Warnings repeated: this is a Kink meme fill.

2: Tainted love

"You were disobedient, kitten." It's what she hears as she resurfaces. She's cradled into him, being stroked and petted as if she truly were the pet he's named her for the evening. "I didn't tell you that you could come, did I?" She drags back the other rule, and shakes her head, looks up through her lashes, doe-eyed and innocent, wholly provocative.

"So what shall I do with you?" His fingers trace over her cheek, and knot in her hair to hold her mouth for his searching, probing, possessive kiss. He takes his time, his other hand skimming her hip, the leash falling between her breasts and across her legs. "You're my pet. I can't have you behaving like that in public." His hand draws a very definite pattern at the absolute limit of discretion, and then flickers, lightning-fast, through her soaked flesh. She squirms under his fingers, instantly aroused again, and feels him hard against her.

Castle isn't done with this kitten-Kat by any means. She's exactly what he needs, totally receptive and under the spell of his words: it's been a while since he's seen a woman fall apart like that because he only talked to her. Then again, he doesn't usually want to talk, because all his words spill on to the page. For the first time in months he believes that he'll write again. In the meantime, he's going to play this game of dominance and submission for the rest of the evening, and it's going to be one hell of a night.

He takes hold of the leash and runs the soft end of the leather over the neckline of her dress. "Stand up, kitten." She complies, but she's not entirely steady on her needle thin stilettos. He smiles sharply, darkly, to see it. Something about having this woman – he doesn't even know what she looks like, but he can tell enough that she's likely pretty, and her body is scorchingly hot – on the end of his leash is frighteningly, deeply, darkly erotic. "Time to take this elsewhere."

He leads her through the club to the private rooms, equipped with everything that could be required, soundproof and – in this case – unobserved. (You can, of course, have observation too, if you want it. Castle doesn't.)

"We're alone now, so you may speak, or make noise. All other rules still apply." He loops the end of the leash over a hook, leaving her only a tiny amount of play in the strap, stands back and lets his blazing look flood over her. "You were disobedient, weren't you?"

"Yes," she falters. He pins her with his hard look, and raises an eyebrow. "Sir?"

"That's better, kitten. A pet should respect her owner. " He takes a step forward, and slides his finger where he'd stroked the leash across her neckline. His voice is softly dangerous, insinuating and sinful. He watches her bite her lip, slip the tip of her tongue over it to soothe it. He places the same finger on her red mouth. "Open. Suck." She complies, whimpers softly when he withdraws the digit, mewls when he draws it over the line of her dress, high on her right leg, moans when he slips it over the satin-soft skin of her inner thigh.

"Please…" she whispers.

"No." And the touch is withdrawn. She tries to arch after it, but the shortened leash won't allow it. "You disobeyed," he notes again. "You came without my permission, didn't you?"

"Yes…Sir."

"You couldn't control yourself, could you?"

"No, sir."

"You need more training, don't you?"

"Yes, sir." She's already mewing again. His simple words are winding her up and up, from the promise in their delivery, the expression on his face and the soft command in his voice.

He prowls back to her, looming, broad and dangerous, loosens the leash slightly and turns her to face the wall. His firm hands skate over her back; mould the curve of her rear; glide back up to unclip the hook at the top of her dress; loosen the laces. The silk swishes to the floor.

"Turn around." There's just enough slack on the leash to do so. She stands almost naked in front of him, nipples proud, a sheen of sweat across her collarbones, a slick glistening faintly visible at the juncture of her thighs, blazing desire in her eyes beneath the silk mask. "Pretty," he drawls. In truth, she's stunning. "My pretty little kitten." He notices the flex of muscle in her thighs. "Feet apart." He steps away, sits in an old-fashioned leather armchair, waiting for a moment, simply looking, and appreciating. "You don't know what I might do now. There you are, naked, pinned like a portrait on the wall, completely at my disposal. You're desperate for me to touch you, aren't you?" She nods. "Words, kitten."

"Yes, sir."

"Ask nicely."

"Please touch me, sir." She's so deeply into this game: more than ever before. She'd not have believed that words and tiny, unfulfilling touches could promise so much. "Please," she pleads.

"If I were to touch you, though, you'd disobey again," he says, reasonably. "If I stroked your breasts, rolled your nipples, you'd come in an instant." She shifts restlessly, constrained by the limits of the leash, feeling the restriction. Her hands flex at her sides. "Uh-uh. No touching." Suddenly he's by her, unhooking the leash. "I think you need help not touching. Kneel." She can't suppress the moan. She can see his outline bulging in his denims. "Is it like you imagined, kitten? Kneeling naked at my feet, wholly obedient? Tell me what you want to do."

"I want…I want…"

"If you don't tell me, you don't get anything." No-one's ever made her openly complicit in satisfying her own need – on this one night, never any other time – for another's control. No-one's ever used words to make her come, and then made her use words to submit to their desire. Words are not her specialty. But being forced to articulate her own submission is terrifyingly, darkly, shamingly erotic: the shame only increasing her heat and arousal.

"I want to taste you." He waits, doing nothing. "I want to take you out of your pants and fill my mouth with you." He still says nothing. "Please, I want you."

"Nearly right. You have to ask nicely. It's not about what you want, is it? It's about what I choose you to have. You have to ask."

"Please may I taste you?" He smiles, lazily, returns to the armchair, tugging on the leash so that she follows, sits down. She kneels by him.

"You don't deserve to," he says conversationally. "You don't deserve a treat." She whimpers, disappointed. "But we've only begun your training" – she shudders as the word hits straight between her legs – "and a little indulgence now will make you more receptive later." His lazy smile washes over her, a little brighter. "Go ahead, kitten."

She's careful, delicate, as she opens his pants, strokes him and releases him. She's sure she's pleasing him, but then…

"Stop," he orders. She looks up from him. "You were disobedient earlier. I don't think you can be trusted to obey without some assistance. You were touching yourself, weren't you?"

"No," she denies. "No, I wasn't." He takes her hands and lifts them to his face, examines them.

"Sit up. Hands behind your back." She knows what will come. She straightens. He dangles the cuffs in front of her face. Soft leather, a short chain between them. She's floodingly wet at the sight. "We'll just make sure of that." He traps her wrists within the restraints, and stops her again when she tries to lean forward. "No. Not yet." His voice drops to a dark intimacy, and she knows he's going to bind her further, not with chains but with words.

"This is one way I like to keep my pet, when I'm at home. Naked and wet and kneeling. This time, it's only handcuffs, and the leash. Sometimes, it'll be more formal. A chain from your collar – you'll always have a collar: one that no-one but us will know about when we go out; one that makes your status clear at home; but a pet always has to have a collar on, doesn't she?"

"Yes," she breathes. His silence expects more. "I'd always wear a collar."

"A chain from your collar," he repeats, "down to the wrist cuffs, linked to them, looped through between your legs, running up between your breasts, back to the collar again, just tight enough that you always know it's there, pressing very gently so that you always want more, even if you're perfectly still, rubbing if your hands move at all." She squirms, frantically, feeling the chain that isn't there rubbing on her. "If you've been disobedient, I might use it to ensure that your punishment can't be avoided." She takes the implication without effort, and squirms again, struggling desperately not to fall over the edge. How does this stranger know her deepest, darkest, best-hidden dreams? She moans. "If you've been especially naughty, the wrist cuffs would be linked to your ankle cuffs. You'd have to kneel, wrists and ankles tethered, a toy tormenting you, cuffed and chained and naked and soaked and screaming and desperate."

"Please don't, please stop, please I can't," she begs. Her imagination is too vivid, and she's lost in the imaginary sensations.

"I'd be in charge. Your body, totally under my control, keeping you right there on the edge, dropping you back, only to push you higher. All night, kitten. All mine, all night, all day, or longer. Keeping you on the edge for days, perhaps."

But it's only this one night. Tomorrow, she'll be herself again, and this will only have been a dream. He's stopped talking. She drops back, just slightly. She's hopelessly wet, again, her inner muscles fluttering around nothing. He pulls the leash, gently – for a wholly dominant man, he hasn't used any physical strength to control her, only her susceptibility to those dark, erotic, wicked words and wholly inadequate touches, and her own desire to be owned.

"Good," he congratulates. "That time, you managed to control yourself. You may have your treat." He pulls again, and she leans forward and opens her lips over him to taste him, taking him in, pleasing herself while pleasuring him. She licks and flicks and glides over him, mimicking the motion of her real desire, teasing and tantalising and tasting and taking him deeper until the hot wash of his release fills her mouth as his hands grip in her hair, the leash fallen unnoticed, and she's fractions from the edge again, but he hasn't said she may and she can't do anything about it for herself.

He leans forward and releases one wrist. She lets him go, reluctantly, tucks him away at his gesture, stays obediently kneeling. "There. You're learning control fast, kitten. You'll be a perfect pet." He brings her to standing, and picks up the end of the leash again, twirls it meditatively. She's a miracle: the way she reacts to only the words, the spell that the words – that he – weaves. It's – she's – exactly what he needs. He draws the flexible leather over the centre of her cleavage. She's whimpering, again, still close, still shivering on the edge just because of him, his control over her imagination. Time for another round, and more. The night is not yet over.

He leads her to the bed. "Lie down on your front." He knows what she's thinking. It's obvious, isn't it, what comes next? "Arms above your head." He slips the chain of the cuffs over the hook and re-pinions her wrists, ensures that the pillow is comfortably below her cheek, the leash lying over her back and dropping to one side. He moves down, spreads her legs, attaches each ankle by a short cuff to the waiting rings. He stands at the end of the bed and admires the picture he's made: his pet, the leash against her reminding her to whom she belongs, tonight; soft-skinned, naked to his gaze, swollen and wet and open for him, ready for anything he chooses to do with her. He knows what she expects, the tiny tensions in her gluteal muscles, a hint of fright joining the lust in her eyes, but she's not safe-worded out, so it wouldn't be a showstopper.

"You came without permission. I let you have a treat, but now it's time to pay for your disobedience." She writhes, and he slides a pillow under her stomach so that she can't rub against the sheets. She mewls, pleadingly, trying to curve into his hands, but there's no give in her bonds. He returns to standing at the foot of the bed.

"You're completely at my mercy. You can't move, you can't help yourself, all you can do is wait. I can do anything I please." His tone turns darker. "Your pretty ass is right there, soft pale skin, completely unmarked." She quivers. "It's very tempting." He sits on the bed by her thigh, looking at her face. She's wholly focused on his words. "The colour would bleed across it, following the heat." He lays his palm on the curve, and pauses.

"You think you know what your punishment is. You're imagining it, the slap and the sting and the fire. But that's too easy. I told you earlier, denial of treats. You need to be taught to control yourself. So I'm going to teach you. My pet needs to be house-trained." He strokes over her taut ass. "I'll tell you when you can come." His hand moves up and down, curve of her back to top of her thigh, stroking softly. "Imagine, pet. You've been disobedient, and you know it. And now you're waiting to find out how you'll be punished. You know that I will. You're wet just thinking about it, because you know that you'll enjoy it, even while you're begging me to stop. This time, you're going to be spread open. Held apart, so that I can see every small reaction." She's making little formless noises, but he doesn't stop or change the smooth flow of hand or word.

"I might touch you, like this." The smooth stroke slips down between her legs, so lightly she barely feels it before it's gone. She can't arch into it, though the heat it leaves behind floods her. "Or like this," and it takes the opposite path. Then it's gone, and the smooth strokes return. "I might stop altogether, and leave you alone to contemplate the results of disobedience, not knowing when I'd return. Anticipation is a very powerful force, kitten." He can feel the shivers running through her. "Or I might do this." He slips a finger into her and she cries out. "Remember, you're not allowed to come." He withdraws it. She's panting, flushed, trying to move.

She knows the game, she knows she needs to keep her head, but the seduction of his touch after the seduction of his words is skimming away the layers of her control. His finger enters her again, then another joins it, pressing and curling until she's so close and begging and she needs it so badly but it's gone. He's playing her body, hands and mouth and tongue, and there's nothing she can do but react to whatever he does, until she's sweat-soaked and pleading with him, hot and wet and desperate, wholly and completely his. She'll admit anything, submit to everything, do whatever he commands: let him own her and be his pet just so long as this night lasts.

He's talking again.

"I could stop now. Untie you and put your dress back on and take you back out on the leash: make you wait and wonder. Couldn't I?" The thought that he might stop makes her whine, and he's taken her up to the edge and stopped so many times and she can't stand it anymore.

"Please don't. Please."

"Do you think you've learned your lesson, kitten?"

"Yes. Please, no more. I'll be good. Please."

"Please what? Tell me what you want."

"I want to come. Please, I want to come."

"You want? Who decides what you get?"

"You do." He nods, smiling, and traces fingers over her some more, till she's moaning again.

"That's right, I do. You like it like that, don't you? You like that I'll decide."

"Yes. Please?" His fingers slide and twist and play, and she's wordless again, desperate, heading full speed for the edge.

"Tell me what you are."

"Yours – ohhh please – your pet."

"What does that mean?"

"You decide. Only you – please I can't please not more." She trembles right on the edge before he stops.

"That's right. My kitten, properly trained. My pet, obedient and collared, on my leash." He undoes her, turns her on to her back for the first time, re-fastens her hands, but not her ankles. "Wherever we are, you'll be mine." He's finally naked himself, rolls on a condom, settles in the vee of her legs, placed perfectly. He leans over her on his elbows. "What do you want, kitten?"

"You. I just want you, please, now," she pleads, needing release, desperate for the size and bulk of his body within her, the final possession to complete her surrender, give her everything she needs on this one night.

He kisses her hard, rough, hands holding her face for his invasion, feeling her move and writhe against him, swallowing the moans, the pleas, sliding tantalisingly against her slick heat.

"Please," she cries, "please, I need you in me, please let me come."

"Now, come for me, now!" and he thrusts home and she's shattered before he's moved again, totally his, her body obedient to his control, everything he needed and wanted as he comes himself. He's enough consciousness left to undo the cuffs, to free her to curl into his body and be held close, petted and cossetted and made very, very happy.

He brings her to screaming, desperately begging for his body within her, twice more before exhaustion overcomes them, talks her up and up and only allows her permission to come at the last possible moment, describes how he'll keep her, makes her describe how she'd feel as he owns her, how she is feeling, what she wants. She needs to be complicit, accomplice in her own surrender: and she is, wholly complicit, drowning in his words.

When he wakes she's already left, the panties gone from his pocket, the leash lying untethered across the pillow. It was a one-time thing, a dream, a fantasy. She could have been a faery, or a phantom, for all the trace that's left. Anonymity is always guaranteed. He's never regretted it, before.

Three months later, he's hauled out his own party by the most alpha woman he's ever encountered in his life, thrown into an interrogation room and cross-questioned aggressively. Ms Angry-Dominant-Cop here has clearly never made a concession to anything in her whole entire existence. She's scorchingly hot, though. He examines her face – and abruptly realises that he recognises those eyes. He doesn't say a word about it. Not until the case is all over and she's about to leave, rejecting his dinner invitation and turning away from his light flirtation.

"You have no idea," she smirks, and starts to turn away.

"Oh, I think I do," he murmurs. The speed of her spin back gives him whiplash. "Kitten."

Fin.

Thank you all for the reviews, follows and favourites. To all guest/unlogged in reviewers, thank you all, especially, because I can't thank you individually.