Alternate Realities

NSFW, BDSM Marecal

Warning: what follows is a sexually explicit description of BDSM Fem-dom. If you're not interested in explicit or kinky material, skip.

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"Were you at the mess between one and two?" Mare sunk into the bed, her fingertips walked up his spine. He murmured. Goose bumps prickled. "What was that? So I can hear you." Her nails sliced along his shoulder blade, soft indentations just shy of making welts.

"Yes, ma'am," Cal enunciated and bit his lip.

"Weren't you scheduled to be at the General's briefing?" Cal's breathing increased, his flesh warmed. The white walls glowed soft purple. He pulled on the ropes that secured his wrists. She let her fingers walk.

"Ah! Oh!" He shuddered.

"Use your words, Cal." She let sparks connect and pull. His trapezius contracted. He gargled sounds. She let her palm sooth his skin and asked again. "Weren't you scheduled for the General's briefing?"

This time, no hesitation, "Yes, ma'am." He took a deep breath and let it out, relaxing arms that had been pulling hard without his realizing it.

Mare mounted his body, sitting astride his thighs and gave him the break he needed. She dripped oil onto his skin and pushed into his flesh. He moaned. He squirmed. She waited until she saw his hands testing his restraints.

"Skipping meetings?" Shock, zap, surge. She punctuated her massage with small currents. He whimpered. "And what's this week's punishment for skipping meetings?"

"Mark me," he huffed.

She stopped, sat up. She killed the pulse on the surface of her skin.

"Please? Mark me," his insistent voice lacked a tremor of fear or reticent waffling.

"Cal..."

"Do it. Mark me as yours. Mark me."

In their face off, when they'd landed in heaps in a draw, she'd left crackling branches under his skin. The healer wiped him clean, no evidence of her anywhere to be found. It was weeks into their bedroom games when he first admitted he wanted those sparks back. She resisted.

Marks made in anger or competition... One thing. Marks made in lust... Another. Marks made permanent and purposefully, on command, marks that came from trust as much as lust... Something wholly different.

"Please? Mark me, make me yours." And behind it all: claim me, love me, choose me.

Mare connected freckles and bruises with her index finger, her heart weighing in her head. What was permanence when you had skin healers? What was choice to a prince? What was love to a girl always destined for war? He shifted under her, a powerful, hulking man of muscle asking her... her... to choose him.

She set her finger on his shoulder blade and felt more than saw the charge. His body tensed, he shook in anticipation. She increased. The light arched. She waited for him to say stop, but he only moaned soft and deep. She pulled more from the walls and the wires. His breath twisted erratic. His muscles seized. A crisp line slipped through his skin and sliced a path. Another finger, another branch. And another. Then another. A string of strikes up his shoulder. A burst to make them deep. And then darkness.

His hot, aching body twitched in rapturous ecstasy. And her hands could scarcely remove the straps fast enough to quench her own needs.

Untethered, he rolled and she let him twist between her legs. He was instant affection, calming her piercing need into a low, thrumming want. Warm hands up her thighs. Hot fingers pulled her shoulders down until she folded chest to chest. And then strong shoulders and big arms around her. Eager, but relaxed hips jostled up at random, comforting intervals.

His lips kissed her ear and temple and pushed her face so he could have her lips. She slipped him tongue and felt the throaty sigh all along her torso. Another bump from his hips followed by a directing push of his hand.

But that wasn't the game he asked for.

Mare's hand pushed down on his shoulder, breaking herself free of his embrace. His hand tried again, nudging her side. She dragged his arm back to the restraint.

"You think you're done?" Her tone lowered, his body tensed. He let her shackle his hands back to the bed.

Purple glowed on her fingertips. In the pitch black, she painted with light. She danced goose bumps onto his chest. Tickled jerking shakes from his nipples. Forced involuntary hunting swings from his hips. With the tip of her tongue she wrote her name under his belly button.

"Oh, jeez, Mare... Fuck," he panted. His back arched.

Her hand palmed his inner thigh and zinged a shock. He yelped. "Shh," she reminded him.

She left him wanting. She let current trail up his body as she sidled up. Her first knee didn't even get to his shoulder before his nipping teeth tugged at her thigh. He sucked small, slow bruises, working his way to her center. And then he mutinied.

Cal licked and sucked and pulled in all the teasing ways without ever touching her clit. She dug hands into his hair but could not force him to cooperate. She sent a warning zap into his side and he connected for a moment, too brief. Another zap, another quick then evasive application.

She grabbed him and he curled.

"Not there. Not there."

She let a low current pulse slip out her fingers and he moaned into her, lavishing her exactly where she needed. She stroked him and pulsed him, his hips curled up to meet her hand and he murmured, "Not there." The idle words of his fantasy lulling between gasps of affirmative pleasure.

When she peaked, she dropped him and pressed him until she finished. And then she slid off him. Toweling sweat and fluids off, listening to him groan unfulfilled in the dark.

"Are you ready, yet?" she asked.

"Yes," he gasped.

But he didn't use his target word, just like he had yet to use his safe word. Mare's eyebrow quirked up, even though he wasn't able to see. Her mind spun with ideas. Slow, methodical tortures. Combinations. Deprivations. A puzzle to play until he said, "Unlock" or until he whimpered, "Marble rye."