Claimed

January 26, 2013

The cuffs closed about his wrists and she wondered for a moment if they felt the same to him as they did to her. She spared a moment to

The Collar by ~mobiusco-photo

glance at him. Hair mussed, lips parted, he slept with the same careless ease that carried him through the day.

He was all sunshine and mild summer days, and she had loved him for that. She had loved the way he was leveled, grounded. Nothing fazed him, nothing shook his confidence.

She had loved him. Had loved that unwavering sense of control.

She knelt by the chair, the leather cuffs heavy in her hands.  Practiced fingers slipped the cuffs about his ankles and tightened the buckles.

He stirred. She leaned in, a hand checking the blindfold over his eyes. Satisfied, she brushed her lips against his ear.

He groaned, his wrists jerked up against the cuffs, but the handcuffs kept them fastened to the arms of the chair. “What-” She relished the quizzical note in his voice.

“You fell asleep in your office again.”

She could feel his wariness slip from him. “Zoe.” The inflection on her name was playful, bemused. “What are you up to?”

“This and that.” She tore off a strip of tape.

She  leaned into him as his fingers drew small circles against her thigh. “This and that?” He tugged lightly on the strap of her garter belt, the links of his cuff clinking. A soft, pleased sound rumbled in his throat. “What’s the point in dressing up if you’re going blindfold me?”

She took a deliberate step back. Staying away from the armrests of the chair, she leaned in and smoothed the tape over his lips. “It’s for myself.”

In the space between the tape and blindfold, she read his surprise. Then his shoulders relaxed. He leaned back, patient, fingers resting easily on the arms of the chair.

There it was again. Composed. Unflappable confidence. A smooth veneer that she could make flicker, but could never break.

Coaxing herself to unclench her fingers, she circled around to the back of the chair. Her fingertips brushed along his collar and slid soundlessly down along his chest. She fumbled with the buttons, pushing them through the small holes.

He tilted his head, his ear catching her shallow, uneven breaths. She exhaled, steeling herself and leaning in.

His gasp was satisfying. She tightened her grip in his hair and pulled his head further back. The tape was cool to her lips. She could feel the contour of his lips beneath the tape, moving against the adhesive.

Two sharp tugs later, the neatly pressed shirt was pushed off of his shoulders. She walked about the chair again, fingers running across his shoulders, then down his chest. Her lips followed the path, nipping and kisses down the center of his torso. His abdomen flexed, shifted against her lips and teeth, subtle movements that was all but lost against her trembling lips.

Her lipstick stained his hip, bright red against his skin. She pulled back and steadied herself, watching him. The pull of the tape belied the smile tugging at his lips. Confident, almost cocky, tempered only by the curiosity in the raise of his eyebrow when she stopped.  Damnable unfailing veneer.

No. That wasn’t entirely true. She’d seen him once, heard him, unguarded. He didn’t know though, that she’d seen the way his shoulders squared when he saw the display on his phone, the way he suddenly sat up, the way his profile softened when he heard her voice. He didn’t know that she’d heard the anticipation, eagerness in his voice, the brusque tone and notes of frustration.

The way that he had run his fingers through his hair was unfamiliar, rough, and not a little hesitant, lacking his usual unhurrying ease. He’d leaned over, brushed his lips against her forehead, telling her that a friend was in trouble and he would be back shortly.

He had came back, shortly, as he said he would. And he was happy. It had startled her, back then. She hadn’t realized that with her, he was merely content, mild and warm. His happiness- true happiness- was bright, exuberant, infectious.

She leaned forward again, her fingers trailing over the waistband of his jeans. With a tug, she popped the button out of the hole. Her lips twisted in a small, sardonic smile watching his hip jerk a little in reaction.

It was well in the beginning. She had been confident, sure. She knew her worth and she’d never been the type to worry about straying eyes. When the man strayed, obviously things have run their course, and just as obviously, it was time for her to go. They had nothing of hers, could claim nothing. Maybe because she had never given them anything to claim.

But him. He claimed it all. Or rather, she’d given it all. That was a far cry from him claiming it all.

Her eyes ached. She blinked fast and stared up at the ceiling. She shook her head, her fingers pulling down the zipper, listening to the part of the metal teeth.

It took a while before she realized she ached when he left, and ached harder still when he came back, happy, his thoughts distant. It was pain that bit deeper than the crops and flogs. Worse yet, it was a pain that gathered, grew, sustained with each visit, each return, and each time she was stopped head on by the well-polished, smooth veneers of his.

It took her a while before she realized the pain. It took her even longer to realize that source of the pain, and longer still to understand why. What she’d perceived as control and confidence wasn’t either. It was indifference.

She didn’t doubt the sincerity of his words, didn’t doubt that he cared for her, that he loved her. But as he’d said, there were many types of love. And his for her- or hers for him- it wasn’t enough.

Her mind might have reconciled with the facts, but her body, her heart refused to cooperate. So.

Her lips closed about the head of his cock, her breath shaky. She kept her eyes on the lipstick, smeared on his hip, as her tongue teased his length, her fingers resting against his thighs, feeling the muscles tensing beneath her hands. She reclaimed the sensation, his reactions, small though they may be. When he gasped behind the tape and buckled against her tongue, she reclaimed that too.

Inch by inch, through ragged breaths and trembling fingers, she reclaimed what she’d given him. Or what she could from him.

She let herself sink into the sensations, the stretch of her lips about him, the sounds of slicked skin against skin. Her tongue quested over his length, dragging and skimming over the familiar raises of his veins. Her breaths quickened and a sizzle of ache spiraled from her chest to her belly, making her pussy twinge and clench.

She forcefully stopped herself, pulling her lips away. A thread of saliva glistened between her lips and the tip of his cock. She pulled back, watching it as it thinned and disappeared.

His head was resting against the headrest, tilted back, his chest rising and lowering in erratic patterns, his exposed skin flushed. His fingers curled against the armrest, nails digging into the fabric. She wanted to hear him, wanted to hear his voice.

A wry smile curled her lips. If she reached up and tear the tape off, she could stop. Doubtless he would distract her long enough that she would forget what she had set out to do. Part of her was all for forgetting- the same part that would ache all the harder the next time she was left before that veneer again.

She leaned forward again, fingers pressed against his hips, pinning him against the chair, stilling him. Slowly, determinedly, she teased him, with licks, kisses, and sucks, the briefest touches, the most fleeting contacts. She could feel glimmers of his frustration and pleasure in the tensing of his thighs, the way his hips pushed back against her fingertips.

When he came, out of habit, she almost kept him between her lips, her tongue tingling, aching to feel him against her. And, out of habit, her pussy spasmed, aching to feel him in her, pulsing against the contracting muscles.

Instead, she settled back on her heels, her head bowed, listening to the harsh, heavy breathing. A small, broken breath escaped from her.

She stilled, mortified and stole a look up at him.

He had slumped against the chair, as much as he could with the cuffs. She could read satisfaction and satiation in the lines of his form.

Hesitantly, clumsily, she fumbled with the buckles of the cuffs, letting them fall to the floor. The tape followed after, in a quick rip, from where she knelt. He stirred, enough to let his hands drop to his laps, his palms turned up.

She leaned forward, her hair sweeping against his lengths. Slowly, she pressed her lips against the palm of a hand. She closed her eyes,  the familiar tide of warmth that sweeping over her as always when she smelled his scent. But this time, it left her chilled. Drawing in a shuddering breath, she placed the well-worn collar in his other hand.

His fingers tightened around the collar. She staggered back away and to her feet. Movements jerky, she pulled the knit skirt over her head, her lips pinched close, keeping the words trapped.

Her footsteps silent against the carpeted floor, she made her way towards the door.

“Ah.” The sound was quiet. Puzzled.

She halted. “If”s buzzed around her head, despite how tightly her fingers were closed about the knob. She waited. She could have, would have waited forever if another word came.

But nothing else followed.

Laboring to keep her breaths steady, she opened the door and stepped out, the scent of him about her and taste of him still on her tongue.

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