#wrists
Repost if you have scars and you are not ashamed.
There was a soft rustle as the lace tied behind her wrists, locking her hands into place. A finishing touch, right at the beginning. She thought about mentioning this to him, but there was a steel in his eyes that brokered no space for humour. And so she remained quiet.
His hands strayed down from her bound wrists to her exposed rear, and gave her a reassuring squeeze. Then that was it. No more contact, the impression of his hand lingering on her nerves for a few moments, but then he was gone, a few steps behind her, just watching. She frowned, turned, and he shook his head. A finger did a slow pirouette in the air, and she huffed, facing the wall again.
“What…” His tut rang out clear in the air, cutting her off before she’d even begun. The bindings at her wrists were feeling less erotic and more frustrating now, her hands wanting to move and fidget, and yet all she could do was have them clasp one another, the most unsatisfying of movements.
They stood there like that for moments, minutes, hours. Too long, in her mind. Too long before his hand eventually wandered back out, around her stomach, then up and against her chest, his fingers rough and to the point. When he spoke he didn’t sound as breathy as he normally did, his husk nothing out of the ordinary.
“What have you learnt?” It wasn’t rhetorical. More’s the pity.
“Umm..” She stalled. She didn’t stall well.
His hand came down hard on her chest, hard fingers against soft breast.
“Try again.” A reprimand.
“Patience?” It was a guess. Informed, but still far from confident.
“No, beautiful. I think patience is one virtue you’re never going to quite master.” He paused, and there was that almost imperceptible slick note that let her know he was smiling. “You’ve learnt that you don’t initiate. That you remain still, and quiet, and receptive, until I make the first move.”
Silence hung in the air, filled with unspoken words. He picked a few.
“Well, at least that’s what you will have learnt, once I etch it into your skull.” His other hand had found its way between her legs. It was rubbing.
“And exactly how I do the etching, well…” The fingers pushed a little hard, just as his fingers came down on her breast again. “There are a few ways we can do that.”
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