My muse is a dirty bitch who needs to let me sleep
Stumbling into the bedroom, teetering on legs unstable with drink, Meg giggled deep in her throat and clutched at Diana to deliver yet another wine-stained kiss. She was far happier than she could ever remember, and perhaps more than she had any right to be, and her delightfully hazy state only magnified the pleasure.
Diana on the other hand had remained relatively sober, despite having cracked open the bottle shortly after they began the trek back to the city from Cardington, and barely relinquished it since. Now she gulped down the final contents of the container in an elaborate swig, sending Meg into yet another fit of chuckles.
The younger blonde gradually calmed, sitting solemnly on the edge of the bed-littered with rose petals, Diana noted with a rueful smirk-and staring at the threadwork in the rug.
“So. What now?”
“What do you mean, ‘what now’? It’s out wedding night,” the older woman replied, flippantly tossing her fiery hair. That got Meg’s attention.
“I know. But what exactly does that entail?” she asked, now staring.
“You’re not ten anymore.”
“I have to confess I don’t know much more than I did then,” Meg’s voice sounded strained, as if she were about to cry, “It’s just that I’m better read now.” Crossing the room, Diana knelt before her bride and took her face in her hands.
“You mean to tell me that you’ve never…”
The blonde shook her head sadly, while her lover gaped.
“Who was I supposed to do it with?” Meg snapped defensively, “Nicholas? Eleanor? Susan? Jennifer?”
Diana bit back a laugh at that last. At least until she realized uneasily how much that mental image stirred her libido.
“I just…I don’t want to disappoint you,” the younger woman finished softly, beginning to succumb to the tears welling in her eyes.
Violently shaking off the unexpected fantasy, Diana firmed her grip on Meg’s face and drew it centimeters from her own.
“I very much doubt I’ll be disappointed.”
Judging from Meg’s expression, she assumed the other woman hadn’t smelled her lie. But just in case…
Roughly, she pushed her now wife down onto the mattress, flat on her back, and forcefully planted both her wrists on either side of her head. She paused for only a moment to drink in the shock in those gray eyes before claiming her mouth in a passionate kiss. As she’d expected, it only took a few seconds for Meg to regroup and reciprocate.
Once Diana was satisfied that her bride was fully occupied, the fingers of her right hand languidly slid down her arm from wrist to shoulder to torso, where she gently stroked the other woman’s side through the satin-like fabric of the gown. Meg shuddered and instinctively drew herself closer to Diana’s body, causing the red-head to pull back her head and grin.
“Oh darling,” she whispered, playfully biting Meg’s lower lip, “if that gets you all riled up…”
“Sorry,” her lover croaked.
How many times had she endured that exact same conversation? More than she could count. And how many times had she enjoyed it? Just uttering the line made her feel dirty, and she decided to stray from her usual script.
It may be Meg’s first time, but it was Diana’s first time with a partner who actually gave a damn about her.
She did not intend to waste it.
Leaning in close to kiss along Meg’s jaw, the impish hand strayed from its post yet again to lightly trace the curve of her breast. Delicately pinching the now erect nipple, Diana’s left hand harmonized with the right, eliciting a chorus of soft gasps from their victim. Her mouth migrated to Meg’s neck, where the red-head alternated between tender licks and sharp, possessive bites.
This thing squirming beneath Diana belonged to her, in all senses now, and she intended to leave her mark on it; yet she had to be gentle, lest she damage this precious toy.
Meg tensed as Diana cupped both her breasts and roughly squeezed; that gorgeous face loomed above hers again, carnal hunger glinting in the depths of her icy eyes. It probably should have frightened her, but all the intense gaze succeeded in was an increase in her heart-rate-she prayed not to die of cardiac attack before this was over-and a not altogether unpleasant pang between her legs.
“Diana…” she whispered thickly.
“Dress. Off. Now.”
“Yes, Duchess.”
Incensed, the red-head tore at the gown separating her from her rightful claim, managing somehow to extricate Meg’s body from the dress without severe harm to either. Assorted undergarments joined the snow white article of clothing on the floor in short order, and Diana shed her own groom black.
Meg almost choked at the sight of her lover nude; she’d often imagined the secret curves of Diana’s body, based on the vague clues she’d garnered from studying how clothes fit her, but her true form struck her dumb. She knew that the red-head had exactly 67 freckles on her face, but that knowledge hadn’t prepared her for the adorable smattering sprinkled just above and between her breasts (strangely enough never visible when one stared at her cleavage). She knew every burgundy strand of the hair on Diana’s head, but was now introduced to the mischievous curly patch of the same color at the apex of her thighs (the right of which still sported that mysterious bandage). She knew how creamy and smooth her skin was during the day, but she had never imagined that in the dark like this it could absorb moonlight and emit it in an otherworldly glow.
“My dear Baroness,” Diana murmured, “one day you’ll have to show me how you hide that figure of yours.” She ran her fingertips hungrily over the younger woman’s ample, bare breasts, flat stomach and unblemished legs, before dragging them through her tangle of pubic hair (regular, boring black, Meg thought disdainfully) and making the blonde shudder.
With a self-satisfied smirk, Diana slipped her hand between Meg’s thighs, rubbing firmly but gently and she drew the bride in for another deep kiss. She swallowed every guttural moan ravenously, adjusting her pace either faster or slower according to the enthusiastic motion of the blonde’s hips.
Just as she felt the thrusts become desperate, Diana abruptly stopped, yanking away both her fingers and tongue and leaving Meg to stare at her in confused surprise. For a few moments the red-head studied the pleading longing swimming in her lover’s iron colored eyes, reveling in the surge of power this pathetic woman always seemed to supply, before pouncing on her.
A few sure strokes of the tongue reduced Meg to a quivering mass in Diana’s arms in mere seconds.
“Iloveyou…” the blonde mumbled as she collapsed into blissful slumber. This is how it’s supposed to be, she told herself, just before surrendering consciousness, so happy I didn’t kick out the chair after all...
For hours after Meg fell asleep, Diana studied the regular undulation of her breathing, wondering what the protocol called for now. She had made sex her profession, and though she hadn’t done anything particularly special with Meg, none of her clients had ever looked on her with the same fervor and desire after climax as during foreplay. Women always wanted to remain physically close afterward, as opposed to men who normally couldn’t get away fast enough, but this went far beyond that.
How long had Eleanor given Meg? A few weeks or a few months or maybe even a few years. Those were her exact words… Diana wasn’t sure how long she could keep up the loving husband façade, but she was willing to bet everything she owned that years were out of the question. Months were rather questionable too, and even weeks might be a stretch.
Sighing deeply, she affectionately ran her fingers through Meg’s curls a few times before planting a tender kiss on her forehead and rising to dress again. It would be so simple to slip outside and blend into the shadows once more. She couldn’t avoid causing this trusting creature pain, but at least this way she would avoid witnessing Meg’s suffering.
“I’m sorry,” she told the sleeping form of her wife as she quietly closed the door, “my debt isn’t repaid, but that’s all I can offer you.”
~~~~~
Perhaps it was age, perhaps it was the weather, perhaps it was the circumstances…but Diana was fairly certain that what was unsettling about Eleanor at the moment was her twisted mask of disgusted rage.
“Do you know what she said to me? Do you?!” This shouting was rather disconcerting as well. The Countess’ voice was not suited to this. “‘It’s my own fault, Eleanor. Falling into bed with the woman I’d dreamt about since I was a little girl…I was so stupid to think it would be happily ever after. What could she possibly see in me?’ It took her a whole decade to kill herself! Ten years-ten years-of waiting to make sure you were really gone, that she was truly free to take her own life!”
“You weren’t exactly truthful, either,” Diana countered lamely.
“You’re revolting,” Eleanor hissed and stalked off toward the cemetery exit.
In truth, the red-head felt rather ashamed of her cowardice in not attending the proper funeral, but she was fairly certain that had the bereaved Susan caught her, she would have suffered much worse than an uncharacteristic chastising. She just wished that this punishment hadn’t wounded her so.
Kneeling before the freshly carved stone, she traced the “Margaret” emblazoned on the face, while the mermaid ring, which she’d never had the heart to rid herself of, glinted on her finger, as if to remind her of what she’d come to do. Breathing deeply, she laid a single white rose at the foot of the grave and suppressed a shiver.
“I’m here to settle my debt,” she told the tombstone, producing the revolver she’d seduced away from Jennifer earlier that week, “I hope you’ll accept this as payment.”
-------------------------
Bah, curse you, OOC!Eleanor.
Back the grindstone...
Diana on the other hand had remained relatively sober, despite having cracked open the bottle shortly after they began the trek back to the city from Cardington, and barely relinquished it since. Now she gulped down the final contents of the container in an elaborate swig, sending Meg into yet another fit of chuckles.
The younger blonde gradually calmed, sitting solemnly on the edge of the bed-littered with rose petals, Diana noted with a rueful smirk-and staring at the threadwork in the rug.
“So. What now?”
“What do you mean, ‘what now’? It’s out wedding night,” the older woman replied, flippantly tossing her fiery hair. That got Meg’s attention.
“I know. But what exactly does that entail?” she asked, now staring.
“You’re not ten anymore.”
“I have to confess I don’t know much more than I did then,” Meg’s voice sounded strained, as if she were about to cry, “It’s just that I’m better read now.” Crossing the room, Diana knelt before her bride and took her face in her hands.
“You mean to tell me that you’ve never…”
The blonde shook her head sadly, while her lover gaped.
“Who was I supposed to do it with?” Meg snapped defensively, “Nicholas? Eleanor? Susan? Jennifer?”
Diana bit back a laugh at that last. At least until she realized uneasily how much that mental image stirred her libido.
“I just…I don’t want to disappoint you,” the younger woman finished softly, beginning to succumb to the tears welling in her eyes.
Violently shaking off the unexpected fantasy, Diana firmed her grip on Meg’s face and drew it centimeters from her own.
“I very much doubt I’ll be disappointed.”
Judging from Meg’s expression, she assumed the other woman hadn’t smelled her lie. But just in case…
Roughly, she pushed her now wife down onto the mattress, flat on her back, and forcefully planted both her wrists on either side of her head. She paused for only a moment to drink in the shock in those gray eyes before claiming her mouth in a passionate kiss. As she’d expected, it only took a few seconds for Meg to regroup and reciprocate.
Once Diana was satisfied that her bride was fully occupied, the fingers of her right hand languidly slid down her arm from wrist to shoulder to torso, where she gently stroked the other woman’s side through the satin-like fabric of the gown. Meg shuddered and instinctively drew herself closer to Diana’s body, causing the red-head to pull back her head and grin.
“Oh darling,” she whispered, playfully biting Meg’s lower lip, “if that gets you all riled up…”
“Sorry,” her lover croaked.
How many times had she endured that exact same conversation? More than she could count. And how many times had she enjoyed it? Just uttering the line made her feel dirty, and she decided to stray from her usual script.
It may be Meg’s first time, but it was Diana’s first time with a partner who actually gave a damn about her.
She did not intend to waste it.
Leaning in close to kiss along Meg’s jaw, the impish hand strayed from its post yet again to lightly trace the curve of her breast. Delicately pinching the now erect nipple, Diana’s left hand harmonized with the right, eliciting a chorus of soft gasps from their victim. Her mouth migrated to Meg’s neck, where the red-head alternated between tender licks and sharp, possessive bites.
This thing squirming beneath Diana belonged to her, in all senses now, and she intended to leave her mark on it; yet she had to be gentle, lest she damage this precious toy.
Meg tensed as Diana cupped both her breasts and roughly squeezed; that gorgeous face loomed above hers again, carnal hunger glinting in the depths of her icy eyes. It probably should have frightened her, but all the intense gaze succeeded in was an increase in her heart-rate-she prayed not to die of cardiac attack before this was over-and a not altogether unpleasant pang between her legs.
“Diana…” she whispered thickly.
“Dress. Off. Now.”
“Yes, Duchess.”
Incensed, the red-head tore at the gown separating her from her rightful claim, managing somehow to extricate Meg’s body from the dress without severe harm to either. Assorted undergarments joined the snow white article of clothing on the floor in short order, and Diana shed her own groom black.
Meg almost choked at the sight of her lover nude; she’d often imagined the secret curves of Diana’s body, based on the vague clues she’d garnered from studying how clothes fit her, but her true form struck her dumb. She knew that the red-head had exactly 67 freckles on her face, but that knowledge hadn’t prepared her for the adorable smattering sprinkled just above and between her breasts (strangely enough never visible when one stared at her cleavage). She knew every burgundy strand of the hair on Diana’s head, but was now introduced to the mischievous curly patch of the same color at the apex of her thighs (the right of which still sported that mysterious bandage). She knew how creamy and smooth her skin was during the day, but she had never imagined that in the dark like this it could absorb moonlight and emit it in an otherworldly glow.
“My dear Baroness,” Diana murmured, “one day you’ll have to show me how you hide that figure of yours.” She ran her fingertips hungrily over the younger woman’s ample, bare breasts, flat stomach and unblemished legs, before dragging them through her tangle of pubic hair (regular, boring black, Meg thought disdainfully) and making the blonde shudder.
With a self-satisfied smirk, Diana slipped her hand between Meg’s thighs, rubbing firmly but gently and she drew the bride in for another deep kiss. She swallowed every guttural moan ravenously, adjusting her pace either faster or slower according to the enthusiastic motion of the blonde’s hips.
Just as she felt the thrusts become desperate, Diana abruptly stopped, yanking away both her fingers and tongue and leaving Meg to stare at her in confused surprise. For a few moments the red-head studied the pleading longing swimming in her lover’s iron colored eyes, reveling in the surge of power this pathetic woman always seemed to supply, before pouncing on her.
A few sure strokes of the tongue reduced Meg to a quivering mass in Diana’s arms in mere seconds.
“Iloveyou…” the blonde mumbled as she collapsed into blissful slumber. This is how it’s supposed to be, she told herself, just before surrendering consciousness, so happy I didn’t kick out the chair after all...
For hours after Meg fell asleep, Diana studied the regular undulation of her breathing, wondering what the protocol called for now. She had made sex her profession, and though she hadn’t done anything particularly special with Meg, none of her clients had ever looked on her with the same fervor and desire after climax as during foreplay. Women always wanted to remain physically close afterward, as opposed to men who normally couldn’t get away fast enough, but this went far beyond that.
How long had Eleanor given Meg? A few weeks or a few months or maybe even a few years. Those were her exact words… Diana wasn’t sure how long she could keep up the loving husband façade, but she was willing to bet everything she owned that years were out of the question. Months were rather questionable too, and even weeks might be a stretch.
Sighing deeply, she affectionately ran her fingers through Meg’s curls a few times before planting a tender kiss on her forehead and rising to dress again. It would be so simple to slip outside and blend into the shadows once more. She couldn’t avoid causing this trusting creature pain, but at least this way she would avoid witnessing Meg’s suffering.
“I’m sorry,” she told the sleeping form of her wife as she quietly closed the door, “my debt isn’t repaid, but that’s all I can offer you.”
~~~~~
Perhaps it was age, perhaps it was the weather, perhaps it was the circumstances…but Diana was fairly certain that what was unsettling about Eleanor at the moment was her twisted mask of disgusted rage.
“Do you know what she said to me? Do you?!” This shouting was rather disconcerting as well. The Countess’ voice was not suited to this. “‘It’s my own fault, Eleanor. Falling into bed with the woman I’d dreamt about since I was a little girl…I was so stupid to think it would be happily ever after. What could she possibly see in me?’ It took her a whole decade to kill herself! Ten years-ten years-of waiting to make sure you were really gone, that she was truly free to take her own life!”
“You weren’t exactly truthful, either,” Diana countered lamely.
“You’re revolting,” Eleanor hissed and stalked off toward the cemetery exit.
In truth, the red-head felt rather ashamed of her cowardice in not attending the proper funeral, but she was fairly certain that had the bereaved Susan caught her, she would have suffered much worse than an uncharacteristic chastising. She just wished that this punishment hadn’t wounded her so.
Kneeling before the freshly carved stone, she traced the “Margaret” emblazoned on the face, while the mermaid ring, which she’d never had the heart to rid herself of, glinted on her finger, as if to remind her of what she’d come to do. Breathing deeply, she laid a single white rose at the foot of the grave and suppressed a shiver.
“I’m here to settle my debt,” she told the tombstone, producing the revolver she’d seduced away from Jennifer earlier that week, “I hope you’ll accept this as payment.”
-------------------------
Bah, curse you, OOC!Eleanor.
Back the grindstone...