Three Little Words (2)

WQ Round 370 (August 24-30)

The key clinked against her palm as Sarah let herself in, bags bumping against her knees. She had an hour before Sean was due home, every tick of her watch a beat of the countdown to the small, private festival she’d been planning all day.

She emptied the bags on the kitchen table and moved with a focused, giddy efficiency: tearing open packages and checking her purchases, ramping up the thermostat, and swapping out the bulbs in the bedroom. The playlist cued — a thrum of strained piano and slow, metallic pulses that made the hairs on the back of her neck lift.

She placed her props on the bed, ready for the start of the show: silk ties, a silver bell on a leather cord, a tray of scented oils and incense, feathers, a handful of cooling stones, a thin candle. And there, centre stage in her mind's eye, lay the man she’d been thinking about all afternoon: Sean, bundled up and waiting, an unopened present she would reveal layer by layer and admire when the time was right.

She sat on the bed and winced, reminded again of what he'd done last night. She wondered, briefly, whether surrendering then would have been easier, wiser — but she’d always liked the small cruelty of being able to choose and tonight, well, half the afternoon had been rehearsed and perfected in her head: where each item would sit, how the dull red mood lighting would reflect in his wide open, startled eyes, the exact moment to change tone from teasing to something heavier.

When he came in he shrugged off his jacket and paused at the doorway, taking her in: sat at the table, fingers idly caressing a long, thin package. There was that split second where both of them measured the room and each other, a private ritual. She grinned and went to him.

"You're late," she accused, voice soft as the afternoon light yet hard as steel.

He answered with a look that said yes. But they always started this way — some small reason to continue the game. Carefully she helped him out of his coat and then his jumper, her hands practised and affectionate. She kept asking the small checks she’d learned to make as she prepared him — looser? tighter? comfortable? — waiting each time for his silent confirmations. When the last buckle was fastened, she admired him for a beat: the slope of his back, the way his hair fell into his forehead, the eager look in his eyes.

"Kneel," she demanded, feeling certain the game would end tonight.

***

She moved around his body with the showmanship of someone who enjoyed her power. When she pressed the soft cotton knickers to his mouth, it was theatrical rather than final; he protested with a breath that became a chuckle. “There,” she said, pleased with the image she’d created: him, still and expectant, the room a little darker.

“Can’t use your safe words now, so...” She said, pressing the bell lightly into his hand. “Ring it if you need a stop,” she whispered, fingers lingering in the promise of contact. He nodded, the small solemnity of the gesture making her chest warm.

The oil reeked of wildflowers as she massaged his shoulders. Her touch travelled slowly, focussing on the places she knew should make him buckle, hoping the overpowering scent would drive him mad. Throughout, she murmured the kind of humiliating, affectionate mocking born of familiarity.

“Put on a few pounds, have you? Ooh, is that a grey hair?” She tapped a spot by his ear, feigning concern. “Don’t worry, I’ll still love you when you’re old and fat — unless I get a better offer,” she said, giggling as she squeezed his love handles with exaggerated cruelty, making him squirm and grunt.

With a final tug she stepped back, paused, and admired her handiwork.

Onwards, she thought, as she climbed onto the bed and sat astride his legs. Sean began to squirm as her hands came to rest on his hips. The touch was tender; she stroked in slow, lazy circles as if smoothing out his skin. He inhaled sharply, and shook his head as she plucked a single hair from his arse.

She leant closer. "Three words,” she breathed into the hollow of his neck, voice low and dangerous in the red light. “Come on, you know I’m coming out on top.” He shook his head. “You're not giving up?” she asked, and watched as his palms curled tightly around the bell. "No, not giving... not yet—".

She pried his cheeks apart, and blew a soft exhalation that landed like a playful dare. The unbidden thought — that this puff was fresher than anything coming the other way — made her snort a laugh she tried to smother.

At eleven, the hallway clock chimed and she pretended to consider whether to push on.

"OK," she groused, walking from the room "where'd I put the damned lube?"

She left him to stew for a few minutes, before returning silently.

"Couldn't find it," she announced, making him start, "guess we'll have to do without..."

She bit her tongue, if this didn't work she knew she'd be surrendering tomorrow and scraped one nail over his arsehole.

The bell in his hand rang out — sharp, immediate.

She unfastened the silk with a practiced flick and giggled as his hands flew back to cover his arse. Words tumbled from him in a rush. “You win. I'll say it, you’re the best. Okay?”

He finally looked around, relieved and bewildered by her now naked body.

Sarah stepped forward, exuberant and a little breathless. “So what are you waiting for, lover?” she teased, voice bright. “Come gimme my prize.”



Word Count: 960

Part One: ▼

"Three little words"