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fellowshippers2008-07-10 10:34 pm
v-angelique.livejournal.com) wrote in fellowshippers2008-07-10 10:34 pm
Entry tags:
- bdsm,
- cate/miranda,
- f/f,
- nc-17
Fic: A Bene Placito
Title: A Bene Placito
Author: Viktoria Angelique (![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
v_angelique)
Pairing: CB/MO
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Man, is this ever untrue.
Summary: A femmeslash PWP with bondage and D/s galore. For all those lovely non-straight ladies in fandom, and oh hell, the straight ones too. I love you all.
Intellectually, Cate hates almost everything about this situation.
Her hair, cut short, is parted down the middle and tucked behind her ears. She wears a schoolgirl's black leather shoes, long black socks, pleated black skirt, white cotton knickers and plain black tie. She doesn't wear a shirt or a bra, and she's sitting in between her heels, her knees parted, her arms bound in thick brown leather binders behind her back. Miranda is leaning back in her chair, smirking.
Every comfort Cate relies on, every piece of fashion that says, "I am put-together, I am a professional woman, and I am in control," every single one Miranda has exploited, appropriated, and taken from Cate. Miranda wears a tailored suit, her hair tucked tightly into a bun, and stiletto heels. The outfit is not at all Miranda, and it humiliates Cate because it turns her on.
Miranda sits in a comfortable chair. Cate is perched in the middle of the living room, on top of a sturdy black nightstand just large enough to hold her kneeling down like this. The living room is at the back of the house, and it makes Cate very nervous to have the huge windows in the back wide open, open onto a garden with high fences but at the same time, she feels exposed and helpless.
Miranda smirks and rests one hand casually in her lap, rubbing herself through the expensive trousers. Cate stares, because she can't not stare, and forces herself to remain still.
"I wonder if the meter man's coming today," Miranda purrs, and panic rises in Cate's throat, her eyes flicking to the big open windows and the open gauzy curtains fluttering with the breeze. "I bet he'd like to stick his cock into you, Catie. Think he'd like that?"
Cate can feel her chest heaving up and down as her breathing quickens. She tells herself that it's a game, that Miranda is manipulating her, that she is stronger than this, but every detail of the scene is orchestrated to take control away from her, and fuck if it isn't working.
Miranda's own breathing speeds up as she rubs, and then she uses the other hand to unzip and unbutton. Cate watches Miranda's thin wrist, picturing the fine hairs that she can't see from this distance as Miranda slips her hand below the waistband of her knickers – no, not her knickers, Cate remembers. Cate's knickers. A small sound escapes her lips and Miranda grins from satisfaction.
"That's my girl," she purrs, and Cate wishes the breeze were strong enough to reach this part of the large, open space. The sweat on her skin is uncomfortable, and the nape of her neck itches. Miranda's hand starts moving faster, but her hips remain still. She is the picture of reserve, incongruous as that may be. She barely makes a sound when she comes, and the absence leaves Cate hungry.
"Hmm." Miranda rises from the chair, neatly hiding herself from view again, slipping the button through its hole and approaching Cate's pedestal. Her hand closes around the tie, and though the knot is loose she grips above it, just tight enough to make Cate gasp and feel the constriction. Miranda yanks up and Cate follows, puppet-like, kneeling up. Miranda's lips are an inch from Cate's but she only breathes, deliberately into Cate's mouth as she pinches one nipple, then the other with her free hand. Twisting, twisting… when they are hard she lets go, and Cate drops back to her initial position, her bottom plunking between her calves again. Miranda smiles and pulls the chair closer before she sits down again. She kicks a foot up, and the sole of her perfect black stiletto presses forward, under Cate's skirt.
"Oh," Cate whispers, just an exhalation. Miranda grins, her eyes locked on Cate's, and she starts to rub, a gentle rocking motion that makes the heel scrape on painted wood.
"Catie-ma-links likes that, doesn't she?" Miranda coos patronisingly.
Cate bites her lip and nods, because it's impossible to deny, and she's so wet. Miranda rubs another moment before she shifts her foot, changing the angle slightly, and rocks it harder, Cate gasping as the long, narrow heel pushes her knickers just slightly inward, Miranda's heel rocking deliberately into her cunt.
"Likes fucking herself on my shoe, I can tell."
Cate whimpers and shifts, only slightly, because she doesn't want to accidentally impale herself. The heel isn't that high, maybe four inches, but it's still a mindfuck, and Cate can't help but wonder if she had this in mind, if Miranda picked those shoes out especially for this. Probably not – that's something Cate would do, if Cate were a domme. Miranda would just come up with the idea on the fly, see if it worked, and go with it. Cate's sure that's what happened just now, but Miranda definitely likes the effect, and she's smirking as she continues, moving her foot a little faster now, the heel going further forward and stretching the fabric, which thankfully isn't particularly tight. Her sole still stimulates Cate's clit like a dream, and she's going to come soon; she can feel that anxious need building up and she knows that Miranda is relentless, won't let her not come. Miranda isn't much for orgasm denial; she's more likely to make Cate keep coming and coming, time after time, until she's exhausted and in pain and begging to stop, at which point Miranda will do it just once more, just for the fun of it.
"My girl," Miranda purrs, her foot moving in a quick, effective, almost tapping rhythm. She doesn't stop as the gasp gets caught in Cate's throat, as she whimpers and whinges and comes, a sudden panic rising in her chest as she tries to steady herself with her bound wrists, is sure that she's going to fall as she shakes and bucks uncontrollably. She doesn't, though, and Miranda rises calmly from her chair.
She places one hand gently between Cate’s breasts and pushes, just firmly enough to make Cate tilt, keeping her back straight, back and downward as Miranda pushes slowly and steadily. She’s afraid she won’t be able to keep her balance like this, is sure she can’t, and clenches her stomach muscles in panic as she holds herself, nearly parallel to the floor, knees starting to twinge in protest. Miranda walks around slowly and straddles Cate’s face, holding her head lightly enough that it doesn’t really help, only taking some of the pressure off of Cate’s neck. She rubs back and forth until Cate is whimpering loudly, begging without words. Her muscles are on fire, her body poised to betray her.
“Sit up, then,” Miranda says playfully, stepping back. Cate tries, attempts to contract her muscles further and wavers a few inches above horizontal, gritting her teeth and squeezing, but she fails. Her body starts to shake violently and her torso drops, into Miranda’s hands that are shoving her forward, up past vertical and over, almost too far in the other direction. Miranda grabs her wrists, yanking up so that her bottom is no longer resting on the sturdy surface, and brings the other palm down hard, startling Cate into a high-pitched cry.
“Yes,” Miranda hisses, reaching to yank Cate’s knickers down, her skirt up. She does it again, then faster, rhythmically from cheek to cheek. Cate waits for the rhythm to vary, for Miranda to hit her elsewhere or change the pace, but she doesn’t. Everything is steady, tightly controlled, and Cate can feel the drip between her labia, knows that her knickers are getting sticky. After five minutes Miranda stops and pulls her up into the original position, her tired body sagging, shoulders slumped, the fabric between her legs uncomfortably placed. When Miranda walks back around to Cate’s front, she is smiling.
“Is my Catie feeling defeated?” she asks rhetorically, gripping Cate’s chin. “I like her defeated,” she murmurs, unbuttoning a few buttons of her blouse with one hand and guiding Cate’s head forward, letting Cate nuzzle her breast. The moment of comfort doesn’t signal the end of the scene, though. Cate’s too attuned to Miranda to assume that, and after a minute Miranda’s knee lifts and drives forward against her cunt, resting on the nightstand, her hand squeezing Cate’s arse. She lets out a soft sigh, her body too tired to go back to rigidity, the soft skin of Miranda’s breast heaven against her mouth and cheek.
The gentle kneading of her arse is painful and vaguely irritating, but the firm pressure of Miranda’s knee is making her throb around the hard patella, and after ten minutes her mouth starts to water. After fifteen, she is panting and winded, and in the back of her mind impressed that Miranda has managed to stay on one leg for this long in heels.
Miranda shifts back, taking a few steps until she is in the chair again, watching Cate. She can’t slow her breathing, can’t stop staring at Miranda with her black lace bra and her open white shirt. Miranda’s grin is wide and toothy, like the devil as she rests a hand in her lap again. “Stick your tongue out,” she orders, and Cate doesn’t hesitate. “Move it around. Show me what you’ll do to my pussy.” Cate blushes, but tries her best to imitate the slow up and down licks, the faster little flicks to Miranda’s clit, then more enthusiastic bathing of thin air, getting her head and her neck into it as Miranda stares, unimpressed. Her tongue starts to dry out, and she needs to swallow, but Miranda lets her keep going for five minutes, before she finally stands again and gracefully drops her trousers, stepping out of them and letting the knickers fall as well.
When she steps forward, she tugs Cate’s face to meet her and ignores her frantically-moving tongue, opening herself up with two fingers and pushing against Cate’s chin instead, rubbing her juices there and then up, onto Cate’s nose. She’s overwhelmed by the scent and the feel of her, and Cate does feel defeated – gladly so.
“My poor little girl,” Miranda purrs, pulling away to look at her. Her tongue is still out because Miranda hasn’t said she can put it back. “Defiled, debauched little girl. Lick me,” she orders, and moves back in again, her pubic hair tickling Cate’s nose. She gratefully wets her tongue and uses Miranda’s own juices to wet her clit, working it eagerly with the tip of her tongue, then the flat of it. When she slips it inside, Miranda rubs her clit against Cate’s upper lip, and then uses one hand to direct Cate’s head, getting her whole face into it. This time, she gives just a little, her gasping, breathy cries accelerating and growing louder as she nears the end, and this time Cate feels hard-earned triumph when Miranda does that trick she does, squeezing her muscles in whatever combination necessary to make it possible to paint Cate’s face when she comes. Cate isn’t sure how such a thing can be so feminine, but with Miranda, it is.
A little short of breath, a little more human, Miranda offers Cate her thigh, and Cate rubs against it shamelessly, moaning as Miranda grasps her head in both hands and stares her out. It happens too quickly, and she tries to hold herself back, but can’t, a whimpering cry of regret escaping her lips before she falls against Miranda’s chest. Miranda catches her – Miranda always catches her – and she kisses each of Cate’s wrists as she releases them. That is her cue.
Scene.
Author: Viktoria Angelique (
v_angelique)Pairing: CB/MO
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Man, is this ever untrue.
Summary: A femmeslash PWP with bondage and D/s galore. For all those lovely non-straight ladies in fandom, and oh hell, the straight ones too. I love you all.
Intellectually, Cate hates almost everything about this situation.
Her hair, cut short, is parted down the middle and tucked behind her ears. She wears a schoolgirl's black leather shoes, long black socks, pleated black skirt, white cotton knickers and plain black tie. She doesn't wear a shirt or a bra, and she's sitting in between her heels, her knees parted, her arms bound in thick brown leather binders behind her back. Miranda is leaning back in her chair, smirking.
Every comfort Cate relies on, every piece of fashion that says, "I am put-together, I am a professional woman, and I am in control," every single one Miranda has exploited, appropriated, and taken from Cate. Miranda wears a tailored suit, her hair tucked tightly into a bun, and stiletto heels. The outfit is not at all Miranda, and it humiliates Cate because it turns her on.
Miranda sits in a comfortable chair. Cate is perched in the middle of the living room, on top of a sturdy black nightstand just large enough to hold her kneeling down like this. The living room is at the back of the house, and it makes Cate very nervous to have the huge windows in the back wide open, open onto a garden with high fences but at the same time, she feels exposed and helpless.
Miranda smirks and rests one hand casually in her lap, rubbing herself through the expensive trousers. Cate stares, because she can't not stare, and forces herself to remain still.
"I wonder if the meter man's coming today," Miranda purrs, and panic rises in Cate's throat, her eyes flicking to the big open windows and the open gauzy curtains fluttering with the breeze. "I bet he'd like to stick his cock into you, Catie. Think he'd like that?"
Cate can feel her chest heaving up and down as her breathing quickens. She tells herself that it's a game, that Miranda is manipulating her, that she is stronger than this, but every detail of the scene is orchestrated to take control away from her, and fuck if it isn't working.
Miranda's own breathing speeds up as she rubs, and then she uses the other hand to unzip and unbutton. Cate watches Miranda's thin wrist, picturing the fine hairs that she can't see from this distance as Miranda slips her hand below the waistband of her knickers – no, not her knickers, Cate remembers. Cate's knickers. A small sound escapes her lips and Miranda grins from satisfaction.
"That's my girl," she purrs, and Cate wishes the breeze were strong enough to reach this part of the large, open space. The sweat on her skin is uncomfortable, and the nape of her neck itches. Miranda's hand starts moving faster, but her hips remain still. She is the picture of reserve, incongruous as that may be. She barely makes a sound when she comes, and the absence leaves Cate hungry.
"Hmm." Miranda rises from the chair, neatly hiding herself from view again, slipping the button through its hole and approaching Cate's pedestal. Her hand closes around the tie, and though the knot is loose she grips above it, just tight enough to make Cate gasp and feel the constriction. Miranda yanks up and Cate follows, puppet-like, kneeling up. Miranda's lips are an inch from Cate's but she only breathes, deliberately into Cate's mouth as she pinches one nipple, then the other with her free hand. Twisting, twisting… when they are hard she lets go, and Cate drops back to her initial position, her bottom plunking between her calves again. Miranda smiles and pulls the chair closer before she sits down again. She kicks a foot up, and the sole of her perfect black stiletto presses forward, under Cate's skirt.
"Oh," Cate whispers, just an exhalation. Miranda grins, her eyes locked on Cate's, and she starts to rub, a gentle rocking motion that makes the heel scrape on painted wood.
"Catie-ma-links likes that, doesn't she?" Miranda coos patronisingly.
Cate bites her lip and nods, because it's impossible to deny, and she's so wet. Miranda rubs another moment before she shifts her foot, changing the angle slightly, and rocks it harder, Cate gasping as the long, narrow heel pushes her knickers just slightly inward, Miranda's heel rocking deliberately into her cunt.
"Likes fucking herself on my shoe, I can tell."
Cate whimpers and shifts, only slightly, because she doesn't want to accidentally impale herself. The heel isn't that high, maybe four inches, but it's still a mindfuck, and Cate can't help but wonder if she had this in mind, if Miranda picked those shoes out especially for this. Probably not – that's something Cate would do, if Cate were a domme. Miranda would just come up with the idea on the fly, see if it worked, and go with it. Cate's sure that's what happened just now, but Miranda definitely likes the effect, and she's smirking as she continues, moving her foot a little faster now, the heel going further forward and stretching the fabric, which thankfully isn't particularly tight. Her sole still stimulates Cate's clit like a dream, and she's going to come soon; she can feel that anxious need building up and she knows that Miranda is relentless, won't let her not come. Miranda isn't much for orgasm denial; she's more likely to make Cate keep coming and coming, time after time, until she's exhausted and in pain and begging to stop, at which point Miranda will do it just once more, just for the fun of it.
"My girl," Miranda purrs, her foot moving in a quick, effective, almost tapping rhythm. She doesn't stop as the gasp gets caught in Cate's throat, as she whimpers and whinges and comes, a sudden panic rising in her chest as she tries to steady herself with her bound wrists, is sure that she's going to fall as she shakes and bucks uncontrollably. She doesn't, though, and Miranda rises calmly from her chair.
She places one hand gently between Cate’s breasts and pushes, just firmly enough to make Cate tilt, keeping her back straight, back and downward as Miranda pushes slowly and steadily. She’s afraid she won’t be able to keep her balance like this, is sure she can’t, and clenches her stomach muscles in panic as she holds herself, nearly parallel to the floor, knees starting to twinge in protest. Miranda walks around slowly and straddles Cate’s face, holding her head lightly enough that it doesn’t really help, only taking some of the pressure off of Cate’s neck. She rubs back and forth until Cate is whimpering loudly, begging without words. Her muscles are on fire, her body poised to betray her.
“Sit up, then,” Miranda says playfully, stepping back. Cate tries, attempts to contract her muscles further and wavers a few inches above horizontal, gritting her teeth and squeezing, but she fails. Her body starts to shake violently and her torso drops, into Miranda’s hands that are shoving her forward, up past vertical and over, almost too far in the other direction. Miranda grabs her wrists, yanking up so that her bottom is no longer resting on the sturdy surface, and brings the other palm down hard, startling Cate into a high-pitched cry.
“Yes,” Miranda hisses, reaching to yank Cate’s knickers down, her skirt up. She does it again, then faster, rhythmically from cheek to cheek. Cate waits for the rhythm to vary, for Miranda to hit her elsewhere or change the pace, but she doesn’t. Everything is steady, tightly controlled, and Cate can feel the drip between her labia, knows that her knickers are getting sticky. After five minutes Miranda stops and pulls her up into the original position, her tired body sagging, shoulders slumped, the fabric between her legs uncomfortably placed. When Miranda walks back around to Cate’s front, she is smiling.
“Is my Catie feeling defeated?” she asks rhetorically, gripping Cate’s chin. “I like her defeated,” she murmurs, unbuttoning a few buttons of her blouse with one hand and guiding Cate’s head forward, letting Cate nuzzle her breast. The moment of comfort doesn’t signal the end of the scene, though. Cate’s too attuned to Miranda to assume that, and after a minute Miranda’s knee lifts and drives forward against her cunt, resting on the nightstand, her hand squeezing Cate’s arse. She lets out a soft sigh, her body too tired to go back to rigidity, the soft skin of Miranda’s breast heaven against her mouth and cheek.
The gentle kneading of her arse is painful and vaguely irritating, but the firm pressure of Miranda’s knee is making her throb around the hard patella, and after ten minutes her mouth starts to water. After fifteen, she is panting and winded, and in the back of her mind impressed that Miranda has managed to stay on one leg for this long in heels.
Miranda shifts back, taking a few steps until she is in the chair again, watching Cate. She can’t slow her breathing, can’t stop staring at Miranda with her black lace bra and her open white shirt. Miranda’s grin is wide and toothy, like the devil as she rests a hand in her lap again. “Stick your tongue out,” she orders, and Cate doesn’t hesitate. “Move it around. Show me what you’ll do to my pussy.” Cate blushes, but tries her best to imitate the slow up and down licks, the faster little flicks to Miranda’s clit, then more enthusiastic bathing of thin air, getting her head and her neck into it as Miranda stares, unimpressed. Her tongue starts to dry out, and she needs to swallow, but Miranda lets her keep going for five minutes, before she finally stands again and gracefully drops her trousers, stepping out of them and letting the knickers fall as well.
When she steps forward, she tugs Cate’s face to meet her and ignores her frantically-moving tongue, opening herself up with two fingers and pushing against Cate’s chin instead, rubbing her juices there and then up, onto Cate’s nose. She’s overwhelmed by the scent and the feel of her, and Cate does feel defeated – gladly so.
“My poor little girl,” Miranda purrs, pulling away to look at her. Her tongue is still out because Miranda hasn’t said she can put it back. “Defiled, debauched little girl. Lick me,” she orders, and moves back in again, her pubic hair tickling Cate’s nose. She gratefully wets her tongue and uses Miranda’s own juices to wet her clit, working it eagerly with the tip of her tongue, then the flat of it. When she slips it inside, Miranda rubs her clit against Cate’s upper lip, and then uses one hand to direct Cate’s head, getting her whole face into it. This time, she gives just a little, her gasping, breathy cries accelerating and growing louder as she nears the end, and this time Cate feels hard-earned triumph when Miranda does that trick she does, squeezing her muscles in whatever combination necessary to make it possible to paint Cate’s face when she comes. Cate isn’t sure how such a thing can be so feminine, but with Miranda, it is.
A little short of breath, a little more human, Miranda offers Cate her thigh, and Cate rubs against it shamelessly, moaning as Miranda grasps her head in both hands and stares her out. It happens too quickly, and she tries to hold herself back, but can’t, a whimpering cry of regret escaping her lips before she falls against Miranda’s chest. Miranda catches her – Miranda always catches her – and she kisses each of Cate’s wrists as she releases them. That is her cue.
Scene.