She likes that he reaches for her shirt, likes that he wants to touch her tits. She can always tell that sex is going to be better than average if a guy actually pays attention to her chest. She feels heat pool in her gut when he touches her, and it makes her breath hitch. It would take a massive lack of interest in reading others to miss the fact that her nipples are sensitive.
"Your shirt too," she mumbles against his mouth. Her hand pulls at the fabric, trying to unbutton his shirt one-handed. "Please."
It bothers him that he can't tell if anywhere he touches her is inherently sensitive or if it's down to the contact he's denied her. It bothers him that he won't know unless they do this again and again, which they can't. He won't. He won't.
His thumb circles her nipple, lips catching and missing hers as she tells him what she wants, then makes it into a request. Acquiescing, he takes over her attempt to undress him and quickly pops button after button until his shirt hangs open. Hap likes it when his partners take his clothes off for him but the heat is building too fast. She might catch it at his elbows as he slips it off, shucking it sharply from his wrists.
She watches his hands, watches their dexterity, scrambles to help him take off his clothes. He's well built, lean but not wiry, cut but not steroidal. There's some appreciable body hair. She wants to rub her face in it. She wants to do all kinds of things they aren't going to. She'll be lucky if she comes, considering.
She'd rather not consider. She pants against his lips, her hips tilting, grinding against his hip. Her hand spiders over his chest, his back, while she jerks him off. "What do you want? Like this?"
His hand roams her chest, planes of uncushioned muscle. His other maps the barely-there curve of her waist, the relief of her ribcage an open accusation of neglect. His counter, and his answer, is to seize her wrist and yank her hand out of his trousers.
Arm winding around her back, Hap slips down her body to hitch her leg up over his hip and lift her remaining foot off the ground. He carries her to the bed where he sets her down none-too-gently on her back. On his knees, he stays close in retreat to lavish her swallow flesh with his mouth. A nip at her collarbone, her sternum, the breast his hand had ignored. He unfastens her jeans as his lips close around her nipple, tongue teasing.
"Oh-" And then her back hits the bed. That's good, that's better than she could have asked for. She was expecting her head to be shoved down and- she can't think about anything with his mouth on her like this, with his hand at her fly.
Her hips buck into his hand, and the slight suggestion of friction makes her feel sensitive all over. She can feel herself trembling. It isn't because of nerves-- she doesn't feel nervous, just desperate. Just fucking pathetic. But if they stopped now, she'd feel worse.
Button loose, fly unzipped, Hap lowers himself to an elbow as he delves inside her pants. They're overworn, loose enough that he can maneuver almost freely.
Hap sucks as his fingers trace her lips through her underwear. He didn't mean to slide his hand in over them, but he didn't mean not to, either. Now he wonders if he can make he come through them, finding her clit as his tongue flicks across her nipple, poised between his teeth.
Edited (and I did mean to hit post comment ) 2024-08-17 21:52 (UTC)
She sucks in her breath, going very still. After going so long without real touch, she feels overstimulated. Her knees shake with the effort of keeping her legs open; she can feel how wet she is now that the cooled air of the room hits her thin panties. Her hips buck almost without her permission, and then she does it a second time just to make it seem like it was on purpose. A third because it feels good. She groans.
"Stop asking me what I want," he murmurs along her chest, raising up to lick into her mouth. His body rests flush against hers, though he has the vestiges of genuine care not to pin her with his weight. Panties soaked, Hap slicks his fingers along her slit then assaults her clit with rapid strokes.
What he wants is unravel her, but untangling the knot of thorns that is Joan Dority would be long and taxing work. He can settle for taking her apart; brute forcing it the way she does a conversation. That's her cadence, isn't it? If he thought she was trembling from fear, he'd stop.
"Okay, I want you to f-fuck-" Words fail her at this point. She grabs at his back, scraping at the skin as her hips jut into his hand. Her face is buried in the crook of her neck as she gets closer. "Oh God, oh God-"
It's the touch that undoes her, having his body so near. She comes under a crashing wave of shame, her teeth in his shoulder, biting too hard to cover a whine.
Her teeth tear a curse out of him. His hand fists in the bedding underneath them, the nudge of his hard-on against her hip coiling tight the muscles in his thighs. His nose drags across her cheek as he rolls slightly onto her to raise himself off. With haste, he tugs free the last of her clothes, then pushes down and discards his as well.
Hap kneels again on the mattress, planning to fuck her on his side. But position is her prerogative, now he's wrung some of his satisfaction out alongside hers, and he'll give her what she wants, however she wants it.
In another life, Joan liked to be experimental. Now, Joan feels like a skeleton, somehow uglier than the creature she was before. She wants to be greedy, because she'll never do this again. Joan crawls onto the bed more fully, getting on her hands and knees. She looks over her shoulder at him, curious. Is he a kinder lover than he is a man?
His gaze sweeps the column of her spine, to her freckle-dusted shoulders. He searches her eyes for the truth even though he doesn't disbelieve her. Hap runs a hand along her thigh, setting himself between her legs.
"If that's how you like it," he says, softer than any words he's uttered all evening. Hap positions the head of his cock at her cunt, coats it in her arousal. He braces his other hand on her hip, looking at her as long as she'll look at him, and pushes in slowly. The pace will soon be unforgiving, their demands of each other intemperate, and his promise that he hasn't forgotten is in the strength of his grip.
She keeps her eyes on him for as long as she's able, but the slide of his cock is overwhelming if only for its novelty. Her back curves and her head drops; she's left moaning into the air, rocking backward into his thrusts. She wants to be overwhelmed, to stop thinking entirely. He accomplishes this goal for her, and at some point-- she's not sure when-- she drops to her elbows, her back a long slope up to him.
She repeats herself, please, please, wrapped up in the comfort of having her requests finally met.
Hap's no less desperate to stop thinking. To purge his mind of Prairie, of Leon, of the despicable tryst he's in the middle of. Soon he can't tell whose rhythm is meeting whose. A cacophony of wanting flesh, her heat surrounding him, spreading into him. Being in sync with someone like this is intoxicating. He grips her with both hands, nails digging into her hips, broad fingers bruising her waist. Labored breaths, angered moans, start to drown out the relentless slap of their bodies.
As the pressure mounts, he can't help himself. He reaches around her waist and pulls her to him, back to chest. Hap holds her tight, breast groped, hand locked around her hip. Her hair snags on his lips, his mouth dragging along her ear as he thrusts into her from behind and below.
"Joan," he growls, accusing himself with her name.
Edited (autocorrect wanton to wanting and improve my sentence, phone? How dare you) 2024-08-18 18:23 (UTC)
Joan lets herself sink into this feeling, the best part of sex: the sensation of being wanted, of being able to give someone pleasure. She pants, breathing hard the whole time, but her gasps become sobs when he gets closer, when she has to support some of his weight. Her arms shake a little, lost in fatigue and desire. She doesn't want this to ever end, but it's about to.
"Come in me." It's stupid for a variety of reasons, but she wants it.
It's less risky than she thinks, and that's the signal that he should put a stop to this right now. It should sicken him. It, along with his revulsion with himself, brings him closer than everything before. There is no deeper desire she could express for him. Hate feels like love as his hand slides up to her neck. His head drops, mouth agape in the crook of her shoulder as he fuck her recklessly.
Behind closed eyes, instead of nothing, he sees it all. Wheat blonde hair, the flash of a revolver, Joan's throat flexing with shame the first time she peeled her shirt off for him. Hap comes with a guttural cry, buried inside her, his careful grasp of her throat the only tether to the man he wants to be himself.
She likes the feel of his breath on her skin; she likes the way he slackens against her even more. Slowly, carefully, she settles flat onto the mattress, dampening it with her sweat and shame. He did this of his own accord, though. She didn't tempt him into anything-- she's not tempting. And he did say her name; he couldn't be thinking about someone else and saying her name, right?
She decides Hap is both smart enough and duplicitous enough to multitask while fucking her hard enough to make her sore. But maybe that's just because she's been untouched for so long. Underneath his comforting weight, she lets her eyes close, wishing he'd believe her if she pretended to fall asleep, that he'd care enough to let her rest before marching downstairs with come dribbling down her leg.
The guilt is nearly instant, but it begins as a trickle. Hap listens to her with his body; when she doesn't throw him off her, he follows her down and rests partially atop her like a lover, slipping free of her and softening. He noses at the nape of her neck as the cold air on his cock triggers pinpricks of shame in his gut. His touch smooths down her shoulder blade, the back of her arm. He's sorry. He's thankful.
"You don't have to worry," are the words he chooses to burden her with first. Just above a whisper, a half-rasp after their exertion. He means to go on and tell her the chances of impregnating her are below 1%, but it sits sourly on his tongue, cruelly clinical. He inhales their mingled sweat and lets out a deep breath.
"You can stay up here tonight. I'll leave unless you don't want me to." He's ready to move off her, unable to imagine she wouldn't want to be alone.
She doesn't have to worry, because he'll let her stay the night? It shocks her into a reaction she wasn't planning to give, her head turning, eyes wide. She stares at a man disarmed, totally vulnerable in this moment. She could wrestle him to the floor, she could stab out his eyes with her thumbs. She could rip off his dick.
He's too calculating for this to be an accident. He's showing himself to her, disarmed, for a purpose. Everything has a reason with Hap; it's why his presence is to enticing. Fucking her, showing her that he finds her attractive, disarming himself, giving her what she wants-- it's a lesson. He can be kind. He's sorry for grabbing him.
Careful like a deer is careful, feeling as clumsy as a rhino, she leans in to kiss his mouth with her chapped lips.
Hap is trying to reclaim himself. Once again through her. He can't treat her like a subject after what he did, because he doesn't do this with his subjects. He would never. There was an unacknowledged security to Prairie's rejection of him, in that sense. Maybe that's why he couldn't stop himself from wanting her.
In the split second as she shifts to face him, he braces himself for bewildered loathing. Raw, searing disgust. A brittle mask over sorrow. And his heart pitches with anticipation; he could treat her like a subject then. Subjects look at him like that all the time.
He's captivated by the candor in her eyes. A glistening open wound. Hap ensnares her kiss. The tension of readying himself becomes the tension of remaining still, infinitesimal and frantic like the buzzing of atoms.
But this is too much. Whatever kindness he's trying to show her, she's misunderstood again. Her gut feels cold and heavy; she moves away, looking down. How can she be so awful that her kidnapper rejects her? She stews in self-pity, moving quietly away.
She curls her arms around herself, a transparently self-comforting gesture, and stares at the mattress, her forehead pressed into it. "Can I have a shower? Or a bath?"
Her trust — her hope — flickers out. Hap swallows hard, bereft. She has more right than ever to deny him. It will keep him awake, wondering why. The trigger. The core. The rest, he understands. It's his doing.
His hand slides down her back, and off.
"Yes." If that's all she'll accept. "I'll get it ready."
It's difficult to look away from her, as well as a comfort. Apart, with a task ahead of him, he can ground himself, even though a miasma of eager self-recriminations surround him. Hap gets up and leaves the room without another word.
He retrieves a pair of pajama bottoms from his room, then gets underway. After cleaning himself off and dressing in the guest bathroom, he goes about stripping it of anything that could present a danger, an escape, or both. Chemicals, implements, all bath towels but one. The window is a narrow rectangle set near the ceiling. He can't do anything about the glass, or the medicine cabinet mirror, but keep an ear open.
It's not ideal, but Hap gave his word. She can't lock him out, at least. He didn't skip this one when fitting the doors with keypad locks.
Before returning, he checks the state of her on his computer monitor. It grants him insight into whether or not to pause between announcing himself with a knock and opening the door to her room.
Once Hap leaves, Joan... doesn't move at all, just breathes into the mattress and feels her breath reflected back at her face. She realizes after a minute that she's wasting her time. He's still going to send her back down. She wraps herself in a sweaty blanket and walks over to the far wall, staring out the window, fogging it with her breath. Intermittently, she wipes the window down.
She can't decide how she feels. She can never decide how she feels about him. Acceptance, then rejection. Interest, and more rejection. Whenever she does something good, he turns around to step on her throat. It makes him feel unattainable, exotic in a way that sets her teeth on edge. She thinks she hates him. She thinks she's as close to loving him as she's ever felt for anybody. She wants to make him come again; she never wants to see him again. If she could, she'd leave simply to exorcise these feelings from her body.
The image in the computer monitor is a woman standing very near the window, not moving at all except to breathe.
Her stillness could fascinate him. He's not going to make that mistake twice in one night. Hap takes her resilience for what it is and respects it by addressing it as nothing else.
A knock, and then the door is opened. Peripherally, he notes where their clothes are strewn. Distantly, he wants to grab his glasses.
While her back is turned, he glances at the matte gleam of cum streaking her thigh.
"Come with me," he says in the commanding monotone he uses in front of the other subjects.
She ignores him until the last possible moment, turns only when he addresses her. In her mind, that's the voice of common address. It's what everyone gets, and her only sometimes. Oh, she thinks, I'm an idiot. Hap is just like every other man in the world. Once he's fucked her, he's lost interest.
It's a huge relief. It means she's no longer interesting enough to punish. She's not going back down forever. He just wants her to bathe so he doesn't have to clean her himself. She turns around, no longer caring about her own nakedness, and walks calmly at his side and a little before, just like always. "Are you gonna handcuff me?"
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"Your shirt too," she mumbles against his mouth. Her hand pulls at the fabric, trying to unbutton his shirt one-handed. "Please."
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His thumb circles her nipple, lips catching and missing hers as she tells him what she wants, then makes it into a request. Acquiescing, he takes over her attempt to undress him and quickly pops button after button until his shirt hangs open. Hap likes it when his partners take his clothes off for him but the heat is building too fast. She might catch it at his elbows as he slips it off, shucking it sharply from his wrists.
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She'd rather not consider. She pants against his lips, her hips tilting, grinding against his hip. Her hand spiders over his chest, his back, while she jerks him off. "What do you want? Like this?"
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Arm winding around her back, Hap slips down her body to hitch her leg up over his hip and lift her remaining foot off the ground. He carries her to the bed where he sets her down none-too-gently on her back. On his knees, he stays close in retreat to lavish her swallow flesh with his mouth. A nip at her collarbone, her sternum, the breast his hand had ignored. He unfastens her jeans as his lips close around her nipple, tongue teasing.
no subject
Her hips buck into his hand, and the slight suggestion of friction makes her feel sensitive all over. She can feel herself trembling. It isn't because of nerves-- she doesn't feel nervous, just desperate. Just fucking pathetic. But if they stopped now, she'd feel worse.
no subject
Hap sucks as his fingers trace her lips through her underwear. He didn't mean to slide his hand in over them, but he didn't mean not to, either. Now he wonders if he can make he come through them, finding her clit as his tongue flicks across her nipple, poised between his teeth.
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"You wanna tease me?" Her voice is strained.
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What he wants is unravel her, but untangling the knot of thorns that is Joan Dority would be long and taxing work. He can settle for taking her apart; brute forcing it the way she does a conversation. That's her cadence, isn't it? If he thought she was trembling from fear, he'd stop.
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It's the touch that undoes her, having his body so near. She comes under a crashing wave of shame, her teeth in his shoulder, biting too hard to cover a whine.
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Hap kneels again on the mattress, planning to fuck her on his side. But position is her prerogative, now he's wrung some of his satisfaction out alongside hers, and he'll give her what she wants, however she wants it.
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"I like it like this."
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"If that's how you like it," he says, softer than any words he's uttered all evening. Hap positions the head of his cock at her cunt, coats it in her arousal. He braces his other hand on her hip, looking at her as long as she'll look at him, and pushes in slowly. The pace will soon be unforgiving, their demands of each other intemperate, and his promise that he hasn't forgotten is in the strength of his grip.
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She repeats herself, please, please, wrapped up in the comfort of having her requests finally met.
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As the pressure mounts, he can't help himself. He reaches around her waist and pulls her to him, back to chest. Hap holds her tight, breast groped, hand locked around her hip. Her hair snags on his lips, his mouth dragging along her ear as he thrusts into her from behind and below.
"Joan," he growls, accusing himself with her name.
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"Come in me." It's stupid for a variety of reasons, but she wants it.
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Behind closed eyes, instead of nothing, he sees it all. Wheat blonde hair, the flash of a revolver, Joan's throat flexing with shame the first time she peeled her shirt off for him. Hap comes with a guttural cry, buried inside her, his careful grasp of her throat the only tether to the man he wants to be himself.
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She decides Hap is both smart enough and duplicitous enough to multitask while fucking her hard enough to make her sore. But maybe that's just because she's been untouched for so long. Underneath his comforting weight, she lets her eyes close, wishing he'd believe her if she pretended to fall asleep, that he'd care enough to let her rest before marching downstairs with come dribbling down her leg.
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"You don't have to worry," are the words he chooses to burden her with first. Just above a whisper, a half-rasp after their exertion. He means to go on and tell her the chances of impregnating her are below 1%, but it sits sourly on his tongue, cruelly clinical. He inhales their mingled sweat and lets out a deep breath.
"You can stay up here tonight. I'll leave unless you don't want me to." He's ready to move off her, unable to imagine she wouldn't want to be alone.
cw gore imagery.
He's too calculating for this to be an accident. He's showing himself to her, disarmed, for a purpose. Everything has a reason with Hap; it's why his presence is to enticing. Fucking her, showing her that he finds her attractive, disarming himself, giving her what she wants-- it's a lesson. He can be kind. He's sorry for grabbing him.
Careful like a deer is careful, feeling as clumsy as a rhino, she leans in to kiss his mouth with her chapped lips.
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In the split second as she shifts to face him, he braces himself for bewildered loathing. Raw, searing disgust. A brittle mask over sorrow. And his heart pitches with anticipation; he could treat her like a subject then. Subjects look at him like that all the time.
He's captivated by the candor in her eyes. A glistening open wound. Hap ensnares her kiss. The tension of readying himself becomes the tension of remaining still, infinitesimal and frantic like the buzzing of atoms.
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She curls her arms around herself, a transparently self-comforting gesture, and stares at the mattress, her forehead pressed into it. "Can I have a shower? Or a bath?"
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His hand slides down her back, and off.
"Yes." If that's all she'll accept. "I'll get it ready."
It's difficult to look away from her, as well as a comfort. Apart, with a task ahead of him, he can ground himself, even though a miasma of eager self-recriminations surround him. Hap gets up and leaves the room without another word.
He retrieves a pair of pajama bottoms from his room, then gets underway. After cleaning himself off and dressing in the guest bathroom, he goes about stripping it of anything that could present a danger, an escape, or both. Chemicals, implements, all bath towels but one. The window is a narrow rectangle set near the ceiling. He can't do anything about the glass, or the medicine cabinet mirror, but keep an ear open.
It's not ideal, but Hap gave his word. She can't lock him out, at least. He didn't skip this one when fitting the doors with keypad locks.
Before returning, he checks the state of her on his computer monitor. It grants him insight into whether or not to pause between announcing himself with a knock and opening the door to her room.
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She can't decide how she feels. She can never decide how she feels about him. Acceptance, then rejection. Interest, and more rejection. Whenever she does something good, he turns around to step on her throat. It makes him feel unattainable, exotic in a way that sets her teeth on edge. She thinks she hates him. She thinks she's as close to loving him as she's ever felt for anybody. She wants to make him come again; she never wants to see him again. If she could, she'd leave simply to exorcise these feelings from her body.
The image in the computer monitor is a woman standing very near the window, not moving at all except to breathe.
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A knock, and then the door is opened. Peripherally, he notes where their clothes are strewn. Distantly, he wants to grab his glasses.
While her back is turned, he glances at the matte gleam of cum streaking her thigh.
"Come with me," he says in the commanding monotone he uses in front of the other subjects.
no subject
It's a huge relief. It means she's no longer interesting enough to punish. She's not going back down forever. He just wants her to bathe so he doesn't have to clean her himself. She turns around, no longer caring about her own nakedness, and walks calmly at his side and a little before, just like always. "Are you gonna handcuff me?"
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