Atalanta Pendragonne (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
atalantapendrag) wrote2011-09-03 02:53 am
atalantapendrag) wrote2011-09-03 02:53 am
Done! Short Fic: Honey's Dripping from the Trees
Title: Honey's Dripping from the Trees
Characters/Pairing: Master/Lucy
Rating: M
Spoilers: to the beginning of The Sound of Drums
Contains: Heterosexuality, mild D/s
There'd been a few half-professional coffees, but this was their first proper date. And Harry'd been as slick at that as he was at everything else, casually mentioning a reservation at the exciting new restaurant being talked up in all the glossy magazines and now he needed to find someone else to go with, and wasn't Lucy mentioning her thoughts on the latest culinary trends? It would be ludicrous, clearly, for anyone else to join him. Tonight at eight, he'd send a car to fetch her, and it didn't seem as if she'd spoken a word, there didn't seem to have been time for her to have said yes or no, but it was obviously decided, clearly, it would be... it would be disobedient not to go all-out and make this a memorable evening.
And there was the bag.
He’d handed it to her as he’d taken her hand for a playful kiss; she hadn’t recognized the store logo on the glossy black paper. Inside had been lingerie; matching bra, knickers, and stockings in a shimmery-bronze silk, and a note: These would go wonderfully with the red number you wore to the office Christmas party.
It might as well have been an order, and Lucy’s nipples hardened painfully just reading it. She couldn't quite place it, but something about Harold Saxon made her want to blush and fidget, preferably with a sore bottom.
Still, she wasn't about to disobey, although she wrinkled her nose a little at the dress, which was spandex and a bit trashy, bought in a hurry for a party she hadn't meant to attend. It did slide smoothly over the silk underthings nicely, and she'd always looked good in red.
The car was a perfectly ordinary taxicab, but when she entered the restaurant (after briefly steeling herself that she did so belong there, the maître d' had lead her right away to a candle-lit booth in an intimate nook. At one place setting was a glass of red wine, a red rose just the shade of her dress, and another note.
15 minutes. Wait like a good girl and you'll get a treat.
Well, someone knew his way around daddy issues, Lucy thought with a comforting jolt of cyncism, as a low song played over the restaurant's sound system, a quirk of acoustics making it just a bit louder in the booth where she sat.
Now the flames they followed Joan of Arc
as she came riding through the dark;
no moon to keep her armour bright,
no man to get her through this very smoky night
Oooh, she'd always had a soft spot for Leonard Cohen. Lucy took a sip of the wine, which was doubtless far too expensive for her to really appreciate and let her shoes slide off under the table. It was only shock that kept back a moan of appreciation as the stockings rippled and caressed her legs and feet in a disembodied massage.
Really, it felt too good, and Lucy wondered why she wasn't more shocked. There was just something about Harry that made everything seem possible, and that made her shiver with a delight that was only partially sexual. She'd grown up reading about Zeus' mortal lovers and the Sons of God who lay with the Daughters of Men, and if there was something as powerful about Harry as the tingling of her nerves insisted there must be, she wanted her place to be at his feet.
She'd barely drunk a third of the glass of wine, but she seemed to be feeling it already. She felt warm, and she kept wanting to wriggle her hips, especially as another familiar song began to play.
Or was it? Something was off about the lyrics...
You got a new boy
You feel you're in with a chance
You think you're in his arms
But you're in his hands
But as she noticed, her eyes widened in surprise as the bra and knickers began to fondle her of their own accord, pressing and pinching in ways she wouldn't have thought mere fabric capable of.
She was biting her lip to keep from crying out when Harry and a waiter arrived at the same time. "I've already ordered for us," he explained as the waiter set down dishes of something green and fancy. "There's a limit to how many tasting menus they do in an evening."
Conversation over dinner would have been disappointingly bland if the food hadn't been so good. And every now and then she would feel a shifting, the mysterious garments caressing her briefly. She could see the amusement in Harry's eyes, and the nod of approval when she let out a small gasp.
"There's a dance floor," he said, barely a breath in her ear. "Let's take a spin around it before we go back to my place."
Lucy wasn't very fond of dancing, but she found herself responding without a word, and soon they were rubbing and sliding together on the dance floor to an unfamiliar song with a slow, slippery beat.
Camel coat, auburn hair
Idle taxi, Leicester Square
Like a lion in black
Sends up the windows and leans on back
Honey's dripping from the trees
Order me a soda water
Rifles swinging at my knees
Order me a soda water
The underthings continued to torment her as they danced, and Harry all but had to carry her into the taxi home.
They drifted into easy coupledom after that. At one of those numbly generic dinners she'd grown up learning to sit through, he'd turned to her and murmured, "Baby, can you dig your man?" She didn't even make a token effort not to laugh. He wanted her to, after all.
[A/N the songs referenced are "Joan of Arc" by Leonard Cohen, "Red Right Hand (Scream 3 version)" by Nick Cave, and "Soda Water" by Jess Klein. Sexy songs, but I can't guarantee they'll bring your underwear to life! I meant to get into the explicit sex here but it just wasn't coming.]
Characters/Pairing: Master/Lucy
Rating: M
Spoilers: to the beginning of The Sound of Drums
Contains: Heterosexuality, mild D/s
There'd been a few half-professional coffees, but this was their first proper date. And Harry'd been as slick at that as he was at everything else, casually mentioning a reservation at the exciting new restaurant being talked up in all the glossy magazines and now he needed to find someone else to go with, and wasn't Lucy mentioning her thoughts on the latest culinary trends? It would be ludicrous, clearly, for anyone else to join him. Tonight at eight, he'd send a car to fetch her, and it didn't seem as if she'd spoken a word, there didn't seem to have been time for her to have said yes or no, but it was obviously decided, clearly, it would be... it would be disobedient not to go all-out and make this a memorable evening.
And there was the bag.
He’d handed it to her as he’d taken her hand for a playful kiss; she hadn’t recognized the store logo on the glossy black paper. Inside had been lingerie; matching bra, knickers, and stockings in a shimmery-bronze silk, and a note: These would go wonderfully with the red number you wore to the office Christmas party.
It might as well have been an order, and Lucy’s nipples hardened painfully just reading it. She couldn't quite place it, but something about Harold Saxon made her want to blush and fidget, preferably with a sore bottom.
Still, she wasn't about to disobey, although she wrinkled her nose a little at the dress, which was spandex and a bit trashy, bought in a hurry for a party she hadn't meant to attend. It did slide smoothly over the silk underthings nicely, and she'd always looked good in red.
The car was a perfectly ordinary taxicab, but when she entered the restaurant (after briefly steeling herself that she did so belong there, the maître d' had lead her right away to a candle-lit booth in an intimate nook. At one place setting was a glass of red wine, a red rose just the shade of her dress, and another note.
15 minutes. Wait like a good girl and you'll get a treat.
Well, someone knew his way around daddy issues, Lucy thought with a comforting jolt of cyncism, as a low song played over the restaurant's sound system, a quirk of acoustics making it just a bit louder in the booth where she sat.
Now the flames they followed Joan of Arc
as she came riding through the dark;
no moon to keep her armour bright,
no man to get her through this very smoky night
Oooh, she'd always had a soft spot for Leonard Cohen. Lucy took a sip of the wine, which was doubtless far too expensive for her to really appreciate and let her shoes slide off under the table. It was only shock that kept back a moan of appreciation as the stockings rippled and caressed her legs and feet in a disembodied massage.
Really, it felt too good, and Lucy wondered why she wasn't more shocked. There was just something about Harry that made everything seem possible, and that made her shiver with a delight that was only partially sexual. She'd grown up reading about Zeus' mortal lovers and the Sons of God who lay with the Daughters of Men, and if there was something as powerful about Harry as the tingling of her nerves insisted there must be, she wanted her place to be at his feet.
She'd barely drunk a third of the glass of wine, but she seemed to be feeling it already. She felt warm, and she kept wanting to wriggle her hips, especially as another familiar song began to play.
Or was it? Something was off about the lyrics...
You got a new boy
You feel you're in with a chance
You think you're in his arms
But you're in his hands
But as she noticed, her eyes widened in surprise as the bra and knickers began to fondle her of their own accord, pressing and pinching in ways she wouldn't have thought mere fabric capable of.
She was biting her lip to keep from crying out when Harry and a waiter arrived at the same time. "I've already ordered for us," he explained as the waiter set down dishes of something green and fancy. "There's a limit to how many tasting menus they do in an evening."
Conversation over dinner would have been disappointingly bland if the food hadn't been so good. And every now and then she would feel a shifting, the mysterious garments caressing her briefly. She could see the amusement in Harry's eyes, and the nod of approval when she let out a small gasp.
"There's a dance floor," he said, barely a breath in her ear. "Let's take a spin around it before we go back to my place."
Lucy wasn't very fond of dancing, but she found herself responding without a word, and soon they were rubbing and sliding together on the dance floor to an unfamiliar song with a slow, slippery beat.
Camel coat, auburn hair
Idle taxi, Leicester Square
Like a lion in black
Sends up the windows and leans on back
Honey's dripping from the trees
Order me a soda water
Rifles swinging at my knees
Order me a soda water
The underthings continued to torment her as they danced, and Harry all but had to carry her into the taxi home.
They drifted into easy coupledom after that. At one of those numbly generic dinners she'd grown up learning to sit through, he'd turned to her and murmured, "Baby, can you dig your man?" She didn't even make a token effort not to laugh. He wanted her to, after all.
[A/N the songs referenced are "Joan of Arc" by Leonard Cohen, "Red Right Hand (Scream 3 version)" by Nick Cave, and "Soda Water" by Jess Klein. Sexy songs, but I can't guarantee they'll bring your underwear to life! I meant to get into the explicit sex here but it just wasn't coming.]