afterandalasia

Title: Tease
Author:

afterandalasia
Fandom: Snow White and the Seven Dwarves
Pairings: Snow White/Prince
Rating: Adult
Kink: Smacking/Slapping
Word Count: 1,076
Summary: Ferdinand wore the gloves to tease her.

Notes: I have used the fandom name of Ferdinand for the Prince; in this story, Ferdinand is portrayed as trans*.

Ferdinand wore the gloves to tease her, she knew it. The way that he caught her eye and smiled secretively, just for her, when he caught her gazing longingly at his hands; the way that he would be sure to touch her shoulder or her hip whilst wearing them when they said their goodbyes before he went hunting; the way that he would sit and rub them together, slowly, almost massaging, in her presence. He knew how much she loved his hands, just as they were, bare and unadorned; the gloves were a barrier to them, a coy cloak, and he knew just what effect they had on her.

He always allowed her to remove his gloves. Snow White would do so slowly, reverently, loosening each fingertip before peeling the gloves off in one smooth curling motion. She would kiss his fingertips, the slight smell of leather still clinging to them above the smell of his skin, and nuzzle her cheek into his palm. His hands were not quite nobleman-smooth, but they were softer than hers, firm and warm as she laid little soft kisses all over his hand, unable to restrain herself.

Sometimes he told her to kneel, or lie down, or drape herself across his lap. This time, however, he nodded to her dresser, the one with the mirror atop it. Snow White caught sight of her own reflection as she turned, crossed, bent forward to rest her torso on the dresser; a flush in her cheeks, parted lips shining with anticipation. Ferdinand always chose when these moments would take place, and show her by wearing those black gloves in place of his usual brown ones; he had such a talent for knowing when enough time had passed that she was desperately in need of him, but not so long that it became frustrating.

Hands slid up her thighs, pushing up her skirt to expose the skin beneath. Already working to calm her breathing, Snow White turned her head to the side and rested her cheek on the wood of the dresser, feeling the smooth short strokes of Ferdinand’s touch.

“No undergarments today, I see,” he said, as her skirt bunched at her waist and exposed her bare bottom to the air. She was wearing short hose, only just above the knee, held in place with red ribbons that showed bright against her skin. “You realised.”

“Of course,” she murmured.

His hand stroked the curves of her buttocks, pressing just hard enough, and she arched her back a little more to offer herself up to him. He chuckled, and the sound ran warmly through her. “Seems like you just couldn’t wait to give me your pretty little rear.”

No sooner had she opened her mouth to reply when an open-palmed blow landed against her skin. Words turned to a gasp, the instant warmth flooding through her from just the first blow. Ferdinand’s hand rubbed small circles over the spot, waiting for the first rush of pleasure to pass, and then struck again. This time it was a little harsher, a little more stinging, with a flick of his wrist which made her feel as if she was melting into the dresser-top.

“Count for me,” he said quietly, into the silent privacy of their room. “Let me know how many you feel.”

“Two,” she replied, and she was mid-way through the word when another blow fell, this time on the other buttock. Her next count came out with the tremor of desire: “Three!”

A fourth, a fifth; his hand seemed to know every perfect point on the curve of her rear, seemed to know when to pause between smacks with a gentle squeeze, a light pressure of his nails, a caress up the inside of her thighs. Her counting became mindless, automatic cries in response to each blow as a rush of hot pleasure soared through her. She could feel the echo of her heartbeat beneath the pattern of his touch, the plump pleasurable soreness from his attentions, building and building until she squirmed against the edge of the dresser and yelped when he slipped his hand between her thighs in a gentle touch.

“It seems that your voice did not lie about how much pleasure you were feeling,” Ferdinand said, voice low and amused, as his fingers stroked her flesh, hot and wet and sensitive beneath his fingers. “Is that not so, my beautiful wife?”

“Yes,” she said, the word needy, desperate, and she arched her back again to press into his hand, the palm cupping her sex and fingers brushing closer to the centre of her pleasure. “Yes, my perfect husband.”

Once, only once, had she used the word ‘beautiful’ in return whilst they were like this. It had seemed so right: right for Ferdinand’s full lips, his soft hair, his hands which she so adored whether they struck hard or stroked gently. Ferdinand had stopped, though, and asked that she never used the word again; it pained him too much, he said. She had agreed, contrite, and kissed him over and over until they had tumbled into their marriage bed and found other courses to pleasure.

This, though, has still always been their favourite. “Turn around,” Ferdinand said, but his hand held her skirts high still as she turned to face him, still exposed, the edge of the dresser hard enough against her sore rear to make her almost whimper. He kissed her lips, her mouth, as he slid his hand between her thighs again and found her ready, more than ready, needing his fingers to release the pressure that had built inside her from each blow that he had landed on her skin.

He stood between her thighs, spreading her open for him, one hand cupping one still-smarting buttock whilst the other pleasured her. With fast-shaking fingers she pushed aside his tunic, loosened his braies, and slipped her hand beneath as well, following the lines of his body as he had shown her how to, as they had learnt on and in each other, kissing each other hungrily and desperately and perfectly with warmth still flooding through them both. And afterwards she would fall to her knees to finish with her mouth what her fingers now started, until Ferdinand came in clenching heat and with a cry, and all over again she would marvel at how perfectly an ever-after could be found before even knowing all that you were looking for.