v_angelique
in
rpfs
Fic: From the Bottom of Your Need (Lotrips, Cate Blanchett/Miranda Otto)
Title: From the Bottom of Your Need (Sequel to A Bene Placito)
Pairing: Cate Blanchett/Miranda Otto
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not true!
Summary: Cate celebrates her birthday but can't quite focus her thoughts where they should be.
A/N: Click the link for the sequel; it's highly recommended to read them in order.
The glass is almost comically huge in her hand, and heavy as the wine inside, sharp and dense with tanins. She stands against a wall, taking a moment to breathe, biding her time until someone else wanders over to wish her well. Forty feels completely fucking old, and her body is too warm, a combination of the alcohol and all the bloody people crowded into the ballroom and her uncomfortable dress and Miranda's hot stare, those knowing eyes framed by loosely curled locks of auburn hair.
Cate's cream-coloured gown is long enough to brush the floor, her hair swept up and back. It is a very public party, and Andrew is schmoozing with a potential donor for the theatre five hundred feet away. He's telling the man about their autumn schedule and all Cate can do is picture three of Miranda's fingers shoved up her cunt and that waxy burnt sienna lipstick pressed against her neck.
Someone takes Miranda's elbow and she smiles graciously, chatting with a man Cate doesn't recognize. Miranda is dressed all herself this evening, no roles to play. Her dress is short and playfully sexy, with a slit midway up the thigh. The colour is a bright lemon yellow, and she wears the kind of strappy heels she dons when she wants men to look at her. She laughs brightly at the one who's talking to her now, and Cate bites her lip and looks away. It isn't that Andrew minds their relationship; he knows that Miranda gives her something that he cannot and that doesn't bother him as it would most men, but it's still uncomfortable having him in the room when Cate's knickers are getting so wet at the mere sight of her lover. She sighs in frustration and leaves the ballroom in search of some air.
There's a side door out of the hotel on the ground floor, and she slips out without anyone noticing, into the empty night under the pool of light from a street lamp next to the parking garage. Her heels sink into the dirt between identical decorative plantings on a little birm that rises from the kerb, and she stretches her arms over her head, clasping one thin wrist in the opposite hand as the handbag slides down to her shoulder. She looks overhead at the faintly visible stars, dulled by city lights, and she is just beginning to get dizzy when a merry symphony sounds next to her ear. It lasts only a moment and by the time she digs her mobile out it's displaying a text message.
Room 478. Back stairs. Two minutes.
Cate sucks hard on a lungful of air to stave off the urge to press her hand hard over her cunt, and she notes the time on the display diligently, biting her lip again as she waits. Images rise instantly to the surface of her mind - scratchy hotel duvet, Miranda's thigh escaping her skirt entirely, a stern look, a growl, a lightning fast orgasm and dirty words in her ear. As soon as it's time, she practically runs for the stairs, but composes herself, checking to make sure no one's standing around in the hallways. She's eternally grateful that she makes it unnoticed, her heels clacking on the concrete steps as she moves faster now, breathing heavily after four flights. She finds the door and raps quickly; it's flung open and she's tugged inside but there isn't the passionate kiss she would have liked, just the lock clicking and Miranda coolly walking past her, sitting in a chair and picking up a glass of gin.
"You're a dirty fucking slut."
Cate stares at her, and she isn't quite sure where her head is yet. She's still panting from the stairs, still wet, still surging with the tingle of need that is unique to Miranda. Her muscles are trembling slightly from a combination of the three.
"Hike your dress up."
Cate frowns and bends down, gathering the hem up and lifting it to her waist, holding it bunched there and watching Miranda expectantly.
"Spread your legs wide and bend over the side of the bed. Hold onto the other end of the mattress."
She can just barely do it, but she curls her fingers around and gets a good grip, her stomach pressing the fabric of her gown in place. Her knickers are white and lacy, as she's expected something tonight, but not from Miranda. The air feels cool around her pussy and she shivers as Miranda stands, silently inspecting her.
"You couldn't concentrate on your own fucking birthday party. You were so horny for me it was making your head ache."
Cate lets out the smallest sound. Miranda is goddamned fucking intuitive, but she shouldn't be unnerved by it after so long.
She expects a spanking, but it doesn't come. Miranda rubs her thumb against Cate's arsehole through the lace, and she tenses up but at the same time feels another flood from her core, soaking through the knickers. She's bundled up tight like a coil and the pressure against that taboo spot is making her clit throb with want. Miranda strokes then with her fingers, up from perineum to the base of Cate's spine, underneath her dress. She repeats the motion ten times, feather light, and Cate's body starts to rock helplessly. Miranda laughs and tugs the knickers to the side, the fabric stretching uncomfortably into the crease between pubic bone and thigh, and she holds them there as she plunges three fingers into Cate's cunt.
"Yes!" she cries out in a whisper, and Miranda curls them up hard, as if she's trying to seize Cate's pussy. The fingers leave her and she whimpers, then Miranda yanks her knickers down, manipulating her legs, getting her back in position as she shoves them into Cate's mouth. She moans in humiliation as she bites the fabric, the taste of her own arousal harsh against her tongue. Miranda slips her fingers back inside, but this time she uses the other hand to rub Cate's clit.
"If I had a cock I'd shove it up inside you," Miranda hisses, and Cate bites down harder, a muffled cry escaping her throat. "That's what you want. You want me to invade your tight little pussy, Catie, I know you. You're soaking my hand."
Miranda knows, of course, that Cate's quickness to self-lubricate embarrasses, even humiliates her, that it bothers her that her body is designed to make her easy. She knows that just like she knows that Cate feels safe here, and that Cate likes to feel shame, that it turns her on from that deep place inside that only Miranda can access. She knows that just like they both know that Miranda would never exploit that trust.
Miranda slips her pinkie in, and Cate moans loudly when she realises what Miranda is going to do, trying to shift her legs wider.
"Yeah, that's it," Miranda growls. "Give me a squeeze, bitch, let me know you like it."
Cate whimpers as she clamps down on Miranda's fingers, the pressure making her even more wet. She's dripping down Miranda's wrist, and she's so turned on that it's almost an out of body experience. Miranda strokes the fantasy of a big butch woman, a woman who'd fuck her with a cigarette in one hand, the other on the back of Cate's neck. She hasn't told Miranda that fantasy, but Miranda finds these things effortlessly, nodes of her personality touching all of Cate's secret deeply buried kinks. She revels in the shame of it, and humps the mattress frantically as Miranda pushes her fingers firmly against the tissue, massaging Cate's g-spot until she bursts, screaming around the gag and coming uncontrollably. Miranda wiggles her thumb in, her hand curling up into a fist inside Cate even as she's spasming around it. Tears are streaming down her face as Miranda rocks her fist, the fingers of her other hand slowly stroking Cate's clit. She closes her eyes and lets herself go, envisioning her body as an extension of that solid force inside her, her entire body forming a glove to house not only Miranda's fist but her own overwhelming arousal. The ticklish stroking soothes her even as her body reaches in frustration for another orgasm, and she relaxes outside of herself, moaning and giving over to Miranda's manipulations. It takes time, but Miranda doesn't complain, and gradually Cate realises that the pressure against her clit has increased, that her body is burning from her pussy outward, and that she is mumbling Miranda's name wordlessly against the spit-soaked gag. Her orgasm lasts for not mere seconds but perhaps a full minute, and she is exhausted beyond belief when it is over, when Miranda gently slides her fist out and Cate's pussy clenches in fear at the emptiness. Miranda rolls her over and she feels used and debauched but she only blinks up at her as Miranda pulls her knickers out of her mouth, as she bends over and kisses her softly, stroking her face. Miranda murmurs sweet, unlikely things as she strokes herself fiercely, sitting on Cate's belly with the dress and Miranda's own skirt bunched in a pile that obscures her pubis. All Cate sees is the fierce possessive stare, the perfect round "o" of Miranda's mouth, the halting gasps, the expansion of her ribcage, the clenching of Miranda's stomach as she cries out. She blinks up and tries to love her silently, in the only way she can. Miranda's head comes to rest between her breasts, and she lets that be enough.
Pairing: Cate Blanchett/Miranda Otto
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: Not true!
Summary: Cate celebrates her birthday but can't quite focus her thoughts where they should be.
A/N: Click the link for the sequel; it's highly recommended to read them in order.
The glass is almost comically huge in her hand, and heavy as the wine inside, sharp and dense with tanins. She stands against a wall, taking a moment to breathe, biding her time until someone else wanders over to wish her well. Forty feels completely fucking old, and her body is too warm, a combination of the alcohol and all the bloody people crowded into the ballroom and her uncomfortable dress and Miranda's hot stare, those knowing eyes framed by loosely curled locks of auburn hair.
Cate's cream-coloured gown is long enough to brush the floor, her hair swept up and back. It is a very public party, and Andrew is schmoozing with a potential donor for the theatre five hundred feet away. He's telling the man about their autumn schedule and all Cate can do is picture three of Miranda's fingers shoved up her cunt and that waxy burnt sienna lipstick pressed against her neck.
Someone takes Miranda's elbow and she smiles graciously, chatting with a man Cate doesn't recognize. Miranda is dressed all herself this evening, no roles to play. Her dress is short and playfully sexy, with a slit midway up the thigh. The colour is a bright lemon yellow, and she wears the kind of strappy heels she dons when she wants men to look at her. She laughs brightly at the one who's talking to her now, and Cate bites her lip and looks away. It isn't that Andrew minds their relationship; he knows that Miranda gives her something that he cannot and that doesn't bother him as it would most men, but it's still uncomfortable having him in the room when Cate's knickers are getting so wet at the mere sight of her lover. She sighs in frustration and leaves the ballroom in search of some air.
There's a side door out of the hotel on the ground floor, and she slips out without anyone noticing, into the empty night under the pool of light from a street lamp next to the parking garage. Her heels sink into the dirt between identical decorative plantings on a little birm that rises from the kerb, and she stretches her arms over her head, clasping one thin wrist in the opposite hand as the handbag slides down to her shoulder. She looks overhead at the faintly visible stars, dulled by city lights, and she is just beginning to get dizzy when a merry symphony sounds next to her ear. It lasts only a moment and by the time she digs her mobile out it's displaying a text message.
Room 478. Back stairs. Two minutes.
Cate sucks hard on a lungful of air to stave off the urge to press her hand hard over her cunt, and she notes the time on the display diligently, biting her lip again as she waits. Images rise instantly to the surface of her mind - scratchy hotel duvet, Miranda's thigh escaping her skirt entirely, a stern look, a growl, a lightning fast orgasm and dirty words in her ear. As soon as it's time, she practically runs for the stairs, but composes herself, checking to make sure no one's standing around in the hallways. She's eternally grateful that she makes it unnoticed, her heels clacking on the concrete steps as she moves faster now, breathing heavily after four flights. She finds the door and raps quickly; it's flung open and she's tugged inside but there isn't the passionate kiss she would have liked, just the lock clicking and Miranda coolly walking past her, sitting in a chair and picking up a glass of gin.
"You're a dirty fucking slut."
Cate stares at her, and she isn't quite sure where her head is yet. She's still panting from the stairs, still wet, still surging with the tingle of need that is unique to Miranda. Her muscles are trembling slightly from a combination of the three.
"Hike your dress up."
Cate frowns and bends down, gathering the hem up and lifting it to her waist, holding it bunched there and watching Miranda expectantly.
"Spread your legs wide and bend over the side of the bed. Hold onto the other end of the mattress."
She can just barely do it, but she curls her fingers around and gets a good grip, her stomach pressing the fabric of her gown in place. Her knickers are white and lacy, as she's expected something tonight, but not from Miranda. The air feels cool around her pussy and she shivers as Miranda stands, silently inspecting her.
"You couldn't concentrate on your own fucking birthday party. You were so horny for me it was making your head ache."
Cate lets out the smallest sound. Miranda is goddamned fucking intuitive, but she shouldn't be unnerved by it after so long.
She expects a spanking, but it doesn't come. Miranda rubs her thumb against Cate's arsehole through the lace, and she tenses up but at the same time feels another flood from her core, soaking through the knickers. She's bundled up tight like a coil and the pressure against that taboo spot is making her clit throb with want. Miranda strokes then with her fingers, up from perineum to the base of Cate's spine, underneath her dress. She repeats the motion ten times, feather light, and Cate's body starts to rock helplessly. Miranda laughs and tugs the knickers to the side, the fabric stretching uncomfortably into the crease between pubic bone and thigh, and she holds them there as she plunges three fingers into Cate's cunt.
"Yes!" she cries out in a whisper, and Miranda curls them up hard, as if she's trying to seize Cate's pussy. The fingers leave her and she whimpers, then Miranda yanks her knickers down, manipulating her legs, getting her back in position as she shoves them into Cate's mouth. She moans in humiliation as she bites the fabric, the taste of her own arousal harsh against her tongue. Miranda slips her fingers back inside, but this time she uses the other hand to rub Cate's clit.
"If I had a cock I'd shove it up inside you," Miranda hisses, and Cate bites down harder, a muffled cry escaping her throat. "That's what you want. You want me to invade your tight little pussy, Catie, I know you. You're soaking my hand."
Miranda knows, of course, that Cate's quickness to self-lubricate embarrasses, even humiliates her, that it bothers her that her body is designed to make her easy. She knows that just like she knows that Cate feels safe here, and that Cate likes to feel shame, that it turns her on from that deep place inside that only Miranda can access. She knows that just like they both know that Miranda would never exploit that trust.
Miranda slips her pinkie in, and Cate moans loudly when she realises what Miranda is going to do, trying to shift her legs wider.
"Yeah, that's it," Miranda growls. "Give me a squeeze, bitch, let me know you like it."
Cate whimpers as she clamps down on Miranda's fingers, the pressure making her even more wet. She's dripping down Miranda's wrist, and she's so turned on that it's almost an out of body experience. Miranda strokes the fantasy of a big butch woman, a woman who'd fuck her with a cigarette in one hand, the other on the back of Cate's neck. She hasn't told Miranda that fantasy, but Miranda finds these things effortlessly, nodes of her personality touching all of Cate's secret deeply buried kinks. She revels in the shame of it, and humps the mattress frantically as Miranda pushes her fingers firmly against the tissue, massaging Cate's g-spot until she bursts, screaming around the gag and coming uncontrollably. Miranda wiggles her thumb in, her hand curling up into a fist inside Cate even as she's spasming around it. Tears are streaming down her face as Miranda rocks her fist, the fingers of her other hand slowly stroking Cate's clit. She closes her eyes and lets herself go, envisioning her body as an extension of that solid force inside her, her entire body forming a glove to house not only Miranda's fist but her own overwhelming arousal. The ticklish stroking soothes her even as her body reaches in frustration for another orgasm, and she relaxes outside of herself, moaning and giving over to Miranda's manipulations. It takes time, but Miranda doesn't complain, and gradually Cate realises that the pressure against her clit has increased, that her body is burning from her pussy outward, and that she is mumbling Miranda's name wordlessly against the spit-soaked gag. Her orgasm lasts for not mere seconds but perhaps a full minute, and she is exhausted beyond belief when it is over, when Miranda gently slides her fist out and Cate's pussy clenches in fear at the emptiness. Miranda rolls her over and she feels used and debauched but she only blinks up at her as Miranda pulls her knickers out of her mouth, as she bends over and kisses her softly, stroking her face. Miranda murmurs sweet, unlikely things as she strokes herself fiercely, sitting on Cate's belly with the dress and Miranda's own skirt bunched in a pile that obscures her pubis. All Cate sees is the fierce possessive stare, the perfect round "o" of Miranda's mouth, the halting gasps, the expansion of her ribcage, the clenching of Miranda's stomach as she cries out. She blinks up and tries to love her silently, in the only way she can. Miranda's head comes to rest between her breasts, and she lets that be enough.