This erotica piece is trans4trans M/f. It contains chastity and D/s dynamics, but no conventional sex acts.
The metal key made a sharp clink as it dropped onto the plate. Marigold’s eyes shot to it immediately, her movement quick and pointed as a needle.
“Oops,” Oren said, trying and failing to hold back the grin pulling at the corners of his lips. “Didn’t mean to drop that.”
Marigold looked up from the table, taking a long, drawn out breath. Nothing in her eyes changed though, and when she met Oren’s warm brown gaze with her own pale green one, they were still wide and startled. It reminded Oren of the deer he sometimes saw at the back of their garden, where the uncropped grass met the neighbouring woods. They’d freeze when they saw him, only their noses twitching for a moment, until their bodies were theirs once again and they ran.
Marigold didn’t run. Instead she leaned forward onto their table, her fingertips brushing against her teacup handle, like she was trying to commit its shape to memory. But her eyes never left his, even when she lifted the thin, delicate porcelain off its saucer and took a sip. Oren could smell it from where he was sitting—rose petals and vanilla, chocolate and black tea, just like he’d told her to order.
“You can have it,” he offered. “If you want.”
She didn’t want it. He knew that, and that was the whole point of asking. There was nowhere she wanted that key more than in his hands, nothing she wanted more than the dusky-pink chastity cage under her dress to stay in place. And she liked being reminded of it, having freedom offered to her whenever she wanted it, and still choosing to give it all up.
Marigold’s long lashes fluttered against her freckled cheeks when she placed the cup back down. Her judgement of placement was a little off, and as the cup slid into the saucer there was a clink. Softer and quieter and duller than the key had made on Oren’s plate, but similar enough that her ears flushed a little pinker.
“No. I don’t want it.”
Oren made drinking from his cup take as long as possible. Drawing it out would make her squirm. The heather tea was malty and sweet on his tongue, and when he pressed a leg forward under the table—brushing her thigh with his for just a moment—he felt her legs shake a little.
After what he thought was a suitable cruel period of time, Oren spoke.
“So tell me what you do want.”
He brushed his leg against Marigold’s again, just for a moment. Enough that if she asked, he could pretend it was an accident. She’d see right through him, of course, would know that he was being sweet and cruel in equal measure on purpose.
Her tongue darted out to wet her lips before she spoke, and Oren thought about how nice it would be to kiss her. To take her into his arms and feel her melt under him. About how she’d kiss him open mouthed—with his teeth on her lips and his tongue in her mouth and his stubble scratching at her skin—if he wanted. About how if he insisted on a soft, chaste kiss she’d give him that too, even desperately wanting more the whole time.
“I want you to keep it,” her voice dropped to a whisper and she glanced around the rest of the tearoom, making sure none of the other patrons noticed anything. “I want you to have it and have me. I want it to be yours. I want to be yours.”
Oren hummed.
It was what he wanted to hear. Exactly what he wanted to hear. If he were being fair, he’d reward her for that. But Marigold liked it when he was unfair. He placed his cup down, leaned across the table to meet her in the middle, and gently stroked her cheek with the tips of his left middle and index fingers.
“Oh sweetness,” he meant to hiss the words, but they came out so smooth and satisfied that they sounded more like a purr. “I meant which cake did you want me to get you.”
Her eyes narrowed a little bit. But in the way that Oren—after years with her—knew it meant she wasn’t actually upset, just pretending at it, giving up just the tiniest amount of resistance so that he knew she wanted to be pushed harder. It helped that her blush darkened, the tips of her ears the same shade as the cage underneath her clothes.
“Whichever you want to choose for me,” she replied, correctly.
Marigold liked her cakes and sweet foods to be home baked and rustic looking. That worked for Oren most of the time. There was no sweeter, genuine, untempered joy than spending an afternoon making them from her in the soft golden glow of a late spring afternoon’s sun.
Oren ordered her the frilliest, fanciest, most covered in buttercream cake that the tearoom had to offer. But he made sure to choose the lemon sponge, tart and zesty just how she liked it, so that she’d enjoy it anyway.
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