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Once a week, Joan permits herself the pleasure of modest indulgence.
But even indulgence follows a routine; there’s little pleasure to be gleaned from disorder and spontaneity is best in sparing doses. Because of this, she prefers to keep most of these evenings to herself, within the confines of her home, where she is the master of every element. The particular day of the week may change, but it’s always on a night when she doesn’t have to be at Wentworth the following day; indulgence isn’t something to be rushed.
Arriving home, utilitarian heels are traded for the plush warmth of lambs wool on her tired feet. The severe bun is released, hairpins placed in a perfectly aligned row, allowing raven hair to cascade in a thick curtain to her shoulders. Long fingers weave into the midnight mane, kneading her tender scalp, cajoling a contented sigh from carmine lips.
Upstairs, she shucks off the uniform and all that remains of the dingy prison. Burgundy silk replaces the black slacks and a black gossamer camisole brushes pleasingly against her unrestrained breasts. She makes her way back downstairs to prepare her meal, switching on the ipod that breathes the seductive serenade of Diana Krall into the room.
The meal is flexible, depending on her current craving, and prepared specifically for the evening. A rather indulgent deviation from the rest of the week, when she reheats perfectly measured portions of the same premade meal that was meticulously prepared, labelled and frozen on the preceding Sunday. One element remains constant, however: the standard shot of vodka is always replaced with a bottle of bold shiraz. She’ll allow herself the whole bottle over the course of the evening.
For consumption, tonight’s selection is a sumptuous feast: lamb chops in a balsamic brown sugar reduction paired with oven roasted cherry tomatoes and zucchini and a mushroom and asparagus wild rice pilaf. She takes pleasure in selecting the menu for these evenings, most often pulling recipes from a viewing of MasterChef (a guilty pleasure) or one of her prized Julia Child cookbooks. She finds even more enjoyment and relaxation in preparing the meal; her strong hands creating, instead of destroying, as they are wont to do.
One glass down, and the meal goes into the oven. She pours herself a second glass and moves into the living room, reclining full length into the black leather sofa. It’s soft, perfectly maintained and cool against her skin. Relaxing into the armrest, she closes her eyes and breathes deeply, allowing the tension from the day to release. After a long moment of silence, she reaches for the book on the table: The Complete Poetry of Edgar Allan Poe, and allows her mind to be transported to the melancholic, yet romantic world he creates until the meal is ready.
She eats at the head of the dining table, accompanied with her third glass of wine. Espresso eyes close in appreciation as she tastes the first bite of moist and flavor-balanced lamb. Perfect. She takes her time eating, allowing herself to savor the complex, yet complementary flavors. She eats until she’s full, but not with gluttonous abandon.
After the meal, the kitchen is returned to its pristine state and the leftovers are portioned and packed to be frozen. Placing them inside the freezer, she retrieves one final treat.
Pistachio gelato.
Fortunately, she was not inflicted with a sweet tooth, but this particular confection is her weakness. An expert at maintaining control, she only permits herself the indulgence once or twice a month, usually after a particularly taxing day. Today she’ll allow herself the delight.
Another supply of contraband had made its way into Wentworth, sending yet another drug-filled junkie into hospital. A thorough search had been performed and after a surprisingly assertive line of questioning from her deputy, one of the women had confessed the location of the payload. The memory of Vera’s proud face as she presented the 4 balloons of heroin brings a smirk to her face. Her little protege is learning fast, though she still has a long way to go.
With the taste of rich pistachio lingering on her tongue, she heads upstairs with her final glass of wine to draw a bath.
The beautiful clawfoot tub is a custom reproduction, built to perfectly fit her lengthy frame. The smooth porcelain basin sits atop 4 brass lion’s paws, strong and regal as they effortlessly carry the weight above them. It was one of the first things she purchased with the suspect inheritance she gained from her father; a purely selfish and indulgent buy. She covets it, unabashedly.
She runs the water hot, until it threatens to blister her skin; it will cool to an acceptable heat by the time she climbs in. Setting her final glass of wine on the window ledge, she begins to slip out of her clothes, folding them neatly to stack them on the vanity. Standing statuesque next to the tub, her alabaster skin prickles with the inviting heat swirling from the richly scented water. Lavender and vanilla fill the air and she breathes in deeply before lifting a leg to step in.
The first step sets her skin alight, producing an open mouthed groan as she brings her other leg into the tub. She stands a moment, adjusting to the heat, before slowly sinking into the liquid fire. Her breathing slows, grows deeper and more relaxed as the hot water begins to work it’s magic. Muscles release, tension fades and she sinks further down into the tub.
A buoyant hand traces absent-minded patterns across the water, as the other brings another sip of spicy sweet shiraz to her lips. She swallows the full-bodied liquid with a satisfied smile and enjoys the sound of silence; a long while passing as she langors in the bath.
Eventually, her hands begin to trace along her skin as she feels herself growing deliciously loose from the wine and heat. Palms raise to graze across her breasts and she sighs and arches toward the touch. She cups them possessively and begins to knead, biting her bottom lip at the pleasurable sensation it creates. With her left hand, she tweaks a rising nipple as her right hand begins to coast along the long plane of her torso, fingers tracing lightly across gooseprickled skin.
Coming to the dense curls between her thighs, she allows her legs to fall open. Long fingers trace the length of her slit as she continues groping her left breast. Finally, she pushes her middle finger between her folds, running slowly up and down across her clit. She moans with the enjoyable touch and continues her intimate ministrations.
Her mind growing hazy at the heightened arousal, her thoughts begin to wander, no longer governed by the restrictive walls she builds around them. Unencumbered, an image of her deputy floats across her conscience: full pink lips and wide doe eyes full of reverence with a touch of fear. With the image of pure naivety in mind and a final firm stroke against her clit, she hums her satisfying release.
She slows her persistent caress as she rides the wave of pleasure surging through her veins. Partially sated, but she’s not yet had her fill; she lifts her right calf to rest along the edge of the tub and runs her middle and ring finger across the length of her silken inner lips before thrusting them deep into her pulsing cunt, moaning licentiously at the pressure it produces.
She’s not opposed to penetration, so long as the feeling inside her is far removed from that of an unrelentingly rigid cock. She prefers the wandering caress of fingers: twisting, flexing, curling as they explore her glorious sex; playing her like a beautifully crafted instrument.
Hips and hand thrust in tandem as they drive her to the peak of orgasm. In the throes of passion, she permits herself a fantasy.
Vera is on her knees, arms held tightly at her sides. She wears her uniform; her chestnut locks left down to gently frame her face.
She towers above her deputy, completely nude, and Vera looks up in wonder, eager eyes awaiting her next command. Raising a leg, she places her foot on the neighboring chair and with a slight, yet authoritative nod of her head, she gives her deputy consent.
Vera leans in, hot tongue pressing between her swollen folds, eyes remaining locked with her lusty gaze. She inhales sharply at the sensation and reaches a hand into chestnut waves, guiding Vera’s mouth further into her clit.
Vera laps at her slick sex, teasing her entrance with a persistent swipe of her tongue, then tracing back to swirl around her rising clit. She moans deeply under the unexpectedly skilled touch, grinding herself harder in time with Vera’s delicious mouth.
Her breathing grows labored and shallow as her pleasure quickly builds. Desiring more, she husks an urgent command.
“Touch me.”
Vera raises a hand, running it up a milky thigh beforing thrusting three fingers deep into her generously wet sex. Small fingers pump her, in and out, as Vera sucks hard on her clit and she feels her legs begin to tremble.
With the final image burned in her brain, she thrusts into herself deeply, curling her fingers hard into the dense bundle of nerves deep inside, her inner walls grasping in a vice-like grip around her long fingers. Her thumb brushes feverishly against her stiffened clit.
With a sudden surge then seizure, she gasps and moans, deep and long, as she cums hard into her palm, her deputy’s whispered name ghosting past her trembling lips as she tumbles into ecstasy.