The door's open...
Not just unlocked, but standing open and through it issues warm mist, the remnants of a recent shower. It brushes against your skin like perspiration, and then dissolves quickly.
There's whistling coming from the master bedroom, it rises above the softer tones of music in the background. He doesn't pay attention to the song (it's Stone Roses), but is moving in a half-dressed state to become fully dressed. Docs on (black), wool blend trousers on (black) and broadcloth shirt (black) unbuttoned.
It is in this state that he comes into the living room, jacket (black, naturally) slung over one of his mod sofas. The black sets off the Welsh white of his skin and the Blood crimson tattoos that span his chest and torso. Scarlet auburn hair is straight to his shoulders. It adds a dash of casual rock-and-roll to the outfit...
There's no hurry, is there? Fiona's had to clean the queenliness off of herself and dim down the triumph from her glow, which she's done with a shower of her own and a change of clothes before she called. The long hair's been chopped short and choppy - temporarily, of course; it never stays short, and she likes it long too much. But it's been cut, spiking out in a chin-length bob that looks somewhat ruffled, dyed metallic silver-white. It goes with the earrings, silver hoops through her earlobes, three to each, silver eyeshadow and black kohl for her eyes, and her lips painted a dusky peach contrast.
The outfit isn't quite so outrageous as she'd been wearing the last time you saw her - it's snug, certainly, clinging lovingly where it ought to, but it's not lingerie in and of itself. It doesn't scream 'fuck me, use me, take me now', but rather suggests, 'I might let you take me home, and oh, wouldn't that be fun?' The top is black, off the shoulder as Fiona tends to prefer, and sleeveless save for wide straps to hold it up; visible cleavage but not dangerous cleavage, with whatever's underneath kept safely out of sight. Paired with this is a pair of peppermint stripe jeans, green and white of them tucked into a pair of black Docs of her own that have been laced in purple. Black opera gloves add a somewhat jarring note, but what finishes the outfit is the black leather collar around her throat, O-ring right over the hollow.
She steps into the flat, leaning for a moment in the doorway before coming the rest of the way inside as you head into the living room yourself. "Hey there, Welsh boy," Fiona says lightly. "You look good. What've you got on under your trousers, anything interesting?" She grins at you, expression punkish but somehow not angry, waiting to see how you react.
There's a grin for you coupled with lifting eyes as he buttons the shirt, leaving the top two undone -- and the bottom two as well. "Just what the good lord gave me," he notes with a lilt and takes that moment to take note of your outfit. You and your colors. Only you could pull off the things that you wear.
He sucks on his lower lip a half second then his smile slants. "But I don't suppose that would interest you," he says lowly, chuckling in his throat as he is suddenly before you, arms surrounding you. He bends and endeavors to ruin your make-up with a kiss. "I like this," he murrs at your mouth. "As usual, a feast for the eyes." Emerald glints with a keen grin.
"So, where are you taking me?" His finger slips into the O-ring at your throat, tugging ever-so-slightly and smiling... ever-so-wickedly.
There's a smile for you, even as you suddenly envelop her, and she moves into the kiss for a moment as if trying to see what you'll look like with her lipstick on your mouth instead of hers. "Mmm," Fiona murmurs, then tips her head back with a slight startlement for a moment as you tug on the collar, colour rushing up to meet the air by way of her skin. "Bastard. Stop being so eager to sin and turn me loose. We're going to go eat and then we're going to go somewhere else. And I'm not going to tell you more than that."
Her hand comes up to try and pry your finger loose from her collar, though you can tell by the spark in her eyes that she's felt that tug more than just at the throat. "Leggo," Fiona murmurs, "Rhodri ap arse. I swear, you and your father ..." But one thought between them, right? "I've got something up my sleeve, more than just for," her other hand comes down to palm along your groin, "what the good lord gave you. So you can be a good boy and come quietly, or no surprises for you."
What? Says the look, full of innocence. It's such a lie, and there's a broad smile for your own wandering hand. There's so much to respond to in what you said. He counted at least five quips in the space of one second. But there's really only one response to give...
Finger curled around the O-ring, he pulls you into another kiss.
He has more than one thought, certainly. He must, for the next moment finds him setting you free and turning to get his jacket. "I'll come, and I'll even come with you, but I can't promise to be good." Rhodri actually pauses to think -- as if to say: do I even know how?
"After you," he smiles as he pulls on his jacket (of the suit variety), and he motions for you to go ahead.
Never let it be said that Fiona was not straight man for the universe...
She accepts the kiss as if she had a choice in it, turning to present the back of her to you and then heading out ahead of you. "Men. Why do we put up with you?" 'We' could mean women in general, or her own unique triad, really. Fiona flashes a glance back over her shoulder at you, then grins. Someone's clearly in a good mood...
She bounces on down the steps ahead of you. "We'll need to take a cab. I still don't have a car - haven't seen much point, at this stage, in getting one. Maybe later on." When more of her plans come to fruition. She gives you barely enough time to lock up, barely enough time to keep up, and she's on the curb waving a hand for a cab. The breeze catches at the silver hair, the fluorescence of street lamps making it look more otherworldly than it is - escaped less from fairyland, this time, than some semi-erotic underworld. Persephone, on a night out in modern London...
Once the cab is attained, she's sliding in, leaving the door open for you, leaning over the front to tell the driver where she wants to go. "Union Cafe on Marylebone Way," Fiona tells the driver, then leans back, waiting for you to join her. She's still far too cheerful for her own good, that much is plain, even as she's putting her boots up against the back of the driver's seat...
He didn't rush out after you but arrived in his own time. There is nothing rushed about Rhodri, nothing mercurial in the slightest (unlike The Other). His hand is on the door, he follows you in, he settles beside you, and then takes up a full half of the back by stretching out, all in good time.
With a grin, he interlaces his fingers against his stomach, looking the Gentleman to your Punk in some fashion. With a look to the driver, he smirks. I'm in for it.
And I like it, mate...
There's nothing said along the way. He's maddeningly content to wait. A thief's patience. He will get what he wants in the end. There's no reason to rush...
The Union Cafe turns out to be a large one-room establishment with a single ceiling fan turning in lazy circles overhead. Fiona holds up two fingers to the server, grabbing hold of your hand as if this were a date - which, in a sense, it is. She doesn't look out of place here - but only because of the servers, many of whom look too young to remember punk but nonetheless sport hairstyles that wouldn't look out of place at a Dead Kennedys reunion tour. She half-collapses into her chair, not bothering to be ladylike about it, then leans forward over the menu. She's enjoying this - no matter how patient you are, she believes she might be torturing you, and for now, the belief supersedes the reality.
"I think I'll have the cottechino sausage with parmesan mash," Fiona observes of the menu, then glances up to you. "So, business has been going actually rather spectacularly well. Makes me wonder why I didn't do all this years ago." She's hyper as a six year old on pure cane sugar mixed with crack cocaine. "What about you? How's the pub? Oh, and Gracie? How's his woman and the new baby? Is it going to eat up all his time, or do you think they'd be up for a band and then a tour and stuff?" She should slow down...
Not that she can...
"I think Gracie might be out of it for a bit," he says, settling across from you -- but only after you've tossed yourself into your chair. So gallant! Rhodri bends his head, scanning the menu, glancing up with a grin. "I can tell," he chuckles. "...you're bouncing about like you're sitting on pins and needles..."
And what about him?
He's wretchedly curious, you can tell it when he looks at you, and when he doesn't look at you. "I think the gnocchi parmesan for myself, even if it means I should drink white wine," which he does not like by the sound of it. "But," he moves the menu slightly aside, "... sometimes you have to take the bad with the good. Business has been good. We had a good open mike night, receipts holding steady." He grins suddenly. "Boring," he chides himself. But since you asked. "I think Gracie will be able to be back in a few months. He's relocating to London full-time. His wife took a job here. She's a teacher. So it may not be so long. You seem to be...itching to do something."
Rhodri chuckles again, reaching to take the water as it's poured. "So tell me about your business. Getting settled in London already?"
"Got my old apartment," Fiona confirms, "and I've started getting furniture. Still trying to decide on a design I like. I'm not going back to just straight punk-functional," she explains, tone factual, "but I don't want to clutter it with Regency Louis XIV Victorian crap, either. And since Ikea doesn't really need my money... I want to find something that works." Fashion, design, music - what's next?
"Well, we can take a few months to work on some material instead," she continues, "and if you want, I'll make a few open mike appearances, provided," she levels a lowered-lashes glance at you, "I've got someone to back me up on guitar, at least. That might help boost business a little. And live it up a bit! Order what you want with your meal, the hell if it clashes. I clash with everything," Fiona laughs. It's true - she does, even if it works for her.
Has anyone ever seen her like this? She acts as if nothing worries her, right now - nothing could possibly bother her, nothing put a crack in her armour, her mood. It is all inviolate, gloriously radiant with Spring and Summer. The air is almost redolent with the scent of bluebells and apple blossoms and honey - and pepper; she is not without her sting. "I'm putting my money to work for me," Fiona says pragmatically, picking up her napkin and then setting it down again. She turns to place her order, adding a vodka martini for herself, then turns back to you. "I imagine within five years I'll have tripled my worth. In ten years I should be more than just rich. In the meantime, I've got to watch things a little more closely than usual for the next little while. That or ask daddy for money, but I'd rather not. Oh, I've got apples in my front parlor, by the way." She smiles, wickedly.
"Do you also have a bed in your front parlor?" he wonders smoothly, as he glances over the menu again, the smile easing out. As you are wound up and frenetic, he is calm and smooth. It is a good combination. Could you imagine if he were in the same state? Plates might be breaking...
Menu aside, and determinations made presumably, Rhodri gives his full attention to you. Lively and amused green locks onto you in that keen way of his. Now, keen and inwardly laughing. "I think I can assure us some spots on the schedule," Rhodri grins, "... you'll have a guitar player as long as I live. Possibly also violin. I like it paired with a single female voice. I'm not sure there's a better combination, really. When would you like to get started?"
He looks at you as you speak of your finances. There was a serious look and a nod to that. He doesn't have much to comment on there, but seems satisfied that you're tending to business. Amazing what you can do on your own, isn't it, Fiona?
"There's a curio-slash-antique shop in Kensington. You might find some things there. Lot of mod places around, if you want that sort of thing. Tons of it about..."
"I'll have to look in Kensington, then," Fiona murmurs, cheeks flushing as she gives you a look. The heat from that look could cook the food in front of you all over again. She picks up her fork, picking at the ovals of sausage among the potatoes, contemplating them before eating them as ravenously as she's ever eaten anything. But then, she didn't really get much of that curry, did she?
"No bed in my front parlor, just a couple of sofas and a squashy rug, if it's ever delivered. Maybe I'll make my own." That's an option too, isn't it? And it's only just occurred to her, you can see it light up her eyes at the idea. Magic, as a toy. Maybe the world should be afraid of this modern-day furniture and clothing alchemist... "Anyway, eat up. It's," Fiona glances at a clock on the wall, "going to start getting crowded where we're going soon, and we want to be the cynosure of all eyes when we get there, don't we?"
The gnocchi will be enough, from all appearances. It comes with tomato, basil and olive oil bread and wine, each one set down before him. He watches you dive in and chuckles, shaking his head and following you once more with that same relaxed manner with which he followed you out of the pub.
But food disappears quickly all the same. As does the wine...
"As if we could help it," he quips back easily. "Whatever ...this is," that has you bouncing in the booth, "... I like it...I don't think I've ever... seen you this ecstatic. Ecstatic," he says again, as much to himself, understanding that ...yes, indeed, you are ecstatic...
"I feel as if I've been carrying around Sisyphus' own burden and finally got the damn rock to stay put on top of the hill," Fiona answers, making holes appear in the food so that the bottom of the plate is rapidly becoming visible - it's got a Union Jack there on the enamel, British counterpoint to Italianesque cuisine. "Got rid of some halfway stuff that needed taking care of for a long time. You know how it is - you can't ever really move forward until then. And having been so businesslike for so long, now I want to play."
She stops eating abruptly, and you can feel the pressure of the side of her boot against your calf as she hooks your leg and leans forward. Fiona's lips curve, splitting in a grin as she leans over the table, elbow propped between your plate and hers, chin on her hand. "So," she murmurs, deliberately kittenish and wide-eyed, "will you play with me?"
He offers you a gnocchi from his fork as you lean forward, and emerald eyes drink in the light rather than reflect it. "As if you were my own prized violin," he purrs out. "You know how I love to pluck you..." And even he can't help but laugh at that.
He registers his own excitement, his own anticipation, in a lack of ravenous hunger for food. He is too distracted by your own energy to eat. He picks at it a bit more, but then it is set aside, the wine taken up instead. His other hand reaching for yours.
Even before skin touches skin, there is a reaction on the air that makes the hair on your arms stand up. "You've something planned for me, I see," Rhodri murmurs, his smile lazing. As casual as his mouth moves, his eyes are sharp. "It's like being tied to a chair and made to watch..."
Her head bends, she takes the gnocchi between her teeth and then retreats with it, grinning smugly. Would you believe she's had the cheek to raid food off Davydd's plate, even? Without fork marks on her skin? But she is made of much cheekiness. Fiona chews, then swallows, still leaning forward but without being quite so far forward; in her own space now, even if her energy overlaps.
"You say it as if it's a bad thing," Fiona murmurs. "Well - not really, knowing you. But if you're done eating, let's settle the tab," a hand lifts to beckon to a waiter for just such purpose, "and we'll go to our next step of the evening. Of course, it's on me. We're not at Davy's, so you don't get to pay." Indeed, she's extracting a card from somewhere on her person, still giving you that wide, smug smile and slanting glance. She's halfway out of her seat to tell them to call her a taxi...
There's that look. You'd know it anywhere and knowing them both you get that look sometimes in stereo. That open mouthed protest that begins at the knitted eyebrows. The starting insistence and
money that ends up on the table anyway, sometimes doubling (sometimes tripling) any gratuity expected or wished.
"The drinks later, all mine," he notes. He doesn't like women paying their own way. It's unseemly somehow. At least while he's around. He grins and rises, "Good food. I might have to steal the plates when I come back," he notes.
His hand smoothens over his jacket and he holds out his arm to receive you. That, he's not taking 'No' over...
The card is returned, tucked away and she returns to your arm, taking hold of it with both of her own. "You want to buy me drinks?" Fiona inquires, as if it's somehow a surprise. Then she grins again. "You just want to see me drunk again. But oes, darling," she purrs it, "I'll let you get the drinks. Though I'll need to use the loo once we get there - lovely place to eat, this, but the ladies' lav? Shudder!"
She's tugging insistently out the door, out into the evening air, to the waiting cab, nudging you in ahead of her and then tumbling in after to spill almost into your lap - no accident, that - and leaning forward to tell the driver the next locale. "Betty's Boobs," Fiona says composedly, waiting to make sure the driver heard her right and doesn't think she's being obscene. And then she leans back against your chest, a hand to your thigh, squeezing and kneading, her rump pert and fitting into place.
Oh, yes, she can tease when she wants to - and she knows what to expect, but apparently doesn't care. She turns in your lap to plant a kiss on your lips, then snuggles in for a moment, closing her eyes. "You haven't said," Fiona murmurs, "what you think of the hair."
Women...
His finger slips along your throat and through the O-ring at the hollow. He tugs again, gently, but it is a reminder of bindings past and the ungentleness that lingers beneath the gentleman pirate's veneer. His mouth suckles yours, his teeth bite your flesh, pressing it until it blushes.
"You could be bald, woman, and it wouldn't matter..." comes the Cymraeg growl, comes the sharp grin upon the edge of his voice, comes the tug against the collar. "But... oes... I like the hair," he notes, his hand sliding away from the collar to move through the short strands of it, to bring you to his mouth again, forgetful of the cabbie. His legs spread beneath you, spreading yours along with him (which was, of course, the plan), his hands settling firmly on your hips. "Turn around," he whispers at your mouth.
Outside, London passes you by. Ahead, the cabbie half watches the spectacle in the back seat. Beyond the glass, the lights create a moving dancefloor, 50kmh...
"Betty's Boobs?" Rhodri chuckles. "I think you should dance for me now, club be damned." He's helping you turn, your back to him again.
There's an answering warmth in her face. Oh, yes, this she likes. She might deny it all she wants, but her reactions cut through any denials she might give. "Mmm..." Eyelashes come to half-mast, fingernails scrape against wool and skid to a halt. "Bastard," Fiona murmurs, her lips cupped to yours. Not that it's a complaint...
Denim-clad thighs spread as yours do, hips teasingly arched under your hands, her own hands moving to your shoulders to brace herself before the suggestion to turn comes. There's a flicker of curiosity and a glint of challenge in the blue of her eyes, but then she nods, leaning into the pressure of your hands, sliding back along you so that she's faced forward, one hand on your thigh and the other arm back and up to trail gloved fingers along your cheek. "You're overdressed for it, darling..."
"We'll worry about that when we get there," his mouth moves at your ear, he smiles there, his breath eases against you, then the lobe is claimed. Stolen. And you know how he likes that. Have the tables turned again? Has the teaser now become the teased? This is a game played not by one alone...
"I would say you are the one who is overdressed..." His hands splay, spreading upward to your breasts. "How grand would I look with you tied to me," words land against your neck as his mouth makes its way to your shoulder. "Maybe I will tear my shirt and put that ring in your collar to use..."
Rhodri sits back, his hands and fingers squeezing, teasing and then moving away, arms outstretched against the back of the taxicab seat. "You're not dancing, darling..."
"Hey," Fiona murmurs it, squirming in your lap. It's not a dance, exactly, except the sort of dance insisted upon by tortured nerve endings. Her back arches, and she turns to look at you over her shoulder, lower lip protruding just a bit. Her cheeks are glowing with colour, contrast to the silver hair. "I've still got surprises in store for you, you know."
But she's excited - already, still, more. She bounces briefly on her thighs, which means she bounces on yours, wiggling her way back until her back is against yours, both arms going up and behind to latch around your neck. "Kiss," Fiona demands, drawing one leg up so that the heel of her boot is on the edge of the seat. "Or I'll think you don't love me anymore."
The thighs are stony and the lap is full. When you lean back, you can feel him there, the thin wool-blend not the most subtle of fabrics. Rhodri turns his head and the kiss is long, lasting through the bumps of road, the stop and start of traffic, on this journey that is taking forever...
Who knew Betty's Boobs was so far away...
It lasts through the rolling of a joined dance, and parts only when the cab stops, his attention drifting along your neck again. His hands guide you again, pressing your upper body forward to lean in a position as graceful as it is lewd. "I love surprises," he murmurs. "And ... surprise," his hand pats the part of your raised hips, "...I think we're here..."
"That'll be fifteen pounds," the driver notes, quietly interjecting.
"I'm going to give you one-hundred to stay," Rhodri replies to him, his attention and his hands not leaving you as he speaks, "... and more if you're quiet about it. Pull over and park."
His hands squeeze your hips, pulling you tightly to him (and in that tightness his own excitement is impossible to hide). "C'mon, darlin'... let's go have a little nirvana," a drink, "...and a fuck load of fun..." A firm hand on your hip, it does not pat but spank, and he chuckles behind you. "If I were in my leather, I'd be in pain. Ah, you see the method to my madness now..."
The kiss needs to be long. It distracts her, it takes her out of herself, it makes her lean into you as if the taxi were a ship and the ship is sinking. It takes as long as it takes, and her heart might explode with the Moment...
There's a gasp which is a purr and a little bit of a moan as you lean her forward, eyes lazy with lust as you murmur to her. As you touch her. Fiona wriggles, then subsides as you speak to the driver, wriggles again as you pull her to you, and she briefly hides her face in your shoulder. It's all almost enough to make her forget what she has in mind...
Almost...
"There's leather," Fiona retorts, passing a tongue-tip over her lips, "and then there's leather. Alright, let's get inside. I've got to use the lav something fierce now..." She jumps slightly with the spank, almost squeaking, and briefly she bites at your shoulder, for all the good it does her. Then she slides from your lap, moving quickly, as if by moving so fast you couldn't catch her, swinging the door open wide and spilling out of the cab much as she'd spilled in.
He's glad for the cool air, he's glad for the jacket. Bills pass hands between him and the cabbie and the deal is accepted. With any luck, there might be more of a show on the way back to wherever they go for the night. Cigarette is lit while he moves off to park. And do whatever else cabbies might do in the dark...
The door to Betty's Boobs is unremarkable. There's no signpost to say it's there, no notion that it even exists, just the pounding of industrial-dance, a party in full swing. When the door opens, it's as if the party materializes. This isn't the weekend crowd. The stage, the main floor, the bar is crushed with those who live the Lifestyle -- in the variety of styles that exist. Dominants, submissives, masters, slaves, anime princesses and living dolls. Latex in all of nature's rainbow of colors, PVC, leather. Suits with zippers, suits with cut-outs. Piercings and tattoos galore...
But none of the tattoos can compare or compete with the ones now making their appearance...
There's a rise of a cheer at the sudden stripping, a jacket launched and a shirt following after, grabbed by the anime princess behind the bar, where they will be held for safekeeping later. Your Blackjack, shirtless, in his half-naked glory grabs you, pulling you to him and then pressing you to the bar. "You want the," kiss, "...manna from heaven?" He assumes you will, he holds up a sign that says 'two'.
He kisses you fully, publicly. Not only uncaring of but rather inviting voyeurs. "So... are you going to make me wait all night," he says to you above the music and swirl of conversations of those nearby.
Oh, my. For a moment, Fiona's eyes widen as you enter with her - this, she hasn't seen before. It shows in her expression for that one brief moment as you cross the threshold, as she does, as if stepping from one world to another. This, this is different...
It's the distraction which takes her attention away as you suddenly rip off your top half, and she turns at the movement, moves in the moment, sighing as you grab her. Hands go to painted shoulders as you press against her, as you kiss her, and there's nothing she can do but kiss you back, nipping at your mouth in invitation. The crowd neither intoxicates nor sobers her. It isn't about them, it's about her, and it's about you.
"Manna," Fiona agrees, licking her lips as you finish the kiss - well, for the moment, at least, "and the lav. And not all night, love, there's surely better things we can do with our time than just wait. You stay here to get the drinks, and I'll be back, mm?" She moves to dart under your arm, to push through the crowd of the kinky, feeling obscurely more out of place than she ever has before...
He smiles at you, and there's even reassurance there for you. A wink given, a kiss given, a pat given as you move away. He sees a few people he knows near the bar -- the bartenders for starters. Drinks are poured and in the waiting interim, his emerald eyes take in the spectacle...
Waiting can make it more intense... I do not mind. The night is yours to direct. The insinuation of his voice beneath your skin warms as much as it sounds, his breath quite nearly felt at your ear, the memory of his mouth at the earlobe. I am content to let you ...have your way with me.
When you come back, he's already into his drink and is holding yours aloft to you. An apple for Eve if there ever was one. And it is only you who may see the tattoos moving, the shifting of hunting, bounding hounds, the flowering of rose, the opening of apple blossoms, The Chase made visible.
Could you ever be out of place with him there waiting for you. "Let's go upstairs," he says. "I've opened a tab. Anything you want, my darling, you shall have..."
Anticipation ... makin' me wait ... bastard. It's an affectionate thought, but heady with feminine mischief and desire. Oh, she does want you, and you can taste it.
Between leaving and returning there's been a change made...
Her hair's the same, still - chin-length, not quite shoulder-length, fanning out around the edges as if there's an electrical charge building. She's lost her shirt somewhere along the way - in its place is a bustier, she's so fond of those, purple silk and white lace. It cups her breasts as if made for her - as perhaps it was; it cuts across each nipple with the layer of lace foaming to make it ever so demure and oh so naughty, then curves in snugly along her curves, stopping at the middle of her hips with another whipped cream layer. The skirt she's got on is far too small, flirty with the way it moves with the roll and sway of her hips. Every motion reveals a tantalizing peek at the matching purple knickers. The jeans are nowhere to be seen, but the opera gloves are still there, as are the Docs, as are white fishnets that glow a pale blue under blacklight all the way up to the mid-thigh where black garters take hold of them.
She's fixed her lipstick, she's got something bundled in her hand, but it's her other hand, the empty one that comes up and open to trace along a hunting hound as she goes up on tiptoes to kiss you. "Upstairs?", Fiona murmurs, then taking the glass - she offered you apples, you offer her drinks. "Well ... don't you want my present first?"
The glasses are held -- you are fortunate that his hands are full -- the kiss must express what his fingers cannot. "You mean, besides the outfit?" he grins at your mouth. For all of the sin and revelry and carnival around you, the two of you create an island. The rest of the partygoers aren't seen. "You're beautiful," he says there. "Very nice... you look like a naughty Venus..." His mouth pulls and teases, teeth, lips and tongue.
"A present?" he grins as he straightens to tower once more, glass given to you -- he takes a drink from his own. "So...where's it?" Rhodri tilts his head and tries to see what you have in your other hand. He has one freed now, so it rests at your waist. Drawing you in, he moves you to the music, between the downbeats, slow where others are fast, but in perfect rhythm. "Hmm... upstairs... a little more intimacy... don't you think that would be nice?"
"Nice," Fiona sighs it against your mouth. "Oh, I don't think nice has anything to do with it." She eases between your thighs, leaning up against your chest, holding that bundle of ... something behind her back. "I need my drink before I do anything else."
Leaning back, she moves with the music, shoulders dipping and swaying with an answering sway of breasts and hips. Your hand still holds her to you, and she then leans in and forward against the breadth of your chest to bring her drink to her lips for a long swallow, then set it down on the bar behind your back. "As for your present..."
She opens her hand part way, bringing it down with a snapping motion that unfolds a leather leash from folded, stitched loop to metal snap-on end. Something small and golden dangles from that end - a golden loop, with a silver key. She turns her head to look straight to the right, empty hand coming up to brush her hair aside so that you can see where her collar locks in place with a small padlock.
Someone's feeling very naughty indeed...
She turns to face you again, cheeks flushed with something more than desire, more than arousal as she leans in, holding up the leash to you. "Oh, and one other thing," Fiona adds, leaning back so that she can see your face, read all the expressions written there, see your eyes and the worlds that lie behind them. "Yes..."
"Yes is my favorite word," Rhodri notes, finishing his drink, a hand taking the empty from him. "But what's the question...?" he smiles, the leash slipping from your hand to his. His mouth is against your neck, the click of the leash fastens at the O-ring. Slow, so that you feel each moment of it.
Head lifting, he watches your expressions move by, one after the other. And one by one his come after, from arousal to amusement then amazement, from wickedness to wonder. "Yes," he says, eyebrows knitting, voice lifting in question. Then he grins, his hands cradling your face, the leather strap grasped in his hand, plenty of slack for movement. That's going to be needed soon. The worlds within those emerald eyes are heady and flowering in the fullness of expected pleasure and realized joy.
"Tonight, as you have made me the happiest man on this earth, I will make sure that there is no end to your own joy..." His mouth covers your own, the motion tugging lightly at the bindings that join you literally, let alone figuratively. It is a wide, warm, and complete conquest of your mouth.
Parting from it, he circles the leather strap around his hand and wrist, tugging, grinning as he moves slowly away from the bar, leading you with him toward the stairs. In your movement with him, the collar lightly moves, lightly tugs with a rhythm that seems to say: you are mine.
You are mine...
You are mine...
She shivers as you put the leash into place, colour moving into her cheeks as if painted there by some risen sun. Who puts the colour onto the rose petals, after all? Whatever she's imagined, it cannot easily compare to the reality of handing over leather for your use in this way, of your acceptance and your action.
Ah, you've realized the question, put it together with the answer, and her own smile is wide even if suddenly a bit tremulous. Now that she's said yes - now that she's given that leash to you, connected by that lead to you...
Well ...
She hadn't thought any further than the Moment, and now she isn't in control anymore, is she? The vagueness of an Uncertain Future rises, even as she accepts your kiss; it makes her almost shy in this moment. Eyes close, lips part as you kiss her, hands again opening and closing against your shoulders. Her fingernails have been blunted by the gloves, and it is an open kiss. Yes...
You turn, you move away, and she floats along behind you in a daze. It's funny how saying yes doesn't necessarily get any easier with it being the second time she's done it. Fiona's lips stay slightly apart as she watches your back, not able to go terribly far away in that possession, the markedness of collar and leash...
Rhodri turns his head to look at you as he leads you through the crowd. Those emerald eyes shine in a way only you catch in this room full of unseeing strangers. Only you see the kingdom of Avalon there. Only you see the blossoming rose up the muscled spine of his back. Only you have been given the knowledge of his secrets.
He smiles to you, more with his eyes than with his mouth, as he draws you to the stairs and up them. The past is done. Each step upward lifts you further and further away from the past year, the past seasons, the past lives and toward the unformed future.
But he is there. He is there and in his strength there is reassurance. Though the events of the future are uncertain, you may take comfort in knowing that he shall ever be a part of it.
Not even Death may now part you...
Posted by rowan at December 07, 2004 12:11 AM
