Silent

She rarely restrains him, because she knows he longs for that. So she saves it for special occasions, for rewards. Instead, she simply relies on his discipline: a soldier’s discipline.

He kneels in front of her, hands behind his back, eyes on the floor, humbly. She’s kept him on his knees for a long time now and she smiles to herself, knowing that tomorrow his quads will be sore from kneeling, and he’ll enjoy that.

She never dresses for this, not as such. Costumes strike her as silly and are beyond their means anyway. Instead, she wears skin-tight, cotton things that hug her skin and emphasize her sylph-like figure. She hooks her thumb in first one black spaghetti strap, pulling it down over a narrow shoulder, then another.

Stepping forward, she gently guides his head to her breasts. He runs a warm, wet tongue over them obediently. He knows her nipples are too sensitive for much direct contact so he carefully traces around each of one as he laves her smooth, pale skin. She runs strong hands over his muscular shoulders, her slender fingers pushing a bead of sweat across them.

Usually she instructs him to disrobe just to the waist; just enough to enjoy his tanned skin, heated, beneath her palms. Mal isn’t the kind to feel naked without his clothes, so stripping him wouldn’t serve her purposes anyway. When her hands start to clutch at him involuntarily, she guides him back to sit on his calves and folds her tight skirt up just as much as is necessary. Mal watches her, fervently, closing his eyes when she tips his chin up and straddles him, taking his head and guiding his mouth onto her. When he breathes in the scent of her, he has to swallow a moan.

This is perhaps his best skill. Mal thrusts his tongue up into her for a few strokes, then swirls his tongue over her clit. He moves his lips and tongue over her reverently, searching carefully for all the places that draw out her moans. Her eyelids crinkle and she’s grasping him again, biting her lip.

She bucks up against him, but he’s plenty strong enough to hold still, to let her ride it out. His mouth and tongue keep coaxing her and soon, she’s shuddering and crying out, fists clenched, clutching his shoulders to steady herself. When she’s breathed in a few times to recover herself, she steps away, rolling her skirt back in place. The sheen on his lips and chin is illuminated in the low light of the cabin. Thinking he’s being surreptitious, he rubs his lips together, trying to get more of the taste without letting her catch him licking it. She wipes his face clean with the bottom of her shirt.

Bending, she opens his pants, deftly, one-handed. Mal swallows hard as his erection is freed, meeting the cold air. His whole body is tense from strain and arousal. She reaches for the lube, coating her hand with the cold liquid. When she gets on the floor and takes hold of him, he cringes at the chill, but it warms quickly between their skins; and soon he’s relaxing into the feel of her slender fingers ghosting over his length; her thumb circling the head. After awhile she fists him in smooth, insistent stokes, and she can tell he’s riding the edge.

“Ma’am –?” he says, his voice strained but deferential. He’s not young enough to come on her command, but he still has to ask her permission. Sometimes, when they do this, it’s at this point she pulls away, telling him to button up, to leave, dismissing him with a wave of her hand and a reminder that he cannot touch himself when he goes back to his bunk. She’ll know. That’s what you get, when your mistress is a reader.

It’s never a punishment or reward. She’ll deny him when he’s been perfect; she’ll let him come when he’s made mistake after mistake. She carefully cultivates the unpredictability of it. Mal appreciates things a lot more if they might be snatched away at any moment.

He’s gasping, hanging by a thread, but still managing to wait for her say-so.

“Yes,” she says, not because she’s feeling generous, but because she wants to feel the wet heat of his orgasm on her palm. A couple more strokes and he rocks forward, eyes tight shut, spilling into her hand.

When she’s drawn it all out him and she turns to wash her hands, she smiles, because the only thing she hears is his labored breathing. His thoughts are silent.