Fic: And Nowhere To Go
Jun. 16th, 2011 01:23 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
sabinetzinTitle: And Nowhere To Go
Series: What It Is That We Do
Summary: When the door opens again, he's going to be a different person.
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Word Count: 3042
Rating/Contents: NC-17, roleplay, consent play, restraints, dirty talk
Pairing: Caldwell/Weir
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: For the sleepy/unconscious square on my![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo card. Here's another story that I started a thousand years ago, which fits nicely into Caldwell and Weir's BDSM fantasy vacation. And I could use a BDSM fantasy vacation after writing this story.
She pulls at the soft, worn ropes around her wrists, testing their strength and their give, trying to see how much play they have in them.
She stretches, tries to relax, grasps the headboard and pulls herself up a little, so that she's more comfortable. The movement dislodges the sheet that's covering her, so that more of her skin is bared, but she doesn't mind. It only adds to the effect, making her helplessness all the more evident.
She tries to take deep breaths, even though her heart is racing. When the door opens again, he's going to be a different person.
She just hopes she's as ready for that as she thinks she is.
The doors open, and the Colonel steps in.
The doors close again. He doesn't say anything; he walks to the foot of the bed, looking at her, his lips curling into a wicked smile. He's still silent as he walks away, and then he's not even looking at her, loosening his tie with one hand and reaching for the bottle on his desk with the other. She shuts her eyes and thinks about her breathing, thinks about tracking him through the room without looking; she can hear the clink as he sets out a tumbler, the soft swish of the water falling into it, the way he sighs after he takes a sip.
There's a loud noise, then, his chair scraping across the floor, and her eyes pop open. She's just in time to see him drag the chair to the side of the bed and sit, sprawled out over it like he sprawls over everything, one hip cocked and his legs splayed wide.
He's still not speaking, and it's starting to get to her. He's just sitting there, staring at her, sipping his drink and admiring her, looking at her like a piece of property, like an object; he hasn't laid a finger on her and she already feels taken.
He finishes his water, sets the glass on the nightstand. "Well," he says, finally. "Isn't this a surprise," he adds, though the tone of his voice says it's anything but.
She swallows before she speaks, willing her voice not to waver. "Colonel," she says, and she sounds just as steady as a rock, even though her heart is beating wildly in her chest.
He gives her an appraising look, but there's something fierce in it, almost like he's proud of her fortitude. "I was interested to hear they'd be sending you," he tells her, still staring at her.
She lets anger and disgust show on her face. "Always eager to help the cause," she bites, bitter and harsh.
He doesn't say anything; he just tips his head back and laughs at her. He tugs the sheet down, slowly enough that the slightly stiff material drags against her skin, teasing her. She's hypersensitive and off balance, so much so that when he finally touches her- on her bound ankle, nothing sexual about it at all- she jerks against the ropes, hard enough to displace his hand.
"Calm down," he says condescendingly. "You've got nothing to worry about. I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do."
"Liar," she spits.
"You know I'm right," he says. "You want all of this, and I intend to prove it to you."
He gets up, standing next to the bed, looking down at her. His dick is hard, the outline of it obvious in his dress pants. That's the first time that she realizes that this is actually going to happen to her, there's not going to be any reprieve, and she can't do anything at all to stop him.
She struggles against the bonds, suddenly desperate. "Let me go," she says, even though she knows her protests are useless.
"You say that," he says, one hand moving along her body, proprietary more than titillating, sliding down until his fingers come to rest between her thighs, splayed across her mound like he's got every right in the world to touch her anywhere he likes. She tries to struggle away, but it's pointless; she can't get any purchase, can't press herself deeper into the bed or move out of his reach. His fingers find her anyway, and her hips buck involuntarily as he slides two fingers inside of her, his thumb glancing across her clitoris. He strokes them in and out of her, and her body doesn't resist at all; she's so wet that her thighs are starting to feel damp. "But I don't think you really want me to."
He shrugs out of his jacket, loosening his tie and draping them both over the chair. He crawls onto the bed, his movements graceful and powerful. He kneels in between her legs, his hands lingering at his waist as he pulls open his belt buckle and unbuttons his fly. She looks away, not wanting to see, afraid it might mean she welcomes this.
He doesn't even pretend like there's going to be any foreplay; he gives his hard cock a few smooth, steady strokes, and then he's leaning over her. She can't move, can't protect herself, can't do anything but take it as he slowly penetrates her, only pressing in so far before pulling back again. She wants more, wants him all the way inside of her, pounding into her, but she can't, won't admit it. She bites her lip and turns her head away, shutting her eyes tightly and trying to hide her face.
He isn't rough with her at all, but he is uncompromising, taking her exactly as he pleases, completely ignoring the sounds she's trying desperately not to make. He keeps rocking in and out of her, slow and steady, like he's in no hurry at all.
She can't find her voice, or she'd tell him to stop, she swears she would, she'd scream and cry and swear and say anything so long as he'd just set her free; but she doesn't know what's going to come out of her mouth if she opens it, and that's more frightening than not being heard.
His hands roam across her body, exploring her, carefully mapping every inch of his new territory. She tries not to give him any sign, but he reads her anyway, just as clear as if she'd opened her mouth and spilled everything. It doesn't take him any time at all to figure out just how to play her, where to touch and stroke to make her shudder and thrash against him.
She's trying so hard, but her body is betraying her, responding even as she swears she won't. She's so turned on that she's aching with it, her hips thrusting blindly up to meet his, pushing her closer and closer to completion. And she hates herself for it, but she can't stop, not when every fiber of her being is begging to respond.
Oh, but he can.
She cries out when he pulls away, empty without him inside, and he just smirks at her like he knows everything, like he's aware of her torment and absolutely reveling in it.
He takes himself in his hand, working himself quickly, and it takes everything in her to keep her protests to a whimper. She screws her eyes shut as the first warm pulses splash against her thighs; by the time she finally opens them again, he's already tucked himself away and zipped his pants up. If you ignore the sweat that's beaded on his head, he doesn't even look like he's done anything.
Elizabeth, on the other hand- Elizabeth is painfully aware of how wrecked she looks at this moment, her bottom lip red and puffy where her teeth have worried at it, her thighs slick and covered in his seed.
"Get some sleep," he says, wiping his hand across his forehead.
"Go to hell," she pants.
He chuckles. "I'm not going quite that far." He climbs off the bed, walking towards the door. "And trust me, I will be back." With that, he leaves her, walking out of the bedroom and into the sitting room. She can still see him as he sits down, picking up the newspaper. She could still scream at him or beg for mercy; she just doesn't want to give him the satisfaction. If she says nothing, there's nothing for him to latch onto, no proof that he's affected her.
Of course, he certainly has. She's covered in sweat, her wrists itch where she's struggled against the ropes, and above everything else there's the overpowering ache between her legs. She doesn't have to make a noise for him to know about that.
She struggles to keep her grip on consciousness, but it was already late when this began, and she just knows he'll keep her here until sunrise. As much as she fights sleep, she's powerless to stop it, just as powerless against it as she is against the Colonel. If she's unconscious, she's completely vulnerable; she's so vulnerable already, but she just can't give up that last semblance of control.
Sleep comes, finally, full of strange dreams, but she jerks awake again when the bed moves underneath her. She has no idea how long has passed, only that the Colonel is with her again. He leans in to try and kiss her; she sees her chance, goes for his lip and bites down, hard. He pulls away and slaps her right across her breast, right where it'll hurt.
"Don't make me have to whip you," he says, low and rough, and a little shiver goes up her spine.
"This doesn't have to be unpleasant," he tells her. "If you just relax and take it like you're supposed to, I can make sure you enjoy yourself." He strokes a hand over her breast, toying lightly with her nipple. "Just remember," he says, and he suddenly catches her flesh between his fingers, pulls and twists hard enough that she arcs off the bed in shock and pain, "I can also make you hate every single moment of it. Don't think for a second that I won't."
She thrashes, trying to draw her knees together to give herself some small protection from him. He just pulls them apart and pushes inside of her, ignoring her protests. She's swearing at him and pulling at the ropes, but he acts like he doesn't even notice anything but his own pleasure. He doesn't bother pretending to be gentle; he just drives into her over and over again, using her like she's just his property.
Hot shame curls in her belly, because she's more turned on than ever.
She's panting and shaking by the time he finishes, coming deep inside of her, but it's still not enough to push her over the edge. The ache is worse this time, her body craving him, but it's no use. He leaves her again, and she screams at the open door, so angry she thinks she might just rip herself free of the bed with the force of her rage.
This time she sleeps just because she is so angry; sleep is the one place where he can't get at her, that space in her head inviolable.
When she wakes up again, it's to the feeling of fingertips against her palm, digging in slightly, massaging down her fingers. It feels nice, incongruously so, and she keeps her eyes shut. He moves to her ankles next, and she realizes he's checking her circulation, making sure she's not damaged in any way.
She hears him walk away, the sound of water running in the bathroom. He comes back again was something warm and damp- a washcloth. Gently, he swipes it across her thighs, cleaning her up, soothing her itchy skin. He's infinitely gentle as he washes her, keeping his movements light.
She pretends to be asleep, because it doesn't fit what they're doing, who they're supposed to be. The Colonel would never do this for her, because she's just an object to him; but to Steven, she might just be everything.
He must know she's awake, because he presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh. She smiles sleepily, faint enough that it could be a dream. He leaves her, again; and she doesn't know how much time passes, but it's enough for her to fall into a light doze.
She wakes up slowly, to the sensation of warm hands running all over her body, caressing her, lingering over her breasts and thighs, dipping in between her legs to stroke her. For a moment, she forgets to protest, leaning into the touch.
"That's it, give it up for me," he says, and her eyes fly open.
"Get away from me," she grits out, struggling against her bonds.
"You can stop pretending whenever you want," he says, conversationally, as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, cuffs first, drawing it out. "It doesn't do anything for me, so unless you're just trying to make yourself feel better, you're just wasting your energy."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she snaps.
"I know you want this," he says, his mouth right next to her ear, close enough that she can feel his breath. "You want to know how I know? Because you volunteered."
She gasps when she hears that, her carefully negotiated secret revealed, feeling hot and exposed in a more profound way than she has in this entire encounter.
"Let me tell you what I think," he says. "I think you couldn't bear the thought of anyone else having me. I think you were tired of watching and waiting. I think you're a very smart woman, Liz." He's reached his pants now, pushing them and his underwear down around his thighs. "I think you've been dying for the chance to have me. And if that's what you want, then you're certainly going to get it."
He leans forward, pushing into her, and she's so wet and ready, so greedy for it. He toys with her at first, stroking in and out of her slowly, but it's clear that neither of them are going to last through much of that.
"You're going to enjoy being in my bed," he tells her. "You can fight all you want, but I'm going to break you. I won't even have to try very hard, will I? He's moving in her faster now, powerful thrusts that make her grab at the ropes for purchase, make the headboard rock against the wall.
"I'll keep you like this until you see reason, tied up in my bed, open and wet for me. But you won't run when I untie you. You'll stay right here and wait for me, because you won't be able to think about anything except me. You'll beg me to use you, and you'll get your wish." He leans down to whisper in her ear. "You're going to be my own personal whore."
She hates that she wants it to be true.
"You're going to love every minute of it," he promises, biting her earlobe. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't even remember anything but how good it feels to have my dick in you, and then, you're going to come for me."
She's too far gone to speak, so she thrashes her head from side to side, contrary to the last, still unwilling to give him the satisfaction.
"You can, and you will," he says, slapping her thigh hard enough to sting. "You won't be able to stop it. I know, Liz. You want to, don't you? You're just begging for it." He hits her again, fucking into her harder. "I asked you a question, and I expect an answer."
"Yes" finally slips out of her lips, sliding out into a moan, and she's helpless to stop it.
"Louder," he orders. "Let me hear it, Liz."
"Yes," she sobs, because now that the dam's burst she can't not talk. "Yes, oh god, please."
"There," he says, leaning down to bite at her lower lip. "Was that so hard?"
"Please," she says brokenly. "God, please, please, I need it so bad."
"Come on, Liz," he says, sliding his hand down so that he can get his fingers onto her clitoris. "Come for me."
She screams when she finally tips over the edge. The feeling seems to go on forever and ever, rolling over her in wave after wave; she's trembling and shaking and still it doesn't stop. He just bites his lip and keeps going, taking her through it for as long as he can, before he finally shouts and gasps and comes, stilling inside of her.
He still has the presence of mind to untie her, but that's about it. He collapses next to her, pulling her towards him, and she wraps herself up around him. They're both trembling and wrung out; she leans up and kisses him, needing the contact, the reassurance that everything is really okay, that they really haven't become the people they've pretended to be. He strokes her hair as they kiss, half to soothe her and half to soothe himself.
There will be words later, careful dissection of what did and didn't happen, but it's not important now, not as important as settling in to sleep, together.
Series: What It Is That We Do
Summary: When the door opens again, he's going to be a different person.
Fandom: Stargate Atlantis
Word Count: 3042
Rating/Contents: NC-17, roleplay, consent play, restraints, dirty talk
Pairing: Caldwell/Weir
Policies: Read my archiving, feedback, and warnings policies here.
A/N: For the sleepy/unconscious square on my
kink_bingo card. Here's another story that I started a thousand years ago, which fits nicely into Caldwell and Weir's BDSM fantasy vacation. And I could use a BDSM fantasy vacation after writing this story.She pulls at the soft, worn ropes around her wrists, testing their strength and their give, trying to see how much play they have in them.
She stretches, tries to relax, grasps the headboard and pulls herself up a little, so that she's more comfortable. The movement dislodges the sheet that's covering her, so that more of her skin is bared, but she doesn't mind. It only adds to the effect, making her helplessness all the more evident.
She tries to take deep breaths, even though her heart is racing. When the door opens again, he's going to be a different person.
She just hopes she's as ready for that as she thinks she is.
The doors open, and the Colonel steps in.
The doors close again. He doesn't say anything; he walks to the foot of the bed, looking at her, his lips curling into a wicked smile. He's still silent as he walks away, and then he's not even looking at her, loosening his tie with one hand and reaching for the bottle on his desk with the other. She shuts her eyes and thinks about her breathing, thinks about tracking him through the room without looking; she can hear the clink as he sets out a tumbler, the soft swish of the water falling into it, the way he sighs after he takes a sip.
There's a loud noise, then, his chair scraping across the floor, and her eyes pop open. She's just in time to see him drag the chair to the side of the bed and sit, sprawled out over it like he sprawls over everything, one hip cocked and his legs splayed wide.
He's still not speaking, and it's starting to get to her. He's just sitting there, staring at her, sipping his drink and admiring her, looking at her like a piece of property, like an object; he hasn't laid a finger on her and she already feels taken.
He finishes his water, sets the glass on the nightstand. "Well," he says, finally. "Isn't this a surprise," he adds, though the tone of his voice says it's anything but.
She swallows before she speaks, willing her voice not to waver. "Colonel," she says, and she sounds just as steady as a rock, even though her heart is beating wildly in her chest.
He gives her an appraising look, but there's something fierce in it, almost like he's proud of her fortitude. "I was interested to hear they'd be sending you," he tells her, still staring at her.
She lets anger and disgust show on her face. "Always eager to help the cause," she bites, bitter and harsh.
He doesn't say anything; he just tips his head back and laughs at her. He tugs the sheet down, slowly enough that the slightly stiff material drags against her skin, teasing her. She's hypersensitive and off balance, so much so that when he finally touches her- on her bound ankle, nothing sexual about it at all- she jerks against the ropes, hard enough to displace his hand.
"Calm down," he says condescendingly. "You've got nothing to worry about. I'm not going to do anything you don't want me to do."
"Liar," she spits.
"You know I'm right," he says. "You want all of this, and I intend to prove it to you."
He gets up, standing next to the bed, looking down at her. His dick is hard, the outline of it obvious in his dress pants. That's the first time that she realizes that this is actually going to happen to her, there's not going to be any reprieve, and she can't do anything at all to stop him.
She struggles against the bonds, suddenly desperate. "Let me go," she says, even though she knows her protests are useless.
"You say that," he says, one hand moving along her body, proprietary more than titillating, sliding down until his fingers come to rest between her thighs, splayed across her mound like he's got every right in the world to touch her anywhere he likes. She tries to struggle away, but it's pointless; she can't get any purchase, can't press herself deeper into the bed or move out of his reach. His fingers find her anyway, and her hips buck involuntarily as he slides two fingers inside of her, his thumb glancing across her clitoris. He strokes them in and out of her, and her body doesn't resist at all; she's so wet that her thighs are starting to feel damp. "But I don't think you really want me to."
He shrugs out of his jacket, loosening his tie and draping them both over the chair. He crawls onto the bed, his movements graceful and powerful. He kneels in between her legs, his hands lingering at his waist as he pulls open his belt buckle and unbuttons his fly. She looks away, not wanting to see, afraid it might mean she welcomes this.
He doesn't even pretend like there's going to be any foreplay; he gives his hard cock a few smooth, steady strokes, and then he's leaning over her. She can't move, can't protect herself, can't do anything but take it as he slowly penetrates her, only pressing in so far before pulling back again. She wants more, wants him all the way inside of her, pounding into her, but she can't, won't admit it. She bites her lip and turns her head away, shutting her eyes tightly and trying to hide her face.
He isn't rough with her at all, but he is uncompromising, taking her exactly as he pleases, completely ignoring the sounds she's trying desperately not to make. He keeps rocking in and out of her, slow and steady, like he's in no hurry at all.
She can't find her voice, or she'd tell him to stop, she swears she would, she'd scream and cry and swear and say anything so long as he'd just set her free; but she doesn't know what's going to come out of her mouth if she opens it, and that's more frightening than not being heard.
His hands roam across her body, exploring her, carefully mapping every inch of his new territory. She tries not to give him any sign, but he reads her anyway, just as clear as if she'd opened her mouth and spilled everything. It doesn't take him any time at all to figure out just how to play her, where to touch and stroke to make her shudder and thrash against him.
She's trying so hard, but her body is betraying her, responding even as she swears she won't. She's so turned on that she's aching with it, her hips thrusting blindly up to meet his, pushing her closer and closer to completion. And she hates herself for it, but she can't stop, not when every fiber of her being is begging to respond.
Oh, but he can.
She cries out when he pulls away, empty without him inside, and he just smirks at her like he knows everything, like he's aware of her torment and absolutely reveling in it.
He takes himself in his hand, working himself quickly, and it takes everything in her to keep her protests to a whimper. She screws her eyes shut as the first warm pulses splash against her thighs; by the time she finally opens them again, he's already tucked himself away and zipped his pants up. If you ignore the sweat that's beaded on his head, he doesn't even look like he's done anything.
Elizabeth, on the other hand- Elizabeth is painfully aware of how wrecked she looks at this moment, her bottom lip red and puffy where her teeth have worried at it, her thighs slick and covered in his seed.
"Get some sleep," he says, wiping his hand across his forehead.
"Go to hell," she pants.
He chuckles. "I'm not going quite that far." He climbs off the bed, walking towards the door. "And trust me, I will be back." With that, he leaves her, walking out of the bedroom and into the sitting room. She can still see him as he sits down, picking up the newspaper. She could still scream at him or beg for mercy; she just doesn't want to give him the satisfaction. If she says nothing, there's nothing for him to latch onto, no proof that he's affected her.
Of course, he certainly has. She's covered in sweat, her wrists itch where she's struggled against the ropes, and above everything else there's the overpowering ache between her legs. She doesn't have to make a noise for him to know about that.
She struggles to keep her grip on consciousness, but it was already late when this began, and she just knows he'll keep her here until sunrise. As much as she fights sleep, she's powerless to stop it, just as powerless against it as she is against the Colonel. If she's unconscious, she's completely vulnerable; she's so vulnerable already, but she just can't give up that last semblance of control.
Sleep comes, finally, full of strange dreams, but she jerks awake again when the bed moves underneath her. She has no idea how long has passed, only that the Colonel is with her again. He leans in to try and kiss her; she sees her chance, goes for his lip and bites down, hard. He pulls away and slaps her right across her breast, right where it'll hurt.
"Don't make me have to whip you," he says, low and rough, and a little shiver goes up her spine.
"This doesn't have to be unpleasant," he tells her. "If you just relax and take it like you're supposed to, I can make sure you enjoy yourself." He strokes a hand over her breast, toying lightly with her nipple. "Just remember," he says, and he suddenly catches her flesh between his fingers, pulls and twists hard enough that she arcs off the bed in shock and pain, "I can also make you hate every single moment of it. Don't think for a second that I won't."
She thrashes, trying to draw her knees together to give herself some small protection from him. He just pulls them apart and pushes inside of her, ignoring her protests. She's swearing at him and pulling at the ropes, but he acts like he doesn't even notice anything but his own pleasure. He doesn't bother pretending to be gentle; he just drives into her over and over again, using her like she's just his property.
Hot shame curls in her belly, because she's more turned on than ever.
She's panting and shaking by the time he finishes, coming deep inside of her, but it's still not enough to push her over the edge. The ache is worse this time, her body craving him, but it's no use. He leaves her again, and she screams at the open door, so angry she thinks she might just rip herself free of the bed with the force of her rage.
This time she sleeps just because she is so angry; sleep is the one place where he can't get at her, that space in her head inviolable.
When she wakes up again, it's to the feeling of fingertips against her palm, digging in slightly, massaging down her fingers. It feels nice, incongruously so, and she keeps her eyes shut. He moves to her ankles next, and she realizes he's checking her circulation, making sure she's not damaged in any way.
She hears him walk away, the sound of water running in the bathroom. He comes back again was something warm and damp- a washcloth. Gently, he swipes it across her thighs, cleaning her up, soothing her itchy skin. He's infinitely gentle as he washes her, keeping his movements light.
She pretends to be asleep, because it doesn't fit what they're doing, who they're supposed to be. The Colonel would never do this for her, because she's just an object to him; but to Steven, she might just be everything.
He must know she's awake, because he presses a kiss to the inside of her thigh. She smiles sleepily, faint enough that it could be a dream. He leaves her, again; and she doesn't know how much time passes, but it's enough for her to fall into a light doze.
She wakes up slowly, to the sensation of warm hands running all over her body, caressing her, lingering over her breasts and thighs, dipping in between her legs to stroke her. For a moment, she forgets to protest, leaning into the touch.
"That's it, give it up for me," he says, and her eyes fly open.
"Get away from me," she grits out, struggling against her bonds.
"You can stop pretending whenever you want," he says, conversationally, as he slowly unbuttons his shirt, cuffs first, drawing it out. "It doesn't do anything for me, so unless you're just trying to make yourself feel better, you're just wasting your energy."
"I don't know what you're talking about," she snaps.
"I know you want this," he says, his mouth right next to her ear, close enough that she can feel his breath. "You want to know how I know? Because you volunteered."
She gasps when she hears that, her carefully negotiated secret revealed, feeling hot and exposed in a more profound way than she has in this entire encounter.
"Let me tell you what I think," he says. "I think you couldn't bear the thought of anyone else having me. I think you were tired of watching and waiting. I think you're a very smart woman, Liz." He's reached his pants now, pushing them and his underwear down around his thighs. "I think you've been dying for the chance to have me. And if that's what you want, then you're certainly going to get it."
He leans forward, pushing into her, and she's so wet and ready, so greedy for it. He toys with her at first, stroking in and out of her slowly, but it's clear that neither of them are going to last through much of that.
"You're going to enjoy being in my bed," he tells her. "You can fight all you want, but I'm going to break you. I won't even have to try very hard, will I? He's moving in her faster now, powerful thrusts that make her grab at the ropes for purchase, make the headboard rock against the wall.
"I'll keep you like this until you see reason, tied up in my bed, open and wet for me. But you won't run when I untie you. You'll stay right here and wait for me, because you won't be able to think about anything except me. You'll beg me to use you, and you'll get your wish." He leans down to whisper in her ear. "You're going to be my own personal whore."
She hates that she wants it to be true.
"You're going to love every minute of it," he promises, biting her earlobe. "I'm going to fuck you until you can't even remember anything but how good it feels to have my dick in you, and then, you're going to come for me."
She's too far gone to speak, so she thrashes her head from side to side, contrary to the last, still unwilling to give him the satisfaction.
"You can, and you will," he says, slapping her thigh hard enough to sting. "You won't be able to stop it. I know, Liz. You want to, don't you? You're just begging for it." He hits her again, fucking into her harder. "I asked you a question, and I expect an answer."
"Yes" finally slips out of her lips, sliding out into a moan, and she's helpless to stop it.
"Louder," he orders. "Let me hear it, Liz."
"Yes," she sobs, because now that the dam's burst she can't not talk. "Yes, oh god, please."
"There," he says, leaning down to bite at her lower lip. "Was that so hard?"
"Please," she says brokenly. "God, please, please, I need it so bad."
"Come on, Liz," he says, sliding his hand down so that he can get his fingers onto her clitoris. "Come for me."
She screams when she finally tips over the edge. The feeling seems to go on forever and ever, rolling over her in wave after wave; she's trembling and shaking and still it doesn't stop. He just bites his lip and keeps going, taking her through it for as long as he can, before he finally shouts and gasps and comes, stilling inside of her.
He still has the presence of mind to untie her, but that's about it. He collapses next to her, pulling her towards him, and she wraps herself up around him. They're both trembling and wrung out; she leans up and kisses him, needing the contact, the reassurance that everything is really okay, that they really haven't become the people they've pretended to be. He strokes her hair as they kiss, half to soothe her and half to soothe himself.
There will be words later, careful dissection of what did and didn't happen, but it's not important now, not as important as settling in to sleep, together.
(no subject)
Date: 2011-06-17 03:30 am (UTC)