Why Pink Handcuffs Rarely Work

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by templemarker

Notes: For Porn Battle VIII. Ryan/Taylor, kink.


The first time they try kink, it failed miserably.

Taylor had been tied to the bed by fuzzy pink handcuffs, and her hair got mussed from the perfect coil she’d made it earlier that night, and the gag hadn’t been tight enough and then she’d kicked Ryan in the face.

She had brought it up again a couple weeks later, and the look on his face at the word “bondage” wasn’t so much a lack of willingness to try again as it was a real threat never to have sex again if they did. So they set it aside.

Taylor still thinks about it, though, thinks about that time when they couldn’t keep their hands off each other in the Environmental Design Archives and had to duck into a secluded storage closet where there was barely room to move their hands. They had to rub against each other, frottage, until they were as turned on by the friction and the heat and the panting of barely-quiet noises as they were by each other. She remembers the look on his face when Ryan came, his wrists trapped between her and the door, her hands shoved awkwardly against the shelves with the cleaning supplies.

It was hot, it was really hot, and Taylor has trouble with any computation of hotness that doesn’t entail a repeat performance.

She thinks about the shock of pleasure on Ryan’s face, and compares it to his barely concealed dissatisfaction, and rearranges some variables. She schedules a tête-à-tête into his calendar, and when he walks into their apartment to silence and candles, she shuts the door with a quiet click and expects the apprehension in his eyes.

“I don’t think you liked tying me up,” she says plainly. One thing she’s learned, after years of deciphering Ryan’s twitches and mute moods, is that being straightforward disarms him more than anything else.

He puts his bag on the table, and turns to face her; in that short time he’s put his resolute mask on, the one he’s never completely lost from so many years of wariness. “I didn’t,” he says, resting his hands behind him on the counter.

“I thought I’d like it more than I did,” she admits, watching the flicker of surprise chase across his face before pushing on. “But now I think there’s something I’d like more.”

“What–” he says, but doesn’t finish, because she’s taking his wrist in her hand and circling it with her thumb and forefinger. It doesn’t quite touch, but her grip is strong and firm and she’s looking at him straight on. She watches all the things war in his face, the things he tries to hide and the things he’s never been able to hide from her. He comes to some conclusion, because he lets out a shaky breath and allows his arm to drop.

She’s trying not to let her surprise and excitement show, but he can read her just as well, and the tentative little smile puts her more off-balance than the whole mess with the pink cuffs ever did. “You know what I’m asking?” she says, because she has to make sure or this whole thing will fall apart.

“Yeah,” he says, ducking down to kiss her, resting his shoe against her bare foot. “You want to do the tying up this time.”

In the bedroom, he’s quiet, quieter than he is otherwise. There have been so many times when they’ve had to get at each other, fucking on the kitchen table, ripping off clothes and hastily locking public facilities. He always uses his strength to pull her to him, hold her up, make her come. This time, it’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself, but he trusts her–trusts her with himself–and she worked so, so hard to earn that trust that she’ll make this good if it kills her.

She tells him to lie down, and he does; she pushes his shirt off, and directs his hands to hold the metal frame of their bed. He tenses, and she spends long minutes licking and biting until he relaxes again.

When she moves away, he asks, uncertainly, “Aren’t you going to get those stu–those handcuffs?”

Taylor shakes her head, smiles a little, runs a hand down Ryan’s chest to his half-hard dick still trapped in his trousers. “Not this time. This time, I want you to hold on, and don’t move, because I asked you to.”

He sucks in a breath, eyes locked on her as she pulls off the black slip she was wearing, and she knows she hit a nerve. When she unzips him, his cock is hard, wet at the tip and curving towards his belly. She smiles again, jacking him a couple times until the deep-seated grunt he makes sends a shiver through her. Taylor arranges herself over him, looking down into his wide-open face, and rests a firm hand on his wrists. Ryan tenses, hard, and she whispers, “Stay.” When she sinks down onto him, holding his dick in place with her other hand, his body bows up, fucking into her so, so nicely.

She rides him, grinding against her sweet spot until he can’t stop the flood of curses from his mouth. When she laughs, short little shudders that draw his eyes to her breasts automatically, she tightens her hands on his wrists until his eyes fly back up to her own. She moves again, down and gripping him, until he comes without warning, gasping and sucking in air.

Without letting go of his hands where they’re gripping the metal so hard his knuckles have gone white, she moves up so that she’s inches from his mouth. She doesn’t have to tell him to bring her off; before she’s even settled his tongue is reaching eagerly for her, settling on that four/five rhythm guaranteed to set her off.

Taylor’s still holding onto his wrists when she comes down from her high, and she carefully pries her fingers away. The red marks don’t fade immediately, and he still hasn’t moved his hands.

“Let go,” she says, and he does. When his shaky fingers settle on her hips, the moment is broken, and she leans down to kiss him hard and meaningfully.

“That was kink?” he asks later, when they’re showered and the parrot is fed and the coffee is set for tomorrow.

“That was a kink,” she says.

He shifts a little beneath her head, and she lets him move her around until he’s more comfortable. “Maybe we can do that again,” he says carefully.

“Well, I read about this thing on the internet–”


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