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[Fiction] Slattern - Tough Nut to Crack


Ashnod

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(submitted for canon consideration)

The wealthiest of her clients had never taken her to the Waldof Astoria. She suspected that despite her allure, they retained within their little minds the stigma that employing the services of an escort was something to be ashamed of. No matter. In time, she would break them of that misconception and they'd be free of it, and free to indulge themselves without guilt when passion necessitated it. That was her calling, and it was something that she enjoyed doing immensely. But she would not force them to lose their habits; to break them in such a way was counter-productive and in some ways, malicious.

She didn't consider herself a malicious goddess.

The current client knew of her only by reputation, yet was willing to pay to have her at a suite atop the Waldof-Astoria Towers without so much as a face-to-face, even had their driver come and bring her there. The myths and legends about the place's finery proved themselves based in fact, something which did not impress her as much as she hoped it would. Once in her life perhaps it would have. Hand-carved, polished furniture and expensive foreign trappings only did so much for her since her transformation. She was still able to appreciate the craftsmanship involved in their creation, but ownership of such items often alluded to minds so trapped within the cages of materialism.

And cages, after all, remain cages regardless of what substance or idea imprisons you.

She is escorted to the suite's bedroom. The pretty baseline boy who met her in the lobby (he reminds her briefly of Daniel in his boyishness, but that passes quickly) closes the door behind him as he exits. There are curtains around the bed, and the scent in the air is undeniably feminine.

This is no surprise to her. She ascertained as much from several hints on the way up. Many of her clients are women, after all, and both sexes have their tells when they choose not to reveal themselves up front.

Turning the corner, she sees her client curled upon the pillows invitingly, and pauses.

A nova woman. Her own node tells her as much.

This is unique moment, indeed. Splendid, even.

The client is wearing a long, purple nightgown and robe reveals nothing but hints at absolutely everything. Her black hair is unrestrained and falls over her shoulders, and it only accentuates her desirable qualities. She'd be stunning if she had no hair upon her head at all.

This woman is very much like me, she thinks, in the ways that her quantum manifests. We are similarly matched in many ways. Is this a rival, perhaps? Have I stumbled upon another's territory and about to be warned?

Or taught a lesson?

She prepares herself as she approaches both the bed and the client. She is suddenly reminded very much of chess, and knows that a game between the two of them is about to be played. She does not like games such as these: rarely are they productive to anyone but the victor and the sacrifices made to obtain victory rarely worth the win.

The client wishes her to be without clothing. This is requested by a simple gesture of the eyes; it is a gesture she has used herself on many others to the exact same effect. The desire to obey is present, and she wishes she could be aware of how much of it was her own passion at work here and how much was it this woman affecting her thoughts.

She undresses without giving the matter further thought. This is whom she is serving tonight, and it is the woman's passion she is here to indulge, after all.

A second eye movement brings her on to the bed, laying face to face with the client. Up close, she knows that she was right to be cautious: this woman could use her looks to break wills and capture hearts, and probably has done so without much thought to the consequences.

The client's hands are on her soon after she rests her head upon the offered pillow. Gentle touches, feather-light and unobtrusive, up and down her flanks and thighs, occasionally drifting along the shoulder blades and neck. She knows this is done partly to relax her, and is partly unable to avoid that from happening.

"You, my dear," the client finally speaks with her honey-toned voice, the emphasis on the last two words clear, "are not an easy woman to get ahold of."

"No," she agrees, "I suspect I'm not."

She reaches out to return the same gentle strokes to her client, but another eye gesture indicates she is not yet allowed to do this, and relaxes her arm.

"I've been trying to get ahold of you for some time now," the client whispers. "It seems the only way you'd give me the time of day was to pay for your time."

She grins wryly. "Surely, you over-exaggerate. I'm not so difficult to find, if you know where to look."

"Oh," the client grins back, "I've known where to look. But you've rejected many of the offers I've sent your way.."

"Offers through proxies," she winks, "are ignored. I chose my clientele, not the other way around. I can tell when the motive to be with me is not sincere."

The client feigns surprise. "Oh, of course. My mistake."

She despises little chess games like this. If this was a playful seduction, a scene in which she knew all of this was merely a pretty backdrop, she could immerse herself in it and let the fantasy be real. This woman is hard to read on that level unfortunately, as she suspects she herself would be, and her instincts tell her this is about business rather than pleasure for the client.

"Well," she says softly, "now you have me."

"Yes," the client agrees, "and whatever shall I do with you?"

"You already know the answer to that," she arches her eyebrow while curling her lip. "Let's not ask questions where the answers are already known."

The client's expression becomes serious for a moment, and then she nods. "Very well, then."

Game suspended due to reign of passion, she thinks to herself with a small amount of pride. She had not expected the client to be maneuvered so easily.

The hand stroking her pulls her close, close enough that their bodies press against one another, separated only by the thin fabric covering the client's body. The client's free hand reaches into her hair, pulling her head back and her neck taut. Violent kisses are placed upon her neck, the flesh below and behind her ear, and under her chin. The other hand begins raking down her back with sharp nails, breaking her skin with long, red, bloodless streaks appearing in the nails' wake.

She gasps, neither in pain nor in passion, but in delight that some of this night becomes honest. The hand holding her hair unclenches, freeing her, and she instantly begins biting the soft flesh of her client's neck.

"I need you," the client moans softly, raking fingernails down her back once more.

She pulls the client to a sitting position, and sits before her while wrapping her legs around the small of the client's back.

"I think," she says between bites that leave marks upon the woman's neck, "that's quite obvious at this point." Her hands are slipping under the woman's gown, pulling it upwards. She breaks her attention on the woman's neck long enough to slip the gown, and the accompanying robe, over the woman's head.

Between breaths, the woman chuckles. "No," she begins. "Well..." the woman pauses as she bites down hard on the flesh between the neck and shoulder. A gasp escapes the client's mouth, followed by, "Yes..." The woman breathes in sharply before speaking again. "But in another way as well."

All business even now, she thinks sadly. At least the game is over and the subterfuge will be lessened, if not eliminated.

She takes control from the client then, letting her own hand drift upward and seize the woman's hair. "Go on," she whispers right before pinching the woman's earlobe between her teeth.

"I'm starting," the woman moans, "something." The client's speech becomes more and more broken the more into submission she's forced to recede into.

Going nowhere, she realizes. The woman isn't capable of relating her concerns if she isn't in control of the situation. Time to let go.

Someone who likes control, she thinks. Part of her passion requires her to be center of attention. Selfish. Worth remembering.

Her fingers release the woman's hair, and she surrenders dominance to the client. The woman takes it back instantly, pushing her down and climbing atop her. Their bodies press together, the client taking her wrists firmly between clenched fingers.

"Are you human, girl? " the client growls, now biting her earlobe hard in return. The pain is genuine, and she twists beneath the woman. The client has leverage and she is unable to bend away.

She wasn't expecting that question now, of all times. Stupid time to be asking such a thing. The words are out of her mouth before she can think of a better retort.

"Of course not." Her voice is thick with annoyance.

"Good," is the woman's response.

And with that, that matter is thankfully dropped entirely. What happens over the next hours renders speech meaningless save for the moans and whimpers that are the language of passion. She savors this time, when the client drops both guard and agenda for the enjoyment of the their flesh and what remains are soft lips, probing fingers, and languid tongues. Control is now openly passed between them repeatedly; a stray hand letting go of a shoulder revealing an opening the other seizes, and so forth, until the moment where merely laying together, still and quiet, is the only passionate possibility left to them. Champagne and strawberries are fed to each other and consumed, playfully drawn across breast and belly before finding rest between tongue and tooth.

More hours pass. Hours of gentle caressing, of muscles massaged, time shared in the bath carefully cleaning the other. Simple passions in many ways more powerful than the previous exertions.

The dawn is approaching, but still not there, when they finally begin speaking again. The client holds her, belly to back, possessively.

"You're very good," the woman whispers.

"I ought to be," she replies playfully. "I've more experience at this sort of thing than you."

Which is, of course, true on many levels. One of several unspoken secrets she's gleamed from her client during their time together.

"And you're younger than me," the woman pinches her backside, causing a brief shiver. "Such a naughty, naughty girl you are. Such a slattern you are."

"I am indeed," she grins, unseen to the woman holding her. "But I'm honest about my intentions, unlike some who try trapping their lovers in a quantum narcosis."

Reign has let up, she thinks to herself, game on.

The woman nestles against her. "I wasn't certain if you knew who I was."

"The Queen Bee of the Pandaimonion," she gyrates her hips against the woman. "I'm honored to finally bed you."

"I'm afraid," the woman pinches again, not so playfully this time, "you've got that backwards."

"Oh yes, my apologies. I am mistaken, My Lady," she reaches behind her and grabs the woman's hair tightly, "The Queen of the Pandaimonion is honored to finally be fucked by me."

This one is going to be tough to crack, she thinks, but it will be fun trying to do it.

The Waldof-Astoria vanishes in whisps of willowy-pink fog. The two women seated at the table in the Amp Room regard each other wordlessly.

"What a strange night," Narcosis picks up her glass and takes a drink. "It's good to relive it with such detail. Thank you. Just like it was happening all over."

"I'm glad you liked it," Slattern smiles. "It's a fond memory for me as well."

"I'm a tough nut to crack?" Narcosis asks. "What did that mean?"

Slattern becomes uncharacteristically serious. "You need to find a new lieutenant. It's time for me to move on."

Narcosis stares at the other woman, slowly setting down her glass. "Excuse me?"

"I had you figured out even back then," Slattern sighs, the afterbreath of the telepathic memory fading into the air. "It's always about you, and always has been. That's your passion. You. Your only passion, really, dear. Such a sad passion to have. You are your own cage. I've tried hard throughout the years I've remained at your side to get you to see past that. Even this obsession with Mal, it's just another way of making yourself important. We all see it, even if we don't speak up about it. But I've tried, hon. I took you on as a long-term project that night in '05 and I've been trying ever since. A decade is where I'm admitting failure. "

"You're the same as me," Narcosis scowls.

Slattern sighs once more. "I think ten years spent in service to you trying to get you to open up is proof that my passion is not me. Maybe my pride kept me with you longer than it should, but what I've done everything for you and not for me. I'd hope the fact that I've never, not once, tried to wrestle the Pandaimonion from you, much less let the thought cross my mind, even though it's within my power to attempt it should remind you of just how important you've been to me. I'm trying to be honest with you, love, and I mean this out of love and not out of spite."

Narcosis says nothing.

"One day," Slattern continues, "you'll be ready for what I can offer you."

"Don't patronize me, Kristi," her old client whispers.

"Angela," she says softly, rising to place a loving hand upon the woman's cheek. To her surprise, the woman reaches up and places her own upon it, squeezing warmly. "When you want it, I'll have our room waiting for us."

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