AN: For Jessikat and all our late night, whiskey-fuelled discussions ...
All attempts to make the interior cold and emotionally void are lost as soon as the Friday night crowd arrives. The basement is almost clinical, all glossy black surfaces and chrome accents, dim lighting and loud music, no doubt to play into the anonymity of it all. Nobody within these walls is themselves, they're all playing a role, assuming an identity for the night, strangers trying to find their place in the world through the bumping of bodies and removal of the mask of human civility. The veneer of respectability is left at the door; within, the animal instinct rules.
Once again reminded of how different her life is from that of the average twenty-something, a category into which she now only barely fits, Natasha allows her fifth shot of vodka to pass her lips. She waits, always watching his back. The thundering bass of the music around her drowns out the auditory but not the visual and there is certainly plenty to look at, not least her partner.
Clint knows she's nearby but he's too good an agent to make it obvious if he scans the crowd for her. At the bar, he's working on getting the information that they need out of a woman that seems more interested in what he can offer her than in answering his questions. Allowing herself a moment of unprofessionalism, Natasha gives in to the appreciation of his body in that dark denim and leather, of the carefully applied slick of eyeliner that makes his eyes seem dangerously magnetic. Her eyes linger on the leather cuffs at his wrists and the thick silver rings on his fingers. The outfit might be conservative when compared with the men that surround him, but Clint radiates something that not all of them can lay claim to. Danger rolls off him in waves.
He hasn't seen her outfit yet, that surprise is one that she intends to keep for later, and their only contact is through the ear bud that nestles in her left ear. She can hear his side of the conversation at least, though the snippets she can pick up from the girl are far more interesting. From her position a respectable few metres away, she reads the none too subtle signals that the woman gives. Clint is seemingly oblivious and the realisation is equal parts amusing and frustrating. The sooner he shows some interest and implies that he is open to taking their conversation beyond these four walls, the sooner he can get what they came for and they can all go home.
Another shot of top shelf liquor appears at her elbow and the waitress, a young, black haired woman, dressed in only strips of leather and thigh high stiletto boots, points out the man who has been gracious enough to provide it. She raises her eyes and then her glass in thanks, thinking that once upon a time the leather clad adonis who winks at her might have stood a chance. No longer though, she's a one man woman these days. Who'd have thought that she of all people would end up being all but monogamous?
To avoid holding the eye contact too long and inviting conversation, she allows her eyes to scan the room again. The usual dungeon pieces are evident, the rack complete with writhing woman in pvc, the cage, a pillar studded with metal rings that rises from floor to ceiling, various stocks and restraints, a selection of floggers that form an artful wall display, and of course the veneer of privacy in the shape of curtained booths that line one wall.
The prints on the walls are all monochrome, beautifully shot portraits of elaborate knot work, entangled limbs and full body suspensions, close ups of leather and buckles, gleaming metal rings, arched spines and liquid latex against pale skin. They hold her attention more than the dancers and exhibitionists that make up most of the clientele.
"See anything you like?" the young man asks, moving across the space to join her, no doubt emboldened by her acknowledgement of him, as if accepting a drink is confirmation that she will fulfil any desire of his choosing.
From beneath long black lashes, she looks up at him. Like many of the men in the room, he's put some effort into his appearance. From the soles of his enormous New Rock boots to the top of his mohawked head, he is a work of art, a portrait of what the average joe thinks when they imagine a BDSM club patron. Everything is black, the leather trousers, the casually unbuttoned shirt, the ring in his lower lip and studs in his ears.
"A great many things actually," Natasha replies, allowing her gaze to slide away once again. Clint is still at the bar, the black t-shirt serving only to accentuate the muscular shape of his arms.
Unperturbed by the apparent lack of interest, her would be suitor continues to try and make conversation. "Can I tempt you to take a walk around with me?"
Natasha allows herself another brief glance in his direction, wondering what it is that he sees when he looks at her. She looks good tonight, she knows that she does, and she has the colouring of a woman who looks good in black, but she has neither the time nor inclination to explore the wants of a stranger. Perhaps the interaction is as simple for him as they used to be for her; get off, get gone.
Across the room, Clint is finally figuring out that the woman he's been sent to seduce is in the market for more than conversation and he might need a little bit of help to sell the performance. Time to make use of her admirer perhaps. "I'm waiting for someone," she apologises with the ease of an accomplished liar, though she has to ask herself if it is indeed a lie, "but if you wish to pass the time with me until he arrives you could join me on the dancefloor …"
She doesn't wait for a response. She simply tilts back her head and sinks the vodka before sliding gracefully from the stool and moving deeper into the crowd. There is no need to turn and see whether he is following, she can feel him at her back, his disappointment at her apparent disinterest in playing whatever games he had in mind tempered by the possibility that she might be convinced otherwise on the dancefloor.
As she passes by Clint, his mark is leaning in and whispering something in his ear, an erotic invitation of some kind no doubt. Natasha slows her stride and allows her eyes to find his, her gaze filled with the boldness of a woman who knows how to please the man she is looking at. Over the shoulder of his mark, amid the pulsing music, their eyes lock onto one another and she sees the reaction. Heat floods his gaze, a sudden erotic interest that gives her a high without the need for drugs. The jewelled riding crop in her hand seems to hold his interest and she slaps it teasingly against her open palm as she walks by, wondering if the fire in his eyes is matched by a similar reaction below the belt.
The floor of the club is crowded, bodies moving sinuously, grinding against one another in parody of, and in many cases preparation for, the sexual acts that are taking place at the various stations around the room. Natasha can feel Clint's eyes on her as she loses herself in the beat, allows the music to cloak her senses in a rhythmic pulse that her body just falls in time with. She enjoys the euphoria of losing herself in the moment, in being free to do as she chooses.
Bodies entwine around her, writhing, hands roaming across leather and pvc, some with drinks in hand, others with more exotic implements. The entire crowd is a riot of fabrics, of corsets, spike heels, of chains and feathers, masks, tight leather and exposed skin. She writhes against the man at her back, allowing his body to press against the back of hers but her eyes are just for Clint, who has found his way to the edges of the dance floor, another woman performing similar moves on him.
Though they dance with others, every movement is a seduction of one another. She can feel Clint's eyes on her, the heat of his gaze as his eyes travel over the black corset that accentuates her waist and breasts, enjoying the contrast between the fabric and her pale, pale skin. To make sure that she fully has his attention, she traces the mounds of her breasts above the line of her corset, lets the long painted fingernails leave subtle red marks on her flesh.
Unnoticed by their respective partners, they gravitate towards each other. Natasha can feel his presence, the draw of him, like a magnetic field that surrounds them both. The woman they came to interrogate shows little displeasure at the thought of joining with others, suggesting that she's more at home in their surroundings than either Clint or Natasha, but they use her compliance to their advantage.
Amid the seething mass of people, bodies grinding against one another in all the right places, Natasha raises the riding crop to the side of his throat and draws Clint closer. The music is changing, the collective arousal of the clientele infects them all. Sex is heavy on the air, the sound of pleasured moans and the crack of a whip competing with Nine Inch Nails and the adrenaline rush that comes from wondering how far the night will take them.
They stay for about an hour, gradually tuning out their companions until they only have eyes, and hands, for one another. Information received and job complete, Clint's attention is for Natasha alone, though his mark pairs off with Natasha's would be companion and doesn't seem to mind the change in arrangement. For some women it's about quantity and availability; Natasha is all about quality.
"Jesus Christ Nat, that dress is something else …" he groans in her ear, his lips hot against the skin of her throat, teeth grazing lightly at the spiked leather collar that circles it. Strong hands at her hips jack her body in close to his and Natasha smiles, aware of the press of his arousal at her back, relishing the tightness of his grip against her hip bones. She angles her neck to give him better access, shifts her weight so that he rubs against her in all the right places and flicks the crop against the outer edge of his thigh. A low groan bubbles out of him, speeding her pulse.
She turns in his grip and his hands find their way to her ass as she winds her arms around his neck. Licking her lips provocatively she meets his gaze, more than ready to take their interaction behind closed doors. His thigh comes to rest between her legs and she rubs against him once again, enjoying the friction, watching his lust darkened gaze. "Feel like taking this somewhere more private?" she asks, fishing a room key from between her breasts and holding it up where he can see.
It's her surprise to him, a forethought that says everything about the openness of their relationship. Clint's hands move down the front of her bodice, fingers lingering on the buckles and straps that hold the leather in place and then sliding over her hips to the bare skin on show above her long boots. "Probably a good idea," he replies easily, his voice thick with something that makes her molten inside, "or else I might hike that skirt up and take you right here."
Lust, pure and unadulterated, thunders through her, and she hooks a finger into his belt loop and leads him through the throng. Clint stalks her, every step, every movement radiating a control that she has come to expect from him. Lazy arrogance disguises the urgency that he feels and she feels the thrill of knowing his submission, the strength of character that allows him to let her take control without sacrificing his own power. She wants to eat him alive, to taste him, to leave her mark on the skin of his throat.
The private rooms within the club are let by the evening, as private or open as their occupants wish. Together they walk up the metal steps that climb one wall of the club to the mezzanine level, oblivious to the admiring glances that come their way. The room is a fairly simple affair, decorated in muted shades of dark grey and black, dimly lit by the pulsing lights that illuminate the dance floor in the main body of the club. One wall, the one which overlooks the mezzanine is made entirely of glass and affords them a spectacular view of what the club offers to all of its patrons.
"Blinds open or closed?" she asks, turning on her heel to crash her body into his. Their lips collide, tongues feeding at one another in the relative quiet.
He winds his hands into her hair, angles her face up toward his own and claims her mouth in a kiss that turns her blood to flame, makes her wish that he would bend her over the bench in the centre of the room, rip off her underwear and show her exactly how turned on he is by everything that has happened up until this point. She wants him to dominate her in a way that he never has before, to make her cry and beg and scream for release while the world watches.
Instead she grinds her hips into his, allows her hands to move with deliberate gentleness over the bulge in the front of his black jeans. The sound that escapes him makes her knees tremble, a shot of adrenaline direct to her central nervous system, a call to the wild part of her that demands satisfaction.
When he pulls back and looks at her again, there are fires burning in his eyes, a storm threatening to break. "That, I'll leave up to you."
As tempting as it is to leave the window open to viewing, she decides against it and moves slowly across the room to flip the blinds closed. His gaze is a heavy weight on her back, she can feel his eyes moving over her and she puts some provocation into her step, knowing that the sway of her hips as result of her stiletto heels and shortened stride will further whet his appetite.
With the blinds safely closed, she turns back to face him. Clint hasn't moved and though she knows that it goes against his nature, he is allowing her to call all the shots, to make all of the moves.
"Lose the clothes," she tells him, leaving little room for negotiation. Though his eyes widen slightly in surprise, he complies.
His boots hit the floor first, followed shortly afterwards by the black t-shirt. Until he stands before her in only his jeans, the leather thong necklace at his throat and the cuffs at his wrists.
Natasha watches him hungrily, her gaze following the line of his shoulder and then roaming over his stomach, tracing the line of his hips disappearing into black denim that covers his muscular thighs. His hands move slowly, deliberately, as he unbuttons his fly and peels his jeans away from his skin, revealing that he has chosen to go commando. Silver rings flash in the dim overhead light with each movement, leading her gaze and turning the motion into theatre.
She approaches him cautiously, not really trusting in her own restraint. There are a great many things that she can imagine doing to him, a great many ways in which she might bring the simmering anticipation between them to a head. With effort, he keeps his hands by his sides while she circles him, allowing the tip of the crop in her hand to stroke gently against his skin. The slight flicker of muscles and the deep inhalation of breath are the only outward reaction to her stimulation, though the clenching of his fists betrays him. Given half a chance he would be on her in a heartbeat.
If he threw her down on the floor, tore her clothes off and fucked her like an animal, she wouldn't object in the slightest.
From behind him, she swats at his thigh with the crop, just enough to sting a little, testing the waters. The reaction is instant, a low moan escaping him as his body absorbs the pain. Clint draws in an audible breath and bites down on his lower lip. Unseen, she smiles. "You like that?" she asks quietly.
He nods, seemingly unable to form a verbal response.
Rising to her tiptoes, she leans into his back and brings her lips close enough to his ear that he can feel her breath. "How about if we strapped you down and played a little rough with the crop, would you like that?"
Clint shivers. "You'd do that?" he manages to ask.
She allows herself a moment to imagine his body laid out before her, strapped down as sweat gleams on his skin, to imagine the sound of the crop against his skin and the hiss of breath upon impact. She imagines the arch of his body as he writhes for her, the moment that he comes all over himself ...
"Lie down," she instructs, pointing toward the padded bench against the far wall with the crop.
He doesn't argue, simply moves across the space to arrange his body on the bench. Compliantly, he offers her each wrist in turn so that she can fasten them down using the leather straps that are attached for such a purpose. The flash of heat in his eyes as she tightens the restraints is a promise of what is to come. When his wrists are secure, she moves to his feet, trailing her fingernails down the bare skin of his leg as she moves around him.
He groans low in his throat, already stirring beneath her gaze. She pauses and allows him a second or two to object but he doesn't. His gaze when it meets her own is heated but steady. "I trust you," he tells her and the tone of his voice tells her that he means it.
Maintaining the eye contact, Natasha shimmies out of her skirt so that she is dressed in her black leather corset, tiny black panties and the obligatory skyscraper heels. She twirls the crop around in her hands, letting the crystals catch the light, watches his nostrils widen as he flexes his wrists against the bindings.
She starts slow, climbing up onto the platform and crawling over his body, planting kisses against his heated skin. The occasional bite of her teeth makes him whimper but he stays gratifyingly silent until her face is level with his own. "How does it feel to know that I could do anything to you right now and there's nothing that you could do to stop me?" she asks, voice low, teeth nipping at her lower lip in the way that she knows he likes.
Clint groans and pulls against the bonds, testing the give and his range of movement. The way that his muscles bulge and his tendons stand out is one of the hottest things she's ever seen. To have him at her mercy is the most powerful aphrodisiac she has ever known.
"Shhh," she murmurs, pushing him back down with a hand to the centre of his chest. "We're just getting started lover."
She takes her lead from him, moving slowly and teasing him with lips and teeth and tongue as she wriggles down him. Back on her feet, she follows the same path with the tip of the crop, starting at his throat and moving in sweeping strokes across his torso, listening for the change in his breathing to learn what he likes and what might genuinely frighten him. He's so responsive that she can feel herself getting hotter by the second.
Up and down she works him, stroking the edge of the crop along the muscles of his legs, the bones of his hips. When she brings it ever so slowly along his inner thigh Clint's entire body bows upwards off the table, breath coming in ragged pants from his nose. Sweat appears on his forehead and across his chest and shoulders.
Natasha backs off, greedy for more of his responses and eager to see what really does it for him. She allows the leather to bite a little more, slight trails being left behind after its caress over his skin, flicks the end of it against his abs.
"Natasha …" her name escapes him as the ragged groan of a man too far gone to be aware of his words.
Bringing down the crop in a stinging blow, she watches his reaction. Eyes rolling back, he bites back a curse as the muscles in his thighs twitch. Encouraged she delivers a few biting slaps to his chest and stomach, avoiding his crotch and beginning again at his knees. The closer that she brings the crop to his erection, the stronger the reaction.
She brings the crop down across his thighs with a slice of her arm and he writhes for her, body surging against the restraints. Almost there, almost. She seeks out his gaze and finds him staring at her with enough heat to set them both on fire. As if on autopilot, the hand holding the crop moves, sliding over skin that bears angry red stripes from her blows until it reaches the place where he wants it most.
His whole body rises from the table again at the leather tip of her crop touches the head of his erection and he barks out an unintelligible cry as he ejaculates all over his flat stomach. The orgasm hits him hard and just keeps coming, covering his abs and causing his entire body to tremble. She doesn't release his eyes and he doesn't look away, sharing the most intense of moments with her as if under some kind of spell.
When he comes down and his muscles relax a little, she runs the very tip of the crop through the mess they have made, long strokes across his belly and hips, painting pictures while she waits for his breathing to return to something approaching normal. His groans of submission are like music to her.
It surprises her how much she, a woman more familiar with being watched, can be so turned on by his pleasure. Whatever intensity he experiences in the bite of restraints and the lash of the crop, she feels it by proximity. He's still hard, still pinned down and at her whim, still watching her. She has never felt more sexual in her life.
She drops the crop to the floor and takes a step backward so that he can see her as she peels her underwear down her thighs and then steps out of them. "Want me to leave the corset on while I fuck you?" she asks.
Clint's entire body appears to jolt as if a shot of electricity runs through him. "Yes Ma'am," he manages to reply, though his voice is ragged and breathy.
She releases the straps around his ankles to give him a little extra leverage before she climbs up onto the bed and straddles his semen slick hips, fully aware that she is making a deliberate choice to negate his ability to touch her. Clint sucks in a deep breath as she settles against him and swivels his hips slightly beneath her, brushing against her clit.
Slowly, she stands him up and lowers herself onto his arousal, barely holding back a cry of her own as the ache deep within her subsides slightly. She doesn't wait for her body to adjust, doesn't give herself a moment to enjoy the fullness of his body within hers, she just moves. She starts slowly enough, sliding herself up and down his slick length and settling herself back as deeply as she can, holding his eyes the whole time.
He is patient, allows her her to maintain control for a minute or two but then he pulls his knees upwards and knocks her forward so that her hands land on his biceps and he can steal a kiss from her. His tongue plunders her mouth and he moves his hips in time with hers, pushing deeper with every thrust.
Eyelids fluttering, he groans into her mouth as she grips him hard and then lifts herself almost entirely off him before letting him seat himself fully again. She arches her spine as she rises to an upright position again and rides him hard, urgency stealing the pleasure of his mouth hot against her own. Natasha wants, needs, to finish it, to bring the intensity inside of her to its culmination.
She can feel his eyes on her as she traces her hands up her own body, wrapping one of them around her throat as she rides back and forth on him. She uses both hands to lift her hair upward and then lets it fall down her back in the way that she knows drives him crazy, her left hand returning to the collar around her neck and the pulse that thunders beneath it. He strains against the bindings and she knows that if he could get free he would have her under him and screaming in less than a minute. The visual only stokes the fire within her, making her entirely shameless in her pursuit of pleasure.
Hands roaming over her own body, she pulls at the fastenings of her corset, releasing the first two and allowing her breasts to spill from the confines of the leather. His attention is rapt as she continues to touch herself, hips hammering upwards to slam against her own in a series of concussive thrusts. Natasha moves with him, faster and faster, rising and then bringing herself back to him in time with his movement.
It doesn't take long before she feels it closing in on her. All aspects of the experience push at her, clamouring for her attention; her hands roaming over heated skin, the slip and slide of her flesh against his own, the smell of sex on the air, the sound of his breathing and the slapping of skin. Climbing, climbing, hurtling towards a free fall that will no doubt make her see stars.
They crest at the same time, Clint throwing his hips upwards one last time just as she slams downwards. The combination of spiralling pleasure, heat and the sensation of him coming deep inside of her, tips her over the edge. Between one breath and the next, she comes apart, hips dancing above his own, spine arching backward at an almost impossible angle. The delicious, shuddering ecstasy of her orgasm steals her breath away and leaves her burning.
He rears up, straining against the bonds and caught in the throes of his climax. Just for a moment she sees it all in high definition, the image of him burning into her brain like the shadows left behind after a nuclear blast. Beautiful. Primal. Hers.
She kisses him as she comes back to herself, gently releases his arms from the leather of the restraints. Despite the fact that his wrists must hurt, he wastes no time in reaching for her, one large hand tangling in her hair as he holds her head to his own. His kisses leave her breathless and stir the embers of the fire within, allowing sparks to dance in her blood.
She rubs his wrists gently, her fingers so much paler than his tanned skin. "Mmm," she murmurs, "well that was delicious."
Clint chuckles, "pretty sure that I got the better end of the deal tonight."
She climbs off him, already missing the warmth of him as she dismounts from his body. If his whimper of protest is anything to go by, Clint also misses the contact. The sight of him and the mess that they've made is enough to take the sting out of it though. She was relatively gentle; the marks won't last long, but the red stripes on his skin please her. She grins.
"Shower's over there," she tells him pointing toward the small bathroom in the corner. "Clean up and I'll let you make it up to me when we get back to your hotel."
He sits up in one lithe movement, swinging his legs over the side of the bench. He cracks his neck and then rises to his feet. "Feel like joining me?"
She lays a kiss on him, not holding back. "I'm going to clean up here and then get dressed," she informs him, "thought I'd wear what you gave me for the rest of the night …"
His eyes flare at the thought of her walking through the streets with his marking on her, his scent on her skin. "Then I'll be as quick as I can," he announces, "sooner I get you home the better."