Author's Note: I was asked ages and ages ago to write a 50 Shades-inspired piece for Robin and Regina, and while y'all know how much I hate 50 Shades, I agreed due to popular demand. So. Here ya go. OQ with sexy bondage funtime and a boatload of Regina's past trauma.

He discovers the book in her nightstand, on an evening when she drowns the stress of a long day with a hot bath and he tries to dull the edge off a tension headache with a couple of Advil. He doesn't want to disturb her solitude by hunting through the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, so he pulls open the drawer on her side of the bed, knowing she keeps a veritable pharmacy hidden there. Pain relievers and sleep aids, the pills that keep her from conceiving their child, and the ones he's seen her choke down when headaches have her light-sensitive and sick to her stomach.

He swallows two Advil, then glances at the clock. She's been twenty minutes in the bath already. Surely she can't be much longer. Robin decides to wait up for her, dimming the room to just a single bedside lamp and tossing the pills back in the drawer. In an effort to pass the time, he pulls out the book she'd tucked away there, splayed open, spine up. He closes his finger into the place she seems to have marked and looks at the cover. A man's dress tie and the words Fifty Shades of Grey.

He has no idea what it might be about, but it will pass the time until she returns, so he flips to the first page, shifting his grip so it's his middle finger marking her place in the book instead of his pointer.

It doesn't take him long to realize the book is dreck. A surprise to him, because Regina is actually quite the reader (she's gone through many stretches of empty hours, days, weeks during her lifetime), and her taste is usually much better. But this book is clunky and amateurish, the protagonist not terribly likable. He can't imagine Regina relating in any way to Miss Anastasia Steele, with her bumbling awkwardness. He rather thinks she'd hate her, to be honest.

He only makes it a handful of pages before he gives up and flips ahead to the place she'd marked (other pages have the corners turned over, he's noticed, both earlier and later in the book. She must have read it cover to cover already).

What he finds surprises him, to say the least.

"You look mighty fine trussed up like this, Miss Steele. And your smart mouth, quiet for now. I like that."

Standing in front of me again, he hooks his fingers into my panties, and at a most unhurried pace, peels them down my legs, stripping me agonizingly slowly, so that he ends up kneeling in front of me. Not taking his eyes off mine, he scrunches my panties in his hand, holds them up to his nose, and inhales deeply. Holy fuck. Did he just do that? He grins wickedly at me and tucks them into the pocket of his jeans.

Uncoiling from the floor, rising lazily, like a jungle cat, he points the end of the riding crop at my navel, leisurely circling it – tantalizing me. At the touch of the leather, I quiver and gasp. He walks round me again, trailing the crop around the middle of my body. On his second circuit, he suddenly flicks the crop, and it hits me underneath my behind... against my sex. I cry out in surprise as all my nerve endings stand to attention. I pull against the restraints. The shock runs through me, and it's the sweetest strangest, hedonistic feeling.

"Quiet," he whispers as he walks around me again, the crop slightly higher around the middle of my body. This time when he flicks it against me in the same place, I'm anticipating it... oh my. My body convulses at the sweet, stinging bite.

As he makes his way around me, he flicks again, this time hitting my nipple, and I throw my head back as my nerve endings sing. He hits the other... a brief, swift, sweet chastisement. My nipples harden and elongate from the assault, and I moan loudly, pulling on my leather cuffs.

"Does that feel good?" he breathes.

"Yes."

He hits me again across the buttocks. The crop stings this time.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Sir," I whimper.

By the time Regina walks back into the room, cozy in her robe and running a comb through her dark hair, Robin's eyebrows are nearly to his hairline. This… is unexpected. And depraved.

She freezes when she notices what he's holding in his hands.

"What are you doing?" she questions, sounding none too pleased.

Robin gives her an answer, though probably not the one she'd like: "Reading."

The look she gives him says what she doesn't bother to: Obviously.

"That's my book." The implication is clear: he has no right to be reading it. Her mouth is drawn into a scowl as she crosses the room, tugging it from his fingers.

"Aye," Robin says as the pages slip from his grasp. "I found it in your night table while hunting for Advil. I had a headache, and didn't want to disturb you. Although I think that book may actually have made the headache worse." If he's not mistaken, she flushes, her cheeks going just a touch rosy as she reaches over and whaps him hard on the arm with the book in question. "Ow!" he cries, laughing and rubbing his bicep, shaking his head. He can't help notice she looks genuinely embarrassed, though, and they can't have that.

He reaches for her, drawing her against his side, the book held loosely in her fingertips now. "It's just a book," she says with a roll of her dark eyes. Her gaze is a bit more insistent when she adds, "A stupid book."

"Not very well written from what I saw," Robin observes, and she scoffs lightly in response.

"I believe 'horribly written' is the term you're looking for," Regina corrects, but he can't help noticing the dog-eared pages, the crease in the paper spine.

"And yet it seems quite well-loved," he teases, nudging against her with his shoulder. She looks away, draws her hair behind her ear the way she does when he's made her anxious. He's not used to Regina being so easy to rile - however steady and dismissive she may be making her words, she is most definitely "off her game," as they say.

"It's not well-loved," she denies. "I don't love it. I've read it; that's all. It was a bestseller."

Robin's brows shoot back to his forehead. "That was a bestseller?" It couldn't possibly have been, he has seen the literature of this realm, has enjoyed stealing books from Regina's private collection now and again to pass the slower hours at the sheriff's station. He cannot fathom how that book in particular could be so widely successful.

"Yes," she snips, quite pleased with herself now, tipping her chin up almost haughtily. "So, you see, thief, I am not the only woman who bought that horrible book and read it."

"And kept it," he points out. She scowls. "By her bedside," he adds, and she's definitely pink-cheeked now. Robin smirks at her, wiggles his brows and states the obvious: "It's quite racy."

She exhales uncomfortably, shifting, passing the book from hand to hand now. "Get to the point, Robin," she huffs.

His shoulders bob slightly and he draws her more fully against his torso. "I've no point, my love. I was a bit surprised, is all. What with the riding crop to the delicate areas and all that."

If she was blushing before, she goes crimson at that, dropping the book entirely and covering her face with her hands. "My God, how much did you read?"

"Not much," he admits, grasping gently at her arms and drawing them away from her face. "Why are you so embarrassed, milady?"

"I'm not embarrassed," she hisses, as if the very idea is ridiculous. But she's lying, it's clear in her body, the tension in her shoulders, the blush in her cheeks.

"Your pink cheeks tell a different story," he points out, and she scowls, shifts restlessly again.

"Well, it's not every day your lover happens upon a book full of whips and bondage in your bedroom," she excuses testily, and he really should let her off the hook, but the fact that she's so affected by all this has him wondering.

"Does it turn you on?" he asks her curiously - a silly question because why else would she have the book so readily available near her bed, so many pages marked for easy finding.

She rolls her eyes, "Are you seriously asking me this?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because, Regina," he tells her, leaning in and pressing a warm kiss to the sensitive spot just past the hinge of her jaw - one he has learned is particularly susceptible to the practiced swirl of his tongue. "What turns you on is of great interest to me." He lingers there with lips and tongue, light, teasing attention that has her squirming slightly in moments.

"Oh," she breathes, and then admits, "Maybe a little."

"Maybe a little?" he asks, nipping playfully at her jaw.

"Mmhmm," she agrees, her fingers skimming along his thigh, from his knee up, higher, higher still. Robin feels himself stiffen in anticipation and smiles against her, reaches for the book and tosses it to the floor.

"And do I turn you on, too, milady?" he teases, covering her mouth with his before she can give a proper answer and leaning into her. She hums in affirmative, arms winding around his neck, and before long the book is forgotten in favor of warm, naked skin, wet mouths, wandering hands. He remembers it for just a moment as he's moving above her, within her, and reaches for her wrists, pins them to the pillow on either side of her head just to test her reaction. She bites her lip and moans, does not fight him in the slightest, and Robin starts to hitch his hips harder into her, scrapes his teeth along her collarbone. Her cries go sharper, a little more delirious, and he thinks perhaps she's more excited by the prospect of bondage and pain than she lets on. And then she's coming beneath him, and he stops thinking altogether.

But the idea doesn't leave him, not entirely. He cannot get the image of Regina flustered and embarrassed out of his head, cannot forget those dog-eared pages. She's stashed the book away again, closed this time, and placed it beneath her Imitrex and Ortho-Tri-Cyclen, but Robin takes to sneaking it from its place when she's otherwise occupied, skimming the pages, then replacing everything exactly as it was. Just in case she checks.

It's a good two weeks later, long enough for her to nearly have forgotten her embarrassment, when he brings a pair of handcuffs home from the sheriff's station, keeps them tucked into his pocket all through their candlelit dinner. Henry is at Emma's for the night, Roland with Marian, and while opportunity was ripe for a lovely night out, Regina much prefers quiet nights in. That works fine for Robin, because it means that he can reach back as she's spooning up half-melted ice cream and warm apple pie, can draw the cuffs from his pocket and hold them up, let them dangle from his thumb.

"I brought a gift for you," he tells her simply, watching as her jaw drops slightly, her gaze on the cuffs as they swing slightly side to side from their perch. Her drippy pie slips off her spoon unnoticed and falls into her plate with a soft splat.

She finds her voice, finally, snapping out of her momentary daze with a blink and scooping up her pie again as she asks nonchalantly, "What are those for?"

"I thought perhaps you might like to play a little, Miss Mills."

One brow arches slowly, and she looks to him, meets his gaze, and is almost smiling when she says, "You cannot be serious, Robin."

"Ah, but I am," he assures, rising from his chair and tossing the cuffs to the table with a clatter. He leans over her, kisses her lips sweetly and skims his fingers along her forearms, tugging the spoon from her hand and grasping her wrists, guiding them down until they're pressed against the rails of the chair back. It does not escape his attention that her breathing hitches up slightly as he circles thumb and finger around her, squeezes her wrists to the wood of the chair. "And I believe from now on you are to address me as Sir."

Regina's brows rise, her mouth splitting into a mirthful grin. "Oh, really?"

"Yes," he tells her, pouting a little at her amusement with the very thought. "Really."

"Sir Robin of Locksley?" she asks, teasingly, and he increases the pressure on her wrists.

"Just Sir will do, milady."

She laughs - it's nearly a giggle, really, she's entirely tickled by this turn of events. "Yes, Sir," she tells him, her playful mockery only thinly veiled.

He releases one hand so he can point a finger at her, warning, "I expect to be taken seriously, young lady," and earning another giggle. Then she forces her face into something more serious (can't quite keep the corners of her mouth from twitching upward).

"Yes, Sir." She manages to keep it together this time, but her eyes are bright and amused, steady on his.

"Much better," he chuckles, leaning in to press a kiss to her lips. "Now, I know we don't have a riding crop on hand," he teases, and she flushes and bites her lip, looks askance and loses the war on that smile again, although it's a bit more sheepish this time. "Or a red room of pain. But I thought we could make do with the bedroom and a firm hand, hmm?"

Regina nods and presses her lips together, then asks, "Right now?"

Robin lets go of her wrist and stands, shrugs a shoulder and smirks, "Nah," before settling back into his chair. Regina's face falls so quickly he almost feels bad for his nonchalance. "Once you've finished that pie."

He's never seen her eat faster than it takes her to scarf down those last three bites, and he sits back, watching, smirking.

She catches his gaze and asks self-consciously, her mouth half-full, "What?"

Then she swallows the last bit and sets her fork down while Robin teases, "You're quite cute when you're horny."

Regina's jaw drops indignantly, and she start to insist, "I am not-" but switches to, "I just… This is unexpected."

"Unexpected in a good way?" he asks her, reaching out to fiddle with the metal cuffs that sit between them on the tabletop.

She nods, admitting, "I didn't…" One hand lifts, tucks her hair behind her ear. "It never occurred to me to ask you to do something like this. You don't… seem the type."

She's choosing her words carefully, slowly, and Robin has to admit to himself that she's right. He isn't the type who derives pleasure from inflicting pain, quite the opposite. But he's more than willing to clip her wrists to the headboard, to tease her until she writhes for him, to give her a stern talking-to if it's what she enjoys. So he shrugs, and tells her, "I'm quite open to new things, my darling. Especially when they involve your naked body."

Regina grins again, shaking her head. "What do you want me to do?"

"Well, for starters, I'd like you to repeat that using my proper title," he tells her, although he has a hard time sounding serious about it (it reminds him, for some reason, of her ridiculous insistence that he refer to her as Your Majesty and only Your Majesty whenever she found him particularly irksome during their year in her castle).

Regina rolls her eyes at him, and Robin reaches over, catches her chin (not hard, but not a caress either) and tells her, "With a bit more respect than that."

Her eyes widen slightly, and she sucks in a breath, moistens her lips. Oh, she'd liked that... "What do you want me to do, Sir?" she amends softly, and Robin smiles, rubs his thumb gently over her chin then drops his hand.

"Much better," he nods, and then he rises and reaches for her plate. "I am going to clear the dinner dishes, and you are going to go up to your bedroom, strip the bed down to the sheet, and then strip yourself down to nothing, and wait for me." He nods toward the cuffs, "You can take those with you, and leave them on the nightstand, please."

Regina presses her lips together and nods, and he can already see the hard points of her nipples against the silk of her top. She's riled at just the thought of all this, and the knowledge has Robin's anticipation growing. If nothing else, he's about to get to watch her squirm and moan and come for him - something he thinks he could watch every day of his life and never tire of it.

Robin takes his time after Regina leaves, clearing their places, giving the dishes a rinse, loading dessert and dinner plates alike into the dishwasher. He even sets the pans to soak the way he knows she likes. He dawdles, lets her stew a bit, lets her anticipation grow.

When he finally ascends the stairs and walks into the bedroom, he finds her sitting on the side of the bed, naked as requested, her palms curled over the edge of the mattress. She's lowered the lights - not dark by any means, but she's shut the brightest ones, and there are thick candles burning on the bedside table that make her skin look warm and inviting.

She looks up when he enters and smiles, a bit of nervous tension in her face, and in her voice when she says, "There you are. I was beginning to think you'd changed your mind."

Robin shakes his head, shuts the door behind him, walks toward her. "No. Just giving you some time."

Hers brows lift and fall in acknowledgement, and she presses her toes into the carpet, looks from him to her knees, back up. Robin moves toward her, reaches out for the cuffs she's placed dutifully on the bedside table, and it's only then that he realizes the flaw in his plan. He stares at her headboard, frowning - her solid, upholstered headboard, that makes a comfortable backrest for reading and talking late into the night, but provides not a notch, slat, or pole around which he could fasten cuffs.

"Well, I didn't plan this very well," he admits sheepishly, and she follows his gaze and grimaces good-naturedly.

"We'll just have to get creative," she tells him, looking around the room for other options. "Maybe the chair?" she suggests, nodding toward where it rests on the other side of her nightstand. "We could pull it next to the bed, or I could sit in it, or…?"

"Could work," he agrees, and then he reaches into his pocket for the keys to the cuffs, and freezes, mortified. His pockets are empty. The keys are still on the ring he keeps at work. He blows out a frustrated breath and looks to Regina, shakes his head.

And bless her, she smirks, tries mightily to hold in a laugh but mostly just ends up snorting it out her nose. "You forgot the keys, didn't you?"

"I did," he admits, sighing heavily and dropping to the bed next to her. "I'm sorry, my love. It seems I've ruined our night before it's even begun."

But there's a gleam in her eyes, an impishness, and she shakes her head, says, "There are other ways, Robin. If you really want to do this, that is. And it's okay if you don't - you don't have to try everything that I theoretically find sexy."

Robin turns and threads his fingers into her hair, assuring her, "I said I wanted to do this with you, and I do. If we don't like it, we'll stop, yeah?"

Regina nods. "I can bind myself," she tells him softly. "With magic." Her lips draw into a small frown as she admits, "Granted, that means I can also free myself at any time, but… I won't. Unless you tell me to. Does that - Is that okay with you?"

It's perfect, he thinks. It means he can never push her too far, not really. It means she will never feel unsafe. It means they don't have to worry about that damned headboard.

"Perfect," he assures her, leaning in to press a kiss to her lips. "Now. Where were we?"

"Wherever we were, I think you're overdressed," Regina points out, and she's right. He is. He's nearly clothed, still, and she's bare and flecked with gooseflesh. So he nods, and stands, and says perhaps she should do something about that. She smirks, lifts her brows, asks, "Is that an order, Sir?"

"Yes," he tells her plainly. "It is. Undress me."

She gives him another cheeky, "Yes, Sir," as she moves to her feet, and Robin can't help but snicker. One of her brows lifts in question. "What?"

"I'm sorry, it's just odd to hear you address me so formally, my love." His hands settle on her hips, thumbs tracing her curves.

"You did ask me to," she points out while she reaches for the buttons of his top and unbuttons them one by one.

"I'm aware," he smiles at her, "but considering how much of our time together you've spent griping about how beneath you I am…"

"That was before," she retorts. "Although if I recall, you haven't complained much about being beneath me in recent times."

"Ordinarily not," he agrees, "but today, the tables shall turn, Your Majesty."

"I'm looking forward to it," she whispers, pushing his shirt from his shoulders and tugging at his undershirt. She yanks it up and off, tosses it away, and reaches for his belt.

Robin takes a step back, though, puts a bit more space between them and grasps her shoulders, gives them a squeeze and gentle push.

"Kneel."

Regina stiffens suddenly, shutting her eyes and breathing in, out, and there's something different about her voice, something off, when she asks him quietly, "Please don't pull my hair?"

She blinks her eyes back open and starts to sink down, but Robin slides his hand under her arm to halt her progress. He's hit a nerve somehow, and he can guess without much more guidance which one. She's asked that of him before, the handful of times she's kissed her way down to take him into her mouth - don't yank, don't tug on her head - and it's a request that nearly throws him out of the mood entirely, would if he let himself linger on the dark implications of it, but most days it doesn't matter, most days he knows she'd prefer not to make anything of it, so he usually puts it firmly out of mind as soon as he reassures her.

But today, things are different. Today he's going to strap her down to the bed and have his wicked way with her, and he needs to know she'll be alright with that. That she's truly okay.

So he stops her descent and cups her jaw tenderly, guiding her gaze up to meet his. "Are you truly certain you want this, my love?"

Regina nods, lifts one hand to cover his, their fingers weaving as she tells him, "Yeah. Yes. I trust you."

He believes her. Believes her steady gaze, even if it's still a bit anxious, even if there's a tension around her mouth now that wasn't there minutes ago.

Robin skates his thumb over her cheek, and instructs, "You're to tell me if anything I do upsets you. You must."

She nods again, murmurs, "I will," and he's not sure it's the right thing to do, hopes she takes it the way he means when he smiles mischievously at her and reminds, Sir.

It works, thank heavens.

She smirks, suppresses a little chortle, and repeats, "I will, Sir."

He leans in, presses a soft kiss to her lips, and combs his fingers gently through her hair, a light caress, careful not to snag. "You're just to undress me. Then I want you on the bed, alright?" Another nod from her, and he whispers softly, "Now, on your knees."

This time she sinks down to the floor without hesitation, lifting her hands to his belt and finally undoing it, tugging his button free, lowering his zipper. Robin keeps his hands loose at his sides, doesn't touch her at all. His trousers pool around his feet a moment later, and she draws his underwear down, then hooks a finger in each of his socks and helps him step out of them, leaving him as naked as she is. She looks up at him expectantly then, and he urges her back to the edge of the bed, then follows.

He stops just in front of her, and reaches out to cup her bare breast lazily, skimming his thumb over her nipple. "You are so beautiful," he murmurs, stepping in even closer and catching her lips in a kiss. She responds enthusiastically, opening her mouth, teasing her tongue against his lips, but Robin pulls back, shakes his head at her. "No," he chides. "I'm in charge tonight. Not you."

Regina swallows and nods, and when he leans in again, she opens for him but doesn't lead, lets his tongue sweep into her mouth and slide against hers there. "Good," Robin praises softly as he draws back again, shifting his kisses to her jaw. "Now tell me, my sweet… What is it about this book you found so arousing?"

Regina squirms, but doesn't answer.

"Was it the pain?" he asks, because frankly he's flying blind here and doesn't know exactly what she wants from this little experiment. "The submission?" She nods slightly, then. A tiny thing. Shy. He hums softly, asks, "You want to bend to my will, is that it?" She lets out a sound at that, a high, breathy thing, and when he circles his tongue just beneath her ear, her hands lift to his shoulders and clutch there. Robin instructs her on impulse, "No, keep them on the bed. You'll touch me when I say so, and no sooner."

Her breath shudders out, hands falling to the mattress and gripping tightly, "Yes, Sir," a breath as it escapes her lips.

"Have you imagined me doing this?" he asks her quietly, making his way down her neck now, earning a moan as his teeth scrape her skin gently. She nods again, husks, another Yes, Sir, her fists twisting in the sheet. "And what was it you imagined, hmm? Tell me, and it's yours."

She sucks in a breath, lets it out heavily and whispers, "I wasn't allowed to come." Well, thank God. That he can manage without guilt or discomfort. "Or touch." She turns her head slightly, her cheek pressing against him as she adds saucily, "There may have been a spanking."

Robin chuckles into her neck and nips. running his fingers down her arms and pressing her hands harder against the mattress. She moans, tips her head back. "And whatever had you done to garner such treatment?" he asks her, busying his mouth against her skin again.

"Mm. I'd been naughty," she flirts, he can hear her smiling, and he has the overwhelming urge to kiss the breath out of her. Figuring he's in charge of this little escapade and thus should get what he wants for a moment, he drags his tongue up her throat, nips playfully at her chin, then takes her mouth fiercely. A quick, surprised moan sounds in her throat and then he shifts his hold on her wrists, lifts them, pushes forward until she falls back with a grunt and snicker. Robin grins against her mouth and pins her wrists above her head, enjoying the way she arches beneath him, bare skin sliding against bare skin.

For a few minutes, they make out heatedly, Regina's foot rubbing over the back of his leg, her hips grinding up against his. Robin presses down against her with a low growl, and she tips her head back on a moan, then gasps when he simply shifts his attention to her neck again, sucking hard enough to bruise. He tightens his grip on her wrists, presses them deeper into the mattress, as he asks, "Do you like this, darling?"

It's a silly a question, her breath is thick and deep, her breasts pressing up into his chest with every labored inhale, and he can already feel slickness where he grinds against her. But he wants her to say it, wants her to answer, (wants to be sure).

"Yes, Sir," she groans, flexing her fingers and rolling her wrists under his hold.

"You know, that 'Sir' is rather growing on me," he informs her as he pushes his hips into hers again.

She laughs softly, lifting her head, and mutters, "Don't get used to it, thief."

"Oh-ho," Robin scoffs, trying for indignant, but he cannot resist her teasing smiles and falls short of his mark. Still, he cannot let that slide, can he? No, definitely not. "I think that's enough cheek from you," he scolds, releasing her wrists and levering himself back up, pleased by her disappointed pout. "Roll over," he orders, making her teeth clamp down on her bottom lip. She sits and scoots back, then rolls, follows his instructions when he orders her onto all fours.

As soon as she's arse-up, he reaches over and gives her a light swat, playful. Regina cackles gleefully and grins over her shoulder at him, taunting, "Is that the best you've got, Sir?"

"Test me and find out," Robin challenges, giving her another spank, this one a little harder, hard enough to have her inhaling sharply and closing her eyes, turning her head forward. He rests one hand on her rear, and asks, "Can you reach the headboard from here?"

Regina extends her arms forward, and it tips her rear up even higher, but her fingertips are still a few inches shy of where he wants them, so he urges her to scoot up a little. She shimmies forward on the bed, stretches her arms out again until the tips of her fingers can brush the soft fabric of her headboard when she extends them. "Good," he murmurs, then orders, "Now bind your wrists."

She sucks in a breath, and Robin watches as her wrists are encircled in shimmering strips of what can only be magic. They wind together and then extend forward, down, disappearing between the headboard and the mattress. He watches her test them, lifting her wrists slightly. There's a bit of give, enough so that her arms aren't being pulled, but that's it.

"Lovely," he compliments, telling her, "You look quite fetching all trussed up, my love." She chuckles warmly and leans her head against her arm, arching into his touch when he palms her rear and squeezes. "Have I ever told you," he begins, "how wonderful your arse is?"

He watches her grin, and she cranes her neck back to wink at him. "Oh, only about a hundred times," she teases, and Robin lifts his brows expectantly. Her own brow furrows in confusion, and he mouths the word to her before she huffs, and adds it herself: "Sir."

"Well, allow this to be one hundred and one," he compliments, still kneading and stroking the luscious curves as she straightens her neck again. "It used to drive me to distraction whenever you wore those velvet dresses," he admits, letting his palms rub down to the tops of her thighs, splaying his fingers across her skin as he drags them back up. His thumbs touch in the middle, pressing against her and stroking over her clit, parting her where she's slick and slippery and smiling as she squirms at the attention. "They clung to you just right, hugged all your curves. Always so demure in front, but they were the sexiest things you owned, by far."

"I'm not sure why I ever wasted my time with the corsets," she teases, and he stops, stills, waits. "Sir."

"The corsets were quite mesmerizing as well," he concedes, slipping one hand down along her sex with intention now. He finds her clit and massages it lightly, watches her lungs expand and contract, and then she arches her back a bit more deeply, gives him better access. "It's awfully hard to concentrate on a council meeting when there's such ample cleavage staring you in the face."

She hums a moan in agreement, but seems content to just enjoy his attention for now. That's fine by him, too, but he has no intention of bringing her quickly to the edge. He abandons her clit, instead presses his fingers together and rubs them slowly up and down across her sex, then he dips one inside (she's slick and warm and wonderful; he cannot wait to be inside her - not a good sign, considering if this goes well, it could be a long wait for satisfaction). But it's just a sample, just a taste. The thought gives him ideas, and he draws his finger out, leans over her and holds it out for her.

"So wet already, my love," he murmurs. Then orders, "Taste."

Regina doesn't hesitate, simply flicks her tongue out against his fingertip, then sucks it in, swirls her tongue around it, and draws back. Christ. That was… well, probably not any hotter than she'd intended, but incredibly sexy. As is the way she's just licked her lips and waggled her brows at him (that last part perhaps not so sexy, but it still makes him smile).

He sits back up and brings his hand down between her legs again, and then he spends several minutes simply teasing. He circles his thumb over her clit, squeezes it gently between thumb and forefinger, then slides his thumb up until it sinks into her. He presses it deep, and moves it in circles inside her, drawing out a soft whine of pleasure as he murmurs something about stirring the pot, checking if she's ready. He can feel that sensitive spot inside her start to come around, can feel everything continuing to slicken and swell. He presses his thumb to that spot and grinds against it, over and over, his fingers against her clit as he does, and Regina begins to rock back into the touch.

But he's teasing, not intending to give her any real satisfaction just yet, so after a few moments, he draws his thumb out and switches to a different caress. He ghosts his fingertips across her until she shivers, uses both thumbs to spread her wetness all over her swollen flesh, pumps one finger into her, then two, then a third.

By then, she's moving constantly, grinding her hips back into his touch, fisting and splaying her fingers lazily against the softness of the sheets, moaning quietly.

"Do you like to be teased, Regina?" he asks her, and the voice she answers with surprises him.

It's all breath, tight and pleasured. "Yes, Sir. Oh, God... "

He hadn't realized she was quite that far gone. For all her wriggling, she's been fairly composed, but he knows that voice, is used to hearing it when he's balls deep inside her and she's whispering encouragements and compliments. He hadn't thought terribly hard about how long he might draw her out to start with, but he'd thought it would take longer than this.

He doesn't help matters any when he hooks his fingers inside her, earning a low, deep moan as reward and watching her fingers stretch and scrape lightly against the headboard. He keeps it up, unhurried but steady as he fucks her with his fingers, rubs her g-spot. He's not touching her clit, not giving it an iota of attention, but she's still crying out softly, pressing her face into the mattress and moaning, the muscles of her back tensing and straining, relaxing, tensing again.

"Are you going to come from this?" he asks, almost curiously, because she shouldn't, this isn't usually enough for her, Regina's body is very specific about what it needs to give in and spill over, but she is panting heavily, twisting against the magical ties that bind her, and the noises she's making as his fingers push into her over and over again, deep and firm. She manages a strangled Uh huh, and he can see the strain in her shoulders, but she doesn't seem to mind. In fact, the bonds seem tighter than they were before. "Do you deserve to come?" he questions her, and the breath explodes out of her lungs, her face grinding into the mattress before she shakes her head.

They're walking a fine line here, he knows that, he knows that Regina, for all her sass and confidence, has hidden pockets of poor self-worth, of self-loathing, and he doesn't want to encourage them, doesn't want to push her deeper into her own dark thoughts.

So he tells her, "I disagree," and adds, "But you'd damned well better not come before I say you can," and she writhes, and whimpers, and sucks her lower lip into her teeth.

"Did you hear me?" he asks, and she nods frantically, her breath shuddering out of her as three fingers thump relentlessly against that spot that makes her toes curl and her back arch. She groans his name, and he lets his other hand fall onto her ass in a single, stinging smack. She cries out, fingers scratching desperately at the headboard, but he doesn't think he's hurt her, not really, she's still rutting her hips back against him, harder now if anything. "I don't believe that's what you're to be calling me right now," he reminds her.

"I'm sorry, Sir," she gasps, "I'm so sorry, please, I just - I need - I'm going to-"

"Ask permission like a polite young lady?" he asks, and she lets out this moan that goes straight to his cock. This whole situation has changed, has shifted, she has lit up like a torch, on fire, burning for him in a way she has done so rarely (and they're plenty hot on their own). It's not teasing any more, not a game, she is into this, and he finds with a note of surprise that he is, too, but then who wouldn't be with her at his mercy in such a way? He's brought her to this state - he doesn't think of her often as the Queen, she is just Regina to him, but he thinks of it now as she begins to beg, breathlessly, Please may I come, Sir, please, please, I'm dying, please, I'm going to, I'm so close, please, I'll be good, I'll do anything, please, oh god, please may I come, getting more and more riled up, closer and closer to the edge. He thinks of the Queen, of her air of haughtiness, and her armor of leather and velvet and feathers and sass, thinks of her insufferable attitude, and she is on her knees for him, begging. He grins.

"Not quite yet," he tells her calmly, and when she sobs a frantic moan and yanks hard at her bonds before wrapping her fingers around them and squeezing tightly, he is glad she's bound with magic and not matter, because he worries she'd bruise or worse. She begs again, her voice rough and agitated, Robin, PLEASE, and he whacks her again, once on each cheek. That's all it takes. She comes with a shriek, her muscles clenching around his fingers, and Robin just grins. One can't be punished without a bit of wrongdoing, after all.

His fingers never cease, but he has to bring a hand down to grip her hip firmly to keep her remotely in place for him, and he counts to twenty, feeds her orgasm with the steady push of his fingers until then, before he stills and lets her relax. Her whole body goes limp where before it had been strung taut, her shoulders lax now, her face smooth aside from the slight knit of her brows as she pants and pants and licks her lips. He gives her a minute to recover, then says her name, leadingly, "Regina…" She manages something that might be an uh huh if she were a bit more coherent. "I don't believe you were granted permission," he tells her, and she licks her lips again, presses them together, and shakes her head. "I won't tolerate disobedience," he tells her, watching her face for any sign of old trauma, but all she does is suck in a breath, let it out slowly. "You'll have to be punished."

His fingers are still inside her, buried deep but unmoving, and so he doesn't miss the way her muscles clench at his words.

"Yes, Sir," she murmurs, sounding much more herself now, but she still lets out a sad little sound when his fingers finally slip out of her. She adds, "I'm sorry, Sir," and it's softer, more tentative.

"Mm. An apology so freely given," he admires. "I didn't even have to ask for it."

"No, Sir," she agrees. "I was-" She swallows with effort - she must be parched. He should get her some water. "I was bad."

"I'd say you were overcome," he corrects, because he will not reinforce the idea that she is bad, or wrong, or evil. "Impatient, perhaps. But not bad."

"I couldn't help myself," she admits, and he frowns, gives her a light swat with fingers still damp from being inside her. She jerks slightly, the spank unexpected.

"I think you're being a bit lax with your use of my title, my sweet," he reminds and she shifts slightly on her knees, and nods.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I couldn't help myself, Sir," she amends, and Robin nods even though she is not looking, rubs a hand affectionately over her rear.

"Much better," he praises, and then, "Because you've been so apologetic, I will let you choose your own punishment. I'd like you to think on it while I get you some water. Release your bonds and relax a moment, please."

The shimmering ropes melt away and out of sight, and Regina breathes a sigh of relief, and then, "Thank you, Sir," before rolling her shoulders and wincing. He leans over and presses a kiss to her back before pushing off the bed and heading for the hall bathroom.

She keeps a cup there in the medicine cabinet, and he pours himself a glass of cool water from the tap, chugs it, then refills for her. When he returns to her room, she's sitting up cross-legged on the bed, one hand working kinks out of her neck and shoulder. He sits next to her and passes her the cup, and she drinks eagerly, takes half it in one go, then pauses, panting lightly.

"Are you having fun?" he asks her softly, sotto voce, as if their alter egos will hear them if he speaks too loudly. Regina lowers her lashes, bites her lip and nods, but he doesn't want that, doesn't want her looking away. He tips her chin up with two gentle fingers, and assures, "No, don't hide from me. I want no shame from you over this."

She swallows, takes another sip of her water, eyes on him the whole time. They're dark and skeptical. "Are you having fun?"

Robin smirks, lifts an eyebrow and glances pointedly at his erection. It has abated some, but still stands firm between them. "What do you think?" he asks, and she smirks, nods, says, As long as it's not just for me. Robin leans in then and presses a kiss to that spot just behind her ear that makes her shiver, then whispers to her, "You are unbelievably sexy when you're putty in my hands, milady," and her answering chuckle is low and sexy. He presses another kiss into her skin, then pulls back and looks her in the eye to ask, "Do you want to continue?"

"Do you?" she counters, and he can't read whether her sudden bashfulness is for his sake or hers.

Robin shakes his head at her - not in denial, just in mild frustration - but she reads it wrong, he can tell in the moment it takes her to hide her disappointment before he has a chance to say, "I asked you. If we're going to continue, I need to know this is really alright with you. As for me, I find I enjoy most anything that brings you pleasure."

She relaxes a little, and nods, tucks her hair behind her ear and licks her lips. "Okay." She straightens a little, and tells him, "I want to keep going. But we should have a safe word?"

"A safe word?"

"So you'll know to stop if it, um, if it gets to be too much for me," she explains

"'Stop,'" he points out, and then, "'No more.' 'Too much.'" He's not sure why she feels she needs a safe word; he'd cease everything immediately at the slightest hint of protest from her.

But she's shaking her head again, and saying, "No, something else. Something I wouldn't say as a kneejerk. Something so you'll know I want to stop, not just that…" She shrugs a little. "I don't know, 'that last lash was a little too hard.'"

"Regina, if you tell me to stop-"

"Pause," she insists, reaching for his hand and squeezing. "If I say no, or stop, or too much, just… wait. Give me a minute, and wait to see if I use the safe word. If I don't, you can keep going."

She's setting ground rules, boundaries, and he supposes that's good, that she ought to, but he's still stuck on the phrase that last lash, wondering if whatever she has planned for herself is something he can stomach doing to her. He will not draw a single drop of blood from her lovely skin, will not inflict any mark that won't fade in short order. He doesn't think he could bear to look at her later and see his own violence staring back at him from her skin. Still, he agrees, says, "Alright. That sounds fair. What's the safe word?"

Regina frowns, considers, shrugs. "Apple?"

"Apple," he agrees, leaning in and pressing his mouth to hers. "I won't gag you," he tells her. "Don't ask me to, because I won't. I want your mouth free to speak if you need me to stop."

She nods, her nose bumping against his. "Anything else?"

"I love you," he says, because he wants her to hear it, wants her to know it, and she pulls back a little, smiling sweetly at him. That way she does when he's truly touched her. She tells him she loves him too, and thank you for trying this, and Robin gives her one more sweet, gentle kiss before centering himself and tapping her chin resolutely, lifting it up. She raises it a half inch, dutifully, looks him right in the eyes for a moment, then away, down, as if she's not allowed. "I believe you're due a punishment."

"Yes, Sir," she confirms.

"Have you thought about what you want it to be?" She nods silently, and he says her name in warning, testing her.

"Yes, Sir," she replies immediately. But when he urges **Tell me,** she doesn't answer. Instead there's a little swirl of purple smoke between them; when it clears there's a riding crop in his lap and her eyes flick up to his, hopeful. Questioning.

They're navigating new waters here, experimenting with this for real, and neither are entirely certain where the others' tastes lie. But a riding crop, he can handle. Can wield in a way that will sting but not injure. More intense than his palm, but not nearly as brutal as a whip. He nods slightly, but still urges her, "When I give an order, I expect it to be obeyed, Regina. You'll receive five extra for your insolence." He's watching her face carefully, so he sees the way her pupils dilate at that, the way her breath goes a little ragged. "Tell me."

This time, she obeys, her cheeks going pink when she manages with a hint of embarrassment, "I want you to use the crop on me." And after a half second, "Sir."

"Where?"

Her eyes fall shut, her teeth worrying that bottom lip for a moment again, and her voice is low and husky when she finally answers, "Wherever Sir wants."

Shit. He's the one sucking in a breath now, surprised by how her show of submission affects him. He swallows heavily, then orders, "On your knees again, arms to your sides. Restrained."

"Yes, Sir," she breathes dutifully before she moves to obey. Robin lifts the crop, tests the weight of it, runs his fingers over the supple leather as she arranges herself. Those shimmering ropes of magic bind around her wrists again, disappear over the edges of the bed. She shifts, wiggles a little, her cheek pressed into the duvet. He wonders if her neck hurts at that angle.

Robin shifts onto his knees, rests a hand on her rear and strokes his thumb back and forth over her skin lightly. She settles, stills. "Are you comfortable?" he asks her.

"Do you want me to be?" she's smirking, eyes closed but one brow still raised slightly. This is all Regina, out of character, but he lets it slide, skims his palm over her skin and replies.

"Always." He says it as earnestly as he can, watches the way her smirk melts into a soft, small smile. "I want you to enjoy this, Regina. Even the parts that hurt."

She nods slightly, then requests, "Don't start cold, please? I mean, don't just, y'know, whale on me."

Robin smirks, and nods, assures, "I won't," then skims his fingers down the back of her thigh and back up, five firm points on pressure. She sucks in a breath, and nods slightly, and Robin thinks Here we go… and shifts the crop to his dominant hand. She squirms a little when she feels it against her flesh, even though he doesn't strike her. Simply runs the tip of it from her knee up to her rear, a slow caress. He goes down the back of her other leg, then up along her inner thigh, torturously slowly, down the other, back up, down, up. He taps the tip lightly against her clit, no more than an inch away, no pain, just a little hint of promise and Regina fists the bedding and huffs out a breath. Much better, he thinks. He does it again, and she nods, she's settling in, finding whatever mental place makes this work for her.

When she rocks back slightly, following the crop on its next gentle tap, he murmurs, "Regina…"

"Yes, Sir."

"You disobeyed me earlier."

"I'm sorry, Sir."

"You will apologize, with every blow. Do you understand me?"

She nods, eagerly, but doesn't respond, and he flicks his wrist quickly, lands a quick strike to her inner thigh, and repeats, "Do you understand me?" as she hisses.

"Yes, Sir, I'm sorry, Sir," she rushes, fingers opening and closing in the sheets now, over and over.

"Good," he murmurs, and then he takes a deep breath and brings the crop down on her rear. It lands with a sharp little crack of sound, and she jerks, sucks in a breath, lets it out on an apology, as ordered. Does the same for the next, and the next, again and again,

He aims for a fresh patch of skin. "I'm sorry, Sir." Whap. "I'm so sorry, Sir." Thwap. "I was bad." Robin pauses, murmurs, No…, and she amends, "I didn't listen, Sir." He strikes the back of her thigh and she groans and parts them further, breathless when she rasps, "I'm sorry, Sir." He glances up in time to see her bite her lip, then murmur, "Harder, please, Sir."

He's been relatively gentle with her - hard enough to leave little pink patches in his wake, sure, but they're not as fiery as they could be, the first ones already fading. "If you have a request, young lady," she groans again, and he wonders what nerve he's touching with that one, if he should leave it alone, but she likes it, it cranks her arousal up to a low boil. "You will ask me properly."

"Sir, m-may I please," She licks her lips, swallows, her brow furrowing. "May I have it harder, please? I don't think this will teach me a lesson, Sir."

"No?" Robin asks, fingers tracing around the marks already marring her skin, making her squirm. She shakes her head, whining when he trails the tip of the crop along her sex again. It comes away wet. "It seems you quite enjoy this, though. Don't you?"

"Yes, Sir," she sighs, wiggling her ass at him, whether to tease or adjust, he's not entirely certain.

"If you think you're not being properly chastened…" he murmurs, and then he brings the crop down hard, hard enough that she jerks away and shouts, her breath heaving suddenly, a pleading whimper falling from her lips. There's an angry red mark in his wake, and he looks between it and her face, watches her rein herself in. "Too hard?" he asks her quietly.

It takes her a moment to respond, and he's not thrilled with what she says when she finally does, "Th-That's up to you, Sir."

He gives her another fierce thwack, watches her carefully, but she was better prepared for this one, and sucks in a breath through her nose, grimaces, but says nothing. "You're behind two apologies now," he points out.

"I'm sorry, Sir, so sorry, Sir," she atones, her voice a little unsteady, and Robin smirks. Good. His next whack is more gentle - not by much, but noticeably lighter. It still leaves an angry red mark, but this time she moans instead of hisses, and he thinks maybe he's found the sweet spot for her pleasure. He continues for several minutes, until the crop has left its mark down both her thighs, all over her rear. He has no idea how many times he's struck her, and her skin is sweaty, her hair curling at her temple, her face screwed up somewhere between pain and pleasure. He should've started with a number in mind, should have given her some idea of where they were going, how long she'd have to endure. He should end this soon.

"This is your last five," he informs her. "And I wish you to count them down for me, please."

"From five, Sir?" she clarifies, her voice beginning to go hoarse. She should drink again.

"Yes," Robin tells her, bringing the crop down again, hard this time.

"Five!" she chokes against the pain, and he pauses to give her a chance to stop him, but she doesn't. So he keeps up the same fierce blows for four, three, two, and Regina is shaking and flushed, her voice trembling as he strikes her one more time. Her "One!" is high and breathy.

"Release your bonds," he urges, setting a hand gently on her rear - the reddened skin is hot beneath his palm and she hisses, winces, shimmering ropes sliding away from her wrists. "On your belly," he urges, and she goes without question, sinking into the softness of her duvet with a sigh.

Robin settles his hand onto her spine and leaves it there for a moment, and Regina cranes her neck to look up at him, the weight of the trust he sees in her gaze nearly bowling him over. She mouths Thank you, and he nods, strokes down her spine and back up. Regina turns her head the other way with a soft grunt, but he's not surprised - she'd kept it to the one side for her entire beating, it must be aching, strained. Robin shifts his hand to her neck, lets thumb and finger fall on opposite sides and kneads. Regina moans quietly, and turns her face down into the cover, straightening her neck for him.

He really ought to get her a pillow, he thinks. Or have her roll onto her back.

Her breathing slows, goes deep, and the quiet moment feels incredibly intimate - his hands on her, loving and kind moments after he's made her rear glow red with violence. "You should drink again," he tells her softly, because her hair is sweaty around his fingers, her back slick with it. He doesn't want her to dehydrate. "And then decide if you'd like to continue."

"I would," she tells him softly, no hesitation, and Robin gives her neck one last squeeze before reaching for her empty water cup.

"Take a moment," he urges, as he goes to refill it. When he returns, she moves to her side and lifts up onto her hip, one hand planted on the mattress to support her while the other reaches for the cup.

She sips slowly, and Robin sits beside her, leans in and dots kisses along her shoulder, her neck, feeling it move as she swallows. One of his hands coasts along her arm, up and down slowly, softly, an intentionally tender touch. The room is quiet - silent save for the rustling of the bedding as one of them shifts, Regina's soft breaths, the slight slurp of the water as she lowers the cup again.

It isn't quite empty, a few sips left inside when he reaches for it again. Regina hands it over docilely, then waits for his return, and when he looks back at her face, he finds her stunningly open, vulnerable. Robin lifts a hand, threads it through her hair and uses it to guide her mouth to his. The kiss is slow, his tongue gentle against hers, licking, lingering. He feels her breathe in, then out, deep and slow, and then he presses forward, into her, encroaching into her until she's forced to sink down to the mattress again, shifting onto her back with a slight grimace.

He lies alongside her and draws her into another languid kiss, fingers combing through her hair again and then stroking along her neck, her collarbone, down to cup her breast.

"Are you ready for more?" he asks her quietly as thumb and forefinger give her nipple a slow twist.

Dark lashes flutter and she nods, sighs, "Yes, Sir," her head tipping back. Robin can't help lowering his mouth to the exposed column of her throat, covering it in wet kisses. "Do you want me bound?"

"No," he decides, "That won't be necessary," because he's noticed the discomfort her own restless reaction to the bondage and punishment has begun to cause her, and he thinks her bunched shoulders and sore neck deserve a break. Instead, he orders, "Put a pillow beneath your head, darling. Your hands are not to leave it, understood?"

She acknowledges and obeys, sighing contentedly as her head is cushioned comfortably, her hands resting limply on either side of it. She looks relaxed, and pleased. Good. He'll let her discomfort come from other things this go-round. Something other than pain.

Pleasure, he thinks.

For the next little while, it will be all about pleasure.

"Look at me," he urges her, and she does, smiling softly. Robin smiles back, then rubs his hand up and down the soft expanse of her belly, looking her in the eye, and telling her, "I love you."

"I love you too, Sir," she sighs, arching into his touch, sighing when it skims up to her breasts, groping her lovingly, giving her a gentle squeeze.

"Good." He dips his head down to a nipple, gives it a little suck. "I'm going to show you just how much I love you, just how much I enjoy this wonderful body, and you… are going to be silent. Understood?"

"Yes, Sir," she tells him, and then her brow knits in concern, her mouth dropping open uncertainly.

"You can speak when spoken to," he assures, and she relaxes again. "But only when spoken to. Or if you need your safe word." He gives her nipple another slow, luxurious suck and she drops her hand to the back of his head. Robin nips. Hard.

Regina squeaks and frowns, until he reminds firmly, "Hands." Then she bites her lip and brings that traitorous hand back to the pillow. "Much better," he praises. "As I was saying… You can speak when asked a question, or if you need to stop, or to ask permission to come. You will not come without permission this time, do you understand, Regina?"

"Yes, Sir," she breathes, one fingertip winding into the open edge of her pillowcase, twisting it around and round and then hooking there.

"The punishment would be most severe."

Regina nods, lets her eyes drop shut and shifts her shoulders, settling down more fully into the softness of the mattress.

"Now…" He cups her breast again, drops his head down to her neck and licks a trail along her pulse. "You just lie there quietly, milady, and focus on what you feel, and think of how much I love you, how wonderful you are. Hmm?"

He brow furrows, and he knows her well enough to know she struggles with the idea - struggles to see herself the way he does. As a cherished, precious thing, worthy of love and tenderness and praise. Still, she gives another nod, and a "Yes, Sir," that is barely more than a whisper.

Robin starts slow, propped on an elbow beside her while his other hand focuses on her breasts, teasing one, then the other, fingertips skating over the swells in swirling spirals, then plucking at stiff peaks. He rolls them gently, pinches them hard, strums his thumb over them. All the while, his mouth traverses her throat, her collar, long licks, sucking kisses, tiny nips. All the things he knows she likes, until she is squirming, panting, her thighs pressed tightly together, squeezing and relaxing, over and over. When they shift, crossing slightly and pressing tighter as she rolls her hips, he realizes what she's doing.

What a dirty little cheater, he thinks with a smirk. Finding ways to ease the ache between her thighs, to earn even a tiny bit of pressure on her clit. They simply can't have that, he thinks, and so he moves his mouth to her ear, and murmurs, "Bend your knees, Regina."

She does, lifting them, planting her feet on the mattress.

"Now part them."

The exhale she lets out is just shy of a whimper, and she lets her knees separate by a scant few inches.

"Open them," he corrects sternly, and Regina lets her knees fall to either side, splays herself wide. "Good girl. Now… were you trying to please yourself…" His fingers move down to skim her clit. "...here?"

Regina bites her lip guiltily, hesitates a moment, then shakes her head.

Robin's fingers lift and fall in a sharp slap, and her back arches hard, a moan strangling in her throat.

"You will address me properly when spoken to," he tells her sternly, and then adds, "And you will speak truthfully," and gives her sex another smack.

Her mouth pops open on that one, a velvety sound of pleasure tumbling from it. "I'm sorry, Sir," she croons. "I'm sorry, I was - I was only -" She swallows hard. "It felt good to squeeze my legs together, Sir."

"Did I give you permission?" he asks, giving her a clit a light pet.

"No, Sir," Regina sighs, squirming under the light touch. "I'm sorry, Sir. I shouldn't have."

"You're quite right," he murmurs gravely, "And then you lied to me about it, didn't you?"

She shrinks a little, presses deeper into the mattress, and he thinks there may be some actual shame in her voice when she admits, "Yes, Sir."

Robin leans in and presses a soft kiss to her skin, then another, one more, as if he can kiss away that small uncertain part of her. "One more spank for your dishonesty," he informs her gently, "And then we'll get back to pleasing you, hmm?"

She nods, bites her lip, but he worries how hard she might bite when he spanks her, so he lifts a finger to her mouth, draws her lip gently from her teeth, and then skims his fingers down her torso again, watching her face, flushed, eyes screwed shut as she waits in anticipation. He gives her one more swat between the thighs, watches her suck in a deep breath in reaction to the combination of pain and pleasure, and then slides his middle finger down through her wetness (and God, is she ever wet) until it sinks into her.

He pumps it once, twice, then murmurs, "Give me a squeeze, darling." He feels her inner muscles clench around him immediately, and smiles. "Harder." She tightens again, holds it for a beat this time, then relaxes again, whimpering when Robin's finger withdraws. "You're to keep that up until I make my way between your lovely thighs," he informs her. "That's all the stimulation you'll be getting down there until I deem otherwise."

Regina lets out a groan, but nods, and then she's biting her lip again, exhaling heavily.

"Are you obeying me?" he asks curiously, pressing kisses along the swell of her breast now, and smiling at her breathy Yes, Sir…

With that taken care of, he brings his focus back to her breasts. His mouth this time, cupping her and licking circles around her puckered nipples, sucking them lightly, then firmly, quick, short pulls and long, slow sucks as he draws his head back, holding her between his lips until she slips free. He nips, and she writhes, huffing out a heavy breath. More than once, he catches her thighs trembling, lifting as if to close, but she catches herself, splays them wide again. Her hips rock and wriggle and he listens to the sounds of her pleasure go deep and throaty.

God, she's lovely like this. All aroused and trembling. He could keep her like this for ages - will do so, he thinks, wondering at how many times he'll bring her to the brink before letting her find release.

"Sir, may I pl-"

She's started to speak, but stops short, cuts herself off, and when he looks up, she's eyeing him with trepidation. No real fear, but he'd not spoken to her, and she's supposed to remain silent, and clearly she knows she's disobeyed him again. He supposes there ought to be a consequence for that, so he runs his hand down between her thighs again, watches her shut her eyes and swallow hard, stiffening slightly as she anticipates another smack.

Instead he urges her, "Speak."

"I'm sorry, Sir," she pleads lightly. "I spoke out of turn."

Robin nods. "You'll get three swats for it in a moment. May you what?"

"M-May I bind my knees?" she requests with a grimace. "I keep closing them, and I want to obey." Her gaze flicks to the ceiling and stays there, her voice dropping to a whisper. "I want to be good."

"You're lovely," he assures her, letting his fingers coast along the inside of one thigh, hip to knee and back again. "And you may, if you need to."

"Thank you, Sir," she murmurs, and that shimmering magic is back, wrapping around her knees, holding them open wide.

Robin waits for her to settle again, then catches her gaze and orders, "Now, hush."

She nods, licks her lips, and looks down her body, down past her breasts with their swollen tips to the hand once again cupping between her legs. Her gaze flicks to his, then away again, back to his hand. Awaiting punishment for her crimes. Robin gives it to her, three quick raps, his fingers slipping slightly when they collide with her slick skin. Regina moans and arches her back, digs her fingers hard into the plush softness of her pillow. She enjoys it immensely, that shock of pain amidst all the pleasure. That much he can plainly see - he wouldn't be abusing that particular area if he thought she was deriving nothing but pain from the little smacks. He's careful not to make them too hard, just enough to bite, just enough to chasten.

He leaves his hand there this time, cupping her loosely, and then dips his head to suck at her nipples again, earning a heady, desperate moan from Regina. Clearly, she's ready to move on to more acute stimulation, and truth be told, so is he. He's achingly hard for her now, but determined to delay his own pleasure for the sake of this little scenario she's responding so well to.

But he's not adverse to moving things along, and he's spent so much time on her breasts, he worries his attention may be more torturous than pleasing soon, so he adjusts himself, begins to kiss his way down her belly, giving her little nips as he goes. Regina realizes his intent and moans appreciatively, and he thinks he catches sight of her knees tugging wider. And then he's between her thighs, taking in the sight of her, stroking a finger lightly over her clit, and down, parting her, sinking inside again. She squeezes around him, relaxes, squeezes again. Robin grins.

"Such a good girl," he compliments her, kissing her clit softly (she whines and squirms under his touch). When she squeezes again, he says, "You can stop that, my darling. You can just relax now. Let me have a taste."

Regina lets out a shuddering breath, her body relaxing infinitesimally, and then Robin is drawing his finger out, replacing it with his tongue, fucking her with it, and making her gasp and cry out. He holds onto her thighs, grasps them firmly as he eats her out, as he licks at her opening, draws his tongue in circles around her, then thrusts again, careful to angle his nose away from her clit, careful not to give her anything there.

Soon she's whimpering, grinding herself into his face, and he hears her palm give a muffled slap to the pillow as she writhes.

He keeps it up, until he hears her voice, raspy and low and pleading, "Ohhh, please, Sir, may I come? I need to come. Please, Sir, my clit… Suck my clit…"

Robin lifts his head, lifts one brow. "You do not give the orders here, young lady. I do."

God, she's a picture right now, her eyes pleading, lower lip red from her repeated bites. "I'm sorry, Sir, but I need to come. You said I could ask permission to come."

"I did say that," he agrees, ducking his head down close and pressing his tongue to her clit softly, giving it a little swirl and earning a grateful moan for his troubles. Then he lifts his head and tells her, "Permission denied."

Regina's jaw drops, her brow furrowing, but she says nothing more.

He wants her to succeed this time, though, wants her to be able to hold out, so he leaves her clit alone for now, running the very tip of his tongue along her sex instead. He traces her slick inner lips, sucks them lightly, presses kisses all over her less sensitive parts. Lets her ease back from the brink with a few minutes of lazy attention.

When her breathing has slowed a little and some of the tension has melted from her thighs, he lets his kisses wander back toward her clit. She jerks, and he pauses, lets her settle, then does it again. Soft presses of lip, gentle smooches, again and again over her sensitive bud. He kills her with kindness, undoes her with soft caresses, drags his lip lightly across her, and revels in the way she stiffens and cries out when his beard brushes against her (an accident, but a happy one, it seems). He brings his thumb up to stroke gently across the hood, and she squirms and whimpers, then he applies more pressure, draws it back to bare the sensitive heart of her and presses his tongue there, flicking it against her. The noise she makes is exquisite.

She begins to babble again, "Now, please, Sir? May I - oh, Rob-Sir- may I come now? Please? Please? Oh, I need - I need to - please, Sir? I'm so close; please, Sir?"

Her voice is high and breathy, and Robin is slow to still his movements, draws out the intense sensation until she stiffens and lets out a frantic, "Ahhhhh!"

Then he eases off, and shakes his head, tells her, "Not yet," and moves his mouth to her thigh as she lets out a plaintive wail of disappointment. Her breath is heaving again, and she lets out a dry little cough. Robin is busy sucking a hickey just two inches down from her hip, but he looks up at the sound, watches her blissful agony. She coughs again, a sort of percussive hitched breath, and Robin stops, sits up, and slides up the bed. He reaches for her cup, glad now that he took it from her before she drained it and hands it over.

Regina looks at him, then at her hands, gripping the pillow dutifully.

"You can drink," he urges, "I can hear how dry you are."

She nods and swallows thickly, reaching for the cup and downing what's left in two generous gulps. She hands it back with a breath of, "Thank you," and Robin nods, sets it aside, then takes her mouth in an eager kiss.

"Taste yourself," he murmurs against her mouth, and she moans, and licks her tongue over his lips (Robin throbs, groans, God, he wants her terribly right now, but he's not done with her, not nearly). Robin kisses her again, all tongue, a bit sloppy.

When they part, she pleads softly, "Can I come? Please?"

He smiles sympathetically at her and lifts a hand to her hair, brushing it back and kissing her lips gently before disappointing her again with, "No," and "Lie back."

She collapses back to the pillow with a groan, and Robin returns to her thighs, teasing her with his tongue, grazing her with this teeth, giving her a line of purple hickeys from one knee all the way up to her sex. She sighs and gasps and moans softly, but she settles again, enough for him to take up residence between her legs once more. This time he eases his fingers into her, two at first, letting them pump in and out, watching her grind her head back into the pillow and thrust onto them hungrily. He turns them, twists his wrist back and forth as he thrusts into her, and she is silky smooth, slippery and hot, so ready to come, he can feel how badly she needs release, can feel how desperately aroused he has her.

Should he force her to endure one more near-pinnacle, he wonders? Or should he show mercy?

He's not sure, but he's sure she can handle a bit more girth, sure she would love it, so he slows his fingers, eases a third into her and gets a grateful but muffled groan in response. He looks up to find she's turned her head to the side, pressed the pillow up into her face. He wonders what will happen if he…

She lets out a high, desperate whimper when he crooks his fingers just so, focuses them on that spot that drives her mad. He watches as she bites at the pillow, her belly trembling. He doesn't think she can take much more of this, not as keyed up as she is, and sure enough, when he dips his head and begins to lap at her clit again, she grows almost frantic.

"Please, I need to come, Sir," she begs him, her voice shaky. "Please, I want to be good, I want to be good, I can't be good if you're-"

"You're always good, Regina," he interrupts her calmly, slowing his fingers, stroking them deeper. "Your inability to obey isn't a mark against your goodness. You're always a good girl."

She whines, squirms her hips away from him, breathes, "Please," and he decides he's tortured her enough.

"Tell me how good you are," he urges. "Tell me that you're good, that you know deep down how good you are. Then, you can come."

But she shakes her head, presses her lips shut tightly.

"Regina…" he urges. "Come now, milady, tell me. You said you want it, that you want to be good. And you are, you're so lovely, so wonderful. We both know who you are deep down inside, who you want to be. Tell me and I'll let you feel so much pleasure."

Her breath heaves, heaves again, her tongue swiping out against her lips. "I'm - I'm - I'm good, Sir. I'm a good - I'm good. I'm good and you love me and you want me to feel good and I deserve to feel good I deserve pleasure I love you God, Robin, I love you, please, please, I'm good, you make me feel so good, please, may I come, Sir, please, please…"

"There you are," he praises softly. "Such a good girl, my Regina." He shifts, then, sets those three fingers curling inside her again and lets his mouth hover above her clit. "You can come now, my love. You can let it all go."

And then he sucks that swollen, sensitive nub into his mouth, flicks his tongue against it, and she comes with a shout, her muscles clamping around his fingers, squeezing and squeezing as she writhes and cries out, her hips bucking against his face. She spills thank-yous with every breath, thanks him over and over and over again, until he relents in his attentions and her body goes limp against the sheets.

Her breath is heaving, her eyes shut tightly, her fingers gripping at the pillowcase beneath her head.

Robin crawls up alongside her and presses a kiss to her elbow, plants several more up the outside of her arm. Her head lolls in his direction, and from this close, he can see the barest hint of tears clinging to her dark lashes. He noses into her cheek, murmurs softly that he loves her, settles a hand steady on her belly as it rises and falls with each deep, shaky breath she draws. "Release your bonds," he urges, pressing a kiss to the knuckles still gripping the pillow.

It takes a moment; she seems not to have heard him at first, and then all at once, she comes back to him, her hands unclenching, eyes blinking open (clear and dry now), the bonds slipping away from her knees. She stretches her legs out with a wince and Robin slides the hand on her belly down to her hips, kneading the hinge where her thigh meets her body firmly on one side, then the other.

"How are you feeling?" he asks her quietly. Her answer is a mute nod that has him asking, "Good?"

Another nod, and she finds her voice, tells him, "Yes, very good. Thank you, Sir."

Robin's brows twitch up, his mouth tipping into an impressed little frown. She's still firmly in her role, doesn't seem to need a break this time. "You're ready for more?" he asks, and she nods, murmurs, Yes, sir, but then she's frowning and dropping a clumsy hand down between them. Her fingers stroke against his erection, and he hisses at her touch after so long without any more stimulation than the pressure of mattress and sheets beneath him. For a moment his eyes squeeze shut, and he savors the pleasure as she wraps her hand around him and pumps lazily. When he opens them again, her questioning gaze is waiting for him

Worrying after his needs, he realizes with a little rush of affection. He draws her hand away, lifting it to his lips and kissing the backs of her fingers.

"I'm alright for a little while longer," he assures. "I want to be inside you when I come, and I think that will be the end of all this."

Regina nods and draws her hand back, bringing it to her belly and lacing it with his other before looking at him expectantly. Robin sits up and studies her, glances around the room.

He's not sure where to go next - wants to extend the experience she is so clearly enjoying, but doesn't know what to use to bring her the exquisite sensation she's seeking. His gaze shifts to the nightstand, to the two fat pillar candles resting there, burning away, softening and buckling at the top where the wax heats and melts. Robin's lips curve into a smile.

Perfect.

He looks back at Regina to find her watching him, and for the first time he sees something resembling actual fear on her face. Her gaze flicks to the candles, back to him, and she squirms a little, licks her lips, works her jaw like she wants to speak. She stays silent, though. Obedient.

So he urges her, "Speak," and her words are immediate.

"Wax or flame?"

Robin frowns deeply. "Wax," he insists - as if it would be anything else? As if he'd cause her that sort of pain? He leans in and presses his lips to hers, a warm, reassuring kiss. "Of course, wax, milady. I won't hurt you."

"I know," she whispers, but if she knew, she wouldn't have asked, wouldn't have had that look of dread on her face once she'd followed his gaze. "I trust you. I was just - I just wanted to be sure."

"That's far more pain than I'm willing to inflict upon you," he tells her, making sure their eyes are locked, making sure she can see his sincerity. "We can do something else if you'd rather; it doesn't have to be the wax if that upsets you."

She shakes her head, though, insists, "It's fine. The wax is fine. I want to keep going."

"Then we will," he agrees with a smile, and a light caress along her arm. He takes a breath in, out, centering himself and instructing, "Same rules apply as before."

Regina presses her palms to the mattress beside her and frowns. "You're going to ruin my sheets," she grouses, and Robin looks at her, lifts one brow expectantly. Hopes his look is very clear: the time for her cheek is over, they're back in their roles. She glances away and adds, "Sir."

Robin smirks, picking up the lavender candle - it's taller than the deep red one, still plenty of room for him to grip without burning himself or losing his grip to softening edges.

There's a good well of wax collected around the wick, and he knows it'll be hot - incredibly so, so he shifts up onto his knees, holds it high to give the wax time to cool. Regina's eyes follow the candle, her face anxious but not enough for him to worry about, he decides (who wouldn't be a bit anxious at the prospect of liquid wax coating their tender skin?).

He tilts the candle slowly, glancing between it and her, watching her breath hitch in anticipation, and then the first few drops spill over. Robin rights the candle as quickly as he can, and Regina arches at the contact of the wax, just at the hollow of her shoulder. It pools, and she rolls her shoulder with a little wince, the wax pitching to one side, dribbling a small, cooling trail. He should aim elsewhere, he thinks - the shoulder had seemed less delicate, less sensitive, but he needs to aim where the wax will run more easily, at least until he's poured off the excess and has more control.

He reaches for one of her arms, rolls it so the sensitive inner skin is bared, and dribbles another spill of wax along it. She moans at that, clenching her fist loosely, eyes falling shut.

Better.

A few more drops fall at the crook of her elbow, and she hums softly, licking her lips. Her other arm shifts to mirror this one, so he trails the wax there, too. He spends all the reserve over her arms, until she is criss-crossed with it, lavender streaks painting her skin from wrists to biceps.

It's splattered onto the bedsheets, too, rolled there from her arms. He's ruined them, just as she was sure he would. She has plenty of others, though, so Robin can't much say that he cares if this set is dotted with wax.

He sits back now, settles down lower, holds the candle high enough so as not to burn her, but low enough for more control. Then he tips it sideways just above her collarbone and lets it drip, drip, drip a dotted line from shoulder to shoulder.

Regina's breath deepens, her head nodding slightly.

The candle moves southward. Hot, rolling drops land on the outer curve of her right breast, and Robin watches her nipple tighten even more than it already had. She swallows hard as the drips move closer, closer, then he rights the candle for a moment to let the wax melt and pool and gather.

Her eyes blink open, brow knitted in confusion, and Robin smiles at her. "Soon enough," he assures. "I can't give you everything you want right away, now can I?"

"No, Sir," she breathes, her voice thick and aroused again. She squirms a little, rolls her wrists, and Robin can see the dried wax lighten where it pulls away from her skin.

When Regina moans softly, he asks, "How does that feel?"

"Good, Sir," she sighs. "But strange. May I peel it?"

"No," he decides. He'll peel it away later, when she's so riled she's pleading with him for release. He'll stop, then, and peel away every painted fleck of her. Make her wait.

"Yes, Sir." Her lashes flutter shut again, waiting for him, and Robin takes her moment of inattention to drip a line of wax along her left breast, unbothered when she jerks slightly in surprise. He spills a line straight from armpit to sternum, letting it cross her nipple, pleased when she hums and bucks her hips gently.

"Painful?" he asks, and she shakes her head, answers, No, Sir. It's good, Sir.

"You're being awfully free with your replies," he notes, because while she hasn't spoken unless he's asked, she's managed both a follow up question and an additional comment now. And that just won't do.

"I'm sorry, Sir," she parrots, immediately, breathily.

Robin considers her for a moment, then tries to aim the next drops of wax just next to her nipple. They roll down the soft curve of her breast, and she arches, sends them rolling faster. A hair to the right and the next drop splashes straight on the hardened peak, and the next one after that, a third one, too.

Her breath whooshes out, and she gasps, "Robin!"

His cock throbs, but he sets the candle aside immediately, and reaches for one of her thighs, hoisting it up (she squeaks, startled) and aiming a smack to her poor, abused bottom. "Who?" he questions, and she gasps Sir!, wincing. "Are you to be speaking out of turn?" is his next question, another blow landing as she whimpers, grits her teeth at the pain.

"No, Sir, I'm sorry, Sir, it won't happen again, Sir."

"Good," he murmurs gently, rubbing a gentle circle on the reddened skin he's just spanked. "Do you feel obedient enough to continue, young lady?"

Her breath catches, hitches again, and something about it sends off a warning bell in him. It's different this time, less heat, more anxiety.

"Do you need to stop for a moment?" he asks her softly, and she shakes her head, takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly, centering herself. He ignores her lack of answer this time - it's not the moment for another swat. "Do you need me to stop calling you that while I do this?"

She hesitates for a moment, debating, and then nods. "Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir."

"It's alright," he soothes, letting her relax into the bedding and wondering why she burns and boils at the term when he's knuckle-deep in her or swatting her with leather, but recoils when it's open palms and candle wax. He thinks of Flame or wax? and decides he's not sure he wants to know. "Whatever you need to feel comfortable is alright," he tells her, one hand settling on her sternum, a steady, warm presence for her as she takes another breath and nods at him.

"Thank you, Sir," she nearly whispers.

Robin lets his thumb creep over, picking at the wax hardened against her nipple, peeling it away as he asks, "Ready for more?"

"Yes, Sir." She opens her mouth as if to keep talking, the words sticking with a soft sound in her throat when she remembers she's not allowed.

"Do you need to speak?"

"May I?" A half-beat. "Sir."

"You may," he allows, thinking he's not very good at this whole insisting on her silence thing. But he thinks they've had a slight hiccup, and he wants to make sure everything is right with her before they start again. He won't cause her pain - won't cause her damage. He loves her too much for that.

"I liked the wax," she tells him. Regina now, not her submissive self. Meeting his eyes, reassuring. "It wasn't that. The wax was good - is good. I'd like more of that."

"Alright," he agrees. "Even here?" His thumb flicks lightly across her nipple and she arches into the touch, nodding, making his lips curve again. "Especially here?"

Thumb and forefinger catch her nipple and squeeze lightly, then more firmly, harder, a slow increase of pressure and nothing more. Regina's jaw drops, her breath deepening, then going quick as his grip gets tight enough he thinks he must border on painful. She nods, gasps, "Yes, Sir. Please, Sir," and all seems right again.

"Well, then, I suppose we ought to pay them their due attention, hmm?"

She swallows hard as he reaches for the candle, her fingers curling in the bedsheets. He aims for her right nipple this time, the one he wasn't just squeezing into redness. Lets a drop fall, then another, more, more, until the tip of her breast is coated in lavender and her belly is trembling, her breath heavy. Then, he switches to the other nipple and does the same. Peels the wax away and does it over again, one more time on each breast for good measure.

By the time he finishes, she's writhing on the sheets, her mouth forming silent pleases, her hips grinding up against open air.

"Bind yourself," he urges her, and magic slithers across the sheets again, holds her arms open wide. "Ankles too," he urges, and she moans, obeying, those shimmering ropes of nothing coiling around her ankles, holding them shoulders-width apart. "Wider." He watches her bonds tighten, tugging her legs open until she's spread open for him. Perfect. "Much better, my love."

He lets the wax fall, drip, drip, drip along her belly now, and it rolls with every heaving breath she gasps in, hardening in meandering trails over her skin. Robin is glad now that he reached for the violet instead of the red - he thinks the latter would look like rivulets of blood over her torso, and that's the last thing he wants to imagine. He glances up at Regina's face, at the eyes squeezed shut, the open mouth, the ecstatic grimace as she waits for the next drop. He tilts the candle, lets another trail fall along her ribcage and she gasps and moans. He lets a few more droplets fall, closer and closer to her navel, and it doesn't escape him that with each one, her breathing grows more ragged, more frantic. He's fairly certain it's arousal more than dread, but he asks regardless, "Will you come if I let this drip between your thighs?" like he's asking what she'd like for lunch, and Regina shudders and yanks at her bonds and nods, gasps, Yes, Sir, God, please, Sir, do it…

Robin smirks. So definitely arousal, then. He drips the wax down, down, down, and she whimpers and cries out before he's even anywhere close to her sex. And because he's not sure such delicate areas are meant for hot wax, he veers off across the top of her thigh, and has to suppress a snicker at her frustrated growl of breath, her plaintive, drawn-out whine of No…

"Regina," he murmurs warningly, and she clamps her mouth shut, despite the miserable, wanting look on her face. To torture her, because he can, and because he can tell she's enjoying it, he drips wax all the way down her leg to her toes, then back up the other side. Then, he focuses on her thighs. He lets the wax pool now and then so he can get a good line of it, a good, puddling spill that rolls down the sensitive skin high on her inner thighs.

Regina is on fire. Grasping at the magic that binds her, arching her back, arching her hips, her thighs are shaking, trembling, and he can see how wet she is from all of this. She's deep, deep pink and glistening, keeps trying to shut her thighs for friction but her bonds hold her tight.

"You're being very good," he compliments her, pouring wax along her hipbone now. She twists and gasps and moans. "Haven't even asked to come yet. I know you want to. I can see how wet you are, milady."

Her answering moan is deep and heady, and her thighs open wider, the bonds on her ankles tightening further.

"You want this wax on your cunt, don't you?" he asks, knowing she's too far gone to mind a bit of vulgar language. Sure enough, her breath goes even faster, the wax-coated muscles of her thighs tensing as she nods. "Answer me," he tells her, a warning.

"Yes, Sir," she hisses, voice trembling. "Please, Sir, on my-my-"

"Say it," he urges, and gods above, she does.

"On my cunt," she breathes. "P-Pour it on my - my clit."

"I'm not sure that's wise," he tells her, calm while she is so riled, trailing wax high on her left thigh, finding a strip of virgin skin. "I don't want to hurt you."

"Please," she whines. "Sir. Please."

"If you're certain…" he tells her, dripping the wax closer, closer, watching her strain and sweat. "But if I do, you can't come from it." The way she freezes up is almost comical - she goes rigid, sucking in a breath and holding it, brow scrunched, mouth pinched.

"What?"

"Sir," he reminds, and she echoes, and he explains. "You can come or you can have the wax. You're not allowed both."

She whimpers then, goes limp, hands and feet flexing in her bonds, her body writhing. "But…"

"Make your choice, darling," he urges softly. He knows what she'll choose. There's no way she can hold back an orgasm, not like this.

"W-what happens if I come without permission, Sir?" she asks, and Robin's brows lift. He wasn't expecting that.

"Punishment."

"What kind, Sir?"

Robin worries his lip, debates, tries to find something that will sway her. He cannot say why but he doesn't want to let the wax fall on her there. Doesn't want her precious, lovely sex to bear any pain in this, not any more than it already has, at least. Even if she does, he doesn't.

Finally, he settles on, "If you come now, you'll not come for another month. Not by my hand, or by your own."

Something shifts in her expression, a flicker of confusion, and then she turns her head and looks at him. Regina. Riled up, panting lightly, sweaty and wax-coated, but out of the moment. "You don't want to do it," she says, her voice shaky but more even than it was last she spoke.

"I really, truly don't," he admits, the hand not cradling their rapidly dwindling candle falling to her thigh. It's soft and waxy, the purple coating malleable under his thumb as he strokes lightly back and forth. "I'd rather you come another way, milady."

She nods, nods again, swallows, takes a deep breath, and says, "Okay."

Robin smiles at that, reaching over and settling the candle on the nightstand - he doesn't miss the way she pouts when he does, but it's burning lower and and lower, and she's fairly waxed as it is.

"I'm going to peel this wax from your lovely skin, and then, my love, I think I'm going to fuck you silly. How does that sound?"

She grins, then, nodding at him. "Amazing." Robin frowns softly, whaps her inner thigh lightly. "Sir!" she gasps. "Amazing, Sir."

"Much better," he smirks, and then he sets to his task, starting with her arms and picking at the wax there. It lifts without too much effort, but after he picks away a trail that runs from wrist to elbow, he decides this will take too long, runs the risk of letting her cool down from her desperate arousal, and he wants the process to have her squirming, not relaxing, so he ignores her arms, decides they'll deal with them later, and switches to the body parts that are most sensitive - and coincidentally most coated in wax.

He peels the hardened stuff away from her nipples, squeezing and rolling them and telling her it's because he needs to get all the wax off even though they both know better. She squeezes her hands into fists, her face screwing up with pleasure, hips bucking with every slow tug. Robin watches, waits, continues teasing her nipples one at a time while he peels splatters of wax away from her belly. He doesn't manage all of it, but he's cleared a bit of the lavender streaks away by the time she lets out a desperate sob and begs him again.

He leans in for a kiss, murmurs he's almost done, just a little bit more and she can have release, and then he seats himself between her spread legs and peels at her wax-coated thighs.

"I want you to keep your hips still," he murmurs to her and she freezes mid-writhe, groans and nods, and obeys. It's not easy for her, he can tell by her huffing breaths, by the minute little tremors that ripple through her every now and then as he slowly, methodically bares her smooth skin.

He ignores her calves, doesn't bother with the bits he's missed along her hips and sides. They'll get those later, he decides. He's starting to ache from hardness now, from denying himself. His own need is getting the better of him, and he thinks she's had enough, had plenty of teasing, plenty of delicious torture. They need to be together, need him to be inside her, and so he climbs up the bed and stretches out over her.

"Alright, love," he soothes. "I think you've had quite enough for one night."

"Oh thank God," she exhales, her body relaxing beneath his, relief in sight.

Robin chuckles at her as he reaches between them, grasps his cock and guides himself home.

He slides into her with a groan and absolutely no resistance; she is wetter than she has ever been, and so hot, and she lets out this little whine, grinds her head back into the pillow beneath it. "May I come?" she asks, her voice shaky, and Robin wraps his arms under her shoulders and moves his mouth to her neck to pepper kisses there. She is slick and sweaty in his grasp, smells like sex and lavender wax.

"As much as you need," he assures with a slow thrust, then another, a little quicker, and more, an easy rhythm. "You beautiful," he kisses her neck, "Wonderful," her throat, "Lovely creature," her shoulder. He keeps kissing and kissing, thrusting harder and harder into her - he can't hold back now that he finally has her, and showers endearments upon her with every push, grinding his hips hard against hers to ensure her clit gets friction. "My love, my darling, my sweet. Let go for me, beautiful." And she does, oh how she does, crying out and yanking at her bonds again, and he wants to feel her hands on his back, wants to feel her thighs around his hips, but he wants her to have this, this moment of abandon so he doesn't bid her to release her wrists and ankles. He fucks her hard, harder, her head thrown back, his name on her lips over and over.

He tells her he loves her, breathes it into her skin, gasps it against her ear, and he's not sure if she's coming still or coming again, but she wails and tenses and suddenly she's unbound and wrapped around him, fingers fisting in his hair, nails scoring up his back, her knees against his ribs. I love you, love you, l-l-oh! she cries as he shifts his hold on her, her skin slipping under his palms. Robin growls softly and grips her, flips them suddenly so she's on top, and Regina does not hesitate, simply adjusts herself above him and begins to ride, her back arched, hands moving to pile hair off her neck, her torso flecked with stray bits of wax. He finds her clit with his thumb, earns himself another shout from her as she drives against him mercilessly, and now it is her name on his lips as he finally, finally comes inside her.

He's not sure if she follows, or if she's just had enough, but she slumps down against him, both struggling to catch their breath, him still buried inside her. Robin lifts a hand lazily to grip her hair, damp at the base of her neck, and she lets out a ragged, satisfied moan.

"Wow," she breathes.

"Yeah," he marvels.

"I'm really glad I kept that book."

Robin chuckles breathily, and so does she, and soon they're both in stitches. She's still laughing as she levers herself up and kisses him slowly, his cock slipping out of her, softening rapidly now. Their chuckles fade as tongues tangle and slide, and after a few moments the kiss finds its ending, their foreheads pressed together as they breathe each other's air.

"I really liked that," she murmurs, and he brings a hand to her tender rear, gives it a gentle squeeze.

She hisses lightly as he teases, "You don't say." Regina scoffs slightly and whacks his shoulder, shifting off of him and settling along his side, pillowing her head on his chest. She draws patterns on his chest and belly with her nails (he picks idly at the wax still stuck to her where he can reach it), but doesn't say anything for several minutes. Long enough to have him asking, "Was I ever too much?"

She shakes her head, and looks up at him with a soft smile, flattening her palm over his heart. "No, you were perfect. I've never…" She swallows hard, suddenly, looks away from him, but not before he catches a glimpse of wetness gathering in her eyes. Robin frowns, belly clenching with nerves - did he push too far, after all? He rolls her onto her side, shifts her head to his bicep and brushes her hair back tenderly, looking at her questioningly. He has to coax What is it? before she'll continue, and when she does, it's on a soft whisper, "I've never felt so safe. With anyone." She sniffles softly, and that tension in his belly eases off, becomes something warm and protective as he gathers her even closer in his arms, lets her tuck her head under his chin, wind her arm around his shoulder and hold on.

Robin presses kisses into her hair, and promises, "You're always safe with me, my love."

"I know," she warbles into his skin, taking several deep breaths, and he wants to tell her she can cry all she wants, that he doesn't mind, but the words stick in his throat. Instead he rubs her back soothingly, stroking over her skin until she's near to purring, curled up against him. It's not until she shivers that it occurs to him she might be chilled, sweat drying on her bare skin. He reaches for the far side of the duvet and pulls it over them, cocooning her against him.

When the fabric rubs against her rear, she grimaces. "I'm not going to be able to sit properly for a week, thief," she grouses lightheartedly.

"Sir," he corrects teasingly, and Regina snorts a laugh, grinning and shaking her head.

"Not anymore," she forbids lightly. "At least, not until the next time."

As she says it, her nose scrunches up in that way he finds so desperately adorable, and he feels a surge of love for this wonderful, complex woman he's been lucky enough to love.

And he wants her to know, needs her to, so he tucks the covers up around her shoulders, holds her close and tells her so. She answers in kind, and then they fall silent again, enjoying the stillness of the late evening, the feel of skin on skin, the intimacy of a night well spent.

Neither is quite aware of slipping into sleep, but they wake in the morning, sticky and waxy and in dire need of showering (one of them, anyway).

It's later that day that he notices a familiar book resting in their bedroom trash - a man's silver tie, the words Fifty Shades of Grey staring up at him - and when he asks her about it she simply shrugs, smiles coyly and tells him she doesn't need it anymore.