Day Twenty-Three of Advent

Husband turned 50 today and all has been busy and now we're heading out. Will finish the time travel fic, I promise but for now... a random bit of smut from Secretary and yes, it's m/f.

***

So she drifts to the bathroom and freshens up, spending long moments staring dreamy-eyed at herself as she draws her brush through the hair a day of trying on clothes has left wild, spending even longer staring back over her shoulder at her ass, where the dark shadows left by his hand are stark and unmistakable against her pale skin.

Finally, she walks with a purposeful step back into the bedroom, sorting through the bags, hiding his present in her case, and setting aside the bags from the final shop.

She empties them onto the bed, all divested of tags and ready to wear, which she knows is down to Wesley's forethought, all pretty, so very fucking pretty.

The whip tumbles out last, and that's not pretty. It's elegant, wickedly erotic, and although the crystal-encrusted handle, with the dangling leather and crystal loop are baroquely extravagant, there's very little of the toy about the whip itself. She imagines it could hurt her very well indeed and she wonders if he will, how he'll use it on her. She pushes it away. If he wants it, he'll tell her to bring it to him; otherwise she'll leave that until the end.

He's told her he wants her naked, so it's with a perverse sense of conflicted obedience that she dresses again, but really, she's close to being naked in this. The black, be-ribboned demi-bra cups her breasts, so low-cut that the edge of her nipples show clearly, an insert of pink satin in the cup exposed by teasing, tautly-stretched laced ribbons. She slips into the matching panties and then, because she can walk in them better than bare feet, her office shoes, black suede and high, so high.

And it's easier than she imagined to walk through the dark room, lit only by the city and two lamps, set far enough from his chair so that, after all, she can't really see him, but it doesn't matter, because she hears him sigh softly, an exhalation of breath that's the perfect tribute.

And it's like dancing in the clubs, like walking in a slow, arrogant strut to the bar, watching the hunger and the lust spark and flare in a dozen faces as she dares them all to be the one to risk rejection for the sake of one of her smiles, one of her cruel, careless kisses.

Silence as her background music, an audience of one, and yet she's still walking that walk, still so very fucking sure of herself.

She pauses in front of his chair and bends over, placing her hands on the chair arms and smiling into his face, so carefully controlled that it's mask-like, with only his blue eyes alive.

“Remember I said you couldn't touch me, Wes?” she asks. “Remember you had to wait?”

“I remember that's what you said,” he answers with the faintest stress on 'you'. “But, as ever, you failed to clarify the fine-print.”

She straightens up and gives him a tiny, pouting frown. “Hope you're not going get all impatient, Wes,” she says. “Because I've got more than this to show you.”

He lifts up his hands. “I won't touch you with these,” he says, “but I think, yes, I rather think, I'd like you to be carrying something when you return.” He smiles at her. “Tell me what I want, Faith.”

“Your present,” she says. She knew it.

“Oh, yes,” he says with an approving nod. “And I'll leave it up to you to decide how to bring it.”

She spins on her heel and marches off, ass swaying and twitching like an angry cat's tail because she's able to keep it together when she's walking over to Wes, but Wes holding a whip? Drawing it through his hands, so the diamante handle and tassel twinkle in the light, dazzling her eyes; laying it in an uncompromising line across his knees or beating it in a slow, gentle tempo against the palm of his hand? Fuck, she'll be on her knees before she gets halfway to him, begging him to use it on her, begging him to fuck her.

She changes into one of the see-through pairs of, yeah, fine, call 'em that if you like, knickers, red, with black and red bows, saucy and begging to be tugged open, matching them with sheer black pull-on stockings and something that's so over-the-top she'd rolled her eyes in bemused awe when she saw it, because, really, it's not a bra, it's the outline of one, cupless and saved from severity by the black bow in the center that, wide and lavish though it is, still does nothing to cover her bare breasts, thrust upward impudently.

And she could crawl to him, whip between her teeth, and he'd love that, but she's not in the mood for the obvious, not tonight, when the fizz from seeing herself looking fucking spectacular in a dozen fancy mirrors is still making her dizzy.

She holds the whip in front of her, gripping it firmly and then lifts her hands and rests the whip across the back of her shoulders, so it's rubbing her neck where he kissed it, so her breasts couldn't look sassier if she tried, so she's sauntering toward him, with an exaggerated, deliberate placing of her feet, so that her hips sway and she's saying, 'come fuck me', not begging for it, but she's had that, she's done that, and it wasn't enough and so she pauses and waits, standing still, letting him see her and then she turns, slow, slow, slower, until he can see her ass and she holds position for long enough to let him appreciate how the thin, translucent scarlet recalls the way it looked the night before.

Then she goes to her knees, back beautifully straight, lifts the whip over her head and sets it down on the floor beside her, keeping her hand on it.

She's kneeling as she was in the photograph and she turns to look at him over her shoulder and stares at him, finding his face in the dim light, seeing the way he's looking back at her in silent contemplation, hands curled tightly around the arms of the chair, his eyes narrowed.

He stands up in a smooth, unhurried movement and walks over to her, extending his hand. She glances up at him and, still kneeling, places the whip in his grasp.

“Thank you,” he says.

The tip of the whip strokes the upper curve of her breasts and then he rests the whip across them, for a long moment so that she can feel its weight.

“Are you still going to make me wait, Faith?”

And she doesn't even have to think about it.

“Always, Wes. You going to make it worth my while?”

The whip lifts up just high enough to make the downward stroke sting and she sees a single red line rise up, thin and straight.

By the time she'd shown him everything, her skin's crossed with half a dozen faint lines and each time she starts to walk toward him she thinks this will be the last time, that she'll beg, that she'll kneel, because she's barely able to walk now, with the heavy fullness between her legs making each step a torture that never ends because each flick of the whip deepens her arousal without satisfying it.

But she makes it back to their bedroom and there's nothing more to wear, so she strips off the thong she bought to make quite sure they ended where she wanted them to, and, naked, with the collar in her hand, goes out to where he's waiting for her.

The whip's been set aside on a table and as she walks toward him, she feels the tingle of each mark it's left on her and grips her collar a little tighter just thinking of how it sounded as it cut the air. He'd applied it to her skin with such care; one stroke to greet her as she reached his chair, one as she turned to walk away, and yeah, although he'd watched her walk toward him half a dozen times, skimming his gaze appreciatively over her, by the end his eyes were lingering not on satin and silk but those red lines left by his hand wielding the whip.

And she'd stared in the mirror as she changed from one outfit to another and she'd been looking at them too, tracing them with her fingers, her breath coming faster with every brush of her hands against skin he'd woken to life with a stinging kiss of leather.

“Thank you, Faith,” he says, sounding polite and formal, as she kneels down by his chair. “That was—yes, worth waiting for. You looked beautiful. Breathtaking, in fact.” His hand smoothes her hair back off her flushed face. “Though never more so than the way you do now.”

“Glad you liked the show,” she says, rubbing her cheek against his knee. She's still holding the collar but his hand reaches down, palm up and she sighs and relinquishes it.

“There's no need to be so reluctant to return my property,” he chides her softly. “I fully intend to fasten it around your neck, you know.”