them out, ensuring perfect hardness.
A surprised sound escapes the courtesan at the swat against her backside, but the following attentions to her suspended leg will keep her from objecting further. Even if that simple suggestion has her grey-blue eyes widen in shock and pleasure, then drop, to where her skirts are pulled up and brought out of the way. And again, her cheeks take on a rosy color as she contemplates, her eyes lifting to look towards the mirror in the same moment her arms strain, fingers reaching out to pet and caress her pouting slit. Wetness soaks her spread digits, flesh slick and hot under the gliding touch. She arches her back to enhance their range, sliding further along between the curves of her behind.
And then witch simply bows her head and sucks the wet material and hard flesh into the heated cauldron of her mouth. Lips compress and she suckles, a concerted attack on one while fingers anoint the other with similar attention. Teeth pressed down for a light, blunt nip do no harm. She transfers around to the other, untended peak, drawing the excess water from the sodden fabric while lashing the captive bud with the flat of her tongue. Another nip captures the base, held but a second longer than perhaps the Russian redhead might anticipate, and she draws her mouth away. Interpretations of desire are not purely unkind, her parted lips still rounded with the impression of Natasha's breast.
Wanda's long fingers skim up and down her inner thigh, angling from the supporting leg to the suspended one, avoiding her mons entirely.
One corner of her mouth lifts when she manages to see the fingers in the mirror, and a soft gasp escapes Natasha in the moment she touches her own folds. It is hard to stay focused, when the brunette decides to take advantage of the situation, and a low whimper jumps from the courtesan's swollen lips when her stiff rosy nipples are pinched, the whimpers soon turning into moans, when they are drawn in and suckled upon, hard and erect as they are, and so sensitive. She twitches under these ministrations, her fingers reaching out now more fervently, trembling almost desperately as they touch and press against her bare folds, trying to reach further and finally managing to.
"Please..." Natasha breathes, as her eyes shift from the mirror where Wanda is captured in reflection. Her brows lift in fervent plea. "Please... Touch me!"
Got you . The thought detonates like a kilnova in the serene blackness of the witch's mind.
Somewhere, a corresponding groan surely answers.