bakerstreet | weekly boners'r'us

Her attempt to duck her head and stifle her snickering at his villainous snarling and Gaston-esque laughter is only partially successful, her shoulders shaking with the suppressed noise, but that they've made it this far without cracking up is pretty impressive. It's then an equal struggle not to whimper happily when he barks another filthy order; the next time they decide to play fun little games, they can try for more patience, but she's dying here.

"Yes sir," she purrs playfully, straightening just enough to hook her thumbs into the elastic of her panties and wriggle them off her hips (they could've been shoved aside, sure, but they're her La Perla, and if they tore she'd be heartbroken as well as sexually satisfied). This is the tricky, potentially uncomfortable part, lifting a leg to rest a bent knee on the desk and bend down over the slick wooden surface. "Like that, Mr. Theirin?"

He won't punish her for laughing this time--after all, this is pretty ridiculous. And some of his act is especially to amuse her, since it's hard for him to keep a straight face this long. Especially since she pushes her panties down in what has to be one of the hottest gestures he's ever seen. Let it never be said that Solona is anything other than the most

"Uh. Yeah. Yeah, like that." Someone might have gotten distracted from his character. Alistair Theirin, worst LARPer. He was picturing her just spreading her legs and keeping both feet on the floor, but it only now occurs to him that maybe that would be uncomfortable. Whoops. As it is...he gets his cock through his boxers and rubs the head of it along her slick folds, teasing both of them, but mostly her. "Good girls say please, Miss Amell."

Solona doesn't think fucking on a desk (or anywhere that isn't a soft squishy surface) is supposed to be comfortable, it's supposed to be hot and fun and exciting and naughty. Mission accomplished so far, because short of actually coming she doesn't think she can get much wetter. Which, since he's dragging his cock over her slickness, is probably pretty obvious.

"Oh my God, come on," she half-pants, half-laughs, her own character slipping, the real Miss Amell's neediness at odds with the fictional Miss Amell's desire to obey. It's difficult to keep playiong along, rather than reach back and claw at his hip, to press back against him and take him in. "Please, please sir, please please fuck me. Pretty please."

Alistair leans into her again, nipping a little harder at her neck than he usually does. Just enough to remind her who's in charge--as long as nobody says the safeword, anyway.

"Maybe you'll learn to be a good girl after all," he murmurs against her skin, and without his usual gentleness, he enters her. And not a moment too soon, either. He doesn't think he could have held out much longer, just teasing her. This had to happen; even if he'd wanted to stretch things out longer, he thinks his body would have fought him. Thrusting in hard against her, he catches her earlobe between his teeth and rakes over the skin.

Solona's fingers slip and scramble for purchase, the hard snap of his hips against hers driving her against the desk. She's dimly aware of a blossom of pain where her leg is pressing against the wood, which will probably turn into a pretty purple bruise by tomorrow, but it's too distant and unimportant for her to care about when he's taking her like this. The sounds coming out of her, harsh and wordless and much louder than usual, mix rather nicely with the slap of skin and the squeak of sturdy wooden furniture.

Without thinking she slips her hand between her legs, fingertips brushing and circling her clit with a light touch that's completely at odds with his hard thrusts. She's forgotten the role she's supposed to be playing, and the safe word she picked, and she's fairly sure she's momentarily forgotten her own name, her body eagerly letting go of unnecessary thoughts to chase after a single goal. And God, she's already close. Apparently a little manhandling in the right circumstances works for her.

Once he's inside her, he can't keep up the act any longer. He's not Mr. Theirin anymore, just Alistair--needy, hard-as-iron Alistair, slamming into his girlfriend without thought. He doesn't have anything to say about the way she starts touching herself, since he'd do the same damn thing if he was her. In fact, his hand follows hers, their fingers mingling as they brush over her clit.

He comes soon after. All that buildup had an effect on him, and with Solona breathing hot and fast under his touch, he comes undone. As he climaxes, his touch grows a little harder, more insistent, between her legs. "Your turn." It's quiet and throaty, his face nuzzling against her hair. One more bit of acting, just one more. "Come for me."

Solona doesn't respond out loud, having already slipped into that state of wordless panting that proceeds an orgasm, but it's an order she's eager and willing to obey. His fingertips and broader and rougher and firmer on her and after a moment she simply lays her hand on his forearm to hold on and let him work her to peak. Her fingers tense, nails digging into his skin the closer she gets, and when she comes the shudder shakes her whole body, dislodging her leg from its prop on the desk. If not for Alistair's arm around her and the desk she'd have ended up a messy pile in the floor, all dazed and noodley-limbed.

She lets him drive her up and over until she can't take it anymore and has to grab at his hand and close her legs. "Oh my God," she wheezes, laughing and slumping on the desk with a helpless laugh.

There's never been anything sexier in the world than seeing Solona come, and Alistair's pretty sure that seeing--or, more accurately, feeling, hearing, and sort of seeing--her come this time is sexier than every other time put together. It's intense in ways he can't quite describe. He's felt her come before, but never like this. Never so intensely, like they might both explode from all their weird hot-for-teacher games.

And then she's done, and he lets her pull his hand away, listening to her laugh. He joins her, his breathing still a little hastier than usual. "I can't believe we just did that."

"I can't believe we kept a straight face," she admits breathlessly. It's both uncomfortable and just right, both of them slumped over the desk in a messy pile, him half on top of her, her cheek pressed against the cool wooden surface. Post-orgasm bodies are like cats, all twisted around in the most ridiculous looking positions, and perfectly content with it. "This stupid skirt is the best nine dollars I have ever spent."

"You're damn right it is." Alistair grins, loath to get off her entirely. It isn't exactly comfortable for him, either, but everything just feels right--and moving means having Solona a little bit further away. He catches a bit of the skirt in his hand, fingering the fabric idly. "I can't believe you put together the outfit. You look like a porn star. It's...really hot, actually."

And just to make sure it's a compliment and not a slam, he nuzzles his face against her cheek, pecking the corner of her mouth.

"For that, I think I'd need some fishnets, some false eyelashes, maybe some platform shoes," Solona quips, lips curving lazily; she knows him well enough to recognize a weird compliment when she hears one. Mr. Disciplinarian is just her cuddly, goofy boyfriend again, and as spent as she is she just wants to borrow in and snuggle.

"Mmph, carry me to bed," she requests, lips moving into a pleading pout. "My legs are like Jello."

"Okay," he agrees, drawing in a deep breath of her. "You look like an out-of-work porn star."

Even hotter, right? Alistair thinks so. He sighs at the way she pouts at him--his legs are pretty wobbly, too, thank you very much--but there's no way on earth he can resist that face. So he heaves himself off the desk (and her) and bends down to scoop her up in his arms. "You're lucky I'd do anything for you." As he walks them to their bed, he smiles down at her. "Otherwise I might have made you walk."

"That's...um." Not actually better, that sounds like she's old and past her prime or something. But she's too dick drunk to argue. And then he scoops her up to carry her (on his own wobbly legs, she can tell by the way he walks) to the bedroom, and arguing becomes totally unimportant.

"That's so mean," she drawled, snuggling into his neck and nibbling at his skin affectionately. "That's something mean Mr. Theirin would do."

Alistair breathes out a laugh at the way she can't find a way to end the sentence nicely. And then he's just all breath, distracted by the gentle brush of her lips over his throat.

"Mean Mr. Theirin might still be holding you," he says, coming up to the edge of the bed. "You never know when he might--drop you!"

Which he does, onto her side of the mattress. Whoops.

Joke's on him, since she's got her hands snagged tight in his shirt and therefore drags him down with her, squealing sharply as they fall in a clumsy heap.

"Jerk," she accuses, digging her fingers into his ribs in an attempt to send him into a fit of ticklish laughter. "See if I'm bending over any more desks for you any time soon."

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