Cottony Fresh Water. Clive. tags: spice beneath the cut, femdom, riding, soft for the lovely @kianaflame23
There is heaven in this home, which sways above the lake waters like reeds at shoreline. There is heaven in the bedroom. Watery, cloud-filtered light peeks in through a thin gap in the curtains.
The gaps between the planks of the walls were padded with thick insulation months ago, at your behest. It’s dim inside, but it feels nicer, this way. Less exposed. In the shade you find shelter from the prying glare of the midday sun.
Clive’s cornflower eyes almost glow in the dark, half-lidded. His face has grown lax, caught in hazy half-sleep. He’s been lulled by the warmth of your body, curled next to him, and your hands, which stroke up and down his sides. The air is suffused with his scent, all warm skin and masculinity. Fresh from a bath. The edges of his wet hair fan out on his pillow.
He had redressed after washing. For nothing, in the end. As soon as he returned to your shared chambers, you’d all but clawed the shirt off of him, wrangling him into bed in a whirlwind of impatience and desperate need to feel your skin pressed against his own. He had obeyed with wry amusement once he overcame the initial surprise, both falling into bed and allowing himself to be arranged to your liking. A simple, easy obedience that goes to your head, the more you think about it.
Your fingers comb through the dark strands of his hair, idly toying with the ends.
“Tired?” you ask, smoothing your palm his stomach, savoring the way the bunched muscle tenses.
“Content,” Clive corrects you, his voice a low rumble. Despite his insistence otherwise, he looks to be hovering between sleep and wakefulness. Moments like these make you endlessly grateful for the Hideaway’s steady, stable existence. Rarely could he get such sound rest on the road.
“Good,” you hum, pressing your lips to the round of his shoulder. A first, innocuous peck followed by another at the crook of his neck, and a third at the base. He sighs and shifts beneath you, all splayed out and loose and relaxed, watching you through half-lidded eyes. He’s somehow sunk further into the sheets, head tilted back to provide you more room. Sweetly obedient as you crawl atop of him, a hand coming to rest right above his heart.
One of your knees sneaks in between his thighs, gentle lips spreading a line of kisses below the sharp line of his jaw. His stubble prickles at your skin. Diverting your path to the plush surface of his chest prompts him into further wakefulness.
“If you want me, all you have to do is ask for me,” Clive informs you. Underneath that surface statement lies the sentiment “Just say the world and I’ll take care of you–I’ll do all the work” which is charming and delightful, but over the course of your relationship you’ve come to crave a rarer taste.
“Oh, I’ll have you. Just be patient and lay back for me,” you say the words into his skin, unable to part from his living warmth for even a moment.
In your silken robe you slither down the length of his body and core him with the sweet succor of your love. Your kisses become love bites. Your tender caresses become adoring squeezes. The delicate cup of your hands around his heavy cock becomes an appraisal. He’s already hard in your barely-there grasp. He makes wispy little sounds, sighs and soft breaths and when you reach the tenderest parts of him–whimpers. His cock is throbbing in your grasp and his balls are heavy beneath your other hand as you steadily work him.
His body follows your ministrations, chasing his own pleasure with each self-indulgent roll of his hips. It doesn’t take him too long to work him to that point–the one that has him writhing and fisting the sheets. His expression is taut with pleasure, eyes shut and lips parted, skin flushed red all the way down to his shoulders.
When he finds he can no longer bear it, he reaches for you and the nightstand at the same time. “Wait–” he gasps, voice gone raspy with his pleasure, “‘M close–come here, let me–” His half-statement is punctuated by the sound of the drawer opening. You don’t need to look to see that he’s taken out the oil, lathering it across his fingers with less finesse than he would perhaps like.
Even with his currently limited vocabulary, you can tell what he wants. You scoot forward, straddling him with your knees. You hum in delight as his broad fingers pet through your wet folds. He spreads your slick across your waiting cunt. His fingers slip inside of you, petting at your velvet walls. He works you open with crooked fingers, calloused thumb rubbing at your clit with each slow pass.
Your toes curl and your head tilts back, eyes fluttering shut. He works you until the pleasure builds and collapses into your first orgasm. It’s not a breath-stealing, whiplash of feeling. It’s a gentle wave of sun-dappled feeling which laps at you from head-to-toe.
“Good?” he rumbles, unbearably tender.
A few breathless moments pass. His cock throbs, neglected, against your inner thigh. That’s what stirs you back into action–the realization that he’s not yet been fulfilled.
Your fingers curl around the base of his cock, angling his head towards your folds. The tip kisses your entrance, the beginnings of over-sensitivity playing across your weary nerves. He fills you hot and heavy, cock rutting against every inch of your throbbing insides. It’s not a single, bold push inside. He fucks himself in, inch-by-inch, and steals your weary pants with open-mouthed kisses. A soft, broken little sound leaves you as he reaches home, leaving you so delightfully full.
Your hands find his shoulders and push, sending him back down against the pillows. He looks up at you with fat pupils, a man in the midst of rapture.
“So good, Clive,” you murmur, “You’re so lovely for me.”
You hadn’t thought it possible, but he flushes even more beneath the praise.
You clench around him, hot and wet and tight–and then you start riding. One of your hands braces on his shoulder, the other on his slightly bent knee. Your eyes shut, your brows knitting together in fierce concentration as you grind. No matter how many times you take him, he feels impossibly big. The kind of big that almost makes you panic on the first thrust, the kind you feel in your throat.
He’s making soft little sounds underneath you. The entirety of him is flushed warm, blessed by both the Phoenix and the mighty Ifrit, but his palms are scalding where they find purchase on your hips. He restrains himself to the best of his ability, devoutly does his best to not to move you and grips hard enough to bruise in the process. An ache you’ll feel later, when you’re fucked out and fill of him.
“Let me move,” he gasps into the crook of your neck, lips scrubbing your skin. Goosebumps roll up your skin at the scratch of his stubble. “Please.” He sucks a smarting hickey onto your throat. hips giving an aborted little jump.
You coo mockingly at him. “You always do all the work, Clive,” you mumble, thighs flexing. “You must be tired. Just lay back and–oh!” You jolt as his calloused thumb flicks your swollen clit. The throbbing bundle of nerves grinds against his pelvis with each sluggish pass of your hips, sending molten sparks jittering up your spine.
“Let. Me,” Clive reiterates, but the desperate rasp he makes his demands in belies just how affected he is. You curl your legs back a little, lay your calves over his knees to make it even harder for him to get any purchase. Then, you press your foreheads together. There’s something molten, deadly determined in his iron stare.
“No,” you giggle, and ride him until you’re hitting that precious pleasure point. The tip of his cock strikes your G-spot, crackling your composure. A string of rapid curses and pitchy little noises rattles from your lips as you clench tight around him, tipping over the edge.
Clive, lost in the sweet grip of your spasming cunt, loses his inhibitions and bounces upwards a few times. It only takes a few, good strokes for him to reach his own climax. And then he’s spilling inside you, aimlessly mouthing at your collarbones and breathing in your scent.
It ends just like that. You, slumped bonelessly into the mattress and Clive with his arms braced around your waist, pulling you to his chest. Back to the position you’d started in. You fumble a hand up to his abdomen to stroke the skin there. Like you’re petting a particularly well-behaved hound.
“You did well.” you hum, and Clive snorts.
“I hardly did anything. I laid there limp as a fish,” Clive sasses, resentful of his perceived lack of participation. He doesn’t quite understand it. He wants to be of service. He wants to draw orgasms from you like water from an abundant spring thaw. His frustration is part of the game. You could tell him, but he might give you a bit of an attitude about that. And you’re not quite in the mood to argue with him.
“And you looked so good while doing it,” you mumble. He huffs, but brokers no further arguments. Instead, his big hand settles between your shoulder blades and rests there, simply content to hold you.
