Work Text:
Before him, Penelope was as though a painting, all ruddy curls in her flushed face, all spread knees and heaving chest, rendered to whimpers. Maybe he’d been mean, as she'd say it, when he tried out all his favorite sailor knots to keep her vibrator relentlessly against her, but she'd all but dared him. And, oh, she’d tried to hold out. Really, she did. She’d begged and pleaded and told him she wouldn’t break, but, fuck, when she came it was otherworldly. Even more so when she was fighting it, when it crept upon her unexpectedly, clearly trying to keep it from happening even as she succumbed, unable to help the pleasure bubbling up.
Penelope not so much fell apart as she turned to rubble in front of him, so far gone that even if he could see her eyes, when they weren’t fluttering to the back of her brain, there would be nothing behind them, her mouth popped open so pretty as she thrashed against the binds keeping her wrists up, tits bouncing as she was forced to ride it out. He watched, palming himself through his pants, pressing hard to keep composure. “Oh- god- Please- please- fuck - Colin! Colin- I can’t! I can’t-”
“Can’t what?” he purred out, enjoying too much how she gasped and bucked, the spreader bar attached to the canopy bedframe shaking as she tried desperately to get away. Penelope sobbed, hanging her head as she took it, so wet she’d left lines of slick on her thighs, caught on the rope keeping her legs so wide. "Can't stop cumming? Is that it, darling?" He almost cooed. "And after you said you were a big girl and you could control yourself. Maybe you should keep count."
Even as she dripped, even as he watched the darkening spot where her arousal collected on the bedspread, she panted wordlessly, stubborn to the end.
Oh, that just wouldn’t do. Yes, he loved taking her apart at the seams, seeing his pretty girl, who was usually so very put together, with the smartest brain and an even smarter mouth, all contingency plans and composure, turn into little more than a feral, animal need.
But not when she was taking the easy way out. He sucked his teeth once, twice, as though disappointed, and she whimpered. Did she think he would be so easily fooled? She had at least a few more hours left in her before she went nonverbal. Maybe he should stop being nice and just edge her. Probably, she’d be less bratty once she knew she could only cum again when he let her. "Is this how you control yourself?" he asked, nosing at her neck and biting sharp, making her cry out. Had it not been for his hips angled away from her, she'd have rut back against him.
She was edging him, after all, whether she realized it or not, and he didn't want her to know just how hard he was for her, just how close he really was to breaking, taking her face in his hands and stroking into her needy cunt, so slow. Savor her perfect, impossibly slick stretch around his cock, how she'd mewl for him, before he'd grab her round the middle and take her, brutal. He could almost feel how she'd flutter around him, could nearly see the relief on her face, hear her pleading to be his. Fuck, his knees were shaking, taking in how she was flushed everywhere, curls wild, cascading down her curved back and frenzied in her face as she squirmed to get away, squirmed to get closer. With her thighs tied, he took in how her soft skin puffed from the tight binds, so lickable. From experience, she was always so sensitive around the restraints, shivering cutely each time.
“Now, why is my smart girl acting like she can’t use her words, all of a sudden?” he asked, teasingly, even as he watched her gulp down an inhale, legs twitching on the bed.
Finally, he touched her, though not the skin, running his fingertips over the rope he’d used. It reminded him of one of the favorite pictures he’d taken of her, when they were first testing out the waters in their sometimes-long-sometimes-short-distance-relationship and he came back from Japan with a newfound interest in Shibari. He couldn’t suspend her, not then, not without a proper setup like they had now, but he’d more than enjoyed all the artistic shapes her body could make when he wrapped her up like a present only he was allowed to open.
Speaking of.
Penelope’s voice hitched when he played with the vibrator, jostling it against her. Really, he hadn’t had to tie it so tight against her, since even her spirited wriggling wouldn’t jostle her free, but he just loved too much when she was at his mercy like this, when she was so overcome with how good he made her feel that she went feral. Next scene, he’d have to have her upside down, arms knotted behind her back, plush legs wide, ankles up against her ample arse so he could tease her endlessly before he fucked her, moaning filthy.
Much as she’d teased him for being a little rich boy, he didn’t exactly hear her complaining now about how he’d dropped what was the equivalent of 6 months rent on a bondage bed frame a few months ago. Though he had much more pleasurable ways to shut her up, not that he really wanted to. He rather liked when she talked back to him, whether it was beatific or bratty, both.
Just as he moved the vibrator between her lips, adjusting the angle and stroking through her folds, just as she tipped her hips as much as she could, barely anything at all, lips breaking open to beg him (or for some smartass comment she’d make that he’d break out of her until she did beg him), he heard it.
Death. Misery. Agony and torture.
The door banged once more, and it was the kind of knocking that only one person he'd ever known could accomplish.
Shit. Shit shit shit. Wasn’t that next week? Oh, god. Oh, fuck. Oh no oh no oh no.
Everything in him froze, cooled, gut churning. And Penelope, his gorgeous, trusting, wonderful Penelope, was still shaking and rather obviously on her way past overstimulation and firmly approaching bliss once more and he felt guilty but-
Well, edging it would have to be.
“No-” she started, as soon as he’d turned off the vibe, already frantically wondering if he should undo the knots at her lower half first or unclip her arms so she could help him. “I’ll- I’ll use my words, I- Colin , I was so close- please-”
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said, nothing at all like the scene, and clarity came over her hazy expression, followed by confusion once more. Where had they left the safety scissors? Last he'd had to cut her out of her restraints, it had been when they christened Ant's old new apartment as payback for some of his. . .less savory comments leading up to it and had to make a hasty retreat. He swore they were somewhere. Bloody hell. “Marshmallow- Pen, Marshmallow.”
“Wh-what? Are you okay? Is everything okay? Is the flat on fire?” she asked, brain clearly sloshing about in her ears but coming together in light of their safeword. Her arms jerked, clearly trying to comfort him or check, but she was still tied in and the pounding was getting harder and God help him-
“I’m alright- I’m okay, everything's okay- just- sit still, fuck- one minute- Are you alright?” It was a lot to get her out of admittedly, though at least he’d had the good sense to start at the vibrator, clicking it off as she stayed still, knowing now that wiggling about would only prolong the process. He worried his lip between his teeth, pulling off her blindfold.
“Uh- depends on what’s going on?” she said, the relief when he unclipped one of her hands her from the spreader bar could be felt palpably between the two of them, that little sigh, her beautiful brown eyes adjusting to the light.
“Well- our mums may or may not currently be at our door,” he said, rather nonchalant considering he was about to die. And he hadn’t even gotten off before he did.
There was a moment. Two. Then-
“What?” she shrieked, “Wasn’t that next week?”
“Ehehe?” he laughed nervously. The way she glared at him, hellfire in her eyes, all scorched earth.
“Colin!”
“I thought it was? I put it on the calendar?”
“You are so lucky I broke the paddle last week.”
“Uh, I broke the paddle last week.”
“Yeah, on my arse. And now I need to buy a new one just to break it on yours.”
“Let’s pencil in for Wednesday?” he replied, tongue sticking out as he worked at all the fiddly knots. He loved the initial act of tying her up, seeing how she’d turn so she was in the exact right position, each soft sound as he’d hitch her into the shape he wanted. It was meditative, more than just foreplay, though it served that purpose, too, with how they'd tease and nip at each other. Each touch- I trust you. I love you. I want this. Undoing them was typically much the same, pulled away with a gentle kiss to the marks, with an appreciation for her, for what she’d let him to do her, for what they could do together.
Usually.
Penelope frantically worked at some of the knots, now finally picking up on the rather loud knocking, fearing that their mums’ collective strength would wrench the door from the frame. It. . .wasn’t her strong suit, which accounted for the under-mattress restraints they'd splurged for when she wanted him restrained, but bless her for trying, regardless.
“Colin? Darling? It’s mum-”
“Penny? Penny! You open this door- ”
Oh, god.
“Coming, mum!” she called, even as Colin mumbled, finally getting her leg free so she wasn’t trapped in a kneeling position.
“Not until way later tonight,” he muttered, and Penelope swatted him on the arm.
“Bigger things to worry about,” she said, though it was clear that amused her, a bit.
“Again- not until way later tonight.”
She was nearly free, just one last undo at her ankle and she’d be ready to dress and they could face the music. Absolutely no one related to either of them were allowed in this room. Mum would string him up by his ears if she saw the bed frame.
Penelope, for her part, turned to look at him with a smug, teasing smile, and damnit, their mums were at the door, that was just evil on her part. His body was too used to the sensuality of untying her, of the soft, gentle way he’d take her afterward, how she’d sit in his lap when they’d finish, keeping him inside her as they watched some inconsequential thing on the telly, all simmering kisses and warm arms. And he was already hard. Unfair. “Oh, I think I worry about your big things far more than just tonight.”
With a harsher yank than he necessarily needed, and despite it all, he couldn’t help the silken danger in his voice as she yelped and fell against him. “Should I give you a reason to worry, then?”
The hum she let off, how her eyes went dazed and fluttering, now was not the time, but her hand came to his belt and she threw on that sweet, innocent look that always drove him utterly insane, and her tits were pressed against his chest, hardened nipples too good a contrast to the soft plush. Reaching to cup her, he watched her go molten once more, thumb rubbing her arousal, her mouth slipping open and-
“COLIN CHRISTOPHER BRIDGERTON!”
His voice cracked when he responded, pulling away from his girlfriend as though she were a hot iron. “One minute, mum!” He turned back to her with conviction in his eyes. And tits. But he needed to get those out of his eyes. Oh, god, they were just so perfect, so ample, so good in his hands, mouthwateringly pink and cream and-
“Colin, focus.”
“Right, sorry," he said, trying his best to do as she asked.
She shrugged and it made her breasts bounce once more, a soft, tempting jiggle as he followed the motion. Even though she was smiling, just as eager for his attention as he was to give it, they really did have other things on their plate. “Should I put on a bra?”
He almost hissed, though he needed to ensure that the two of them would live to have children one day, so his despair at her covering up was a necessary evil. “As cruel and unusual a punishment it is, unfortunately, yes.”
That little giggle was worth it. “Alright. Got it.” Just as soon as it was there, it ebbed. If it had just been his mum, it would be one thing, but the fact that she had to see her own was a source of tension, and he’d never had much love for Portia, besides.
And, on top of it all, he had kind of pulled her out of an orgasm with little to no warning. He had a lot of making up to do, he figured.
Gently, he grasped up her hand, taking the precious few moments. “Hey, we’re a team,” he assured, her eyes lighting, mocha to amber to honey, crystalline, all adoration. “We’ve got this.”
She grinned. "We've got this."
They most assuredly did not got this.
To give Penelope the time to get dressed, he’d fallen on the sword, throwing on whichever shirt he could in the first drawer and racing to the door, hair surely a mess, spraying a mix of cologne, Febreeze, and one of Penelope’s flowery perfumes in every damn corner. Inexplicably, his brain then told him to throw open all the windows.
It was, at most, 11 degrees. He preheated the oven to compensate. God, where was Pen? He couldn’t do this on his own. Was his shirt backward?
The knocking was as though a fist through his skull rather than the plywood of their flat.
As good as, really.
“PENELOPE ANNE FEATHERINGT-”
“Portia!” he said, finally flinging the door open, watching as the taller woman stumbled forward in the force of her banging. “And mum! So sorry for the delay.”
Mum blinked at him, lifting a brow, taking him in. He slicked his hair out of his eyes. Was he blinking too much? Was there such a thing as too much blinking? What was the average blinking speed? “Is everything quite alright?”
Mmm, save for the fact that he had just practiced his alphabet backward to be able to greet guests sans an erection, and the fact that his girlfriend was now frustratingly unfulfilled and the last he’d left her at just two orgasms was when he was eighteen damn years old and he had a high score to live up to now and he lived in perpetual fear that someone would open the bedroom door and he’d be castrated (which would. . .stop the whole erection problem, he supposed, but he knew at least two people who would take offense to such an act), it was all peachy.
“Yup!” he said. Was he manic? Ah, it would be fine. “Some tea?”
“Oh, if it’s no-”
“No trouble at all!” Colin said, making his way to the kitchen at the side even as he left the door ajar and didn’t invite either of them in. If he paid any attention at all, he’d spot the look they passed to each other, Violet shrugging at Portia’s incredulity. But he didn’t have the time for that. Of course he didn’t.
No, he was too busy reaching for the kettle and, when he went to fill it, his eyes went wide at the contents of the sink. With all the nonchalance he could muster, he threw a cutting board in the drying rack over it, eyes wide as he frantically looked around for a more permanent solution but also trying not to alert his mum.
Damnit, why were the anal beads in the kitchen sink? They always cleaned them in the bathroom. What the hell-
Oh. Whoops. That was his fault, too. Penelope had told him they should move them, and by they she absolutely meant him because he’d used them on her in the first place, so it was only fair he cleaned up about it, but why did she have to be right when his mum was coming over? Shit shit shit-
“Darling?” mum called, and Colin cleared his throat when he finally filled the kettle and set it to boil, watching as she stepped in with keen eyes glancing about. “Would you like some help?”
“Mum, please, you’re a guest,” he said, and then, seeing her curious eyes about the cutting board, he tried to distract her, remembering his manners with a start. “Uh- let me take your coat.”
She smiled at him, clearly approvingly, and he prayed that no one moved that damn cutting board. Grabbing at the shoulders, mum shrugged out of her trench and clapped her hands twice at the state of the flat. “Thank you,” she said, "and thank you for having us! It's lovely here."
What he would give to see if his smile was alright, but all the mirrors were in much more strategic places than the entrance to the flat, and Portia eyed him judgmentally before she peeled off her own jacket and wordlessly threw it into his arms as he passed by. Eyebrow ticking, he threw her what had to be closer to a grimace before he made his way to the hall, opening the closet and feeding the garments onto a hanger.
He tucked both farthest to the wall, right at the opening of the door. In the case one of them decided they wanted to snoop when they got their things, they were less likely to peer into the dark corners where the swing lived, as well as perfectly looped skeins of rope, from nylon to jute to cotton to bamboo, all various shades. And why did he think it was a good idea to have the St. Andrew's Cross in this closet? It should be in the bedroom. The loop, “don’t look in the corner, please don’t look in the corner” played on repeat when Portia made her way beside him. He nearly jumped.
“Hm. . .I don’t see many of my daughter’s things?” she said, still on her weird conspiracy theory that Penelope was lying about being in a relationship with him. He scowled, bristling. How would she even know? She couldn’t tell one of Penelope’s things aside from his own. Hell, he wasn’t entire certain she’d be able to pick Penelope out of a line up.
“We decorated together,” he said, foot tapping.
Portia sniffed, all too haughty. “So drab, all these neutrals. . .” she muttered, making her way over to the main sitting space, inspecting the table as he rolled his eyes. He liked all the neutrals, and besides, all the blue and green and gold accents Penelope had brought into the space really made it pop. Drab his left arsecheek.
She damn well better not inspect the sofa, as she’d find a few lovestains he just wouldn’t be able to explain away, even if he wanted to. Portia Featherington got under his skin in every way that Penelope didn’t, but because he loved her, he had to play nice with her mother. Where Penelope was rounded edges, her mother was a sharp jab. Where Penelope was contemplation, Portia was contempt. Where Penelope was witty and whip-smart, her mum was harsh and impatient.
But without her, he wouldn't have Penelope. And, for that alone, he would endure.
Besides, mum would never forgive him if he were rude to his future in-laws. He had to do right by her teachings.
Thank God she’d left from next to him, however, because next thing he knew, their bedroom opened and he got a very clear glimpse of the bits of rope still littering their carpet, the vibrator at least having been thrown in a drawer, though the spreader bar still attached to their bedframe would have given it all away, regardless. She closed it behind her as discretely as she could, but nothing would have hidden that.
“Penelope! Goodness, finally . . .what is it you are wearing?"
“Why, just some clothes, mum,” she said, tucking a loose curl behind her ear, looking just as much a disaster as he did though she had a good extra 5 minutes to freshen up. Colin calmed himself, cooling from Portia's comment, and tossed his darling girl a charming smile. He loved so much when she got sassy.
"You look beautiful," he said, leaning to kiss her face. She was a wreck, really, the jumper she'd thrown on just enough to cover the bite he'd left on her throat, hair askew, cheeks still flushed. A wreck, but a beautiful wreck, always, to him. "But, then, you always do."
Portia, if she had commentary about Penelope's outfit and lack of makeup, scrunched her mouth to the side in silence when he glared at her, pressing his cheek to Pen's. She huffed. "What could have possibly kept you?"
“She was a bit. . .tied up,” he said, settling his arm around Pen's shoulders, grinning. The look she threw him was almost scalding, even as he amused himself at her expense. Portia shook her head, Mum coming out of the get-go she’d been inspecting to gleam at who she’d always wanted as a daughter in law.
“Penelope! It’s so good to see you,” mum said, stepping forward and clutching her about the arms. “You shouldn’t be tying up loose ends like that on a Holiday. You’ll spread yourself too thin, you know?”
“Oh, it’s no trouble, Mrs. Bridgerton,” Penelope exclaimed, her eyes twinkling as she caught his glance. “I’m more than used to spreading myself.”
He almost choked. She most certainly did and Lord did he love her.
“It’s Violet, please. Finishing up some work for the paper?”
Penelope hummed, nodding and repeating Violet as the kettle went off, giving him the excuse to go back to the kitchen, though everyone followed him, regardless. She blinked when she spotted the cutting board, looking at him with quizzical eyes, and he tipped up the edge to her gaze just after he offered the tea cabinet to their mums to look through. The sight of the beads still in the sink made her press her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.
I told you so, her endlessly brown eyes twinkled up at him.
Yeah, yeah, I love you, too.
“What do you think, Portia? Chamomile?”
“Why yes, for my poor nerves. All haywire. Why, with the delay-" surely she was looking at them, but he couldn't really care, still wrapped up in Pen's glance, "and. . .you know, I was reading about Fang Sway.” Feng Shui, he imagined she meant. “Is something. . .off about this room?”
“Oh, I think it’s rather nice."
"So many loops on everything. . .I will never understand the youth."
Violet seemed to ignore her. "Oooh, a bit of black tea with a biscuit would simply be divine,” she mused.
“If they have biscuits at all, considering their. . .appetite." The subtle dig over how much the two of them ate in sweets had him leaning in closer to Pen, but she only rolled her eyes, endearing him even further to her. He kissed the crown of her head. We're a team. We've got this. We've got this. We're a team.
She wrapped around him, too, playing with the stitching at the hem of his shirt.
“Oh, knowing Colin, all of them.”
Shit, they were out of biscuits, too, on top of it all. Guest biscuits, that was. Penelope had her own stash and he, naturally, had his, but sharable biscuits were in short supply. He would gladly give over his favorites to his mum, but Portia? It should be written into law that nasty people didn't deserve sugar. He released the cutting board when Violet informed him they'd love a cuppa, handing him the box of black tea. But cutting board or no cutting board, he was doomed. He knew it. He felt it in his gut.
“Hm,” Portia began, now looking for whatever Feng Shui violations the two of them had managed, tapping her slippers on the floor as she took a tour about, thankfully not snooping behind closed doors. He thought nothing of it until he heard her ask, from a bit farther away, “Does it smell strange in here?”
In horror, he swiveled so he could see where they were, with Portia now closer to the bedroom than before but Violet still lingering in the corners. She took a moment and then sniffed, her nose wrinkling in a too-familiar expression. “Is that. . . Lynx?”
“Is that what?”
Of course she wouldn’t know, having raised three daughters. But mum was more than aware what that actually entailed, and his eyes widened from his rookie mistake. She’d raised four sons. And half of them had been fuckbois.
How did he pull the oldest, worst card in Anthony’s playbook, of all people? At thirty-two? Violet blinked placidly but threw him a look, one with a tipped brow that had him immediately turning to focus back on the tea.
“Just a cologne,” Violet dismissed.
“They should have simply opened a window.”
The windows were open, he wanted to grumble, but poured the cups and slipped a teabag into each, even as mum absentmindedly agreed.
"Ah, speaking of, pardon me, I'll be just a moment at the loo," leaving them with Portia’s rancid energy. He was more than grateful when she finally stepped away from the bedroom door, likely because Mum was at the door just past it in the privacy of the WC, now left making her rounds away from the kitchen, inspecting the bookshelves and walls.
“Colin,” Penelope said, suddenly fisting his shirt and in a voice so small and quite he knew immediately something was wrong. He whipped his gaze over to her, brows furrowed as he took in her paling features. “The bathroom.”
The bathroom?
". . .yes?"
"The bathroom," she repeated, urgingly. What about the-
His heart dropped to his guts then careened in a chokehold to his throat when he realized. The bathroom. The bathroom. Where they kept the toy cleaner. And the plugs. And all the silicone lube. And her gag, the one that always made her drool all over her tits, the one she could barely beg him to kiss her through, her favorite. But, for the most part, he thought they'd put just about all of it away and-
. . .and he hadn’t undone the handcuffs from the showerhead.
Why the fuck hadn't he undone the handcuffs from the showerhead?
Okay, so he never undid the handcuffs from the showerhead. They were the shower handcuffs! They belonged in the shower! The whole purpose of getting several sets of handcuffs was that they could have bedroom handcuffs and kitchen handcuffs (still safely in the drawer and not out in the fucking sink) and balcony handcuffs and shower handcuffs, damnit. A man should be allowed as much without a heart attack.
Alas.
“Everything goes to you when I die,” he whispered back to her, and it was just in time to see Mum storm out of the bathroom, fury in her eyes. "If you marry me now, we can still make it legally binding. I'm an ordained minister. I can do it."
"You're an ordained minister?" she asked, curious, even as she wasted the precious seconds. "How did I not know that?"
"Yeah, got bored one day, the internet is amazing. Anyway, do you, Penelope Featherington take-"
“Colin Bridgerton-” mum began through her teeth. Okay, no middle name, all good so far. Chances of being murdered. . .firmly a six out of ten at the mo'. He put his hands up in front of him as though protection. Penelope went to stand ahead of him, but he gently stepped before her, regardless. One of them could still make it out unscathed. He hadn’t had a chance to update his will, but Pen would know he wanted to be buried in that bed (because it would have to literally be over his dead body that she fucked someone else on it) and that he was rather on the fence about embalming, really.
And Portia-
Well, Portia looked as though she’d get popcorn, could she.
“Mum, I can explain-”
“I thought I raised you better than this,” she said, indignity stamped over her face.
“Mum-”
She held up the cuffs, glaring. “These are flimsy! And metal? In the shower? Imagine they rust and she needs to get her tetanus shot!”
“Well, I already-” Penelope began, but Colin’s mouth was dropped open and he was left to blink owlishly.
“They aren’t going to rust!” he defended. "And she doesn't need a tetanus shot."
"Yet!”
“Oh- mum, come on, they’re finished in black oxide.”
“They’re cheap. Goodness knows your inheritance could provide a higher quality pair for the love of your life, as you refer to her.”
“I-” he started, then his face colored as he stammered. “How do you know who or what they’re for, anyway?”
Penelope and Mum both looked at him unamused, now. Penelope because they’d been found out and mum because the chain on those cuffs could only be long enough for Penelope to stand beneath the shower’s spray at the very tips of her toes. Instead of saying as much, Mum only shook her head and dangled the cuffs from one finger, hip tucked out. Portia, for her part, merely looked hungry, and confused. “Oh- please. You take quite a bit after your father, is all.”
He went queasy, face as green as his eyes. He- “Mum! No! Ugh, I didn’t want to know. I wish I didn’t know.”
“Swore by ASPs, himself. Though Smith & Wesson's was always my preference, personally.”
“Can we please not do this? Please? I could have lived an entire life, a happy, joyful, full life without knowing."
"Well. . .where did you think you got it from?"
He almost gagged. "The store. I got them from the store. Not from Dad."
Mum loved him, he knew that. And so did Penelope. But the amusement they had over his floundering was just too much, the way they laughed as his ears and the back of his neck burned. “Well, not all of it, though obviously Edmund learned long ago to never have such breakable things. Come to think of it though. . .you are younger than he was. A man needs his father for guidance sometimes." Was it weird it was sad? Sad and ridiculous. Was this a nightmare? Why was it suddenly sad? And absurd? Absurdly sad. Sadly absurd. Even if Dad was still alive, Colin would sooner chug bleach than ask his father what brand of handcuffs would be best. And, seemingly, if a man needed his father for guidance sometimes, a woman would need to have her mother but everyone who had ever interacted with her knew that the last Portia had an orgasm was likely somewhere in the mid 70's, and most probably an accident, which left- "Has he been cutting corners, Penelope?"
Penelope was flushed, but giddy, grinning. The way she was going to tease him about this forever- he groaned. He was in the twilight zone. He was already, dead, surely. Because he should be running for the hills instead of wondering. . .were they cheap? He had invested a lot in the furniture and toys and rope, but had he skimped elsewhere? She'd never complained, and he always padded them out with a shirt or washcloth so she wouldn't get hurt but- “Not that I can recall,” Penelope said, now leaning against him, warm and solid and poking his side as though to tell him to lighten up.
He was as light as he could possibly be. His mother was giving him a lecture about the handcuffs he used on his girlfriend. He was light as an iron casket.
"Because God help me if you're cutting corners, son! With something so important and vulnerable and-"
"I would never cut corners with Penelope!" he said. Penelope was his heart. Pen was every happy morning and every kiss goodnight and every smile he truly felt. "Why would you ever- The very idea that I would-"
Pen assured him, as always, pressing her cheek to his arm and rubbing a smooth line up and down his spine, swift comfort. "I'm very well taken care of, Violet. Thank you. Rather spoiled, really."
"As it should be!" she said, though she looked rather. . .proud? Of him? Of Penelope? Of the. . .fact they were freaky? He had to schedule his therapy appointment a week earlier. Why not for tomorrow, in fact? "And if ever you need recommendations-”
“Yes, a burial plot would be nice,” he said, rather even-headed all things considered, but mama simply waved him away, laughing.
Portia took that time to make herself known. “Violet,” she said, disdainful as she stopped looking for nonexistent dust on the counters, “why in the world do they need handcuffs?”
“Oh, she uses them when he goes on time out,” Mum said, without a hitch, and his mouth dropped open as she winked at the two of them. Portia had just heard the confirmation that they were for Penelope. Surely, she wasn't so dense. “You know how men can be.”
“. . .actually, that’s a rather good idea,” Portia replied, and he couldn’t tell if she actually understood what was going on (though, thinking back and judging by the sex talk speech Penelope told him she’d delivered to her, it hadn’t been. . .the best education for her, he imagined) or if she was simply trying to humiliate him and realized she’d been foiled, he didn’t care. The ding of the timer went off, and with it, mum finally put down the handcuffs.
“Oh, how darling! Tea’s ready,” she said.
Could one drown in a cup of Earl Gray?
And did it count as science if he attempted it so long as he wrote his results?
Really, they hadn’t stayed long. Violet told them she was happy to come back later, clearly realizing she'd interrupted, whilst Portia simply went on and on about the ages they spent wailing down the door.
Now, back at it once more, all he wanted was to lay down. At any given moment, all he wanted was to lay down.
With Penelope, of course.
And what was left of their biscuits. Let no one say he was heartless when he offered to split his beloved Jammie Dodgers so Pen would still have the handful of seasonal pumpkin spice Oreos she was obsessed with.
“The chaise lounge is a nice touch,” Mum said in departure, nodding off at the sofa with all its convertible cushions, as well as the matching ottoman they could flip open when they were fucking on the floor. He rather liked Penelope backward on it, really, with her arse high so he could keep leverage on his knees and bend her easily in half.
Which his mother should never know. Ever. But by the mischievous look in her eyes, she knew exactly what the purpose of it all was, and probably exactly how expensive that couch really was, and it was gross. He was a good man. He tried, at least. Paid taxes, fed stray ducks, sent Happy Birthday to all his siblings at midnight. He deserved better, surely.
“Thank you!” Penelope chirped, hand on his chest as he stood, barely mustering a ‘thank you’ himself, wishing them off and assuring they would see Mum next week, even when Portia said she was booked. Until, finally, the door was very firmly closed.
Thank God.
From that point forward, they were exclusively meeting family members at restaurants. Heaven help them if his sister popped up unexpectedly.
“We’re setting better boundaries,” he said.
“Are we? I thought we were just setting better schedules," she laughed, even as he tickled her in retaliation, swatting her arse playfully, making her dance away. "Oh, fine. Well, in that case, I think the new paddle can be for me after all since your mama just gave you enough of a spanking and I don’t know if I can follow that up.”
If he weren't so used to her mischief, he'd have been aghast. Instead, he only rolled his eyes, huffing. “You hush,” he said, shaking his head as though an etch-a-sketch, trying to rid himself of the information, but suddenly she was in front of him, grinning.
“Make me?” she said, the absolute minx, and, yeah, that would do it. He forgot everything except that he had wanted her to do the opposite, earlier, to get her to speak up. But ah, it was always fun that they were versatile.
Besides, he didn't need to put away any of her gags if he just used his cock in the first place.
See? Learning lessons left and right.