Prison Break - This is Gretchen
Title: This is Gretchen
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters, pairings: Sara/Gretchen (implied Michael/Sara)
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 3650
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Once, sometimes twice a week she leaves her boys - husband and kid - at home to come here and have sex with Gretchen. She cheats on a sweet and thoughtful, although occasionally maddening, husband with a woman who tried to kill her a couple of times and could very well try again someday. (Post-series, non-epilogue-compliant.)
Author’s Note: Written for the International Day of Femslash 2009. Many thanks to mystressxoxo for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
This is non-epilogue-compliant, and chances are it overlooks whatever happened in The Final Break.
They sleep together on a regular basis.
Technically, no amount of actual sleep is ever involved, obviously, since it would be a waste of the little time they have together. Sara is not reckless enough to close her eyes for very long when Gretchen is around, anyway, and never in a lifetime would Gretchen allow Sara to see her in such a vulnerable situation. So, no sleeping whatsoever on either side, but for a couple of hours, loads of fucking. Sara has lived enough to know that trying to compartmentalize and label this kind of stuff is bordering on absurd, but really, ‘fucking’ is an apt depiction, in more than one acceptation.
Whatever the semantics are, they don’t change the fact that once, sometimes twice a week she leaves her boys - husband and kid - at home to come here and have sex with Gretchen. She cheats on a sweet and thoughtful, although occasionally maddening, husband with a woman who tried to kill her a couple of times and could very well try again someday. And it’s part of the appeal. It’s a huge part of the appeal, listening to Gretch pant and moan under her caresses when the woman used to snap and threaten. Sara is not big on the power play thing, but it is a pleasant sensation, one that expunges the guilt she should be feeling towards Michael. It’s not about Michael and her, anyway, but about her alone; she wonders if it makes the affair less or more wrong.
* *
Gretchen is acting slutty today, even by the standards of her usual self. It’s not a word Sara would ordinarily use to qualify a woman, any woman, but this is not any woman: this is Gretchen, and this makes the description pretty much okay. As surprising as it sounds, the crazy bitch - that’s another word Sara wouldn’t usually approve of - is not always like that. There are times when she lays on her back and leers, letting Sara do all the work. There are times when she’s gentle and considerate even though it’s in a tantalizing way. There are times when she almost seems reluctant, moments when, with anyone else, Sara would feel her lust is inappropriate. With Gretchen? It really doesn’t matter. Sara had decided long ago not to care because chances are that the whole thing is a game for Gretchen.
Today is not lazy, gentle or unwilling, though. Today, as soon as Sara entered the room, the other woman pushed her on all fours on the bed and dropped to her knees behind her. In a swift move, she pulled Sara’s dress up, her panties down, and started lapping at her with a keenness that made Sara gasp in surprise. A couple of minutes later, her face is still nested between Sara’s thighs, her mouth working on the fragrant, tender flesh. Sara has dropped onto her elbows, her arms no longer able to support her, and she is biting her lips, trying not to whimper as Gretchen’s tongue and fingers glide over and slide into her. The deliciously damp heat Gretchen’s fervent licking has caused is spreading, and Sara doesn’t try to resist, hold back or deny what is happening. No point, anyway. Instead, she presses her face into the velvety bedspread of the hotel room, angles her hips up, and demands, “More.”
Content with her reaction, Gretchen hums, the sound vibrating softly against Sara, and complies obligingly; her thumbs open Sara wider; her mouth latches on her and sucks. She knows what she’s doing, what Sara likes. She knows that flattening her tongue and flicking it against her, then extending it to dip in her like that will have Sara overlook the lewdness of her current posture. And indeed, Sara pushes back against Gretchen’s face, eagerly, offered and open, her ass poking in the air. The thin and flowery fabric of her dress is bundled around her waist and sticks to the moist hollow between her shoulder blades. Behind her, Gretchen tastes, licks and slurps as though she might end up devouring her. Sara tries not to think about the crude picture they must be giving and fails miserably; the image only serves to fuel her arousal a bit more. It’s good. Wrong, and coarse, and sinfully good. She lets it show shamelessly, moaning and squirming under the other woman’s hands and mouth as her legs start to shake beneath her and her stomach clenches spasmodically.
* *
When Gretchen called the first time and told her she needed to talk to her, Sara went to the rendezvous. She hesitated for a while, but in the end, she did go, just as Gretchen had known she would, because this is what Sara does, facing whatever has to be faced. There was a second and then a third meeting in the lobby of Gretchen’s hotel, a lot of blathering from her former captor, whom she listens to quite distantly while trying to figure out what the woman actually wanted. Then, at some point, between a teary-eyed mention of Emily and a sniggering comment on Sucre, a warm, manicured hand slipped under the table, leaned on Sara’s knee and crept up her inner thigh. Gretchen kept on talking quietly as her fingers moved on Sara’s leg, brazenly reaching for her crotch.
Well. At least she did get what Gretchen wanted.
“I want what I’ve always wanted, honey.”
This was not even a lie: Gretchen had made it clear when she had her in custody back in Panama, the first time she tied her to a chair, and then on every occasion she had the chance. Sara had shrugged it off, turning a deaf ear to the less than subtle innuendos, just as she had turned a deaf ear to most of her other threats - she would have lost her mind is she had paid attention - considering them as yet another way to torture her. She probably should have shrugged it off now too. It would have been easy: nothing and nobody to be afraid of anymore, family and friends to go back to, no reason to get caught in Gretchen’s mind games.
It was a nice hotel Gretchen was staying in. Nothing exceedingly fancy, but nice: comfortable chairs, long white and brown tablecloths, flattering golden light, soft buzz of low music and discreet conversations around them. Certainly not the kind of place where you would imagine the guests sneakily trying to jerk off their visitors under the table in a slightly crowded lobby. The hand felt good on her skin - who would have imagine that Gretchen had warm hands? - and without thinking much about it, Sara ever so slightly pulled her knees a bit more apart, allowing Gretchen to touch the silky material of her panties. She took a sharp breath when a middle finger rubbed her just the right way and watched Gretchen’s red lips curve in a satisfied smile.
Maybe it was the thrill of what Gretchen was doing to her, so blatantly yet so inconspicuously, or maybe it was because she had someone and something to go back to afterwards. It might have something to do with the fact that there was unfinished business between them, unfinished business that loomed over the perfection of Sara’s life; this was definitely one of the worst ways to deal with it, but it was not like she’d always made sensible choices. Possibly, just possibly, it was for the kick of observing Gretchen hiding - poorly - her surprised expression when Sara answered, “Okay.”
Gretchen’s hand brushed the small of her back as they crossed the lobby and headed for the elevator. Sara smirked at the barely noticeable gesture. This wasn’t care or anything remotely positive, this wasn’t even possessiveness; this was triumph and showing off for their own benefice.
* *
Sara pants and tries to catch her breath, head buried between her folded arms. It always leaves her a bit dizzy, not the pleasure itself, but its nature; the fact that as nasty, surreal or grotesque as it may be, she’s okay with it. It doesn’t count. This is Gretchen. This is the perfect outlet for any malicious intent, the perfect way to exorcise any fucked up desire or twisted memory lurking inside her. She would think about how despicable her reasoning makes her sound - as despicable, if not more than Gretch - if the other woman’s fingers weren’t slipping out of her and slowly slithering up, spreading the dampness they gathered and aiming to re-use it for a different caress.
“Don’t,” she commands. A forefinger ventures between her buttocks and teases her, but it doesn’t go further. Gretchen actually stops because this is one the tacit rules, rules that ensure both of them will be here next week, next time.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gretchen says nonetheless, her tone laced with sarcasm. “Is this entry reserved to the hubby?” Sara doesn’t bother with an answer. “Or maybe hubby’s big brother?”
This time, Sara throws her an annoyed, unimpressed look over her shoulder and sighs. Sex between them is great, but great sex doesn’t mean they’re past the taunting, sneering or challenging. Far from it. One out of two times, taunting, sneering or challenging are an intrinsic part of the sex.
“Come on. Don’t tell me you guys never had a little three way thing? At least thought about having a little three way thing? You never pictured yourself nicely sandwiched between the two of them? I doubt Burrows looked at your ass and never hoped to have a piece of it. And considering the extremities he’s ready to go through for his big brother, I doubt Scofield never thought of sharing with him something as precious as you.”
Sara dislodges her from her knelt position, not too kindly, and rolls onto her back. She can’t help a wince when her eyes fall on Gretchen, who is sitting on her haunches at the foot of the bed. She’s disheveled, her ruby lipstick smeared around her mouth, her chin and cheeks covered in a tacky wetness Sara knows all too well where it comes from.
“You’re sick.”
“Says the woman who just got off on having her pussy tongue-fucked by the psychopathic bitch who once tried to kill her.” She crawls on her knees to come closer and starts unbuttoning Sara’s dress. Even though her short, dark-polished nails trail on the sensitive skin of Sara’s thighs and stomach, her hands are careful, almost gentle. She briefly fondles Sara’s breasts and keeps moving her hands up to wrap them around her neck. Sara’s pulse beats a tad faster. “Are you familiar with Stockholm syndrome, honey?”
“This is not Stockholm syndrome.”
As she plays with Sara’s hair and strokes the nape of her neck, Gretchen is openly humping her knee, the steady riding leaving messy marks of arousal. Sara helpfully shifts her leg, rocks it back and forth, and earns an appreciative groan - no matter the discussion, this is part of the unspoken deal.
“No?”
“No. I don’t have any empathy, let alone sympathy for you,” Sara answers, her tone slightly bored.
“Ouch.” She grins. “That would sting if I had a skin a few millimeters thinner.”
Once Sara’s dress is removed and tossed on the floor by the bed, Gretchen takes care of her own clothing. There is not a lot to be disposed of, a skirt and a tank top that both go off in the blink of an eye under Sara’s rapt examination. She likes Gretchen’s body. It embarrassed her at first, but she does, and since she accepted the notion of fucking with her, surely she can accept the idea of liking her body, right? The delicate ankles and wrists, the soft and pulpy curves, the generous ass, hips and breasts are succulent, and make a stark contrast with her ruthlessness. They have Sara wonder which aspect serves as a concealer for the other one. She never really has the time to linger on that thought for long; they’re appealing in their own right, and she’d rather take pleasure in them than reflect upon them. That’s why she’s here, after all. So, she watches as Gretchen’s clothes are quickly discarded and licks her lips because the woman is naked underneath - almost always is - and damn if it doesn’t make Sara hot.
* *
She was blatantly naked under her flimsy black dress when they entered the elevator that first time, too, firm buttocks and round breasts rolling and shifting beneath the sleek material, nipples aggressively pointing under the fabric. Sara let herself be shoved against the wall as soon as the elevator’s doors had closed. Her hands gingerly touched Gretchen’s hips and slid up and down, giving her the unnecessary proof that Gretchen didn’t believe in underwear, not when she had planned to get laid anyway.
“I hope there are no cameras in here,” Sara pointed out, casting a glance upwards.
“And I thought you were a compassionate girl. Think of the poor guy in the security room. If he exists, give him something to jerk off on.” For good measure, she ground against Sara’s leg, slow and hard, her dress riding up on her thighs.
Not for the first time, nor for the last one, Sara answered, “You’re sick.” Yet, because she enjoyed the sensation of Gretchen’s ass filling her hands, of the muscles flexing under her fingers way too much, she squeezed hard and relished the unabashed moan it tore out of Gretchen’s throat.
* *
They struggle across the bed for about a minute to get the upper hand over the other one, until Sara manages to roll her over and push her on her back - or until Gretchen allows it. The fighting is a pretense for Gretchen to rub and be rubbed, to be touched and stroked, thighs splayed and legs hooked around Sara’s hips, their stomachs pressed together. When she has Gretchen lying under her, breathing hard and eyes darkened with lust, Sara pins her wrists on each side of her head and slides down a bit. She licks the delectable roundness of a breast, thorough and deliberate, and waits for Gretchen to start writhing impatiently before she closes her mouth on the nipple. It hardens and swells as she swirls her tongue; she puckers her lips and sucks hard, loving how luscious it feels. Gretchen bucks, but she doesn’t try to escape her grip, even suggesting, “Maybe I should ask you to tie me up, one of these days. Would you like it, Sara, tying me up? Good ol’ memories, huh?”
“What makes you think that I wouldn’t walk out and leave you on the bed for the cleaning guy to find you?”
“Do you really think it would be the worst thing that ever happened to me?”
If the thick scars Sara had all leisure to notice on her back and inner thighs are any indication, she most definitely has a point.
“No,” she admits, resisting the urge to brush her hand over the wounds. She thinks of the mirroring injuries on her back and lowers her head, feasting on Gretchen’s neck, chest and breastbone to distract herself, to distract both of them. For a short while, it keeps Gretchen silent. At least, she doesn’t actually talk, merely moans and pants, giving a couple of snappish indications on how and where to touch and lick her. And then...
“What about Sofia?”
“What, what about Sofia?”
Gretchen grabs her shoulders and pulls her up, making it clear that, no matter what Sara has planned, she has a different idea. Okay then. No eating her out today - whatever suits her fancy. Sara lies on top of her, slightly sideways to have a better access to her body, and palms Gretchen’s crotch. The flesh, hot and slick, makes her equally queasy and aroused; the odor... she suddenly wants, at the same time, to scrub her hands clean and suck on her fingers.
“Ever screwed her?” She pauses when Sara sneaks a finger in her, her breath caught in her throat, and clenches tentatively around the digit. “That innocence dripping out of her is just mouth-watering. I’m sure she’s scrumptious. Not as tasty as you, of course, and I’d probably end up bored with the dear caught in the lights gig, but once in a while...”
“You’re a sex maniac.”
“Is this your professional diagnosis, doctor? Because I’m not the one with a husband and a kink for...”
It’s a good thing she doesn’t mind a hint of pleasant pain because Sara adds two fingers and thrusts them roughly. She watches as Gretchen arches her back and tips her head back, digging it into the pillows. Her hands scratches around helplessly, straining and holding onto the sheets not to grab Sara’s wrist and take control of her moves.
It’s tempting, so tempting to bring her to the edge and then let her hang here. It always is. Ultimately, it’s the temptation to make her pant and whine that wins over, like all the other times, and Sara starts to synchronize her strokes with the wild rotations of Gretchen’s hips. With a twist, today. When she looks up, it’s to Gretchen’s glassy, half closed eyes, and parted lips. She doesn’t have lipstick anymore; it smudged and disappeared, leaving her mouth nude and pale pink, exposed. This is the only reason why Sara bends over her and presses their lips together, the vulnerability. They rarely kiss, not like that, and the soft, unusual contact makes Gretchen flinch. She opens up to Sara’s tongue, however, and welcomes it, letting it slide past her teeth and flick against hers.
The softness of the kiss is a shock to Sara’s system, one she has to quickly recover from. Engrossed with it, she’s almost completely stilled the thrusting and crooking of her fingers, and Gretchen calls her back to order harshly, tightening around her and grumbling into her mouth. With a wicked smile, Sara thumbs her clit, delicately, always delicately, drawing small, regular circles. Gretchen is so sensitive here; it disturbed her the first time, that she might display any form of daintiness, that Sara didn’t need, shouldn’t, touch and press hard so that Gretchen felt anything at all. It disturbed her that they were so much alike in any way.
Gretchen is thrashing on the bed, digging her nails so deep in Sara’s arm they will leave small crescent marks, sucking so hard on Sara’s breast it’s almost painful. The licking, the sight of Gretchen losing control, the sounds she’s uttering... Sara feels arousal build up again in her lower belly, burning, satisfyingly twisting her guts. As soon as Gretchen has gone limp against her, as soon as she’s fallen back on the mattress, breathless and unable to move, Sara removes her hand and claps it between her own thighs, palming her groin just in time to catch her second orgasm of the afternoon.
She collapses near Gretchen, beads of sweat rolling down her forehead and between her breasts despite the pleasantly cool temperature of the room. She doesn’t bother opening her eyes when Gretchen chuckles and shifts, nor when she grabs her hand and licks her fingers clean, tasting both of them mingled on her skin. The plump tongue traces lascivious lines on the palm of her hand and on the inside of her wrist; Sara squeezes her eyes shut. That kind of stuff, like the nice, almost tender kissing earlier, is something else they usually don’t do. Fuck, come, shower, thank you very much - keep it simple.
She sneers at the thought. ‘Keep it simple’ is bullshit. No way any of this is simple.
“You owe me one, honey.”
Sara does open her eyes, this time, and quirks an eyebrow. Gretchen is looming over her, her round, deceptively smooth face, framed by tousled black hair.
“If we’re keeping tabs... I’m surprised you didn’t touch yourself when you were going down on me.”
“I would have loved to, believe me, but I had my hands full of your pretty backside.” As a reminder, she trails her thumb along Sara’s lower lip.
“I need a shower,” Sara says, thwarting any further attempt to discuss the subject.
Gretchen watches her as she rolls out of the bed and onto her feet. Her lightly tanned skin is marred with ephemeral but still evident pink traces of teeth and imprints of fingers and hands; apparently, it makes Gretchen happy with herself. As though the weirdo needed to add more marks to the scars she had already given Sara on her back.
“You mind if I come with you and gather my due?”
“Yes. I mind.”
They sleep together on a regular basis; they never, ever shower together, and it’s not about to change. Sara needs this step before going back to her life. She needs to wash away what she just did and clean herself, to look at the soapy water slide down her body and disappear down the sluice.
They’re using each other, she’s aware of this. Gretch is using her for whatever warped mind games she enjoys playing, and Sara is using her to unload all the shit she won’t unload on anyone else. It doesn’t matter. This is Gretchen.
It’s going nowhere fast. Or maybe, as Gretchen once put it, it’s going to end badly for one of them - because Sara is a nice girl, Gretchen is not, and ultimately, Sara will put an end to this - and it probably won’t be Sara. Sara has someone to catch her when she falls. People who won’t understand the fucked up fling in a million years, but who will forgive it because of what Sara went through because of them, for them.
She catches a glimpse of the woman lying, naked and still flushed, on the messy bed and locks the bathroom door behind her. It shouldn’t matter. This is Gretchen.
-End-
--Comments are always welcome :)
Author: clair-de-lune
Characters, pairings: Sara/Gretchen (implied Michael/Sara)
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: ~ 3650
Disclaimer: Not mine. Just borrowing them for a while.
Summary: Once, sometimes twice a week she leaves her boys - husband and kid - at home to come here and have sex with Gretchen. She cheats on a sweet and thoughtful, although occasionally maddening, husband with a woman who tried to kill her a couple of times and could very well try again someday. (Post-series, non-epilogue-compliant.)
Author’s Note: Written for the International Day of Femslash 2009. Many thanks to mystressxoxo for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
This is non-epilogue-compliant, and chances are it overlooks whatever happened in The Final Break.
They sleep together on a regular basis.
Technically, no amount of actual sleep is ever involved, obviously, since it would be a waste of the little time they have together. Sara is not reckless enough to close her eyes for very long when Gretchen is around, anyway, and never in a lifetime would Gretchen allow Sara to see her in such a vulnerable situation. So, no sleeping whatsoever on either side, but for a couple of hours, loads of fucking. Sara has lived enough to know that trying to compartmentalize and label this kind of stuff is bordering on absurd, but really, ‘fucking’ is an apt depiction, in more than one acceptation.
Whatever the semantics are, they don’t change the fact that once, sometimes twice a week she leaves her boys - husband and kid - at home to come here and have sex with Gretchen. She cheats on a sweet and thoughtful, although occasionally maddening, husband with a woman who tried to kill her a couple of times and could very well try again someday. And it’s part of the appeal. It’s a huge part of the appeal, listening to Gretch pant and moan under her caresses when the woman used to snap and threaten. Sara is not big on the power play thing, but it is a pleasant sensation, one that expunges the guilt she should be feeling towards Michael. It’s not about Michael and her, anyway, but about her alone; she wonders if it makes the affair less or more wrong.
* *
Gretchen is acting slutty today, even by the standards of her usual self. It’s not a word Sara would ordinarily use to qualify a woman, any woman, but this is not any woman: this is Gretchen, and this makes the description pretty much okay. As surprising as it sounds, the crazy bitch - that’s another word Sara wouldn’t usually approve of - is not always like that. There are times when she lays on her back and leers, letting Sara do all the work. There are times when she’s gentle and considerate even though it’s in a tantalizing way. There are times when she almost seems reluctant, moments when, with anyone else, Sara would feel her lust is inappropriate. With Gretchen? It really doesn’t matter. Sara had decided long ago not to care because chances are that the whole thing is a game for Gretchen.
Today is not lazy, gentle or unwilling, though. Today, as soon as Sara entered the room, the other woman pushed her on all fours on the bed and dropped to her knees behind her. In a swift move, she pulled Sara’s dress up, her panties down, and started lapping at her with a keenness that made Sara gasp in surprise. A couple of minutes later, her face is still nested between Sara’s thighs, her mouth working on the fragrant, tender flesh. Sara has dropped onto her elbows, her arms no longer able to support her, and she is biting her lips, trying not to whimper as Gretchen’s tongue and fingers glide over and slide into her. The deliciously damp heat Gretchen’s fervent licking has caused is spreading, and Sara doesn’t try to resist, hold back or deny what is happening. No point, anyway. Instead, she presses her face into the velvety bedspread of the hotel room, angles her hips up, and demands, “More.”
Content with her reaction, Gretchen hums, the sound vibrating softly against Sara, and complies obligingly; her thumbs open Sara wider; her mouth latches on her and sucks. She knows what she’s doing, what Sara likes. She knows that flattening her tongue and flicking it against her, then extending it to dip in her like that will have Sara overlook the lewdness of her current posture. And indeed, Sara pushes back against Gretchen’s face, eagerly, offered and open, her ass poking in the air. The thin and flowery fabric of her dress is bundled around her waist and sticks to the moist hollow between her shoulder blades. Behind her, Gretchen tastes, licks and slurps as though she might end up devouring her. Sara tries not to think about the crude picture they must be giving and fails miserably; the image only serves to fuel her arousal a bit more. It’s good. Wrong, and coarse, and sinfully good. She lets it show shamelessly, moaning and squirming under the other woman’s hands and mouth as her legs start to shake beneath her and her stomach clenches spasmodically.
* *
When Gretchen called the first time and told her she needed to talk to her, Sara went to the rendezvous. She hesitated for a while, but in the end, she did go, just as Gretchen had known she would, because this is what Sara does, facing whatever has to be faced. There was a second and then a third meeting in the lobby of Gretchen’s hotel, a lot of blathering from her former captor, whom she listens to quite distantly while trying to figure out what the woman actually wanted. Then, at some point, between a teary-eyed mention of Emily and a sniggering comment on Sucre, a warm, manicured hand slipped under the table, leaned on Sara’s knee and crept up her inner thigh. Gretchen kept on talking quietly as her fingers moved on Sara’s leg, brazenly reaching for her crotch.
Well. At least she did get what Gretchen wanted.
“I want what I’ve always wanted, honey.”
This was not even a lie: Gretchen had made it clear when she had her in custody back in Panama, the first time she tied her to a chair, and then on every occasion she had the chance. Sara had shrugged it off, turning a deaf ear to the less than subtle innuendos, just as she had turned a deaf ear to most of her other threats - she would have lost her mind is she had paid attention - considering them as yet another way to torture her. She probably should have shrugged it off now too. It would have been easy: nothing and nobody to be afraid of anymore, family and friends to go back to, no reason to get caught in Gretchen’s mind games.
It was a nice hotel Gretchen was staying in. Nothing exceedingly fancy, but nice: comfortable chairs, long white and brown tablecloths, flattering golden light, soft buzz of low music and discreet conversations around them. Certainly not the kind of place where you would imagine the guests sneakily trying to jerk off their visitors under the table in a slightly crowded lobby. The hand felt good on her skin - who would have imagine that Gretchen had warm hands? - and without thinking much about it, Sara ever so slightly pulled her knees a bit more apart, allowing Gretchen to touch the silky material of her panties. She took a sharp breath when a middle finger rubbed her just the right way and watched Gretchen’s red lips curve in a satisfied smile.
Maybe it was the thrill of what Gretchen was doing to her, so blatantly yet so inconspicuously, or maybe it was because she had someone and something to go back to afterwards. It might have something to do with the fact that there was unfinished business between them, unfinished business that loomed over the perfection of Sara’s life; this was definitely one of the worst ways to deal with it, but it was not like she’d always made sensible choices. Possibly, just possibly, it was for the kick of observing Gretchen hiding - poorly - her surprised expression when Sara answered, “Okay.”
Gretchen’s hand brushed the small of her back as they crossed the lobby and headed for the elevator. Sara smirked at the barely noticeable gesture. This wasn’t care or anything remotely positive, this wasn’t even possessiveness; this was triumph and showing off for their own benefice.
* *
Sara pants and tries to catch her breath, head buried between her folded arms. It always leaves her a bit dizzy, not the pleasure itself, but its nature; the fact that as nasty, surreal or grotesque as it may be, she’s okay with it. It doesn’t count. This is Gretchen. This is the perfect outlet for any malicious intent, the perfect way to exorcise any fucked up desire or twisted memory lurking inside her. She would think about how despicable her reasoning makes her sound - as despicable, if not more than Gretch - if the other woman’s fingers weren’t slipping out of her and slowly slithering up, spreading the dampness they gathered and aiming to re-use it for a different caress.
“Don’t,” she commands. A forefinger ventures between her buttocks and teases her, but it doesn’t go further. Gretchen actually stops because this is one the tacit rules, rules that ensure both of them will be here next week, next time.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Gretchen says nonetheless, her tone laced with sarcasm. “Is this entry reserved to the hubby?” Sara doesn’t bother with an answer. “Or maybe hubby’s big brother?”
This time, Sara throws her an annoyed, unimpressed look over her shoulder and sighs. Sex between them is great, but great sex doesn’t mean they’re past the taunting, sneering or challenging. Far from it. One out of two times, taunting, sneering or challenging are an intrinsic part of the sex.
“Come on. Don’t tell me you guys never had a little three way thing? At least thought about having a little three way thing? You never pictured yourself nicely sandwiched between the two of them? I doubt Burrows looked at your ass and never hoped to have a piece of it. And considering the extremities he’s ready to go through for his big brother, I doubt Scofield never thought of sharing with him something as precious as you.”
Sara dislodges her from her knelt position, not too kindly, and rolls onto her back. She can’t help a wince when her eyes fall on Gretchen, who is sitting on her haunches at the foot of the bed. She’s disheveled, her ruby lipstick smeared around her mouth, her chin and cheeks covered in a tacky wetness Sara knows all too well where it comes from.
“You’re sick.”
“Says the woman who just got off on having her pussy tongue-fucked by the psychopathic bitch who once tried to kill her.” She crawls on her knees to come closer and starts unbuttoning Sara’s dress. Even though her short, dark-polished nails trail on the sensitive skin of Sara’s thighs and stomach, her hands are careful, almost gentle. She briefly fondles Sara’s breasts and keeps moving her hands up to wrap them around her neck. Sara’s pulse beats a tad faster. “Are you familiar with Stockholm syndrome, honey?”
“This is not Stockholm syndrome.”
As she plays with Sara’s hair and strokes the nape of her neck, Gretchen is openly humping her knee, the steady riding leaving messy marks of arousal. Sara helpfully shifts her leg, rocks it back and forth, and earns an appreciative groan - no matter the discussion, this is part of the unspoken deal.
“No?”
“No. I don’t have any empathy, let alone sympathy for you,” Sara answers, her tone slightly bored.
“Ouch.” She grins. “That would sting if I had a skin a few millimeters thinner.”
Once Sara’s dress is removed and tossed on the floor by the bed, Gretchen takes care of her own clothing. There is not a lot to be disposed of, a skirt and a tank top that both go off in the blink of an eye under Sara’s rapt examination. She likes Gretchen’s body. It embarrassed her at first, but she does, and since she accepted the notion of fucking with her, surely she can accept the idea of liking her body, right? The delicate ankles and wrists, the soft and pulpy curves, the generous ass, hips and breasts are succulent, and make a stark contrast with her ruthlessness. They have Sara wonder which aspect serves as a concealer for the other one. She never really has the time to linger on that thought for long; they’re appealing in their own right, and she’d rather take pleasure in them than reflect upon them. That’s why she’s here, after all. So, she watches as Gretchen’s clothes are quickly discarded and licks her lips because the woman is naked underneath - almost always is - and damn if it doesn’t make Sara hot.
* *
She was blatantly naked under her flimsy black dress when they entered the elevator that first time, too, firm buttocks and round breasts rolling and shifting beneath the sleek material, nipples aggressively pointing under the fabric. Sara let herself be shoved against the wall as soon as the elevator’s doors had closed. Her hands gingerly touched Gretchen’s hips and slid up and down, giving her the unnecessary proof that Gretchen didn’t believe in underwear, not when she had planned to get laid anyway.
“I hope there are no cameras in here,” Sara pointed out, casting a glance upwards.
“And I thought you were a compassionate girl. Think of the poor guy in the security room. If he exists, give him something to jerk off on.” For good measure, she ground against Sara’s leg, slow and hard, her dress riding up on her thighs.
Not for the first time, nor for the last one, Sara answered, “You’re sick.” Yet, because she enjoyed the sensation of Gretchen’s ass filling her hands, of the muscles flexing under her fingers way too much, she squeezed hard and relished the unabashed moan it tore out of Gretchen’s throat.
* *
They struggle across the bed for about a minute to get the upper hand over the other one, until Sara manages to roll her over and push her on her back - or until Gretchen allows it. The fighting is a pretense for Gretchen to rub and be rubbed, to be touched and stroked, thighs splayed and legs hooked around Sara’s hips, their stomachs pressed together. When she has Gretchen lying under her, breathing hard and eyes darkened with lust, Sara pins her wrists on each side of her head and slides down a bit. She licks the delectable roundness of a breast, thorough and deliberate, and waits for Gretchen to start writhing impatiently before she closes her mouth on the nipple. It hardens and swells as she swirls her tongue; she puckers her lips and sucks hard, loving how luscious it feels. Gretchen bucks, but she doesn’t try to escape her grip, even suggesting, “Maybe I should ask you to tie me up, one of these days. Would you like it, Sara, tying me up? Good ol’ memories, huh?”
“What makes you think that I wouldn’t walk out and leave you on the bed for the cleaning guy to find you?”
“Do you really think it would be the worst thing that ever happened to me?”
If the thick scars Sara had all leisure to notice on her back and inner thighs are any indication, she most definitely has a point.
“No,” she admits, resisting the urge to brush her hand over the wounds. She thinks of the mirroring injuries on her back and lowers her head, feasting on Gretchen’s neck, chest and breastbone to distract herself, to distract both of them. For a short while, it keeps Gretchen silent. At least, she doesn’t actually talk, merely moans and pants, giving a couple of snappish indications on how and where to touch and lick her. And then...
“What about Sofia?”
“What, what about Sofia?”
Gretchen grabs her shoulders and pulls her up, making it clear that, no matter what Sara has planned, she has a different idea. Okay then. No eating her out today - whatever suits her fancy. Sara lies on top of her, slightly sideways to have a better access to her body, and palms Gretchen’s crotch. The flesh, hot and slick, makes her equally queasy and aroused; the odor... she suddenly wants, at the same time, to scrub her hands clean and suck on her fingers.
“Ever screwed her?” She pauses when Sara sneaks a finger in her, her breath caught in her throat, and clenches tentatively around the digit. “That innocence dripping out of her is just mouth-watering. I’m sure she’s scrumptious. Not as tasty as you, of course, and I’d probably end up bored with the dear caught in the lights gig, but once in a while...”
“You’re a sex maniac.”
“Is this your professional diagnosis, doctor? Because I’m not the one with a husband and a kink for...”
It’s a good thing she doesn’t mind a hint of pleasant pain because Sara adds two fingers and thrusts them roughly. She watches as Gretchen arches her back and tips her head back, digging it into the pillows. Her hands scratches around helplessly, straining and holding onto the sheets not to grab Sara’s wrist and take control of her moves.
It’s tempting, so tempting to bring her to the edge and then let her hang here. It always is. Ultimately, it’s the temptation to make her pant and whine that wins over, like all the other times, and Sara starts to synchronize her strokes with the wild rotations of Gretchen’s hips. With a twist, today. When she looks up, it’s to Gretchen’s glassy, half closed eyes, and parted lips. She doesn’t have lipstick anymore; it smudged and disappeared, leaving her mouth nude and pale pink, exposed. This is the only reason why Sara bends over her and presses their lips together, the vulnerability. They rarely kiss, not like that, and the soft, unusual contact makes Gretchen flinch. She opens up to Sara’s tongue, however, and welcomes it, letting it slide past her teeth and flick against hers.
The softness of the kiss is a shock to Sara’s system, one she has to quickly recover from. Engrossed with it, she’s almost completely stilled the thrusting and crooking of her fingers, and Gretchen calls her back to order harshly, tightening around her and grumbling into her mouth. With a wicked smile, Sara thumbs her clit, delicately, always delicately, drawing small, regular circles. Gretchen is so sensitive here; it disturbed her the first time, that she might display any form of daintiness, that Sara didn’t need, shouldn’t, touch and press hard so that Gretchen felt anything at all. It disturbed her that they were so much alike in any way.
Gretchen is thrashing on the bed, digging her nails so deep in Sara’s arm they will leave small crescent marks, sucking so hard on Sara’s breast it’s almost painful. The licking, the sight of Gretchen losing control, the sounds she’s uttering... Sara feels arousal build up again in her lower belly, burning, satisfyingly twisting her guts. As soon as Gretchen has gone limp against her, as soon as she’s fallen back on the mattress, breathless and unable to move, Sara removes her hand and claps it between her own thighs, palming her groin just in time to catch her second orgasm of the afternoon.
She collapses near Gretchen, beads of sweat rolling down her forehead and between her breasts despite the pleasantly cool temperature of the room. She doesn’t bother opening her eyes when Gretchen chuckles and shifts, nor when she grabs her hand and licks her fingers clean, tasting both of them mingled on her skin. The plump tongue traces lascivious lines on the palm of her hand and on the inside of her wrist; Sara squeezes her eyes shut. That kind of stuff, like the nice, almost tender kissing earlier, is something else they usually don’t do. Fuck, come, shower, thank you very much - keep it simple.
She sneers at the thought. ‘Keep it simple’ is bullshit. No way any of this is simple.
“You owe me one, honey.”
Sara does open her eyes, this time, and quirks an eyebrow. Gretchen is looming over her, her round, deceptively smooth face, framed by tousled black hair.
“If we’re keeping tabs... I’m surprised you didn’t touch yourself when you were going down on me.”
“I would have loved to, believe me, but I had my hands full of your pretty backside.” As a reminder, she trails her thumb along Sara’s lower lip.
“I need a shower,” Sara says, thwarting any further attempt to discuss the subject.
Gretchen watches her as she rolls out of the bed and onto her feet. Her lightly tanned skin is marred with ephemeral but still evident pink traces of teeth and imprints of fingers and hands; apparently, it makes Gretchen happy with herself. As though the weirdo needed to add more marks to the scars she had already given Sara on her back.
“You mind if I come with you and gather my due?”
“Yes. I mind.”
They sleep together on a regular basis; they never, ever shower together, and it’s not about to change. Sara needs this step before going back to her life. She needs to wash away what she just did and clean herself, to look at the soapy water slide down her body and disappear down the sluice.
They’re using each other, she’s aware of this. Gretch is using her for whatever warped mind games she enjoys playing, and Sara is using her to unload all the shit she won’t unload on anyone else. It doesn’t matter. This is Gretchen.
It’s going nowhere fast. Or maybe, as Gretchen once put it, it’s going to end badly for one of them - because Sara is a nice girl, Gretchen is not, and ultimately, Sara will put an end to this - and it probably won’t be Sara. Sara has someone to catch her when she falls. People who won’t understand the fucked up fling in a million years, but who will forgive it because of what Sara went through because of them, for them.
She catches a glimpse of the woman lying, naked and still flushed, on the messy bed and locks the bathroom door behind her. It shouldn’t matter. This is Gretchen.
-End-
--Comments are always welcome :)