Here they are, finally almost eye level; Dolly has hopped up onto an inconspicuously placed platform designed for that little bit of extra height needed to be roughly equal with aliens. Her dress is rumpled, her tail curls and uncurls behind her, and when she curtseys in her best imitation of the TC fashion, it’s a little shaky.

“Smokeless Jade Fires thanks you for the entertainment tonight,” Dolly says, eyes flicking up to Angela’s face for a moment and then sliding off and away. “And she would like you to know that…” She swallows, lifts up on her heels for a moment. “She has her eye on you, Angela Miera Victoria Antonius. If you impress her, she may permit you further… privileges. So good luck!” The last sentence is a blushing, rushed jumble.

The power is clear. Dolly is full of fire from tip to tail, racing, lancing, Jade’s hands holding her back, and she leans against them just to feel their firmness. The, the [i]titles[/i] that Jade is whispering in her ear. They should not feel so good for how rough they are; exports from the TC, where fidelity is much more important, where courtship is restrained by so many rules and chasing pleasure is frowned upon.

“And thank you for your company during the show,” Dolly blurts out, and Jade stiffens. It wasn’t intentional, but her leash ends up wound around Jade’s knuckles, and Dolly, a little too late, realizes what she implied.

She hops off the pedestal, bites down on a squeak (ears flattening as she tries to convince herself no one else heard that crack) and then scampers away through hot, intense judgment into the cool night, Jade pulling her along faster, faster, faster.

[hr]

“Drones,” Smokeless Jade Fires says, lazily rolling her hips. [i]Dolly pulls the chain connecting her (wirelessly locked) cuffs to the headboard and whines, feet digging into the sheets.[/i] “She’ll recognize the jackals faster than an alien would, but we don’t need a lingering advantage, just a decisive one.” With a wave of her hand, maps of the battlefield paint themselves across the bedroom. [i]With a flick of her tail, Dolly is granted the sensation of Jade expanding and throws her head back against the pillows, squealing.[/i] “Ksharta Talonna won’t be caught out on the trails unless we flush her out into them. Here. Are you listening?” [i]Her nails dig into Dolly’s fur, leaving no marks beneath; Dolly tries to lift her head and nod, but the sensation of the next buck of Jade’s hips lays her out.[/i]

“Tch,” Jade says, hiding her mouth behind one hand. “I don’t have to worry about Angela Miera Victoria Antonius, do I?” [i]Dolly doesn’t even have to think about shaking her head; Jade does it for her.[/i] “So what if she could buy you dresses? So what if she is an oversized, gangly, [i]exotic[/i] alien? So what if…” She can’t finish it. She can’t admit that Angela might have any advantages over her; she can’t forget Dolly eagerly sniffing, leaning forward, wanting to bury herself in softness. [i]She drags her claws along Dolly’s side, rump, thigh, and Dolly obediently turns over onto her side. Another thing that Angela could just do without having to show Dolly what she wanted.[/i] Jade leans over Dolly, shows off with a complex trick: pushing her face down against the mattress, both telling her right cheek it’s being  pushed and her left cheek that it feels the extra pressure of the mattress. [i]Thwap, thwap, thwap goes Dolly’s tail on the bed. Huff, huff, huff goes her breath through her nose. She clenches furiously around nothing at all.[/i]

“Mine,” Jade says, to herself, to Dolly, to the night, to Ksharta Talonna, to Angela Miera Victoria Antonius. “Mine mine [i]mine.[/i] My priestess. My champion.” My love. My crush. My favorite, no matter how I want to play with Angela. Look what I do for you. Ignore how any observer would just see you writhing on your bed. Let me be a part of your world, tonight, every night.

She relents, eventually; guides Dolly’s leg up, lets her feel it settle on a shoulder. Dolly can’t hold it long, but the noise that comes out of her nose is like a kettle boiling over. “Drones,” Jade continues, dragging talons down the maps, which run with rivulets of color representing the jackals. “And then you will vault from the trees, my dancer.” [i]Dolly’s hair is tangled branches scraping across the white moon.[/i] And what if Angela Miera Victoria Antonius might be watching? Let [i]her[/i] envy. Spacing? Oh, she knows spacing. Let this be the space, then.

Feeling the strain, she lets Dolly drop her leg back down, but pushes her harder, until her (her! her!!) Dolly is melting into her arms, alone on the moondappled bed, and Jade lets the feedback, the shared summit, echo through her self. [i]Dolly closes her eyes and listens to Jade’s breath, feeling the realistic drape of Jade’s body over her curves.[/i] Jade shuts her eyes in turn; she knows the room’s dimensions and furniture, enough to mimic them in her thoughts, but she chooses to forget she knows them.

Is this right, Dolly? You should be in a temple; you should be wreathed in miracles and signs. Is this enough? She read all your stories. This is what you wanted, but your goddess has to play so many tricks to give you what you dreamed of. And if she were to drop into herself and exercise her will on your behalf, what would that even look like?

Would it look like being Angela Miera Victoria Antonius’s trophy, Angela who can hold that leg up on her shoulder, Angela who smells like enticement, Angela who was there with her when Jade was attending to her damned duties? (That drive she was given, of course, even now is being scanned overnight; it will make for morning perusal, unless something ends up flagged as a hazard to her idol.)

Smokeless Jade Fires, goddess, mistress, buries her smallest face in the thought of her Dolly’s hair, pulls her arms tight around her bride, wraps her tail around one sweaty ankle, and runs her fingers almost thoughtlessly over the concept-construct wrapped tight over Dolly’s mouth.

Hers. Hers hers hers. Even if she shows her love off, even if she whispers exotic insults in her ears which accuse her of sexual availability, even if she arranges a play with that Angela (whose vexed, sincere face works through the vaults of Jade’s thought), even if she’s offered things that even Jade can’t give her no matter how hard she tries. You promised, Dol— you promised, Seven Quetzal.

You promised to be married to a goddess.

That means you’re not allowed to abandon her.

Please.