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1800titz · 11 months

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This little monster came out to 16.8K. Fair warming, it gets BDSM-y — but, c'est a BDSM love story ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Also, this is NOT Mega Scary Harry — this is tentative, experimental, first-scene-testing-the-waters-H, but he does show some teeth. I hope you enjoy, and if you do, I'd love a note!

PREVIOUS PARTS HERE

Under normal circumstances, when a stranger approaches you wearing a mask that looks like it's been curated as an exact replica of something straight out of The Purge, and it's not Halloween, you'd want to have one of those knife-knuckle things on you, or, at the very least, pepper spray.

It wouldn't matter if the pepper spray had little plant stickers all over its casing, or if the knife-knuckles had a Jonas Brothers decal, you'd still want to have it. The aim isn't to impress whoever's wearing the terrifying thing.

But this Purge imitation belongs to a staff member, because her name tag says staff (and probably a stage name), so when Isla's approached by the stranger two steps out of the lobby into the lounge, her fingers aren't quick to reach for her purse. Which has her plant-sticker-bedazzled pepper spray. Not that she has her purse on her, anyways. Personal belongings go in lockers in the lobby. Phones, for the sake of privacy and ultimate protection, a phone jail — it's juvenile, but it works.

"Hi. Peitho?"

Isla clears her throat and shows friendly teeth, "Hi. Hello."

"You have a particular admirer! Eros has expressed interest in setting up a negotiation with you tonight. I'm going to assume you've met?"

Isla doesn't suck in a breath. She doesn't balk. She's chill, cool, composed, nonchalant. She's Peitho.

She'd be lying to herself if she said she hadn't spent the prior week ruminating on their ...activities, hadn't thought of his words against her ear, his zippers, his purposeful touch. Hadn't clenched her thighs together beneath her desk as she'd pored through documents at work. She doesn't have a particular engagement calendared in the evening, but even if she did, Isla would be too eager to blow the whole thing off in lieu of pursuing a negotiation with Eros. He hadn't been the ring leader, but he'd become the star. He'd left an impression.

Apparently, she had as well.

It was unusual to be approached by a staff member for these kinds of things. The usual method entailed a dominant approaching a prospective submissive in the lounge for a negotiation, always post some sort of initial interaction and discussion, or vice versa. A staff member meant he'd mentioned her before she'd arrived — that, perhaps, he'd looked for her, but instead of settling for a different, familiar play partner, he'd had a conversation with a staff member to scope her out upon her entry. The thought makes Isla warm.

She clears her throat, "Yeah. We had a conversation. I think he participated in a scene last week out in the lounge with me, as well."

Before the staff member can question her wording, not that it's her business whether Isla knows or thinks, she motions to her face and clears her throat again, "Uh, blindfold. That's why ...think."

Okay. She was not quite in that suave Peitho headspace, yet. Well. She was, when she'd donned her mask in the privacy of a cubicle out in the lobby, but learning that a particular dominant she was particularly interested in playing with had beckoned a staff member to flag her down two steps into the lounge had knocked her off her game, a bit.

The employee smiles. Julia. That's what her tag reads.

"I'm interested, yes," Isla blows out a breath.

"Great! He's already looked over your paperwork and signed off. If you'd like, I can escort you over to the negotiation room and set you up with his consent forms?"

So Isla tails Julia to the negotiation room and sits one of the padded leather armchairs and stares at its parallel facsimile. Then, Julia leaves to grab his packet, and Isla digs her fingers into the arms of the chair and contemplates Eros sitting across from her in his own seat.

Negotiation. Discussion. Preemptive conversation for a scene. The thought excites her. And when she's faced with his paperwork on a clipboard, a pen, and a bid from Julia that she's to toggle the buzzer on the wall upon completion, her heart starts to hammer behind her ribcage, in a nice sort of way. As nice as nervous can get.

Limits. Soft limits, hard limits, likes, dislikes, interests. Her pupils wend and peruse and scope and she flips and flips and flips through the pages. Reading, research, grounding. This she can do. This she does every day.

Eros, she learns, is a sane man by her standards. If she were to quora aspects of his paperwork, maybe, and someone whose existence adhered to religious principles (possibly missionary intercourse with lights off post marriage, but she's not judging) stumbled upon the page, they'd both probably be deemed damned, but.

He's well rounded! Isla gauges that he's definitely open-minded from his short, albeit sane list of limits. Much of it coincides with her own; fire, needles, knives, blood, bathroom things... a cinch works between her brows at the irony of a soft limit - sharing. She makes notes where she must, signs, and by the time she stands to press the buzzer, the little white clock on the wall indicates that she's spent well over fifteen minutes in the chair. So then, she sits back down. She crosses her legs. She drums on the clipboard. She waits.

It all feels a bit like a doctor's appointment, that perceptual preamble where they call you up out of the waiting room, only to sit you in a room by yourself where you stare at the wall and contemplate your decisions and everything that's led up to this point. Like, was this annual check up really worth missing your nephew's birthday party? When you walk in, you're unsure if you should hop up on the exam table, but, ultimately, you opt for the chair in the corner so you don't botch the creped doctor roll. And then you stare at some picture of a painted foot or a wall of brochures on STDs or ogle a plant in the corner, wondering whether it's real or fake, restraining the urge to get up and touch the leaves, for roughly the next hour or so.

Isla doesn't have to wait long, though.

The door cracks open, and when she twists her neck back, she's met with the sight of Eros, zippers and gloves and business casual attire and all. She inhales.

He talks first, and just like the first time, his cadence catches her off guard, so pleasant and warm and friendly, "Hey."

Like they're old friends catching up over lunch and he didn't spend last Friday night toying her body into submission.

"Hii," Isla tells him, eyes following him as he makes his way from the doorway to the armchair across from her, his own respective clipboard in hand. It's her paperwork. The door clicks shut. It's a privacy that's appreciated, but it leaves her feeling jittery, in a pleasant sense. She clears her throat, "I'm inclined to believe that you were part of a scene with me last week, and I'm also inclined to tell you that I was really flattered to find that you were interested in a negotiation."

"Was I?" his gaze narrows playfully through the slit, and the leather of the chair creaks softly as he sits back in it. His tongue peeks out to glide over the plush of muted berry, "Part of a scene with you last week?"

Isla blinks and swallows. She doesn't have to think about it, despite his teasing, "Yes."

"The way I recall it, you had a blindfold, so you wouldn't know, really," Eros cocks his head at her, "would you?"

The corners of her mouth jolt, "Maybe if you didn't give away that you recall I had a blindfold."

"Maybe I recall from the audience," despite the obvious jest, his tone offers no inkling of it — deadpan in decibel. Sarcasm was a particular quality about him — that she'd already learned.

"You don't," Isla assures, certain in her suspicions, and she crumbles his stoic demeanor with flattery, "You recall because you were the star of the show."

There it goes — the stroking of his ego. Invisible feathers ruffle and emerge in a preen. Harry gives, and sits forward, forearms against splayed thighs, "I'm flattered, but I think you earned that title."

In the pause that follows, he imagines a ruddiness has teemed over the surface of Peitho's cheekbones. He can't exactly see through the dark lace, but the little cue of her lips parting and the inhale she takes certainly creates viable ground for his hypothesis.

Anyways.

"Yeah you," he clears his throat as he sits back, watching her through the unzipped slit over his eyes, "certainly had me interested for more after that taste."

She thinks of it, that taste last Friday; his hands, his voice, the way he'd willed her to tears before he'd given her the taste of his cock. And it was his, she knew.

His stretching her open, his gloved grasp on her thighs, his breathy grunts.

Isla swallows.

"And I'm inclined to tell you that I'm flattered you were interested in pursuing my request for a negotiation," the latex glistens beneath the buttery shone of the lamp beside him.

It's actually a cutesy little room for a negotiation; matching chairs, a rounded side table with a lamp, an overhanging light of gorgeous glass, a rug of mauve hues beneath their soles. If it weren't for the wall decor, the handcuffs hooked onto the drywall, in particular, she'd think she was in her therapist's office.

Tell me your deepest, darkest secrets. That's how it would go there, and she supposes that's how it always goes in here, too.

"I had to sign off on your form to play last week," Harry sets his clipboard onto the side table, "so I already had kind-of-sort-of, an idea going into your paperwork. But that was, like, bare bones kind of stuff. So, d'you have any questions for me?"

Her chair creaks as Peitho sits up a bit.

"Yes, actually. So — sharing, you indicated as a soft limit, but I was just a little confused because, well," she purses her lips, and then they melt into a soft simper, "The scene last week involved multiple parties."

"Right," He rubs over his mouth with a pleather clad forefinger, and now, in better lighting, she can make out that his lips are a ruddy pink, soft-looking. Harry levels with her then, sitting forward, shiny flecks of reflection dancing in his gaze like mischief, "I don't prefer to ...share my play partners, so I don't lead scenes with other doms involved. And I don't usually play in group-settings. If I'm being totally candid, you were the first in a while."

Peitho seems pleased by that, if the slight shift in her posture is any indication.

"Oh, well, I'm flattered."

Flattered seems to be the theme of the night.

"And," her features screw behind her disguise as she releases a laugh, "Sorry? To pull you out of your comfort zone?"

She wrests soft laughter from him at that, and across from her, he shakes his head down at his interlocked fingers, "Don't be. S'what we're here for, right? To consensually be pulled out of our comfort zones?"

"I guess you're right about that," she nods, grinning.

He tacks on, "makes it fun," and licks his lips, his gaze open for questioning and still somehow imposing in its upper hand.

Isla presses her lips together, "Yeah. Yes. I agree. I had another for you, if you don't mind."

"S'what I'm here for."

"You indicated that you enjoy, um, like, really powerplaying up the powerplay, I guess I could say," she notes, staring down at her papers, "Like you emphasized, here, brat taming. So, that's, like. You're not opposed to your partner bratting, then? That's the way I prefer to play, I'm sure you've noted."

"Y'know, now that you mention it," he pretends to ponder for a second, "I have noted that about you, yes," his grin showcases pearly, straight teeth, "And, yeah. I like obedience — obviously."

She watches his gloved palm move as he talks, pupils following the motion, "S'like, the whole point of submission. But, I prefer to get submission the hard way rather than the easy way."

"Rather than... so, how do you feel about struggling?"

"Depends," Eros teases, "Me or you."

"Me," she licks her lips, "struggling."

The smirk that plays over the ruddy plush is easy-going, "Kicking, screaming, crying," the eye contact he makes on the latter feels aimed. It probably is. "Feel free. I'll work with all of it."

Isla takes a deep breath and counts down from five; tries not to let it come out in a shudder to expose how wracked with want the statement's left her.

"Okay, cool, cool, ...cool, follow up question, this one is a little, um, ...just out of interest," she meets his eye through the lace, "Would you consider yourself a sadist?"

"Depends."

"On whether you're wielding the bullwhip or I am?" she simpers.

Harry digs his tongue against his cheek, and teases, "Bullwhip. Is that your implement of choice?" and then he tells her, in all seriousness, "Depends how far it goes."

"How far it goes?"

He pauses, and then splays his arms over the back of the armchair, "Do you enjoy stubbing your toe?"

The peculiar question wrings the corners of her mouth into buckling, "No."

"D'you get wet when you scrape your knee?"

"Can't say I do, no," Isla purses her lips to stifle her mirth.

"I don't like inflicting pain to inflict pain," he tells her, then, smiling like they're talking about their favorite movies, "the same way you don't enjoy the pain of pain. It has to be backed by something, right? And for a masochist, that's pleasure, whether it's derived from a combination of the pain and physical pleasure, or arousal from dirty talk, or, I dunno, endorphins. S'all stuff I'm sure you're very self aware of."

"Right," she tells him. He's right — the pain, the pleasure derived from pain, it's all a sort of graceful balance on a wire spindled from a concoction. "And for you?"

"For me?"

"What makes you enjoy inflicting the pain?"

"Your pleasure."

If Eros notices the minute shift in Isla's crossed thighs, the way they squeeze tighter at his words, he doesn't make it known.

"I mean, there's, like, more to it, obviously. S'the marks, the tears, the fear. But it's the trust, more than anything. The control of making my partner so simultaneously terrified and trusting to let me inflict that pain. But," the rasp to his cadence leaves her stomach coiling with familiar warmth, "to answer your question, I would consider myself a sadist, yeah."

If his explanation didn't leave her with a flurry of butterflies bouncing back and forth along the lining of her stomach, the look he gives her definitely would.

"Yeah, it's a beautiful thing," Isla concurs, "that kind of trust," she blinks down at her left leg. Her grip on it has become obnoxiously tight. His lips crook as his gaze follows her own. Isla swallows, "Okay, yeah, I mean," she unlatches the deathgrip of her fingertips to motion with her hand, "that's — great to hear, because I think that pairs really well with my interests."

Harry eyes the little crescents over her skin abaft her own touch, amused. "Good."

"Okay, yeah," she clears her throat then, as if to ground herself, and her chin dips a bit as if searching for more to ask. Evidently, she comes up short, because she looks up after a moment and says, with a sheepish note to her voice, "I think that's it for me, then. Your stuff was all pretty, like, self-explanatory."

"Sick. First half down," he seizes his own clipboard off the stand beside him as she chortles, and he flips through the print for his own handwritten scribbles of notes, "Second half," he grins and casts his gaze up at her to maintain what would be eye contact, "I had a few questions for you."

"Oh, goody."

The corners of his mouth jolt, and he peers down at the clipboard, "Any allergies not listed?"

"Nope," Peitho rocks forward slightly, and tells him, playfully, "Nothing but pineapple, so please do refrain."

"I'll keep that in mind," he eyes her through the slits in his disguise, wryly amused, and then purses his lips, "Any medical conditions I should be aware of?"

The young woman shakes her head, motioning from side to side, "Nothing."

"Brilliant," the papers rumple and ruffle a bit as he flips through, gaze downcast, and then he glances back up to her, "This is all very fun stuff, I know."

"So much."

"But now," Harry looks through to the next page, "We get to the actual fun stuff. I had a question, here," his pupils skim, and Peitho watches him, seemingly curious and open, "Yes, so," his brows twitch, "Caning is a soft limit, but it's underlined here and linked with fear play, which is listed as a particular interest. Can you expand on what that means to you?"

The actual fun stuff.

"Sure," Isla squeezes her knees with her palms, "It's closer to a hard limit, honestly, but I do really enjoy fear play. It's the only implement that's a hard limit, and introducing it into a scene as, like, a threat turns me on."

Harry purses his lips, the corners of his mouth buckling, "Not spiders, not snakes? Insects?"

"Well," Peitho laughs, "Yes — I'm not a fan of those either, but I'm not particularly keen on you introducing a jar of fire ants while I'm tied up."

Harry tuts, and tells her, tone void of humor, "Shame," and then he digs his tongue against his cheek and tells her, "Kidding."

His eyes scope over the paper again, and he clears his throat, "So, for clarification, it's a hard limit that you would not like to be used, you're simply interested in the threat of it."

"Yes. Exactly. I mean, if you wanted to hit me with it once, as, like, a follow-up to the fear play thing, just to take it a little further, I wouldn't be opposed. But," she lifts a finger for symbolism, "just once, please."

Please. He does quite like the way that syllable rolls off her tongue.

"I do have to warn you, it does really freak me out, and I know it's irrational," Isla waves with her arm, laughing a little, "but if you even, like, bring it over to me during a scene, I'm gonna cry."

"Good," Eros tells her, simply, and then blows out a huff that resembles a short laugh. Whether he means that the information is good to know, or that it's good that she cries at the threat of a big stick, or both, Isla's unsure. Possibly the latter — Probably the latter, and that leaves her nearly squirming in her seat.

She adds, "So, just don't be alarmed if I start, like, hysterically crying at the sight of it, it's just, like, reflex. I'm ...enjoying."

"You're enjoying," Eros parrots, dialect smooth and syrupy and tantalizing, and he teases, "Alright, crying," he cocks his head to embody a link between the two, "Enjoying. Got it."

"On the topic, actually, um," Isla sits up a little, "I really enjoy to cry. So, a lot of times, for me, it's the goal of the scene. And I'll cry from just about anything; pain, pleasure, I don't know. If I'm in the headspace, it's easy to get me there. I," she pauses, her smile teetering on abashed, "love endorphins."

Slowly, Eros cocks his head and then nods, pupils flitting back to the paperwork. There's hints of mirth in his cadence, "I'll keep that in mind." He casts his gaze back up to her,

"You've also got kissing as a limit."

"Yeah, um, just not on the mouth, it's too personal," Isla shifts in her seat, "Elsewhere is," she breathes, her shoulders rising and falling, "...fine."

He doesn't provide any sort of inkling of protest, just nodding and fixing his sight back onto the papers, "Got it."

A pause, then.

"Anal, here, is listed as a soft limit, as well," the man blinks at her, "I'm assuming that means you're open to toys, but not anal sex."

"Correct," Isla nods, pleased and enthused with not only his attention to detail, but his thorough understanding and imbibing of her needs, "Plugs, fingers, stuff like that is all good with me, but I'm kind of a virgin with that region, so. I don't really wanna lose it during play, ...if that makes sense."

"Perfect sense," Eros tells her, "Crystal."

For a moment, his eyes seem to search over the papers in hopes of tying any other loose end, but he seems to come up short, satisfied, as he flips the packet back to its title page.

"Any particular interests beyond the," he lifts the paperwork wedged in his colossal palm, "formalities?"

"I think," Isla licks her lips and tells him with a small voice, "Everything should be in there. Um," she swallows, "I like pain, spanking, spitting, praise, degradation, hair pulling, face slapping, um, oral — receiving and performing."

She nods a little, "I like that a lot. Ropes, gags, cuffs, toys. Like," the young woman motions, "you mentioned with the powerplay, I like that stuff. Putting up a fight and losing. And," her shoulders rise in a shrug. She giggles, "Just really hoping you'll make me cry."

"I will," Harry gives the packet one last flip through, searching for any notes he may have missed, and grins as he casts his gaze up to her, "definitely do that."

Her smile is quite pretty and she shows it, laughing softly with a jerky nod, "Awesome, cool," she motions with her hand and swallows before she speaks, "Some doms are so ...like. I don't know, some aren't into that stuff, which is fine, and some are but get scared that I'm, like, this fragile piece of china, or something. So it's always fun to play with someone that is into it and isn't scared about pushing limits."

"Safe, sane, and consensual, right?" his grin is wolfish, "S'what safewords are for."

"Right."

"While we're on the topic, this kind of goes without saying," Harry's brows pinch, "but you can never be too thorough, you know? Since the aim is to push limits, please don't refrain from using your safeword if anything becomes too much, if anything becomes uncomfortable, if anything goes too far, or if you'd like to take a pause."

"Because," he sits forward a bit, "I have played with you once before, but that was in a fairly controlled setting with another dom that knew you well and understood where that optimal line was right before your limits. I obviously got a taste, and I've been pretty thorough with the paperwork. I have guesses for how far I can push with certain things, but there's a lot that you'd like to do, that I'd like to do," he motions with his free hand, "that we didn't introduce during that scene. Like."

He waves his hand, signifying that he's culling an example, "With making you cry — if that's the goal of the scene, and it's particularly difficult to make you cry, if I'm spanking you with a paddle, I don't want to keep spanking you with the goal of making you cry just for you to be unable to and I'm just, like, genuinely hurting you the entire time."

"I don't want my guesses to become overestimations of how much you can take," Harry pauses and licks his lips behind his mask, "My interests are keeping your enjoyment, your safety, your comfort, and my own in mind, first and foremost, so it's very important that we're careful as we learn to, like, toe the line of each other's boundaries."

Something swoons in Isla's chest. She's in love. Yes. Definitely, she's definitely in love.

It's a crying shame that the man of her affections is wearing a latex hood and that she doesn't know him beyond the fictional details he's spun into his plot. She certainly appreciates his care, concern, and meticulousness. Yes, she's in love with that, Isla decides.

"Of course," she reminds him, "I'm not new to the whole pushing boundaries thing, since a lot of my kinks involve pain and that kind of stuff, so. I really appreciate that you're so thorough with everything, though," she sits back and tells him softly, with a little smile, "Makes me feel very safe and comfortable."

"Wonderful. Trust and safety are the most important aspects with this kind of play, so. Sick. I think we've," he sets the packet down onto the table beside him and claps his hands together, "covered all the bases."

"Yes, it looks like it," she exhales, smiley and buzzing.

There's a lewd foreboding to his words, "We're going to have a lot of fun, I think."

"Definitely," she laughs.

Again, his delicious arms splay over the back of the armchair, and her irises flit from those to his splayed thighs, all hugged by his fancy work attire. She wishes some expanse of skin and muscle was nude enough for her to bite into.

"I hope the formalities didn't take you out of your headspace, too much, because," Eros licks his lips, gold light flickering in his gaze like a dance around a fire, "I'd like to do a scene with you tonight."

Isla doesn't need convincing. The young woman takes only a second, half for composure and half to string him along, before she tells him, giggly and eager, "I'm so down."

His own chuckle is like sweet music to her eardrums, "Yeah? Anything in particular you'd like to avoid for tonight?"

Isla ruminates, "Hm... um, I'm not sure."

"Anything sore, anything you don't want me to touch, any toys you don't want me to use?" Eros prods, coaxing, and after another moment of lull, he half-jests, culling laughter from her, "You're opening dangerous doors, otherwise."

"Okay, okay, okay, um, don't tie me up upside down," she lifts her fingers as she counts off, "actually — no suspension, tonight. No anal play," Peitho squeezes her eyes shut behind the lace and bares her teeth as if pressured under a timer. She's not. Harry listens patiently.

"I think that's it," she tells him, finally.

"Still a lot of very dangerous doors," Harry teases, and when she huffs, like he's prompted her to wrack her brain, the corners of his mouth jolt, "Relax. M'playing. If you think of anything else, do feel free to make it known, or if I do something during the scene and that inspires you to remember, bring it up then. Otherwise, everything I've got planned should feel good," and then he tacks on, half facetious and half not, "If you're good."

Isla huffs, "Ohh, God."

He laughs, and then, for a moment, Eros just seems to watch her, eyes twinkling deviously. Then he asks, entirely nonchalant, "How d'you feel about deepthroating?"

Fuck. Her knees press together. How does she feel about deepthroating? What a casual, conversational topic. Isla swallows, and responds, totally cool, with her vocal chords totally unwavering, "I can do it. I like it. I like it more when the other person takes a little more ...control."

"What about having your mouth fucked?"

FUCK. She does her best to curb the aroused note in her voice when she replies, bordering on nervous laughter, "That's — yeah," she blows out a breath, "Definitely one way to get me wet."

"Good to know."

Isla follows him to the door, paperwork in hand. He opens the door and tells her, smirk dancing over his mouth, "Ladies first."

She looks up at him, and the hedonistic urge that slithers through him, the excitement of watching the upturned corners of her smiley mouth morph into a sobbing pout, much like it was last Friday, is beyond debauched, "Such a gentleman."

Dimples rise awake, concealed from her, as he holds the door for her, "Mm. M'happy to remind you that chivalry's not dead."

"A man who's willing to beat me into submission and holds the door?"

Harry bites into his cheek, "When's the wedding?"

Isla cranes her neck back with laughter. This man is willing, more than willing to beat her into submission. Her parents haven't had access to her finances since graduation. Thank God.

Harry tails her, the curl of his strawberry mouth somewhat self-assured. "Wedding bells aside," Peitho is still laughing, a little, "I'll go see about a room, if you'd like to mentally prepare in the lounge?"

Mentally prepare. Headspace, headspace, headspace. Yes, she definitely needs to do that. Yes.

"Yes, okay," Isla tells him, still smiley.

And when their paths divide into opposite prongs at the end of the hallway, Harry heads to see about a room, still hungry to sculpt that smiley mouth into sobs.

The White Room is called The White Room because it's white. But Isla kind of thinks that a more fitting sobriquet would be The Green Room.

Isla's played in it before. It's a pretty room, in an insane-asylum-eerie sort of way upon wall-to-floor first impressions, and she's sure that if the room weren't stuffed with verdant hues, she'd feel inclined to wear a straight jacket. The young woman kneels in the center of the room, commonplace practice, joints pressed to chilled linoleum in an uncomfortable way that has her buzzing.

The chair against the wall is hugged by vibrant, forest green faux leather. The bed is not white, either. It matches the chair. In the corner of the room behind her stands a jet X-cross, and the wall beside it has rows of hooks of bondage equipment. The chest beside the chair, she knows all too well, harbors toys. It shouldn't be The White Room, it just shouldn't. Her pupils flit over the textured patterns in the tile beneath her, explorative in her prolonged wait for Eros. Perhaps the whitest thing about the room is the set of LED light bulbs screwed into the ceiling, which cast milky light that bounces off marbled walls to marbled floors and back.

The door clicks open. She's facing the chair, which stands paralleled, and this time, Isla can't twist back to see, because that's impolite. It clicks shut. Then, a slow, purposeful pad of shoes against the tile.

"Look at you, already kneeling like a good girl."

She half expects Eros to ruffle her hair as he walks past her, but he doesn't. He winds around, hands to himself, and she hears him sit down before she sees it. If her gaze travels as far forward as it's able to, face downcast, she can make out his fancy dress shoes and the hems of his tailored trousers through swirling lace.

"You can look at me."

So she does. His thighs, again, splay in resolute assertion of power.

"My name is Eros," the masked male cocks his head a smidge at her, and, if only slightly through the shadow casts between the parted zipper, Isla catches sight of a smile tugging at his lips on the latter fragment of his statement, "But you already know that. I'd hope, anyways. We've had a chat. Or two."

His lips — his mouth. Isla ogles the latex through the peepholes of her own and wonders what shape the rest of his features take, what carves and forges his face, how his nose slopes, the assemblage of it all.

"I think I recall, vaguely," she teases.

"Mm. Vaguely. I'll take note of that. Well, although we are acquainted," Eros smooths his fingertips over the arm of the chair, a lavish facade of plastic masquerading. The latter fragment of his statement prompts the steady bump of her heart to spur behind her ribcage. "You will address me as Master."

Isla swallows. Despite her prior train of thought looping so intently on the tracks to decipher what she believes he'd look like beneath his mask, it's entirely derailed by the serious note in his previously light cadence. She wonders how a mere introduction manages to send such a thrilling rush rolling down her spine. Eros leans forward, forearms braced to his splayed thighs, almost as if to bend to her level.

"Or Sir. Master, Sir, it's all the same to me. Your preference."

Master, Sir. Her knees ache.

Isla inhales and tells him, on the exhale, "Alright."

His head tilts just a bit. "Pardon?"

Isla lifts her chin, her hands still obediently pressed to the tops of her thighs, "Yes, Sir."

If the small instance of insubordination rubs him the wrong way, as intended, he doesn't comment on it. He just sits back, seemingly satisfied.

"I'm Peitho. But you already know this," Isla meets his twinkling gaze, her own shimmery with the inside joke of sorts. The silence in which his eyes rove over her, calculating, nearly sends a shiver down her spine.

"Vaguely," he finally says, lobbing her own sass back at her, teasing, and his mouth quirks, "What's your safeword?"

"Red."

There's only a beat of lull before Harry motions at her with his chin and instructs, "Take your top off."

Her hands don't immediately reach for the clasps behind her back. When she speaks, rather than just complying, there's a challenging degree to her voice, "I want you to take it off, Sir."

For a second, Harry doesn't say anything. His gaze narrows and his tongue sticks to the inside of his cheek. He sees her mouth twitch, is the thing. She's playing a game.

He'll play it too.

His voice is deceivingly soft, but it still carries that note of control, "Take it off."

Peitho stays still for a moment, like she's mulling over her options, like she's deciding whether she'd like to keep pushing him, but eventually, her hands raise from her thighs and wind behind her to work on the clasps. He hears the click as the fabric falls open and and as her arms come back forward the cups slip off her tits. She removes the piece, entirely unabashed by her own nudity, and casts her gaze up to him in question.

"Just set it down next to you. Nicely," Eros supplies. So Isla does that, folding one cup into the opposite and laying it onto the marble. She watches the man watch her for a moment, and then her pupils chase his figure as he stands to amble over, slowly.

"D'you know," his cadence is soft and sultry and low as he looms over her, tracing a cheekbone over the lace with the back of a gloved fingertip, "I've been wanting to play with you for weeks."

Weeks? The sentiment has her pressing her thighs together as she stares up, neck craned back. He cranes it further when his fingers rake through from her temple and wring into her roots. Her mouth parts as she breathes.

"And you," he starts, tone nonchalant, his vision flitting to his other hand as he makes work of his zipper, "Only recall my name vaguely. That's a bit disheartening to hear, innit, pet?"

Pet. She casts her gaze to his pants, where deft fingers tug and open and free. His belt, first, with clinks of metal on metal, and then his button and zipper. Her eyes get kind of ache-y from the strain, but it's worth it, because when he draws his cock through the opening of the zipper, girthy and long, an angry blush painting the tip ruddy, she thinks the scenic view merits the ache.

There's a specific sort of power dynamic that is set by one party kneeling in knickers and the other staying fully clothed. It's undeniable; it's power. Every dominant Isla had ever played with was all too eager to remove articles and leave them pooled in a trail to the bed. Which was fine, Isla liked that. She liked the expanse of skin to scratch, the muscles to bite into. But unlike her prior scenes, Eros doesn't seem keen to remove his clothing. He doesn't finger at the buttons of his dress shirt, drawing them through as he makes his way over to her, doesn't tug his belt out and off through the loops in a swift movement. He keeps his shoes on, and his tailored slacks, and his fancy work shirt. And Eros, with his dick sticking through his zipper, looks like a business-casual sexual deviant. He looks like power.

"Isn't it?"

Isla doesn't have time to feel embarrassed over the strangled little sound that falls from her mouth on its own accord as he yanks at her hair with his fist in emphasis. In contrast to the harsh motion, his tone lacks hardness; it's almost impassive, contemplating, "Sad that you can only vaguely recall me when you were wailing my name last week."

She bites into her cheek as he tips over her a bit, casting his tone into one that drips of mockery, "Eros, Eros, please, Eros, please fuck me, Eros! Please, please, please!"

Her nostrils flare as she inhales, the taunts sending fiery warmth pulsing between her trembling thighs.

"Does that jog your memory a bit?" his teeth show as his lips curl, condescension slithering over each word, and he incites her to respond with another little jerk, "Hm?"

"Yes," Isla grits out, humiliation coiling within her and intermingling with desire when he really leans over her, his grip on her tight and his tone hard.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir," the young woman breathes out, a fusion of relief and arousal spiking when he releases her roughly, nearly shoving her head away as his touch retracts. She tacks on, almost under her breath, loud enough for him to hear for blatant reasons, "It vaguely jogs my memory."

His mouth warps sardonically, all smiles, like the calm before the storm. When he reaches around and coaxes her forward by the back of her neck, triggers a gasp out of her, he's certain it's more out of surprise than anything else. He doesn't tug on her hair, just guides her, although not too gently. And when he steers his tip towards her mouth, that same mouth falls open, eager. Harry watches her tongue twitch, not quite emerging, amused. It's a pretty sight to witness; what had just been such a bold display of cheek melt in order to encompass ardor to feel his dick on her tongue. Despite the way his shaft pulses in his grip, he tuts, sliding his opposite palm around and tangling his fingers into the roots of her hairline.

"So eager," Harry croons, drawing the head against her bottom lip and leaving it slick in his wake, "Aren't you? Just for a taste?"

She doesn't reply, impudent in true fashion, just breathing wetly against him, and that's fine, he'll let that slide. He's let it all slide, actually, because he knows that, despite her seemingly unwavering lip, his leverage and authority is boundless. It's all sort of a game, right? She pushes, he pulls, and eventually, she'll topple. It's an unsaid hierarchy they're both well aware of. But not now, because the game would be no fun if he didn't grant his opponent the opportunity to put up a fight.

When she pokes her tongue against the flushed crown, Harry tuts again and pulls back, "Ah-ah-ah. Put that tongue away. As a matter of fact, go ahead and close your mouth for me."

Peitho obeys, at least for now, despite the initial squaring of her shoulders and the hesitancy behind the submission, the whine of protest he's certain she'll release (but doesn't), and he traces her lips with his tip, somewhat pleased. It's delicate footing, for now.

"Good girl," he can sense she glows beneath the praise, but she falters on the tailing words that wear a smirk, "M'beginning to learn I like you best when you're nice and quiet."

If she's glaring through the lace, the male can't see it, but the thought amuses him.

"Right? Mouth closed makes you nice and easy. S'a shame you'll have to open up, eventually," he sighs, feigning pity.

When her fingers twitch and reach out to latch onto the legs of his pants, gently, he discourages it, tone not so gentle, "Hands behind your back. Let's find a better use for that smart mouth."

And she obeys that, too, drawing the handsy limbs back and opting to cuff her touch palm to elbow, instead. The compliance, Harry learns, just as he'd suspected and expected, is short-lived. Because when he nudges at her strawberry mouth in finality, drawing her bottom lip down for a peep of teeth, and beckons, "open," Peitho doesn't instantly oblige. She just sits there for a minute, with her tongue quiet in docility, and her hands behind her back in submission, but her procrastination serves as symbolism that she's goading.

And he lets her do it, for a second, before he taps at her mouth with his tip, his words firm, "Open. If I have to ask a third time, you won't like it. I can promise you that."

The young woman does open, technically, but it's to spew cheeky retorts, and the whole notion doesn't exactly adhere to Harry's intentions.

"You told me to close my mouth, so I closed it."

She sounds so innocuous, too. Like a perfect little angel, flying through loopholes.

"Yeah? Did I ask for the backchat, too?" Harry entertains it, cocking his head down at her. He'll let this slide, too, he decides. His cock twitches in his clasp.

"I'm not talking back, Sir, you told me to keep my mouth closed," Peitho feigns innocence, her cadence deceptively sweet.

"Maybe," he sighs, narrowing his gaze down at her, "the miscommunication is my fault."

Isla's heartbeat thunders in the surreal, eerie calmness of his tone.

"You think I'm asking. So, how about we clarify this. M'not asking you to do anything. I'm telling you."

In response to his words, the young woman feels a shuddery thrill wrack down the knobs of her spine, and she nearly melts onto the marble then and there.

"And now," the fingers that'd loosened considerably on her hairline tighten into a fist again, inducing her heart to stutter at the flicker of pain, "I'm going to tell you to stick your tongue out, and you will do it, because you are told to do it. Let's try that. Open your mouth, and stick out your tongue."

His dialogue seems to make some footing, because she does it with ease post his little simplification. Harry tacks on, "As far as it will go."

At that, Peitho stretches the muscle and it slinks out a little further, pressing over her chin. Satisfied, he doesn't waste any time before he tucks his cock into her mouth and nudges in, nearly to the hilt. And instantly, she's sputtering around him in surprise. It's not nearly as rough as it can be, but he's not soft and slow about it either. It's a trial run, though. A hint, a preparation lacking preparation. Harry slides out, letting her cough over him in a desperation for air. As soon as he hears her siphon an inhale, he slips back in, a little further this time, and holds himself there for a moment. He feels her tongue flex against the underside of his shaft and her throat spasm around him, her posture lurching.

"S'alright if you gag," the male bites back a hiss, straining to keep his cadence even as warmth and wetness constricts over his tip, "I don't mind. I'll just go deeper."

And Isla does gag, but not by her own volition. It's reflexive, spurred by the combination of her own, stuck-out tongue and the way his cock twitches at the back of her throat. In turn, he follows through on his promise, and nudges further. It's only for another second before he pulls all the way out, but it's enough of a timespan for her lashes to flutter against the lace and for her irises to loll back. As he draws out, the young woman groans, panting, and the only thing that bars her face from turning towards the floor are his knuckles at her roots, seemingly insistent on keeping her head up.

"I'm going to fuck your mouth, and you're going to be beg me to breathe," Harry tells her, eyes half-lidded, and adds, nonchalantly, "and then I'll decide if you've deserved it."

"But how can I beg you when your dick is stuffed down my throat," Peitho questions, slumping a bit as his grip loosens, "Sir."

There's enough cheek behind her tone to indicate that the question has more motives in bratting than actually seeking suggestion, though. There's no inquiry to her words.

Harry digs his tongue against his cheek, and only allows her a moment of satisfaction at his silence before his mouth curls with traces of sadism, "You'll figure it out. Or," he shrugs, and then hauls her to sit up straight by her hair, culling a soft, pained sound he could certainly get used to hearing from that sweet, puffy mouth, "You won't. But then you won't breathe, I suppose," Harry motions with his chin, leaving no window for protest, "Tongue out."

As soon as her mouth falls open he thrusts forward, just halfway, pulls back, and stuffs himself to the brim. Isla screws her eyes shut behind the lace, her fingers trembling and jolting behind her back through the fight against gagging. Above her, Eros groans, and his verbal indication of satisfaction spawns warm wetness between her clasped thighs. The male pulls out all the way, once more, and propels forwards until Isla feels her nose dig against his trousers.

"Fuck, baby, just like that. Take it — just like that."

The praise incites fiery pride to coil within her, snaking through her system and settling in the trench of her tummy, and she squirms with her own arousal.

"Christ, wish I could see those pretty, little eyes looking up at me," he traces a fingertip at the lower seam of her mask, touch uncharacteristically sweet.

The young woman hums around him. Harry ogles the stretch of her mouth over his shaft, revels in the slither and slip of her tongue on the underside, waves of hunger rolling through him. Prompts her hum of agreement to morph into a little cut-off sound as he pumps forward, harder.

His jaw settles into a sturdy line as he bites back a moan, "But I'll have to settle on staring at that filthy, little mouth wrapped around my cock and that snug, little throat taking me down."

Isla's fingers twitch for a different reason, then.

"S'quite pretty, you know," The man grunts, utilizing both hands as his fingers slither and settle on either side of her head, weaving into loose strands, "F'only you could see what a wrecked slut you look, sweetheart."

Peitho moans over him as he plunges forward, and Harry presses his tongue against the back of his top front teeth, chasing the contraction of her throat and the subsequent slew of wordless pleas, "Show me. Show me how that pretty mouth takes cock. Show me how you beg for air."

And she does beg. After a while, despite the steady arousal that spikes and just keeps spiking with the funishment, eventually, it does get hard to breathe. When he really starts to pick up the pace, starts to ram against the back of her throat, clogging her airway, she can't help but to beg. It's wordless, muffled, incoherent hums and moans that strum and vibrate over his shaft, sending shuddery ignitions of pleasure through his being, but it's the best she can manage.

After the first few, wet and choke-y and increasing in desperation, his hips slow, and Harry muses, condescension dripping off his words, "What was that? I can't quite make out," his mouth quirks at an interruption, a frantic whine that melts off into whimpers that increase in decibel as he nudges forward, slowly, just resting at the back of her throat. "Are you trying to tell me something, darling?"

He lets her chest heave for a millisecond before he withdraws quickly, almost ripping a gag from her in the process. Peitho nearly falls forward then and there, bracing her palms against his thighs as she coughs and wheezes. Harry waits a good, long, patient moment, cautious of her state, and he lets her get close enough to composure before he guides her face up and nudges back in. This time, though, her palms stay planted to his thighs, not quite twisting at the fabric, but stationary.

After a little more of those harsh plunges forward, she's back to begging, throat bulging as she chokes around him. This time, though, he wrings it out a little longer, tutting and crooning, "I don't know what that means, pet, you're going to have to be a big girl and use your words."

Seeing beyond the lace detailing is complicated enough with an untainted gaze, but all hope is lost trying to decipher through the gloss of tears that coats her eyes. She feels them slip and trail, wetting the shrouding, and when Eros pummels forward, she taps against the sturdy muscle of his thighs wildly. Quickly, then, Eros pulls back, and his pleather-clad fingers slacken considerably, with one hand unwinding altogether. Isla coughs and sputters, leaning to brace her forehead against the back of one of the palms fixed to his legs. The pads of his digits transform into a comforting caress against her scalp rather than a cruel tug.

"Too much?" Isla hears overhead, but she focuses on gasping and panting for composure, blinking tears away and feeling them soak the fabric of her mask.

When she doesn't answer right away, a seed of worry buds in his chest. He lets her breathe against his thigh a little longer before he pats her cheek with his free hand, gentle, leaning over her a bit.

"Darling, I need you to tell me if you're alright."

Finally, she abides and sits up, reveling in the petting over her cheek and the scratching at her sore scalp, "S'too much? Do you need to safe?"

He's tempted to suggest they take a break from this particular activity altogether for the night, then. And when she tilts her head into his touch and says her derisive words in a tone dripping with such sugar, he nearly grits his teeth and bends her over the bed to whip her then and there.

She clears her throat, and the statement plucks from raspy, strained vocal chords, but it's just as out of line as it would be without her throat bruised, "Don't worry. I don't safeword for mediocre performances."

Harry's mouth sets into a hard line. He'd be lying if her defiance, albeit entirely jesting, doesn't catch him off guard. And quickly, caution and intent to nurture mutates into something much darker.

"I think you're forgetting," he tells her, cadence chillingly calm, and despite his intentions, his touch stays deceivingly gentle; he even caresses her cheek a little while longer, "Which of us has the degradation kink, love."

For a moment, something squeezes in her chest, a worry that she's genuinely offended him, and Isla backtracks, "Wait — I'm sorry." Her voice cracks and his eyes flash dangerously, "I didn't mean to," she chews on her lip, "I wasn't trying to hurt your feelings, I didn't mean it like that. I was just playing."

She hasn't — hurt his feelings, that is. But Harry would be lying if he said he wasn't rightfully irate that she'd prolonged telling him that she wasn't aching for an oxygen tank and played it off with snide backchat. Especially in their first scene.

"Just playing," Eros laughs, void of humor, and suddenly that worry in Isla's chest grows tri-fold into a different direction. He states, deadpan, "So you're fine. You don't need to safe."

"No," she bites into her cheek, the pang flesh between her teeth grounding as shame sprouts, "I'm okay. Sorry. I'm sorry."

Sorry. Yes. That, she certainly will be, Harry decides.

Eros cocks his head down at her, and as his touch falls away and he makes work of tucking his cock, still hard and straining, back into his pants, Isla bites into her cheek harder with a fresh layer of tears glazing her sight. She hadn't meant to, like, insult his manhood. Isla eyes him through the mask, bridling her pout. At least she hadn't made him soft. Her gaze flits to the floor in discomfort.

"S'funny," Harry starts over her, forcing her face up with his hand on her chin, "How such a sweet, pretty girl spews such filth."

Isla's mouth twitches and the corners turn down a bit.

"Stand up," he orders, tone biting. Isla blinks the wetness away, stupefied for only a second before he reaches for her elbow and lugs at it harshly, "Stand up, I said."

So she does, her joints aching from the prior, drawn-out kneel. And she doesn't have time to stretch her limbs before the male guides her towards the bed with a firm grip on her forearm.

"I have put up with a lot from you tonight, darling," the way his mouth curls over the pet name with a sharp edge rather than with praise leaves Isla doused in shame for all the wrong reasons. It sends hunger flooding through her. "But I think it's quite time you learn what proper discipline really is, right?"

"Not just," Harry tells her as the mattress dips beneath his weight, as he yanks her forward over his lap, "fun and games, choking on cock."

He jerks her lacy underwear down over the curve of her backside unceremoniously, pleased with the glinting remnants of arousal on the fabric, "Though I'd be pleased to bruise your throat enough for you to lose your voice," he huffs in wry mirth, "Maybe then you'd finally shut the fuck up."

Isla stares ahead, a furious blush working over her face and warming her cheekbones. Her fingertips burrow into the comforter, but it's tucked and tight and neat, so there's not much give for her digits to twist into it.

"For a first scene," her ankles cross as she feels his hand stroke over the globe of one cheek, "pushing boundaries can be tricky, right? S'like, you want to satisfy, but you don't want to push too much. And when I'm asking you," the young woman gasps when his hand suddenly comes down, hard — harder than she'd expect for a first strike, "If you're okay after I've not let you breathe," she jolts forward when another blow is delivered, right on top of the first, "and you decide to lob some cutesy, little comment at me, it's careless and beyond insufferable."

She blinks down at the mossy green, pointing her toes and releasing a high, little unph when he smacks her again.

"If you're going to be a little brat, that's fine by me," another strike, a loud one that bounces off the walls, "because I will show you how I treat brats." Isla bites into her lip as two land in rapid succession and she squirms a bit. The young woman inhales sharply through her nose when, as she braces for another impact, instead she finds him digging his fingers into the reddened skin, pinching harshly.

"I get it," Harry watches her, the sadistic streak within him thriving, beaming, glowing at the squeak he incites as he squeezes over her curves sharply. He clears his throat, "You play with a new dom, you wanna push the limits, right? You wanna see how much you can get away with, what slides. Unfortunately," he bites back a smirk as he smacks her and coaxes a loud cry in the process, "You will quickly learn that my limits don't have much give."

His voice is suddenly dark and serious, no traces of play to his warning, and Isla wonders how can shift so seamlessly from easygoing rumination to stern disciplinarian, "Because I think, typically, you get spanked, you stomp your little foot, you whine, and then you go right back to being cheeky because the lesson didn't stick. I will assure you, this will stick."

Isla gnaws on her cheek.

"But I suppose actions speak louder than words, right, sweetheart?" he punctuates the rhetorical question with another blow that culls a breathy, girlish grunt from her, "So, I'm going to give you a taste of what it will be like if you keep pulling little stunts like that."

He can feel her shudder over his lap, and Harry pets over her curves, satisfaction flourishing at the ruby hues that bloom post his touch. For the first time tonight, she doesn't protest with a slick, unwarranted opinion. She's not impish, or playful, doesn't poke at him. For the first time, she's proper docile.

"You will absolutely not make snide little jabs when I'm concerned over the safety of our play, and if we are going to play," three more hits have her stretching forward, "this is going to be nipped," he punctuates, "in the bud," each word, "now," with a smack.

Isla presses her cheek to her arm, chills spreading over the expanse of her skin at his words almost as rapidly as an uncomfortable shame spreads through her chest.

"And later, if you are just aching for a reminder, I'm always happy to oblige. Perhaps next time I'll put pretty stripes all across the backs of your thighs with the cane that you've expressed you love oh-so-much," his blow is tailed by Isla's squeak, "How's that sound? I think marks would be a pretty solid reminder."

When she doesn't respond, he can tell that she's sensed there's genuine disappointment there, despite his cruel teasing. He digs his touch into her flesh, culling sweet little sounds from her mouth and siphoning warmth to her skin with each harsh fondle.

"This will serve as your warm up," Harry clears his throat after a little while. "I've learned that you apparently don't need me to check in with you. So I won't be."

Isla shifts over his thighs, and holds her breath when she feels the fabric of his pants brush against her calves as he throws his leg over the both of her own.

"Kick, scream, cry," her face burns as he talks, "I don't particularly give a fuck. Your safe word is there. Safe out if you need to. Otherwise, you can shut the fuck up and take it. If you behave like a brat, you will take the consequences that brats get from me."

When he starts really spanking her, Isla learns the blows she'd received during his scolding had truly served only as a warm up. A handful of smacks, dispersed by his words, solely for the purpose of drawing heat to the skin, as loud and as hard as they had been, don't even come close to her actual consequences. Because the warm-ups had breaks, they were distributed, he hadn't honed his focus on one particular spot and smacked her there over and over and over and over with no hint of give, like he does now. Hadn't propped up her hips to fixate on her sit spots again and again and again. And the thing with pain play and masochism was that, in spite of the eventual release of endorphins, there was always that initial little window of fuck, this sucks, why did I ever sign up for this?

It's sort of like getting into a cold pool, right? You tread from dry land to ankle, to shin, to knee, to hip (where you lungs lock up and lose function for a moment at the chill), and at first, it fucking sucks a little. But eventually, you adapt. Of course, a cold pool doesn't necessarily equate to a release of endorphins that leave you floaty and agreeable, nor does it entail screwing your eyes shut and digging your teeth into the back of your hand as someone hits you over and over, but. Same sort of difference.

Isla finds herself stuck in that fuck, this sucks purgatory period a bit longer than usual, twisting and writhing over him. And she knows that ultimately, she'll succumb to a haywire release, like she always does, hormones and chemical reactions that override her response to the pain entirely, but for now, God, it fucking sucks.

True to his word, Harry doesn't check in.

He doesn't even make any sarcastic digs at her, despite any urges to do so, muzzling the "having fun?" that sits on the tip of his tongue as Peitho squirms over his lap. He doesn't want to give her any clearance to make digs of her own. Though, Harry's sure that she's not exactly keen to do so in her vulnerable predicament. And even though the punishment is meant to correct behavior, the goal isn't to make her safeword, so he does take special care to differentiate her whines and the genuine sounds of pain, listening in and focusing on particular spots testingly. He doesn't exactly ease up when he strums a sound of discomfort from her, but he only directs his attention there for a short while before his concentration shifts towards other areas. He's a sadist, but that doesn't mean he isn't considerate. And he's still painfully hard beneath her, is the thing; every time a pretty cry spills from her mouth, every time she squirms, every time she kicks out with her foot, he can feel his cock pulse against its constraints. Despite this, he doesn't directly chase a note of pain once he's harvested it.

She stretches one of her arms out, kicking her feet up off the floor when he centers his palm over her backside and fixes a smattering of blows over the same area again and again and again. It leaves her skin burning, sparks of pain zapping like fireworks over the surface of her flesh with each strike, and each strike, driven with purpose, comes down like the aim is to tattoo the sparks into her. He's making it stick, true to his word.

Isla reaches her hand back in a half-hearted attempt, crying out, a sheen of familiar tears over her eyes, "Sorry, I'm sorry, please, please."

When he grapples for her wrist, interlocking their fingers and binding the stray limb to her back with his grip, she feels that shift. The teeter of pain into pleasure. It's slight, it still hurts, she's still sort in that fuck, this sucks headspace, but she feels herself starting to roll into it. It's kind of a snowball process. Everything gets fuzzy, tinges of pleasure intermingling with the pain, and then her body starts to buzz and her brain sort of resets and circumvents.

Harry tuts, tongue clicking against his teeth, and tells her, with no signs of give, "I don't know what that means. Are you asking for more?"

She just sort of groans for a moment, burying her forehead against her hand, nipping at the blanket with her teeth, and then he draws a squeal out of her and she lurches forward, "No, please, no more, I'll behave."

"I don't think you've quite gotten the message," the male shakes his head, her whines and whimpers satiating something wicked and vicious in him.

"I have! Yes I have," Peitho gripes, "I'll behave!"

He gives her five more before he turns his head around towards her, gaze cast against the back of her head, "Will you? Behave yourself?"

"Yes," Peitho tells him, but he can see that she's started picking at her nails and that there's an unsavory note of defiance latched onto her cadence.

"Yes, what?" he prompts, but his tone is neither hard nor gentle. It's apathetic with testing.

She takes a moment too long to respond, shifting on her tiptoes, and Harry sighs and smacks her again. The young woman squeaks, going lax and planting her face into her arms. Her next statement is muffled, "Yes, I'll behave."

"That's not what I'm looking for," he trails pleather sheathed pads over her heated skin for a second, wallowing in her hum and the white tracks that accompany his touch.

When she doesn't eagerly correct herself and take advantage of the opportunity, Harry gives her the benefit of the doubt and tells her, hinting firmly, "Yes, Sir. Say it."

He watches her back move as she inhales and huffs into the mattress, sighing, "Yes..." and then her voice just trails off, like paint off a brush dragged down the expanse of a canvas. Dot, dot, dot. Just like that. Harry waits. Peitho wriggles. He sighs. She sighs, too.

O-kay.

Learning limits, that's what tonight is about — for the both of them, apparently.

"I had higher hopes," the man practically snorts before he manhandles her hips back over his lap and starts striking over the peachy flesh. The protests, unlike her willingness to obey, come instantly. And first they come in whiney wails and stray hands, and then they come in shattered whimpers.

"I'll behave, Sir! I'll behave, please, please —" he shakes his head as he locks that wandering hand back over her back, just as he'd done before. It's appalling, honestly, how pliant and agreeable she gets under his palm and how quickly she snaps back into her prior tactics when he takes any sort of pause.

"You won't behave, and now that I know you won't behave I'm not going to be so generous."

"Yes I will, I promise I will — ouch! Please—"

"Your promises don't mean much to me, unfortunately. We can spend the whole scene like this, if that's what you'd like. S'shame, I had so much planned, too."

Despite the pain from his hand, her body betrays her, as it always does, fiery want licking along her nervous system and pulsing off her nerve endings each time he strikes. Isla knows she's gushing, knows he'll see, because she aches with need between her legs. And despite all of this, it still fucking hurts.

"And y'know," he tells her, his scoff incredulous over her sharp cry, "the saddest part is that I'm being so nice to you right now. Because I'm accommodating and reasonable. And what are you? Hm? An ungrateful, little slut."

The coarseness of his words, his tone, that does something. It sends an erotic wave of hunger rolling through her, and Isla groans before melting off into practically incoherent thank you's that mesh with shrill, breathy moans and gasps and pleads and Sir's. And then ...something just clicks. Something magnificent clicks, like two gears that wedge together just right, and her moans and gasps and pleads morph into sobs.

And that's where Harry wants her, he learns. That's the breaking point, the sweet spot. Because then, she gets pliant, and sniffle-y, and docile, and she just sort of takes what he gives her with the occasional, soft "please." He learns it when he pauses to shake out his cramping hand, fully intent on going right back to it, when he picks up on her whimpers, even as he's withdrawn, and his face pivots to drink in the sight of her, sprawled and docious. His gaze is curiously calculating for a moment, and he smooths his hand over her backside in lieu of smacking deeper hues out. Peitho sniffles in response.

His voice carries a purposeful degree of firmness when he asks, again, "Are you going to behave yourself?"

There's a soft breath, a sluggish shift in her muscles, another sniffle. And then, a small, unmistakable, "Yes, Sir."

This is the push and pull — this is the topple. Harry draws his hand over her bare back, palm drifting gently, and he takes his leg off the both of her own. Her calves twitch and tendons protrude as she stretches.

"There's a good girl."

He lets her bask in his touch for a moment, using his opposite palm to stroke over her backside, and he eyes the pretty artwork he's left inscribed over her skin with a cruel sense of pride coiling at the colors left behind. His fingers drift lower, prodding, and she stiffens upon the explorational touch. The corners of his mouth crook when his hand withdraws and arousal glints and emphasizes the jet tips of his gloves.

"Poor baby," he coos, the softness in his tone contrary to the harsh edge it'd previously exhibited. The man leans over her a bit, using his other hand to tug up on one of her bruised cheeks, and he pries a subdued little hngh from her in the process, "S'it hurting?"

Isla's unsure whether he's referring to her backside or her cunt. It's all starting to get a little foggy, if she's being honest. But, yes, she decides. Yes, to both. So she answers, minding her manners with no hesitation (for the first time in the night), "Yes, Sir."

Eros tuts.

"Poor, little, soppy cunt," — her cunt, she deduces, he'd meant — and her digits scrabble for purchase at the sheets when she feels him spread her and spit. It's sacrilegious, he's — he's a sex demon, Isla decides, then and there. The mirthy, devious, little hum Eros releases over her as his gloved fingers brush between her legs, parting her to spread the saliva has her simultaneously rocking back into it and spreading her legs.

And he obliges, middle and index running along either side of her clit in a delicious 'V' that pointedly avoids exactly where she needs him most. Sex! Demon! He's self-aware, too, is the thing, laughter soft as her hips shift and grind against his lap, against his fingers, and then his touch retracts altogether, only to come prodding into her, and that's, just. That's — Christ.

"Christ, you're a snug little thing," has her writhing as his digit sinks in, to the hilt, "Gonna squeeze over my cock like that?" his head twists to find that her cheek is pressed to the comforter and her mouth has fallen open, "Hm?"

Harry indulges in those sweet noises she makes as he slides his finger out to the first knuckle and stuffs it back in, revels in the tremble of her thighs. A sly smirk stretches over pillowy rose as he thumbs at the bundle of nerves and a shiver tumbles over Peitho's shoulders. Then, in true, evil fashion, he slips the finger out and removes his palms altogether, fixing his touch onto her hips and squeezing as a cue that he'd like her to move. The young woman shuffles her feet, the beginnings of a whine working its way through her vocal chords, but Harry stifles that with another smack, and that seems to do the trick. With no lingering objection this time, Peitho lifts her head and cards a hand through her hair before she plants her palms against the mattress and pushes herself up.

It's not her mewls that remind Harry of his own arousal. It's not her squirmy hips, her taut muscles, her cunt spasming around his finger — though, those certainly add to it. It's her face as she stands and slots, body language abashed, between his splayed thighs. Her skin is flushed, and tracks of her tears shimmer in the light, no doubt from the movement of the lace as she'd burrowed into the sheets. It's her mouth, swollen from nippy teeth, wet with the sobs she'd expelled over his knee. He can't see her nose or her eyes, but he yearns to, more than anything in that moment, certain that her lashes are clumped and that the whites around her irises are bloodshot. It's that thought that reminds him that he's still so painfully hard.

He reaches out to thumb at her mouth, pleased in the way she just lets him smush over her lips, lets him draw her bottom lip down. The opposite hand rests on the small of her back. He takes a slow controlled inhale, slinking his palm to her tender backside and squeezing. Harry's cock jolts at the pained sound that escapes her, and after a moment, he taps on Peitho's hip in decisive finality, coaxing her to take a step back and allow him room to stand.

"On your back."

He doesn't watch her to make sure she follows his instructions before he winds around her to the wall with hooks of ropes and ties and cuffs, but Harry does hear the bed sink, so he assumes she's wise enough to comply. A braided black cable runs over his palm as he examines, contemplatively.

Isla's heartbeat had managed to slow considerably post his rough touch, but watching him muse over the plethora of bondage equipment through the lace causes the muscle to hammer away, just a smidge faster. She's flat on her back in the center of the mattress, just as Eros had directed, and her desire spikes as he seems to settle on his choice, starting to work on unwinding a series of thick, dark cords. These are shorter in length, an indication that he's interested in fastening numerous body parts down rather than weaving shibari patterns over her skin, and the notion has her squeezing her thighs together.

When he makes his way to the foot of the bed, binds in hand and gaze dark, he really does look the part of The Executioner. And when he sets the ropes down and his eyes rove over her, her heartbeat spikes in worry that she's done something more to displease him. Instead, his pleather clasp hooks onto her ankles, gently. The shift from the gentle grasp to the rough drag as he jostles her towards him has Isla gasping sharply. Eros yanks her to the foot of the bed, forcing her knees up, and standing between her parted legs. The way his pants brush against her tender thighs leave her aching with another flood of craving. Wordlessly, he takes one of the ropes and winds it about one of her ankles, working to secure knots with deft fingers that she's sure have done this time and time again. Her evidence is the length of the process, the strength of the bonds, the way, after he's bound one taut to a column on the four-poster bed, she tugs with her leg experimentally and there's absolutely no give. The dominant makes quick work of the other, pausing before moving on to her hands to drink in the view. Isla squirms under his gaze, and when her knees fruitlessly attempt to clasp, suspended and fastened, his mouth crooks.

Harry tilts his head a bit, "Thought you liked being ogled."

She doesn't respond, biting into her lip, and her cheek turns away against the mattress. Harry huffs, amused. He makes quick work of her hands, kneeing his way onto the mattress at her side. Binding those together, he loops the cord through the vale in between the two with consideration before he sets her arms up over her head, providing just enough give for her elbows to bend a smidge and making sure that her circulation isn't being cut off. He's intent on hurting her, but not like that. Once the other end of the rope is secured to a bar in the headboard (he's never been more pleased that a bed offers so many points to secure a rope), he sits back, satisfied.

"Try to get out," he demands, voice hard.

Peitho tugs at the restraints, and the half-hearted attempt has him narrowing his eyes.

"Really try," his mouth purses as she wriggles, "Come on, darling. Should I get the cane? Really make you kick and scream to see if these are," he grapples onto the tensed cord secured to her arms, inducing a gasp as he jostles over it roughly, "suitable?"

The implication sends a shudder through her, and Eros seems to be content as her limbs thrash to no avail.

"Lovely," he exhales, standing and palming over his bulge. For a moment, a spark of terror ignites within Isla as she watches him head off towards the wall of implements, but he simply squats in front of the chest and rummages through it.

When he withdraws a set of nipple clamps linked by a chain and a corded vibrating wand, she swallows. The dominant blows out a breath before standing back up with his collected items, and he swings the chain around his finger as he makes his way over, lackadaisical. He pauses as he passes over a bowl of condoms standing on a (probably) decorative dresser (Isla's unsure, she's never actually perused through the drawers of those things), and he backtracks, literally taking a few, slow steps backwards to retrieve a couple of condoms.

"It's only fair, right?" Eros tells her as he slots between her thighs and sets the clamps, the wand, and the condoms beside her on the bed, "I've made your throat sore, your arse, I'm about to make your cunt sore."

Isla's hands tighten into fists.

His mouth quirks and he motions with his chin, his touch on her thighs deceptively soft, "Last piece of the puzzle is those pretty tits."

One of his hands stretches over her to tweak a nipple, and she stays impressively still. Then, he pulls back and leans over to retrieve (she assumes) an extension cord for the wand from just beneath the foot of the bed. Her hunch is proven correct when he unravels the cord of the toy and slips the plug into one of the sockets. Then, he plucks one of the condom packets and tears it open with his teeth, extracting lube-y latex with his digits.

"Hm. Banana," he says thoughtfully, sight flicking over the label, and he casts his gaze up to her face, somewhat teasing, "Want a taste?"

It's mercurial, the way he switches from discussing his agenda to abuse her tits to jesting whether she'd like to sample a banana flavored condom.

"What's the other one, Sir?" her voice is small.

"S'plain."

He stretches the condom over the bulbous head of the wand, rolling it over the silicone, and once that's done, he picks up the clamps. Isla takes a deep inhale for courage. Eros pinches at one of her nipples, rolling the bud between his fingers, and the other hand opens a clamp. She blows the breath out.

"Deep breath," Harry encourages, waiting to hear her comply before closing one of the clasps over the same nipple he'd caressed into hardness. As Peitho throws her head back, wincing, he opens the opposite clamp, brows pinched and tone concentrated, "Very good."

"Fuck," Isla groans, the pain that radiates from the sensitive bud sending her endorphins into overdrive. She'll never quite get used to that sensation, and before Isla has time to gather her composure over the one, the man is already focused on the opposite, rolling it between his index and thumb.

"One more for me," Eros instructs, and when the second clamp closes over the opposite nipple, Isla's grunt slips through cracks of gritted teeth. Her exhale is choppy.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"S'hurting?" the male runs his palm over her stomach, aimed to be comforting and somehow falling into the category of anything but soothing. Isla nods jerkily in response.

"Yes, fuck."

When he toys with the chain — the chain, she'd forgotten all about that God awful chain — tugging lightly, Isla arches into it just to curb the pain the motion incites.

"Wonderful."

At least when he focuses on his zipper he redirects his attention from that horrid chain. He tugs himself free, then, through the zipper, and strokes over his cock with one hand while the other recovers the second condom — the plain one. Again, he tears the packet open with his teeth, and proceeds to roll it over himself.

"Still hurting?" he questions after a moment, and it is, Isla thinks, but not in the same, biting way the initial pinprick of metal pinching had been. Now, the sensation's dulled into an irritating ache.

"It's — tolerable, kind of," she grits her teeth as he uses one hand to guide his cock towards her entrance and the other to wring the goddamn chain.

"Yeah?" The man's previously stable cadence wavers as he dips himself in, just the tip, and whether her mouth falls open at the intrusion or the subtle, upwards tug on the clamps, he's unsure. Once Harry's able to free the hand that'd guided his cock, he picks up the wand and tells her, "Let's see if this makes it a little more tolerable."

When the vibrator presses to her clit, even flicked onto the lowest setting, all apprehensions regarding the unpleasant twinges that bloom from her chest are out the window. The young woman throws her head back, mewling as Eros rocks forward shallowly.

"Is that better?" Harry's jaw clenches, and Peitho's nodding frantically, even as he tugs on the chain. He slides forward slowly and pulls back out in an impressive feat of self control, bit by bit, rewarding her and himself more and more with each pump forward, until he's bottomed out and the chain is wrapped around gloved knuckles, tense in its pull. A groan slips from his strawberry mouth, accompanying her own as the clamps jerk in his grip and the toy vibrates where she's needed it most.

"Christ, baby. Missed this sweet, little pussy all week long."

His confession culls a moan from her and he grinds forward, spewing pornographic filth that sends her spiraling towards an impending climax, "Fuck — Thought about how tight and warm and wet it was. The way it pulsed around my dick, just like it is now, the way it milked my cum out so well."

His next statement has her whining as he picks up the pace and toggles the wand onto the next tier of intensity, "Thought about what a good girl you were, thought about those pretty little cries, the way you begged me to fuck you. To hurt you."

"All," he punctuates his words with his thrusts, "week," Isla keens, "long. Been aching to fuck you," his hips swivel, his voice smooth and slow as molasses, tantalizing to her ears, "just like this."

She writhes beneath his attention, his admissions, whining as he pummels forward, punching stuttered little breaths from her, and smut spills from him as his jaw clinches, "Give it to you nice and hard, sweetheart, just the way you need."

Harry revels in the tremble of her thighs, the view of her tits bouncing with each rock forward, his mouth fondling over a soundless moan at the sight before he goads, "Right? Nice and rough?"

"Yes," Isla gasps, crying out at he jerks the chain, and her pleasure pours out as a seamless mantra, "Yesyesyesyes, fuck! Fuck!"

As the tempo of his hips grows harsher, faster, and the toy buzzes incessantly at her core, she feels her stability chipping away, crumbling with the loom of imminent crest as pleasure weaves through the cracks.

"Sir!" Peitho moans helplessly, just Sir, for now, and then, "Please, I'm gonna, please—" As Harry retires the wand altogether and still within her, flush to her entrance, her pleads thaw off into a mewl.

"No, you're not," he tells her, somewhat breathlessly, twisting at one of the clamps and drawing a loud cry that leaves him with an open-mouthed grin.

She clenches over him, frantically, when he resorts back to the chain and tugs up, slowly, until she's forced to arch her back up into the torture, hissing, cadence pathetic and a smidge hysterical, "Please, please, I'm good, I'm good—"

"You are good," Harry underlines his words by jerking at one of the clamps, and the motion tears a sharp cry from her as a clamp detaches from one of the buds roughly. He praises over her wail, "Such a good girl for me. Such a good, willing, little whore."

"And you are, aren't you?" he leans over her to palm over her face, over her cheeks, over her mouth, and her spongy walls spasm around him deliciously, "Willing?"

He doesn't wait for a verbal indication of agreement before his voice dips into quieter territory, softer, gentler, a stark contrast to the cruel ministrations, "Willing to let me do anything I want to you, baby?"

He hears her moan whelmed against his hand, feels it, feels her core squeeze over him at the words. Yes, she is.

"Yes, please — Sir!" she grunts when he stands back and, with no warning, yanks the opposite clamp off. The pain is — it's indescribable. It's profound, it's fuck, this sucks, it's extraordinary. It sends all the wrong signals hurtling through her nervous system, as if misfiring, and ripples of pleasure coil over and enmesh with the bite. Her "oh, God," spills as a sob.

Harry eases his palm down the center of her sternum comfortingly, just below her tender breasts, and pulls out just a smidge to rock back into her, the left corner of his mouth twitching wickedly, "Still gonna cum?"

The way Peitho's response comes with no hesitation wrests laughter from him, "Yes."

And the way he reattaches one of the clamps has Peitho's own laughter faltering into a whine. That whine grows in decibel as he reaffixes the second, and that same whine pares down into a high, pretty moan when he replaces the vibrator back to her core on the highest course of intensity. It buzzes alive, buzzes something through her, makes her buzz. Her head falls back as he starts fucking her with a fervor.

"Feels good? You feel good, all tied up, just bouncing helplessly on my cock?" Harry grits out, opting to surprise her by redirecting his attention to her breast rather than the clamps, fondling over one harshly. Her response is a garbled concurrence and he curses, relishing the tight squeeze over his shaft as he plows into her.

Isla feels the tears glazing over her eyes, a sought-after, welcomed twinge of burning, and she feels herself slipping off into that coveted headspace of worriless enjoyment, the kind she gets from a really good scene that just hits something right, the kind that she gets from being fucked well. The kind where her inhibitions spill over and leave her an unrestrained vessel. The kind where she just sort of lays moonily over sheets post the scene, savoring soft touches and soft words. The kind that typically leaves her body racking with sobs. Eros slows in his pace, but he keeps fucking into her.

"Smile!" he digs his thumbs into the corners of her mouth and tugs up, "There you go! You're happy."

Isla is going to die, she decides. She's simply going to combust.

He withdraws the digits and when the corners of her mouth dip he tugs on the chain slowly, still fixed to one of the buds, his tone hard, and nearly slows to an entire stall, "Smile."

And she does, teary-eyed behind the lace, her lips trembling. The toy rumbles loudly.

"Pretty girl with a pretty smile. So happy to have those gorgeous tits played with, aren't you?" He yanks on her hair, "Aren't you?"

"Yes," she chirps, all smiley, her lips shuddering and fighting against curving down into a reflexive sob, and he rewards her by picking the pace back up with a hiss.

When Eros jerks the opposite clamp off, that — well, that. It does something, triggers something, and she feels herself absolutely overflow. Her whimper is cut off by a jagged inhale and she squeezes her eyes shut, the tears flowing freely and leaking against the lace.

She's crying now, definitely, Harry thinks, if the tremble of her pillowy lips is an indication, the shudder that falls over her shoulders as she coils in on herself as best she can with the bindings. But Harry doesn't have many thoughts, right now, there's sort of no room for them behind his skull, because the tissue is all kind of a haze of need, need, need. Need to chase his looming orgasm, need to forge her own. It's all a blur of basic, biological urges and Peitho keening beneath him, Peitho squirming in the binds, Peitho clenching over his dick.

But the crying, that definitely helps.

"Fuck — fucking, Christ," he groans, driving himself into her over and over and over.

Her hands just open and close, open and close, and she breathes through it all, whimpering pathetically, until she's —

"Oh, oh, please, can I — please —"

"May I," Harry grits out in correction, tone hard, "May I."

Her toes curl in futile attempts of restraint, "May I, Sir, may I cum? Fuck — I'm gonna — please!"

Harry digs his fingers into the back of her thigh, a growl emanating from his chest, absolutely primal, and his other hand holds the vibrator to her cunt when he coaxes, loudly, "Cum, cum — fuck. Gush all over that cock, baby, go on."

So she does. She lets herself topple over the precipice, and warmth envelops her as she spirals, spasming over him the entire way as he pounds into her. A shudder works its way from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes as the crest abates and dwindles.

Harry follows, tailing close by and tumbling along only shortly after, his heart hammering, his muscles rippling and clenching with nearly incoherent grunts and curses streaming from his mouth as he spurts ribbon after ribbon into the condom. He takes a few, lazy, drawling pumps as the wave of his climax ebbs and then stretches over her, his touch on her a stark divergence from what it had been only moments prior. Her breaths are hiccupy beneath him, and she's still crying softly.

His hand is soft, kind, nurturing, now. It cascades over her cheek and palms at the flesh gently, and the other tucks frizzed, haywire strands behind her ear. He coos, cadence prideful, "Such a good girl, Peitho. Such a sweet girl."

He stays over her like that, whispering and stroking until the jerk of her shoulders settles and all that's left behind are soft sniffles.

"Made me very happy tonight, darling," Eros tells her, and there's a genuine quality to his cadence that leaves her basking in bliss

Her exhale, despite its shaky quality, is satisfied, especially as she feels his thumb drift along her puffy mouth. There's a comfort to his warm weight against her, a comfort to the pads of pleather clad digits scratching at her scalp.

"M'going to undo the knots, and then we can have a cuddle, alright?"

She's in that fuzzy, warm limbo as his praises spill over her, and it gets chilly once she feels his body heat escape her, once that soft touch retracts as he withdraws to ease out. Isla bites into her bottom lip, shifting in the binds and searching ahead of her, only to discover him discarding the condom he'd worn and tucking it into its mangled wrapper.

She feels a pout tugging at her mouth, but then he turns and tells her, softly, "Put that lip away."

And then his touch is at her side. He works on her wrists first, the order backwards from the initial pattern, and once those are freed from the binds he tosses the rope off and towards the headboard and rubs the joints in his palms.

"Are these sore?" he ponders, thumbing along from her wrist to her palm and following through with the opposite, as well.

They are, Isla decides, but in the same pleasant ache-y sort of way they always are when she's bound. It's the type of ache she relishes in the next day, spotty, euphoric reminders as she goes about errands and responsibilities.

"In — in a nice way, Sir."

His hum is somewhat amused, and Eros sets those down as he winds around to work on her ankles. He undoes the right first, briefly massaging over the joint just as he'd done to her wrists before setting it down and directing his attention on the opposite. Once both are freed, he picks one of her legs up and kneads and strokes from her ankle to her thigh for a while longer than he'd done in the ongoing process of unbinding her. He mirrors the action on the other, taking special care with his hands over her muscles.

Harry pauses his ministrations as her teeth chatter, and his mouth twitches. "Cold?"

Her hands have pasted themselves onto either side of her, glued to the bed, which is silly, she thinks, all things considered, and once he verbally reminds her that she's cold, it's like the trance snaps. She wraps her arms about herself, shivering. She's not too floaty, anymore, she realizes, because she's able to make out a jab.

"Maybe a little. God, what do they keep the AC at in here?"

Wordlessly, Eros sets the leg he'd been tenderly caressing onto the mattress softly, and he winds around her. She's not sure of what exactly he's doing until she feels herself jerk, and then she realizes that he's untucking the corners of the blanket that'd been folded in so tightly.

"Comfortably frost-bound," the male snorts, and the way the blanket unceremoniously falls over her, at first, has her brows pinching in mock indignation.

"Hey, keep TLC-ing me," Isla pouts.

"Keep TLC-ing you?" There's an amused note to his cadence as he makes his way to the conveniently situated, electric water dispenser. He discards the wrapper with the condom tucked away into the bin beside the dispenser first, and then he takes a couple cups off the top of the broad, plastic container. The man grins down at the slow pour as the bubbling of the jug infiltrates his hearing. When the first little plastic cup is filled to the brim, he sets it aside and reaches for the second.

She groans over the electric grinding, in true incorrigible fashion, and tells him, jesting, "Well, yes, after I've been manhandled and beat up, I prefer to be TLC-ed."

"I will TLC you to your heart's content," Harry promises, turning to make his way over with that exact purpose in mind.

She's rolled onto her side and rests in the fetal position with one end of the blanket haphazardly tucked over the upper portion of her body. As he takes a slow sip from his cup, the other (intended for her) in hand, Harry catches an eyeful of her bruised backside, painted in pleasant tints of pinky reds. When he makes his way over, setting the cups onto a side table first and foremost, he knees his way onto the bed and runs his palm over the skin softly, wincing. He can feel her stiffen up at the touch.

"Ouch — what arsehole did that to you?"

When she meets his eyes, peeking up with her own from under the makeshift comforter cocoon, they're soft and playful.

She sighs, feigning woe, and shifts beneath the fluffy sheet, "A very mean man."

"Mm. Well," Isla feels herself being jostled, and lets him manhandle her again into being TLC-ed — it's gentle, this time, "I'm sure he had his reasons."

She slots between his parted thighs as he settles against the headboard and cradles her, still in the blanket cocoon, with her legs lifting to lay over one of his thighs. The young woman lays her cheek against his shoulder and huffs as he tucks the blanket tighter around her, "Maybe something like that."

Again, she's jostled when he reaches over to the stand and brings a cup to her mouth. "Drink, please."

"'Please,' look at that," Isla jokes, raising her eyebrows behind the lace, "Look at how the tables turn..."

Harry just tuts and smushes the lip of the cup to her smiley mouth, pleased she's got it in her to joke around. She complies, taking a few sips, until her hands untuck for the blanket to hold onto the cup.

"I reckon the mean man's a pretty decent guy, otherwise," He grins lewdly after he's handed the refreshment off, "He did reward you for your trials and tribulations with a pretty earth-shattering orgasm, I think."

"Earth-shattering, was it?" a smile tugs at Isla's mouth at the haughtiness of his statement, and she presses back to his shoulder.

"Well," he smooths a hand over her cheek softly, teasing, "by the way you were crying, as I recall, I think it certainly did something for you."

"Oh, you recall?"

"I do, you don't?"

"Mm," she hums, and then her voice succumbs to a peal of giggles, "Vaguely." They only increase as he sighs.

Once her laughters settled, he thumbs at her cheek as cue that he'd like her to lift her head. And when she does, despite the view of his obnoxiously terrifying, hardcore-BDSM latex hood, she can tell that his expression is soft behind it, "Tell me more about the crying."

He'd been with criers before — they were his favorite, in a way (for unsavory purposes the average bystander would probably frown at him for), and he understood the general basis. The endorphins, the release. Some girls just cried during sex, whether in moments of rapturous pleasure or as a receptivity to pain. Some girls didn't cry at all. But the thing with criers like Isla — the ones who specifically craved to cry, there was a dangerous sort of precipice to dance along. Because, even with safewords, that kind of stuff could get a little ...murky. There's an aspect of assessment that comes with experience, and he's pleased she's trusted him to test those boundaries, but there's also a specific aspect of divergence between experience with kink and experience with a specific partner. Where the shift is. How it goes. When play treks into dangerous territory. When to turn around.

He supposes that kind of stuff just comes with time.

Isla shrugs, her mouth settling into a wordless line and breaking as she expels an abashed breath, "I don't know. I've always — it's always been kind of a thing for me. Like, it's cathartic, and it," her brows furrow, "It happens when I'm overwhelmed with anything."

"It's intense," he tells her in a smile, nodding, but there's no judgment to his tone, no mockery, "And, for me, too. Because that kind of play can be tricky. Honestly, I just want to make sure I didn't break you too bad."

Isla curbs her snort.

He licks his lips, "That everything was all good, in the scene."

She simpers a little, burrowing back against his button-up, and hums. "Yes, yeah. Everything was good. Splendid, in fact."

She can hear that his exhale wears a grin, "Good."

"Mm," her voice is soft, "I'd do it all over again, if I could."

"Would you?" He tucks her hair behind her ear, rubbing along her scalp with the pads of his digits in a way that has her eyes slipping shut and her leg nearly kicking like a well-scratched dog, "What about next Friday?"

Isla blinks her eyes open, a note of delighted surprise plucking at her vocal chords, "With —with you?"

"Mm. With the very horrible, mean man," his mouth sets into a line that breaks as soon she lifts her head and he imagines the indignant look behind her mask.

"O-kay, now you're just putting words in my mouth, I said mean man, I never used the word horrible."

He hums in mock-understanding, rubbing against her arm over the blanket.

"Yes," he squeezes at her tricep, the sensation muffled by the comforter, "With me. Next Friday."

Isla pretends to contemplate.

"Let me smack you around a bit more next week," he teases softly, his tongue peeking out to graze over his pillowy, pink lips, but there's a dirty, familiar connotation to his words that sends a shudder down the knobs of her spine, "I'll make it worth your while."

"I'll have to check my schedule," the young woman feigns indifference, lifting her shoulders in a shrug that's somewhat restrained (how familiar, truly) by his arm cradling her, "You know, there's lots of people interested in smacking me around."

Harry's brows furrow behind the latex and his mouth parts as he looks to the side contemplatively, "Y'know," he bridles a laugh, "I can't say that surprises me, darling."

"Hey," she whines after a moment of introspective lull, and his chest rumbles with laughter. The corners of her mouth buckle, and after a while she tells him, "Yeah. Smack me around again next Friday."

"Yeah? You want that?" the hand that'd been glued to her hair slips to the bare side of her calf that peeks from the blanket cocoon.

"Yes," she exhales, and when he prods, after a second, "Yes, what?" a devious glint to his eyes, she feels warmth coiling in her tummy.

"Yes, Sir."

Yeah. He likes the prospect of hearing more of that.

"Let me know when you're proper TLC-ed," Harry tells her after a beat, his mouth slipping into a soft smirk, "Need you to flip over, after. Wanna see that gorgeous color a little longer."

TDIAG MASTERLIST HERE

#dom harry styles #harry styles #harry styles dirty fanfiction #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles edit #harry styles edits #harry styles fanfiction #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles wattpad #harry styles x oc #harry styles writing #domharry #dom!harry #harry styles angst #TDIAG #1800titz #1-800-tits

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bay-ja-flores · 11 months

Text

My wish is to be yours

1/3 (3,560 palavras)

~Avisos

ltops/hbottom

Harry Power bottom

Feminização

dinâmica dom/sub

Domharry

SubLouis

negação de orgasmo

asfixiofilia

tapas no rosto / face slapping

fixação oral

sexo anal

~~~~

Louis tomou mais um gole de sua bebida passando os olhos pelas pessoas presentes no local parando seu olhar no lindo garoto de cabelos cacheados com um vestido preto colado em seu corpo esbelto, que estava igualmente avaliando as pessoas no local procurando alguém que lhe interessasse.

Admirou o corpo delicado perfeitamente moldado pelo vestido, com os saltos que o deixavam mais alto do que já parecia ser, e as coxas fodidamente perfeitas que adoraria colocar o rosto entre elas, subiu o olhar para admirar seu rosto vendo que ele o olhava também, conectaram seus olhares sorrindo um para o outro, deixou o copo vazio na mesa mais próxima indo em passos lentos até ele.

A música alta e as luzes piscando começavam a ficar em segundo plano conforme se aproximava do cacheado, ele era bonito, Louis já tinha ficado com alguns homens mas esse era sem dúvida o mais bonito que já tinha visto, fodidamente perfeito, já tinha o visto duas outras vezes pelo local mas nunca teve a oportunidade de falar com ele toda vez que pensou em ir até ele teve outra coisa que tinha que fazer, se lembrava vagamente de seu nome tendo escutado outras pessoas o chamando de Harry, Harry era um nome bonito certamente combinava com ele.

Levou uns segundos para assimilar que ele estava andando em sua direção também, ficou um pouco mais confiante com suas chances com esse garoto mas ficou um confuso ao que ele desviou de sua direção indo para o corredor que dava acesso para as escadas, pensou um pouco antes de o seguir pensando que talvez o cacheado apenas quisesse conversar em um lugar mais privado, assim que virou a curva para entrar no corredor foi jogado contra a parede e lábios foram pressionados nos seus, ficou surpreso no início mas logo retribuiu o beijo.

moveu os lábios junto dos lábios macios do cacheado em um deslize perfeito antes das línguas se encontrarem se movendo juntas uma contra a outra, levou suas mãos para a cintura alheia enquanto o cacheado apertava e puxava seus fios de cabelo fazendo com que arrepios percorrerem seu corpo e a excitação fosse direto para sua virilha em choquinhos de prazer.

por baixo de suas pálpebras era visível os Flashes de luzes coloridas que estavam presentes no local junto da música ambiente que a esse ponto já parecia abafada e distante para si, a única coisa que conseguia ouvir com nitidez eram os sons molhados do beijo que compartilhavam e o farfalhar de suas roupas.

O cheiro de cereja que emanava de Harry junto do sabor doce de bebida misturado com o gloss em seus lábios embaralhava completamente seus sentidos o deixando tonto e desejoso por mais daquele garoto, puxou a perna de Harry por trás do joelho o fazendo tomar impulso para subir em seu colo, os virou pressionando as costas do acastanhado na parede para poder voltar a passar suas mãos pelo corpo curvilíneo.

impulsionou os quadris para frente esfregando seus pênis juntos através dos tecidos da calça e do vestido gemendo juntos sem parar beijo, as coisas escalaram rápido, muito rápido, desgrudou suas bocas respirando ofertante, Louis apoiou o rosto no ombro do garoto sendo automaticamente intoxicado pelo cheiro dele, suspirou tentando se acalmar para não transar com Harry bem ali onde qualquer um poderia os ver.

— Tenho um quarto aqui em cima, se você quiser… – Harry assentiu tirando suas mãos do cabelo do moreno e descendo dele colo indo em direção da escada com Louis atrás de si.

subiram os primeiros degraus da escada de forma apressada com Louis encarando a bunda de Harry e não resistindo a levar as mãos para apalpar o bumbum gordinho por baixo do vestido.

— Se controle – disse Harry depois de um risinho segurando uma das mãos de Louis o puxando para terminar de subir as escadas.

— Quarto 9 – assim que terminou de falar Harry já quase o arrastava em direção a última porta do corredor, entregou a chave para o garoto colando seus corpos começando a deixar chupões no pescoço branquinho enquanto Harry abria a porta.

Assim que a porta foi aberta entraram no local se beijando de modo afobado, deixando um último beijo nos lábios gordinhos do cacheado Louis se afastou indo procurar camisinhas e lubrificante os achando rapidamente na primeira gaveta da mesa de cabeceira.

voltou para Harry que estava sentado à beira da cama tirando calmamente os saltos que estava usando, colocou as camisinhas e o lubrificante em cima da cama se ajoelhando entre as pernas de Harry deixando um beijo no joelho descoberto, colocou o pé que ainda estava com o salto apoiado em sua coxa para terminar de soltar o ajuste do salto logo o tirando delicadamente em seguida repetindo o mesmo processo com o outro, acariciou os tornozelos de Harry indo subindo suas mãos pelas pernas e coxas até às parar nos quadris do garoto deixando um aperto forte se levantando para voltar a beijá-lo.

Harry o empurrou para se sentar na cama para subindo em seu colo com uma perna de cada lado de seu corpo ainda o beijando, puxou os cabelos da nuca de Louis fazendo-o gemer em sua boca, mexeu os quadris rebolando no colo dele sentindo o membro duro em sua bunda que estava sendo apalpada pelas mãos fortes, esfregou um pouco mais sua bunda ali antes de se levantar.

Se ajoelhou em frente a ele tirando o cacete do moreno da calça apertada começando a punhetar o pau de Louis que suspirou e segurou seus cabelos para o trazer para mais perto recebendo um aperto firme em seu pau.

— guarde suas mãos para você. – Harry falou deixando os movimentos de sua mão mais forte vendo a cabecinha do pau de Louis vazar pré-gozo o suficiente para molhar sua mão. — Você sempre foi tão desesperado assim? – perguntou lambendo a glande de Louis.

— Não antes de te conhecer.

Harry fez um som de agrado e levou o pau de Louis quase completamente a boca indo e voltando lentamente fazendo Louis se segurar para não agarrar os cabelos cacheados de Harry e o forçar a ir mais rápido.

Harry cravou as unhas nas coxas de Louis assim que o moreno moveu uma de suas mãos para o tocar fazendo-o soltar um gemido sôfrego, fechou o punho para se controlar o que não adiantou muito já que balançou seu quadril tentando foder de volta a boca de Harry que sugou fortemente a glande de Louis e se afastou completamente logo em seguida recebendo uma careta de Louis.

— não faça essa cara você tem um lugar muito melhor do que minha boca pra gozar.

se levantou da cama abrindo o zíper na lateral de seu vestido o deixando cair no chão deixando à mostra seu corpo quase completamente nu exceto pela calcinha rendada, subiu na cama engatinhando para se deitar no meio da mesma, Louis tirou a camiseta e logo se prontificou a ir junto dele se deitando entre suas pernas começando a distribuir beijos por suas coxas indo subindo e parando ao ver a calcinha para a puxar para baixo a deslizando pelos tornozelos do rapaz.

Olhou o pênis mediado com seus 16 centímetros completamente duro com a glande avermelhada, deu uma longa lambida na extensão de Harry o segurando pelas coxas dando lambidinhas na glande antes de ir colocando de pouco em pouco todo o falo de Harry dentro de sua boca até ficar com o nariz encostado na virilha do cacheado ficado parado ali por uns segundos antes de começar os movimentos de vai e vem.

— Humm, você é bom. – murmurou o rapaz segurando os cabelos de Louis que tomou isso como motivação para sugar mais forte babando por toda a extensão do pau de Harry .

Louis nunca iria admitir mas tinha um puta tesão em ter qualquer coisa em sua garganta, se lembrava muito bem de todas as vezes que usou os proprios dedos ou algum objeto para foder a própria boca enquanto se masturbava mas a sensação de um pau de verdade era simplesmente incrível, podia sentir seu pau mais duro que nunca e vazando tando pré-gozo que, porra, ele com certeza poderia gozar assim sem ao menos se tocar.

O gosto almiscarado e o peso em sua língua combinado com a dorzinha no fundo de sua garganta lhe deixavam em completo êxtase, a ponta da glande atingia repetidamente sua garganta que vibrava em contentamento, baba começou a escorrer por seu queixo se agarrou a Harry estava muito extasiado para ter aquele pau retirado de si agora.

— Oh... porra, Louis... eu vou gozar. - disse harry dando dois tapinhas no ombro de Louis para ele se afastar, mas isso só fez Louis agarrar mais forte suas coxas deixando os movimentos de sua boca mais rápidos. — Louis, eu não consigo gozar duas vezes seguidas... porra, solta. - Puxou os cabelos de Louis com força o obrigando a tirar a boca de seu pau com um barulho molhado.

Harry olhou para Louis que tinha os olhos vidrados e baba escorrendo pelos lábios que se mexiam devido a respiração ofegante, acertou um tapa firme na bochecha de Louis.

— Quando eu mandar você fazer uma coisa você faz. – disse Harry apertando o rosto de Louis que suspirava ofegante mexendo o quadril para esfregar para esfregar seu pênis na colcha da cama através da calça jeans. — Pare com isso. – Ordenou usando os pés para o impedir de mexer seus quadris.

fez um sinal para o frasco de lubrificante que Louis entregou de muito bom grado, despejou uma boa quantidade em seus dedos os colocando lentamente em seu buraco se certificando de que estava esticado o suficiente.

— pode fazer de novo? – falou Louis ficando quase em cima de Harry , apoiando as mãos nas coxas dele para chegar mais perto.

— fazer o que?

— Me bater. – falou levando a mão livre de Harry para seu rosto.

— Quer que eu bata no seu rosto? – perguntou arqueando as sobrancelhas, recebendo um aceno quase frenético em resposta, Harry riu puxando o corpo de Louis sobre o seu.

— Me fode bem gostosinho e eu penso sobre isso. – Louis assentiu pegando uma das camisinhas a colocando de modo apressado para se colocar entre as pernas de Harry apoiando as mãos ao lado da cabeça dele para o beijar enquanto se colocava dentro dele lentamente.

O cacheado suspirou ofegante durante o beijo passando suas pernas em volta da cintura de Louis para o manter parado.

Os minutos se passaram arrastados para Louis, o calor e o aperto ao redor de seu pênis, as pontinhas das unhas se arrastando por suas costas o fazendo se arrepiar, tudo em Harry estava o deixando doido, o fazendo querer fazer coisas irracionais que nem ele mesmo compreendia, mas sabia com toda a certeza que queria.

— Harry … ? – perguntou depois do que parecia ser uma eternidade parado olhando o cacheado que já havia se acostumado, mas queria ver quanto tempo Louis aguentaria com os quadris tremendo tentando se manter parado, gostava de torturar o mais velho.

— já pode se mexer. – começou a se mover lentamente no começo para ir aumentando a velocidade de modo apressado sendo impedido por Harry que apertou as pernas a sua volta — devagar. – mandou num tom calmo precisando os pés na lombar de Louis o fazendo manter o ritmo tortuosamente lento que parecia estar o agradando muito.

choramingou mas continuou a bater os quadris contra os de Harry, saindo até a ponta para se colocar lentamente até a base repetindo isso vez após vez até Harry soltar um pouco seu aperto deixando Louis aumentar ritmo para um que fazia com destreza.

assim que estabeleceu um ritmo estável Harry estava com os olhos revirados a boca entreaberta em um gemido mudo, o ritmo que estava mantendo era perfeito para estimular o pontinho de prazer dentro do cacheado e ele só ter poucos segundos antes da glande bater ali novamente, uma das mãos de Harry que apertava os ombros fortes de Louis se moveu para o rosto de Louis para o puxar para um beijo molhado.

— Isso, porra, assim. – arranhou o rosto do moreno deixando uma bela marca de suas unhas antes de lhe acertar um tapa logo seguido de outro e outro, Louis parou as estocadas meio atordoado e meio espantado em como isso tinha ido direto pro seu pau e o feito mais duro do que acha que já esteve em toda sua vida. — não era isso que você queria? Você não queria que eu lhe batesse?

Assentiu voltando a estocar praticamente o implorando com os olhos para Harry lhe dar outro tapa que veio rapidamente em uma velocidade quase absurda, Harry lhe batia entre uma estocada e outra toda vez que ele acertava aquele pontinho especial dentro dele sussurrando o quão bom ele era.

Apoiou as mãos aos lados da cabeça de Harry se movendo rápido se deliciando dos gemidinhos agudos de Harry, a onda de prazer começava a o fazer se sentir flutuante e dormente, tudo se tornou uma confusão em sua mente nublada, os movimentos de seu quadril pareceram borrados com o calor e a velocidade que se movia.

O leve peso das pernas ao redor de seu quadril e arranhões particularmente fortes em seu abdômen trouxeram um pouco mais de clareza para sua mente, voltou a si vagamente ciente dos sons que saiam de sua boca e o fio de baba que ligava seus lábios a bochecha rosada de Harry.

Diminuiu um pouco o ritmo para poder respirar sendo surpreendido por pelo tapa mais forte que tinha recebido até agora e uma palavra rosnada de 'continue' o atordoamento o fez parar completamente e seu rosto arder com a marca da mão de Harry antes de continuar e no meio disso ele descobri uma coisa 'Harry batia mais forte quando ele desobedecia', toda vez que diminuía ou aumentava um pouco a velocidade Harry estalava um tapa em seu rosto, nem queria mais mudar a velocidade só queria sentir mais da mão de Harry em seu rosto.

— Porque você está sendo mal? Você estava sendo tão bom pra mim antes. – Fez um beicinho, ele não queria ser mal para Harry, percebendo como estava sendo egoísta em só ter pensado em seu prazer e não no do cacheado voltou ao ritmo que deixou o corpo de Harry maleável instantaneamente e o faz revirar os olhos murmurando gemidos baixinhos, de repente sentiu seus cabelos serem agarrados fortemente, olhou para Harry que tinha uma expressão irritada. — Era proposital? Você estava sendo mal para mim propositalmente?

Louis enterrou o rosto no pescoço de Harry murmurando um 'desculpa' baixinho continuando a estocar.

— Porque estava fazendo isso? – Perguntou rígido, a mão que estava agarrando seu cabelo se moveu para apertar seu rosto com força o impossibilitando de desviar o olhar do rosto zangado de Harry.

— Desculpa, eu só queria que você batesse mais forte, não queria ser mau pra você. – Choramingou dando beijinhos pelo pescoço de Harry para se desculpar.

— Você fez tudo isso porque queria apanhar? – Indagou com descrença na voz, Harry empurrou Louis para ele se deitar de costas na cama, subiu em cima dele com uma perna de cada lado do corpo bem definido, alinhou a glande em sua entrada se sentando devagar estremecendo e se contraindo ao tê-lo completamente dentro de si novamente, mão com unhas bem feitinhas foi diretamente pro pescoço do moreno para o manter parado.

— você é tão desesperado por prazer, uma coisinha patética que preferiu ser mau para mim só pra ter um pouco de prazer. – Subiu e desceu o corpo com o pênis de Louis atingindo todos os seus bons lugares o fazendo morder os lábios para se conter, continuou com os movimentos constantes enquanto falava — Você vai ficar parado enquanto eu te uso do jeito que eu quiser pra me satisfazer porque aparentemente não posso contar com você pra isso.

Harry se perdeu por uns instantes na sensação de sua entrada estando incrivelmente alargada e a fricção gostosa em seu buraquinho mas logo voltou a si quando sentiu as mãos de Louis subindo por suas coxas e às tirou rapidamente dali as levando para a cabeceira da cama.

— Segure, não solte até eu mandar. – Harry cavalgou usando o pau de Louis para perseguir o próprio orgasmo sem se importar com os ofegos desesperados por ar do homem abaixo de si, o moreno apertou a cabeceira com força para manter as mãos ali e não tocar o corpo acima de si. — e seja um bom bichinho e não goze até eu terminar de te usar.

Choramingou com as palavras de Harry, nunca tinha tentado se impedir de gozar, diminuir o ritmo pra durar mais, algumas vezes, mas se impedir de gozar nunca, não sabia se conseguiria, tentou se consertar em qualquer outra coisa que não fosse o aperto quente em seu pau, o que se provou ineficiente quando o cacheado moveu seus quadris em círculos usando a glande de Louis para ter sua próstata massageada.

deu mais um tapa no rosto bronzeado que já estava tomando uma cor avermelhada e segurou firme o maxilar do moreno com a mão livre para poder beijá-lo, Louis ofegava com os lábios entreabertos mal conseguindo retribuir o beijo que Harry comandava, o beijo era vagaroso e desleixado demonstrando o quanto ambos estavam afoitos por mais um do outro, soltou um pouco seu aperto no pescoço alheio finalmente o deixando respirar.

— Por favor, por favor. – implorou em um gemido sôfrego com rosto já completamente suado e vermelho pelos tapas e a privação de oxigênio.

— shhh… seu único trabalho é ficar quietinho deixando eu te usar como o brinquedinho que você é. – falou voltando a apertar sua mão no pescoço do moreno.

— Eu posso gozar? por favor. – Implorou com lágrimas começando a se acumular nos olhos por conta da superestimulação. – Eu prometo continuar sendo bom.

Harry pensou sobre isso enquanto ainda cavalgava no pau de Louis, podia ver a forma que Louis respirava descompassadamente e seu corpo tremia em espasmos fortes toda vez que acertava a cabecinha do pênis do moreno em sua próstata, sabia que ele não aguentaria muito sem desobedecer sua ordem.

— Se me fizer gozar pode vir logo depois de mim. – Seus olhos brilharam em esperança ao ouvir isso, segurou a cintura de Harry com força estocando os próprios quadris para cima acertando em cheio a próstata de Harry tirando um gemidinho gritado do cacheado.

Harry apertou seu pescoço, a falta de ar lhe deixou tão duro que estava quase doloroso, podia sentir o pré-gozo encharcando a camisinha deixando seu pau completamente molhado.

Louis se sentia tonto, flutuando na própria mente com a necessidade de gozar, o aperto quente em seu pau, os gemidinhos sôfregos acima de si e o rostinho do cacheado contorcido em prazer, tudo contribuindo para seu estado desesperado, estocou repetidamente a próstata do cacheado o fazendo tremer e gozar sob o próprio abdômen apertando mais o pescoço de Louis enquanto gozava.

Harry saiu de sua névoa pós orgasmo com Louis lhe chamando repetidamente com sussurros de 'Harry, Harry, Harry, Harry, eu posso?', podia sentir o pênis dentro de si pulsando e o corpo do homem abaixo de si tremer com o esforço de não se mexer para não gozar e não superestimular o cacheado, sorriu ladino e voltou a cavalgar lentamente apertando o pescoço do moreno já bem marcado com as marcas de suas mãos.

— Você pode vir, você foi tão bom, tão bom pra mim. – Louis apertou suas mãos nos quadris do acastanhado revirando os olhos enquanto tinha o melhor e mais forte orgasmo de sua vida.

com o corpo ainda tremendo e segurando Harry, o mantendo conectado a si ainda com os tremores pós orgasmo que pareciam durar para sempre e mesmo assim não durar o suficiente, quando Harry tirou o pênis do moreno de dentro de si Louis choramingou abrindo e fechando as mãos para chamar Harry de volta sem forças para realmente falar.

— Eu já volto, eu prometo, fique quietinho. – deixou um beijinho na bochecha de Louis e foi para o banheiro voltando apenas meio minuto depois, tirou a camisinha do pênis do moreno que já começava a amolecer a descartando na lixeira ao lado da cama e com um paninho limpou a baba que escorria pelo queixo de Louis e o excesso de esperma do seu abdômen e pau, limpou a si mesmo e se deitou na cama puxando Louis para deitar a cabeça em seu peito, abraçou o moreno e acariciando seus cabelos e sussurrando elogios para ele que praticamente ronronava quase dormindo.

Louis estava quase dormindo quando seus lábios esbarram no mamilo de Harry, às cegas passou a mão sobre o peito do encaracolado até encontrar o mamilo inchadinho o esfregando um pouco com os dedos gordinhos antes o colocar na boca e começar a sugá-lo com alguns estalinhos, Harry estremeceu mas apenas continuou a acariciar o cabelo do moreno o deixando dormir sugando seu mamilo e somente quando teve certeza que Louis dormia se deixou dormir também ainda abraçando corpo quentinho do moreno que estava quase completamente em cima do seu.

Bayer_♡_

#hbottom #ltops #hpowerbottom #smut larry #larry stylinson #harry styles #louis tomlinson #one direction #one #onelarry #smut #oneshot #dom/sub

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