#anyways. he doesn’t play often now that he’s iron fist but sometimes he’ll hear someone go ‘dude X character just got leaked’

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Sequel prompt to the ominously sounding; “No,” he says, reaching out with a soapy hand, “next time you want to get laid you laugh at me again, and we’ll see what I do to you.”

This is of course a follow-up to this, which was in its turn a follow-up to this, and all of these are supposedly set in the aftermath of this long fic.  Sorry this took me so long – I have a cold, and it’s hard to write sexy things when you’re sneezing.  But anyway – more kinky bisexual storytime with the Kanata-Organas.  (For the record: KCET was the PBS affiliate in SoCal in the 80s, 90s, and early 00s.)

Obviously she laughs at him again immediately. Pointedly. He grabs the dishtowel and wipes his hands, glaring at her. But like, what, she’s going to look at him standing there being all handsome and not do anything about it, when he basically just invited her to start something? Besides, while she respects that his job is very tiring and sometimes he needs to just sleep, it’s the weekend now and she doesn’t want to wait to start enjoying it.

“Uh-oh,” she says, smiling, as he steps towards her. “What’re you going to do about it?”

His hands dart out, and he’s got her against him, and he’s tickling her. She shrieks and tries to twist away but he doesn’t let her go.

“No, no,” he says, deep and ironical in her ear. “Keep laughing, keep laughing.”

She’s gasping for breath – “Ben – Ben – stop – Ben – ” – as he steers her into the bedroom, holding her fast and tickling her remorselessly, until he pushes her face-down on the bed and grabs her ass with both his hands.

“Fuck,” he says, almost reverently. “Such a nice fucking ass.” She wiggles it, in his hands, and he squeezes harder, grunting. “Had it too easy, this fucking ass.”

She starts to protest, point out that it wasn’t that long ago that she had turned, getting out of the shower after an enjoyable afternoon spent riding him, and found finger-marks pressed into it. But she only gets as far as an outraged syllable when his hands are pawing at the button of her jeans, trying to yank them down without properly unzipping them, and she has to fight to keep her balance and help him before he drags her onto the floor by accident. And then, when he has her pants and her underwear at her knees, she waits, breathless, to see if he’s going to use his hand or –

He takes off his belt. Her breathing gets a little harder. Ben has two leather belts, one black, one brown, both about an inch-and-a-half wide and thin as credit cards. He’s wearing the black one today. The buckle jangles briefly, then goes silent as he folds it into his palm and wraps the belt around and around his fist. “Gone way too fucking easy on this ass,” he mutters, barely audible, and Rey hears the slow tap-slap-smack of him testing the strength of his blows against his forearm. She shivers.

They have a safeword. It’s one of the most married, domestic things about them, in Rey’s opinion, that she can cry stop it all she wants and he’ll never pause, but the faintest murmur of light and he’ll be all held breath and anxious gentleness.

He uses it more. Hardly ever for when she hurts his body – he can take anything, and welcomes almost everything she wants to do to him; she’s seen him off to work with her marks still on his skin even after a night of sleep. But sometimes she pushes too hard at the edges of his insecurity, and he whispers it, light. Sometimes he says it too softly for her to hear, but it doesn’t matter – she can read it in his brown eyes, in his red mouth, in the tension of his broad shoulders. And she stops, and pets him, holds him, tells him everything he needs to hear.

Another thwack of the belt against his arm, and then a pause, and she digs her fingers into the bed and tries not to squirm. And then it cracks across her skin and she rocks forward, sighing. Again, again, again; he doesn’t count, or make her count; he’s an artist in this, not an engineer. “That’s it,” she hears him whisper, “that’s it, all red.” She gulps and loses her struggle not to wriggle, and then there’s another rain of blows, so hard and fast they turn her mind to sweet white noise, blank and pure as snow.

The belt crashes into the wall where Ben throws it, and he’s on her, caressing hungrily with his hands and mouth, kissing and soothing; she feels his teeth scrape lightly across the seam of her right leg, and then his tongue, and then he bites, and she moans helplessly, pitifully, feeling a wet drop slide down the inside of her thigh, a bare inch from his nose.

He throws her over on her back; she hisses as her reddened skin makes contact with the cotton bedspread, and he presses her knees back until the tenderest parts are away from the fabric. He presses her hands to her legs to hold them; “Stay,” he orders gruffly, and then bends his face to where she’s soaking for him, drawing her lips apart with his fingers and nuzzling down. She digs her fingers into her thighs, trying to stay still as his tongue skims her and his nose pushes at her clit. He nudges and strokes her with long, gentle licks until she’s panting and whimpering, and then he looks up at her, lips and nose and chin all shining. She tries to buck her hips up to his mouth, but he ignores her.

“If you think my fantasies are so fucking funny,” he says softly, “how about you tell me one of yours?”

She hesitates, letting go of her legs. This seems like a bad idea. Often in her fantasies, she likes to play with the fire of his jealousy, hurt his heart in ways she’d rather die than do in real life. She can’t imagine a way to tell him so that won’t be unacceptably painful. Won’t he even be hurt to think that she might think of someone else at all? But then he’d imagined his fantasy man eyeing her –

He misunderstands her silence. “It doesn’t have to be about a woman, if you’d rather not tell me that.”

It shifts her thinking just enough that she comes up with something that she thinks might work. “I’ll tell you something. But you can’t laugh at me now. Only later. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, and stoops to give her one little lick.

“So,” she says, and takes a breath. “If you want my equivalent of your fixation on fancy chairs.” He snorts against her thigh, but she supposes it doesn’t technically count as a laugh, and anyway, he’s moving his fingers softly over her outer lips, stroking the short hair, working his way gradually back to the sensitive heart of her. “Sometimes when I was young, but like after I’d caught up to my grade level, I’d watch TV sometimes on Saturdays. And there was one show on KCET, a BBC thing. And there was this one scene with this woman. In a corset. Dark silk. Shiny. White lace at the top. These thin stripes.” She draws the stripes on her body, to show him. His dark eyes follow the track of her fingers over her skin, and the deep, hard lick he gives her feels ravenous, makes her arch her back. “And I thought – I want a corset like that. And I’d dream about – running my fingers up the seams.” She shows him, again, as he laps and laps, tracing the imagined lines from her hips to the tops of her breasts. “And I’d think about – slipping my hand – in the top of a corset someone else’d wear – how it’d pinch – my fingers – her breasts – tight and hot and – probably slippery – with sweat. But I’d find her nipples – and I’d – pinch – and she’d – whimper – ”

Her hands are at her own breasts, toying, and Ben’s breath is hard and hot; he shifts his mouth to suck her clit between his lips, and presses a thick finger into her. He rubs at her sweet spot as he suckles, and she writhes, tightening her grip on her hardening little nipples.

“And I’d imagine – dressing her in the corset – dragging on the – strings – making her gasp and – bend over for me – while I licked her neck – and she’d – slap me – call me names – put her hand between my legs and – ”

“Like this, Rey?” he says, rubbing her clit in warm, narrow little circles with his thumb. “You dream about her making you come like this?”

“Yes,” she gasps, “please, Ben; don’t stop; just like that – ” and he rubs her frantically, staring at her, licking his wet lips as she convulses, and she’s barely done coming before he’s pressing his dripping fingers into her mouth, pushing his cock hard against her hip as she sucks his fingers clean.

“Fuck,” he groans into her ear, “fuck; I beat your pretty ass so red. Yeah – suck my fingers nicely; fuck you come so sweet,” and he groans a long low wordless note as he comes across her stomach.

He pops his fingers out of her mouth, but his hand stays, limp and heavy, across her mouth. She kisses his palm and he strokes her cheek with tiny little movements of his fingertips.

After a moment, he says, “That wasn’t fair.”

“Why not?”

“You’re going to keep laughing at me for the furniture of my fantasy for-fucking-ever, aren’t you? But I can’t laugh at you for liking corsets.” He kisses her collar bone and her blushing nipple, and licks a drop of his come from the underside of her breast. “Do you still want a corset?”

“No,” she says. “It’d just make me feel bad about the size of my tits.”

“You’d look amazing.”

“You just say that because you’re my husband and you have to.” And he smiles as he always does, to be her husband, but for weeks and weeks he shows her pictures, with a hopeful look, from corset-makers in the LA area.