Ivan Press

[Hilary] When Ivan holds out his hand, Hilary hesitates. She doesn't walk to him right then, uncertain of what he's doing, what it means. Going to him and handing it over feels too much like having the very control over all this that she dreads -- that, when he offered, she refused because she knew she'd hurt him. Somewhere in those broken fragments that make up what she has left of a psyche she feels awkward having even bought it herself, brought it to him like this.

Once, having her laid out on a bed in Trump Tower, he told her to open her legs and she whispered, like a secret so she could forget she was the one who said, she told him: you do it. The neverending push and pull between them includes the way they are in the bedroom, where her need to give up control so utterly is countered by the psychological shattering that will happen to him if he never gets relief from the pressure of bearing that burden every time, every day. How far he'll let himself go. How violent he'll become. What she wants, and how to tell when she doesn't want it anymore, and whether or not he notices in time to stop himself before he snaps her in half.

Thinking, perhaps, of how he literally pulled away from her and went to the other side of the room, all but crumpling against the wall and begging her please don't ask me to hurt you again,

Hilary takes a step, and then another, and ends up standing in front of him. Perhaps it defeats the purpose a little for her. She doesn't want to give; she wants him to take. But there's some other purpose on the horizon of her thoughts, one she doesn't quite understand entirely, and perhaps it serves that purpose, instead.

She doesn't put the flog in his hands, though. When Ivan first wraps his hand around the grip, it's to take it from her where it's offered, the way he's taken her body so many times when she's been laid out for him. Her hands go to her sides while he experiments with it. There's a soft slap-crack of the suede hitting his thigh, the straps hitting each other as well as his skin, and Hilary's eyes spark a little again at the sound of it,

as though it's familiar.

The way he pulls her to his body makes her eyes sharpen with ache; the way he uses the flogger itself to control her. Her hands go to his chest, and they stay there, very light, as her eyes close. Ivan touches her. Hilary moves her arms obediently, smoothly, when he takes off her bra, and he can see her black eyelashes but not her eyes, he can see her breathing quicken but not her gaze. He can see her eyebrows tug together when he teases her nipples almost to the point of pain, hardens them in his fingertips, and he can see her thighs tighten against one another as though to put some kind of stimulation against her poor, neglected clit.

A long while he plays with her breasts, and after a long while she tries to lean forward and kiss him. There's a stiff moment where it seems he considers not allowing her that, before Ivan lets her mouth touch his. It isn't a deep kiss, but a soft one, and it doesn't last long. When it ends, Hilary's eyes finally open again, and Ivan lowers his head to her breasts. Her head tips back -- and she feels the handle of the flogger against her neck, and shudders.


When he rises she meets his eyes because she knows now he wants her to, and watches him,

and stays where she is, her skin cooling slightly where the flogger had warmed to it and warmed it. She doesn't move. Not when he's gone. Not when he comes back. Only when he holds out the manacles and demands her wrist,

and then she gives it to him.

[Ivan] Long before she writhes her legs together like that, Ivan knows where she wants to be touched, and how. He doesn't, though. His hand never strays far below her waist. He leaves her nipples hard and wet, cooling in the conditioned air of the room. She doesn't touch herself while he's gone. She moves only when he tells her to,

exactly as he expected.

The first manacle goes around her wrist with smooth efficiency: snug, though not quite cutting off circulation. He buckles her in, tests it with a tug on the cord, deliberately hard -- hard enough to send her forward a step, where his mouth is there to catch hers, kissing her harder than that kiss while he was undressing her, playing with her tits. Hard enough to push her head back, bare her neck to him. He sucks on her neck then, his mouth leaving faint red suction-welts on her pale skin. It's an effort to break off to buckle that second manacle around her wrist. His chest rises and falls at a quicker pace now, smooth skin over smooth muscling.

Ivan doesn't exactly outfit his residences with bondage fixtures. Last time, he chained her to a closet door. This time -- after a moment's pause -- he tosses the chain over the ceiling fan, looping it twice, tightly, around the thin spoke of a blade. The ends affix to the manacles. Even in heels, her arms are held over her head; her body is arched, taut, lovely.

He touches her then. Lightly, in long, gentle strokes. Breast to navel. Shoulderblade to ass. First with his fingertips. Then the flat of his hand. Then the supple leather thongs of the flogger, sweeping delicately over her body, catching briefly on a nipple; over her shoulder. Then both: standing at her side, caressing her back with the flogger, her front with his free hand. Palming her breasts, stroking her ass. Sliding his hand down her belly and into her panties. Spreading his fingers along her labia; never quite touching her clit, her cunt.

The first time he hits her,

it comes out of nowhere. It isn't hard. It's lighter than that one experimental lash he gave himself. There's no warning and no prelude, though. The straps flash across her ass and the backs of her thighs, leaving a transient, warm sting. On the tail of it, his hand finally finds her clit. He starts to finger her, slowly, very slowly, watching her all the while.

[Hilary] They've known each other only a short time. Months spent apart with a handful of letters and a couple of visits doesn't quite count. They don't know each other very well, though, except when they're like this.

Like this, Ivan knows -- if not what she wants -- how she'll behave. He knows that when he tells her to stay that he's not going to walk back in the room and find her on the bed pleasuring herself, hand down her panties and face pressed to the bedspread, moaning as she wriggles around on his bed. He knows she's going to do what he says. Exactly as he says. He knows that when she does disobey him, it will be --

well. We haven't gotten there yet.


Hilary watches him bind her first wrist and she smiles, but that smile gets knocked off her face when he yanks her forward, nearly pulling her off her heels, and kisses her like that. She moans, her still-free hand covering his pectoral, smoothing over his skin. He opens her up then, sucks on her neck like he wants to bite it, and she's pressed half-naked against him, rubbing herself against him -- when he pulls away, breathing harder, so he can bind her other wrist.

At first she thinks he's going to take her over to the bed and chain her there someplace, or maybe to the bathroom, anywhere he can tie her up, but then -- the ceiling fan. She lets out a sharp breath of a laugh, but her arms are drawn up and she's stretching out, feet on the floor but

Hilary loses track of what the rest of her body is doing then. She feels her cunt. She feels her clit throbbing, wetness leaving her pussy, feels a hot, firm ache between her legs. Another woman would tell him she wants him, say please, say anything before that feeling goes away from boredom or frustration. Tell him to give her that hard cock, arousing herself with the very words out of her mouth. Hilary is quiet.

Ivan will give her his cock when he's damn well ready. He'll give her his cock when and only if she's a good girl. So she says nothing. Begs for nothing.

So far.

Hilary bites her lip when he gives her the flogger, but that doesn't mean she's passive when he's touching her with his hands. She shivers faintly at that, closing her eyes to feel it, but it's when he touches her with the suede that she starts to tremble, starts to bite down on sounds she doesn't want to release yet. A moan is caught when it touches her nipple. She moves her body into his palms, trying to rub her tit against his fingers, trying to lift her ass as though begging for the spanking that hasn't yet come.

Til he puts his hand in her panties and she all but shakes apart. Til he slaps the flogger against her ass and makes her thighs clench together around his hand again, makes her gasp -- but not moan. She twists her hips, and she keeps her eyes closed as though to ward off any hint of what's coming. She waits for something else. For his hand to move, for him to hit her again. Both. For him to take his hands away and leave her there wanting, confused, begging him to come back. Anything.

The first time Ivan touches her clit, Hilary cries out. She fucks his finger with abandon then, rides his finger like it's his cock between her legs, already trying to work herself up to orgasm. To something.

"More," she says, pleading. "Please, more."

[Ivan] More. It's always more with her, more and please and yes, Ivan. He could be pressing against her side, his bare chest to her bare side, but he's not. He's holding himself literally at arm's length -- his forearm against her abdomen where another woman would be scarred, but where she's healed clean; his hand between her thighs, fondling her, fucking her.

He gives her more. He plays with her rather expertly, if one is honest. God knows how many other women he's fingered to orgasm just like this,

though not quite just like this. She's not like them. He's not like he is when he's with anyone else, anyone but her, and there's a fierceness in his concentration, in the way he focuses on the side of her face, the way her tits shiver when she trembles, the way her thighs want to twist together

only he stops her, laying the flogger firmly between her legs, pushing them apart again. "Open," he tells her silkily, "like the cock-hungry little slut you are."

More, she begged. And he knows that she only partly means his hand, her clit. Mostly, she means the leather, her ass. After he's pushed her legs apart again, her heeled feet sliding to shoulderwidth, wider, he resumes stroking her with the suede straps. They're so soft like this, soft and napped on one side, smooth on the other. Very supple, very fine; the sort of thing expensive spring jackets are made of. That softness is deceptive, though. A more flexible, pliant lash bites harder than a stiff one.

He's sliding his fingers inside her now, one and then another and then a third, grinding the palm of his hand against her clit, dipping his fingers into her and making a sound, low, at what he feels there. "There's my dirty little whore," he murmurs,

and that's when he lays down the second lash, harder than the first. Holding her with his hand against her cunt, his fingers inside her. Holding her with his eyes on her face, on the sway of her hair and the partin of her lips.

Softly, softly, "There's my sweet little cunt."

[Hilary] More, please,

harder

harder

-- always more, always harder, but she's always so polite, at least. So pleading. And there's something to be said for restraint. For making her wait. See how she closes her eyes herself, without Ivan ever producing or suggesting a blindfold. See how he came to this on his own, stretching her out like this. How much she likes being unable to touch him back, even when she might want to. How many cards he holds: to let her free or not. To pleasure her or not. To arouse her with his words or not. To strike her or not.

And he can play them or shuffle them back into the deck at his leisure. And the very fact that he has this control, this luxury of withholding or giving, is itself a great part of what makes Hilary let go, let him in,

and often, come like wildfire.


Before she can work herself up very much at all, he uses that soft, sinister toy she brought in her overnight bag -- had in her overnight bag when they argued about his accounts, had in the bag he carried while they struggled with every single moment from her bathtub to his windows -- to spread her legs and keep them open. She whimpers once, truncates it, shuddering at that one word, that order: Open.

But he knows that her pleading is for more than his hand, getting slick and wet from her cunt now. Moreover, and even mostly: hit me again. She was so scared he wouldn't want to, that he'd balk, that he'd refuse. She would have accepted it. Put the flogger away and not looked at it again, if he didn't want to play with her like that. But she would have been disappointed. Interestingly, she wouldn't have left him. Wouldn't have told him that she didn't want to see him anymore. And for the two of them, who scarcely tolerate being told 'no' from anyone, that's something.

Her balance is more difficult now. She relies more on the chain, the ceiling fan that will not hold the weight it needs to in order to be used as a bondage hook, but they can deal with hardware another time. Truth be told, while he went to get manacles, she started fantasizing about what else Ivan might be willing to do to her. What other toys, what games, and she wanted to cry from relief.

But by then he was back in the room, and she didn't explore that feeling, didn't ask herself why that emotion, why that reaction.

There's no restraint right now, no withholding: he fucks her with his hand, calls her slut, calls her whore, dirty, murmurs about her sweet cunt, and she whimpers again, her eyes shut so tight, so tight. Slaps her again with the flogger, harder now, enough to leave her skin pink. She jumps slightly, her cunt clenching on his fingers.

This time, she manages not to say anything.

[Ivan] It means something that even if he'd balked, she wouldn't have left him. It means something that the first thing he asked when she produced this new toy was is this what you want?

It means something that the wariness, the uncertainty on her face as she waited for his response made him ache a little inside. It means something that instead of going to her, instead of embracing her and soothing her like she were something weak and small and injured, he took the flogger in hand and bound her wrists without her even having to ask, and strung her up like a possession, like a work of art, and started to give her

what they both want.

She's whimpering now. She was trying to hold that back earlier. She's not screaming yet, not shrieking, but perhaps that comes later. He's drawing his fingers out of her again, quite wet now, rubbing her slick into her as he returns to her clit. The way he plays with her now has such undertones of domination. He fondles her the way a man might stroke a pet, or play with some small, manual toy. He fondles her like her pleasure is only a mild side effect, and not the purpose of this entire production. He fondles her like he has a right to this

and the terrifying thing is, perhaps he does now. She doesn't belong to Dion anymore. She belongs, as much as any Fang kinswoman ever could, to herself. And she gives herself over to him so completely.

He comes one step closer. His arm across her torso, his talented, deft fingers stroking her, rubbing her, rolling her, playing. He kisses her arm, low on her slender tricep. His body is against hers, his feet straddling her leg, his cock hard and hot against her hip beneath his boxerbriefs, and all this time he's touching her like that, fucking her with his hand, stroking the soft leather of the flogger up and down the inside of her thigh

until some internal clock runs up, or some hidden switch is tripped, and he sees fit to hit her again. Lightly this time. Lightly, but again, so quickly after. And again. Over and over, grazing, almost lazy stings against her fine skin that build one atop the other while his fingers between her thighs rub her harder, ramp her up, edge her rather mercilessly toward some precipice he knows is there.

Some part of his mind wonders, perversely, what Espiridion would think to see her like this. Some part of his mind wonders who taught her this in the first place. His teeth catch gently at the underside of her arm. He's fucking her so methodically, so ruinously with his hand now, striking her again and again with the toy she's brought to share, and despite all that,

despite that he's quite frankly trying to bring her off just like that, bound and stretched in the middle of his bedroom,

he murmurs to her, "Don't come."

[Hilary] There's no screaming yet because he isn't hurting her yet, he hasn't teased her to that point yet, he isn't fucking her to orgasm yet. Hilary whimpers and whines and bites all of it back, closes her lips and tries to stay quiet as though they aren't flying above the entire city in the rain, unheard and alone. He's her sole guardian now; what he does with her is his business, particularly because Hilary is so very willing. If he likes, Ivan can make her scream. If he wants to, he can even go so far as to hurt her, and he knows she'll like it. Ask him for more.

But now he's giving her more, more, slipping his soaking fingers out of her cunt and rubbing her, kissing her arm, keeping his distance til he decides to let her feel his hardness through his underwear. Not anywhere that will give her great pleasure, of course: just her thigh. Just a little bit. She shivers at the suede sliding against her skin, and he can feel more trickles of wetness leave her body and slick his fingers even further.

Hilary yelps when he hits her that first time, but when he just. keeps. going. she starts to gasp, panting, like he's not striking her with a flogger but giving her his cock, ramping up his thrusts to bring her off. She squirms down on his hand, not aware in the slightest of Ivan's mind flashing to her husband and what he'd think, to her past and when she first realized this was how she liked it. She knows that he bites her, and she groans, rubbing herself on his hand while he takes her closer and closer to orgasm.

Don't, he tells her instead, and she lets out a long, ruined moan, clenching up, trying to obey. Her breathing shudders, ragged and helpless. "Ivan..."

[Ivan] "Don't come," is all he has to say in response. His tone is a caress. He's using that flogger like he knows how to, like he's done this before, when before this he's never used anything more than the palm of his hand.

Well. No. That's not true. There was once when he was angry at her, when he hated her for what she did to him; when he stripped his belt off and folded it double and lashed her across the back of the thighs, across the ass, twice in quick, furious succession. She'd liked that, too. He wanted her to hate it, wanted her to see how far she pushed him and how dangerous it was for him to ride that edge, but --

she liked it. Wanted more.

These are the thoughts drifting amorphous in his mind even as he's fondling her. She's thinking of nothing more than the way she feels right now, the slow caving in of a building, inevitable orgasm. He's thinking of many things, dark things, but most of all he's thinking of

the way she's moaning, the way she's pulling on those chains that pull on that fan, the clanking of metal on metal, the way she pants for breath every time the suede switches hit her. "Don't come," he tells her again, and this time it sounds like a warning, soft and insidious. He's fucking her methodically with his hand, and he's just as methodically, lightly and regularly, timed to every other circling rub of his fingers. Quickening now, biting her arm gently, stepping in even closer until he's rubbing himself against her hip, grinding lazily against her body, the ends of the flogger lashing off his thigh as well.

"Don't come, baby," whispered over and over as he ramps her higher, until his fingers are slipsliding with her slick, until her moans aren't so bitten-back anymore, until he's telling her instead,

Come for me. Come.

getting her off on his hand, lashing her abruptly harder, quite hard, three times in relentless succession.

[Hilary] The backs of her thighs are quite pink now, verging on red. Even with those light slaps of the flogger, enough of them and it will have some effect, some mark left on her. Just like his teeth, nipping and then biting, holding her skin. The truth is, this is so very mild, compared to what they could do. She could ask him to bend her over, chain her up, and just hit her until she's screaming. She could beg him to bite her until he leaves sharp bruises from his teeth everywhere.

She doesn't beg him to hit her harder for the same reason that she didn't make him walk over to her and take the flogger himself. She doesn't try to make him angry right now for the same reason that she doesn't beg him to hit her harder, really use her.

Right now, stretched out like this with his hand in her panties and that sweet, supple flogger being slapped across her ass, Hilary is showing Ivan compassion. Of a sort.

Don't come, he says again, and she whimpers, and she isn't fucking his hand now because if she does she'll come and he keeps telling her not to, but that third time he repeats it she squirms sharply, biting her lip til it reddens under her fine white teeth. The change in his voice has as much effect as his hand does, timing his strikes and his strokes of her clit togther. It's when she feels his cock against her, rubbing slowly, that Hilary starts to lose herself. Starts to dissolve.

She groans, unable to hold back any longer. Her hips roll in circles, her ass lifted for the switch, her hands gripping the chains that keep her tied to the fan. Ivan hasn't yet gotten to telling her to come yet. Because she's whimpering in defeat, her breasts trembling as her whole body shudders, her cunt pulsing, clenching around nothing. She jerks when he hits her, three times over and over, and that tight, wanting orgasm rolls into a harder one, a longer one, one that makes her wail aloud with pleasure.

[Ivan] It's different. This, from the time he laid his belt across her skin. And from the last time he had her chained up like this, even. There's more ... well. Anyone else, and it wouldn't be compassion at all, but between them, it passes for it. She doesn't beg him for more than he can give. She doesn't force him to give it anyway by making him angry enough, hateful enough, to no longer give a damn.

And in return --

she comes apart. She's shuddering, vibrating like a plucked string, trembling as she comes. That quivering orgasm crests into a harder one, and now she's wailing, and he's laying down that last blow that leaves her skin stinging and bright pink, leaves an afterflare of hot pain dissolving into a warm, oversaturated numbness. She rides his hand like it's his cock and he lets her have it, carries her through it, fucks her firmly and tirelessly with those elegant fingers of his until she's all but hanging from the fan.

Ivan's arm comes around her then. He steps into her, fully flush to her now, wraps his arm around her and supports her, holds her up, holds her while he teases out the last shuddering cries with slow, long strokes of his fingers.

"There you go," he murmurs to her -- like he cares about her, like this is a form of caregiving. "Shh, that's it. That's it."

The flogger is hanging from his wrist now, bumping gently against her ribs, swaying against her hip. She's slender enough, and his lean limbs long enough, that he can wrap his arm around her, find her breast with his hand. He holds her like that for a while, close and safe, his hand between her legs still gently, gently stroking in counterpoint to his hand on her breast. He holds her until that long, shuddering orgasm is past,

but only barely past,

and then he shifts against her, kisses the side of her face. She can feel the change, the dominance resumed so easily, even before he murmurs to her.

"You came," he says, and he says it so gently. He's starting to play with her again, finding her clit unerringly, rubbing her with his fingertips. "So now," and he takes his hand from her breast, takes the flogger in hand again, uses it to nudge her panties down, inch by slow inch, "I'm going to have to fuck you like the filthy, disobedient little slut you are."

[Hilary] Always like this, with him. It's the real reason she comes to him, and can't stay away from him. It isn't the way he hits her, his willingness to brutalize and dominate her. It's the way he shifts so easily, so smoothly, from one form of control to another. From chaining her up and lashing her to holding her, cradling her, whispering to her that it's okay, everything's all right,

and right back to smacking his hand on her ass, telling her she likes it, that's what she really wants, isn't it.

But lacking any of that, he wouldn't be so compelling to her. Lacking any of that, he would be just another young, pretty man with smoothly defined muscles and enough energy to fuck her all night. She's fucked young men who looked to her to be a true cougar, to tell them what to do and be the aggressor, the domitor, the one in charge. That's all well and good, she supposes. She still gets off. She doesn't mind them. She doesn't fuck them more than once.

Used to. But then she'd start to grab their throats as she rode them, rake her nails down their chest to bleeding while she used their cocks. And it angered her when they stopped her. It scared her when they didn't. So she doesn't fuck boys like that more than once anymore.

She's had sex with Ivan more than any young man on the side that she can think of. And she's never... been quite so much herself with any of them, either. She's never been asked to, and while he doesn't remind her of her first mate, when she's with him she reminds herself of how she was then. A little. It was such a very long time ago.


Draped from the ceiling fan, Hilary shudders and gasps, all but crying as Ivan holds her there, stroking her more gently now as she comes down from her orgasm, caressing her breast. Her heartbeat slams into his palm, her pussy quivering against his fingers. She thinks of herself sobbing I'm empty and then a few hot, wet tears do come. Her eyes open and search for him, the world too bright and spotty for her after such a long time with them closed. She finds Ivan's eyes and whispers -- almost whispers -- for him to kiss her, but the words never quite make it out. She leans into him, though, laying her head against his shoulder and neck for those brief moments when he lets her.

Soon though, he kisses her face, and she smiles. It's a small, soft, flickering thing, and she looks for him. Sees something in his eyes, dark and maybe even twisted, wanting again -- still. She feels his cock pressed to her body through his underwear and breathes in as he tells her what they both already know. She came.

His finger slides across her clit and she breathes in, shivering and quick, her nipples still hardened. She moans softly as the rod of the flogger moves between her buttocks, against them, nudging her panties down. It takes time -- they're such fine, lacy things, and so wet now.

Ivan goes on, and Hilary answer with a helpless little nod, watching him now, watching him the way she wouldn't even look at him during that first round. She whispers: "Can I come down?" Her hands have let go of the chain, but she tugs at it with her wrists. The ceiling fan jostles a bit.

[Ivan] [EMPAFEE]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 1, 4, 10 (Failure at target 6)

[Ivan] [FANGS DO NOT FAIL.]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 5, 7, 10 (Success x 1 at target 7)

[Ivan] [ONE MORE TIME!]
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 2, 4, 7, 9 (Success x 1 at target 8)