Chapter Text
Swirling yuri in a wine glass and sniffing it, she sets it back on the table, disappointed.
“Waiter, you told me this yuri was toxic. Clearly, you gave me supportive and affirming yuri by mistake. Take it back. And don’t you dare look at me in the eyes, girl.”
Simon, her waiter, goes back to the kitchen. Lisa the sommelier sees him holding the glass.
“She sent it back?”
“Yeah…. She said it wasn’t toxic enough. And. Uh. She called me a girl for some reason.”
Lisa’s eyes go wide. “Ah. I see. I may know what specific kind of toxic yuri she wants.”
Lisa sends Simon back out with another glass of yuri.
The woman doesn't even let him get to the table.
"That vintage reeks of a Good Ending. Embarrassing. Turn around, girl, and bring me something truly toxic."
When Simon comes back to the kitchen with yet another full glass of yuri, Lisa doesn't look surprised at all.
"Good. Now give her this one."
Lisa swaps out the Good Ending glass for another. Simon, too frazzled by this whole situation, says nothing and goes back out to the Woman at the table.
This time she lets him set it down in front of her, at least.
She does not move. The glass sits on the very center of the table.
"Did... did you want to try it?"
She folds her arms.
"I'll take it back."
As he brings yet another untouched glass back to the kitchen, she whispers, "Good Girl."
This time Lisa is waiting with a fresh glass. Another quick hand-off, and Simon is walking back towards the Woman. The fifteen feet between the kitchen doors and the table she's sitting at might as well be the ocean.
Didn't he have other patrons tonight? Does it matter? There She is. Expecting him.
"What can you tell me about this vintage, girl?"
"Oh. Uh."
"Did you dare to come back to me and try to serve me yuri you know nothing about? Have you even tasted it yourself?"
"No, Lisa... our Sommelier..."
"Lisa sent you right back out here to me, and she didn't tell you anything, did she? I think you should try it first."
"Oh. We're not supposed to sample the yuri after we've served it..."
"Did you just tell me No, girl? Isn't the customer always right?"
"Um."
"I am telling you that I want you to try the yuri. If you're not willing to taste it, why would I?"
"Uh."
"Drink it."
Slowly, he lifts the glass back up and takes a sip. He closes his eyes. It's marvelous, rich, and poisonous to its core. He can't help but savor it. Secretly, when he's at home alone, he dreams about trying yuri just like this for himself.
"What notes are you detecting, girl?"
"There's hints of embarrassment kink."
She nods. "Go on. What else?"
"The aftertaste is a power imbalance."
"Good girl. Tell me more."
"The younger girl in a service position claims the entire time she doesn't want this. But she could leave at any point. And instead, she keeps coming back."
"Excellent. But what's the core? What's in the very soul of it? What theme does the entire yuri revolve around that you cannot stop thinking about?"
"I..."
"Spit it out."
"It's..."
"Girl, do NOT make me ask you again."
He feels himself trying to shrink, he has the need to take up less space.
Quietly, barely audible: "This is forced feminization yuri."
A wide, wide grin greets him. Her teeth are perfect. Is he imagining that she has fangs? Is the yuri really getting to him that quickly?
More a purr than words from her lips, she says, "Good girl."
“But… I’m not…”
“I don’t appreciate being spoken to in incomplete sentences. Say what you are going to say, girl.”
Why is this so hard to say? “I’m not a girl.”
“Interesting. So you’re telling me I’m wrong. We already established that the customer is always right, and you want to deny me?”
“No, it’s just -“
“You DON’T want to deny me, which of course means you DO agree that I’m correct. And let me assure you, if you manage to please me after all of this poor service, I intend to tip quite generously. Now. Girl. Sit. Down.”
There’s only one chair at the small circular table, so he turns towards a nearby four-top to borrow another.
“I didn’t say in a chair, girl. You’ll need to earn that privilege back. You’ve lost it. Sit on the floor. Next to me.”
A primal instinct to run is screaming inside his head.
She snaps her elegant, long fingers, and points at the floor directly next to her.
No tip could possibly be worth this amount of degradation. He decides to walk away. There are other servers, let someone else serve Her.
Another snap, another point.
Why does it seem like the whites of her eyes are being licked by flames?
Fear strikes him again, but this time it’s the fear of what will happen if he doesn’t give in.
Perhaps the tip will be worth it. Maybe she’s a billionaire and will happily toss away money. And if he angers her? Or angers her more than he already has?
That fire was really there. He’d bet his soul on it.
And so, shaking more than he’d care to admit, he finds himself sitting on the ground beside Her seat.
She looms over him.
“Next time, don’t you dare make me snap twice.”
He’s looking at her thighs under the table. Her burgundy satin dress only covers the very top of them. Sheer black tights stretched over her lithe legs, going down to black stiletto heels that look like they could more readily be used to make puncture wounds than walk comfortably in.
“Girl, it’s rude to stare. You’re not doing a very good job earning that tip. Apologize for staring.”
He looks at the ground, feeling his cheeks flush. “I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?”
“I’m sorry… for staring without permission.”
“As you should be.”
He tries to focus his attention on the carpet underneath him. The patterned black and white waves of the patterned carpet seem to ebb and flow ever so slightly, and as he tries to fix his focus on a single spot he feels his eyes drifting slowly with their rhythm. Back and forth. Back and forth.
Pressure. A hand on his head. Sharp nails, digging through his unkempt black hair and into his scalp just enough to hurt. A squeeze, and his head is pulled back and he feels the carpet yanked from his view. She’s directly above him, and the eyes of flame are all he can see.
“Now you will stare.”
She must have more to her face than the eyes. He’s seen her teeth (fangs?).
But what color is her hair? He can’t make it out.
What is the shape of her nose?
How high are her cheekbones?
How round are her ears?
How soft is her skin?
He can’t tell. All he can see is flame.
The flames grow until the whites are gone. The roaring, cascading fire surrounds pupils that are far too large and devoid of anything but gorgeous onyx black.
Her nails pierce his scalp as she lowers her face directly above his, eyes inches from his.
She doesn’t blink. He tries to, but can’t.
Then she’s out of his vision, nestling against his ear. Above him the ceiling lamps swirl maddeningly.
A whisper, lips brushing against his earlobe as she speaks: “You didn’t finish your yuri, girl. It’s time for you to drink the rest.”
“Stay. Just like this” She releases his scalp and goes to fetch the glass.
He takes a moment to wonder what he must look like. A 24 year old server sitting cross legged on the ground, neck craned back to look upward at the Woman who holds a glass of yuri two feet above him.
“Don’t spill a drop.”
She tilts the glass just enough, and the blood-red yuri flows towards him from above. In the last possible moment he remembers to open his mouth, and the liquid slams into the back of his throat. He nearly gags from the force of it, but manages to begin swallowing the cascade.
Its warmth immediately blooms in his throat, rolling down his lungs, through his arms, running across his pelvis and into his legs, finally reaching his toes where he feels the wave begin to crawl back upwards, hitting every inch of his body again before it reaches up to his face.
He's still swallowing the flow she's pouring into him, but the rolling warmth traveling up and down, up and down his body somehow eases his worries. He's going to be excellent at this. He was built for this. Drink the yuri, Simon, like the good girl you are.
It keeps coming, and he keeps drinking. The pulsating warmth travels from head to toe faster and faster until he no longer feels it moving because the soothing heat is in every extremity at the same time.
It feels impossibly pleasurable. A nude sunbath on a perfect day, radiating from within.
He would sigh in contentment if he could, but he must keep drinking. Otherwise, She would be upset.
The importance of pleasing Her begins pokes at something in the edges of his brain - how long has he been Her plaything? - and then the very last drop is swallowed and the warmth ignites.
His body isn't warm anymore, it's hot. His body isn't hot, it's burning. His body isn't burning, it's a river of molten lava devouring every bit of flesh and bone he has.
Jerking backwards, he slams into the carpet and frantically rolls back and forth attempting to douse flames that aren't really there.
"Did I not mention this might sting?"
Pain.
"This particular vintage can have this effect on girls like you."
He would scream but his tongue has turned to ash.
"Girls who stubbornly go about their days attempting to be men."
Her words fan the flames.
"Girls who need to be taught their place."
She's gotten out of her chair and straddled his writhing body. Inhumanly strong hands pin his shoulders to the ground. That unknowable face with eyes of flame lean in closer and closer until there can't be more than a few centimeters between her pupils and his.
"Would you like dessert?"
He cannot respond, but she isn't waiting for one. She kisses his trembling mouth, and two razor sharp teeth pierce his lower lip. Somehow this new poison triples his pain and time loses all meaning. There never was an entity named Simon, this being has only ever existed to experience agony.
And then he's gone.
"Lisa, would you be a dear and help me get this one up?"
"Yes, mistress."
"And I'll be taking another bottle home with me. She's going to want more."
"Of course mistress."
"Good girl."
Lisa moans.