Reblogged from rolledtrousers
“It’s not going to happen.” He was smirking, taking it entirely too unseriously, and the pout that curled over her lips was none too impressed.
“Why not? Just for an hour or two. You might even like it.” His hand was playing through her hair, idly twisting it before he lightly shook his head.
“Not going to happen. It’s just not in me.” She giggled.
“I don’t want to be in you. I just want to be on top for a change. See what it’s like.” His fingers traced down from her hair, finding her jaw, the curve of her chin, and he gripped it between thumb and forefinger, turning her face so that she stared straight at him.
“I get that, but I’m not a submissive, favourite. I’m mentally incapable of being subservient. I’ll always try and come out on top, that’s just my nature.” He smirked. “You wouldn’t ask the lion to let the gazelle hunt him, would you?” She gasped and started slapping his chest.
He grabbed her wrists, pulling them up over her head, and kissed her hard on the lips, cutting off her infuriated giggles. His free hand slipped south, tracing over the slight swell of her stomach before finding that warmth between her legs. She moaned against his mouth, and he started to stroke her, the pressure increasing with each slide, fingers pressed against cunt, getting slick as each moment slipped past.
His mouth went from her lips to her neck, savouring the scent of her, the taste, the texture of her skin against his teeth and his tongue. Her head was rocking back, hips bucking onto his hand, and her whole body undulating like the tide, the point between her shoulders and her waist a parabola, constantly snapping back and forth.
They fucked, slowly at first, the build more important than the squeeze around his cock, but by the time they were finished he was exhausted, and she was panting. Their bodies were sheened, the lightest of sweats, tendrils of hair plastered to her forehead, and the hairs on his chest clinging to one another in wet embraces, curling into ringlets. He was asleep not long after.
Her eyes were closed, but she wasn’t quite unconscious. There was a plan, frolicking at the edges of her mind, and she was coaxing it into being. It formed, slowly at first, before slotting into place almost by itself, and she couldn’t help but grin. First she went to shower, using the second bathroom, far from the bedroom, the sound muffled by a dozen walls or so. She dried herself off, looking down at his sleeping form, the tempest tempered, slumber making him all but peaceful. He slept like the earth, a tectonic plate in their king size.
She dressed, but it was with a care that she didn’t normally get to enjoy, instead driven by the thrill of his orders. She adored being told what to put on and when, but occasionally she missed the autonomy of fashion, putting together an outfit that had a specific purpose in mind. And this purpose was very specific, all black stockings, garter belts and bustiers. Her hair up in a bun, behind her head. She looked unrecognisable.
Then, the rope. So, so careful. Odysseus sneaking around the Cyclops’ cavern, care driven by fear of what might happen if she woke him. She marvelled at the weight of his arm in her hands, the strength of it, loose and slack. Memories of those hands around her neck, the steely sinew standing out through the skin, where now it was just meat and bones, unconscious muscle. No matter, it tied up the same. Around the headboard, approximations of his own knots being turned against him, double tied to be sure. Both hands, locked and bound above his head. She stepped back. He looked perfect.
Asleep. But perfect. She would soon take care of the latter.
She settled on the bed between his legs, crouched and hunched. The duvet was long gone, thrown off the bed and onto the floor before she’d even started. Sometimes they slept without it, but even when they did, after fucking it was never going to be exactly well arranged. She’d teased it out from underneath his feet, and he hadn’t seemed to mind. Instead here she was, faced with his soft length, still smelling faintly of sex.
She kissed it, from the base up to the tip, before taking it in her mouth. It started to come awake far before he did, a lazy, fuzzy kind of instinctual sentience that was entirely devoid of thought. It was being stimulated, and so it reacted. He groaned, adjusted slightly, but his eyes didn’t flicker. She grinned, sliding her tongue around that swelling head, finding the gap between foreskin and the thickness of him, and pushing that oral muscle straight between the two.
He groaned again, longer this time. Almost as if there was some thought behind it.
It wasn’t the first time she’d woken him up with her mouth, and in the haze of the newly conscious he wouldn’t be able to notice his hands. In fact, was that a smile… she grinned, watching him start to stir. Those thick lashes fluttered for a moment, and his brow furrowed. He groaned again, his hips rolling for a moment, before they stopped.
“What have you done?” He grumbled it, rocks tumbling down a quarry. She sucked, sliding her tongue around the head of him, doing laps. He groaned again, his whole body twitching.
“Favourite.” He said the word like a reprimand. “What. Have. You. Done.” His eyes were open now, and his mouth was hanging open slightly, his breath coming in quick. The muscles on his arms stood out, straining against the ropes. But sleep had stolen his strength, and even if it hadn’t, the rope was stronger.
She didn’t answer him, instead just enjoying the feel of him, the heavy pulse of blood through that thickness, the way it just kept getting harder in her mouth. After five minutes of him staring at her, barely resisting the multitude of moans and groans that tried to bubble their way up his throat, she pulled back.
“Stop looking at me like that and be nice like a good boy.” His hand moved, and she narrowed her eyes, flicking her gaze over to their toy box. “Or I’ll get the gag.” She was all bravado, cocksure and high on power. He’d stopped struggling, but he had pulled himself up into an almost-sitting position.
“Untie me now and you’ll only get spanked.” She giggled and shook her head.
“It’s not going to happen.” He narrowed his eyes, but there was the flicker of a smile there.
“I won’t ask again. This is your last chance.” She giggled again, shook her head.
“Not going to happen. It’s…” She glanced away, grinning. “It’s just not in me.” His hand moved again, and she noticed what he was doing this time. Fingernail against the wood. He was making marks. She was up to three.
She better make this count.
(Source: airows)
