Love is in the air

[npc-excolo.livejournal.com]

Sunday, February 14th
Valentine's Day

I sit on my bed with my legs crossed, writing real careful in my notebook. MRS CLARA GRANGER I write, all tidy, then underneath I practice my signature. Clara Granger. That nice man at the market swore it wouldn't take too long for him to propose after he drank the potion. After I practice my signature a few times I write our names together. PETER AND CLARA, and I put them inside a nice big heart.

I hear Momma shouting for me and I sigh. I know she won't approve when Peter and I get together, cos he is a bunch older than me and she says seventeen is way too young to settle down. But I know she married Pop at nineteen, so she's just a hypocrite. And Peter's a real good catch - got his own job, his own place. There's that Maya of course to worry about, I think, and I push my pencil a bit too hard into the page and the point breaks. But once Peter's had the potion he won't remember that he likes her. I just need to work out how to get it to him.

Momma shouts again.

"Coming!" I shout. I know she wants me to go to that dumb Valentine's market and help her sell quilts. Ugh. But Peter might be around town, so I check my hair is nice before I go down.

***

This punch just don't look too appetising. I sigh and shout for Clara again. What is that girl doing? Probably dreaming about that barman. She thinks I don't know she's moony about him. I'm just glad he's got a sweetheart, or else he might go for my Clara - she's real pretty and men like adoring girls. He's much too old for her. I taste the punch and it's real nice, course it is, made from our fruits, but the colour just don't pop. Feeling a bit guilty, I get out some food colourant and drop it in, and it goes a nice reddish colour. That's about right for Valentine's, ain't it? I stopper up the barrel. Clara comes down.

"Get those quilts in the cart, will you?" I say, hustling her out and then getting the punch on the wagon. Roads are clear, so we get set up easy. Just a few stalls for this - jewellery, flowers, all kinds of novelties. I put out the prettiest quilts - maybe some guy'll think one'd make a nice present for his wife, and more practical than earbobs - and set up the punch.

"Free punch, sir?" I say, holding out a cup. After a bit of prodding I get Clara dishing up punch too. Hopefully it'll be a good day.

[OPEN]
[Closed]

Comments

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

I listen to him try to explain, and start feeling worse for him than I do for myself. Ex-fiancee? Sounds like there’s a long, sad story there, but if he doesn’t want to tell it, I’m not going to ask. It’s not the first time someone’s told me I reminded him of a girl, so I don’t take too much offense to that. “Don’t want to ask you for something you don’t want to do,” I tell him, and mean it. “But if it would help you to get it out, I would take it and thank you afterwards, truly.” Mean that too, and hope he can tell. “I don’t have many limits, and this is not my first time. If you give me rules and talk me through it, I can take—“ I swallow hard, knowing exactly what I’m offering. “I can take a lot.”

I have to stop talking for a minute, or I’m going to start begging. Don’t want him feeling sorry for me. I want to try to sound like I’m laying this out for him to look at and think over, and that I could walk away if he says no. “If you want to give it, that is,” I can say, after a bit. “If you don’t, I’ll take you up on that coffee and stop pestering you about it. And I guess I should ask if there’s something I could do to keep from reminding you of her?”

[docconstantine.livejournal.com]

Oh for fucks sake he's not going to let me walk away from this, is he? Lay's it out all nice and neat, tells me I can basically do what I want to him. That's quite an offer... one that I am not sure I am able to turn down.

“I can take a lot.” My smile quirks up, just a little. There's a lewd comment to be made here, I am sure of it. “If you want to give it, that is. If you don’t, I’ll take you up on that coffee and stop pestering you about it. And I guess I should ask if there’s something I could do to keep from reminding you of her?”

He's giving us an out, both of us, so close to begging but trying to be casual and that damn offer hangs in the air.

"Doubt it... if you're not reminding me of her, you are making me think how much she'd love to have you for a night or two." I sigh, shaking my head. "She has a taste for submissive men."

Take a moment to try and think but fuck, if I can't get past this room and his eagerness. "Not looking for a relationship, am I understood?" I ask softly, then grab his hair and throw him towards the exam table. "Strip. I want to see what I am being offered." I say flatly, crossing my arms again and leaning against the table.

ooc: sent you a pm

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

Listening to him talk about his fiancée does make me want to meet her, but I shove that thought aside as foolishness when I’ve got this man standing in front of me. The way he’s half-smiling makes me thing he’s going to take me up on my offer, and I try to get my head around that thought again. He says something about not looking for a relationship, and I’m opening my mouth to agree when he grabs my hair and shoves me back against the table, hard enough to hurt and give me an idea of just how strong he is.

I’m just getting my balance back when he tells me to strip in a tone that says he could care less, but I’d better make it fast if I want anything. God, yes. I put my head up and look him in the eye, fingers working down the buttons of my shirt as fast as they can. Shrug it off, fold it, and lay it behind me. “Not many limits doesn’t mean none, sir,” I tell him, quiet but firm. “No knives or needles, no shit, and don’t pull my hair again. With respect, sir. And my safeword’s cinnamon. Please remember it.” Either what I’m saying or the way I’m saying it is bound to make him angrier, but it needed to be said before we got into things.

I bend over and start working at my boot with shaking fingers, praying that this is not the morning the laces pick to snap or stick. It’s not, thank God, and I get them off and my socks without making a fool of myself. I set them behind me and straighten up, keeping my head down, though, and I start working at my pants. Push them down, with my shorts, and step out of them.

Fold them up, then think to pull the belt out. I set the pants with my shirt and drop to my knees with as much grace as I can muster, folding the belt up in quarters. It’s a good, thick leather belt with a heavy buckle that used to belong to my father, and I know what it feels like very, very well. I sit back on my heels and offer it up to him with my head bowed, just waiting to see what he wants of me next.

[docconstantine.livejournal.com]

He lays out what he doesn't like, and I can't help but sigh a little at the no hair pulling thing. Damn. Full head of hair, what a waste.

"Cinnamon?" I say, quirking an eyebrow as he strips. "Fine, remembered."

Jarmyn strips down, and I have to admit, he's not bad or all the ink. None of the lean, pale, grace of Dorian, nor the familiarity of Tez, but a fine cut of a man. My cock likes what I'm seeing...

but something's not quite clicking in my head. I push the thought aside and take the belt he's offering me. It's got a weight to it, and I test it, snapping it against my hand. Nice sting.

"Stand up, turn around, and bend over the table." I instruct, and when he does as I comply, I kick his feet apart further. He grabs the edges of the table, and I wait for a few moments, to let the anticipation build...

then swing my arm hard and catch him right across the ass with the doubled up belt, buckle in my hand. He jumps and gasps, and I smile at the sound. The area immediately blooms a bright red welt.

"You will could out the blows." I say flatly, walking back and forth a bit. "I will go to twenty. You call out the safety, I stop, but we're done. You miss a number, I start all over from the beginning. Understood?"

Once he gives his answer, I swing my arm and catch him across the backs of his thighs. And I wait for the number...

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

He takes the belt from me, and I hear the snap as he tries it out. The sound makes me shiver. He leaves me on my knees a moment, and then orders me up and over the table. Which is what I was expecting, but getting to my feet seems a lot harder than it should. I’m out of practice, and God, do I need this. I lift my head as I stand, careful not to look him in the eye, and turn around.

He can see I’m hard, can see all of me and hasn’t said a word about what he thinks of any of it. The only comment he makes is to spread my feet farther apart. Suddenly it’s very important for me to know if he likes what he sees, but he hasn’t given me permission to speak. He hasn’t told me not to, either, but it’s even more important to me that I not disappoint him. So I just bend over like he’s ordered, rising up on my toes a bit to make sure I present a good target.

He lets me wait a while, of course, lets the feeling of being displayed and vulnerable sink in fully. I just put my head to one side and concentrate on watching one hand where it grasps the edge of the table. I know what’s coming, and I know what that belt feels like, but it still catches me off guard when he cracks it down at what feels like full strength. Thank God he didn’t start with the buckle. I’d rather not bleed this early into things. It’s the noise that hits me first, before the pain, and I know better than to tense, but I can’t help it. I gasp and come up on my toes, feeling the heat of it spread all over my ass.

I’m about to open my mouth and thank him when he starts telling me to count and the number, and thank God, he’s giving me rules. I can do this. I take a breath to calm myself down enough to speak. “Yes, sir, understood.” He doesn’t answer, so I know what’s coming and try to just relax. There’s nothing I can do except take it, and if he’s doing this for, the least I can do is take it well.

He aims lower this time, and the stripe of sharp warmth spreads across my thighs, feeling like its cut me to the bone. “One, sir,” I gasp, and then have a thought. “Or two?” I ask, and then curse myself. “Sorry, sir.” But I’ve gone and fucked it up now.

[docconstantine.livejournal.com]

“One, sir... Or two?”

I grin and shake my head. Oh, I think he's out of practice. Wanda would destroy him. He apologizes, but it's too late now.

"Oh, I think we can make sure of that. Start over." I growl, and I bring my arm down across his ass with everything I've got. He gasps out the number, and I nod again, running my hand down his back. "Good boy." I all but purr in his hear. Hit him again, at a slightly different angle, but not as hard. He calls the blow, and I continue, my arm swings and connects, and he calls out a number...

[jaeresteade.livejournal.com]

He makes me start over, like I thought he would, but at least he doesn’t add any more. My ass is throbbing already, but the thought that I’ve probably disappointed him hurts more. He gives me a minute to feel wretched before he begins again, harder than before, though that shouldn’t be possible. The blow gets me up on my toes and hissing, and I’ve barely forced myself to say the number and come back down when I feel his hand on my back and his voice in my ear. A scrap of praise that just leaves me wanting more. I can do this, for him. I will do this.

Another blow, and maybe it’s my imagination, but it doesn’t feel as hard. I don’t forget to count this one properly, and then he lets me have another. The sting is sort of piling up, becoming too much, and then bleeding out, feeling like the moment after you touch a coal, only stretched out for minutes. Each new stroke spreads it a bit more, but he’s going slowly enough that I can find some rhythm in the haze of pain. A strike, a count, a little pause to let me feel it completely and just start absorbing it, and then another strike. Toward the end, only the noise jars me, and the blows just lap up on one another like waves hitting the beach. I know he must be working his way from the top of my ass nearly to my knees, because all of that’s on fire, but I couldn’t tell you exactly where each one hits each time.

I tense for the next one, but the rhythm’s broken. No noise, no spike on top of it all, just the base of heated soreness that he’s built up. I try to remember the last number out of my mouth. Was it twenty? Must have been. I lick my lips and say thank you, adding a ‘sir’ for good measure. I stay down, though, waiting to see what he wants of me next.

[docconstantine.livejournal.com]

(con't below)