“Better,” she says, and, because she is a good person: “More?”
Because he is not, Matt says “Please,” and when she obliges, he turns into it, because he needs this, much as he wishes he didn’t. Each time the pain flares up he can forget that for another second and give himself over to being cared for in the only way he can accept.
“Thank you,” he says, over and over, until the words become noise, lost in the rush of blood in his ears. He’s slurring the words by the time Claire stops, pressing her hands to the sides of his face to dull the sting. Her hands are so hot, and her voice so rough, and Matt can hear her heart hammering against her chest, and he can smell her, and he licks his lips and pulls against the ropes this time, not in earnest but to feel it in his shoulders and in the small of his back.
“God,” Claire says, like it’s a revelation, and maybe it is: she’s enjoying this, and Matt gasps at the word and the sound of her voice. “Say something, come on, Matt,” she says, and he does. It’s a litany of yes, and please, and words that aren’t prayers, but have the same tenor of sung psalms, thready and pleading. She strokes his throat as he vocalizes, and smooths her hands over his shoulders; she digs her thumbs into the knots forming at the nape of his neck, and he loses words briefly, reduced to noises he can make without drawing breath: deep in his throat, and visceral and foreign even to himself.
“It’s okay,” Claire says, and he hears her slowly, as if he’s underwater, and it takes a minute for him to realize she’s speaking, let alone decipher words. “It’s okay, Matt, you’re good, you’re so good, God, you look — I mean — you look so good,” and he breaks the surface then, at the wonder in her voice. “Come on, let’s get these off,” she says, and kneels to undo the knots at his ankles, undoing the rope and rubbing soothing circles around the bone. When she undoes the knots running from his rope cuffs to the chair, she pauses. “Do we want to leave these?” she says, tapping the loops around his wrists.
He finds his voice then, though he doesn’t recognize it at first, to say “Yes, please,” and Claire laughs.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she says, and gives the ends of the rope one last wrap, tucks them in. “Come on, let’s get you taken care of.”
She leads him to her bedroom with a hand on the small of his back, fingers brushing under the waistband of his leggings every now and then, and he’s suddenly aware of how little they hide, and how he’s pushing back into her touch. “Okay then!” Claire says — delighted? taken aback? both? He can’t tell anymore — “We like that, let’s see what we can do about that.”
Matt’s barely coherent enough to startle when he takes him by the shoulders and walks him backward until he feels the bed behind his knees, and then pushes him down the same way she had on the chair. Claire leaves him there while she opens a drawer — Matt hears the whisper of it as it slides, and hears her heartbeat pick up again — and then she’s back. “Thoughts?” Claire says, and kneels on the bed to place something in his hand. It’s firm to the touch, silicone probably, and Matt traces his fingertips over the swell and curve of it, weighs it in his hand, and nods.
“Please,” he says, before Claire can chide him, and she presses a smile against his shoulder.
“Lie down, then,” she says, “and let’s get these off.” She tugs at his leggings, and Matt lifts his hips for her, fights the urge to turn over and press his face into her sheets. Claire hums in satisfaction, tracing a fingertip lightly under the head of his cock, and he drips onto his stomach, dick twitching, breath caught in his throat as she laughs. “Have you done this before?”
“Yeah,” Matt whispers. “God, please, Claire.”
“Wow,” she says, and runs the flat of her nail up his dick. He whines at that, pulling his shoulders back to keep from squirming. “If I’d known you’d be this responsive, I’d have done this way sooner — except I guess that internal bleeding would have maybe been a problem—”
“Sorry,” Matt says. It’s not the first time he’s said it to her, and it certainly won’t be the last, but he hopes that this will be when she starts to believe him. “I’m sorry.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls who tie you up,” Claire says, and he can’t help laughing at that.
“Just you,” he says. “Just you.”
He can’t tell if her pulse speeds up because of the apology or the admission. “I’ll hold you to that,” she says, and slides a hand under the small of his back, helping him sit up. “On your knees, come on.” Matt gets his legs under himself, awkwardly, and she steps away. There’s the rustle of straps and buckles clicking, and when she turns her walk is different, feet set a little wider, leading from her hips and not her chest. “Come up here,” she says, weight settling onto the bed, and Matt does, shuffles forward until she pulls him by the hips to where she’s sitting up, leaning against the creak of a headboard.
Claire thumbs over the head of his cock — “Easy,” she says, “easy,” as if she’s gentling him — and strokes him until his hips are twitching, and then she rubs a slick fingertip over his hole, teasingly light, until he’s gasping. “Easy,” she says again, and presses until she’s rubbing inside him, incrementally until he’s rocking back into it, as much as she’ll let him.
When she presses a second finger into him, he gasps her name, and she just laughs and rubs circles into his hip, pushes with her fingertips and works him open so slow and so good. She’s so wet-hot just under his hips; he can smell the former and feel the latter, and with her fingers inside of him he feels full up with her already.
“Please,” he says, “Please, Claire, come on, come on.”
“Pushy,” she says, and clicks her tongue, but she flexes her fingers one last time and slides them out, down the back of his thigh — slippery and warm — and takes a tighter grip on his hip. “I’ve got you,” she says, and slides the head of her cock through the slick until it’s just pressing at him. “In your own time.”
It’s been a while, and it’s a lot — Matt lets his mouth fall open, gasps every time he rocks down a little further — and Claire has a bruising grip on his hips now, nails digging in. She gasps when he pushes back, and steadies him; he wishes he could touch her, trace the slope of her breasts or the curve of her lips, but his hands are still tied, and he’s relying on her to keep him upright and where he needs to be. He’s forgotten how good it is, this blunt press and stretch, and by the time he’s pressed flush against her he’s almost forgotten to breathe. When Claire rocks her hips experimentally, he takes a great gulping breath and almost chokes on it.
“Yeah,” Claire says, “that’s it, come on,” and he rises up an inch, pushes back down and feels as if the breath has been knocked out of him all over again. “Look at you, you’re so good for me, come on—“ and he does it again, a little further this time, falling into the rhythm of her heart the way he always has “—God, yeah.”
Her cock is wet, and he lets her push him back to lean on her pulled-up knees, and that’s so good — the growing ache in his shoulders, her fingers on his hips — that he whines, and rolls his hips in tiny, tiny movements against hers, and comes as if it’s been knocked out of him, a blow that he feels in his ribs and his thighs and that startles him into a sigh.
“Beautiful,” Claire says. “You look beautiful, Matt, now for God’s sake come down here.” She’s dripping on the sheets — they smell different wet, and Matt knows Claire’s smell so well that it’s almost reflexive — and she slips out of him, scrambles to undo the harness so that he can tip forward and press his mouth to her. Her thighs are wet, and he scrapes his teeth along the juncture of the muscles there, and then he licks a broad stroke up to her clit, not teasing anymore.
She sinks her hands into his hair, and holds him in place, rolls her hips up against his face and pulls until she’s smeared slick from his nose to his chin. “Yeah,” she gasps, and makes an impatient noise, and he closes his lips around her clit and presses the flat of his tongue against her and she cries out and gets, impossibly, wetter, shuddering and pulling so hard that he makes a pained noise in his throat until she finally stills, stroking down his aching jaw and across the pulse in his throat.
“Matt,” she says, and then presses her thumb to his lips, lets him lick at it. “I’ve got you, hold on.” She untucks the ends of the rope, then, kneeling by his side, and undoes the coils and coils around his wrist, and rubs at the marks that the rope has left where he’s pulled at it until he turns onto his side and curls up, overwhelmed. “I’ve got you,” she says, and presses kisses to his wrists. She wipes at his mouth, gently, and his stomach, with something that definitely feels like one of her shirts, and curls around him, pulling up half of the sheet to cover them, and smiles against the nape of his neck, again.
“Was I—” Matt says, and pauses, not sure how to finish his question: not sure of the words, and not sure of the answer.
Her heart rate picks up. Claire’s not given to letting him off easy, but this time, she says: “You were so good, Matt, so good for me,” and the drop is over: he’s on solid ground, once again, her heartbeat steady against his back, and he lets himself be held, and he lets himself be praised, and feels solid and unutterably whole as his pulse shifts to match hers. “You were perfect,” Claire whispers.
[FILL] just to point the way, 3/3
Because he is not, Matt says “Please,” and when she obliges, he turns into it, because he needs this, much as he wishes he didn’t. Each time the pain flares up he can forget that for another second and give himself over to being cared for in the only way he can accept.
“Thank you,” he says, over and over, until the words become noise, lost in the rush of blood in his ears. He’s slurring the words by the time Claire stops, pressing her hands to the sides of his face to dull the sting. Her hands are so hot, and her voice so rough, and Matt can hear her heart hammering against her chest, and he can smell her, and he licks his lips and pulls against the ropes this time, not in earnest but to feel it in his shoulders and in the small of his back.
“God,” Claire says, like it’s a revelation, and maybe it is: she’s enjoying this, and Matt gasps at the word and the sound of her voice. “Say something, come on, Matt,” she says, and he does. It’s a litany of yes, and please, and words that aren’t prayers, but have the same tenor of sung psalms, thready and pleading. She strokes his throat as he vocalizes, and smooths her hands over his shoulders; she digs her thumbs into the knots forming at the nape of his neck, and he loses words briefly, reduced to noises he can make without drawing breath: deep in his throat, and visceral and foreign even to himself.
“It’s okay,” Claire says, and he hears her slowly, as if he’s underwater, and it takes a minute for him to realize she’s speaking, let alone decipher words. “It’s okay, Matt, you’re good, you’re so good, God, you look — I mean — you look so good,” and he breaks the surface then, at the wonder in her voice. “Come on, let’s get these off,” she says, and kneels to undo the knots at his ankles, undoing the rope and rubbing soothing circles around the bone. When she undoes the knots running from his rope cuffs to the chair, she pauses. “Do we want to leave these?” she says, tapping the loops around his wrists.
He finds his voice then, though he doesn’t recognize it at first, to say “Yes, please,” and Claire laughs.
“I was hoping you’d say that,” she says, and gives the ends of the rope one last wrap, tucks them in. “Come on, let’s get you taken care of.”
She leads him to her bedroom with a hand on the small of his back, fingers brushing under the waistband of his leggings every now and then, and he’s suddenly aware of how little they hide, and how he’s pushing back into her touch. “Okay then!” Claire says — delighted? taken aback? both? He can’t tell anymore — “We like that, let’s see what we can do about that.”
Matt’s barely coherent enough to startle when he takes him by the shoulders and walks him backward until he feels the bed behind his knees, and then pushes him down the same way she had on the chair. Claire leaves him there while she opens a drawer — Matt hears the whisper of it as it slides, and hears her heartbeat pick up again — and then she’s back. “Thoughts?” Claire says, and kneels on the bed to place something in his hand. It’s firm to the touch, silicone probably, and Matt traces his fingertips over the swell and curve of it, weighs it in his hand, and nods.
“Please,” he says, before Claire can chide him, and she presses a smile against his shoulder.
“Lie down, then,” she says, “and let’s get these off.” She tugs at his leggings, and Matt lifts his hips for her, fights the urge to turn over and press his face into her sheets. Claire hums in satisfaction, tracing a fingertip lightly under the head of his cock, and he drips onto his stomach, dick twitching, breath caught in his throat as she laughs. “Have you done this before?”
“Yeah,” Matt whispers. “God, please, Claire.”
“Wow,” she says, and runs the flat of her nail up his dick. He whines at that, pulling his shoulders back to keep from squirming. “If I’d known you’d be this responsive, I’d have done this way sooner — except I guess that internal bleeding would have maybe been a problem—”
“Sorry,” Matt says. It’s not the first time he’s said it to her, and it certainly won’t be the last, but he hopes that this will be when she starts to believe him. “I’m sorry.”
“I bet you say that to all the girls who tie you up,” Claire says, and he can’t help laughing at that.
“Just you,” he says. “Just you.”
He can’t tell if her pulse speeds up because of the apology or the admission. “I’ll hold you to that,” she says, and slides a hand under the small of his back, helping him sit up. “On your knees, come on.” Matt gets his legs under himself, awkwardly, and she steps away. There’s the rustle of straps and buckles clicking, and when she turns her walk is different, feet set a little wider, leading from her hips and not her chest. “Come up here,” she says, weight settling onto the bed, and Matt does, shuffles forward until she pulls him by the hips to where she’s sitting up, leaning against the creak of a headboard.
Claire thumbs over the head of his cock — “Easy,” she says, “easy,” as if she’s gentling him — and strokes him until his hips are twitching, and then she rubs a slick fingertip over his hole, teasingly light, until he’s gasping. “Easy,” she says again, and presses until she’s rubbing inside him, incrementally until he’s rocking back into it, as much as she’ll let him.
When she presses a second finger into him, he gasps her name, and she just laughs and rubs circles into his hip, pushes with her fingertips and works him open so slow and so good. She’s so wet-hot just under his hips; he can smell the former and feel the latter, and with her fingers inside of him he feels full up with her already.
“Please,” he says, “Please, Claire, come on, come on.”
“Pushy,” she says, and clicks her tongue, but she flexes her fingers one last time and slides them out, down the back of his thigh — slippery and warm — and takes a tighter grip on his hip. “I’ve got you,” she says, and slides the head of her cock through the slick until it’s just pressing at him. “In your own time.”
It’s been a while, and it’s a lot — Matt lets his mouth fall open, gasps every time he rocks down a little further — and Claire has a bruising grip on his hips now, nails digging in. She gasps when he pushes back, and steadies him; he wishes he could touch her, trace the slope of her breasts or the curve of her lips, but his hands are still tied, and he’s relying on her to keep him upright and where he needs to be. He’s forgotten how good it is, this blunt press and stretch, and by the time he’s pressed flush against her he’s almost forgotten to breathe. When Claire rocks her hips experimentally, he takes a great gulping breath and almost chokes on it.
“Yeah,” Claire says, “that’s it, come on,” and he rises up an inch, pushes back down and feels as if the breath has been knocked out of him all over again. “Look at you, you’re so good for me, come on—“ and he does it again, a little further this time, falling into the rhythm of her heart the way he always has “—God, yeah.”
Her cock is wet, and he lets her push him back to lean on her pulled-up knees, and that’s so good — the growing ache in his shoulders, her fingers on his hips — that he whines, and rolls his hips in tiny, tiny movements against hers, and comes as if it’s been knocked out of him, a blow that he feels in his ribs and his thighs and that startles him into a sigh.
“Beautiful,” Claire says. “You look beautiful, Matt, now for God’s sake come down here.” She’s dripping on the sheets — they smell different wet, and Matt knows Claire’s smell so well that it’s almost reflexive — and she slips out of him, scrambles to undo the harness so that he can tip forward and press his mouth to her. Her thighs are wet, and he scrapes his teeth along the juncture of the muscles there, and then he licks a broad stroke up to her clit, not teasing anymore.
She sinks her hands into his hair, and holds him in place, rolls her hips up against his face and pulls until she’s smeared slick from his nose to his chin. “Yeah,” she gasps, and makes an impatient noise, and he closes his lips around her clit and presses the flat of his tongue against her and she cries out and gets, impossibly, wetter, shuddering and pulling so hard that he makes a pained noise in his throat until she finally stills, stroking down his aching jaw and across the pulse in his throat.
“Matt,” she says, and then presses her thumb to his lips, lets him lick at it. “I’ve got you, hold on.” She untucks the ends of the rope, then, kneeling by his side, and undoes the coils and coils around his wrist, and rubs at the marks that the rope has left where he’s pulled at it until he turns onto his side and curls up, overwhelmed. “I’ve got you,” she says, and presses kisses to his wrists. She wipes at his mouth, gently, and his stomach, with something that definitely feels like one of her shirts, and curls around him, pulling up half of the sheet to cover them, and smiles against the nape of his neck, again.
“Was I—” Matt says, and pauses, not sure how to finish his question: not sure of the words, and not sure of the answer.
Her heart rate picks up. Claire’s not given to letting him off easy, but this time, she says: “You were so good, Matt, so good for me,” and the drop is over: he’s on solid ground, once again, her heartbeat steady against his back, and he lets himself be held, and he lets himself be praised, and feels solid and unutterably whole as his pulse shifts to match hers. “You were perfect,” Claire whispers.
He lets himself believe it.