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She’s at it again. In one of her snits, her moods. It’s been three days, and I’ve tried everything I can think of. I’ve been patient and given her space. I made three dozen cheese buns. I’ve tried gently coaxing her to tell me what’s wrong. I left the memory book out conspicuously, hoping that might trigger her to open up, but when that didn’t elicit any kind of response I hid it, wondering if it was actually compounding the problem. I’m certainly used to her having these mood swings, but this one seems entrenched, and I’m getting frustrated. I hate it when she won’t talk to me, when I can’t sense what’s wrong and proactively help bring her out of it. Usually, she’s only closed off like this for a day, maybe two, and then she comes around. But this has been just over three full days, and there is no sign that any improvement is coming.
Of course I can keep waiting, but honestly, I’m getting irritated. We’ve come such a long way, that this just feels like giant leaps backward. I thought, mistakenly I suppose, that we had finally grown beyond this – that she had learned to feel safe enough with me that she would bring herself to open up, maybe not immediately, but sooner than later. In fact, I can’t even remember the last time she needed more than half a day to open up to me about whatever concern had wormed its way into her head that she couldn’t dislodge on her own. But this is starting to feel just like when I first came back to the district, when we were “acquaintances” on the surface with everything meaningful simmering like a soon-to-erupt volcano just underneath. And I definitely do not like it.
So much so, in fact, that this afternoon I went over to Haymitch’s just to vent. Something I have only done once or twice since our first games together. That’s one of the ways I know how much this particular tantrum, because really, that’s what it is, is getting to me. Haymitch, of course, had a field day.
“So, little Miss Petulance is all wound up again, huh?” he says laughing, pretty much right after I walk in to the house.
“Don’t call her that.” Even though it’s absolutely right on the mark, I think.
“Hummph. If the shoe fits…” He takes a drink and looks at me in an odd way. “And you have no idea what’s fueling it this time?”
“Not a clue. She’s completely shut me out. I have no idea what’s going through her head, or where this came from. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure it out, but I’m getting nowhere. It’s driving me crazy.”
“Uh huh. And what happened right before she clammed up? You guys have a fight? Any mail come? Did Gale call or something?”
I glare at him this time. I’m not a novice at this, after all. “No, Haymitch, nothing so blatantly obvious.”
“Well, it’s not any kind of macabre anniversary that I know of. So, what was happening before she burrowed into her own head again? What was the last normal thing you guys did?”
I consider this question, or more accurately, I contemplate how I’m going to answer it. Because I am extremely clear about exactly what happened before she closed in on herself again. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s part of why this is getting under my skin so easily this time. We had an amazing, or at least I thought it was amazing, night together. After a great dinner, we had started making out on the couch, and after about an hour, made our way upstairs to the bedroom. It had been so…wonderful. Tender, loving, caring, we had just enjoyed pleasuring one another, for hours. Cuddling, talking, affirming, during and after slow and sweet lovemaking. Then, we’d fallen asleep together, wrapped in each other’s arms.
When I had woken the next morning, she had already gone hunting. I didn’t think anything of it, but when she came home, I could tell that something was off. And it had only gotten worse since. My gentle inquiries were met at first with short, clipped answers, and after that with just icy stares. I had finally stopped asking altogether after two days. She wasn’t lying in bed like an empty shell – that would have been easier to fix. She was still going out hunting, still eating, or at least trying to eat, meals with me. Still going through the daily motions. But she was silent, detached, not ignoring me, but not including me, either.
So, here I am, frustrated, worried that her current state of mind is somehow related to our intimacy, which obviously has been non-existent since that night. But Haymitch is waiting for me to respond. I make it look like I’m trying to remember, and then just go with what I hope is a sufficiently vague answer.
“Nothing special – just a regular evening at home, dinner, sitting by the fire, going to bed – you know.”
“OK. So, you two hormone-driven lovebirds had a great evening in bed together, and then she woke up as the old Katniss and you have no idea why.” Sometimes I wonder if Haymitch has cameras installed in our house, or if he’s a lot stealthier than he lets on. I sigh and nod my head. I learned a long time ago that there’s not point arguing with him when he hits the nail on the head so adeptly.
He doesn’t say anything for a couple of minutes. Just swirls the liquor in his glass, staring. I don’t interrupt. I’ve seen that look before, and it almost always precedes insight into the woman I love that, if I’m honest with myself, I am completely jealous of. But this time, I’m taken aback by the advice he proffers.
“Stop being so damn patient and forgiving. What that girl needs is a good spanking.”
I just about fall out of my chair. He did not just say what I think he said. I may have to hit him. At least that would give me an outlet for some of this pent-up frustration.
“What did you just…” I am sputtering when he puts one hand up and slams his drink on the table with the other one.
“Don’t give yourself a wedgie, loverboy.” He knows how much I hate being called that. He is really treading on thin ice here. “Sometimes you’re just too damn nice. Stand up to her. Fight back. Don’t let her get away with pulling this crap.”
This is not what I wanted to hear. I’m not about to aggravate an already tense situation by picking a fight with her. Maybe all that alcohol has finally killed one too many brain cells, and Haymitch has finally lost his touch, at least where she’s concerned. I’m starting to get up when I suddenly, and very unexpectedly, find Haymitch’s hand on my wrist, stopping me.
“Listen, bread boy, you know what she needs. And you know what your, uh… needs are. You also know that she is quite capable of…resisting what’s best for her. So, sometimes, you have to…make her see things your way. Sometimes, children just need to be…taught a lesson.”
This is, by far, the weirdest conversation I have ever had with my former mentor. And we’ve had some pretty strange exchanges over the years. He is clearly choosing his words very carefully, almost as if he’s speaking in code. I just look at him, look at his hand still clutching my wrist, and look at him again. But he’s not looking away. He’s staring intently right at me.
“Haymitch, what the hell are you trying to say?”
He looks unbelievably uncomfortable, but takes another drink. He doesn’t let go of my wrist, doesn’t make eye contact this time, and then speaks again.
“Katniss is a strong woman, we all know that. But sometimes, strong women need strong men to keep them on track. To. Take. Control. Sometimes, they want that, too. Now go home, and do what you need to do.”
And with that, he pushes my wrist away as he releases it, gets up and goes upstairs, leaving me and my gaping mouth sitting at the kitchen table. My mind is racing, playing back everything he just said, trying to decide if I’m infuriated or inspired. Haymitch and I haven’t had many conversations about relationships, or women, or anything serious for that matter. But we have had a few, and I have never doubted that he cares for both Katniss and me, though I have certainly questioned his tactics in the past. But this conversation goes way beyond whatever unspoken agreement we had up until now about what was fair game for discussion.
I make my way back to our house, not really seeing or aware of moving as I’m wrestling with the implications of everything he’s said. I start making dinner, but I’m not really paying attention to what I’m doing. Instead, I’m trying to decipher the meaning behind the unsettling comments he made. I feel pretty confident about what Katniss needs – she needs to talk to me again. It doesn’t look like that is going to happen anytime soon, though, unless something changes. But the basic need for communication remains.
As for my needs, obviously not getting the cold shoulder from her anymore is one, but something tells me that is not what Haymitch was referring to. If I had to guess, I would say he was talking about a much more basic, physical, need. That’s where it starts to get very weird. Obviously, in her current state, Katniss is not going to be at all interested in being physical with me. We’ve barely touched in three days (91 hours and 32 minutes, but who’s counting?). He’s absolutely right that she would resist any overtures I might make in that direction right now. Which is why his comment about teaching children is so downright bizarre.
In some ways I agree with his comparison – Katniss is acting like a child. And, yes, it’s true that she doesn’t always know what is best for her, much as a young child might not. But I’m clearly not her parent – nor do I have any desire to assume such a role in her life. Yet somehow I know that’s not where Haymitch was going. He’s not really what you can call the parental type, so there must be some other intent there. That’s where the strong women, strong men themes come into play. He’s acknowledging that she’s not really a child. But what is he telling me? That I need to be strong? Again, I don’t think lifting 100 lb. bags of flour was what he was suggesting. My mind is tugging at this, chewing on the words Haymitch used, trying to figure this out. I know he was trying to help me. I also know that whatever the ultimate advice is he was dishing out, it was uncomfortable enough to prevent him from just coming out and saying it. That means it must be sexual. That’s about the only topic I can think of that makes Haymitch Abernathy stumble for words – anything related to the physical aspect of my relationship with Katniss.
OK, so let’s go there, I think. He’s telling me to be strong, that she’s strong but resistant, but that she needs to be taught something. What was it he said? To. Take. Control. He had said that part very slowly, emphasizing each word. That’s the heart of his line of thinking, I realize. He’s telling me to take control, that Katniss needs me to, even wants me to. That doesn’t sound right, though. We both know Katniss does not like to be told much of anything, especially when she’s in this kind of state. Without even realizing it, I shake my head, because what Haymitch has said seems so incongruous with what has been going on here lately. And yet, he seemed adamant, ordering me home to do what I need to do.
Dinner is almost ready, and I realize that Katniss will be home any minute. I am dreading another night of silence and tension, especially because this conversation with Haymitch has brought to the forefront my own needs, which I have very deliberately tried to ignore as I’ve attempted to be patient with and supportive of Katniss. As I get over the initial shock of his advice, I start to explore the possibilities that following said advice implies. Most of the time, my natural instincts as far as Katniss is concerned have guided me well. But this time, my natural instincts to try to coax her into talking, or waiting for her to come around, haven’t panned out. And, I have to admit, Haymitch’s instincts about her have almost always proven true when mine have failed and I’ve enlisted his help. Maybe this time is no different.
I let my mind start imagining what acting on his advice might look like, and am immediately aroused. Yes, it’s true I am always concerned about making sure Katniss is happy and fulfilled when we are with one another, but that doesn’t change the fact that I’m a young man who happens to be just as much in lust with his girlfriend as he is in love with her. And three days is a long time. Add to that frustration the pent-up anxiety I’ve been dealing with trying to figure out what the hell is going on with her, and it doesn’t take a whole lot for me to envision giving myself some release from all that stress.
This is where my mind is when I hear the front door open and Katniss comes striding in to the kitchen, carrying two squirrels, a rabbit and about five fish. I turn toward her and say hello, to which she just replies “Hey,” doesn’t look at me, and immediately goes outside to the back porch to clean her kills. I finish prepping dinner, more irritated than I have been up until now. Clearly, this dark cloud is still with us. We sit down to dinner, and the silence is deafening. I try to ask her about her day, about the hunting, about the lake, but she just keeps looking at her plate, not answering me. She gets up and takes her dishes to the sink, washing them. I take a few deep breaths to settle myself, because my emotions are starting to really run rampant, and I cannot, do not want to lose control right now. I haven’t had an episode in several weeks, but having one now would be disastrous. So, I take advantage of her back being turned to me to calm myself down, but I also resolve that this is going to stop. Tonight. Right now.
I’m watching her at the sink, and I know her next move will be to walk out and head down the hall, so I’m ready as soon as she starts to turn. I move quickly and decisively to intercept her. I grab her wrist with one hand and block her path. I can feel her tense up, just a bit, but I’ve caught her off guard enough that she just stands there for a moment, giving me the opening I need.
“Katniss, tell me what’s wrong.”
“Peeta, let go of me.” She tries to wriggle free from my grasp, but I’m stronger than she is, and right now, far more determined.
“No. Tell me. Now, please.”
She looks up at me, briefly, then turns away again. “I don’t want to talk.”
Tell me something I don’t know, I think to myself. “Katniss, I’m only going to ask once more. What is going on with you?”
She doesn’t respond this time. She just stands there, waiting for me to cave in, as she is clearly expecting me to do, and let her go. But I’m done being patient.
“Okay, fine, Katniss. We’ll do this the hard way, then.” She looks at me questioningly. I’ve surprised her. Good. I look directly into her eyes as I ask, “Do you love me?”
This throws her off – she was not expecting the question, or for me to not have released her by now. She looks at me, confused, and a little annoyed it seems. But she responds. “Yes, Peeta, I love you, now let me go.”
“No. Now look me in the eye. Do you know that I am not having an episode, that this is the real me?”
I am staring at her intently. I need her to really see me, to look into my eyes, to know that I am not slipping away or fighting to maintain control of my senses. She looks up, but is starting to get nervous about my change in approach. She starts squirming as she replies, “Fine. You’re you. This isn’t an episode.”
“Good. Now, do you trust me? Completely trust me?” I’m still holding her by the wrist, firmly, and we’re standing next to the table. I can tell I’m unnerving her, which, surprisingly, brings me a certain amount of satisfaction. Two can play at this game, apparently.
She doesn’t answer right away though. I see her start to move her free hand toward my hand that has hold of her wrist, but her typically cat-like senses are too distracted right now. I’m able to grab both her wrists and hold her in place in front of me, insisting on an answer.
“Katniss, answer me. Do you completely trust me?”
She’s looking at me with an odd expression on her face, which is frankly making her even more adorable than usual right now, but I forcibly put that fact out of my head. I need to stay focused. She looks down as she says, “Yes,” so softly that I can barely hear her.
“Say it again. Tell me that you trust me.” I need her to repeat it for her sake as well as my own.
She doesn’t look up, but says a bit louder, “Yes, I completely trust you.”
“Good.”
And before she can think anymore about what’s happening, and before I start to second-guess myself and Haymitch’s advice, I move her firmly and quickly up against the wall, still holding both of her wrists in my hands. And I kiss her, not forcefully, but not gently either. At first, my lips simply press against hers, insistent, commanding, full, but not yet probing. As I kiss her, I slowly raise both her arms so that my hands eventually pin her hands on either side of her head against the wall. As I continue to lean into her, my tongue starts pushing her lips apart. She’s not kissing me back, but she’s also not turning away. That’s fine with me. I’ve already decided I am going to take the lead with her tonight. My tongue demands entry into her mouth, and I get the first bit of push back from her, pressing her lips together, trying to keep my tongue out. But as I press my thigh hard into her upper thigh, her lips part in response, and I plunge my tongue inside, deeply, wrestling her tongue in the process, establishing that this is how I will kiss her, whether she likes it or not. She acquiesces, though. Otherwise I’m pretty sure there would be a lot more struggling right now.
I kiss her for a good three or four minutes, not letting her move, not letting go of her wrists, just relishing in the physical contact I’ve yearned for so deeply these last few days. I can feel myself getting hard now, and know that I can’t stay here much longer. We have a long way to go tonight, and I need to take her there if this is going to work. So, I break off the kiss as suddenly as I started it, and swell with satisfaction just a bit as I hear her gasp in response. I wait for her to look at my eyes again, her visual reassurance that I am still me, that she is still safe, even if she doesn’t quite understand what’s happening. She tentatively looks at me, locks her eyes on mine, and then I sense the change. For all the pleasure she may have just experienced, Katniss is not one to be pushed around, and the rebellious side of her is rising like a tidal wave – I can feel it in her arms and see it in her expression. But I expected this, too.
“Peeta Mellark…” she starts to growl at me, her voice contradicting the look I saw just seconds ago in her eyes. But I am not interested in what she has to say right now. That comes later. So I interrupt her.
“Yes, that’s me. The man who loves you. The man who lives with you. The man who wants you. The man who is tired of playing this game that you play. So, now, we’re going to play my game instead.” My voice is firm, authoritative, and I can see that it has her attention. She keeps checking my eyes, to make sure this isn’t some unwanted, unwelcome entity invading our lives again. But I am completely in control of myself, and I gaze deeply into her eyes as I talk to prove it. “Now, upstairs.”
Her eyes go wide at this. I’ve never, ever spoken to her like that. For a split second she doesn’t seem to know how to react, and then I see the stubborn mule in her rear up, planting her feet firmly in place. If I wasn’t still holding her wrists her arms would be crossed, as the glare on her face confirms. Her voice is now lower and set in its tone, though for a different reason than mine. “No.” Let the battle of wills begin.
I don’t respond, at least not verbally. I’m not going to stand here and argue with her – that’s what she wants. Instead, in one smooth, swift move I release her wrists, sling her up over my shoulder and literally march toward the steps. She’s once again startled by my unexpected actions – I seem to be full of surprises tonight – but quickly starts pummeling my back with her fists, yelling for me to put her down.
I still don’t respond, and steadily climb the stairs. I can feel her trying to grab the banister to halt my progress, but I am bigger and stronger and not hanging upside down. There’s no contest. After I give her a couple of purposeful yanks, she relents. I reach the top of the steps, turn toward our room, and kick the door open. I walk through the doorway, slam the door shut again, and stop in the middle of the room. But I do not yet put her down.
“Katniss, I’m only going to say this once. Either stop fighting me and do what I say, or I am going to make you very sorry you ever resisted me. Your choice.”
My tone is not mean or angry, it’s not threatening. I’m simply stating a fact, and trying to keep my voice as level as possible. The reality is that I’m actually starting to enjoy this, having some fun with it. But I know I can’t let her see that. It would ruin any effect I may be having on her, and it’s way too early in the process for her to know that. Besides, part of me is also feeling some gratification at being able to express, at least in part, how fed up I am with her self-centered behavior. I know she doesn’t mean it, but I also realize that it affects me more than I like to admit. This opportunity for a little payback feels unexpectedly good. That, and I’m getting more and more excited as I think about where we’re headed.
Of course, this could all backfire on me. Haymitch could have been dead wrong, Katniss may not ultimately respond the way I’m anticipating she will, and I could spend the next few weeks trying to make up for this stunt tonight. But, at least things will be different and not in this unendurable limbo we’ve been living in. I’m willing to take my chances. And if Haymitch is right, and I am able to pull this off, life might get a whole lot better by morning.
She has stopped pounding her fists on my back at my ultimatum, but she hasn’t said anything yet, either. “So what’s it going to be?” Her answer now will give me a good sense of which way this might end up.
“What do you want, Peeta?” It’s not exactly an answer, but I’ll take it. Her tone isn’t angry, but it’s not friendly either. If anything, I think I hear mostly curiosity. I can use that.
“Don’t worry, you’ll find out. I am going to put you down now. Do not run, because I will stop you.” I lower her to the ground so she is standing in front of me. I don’t grab her wrists again, but I also don’t let my guard down. I may be stronger than Katniss, but I am well aware that she is faster. Until I know she isn’t going to try to escape from me, I need to be prepared to grab her at any moment.
She’s looking at me with a mixture of annoyance, curiosity and surprise. Good - an intrigued Katniss is not likely to flee. I don’t take my eyes off her for a second, though. I may not be the only one full of surprises this evening. We stand there staring at each other for a minute or so. I am fully hard now, filled with desire, anticipation, and even a thrill over this new role I’ve assumed. But I am still focused on the bigger picture. I’ve waited three days. I can wait a little longer.
I stare her down, my hands on my hips, my legs apart, a stance that clearly says “I am in charge here. Don’t screw with me.” I have to keep reminding myself of how cold she’s been to me, how she’s shut me out, not spoken to me, just to keep my face stoic and impassive. I can’t do anything about the swelling in my crotch, but I can at least keep my poker face on. The hunter in her can sense weakness, and I cannot afford that, not if I’m going to remain in control.
“Now, Katniss, let’s get a few things straight about what’s going to happen here tonight. You are going to do as I say, when I say it, exactly as I tell you to. If you don’t, there will be…consequences that you most likely will not enjoy. Do you understand?”
She looks at me now, a smirk starting to play at the edges of her mouth, as if to say, “You’re kidding, right?” But she doesn’t speak. She just looks at me with defiance. She still doesn’t believe I’m serious. Her mistake.
“I said, do you understand?” My tone is darker, and I’m frowning at her. That wipes the smirk away before it really gets started, but she’s still not answering. In one step I close the gap between us and grab both of her upper arms, squeezing them. “When I ask you a question, you answer me. ‘Yes, Peeta,’ or ‘No, Peeta.’ For the last time, do you understand?” I’ve startled myself a little bit, actually, but if I can’t even get her to do this much I don’t have much hope of getting her to do everything else I have in mind, either. I’m wavering between wondering if she’s going to call my bluff already, and scrambling to think about what consequence I can impose, when I hear her, ever so faintly.
“Yes, Peeta.”
The blood rushing to my cock almost renders me incapable of speech, but I hold on and manage to retain my senses. Wow, this might actually work. I relax my grip on her arms slightly. “That’s better.” She’s looking down at the floor between us. I want to see her face, to reassure myself that I haven’t scared her, but I resist the urge. I know I would never do anything to hurt her. I’m fairly certain she knows that, too. She said just a few minutes ago that she trusts me. I just have to hope that she remembers that. I decide to keep going, reminding myself that if she really felt threatened, she could probably incapacitate me before I knew what was happening.
“Now, Katniss, take off your clothes.” Simple, direct, with just a hint of lust. She looks up now, searching my face, assessing my resolve. I don’t waver, I don’t flinch. I return her look with one of my own, one that I hope conveys that I mean business.
“I’m waiting.” That’s her only warning. I’ve already decided what will happen if she tries to defy me again. And I almost hope she will, because I know how much she’ll hate it. I’m about to implement her first “consequence” when her hands begin to lift her shirt over her head. I resume my previous stance, making no attempt to hide the visible sign of my arousal from her now. I want her to know. I want her to see the bulge straining against my pants, so there is no confusion about my ultimate intention here. I allow my gaze to walk slowly down her chest, taking in the sight of her breasts, restrained by their lacy, black harness, their mounds rising above the top edge of each cup. I know she’s watching me look at her, and I return my gaze to her eyes. She has not made a move to take her pants off, so I simply nod at them, clearly conveying my request without words. She reaches down to undo her boots, tossing them aside as she removes them. She straightens up again, unhooks the button at her waist, and unzips the zipper. She looks up at me again, and I raise my eyebrows, again sending her the unspoken message to proceed. She shimmies out of her pants and pushes them to the side with her foot.
She stands there before me, in her matching panties and bra, hands hanging down at her sides. She is gorgeous. I revel in her curves, her flat stomach, her smooth thighs. The way her braid hangs down over her collarbone, right on that spot that sends shivers through her when my lips find it. She is more beautiful than any of my prepubescent fantasies could have ever imagined. Even her scars entice me – they are visible representations of her inner beauty, her resolve, her determination, her fierceness, her loyalty. It takes every ounce of self-control I can muster not to take her right now. But I wait, mentally reminding myself of the bigger reward that looms if I can see this through to the end. I realize it is going to be harder and harder to do that.
I remember that she’s waiting for my next instruction. “That’s good, Katniss. Very good. Now, turn slowly around. Let me see you.”
She looks uncomfortable, as I knew she would. Even all these years later, Katniss is still very unsure of her physical appearance, hesitant about her body. She doesn’t have any more issues with nudity, at least not with me, but I know how self-conscious she is. I know that displaying herself for me is not something she likes to do. That’s exactly why I told her to do it. Tonight is about moving her out of her comfort zone as much as it is about my asserting a little more control in our relationship.
She turns quickly around, clearly unhappy with this request. Can’t let her get away with that, can I? “No, Katniss. That is not what I said to do. Try again. Slowly.”
She pouts a little now, scrunching up her face a bit to express her displeasure. I’m on the alert again, always aware of the imminent risk of flight. She hesitates for a moment, then turns, more slowly this time, until she’s rotated once at a speed that is more acceptable. I decide to let her off the hook this time.
“Now, the rest. I want you naked.”
This certainly is nothing I haven’t seen before. But I’ve never been hands-off, never been just watching her, ordering her around like this. Again, I can see the defiance start to rise in her as she struggles with whether or not she is going to comply. I anticipate what she’s about to do, and surprise myself with my immediate and confident reaction to it.
“Peeta, I don’t think…” she starts to quibble, but is cut off by one of my hands on her mouth and the other on her wrist again.
“No! You don’t get to think tonight. You only get to do as you’re told.” I am leaning against the side of her head, speaking directly into her ear. I can feel how much I’ve startled her, yet again. “Is that clear?” She nods. “Don’t force to make this point with you again, Katniss.”
I take my hand from her mouth, but do not release her wrist. I step back enough to be able to see her face. Her eyes are like an open book to me. There’s a hint of fear, mixed with a touch of anger and confusion. Not unlike the way I have felt these last few days. “Now, do as I said, Katniss.”
I loosen my grip on her wrist, and she yanks it away from me. Our eyes are locked, but I see her hands reach up behind her back, and then the lace falls away, and she pulls the straps down her arms, exposing her firm, round breasts to me. I look at them, and let a hint of a smile curl my lips. Her nipples are hard, but I don’t believe she’s cold. I follow her hands with my eyes as they move down her body, fingers hooking into the top of her panties, and then quickly pushing them down her legs, as first one and then the other rises to extricate itself.
And there she stands before me, completely nude, completely vulnerable. Her hips protrude just enough to accentuate her waist and draw my attention to her core, where small curls of black hair hide the sweetness that lies below. I drink in the vision of her. Long, firm legs, rising to meet her toned, round ass. I want to see more of that.
“Turn the other way.”
She spins on her heels, almost eager to not see me ogling her. My eyes work their way from the bottom up, taking in the muscles of her calves, the indentations of the backs of her knees, the defined lines where her cheeks meet her thighs, the small of her back, where my hand longs to linger. I keep climbing, grateful once again that the outlines of her ribs are no longer visible, seeing her braid fall to the middle of her back now, continuing upwards to the nape of her neck, eager to squeeze her small but strong shoulders. Her skin glows in the dim light of the room. I catch my hand moving toward my throbbing groin and retract it. I cannot indulge yet, I chastise myself. This is going too well.
“Take out your braid, but do not turn around.”
As she begins to work her hair free of its confinement, I move to the closet, taking out a scarf that belonged to one of the outfits Cinna designed for her. I keep watching her though, to make sure she doesn’t turn around. As she shakes her hair free, I walk up behind her, not touching her, but holding the scarf out in front of her.
“Now, put this blindfold on. And be sure to tie it tight so you can’t peek.”
She looks down at what I’m holding in front of her, but doesn’t move. Neither do I. I can see her stiffen, can sense her resistance. Ever since she temporarily lost her hearing during the first games, she’s been highly sensitive about her senses. It’s the hunter in her. She does not like the idea of not being able to fully survey and assess her surroundings at all times. Asking her to blind herself is not something she is going to do easily. But I am counting on that.
“Katniss.”
I don’t have to say anymore. She understands the terms at this point. She has to make the choice. I’m prepared for either, and not entirely confident which one she’ll choose. But it’s a win-win for me, so I don’t really care either way. With her back to me, I can finally give in to the smile that’s been waiting in the wings this whole time. But only for a moment.
“No.”
It’s not loud or soft, it’s not angry or afraid. It’s simply a statement. Good choice, for me anyway.
With the arm stretched in front of her holding the scarf, I grab her around the waist and turn her sideways, hoisting her on my own waist, and carrying her horizontally toward the bathroom. I can feel her fingers trying to pry my hand open to release her, but I know that’s pointless and not really a threat. Once we are in the bathroom, I use my free hand to start the shower. With only cold water. I drop the scarf on the floor, turn so that she’s now closest to the shower, and drop her in. The effect is instantaneous.
She shrieks, that high-pitched, girly-girl scream that I’ve only heard once or twice from her before. She hates being cold, and desperately tries to scramble out from under the water. But I hold her shoulder with one hand and the back of her neck with my other and force her to stand under the streaming cold spray.
With all the calmness I can muster, I ask in a conversational tone, “So, Katniss, are you ready to put on that blindfold now?”
She growls at me, literally, and tries once again to squirm out from under my restraint. Admittedly it’s getting harder to hold her as she’s getting wet and slippery, but I just keep readjusting my grips to keep her in place. She’s covered in goosebumps, and I think her teeth are even starting to chatter. “All you need to say is ‘Yes, Peeta,’ and you can come out.”
It only takes a few more seconds for her to realize she’s not going to win this particular battle. Through gritted, chattering teeth I hear “Yes, Peeta” with a tone that could frost the beaches in District 4, and I laugh a little. I let go of her and turn off the water. She’s rubbing her hands up and down her arms, trying to warm up. She starts to reach for a towel.
“Ah, ah, ah. No towel. You brought this on yourself, you’ll have to suffer the consequences.” I pick up the blindfold from the floor, grab her wrist, and half-drag her out of the bathroom and back to the bedroom. We stop again in the middle of the floor, where I turn, let go of her wrist, and hand her the blindfold once more.
“Now, put this on. And do it right.”
She slowly takes the scarf, shivering and dripping. I stand there with my arms crossed, waiting for her to comply. Grudgingly, she places the scarf over her eyes, and ties it at the back of her head. “Tighter,” I instruct, when I notice she isn’t really pulling the ends taught. She gives a big pull then, finishing the knot in defiance. I inspect it on both sides, and am satisfied she can’t see anything. Now the fun can really start.
I start to walk around her, taking my time, admiring every naked inch of her body, now glistening with water. I can tell she’s starting to get chilled. Time to start warming her up. I’m standing behind her now, and lean in to her ear, but am careful not to touch her yet.
“Spread your legs apart, and place your hands on your thighs.”
She widens her stance and rests her hands on her thighs. My cock is throbbing at this point, but with her eyes shielded, I am free to adjust myself, if only temporarily. I keep circling her as I continue to speak in low, sultry, but decisive tones.
“I am going to put you in different positions. Do not move from a position unless I give you permission. Do not make any sounds unless it is my name or in answer to my question. Do not, under any circumstances, touch anything – yourself, me or anything else - with your hands unless I tell you to. If you do not follow these rules, there will be more consequences. Nod if you understand me.”
She nods.
“Good, I’m glad we understand each other. Now, remember, you must be silent, and may not move until I tell you. Hold still.”
I see her tense just a bit in anticipation, not knowing what to expect. I reach out my right hand and stroke down the back of her upper left arm, then back up the front. I move my fingertips across her shoulder, and slide them, pressing just enough, across the top of her chest. I am not touching her breast, but between the sensitive spots on her neck and the top of her breast. I mimic these movements with my left hand on her opposite side. I circle around her, and using both my hands, gently exert pressure as I caress from the base of her skull, down both sides of her neck, over her shoulders and down her arms again. I encircle her waist, so small my hands almost touch, and slowly drag my fingers up her sides, until my fingertips brush the underside of both breasts, lightly. I reach around her from the back, and use both hands to hover over her breasts, dusting them with my rough fingertips, spiraling in circles as I move to their centers, but not yet touching her hardened nipples.
I release her breasts, and bring my hands back around her back. She is still standing in the position I gave her, but starting to squirm just the slightest amount. I run my fingers down her back, starting at her shoulders, fingers spread wide, over her shoulder blades, and down into the curve at the small of her back, but I do not stop. Lowering myself into a squat, I keep trailing my fingers down, over the sides of her ass, applying the smallest increase in pressure, just enough to get her juices flowing. I linger at the base of her cheeks, before grabbing both of her thighs, digging my fingers and thumbs into them and squeezing. I rub my hands on the back of her thighs, and bring them around to her front so that my arms now encase the tops of her legs, and my hands are perilously close to her growing wetness. I can feel her knees weaken, can begin to smell a trace of her glorious scent, and lighten my grasp as I raise myself up behind her, dragging my hands up her hips and stomach, then departing just under her breasts once again.
Her hands have started applying pressure to her thighs, I note, and a small smile of satisfaction darts across my mouth. Time for a new position. I place both of my hands on her hips, and with gentle pressure, move her toward the bed.
“Katniss, climb on to the bed, and turn around to face me, kneeling.” She does as I’ve asked, and is kneeling near the edge of the bed, knees together, back straight, hands on her thighs again. “Now, spread your knees apart as far as they will go.” She scoots her knees apart, widening her legs and opening herself to me. I can just see her wet, pink folds parting. “Very nice. Now, take your hands, and place them just behind your knees, in between your thighs and your calves.”
She seems a bit confused at first, but I guide one of her hands into place, essentially restraining it with her folded leg. She complies, and rests again in her open, kneeling position. She is still blindfolded, kneeling in front of me with her legs spread wide, hands held in place by her own legs. I have to fight the urge not to come in my pants. I remind myself to focus on her, and kneel down on the floor in front of her. Without speaking, I reach my right hand in between her legs, and without warning, slide my middle finger into her entry. She audibly gasps, and I immediately withdraw my hand.
“Katniss, do I need to remind you about the don’t make a sound, rule? You don’t want another consequence, do you?” She shakes her head no. “I didn’t think so.” I swiftly and with more force than the first time insert my finger into her again, but only one. She is wet, warm, soft, juicy, inviting. I swirl my finger around, and detect just the slightest movement of her hips in response. Next, I lean forward, and without warning suck her nipple into my mouth, gently tugging on it with my teeth. I can feel her inhale sharply, and I continue sucking her breast, flicking her nipple with my tongue. Meanwhile, I pull my finger out, push it in again, pull it out and repeat this a few times, slowly, drawing out the sensations for her. I release her left breast and immediately take as much of her right one in my mouth as I can, biting down on the plumpness, all the while I am fingering her, in and out, pushing and curling my finger, reveling in the wetness that continues to build. She is obviously excited, as much as she may be trying to fight it. And I am as well – enjoying the ability to dominate her with pleasure. I continue to alternate between her breasts, and slide my dripping finger in and out of her for a few minutes, being careful to never touch her where she is growing more desperate for me to be. She has obediently remained in the position I gave her, but I can tell her mounting pleasure may overwhelm her soon.
So I pull my finger out one last time, and with a truly devilish intent, bring it up to her favorite spot, flicking my finger over her nub twice before withdrawing completely. As I stand, I take my finger, place it in front of her mouth and under her nose, before I say, “Open your mouth.” She tilts her head slightly, trying to figure out what’s happening. “Do it, Katniss. Now.” She parts her lips, and before she can open any further I plunge my middle finger, still covered in her juices, into her mouth, and swirl it around her cheeks and tongue and teeth. She’s caught off guard, and at first I can see the look of shock on her face, even with the blindfold. But then, she sucks on my finger, licking it in her mouth with her tongue. I squeeze her cheeks and chin with my other fingers and thumb, then decide it’s time to move on.
I remove my finger from her moist mouth, and lift the blindfold off her face. I look in her eyes, and connect with her for the first time in more than three days. But it’s not yet time to end this. I don’t think she’s learned her lesson yet. I toss the scarf to the side and back away from the bed. I point to the floor directly in front of me, once again commanding her without words. She gets up and stands before me. “Undress me.” She smirks again, and lifts my shirt over my head. She’s clearly enjoying herself at this point, lulled into a false sense of security that we’re returning to our normal approach. I let her think that as I continue to plan and she removes my clothing, fumbling a bit with my belt and pants, but eventually managing to disrobe me. As she pulls my undershorts down, my member springs to its full length before her, eagerly asserting itself into the freedom it has been craving since we started. Her hand grazes my shaft, and I react instantly.
I grab her by the hair and pull her away from me. “No!” I growl at her. “I did not give you permission to touch me.” That unsettles her. She looks hurt, confused, and jolted back to the understanding that this is not over yet. Part of me cringes at her reaction. Part of me knows that if I want to really get through to her, this is necessary. I kick off my undershorts, and am now standing naked in front of her, still holding her by her hair. I muster the most commanding voice I can and say, “Kneel.” She looks at me questioningly, but lowers herself in front of me. I have not let go of her hair, which prevents her from sinking too low. At this level, she is eye to eye with my engorged manhood.
“Open your mouth.” Her eyes widen at this statement. She’s gone down on me before, but never like this. She’s usually the one in control, setting the pace, working me with her hands before taking me in her mouth at her speed. But not tonight. Tonight, I drive. I push my cock against her lips and repeat my command. “Open.” She obeys, and I push myself in, not all the way, but deep. Instinctively her hands start to come up but I growl at her again as I pull myself out “Do NOT touch me, Katniss.” I am still holding her hair, and use that hand to steady her head as I insert myself in her mouth once more. I begin sliding myself in and out, pushing and pulling on her head to match my rhythm. It feels exquisite, taking this control, feeling her hot, slick mouth around me, sliding in and out. I concentrate hard on not thrusting every inch of me into her, as I know that would cause her to gag. But I go a bit deeper every time, and my pace quickens as her saliva coats me and begins to dribble down her chin. She remains passive, not licking me and teasing me the way she usually does, which is just as well. I think if she were to actively engage at this point I would not be able to stop myself from exploding in her mouth.
I let myself enjoy this position, her submission, for a few minutes, alternating between thrusting in and out and slapping my dick on her lips and cheeks. I do not let go of her hair the entire time. I use my free hand to hold the base of my cock and stroke myself when I’m not fully immersed in her. I am so close to coming I ache, and for a moment I imagine what it would feel like to hold her on my cock as I drenched her mouth with my cum. That almost sends me over the edge, but I pull myself out quickly, because there is only one place I want to be when I finally allow myself that luscious release.
I back myself out of her one last time, slowly. I am so swollen and hard I can barely stand to feel the relative cold air, but I force myself to move away from her, finally taking my hand out of her hair. “Stay here,” I tell her firmly but quietly. She makes no move to do otherwise. I walk behind her once again and retrieve the discarded scarf off the bed. I stand behind her, allowing myself to admire her beautiful form once again, before I say, “Now, put your arms up over your head, hands together.” This time there is no sign of resistance, no defiance or debate raging within her. She is not going to fight me, and I sense that I am finally breaking down her will enough to get her to open up to me. She raises her arms as I’ve instructed, and I tie the scarf around her wrists, binding her hands together. I leave some of the scarf length hanging down, however, and when I am satisfied that she cannot release herself, I tug upward on her arms, indicating for her to stand. I slowly and gently turn her toward me, so she is facing me, her eyes cast downward. With one finger I tilt her chin upward, forcing her to look into my eyes once more. Then, I very softly lower my lips to hers, and kiss her, softly, gently, passionately, with all the love I feel for her in my heart poured into my touch. She parts her lips, and our tongues dance, and I gently stroke her arms, which have moved down to her sides. I slowly disengage us, and reach for the scarf, using it to lead her slowly to the bed. “Lie down, Katniss.” She obediently lies on the bed, and I shift her position so that her hands are above her head once more, and I use the other end of the scarf to tie them to one of the bedposts at the foot of the bed. Then, I turn her on her side, so she is now lying diagonally across the bed, head resting on her bottom arm, knees bent.
Without a word, I climb onto the bed behind her, matching her position, closing the gap between us so that her back and my chest conform to one another. I slide my arm under her neck and wrap it in front of her, my hand coming to rest on her breast. I give her a small squeeze, and pinch her nipple between my thumb and forefinger, rolling it and tugging on it the way I know she likes. She moans in response, her bottom pressing into my hardness. I lean forward to whisper in her ear. “That’s right, Katniss. I can make you feel so good. I can make you happy. But you haven’t been treating me very well these last few days. ” I feel her still at these words. “You need me, Katniss. It’s pointless to deny it, to fight it. So tonight, I’m going to remind you. I’m going to remind you so much and so deeply and for so long, that you are going to scream my name out loud, lost in your need for me.”
With that, I drape my right arm over her waist and reach down to her center, pressing my whole hand against her warmness, pulling her in even closer to me. My left hand continues to work her breast, roughly squeezing, kneading and teasing her nipple. She may be sore in the morning, but for now I let my large, calloused hand manipulate her with abandon. I shift my focus to my right hand, stopping the firm, constant pressure I was applying and opting instead to start with light, feathery touches all around her most sensitive areas. I trace the lines her legs make as they come together, meeting at her core. Then, I whisper to her again. “Spread your legs, Katniss. Open up to me.” I take her top leg, pull it back in between mine, and capture it under my thigh, holding it firmly in place. I tilt her back just enough so I can also push her bottom leg farther away, spreading the lips of her vagina slightly, opening her up to give myself unfettered access. And then, I slowly, deliberately and with every intent of driving her into a frenzy of desire begin teasing her with my fingers. I start on the outside and work my way closer and closer to her bundle of nerves. I make sure to lightly slide my finger over her clit frequently, never staying long, never applying pressure, just enough to keep arousing and frustrating her. I tease her with one finger that just barely enters her before retreating. Then I take my whole hand or three or four fingers and apply a lot of pressure, but always just next to where I know she wants me to touch her. I know because she is soaking my hand and her legs with her juices. I also know because she is whimpering and moaning and squirming beneath me, pressing her ass into my cock more and more often and with increasing intensity. I continue to work her with my skilled hand, familiar with the rhythms and pressure points that I know drive her mad. But I do not satisfy her. I do not relieve her building need. On the contrary, I want it to overcome her.
I don’t have to wait much longer. I have to exert significant pressure on her leg to keep it spread open. Her hips are grinding in to me, and several times I feel my cock slip in between her bottom cheeks, which are slick with sweat and desire. I position myself with three fingers at her entry, and at the same time, move my left hand off her breast and up to her mouth. I take her in both places simultaneously, filling both her mouth and her pussy, pushing my fingers into both orifices as far as they will go. She responds by straining against both of my hands, pushing back with all her might, trying to satisfy her growing hunger. I mimic the thrusting that I know will send us both into oblivion shortly with both hands, sliding in and out of her in two places, dominating her senses and leaving her wanting more and more to be completely filled and completely spent at the same time.
“Say it, Katniss. Tell me what you need.” My voice is lustful, powerful, unequivocal. I refuse to satisfy her until she submits. I remove my fingers from her mouth, but continue to pump her below. She is panting, breathing so hard I can feel her lungs filling against my chest. Her hands remain bound, but her entire body is writhing with want. And she cannot push herself onto my three fingers hard enough. I curl them and pull against the spot she is desperate to satisfy from the inside, but only for a brief moment – a foreshadow of the pleasure that awaits her if she will only give in to me.
“Say it, Katniss. Say it now, so I can give you what you want.” I pull my fingers out of her, and use both hands to roughly grasp both her breast and her bottom. I squeeze them both, hard, and she moans with satisfaction, but I know it is only temporary and incomplete. I swiftly move my hand back to her core, grab it and pull, and then slide my fingers in one at a time, adding one finger with each penetration. She is bucking me so hard that I literally have to clamp my legs together to hold her in place. I don’t see how she can hold out much longer. And she doesn’t.
After releasing a guttural, growling moan, I finally hear it. “Please, Peeta! Please, touch me!” Again, I fight the urge to come all over her backside. I know I can’t hold off sending her over the edge much longer myself, but I insist once more on hearing the words I need her to say.
“Why, Katniss? Why do you want me to touch you? Tell me.”
“BECAUSE I NEED YOU! PLEASE! PEETA, I NEED YOU!”
Without hesitation, before she has even finished her verbal release, I attack her nub with fingers that do not need to be told what to do. She screams out loud, a mixture of relief and anticipation, feverish with desire. I rub and flick and circle and press and kiss her neck in exactly the right spot. When I know she’s almost done I move my fingers back inside and continue the final assault on her clit with my thumb, while I lean down once more to her ear and whisper, “Come for me, Katniss.” I want to reward her for her obedience. I work quickly and effectively, and within seconds she’s screaming with true, abandoned release. I feel her juices gush over me, feel her entire body tense and then subdue, groan myself as she squeezes my three fingers inside her, actually see her stomach contract and spasm as the waves of pleasure finally overtake her. Her orgasm lasts for over a minute, reverberations coming from the depths of her core over and over again.
She goes limp in my arms, exhausted from the climb and subsequent fall. But now I am the one who needs her with desperation. I extricate my hands and quickly undo her bindings. I roll her onto her back, stroking her hair, looking deeply into her eyes as I position myself on top of her. But before I penetrate her once again, I lean down and kiss her with all the passion and love and desire I have always felt for her. I draw her tongue into my mouth as I position my hands on her shoulders, and then I slowly and purposefully enter her, allowing myself to feel every delirious movement as I slide deeper and deeper into her warmth. I let my weight rest on her momentarily, long enough to finish the kiss. As I raise my head, I see the single tears rolling down each of her cheeks, but know these are not tears of sadness, but relief. Her walls are finally down, and she welcomes me into her by wrapping her legs around my waist as I begin a slow, steady rhythm that builds quickly. I’ve held back for so long, I know it won’t take much for me to find my own release, so I kiss her forehead, her eyelids, the tip of her nose, and then push myself back up so I have better leverage. Then I let myself go, taking her with me to edge of my own cliff, and do not hold back as I push myself over it. I shudder and shake as I explode inside her. She clings to me, hands on my back, legs on my waist, pulling me to her with quiet desperation. I collapse onto her, and nuzzle into her neck.
We stay like that for a few minutes, until I know I need to ease off her so she can breathe more easily. I roll to the side and on to my back, then pull her into me so her head rests on my chest and her leg drapes over mine. My hand finds its way to her hair, and I twirl it in between my fingers as my other hand caresses her arm. I am eager to talk with her, to make sure she understands.
“Thank you, Katniss, for trusting me. And for coming back to me.”
She cries softly, and shakes her head. “No, Peeta, thank you for bringing me back. I didn’t realize how much I needed this, needed you. I’m sorry.”
“I know. Try not to forget next time, okay?”
“Okay.”
“We’ll talk about it in the morning. Alright? Rest now.”
“Alright. I love you, Peeta.”
“I know, Katniss. But you need me to. That’s what you have to remember.”
“I will.”
As we drift off to sleep, I make a mental note to bring Haymitch a case of liquor tomorrow.