Lily isn’t too sure about this.
Amanda is tied up, red and gold and black ribbons of lightweight fabric swathed around her limbs, up and down and all across her body. Her skin isn’t flushed, it never is; pale doesn’t turn to pink under the pressure of the bondage like Lily’s own flesh would. Nothing ever seems to get to Amanda, inside or out— not even the ease with which Lily could pull the ropes at any time, clench it in her fist and cut off all of Amanda’s air supply, a slow and merciless draining of necessary life-fuel at any given time if she just dared to.
She never would, though. That’s not why they’re here and that’s not what this is. Besides, Amanda asked for this, and if Lily is honest, she isn’t all that enthusiastic to give it to her. Amanda’s aloofness can be weird. She doesn’t trust her own desires as a starter, considering how much she liked it when Amanda shoved her fingers into her mouth and called her “daddy,” of all things. It’s a lot to unpack and she hasn’t had the time.
She has to admit, though, Amanda’s pretty like this. Sexy, powerful even as she’s restrained and subdued. She’s patient yet wanting, her jaw growing slack when her eyes sweep over Lily’s own lace-covered body, adorned with white cut-off lingerie that seems tame compared to the scene before her. Amanda’s petite and pretty, shaved everywhere but the space between her thighs that Lily hasn’t been able to catch a good glance at yet. Only a spread of darkness has made itself seen to her while she shifted to get comfortable and in the right position on the loveseat, a chair Lily’s mother bought at a fancy auction years ago. Lily remembers the day they dragged it home vividly: standing in her too tight ballet flats and itchy tights in a marbled auditorium, listening to voices rattle off bids and beach house information like it was trivia. Lily thinks she’d get off alone on knowing the chair was going to use for something like this, much less something she and another girl are doing.
My daughter’s a dyke, she can imagine her mother hissing, pressing a cool cloth to her forehead. Lily smirks. Damn right.
She rakes her eyes over Amanda, trying to get used to this. Amanda is here, ready and willing to be anything and everything Lily wants her to be, her legs spread open for tasting or her mouth wide to satisfy Lily. This was Amanda’s idea, but she’ll still get something out of this. Plenty in return. A win-win.
“Doesn’t it sort of make you feel like a hostage or a murder victim or something?” Lily can’t help but ask. She doesn’t quite get why people are into this, though the more she looks at Amanda, wrapped and laced like an unholy Christmas present, the more she’s starting to at least respect it.
“That’s what I like about it,” Amanda responds, tone flat and as dispassionate as always. Lily doesn’t know if she’s kidding or not, doesn’t know if she wants to know if she’s kidding or not.
“It feels nice,” Amanda elaborates when Lily struggles to respond. “It wouldn’t feel as nice if you had a knife to my throat or something, but there’d still be something sexy about that too.”
“Amanda!” Lily says, a low gasp. She’s starting to question her sanity, about to rethink this whole thing. Maybe she’s not fit, not sane enough to fully consent and agree to this. Maybe neither of them.
“Because it’d be you,” Amanda continues, “and I know you wouldn’t hurt me. At least not in ways that I didn’t want.”
Oh, Lily thinks. Well, okay then.
Something instinctual inside of Lily tells her to tighten her grip on the strip of fabric in her hand, and she does it before her brain can even catch up with her. Amanda lets out a pleased sound, something akin to a giddy whine, and Lily steps closer. She suddenly wishes she was wearing heels, the feeling of her bare feet on the floor being somewhat anticlimactic compared to the rush that flits through her with each move forward.
“What do you want?” Lily asks. Her voice is level, firm, still careful and showing Amanda that she has more than enough ways out should she want them, but there’s a hint of dominance too, of control. Amanda sighs and a low heat slips through Lily’s belly.
“I want you to put your hands on me in any way you want,” she says, her gaze locked onto Lily, eyes dark and glinting. "Whatever will make us both feel good. Whatever will make us come. You look nice when you come."
Lily can’t argue with that. And when she controls Amanda almost like a puppet, opens her up like an over-bloomed flower and licks her clean just to make her soaked all over again later, staining her mother’s ritzy floral chair and making her cry out so loud the entire house must fill with the sounds of her need— yeah, maybe Lily is beginning to understand the appeal of this.