“You’ll get me out of here,” Clementine Kesh said slowly, tasting each word as she said it, “in exchange for…?” She raised her eyebrows as she trailed off significantly, looking at her— Rival? Friend? Sole connection to the life she had once lived? Gucci Garantine was many things to her, and the primary defining thread was that Clementine had never once looked at Gucci and not felt something.
Even at their first meeting, Clementine had seen this young noble—who was not, no matter her protests about being the scion and heir of a house, her equal—and decided that she refused to acknowledge any attempts at friendship, no matter how pretty Gucci might be as she went about them.
Now, sitting in prison while Gucci ruled Icebreaker, Clementine wasn’t feeling any more charitable.
Gucci smiled, sharp against her smooth skin. “What have we always bargained for, Clem?”
Money, Clementine thought first. Then, Favors. Neither of those felt right. She met Gucci’s dark and gleaming eyes, and found herself saying, “Sex.” Which was true, and always had been, and which Gucci had always enjoyed asking for more than Clementine herself ever did.
“Just so,” Gucci agreed, playing with a keychain that held—Clementine’s gaze fixed upon it and her mouth opened in recognition—a slim silver vibrator shaped like a crescent moon. “Please me well enough, Clem, and I’ll secure your freedom.”
Clementine swallowed, throat dry. Her heart pounded as she allowed herself to take in Gucci’s ensemble: A ruby-red sheath dress subtly patterned with prowling tigers, the front dipping low into her cleavage to show the star-specks of her vitiligo cascading across the curves of her breasts; golden laurels resting upon her tight backswept coils of hair, with matching bracelets twining around each wrist and kitten-heeled sandals that completed the theme; a relatively-subdued black purse that didn’t look ostentatious unless you knew exactly how much it cost; and blood-red lipstick with matching eyeshadow, bright and beautiful against her brown skin.
Gucci really had come here dressed to seduce or kill.
“Your terms are acceptable to me,” Clementine said, projecting as lazy an attitude as she could when her nipples were hard and her pussy already hot with desire. “Where would you like me to prove my skills, Gucci?”
Gucci glanced around, fingers still twirling the keychain and its vibrator (which Clementine remembered from other trysts; more powerful than its size led one to expect, and smooth and quiet as a purr). When at last she looked back at Clementine, it felt like it had been far longer than the minute Clementine knew it could barely have been. “Your cell will suffice,” Gucci said. She touched a control, and the cell door opened.
Clementine stood, pressing towards Gucci. “How do you know I won’t simply escape?” she asked, reaching a hand towards the empty space where the door had stood, taunting her, for so long.
“Oh, Clem.” Gucci was right in her face now, looking down at her from the advantage of her slightly taller frame. Clementine didn’t retreat, not even when Gucci’s palm cupped her chin. “I know how much you like to have power and take control. If you escape, none of your motley allies will ever show you favor again. How would you then achieve your dreams?” She shook her head, voice faux-mournful even as her fingers tightened on Clementine’s face. “You will only gain power here once more through me.”
Clementine hated that she was right, hated the way her blood rose in a flush she knew was all-too-visible against her pale skin, hated the way she could feel wetness seeping out of her folds. “There will be no debt,” she hissed, tearing Gucci’s hand away from her face. “The price will be paid.”
Gucci tilted her head. “Prove it,” she said, and her tone shivered down Clementine’s spine. “Where is your bed, Clem? Don’t you know how to treat a lady?”
She glared at Gucci, but turned and stalked deeper into the cell, acutely aware of how underdressed she was. Nobody had allowed her to retrieve her favorite outfits once she came here, and thus Clementine was stuck with ordinary clothes; while this orchid night-shift with its delicate white embroidered edging sufficed for most encounters, it was nothing compared to Gucci’s glamor. It rankled almost more than the open door, which Gucci wasn’t closing even though she knew Gucci had to be aware that it was possible—if one tried—to see the bed from the door.
But then, when had the possibility of someone seeing them ever stopped their games? Clementine remembered the gardens of the Winter Palace where she and Gucci had first taken their pleasure together, trysting under drifting boughs in the dappled shade. The leaves had been barest screen on their pleasure, the sighing of the wind thin pretense to guard against the sounds of their moans and gasps. It had been intoxicating then.
Right now, she’d find it more enticing a thought if they weren’t in her prison cell.
Yet, with Gucci’s eyes so focused on her, Clementine found it difficult to care. It may not prod her onwards to greater heights of arousal, but neither did it embarrass her. Let them watch. Let Mourningbride hear their pleasure, or let Valence see their bodies made yet more beautiful as they intertwine; there was no shame in sharing joy, nor in swallowing each other’s climaxes on their tongues.
“It isn’t what you’re used to, I know,” Clementine said as she gestured at her bed. The irony thickened her speech as much as arousal; even if Gucci Garantine was one for palaces and penthouses, Saint Dawn understood cots and hovels well enough. “But I think it should serve our purpose well enough.”
Gucci didn’t even glance at the bed (a tiny twin-sized mattress on a blandly effective frame without any head or foot or posts whatsoever, merely 300-count threads for all fabric upon it, a single set of sheets in Apostolosian purple, a single unsatisfying pillow cased in royal blue, and two thin blankets—one sandy-gold and the other seafoam-silver) before sitting down and spreading her legs. “Kneel,” she said, in a voice that brooked no argument.
Clementine sullenly knelt on the floor, furiously wishing for a rug but too proud to ask for one. Before Gucci could order her otherwise, Clementine began pushing up the hem of Gucci’s dress to expose more and more of her beautifully strong legs. Gucci had made sure to shave herself silken smooth for this, which was something she didn’t always do and which Clementine took to mean that Gucci had come to her knowing the outcome.
“Good,” Gucci said, reaching down to stroke Clementine’s hair. “Undress us both, Clem.”
Her face heated, and Clementine yanked viciously at Gucci’s dress, not caring that it might rip; in fact, she rather hoped it would, and found herself feeling sour as Gucci stood smoothly, allowing her dress to slide right up over her hips. Her underwear was just practical enough not to be lingerie, as far as Clementine was concerned: Black lace over a dark red that nearly matched the dress.
Clementine paused, warring between her desire to not do what Gucci had asked and her desire to bite Gucci as hard as she could now that such a tender place could be exposed.
Then she released Gucci’s dress, not caring if it wrinkled or fell, and took hold of Gucci’s panties instead. She bared her teeth at Gucci as she dragged them down, allowing her nails (beautifully painted two days ago, courtesy of Gucci; another reminder of the reversals of their situation) to dig into Gucci’s skin and dimple it darker. Gucci grabbed for her with a hiss, and Clementine ducked under her fingers, smug for once in the benefit of her smaller frame.
She did unbuckle Gucci’s heeled sandals, and allowed Gucci to step out of them at the same time as the lace panties; she wasn’t that cruel. Clementine sat back and smiled, brushing a falling strand of hair out of her face. “It’s been so long,” she said, sweetening her tone to almost saccharine. “Would you remind me of what you like?”
Gucci snorted, somehow managing to still look almost dignified even with her dress rucked around her hips and the dampness of her cunt on display. “You know exactly what I want, Clem.”
“Do I?” Clementine smirked. “There are a lot of ways to fuck, Gucci, I thought you knew that.”
“Display your talents, then, since you know so much.” Gucci dangled the vibrator in front of her, and Clementine carefully took it. The keychain looped around her thumb as she curved the crescent-moon between her first two fingers. With her other hand, she turned it on and let it shiver through her skin as she moved in between Gucci’s legs once more.
She liked this part, the push and pull and the playing of games. She liked teasing and taunting and seeing how strung-out they could be, waiting as long as possible before giving in to the need to fuck and lose herself in bodies. So Clementine brought her fingers between Gucci’s legs, guiding herself by memory and the trailing of her littlest finger (and the edge of its fingernail) against Gucci’s thigh. She didn’t look—the dress covered Gucci’s lap regardless—but instead stared directly into Gucci’s eyes.
The moment her moon-canted fingertips touched coiled hair, Clementine stopped moving her hand closer. She smiled at Gucci, and instead ran her free hand up Gucci’s side. The dress was gorgeous and soft and cool, and Gucci’s eyes were yet darker than usual as her hands twisted into the bed that Clementine had made perfectly in a fit of pique. “Clem,” she growled, as Clementine’s fingers paused underneath her breast. “Fucking touch me, asshole.”
Clementine bared her teeth, said, “If you’re sure,” and fiercely grabbed the entirety of Gucci’s breast. Gucci gasped and shuddered closer to her, and Clementine’s fingers touched the warmth of her cunt. Clementine reveled in the look on Gucci’s face: Mouth open, poise broken, eyes fluttering shut as her heels pressed into Clementine’s back to drag her closer.
It worked, much to Clementine’s dismay; she didn’t have much traction on the cell floor, and Gucci had always been stronger than she was. It wasn’t like Clementine had ever particularly tried to gain strength, but she still resented how easily Gucci could move her around. Her fingers—and the vibrator between them—were pushed into Gucci’s cunt, and Clementine didn’t pull away. Instead, she shoved further into Gucci’s wet heat, sliding between soft labia and into Gucci’s entrance without any pretense of foreplay.
Gucci gasped, but her body opened around Clementine’s fingers even as Gucci’s hands latched painfully into Clementine’s hair. “Fuck,” Gucci said, and Clementine didn’t care if it was a response or a command, because it lined up with what she wanted regardless.
Clementine smiled up at Gucci, knowing her own face was flushed now, and released Gucci’s breast so she could brace herself by wrapping that hand around Gucci’s hips. “I told you,” she panted, feeling her own arousal bright and hot between her legs, “be more specific.”
Then she thrust into Gucci, the vibrator between her fingers adding girth and humming through her bones and into Gucci’s most sensitive nerves. Clementine knew what it felt like; Gucci had fucked her like this, the first time she’d seen the vibrator. They’d been at a boring winter social, and Clementine had commented on Gucci’s new accessory, and Gucci’s eyes had gone wicked and hot. “Do you know what it can do?” Gucci had whispered into her ear as they’d danced across the hall.
By the end of the dance, Clementine had barely been able to stand on her own from thinking about what Gucci had murmured to her. She’d led Gucci out of the main halls and into a pleasant little sitting room, locked the door, and told Gucci that she’d better make good on her promises. Gucci had slammed her against the wall and fucked her without needing any further invitation, fingers buzzing in Clementine’s pussy as she moaned her way to a shaking orgasm, hard enough that Clementine had begged off dancing the rest of the night and Gucci’d had a cat’s smile the rest of the week.
So when Gucci’s muscles tensed around her fingers, Clementine just thrust harder. The vibrator aimed her fingers right towards the most pleasurable cluster of nerves, and Clementine wanted Gucci to feel this, to fuck her hard enough that she’d remember this encounter for the next few days at least. Her fingers were slick with Gucci’s own wetness, and slid easily in and out as fast and hard and urgent as Clementine could manage.
“You—” Gucci groaned, shifting her body so she could pull her dress up over her hips, giving Clementine a beautiful view of her body and the strong muscles leading her eyes inevitably towards her cunt. “Not just my cunt, Clem. Touch me.”
Clementine slowed her pace, even though she didn’t want to, because taunting Gucci felt better than fucking her. “Aren’t I?” she asked, walking her free hand up Gucci’s side to tickle at the edge of her breast.
“Ah, right.” Gucci grabbed Clementine by the shoulder, fingers pinching towards her neck. “You want specifics today, don’t you?”
Before Clementine could answer, Gucci slammed Clementine’s non-fucking hand down onto her cunt. “Pleasure my clit with your fingers, Princess. Is that specific enough for you?”
“Yes,” Clementine managed to say, the hot nub of Gucci’s clit already rolling beneath her fingers. She knew how Gucci liked to be touched, knew how to tease and pull even as she fucked her—though more slowly, now that both her hands were occupied. Gucci’s hands on her shoulder and in her hair tightened as Gucci grew closer and closer to satisfaction, and Clementine could feel the tremble in her muscles as they strained towards the height of pleasure.
Gucci’s gasps and moans—never loud or plentiful—grew yet more contained as she neared her climax. Clementine listened to them, her whole body attuned, until Gucci’s whole body jerked under her hands and Gucci’s cunt tightened around her fingers to hold them in place. The sharp exhale wasn’t quite a cry, but it was as close as Gucci ever got, and the way she fucked herself into Clementine’s forcibly-stilled hands was hot and strong and Clementine was acutely aware of how much she wanted that strength fucking into her.
After an amount of time Clementine knew couldn’t be more than a minute and was likely not even half that, yet stretched long enough that it felt like forever, Gucci released Clementine and fell backwards onto the bed. Clementine withdrew her hands and stood, wincing; she was going to have bruises on her knees in the morning, and that was far less pleasant than the ache in her shoulders and scalp from Gucci’s hands.
“Have I performed to your satisfaction?” Clementine asked lazily, trying to hide both how awkward it felt to stand idly while madly aroused and how much she wanted to clean her hands. There wasn’t anything good to clean them on in this room without far too much effort.
Gucci let out a long, performative sigh. “I suppose.” She sat up, eyes still sex-bright and eyelids heavy. “I’ll perform the necessary acts in the morning.”
“Excellent.”
Gucci nodded at the vibrator, now dangling awkwardly from Clementine’s hands. “Keep it,” she said, a wicked smile dancing over her face. “It’ll give you something to do.”
Clementine gaped at Gucci for a moment before recovering herself. “You’re just going to leave?” she asked, trying for outraged and ashamed by how her words came out more like a whine.
“The deal wasn’t sex for sex,” Gucci said, standing and smoothing her dress back down. She bent to pick up her heels and panties, contemplating the latter for a moment before shrugging and folding them away into her handbag. “It was sex for freedom. You’ve satisfied your side of the bargain; in the morning, I’ll do mine.”
Clementine’s hands tightened into fists, but all that accomplished was making her yet more aware of how tightly wound her body was in the desire for her own release.
She ended up watching Gucci leave without another word, and then threw herself onto the bed (made somewhat more tolerable by how it smelled like Gucci and sex) as the door clanged shut. This whole situation was unfair, and she did not appreciate being used like this.
After a minute, she got up and cleaned her hands (and the vibrator) in her cell’s sink. Then, still angry at Gucci, she tossed the vibrator onto the bed and stripped.
As Gucci had said, she did still have the vibrator. And that was much more fun than her fingers, especially with the memory of Gucci’s pleasure fresh in her mind. And so, Clementine applied herself to the pursuit of her own pleasure until exhaustion finally drove her to sleep, and dreams of the future she wanted to acquire.
Waking, sticky with unwashed sex and sweat, to her cell door opening was not part of the future she had imagined. Gucci’s knowing smirk also wasn’t. But Clementine held her head high as she marched out of the cell and towards another shot at the power she’d been born to claim.
She was never going to be locked in a cell again.