The Chandelier

The chandelier hung low enough. Its massive chain had a mechanism, a cog and ratchet system built into the ceiling mount, clearly designed for lowering the great fixture for cleaning and candle replacement. I'd noticed it earlier, turned the idea over in my mind like a dark jewel. I reached up and released the catch, and the chandelier descended with a low metallic groan, dropping several feet until it hung at chest height, its crystals chiming softly against each other, candle flames swaying.

From a carved wooden chest near the hearth, I retrieved a length of rope. Thick, soft, braided hemp, the kind used for castle tie-backs, strong enough to hold, gentle enough not to cut. I returned to where you stood, swaying slightly, watching me with those wide, trusting eyes.

"Give me your hands," I said.

You raised them without hesitation.

I bound your wrists together. Not cruelly, but firmly, wrapping the rope in a snug figure-eight that distributed pressure evenly across your skin, leaving your circulation intact. I passed the free end of the rope up and around the iron crossbar of the chandelier, pulled it taut, and tied it off.

Your arms were extended above your head, your body stretched upward on your toes, the chandelier creaking softly as it took your weight. The candles on its tiers surrounded you in a halo of warm, flickering light. Crystal pendants caught the glow and scattered tiny rainbows across your bare skin.

You looked like something sacred. Something sacrificial. Something that had been laid on an altar and was waiting to be claimed.

I circled you slowly. Trailing my fingertips across your shoulder blades. Down the notches of your spine. Over the curve of your hip. You shivered under my touch, your breath catching, your fingers flexing in the rope above.

"Beautiful," I said from behind you, pressing my lips to the nape of your neck. You tilted your head to give me access, and I let my mouth travel down the column of your throat, over your shoulder, tasting salt and warmth and the faint remnants of melted snow.

I reached around you and cupped your breasts, weighing them in my palms, thumbs dragging across your nipples. You pushed into my hands with a breathless moan, and I pinched. Gently at first, then harder, rolling the stiffened peaks between my fingers until you gasped and your hips canted forward.

I let one hand slide down your stomach, over the mound of your nave, and between your thighs. You were slick again. Already wet, already wanting. I stroked you slowly. Two fingers sliding through your folds, circling your clit with maddening lightness.

Your head fell back against my shoulder. A broken sound escaped your lips. Your bound hands twisted in the rope above, the chandelier swaying gently, its crystals singing.

"Please," you breathed. "Please, I need."

"What do you need?" I murmured against your ear, my breath hot on your skin. "Tell me."

"You. Inside me. Please."

I pressed my fingers deeper, sliding into you, and you cried out, your inner walls clenching around me, hot and tight and trembling. I fucked you slowly from behind, my other arm wrapped around your waist to hold you steady, my thumb working your clit in tight, firm circles.

"Like this?" I asked. "Is this what you needed?"

"More. Please. More."

I gave you more. Deeper. Harder. The wet, obscene sound of my fingers moving inside you filled the great hall, mixing with the crackle of the fire and the soft chiming of the chandelier crystals. You were shaking, your thighs clenching, another orgasm building fast.

And I stopped.

You made a sound of pure anguish.

I untied the rope from the chandelier. Loosened the binding at your wrists. Caught you as your legs gave out, gathering you against me, your body flushed and shaking and desperate.

"Not like that," I said softly, cradling your face in my hands, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "Not this time."