Chapter Text
The haze of smoke enveloping the bar only thickens in the dingy back hallway where Greta waits for the bathroom. Her anxiety spikes as more people join her in line, crowding into her nearly non-existent personal space. If she could escape, she would, but she broke the seal an hour ago, and her bladder is now threatening to burst.
Her eyes burn, and a headache is starting around her temples from the bass that shakes everything, including the pictures that line the wall. Like the rest of the décor, most of them are outdated, and not in the cool, retro way they were clearly aiming for.
Back in the day, this place would have been right up Greta’s alley. Now, the idea she really might be getting too old for this shit crosses her mind, and not for the first time tonight.
The sweat pooling between her breasts, and all her other unmentionable places, highlights just how miserably hot she is. Though to be fair, that could be just as much from her third Malibu and pineapple as it was this poorly air-conditioned bar, packed for Ladies Night.
Ladies my ass, Greta huffs to herself. These thirsty bitches have about one more time of hitting on her girlfriend before Greta mops the floor with all of them.
Of course, Carson doesn’t care about the attention. As sexy as she is, she is probably used to it by now. And, as friendly as she is, interactions mean something altogether different to her than to the women who want to bed her.
So, Carson isn’t the problem. The issue lies totally with Greta, and the rage that boils inside her when someone dares to approach her girl. Dares to shoot their shot, usually right in front of her. Like Greta isn’t there, or it just doesn’t matter to them who she is.
Normally, she tries to rise above, even sometimes succeeding, but tonight, hell, tonight it's going to be a problem. Carson’s black skinny jeans, tight white tank top and backwards hat, plus Greta’s possessive streak? In this fucking summer heat? Somebody is liable to get hurt.
So as Greta steps into the cramped bathroom, dodging the group of primping girls that thankfully aren’t any of the ones that she had to shoo away earlier, she decides it is about time to go. Her girlfriend would be easily swayed, because there is one thing Greta has on all her would-be understudies. She knows Carson Shaw.
They may only be a few years into this, but the way they fit each other is unreal. Sex between them is always hot. Well, except for that one time when neither of them was actually feeling it and so they should have just left their record of perfect sexy times alone.
Running through the highlights wheel in her mind left an ache between Greta’s legs. Yeah, it's for sure time to go. She hurries to do her business, wash her hands and escape the confines of the bathroom. The quicker she gets back to Carson, the quicker they can go home. And take their clothes off.
The brunette is of course where Greta had left her, at the table they got here extra early to ensure they snagged. A little piece of the bar carved out just for them. Except her girlfriend isn’t alone. In Greta’s chair is a busty blonde with her hand on their table, very near her Carson’s arm.
The walls begin to close in; red tunnel vision focuses solely on this bitch trying to touch what’s hers. As an only child, Greta never really learned to share. She isn’t about to start now, not when it matters the most.
Stalking back to the table, her long legs exaggerated into an even longer stride, Greta is trying really hard to remind her adrenaline-fueled brain that she really isn’t cut out for jail. She has to, before she gets over there and punches this little hussy in her throat.
Greta normally does not slut-shame. Women have the right to use their agency as they see fit. She does not care. That is, as long as their freewill doesn’t involve her or her girl.
The same girl who clocks Greta’s approach a second too late. Surely seeing the fire shooting from her eyes, Carson’s widen. Then when she follows the redhead’s gaze down to the fingertips brushing her forearm, they grow comically large.
Her girlfriend being so clearly surprised at her proximity to this bitch, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, might have been amusing under other circumstances. Most definitely not these ones. Not when that girl is still there, completely oblivious to anything but that Shaw charm.
Making sure that ends right here, Greta plops down side-saddle in her rightful place on Carson’s lap. Without any hesitation, her lover’s hands are quickly around her waist. The brunette’s touch, loving, and possessive all at once, allows those familiar feelings to wash over her.
Slinging long arms around her girlfriend’s neck, Greta delights in Carson’s happy little murmurs as she kneads heated flesh. For just a moment, she almost loses the plot. Almost.
When Greta abruptly stops and turns towards the woman too stupid to take a hint, Carson groans. The redhead ignores her, and whatever sticky mess her elbow has landed in, to stretch across the table and knock the woman’s hands from where she'd foolishly put them. It doesn’t matter that Carson’s arms aren’t there anymore, it's principle at this point.
Putting on her best customer service voice, saccharine, in complete opposition of the ugliness stirring inside her, Greta speaks over their now disgruntled audience to ask, “who’s your friend, Carson?”
“I don’t know her, she just came and sat down,” Carson shrugs with a dimpled grin as if she doesn’t see the problem.
With an eye roll, Greta scoffs, “funny how that happened after I went to the bathroom. Like everyone in here hasn’t seen us together all night.”
The blonde begins to argue, or defend herself, or some other useless act, but once again Greta ignores her to question her girlfriend, who is staring at her intently. “Why do you think that is, Carse?”
“Because Carse is fucking hot,” the bitch with the apparent deathwish purrs.
Greta’s head spins faster than Meryl’s in Death Becomes Her, as she spits, “she’s also very fucking taken. So, unless you want me to-”
“-Hey,” Carson sits forward, calmly whispering in her ear. Hot breath tickles Greta’s skin and sends waves of pleasure to her core. Squirming, she turns to look at the most important person in her life.
Her lover leans in for a kiss, which Greta smoothly denies by turning away at the last possible second. A pouting Carson, with her lip jutted out, asks, “do you want to get out of here?”
Even though she had, and probably still should, Greta shakes her head, inspired in a completely different way now. “Let’s dance,” she suggests instead.
It may be petty as hell and completely unnecessary, but Greta is going to make a very public spectacle of claiming Carson for the world to see. She’ll make sure everyone knows exactly who her lover belongs to, and then they can go home, where Greta will remind Carson of the same.
She might lean bottom, but tonight she is going to take full advantage of both of them being switches. She’ll have Carson begging for release soon.
That thought brings images of her sweaty lover on all fours in the middle of their bed, looking back and begging for her strap. Which, against all odds, Greta somehow knows how to wield. At least that’s what Carson panted when the redhead repeatedly sunk into her the last time that she had her like that. The way she pulled Greta in deeper, even as her entire body trembled, was not something she would forget anytime soon. It also made her more apt to believe Carson’s praises.
Now, her lover is whining as Greta climbs out of her lap and stands. The first thing she notices is the absence of Carson’s would be suitor. “Fucking finally” she mutters, reaching her hand down to help the brunette up.
Amid the tingles running through Greta from their connection, Carson husks with her irresistible dimples popping out, “you being jealous is really hot.”
Greta pulls on Carson until their bodies crash together, then whines, “she was touching you.”
“It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t-”
“It does!” Greta insists. Then lowering her voice, both in volume and tone, Greta purrs, “I’m the only one that gets to touch you, Carse.” Proving her point by trailing long fingers up her lover’s sides, softly across her sports bra and tank top covered tits, before roughly stroking both nipples with her thumbs.
Carson’s sexy little gasp goes straight to Greta’s clit, but still she backs away. She has all sorts of points to make tonight, and none of them start with Carson getting her way, at least not yet.
The brunette reaches for her, and Greta tsks, “you let other women touch, Carse. You don’t need me to.”
Carson's throat bobs as she gulps, then lets out a breathy, whimpering, “fuck.” The sound reverberates through Greta even more than the bar’s still thumping bass.
Her mouth, hot and hungry, devours the rest of Carson’s protests, but still, Greta does not use her hands. When her girlfriend tries with her own, the redhead once again breaks away. Winking to let Carson know she really isn’t upset with her, Greta then spins, her red dress swishing around her knees as she heads to the dance floor, with Carson hot on her heels.
Taking up a third of the bar, the dedicated dancing space is the breeding ground for horrible decisions and PDA intense enough to result in babies if two cis women could accomplish such things on their own. They pass so many thirsty, desperate bitches, who could only be considered such, going after someone who is happily taken.
With that thought, Greta also rescinds her no touching plan, for now. Holding her hand out behind herself, that familiar jolt lets her know it is indeed Carson who takes it, without Greta having to look back and check. Together they weave through groups of dancing minxes. None of whom make the fatal error of touching her girlfriend, which is for the best, for all of them.
When they reach the back corner, opposite the makeshift DJ booth sitting on a couple of card tables, Greta yanks a caught unaware Carson around her. Pinning her to the wall, her lover’s oomph is drowned out by her cry. “Damn, Greta.” The redhead’s own pulse races in anticipation, beating wildly between her legs.
Greta plucks Carson’s sudden wandering hands from the air and pins them over their heads. “No touching, Shaw, or I’ll stop.”
With an appetizing smirk gracing her pretty face, Carson uses her sexy voice, thick with arousal, to husk, “stop what, baby?” without even attempting to free herself from Greta’s hold.
Instead of answering directly, she raises her eyebrows in warning, squeezes her lover’s wrists a little tighter and slides one leg between Carson’s. Rocking her hips, pushing her knee up with faint pressure, something deep inside her clenches when Carson grinds herself against her leg. Of course she found a way to demand pleasure, with her arms still firmly against the wall, so as not to break any rules.
Well, two can play that game. Greta shimmies up and down, rubbing her breasts, Carson’s favorite assets, across her girlfriend’s arm. With thin padding built into her dress, and no bra, it is clear Carson feels Greta’s hard nipples when she gasps and humps the redhead a little more eagerly.
Lost in the passion between them, Carson forgot Greta’s orders and cups her ass, pulling her close. With her own pussy throbbing, it takes herculean effort for Greta to step back, admonishing her girl as she goes. “I said no touching, Carse.”
“But, baby,” Carson counters, voice silky smooth before she goes in for the kill and bites her lip.
Just a mere mortal, Greta is not going to be able to keep her resolve while her eyes are drawn like magnets to that magic mouth. There is only one solution really. She spins, her dress riding up as she drops it like it's hot. Grinding her ass against Carson’s core, hands on her own knees, Greta follows the beat of I’m a Slave for You, as she mercilessly teases the love of her life.
As the song nears its end, Carson pants, “Jesus, baby.” Leaning down to husk in the redhead’s ear, she questions, “do you know how much I want to touch you? How everyone in here wishes they were me?”
Looking out into the crowd, Greta’s eyes widen when she sees just how many were on them, dirty grins painted on their horny little faces. So lost in their own sexy as fuck bubble, she hadn’t even remembered where they were for a few minutes at least. Long enough to put on quite the show, way more than she had ever intended on.
Old enough now to have her reservations about doing this in front of an audience, but so extremely turned on and not willing to wait much longer, Greta stands with purpose. Latching onto Carson’s arm, Greta drags her girlfriend to that barely visible exit nestled back where they had come from.
Always having an escape plan is something she lives by. Tonight, those old habits are leading to something different altogether. Fuck, that's a good thing.
Her girlfriend is right behind her as they burst carefree and giggling out into the alley, finally alone in the near dark. The sole fluorescent light blinks in and out, casting them in shadows against the brick wall. Right where she shoves Carson, her mouth insisting, “you’re mine,” before she attacks her lips.
Trying at once to consume her lover, their passion, their connection, and be consumed in return. The need reignites low in her belly, pulsing everywhere. She has to have Carson, right fucking now. “Mine,” she growls again, before resuming their heated kiss.
Slipping her hand into Carson’s pants, dipping below her panties, Greta slides across her girlfriend’s sopping wet center. Clit at full attention, as desperate for her touch as Greta is to give it.
“Only I get to have you like this. Only I get to fuck you, Shaw. That pretty pussy of yours is mine to pound," she growls.
Without much room to work, but oh so fucking determined, Greta thrusts two fingers up to the knuckles into her eager girlfriend. Carson spreads her legs a little further apart and begins to bounce up and down, fucking back. Grasping Greta’s shoulders as she rides the redhead’s hand, hard.
Knowing her lover rarely comes from penetration alone, Greta presses the palm of her hand against Carson’s clit, giving her that extra something to rut against. Once, twice, three times, then she is coming with a loud cry, clenching around Greta, pleasure spilling into the redhead’s hand.
“All mine,” Greta firmly repeats, as if it is ever a question. It isn’t, not really, but fuck if pretending it is, isn’t so fucking hot.
“And you’re all mine,” Carson growls back, before yanking Greta’s hand from her pants. This time, she does the dragging as they make their way quickly down the alley.
Loving this side of Carson, and willing to follow her anywhere, Greta giggles, “where are we going?”
“Home,” Carson growls. “I need my mouth on you something fucking fierce. I need you to come in my mouth, baby. I’m starving.”
Fuck. Just like that, Greta is no longer laughing. Who is she to get in the way of Carson and her sweet tooth? Fuck, she has never been anything better than her lover’s dessert.