Title: Ink-Stained
Author: pre_raphaelite1
Characters/Pairings: Tom/? (het)
Rating: NC-17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Please/Squick your Mod: desk!sex, masturbation, bdsm
Other Warnings: lactation, adultery, blindfolding (of a sort), orgasm denial
Word Count: 1930
Summary/Description: But the promise of threat never kept her from wanting him, from wanting to draw the diary forth and raise quill and ink in greeting to his slanted words.
Author's Notes: Let's see if this comes through like I hoped, which does explain/necessitate my refusal to identify the female in the header.



She kept the diary locked in the desk, under the false bottom that used to hide away a parliament of juvenile love notes in curving script and hopeful naivete. But now it was the wooden vault to memories long past but still moving between the pages and still air of her study. She thought of it, longed for it, and the boy within bindings as dark as his eyes, but knew wariness was more than warranted. He had taken her before, swept her into timelessness and into submission, kept his fingers tight around her throat and her soul, not releasing her until her will had slid into blackness.
 
But the promise of threat never kept her from wanting him, from wanting to draw the diary forth and raise quill and ink in greeting to his slanted words.
 
She wondered what would happen if her husband came upon it, if he saw their script twining together on parchment pages, more than mere adultery. She imagined the way his fingers would falter and tremble over the battered leather cover, his own whispers of fear rising up into foolishness. Part of her wanted to see it, to see him face the truth of her desires, but he was never a subtle man and they had a family to protect now, though she never needed his protection.
 
She could feel the pulse of him beyond the surface of her desk, the quiet flutter of ink beyond parchment and soft breaths of leather in the drawer below. Not yet. It wasn't time yet. She must finish the letters, the contracts, the invitations; these were her occupation, but the diary more than pleasure. Ignoring both the throbbing call that pulsed through her and her husband's obliged query of her intent for the afternoon, she continued with the stack before her. Her quill scratched and hissed in verdant ink as the autumn shadows stretched catlike across the worn wooden floor.

Finally the last of obligation and necessity lay in completion and she curled her wand toward the door, which closed the rest of the world away. Another spiral of willow and the drawer slid free of its housing, the false bottom curtaining away to reveal the familiar book within. Pale fingertips lifted it out with a care now more accustomed to lifting away the thin curls of an infant's down. The pages creaked as she opened it, the sound making her shiver in anticipation though she didn't know what waited for her, only who.

Good evening came his greeting, the mix of ice and liquid heat so clear in the silence of the room. Will you join me tonight?

Phrased even as it was, she knew that was no invitation though she would have accepted if it had been extended. She answered in one word, nearly parseltongue, and the seam of the book burned venom gold, stretching and extending until everything rushed and glowed.

Then there was silence. Darkness. Stillness around her. The ground was solid beneath her but beyond that and the bumblebee beat of her heart, the world had ceased to exist. She stood waiting, pressing impatience down with the bowing of her proud head and the closing of useless eyes.

“You look beautiful like that, you know,” his voice swirled around her.

She laughed quietly, flattered and not mocking despite her questioning, “Can you see in the dark now, Tom?”

His fingers trailed feather-light along her cheekbone, initially making her flinch in surprise. “Now, my dear, you are making assumptions again.”

Gooseflesh swept down her spine, unbidden, part in response to word and touch of this memory but more in response to her own. “Am I?”

His touch slithered down to her throat, curling and turning over skin and pulse. “Oh yes. You are assuming that it's dark here.”

“But-”

“I have absolutely no problem seeing the room, seeing you.”

Startled, she looked up but there was nothing to be seen but ebony emptiness.

He laughed then, the low curling of tentacula vines. “Unseeing tonight, my dear, but let it never be said that you are blind.” His thumb stroked over the tight press of her lips. “But your husband is. For not seeing you as you are. Not valuing the treasure in his keeping.”

Her lips curved into a faint smirk, “He knows nothing of the treasure in my keeping.”

The air hung heavy for a moment before Tom spoke again with a voice distant with thought. “No. No, he doesn't. I expect that will change in time.”

She reached for him, hands finding the solidness before her, the thin crispness of shirt and the bookmark silk that lay against it. “Tom...”

“Yes, my dear? Don't think I am neglecting you as you will be the instrument of my change.”

“One of them.” Her fingers stroked over the woven stripes, their subtle ridges slipping against her own loops and whorls.

“But now I have other uses for you.” His hand closed on her throat and pushed her backward. She stumbled a few steps before hitting the edge of something that screeched across the floor. A blink then she was on it, flat and unyielding. Her fingers curled over the sharper edge of wood before they were pinned over her head, secured with chains of shivering magic. “Now, shall I leave you here and see if you are rescued by man on a winged horse?”

“You have the wrong one of us for that, Tom,” she said blandly before snagging him with one delicate leg, pulling him wantonly closer. “And I have no interest in being rescued.”

“I think that would make me a very large whale and you far too clothed.”

“I have no problem with the second.” Her hips rose up, robes sliding higher, an invitation of satin and skin to find the still hidden lace and the arousal that darkened it.

Without a sound, her clothes dissolved into naked exposure. Her nipples peaked hard, darkened and waiting for the suckle of a tiny mouth that was still slack in sleep somewhere outside this paper estate. One sensitive rise was caught, pinched, rolled between cool fingers that then spread lower to cup the small mound of her breast and squeeze it finger by finger from base to tip. Moisture slid down over it, between fingers and flesh.

“How is your son, my dear?”

Her smile stretched smoothly as she answered, “Growing well.”

“Good. Let's hope he takes after his mother.” His hand hadn't stopped its calculatedly lazy rhythm and she matched it unconsciously with the rise and fall of her breath, the increased dampness between her still spread legs. She moaned, squirming, offering again the vulnerable entrance to her body. But he left her empty, wanting, never changing the patterned press and she could feel the faint spray and drip over her ribcage, slipping under her arching back. Her pride demanded she not beg for more, but he did; he always demanded it of her, expected it of her.

“Tom... Please. More. Let me feel more of you. Let me take you.”

“You think you'll do the taking, do you?” This was accompanied by a sharp twist of the nipple and the change from one breast to the other. No tighter, no faster than the first.

“No. Take me. I'm yours for it.” Her voice was steady, practiced, but no less fiercely honest for her experience. “I'm yours for anything.”

“Yes. Yes, you are. And a great part of your value is you know your place.”

“I always have... after the first.”

“True. But you were such an innocent slip of a girl then. But one who will carry me to greatness again.” Both hands closed on her, one on each breast, tightening and strangling them into overflowing streams once more. “To say nothing of the proof you offer here of the next generation for my service.”

She squashed the possessive refusal with a grit of teeth and a lift of her chin. “Let me give you more then.”

He chuckled at that. “So fierce. Nearly leonine. Ironic then, your pride.”

But then he was inside of her, pushing harder and deeper into her. She hadn't heard any cloth shifting or felt any magic moving, but there was the velvet heat of him demanding ever more of her. She folded her legs back to her chest, let them crook over his shoulders, knees turned out at angles from his grip on her breasts. The shallowness of her body refused to yield to the length of him and each jarring thrust shuddered a buzzing pain across the lowest point of her abdomen, until she shuddered and whimpered over the scraping objects of the desk. But these were, as she knew, only pleas to him to use her harder, to take her unrelentingly until her cheeks grew as damp as chest and cunt. Only then did he come to a stop inside of her, his release throbbing out over the bruising ache. He drew out of her, silent again; he never did any more than hiss as he spilled into her and she wondered if the sharp inhalation spoke curses or love songs to the fangs and scales he so favoured.

He drew his fingers down one thigh, which still quivered tensely with her own need of release. “So beautiful. And so very mine.”

“Yes.”

“Until next time then, my dear.”

Her head came up from the table, objecting to the quick dismissal of both her and her body's completion. But the wet emptiness between her thighs began to burn, hotter with each passing second, that buzzing of earlier settling, amplifying, into a hive of sensation. Her body tensed and trembled, ever closer, ever nearer to release. Her skin was stretching tighter over heated blood, over straining muscle, until her head began pounding above all else and still she had not found climax. She keened out his name and the world shifted and it was a fraction away from enough but suddenly the light and colour flooded back. Her desk was as she left it, but the diary was mockingly closed and her clothes were missing entirely. She pressed her fingers to her clit, the pulsing rising more and more as she circled herself into a sobbing orgasm, wetness seeping under her curving arse.

The room was too much, too bright and loud, for a few moments so she rested her forehead against the desk and willed the dervish spinning to end. It gradually slowed to a sedate rotation and she drew in a slow breath. The air was scented with sex, with the deep scent of her own body and that sharper musk of his.

She straightened once more and looked between her open thighs. As usual, in addition to the glistening of her own slickness, the flushed skin there and the paleness of her upper thighs were streaked and stained with ink. She smiled with slow satisfaction and carefully returned the diary to safety, locking him securely away until he called to her again.

Rising, she summoned a silk dressing gown and went to find her husband who was reading in his study. And there upon the wingback chair before the fire, Narcissa made Lucius take her, riding the pale thinness of him while her heated body still dripped arousal and ink from their young, leather-bound Lord.