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My Trousers Rolled

It's from T.S. Eliot.

I'm from England.

PICTURES, WORDS, AND PERHAPS A LITTLE MUSIC. OFTEN D/S RELATED, SOMETIMES NOT.

MyTrousersRolled [at] Gmail [dot] com

OVER 18S ONLY.

Posts tagged defiance:

Defiance
She was sitting there when he walked in, all expectant. As if he was supposed to do something, as if he’d forgotten, some duty that had gone unattended. The handcuffs dangled from her finger like a question mark, and the look on her face served as every answer to every question it could ever be. He smirked. Laughed, even, for a half second.
"Something on your mind?" Something about scenes like this always made him play the antagonist, slip into the role like a second skin, and bait and tease until there was either a hard core or a soft puddle in front of him. Today she’d be hard. 
"I need a little help." It didn’t sound like she did. It sounded, in fact, like she was doing rather well on her own. The second set of cuffs were tight around her ankles, and she was looking to complete the set. But he knew she could do it herself, which made her expectancy all the more entertaining.
"And with what, pray tell, would that be?" Another habit flaring up like a theatrical flourish. His speech overcomplicated, regressing through a century or two, whenever he adopted the role. Subclauses and prefixes spilled off his tongue like wine, making everything seem extravagant and overindulgent.
She smirked, almost smiled, but smirked. He could see her thinking, and each moment that passed pleased him a little more. She was trying hard at this, and she was struggling.
"Well you’re not going to leave a girl all half bound, are you? Here I was thinking you were a gentleman." He chuckled.
"And here I was thinking you’d do better. You’re never going to get what you want by appealing to my better nature." Suddenly the space between them was considerably smaller, the length of the room crossed in a few quick strides. His hand at her neck, thumb pressed firmly against her windpipe. 
"You and I both know that it’s not all that better." She said nothing, swallowing for a moment and just staring hard into his eyes. He liked this, the defiance, the strength. He enjoyed the resistance, almost as much as he enjoyed wearing it down. 
The handcuffs fell from her hand, and he caught them halfway to the floor, he spare hand snatching out. For a moment he entertained humouring her, letting the steel bite into her wrists as he bound them behind her back. But not today, not when she was like this. The handcuffs ricocheted off the far wall, and a gasp fell from her lips. She almost pouted.
"Once again, you forget one of the fundamental principles of this relationship, lovely." His lips against her ear, thumb pulsing against her throat. "You don’t make the demands, not unless you’d like me to make some bruises." 
And then there it was. A moan. Submission.

Defiance

She was sitting there when he walked in, all expectant. As if he was supposed to do something, as if he’d forgotten, some duty that had gone unattended. The handcuffs dangled from her finger like a question mark, and the look on her face served as every answer to every question it could ever be. He smirked. Laughed, even, for a half second.

"Something on your mind?" Something about scenes like this always made him play the antagonist, slip into the role like a second skin, and bait and tease until there was either a hard core or a soft puddle in front of him. Today she’d be hard. 

"I need a little help." It didn’t sound like she did. It sounded, in fact, like she was doing rather well on her own. The second set of cuffs were tight around her ankles, and she was looking to complete the set. But he knew she could do it herself, which made her expectancy all the more entertaining.

"And with what, pray tell, would that be?" Another habit flaring up like a theatrical flourish. His speech overcomplicated, regressing through a century or two, whenever he adopted the role. Subclauses and prefixes spilled off his tongue like wine, making everything seem extravagant and overindulgent.

She smirked, almost smiled, but smirked. He could see her thinking, and each moment that passed pleased him a little more. She was trying hard at this, and she was struggling.

"Well you’re not going to leave a girl all half bound, are you? Here I was thinking you were a gentleman." He chuckled.

"And here I was thinking you’d do better. You’re never going to get what you want by appealing to my better nature." Suddenly the space between them was considerably smaller, the length of the room crossed in a few quick strides. His hand at her neck, thumb pressed firmly against her windpipe. 

"You and I both know that it’s not all that better." She said nothing, swallowing for a moment and just staring hard into his eyes. He liked this, the defiance, the strength. He enjoyed the resistance, almost as much as he enjoyed wearing it down. 

The handcuffs fell from her hand, and he caught them halfway to the floor, he spare hand snatching out. For a moment he entertained humouring her, letting the steel bite into her wrists as he bound them behind her back. But not today, not when she was like this. The handcuffs ricocheted off the far wall, and a gasp fell from her lips. She almost pouted.

"Once again, you forget one of the fundamental principles of this relationship, lovely." His lips against her ear, thumb pulsing against her throat. "You don’t make the demands, not unless you’d like me to make some bruises." 

And then there it was. A moan. Submission.

(Source: simply-black-and-white, via elpanteranera)

"This doesn’t mean you’ve won." She sounded under strain. Words that crawled free of your lips along with the thoughts that had spawned them. She was a woman in the midst of a conflict.
He smiled. He always smiled. Only this time he accompanied it with a twist of his hand, the ropes around her wrists biting into the thin flesh. She winced. 
His face got close to hers. So close, in fact, that she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck start to rise and her spine stiffen. The danger of a blade, forced into proximity and wrapped in that amused face. 
"I don’t need to win." The words fell from his mouth into hers, and she gasped, trying to turn away for a moment.
"You won’t." 
She’d stopped sounding convincing. She’d stopped doing anything but this not-quite-rebellion. It was all words, puffed up bravado that she’d just about managed to hold on to as he’d stripped the rest from her. She was naked before him, and all but tied. All she had left were words. 
His free hand was between her legs, but it wasn’t on her, as much as she wanted it to be. As much as she didn’t want to admit to herself she wanted it to be. She was still clinging, defiance something she’d become so used to that to surrender it now would be to be cast adrift. 
His hand was on him. She could feel the heat of it coming in pulses, washing over her as she pulsed all by herself. And the worst of it all was that she could feel her heartbeat starting to match his, only at twice the speed. He was suddenly the bass drum to her snare, her ratatat accompanied by his dadum. And then, as if out of nowhere, he was there. 
She gasped all over again, and the last of her defiance fell away, forgotten. 
His lips were still against her face. 
"I win." 

"This doesn’t mean you’ve won." She sounded under strain. Words that crawled free of your lips along with the thoughts that had spawned them. She was a woman in the midst of a conflict.

He smiled. He always smiled. Only this time he accompanied it with a twist of his hand, the ropes around her wrists biting into the thin flesh. She winced. 

His face got close to hers. So close, in fact, that she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck start to rise and her spine stiffen. The danger of a blade, forced into proximity and wrapped in that amused face. 

"I don’t need to win." The words fell from his mouth into hers, and she gasped, trying to turn away for a moment.

"You won’t." 

She’d stopped sounding convincing. She’d stopped doing anything but this not-quite-rebellion. It was all words, puffed up bravado that she’d just about managed to hold on to as he’d stripped the rest from her. She was naked before him, and all but tied. All she had left were words. 

His free hand was between her legs, but it wasn’t on her, as much as she wanted it to be. As much as she didn’t want to admit to herself she wanted it to be. She was still clinging, defiance something she’d become so used to that to surrender it now would be to be cast adrift. 

His hand was on him. She could feel the heat of it coming in pulses, washing over her as she pulsed all by herself. And the worst of it all was that she could feel her heartbeat starting to match his, only at twice the speed. He was suddenly the bass drum to her snare, her ratatat accompanied by his dadum. And then, as if out of nowhere, he was there. 

She gasped all over again, and the last of her defiance fell away, forgotten. 

His lips were still against her face. 

"I win." 

(Source: simply-black-and-white, via silverbells-cockleshells)