By Aouda Fogg


Rating: NC-17

Warnings: This is a story untroubled by mundane issues like plot and deep character development. *weg*

Summary: "I love doing this to him."

Notes: I started this story a long, long time ago -- right after I wrote my other non-plot story, Touch. It's languished for a long time in my ficfile, surviving several attempts to get it where I'm happy with it . . . it's mostly there *wg* Thank goodness for this challenge! This one is for Aly and daMurlin whose threats got me to finish!


I love doing this to him.

I've got him propped up on a wall of pillows against the railing above our bed. He's mostly sitting up, his strong, firm legs splayed out in front of him. His arms, however, his arms are tied to that railing with two dark-blue silk scarves I bought especially for this purpose.

And his hands? At the moment, his strong, capable hands are clenched around that same rail, knuckles white.

That's because I'm riding his cock with all the slowness and scrupulous precision I can possibly muster.

I've been doing it for a while, slow, sliding rocks of my hips morphing into tight little circles that I repeat again and again, sometimes just for the groan the move forces out of him. Sometimes just because it feels incredibly good to me, too. And sometimes, never often enough to move beyond randomness, I slow until I'm barely moving, until the rock of my hips is nothing more than a nudge, a suggestion, and tighten around him, contracting all the muscles I can. That makes him groan in a different way and shudder so hard I have to hold on tight.

Seeing him shudder beneath me, because of something I've done, is almost enough to break my concentration and force me into riding him hard and fast until we both come, but I hold back, managing to keep a grip on my control despite the burning muscles in my thighs. I'm determined to keep this going as long as I can, to keep him hanging on until his need to come is the only thing in the world.

My focus shifts, and I slow my rocking again, backing off just enough that the tension in his shoulders eases just a bit. Kneeling above him, I have a perfect view of his chest, his shoulders, his arms. The line of his shoulders as they curve into his arms turns me on so much. The feel of his skin under my hands fascinates me. His entire body is mine to explore, and I do, loving the feel of his skin, damp with our sweat, as much as I love the feel of him inside me.

With sliding, lingering touches, I skirt my fingers along his collar bone, down his pecs, feeling the muscles contract in the rhythm I'm riding him, the rhythm he's now clenching his hands to, our rhythm.

Sliding my fingers lower, I first trace one nipple, then the other. His shoulders tighten again, and he clenches his teeth so hard against the pleasure that his jaw stands out in sharp relief. This time the sounds escaping his lips are much closer to whimpers, so I trace my pattern again, then again. First slowly, then fast, then I quickly wet my finger and leave a moist trail across his skin. I know just how much he loves that because he bucks convulsively under me.

I freeze, stopping all rocking, all sliding, all tracing with my finger. He subsides, too; he knows the rules. Once his legs are still, I thrust down against him particularly hard as a reward. When his head falls back, a wordless gasp urging me on, a new idea occurs to me.

Returning my fingers to his chest, I trace a figure eight around his nipples, making sure to skim both of them. At the same time, I shift my hips to mirror the pattern. My control slipping, I pant his name, but knowing what the sounds of my voice, raspy with need, does to him, I let myself go for just a moment. It is a moment I revel in. A moment where I focus ever so briefly on me, on the slide of him in and out of my body. With one last gasp of his name, I rein myself in and shift my focus back where it should be: on him. This incredible, beautiful, undone man laid out before me. If I didn't love him more than life itself already, the fact that he lets me play like this, pushing us both, would make me fall in love him.

Raising my fingers from where I had laid them over his nipples, I draw a random design up his skin, dancing again around his collar bone and up his neck to his face. He opens his eyes and I find myself pieced by eyes that perfectly match the scarves that are holding him my captive. I smile at the burning need in his gaze. It makes the color blaze. Speeding the motion of my hips just a bit, I distract him by mapping his face with the tips of my fingers, letting myself linger over his lips and the deep flush over his cheekbones.

Suddenly, I slide backwards, arching my back, reaching behind me, and brace myself with my hands on his lower thighs. It isn't an easy position to hold, and I can feel my muscles straining, but it's all worth it because the change in position changes the angle of his cock inside me, puts pressure on him in different places, and the resonant moans I get in response are more than worth any little strain.

I hold that position a moment longer, teasing him with small nudges of my hips, drawing it out, making him feel the difference, before pulling myself back up and seating him firmly inside me once more.

His head falls back again. It rests there against the railing, his whole face wracked with pleasure -- mouth slack as he pants, eyes clenched tight as he moans. His tongue darts out to lick at his lips, and I have to lean down and lick the same place. We kiss, for the first time in long minutes. He tries to urge me on by nipping my lip. Gathering the very last bits of my restraint, I find the strength to ignore the challenge even as I mentally acknowledge that it is time to end this and give us both what we want. Need.

I play the ends of the scarf along his right forearm, letting the gauzy material add to the sensation of skin on skin. Without giving him any warning, I release both scarves and free his arms.

His reaction is as immediate as I had hoped.

His arms lock around me. He buries his face against my chest, sucks hard against the skin he can now reach, and, bracing his feet flat on the bed, thrusts wildly up as I thrust just as firmly down.

It is enough.

I feel him harden that last bit inside me as intense vibrations start in some bottomless part of him. Shouting, his breath hot against my skin, he shoots deep within me, coming endlessly. The feel of him coming against me, in me, all around me, and the desperate press of his arms around me, squeezing so fiercely, flings me off the edge as well, and my whole world is sensation and us. The feel of us, the sound of us, the scent of us coming together.

Drifting on sensation, I distantly feel shudders continuing to wrack him and can think only that this is what my body is for. For him.

Needing to feel more of him as we coast down and come back to ourselves, I wrap my arms around his back and just hold on. He continues holding on to me. He whispers my name across my chest, and I can hear everything in it. Everything.

Jesus, I love doing this to him.


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