Monday, December 26, 2011

departures.

Danicka

She loves him so dearly. Sometimes she thinks he can't possibly know how much. She thinks maybe she doesn't show him enough or say the words enough. Maybe she's too aloof, maybe she's too much like Kando, who pretends that she doesn't need the furless two-legged foodgivers. She wonders sometimes if Lukas realizes, even a little, how ardently she feels everything she feels, how deep the emotions go, how powerful they are. She would tell him it's like the Vulcans and how they only fixate on logic and reason in order to keep their relentless passions from ruling them, but he would probably laugh at her, fondly tease her for being a nerd. She doesn't know how to tell him, or show him, just how... vital all this is to her.

But she does hold him in the bathtub, her eyes closed, her arms and legs wrapped around his body, her face buried against his neck, feeling him come down from the orgasm she just gave him. She holds him while he regains his breath, as though there's some danger of him passing out and she knows that she has to keep him near lest he shatter apart, lose all gravity, float into oblivion.

Afterward he's so limp, so warm, so lazy. He's also heavy. Danicka doesn't care right now. She waits til he stirs, yawning and arching a little with it, the sound of it echoing off the tiles. It makes her laugh softly against his shoulder. She kisses him -- wherever, it doesn't matter right now -- and eases him up. They end up standing as the bathtub drains. They end up showering instead, and now Danicka doesn't wait for Lukas to say if this is what he wants or not, but she takes off the manacles for him as she washes him again.

And as he washes her.

Now her hair does get thoroughly saturated, and she's massaged his wrists tenderly under the water, and he's moved those broad palms of his all over her, leaving streaks of soapy lather in their wake. She leans against him, kisses his chest, breathes a little differently as he slowly -- gingerly, almost -- washes her cunt for her, spreading his fingers carefully, cupping her in his palm as though worried that she might get cold. Something could change, with her taking the manacles off, dropping them outside the tub, but really -- something had already changed, felt different, and that's why they came off.

When they leave the water and shut it off, they're wrapping towels around each other, drying each other off. Of course it's practical and necessary but right now it's loving, it's caretaking, it's like animals grooming each other in the wild. Lukas sniffs and finds more food, the good food he had before, and he offers Danicka the last one but she smiles at him, shaking her head. Her hair is wet -- she doesn't like to sleep with wet hair, but right now she doesn't seem to mind. She combs it out carefully, separates the strands to dry on their own if they will.

And when he asks if they can go to bed --

she smiles, huffing out a soft laugh because he's still asking permission for things, he's still so young and so sweet right now, and she can imagine how shy he would have been if she'd met him when they were younger, how he probably would have asked if it was okay to kiss her even if she could feel tremors of desire for so much more than that going through him, making his fingertips tingle. She can imagine him on his birthdays and Christmas as a child, learning early to be very polite and grateful despite his eagerness. She wonders if he knows how much of his life, even before Istok, was all about his mentors -- his parents included -- teaching him to restrain all the vigor and emotion and temper and wildness he was born to.

It's really no wonder that the two of them found each other. Really no wonder that now, with each other and alone, they get so close to what is wild and untamed inside of each of them.

Danicka nods, slipping out of her towel and pulling a hotel robe from its hook. She slips her arms into it and wraps it around herself, coming over to him. They leave the box there, and the manacles on a towel to dry. The present is sitting sitll on the end of the bed, and it's still so early for them, just past nine, but with the cartwheels of the last few days, it wouldn't be surprising if they slept sooner rather than later. As she climbs up onto the bed and scoots over to make room for Lukas, Danicka wonders if the only times she's going to get a decent night's sleep after having children is if she gets a babysitter and takes her husband to a hotel.

When they're settled, she hands him the present, and she isn't nervous or anxious, just smiling to herself. It's that knowing smile, that patient one. "It's sort of a birthday gift and first-anniversary gift in one," she admits, as she hands it over to him. She does not mention that the traditional gift on first anniversaries is paper. And that is what she gave him.

The ribbons on the corners come off easily, then the lid. And inside, without even tissue paper to decorate them, are some papers folded in half. They're just print-outs from Danicka's computer, in fact. What they are is evident before the full weight of it hits: confirmation e-mails sent to her personal Gmail account. Airfare. Hotel. Rental car. There's some printed GoogleMaps, too, of various areas around the location they're going to, places they absolutely have to visit when they go -- which won't be for a few months, actually, given the date on the travel itinerary he has in his hands. "I didn't want to give you less than a week's notice," she explains, "and I didn't want to go in winter." A beat. "Or miss school."

They have to visit her other nieces and nephews, of course, and Sabina. Her father's family's vineyard. As Lukas is looking it all over, sifting through the carefully marked maps, she adds: "I had to ask your parents about going back to see where you were born. Where you all used to live. They said they didn't know who was living on the estate now, but they gave me the address. We can make sure it's okay before we fly over."

Her hand moves onto his knee, holding there while she leans against his side. "You don't have to say anything. I know you're probably about to cry." Another beat. "Again."

Lukas

Danicka is right: something has already shifted between them. Shifted sometime between the living room and the bathroom, dinner and the bath - shifted sometime between the time she washed him clean and the time she got him messy all over again.

By the time she takes the manacles off, it feels a little like a formality. There's a sense of cooperation again, and coordination through familiarity. He gets up and she turns on the shower and he grabs the soap and

they get clean again.

By the time he asks to go to bed -- well; it still sounds like he's asking for permission, but not for the same reason. Not because she's dominating him and he's giving himself over to her, but because... well, because it's Christmas, and he's happy and warm and trusting. Because it's polite. Because he was brought up to be polite and grateful, and not grabby and bratty.

He was never a brat, though. Even when he was young and reckless and wild and yelling, Lukas was never really a brat. There was always a warmth in him, a generosity that she saw in him even when they were so young all they could share were crayons and toys. He shared his colored crayons with his sister. And when Danicka fell out of the tree, he was so startled, so scared, so sorry. Danicka was upset when he got spanked. He wasn't. He totally deserved it.

Anyway; past and gone. They get ready for bed, side by side, and she catches him smiling because now that they're done destroying each other they're so close and tender; he feels so much like her husband when they brush their teeth together. He takes a moment to wash the manacles out, getting rid of the last of the soapy bathwater. Even that feels oddly tender and domestic, now.

The hotel robes and luxurious and thick. They each wrap themselves in one, and then Lukas wraps himself around Danicka, hugging her as she comes close. They go to bed with their arms wrapped around each other, and rather than each getting on from their own sides, Danicka gets on and then Lukas follows, and they scoot over to make room, scoot together to get close. Under the covers, his feet playfully bump hers. He leans over and nips her shoulder through her robe, and

then she's handing him that last present, which is light and a little rustly, and he's getting that look on his face, that oddly innocent, oddly pure expression of animal curiosity. He's shaking the box himself and sniffing at it because he's trying to guess, but all he smells is paper.

So he tears it open, and at first he's just confused. Just until he starts reading, though. Just until he sees the confirmations, the reservations, the addresses - a travel itinerary to Europe, to the Czech Republic and some locations near that tiny little homeland of theirs. The look on Lukas's face is complex, overcome: gratitude, bone-deep; something like amazement; something a little like trepidation too, because it's been so long, he doesn't even remember, he doesn't know what he'll find or what memories it might spark.

Something a little like ache too. Once upon a time she couldn't even give him herself without setting a time limit on it. Giving herself an out in case something goes awry, or just in case

one of them died. They were so afraid to commit, and at first they were afraid of being hurt, and then later they were -- he was, especially -- afraid of hurt itself, afraid of hurting her, afraid of hurting if he lost her. That's behind them now. The tiny sparkly glove in their closet proves it. That house of twigs proves it. And this, this itinerary set for months in the future, with no certainty whatsoever of what might happen in those months, proves it.

She's right again: his eyes are stinging again, but he doesn't want to embarrass himself, and even though he knows there's nothing to be ashamed of, even though in another form he doesn't mind whining, moaning, howling at the moon, some things run deeper than logic. He bites it back, blinking a few times, but then she says it: you're probably about to cry again, and he bursts into a sort of cathartic laughter, all those complex emotions of a moment ago releasing all at once as he pulls her hard against his side and kisses her hair.

"Dekuji ti, láska," he murmurs. "Uz se nemuzu dockat."

Danicka

Originally she climbed atop the covers, curled up in her robe, but when Lukas starts tugging them down, intending to get under, she simply... sheds it. Drops it to the floor and slides between the sheets with him, handing him his present while she curls up next to him. The feeling between them shifts and changes, as fluid as her moods and her whims often seem, and here they are husband and wife, brushing their teeth beside one another at the double sinks. Here they are boyfriend and girlfriend, looking each other's mostly-naked bodies over with unspoken but almost tangible appreciation. Here they are mates, going to the same warm spot together, curling their bodies up together.

Here they are just each other, he and her, exchanging this one last gift, knowing they are going to sleep in this bed soon rather than going out to party all night. Family again tomorrow: one last day with everyone together, one last day full of portraits and photographs inside and outside, one last day of sharing meals and plowing through leftovers. One more day of the elderly gentlemen playing Othello or Go, one more day of the kids on their scooters or with their new games or Emanek trying to make a really really really really good drawing for Lukas and Danicka, then feeling bad and deciding he should make one for Daniel and Anezka too in case they're jealous, and one for Lukas's mom and dad, too, because he doesn't want to be rude. And because he likes drawing. One more day of Lukas jostling with his sister verbally, or everyone curling up in the couch to watch a movie with bowls of beef stew on their laps.

Danicka is smiling at him while he looks at the gifts, his eyes stinging, his laughter an expression of more than just humor. She is thinking of that family, and those places, this part of her life she's never explored and will discover for the first time with him, the parts of his life he's forgotten and will remember with her right there beside him. He wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her close, kisses her hair, and she huffs a laugh. She doesn't say anything -- doesn't need to, really. What she does is take all the papers from him, setting the box on the nightstand so that when she wraps her arms around him, there's nothing in the way, nothing to topple off the covers.

"Let's not talk too much about it tomorrow around the kids, okay?" she asks him gently. "I know they all miss it, and... I just don't want them to be sad that we get to go, not when they don't have any privacy. Sarka and I talked about it already."

Lukas

One more day with the family. One more day with the den full of laughter and noise and the inevitable little spats, the inevitable little accidents. There's already a splotch of dark red by the couch where Anezka spilled her wine. And Irena is accruing a nice little collection of scabs from skidding off her scooter. It's icy outside, after all.

Lukas is going to miss them when they're gone. He's going to miss how packed and busy their little house always seems to be these days. He's going to miss the constant smell of someone cooking, the constant sound of someone talking, the physical warmth that comes from so many bodies packed into a small space. He's going to miss the warm of having his family-pack near, too - all these kin and cubs that are his to protect, his to love, his.

And yet at the same time: he's a little ready for quiet again. For privacy, and lazy mornings. He's ready for a return to normalcy - however many years of it they have left before they start having their own cubs. That no longer seems like such a distant dream, nor such a daunting possibility. That seems... well.

Attainable. Real. And reasonable, just a matter of time.

"Okay," Lukas says. As Danicka shifts the papers aside, he scoots down in the bed, reaches out to turn his light off. Exhaling, he settles: the sheets cool on his warm skin, his warmth suffusing the bed. "This was an amazing day, baby," he says softly. Smiles up at her, "Thank you."

Danicka

She's stroking his hair. She wasn't, a minute ago. That seems so far away suddenly. Even the words he knows he just said, telling her thank you, telling her that a great day this has been, feel like they are as ancient as Greek inscriptions in weathered marble. Because she's lying there next to him, her stomach to his side, her small patch of fur to the outside of his leg, her feet tucked under his calf, and she's stroking his hair in the dark. Somewhere in there, they became naked and they pulled the covers up and turned out the lights. Vaguely, he can even remember Danicka setting her alarm on her phone, plugging it in to charge on the nightstand, but this:

this, now, is everything. He can hear her breathing in the dark, just like last night and the night before and the night before because all this time they've been together at home, sleeping in their bed so much that the sheets smell like them, which is still a rarity. He can tell the difference between her awake-breathing and her sleeping-breathing, knows that she almost never has nightmares but sometimes she does, just like anyone, and is dazed and upset til she goes back to sleep, forgetting it ever happened.

She kisses his cheek, her fingertips moving the strands of his hair. She could ask him to love her right now. Seems only fair to tell him to do his husbandly duty and please his wife. They used to barely be able to occupy the same space without fucking three or four times just to work out everything there was that was fucked-up between them.

The truth is, she doesn't want that right now. She strokes his hair like she's putting him to sleep, or putting herself to sleep -- one or both of them is being gently hypnotized. Her eyes drift closed, slowly open again. She says nothing. She agrees, though. He can almost feel in in the air. In her hands. In her closeness.

Lukas

Peaceful now. Quiet and close, intimate without any necessity of sex. He makes room for her as she slides down. She tucks herself against his side, he wraps his arm around her. She touches his hair, and it's hypnotic, it's soporific, he finds himself drawn down into warm unconscious almost immediately.

Just for a moment, Lukas resists. Just long enough to lean over and turn off her light for her. Just long enough to turn the alarm clock away so even that slight light doesn't disturb their sleep. Just long enough to settle again, and settle his matewifegirlfriend close, and

and he can't remember where that thought's going anymore. She smells so familiar, he muses. She smells so his, and so herself, and...

Morning comes slowly, the sun rising over the lake. They left their curtains open last night. Winter's light is pale and golden, washing over them in their sleep. It's not the alarm that wakes them after all but the simple satiation of ten, eleven hours of rest.

Traces of last night still linger everywhere. The itineraries on the nightstand; the promise of a gift that, really, is for later. The manacles and ring dried in the bathroom, oddly beautiful in their white-on-charcoal, their gleaming chrome. The boxes of mostly-eaten food, which Lukas will nom on while they get dressed to go home and take pictures.

The scents in the air, his and hers, theirs. This room was theirs for a night. This bed was theirs. He stirs in it now, turning on his side to face his mate; puts his face close to hers, drowses until the alarm does, in fact, wake them again.

It is the day after Christmas, the dead of winter. Somehow, Lukas thinks, spring doesn't feel so very far away.

Danicka

The nights they spend together can be so quiet. Startlingly so, considering how short a time -- from one perspective -- they've been together. There are nights when he finds her at her apartment or their house or surprisingly, lounging in his bed at the boarding house, and they barely speak at all. They crawl into bed together. She waits up for him sometimes. Sometimes she falls asleep before he gets there. When he knows she's coming somewhere, he tries so hard to stay awake, but the War is long and he is not a creature who regularly stays awake during daylight hours. Sometimes she feels the rage as soon as she walks in her door and she has her hand on her gun before she sees his coat, his shoes, his keys on the counter, markers that it is not just An Ahroun but

her Ahroun.

They sit in separate rooms, a door open between them, and they read. She does homework. He tries to take up very little space and make very little noise while she works in her lab, when she has the time, but he does want to be near her. She goes to the other room and watches t.v. while he's on the phone with his family, or staring into the distance listening to conversations in his head with his packmates. Sometimes hours will go by with the only words between them an exchange about what to make for dinner, or where to order from:

Spaghetti?

With meat sauce?


And she doesn't even nod or say yes then, she just smiles at him, shaking her head in amusement at the way he perks, the way he warily makes sure that she's not trying to feed him vegetables. She scritches him and goes to the kitchen, and he comes in and helps brown the meat, stir the sauce.

Wine?

There's a malbec over -- yup, there.


And a stopper being removed, glasses being taken down along with plates and forks and a bowl for Danicka's little helping of salad.


The thing is, what they acknowledged early on is still true: words are the sources of misunderstandings. Words are also the only way they have of communicating the more complex of their thoughts with each other. Sometimes the words pour out of them, tortured and difficult, but most of the time, it turns out that they are not terribly complicated with each other anymore. They have ways of communicating other things they need to: that he wants to be close. That she was afraid and refuses to voice it lest she feel even weaker, even more vulnerable, than she already is. That he is exhausted and can't stay up any longer, can't even make love to her. That she's stressed about school.

That they are happy to be home together, or in her apartment or his room together, curled close and drowsy and warm. Well-fed. Safe in their den. That they are happy. That they love each other.


Like now, Danicka does not speak to the slowly waking Lukas. She watches him finally beginning to stir, knowing that they have a little over two hours before the photographer shows up at their house in Stickney and at least half an hour of that will be driving so they shouldn't laze around here too long. Her body is a little bit stiff from such a long sleep, but she's warm and languid, waiting for him to open his eyes, waiting for him. She wonders if it's her energy and her impatience that wakes him, as much as the light.

He stirs, and she exhales, elongating her body alongside his. He puts his arms around her, puts his face close to hers, nuzzles, and tries to just go back to sleep. Her hands move across his chest, her lips parting against his jawline, and he can feel it then, sense it in the passage of her hand over his pectoral muscle, the trail of her mouth down to his throat, the warmth and wetness of it when she starts kissing him there, licking him.

The sheets go tangled when he rolls onto his back, pulling her over and onto him, his eyes still lazily closed even though his mouth is opening to hers. He's so warm that Danicka's first soft moan is due solely to the way he feels underneath her, his heat suffusing her entire body. He's sleepy and slow to wake, but his body responds long before his brain, and one of his first truly self-aware thoughts of the morning is that of her hand around him, her pussy sliding onto him, the way she gasps, starting to move almost immediately,

but gently, slowly, achingly.

Near the end he's arching his back, holding her hips to keep her right fucking there, he's groaning those exact words, gasping at the end as she moves her body in such a way. Near the end she's riding him faster, still staying close to his chest, clutching the pillow under his head, moaning, moaning the way she does. And he's got his eyes open now, can't take his eyes off of her, and it turns her on so keenly that she starts bouncing on him, really fucking him now, her panting little cries getting tighter and higher-pitched until she comes. She comes sweetly, each pulse of her orgasm torturously slow, wracking her, demolishing her.

Lukas rolls her under him then almost to hold her together, to keep her safe. She's so limp then, her cheeks pink, her eyes liquid, her lips so red when he starts moving in her again. He wants to fuck. He wants to grab the mattress and clutch the sheets and hold her in his teeth and fuck her until he comes, but there's something vulnerable in her expression, something she doesn't even intend or maybe even need that yanks on his protective heart. His mouth goes to her mouth instead of her shoulder, his hand cupping her breast as gently as he can bear while his other hand holds tight to the sheets in his fist. Slowly, at least at first, slow enough to drive him out of his mind, he works himself back up to that precipice, and it's seconds, mere seconds, before he's gasping, panting, losing himself in her and trying not to hurt her all at once, melting into her, dropping a sweat-soaked brow to her shoulder when he can't anymore, he can't, he can't even breathe, and his cock is still jumping inside of her, his own involuntary spasms trying to kill him with pleasure.


They do not move for a very long time. He drowses off, so typically (stereotypically) male in this that Danicka can't help but laugh -- as softly as she can, though. She rolls over onto her side and closes her eyes, too, holding him between her legs still, sleeping in a tangle of twisted sheets and heavy limbs and sweaty skin with him

until the alarm does, in fact, wake them again.


Danicka breathes in deeply, her eyes opening, and Lukas is growling, refusing the alarm and the sunlight and the movement away from sleeping in a post-sex tangle with his mate. His hands grasp at her and she just gently, almost tenderly, performs the trick she learned ages ago: her hands cover his, hold them for a second, and then ease them firmly away. She doesn't know how else to push him away without making him sad, and he seems to understand this isn't a no, certainly not an I don't love you anymore. It's just a neutral lemmego, something he's going to have to deal with once his cubs are closing in on their first year and eager to be put down, crawl around, pull themselves up, move their own bodies according to their own rules.

"Baby," she's saying, tucking hair behind his ear though his hair isn't long and so this gesture really has no purpose other than giving meaning to their lives, giving meaning to their survival, giving meaning to each breath. "Lukášek, probuď se. Musíme se dostat domů."

And so they do, says the clock. They need to shower and they need to pack their stuff up and then go, maybe grab some coffee and breakfast sandwiches in a drive-through, because at home they have to change and help the kids get ready.

One last day with them. The kids. The family. Two or three hours with a photographer, the sort of family photo session reserved for reunions like this, but then lunch and the rest of the afternoon just to be together. Tomorrow they're going to the airport rather early, but the flights out are staggered, so they'll be hanging out in O'Hare for several hours. Lukas will probably buy travel games and puzzle books for the kids at the shop, even though it's a short flight and they are already going to have trouble packing all their presents. Danicka will probably cry when she hugs her father goodbye, but she'll try so hard not to, and she'll excuse herself after he heads off so that she won't break down in front of everyone, and Lukas will be torn between following her and staying with his family, protecting them, not embarrassing her further. Lukas will find it difficult to let go of his sister when she hugs him goodbye, and this will surprise both him and poor Anezka, who will pretend not to have Gooey Emotions as she fakes a laugh and pats his back and tells him she can't breathe. Danicka will tease the kids about a special project they need to help her with around May or June.

But today, they have one last day all together. A zoo trip that will end up relatively brief, just because of the cold and everyone being tired. A lot of time spent lazing at home. A walk to a nearby playground where Irena will go to town on the swings. Where Emanek will -- wisely -- distrust her when she says that if he licks a pole there will be a perfect imprint of his tongue on the metal. Lots and lots of cocoa at home. Kids in the front yard, destroying the snow, piling it up, throwing it at each other. Danicka obliterating everyone's challenges with eight simple words:

Mr. Green in the kitchen with the revolver.

At which point Anezka will just throw her pencil and pad of paper up in the air in defeat.


One more. Which begins -- for the second time -- like this. Danicka's hands on his arm, shoving him back and forth like she's rocking a vending machine. And him grinning, keeping his eyes closed, pretending to still be asleep while she jostles him, til she gives up and sits on him, til he can't help it and starts laughing, grabbing her in both arms, growling happily as she squirms away, jumps off the bed, tells him firmly I am going to shower and you can just go on lazing in your own filth, then! which doesn't come off that firm because she's laughing, and he's laughing, and the sun is shining, shining.

Sunday, December 25, 2011

presents.

Danicka

Looking at her, Lukas can tell that she wants him to tell her the truth. As quiet as he voice is, as uninflected as she makes it, as unreadable as her eyes are, he can tell. She's holding back because she doesn't want him to be influenced. She's refusing to come right out and say what she feels not to hide from him, but to keep from pressuring him one way or the other. She wants to know. She wants to know the truth. And he is perhas one of the only people on earth who she trusts to give it to her, because he always has. Even when it was dark, and unpleasant, and cruel.

His eyes track over her body, and she knows that if she sank down against his lap and moved herself against his slacks, she'd feel him half-hard already, she'd feel him respond near-instantly. It's the whole point. She likes looking like this, but she likes looking like this because of what it does to him. She has thought, long and hard and after a couple of elective women's studies courses, about the purposes of decorating herself and how she feels about it and why and so on, but she's really seen little reason to go into long discussions with Lukas about it. They both get exactly what they want from these scraps of lace and satin and everything else. She likes it, in fact, when he looks at her collarbones, her cleavage, her flat stomach, the edge of her panties. He liked it, she could tell, when she confessed she'd videotaped him showering and pleasured herself to it later on.

Oh, they are little deviants.

Now she's straddling him, holding manaches and a cock-ring, asking him if it really was a joke. If it was meant to be silly, never something he'd actually wear, not something he expected her to react to with lust or the like. But no: it's not really a joke. Her mouth flickers a little as he describes laughing over it, because no, if he'd given her this at home, as he intended to, they certainly couldn't have used it right then, she isn't sure even she would be comfortable doing that with all the kids crawling around the house, but now it's different. They're at his surprise: a night away, just the two of them again.

And he did, in fact, want to turn her on. He did, in fact, want to submit himself to her.


Danicka leans forward, and the gift is pressed a bit between them, the chains cool on her bare stomach, and kisses him. It's slow, and deepening as it goes on, but there's a faint edge of dominance to it, something she never would have hinted at before but seems to have no trouble taking ownership of tonight. Tonight, when she's laid her hands on him and said mine in that voice that was almost a snarl. Tonight, when she's teasing him, walking around half naked and not even letting him touch her. Tonight, in the room where he first went on his knees for her.

Tonight, in the room where in her heart, she surrendered completely to what was between them. If there's any place on earth that for them is charged with this mutual capitulation, mutual submission mingled with overwhelming comfort, it's right here.

She's still kissing him, still holding onto the manacles and the chain, til she's gasping softly for air even as she holds herself above his lap, refusing to let him grind against the juncture between her legs. She kisses him until he responds, until he's losing himself in her mouth, then jerks back, her lips reddened, watching him through slightly hooded eyes. "I still have another birthday gift for you," she tells him, "but I'll give it to you later. If you're good."


Lukas

Right here in this room is where she surrendered, not to him but to what was between them. Right here in this room is where he first began to give up that aura of wary dominance he used to wear like a shroud. Right here in this hotel is where they tore each other apart. Right here --

well; no. Not right here. Not here but in a little Best Western down the street from her apartment, a little inn that wasn't up to their usual standards, except they had no usual standards because the first time they met they were in a nightclub, the first few times they talked they were in a boarding house or coffeehouses, the first time they fucked it was a dingy motel with a buzzing neon sign; and none of that is the point because the point is:

not right here, but in a place not so very different from this, another rented room, another anonymous location where they could feel safe from the duties and responsibilities and societal mores they, or he, hadn't quite come to terms with yet - was where he finally, and utterly, capitulated to

not her, but what was between them.

There is deep and ritual significance to these nights they spend together, not at home and not with their packs or family-packs, but with each other. Time they take for themselves. Time they take to break down the walls, break through the barriers. Time they take to find each other, and find themselves, and find that she has the courage sometimes to be so goddamn dominant,

that night in times square, that night she stood over him and rubbed her cunt on his face while he knelt on the floor,

and he has the courage sometimes to not be. As their relationship matured and as they matured, as they began not merely to want and love but to trust, they have needed these nights less. They have been able to get to the spaces they used to have to find here in other places, other ways. The first time he tied her down and she gave herself up to it, they were in his little room at the Sept's boarding house; the first time he gave himself up to the same, they were in her apartment. Their first Christmas together was just under a year together, and already then they had a den. Sometimes in retrospect, all those long agonizing moments blur together and it seems they fell for each other so quickly in the grand scheme of things; seems they were so destined for each other that all their immature fumblings were, in reality, the blink of some great cosmic eye.

They don't need these retreats anymore, but sometimes they still take them. They don't need distance and anonymity and privacy so much anymore, but still:

they are here, and it is different here with the moon and the lake and the night outside, and nothing at all but one another inside.

She kisses him like she owns him, which she does in a way. He tips his chin up to receive it, reciprocate it, his hands grip at the arms of the chair but he doesn't try to touch her again; they both sense the unspoken rules here. He shifts. She doesn't let him grind against her, she holds herself up. He kisses her harder, dives into that space between their breaths, and she tears back from him.

Lukas falls back with a pant, his eyes opening. There are few eyes on this earth so brilliant and fierce as his, but when he looks at her it's all trust, all surrender. If you're good, she specifies. He licks his lips, and nods.

A whisper: "Okay."

Danicka

That's exactly what they used to need in these hotel rooms. They didn't need just a place to go because he didn't want to 'flaunt' what he had with her in front of his pack and everyone at the boarding house or because she refused to invite him over to her apartment. They didn't need the luxury. Given how close they both lived to everything, they didn't even just need the closest possible place. It was the anonymity. It was the privacy. It was a way to take themselves away from everyone, everything, carving out small holes for themselves to hide in where they could let their guards down a little and on one could see, no one could judge them, no one could taint it for them, no one could hurt them as they slowly became vulnerable to each other.

It does seem so slow, even in hindsight. It's hard to remember it's only been a few years. It's hard to remember that those first two weeks of knowing each other, craving each other, were not even more drawn out. It still feels like they waited forever to be together in that dingy, cheap motel. Time has, for them, slowed down, as though the universe understands that they may not have very long.


Danicka is expecting him to be unable to resist. She expects his hands on her, holding her hips, trying to get her to come down on him, running up her back. She expects him to moan and pull at her, but he resists. He decides to be good. Even so, he can't stop himself from pushing into that kiss, craving more, and a moment later is when she pulls back. He says Okay, a word that seems to sum up everything he would like to communicate to her right now, and she nods. She begins to slide off of him, rising up on her knees and then swinging one leg and the other off, standing up. They have less than fifteen minutes now before the delivery person knocks on their door, but they aren't talking about that right now.

She runs her hand across his hair as she rises, stroking down his cheek. "Don't worry, baby," she murmurs, "I'm going to take care of you."

Don't be afraid.

I won't hurt you.

Danicka thinks for a bit, examining the toy, then looks over at him again. "Move the coffee table back from the couch. I want a little more room between the two," she instructs. She's quite clear about her directions after that: no, a little farther. Just pull it back. It's a heavy thing, though not so heavy it isn't meant to be moved aside when desired. It's narrower than her big black square one at her apartment in the city, but once it's out of the way, she drops herself onto the couch lazily, slouching against the back, the present he gave her on a cushion next to her, her fingertips playing with the leather idly as she looks at him.

"Now take your clothes off," she says, after she's looked at him for a little while, after her free hand has drifted between her legs, stroking herself through her thong as idly, as lazily, as she touches the manacles. "Pomalu."


Lukas

At best, that delivery person is going to get an unresponsive client. He's going to knock and knock and finally, disgruntled, leave their food at the door to get cold. At least he got tipped on the credit card.

At worst, the delivery guy is going to show up and there are going to be sounds coming from 2584. Well; no. At worst, he might show up and Danicka might simply stop whatever she's doing. She might get up, walk to the door, pick up their dinner, leave Lukas naked and hard and tied up wherever she might have him. He wonders if she'd do that, if he could survive that, if the furniture could survive that. He's also, truth be told, aroused by the very thought.

Just as he's aroused by the way she promises to take care of him. All the multiple layers of that word. He breathes slowly, evenly, as she considers the toy, and him. She tells him to move the coffee table. He huffs a low laugh and gets up. He moves the table back. No, farther. Pull it. He drags it; it creaks a little. Anticipation makes his hands rougher than they need to be. She drops onto the couch. He has his cufflinks undone. His coat is shed and hung up somewhere. He still has his tie knotted. Their windows are undraped; anyone looking in - not that anyone is - might think this was some sort of paid fantasy. Some skyscraper alpha-male, some urban law-shark, some cocky young investment banker with a secret submissive streak indulging in a weekly therapy session with some very well-paid, very talented professional help.

Not quite like that, in here. It's true that this isn't Lukas's first time around this block, but nor is he a seasoned veteran of these scenarios. She tells him to undress for her. His jaw squares for a second as it tenses.

And as much as he trusts Danicka, as much as he adores her, the truth is there's always that edge of instinctive refusal in him. It's the same instinct that makes him growl even at his packmates when they casually reach for his food, that makes him viciously and efficiently put down challengers to his authority, to his dominance. He is an alpha, a Shadow Lord, and even before he was all these things he was a creature that thrived best when fighting his way to the storm-battered apex.

Submission does not come naturally or easily to him. That hesitation goes on just a second too long, and then he takes a breath and reaches for his tie. His large hands are deft and quick: he undoes the knot, slips it out from under his collar, tosses it on the coffee table behind him. He unbuttons his shirt, his flesh beneath warm, shades darker than hers, heavy and supple with muscle. The shirt, too, goes on the table.

Then his belt, and she's stroking herself, and his eyes are on her hands as he's undoing the buckle, undoing the fastenings, sliding the zipper down. A beat of pause; then he lets his slacks fall, stepping out of them one foot at a time, folding his legs to take his socks off. As he straightens again he touches himself through his boxer-briefs. The gesture is curiously on the edge between modesty and shamelessness; somewhere between a covering and a caress. His torso moves as he breathes. Then he slips his thumbs under the waistband, pushes that last article of clothing down.

Naked, there is nothing - no finery, no sleek cut or smooth fabric - to disguise his savagery. He is honed and brutal, well-made, balanced. He strokes his cock once, and he's hardening already, and she hasn't told him to and some part of him wants to go ahead and start masturbating regardless; some other part of him understands that this, too, is against the amorphous and never-writ rules in this deviant little game of theirs.

He licks his lip again. His hand unwraps, comes to hover at his side. His fingers are a little curled. Everything about him breathes of that fine line between relaxation and readiness. He thinks she must be able to hear his heart beating against his ribs.

Danicka

Truth be told, Danicka would be a rather fantastic dominatrix -- or rather, consultant. It isn't hard to imagine her paying her taxes with funds from men and women who cannot get what they need anywhere else, cannot give of themselves to relationships that might weaken them, cannot dare let anyone in their peer groups know who they really are, what they're really like. Men and women who would be grateful to have Danicka on their arm at public functions, gems glittering in her earlobes. Who would be equally grateful to kneel for her, have their hair grabbed by her slender fingers, be commanded in that gentle, firm voice of hers to lick it.

There were people in Chicago, Kin and Garou alike, who sincerely wondered when they met Danicka if she was just a very well-paid escort, if that was how she sustained herself. She had such a flawless reputation in New York City, coupled with beauty and breeding, and yet there was an edge to her, a self-possession that spoke of the dangerous independence that is sometimes deeply, albeit subconsciously, associated with sex workers.

But Lukas is not some skyscraper alpha-male, and he's not a lawyer or an investment banker. He's not even secretly submissive. And Danicka isn't his therapist, isn't the domme that is here to give him some relief from the pressure he places on himself in the rest of his life. She's his wife. The one who wants to have four babies with him. Also: the one who spent thousands of dollars not so long ago to set up a lab in her own apartment in order to study half-alien, half-Wyrmish technology. And he's the Alpha of his pack, who doesn't always take so easily to submission.


"Pomalu," she repeats, her voice harder, as he quickly unwinds the knot on his tie. She can sense his eagerness, the effort it takes to restrain himself. He isn't wearing an undershirt, and her eyes look a little drowsy as he exposes his chest, his abdomen, the harsh scar across his midsection, which he did not have when he first met her, which he's had every time she's ever seen his skin bared. She has no idea when it happened. When he died.

And she's stopped touching herself, apparently because he undid his tie too quickly for her, and her legs cross, one folding over the other's knee, her arms stretching out across the back of the couch. So he takes off his slacks. So he removes his socks. So he touches himself, and her eyebrows flick at him, an oh, really? before he bares himself utterly to her. Once he's standing there, naked, his hand flinches, moves toward his front and she says simply, curtly: "Ne."

Maybe he strokes himself once anyway. Maybe he obeys.

Now he's just standing there, hands at his sides, breathing. Naked for her. Even Lukas, with his skin a bit swarthy, shows the effects of a winter without sunlight, fairer than he is in summertime. Danicka is fair, not quite as pale as porcelain but ...creamy. She just examines him where he stands, her crossed leg bobbing idly once or twice, like she's considering what to do with him. As though he's a piece of art, and she's deciding whether or not to buy him. Imagining where she might display him.

Finally, she beckons him over, crooking two fingers at him with two short flicks. Wordlessly, then, when he's walked to her, she sits up, unfolding her legs and setting both feet on the carpet. Danicka puts her hands on his hips and turns him around, and her hands are gentle and warm but she's almost businesslike about this. So, too, when she reaches for his left arm and draws it back behind him. And that's when he realizes what she's going to do.


Lukas

At that curt Ne Lukas's hand stops instantly. His eyes flare, his nostrils flare, there's rebellion in his marrow but

he stops.

And then he's just standing there, and she's examining him, and his skin prickles with her cool assessment. He is paler with winter, the hair on his chest and his forearms, down from his abdomen and at his groin - all of it more visible. The cut of his musculature beneath is firm against his skin; those fine, infinitely complex muscles in his forearm - the ones that were warm against her palm so very recently - twitching slightly as his fingers curl on themselves, release.

Lukas is not a true submissive. There is comfort in this for a true submissive. He is not comfortable like this. Which is not to say he is uncomfortable, but - he is on edge, heightened, hyperaware, acute. He can feel every eddy of air in this room. He can almost feel her motion before she starts moving; imagines he could almost detect those tiny electrical impulses leaping down her nerves

to send her fingers crooking, beckoning.

He comes to her. He does not do this for comfort, but he does this for a reason nonetheless. Because it arouses him. Because it arouses her. Because it seals some bond between them, forges it anew in the heat of lust. And, really, trust. She would have been a stellar dominatrix. She has the confidence, the deviance, the slyness and - crucially - the secret warmth, the hidden empathy. Or perhaps that's just with him. He feels on edge, heightened, hyperaware,

but not endangered. Not threatened. Not abused. He doesn't for a second think she would do anything to hurt him. Not really. He knows she'll never take him where he doesn't want to go.

Which, in the end, is what makes this bearable. Even when she sits up and he thinks she might put her mouth on him, but no - she turns him around instead. And now he cannot see her, his back is to her, to the couch, to the window. He doesn't even have a reflection of her. His breathing is a little quicker now. There's a little jump up his left arm as she takes his wrist; the faintest sense of resistance as she draws it back. He makes some small sound - a faint grunt, a clearing of the throat perhaps; his head turns a little and he starts to say,

Behind my back?

uneasy, nervous - but he stops before the first syllable is done. She can hear and feel him take a breath, release it. His wrist relaxes infinitesimally in her hand, and like that he is bound.

Danicka

Yes, behind his back. She doesn't take him in her mouth, doesn't run her hands over his body, leaves him tingling and hyperaware, leaves him on edge. She draws one arm back and, only after his hand has relaxed, begins to wrap one of the manacles around it. She does both buckles on it, pulling it snug but not tight, then draws his right arm behind his back as well. The interiors of the cuffs are lined with soft fur, a shocking charcoal gray contrasted against the all-white leather. Danicka would comment on his style, but their respective eyes for what looks good almost goes without saying at this point. What matters is that these are soft when they close around him. They are warm. They look caught between modern sleekness and animal savagery, just as their users are.

After checking the buckles, Danicka performs a little work behind his back, using a clip from the box to tighten the amount of chain between the two cuffs. She does this like she's done it before. And he knows she has, that this is not new equipment to her, because she is not worried about that cock-ring, is not asking him how to use it or any of that. She looks for the clip on the chain like she knows it should be there, and one imagines that if it were not, she'd figure out a way to rig it on her own.

There are only a few inches of give between his wrists now, his hands touching each other. Danicka lets the chain rest against his body, lets the ring dangle, observes him without touching him. She exhales thoughtfully as she leans back, looking at him standing there, his hands bound. But Lukas can't see that, can only hear her, smell her, imagine her. It's a little while before he feels her. The backs of her knuckles grazing up one buttock, stroking downward, feeling the mix of softness and muscle beneath. After a few moments of this she rises to her feet, and stands right behind him, so close that when his fingers curl enough he can feel her stomach against his hands, but she has both of her palms on his ass, smoothing them down his skin.

And up. And down again. Slowly, slowly stroking him, her fingertips teasing occasionaly along more sensitive flesh, making muscles jump, making him suck in a breath here and there. There's a low, soft noise of appreciation from the back of her throat, just before she turns her wrists and runs her hands up his back, all the way up to his shoulders, down his biceps, across to his chest. Danicka finds his nipples with her fingers and strokes each of them gently into hardened buds of skin. He can't see her, but she's smiling over his shoulder, watching his profile.

One hand comes to his lips. One fingertip, actually. "Lick," she says, and when he obeys,

returns it to his nipple, circling it as decadently, as luxuriously, as she sometimes strokes her own clit.

Lukas

Lukas has never asked where, exactly, Danicka gained her collection of sex toys, nor how - or with whom - she learned to use them. There are certain things that he doesn't need to know, really, and that will more likely result in irrationally hurt feelings than any satiation of curiosity is worth. But she's done this before, she knows what these things are, and some part of him suspects that while a cockring is a rather scandalous piece of equipment to him, it probably pales to what she's seen.

Not that any of that is really on his mind right now. He feels her tightening the chain, shortening it until his thumbs brush together. When his shoulders relax the chain pulls taut, but the manacles are comfortable and, so far as bondage equipment goes, rather chic. The white stands out starkly against his tanned wrists, the charcoal gray just visible at the edges rather well-matched to his wedding ring.

His wedding ring, which she slipped onto his finger in a quiet little ceremony before public officials and their very closest family. She is his wife. They want four kids together, in their quiet little den on their quiet little street. And right now, in their anonymous, ritualistic hotel room, she is cuffing his hands together behind his back and running her hands all over him. He is trying to breathe evenly, he is breathing deeply, his skin is hot under her hands. His flank tenses as she rubs her knuckles over his ass. His shoulders flex when she reaches them. They're so wide, and his torso so deep, that her stomach presses against his hands as she reaches around him. His fingers open, his palm pressed to her body.

He closes his eyes as she touches his chest. Licks her finger obediently - more than obediently, enthusiastically, sucking at it. Tips his head back and groans, softly, as she returns to his nipple, plays with that rather easily-overlooked sensitive little part of him. She is stroking him slowly, lazily,

and he is pushing his luck just a little bit, his shoulders straining as he reaches down with his bound hands, slides them down between their bodies to try and caress her cunt.

Danicka

Lukas knows she has them. She doesn't keep them at the den, even now. But still: in their tidy little boxes, all easily cleaned and airtight, kept away from Kando, under her bed, they're there. And he's never seen her use a single one. It's hard to say when he even became aware that Danicka owned sex toys other than the manacles they've passed between each other's hands. What he does know is that it is very, very hard to shock her. He also knows that she delights, in her way, in his own shock and embarrassment, is tickled by his shyness when it emerges. Adores him for what innocence he has, at least by comparison. Adores him, too, for how fearless he is willing to be with her, how trusting.

He eagerly goes for her finger, licking it and then pulling it into his mouth, sucking as though the taste is addictive. She pops it out of his mouth, tsking him, and touches his nipple, shaking her head. For awhile they lapse into this lazy, gentle stroking of her hands on his chest, not so much to arouse him as for her to play with him, enjoy him, and then

he tries to touch her. Danicka outright swats him, her hips pulled out of the way and her hand striking quickly, firmly across his ass. "Ne," she says for the third time tonight, though this time it's all but a snarl, even the sound heady with arousal. Her hand is immediately on his flank again, stroking him there, caressing the spot she just struck. Her other hand has gone still on his chest, flat and covering him. "Pokud jste se nechovají, nebudete si svuj dar," she warns him, smoothing her hand in a soft circle around his left buttock.

"Nezbedny," she murmurs, letting go of him, stepping back from him, giving him one last pat before her touch leaves him completely.

All this time, the ring itself has been hanging from the central chain, ignored for the most part. Now she runs her hand down the chain and lifts it, circling around his side, coming to stand in front of him, looking down at his cock, hard and ready for her now, untouched and neglected. She tips her head to the side, considering him as she has all this time, and sits down, perching herself on the edge of the table he just moved. And quite without fanfare or warning, she takes his cock in her mouth, sinking her lips all the way down his shaft, generously wetting him, yet barely sucking on him, barely licking him. Just the once. While his mind is being blown, while his eyes are rolling back, she draws back, and then he feels the ring slowly, very gently, sliding down on his cock.

Danicka

[ALSO EMPATHY]

Dice: 7 d10 TN6 (2, 4, 5, 5, 9, 9, 9, 10) ( success x 4 ) Re-rolls: 1

Lukas

Yet again she slips out of his grasp, scolds him, swats him like a misbehaving animal. His head snaps around: animal, savage. There's a flash of teeth. He snarls, somewhere between outrage and surprise, but by then she's touching him softly again, stroking him, looking so deeply into him. The truth is he's not trying to hide his reaction at all. She doesn't have to search him to see him, but she does anyway. Because she's the dominant right now. She's taking care of him right now, and she needs to be careful, needs to see where his lines are, what his mood is, where his head is at, how he's doing. She needs to

protect him. As though tonight the roles are reversed, and he's the wary, half-wild animal that can only be approached sideways.

She can see, clearly, that he's turned on right now. He's all but thrumming with arousal, and it's an odd arousal that's laced with the instinctive wariness of a trapped animal. His skin feels tight and hypersensitive, his senses tuned for fighting, fleeing, or fucking. She is barely touching him, and it's driving him a little bit crazy; he wants to touch her and bury his face in her cunt and mount her, fuck her, but

in some strange way denial is only serving to amplify his lust. In some strange way, he doesn't want to be let go just yet, even if being bound like this makes him feel a little off-balance, a little feral, a little edgy. He relaxes a little bit when she moves from behind him. She might have thought he doesn't like her being out of his side, at his vulnerable back, when his hands are bound. It's not that, though, and she can see it now. It's more focused than that, and sillier than that, really: he was a little uneasy about her hand on his ass. She so rarely touches him like that, except to grab him and pull him into her when he's fucking her. He's never asked for it. He doesn't think he'd like bending over and getting spanked, he's glad she didn't thread the central chain between his legs, and he definitely doesn't want a finger up the ass or anything like that. He would gladly bend his back to lick her cunt, would quite gladly get on his knees for her to do that, has thought about it about a hundred times already and twice in just the last ten seconds,

but not that.

He doesn't really think she would, though. It's just a baseline, reflexive tension, and it abates as she comes to sit before him. He's looking down at her now, but the humming lines of power between them don't seem to have changed at all. Lukas's breathing is shallow and quick, anticipatory, as he watches her watching him. She can see, so clearly,

that he's dying for her to touch him, stroke his cock, lick him, suck him off. He's dying for her to climb up on him and wrap her limbs around him and slide him into her, oh god, please.

But she doesn't. She takes him in her mouth, without preamble, without warning. His head flexes back as she knew it would, baring his throat. The groan he lets go seems pulled from the very core of him, the very pit of his stomach. She takes him all, slides all his length into her mouth, and his hands are clenching to fists, pulling the chain taut between them, pulling the cords in his shoulders and arms taut. He gasps: god! and she's drawing back already; he's sinking his balance into his hips and thrusting forward, aching for that contact, but her hand is on his hip and she's holding him steady and sliding that ring,

that scandalous piece of equipment that almost embarrassed the hell out of him on multiple occasions over the course of its purchase and presentation,

down his cock. This sort of thing is really meant to go on before erection. There's a tiny, almost-invisible little quick-release catch on one side to snap it off when they're done. She knows all that. He knows that too, thanks to certain websites in incognito windows on Chrome. He's so hard already, though, and it takes a bit of pressure to push it all the way down to the base. A flicker of discomfort over his face, barely even a grimace, and then a faint breath out. But he's all right, and she can see that, too; can see him getting used to this new sensation. Physically speaking, it's a little weird. Not bad, though. Interesting.

Psychologically speaking, though -- Lukas is almost surprised at how turned on he is to feel so ... claimed, maybe. To have both hands chained, and behind his back at that; to have his cock chained, even. To be so visually and overtly owned: it sparks off the same response she saw in his eyes when she called him hers, hers, amplified tenfold.

Danicka

There was a time when that would have terrified her. Broken all of this, in fact, made her recoil from him. That flash of his teeth, that snarl, but now -- no. She isn't afraid he's going to hurt her. She knows that the limits to his temper are far from them right now, knows that the moon is dark, knows that she is safe with him. He reacts how he reacts, and he can do that with her because he's safe, too. Regardless, she soothes him. Strokes him like a pet, shows him tenderness in the wake of that slap.

Even so, the caress of her hand is sensual, stoking those flames in him that lick at her fingers. She's playing with him, playing with that tension, and three years ago he could not have tolerated it. It isn't just that Danicka has him bound, it's that she's teasing him deliberately, working him up, preying on his vulnerabilities and twisting them until he feels pleasure. Tonight, so long after that first time -- only time -- in her apartment, she's taking an even more blatantly dominant role, pushing one more boundary.

She knew, even before the muscles in his flank tensed, where the limit was there, as well. She sensed that the chain between his legs would not make him feel aroused on the edge of his comfort zone but almost degraded, too vulnerable to focus on anything else. She knew it would make him feel the loneliness and rage of being in the hands of someone who just does not understand him. Danicka does understand, though. She knows why he tenses, and she toys with that discomfort. She touches him where he's sensitive, but stays away from the line where it would become unpleasant for him ...for them both, really. She swats him the once, not quite a spanking, which he -- like Danicka -- would find only degrading if carried on past one or two quick slaps.

He's never asked her to touch him there, though, as though afraid she might misunderstand and go to far. She touches him anyway, to show him: no. She won't. To show him she can make him feel good without going to that length. To, in the end, rub her hands over a part of his body she likes, and show him that she likes it, and all but purr against his back while stroking him.

But even when she's sitting in front of him, her mouth on his cock, that edge of dominance goes nowhere. It only seems to sharpen.


Lukas, for one reason or another, did not buy lube with his purchase. Danicka improvises. Putting the ring on before he was aroused was a foregone conclusion before she even took it out of the box. Danicka is extremely careful. Lukas is at her mercy, and she could hurt him so badly, she could simply slip up and damage him, make him uneasy, and all the while as she's slipping the ring onto him, she's watching her hands and she's paying attention to his breathing and her focus is so complete, so intense, that she barely seems to breathe herself.

When it's fitted around the base of his cock, she gives him a feather-soft stroke of her fingertips all the way back up to the tip, lifting her eyes to look at him. She can see him adjusting to it, see his eyes flickering as he restrains the part of himself that wants to snap the chains, release the ring, and be unbound, ripping the manacles off. So she touches him, ever so gently, soothing him like a pet even as she inflames him, teases him that much more. She can see the surprise in his expression, too. The sharpness of his arousal. Her hand drifts away from him, and she rises to her feet again, walking away from him. "Stay," she says as she's stepping to the side, lest he try to follow her. And all she does is

circle him. Look at him from all angles. Naked for her, chained for her, ringed and bound and waiting for her. She wishes she had a camera. She wants to go to her knees and lick him from his thighs to his mouth. She wants to force him to his knees and climb on him and fuck him, make him hold her up with nothing but his cock, but that isn't what she does. Danicka circles him, and comes behind him again, and for a moment, just a moment,

she holds his hand. Standing behind him, at his back, she slips her smaller hand into his and gently twists his wedding ring around his finger, holding it between her thumb and middle finger. She rests her head against his back. She curls her hand into his palm, and just holds him a moment. Only a moment, before her head turns and she presses a kiss to his spine. "Turn around," she whispers, stepping back, dropping lazily onto the couch again. This time, when he turns around to face her, she's sprawled on the enormous cushions, her legs crossed again, with no signal that she's going to let him get his mouth at that pussy of hers. No signal except:

"Na kolena."



Lukas

Danicka is taking him so much farther this time. They're not in the bedroom this time. They're not in the dark. He's on his feet, naked, ringed, chained. The lights are on. He feels displayed; possessed. She pushes him against the edge of his comfort zone. Holds him there. He's electric with anticipation and energy, gasping softly as she strokes him, standing thrummingly still as she rises and moves away from him.

Stay, she says. And he grunts under his breath, and stays. His breathing is quietly audible, deep and swift, his chest lifting, ribs expanding, shoulders flexing gently. She is watching him, looking at him from all angles, surveying him as though he were a work of art that might become priceless. A thoroughbred that might win races. Something savage and beautiful; to be considered and perhaps purchased, perhaps enjoyed.

There's a subtle defiance in the way he stares right back at her. His eyes are on her, and they are the eyes of a wild thing caged: implacable, ferocious, proud. His head turns as she moves. He sees her eyes on his body. On the shifting cords in his arms as he twists his wrists one against the other. On the flex of one thigh as he shifts his stance, then settles his balance between his feet again. He sees her looking at the chain lying in a gentle arc against the outside of his hip, and at the bright ring at the base of his erection. His cock twitches of its own accord, making his eyes close for a second, then open again.

She moves behind him. He can't see her anymore. So he turns his head forward again, his ears pricked, every sense but the visual stretched to the utmost. Even so there's a surprised little jerk of his hand, a burst of an exhale, when she slips her hand into his. And then his fingers close hard around hers, fusing that point of connection with a silent intensity. She lays her head against his back, and she can feel his heart thumping through his spine, can feel his pulse against her lips when she kisses him so softly. Can hear him panting quietly, his head lowering for a moment, as though overcome.

Then she's gone again. The large muscles of his back bunch as he flexes his shoulderblades back. Given permission, he turns, his feet quiet on the carpet. She drops onto the couch. Her legs cross. His eyes flick down. They are both in sexual warpaint tonight. He gives a powerful, feral twist of his head. Then he goes to his knees, thumping down on both at once, his eyes on hers again.

"Co chcete, abych udelal?"

Danicka

That's a good analogy for him right now: a thoroughbred. Danicka would never call him a 'stallion' unless she were joking around, teasing him, but the idea is the same. Some beautiful, strong thing that only pretends to be tame. Could be worth something. Could be fun to ride. Now she isn't smoothing her hands over him, feeling his flank, caressing his chest, but she's staring at him, and he's staring back at her, on a razor's edge between what he can control and what he can't. Lust. Anger. Everything that is boiling up inside of him, every raging emotion that stirs up when he's bound like this.

Sitting on the couch now, telling him to turn around for her, he can see her eyes flick immediately down to his cock. It isn't purely erotic, this stare; she's checking on him. Her eyes flick up a moment later, though they do linger for that moment, as she tells him to get down on his knees. He obeys; she does not seem surprised by this, or pleased by it. She expects it. Something tells him he would be in big trouble if he disobeyed a direct order, this early in the game. That's not playing by the rules.

Lukas does not get down slowly or gracefully. He thumps down as though forced by an unseen hand on his shoulders, and then speaks.

Danicka's eyebrows lift a little. She leans forward, her legs still crossed, and reaches across the distance to him, putting her fingertips under his chin. She does not have to force him to look at her, because he already is, but she holds his jaw lightly all the same. The only time her hand firms is if he resists. "I don't think it will be necessary for you to speak again unless I ask you to," she says, her voice awash with gentleness, with kindness, with warmth

despite the harshness of the words themselves. She holds him there and kisses him, full and hard on the mouth, and the truth is she can't help it. She loves his lips: the shape of them, the way they look caressing certain words, the taste of his tongue when she teases it into her mouth and sucks lightly on the tip. A soft, low sound comes out of her throat, one of the only signs of her own pleasure that she's given him in all of this, but it is a distinct sign of her pleasure. It's a moan, restrained as it might be, and it comes solely from the kiss. She isn't even touching herself now.

Danicka licks her lips as she draws back, her eyes that dark, verdant green of summer that he has seen so many times when he's been inside of her, when she's been luring him into shadows, when his own mind has been spinning out, erupting, dying like a star, coming back into existence like a whole new galaxy being born. She leans back once more, her hand drifting away from his jaw.

"Polib mi koleno," she tells him, draping her arms over the back cushions once more. "Pokud si dobre, dostanete odmenu."

Lukas

There's a spark of pure rebellion in his eyes as she so gently, so unyieldingly silences him. He draws a breath. It might have been protest. It might have been a growl. Whatever it would have been never is: she kisses him instead, holds him there and kisses him until he forgets himself.

She moans. So does he, a low and strained sound, a restrained sound, even as he rises up on his knees to --

he doesn't know what he wants. He wants to rub himself against her, maybe. Present himself to her. Wants her to climb onto him already, sit on his cock, bounce on it, come on it. But she lets him go, and his eyes open, and she sits back, and he stares at her. Lust is dark in his eyes. That untamed feral edge, gleaming. She tells him,

no; she orders him to kiss her knee. His eyes flick to it, then back to her. A long, jagged pause. He is acutely aware of the power she holds over him. Acutely aware of how easily she could make him feel humiliated, degraded; make this such a negative experience that he'll never want to give himself to her like this again. He is afraid of this, he realizes, and realizing it, also understands how illogical that fear is. She is his mate. She would not, would never, hurt him like that.

So then: a submission. The sort a wolf would understand, a certain way he drops his eyes and turns his head, ever so slightly, so that he's no longer squarely facing Danicka. He considers her knee anew. Turns his wrists in their shackles behind him for a second. Bends to her then, slowly and not entirely willingly, bending at the waist until his lips touch her knee. He kisses her there, his mouth to her soft skin, lightly at first; then firmly, fervently, his eyes closing and his brow furrowing, his teeth fixing ever so gently in her skin for a second.

When he sits back on his heels, there's a spot of precum on the ridged muscles of his abdomen - a glimmer of wetness where the tip of his cock had briefly touched his stomach. He's so hard he can feel his pulse in his cock, can feel it stirring slightly with every beat of his heart. He wants to stroke off. He wants to fuck. But he kneels quietly, obedient now, quelled for the moment, waiting.

Danicka

He comes toward her, and it's like she knows every time where that line is -- that line between when he can calmly accept something and when he will start learning into her, pushing for her, gasping, wanting -- because right when they come to it, she withdraws. Danicka smiles softly at him, leaning back, but the smile fades as she gives him his instructions. A reward, she promises. She doesn't tell him how to kiss her knee in a way that will please her, doesn't instruct him on how to do it 'well'. But if he does, then he gets a present.

Good boy.

Lukas is quiet a moment, except for his breathing, and Danicka is not privy this time to his thoughts, is aware only of that lingering edginess that he begins to understand is fear that she will ruin this for him, hurt him when he is truly vulnerable, make him never trust her again,

which has been his fear from the beginning.

And she is aware of it when he calms, when he centers himself in the knowledge that she will never, that she would never, that she can not reconcile it in herself to hurt him, especially now. She sees something of the edge in his eyes soften, and knows it for what it is: trust. So she waits for him, and when he leans forward to kiss her knee, she closes her eyes for a moment. The knee is not particularly sensitive. Hers is covered by lace, which she did not roll down for him. He can feel the warmth of her skin, though. He can feel her skin just a little bit through the holes in the lacy stockings, tickling his lips.

When he stops, her eyes are open, staring at him, watching him. Her eyebrow flicks, ever so slightly, when he uses his teeth. Her lips are parted, though, betraying her expression, which is otherwise as smooth and as untroubled as stone. The truth is that right now she would like to slide off the couch and onto his cock, rub herself on him until the precum on his abdomen transfers to her skin, fuck him hard and tight and close until they can't bear it anymore. She does not.

This takes a great deal of restraint for her, too.

"Good boy," she whispers, and uncrosses her legs for him, just wide enough that he could fit his shoulders between them if he turned a bit, if he worked at it. No wider. "Muzete mi lízat stehna," she says. Her hand drifts down to touch herself there, right along the edge of fabric. "Zde, vyse můj puncochu."

Lukas

It's easier this time. Submission, that is. It's easier for him to bend to her. It's easier for him to bend, period,

and bend he does, quicker now. He works his shoulders between her knees. His skin is so hot, his body so solid. He puts his mouth to her thigh, lays a kiss against the tender flesh there. Her skin is bared here. He can taste her, and he does, eagerly, opening his mouth and panting against her skin, sucking at her, tracing the very edge of her stocking with his tongue.

Mmph, he sighs. Turns his cheek against her thigh for a moment, his eyes incandescent blue when they flash her way. He looks at her, looks to see what he might be doing to her, looks to see if she's enjoying this, too -

not merely the pleasure, not merely the pressure of his body against hers, his shoulder between her thighs, his mouth to her leg,

but the game they're playing, too. This very serious game of theirs where he lays down his control. Lays down his dominance. Lets her restrain him, and in doing so, lays down his own restraint.

A moment later he turns his face back to her leg. And he kisses her again, sucks and licks and kisses a path up the inside of her thigh. He wants to put his mouth on her cunt. Wants to suck her clit through what little remains of her clothes; will, if she lets him. He doesn't think she'll let him. Tries, anyway.

Danicka

His shoulders wedge apart her knees further. He meets resistance there, pressure back against him, forcing him to twist, to angle himself in order to get at his reward. And get at it he does, opening his mouth and not just trailing a single lick along her thigh but sucking, kissing her skin, like he's starved for it. Which, psychologically and physically, he may as well be. Danicka's lips are still parted, her breathing shallow but still slow, her eyes pinned on his every move.

What he sees is pleasure, yes. And right now it isn't even strictly physical pleasure, isn't solely the enjoyment of his mouth and his tongue, his heat and his muscle. So much of it is, in fact, him laying down his strength and pride to please her. So much of it is in that protective feeling that, he may only now be beginning to understand, was such a part of why she hesitated to let him lay atop her while making love. She needs to protect him, as much as he needs to protect her.

Lukas, however, decides to disobey. To push. To go eagerly for more when he has not been invited nor instructed. He starts to kiss her a second time, and doesn't even get that far, doesn't even get to kiss his way up her thigh before she grabs him by the hair. It's quick, but not rough; she doesn't yank at his scalp, merely takes hold of him and tsks at him with her tongue, three times in quick succession. She shakes her head as soon as she has his eyes.

When he relents, she smooths her hand down the side of his face, caressing his cheek, and gives him a soft smile. "So eager," she murmurs, almost affectionate, and that tenderness morphs into indulgence, as she leans back again and pulls his head -- by the hair, again -- towards her cunt, barely covered by a long and narrow taper of fabric that vanishes between the cheeks of her ass. She scoots forward, toward him, and lays back on the cushions of the couch, introducing his face to her pussy. Though right now, really, it seems that her hand is guiding him by the hair not to force him, but to make him go slowly, keep him from simply lunging for her.

Danicka puts her left foot on his right shoulder, though she does not let her heel dig into his flesh right now. She simply purrs, shifting herself on the cushions as she lets him have what he tried to get on his own.

Lukas

Lukas is not surprised when Danicka's fingers grip him by the hair long before he's anywhere close to her cunt. He's not surprised, but he resists anyway; she does, in fact, have to tug at him to make him stop. Caught, he's an animal, his lips parted to show the points of his teeth; his eyes all pupil.

Eager, she calls him. A quick, savage smile flickers and fades. His answer is something like a grunt, or a growl; a wordless low noise, guttural. And she, tender, merciful,

indulges him. Draws him forward now, laying back, letting her thighs fall another inch or two apart. He's on her instantly - or he would be, ravenous, except she catches him again. Exerts that steady, firm pressure at the roots of his thick hair; holds him back while he flashes a snarl, pants a growling breath out, relents. Looks at her again,

submitting again, quieting.

And she lets him at her. He lowers his mouth to her pussy, slowly now, his eyes on her, watching this time: watching to see if this is all right. Watching to see where she'll draw the line. His lips against the silk or lace or satin of her panties, first. Just his lips, and his breath humid and warm through it, resting, waiting. Then kissing her, kissing her so softly, the tip of his nose nudging her clit through the fabric. His eyes fall shut when he lays his tongue against her. When he starts licking her through her panties, long slow strokes with the flat of his tongue, lapping at her like an animal before

remembering that he's not entirely animal after all. Using his tongue more creatively, then. More dexterously, teasing the point of it against her clit, and between her lips; winding a sinuous path down and over her pussy, all of it - every sensation of it - screened through silk. Or lace. Or satin.

Until, eventually, he drifts to the edge of her panties. Nuzzles her where her skin meets the lingerie and, after a moment, and very delicately, uses his teeth to begin to pull her panties aside.

His eyes are open again now. He's watching her. Watching to see if this is all right. Watching to see where, and when, she'll draw the line.

Danicka

Mine, she all but snarled, just a few steps inside the door, before he ever showed her the manacles and cockring that have brought that statement jarringly and immediately into sensation, into action. Mine, her hand in her hair seems to say, as she's guiding him, restraining him, even giving him affection. And he is: hers, that is, more than he belongs to anyone or anything else. She would fight Gaia herself for Lukas, if that's what it took. Damn the war. Damn all of it. He is hers.

And he gives her, now, exactly what she wants. Danicka indulges him, yes, but she lets herself relax into it, gasping softly as he lowers his mouth to her. She squirms a little as he kisses her, tips her head back and pants out a breath when he begins to lick and nuzzle her. This is not all he can do to her, she knows. It's been a long time since that waving-moon night in this room where he first learned to do this for her. It's very different with satin between his mouth and her pussy. Still, after so much deprivation, so much restraint, it's sending thrills up her body in waves, in pulses.

Soon she's panting, however softly, her hand tightening and flexing in his hair every so often, as he works her up with his mouth. She doesn't give him her moans, her outcries, but she clutches at his hair and grinds herself gently against his face, gasping out loud again. She isn't looking at him, and when he starts to tug her panties aside with his teeth, Danicka seems too overcome to even notice, to even care, to stop him or swat him. She's wet, and he can feel it against his lips as

the door trembles with a quick, heavy knock.

Danicka's eyes fly open, her shoulders leaving the cushions as she sits up, quickly, so quickly that she's a bit dizzy for a moment. She has Lukas's face between her legs, her feet going to the carpeting on either side of him, her cunt still pressed to his mouth. "Stop that," she pants, because there's no doubt he's still going at her, still licking, still searching for that hot taste with his tongue. She gives him a gentle swat on his shoulder, about as ineffective as one could imagine.

Rapidly, Danicka swings her leg over his head and sets her foot down, sweeping to her feet. "Stay," she orders him, as she rises. For a moment she's a bit unsteady, too aroused to think clearly, but she goes for her purse before remembering that she heard Lukas adding the tip to the check over the phone. All the same, she walks to the door in her heels and stockings and lingerie, and throws it open.

The delivery man looks to be in his mid-twenties, a trifle overweight, dark-haired and wearing a hat. His eyes almost fly out of his head at the sight of Danicka, but she's blocking his view to the rest of the room -- to Lukas, kneeling in his bonds where she left him -- with her body as she takes the bag of food. "Thank you," she tells him, but he's dumbstruck, staring, unable to say anything. The door shuts in his face. Locks. Danicka carries the food back to the coffee table and sets it down.

If she were not so turned on, if his cock were not so fucking hard, if he didn't look the way he looks, she might just rip the bag open and begin feeding him. Tell him he has to eat his dinner or he can't have any dessert. Something like that. She doesn't. Instead, she drops the food to the table, reaches down, and -- roughly, in fact -- yanks open the buckles on the right manacle. It comes free and just hangs there, but now his arms are free to come out from behind his back, even if his left wrist is still connected by lengths of chain to the ring around his cock.

Danicka is in front of him almost half a second later, her hand on the back of his neck, her body swinging onto his lap, lace and jacquard brushing against his chest. She does not tell him, Fuck me, or any of that. She doesn't have any lines from a game to say here. If Lukas, his arms freed even if his cock is still ringed, does not know what to do with her now,

he's hopeless.

Lukas

She's wet. She's wet and she's hot and he can smell her, smell her arousal, smell her heat, smell her sex, smell her. It drives him wild. He forgets to be delicate, forgets to be careful, forgets to watch and see how far she'll let him go and

tugs her panties aside, all but tears them down with his teeth, buries his mouth against her pussy, groans as he laps her taste up like he's starved for this, like he's wanted it so long. Which is, in fact, the truth.

There's a sudden knock. Danicka's eyes fly open. Lukas's do not; they are shut, his brow is furrowed, he is pure intensity, he's going at her because he's finally allowed to have her in some small way and when she sits up he growls and she swats him and he finally jerks back as her leg is swinging over his head.

"Come b--" he starts, and then he remembers: it is not necessary for him to speak. He closes his mouth. Figuratively, anyway. Literally: he's panting, her wetness on his face, smeared over his jaw and his cheeks, his breath hissing between his teeth. He watches her get up. She tells him to stay, like he's a pet, like he's some well-trained, obedient animal, and even as his hackles rise instinctively he does exactly as he's told.

Stays. On his knees. In chains. Naked, waiting to service her.

He can hear her at the door. Thank you, she says; so polite. The delivery boy is just gawking. He doesn't say anything at all. Sudden possessiveness snarls through Lukas all the same. He knows there's a strange male at the door, he knows he's looking at her when she's adorned like that; he wants to spring to his feet and dash to the door and snarl, growl, raise his hackles and his tail, frighten off the interloper.

He doesn't. He stays, breathing hard, and

in good time Danicka comes back. Drops the food on the table, yanks open the buckles around his right wrist. He twists around to look at her, not sure of what's okay now and what's not, not sure of what comes next, but then she's coming around in front of him. Swinging down on his lap, her lingeries brushing his chest, her cunt so close. He stares at her. She looks at him. He's stockstill for a beat.

Then he all but lunges for her with both hands - lifts the left too high, jerks on himself, gasps a quick wince, lowers his hand to grasp her hip instead. That's all right; he still has his right hand, and with his right he grabs his cock by the base, with his left he pulls her panties aside as he's finding her slit, with both hands on her hips he pulls her down, down, plants her firmly on his cock with a short burst of a groan that he hides as his face drops against her shoulder.

"Oh, my god," harsh, whispering, the sort of tone one takes when praising or cursing a deity, "oh, fuck, thank you, finally."

Danicka

Oh, she knows he can't hear the knocking, that it's pared down to total unimportance for him now, shed aside like a discarded jacket. She knows he's going to ignore her and eat at her pussy and she knows, most of all, how he will feel when she gets up and there is a strange male looking at her. Her cheeks are flushed; they aren't the only part of her that's visibly pink from arousal. Thankfully Lukas didn't get her thong aside too much before she got up and went to the door; the delivery man doesn't get that much of an eyefull.

No one is ever going to believe him, he realizes as he heads for the elevator, numb from shock. No one is ever, ever going to believe that he made a delivery to a hotel room tonight and there was a blonde standing there in heels and stockings and lingerie, looking like he caught her in the middle of fucking. Which he did. She was getting her pussy lovingly, hungrily fucked by her husband's mouth, before Chinese food interrupted.

They aren't on the couch. They aren't on the bed. They aren't even on the coffee table now, as she swings herself onto his lap and he groans, grabbing for her, learning to be careful not to tug on his own cock. They're on the floor, and as he sinks her down onto him, Danicka gasps and twists on him, pulls him, tumbles their bodies to the floor once he's inside of her. Lukas is swearing, thanking her, praising god, and Danicka just lets her back hit that smooth, plush carpet and starts fucking him like they've been going at this for hours, like she's miles ahead of where she was pretending to be, panting for him.

Lukas

No one is ever going to believe that delivery guy. No one is ever going to believe that the sort of thing that happens in fantasies and movies and everyone's imaginations actually can happen to some regular guy with a shitty job. No one's going to believe some blonde in heels is going to answer the door in lingerie, looking like she's mid-fuck, and no one, absolutely no one, is going to believe that the room behind her looked, smelled, felt not like some seraglio, some cradle of lust,

but like some dark, savage place, owned and occupied by something no one in their right mind would want to meet.

So. He goes away, that delivery guy. The food he brought sits on the table. All that is forgotten in seconds, before Danicka even twists Lukas to the floor, long before she pulls him down and over her, wraps her legs around him, takes him deep into her and starts fucking him.

Like they've been doing this for hours. Like she's been wanting this for hours, wanting it as much as he has, needing it just as much no matter how calm and unruffled she seemed. And he - finally and suddenly certain again, finally and suddenly sure of exactly what she wants, exactly how to give it to her, exactly what his place is right now in the grand scheme of things:

he's fucking her with his hand on her hip, his free hand braced on the floor over her head. He's fucking her with his face inches from hers, his teeth bared, his eyes blazing; fucking her hard, rather roughly if we're honest, pounding her while the sweat that broke out over his skin during the course of that long sweet torture finally comes trickling, sheeting over his body. He's panting, raw and coarse, snarling under his breath on every unchecked thrust, and as that wild commotion begins to build in his bones and the tangles of his nerves he drops his brow to her body, bites blindly at her flesh, buries his mounting groans against her skin as he

quite frankly

gives it to her with all he's got.


Danicka

There are times like this when Danicka is torn between all the different ways she would like to have him. She wants to grab him by the hair and make him eat her pussy again until she comes, grinding herself on his mouth. She wants to straddle his lap and fuck him there, still bound, riding him until supernovas are going off in his eyes. She wants to let him go, unleash him, let him do whatever he likes to her, fuck her.

And that is what she ends up doing. There's no more rhyme or reason to this than to just about anything else she does, as though she looks at all the things she could want and simply throws a dart. But his left hand is still chained. So is his cock. She isn't done with him yet. She isn't even close to finished with him. He's hers. He belongs to her. She wants to keep playing with him.

Right now, though, all she wants is to fuck him. Lukas is ready to give her anything she wants, is burying his face against her and groaning, pleading thank yous and relief, and he is equally unresistant when she rolls onto her back and pulls him with her, takes him down to the floor on top of her. Her long legs wrap around him, the lace of her stockings surprisingly soft against his skin, her heels surprisingly heavy where they come to rest against his flank.

She feels all the tension -- the emotional kind, at least -- flood out of Lukas as he slides into her again, fills her again. Somehow, it doesn't negate this odd exchange of power and control they're toying with, playing like a game. He's giving it to her because she's given him permission to. He's partly unchained but still wholly bound. He's on top of her but still her animal, her pet, her male, hers, all hers. Her fingers are in his hair, holding his face there as she kisses him.

Sometimes the cries she lets go into his mouth are whimpers, small yelps that tell him no more effectively, more powerfully than any silk-voiced command could. Sometimes it's the way her fingertips circle or smooth against his scalp. He gentles, then, forces himself to because otherwise he'll hurt her, but it's too much, it's overcompensation, and she winds her hips on him from below, driving sensation up into the part of his mind that is mad, that is wild, that is barely able to tolerate the lust that drives him now. They find their rhythm. Rough but not coarse. Firm but not hard. Aching but not painful. Fast not but hurtling.

Danicka does not have a toy around any part of her body, however, that is prolonging this excruciating pleasure. She knows he does. She licks sweat off his neck and bites his earlobe as he fucks her now, gasping against his shoulder, and even then she's paying attention to him. She's listening to his breathing, watching his eyes, still protecting him, still taking care of him, even as every thrust of his cock makes her lose her mind a little, forget where she is for a moment.

She pulls his head down to her shoulder as he's biting her there, growling and snarling and groaning for her. Her other hand goes to his back, fingernails against his skin, urging him right up against that line between what he can control and what he can't, that line between boring her and hurting her where Lukas knows, even know, Danicka's real pleasure lives. Her back arches under him, as much a signal to his reptile brain as her whimper, as her hand in his hair, as her legs around him, as her hands stroking over his arms and chest.

There are words, too, but they mean nothing. The tone is encouragement. Is yes. It is protective, murmuring and urging at once. Her voice, somewhere out there saying words that he doesn't know anymore, is soon dissolving into moans, gasps, cries that just mean fuck me. fuck me. fuck me.

Lukas

He can't even seem to keep himself from groaning - even when she pulls his mouth to hers. He groans into her mouth, then, muffling his pleasure against her tongue. And later, later she draws his mouth to her shoulder and he latches on, grips her in his teeth, she digs her nails into his back, it only seems to spur him on.

Harder. So hard that she lets go that little yelp that instantly cuts through his lust-haze. Makes him startle back, makes his eyes find hers. She touches his hair. Her fingertips find the roots damp with sweat, and his eyes are so dark, so brilliant, he looks at her and he kisses her again, an apology, soft, even as he eases off.

Just a little. Just enough that it's rough without being brutal; fast without being reckless. And she's biting his earlobe, and he's snarling over her shoulder. He's coming down over her and his body seems to be one churning forge of heat. He's stretched over her and inside her, bound by her, simply hers, and she's holding him and protecting him and receiving him and

giving him permission, in a way, to let go. Submit so completely that he can stop worrying, stop holding back, stop being tense and wary and guarded, stop all that, set all that down, and simply surrender to what's between them.

Okay, he thinks, meaningless. Her taste is in his mouth. Her cries are in his ears. It's all he knows, the heat of her body, the winding of her hips against his groin, and against his hand. Okay, and now the sounds he's making are raw, wild, the way he's fucking her is desperate, he's trying to tell her he's going to come, he's going to come,

i'm coming,

but in the end all he can do is grunt like a beast, roar like an animal, bite her as he comes into her, mindlessly.

Danicka

Early on, his silence while making love to her was about control, was about holding back, was about hiding from her just what she did to him. He'd hold her motionless atop him, stop her from moving, stop her from blowing his mind, and to this day he still grabs handfuls of her clothes, the bedding, anything, to stop himself from leaving bruises on her skin. And still: she tried to get him to let go. She did such things to him, worked him into such frenzies, to try and get him to relax, to trust her, to let her protect him, to give himself over to her.

Eventually, he did. Long before her offered himself to her, put his hands up and let her manacle him. Long before that, he was hers. He gave her his voice. He gave her his teeth. He let himself be everything he is to her, all the good and the bad, the weak and the strong. And in return, what she gave him,

was this: her trust. Her teeth. Her horrific truths against the sweeter, gentler lies (reservations at eight). The knowledge that even bound, he could tear her apart in an eyeblink... against the faith that bound or not, surrendered or savage, he will do everything he can not to. Those manacles around his wrists are not submission, nor are they even strictly a promise. They are certainly not protection. For Danicka, they're trust. For Danicka, they are an outward symbol of Lukas's own control, his own restraint. They are just as flimsy, in the face of his rage. They are still there. He is always trying.

They find that rhythm of theirs and every time he strokes into her she rides up on him, rubs her clit against his cock, even against that ring, and soon enough even her outcries are in the same rhythm as her body, are pounding to the same beat, are in his veins and his heart just as his snarling fills her blood up with fire, fills her mind up with molten lust. Wetness is as slick between them as sweat, the room suddenly too hot, her body pressed against the carpeting and pressed against his chest and soon enough she's turning her head to the side, panting for air, holding onto him, arching --

God, she's so tight around him. Even her own mind marvels at it, how tight her cunt is suddenly, how firm his cock, how unbelievable it is when she remembers that sometimes they are two separate bodies, that there is life beyond this and outside of this. She clutches at him, urging him on to be an animal because even as an animal, a beast, a roaring mindless thing, he is still her mate -- and at his wildest, she can still reach him.

Words don't make it out of him. Not words as words are usually understood. He does not manage to say I'm coming, no more than she does. There's the flash of her throat as her head turns, her fingers clutching at his hair and back, her spine arching to take him deeper. There's his body folding over hers, his teeth going to her shoulder, her orgasm beginning deep and pulsing and world-destroying as his begins low, tight and hard and obliterating.


They annihilate everything. Themselves. Each other. The room and the city and the land it's built on, leaving nothing but a dark, breathing void where they hold onto one another.


Colors and light come back first. Shades of brown and purple, expanses of dimensionless white. Danicka closes her eyes as soon as she's opened them, a tremor going through her. She can't hold onto him anymore and lets go, her hands unable to grip now, going limp against the floor to either side of her head. Her cunt still pulses occasionally, still pulls at him, involuntarily exerting the sort of dominance over his existence that she can't even play at right now. The word 'mine' does not exist, but her body remembers it, and claims him every few seconds, demands that he stay.

She is damp, sticky even, with sweat. It darkens her hairline. And she feels an ache in her hips where they spread to wrap around him. Her legs slide lazily down, akimbo and limp in moments. She drowses, catching her breath, and smells the still-hot Chinese food past the scents of Lukas's sweat and their sex and everything else. She's still wearing everything she was ten minutes ago, including the damn thong. It's been an eternity, but the first sound other than breathing that stirs through the emptiness is a huff of Danicka's laughter, little more than a breath itself, bringing everything back into reality.


No one who has made love could hesitate to understand where all those creator-destroyer myths came from. Why they always feel so right, so sane, so philosophically correct. Why the cycle of the whole thing makes sense. Why Picasso's oft-quoted saying is taken without question as truth.

Volos and Perun chase each other across the wheel of seasons, warring and dying and killing and so on, and so on, and so on. And Lukas and Danicka destroy everything, find each other in the rubble, hold onto each other as the world rebuilds around them. They are the war, and the aftermath, and the new world.


She says nothing else. That breath, that laugh, as she becomes more and more limp, which is just a way to become strong and centered again. She looks past his body at the window, sleepy and serene,

her fingers moving lazily in his hair.





Lukas

In the end, their submission and their surrender was never to one another, but to what's between them. In the end, their love is not a war after all, but the consummate peacemaking: peace between their bloodlines, and the gods that bless them; peace between their scarred past, and the future they build together.

It's about trust. All of it, rooted in that precious, precious trust that took them so long to give each other. Even now, even today, when they no longer need to hide how they feel, no longer need to hide in these places to express how they feel, they still come here sometimes to renew the symbols of that trust. These manacles on his wrists, because he can trust her not to degrade him -- trust himself not to lose control. The way she lies back for him, and takes him, and protects him, because she can trust him not to abuse that secret, tender side of her.

They have fallen apart now, and they are coming back together only slowly. The world is formless chaos. Then it is light, and then it is sound. Sensation is a low pulsing thing beneath it all: the pull of her body, the weight of his. She laughs. It brings his consciousness back, makes him open his eyes slowly. He sees the room sideways - the door opening right from a vertical floor. Her arm, looped over his shoulder, her hand relaxed now against his back.

Her other hand in his hair. Stroking him, scritching at his scalp, stirring the damp, night-black strands until his eyes close again; until he turns his face to her body and hides from the light, wanting the night, wanting the secret darkness of the earth, in which the seeds of spring sleep.

The thought makes little sense. It makes all the sense in the world. He laughs softly, too. He nuzzles her body for a moment - his nose against her upper chest - and then rouses himself just enough to roll on his side. Now he's no longer crushing her. Her leg is still over his hip. The chain clinks softly as he moves his hand, tugging the links gently from under her thigh.

For the moment, he has nothing to say and no need to speak. He looks at his mate, who is so close to him he can see the color and depth of her eyes; see the shadow her lashes cast. He blinks slowly, lazily, fondly at her. He smiles; breathes. Closes his eyes again.

Danicka

It didn't take long. Even with the ring around his cock stalling orgasm, stalling relief, even as detached and unaffected as Danicka pretended to be, actually fucking each other took mere minutes before they were coming together, clutching at each other with hands and teeth. Their food is still warm -- in fact, their food is still hot, sitting over there on the coffee table.

Danicka just strokes his back and his hair and his arms, coming back to reality by touching him, comforting him. She doesn't need to whisper to him that she's there, like she did once upon a time. He knows. He can feel her, and presses his face to her for awhile to hide from the burgeoning universe. Danicka lets him. It is part of how she protects him.

Sooner or later, he eases off of her, though not completely, and she rolls with him a bit, holding their bodies close still, angled toward one another. Her eyes are closed for a long time, but then they open, and she's watching him. Looking at him looking at her. He smiles. She watches him close his eyes and then she smiles, too, leaning over to kiss him gently.

The next thing he knows is the sound and movement of the chain as she picks up the end from which an unbuckled manacle hangs. It's soft against his wrist when she begins to wrap it around him again, this time in front. "It's time to eat," she murmurs, as she binds him yet again.

Lukas

Lukas's eyes startle open again - fast enough that Danicka can see his pupils contract in response to light - when she shackles him again. The instinctive tension is ... less, though. He laughs a little, softly, and lifts his wrist to look at the freshly refastened manacle.

"Okay," he whispers. And, sighing at the feel of it, he puts his hand carefully on her waist and draws out of her, rolls on his back. The ring keeps him half-hard, and he looks down at himself bemusedly, lifting his wrists to tug lightly on the chain. It feels - unusual. Not unpleasant. He thinks of telling her this; thinks of telling her how wearing the ring magically made orgasm more elusive and, simultaneously, more overwhelming. He thinks of telling her this, but he doesn't really have the words, and anyway - Lukas isn't sure if the verbal ban is back in place. He thinks it might be, might have come back into force when she slipped the manacles back around his wrist.

So he lets his hands come back to rest on his stomach. And he turns his head to look at his mate, turns to see where she is and what she's doing. Time to eat, she said. He wonders if she wants him to stay here; get up; follow her; what.

Danicka

She does this quietly and calmly, but slowly, knowing that he'll tense, knowing that instinctively he'll resist. She notices that it's less this time, though, and gives him a wry half-smile that lasts only a moment. He draws himself out of her, and she shifts aside, and there's a bit with a napkin and her adjusting her thong again, while he settles on his back. Danicka is gentle in all this, coming to kneel beside him and touching the ring. She doesn't touch his cock, though. She looks at him, and then, wordless, begins to carefully slide the ring off of him.

It comes off easier -- he's not fully erect, this time, and frankly, he's more lubricated -- and she considers trying to see if she can take it off, but... no. She leaves it dangling from its connected chain, as though to remind him of it, remind him that she took it off and she may very well put it back on. A reminder that he's hers, as though the manacles themselves weren't enough.

"Up," she says gently, and helps him move to a seated position. She has untied her little shoes and rises to her feet, stepping out of them. Looking down at him, she tips her head to the side. "You can take off my stockings. Then we're going to eat."

Lukas

Lukas holds very still as Danicka comes to him. She reaches for his cock. His breathing is shallow; he thinks she might play with him again, get him hard again, fuck him again. He wouldn't stop her. He wants her to - but at the same time, he's not sure he can take it again so soon. He's hungry, besides.

She doesn't get him worked up again, though. She gets the ring off, sliding it off, which makes him hiss between his teeth. He's grateful when it comes free; it makes movement easier, for one. It lets his cock relax, for another. He sits up without needing much help, drawing his knees up. His hands are bound across his front his time, and this also makes things easier.

She gives him permission to take off her stockings. A crooked smile flits across his mouth. That's how all this started: he tried to take off her stockings. He shifts, rising to his knees, hands briefly touching carpet for balance. When he has it again, he sits back on his heels, reaching to undo the fastenings, and then to roll her stockings down.

Leans forward to kiss her skin, too. First at the edge of her stockings, where he'd licked her before. And then lower. And finally, lifting her foot to rest atop his thigh: her knee, his lips touching her gently. It's worship, clear and calm. His hands cradle her ankle. The ring gleams on the chain between his wrists, like a pendant on a necklace.

Danicka

Right now, the thought of loving Lukas again -- on the floor or the table or the couch or the bed, even -- doesn't enter Danicka's mind. He's lovely right now, all sweaty and chained up and tousled, but her body still thrums slightly with the energy of fucking him just moments ago. She's still catching her breath. The sweat is still cooling and drying on their skins. She would be chilled, but the room is relatively warm, and so is he. She stays close to him; she doesn't get cold.

Their bodies relax more, and she rises, and he smiles. He is permitted to unroll her thigh-highs, which have already slid down a bit from all their moving about. When she does wear stockings -- which is rare, truth be told -- they are usually attached to garters, though not tonight. It almost always hints at lingerie underneath her dress, if her legs aren't bare. Then again, bare legs don't preclude lingerie, so it's anyone's guess.

They come down easily, rolling off of her skin, and he can kiss the faint pink impressions where the elastic hugged her flesh. She watches him, and there's more tenderness now than before, more gentleness between them. He's still cuffed and chained, but it's... softer now. She's softer. Her hand comes down and she strokes his hair lightly, smooths it back as he takes her stockings off and kisses her legs. She lets him move her foot to his thigh and hold her ankle, and after he has done both, she steps away.

Sits on the edge of the coffee table and opens the paper bag beside her, taking out chopsticks and containers of food. She opens one and lifts a bite of beef, holding it toward him. "Open."

Lukas

Distance opens between them, though not a lot. He watches her stand and go to the coffee table, which isn't very far away. He scoots a few inches after her. Settles again.

Having dominated him, she wanted to protect him. Having protected him, she wants to feed him. Something in him warms: tenderness and humor, both. He wants to grin at her; he wants to say, Ha! See? Now you get it. He doesn't, though. The gleam is in his eyes, playful and warm, but he only leans forward, plucks the slice of beef from the end of her chopsticks. She uses the utensils elegantly. Curiously, there's an answering neatness in the snap of his teeth: precise, almost delicate.

And he sits back, bringing one knee up to sit on one heel instead, the other foot flat on the floor. Chews. Very politely - and perhaps testingly, feeling for the borders of her tolerance: "May I have a scallop?"

Danicka

Lukas wants to say Ha! See? Now you get it. He doesn't, though. She lifts her eyebrow at that gleam in his eyes, however, and she seems to read the thoughts right there on his face. He was wrong to believe she was a mind-reader, once upon a time, but she is incredibly perceptive. Still, she knows what he's thinking right now. She's feeding him, and it's a world away from the glee and insistence in him when he brings food to her, but yes, she does get it. She's always understood it.

As though he spoke, she merely chides: "Yes, but I'm not going to keep pushing food at you when you're full," and her tone is so arch and responding to something he didn't even say, but she's pushed a bit of broccoli into his mouth and hopefully he knows better than to talk while chewing.

He is, after all, sitting on the ground naked and wearing manacles while his wife perches on a table and feeds him.

"Yes, you may," she answers a moment later, opening another container and plucking out a seared scallop, offering it to his mouth. While he chews, she takes a bite for herself as well, but

this is protective, too. Lest he become anxious. Lest he see that she is feeding him and not eating and become antsy, become worried, become upset. He's her male. She wants him to be soothed and calm, because in due time she's just going to work him up again. So this is how they go: he asks for what he wants, ever so politely. She gives it to him. She eats as well. After awhile, while he's chewing on a crab and cheese wonton, she mentions:

"Would you like your present?"

Lukas

So they eat a dinner unlike any other they've had: one where, for once, Lukas is not trying to get Danicka to eat more, baby, there's lots left, aren't you hungry?

Though, in truth, he's not so bad about that anymore. He's been with her long enough - often enough - that he's learning how much she actually needs to be full. He's seen that she hasn't wasted away to nothing from eating what seems like so little food to him. He's seen, too, that sometimes when he makes her eat she isn't comforted, she isn't satisfied, she's simply stuffed and uncomfortable and, in one or two memorable occasions, pissed right off because he just wouldn't let up.

Tonight, though, it's quite different. His hands stay on his thighs, bound together as they are. He could probably still maneuver chopsticks, but this is easier. This is, also, more tender; more dominant; more fitting to the way he's given himself to her tonight. She feeds him. He mostly eats what she gives him, but sometimes he asks for more, and when he does he asks for meat, meat, more meat, oh and a scallop please. She occasionally gives him broccoli because -- well. If she doesn't, he'll just go without fiber tonight.

After a while, he's getting full, and she's probably already full, and he's munching on a crab and cheese wonton and thinking about the banana rolls and

she wants to know if he wants his present. The last one. The secret one.

His eyebrow quirks. Interest glints in his eyes. He chews, swallows, somewhat awkwardly lifts a drink of water - or tea, if that's what they have - to his lips because ... well; he doesn't want her to feed him water as well, and she likely knew that long before she had to read it from him. That is somehow over the line between dominance and infantilization, well past what he could handle.

Anyway: he takes a drink of water. And then sets it back down, careful not to spill or to knock it over with the chain. And he looks back at Danicka, and nods.

"Please."


Danicka

There is a point where Danicka offers him some water, cracking open a bottle from the minifridge and holding it out to him in speechless query, but the way he lifts his hands and takes it rather than simply opening his mouth tells her that no, he does not want this taken quite that far. It goes without saying. He drinks on his own, and she feeds him, bite after bite, smiling as he has his fill, twice as much as her if not more, seeing that even now his eyes glint with pleasure when she eats, when she shows appetite, when she so obviously feels safe and comfortable and relaxed

and hungry.

Near the end, he's glancing at the banana rolls and she's asking if he wants his real birthday gift, more than a night out at a hotel together and alone, more than the lingerie she's wearing, more than the fuck they just had and those that will, in all likelihood, follow throughout the evening. It's still early, after all. She watches him drink, smiles at him, then nods in answer and rises to her feet.

Already barefoot, she begins stripping out of even the lingerie, losing the bra and dropping the panties as she crosses the room to their bags. He is naked except for the chains. She would like to be naked, too. She plans to bathe him soon, wash her body and his before changing into

something else.

But that isn't what she brings back. The box hidden away in her bag is not from any of her usual haunts when it comes to provocative underthings. It is quite slender, similar to a rose box but far shorter and not as deep. It is wrapped in the same cheerful Happy Birthday paper that she used last year to separate Christmas from Lukas's Birthday in terms of gifts. She comes back, kneeling on the carpet in front of him, and holds it on her knees.

"Now," she says quietly, "you can open it now, or we can have dessert in the bathtub and open it in bed. It's your choice." She shakes the present; whatever is inside both rustles and makes a gentle, hollow thumping noise against the interior. It is small and very lightweight, whatever it is. She leans over, too, kissing his cheek. "And I think... when you're ready, it's all right if you want to take the chains off." Her head tips. "But I'd still like to wash you."

Lukas

Lukas is so close to his animal self tonight, as though by restraining him she's in fact unlatched some cage deep inside him. He reacts much as an animal does, eating when he's hungry, drinking when he's thirsty,

fucking when he's horny,

growing curious when some new toy is presented to him. Ears all but perking, Lukas's eyes fix immediately on the present as Danicka brings it out. His eyes are brilliant and quick, flicking over the box, studying it. Something inside rustles and thumps: he tilts his head, thinking.

And she leans over, kissing his face. He tips his head for that, too, smiling as her lips fall on the sharp arch of his cheekbone. As she draws away he rubs his face against hers for a moment, heavy and affectionate, growling low in his chest.

Animal. So animal: but not wholly. Because even now, caught between the immediate and simple joy of tearing open a present, a new toy, and the deeper, subtler joy of being tended by his mate, bathing with his mate, pleasing his mate -- even now, Lukas is capable of weighing his options, thinking, deciding. With a little reluctance, he pulls his eyes from the box, and he smiles.

"Let's open it later," he says, sets his fingertips on the floor, and pushes himself to his feet. "I can wait."

Danicka

She smiles at him, that overt warmth she let creep back into her demeanor as she was feeding him growing stronger. Danicka stops him, though, as he starts to get up, putting her hand on his cheek and tipping her face up. She kisses his mouth then, slow and soft, then holds his hand as she, too, rises to her feet beside him. Danicka picks up the container of banana rolls with a smile that verges on that grin of hers, that lazy and lopsided one that seems just a little bit quirky, and she balances it and the gift as she turns to walk into the other half of the suite.

Clothes are everywhere behind them. His, hers. Open and empty or mostly-empty containers of food, chopstick wrappers, packets of soy sauce. In what amounts to little over an hour, they have demolished the pristine beauty of the outer room and neither of them give a single fuck. The bedroom is nicer. Their suitcases are in there. The bed is made. Danicka lays the birthday gift atop the covers as she passes the foot of the bed, then takes Lukas and the banana rolls into the bathroom.

"Sit," she says lightly, perhaps she means on the floor, and when he has, she takes out a roll and puts it in his mouth while she goes to turn on water that becomes rapidly warm, hot to the touch, swirling to fill the garden-style tub. She perches on the edge of that tub, facing him, crossing her legs, and starts eating her own banana roll. With a smile.

Lukas

Sit, and he does. That first banana roll makes him smile: he smiles up at her, simple and pleased, crosslegged on the floor. Steam starts to rise, starts to fill the bathroom. She eats a banana roll herself, and he swallows, grins.

"Yum," he says. And she pops another one in his mouth.

Half of their dessert is done by the time the water is deep enough. She reaches for his hand and he gives it to her, and even though he doesn't need her to help him up he lets her pull him up anyway. They get into the tub together: bare feet first, and then sitting down. He starts to sit behind her but she turns him around, sits behind him instead, drawing his larger body between her thighs.

Water sloshes gently around them. She is sleek and slender; he is large and rugged. They are both, in their own ways, strong. She pulls him back and at first he doesn't want to lean on her; he keeps his abdomen flexed, carrying his own weight, but she puts her limbs around him and whispers for him to relax and, after a moment's indecision, he does. They wonder for a moment if the manacles can get wet without being ruined. Then they decide it's all right; even if they're ruined they can always get another set. It's not the object that matters, but the gift, the meaning.

So he puts his hands under water. He goes underwater when she instructs him do, sinking so much volume beneath that the tub almost spills over. She pulls him back up, and then

he's closing his eyes, resting, warm, content, as she shampoos his hair, rubs his head, washes his neck and his broad chest. Under each arm, and down his sides; down to his obliques, and then in, and when he starts to take deeper breaths, thinking she might touch his cock,

she goes to his arms instead, washing down each upper arm, scrubbing each elbow. Down the forearms, and between the fingers. He's relaxing again, almost falling asleep, when she gives him these gentle playful pushes to get him to sit up, lean forward, and then he's resting his elbows on his knees under water as she scrubs and kneads his back.

"That feels good," he murmurs, smiling. He is paler with winter, but even so his skin is shades darker than hers. Somehow like this, wet and naked and relaxed, the sheer scope of his body can be better appreciated. Danicka discovers anew that her mate is so very large, a creature entirely wrought of heavy bone and dense muscle, hot blood, hot rage.

She gets him to stand up. Water drips off his fingertips, off the ends of his hair and off the bottom of his chin. He watches her with a faint smile, watching her scrub down his thighs and behind his knees, down his long shins. He puts a hand on the wall for balance as she gets him to lift one foot and then the other, and when she's done he sits again, moving back between her legs with less hesitance this time.

And Danicka does, in fact, reach for his cock then. She washes him tenderly and carefully, and even so - or perhaps accordingly so - he grows aroused in her hands, hardening until his own hands curl into loose fists, until his breathing grows swift and deep. The muscles of his abdomen flex and quiver against her open hand. His hand comes to cover hers, the wet leather warm against her forearm, his fingers sliding between hers.

"That feels good," he whispers, strained.

Danicka

It doesn't take long to fill the bathtub. Danicka doesn't fill it all the way -- she knows a thing or two about physics, mass, displacement, and just how large her husband is -- but turns it off about midway, reaching over to stuff another banana roll in his mouth just a moment later. He can lift and use his hands, now that they aren't behind him, but it's... well, cute, to her. It's a bit awkward and silly for him, his hands linked together, eating like a prisoner. Not that it matters, really, and not that he could feel like a prisoner right now.

Danicka likes helping him up, grinning as he levers up to his full height. She waits for him to sit down first before she sinks down behind him where she can wash him. Her legs wrap around his a little, long and lean and smooth under the water. She does, indeed, pull him back insistently to her body, smelling and kissing his sweat and his skin before they wash all that off. When Lukas hesitates to put his hands underwater, Danicka is quiet. He deliberates only half aloud, anyway, and she gives him no instruction. As she told him, he can take them off -- or ask her to -- when he's ready. For now, he leaves them on. Submerges them. It makes her laugh gently, and she gives him a hug from behind.

Even in a large tub, they are crammed. He's too tall, too broad, and Danicka is hardly a four-foot-tall pixie. They slosh around, water getting on the floor occasionally, and all she does is laugh and give him kisses. Wherever. Behind his ear, sometimes. His shoulder, often.

Washing him takes a very long time. She's lazy about it, and insists on draining the tub and refilling it after they rinse the shampoo from his hair. He's dazed then, from her fingertips massaging his scalp, and barely recognizes what's going on until the water starts to refill, water dripping down his body. Instinctively he's leaning closer to her, trying to keep her wet body warm when it's exposed to the air. Danicka just strokes his chest while they wait, her chin resting on his shoulder.

Steam rises. She lets him eat another roll while she washes his neck and his chest, his arms, his abdomen. There's little washing done there, so deep under the water, but his breathing shifts the closer she gets to his hips, to his cock. Danicka licks a drop of water from his earlobe and slides her hand down, so far down, spreading her fingers to either side of him but not stroking him. It's mind-rending teasing she's doing here, but she can't help herself. She wants so badly to touch him there right now. She senses, at the same time, Lukas's current fascination with restraint, with being made to wait, with being teased.

She washes him in between his fingers, delicately stroking the sides, even massaging his hands and his palms. She cleans carefully, ever so carefully, any dirt from under his fingernails. He's warm and heavy against her then, his eyes closing, his head resting half against her shoulder and half against the tiled wall, til she whispers to him to lean forward, baby, I'm going to wash your back. Only she doesn't just wash his back. He folds his arms across his knees and rests his head on them while she rubs his back, pushing against tight muscles, working them loose in the heat. He murmurs. He doesn't see her smile.

Then his legs. She's careful around his ass, careful not to cross his unspoken line between a little bit of surprised tension and actual discomfort. She ignores his cock this time. She washes him all the way down to his toes, to the soles of his feet, and gives him the faintest tickle of her fingertips til he twitches, toes wiggling. Danicka grins to herself. He sits and rinses off; again, she drains the tub and refills it. Warm, clean water fills up around them again, and their skin is long since wrinkled but she doesn't care. She nuzzles him. She's actually been washing herself a bit as they go. The ends of her hair are wet, but she isn't saturated. She's washed sweat off of her body here and there, though she's paid far more attention to Lukas during this time. She feels clean now. She breathes in his smell: different, now that he's clean. Still hers.

Her arms come around him again as they sink into the hot water one last time. She strokes his chest as she did before, laying her head on his back, and his wrists are heavy with sodden leather and fur and metal. She nudges his arms aside and her hands drift closer to him. Her fingertips stroke over his balls lightly, maddeningly. She traces the V his torso makes, and slowly her hands get more bold. Touches from her fingertips turn into strokes of her palm, warm as that earlier massage. She keeps lifting them up, though, or passing him by and touching his thighs, and his breathing keeps hitching, almost panting, til finally both of her hands wrap around him under the water, giving him a slow, loving caress from base to tip, squeezing gently, stroking downward again, doing it again.

"I know, baby. Let me," she whispers back, as his hands come to cover hers, her lips planting a kiss behind his jaw.

Lukas

So he does. He lets her, his hand relaxing on hers after a moment, letting go. Wrapping loose around her wrists, feeling the articulation of delicate tendon across precise bone, feeling

the slide of her hands, themselves, the way she touches him not merely with the expertise of experience but the familiarity of - well. Personal experience. With him.

His eyes are closed for much of it. He accepts the kiss, then turns his head blindly, nuzzles against her. When her stroke lengthens, when her grasp firms, the muscles in his flank tense. He thrusts against her hand like he can't help himself, and his breathing is flaring his nostrils before bursting through his lips. His panting grows audible in the echoing spaces of the bathroom; he plants a foot against the far side of the tub, steadying himself.

Sometimes she touches him a certain way, or in a certain place, and his whole body jerks. Sometimes she strokes him so slow and firm that his head falls back, and he groans aloud. Toward the end he's so hard and hot in her hands; she can feel his heartbeat through his back, can feel his sides heaving against her arms. Unable to separate his hands enough to grip the sides of the tub, unwilling to grasp at her hands and wrists lest she stops Lukas eventually just lifts his arms - water dripping - and grabs onto the tub faucet instead, holds onto it as he opens his eyes and furrows his brow and watches her, watches her hands moving under the water, watches her do this to him.

He doesn't tell her, this time, that he's going to come. He doesn't attempt to. He trusts that she knows, trusts that she wants him to, trusts that she'll give him this, she'll let him have this, she'll be sweet to him and take care of him in this way. She knows, anyway, from the way his body tenses, and the way his toes flex, and the way he grasps at the faucet and gasps in short, stark heaves. Knows from the way his cock pulses in her palms, and the way he fucks against her hands; knows, too, from the way he suddenly turns his head, searches blindly for her mouth,

buries a rough series of groans in her mouth as she brings him off. They die into moans as his orgasm spirals out into hypersensitivity. Toward the end his whole body seems to jerk uncontrollably if she touches him, and his mouth is breaking from hers and he's gasping stop, stop, I can't take it, stop, and

when she does he takes an enormous, shuddering breath, lets it out, goes quite limp against her, panting. There's fresh sweat on his body, but it's sluiced away so quickly by bathwater that it may as well have never been.

"I love you," he's murmuring. "Baby, I love you."

Danicka

The truth is, she wasn't planning on feeling up her boyfriend -- as she still thinks of him, as often as she thinks 'mate' or 'husband' or 'male' -- in the bathtub tonight. It was when he started breathing a little heavier as she washed his thighs and his stomach that she first considered it, and it was when he got lazy and sleepy against her that she decided to wrap her hand around his cock and jerk him off. Danicka makes plans, seemingly, just for the opportunity to break them. Like the plan of getting him worked up only to exit the tub, pat him dry, remove his shackles, tie him up with his necktie, and ride him on that bed until he was scarcely breathing.

Even when she starts, she's idle about it, thoughtless, not really thinking past each stroke, not really considering where this is going, what she's doing. She licks his earlobe and she touches his nipple, the water splashing and sloshing slightly as her hand works his cock. It's when Lukas starts groaning, muffling his moans against her mouth or his own shoulder that a surge of lust goes through Danicka. It's when he starts tensing, thrusting into her hands, that she feels blood pooling between her legs, warming her cunt, making her want to fuck.

There was a time that when Danicka fucked men, they were rather expected to do their damn job and get her off. They were useless otherwise, pointless to go to bed with if they weren't going to eat her pussy or stroke her clit or hold off their own orgasm until she came, and they were downright annoying when they kept trying to roll her on her back because oh no, somehow sexual positions threaten my masculine dominance!. She had little to no patience for the way they'd watch her afterwards, lost in her, wanting her to stay, or -- just as bad, really -- trying to act like Real Men who Don't Care about who they have sex with, because emotional attachment is Womanly, and Womanly is Weak. If a man could not make her see stars, there was virtually no point in fucking him to begin with.

Women she was more tender with, more forgiving of. She liked to see them come. She liked to make them come. She could take pleasure in that even if there was no reciprocation. She wasn't even emotionally attached. She didn't care much about dominance or submission or any of that. It was just nice to see these women, so tough or so fragile or so unsure or so experienced, losing themselves completely in great waves of orgasm. It made her feel satisfied.

That she could make love to Lukas, never coming herself at times, and feel satisfied from giving him pleasure -- well. He wasn't the first time that had ever happened for her, but it meant something. It still does. She feels and hears him going insane from enjoyment and it makes her want him more. This is how they can make love, and have it truly be about the love.

When he plants his foot on the tub to steady himself, it pushes his back against her, between her legs. Danicka gasps beside his ear, grinding against his flank a moment, working him a little faster. More water sloshes out onto the tiled floor of the tub, saturating the towel they laid out beforehand. This feels good; he doesn't have words for it anymore, but he doesn't need them. Danicka follows him as he leans foward to grip the faucet, panting softly against his back, whispering for him to come, two, three languages now, come for me baby, give it to me.

And he doesn't tell her this time that he's going to come. He knows from her words, from her body, that she wants this for him. She'll be sweet to him. He lets himself go into that, trusting, falling, collapsing as he thrusts into her hand, fucking her stroking palms til he comes. The sounds he makes are wracked, ragged, and lost. She accepts his kiss, forceful and blind as it is, pushing him back with her own mouth and making him take it, take it while she makes him come in her hands, in the water, filthy and warm and none of it matters, none of it, nothing but this.

She's so gentle with him afterward. His brain starts to come back together and all he feels are her hands holding him, no longer stroking, no longer driving him mad, just holding him warm and close and protective, covering him as he comes down. They're dirty again. She thinks perhaps this should disgust her, but she's holding his cock covered with her palms and she's laying her head on his back, wrapped around him, letting him heave with breaths and pant until he's sane again. Danicka can feel him starting to relax, starting to go limp, and she reclines, drawing him with her, against her, wrapping her arms around his chest.

"I know," she whispers again, keeping him close. "Shh, laska. I know."

Lukas

Lukas is still panting when Danicka's arms circle him, his chest straining against her embrace. But it's subsiding, his breathing is quieting, he's tilting his head back and against hers, rubbing his temple against the side of her face before turning, kissing the corner of her mouth.

A few moments go by. He's quiet now, wholly relaxed. The water is no longer hot, merely warm. He suspects she might run another bath now, or at least shower them off, but not yet. For now, for a little longer, they simply...

drift for a while.

Eventually, he yawns. And she stirs. And he sits up and she lets the water out, and he uses both hands to turn faucet back on. They draw their third bath of the night, and by now they're beyond wrinkled, they're soaked so utterly their skin is flushed and pink. They get clean - again - and then he gets up, she gets up.

More water on the floor, dripping from their bodies before she gets them wrapped in towels. He has the use of his hands back - sort of - and he towels his face and hair off, then his shoulders, then wraps it around his waist. It takes her longer to scrub a towel through her hair, and while he's waiting he flips over the box of banana rolls and helps himself to another. Lukas does, after all, love his sweets.

He saves the last one for her, though. And when she's done drying off he holds the box out to her, then tosses it empty into the waste bin.

"Can we go to bed and open the last present?" he asks, smiling.

 
Copyright Lukáš Wyrmbreaker 2010.
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