"Are you comfortable?" Riza asks. Her voice is smooth as silk, but calm, strong, unconcerned—confident despite the formality of making sure that she didn't tie him too tight or too loose. Confident in a way that makes heat sweep down Roy's bare chest and tighten in his groin. He wriggles his fingers, twists his wrists against the leather ties that bind his hands to the headboard. Yes, he's comfortable, although 'comfortable' seems such a thin word for what he feels.
"Yes," he manages, through a throat that feels suddenly both dry and taut.
"Good," she says, and gets to her feet in a sway of hips that is nothing, nothing like her uniform-clad formality. Here, nearly naked and with her hair loose, movements fluid, Riza is more feminine than anywhere else—and yet she is more commanding, more controlled, than even on the firing range. He doesn't know how she does it—but oh, god, he's grateful for it.
And here, barefoot and clad in only her underwear (light blue lace against fair skin, almost demure) she is more charged with power than women he's seen in black leather with whips. Not that he'd object if she wanted to give black leather a try . . . .
"Good," she repeats, and then touches a finger to his lips. "Unless you want to use your safeword, don't speak. You can make as much noise as you want, but no words. Do you understand?"
Roy nods, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth to bind it as she has already bound his hands. She smiles at him, cool and in control, and he bites his lips and tries to keep from arching his hips needily upward, though he wants to.
Riza rewards him by skimming her hands down his sides—her fingers strong, her palms hot and dry—and sliding his boxers down, freeing his erection to bob in the cool air and tip back against his tensing belly. And then she. Oh. Touches his length with the lightest touch and it's cruel because he knows it's just a tease and that he won't get any satisfaction this soon but he can't convince his straining body not to leap eagerly into her hands . . . And she smiles, that beautiful slow smile of hers that delights in his helpless writhing under her touch.
She reaches out for the bedside drawer and pulls it open, and he can see her hesitate, her fingers floating over the many options available to her there. "Close your eyes," she says, and he can't help but whine at the back of his throat—but he does.
In the darkness Roy can hear her reach in and select something, but he doesn't know what it is. The blood pumps through his body, thuds at his throat and wrists and ankles, and though he's frustrated he knows that the lust sizzles all the stronger for letting her make these choices. It feels so good to lay down the burden of control for a while. It feels so good to give in and let someone else make the decisions . . . .
Even if that someone else is a tormentor. He feels the lightest touch on his instep without any warning—light and soft, and he yells before his brain can even register that Riza chose the feather. It trails along his ankle, up the back of his heel, to the inside of his calf, and he squirms helplessly and moans and has to bite his tongue almost to bleeding to keep from saying something. (What, he doesn't know: begging, praise, something.) She laughs, and the sound goes through him like a shot of brandy: potent, intoxicating.
Just as she is more commanding in lace than some people are in leather, so, too, she can drive him to helplessness with a feather better than another woman could with a whip. And oh it is so good to lay his burdens at her feet and let her rule him just for a little while.
The touch trails up the inside of his thigh to his groin, and he can't help it: he arches, thrusts upwards into the empty air, cries out and throws his head back. Riza chuckles and lets the feather fall, slips a knee over his hips to straddle his thighs. "You can open your eyes now," she says, and he opens his eyes as though he's starving for the sight of her, which isn't too far from the truth.
She hovers over him, fair skin flushed and hair in her face and her smile so calm and so pleased with him. He can't speak but he knows that his eyes are pleading with her: now, now, now. She reaches back and unhooks her bra's clasp, but doesn't take it off. "Undress me," Riza says, and Roy rattles his restraints with his wrists, desperate and yet unable to do as she says. Her mouth curves. "Use your mouth," she says, and leans close to let him do it.
It's easy enough to slide her bra straps down with his lips and teeth, baring her breasts—her nipples are hard, and he realizes he's staring at them, at the evidence that this affects her as profoundly as it does him. He knows what it does for him—the sheer relief and pleasure of for once not being in control, for once being able to put himself in someone else's hands and trust that they will be good to him—but what is it for her? He doesn't know. He doesn't know and yet he's grateful that she likes it and needs it as much as he does.
Her panties are trickier; she slides up the bed to help him, bringing her hips close to his face so he can coax down one side and then the other with his teeth. So close he can smell her arousal, feel that she's wet and growing wetter as he strips her so slowly and carefully. When he has worked them down to her knees she pulls back a little to shimmy out of them and kick them away and then rocks back onto her knees and close enough that he can be daring and ease his mouth forward, lick the outer lips of her cunt and tease inward to taste her.
Riza cries out, a low hoarse sound, and Roy isn't sure if she'll punish him or reward him for his initiative. She looks down at him, considering, and oh god oh god he wants her, it's a good thing she's tied his hands because no matter how much he likes giving her his control he's not sure he'd be able to keep from pulling her flush against him now and finishing this if he was free. "You want that?" she asks, and before he can even nod she says, "Well, you have been good," and reaches down to part her folds for him (she is dark-rose and flushed with blood, wet, wet, wet) and tilt forward enough that he can press his mouth over her and tongue her clit.
He doesn't even think about teasing her—when they're playing this particular game teasing is her job; his is to relax into her protection and please her as much as he can—and though his cock throbs a constant complaint he does everything he can for her, flickering his tongue around her entrance but always returning to her clit, the smooth steady pressure that he knows will satisfy. He can hear her breath breaking up, can see, as he looks up the line of her arched body, the flush spreading across her bared breasts, the way they move as she rocks subtly against him. She is close. She is so close, and he throbs, he wants to be inside her so badly it hurts, but he also wants to see her come —
At the last minute Riza draws back, slick-wet now from his tongue as well as from her own arousal, panting and closing her eyes to regain the control that is her part of this scenario. When she has recovered herself she looks down at Roy, her eyes so dark in the lamplight, and says, "I imagine you're ready for more."
He nods. There's no way he could do anything else.
Riza settles back, straddling his thighs again, and takes his erection in one hand—he is dripping-wet and he throbs urgently at her touch, and though he hasn't gone off early in years still Roy bites the inside of his lip and hopes that he'll be able to hold off long enough not to embarrass himself. She rises up onto her knees and slides down on him in one fluid movement, and he can't help it, cries out with pleasure at the sheer lush tight heat —
She sets the pace, steady but not punishing, and when she has established it well she says, "Now move," and Roy braces his feet on the bed and thrusts up urgently to meet her. And it is—pure luxury, driving need counterbalanced with relief so intense he feels spots swimming in his vision. "You can speak," she says, "but don't come before I do."
It just figures that she unbinds his tongue when he can't manage to say anything more coherent than, "Yes, oh fuck, yes, yes," and he's so glad that he brought her close with his mouth because if she wasn't already near orgasm he's not sure he'd be able to wait for her. But he can feel her tightening around him in erratic flutters that mean she's close, can hear her gasping sharp and close that means she's almost there herself, and he can hold out, he can hold out —
"Please please please," he can hear himself saying, and then Riza twists and tightens and comes with a sharp noise, and the sight and feel of her drives him close to the end himself; he thrusts up into her, jagged and out of rhythm, and orgasm hits him too like a blow to the head.
Roy pants under her as he tries to pull himself together. She rises up on one elbow to unlock his wrist-restraints, and then coaxes him onto his side so that she can touch his face. The look of cool competence has been replace by one of tenderness, and she says, "You've pleased me very much," which is his sign that the scene is over and they are now, once again, equals in this bed.
He buries his face in her hair, and wonders how he can ever tell her what it is to him, this moment of relief, this brief freedom from all his responsibilities beneath her light touch. Maybe he can't. But that's all right. Maybe she already knows.