Fic: Bliss In Every Thorn (Primeval, Abby/Connor, NC-17)
Title: Bliss In Every Thorn
Author: alyse
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Abby/Connor
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Primeval and its characters belong to Impossible Pictures. No copyright infringement is intended. This is fanfiction, written solely for love of the show.
Word Count: ~5,000.
Status: Complete.
Warnings: Kink - consensual spanking.
Author's Notes: Written for mmom. Thanks to temaris for doing the beta honours, and I owe her for the title as well (although I still think it could easily be called 'It isn't easy being green').
Title and quote from With Roses by Beatrix Demarest Lloyd
Summary: Sometimes she wanted more, and she wasn't sure Connor could do that for her.
-o-
In each green leaf a memory let lie:
The pain that follows on the heels of bliss
In every thorn; each waft of incense be a sign
For love: each petal of each rose a kiss!
-- With Roses, Beatrix Demarest Lloyd
-o-
Connor was sweet, really sweet and surprisingly thoughtful when Abby finally got him into bed. Okay, he was a little uncertain, but she found the fumbling endearing. It was just so 'Connorish' and she wasn't surprised when he admitted his lack of experience. If anything, she thought he might have overstated it a little if the look on his face the first time she went down on him was anything to go by. Part shock, part awe and a whole lot of lust and pleasure, all mixed up together.
She was quite proud of that, even now.
But his inexperience did mean that she had to go slow, court him almost, and it was kind of funny how she was the one doing the slow seduction while he did the blushing, stammering virginal thing. It wasn't as though Connor had a closed mind or anything, because he was usually up for whatever she suggested, but it was always her making the suggestions and sometimes she thought she'd shocked him. Like that time she'd asked if she could tie him up, for example. She thought he'd pass out when he'd just stared at her for long moments, his mouth open and his face slowly turning red. Looking back, it was actually quite funny even though she'd been nervous bringing it up, because once he'd relaxed, he really got into it. She'd teased him and played with him, bringing him to the edge over and over again, each time easing him back down until he was reduced to begging for her touch, begging her to let him come and she'd finally let him.
At least she'd thought he'd got really into it, but he'd never asked her to do it again. He'd never asked her for anything, just said 'yes' to whatever she wanted. There was no, 'Hey, Abby. Would you dress up in a French maid's costume for me? Hey, Abby, would you wear stocking and suspenders and high heel shoes and nothing else for me?' Almost as though he was scared she was going to say 'no' to run of the mill, kink-lite, vanilla type stuff like that. Considering some of the stuff she wanted...
He loved her, and he'd probably try anything she wanted even if he was too shy to ask for what he wanted, assuming, of course, that he wanted anything more than just her. The fact that it was always her asking, and always him saying 'yes' to it was the reason she'd waited so long before bringing this up. It left her twitchy, wondering if he was just humouring her, wondering if he would do anything for her whether he really wanted it or not and if she was taking advantage of that.
But he did love her, and the itch had been building in her for days, leaving her restless, wanting. It wasn't even as though sex - routine, normal sex - with Connor wasn't doing anything to scratch that itch. It just wasn't scratching deep enough.
Sometimes they had bad days, days where she wanted to lose herself in him. Sometimes the days weren't bad, just long and monotonous and stretching out as she scooted back and forth between offices or office blocks, longing for grass and open sky and her animals to soothe. Sometimes she just wanted something wild and different and freeing, something she knew would disconnect her brain for a while and take her apart.
Sometimes she wanted more, and she wasn't sure Connor could do that for her, even though he'd walk through fire for her, follow her to the ends of the Earth and, further, into hell. And if that scared her a little - that he loved her and trusted her that much - then she guessed she'd have to love him and trust him enough for this. Because the worst thing he could do was say, 'no', and she had to trust that with Connor that would never mean a rejection.
"You want me to do what?"
She took a deep breath, forcing back her first, instinctive reaction, which was to tell him not to be so bloody judgemental. "I want you to spank me."
His mouth opened, then closed again, and he sank down onto the bed with an audible thump. "Spank you?" he asked weakly, as though she hadn't said it twice already.
"Yes."
"Why? I mean, what if I hurt you?"
Telling him that was the point wasn't going to be that helpful, especially not when he was being 'typically Connor' and looking at her with those big, brown puppy dog eyes, completely oblivious to any undercurrents going on in the conversation, to the tension in her body. But being defensive wasn't going to help either. She was getting better at not letting that show, especially once she realised just how uncertain he could be around her, how while she knew instinctively he'd never reject her, he didn't seem to have the same comfort when it came to her.
"Why?" Tackling that might be easier first. "Because it can feel really good." He wasn't convinced, she could tell that from his expression. She gave him a winning smile, getting a nervous one back, and settled down on the bed next to him. He turned towards her, as he always did, moving closer to her as though he didn't even need to think about it. She reached out to catch hold of one of his hands, pulling it until he let her drag it into her lap, where she turned it palm up towards her and ran her fingers lightly along his lifeline.
He shivered, as he always did when she touched him like this.
"Endorphins," she said softly, using her nails this time to scratch gently against his skin and earning another shiver, one that ran more deeply through him. "Those feel-good chemicals, you know?" He nodded but she had a feeling she could have been talking about anything and touching him like this and he'd nod. "Well, they build up slowly and it feels really good. And..." she shrugged, "I like it."
"What if I hurt you?" he repeated, and that was going to be the stumbling block, she knew it.
"D'you really think you could?" she asked him, letting her tone become a little mocking, and the smile that appeared on his face after that sunk in was a sheepish one.
"I'm pretty sure that under normal circumstances it'd be me getting spanked," he muttered, dropping his head to watch her fingers still circling on his palm rather than looking at her.
She nudged him with her shoulder, nudging him again when he didn't look up immediately. When he did look up this time, she said, with a grin that was intended to be - and probably was - wicked, "Well, maybe If you ask nicely enough..."
He snorted, his gaze dropping again to their entangled fingers. "I just..."
She waited, but he didn't say anything else, although she thought he might have leant in a little closer to her, just a bit.
"I like your hands," she said quietly, when it looked like he wasn't going to finish his sentence at all. She trailed her thumbnail over his palm then up his little finger before turning his hand over so that she could run all of her fingers over the back of it, sliding them through the gaps between his fingers. "I love the way you use them..." There was colour rising in his cheeks now, although his head was still bowed and she couldn't see his expression clearly. The back of his neck was turning brick red, and the tips of his ears. They didn't talk like this, not normally, although sometimes she wondered if she should make the effort. It was difficult, and a little embarrassing, but given the subject matter...
"The way you wave them around at work, I dunno..." She let out a little self-conscious laugh. "Like you could do anything with them." She pushed his hand down so that it rested on her thigh, and lowered her voice, a whispered confession with her own cheeks starting to burn. "I like the way they feel on me, and I'd like... Well, I'd like to feel them like that." He turned his head to look at her but stayed silent. "You're not going to hurt me, Connor, okay? Not in any way that counts or any way that lasts.
"That's why we have the safe-words, remember?"
He nodded dutifully, his face solemn, and it almost made her smile. "Red, yellow, green," he said, his tone serious and it became harder to hold that smile down, to not get giddy with it because this wasn't Connor saying, 'no.' This was Connor saying, 'help me understand the rules so I can play, too.'
"Red is...?"
"Stop, I don't like it," he replied promptly, parroting back her explanation from when she'd tied him up and made sure he knew he could say no, that she never wanted him to do things he wasn't comfortable with just to please her. Whether that lesson had sunk in...
"Yellow?"
"Slow down, this is too intense."
Now she smiled, and his seriousness cracked for just a second, a very small answering smile on his face.
"Green?"
"Oh, fuck, yes." His small smile broadened into a bashful grin and he ducked his head as she nudged him again, squeezing his hand.
"So, you trust me to use them, yeah?"
He had to nod at that, too, and she swallowed down the smile of victory, the butterflies in her stomach, to concentrate on the other most important thing. "And I trust you to use them, too. So, if it does get too much for you, you know you can stop, right?"
"You won't be disappointed?"
She was working on that honesty thing, being as open with him as he could be with her. "I'd be more disappointed if I thought I'd got you to do something that you didn't like." That much was true, and she watched him turn this over in his mind, chewing on his lip in thought. Normally, she'd love that look on his face, the way it scrunched up and he wrinkled his nose, but now...
Now she just wanted his hands.
She bit her own lip, trying not to hurry him, push him into anything he didn't want to do. "I don't want you doing something you don't want to do, yeah? But... but I'd like to try this, if it's okay with you."
"I..." he said, slowly, stealing a sideways glance at her. "I want..." He flushed and she made it easy for him, shifting around until she could kneel up on the bed. She'd kept hold of his hand, and it was easy, too, then, to move it so that it rested on her arse.
His fingers curled and he swallowed, eyes darting up to her face. She gave him enough time to deal, just enough for the tension to ease from his fingers, for them to flatten and stroke against the fabric of her short skirt. He had lovely fingers, strong and long, like a pianist's, and she shivered, already imagining what was coming next. That made it even easier to keep moving, all of her muscles turning to liquid as she settled herself over Connor's lap, her elbows on the bed and her bum in the air.
He swallowed deeply and she turned her head away from him, catching sight of the pair of them in the mirror in the corner of the room. It was an odd angle, like a photo taken without having been properly framed, but when she twisted further in Connor's lap she could see her face even if she couldn't see Connor's - he was reduced to nothing but legs and hands, faceless and anonymous with her posed over him. She shivered again; her face in the mirror was as flushed as Connor's had been, eyes wide, lips parted and pupils blown. She looked wanton, as turned on by the prospect of what was to come as she was by the fact it was Connor.
She closed her eyes and spread her fingers.
Connor let out his breath with a soft whoosh, and his hand came to settle on her rear again, tentatively. Too tentatively and she resisted the urge to wriggle, taking a deep breath and letting it out again, not wanting her impatience to ruin this.
"Start slow," she said, not missing the hitch in his breath. "Slow and light at first, okay? And then you build up."
"Okay." He sounded breathless, but his hand lifted, moved away from her and she closed her eyes, feeling the tension rising in her again, liquid turning to steel. She was already starting to get wet, just from the thought of it, just from that brief glimpse in the mirror, but Connor didn't need to know that, not yet. "How many?" he asked, his voice strained and high pitched.
One of her previous boyfriends had made her count, sound out each blow as it landed. She hadn't liked that - too few and she was left aching and wanting. Too many and she'd wanted it to stop. He'd decide the number; it had never been left to her. She'd finally left him and only taken this with her.
"I'll tell you when to stop, okay?"
"Okay."
She heard him draw in a breath, like he was about to dive underwater, sink down in the depths. She felt it, too, his belly flexing against her side as he breathed in deeply. There was tension in his thighs underneath her, in the air around her, and she twisted her fingers in the sheets, waiting and wanting.
The first blow was too light; the second too fast on its heels and too hard. She sucked in a breath, trying not to let that show, and waited for the third, her fingers twisting more tightly into the sheets. The seconds stretched out, long and slow, and her stomach tightened; this was it, Connor couldn't go through with it, and she swallowed the disappointment down.
The third blow jerked her forward, startling the breath from her lungs. She'd already opened her mouth, ready to reassure or argue or beg, and now a squeak escaped her, a gasping little breath, and Connor paused, his hand resting on her burning backside.
And it did burn, the heat spreading through her as she rocked her hips, an instinctive reaction - move and it hurts less, all the nerve endings tangled up and sending different messages to the brain - this one hurt, this one touch, this one pleasure slowly spiralling through her.
Connor's hand shifted again, peeling slowly away and then the fourth blow landed on the other cheek, heavy and hard and absolutely perfect, pushing her forward again. Her gasp this time came out mingled with a moan, and his hand didn't pull away. It slid away, slowly, down over the curve of her arse and she lifted her hips, following it, arching her back like a cat's.
There was another hitch in Connor's breath, and the fifth and sixth blows landed in rapid succession, one on each cheek, harder now, like he'd found the rhythm. She didn't care that it was harder, more intense. It was perfect; her hips jerked with each blow, feeling it through every single inch of her skin. Her nipples were tight, rubbing against the fabric of her bra, and her knickers felt rough against her oversensitive skin, all of her body tingling. She moved again, rocking against him as his hand moved away, little impatient twitches as every nerve ending seemed to fire.
The seventh - or eighth, she'd lost count - blow fell full across her backside, low, just above the crease of her thighs. She grunted as it fell, wriggling as she sought pressure where she needed it. Connor's hand didn't slide away that time; it rested against her burning skin, a heavy weight that slid slowly backwards, towards her parted thighs.
"Abby..." She grunted again, not able to catch her breath to do more than that. "Can I...?" Stop, she thought, swallowing down the disappointment, but Connor's hand was still moving, sliding first down and then up again, underneath the fabric of her skirt instead of over it, skimming up over the curve of her backside until he reached the waist of her leggings. His fingers slid underneath her clothes - both her leggings and her knickers - and just rested there, against her heated skin, waiting for something like permission.
Oh, god, yes. She didn't have the breath to say it, not 'green' or 'fuckin' do it' or 'please, baby, yes'. But she had enough energy to lift her hips, pushing herself forward onto her elbows and bringing her knees up so that there was space between her body and his, enough space for Connor to pull her clothes down, not so much silent permission as silent pleading.
She opened her eyes as he tugged them down and her face was clear now, in the mirror. Her body too, at an oblique angle, her head low, her hips raised over his lap. Her skirt was pushed up around her waist, and her leggings and knickers now pulled down to mid-thigh, her bum a contrast in rosy red and so pale and white, rising up behind her, begging for his touch. She could see the imprint of Connor's hand on one curve, raised red surrounded by white, marking her and she mewled, rocking her hips, the tension spiralling up in her.
Connor's hand was resting against her bare arse; she could feel the small movements of his fingers as he stroked over her heavy, swollen skin as well as see it in the mirror.
"Your bum's red," he said quietly as his fingers slid over her skin, tracing out the marks he'd left before moving down towards the top of her thigh. He didn't sound like Connor, his voice hoarse. "Do you want me stop?"
"No. Keep going." His fingers slipped down further, sliding around to skim over the even more sensitive skin of her inner thigh. He must have known how wet she was; must be able to see or smell or feel her by now. She shivered again, wanting to push back against his touch, have him push his fingers into her, but she wanted this more.
It was bare skin against bare skin this time, and it sounded like a crack, sharp and loud even as the pain flared redly through her skin. There was nothing to cushion it, no skirt, no leggings. No knickers, and when Connor's hand slid away this time, she felt the pull of it, like the stretch of sunburn, and her thighs slid further apart, aching and wanting.
Another blow and she whimpered, caught between pushing down and pushing up into the next one. But the decision was made for her - when Connor hit her this time, it was right across her buttocks, high on the fleshy part, and it was hard. The shock of it caught her breath in her throat, and her thighs tensed - her whole body tensed - as the force of it pushed her down against him.
He was hard, too, and she pushed against him, wanting him but, still, wanting this more.
"Abby..."
"Yes!"
Another smack and she let out a sharp little cry, finding enough breath for that and only that. Another, and it stung almost more than she could bear, her whole body burning and her backside the centre of that. Another and the cry this time came out choked on a sob, and he paused.
"Don't stop." She didn't sound like herself, her voice cracked, and when she looked up this time the face that greeted her in the mirror was distorted, mascara smeared where the tears had run down her face. "Don't stop, Connor. Please."
"Sorry." His voice was as ruined as hers, even more breathless. "I... um..." He laughed, and that was strained, short and tense and full of things she'd never heard in it before. "I want to, I do." His voice cracked a little on the words, and she closed her eyes again, rolling down against him, the convex of her belly pressing against the hardness in his jeans as she listened to his voice cracking even more. "My hand's sore. God, I want..."
She bit her lip and arched her hips up from him, and his breath hitched again, his hand - his sore hand - touching the heated flesh of her arse and sending more shivers through her. It was difficult to think about anything but that - him touching her, him watching her - but she pushed against the sluggishness, finally coming up with, "My hairbrush? The big, wide one. Can you see it?" She'd had it for years - wide, paddle shaped head, long thick handle, soft bristles, a throwback to the years when a hundred strokes every night was standard.
She wouldn't make it to a hundred strokes. She wanted to. God, she wanted to. With Connor.
There was a pause as he shifted underneath her, his hand pressing more firmly against her bottom as he moved, like he'd needed to steady himself on her and, in the process, sent her reeling off balance. Her skin was so sensitive now that the merest brush of skin against skin was sending little starbursts of mingled pleasure and pain through her, and she didn't want to open her eyes to look, to see herself, wrecked and wanting, reflected back to her. Instead she stayed there, in his lap, little restless movements back and forth.
"Yeah, I've got it."
She arched her back again, her fingers pulling the bedclothes towards her, a restless twitch there, too. It would be harder. It would hurt more than skin against skin.
She couldn't wait. But still...
"Not as hard, okay." The words were breathless, restless like she was, up and down the register as though they couldn't find a place where they could settle. And Connor's voice, the one word - "Okay" - in response, was just as skittish.
The first blow hurt hard enough for her to cry out, shrill and startled, and she'd bruise, there, more than anywhere else. "Sorry, sorry," Connor said, the words spilling over each other. She rocked back again, tears rolling down her cheeks, and he was better this time - the blow landed on the more padded part of her arse, and it stung again, sharp and clear, not broad and painful.
"Yes," she said, pushing down into the bed with her knees, trying to slide her thighs apart but caught up in her clothes, her leggings still tangled around her thighs. "Green." There was sweat sliding down her back, underneath her top, between her breasts, along her inner thighs. She was hot and cold where it evaporated, but burning, burning where he'd hit. "Green."
He varied the rhythm, something he must have picked up from her, when she'd tied him up and tormented him. She never knew when the next one would come, or where. A quick flurry, one, two, three, so that she was gasping for breath, hissing it in whenever he paused for long enough and letting it out with short, sharp cries. The slow, a pause, until she was restless and wanting, in spite of the tears and the pain.
She wanted... She wanted...
High up on her arse, this time, to the side, below her hip, and she shivered, wanting to trace the lines, feel the heated skin under her palm but her hands were twisted in the sheets, her mouth pressed against them, her breath dampening the fabric.
Lower, on the top of her parted thighs, this stinging this time just inches from her cunt.
She freed one hand, moved it frantically down her belly, reaching between her thighs to where she was wet and wanting. The next blow overbalanced her, her face mashed against the sheets, and she let out a sob of frustration, desperate to touch, to be touched, straining to slide her fingers between Connor's thighs and her belly.
"Abby. God." If Connor had sounded wrecked before, now he sounded like he'd been ripped apart. "What do you want?"
She couldn't articulate it, could only beg, "Please," and Connor landed another blow, where the skin was already hot and swollen, his hand this time. She could feel his fingers curl against her skin, each whorl of his fingertips branded into her. She opened her eyes, staring sightlessly at her reflection, lost in everything.
Connor's hand slid lower, across the skin of her backside, scratching lightly with his nails against her skin as she whimpered and shook. And then they pushed into her, first one sliding in and then out, followed by two, twisting so that she felt the stretch and the burn. She was coming apart, but they were gone too soon, too soon for her to climax.
"Connor," she whispered into the sheets, unsure if he could hear her over the pounding of her heart. She'd already started to twist, reaching down so that she could touch herself again, when something else came back, something thicker than Connor's fingers, hard and unyielding as it pushed into her.
Connor smacked her again, his hand landing on her backside with another hard crack and she jerked forward with a cry, one that was echoed by the panting gasp he let out. The brush handle - it had to be the brush and God bless Connor and his inventiveness - twisted in her, the soft bristles brushing against the edges of her cunt, sliding across her clit, and she let out another gasping sound, one that veered towards a sob as it twisted back.
"Is this...?"
"Green, green, green," she gasped against the sheets, pressing her face into the bed, the words running into one another as her body clenched tightly around the handle of her hairbrush, the waves of pleasure coursing through her.
Connor laughed, a harsh, startled sound, but there was no amusement in it, just want and need and all the things she was feeling. His hand slid over her skin again, prickles of sensation, the calluses on his fingers catching and scratching the itch. It lifted away again, and she braced herself, caught off balance and crying out again as he pulled the brush out, pushed it back in again and then smacked her hard, across the fleshy part above her thighs.
"Okay?" Breathless and almost breaking.
"Green," she gasped again, opening her eyes to see her reflection, arse in the air, Connor's head lowered enough now for her to glimpse the curve of his cheek, his dark hair.
Another slap and she jerked forward again, the brush twisting in her, brushing against her clit in a way that made her twist and swear breathlessly, a litany of 'fucks' and 'yeses' and 'pleases' spilling from her lips. A flurry of blows, lighter now but so close together that they blended into one, flashes of pleasure and pain flowing through her, leaving her too breathless to even curse, and he twisted the brush again, back and forth, bristles on her clit.
She came apart with a scream, sobbing and bucking, his heavy hand pressing against her aching behind, holding her down through it.
"Yellow," she gasped, when she'd caught her breath, slow waves of pleasure still working their way through her, like her whole body was on fire, sparks in her vision, her nerve endings tingling and burning. He pulled the brush out slowly, and she let out another gasp as her body stretched around the wider part of the handle, almost too sensitive to bear it. And then he was helping her up, holding her, one of his big hands around her waist, the other coming to up to brush the tears away from her cheeks, so gently, his expression stricken.
"Abby..."
She didn't want to her it, the recrimination in his voice, the guilt. She grabbed his hair, pulling his mouth to hers, and whispering, "Thank you, thank you," between the kisses, sloppy and open mouthed and grateful. "God, Connor. Thank you."
His grip on her relaxed and his mouth opened under hers. When she pulled back, her hair falling into her face and sticking to her sweaty forehead, his eyes were wide and dark and hungry. She peeled one hand away from his cheek, slid it slowly down his chest, across his belly to the hardness in his jeans. "Do you want to fuck me now?"
The pupils in his eyes dilated further, until his eyes were more black than dark brown, and he swallowed, but not nervously, not this time. Hungry, maybe, something feral in his gaze. She'd like that - she was sensitive, but if she went down on her hands and knees, if he took her from behind, his jeans open but not pulled down, so that the zip, the fabric, pressed against her sore backside...
She'd like that, she thought, and shivered again, all through her body, at the idea of it.
"I want..." He swallowed again, licked his lips. "I want you to suck me off. On your hands and knees." The words sounded breathless but he was breathing; she could feel little puffs of air against her lips as he spoke; he was so close to her, the heat rising from his body, sending more shivers through hers as though she was running a fever. "Like that, with your knickers round your knees and your bum in the air?
"Please?"
He just had to ask. He only ever had to ask. She sank back down, her knees spread and Connor's hand coming to rest on the curve of her tender backside as her fingers tugged at the button of his jeans. His fingers stroked against her skin and she shivered again at the touch, freeing him from his clothes and taking him eagerly into her mouth.
He only had to ask. She was just grateful that now he felt he could.
The End
Author: alyse
Fandom: Primeval
Pairing: Abby/Connor
Rating: NC-17
Spoilers: None
Disclaimer: Primeval and its characters belong to Impossible Pictures. No copyright infringement is intended. This is fanfiction, written solely for love of the show.
Word Count: ~5,000.
Status: Complete.
Warnings: Kink - consensual spanking.
Author's Notes: Written for mmom. Thanks to temaris for doing the beta honours, and I owe her for the title as well (although I still think it could easily be called 'It isn't easy being green').
Title and quote from With Roses by Beatrix Demarest Lloyd
Summary: Sometimes she wanted more, and she wasn't sure Connor could do that for her.
-o-
In each green leaf a memory let lie:
The pain that follows on the heels of bliss
In every thorn; each waft of incense be a sign
For love: each petal of each rose a kiss!
-- With Roses, Beatrix Demarest Lloyd
-o-
Connor was sweet, really sweet and surprisingly thoughtful when Abby finally got him into bed. Okay, he was a little uncertain, but she found the fumbling endearing. It was just so 'Connorish' and she wasn't surprised when he admitted his lack of experience. If anything, she thought he might have overstated it a little if the look on his face the first time she went down on him was anything to go by. Part shock, part awe and a whole lot of lust and pleasure, all mixed up together.
She was quite proud of that, even now.
But his inexperience did mean that she had to go slow, court him almost, and it was kind of funny how she was the one doing the slow seduction while he did the blushing, stammering virginal thing. It wasn't as though Connor had a closed mind or anything, because he was usually up for whatever she suggested, but it was always her making the suggestions and sometimes she thought she'd shocked him. Like that time she'd asked if she could tie him up, for example. She thought he'd pass out when he'd just stared at her for long moments, his mouth open and his face slowly turning red. Looking back, it was actually quite funny even though she'd been nervous bringing it up, because once he'd relaxed, he really got into it. She'd teased him and played with him, bringing him to the edge over and over again, each time easing him back down until he was reduced to begging for her touch, begging her to let him come and she'd finally let him.
At least she'd thought he'd got really into it, but he'd never asked her to do it again. He'd never asked her for anything, just said 'yes' to whatever she wanted. There was no, 'Hey, Abby. Would you dress up in a French maid's costume for me? Hey, Abby, would you wear stocking and suspenders and high heel shoes and nothing else for me?' Almost as though he was scared she was going to say 'no' to run of the mill, kink-lite, vanilla type stuff like that. Considering some of the stuff she wanted...
He loved her, and he'd probably try anything she wanted even if he was too shy to ask for what he wanted, assuming, of course, that he wanted anything more than just her. The fact that it was always her asking, and always him saying 'yes' to it was the reason she'd waited so long before bringing this up. It left her twitchy, wondering if he was just humouring her, wondering if he would do anything for her whether he really wanted it or not and if she was taking advantage of that.
But he did love her, and the itch had been building in her for days, leaving her restless, wanting. It wasn't even as though sex - routine, normal sex - with Connor wasn't doing anything to scratch that itch. It just wasn't scratching deep enough.
Sometimes they had bad days, days where she wanted to lose herself in him. Sometimes the days weren't bad, just long and monotonous and stretching out as she scooted back and forth between offices or office blocks, longing for grass and open sky and her animals to soothe. Sometimes she just wanted something wild and different and freeing, something she knew would disconnect her brain for a while and take her apart.
Sometimes she wanted more, and she wasn't sure Connor could do that for her, even though he'd walk through fire for her, follow her to the ends of the Earth and, further, into hell. And if that scared her a little - that he loved her and trusted her that much - then she guessed she'd have to love him and trust him enough for this. Because the worst thing he could do was say, 'no', and she had to trust that with Connor that would never mean a rejection.
"You want me to do what?"
She took a deep breath, forcing back her first, instinctive reaction, which was to tell him not to be so bloody judgemental. "I want you to spank me."
His mouth opened, then closed again, and he sank down onto the bed with an audible thump. "Spank you?" he asked weakly, as though she hadn't said it twice already.
"Yes."
"Why? I mean, what if I hurt you?"
Telling him that was the point wasn't going to be that helpful, especially not when he was being 'typically Connor' and looking at her with those big, brown puppy dog eyes, completely oblivious to any undercurrents going on in the conversation, to the tension in her body. But being defensive wasn't going to help either. She was getting better at not letting that show, especially once she realised just how uncertain he could be around her, how while she knew instinctively he'd never reject her, he didn't seem to have the same comfort when it came to her.
"Why?" Tackling that might be easier first. "Because it can feel really good." He wasn't convinced, she could tell that from his expression. She gave him a winning smile, getting a nervous one back, and settled down on the bed next to him. He turned towards her, as he always did, moving closer to her as though he didn't even need to think about it. She reached out to catch hold of one of his hands, pulling it until he let her drag it into her lap, where she turned it palm up towards her and ran her fingers lightly along his lifeline.
He shivered, as he always did when she touched him like this.
"Endorphins," she said softly, using her nails this time to scratch gently against his skin and earning another shiver, one that ran more deeply through him. "Those feel-good chemicals, you know?" He nodded but she had a feeling she could have been talking about anything and touching him like this and he'd nod. "Well, they build up slowly and it feels really good. And..." she shrugged, "I like it."
"What if I hurt you?" he repeated, and that was going to be the stumbling block, she knew it.
"D'you really think you could?" she asked him, letting her tone become a little mocking, and the smile that appeared on his face after that sunk in was a sheepish one.
"I'm pretty sure that under normal circumstances it'd be me getting spanked," he muttered, dropping his head to watch her fingers still circling on his palm rather than looking at her.
She nudged him with her shoulder, nudging him again when he didn't look up immediately. When he did look up this time, she said, with a grin that was intended to be - and probably was - wicked, "Well, maybe If you ask nicely enough..."
He snorted, his gaze dropping again to their entangled fingers. "I just..."
She waited, but he didn't say anything else, although she thought he might have leant in a little closer to her, just a bit.
"I like your hands," she said quietly, when it looked like he wasn't going to finish his sentence at all. She trailed her thumbnail over his palm then up his little finger before turning his hand over so that she could run all of her fingers over the back of it, sliding them through the gaps between his fingers. "I love the way you use them..." There was colour rising in his cheeks now, although his head was still bowed and she couldn't see his expression clearly. The back of his neck was turning brick red, and the tips of his ears. They didn't talk like this, not normally, although sometimes she wondered if she should make the effort. It was difficult, and a little embarrassing, but given the subject matter...
"The way you wave them around at work, I dunno..." She let out a little self-conscious laugh. "Like you could do anything with them." She pushed his hand down so that it rested on her thigh, and lowered her voice, a whispered confession with her own cheeks starting to burn. "I like the way they feel on me, and I'd like... Well, I'd like to feel them like that." He turned his head to look at her but stayed silent. "You're not going to hurt me, Connor, okay? Not in any way that counts or any way that lasts.
"That's why we have the safe-words, remember?"
He nodded dutifully, his face solemn, and it almost made her smile. "Red, yellow, green," he said, his tone serious and it became harder to hold that smile down, to not get giddy with it because this wasn't Connor saying, 'no.' This was Connor saying, 'help me understand the rules so I can play, too.'
"Red is...?"
"Stop, I don't like it," he replied promptly, parroting back her explanation from when she'd tied him up and made sure he knew he could say no, that she never wanted him to do things he wasn't comfortable with just to please her. Whether that lesson had sunk in...
"Yellow?"
"Slow down, this is too intense."
Now she smiled, and his seriousness cracked for just a second, a very small answering smile on his face.
"Green?"
"Oh, fuck, yes." His small smile broadened into a bashful grin and he ducked his head as she nudged him again, squeezing his hand.
"So, you trust me to use them, yeah?"
He had to nod at that, too, and she swallowed down the smile of victory, the butterflies in her stomach, to concentrate on the other most important thing. "And I trust you to use them, too. So, if it does get too much for you, you know you can stop, right?"
"You won't be disappointed?"
She was working on that honesty thing, being as open with him as he could be with her. "I'd be more disappointed if I thought I'd got you to do something that you didn't like." That much was true, and she watched him turn this over in his mind, chewing on his lip in thought. Normally, she'd love that look on his face, the way it scrunched up and he wrinkled his nose, but now...
Now she just wanted his hands.
She bit her own lip, trying not to hurry him, push him into anything he didn't want to do. "I don't want you doing something you don't want to do, yeah? But... but I'd like to try this, if it's okay with you."
"I..." he said, slowly, stealing a sideways glance at her. "I want..." He flushed and she made it easy for him, shifting around until she could kneel up on the bed. She'd kept hold of his hand, and it was easy, too, then, to move it so that it rested on her arse.
His fingers curled and he swallowed, eyes darting up to her face. She gave him enough time to deal, just enough for the tension to ease from his fingers, for them to flatten and stroke against the fabric of her short skirt. He had lovely fingers, strong and long, like a pianist's, and she shivered, already imagining what was coming next. That made it even easier to keep moving, all of her muscles turning to liquid as she settled herself over Connor's lap, her elbows on the bed and her bum in the air.
He swallowed deeply and she turned her head away from him, catching sight of the pair of them in the mirror in the corner of the room. It was an odd angle, like a photo taken without having been properly framed, but when she twisted further in Connor's lap she could see her face even if she couldn't see Connor's - he was reduced to nothing but legs and hands, faceless and anonymous with her posed over him. She shivered again; her face in the mirror was as flushed as Connor's had been, eyes wide, lips parted and pupils blown. She looked wanton, as turned on by the prospect of what was to come as she was by the fact it was Connor.
She closed her eyes and spread her fingers.
Connor let out his breath with a soft whoosh, and his hand came to settle on her rear again, tentatively. Too tentatively and she resisted the urge to wriggle, taking a deep breath and letting it out again, not wanting her impatience to ruin this.
"Start slow," she said, not missing the hitch in his breath. "Slow and light at first, okay? And then you build up."
"Okay." He sounded breathless, but his hand lifted, moved away from her and she closed her eyes, feeling the tension rising in her again, liquid turning to steel. She was already starting to get wet, just from the thought of it, just from that brief glimpse in the mirror, but Connor didn't need to know that, not yet. "How many?" he asked, his voice strained and high pitched.
One of her previous boyfriends had made her count, sound out each blow as it landed. She hadn't liked that - too few and she was left aching and wanting. Too many and she'd wanted it to stop. He'd decide the number; it had never been left to her. She'd finally left him and only taken this with her.
"I'll tell you when to stop, okay?"
"Okay."
She heard him draw in a breath, like he was about to dive underwater, sink down in the depths. She felt it, too, his belly flexing against her side as he breathed in deeply. There was tension in his thighs underneath her, in the air around her, and she twisted her fingers in the sheets, waiting and wanting.
The first blow was too light; the second too fast on its heels and too hard. She sucked in a breath, trying not to let that show, and waited for the third, her fingers twisting more tightly into the sheets. The seconds stretched out, long and slow, and her stomach tightened; this was it, Connor couldn't go through with it, and she swallowed the disappointment down.
The third blow jerked her forward, startling the breath from her lungs. She'd already opened her mouth, ready to reassure or argue or beg, and now a squeak escaped her, a gasping little breath, and Connor paused, his hand resting on her burning backside.
And it did burn, the heat spreading through her as she rocked her hips, an instinctive reaction - move and it hurts less, all the nerve endings tangled up and sending different messages to the brain - this one hurt, this one touch, this one pleasure slowly spiralling through her.
Connor's hand shifted again, peeling slowly away and then the fourth blow landed on the other cheek, heavy and hard and absolutely perfect, pushing her forward again. Her gasp this time came out mingled with a moan, and his hand didn't pull away. It slid away, slowly, down over the curve of her arse and she lifted her hips, following it, arching her back like a cat's.
There was another hitch in Connor's breath, and the fifth and sixth blows landed in rapid succession, one on each cheek, harder now, like he'd found the rhythm. She didn't care that it was harder, more intense. It was perfect; her hips jerked with each blow, feeling it through every single inch of her skin. Her nipples were tight, rubbing against the fabric of her bra, and her knickers felt rough against her oversensitive skin, all of her body tingling. She moved again, rocking against him as his hand moved away, little impatient twitches as every nerve ending seemed to fire.
The seventh - or eighth, she'd lost count - blow fell full across her backside, low, just above the crease of her thighs. She grunted as it fell, wriggling as she sought pressure where she needed it. Connor's hand didn't slide away that time; it rested against her burning skin, a heavy weight that slid slowly backwards, towards her parted thighs.
"Abby..." She grunted again, not able to catch her breath to do more than that. "Can I...?" Stop, she thought, swallowing down the disappointment, but Connor's hand was still moving, sliding first down and then up again, underneath the fabric of her skirt instead of over it, skimming up over the curve of her backside until he reached the waist of her leggings. His fingers slid underneath her clothes - both her leggings and her knickers - and just rested there, against her heated skin, waiting for something like permission.
Oh, god, yes. She didn't have the breath to say it, not 'green' or 'fuckin' do it' or 'please, baby, yes'. But she had enough energy to lift her hips, pushing herself forward onto her elbows and bringing her knees up so that there was space between her body and his, enough space for Connor to pull her clothes down, not so much silent permission as silent pleading.
She opened her eyes as he tugged them down and her face was clear now, in the mirror. Her body too, at an oblique angle, her head low, her hips raised over his lap. Her skirt was pushed up around her waist, and her leggings and knickers now pulled down to mid-thigh, her bum a contrast in rosy red and so pale and white, rising up behind her, begging for his touch. She could see the imprint of Connor's hand on one curve, raised red surrounded by white, marking her and she mewled, rocking her hips, the tension spiralling up in her.
Connor's hand was resting against her bare arse; she could feel the small movements of his fingers as he stroked over her heavy, swollen skin as well as see it in the mirror.
"Your bum's red," he said quietly as his fingers slid over her skin, tracing out the marks he'd left before moving down towards the top of her thigh. He didn't sound like Connor, his voice hoarse. "Do you want me stop?"
"No. Keep going." His fingers slipped down further, sliding around to skim over the even more sensitive skin of her inner thigh. He must have known how wet she was; must be able to see or smell or feel her by now. She shivered again, wanting to push back against his touch, have him push his fingers into her, but she wanted this more.
It was bare skin against bare skin this time, and it sounded like a crack, sharp and loud even as the pain flared redly through her skin. There was nothing to cushion it, no skirt, no leggings. No knickers, and when Connor's hand slid away this time, she felt the pull of it, like the stretch of sunburn, and her thighs slid further apart, aching and wanting.
Another blow and she whimpered, caught between pushing down and pushing up into the next one. But the decision was made for her - when Connor hit her this time, it was right across her buttocks, high on the fleshy part, and it was hard. The shock of it caught her breath in her throat, and her thighs tensed - her whole body tensed - as the force of it pushed her down against him.
He was hard, too, and she pushed against him, wanting him but, still, wanting this more.
"Abby..."
"Yes!"
Another smack and she let out a sharp little cry, finding enough breath for that and only that. Another, and it stung almost more than she could bear, her whole body burning and her backside the centre of that. Another and the cry this time came out choked on a sob, and he paused.
"Don't stop." She didn't sound like herself, her voice cracked, and when she looked up this time the face that greeted her in the mirror was distorted, mascara smeared where the tears had run down her face. "Don't stop, Connor. Please."
"Sorry." His voice was as ruined as hers, even more breathless. "I... um..." He laughed, and that was strained, short and tense and full of things she'd never heard in it before. "I want to, I do." His voice cracked a little on the words, and she closed her eyes again, rolling down against him, the convex of her belly pressing against the hardness in his jeans as she listened to his voice cracking even more. "My hand's sore. God, I want..."
She bit her lip and arched her hips up from him, and his breath hitched again, his hand - his sore hand - touching the heated flesh of her arse and sending more shivers through her. It was difficult to think about anything but that - him touching her, him watching her - but she pushed against the sluggishness, finally coming up with, "My hairbrush? The big, wide one. Can you see it?" She'd had it for years - wide, paddle shaped head, long thick handle, soft bristles, a throwback to the years when a hundred strokes every night was standard.
She wouldn't make it to a hundred strokes. She wanted to. God, she wanted to. With Connor.
There was a pause as he shifted underneath her, his hand pressing more firmly against her bottom as he moved, like he'd needed to steady himself on her and, in the process, sent her reeling off balance. Her skin was so sensitive now that the merest brush of skin against skin was sending little starbursts of mingled pleasure and pain through her, and she didn't want to open her eyes to look, to see herself, wrecked and wanting, reflected back to her. Instead she stayed there, in his lap, little restless movements back and forth.
"Yeah, I've got it."
She arched her back again, her fingers pulling the bedclothes towards her, a restless twitch there, too. It would be harder. It would hurt more than skin against skin.
She couldn't wait. But still...
"Not as hard, okay." The words were breathless, restless like she was, up and down the register as though they couldn't find a place where they could settle. And Connor's voice, the one word - "Okay" - in response, was just as skittish.
The first blow hurt hard enough for her to cry out, shrill and startled, and she'd bruise, there, more than anywhere else. "Sorry, sorry," Connor said, the words spilling over each other. She rocked back again, tears rolling down her cheeks, and he was better this time - the blow landed on the more padded part of her arse, and it stung again, sharp and clear, not broad and painful.
"Yes," she said, pushing down into the bed with her knees, trying to slide her thighs apart but caught up in her clothes, her leggings still tangled around her thighs. "Green." There was sweat sliding down her back, underneath her top, between her breasts, along her inner thighs. She was hot and cold where it evaporated, but burning, burning where he'd hit. "Green."
He varied the rhythm, something he must have picked up from her, when she'd tied him up and tormented him. She never knew when the next one would come, or where. A quick flurry, one, two, three, so that she was gasping for breath, hissing it in whenever he paused for long enough and letting it out with short, sharp cries. The slow, a pause, until she was restless and wanting, in spite of the tears and the pain.
She wanted... She wanted...
High up on her arse, this time, to the side, below her hip, and she shivered, wanting to trace the lines, feel the heated skin under her palm but her hands were twisted in the sheets, her mouth pressed against them, her breath dampening the fabric.
Lower, on the top of her parted thighs, this stinging this time just inches from her cunt.
She freed one hand, moved it frantically down her belly, reaching between her thighs to where she was wet and wanting. The next blow overbalanced her, her face mashed against the sheets, and she let out a sob of frustration, desperate to touch, to be touched, straining to slide her fingers between Connor's thighs and her belly.
"Abby. God." If Connor had sounded wrecked before, now he sounded like he'd been ripped apart. "What do you want?"
She couldn't articulate it, could only beg, "Please," and Connor landed another blow, where the skin was already hot and swollen, his hand this time. She could feel his fingers curl against her skin, each whorl of his fingertips branded into her. She opened her eyes, staring sightlessly at her reflection, lost in everything.
Connor's hand slid lower, across the skin of her backside, scratching lightly with his nails against her skin as she whimpered and shook. And then they pushed into her, first one sliding in and then out, followed by two, twisting so that she felt the stretch and the burn. She was coming apart, but they were gone too soon, too soon for her to climax.
"Connor," she whispered into the sheets, unsure if he could hear her over the pounding of her heart. She'd already started to twist, reaching down so that she could touch herself again, when something else came back, something thicker than Connor's fingers, hard and unyielding as it pushed into her.
Connor smacked her again, his hand landing on her backside with another hard crack and she jerked forward with a cry, one that was echoed by the panting gasp he let out. The brush handle - it had to be the brush and God bless Connor and his inventiveness - twisted in her, the soft bristles brushing against the edges of her cunt, sliding across her clit, and she let out another gasping sound, one that veered towards a sob as it twisted back.
"Is this...?"
"Green, green, green," she gasped against the sheets, pressing her face into the bed, the words running into one another as her body clenched tightly around the handle of her hairbrush, the waves of pleasure coursing through her.
Connor laughed, a harsh, startled sound, but there was no amusement in it, just want and need and all the things she was feeling. His hand slid over her skin again, prickles of sensation, the calluses on his fingers catching and scratching the itch. It lifted away again, and she braced herself, caught off balance and crying out again as he pulled the brush out, pushed it back in again and then smacked her hard, across the fleshy part above her thighs.
"Okay?" Breathless and almost breaking.
"Green," she gasped again, opening her eyes to see her reflection, arse in the air, Connor's head lowered enough now for her to glimpse the curve of his cheek, his dark hair.
Another slap and she jerked forward again, the brush twisting in her, brushing against her clit in a way that made her twist and swear breathlessly, a litany of 'fucks' and 'yeses' and 'pleases' spilling from her lips. A flurry of blows, lighter now but so close together that they blended into one, flashes of pleasure and pain flowing through her, leaving her too breathless to even curse, and he twisted the brush again, back and forth, bristles on her clit.
She came apart with a scream, sobbing and bucking, his heavy hand pressing against her aching behind, holding her down through it.
"Yellow," she gasped, when she'd caught her breath, slow waves of pleasure still working their way through her, like her whole body was on fire, sparks in her vision, her nerve endings tingling and burning. He pulled the brush out slowly, and she let out another gasp as her body stretched around the wider part of the handle, almost too sensitive to bear it. And then he was helping her up, holding her, one of his big hands around her waist, the other coming to up to brush the tears away from her cheeks, so gently, his expression stricken.
"Abby..."
She didn't want to her it, the recrimination in his voice, the guilt. She grabbed his hair, pulling his mouth to hers, and whispering, "Thank you, thank you," between the kisses, sloppy and open mouthed and grateful. "God, Connor. Thank you."
His grip on her relaxed and his mouth opened under hers. When she pulled back, her hair falling into her face and sticking to her sweaty forehead, his eyes were wide and dark and hungry. She peeled one hand away from his cheek, slid it slowly down his chest, across his belly to the hardness in his jeans. "Do you want to fuck me now?"
The pupils in his eyes dilated further, until his eyes were more black than dark brown, and he swallowed, but not nervously, not this time. Hungry, maybe, something feral in his gaze. She'd like that - she was sensitive, but if she went down on her hands and knees, if he took her from behind, his jeans open but not pulled down, so that the zip, the fabric, pressed against her sore backside...
She'd like that, she thought, and shivered again, all through her body, at the idea of it.
"I want..." He swallowed again, licked his lips. "I want you to suck me off. On your hands and knees." The words sounded breathless but he was breathing; she could feel little puffs of air against her lips as he spoke; he was so close to her, the heat rising from his body, sending more shivers through hers as though she was running a fever. "Like that, with your knickers round your knees and your bum in the air?
"Please?"
He just had to ask. He only ever had to ask. She sank back down, her knees spread and Connor's hand coming to rest on the curve of her tender backside as her fingers tugged at the button of his jeans. His fingers stroked against her skin and she shivered again at the touch, freeing him from his clothes and taking him eagerly into her mouth.
He only had to ask. She was just grateful that now he felt he could.
The End