Prostrate in Prada
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MsKathy
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BDSM
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Bella/Edward
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Fandom 4 Storms
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A/N:
Thank you to the ladies that organized the Fandom4Floods project. I am honored to
take part in the fundraising efforts for Australia, and glad that you
donated to read all of these fabulous pieces from so many talented
authors... and me, too.
My
endless thanks to TwilightMundi, my fabulous beta, and to my
pre-reader who never holds back, moojuicey. You both push me in all
the right ways, and I cannot express my thanks enough.
This
is an M-Rated Edward/Bella Twilight fanfiction story for adults only,
so if you are under the age of consent in your area, please skip
this. Thank you.
All
copyright and trademarked items mentioned herein belong to their
respective owners. The remaining content is all mine. No copying or
reproduction of this work is permitted without my express written
authorization.
.
EPOV
I'd
lost a case – my second that week – and was in no mood for the
bullshit I encountered on my usually mundane drive home. Traffic had
been a nightmare, forcing me to arrive even later than I anticipated.
As my key turned in the lock of our front door, the clicking noise
jarred my brain. It was the reminder of the sound I'd heard a
thousand times before, echoed (at times) in other circumstances, and
I realized I was in deep shit.
She'd
texted me two hours before to ask me to bring home milk. I'd
forgotten, and I knew I'd be punished for it.
I
considered removing the key as quietly as I could and slowly creeping
back to my car, but that was no use. The guilt I'd feel at the lie
would eat me up inside, and besides, I never lied to her. Ever.
I
walked through the door, knowing she'd be waiting. Sure enough, the
first thing I saw when the door was closed behind me was her
beautiful body. Parts were covered with fabric and girly things I'd
long forgotten the name of, but she was there in all her glory. Mine.
Her
eyebrow arched. “Forgot?” The tiniest tinge of disappointment
filtered through the single word, and I wanted to scream and swear in
my defense, shielding myself from the guilt at letting her down. I
wanted to shout, explain how fucking rough my day had been, my whole
week, for that matter.
Instead,
I nodded slowly, my eyes greeting the floor.
“You
know what to do,” she said.
Dropping
to my knees, I crawled to her. My head was still lowered, and I was
suddenly fucking pissed that I'd picked my Prada suit for court. I
could only hope the hardwood wouldn't scuff the knees, forcing me to
scrap it. It was bad enough my Magli's were digging into the top of
my foot at this angle.
The
few steps it took me to get to her were a good reminder of my chosen
role. The role I agreed to play each time we took on these
identities. It was a reminder, though it didn't eliminate my sour
mood.
When
the top of her shiny black boot was within my sight, I stopped and
took a moment to try and compose myself. After a deep breath, I
placed my open palms on my knees and lowered my lips to the
glistening patent leather. Once I'd kissed the top of each shoe, I
resumed my semi-upright position.
Quiet
consumed the room, and I could tell she hadn't anticipated my
failure. Sometimes, it seemed as though she knew me better than I
knew myself; knew when I'd need more, want less, fail a task, or
succeed with flying colors. The failure of my one simple task from
her simply compounded the misery churning in my brain, and the fact
that she hadn't anticipated it made it worse. Now I'd derailed what
was probably supposed to be fun time together.
Just
as the quiet began to really settle in my bones, keeping the failure
and self-flagellation good company, I heard her move. I could only
tell that she'd moved away from me because she left my line of sight.
Her heavy sigh and brief tsk
compounded my feelings of inadequacy and my body tensed. Again, the
urge to cry, hit something, or yell itched at my skin.
I
waited, though, because it was what I was commanded to do.
The
next part of this particular ritual should have been for her to move
closer to me, not farther away, so I was confused. My brain spun on
the potential things she was doing, and I closed my eyes, attempting
to relax and forget everything else. A few deep breaths later, my
shoulders had slumped the tiniest bit, which I became sharply aware
of when I felt what I assumed was the lick of the crop against my
right side.
“Simply
because I walk away does not mean you can disrespect me with poor
posture, Edward.”
Her
voice was sharp – much sharper than the instrument of pain and
pleasure she'd used – and full of anticipation, which gave me a
shred of hope that our night would not just involve punishment.
Then
her body was in front of me again, shoes visible, her scent lingering
around me.
“Go
ahead,” she said.
Lifting
my head, I placed one kiss at the apex of her thighs, right over her
panties. “I'm sorry, Ma'am,” I said quietly.
“You
will be, Pretty Boy,” she whispered back.
I
bit my cheek to keep from smirking; even while punishing me, she
never lost her playfulness. I didn't need to see her face to know her
words were spoken with mischief.
“Stand.”
I
did as she demanded, rising up to my feet again. The crop struck my
clothing, the effect dampened by expensive cotton as she slapped it
against the back of my thighs.
“Jacket,”
she said.
Sparse
words were all she needed; pleasantries just a waste of time between
us at that point.
My
jacket hit the floor and I tried not to wince at the thought of it
crumpled around my feet. The reminder of the expensive fabric made my
face contort briefly, but I pulled my blank expression back quickly.
It wasn't the time to think about money or worries. It was the time
to focus on her, on me, on us. On pleasure, after my brief tangle
with what I was certain would be pain.
Bella
hummed as she moved around to the front of me and, using my tie as a
pulley, brought my lips to hers. I was already hard, already wanting,
and so was she, apparently. My lips yielded to hers, just as they
always did in that position, and I waited for her to extract her next
demands from my body. When she was satisfied, she pushed slightly,
causing me to almost stumble back. Almost.
“Shirt,
but leave the tie on.”
I
knew she was watching me as each button slipped through the hole, and
I admit, I enjoyed her attention in that way. In every way, actually.
Being on display for her like that was intense and perfect. Only for
her would I ever behave this way. Anyone else that had demanded such
things from me would have gotten a mouthful of obscenities and likely
a few gestures to complete the response.
The
fabric fell from my shoulders, hitting the ground with nothing but a
whisper of noise as it joined my jacket. My anal-retentive side
mourned again.
The
crop flicked at my exposed nipples, and I was brought back into the
moment. It hurt, but not more than a slight sting, and the warmth
that replaced it as it faded spread through my chest.
“Couch.”
As
I walked past her, she swung the leather against my ass. She followed
me, swatting away as we walked. I liked knowing she was watching me,
commanding me, bidding me to continue.
Once
I sat on the leather, I focused my vision on the coffee table. She
had white rope, lube, nipple clamps, and a few other toys laid out.
My body tensed and shivered. Nothing there struck me as punishment
material, especially not while I was sitting, and that meant she was
likely headed for the psychological.
Fuck
me.
“Hands,”
she said.
Before
she began, the skin of her fingers slid against mine and the heat
between us grew. I watched as she wound the rope around my wrists,
twisting, turning, overlapping, until she was satisfied. She used
knots I have no knowledge of, and secured everything in such a way
that I didn’t second-guess her actions.
When
she finished, her hands moved to the zipper on my pants. She slid it
down slowly, the vibration of each tooth unhooking sending little
sparks down my cock. Without hesitating, her hand snaked beneath the
fabric fly of my boxer briefs and brought my erection out.
“I
love how you're always ready for me, my good boy,” she said, using
her other hand to angle my face up so that I was looking into her
eyes. “Ready for your punishment?”
“Yes
Ma'am,” I said.
“Good.
This,” she said, bending to lick the small bead of precum from the
tip of my cock, “is all mine. You are to sit, stroke, and watch,
but not come.”
She
didn't bother to ask if I understood – they were simple enough
instructions.
As
she picked up the nipple clamps, I watched her body. She was lithe
and fit, but round in the right ways. I wanted to bite her hip and
bend her over the couch, fuck her senseless, but it was her turn to
be in charge, not mine. My patience would be rewarded, I knew.
I
realized she was going to use the clamps on herself, and almost
whimpered. I wanted them, needed the pain of them digging into my
skin. As she attached each one around her plump, pink nipples, I bit
my lip, mimicking the slow burn of intense throbbing she was no doubt
experiencing.
She
reclined in the chair next to the couch, propping her boots up on the
table. The stockings she had on went up to the curve of her thigh,
attached to garters. My eyes kept scanning up, soaking in the space
of bare flesh from the top of her panties to the bottom of her bra. I
hadn't even noticed her other hand shift and move until I felt the
sting against my thigh.
“Why
are you not obeying my orders? Do you not want to please me and
apologize for your error?”
“I'm
sorry,” I said quickly.
My
fingertips surrounded sensitive skin, but after a few strokes, I
realized I'd need lube or some assistance if I was going to keep
going. If I had lube, though, I'd come too quickly. I decided to grip
the base of my cock and slowly stroke over the top, hoping this would
be acceptable to her.
Moving
my eyes from my own body back to hers, I watched as her fingers slid
beneath the material of her panties. She slouched further, knees
opening wider, and moved her other hand to join the first. From
practice, I knew she'd be burying several fingers deep inside herself
as her other hand worked her clit, and my body twitched at the
thought. Frankly, I was glad I couldn't actually see it, fabric
keeping most of her hidden, my mind building the sight from memory.
As
her head fell back onto the chair, I watched her breathing. I knew
her intimately, carefully, and I could tell she was already having
trouble holding back, practiced as she was in the art of withholding
her own orgasm. Watching her reminded me of the times I had her
bound, gagged, taking her to the brink repeatedly. God, I wanted that
so much, but knew I needed this more right then.
Her
legs tensed, and I watched her mouth with greed as the most salacious
noises and words fell from it. My own muscles contracted, holding
myself back from joining her as she came. I wanted to be between her
thighs, licking and teasing her, the one to provoke her orgasm. At
the very least, I wanted to tug on the chain between the clamps, aid
her efforts however I could, but even that wasn't allowed now that
I'd disappointed her by forgetting.
Punishment,
indeed.
More
like torture – watching her, smelling and hearing her, but not
touching or tasting her. Fucking in our house, even making love, had
always been a highly sensory experience for both of us, even before
we dabbled.
It
took everything I had to sit and stroke and wait, and she knew it.
When
the smile appeared on her face, I knew she would soon withdraw her
fingers, allowing me to taste her. I anticipated it, serving her and
licking her hand clean, and my mouth watered. Glistening fingers
appeared before me and I instinctively leaned in with an open mouth.
Except, she didn't push them in, as she had so many times before.
Instead, she fucking winked at me as her own lips wrapped around the
fingers.
Mine.
My
brow furrowed at being denied.
She
laughed, knowing what the look on my face meant, knowing how much her
denial had frustrated me. She was so fucking good at this game.
Straddling
my lap, her body forced my hand to stop, everything becoming slightly
awkward and uncomfortable for me.
“Did
you want a taste?” she asked, her head tilted to the side, words
teasing.
“Yes,
Ma'am.” I could tell my own voice was deflated, defeated.
“Here
you go, sweet boy. Clean them up.”
Fingers
invaded my mouth before I could comprehend she'd put the other hand
in. How I'd forgotten she had two hands involved was beyond me, but I
didn't give it much thought as my tongue slipped over her skin,
bringing as much of her into my mouth as I could.
As
fast as they'd slid in, they were gone.
“Good
job,” she said, moving back off my lap. “Stand up, drop your
pants, and bend over the back of the couch now.”
Moving
quickly, I did as she asked, my task made more difficult without the
use of my hands to help balance my actions. Once I was over the couch
and had fumbled with my pants enough to get them semi-removed, I
closed my eyes and waited, willing my body to relax. I heard the
rattling noise of chain and assumed she was removing the clamps from
her body, and again, pleasure shot through me as my brain relived the
sensations she was sure to be feeling.
She
didn't bother to tell me how many strikes I would receive, nor remind
me of my infraction. The first blow was a warning – gentle and
right at the fleshiest part of my ass. I could tell from the angle of
where she stood and the intensity of it that she was using a paddle.
I
counted them in my head, hoping she wouldn't give me too many, but
accepting that she'd give as many as she wanted – as many as she
felt I needed. The first few stung, and the last few genuinely hurt.
I was grateful that it was Friday and I wouldn't have to explain to
my co-workers why I grimaced each time I sat.
After
each swat, the physical pain seemed to overlap my self-deprecation.
Each time it hurt, it felt like penance. If I could pay there, remit
my anger and moments of self-hatred in exchange for each strike, I
knew the pleasure that waited for me on the other side would be
increased tenfold.
The
cool skin of her palm pressed against the hot, stinging flesh of my
bottom and I winced. She rubbed, watching my face, no doubt listening
to my choppy breathing.
“Is
my toy ready for more playing?”
Bella
knew what her words did to me, and as soon as I heard them, my entire
body stiffened. I was more than ready, especially since her tone and
word selection meant we'd moved beyond punishment.
“Yes
please,” I said.
“Bed,
naked, on your back.”
My
smirk was hidden from her, thankfully. I toed my shoes off where I'd
been standing, letting my pants fall away from my body as well. As I
headed to our room, articles of clothing were carefully stripped off
with just my fingertips, landing wherever they landed; I no longer
cared. I climbed onto the bed, flopped on my back, and did all I
could to be patient. My thoughts were filled with her, naked and
above me, panting below me, next to me and spooned against my body.
When
she arrived, she placed one boot up on the edge of the mattress and
slowly slid the zipper down. Once the leather was gone from her foot,
she wiggled her toes at me and I obliged her silent request, kissing
her toes. The other boot disappeared similarly and then the stockings
were carefully removed. Finally, she was down to her panties and bra,
and she moved to straddle my face.
Still
bound, my hands were positioned at my groin, and I fought not to
touch myself as she pressed her pussy against my face. She moved
haphazardly, grinding and seeking her pleasure from me as quickly as
she could, reminding me with her words just how much she loved using
me for her lascivious needs. I nipped and licked, trying to move the
fabric away so that I could taste just her, but it was no use. As
she'd said, I was her toy and she would bend me to her will, play
with me as she saw fit, and use me however she wanted. How we both
needed her to.
With
her perched above me and my torso lifted to reach as much of her as I
could, my lower half pressed into the bed painfully. It hurt, but I
wanted to please her more than I cared about the pain, so I
continued. Watching her bounce, her whole body alive and vibrating,
made me want to be inside her more than ever. I was ready to give
anything to be able to fuck her. She could have asked me for whatever
she wanted and I'd gladly have given it, and more.
I
watched as she came, felt her against my tongue as her clit pulsed.
Her fingernails dug into my scalp, fingers tightening around my hair
and whatever else she could grab onto. That was what I lived for,
right there, in that moment. The power I felt, the usefulness, the
need. In that moment, all of my feelings of inadequacy from before
eased, and my purpose was so clear to me.
She
slowed, fingers loosening their grip, body easing away from my face,
and my own breathing came easier as she did. As she moved down my
body, writhing all the way, I used my fingers to the best of my
abilities. Smiling down at me, she laughed and kissed me once she
could.
When
she reached my hips with hers, she straddled me and sat up. Her
fingers worked quickly, undoing the knots, then unwinding the rope
binding my hands. As the air hit my slightly damp skin, I tried not
to shiver. Once I'd wiggled my fingers, I looked up into her eyes. I
wanted to touch her, fuck her, prove how good I could be for her.
“Soon,”
she whispered, pressing her lips to mine again.
A
few more teasing moments later, she'd settled herself hovering over
my length, then pressed her body down. I laid still, keeping the
rules in my mind, and watched as she fucked me. My fingers tingled,
almost trembling with the need to do something other than rest at my
sides, but my brain over-ruled them.
She
moved faster, and my hips screamed to thrust up into her. I moved my
fingers to the edges of my body, connecting the skin to skin and
praying this would help my self-control. I kept my eyes open,
watching her, hoping it would ease the ache of wanting to touch –
if my eyes could lay against her skin, maybe it would be enough. It
would have to be, for the moment.
Her
hand wrapped around my wrist, then pulled my hand to where we joined.
It was a small concession on her part, but it thrilled me that she
allowed me to be helpful in this way, again. The tips of my fingers
played with her, not teasing exactly, but exploring for a brief
moment before falling into the rhythmic pattern I knew she loved.
Feeling
her come around me and knowing I couldn't wasn't as difficult as it
had been in the beginning of our play years ago, but still took
effort and concentration. My legs tensed as my self-control wound
tightly again, and I waited for her orgasm to subside.
A
quiet, content hum vibrated through her chest, now lying directly
against mine.
“Should
I let you come, sweet boy? Or should I make you wait a few days?”
She
was teasing, we both knew, since there was no agreement beyond this
span of time between us, and she'd never torture me by making me
wait, but the thought of it, the idea that she held such power over
me, almost made me come in that instant.
“Please,”
I said. “Please don't make me wait.”
I
loved playing her game by her rules, and she knew it.
After
she caught her breath, she bit at my shoulder where her mouth rested.
“Make
it good, Edward.”
And
that was my cue.
In
that space, I never failed. I was never a losing lawyer or a
forgetful husband, I was only an expert lover. A sometimes
submissive. Perfection.
Our
size difference worked to my favor and I gripped her hips tightly
with my hands. Hard and fast, I began to push into her and pull back,
almost the entire way out. I felt raw in every sense of the word,
physically, mentally, spiritually. I was open and exposed to her more
in this moment than most times in my life.
Above
me, she trembled, she moaned, she almost begged. Almost. She knew
there was no need, though, because I'd never stop until she was
satisfied. Her hand slipped between us and sooner than I would have
thought possible with the previous three orgasms, she was whispering
profanities.
My
grunts weren't even something I could control, the frustration with
holding everything back simply escaping vocally. When she finally
told me I could have my orgasm, my movements became even more frantic
and erratic. I held her tighter, pulling her whole upper body to
mine, then moving my hands back to her ass. It was only moments later
when my own orgasm tore through me, like my entire body was on fire.
It was, I suppose, on fire for her.
I
took in the brief few moments after my orgasm and before we'd
separate and basked in them. My wife, my mistress, sometimes my
submissive, always my lover – she was gorgeous in each of these
roles. These private moments between us were priceless to me.
We
had our rituals and routines post-play, and as we went through the
steps, we maintained a physical proximity. I knew how she felt after,
thanks to our many discussions, and she knew how I felt. We eased
each other's pain and quieted the at-times screaming anxieties, just
as we'd done in the previous hours with our play.
After
we'd bathed together, grabbed a snack as we talked quietly in the
kitchen, and then snuggled beneath the comforter on our bed, the
quiet wrapped around us. I smiled, and I knew she was smiling too. We
were lucky to have found each other, lucky to have been able to be
honest with each other about our needs, and lucky enough to have the
patience to give to each other.
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