#dom meme

“I bet that hurt good, didn’t it darling?” Petyr says, still stroking the tops of her arse.  “You know why I needed to do it.”

“Yes, Father,” she says, still reeling from his kiss, and the heady taste of herself in his mouth. “I needed to learn a lesson.” 

“You did, sweet one,” Petyr says, and he kneels in front of her again. 

Her heartbeat quickens at that. 

“Father?” She asks, not daring to hope. 

“I’ll always take care of you, Alayne,” Petyr says soothingly, and oh that should not make her heart race the way it does.

But then he’s pressing his tongue inside her, rubbing circles on her clit with his thumb. 

She knows she’s being loud, can hear herself mewling, but she can’t bring herself to care. His tongue feels so good on her, the pressure on her clit better than anything the Seven Heavens can offer. 

He moves his tongue to her clit, quick flicks, just the way she likes, and she’s gone, stars exploding in her vision, some shrill, wild sound escaping her lips. 

When she comes to herself, Petyr is standing before her, smiling down at her, a smile so warm and loving, Sansa could melt into it. 

“There’s my sweetling,” he says. “My sweet girl who always does the right thing.” 

She nods, eager to please, happy to be back in his good graces. 

He tilts his hips forward casually, and it’s then she notices the bulge in his breeches, a wet spot beginning to form near a the front. She’s fascinated by it. 

“May I, Father?” She asks, but he is already doing the laces, pulling out his cock, this time already hard. 

“May you what?” He asks, but he’s smiling now, not at all annoyed with her. 

“May I use my mouth?” She says, and smiles at him, so brightly. He always told her how he loved her smile. 

He chuckles. 

“I’m so proud of you,” Petyr says, when he’s righted his clothing, caught his breath. 

Sansa is still on the floor, arse in the air, covered in his come. Her skin is still blisteringly hot, and the cool of the floor and the rushes is welcoming. 

“It takes a wise woman to own her mistakes and take her punishment,” Petyr says, and she lets the warmth in his voice wash over her. “You’ve done so well, Alayne.” 

She lets herself smile where she is, and when Petyr comes and lifts her up, places her in his heavy chair, and lets her curl up, the smile widens.

He fixes her with a stern look, and the smile drops immediately from her face.

“Now, what do you say, Alayne?” Petyr says firmly, eyes never leaving her face. 

“I’m sorry, Father,” she says, contrite. She is, truly. “It will never happen again.” 

What will never happen again, Alayne?” Petyr says, exasperated by her vagueness. 

“I will never expose myself to Harry again,” she says. “To anyone,” she adds as an afterthought. She wants to say except you, but she doesn’t. 

Petyr nods at her. 

“Good, Alayne. These are important things to learn, before it is too late. We can’t have our plans being ruined, can we?” 

“No, Father,” she says earnestly, happy to have earned his praise again. 

“Good girl,” he says again. “You’ve earned a reward, I think, for taking your punishment so well, and apologizing so sweetly.” 

Sansa beams up at him.

“A reward?” 

“Of your choosing, sweetling. What will it be?” 

She thinks about it. Ask for too much and he’d deny her. Ask for too little, and he’d be disappointed. She desperately wants to ask him to let her come, but he’d call her wanton, spank her again. 

She thinks of the lessons he’s taught her. When a man offers you something, ask for what he wants. 

“Might I have a kiss, Father? So I know that you forgive me?” 

Petyr smiles, and she knows she has chosen correctly. He leans down and lets his face hover millimeters away from hers, but he doesn’t close the gap. 

Before she can wonder if he means for her to stretch forward, he whispers, his minty breath tickling her lips.

“Where shall I kiss my sweet Alayne?” He asks, smile teasing the corners of his mouth. 

“My lips,” she says, and realizes a moment later what he is getting at. 

“Which lips?” Petyr asks, smiling truly now. “Both pairs are so lovely pink, and parted, and glistening wet.”

She blushes at that. She should have known that he’d immediately notice how wet she remained. He noticed everything about her. 

“You choose, Father,” she tells him, shyly. He smiles at her again, real warmth this time, and kneels on the floor in front of her chair. 

He spreads her legs wide and tugs her forward so that she sits at the edge of the seat. 

He places the most delicate of kisses to her nether lips, tongue just barely brushing against her for a taste, but that alone sends a jolt of electricity up her spine, and her nipples harden again. 

“Is that a good enough kiss, sweetling?” Petyr asks, looking up at her from between her legs. “It’s how you kiss me, when I ask it of you.” 

“No, Father,” she says, and ducks her head. “I’m sorry,” she adds. 

“I will show you how I want to be kissed,” he says, each word tickling her cunt. “And I expect you to remember.”

“Yes, Father,” she says, always the eager student.  

He leans forward and presses a kiss to her clit, slowly. She feels his lips part slowly, his tongue sweeping out over her clit, moving down, darting into her center.

It feels so good, Sansa cannot help the moan that escapes her. 

He raises up again. Leans his face into hers. 

“Show me what you’ve learned,” he says, lowering his hand to stroke over the flesh of her thighs, the bottoms of her arse cheeks. The skin there is still tender. She hisses, but leans up, presses her lips to his, before opening her mouth and pressing her tongue against his. 

She can taste herself on his tongue, and finds it intoxicating. 

“Do you want this, sweetling? Petyr says, shifting his hips just so, letting the tip of his cock press in a centimeter more. “Why don’t you beg for it, hm?”

He’s left her like that, on her hands and knees, for what feels like hours. Her arms tremble with the weight of holding her up and steady. She wants nothing more than to sink down, let her arse rise up into the air, feel Petyr’s cock moving steadily in and out of her. 

“Please,” she whispers, voice hoarse. “Please.” 

“Please what, Alayne,” Petyr says sharps, and delivers another sharp spank to her arse. “Use your words.” 

“P-p-lease fuck me,” she says, and waits, expecting to feel his cock sliding, his hands pulling her hips so that he might be fully sheathed in her. Instead, he sighs again, and she feels another stinging blow to her arse. 

“Such a vulgar word, Alayne, used in so many contexts till it has lost all meaning. Why I could fuck you by leaving you here for Ser Harry to find. Or Lord Royce. Is that what you want me to do?” 

“No, Father,” she says, urgently, immediately.

“Then tell me what you want me to do, Alayne,” he says, voice not even strained, as though he could do this all day. She envies him. 

“Please,” she says, almost a moan now. “Put your cock in me. Put it in all the way, I want all of you inside me.” 

“As you wish,” he says, as he pushes forward, and grabs her hips to pull her back. 

He is buried in her, she can feel his balls resting against her arse, but he doesn’t move again. Doesn’t pull back out, slide in again. He just fills her up, and stops. 

“This is what you asked for,” he says mildly, but there’s a little catch in his throat, and Sansa feels something akin to triumph.

“Please move,” she says, and the words flow from her tongue easier now. “Back and forth, in and out, hard, and fast, until you come.” 

“Good girl,” he tells her, and begins to move in earnest, hard and fast, just as she’d asked. The force of his thrusts causes her arms to give out, and she sinks to the floor, arse up in the air. 

It doesn’t break his stride. 

He seems impossibly deep within her now. On each stroke he pulls nearly all the way out, before slamming back in. The slap of his balls against her skin echoes in the room, as does the squelch of her wetness. 

It’s obscene.

She can’t stop moaning. 

“Where shall I come, Alayne?” He asks, breathlessly now, and she knows he’s close, so close. 

“Anywhere it please you,” she moans out, and she feels him pull out, and then the warmth of his come coating her ass. He wipes his cock off against her skin, and she hears him begin to right his clothing. 

“Stay there, sweetling,” he says, as though she had any strength in her left to stand. He knows he’s left her aching, clit throbbing, no release in sight. 

“Why don’t you move your hips for me, hm?” Petyr murmurs, coming up behind her, arranging her so that she on all fours on the floor. The rushes over the floor bore into her knees and the tender skin of her palms. 

“Back and forth, just so,” Petyr says, guiding her at first, and then letting go, sitting back, watching her from behind. 

It feels strange, having him just watch her, miming these motions. Is he imagining Ser Harry behind her? Himself? She doesn’t know which she prefers. 

She glances over her shoulder, desperate to see his face, and he tsks again, and slithers gracefully from the chair to stand behind her. She knows he’s going to spank her before he does.

“Insolent girl,” he says, as his palm strikes her still stinging flesh. “Who told you to turn around?” 

She bites her bottom lip, continues moving her hips back and forth as he had instructed her. She can feel his eyes on her, roving over her hair, her back, coming to rest on her slit, pink, and swollen, and weeping, visible from behind. 

She hears him lower himself behind her, and suddenly his hot, hard cock is pressed against her entrance. His hands on her hips still her movements and she can feel the tip of his cock just barely pressing into her.

She trembles, remembering the first time he had taken her. He’d pulled her onto his lap, facing away from him, lifted her, held her just above the tip of his cock. “There will be pain,” he had said, stroking lightly over her clit. “If you’re a good girl, it will be brief. If not...” 

He’d made her sink down on his cock slowly, so that she might feel every inch breaching her, until he was fully seated within her. Her legs had been splayed so wide over his lap, so indecently, if she looked down she could see the pink of her cunt where it had been stretched tight around his cock. She had seen the red of her Maiden’s blood around him each time he’d lifted her up and brought her back down again. 

Sansa wonders how it will feel now, like this with him behind her, the way a dog mounts a bitch. 

He doesn’t move though, just stays there so that she can feel him, just at her entrance, a reminder. 

He reaches around, tweaks her nipple again. 

“You would have given Ser Harry an inch,” he says, pinching the nipple tightly between his fingers, ignoring the way she hisses, “and he would have taken a mile.” 

He presses forward, a minuscule amount, and she can feel her nether lips begin to part around him, when he stops again. 

“He’d have pulled you back onto his cock without a thought for your comfort. He would not have cared how wet you were, whether you came or not.” 

Petyr sighs wearily. 

“Give a man an inch,” he says, “and he’ll always want to take the mile.” 

“Yes, Father,” she says, nodding, waiting for Petyr to take his mile. She’s already given him so many inches. 

ariannenymerosmartell asked:

Someone else asked for "What a pretty blush," if you want to pick another!

Okay! How about, "You look so good with your lips stretched around me like that.“

“You look so good with your lips stretched around me like that,” Petyr all but purrs when her mouth opens in an ‘O’ of surprise when he pushes her back over the desk. 

He crosses now to the other side and caresses her face, thumb brushing over her lips, other fingers holding her jaw in place. 

“This is what Ser Harry wanted, you know,” he says conversationally, as he undoes the laces of his breeches and frees his cock. 

It’s not even hard yet, not fully, and Sansa has just a moment to marvel at his control before he’s leaning forward and pushing it into her mouth. 

She’s only done this to him a few times before. Usually it’s the other way around; his mouth sealed over her clit, licking and sucking until she’s moaning his name like a prayer. 

“You cannot seem too practiced when Harry takes you to bride,” is what he says, when she tries to coax him into her, into any part of her. 

But tonight, he’s unconcerned about that, as he tangles a fist in her hair, and guides her head up and down his cock. 

It feels strange as it grows in her mouth, each time he pushes her head away and pulls her back there’s more length of him to swallow, until he pushes her head all the way down, and she can fill the tip of his cock brushing her throat. 

She struggles to breathe, tries not to gag, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. She brings her hand up to grip the base of him, to pull herself back a little, but he swats her hand away. She knows it’s only seconds, but it seems like hours before he releases her, but only a little, tip of his cock still in her mouth. 

“See how desperately you want to touch, sweetling? The minute Ser Harry started palming those teats, you’d have been reaching for his cock.” 

She shakes her head around his dick, and he sighs, pushes her back down, his cock in her throat again. 

“You know how I feel about lies, Alayne,” he says, holding her head in place, thrusting his hips slightly.

He finally looses, allows her to pull off, and she gasps greedily for air. 

“I swear to all the gods, I would not have touched him!” she says, voice hoarse.

Petyr smirks at her. 

“But you admit you wanted him to touch you?”

She hadn’t, not initially, not really, but then Harry had started kissing her neck, and his arms around her waist had felt good; strong and sure. 

“Yes, father,” she says, quietly. She opens her mouth obediently, thinking pliant, repentant is the way he wants her. She’s sure he’s bound to pull her hair again, make her take him all the way down into her throat. 

He doesn’t. 

“What a pretty blush,” Petyr says mildly, circling her slowly. 

The flush of color has spread from her face to the rest of her body, coloring her chest, and she’s sure, her back. She curses her fair coloring, curses her inability to control herself the way he can. 

Dinner had been a horrid affair. Even after changing the throb between her legs had not abated, and she spent most of the meal squirming to alleviate some of that pressure, She squirmed too, thinking of the way Petyr’s eyes had narrowed with the promise of her continued punishment. 

Lord Royce had not noticed her discomfort, and if Myranda did, she gave no outward sign of it. Dinner had carried on as normal, longer than normal even, to the point where she suspected that Petyr had prolonged it on purpose. 

He hadn’t even sent for her until long after the hour of the wolf, long after she ought to have been sleeping. How could he know that she would stay awake, waiting for him? How could he know that he had trained her so well? 

He summons her to his chambers and tells her to undress. “All the way, sweetling,” when she’d stopped at her small clothes, and he circles her naked form the way Lady had circled her prey. 

She shivers. 

“Were you cold when you exposed yourself to Ser Harry?” Petyr asks, and she closes her eyes, and curses herself for being so stupid. If she’d just said no…

“I asked you a question, Alayne,” he says, and without warning brings  the flat of his palm down on her left arse cheek. It stings, and she cries out, a startled shriek that echoes off the stone floor. 

Petyr chuckles. 

“That shriek isn’t an answer, Alayne,” he says, and brings his hand down again, this time on the right, and she has to bite her lip from crying out. 

“N-no,” she stammers out.

“Were you excited at the thought of him warming your skin in his hands?” 

His hand comes down again on the left, then quickly again on the right, the skin stinging and burning. 

“No,” she affirms again. “I said he couldn’t touch.”

His hand comes down again, right and left, left and right, in quick succession.

“How might you have stopped him, sweetling, had he reached out those rough hands and grabbed your teats?” 

He steps up behind her and cups her breasts in his palms, pinching her nipples again. She struggles not to arch into his touch, to prove him wrong, to prove that she could pull away if Harry had dared touch her.

He pinches her hard then, both nipples at once, and she shrieks again, body involuntarily jerking forward, and Petyr tsks in her ear. 

“You wanted him to touch,” he sing-songs, and spins her around suddenly, moves her so that she is bent over his desk. 

His palm falls faster now, harder than ever, falling on the tops of her arse cheeks, the tops of her thighs, dead center, where she feels it on her cunt. There is wetness dripping down her thighs, and she knows it isn’t blood.

Shame flares in her, about Harry, about being bent over the desk, about the wetness dripping down her thighs and pooling in her center. 

Each slap he gives stings, and she’s lost count of the number now, but she feels the heat coming off her skin, knows her arse must be a red collection of hand prints. 

He stops suddenly and she can hear the smile in his voice when he sighs, “What a pretty blush.”