Happy Sunday, SQers. Enjoy. ;)

I've never liked coming to this place. At least not since I've been here with . . . well, Graham. It's an eerie sort of place, Regina's vault . . . chalk full of violent memories and reminders of the past . . . a past both of us have long attempted to escape.

I wonder how Regina can stand to be here, I muse as I make my way up the dark path; these memories aren't haunting just for me. This isn't just a home away from home for Regina — a secret hideout in the woods. It's a casket of locked away hearts . . . victims she's kept, people she's hurt, killed, even . . . a time in which she was so far succumbed into the darkness of her own soul that she could hardly see who she was any longer. A time in which she's worked so hard to overcome.

But I know why she's chosen this place. It's isolated; it's quiet. No one will ever find us here, especially Henry. And despite all of the reminders, the past is just that: a past.

Regina is a different woman now. Or, perhaps, the woman she was always meant to become, if not a little more broken in between.

I'm alone.

Edging into the entrance of the place, I cautiously look around, and then call out to her.

"Regina?"

There is no answer, and I make my way further inside.

"Regina," I call out again, my voice echoing. "I'm here. I brought the—"

But I stop, dead in my tracks. Regina is standing smack in the center of the vault, staring back at me . . . surrounded by the hundreds of ticking, beating hearts stashed within the walls. She is dressed in an all black get-up, with a large, royal collar accenting her shoulders . . . her neckline plunging; a big, jeweled necklace decorating her ample cleavage. The dress is corseted, with the wet look, tucking her waist in as far as it might go . . . and she has black lace leggings to accompany her stiletto shoes.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say she was dressed in some sort of modernized Queen outfit . . . and, hell. I didn't know any better. I'd never seen this before . . . it reminded me very much of the illustrations in Henry's book . . . if not a bit more easy to maneuver in.

Regina is standing proudly, with one hand on her hip.

"Wow," I let out a pleasantly surprised little breath; I can't help it. "Wear that more often."

"It's your Majesty."

She lifts her chin, proudly, and smirks at me.

"Right," I say, brushing off the comment. "I uh . . . brought the handcuffs. Like you said."

Lifting my wrist to show her, I flatten my lips in self-conscious anticipation.

Regina eyes me from over her nose, a blood-lustful look I've seen only in moments of pure extremity gracing her features. Truly, she looks much like the Evil Queen she once was . . . and I stop walking, feeling very much like a rabbit before the wolf.

"Good," she coos, and then begins toward me, the slow stride in her step forcing me to stay completely still. I watch her through furrowed brows, and she circles me.

"Regina."

"No need to be uneasy, dear — we both know the rules." She stops in front of me; looking me up and down, and then smiling with her teeth. It's been quite a long time since she's been so . . . calm . . . so controlling . . . over me, and I can tell she's really getting into this.

I'm calming, though, and my fire is returning. I can feel my features falling into an expression of gentle challenge, and I stare at her right back.

"Now," Regina says, in a grainy, almost hiss — milking every single syllable that comes out of her full, luscious mouth. I want to bite her bottom lip in that moment . . . walk forward and tug at it with my teeth. "Take the handcuffs, and clasp one around your left wrist."

"Why." I do bite, but in another way — with my stubbornness.

She crooks her neck and raises one brow at my immediate disobedience.

"Is that defiance?"

"Just wanna know what you're gonna do to me."

"Do as I say." Her voice has become harsh; louder. It's the tone she uses when she's losing her temper, and wants to warn the other that they are simply mincemeat at her feet; it almost never lies. "Or there will be consequences."

A part of me wants to roll my eyes, and I do; maybe not intentionally, but she definitely sneers, and I'm suddenly aware that, yeah; whoops. I did. It's just an automatic response to Regina bossing me around, I guess . . . though I can't say it doesn't turn me on.

Before I know what's hit me, though, a strong force of purple mist is seizing me by the wrist, as if a burst of incredible wind has taken control of my body. The handcuff is snapped into place around my wrist by magic — just like that. My eyes widen and I stare at it, and then look at Regina. I can feel my heart quickening; the adrenaline from my immediate fight-or-flight response is arousing.

I feel the corners of my lips being tugged upwards . . . I'm smirking.

Regina doesn't smile back, though. She's not even looking at me. Instead, she's resumed circling, looking toward the ground ahead as if ordering me around is the easiest thing she's ever had to do.

"Now. Take the other free cuff, and latch yourself onto the handle . . . at the other end of the room."

"Against the wall?" I ask, raising a brow.

"Mm."

I stand there, without moving.

Regina stops circling and looks at me. She sneers.

"Do not MAKE me use magic again."

Part of me wants her to, though, and I continue to disobey — if just for a moment. She's raising both brows expectantly, and I realize I can't resist that face; I slowly start toward the far end of the vault, doing as she says.

"Good," she says to my back. "Keep going, Miss Swan. All the way to the end."

Lips flattened in impatience now, I reach the last handle; the last row of heart boxes on this side of the vault. Turning around, lifting my wrist upward, I shoot her a glance. "Here?"

A burst of magic again; before I can react, I'm attached to the wall — Regina cuffs the other side to the silver handle. My arm is raised, unable to be freed; I'm trapped.

"What's the matter," I throw back, sassily, trying to pull away unsuccessfully. "I take too long?"

Regina's smiling, again with her teeth, as she approaches me.

"Silence."

Now her eyes are piercing mine. I refuse to look away . . . the leer is electric . . . those unending pools of dark, beautiful vengeance. She's communicating with me through them: I will devour you, she says, and, at the same time, if only visible to someone like me: please, let me in.

She's close enough to touch me now, and she does just that; her face hovering over mine as she reaches out and strokes the side of my face with the tips of her long nails. She cups my chin before letting go, and when she speaks, it's a husky, sultry whisper, like a dragoness. "Yessss." She lets the ending hiss out through her large teeth, and touches me again, meeting my eyes. "Yesss, the Savior is trapped."

I want to protest — want to react — want to throw some remark back in her face. But her touch sends a chill up my spine; I can feel my neck hairs standing on edge. I swallow, watching her every move with anticipation. She's shut me up.

Now she's running her other hand down the left side of my body, tracing the outline of my curved waist with her palm, softly. So slowly; so softly. It's insane what these hands have accomplished, and yet, her touch is so gentle . . .

"I see you've dressed for the occasion," she murmurs, but it's sarcastic — I'm in skinny jeans and a white button-up shirt with a wrinkled collar. Again, I want to react; but I'm much too aware that her other hand is snaking its way down the left side of my body . . . the side not handcuffed to the wall. Slowly, slowly, she's scratching down my arm . . . along my stomach, over the fabric of my clothes . . . sliding down to the waistband of my pants. She's slipping the tips of her fingers beneath, touching my skin . . . her hand now pressed against my flesh due to the tightness of the fabric. I swallow again; it's really distracting. Oh, God. Just touch me.

But she's stopped; she's tapping her fingers beneath gently against my abdomen, close to my groin. Smiling triumphantly, as if she's already won a game I don't even realize I've started, she slides her hand up and out, and then backs up.

"Hey," I whisper, involuntarily and almost desperately, begging her to come back. She's teasing me; I don't like it.

Regina says nothing; she simply straightens up, and faces me, standing tall. With one nod of her head, she utters one simple command:

"Strip."

"What?"

"Strip."

I look confused, and, as if she believes I need more of an indication, nods at my jeans.

"In case you haven't noticed, I'm handcuffed to the wall, Regina."

"Strip." Her eyes graze mine — they're full of fire. "And it's your Majesty."

She means business. My chest is heavy with both a sigh and intense longing for her touch once more. I guess I do have one free hand. Frowning, I reach down with the arm not cuffed, and begin unbuttoning my jeans. After loosening them, I slide them off, as slowly as possible, down my legs . . . but doing so with one hand and limited mobility only allows for so much. I can't slide them all the way, so I kick them down and off. It takes a few tries, and it's anything but smooth, but my jeans finally fall to the floor, revealing my lacy black panties beneath. I haven't worn these for a while; usually only for special occasions . . . like, well. Regina and I. But I have a feeling she likes them — has always liked them — and, judging by the satisfied smirk upon her lips as she eyes my naked abdomen, I can confirm.

"Hmm." She hums, almost, a lulling sound in the back of her throat. Meeting my eyes, she blinks, lazily.

"The shirt needs to come off, too."

"You're kidding, right?" Now this I definitely can't do.

"Do I look like I'm kidding?" She responds, harshly, eyeing me with a serpent's glare. She calms just as quickly, however, and sashays toward me again. "Allow me."

She reaches forward with those words, and tucks her fingers beneath the bottom of my T shirt, gently. I can feel the magical energy, however, and a purple haze suddenly slithers from her touch . . . I can feel the fabric loosening, drifting away from my skin. It slides off of me, effortlessly, as if weightless — as if I had only been covered in a thin, cloud-like sheet. Regina casts it away, to the floor, and I'm in only my lingerie now.

She places one hand on the crook of my waist, and the other upon my neck. She leans in and takes my lips in hers, kissing me deeply. Regina's kisses have always been surprisingly soft — intense, but soft — and this is no exception. She never uses her tongue, though, not while kissing; that's something I like to do, and even then her teeth usually barricade any attempt. She's more of a biter; as if she is too on guard for any tongue, no matter what the circumstances. I push my chin forward, and bite her bottom lip, tugging at it, pulling her toward me.

Regina pulls away, though, and I can feel the hand on my waist moving down. Slowly, she inserts her fingers beneath my underwear, and slides two between my legs, probably to get a feel for how aroused I am. And. Shit. Am I wet. I can feel myself physically aching for her; hadn't realized just how much until now. Regina notices it, too; she looks down at her hand and smirks, smug, rubbing me gently. Without a word, she slides her fingers up, trailing my fluids diagonally, toward my hip. She meets my eyes again, showing her teeth in a menacing, chesire cat grin.

To hell with this.

"Fuck, Regina," I whisper. "Would you just get on with it?" I haven't been this impatient since . . . well, God knows when.

"Watch yourself, Miss Swan." She runs her wet fingers in circles against my skin, and then raises both brows, as if she's done nothing more than pick a flower. "Your mouth may get you into trouble one of these days."

"It already has, loads of times," I say. I'm pissed; I want her in me. "Now fuck me."

"Silence." She snaps her gaze back up to leer at me; I leer back. "Or I will leave you here."

I'm frowning, but I shut up — I know she means it. Without another word, Regina looks back down, and slides her fingers between my legs once more, rubbing me again. She's taking her time; gloating about how wet I am.

And then, she's massaging my clit with her fingers . . . slowly at first, barely touching me. Her fingers are moist, though, and I'm warm; throbbing even. Gradually, she increases her rhythm, in those small, torturous circles . . . almost squeezing the little bundle of nerves between her fingers. I close my eyes and arch my back, relaxing against the wall . . . curling into her touch. Bending my leg, I slide my foot upward . . . my knees begin to relax.

"Mmmmmmmm," I sigh out, parting my lips as she works. She knows what to do with me — she's familiar with my body.

"Ahh — ahh," I groan as she shifts her fingers, just a bit, and then open my eyes. I reach down and place my hand against hers, wanting to guide her.

But Regina suddenly snaps my hand away, her magic throwing it, upward, against the wall. I try to resist, but a purple, snakelike vine has my wrist . . . I'm pinned . . . on a crucifix.

I moan, feeling myself burning at her touch, and the only thing I can do now is maneuver my hips with her. She's still working, staring down at her hand as she does; I open my eyes to meet hers, but she refuses. I'm hardly aware of this, though.

"Regina," I breathe out as I gyrate against her, clumsily; it's unbearable. I'm going to cum. I can feel my release threatening to flow from between my legs . . .

And then, she's sliding down . . . I barely register what she's doing . . . when had she taken off my panties? . . . quickly, she removes her hand, takes my thighs in both, and hoists me up, placing them on her shoulders. She then presses her mouth to me. Using her tongue, she continues her prior rhythm against my clit — the moves precise, delicate, and expert. She knows exactly what I like. Closing her lips around me, she sucks inward, still using her tongue.

I can't help it now — I let out an incredibly loud groan. Squirming, I tighten my legs around her neck and push myself into her — she's encouraged by the movement. She goes harder. Faster.

"S-S-St- . . . Sto . . . p . . ."

But she doesn't stop, and I'm on the verge once more; I can feel the black seeping in around my vision. I throw my head back against the wall and open my mouth, releasing another loud moan. It echoes.

Regina's got both hands upon the small of my back now, holding me in place, and she scrapes her long nails slowly and viciously down my flesh. The sting, along with the burning between my legs, is exhilarating, and it's enough to send me over the edge. I breathe out, and release, feeling my entire body surrender to that indescribable feeling of ecstasy. Regina's slowed, too, following the course of my body's response, but she's still licking me . . . running the length of her wet tongue against my clit, trailing my fluids up and onto my stomach. She stops, and kisses me there, her eyes closed, her nose pressed against my flesh.

I'm panting, and I want to be undone from the wall. If not for Regina, I would be swinging by my wrists right now. Loosening my legs, unlocking my knees, I slide them off of her shoulders, and she stands, respectively. Her lips are moist, but she's not smiling.

"You're going to wake up the whole neighborhood with that mouth of yours, you do realize."

"Are you serious?" I say, between pants. "We're in the middle of nowhere!"

"And that really was too easy, dear." She pulls away, and I watch her lick her fingers clean, swallowing. "How impatient were you for this?"

"Pretty damn impatient," I admit, but I'm pretty sure that's obvious. My chest is still heaving, and I'm naked from the waist down. Regina smirks.

"This was only the beginning."

I watch her for a moment, perplexed; she's smiling at me. With a flick of her wrist, she frees me from the wall — I stand, slowly.

"Get dressed."

I move to do as she says, but I'm still wondering what she meant.

"You want anything else?" I ask. "We've got this place to ourselves, I mean . . . "

"No, no." She waves me away. "That was enough of a. Preview. For now."

But I'm stubborn; pulling my pants on, I button them and move toward her. "I want to taste you now." Your Majesty. I almost say it — maybe it will please her — but can't really bring myself to. It's too silly.

"No, Emma." She's coming out of her role — that is evident by the first name. "Not today. In time."

I deadpan. She had me helpless; squirming against her mouth. I don't even get to repay the favor?

She seems to sense my displeasure though, and looks at me. There is softness in her eyes now; the fire is gone. "Patience, my dear. Patience."

I sigh, loudly. "Alright." Placing my hands in my pockets, I continue. "I've gotta get back anyway; kid's gone on a comic book run and I promised I'd meet him and the rents for dinner." Regina doesn't react to this, but I know how much she would rather not be reminded of my lineage. "Wanna come?" I figure being polite can't hurt.

"I've heard quite enough incomprehensible babbling for one day, thank you."

Rolling my eyes at the jab, I pick my shirt up to pull it on, and begin buttoning it.

"When can we do this again?" I ask.

"In time," Regina says, with a bit of a sigh. "First, though. I have to think of your punishments." Her voice has returned to its slick, commanding tone again at that, and she smirks at me.

"My . . . what?"

"You're a very mouthy girl," Regina responds. "You need some good punishments for when you're being disobedient."

Raising both brows, I respond.

"And do I get a say in this?"

"Oh, you'll hear each and every one of them. Your actions; their respective punishments."

I feel my heart quickening again as she addresses me, but I'm definitely interested.

"Come back to my office tomorrow. We can . . . discuss further."

It seems so far away . . . but I can do nothing more than agree.

"Alright, fine. We'll 'discuss.' "

She's still smirking, and I throw one back, if not in jest. Turning around to leave, I shake my head.

"Goodbye, dear."

I glance back at her, and give her a nod.

"Bye."

"Don't be late," She commands, but it's gentle — almost playful. Scrunching her face as I stop to meet her eyes one last time, she adds, "I look forward to it."

Hell. If that wasn't the biggest understatement of the century. Smiling, I give a playful snicker, and walk away.