Chapter 2: The Ultimatum on Her Tongue
The buzz of the phone was a drill in the silence. Lia watched the conflict play out across Bette’s face—the tightening of her jaw, the slight pull of her attention toward the blue light in the hallway. The warmth between her own thighs was already cooling, replaced by a different, sharper heat.
Before Bette could move, Lia acted.
She sat up abruptly, shoving Bette back hard against the velvet cushions. Bette grunted, surprise flashing in her dark eyes. Lia swung a leg over her hips, but this time she turned, presenting her back to Bette. The firelight gilded the curve of her spine, the swell of her hips. Her skin smelled of sex and vanilla and the rain-damp air.
On the floor beside the sofa lay the harness, the silicone cock a dark spill against the wool rug. They’d abandoned it earlier in a different mood, a playful one. Now, Lia reached for it, her movements efficient, unsentimental. She didn’t look back as she fitted it around Bette’s hips, her fingers brushing the sensitive skin of Bette’s stomach, buckling the straps with a series of sharp, final clicks. Bette barely breathed, her hands hovering at Lia’s waist, unsure.
Lia positioned herself, kneeling up, her back still to Bette. She reached between her own legs, guiding the tip of the cock to her entrance. She was still wet from Bette’s mouth, slick and open. She sank down in one slow, inexorable motion.
A sharp, guttural sound was punched from Bette’s lungs. Her hands flew to Lia’s hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh. Lia let her head fall back, a low moan escaping her as she took the full, thick length inside. She felt impossibly full, stretched, a raw ache of connection.
She began to move. A slow, rolling grind of her hips, a deliberate clench of her inner muscles around the shaft. She didn’t look back.
“Go answer your phone,” Lia said, her voice oddly calm, detached even as her body rocked on Bette’s lap. She tightened around her again, feeling Bette jerk beneath her. “Really. Go ahead.”
“Lia—” Bette’s voice was strangled.
“But know this,” Lia continued, picking up the pace, rising up until just the tip remained inside her, then slamming back down with a wet, brutal slap. Bette cried out. “Every second you’re gone,” Lia gasped, the rhythm turning punishing, “I’ll be right here. Making myself come on your cock.”
She reached a hand between her own legs, her fingers finding her clit, already hard and throbbing. She circled it fast, the image in her mind not just of pleasure, but of defiance. “And you’ll miss it. You’ll miss every fucking drop.”
The obscenity hung in the air, mixing with the sound of their bodies meeting, of skin on skin, of Lia’s quickened breath. Bette was frozen, torn apart. The physical sensation was overwhelming—the hot, velvet clutch of Lia around her, the view of her wife’s back arching, the sweat starting to gleam in the hollow of her spine. But it was the emotional vertigo that held her paralyzed. This was a gift and a punishment, all at once. Lia was giving her a spectacle of losing control, but it was a control Lia had wrested away.
Lia’s movements became more frantic, less measured. The phone buzzed again, a persistent, mute vibration from the hall. Each buzz seemed to fuel Lia’s fury. She fucked herself on Bette with a focused, almost angry intensity, her fingers a blur between her legs.
“You’re… you’re here,” Bette managed, one hand sliding around Lia’s stomach to feel the tension there, to feel the proof of her presence. Her other hand stayed anchored on Lia’s hip, trying to steer, to participate, but Lia batted it away.
“I am,” Lia panted. “But are you? Or are you already writing the email in your head?”
Bette couldn’t answer. Because a part of her was. A tiny, ruthless part was calculating how quickly she could check the phone, assess the damage, and return. It was that part that Lia smelled on her, that Lia was trying to fuck out of her.
Lia’s breath hitched. Her circling fingers slowed, pressed harder. “I’m close,” she announced, as if reporting the weather. “You feel that? How close I am?”
Bette did. The internal flutters, the deep, rhythmic pulsing. She tried to thrust up to meet her, to claim some part of this, but Lia’s knees locked her in place. This was Lia’s show. Her revenge.
With a sharp cry that was more triumph than pleasure, Lia came. Her body seized, a violent, shaking contraction that milked the silicone inside her. She bowed backward, her headresting between Bette’s shoulder blades, her cry echoing off the high ceilings. Bette could only watch, could only feel, utterly useless, completely used.
The waves subsided slowly. Lia shuddered, then went limp, sliding forward until she was slumped over Bette’s thighs, her back rising and falling with ragged breaths. The connection between them remained, intimate and now strangely hollow.
The phone had gone silent.
The only sounds were the fire, the rain, and their breathing.
Slowly, carefully, Lia pushed herself up. She lifted herself off Bette, the sound unpleasantly wet in the sudden quiet. She didn’t look at Bette as she unbuckled the harness, letting it fall to the side with a dull thud. She stood, naked, glorious, and utterly remote, and walked toward the hallway.
Bette sat there, exposed, the harness cold against her skin. She heard Lia pick up the phone. A tap. A pause.
“It’s just Robin,” Lia called out, her voice flat, devoid of any emotion. “From the Board. Texting to remind you about the donor brunch on Sunday. Three exclamation points.”
She walked back into the living room, holding the phone out. She dropped it onto Bette’s bare lap. The screen, now dark, was cool against her skin.
“Crisis averted,” Lia said softly. She didn’t retrieve her clothes. She simply turned and walked, silent and purposeful, down the hall toward their bedroom. The click of the door closing was quieter than the phone’s buzz had been, but it shattered the room completely.
Bette stared at the dead phone on her lap. She looked at the harness on the floor, the damp imprint of Lia’s body on the velvet, the forgotten art monograph splayed on the rug. The scent of jasmine was gone, burned away by sweat and salt and something bitter.
She had missed every drop.