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Lavender and Lace

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He's nervous when she pushes him down on the bed, fumbling and red-faced and so hard he's dripping.

"You know what this entails?" she asks, just to be clear. Steve's by no means ignorant--his lexicon when he forgets to mind his tongue puts the lie to that. But there's knowing, and there's knowing, and Peggy doubts he has ever contemplated what she's offering.

He swallows, his eyes flicking to the side demurely. "Think I got the idea," he says, his voice ragged as though it can't decide whether to drop with arousal or tighten with anxiety. It's not the only part of him that's tense. Every one of those prodigious muscles is clenched tight as a fist. She cups his chin, and he turns into it without hesitation. He kisses her palm. "I trust you."

Oh, this man. Peggy feels ten feet tall, she feels powerful, she feels tender and generous as a queen to her supplicant, and the urge to take him down to his barest essence rises hot and dark in her belly. But not yet. There will be time for that later, after they've sounded each other out, learned how far they can push. They're early steps on that road, and patience is a virtue, they say.

With gentle hands she urges him back, spreads him out on his stomach and smoothes her hands over his arms and shoulders. All very chaste. She presses a kiss to the short, fine hairs at his nape, just to feel his shiver. She massages his shoulders, stiff from the stresses of war, and Steve lets out a huff of air--not a groan, not a whimper, just a huff, a release of breath, and his eyes flutter closed. There is color riding high on the cheek Peggy can see, and there's something bashful and vulnerable in his expression. She lays tender kisses along his shoulder blade before dragging the heels of her palms along his spine from his sacrum to his cervical vertebrae, and he does groan then, long and low, his mouth falling open as he relaxes down into the mattress.

Peggy does nothing more than massage him--sensual, to be sure, but nothing carnal--just easing the knots in his back and getting him used to her touch on his skin. She lays her hands on the firm globes of his buttocks, and he tenses again, less than before, but still wary, and she kisses him, right between the dimples in his lower back, before moving down to his legs. The backs of his knees are sensitive, she finds, and of course, his feet. The last of the tension in his body dissolves with another groan as she digs her thumbs into the arch of his foot. Slowly she works her way back up his legs, back to his bum, and she has to squeeze her legs together against the pulse of arousal at the thought of taking him. She rests her hands on his skin, acclimatizing him to the touch, and massages the muscle.

"Peggy," he breathes, and she takes this as an opportunity to spread his cheeks to her gaze.

"You're under no obligation to do this," she reminds him. "If at any moment you wish me to stop, say it, and I will."

He shudders. "No, we're good. I trust you."

"Lovely. I'm going to touch you, now. Is that alright?"


She trails the very tips of her fingernails down his cleft, from the base of his spine right to the rosebud pucker of his hole, and circles it lightly before slipping forward to nudge against his balls. He shivers, burying his face against his arms, and he spreads his legs. The back of his neck is flushed pink. Peggy smiles. She massages the tender spot behind his balls for a time, and he gasps, grinding his hips down into the bedclothes.

"Ah, none of that," she says, gripping his hips. If he decides to break her hold there's not a thing she could do to stop him, but he stills, trembling, at her touch. Drops of sweat are beading up on his lower back. She reaches across for the jar of scented oil sitting on the bedside, careful to brush her nipples against his skin as she does. She sees the shadow of his lashes quiver against his cheek, and his lips are red and bitten. She kisses his shoulder. "Don't hold back those lovely noises on my account," she says, pressing her breasts into his back and giving a sharp little nip. His breath shudders out of him, and she feels the tension coil back into him, feels the trembling in his body as he holds back from humping the sheets.


"Shh. Relax. I've got you."

She twists off the lid and pours out a dollop on her fingers. The smell of lavender rises in the air. It's cool against her skin, and Steve shivers when she presses one fingertip against his hole. He clenches up, but she doesn't push in, just rests her finger against the tight, puckered knot and kisses his back. "Relax," she says again. "I won't rush you. We've all the time in the world." She feels the oil slipping down, drawing a slippery trail over his perineum. She knows how sensitive Steve is; all of his senses' responses were heightened by the serum. Just this little touch, that trail of oil, must be driving him to a frenzy. His breathing is coming harder; his ears are red; waves of goosebumps raise the hairs on the backs of his thighs. Peggy rubs her finger against his hole, still not pushing in, merely showing him this, too, can be pleasurable. If the high, tight breath Steve gasps out is any indication, he's learning fast. She gives him a quick bite on the buttock, just enough to make him yelp in surprise, and slips her finger in to the first knuckle.

He freezes, then visibly makes himself relax. "That's it," she says. "It's strange, I know, but I it does get better."

Steve seems to be beyond words. His hand slips out from under the pillow, and Peggy takes it, squeezing his fingers in silent reassurance. She slips the finger in a little farther, past the swell of the knuckle. He's utterly still, his brow furrowed in concentration, and Peggy tsks.

"You're thinking about this much too hard," she says. She bends forward to lick against the sensitive spot just below his floating rib, and he squeaks, shying away from her touch. She uses the distraction to slip her finger in the rest of the way.

She stays there, barely moving for fear of reaching his limits, until he finally eases. "That's one finger," she says. "You feel so full, don't you?" She pivots her wrist, tugging at the sensitive flesh of his anus. His breath stutters.

"S'not... enough," Steve says, and he flushes, biting his lip as though he could draw the words back.

Peggy smiles wolfishly. "Not enough. Well, let's fix that, shall we?" She draws her finger out, ignoring his sigh, and pours more oil on her fingers. When she returns to his hole, she pushes in with two. His muscles bear down, drawing her in, and his hips twist minutely against her touch. Peggy scissors her fingers and he gasps; she strokes downward and he cries out, driving his hips into the sheets.

"What... what was that?" he asks, his voice cracking.

"That, darling, is why you will love this," Peggy says, and strokes down again, curling her fingers against the front of his passage. Steve writhes. He spreads his knees further apart, abandoning his shame in favor of pressing back against her fingers. She sighs at the throb of arousal between her own legs, and pulls out long enough to drag him up to his knees. She ignores his protests, oils her fingers again, and pushes three fingers into his silken heat. His hole is slowly loosening, the death-grip of the muscles slackening against her ministrations, and Peggy can see his erection bobbing between his legs, hungry and neglected. She runs her free hand down his back, pressing his face back down into the pillows. He goes without a word of protest. He is utterly bared, like this; vulnerable and wanton, and Peggy feels drunk on it, on this mastery she has over a man who could overpower her at any moment but won't, merely because she told him not to. She spreads her fingers just to hear him moan.

"Peggy, please..."

She laughs, low and dark, and draws away. She takes a deep breath, calming her racing pulse, and reaches down to spread oil over her strap-on. She remembers Steve's face when he walked in and saw her, peignoir belted open, stockings and heels and perfect make up, and the rigid dildo rising between her thighs in the gap of her garter belt. There was confusion in those beautiful, doe-soft eyes, but arousal, too; she saw how fast his trousers tented, and how quickly that scalding flush burned across his cheeks.

There's no shame left in him, now. She nudges the head of the dildo between his cheeks, teasing against his slackened hole, and his groan is shaky and desperate, dark with frustration. "Stop teasing, Peggy," he growls, and pushes back to impale himself on it.

They both gasp. Peggy stares where the head of the toy disappears inside Steve's body. She hears his faint whimper, feels the tug of the straps as she pulls out ever so slightly. A drop of her own fluid rolls down her thigh and she shudders, pushing forward, pushing into his body, feeling the resistance. She goes slowly, her attention fixed on the slightest of Steve's responses. His head is ducked, resting on his forearms, and he is shaking. Peggy imagines what it feels like: a solid, cool weight pressing into him; rigid, insistent, implacable. She imagines it pressing against that tender place inside, setting off fireworks in his body, and she can't help but grind her pubis against the anchor for the dildo. She bottoms out, running her hands along the lines of his body. Drops of sweat trickle down his arms. "All right?" she asks, her voice husky and smooth as whiskey.

"Oh God," he breathes. "Oh God, Peggy, I can't--you gotta move--"

"Alright," she says. "Alright." And she drags the dildo out, slowly, impossibly slowly, the straps cutting into her waist and thighs, and he starts shaking like a leaf, so hard that she can feel it through the strap-on. She pushes back in, and he grunts, loud and inelegant. She hides her smile against his shoulder blade. She kisses whatever skin she can reach, but always her hands on his narrow hips, holding him steady as he drives himself back onto her.

Gradually his breaths start pitching higher, more desperate, and Peggy, she's never been this close just from a strap-on, but here she is, she's grinding up against the anchor each time she bottoms out, and she slips a hand around to Steve's cock.

He runs warmer than the average person; he feels fresh from a sauna, and his cock blazes with heat. He chokes on a gasp as she squeezes him, bites back a whimper as she strokes him, and cries out helplessly as his orgasm spurts out, clenching so hard around the toy in his arse that it jerks Peggy to a stop and throws her into orgasm right after him.

He collapses onto the bed, slipping off the dildo as he does, and Peggy pushes it aside to press her fingers against herself and grit through the aftershocks. The sound of Steve's wretched cry echoes in her ears, and she rides the wave until she's beached back on the shores of reality, oversensitive and sated. Before her, Steve is laid out, his breathing ragged, oil glistening over his inner thighs, and Peggy can just make out the angry pink of his swollen hole. She unbuckles the strap-on and casts it aside. She can clean it later; for now, she runs her hands over Steve's back, smoothing her way up to lay on top of him, her head against his shoulder and her body pressing down into his. She strokes his sides.

"How was that?" she asks.

He heaves a sigh, her body riding up with his inhale, and gives a small, beatific grin. "I'll let you know when I can think again," he says.

Peggy hums and entwines their fingers together.