Telepaths Don't Need...



Telepaths don't need safewords, Tony would say. He makes the same damn joke nearly every time they meet. But a little less humor in his eyes each time. This time they're lounging in armchairs in a back parlor in the mansion, and there's no humor in him at all.

"I'm surprised you answered my call, Emma. How's Scott?"

"Quite well. Not as shocked by my sexual history as you might think, you know. He did meet me when I was one of the Hellfire Club. He's come to the conclusion that he doesn't much care what I do as long as nobody else gets to fuck me."

"Fuck you," he echoes.

"Precisely that"

"So we can still--"

"I'm surprised," she puts in, "that you made your call in the first place. Given how much your stand on that registration proposal might be pissing my people off. Given--"

"Your people?" he asks with a faint smile.

"My people, yes. Why are you even here, Tony?"

"Just wondering if our little arrangement still applies. Given, well, I'm not seeing anybody--"

"Of course you aren't." Because that would require opening up, even a little. He's a steel spring under pressure, everything locked down, emotions buried silent under the glass of denial. She can't help wanting to make him squirm. "So why are you here? You can be blunt with me, you know that."

"I like blunt." He pauses for a long, long moment.

"No," she says dryly, "you like compromise."

"You're not coming off as particularly neutral here." He stops himself, shakes his head. "Let's just keep politics out of this, shall we? I'm here..." He licks his lips slowly, looks down, looks up. It's somehow more hesitant than salacious. "I'm here because you used to be a Queen of the Hellfires."

She crosses her arms and leans back. "That's it? You of all people can afford a pro domme. Why are you here?"

He makes a frustrated sort of noise and shakes his head. "Any pro domme I find is going to be a civilian. You..."

"One of your own?" She laughs softly. "I'm flattered. So, what, you're here so I can tie you up and bat you about a bit, like we used to for fun? You could get that anywhere, Tony, you'd be amazed how many women, especially in our line of work--"

"No," he says flatly. "I'm here because you used to be a Queen of the Hellfire Club. And because you've been going easy on me. I can tell."

At least she finally pried it out of him. "You think you can take it if I don't?"

"I know I want to," he says quietly. It's blunt and open and pretty much what she needed. She knows exactly what he wants now, knows how to give it to him, has pretty much decided that she will; he wants her to break him the fuck down, and she doesn't show a sign that she knows it.

"I've been going easy on you," she says lightly, "because you don't take it seriously."

"What?" He shakes his head, all sardonic disbelief. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You've never given me a safeword."

"Hey, telepaths don't need--"

"Bull. Shit."

They glare at each other for a moment. First time she's called him on that stupid joke.

"Like I said," she says with a shrug, "you don't take it seriously. You don't go calling out a Queen of the Hellfire Club unless you know exactly, exactly what you're asking for."

She reaches out, leans over--feels his eyes track down her chest--and runs one finger along a line of muscle in his thigh, coaxes his foot into her lap. His fingers curl in bewilderment as she runs her hands over the butter-soft Italian leather and slowly undoes his shoelace. Not just the knot, the whole thing, until thin cord curls in her palm. Then she slips the shoe off, drops it, strips off his silky trouser sock, and holds his bare foot on her knee. Kneads it a little and watches his head sag back in silent relief.

"I'm not particular happy with what you've been doing," she says, conversational.

"I thought we were keeping politics out of this."

"What, you don't want me to take out my frustrations on you?" It's sweet, offhand. She punctuates it with two fingernails to the paper-tender skin of his instep, digging in and dragging up, hard enough to leave lurid red lines. He sucks air hard through his teeth and doesn't answer. Tries to yank his foot out of her lap; she catches his ankle. "Or did you expect me to turn you away? This is coming as a surprise to you, either way, even if you asked for it."

"Emma, I--"

"No, I know. You don't know. Christ, Tony, you're a wreck." She tucks his shoelace into the curve of one breast. "Other foot."

He hesitates.

"Or maybe you're just woefully unprepared for what I can do to you. Get up and go if you like, and stop wasting my time. Or put your left foot on my knee, give me a safeword, and be ready to go through hell. I don't want to argue with you."

He looks at her. His face is blank, inscrutable; inside he's all fear and glassy lust and sex-death complex, wound tight as a watch spring.

"Watermelon," he says. It's a long story, his mind rather loudly supplies, as if he's used to adding it.

She just nods, and pats her knee, like she's coaxing a cat into her lap.

Slowly, he eases his leg up. Lets her undo his other shoelace, tuck that in with the first, and strip his other foot. Still in his immaculate business suit, but barefoot; it's a good look on him, but then again, most things are. She feels him flip-flopping between instinctive lust and abstract fear as she bends her head down, purses her lips, breathes hot and slow on his skin--good to know she can still instill confusion this early on, she thinks, as she slowly sucks down his big toe and listens to him moan softly. Rolls her tongue and strings him out before she bites down, hard.

He jolts and yowls. "Fuck, ow--"

She suckles gently until he starts breathing normally. Looks up through her eyelashes to see his hands curled tight on the arms of his chair. Digs nails into his ankle and smolders at him.

"You," he breathes, "are good at this."

She raises her head, traces the tendons on the top of his foot with a fingertip, and smiles. "Of course I am. Stand."

He doesn't hesitate as long this time. For a man on top of his world, he's nicely obedient. Flinches as his scraped foot takes weight. She grabs his tie, tugs, and kisses him. He responds easily, hungrily; for a few moments, they neck like teenagers, like any couple, as she undoes buttons on his shirt, loosens his tie, tugs his collar out from under it, shoves crisp white fabric down to bare his shoulders, chest, belly.

She breaks the kiss, nudges him back against the wall, and keeps her face inches from his as she slowly undoes his tie, runs thick, thick silk through her hands, though she leaves the knot in. Backs off when he tries to close the distance between their lips, until he gets the point. He's still playing along, she can tell. Just playing. She tucks the tie into the waistband of her pants, letting it trail over her hip. Stands back.

"Give me your belt."

That worries him a little.

"You're past the point of backing out, Tony. Belt."

So he undoes it. Hint of reluctance. Presses leather into her hands.

She doubles it over, smacks it lightly on her hand, and runs the flat of it up his chest. Watches him breathe. Nerves start to creep faster under all that glass. Flips it around until the elegant silver buckle is jammed cold against his skin.

He can't read her. They'd long ago established this; even after he rewired half his brain with the Extremis injection, he has no telepathic ability whatsoever. He can't know what's coming unless she projects it into his mind. Or makes it obvious, but she's used to giving nothing away. So he expects her to beat him with it, and doesn't expect her to loop it around his neck.

His hands come up. "Oh fuck, don't--"

"No," she says, a little sharply, sliding the buckle snug to the base of his throat. "You don't. You behave." It's not like it slips much--there's not a hole this far down for the tongue of the buckle, no, but the leather's yanked round sharply and nothing but concerted effort could possibly come close to strangling him. She leans in close, smells leather and sweat, kisses his throat above the wide strap. "I'm not going to kill you," she murmurs, "and that's all you need to know. Hands down. You don't get a say in this."

He bites his lip. Still playing along. She's got something he wants--lust and dissolution--and he's yes-ma'aming his way to it, except without even the yes-ma'am, because he'd just laugh if she went old-school on him. She can't help being a little, just a little, pissed off. She doesn't want his awkward acceptance. She wants to smash that glass and hear him begging.

It's not often, these days, she wants that sort of thing.

She steps back, holding the far end of the belt taut, and looks him over, long and slow. Pants riding a little low without his belt, shirt splayed open and crumpled down to his elbows, hair just a little mussed, eyes just a little dark, belt cutting a band round his throat.

"Pretty thing," she says.

He grins, though he's not entirely sure whether to feel flattered or objectified. "So I've been told. Though usually--"

"Shut up and take your pants off. Pants and underwear. Now."

He unbuttons, unzips, shucks. She gives him enough slack on the belt to get the job done, then tugs up, forcing his back straight, chin up. His hands fist at his sides as she drags nails slowly down his chest, belly, lower, until she's palming his cock, nicely hard and reddening.

"Turn." He turns. She blindfolds him with his tie, sliding his own half-windsor neatly home at the back of his head. He cocks his head a little, steadies himself. "Can you see?" She could've reached into his head and known, true, but she always likes asking that. Make your victim help you perfect their blindness.

"A little tighter."

She obliges, tucks it under with an extra twist to secure it, and turns him back around with a hand to his shoulder.

He takes a deep, deep breath as she sinks to her knees--it's not like he can't hear her, feel her move, feel her breath on his cock. Breathes a barely audible lusty curse as she rubs her cheek down the warm, velvety length of it. His scent changed, since the Extremis; she misses the old smell. He's frighteningly clean now, almost antiseptic. She brushes fingers over his balls. "Spread wider." He obliges unhesitatingly, easing his feet out, apparently under the delusion that he's actually going to get a blowjob.

He's always been an entitled little bastard, she thinks, and smiles sweetly even though he can't see. Not that she isn't. Not that they didn't grow up going to the same rich men's parties and hiring the same stockbrokers. "Oh," she murmurs, "but I can't do that either. Not and be fair to Scott."

She feels the frustration hit him like a physical thing--and now's the time to deploy the shoelace she's fished back out of her cleavage, with a neat, swift loop round the base of his balls.

His legs go tight, his hands clench, and he grits out, "oh, shit."

"I hope," she says, tightening it, round and round, running a line between his balls, and tying them all up as snug as she can get away with, "you aren't stupid enough to protest."

"No," he says, voice tight. "Just a, ah, expression of my emotional state."

"Good." She pulls out the other shoelace, untangles it; this one's for his cock, tight round the base and criss-cross up it, over and over, until she ties it off snug just under the purpling head.

"Oh jesus fuck." He's breathing hard through his nose.

She stands back, looks him over again. Naked except for his shirt, Cartier still strapped to one wrist, belt trailing down his chest, tie dark across his face. Twined-up cock an angry, darkening red between his legs. His hands are creeping towards it, as if to test just how tight the laces really are--

"Hands at your sides and keep them there," she snaps. "You don't do a thing I don't tell you to, do you understand?"

He swallows hard. "Yeah. Oh, shit--"

"No, clearly you don't. I didn't tell you to talk. Right now, Tony Stark, you are going to breathe, and nothing else. You don't move, you don't speak. You stand there and remember that you begged me for this." She can feel his mind going in circles, all that fierce intelligence thrashing about indignant, nowhere near submitting--not that she expects him to be for a while.

"And what if I don't?"

She crosses back to him with two brisk strides, grabs his balls, and twists. Digs her nails in a little until he lets out a thin wail and she feels the stars bursting through his mind that means he's really, abruptly close to his pain tolerance. Eases off slightly and murmurs in his ear. "Don't piss off people who are doing you favors. Not good business practice." She lets go entirely, slides a hand down his chest and feels him pant. "Breathe, Tony. Just breathe."

He goes very still. And breathes.

She takes his face in her hands, plants one soft kiss on his mouth, and then takes the belt and yanks down, hard. Sends him to his knees with a tight burn round his neck. He staggers there and winces, no doubt as motion tugs every which-way at the shoelaces; she puts a hand on his shoulder and pushes down, until he settles his ass on his heels like a good boy, knees spread wide to keep pressure off his cock and balls.

She smiles to herself, a curl of lips, and can't resist. "Clasp your hands behind your back." And there he is, perfectly presented, brain going like a hamster wheel as he tries to figure out what he can do without moving, without talking.

Not much, would be the idea. Focus all that boundless energy inwards until he breaks his own glass with the flailing.

She turns her back on him, and goes to the window. Venetian blinds, very nice, with the cords on one side to hike them up or down, and the long stick with the swivel joint on the other to turn the slats. Plastic, ridged, a little whippy. Should do; she just hopes she doesn't break it on him.

She yanks it off with a sharp grunt. Feels tense confusion go through him, even with her back turned--he has no clue what's happening. She thinks of snapping it through the air beside his ear, then catches herself, stands close to him. "Open your mouth, Tony."

He does, nervous. She tucks the rod between his teeth. "Hold onto that for me, will you?"

He clenches with a little whine in the back of his throat. She just leaves him there while she sheds her lacy white shirt, adjusts herself neatly in her push-up bra, then slowly undoes her tight white pants. Strips to her underthings that he can't even see, so he just hears the rustle of clothes and radiates lust. Slides her hands into her panties for a moment and purrs to herself, gets her fingers nicely damp, swirls round her clit.

Somehow this just doesn't click fully into place unless her legs are bare. Her thighs, to be perfectly accurate. She settles her white thong back in place, steps back into her strappy white heels, and aches for tall, tall boots.

She goes back to him, all silky skin, and brushes his face with her damp hand. No way he doesn't know that smell. He turns his face into her hand, a little awkwardly with the rod still in his mouth; she wipes her fingers on his blindfold, leaving the scent on him.

"Give me that." She takes the rod back, takes the belt round his neck with her free hand, and tugs him close, until his nose is buried in the front of her panties. Beard rough through the silk, and he makes a purring sort of noise and nuzzles. Whatever else she might say about Tony Stark, the man really, honestly loves pussy; it's one of the most reliable things about him. It makes it so damn easy to put a carrot on a stick and lead him around helpless.

She pulls away; he lurches a little forward, recovers just in time for her to order him up and lead him over to the wall. "Ditch the shirt. Forearms against the wall and brace yourself. You'll regret it if you don't." He's already spread a little, coddling his balls; she runs a hand down his thigh. "Spread wider. Hips back, feet out." When he doesn't ease far back enough, she takes the expedient of reaching between his legs and tugging lightly back on his balls.

That gets him into position.

He splays his hands against the wall and breathes hard, ass out and vulnerable.

She lets him stew for a moment, all silence and nothing touching him, and then cracks the rod. Harsh swish through the air to smack on the wall an inch from his head; it sounds loud as a gunshot, and the plastic has a nice hint of give.

"Motherfucker!" he yelps, and it's not like he jumps out of his skin, but for a moment black pores flicker into view, because he's almost activated his Extremis enhancements out of sheer reflex.

She grabs a handful of hair with the same hand that's holding the rod and yanks his head back viciously. Clamps the other hand over his mouth and nose. Watches his hands go white-knuckled with something close to actual panic as he fights for air he won't get. Feels his pulse pounding faster by the second as she hisses in his ear. "Not. A. Word. You don't speak. I told you that, and if you're too stupid to grasp it, then get the hell out now."

She lets him breathe; he gulps air. He hasn't actually raised his hands, hasn't actually thrown her off; he's still playing along, however poorly. And she's just snagged him by his pride in his intelligence, which is a considerably lower blow than his balls, she's sure.

She's starting to wonder, though, if this is going to work. If he actually wants this. And if it's going to be any more than some externalization of his self-abuse.

She stands back, gathers herself, does a quick, deliberate, low-level scan of his mind. Dozens of different sorts of anticipation and fear, packed into squirming conflict under glass. Still so much glass.

Still, she's only been playing, so far. Only teasing. Time to see what a real, serious dose of pain is going to do to him. And time to make sure that he wants it, really wants it, on every level.

"New rule," she says, low and absolute. "Don't move, not so much as a finger, and don't make a sound. Don't scream, don't moan, I don't want to hear so much as a whimper from you. And if I do, I stop. No second chances. You move a muscle, you make a noise, it's over."

Time to see what breaks first.

"You get to speak one more time, right now, to answer this, and then that's it. Do you understand me?"

There's a moment of dead silence.

"Yeah," he breathes. "I understand."

"Good. Quiet now." She slides her palm slowly over his ass, feels muscles clenched tight under his skin. "Don't get careless." A bit sad, true, not to watch him squirm, savor his cries, but she has her mind for that.

She can feel the struggle in him--hard even to not respond to what she says. Harder not to cringe as she traces the tip of the rod from nape of bowed neck to asshole, pauses, slides it along his balls, all silent threat. He's a rigid, frozen arch.

It's like gears shifting somewhere inside her. Something clicking over into drive. Damn well enough teasing.

She folds one hand over the back of his neck, possessive, and lays the first stripe on him with a swift, vicious crack. Heat blooms up in a neat line, following the ridges of the plastic; heat blooms up in his mind, that tingling rush of blood up to the skin in the wake of sheer slicing pain, with all that big brain straining madly away to do nothing but hold still in the face of it. Crack, and another, same cheek, less than an inch away. If she'll go easy on him now, she's a trout.

Tony's breathing long and slow and careful through gritted teeth, but it stops, dies in his throat, every time she strikes, all his will clamping down on his tongue. The tension in his shoulders keep ratcheting up, until he's almost shaking by the time she switches to the other cheek, starts laying another set of neatly symmetrical parallel stripes, feels his mind winding closer to overload as the welts come in angry, mottled red.

She's let go of the back of his neck. She's the slow, relentless rhythm of it, and the snaps of her wrist, and the window into his screaming, screaming mind. Backs of the thighs now, at the very tops, more tender than anyone gives them credit for; every stroke he thinks he's going to break, and she can feel it. Up to the sweet spot at the very bottom of the swell of his ass, extra tender with his legs spread wide, close to bits even she wouldn't take a cane to these days--but she can hear, almost word for word, the terrified stuck-record of oh fuck not my balls.

She stops, drags nails slow over the welts as she reaches down his chest and takes the belt. Turns it around to the back, doubles it over her free hand, yanks it taut. Not choking him, but tight enough to make his face heat and his blood pound in his ears.

It wouldn't do for him to have only one thing to fear.

He could get relief so easily, if he moved. He doesn't. Frozen mulishly, stubbornly obedient against the strap. She wishes she had two of them--one to half choke him with, one to beat him. Battering counterpoint to the knife stroke of the rod, relative relief until she ratchets it up again.

Though the belt wasn't the only leather on him.

She leaves him with the strap trailing down his back--feeling his bewilderment, his ache for contact, his fear that she's off to find something worse--and picks up his shoe. Turns it over in her hands--fine dress shoe, smooth sole. Tests it against her palm and smiles.

She comes back, tucks the rod between her own teeth, and goes at him, heavy strokes, no pauses. Never been high on the upper body strength, but she can still turn him lurid pink all over, splashes of color over ass and thighs where the stripes burn dark red. She can feel the ache in his cock, how badly he wants to moan; she can feel him relaxing, a little, just because this is so much easier to take than the rod.

Just a little, is all she wants. Just a break. Bring more blood up to his skin, make him more tender, lower his defenses just a little more. Not until he blisses out, though--he could, she can feel it, feel him slipping down, even with the belt tight round his neck. It shouldn't be that easy for him to lose control.

So she tosses his shoe aside and takes the rod again and brings it down full force, no warning, criss-cross diagonal across the stripes she's already given him, burning across already battered skin. His mind shrieks; his body goes utterly rigid; he's a mass of sheer, miserable pain as she works away, more crossing stripes, dots of blood breaking out on his skin, and somewhere in there is no way out, no way out, no way out--

She wonders why. He so much as breathes too loud, she'll give him a way out, safeword or no. But then she hits far in as she can on his upper thigh, tender as anything there, and realizes he's not thinking about this. It's not like she's been doing a full, invasive probe--either internal or external, he's not prepared for the one, and she didn't bring any lube for the other. Though she can still pick up, just plucked out of his sensations, that he's crying. Not even meaning to, really, hot tears in the blindfold where he's screwed his eyes shut against the pain.

But he's not thinking about this. He's disassociating, mind spiraling down and away because he can't take the pain, and she slows down, a little, and follows him, drifting some fragment of her awareness in his wake. Every crack of the rod now is a crack in the glass, a crack in his mind, and she bites back savage glee, and he's thinking about--he's selling his soul, fighting his own friends, and it's an oncoming war, and--

He screams. Full-throated, raw, wordless, and she yanks her arm back mid-stroke and tosses the rod into the corner, steps back as his knees buckle and he slides to the floor, huddled face to the wall; and she blinks, stunned for a moment, because after he lets out one long, groaning sob, a few things click into place between her mind and his and she's suddenly, vividly aware that he's in love with Steve Rogers.

He rocks against the wall with some bit of his mind a tumble of watermelon watermelon watermelon, and she realizes exactly, exactly what he's setting himself up for with all these stupid politics, and lets out a long, long breath, and shakes her head.

But he doesn't say it. Doesn't safeword even when she knows damn well he should, just huddles until the pain and the panic eases and he goes quiet, and now she knows why he makes that stupid joke. Knows a lot more about him, all told; not that she'll tell him, not that anyone can know.

She crouches behind him and smoothes her hands down his unmarked back, not going anywhere near his battered red ass, and calms him. Pets his hair like a dog, the belt-collared back of his neck, and waits for it to sink into his mind that he disobeyed her.

"Oh, fuck," he breathes, "I'm sorry."

She thinks of cutting him off, but really, hearing Tony Stark apologize for anything is far, far too rare.

"Yes," she murmurs, "you are. But I expected you to break." She eases him down to lie curled on his side on the floor. "It's what you wanted, after all. Breathe."

He breathes.

She slowly undoes the knot of his tie, peels it off hot and damp. It sends a jolt of disappointment through him.

"Please don't tell me it's over," he whispers.

"Hands behind you," she says, by way of answer. He arranges himself, aching and awkward, gives her his hands, lies still without protest as she ties them, best as she can with the thick strip of silk.

She pauses and gauges him. Ass and thighs burning. Cock and balls starting to seriously ache. Walks around him, heels clicking, and he's looking up at her, flushed and red-eyed, hazy with pain, eyes trailing up the length of her body.

Slowly, wordlessly, she undoes her bra, slips out of it, drops it in front of his face. Sees a little ripple in his shoulders, as if he's tugging for freedom, wanting to touch. Hooks her thumbs into her thong and he's watching mesmerized.

And they say there are no true bisexuals in the world. He loves a man, she knows now without doubt, and he loves pussy. She slides her panties slowly down, bending over with breasts dangling, and steps out. Heels still on. Kicks the little scrap of fabric over, light and coy, so it, too, lands barely an inch from his face.

He takes a deep, hungry breath.

"When you're ready," she says, "roll over to your back."

He closes his eyes--weighing the pain of lying on his raw, bleeding ass against the pleasure of getting a taste of what he wants. She just stands there. Lets him look her all over when he opens his eyes again, and finally, after a few minutes, rolls over. Tucks his bound hands in the small of his back, winces as his ass meets the floor, and takes a deep breath as she steps over him, straddles him with heels to either side of his shoulders. Looks long up her legs to her pussy, arches his back a little and tilts his head.

She takes her seat. The queen's throne.

He's really surprisingly good at this, she's found. Eager. Adoring. Even when he's bound on the floor. Even knows well enough to keep the mustache off the clit, which is more than some men can manage. A little awkward without his hands, with so little control, but he hums and purrs and does wicked, talented things with his tongue, and she can just close her eyes and clear her mind and ride him and come. Grind hard against his face as her orgasm builds, long and slow and intense, forget about everything but the simple joy of having a helpless man underneath her, drinking in his mind--background pain, ache of hard bound cock, fighting for air and working desperately to please her. Glass gone for the moment, sorrow and frustration gone with the pain, just lust-hazed out in subspace.

Lust-hazed out herself, one hand fisted in his hair and letting out a long, moaning cry as she comes, hard, shudder after shudder. He knows just how to take her through it now, just when to stop in her long, long orgasm.

She pants for a moment as it fades. He's gone very still, barely breathing, barely can breathe. She eases off him, kneeling up over his wet, wet face, and looks down, meets his half-open eyes.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

As soon as she can do it without wobbling, she stands. Clicks naked back to the armchair, sits, slow and regal, legs crossed, arms draped over the sides. He arches his neck and looks up at her from where he's lying.

"Up," she says, and points to the floor at her feet. "On your knees."

He hauls himself to his feet, slow and awkward and painful, little leverage with his arms bound. Comes over walking cautiously, with bound sore balls and belt trailing down his back, and kneels, silently obedient.

She turns the belt around to the front, lets him rest his head on her knee for a bit, then says, "Kneel up."

He does; she bends down to reach his cock. Slowly runs her hand up the length of it, rubs open palm around the head a few times, and he groans. Takes her nails to it, oh-so-lightly, and he shakes. "Oh fuck--"

And then she takes nails to the knot just under the head.

He lets his head fall back, sagging with relief, as she slowly undoes the shoelaces. Long, desperate moan as blood flows, tingle and ache. Pants his thanks as she releases his balls, gives them a soft, friendly squeeze.

He's so close to coming, she can tell. Now that's out of the way.

She bows him down with a hand on his shoulder and undoes the tie, freeing his hands. He rolls his shoulders as she lets him up, eases his arms around, rests his hands on his thighs and looks at her like he doesn't know what to do, like he's afraid to touch his cock.

She does so love it when they're broken.

"Move back a few feet," she says, settling back in the armchair. "I want a better view." He does, almost graceful now, with hands and cock and balls all free, and keeps looking at her, uncertain.

She smiles at him.

"Finish yourself off."

He catches a sharp breath, wary, a little humiliated, as if nobody had ever asked him to do this before. Moves a hand cautiously to his cock.

"Go ahead. Don't make me wait. Lick your hand if you like, get yourself wet."

He pauses a long moment, then brings his right hand to his mouth, and slowly, eyes never leaving his face, licks it all over. Sucking his fingers down, broad swipes of his tongue over his palm. It's utterly overplayed and teasing and a little impudent, and if she was really doing this properly she'd smack the hell out of him for it--but he's not trained, and she's not equipped. So she lets him. Even when he does the other hand too, but that, she discovers, is because he likes to cup his balls, palming them softly in his left hand, sliding over them as he jacks himself off, slow at first like he's trying to hold himself back, but he's just too fucking horny to stand it, and he tightens his hand, fucks it with little jolts of his hips as he pumps madly, eyes closed and head bowed with little groans like he's doing this in private, which is pretty, but--

"Look at me," she says.

His eyes snap open; the rest of his body goes very still as he meets her eyes, but his hand doesn't stop moving. He's too close to the edge. Panting breath catching as she smiles, shifts so he has a nicer view of her legs, as his cock twitches.

"You can come," she says. Not that he'd known enough to ask, but, well, he's not trained. And after a few more strokes, he does, eyes fluttering shut, other hand falling from his balls, long groan as thick white spills over his hand, two, three spurts as he pumps himself dry.

He's still for a long moment, then, panting, looking between her and his messy hand.

"Stay there," she murmurs. Thinks of making him lick himself clean, but instead decides to leave him messed up for the moment. Specked with sweat and blood and come, beard soaked with her juices, naked on his knees with his belt around his neck. He should spend more time like this, she thinks. She just settles and watches him, watches him come out of it, slowly coming into focus, mind easing back into gear.

"Why," she asks, "didn't you safeword?"

He blinks, looks up at her, brow furrowing. "Emma?"

"You were thinking it, I knew. When you broke. Why didn't you?"

He hesitates. "I didn't think I had to. You said you'd stop, if I moved..."

She shakes her head.

He looks at her for a long minute, then looks down.

"I don't know," he says at last.

She stands, comes over. He looks up, throat arching against the belt, eyes following her, expectant. Rests his head against her thigh as she stands over him; she pets him, comforting.

"Good thing I'm a telepath, then."

It takes him a few moments; then he chuckles, turns her face into her leg and kisses her thigh. There's a long bit of silence.

"Thank you," he murmurs.

She smiles. "Don't be too grateful." Bends down over him as he looks up with a bewildered frown, takes the belt in one hand to draw him close, and brushes her lips against his ear. "I was still," she whispers, "going easy on you."

The little jolt of fear that goes through him, right then--now that, she thinks, is priceless.


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