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“Can you be good?” Harrow’s voice is soft as the heavy weight of the collar settles around Gideon’s throat.
“Yes,” Gideon breathes. Harrow threads the collar’s strap through the buckle, tightening it one notch past comfort, making sure to still fit two fingers between the leather and Gideon’s skin. Then she stands, and when she looks down at Gideon her eyes are hard as flint. Gideon flushes; the floor is hard against her knees, and the collar is tight around her throat. It all aches in a way that makes her thoughts lose their edges. “Yes sir.”
“Good girl,” Harrow murmurs. She cards her fingers through Gideon’s hair, tugging just a bit. “No talking. No hands. You start when I say so, and not before.”
The floorboards creak as Gideon nods, shifting her weight as she folds her hands behind her back. She wants a challenge—she asked for one, and Harrow always knows how to plan out just the right kind of fight. She can see just a sliver of skin between Harrow’s waistband and the hem of her shirt, and she has to grip her own wrist hard to keep from reaching forward. She won’t, though. Not yet. Not until Harrow says so.
Harrow still has one hand in Gideon’s hair, but the other she brings up to toy with her own belt. This one is Harrow’s favorite, black as pitch and studded through with steel that stings in all the right ways. She moves slow, and she doesn’t have to tell Gideon to watch as she undoes the buckle and pulls the belt free with a snap. Gideon shivers. She’s open-mouthed, almost panting, craning her neck as Harrow walks behind her.
“Face forward,” Harrow snaps, and Gideon turns her head back so fast her neck twinges. Then a slight creak as Harrow crouches down and winds her belt around Gideon’s wrists, pinning them at the small of her back. A part of Gideon feels almost insulted by the insinuation that she needs help, that she won’t be able to keep her hands clear without the help of the leather Harrow is currently looping around her hands. But any reservations are banished when Harrow cinches it tight, buckling it in place.
“Take care of that for me,” Harrow says. Then: “Down.”
Harrow’s hand is on the back of Gideon’s collar before Gideon can react, and she‘s pushing her down, down, down until her face is pressed to the floor. Gideon grunts, shifting her hips and widening her knees to maintain balance. From this view, she can only see the sides of Harrow’s boots as Harrow circles her. She feels like an animal in a trap. She feels free.
Predictably, Harrow stops in front of her; Gideon can’t see her face, but she knows if she could, Harrow’s eyes would be glinting with savage delight.
“I know what you want,” Harrow’s voice is cold, distant. Cutting. “But good boys earn their treats, no?”
Gideon responds with a guttural sound she hopes doesn't count as talking, and she’s rewarded by Harrow shoving the toe of her boot into Gideon’s face.
“You know what to do. Start.”
Gideon’s back tightens as she lifts herself slightly off the floor to press her lips to the top of Harrow’s boot. It smells like leather, and oil, and Harrow, and the taste is heady. Gideon runs the broad flat of her tongue over the surface until it’s slick and shiny with her spit, and when she’s satisfied, Harrow presents her other boot for Gideon’s ministrations.
Her dick twitches. Gideon can feel the wetness pooling in her boxers, her own cunt begging for release. She shifts her hips a bit, but she’s too wet for friction, and too good to break the ritual. She works slowly, methodically, making sure to clean every crease and divot, only stopping when she’s licked Harrow’s boots as slick as the day they were made. She doesn’t rise, though. She just nuzzles her face into the crook of Harrow’s ankle and savors the bitter taste on her tongue.
“Done, boy?” Harrow asks, teasing, and when Gideon nods, Harrow reaches down and grips her collar again, pulling her back up to kneeling. She crouches down to check her boots with a critical eye, buffing an imperceptible blemish with her thumb. Gideon waits, her breath caught in her throat. She did a good job. She did an excellent job. There’s no reason for Harrow to be unsatisfied, but still, anxiety worms in her stomach. Harrow is meticulous with her boots, her shiny steel buckles, her well-oiled leather and the silver rings glinting on her fingers.
Harrow takes a breath, and Gideon's world stops.
“Good boy,” she says, and Gideon feels herself go boneless, and she breathes. Harrow reaches out to run her fingers through Gideon's hair, making sure to pull on it, firm and slow so Gideon's head is tipped all the way back, exposing the shadow of her throat. “Do you think you deserve a treat?”
Gideon nods, jerking against the grip Harrow still has on her hair, a pathetic whimper coming from her lips.
Then Harrow grins, a predator with all her teeth. “Does it matter what you think?”
Gideon swallows, squeezing her eyes shut. Her cunt is aching, and she can't stop herself from rocking her hips back and forth, desperate for any kind of contact.
“Answer me,” Harrow orders, and Gideon can only shake her head. It doesn't matter what she thinks she deserves. It only matters what Harrow thinks, and all she can do is convince her as best she can.
“Points for knowing your place,” Harrow concedes. She bends, and when she kisses Gideon it's sharp, all bite. It's claiming. Ownership. Harrow rolls Gideon's bottom lip between her teeth as Gideon lets her jaw go slack, open for whatever Harrow has to give.
Harrow's not here to give, though. Not tonight. Tonight, she's here to take.
“Alright.” Harrow stands swiftly, leaning heavily on Gideon's shoulder as she sways. Gideon keeps herself very still, waiting until Harrow’s world stops spinning. Waiting for her next command. Harrow’s nails dig into Gideon’s shoulder as she squeezes once, twice, breathing slowly before stepping back, her posture sure and stable again. Then she turns, leading Gideon on her knees to shuffle over to the couch. When Harrow sits, she spreads her thighs wide and pulls Gideon close between them.
When Harrow's hands come up to fiddle with her waistband, Gideon squirms—she whines, long and low in her chest, and Harrow lets out a soft, dry laugh. She thumbs slow circles over the button, pushing the pad of her thumb into the edge as Gideon watches, open-mouthed and making what she hopes are the saddest, wettest, most pitiful eyes she can muster. But Harrow loves setting challenges, so instead of undoing the button, to allow Gideon to press her mouth where she belongs, she just taps it lightly, her smile as sharp as a knife.
“You can have a treat, if you can get it.”
Gideon cocks her head slightly, then—oh.
Oh.
Gideon understands the belt, now. Take care of this for me. To save her favorite leather from Gideon’s teeth, what better place than binding Gideon’s wrists?
“Start whenever you’re ready.”
Gideon leans forward so quickly she loses balance, only saved from toppling onto her face by Harrow’s arm, whipping out to grasp the back of her collar.
“Slow. Be good.”
Gideon swallows—the pressure of the collar against her windpipe is grounding, and her back strains as she pushes herself back up onto her knees. This time, she leans in slowly. Harrow keeps a hand on her, but she doesn’t need to. Gideon is good. Gideon is good, and she knows how to go slow, nuzzling against the fly of Harrow’s trousers. The button is still warm from Harrow’s thumb, and it's hard to get at it without her hands; Gideon has to use her teeth, and every time she nips at the placket it manages to slip out of her grasp. Harrow doesn’t make it easier for her either. She bucks her hips lightly, making it difficult for Gideon to find any purchase—Harrow is enjoying this. Gideon can feel the heat of her, and this close, she can barely think because she knows Harrow is wet, knows she’s fucking soaked, her cunt separated from Gideon's mouth by a few millimeters of fabric.
When Gideon pauses in her efforts long enough to look up at Harrow, her mouth is one firm line, but Gideon can see the delight in her eyes. The sadistic glee Harrow gets from knowing how much Gideon wants what she’s withholding.
“What? Too difficult for you?” Her tone is lightly mocking. Gideon whines, half out of desperation and half out of strategy. Her mouth is pressed up against Harrow’s fly, and she knows the vibrations from her lips are going right to Harrow’s clit. She’s rewarded by Harrow’s voice hitching, “I—ah —didn’t think you’d give up so soon.”
Gideon frowns at the accusation, shaking her head firmly as she attends to the button with new vigor, managing to grip the top of the placket with her teeth. She jerks it up, and down, and to the side, but the button won't open. She whines again, louder, pressing her face hard into the fabric of Harrow’s trousers.
Harrow can’t stop her hips from twitching against Gideon’s mouth, but she is otherwise unyielding. She just stares down at Gideon, silent, one eyebrow raised as if to say, I know you can give me more.
She’s right, though. Gideon can give her more—she clamps her teeth as hard as she can and pulls up hard enough she can almost feel Harrow’s heels lift off the ground, before she leans back and then down, gasping in relief as the button finally slides halfway out of its housing. She doesn’t let the victory relax her, though. The most difficult part done, all Gideon has to do is mouth at the placket for the button to slide fully slide free. From there, it’s just fitting the zipper between her teeth and pulling down, making sure to look up at Harrow the entire way, reveling in her victory.
“Good boy.” Harrow murmurs. Her hand tightens on the back of Gideon’s collar, and Gideon doesn’t need a verbal command to know that means, pause. She leans into Harrow, breathing in her scent, waiting. Being good. Her cunt throbs, she’s so wet that she wouldn’t be surprised if she soaked right through her own trousers and right onto the floor at Harrow’s feet.
Gideon lets out a sharp yelp as Harrow’s boot presses forward, grinding hard and suddenly onto her dick. Gideon bucks into it, almost comes just from that brief touch, but she’s stopped by Harrow’s tightening hand, and the boot pulls away.
“Pitiful,” Harrow sneers, and she’s almost breathless with wanting. “Pathetic. One touch is all it takes?”
All Gideon can do is whine, jerking her hips against nothing as she buries her face in Harrow’s thigh. Please , she’s saying, begging with everything but her voice, and Harrow, for all her love of cruelty, cannot resist.
“Well. Take them off, if you’re so desperate.” Harrow gestures to her trousers with a hand, her attempted affect of carelessness undermined by the willingness with which she shifts from side to side, enabling Gideon to hook her teeth into the fabric and pull. It takes a fair amount of awkward tugging for her to get the waistband off Harrow’s hips, and once Gideon’s struggled her trousers down to mid-thigh Harrow is fully helping her, lifting one leg and then the other so Gideon can better maneuver, then guiding her up to the waistband of her boxers.
When Gideon works her teeth around the elastic, Harrow’s breath is coming hard and fast, any previous request to slow forgotten in the want that pools between her thighs. By the time Gideon has pulled her boxers down to her knees, Harrow practically yanks her up to her cunt, not even giving Gideon time to savor her victory before serving her a banquet.
The hair curling over Harrow’s mound glistens, trailing up her stomach and spreading out over her thighs. Gideon wants it so bad she feels dizzy, but she waits until Harrow barks, “Now,” her voice low and breathless, before she allows herself to finally, finally, put her mouth where it belongs.
Gideon takes her time. Now that she’s made it, worked Harrow’s armor off with nothing but her teeth, she has no reason to rush. She wants to bask in this moment. She wants to live in it; her knees on the floor, her chest heavy between Harrow’s thighs and Harrow’s cunt hot and wet against her face. Out of everywhere in the whole wide world, there’s no other place Gideon would rather be. Above her Harrow says something incoherent, something broken-off and wanting, but Gideon just nuzzles closer into her until the dark, wet heat of Harrow eclipses everything else.
Harrow’s hips judder under her, thrusting up into Gideon’s mouth—Harrow would never admit this is begging, but it is. Her cunt cants forward, chasing movement, chasing pressure, and Gideon just leans into her harder, only breaking away when her lungs are set to burst.
This is her reward, too. Making Harrow want. Making Harrow wait. Making Harrow so desperate that all she can do is beg, instead of command. This is part of the challenge, because if Harrow did command her, Gideon would obey without question. She would lick deep into Harrow, wrap her lips around Harrow’s clit and give Harrow everything, as many times as she wanted. But Harrow doesn’t actually want it to be easy. She wants a challenge too, a fight, she wants to assert her power like she always has. And Gideon knows exactly how to ruin her.
“Good —” Harrow groans, but everything else she was planning to say—any command she might want to give—is lost as Gideon slackens her jaw, opening her mouth wide and pressing her tongue against Harrow’s clit. She moves slow, working Harrow in firm, even strokes. Her fingers are wound tightly in Gideon’s hair, holding her down hard enough that every gasp of air Gideon takes is a struggle. Harrow is goading her, taunting her, forcing her to have to pull away hard from where she wants to be most in order to catch enough air to return.
Behind her back, Gideon’s wrists ball into fists, and she spreads her knees wider, thrusts her weight forward. She doesn’t need to breathe. Not really. She doesn’t need anything but Harrow. She grunts, turning the sound rough at the end, almost a growl, knowing Harrow will feel every ragged edge. She’s rewarded by Harrow’s hands seizing up, yanking her, hard and with no direction other than echoing need. Harrow’s thighs spasm underneath her.
Harrow makes another sound, high and keening as Gideon works her tongue teasingly over her opening.
Then, without warning, Harrow shoves her boot into Gideon’s dick. Gideon yelps, her own hips thrusting down, begging for more. And this time, Harrow provides. It’s strategic—it’s fucking evil, and Gideon can’t help but whine as she chases the pressure. She knows what Harrow is doing, knows she’s getting distracted, but Harrow is unyielding. Gideon grinds down, hard, and Harrow loosens her fingers, letting her go. Gideon leans back before she can think, cunt grinding down hard, using what she can of Harrow’s thick black laces to give herself the friction she needs to—
“Eat.”
Gideon howls with despair, but she is nothing if not obedient to Harrow’s commands. She rises off Harrow’s boot, surging forward to attack Harrow’s clit with abandon. Her jaw aches. Her tongue aches. Her dick aches. She’s pretty sure she might have some sort of bruise on her nose from how hard she’s pushing into Harrow.
Now that she’s been given the command, Gideon is not slow. She works Harrow hard and fast, not giving her any time to recover. Harrow's hips roll forward, a cascade of Good boy, good Gideon, Gideon, Gideon falling from her lips.
Her boot comes back, kicking up between Gideon's thighs, but this time she doesn't take it away, instead letting Gideon work herself into a frenzy. It's too much, it's not enough. Gideon's muscles ache, trembling, threatening collapse as she ruts against Harrow's laces, never letting her tongue leave Harrow's skin. When Gideon comes, her cunt spasms, her hips rocking in involuntary, rhythmic motions as she works herself through her orgasm. She doesn't let up on Harrow's clit, letting the movement of her hips fuel her until Harrow’s entire spine arcs like a live wire, and she comes.
Afterwards, Gideon slumps on the floor. She's still half kneeling, half draped across Harrow's lap pressing lazy kisses into the tender skin of her thighs and stomach. Harrow squirms, chest hitching in little gasps—her cunt is still clenching, clit twitching in the air as Gideon nuzzles into the crease of her thigh.
“You're good,” Harrow murmurs, when she finally recovers her breath. Gideon glows, pressing closer into the warmth of her skin. Harrow pushes her sweat-damp hair back from her forehead, her expression a dizzying mix of hunger, possession, pride. “Gideon. My Gideon. My good girl, my perfect Gideon.”
Gideon closes her eyes, letting the praise wash over like the tide. She wants to drown in it, wants to sink beneath the waves of Harrow's love, weighed down by the taste of Harrow's cunt on her tongue.
Then: Harrow's fingers turn hard again, commanding, and her tone goes flat and cold as ice.
“Well, boy? Can you give me another?”
Gideon grins.