Hunger Games Of Sex and Submission

This is the beta'd version of my day 5 PiP submission. I accidentally posted the un-beta'd version on tumblr, so this one is MUCH better. This goes with image #9 of the days prompt. I'm not making any promises thus far, but I see this as being either a multi-part fic or a WIP. Thank you SO MUCH to Kerin (saferealalways) for being the most amazing beta ever. I'm so sorry that I posted the wrong version. Also, thank you to Nicole (falafel_waffel slash the Briere to my Giroux) for all of your input. Also, thank you to Alexa (alexabee-fic) because this fic would not have made any sense without you. I love all of you so much and I'm so lucky to have such great friends. Without further ado, I give you Dominant!Peeta :)

Work Text:

"God damn, I've had the worst day," I say, dropping my bag and coat as soon as I walk in the front door.

"I can't hear you; I'm in here," Peeta calls from the kitchen.

I follow the enticing aroma of rosemary and garlic down the hallway and through the dining room, where I can just make out Peeta's form through the doorway to the kitchen, standing at the counter with his back to me.

I sidle up behind him and wrap my arms around his waist as he slices bread so fresh I can see the steam rising with each cut.

"Hello, Husband," I greet him, my face pressed between his shoulder blades.

"Hello, beautiful Wife. Go sit down and I'll bring you a beer. Dinner will be done shortly,"

I head into the living room and sit down in the middle of the couch, untying the heavy, steel-tipped boots that my job sometimes forces me to wear. I'd rather wear my leather hunting boots, the ones that allow me to step quickly and quietly through the underbrush, but they wouldn't offer much protection against the falling beams and stray nails that seem to be ever-present on a construction site.

I prop my feet up on the coffee table and accept the beer that Peeta offers. I take a sip, tasting the bitter hops on my tongue.

"What's for dinner?" I call over my shoulder.

"Rosemary chicken, baked potatoes and broccoli. I baked bread today, too," he answers.

I finish my beer and lean back into the cushions. I doze off at some point, because Peeta has to shake my shoulder to tell me dinner is ready.

Over the meal he has prepared, he tells me about his day; the new painting that he is working on for his gallery opening next week, the slightly altered bread recipe he tried and the discovery that he had purchased the wrong type of laundry detergent. I love hearing about his days; it makes me wish I could be home with him all the time.

"How was your day?" he asks.

"A nightmare. I picked up the wrong blueprints and didn't realize it until it got to the site. Then I realized that my measurements were off, so I have to completely redesign the foyer. It's going to set construction back at least a week," I tell him.

"Sounds like you need to relax. Go to the living room and put something on TV. I'll clean up here and join you in a minute."

I do as I'm told and settle once more on the couch. After the kitchen is clean to his standards, Peeta sits next to me, putting his arm around my shoulders and pulling me to his side.

When the closing credits to the 6 o'clock news start to roll, Peeta grabs my braid a little roughly and tugs my head back so that my neck is completely exposed. He licks up my neck, making his way to my ear and my panties drench at the realization that it is going to be one of those nights. My favorite kind of nights.

"Go into the bedroom and find your sheer black panties. I want you standing up against the wall, facing it, wearing nothing but those. Keep the braid. You have five minutes," he whispers into my ear, releasing his hold on my hair.

"Yes… sir." I scramble up from the couch, showing him how much I'm anticipating what's about to transpire by using our agreed upon title.

After a few minutes of staring at the white wall, I hear Peeta enter the bedroom. I hear him approach me, stepping lightly across the carpet. He passes and walks to the dresser on my right, opening the top drawer and pulling out various items. Only after he arranges his selections on the top of the dresser does he acknowledge me.

"Good girl, doing just what you've been told. I'll remember that. But first things first. We can't have you seeing what's coming, can we?" he says, his voice light and soothing. I love it when he takes that tone and, when we play like this, I strive to make him call me a good girl.

Before he slips the blindfold over my eyes I catch a glimpse of him – shirt unbuttoned to expose his firm, smooth chest and stomach, his jeans slung low on his hips from his lack of belt. I feel the twitching between my legs at the mere sight of him. Before I can drink him in fully he slips the thick black fabric over my eyes, plunging me into darkness.

The first time he blindfolded me, I hated it. I hated the fact that I couldn't see his body, couldn't see what he was doing to mine. But I quickly learned to love the way that it heightened my senses and how it gave him complete and utter control over me. Now, I crave it.

"I got something new for you today. I've been thinking about using it on you all day. All I've thought about today was playing with you. Do you want to play, Katniss?" he says directly into my ear, his voice still soft.  
I swallow. "Yes."

He grabs my braid and tugs sharply. "Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir," I correct myself.

"Good girl. Now, do you want to feel what I've got for you?" he asks.

"Yes, please, sir."

He doesn't respond; he just rolls his wrist up and down my back. I can feel the sharp jab of the spikes on my skin. It aches slightly, but I want more.

"Put your hands against the wall and spread your legs," Peeta tells me.

I comply immediately, knowing that there will be consequences if I don't. He keeps his grip on my braid, the spikes digging into my back, and reaches down between my legs with his free hand. He rubs my slit beneath the fabric of my panties, his middle finger briefly teasing my clit.

"Already so wet," he murmurs.

Peeta continues to rub the spikes over my skin, this time down my legs and between my thighs, the sharp metal rough against the soft, sensitive skin there. I let out a long, low moan.

"Do you like that?"

"Yes, sir. I like it," I answer.

"I think you like it a little too much, so that's enough of that." I hear him remove the cuff and toss it onto the dresser. "Take off your panties and kneel down so that you're facing me."

I do as he says, and I feel him so close in front of me, but he doesn't touch me. I don't reach out to touch him either, even though part of me wants to, just to get the punishment. Sometimes I purposely seek punishment, and those nights are so frustrating yet satisfying for us both. But tonight isn't one of those nights, so I decide to be a good little submissive and keep my hands at my sides.

He crosses the room and grabs his next toy off of the dresser. This time when he comes back, he is behind me.

"Hands behind your back," he commands.

He takes my small wrists in one of his hands and uses the other to wrap the thick, silk rope around them, binding my hands tightly behind my back. The position forces my chest out and I spread my knees wider to keep my balance.

The binding was another thing that bothered me when we first started experimenting with BDSM. Not as much as the blindfold, but enough that I had to get used to it. What Peeta and I have learned is that all of our play – the tying up, the gagging, and the blindfolding – needs to be done with a certain level of trust. I trust Peeta beyond anyone or anything else. When I realized that, I was able to let go and fully enjoy both the pleasure and the pain.

When he is satisfied with his knot, he stands and moves in front of me. I hear the zipper of his jeans and I instinctively open my mouth wide for him.

"Such a good girl, Katniss. I'm impressed," he says.

Before I can respond, his hands are on my head and his thick, solid cock is filling my mouth. He holds my head still and rocks his hips back and forth, fucking my mouth.

He keeps a steady rhythm, letting out low moans as his hands tangle in my hair, gripping my head tightly. Every so often I gag, eliciting a growl from his throat.

"Suck," he commands. I obey, rolling my lips over my teeth and sucking hard. His grip on my hair is making my eyes water underneath the blindfold, but it's still not enough for me; I want him to pull even harder.

After a few minutes, he abruptly pulls his cock from my mouth. I let out a whimper of frustration at the loss of him.

"I'm not going to cum in your mouth, Katniss," he says, reaching behind me to unravel the rope binding my wrists. He gently lifts me to my feet, making sure that I can stand without wobbling, and leads me over to the bed. He bends me over so that I'm leaning on the footboard, my torso horizontal with the floor.

"Spread your legs, Katniss. I'm trusting you to hold onto that bed, don't let go. If you let go, I won't let you come. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, sir," I respond.

I feel Peeta kneel between my legs and I don't have any time to prepare myself before his mouth is on my sex. I cry out and my knees almost buckle before I catch myself. He puts his hands on my legs, steadying me.

Peeta's teeth and tongue work me to the brink of orgasm. I can feel it in my lower belly, coiled tight and hot, ready to spring free. Right as I am about to lose myself, Peeta's mouth is gone, as quickly as it came. I let out a frustrated growl.

"Does it feel good? Do you like it when I lick you?" he asks, his voice sugary sweet.

"Yes, sir," I answer, the annoyance apparent in my voice.

"Do you want me to keep going?"

"Yes, please. Sir."

"One condition: do not come until I tell you to. If you come before I say you can, I'll spank you," he tells me.

He continues the pattern a few times, bringing me to the edge, only to pull back, leaving me feeling unfulfilled. But when he slips two fingers into my opening, I can't help it, I unravel. I come hard, my body shaking.

He lets me ride out my orgasm before removing his fingers and standing behind me.

"I certainly hope that was worth it, Katniss," he whispers in my ear, his hand caressing my left ass cheek. I tense, anticipating the blow.

"You're going to count. And then you're going to thank me. Let's make it an even 10," he says before lifting his hand and bringing it back down with a stinging slap.

"One! Thank you, sir," I gasp.

He continues to ten, caressing the enflamed skin between each blow. Tears spring to my eyes on the seventh blow, but I continue counting and my center continues to grow wetter and wetter.

"Your ass is a delicious shade of red right now, baby. My palm is stinging. Do you want me to fuck you?" he asks after he delivers the last blow.

"Yes, sir. Please, please fuck me," I beg, beyond caring how I sound. I let out a choked sob, my knuckles gripping the bed. My body is aching to be filled with him at this point.

"That wasn't so convincing, Katniss. I think you can do better than that," he taunts.

"Please, sir. I need you to fuck me. Please let me come again," I beg again, my voice high-pitched.

Peeta doesn't answer; he just positions himself behind me, and buries himself inside of me in one quick thrust. He grabs my waist and begins thrusting at an agonizingly slow pace.

"Like this?" he asks.

"Faster, please," I whine.

He picks up the pace, his hips slamming against the hot, raw skin of my ass. He reaches down to brush his fingers over my clit – once, twice, three times. On his fourth stroke, lights burst behind my eyelids and my knees buckle. Peeta's arm hooks underneath my torso, holding me up, and before I even have time to come back to Earth, his thrusts quicken and I feel him spill hotly inside of me.

We collapse in a pile of sweating, aching limbs on the floor at the foot of the bed. Peeta pulls my blindfold off and settles my head into the crook of his arm. We lay this way until our breathing slows.

When we are both breathing evenly, Peeta gently lowers my head to the floor and stands to rifle in his night table drawer. He returns to me with a bottle of aloe in his hand.

"Flip over, baby," he tells me, and I roll onto my stomach.

He applies the cool lotion with a loving touch, smoothing it over my still hot skin, liberally and evenly. When he's finished, he grabs a pair of cotton panties – experience has shown us that they are the most comfortable after a good spanking – and an oversized tee shirt.

Peeta props me up and helps me dress, my limbs still shaking and jelly-like from the force of my orgasms. After I'm dressed, he pulls on a pair of pajama pants and helps me to my feet, his hands on my hips.

"You ok, my love?" he asks me, his Dominant voice replaced by his Husband voice.

I answer him by reaching my arms around his neck and giving him a deep, slow kiss. He sighs into it and responds, his kisses languid and drawn out.

I pull away and give him a sly grin, gazing up at him through my eyelashes. "Make me some macaroni and cheese?"

He just chuckles and leads me into the kitchen.


End file.

Hunger Games