(no subject)
Title: it’s not how big, it’s how mean
Fandom: Original
Summary: mindless porn. BDSM.
Notes: title taken from Lady Gaga’s Teeth, the song I listened to on repeat while writing.
She kneels on the floor, naked, wrists in cold metal cuffs. She stares at the ground, watching his leather shoes as he paces back and forth in front of her.
“Stand,” he says, almost absent-mindedly. She stands, rising smoothly-they have done this before. His body rises in front of her, legs, crotch, stomach and chest hidden by a navy blue sweatervest. One hand is on his hip, the other out of her line of sight, most likely at his mouth as he thinks.
He mutters to himself, pacing again. If she were out of cuffs-out of character, as it were-she would be talking, chattering away, bringing the focus to her, or at least trying to distract him. It’s what he would deserve for inviting her into his lab when he needs to work. But she doesn’t. Can’t. He must give her permission to speak and he’s not likely to do that.
He stops pacing in front of her again. He grabs the cuffs, his long fingers brush hers-electricity.
“Come,” he says, walking to the far wall. He turns her to face him-she sneaks a peek at his face, though she’s not allowed to-and lifts her arms above her, backing her against the wall. She denies herself any excitement, however, when he hooks the cuffs above on the wall. His hands trace her face, lifting her chin; her eyes rise to his blue ones.
“Stay,” he says. He turns and walks back to his lab table, grabbing tools as he goes.
This is her favorite part. Well, second favorite.
She enjoys watching him work; she enjoys being naked; she enjoys be a piece of art on his wall. And sure, it’s an uncomfortable pose, but if that’s the worst he puts her through-it’s not, usually-it’s a great day.
She’s pondering her fate-and his form in those tight trousers-when he puts down the chalk he had been using to write formulas and numbers on the board, old-school. He wipes his hands on a handkerchief that he carefully sets down on the table. His fingers drum as he looks at her. He grabs one of the tools suddenly and strides purposefully toward her. She knows the drill, knows what he expects, what he wants. What she wants.
She lifts her head to meet his eyes. Hers widen with fear as she sees the tool-weapon-in his hand. It is long but thin, metal. A tube. Both ends are blunt. It glints in the light.
“It’s taking me longer than I’d like to puzzle my current project out. Shall we perform a different type of experiment?”
(He’s said it so many times it’s almost script-like. Its delivery, however, always sets her shaking.)
She doesn’t answer, doesn’t look anywhere but his glimmering blue eyes; she lets herself go a little limp in her position. He likes it one of two ways: either she fights or she doesn’t. It all depends on his temperament of the day.
He cocks a hip, looking her up and down lazily. He rolls up the sleeves of the arm holding the tool. He grins, one side of his mouth sitting back to provide a glimpse of his bright white teeth.
He puts the tool at her thighs, the cool metal instantly making her stand, legs apart and between them, wetness already. He notices, can probably smell it, and his grin gets wider. He tests her, the top of the tube a shock to a system that was already expecting it.
He plays with her, slipping it in a little ways then back out again, and she can tell it’s a no-fighting kind of day. He wants her easy; she’s already ready for him and she knows he likes the feeling of teasing someone who wants him so badly. She’s at his mercy and this way, he doesn’t have to do much work.
He sees her eyes closing; she’s waiting for him to enter. He throws the metal to the ground and her eyes snap open in time to see him unzip his trousers.
His hands-long fingers and finely formed, strong-grip her hips, lifting her against him and he enters quickly. She is not allowed to say anything, but she can’t help the soft noise that escapes her lips. He stops his rhythm, wrapping her legs around his waist and holding her against the wall. One hand finds its way to her face, squeezing her cheeks until she looks at him. He stares her down; her eyes lower to where they’re joined.
He kisses her, lips as hard as his hands.
“Look at me.” When she does, he thrusts, harder than necessary, and watches as she fights to silence the sound in her throat. He continues in this way, as much for his pleasure as her discomfort. His free hand trails up and down her, pinching and poking and prodding. It reaches her breast once, continuing on, not giving her what she wants; the second time, her twists harder than anticipated, and her eyes widen.
He goes until his eyes close, jaw clenches; he’s holding back, but she slips down the wall just a touch and she’s there just so and he can’t stop it.
“You may speak,” he whispers as he leans forward, forehead against the wall and lips next to her ear.
“Thank you.”
“Such a polite student,” he says. He presses a kiss to her cheek and draws himself out of her. He sets her down to zip himself up. Then he turns from her and continues working, all thought of his stress reliever gone as he ponders the problem in from of him.
She is still cuffed, arms above and pulled taut. She aches all over. He didn’t bother to clean her up, the wetness sticky and cooling between her thighs.
But she is content. He gave her what she wanted. And so she waits, for the next time he needs a distraction.
Fandom: Original
Summary: mindless porn. BDSM.
Notes: title taken from Lady Gaga’s Teeth, the song I listened to on repeat while writing.
She kneels on the floor, naked, wrists in cold metal cuffs. She stares at the ground, watching his leather shoes as he paces back and forth in front of her.
“Stand,” he says, almost absent-mindedly. She stands, rising smoothly-they have done this before. His body rises in front of her, legs, crotch, stomach and chest hidden by a navy blue sweatervest. One hand is on his hip, the other out of her line of sight, most likely at his mouth as he thinks.
He mutters to himself, pacing again. If she were out of cuffs-out of character, as it were-she would be talking, chattering away, bringing the focus to her, or at least trying to distract him. It’s what he would deserve for inviting her into his lab when he needs to work. But she doesn’t. Can’t. He must give her permission to speak and he’s not likely to do that.
He stops pacing in front of her again. He grabs the cuffs, his long fingers brush hers-electricity.
“Come,” he says, walking to the far wall. He turns her to face him-she sneaks a peek at his face, though she’s not allowed to-and lifts her arms above her, backing her against the wall. She denies herself any excitement, however, when he hooks the cuffs above on the wall. His hands trace her face, lifting her chin; her eyes rise to his blue ones.
“Stay,” he says. He turns and walks back to his lab table, grabbing tools as he goes.
This is her favorite part. Well, second favorite.
She enjoys watching him work; she enjoys being naked; she enjoys be a piece of art on his wall. And sure, it’s an uncomfortable pose, but if that’s the worst he puts her through-it’s not, usually-it’s a great day.
She’s pondering her fate-and his form in those tight trousers-when he puts down the chalk he had been using to write formulas and numbers on the board, old-school. He wipes his hands on a handkerchief that he carefully sets down on the table. His fingers drum as he looks at her. He grabs one of the tools suddenly and strides purposefully toward her. She knows the drill, knows what he expects, what he wants. What she wants.
She lifts her head to meet his eyes. Hers widen with fear as she sees the tool-weapon-in his hand. It is long but thin, metal. A tube. Both ends are blunt. It glints in the light.
“It’s taking me longer than I’d like to puzzle my current project out. Shall we perform a different type of experiment?”
(He’s said it so many times it’s almost script-like. Its delivery, however, always sets her shaking.)
She doesn’t answer, doesn’t look anywhere but his glimmering blue eyes; she lets herself go a little limp in her position. He likes it one of two ways: either she fights or she doesn’t. It all depends on his temperament of the day.
He cocks a hip, looking her up and down lazily. He rolls up the sleeves of the arm holding the tool. He grins, one side of his mouth sitting back to provide a glimpse of his bright white teeth.
He puts the tool at her thighs, the cool metal instantly making her stand, legs apart and between them, wetness already. He notices, can probably smell it, and his grin gets wider. He tests her, the top of the tube a shock to a system that was already expecting it.
He plays with her, slipping it in a little ways then back out again, and she can tell it’s a no-fighting kind of day. He wants her easy; she’s already ready for him and she knows he likes the feeling of teasing someone who wants him so badly. She’s at his mercy and this way, he doesn’t have to do much work.
He sees her eyes closing; she’s waiting for him to enter. He throws the metal to the ground and her eyes snap open in time to see him unzip his trousers.
His hands-long fingers and finely formed, strong-grip her hips, lifting her against him and he enters quickly. She is not allowed to say anything, but she can’t help the soft noise that escapes her lips. He stops his rhythm, wrapping her legs around his waist and holding her against the wall. One hand finds its way to her face, squeezing her cheeks until she looks at him. He stares her down; her eyes lower to where they’re joined.
He kisses her, lips as hard as his hands.
“Look at me.” When she does, he thrusts, harder than necessary, and watches as she fights to silence the sound in her throat. He continues in this way, as much for his pleasure as her discomfort. His free hand trails up and down her, pinching and poking and prodding. It reaches her breast once, continuing on, not giving her what she wants; the second time, her twists harder than anticipated, and her eyes widen.
He goes until his eyes close, jaw clenches; he’s holding back, but she slips down the wall just a touch and she’s there just so and he can’t stop it.
“You may speak,” he whispers as he leans forward, forehead against the wall and lips next to her ear.
“Thank you.”
“Such a polite student,” he says. He presses a kiss to her cheek and draws himself out of her. He sets her down to zip himself up. Then he turns from her and continues working, all thought of his stress reliever gone as he ponders the problem in from of him.
She is still cuffed, arms above and pulled taut. She aches all over. He didn’t bother to clean her up, the wetness sticky and cooling between her thighs.
But she is content. He gave her what she wanted. And so she waits, for the next time he needs a distraction.