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Dinner was easy and well-received on that early February evening. A beautiful spread on the table. The staff had prepared starters and Hannibal Lecter had cooked a main course himself. A stunningly seared filet mignon, rare and otherwise unseasoned, intense enough in its flavor.
It melted on the tongue and was somewhat impossible to eat without producing an indelicate mess; the meat wept red and it ran down the chin. Such things were unbecoming when dining in an establishment, but the pair of them found it humorous when eating in the privacy of their home. Dr Lecter himself found it quite stirring, to see the shine of the meat run over Clarice Starling's lips. He’d been in a strange mood all day, in truth, but the pleasant steak dinner had only elevated that.
They’d eaten quickly and had foregone their usual routine on the terrace, instead making straight for the master suite at the Palacio Duhau.
They’d fallen into bed with little preamble - a familiar dance - yet a sense of whimsy struck Hannibal Lecter suddenly. He’d made a purchase some time ago and had yet to take it up with Clarice. Her mouth on his was eager, more so than usual and perhaps driven by the lingering rich, salty taste of steak, and he figured it was a good time to bring up a topic of interest to him.
He paused, pushing himself up and away from her, and asked quite simply-
“Might we try something new?”
And, though flushed and dewy, Starling still had sense enough to pause in consideration.
He’d been a gentle lover during their relationship- for the most part. Gentler than expected, that was, considering the fierce and lurid nature of his other recreational pursuits. Clarice had been surprised, initially, that his violent nature didn’t spill over into his sexual enjoyments. She’d supposed it’d only been a matter of waiting until such things had surfaced…
Was this where their slow and gentle trysts came to an end? She was concerned about that as she levelled with him, propped above her with his hair a little unruly and his tidy mouth parted. She was trying to read the infuriatingly neutral expression on his noble face.
She thought it might be wise to say no to him, for once. To express her absolute disinterest in changing the nature of their intimate relationship. It was in her best interests to do so, after all… But Starling realised that, when it came to him, her best interests rarely took precedence. And maybe, somewhere deep down, she was excited.
She nodded.
Half an hour later she was bare and tied to the bed.
He’d pulled out a small, neat box from his bedside cabinet and from within that box he had presented to her six silk scarves. With such speed had he presented the box, Starling could only wonder how long he’d had them… how long he’d been considering having her as he was now.
Her wrists were secured, the scarves binding them against either corner of the headboard. Her ankles were secured, too; she felt rather like a pinned specimen. The last scarf was tied snug around her eyes. The ties were all tight but loose enough that she could wriggle free if she so wished. Dr Lecter smiled and turned the lights off, and then all she could see was the pulsing colours behind her eyelids.
“Visual deprivation,” he explained, his voice low and purring as he returned to her. “Removing one sense heightens the others. Note how much more readily you feel,” he said, and then blew gently on the side of her neck, satisfied when she shivered. “Let us use this knowledge to our advantage, Clarice.”
He hardly touched her at first. He seemed to take more pleasure in looking at her for the most part; she wondered what it was specifically that seemed to thrill him about incapacitating her in such a way. She knew he didn’t wish to control her, so it must’ve been something else that'd stirred such a fantasy. Still, she found her skin prickling under his gaze and blinked behind the silk, wishing he’d touch her so she could find her bearings. She could hear him move but could not figure out where exactly he was in the room- she only heard him shift when he wanted her to, it seemed, and so she was quite disorientated.
And then, finally, the brush of his skin. Just the ghost of a touch… the slight running of a finger up her stomach… a gentle brush against her neck… brushing her hair away from her face… She hummed and leaned into it each time. Her muscles were taut as her ears fought to channel in each tiny sound. Her sense of sensation was heightened too; each tiny touch burned her. Visual deprivation, indeed.
This went on for some time. Ten or so minutes, Starling estimated. And then things escalated, as they often did with Hannibal Lecter.
He introduced pain fairly quickly. Starling didn’t like it at first. Not at all.
He’d given her a safe word, of course. But, that being said, the problem with Starling was that she’d been raised in the hard-knock world of Quantico. Some habits never leave an FBI agent, and one of those habits was a sense of unwavering perseverance.
No matter how uncomfortable Clarice Starling became, she’d been taught to endure. She was a veteran in endurance. Still, a few times she almost let their safe word slip from her lips.
A few well-placed blows across her thighs nearly did her in. She wasn’t sure what he was using to strike her, but it certainly wasn’t his hands. It was something hard and it stung and then the sting seemed to spread and her whole body felt hot. And then, five minutes later, she heard the snick of his harpy and she stiffened. A beat and then cold metal met feverish skin. She felt the fine edge of the blade run up her abdomen and, as he did this, Starling had even unwillingly formed the first syllable of the safe word, but it died on her lips when his hot mouth quickly followed the sharp trail of the blade, lapping at her and soothing the sting.
He was bent over her, by then. She could feel where the bed dipped either side of her head. The slightest brush of fabric against her legs told her he still wore his tidy slacks. The image of him clothed and her nude and bound tickled something within her, though she didn’t have the mind in that moment to analyse it.
Dr Lecter was propping himself up- crouching above her, taking great care to not actually touch her with anything other than his mouth and his blade. He hummed into her ear, breath warm on her neck, when he nicked her slightly and explained what he was doing and why he was doing it- yet she wasn’t really listening to him. Nothing he said registered within her mind, too distracted by the warm sting of superficial pain.
The pain which, it seemed, was quickly morphing into pleasure; the sharp sting seemed to fall apart after a moment and wash over her in a hazy sort of tingle, like the soothing of liniment. Or maybe she was delusional? Maybe she was going crazy? Starling thought that, maybe, she might be depraved.
The session lasted an hour. By the fiftieth minute he still hadn’t touched her properly. Not where she wanted him most.
She’d been a blank canvas an hour ago and he’d painted her quite beautifully since; all manner of marks decorated her lithe body. Dr Lecter liked Clarice Starling’s body. He liked it a lot. He didn’t consider much in life to be perfect but her strong, supple figure came pretty close. Seeing her red and marked in that superficial way - in his way - was a curious new experience for him.
That wasn’t to say he enjoyed hurting her- and he wasn’t hurting her, really. Nor did he particularly enjoy dominating her any more than he enjoyed her dominating him. His will to experiment had come from somewhere else…
What was that story from so long ago? The tidbit he’d learned about Francis Dolarhyde? It was something he’d read in a paper... Ah, yes. Reba McClane and the tiger. Seeing his Starling eat the steak he’d cooked had reminded him of it, subconsciously.
Hannibal Lecter supposed he was somewhat like the blind Reba in his urge to tie Clarice down. He’d never encountered someone - something - like Clarice Starling before and his desire to have her in such a way mirrored Reba's desire to touch the tiger. He didn’t control Clarice, nor did he want to. He was simply appreciative of her- recognising her for the creature she was, and he enjoyed the thrill of recreationally poking her, so to speak. And how sweet it was to be able to touch her- to be able to explore her when she was incapacitated in such a way. To put his hands in the tiger's mouth whilst it was unable to bite. Only, but he hoped she’d bite. Later on, perhaps.
There’d be no time for that, now, however. Hannibal Lecter was well tuned to his lover and, in truth, he’d felt Starling’s patience run out some time ago. He figured it was time to draw things to a close. So, somewhat regretfully, he mercifully gave her the release she’d needed.
Starling had realised, then in that moment, the benefit and appeal of all of the pain and the buildup and the sensory deprivation. The purpose of it came to her, suddenly.
After an hour of rough attention, her body had become a mess of sensitivity and humming nerve endings. It’d taken just the slightest brush of his fingers between her thighs, sticky now, to tip her over the edge.
She’d writhed against her bonds, gasping his name into the warm air of the dark room as he touched her; starting with the smallest most subtle of circles with his thumb over her clitoris, progressing to two fingers inside of her and the base of his palm and thumb working together to coax her release out in a slow yet utterly overwhelming wash.
The silk had chafed at the soft skin of her wrists but she hadn’t even felt it, so lost had she been in herself. Good God, she hadn’t even realised how turned on she’d been.
Falling, falling. Brows furrowed. Lips parted. Dr Lecter thought she looked splendid.
And when he’d finally taken the blindfold off, it’d been a great relief. He untied her, slowly, and she watched him tuck the scarves back into their box, chest heaving and blinking as her eyes adjusted to the light again.
Aftercare was an essential aspect of their relationship, even when their lovemaking was soft and easy. That evening was certainly no different. Thankfully, very few of her new marks required any level of medical attention. He congratulated himself for his own control as he rubbed the redness out of her wrists and addressed the shallow nicks along her torso. And then, soon enough, they were both cleaned up and content and tucked under the covers.
That he hadn’t found his own release that evening wasn’t a point of contention; Clarice would’ve returned the favour with nothing less than enthusiasm had he asked, but tonight he seemed content to let her bask in her own pleasure.
“Clarice,” he’d hummed into the darkness, a short time later, just as she’d been on the precipice of sleep, tucked against him comfortably, “how did you find that?”
Experimentation was a foreign thing to Starling. A lot of the aspects of their new life were foreign to her. She’d always been used to rigid routine and rationality and hadn’t previously been given the opportunity to explore the many different avenues and experiences that an experimental life could provide. She supposed it hadn’t been all too bad.
She’d told him so, and then had promptly fallen asleep.
Dr Lecter hadn’t bothered putting the scarves back away in their neat little box in his cabinet. He left them atop the bedside table. Something to look at with a small smile as he, too, had drifted off slowly. He figured the scarves would be getting more use in the following weeks. Perhaps he ought to cook another steak.