maculategiraffe: (Default)
[personal profile] maculategiraffe
Hi, dudes and dudettes! (Er, do I have any dudes here, or is it just us chickens? I was just explaining to my third graders that while amicae meae means my-friends-who-are-all-girls, amici mei refers to my-friends-at-least-one-of-whom-is-a-boy, so which is it, friends?)

I've received two one-off requests from [livejournal.com profile] morgan_cian: Alix and Holden, and Alix and Greta. Oh, you read that right-- requests for het (between husband and wife, no less) and femslash, from my very own friendslist! Who would have thought from [livejournal.com profile] morgan_cian's own lovely Triumvirate and Black Rising stories, with their bounty of cavorting naked bishie slaveboys, that she harbored such bizarre perversions?

But [livejournal.com profile] rose_in_texas having already pointed out that Alix too rarely gets sexed onscreen, here I am, warning for het, and a warning for femslash may well be upcoming. If ladyparts ick you, though, stick with me-- [livejournal.com profile] wickhouse2005 reminded me I need to write a "typical" sex scene between just Jer and Holden at some point, set in the present day. And of course, the next chapter of Lee is upcoming at some point, which should, God willing and the creek don't rise, involve some actual plot. :)

Anyway, this scene is short and set in the present day (Lee-era) of the Branverse, and involves sex between










Alix sat at her vanity, laying hairpins methodically one by one on the glass-topped table as she held the heavy coil of her hair in place with one hand. The last pin out, she let the rope of hair fall; it struck her shoulder blades with a satisfying thump before untwisting and spilling itself around her.

"Let me brush it out for you," said Holden from the bed.

Alix turned and smiled at him. "You don't have to."

"I want to." Holden slid from the bed and came towards her, slowly, giving her time to look his naked body up and down, only the faintest curve of his lips showing that it was deliberate.

"You get to look at me, but I don't get to look at you?" he said when he reached her, laying his hands gently on her shoulders, covered by the silky cloth of the negligee she wore buttoned up to her throat.

She smiled again at his reflection in the mirror, handing him the hairbrush over her shoulder. "Later."

However innocent its intended use now, the brush, with its thick, round wooden handle and wide, flat back, had been put to too many other uses in that room for even Holden to accept it with perfect equanimity; a light flush colored his cheeks as he began at the roots of her hair and worked his way up, smoothing the thick, fraying rope out into a sheet of silver and gold. Alix watched her husband's face, intent on its task, in the mirror.

"You've got such a good touch," she said softly.

"Thanks to somebody's rigorous training," he smiled as the brush glided through her hair, her scalp prickling faintly.

"You were a natural talent." Alix closed her eyes at the sensation of the brush's blunt wooden bristles grazing her skull. "Remember how angry you got the first time I let Greta brush my hair?"

"Don't remind me." Holden ran a sensual hand through her hair, tugging just hard enough to make her catch her breath, then letting the locks fall slowly, strand by strand, from his fingers. "You want braids?"

"Not yet. Leave it loose." Alix reached back and caught at Holden's wrist, pulling him forward and down; he knelt compliantly by her chair and, his hand trembling very slightly, offered her the hairbrush. She accepted it, but laid it aside and slid her hand into his thick, silvering dark hair; sighing a little, he put his head down on her thigh.

"My beautiful boy," she said softly, and Holden chuckled.

"Only you could still call me that with a straight face," he said.

"It's what you are." Her fingers played with the short, soft hairs at the back of his neck. "Mine."

"Not disputing that." He nuzzled her thigh gently. "Just the 'boy' part. And maybe the 'beautiful.'"

"Don't be silly." She lifted his chin, smiling into his eyes. "What do you think I married you for? Your personality?"

He laughed. "No, no. I admit I was pretty then."

"Now you're just fishing for compliments," she said mock-sternly. "Well, I won't bite. You've got Bran to worship you. It's my job to keep you in line."

He hesitated, then dropped his head on her thigh again. "About that."

She stroked his hair. "Yes, love? Need some... realignment?"

"Don't need you to hurt me," he said into the silky cloth that covered her leg. "I mean, unless you want to. But-- you know how I get."

"I do," said Alix, her heart beating faster as it always did at the sight of the painful flush, the lovely awkwardness of his need.


"Tired." He looked up at her, resting his eyes on her face. "Take care of me?"

"Don't I always?" She lifted her hand, letting him see it raised before she slapped him lightly across the face. His cheeks were redder than the slap alone accounted for as he bowed his head again.

"Down," she said softly, and he took his hands from her thighs and laid them on the floor, bending deeply over her feet without quite touching them. "You may."

She felt his lips on her instep, warm and tentative. Lips first, then tongue, darting between the toes. She relaxed into her growing arousal, watching his dark head as he kissed her feet, stroking them gently with his fingertips, not moving them, not lifting his head to look at her.

At last she pulled one foot away, lifted it and placed it on his shoulder, pushing him back and away. He knelt quietly, eyes down, waiting, as she pushed up her dressing gown around her thighs and spread her legs at Holden's eye level. He shivered as he smelled her; he had told her once that after twenty years of marriage, he knew her body and her responses so well that when she moaned at a certain pitch he tasted, almost hallucinating, the flavor of the orgasm he knew she had reached.

She slid her hand between her legs, thumb on her clit, slipping two fingers inside, massaging herself gently. Holden's lips parted, his eyes wide with silent supplication, but he stayed where he was until she drew her fingers out and reached to let him suckle them softly, thoroughly, lapping up the taste of her.

"Please," he whispered, when she pulled her fingers away. "Let me--"

She nodded, and he moved forward, burying his face between her thighs, his tongue exploring her, probing carefully at first, as if entering unknown territory-- as if, she thought, her eyes falling shut as she smiled-- then gaining confidence and force, playing with her. She moaned softly to encourage him, feeling her orgasm build almost lazily, her pleasure in his skilled service like the pleasure she felt when, after a tiring and disorienting day spent manipulating others, she closed the door of her own house behind her, breathing a sigh of relief. Home.

He didn't pause when she came, and she let him bring her to a second climax before she pushed his head away, smiling into the flushed face that gleamed with her wetness; she tilted his face up by the chin and leaned down, delicate and fastidious as a cat, to lick his face clean, leaving his warm, hungry lips for last.

"On the bed," she said then, and he went without a word, knelt up, and watched her as she shrugged out of her dressing gown, her hair falling around her like a cape. She saw his eyes catch on her scar, but that was a shame worn almost too thin by time to notice, and cast only a faint shadow of pain on her pleasure in being looked at as she came to him. She lay down on her back and held out her arms; when he had crawled closer, she took his shoulders and hips and positioned him till he was straddling her body, his hands cupping her breasts, his erection pressing against her clitoris, dark eyes fixed on her face.

"You're going to fuck me," she told him, and felt his cock pulse against her as she added, "and I'll tell you when you're done."

As his cock slid into her, she kept her eyes locked on his face, almost too familiar and beloved for her to read, and her ears cocked for his sounds, enjoying his small whimpering cries as she moved luxuriously towards another climax. When she reached it, her vaginal muscles spasmed hard, squeezing his cock; he gasped with the pleasure of it and she knew his cock was already aching for release. He slowed his thrusts almost imperceptibly, and she clamped down again, this time deliberately.

"Faster," she said gently, and rewarded his obedience by loosening her hold; he was sweating and biting his lip, and her sadistic relish of his plight only enhanced the sensation of his thrusts, his perfect rhythm. Once he would have been begging her to let him come by now, but after twenty years he knew better. She smiled and dug her nails into his back, and he trembled.

At length she arched and moaned and spasmed one last time, and as tears of agony spilled from his eyes and mingled with the sweat, she said, "Stop."

He stopped thrusting, and she could feel him shaking, still hard as a rock inside her, barely able to get his breath.

"Stand up," she ordered, and he pulled himself from her with a gasp and nearly fell off the edge of the bed, his face naked with pain and need, before shakily standing, his head down.

She got up lazily, knelt in front of him, lifted his cock-- so hard that every vein stood out in sharp relief, drops of moisture leaking from its tip-- and took it into her mouth. He was absolutely still, but a strangled, tortured sound from deep in his throat told her he was on the edge of physical inability to continue to resist.

She licked once more, daintily, from root to tip before she dropped his cock from her mouth and stood up. He was trembling again, as she had known he would be. Placing her hands lightly on his tense shoulders, she leaned forward and nibbled her way up his throat before standing on tiptoe to whisper in his ear, "You may."

She didn't wait for him to take this in before dropping to her knees and taking him in her mouth again, sliding her lips and tongue lasciviously over his erection. It was several moments before his body could register the permission, and when he did come he cried out as if the sound had been torn from his throat. Alix swallowed easily and kept on sucking and stroking until he stumbled backwards and collapsed to his knees, gasping for breath. She moved forward a little and held out her arms, and he fell forward into her lap, hands clutching her arms, head resting on her shoulder; she stroked his back soothingly.

"Thank you," he whispered.

"Thank you, dearest," said Alix, still stroking him. "That was perfect. You were perfect."

"Love--" He cleared his throat. "Love to be good for you."

"You always are." She kissed his damp hair. "My darling boy."

His arms came further around her, touching her back, tangling in her long, loose hair, and he looked up, smiling. "Should have let me braid it. Your hair's a mess."

"Is it?" She leaned down to kiss him lingeringly on the lips. "Pity. I guess you'll just have to brush it out again."

Profile

maculategiraffe: (Default)
maculategiraffe

May 2011

S M T W T F S
123456 7
8 91011121314
15161718192021
22232425262728
293031    

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jul. 17th, 2025 01:46 am
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios