[fic] Chevalier Games
Title: Chevalier Games
Game: Dragon Age: Origins/Awakening
Pairing: Nathaniel/Cauthrien
Rating: M/AO
Wordcount: 3,221
Warnings: BDSM, misogynistic language in the context of role play
Summary: Nathaniel Howe is a wicked, wicked man - and one full of ideas. An afternoon in the stables turns to hard play and Cauthrien will not break. PWP. (Ao3)
Notes: Absolutely and completely a PWP. Not the same 'verse as Unwarranted Affections, but still set in Amaranthine with Cauthrien as a Warden; she joined after the events of Awakening. Established relationship.
If there was one thing to be said about the hard ride in from the Wending Woods, one positive thing at all, it was that as exhaustion tugged at both of them, Cauthrien was still visibly flustered as she dismounted.
"Different saddle," she said when he asked her why her cheeks were so pink though the day was neither hot nor cold. She licked at her lips. "Not Fereldan."
"No," he said as he unsaddled his own horse. "Antivan."
The horse she had ridden home wasn't hers; they had been forced to exchange horses in a small town on the way when her garron had thrown a shoe, and her saddle had not sat right upon the smaller steed she had been lent. He had put forth the coin to borrow another, though Cauthrien had insisted she could ride the remaining miles to the Keep bareback.
It was worth it, to see the tops of her shoulders shift with the wiggling of her hips.
"The seat design-"
"Is interesting," he finished with a low chuckle as he set his own horse to rights and reached for his bag. "You'll survive."
"I'm sure," she said, dryly.
The other thing to be said was that it would, hopefully, make his gift more appreciated; Cauthrien did not accept trinkets readily, and he rarely offered, but he hoped that this time it would cheer her. At the very least, it might worsen the blush on her cheeks.
He met her outside of their stalls, then took her wrist and with an inclination of his head led her to another, empty one. "I have something for you," he said.
"Something?"
"Hold out your hands."
She obeyed, albeit with hesitance and a quirked brow. He in turn reached into his bag and pulled out a set of leather bracers, finally made and tooled. She had been coming around to the idea of leathers in place of her heavy chain and plate or her dressed down leggings and wool padding, and he had seen her admire a set much like it on their last trip to Amaranthine City. Now, her eyes lit up and she looked to him with a smile.
"A gift?"
"Mm," he hummed, stepping forward to slide the slackened leather over her hands and onto her forearms. His fingers worked quickly, and soon he was tugging at the laces, until her forearms were drawn tight together. He twisted the remaining laces into a knot, and grinned. "But they would appear to be attached."
She stared down at her now-bound arms, opening her mouth to say something, but he used that moment to tug her against him, using the trailing ends of the laces as a leash. He nuzzled against her cheek, lips teasing lightly at the corner of her mouth. "I'll set them to rights later," he murmured, and felt her breath hitch.
"Wicked man," she breathed, swallowing. "That damnable saddle-"
"Was just a bonus," he said with a laugh, backing her towards the wall of the little stall with touches and kisses. His mouth found her throat and suckled there at the sweat-salted skin, ignoring the permeating scent of horse and the lingering traces of mud and darkspawn blood. He focused instead on elfroot and leather and steel, the scents that were particularly hers.
He focused, too, on the fast building heat in her that answered his own.
"And what are your plans?" she got out, finally, as her back connected with the wood and he nudged her arms above her head so that he could press flush to her chest, his fingers wedged between them working at the laces of her leggings.
"I could take you in the hay," he said, thoughtfully, nipping at the skin just below her ear. "I could drag you back up onto the horse with the Antivan saddle and sit you just so between my legs." She shuddered and cursed and he grinned, tugging hard at the fasteners of her clothing. "Or," he said, "I could play the wicked chevalier-"
"Bastard," she growled, stilling.
"And you could take out your revenge later tonight," he finished, sliding a hand along her belly to soothe her.
"Take my revenge," she said, and he could feel her considering- relenting by inches.
"Revenge," he repeated. "I'll let you take me however you choose. You could beat me blue and leave me with a practice dagger up my ass, tied spread-eagled on the bed, if you like. I'd kiss your feet, let you jack me with your gauntlets on no matter how much it pinched and hurt-"
She moaned, and he grinned.
"Maker, you're wicked-"
"Yes," he agreed, then paused. "With you."
"With me."
"Mm, only with you." He lifted his head then to look her in the eyes. She had come to Amaranthine to take the Joining only six months before, had only graced his bed for two, and he knew from knowing her, listening to her and watching her, that she curbed her cruelty on the field of battle and that she still burned at the mention of the occupation. It was a dangerous line to walk. But his mind would not still, would not abandon the ideas plaguing him.
"I will take care of you," he said, softly. "Trust me, Cauthrien."
"… It will feel good?"
"If you let it." He sealed the promise with a kiss, a long, probing one, and then he turned her around, shoving her hard against the wood. His hands trailed up her sides as she hissed and squirmed, beginning to fight in earnest when he leaned in and caught her lobe in his teeth. His hands found her bound forearms and the laces, and tied them tight to a hook just a few inches to the left of her head.
And then he stepped back, hands falling to her hips and jerking her back as well, until she had to fight to press her forearms to the wood while she stood bent over.
"I can speak to you in Orlesian," he murmured, hot and low, "but only if you ask it of me."
She was quiet for a long stretch, breathing ragged and head dropped down, fingers flexing against the wood. He expected her to stop him and relaxed his hands in anticipation of her retreat.
But then she looked over her shoulder with a defiant glare.
"Do your worst, you chevalier prick."
He couldn't help but laugh at that, at her pride and intensity and bravery, the way her cheeks flushed but her lips set into a firm line. The laugh came out low and breathy from his own arousal, and his fingers hooked into the waistband of her leggings and her smalls beneath, tugging hard down until she was bared to him.
And then he pulled away.
"Stay like that, you little bitch," he said, his Orlesian Marcher-accented and a little rough around the edges. He could see she was already beginning to glisten and he licked his lips at the sight, before turning away and walking over to the rack of tools at the other end of the stall. He pulled off a riding crop, worn and old and belonging to nobody but the Keep itself, and ran his hands over it. The wood was smooth and laquered, the handle still wrapped in leather. A testing smack against his palm drew a hiss from Cauthrien and the sound of her jerking against her bonds, but it was not a sound of panic.
He turned back to her to find her watching him, stretched taut though she could have easily retreated up against the wall again.
Nathaniel crossed the hay-strewn ground with sure steps, though he wished for a moment that he wore Orlesian riding leathers instead of his armor. He paused just behind her, setting the crop against his leg while he quickly undid the laces and buckles holding on his breastplate, then cast it aside. Barechested, his early autumn leggings looked close enough.
She shuddered and looked away from him, but not quickly enough that he didn't see her lick her lips.
When he lifted the crop again, he trailed it up her leg, over her boot and her leggings and finally over her bared skin. She twitched away when he slid it between her legs and over her sex, and it came away gleaming. He chuckled again.
"Cooperative and wet. Just like you should be, you little Fereldan whore," he murmured, and just as she whipped her head back around to glare, opening her lips to protest, he brought the leather head of the crop down hard on her ass.
She jumped and he cursed internally; he hadn't meant to start so harshly. But then she sagged her weight against her arms and he watched her skin turn bright red. No, no- she could take this. She would tell him if she couldn't. And Maker, but the way she tilted her hips towards him-
He struck her again.
This time she cried out, letting her head fall forward, her fingers flexing against the wall. "Maker- fuck-" she got out, and he turned the crop over in his hand, trailing the leather-wrapped handle of it along the reddened welts beginning to rise. She whimpered, pulling forward, and he reached out with one hand to catch her hip and drag her back. Her knees nearly buckled until she spread her legs further.
"Tell me you want it," he breathed, running the handle down between her legs and toying at her entrance with it. "Tell me you'll gladly get down on your knees for this. You'll suck my cock and love it, because you're mine."
"Never-"
He pulled away and struck her with the slicked handle of the crop.
Cauthrien cried out again, bucking against her restraints.
"Tell me," he repeated, crop once more righted in his hand. "Say it, you little girl playing at war-"
He had picked the words to sting and it worked. She tossed back her head and growled, "Never. I won't give a fucking inch to you worthless Orlesian bastards!"
He pulled his arm back to strike again, then paused, chuckling lowly. "A fucking inch," he said, translating the epithet literally. The change was rewarded with a shudder curling down her spine, a blush spreading over her skin. He came closer to her again, one hand pressing to her belly to keep her up and drawn back against him. His other hand brought the handle of the crop to her entrance again.
"A fucking inch," he repeated, quietly, thoughtfully, and then brushed the leather against her clit, making her buck against him. He did it again and again until she was panting and squirming and cursing him with every breath, and only then did he slip the shaft into her.
It slid in easily and he groaned, murmuring, "That's a good girl," his Orlesian fractured and needy. His cock jumped and he rocked against her ass, knowing his leathers would maker her skin ache. "Good girl, take it all-"
And she did, moaning and writhing against him, rolling her hips back. He leaned forward enough to kiss the nape of her neck, then slid his hand on her belly up, rucking up the fabric until he could hold one of her breasts, kneading it and finding her nipple through her breastband with a testing twist. She bucked again.
"You- you fucking- chevalier-!"
"I can do that," he laughed, breathlessly, then slowly sank to his knees as he worked the crop in and out of her at a languid pace. His other hand returned to her belly and he tipped his head up, nuzzling at her thigh.
She was wet, nearly dripping, and he kissed away a streak of shine along her skin. She let out a broken sob at that and half of a howl when he rose up enough to tongue at her entrance where the leather glided smoothly into her. He couldn't reach her clit with his mouth but his thumb worked well enough, and soon she was shuddering and whimpering.
"Beg me," he said as he stopped thrusting the crop.
She whined, wordlessly.
"Say, make me come, my lord."
Cauthrien went still, and for a moment he thought she might give in or shout at him to cease his game. But when she spoke, it was only, "No."
He grinned against her folds, and then slipped her hand on her belly down between her legs, gathering her slick and using it to ease his first probing touch at her rear.
There was oil in his bag, but he didn't want to pull away. He kept the crop motionless inside her as he kissed and nipped at her thighs and ass, his finger gently pushing in. She had asked it of him the night he told her he had been with men in his past, and at his touch she groaned and relaxed despite the tremors in her thighs. He worked her eager body open as best he could, and then, only grudgingly, did he pull away.
"Keep that inside of you," he said, voice low and soft as he released his hold on the crop and went over to his pack.
He retrieved the vial of oil and quickly undid the laces on his leathers, pulling his cock free. He already had it anointed by the time he returned to her, but he paused a moment to watch her grunting and twitching and struggling to keep the crop from sliding from her. It slipped small inch by small inch, and he only reached out to catch it as it nearly left her. With a breathless grin, he pushed it back deep into her.
Cauthrien whimpered at that, spreading her legs more, and he wasted no more time.
He rubbed the slicked tip of his cock against her entrance until she whimpered, and then he began to ease his way in, one hand at the base of his length, the other steadied on her hip. The crop began to slip again as she relaxed in his hold, all breathy gasps and needy panting, but soon he was in the first few inches and could take hold of the crop again. He pinned her between the two, pushing both back in with inexorable slowness.
"Tell me how much you want it," he breathed as she tried to press herself back onto his length.
"No," she whispered, eyes squeezed tight shut.
"Tell me. I want to hear it. Tell me how much you want my cock in you. How much you like being treated like the dog you are."
At that, she lifted her chin defiantly again. "You do not understand a Fereldan dog," she bit out, and with that he groaned and thrust all the way into her.
A part of him longed to give up the act, to drive into her and breathe words of need and affection into her shoulder. They came out, but they came out as Orlesian mutterings of good girl and so tight and Maker but I need you, I need every inch of you. He worked them both into a frenzy, the soft sounds of the unoccupied stables overpowered by their gasping breaths and the slick slapping of skin on skin as he pounded into her and worked the crop in his hand.
And then he heard the sound of voices.
They were distant but he picked up on them all the same, along with the telltale buzzing of an approaching Warden. He hissed and tried to withdraw, but Cauthrien growled out a sudden, "Don't you dare, don't you dare," and he instead pressed tight to her, bearing her against the wall of the stall. It was shorter than either of them but they curled down behind it, him still buried to the hilt in her.
For a long moment, neither moved.
The first voice belonged to Stroud, recently appointing Warden-Commander of Ferelden; the other to a stablehand. They were across the building and didn't sound to be moving any closer. With a deep breath and a nip at her exposed throat, Nathaniel slid his other hand between her legs and began stroking at her nub.
"Don't you dare-" she repeated, and he thrust up into her despite the awkward angle. Cauthrien pressed her cheek to the wood, shuddering and trying to bite down on the cries he knew longed to rip from her throat.
"You'll do what I tell you," he breathed in a laugh by her ear, and she pressed her heel into his toes.
He chuckled again, and rocked her against him.
"They're going to hear," she hissed, then sighed, and he lifted his head to catch the leather thong in her hair between his teeth. He tugged at it, sliding it free, and then lifted his hand from her sex to take hold of it. He offered to her and, after a moment's pause, she took it between her teeth. It was just long enough, unwrapped, to reach around her head, and he tied a quick square knot into it and tugged back on it like a rein.
"Better. Good girl," he purred, and she bucked enough to make him shudder and groan softly in turn.
But he could be quiet, controlled, and as he worked her against the stall he held his tongue, his passion sneaking out in harsh touches and shaking breaths. He growled quiet insults into her ear and tongued the shell of it, held tight the leather strap in her mouth. Stroud's voice receded in the distance, but when they sounded to be alone once again, he didn't take the leather away.
He did, though, pull her back out to where they had started, craving the leverage.
The thrill of almost-discovery still coursing through him made him move with more speed and force as soon as he could, pounding into her. He abandoned pumping her with the crop in favor of pinching and thumbing at her pearl until she cried out even through her gag, the crop still partially inside of her bobbing furiously as her body clenched in rhythm. He groaned at the feel of her orgasm, her uncoordinated thrusts back against him, and he took her hips in both hands, driving forward until he found the pinacle of heat, crying out her name in a broken gasp as he pulled her hard against him and emptied into her.
She sagged in his arms as she came down and the crop slipped from her, falling slicked and glistening to the hay beneath. He held her tightly as he eased his throbbing length from her, then kissed her shoulder as he reached forward to unhook her from the wall.
When she was turned and held in his arms, nuzzling his cheek as he leaned them both against the wall, he murmured, "You never broke."
"Of course I didn't," she murmured back, hands trailing over his bared sides, body rocking against his in quiet aftershocks still.
He smiled against her forehead. "You are an amazing woman."
"We'll see if you say that tomorrow morning."
Game: Dragon Age: Origins/Awakening
Pairing: Nathaniel/Cauthrien
Rating: M/AO
Wordcount: 3,221
Warnings: BDSM, misogynistic language in the context of role play
Summary: Nathaniel Howe is a wicked, wicked man - and one full of ideas. An afternoon in the stables turns to hard play and Cauthrien will not break. PWP. (Ao3)
Notes: Absolutely and completely a PWP. Not the same 'verse as Unwarranted Affections, but still set in Amaranthine with Cauthrien as a Warden; she joined after the events of Awakening. Established relationship.
If there was one thing to be said about the hard ride in from the Wending Woods, one positive thing at all, it was that as exhaustion tugged at both of them, Cauthrien was still visibly flustered as she dismounted.
"Different saddle," she said when he asked her why her cheeks were so pink though the day was neither hot nor cold. She licked at her lips. "Not Fereldan."
"No," he said as he unsaddled his own horse. "Antivan."
The horse she had ridden home wasn't hers; they had been forced to exchange horses in a small town on the way when her garron had thrown a shoe, and her saddle had not sat right upon the smaller steed she had been lent. He had put forth the coin to borrow another, though Cauthrien had insisted she could ride the remaining miles to the Keep bareback.
It was worth it, to see the tops of her shoulders shift with the wiggling of her hips.
"The seat design-"
"Is interesting," he finished with a low chuckle as he set his own horse to rights and reached for his bag. "You'll survive."
"I'm sure," she said, dryly.
The other thing to be said was that it would, hopefully, make his gift more appreciated; Cauthrien did not accept trinkets readily, and he rarely offered, but he hoped that this time it would cheer her. At the very least, it might worsen the blush on her cheeks.
He met her outside of their stalls, then took her wrist and with an inclination of his head led her to another, empty one. "I have something for you," he said.
"Something?"
"Hold out your hands."
She obeyed, albeit with hesitance and a quirked brow. He in turn reached into his bag and pulled out a set of leather bracers, finally made and tooled. She had been coming around to the idea of leathers in place of her heavy chain and plate or her dressed down leggings and wool padding, and he had seen her admire a set much like it on their last trip to Amaranthine City. Now, her eyes lit up and she looked to him with a smile.
"A gift?"
"Mm," he hummed, stepping forward to slide the slackened leather over her hands and onto her forearms. His fingers worked quickly, and soon he was tugging at the laces, until her forearms were drawn tight together. He twisted the remaining laces into a knot, and grinned. "But they would appear to be attached."
She stared down at her now-bound arms, opening her mouth to say something, but he used that moment to tug her against him, using the trailing ends of the laces as a leash. He nuzzled against her cheek, lips teasing lightly at the corner of her mouth. "I'll set them to rights later," he murmured, and felt her breath hitch.
"Wicked man," she breathed, swallowing. "That damnable saddle-"
"Was just a bonus," he said with a laugh, backing her towards the wall of the little stall with touches and kisses. His mouth found her throat and suckled there at the sweat-salted skin, ignoring the permeating scent of horse and the lingering traces of mud and darkspawn blood. He focused instead on elfroot and leather and steel, the scents that were particularly hers.
He focused, too, on the fast building heat in her that answered his own.
"And what are your plans?" she got out, finally, as her back connected with the wood and he nudged her arms above her head so that he could press flush to her chest, his fingers wedged between them working at the laces of her leggings.
"I could take you in the hay," he said, thoughtfully, nipping at the skin just below her ear. "I could drag you back up onto the horse with the Antivan saddle and sit you just so between my legs." She shuddered and cursed and he grinned, tugging hard at the fasteners of her clothing. "Or," he said, "I could play the wicked chevalier-"
"Bastard," she growled, stilling.
"And you could take out your revenge later tonight," he finished, sliding a hand along her belly to soothe her.
"Take my revenge," she said, and he could feel her considering- relenting by inches.
"Revenge," he repeated. "I'll let you take me however you choose. You could beat me blue and leave me with a practice dagger up my ass, tied spread-eagled on the bed, if you like. I'd kiss your feet, let you jack me with your gauntlets on no matter how much it pinched and hurt-"
She moaned, and he grinned.
"Maker, you're wicked-"
"Yes," he agreed, then paused. "With you."
"With me."
"Mm, only with you." He lifted his head then to look her in the eyes. She had come to Amaranthine to take the Joining only six months before, had only graced his bed for two, and he knew from knowing her, listening to her and watching her, that she curbed her cruelty on the field of battle and that she still burned at the mention of the occupation. It was a dangerous line to walk. But his mind would not still, would not abandon the ideas plaguing him.
"I will take care of you," he said, softly. "Trust me, Cauthrien."
"… It will feel good?"
"If you let it." He sealed the promise with a kiss, a long, probing one, and then he turned her around, shoving her hard against the wood. His hands trailed up her sides as she hissed and squirmed, beginning to fight in earnest when he leaned in and caught her lobe in his teeth. His hands found her bound forearms and the laces, and tied them tight to a hook just a few inches to the left of her head.
And then he stepped back, hands falling to her hips and jerking her back as well, until she had to fight to press her forearms to the wood while she stood bent over.
"I can speak to you in Orlesian," he murmured, hot and low, "but only if you ask it of me."
She was quiet for a long stretch, breathing ragged and head dropped down, fingers flexing against the wood. He expected her to stop him and relaxed his hands in anticipation of her retreat.
But then she looked over her shoulder with a defiant glare.
"Do your worst, you chevalier prick."
He couldn't help but laugh at that, at her pride and intensity and bravery, the way her cheeks flushed but her lips set into a firm line. The laugh came out low and breathy from his own arousal, and his fingers hooked into the waistband of her leggings and her smalls beneath, tugging hard down until she was bared to him.
And then he pulled away.
"Stay like that, you little bitch," he said, his Orlesian Marcher-accented and a little rough around the edges. He could see she was already beginning to glisten and he licked his lips at the sight, before turning away and walking over to the rack of tools at the other end of the stall. He pulled off a riding crop, worn and old and belonging to nobody but the Keep itself, and ran his hands over it. The wood was smooth and laquered, the handle still wrapped in leather. A testing smack against his palm drew a hiss from Cauthrien and the sound of her jerking against her bonds, but it was not a sound of panic.
He turned back to her to find her watching him, stretched taut though she could have easily retreated up against the wall again.
Nathaniel crossed the hay-strewn ground with sure steps, though he wished for a moment that he wore Orlesian riding leathers instead of his armor. He paused just behind her, setting the crop against his leg while he quickly undid the laces and buckles holding on his breastplate, then cast it aside. Barechested, his early autumn leggings looked close enough.
She shuddered and looked away from him, but not quickly enough that he didn't see her lick her lips.
When he lifted the crop again, he trailed it up her leg, over her boot and her leggings and finally over her bared skin. She twitched away when he slid it between her legs and over her sex, and it came away gleaming. He chuckled again.
"Cooperative and wet. Just like you should be, you little Fereldan whore," he murmured, and just as she whipped her head back around to glare, opening her lips to protest, he brought the leather head of the crop down hard on her ass.
She jumped and he cursed internally; he hadn't meant to start so harshly. But then she sagged her weight against her arms and he watched her skin turn bright red. No, no- she could take this. She would tell him if she couldn't. And Maker, but the way she tilted her hips towards him-
He struck her again.
This time she cried out, letting her head fall forward, her fingers flexing against the wall. "Maker- fuck-" she got out, and he turned the crop over in his hand, trailing the leather-wrapped handle of it along the reddened welts beginning to rise. She whimpered, pulling forward, and he reached out with one hand to catch her hip and drag her back. Her knees nearly buckled until she spread her legs further.
"Tell me you want it," he breathed, running the handle down between her legs and toying at her entrance with it. "Tell me you'll gladly get down on your knees for this. You'll suck my cock and love it, because you're mine."
"Never-"
He pulled away and struck her with the slicked handle of the crop.
Cauthrien cried out again, bucking against her restraints.
"Tell me," he repeated, crop once more righted in his hand. "Say it, you little girl playing at war-"
He had picked the words to sting and it worked. She tossed back her head and growled, "Never. I won't give a fucking inch to you worthless Orlesian bastards!"
He pulled his arm back to strike again, then paused, chuckling lowly. "A fucking inch," he said, translating the epithet literally. The change was rewarded with a shudder curling down her spine, a blush spreading over her skin. He came closer to her again, one hand pressing to her belly to keep her up and drawn back against him. His other hand brought the handle of the crop to her entrance again.
"A fucking inch," he repeated, quietly, thoughtfully, and then brushed the leather against her clit, making her buck against him. He did it again and again until she was panting and squirming and cursing him with every breath, and only then did he slip the shaft into her.
It slid in easily and he groaned, murmuring, "That's a good girl," his Orlesian fractured and needy. His cock jumped and he rocked against her ass, knowing his leathers would maker her skin ache. "Good girl, take it all-"
And she did, moaning and writhing against him, rolling her hips back. He leaned forward enough to kiss the nape of her neck, then slid his hand on her belly up, rucking up the fabric until he could hold one of her breasts, kneading it and finding her nipple through her breastband with a testing twist. She bucked again.
"You- you fucking- chevalier-!"
"I can do that," he laughed, breathlessly, then slowly sank to his knees as he worked the crop in and out of her at a languid pace. His other hand returned to her belly and he tipped his head up, nuzzling at her thigh.
She was wet, nearly dripping, and he kissed away a streak of shine along her skin. She let out a broken sob at that and half of a howl when he rose up enough to tongue at her entrance where the leather glided smoothly into her. He couldn't reach her clit with his mouth but his thumb worked well enough, and soon she was shuddering and whimpering.
"Beg me," he said as he stopped thrusting the crop.
She whined, wordlessly.
"Say, make me come, my lord."
Cauthrien went still, and for a moment he thought she might give in or shout at him to cease his game. But when she spoke, it was only, "No."
He grinned against her folds, and then slipped her hand on her belly down between her legs, gathering her slick and using it to ease his first probing touch at her rear.
There was oil in his bag, but he didn't want to pull away. He kept the crop motionless inside her as he kissed and nipped at her thighs and ass, his finger gently pushing in. She had asked it of him the night he told her he had been with men in his past, and at his touch she groaned and relaxed despite the tremors in her thighs. He worked her eager body open as best he could, and then, only grudgingly, did he pull away.
"Keep that inside of you," he said, voice low and soft as he released his hold on the crop and went over to his pack.
He retrieved the vial of oil and quickly undid the laces on his leathers, pulling his cock free. He already had it anointed by the time he returned to her, but he paused a moment to watch her grunting and twitching and struggling to keep the crop from sliding from her. It slipped small inch by small inch, and he only reached out to catch it as it nearly left her. With a breathless grin, he pushed it back deep into her.
Cauthrien whimpered at that, spreading her legs more, and he wasted no more time.
He rubbed the slicked tip of his cock against her entrance until she whimpered, and then he began to ease his way in, one hand at the base of his length, the other steadied on her hip. The crop began to slip again as she relaxed in his hold, all breathy gasps and needy panting, but soon he was in the first few inches and could take hold of the crop again. He pinned her between the two, pushing both back in with inexorable slowness.
"Tell me how much you want it," he breathed as she tried to press herself back onto his length.
"No," she whispered, eyes squeezed tight shut.
"Tell me. I want to hear it. Tell me how much you want my cock in you. How much you like being treated like the dog you are."
At that, she lifted her chin defiantly again. "You do not understand a Fereldan dog," she bit out, and with that he groaned and thrust all the way into her.
A part of him longed to give up the act, to drive into her and breathe words of need and affection into her shoulder. They came out, but they came out as Orlesian mutterings of good girl and so tight and Maker but I need you, I need every inch of you. He worked them both into a frenzy, the soft sounds of the unoccupied stables overpowered by their gasping breaths and the slick slapping of skin on skin as he pounded into her and worked the crop in his hand.
And then he heard the sound of voices.
They were distant but he picked up on them all the same, along with the telltale buzzing of an approaching Warden. He hissed and tried to withdraw, but Cauthrien growled out a sudden, "Don't you dare, don't you dare," and he instead pressed tight to her, bearing her against the wall of the stall. It was shorter than either of them but they curled down behind it, him still buried to the hilt in her.
For a long moment, neither moved.
The first voice belonged to Stroud, recently appointing Warden-Commander of Ferelden; the other to a stablehand. They were across the building and didn't sound to be moving any closer. With a deep breath and a nip at her exposed throat, Nathaniel slid his other hand between her legs and began stroking at her nub.
"Don't you dare-" she repeated, and he thrust up into her despite the awkward angle. Cauthrien pressed her cheek to the wood, shuddering and trying to bite down on the cries he knew longed to rip from her throat.
"You'll do what I tell you," he breathed in a laugh by her ear, and she pressed her heel into his toes.
He chuckled again, and rocked her against him.
"They're going to hear," she hissed, then sighed, and he lifted his head to catch the leather thong in her hair between his teeth. He tugged at it, sliding it free, and then lifted his hand from her sex to take hold of it. He offered to her and, after a moment's pause, she took it between her teeth. It was just long enough, unwrapped, to reach around her head, and he tied a quick square knot into it and tugged back on it like a rein.
"Better. Good girl," he purred, and she bucked enough to make him shudder and groan softly in turn.
But he could be quiet, controlled, and as he worked her against the stall he held his tongue, his passion sneaking out in harsh touches and shaking breaths. He growled quiet insults into her ear and tongued the shell of it, held tight the leather strap in her mouth. Stroud's voice receded in the distance, but when they sounded to be alone once again, he didn't take the leather away.
He did, though, pull her back out to where they had started, craving the leverage.
The thrill of almost-discovery still coursing through him made him move with more speed and force as soon as he could, pounding into her. He abandoned pumping her with the crop in favor of pinching and thumbing at her pearl until she cried out even through her gag, the crop still partially inside of her bobbing furiously as her body clenched in rhythm. He groaned at the feel of her orgasm, her uncoordinated thrusts back against him, and he took her hips in both hands, driving forward until he found the pinacle of heat, crying out her name in a broken gasp as he pulled her hard against him and emptied into her.
She sagged in his arms as she came down and the crop slipped from her, falling slicked and glistening to the hay beneath. He held her tightly as he eased his throbbing length from her, then kissed her shoulder as he reached forward to unhook her from the wall.
When she was turned and held in his arms, nuzzling his cheek as he leaned them both against the wall, he murmured, "You never broke."
"Of course I didn't," she murmured back, hands trailing over his bared sides, body rocking against his in quiet aftershocks still.
He smiled against her forehead. "You are an amazing woman."
"We'll see if you say that tomorrow morning."