Flying

Even with different cologne she recognizes him, knows him the moment he comes near.

It's a valiant effort; scent is a powerful mental key, changing it an inspired touch. But the breath hot on her neck is his breath, the hands abruptly pinning her against the door she has only just now come through, closed and locked behind her - locking herself in - are his hands, the familiar shape and pressure of his touch. No sound of fabric rustling against itself, only skin on skin, bare feet on floorboards; he has come to her already naked.

Her keyring falls and clatters on the bare floor, every sound distinct.

They have been together for a year and this is the game that they play, his game. It's not always like this. A deft and considerate lover, her man - in so many ways her keeper - is usually gentle, adoring, bulding their pleasure in slow artistic waves until both are spent and glowing. Then sleep, twined together like young lovers in a story. But sometimes - just occasionally - his game.

There is no elaborate dungeon in their apartment, no special costumes, no chest of pain- or pleasure-inducing toys; their only prop is a pair of padded. beltlike cuffs for her wrists, each complete with a steel loop. The padding is fine-grained kidskin leather and the scent, the feel of it against her skin, is enough.

He kisses her into the bedroom - walking her slowly backward while their mouths collide, hers welcoming, his exploring. Flavor of the cigarettes he smokes only occasionally, clove oil and tobacco, and something rich that she can't identify but recognizes easily; the taste of his kiss. In the doorway to the bedroom he stops her, holds her steady with one hand in her hair and deepens the kiss, growling into her mouth, biting at her until something inside melts and liquifies, something beneath her ribcage pouring out through her veins to pool and simmer in her head and between her thighs.

Throwing her down on their bed startles a soft cry from her, but there is no pain, no fear. Everything about this experience is comfortable, known; the scent of the comforter and its velvety flannel feel under her palms, the clocklike tick of the ceiling fan and the soft breeze that moves her hair. Whispery creaking of the mattress as he climbs up beside her, pushes her back, carefully buckles the leather around her wrists. Within moments she is stretched across the coverlet. Unruly hair tickling her cheek where it was trapped underneath her when she fell. Still clothed, in her shoes even, but so oversensetized she might as well be naked for him. She writhes a bit under his gaze - his presumed gaze - subtly rubbing her thighs together, feeling the slick heat gathering between her labia. Preparing for him in her own special female way.

When she is arranged to his satisfaction - stray locks considerately pulled from beneath her shoulders - he insinuates himself between her legs, sliding her skirt up into a thin band across her hips, and begins to undress her. The smooth, small buttons of her linen blouse, one by one. The skirt, unzipped and pulled away, leaving her in stockings, the shoes slipped off and placed carefully in their Place, where she will find them in the morning. Then a pause. He is looking at her, lying in helpless disarray, bare to him save for the bits of silk and lace and wire that he bought her. Now she knows the scent of her own arousal, the movement of her body and the fan send it spiralling through the air, he must notice it; his fingers trace the edge of lace where it follows the curve of her thigh down and in, and she knows from the sound he makes that she has already soaked them through.

He watches, and she hears his breathing change, and knows her own has, echoing. Some days he draws this out for ever, hours of torment, making her writhe and beg shamelessly for his cock. He has lain above her, between her legs, grinding the hard heat of his erection along her wet silken panties, right against her clit, rubbing until she cried, until he bit down on her shoulder and shuddered and came against her stomach, Wiping it off with his hands and making her lick his fingers clean before reaching down to fill her with them, holding her prisoner in the palm of his hand, bringing her climax like an explosion.

Some days he takes her like he can't bear not to.

The bra comes open with a tiny latch in front; the panties, almost as easy. She lies bared for him, stockings still on, blouse clinging to her arms, under her back. For a moment he slides his hands along her torso, cupping her breasts, tracing the length of her ribcage, the small expanse of thigh above her stocking tops. She waits. She is wet and open, neatly trimmed fur exposing the silken flesh of her inner labia, the swollen pearl of her clit. Nothing touches her there but the breeze from the fan and she thinks that by itself might drive her mad. She waits.

He takes something from the bottom drawer of her bedside table, where his things have their Place. She hears plastic and something soft but textured rasping under his fingertips, something like foam, or sponge.

Leaning over her, looming over her, he breathes the softest of kisses against each ear and then slides a small, soft, pliable object into each ear canal, something that seals against her delicate flesh. The bizarre sensation makes her freeze, even her breath still.

There is no sound.

***

She knows she is screaming against his palm, but there is no sound. Can't hear. Can't even hear herself screaming. Can't hear the sound of whatever was just knocked to the floor, though she feels the vibration through the bed. Bedside lamp. Will have to go back in its Place when he finishes or she could trip on it, he knows that, surely he knows what he is doing to her, how the terror and the pleasure have taken her over, she has come to the place where she cannot stop. She wrenches in a deep breath, a sobbing tearful panicked breath, and as her lungs inflate and she arches her back ready to scream again, his broad-tipped powerful fingers close over her nipples. Pinching. Crushing. The way she loves it, her guilty secret pleasure. The scream is trapped in her throat and falls away, falls like she is falling now.

When he finishes. Sound will come back. The world will come back.

She can smell her own desperate tears, taste them; at least he hasn't taken that. She can feel how his hands are shaking as he tugs at her nipples, releases and takes them again, can feel how his cock is pressed huge and throbbing into the hollow between her hip and belly. Not a game anymore. It's as though the ground had fallen away. As though she were alone in a strange place, a room full of objects and furniture and danger, and he is there, he has her by the hand, and they are running. Running through her eternal darkness.

He kisses her, curves one hand around her throat - not squeezing, never that, only the warning pressure, the danger - running so fast in the dark - and when she feels the first silken searing pressure of the head of his cock, feels it graze lightly over her exposed clit and then slide, she goes taut beneath him, stretched and trembling, and is utterly silent as she comes.