"Elsa" - Homeland Erotic Fanfiction - Part 1
Carrie's not coping. Saul and Quinn have figured out a way to help. Gentle Reader, I'm sure you've already guessed how ;) This story is set mid-Season Two before Carrie re-ignited her romance with Brody. It contains no original character called Elsa - the name becomes significant later in the story. It's rated NC-17 so if you don't like your fiction mature - even when it does contains Inigo Montoya! - you probably don't want to read this...
Elsa
“And what half-assed psychology course led you to this conclusion, Quinn?”
“Listen to me. Whatever approach we eventually decide to take, there’s one incontrovertible fact. Carrie cannot be allowed to go on like this. Her illness is no longer bolstering her intellect, Saul, it’s destroying it. And more medication will soften her rough edges too much. The connections she’s making between these new guys, there’s nothing to link them to Abu Nazir, nothing. I went into her hotel suite yesterday and nearly got caught in a mantrap. Literally. She’s got photos all over the floor and lengths of string connecting them, you can’t move from one room to another without lacerating your ankles - “
“I’ve learnt never to underestimate Carrie’s capacity to synthesize information and draw valid conclusions from it. I’d be a fool if I did. It’s just her method of presenting her conclusions to others that needs working on, and this drive in her to pick and probe at a problem until she’s turned herself inside out in the process.”
“You trust her, don’t you?”
“Implicitly.”
“Of course you do. You know her. She’s your protégé and you’re the one who’s watched her blossom. That’s why I can’t do this without you.”
“Quinn - she’s not gonna go for it. She doesn’t think of me that way.”
“You’re lying. You told me yourself she once offered herself to you.”
“When her bipolar mania was at its height! She’d have done anything to get what she wanted.”
“Yet one of the first things she thought of was offering to sleep with you. How telling.”
Saul sighed and hung his great head.
“What’s the alternative? Leave her the way she is?”
“No, no, no - you don’t understand.” Carrie scurried around her ‘art installation’, moving the large print photos like counters on a game board. She angrily pushed back the long, vanilla-blond hair that dangled in her face yet was too distracted to go get herself a hairband. “There’s a connection between these guys,” she slapped the edges of two photos together, “but I have no proof, no proof.”
“Carrie - I believe you,” said Quinn.
“No, you don’t. No-one gets it the way I get it.”
“Saul’s on the case right now. And you trust him, don’t you?”
She was up and across the room, leaping athletically from one rare clear spot to another. She placed herself directly in front of Quinn and met him eye-to-eye.
He responded to her invasion of personal body space by putting his hands in his trouser pockets and raising an eyebrow.
“Why is action being taken that doesn’t involve me? I’m a great field worker, I can crack this case. Take me to Saul.”
“Eau de Nil.”
“What?”
“I’ve been trying to work out what colour your eyes are. Blue-green but not turquoise. Nile water. Eau de Nil.”
Her laugh was part sarcastic gasp, part shy rejection of a compliment. She shook her head as if trying to shake off the blush that had tip-toed into her cheeks.
“How long is it since you last ate?”
“You’re trying to suggest I’m incompetent!”
“You’re not operating at your optimum because you’ve not been taking care of yourself. When did you last eat?”
Carrie turned from left to right, flapping her arms dismissively. “Yesterday. Lunchtime, afternoon, I don’t remember. I had a Snickers.”
“When did you last sleep?”
She didn’t even attempt to answer that one. She only shrugged.
“When did you last come?”
“Come - where?”
“When did you last have an orgasm?” He leant forward, his serious look utterly belying the prurient nature of the question.
“Quinn - what the fuck! What has that got to do with anything? Stop trying to distract me from the case.”
“You need to feel distracted - exhausted. Not in the way your bipolar disorder exhausts you but in an animal way. Then you’ll be able to look at this case with fresh eyes and a clear mind.”
As she stepped back from him, still laughing uncertainly, Quinn’s physical presence came into focus, shadow become man. The top few buttons of his silver-grey shirt sat open. His height and the width of his shoulders made him loom shadow-large before the door of her suite, although he was not a heavily-built man. Carrie felt a sweet tinge of apprehension alongside the annoyance she felt whenever she spoke to Quinn. His honesty always made her feel like a hypocrite. But was he being serious? He was a serious man but when his sense of humour did make an appearance, it was Death Valley dry. How could she tell which he was being now? “Oh, okay, I was unaware a ‘cure’ has been found for bipolar disorder - Peter Quinn’s cock.”
“It will help.”
She fixed him, frowning, with her sea-green stare. “Listen to yourself,” she said.
He stepped forward and grasped her elbow; looked down intently into her bright face. “It’s time to let go of all that shit, Carrie. It’s not working for you anymore. Those guys you pick up in bars, all they ever do is scratch an itch, leave you wanting more, wanting better. You can let go and find that with me. You can’t possibly shock me - you can be yourself.”
Her entire face trembled with something like anger but not quite. “You arrogant bastard,” she hissed. She pulled her arm out of his grasp and turned her back. Within three seconds, however, she had spun round again and she dived for him, tongue-first, pulling his dark head down to meet hers as she did so. It was a challenge - her eyes were wide open.
Quinn responded by clamping down on her tongue and sucking it into his mouth. He pushed her up against the wall so suddenly, her feet slid and he took the opportunity while she was unbalanced to jam his hips between her thighs. He drew back from the kiss and looked down at her hips as he grabbed them and jigged his crotch against hers - tiny electric movements designed to let her know exactly what was coming. Then he lunged forward and bit her neck hard.
Carrie screamed before she could stop herself. She felt like a pinned insect with her neck exposed and her skirt riding up around her waist. She bared her own teeth and thumped his shoulder impotently. “I hate you,” she whispered.
He came up from her neck slowly, licking all the way, along her neck, her strong jawline, across her lips, defying her not to let him in. She kissed him back fiercely, their lips hard and fighting each other for dominance. Two strong hands slid up her blouse and undid her bra clasp. Breaking the kiss, Quinn stepped back and pulled off both her white blouse and her bra over her head in one. Throwing them to one side, he pushed her back again, his arms stretching up so his hands were flat on the wall above her head. He began to slide against her so the shiny fabric of his shirt grazed her hardening nipples.
Carrie found her face was pressed into the well of Quinn’s throat just above that tantalising glimpse of bare chest. She began to rub her mouth - her whole face - against his skin, breathing him in, tasting him, finally showing the degree of abandonment he’d clearly been searching for.
A hand quickly found its way under skirt and into her panties, and two fingers suddenly pierced her opening.
Carrie had never been a fan of preamble-less digital penetration and decided now wasn’t the time to start pretending she was. He needed to learn. She pushed at him with her shoulders, forcing back his squashing weight and for a moment, they struggled together, grabbing and pushing one against the other until Quinn got hold of Carrie’s hand and pressed it against his gun in its holster just below his left armpit. Her fingers splayed as she touched it, its sinister hardness a language they both understood. She let out the tense breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding and looked up in a sultry fashion into his rain-coloured eyes. He returned the same hooded, avid look, the government agent in both of them pacing behind their eyes like tethered dogs. Death was in the air here, visibly, as it always is though lovers deny it with sweet nothings. Let those lies be gone, Carrie thought. Slowly, she began to move her hand up and down as if stroking his prick rather than his gun. They both knew he should take it off. He wasn’t going to.
It was Quinn who broke the moment, dropping to his knees and thrusting his hands beneath her skirt. As he ripped down her panties, Carrie gasped, stepping out of them eagerly, her hand coming down to bury itself in his dark hair. Before she had time to tilt her pelvis towards him like the greedy pleasure-seeker she was, however, he was back on his feet again and lifting her up. She wrapped her legs around his waist, knowing full well her slenderness meant men could happily throw her around like a ragdoll on a rollercoaster, which she loved. Her knee grazed against his holster and she groaned.
He lifted her away from the wall and spun her round before smacking her against it again, this time much closer to the huge window that ran the length of her suite. They were ten storeys up, not visible to people on the streets below but certainly visible to the occupants of other tower blocks if they had the same array of telescopes and binoculars on the windowsill that Carrie had. She cringed a little at how on show they were, her eyes flicking nervously towards the light.
Quinn’s eyes followed hers and he suddenly let her go, as if disappointed in her. He strolled over to the window, unbuckling his trousers as he went. With bold, no-nonsense movements, he pulled his briefs down at the front and drew out his cock. It was rock-hard, its acute angle a defiant challenge to an uptight world.
Well, that solved one mystery for Carrie. She’d never been sure he was genuinely attracted to her - how could you tell with Quinn? - but she doubted he’d be as hard as he clearly was if he wasn’t.
He reached into his trouser pocket and drew out a small, square package. Carrie winced with disappointment as Quinn took out the condom and rolled it over his prick - it was logical, though, considering how promiscuous they both were. But she had so been looking forward (at least, for the last ten minutes or so) to the silky feeling of his cock inside her, the burst of cum against her womb.
Turning on his heel, he came back to her and kissed her deeply, his tongue probing her mouth the way his cock would soon be probing her pussy. Joyfully, she opened to him, her mouth wide and accepting as she jumped up again to clasp him with her thighs. The head of his cock found her pussy and he rubbed himself across it a few times before pressing forward and sliding the head inside.
She cried out and then the rest of his cock followed, staking her and it was time for moaning. Quinn nuzzled into her neck and shoulder as he began to fuck her in earnest, occasionally turning his head to watch as he ran a hand appreciatively along one athletic thigh.
Carrie put her head back and gave herself up to the pleasure of being stoked, the relentless, pounding rhythm. Then an image flashed through her mind - Brody fucking her in the same position, exactly the same conflicting emotions of attraction and hatred flooding through her. The one difference was that this time, there was no love. It was just her letting fucking Peter Quinn fuck her. Her eyes flew open and she looked down at his jerking shoulders, felt his hollow cheek and neat hair brushing against her face. In that moment, she truly hated him, resented the way he made her feel. She dug her fingernails into his flesh and when his head came up, she turned away angrily from his kisses.
He was banging her faster now, his orgasm approaching. Carrie’s eyes slid up to watch his face in a detached way, as one might watch a fly writhing in a spider’s web. He was panting, great heaving gasps as if expelling all the air from his lungs with every exhalation. Those cold eyes were squeezed shut and that shutdown face showed pinpoints of vulnerability bleeding through. Peter Quinn - helpless? This was worth watching. Carrie began to drink him in, her lips curling in an unpleasant smile. She thrust back with her own hips, squeezing him tight over and over. When he moved in to kiss her, she took his bottom lip between her teeth and bit hard. He gave a shout muffled by her mouth and came, jerking his hips violently against her.
Quinn took a long time to finish his orgasm. When self-consciousness might have crept in with most men causing them to pull out sooner than they would like, Quinn continued to enjoy the fading spasms, still giving the odd thrust with his softening cock as the pleasure slowly dissipated. Carrie, who had not yet come, felt an urge to reach down and finish herself off right in front of him. Decorum piped up, however, before she could give in to her true feelings and when Quinn finally pulled out of her, she made haste to pull her skirt down and cover her bare crotch.
Quinn pulled off the condom, tied a knot in it and moved off to the bathroom without saying a word. As she slipped her blouse back on, Carrie caught sight of her flushed-cheek reflection in the window. She had no idea whether she felt proud of or disgusted with herself.
“Your shower’s not working.”
“Oh, yeah, it’s not been working since yesterday. I meant to call reception but…”
“But what?”
“But I forgot! I’ve had a lot of pretty important things on my mind. Abu Nazir’s followers are in this country, I’m sure of it. There’s something -“
Quinn poked his head round the bathroom door. “We’ll use my suite, then. You’ll need to have a shower before this evening.”
“Why, what’s happening this evening?”
“What do you think?” He narrowed his eyes. “What do you think this was?”
She stared up at him from beneath a coy fall of hair. “I thought it was - pretty good actually!”
He came back into the lounge, side-stepping her ‘art installation’ and picked up the rucksack he’d brought with him. “This was foreplay. The serious fucking begins tonight.”
“Quinn - I got a lot of things I need to be doing -“
“Do them tomorrow. Not tonight.” He reached inside the rucksack and drew out two items, both of which he tossed to her. “Keys to my suite. Make yourself at home. And use that.”
It was a black object that consisted of a nozzle and a squeezy bulb. “A douche?” she said with surprise. “But you used a condom.”
He made a crisp, negative motion with his head. “I don’t want you to use it on your pussy.” He chucked her under the chin and left.
It was getting dark. Carrie’s face was lit by the blue, faery glow of her laptop. She hadn’t been able to resist bringing it over to Quinn’s suite with her. She had just checked her email and was about to hit the underground areas of the internet when the memory of that cool pipe crept up on her. She had done as he’d asked, prepared that most private place for him. Now the anticipation of what he might do shivered through her, and she knew it was time to put away work and get ready for play.
Serious play.
Carrie stepped into the shower and began to lather herself up, working from the top downwards. She wanted to be thoroughly scrubbed, shaved and exfoliated then perfectly made-up and coiffed in readiness. She owed it to him to look her best if he were going to such lengths for her. She smiled as she thought of that steel of his bending to her will. Determined though she was, she found it remarkably easy to become distracted from her goal. As she soaped around her breasts, she found herself rolling her nipples between finger and thumb, putting her head back and letting the spray from the showerhead course down her chest. In her mind’s eye, she stood in the doorway to her suite, Quinn merely an arm’s length from her. He pulled down the cups of her bra and took both of those nipples in a pincer-like grip, twisting and pulling on them cruelly. Such honest sadism made her bare her teeth and breathe sharply. Then she remembered.
There’d been an incident several months ago now when she and Quinn had been on a stakeout together in an unmarked car, him with surveillance equipment in the back; her, driving. It had been a long night and they were taking it in turns to monitor or sleep. The manic phase of Carrie’s bipolar disorder had just begun to flare, accompanied as always by a heightened libido. Combine that rampant energy with being expected to sit still for hours on end and it was bad news. As Quinn had slept in the back, she’d been overcome with an urge to masturbate. Her pussy had begun to throb as if from some relentless, delicious itch inside. She’d started to squirm. Her nipples had become hard inside her formal blouse and they, too, were plaguing her for release. For three quarters of an hour, she’d resisted, transforming her squirming motions into attempts to get more comfortable, focusing on the house they were watching with an intense frown, constantly checking Quinn’s sleeping face in the rear-view mirror. He had always struck her as the kind of agent who slept with one eye open but his face had taken on the squashy look of someone deep in dreamland. Cute. How bad would it be of her to rub her pussy while Quinn slept in the back? How ashamed would she be if he caught her? Perhaps he’d lean over her, reprimanding her sternly while his hard cock strained against the material of his trousers and made a liar of him.
Carrie had found she could just about slide her hand under the waistband of her trousers and stroke her pussy over her panties. Her face had remained blank and her eyes, rooted to the front door of the house or her partner’s reflection, belying the intense rush of excitement she was feeling. Despite the awkwardness of her position, her orgasm had approached fast. She’d decided to risk worming a second hand inside her blouse and pinching one of her nipples the way she loved best. As she’d come, she’d cast an apprehensive glance towards the rear-view mirror and seen Quinn’s eyelashes flutter. Was he waking up? she’d wondered. It was too late, her compact orgasm had shuddered through her and as soon as it was done, she’d removed a wet wipe from the glove compartment, wiped off her hand and checked her own reflection for appropriate stoniness. It was good. Two minutes later, Quinn had yawned and opened his eyes. But Carrie had never quite been sure he hadn’t woken up earlier and kept discreetly still.
In the most delightful transport now, Carrie watched the soap slip around in her hands, the lather building into a white film, then she pressed one hand against the glass wall of the shower and slid the forefinger of the other into her rectum. She gently probed, imagining Quinn behind her, pushing her towards the huge picture window of her suite until her naked body slammed up against it, exposed to the world. She pressed herself against the shower glass, sliding her slippery body against it. In her mind’s eye, Quinn was preparing to impale her ass with his hard-on and she was crying out, “No, Peter, please, not there, you’re splitting me open - agghh! - it hurts it hurts..!” And then it was all keening to the people in the buildings opposite, “Look at me, see me getting my ass fucked, I’m being sodomised…” With her other hand, she began to vibrate her clit -
Clunk! went the door to the suite. Carrie froze. Shit! How much time had she wasted in manic fantasising and self-abuse? All she’d managed to do was wash and shave - her hair was wet and she didn’t have a scrap of make-up on. She jumped out of the shower and wrapped a white towel around herself. Wiping down the steamed-up mirror, she saw her own face reflected - shiny and pink-cheeked as a Victorian doll’s. She cursed herself and splashed on cold water then sought out another towel so she could at least dry off her hair.