In profile, she lets her hair spill down and shakes it out, tosses it over her shoulder, pulls the ribbons free entirely and pulls them taut, testing. Nothing he can't easily free himself from if he sets himself to it, nothing she wouldn't release him from if he called halt—more than sufficient for what she has in mind, and smooth, and soft, and not like to scrape unpleasantly against his skin. A bruise she wouldn't mind leaving, but a burn would never do.
“Probably,” she agrees, light-hearted, resting a knee on the end of the bed and appreciating, for a moment, the image that he makes.
If she gets little from his submission, his self-evident want for her is always—gratifying. Gwenaëlle feels powerful with him, even beneath him; she never shies from a reminder that he, too, needs her. A comfort, when it terrifies her how much she relies on him, how quickly she couldn't bear to be without him. She might be a little mad for him, but it's mutual, so it's all right.
The lopsided tilt of her smile is intimate, private, a thing for him only. A soft look she never directs to anyone else, any more—
rather at counterpoint with the way she clambers up his chest, and sets to the business of binding his wrists to their bed with her hair-ribbons. She has been planning this; she has had this in mind, at the absolute least, all day. Her weight is a pleasant warmth not conveniently near either of the places he might want her, too far from his mouth and his prick both, close enough to be maddening.
She adds, “You'll thank me for it,” because she is a loving wife.
no subject
“Probably,” she agrees, light-hearted, resting a knee on the end of the bed and appreciating, for a moment, the image that he makes.
If she gets little from his submission, his self-evident want for her is always—gratifying. Gwenaëlle feels powerful with him, even beneath him; she never shies from a reminder that he, too, needs her. A comfort, when it terrifies her how much she relies on him, how quickly she couldn't bear to be without him. She might be a little mad for him, but it's mutual, so it's all right.
The lopsided tilt of her smile is intimate, private, a thing for him only. A soft look she never directs to anyone else, any more—
rather at counterpoint with the way she clambers up his chest, and sets to the business of binding his wrists to their bed with her hair-ribbons. She has been planning this; she has had this in mind, at the absolute least, all day. Her weight is a pleasant warmth not conveniently near either of the places he might want her, too far from his mouth and his prick both, close enough to be maddening.
She adds, “You'll thank me for it,” because she is a loving wife.