Ivan Press

[Ivan] There's a moment in there where she almost kisses him. A moment where she almost asks him to kiss her. There's a moment when she's looking at him, and he's looking at her, and his gentle, caressing hands are stilled for a second, stilled and tender, but

then she simply leans her brow to his, and he allows it. Returns it, that subdued little gesture of affection.

Soon enough he's telling her her crime and her punishment. Soon enough she's moaning softly for him again while he slowly, slowly nudges her panties down. She's so wet, and he can feel it. He catches her slick on the tips of his fingers and rubs it slowly, decadently over her clit, the lips of her cunt. Draws his hand back and tastes her, sucking her taste off his own fingers, considering her while she asks to come down.

The wait isn't entirely theatrical. It's not really theatrical at all. He's thinking about it. He's thinking about her, what she wants, what she really wants out of this, and in the end

he leans into her and kisses her, slow and soft, touching her so luxuriously all the while.

When it tapers off Ivan reaches up and unsnaps the chain from one manacle. Lets her arms down, bracing her, supporting her, his hands sliding up the length of those fine slender arms as though she were more fragile than she is. More glass than woman, and genuinely fractured now.

It doesn't stop him from binding her again, though. From wrapping that thin chain around her wrists once or twice, then around his fist. When he kisses her again, it's a little harder, a little more demanding. He eats at her mouth for a moment, and when that moment's passed, he takes her to the bed, turns her around and pushes her down, presses her down by the shoulder, raises her hips up. The flogger lashes across her ass again, just once, and then he tosses it down on the bed beside her. He grabs her by the hips and, nearly growling, pushes his mouth against her cunt.

[Hilary] Her wants and desires are, at the moment, so blasted and floating that reading what Hilary really wants and why is difficult. She probably couldn't explain to him what she wants if he asked and if she tried. So there's this:

he knows she wouldn't ask lightly, not when she's like this. Not when he has her bound and tied to his ceiling fan, not when she's descending into this space where she does not so much give up her will as twines it into his, braids her desires into his to give her something strong to hold onto. He notes that she asks, and he tries to understand why, because Hilary asking him for something at a time like this deserves notice. Deserves understanding, however thin.

Her panties are half down while he's thinking, her cunt so overstimulated that she almost can't react anymore when he touches her. She jerks slightly, whimpers a little, but she looks a little overcome. She puts her forehead on him while he licks her off his hands, unable to even watch.

A little later he comes to some conclusion, some decision, and kisses her. She loves that kiss, but can't say it to him. She kisses him slowly in return, lazily, almost sleepily. Then he unlocks her arm. She sinks into his arms almost immediately, the chain rattling as it leaves the spot on the fan where it's tied, her hands going to his biceps to try and keep her balance. Hilary's stamina is obviously less right now, even after two weeks of rest. There are times when her joints still seem out of place. Her mouth falls on him somewhere, leaves a brushing kiss, a searching, rooting sort of graze

that it's best not to notice too much right now.

She is, indeed, more glass than woman right now, or more child. She's easily led, watching him quietly while he wraps the chain around her wrists, binds it up in his fist. That sight, more than anything, makes her breathing shudder a bit, makes her eyes lift to find his. She looks, briefly, anticipatory, expectant

and then he yanks her closer and kisses her, harder, bitingly. She moans, squirming, trying to rub herself against his hands or thigh or cock all over again. So quickly, so easily. So fucking tenderly she comes right back to this, over and over again. Begging him for it, opening her body to him, giving herself over.

The next thing she knows she's facedown against the bed, her heeled feet on the floor, her ass up in the air. She turns her face to the side, cheek against the bedspread, and lets out the softest, sweetest little moan of expectation. She thinks he's going to fuck her now. She thinks he might finally start using that flogger on her now.

Ivan can see her ass and thighs all pink from the lash, her pussy swollen and wet from stimulation. Can hear her let out a loud, helpless moan when he spanks her with the flogger again. Can hear her whimper, almost sob, wracked with disappointed pleading when he starts to eat her out.

[Ivan] Ivan notices, of course. He notices that Hilary responds not with sharp fervor, twisting want, but with disappointment. Paradoxically, when he's like this -- when he's simply taking her, taking what he wants, bending her to his will, bending her literally over the bed to pound and possess and rail and fuck -- this is also when he's the most attuned. The most careful, and caring. The most giving.

These days, anyway. Now that he's figured it out. Now that he's grown to discover, to learn, and to understand what an entire subculture of human sexuality has discovered, learned and understood before him.

So he stops. But not immediately. Because this is what he wants, and in some complex way what she wants is to give him what he wants, and so he stays on her, grabs her harder by the hips when she makes that pleading noise, smacks her with his hand to shut her up because he's still eating her out, going at her cunt with singleminded, ferocious fervor. He grinds his face into her pussy. He dips lower, finds her clit, tongues it, sucks on it, uses her as much with his mouth as he will with his cock. When he's done with her, rising up to stand on his kneels behind her, his face is wet. He slaps her ass again as though to cap off the whole experience; as though to draw a line for himself:

there. done.

"Stay where you are," he tells her. The second time today.

He leaves the bed then. Stands up and pushes his boxer briefs down. Steps out of it with one foot, lifts it with the other, tosses it aside. When the bed dips again with his weight, he moves in right behind her, holds his cock so it's flush against his abdomen, caught between his body and hers, gliding along the slick wet slit of her cunt. He fucks her like that, thrusts against her with long smooth pistons of his hips like he's fucking her, like he's already inside her, teases her like that, but only for a while. Just long enough to slick his cock up. Just long enough to get himself messy with her wetness, messy all over again.

Hilary can feel her lover, this young, pretty, sleek thing whose golden exterior hides such a brutally dominant core, getting ready to fuck her. She can feel him pressing the head of his cock down, tracing down to her pussy, pressing against the opening of her cunt. He's fucked her once already today. Wedged her against a wall and pounded her. He wasn't terribly careful that first time, didn't give her much time to adjust to him. Compared to this, though, that was gentle. This time

he shoves his cock into her the moment he's found her cunt. One hard thrust, on the edge of vicious, carried forward with the full momentum of his body. He leans over her as he fills her up. Plants his hands on either side of her, balances himself on knees and on fists, starts pounding her just like that. Hard enough to slap their bodies together. Hard enough to push the slick out of her tight cunt, send it slipping down her inner thighs, over his balls, everywhere.

His breathing is harshly audible. He starts muttering at her between panting inhales, a string of filth and curses, talking about her tight cunt, talking about her hot pussy, calling her his, laying claim to her body, her cunt, telling her that cunt is his to fuck now, his to use just like this; she's his to rail like this whenever he wants, however he wants, because that's what you want, isn't it, she's his, his, all his, isn't she, say it. He doesn't let her say it. The moment she tries, if she tries, he fucks her that much harder, a vicious thrust that interrupts whatever word might be tumbling off her tongue.

And his has left the bedsheets. Grips the back of her neck now, heavy, forcing her down. He holds her like that, holds her down for the fucking he's giving her while he, put bluntly, uses her like a whore.

[Hilary] There are times when Ivan can look so deeply into Hilary that he catches shadows of feelings and thoughts she doesn't even know are there, connecting threads that keep the pieces of her mind from floating ever further away from each other. Sometimes that's when he's inside of her. Or when he's holding himself back from fucking her, when he's holding her down and she's shaking, crying, coming all at once.

Right now Ivan can't even see that deeply into Hilary, isn't even looking. But he knows what she wants. He knows how she is now. He knows there are other signs, stronger signals, when something is truly wrong. He knows that in the end, what she wants isn't for him to give her whatever she could ask for or thinks she might want in the moment. He knows how happy it makes her -- or how aroused, as though happiness isn't even a real option -- when he uses her.

A sharp hand comes flying across her ass at the noise she makes. Hilary yelps and likely he smacks her again to make her be quiet, and then she's squirming and burying her moans in the bedspread, biting back whimpers while he licks her pussy. Tongues her clit and makes her cunt clench on nothing in response. She starts to buck a little on the bed, as though trying to fuck the mattress.

Ivan spanks her again, drawing his face away from her pussy. Tells her to stay. And, biting her lip, Hilary nods against the mattress and tries not to move.

A sigh leaves her when he comes back. When she feels his heat and the movement of the bed. Her hands are still locked together above her head, and she has little control over how she moves or not, but she pushes against his chest with her back, works herself closer to him as best she can. It passes, in this strange blend of brutality and comfort, for an embrace.

Silently, selfishly, Ivan rubs himself against her. Uses her almost as though this is just a practicality, a chore: slicks himself up against her cunt so that he can fuck her, so that she'll stop squirming already, or so he can get himself off inside of her and roll over, move on with his life, at least until he gets hard again and wants something tight and willing to fuck.

Or at least that's how it feels, to Hilary. And feeling that, she whimpers, opening her legs a little wider, welcoming him in, inviting him to please, please give it to her. Not that she needs to; he's going to use that pussy regardless.

And then he does. She grips the sheets suddenly in her manacled hands and cries out when he slams into her, instantly starts pounding her. She holds on, moaning, and all the while he's starting to swear at her. Whore, he calls her, slut. Mine, most of all, over and over again. He wants her to tell him that she's his, and she tries, but it lands in a scream. Soon even that's falling away, his hand on her neck pushing her down, fucking her in a way any sane woman would just try to survive, just try to get through.

Hilary starts to come again.

[Ivan] Maybe this is why he sent his staff away. So they wouldn't hear, even passingly, even through the thick walls and frosted-glass door, what Ivan was doing to his lover in here. His soon-to-be-divorced, recently-bastard-carrying, utterly-socially-unacceptable lover. Wouldn't hear her crying out on the razor's edge between pleasure and pain and insanity; wouldn't hear the things he snarls at her while he drives her up against that edge, presses her there, splits her asunder there.

Wouldn't hear her crying, period in the aftermath. Wouldn't wonder, wouldn't balk, wouldn't look at him strangely the next day,

not that they'd dare, anyway.

So maybe that's not it. Maybe it has something more to do with privacy, with her privacy and her comfort, a complete lack of necessity for her to keep up any sort of front at all, even something so flimsy as needing to simply ignore the wait staff. Maybe --

well. It doesn't matter. The servants aren't here. They are, and they're doing things that even his servants, accustomed to his excesses as they are, might find to be a little ...

much.


Hilary's starting to come again. Ivan's got her pinned down, held down by the back of the neck, pushed into the bedspread and the comforters and the mattress. She's bound. She's not as strong as he is, even though he's not particularly strong at all, and even if she were -- it wouldn't do her any good, like this. All she can do right now is take it, endure, get through it, survive. At least, that's what any other woman would do.

Hilary

is starting to come again.

And feeling it, or hearing it in the pitch of her voice, Ivan shifts his grip to her shoulder. Leans almost all his weight on her for a moment, reaching back to smack her ass again, hard, to slap her and smack her and to clamp his hand down between her legs as though to feel it better, every slide of his cock, every time he slams so hard into her that the sound she makes hitches.

And all the while he's snarling, panting at her, asking her if she's going to come again, is she going to come again, is she, she is, isn't she, the filthy little whore, she's going to come on his cock while he's railing her like she's his dirty fucking cockslut, making her take that cock because that's what she wants, isn't it, she wants to get stuffed full of hard cock and fucked senseless because

you're my little whore, my fucktoy, my slut, and you love it when i use your cunt,

your sweet, tight, cockhungry little cunt,

mine.


No stopping, no slowing, even when she comes. If anything he pushes her harder, farther. Fondles her clit, touches her -- play is too gentle a word, here. He fucks her: that's the only word for it, fucks her with his hand while he's fucking her with his cock, pounds into her while he holds her in place by his hand on her shoulder, his hand between her legs; wrings every last pleasure out of her and then

just keeps going. Bearing her down to the mattress now, down until his forearms bracket her slender torso, until his chest is all but pressed to her back, until she can feel him panting for breath against her back, exhaling that breath over her shoulder, filling her so full, so deep, with every unflagging stroke. He's still muttering at her, but it's snatches and gasps of words now, harsh whispers, nothing but

yes, that's it, yes, take it

and

take it, take it for me, take that cock, just fucking take it

while he makes her do exactly that. Makes her: caught under his body, pounded in place by every thrust, and even that doesn't seem to be enough. His hand finds her wrists. Clamps over them. Holds her pinned by that point, nailed down between his cock and his grip. The closer he gets to his own orgasm, the harder he rails her. The closer he gets, the harder he grips her wrists, the more incoherent his words, the more unrestrained the harsh, panting groans he can't even seem to hold back now.

[Hilary] They'd never dare look at him strangely. But those young maids of his -- one has to wonder if he just has them fired when they get above twenty-five, or if Max makes sure they get mated off to some other kinfolk or something by then -- would struggle. Those maids he may or may not have fucked, and how can he really be expected to remember, honestly? Those maids who would look at him with jolts of fear or startlement, nerves clenching their guts whenever he called them up to his bedroom because

what might they see

and what might he ask them to do.

Maids who would not meet his eyes regularly but would scarcely even want to look at his shoes. Maids that would be fired promptly sooner or later by Dmitri or Max or whichever older, more seasoned servant realized they were going to make their master displeased. They wouldn't be able to handle this. Christ only knows what will become of that poor girl he took with him to Russia to drop off his bastard. She certainly can't be trusted to stay with Anton; she might let slip one day that his life as he knows it is a lie. That his mother is alive somewhere.

In any case: they're alone. No one to hear and be terrified of Ivan, no one to hear and judge Hilary, no one to save either of them from what they're doing to each other. And no one would. He's a purely bred, insanely wealthy Ragabash of House Crescent Moon. She's purebred enough to be valuable -- or to have been valuable at one point. She's got enough money to keep herself solvent for long enough to figure out how to keep herself solvent til the bitter end. She's been born to one house, married into two others, and may very well be considered an adoptee of a fourth now that she has no guardian but Ivan. They are so far above his servants it's not even funny. Who would dare judge them?

They don't even judge themselves very much. Not even when they abandon their own child.


She comes against his bed now, moaning wildly, clutching at the blankets and squirming her hips in circles against his lap, bouncing herself between his cock and the edge of the bed, riding out this sweet, bright little orgasm like it's something far gentler than it is. When he grabs her, slaps her ass again, works her clit like a toy, she starts to scream. It stops being cute and sweet and bright. It stops being little. She starts shrieking, hardly even able to hear him, discern his words.

The actual words, their order, don't matter as much. She moans, wetness slicking out of her and all over him, unable to answer him with anything but orgasm, sweat, screams.

The only word that does matter is mine. To that, she moans.


There's no pause, no hitch, no moment when Ivan lets her have that orgasm. It comes anyway, and rolls out underneath him, as though suddenly she's far, far away, untouchable, unreachable,

til it starts to let her back down and he's right there again, hammering at her cunt, holding her down and sweating over her, swearing over her, fucking her like his whore. Ivan's closer now and her cunt is holding him as tightly as her hands hold the bedsheets. Her hair is all askew now, her fair profile flushed with color against his covers, her shoulder and neck pink where he grabbed her, and her body taking his cock, holding him the only way she can, her moans now less of a ramping up towards her own peak

but an urging towards his, a pleading,

"Come in me. Come in me, come in me, come in me," she's starting to moan, begging him now, gasping, as though desperate, as though if he doesn't she'll fall, she'll fade, she'll die.

[Ivan] In the beginning, what they did to each other, they did for themselves. Hilary pushed Ivan from the very start, tested his limits, pushed his buttons, waited and saw just how far he would go. Took him to that edge and pushed him right over it so he would give her what she wanted from him.

And when he did that, when he finally tipped over into some dark abyss he never even knew existed in him, he gave her what she wanted. But not because she wanted it. Because he wanted to hurt her by then. Punish her. Make her pay, make her suffer, make her remember not to fuck with him like that because

how dare she.

And even he recognized there was something dangerous and resentful and abusive in that. Hateful. And he hated it, and he begged her please, please, don't ask him to go that far again --

and maybe that's the first link that was forged between them. The first real connection.

Or maybe it was when, after he took her that far, took himself that far, he looked around at the shattered pieces of themselves and what they were and what their world was. Looked at them, and tried to put them together again. Held her in the shower. Cared for her in a way that he's only very rarely able to bring himself to care for anyone.

As though shattered her into fragments shattered some armored vault in himself, too. As though allowing her to be human for a little while

did the same for him.


What they do to each other now is perhaps no less vicious, no less brutal, than what they did at the beginning. But at least there's this: to some degree, they do it for each other now. He doesn't pound her like this because he hates her. He doesn't rail her, wreck her, leave her a dazed, moaning, whimpering mess because he wants to degrade her or punish her. He does it because she wants him to,

and she wants him to because -- at least in part -- because he wants to. She's not much of a stereotypical cougar; she hasn't taken him firmly in hand and guided him to adulthood. He's hardly the blushing virgin. But in this, at least, she showed him something new he didn't know before. Called out to something in him, something dark and primal and a little bit twisted, and made him feel it. Made him respond.


So now,

she's laid out beneath him, receiving him, her slender hands clutching his sheets, her sleek body clutching his cock. He fucks her so hard, and she just takes it. She moans for him: come in me, come in me, come in me, as though this were a necessity. Like air, like light. It's as much the tone as the words that tips him over. That makes him bow to her, his brow to the crest of her shoulder, his eyes closing, his own moans taking on an edge of desperation.

Both his hands cover her wrists when he comes. He grips her hands in his, his fingers locked over her wrists, the backs of her hands, her knuckles; stretched over her like that, pressed against her and into her, she can feel every muscle in his body straining to bring him deep into her, deeper. She can feel him coming into her, clenching taut for an instant, making a sound like he might just die after this

before he starts hammering her, pounding his cum into her, slamming into her over and over and over until everything he is may as well be burning up, burning to ash, burning itself to a pure white ash as silent as snow.


His mind is empty when he finally gentles. Goes slower and slower, moaning on every thrust, moaning every time he slides so deep into her. Stops, eventually, buried inside her. Originally he'd meant to come in her and leave her. Flip her over. Make her suck his cock clean before he fucked her again. Something like that --

but he can't bear to move right now. He can't bear to part from her, right now.

His hand follows her arm down to her shoulder, half caught beneath his chest. He kneads the muscle there absently, thoughtlessly, massaging her as though even now -- especially now -- he's driven to

take care of her somehow. The only way he really knows how.

[Hilary] Strangely, Hilary was a bit submissive even in the beginning. She didn't yet know what he wanted her to be. She didn't yet know if he would reject her wholeheartedly if she indicated that she'd rather get on her knees and suck his cock while he pulled her hair than anything else. She made overtures -- she could tell he bristled at being told what to do, watched like he was the whore. She could tell he sparked and ignited when she beckoned him over and blew him, slow and luxurious and wanton. She could tell he turned half-animal when she took hold of his cock and told him that he was Garou and she was on the Pill so he could just fill her up with his

hot,

sticky cum. And when he got on top of her, when he stopped letting her lead him around by the dick, when he threw her on that hotel bed -- she knew he had it in him, too. And she reveled. She rejoiced. She begged. It was all for him, and in that way it was all for her. Every act, every persona, every word. She loved discovering it in him while her hand stroked his cock. She loved it.

And she loves this:


When Ivan collapses like he does, folds in on himself, cannot restrain himself any longer, cannot stop himself. When, for these brief shattering seconds he's the one submitting and surrended, when he's given over completely. When he's made her his, and when, for a little while, he's hers. She doesn't ever realize she wants him to be hers until these incandescent moments when he is. Ivan holds her, lost in her, coming into her, needing her like he never needs her.

For a very small period of time, every time they do this, they can be together. Human, and strangely whole. The tragedy is what it takes to get them there. The tragedy is that they can't carry it on past these moments. But that they can get there at all, being what they are, is something of a small miracle.

And Hilary loves it.


Chained up, bent over the bed, her ankles aching in her shoes and her underwear stretched to the point of breaking between her calves, her wrists hugged tight by those gently padded manacles, Hilary squeezes Ivan's cock tenderly inside of herself. She doesn't try to ride out yet another orgasm on him while he's coming down. She feels him touch her shoulder and massage it, caress her like that, and she closes her eyes.

Still panting, still gasping, she whispers: "I think I might love you, too."

[Ivan] The conversation Hilary's finally answering is weeks old. When he told her that, they were in this very room. She was resting after her flight, from south to north, the heart of mexico back to chicago. She was enormously pregnant; she hated to be seen, hated herself, hated her body, hated the thing inside her, and he told her he thought he might be in love with her.

Her eyes were so black when they met his. Her voice so soft. But how would you know?

She acknowledges her own uncertainty more than even he did. She thinks. Might. Love you.

He's collapsed atop her, his chest to her back. He's still so deep inside her. They're such messes, sweating and wrecked again. They're still panting for breath, her slighter frame straining for air under his. Not that he's particularly huge. Hilary's lover -- her favorite lover, if we're honest about it, because even now he's not sure he's her only one

and wouldn't ask now, not after last time.

Hilary's favorite lover, then: he's not nearly so large and husky as her soon-to-be-ex-husband. He's a lean, sleek thing, and right now he has none of his usual grace, none of his usual composure, none of his usual poise. He's sprawled over her like it takes all his strength to breathe. To touch her like this, gently, soothingly. When she squeezes him inside her, tenderly, he moans aloud against the back of her neck, overcome.

There's a silence after she tells him what she does. His hand keeps stroking her arm, rubbing her shoulder. Eventually he stirs. He rolls off of her, onto his side; brings her with him. Slowly, slowly, staying inside her. His breathing changes a little, then evens out again. He wraps his arm around her. The last time he did this, her abdomen was an entirely foreign thing. She feels a little more like the way he remembers now, but he can't make the comparison in his mind. That was so long ago. He barely knows her at all.

"I suppose you wouldn't know, either," he murmurs. He kisses her shoulder, and holds her a little tighter.

[Hilary] It's a fair question that she asked back then, half-asleep and feeling his fingertips warm against her cheek, brushing a lock of hair back. Tonight it isn't wavy like it was then. She'll likely get it cut. Won't wear it so freely anymore, so lazily. Her body changes, her Look changes, she'll get rid of the clothes. The only reminder will be that apartment and the place they sat on the couch while they stared at her sleeping son, the bed where they cradled him for a few hours. Other than that, it will be as though it never happened.

Lying facedown, arms chained together and lover firmly inside of her, Hilary continues catching her breath. Ivan is silent for awhile, and she isn't really expecting -- or needing -- an answer. She tells him this because she's on the verge of tears, or crying already, and she's clinging to her humanity and wondering how much farther he could push her, if maybe it would last longer if he were more cruel, more brutal. He really is, in her mind, so very gentle with her sometimes.

Favorite lover, all the same.

Slowly they roll, and Ivan is holding her, panting, and Hilary is curling against his chest, her own moving still-rapidly with her breathing. She closes her eyes again, her hair stuck to her damp cheek, and she tucks her chained arms closer to her body. Those chrome heels of hers gently bump against his feet, and she whispers, "Sorry," as though that could hurt him.

And a little while later he can breathe again, think again, and he murmurs to her, kisses her shoulder. She stirs a bit and almost turns her head, eyes opening. "I might," she half-argues, and lays her head down again, too worn out to lift it.

[Ivan] Ivan has no real answer for that. Nothing he can say for or against; no way he can prove it either way. He doesn't want to prove it either. Each path is fraught with its own dangers.

So he's silent now. His hand moves idly over her body, thumb sweeping slowly across her stomach. To and fro. To and fro. After a while, his hand moves downward. When he touches her again, it's gentle; it's not meant to arouse. Something closer to soothe, perhaps, as though this slow, lazy fondling is the sexual equivalent of the way he touches her in the shower after one of their play-sessions. And he kisses the back of her neck again, softly.

"Let's get cleaned up," he says after a time, when his fingers have stilled again. "I want you to come to bed naked tonight," he adds, quieter; thoughtful, almost, "so I can have you whenever I want."