Ivan Press

Hilary

It's dark now. It takes so much time for it to become fully dark these days, which are dominated by the lazy, unfurling rays of summer. It is late, and a city like Nice is quiet at this hour. There are a few spots, here and there, where people drink and dance and talk the night away, but for the most part the city at this time of night has a lonely, empty air. Every person walking alone feels, at least for a moment, like they are the only person left in the whole wide world, or that they have departed their familiar world for an alien one.

Hilary is not walking alone. She is not walking, and she is not alone. Her driver sits up front, the headlights cutting through a darkness so pervasive it seems almost liquid. She sits in the back, as she always does, looking out the window. Mostly what she sees is her own reflection. The villa retreats. They head for the main road, the one that will take them into town.

She is on her way to Ivan's apartment. He told her to come.

He told her what he wanted her to wear. And not wear.

Her face turns away from the ghostly reflection of her own face in the window. She closes her eyes. Her breath is steady, but there is a fine, tremulous edge to it, almost imperceptible. She tries to steady it further, and tries to ignore the deep, warm ache of her cunt.

Ivan told her to ignore it, in more colorful words. And until he told her she couldn't, it hadn't occurred to her to touch herself. Now she can think of nothing else.

Hilary resists the desire to lick her lips.

The car drives on.

This continent is old. These shores are dark. Even as she enters the city, the skyline remains low. By day the buildings are warm-toned, summery. By night a sense of antiquity bleeds through, echoes of the long and oft-dark history of this land. They drive by the sea nearly all the way there, turning inland only in the last few blocks to seek the heart of the city.

The car slides smoothly to a stop at the curb. The night is humid and warm. Ivan's building wouldn't even be a midrise in those American cities they used to live in, but here it stands tall. His suite, at the top, is dimly aglow.

No doorman here. No glittering lobby. For Ivan, this residence is positively low-key. There is an intercom, but she has a key. It is her choice whether to use it or not. If she calls, the little light over the camera turns on for a moment, bathing her in light. He knows it's her. He looks anyway.

Then the door buzzes open. He has his own elevator. She has to use her key to access it.

--

It takes a long time to get to the eighth floor. The elevator is old, the car creaky. There's a pause at the top. Then the doors open into the penthouse.

Ivan is leaning against the far wall, those double-doors open to those balconies on either side. He is sipping a glass of what looks like ice water, but it is almost certainly something stronger than that. He looks at her when she enters. When the elevator closes behind her. While the night breeze snakes through the penthouse, rustles the trailing edges of her clothing.

"Come closer," he murmurs.

At the curb, her car sits idling. Her driver stands beside it, hands behind his back, watching her as she waits at the intercom. Of course she has a key; she looked at it oddly when Ivan gave it to her, then set it aside somewhere, forgetting about it. It did not occur to her to look for it when he summoned her tonight.

She was telling him she had nothing at all to wear, to which he made a suggestion.

Then she asked: And underneath?

It was the way she asked. The almost dismissive way she said it that was the invitation to all the rest: what shoes he wanted to see on her feet, how he wanted her hair, the jewelry. It was a brief conversation, almost terse; they used few words, wasted little time, but it was rich on detail.

Now she's here. She never thought about her key. She does not think of it now.

--

The light comes on and Hilary does not look at the camera. She looks away from the light, and it catches her in profile, the arch of her throat, the angle of her jaw. When the door buzzes her driver hops to, catching it and opening it for her before it locks again. He hands her the key, because of course her people think of these things, remember these things, so that she doesn't have to. Hilary frowns at it for a moment, then takes it.

She goes inside. He leaves.

--

Eight floors up, The doors open to Ivan's apartment. She has reflected, once or twice, that his taste has gotten better since they came to France. She thinks the country is a good influence on him, because this place is far less tawdry in its modernization than his Chicago penthouse. She also likes that it is not like his lake house, or the Novgorod house, older and stuffier and darker and reminiscent of the mausoleum of a mansion she was raised in. It is not as good as the villa, or her cottage, but it is tasteful. Or as tasteful as Ivan can get, she thinks.

Hilary steps off the elevator, carrying a small clutch handbag before her. The elevator closes, and she stands there, looking across at Ivan. She does not move. She doesn't speak. She blinks, once, very slowly.

Then she walks toward him.

Her heels click off hardwood floors.

She is wearing heels because that is what he wanted. They are high, high enough that they are nearly eye to eye. She is wearing lace panties. She is wearing an endless string of pearls, which he bought for her in Hawaii or Dubai, draped in loop after loop. She is wearing that sable coat, and nothing else, because that too is what he wanted.

He relaxes a few inches against the wall as she crosses the room. He watches her, hooded eyes, sardonic mouth. The furs obscure her body, but he looks anyway, filling in the blanks with his imagination and his memory. At just the right angle she casts a ghostly, rippling reflection through the polished floor -- as though she were submerged, shadowed.

His Chicago penthouse was sprawling and ultramodern and gleamingly, coolly exhibitionistic. This one is different. There's a secretiveness about it, and a warmth. There are curtains over every window and door. The wood under their feet is solid oak, dark and grainy. Floor lamps cast warm light up along the walls to pool over the ceiling. His bedroom is lifted up, hidden away.

The entire flat is lifted up. Hidden away. It is a hideaway: somewhere he goes to hide from her and Anton and every other attachment he has. Somewhere that he occasionally summons her, too, to hide her from Anton, from her attachments, from the world.

She is very near now. A few feet away. He takes a sip, sets his drink down on the floor. Dashes the moisture on his fingertips against his shirt, straightens.

"Closer," he says.

Even in high summer, Nice doesn't have the sweltering heat and humidity of lakeside Chicago. There's a coolness at night, a breeze in the air off the sea. Even so, Hilary is warm under that sable coat, moreso with the silky lining sliding over her bare skin every time she moves. It's softer than the pearls, which do their own sliding, rolling motion back and forth between and over her breasts.

She does not open the coat as she walks over to him. In her heels, with her clutch, she looks perhaps like she has just come from the opera, or has stepped out of another season entirely. Her expression is calm to the point of seeming almost blank. Her cheeks are slightly flushed from heat.

Some distance across the room, perhaps four or five feet away from Ivan, Hilary stops, the way one would before a judge, a throne, an altar. He puts his drink on the floor, as careless with the glass and its contents as he is with everything that belongs to him.

Almost everything.

Closer, he says, and he sees -- somehow, through all that fur -- her chest rise, fall, with a single breath.

Hilary comes closer. This time she does not stop until he stops her.

He does not stop her until she is

almost

flush against him. And when he does stop her, he does so with a hand on her face, tender and controlling, his palm rubbing heavily over her cheek and back into her hair.

She is rarely flushed. Only when they play. Or fuck. Or, it seems, when he asks her to wear a coat made for Siberian winters in the heat of a south-of-France summer. She looks different like this, hair loose and natural, cheeks pink, breathing in when he touches her. Not so untouchable. Nearly wanton.

He slides his hand down, his thumb passing over her throat, his knuckles trailing over the first loops of pearl. He parts that coat, and then he raises both hands, sweeps his palms over her shoulders, pushes it off. It falls under its own considerable weight, parachuting softly to the floor.

Now she is wearing pearls. And heels. And lace. And he is looking at her, admiring his handiwork, running his hand over her skin. Not her breasts, nor what little is covered by her panties, but everything else: the slope of her stomach, the dip of her navel, the subtle curvature where her ribs begin. His touch is light as a feather; raises reflexive little goosebumps in its wake.

His shirt rubs against the wall. He widens his stance, slides down, brings her forward until she stands between his legs, his hands on her waist. He leans forward and down to licks her nipple, delicately; draws it into his mouth with the turn of his tongue. Sucks at her like that, patiently and luxuriously, enjoying her like a fine wine, a fine meal.

That touch arrests her; she stills the way she nearly always does, when he rests his fingertips on her jaw, cups his hand at the back of her neck, takes hold of her in one of these ways that shows just how intimate his dominance is.

And when she stops there, held in his hand, her eyes close for a moment. Some of that emptiness drains from her, like it's some sort of opaque poison stifling the movement of her blood, the flow of her breath. She opens her eyes again and looks into his eyes for the first time since entering.

Her eyes stay on him, following his face, even as he looks at her lips, her throat, the dip of the coat against her body. Then, just as suddenly as he pushes her coat off, she looks at the ceiling, breathing in with the motion of the sable off of her, the rush of cooler air on her skin. The fur falls in heavy waves, a thick dark pile of luxury, and somewhere in there, her clutch clatters to the floor along with it.

Hilary slowly lowers her chin again, but her breath is more visible now, more audible. She is still cloaked in the heavy scent of the sable, the primitive scent that is -- as they both know -- part of the appeal of her wearing it. It's so different from the way she smells, most of the time. Clean. Refined. A dab of perfume, finely milled soap, the cold smell of precious metals, the occasional whiff of something she has cooked. All of it is far from the savagery of a hunt, a sprung trap, a prey animal torn to pieces for its meat, its leather, its fur. Together, somehow, it arouses him.

Or it arouses her, and she assumes the arousal is Ivan's, too.

The air feels good on her. She looks at him as he strokes her, sighing softly. She isn't cold, nowhere near, but her nipples are reacting to the loss of the coat, to the addition of touch, to the nearness of her mate. She watches him as he moves, leans back, draws her closer. Her heels are sharp between his feet, her legs shockingly long, her skin perfectly pale. When he leans forward, taking her breast in his mouth, she gasps, very quietly.

Leans into it. Greedily.

That little gasp: he lives for it. Those little signs, the ways she betrays herself. So often she's like a mountain lake on a windless day, deep and cold and still. He so loves to disturb, perturb, provoke her. She's always known it -- he loves to see beautiful things break.

And she leans into it. And he gets a little greedier too. His mouth on her breast; his hands on her body. He grips at her ass, pulls her against him. He bites her. It's light but real, a palpable close of his teeth before he lets her go.

And straightens. His grip lightens. He traces the crest of her hips with the pads of his fingers. Then the tips. Then just one finger, hooking under the waist of her panties, drawing that scrap of lace down, out,

letting it snap back against her skin.

"Go and wait for me upstairs," he murmurs. "I'll be along shortly."

Pause. Then, almost in afterthought:

"There are toys for you on the bed."

--

His bedroom is dim. What light there is falls indirectly from hidden sources. One of those ubiquitous and invisible maids has left his bed clean and crisp, an oasis of smooth white cotton with so high a thread count it feels like silk.

There are manacles on the bed. There's a gag on the bed.

Also: a vibrator.

There's a strap of lace against his palms where he grabs her; the rest is skin. She shudders when he presses her to his body; she's seeking out his cock, trying to rub against him as quietly and unobtrusively as possible, as if such a thing could be unobtrusive. Unnoticeable. As though her body between his legs is not, at the moment, the very center of his world.

Where another woman would cry out on being bitten like that, just there, Hilary makes the smallest noise, stifled in the back of her throat. Given voice, it would have been a whimper. Might have been a soft peal of pleasure. But she doesn't let go of it. He bites her, and she barely makes a sound.

Perhaps that's how he knows she likes it: that she does not yet want to show him how much.

A few thoughts flit through her mind as he lets her (now wet, now reddened) nipple from his mouth, stands straight again. He's stroking her still, the way he does, like she's some prized work of art, and she is wondering if he is going to turn her around, forearms to the wall, legs spread in those heels. If he is going to push her to her knees, fuck her mouth. If he, if he --

a snap of fabric against her skin makes her startle back to the present. She looks down, as though momentarily disbelieving, then looks at him -- directly at him -- again as he speaks.

Hilary does not nod. She does not bend over to pick up her clutch; there is really nothing in it she needs. She turns, walking slowly across his apartment to the stairs. With one hand light on the railing, she walks carefully upward.

She has seldom been to this apartment, or to this bedroom. One of her more clear memories of the place is an unhappy and hazy one, involving tequila, his mouth on her cunt, an argument, a wad of cash used like a weapon. She thinks vaguely of it, but it is a distant thought, an association her fractured mind makes without feeling much about it in the present.

Besides: she is at the crest of the stairs now, looking into his bedroom, looking at his bed, at

the manacles,

the gag,

...the rest.

Hilary glances over her shoulder; she cannot see Ivan downstairs from his angle. She looks anyway, for a long moment, before she creeps across the room, quietly as she can. Stops at the foot of the bed, the fronts of her thighs touching the fabric of the cover. Stares down at the items, for a few moments. Checks past her shoulder again, before she leans over, reaches over, and runs her finger over the vibrator.

A memory, another one, hurtles into her mind: the day he gave her that beautiful white flogger. The way he made her guess. What he said when she asked if it was something to fuck her with:

Darling, I would only ever fuck you with my own flesh and bone. You're far too precious for crude implements.

The flash of disappointment she felt. The way the word 'crude' aroused her.

Her hand lifts off the toy, quickly, like it burns, or she's wary of being caught. She straightens again, and stays there, facing the headboard, the pillows, the crude implements he has arranged for her. This is how he finds her, standing in quiet patience, turning her head to look at him past her shoulder when he enters.

The smell of her cunt is such that he can almost taste how wet she is on the very air.

Ivan watches Hilary go.

He is almost always watching her when they are in one another's presence. His eyes follow her shamelessly, and with little regard for social mores or human propriety. Sometimes he stares openly, lazily. He stares openly now, watching her body as she turns, as the light falls over her and recedes again.

She climbs the stairs. He watches the tone of her calves, her thighs, the way the heels change her balance. When she disappears he blinks once, slowly, and then draws and releases a breath.

It takes him a while to follow her. It's not that he has anything to do. He just likes to make her wait, sometimes. He likes to make her crave. He likes to make her imagine all the things he might or might not do.

With the manacles.

And the gag.

And the rest.

So he lingers downstairs. He picks up his drink. He finishes it. He sets the glass somewhere where someone will take care of it. He picks up her coat and tosses it over an armchair, where it pools like a living, sleeping thing.

Climbing the stairs, his feet are soundless. She senses him rather than hears him; the subtle yet ineffable pressure of his nature. When she looks at him, he is looking at her, his eyes glinting more gold than green, his sleek self framed by the door of his bedroom.

They look at each other a moment. Deftly, without looking away, he undoes his cufflinks. He dressed for her: it seemed only fair. The cufflinks make little clicks as he sets them on the dresser.

Then the watch, sleek and modernist, unbuckled, set beside the tie. Then the tie, unknotted. Slipped out from under his collar, coiled in his hands. He approaches her. His knuckles skim along her spine, all the way up. He grips her hair softly by the roots; then firmer. Pulls her head back a touch.

He holds the tie up to her lips. It is silk. It is black, with a subtle carbon-fiber pattern. It looks new.

"Open," he whispers. And when she does: he slides the folded tie between her teeth. Knots the gag over it, firmly.

Hilary has always set a high standard. For appearances, for the quality of items and experiences, for their staff, for Ivan's treatment of her. The same cannot be said of her own behavior, or his behavior in general. But he must know that she prefers it -- perhaps even appreciates it, in her warped and unspoken way -- when he dresses for her like this, in tie and cufflinks and fine, smooth shirt. Perhaps he even senses that seeing him thus presented plays into her arousal, as much as the black sable, the strands of pearls, and the lace play into his.

She watches him. She does this more rarely than his animal observation of her. Sometimes she seems to entirely ignore him, even when he's right beside her. He's always stared at her, though. Even when she was married. Even when he was supposed to be hiding his attachment to her. Even when he was in large groups, and was supposed to be pretending to be human. But she seldom returned the attention. It makes it somehow more raw, more unsettling, when she does stare at him like this.

Her breasts, one of them still slightly pinker than the other from his mouth and his teeth. Her ass, lightly decorated with pale black lace. The arch of her back. The color in her lips. Her wide, dark eyes, which to this day somehow look innocent to far too many gullible, shallow people.

Not to Ivan.

He has never thought her innocent.

--

As he takes of his cufflinks and his watch, she does not take her eyes off of his. Her gaze doesn't follow the clink of this piece of jewelry or that timepiece. She watches him remove his tie and her pulse quickens; she knows what is coming. Some shade of it, at least.

So when he comes to stand behind her, she looks forward again, obeying some unspoken order. He grips her hair; she tips her head back. When the tie touches her lips, she opens her mouth obediently, even as the word is leaving his mouth. Somehow the directive, in that moment, takes on an air of permission more than imperative. She is grateful.

Hilary bites down on the tie gently. Glances at him, as he's gagging her.

She's not innocent, not in that glance. But something like it swims to the surface, coming up from somewhere very deep. Not innocence.

Trust.

That look is everything. It holds the entire world. The weight of it on his shoulders. The headiness, the euphoria of it too: to possess her like this, so utterly. To be gifted with her like this, as though she were placing herself entirely in his hands.

He ties the knot. He steps into her, his hard lean body against her back, his hard lean hand slipping into the front of her panties. He strokes her boldly, and without hesitation, his fingers rubbing her clit while he kisses her.

Something like a kiss, anyway. His lips on the gag on hers; his breath sifting through the material.

And then his mouth on her neck. On her shoulder, biting her the way he does. He fondles her all this while, with certainty and boldness, as though he knows what she likes. Which one might argue he does.

"You're so wet," he whispers. "You dirty little slut."

It doesn't go on forever. It lasts only a little while. Then he draws back.

The manacles are the only toy she has seen before. They're his favorite set, the fur-lined ones in white leather, soft enough not to damage his beautiful girl. They have grown familiar to both of them: to his fingers, buckling; to her wrists, accepting. He cuffs her hands before her, which might disappoint her mildly -- not so restrictive as cuffing them behind her back, after all -- until it becomes rather clear he has more in mind.

He turns her around. Efficient now; a pretense of impersonality. He takes her by the base of the throat, the sort of grip that would and perhaps should alarm anyone else playing the way they do, safety-less. He throws her down on the bed, hard enough to make even those expensive springs protest. Pushes her arms up over her head, pulls her taut, her knees still draped over the edge of the bed.

Apparently he keeps rope in his nightstand now. Braided nylon, smooth and clean. He loops it between his headboard and the chain between her wrists, back and forth, several loops. Knots it, tugs it to check its security. Circles back to the foot of the bed, still watching her as he paces.

Now there's just one toy left on the bed. He picks it up. Crude implement or not, it's a sleek thing, gently rippled, softly textured, with a hint of give. Ivan studies it for a moment, rubbing his thumb over the tip, thoughtful.

Then he hooks two fingers under the waist of her panties. Lace scratches gently down her hips, along her thighs, past the turn of her knee, down her ankles. It catches briefly on her heels, threatening to dislodge one. Ivan pulls it free. He slips her shoe back on. His hand follows her leg from ankle to knee. He pushes her legs apart.

Since entering his apartment, Hilary has not said a word. She's made only a single sound, and even that was stifled. Now, as even the possibility of speech is removed, what is there left for her but that glance?

So it settles there, in his palms: the responsibility of pleasing her and pleasuring her, his often unsaid vow to keep her safe and to keep her from harm even of his own making, and heaviest of all: the faith that he will know, somehow, what she needs -- even if she cannot tell him. Even if she cannot touch him.

Ivan steps closer. Hilary looks away again, feeling him at her back. His erection presses against her ass through his slacks, hot and firm. Her eyes close. The hand that isn't holding her by the hair slides under her panties, takes ownership of her cunt. She arches into the touch, opening for his fingers, which are already slick from her pussy. His grip on her hair turns her head again so he can kiss her through the gag. He can feel her breath hitching behind the fabric; he can feel her body writhing slightly against his own. He can all but feel her clit tremble as he bites her neck, holding her in his teeth while he fucks her with his hand like that.

She is buckling. That pristine silence is fracturing, her posture faltering. Even her hands are betraying her now, unbound as yet, one of them lifting up to cup her own breast, stroke her thumb over her nipple. He's calling her a slut. He's calling her dirty. It only makes her more wet.

Perhaps her daring little escapade, touching herself like that, is part of why he stops. Takes his hand out of her panties. Drags the manacles to the edge of the bed and off. The leather is softened now from use, however occasional: when they do play, they tend to play somewhat vigorously. When she sees them in his hands, her own hands drop. She watches, her breath quickened, as he wraps the fur and leather around her wrists, buckles them firmly, and turns her around.

She looks up at him now. Not too far; those heels he had her wear bring her nearly to eye level with him. She doesn't look disappointed. Her nostrils flare with an intake of breath when he wraps his hand around her throat.

Hilary can smell herself on his fingers. Ivan can see something in her eyes that would look like alarm if he did not know her very, very well.

Throws her down, and hears her make a noise

that would sound like pain

if he did not know her very,

very well.

There is very little time; he's always been very fast, even when he's not hidden by the dark. Her arms are pushed up, her arms tight from the pressure he puts on the manacles, and soon she is tied. Soon, she is bound, and her knees are at the edge of the bed, and her feet are just barely above the floor, and without being told -- dirty, nasty slut -- her legs are spread, and even though the fabric is dark he can see where her pussy has darkened the gusset, soaked throat the thin, soft scrap of cotton mean to cover her.

She is trembling. It's not fear, though. It's far from pain. He knows that look in her eyes, that cadence to her trembling breath: it's just anticipation. It's just eagerness. Lust.

Filthy, wet little whore.

The drag of lace down her thighs forces her legs together. She bites back another noise: maybe a whimper this time. Her shoe clatters to the floor. A moment later it slides back onto her foot. This small action makes her cunt clench. She tries to rub her thighs together, tries to ease some of the need she feels, but

Ivan is pushing her legs apart again.

Resistance this time. He can feel what she's doing, can tell she's trying to close her legs. Rub her thighs together. He's insistent. Pushes harder, firmly, forcing those lovely long legs to part.

Steps between them, his feet spread, the outsides of his thighs keeping hers where they are. He's looking at her when he turns the toy on. They've never played with these things before. Until he saw the disappointment flicker in her eyes, he didn't think she'd want to. He thought she'd find it crass, low, undesirable.

He was wrong. The arch of her spine tells him that. The shivering in her body. The way she reacts

(because he knows she's going to react)

when he lays the toy against her lower abdomen. Lets her feel the vibration. Makes her wait for it while he sweeps it across her belly, slides it between her legs -- tracing her cunt with the tip, dipping between, dragging up. For a moment he lays it against her clit, the shaft against that ever-sensitive spot. Lightly at first. Then with increasing pressure, increasing intensity: sliding that toy down while he turns it up until -- for just a few seconds -- he holds the tip against her clit, holds her down if need be.

Makes her take it. Makes her feel it.

There is a part of her that wondered, when she saw the vibrator, if she would like it. The idea of him doing something like this to her had aroused her, had flashed through her like a sudden storm. But seeing it, she did wonder. So she looked at him the way she did as he gagged her. Told him, in her way, that she was certain she wanted to do this, and yet not entirely certain that she would enjoy it. And in a strange way,

that makes it better.

Hilary can't look at him like that, standing between her knees, his legs keeping her open. It's too much for her to see him like that, dressed for her, looming over her. She presses her thighs to the outsides of his legs, simultaneously a rebellion and a show of a desire and an expression of her approval. Of this. Of him, doing this.

It's a quiet little thing, softer than a whisper, but in the silence of the room they can both hear it when he thumbs it on. He can hear, too, the intake of breath the sound causes in his lover. She's trembling. And then he, very simply, rests the toy on her body. There's a kick that goes through her, a slight buck that turns into a writhe, at that merest contact. He's toying with her, but even Hilary understands he is also letting her, at least at first, have a moment to get used to the sensation, the surface of the vibrator on less delicate skin, even being touched by such a thing.

When he finally slides it downward, the tip of it quivering against her vulva, the shaft stroking her lips, Hilary is taut and trembling with the feeling. She is gasping softly, perhaps too quiet for him to even hear it through the tie and the gag, but he can certainly see the sheen of sweat on her skin, see her slick on the silk-soft silicone as he holds it against her. Her thighs tighten now, more forcefully, as she tries to close her legs around him, around the toy, tries to intensify that pressure and its pleasure.

Another writhe of her stretched-out body, when he turns the vibrator in his grip, stroking it then holding it on her clit. A second or two, and it's almost too much for her. She's trying to fuck, or trying to escape, and it's hard to tell which she wants more.

Well.

Not really that hard to tell.

She's whimpering now, rolling her hips until he uses his free hand to hold her down, and then -- finally, exquisitely -- she moans, helplessly,

surrendering.

Ivan wasn't sure she'd like the gag, either. He wasn't even sure he'd like it. He loves the way she moans, after all. He loves the way she gasps, and whimpers and catches her breath. Seems almost a sin to stifle that, deny himself the pleasure. Seemed, anyway.

Ivan is discovering he does like the gag. He likes that he has to strain to hear her. He likes the way she sounds; the heady tip of the scales of power. He likes that muffled moan, the way it leaves her like she has no control over it. No more than she can control what he's doing to her, or what she's feeling.

His grip on the toy is so sure as he drags it down. A firm pressure, and then he's sliding it into her. He's fucked her more times than he can count, and sometimes with his fingers, and a time or two with his mouth. This is still different. A wholly vicarious experience. He watches her like he gets something from the very sight of her; some hunger sated, some need fulfilled. The toy is instantly wet, instantly slick. His fingertips too.

And with that crude implement in her, he leans down over her. His hand braced, he flicks his tongue over her breast, tasting salt, tasting skin. He sucks at her nipple, the one he'd so rudely ignored earlier: suckles at her while he fucks her with that toy, slowly, grindingly, with these supple twists of his wrist.

Soon enough it's apparent he's not satisfied licking her tits. Soon enough it's apparent he's making his way down, nipping and biting, licking, sucking -- past her waist now, and then past her abdomen; lingering there to press a kiss against a quiver of muscle beneath the skin. He's still fucking her with that pulsing, buzzing toy when he gets to her cunt. He's still fucking her when he puts his mouth on her, gripping her hard with his free hand if she dares to buck, dares to squirm, dares to do anything but let him

taste her. Eat her out. Devour her like a ravening beast, his mouth merciless on her clit.

Perhaps surprising -- perhaps not -- there's little resistance to her even with that first push of the vibrator into her cunt. She's so very wet. She's so very open. She's flushed, sweating, fucking the toy unless -- until -- he holds her down, makes her stop, makes her whine behind the gag.

It is, as they both feared, crude. Crass. Low. And she is, perhaps to the surprise of them both, loving it. So much so that at some point while he's lavishing his tongue one her breast and fucking her pussy with that now-drenched toy, she starts to pant that rhythmic, almost animal way that he often hears as a prelude to her orgasm.

Slut.

Maybe that, as well as his own whims and lusts, has something to do with the descent of his mouth. Her inner thighs are quivering when he gets to them. She's whimpering when he starts kissing her cunt, opening his mouth to drink from her, lick her, eat her

while she comes, helplessly, her spine arching off the bed, hands gripping at the rope past the manacles, bucking -- or trying to -- against his mouth, against their new toy, against his bed.

He can hear her crying out.

Trying to.

Doesn't surprise him that she's so fucking receptive to that toy. That first push. The subsequent dragging gliding fuck.

Doesn't surprise him much, anyway. Does surprise him when she doesn't resist his mouth. When she doesn't stiffen up, tense up, check out. When she's still whimpering like that, when she's still reacting like that, like he's never seen or felt before: arching, writhing, riding his mouth like this has never for a moment made her uncomfortable before.

Surprises him how much she likes this. Surprises him how fast she comes,

how intensely,

how utterly.

He's laughing at her. Low and dark. His mouth is still on her clit, and he's still fucking her with that toy. She's trying to cry out now. He's still on her, unrelenting, following her through that orgasm and out the other side.

Lifts his wet mouth from her quivering cunt when she's done. Wipes his mouth and his jaw along her inner thigh, kissing her softly here and there. A scant few moments go by. Just enough for her to begin to catch her breath when he starts to fuck her with that toy again.

Slowly. Gently. Easing her back in.

"That's a good little slut," he mutters. "That's what you wanted all along, wasn't it. I should keep you here all night. I could make you come over and over. You wouldn't be able to stop me."

He licks her again. Long and slow, his tongue slipping past that sliding vibrator, rolling over her clit. He savors the taste when he lifts his head: she can see him licking his lips.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you. If I made you come whenever I wanted, as many times as I wanted."

This is the first time he's ever licked her cunt and she hasn't resisted. The only time she seemed to want it more than it disturbed her was the night she came here with a bottle of tequila and drank herself stupid so she could relax enough to accept it.

So this is, indeed, a first. She doesn't tense up or try to draw away. She fucks his mouth like he's never felt her do before. It's intoxicating, the way she loses herself this time. The way she forgets that she isn't supposed to like that.

Hilary is out of her mind. She comes quickly, harder than she thinks she can stand, her body pulling and clenching around that toy like it's some sort of lifeline, like her survival depends on this pleasure. She's starting to cry now, because he hasn't let up, because her body hasn't let her go, and she thinks she might die.

She does not die. She never dies.

It passes. She shakes. Ivan relents, just barely, but that vibrator is still going, and so she's still crying, still lost. As long as that thing is inside of her, she doesn't relax, or catch her breath, or calm down. She turns her head towards her bound arms, thrashing slightly. She tries to pull away. She lifts her leg, that beautiful long leg, trying to find purchase on the edge of the bed somehow. She's writhing, and so

he descends on her again, an animal who hasn't quite finished devouring his prey.

Mutters such things to her. Hilary cries out behind the gag, and he'll perhaps never know what she's saying, or if there are words there at all. Perhaps it's just primal, helpless moaning. He tells her she couldn't stop him from fucking her, making her come in this brutal and crass way,

over

and over.

Hilary screams against the gag when he licks her again. She pulls herself an inch up the bed by the ropes. No further. She can't stand it. But despite all this, still she watches him, when he stops,

to see why he's stopping.

Nothing. She doesn't give him anything. She's shaking, her cunt red and wet and not quite used enough. She has tears on her face, but not the sort that mean pain, that mean stop, that mean no.

One has to wonder how he knows the difference. Well:

she nods. In that quiet, brief way she has that shows she's trying to hide it, like she doesn't want to let on that she's enjoying any of this.

She nods.

It's when he feels her pulling away, if only by an inch, that he pauses. It's then that his gaze changes. He looks at her differently, not to drink up her pleasure but to see her, to look into her, to try to understand what it is she's telling him.

She makes it easy for him. It's not often that she does this, but this time, just this once, she shows him. That little nod, so like the way she sometimes -- rarely -- secretly tells him the things she wants and then tries to forget she ever did it: that little nod is enough. It tells him all he needs to know.

He reaches up her body and grasps her breast. His grip is ungentle; his mouth, too. He's back on her, a beast, devouring her while he fucks her with that toy.

--

This goes on for some time.

He gets her off again. He outright laughs at her this time, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand while he calls her terrible things. A slut, a whore, a wet cunt he can use as he pleases. A greedy little trollop. A dirty little harlot.

He does give her a moment's respite at least, pulling the toy out, leaving her trembling and shuddering on the bed.

Then he flips her on her stomach. Slaps her ass and tells her to get up the bed. Get on her hands and knees. While she's moving, or attempting to, or perhaps just lying there wrecked, he unzips his fly. He climbs onto the bed behind her. Whatever it is she's doing it's not fast enough for him. He grabs her by the hips and manhandles her into position. Slaps her across the ass again if she makes a sound -- or, really, even if she doesn't.

Rough, he shoves into her. Starts fucking her right away. Has his hand on her shoulder, his weight bearing her down; when her cheek is to the bed he grabs her by the hair. She might think he's forgotten about the toy, but he hasn't. It's wet with her slick, hot from her body when he presses it against her clit. Strokes her with it, just as mercilessly as he'd eaten her out earlier, while he rails her.

He gets her off again. If she could speak she would be begging for him, is begging him with her eyes, but he's fucking her with the vibrator, licking her cunt. And this time when she comes, she arches off the bed, overcome.

But this time he lets her breathe. This time when her orgasm is done with her, he stops fucking her for a moment. And Hilary... curls up. She shudders, trying to take in oxygen before she passes out, gripping the rope her manacles are attached to. She closes her legs for a few moments.

It's enough, that bend of her spine, the way she seems momentarily self-protective, that signals -- where her hands and her mouth can't -- that she needs him to stop for a moment. Long enough for her heartbeat to steady, at least, if not slow.

Salt on her cheeks. Corners of her eyes, her temples, even into her ears where the tears flowed. She takes breathes like mouthfuls, because they are hard for her to process right now. She needs the tension in her abdomen to uncoil for a moment. She wants him so much. She can barely feel her thighs. Her cunt is pulsing.

She needs him so badly.

Gradually, though, she stops holding the rope so tightly. She relaxes a bit on the bed. She isn't breathing in ragged jumps and chaotic gasps anymore. And when he touches her again, pulling her legs to the edge of the bed again, she doesn't resist. She doesn't whimper.

She is, instead, flipped on her stomach. A hard slap lands across her ass, making her gasp. She obeys him, cannot do anything now but obey him, and moves up onto her knees and... elbows, rather than hands. Her back is a slope, her ass lifted to him, her legs spread. She can barely hear him unzip over her own pounding heartbeat, but she does, and it makes her pussy clench, this time on nothing. She yelps, though it's muffled, when he spanks her again. There's a groan on the edge of it.

Now he's fucking her. She barely remembers the entry, just the end of the thrust, the way he was not inside of her for so very long and then, quite suddenly, was filling her. She loves it. She arches her back, leans into it, presses her ass against him while he starts to pound her. She goes rather easily to the bed as he pushes her down, crying out in that animalistic, helpless way she has when he's brought her in touch with herself again, when she can feel without thinking, when she can be without unraveling.

There's that. The profound, heartbreaking truth of what lies between them.

And also there's this: she likes being fucked this way. It feels good. It feels fucking incredible.

Hilary begins to come again almost the moment he picks up the vibrator and touches it to her body. She damn near comes when she hears him turn it on. She starts fucking him back, eagerly, vigorously, all but shrieking on each thrust as one orgasm ripples into another, erupts into another, has her clutching at the bedspread, dripping on his cock.

She hears him laughing again as she comes. Every time tonight he's laughed, darkly delighted, enjoying every orgasm of hers like it's the first he's ever seen.

When this one lets her go he reaches out and unties the gag. Strips it off and pulls that rolled-up tie from between her teeth. Tosses both off the side of the bed, carelessly, hardly breaking his stride. Now her mouth is free. Now he pulls her head back by the hair; he kisses her mouth, ravagingly, pulling her up on her knees while his hands run everywhere. Throat and breast and belly, and always, inevitably, cunt.

Both hands on her now. Fucking her from behind while he touches her, plays with her, rubs her clit with his fingers and then -- again -- with the vibrator.

He's getting good with it. So much for crude implements: it's downright deft in his hands. He loves how it makes her react. With every gasp, every moan, he's all over her -- his hands and his mouth, his teeth nipping at her neck, her ear.

It comes to her, in moments like this, how much she loves him. Apart from need, apart from the more nuanced complexities of attachment and history and experience, apart even from the fact that he is the father of her child: right now, in a very simple and purified way, she just... loves him. And she would tell him that, but she can't form words with her useless mouth, she can't pull air into her useless lungs, she's coming again with her face against the coverlet and he's laughing at her, or because of her, and anyway: she's gagged.

Not for very long. She's panting when he unties the gag and removes the now saliva-soaked tie from her mouth. There's redness at the corners of her lips. Her lips are chapped from straining against the gag. She's gasping, sucking in air that turns into his mouth on hers, drinking the air right out of her lungs. Words no longer process. Time blurs together. She may in fact have briefly passed out: he's fucking her again, hungrily, his hands on her ass, her hips, her clit again. Hilary moans, loudly now, as though it's all the sound that has been pent up inside of her. His fingers slide away, the vibrator replaces them, and that moan rises into a shriek, then a prolonged series of staccato groans.

She's going to come again. She can't help it anymore. She can barely stand it anymore. All the same: she fucks back against him, begging for it, her tits bouncing and her voice nothing but those moans, her whole self little better than an animal.

Except for loving him. That's something else. Something more than what is crude, and base, and low. Or the core of these things. She doesn't know anymore.

Hard to say what is at the core of things between them. Whether their relationship is built on the pure or the base; whether they are the best of one another or simply one another's resonance frequency. Ivan, most days, thinks it is the latter. But it would hardly matter any which way. They are essentially to each other now. He does, indeed, love her.

Uncomplicatedly and unreservedly, he loves her.

--

He pins her to the mattress when he comes inside her. He pushes her down; wraps his arm around her shoulders, perilously close to her neck. He's still pressing that vibe against her clit, unrelenting, while he fucks his orgasm into her. Beyond that there's very little thought. He grunts like an animal. He hammers her like a beast. When it's over he hardly has the strength to unshackle her.

He does, though. He would never leave her so tightly bound. He does take care of her, his beautiful girl, his favorite beautiful thing to shatter.

The manacles come loose. The chain goes slack. His hand covers her wrists, firm and gentle. His weight is upon her, his cock still inside her, and sometimes in times like this he can almost make himself believe he could exist like this forever. That he could live with her always, every minute, and never grow tired or panicked or suffocated.

The vibrator switches off at last. He drags it out from under their bodies, tosses it aside. A moment later he replaces it with his hand, cupping his fingers over her cunt, possessive and protective both.

When he comes inside of her, finally, it's like reaching the other side of a desert and falling into the soft, lush grass. It's like rain after a drought. It's being touched after being locked away in solitary confinement. She is so happy. She is so grateful. She is overwhelmed.

She is, for a moment, being slightly choked as he fucks his orgasm into her, fucks her through it, drags her down with him. She doesn't even care; she whimpers, and gasps, and gags slightly as he gives it to her, finally, after all this time.

She's been a good girl. She's been obedient and pretty and came for him over and over and over and now he rewards her, fills her cunt with his cum, uses her like his own personal fucktoy,

and if we are being honest,

surrenders to her, the way he always does, inevitably does, in these moments. But neither Hilary nor Ivan ever want to breathe such an honest word about such things. She doesn't even dare think it to herself, even though it is at the heart of why this feels like a blessing being bestowed on her, usually so undeserving.

--

It's not true that he couldn't leave her bound. He could, if he wished. He has before. Not quite so tightly, her arms stretched so. But he could leave the manacles on her wrists, leave her a wet mess on his bed and come back to fuck her whenever he got bored or woke in the middle of the night.

Not tonight. That, perhaps, would be past that blurred, indefinable line they are rarely aware of, seldom cross,

but have.

Ivan, still panting, still sweating, still dressed, quickly undoes the buckles keeping the manacles on her. She, perhaps sensing how much effort even that takes him after the earth-shattering destruction they have just wrought on each other, gently wriggles her wrists, loosening the manacles but not trying to do much more than that. She is shaking. So Ivan takes them off of her finally. Her wrists are hot, only slightly reddened. It would be worse if the lining weren't so soft. She wouldn't mind that, though; he knows how little she minds. He has to mind it, for her.

She's breathing under him. His cock is in her. The vibrator is buzzing slightly against her belly. Every so often a slight jerk goes through Hilary's overwhelmed, wracked body, even after he tosses the vibrator aside, turns it off, covers her with his hand the way he sometimes does. Her heart is jumping all over the place. Her breathing sometimes sounds like a sob, or almost a hiccup. She whimpers here and there, breathily.

A long time passes before she can speak. Even then it's barely above a whisper. It's trembling. And it's the first thing she's said to him since she arrived:

"I think... I should like some ice."

It may take him a moment to realize she means: for her cunt.

For moments on end he hardly stirs. Might have fallen asleep like that, sprawled atop her, almost fully clothed, if she hadn't spoken.

But she does. And his eyes flicker open. It takes him a moment to understand. Then his brow furrows.

He doesn't apologize. There hardly seems any point, and besides, he doesn't think she wants him to. He moves a little, presses his lips to the back of her shoulder. Softly, several times.

"Are you okay?" he whispers.

Her eyes are closed. He kisses her, and asks her that question that would break her heart if -- well.

She makes a soft, low sound in the affirmative, nodding her head gently. "Good. Hot. Sore."

Against all odds he laughs a little. It's a soft sound, fond and tender. He kisses her again.

His weight lifting off her brings a sudden rush of cool air. He pulls out of her carefully, and the sheets beneath her shift as he pulls a corner up to wipe off. He's sweating through that nice shirt of his; his slacks are rumpled and wrinkled.

"I'll be right back," he murmurs.

His loft is quiet as he descends the stairs. The windows are still open, the curtains fluttering gently in the breeze. In the kitchen he finds a ziplok bag, a clean towel. Some ice from the freezer. A couple bottles of water. On his way back to the bedroom, he stops by the bathroom and starts the water, runs a bath.

The mattress dips as he sits on the edge. He hands her the makeshift icepack wrapped in a towel. A bottle of water, too.

"Should we go home tonight?" he asks softly.

His shirt is stuck to his skin from sweat. His pants have her cum on them, and a bit of his. He's a mess. And as he stands, looking at her: she's a wreck. Her cunt is red, is swollen, has been used and left aching. Her wrists are red. She's covered in her own sweat, her hair sticking to her brow and cheeks and throat. He can see his cum drip out of her.

The look on her face is one of... something like bliss. Like religious ecstasy. She looks almost serene.

--

When he comes back with the ice pack, the water, she hasn't moved. She heard the water run in the bathroom and twitched, but he wasn't there to see it. She opens one eye as he comes back into the bedroom, looking at him as he comes to sit beside her again. Hilary, wordless and also shameless, arranges the towel and icepack over her cunt. She sighs when the coolness touches her skin. She relaxes again, but doesn't lift her head to try and drink the water.

Ivan asks if they should go home. She has closed her eyes again, but opens them at his words.

"Why?" she wonders softly.

He shrugs a little.

"I didn't know if you'd want to. If you'd feel more comfortable there."

And, while she rests, he reaches over. They are not far apart. He doesn't have to reach far to cup his hand over her head. To run his fingers gently, soothingly through her hair.

"We can stay here too."

The faintest tug at the corner of her mouth. It could be a smile. Or a smirk.

No. Right now, it would be a smile. Something raw and genuine and tender.

He cups his hand over her head. She closes her eyes. "I don't care," she murmurs, but it isn't dismissive or annoyed with him even asking. Just... truthful. Right now, she doesn't care. He called her. Summoned her. Used her. Did all these terrible, glorious things to her. She is sated. She has every need met, right now.

There's more to it than that. Here, they are separate from everything else: sometimes that is to be desired. Sometimes, that is more comfortable than the villa, which he just called 'home'. She noticed that. She understands the difference.

In the distance, the bath runs heavily, water crashing into itself in Ivan's decadent tub. Hilary listens to it, and smiles. Opens her eyes and looks up at him.

"Thank you," she says softly, "for calling me over."

His turn to smile a little. He leans over, kissing her softly. His fingers comb through her hair, lifting the strands from her neck, giving her room to cool off.

Slowly, slowly, they return to some semblance of normalcy.

"Of course," he answers, just as soft. And as though in corollary, A leading to B: "I love you."

She feels it: the air that has been caressing and cooling her legs and arms and back now curling over her neck, her cheeks. It soothes her. She likes the sensation. She likes that he is the one to give it to her.

Soft murmurs now, though the room is brightly lit. She could have said a dozen things, a dozen reasons for thanking him: for the beautiful sable coat, for the villa by the sea, for chaining her up, for making her come so very hard, so very many times.

She says what she does. He tells her he loves her. She...

lets her hand fall to his. One hand holds ice on her cunt; one hand comes to rest, her fingertips on his knuckles. With some effort, she wraps her hand around his. Holds his hand.

"I love you too, Ivan," she whispers, without opening her sleepy eyes. "So much."

Almost amusing, that gentle and chaste lacing of their hands. The soft way they profess their love in the wake of ... everything else. Yet there it is all the same. His hand and hers. His vow and hers.

Eventually he rouses her. The tub is filling; he can hear it. He lifts her from the bed and carries her to the bathroom, where he lowers her into the tub. He takes his shirt off and then his slacks, his underwear too. Follows her into the tub, picking up a loofah.

It is far from the first time he's bathed her like this, but it is one of the gentlest. He is careful with her; washes the tips of her fingers and the delicate architecture of her ears, the roots of her hair and the soles of her feet. When he's done he washes himself, then lets the water drain.

They stand in the shower together for a while, embracing. Later, while she dries her hair, Ivan does something he almost never does and changes his own sheets.

Two things he almost never does. He also cooks. Or, well: he makes peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And pours orange juice. And carries these offerings upstairs on a tray, setting it on the bed to await her.

There is nothing amusing to it, at least not for them. Look at what it takes out of them, how far they have to go, just to get to these soft, gentle pronouncements. They have to die and be reborn to love one another.

Most people just say it.

--

Eventually, he stirs. He slides his arms under her, lifts her up, and carries her to the bathroom. She wants to be left alone a moment; she is. When he knocks and asks, when she tells him it's all right to come in now, she is carefully lowering herself into the tub, hissing softly at the warm water on her skin. He eases her the rest of the way in; she shakes a bit as she gets used to the temperature change, the water stinging her at first and only gradually soothing.

Ivan undresses, his clothes filthy now. He washes her as carefully as one might a newborn; she leans against him for a long time. The water begins to cool before he rouses her again, helps her stand, holds her against himself as the shower runs over their bodies. She holds onto him, her cheek on his chest, her hands on his arms, as though she is afraid to stand on her own.

--

Hilary does not bother to dry her hair tonight. She combs it, plaits it, wears the robe he gives her, stands watching him change his sheets with something like bemusement. When he has changed them, she slips out of the robe, climbing into the bed, the new sheets soft and cool, sighing as she lies down. She finally drinks some water. She nods when he tells her he'll get some food.

There are no servants at his apartment tonight. She just smiles, waits for him, and flicks her eyebrows up when he brings up sandwiches and orange juice.

"Orange juice with peanut butter?" she says, seeing what he's brought for her.

Ivan laughs. It tapers into a grin. He sits on the bed beside her, atop the covers, the tray of food between them.

"It's more or less all I can make," he admits. "Though there's milk, if you prefer."

Hilary is covered by a sheet now. Wet hair in a braid, dampening the pillowcase. She's naked. No more heels. No more lace panties. No more strand upon strand of pearls wrapped around her neck, pouring over her breasts. Just her, clean-faced, watching him.

"I would," she says, of the milk, though this does not necessarily mean she expects him to hop up and go get some. After all, she follows that with another question: "What sort of jelly is it?"

He does hop to. Well: not hop. But he does start to stir, pausing when she follows with a second question.

"Hm. I'm not sure. Triple berry, I think. It's rather good."

Her eyebrows perk. "Oh," she says, but not with disappointment or disgust. Interest. About jelly. She likes berry more than grape. He doesn't know that; she doesn't say it. Raspberry, strawberry... these are better than grape. But she just looks pleased, and reaches for one of the sandwiches, dragging the plate closer to her.

"I like peanut butter," she admits, though right now it doesn't sound like a confession.

"So do I," he says, climbing off the bed. "I must confess I don't understand the whole almond butter movement."

With that he leaves the room again, leaving the door ajar. Unlike Hilary, he is not naked -- though so scantly dressed in boxer-briefs that he may as well be. Back down the stairs, back into the kitchen; pouring tall glasses of milk, carrying them back upstairs. Condensate is beginning to form as he reenters the bedroom, shutting the door behind himself.

"Here," he hands her a glass, keeping the other for himself. The mattress -- and their food -- jostles slightly as he gets on, scooting back until he can lean against the headboard.

They eat in companionable silence for a while. He munches a sandwich, drinks cold milk. Drinks some orange juice too for good measure.

"I should probably put the toys away," he muses after a while. They're still on the floor somewhere. Along with her underwear.

Hilary has no response to that. She was not aware there was a 'movement' regarding other nut butters. She also likes almond butter, though not for a sandwich like this. So she just takes a bite, sitting up a bit more in bed. She eats neatly, primly, like she always does. Her manners are finishing school quality, though she never went to finishing school. She has only eaten a few bites when he comes back with milk, and she smiles at him, her lips together.

The glass goes to the nightstand. She pauses eating while he situates himself, watching him for a moment, then... goes back to eating. Drinks her milk and eats her peanut butter sandwich quite contentedly. He mentions toys. She huffs a laugh. Everything is on the floor. The poor vibrator. Her pearls, panties, and heels. Downstairs there's the sable coat and her handbag thrown onto a chair someplace.

"Where on earth did you get that?" she wonders.

"What, the vibrator?" He slants her a sidelong glance; smirks to himself. "The internet."

"Oh," she says, sounding almost disappointed, but... not very. She leans over, peering past him at where it sits on the floor. It will need to be cleaned. Carefully. She sits back again, looking at him.

"Did you... enjoy that?" she asks, although a bit hesitantly.

"It had excellent reviews," he informs her, and polishes off the sandwich. "But you sound a little disappointed nonetheless."

He looks at her again, longer than a glance. He raises his hand; back of his fingers graze her cheek.

"Devushka, I loved it. Every last filthy little second of it."

"I like it when you pick things out for me in stores," she says, regarding her disappointment. It isn't a strong preference. She certainly isn't upset.

Her eyes briefly, softly close when he touches her face. Her eyelashes skim her cheeks before lifting again. She looks into his eyes.

"Me too," she whispers, a real confession this time, though perhaps the least necessary one. She leans forward, resting her brow against his. "Thank you for that," she murmurs. She can't remember if she already said this or not.

He smiles as she leans into him. Opens an arm to her, "Come here."

He pulls her close. Lets her recline against his side, his shoulder, while she finishes that sandwich or that glass of milk. His arm is loose around her, and warm.

"Next time," he promises, "I'll pick it out myself. Or perhaps you'd like to come with me?"

So she scoots over. She tucks herself under his arm and against his side, going back to eating her sandwich. She laughs slightly at him when he promises to pick out the vibrator himself, in a real store, next time.

"Don't fret so," she tells him, as though she were not the sort of woman to make any man fret about pleasing her. "I am not going to go to sex shops with you."

Smirking again, "Of course not. How dare I even think you might."

He stretches an arm out to set his glass on his nightstand. Yawns. Gives her a squeeze, his arm around her shoulders, his lips touching her temple.

"I'm going to pick up our toys. Stay here."

"You're so tidy tonight," she comments, scooting down in the bed as he gets up. She lies on her side, watching him as he moves around. She does so enjoy watching him. She does not offer to help. She doesn't look ashamed about him picking up a vibrator that was so recently inside of her -- and of course she wouldn't be.

"We could do that again sometime," she mentions, as the chain between the manacles clinks against itself, the cuffs dangling from his hands. Her voice is soft. "Even if you aren't... playing with me."

He laughs under his breath; pauses to look at the toys in his hand. The manacles. The vibrator.

"I don't ... want to leave this on the ground," he explains. His glance to her is almost shy. "I want to keep it clean."

She suggests something. And his smile widens, grows crooked. He comes nearer, leaning down to tip her chin up, kiss her.

"Of course we will," he murmurs. "You loved it. I love that you loved it. Why wouldn't we do it again?"

He admits he doesn't want to just leave it. Perhaps for his maids. She's amused. She smirks. There's almost a light in her eye.

Not quite.

She rests her head on his pillow, rather than the one her hair has left damp and cold. Makes her offering. And now he's the one smiling, almost smirking. He comes over, carrying toys. Leans over and kisses her, his fingertips on her chin one of the softest, gentlest forms of his dominance over her. She melts into the touch, and sighs softly into the kiss.

"I meant..." she says quietly. "Even without the manacles and the gag and... it being quite so overwhelming. Just... using it. Together. Normally."

A beat.

"Sometimes."

She's so pliant now. So soft, so warm. It takes only a touch to melt her. Only a kiss to make her sigh.

That kiss turns deeper than he'd first intended; richer. A hint of bite at the end as he pulls away.

"I know what you meant," he says. A second kiss to seal it, "We'll do it again. Soon."

Times like this, Hilary is... well. Flesh and blood. Warm. Alive. Something more like she would be if she weren't so very pure, and so very fractured as a result of that fragile refinement. She reacts to kisses without restraint or defiance; she chases that bite at the end when he draws away, her mouth opening in something like a silent gasp. He gives her that deep, rich kiss, that roughness at the end, and then he leaves her: and look. Her eyes do not flash with shame or rage at her own wanton desire for him. She just smirks, a slow, lazy expression, and then reclines in the pillows once more.

There's also this: she asks for what she wants. Suggests, if perhaps a bit shyly, that they could use that toy again sometime, even if he isn't binding her up and gagging her and all but abusing her. Even if they aren't, as they put it, 'playing'. It turns out that she liked that crass, filthy thing, and how he used it. It turns out that on occasion, Hilary can admit that she even likes sex. That she wants it. That she wants him.

He kisses her again. She smiles, less of a smirk to it.

"After you clean it," she teases him, because for some reason the idea of Ivan cleaning up anything causes her absolutely no end of amusement.

It's the way she reclines that has him following her. He wants another kiss. He wants more. He lingers over her, his hands braced on either side. They smirk at each other.

No. They smile.

And she teases. And he laughs quietly, lowering his head out of reflex. It's her body he sees, though, which leads elsewhere: he leans down, he kisses her between her breasts. Those small, shapely breasts. Somewhat less small now, post-Anton. The turn of his thoughts amuses him in turn. He exhales, rises.

"Of course, of course." It's a mock grumble, and not a very convincing one. "Off I go, then."

Her hand falls lightly to the back of his head when he lowers it, kissing her chest the way he does. She's always liked his short, fair hair, golden even in the depths of winter and brightening with the sun in summer. He's never been one to grow it out, let himself look shaggy or shabby -- not unintentionally so, at least. She has always liked that, too. So her fingertips touch his scalp, and stroke those short, pale hairs. She reflects, perhaps even as he is thinking about how her breasts have changed thanks to Anton, that their son already shares his golden hair, his sunkissed skin.

She likes that, too.

His breath hits her skin and bounces off of it. She lets her hand fall from his hair, his neck, his shoulder, back to the bed. She watches him, but just before he steps out of the bedroom and into the bathroom or to the top of the stairs, she adds:

"Don't be long," she says, not mockingly or with that smirking amusement, but with something terribly vulnerable in its sincerity: "I... want to hold you."

That is something so rare it arrests him. He looks at her for a moment, something complex and -- yes, vulnerable in his eyes. He palms her cheek, saying nothing, kissing her once more. Quiet this time; soft and warm.

Then he gets up. He picks things off the floor; disappears into the bathroom to wash the vibrator. Later on she might find it on the bathroom counter, soaped and rinsed and set out to dry.

He isn't long. He comes back soon enough, flipping off the lights as he comes back to bed. The light on his nightstand still glows, warm across his skin, warming even her skin. He climbs into bed and opens his arm to her.

His skin shivers gently, reflexively as she wraps her arm around him. His arm wraps around her shoulders; he stretches the other out, clicks off the light.

In the darkness they lie together. He thinks briefly, passingly, of fucking her again. He might later in the night -- but right now, the need isn't sharp. It's outweighed by the simple, pure comfort of what they have. Which is rare. Which is precious.

He doesn't bid her goodnight, in the end. It would seem like a goodbye. He is simply quiet, and then quietly breathing, and then asleep.