A 'SUB' REQUEST (Cate Blanchett x OC)

Chapter 17: A first time *Smut warning*

*Smut warning*. The smut is real fluffy for a change, cuz it's their first time as an official couple. Enjoy! 

The suggestion sent a jolt to my groin, and I could already envision in my mind's eye how Cate would straddle me, pumping her two fingers furiously inside me while I breathed and sighed; how she would whisper dirty things that she'd do to me in my ear until I would cum all over her fingers seconds later, squealing and shaking, her name the only word leaving my mouth. God knew I wanted it badly. 

But something inexplicable in me wanted to honor our new relationship status and practice restraint instead.

"I want to savor every moment of it, our first time as an official couple." I said, "let's schedule a time later tonight, the way couples do. It should be special. How about we go on a date first?" 

"You sound dead serious. You mean you're actually committing to me?" she teased. 

"Against my better instincts." 

"I believe real couples want to fuck each other's brains out sometimes too,"

"Patience," I slapped her arm playfully, "give my boner a minute to cool down, please." 

"The Petrossian, 7pm." 

"Deal."

I picked out a stunning turquoise dress that I used to wear at Juilliard. It accentuated my figure but covered me up pretty well, with no cleavage or bare shoulder in sight as I checked myself out in the mirror. As night fell and I came downstairs, I saw Cate leaning against the doorframe waiting for me in a ravishing white pantsuit. 

"Dear lord," I couldn't help but exclaim, "I've never seen you in a suit before." 

"Just for you." she put one hand on her waist, giving away where her long legs began, "let's go." 

We entered the restaurant through the back door and were seated in a private corner. She ordered tarte tatin and boeuf bourguignon for us with a bottle of La Vieille Ferme Rouge. We made plans for me to visit her in Berlin while she filmed Tár in the summer and afterwards to stop by in London to meet her children. Then I'd invite my parents to spend Thanksgiving with me in LA, where they'd get to meet her. 

"What are your parents like?" she asked. I proceeded to tell her all about them, their quirks, their imperfections, and most of all their unwavering love for me. Then she told me about her sons, how they made her laugh and cry and lose her temper, and how disoriented they must be being homeschooled during covid. We talked of her childhood in Australia; mine in Connecticut; her biggest fears; my wildest dreams; our shared fantasy of dropping everything we had and traveling to Provence together, or Tuscany.

By the time we got the check, we were both a bit tipsy and tired, as if ready to clock out after a full day's work. On our way back, she bought me a bouquet of roses. When we arrived home, we laid out a picnic blanket on her front lawn and gazed at the stars together, me in her arms. All we could hear were the chirping of the crickets. I got her some Perrier while I snuck upstairs and sprinkled rose petals all over the bed. Then I turned off the lights and lit some scented candles, the aromas of sandalwood and lavender wafting through the air.

"Sweetheart, are you there?" her voice called out from the darkness.

I came down and took her hand, leading her upstairs into the dimly lit familiarity of her bedroom. Then, I sat her down on the bed of roses, both of us fully clothed, and I tucked her blond locks behind her ears, slowly tracing my finger along her forehead, the wrinkles flowing from the corners of her eyes, her cheekbones, her laugh lines, and her lips. Her impatience from this afternoon slowly receding like a tide, she sat still while I stood before her, imbibing her tender presence, my hands around her neck. 

"Just a while longer, dear," I said as she leaned in. I traced my finger against her collarbone, shoulder, and back, trying to map out and preserve in my mind exactly what she looked like that day, without ever breaking our gaze. Then, she held me in her arms and gave me a kiss on the forehead. 

"Play something for me." 

I played Debussy's Claire de Lune. Then Yann Tiersen's La Valse d'Amélie. 

"You've transported me," she said, "the emotions you give me...they're hardly mine..."

We slowly lay down face-to-face, locked in a deep all-consuming embrace, the silkiness of the petals hugging our skin. Her kiss lowered from my forehead to the tip of my nose, then my cheek, and my chin, leaving a trail that sent tingles to my heart. I began trembling violently, teardrops emerging from my eyes. 

But neither of us was in a rush, our connection forming between us like a fuzzy orb of warmth that we nursed with all the time in the world. We just lay there, slowly caressing each other with almost virginal reserve, but with the tacit understanding that we meant everything to each other. 

She asked for permission to take off my clothes, and I did the same to her. We cuddled, brushing across each other's limbs as if we laid ourselves bare for the first time. We exchanged a deep passionate kiss, like a gift to each other. Then we felt each other's touch all over our own body, with desire as a means but love as the end. 

Her heartbeat quickened, and soon her hushed respirations met my own. Our consciousness percolating in tandem, begging for dawn to hide under the horizon. Just a little while longer. Please, night, grant us even the most fleeting infinity, in case tomorrow never came.

"You are my light," I said, "I'm yours, tonight, tomorrow, always."

"It's always been you." 

And off we went, utterly free from the burden of a destination, our faces, hands, bodies, and hearts the journey itself. 

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