Soft 1

Soft Part 1 - Gathering

He knew she was soft, he had brushed her hand once, and the silky glide of her skin had nearly undone him. She, of course, had not noticed. She never did. He was not sure she noticed much outside of work. He did, but mostly he noticed her.

She dressed plainly, her clothing always of good quality, but dull; lifeless colors, dull styles. She did not wear perfume, or makeup. She arrived always ten minutes early, left five minutes after the stroke of five, unless she was asked for help. Then she stayed for as long as it took. She took her coffee black. She did not gossip, did not really mingle, and worked with quiet efficiency at whatever task she undertook.

Her relentless efficiency betrayed her to him. He saw that smiling for her was merely another task, one she did well. No different from the papers she filed, the snarls she untangled, the tempers she eased, the solutions she found. He saw and he wondered.

In him, wondering usually waited, coiled like a sleeping snake, silent and easy to overlook. Seldom did he ever do more than watch, or listen before his curiosity was fed. Then he could move on, until his wondering found another focus. Seldom, but not always. He continued to watch her.

She was dark, and so he thought first in terms of how to frame her, how to present her. Dark woods in the room where she would sleep, darker than she, and a bed that cast shadows, dark ones to ripple over her luscious skin. White sheets, stark and plain to show her off, and soft enough to be worthy of touching her. He would have to move furniture, and obtain things he lacked.

He watched, and began to plan.

He passed her desk, early one day, found her there, eyes shut, fingers massaging her temples. He stopped, knowing she did not see him, had not heard him. Her face had no expression, but her fingers were tense.

"You all right?"

Her eyes snapped open and she looked at him in shock and surprise. "I… oh... just… waiting for my headache to pass." She sounded shaken and breathless.

He tried to look non-threatening. "Have you tried accupressure?"

She looked at him blankly. He had never seen her startled, he realized, not unknowing. Her eyes were deep and expressive, and he could almost see the pain as she tried to see him clearly. Her pupils were immense, swallowing all the color from her eyes, stark black wells of pain. "You mean, the needles?"

He shook his head. "No. Pressure. Here, give me your hand." He took her hand, in both of his and stood a moment, transfixed. Her skin was soft, softer than any he had ever touched, soft and fine. He cradled her hand in one of his. "Let go," he told her, "Let me have all the weight of your hand."

She did as he asked; he felt the change in the weight of her hand in his. Her eyes held him; she simply waited for him to move, to act. He pinched into the web of her flesh between her thumb and index finger, searching for the bundle of nerves that might give her relief.

She caught her breath and the tension in her shoulders eased. She smiled as the pain slid away. "Thank you,"

His breath caught in his throat. This smile he had never seen, it was shy and warm and promised everything. He massaged her hand, his fingers sure and firm. Her skin slid under his, soft, inviting caress as well as massage. She did not pull away, let him press into the tight muscles at the base of her fingers, let him slide his fingers between hers and work into her joints. He felt almost lightheaded with the sensation of her skin against his. He imagined touching more than her hands, her hands sliding over him, his hands free to learn her shape, but only for a moment.

He forced himself to release her hand. He smiled, it felt to him as if he was baring his teeth, but she seemed not to notice anything amiss.

She stared at the hand he had rubbed; her eyes wide as she turned her hand over and looked at the palm, then at the back. "It feels… weightless." She smiled up at him in delighted wonder. Her eyes seemed to shine. Her lips looked full and inviting, softer than her hands.

He stared at her mouth, and his loins surged with interest. He blessed the height of her desk since it hid his response.

He left her, a smile on her lips, thanks in her mouth, warmth in her eyes. He went directly to the men's room, closed himself in a stall and leaned on the wall, breathing hard. He struggled to focus, to calm himself. He thought he'd known what she hid, what she had to offer, but the slight touch of her skin, her hand given to him so trustingly. He balled his hands into fists. He could not wait much longer, less now that he had actually touched her. He did not allow himself to think of how she would look in the room he had prepared for her, the room that would shelter her as he freed her.

It went exactly as planned, to the last detail. The next Friday she stayed late he was ready. He measured the drops into her coffee when she left her office, then waited. He caught her as she slumped at the copier, caught her and wrapped her in the blanket he had waiting. She weighed less than he had expected, or perhaps success made him stronger. He carried her to his car, and no one saw. Elation surged through him as he drove through the darkened streets. She was his.

He carried her limp body inside, moving carefully not to bump her on the doorframe. The house was ready, perfectly and completely. He could feel it fold around her, welcoming her. He carried her into the bedroom, her room. He laid her gently on the bed, unfolding the blanket that hid her. He cast it aside as unworthy, but it had served well, he would not burn it when he burned her unworthy clothing.

He debated, then secured her to the bed. Nothing fancy, just her arms over her head attached to the headboard, her legs straight, secured at the ankles and attached to the footboard. He stopped to smile at her, his sleeping darling. He took the buck knife from the dresser and carefully cut her clothing away. She would not need these things again; they never expressed her correctly. He cut neatly along the seams, pulling the ruined clothing away from her, casting it aside like the trash it was. He tried not to touch her skin, her wondrous silken skin. He knew, once he did that; he'd be lost.

Her body was more than he had dreamed. The soft flesh curved sweetly over her strong frame. Her breasts would more than fill his hands. Her hips swelled generously, promising to cushion him in welcome. Her strong legs, were perfectly formed, her muscles there strong and sleek. Her feet were small, but he had known they would be. Dark hair curled at the apex of her thighs, hiding her from his avid gaze.

He pulled a light blanket from the chest and covered her lest a draft disturb her. Then he gathered up her useless rags and carried them away to be burnt.

She was still asleep when he came back. The dark woods in the room seemed even more perfect than he'd imagined. She lay like a jewel against the stark whiteness of the sheets, framed by the dark walnut frame of the bed, the chests, the trunks, the armoire, all were dark, darker than she.

He had water ready; her throat would be dry. He sat on the bed and waited. He did not know how she would wake. Would she be angry? Would she be afraid? Would she understand she was finally home?

She stirred, eyes flicking back and forth beneath closed lids.

He touched her cheek, let his fingers glide over the delicate skin, down along her throat. His eyes closed as he touched the fineness of her. Her soft skin seemed too perfect to be real. He caressed her gently. He slid the blanket aside with one hand, and let his palm slide over her soft curves. She stirred as he touched her, skin warming from his touch. Her nipples hardened as he explored her body.

She moved restlessly as he aroused her, the sensations of her body finally driving her to wake. Her dark eyes opened and she saw him. She frowned, trying to make her sleep fogged wits respond. Then she smiled, recognizing the face of the man who cured her headache.

He smiled back, heart lifting. It was the true smile, the one he had only seen once before. The smile he knew others never saw. He had not dared hope that would her first response. He would treasure this moment, no matter what came next. "Do you need water?"

She nodded, drug still fogging her a bit. Something was wrong, but she could not quite focus. Her mouth felt like she had gargled sand. Water would help. She started to sit, but could not. She frowned, looked at him to ask, but his hand was under her head and he held a glass to her lips. His fingernails were brilliantly clean; she noticed, clean and perfectly shaped. His fingers were long and she could see the roughness of calluses. It seemed odd to notice such a detail so clearly, but it seemed hard to focus on anything larger.

He only let her have a few sips. Then he took the glass away. "Not too much. Just hold it in your mouth a moment. You'll feel better."

She did as he said. Last time he told her he would feel better, she had. She remembered. If her head would clear, she was sure she could make sense of things. The water softened the gritty hard feeling in her mouth and tongue. She let the water trickle down her throat and felt marginally better.

He caressed her, breathing in her clean scent. His hand moved on her skin, skimming and awakening her. He watched her body respond to his hand, watched her eyes as she struggled to clear her dulled wits. He lifted her enough so she could drink without choking, put the glass to her lips. "Another couple of sips." He allowed her only a little, then put the glass back on the nightstand. He resumed his caresses, his hands moving over her silken skin.

She obeyed. This time the water washed the grit away and with it some small measure of the fog clouding her thoughts. She opened her eyes again and frowned. The walls were alien, the room in no way familiar. She had never seen the furniture before. Her frown deepened. She tried to frame a question, but words would not come.

He watched her, his hand never leaving her body. He stroked her gently, steadily, and possessively, he admitted the last to himself. She felt so good, so right. He knew she was not thinking as fast as she ordinarily did. He also knew she thought no time had elapsed between her first mouthful of water and her second. She was wrong.

He slid his hand down over her, sliding it over the warm curve of her belly. She sucked in a startled breath and her spine arched. Her body knew, even if her mind had not yet caught up. His smile grew wider. She was so much more perfect than he had thought, had imagined.

"More water?" he asked.

She blinked, then focused on the question. More water? Had she had water? She felt warm, languid. Her arms and legs felt heavy; perhaps that was why she could not move them. She did want something, but she did not think it was water. She must have spoken out loud.

He said, "No more water? All right." He resumed stroking her, his hand steady. He caressed her thighs, noting as she moved and tried to part them, but he had not tied her to allow that. There was time, lots of time now. He had her and she could not escape until he allowed it.

The faint calluses on his scrupulously clean fingers dragged lightly over her skin and made her tingle. She wanted to open her eyes, but it was easier not to. She moved, slowly understanding it was his hand on her body. It should have disturbed her, but it felt warm, more than warm. She wanted to move but could not.

He slid her hand down, felt the spring of her nether curls against his hand. He slid one finger between her lips, stunned to find her damp. "Oh yes," he breathed, leaning closer. He touched his lips to hers. He knew it was too soon, but he had to taste her mouth.

She shivered as she felt his finger invade. Shivered and lifted her hips. Warmth, heat gathered low in her belly and she found herself wanting something she could not name. She moved eagerly, if uncertainly, constrained by her bound wrists and ankles. His lips on hers were warm, almost comforting, and she thought again how kind he was, the relief of her headache confused with the careful water sips. She had not yet understood he had bound her, stolen her.

He took his hands from her with huge effort. He freed her ankles, but only so he could spread her legs wide. He refastened her to the bed, positioning her legs carefully, lest the restraint mar the perfect softness of her. He had to caress her, could not stop himself from sliding his hands up her shapely legs. The melting softness of her skin hid strong, sleek muscle, and he reveled in the way she felt under his palms.

She stirred as he caressed her, shifting in her restraints. Her skin warmed under his hands, and her own scent grew stronger. He leaned closer letting her soft, sweetly tart smell fill his senses. He slid his hands up over the dimpled knees, his fingers curving over her smooth, dark thighs. He moved his hands higher still; up over the swell of her thighs, until his fingers grazed the curls that hid her from his sight.

He slid a finger into the thicket of her curls and found her barely damp. The curls were springy against his fingers, and her skin here was even softer and more intoxicating than anywhere else on her body was. He stroked her, his fingers moving in the growing slickness, his pulse racing as she warmed under his touch.

He slid a single finger inside her and froze, stunned as he encountered the barrier there. He stared at her, moving in the restraints, her breathing uneven, her eyes closed and her body, warm and writhing all from the touch of his hands. His hands. She was not remembering another, there had never been another.

He forced himself to breathe, to move his hands from her. The things he had planned would have to wait. All was changed now. He had thought to make her forget, but that was not needed now, there was nothing to forget.

He took the cup from the nightstand and helped her drink, but only a tiny sip. The glass held water, but the cup did not. The liquid in the cup would make her sleep again. He did not want her entirely asleep, just, just a bit less awake.

Her body fell slack, limbs heavy and relaxed.

He set the cup on the nightstand and got to his feet. He looked down at her, dozing so sweetly, so perfectly in the bed he had made for her and smiled. He freed her ankles, making sure the cuffs had not marred her skin. He found faint creases just above her left anklebone and frowned.

The nightstand held oils; he had bought them to keep her skin lovely. He glared at the offending cuff. He filled his hands with almond oil, warmed it and massaged the oil into her feet and ankles. Rubbing the fragrant oil into her skin calmed him. The sweet oil sank into her skin, and into him, easing his thoughts, letting him plan. The creases faded as her skin drank in the oil, and he allowed himself to relax. The cuffs were not worthy; nearly nothing he had was truly worthy.

Her skin cried to him for more oil. He filled his hands again and again, massaging the liquid into her. He loved how she felt under his hands, pliant and strong. He knelt between her legs and slid his hands up, marveling over her firm calves and sweetly rounded thighs. He worked his way up, pressing her thighs apart and moving between them. He positioned her legs, bending her knees, setting her feet flat on the mattress. He oiled and massaged every inch of her as he moved up closer to the soft curls.

He knelt between her legs and slid his hands under her, lifting her to his mouth. Her scent filled his nose, dizzyingly sweet. He bent his head to look, parting her carefully with his thumbs. She glowed with life, pink and creamy beige and warmly enticing. He had to taste.

He slid his tongue along her cleft, probing, as he tasted her. She was already slick, sweet and salty against his tongue. He licked the length of her slit, inhaling her scent with true delight.

She moved restlessly despite the drugs. Her hips lifted to his mouth, her cleft liquid with desire.

He buried his face inside her, teasing as he tasted, exploring with his tongue. She tasted of sweet, of salt, of heaven. She flowed for him, despite the drugs. He lapped and swallowed, intoxicated by her taste. He drove his tongue into her, hard and deep, straining to taste the proof that she was his, that she had waited for him.

Even drugged, she responded. Her hips thrashed as he tormented her, and she poured sweetness over his tongue. Her thighs shook. She panted for air, back arching as she lifted up off the bed. She shuddered, whimpering, yielding, her skin slick and soft with oil, her cleft drenched and lush.

He lifted his head, surveying her with pride and delight. He could not have imagined how she would taste, and now that he had, he would never let her go.

Part 2 – Taking

He sat in the living room in the dark. Upstairs, she slept, covered by a soft sheet and a silk blanket. Her glorious skin gleamed with almond oil and he shuddered as his hands remembered how she felt. He drank his coffee. Ordinarily, it would be beer, but not tonight. Tonight he wanted his wits clear and sharp.

His plans lay in shards at his feet. He thought of her, waiting upstairs and his hands trembled. He felt himself swell and grow in his pants. He swallowed more coffee, the black, bitter liquid still almost too hot to drink comfortably. He welcomed the discomfort; it let him think clearly. He had intended to be slow, deliberate, patient. She would have much to unlearn. But that was before. Now, now she was his to guide and teach from the beginning.

He set the cup aside, then went to shower. He had bathed before obtaining her, so there would be no scent to betray him. Now, now he bathed for her, cleansing himself with meticulous care. He shaved, removing every last trace of stubble. He scrubbed his hair, and his teeth. He toweled himself, but was still damp when he went up the stairs. He did not bother to dress.

She was awake.

She watched him come into the room, her gaze wary, even frightened. It caused a surge of warmth to flood his groin. No anger, he realized with surprise. He saw no sign that she was angry.

"You were the man who fixed my headache." She spoke softly, and her voice sounded a bit harsh.

"Yes." He watched her, knowing how soft her skin, knowing the feel of her under his hands. "Would you like water?"

"Please," she answered.

He held the glass, helped her drink carefully, gently, his strength bent to help her. She did not want much. She lay back after a moment, her eyes closed.

He put the glass back on the night table, then sat on the bed. He placed his hand on her stomach.

She opened her eyes. She looked at his hand, then at his face. Her eyes held a question, but she did not ask.

"I will not let you go," he told her, knowing it was true.

Her eyes changed, dulled in some way he could not name.

He frowned, disliking the look. He slid his hand up until he palmed her right breast. He caressed her luscious skin, teasing the nipple until it hardened against his hand. She gasped and he smiled. He teased her in earnest, caressing her with feathery touches one second, then gripping her hard, pulling whimpers and moans from her the next. She kept her eyes tightly closed.

He closed his lips around her left nipple. He suckled and licked, scraping with his teeth as the bud swelled in his mouth.

She moaned, skin flushing with heat.

He teased her breasts, licking her skin, marking her with soft sucking bites.

She cried and whimpered her pulse beating fast and frantic. She writhed on the bed, wetness seeping as he played with her. She fought the bindings, fought him but she never once asked to be freed.

He grew hard, harder; He climbed onto the bed between her legs and knelt there. His hands roamed over her, caressing, inciting, and worshipping her intoxicating skin.