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the tie that binds

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They’ve done this before.

It’s all familiar. The pull of the ties binding her wrists to the headboard of his bed – his ties; tight enough to keep her still, but not tight enough to be painful. The cold air in the room, smoothing itself across her naked body, hardening her nipples, heightening her senses. The sight of her own body, bound and all but helpless.

And then there’s him, standing at the end of the bed, shirtless in only a pair of slacks with the belt discarded and the fly undone. Hair slicked back. Predatory blue eyes on her, catching the moonlight at just the right angle, drinking in the sight of her without a word. Chiseled abs and biceps, strong, exuding power, control.

They’ve done this before, many times. It never gets any less thrilling.

He walks over just then, taking a seat beside her on the bed, pulling on one of the ties to make sure it’s secure, then leaning in close to her. His eyes are still gentle, filled to the brim with warmth. Everything about Frank right now screams tenderness. The roughness, the pretend – it hasn’t started yet, and she knows it’s going to, any moment, but first-

“Trust me?” he asks like he always does, pressing a kiss to her jawline, his beard scraping against her skin. She tries not to writhe at the sensation, her chest and neck breaking out into a field of goosebumps.  

Like always, she nods.

“Yeah.”

Frank doesn’t answer, at first. Then, out of nowhere – there it is. Something dangerous switches on in his eyes, in a second’s notice. They’re ice cold and burning hot all at the same time, and it makes that familiar rush of desire flood into her, makes her squeeze her thighs together. She knows the script they’re following tonight; she’d been the one to suggest it, teasing him as soon as he’d stepped through the door, and the thought of what is to come, what he’ll do to her, say to her… It makes her stomach twist, in fear and pleasant anticipation. She has a safeword, if she needs it. If it gets to be too much.

But she trusts him. Wholly, completely, with every bone in her body, she trusts him.

“You know why you’re here,” Frank says, his voice deep and shiver-inducing and authoritative, in the hottest way possible. She’s never been one to adhere to the whole sniveling, submissive girl stereotype who enjoys being dominated by a man, yeah – but it’s hot, fucking hot, and there’s no denying it. “You know what you did.”

She makes a soft sound of assent, nodding as her breath hitches in her throat. She doesn’t try to speak, knows he’ll tell her not to speak unless he asks her to. She considers breaking that rule, being bad, but she’s been bad enough already. You know what you did – and yes, yes, she knows.

He draws back slightly. “Say it. Tell me what you did.”

“I…” she breathes. A flush creeps onto her cheeks, and spreads lower, lower. “I was bad.”

“Bad how?”

Her breath hitches in her throat, when he reaches up to cup one of her breasts and brush his thumb across the nipple. “I, oh… I touched myself.”

He moves in closer still, laying kisses on her neck and biting down occasionally, hard enough to make her gasp, before soothing over the bites with his tongue and teasing with the scrapes of his teeth. His eyes twinkle with mirth just the tiniest bit, but stay cold for the most part, calculating. She tries not to squirm beneath his gaze.

“And what’s our rule about that?”

She flushes even redder. For a second she almost wants to laugh at Frank’s dead-seriousness, but that would ruin the scene, breaking character, and that’s the last thing she wants, not when this whole thing is so hot she could die, right here and now. All the blood in her body rushes down between her legs and pools there, hot and throbbing.

“That… I can’t do it when you aren’t watching.”

He bites down particularly hard at that, and she makes a sound halfway between a choked moan and a gasp, pulling at the ties binding her wrists reflexively. Her hips buck forward the tiniest bit, and she’s perfectly aware of how wet she is, how badly she’s aching to be touched, and how obvious it must be to him now. Her clit throbs and pulses, her cunt burning and hungry. The scent of his musky, woodsy cologne hits her when he leans in, and it turns her on more than she can ever say. She loves smelling it, him. Smelling him all over herself; an aphrodisiac like no other.

“So,” he tells her, moving back to meet her eyes. “Got anything to say for yourself?”

“I couldn’t wait. For you to get home.” Laurel pauses, biting her lower lip and feigning bashfulness, innocence. “I know it was wrong. And… I made such a big mess. Got my fingers all wet. Sticky. But I was thinking of you. Wishing it was you.”

Lust flashes in his eyes like lightning, and his pupils dilate in an instant, her words provoking just the response she’d anticipated. Suddenly, he reaches behind her head and grabs a few strands of her hair in his fist, yanking her forward, but taking care not to hurt her. It still does hurt a little, she’ll admit, and Laurel squeaks in surprise, unable to look anywhere but into his eyes because of his hold on her.

“Tonight,” he rasps, a lilt of teasing melting into his voice again, “we’re gonna teach you some patience. Got it?”

Her throat tightens, and she nods wordlessly, licking her dry lips. Beads of sweat form on her forehead as she takes in the sight of him: shirtless, bearded, hot as hell and as dangerous right now as the devil himself. Deliberately slowly, Frank reaches down with one large hand and cups her between her legs, feeling the heat radiating out from her, the burning, wet desire. One of his thumbs catches her clit briefly, and she whimpers before she can help it – and dammit, she’d been trying not to give away just how much this turns her on, but when he glances up at her with a knowing look in those eyes of his, she knows he’s noticed. Of course he has.

“Wet already?” Frank remarks, as he ghosts his lips across her collarbone and makes a reproachful tsking sound through his teeth. “Impatient. So impatient.”

He slips a finger inside her just then, and it’s so unexpected that she twitches, her toes curling. She’s always loved his hands; huge and powerful, and his thick fingers. She’s so wet – so impossibly, humiliatingly wet – that he slides inside without any effort at all, and in what must be record time she has soaked the digit completely, her walls drawing him in, deeper. She squeezes her eyes shut and pulls on the ties again, half-expecting them to give but knowing in her heart that they won’t. And she doesn’t want them to.

This had always been inside her, buried deep. This need, this overwhelming desire, to be punished. This love of giving up control, surrendering herself completely to someone else. It’d always been inside her, and she’d never known it, never explored it, not until Frank. Until he’d had her, and charted every inch of her body like a map, and claimed each unknown place for his own, forever.

He likes leaving marks, to claim her, at times like this especially. Marks she’ll cover with concealer – or maybe marks she’ll ‘forget’ to cover up at work, marks she’ll leave visible on her neck for everyone to see, and he’ll punish her for that again. The thought makes her stomach twist.

She’s close, and she knows full well she should definitely not be this close after he’s only been touching her for a few minutes, but she can’t help it, the animal response he provokes in her. He dips his head and starts to suckle at one of her breasts just then, sealing his lips around a nipple while still not easing up with the slow, lazy thrusts of his fingers. He works her clit casually, almost flippantly, as if not putting much thought into what he’s doing – when he is. He absolutely fucking is.

She’s going to come. Not hard – but still. She can feel orgasm approaching, coiling hot inside her belly like a snake, the muscles in her cunt fluttering and starting to contract around his fingers. Her wetness coats her inner thighs, his fingers, and has probably spilled on the sheets beneath her too, by now. It doesn’t take much, to get her like this. Sometimes Laurel thinks it should take more, that maybe it makes her some kind of slut, a nympho; Frank plays her body so effortlessly sometimes that it downright pisses her off.

And she’s close. Close, close, so close, and-

Sensing that, he stops. Of course he does, Laurel can’t really say she hadn’t been expecting that. Making her come isn’t the point, tonight; it’s to teach her a lesson. Patience. How to wait, and oh, she hates waiting.

“Oh, fuck,” she pants, and yanks against the ties for a third time. “Oh – don’t, d-don’t stop…”

He chuckles, a little dark, a whole lot dangerous. “You think you deserve to come? After what you did?”

“No.” The word leaves her mouth in a frantic burst, her lips parting as she tries to catch her breath. “But… I – Frank, I know I don’t, but I need-”

“You know my favorite thing about you?” he asks, ignoring her protests. “How easy you come.”

Frank moves his lips close to her ear, biting down on her earlobe. And – Christ. There it is: the dirty talk, and he’s really fucking good at it, too. If there’s a goddamn Olympic medal for dirty talk, he’d win, no contest; he’s a wordsmith in the absolute filthiest way. Frank may be short and terse to the point of rudeness during the day with others, but here, with her, he delights in describing every single thing he plans to do to her, in ridiculously extensive detail. His voice is like sex. Sometimes she thinks just that alone could get her off.

“Doesn’t take much,” he continues. He palms her breasts, massaging them until they ache and she’s mewling. “Just a few minutes, my cock, my fingers, and you fucking scream. My other favorite thing? When you really come. Hard. Gush. Soak my hand. It’s the hottest fucking thing in the world.”

She knows what he’s talking about. She’d never known she was… well, for lack of a better word, a squirter until she’d met Frank, either. The first time it’d happened with him, months ago, she’d been humiliated, almost on the brink of tears, before he’d reassured her that she had not, in fact, just peed all over him. Even now, thinking of it makes her blush and lower her eyes. It’d felt – and still sometimes feels – filthy, wrong to let go all over him like that, yet so cleansing. So powerful. Coming like that, really coming, and coming undone, like only he’s ever been able to make her do…

Frank’s voice breaks into her reverie, right then. “You want that tonight? Wanna come like that?”

God yes,” she chokes out, almost too close to speak. “I… I just – just-”

“That what you want?” His voice is a low, sultry drawl, like velvet in her ear. “Me to make you come until you pass out? Over and over, ‘til you can’t get up? ‘Til you can’t even fucking speak?”

Fucking her senseless – he’s always been damn good at that, she’ll admit it. Fucking her until she’s borderline catatonic, unable to speak or form even semi-coherent thought, until all she can do is lie there and wait to come back to herself, her limbs like jello and her thighs quivering. She wants that. Of course she wants that. So she nods without a word, frantically, strands of sticky, sweaty hair falling in her face. Since she can’t reach out and brush them aside herself, Frank does it for her, all the while with the most smug, self-satisfied grin she’s ever seen in her life on his face.

“You were bad. Couldn’t wait.” He pauses, smirking. “Maybe I oughta make you wait some more. Patience is a virtue, as they say.”

“No,” she keens, before realizing how desperate and pathetic she sounds. Intent on regaining at least some semblance of control and decency, she gulps and shakes her head. “Can’t-can’t wait. I – oh, do it, something. I’ll be good for you, I promise-”

She’s going to go mad if she doesn’t get some kind of release soon, she knows it. Her whole body is screaming, and all she can see is red, and she’s pulling on the ties, yanking so hard that they dig into her wrists, but they won’t budge. And what’s more, he still won’t budge. She knows she’s here to learn a lesson, they’d established that, but right now the only thought in her mind is come, come, come; she needs it, needs him to make her, and it won’t take much now. Just a finger or two, or his mouth, or – hell, maybe even his voice. She can’t remember ever being this close, this willing to beg for it. Her orgasm is looming, torturously close, like a freight train hurtling down the tracks towards her, and she can see it in the distance, but it won’t hit her, it just keeps inching closer, building, but never enough, never quite close enough for the final blow.

Then, shockingly enough, he relents.

“Fine,” Frank says. “But you come, you come on my terms.”

Laurel isn’t sure what he means by that, at first. Quickly, she finds out.

Because he moves in for the kill all at once, thrusting three fingers into her as deep as they will go, then moving down the bed and zeroing in on her clit with his mouth and latching on with his lips. The sudden assault makes her jerk violently, her hips bucking, and she moans, a sound so low and animalistic that she almost doesn’t recognize it as her own. He fucks her with his fingers rapidly, relentlessly, not easing up for a second, and it isn’t long before she can feel her climax careening towards her at full speed. The ties dig into her wrists harder, so hard she thinks they might even leave cuts behind. More scars, from this. From him. She wants that.

When she comes, finally, she comes out of her mind. Her whole body seizes up, muscles tightening, and her mouth drops open, and it’s so blinding and white-hot that she’s sure she leaves her body for a moment, ascending onto some otherworldly plane of fucking ecstasy. Her cries are loud enough that the neighbors must almost certainly be able to hear. Her whole body trembles, quivers, and she’s left shaky and breathless in the aftermath, her vision blurry.

Frank, however, doesn’t stop there.

Usually he gives her a reprieve, some time to recover and come back down – but not this time. He just keeps going, keeps licking and sucking and curling his fingers inside her, fucking her through her orgasm, and it’s so good, but it hurts like hell so soon after coming, when she’s so sensitive. God, she can’t, not again, even though she can feel herself building regardless, the pleasure huge and almost terrifying this time around.

“No,” she half-sobs. “I can’t… I can’t, again, it’s too much. Too much-”

“You only good for one today?” he remarks, pulling back slightly to look at her.

“Frank… God, no-”

“You said you wanted to come. Guess we should be careful what we wish for, huh?”

Unheeding of her protests, he goes back to work, picking up the pace, sending her reeling again. This is what he likes to do, she knows. He’d never cause her pain or physically hurt her; instead, he torments her with pleasure, the most wonderful, terrible, awful pleasure in the world. It crashes down on her like waves one after another, sucking her under until she feels like she’s drowning, and the only thing grounding her is the sensation of the ties binding her, holding her down. Without them, she’s not sure she would even be conscious, at this point.

Her body thrashes, and her cries turn to sobs and pleas, until finally, after coming so many times that she’s lost count, Laurel goes silent. Her mouth stays open, but no sound comes out, and her body is so weak that she can’t hold up her head. It nearly lolls to one side, and fuck, she’s in such a state that she thinks she might even be drooling. When he finally drops his pants and enters her, hard as a rock and huge, she’s so wet that she hardly feels him. When he comes, hot inside of her, she’s hardly even aware of it, and it’s only after a few minutes have passed that Frank’s voice fades back into her consciousness, the hardness in it gone, their script having drawn to a close.

“Hey,” he says softly, moving back and placing his hands on her cheeks, soft blue eyes filled with worry. “Hey, Laurel. You okay?”

Vaguely, she’s aware of the ties coming undone, and her arms falling back down to her sides, limp. His voice sounds like an echo, a thousand miles away, but slowly, it becomes clearer and clearer, and she’s able to focus her eyes on him, but still can’t summon up her voice.

He moves closer, frowning. “Nod if you’re okay, all right? You don’t have to talk.”

Just barely, she manages to do so. Frank relaxes somewhat, and urges her to lie down, pressing kisses to her hair and forehead and waiting patiently for her to become articulate again, because she’s breathing so hard that she’s sure even if she tried to speak, she wouldn’t be able to get any words out.

“What do you need?” Frank asks lowly, like he always does, and plants a kiss on her hand. He doesn’t need to ask if she needs anything; he knows that, after this, she most definitely will, and she does.

“I…” Her voice is a whisper, barely even audible. “B… bathrobe. Water. And… a-a couple more minutes.”

At once, he complies. He disappears into the kitchen and returns with a glass of cold water, then reaches into his closet and locates the fuzzy pink bathrobe that she keeps at his place now. Frank wraps it around her, and although her limbs feel weak and shaky, Laurel manages to slip her arms into the sleeves and pull it tightly around her, shivering as the endorphins ebb away. Still without a word, she sips the water for a moment, before motioning for him to take it from her and set it aside on the nightstand. Obedient as ever, Frank does just that, and then nestles her back into his embrace, curling his arms around her.

She loves this part, too: the gentle aftermath. How tender and attentive Frank is, how he touches her like gold, spoils her. Pampers her with kisses and sweet nothings, every bit of his harshness gone.

“Wow,” she finally pants. “That was… wow.”

“Not too much?”

Laurel shakes her head, her eyelids fluttering shut. “Uh uh. Just… just enough.”

He reaches out and takes one of her wrists, rubbing the red imprints the tie had left behind and kissing the raw skin there over and over, until the pain fades to a dull ache, and then almost to nothing. Frank brushes a few strands of hair out of her face, rubbing one hand idly up and down the length of her arm and urging her closer and closer to slumber. Her body relaxes, humming pleasantly, and Laurel sighs, so happy right then that she doesn’t know how to express it aloud. All she knows that she wants to say is:

“Love you,” she mutters into his chest, and he grins, kissing the top of her head.

“Love you too. So much. So much you don’t even know.”

Laurel smiles sleepily, hardly anything more than a brief upward quirking of her lips. “I do. I know.”

They don’t say anything else. They don’t need to. Frank rubs lotion into her wrists for a time in silence, then strokes her hair until she drifts off, his hands and lips worshipping her without a word.

She falls asleep in his arms, like that. She falls asleep, loved.