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“That isn’t going to hold, princess.”
Penelope sighs and looks up at Colin from her kneeling position on the floor.
“It’s not supposed to hold, Colin. That’s the point. It’s meant to look nice.”
Colin pulls a face but she sees his cheeks flush slightly pink. She watches in fascination for a moment - he is impossible to fluster, almost never blushes, and it is so pretty when he does - but then returns to the task at hand.
She takes the ends of the three-inch wide pale pink ribbon and wraps it around first the kitchen chair leg, and then Colin’s ankle, fixing it into a cute little bow. She pulls and fusses so the ends are even, then sits back on her knees to admire her work. There is something so pleasing about the soft pink ribbon against his masculine, sinewy ankle, the satin contrasting with his dark hairs. “Perfect,” she says, then stands up and grabs the Polaroid camera, holding it to her eye.
She pauses for a moment, luxuriating in the sight in the little viewfinder. Her gorgeous, giant boyfriend tied to the kitchen chair with pretty satin ribbon, stark naked apart from his silver chain necklace and his silly little hoop earring. His wrists are tied behind his back, and she has wound the ribbon around his shoulders and chest a couple of times too for good measure.
He is perfect and gorgeous and gift-wrapped just for her.
“I’m just concerned the knots aren’t structurally sound, love. I think it’ll all just come undone the moment I move.” He flicks his head to toss an errant curl out of his eye.
Penelope sighs again and lowers the camera. “Then you’re going to be good and stay very still for me, aren’t you?” He is infuriating when it comes to this sort of stuff - it is why, although they practise shibari constantly, she has only ever attempted to tie him up a couple of times. The constant commentary became unbearable.
It is not so much that she minds the critique itself (she knows it keeps both of them safe) - it is more that he refuses to let himself surrender to the sensations, and so the joy of it is robbed from her. She wants very badly for him to experience the kind of sweetness she does when she submits to him.
So she has formulated a little plan. One that is shibari-adjacent. One that was developed after finding some very inspiring images on twitter.com (RIP to Penelope’s For You page - she can no longer open Twitter in a public place, but looking at Colin tied up in front of her she thinks it was worth it).
Colin gives her a dark look but his cheeks turn a shade pinker. Something fizzes in Penelope’s abdomen, because she can tell a part of him is enjoying this, even as he attempts to maintain his cool.
She puts her hands on her hips and tosses her hair. “Look, Colin, if you don’t want to do this, we can stop.” She sticks out her bottom lip - she is not trying to be sulky but she cannot help it. She really, really wants this.
His eyebrows crease and his mouth drops open and he looks genuinely distressed at the idea that he might have upset her. “No, princess. I know you want this.” He manages to pull his expression into one of his charming smiles. “I’ll be good, I promise.”
She purses her lips to stop herself from smiling, and brings the camera back up to her eye. “Good. Because if you don’t shut up, I still have enough ribbon left to make you a gag.”
A flash; and Penelope captures on polaroid the precise moment Colin melts.
He blinks at her, his eyes hazy, that pretty mouth of his open. “Pen?” he says, and there is a layer of vulnerability in his voice that makes both her heart and her pussy ache. She puts the camera and the fresh polaroid onto the kitchen island and goes to him, nestling herself between his legs and cradling his head to her tits.
“You ready, baby?” she asks, experimentally. She has never called him baby before (usually, in fact, he is daddy), but she likes the taste of it on her tongue.
Apparently so does he, letting out a little choked gasp and looking up at her with a mixture of adoration, trust and raw, bleeding openness. There is a little fear mixed in there, too.
Sweet, rushing power floods her veins - is this how Colin feels when he ties her up? She feels invincible, ten-feet-tall, and her heart feels like it is going to swell and pop like an overfilled water balloon - but in a nice way, somehow. She tilts Colin’s face up to her mouth, eases her mouth over his. She wants to unpeel him, strip away the layers of skin and sinew and bone until she has her hands on his heart. She wants to take care of him, and she wants to break him, and then put him back together piece by piece.
“Are you going to let me look after you?” she croons softly against his lips. He is already panting - she can feel his hot breath against her lips.
“Pen,” he moans, and she can taste it all on his tongue - trepidation and need and love - and god, is it sweet.
She sinks to her knees between his spread thighs, and looks up at him. She is glad she chose to wear this set (a pale blue half-cup corset and matching underwear - it is one of his favourites, and she knows it makes her tits look especially good, particularly from this angle).
His eyelids flutter a little as he gazes down at her, his nostrils flaring, as if he cannot quite handle seeing her on her knees for him. He squeezes his eyes shut, and when he opens them again she sees - with no small disappointment - that he has clawed his way back to lucidity. Gone is melty, gooey Colin - here is daddy.
Fuck.
“Princess, you should get a pillow for your knees,” he says. His voice is slightly ragged, but it is not the desperate plea she just felt upon her lips. It is utterly too controlled - too caring. She wants him wrecked; blissed out; begging for her.
She sighs and gets to her feet. “If you won’t behave…”
She picks up the remaining length of ribbon, and stands behind the chair. She trails the end of it over his neck, and watches in satisfaction as a path of goosebumps erupts over his flesh. She presses a little kiss behind his ear, and then wraps the ribbon - not around his mouth, as she threatened - but around his eyes.
“Pen,” he says, and she notes with satisfaction that he has dropped the princess. There is that rawness she wants. That rasp in his voice.
“Tell me to stop, Colin,” she says, her fingers tracing over his throat. She feels him swallow, and knows he will not stop her. “Tell me to stop and I will.”
His breathing hitches. He shakes his head.
“Good.” She kisses his cheek and settles back down between his thighs (and she is glad of the blindfold, because she does not want to give him the satisfaction of seeing that she does, in fact, grab a pillow for her knees).
She traces her nails up and down his thighs, watching how his body reacts to her touch. She watches how his already-hardening cock twitches as she circles close to it, watches how he trembles when she caresses him, how his tongue darts out to wet his lips. He does this endearing thing where he turns his head to the side when the sensation grows too overwhelming, as though he is trying to turn away from the feeling. She enjoys that in particular - he really does have a gorgeous profile (sometimes she cannot really believe he is hers, even after months of dating).
It is fascinating, and beautiful, and her heart swells with gratitude and love that he has let her see him like this. Usually when they fuck he is so focused on pulling her apart that she does not have a moment to breathe before the next fizz of sparkling sensation, so it is nice to be able to take her time with him.
“I read - ” her voice is soft “- I read online that the next part would be easier if you’ve come first.”
He lets out a tiny, barely audible whimper. Almost nothing, but loud enough to set Penelope’s entire body alight. She can no longer deny the river between her legs, and she squeezes her thighs together.
“So that’s what we’re going to do, OK, baby?”
Another little moan. Fuck, he sounds pretty like this - and he looks pretty too, all trussed up for her. One Polaroid is not enough. She wants to take ten - a hundred - and eat them, one by one, so she can consume this perfect image, have it live inside her forever.
Instead she takes his cock in her hand. Lightly, her fingers tracing up and down his shaft. He exhales sharply and jerks a little against the ribbon restraints (and she notes, with some pleasure, that in fact they do hold). She feels warm inside as she bends to press her lips against him, kissing softly, feeling him twitch and throb against her lips.
He so rarely lets her do this (his focus is always, always on her pleasure - she knows he gets off on it, and who is she to argue?). She wants to savour it, knows he may not let her do this again soon, so she starts to explore with her mouth, running her tongue along him, rubbing his head against her lips, tasting the salt of him. She pays attention to what makes him shiver and moan (he seems to like it most when she draws him deep and swirls her tongue on the underside of his head), and it is somehow deeply pleasing to know that there are still these parts of him she is discovering. She concentrates her efforts on that - sucking him deep, licking his head, finding a rhythm that makes him squirm and pant and start to whine her name over and over: Pen, fuck, there, Pen, please, oh, Pen, fuck, fuck, Pen -
Her nails drag through the hair on his thighs, tracing patterns, and so she feels it when his legs start to shake, his abdomen trembling and his breath catching in his throat. She knows he’s close, and it fills her chest with the fizzing, champagne sensation she gets with Colin (only with Colin does she sparkle like this). She keeps her movements steady and consistent, and within a few moments his body tenses and he lets out a long, aching moan.
His cum hits her tongue, his hips jerking upwards uncontrollably as he comes in her mouth. She keeps sucking until he is writhing and groaning in overstimulation.
Then she opens her mouth and lets the whole mess of it - cum and spit - drool out over his softening cock.
//////
It is rare that Colin is on the receiving end of oral sex - rarer still that he actually enjoys it.
He knows he has… issues with control. The rest of his life has been so chaotic for so long that sex has often been the only space in which he has even a drop of it, and so he clings to it perhaps more than he should. He knows he seems easygoing and relaxed from the outside but he isn’t really, is he?
So when Penelope showed him the picture she found online of the girl wrapped up in ribbons, told her she wanted to do it to him ( plus a lot more besides), he had had a mild panic attack for about three hours before finally relenting.
She promised she had done her research (and his cock twitched at that - he loves when Penelope unleashes her type-A neurosis, finds it endearing and adorable in ways he cannot fully express).
And he trusts her - he does - but it’s… Penelope. He doesn’t know how to not look after her. He knows he needs to let her fail and make mistakes and make a mess - and a big part of him wants her to make a mess of him very badly - but he cannot help wanting to take care of her. He’s made enough mistakes in the last thirty-odd years to want to protect her from that.
He is learning to let go in small increments - he is much better at letting her look after him during his post-sex drop, for example - but that feels so different from this.
So he feels stuck in this strange loop - wanting to please her and surrender (sweet bliss) - fighting the feelings and returning to his daddy dom brain (sharp focus) - a seesaw of sweet and sharp that has him reeling and dizzy.
Her lips on his cock make the decision for him. He cannot retain his sharp focus with how she sucks him. It is not particularly refined, the way she does it, but it is hungry and explorative and makes him feel oddly… treasured. Precious. As though she is savouring the feel of him in her mouth. It is not a feeling he is precisely used to, and all the sugary, blissful surrender surges through him.
With Penelope is on her knees in front of him in his favourite bra and pants, her mouth wrapped around his cock, Colin realises that maybe he doesn’t hate blowjobs after all - maybe he has just not just let Penelope give them to him enough (another huge, monumental mistake, perhaps greatest of them all).
The way she drools his cum back onto his cock is just humiliating enough to suck him under, put him so out of it that he barely registers it when she unties the ribbons from his ankles, chest and wrists. She lifts the blindfold off and his blinking, dazed vision is filled with her : lips swollen and pouting, blue eyes blinking at him, doll-like. His heart does that little fluttery skippy thing it does every time he sees her, and now he has use of his arms again, he grabs her and pulls her close.
“That was amazing, Pen,” he murmurs. He cannot help the tears in his eyes. “You did such a good job, princess.”
She pulls away, looks at him with one eyebrow arched. He can tell she’s annoyed he’s called her that, that he’s slipped back into daddy-mode. “We’re not done yet, Colin.” Hesitation in her eyes. “Unless you want to stop here?”
He takes a shaky breath. He could end this here, and avoid the next part, the bit that he is actually quite nervous about. They could finish it now, after this (pretty fucking spectacular) blowjob; he could take her into the bedroom and eat her out for hours (his favourite thing to do), take care of her like he wants to, slip back into their usual roles easily and pleasurably.
But he can see in her face how much she wants it, and he thinks of all the things she has let him do to her. He cannot let her down now, can he?
“I don’t want to stop,” he says, and she looks so pleased it almost makes all the nerves worth it.
His knees buckle when he stands - she catches him, throwing his arm around her shoulder and wrapping hers around his waist. “I’ve got you,” she says softly, and he believes her.
She leads him on shaky legs to the bedroom, his cock still dripping with cum and saliva, laying wet against his thighs. He feels totally skinned, kittenish in her grasp, and he worries about how much of his weight he is putting on her (she is so small) but he does not have the capacity to hold himself upright without it.
She sits him down on the bed, and then starts getting everything out that she needs for the next bit, laying her tools out on the bed next to him: harness; dildo; lube.
This is, of course, will not be the first time he has been pegged. A former sexual partner had suggested it, and because Colin is a grown-up, he had agreed. It had been… fine.
But that was not Pen, was it? The way he feels about her cannot compare to anything he has ever experienced. And now, the sight of the harness and the dildo and the lube makes his belly flip over and his skin feel hot, and he realises he does, actually, massively, want to do this. Despite the nerves. Despite everything.
She leaves the room for a moment; comes back with a wet cloth and gently, carefully cleans his cock. He can feel the nervous excitement rolling off her, and by some fucking miracle, he feels his cock twitch in her hands, hardening again already (as though he is fifteen and not almost thirty-five). This is what she does to him, isn’t it? It is as though she’s woven her way into his capillaries, his blood vessels, every sinew of his body directly attuned to her.
He watches as she stacks a couple of their pillows at the edge of the bed, and he is about to tell her they probably need a towel, too, but she is already laying one down over the comfortable little pile she has made. She picks up the harness and starts to put it on.
“You’re going to want to go really slow, princess,” he says, as he watches her fit the harness to her body. “Plenty of lube. Like - when you think you’ve used too much, then add a bit more.” She slots the dildo into the harness, and he tries to ignore how fucking hot she looks like this. “And take plenty of breaks, otherwise your hips are going to get really sore.”
She fastens the last part of the strap, and lets out a big sigh. She tosses her head, her curls splaying beautifully over her shoulders, and for a moment he is so entranced by the sight of her (in his favourite lingerie and a strap-on) that he almost misses how pissed off she looks.
“You’re topping from the bottom, Mrs. Grey,” she says, deadpan.
He stares at her blankly.
“You know - it’s the meme. From Fifty Shades of Grey.”
He frowns. At times he feels their age gap more deeply than others. “You know, those films are deeply inaccurate portrayals of the BDSM communi-“
She grabs his cheeks, smushing them together so he can’t speak and his mouth is squashed into a ridiculous pout. “Shut it, pretty boy.” Her eyes flash. “You can give me your Fifty Shades lecture after. It can be your reward for taking my cock up your arse, hm?”
His eyes widen, and he feels singing, melty pleasure run through him. She looks a little surprised herself, blinking at him with a slightly shocked expression on her face at her own filthiness. She leans in and kisses his stupid fish-pout she’s given him; then she straightens, looking at him with her hands on her hips. The dildo bobs a little, both obscene and absurd at the same time, and Colin fights a smile.
“Colin, I need you to trust me. I promise, I’m going to take care of you. I’m not going to hurt you, or myself. I’m going to make us both feel very, very good.” She meets his gaze dead-on, and there is no hesitation, or confusion, or anything - just pure, vibrating desire. Certainty. “So can you please trust me?”
And as Colin looks at her, something in his mind slots into place.
Because they have always done this, haven’t they, taken turns looking after each other? Somehow he has forgotten it these past months - being her boyfriend has only amplified the protective parts of himself, his desire to make her happy crowding out everything else. Their sexual dynamic has further fed into that - he gets to be daddy, gets to look after his princess (him, who has barely been trusted until now to keep a plant alive), and it has become the main purpose of his life.
But it hasn’t always been like this. During their many years of friendship, it has so often been him that needed her.
Colin spent years running, putting himself in ridiculous, at times even dangerous, situations. He backpacked across deserts and went skydiving and he is fairly certain he almost joined a cult once. He has taken too many drugs (puked his guts out on ayahuasca and took so much cocaine in Bolivia he was sure he was dying - the nurse at the local clinic had had to sit and hold his hand whilst he came down) and had risky sexual encounters and he has treated his body like shit in the name of living (he knows now it wasn’t living - it was running).
Every time he came home Pen would be there. She wouldn’t lecture him like Anthony or give him pitying looks like Daphne. She wouldn’t roll her eyes at him like Eloise.
She would just be there, quietly. Take him out to dinner when she knew he wasn’t eating properly. Sit on his sofa and read her book beside him til he finally dozed off. She’d help him find laughter in his darkest stories, the ones he was too afraid to tell anyone else. She was there for him. She took care of him. He needed her.
When he finally quit travelling, it was because she needed him.
He came back from Thailand and Penelope told him she had started therapy, and everything had changed. He saw his beautiful, poised (if fairly uptight, which he sort of loved, relished in teasing her until she unwound) friend start to fray at the seams, watched her undergo the terrifying ordeal of unravelling the threads of herself, unpick the yarn that had been hastily, carelessly knit together in her childhood and try to darn herself back together. Her bravery astonished him, and it was as though all the colours in his world had been reversed. Suddenly he realised he’d been seeing the world in negative.
And after that he stayed. After that, he took her to therapy every week in his beaten up car, held her when she cried, offered to tie her up when she needed to lose control.
After that, he fell in love with her.
But he thinks now he may have lost something in the falling in love, may have let an important part of their friendship slip through his fingers.
Because they take turns, don’t they?
Maybe he can let it be her turn.
“OK, Pen,” he breathes, his voice rasping. “I trust you.”
She kisses him then - hard and fierce and burning, until he’s panting and gripping her waist like his life depends on it (and in that moment it feels like it does), the dildo hitting him in the stomach as he clutches her to him. Her tongue presses into his mouth and he lets out a whimper, her fingers winding into his hair.
He lets the blissful sweetness of her touch overwhelm him, actively letting his brain float away into the subspace he knows he needs for this to work. It does not come naturally, but it is not completely alien or unfamiliar (he remembers being tied up for the first time by his teacher in Japan, the crystalline feeling of being so totally at another’s mercy) so he leans into it. It helps that he needs her so much, that he wants her with every pathetic inch of his body. That he would do anything - literally anything - to please her. It helps that he loves her.
She pulls away (his body keens at the loss) and gives him a warm, comforting smile. “Get into position for me, baby,” she says softly, and he gives a little whimpering noise and rolls over onto his stomach, the pile of pillows lifting his hips to the right height. His legs are a little too long, so he spreads them and bends them slightly - it is awkward, but it helps with the submissive feelings that he cannot quite get a proper purchase on the floor like this. He is at her mercy.
He feels her lean over him, her little hands massaging his shoulders, arms and back, even his arse cheeks, kneading the flesh.
“Do you want your hands free? Or we can tie them behind your back?” Her knuckles dig into his glutes and he moans.
“Tie them,” he says, and he is not sure whose voice it is that comes from his throat - desperate and raw and pathetically needy. “If you don’t, I won’t be… I won’t be good for you,” he tells her.
“And I really, really want to be good for you, Pen.”
///////
Penelope swallows, her mouth dry. He wants to be good for her. For a moment she forgets what she’s doing, her body trembling with sensation. Her pussy throbs distantly, and she knows she is catastrophically wet. Focus, Penelope. She has a job to do here.
Right. She pulls out a length of ribbon, pulling his arms behind his back and tying his wrists into another pretty bow.
She grabs the lube, and spreads Colin’s arse cheeks. She must admit she is not totally, one hundred percent thrilled about being face-to-face with his arsehole, but she does like how he shivers and pants as she opens him up, her thumb circling. Likes how he whines when the lube hits him, cries out as she slowly pushes her finger inside of him.
The sight of him - bent and helpless and moaning, her big gorgeous boyfriend utterly wrecked and at her mercy - is explosively erotic. She feels like a shooting star, burning and burning and burning, and she adds a second finger.
“Pen,” he gasps, and she pauses, lays her palm on the dip of his lower back.
“You OK, baby?” she asks softly.
“I’m good,” he breathes. “It’s just - a lot.”
A smile ghosts over her lips. “There’s more to come,” she says, and he shivers pleasingly. “But you’ll tell me if anything hurts or feels strange, yeah?” He groans, which she takes as a yes.
She moves her fingers in and out, massaging as she goes just like her research showed her. Colin is letting out the most delicious moans, each one of them seeming to vibrate directly into her pussy. “Are you ready?”
“Yeah,” he cries, and she pulls out her fingers.
More lube, and then she notches the head of the dildo at his arsehole. A bit more lube and then she sinks into him.
A guttural cry is torn from his throat, almost pained but not quite (in fact the dildo is pretty small - not much thicker than two of Penelope’s fingers, though certainly longer, and curved slightly). She watches in fascination as his bound hands flex and squeeze into fists, as his thighs tremble. She pushes in a little bit deeper and is rewarded with another animal noise. She loves the sounds of his moans - mentally she catalogues them, hangs them in the gallery in her mind of all the things she loves about him: how he moans. The way his curls fall into his eyes. The little snorts he makes when he laughs sometimes.
The way he loves her better than she ever imagined she could possibly deserve.
She rubs her hands over his arse-cheeks, and then eases herself fully into him. He splutters and whimpers into the sheets, and once she has given him some time to adjust to the size, she starts to slowly, slowly, move her hips.
The movement feels strange, oddly unnatural, not the usual rolling motion of her hips that she uses when she takes Colin’s cock, but a slightly more mechanical back and forth. She experiments with the movement, and it is fun watching his reactions, learning how she can induce these little wet breaths and soft sighs and even surprisingly high-pitched cries, sounds she has never heard from him before.
“That feel good, baby?” she says, and she must admit she is already out of breath, does not know how Colin keeps this up when he fucks her (and she is barely replicating him at his slowest pace, let alone when he takes her rough and relentless).
“So good, Pen,” he manages to gasp (Pen, not princess. She is pleased). “I can’t believe - fuck - how good. I’ve never - fuck -”
And he stops trying to speak, as she has evidently hit a certain spot within him, and she notices with satisfaction that he is starting to push himself back onto her, his hips grinding a little on the pile of pillows. It is like he is trying to both get more of the dildo inside him and also get some friction against his cock, and she likes watching the mindless, animal way he moves, clearly desperate with need.
“Fuck yourself on my cock, baby,” she says (wondering vaguely where these filthy words keep coming from - this is very unlike her).
“Pen,” he chokes, hoarse and needful. Penelope leans over him a bit more, pushing in deeper so that he might grind himself harder against the pillows.
The tell-tale shake of his thighs against hers - she realises he’s going to come soon, and she feels oddly smug that she’s undone him so quickly after his last orgasm.
“Come for me, baby,” she rasps (and she really has no idea where the gravel in her voice has come from). “Come on my cock.”
He cries out her name as he comes, his entire body tensing and trembling beneath her, and Penelope thinks she has potentially never been this turned on in her life. All the arousal that she has been suppressing in order to focus on him comes flooding back to her, and she pulls herself out of him as carefully as she can, her body shivering with need.
Penelope’s fingers shake as she rips the harness off, barely able to unhook the buckles in her rush. She yanks open the bedside drawer and grabs the little portable wand vibrator Colin bought her, and flings herself down on the bed beside him, where he is still twitching and trembling in a puddle of his own cum. She is so desperate that she doesn’t even bother to pull down her underwear, just thrusts the vibrator over the lace.
The shooting-star-feelings burn through her, sparkling and fizzing and tumbling, tears leaking from the corners of her squeezed-shut eyes. She turns the settings up to their maximum, desperation making her greedy, wanting more more more, pleasure rocketing through her.
“Love.”
His voice cuts through the dizzying fog. She feels his hand reach for her, his fingers tangling with hers, and he grips her tight as her orgasm explodes. She lets out a tearing, desperate sob, her body collapsing in on itself until she does not exist beyond his fingers curled around hers.
The sobs turn to laughter in her mouth, joyful and vaguely hysterical. She turns to look at Colin, who is watching her with a blissed out grin on his face, his face streaked with tears. She turns off the vibrator and tosses it aside, shimmying her body closer to his so he can throw his arm over her stomach.
“Come on my cock ?” Colin says, one eyebrow raised as he looks at her.
She sucks in her cheeks. “Yeah, but you did it though, didn’t you?” she shoots back at him, then she covers her face with her hands, the laughter pitching up a notch. She feels Colin shaking with giggles next to her.
Once the laughter dies down, and they’ve gathered enough strength to crawl their way to the bathroom - once they’ve taken their joint aftercare bath and eaten their snacks and wrapped themselves in Colin’s fancy fluffy robes - Penelope drifts over to the kitchen island, where the Polaroid she took has fully developed. She looks at it for a moment, a smile on her lips, before going to the fridge.
She shifts the magnets around, and pins the photo up - right next to the one Colin took of her all those months ago, the first time he ever tied her up. The night she realised she loved him.
Colin comes up behind her and wraps her in his arms, resting his chin on the top of her head. “They look good together.”
Penelope nods, swallowing down the hot, happy tears. She grips his forearms, leaning into his embrace. “We just need to remember to take them down next time your family comes over.”