Summary: This is her escape. I will wipe her clean; her mind, her will, her body will belong only to me until she is pliant enough to take again the shape that is hers, rather than the one she must wear for others.
Pairing: Maggie / Jane
Disclaimer: Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. I own a dirty mind and many girl crushes.
I am just sliding a sheaf of papers into my briefcase when my phone buzzes on my desk, breaking the blessed silence that has reigned since the final bell rang at three o'clock. The message contains only one word, but it is enough to have me glancing guiltily at the empty desks of my classroom as my face flushes. Enough to cause my breath to catch in my throat and my heart to stutter before it speeds, knocking against the bones that cage it.
Such a small, innocuous word, with so many connotations.
Money. Envy. Greed.
Renewal. Growth. Life.
To me, it means strength. It means generosity and gratitude, exchange and equality. It represents a passion that defies limits, a love that spills beyond boundaries.
But most of all, it means she needs me.
:: :: ::
My hands shake on the drive home, my stomach fluttering with anxious anticipation. We don't often need one another in this way; it is a facet to our relationship, not a defining factor, which makes these moments—when we allow one another to strip down to the most basic, vulnerable versions of ourselves—mean so much more.
Making the preparations for her arrival soothes me. I shower, using the soap and shampoo I know she prefers and let the scent calm me. The silky hose and constricting lingerie I pull on ground me in a way nothing else could. More than a bid for my lover's desire—I don't need silk and lace and wire boning for that—they are a mark of my purpose. I wear them only for these moments, and so they are symbolic of the mindset I must be in; they are every bit as important to my role as her collar is to hers.
I have just gathered the last of my tools when I hear her come home. I can picture the way she looks, clean and crisp in her dark suit, her dense brown hair framing her face perfectly. Only I know what lies beneath her slick facade and the control she must always exude.
Except with me.
I slip out of the extra room we have designated for moments like these, and move into our bedroom to wait for her to ready herself—and to finish readying myself. I take deep breaths, calming myself and emptying my mind as I wait, though I know it is unnecessary. As soon as I see her, my thoughts will contract, distill until they hold only her and what she needs from me.
My eyes catch the framed photo of us beside the bed and I smile. Looking at that, no one would ever suspect what we're about to do. My arms are around her waist and I am smiling, the dark red of my hair falls over her shoulder as I press my cheek against hers, my mouth splits my entire face and my eyes dance with excitement while she looks directly into the camera. We are both short, but a sense of power emanates from her. She commands attention simply because she is so unreadable in her absolute containment. No one can tell what she is thinking from the creases at the corner of her mouth or the expression in the wide green eyes that take up so much of her face.
The camera doesn't show the way her heart beat frantically beneath her shirt, or the hand that clutched mine so tightly I was sure I could feel our bones rubbing together. It can't communicate the way she was simultaneously bursting with pride and sick with dread over being named her father's successor as the head of Volturi Enterprises.
But I know.
These are the things she shares with me in the cover of dark, in the silence of our nights together. When she can be soft. When she can shake the mantle of power from her shoulders and just feel.
When she can be Jane and I can be Maggie and we are the only people in the world who matter.
This is what she needs from me tonight. This is her escape. I will wipe her clean; her mind, her will, her body will belong only to me until she is pliant enough to take again the shape that is hers, rather than the one she must wear for others.
I enter the room at six o'clock and find her exactly where I knew she would be. She is naked and kneeling, her eyes focused on the floor. Her skin is a glowing contrast to the deep, dark cherry wood beneath her knees and my eyes trace her form for the sheer enjoyment of it as much to check that she has followed the rules.
Lithe. Sleek. She is one elegant line, almost unbroken by the softness of curves. Her body is as contained as she usually is; there is nothing obvious about her beauty. Except to me. I see it in the subtle shape of her breasts, in the dusky pink nipples that have already darkened and swelled. I see it in the silver bars shot through them both, a deviance that would defy the suppositions of so many.
My heels click loudly in the hushed silence of the house as I cross the room and set what is in my hands on the bedside table, but she does not flinch or acknowledge. Her only movement is the rise and fall of her shoulders as she takes deep, steadying breaths.
"Hello, cheannsa," I say from behind her. My Gaelic comes so seldom to me now, but I always use it here. It communicates a depth of feeling that English simply cannot express when I'm opening myself this way.
Cheannsa says so much more than 'mine' ever could.
She says nothing; I have not given her permission to speak.
I finger the wide band of black ribbon in my hands as I move closer. She shivers when my fingers brush the skin of her shoulders as I sweep her hair to the side, exposing the thin curve of her neck.
"Do you want this?" I ask. I always ask. "You may answer."
"Yes, mo Úinéir." Her owner. I love the way the language of my youth slides off her tongue. No longer clumsy, with practice it has become smooth. Right. True.
I walk back around to face her, trailing a fingertip over pale, flawless skin that warms even as it ripples with goosebumps at my touch. "Look at me," I command.
She tilts her head up; the wide green are glassy with anticipation as they meet mine. Beyond it, I see the resignation, the exhaustion and the panic, and the sense of responsibility that overwhelms her. I know what I must do for her tonight. How far I must take it. How much she needs from me.
She needs everything.
I wrap the ribbon tightly around her throat—enough so that she is conscious of it with every swallow, but not enough to truly constrict her breathing. She exhales raggedly when at last I have completed the bow at the back of her neck.
It has begun. Already the tension begins to recede as she hands her being over to me. She is mine now.
"You may kiss me hello, cheannsa." I stand before her, my legs spread just slightly as she bends forward and presses a kiss just above my clit. Her lips are warm and soft and I fight the urge to press against them, to fist my fingers in her hair and drag her mouth where I want it.
But we are not here for me.
"Stand," I say, stepping back as she struggles to her feet without the use of her arms. I have not given her permission to unclasp them. Yet.
I kiss her. I need that moment of connection—a moment of us—before we begin. Her breathless moan into my mouth adds another layer to my control as I gently push her backward until her knees hit the edge of the bed. "Turn around."
I press my hand onto her back until her chest is flat on the bed and her ass is on prominent display for me. I run my finger up and down the line of her spine, watching the goosebumps spread out from my touch, watching her muscles bunch and flex when I hit a particularly sensitive spot.
"I am going to take you everywhere tonight, cheannsa. You will feel me in every inch. Does that sound good, my girl?"
"Yes, mo Úinéir." She gasps when my fingers dip between the cleft of her ass. She tightens when they slip even lower, until they are sliding against soft, slick skin. Warm, wet, and quivering. For me. I stroke her until she is squirming, until my hand is covered in her lust. For me. For what she knows I can—and will—do to her.
"Yes, I can see that."
I press a kiss to the center of her back, the red outline of my lips like a brand on her pale skin, before moving away to reach for the bottle of clear liquid on the table. I coat my fingers, letting the liquid warm before sliding them between her ass once again. Her moan is muffled in the bedclothes when I press gently against that little spot between her cheeks that I know makes her come unraveled. Slowly, I slip one finger inside, easing it in and out as I work to loosen her.
I have plans for this spot.
"Quiet, cheannsa," I say firmly when she moans loudly as I slide another finger inside of her. I want her entire being focused on what I am doing to her.
When I am satisfied that she is ready, I step back again and grab the shiny purple toy on the table. Its rounded, graduated swells glisten as I coat it. I can see her thighs trembling when I move back to her, the rise and fall of her back as she tries to regulate her breathing. I know without looking that her eyes are clenched closed and she is biting her bottom lip to keep herself silent.
"Good girl," I whisper as I press the tip of the toy against her ass while sliding the clean fingers of my other hand into the soft wet of her pussy. She clenches around me and I feel an echoing throb in my own aching flesh. I know exactly how good this will feel for her.
The first bead disappears inside of her easily. I press harder as I ease the second in, feeling it press against my fingers inside of her as she tightens around them both. I work the first two beads in and out of her, loving the way they look as they pop and slide into and out of her body, loosening her further.
"Relax," I whisper when she tenses as I slide the third swell inside. Her breathing is ragged and sweat is beading on her back, but I know she is okay. I trust her to tell me if she isn't, and the wetness that is nearly pooling in my other hand is indication enough that she is far from pain.
I push the fourth bead in with little effort and we both exhale when the base of the toy sits flat against her ass. I slide my fingers in and out of her a few more times, feeling how full she is, how her muscles tremble around me.
"Stay," I tell her as I walk to the bathroom. My heart is pounding and I am aching as I wash my hands, but my eyes are bright and confident in the mirror. I know she is close to forgetting it all. Everything. Until all that matters in her world is my will.
And then she will be free.
She is as I left her when I walk back into the room and her breathing has slowed considerably as she has acclimated to the feeling of the plug inside her, and the feelings my fingers evoked have lessened.
"Up, cheannsa," I bark. My voice startles her, and she scrambles to lay on her back in the center of the bed, folding her hands above her head as I have taught her. I grab the thin, black rope from the table and secure her hands to the headboard. I kiss her lips softly and search her eyes deeply before covering them with a thick length of black silk. "Lift your head," I murmur, and tie it tightly.
Her breathing has increased again. I can see her heart's frantic beat just beneath the skin of her breast. Her lips, her nipples, her chest and sex are flushed against the otherwise flawlessly pale skin of her body.
"Beautiful,"I tell her, kissing her again. "Mo chailín álainn." My beautiful girl.
I run my mouth down her neck, rubbing my lips along the edges of the shiny black ribbon around her throat, sucking my way across the graceful curves of her clavicle until I reach her breasts. She often laments their size, but I love them. They are more sensitive than any I have ever know. I can bring her right to the edge of orgasm with little effort applied, and I love to see her writhe and moan beneath me when I touch them.
I circle one pink tip with my tongue, watching as it furls even tighter around itself while I pluck the other between two fingers. She is panting now, struggling against her bonds and herself as she tries desperately not to move against me. I catch one silver bar between my teeth and tug hard before pulling her nipple into my mouth. I suck rhythmically, my fingers pinching and pulling the other in time, my tongue swirling and stabbing as her breath turns ragged and her body begins to twist beneath me.
"Be still, cheannsa," I remind her, punctuating my statement with a sharp nip to the underside of her breast as I make my way down her torso.
Her muscles tremble as I drag my wet mouth down the flat expanse of her belly and suck at the skin stretched tight over her hip bones. I push her knees up as I slide down her body, planting her feet flat on the bed. "Keep them here."
I take a moment to survey her. Except for the pink flush on her skin, I could be looking at a black and white photograph. Black sheets. Pale skin broken only by the lines of black I have placed on her body. Her chest is heaving and her teeth gleam against the fullness of her bottom lip. She is completely open to me, on all possible levels.
I watch the way my finger disappears inside of her. I feel the way she tenses at the intrusion, the wet and the heat and her hidden pulse against my skin. I lower my mouth to her swollen, slick skin and lick in one long line from the base of my fingers to the soft gathered flesh of her clit. She inhales sharply, clenching around me, and everywhere I can see her muscles contract as she struggles not to move, not to cry out.
I will not make it easy on her.
She is salty-sticky-sweet and I lap and suck and drag my teeth over every inch of her pussy. I fuck her with my fingers, hard and smooth and deep, while my other hand twists the toy inside her ass. She is alternating between holding her breath and panting, tensing and relaxing against me rhythmically. I know she is close.
I continue until she is just at the edge of coming, until I can practically see the plea forming on her lips.
She shudders as I pull my fingers from her. I move from the bed to grab the last of the toys I have brought with me, setting them on the sheets beside me as I stroke her thighs, her belly, the shallow valley between her breasts. I soothe her until her breathing eases and her heart begins to slow, knowing that if I continue now she will come—whether either of us will it or not.
"My sweet, sweet girl," I whisper, rubbing my lips over hers, spreading her lust on her skin as her tongue darts out to taste herself. "You want to come, don't you?" She is silent and I smile. "You may answer."
Her voice shakes when she speaks. "Please, mo Úinéir."
I don't answer. Instead, I take the clamps from the bed and affix one, then the other to her nipples. "Fuck," she moans loudly and her hips leave the bed as she twists and writhes against her restraints.
I tug roughly on the chain between the clamps and her breath hisses between her teeth. "I didn't say you could move."
"I'm sorry, mo Úinéir."
"You will be, cheannsa, if you cannot learn to follow the directions of d'Úinéir."
She tenses when she hears the evidence of the last of my toys. Her breath is sharp when I tighten the clamp on her clit. I flick it with my finger, just to hear the tinkling of the bell dangling from the clamp. It's so cute.
I place her feet flat on the sheets once again and rise from the bed. "Don't move."
I leave the room, closing the door behind me to ensure she sits in silence while she waits. I take more time than is necessary to prepare for the next phase of the evening, letting my own heart rate slow as I ground myself again.
She exhales audibly when I finally reenter the room, and I know she has spent the time as I intended—wondering what I will do to her next. I do not speak as I set my things on the table. I know the glass clinks against the wood and she can probably smell the candle wax, but that's okay. It will only feed her spinning mind. I switch the vibrator in my hand on, letting the buzz fill the room and fill her with anticipation before I place its tip right at the base of the toy that is still buried in her ass. I love the way her body begins to shake almost immediately.
"We're going to play a little game," I tell her as I pick up the riding crop from the table. I slide it along her wet slit, lifting the little bell attached to her clit and letting it fall, its bright tinkle loud in the otherwise quiet room. "Every time I hear this bell, I will do this." Swiftly, without warning, I bring the crop down on the sensitive skin of her inner thigh.
She gasps and tenses, but does not move. "Good girl," I murmur. "And every time I have to do that, you will have to wait five minutes longer before you can come. Do you understand?"
"Yes, mo Úinéir."
"I know you will make me proud," I tell her as I slip the slim vibrator inside of her and increase its intensity. She sucks in a breath, but does not move. I know what she is feeling now—so full with a pressure she cannot ease, a thread pulled taut and fraying with every breath.
I will bring her just to the point of breakage, and then let her snap it free.
I pick up the two floggers I have set aside—red suede and gray rabbit's fur. With an ease that has come from practice, I systematically ignite her every nerve ending, alternating between the sharp sting of suede and the soothing softness of the rabbit's fur. Never the same place, never with the same intensity so she can never anticipate my next move. Her skin is pink and damp when I am done, and I know it is buzzing with sensitivity so acute, it's almost electric.
But her bell does not ring.
I spritz her with a spray bottle filled with massage oil, and watch as the droplets bead on her skin and prepare her for the next phase of play.
I don't warn her before I let the first drop of hot wax fall against her belly. Her gasp is loud and her body flinches before she can control it, causing the little bell to ring. I bring the crop down over her breast, the red mark lovely against her shiny skin.
She whimpers, but remains still. "Control yourself, cheannsa. I would hate to have to end this by punishing you."
I begin again, splashing wax on her thighs, her feet, her inner arms.
I climb onto the bed and straddle her stomach, removing one clamp and sucking her nipple immediately into my mouth. I know the feeling of blood rushing back into her sensitive skin is almost too much to bear, and the twisting and teasing of my tongue is just added torture. Her breath sobs when I repeat the process with her other nipple, but she does not move.
I begin again, this time alternating hot wax with ice water. Her nipples, her neck, the crease between her thighs and her pussy. Again and again and again until I am sure I have hit every spot but the one she craves.
I pick up the suede flogger again, flicking away at the hardened wax until her skin is pink and shiny and clean and she is so tense she is trembling. I know if she fights any harder against her body's need to move she will do so involuntarily. I know she is ready.
"Mo cailín maith," I murmur as I climb over her again. She attacks my mouth when I press my lips to hers, sloppy tongue and clashing teeth telling me of her desperation. "You did so well, my sweet girl, Mo féin."
I slide down her body and remove the vibrator from her pussy. She exhales, in relief, in disappointment. By now she is no longer able to differentiate. She is unable to identify what she feels, only that it is good, because I am the one making her feel it.
I slide the tip of the toy along the sides of her clit, circling the metal clamp and making the bell rattle against the vibrations. I remove the clamp but I do not touch her, knowing she will come in seconds if I do. Instead, I slide the toy back inside her, in and out and in and out until she is panting and whimpering involuntarily. Finally, I set it aside.
When she comes, I want to feel it on my fingers. I want to taste it on my tongue. It is mine.
I slide two fingers inside where she is warm and wet and press against the hard ridges of the toy in her ass as she moans and clenches around me. "I am going to put my mouth on your pretty little pussy now, cheannsa," I tell her, grinning wickedly when her entire body shudders in anticipation. "Be as loud as you want, I want to hear how good d'Úinéir makes you feel."
Her cry is high and soft when my mouth descends over her slick and soft skin. I can feel her pulse when I run my tongue in soft circles around her clit, a relentless throbbing that echoes against my fingers as they move in slow rhythm inside of her.
"Please, mo Úinéir," she whimpers as I tease her, her hips bucking against my face.
"Please, what?" I ask her as I begin to twist the toy in her ass.
"God," she moans, tightening and shuddering beneath me. "Please put your mouth on my clit. Please make me come, mo Úinéir."
"So greedy, cheannsa," I say with a smile against her skin. "But you still have three minutes left of your punishment." I continue licking up and over her clit slowly, in the way I know unravels her. Gradually, I begin to move faster and faster until I am almost stabbing it with the tip of my tongue as my fingers fuck her frantically and my other hand twists and pumps the toy in and out of her ass.
She is hovering on the edge, her every breath a high pitched whimper. "Scaoil é," I tell her as I suck the swollen flesh of her clit hard and pull the beads out of her ass simultaneously. She shrieks as her hips rise off the bed and I struggle to keep my mouth on her as she bucks and shakes and twists against me.
"Thank you mo Úinéir, thank you," she mumbles incoherently. She is shaking and nearly sobbing as I begin to untie her, first her hands and then the blindfold.
Her eyes are glassy and dilated when her lids flicker open, and I know she is capable of nothing but absorbing the sensations I have given her. Her mind is clear, her skin and bones and blood are ignited with warmth and well-being. From me.
I slide down beside her and gather her into my arms. I run my hands up and down her back, along her arms and hips and thighs, anywhere I can reach to soothe her as I kiss her face and murmur praise against her skin.
When she has calmed, I lead her back to our bedroom and into the connecting bathroom. I stand her in front of the tub as I begin to draw our bath, a ritual we have found helpful in bridging the gap between cheannsa agus h Úinéir and Jane and Maggie.
I lower myself into the warm water first, holding out my arms for her to follow. She comes into them swiftly, straddling me so our chests are pressed together as she buries her face in my neck and exhales. My fingers begin to shake as I untie the ribbon around her neck and place it on the edge of the tub. The control I must assume in those moments is draining, and the high is wearing off as the warm water laps at our skin and her lips caress my neck.
"I love you," she whispers. "Thank you."
The water tinkles—not unlike the sound of her bell, I think—when I settle back against the end of the tub and wrap my arms around her tightly.
We are on our way back to ourselves.
"I love you too," I tell her fiercely. "Are you okay, then, a stór?"
She looks up at me then. Her eyes are clear now, neither glassy with repletion nor cloudy with overwhelming worry. She is unfettered, now. Only Jane. My Jane. "Yes," she says, and the simplicity of her smile splits my chest wide open.
We talk over our day until the water cools, small kisses and light touches punctuating our words as we slowly come back to being comfortable as just Maggie and Jane.
When the water cools, we stumble naked and wet to our bed, too weary even to dry ourselves off before climbing beneath the covers. She finds me in the quiet dark, her mouth soft and sweet on mine as her hands roam over every inch of my neglected skin.
When I come against her fingers it is slow and gentle, a liquid pulse and release inside of me and I sigh in contentment as I kiss her. We slowly drift off to sleep with our hands clasped and our legs tangled together, her heart a slow and steady throb against my chest.
I think, not for the first time and surely not the last, how lucky I am to have her—to have this. Where we each can be what the other needs, no matter what that need may be. There is no Domination or submission between us. We are equal; she cedes herself to me when I need to feed from her inherent control, I give her the power to find herself when she has lost her way.
And when that need is met, we can come back together and just be.
"Mo cheannsa é agus do cheannsa mé go deo," I whisper into the dark.
"Go deo mianach," she answers. I can hear the smile in her voice as her fingers tighten on mine. "Go deo mise."
And it is beautiful.
cheannsa - mine
mo Úinéir - my Owner
Mo chailín álainn - My beautiful girl
d'Úinéir - your Owner
Mo cailín maith - My good girl
Mo féin - My only
Scaoil é - Let go
cheannsa agus h Úinéir - mine and her Owner
a stór - Irish endearment; my darling
Mo cheannsa é agus do cheannsa mé go deo - You are mine and I am yours forever
Go deo mianach - Forever mine
Go deo mise - Forever yours