Back Worship 7

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“Why do you bother?”  She said, to herself.

“Hm?” Tris said above her.

“Why bother becoming a masseuse in the first place?” Carbene said as cover.  Between the lines, her attendant had connections with most of the powers that had come to be. Anything to distract from her raised tail.

“I don’t like intimidating others.”

“You’re seven feet tall and, in part, literally on fire.” She repeated her habit of stating the obvious.

“I know.” Tris laughed. A sad sound. The sound of an old memory rising to the surface to remind Carbene of the worst things she’d ever said. Hate given to her father before they parted ways for the last time. The laugh as he left the room.

“Its been my whole life.” Tris said. Hands kneaded her back, weight of hard muscles keeping her still. “I fought. Parents, suitors, traditions, enemies. I am very good at fighting.”

A forearm leaned into her shoulder, stabbing her. She yelped.

“Sh sh sh.” Tris said. “It’s okay.” The elbow in her back ignited visions of jumping off the table to bite Tris’s tail off, but she froze, constrained under Tris’s might. Her sight dimmed. Muscles in her back fought against the intruder, standing firm, strong, the strength of her daily routine resisting any change.

“Everything hurt.” Tris said. An accurate description of Carbene’s shoulder. Tris’s other arm pet her neck, a placebo to the pain. “It’s what my friends expected of me. It’s what my parents expected of me. It’s what my culture expected of me. Cold intimidation.”

Stars crossed her eyes.

“You okay down there?”

She cursed.

Tris rocked on her, back and forth, cooing like a mother bird.

“Ooof.” She exhaled. Her knot lost the fight, spreading release through her like a font of water in the desert. Tris’s pressure pushed on, unchanged. Carbene didn’t mean to groan, she just did.

“Touch is warm.” Tris said. “You come to me, without fearing me, trusting me, for comfort.”

Tris rocked her up and down, pressing heat into her hips.

“I massage to comfort, Bene.” Tris said. “It’s warm.”

On cold nights in the sands Carbene had learned to make fire. A spark had to be ignited again and again until it caught, then tended and sheltered until the fire ignited the tinder. Underneath Tris she felt very much like the tinder.

“Carbene.” She corrected.