The Tragedy of Cordelia Martin, Part IV

Cordelia writhed, her fingers combing through dark locks of thick, coarse, straight black hair, as she pressed his face between her legs.
        Golden grass, soft beneath her body, swayed around her, as she lingered on the precipice of climax. The brook nearby babbled, its song a sensual treasure of paradolia that cried out to her.

"Yes," She exhaled her voice a husky whisper. "Yes. Master, please, yes.

Cold crept up her thighs, icy numbness replacing slick warmth. The instant contrast sent Cordelia to the edge. Her body begged for release, and built on the waves of cold that filled her now, but release did not come. Cordelia forced herself away from the cold, over dry, dead, sharp blades of yellow grass. The brook no longer sang, it's muddy banks, and bed silent, except for the brief flop of an eel drowning on air. 

The scent of rush grass, and rice straw overpowered her. 

The cold stared at her through diamond eyes, white gems without pigment. It did not move. It did not speak. It only stared. Long fingers, belonging to slender pretty hands slid over her bare shoulders as she stared into the assassin's empty diamond eyes.

"Don't let it fool you, baby." Amnesia whispered into her ear, flicking the lobe with the tip of her tongue. Cordelia edged away, slowly, from the shadowy assassin, pushing herself backward, into Amnesia's arms. She could feel her lover's breasts pressing into her back, warm, full, and safe.

"Cordelia," Amnesia whispered. "Cordelia. Wake up."