Chapter 12: Kneeling Submission
The silence in the room was a living thing, thick with the smell of sex and sweat and the faint, grassy scent of the laces still cinched tight around Skye’s wrists. Moonlight carved Skye’s bound form into a sculpture of surrender, her head resting on Grace’s shoulder, her back rising and falling with ragged breaths. Grace held her there, one arm secure around her chest, the other hand gently stroking the dark mark blooming on Skye’s neck.
“I love when you’re on your knees for me,” Grace whispered into the damp shell of her ear, her voice husky with spent passion. “We should do this more often.”
A shiver ran through Skye’s exhausted frame. She pushed back, a weak, seeking pressure against the silicone still nestled inside her. A soft whimper escaped her. “I don’t… I don’t need to get off my knees yet.”
A low, genuine giggle bubbled from Grace’s throat. The sound was rich with power and affection. She nipped at Skye’s earlobe. “Demanding.”
Then she moved. Her arm tightened, holding Skye upright as she drew her hips back and then slammed forward, sheathing the strap-on in one smooth, brutal stroke. Skye cried out, her body bowing. Grace’s hands flew to Skye’s breasts, full and heavy in her palms. She squeezed, kneading the soft flesh, her thumbs rubbing rough circles over the tight nipples as she established a punishing rhythm, pounding into her from behind. The bed protested with each drive, a sharp, wooden creak syncing with their ragged breathing.
“Fuck, you take it so well,” Grace grunted, her own muscles burning with the effort of maintaining the kneeling position, of controlling Skye’s larger, stronger body. She owned this. She owned her. “Such a perfect, eager cunt for me.”
Skye could only moan, a continuous, broken sound of pleasure. The combined sensation—the deep, stretching penetration, the rough play on her nipples, the delicious ache in her shoulders from the binds—drove her to the edge of coherence. Her world was the hot pulse between her legs and the sound of Grace’s voice. Her thighs trembled, the muscles quivering with strain and ecstasy. A particular deep thrust, angled just so, made her legs buckle entirely.
With a gasp, she lost her balance, pitching forward onto her stomach. The fall was cushioned by the rumpled comforter. Grace followed her down instantly, her body covering Skye’s, never breaking the connection. She landed on her forearms, the white dress rucking up around her waist, and kept thrusting. The angle changed, becoming even deeper, more intimate.
“That’s it, fall apart for me,” Grace panted, her lips against the sweat-slick skin of Skye’s shoulder blade. Her words were a filthy, loving torrent. “Just a used-up little slut on her belly, taking whatever dick I give her. You love it, don’t you? Love being my fucktoy.”
“Yes,” Skye sobbed, the word mangled by the pillow. “God, yes, Grace, I love it. I’m yours. Your toy. Your slut.”
Grace adjusted her weight, bracing on one elbow. Her right hand slid down the tense plane of Skye’s back, over the curve of her ass, and found the swollen, slippery nub of her clit. She pressed the heel of her hand against it, rubbing in firm, relentless circles. Her left hand came up, fingers splaying lightly over the front of Skye’s throat, feeling the rapid pulse fluttering beneath the skin.
Skye stilled, a sudden, tense awareness cutting through her haze.
Grace’s thumb stroked her jaw. “Can I choke you a bit?” she asked, her voice dropping to a whisper laced with dark heat. “Just a little pressure. While I make you come.”
Skye’s answer was immediate, a ragged exhale of pure trust. “Yes. Please.”
Grace kissed the hinge of her jaw, a soft contrast to the request. Then she leaned away, her eyes scanning the shadowed floor. There, a dark lump of fabric. Skye’s discarded sports underwear, damp from the game and their earlier frenzy. Grace snatched them up.
She didn’t hesitate. She looped the elastic waistband around Skye’s neck, the worn, sweat-tinged cotton snug against her skin. She gathered the excess material in her fist, right at the base of Skye’s skull.
“Ready?” Grace breathed.
Skye nodded, a frantic little movement.
Grace pulled.
It wasn’t harsh. It was a steady, inexorable tension, constricting Skye’s throat just enough to make the blood sing in her ears, to make each gasped breath a conscious, precious effort. At the same moment, Grace slammed her hips forward, driving the strap-on to its hilt, and ground her hand hard against Skye’s clit.
The effect was cataclysmic.
Skye’s body locked, a strangled scream tearing from her constricted throat and then muffled instantly as she buried her face in the pillow, biting down on the fabric. Her orgasm wasn’t a wave; it was a detonation, a violent, convulsive seizure that ripped through her. Her back arched impossibly, her bound wrists straining against the laces. Her cunt clamped down on the silicone in a fierce, rhythmic pulsing, a wet, tight vise that seemed to pull Grace deeper inside her. Grace fucked her through it, each thrust shorter, harder, focused on prolonging the agony of pleasure, the leash of underwear taut in her grip.
Skye’s cries were barely human, guttural sobs of release eaten by the pillow. Her hips jerked uncontrollably. Grace watched, mesmerized, until the violent tremors began to subside into weak, intermittent shudders. Only then did she gently release the tension on the underwear, letting it go slack around Skye’s neck. She slowly, carefully, withdrew the strap-on.
For a long moment, the only sound was Skye’s wheezing, desperate attempts to draw full breaths. Grace climbed off her, her own legs unsteady. She reached between her own legs, unfastened the harness, and let it drop to the floor with a soft thud. The white dress, stained and crumpled, followed. Naked now, she turned back to Skye, who lay utterly spent, the dark underwear still loosely encircling her neck like a collar.
Grace’s fingers were tender as she worked at the knotted laces. The stiff material had bitten into Skye’s wrists, leaving angry red lines. Once freed, Skye’s arms flopped bonelessly to her sides. Grace carefully peeled the damp underwear from her neck and tossed it aside.
She lay down beside her, curling her body around Skye’s, skin to cooling skin. She pulled the blanket over them both. Her hand traced gentle patterns on Skye’s flank.
Skye eventually rolled onto her side, facing Grace. Her eyes were glazed, fathomless pools in the dark. A single tear had tracked through the sweat on her temple.
Grace brushed it away with her thumb. “Thank you,” she whispered, the rawness in her voice now purely vulnerability. “Thank you for letting me take control. For letting me do all that to you.”
Skye’s response was a slow, deep kiss. It tasted of salt and exhaustion and absolute, unquestioning surrender. She broke it, resting her forehead against Grace’s. “Thank you,” she rasped, her voice wrecked, “for knowing exactly what I wanted.”
She curled in closer, her head finding its home on Grace’s shoulder, and within minutes, her breathing evened out into the deep, heavy rhythm of sleep. Grace stayed awake a while longer, listening to that sound, her fingers tracing the raised welts on Skye’s wrists, her own heart a calm, steady drum in the quiet dark.