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The buzz hits a split second before the screen lights up. Sansa glares down at the notification, her eyes tired. She pushes back from the table in a grumpy motion, the sharp scrape of chair legs against tile letting Margaery tighten the grip on her mug in a small wince.
Pill bottles rattle in a dull, sulking clatter. A hand braced on the kitchen counter, Sansa gathers the scattered capsules and tips them back, swallowing them dry. When she drops back across from her, Margaery’s thin smile goes ignored. Sansa’s attention returns swiftly to the trail mix, shoving a spoonful into her mouth, and Margaery, at the lack of anything else to do, sips her tea and sighs wearily.
Another notification pops up. This time Sansa dumps the phone screen-down on the table. “We should get started,” she mumbles, through one more spoonful of trail mix. “I have an acupuncturist appointment this afternoon.”
“Again?”
Sansa’s gaze snaps to her like someone cocking a gun.
“I mean, didn’t you just go earlier this week?”
“So?”
Margaery pastes on her best supportive-wife-smile, twisting the mug between her hands. “You know, we don’t have to do this today. If you’d rather—”
“I didn’t say that.”
“I know. I’m just saying. I don’t mind postponing.”
“I’m fine.”
Margaery’s smile grows more rigid, falters briefly, lifting the mug to her lips, the smell of rotten hay, tightening her throat. She’s many things these days, unfortunately fine is rarely among them.
Forcing a sip of tea past her lips, Margaery can’t help the grimace contorting her face.
Once upon a time, not all that long ago, her breakfast consisted of nothing but a large travel mug filled with steaming hot coffee – the good kind, the kind strong enough to give you palpations. These days, coffee has become a rare indulgence she slurps in secluded parking lots like a drug addict. At home she’s stuck with herb tea, that smells horrible, and tastes only marginally better.
Margaery halts mid-sip, when chair legs scratch over the tiles with punishing force.
Towering over her, Sansa gestures for her cup. “Give me that.”
“I’m not finished.”
“Just have a coffee.”
Leaning back, Margaery curls the cup against her chest. “I don’t want coffee.”
Her pointed long –albeit tiny– sip, twists the line of Sansa’s mouth sharper. “You don’t have to drink the bloody tea. You can have a coffee, if you want a coffee. You’re not—”
“Sansa?”
The soft interruption turns Sansa’s glower a few shades darker.
Margaery counters it, brushing down the length of her forearm. “I love you.”
Sansa’s jaws set tight. “I know you hate the tea, and you know you hate the tea. And I’m sick of having breakfast, while you look like you’re drinking dishwater.”
Stroking a thumb over the inside of her wrist, Margaery tugs her close, repeating calmly: “I love you.”
“Don’t,” Sansa bites out. “I’m not being irrational.”
This time around Margaery just mutely holds eyes, desperately seeking an affirmation she can’t give her. She is acting irrational. Sansa’s mood hit rock bottom a good five minutes after waking up, and she’s been digging lower since. With a jackhammer.
The kiss Margaery sets to the pair of rings on Sansa’s left hand, softens the flat-lipped, hard-eyed expression for the first time all morning. In good times and bad, it conveys silently. These are the bad, the abysmal. The good will come back.
Sansa’s fingers curl around hers, the last of her defences fading. “I’m sorry. I’m just…”
An exhausted sigh concludes the sentence, captures her sentiments better than any words could.
Releasing the half-empty cup onto the table, Margaery pulls her into her lap, and feels the last, rigid bits of tension coiled tightly in her body. She presses her lips to her temple. “I love you, my darling. So much.”
Sansa leans heavily against her. “You’re just worried my bitchy mood will ruin play time.”
Margaery shakes her head, smoothing down the length of a braid. “That is the last thing on my mind.”
“Liar.”
“Am not.”
“Are too.”
Chin resting on her shoulder, Margaery holds her tighter. Maybe she is worried, though not in the way Sansa implies.
Playing today, doing this practice run today, was a deliberate choice. Yet another calculated move in this endless charade of feigning ignorance and pretending not to know, for those days when Sansa’s mood is precarious; a means to distract her, perhaps even cheer her up. In hindsight, a foolish idea all around.
“Be honest,” Margaery pleads gently. “Would you rather do this some other time?”
The shake of Sansa’s head comes slowly, but firmly. “It’s fine. I know how much you’ve been looking forward to this.”
Margaery bites down on her cheeks. She has, yes. But –call her a worrier– a morning where she just about gets her head ripped off, over the way she drinks her tea, doesn’t feel like a prime time to engage in intense psychological roleplay.
Margaery blinks up startled when Sansa slides off her lap.
“Let’s not overthink this,” Sansa says, taking her hand. “We should just get started and see how it goes.”
“What—right now?”
Sansa looks at her, spotting that steely, aloof expression that makes for her prettiest game face, albeit a little hard to take serious in the attire of a crumbled crop top, heart-dotted pyjama pants and fluffy slippers. The outfit is as unfitting for the occasion as it would be for a trip to the opera.
She lifts her chin. “Don’t tell me you wanna finish your tea first.”
Standing out on their front porch, the cold needs about two seconds to seep into her bare feet. Margaery breathes against the jittery sensation churning her stomach and tells herself that it’s perfectly normal. There hasn’t been a single time, a single roleplay that didn’t have her at least a little nervous – usually her nervousness serves as fairly reliable gauge to how gratifying the experience turns out.
Her hands fidget with the keys. Usually.
She’s still not sure if Sansa is ready. The last twenty minutes, talking through the ground rules, setting last preparations in place, came studded with rehashed affirmations. Yes, I want this. No, not some other day – today. Yes, I’m sure.
She let herself be swayed and carried by Sansa’s firm resolve, by an enthusiasm that has been a rarity as of late, without stopping to wonder if she’s ready herself. And now Sansa is on the other side of that door, and Margaery feels like she’s off to run a marathon, after months of lazing on the couch.
It's been a while, since they tried themselves at a more elaborate scenario. What they set out for this morning, might just be a dry run, might have been her idea, her fantasy but it is a little out there. More than anything they’ve done so far. And not just in a while. Ever.
She almost drops the keys when a knock sounds from inside the house.
The subsequent, “You’re overthinking,” echoing through the door, makes her smile.
She is overthinking. It's a bloody dry run.
Margaery grants herself nothing but a roll of her shoulders, before slipping the key into the lock. And then, the flick of a wrist later, there’s no more room for doubts.
Hands grabs her before she’s got the door fully open –seize her, immobilise her – roughly, without much care to what part of her they capture. An arm, steeled by hours of Pilates, wraps around her middle. The scent of almond lotion fills her nose, as a hand settles over her mouth. A foot kicks the front door shut.
She’s pulled flush into the lean body behind her, the faint chirping of birds audible from outside. Margaery’s eyes flutter shut, as the hand on her mouth clamps down harder. Her body heaves in a restrained breath –relishing the force, the notion of just how good this will be –, obeys like warm wax, when her head is yanked back.
Then everything stills for a moment.
“Here is how this will go,” a low voice –not a trace of resemblance to her sweet, loving wife– rasps into her ear. “You’ll do as I say, and we won’t have a problem. Got it?”
Now, anyone who’s ever met Undersecretary of State, Margaery Tyrell, will happily –or not so happily– attest, that she isn’t someone who goes down without a fight.
Compliance in advance is not part of her repertoire.
It’s not supposed to be part of this either. In fact, a significant part of what let them decide on a dry run was the fact that she would fight back, for them to find the right balance between struggle and force.
Yet standing here now –her every instinct, her every thought debilitated by how hard the coarse restraint and the icy voice make her cunt clench– trying to get away, is the very last thing on her mind.
A sturdy push forward, colliding her with the wall, rushes all air from her lungs. Margaery half-heartedly pushes back, only to feel herself slammed up against the wall with even more force.
Her arm comes twisted over her back, that sinister, low voice tickling her ear. “We both know you’re smarter than that, Madame Secretary.”
Margaery’s jaws clench. Bloody hell. It has been a while, but that woman knows how to push her buttons as good as ever. This one, incorrectly addressing her with a title that should be hers, but fucking isn’t, feels like one she pushed a little too gleefully. It snaps her right out of the horny stupor too.
She wants to play? They’ll play.
Margaery throws her entire body into the struggle to break loose. She thrashes and winds, pushes back and forward, stomps on toes and rips at the hand covering her mouth. The surge of fierceness, catches the pretty intruder off guard; taken aback, her grip loosens for the length of an echoing, “Help!”
Her cry bounces off walls and for a second thereafter, the touch holding her down, loses every bit of the icy control. A fidgety hand clamps back over her face. “Are you out of your mind?” she hisses, sounding every bit like her wife again. “The neighbours are home!”
Her hold gains vigour, when she stubbornly wiggles in her grip and continues crying for help.
“Will you—Marg!”
Margaery will not, and Sansa breathes exasperated in her back. Fed up, she twists the arm over her back higher. Not quite enough to hurt, but just enough to make moving and wiggling a good deal more uncomfortable.
“I’ve just put a strip of tape over your mouth.”
The hand over her mouth peels away in distrustful reluctance, but Margaery remains silent, indulging the small victory that she needed an imaginary gag to keep the upper hand. Going by the way Sansa wrenches her free arm back and twists it yet a little higher, she’s sorely aware of it too.
Margaery’s not granted much time to bask in her captor’s indignation. A plastic loop threaded over her wrist, has her heart racing in giddy anticipation. It rasps closed over her sleeve – rigidly tight, no longer taking chances. Her other wrist follows, leaving her shoulders taut and her lungs expanding in a trembling breath.
“How’s that?” Sansa asks, tugging on the zip tie.
“It’s fine.”
“Not too tight?”
The cool wall feels rough against her flushed cheek, shaking her head. “No.”
Margaery’s breath hitches, when fingers at her nape jerk her backwards. A touch that’s simultaneously tender and frigid, sweeps over her cheek as their eyes meet. “It’s not a good idea to disobey me, Madame Secretary. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”
The raw threat in her voice sears through Margaery’s wound-up body like a flame.
Simply complying is not an option, and becomes yet her only option. A rough grip on her upper arms steers her around, and sends her a stumbling step forward. “Get moving, bitch.”
Margaery stumbles along to the office, all her earlier reluctance, all the concern to Sansa being in the right state of mind, dissolved in the cocktail of horny chemicals flooding her blood stream. As far as she’s concerned, they could surrender the trial run right here and now, and just go all in. Just drop all the rules and all the active consent, and do this properly.
Whether Sansa is in the same spot, though, she doesn’t dare to assume. Sansa was hesitant to engage in this fantasy. That she’s taken on the role of the ruthless intruder with such dedication, doesn’t mean she’s all that fond of it.
Though, Margaery considers, a vice grip forcing her face forward onto the plush two-seater, she doesn’t seem to hate it either.
Hands work quickly securing another zip tie over her leggings; Margaery offers only little resistance, her mind wholly absorbed by the exquisite sense of vulnerability.
Shoved onto her back, she lifts her gaze in stoic obstinacy to eyes grimly looking down at her. “I’ll take off the tape now. You won’t scream and you won’t struggle. All I need is the safe combination and then I’ll be on my way.”
Margaery holds her eyes steadily, waits for her captor’s slow nod, signalling she may speak now. “Go fuck yourself.”
Discontent hardens her features. The imaginary tape comes back in place, and a palm clamps down on it for good measure. “I have time.” Eyebrows arch in a silent, stern warning. “We can always wait for your wife to get home. See if you’ll still be such a raging bitch, with a knife at her throat.”
Vexed by the words, Margaery pulls at her restraints. That it’s an empty threat, her wife threatening herself, makes no difference. Surrendering Sansa, yielding her to any danger, even just hypothetically, is not going to happen.
“Now,” her pretty captor says, the hint of a cold smile tugging on her lips, “shall we try this again?”
Cradling her jaw, she swipes a thumb over her mouth, and Margaery sucks in air, as if there’d really been a gag removed.
“What’s the combination?”
Pushing her head back, Margaery mirrors the hard look staring her down. “6969.”
Amusement breaks through carefully composed features. “Clever.”
“I thought so.”
Coming to her feet, Sansa schools features back into a rigid mask, flings her a sharp warning glance that stills Margaery’s subtle struggle against the zip ties at once.
The keypad peeps as she punches in the numbers. Margaery bates her breath when the metal door clanks open. Finding the safe empty, her captor’s face turns so unforgiving, her earlier stern expressions seem gentle in comparison.
Long legs cross the room in two aggressive strides. “Where is it?”
Nails gouging her cheeks, she jerks her chin up so viciously, Margaery presses her thighs together. “The Ocean Flora. Where is it?”
The Ocean Flora is a stunning collier Margaery has worn on several formal occasions. A loan from the jewellery store. That it found its way into their sexual endeavours, was upon Sansa’s insistence – an absent treasure as trigger to ease her transition into the darker, more extreme facets of this character.
Judging by the way, she wrenches her into a sitting position, and grabs her by the throat, Margaery’s almost confident it served its purpose.
Her captor glares her down, the heel of her hand pressing against her windpipe. “Don’t make me ask again.”
A sneering smile curl’s at Margaery’s lips. “It was a loan, you idiot.”
Graceful features contort into a grisly mask, shoving her back down.
Margaery lands askew in the cushions and pastes on a smug smirk. “Tiffany’s is open until six,” she drawls, pushing herself up as far as tied hands allow her. “Why don’t you do us both a favour and get the fuck—”
A startled yelp escapes her, at the tight grip yanking her onto her stomach – violent, angry, and with delicious little consideration to whether she’s comfortable. Margaery pushes back against the hand pressing her head down, her struggling gaining vigour, as her pretty captor goes straight for her rings.
“No!” she exclaims, curling fingers to tight fists. “I said no!” Tossing onto her back she blocks the rings with her body, and puffs out a breath, meeting eyes that stare her down coldly. “You’re not getting—”
She silences promptly when fingers sweep over her lips.
For a few seconds the two fingertips touching her lips remains the only contact between them.
Margaery barely dares to breathe. This right here, this moment of shifting gears, is the part Sansa questioned the most when they were talking this through. If this doesn’t go smooth now, not somewhat natural, they won’t be doing this, and by all Gods, Margaery has never been more desperate to act something out to the very end.
“Take whatever you want,” Margaery huffs quietly, arching her back in pulling at her restraints. “But you’re not getting my rings.”
Sansa strokes through disarray curls with a mild smile. “You’re supposed to be gagged.”
She shrugs a shoulder. “Tape came off.”
Her mild, adoring smile stays in place for another heartbeat, and disappears in time with fingertips pressing down her lips. Blue eyes sweep over her, holding an intensity that couldn’t feel more exhilarating if her hands were mapping out the path.
“You should really be more careful with your choice of words, Madame Secretary.” Her voice echoes in the dangerous low tone of the intruder, and just about sets Margaery’s entire nervous system on fire. “Whatever I want, covers a great deal of territory.”
Margaery’s eyes flutter shut, when a hand squeezes her breast forcefully through the thin fabric of her longsleeve.
The touch roams over her chest for a while, fondles and gropes, as if to appraise if she was worth the trouble. When it ventures lower, Margaery clamps her thighs shut, but there’s no eluding her probing hands.
“Save yourself the act,” the dark tone taunts, while she cups her crotch mirthfully. “I happen to have it on very good authority, that this is right up your alley. A bit of bondage. Someone putting you in your place. That’s the stuff that gets you off, isn’t it?”
Margaery’s struggle, her body thrashing and kicking against her captor’s grip, every effort to push herself up, comes in vain. Crudely fondling hands, fingers rubbing and poking her cunt through two layers of fabric, keep her in place with ease.
Sansa smooths down the top that has ridden up and muses softly, “This is where I’d start pushing your clothes aside. What do you think?”
One of their ground rules for this trial run was that clothes would stay on, and by all Gods, that might have been the stupidest rule they ever came up with.
Margaery quirks her brows. “You could, you know. Right now. If you want.”
Face cast in indifference, she cups the sides of her breasts, thumbs tracing circles over her erect nipples. “You seem a little tense, Madame Secretary,” she notes, voice dropping another octave and several degrees. “Not a fan of having those tits fondled?”
She playfully pinches her nipples, ceases her hold for the length of a shaky inhale, only to follow with an agonizing twist.
Margaery’s pained gasp unfolds a cold smile. “Oh good, I was hoping you’d like it rough.”
Fingers continue their idle play with her breasts, unbothered by her feeble attempts to resist. The constant shift from gentle taunting to harsh discipline, leaves Margaery feeling raw in the very best way, and so utterly worked up, the thought of more seems almost overwhelming.
With a half amused, half exasperated sigh, her pretty captor, abandons her ministrations eventually, and stills last half-hearted struggles, by straddling her hips.
The new position, with her hands tied behind her back, the weight of another adult pressing her down is uncomfortable, and has Margaery so turned on it borders on moronic.
Setting a palm flatly over her breastbone, Sansa smiles faintly, when Margaery draws a trembling breath. “I think here I’ll suck on your tits for a while. What do you think?”
“I think you could give it a try now.”
“Quit that,” Sansa warns softly.
“I’m just letting you know—”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“I dissent.”
“I know I like sucking your tits, and we both know you like it even more. Nothing to trial there.”
“For that you fondled me quite a bit just now.”
“Your imagination will have to do, Madame Secretary,” Sansa establishes strictly, her tone not quite in character, but not too far from it either. “Just imagine I’ve sucked them all nice and good. In that rough way, that always gets you all wet and worked up.” She traces a sore nipple through the thin shirt. “Until they’re raw and aching, and you can’t help but want more, want every part of your body to feel like that.”
Fingers pressing against her lips signal her that the interlude is over and Margaery draws another shallow breath, thinking she couldn’t be more turned on if she just spent an hour sucking her nipples instead of just talking about it.
Her pretty captor drapes herself over her, her mouth latching onto her neck with a fierce, biting tug. Margaery endures it with her eyes screwed shut, jaws tight in the effort to not make a sound. “Don’t bother to pretend, Madame Secretary. I know you like this.” A hot open-mouthed kiss to her neck, drives the last of her senses speeding off a cliff. “I can feel it.”
Margaery thrashes her head, trying to ward off the intoxicating kisses, buzzing around her neck like a persistent fly. It’s straining and exhausting in the dumbest way imaginable.
It’s ironic too, because going into this she thought their greatest challenge was having Sansa blend into the role of the assaulter. As it turns out, playing the reluctant victim is a great deal harder. Determined to stick to her part still, Margaery bucks up hips, trying to throw her off.
The reward comes promptly. Her captor pins her down; lips drag over her cheek, hover over her ear. “I should have known,” she rasps, her hot breath sending a tingling all the way to Margaery’s toes. “You’re not one to just lay back and take it like a good girl, are you? You need to be in charge. You need to call the shots.”
Parting her lips, she sets a kiss to her jawline and moves off her, wrenching her into a sitting position. Lightheaded, Margaery sways on the spot, her eyes fluttering shut, when her captor slips behind her and pulls her flush.
One arm looped over her shoulders she holds her in place. “Good thing—” toned legs drape over her knees and pry her thighs apart so harshly, the zip tie creaks around her ankles, “—I love nothing more than fucking a bossy little top into place.”
Margaery’s head drops back in a quiet moan. The position, these long limps holding her in place with such ease, hands mapping her body, her breasts and cunt, is so exquisite, she can’t be bothered to struggle.
Sansa’s voice calls her back to reality considerably gently. “I’m going to fuck you like this,” she says, fingertips ghosting the seamline over her crotch. “And then I’ll stop, just when you’re ready to beg. Sound good?”
“No,” Margaery gives back tightly, her face half buried in red hair, her hips lifting in a desperate seeking for more friction, only to be promptly forced back into stillness.
“No?”
“You should make me come. Fuck me hard and good and show me who’s in charge.”
“I reckon, edging you would drive that point home even clearer.” She seamlessly shifts to her intruder voice, fingers rubbing over her clit. “Just look at you, dripping down a stranger’s wrist like that. Does your wife have any idea what a desperate little slut you are, Madame Secretary? No, but she knows, doesn’t she? I bet it’s her favourite thing about you. Knowing she can make the great Margaery Tyrell, beg like a little bitch.”
It takes Margaery’s every ounce of willpower to heave herself out of the tight grip holding her captive. She doesn’t get far. Limbs, steeled by workout sessions far more frequent and intense than her own, pull her back into place with ease, lock her in even tighter.
She sucks on her neck. “You’ll beg me too, Margy. You’ll be begging me to do things you’ve never even thought of.”
Margaery shakes her head frantically, cranes her upper body to get away, and just about sighs in relief when she’s drawn back with even more force.
For a moment she just keeps her still like that, only their ragged breathing between them.
“Have you given any thought to what you’ll be wearing?” Sansa asks then, smoothing over the inside of a thigh.
Margaery allows the tension in her body, the feigned attempts to get away to cease momentarily.
Fashion choices in roleplay are a detail that Sansa cares for a good deal more than she does. Though, on occasion, they do serve as a good bargaining chip for her to get her way. “With how much you’re playing the Madame Secretary angle, a work attires seems appropriate.”
The words earn her a firm squeeze of her breast. “The petrol A-line,” Sansa croaks into her ear. “With a pantyhose I can rip open fucking you.”
A small moan escapes Margaery. She sinks more comfortably into the lean arms enwrapping her, closes her eyes as Sansa rubs her clit through the leggings.
“My, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you’re enjoying yourself, Madame Secretary.”
Margaery doesn’t bother to struggle this time. There’s nowhere to go with the way she’s got her clamped down. There’s only enduring, taking whatever little she’s willing to grant her.
“I’ll have to admit,” her pretty intruder goes on, palming at her chest. “You’re so much more fun to play with than I ever thought possible.” The heel of a hand presses down on Margaery’s crotch for her to grind against. When she does, fiercely, her pretty intruder chuckles. “Gods, you’re easy.”
Margaery doesn’t react to the words, just squeezes her eyes shut and keeps moving her hips frantically, doubting she’ll grant her to come, and yet too desperate not to at least try. It’s just about enough then too, with the restraints, with the way she’s being held down, with the taunting smile she can sense just by those satisfied breaths rushing against her skin.
Release is at the tip of her fingers, when a tug on her hair, forcing her head back, puts a harsh end to her desperate endeavour. “This is getting a little dull.” Teeth rake along the length of her neck. “It’s really no fun if you’re not struggling at least a little.”
Before Margaery can answer, she’s dragged to her feet. Hands stabilise her, for the length of a kiss to her nape, then what’s left of her sense of balance comes irredeemably lost. Her captor lifts her up – not with the grand gesture of a groom carrying his bride to their bed, but with the disregard of some hoisting up a sack of flour.
Hefted over Sansa’s shoulder, a cascade of hair obscuring her sight, Margaery’s body is taut to the breaking point. The volatility, the inability to hold on, is daunting, unsafe in a dozen different ways, and by all the Gods, it’s so bloody sexy, she might just combust before they ever make it to the bedroom.
The grip on her thighs and ass, shifting her, lets Margaery casts aside the idea of exceeding the practice limits already today.
She wants the real thing – both of them dressed for the part, zip ties cutting into her skin, a gag to restrict her breathing. She wants Sansa to carry her to the bedroom with her skirt swept up and pantyhose torn. She wants the real thing, all of it. She’s not sure how she’ll survive the real thing, but that only makes her want it more.
She lands on top of the duvet, tossed down with little care, the bed bouncing, her shoulder taking the brunt of the impact. Margaery rolls onto her back, a giddy anticipation in her stomach, that’s kind of undue. They agreed that nothing would happen today. Clothes on, no penetration, that is the deal. Even if that feels a little watered down after she just about made herself come humping Sansa’s hand.
The mattress shifts as Sansa sits next to her. Fingers sweep disarray curls from her face, and free her sight to gentle eyes taking her in. “You’re doing okay?”
“I’m great.” Margaery curves her spine, with a contented smile. “How about you, my darling?”
“I’m…” Sansa ducks her head, her cheeks a gorgeous tint of pink. “…enjoying myself enough to consider therapy.”
“We can always stop, if you’re uncomfortable. Just say the word.”
She’ll have to bathe in ice cubes, if they stop now but she will if that’s what Sansa wants. Getting off on a fantasy is not the same as being comfortable with a fantasy, and she’s not about to push Sansa into anything she’s not comfortable with – hence the dry run.
With a quick shake of her head, Sansa leans down for a soft kiss. “I’m fine. I promise.”
“Give me our safe word.”
Lips twist into a soft smile that lingers through a kiss. “House Rules.”
Margaery cranes her head pressing their foreheads together. “Don’t be afraid to use it.”
They stay like that for another short moment, consciously soaking up the tender affection that will have no place in this last part.
When Sansa straightens her back, the fingers combing through Margaery’s hair, give away that she’s not quite back in the game. “This is where I’ll pull your pantyhose and underwear down.”
“What about yours?”
“I don’t think I’ll be going for pantyhose.”
Margaery sizes her up. “I think I wouldn’t mind, if you stayed dressed.”
“Why thank you.”
“You could wear a studded jeans.”
Sansa comes to a stand, arching her brows in understanding. “That won’t be all that comfortable for you.”
Margaery sucks on her lower lip. “No, probably not.”
With an amused shake of her head, Sansa straightens features into an unapproachable façade. “I have a confession, Madame Secretary,” she says then, in that ravishingly low voice, that affects Margaery like her most skilled, aimed touch. “I took the liberty and indulged in a bit of snooping before you came home.” Reaching for the zip ties, that sit prepared on the nightstand, she smiles down at her coldly. “Quite the collection you’ve got in your night drawer. Delightfully depraved. That will make for a lot of fun to play with.”
Head craned, Margaery follows the deliberate show she makes out of fastening zip ties to the corners of the bed frame. Each rasp, making her heart pound harder. The prospect of being confined by those, spread out for her captor, and left completely vulnerable, sends an aching clenching up her cunt.
With a fourth rasping sound concluding the endeavour, her captor braces her hands into her hips, watching her for a moment in silence as she lies there. Both their chests are heaving as if they’d just come out of a straining exercise.
“Now,” she says, “I assume I won’t be able to count on your collaboration?”
It would be easiest to simply play along. This part, they’re now edging in on, is what Margaery was looking forward the most anyway. She’s shaky with excitement and, frankly, she’s a little exhausted. But exhausted or not, they are playing, and a good role-play demands commitment to your part – Madame Secretary Margaery Tyrell isn’t one to simply surrender to her destiny.
In a motion that wasn’t part of their mental script, Margaery rolls over and swings tied legs to the side. With another scoot she has them dangling off the edge.
A cold chuckle follows her movements. She catches her ankles just as her toes make contact with the rug. “Not half bad,” she comments, shoving her legs back onto the bed. “More agile than I gave you credit for.” She drags her to the centre of the bed. “You really shouldn’t tire yourself out like that, though. You’ve got a long couple of hours ahead of you.”
Margaery shifts her hips, attempting to evade the hand drawing over her crotch. Her pretty captor laughs darkly, continues her exploration unbothered.
“I reckon we still got a while before your wife gets home, don’t we? We should really make the most of it.” Fingers digging into her calves, she pulls her legs to the left bed corner. “If you’re really nice to me, maybe I’ll leave her alone.”
In the dumbest instinct possible, the taunting, the veiled threat towards her wife, voiced by her wife, snaps Margaery back into defence like she’s set up with springs. She thrashes, yanks her legs in her grip, so rapidly, Sansa’s thrown off balance and lands on the floor with an ugly thud.
“Shit!” Margaery scrambles to sit up. “Shit, I’m sorry! Are you okay? Sansa? Are you—”
She gets as far as pushing to her elbows, fighting off the memory of a thriller novel that started in a similar fashion, when a hand slaps onto the bed, and Sansa resurfaces, pulling herself up on the duvet.
The last hint of perplexity in her features, dissolve meeting Margaery’s eyes. With a hard gaze, she grabs tied ankles and wrenches them back in place.
Margaery bates her breath in excitement, when the open, waiting plastic tie closes around one ankle in a harsh, swift pull. It comes followed by a snarled, “Pull something like that when we’re doing this for real and I’ll make you wear the clamps for the rest of the night.”
Margaery smirks. “That’s not the threat you think it is.”
Biting her lip, cheeks gorgeously flushed, Sansa grabs a pair of scissors from the vanity, cutting the zip tie holding her ankles together. The second the plastic snaps, Margaery tries to wrench free, but this time, her captor is on guard. Slender fingers circle her ankle like a cuff, dragging it in place.
Another rasp sounds, and Margaery bites away a moan as the plastic digs into her flesh with a sharp bite.
Standing at the foot end her captor regards her with an icy smile, scissors securely in hand. “This,” she says, in a voice so low it borders on maddening, “is where I’ll cut you out of the rest of your clothes.”
Margaery holds her eyes, with bated breath and lids. “You might want to give that a trial run.”
A soft smile on her lips, Sansa squeezes a foot. “Not what this is about.”
“I dissent.”
Ignoring the objection, Sansa circles the bed in deliberate steps, not leaving her out of her sight for even a second. She halts to her left, looking down at her in silence for a long moment.
The motion that follows comes as swift as a snake, darting for its prey.
One knee braced on the bed, she shoves her onto her side as far as the ankle restraints allow, and pulls tied arms backwards, effectively immobilising her.
A hand brushes over a taunt shoulder in a gentle touch. “No struggling until I’m done with the scissors,” she tells her. “Understood?”
Margaery nods and relaxes as much as she can in the twisted position.
“I mean it,” Sansa repeats with emphasis, threading one blade of the scissor beneath the plastic tie. “House Rules. Hold still.”
“I am.”
“You’re fidgety like a tadpole.”
“Gee, I wonder why.”
The scissors snap shut and cut plastic straps are tossed away. “Okay, you can move now.”
Except she can’t. The forceful grip holding her down hasn’t rendered even an inch.
Sansa’s voice drops into her most menacing tone yet. “Make no mistake, Madame Secretary. This is happening. You’re not doing yourself any favours fighting me now.”
In a most gleeful sense of spite, Margaery bucks in her grip. She wrenches one hand free. The other remains stubbornly trapped. Her captor, using the slight advantage in height and strength, and, most crucially, legs not bound to the bed, yanks her arm up to the waiting loop, and pulls it tight.
For a moment thereafter, she stands next to the bed, breathing heavily, as her eyes sweep over her handiwork, over Margaery’s heaving chest and the free hand that uselessly tries to loosen the zip tie.
There is just a hint of gentleness in her touch as she brings her last limp in position, like a hunter, stroking over a wounded animals head, before granting it the deathblow.
Then a last rasp sounds and seals her fate.
Sansa sits down on the bed next to her, smoothing a hand over her arm, while Margaery tests the hold of the restraints. There’s a soft creaking in the bed frame, the sound of plastic grating against wood, but nothing budges even an inch. Sansa watches her intently, gently tracing fingertips with her own and Margaery in turn flexes her fingers through hers and holds on.
They’re somewhat without a script from here on out. Beyond their usual limits anyway, which are pretty broad to begin with. Their dry run could end here – those crucial, force and coercion aspects thoroughly tested. But in all the effort it took to get here, in all the wound-up spirits, neither of them is willing to break out of it yet.
Sansa smiles softly as she ghosts a hand over her chest. “I think I’ll start with putting the clamps on you. Leave you hanging there for a while, a bit of back and forth between sucking and clamping your tits.” Fingertips tease a puckered areola through her shirt. “How does that sound?”
“Like you should give it a try now.”
Sansa offers a slight smile, disregarding the request. “I’ll leave them on, while I tend to the rest of you.” Palms stroke down the length of her arms over her sides and stomach, down her hips and thighs. “With my lips, my hands, maybe the one or other toy.”
“Will you make me come?”
“What do you think?”
“Not even if I beg?”
Smiling, she tilts her head in consideration. “I reckon, I’ll make you eat me out first.”
“And if I refuse?”
Amusement lights up her face, cupping Margaery's cunt. “You think, you’re in a position to refuse me?”
“I can always do a lousy job.”
“Then I’ll touch myself, kneeling over your face.” Her smile widens, drawing a moan from Margaery. “Let’s see how long you’ll resist like that.”
Margaery closes her eyes, savouring the exquisite precision of the fingers tending to her. “And then? What next?”
Fingertips damp with arousal –yeah, so much for the dry run– trace Margaery’s lips. "Might be a good moment to give the wand a turn."
“Which one?”
Sansa hums, stroking along the length of her neck and clavicle. “Which one would you prefer?”
“I’m not sure.”
“No?” Sansa smiles in delight. “And here I thought you’d have a clear preference.”
“You’ll make sure I’ll regret it no matter what.”
“Think you can handle both?”
Margaery swallows hard at the prospect of what she could put her through. “Maybe. If you keep the electric one above the waist.”
Sansa purses her lips, eyes sweeping over her for a moment. “I can work with that,” she decides, straddling her hips. Expression thoughtful, she grinds down against her. “Don't fool yourself though. You’re not going to come.”
“Until I beg?”
She rolls her hips forward and grinds down, making Margaery strain against the plastic ties. “No, not even then.”
“What did I ever do to you?”
Sansa’s chuckle comes from the back of her throat. “Want me to answer that as your wife, or as your captor?”
“Captor first.”
“Oh, she's a piece of work.” Sansa rocks back and forth at a steady pace. “I imagine, she’s been watching you for quite some time. The necklace was a pretence. She’s been obsessed with you ever since she saw you at a campaign rally. And ever since she's following you, sneaks around the house at night, watching you undress, watching us make love. She hates me and is most furious she cannot have you.”
“Did you also fabricate some kind of childhood emotional scar?”
Sansa’s hips still, her touch tickling down Margaery’s rips, leaving her squirming against the restraints. “You think it’s a good idea to tease my character choices just now?”
“I’m not teasing, I’m just inquiring.”
“You don’t know your place as usual.”
Margaery smirks. That one was definitely her wife talking.
Sansa keeps rolling her hips relentlessly. “A round with the strap might help with that. What do you think?”
“Gods, yes.”
“You shouldn’t be quite as enthusiastic, Madame Secretary. I couldn’t imagine your wife would approve.”
“My wife’s quite the kinky bitch. She’ll understand.”
Sansa hums, grinds down hard. “Speaking of… I do think this would be an excellent opportunity to film ourselves.”
Margaery stills, as though any shift could unintentionally imply consent.
That one has been on Sansa’s mind for quite a while, and while there’s normally no fantasy too dirty or depraved to grant her – this one she’s been dodging.
It’s not that Margaery is opposed to the idea in general. It’s an alluring thought to have a recording of them – to watch with Sansa to get in the mood, to watch on her own when work takes her out of town. But for someone in her position a sex tape, no matter how cautiously done and hidden, is a significant risk. Sansa knows her stance on that. They’ve had that argument – multiple times.
Unwilling to rehash it in her present vulnerable position, Margaery settles on a diplomatic, “I think we better take it one kink at a time, love.”
“Funny. I’m counting at least five right now.”
“I’ll tell you what: Don’t overdo it with the edging when we’re doing this, and we can talk about it.”
The corners of Sansa’s mouth pull down ever so slightly. “Seems it’s true what they say. Negotiating with you really is like chewing your own leg off.”
“I use the leverage I have.”
The glint in Sansa’s eyes promises trouble. “Good point.”
Margaery sighs in frustration, when her weight and the delicious friction disappear at once. A soft buzzing sound lets her jerk against the restraints. Then Sansa’s back and perches the wand vibrator between them.
“Now that…” Margaery arches her back with a lazy smile. “…is one excellent negotiation tactic.”
“I learned from the best.”
Sansa rocks her hips forward, grinding the wand head down against her clit. She’s got it on the lowest setting, the vibrations nowhere near as strong as Margaery needs them. She learned indeed. A little too well perhaps.
The wand clamped down between them, Margaery bucks up fiercely. She knows where this is headed, has been in this position too many times not to see it coming, and yet, like an idiot, she hopes that maybe this time will be different.
“I suppose you’re right,” Sansa says then, turning the vibrator up. “We should really keep our head in the game for this.”
Margaery nods, eyes shut, her foolish hope soaring as Sansa grinds firmly enough to bring her gruellingly close.
“But make no mistake, Madame Secretary. In this game—”
Hips lift, take the vibrations with them and leave Margaery heaving off the bed in a murderous groan.
“—you’re not coming.”
Margaery yanks at the zip ties and slams her body against the mattress when there’s not a fucking inch of give. “Oh, come on!”
Hovering on her knees above her, a faint smile paints Sansa’s lips. “A little restraint, Madame Secretary. That whiny tone might work with your wife, but it doesn’t do a whole lot for me.” Passing the wand from one hand to the other, she holds Margaery’s eyes, taking it past the waistband of her pyjamas. She hums, knuckles white pressing it tightly up against her cunt. “Other than this right here.”
Margaery bites her lips watching her, and wonders if her depraved desires actually landed her in hell this time. Sansa is a vision tending to herself. Worse yet, she knows it. Every single breath, that heaves tits, comes coldly calculated – every breathy, moany exhale too.
It’s one thing to be denied control over her own orgasm, it’s a whole other having to yield any involvement in Sansa’s, just lying there without being able to touch her, to push her closer, to feel tensing limps wrapped around her.
“Enjoying the show?”
With the last leverage she still has, Margaery makes a small motion with her chin. “Lose those pants and come up here.”
Heavy lidded eyes shine with amusement. “I don’t think so.”
“I’ll make you come a thousand times harder than any vibrator.”
Sansa gives a breathless chuckle, pushing and rubs vigorously against the wand head.
She’s close, drenched-wet, pussy-already-fluttering kind of close.
Sensing the height of pleasure reaching its peak, Margaery yanks at plastic ties that are starting to become more frustrating than that bloody chastity belt, Sansa talked her into trying once.
Sansa’s orgasm seizes her body in a sweeping wave – thighs trembling, back arched, head thrown back.
When lips, agape in a quiet moan, ever so slowly twist into a gorgeous, satisfied smile, Margaery can’t help but smile too – at this sight she hasn’t been granted in what feels like forever. Not the orgasm, that’s a fairly regular occurrence – but that glorious, gorgeous levity, that leaves Sansa so absolutely radiant.
The buzzing stops and the wand resurfaces glistening. Setting it aside, Sansa drapes herself over her, in the manner of a cat that just got fed and wouldn’t mind some fur crawling; hips flush, grinding down to relish the aftershocks, face buried in the crook of Margaery’s neck.
She hums softly, still a little out of breath. “This really was an excellent idea.”
Margaery breathes, frustration creeping up on her, in time with the scent of Sansa’s arousal. “Why, I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.”
Lips press against her pulse point. “Are you saying you aren’t?”
A warm breath rushes against her skin, and Margaery swallows her frustration. It’s been a while, since Sansa’s been so actively seeking her proximity for plain old cuddles. It’s been even longer since she’s seen her so relaxed. “Of course, I am.”
Eyes dart up with a pensive expression. “Are you really?”
“Yeah,” Margaery gives back, not quite sure what to make of the undercurrent in her voice. “Of course.”
Sansa curls back against her side, fingers stroking over the patch of skin, where Margaery’s top has ridden up. “ I was hoping you would. You have been so tense lately.”
She’s been tense?
“I’m haven’t been tense.”
“No, you have. Terribly so.” The words bring a shift, that’s palpable even in the caress. She feels heavy resting against her, like something’s weighing her down physically. “How could you not?”
“I’m—”
“Don’t say you’re okay. You’re not. We’re not.”
Margaery’s lips clamp shut.
“It’s okay, you can admit it,” Sansa says nuzzling her neck. “I know I haven’t been easy to live with lately.”
Even though her entire body churns in the urge to hold her, Margaery doesn’t dare to ask to be untied, afraid the soft sincerity of the moment might pass if she does. She settles on a kiss to Sansa’s hairline. “I love you, Sansa.”
Sansa’s lips curve into a weary smile. “Half the time, I don’t know if you really mean that, or if you’re just trying to assuage me.”
“I mean it,” Margaery promises, nuzzling her face into her hair. “Gods, Sansa, of course I mean it. Always.”
“Then stop using it to try and micromanage my emotions.”
Margaery’s head jerks back. “Micromanage? I’m not—”
“You are. Constantly.” Propping herself up on an elbow, she looks at her flatly. “Or what would you call it, when someone instigates a roleplay, that’ll have her zip tied to the bed, just so her spouse can feel in control of something?”
Margaery shakes her head. “That’s not why I wanted to do this.”
Sansa settles her head back over her shoulder. “It’s okay if you did. It wasn’t the worst way to vent.”
For a long while she says nothing else. They just lie there, and Margaery wishes she had the right words to make it better. There was a time when she always had the right words. Lately, she’s been falling short; nothing left to give, but those stoic, repeated affirmations of love.
“I’ve been thinking,” Sansa says into the silence. “I think, I—I’ll take a break for a while.”
There’s a resignation in her tone, that breaks Margaery’s heart. Sansa hasn’t shared a lot about her feelings on that topic in a while, refused to let her in on anything. Not on the fleeting, fragile hope, nor the bottomless disappointment. As of late she didn’t even share the timing of her treatments.
Margaery still knew for every single one – for every single negative test that followed too.
She also knows there’s nothing she can say to make it better. Letting go of a dream you poured your heart and soul into, even just temporarily, feels like a small death. One you have to grieve in your own time.
Margaery settles on a most plain, “Whatever you need, my love. I’m here.”
Sansa’s palm slips beneath her top, rests warmly over her stomach. “What do you need?”
Margaery blinks. “Me?”
“Yeah.”
She stares to the ceiling, finds the question in all its simplicity, astonishingly hard to answer.
“You don’t even know, do you?” Sansa’s touch skims higher, traces over her rips. “You’ve been so busy trying to keep it together for the both of us, you….” She looks at her tenderly. “Aren’t you exhausted?”
Margaery presses lips together, mind and body torn between the thickness tightening her throat and the warmth coiling under the soft touch breaching her waistband. “I’m not sure if this is the right moment to have this conversation.”
Sansa sits up, smiling faintly. “I dissent.”
The wand hums to live, putting Margaery’s every sense on alert. She gets as far as “What are you—”, when Sansa presses the vibrator up against her clit, gradually cranking the vibrations up to full speed.
She rests next to her with a soft smile, observing her every breath. “I meant what I said. I’m glad you suggested this. I needed some sense of control. More than I even realised.” Fingers stroke through Margaery's hair, her face thoughtful. “You on the other hand—” The pressure weans, the buzz only faintly hovering over her clit. “—might benefit easing up on that compulsive need to control everything.”
Margaery’s deep breath comes restrained, zip ties biting into her flesh. Her jaws set tight, meeting Sansa’s eyes. “I’m not sure I like where this is going.”
Sansa meets her in a gentle kiss, grants her some soft pressure with the wand for the length of their lips staying connected. “Don’t worry,” she breathes, teasing lips with her tongue. “We’ll practice together.”