Split
Title: Split
Fandom: None!
Pairing: ...uh, m/f.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: het, BDSM
Words: 1500-ish
Summary: Oh look at you, all split in two.
Disclaimer: I own it. All of it. Muahahaha.
"Oh look at you, all split in two," he crooned, swinging his riding crop in lazy circles that somehow threatened more than vicious swishes would.
She stiffened and fought her closing eyelids, fending off the forbidden scenes that would appear there if she let them win. This was her compromise with herself, and he acted as if he knew it: these images could come only when he bade them. Otherwise she would find herself again the crumpled, wide-eyed mess that this new love had made of her.
"Tell me what you're thinking." The crop switched to tapping at the palm of his left hand. Her tongue was dry. Whenever he asked for them, all her fantasies seemed to slip away, no longer hers to give. She wasn't sure whether she had caught a menacing flick of the crop between taps after a few seconds of silence or, worse, only wanted to. "Are words colder down there on the floor?" he prodded, still in singsong. "Do they come more slowly?"
She swallowed. This was never easy. No, she could think of nothing more difficult. Love was never meant to be like this-in all the love stories, in all the legends, in all the dramas, written and acted, in all the archetypes, this never happened, the woman curled naked at the man's feet yes, her hands bound behind her with rough cord yes, but not these flittings between all her skin and all the air, in her breasts pressed against the floor, in her eyes struggling to shut, not quite like this. And so she gave him, not what he asked, but what she could: "I'm kneeling here for you, but his hands are all over me." (Invisible hands, delicate hands, hands like wisps of mist that made in her these maddening flittery thrills so unlike the shudders and raking hitchy gasps from the slaps and calluses and chokeholds that she now knew. Hands holding all her cards, stretched over the edge of a tenth floor balcony.)
"So is he a ghost today, your little love?" Bitterness creeping into his cadences, real, perhaps, or perhaps feigned, she didn't want to know, he didn't want her to try.
"No," she admitted, drawing breath as best she could through the imagined hand pressing soft against her mouth. "He is naked and lying on my back, and I can feel the vibrations through his chest as he laughs at you and me. He is telling me that all this is nothing but echoes in a cave and I… I just want to let him reach into me and turn something." Abstractions, all of it, and it hissed over her skin like running sand and got into all her creases and God, it made no sense that she should feel a delicate ruthless twisting just from this.
"What do you really want from him?" Tap, tap, slap against the palm of his hand.
Where to begin? Two fingers sliding into her, deep so fast she can barely notice, crossing and uncrossing. A dizzyingly breathy yet still somehow masculine voice, "…for you…" Lips like skeletal leaves resting on her shoulder. There were tears and everything was mixed up, her reactions were all wrong. When her eyes finally closed, cool leather brushed a drop from her cheek.
"Would you cry just to feel his tongue tracing your teartracks? Would you gulp and shake just to feel him solid, for a while, against you?" Playful, but so frightening, calm, but so volatile. Then a moment undisguised. "Could your little love bring you to tears just by touching your pretty skin, my lovely? What would he have to say to reduce you to nothing?
(Yes, yes he could.) "Not just one word, Sir, not like you."
The tip of the crop slipped over the bridge of her nose, the hollows of her eyes. "And what do you want from me?"
As if she was in any position to make demands. If she had opened her eyes, she would have seen only scuffed boots and hardwood floor. "Nothing, Sir."
"Perhaps, my dear, perhaps." The floor squeaked softly; one of those boots nudged at her ribs. "Now what do you need from me?"
His boot was now tapping impatiently. Rhythmic puffs of air hit her side. Behind her eyelids she saw thin lips brushing kisses that would never satisfy, always draw her deeper into longing, vast eyes with all their liquid firepower turned on her begging for something she could never quite give. Tears threatened to drown out all awareness of the man standing over her and the question hanging between them. "Remind me."
The crop snaking lazily down her spine was the only warning before the first snap across her ass. There would be no warming up, no starting off easy, no compromises when it came to what she needed, and although it was always this way she still yelped and tensed, arching her back and sitting halfway up. "Shut up," a voice behind her grunted, a boot at the small of her back forcing her down and keeping her there. The lashing felt like it would later look, short hot gashes of penitent ecstasy, every blow forcing a dent in her defenses, reducing her inner void until she felt almost small enough to bear. But he was having none of that. "Try to think of him." The whistle of the crop against the air. "Try to think of him while I give you this."
Oh, it was disturbingly easy. A sweet mouth on hers, not easing the pain at all but making each stroke seem to last longer, to cut deeper and drip with red honey. Holding her up by the shoulders, so odd-angled delicate, shaking with her at each lash. She saw herself biting her pain into a pale neck, felt the trembling between her lips become a pressing into her teeth, heard the quick intake of breath just by her ear-no, the husky "yes"-no, her name, choked down as if in fear of being overheard.
She didn't realize the blows had stopped until he knelt behind her and grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking her head from the floor with a malicious twist. After the swish and snap of the crop, the silence in the room was raw, not as much threatening as already injured. The bare wall she faced was a cream that verged to closely on harsh white, and on it she seemed to see the ghosts of her fantasies projected for anyone to watch in slow-motion silhouette. He, at least, seemed to be watching. When he slipped a finger into her and crooked it just so, the sparkings that wracked her body had an inevitability that somehow failed to lessen their intensity at all.
"You'll never have him, you know. You'll never lie with him in a field of pale flowers, you'll never kiss him under a broken umbrella in the pouring rain. Someone else, some girl you'll never meet, will have his first little shivers. Someone else will have his first 'I love you.'" Something was flapping in her chest like a loose sail, her face was hot and drenched, she tasted salt, stimulation that was not pleasure was taking her body into its sickening crush and she wondered whether it was possible to come while crying this hard, knew that either way she would, hated it desperately.
"Stop," she whispered.
"Do you really want me to stop?" he sneered, tauntingly, as if she had no choice here, or maybe just as if he already knew the answer. If he pulled any harder her hair was going to rip out at the roots.
"No!" She was collapsing into the inside of her head, the most dangerous of refuges. "Don't stop. Don't stop. God…" Her voice sank to a half-swallowed murmur. "God, this is hopeless."
"Say that again."
"Hopeless." She could barely force the words over the cacophony between her ribs. "This is hopeless."
"Yes, pet. Yes it is."
Two fingers slipping into her, deep so fast she can barely notice, crossing and uncrossing.
"He will never moan your name, he'll never gasp it, he'll never repeat it until he's dizzy, he'll never scream it to the heavens-"
"-please-"
"So be a good girl now and scream his."
Fandom: None!
Pairing: ...uh, m/f.
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: het, BDSM
Words: 1500-ish
Summary: Oh look at you, all split in two.
Disclaimer: I own it. All of it. Muahahaha.
"Oh look at you, all split in two," he crooned, swinging his riding crop in lazy circles that somehow threatened more than vicious swishes would.
She stiffened and fought her closing eyelids, fending off the forbidden scenes that would appear there if she let them win. This was her compromise with herself, and he acted as if he knew it: these images could come only when he bade them. Otherwise she would find herself again the crumpled, wide-eyed mess that this new love had made of her.
"Tell me what you're thinking." The crop switched to tapping at the palm of his left hand. Her tongue was dry. Whenever he asked for them, all her fantasies seemed to slip away, no longer hers to give. She wasn't sure whether she had caught a menacing flick of the crop between taps after a few seconds of silence or, worse, only wanted to. "Are words colder down there on the floor?" he prodded, still in singsong. "Do they come more slowly?"
She swallowed. This was never easy. No, she could think of nothing more difficult. Love was never meant to be like this-in all the love stories, in all the legends, in all the dramas, written and acted, in all the archetypes, this never happened, the woman curled naked at the man's feet yes, her hands bound behind her with rough cord yes, but not these flittings between all her skin and all the air, in her breasts pressed against the floor, in her eyes struggling to shut, not quite like this. And so she gave him, not what he asked, but what she could: "I'm kneeling here for you, but his hands are all over me." (Invisible hands, delicate hands, hands like wisps of mist that made in her these maddening flittery thrills so unlike the shudders and raking hitchy gasps from the slaps and calluses and chokeholds that she now knew. Hands holding all her cards, stretched over the edge of a tenth floor balcony.)
"So is he a ghost today, your little love?" Bitterness creeping into his cadences, real, perhaps, or perhaps feigned, she didn't want to know, he didn't want her to try.
"No," she admitted, drawing breath as best she could through the imagined hand pressing soft against her mouth. "He is naked and lying on my back, and I can feel the vibrations through his chest as he laughs at you and me. He is telling me that all this is nothing but echoes in a cave and I… I just want to let him reach into me and turn something." Abstractions, all of it, and it hissed over her skin like running sand and got into all her creases and God, it made no sense that she should feel a delicate ruthless twisting just from this.
"What do you really want from him?" Tap, tap, slap against the palm of his hand.
Where to begin? Two fingers sliding into her, deep so fast she can barely notice, crossing and uncrossing. A dizzyingly breathy yet still somehow masculine voice, "…for you…" Lips like skeletal leaves resting on her shoulder. There were tears and everything was mixed up, her reactions were all wrong. When her eyes finally closed, cool leather brushed a drop from her cheek.
"Would you cry just to feel his tongue tracing your teartracks? Would you gulp and shake just to feel him solid, for a while, against you?" Playful, but so frightening, calm, but so volatile. Then a moment undisguised. "Could your little love bring you to tears just by touching your pretty skin, my lovely? What would he have to say to reduce you to nothing?
(Yes, yes he could.) "Not just one word, Sir, not like you."
The tip of the crop slipped over the bridge of her nose, the hollows of her eyes. "And what do you want from me?"
As if she was in any position to make demands. If she had opened her eyes, she would have seen only scuffed boots and hardwood floor. "Nothing, Sir."
"Perhaps, my dear, perhaps." The floor squeaked softly; one of those boots nudged at her ribs. "Now what do you need from me?"
His boot was now tapping impatiently. Rhythmic puffs of air hit her side. Behind her eyelids she saw thin lips brushing kisses that would never satisfy, always draw her deeper into longing, vast eyes with all their liquid firepower turned on her begging for something she could never quite give. Tears threatened to drown out all awareness of the man standing over her and the question hanging between them. "Remind me."
The crop snaking lazily down her spine was the only warning before the first snap across her ass. There would be no warming up, no starting off easy, no compromises when it came to what she needed, and although it was always this way she still yelped and tensed, arching her back and sitting halfway up. "Shut up," a voice behind her grunted, a boot at the small of her back forcing her down and keeping her there. The lashing felt like it would later look, short hot gashes of penitent ecstasy, every blow forcing a dent in her defenses, reducing her inner void until she felt almost small enough to bear. But he was having none of that. "Try to think of him." The whistle of the crop against the air. "Try to think of him while I give you this."
Oh, it was disturbingly easy. A sweet mouth on hers, not easing the pain at all but making each stroke seem to last longer, to cut deeper and drip with red honey. Holding her up by the shoulders, so odd-angled delicate, shaking with her at each lash. She saw herself biting her pain into a pale neck, felt the trembling between her lips become a pressing into her teeth, heard the quick intake of breath just by her ear-no, the husky "yes"-no, her name, choked down as if in fear of being overheard.
She didn't realize the blows had stopped until he knelt behind her and grabbed a fistful of hair, yanking her head from the floor with a malicious twist. After the swish and snap of the crop, the silence in the room was raw, not as much threatening as already injured. The bare wall she faced was a cream that verged to closely on harsh white, and on it she seemed to see the ghosts of her fantasies projected for anyone to watch in slow-motion silhouette. He, at least, seemed to be watching. When he slipped a finger into her and crooked it just so, the sparkings that wracked her body had an inevitability that somehow failed to lessen their intensity at all.
"You'll never have him, you know. You'll never lie with him in a field of pale flowers, you'll never kiss him under a broken umbrella in the pouring rain. Someone else, some girl you'll never meet, will have his first little shivers. Someone else will have his first 'I love you.'" Something was flapping in her chest like a loose sail, her face was hot and drenched, she tasted salt, stimulation that was not pleasure was taking her body into its sickening crush and she wondered whether it was possible to come while crying this hard, knew that either way she would, hated it desperately.
"Stop," she whispered.
"Do you really want me to stop?" he sneered, tauntingly, as if she had no choice here, or maybe just as if he already knew the answer. If he pulled any harder her hair was going to rip out at the roots.
"No!" She was collapsing into the inside of her head, the most dangerous of refuges. "Don't stop. Don't stop. God…" Her voice sank to a half-swallowed murmur. "God, this is hopeless."
"Say that again."
"Hopeless." She could barely force the words over the cacophony between her ribs. "This is hopeless."
"Yes, pet. Yes it is."
Two fingers slipping into her, deep so fast she can barely notice, crossing and uncrossing.
"He will never moan your name, he'll never gasp it, he'll never repeat it until he's dizzy, he'll never scream it to the heavens-"
"-please-"
"So be a good girl now and scream his."