(CJ/Abbey; NC-17)


Wearin' Yesterday's Misfortunes (Like a Smile)

*

You never want to do this on the plane.  

Abbey, or whomever she's being at the time, always wants to do this on the plane, 
when she's got an opening and you've got an opening and her husband doesn't, and 
you don't pardon yourself the pun.

It's too public, locked door notwithstanding.  You can hear the footfalls of the people 
whose respect you fight for every day.  It doesn't turn you on.  Other things take care 
of that.

You acknowledge that the First Lady's quarters are much better, in terms of dignity 
and bruising, than a coffin-like cubicle on a 747.  (But you knew what you were doing 
on the 747.)

Abbey - or... no, it has to be Abbey you do this with - makes the room beautiful, or 
glamorous at least.  You used to have misgivings that her husband must think the red 
and the silk and the softness in this room are designed for him.  (Abbey maintains he's 
always known and never asked - do they have a deal about this?).  

Now the acrid taste on your tongue in place of her skin says that the trappings were 
always all for her.  

You don't push the First Lady away - not just *you*, it's simply not done.

You push Abbey away, a firm hand on her shoulder.  No.  

Her arm snakes around yours and she begins to brush the skin showing between the 
gaping collar of your blouse (buttons undone for the heat, not her - you know she 
thinks it's for her).  

Her other hand meets yours at her shoulder, her palm pressing your knuckles.

You try to convince yourself to keep pushing, but you'd already made up your mind 
when you called her 'Abbey' without being invited to.

The First Lady wouldn't see you on the flight out.  She's contrived minimal contact 
with you ever since you spoke up to her in your office (when she pretended to be 
Abbey but you knew there would be nothing to melt that bitterness on your tongue).

The footfalls in your ear are more solid than Abbey's breath, even as she nudges you 
with the tip of her nose.  Her softest gesture.  

She isn't soft.  You knew that getting into this, but you didn't.  You wouldn't like her 
if she...  You don't know.

The hand teasing your collarbone curves and slides, covers your breast and weighs it, 
her prized possession.  Playing soft.  You sink into her touch, anyway.

Your hand releases her shoulder; her hand retains its grip on yours.

You don't let her liberate your skirt: you fool yourself that if you get caught, it's better 
if you're not naked.  There has to be a veneer of self-deceit to make this pretend to 
work.  She, clad in the silk sheets, smirks at you and works under it.  

You think she denied you cider out of spite - you don't know why.  

Did she think you were disrespecting her marriage?  Is she jealous that your job 
requires loyalty to him and not to her, and consideration of the First Lady and not of 
Abbey?

She drops your hand as soon as you welcome her free hand in your underwear.  She 
stops playing soft as soon as she thinks she has you.

You watch the ripples in your skirt as her hand moves under it and are barely aware as 
your hands begin to play over the shapes she makes in the silk.  Abbey needs slow 
burn, you're always in a hurry.  (You suppose it won't ruin her if he loses the 
election.)

She leans forward to take between her lips the nipple she's already caressed to a point.  
(She likes that you like her to use her teeth.)  The sheet slides, confirming what you 
already knew: she's naked underneath.

Your hands are greedy for her breasts - always mesmerised, you've been, since you 
first saw her picture on the candidate's desk.  You hate to be so like a man.  

She wriggles, half-turning, withdrawing her mouth.  A hint, not so fast.  A noise of 
complaint comes from your throat. 

You don't like that the smirk is still on her face, so you hide it from your eyes by 
dropping your head to kiss her skin revealed above the sheet, not quite where you 
want to.

She rests a hand on your cheek for a moment - she knows what you're doing - then 
runs it up until she's entwined her fingers in your hair without you noticing.  Your 
head is coaxed upwards by her hand.  She waits for you to kiss her; you don't (she 
doesn't always win).  

You semi-willingly lead the dance after she makes the move: the two sets of lips 
brush, part, your bottom lip gets between hers, your upper lip quivers on hers. 

She thanks you by pulling your underwear mid-way down your thighs.

You withdraw your lips far enough to draw breath and come back harder, lending her 
your tongue.  You're that bit uncomfortable with this, every time, but her hand under 
your skirt makes it exciting.  You squirm and know she's wondering whether it's the 
unease or the pleasure.  You're glad because she gives you more to make sure.

Your tongues go back and forth, taking and giving, which is like your relationship and 
isn't, too.

She feints pulling her hand away; you bear down upon it.  There are no more thoughts 
of pushing her away - she can tell by the softening through you - although you do 
think that you should.  You can't help but think of him when her tongue's wet in your 
mouth.

You have a victory in your surrender: she knows that it is brought about not by her 
force of will but by the force of her fingers in your vagina and her thumb on your clit.

You continue to kiss her just the way she likes it, and she doesn't want to stop you 
when you go again for her chest.

For dizzy seconds you please yourself in the renowned bosom, claiming every spot 
that fingertips can reach and digging to the point where, if your nails were as long as 
hers, you'd be causing hurt.  

Her fingers render you magnanimous.  Go slow, go slow.  You drop one arm to a 
resting place around her hips (you're fascinated by those too and at how you can both 
be women, and attractive, and have shapes so far removed), a more tender gesture 
than your relationship deserves.

The hand attached dangles down at the front of her body - it could rest on the sheet, 
descended to her lap, but you're rather more inclined to toy with her curls.  You creep 
as high as her navel and as low as the apex of her thighs.  It's a good position from 
which to progress or retract as circumstances demand.

You keep the other hand on her breast, tracing concentric circles, a more thoughtful 
exploration.  You kiss the other, feather-light.  She's responding faster than, you're 
sure, she likes.  

You don't care: she told her husband to bench you - you know because she told you to 
your face.  It was Leo's call, she knew that, you still can't fathom a reason for her 
suggesting it other than to wound you.

You're glad of her fingers spreading heat throughout you because her face in your 
mind threatens a chill.  You dip your head and open your mouth for her other breast, 
to stop her seeing your face.  What passes for your fingernails tighten in her flesh.

The hand you've been thrashing about on top of is withdrawn, at first you think it's 
punishment.  The hand stays under your skirt and squeezes your knee; you can feel 
her fingers sticky with your moisture and it oddly excites you.  

Your own hand goes further than it has yet, testing her eagerness.  And then her hands 
are on your shoulders and it's a reversal: she's pushing you, but not so far away that 
she can't follow.

You're on your back; she's smiling above you (looking like the First Lady - but you 
won't have that thought).  Your hips come up off the bed without further 
encouragement.  She's done enough to make you need it, ergo her, urgently.  She grins 
at that thought, and at the soft soft bed shaking under your motions.

She presents two of her fingers to you.  You breath in the scent of your arousal and 
lick them clean, like you haven't eaten in days (you scarcely have).  She drapes her 
weight across you - her breasts heavy against yours - and kisses to taste the trace of 
you from your own lips, before moving - sliding down your legs, her centre hot 
against them - until she's pushing your knees apart and dipping her head to taste the 
real thing.

You're watching her hair fanned across your skirt, bunched up around your waist, and 
have a dim consciousness that she's wetter than you'd have expected, before you feel 
her teeth nip your inner thigh and her tongue swirl a circle and you become lost to 
anything else.

Exposure isn't the only danger of this thing: you'll do your joints an injury if you try to 
spread your thighs any wider.  Your hips chasing her mouth threaten to cut off her air 
supply.  The speed and depth of your own breathing would scare you if you were 
aware of it.

When the end is upon you, she substitutes her fingers for her mouth because she 
knows she needs to move up and let you bury your noise in her neck.  If you can hear 
the footfalls outside, they can hear you coming.

You kiss her skin and lick it, you open your mouth and breathe hot and wet against it.  
When you begin to bite, she moves you - a firmer hand in your hair than before - to 
her collarbone, in the interest of discretion.  From there your mouth slides to her 
breast and the hand in your hair clutches you to it.

You're about to start coming down but her fingers work you faster and you can't help 
yourself (whether you want to is a moot point).  You're in no state to remember that 
you need to get back.  That the boys might miss you, you might be needed.

You scream around her nipple; the silk and red and softness spins like when you're so 
drunk you can't stand.  You couldn't stand now if your life depended on it.

You roll and spin and she follows you until - and when you think of it later, you're 
sure it's like this - she loses interest and her fingers are gone.  You continue to spasm 
for long enough for it all to come rushing back to you, and the second your bliss 
dissipates into afterglow, you remember why you should have pushed her away.

She gives you room to breathe, lying beside you with her damp hand on your stomach 
- she's always marvelled at its concavity - and the other still twisted in your hair, a 
reminder that your work here isn't done.  

Her husband said it better.  There's as much chance of her ever saying what he said as 
there is of her going on the record about this.  You wouldn't like her if she lied to you.  
(She knows, that's why she punished you after you called her on it in your office.  
Were the orgasms her apology?  Good, not good enough.)

You do for her as she did for you.  There's less interaction this way round.  She isn't a 
fraction as interested in your chest as you are in hers.  You don't know if it's personal 
preference or if she finds yours disappointing in contrast.  You're not neurotic about 
it.

She feels the time for touches and kisses is well before the time for coming - her will 
to keep it slow only extends so far - so you hide yourself between her legs and feel 
curiously self-conscious that she might be watching your hair move.

She doesn't need your help to smother the sounds of her pleasure, but you pull the 
same switch as she did when she's almost there - you want to watch her.  (She 
watches you on television; you're only sometimes at your best.)

Her eyes stay shut as you massage her to her climax.  Her body moves less than yours 
did, perhaps because your limbs were created wilder, perhaps because, with her, 
you're not quite as good in bed as you can be.

You keep fingering her as she comes, not frenetically as she did.  You slow down and 
reach a gentle halt as she sinks back against the pillows.  You don't have time to 
imitate her performance: you really must get back.

You find it ironic that her husband is the sole reason you have anything to get back to.

She begins to suspect you haven't surrendered as much as she thought you did, and 
tries to pull you down beside her to lie awhile.  You resist, and you've more strength 
in your arm than she.

She looks at you now, hard.  She isn't soft.  You knew that getting into this.

You disentangle yourself from the sheet and let it fall back over her, as it was an hour 
ago when you locked the door behind you.

She sits upright and catches your arm; you're off your balance and stumble against 
her.

She is soft to the touch.

You push Abbey, turn away as she falls against the red and the silk.

You force the trembling to stop, first in your toes and your ankles and then it travels 
past your knees to your thighs.  Nobody will notice your hands are restless as long as 
you walk like you own the place.

You feel her eyes on your back while you swing your skirt back round the right way, 
resist the urge to smooth your blouse once it's buttoned - to minimise the appearance 
that she's displaced you.  

She has an ensuite you could clean off in, you usually do.  Today you want soap that 
is rougher than it is scented.

You turn the key: between the First Lady's cavern of riches and the world that is still 
yours, the barrier dissolves.

You don't look back, smile at someone who hails you, blend into the footfalls.

You know what you're doing, really.



End.