You raise it to your lips and bite into it, the char sliding around your teeth and scraping at your tongue. It tastes like fire, like when New York burned at you. You finish the horrid things and shove the plate towards him, ignoring as he sets it down on the table and shifts to straddle you. You cannot help but love the way that you are in control, here, and you grab his hands and move them behind his body.
"You're so young," he clacks his tongue on his teeth as you tie his hands with his tie, fingers shaking. "So young..." he sighs as you lean back, looking at him, waiting. "You never were good at playing the female, were you?" he chuckles and his hands are free, stroking your neck, and you wonder why you are not surprised. "Dear girl, you were always so foolish."
"Ar--" and he silences you with a fierce and hungry kiss, the first of the night, his tongue scraping along your throat. You spitefully are grateful that all his awful skills at this are giving him is the taste of char.
"No names," he whispers as he pulls away, stroking your cheek, binding your hands behind you like you did to his. He does it better. Or is it that you just do not care enough to stop him? Either way the silk feels nice on your hands as he lifts you and places you down on his lap, your roles reversed. You dimly remember when he did this a long time ago, back when you were his and he was the mighty conquerer.
Sometimes you wonder when that changed.
"Kiss me," he commands and your body complies, even if your mind shuts it out and wonders why you come here if it means pain and domination. Guilt fills you at the idea of wanting this, wanting him to be the man he was, and wanting to be week. You are a hero, after all. Heroes are never weak, nor are they dominated so willingly. But then his hands find your chest and you cannot stop your moan.
"There we are..." he breaths and lowers his mouth to mouth at your breasts through the heavy fabric of your jacket. Your breath hitches and he moves the jacket off of you, pulling it off of your shoulders and arms, throwing it onto the couch. He stops, leaning back, placing his arms behind his head and you scowl. "Now, now," he scolded, "smile, dear girl. You should be happy to pleasure me."
Your lips stretch into a mirthless grin and he shrugs. "Good enough," he chuckles at your anger and trails his fingertips along your lips. "Kiss me," you obey and he stops you, one finger on your forehead. It is all that is needed and you stare, confused. "Not on my lips," he shakes his head. "You know where I want you to kiss me."
Humiliation curls in your stomach and you move his pants down with your mouth a little more roughly than intended. It only serves to harden him the rest of the way as you manage to free his erection, staring at it in fascination.
"It's small," you say, "it's always been small." A pearl of wisdom--or is it stupidity?--has you add: "Ivan's bigger."
Re: Almost III
anonymous
October 14 2010, 06:01:19 UTC
"Oh?" his voice is dangerous and you smirk up at him, ever the defiant colony. "Kiss it," he orders and your head snaps down to obey. "Lick it," your tongue flicks out, as if on its own accord. "Good girl. Take it in," you listen and he moans, moans louder as you add tongue and just a scrape of teeth, like he wants it. His hands tighten in your hair and move you up and down his length, shoving it into the back of your throat. You whimper, the feeling of it thick in your mouth, even if you have had thicker. He is still the one who raised you and introduced you to what you do now. If there is any shame, any guilt, or any expertise about the subject, it is his fault.
It tastes like sea and salt as he comes, your tongue lapping at it, holding it in your cheeks until it leaks out of your cheeks. "Swallow," he snarls and you force it down your throat. It burns as it heads to your stomach, like alcohol, but it feels like they are moving as they land in your stomach. At least they will be dissolved down there, you sneer to yourself.
"Shall we continue?" it is a question, a sincere one, and there is something in his eyes that is all at once tender and terrifying. You laugh, trying to put distance between that look and yourself, and his eyes deaden.
"You're asking me now?" you mock and he snorts, the illusion that this could be anything more than just an awful agreement between the both of you is gone. "I don't know what else you could do, old man," his eyes flash, and all humor is taken out of the situation. He means business, and, in fact, so do you.
"Upstairs," he orders and you move, your feet only slightly willing. His hand traces along your back one you are in his room, just touching that damn scar, teasing at it until you cannot bite back that gasp. "You can be more vocal, my dear," he whispered into your ear as his mouth traveled towards your spit curl. You let out a loud moan as his mouth envelops it, his hands all too happily stripping you of your clothes. His clothes have been lost somewhere and you turn your mouth towards his muscles, licking them over, whining as he pulls you back.
"I never ordered you to do that, did I?" he purred, moving his mouth down your hair, your jaw, your throat. You groan, pushing against the bed, seeking friction that he denies by placing you on top of him. "Soon enough, dear girl," he chuckles and releases your hands, holding them. "You can feel. Slowly," he warns and you comply, stroking his chest, teasing him as you move your hands down to his abs, feeling along them, surprised.
"I didn't think you still had them," you say, longing for control as you lower your mouth to them, eyes on his, waiting for permission. He waves a hand, encouraging you, and as you lick along those wonderfully hard abs he rakes his nails along your scar, eliciting a scream from your lips.
"Yes," he does it again and you scream again. Comply, obey, listen, do as you are told. You can feel your wetness as you move, sliding along his body and the sheets, eliminating what friction you could have had. He teases you, slips his fingers into that wetness before pulling them out and pressing them into your mouth. "Lick," and you taste yourself, swirling it around before swallowing. He pushes his fingers in and keep them there, now, twisting and stretching until you shriek and jerk your hips forward as the pleasure builds. A slap pulls you out of the pleasure and he pushes you into the mattress, your positions reversed.
"Sing for me," he whispers as he presses into you and you arch into him, screaming at the pleasure, intense as it is. Only he can pull this from you. How many times have you tried to find it in other arms, only to come back here, rain making you wet and shivering as he smiles and accepts you into his home, into his bed? Too many times, your body answers as your hips start to roll up and still on their own. "Ah, you have learned, after all," he whispers as he pounds into you, sliding in and out, a perfect fit. He is your master, after all, is he not? Of course he fits into you like a hand into a glove. You were made to please him.
No matter whether you believe that or not.
He makes you come, as you always do, your hips disobeying as you snap them into his, he crying out as he slams into you and releases. You know that British immigrants are gawking at your cities and retreating to drink tea and eat awful food, and you reach out to hold him. He draws away, just for a moment, before relenting--as he always does--and holding you close, pulling out with a wet sound.
"I love you," he tells you, as he always does, and you smile, too tired to argue your point that he does not--which you know is true. How could he love a slave? "Say you love me," he confirms your worry and you chuckle, nuzzling his throat.
"I love you too," you lie, and he seems satisfied.
Re: Almost IV
anonymous
October 15 2010, 17:13:26 UTC
oh my.
I like this. so much. I can't help but wishing there's something between the lines. Something beyond the conditioned responses. America, you are so quick to condemn those pretty words as lies. they may not be. I hope they aren't. the two of them are just too...much in the routine. yet if they break out of it, would America keep coming back to England?
I've never read such a poetic SM before. With a subtle atmosphere of melancholy. And all those softly-spoken orders. So enrapturing. I'm interested in their dynamics during ww2 and the cold war in this au setting.
this is actually a very angsty piece. but so beautifully written i'm addicted. can't help but starving for england's pov...
'almost enough'. but not really enough. what if something comes and disturb the precarious balance...? what is enough?
Writer!Anon
anonymous
October 15 2010, 22:29:03 UTC
Ah, but there is something between the lines! If you read carefully, you'll see England wanting to make it something more than it is, while America doesn't, because she's been used too many times.
As for the pattern... oh god, I can only imagine what would happen if someone came and disrupted it. England'd be furious and totally want to bring it back to the way it was, while America'd be happy at being an equal. Having her as a subordinate is better than not having her at all.
This is actually set around modern times, though it could easily be after the Civil War, or during World War I, 'cause I'd like to do the Cold War and WWII in this setting too, now. xD
Ah, the balance being disrupted... it would be crazy and angsty and I want to do it now, but I've spammed this poor request enough with my love for angsty England/America.
Re: Almost IV
anonymous
October 16 2010, 22:39:32 UTC
I seriously love the subtlety of the darkness here. It was also very hot, the way it was written, the way the sex happens, and of course, the complete and total domination, down to what she has to eat when she's there. It was interesting, getting into her head, her bitterness and the desire to obey and submit she can't suppress. The Russia reference was really hot too. All in all, an excellent fill, author anon!
"You're so young," he clacks his tongue on his teeth as you tie his hands with his tie, fingers shaking. "So young..." he sighs as you lean back, looking at him, waiting. "You never were good at playing the female, were you?" he chuckles and his hands are free, stroking your neck, and you wonder why you are not surprised. "Dear girl, you were always so foolish."
"Ar--" and he silences you with a fierce and hungry kiss, the first of the night, his tongue scraping along your throat. You spitefully are grateful that all his awful skills at this are giving him is the taste of char.
"No names," he whispers as he pulls away, stroking your cheek, binding your hands behind you like you did to his. He does it better. Or is it that you just do not care enough to stop him? Either way the silk feels nice on your hands as he lifts you and places you down on his lap, your roles reversed. You dimly remember when he did this a long time ago, back when you were his and he was the mighty conquerer.
Sometimes you wonder when that changed.
"Kiss me," he commands and your body complies, even if your mind shuts it out and wonders why you come here if it means pain and domination. Guilt fills you at the idea of wanting this, wanting him to be the man he was, and wanting to be week. You are a hero, after all. Heroes are never weak, nor are they dominated so willingly. But then his hands find your chest and you cannot stop your moan.
"There we are..." he breaths and lowers his mouth to mouth at your breasts through the heavy fabric of your jacket. Your breath hitches and he moves the jacket off of you, pulling it off of your shoulders and arms, throwing it onto the couch. He stops, leaning back, placing his arms behind his head and you scowl. "Now, now," he scolded, "smile, dear girl. You should be happy to pleasure me."
Your lips stretch into a mirthless grin and he shrugs. "Good enough," he chuckles at your anger and trails his fingertips along your lips. "Kiss me," you obey and he stops you, one finger on your forehead. It is all that is needed and you stare, confused. "Not on my lips," he shakes his head. "You know where I want you to kiss me."
Humiliation curls in your stomach and you move his pants down with your mouth a little more roughly than intended. It only serves to harden him the rest of the way as you manage to free his erection, staring at it in fascination.
"It's small," you say, "it's always been small." A pearl of wisdom--or is it stupidity?--has you add: "Ivan's bigger."
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It tastes like sea and salt as he comes, your tongue lapping at it, holding it in your cheeks until it leaks out of your cheeks. "Swallow," he snarls and you force it down your throat. It burns as it heads to your stomach, like alcohol, but it feels like they are moving as they land in your stomach. At least they will be dissolved down there, you sneer to yourself.
"Shall we continue?" it is a question, a sincere one, and there is something in his eyes that is all at once tender and terrifying. You laugh, trying to put distance between that look and yourself, and his eyes deaden.
"You're asking me now?" you mock and he snorts, the illusion that this could be anything more than just an awful agreement between the both of you is gone. "I don't know what else you could do, old man," his eyes flash, and all humor is taken out of the situation. He means business, and, in fact, so do you.
"Upstairs," he orders and you move, your feet only slightly willing. His hand traces along your back one you are in his room, just touching that damn scar, teasing at it until you cannot bite back that gasp. "You can be more vocal, my dear," he whispered into your ear as his mouth traveled towards your spit curl. You let out a loud moan as his mouth envelops it, his hands all too happily stripping you of your clothes. His clothes have been lost somewhere and you turn your mouth towards his muscles, licking them over, whining as he pulls you back.
"I never ordered you to do that, did I?" he purred, moving his mouth down your hair, your jaw, your throat. You groan, pushing against the bed, seeking friction that he denies by placing you on top of him. "Soon enough, dear girl," he chuckles and releases your hands, holding them. "You can feel. Slowly," he warns and you comply, stroking his chest, teasing him as you move your hands down to his abs, feeling along them, surprised.
"I didn't think you still had them," you say, longing for control as you lower your mouth to them, eyes on his, waiting for permission. He waves a hand, encouraging you, and as you lick along those wonderfully hard abs he rakes his nails along your scar, eliciting a scream from your lips.
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"Sing for me," he whispers as he presses into you and you arch into him, screaming at the pleasure, intense as it is. Only he can pull this from you. How many times have you tried to find it in other arms, only to come back here, rain making you wet and shivering as he smiles and accepts you into his home, into his bed? Too many times, your body answers as your hips start to roll up and still on their own. "Ah, you have learned, after all," he whispers as he pounds into you, sliding in and out, a perfect fit. He is your master, after all, is he not? Of course he fits into you like a hand into a glove. You were made to please him.
No matter whether you believe that or not.
He makes you come, as you always do, your hips disobeying as you snap them into his, he crying out as he slams into you and releases. You know that British immigrants are gawking at your cities and retreating to drink tea and eat awful food, and you reach out to hold him. He draws away, just for a moment, before relenting--as he always does--and holding you close, pulling out with a wet sound.
"I love you," he tells you, as he always does, and you smile, too tired to argue your point that he does not--which you know is true. How could he love a slave? "Say you love me," he confirms your worry and you chuckle, nuzzling his throat.
"I love you too," you lie, and he seems satisfied.
It is almost enough.
Reply
I like this. so much. I can't help but wishing there's something between the lines. Something beyond the conditioned responses. America, you are so quick to condemn those pretty words as lies. they may not be. I hope they aren't. the two of them are just too...much in the routine. yet if they break out of it, would America keep coming back to England?
I've never read such a poetic SM before. With a subtle atmosphere of melancholy. And all those softly-spoken orders. So enrapturing. I'm interested in their dynamics during ww2 and the cold war in this au setting.
this is actually a very angsty piece. but so beautifully written i'm addicted. can't help but starving for england's pov...
'almost enough'. but not really enough. what if something comes and disturb the precarious balance...? what is enough?
Reply
As for the pattern... oh god, I can only imagine what would happen if someone came and disrupted it. England'd be furious and totally want to bring it back to the way it was, while America'd be happy at being an equal. Having her as a subordinate is better than not having her at all.
This is actually set around modern times, though it could easily be after the Civil War, or during World War I, 'cause I'd like to do the Cold War and WWII in this setting too, now. xD
Ah, the balance being disrupted... it would be crazy and angsty and I want to do it now, but I've spammed this poor request enough with my love for angsty England/America.
And thank you for all the compliments!!
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