A.N.: My thing is Gentle Femdoms.

"Hold still," her breath puffs against the shell of his ear, the rounded tips of her nails drifting all too lightly along the back of his shoulder. There's a sensory disconnect, his mind struggling to make sense of this or that. Is that her hand on his chest, drifting down over his ribs? Is that her nose there, nuzzling the nape of his neck? His lashes flutter against the thick fabric, swallowing audibly. "Have faith, I won't hurt you."

It had come up rather unexpected, her voice low and casual as she'd turned a page in the paperback novel she'd been working through for the past week. Her pale fingers had pinched the end of an inky strand of hair, twisting it inward awaiting his response. And of course he couldn't refuse, in the second before she clarified he was almost swallowed up by his own nerves—overwhelmed, unsure how to proceed. Up until then, she had never relinquished control. Why did he assume she ever would?

Not to complain.

As with everything, Kiyoko pours herself into the details. The sheets have been switched out to their finest linen, their nicest pillows; thick, heavy, and threaded with gold. All crisp and clean and warm in color. The curtains are replaced, drawn tight over the afternoon sun. The fabric serving as blindfold is made of a smooth, durable material. It is knotted in such a way, he cannot see a thing. He had only caught sight of the expensive robe she'd been wearing, but nothing of what waited underneath. She isn't wearing heels, but the sheer stockings speak volumes already.

He jolts only slightly when he feels her fingers come around his wrist suddenly, turning his head to find her. She is standing behind him, that much he knows. She slowly guides his arm back, keeps him there, and then reaches for the other wrist to place it upon the other firmly. Her tone is even, calculated, assures him that is in a safe place. He tenses up again at the slip of something thin across his skin.

"W – What is—?" he mumbles, hunching his shoulders.

"Relax," she says, wrapping it around his wrists thrice over and then topping it off with a quick bow. He only tests it once, the press of taut, too-thin ribbon against bone—it quickly discourages him from trying again. "Let this happen. I won't hurt you."

He feels her move away, hardly a swish of her clothes or the padding of her feet against the floor, and his nerves twist themselves beyond repair. He has to unlock his jaw, the grit of his teeth bordering painful. He turns his head to see if he can hear her, somewhere across the room, nearly snaps back when she opens and then shuts some drawer in the other direction. A moment later, her hand is on his chest and all the air whooshes out from his lungs.

"I'm going to put this around your neck," she says, and then immediately does so with no further warning. Something stiff and cool, leathery. It presses against the side of his throat before she brings her other hand up to tug the other end against the nape. There's a jingling, something metal clicking against metal. Her fingers move, tugging and then fastening some buckle.

It's a collar.

Something clicks, a leash he supposes, and she backs up a step to pull on it. It goes taut, her voice humming, and he takes a hesitant step forward. Another, and then another; her voice rises in encouragement. His face is burning.

He expects the bed, overstuffed, awkwardly angled with his arms bound and his back arched over them. But there's a chaise across the room, this beige thing with polished wooden legs and decorative throw pillows deep red in color. The leash grows taut once more and when he tries to follow she places one cool hand on his shoulder to keep him at bay, guiding him carefully. She turns them in a half circle, and then pushes him until his knees touch the edge of the chaise. Her hand presses down, and he lowers until he's sitting.

The leash falls limp between them, and he adjusts himself so that his arms have space. Rolls his shoulders, and then his neck.

"Enjoy that for a minute," she says, and he thinks he hears her putting her hair up.

"Oh." She must be getting serious now.

"You'll be on your knees soon."

"Oh." He has to swallow the sudden surge of warmth in his middle. "Okay."

.x.

Small mercies, she places a soft pillow on the ground before he settles down. There'd been much movement around the room a moment ago, her voice drifting close and then further away. A shoe box, maybe, of which she flicks the top off on the side table near the chaise. Some rummaging, the sound of fabric, and then silence.

"I did some thinking while I was buying the materials," she says casually, as if they're having a normal conversation over tea. "I'd never much been into the heavier stuff, when I'd see it online."

"You watch…?" he suddenly says, and then second thinks himself. "Sorry, go on."

"We'll get to that...lapse in behavior," she murmurs, setting something down. "Because this is, you know, about obedience."

She may have picked up the leash, and wrapped it around a fist twice. He can only guess.

"I did see this," she continues, perhaps referring to whatever was in the box. Or, one of the things. "And I thought it was perfect. Pretty, elegant, very tasteful—it's a lovely lilac color. Like we talked about—the flowers for the wedding?"

"Oh," he says, perking up. "It must be lovely. You know—off topic—but I think pink looks good with lilac."

"It'd clash, I was thinking cream. It's simple, but."

"No, I agree," he says, shoulders relaxing. "Maybe roses?"

"Good eye," she replies.

He tenses up all over again when he feels something soft and stringy tap against his back quickly. "What is—?"

"Did you know there are whips made of silk?"

A shiver rushes down his back. "I did not."

"It's very pretty," she informs, and it comes away from his skin for a moment. "The sunlight really brings out the color."

He swallows. "Does it hurt?"

"I told you, I don't like the heavier stuff."

He's not sure what that means.

There isn't much time to wonder, or, at least, she doesn't allow him much time to. The collar around his neck shifts, sliding as she tugs the leash toward her. She is behind him, perhaps considering the whole of his back. She'd only asked him to take his shirt off, his jeans are unbuttoned and loose about his hips. There's a birthmark on his shoulder blade she really likes, and he feels her trace it with the tip of one nail.

The whip comes down on him suddenly, just as soon as she retracts her hand. He jolts, the sharp twinge is brief. Short lived. It doesn't hurt, the silk glides off his skin with little more than a sting that fades as quick as it comes. The second time, he holds his breath and turns his head. The third doesn't come, his breath rushing out as she slides it up and in between his shoulder blades.

He's not entirely sure what to feel. His eyes want to dart, unable to focus on one thing at once. The anticipation, settling at the pit of his stomach, uncertain of when the next time will be. And the next time, he holds still and nearly flinches when instead her fingers twist themselves into the hair at the back of his head. She tugs, he hisses, her nails scrape lightly; the whip comes upward this time, along his spine. He arches, surprised, and gasps. It's sharper this time, but no more painful.

Quick, brief, tiny stings that scatter over his skin and fade out before they can settle.

"Nothing heavy," she says, circling him. The ends of the whip drift over his shoulder, across his chest. "Next time, you'll be lying down. It'd be nice to have more range."

He's inclined to answer, but suddenly there's a weight on his upper thigh, something solid and warm. His mind reels, hurrying to figure out what it is before she catches him off guard all over again—and there, it shifts immediately over until it settles over his half hard cock, idly rolling a lazy stroke. An afterthought, no more than that.

And then the whip, striking against his ribs. Sharp.

"Oh—goodness," he mumbles, shifting away instinctively. "You're so much more intimidating when I can't avoid you."

He knows she's smiling. "You're getting off on this."

"I'm imagining us on the bed, same as always."

"Don't lie," she chastises, and again a lethargic roll against his erection. "You're curious."

"I just," he strains, breath shuddering. "Can't pin you down. You are—so full of surprises."

Something curls, and it clicks. Her foot, and those are her toes. He bows forward, trembling, and finds her thigh most accidentally. He touches his lips to what he hopes will be skin, and turns out to be the sheer fabric of her stocking. She nudges him away. "I didn't say you could touch me."

"Oh—there are boundaries," he sighs, leaning away immediately. "This would be so much easier if I knew the rules."

She sets something aside—he figures the whip—and takes her foot off of him. He's mostly hard, it's both a crying relief and a rushing shame. "I'd rather feel your mouth elsewhere."

"I hope we're on the same page," he says, and straightens up when he hears her sit down on the chaise before him. "Familiar territory—I'd imagine you'll be wanting to untie my wrists?"

"You'd imagine wrong," she corrects, and tugs on the leash. "I said I want your mouth."

He pauses, shifting forward on his knees. He can't tell how far away he is from the mark, searching blindly for skin until her fingers move back into his hair and guide him the rest of the way. His lips press firmly against—not skin. His brow furrows, the material is thin, just as sheer as her stockings. Perhaps a matching set of panties, something lacy off the top and smooth along the crotch. He's heard, or seen, or something, of this before. His tongue hesitantly flickers out to touch, tracing over, searching for the nub perhaps not yet peaking from the beginning of her folds. He tilts his head and his nose presses against the soft mound, hoping against all hope he'll hit the mark somehow.

"Clumsy," she comments, tugging on his leash. "Do you need help?"

She doesn't let him answer, the hand in his hair drawing away to move around his searching mouth. The fabric sticks slightly, but she tugs it aside for him.

He touches his mouth to her skin, nails digging into the palms of his hands.

"Why not take them off?" he suggests, and then kisses her knuckles after a few blind tries.

"I decided not to."

His tongue glides over her folds, angling his head to push further under her panties. He can't get the traction he needs, it feels an eternity before he has to pull back for breath, jaw aching. "Have some mercy, my love," he sighs, ducking his head to kiss her thigh. "I want to make you feel good."

"Not up for a challenge, I see," she says, nudging him away with her hand and then shifting about to peel her panties off. "I suppose it wouldn't hurt, this time."

His tongue immediately glides up her slit, flickers over, and then drags back down. His jaw still hurts, and without his fingers to aid him he can't quite get his technique right. His nose bumps against—her hand, he realizes—and she parts her fold for him just enough to push his tongue through. He settles for this, brief, light, not quite reaching the pitch she usually likes. A sigh shudders out of her, and he feels a quick spike of relief.

Her hips roll, thighs brushing the sides of his head. She's never been very loud; the softer, oftentimes he's learned, the better. A tiny moan leaves her, but no more than that.

He extracts his tongue to suck on the edge of one lip, trailing up until he can feel about for her clit. Once he does, he latches on immediately.

Her hips buck slightly, once, and she laughs sharply. "You're always so quick to the point."

"Forgive me that," he murmurs, breathless. "Always eager to see—rather, hear—you finish." He kisses her, pulsing, layered thin with her juices. He tongues at her slit, and then refocuses where he knows she'll like best.

"Don't mind me," she says, and her fingers are moving around him. He kisses her knuckles, and already she is dipping two digits within herself. When she withdraws them, he immediately sucks on them hungrily. "Aren't you eager?"

The pinch of the ribbon against his wrists is enough, he's already growing restless. "Please, just…" he whispers, tipping forward to feel about for her hipbone. Once there, he opens his mouth to suck on the skin. "Please, just let me touch you."

He can smell her, this vaguely flowery scent. It makes his mouth water, his entire body throb with longing. Her nails scrape over his scalp, and he swallows a moan. She pushes the hair from his forehead almost tenderly. "Finish me off," she repeats evenly. "And then we'll see about rewarding you. Keep getting impatient, you might not even get that."

"You are so cold," he sighs, bowing forward to kiss her inner thigh.

"You've never had trouble before."

The area surrounding her clit is most sensitive, he opens his mouth above it and before long she's grinding herself into his face. His tongue circles downward, tilting his head and then hissing when she yanks on his hair again. The muscles in his shoulders are on fire, there's a crick in his neck and the press of her thumb against the back of his neck sends a stab of pain down his back to the base of his spine.

A groan rises up his throat.

"You're hurting me, my love," he rasps, settling back when she places a hand on his shoulder.

"We'll have to come up with a safe word," she replies. "We're relying entirely on my judgement—communication should be key."

"What if I asked to stop?"

"Do you want to?"

He considers this. Maybe it's the novelty of all this, that he doesn't know what to feel. He has never relented so much control, there has always been some level of balance between them. Kiyoko always calls the shots—not that he minds, there's always something so mesmerizing about the way she moves, the way she smiles when he moans her name like that; he has, once or twice, felt himself grow beautiful underneath her capable hands. Every scar and callous and freckle on his body smoothed to porcelain, his hair strings of silver, his voice electric, music in the heated air around them. His back will arch off the bed and she, eyes twinkling like sapphires, will put her hands right on his body—burning, all over. And this is what it boils down to.

It hurts not to touch her.

"No," he sighs, and turns his head toward the gentle hand on his jaw. "No, I don't want to stop."

.x.

A.N.: so uh