A Dream of a Red Door Ch. 01

To her surprise, Jon sounded genuinely surprised that she'd decided, without his input, to give the men the chance to serve in the successor of the no-longer-needed Night's Watch. The New Watch's main tasks at the moment consisted of the grim task of rebuilding what war had destroyed, but the poachers had leapt at the option to avoid death. It also helped that the New Watch, in an effort to encourage recruitment, was more liberal in some respects than the Night's Watch had been. It probably helped even more that winter was finally beginning to relent, and that the maesters predicted a summer that would last for at least a decade.

"I ... thought it best," Daenerys said as she ached to close her legs and trap Jon's hand between them. "The warden will live and will receive a pension from the Crown for his leal service, and the poachers were not hardened criminals, merely young men who were desperate."

Jon withdrew his hand, much to her profound disappointment, and gestured towards her.

"Mercy," he said. "You gave them mercy." A smile broadened his face, and he reached down and gently traced his forefinger around one of her nipples. She did move then, only a shift of maybe a few inches, but it was enough for Jon to quickly withdraw his hand and gaze down at her with disappointment.

"I am sorry," she whispered breathlessly.

He chose to ignore the oversight. "You did well today. Not just with the poachers, but with the lords from the Riverlands petitioning to have what remains of the Lannister territory declared forfeit, and especially with that irritating banker from Braavos. I'm amazed you have not yet had Drogon set fire to his hat."

A laugh emerged from her throat, a single, melodic chortle, then she quickly squelched it. Jon raised an eyebrow at her but did not otherwise reply.

He definitely seems pleased. Maybe tonight we'll forget the rest and proceed straight to pleasure.

Unlikely. Her husband very much saw her as a work in progress, and nothing helped work progress efficiently more than disciplined and regular diligence.

He leaned forward, grasped her chin, and lowered his face to hers. Jon parted his mouth, and to her surprise kissed her, long and deep. She closed her eyes and, as much as she dared, leaned into the warm touch of his lips upon hers.

After forever, and only a few moments, he released her chin and sat back.

"Arms down," he said in a hoarse, throaty whisper. She dared another peek at his crotch as she gratefully unlaced her hands from behind her head and dropped them by her sides, then fought back a smirk at the sight of the massive bulge that had fully formed within his trousers.

"Hand, crop, or nothing?" he asked her.

The three options were proposed matter-of-factly, as though he was inquiring about the weather, but Daenerys knew better. If she deserved the crop, but chose wrongly, well ... on such occasions typically she found herself for several days unable to sit her purple-bruised and sore bottom on the Iron Throne without the assistance of pillows. She had no idea where Jon had found the devilish implement, but regardless of how energetically he used it upon her, and no matter how adamantly convinced she was that she would wipe away tears and discover that her back and buttocks had been cut to ribbons, the crop never did more than sting and bruise.

Usually, she found it safest to ask for his hand. A good middle-ground, an acknowledgement that she was imperfect, but at the same time a request for mercy. Today, however, she was sure that she need ask for nothing in the way of punishment She could feel it in Jon's kiss, in the fact that his face, usually so drawn and inscrutable during her collared evenings, was open with the hope that she was finally better. That the Mad Queen was gone, would never return, and he could finally dispense with all of this and the two of them could simply be.

Yes, she was very, very sure that today, of all days, she could make the choice of 'nothing' and that Jon would embrace it.

"Hand," was her answer.

Only the barest widening of his eyes and a quick inhalation gave away his surprise. He didn't argue the point with her, even if it might have been the first time that she'd ever asked for more punishment than she had deserved.

"Up," he said.

She stood and paced to the next designated spot in front of the mirror. Jon enjoyed making her watch while he worked, and she enjoyed watching him work. He walked to the chest and retrieved a very long coiled silk rope that had been dyed a bright pink. She loathed pink, and when she had asked one time, on an exceedingly rare occasion when they were both deep in their cups, why he had chosen that particular color for this particular task, he had laughed and informed her that he had chosen it because she hated it.

Of course. I should have guessed.

Jon had acquired a book of a scandalous nature from some depraved Essos backwater and decided that the drawings and tales of blush-inducing scandal afforded him interesting educational opportunities. For example, one particular chapter on ropework and its usefulness in rendering a participant, such as herself, compliantly helpless, had caught his attention. While his hands had been fumbling and uncertain at first, after long hours of practice his movements were now sure, steady, and astonishingly quick.

He drew her hands behind her back and then maneuvered them upwards towards her shoulder blades, not so far as to be painful, but far enough that the strain was felt. Using multiple loops so as to spread the bindings evenly and prevent the loss of blood flow, he bound her wrists together, then looped the rope around her torso just above and below her breasts. Strands then snaked beneath her armpits, around the back of her neck below the collar, and as he continued to weave a latticework of tightening cross-hitches her upper arms were pulled tight against her torso and she found her hands firmly pinioned in the spot Jon had chosen. When he was finished, Jon neatly tied off the rope at a spot well out of reach of her stretching fingers and stepped away to eye the finished product.

Daenerys thought the end result looked beautiful. The bands cinched around her chest were tightened in such a manner that they framed and lifted her breasts, and despite the fact that her hands could only flutter uselessly high upon her back, it felt more as if she was being embraced than as if she was bound. At least, she felt that way until Jon reached out and roughly squeezed her erect nipples between thumbs and forefingers.

"Struggle."

She obliged him by raising on her tiptoes and trying her best to twist free of the tangle of ropes that entrapped her. When he was convinced of her helplessness, he finally released her nipples. She settled back down onto her heels and breathed a sigh of relief.

The ropes had not loosened in the slightest.

He marched her over to a table, clasped her restrained hands within a strong fist, and firmly pushed her forward until her chest lay upon the wood. The wax from the candles dripped onto the surface only a few inches from her head, and while Jon on occasion had used candles to torment her, she greatly preferred not to see her hair befouled with molten wax.

As if sensing her worry, he roughly shifted her a foot to the side. "Stay here."

His voice had grown even more hoarse, and Daenerys began to wonder if the sight of her body in this particularly vulnerable position might be too much for even Jon's preternatural self-control. She hid a smile as she wiggled her hips. For a second, she thought she heard a faint, appreciative murmur in response.

When he returned, he placed a small wooden object, several inches long, oblong and tapered in shape, but with a wide, flat base on one end, on the table where she would have a clear view of it.

Oh, no.

Well, it was her own fault. She needn't have asked for his hand, but once she made a choice, her husband never allowed her to change her mind.

Jon grabbed the object and then used his other hand to press at the inside of her thighs. She knew the purpose of what he held quite well and obliged him by spreading her legs as far as her ungainly, bent-over position allowed. He rubbed the wooden shape along the inside of her lips, and only when the wood was fully coated in her own silky excitement, did he begin to slowly press it upon her rosebud.

As the insidious device began to slither home, she didn't bother trying to keep from groaning, both from the still-unexpected sensation of an invader in that most private of places and from the feeling of Jon's hands pressing in and around her hips. From past experience, she knew that it was paradoxically best if she bore down. She did so, and with a popping sensation the tight ring of tissue expanded to accept the intruder and then closed around the tapered base. Jon firmly patted the end of the plug, and she groaned once more at the strange sensations it provoked within regions of her body usually left unexplored.

The next few liberties he took with her body were more perfunctory and decidedly less exotic. Jon hauled her upright, then bound her hair at its base with a leather cord. She always found the resulting appearance, with her hair pulled straight back from her face, not particularly attractive, but Jon appreciated the effective handhold thus created.

He held a waxy-appearing ball before her mouth and she obediently opened wide to accept

it. The ball, as always, scraped against her front teeth before it settled home. The size of it would eventually cause her jaw to ache, but not intolerably. A wide, musty-smelling leather rectangle was then pressed firmly against her lips and a thin strap buckled tightly behind her neck. Her eyes bulged a little from the strain of the obstruction, and she moved her tongue around until it had found a comfortable resting spot. The buckling strap had the effect not only of jamming the frighteningly large gag further into her mouth, but also of making it difficult to move her lips. The best she could manage, with great effort, was a muted, strangled whine.

She'd realized quite early on that the main purpose of the gag was likely practical; Jon didn't want any prying ears overhearing her cries.

With the gag secured, Jon hoisted her aloft as though her weight was of no consequence, sat down on the bed, and then lowered her face across his lap so that her stomach lay between his knees. During the manuever, the plug jostled in a most peculiar fashion. As was Jon's custom, he had positioned the two of them so that she could see herself, and what he was doing to her, in the mirror.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

She considered the question rhetorical, but she grunted an affirmation anyway.

The sight of Jon's muscles bunched, sweat on his brow, and with a focused look of determination, was always an appealing one. Of course, again as always, she immediately became distracted by the burning, forceful smack of his open palm against one of the cheeks of her arse. The plug shifted in a manner that sent a frisson of forbidden pleasure throughout her nether regions and her entire body recoiled from a blow somewhat more forceful than was typical.

Ow! I think Jon is determined to teach me a lesson about asking for lessons!

She howled, of course, or at least tried to, but the gag did its job and lowered the noise to little more than a muffled hum. Her hands clawed and strained against the ropes twined around her body as she struggled to move them lower and in position to block the next blow. She might as well have been trying to bend steel for all the good her efforts did her. Her body twisted and her muscles bulged between the cords, but her arms remained affixed in exactly the same spot.

Jon grabbed the long column of her hair, ignored the thrashing of her feet, and resumed his work in earnest.

At some point, the pain of the discipline gave way not exactly to pleasure but to something that was simultaneously both. With every strike of Jon's palm, the plug shifted inside her as though it was a living thing, and as the rosy glow began to spread from her rump towards her sex and then into her belly and thighs, the spreading tingling numbness became oddly soothing. By the end she had long ceased struggling and merely lay limp across Jon's lap, her head held aloft only by his grip on her hair. In truth, the exciting and strangely comforting ordeal had not gone on particularly long ... perhaps a minute or two ... but it felt far longer. She scarcely noted when Jon lowered his hand, gently extracted the plug from the position in which it was firmly secured, and tossed it onto a nearby table.

Jon ran a gentle, loving hand over the same red and tender skin he had just disciplined, then he flipped her over, held her in his arms, and carried her back to the rug by the fireplace.

This is new.

Jon had always found creative ways to render her powerless. On many collared evenings, she found herself with her wrists and ankles roped together at the small of her back, usually accompanied by some demonic torment such as a tickling feather or a braided strap tying her hair to her toes. Other times she found herself tied to a bedpost, or with her arms chained to brackets that Jon had conveniently driven into the stonework at various strategic spots. Never, however, had he returned her back to her customary starting position by the fireplace.

He pressed on her shoulders and she obediently settled once more to her knees, then he unbuckled her gag in such a haste that for a moment Daenerys feared he might tear her skin free as well. When he lowered and then kicked away his pants, she suddenly understood Jon's purpose. She had never seen his manhood so aroused, so angry. For the briefest of seconds, she considered teasing him for this breach of decorum, but as her arse was still stinging and raw from the beating it had just received, she decided to simply oblige his obvious desire.

Daenerys figured it was the least she could do.

She enveloped his manhood with her lips and ran her tongue around its head.

Jon softly whispered her name, a sound which rang happiness throughout every fiber of her body, then he reached down and gently grasped her hair. Not for control, but simply to have more of his body touching hers. He allowed her to choose the pace at which she bobbed her lips up and down his shaft, and when she murmured and quickened her movements, she heard him gasp, felt him spasm, and then a familiar torrent of fiery liquid erupted into her mouth. Daenerys looked up into his eyes as she swallowed the stream, then playfully ran her tongue the full length of his manhood before leaning back and smiling at him. She had tasted men's seeds before Jon, of course, but she likened their flavor to that of what she might expect from fish or frog spawn. Her husband's essence, probably by virtue of his return from death by the magic that some men named R'hollor, was pure fire. The temperature of it, she suspected, might scald a woman in whom the blood of the dragon did not rage.

We were truly made for each other.

Jon seemed almost abashed at his lack of control as he helped her to her feet and moved her in front of the mirror again. Daenerys stared at her glazed, wild-looking, disheveled visage as Jon began untying the ropes wrapped around her body. Her sex throbbed at his touch, but his hands never moved downward. She fervently hoped that Jon would, in short order, return the favor she had just done him.

But she knew better than to ask.

When the ropes had been removed, they left behind a rather unusual and somewhat pretty impression of knots and strands upon her flesh. Not so pretty, however, was the red and sore appearance of her hindquarters when she twisted to take a quick peek. Tomorrow on the throne might be a bit uncomfortable, but she doubted it would be a pillow day.

Jon hugged her from behind and kissed her neck. Another unexpected turn of events, but she welcomed it, and leaned her head against his shoulder.

Almost as if her movement had snapped him from his reverie, he led her to the bed. She had seen his preparations earlier and needed no instructions as to what to do. She lay upon the thick rug he'd placed over the blankets, extended her arms far to each side, and then spread her legs as wide as they could reach. The air in the room wafted between her thighs and she longed to sneak a hand southward and stroke herself. Of all the things she might do, however, attempting to achieve pleasure on her own would be among the worst. Jon's anger on the few times she had given in to temptation had been fearsome to behold.

Jon, as if sensing her growing need, worked quickly. Buckling straps lined with some soft material, likely velvet, quickly captured her wrists and ankles. She again wondered just where he continuously procured such devices from. Ropes that had already been set by each leg of the bed were fixed through loops on the manacles, and then all four restraints were pulled and affixed beneath her view. The taut ropes held her legs wide apart and stretched her arms towards the edge of the bed. She tested the ropes, she was the blood of the dragon after all and it would not do to refrain from struggling at least a little, but no limb had more than a few inches of movement in any direction.

The ropes were evidently still too loose for Jon's liking, as he proceeded to move from bedpost to bedpost and reduced the slack in each one by one. When he was finished, Daenerys found herself pulled so tightly that she was unable to wriggle meaningfully in any direction. The slick wetness between her thighs was, she was sure, soaking the rug beneath her. She couldn't help but notice that Jon's excitement, fully visible now that he had removed his trousers, appeared to have already returned in full force.

He reached down and tickled her stomach to test the tightness of the restraints. She obliged his effort by bursting into pleading hysterics as she desperately, and futilely, tried to maneuver away. Of course, the bindings kept her helplessly spread. Satisfied, he ceased the tickling torment and wandered his fingers towards her breast.

Daenerys glanced down and watched the muscles of Jon's forearm rhythmically flex as his fingers sinuously caressed the underside of the sensitive skin. With his other hand, he traced a lazy pattern in the sweat accumulating in the hollow above her hips, and then moved his fingers downward. She half-closed her eyes and moaned as his fingers nudged at the edges of her sex. She whimpered and her hips thrust forward as Jon delicately parted her cleft and teased at the hood of her most sensitive bud. As it emerged, her entire body began to rhythmically respond to his probing, and waves of pleasure cascaded over her. When Jon removed his hands from her body, she almost screamed in frustration.

Jon walked over to the chest, rummaged within until he found the item he was looking for, then walked back over to her.

Please don't let it be the feather.

She breathed a sigh of relief when her eyes confirmed that her royal husband had decided to forego that particular torment this evening. He held a black strip of leather in front of her face, and she raised and turned her head to allow him to firmly tighten and secure the blindfold. When he had finished, she lowered her head back to the bed and blinked a few times to test her sight. As expected, she saw nothing except darkness.

Jon's hand returned to her sex, and Daenerys quickly found herself coated in sweat as she writhed against the ropes holding her fast. He knew every inch of her body, they had no secrets after all. Beneath the blindfold, her eyes rolled back into her head as Jon teasingly, knowingly, played the sensitive spots of her body like a lyre, first lightly caressing one breast, then sucking upon a nipple, and all the while his hand roamed through her sodden wetness and kept her fire stoked at maximum intensity.