Ivan Press

[Hilary] Strange how long they sometimes go without ever seeing one another. Well, he has his own business to attend to. And Hilary, recovering from her awful tragedy, has a separation and divorce to prepare for as well, though that's very hush-hush in social circles, of course. Her awful tragedy frees her from many bonds and restrictions of her class, and she is excused from reasonably any gathering or party she doesn't want to partake in or has become bored by and wants to leave quickly. It's actually quite lovely, to be able to get up from a table of hens and depart without anyone being offended because, after all, she's already been through so much.

She recounts all these thoughts in one of the letters she sends to him by messenger during the time they aren't visiting. It's faster to send someone on a bicycle with a letter than to send it by post, so that is what she does. She never sends him e-mails or text messages, really, except in passing. She grows quickly forgetful where her cellphone is concerned; sometimes she walks away from it and doesn't bother to answer, or she puts it down in the middle of a text conversation and forgets to pick it back up again. But her letters are graceful, well-written things. Tangible, the paper soft yet crisp in his fingertips, with her sloping, swirling initial as a signature at the bottom:

H.

They should make appearances here and there, and she should otherwise 'convalesce'. She's already begun hiring her staff, she tells him, and has taken up the two 1 bed, 1 bath apartments on either side of her own -- that alone was a trial, Hilary claims, as one was occupied and she had to do quite a bit of wrangling and persuasion to get the asshole out. But now they're secured, and she thanks Ivan for his assistance in vetting the references brought to her by the Russian kinswoman she's hired to be her secretary/assistant/financial advisor/household manager/what-have-you. All she has to do now is go through the final background check on the girl she's found to be her maid and she should be set.

It's by letter, pedaled over by a hipster with a black hat and chinbeard, that she invites Ivan out finally, after weeks of not seeing one another. She's going to the Shedd for the afternoon, and would he like to join her there, perhaps have a drink afterward?

It's signed, as they all are:

H.

[Ivan] Letters by courier.

Such an antiquated, elegant method of communication; which of course means it's the method of choice for so many Silver Fangs. Their tribe is nothing if not elegant; nothing if not antiquated, obsolete, dying.

Which of course also means Ivan tends not to communicate by pen and ink. Oh, of course he will and does on occasion, when it seems appropriate -- when conveying news of that awful tragedy to Espiridion Durante, for one -- or when the whim strikes. She received two letters from him during her tenure in San Miguel. She writes him again now that they've returned to Chicago, and he does not reply in kind.

To that first letter, she receives a phone call. Summers are oppressive and wet in Chicago, hot and full of thunder. It's on a rainy afternoon that he calls and, because he's missed her, leaves a brief message, as courteous and formal as any letter would have been: Hilary. It's Ivan. Thanks for writing. I'm happy I was able to assist on the matter of your girl.

It's only toward the end that a hint of personal attachment, a hint of what happens between them when they come together, even begins to show. As for making appearances, he says, you know I'm always happy to escort you anywhere you might wish. I look forward to seeing you again.

Talk to you soon. And click.

The second letter is delivered a little while after that. A bicycle courier, not quite the powdered and wigged footman of old, brings it to Ivan's door; Dmitri, back from Russia at last, brings it to where his master lounges out on the terrace, sprawled golden and half-naked on one of the large, sturdy teak chairs. A little while later, Ivan asks for his cellphone, and Hilary receives an answer by text:

3pm by the jellyfish?

[Hilary] Every time she writes to him, he replies by a phone call -- a message, usually, or more rarely a brief chat over the line -- or by text message, and sometimes she'll talk to him like that for awhile before she gets irritated with the medium or gets called off to do something else. Truth be told, Ivan probably had next to nothing to do with the hiring of her 'girl', who is... far from 'girl' status. That was most likely left to Max, really, triple-checking the woman who was to take a position of quite a bit of power in Hilary's so-called 'household'.

But they are the pretty, rich ones whose inheritances and investments cover all their grotesque spending and the salaries of their servants. Sometimes they like so much to pretend that they do real work. That they have real influence, and not just the ability to pull strings or throw money at people. At each other.

Standing in front of a tank where sea turtles roam through dark, cavernous spaces, Hilary takes her phone out and looks at the message, lifting a brow. It takes her a little longer to reply than it takes him to send it.

I'm already there. Come whenever you please.

[Ivan] It's hard to decipher tone by text. That could be a snit. Or it could simply be Hilary ... being Hilary. Regardless, soon enough -- not at 3pm -- Ivan shows up in sand-colored slacks; in a short-sleeved shirt that's pale olive-green in the light, but merely greyish as he moves into the darker exhibits.

Ocean creatures flash and slice, float and billow in artificial currents. Most people tend to head right first, circling counterclockwise through the Shedd. Ivan deliberately bucks this trend, heading left, passing through galleries one by one until he finds Hilary.

And he greets her rather boldly, this not-yet-divorcee with the recent tragic history; this woman he's been seen in public with long before her marriage came undone. His arm circles her waist as he comes up beside her. He holds her against his side, lean and warm, as he kisses her on the cheek. His lips press to her skin a little too long, a little too familiarly; as if the half-embrace weren't telltale enough.

"Hello," he says.

[Hilary] She heads for the jellyfish soon enough after that brief 'conversation'. Is waiting there when he comes, staring magnetically at the creatures drifting in the water, thinking about the sea turtles she was just watching, and how eagerly they eat these alien angels. Thinking, too, of a video she saw of a shark and an octopus being put in the same tank and how quickly, how brutally, and how effortlessly the octopus wrapped the shark up in its tentacles and wrestled it to dying submission.

On the outside, her hair is loose with summer, and she's wearing her wedding ring and her anniversary ring and a wristful of thin gold bangles. Her dress is an easy cotton thing, seventies-ish in flair, short enough to show off her legs to stunning effect. It's red, with a deep neckline and paired with some high wedge platforms, leather bands buckled around her ankles. She looks eminently fuckable like this. Thinner than the last time he saw her, closer to the body she had before he knocked her up.

Her bag is a slim white clutch, and she wears her ring because nobody but Ivan and the staff know yet that Dion is just going to give it six months before he files. It'll make it easier by Illinois laws, too.

When Ivan strolls over, Hilary doesn't take her eyes off the fish. She sees him in the reflection, as ghostly as the jellies are, and when he steps close and wraps his arm around her, she tilts her head a bit to accept the kiss that's coming. That lingers. She wonders to herself if he'd like to tug the hem of that shirt-like dress up to where it's cinched around her waist with a leather belt just to get a look at whatever panties she's wearing. This thought, however, does not show on her face.

She looks, as she often does, somewhere between thoughtful and bored.

"Good afternoon," she murmurs. "Let's stroll a bit, shall we?"


And stroll they do. Jellyfish here, and sharks there. They go downstairs and up. It's a far cry from how she used to have to stop and huff for breath while dealing with stairs. They make idle, polite conversation about this fish and the other, this exhibit and that. He notices that she lingers longer around the larger tanks, the bigger creatures, the ones that need their space. The ones that need to be protected from too much light, too many eyes. How her own gaze probes the depths past the brightly colored vegetation and coral near the glass, looking into what lurks in the shadows.

It isn't that long of a visit, though. A lot of it is pretense. She just seems to want to walk with him a bit, out and about. And she wants to look at fish. Until they circle around and she glances down a hallway and exhales and says, breezily, "Cognac?"

[Ivan] Ivan notices the details because it's literally his job to notice the details. He notices the color of her dress; he notices she's lost more weight, is bringing herself relentlessly closer and closer to the body she had before all this happened. He wonders how much of that is vanity, and how much of it is sheer denial.

He notices the way she watches the two of them in reflection, their ghosts cast onto dark water; the way he enfolds her in his embrace and kisses her with something like force. Something like possession.

Afterward, they walk. And she looks longer at the vast dark tanks, the ones the hide the predators and the creatures from the deep, alien things that would literally explode out of their skins if brought out from the controlled, pressurized environments of their tanks. He thinks of an exhibit at the zoo, birds caged by darkness. This doesn't seem so very different.

Presently they emerge out into the impressive entrance hall. Tourists are snapping pictures. Ivan tilts his head back for one glance, then looks out at the broad steps down from the Shedd, into Grant Park. Cognac, she suggests. He glances at her, a quick sidelong flick of the eyes.

"What happened to mimosas?" he asks, amused.

[Hilary] "If you had as many brunches with ladies from the country club and yacht club as I have to have, you would positively start vomiting at the mention of mimosas," she says, a twist of her mouth indicating some amusement of her own. She heads towards the exit, and the sunshine outside, and now it's almost the three o'clock that he wanted to meet her at, and she's saying,

"There's an interesting little club a few blocks from here. Big leather chairs. Older men. They go there with clients from whatever businesses they do. It makes me feel like I'm stepping back in time. They stare at me and buy me drinks."

She doesn't open doors for herself. Not even the ones at the Shedd. Someone always seems to be there to get it for her. "Should be relatively empty right now, though."

[Ivan] In this case, at least, Ivan gets the door for her, moving one step ahead to sweep it open. Fingers and arm outstretched, he holds it so until she's through, then brings up the rear. It's hot outside, hot and humid but rather overcast, actually. The summer tourist season is in full swing and people are lined up to see the museums. The lake glitters blue and silver not so very far away, makes Ivan think he should take Hilary sailing again sometime. Perhaps there'll be fireworks.

She's speaking of stepping back in time, of leather chairs and older men, a world that should come complete with cigar smoke. Does come complete with cognac. Ivan's hands are in his pockets as he descends the broad stairway, offering an elbow to Hilary as he goes. "Well," he says, "I'm sure they'll keep staring, but I suspect your free drinks will be somewhat fewer with a companion than without."

Dmitri brings his car around; amazingly, it's not one of his supercharged toys but Lane's Bentley, which is being appropriated so often of late that it might as well be Ivan's Bentley. Ivan escorts Hilary into the back seat, sliding into that world of creamy soft leather beside her. It's refreshingly cool and dry in the cabin. A few blocks, she said; they could have walked but really. In this weather?

Ivan leans back, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee as Hilary tells Dmitri the name of the club. He's looking out the window at the bright sun, the sweating crowds. He looks at Hilary when she sits back, studying her a moment.

"You look lovely," he says. "It's been a surprisingly long time since I've seen you, now that I think about it."

[Hilary] "Oh, I should like to see one of them send me a drink," she says, laying her hand on his arm as they descend the wide staircase, the jersey of her dress clinging to her thighs with each step. "You could act all possessive and affronted and defend my honor."

That wry twist to her lips is nothing if not a bit cruel, and it's hard to tell who the mockery is aimed at, or if she just thinks the idea itself is silly. They pass by people who glance at them. People can't help it. They're both so pretty. So shiny. And that flash of red against fair skin and dark hair is eyecatching.

She smiles at the sight of the old-fashioned car, the nice one. She despises his racecar-style seatbelts in the other cars, the lack of class and refinement. Perhaps he remembers this from the last time he saw her, picking her up from her posh little penthouse to take her home

and chain her to the ceiling fan

and flog her.


This is also the car they rode in from the airport to his place.


This is also the car they carried Anton in.


She slides into the back seat, blinking away tension as she does so, only when Ivan cannot see her as she scoots over. He leans back and closes the door, and she tells Dmitri where to go. After she does so, she reaches over and closes the privacy screen between themselves and the driver, turning to Ivan. She doesn't reach for her seatbelt, but lays back on that creamy leather, extending an arm and hooking a finger in his collar, pulling him over her,

on top of her. Between her legs, that flimsy dress rucked up enough that he can see the white panties underneath, overlaid with lace, thin white ribbon woven around the topmost edge. There's no scar under those panties, no hint of what was taken away. She's cool from the Shedd, warm from that brief walk in the sunshine, soft beneath him, welcoming.

"Thank you," she murmurs. "And a month. Give or take."

[Ivan] Oh, he knows she's isn't serious; knows she's cracking a cruel joke at someone's expense. Even so, there's a flickering in his eyes, something primitive and feral stirring briefly toward the surface

only to submerge again as he turns toward the lake, the glittering water in his eyes. They make it the rest of the way to the pickup point, and people look, and people can't help it, and as they're sliding into the car there's just a moment of hesitation in Hilary, so quickly past.

She closes the privacy screen. She hooks her finger into his collar and his eyebrow flicks up; she pulls and he resists a symbolic moment before going with her. Leather shifts and gives. He moves over her, and her dress rides up, and then he pushes it up further so he can look at what she has for him under it before she draws him down. He braces his weight on his elbows. One foot is on the floor. Her legs aren't quite wrapped around him, but it's close. He draws a breath that she can feel, his chest expanding against hers. His eyes, looking down at her, are the color of freshwater and sunlight -- a green that reflects his shirt, and occasionally seems to veer into a truer, more feral hue; a gold that occasionally looks wolf-amber and tawny.

"I thought you wanted cognac," he reminds her. He sounds cool, careless, but his hand is pushing her dress ever higher, his fingers flirting with the edge of her panties. "We've only a few blocks to go."

[Hilary] "So tell Dmitri to go somewhere farther," she breathes, lifting her hips a bit so that the back of her dress will tug upward, past her waist. "Or make him circle the block. Or park. Or take me in the bathroom once we get inside."

She's saying all this softly, but there's a rush in her voice. She hasn't reached for his buttons yet, or his belt. She shrugs, wriggling on the backseat. They bump on a pothole and she laughs, even as she's finishing that shrug and tugging the shoulders of her dress down. It restricts the motion of her arms the way it is, hugged around her elbows, but she doesn't seem to mind that. It may in fact be the point of the gesture as much as the 'point' is to show him her breasts in their matching bra. The lack of bows keeps the white lace from being girlish. There's something classic, almost vintage, about her underwear.

She hasn't kissed him yet. Bares herself, bit by bit, watching him to see what he does. "Whatever you like," she tells him, and somehow it feels like a question.

[Ivan] That flash in his eyes again, like heat-lightning, silent and diffuse. She keeps baring more and more of herself. Slowly, little by little, watching to see how he reacts even as she promises him, or asks him,

whatever you like.

Anything you like, he hears, and his mind falls to dark places. Anything: the sight of her blindfolded and bound in the main cabin of his yacht, the sunlight angling in, stained with water. The sight of her bound to his bed, tied down, his to use whenever he likes. The thought of her touching herself sometimes when she thinks of him, or thinking of him wanting to touch herself while she's out and about and she's wearing that half-thoughtful, half-bored look so no one else would ever know.

The way she looks sometimes, bent over his bed, head turned to the side, eyes closed, mouth open, strands of hair over her face.

He moves suddenly, grasping her hands in his, wrenching them over her head and down against the seats. It's a harsh, brutal motion. His fingers are locked around her wrists; he shifts over her, moves himself between her legs, presses himself to her. Only then does his grip relent, and then only by a little. He breathes smoothly, deeply, lowering his mouth to her neck like he might savage her now,

but he only nips at her earlobe. Murmurs in her ear.

"When you're with me," he says, "you're mine. And if some fifty-year-old corporate suit wants to sample you on the way to his third heart attack, I will defend what belongs to me."

He presses a kiss to her then, his mouth to the flash of tendon in her neck. He pushes himself up, his one hand holding hers locked against the seat for another moment while the other deftly, quickly divests her of her panties. Tosses them on the floor.

When he sits back, he continues -- conversational now, even casual. "When we get to your club, I want to have a drink with you. Some light conversation. Like we're friends through our families, stopping for a drink on a weekday afternoon. Very proper. Very civil. Nothing untoward.

"And at some point," he goes on, flicking an errant strand of her hair from his sleeve, then from his knee where it falls, "I'll tap the back of your hand twice. And I want you to make some excuse and go to the women's room. Wait for me in the handicapped stall."

A pause, thoughtful.

"Wearing these." His hand slips into his pocket for a moment. He tosses something to her: it lands with a light, metallic clink. Handcuffs.

[Hilary] Sometimes there's flickers of vulnerability in her, flickers he has to know are genuine, because she just isn't the type of woman to pretend -- unless she makes the pretense obvious. When she all but asks him to take whatever he likes, it's difficult not to know that she's wanting to know if he'd like her now, yes. If he wants her. If he's missed her. If he likes this, what she's doing now.

And yet that wheedling uncertainty that might accompany this vulnerability is absent. She doesn't whine, doesn't mope. She just looks at him, waiting for exactly what he does. That flash in his eyes. The way he grabs her then, holds her down, his skin hot to the touch. Hilary takes a sharp breath in and gives a small, truncated moan when he pushes himself against her, doesn't quite satisfy that need she has to feel him grinding between her legs,

but comes so close.

They're cramped back here, but it doesn't matter. She looks up at him when he pins her wrists down, but doesn't whimper aloud. She tries to steady her breathing. He descends like he's going to bite her neck, like he's going to hold her there with his teeth while he gets his cock out and fucks her while Dmitri drives smoothly over the Chicago streets, but he whispers to her instead.

And her pulse flutters. She gives a little nod, her voice faint: "I know," Hilary whispers. "I know."

The words sound like she's saying and I like it. The way she moves, the way her voice sounds before he locks his mouth on her neck and kisses her, the way she shudders apart at the sensation, whimpers because he hasn't laid his mouth on hers yet. She breathes carefully when Ivan leaves her, watching him. Her hips lift obediently so he can work her panties off her body and down her legs and stretching over her shoes and dropping in a pile of pristine white on the floor of Lane's car.

And Ivan sits back, letting her go. She knows he was hard, half-hard at least, when he came down over her body like that. She felt him. Wanted him. Left a spot of wetness on those panties he just tossed aside, because she was ready for him. Still: he sits up, and since he's let go of her, she takes a deep breath and sits up as well, her ass bare against the leather for a few moments at least. She adjusts her dress over herself again and tucks her hair back, flips it off her shoulder while his tone assumes that light, conversational lilt that he's going to carry for some time now.

She nods at his instructions, still breathing slowly, steadily. "Yes, Ivan."

Then he removes the handcuffs from his pocket. They land in her lap, heavy. She looks down at them and then she reaches down and touches them. "I wondered what that was in your pocket," she says mildly, having felt them pressing against her inner thigh when he laid atop her. She gets her clutch, opens it up, and nudges the cuffs inside.

Glances out the window. "Oh, it's just ahead."

[Ivan] She has her flashes of vulnerability, which sometimes coincide so closely with her flashes of -- well. Humanity. And he has his flashes of genuine humor, true enjoyment, actual ... happiness, perhaps, when he's with her. One comes now as she comments on what was in his pocket; a flash of his teeth as he laughs.

"At least," he says, that savage side of him she glimpsed so briefly folded flawlessly away again, "you didn't crack the obvious overdone joke."


Not long after, Dmitri slides the Bentley to a stop. Ivan lifts his eyes to the building awaiting them, but he makes no move to open the door. Soon enough Dmitri is there, sweeping it open, and this would be inexcusably rude -- letting the male out before the female -- if not for the fact that on Hilary's side lies the busy boulevard. So it is that Ivan climbs out onto the curb first, giving his shirt collar a distracted tug to straighten it before turning back to give his hand to Hilary.

"I'll call when I'm ready," he tells Dmitri, and then -- as though he didn't just strip her panties off in the car, as though he didn't have her pinned down and moaning beneath him, pressing against him, getting wet for him; as though he didn't just give her a pair of handcuffs to tuck in her little clutch -- he offers his arm to Hilary again.

"Do you think they serve lobster-stuffed shiitake here?" he's saying as they disappear inside. "I've a terrible craving."

[Hilary] "I was a trifle more focused on your cock," she says blithely, crossing her legs at the knee. She clasps her clutch again and sets it aside. "And I know you were happy to see me," she adds, a touch softer, though she isn't looking at him. She's looking out the window.

They stop in front of the club, a swanky place with dark green, copper, rich deep woods. It's called BOSTON'S, with Public House underneath it. No 'Bar & Grille' underneath their signage, oh no. And it really is mostly empty right now. The bartenders wear white shirts and black vests, black bow ties. There's tables and chairs and booths and stairs leading up to another floor, but the prime seating is really the enormous couches and chairs by the hearth; no fire right now, of course, and due to the hour the music -- though quiet -- is swing, white jazz, peppy music people used to want to dance to.

Hilary strolls in alongside Ivan, telling him: "No, I should think not. Their menu is gastropub fare, but you aren't exactly their demographic. Sorry to disappoint."

[Ivan] I knew, she says, but it might be more appropriate to say -- you showed me. Because in a way, that's exactly what happened. She asked with a statement, anything you like, and he answered with action.

She doesn't look at him, saying that. Her voice is a little softer. It was quite soft in the backseat of Lane's car, when he whispered to her silkily, snarlingly, with bared teeth, that she was his, his, and he would defend what was his. And it was soft, so prettily submitting, when she said,

Yes, Ivan.


A little later, they stroll into the public house together, and that alone tells Ivan what sort of establishment this is. She apologizes without a shred of sincerity for disappointing him. He scoffs, "They'll serve it, I'm sure," and they take two of the best seats in the house, to the side of the hearth, close enough that in winter they would share the warmth; distant enough to afford them some privacy.

And then there's a waiter, and they order cognac; or rather, Ivan orders. And then there's a brief discussion over the fare here -- largely hearty, british-isle-inspired creations that do not interest Ivan at three in the afternoon. Not a shiitake on the menu. It doesn't matter. The headwaiter is called over, and then the chef. The discussion goes on only a little while, but in the little while there are suggestions, inquiries, the intimation of money, the unutterably compelling tone of Ivan's voice. When the small crowd disperses, lobster-stuffed shiitake is on the menu, though it's suggested there might be a bit of a wait while they gathered the appropriate ingredients.

"Take your time," Ivan replies, smiling, satisfied. Clearly, he has no compunctions, none at all, about this sort of abuse of power. "We're in no hurry."

There's this much at least: he has the good grace not to gloat when he turns back to Hilary. Their cognac is delivered: a decanter and two glasses, thousands of dollars' worth of liquid pooled in crystal. He pours generously. He holds Hilary's out to her, then sinks back in his armchair with his own.

"We never did make it to Vienna," he says. This apology is about as sincere as hers was: "I feel terrible; I keep promising you leisure trips and failing to deliver."

[Hilary] Of course he'll get them to serve it. Hilary just huffs a laugh, shaking her head and rolling her eyes. She sits on the leather, though this time that short skirt is pulled down enough to cover her. She crosses her legs and doesn't seem hungry for anything, just the cognac please. Watches him get what he wants, watches him call over three, four people to get what he wants. Fulfill his craving.

Privately, she's aroused by him. It. By the ridiculousness of this behavior. By the freewheeling abuse of the power he has over people because of his money and his rage. By the knowledge that she submits to him because she wants to. Wants him. Because his coercion of her is just play. They're just pretending that she doesn't want to give him everything he wants, pretending that he's making her give it up, that there is even a shred, an iota, of real resistance in her.

There's reasons why, as in the car, Ivan makes a brief show of resisting her pull. There's reasons why she only pulls away, or pulls back, or resists, when it's genuine. Most of the time, she just sinks down onto him if he wants her to, bares herself or lets him do it, and tells him that all she wants in the whole world is to make him happy.

That isn't why she wrote to him today and invited him out. She thought they'd go have a drink and talk a bit about something she's had on her mind. But then they were in the car, and the leather was so smooth and cool that she locked onto the way it felt on her body and the fantasy of fucking him in the car while Dmitri drove

instead of letting herself think about other memories, other ideas.


Now she can think of little else but waiting for him to tap the back of her hand. She takes her cognac when it's delivered and they're finally left alone, lifting her eyebrows as he mentions Vienna. "Oh, well," she says, dismissive, "we've been busy. Though I suppose a holiday in Vienna would look good socially. Convalescing in some beautiful villa somewhere. Now that my staff is hired, perhaps we should just up and leave. They can all get settled and get used to dealing with my life while I'm away from it."

She sips her drink, swirling it a bit in the glass while she watches him. "I have to wonder if my escort and guardian will become bored with entertaining me in the unfortunate event that my husband should leave me." She pretends to lower her voice as though passing along a secret: "I'm sure you've heard that he departed on business almost immediately after the horror we went through; that can't be a good sign for our marriage, don't you think?"

She smirks, leaning back and taking another sip.

[Ivan] They're sitting farther from each other than they would in private. Than they would in the aftermath of a fuck. If they both stretched their arms out, their fingertips might just touch. A little shorter, the distance between their feet.

They don't stretch their arms out. Or their legs. They lounge in their comfortable leather armchairs, and their poise is utterly effortless: hers the grace of a former dance, his the grace of --

well. Whatever he is, really. An animal, a werewolf, a goddamn shapeshifting ninja.

And he listens to her as she speaks, tunes his ear as much to the cadence of her voice, the tone, as to the words. He sips his cognac. It's like liquid gold on the tongue, rolling smoothly from one side to the other, and the finish lasts absolutely forever, complex and scintillating. It warms in the pit of his stomach, pleasant. When she smirks, so does he, and some slow desire stirs inside him.

She's aroused by the way he throws his weight around not because he's got some sort of complex, because he needs it to feel important -- but because he can. Because no one ever taught him, in his almost-quarter-century of life, to respect others. To not take what he wants. To not take advantage.

She's an exception to that. He's aroused by the way she pretends at the jilted spouse's grief; aroused by the things she says, by her coolness here in the pub while in the car she was all but begging for it. He's aroused by her and fascinated by her and he keeps coming back to her, keeps wanting to make her his somehow, keeps getting caught between his instinct to own and dominate and take and keep

and his uncertainty with her; his desire, ultimately, to make her happy.

"Well," he replies at length, when the smirk has simmered down to a smile, "certainly I wish you, your husband and your marriage the best. But if you should find yourself in need of a brief retreat, your escort and guardian stands ready to take you wherever you might please."

[Hilary] If they were alone, he'd have her in his lap soon enough. He'd offer her a hand and then have her sink down on his legs, her thighs spread to either side of him. Or he'd have her turn and sit prettily on him, feed her what he liked, offer her sips from his own glass. If they were alone, he could slip his hand into her dress and unsheath her breast, pull it to his mouth to suck on her sweet little nipple. If they were alone, he could then slide that hand up her skirt and finger her bare cunt, make her squirm and moan right there where he holds her.

They have the bartenders to contend with, and this place isn't noisy or crowded enough for them to even forget how they talk to each other. There's a few gentlemen in a booth, some younger up-and-comers hoping to network sitting around a table. Late lunches, very late. You have to be very high up or very willing to take a risk to take a three hour lunch, but there you have it. Some do. There's not a single other woman in the place. Just Hilary, wearing that livid red made for blithe shopping trips or a stroll along the pier, not this place.

She stands out. Everywhere she goes. Perhaps that's why she chose this place, though. She doesn't tend to hide herself away, or shrink from the limelight. She enjoys knowing that there are men here who might dare to stare. Who might fancy themselves comptetition, or bring out that savage side in Ivan that she usually only sees when he's fucking her, nice and hard the way she likes it.

Or shoving his cock in her mouth and grabbing her hair, snarling at her to suck it.

She takes a breath and sips her cognac, thinking of all this, resisting the urge to uncross and cross her legs like a woman who needs to work to get herself noticed. She licks her lips and her smirk doesn't entirely fade at his words. "I have been through quite a lot," she says lightly, as though it isn't true, or as though she doesn't care. "I would like to go somewhere nice. Perhaps somewhere warmer than Vienna. I can almost wear a bikini again."

And so it goes. Back and forth, banter like this. Dancing around any possible attraction. Dumbing it down when his food arrives so that it seems like they're just acquaintances through friends or family who have to socialize, though the staff has to be wondering which of them picked this place -- the woman who doesn't fit in here, or the young man who doesn't fit in here. She is offered -- and takes -- a bite of his lobster-stuffed shittake, lifting her eyebrows.

"It's been done better, but I suppose that's what you get for ordering off the menu." She sips again. She's on her second glass -- a luxury, a post-pregnancy gift to herself, to have a second glass of anything -- and then sets it down, lifting a brow at him. "You know you could have waited. I could have just made them for you later."

[Ivan] It's a mating dance of sorts, their conversation over cognac and appetizers. They're different when they're out in public like this. When the necessity for discretion holds them at a distance. That distance seems to translate into a metaphorical distance as well; they spar with their words a little. They flirt subtly and aggressively, or at least he does. Food arrives; they tone it down. Waiter departs. He offers her a bite of his stuffed shiitake from the point of his fork.

She comments, and his eyes change a little. He looks at her with something like affection; genuine feeling that their arch manners and glossy words make them seem incapable of. He holds his hand out for hers, and perhaps this is a bit of a risk, because the way he takes his hand is not acquaintance-like.

"I'm not very good at waiting," he says, which is a lie,

because then he lets her hand go, untapped, and conversation sinks back into superficial matters. They discuss the lake this year, and whether or not she's had a chance to take the Cielo back out. He mentions a yacht race late in the season; he thinks he might compete in it purely for kicks. She expresses a touch of disdain for something so callow as racing, as competition. He remembers the day he met her, almost a year ago now. A nameless, glamourous woman on her catamaran. And then Mrs. Durante. And then Hilary Durante.

And then simply:

his.


Nearly an hour passes before long. His second glass of cognac is gone, and then his third. He pours a fourth, half a glass. He talks, walks, thinks and acts like the the New York trust fund baby he is, but he holds his liquor like a Russian. Even so, so much in so short a time has him sitting lower in the armchair, his head back against the seat. The snifter is held delicately in his fingertips; he holds it up to the light, one eye shut, looking at the way the light refracts through it to scatter on his palm.

"Let's go to Port Grimaud," he says; it would be sudden if his tone weren't so indolent, so languid. He downs the last of his cognac, sets the glass down, pins her with a heavy-lidded look. "Tomorrow."

[Ivan] [drop the "she expresses a touch of disdain..." sentence!]

[Hilary] Aggression seems par for the course between the two of them, even when they're flirting. Especially then. It's always been there between them; the lack of it is more noticable, and more frightening, for both of them. The moments when she's most caring and reaching out the most to him are when she's snapping at him in the kitchen. The moments when he is most attuned to her are when he's physically abusing her. Small wonder, then, that their flirtation in this pub has an edge to it.

They dance with that edge as much as with each other, see how far they can push each other. They haven't found Hilary's limit sexually yet, though they've found his. They nudge around the limits of what is okay in conversation, to see what words hurt. What's hard to say is if they're watching out for landmines, or looking for weapons.

Hilary just smirks at him when he takes her hand. The look on her face, and the sincerity on his, and anyone glancing over would think he's mocking her, or making a joke, pleading with her somehow. They'll see the flirtation, and sense it, as much as they see that rock on her left hand -- and see how quickly that young man is putting away the cognac, as though it will dull the edge of his want,

which anyone here would guess is unreciprocated, and impossible anyway. She doesn't look like the sort of woman who is going to cheat on her husband. Certainly not brazenly, with some young man she has a drink with in the middle of the day.

They talk about yachting. She laughs at the idea of him racing, says he should. She finds rowers far more stimulating, warns him that he'll find himself surrounded by men in their forties racing motorized yachts because their bodies can't handle anything they have to seriously contribute to. Of course she'd say that. She was a dancer. Her body was everything to her when she competed; to leave it up to machinery smacks of weakness to her. She sips her cognac and smirks at him. "I'm sure you'll win if you go," she adds, the implication that he will because it won't be a challenge to him clear enough.

Of the Cielo, she just sighs, shaking her head, not quite sure what to do about that thing yet. She knows it will be hers regardless, but if she's going to sell it later this year then she doesn't want to bother taking it out of storage. On the other hand, if she's going to sell it, she may as well enjoy it. She laughs, jokingly suggests he could buy it, since he seems to like it more than she does.

She stops after that second glass, watching him grow more drunk, nursing her own, sipping slowly. She watches him slouch, her eyes darkening a bit, amused by his one-eye-shut inspection of the caramel-colored beverage. She's about to say something when he suggests Port Grimaud.

Hilary huffs a laugh, shaking her head. "You despise anything," she says drolly to him, "that is not impulse. Don't you?"

[Ivan] That skims a little close to a landmine. Or a bruise. He has so many of them, after all. Spoiled, rich, pretty young thing that he is: with no shame, but an impeccable sense of dignity and self-worth and possessiveness. He shifts a little, flexing his head on his shoulders, half-entranced by the way the contents of his skull feel light and unbalanced.

"As a matter of fact," he says lightly, "you suggested running off to some warmer clime. I'm merely indulging. Will you come or not?"

Barely a beat passes. "And what were you about to say?"

[Hilary] "I forget," she says, and honestly, staring at him now, watching him with her head tilted, her hair sweeping her shoulder and spilling down her breast. "Some idle comment about the way you look right now, maybe."

She reaches over, touching his hand, her voice lower. "I was merely laughing at the insistence that we go tomorrow, Ivan. Not the invitation itself. And I was not saying no. I meant no ill by it."

[Ivan] His hand stirs beneath hers. They're both such wellformed people, right down to the tips of their fingers. Their hands are long and lean, her fingers shapely, his knuckles defined. The backs of his fingers graze, caress the palm of her hand. He knows what she's thinking of; thinks perhaps this is a hint, a suggest that she would like it if he gave her the signal to go to the bathroom and handcuff herself

and wait for him to come in and push her skirt up and bend her over and

fuck her. Nice and hard, the way she likes it.

Or maybe that's just what he's thinking of. The heat and wetness of her cunt. The way she moved beneath him in the car, pressed herself to him, wanted him, invited him. Told him, a month. Showed him she missed him. Wanted to know if he missed her too, only of course none of that could be spoken so simply between them.

Suddenly and achingly, he wants to tell her: i'm so uncertain around you sometimes. i'm so afraid you're laughing at me, or toying with me, or just

moving on from me.

But that's ridiculous, too. And not something that can be spoken easily between them. So his hand turns over beneath hers. He catches her fingers in his and holds her hand a moment, looking at her, lounging quite low in his seat now. "I apologize," he says at last, quietly. "I suppose I am prone to impulsive behavior. If you need more time to prepare, we can of course postpone the trip.

"But I'd like it if you came with me tomorrow." A faint hint of a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "I'm not very good at waiting," he explains.

[Hilary] Perhaps the thought crossed her mind as well, fleetingly, when she decided to take his hand. It's not a common thing for her to do, going to him to... what is this? Comfort? Endearment? She doesn't even have the strength to hold his hand very tightly, or perhaps she simply doesn't have the will to bother. But she did come forward, and take his hand, and the thought passes through both their minds that he could just tap her knuckles
like an errant schoolgirl

and send her off to wait for him in the bathroom. Cuff herself up and wait for him to come fuck her in some filthy way, in that filthy place, cover her mouth to shut her up while he watches his cock pound slick and hard into her. Again, again.

They both think it. He doesn't tap her hand and Hilary doesn't seem disappointed. She tips her head, unamused. Thoughtful as to his feelings, or faking it very well, for once in her damned life. He holds her hand, looks at her instead of her manicured, pearl-glossed fingernails. The corner of her mouth finally does turn up a bit when he speaks, long before his own smile touches his lips.

"Why must you insist on seeing my comment about your impulsiveness as a complaint?" she says, not quite teasing. She slips her hand away, withdrawing back to her own space, before people begin to stare. "Still...it's out of character for me to be quite that impulsive about trans-continental journeys, especially in current circumstances. That makes it all the more noticable when I do take off at a moment's notice, having said not a word to anyone. I'm particularly wary now that I know my husband's intentions. When he already plans to divorce me, the suspicion of adultery is as good as the crime, where before it was a moment of insecurity I could sweep away from him."

She lifts her glass of cognac, finishing off the last drops and watching Ivan. "But for you, darling boy, I'll feign absentmindedness due to my fragile state and insist to my new staff that I told them a hundred times about this trip. I'll even yell at the maid for failing to prepare my luggage. And go to Port Grimaud tomorrow, first class." A beat. "I know you'd like me on your jet, but you'll forgive me on the basis of discretion and your understanding that I might not want to spend half a day in that plane just now."

She sets her glass down and rises, unexpectedly, to her feet, extending a bangled hand to him. "Come now. Let's get back in that car and go for a joyride."

[Ivan] Ivan's eyes gleam when she awards him a new endearment. Darling boy, on top of petit faucon and whatever other bird-metaphors she's doled out. Perhaps he should be glad that at least he's moved up the evolutionary ladder that far; bird to man.

It arouses him, though. Something about that, though he can't say why. The blitheness of it, perhaps. The insinuation of power, dominance, when they both know Hilary is anything but in the bedroom. And certainly, surely: the faint hint it carries of ownership. Mine.

His eyes change as she rises. He watches her, and he looks at her hand, and then he sets his glass aside and rises with her. His fingers lifts hers. It looks like a friendly hand-clasp, the sort of thing you give a distant but longstanding friend where a handshake would seem too stilted.

"Of course," he says. "I'll have Dmitri bring it around."

[Hilary] There's something dark that shadows her eyes when he rises to her, takes her hand, and taps the back of it. She looks at their hands, and looks at him, and her skirt has fallen around her thighs and he knows what is and is not underneath it. Hilary lifts her eyes a bit and gives him a hooded glance.

"Does that still mean what it did?" she asks, her voice near a whisper, her tone changed instantly from one of affection, amusement, near-dominance

asking him if he'd still like her to go wait for him in the bathroom. Take off her clothes in the handicapped stall. Handcuff herself to the metal rail so he can come

well. Do what he likes. Look at her like that. Play with her. Fuck her, if he pleases. Withhold himself from her if he wants to. As though, even when she's getting up and informing him that they should go, insinuating that she might like something else, she'd turn around right now and walk into that bathroom if he told her to. All she wants to know right now is whether that's what he's telling her.

Ivan
Sun 2:58 am
Roll valid
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 6, 8, 10 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[1: She's not hiding anything at all. That tap snapped her into a bit of a submissive posture, because it was the agreed-upon signal.
2: She just wants to know what he wants her to do, and in that sub-state, only really cares what he wants her to do (ie, would be happy doing whatever that is).]

[Ivan] They're standing a little closer than they strictly should. Sometime in the moment where her eyes lowered to their hands, he moved forward half a step. In these dimly lit spaces, his eyes don't look entirely human. There's a luminosity to them, a resonance that is more beast than man.

He nods. He speaks quietly:

"I want to have you here before our little joyride. If you're good for me, maybe I'll fuck you again while Dmitri takes us around town."

[Ivan] People have noticed, but the truth is, there aren't many people here. And the people who are here don't care. They don't know who Hilary is and could not care less. They don't know who Ivan is and wouldn't care if they did. They don't know the vagaries of these two's tumultuous relationship with one another. They don't know how often Ivan is simply trying to please her, make her happy, keep her interested in him, no matter how much she plays the submissive, the soft one, the one who wants to serve. And they don't care that right now she's standing a little too close.

What they see is this: the woman in the red dress standing very close to the young man in the summery clothes. She looks almost sad, the way her eyes are only half-lifted toward him. Then she removes her hand from his, excusing herself with some motion of her lips, turning around and walking towards the restrooms. And they go about their business, Ivan likely lifting a finger to summon the check.

What Ivan knows is that Hilary very much wants him. That if he smirked at her and told her that no, that tap now means it's time for her to get on her knees and let him fuck her mouth, she might very well begin to lower herself to the rug that lies atop the hardwood floor, might begin unfastening his pants to do just as he says. What Ivan knows, and sees, is his little fucktoy ready and willing to go.

Or he sees Hilary, changed suddenly by that agreed-upon gesture, as though she's a different woman. And he sees her nod, and murmur Yes, Ivan, before she removes her hand and turns away from him, walking towards the bathroom, holding that little white clutch purse at her side. She goes around a corner and is out of sight.


The 'Ladies' here (the men's room says 'Gents' on it, in the same brassy lettering) is very clean, rarely used. There's a little sitting area and a large mirror in front, and around another wallpapered corner a trio of stalls, one larger than the other. The doors go all the way (or very nearly) to the floor, the walls to either side high and thick. The flowers in vases here and there are real. It smells like potpurri-on-cleaning-products in here.

Hilary's wedges give soft little clops on the tile. She would hear the noise echo on the walls and think of herself like a dainty show horse, but she's looking at herself in the mirror, adjusting her hair. Satisfied, she turns and walks into the last, largest stall, closing but not locking it behind her. There's a small shelf for things like purses; she sets her clutch on this, opening it and taking out the handcuffs. They dangle from one finger while she clasps the clutch again.

She stops then for a moment, staring at the cuffs, trying to think. Did he tell her wait naked or not? She tips her head, thinking of what will happen if he told her to wait naked and finds her clothed still. She genuinely can't recall if he stipulated it or not. Nor did he tell her if he wanted her chained to the bar, or if her hands should be in front of her or behind her --

really. He has so much to learn.

In the end, she simply opens one cuff and closes it around her left wrist. After a moment or two more of thought, Hilary loops the chain around the bar and closes the second cuff around her right wrist. She lays her hands on the bar, gripping it as though for balance or leverage, and then lays her head against the cool wall with its elegant paper. She closes her eyes, as though to go to sleep standing up,

waiting for him.

[Ivan] Earlier, when Dmitri brought the car around and it was the white Bentley, a moment of tension skittered through Hilary and was gone. Ivan did not know the root of it, didn't ask. But not so long ago, she told him she didn't want to ride in that plane - trusted him to understand why - and he did.

The scars are there. They don't show on her surface, and they don't show on her skin. But they're there, and they're deep, and he thinks he might be in love with her because when he feels her moving to protect those awful vulnerabilities he finds himself wanting to protect her.

Somehow.

So it's very possible that she'll never see that Bentley again. That he'll convince his father to trade up to the next model of corporate jet. That he'll quietly and ruthlessly rid his world of all trace of that strange, dreamlike day when Anton was born, because that's the only way he knows to protect her.
These are the thoughts in his mind as he waits for Hilary to prepare herself in the bathroom. As he pays the tab and calls Dmitri for pickup in fifteen, twenty minutes. And when he's done, and when those thoughts have run their course, he goes down that plush, dim passage to the restrooms.

Even if she had locked the stall, it wouldn't have mattered. He can unlock it with a touch. She didn't, though, and as such she doesn't even hear him coming in. Silent as a ghost, he's simply there - a warmth at her back, his hands delicately rucking her dress up until her ass is bared.

He's not in a hurry. He doesn't draw it out, either. He's deliberate and sure, the teeth of his zipper whispering down, his underclothes shifting quietly out of the way. He's hard when he takes his cock out, slaps the head of it gently, searchingly up against her cunt.

And he wraps his arm around her. Finds her mouth with his hand. Covers it firmly,

holds back whatever sound she might make when he shoves his cock into her and starts fucking her. Like she really is a whore. Like she really is something he can use for pleasure, for relief, for clearing his head without any preamble or post-care, so he can get it out of his system and move on with more important things.

He's panting behind her in seconds. Hammering her, plowing her, fucking her with his hands on her mouth, on her tit, while the handcuffs slide and clank on the bar.

[Hilary] For many 'couples', something like this would be a once in a lifetime sort of thing. A public fuck. A great risk. They could get arrested! They'd be trying not to laugh behind their hands, then trying not to moan. Playful, eager, risky.

Ivan's thoughts are dark as he prepares himself. Ridding the world of the memory of the day Hilary had her child, gave up her child, the day when he took that child across the world to be raised. They act like it never happened, because the last time it was mentioned, Hilary lost her mind. Screamed like an animal. He walks down the hall to the bathrooms, intending for nothing like that to ever, ever happen again.

And she's waiting for him. She doesn't hear him coming into the bathroom proper, but even handicapped stalls are not so big and ladies' rooms not so dark that she doesn't notice. Her head turns to look at him over her shoulder, but then her eyes close. He doesn't say anything. Neither does she.

She breathes in when he pulls her dress up, baring her again. That's one.

She tightens the close of her eyes when he unzips himself, pushes down his underwear. That's two.

She grips the bar harder when he lets her feel it, pushing it against her. That's three.

There isn't much in the way of foreplay, at least not what anyone else would recognize as foreplay. The way he tapped her hand, the memory of what they did in the car, the handcuffs, the way he isn't talking to her and the way he wraps her up tightly and covers her mouth -- all that, for them, is more intense foreplay than a few quick slaps of his cock against her pussy. No wonder he's hard already. No wonder that, though she's not as wet now as he knows she'll get, she's still ready for him.

It's a fast, brutal sort of fuck. Hilary holds onto the bar and moans against his hand, bending over to take him deeper as he slams himself into her. Even with him covering her mouth and subduing his panting, if anyone -- who, the lone female bartender? -- walked in here they'd know exactly what was going on in this stall. He's fucking her the way she always asks to be fucked. Almost like he hates her for making him feel like this.

When they both know, finally, how far from the truth that is. When she doesn't make him feel like that anymore. When he doesn't hate it at all. When all he feels is her tight cunt around him, that body that pretends it never carried his child, and all she feels is him hard inside her, panting behind her, clutching her mouth to shut her up while he uses her pussy.

There's lace over her tit when he reaches inside the neckline of her dress. Maybe he feels it scratching his palm, feels her breast filling his hand there. Maybe he fingers the fabric aside and feels how hard her nipple is. Maybe she's whimpering now, pushing back on him like she still, somehow, wants it harder. Because she somehow, somehow, is working herself up to orgasm already.

[Ivan] This is not, was never going to be, some long luxurious lovemaking session. It has nothing to do with the fact that they're in the ladies' room of an upscale gastropub that may as well have an Good Old Boys' Club sign over the door. It has nothing to do with the fact that they're in public, they shouldn't, it's not decent, they could get arrested.

He's Ivan fucking Press. He can do whatever the fuck he wants. Morality and fear of the law are for lesser beings; for him, there's nothing but whim.

And that's why he goes at her like this. That's why they do this: coming together without words, without a modicum of tenderness. Because they like it like this. Want it like this, right here and now. He wraps her in his arms, almost grapples her as though to keep her right there for the railing, and when she starts to moan against his mouth he leans forward to bite kisses onto her neck, her shoulder.

She bends to take him deeper. He keeps one hand over her mouth and grips the back of her neck with the other, pushes her down until her upper body is parallel to the floor; grips a handful of her hair, thick and smooth between his fingers. Their bodies are slapping together, pounding together; there's no mistaking what they're doing in here. She's starting to whimper and he's baring his teeth, fucking into her with all the sleek rough strength of his body, slamming into her with every unmitigated thrust.

And still, no words between them. Not one. Not even when the clench of her cunt, the squirm of her body, is too much for him to take. When he bends down over her and lets go her hair and wraps his arm around her and clasps her against his chest, holds her so tightly; grasps at her breast and her side and her neck and her shoulder like a primitive thing, a wild thing; latches his teeth in her neck,

grunting, pounding, snarling in low, choked-back bursts as he comes inside her.


The whole of it took a handful of minutes at best. A fast, rough, unapologetic fuck. When he's done he leans into her, panting. Moments drip by. He lets her mouth go. Runs his hands down her sides, slow and inexact now. Grips her hips as he straightens, staggering just once as he pulls himself out of her, so soon that he's slick from her cum and his, that he's still hard.

He runs his fingertips over her cunt, slips two fingers into her -- like he wants evidence of their fuck, of what he did to her, of how he's marked her and made her his. When he draws his fingers out of her and slaps her bare ass, he leaves a tracery of wetness on her skin. Then he's flicking her dress back down, stepping around to the side, grabbing her by the hair to turn her head toward him. His feet are planted apart, his balance in his hips. He holds his cock by the base. Holds it for her.

"You know what to do."

[Hilary] This is how they recover. From all those dark thoughts, all those memories from the Bentley, the mention of the jet, the reason she called to see him, the reason he considers how to protect her, how to keep the animal and the rage from boiling over in her again. This is why they come back here, and why it's like this -- why it has to be like this, right now.

He can feel every inch of her the way he bends over her and holds her like he does, feel the muscles in her back winding as she pushes her hips back and lets him push her down, yanking her hair under his palm when he grabs the back of her neck. Hilary just gasps. Hilary just moans, dizzied by what he's doing to her, taking him --

taking more than she ever gives him, always taking, always so hungry,

-- and then, in moments, arching her back with sharp, truncated cries against his palm. Ivan feels her coming when he can't quite hear her, feels her screams into his hand though they're barely audible over his own panting, feels her entire body tightening and locking around his cock, as though her entire being has narrowed down to that one molten point of joining.

He lets go of her hair. Not her mouth. Not now, not when she's coming apart as he's coming around her, coming inside of her, hammering himself home as though he has one, and as though she's anywhere near it.

Hilary is trembling on those high sandals of hers, but she won't lose her balance. He's holding her too tightly. She's gripping the rail. And it's her, once-dancer and still more graceful than any woman her age. Hilary won't fall, but she's quivering like a frightened bird in his hands as he strokes her

for a few seconds. And nothing more.

She lets out a cry when he pulls out of her, and it echoes off the walls, her knees briefly buckling. There are tears on her face at the loss of him, tears even as her cunt is clenching down on his fingers. Harsh tears, nearing sobs, but too soft to tell. She goes to her knees as he flicks her dress down, arms up, wrists locked to the bar. When Ivan steps around her and grabs her hair, lifting her head to look at him, her eyes are shining, her cheeks wet, and adoration behind those tears.

Ivan holds his cock in front of her, still rigid, wet, filthy,

and Hilary closes her eyes and wraps her lips around him, takes him deep even at first, letting out a moan of gratitude even as she gags.

[Ivan] It's part of the game they play -- the pretense he wears sometimes of not caring, not giving a damn how she feels or whether she's enjoying this; the pretense he wears of not even feeling a thing himself. It's all an act, all a mask, and she knows this because

when her mouth closes around him, when she takes him deep, Ivan's head snaps back like some reflex cord has been yanked hard. He lets out a groan that he bites back a second too late, ringing off the enclosed spaces of this restroom with its heavy doors, its floor-to-ceiling dividers. His hand comes up of its own accord, swings blindly, bats against the wall, finds the rail and grips it, and even though it's too much, it's more than he can handle to be sucked off like this so soon after he came inside her

he holds her firmly by the hair, holds her right there while she works her mouth on him.

It's as much for her as for himself. Always has been. It's the fundamental truth of any relationship such as this, and it makes no sense from the outside; makes nothing but sense from the inside. The dominant is not the one that takes but the one that gives, and gives, and gives -- gives until there's nothing left, until he's emptied out, until he's quite literally staggering on his feet, shuddering with overstimulation, leaning back against the wall, overcome.

When what she's doing to him is starting to push the line between the slow fall and the steep rise, he straightens. He holds her firmly, holds her back as he pulls himself out of her mouth. Grips her by the back of the neck and bends to her, kissing her hard on the mouth. He can taste himself on her, taste her on her, taste everything they've done. The kiss is almost suffocating in its intensity, and then it ends without warning.

He strokes her for a few seconds. Like some treasured pet, some expensive plaything. Then he steps back, grabs a handful of tissue, wipes himself clean and does up his pants.

The handcuffs unlock with a snick. They go back into his pocket. Of course they do. They're his, as much a symbol as the flogger was. He draws her upright and cleans her face delicately with a fresh tissue; wipes her eyes and her mouth, holds her by the chin as he kisses her again, so softly this time.

"Let's go for that joyride now," he murmurs. "Go wait for me in the car. I'll be along shortly."

[Hilary] What pretenses they had at the beginning are shattered now, and long since. It doesn't feel like it's been that long since he met her out on Lake Michigan, seeing her in her modest bathing suit and swirling silk coverup, that hat right out of someone from the era of the silver screen, those large sunglasses. She could have been a dozen women, but he recognized her when he saw her at that nightclub all the same. Had no earthly idea what she really was, or what she was going to do to him.

Never would have imagined her like this, on her knees in some handicapped stall of a pub, chained to the railing, tears on her face while she sucks his cock like he's given her a gift.

When he stops -- when he lets her stop, or makes her stop, and by now it's hard to tell which it is -- Hilary is overcome in an entirely different way. She looks shaken somehow, that cool confidence she carries with her sometimes so far away it's as though she doesn't know how to reach it herself. Can't get back there. Doesn't remember how it feels to wear that like a crown, or like armor.

She closes her eyes when he kisses her, and there's little there that could be called reciprocation at this point, just more taking what he gives her. She trembles from it, fresh tears leaving her eyes when he lets go, and she lays her head against his thigh.

Ivan can feel those tears, hot and salty, against his leg. Strokes her, pets her hair. She sniffs. And a few seconds later, he undoes the handcuffs and her eyes open a little. There are red marks on her wrists. She looks tired suddenly, overwhelmed, and draws her wrists back to herself, rising to her feet. Something seems off about her, but it's always hard to tell -- she sometimes gets so worn out, other times so energized. It's been awhile since he's seen her weep quite like that when they've been... playing.

But she didn't, and doesn't, pull away. But the real trial of a dominant, the real exhaustion that comes with being that much in control of yourself and another person, is the degree of empathy it demands. The ability to read a situation, a person, a lover, even when it seems they're so outside themselves they couldn't tell you what they need if they wanted to. The willingness to protect the submissive, in that case, if at all possible.

Hilary, standing now, a few small red marks here and there around her slim wrists, stands for him while he daubs at her face. Fixes where her lipstick has smeared, wipes away her tears. She sniffs, blinking until her eyes clear, watching him. Something settles in her, gradually, though imperfectly. She closes her eyes softly when Ivan kisses her, suddenly so tender, and turns her head to nuzzle against him when he speaks to her.

"May I clean up first?" she asks quietly, laying her head on his shoulder for a moment.

Ivan
Dice Rolled:[ 4 d10 ] 1, 8, 8, 9 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Other than what was in post (she seems sort of worn out/uncertain), Ivan can tell that 1: Hilary would like to clean up a bit before going and getting in the car, and 2: she's responding most to the tender ways he's treating her, stroking her hair, letting her rest her head, etc.]

[Ivan] With Hilary, Ivan has had to try harder than ever before to be aware. To be alert. To be attuned to, and in tune with, his lover.

His hands have not left her yet. They are gentle now, cupping her face, the scrap of tissue he daubed at her face with crumpled in his palm. He looks at her a moment, wraps his arm around her shoulders and lets her rest against his when she comes nearer.

"Yes," he says. "Lock the door. I'll wait for you in the hall and walk you out to the car. So long as we're not too overt, I doubt anyone will remember anything out of the ordinary."

[Hilary] And she's so changeable. Raking her nails down his back one moment, screaming for him to fuck her harder, whimpering and gasping when he starts hitting her with his hand, with his belt, with that toy she gave him last time -- and then this. So seemingly broken, trembling against him and asking permission to do this, to do that, if he'd like it if she --

Nearly impossible to reconcile this woman against herself, because she seems shattered in so many pieces. There are people with truly dissociative identities who could be called healthier than this woman in his arms. It's truly disturbing how childlike she can be at times, and how closely connected that is with the way he fucks her, when she's anything but childlike. When she seems neither old nor young but out of time, a lovely body filled with lust, desperation, hunger, rage, want, and perhaps strangest of all, gratitude.

If he isn't careful he could break her, or at least it feels that way sometimes. Perhaps more accurately: lose her. Lose her interest in him, or stranger and more painful still, her trust in him. If he doesn't watch carefully, listen closely, he'll lose this. And for reasons neither of them understand, he doesn't want to lose her.

"It doesn't matter," she says musingly against his shoulder, mild and thoughtful about it, but also very honest. It doesn't matter; who is going to stop the two of them to ask did you just fuck in the restroom?

At worst they'll be asked not to come back. Not a good idea, not with the money Ivan dropped, the way he tipped, the apparent influence he may have over friends of similar affluence who might hear that he got kicked out of this place, which will slowly earn a reputation for such and such, so and so,

and with the economy the way it is, who is going to risk their word-of-mouth reputation?

She lifts her head a bit later and Ivan excuses himself, a little more cleaned up and tucking himself away, going to the sink and washing up in a leisurely fashion, like he isn't in the ladies' room. Hilary takes her time, and in a little while exits the bathroom carrying her little white clutch, her breath smelling somehow of mint, her hand laying on his elbow as he escorts her out of Boston's Public House.

And there's Dmitri, idling in the Bentley.