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Bright Scarlet Song
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Jupiter seems pleased by all of it -- Rama's shedding of that self-conscious formality they walked in with, their self-correction, the way they've turned themself on doing it. "Just 'Madame' will do for now," he tells them. And then, on a whim, "Beautiful eyes." (Another thing you've noticed: To Jupiter, indulging his own enjoyment is a million times more important than tormenting guests with an obstacle course of artificial contempt.)
The compliment has startled Rama into a wider smile. Jupiter plucks the unfinished cigarette from their mouth before it can fall entirely and lightly extinguishes it in a crystal ashtray off to the side, an air of prim ceremony in the gesture. The hand returns and he uses his touch against their hair to guide Rama off the table -- not yanking, just sweeping his fingertips slowly away, knowing they'll trail after it, following. "Kneel, please," she orders, to clarify her expectations once she's lured them off. A touch with the slipper against a spot on the carpet -- right in the middle of a burst of roses dyed into the lush pile of the wool. "There." When Rama complies, she rewards them by sliding her fingers back into their hair, tilting their head back again. "Very good. Knees further apart, please. Like this."
They press the toe of the slipper between Rama's knees, parting them, and then they continue sliding their leg forward until the top of their foot is pressed lightly against Rama's body, settled between his legs. It was already visible that Jupiter is wearing nothing beneath the translucent latex dress, but now Rama can see up beneath the sleek ruffles of the circle skirt.
"I don't want you to have any more boring days," Jupiter tells him, dragging his eyes back up with their voice. They take another slow sip of their drink once Rama is looking at them, and then smile again, encouragingly. "From now on, whenever you're tempted to feel bored or dissatisfied, I'd like you to think of me, instead."
Rama is breathing shallowly, through their mouth. Now Jupiter does close his hand to take a fistful of Rama's hair, and he gives their head a playful little shake, soft and experimental — one drowsy snap, back and forth, testing the feel of it. A little ash from his own cigarette, still held between his first and middle fingers, falls onto the crisp shoulder of Rama's dress shirt. "So it's very important to me that you pay close attention," he continues. "So you'll have very clear memories."
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