Chapter Text
Greta found safety in control. She was familiar with rules and guidelines, and felt that clear-cut expectations shielded her from unwanted outcomes and the chaos of the unknown. Then she met Carson. Carson Shaw, who was impulsive and didn’t think before she spoke. Carson, who was beautiful and kind, but messy, in the most terrifying ways. Carson, who seemed intent on showing her that letting go of that control could be worth the blissful quiet of her mind, the tremors in her thighs.
Greta had learned she didn’t mind being told what to do, so long as those words came from Carson’s mouth. She’d found that she enjoyed being tied up, even relished the frustration buzzing beneath her skin at her inability to touch her wife. She regularly revisited the memory of Carson leaning over her, her voice low and rough when she said, “touch yourself and don’t stop until I tell you to,” particularly when Carson was out of town coaching. Like she was now.
Greta was fine spending the occasional night alone during softball season. She’d order takeout from her favorite burger spot, watch a few episodes of the reality shows she loved, that Carson claimed she hated, and Facetime with Jo if she felt lonely. Each time she would inevitably think of her wife, cheering on her girls or, better yet, fighting with the umpire about a bad call, and her hand would slip beneath the waistband of her pajama pants. She’d memorized the way Carson would say, “don’t come until I say you can,” and hear it as she pressed her middle finger against her center. She would see dark brown eyes watching her carefully when she was warned not to make a sound, or risk losing the fingers knuckle deep within her. She knew the weight of Carson’s body and how quickly that body could turn her into a gasping, aching mess of want.
So, she had plans for the evening. The same plans she always had when Carson was a state away, at another college, making sure her girls had the support they needed. She picked up the cardboard box at the door to their apartment, and fit her key into the lock with her free hand. She felt her phone buzz in her back pocket, and dropped the package onto the dining table in favor of unlocking her home screen and reading the text that had come through.
Hey baby. Are you home yet? I had something get delivered, and I wanted to make sure it hadn’t been taken by the second floor package thief.
Greta had lost two pounds of coffee beans, a sex swing, and a new coat to the thief in question, so she texted back quickly that she’d grabbed the box.
Good. Open it for me.
No question mark at the end. No “please.” Greta lifted an eyebrow, but tucked her phone back into her pocket and found a rarely used key on her ring, digging into the tape securing the cardboard. It was a nondescript box, with a plain warehousing address, so she dug into the packing peanuts with curiosity, quickly grasping at the smaller box within. The corner of her mouth quirked up, and she stifled a laugh — a quiet one that danced in the air before her lips as her mind wandered. Grabbing her phone again, her fingers flew across the screen as she typed out a message to Carson.
Let me take the two of you out to dinner tomorrow? The bus should be back by seven.
Carson’s approach to softball had been the same since she was the varsity team captain in high school, and that same approach had inched its way further into their relationship as her confidence has grown. But Greta had the same amount of time to develop her own fucking filthy playbook, and she had used that time to her advantage.
She pulled her shirt over her head as she padded across the living room carpet, adjusting the lace cups of her bra before she took a photo in the full length mirror in their bedroom. Greta hit send on the message, tossing her phone onto the bed while she pulled off her jeans and searched for something more comfortable. She could hear her phone quietly vibrating against the duvet cover, but she let it ring through a full cycle as she searched their dresser drawers for her favorite pair of Carson’s too-short sweatpants, her eyes twinkling with amusement. As expected, it began ringing again almost instantaneously.
“Hello love,” she answered on the third ring, tapping the screen to put the call on speaker. “What are you and the girls up to?”
“Greta,” came the answering groan. The words that followed were so hushed they were almost impossible to hear. “You can’t send pictures like that when I’m on the bus.”
“Like what?” Her voice was light, airy — filled to the brim with innocence. Carson repeated her name, slipping back down to a whisper as she explained. “How far could you possibly be from the hotel?”
She listened as Carson spoke to the bus driver before answering her question. “An hour. Sixty of the longest minutes of my day.”
Greta unhooked her bra, tossing it into the laundry hamper, and pulling open another drawer to find a t-shirt. “So I shouldn’t send another? It would be unfair, wouldn’t it?” She only received a huff in response, and she could picture her wife, head in her hands, elbows digging into her knees.
One of the things Greta loved most about Carson was how she wanted. Her desire was electricity, crackling against her skin, bolts reaching out and shrouding Greta in their power. She could see it in the way her eyes darkened, the way Carson pulled her bottom lip taut, teeth holding it captive. That longing was infectious, and Greta always felt it working between her muscles, settling into her chest and stomach and between her thighs. Even hundreds of miles away, she could feel it through the phone, in Carson’s shallow breaths that saturated the silence.
“Call me back when you get to the hotel?”
“Of course,” Carson agreed. “But I’ll only have fifteen minutes to get settled before dinner.”
“That’s fine. I’ll be quick.” Greta tapped her phone screen to end the call and pulled up the camera. She took another photo, topless this time, and hit send, far removed from the days when she would over analyze, edit, and tweak her nudes until they were perfect. As frequently as Carson said it, the idea that she was perfect just as she was might have started sinking in. The response was quicker than expected; her phone buzzed against her leg as she worked an old t-shirt over her head.
I don’t think I’ll need fifteen minutes.
Greta tucked her phone into her pocket and wandered back toward the dining room, grabbing the smaller box within the packaging and running a fingernail along the seam of the plastic wrap. With the lid removed, she found a small, bright blue vibrator and a corresponding remote tucked in with the charger and an extensively folded operations manual. Plugging the device in and reading the instructions felt like foreplay, with the same charge in the air, the same heat building between Greta’s legs. As the minutes ticked on, phantom embraces that held Carson’s weight danced over the most sensitive parts of Greta’s body; she felt fingertips against her inner thighs, the whisper of hair across her clavicle, and lips against her neck. When her phone vibrated against the table, it unceremoniously roused Greta from an intricate daydream involving Carson in a decidedly sacrilegious nun’s habit, wielding a paddle.
“Are you touching yourself yet?” Greta asked when the lines connected, in lieu of a greeting. She paused, lifting a glass of wine to her lips as she waited, placing the phone on speaker again and placing it carefully back onto the coffee table. Carson murmured an assent, and Greta’s grin grew behind the merlot tinted glass. “Now my love, I want you to circle your clit slowly, with just one finger.” She traced the same shape with the tip of her own index finger, just above her knee, a puppeteer tugging at Carson’s strings.
“Are you wet for me? I know you are.” Carson bit down, her teeth a vice and her lip their captive. Her hand was working against her, haphazardly laying stones of desire atop a foundation that had been building within her for the last hour of the bus drive. Greta was so often soft, pliant, willing. She was clay ready to be molded by Carson’s hand, submissive in a way that held a quiet power. But this version of Greta – insistent and exacting and sure of the effect she had – was a siren, and Carson, no more than a sailor. “Did you bring anything with you?”
Carson tilted her head, fitting her phone between her shoulder and ear as she dug through her overnight bag, pulling a small vibrator out from beneath her clothing and holding the power button until it came to life, buzzing against her palm. Her body ached where she stood, leaning against the hotel room wall to keep herself steady. “Can I use it?”
The tension as she waited for permission made it no easier to remain upright. “I want you to hold it there, without moving – just the lightest touch. I want it to be maddening, Carson. I want you to beg for it.”
The want to disobey was there, tickling at the base of her skull, but her intrinsic desire to be good, to comply with Greta’s wishes, had offered both hands and invited her rebelliousness to dance. She could feel the song building - the very first notes of the violin and the woodwinds accompaniment. It was in the heat between her thighs and the stark coolness of the air conditioned room against her skin.
“Don’t be shy. I want to hear you.” Those five words reached through the phone with smoky tendrils, ripping the cage from around Carson’s mouth, as the moan she’d been suppressing worked its way out of her chest.
“Greta, please,” Carson managed, the words fighting their way out of her trachea, crawling up around her molars. She followed each directive with the devotion of a congregation, Greta’s commands wrapped around her hands like a rosary, each letter its own counted bead. Carson cupped her breasts, wrapping a thumb and finger around her nipple and pulling it taut, feeling the tightness as it sank down through her belly. She pressed the vibrator closer to her clitoris, and the combination of that with Greta’s quiet “just like that,” sent shockwaves into her thighs.
Three swift knocks echoed through her hotel room, silent excluding the sounds her wife had coaxed from the very back of her throat. The phone fell from where it was tucked between her shoulder and ear and she covered her mouth with her free hand to muffle her moan. She adjusted the bullet, moving it slightly to the right, and her stomach clenched, the waves of pleasure angry and chaotic, crashing against a jagged cliff face. A second round of knocks, more insistent this time, swam through the cascade, and Carson sucked in a breath, before calling a response.
“Just one second!” She shoved the vibrator into her bag, clicking the power button repeatedly until the buzzing went quiet, after getting steadily more aggressive with each tap of her finger. Carson adjusted the waistband of her joggers and ducked into the bathroom, flushing the toilet and turning on the faucet. She scrubbed at her hands with the complimentary bar of soap, bouncing on her toes to jolt the anxiety of being interrupted out of her body. Shaking her hands dry, she pushed down on the door handle to her room to greet Shirley, her assistant coach. “Sorry! I was in the bathroom.”
Shirley walked into the hotel room, immediately pressing the back of her hand against Carson’s forehead, brow furrowed in concern. “You’re flushed, and you feel a little warm.” Carson’s cheeks flashed a shade darker. ”There have been a few unconfirmed cases of avian flu in Minnesota. Have you come into contact with any infected geese?”
Carson dodged Shirley’s insistent hands, grabbing her phone off of the floor and ending the call. She tucked her room key into her pocket, and ushered Shirley out of the room as quickly as she could manage, typing out a message to Greta as they made their way to the elevator. Her phone buzzed as the same time the elevator arrived, a sharp ding punctuating the message receipt.
I can’t wait for you to get home either. ;) Have a good dinner and tell the girls I said good luck!
Carson leaned against one of the hand rails as Shirley hit the button for the lobby. She stared at her phone screen, the cursor blinking as she debated what to respond with, when a second text came through. Greta, in her favorite grey sweats, long legs sprawled across their couch, and hand dipped just underneath the waistband of her pants, the blue vibrator against her skin.