This was sparked by Kimmiesjoy, who said she wanted to see a seduction using only words, and is both a fill for the Winter Kink meme 2014 (prompt at the bottom of this chapter) and an AU meeting. Be warned. Also posted to AO3.

1:Talking dirty

9 January, 2009

A dark-dressed man, big, broad, and giving off an intimidating aura of fury and frustration, is currently prowling a seedy side street for an unobtrusive, shadowy door to a dark, dangerous club. It's not a place he goes often, and it's not a place he'd like it to be known that he has ever entered, but he's been here just often enough that no-one will raise an eyebrow or officially recognise him. Then again, there are a lot of men within these walls who wouldn't want to be recognised. A lot of women, too.

This is a club where dreams can come true. If, that is, your dreams run to dominant men and submissive women. If your dreams are otherwise, then there are sister clubs to which the doormen will happily direct you.

No chance, in this club, of non-consensuality. The women who come here are looking for dominant males, but there are clear rules. Ladies' choice. If she turns you down, you don't argue, just look for another. Safe words mandatory, and the games agreed. Any breach, and you'll be searching for your balls in the gutter. The threat is not metaphorical, though it's a long time since it's needed to be executed. This club exists for the pleasure of its visitors, and only pleasure is permitted.

Tonight, Richard Castle, celebrity superstar writer and city Casanova, is tired of willing, pliant, pretty women with no spark of originality; of busty blondes who have all the appeal of an inflatable; of women who pretend brainlessness because they think it's cute. He's tired of oily men who want to feed from his success, he's tired of writer's block and the pressure from his agent to come up with a new idea: the looming deadline of the publication of his final Storm novel moving ever closer to crushing him.

Tonight, he needs release, in a wholly primitive fashion. His life isn't under his control, right now. And so he's come here, to this dark entrance to a subterranean sea of dark desires, to find, for a night, a diversion which will provide him with the control that he needs.

He's dressed in black: denim, t-shirt, soft leather jacket, one pocket slightly proud with the single item he's brought. Black seemed appropriate. Shadowy clothing for a shadowy evening spent, he hopes, fulfilling his shadowy desires. Still, he wants anonymity. Silk masks are available, if desired, and tonight, as every other time, he does. The deep January night is not sufficient to protect him, should there ever be a leak, nor is the gloomy, reddish light of the downstairs room where people gather to consider each other's offerings. The dance floor is the only area lit, and tonight it's jumping. Christmas has clearly worn off. This is not a place where St Nicholas would distribute presents, though it might be where his demons let off steam. Nothing too explicit, in this room – there are rooms for that, elsewhere in this building – but the scent of arousal and sex is heavy in the air: the aura of anticipation almost suffocating. Danger abounds here: hot, heavy and welcome.

Castle leans on the bar with a whiskey and lets his eyes adjust to the gloom, roving over the contents of the dance floor and the ebb and flow of pairings. He isn't looking for the common submissive, who wants spanking or paddles and handcuffs as a compulsory minimum, and isn't interested in much else. He likes to exert his control through words, and then through denial or overload, depending on mood, with toys and handcuffs as an adjunct, and spanking a very optional extra. He needs, very badly, to prove to himself that he still has control of his words; and then that his words still have power over others.

Sometime around the second whiskey, he becomes aware that there is one woman, also masked, who has, in the last hour, rejected every man who's approached her. Many have. She's dark-haired, slim, tall even without the five-inch black stilettos. The buckled strap around each ankle hints at her kink. The dress she's wearing fits her figure to a T: plain, undecorated skirt cut diagonally from below her knee on the left to two inches below obscenity on the right; no back to speak of, only lacing. It's not clear if it's black or crimson until she spins under the light and it becomes obvious that it's dark blood-red silk. Around her neck is only a thin blood-red ribbon, to match the dress. Her hands and wrists are bare: no rings, no watch. In fact, no jewellery at all. She's minimalist, unadorned. He is instantly determined that she should be his, tonight. She's – different. Wilder. Taming this woman – though if she's here, in this club, then taming's her desire – is the only way in which he'll tame his demons.

He leaves the smoky whiskey on the bar and makes his way to the dance floor, slinking through the bodies in search of his prey, camouflaged in the round of men who are displaying too much skin in too tight shirts and pants. He doesn't need, or want, to do that. As he approaches, another potential partner is brushed off.

He takes her hand, gently, raises it to his lips and kisses the palm with a swift flick of tongue. This wild, fey dancer needs special handling, and though she'll be looking for his dominance he doesn't underestimate her dislike for arrogance. She's thrown back every man who's tried to start with physical control. She's almost on his eye level, and even with the mask he can see her eyes glinting hazel, sparked with flecks of green and gold. The ribbon – he'd thought – around her neck is in fact a thin crimson leather strip: a narrow collar, subtle enough that it would only be recognised by one who knows. He knows.

"Who do you want to be?" he asks, deep baritone rumble that offers her the option, rather than immediate demand. Demands can be made once they've agreed terms.

"I'm Kat," she husks: a sexy, breathy, silky voice that lays out a menu of sin and invites him to try it all.

"A cat, hmm?" He shifts closer. "I'm looking for a pet." His hand slips to her nape, running up into her hair and curling around the base of her skull, and when she curves very slightly against the pressure he's exerting he knows they've reached an accommodation of views. "What's your safe word, kitten?"

"Siamese," she purrs, and curves bonelessly against his body.

"How appropriate," he murmurs. "And you're already wearing a collar. I wouldn't want my pet to get lost, though. I think we'd better add a leash." He sees heat flare in her eyes. "Like that thought, kitten?" His hand drops to her right thigh, where the dress exposes it, and sketches a slow, sensual pattern, shifts away. She mews, disappointedly, as he takes his hand away to reach into his pocket; but then her eyes flare again when he draws out a thin black leather lead. "I think you'll like this." He clips it on, and wraps the leather round his hand.

She'd sensed him slinking up close, had seen him leaning on the bar, sipping whiskey and exuding a particular form of dominance that she'd not found in anyone else tonight. Tonight, she's looking for oblivion: the chance to pretend she's got no burdens or responsibilities and to do as she pleases. It's why she's come here. A safe haven: anonymity behind her mask, and oblivion. Tonight, she's looking for a man who'll take total control, give the orders and expect her only to obey. It's her release from her demons, on this night of all nights, after the turning of the year. She simply wants to submit, to the right man, who'll make her forget in the scalding burn of desire and heat and the physical. Then she can be her public alpha persona again. This masked man twitches her instincts and the muscles deep within her in a way that no-one else in the club has done.

Dominant, but not unpleasantly arrogant. He's opened his account on the credit side, by asking how she wants to be known, and taking only her hand, and kissing it. And so she gives him a name that's not wholly a lie, and starts the game. When his deep voice tells her he's looking for a pet, lust spreads over her, dark molasses seduction pouring over her and pooling hotly in her mouth and between her legs, and she arches into his hard hand to receive the fingertip stroke at the base of her neck that a real kitten might receive. When he clips on the leash she's already soaked, hot and ready, the lust in his deep blue eyes equalled in her own.

"Now," Castle purrs darkly. "We both know the game. I give the orders, you obey, or safe-word out. If you use your safe-word, we stop that." She nods. "So let's begin, kitten." He leads her by the leash to a secluded corner and a soft couch.

"Pets need training," he points out, "so they know how to behave for their owners. So that's what I'm going to do. House train you, to be my pet." She squirms, hot and wet and already desperately aroused.

"While we're in this room, you don't make a sound, unless I say you may." He smiles slowly. "There'll be time for noise later, when we're alone." She wriggles sensually as his fingers dance over the bare skin of her leg, high on her thigh. "You don't come until I tell you that you may. You don't touch yourself anywhere on your body, unless I tell you to. I'll be in control of your actions and reactions, not you. The only control you have is to make sure you don't come without permission. Everything else is mine."

His fingers move a little inward, a little higher. His other hand, leash still wrapped around it, curves back around her neck, strong fingers holding her head in one position. He takes her mouth roughly, and hears her breath catch with satisfaction, lifting his head to watch her eyes turn cloudy and pupils dilate. When his hard fingertips find the soaked satin of her panties, he rubs over the fabric and sees her bite down on her lip so that she doesn't let a noise escape. His fingers slide the fabric over his prey, his prize, not touching her skin at all, and she squirms against him, so completely turned on by his words that his actions seem to be wholly secondary.

"You're all wet, kitten. Soaking. You've made a mess of your panties already, and we've hardly started." She only just doesn't whimper, in case he stops. His words are wickedly erotic. "You'll need to go to the restroom, take them off, and come back. I'll take care of them. You won't be needing them. While you're with me, you won't wear them. Not ever." He draws a line through the centre of the offending item, and she gasps, but manages – just – not to moan, or whimper, or plead. At least the short walk will let her come off the edge. When she tries to stand, to obey him, though, she finds that he still has the leash firmly in his grasp. She hasn't been given permission to speak, so instead she touches his hand, and the leash.

"You may speak."

Her voice is low and desperate, full of desire and the building need to control her body.

"Please will you let go of the lead so I can go to the restroom?" Her owner – for this one night – smirks.

"Let you off the leash? But you're not even partly trained yet. You might get lost, or someone might run off with you. I'll walk you there." He stands, and pulls her up into him, letting her feel his arousal pressed hard between her legs. She rolls against him, and for a brief moment he allows her to have the hot pressure where she wants it, before he leads her to the restroom. She finds the looks of others, as they spot the thin leather joining them, to be almost as arousing as the leash itself, the statement of ownership and control that it makes showing her the purpose that she requires on this night.

She's swift to obey his order and return, needing to be connected again by that thin line of leather, to hear the words and tone that tell her that on this life-changing date someone will tell her what to do, how to behave, who to be. Someone's pet, owned and cosseted and – she can pretend – loved. It's what she needs, tonight.

Knowing that as she's led back to the quiet corner, she's naked beneath the provocative dress, open should his searching fingers choose to touch, sends her higher, hotter, more liquid. He sits, but stops her.

"Stand there, kitten. Feet apart." She complies. Somehow, she feels exposed, though nothing is exposed. He runs a hot, possessive gaze slowly up and down her. "Now. Come forward." He tugs gently at her leash. She realises that although the club is full, this corner is almost as private as the room that – she is already sure – they will be using later. She slinks forward, as flexible as the cat he's named her, following the shortening leash till she's inches from his chest and her open stance is either side of his knees.

"That's right. Legs open. Stand straight. Now, remember the rules. No noise, no touching, no coming." His voice is velvet, over steel. Its furry texture tickles down her spine and leaves a trail of sparks behind it. There's a tiny pause, while tension builds. She can't press her thighs together. She's not allowed to touch herself anywhere. Her hands are balled into fists, hanging at her sides. She licks dry lips, bites down. Her breathing is already ragged, her chest jerking. She knows her nipples are hard and visible through the thin silk of her dress. Anticipation is winding tightly through her.

"You're mine. My pet. My possession. Mine to do with as I please." She locks her knees, as muscles clench around nothing. "I could walk you around, on the leash, to show everyone that I own you. Couldn't I?" She nods. "You're soaked under that dress. Naked and hot and wet, and if I slipped a finger into you you'd be tight around it. Wouldn't you?" She nods again. "You'll be my obedient little kitten, there for me to play with and pet. Won't you?" Another nod. She's completely seduced, hypnotised by the pooling, thick desire in every word, the filthy fantasy that he's weaving about them. "You'll know, all the time, that you're naked below whatever you're wearing, open to me whenever I choose to touch you. I'll decide whether to play with you or not, and you'll be wet and hot and open all the time in case I do." Her knees wobble. "Stand, kitten. I didn't tell you that you could sit." Darkness swirls in his voice. "You won't sit. You'll kneel, in front of me, clothed or naked as I tell you."

The picture is crystal-clear before her. She's impossibly wet, barely keeping her knees straight, the flutters of pre-orgasm constant between her legs, the soft folds there liquid and heat roiling off her. Her teeth clenched in her lip are the only thing stopping her from whimpering mindlessly, mewing and begging him to give her release. She's desperately trying to think of anything to bring herself back from the edge over which his words are relentlessly driving her. She knows this game. She can't win, because he's going to force her to orgasm without his permission, and then he'll punish her for it. His words are too evocative, and his voice goes straight to her core.

"Do you like to kneel, kitten? Do you like to have that soft, wet mouth filled?" She barely manages to nod. "Good," he drawls, and in the dim light of the corner she sees his eyes wholly black and hot through the slits of the mask. "Just imagine yourself, naked, kneeling, in front of me, taking me in." She barely restrains a moan. He pauses for a moment. "No noise, kitten. Disobedience will be punished." She wobbles again.

"I haven't told you how you'll be punished for disobedience, have I?" She shakes her head frantically. Something about the treacle-softness of his tones tell her that it won't be what she was expecting. "Denial of treats is always a good training method." It takes a moment for that to register. "Instead of taking me in, a gag, perhaps. Or having to wait longer for permission to come. Or wearing an appropriate training aid, to help you practice self-control." She's almost out of her mind with desire and desperation. "So you'll be obedient, won't you?" She nods as frantically as she had shaken her head. He hasn't laid a finger on her since she took her panties off for him and he tugged her forward by the leash and yet one touch would send her shattering. Her muscles are desperate for one thick finger to slide into her, give her something to clench and squeeze around.

"That's a good kitten." He leans back on the couch, and smiles lazily, completely in control, wholly predatory.

"When I don't want you naked, I'll decide how I dress you. Do you like to play dress-up?" She nods, again. "I like to play dress-up, with my possessions." He looks her slowly up and down, and she squirms and wriggles. "I've already said, no panties. Heels, like the ones you're wearing. Basques, I think, for you, and stockings. If I take you out for a walk, a dress, that I'll choose. Never pants. I want you to be aware that you're not wearing panties every minute you're with me, no matter where we are. I want you to know that no matter what, I can reach you and touch you and make you scream for me. I want you to know that you're permanently naked and wet and mine. Imagine, kitten, being taken for a walk, collar and leash on, heels and a pretty dress covering a tight-laced basque and stockings, no panties, and soaking wet because you won't ever know if I'll touch you or talk to you like this or just leave you to wonder and wait. It'll be up to me."

She's shaking with the effort of staying upright. The evening is barely begun, she knows. It's only for an evening, but it's going to be a hell of a night.

"Of course, if you've been disobedient, I might use the walk as a punishment. How long can you hold on to your self-control, if I'm in control of you? Imagine, kitten, that you're" – he pauses significantly – "wearing a toy. For as long as I decide you deserve to. It adds a whole new level to your uncertainty about what I might do, doesn't it?" She can't help it. His words and his voice and his tone and calm assumption of total control plays into all of her filthiest, unspoken fantasies. "By the time I took you home you'd be desperate, wouldn't you? You'd be begging me for relief. But disobedience has to be punished, and pets have to be trained. Just like now."

He runs a slow, heated look over her. "If I touch you now, you'll explode. But I don't even have to touch you, kitten. Here you are, panties off, legs apart, mouth wet, hot and soaked and open to me and right on the edge of coming just like you have been since I put my leash on your collar." The reminder of her total surrender is the last straw, and the flutters turn to full-on climax. He catches her as her knees give and the orgasm shatters her.

Happy New Year. The prompt was simply "Castle dominates a submissive Beckett". Second chapter tomorrow.

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