Matinee
The girls kiss furiously in their long cherry-red wigs, the stagehands in black squirting them full force with garden hoses till their acrylic hair is tangled with tattered red, blue, yellow, violet flower scraps, their shifts now sheer and clinging to their lush bodies.
The chorus chants:
“Did you miss me?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeez’d from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Jonquil, make much of me;
LOVE ME! LOVE ME! LOVE ME!”
and like that as the girls devour one another, tonguing fiercely in the spotlight. They fall to the ground in a pool of water and flowers one arched over the other, flash of sparkling black straps around pale hips, then sweet, sweet moans.
An explosion of glitter falls to the stage coating them in rainbow shimmers, spattering in diamond splinters near the front row of uncomfortable metal seats
and with straddles, splashes and gasping the production comes to a close.
Sansa’s jumping up and clapping, her full black skirt ringing like a bell around her long legs, her cream blouse sheer and yet demure, black fascinator tilted to the side on the garnet waves of her hair. She’s applauding and cheering so much even the gold padlocks on the patent ankle straps of her black heels swing and sparkle, like her body’s made of glitter itself.
Cersei sits, applauding politely, her eyes gracious chips of green ice, her head aching from the smoke machine and the hideous folding chairs. With every slap of her hands she imagines a stroke against her girl’s lusciously curved bottom and then the afternoon matinee has become perfectly bearable. With a shudder she moves her golden crocodile pump away from a drip of water laden with mascara and glitter.
That splash came dangerously close to her Birkin. Next time she’ll insist they sit further back.
(Cersei didn't even sigh when Sansa came scampering up with the flyer that included the phrase "Performance Collective." Those sparkling sapphire eyes. Her darling minx. )
Cersei’s glad that next time it’s her turn to choose the entertainment; and it will not be Six Maids in A Pool Queer Performance Collective’s production of Jonquil Loves Jonquil.
Cersei approves wholeheartedly of redheaded girls in lesbian embraces; just not a crowded, damp-scented performance space with wheatgrass juice and vegan snacks.
Certainly not back-breaking folding chairs and their screeching metal.
San Francisco’s opera house has elegant chandeliers, perfect acoustics, champagne in silver buckets with ice; the perfect setting for Sansa in vintage ivory Dior crusted with pearls, Cersei in sleek onyx Yves St. Laurent and Deco fox stole, jeweled brides in a Faberge egg.
Cersei allows herself a flush of pleasure at that image.
Besides, she’ll have a gold remote control hidden in the palm of her black kidskin opera glove. Cersei smiles a real, rich smile at the thought of what her little dove will do in the middle of an aria, a delicate press of the button...
Cersei is sure the velvet on the seats can be cleaned.
Suddenly the ragtag production has a certain gauche charm after all--and Cersei can’t resist watching Sansa run up and hug the actresses, giggling excitedly, buying one inch buttons and stuffing her vintage lavender handbag with flyers for queercore bands and poetry readings.
Sansa smiles at her Queen and Cersei smiles back, a flicker around the lips, just for her.
It’s a good thing she’s locked Sansa’s ankle straps. Cersei wouldn’t want Sansa to slip when she’s bent over after all.
Later, when Sansa’s had her cheeks starred with glittered pink lipstick and gotten all her damp hugs, Cersei takes her arm as they navigate the twilit street. The sky’s lit with lilac and rose and the city’s lights shine like the fairest crown. Sansa turns to look at Cersei, her eyes wide with delight--and Cersei realizes with a sudden crackle of joy--love.
(Cersei feels a wave of emotion inside her. She still doesn’t always know what to do when Sansa looks at her with that awe. It is like Sansa’s reaching out to her Queen, Sansa holding out her own flower-crowned beating heart like the saints and martyrs in Mission murals.
Sansa thinks Cersei’s wonderful. Cersei wants to claw anyone who’d try to hurt her girl to shreds, be the fierce, glorious lioness that Sansa sees. There’s a golden, hot wind inside her and Cersei feels herself radiant, strong. She’s ready to take Sansa’s gift, just like she needs. Like they both need.)
Inside her smooth marble body, Cersei quivers and there’s only one thing to do.
The alley is starred with sparkling glass in the pavement, the brick wall is harsh and rough. Yes. Cersei thinks. Yes.
Sansa twitches in excitement, turns her head, her ruby hair spilling over her shoulder like a doll, a pin-up, the angel of femmes in the vivid red Nars lipstick that Cersei painted on her lips before they left for the theatre.
Cersei breathes deep, settles herself. A sharp, sweet smile and she’s ready too.
“Hands on the wall, sweetling. Now.”
Sansa breathes hard and fast, her face flushing pink as she bends, the curve of her hips and ass silky, devastatingly lovely, spreading her legs for her Queen. Cersei grins.
With a practiced motion,Cersei flips Sansa’s skirt, tucks it into the waistband, watching her girl shiver in the evening breeze. Cersei doesn’t need the dim light to know that Sansa’s melting, her thighs slick. She so enjoys being shown off.
Cersei likes showing her off. Moving behind her, Cersei presses her body hard against her girl’s, feeling Sansa soften under her, pressing back, a tiny wriggle to her hips and Cersei’s proud that Sansa’s standing tall in her locked heels.
“Aren’t you a naughty girl?” Cersei breathes hotly in Sansa’s ear. “I saw you with those girls. You know how they were looking at you.” Sansa moans, her face flushed, her heart pounding.
Cersei knows. She always does.
It makes her smile..
“Yes, little slutling. Looked at you like you were a sweet piee of cake and they were so hungry.” Cersei’s leather gloved hand reaches between Sansa’s legs, finds her pearl and works it between her thumb and forefinger, stroking, up and down and round. Sansa groans from deep inside. “Bet you wanted them to kiss you, play with you--I saw that party invitation, you wicked little thing.” Sansa’s whole body quakes as she murmurs “My Lady, My Lady, My Lady.” like a prayer in the near dark, her gloved hands rubbing against the bricks.
“Ahh. You remembered. How sweet.” Cersei pinches at Sansa’s rosy petals, soothes it, pinches again, over and over. “That’s right. You’re mine. My girl.” Cersei growls low in her throat, wanting to mark her, suck red circles onto her neck, mark her ivory body with her teeth and claws--
but Sansa’s wanted for the next night, her skin pale and sweet for whatever might happen with Ser Jaime and his Sworn Brothers. Cersei smiles inside, though her face is calm. She’ll get the pleasure of adding her own marks when she has Sansa tell her every detail. Cersei will be sure that Ser Jaime rolls Sansa’s pearl between his teeth while their girl tries to tell of her adventures, trying to make her lose track of her story and then---
but Cersei’s here right now. She’s running her hands over Sansa’s ass, rubbing the soft places on the inside of her thighs, all those sweet spots that Cersei knows as she knows her own. She nuzzles her cub’s neck, letting her golden hair wash over Sansa’s shoulders as she presses against her.
“Can’t mark you. But I’m going to remind you whose you are. In case your mind wanders again.”
Sansa pants, rubbing her head against her Queen’s.
“Anyone could see us. Anyone. See you spread out like a whore, begging to be fucked. You do, don’t you?” Cersei purrs low and sweet into Sansa’s ear, feeling her body tingle, only thinking of being inside her girl.
“Yesyesyes.” Sansa gasps, too far gone for words, only want, pure hunger.
Cersei reaches into her soft leather bag, slides out a gold case. Sansa moans as she hears the click of the case, then the snap of a glove, then the soft caress of latex on her thighs. She’s soft as silk, warm, delicious. Later Cersei will savor her in nips and bites on her pale skin after the Sworn Brothers have their taste, because she’s kind to her brother, only he can share their toy, their love.
For now, Sansa's all Cersei’s.
“Someone didn’t get taken in the alley today like she wished for, did she? Poor dear.”
Sansa shivers, pants, grinds hard at her lady.
“Silly sweet thing. We take care of you, don’t we? I keep you well guarded, too.”
Cersei reaches to toy with Sansa’s pearl, finding her drenched.
“I’m going to take care of you. As you should be. Girl.”
Cersei presses against Sansa’s curved body, puts her hand on her waist as Sansa whimpers with delight. “Please. Please.” Sansa whispers in joy. Cersei can’t wait any longer and slides inside, sighing in pleasure, growling at the feel of her rosy cunt, hot and slick, taking her deep, gripping at her knuckles and it’s Cersei’s knees who nearly buckle, heart pounding in her chest.
All she can do is fuck now, pressing inside her girl, fucking hard and fierce, suddenly only blood and flesh and pure joy, Sansa spread below her, Cersei her beloved conqueror.
“Mine.” Cersei whispers. “All mine.”
She doesn’t give a damn who sees, let them stare, let them see the ferocity of their love, her claim, Sansa’s joy, the way she moves when she’s under her queen.
Cersei thrusts and thrusts, good and hard like her girl loves, rubbing her fingertips on the soft rough spot that makes Sansa squeal. When Sansa throws her head back to howl out her climax, not caring who hears, her hair flies loose, strands of ruby and gold float up, then cling to her face, jeweled damp with sweat.
Between her pale legs, Sansa drips diamonds onto her silk stockings.
Cersei wriggles her fingers one last time, then slides them out, reaching round to hold Sansa close, smearing her blouse with crystalline strands. Her lips smear Sansa’s ear with red, her tongue traces the gentle, familiar curves of her ear, nipping at the Cartier pearl earring, though her little cub’s ears are lovely unadorned too. Like any tender maiden, Sansa swoons into her lover’s arms, nuzzling at her Lady’s neck.
“Mmmmmmmm.” Sansa sighs, rubbing against Cersei’s body, wanting just a bit more, but too worn out, only able to work her hips to make the pleasure last. Cersei slides kisses over Sansa’s forehead, leaving the trail of a red star, then gently untucks her skirt, then lets Sansa turn, surrenders in turn to her joyous kisses. “LoveyoumyLady, loveyou.” It’s the sweetest song.
A press on Cersei’s slim rose gold phone and the car’s there, Sansa lying in her Lady’s lap all the way to the Fairmont dozing, her fascinator slid over her eyes, arms wrapped around Cersei’s waist. Cersei can feel Sansa’s smile on her thigh. She ruffles her girl’s hair and in the evening, allows herself a full, white-toothed smile.
Cersei enjoys the roll of the hills, watching the city lights shimmer. Later, Sansa will bathe her and after that, she’ll thank her Queen in the sweetest way and oh, how Cersei’s grateful for that wicked, sweet tongue. All of her, all of her really, tip to toe, the way her eyes sparkle at girls in gaudy wigs, the gracious way she kneels and the way Sansa curls into Cersei's arms when she’s sleepy.
Cersei’s lipstick is smudged.
Since she’s holding her girl, for once she doesn’t fix it. All that matters is that moment, the soft motion of the car like a cloud, the afternoon with Sansa, the pulse of her heart, Sansa breathing in loyalty, breathing out love warm on Cersei’s skin.
The matinee was perfect, really. Simply perfect.