Lalia had heard the rumor—although she wasn’t sure that Clara telling her that she’d overheard Ezri and Jen talking was much of a rumor. But she didn’t have much else to go off of. She was far from opposed to another trade, and, lacking information, found herself spinning up her own ideas as she did the quarterly clean of the mirrors and the windows.
It was February, and she realized, back to deep in the usual routines after the holidays, she was feeling a little bored, and it was making her irritable. Most days, she didn’t leave the house except to get the mail, saw only Ezri, maybe Jen and Clara, and mostly did the same chores over and over again. At once she felt, sometimes unpleasantly, busy—she did work eight hours a day or so, without weekends—but also like she had too much time on her hands, not rejuvenating, but time to overthink and stew, her mind wandering down dark alleys while she folded laundry and did dishes. Further, she was kind of ashamed of the boredom, feeling like she should be thrilled and grateful to get to serve and have to do nothing else. Thinking about the rumor was a welcome form of novel stimulation, even covered in sweat and Windex.
She considered it all but confirmed when she got a message from Jen inviting her out to “brunch” (leaving at 9:15 AM) the next morning, which specified that Ezri had preapproved. At least, she was pretty sure that was the word Jen had been going for.
Even just going out for brunch, no implications, would have been very welcome. She said yes eagerly, and put away her phone and went back to hopping to try to reach the top of the current window.
…
She was in an unusually good mood in the morning, which she tried to keep in the right range for Ezri—pleasant, but nothing that would trigger jealousy. She nearly skipped to the connecting door, convinced that she could handle any surprises Jen threw at her.
But no surprises were forthcoming by the time they’d settled into the diner where they’d eventually ended up on—perhaps one could call it their first date—and placed their orders, just Jen’s nauseating driving.
They talked. Certainly Jen could talk, and she did. The rumor at work was that she was a top contender for CTO after their current one’s planned retirement at the end of August. She was starting to be hopeful about its perks, not too concerned about the extra responsibilities, but wanting to stay focused more on computers than people.
Lalia had assumed she wouldn’t have much to talk about, herself, but she found that, actually, she’d listened to some audiobooks lately that might interest Jen, had a funny story from a scene she’d done with Ezri the other day, was creating a new class and wanted a second opinion from the left side of the slash, had pictures of new recipes she’d tried recently. She felt better listening to both of them talk.
“Well,” said Jen, when they were both well into their meals and out of relative small talk, “I know you heard the rumor.”
“And what makes you think that?” The nerve that came from enough time with Jen was back, and fun to indulge; she realized that it had been locked in the proper box for a while.
“Because Clara can’t keep her mouth shut for thirty seconds, and I know she got in range because Whiskerton suddenly had a problem with me.” She indicated a scratch on her hand. Glared at her halfheartedly for laughing.
“Maybe,” said Lalia.
“I was thinking,” Jen continued, and, bemused, looking at her, added, “Don’t panic.”
Lalia wouldn’t have called it panic, but she tried to tame the swell of anticipation.
“Actually,” said Jen, “I was thinking we’d do it your way this time, Lassie.”
Lalia continued to look at her, uncomprehending. She didn’t have a way. Jen had a way. Ezri had a way. She and Clara didn’t really get ways. “You mean… Mx. Ezri’s way?” she posited, slowly, frowning.
“You could say that,” said Jen. Her tone betrayed that she didn’t quite agree with this assessment, which was even more confusing.
If she were being honest with herself, Lalia had been looking forward to the idea of mixing things up. As her confusion settled, she started to wonder if she was disappointed, but Jen’s tone made her hold off on that feeling, sensing a catch.
“Your part,” said Jen, stroking her hand on the table, “would be to do your job. Like you’d do for Ezri.”
“Okay,” said Lalia, slowly, mental gears starting to turn. “And your part?”
“Oh, the same thing as always, darling.” Jen reached and touched her cheek, tilted her face towards her, ran her thumb over the thoughtful frown. “Breaking you.”
The gears continued turning. “You want to make me snap and brat at you.”
“You could say that.” It didn’t sound like disagreeing this time. Jen smiled.
Okay, that was kind of interesting. Somewhat often, lately, she’d found herself mentally playing out such an exaggeration of the norm she had with Ezri, which was unfair but indulgent. Experiencing that dramatized, antagonistic version would be even more interesting. And—if Jen succeeded—breaking, and seeing where it led, would probably also be a cathartic and salutary reminder. Yet, pride urged her not to find out, to win, to learn what she was capable of, to let the gained confidence boost her mood. “Okay,” she agreed. “Let’s do it.”
…
Friday night.
Through the connecting door. Leaving her things nearby it for now. Lalia followed Jen into the kitchen, and poured them both decaf when Jen ordered it, feeling watched, but relatively confident in her ability, then followed her into the dining room, where Jen sat and continued making small talk.
Lalia observed her usual habits this time, and got into the proper position behind the chair she usually sat in here. Jen continued talking. Eventually, Lalia said something back. Jen continued talking, ignoring the position entirely.
Lalia debated what to do, deciding that the game was playing at newbie guest at a high protocol party who has no idea what to do with you. The position, which she was supposed to assume behind her chair after summoning Ezri for mealtimes, usually ended when Ezri arrived and told her to sit. It had become a matter of habit to use it if she got up from the table and returned to it, or if they ended up there to have a snack—or coffee—or play a game. It wasn’t officially a request for permission to sit—she wasn’t allowed to request that—but it was implicit. It was what she could do, instead of the banned sitting or asking, instead of just hovering awkwardly, or kneeling when she knew Ezri would want her sitting at the table.
Still unable to do the banned, rescinding the position into hovering awkwardly felt wrong, and permission didn’t seem to be coming, so she took her coffee and knelt instead. She figured the move could only be so wrong this weekend, although Jen normally had a few different thoughts on kneeling than Ezri did.
Jen ignored that, too, finished her sentence and asked, “What do you think?” which was when Lalia realized she’d missed the last several sentences while deciding where to be.
This could be a long weekend.
…
Eventually, the permission not coming before she truly needed it the way it frequently did with Ezri, she asked Jen for permission to get out of the kneeling position, planning to sit cross legged and regain circulation in her legs, at least for a while. “May I stretch, please, ma’am?”
“Hmm,” said Jen, as if this required a lot of thought. Then, blithely, “No.”
Lalia stammered, blushed as she realized she was giving Jen exactly the flustered reaction she’d probably been after, said, “Thank you, ma’am,” for the rare denied permission, remembering it so easily only because she was used to it being the next line in this conversation anyway, when the answer was yes.
She’d really waited as long as was comfortable to ask, though. Three minutes later, she was really squirming, her numb yet sore legs protesting the position.
“Convince me,” Jen offered finally, which made Lalia stammer again.
Convince her of what? The importance of circulation? “I…”
“What’s in this for me?” Jen added as inspiration.
But Lalia did not feel particularly inspired. “I’d—actually be able to stand up if you wanted coffee?” she tried weakly.
That would be true in a minute, at least, once she could feel the ground under her and the agonizing tingling that would come before relief wore off.
This made Jen laugh, but the permission still wasn’t forthcoming.
“And—I’d be less distracted from you?”
“Hmm.”
“It’d hurt,” Lalia offered.
“Tempting.” Slow smirk.
“And—I—um… whatever else you want?”
Jen rolled her eyes. “Okay. Whatever.” She waved vaguely. “Stretch if you want it that bad.” Like it was a stupid thing to ask for.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Lalia did. The return of circulation after that long did, in fact, burn and tingle horribly for a minute.
Jen, for her part, simply enjoyed watching it in silence.
…
The rest of the conversation wasn’t particularly eventful.
Left to her own devices to start doing the modified version of her evening routines, Lalia started by properly cleaning up the coffee. Clara had left everything in order for her to start with, so there wasn’t much else to do downstairs except shut lights. She headed upstairs, bringing her things with her, and turned down the bed, wrote out the turndown card and laid it out, washed up and stripped out of her uniform, laying out some pieces to rewear tomorrow and some clean ones from her bag, putting the used items into her laundry bag. None of this required that much new adjusting to the other half of the duplex.
In position at the appropriate time, listening to Jen’s footsteps approach, though, felt phenomenally weird in a way she didn’t have words for. This ritual had always been for her and Ezri alone, spoken about but unobserved. Any trainees got their own form of evening inspection, but this part had evolved just for her. Although, a long time ago, Clara’d had a version of her own.
Jen looked at the room and the bed and the turndown card impassively, like Lalia wasn’t there, which wasn’t, really, so different from what Ezri did most of the time. Then she came back over to her, circled her slowly and stroked her thoughtfully. Which wasn’t, really, so different from what Ezri did most of the time.
It was weirder, maybe, for the reality of the ritual to be replicated perfectly from paper, with a different person in a different place, than for it to be off kilter.
The relief when Jen told her she’d done an acceptable job was a little stronger than normal, though.
And they both stayed up for a while after that.
Jen left and did whatever she did; Lalia, now in her nightgown, found a spot to curl up and finish her book. When she did, she peeked into the bedroom to confirm Jen still hadn’t gone to bed.
Returning to her spot, she was content to check her phone for a while; then, sleepy, she did another check on the bedroom.
There was absolutely no reason for her to wait on Jen to turn in. But one of the only modifications Jen had made to Ezri’s norm other than practicalities for the weekend was Lalia sleeping in the bed, because, as Jen had put it, she really did sleep embarrassingly badly without company. And something about settling into bed alone, especially here, felt weird to Lalia.
So, despite her better judgment, Lalia went to find Jen.
Jen was in her office, doing something that involved more than one large desktop monitor with a dizzying amount of windows apiece, most of which Lalia recognized only as the things that Jen does with computers. The only things that were easy to identify were a few tabs of one window on one screen, that were things like FetLife and email.
Jen waved her in quickly, not making her suffer, though she barely looked at her. Still, Ezri did that a lot, too—but focused on a dizzying amount of papers, instead. It really was hard not to compare.
Lalia knelt next to her, waited. After a second, Jen pet her hair one handed, shifted a little; Lalia laid her head in her lap. Come to bed, the moment said, as if they were lovers. Maybe they were.
Finally, Jen sighed, leant away from the computers. “Okay, Lassie,” she deadpanned, with perfect comprehension, but didn’t move right away. They just enjoyed it for another minute.
And then they went to bed.
…
Lalia stirred. The room was dark. The bed was soft and warm. She felt Witherwings now against her back.
Then she noticed what had roused her—Jen tossing and whimpering beside her.
Unsure of what to do, she waited a minute, but it kept happening, and finally she gave Jen a tiny shake, not really meant to wake her entirely, but to snap her out of it. That didn’t work, either. She was going to whisper a you’reokay and hope it sunk in somewhere, then suddenly debated if she was actually allowed to speak to Jen when she was technically unconscious. She offered a slightly larger shake, and Jen woke this time, flinching awake and catching her breath, eyes locking on hers and recalibrating as she seemed to realize Lalia wasn’t whatever was in her dream, and then that she wasn’t Clara.
Then she rolled over, facing away from her, and was quiet.
Lalia shifted, rubbed her back in slow, deep circles.
“Shut up,” Jen grumbled, although it was the first thing either of them had said.
“You’re okay,” Lalia told her finally.
Nothing. Long silence.
“Lalia,” Jen whispered into the darkness finally, when Lalia was just about sure she’d fallen back asleep.
“Hmm?”
“You’ll stay, won’t you?”
“Of course.” She couldn’t leave the room without Jen’s permission, and, given that it was the middle of the night, had no intention of getting out of bed.
“I mean…” Jen didn’t elaborate, but reached behind herself and found Lalia’s free hand and squeezed.
Oh. “Of course. Always.” She squeezed back.
Jen fell asleep.
The cats settled back down.
Lalia didn’t fall back asleep properly right away—pondering Jen’s question in the space where thoughts were kind of like dreams. Therefore, her thoughts didn’t quite all go together, but some of them were: she couldn’t choose to leave Jen, practically speaking—because she couldn’t leave Ezri even if she wanted to, and Ezri would never abandon Jen, either—she also wondered how you left a relationship you perhaps weren’t in—and then, she explored the scenario where something happened, although she couldn’t fathom what, and one of them or the other or both withdrew emotionally, forced to coexist, but no longer—whatever they were—except she couldn’t imagine it being her, and she couldn’t bear the thought of it being Jen, and thankfully she was asleep before the thought was over.
…
It was weird, to wake up in Jen’s bed, even—especially—with Jen probably long gone, to the sound of her normal alarm, thinking her way through the shifted version of her usual morning routines. It would have been less weird to wake up in a hotel room in a new city with no familiar plans for the day. This, though, felt like being in her own office with everything shifted three inches to the left.
She found herself procrastinating on asking permission to go to the bathroom, something she didn’t do with Ezri. She normally thought nothing of it anymore, but she wasn’t eager to find out how Jen could twist it.
… Actually, that seemed like a great reason to ask before it was an emergency.
She finished dressing in her uniform, then messaged Jen.
She didn’t get a message back, but heard more footsteps, and realized she was bracing herself.
Jen appeared in the bedroom doorway, and said, “Well?”
Well, what? Lalia looked at her uncomprehendingly.
“Do you have to go or not?” Jen gestured out the doorway.
Lalia was still not totally sure she was comprehending, but felt stupidly optimistic. “Oh—yes—thank you, ma’am.” She got to the doorway and had just gone to curtsy when Jen placed a guiding hand at her back and escorted her to the nearest bathroom.
She’d been way too optimistic about that implicit permission and dismissal.
“Go on,” said Jen, in the bathroom doorway now, gesturing inside.
Lalia entered the room slowly, continuing to look at her, unsure.
“I reiterate: do you have to go or not? I don’t have all day.”
Lalia felt the heat spread through her face. Actually, after that sentence, she’d never not had to go to the bathroom so badly in her life. “I…” It wasn’t like she could hold it until Monday, though. She desperately hoped this was a one time thing. At least she just had to pee. She made a little sound like, “Mmhmm,” and slid her underwear down and sat on the toilet—her uniform skirt made a rather generous cover, actually—and… yeah, nothing; she’d always been rather bladder shy. Even a locked stall in a public restroom gave her basic bodily functions pause.
Slow breath, avoiding looking at Jen at all costs and trying to forget she was there. Finally, her body obeyed.
Wiping, flushing, dressing, washing her hands made her feel more watched, actually, and she was probably ridiculously thorough.
But, satisfied, as she reached the doorway again, Jen kissed her head and left her there.
Now feeling like she was running behind, even though realistically she knew she wasn’t, Lalia went through her routines of washing up and morning chores. She made the bed as usual—with a lot more angering cats than usual—but didn’t have her blanket to fold up. Other than that, she’d been told to just try to reset things as she’d found them. Jen had emphasized that she didn’t plan on being a bitch about the chores; her real interests for the weekend laid elsewhere.
So Lalia reset her things to living in her bag, threw some laundry in the hamper and trash in the bin, and went to make breakfast.
When breakfast was ready, she messaged Jen, lacking the usual systems. This time, Jen saw the position and told her to sit as soon as she came in.
Breakfast was uneventful. They talked; it was pleasant.
After, she reset the kitchen, returned to the bedroom, and messaged Jen again.
She listened to Jen move about the house anxiously, but morning inspection, too, was as anticlimactic as usual.
Left alone for a while, Lalia wandered the house, looking for other things of use she could do. However, Clara was good at her job, so there wasn’t much. She’d already reset things to that, done the dishes they’d created; no trash can or laundry hamper approached full; nothing actually needed to be restocked. For a while, she sat staring into a closet and simply admired Clara’s leather care work.
Then, she sat and stared at her journal, wondering how, exactly, this weekend was supposed to break her. Even with Jen’s intentions, it didn’t seem so bad, and she certainly had to wonder why she’d started mentally complaining about the actual norm.
…
Later, they talked a little more. Dismissed, Lalia curtsied and went to leave.
“Do that again,” Jen told her.
Lalia looked at her, uncomprehending once again. Frankly, there had been nothing wrong with that curtsy. Put more modestly, she was unclear on what part had been incorrect. She wisely kept her mouth shut, though, and did it again, with even more attention to detail.
Jen gave a vague gesture that approved, granted her permission to finish leaving—although they were in iffy territory on that now.
Yet Lalia didn’t go. Unable to help herself, unwilling to repeat exactly what she’d done and leave without an explanation, she asked, “What was wrong with it the first time, ma’am?” carefully.
“Nothing was wrong with it the first time,” Jen said dismissively. “I just wanted to see you do it again.”
Jen was entitled to make her curtsy as many times as it pleased her to do so. Still, something—if nothing else, shame over having made her explain herself—flared.
“You still may go,” said Jen, although they’d definitely crossed the line of reengagement where she had to say so again.
Jaw clenched, Lalia curtsied for the third time, and—
Jen laughed. “No, no, no, darling; there was way too much fuck you in that one.”
There had been.
“Do it again. Without the attitude this time.”
Lalia wanted to bolt. Instead she took a slow, deep breath. One more time, and make it perfect.
She did.
And at the slightest pleased smile from Jen, she got the hell out of there.
…
Lalia had about ten minutes before she had to start dinner. When Jen came in and said, “C’mere,” tugging her along to the bedroom, discarding her clothes from the waist down, lying on the bed, and pulling Lalia’s head where she wanted it, anxiety about the time flared. She mentally eyed the clock. She probably didn’t really have the time for this to go places, and she expected Jen knew that perfectly well, and that it wouldn’t—she was just baiting her into fussing about the time via a blasé attitude.
So Lalia applied only a token effort to the task at hand, metaphorically biting her tongue about the timing, and more literally doing other things with her tongue that certainly didn’t involve any biting. She tried not to create the temptation for more or make it too hard to stop, figuring that would lead to being dismissed in a more timely manner, without having to complain.
It didn’t.
Slowly, she realized—accepted—that this was “going places”, and she wasn’t going anywhere until the entire task was done. At which point, she abruptly dumped real effort and technique in.
Jen moaned appreciatively, fingers tightening in her hair.
Within a few minutes, her phone alarm to start dinner went off. She shut it, looking for any indication that Jen was interested in this whatsoever.
She wasn’t.
Lalia got back to it. She tried not to think of the clock, because it clearly didn’t matter. At this point, Jen would give her permission to be late, like Ezri did on the rare occasion something like this happened.
Jen came, loudly, fingers painfully tight in her hair, and then barely there, catching her breath.
Lalia sat up, debated how quickly to speak. It had been another ten minutes.
Jen gave her the little you may go wave relatively quickly, but that wasn’t what she needed at this point.
“May I be late with dinner, ma’am? Please?”
“No,” Jen said, voice still a little dreamy; it was hard to tell if there was more coming.
“No?” Lalia echoed.
“You may not,” Jen rephrased unhelpfully, tone picking up edges again, like she knew exactly what she was doing.
“I—” Lalia cut herself off, but it took her several long seconds to remember the requisite, “Thank you, ma’am,” for the permission denied. Then the panic hit in full, replacing shock; she was most of the way to the door when she realized the dismissal had been undone by reengaging, flustered.
“If you hadn’t faked incompetence to get out of having sex with me and then assumed I’d tell you yes, you would’ve had plenty of time.”
Heat spread through her face once again, feeling like her mind had been invaded, and ashamed of what had been found there. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I—it’s not that I don’t want to have sex with you. I do. I mean—the point wasn’t—it’s just that I…”
When she finally stopped digging and trailed off, Jen rescued her this time: “Just go make me dinner.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She curtsied and all but ran out and down the stairs, abandoning all prior dinner plans, tearing through the kitchen like a cooking show contestant. She had less than thirty minutes to come up with and make something good.
And she did.
Getting into the flow of cooking was soothing; completing the task on time was relieving, and sitting down with Jen to eat was calming. She felt much better, but she felt like she was starting to see the long game of the weekend: death by a thousand paper cuts. Adding one straw at a time.
Watching her go to the bathroom wasn’t a huge deal; having her curtsy a few more times wasn’t a big deal; denying her permission to be late wasn’t a big deal. But layered on top of the demanding norm, askew for the weekend, she saw how this could add up, and there was plenty of time left yet.
At a lull in the conversation, quiet except for one of the cats yowling for table scraps, she asked helplessly, “So, what does happen if I brat at you?” She wasn’t sure if that was pushing the implicit rules of the weekend. They hadn’t really mentioned the—theme, objective?—since before they began.
“What do you think happens?”
“I asked you.” That definitely felt like it was pushing it once it was out of her mouth.
But: “And I didn’t answer.” Jen smiled at her. No, she wasn’t entitled to that information.
“I have assumptions,” Lalia mumbled, having not quite brought herself to imagine the details, but knowing how pitiless Jen could be.
“Tell me about your assumptions.”
Lalia didn’t want to do that. Thankfully, she really didn’t have details to provide. “It’ll suck,” she said finally, simply.
Jen laughed. “We’ll see, won’t we?”
…
Lalia reset the kitchen after dinner and went upstairs for the night.
She was sitting on the floor in Clara’s office, reading, when Jen came in. "Up."
Lalia stood, followed her.
To the bathroom. "Strip," Jen ordered, another monosyllable. "Leave your underwear on."
Interested or terrified of where this was going, Lalia obeyed. No further stipulations came, so in the interest of not inviting further torment, she did so quickly rather than prettily. Her fingers hesitated at her bra, not sure if that counted as underwear; Jen gave a nod that somehow gave her the answer. She took it off.
"Sit." Jen pointed at the toilet.
Oookay. Confused—or in denial—she did.
"Good. Now, what you're going to do for me, darling, is very simple—you're going to pee."
Horror set in. This was an escalation on this morning. "Just like this?"
"Just like that." Smile.
Immediately, bladder shyness kicked in, and she once again had never not had to pee so aggressively in her life. The audience—mostly undressed—and with her panties still on. "I... I really don't have to go," she stammered, already aware it was a pathetic excuse that wouldn’t be taken. She hadn’t asked this time.
"Why? Shy? That's okay. It'll wear off eventually. When you have to go badly enough. And you'll be right here when you do. Until you do."
"I..."
"Do you need water?"
She decided that to whatever that brought, the answer was a resounding no, and shook her head, but it was too late. Jen found a plastic cup—maybe about a cup in measurement—next to the sink, filled it with tap water, and gave her a pull on the hair to tilt her head up, pressed the cup to her lips with a tilt where she either swallowed the water or got it all over her face and up her nose. It was extremely unpleasant.
She stuttered refusals, though it sounded like drowning, and tried closing her mouth briefly, which made it stop, but earned her Jen letting go of her hair and her fingers settling at her jaw in a way that somehow seemed to force it open, and the water flowed again. She tried not to swallow—not sure why she was resisting—and found her jaw let go and her nose pinched shut. To swallow was to breathe, and needing to breathe felt rather familiar.
Eight ounces of water had never been so much.
While she was still spluttering, after, Jen asked her, "More?"
She shook her head rapidly, panting, not sure if it would do any good.
It didn't, really—that was only part of this game. Jen watched her expectantly.
Lalia whimpered. She couldn't do this. It wasn't that it was so humiliating—she’d pulled it off this morning—but her body just. Would. Not.
She took a deep breath and tried to think of flowing water and all of the cliches—tried to force her body to relax. Closed her eyes and pretended she was alone. She tried to forget that she was still wearing clothes. Let go.
Yeah, not happening.
But finally... finally, her body gave in.
"That's a good girl," Jen smiled at her, watching her intently. Lalia couldn’t hold her gaze, nor did she seem able to actually look away.
Bladder actually empty, she wasn't sure what to do now. The only thing she wanted to do was run. But that didn't seem like a wise idea.
"Stand up. Don't flush."
Lalia obeyed carefully, found things like wiping and flushing a rather strong compulsion, actually.
"Take your panties off."
She did, fingers avoiding the parts that were wet. Barely off her legs, Jen held out her hand for them.
Confused on why anyone would want to touch them, Lalia held them out with confusion. Jen also took them by the part that was dry. "Open your mouth."
Lalia did without question. Then put two and two together and clamped it shut before Jen had even managed to move.
"Open," Jen repeated, other hand at her jaw again.
Lalia whined. Her panties got placed in her mouth.
"Good. Get on all fours."
Lalia lowered herself to her knees and then shifted into position. What worse could be coming eluded her for the moment, though she knew it was right there. The smell was somewhat overpowering, though it didn't actually seem to taste like much. She was surprised by that somehow.
"Head there." Jen pointed.
Lalia found herself automatically pretending she had not seen that instruction, looking up at her for confirmation as if in confusion.
"You damn well saw that. Don't play stupid."
She had. She lowered her head, whimpered, resigned. The fabric felt strange in her mouth—it might have been better if more of it was wet, actually. It was stuffy and felt like it wasn’t supposed to be there.
She crawled forward and around a little and placed her head mostly in the toilet, still full of the rest of her piss, completely exposed now. Jen nudged her legs apart. "Stay. I'll come back for you at some point."
Lalia whimpered.
Jen took a moment to observe her and then left.
Alone, Lalia tried to take some breaths, unsure if that was wise or not. She was humiliated, but nothing hurt. Which was interesting. She felt... uncomfortable—this wasn’t the best position, and she was trying to keep her hair out of the way, and she didn’t like the taste or the smell or the feeling of fabric in her mouth—weirdly, that felt the most nauseating right now—and her world was kind of small and dark. She was nervous about what would come next. She was very aware of the exposure. She still didn’t quite like staring down into an amount of water, let alone this, her mind replaying having the cup of water forced down her throat, and some further back memories.
She waited.
It wasn’t so bad after a minute. Processing what there was to process, all there was to do was wait. Wait. Like she'd been put in the corner, except kicked up a notch. Or several.
She wasn't sure how long it was. Realized she had no idea how long it was going to be. She doubted Jen had interest in leaving her here too long.
Jen returned. It could have only been a few minutes. She pulled her head up by the hair. Hit the flush handle. Took the fabric out of her mouth. "You can get dressed,” she said. “You might want clean panties.”
…
Lalia had decided that part of the game was that pain was to be used sparingly; they’d already done that version. They were doing this “her way” this time, after all, which was far less sadomasochism heavy than Jen’s, in addition to adding structure. Humiliation and degradation, however, seemed to be fair game. Which was interesting, because that was under Jen’s daily sadism umbrella, and less so an everyday interest of Ezri’s—so including those emotions had some interesting implications.
She got ready for evening inspection, which was uneventful.
She felt oddly worn out, considered turning in for the night, no matter how weird it felt. Deciding what she felt wasn’t necessarily worn out as in sleepy, but worn out as in wanting something like aftercare, the gentleness of late last night, she took a gamble and asked Jen, who had mentioned leaving in favor of her office, if she could go with her, just be quietly nearby. “Sure,” said Jen, who was changing into pajamas like Lalia wasn’t even there. It wasn’t like anyone in the duplex was unused to seeing each other—and being seen—undressed, but by now, Lalia could usually sense the slight flicker of dysphoria on Ezri or the eating disorder remnants flaring in Clara. Jen had none of that, and wasn’t demure like Lalia. Something about the experience was weirdly mundane.
She grabbed a few things and followed Jen to her office, where she knelt next to her and failed to actually engage with any of the things she’d brought with her, just thinking. Jen was working on a whip, and the braiding process was almost as dizzying to Lalia as the computer screens, but she watched absently anyway, lost in thought.
She’d come to appreciate that this weekend—apparently far from her limits thus far—was, still, an experiment in exaggeration, which proved that, for everything Ezri could demand—for her to do, to not do, to feel—she did often stay within an even more reasonable range. Jen had pushed just a little further—and examination showed that even that was astronomically removed from the limitless possibilities she technically possessed, a salutary reminder.
And, the main thing that had kept her grounded and comforted so far was what she had of her “at once demanding and getting boring” routine (which she appreciated more now), serving well and being pleasingly useful. And all she wanted at the moment—this euphoric craving—was more of it.
She watched Jen work, no longer bored of waiting or impatient to stretch, but in what felt like a kind of subspace, calm and blissful and submissive.
Jen, never truly oblivious, offered a stroke of her hair a minute later. “That’s a good girl,” she said, then tried out, “Eu-lalia.”
Lalia giggled. But the half joke that relied on Greek words and prefixes did seem a little more natural coming from Ezri.
“Please tell me there’s not some nerdy and tragic story of why you cut that part out.”
“Not really,” said Lalia. Though the irony hadn’t escaped her. Eu, meaning good, and lalia, speech. Adding the you sound back to lay-lee-uh was to add praise. Ezri habitually used her full name only, and increasingly frequently, with positive reinforcement. She’d thrown the meaning at Jen when Jen had heard about this practice and pointed out that it sounded an awful lot like some of her own that Ezri had so adamantly disavowed. Ezri initially claimed the meaning meant she was only being literal, not laying on the classical conditioning with a specific term of address like Jen had, but no one really bought that, and finally Ezri successfully claimed that it was used for a positive thing, unlike the term of endearment Jen had now disarmed, and much like the cues that she had kept, which Ezri supported now that they’d been mutually examined and pruned.
“Did you like that?” Jen asked, of her full name.
Lalia wrinkled her nose. “Maybe stick to Lassie.”
Jen laughed. “Sure.” She stretched her fingers in the break from braiding.
Lalia, overcome by the urge to do something for her, took her hands and tried to rub the tension out of them, where they laid in Jen’s lap.
Jen sighed contentedly, smiled at her fondly. “What, jealous?” she asked, tilting her head towards the whip in progress. Lalia had learned enough to know that the fact she could see the pretty colors and pattern forming meant this was the overlay step.
“Maybe.”
“Turn around.”
Curious, Lalia shifted in a semicircle.
Jen carded her fingers through her hair, started doing something with it, seemed to undo it and start over, then said, “Stay,” and got up, returned with an elastic, and tied off whatever she’d done. Lalia took her offered hand and stood, followed her to the bathroom with unsure, numb footing, and used the neglected phone in her pocket and the mirror to see what Jen had done, blinked at it. It was definitely some kind of braid, but it looked almost as complicated as the whip, less like the three strand or fishtail styles she favored (because they were all she knew how to do). Counting, she saw five strands.
“It’s beautiful,” she said finally. “Thank you.”
Jen kissed her head.
They returned to where they’d been. Lalia asked for permission to stretch and Jen gave it to her and Lalia thanked her, but they were quiet after that again. Content, Lalia curled up on the floor; Jen stroked her back with her foot.
Lalia drifted, occasionally floating back to the thought that there was no way tomorrow could be so bad.
She woke a while later, a little disoriented without her blanket and Witherwings; she realized Jen was shaking her. A cat had curled up against her; she wasn’t awake enough to be sure which one.
“Bedtime,” said Jen, holding out her hand. “Come on.”
And Lalia did.
…
Lalia woke again. She was alone and it seemed light out. She rolled over, snuggled into the sheets, and checked the time to see how much longer she had to sleep.
She blinked.
Then she threw herself out of bed.
It was seven minutes past what should’ve been her morning alarm, which she hadn’t set, so sleepy and disoriented when she’d moved from the floor of Jen’s office to bed that she’d barely remembered to take her meds and plug in the phone.
Still, she tried to reassure herself, flying through her morning shakily, thanking whatever higher powers there were that Jen granted her permission to go to the bathroom without further disruption: the only thing that really mattered was that she was on time with breakfast.
She tried to let the familiar service tasks calm her again, and they did a decent job of it.
She was on time.
Jen was not.
After sending the message that breakfast was ready, Lalia waited in position for what turned out to be two solid minutes, then checked their chat. No response or sign of one coming. She had literally been left on read, because Jen was the kind of person who turned her read receipts on so you knew when she was ignoring you.
Lalia decided to put the phone away, get back in position, and keep waiting. Every so often, Ezri didn’t come basically immediately when summoned to mealtimes, trying to finish something, and while that was an ample possibility for Jen, Lalia got the feeling that she’d been left waiting on purpose. A few times, at dinner, she’d finally decided to go looking for Ezri when Ezri didn’t come, and found her still napping or in the shower or otherwise not having heard her pager.
Jen gave no confirmation either way when she did appear a minute later, and Lalia resisted the urge to mention it.
Breakfast, cleanup, and morning inspection were fine.
After, Jen sat on the bed, pulled Lalia into her lap—not unlike the way Ezri did sometimes. She slid her hand just under Lalia’s skirt, stroking her thigh, then farther up, nudging her underwear out of the way with her fingers and toying with her.
Lalia sighed, shifting to try to help. Normally, she struggled a little with such cold start, quick rampup—with putting down whatever she’d been doing or whatever thought she’d been having; she liked to please, but arousal didn’t usually flare so fast. Today, though, that wasn’t a problem. Ezri had been playing a kind of denial game with her for almost two weeks when the weekend had been planned; she hadn’t orgasmed in that time, despite frequent use and teasing. The plan had been for her to orgasm at the two week mark on Saturday, but she wouldn’t be with Ezri, and, after thinking about it, Ezri had decided to let Jen do what she would, and to send Lalia to her rather needy.
Truthfully, though, her body had kind of adjusted, and, having not been touched, she hadn’t felt that need flare since going through the connecting door. Now, though, it was like a wildfire.
She gave a little whine when Jen stopped, nudged her off her lap. “Stay,” she said, and retrieved two things from a nightstand drawer, returned, and pulled her back to where she’d been, pressed one of the retrieved objects into Lalia’s hand. “Go on.”
“Oh—” Lalia did. It was one of those clitoral suction toys that screamed the future is now. The nature of it was also that precise location was critical, so she shifted around a little more and kept nudging at her underwear until she could get it just right.
Meanwhile, Jen reached under the back of her shirt and unclasped her bra; it was still trapped under her shirt, but Jen slid her hand around to the front and was able to toy with her nipples easily, which felt more intense for the neediness and stimulation from the toy. She turned the setting up one, whimpering helplessly, her head lolling onto Jen’s shoulder and eyes fluttering shut.
Jen’s other hand slid under her skirt again, pressing at her. Lalia reoriented the toy so that the critical part was on the same spot, but the rest was out of Jen’s way. She realized at Jen’s probing that she wasn’t particularly wet yet, even though she felt dangerously turned on. Jen made use of the other item she’d retrieved from the nightstand—lube. It was clichely cold, but took the touch from a mildly uncomfortable distraction to pleasant like everything else, even as Jen slipped two fingers inside her, murmuring, “Relax,” in her ear. Every clench and twitch of pleasure now brought a second wave of sensation. She also took the use of the toy and the lube to be a good sign that she might actually be allowed to come, wasn’t just to be teased for a moment.
“Fuck,” she breathed, overcome by pleasure. She did relax, sank into it, let it feel nice, instead of trying to stave off need that wouldn’t be fulfilled.
Jen kissed her shoulder. “That’s enough for now,” she said, withdrawing her touch, wiping her hand on her thigh, and tugging the toy out of her protesting grip; it was much louder without the vacuum seal of her skin for a moment, before Jen shut it.
“Please,” Lalia implored, before the toy was even off. She couldn’t think straight, entire body throbbing with need. She could feel her pulse in her clit. Sometimes she could accept stopping easily—after a lot more stimulation than that, if she’d kept her guard up—but she hadn’t.
“Not right now.” Jen nudged her off her lap, stood. She went to set the lube and the toy down on the nightstand.
“Wait,” Lalia pleaded, thoughts and any other feelings still behind a hazy wall of need. She was vaguely starting to accept the lack of physical release, but she wasn’t emotionally ready to be done having sex, and she did have strong orgasm compersion (as Ezri called it), a sense of relief rather than jealousy if someone got that closure. “May I make you come, please, ma’am?” Desperate.
“Well, if it would please you so much,” said Jen, with a strong sense of irony. She got her own clothes out of the way and lay on the bed. She took the same toy and got it into the right spot and orientation, turned the setting up several notches, apparently accustomed to it, and positioned and ordered Lalia where she wanted her, one finger just there inside her, and mouth sucking her right nipple.
This was better. Lalia wallowed in pleasure a while longer, got some distance from the physical stimulation, still knowing exactly how divine Jen felt more from very recent experience than from her increasingly loud cries and the way she clenched around her finger and how she dragged her nails down Lalia’s back. It occurred to Lalia vaguely that her bra was still unclasped. She wasn’t very concerned with it right now.
Still, she did feel this kind of relief when Jen came—not the instant, intense, concentrated kind, but a steeper tapering off of arousal. She let up her oral ministrations when Jen shut the toy—always a good cue—and when Jen had started to catch her breath, slowly slid her finger out of her, eliciting one last needy moan.
Which she kind of liked.
…
Later, Jen found her and told her they were going out. She wouldn’t need anything out of the ordinary, just get ready.
Lalia spun up all kinds of horrible possibilities inside her head, each making less sense than the last, but got in the car without demanding to know where they were going.
And stared at their destination in confusion when they arrived, stepping out of the car and onto the curb with Jen.
The library.
Well, a library. It was technically the closest one, but she and Ezri both liked the one that was just a little farther better, so that was where they picked up their holds, and therefore did most of their returns and browsing.
“Why so surprised?” Jen asked.
And for reasons she could not comprehend, what came out of Lalia’s mouth was, “I’m just shocked you know where it is.”
She had never been smacked so quickly in her life, upside the head so solidly she almost had to catch herself on the sidewalk. She was, practically speaking, grateful that no one was around to see it, and also, philosophically, opposed to the fact that there was no one else standing in the library parking lot to see it. “Sorry. That was ableist,” she said quickly.
Jen had looked ready to gleefully jump on the apology, but then her expression faded into confusion. “How was that ableist?”
Lalia decided that now was not the time to share her suspicions that oppositional defiance wasn’t Jen’s only issue with written directions. “I don’t know.”
“You spend too much time with Ezri,” Jen brushed her off. She started towards the building.
Lalia followed.
“I have a task for you,” Jen told her. “Since you’re apparently the expert, it should be very simple.”
Lalia had the distinct feeling that it was not going to be very simple.
“All you have to do is ask for help finding a book. You’re very interested in reading Fifty Shades of Grey, and—”
Lalia had stopped both listening and walking, already flushing red; it was at that moment she noticed Jen’s hand at her back, firm enough to keep her shuffling along for a few more steps until she finally planted her feet on the ground. “I’m not going to do that,” she said, in this odd, pleasant tone, when Jen also stopped.
“No?” Jen asked innocently, pouting.
Lalia found herself (again) unable to quite meet her gaze and unable to quite look away. She stammered, unable to find the right mix of words.
“Come on,” said Jen, giving her a little push forward again.
Lalia complied for a few steps, and then faltered.
“Don’t make me pick you up.”
That wasn’t helping.
“I will give you the stupid countdown routine,” Jen threatened, and, when this failed to produce results, “Three. Two.”
Lalia had frozen. She couldn’t have complied even if she’d wanted to, still stammering about—well, so incoherently it wasn’t really about anything, but mentally, she was trying to form a case about the ethics of public play (although asking a librarian to do their job wasn’t really public play), how she couldnot make herself ask for help finding erotica in a vanilla setting, let alone erotica the entire network still loved to hate to the point it was becoming problematic.
“One.”
“I was just thinking—” she began, managing the tiniest step forward.
But it wasn’t enough, and Jen picked her up by the waist and carried her, kicking and flailing instinctively at the indignity. “Goddamnit, Lassie, you’re supposed to like it here,” Jen hissed at her, trying to keep a hold on her, and finally put her down. They weren’t far from the entrance, and being dragged into the library kicking and screaming would admittedly be a lot more embarrassing and questionable than inquiring after any particular book. Jen paced to the front door, opened it, and gestured inside. Go, it said. Now.
Lalia obeyed.
Jen followed her, but let the expert lead the way. Lalia proceeded towards the reference desk slowly because she had no choice but to proceed, but still felt unsure of if she was going to follow through. A thought occurred to her, and she whispered to Jen, “Was that…?”
“Hmm?”
“Did that count?”
“What?”
“Was that… me snapping?” she tried.
“No, darling,” said Jen. “You’ll know when you break.”
When. Lalia nodded. They were now hovering as close to the reference desk as they could without being asked what they needed help with.
“Go on,” Jen told her.
There were two people sitting at the long desk. Lalia selected the young one with the green undercut, and took tiny steps towards them until they looked up, then asked what they could help her with.
“Um. Hi. I… so, I… I’m looking for a book?” If her face wasn’t already saturated, it filled in the rest of the way with red.
“Okay,” said the slightly confused looking employee gently. “Which one are you looking for?”
“Um.” Lalia looked back at Jen, as if she didn’t know.
Jen, leaning against the end of one bookshelf that ran perpendicular to the desk, arms folded over her chest and smirking at her, failed to say anything.
“I’m looking for… it’s… it’s called Fifty Shades of Grey?”
Blink.
“For a paper,” Lalia blurted out, inspired. “I… I have to cite something in it for a paper. For school. For college,” she specified, not wanting to be mistaken for some kind of underage deviant. Even that might not have been enough for them to not mistake Jen for her mother. “And um. I had trouble finding it. With the computer,” she added, gesturing at the library system computers, because she wanted to prove she did know how to use a library on her own.
“Right,” they said. Their eyes dropped from Lalia’s face to the padlock at her throat, then went to Jen, behind her, and probably either the leather trench coat or the keys dangling around her neck. “Let me look that up for you.”
“Th-thank you.”
They typed, and then wrote, and then slid her two sticky notes. One had the book’s information on it, and the other read, Are you okay?
Lalia made a choked sound and nodded. She grabbed both sticky notes a little quickly, wanting to be able to show that one to Jen. “Thank you.”
“It’ll be over in fiction,” they said, pointing.
Lalia nodded, and turned and fled the opposite direction, the way she’d came, barely bothering to make sure Jen caught up to her. When she did, she simply flashed the sticky notes at her. Jen laughed, which only made more people stare at them.
Outside, Lalia relished the crisp air, sinking down onto the curb and trying to take deep breaths of it, slow her pulse, pressing her already cold hands to her still hot cheeks.
Jen sat next to her. “Now, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” she asked.
Lalia laid her head on her knees, unwilling to answer. Anxiety willed her to snap that it had, in fact, been so bad; yet, over with, maybe it wasn’t.
She was just starting to get a grip again when Jen literally gripped her wrist, tugged her to standing.
“That doesn’t work on me,” Lalia heard herself say, eyeing Jen’s fingers almost closed around her wrist.
“I know. I don’t need any special tricks to make you cry, darling. You’re not Clara.” Jen dropped her. “Habit.”
Lalia silently let Jen escort her to the car.
By the time they got home, all she really felt was ashamed of doing so much fussing. She knew that was the fun in it for Jen, but at the same time, she felt like she should’ve just quietly obeyed, made it look easy, which was normally the right answer, was what Clara would’ve done, and would’ve spared her some of the humiliation.
Some people found humiliation in obeying and serving itself. Lalia didn’t. She found pride and poise and purpose in doing it, and doing it well. And perhaps if she’d just done that, focused on the fact that her actions were ultimately only obeying, there would’ve really been nothing to be ashamed of.
…
Still, she finally felt rattled in a way she couldn’t shake.
She’d certainly return to Ezri less emotionally pent up and inclined to fuss, and more grateful for the reasonable norms and her service routine. But for now, she felt flustered.
She once again had about ten minutes before her alarm would go off to start making dinner. Tonight, though, she’d set that alarm for five minutes earlier than she really needed it, as if it would help her.
It wasn’t long after she noticed the time that Jen found her.
Lalia’s stomach sank. It wasn’t so much in anticipation of whatever Jen had in store for her as much as in anticipation of the fact that she didn’t have the capacity left to handle it. They’d gotten very close to the line. And she felt like she had only a few more concrete hoops left to jump through—dinner, evening inspection, after which she was considering just going straight to sleep to be safe; she’d go home in the morning.
Jen held out the suction toy from that morning, which Lalia had since cleaned and put away. Her body language seemed to Lalia more conciliatory than threatening, but she felt very aware of the time. Optimistic or desperate, perhaps, she sensed relief coming, decided the game was that she better make it quick or make herself behind schedule once again, that she better not assume this wasn’t going places a second time. Clara could come with one word from Jen, but Lalia had no such training.
Jen pointed to the ground at her feet.
That training, Lalia did have. She knelt.
Jen handed her the toy. “Go on.”
Lalia obeyed. She navigated her clothes and found the right spot and even bumped the setting up a little.
The pleasure again set in quickly; she sighed, content. It felt good, but she still needed some time to edge properly.
Desire flowing, it wasn’t so horrible when Jen tilted her chin up and made her look at her; she wasn’t sure she’d been avoiding eye contact on purpose by then, more floaty than shy. As Jen had pointed out in the very first trade—arousal overrode shyness easily; to be Ezri’s shining example was to be an exhibitionist, and, for better or worse, nothing earned attention quite like sex.
She whimpered with pleasure; Jen stroked her cheek with her thumb.
Her phone alarm went off from inside her pocket. With her free hand, she managed to hit some button that made it be quiet. This time, she had five minutes before it actually demanded attention, a little bit of confidence from having pulled dinner off on time last night, and also confidence that she didn’t need five more minutes to finish. The weekend’s events had this somewhat cyclical nature, a few scenarios that went a little further than the last instance each time they came up.
This led her to shock when Jen crouched in front of her and removed the toy from her protesting grip once again. “You wouldn’t want to be late,” Jen said pleasantly, straightening and setting the toy aside.
“I—I have time,” Lalia said anxiously, desperate to change her mind. “Just let me—and then I’ll make dinner.”
“Ah, yes, when it’s your pleasure, you have time.”
Sexualarousal flowed right into aroused as in provoked. The response her brain provided first was: “Why do you always have to be such a bitch about everything?” but thankfully, another little voice in her head reminded her that she loved Jen, that she respected Jen, and that she wanted to live, and she couldn’t say that. So she let the second response her brain provided come out of her mouth instead, which was: “Why do you always have to be such a cunt about everything?”
Jen gave her a self satisfied smile.
This time, the color drained from Lalia’s face. And, Jen had been right: she did know she’d snapped, passed anxiety and finally resorted to anger. Still, she tried to backtrack, stammering apologies and promises. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean that. Of course, I—I’ll go make dinner,” she tried, standing, but, not free to go, was forced to continue, “I shouldn’t have said that. It won’t happen again.”
Silence. Jen remained almost in the doorway, drinking her reaction in.
Lalia gave up, dropped back to her knees, hung her head. “Forgive me, please, ma’am.” And, not optimistic about the order these things would happen in: “Of course, I’ll accept any consequences you see fit.”
Silence. But Lalia had nothing left to fill it with this time. She probably was running late now, and more frazzled than ever.
“Lassie,” Jen said finally, crouching in front of her again, tilting her chin up again, agonizing this time, “let’s order pizza.”
“I… but what about… but I… snapped.”
“Yes, well, as pornographic as that apology was—who was hurt? What was hurt? My ego? I don’t think so. Where’s the rule that says you can’t call me a cunt?”
“I—it’s the—there’s ‘speak respectfully.’”
“Yes, and I’ll draw that line; thank you.”
“I—I don’t understand.”
“No; you don’t, do you?” But Jen’s tone was gentle. She pulled her into her arms, and the angle was very awkward, but Lalia realized she felt safe there. “Why don’t you make us some hot chocolate for now, and we can sit on the patio and drink it, and I can make you understand, and at some point tonight you can actually get off?”
Lalia continued to stammer. She had expected this to be more of an over the lap conversation than an on the back patio with hot chocolate conversation. A little warning bell sounded in her head that it was one of the only locations where they might run into Ezri and Clara, but that was far from her top concern. “I—I should be making dinner—”
“Listen to me,” said Jen, gripping her face again. “Stop with all the overthinking and anticipating and trying to do what I really want. Breathe. Focus. Listen to what I’m telling you. I’m not mad at you and I’m not going to hurt you.”
Lalia nodded hesitantly. She still didn’t really understand what had just happened, but she decided the only next move was to make the hot chocolate. Dinner sounded nauseating at the moment, actually, but a beverage, she could handle. She stood again. Jen straightened and took a step out of her way and waved her out, and accepted the first curtsy even though it was admittedly wobbly.
Downstairs, Lalia decided that the task was meant to be as much a mini version of how making dinner had soothed her yesterday, and a chance to breathe, alone, as it was about a comforting drink in the crisp fresh air. It had been cathartic to snap and find out where it led, but it would be calming to indulge the familiar. She knew how to do this.
It disturbed her, sometimes, how much Jen seemed to deeply understand without the emotional attachment to it.
A memory came back to her—the night Jen and Clara had “broken in”, not long before the summit, with the first full round of trainees around. Amidst handling the now seemingly mild chaos—Clara fell, Westley broke a glass all over their hands, Fiona panicked, Whiskerton peed everywhere and ran under the couch, Jen and Ezri bickered—she’d made hot chocolate, for Ezri and their unexpected guests. It had seemed the thing to do for the sake of normalcy.
Now, she tried to detangle what had just happened and what it meant. The fact that her outburst had led nowhere, and why—was a reminder that she did need to stop going past anticipatory service and projecting certain standards onto Jen, onto Ezri, as what they really wanted, ignoring what they’d actually said, and focusing on what she aspired to, when she didn’t think they’d asked for enough, not pleased with herself even though she’d given them what they wanted. That she needed to let them draw their own lines in the sand, even if she didn’t agree with how far out they’d been placed, instead of drawing and focusing on her own based on what she perceived as their desires, insisting they enforce them for her and being upset with herself when she crossed them, and ignoring half the range they’d given her. That ultimately, Ezri and Jen both set their standards and lines within their range of comfort, that even if she did step a little over the line, even if she was punished for doing so—that line still wasn’t set at truly hurting them or immorality. She’d have to go far over the line for that. A lot further than calling Jen a cunt.
She put on shoes and a jacket, and brought the hot chocolate out to the patio, where Jen, also now better dressed for the weather, was waiting for her.
This time, she waved for her to sit before Lalia could even get into position, seeming unfussed with it now. Lalia wondered if whatever game they’d been playing was up. She sat next to her at the outdoor dining table, and they sipped their hot chocolates. The evening was quiet and dark except for the golden string lights.
“So,” said Jen knowingly, “tell me what you’re thinking.”
Lalia did.
Jen nodded her approval.
Sometimes Lalia wished she would just tell her these things. Yet, she’d experienced it with the trainees—she had to let them learn from actual experience and figure certain things out on their own.
Calm, she laid her head on Jen’s shoulder. “Thanks,” she concluded simply.
Jen hummed, tilted her head onto hers. “So are you ready to chill out and actually enjoy tonight?”
“Yeah,” said Lalia, and meant it; “I am.”