Ivan Press

[Hilary] The protest is childish. I might, she insists. Might be able to tell if she loves him. And that really was the only difference in what they said: love, says Hilary. In love, says Ivan. Truth be told, though? It was just a matter of what words came to mind while she was reeling from orgasm and submission. There is no precision to it. No easy explanation, either, for why she presses even that much.

I might love you.

And I might even know what that means.

The slowness of Ivan's touch is hypnotic. She whimpers when his finger so much as graze her clit, her body tightening up with overstimulation. Her eyes close again, fresh tears coming to her face that, somehow, don't seem upset. It's a physical reaction more than anything. She curls even further into his arms, as though seeking respite and sanctuary from the very one who is overwhelming her. A broken thing to do, in reality; the only thing she can do, too.

When Ivan relents, she shudders, tucking her legs up a bit, rubbing her face on the bedspread like an animal to dry her tears. She sniffs, and he speaks quietly to her, and she takes in a breath at the last words. Nods, shivering a little.

But she doesn't move yet. Hard to, anyway, still tied up. She doesn't ask him if he'll chain her to the bed like he did at his lake house, because perhaps she thinks it goes without saying that when he wants to keep her in his bed to fuck at his leisure, he'll make sure she can't get away. Hilary does lick her lips, though, and turns her head to nuzzle against him.

"My ass is still warm where you punished me," she whispers. Yet, conversely: "You know you don't have to be so gentle, right?"

[Ivan] He didn't even tense up when she said love to him, but Ivan tenses a little now. He pulls back a little, far enough to meet her eyes over her shoulder. There's a bit of a frown on his brow.

"I don't want to hit you much harder than that, Hilary," he replies, just above a whisper. "Please don't ask me to."

[Hilary] To that, there's little more than a sigh, her head turning again to lay down on his bedspread, on his arm. It's hard not to hear disappointment in it. Or resignation. Just a moment or two passes, though, and she breathes in to speak again.

"I like it so much," she says, a deep ache in her voice, a sort of yearning coupled with anxiety or sorrow at his refusal. "You don't... you don't even have to hit me harder. Y--" but she stops herself there, pressing her lips together. Her hand, wrist wrapped in leather and padding as it is and connected by chain, wiggles against the bedding til it works underneath his hand, or seeks out some part of him to make contact with. The chain clatters a bit, the oddest sound to hear in the aftermath of a fuck,

just as the oddest thing to feel is himself, still held inside a warm cunt long after he's come inside of it. Even with Hilary, staying this close to her afterward is still not common. And not expected.

A beat later: "I just meant you don't have to be so gentle and careful," she whispers. "We can be creative."

[Ivan] Behind her, Ivan stirs, raising his head, propping his cheekbone on his knuckles. His arm is still around her; it's that hand she works her own under, and his fingers fold over hers. Enveloping. Protective, perhaps.

They're unusually close. They're unusually open. He hears disappointment in that sigh; he hears ache, yearning, anxiety in her voice. And he bends to her briefly, kissing her arm, kissing her skin wherever he can reach it.

"How?" He's whispering now, too. "I know part of it is to surprise you, but ... teach me what you mean."

[Hilary] "You can hit me more," Hilary says, almost immediately, but it's different from 'hit me harder'. She doesn't stop. "Or in other places. You can stroke it and slap it against my pussy,"

and he can feel new wetness, faintly, against the nerve endings of his own hypersensitive flesh, as she goes on,

"and you can use it on me even if you're not fingering me or fucking me. You can use it on me while you're making me suck your cock. You can leave me and come back and hit me when I don't expect it. You can make me rub against it to get myself off. You can... blindfold me and gag me. We can play and not even have sex," she says, almost like this is a bargaining tool, or something he'd never think of,

which is probably true,

but she's still going on, as though he's opened up a floodgate of her kink just by asing right now, when she's already so open. Right now, listening to her, she seems younger. And she seems more human than she has all day, closer to him, without being shattered and without being lost in subspace.

"You can scratch me with your nails or drip hot wax on me or ice or make me dress up." A beat, a moment of thought. "Or tickle me." She's slowing down. "Or... "

Almost sleepily now, tired after this recitation, like she's telling him what she put in her letter to Santa before she falls asleep for the night, a self-imposed sort of lullabye: "...lots of things," she finishes. Her eyes close again and, calmer, she nuzzles the bedding as though it smells like him when it only dimly does. "I could wear gloves," Hilary murmurs, like this has some kind of meaning, before she finally goes quiet.

[Hilary] [asing? asking!]

[Ivan] It's hard to tell what he's thinking during all that. A single, simple question seems to have opened a hidden floodgate, and now everything, all these bottled up thoughts that might have sent one of her other lovers running for the hills, might have simply been too private for her to ever share, would have certainly convinced Espiridion she and all her house were, in fact, quite wyrmridden -- everything comes whispering out of her. Like dear, beloved little wishes that she keeps locked up inside herself. Pleasant things she thinks of to lull herself back from whatever black rage resides inside her.

When she's quiet, he is too. Give him this much: at no point he did pull out of her. Get away from her. Throw her out of his penthouse because while he'll happily fuck another wolf's mate, the harmless little games she suggests are too much for his sensibilities. He stays with her, his arm around her, his cock inside her,

half-hardening again.

After a while he reaches past her. His fingertips brush the strap at the end of the flogger, and he pulls it closer until he can wrap his fingers around it, thoughtful. "I thought about gagging you with this," he whispers. A confession of his own, this. "I thought about leaving you tied up. Making you hold it in your teeth while I pounded your cunt. And if you screamed too loudly and dropped it, I thought about just leaving you there for a while. Or turning you around and making you suck on my cock for a while."

He leaves the flogger where it is. His hand comes back to her, finds her breast, caresses it as he lays down behind her again.

"But I didn't know if you'd like it. I need a way to know if you like it or not." A small pause. Then, as though it just occurred to him, "Gloves?"

[Hilary] She hasn't said any of this to anyone for so long she almost forgot some of it. Ivan's been the only one to ask for years now, and there's a faint tremor of excitement in her voice to share it all. There's even a bit of shyness, though not very much -- his cock is half-hard inside of her, his cum and her own all over their thighs, her wrists still carefully locked up and their bodies entwined naked on a bed that's more like an altar. There isn't much to be shy about.

When Ivan finally responds, Hilary is still lulled, calm, still and peaceful in his arms. She seems sleepy and content, where a few moments go she was disappointed and a little sad, where a moment before that she was sensorily overcome, where a little while before that she was gasping that she might, she might, she thinks she might love him.

He tells her what he thought about doing with her and she moans softly, shivering on him. That poor, discarded toy she brought for them to play with is dragged a bit closer, and taken in hand again. The mere sight of his fingers wrapping around the handle makes Hilary's breathing ratchet up again slightly. That flicker of a fantasy he had fills the air between his mouth and her ear, and she breathes out as he lets go of the flogger, puts his hand on her tit, holds her on the bed they can't seem to leave.

Ivan didn't know if she'd like it. And he needs to know if she'd like it. A moment later, he asks about the gloves, and she huffs a small laugh:

"It might be pretty," is all she says, as though -- like the jolt of arousal in him when he sees some of her underthings, when he peels them off of her or tears them -- it is simply inexplicable, what on earth it has to do with 'playing' like they do. She's quiet a moment, though. "What do you want me to do?" she asks after awhile, her voice small. "If I don't like something you want to do to me."

[Ivan] Ivan smiles a little, but he's behind her again, and she can't see it. She can still hear it on his voice, though. "Yes," he agrees softly, "it might be quite pretty."

His hand seeks hers then. He touches the backs of her fingers, the soft skin between them. The backs of her hands, still bound together when he let her down from the ceiling fan and wrapped the chain around her wrists instead to hold her. Keep her. She's the quiet one now, thinking. When she speaks again, it's his turn to think.

"I want you to tell me," he says finally. "Say, not like that. And I'll know."

[Hilary] There have been two instances when Hilary has made it unequivocably clear to Ivan that something he's doing is not okay. Both times she's struck at him, lashed out whether she could land a hit or not. Once was in Mexico. Once was not three hours ago.

Then there was the time in his yacht, down below, when her whole body tucked into a self-protective ball and she sobbed, pushed so far into submission she couldn't even come back to find words, to tell him no, and it was up to him to notice. To see that going any farther would be ghastly of him. Wrong of him. It's possible he looks back on that with terror even now, because if he hadn't recognized, if he hadn't seen how Hilary really felt, he would have raped her.

Though the truth is, if he hadn't realized then that she was no longer even capable of telling him yes and that that was an inherent no, he wouldn't be the sort of man who'd understand the difference between sex and rape.

Maybe on some level Hilary realizes the need to let him know one way or the other. If only because he's so overwhelmed by the burden of control sometimes, doesn't want to hurt her, can't bear to truly break her, just wants her to feel... well. Like she always says of him: I just want to make you feel good. So she asks him what he wants her to do.

"What if I can't talk?" she asks softly after awhile, without saying because I'm gagged. Without saying: because sometimes I can't find words.

[Ivan] The fact is, Ivan doesn't ask her -- or tell her -- what to say if she wants him to continue. That she's all right. That she's enjoying what he's doing. That she's turned on. He doesn't have to. Whatever Hilary Durante

(though he supposes that's not even really her name anymore)

is, she's not coy. She doesn't pretend innocence. She's always been so very frank about what she likes, so very open about showing him.

And he doesn't tell her what to say if she wants him to stop, just stop, stop everything and shut it all down. He doesn't have to ask that, either. For one thing, he doubts she'll ever hit that point in their 'play' before he does. For another -- if she does, he knows she'll let him know. Utterly and unequivocally.

It's that middle ground he's wary of. When she's not wholly enjoying herself. When she might be doing it for his sake. Because she wants him to feel good. Because -- in her own, strange, crippled way -- she wants to take care of him.

So he asks her. And he tells her. And they have this quiet, naked little discussion, more honest now with each other than they've been in ... ever, perhaps.

"If you can't speak," he says after a moment's thought, "shake your head and make a 'no' sound. And move away from me if you can." He nuzzles against the back of her neck, the back of her shoulder. "I don't think I've ever felt you move away from something you liked," he muses softly. "I think if I felt you moving away, I'd know."

[Hilary] Once, offhandedly, Hilary mentioned that she doesn't even go by her first name. She may have mentioned it to Cordelia, or some other meaningless person she's met. It might not have been Ivan. He's heard the last name she uttered when she told him why Anton would have her brother's name as one of his own, though it will of course be some time before Hilary takes on that moniker again; technically she is still supposed to be a happily married woman.

Lying in another man's bed, her wrists manacled together, her skin pink from a light flogging, his cock still inside of her, occasionally throbbing.

No, she's not a coy young thing at all. He doesn't have to pretend to be romantic with her. If anything, she's got a tendency to pull away when he is too tender -- if he hasn't broken her first. Then she'll let him stroke her hair. Kiss her softly. Hold her. Tell her the things he only sometimes feels, during the only-sometimes that she can handle hearing them.

What they've worked out now is a thin 'fix' at best. There are so many questions. What if she's immobilized and can't move away? What if she can't show him no, no, no? What if he doesn't notice? What if she moans stop and moves away and what she really wants is for him to grab her,drag her back, and fuck her harder? Hilary isn't asking these questions because Hilary isn't worried about Ivan pushing her too far. Usually, it's Hilary getting ruffled because Ivan isn't being rougher.

She almost wants to ask if he's the one that needs a way to say stop, no, really, I don't want to do this anymore. She doesn't ask that, either, though. She lies there with him, curled warmly against him, and she trusts him when he says that if she really doesn't want something, if she's moving away, he'll know. She doesn't quite understand that he's worried about that 'middle ground', that place where she's almost... bored.

Quiet for some time, Hilary closes her eyes while he nuzzles her, breathing steadily. A couple of times her body gently squeezes his cock, warm and slow and deep. It seems at least half-unconscious. When she speaks again, it's awhile later, and she's languid. Languid and still.

"I like it when you tell me what to do," she says softly. "I like that you're strong when you're with me."

There's a pause.

"I like that when you're with me, you're different." Which may be the first acknowledgement she's made of that, and truth be told, it's partly a guess. Just something she senses. Knows. Feels.

And Ivan, because of who and what he is, can hear the undercurrent to that sentiment as well. She doesn't dare say it when she's submitted like this, though, doesn't dare murmur that when he's with her, he belongs to her. And this is how she knows.

[Ivan] The truth is, no matter how many safeguards and checks they set up, they'll never cover all the bases. What if she's tied up, gagged, can't speak, can't move away. What if she's moving away, but she wants him to drag her back and put her under him and spank her, pound her, teach her to be a good little whore for him. What if --

It comes down to this: there's no perfect answer. No perfect solution. No single, master list of everything they could possibly do. Everything that could possibly come up in their play. And even if there is -- they wouldn't want to see it. That spoils the fun, you see. At the end of the day, they'll have to proceed exactly as they have all this time:

step by step, with Ivan always paying attention, always watchful on some level; always careful not to push her too far.

In the end, perhaps that's why he wants a safeword. She wonders, and she's wondered more than once, if he wants a one because he's really the one that sometimes needs to call a stop to it. It's understandable. Between the two of them, he's always been the one to put his foot down faster. To draw the line closer. But that's not it. When he needs to stop -- well. She's seen it. He stops. He gets away from her. Sometimes, when he's particularly overwhelmed, he all but curls into a ball and stiffarms her away from him.

What he needs is something altogether different. He wants -- in an odd way -- permission not to stop. He wants something that can assure him, if imperfectly, that it's okay. That he can go on. Get creative, as she says. Push the boundaries, and not worry that he's going to far, hurting her, pushing her past what she can handle. In a sense, what he wants is her sanction, if only by omission.


Whether or not Hilary realizes that, they lie together. And he nuzzles her, and she holds him inside her, and for a while they're almost whole.

She tells him --

well. Really, she tells him that she likes him like this. The way he is with her, which is different. The way he is with her after, which is different upon different. He listens. His hand caresses her breast again, his arm tightening gently around her.

"I know," he says softly. They really should move. They really should get cleaned up again. Showered and warm and fresh again, if only so he could bind her up again. Chain her to his bed like the owned, possessed thing she so wants to be, even if -- in a far more subdued, subsurface way -- what she likes, too, is that he belongs just as much to her.

"I want you to stay with me for a while," he says quietly. "We'll be discreet. We'll go elsewhere. You don't even have to spend every moment with me. But I want you to stay. It's been so long."

[Hilary] What Ivan needs is knowledge that if there is an abosolute limit, he will be made instantly aware if it is reached. That way, anything before that point is... okay. Is wanted. Is even needed, by a woman like this. He wants to know he can do what he likes with her without suddenly, unexpectedly being told no, without losing her, without losing the vital presence of her that he gains through dominance, through sadism, though tying her up and disciplining her.

Hilary tells him to be creative. That they can play even without sex. That she likes it when he tells her what to do. What she doesn't know is how much the ritualized training of a submissive is a part of relationships that consider this their foundation and style. What she does know is that sometimes, Ivan can bring her to this place with a word or a look, a tone of voice -- that he doesn't have to hit her. That he doesn't have to leave marks on her. That he can own her, in a way.

That she can have him, too, when they're like that. Like this.

Hilary smiles a little to herself. She melts against him, warm and content, warm and safe in a way she rarely is except when all other thoughts are driven from her mind. She knows -- because Ivan said so, because that in itself is all but a promise -- that later on tonight she'll get to sleep here and he'll chain her up and have her sleep naked and vulnerable so he can roll her over and fuck her whenever he wants. That makes her happy. That makes her feel peaceful. That makes the future less of a dark, yawning thing, endless and deathless, exhausting and terrifying to think about all at once. That makes her feel good.

So she smiles. So she listens to him and she doesn't move to get up because Ivan hasn't told her to yet, or unlocked her wrists and sent her off to go clean herself up or wait for him to wash her. And he tells her he wants her to stay.

"We can travel separately," she murmurs, as though telling a story with him. "Get rooms in different hotels within a walk of each other. Leave one room empty every night."

[Ivan] Behind her, unseen, Ivan's mouth tilts up at the corner at that last part. One room empty every night. Otherwise: traveling separately. Living separately. Different hotels. The picture of propriety -- and, because he's not a fool: of privacy. Private time to herself, when she can't stand to be close to him. Or to herself.

He shifts, pushing up on his elbow again, leaning over her to see her profile, her eyes if she turns. She feels peaceful. Safe and happy. He can tell; it's in her quietness, her little smiles that she gives herself. The way she curls back against him, tucks her arms close to her chest.

"You like the performing arts," he says. "Perhaps Vienna this time."

His hand slides from her breast now, follows the crest of her side -- down to her waist, up to rest over her hip. Very slowly, very carefully, he shifts his hips and slides out of her at last. It's been so long that they're sticky with each other's cum, tacky and filthy with it. Even so, he leans down and kisses her shoulder, nips at her skin; affectionate, even playful.

Then he reaches past her and undoes the manacles with a few sure flicks of his fingers. He tosses them, chain and all, rather negligently to the head of the bed -- but not off to the floor, discarded. His hand falls against her ass with a gentle slap.

"Go get in the shower," he says. "I'll join you in a few moments and clean you up."

[Hilary] "Vienna," repeats Hilary, musing and amused, turning her head and letting Ivan see that smile.

They would be such a picture of bliss -- normal, sane, loving, tender in the afterglow of lovemaking -- if it weren't for the fact that neither of them can mention love without doubting each other's capacity for it. If it weren't for the fact that the pink in her skin is fading finally. If it weren't for the chains. If it weren't for the discussion they just had about, essentially, safewords.

As he touches her, though, she relaxes again, lying on the bed like a cat being stroked from ears to tail. She closes her eyes and senses, long before his hand stills on her hip, that he's going to draw away from her. She sighs at the sensation when he does, letting out a soft, satisfied sort of noise between her lips. Rolling onto her back, she opens her eyes as Ivan comes up over her, and she holds her wrists out so he can remove her bindings. Her wrists are as pink as her ass was, but not rubbed raw.

The chains clank together as Ivan tosses them aside for later. Hilary rolls over again, and he spanks her. She laughs, the swat giving her a stinging, burning sensation -- her skin still so tender, so sensitive. She doesn't think she'll bruise. Maybe next time he'll be nicer to her. Go, he says, and she nods, rolling over again towards the edge of the bed. Sitting up, swinging her legs around, it's evident again just how much grace she has, and how much grace she lost while pregnant. It becomes evident just how different her body is right now, so much softness still left on her silhouette. Her hair swings across her back.

She rises to her feet, steady this time -- he's fucked her before hard enough to make her legs coltish and her steps shaky -- and pushes down that scrap of lace that he just yanked and nudged out of his way. Stepping out of her panties at last, she walks loosely, slowly towards the temple that is his bathroom, the door left open behind her. Her clothes left on the floor. Manacles and flogger left on the bed with her guardian.

The water turns on, from multiple showerheads, pattering against the tile.

As he has before, and as he will again, Ivan sends Hilary ahead of him with a few mild commands. Gives her some track to follow. Gives her some time alone. Gives her something to anticipate. She's not left alone very long: just long enough for him to walk downstairs and, in the absence of his servants, see to his own refreshments.

He brings a few bottles of clear cold water up. It's absurd; even in this, there's luxury -- not your average flimsy plastic Evian bottles but angular, hard-edged bottles that look like perfume vials. Or modern art. He sets them on Hilary's side of the bed, and then he sets a small snack beside it: some of the fruit and cheeses left over from dinner under a clear cover to prevent their drying out. He does this because he's going to keep her with him tonight. And he suspects that she won't unbind herself to go get a drink of water or a midnight snack. She might not even wake him if she was hungry.

After that, he strips the top layers of the bed: the bedspread, the decorative throw, the comforters. His bed is a temple, but it's not, surprisingly, a temple of sin. It looks clean and inviting, defined edges and crisp colors against a dark backdrop. There's greenery in the room, offsetting the sterility of the penthouse. All that careful art is marred when he tosses the soiled bedclothes outside, then walks down the hall to steal the coverings from one of the guest bedrooms.

The sheets underneath are still clean. He leaves those where they are, spreading the new comforter atop it.


Ivan's bathroom lies past his closet. The door was open. If Hilary looked, she could see rows and rows of clothes hung neatly from oak hangars. He certainly didn't hang them there. He doesn't make sure they get dry-cleaned or wet-cleaned as appropriate; he doesn't do his own laundry; he might not even have bought half the articles in there himself. Ivan has a full-time staff of ten or twelve, and in truth, it's not at all excessive. He lives so extravagantly, and so grandly, that it takes the full time and devotion and attention of a dozen people to keep up with him.

Past that closet is the bathroom she's been in before, though perhaps only once or twice. If that. Has she been here before? He can't remember, suddenly -- but nonetheless, it's there: vast and full of smooth tile and clear glass. A separate shower and an enormous tub. Through the glass shower walls she can see him coming into the bathroom. There's no way, no chance in hell, she could possibly hear him. He hasn't bothered dressing at all. He stands outside a moment, naked, looking in on her,

naked.

There's consideration in his eyes. And a sort of cool, hungry gleam.

A small rush of cool air as he steps in with her, but then the heat of his body overwhelms it. When the door closes, steam rises again. Multiple showerheads in here, and even if she waited for him to come wash her -- which he asked her to -- she can't help but get a little cleaner from the spray. Even so, he reaches for the shower puff, squeezes shower gel into it, and begins to wash her body.

It's not quite so tender, so careful, so wary, as the way he bathed her in her tub. But he still takes a long time, and he's still gentle and thorough, and when he's finished with her he washes himself. When they're both clean,

he turns her to face the wall. He raises her hands to the tile, showing her where to put them. He pulls her hips back a little, pushes gently on her lower back to make her arch her spine, raise her ass.


It's the gentlest he's taken her today, when he slides into her. It's a slow, lazy fuck, and while he moves inside her he touches her, rubs her back, massages her shoulders, kneads down the slender columns of muscle supporting her dancer's spine. Only at the end does he go a little faster. A little harder. Only then does he wrap his arm around her ribcage, around her hips. He comes kissing her neck, whispering in her ear, but she can't hear what he's saying; too much water, too much noise. When he's finished he stays inside her a while. Plays with her a while, his fingers stroking her labia, stroking her clit, and

if we're honest, this is also the cruelest he's been today. His lean arm locks around her and he holds her there, right there, playing with her regardless of whether she's come already or not, is going to come again or not, can stand to be touched or not; can stand to come again or not. He toys with her, fucks her with his hand, holds her half-caught between his body and the wall and tells her, low, to breathe, to relax, to let him, just let him do this for her, just feel it, just shhh, yes,

until he does, in fact, get her off again.


When he's done with her, he has to wash her again. And himself. Their fingertips are wrinkled when they finally step out of the shower, their bodies limp with heat and exertion. He brings her bag into the bathroom. He leaves her alone while she applies creams and lotions, brushes her teeth, uses the bathroom, takes mood-altering pills -- whatever it is she might do before bed. He uncaps a bottle of water and drinks a few gulps. He has some cheese. And he comes back to the bathroom as she's finishing up.

There Ivan brushes his teeth, catching her eye in the mirror, smiling at her through a mouthful of foam. His breath is minty when he wraps his arm around her waist and pulls her against his side as she's leaning the bathroom, kissing her quickly on the temple. "Go wait for me in bed," he says, and they could be a normal couple, getting ready for bed. Happy. Affectionate. Fond of each other; still learning each other's quirks.

Except when he follows her into the bedroom proper, turning the lights down as he comes, there are manacles on the covers. There's a chain attached to the bed. He climbs onto the bed after her and takes her wrists and rather tenderly, but absolutely unwaveringly, shackles her to his bed. And kisses her manacled wrists, lips against padded leather.

"Mine," he whispers, and smiles. A little later, he slides in behind her, his arm loose over her waist. He kisses her gently over her shoulder, and he sleeps with his brow pressed gently to her upper back.


Sometime in the night, he wakes her. There's no clock visible; there's no telling what time it is. His hands on her body are gentle but insistent. He rolls her on her back and slides between her legs and she hears him whispering to her, telling her to wrap her legs around him. She feels his hands on his wrists, holding her arms down against the bed even though she's already bound there.

He stays close to her, fucking her under the covers. It's the middle of the night. It's dark in his room, but the shades are up, and the lights of the gold coast come in the north windows. In that uncertain light she can see his expression, pulling with pleasure, oddly intense. It's an oddly urgent, ferocious fuck, albeit silent -- at least on his part -- his body driving into hers, pounding her solidly, firmly against the bed. He rides her to orgasm; he's lost track how many times he's done this today, but it's one more.

Afterward, he kisses her throat, kisses her breastbone, rolls off her and folds her legs gently to the side again, rolls her to the side again and sleeps the way he slept half the night already: wrapped loosely around her, his arm over her side.


And again, before the dawn. When the light over the lake is no longer black, but not yet blue -- in the grey pre-dawn, when the sky's color is just beginning to turn. He wakes her again, and this time he puts her atop him, the dimensions of the chain keeping her bent down to him nonetheless.

He's inside her almost before she's completely coherent this time. She's on top, but he's still the one doing most of the moving: holding her by the hips, fucking up into her. After a while it gets hot under the covers, and he folds them down. He starts spanking her then, slapping her ass with the palm of his hand again and again, interspersing the sharp little smacks with words like harder and roll your hips for me, baby and there you go. oh, that's my good little slut and i'm going to come. oh, god, i'm going to come, take that cock deep, take that cum. take it.

When he's finished, he lets her fall asleep like that, stretched over her, laying against him. She may or may not wake again when he very gently, very tenderly undoes those manacles at last and sets them aside, the flogger nestled amongst the links.

He keeps that toy she brought to share. He doesn't think she wants it back, anyway.


When Hilary wakes for good, it's midmorning. Ivan is still there. He's awake, and he's reading something on a cunning little android tablet, and when he sees she's awake he smiles at her like he has a right to sleep beside her. Like he has a right to wake beside her. Like she belongs there, and so does he.