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danwriteskinkTitle: Collar
Fandom: House MD
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1800
Characters/Pairings: Lisa/Remy
Summary: Remy thinks Lisa is such a gadget freak, and yet she can't take her eyes off that collar.
Notes: Written for the collar square for![[community profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
kink_bingo 2011. Presumes an establised D/s relationship between Cuddy and Thirteen.
The collar is fierce. The first time Remy sees it, it's on a mannequin's head, sitting on a shelf in Lisa's toy room. There's three heads on the shelf – white plastic, presumably to show contrast with the black leather – and each one wears some formidable construction: a heavy hood with a zip up the back, a thick muzzle with a metal mesh breathing plate and the posture collar, all sleek leather and steel struts.
Remy conceals a snort. Lisa is such a gadget freak.
She can't help thinking about it, though, even outside of scene time. She's worn collars before. Not capital-C collars, she's never played long enough with any one person for that. She's worn the fun kind, the kind you put on dogs, the kind you get lead around on by a leash at parties. This thing on Lisa's shelf is different– so solid, so inescapable. It's a restraint as well as a symbol. The kind of control it suggests is fascinating to Remy, who doesn't have a lot of trust in her body and how it works.
She's spending more and more down time at Lisa's place, not to play necessarily, but because when she's having a bad day, it's nice to sit quietly with someone who doesn't pity or coddle her. Even Lisa's kid isn't so bad, though she's usually asleep by the time Remy gets to the house. Best of all, Lisa isn't uncomfortable with long silences. In fact, she seems to relish them.
Tonight, when Remy arrives close to midnight, Lisa's mood is crisp and detached. She opens the door for Remy without looking up from the report in her hand, and nods for Remy to go into the living room. Remy throws a glance up the stairs; the stair gate is closed and locked, which means that Rachel is asleep, and won't be coming downstairs without warning to surprise Mommy and her friend. So, not so much with the sitting quietly, then. Lisa must have had a hell of a day.
"Kneel," says Lisa, with a gesture to the space beside the armchair. She sits down, flips through the report and taps a rapid run of sentences into her laptop.
Remy's pulse ticks up a few beats. The collar is sitting on the coffee table, gleaming in the soft lights of the living room. Remy folds herself neatly by the arm of the chair, and comes face to face with it, near enough to smell beeswax and leather conditioner. She sneaks a peak upwards; Lisa is watching her with a meditative expression.
Lisa puts down her report, and pulls Remy close, till Remy is sitting against her knees. She slides cool hands down Remy's neck, fingers tracing the large muscles, testing the tension there.
Remy rolls her head from side to side against Lisa's hand. "Things are fine."
Lisa tilts Remy's head backwards, and presses a hand against her mouth to silence her. And suddenly they're playing. Remy leans into the hand gagging her, kisses the palm open mouthed while she writhes against Lisa's knees, trying to ease Lisa's legs apart so she can get closer.
Lisa makes a noise of disapproval with her tongue. "How do I like my girls?"
The answer is 'naked and silent' but Remy knows better than to say it. Instead, while Lisa plays with Remy's mouth, dipping fingers in, Remy shrugs out of her shirt and bra. She kneels up, arches back against Lisa's knees, begs for Lisa's hand against her breasts. Her nipples are aching for touch now. All of her is aching, hot and desperate for Lisa's hand. Remy is panting now, her mouth open, tongue ready for whatever Lisa offers it.
Lisa is not feeling obliging. She pushed Remy away. "When I tell you to kneel, I want elegance and poise, not a lap dance."
Remy thinks this is profoundly unfair; Lisa has enjoyed many a lap dance from Remy, and more than one delivered in Lisa's office. Lisa takes Remy's lower lip between her fingers and gives it a hard twist, holding Remy rigid against her. It hurts, a sharp, immobilising pain
"I don't like pouty girls."
Once released, Remy scrambles upwards and shucks off her jeans and underwear, then when Lisa looks at the rumpled clothes on the floor, Remy folds them over the sofa. Lisa snaps her fingers beside her, and Remy falls to her knees on the carpet.
"When you kneel for me, you are an ornament." Lisa tilts Remy's head up, pulls her up off her backside. "You arch your back, you watch my face. You are close at hand, if I want to use you. You are silent, so that you do not distract. You exist here for me and my entertainment, my object."
She reaches for the collar, slips it under Remy's chin, then smooths the leather against her neck. The leather is cool against the skin; Remy breathes in saddle soap, and feels her head spin. Lisa carefully lifts Remy's hair free of the collar, smooths the line of the leather, aligns each strut correctly. When the collar is fitted properly, Remy's head is tipped upwards, looking at the top of the doorframe opposite her. It feels like ballet class, how the teacher demands a long, graceful neck.
Lisa closes each buckle with decisive movements, adjusting the collar as she goes. Remy feels the leather pull tight against her. It's not hard to breathe, as such, more that there's an awareness she can only move so far. The boning holds her neck rigid; she can no longer look left or right, nor dip her line of sight below the level of the sofa. She can't see her own body any more, but she can feel it responding to the restraint. Her nipples ache, her clit throbs, and she knows she's wet. She wants to be touched, she wants to beg for it, but the collar transforms her into a silent statue. Even though she can move her arms, she doesn't want to. She crosses them behind her back, and Lisa nods in approval.
Then Lisa positions her correctly: close to the sofa, knees spread apart enough that there is air brushing her labia but not widely splayed, a slight arch to her back that makes her breasts more prominent, mouth open and inviting. Lisa walks a circle around her, checking every detail. Then she sits down and goes back to her report, as if there wasn't a naked woman kneeling by her side.
Remy tries not to shift her weight, and keeps her eyes on Lisa's face, wondering what will be asked of her next. There's a small frown on Lisa's face as she reads. It's so like Doctor Cuddy, and not like Lisa, the bad-ass domme, that Remy feels a little confused. Then, while she reads, Lisa holds out her hand as you would to a pet. Remy thinks for a moment, then brushes the fingers with her lips, always watching Lisa's face. Lisa smiles, and presses against Remy's lower lip, where it's bruised and puffy from before. Remy flinches, finds she can't move her head away, and then endures Lisa's examination. The hand returns from time to time, and she tries an experimental nibble at the fingertips. All the time, her eyes never leave Lisa's face. Though Lisa has done nothing more than stroke Remy's lips, Remy finds that the act of devotion she is performing is consuming. Every move Lisa makes is suddenly fascinating. The idea that she might touch Remy at any time, that Remy cannot know if the touch will bring pleasure or pain, and not being able to do anything about it magnifies every sensation.
Finally, Lisa clicks 'save' on the document and closes the lid of her computer, then turns to look at Remy. Remy almost flinches under that gaze, suddenly feeling very helpless and exposed.
Lisa traces a finger over the leather spoon at the front of the collar. Remy can't see where the hand is going once it's below her line of sight, but she feels it quickly enough, as Lisa takes a nipple in her hand and works. Lisa's fingers are cruel as she twists and rolls the nipple, lifts Remy forward a little by that piece of flesh, squeezes hard until Remy makes the softest sound of protest.
"I'm thinking about whether I should whip you tonight," Lisa says, conversationally, as she gives the other nipple the same treatment.
Anticipation is worse than surprise, and Lisa knows that well enough. As her nipples are stroked and twisted, all Remy can think about is how much it will hurt, that lash against the skin, how Lisa loves to work the whip, how she doesn't give respite, how much it will hurt. Her brain is going in circles now, like Lisa's fingers on her breasts. She is nothing but Lisa's toy, a thing with no voice and no movement, and her pain is Lisa's pleasure.
Anticipation of pain makes pleasure a shock. Lisa's fingers plunge between Remy's legs, and find her clit. "You've worked so hard for me tonight. I'm proud of you."
Lisa can bring Remy off like a rocket, but she's stringing this out tonight. She works Remy's clit hard, watches her response, slows down as Remy gets close to coming. With the collar on, Remy can't see anything but Lisa's face, so she has no idea. Will Lisa let her come? There have been times when she hasn't. Remy has been sent home, dripping and wanting, crying with frustration. Everything hangs on Lisa, Lisa determines everything. She arches against Lisa's fingers, keeps her hands crossed behind her back, and waits, accepting. She will come or she won't, it's not up to her.
Lisa's fingers move faster now, stroking from side to side over the top of Remy's clit where she knows it's most sensitive. Remy is so close this time, she's nearly there.
"Good girl." The words, patronising and humiliating, as you'd say to a dog who has performed a good trick, are enough to push Remy over the edge. There's a hand on her nipple now, while the other works her clit hard and fast, and Remy is arching forward, crying out in gasps as her body responds to the praise. She never takes her eyes off Lisa's face, not even when she's coming. She's a good girl.
When it's over, she leans against Lisa's thigh, exhausted. Lisa is still wearing a suit, her expression is calm and unruffled. Remy is naked and sweaty, messy and spent. The dynamic between them is perfect, and Remy knows that she'll sleep well tonight.
Fandom: House MD
Rating: NC-17
Words: 1800
Characters/Pairings: Lisa/Remy
Summary: Remy thinks Lisa is such a gadget freak, and yet she can't take her eyes off that collar.
Notes: Written for the collar square for
kink_bingo 2011. Presumes an establised D/s relationship between Cuddy and Thirteen. The collar is fierce. The first time Remy sees it, it's on a mannequin's head, sitting on a shelf in Lisa's toy room. There's three heads on the shelf – white plastic, presumably to show contrast with the black leather – and each one wears some formidable construction: a heavy hood with a zip up the back, a thick muzzle with a metal mesh breathing plate and the posture collar, all sleek leather and steel struts.
Remy conceals a snort. Lisa is such a gadget freak.
She can't help thinking about it, though, even outside of scene time. She's worn collars before. Not capital-C collars, she's never played long enough with any one person for that. She's worn the fun kind, the kind you put on dogs, the kind you get lead around on by a leash at parties. This thing on Lisa's shelf is different– so solid, so inescapable. It's a restraint as well as a symbol. The kind of control it suggests is fascinating to Remy, who doesn't have a lot of trust in her body and how it works.
She's spending more and more down time at Lisa's place, not to play necessarily, but because when she's having a bad day, it's nice to sit quietly with someone who doesn't pity or coddle her. Even Lisa's kid isn't so bad, though she's usually asleep by the time Remy gets to the house. Best of all, Lisa isn't uncomfortable with long silences. In fact, she seems to relish them.
Tonight, when Remy arrives close to midnight, Lisa's mood is crisp and detached. She opens the door for Remy without looking up from the report in her hand, and nods for Remy to go into the living room. Remy throws a glance up the stairs; the stair gate is closed and locked, which means that Rachel is asleep, and won't be coming downstairs without warning to surprise Mommy and her friend. So, not so much with the sitting quietly, then. Lisa must have had a hell of a day.
"Kneel," says Lisa, with a gesture to the space beside the armchair. She sits down, flips through the report and taps a rapid run of sentences into her laptop.
Remy's pulse ticks up a few beats. The collar is sitting on the coffee table, gleaming in the soft lights of the living room. Remy folds herself neatly by the arm of the chair, and comes face to face with it, near enough to smell beeswax and leather conditioner. She sneaks a peak upwards; Lisa is watching her with a meditative expression.
Lisa puts down her report, and pulls Remy close, till Remy is sitting against her knees. She slides cool hands down Remy's neck, fingers tracing the large muscles, testing the tension there.
Remy rolls her head from side to side against Lisa's hand. "Things are fine."
Lisa tilts Remy's head backwards, and presses a hand against her mouth to silence her. And suddenly they're playing. Remy leans into the hand gagging her, kisses the palm open mouthed while she writhes against Lisa's knees, trying to ease Lisa's legs apart so she can get closer.
Lisa makes a noise of disapproval with her tongue. "How do I like my girls?"
The answer is 'naked and silent' but Remy knows better than to say it. Instead, while Lisa plays with Remy's mouth, dipping fingers in, Remy shrugs out of her shirt and bra. She kneels up, arches back against Lisa's knees, begs for Lisa's hand against her breasts. Her nipples are aching for touch now. All of her is aching, hot and desperate for Lisa's hand. Remy is panting now, her mouth open, tongue ready for whatever Lisa offers it.
Lisa is not feeling obliging. She pushed Remy away. "When I tell you to kneel, I want elegance and poise, not a lap dance."
Remy thinks this is profoundly unfair; Lisa has enjoyed many a lap dance from Remy, and more than one delivered in Lisa's office. Lisa takes Remy's lower lip between her fingers and gives it a hard twist, holding Remy rigid against her. It hurts, a sharp, immobilising pain
"I don't like pouty girls."
Once released, Remy scrambles upwards and shucks off her jeans and underwear, then when Lisa looks at the rumpled clothes on the floor, Remy folds them over the sofa. Lisa snaps her fingers beside her, and Remy falls to her knees on the carpet.
"When you kneel for me, you are an ornament." Lisa tilts Remy's head up, pulls her up off her backside. "You arch your back, you watch my face. You are close at hand, if I want to use you. You are silent, so that you do not distract. You exist here for me and my entertainment, my object."
She reaches for the collar, slips it under Remy's chin, then smooths the leather against her neck. The leather is cool against the skin; Remy breathes in saddle soap, and feels her head spin. Lisa carefully lifts Remy's hair free of the collar, smooths the line of the leather, aligns each strut correctly. When the collar is fitted properly, Remy's head is tipped upwards, looking at the top of the doorframe opposite her. It feels like ballet class, how the teacher demands a long, graceful neck.
Lisa closes each buckle with decisive movements, adjusting the collar as she goes. Remy feels the leather pull tight against her. It's not hard to breathe, as such, more that there's an awareness she can only move so far. The boning holds her neck rigid; she can no longer look left or right, nor dip her line of sight below the level of the sofa. She can't see her own body any more, but she can feel it responding to the restraint. Her nipples ache, her clit throbs, and she knows she's wet. She wants to be touched, she wants to beg for it, but the collar transforms her into a silent statue. Even though she can move her arms, she doesn't want to. She crosses them behind her back, and Lisa nods in approval.
Then Lisa positions her correctly: close to the sofa, knees spread apart enough that there is air brushing her labia but not widely splayed, a slight arch to her back that makes her breasts more prominent, mouth open and inviting. Lisa walks a circle around her, checking every detail. Then she sits down and goes back to her report, as if there wasn't a naked woman kneeling by her side.
Remy tries not to shift her weight, and keeps her eyes on Lisa's face, wondering what will be asked of her next. There's a small frown on Lisa's face as she reads. It's so like Doctor Cuddy, and not like Lisa, the bad-ass domme, that Remy feels a little confused. Then, while she reads, Lisa holds out her hand as you would to a pet. Remy thinks for a moment, then brushes the fingers with her lips, always watching Lisa's face. Lisa smiles, and presses against Remy's lower lip, where it's bruised and puffy from before. Remy flinches, finds she can't move her head away, and then endures Lisa's examination. The hand returns from time to time, and she tries an experimental nibble at the fingertips. All the time, her eyes never leave Lisa's face. Though Lisa has done nothing more than stroke Remy's lips, Remy finds that the act of devotion she is performing is consuming. Every move Lisa makes is suddenly fascinating. The idea that she might touch Remy at any time, that Remy cannot know if the touch will bring pleasure or pain, and not being able to do anything about it magnifies every sensation.
Finally, Lisa clicks 'save' on the document and closes the lid of her computer, then turns to look at Remy. Remy almost flinches under that gaze, suddenly feeling very helpless and exposed.
Lisa traces a finger over the leather spoon at the front of the collar. Remy can't see where the hand is going once it's below her line of sight, but she feels it quickly enough, as Lisa takes a nipple in her hand and works. Lisa's fingers are cruel as she twists and rolls the nipple, lifts Remy forward a little by that piece of flesh, squeezes hard until Remy makes the softest sound of protest.
"I'm thinking about whether I should whip you tonight," Lisa says, conversationally, as she gives the other nipple the same treatment.
Anticipation is worse than surprise, and Lisa knows that well enough. As her nipples are stroked and twisted, all Remy can think about is how much it will hurt, that lash against the skin, how Lisa loves to work the whip, how she doesn't give respite, how much it will hurt. Her brain is going in circles now, like Lisa's fingers on her breasts. She is nothing but Lisa's toy, a thing with no voice and no movement, and her pain is Lisa's pleasure.
Anticipation of pain makes pleasure a shock. Lisa's fingers plunge between Remy's legs, and find her clit. "You've worked so hard for me tonight. I'm proud of you."
Lisa can bring Remy off like a rocket, but she's stringing this out tonight. She works Remy's clit hard, watches her response, slows down as Remy gets close to coming. With the collar on, Remy can't see anything but Lisa's face, so she has no idea. Will Lisa let her come? There have been times when she hasn't. Remy has been sent home, dripping and wanting, crying with frustration. Everything hangs on Lisa, Lisa determines everything. She arches against Lisa's fingers, keeps her hands crossed behind her back, and waits, accepting. She will come or she won't, it's not up to her.
Lisa's fingers move faster now, stroking from side to side over the top of Remy's clit where she knows it's most sensitive. Remy is so close this time, she's nearly there.
"Good girl." The words, patronising and humiliating, as you'd say to a dog who has performed a good trick, are enough to push Remy over the edge. There's a hand on her nipple now, while the other works her clit hard and fast, and Remy is arching forward, crying out in gasps as her body responds to the praise. She never takes her eyes off Lisa's face, not even when she's coming. She's a good girl.
When it's over, she leans against Lisa's thigh, exhausted. Lisa is still wearing a suit, her expression is calm and unruffled. Remy is naked and sweaty, messy and spent. The dynamic between them is perfect, and Remy knows that she'll sleep well tonight.
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