Saturdays
by B. Cavis

Saturdays
by B. Cavis

She's been misbehaving tonight, and they both know it.

From her first step outside tonight, she has been carefully manufacturing her own demise. The shoes, the dress, the (sin on sin) panties. Her bra is begging for her to be disciplined tonight by its mere presence, and the nipples that press hard and prominent up against it cement that need.

She is misbehaving, she is loving it, and he is not going to allow her to get away with it.

That's his job, after all. That's what she gets for signing herself over to him every Saturday night. Caitlin Todd knew what she was getting herself into when she agreed to be (not play-- this thing between them is not fantasy, nor is it childish) his pet. His toy.

His slut.

On any other night, he would let her get away with it. On any other night, it is none of his concern what she wears on her body. Jethro Gibbs is not in the habit of controlling women; he is not the kind of man who yells or hurts in order to get his way, especially not women.

If his girlfriend, all of a sudden, decided to wear The Dress (and yes, he is willing to admit to himself that this particular dress has a The in front of it), a black lacy bra and matching panties, on any other day or night, he would be all for it.

But this is Saturday night.

She smiles at him as he opens her door for her and offers her his hand. Her nails are clean and immaculate, her stocking unmarred. The outfit is beautiful, and when she stands, he knows that if there were people around to see her, he would be the envy of every man and woman who laid eyes upon her. She looks beautiful. Wanton, of course, but not slutty.

Just beautiful.

His jaw is clenched and his smile is disarming. Upon seeing her, he didn't act immediately-- he didn't even wince. She's of the opinion that her transgression has been forgotten and forgiven; she thinks he is willing to play with her and ignore her bad deed.

She called him "Sir" at dinner, just the way she is supposed to. She waited for him to order for her, and she didn't protest when his hand drifted down to caress her ass possessively while they walked down the street.

He didn't drink anything at dinner, and he ate until he was satisfied, not stuffed.

He is going to deal with her. He can't be thinking about food in any way, and he can't afford to have his brain muddled.

They walk up the steps of his porch, and he ushers her inside with a gentle push. She walks into the living room, links her hands behind her back, and drops her eyes to the ground. He takes off his coat and hangs it up without hurrying. She can wait.

It might be better if he makes her wait.

He goes into the kitchen and gets himself a tall, cool glass of water. He never enters into a scene with alcohol in hand. Numbs the skin, the senses, and the reaction time.

And he wants both of them to feel every second of this.

She is still standing exactly where she is supposed to be, and he allows himself a brief smirk at the sight of the oh-so-proper little Catholic girl with her head bowed, her hands behind her back, and her head space on. So pretty. So sinful. So absolutely fuckable.

As she is so fond of telling him, Good Little Catholic Girls do it harder, earlier, faster, and without getting caught.

He takes the chair off to the side of her, putting the glass of water on the coffee table in front of him. She doesn't move, doesn't dare, and he takes the opportunity to examine her in profile.

The Dress is dark and swirling around her legs, the heels pushing her hips forward and accentuating everything that her usual flat shoes hide so perfectly. He cocks his head to one side and knows exactly what is missing.

"Come here, Pet."

She walks the two feet to stand in front of him, eyes still down, chest still thrust out towards him. Posture perfect. She waits for more, and he puts his hands on his knees, leaning back comfortably.

"On your knees." She slips gracefully to her knees, resting her ass on her heels, and keeping her eyes downcast during the whole movement. He nods to himself, trying not to grind his teeth at the sight of the fabric pooling around her knees and legs, and reaches into her purse. He made her carry it with them tonight, a constant reminder.

She arches her neck when he fastens the collar on her, sighing happily, and he trails his fingertips down her throat for a moment. "What are you, Pet?"

"Yours, Sir."

He nods. "I own you, don't I?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Because?"

"Because I gave myself to you, Sir." She takes a deep breath, slipping further down in the right mindset. Soon she'll reach the soft bottom of her state of mind and follow all of his commands without hesitation.

"That's right, Pet." He lets her stew in her own juices for a moment, taking a sip of his water and a few deep breaths. "You're mine to play with, to punish, to fuck or to send away." She tenses up slightly at the last option-- he's never sent her away before, and he has a feeling that that would be the worst punishment that he could dish out to her when she's all the way down.

He doesn't even consider it now, no matter how angry with her he is. That would be the cheap and easy way out-- the cop out.

Marines don't do cop outs.

"What's your safe word?"

"Nine millimeter."

"Good girl." He runs the heel of his hand over the bulge in his slacks. She licks her lips and takes a shaky breath. "I can make you do whatever I want." He doesn't move his hands and he doesn't let any emotion enter into his voice. "If I wanted to, I could make you expose yourself, Pet."

Her breathing quickens, almost imperceptivity. In the beginning, she'd hinted at forced exhibitionism, but they had both agreed that given the sensitive nature of their work and the fact that the Federal Government likes people who have vanilla sex, it was something that needed to be ruled out. He doesn't pause to let her rationalize what he's saying. She doesn't have the right.

"I could take you in a cab, with the driver watching and salivating in the front, couldn't I? Make you perform for me while a complete and utter stranger watches you and strokes his dick, aching to fuck you. I could make it happen, couldn't I, Pet?"

She swallows, blinking rapidly. "Yes, Sir."

"I could even invite him to join in, hm? Would you like that, Pet? Having some stranger spread your legs and fuck you like the hot little slut you are?"

Her eyes glaze over as she comes to rest at the bottom of her mind space. She loves having words like that thrown at her when she's far enough-- they push her to the edge and keep her there. A word that in another situation would be termed disrespect (a word that in another situation he would never dare use or even think in relation to her) has new power-- new meaning. He is her Master. She is his pet. And the language he chooses to use with her is a reflection of that.

"Yes, Sir." Breathier this time. No hesitation, but less force. He nods to himself thoughtfully and reflects for a moment on the fact that he has a well dressed, well-groomed, beautiful and intelligent woman on her knees in front of him, receptive to his every wish, only able to respond when spoken to.

It's official. He really likes Saturday nights.

"I can make you do anything I want, Pet. Make you anything I want. If I wanted to put you in fishnets and heels and fuck you as you cried out like a whore, I could do it. You'd want me to do it." He takes his hand away from its steady caress of her throat, and she whimpers softly at the loss. "I can even dress you, can't I? Like a doll. My little doll."

Her jaw twitches and she swallows. "Yes, Sir."

"Pet, what did I lay out for you tonight?"

She straightens her back, reminding herself of her confidence, and the sight is almost amusing to him. "A skirt, a blouse, and these shoes, Sir."

"That's right. And is that what you're wearing?"

"No, Sir."

"Hm." He leans back in his chair, folding his hands in his lap. "No. You're not. Take that dress off now, Pet."

She slides the straps off of her shoulders, unzips the back, and pushes it down, wiggling it off of her legs. He holds out a hand for it, and she places the crumpled bundle in his hand. He takes it and folds it in his lap.

"You wore this to that date with McCallister, and Tony tried to slut you up. Remember that?"

She is shaking lightly. The anticipation of the punishment is always worse than the thing itself, and he knows it. He doesn't move to take his belt off or grab for a flogger or pull her over his lap.

Let her sweat.

"He pulled the straps around your shoulders and blew on your face to tangle your hair in your lip gloss. Pushed up your tits." Her nipples are dark spots on the transparent black material of her bra. "Tried to make you look like a porn star. And do you remember what I said, Pet?"

She swallows. "You said I looked better the other way, Sir."

"That's right. Get rid of the panties and the bra, little girl." She reaches behind her and undoes the clasp without a struggle and shimmies out of the bra. Her fingers undo the bows at the sides of the French cut panties, and he accepts both scraps of black fabric without comment. She is left in her stocking and shoes and collar, and there are more beautiful sights in his world, but not many.

Her submission is lovely.

"Do you know why I said that, Pet?"

Her head jerks, but she stops herself from meeting his eyes with a great deal of effort. The muscles in her arms bulge slightly, well-formed and defined. She's squeezing her hands into fists to try and control herself. He waits patiently.

"No, Sir." She sounds off-set; the idea that he really didn't believe she was beautiful makes something feminine and vain inside of her cringe. He taught her to be proud of her physical appearance-- to know she is beautiful, especially when she is like this; when she is his.

The idea that he might have seen her as less than that makes her bottom lip stick out a little farther and the worry gather in her eyes. He leans forward quickly and grabs her by the metal ring in the collar, firm and without doubt.

"I did, of course, Pet. You look lovely in anything, especially when it's me looking at you." The worry melts away, and she smiles, open and breathtakingly happy. He drops the ring and she lowers her eyes and chin again to adopt the proper posture. "I love this dress on you, Pet. Almost as much as I love you without it, but not quite. But that's not why I said to you what I did when Tony tried to turn you into a little slut."

He takes another sip of water, noticing her uncomfortable shifting. She needs to know what he's thinking-- she needs to hear his voice.

She shifts and the smell of her drifts up to tease his nose, revealing her body's betrayal. He smiles. Tightly.

"It wasn't jealousy, Pet. I don't care if Tony looks at you like a sex toy. He can look, but he can't touch. In fact, I bet that's the biggest draw for him." He puts on his dark voice, the one he can sometimes bring her to the brink by using. "He probably goes home at night and jerks off thinking about you. Thinking about bending you over your desk, turning up your skirt, and breaking your ass over his dick. Fucking you in the middle of the fucking bullpen. I bet that he dreams about you sucking on him and then swallowing all of him down. He wants to ram his cock into your throat, till you're gagging and breathless, and then come all over your face like you're his own personal porn star."

She shifts again, whimpering softly in the back of her throat. He smirks.

"And it wasn't worry, Pet. McCallister is a spoiled little rich boy, no matter how you cut it. He may work on his planes, but he doesn't know the first thing about you. All the expensive gifts in the world couldn't make you look at him the way you look at me, the way you looked at me even back then. He could take you on trips, buy you clothing and perfume and wrap you in silk. He could feed you in the finest restaurants and spoil you rotten. But he was a pretty little rich boy, and that's not your type. You were raised by people who value hard work and sweat. A man with all the money in the world and all the time to indulge you with it isn't your thing.

"He could've been hung like a horse and with twice the stamina, and you still wouldn't have liked him half as much as you like me. You're predictable, Pet. You like to flirt and play with them-- have your fun, but in the end, we both know who you'll end up with, don't we?"

Her voice is soft and almost a whisper. "You, Sir."

"That right, pretty girl. Me. And I knew it. Back then, I knew it. No, it wasn't jealousy that made me tell you that. Tony trying to turn you into a slut didn't make me jealous. Stand up, Pet."

She gets to her feet, and he pulls her forward to stand, legs spread, straddling his leg. He watches her for a moment, examining the swollen, wet folds of her pussy with interested eyes, before putting his hands on either one of her hips and rubbing some warmth into her skin. She pushes into the caress, and he pinches her sharply. No movement.

"The reason I thought you looked better the first way, Pet, was because," and here he runs his fingers in between her legs, lightly, barely there, and she groans at the tease, "you don't need to be all mussed up and wanton. You don't need to look like the wind just blew up your skirt. You don't even need to look like a porn star." He moves his fingers again, harder this time, and she starts making this noise with her exhales that is half beg and half whine. "In your finest suit, your best pair of pants, the most demure top you got in that closet of yours, you are a slut."

She cries out softly, and her arms flex again. He pushes lightly against her, seductive and gentle. Her entire body is strung tight as a bow and her mouth is open as she pants, focused on that small touch of him against her. That brush.

"You are my slut, Pet. If I wanted you to, you would take it anywhere, anytime, for as long as I decided. I can fuck you in every hole on your body until you beg me to stop, and I can ignore you begging. You are a slut, baby. A desperate, horny, needy little slut. You don't need a dress to make you look the part."

He breaks into her with two fingers, and she gasps.

"And since you apparently think that it's okay to disobey me to try and hide that fact, well, I think it's about time we showed everyone what a little cock hungry slut you are, don't you?"

He pulls his fingers away roughly, snarling "Go stand by the window. Now."

She swallows and her knees almost buckle as she back off of him, but he doesn't move to help her. The garters and shoes look dark and dirty on her pale skin. She takes a stand off the right of the window, the moonlight painting her ivory.

"Sit on the table, facing me." She pushes herself up onto the smooth polished wooden table underneath the double windows, legs spread immodestly. "You weren't supposed to wear that dress tonight, Pet. And you are never supposed to wear underwear when you're around me. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, Sir." Her back is straight. She can deal with him reprimanding her-- words are simple and easily brushed off, after all. If all he did was tell her never to do it again, she wouldn't, but she wouldn't have learned anything except that he disapproved.

He is going to make this lesson stick.

"All you have to do, Pet, is be open to me. All the time I want you, and I'll take care of you. You know that?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Good. Tonight you're going to practice being open. To me, and to anyone who walks past that window and sees you as you masturbate yourself off on that table for my enjoyment." The choked gasp she lets out makes him undeniably pleased with himself. "If you had followed my orders, all that was going to happen tonight was that I was going to play with you a little bit under the table at dinner. No one would've seen and no one would've been the wiser. You would've been covered by the skirt, the napkin, and the table cloth. But that's because I wanted it that way." He gets up, and she swallows hard. "I could've lifted up the cloth and fucked you on my fingers for all to see. That's my right. And since you seem to have decided that you want to challenge me on this, we are going to get it absolutely clear who the boss is. Because I'll give you two guesses, Pet, and a hint. It's not you."

He pushes her back further on the table, picks up one of her legs and plants it on the table before doing the same to the other one. Her legs are spread open wide, her shoulders resting against the thick windowpane, and her eyes wide and dark on him. He doesn't correct her; usually Kate is impecible about her posture and demeanor. One slip up is allowed considering what he is about to have her do.

Besides, she drops her eyes again a moment later, blushing furiously at whatever she saw on his face.

"You are going to play with yourself, Pet, until I am satisfied that you've learned the lesson. You disobeyed me, Pet, and for that you get this. Get it?"

"Y-Yes..."

"Yes?"

"Sir."

"Good." He walks over to the couch, lies down with his hands folded behind his head, and tilts his head to one side. "Begin, Pet."

She takes a deep breath, but the person who had her before him trained her well, and he has been steadily expanding her horizons since he found out about this kinky little streak of hers.

He watches as she slides her hands down her body, fingertips trailing over skin he has tasted with every one of his senses. Her right hand plays with her nipples as both of them watch, fascinated by her touch in different ways.

He loves her nipples. She tends to get desperate and breathless when he chews on them.

"You look so pretty there, Pet." She slips her hand down between her legs, breathing shallowly as she drags her pointer from asshole to labia. "I almost want someone to drive by and see you." She slides two fingers into her pussy, slow and deep, and she groans at either that or his words. Possibly both.

"It seems a shame to keep the rest of the world from seeing you like this-- so pretty. I bet someone pulls over and watches." She pinches her nipple, hard, and her hips start rocking slowly. "Yeah, you'd like that wouldn't you? You can fake being shy all you want, but you'd get off on someone watching. You like being wanted." She presses her palm against her clit, grinding desperately. "Some poor schmuck coming home catches a glimpse of you out of the corner of his eye and pulls over to watch as you fuck yourself for me."

Her face is scrunched up and her mouth is wide open. Blow job perfect lips, he thinks fondly, and continues wrapping her in his words.

"He'd probably pull his dick out and jerk-off to you. Everyone can see you, Pet. Your ass, your spread legs, your skin. They know what you're doing-- everyone knows. They all see your body begging for it, and they all want to give it to you. I bet he wants to stick it to you hard and rough while you scream your pretty little head off and arch towards him." The keening noise that enters the room is the sound of a needy, wanton Caitlin Todd on a Saturday night. He loves that noise.

"But they can't touch you unless I want them to. They can look, babe, but all they can do is fist their dicks and want you like air. And how does it makes you feel, huh? Being watched? Being wanted?"

She swallows desperately, pinching her nipple harder and twisting. "I luuh... I like it, Sir. God, please fuck me, please, please, please!"

He grins to himself and sighs dramatically. "I would, Pet, but you disobeyed me. You're only doing this to yourself."

"I'll neva-never do it again," she gasps. "Pleeeeeease, Sir, I gotta come, I need it, I need it..."

"No."

She dry sobs, face tight and fingers moving furiously in and out of her body.

"You are going to stay like that, babe, until I decide I'm done watching you. I might fuck you, if you're really good for me." He is so going to fuck her. "And you do want to get fucked, don't you?"

She nods desperately, hair in her face. "Ye-Yeah, yes, Sir!"

"Hm."

She moans, low pitched but loud, and he grins into the relative darkness. She takes up her other breast, squeezing that nipple just as hard, and crying out at the new sensation. He undoes his belt slowly, softly, and drops it on the floor.

Kate pushes another finger into her pussy, reaching for air as she tries to hold off her climax. He finds the darkest voice he has, warms it on his tongue, and asks "Do you want to come, baby?"

"Yes, yes, yes, yes..."

"And are you ever going to disobey me like that again?"

"Oh God NO!"

"If you ever do, I'll whip you till you bleed, understand?"

"Yeessssssssssss...."

"Come."

She thrusts her hand further into her, pinching harder at her nipple, arching forward away from the cool glass against her back. He undoes his pants quietly, leaving them open around his waist as he pushes his boxers down to rest just underneath his cock and balls. Her body is tight and her body is aching and her body is absolutely fucking "Mine," he growls, and she screams as she is thrown howling over that edge.

He rises as she shakes and wails and moans on the table, grabs her around the waist and yanks her off, spins her around, and slams her down on the wood as he slams into her and starts fucking her like it's going out of fashion.

"OH!"

He laughs and slaps her ass once, hard, and grins into the night as she shakes around him with the aftermath of her climax. She grips the edge of the table with her hands, fingers relaxing and squeezing the wood rhythmically. Her inner muscles are loosened by the orgasm and the fingers she had inside of herself, but the tremors are tight and hard and rough, and he snarls at her as he feels himself spill inside of her and claim her for his own.

"That's my little slut," he grunts affectionately, and she moans as he thrusts lazily, using her to milk the last bit of him.

They stay like that for a while, breathing roughly and without control. When he grabs enough of himself back, he pulls out of her gently, soothing her hiss of discomfort with a soft sound made by blowing air between his teeth. He finds the baby wipes in her purse and comes back to clean her up.

She sags, happy and boneless against him when he pulls her up off the table, grinning. He grins back and pulls her over to collapse on the couch with him. The indent where his neck meets his shoulders is made for her head, and she purrs happily at the sensation of being held.

"Hm..."

He strokes her back with easy motions of his palm. "Happy?"

"Hm... Very. I'm sorry for not wearing what you picked out for me, Sir."

He pats her rump affectionately, appreciating her slight giggle. "I think you've learned you lesson, don't you?"

She pushes her cold nose against his jaw, and he curses cheerfully as she laughs again. "Well I dunno, Sir. I mean... my windows are much bigger and provide for a much better view."

He grabs her by the hair and yanks her head back, teeth finding her neck without protest. Her breathing is picking up again. "Brat," he snarls playfully, and she moans.

FIN