I'm coping with this.
Bite my lip, close my eyes, pretend this isn't as submissive and demeaning as it is. Pretend I'm not spreading my legs wider and whimpering-wailing because she's got two fingers in me deep, that my fingernails aren't digging into the plastic of the ergonomic work chair that looks like it might not come from Costco even though it does, biting down hard on my lip now. I'm not writhing and giving all the nonverbal vocal cues I know how to give to get her to fuck me harder and deeper.
Fuck fuck fuck, that's her tongue on my inner thigh, one long quick stripe up until she's almost at my crotch, and then down the other side, blowing on the moisture and making me squeak.
Coping, because this is wrong and fucked-up and who would have guessed that Cordelia Chase was this good at going down? She's always looked like the kind of girl who specifically refuses to do nude scenes because she's an artiste, never mind that Marilyn fucking Monroe had to do stag shots to make it, let alone a talentless Barbie like Cordy.
I do not find it sexy, I don't I don't I don't, that she's looking up at me and running her tongue over her lips and my nipples are not getting hard underneath a silk blouse and sending a fresh thrill down my spine while she keeps fingering me. I am in charge, in command -- oh, fuck, that's good, that's fucking amazing -- and I do not let twenty-year-old girls who should be on their knees for the opportunity to get me off top. I certainly do not let them handcuff me to my computer chair and proceed to finger, lick, and otherwise fuck my body into a quivering orgasmic pool of lust.
No matter that I've already come twice and she's going to have me at three before she even puts her mouth on my pussy again.
She got the drop on me, made me think this was all about a "postmortem" chat about Billy Blim, may that -- oh, God, she's got a third finger inside of me now and I'm keening, wailing because she's nuzzling at my stomach through the silk and I might pass out, it's been so long -- fuck, oh god, may he burn in a hell hotter than the one I finagled him out of. Even if he has, indirectly, gotten me laid, and directly got me a plasma TV.
"You could be so good, baby," Cordelia's purring at me, something flickering behind her dark eyes, something impure and wanting as I bite down on my lip again, trying not to give it all up. "Don't you want to be good?"
"Not really," I reply breathlessly, her hair brushing against the top of my thigh. "Oh, God, fuck, yes."
Coping with this. It's not humiliating, straining forward like this. Yes, it's humiliating, but Cordelia knows how to do it, drag her fingernails over my skin and chuckle, all danger and mischief in a wholesome Girl Scout package!
"Mmm," Cordelia hums, her lower lip barely brushing my clit. When I jump, she starts pumping harder. "Hmm."
"Please," I start to beg, needing to finish this, body aching and nipples sore because my nerves are all that tender. "Please, please, fuck me harder."
I've still got dignity, still got...oh, yes, oh fuck yes...Cordelia sucking her fingers into her mouth, licking each one clean while I watch her with glazed eyes.
"You gonna sleep well tonight?" Cordelia asks, climbing on top of me and pressing her mouth against mine. "Did it feel good?"
"Great, even," I reply. "Is this part of being me with better shoes? You know what gets me all hot and bothered, Cordelia?"
"Three orgasms in fifteen minutes says yeah, I do," Cordelia replies breathlessly, nibbling on my jaw. But she's also rubbing against me like someone who's just as horny as the bad little lawyer she's just tongue-lashed. "You let me handcuff you to a chair and fuck you until you begged. And you liked it."
"You know, I did," I say, using my only available weapon as I bite down on her earlobe hard. Yes, I'm coping. The latest reports on me suggest that I'm very adaptable and ruthless in exploiting what I need to master a situation. The ragged gasp out of Cordy as she presses down harder against me suggests I'm not doing badly.
"Ohhh," Cordelia whimpers as I try to get any kind of leverage.
"So is this part of being better than me?" I asked. "Rubbing yourself against your tied-up enemy like a horny teenager until you get off?"
"Shut up," Cordelia growls.
"Make me," I reply, and she whimpers. "You know what to do, don't you? Just uncuff me and spread those long, tan legs of yours, babe."
I hear her wet her lips nervously and make a small noise of indecision. Feel the cuffs come loose and the welcome feel of cooler air for that split second before I've knocked us both off the chair and onto the floor, pulling Cordelia's hands over her head as my other hand pushes up her ugly-ass knockoff shirt.
Cordelia arches up, showing off breasts with rock-hard nipples, and yeah, we're both insanely turned on, and my brain has finished justifying the cuffed-up fingering and the incredible turn-on I found in letting her dominate me. In letting her act like she was better than me so we could both let go.
I move my hands away from her wrists, concentrating on finding all those spots on Cordelia that are weak. What'll make her moan, drive her into a frenzy, get her to lose control. I'm playing to lose, to get her to straddle my face until she's arched back and screaming for me to not stop not stop, oh, fuck, don't stop licking her.
I want to watch her give into that need to take power and use it as harshly as she can to get what she wants, even if it means feeling her thighs bruising the sides of my face.
Kind of gets me all squishy and wanting again, knowing that Cordelia really likes it when you use the little hint of teeth on her throat, but not as much as she likes having her nipples played with.
And there's some eye candy for me, too -- like the aesthetic value of Cordelia's tan, flat stomach and how it glistens with sweat and saliva like those old Ban de Soleil ads both of us clearly remember from back in the day, and the good old fashioned soundtrack of grunts and moans.
"God, Lilah," she whines as I nuzzle against her panties. "Do it. Do it NOW."
I rub my hand against her crotch, not removing the panties just yet. Somebody's going to have to toss this thong. Oh, well, it was cheap anyway, and the way little Cordy is humping mean evil Lilah's hand suggests that she can be so, so cheap when she needs a good eating out.
So I'm vulgar when I'm turned on and fucking a hot girl. Hard to remember to be polite with all the rough edges and tight cheerleader muscles shivering for touch.
And that's a smile on my face when I finally take 'em off, because Cordelia's forgotten all about how she's better, how she's the superior bitch, because she wants me to kiss it and make it better -- so to speak, and she's practically three feet in the air, trying to get me to fuck her.
"C'mon," Cordelia pleads, her eyes closed and her fingers pinching her nipples harder, her head thrashing back and forth like this is some sort of Playboy fantasy. "Now."
Let it never be said I keep my fellow bitches waiting too long, and she's so slick, so fucking needy and she feels good, she feels tight around my fingers, and I want. I want so much, because my GOD, to hell with Angel, I want to see Cordelia's wet thighs and little pink tongue flickering as she keeps rubbing away at her tits again and again, lost in whatever coping fantasy she's made up as I fuck her.
"More," Cordelia gasps-orders, and I'm giving her more, because she feels so good to touch that I wonder why I don't fuck women more often. "That feels so good, my god..."
"C'mon," I say, sounding too much like her. I'm not this girl; I am nobody's fucking charity case, nobody's pale imitation. I am dangerous and powerful, and I won't be fucked with. "C'mon, you know you want to..."
I move my head between her thighs, listening to that whimper-cry of pleading, begging, and she's even hotter now when I'm running my tongue around those folds, the barest flicker against her clit.
She comes hard, and unlike me, she doesn't want another. Cordelia squirms away, her entire body drenched in sweat, and I don't lick my fingers.
Not her mirror image, after all.
"Damn," Cordelia says as I lean back against the chair, as sweaty and satisfied as she is.
"No kidding," I answer. Because really, there's not much more to say than that.
"Your son brought you into the 21st century. It's like the 20th century except people are afraid and the stock market is much lower." --The Simpsons
Please post a comment on this story.
Title: Therapeutic Measures
Author: Jennifer-Oksana [email] [website]
Details: Standalone | NC-17 | *slash* | 8k | 04/07/04
Summary: Sex and rationalization as a coping mechanism for post-traumatic stress incurred by primal misogyny.
Notes: Spoilers: Billy
Disclaimer/Other: Joss, not me.
Distribution: lists, standing orders, others by permission.
[top of page]
|Home/QuickSearch + Random + Upload + Search + Contact + GO List|