Silk & Sinew

"Hands behind your back."

His head was bowed, but she saw the quick, jerky way his Adam’s apple moved. He was already flushed, sweat shining on his chest, catching the low light of her room.

Already hard, a thick bulge straining the front of his simple grey trousers. Already quiet.

He obeyed. Fast. His wrists disappeared behind him, the scrape of skin against fabric the only sound.

She didn’t praise him for it. A small smile touched her lips, a private, sharp thing. She circled him once. Her heels clicked softly on the polished floorboards. Twice.

She didn’t touch, didn’t tease with a trailing finger or a whispered promise. Just the deliberate, unhurried assessment. The air in the room grew thick, heavy with his contained breathing.

“You’re not allowed to be restless unless you’re begging.”

He stilled instantly, muscles locking under his damp skin. Even the tremor in his thighs seemed to cease. Good.

She knelt in front of him then, the silk of her robe whispering. Grabbed his throat, not hard, but firm, a clear claim. Tilted his face up. His eyes, usually so quick and assessing out in the world – that world where he called shots and men like him hung on his words – were hazed over, pupils wide and dark, fixed on her mouth.

She liked them that way. Empty of everything but her.

“You will not come tonight,” she said, her voice low, a velvet rasp that slid under his skin. “You’re here to be ruined. Nothing else.”

She saw the understanding - and the thrill of despair - flicker in those dark eyes. He knew her. Knew she meant it.

She didn’t touch his cock, that monument of need pointing up at her. No. She leaned in, bit his lower lip, hard enough to make him flinch, a taste of blood, sharp and metallic on her tongue. Mine.

Then, she dragged her nails, slowly, from his collarbone down his sternum, watching the skin bead and pinken in their wake. He shuddered, a ripple going through him. She slapped the inside of his left thigh, palm cracking against the tense muscle. Just to hear him gasp.

He moaned, a choked, broken sound, wrenched from him for just a second before he caught it, teeth sinking back into his lip.

“That sound,” she said, leaning close again, her breath ghosting over his ear. “That’s what I came for.”

A spark of defiance, or maybe just raw need, made him twitch, his hips giving a tiny, aborted buck. An attempt.

She slapped his face. Once. Not hard enough to truly hurt. Just enough to remind. A crisp, clear sting.

His head snapped to the side.
“You don’t fuck into me,” she stated, her voice flat, cold. “You don’t chase. You take what I give. When I give it.”

She finally let her fingers brush him, just once, a fleeting caress over the straining head of his cock through the fabric. Hot. Damp already. He twitched violently, shook, hips jerking upwards, a silent plea. His breath came in ragged, tearing gasps.

Muscles locked tight across his shoulders, his neck corded, head thrown back. Seconds. He was so fucking close. She could feel the tremor of it about to break through him.

She stopped. Pulled her hand away. Slowly, deliberately, she wiped her fingers on his thigh, on the rough material of his trousers now damp with his own leaking desperation.

“Not yet.”

She stood, looking down at him. A ruin in progress. Just how she liked him.
“Stay there,” she commanded. “Think about me while it hurts. And maybe – maybe – I’ll finish you in the morning.”

And she turned, the silk of her robe swirling around her ankles, and walked out of the bedroom, leaving him there. On the floor. Shaking. Drenched in his own wanting. The click of the door latch was a final, definitive sound.

She went to the living room, the connecting door left ajar just enough for her to hear if he dared move beyond a shiver. Pouring herself a glass of deep red wine, she curled onto the plush velvet couch, one leg tucked under her. The apartment was high up, the city lights spread out like a fallen constellation. Out there, he was a name. Power. In here…

In here, he’s just breath and wanting.

A small smile played on her lips. It hadn’t always been like this. She remembered him from before. The way he used to look at her across a boardroom table, a flicker of something – annoyance? interest? – in those sharp eyes. He’d been a challenge, then. All polished armor and controlled force. It had taken time. Patience. Finding the hairline cracks.

One late night, a project bleeding into overtime, a shared look over lukewarm coffee. His guard had slipped for a moment. She'd seen the hunger then, not for power or success, but for something else entirely. Something she could give. Or withhold.

She sipped her wine. He learned quickly. Learned the precise pitch of her voice that meant kneel. Learned that her silence was often more potent than any command.

The thought of him, still on that floor, trying to obey, muscles screaming, cock aching… it sent a shiver of a different kind through her. Good. This was better than any deal closed, any rival outmaneuvered. This quiet, potent control.

She could hear the faint, ragged rhythm of his breathing. He hadn't moved.

Such a good boy, when he wants to be. And he always wanted to be, for her.
That was the most delicious part.

After perhaps an hour, or maybe it was two – time stretched and warped when she was like this, tuned to the taut string of his endurance – she put her glass down. The wine had warmed her, a slow burn deep in her belly that matched the building ache between her own legs. It was time.

She walked back to the bedroom.
He was exactly where she’d left him. Head still bowed, shoulders slumped a little now with exhaustion, but his hands were still clasped tight behind his back. The sweat had dried in places, leaving salty trails on his skin. The front of his trousers was darker now, more extensively damp.

He didn't look up as she entered, but she saw the tremor that ran through him, a fresh wave of anticipation, or dread. Or both.

She walked around him again, slowly. Her bare feet were silent on the rug this time. She stopped behind him.

“On your knees, properly,” she murmured. He adjusted, shifting from his previous slumped posture to a more formal kneeling position, back straight, or as straight as he could manage.

She reached down, her fingers tangling in his hair. It was damp. She pulled, not yanking yet, just a firm pressure, tilting his head back further, exposing the long line of his throat.

“Look at me.”
His eyes, when they met hers, were raw. Soaked in need. She saw her own reflection in their dark depths.

“You’ve been thinking?” she asked, her voice soft.
A choked sound. “Yes.” Raspy. Barely a word.
“About what?”

“You.” His voice cracked. “Hurts.”
“Good.” She tightened her grip on his hair, just a little. “You want this to stop?”

A desperate shake of his head. No. He never wanted it to stop. That was his curse. And her pleasure.

“Then you’ll do exactly as I say.”

She released his hair and moved to stand in front of him, very close. Close enough for him to feel the warmth radiating from her body through the thin silk of her robe. Close enough for him to smell the wine on her breath, mixed with her own unique scent.

She untied her robe, slowly. Let it fall open. She wore nothing underneath.
His eyes, wide and starved, fixed on her. On the curve of her belly, the dark triangle of hair at the apex of her thighs, the swell of her breasts. His breath hitched. A low groan tried to escape him, but he bit it back.

Ah, there it is. That utter devotion. It still surprised her sometimes, the sheer force of it coming off him, even when he was like this, brought low. It wasn’t a game for him. Not entirely. This was his air.

“Mouth open,” she commanded, her voice husky now.
He obeyed, lips parting, a tremor running through his jaw.

She stepped closer, until her cunt was directly in front of his face. She braced her hands on his shoulders, feeling the tense, bunched muscles under her palms.

“You will taste me,” she said. “You will worship me with that tongue. And you will not use your hands.”

She lowered herself, slowly, guiding her wet cunt towards his waiting mouth. His breath fanned over her, hot and ragged. She could feel the heat of him, see the pulse beating frantically in his throat.

“Now.”
His tongue met her clit. Tentative at first. A feather-light touch. No.
She pressed down slightly, grinding herself against him. “More.”

He moaned then, a muffled sound against her skin, and his tongue became more insistent. Lapping. Circling. Mmm, yes. He found her rhythm, his tongue flicking, teasing, driving her crazy. Fuck, his tongue... ah. She gasped, her hips starting to move on their own, rotating against his mouth. He was good. So fucking good.

Her hands tightened on his shoulders, fingers digging in. “That’s it… yes…”
His sounds were trapped between her thighs, hot, desperate vibrations against her swollen flesh. She could feel the slight stubble of his chin, an abrasion that sent jolts of pleasure right through her.

Her breasts were heavy, nipples tight and aching. They bounced slightly with her movements. God, this is good. He grunted, a deep, animalistic sound, as she pushed herself harder against his face, demanding more.

She leaned back a little, watching him. His eyes were squeezed shut, his entire being focused on the taste of her, the feel of her. His jaw worked, tongue relentless. She loved this. Seeing him undone, his entire world narrowed to the space between her legs.

"You like that, don't you?" she whispered, her voice tight with her own rising pleasure. "Tasting how much I want this. How wet you make me."

He couldn't answer, not with his mouth full of her, but he made a guttural noise, a strangled affirmative. His hips tried to follow hers, a faint rocking motion even on his knees.

She grabbed his hair again, yanking his head up for a split second, breaking the contact. His eyes flew open, shocked, lost.

"Don't you dare try to fuck my mouth," she hissed, then slammed herself back down onto his tongue. He cried out, a muffled wail of pleasure and submission, and attacked her clit with renewed ferocity.

Fuck… his tongue… mmm… Her knees felt weak. The tension was coiling tight, so tight in her belly. He was relentless. His saliva, her wetness, slicking her thighs.

“Ah… yes… keep going…”
She was getting close. Too close for this early in her game.
She pulled back abruptly, leaving him gasping, his mouth wet, his eyes dazed. He looked up at her, lost, hungry.

"Not yet for me, either," she said, a little breathless herself. She ran a finger through the slickness on her own thigh, then held it up for him to see. "Look at that. What you do."

He stared at her finger, at her essence coating it, and a shudder ran through his whole body.

She smiled, a slow, predatory curve of her lips. "You're very good with your mouth." She reached down, trailed the wet finger over his lips. He licked it instinctively. "But we have other things to do."

She stepped back, letting her robe fall closed, though she didn't tie it. His eyes followed her every move.

"On your feet," she said. "Slowly."
He rose, a little unsteadily, but still keeping his hands behind his back as commanded. His erection was stark, pressing hard against his trousers, glistening at the tip.

"Against the wall. Spread your legs."
He turned and leaned his forehead against the cool paint of the wall, hands braced behind him against it, his arse slightly jutted out. A perfect, vulnerable position.

She picked up her discarded wine glass from the bedside table. There was still a little left. She swirled it.

“Remember this?” she asked, holding it up.
He twisted his head to look, just a glance. He’d bought her this set of glasses. Heavy crystal. Expensive. Just like everything he used to surround himself with.

She walked towards him, the wine sloshing gently. She stopped right behind him.
Then, instead of drinking it, she tilted the glass. The cold red wine splashed down his back, tracing icy rivulets over his hot skin, trickling down into the cleft of his arse, between his clenched cheeks.

He gasped, a sharp, surprised sound, arching his back involuntarily. "Ah! Cold!"
“Shhh,” she said, pressing her body against his from behind, her breasts against his shoulder blades, her stomach against the curve of his spine. She reached around him with one hand, her fingers spreading over his chest, feeling his heart hammer. With the other, she took his chin, turning his head slightly so his cheek was pressed to the wall, his mouth partially open.

“Don’t waste it,” she whispered in his ear, her voice a dark caress. "Lick the wall."
His eyes widened for a second, a flash of… what? Disbelief? But it was gone as quickly as it came, replaced by that familiar, hazy submission.

This might be interesting.

"Did you hear me?"
"Yes," he breathed, his voice hoarse.

Slowly, he extended his tongue, touched it to the painted surface. The wine had run down, some of it caught on the slight texture of the paint. He licked. Again. The slight scrape of his tongue was audible.

She watched, a cold knot of excitement tightening in her gut. The mundane wall, his expensive suit trousers now stained with wine and his own fluids, his tongue cleaning her spill in the most demeaning way. It was… exquisitely him. Ruined.

“Good,” she purred, her own body starting to press and grind against his back rhythmically. "Clean it all up."

Her hand that was on his chest slid lower, down his stomach, her nails scraping lightly. He flinched. Her fingers danced around the waistband of his trousers, then dipped just inside, tracing the line of his hip bone.

He was shaking now, violent tremors. His breath came in short, sharp bursts against the wall.

"Don't stop licking," she reminded him, her voice like silk and steel. Her fingers continued their exploration, not yet touching his cock, just brushing tantalizingly close, mapping the strained muscles of his abdomen.

This is what I mean by ruined. The careful façade of his everyday power stripped away, leaving this raw, quivering need. And she, she was the architect of it.

She felt him trying to push back against her, a desperate, unspoken plea for more contact.

Her fingers finally closed around the base of his erection, still trapped within his trousers. Hot, hard, pulsing against her palm. He let out a long, strangled moan, his tongue faltering against the wall.

"Ah-ah," she tsked, squeezing him hard enough to make him yelp. "Focus."

He whimpered, a low, pathetic sound, and forced his tongue back to the wall, lapping at the drying streaks of wine, his body bucking faintly against her hand.

This, she thought, this is power. Not the kind he wielded in boardrooms. This was visceral. Primal.

She began to stroke him through the fabric, long, slow pulls, while her other hand still kept his chin angled, his mouth to the wall. The rough material of his trousers abraded his sensitive skin, making it worse, better. He groaned again and again, muffled against the wall. Her own clit was throbbing, wetness trickling down her inner thighs. She rocked against his back, feeling the slide of her sex against the silk of her robe, then against his skin where the robe gaped.

His wine-stained tongue, the cool wall, her hand on his cock, her body grinding against his back. He was losing it.

“You feel that, baby?” she murmured, her lips against his ear, her voice thick. “You feel how I own every inch of you? Your taste, your pain, your pleasure… all mine.”

He couldn't speak, just made a series of guttural, choked noises. His hips were frantic now, thrusting against her hand, trying to chase the friction.

Now for a little surprise. Something he wouldn't expect. Something to etch this night into his memory with a brand.

She pulled her hand from his cock abruptly. He cried out, a sound of pure desolation.

"Stay," she commanded, stepping back. He sagged against the wall, panting, lost.
She walked over to her dressing table. Her silver-backed hairbrush lay there. Heavy. Ornate. An heirloom. Something he'd admired once, remarking on its craftsmanship in his precise, appreciative way.

She picked it up. Weighed it in her hand.

When she turned back to him, he was watching her, his eyes wide, questioning, apprehensive. He’d never seen this in her eyes before, this particular glint of inventive cruelty. Good.

She walked back to him. He flinched as she approached, expecting a blow, perhaps.
“Turn around. Knees.”

He scrambled to obey, sinking to his knees, facing her. His chest was heaving. His eyes were fixed on the hairbrush in her hand.

She smiled. “Hands behind your head. Fingers laced.”
He did as he was told, his arms framing his flushed face, pulling his chest open, vulnerable.

She didn't use the bristled side. She used the heavy, smooth, silver back. Cold.
She pressed it, gently at first, against his lips. He kissed it reflexively. She pressed harder. "Open."

He parted his lips. She pushed the edge of the silver just inside his mouth, resting it on his tongue. The metal was icy.

"Hold it," she said. "Don't bite. Don't drop it. Just... taste my morning routine."
His eyes were wide with shock. This was new. This was… unexpected. His breath hitched. A drop of saliva welled at the corner of his mouth, tracing a path down his chin.

She knelt in front of him, very close. Her robe had fallen fully open again. She was an inch from his face. She could see the confusion, the fear, the dawning, sick excitement in his gaze.

"You taste that, don't you?" she whispered. "The cold. The…intimacy of it. Something I touch every day. Now you're touching it. With your mouth."
He made a small, strangled noise around the brush handle.

Oh, this is delicious. The sheer unexpectedness of it. The way it bypassed all his usual defenses, his usual expectations of their encounters. This wasn't pain as he knew it, or pleasure as he knew it. This was… different. Weirder. More unsettling.

She reached out, took one of his nipples between her thumb and forefinger, and twisted, hard.

He cried out, a muffled, garbled sound, his body arching, the hairbrush clattering against his teeth for a second before he controlled it.

"Careful," she purred. "Don't want to chip a tooth. Or my silver."

She kept eye contact, relentless. His pupils were huge, swallowing the colour of his irises.

Just her, him, and a fucking hairbrush, breaking him in a new way.