Chapter Text
Six Months Later
Play night jitters have Stiles’s leg bouncing under Chris’s dining table even as heat builds in her lower belly. “I loved the flogging, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not totally recovered yet, so I think I need some softer play tonight.” She doesn’t add how much she’d like to play harder—over the last several months, Chris has let her taste-test more kinds of play, more intimate forms of it, and to her surprise, there isn’t a whole lot she hasn’t liked yet. She knows that will probably change as she keeps exploring, but she’s not worried about it.
Chris chuckles. “Kinda figured that. You think your shoulder will be okay with some bondage, if we’re careful?”
Her heartbeat quickens, and Stiles presses her thighs together. She’s developed a Pavlovian response to bondage, or even just the suggestion of it—to the rasp of rope sliding across Chris’s palms, the clink of a chain being clipped to a sturdy pair of leather cuffs. But she has to be responsible, fresh out of shoulder rehab, so—“What did you have in mind?”
The look he gives says he knows what’s happening between her legs right now, but he doesn’t mention it. “Was thinking that I wanna sit you on the bondage table downstairs, pushed up against the wall, and tie your legs open, see about cuffing your arms above your head.”
She bites her lip on the immediate ‘yes’ she wants to give, and actually thinks it through. “How high above my head?” she asks. “Because I can fully extend it, but—”
“I can loop a longer chain through the D-ring anchored to the wall, have your hands up, but shoulders down.” He reaches across the table to raise her good arm into a right angle, so her shoulder and upper arm make a smooth line. “Like this.”
It’s comfortable, easy. “Yeah, that should be fine.” She doesn’t mention that she has a safeword if she needs it—it goes without saying now. She’s had to use it, a few times, as her shoulder has healed, and he’s always respected her yellows and reds.
“Alright, time to make you scream for me, then,” he murmurs, voice gone low and hot, and Stiles whimpers as an answering throb flares between her legs, following eagerly as he heads for the playroom.
***
Chris can’t help but step back and admire what a pretty picture she makes, bound and spread just for him in his own personal dungeon. “Look so good for me like this,” he growls, fingertips skating up the sensitive skin of her inner thigh just to make her squirm—as much as she can, anyway, with ropes latticed from her ankle to knee and attached to the bondage table, spreading her wide.
“Please, Sir, please touch me,” she begs, and it sends a wave of possessive lust through him, to hear her beg, to have her call him “Sir” with full knowledge of what it means.
“I am touching you.” He pets up her other inner thigh to make a point, ignoring the way she’s so wet her folds are shining with it in the low light.
“Touch—touch higher, please, need more,” she pants. She’s not lost her words, not yet, but she’s not particularly coherent, and that feels like an accomplishment.
Chris hums, and move his hands to her waist, stroking the soft skin under her breasts as he takes a moment to admire how they look with her arms bound up like this. They’re lifted, and he ducks his head to nibble at them, loving the way it makes his baby whine helplessly.
“Need you, Sir, please, need it,” she sobs, sounding wet, and Chris straightens up to check that she’s not crying. She isn’t, but her eyes are big and glassy, everything in her expression desperate, and Chris decides to stop teasing.
(Even now, after all these months, he’s still soft for her, for the way that she cracks open at his touch, the way she pulls so viciously at the parts of him that are caretaker and dominant and used-to-be-lonely.)
“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmurs, kissing her quiet as he unzips his jeans and pulls his cock out, moving away when he needs to roll the condom on.
And, as he sinks inside her to her frantic, babbling gratitude, he thinks that maybe it’s time he has her deeper, more fully—because she belongs here, in his cuffs and playroom, in his arms and bed, in his kitchen and on his calendar. Because he’s already commissioned and received the collar he wants to offer her, and has been waiting—for the right moment, for her to leave, for her to ask for more of him—but he’s tired of waiting. He wants her. He has her—in his life, in his ropes, on his cock right now—but he wants more. Wants as much as she’ll give him.
Soon, he thinks, shifting so he can get a hand between them, thumbing at her pretty, swollen clit because he wants to feel her come around him. He’ll ask her soon.