#widowmetra

@harlequill

Widowmetra, established relationship, bondage.

“How is it, minette?”

Satya rolls her shoulders and tugs on the bindings circling her wrists. The silk rope is gentle against her skin, and it isn’t tied harshly enough to dig in. Still, the restraints are firm, offering little movement away from the headboard where the ties fasten. If forced to remain like this for too long, undoubtedly it will be uncomfortable. But for now, it is pleasant.

“Fine,” she says.

A cool hand strokes down her abdomen and comes to rest on her bare hip. She feels Amélie’s hair brush against her neck and breasts, soft as silk, as the other woman leans in.

“You’re sure? You are comfortable?”

She nods.

“Your legs?”

“I can—oh—I can manage it.” Her words are interrupted when Amélie’s gentle fingers caress one of her stiff nipples, rolling it in torturous circles. With the blindfold covering her eyes, each sensation is unexpected and that much more intense.

“You will tell me the moment you wish to stop? The moment you do not feel safe?”

Satya smiles. The concern is evident. Neither of them wish for a repeat of the last time, when she’d panicked and fought the ropes, resulting in a sprained shoulder and ugly bruises around her wrists. But tonight she is calmer and knows what to expect. She is safe. She will let this spider spin her up in her silken cocoon. Perhaps she will even be amenable to being devoured.

“I will. I promise, Amélie.”

The other woman’s weight lessens as she pulls back. Satya can sort of follow her motions based on how the bed shifts under them. The cool hands next alight on her ankles. There is something worshipful in how slowly Amélie pulls them apart. Satya knows she’s wet, but the feeling of cool air between her thighs still startles her. She sucks in a slow breath through her teeth. She can see nothing, but Amélie can see everything. Perhaps this should ashame her. Probably it should not further arouse her.

But it does, it does.

Amélie’s fingers are skilled with the rope. The bed is narrow, and she spreads Satya’s legs until she can affix a foot to either end. A moment later her work is done. Satya is trussed, hand and foot. The feeling is oddly liberating. Her body is no longer under her control, no longer something to be worried about. But the aching pulse of her clit feels all the more urgent now that she cannot rub against her own legs, cannot find any friction in the sheets.

Amélie joins her once again, pressing their bodies together. Her skin is cool and very pleasant. Her fingers alight under Satya’s chin and then they are kissing. Satya opens her mouth and lets Amélie’s tongue slide against hers. She doesn’t have to think about what her hands or legs are doing. There is just this, just the point of contact between them.

“You are still fine, Satya?” Amélie asks when they pull apart. Her hand comes to rest on Satya’s stomach, rising and falling as she breathes. It does not venture lower. Satya wants it to, needs it to—

“Quite fine,” she says. Hopefully Amélie will recognize her furrowed brow and strained voice as stemming from a different sort of discomfort than that she inquires after.

The sniper does, if her low chuckle is any indication. Then her hand is mercifully moving down, and her fingers are sliding between Satya’s sensitive lips and petting her clit.

Satya’s breath catches in her chest. She arches her back and pulls on the ropes, chasing the touch.