automatic_badgirl (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
automatic_badgirl) wrote2006-02-15 05:02 pm
automatic_badgirl) wrote2006-02-15 05:02 pm
Fic: The Totally True Adventures of Sara Sidle: Pin Up Girl
Miles to go and promises to keep. This is one of them. I started this in the summer and am thisclose to finishing, also I promised to post the raunchier parts here on my journal and thus prevent the mods at the Pit of Voles from getting all twitterpated.
This starts out PG and keeps on going like the freakin Engergizer Bunny but eventually it gets very naughty indeed.
Pairing: Greg/Sara
Disclaimer: Oyyez oyyez! This be a work of fanfiction and no profit be intended.
Summary: An insubstantial bit of fluff involving Greg, Sara, corsets, high heels, naughty escapades and the incomparable Bettie Page.
Snapshot
Goosebumps pebbled Sara’s naked skin as she stood peering into Greg’s fridge. Nothing had changed since the last time she’d opened the fridge not more than ten minutes ago. Inside were two jars of salsa, both half empty, a desiccated lemon half, wrapped in saran like a bizarre futuristic mummy, and the remains of the last meal they’d eaten here, nearly two weeks ago now, in a Tupperware container that common sense told her wasn’t worth opening—she had anyway, fuzzy grayish matter of indeterminate origin that was once vegetarian risotto greeted her when she had—assorted esoteric condiments and six bottles of Sam Adams’ finest chattered against each other when she sighed and swung the door closed cutting off the cheery glow of the fridge. The kitchen was plunged into gloom once more and Sara rubbed her bare arms against the chill that long minutes of standing in front of Greg’s fridge contemplating her need for “just one beer” had given her.
She glanced at the clock, 2 pm, middle of the night for her and Greg considering they’d have to be up for shift in a few hours, and sighed. She really wanted that beer. She wondered if it would always be like that, if her first instinct would be to reach for the cold comfort of a beer, or if gradually, over time she’d be able to get past that need. She looked at the fridge door again. The cheerful magnets there—3D plastic fruit, cartoon characters and a truly hideous neon representation of a flamingo promoting its namesake casino were mute on the matter. But she thought she could almost see shrewd cunning in the flamingo’s lurid gaze; as if it knew the beer wouldn’t help her sleep, if perhaps she should consider gambling instead. Sara sourly flicked the flamingo with her finger.
“Whatever, Pinky…nice try. But I don’t need you or the beer.”
She turned and put on the kettle instead. If sleep wasn’t an option, and after that last dream Sara was pretty sure it wasn’t, she may as well take consolation in a cup of tea and maybe some of those pecan sandies, sly Greg had thought he’d hidden from her. While she waited for the water Sara padded silently through the apartment, its shuttered midday dimness almost as familiar to her as her own apartment now, and leaning against the doorjamb carefully reached into Greg’s bedroom and snagged one of his shirts from the floor where he’d dropped it. She told herself she was just checking for “freshness” and not trying to catch traces of Greg’s scent when she buried her nose in the fabric as she watched him sleep. He was in his habitual sprawl; blanket wrapped around him twice, still managing to leave most of his ass exposed, she noticed with a grin, one hand shoved up underneath her pillow—invading her personal space even when he was unconscious. She knew she could awaken him, push the door wide open and run her cold hands along his arms until he woke up and turned to her, but she let him sleep. No sense in both of them being awake, besides she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell him about her dream. Or even if she could—aloud—her dreams always sounded so silly to her; they were robbed of their terror once spoken, and she felt stupid then.
She made it back to the kitchen, cutting the kettle off just as it started to send a tentative whistle of steam up the spout, slipping into his shirt at the same time.
She grabbed her mug of tea, a handful of purloined cookies, and settled herself in a chair she’d dragged in front of the large window in his living room. Reaching out with her foot she pushed the heavy drapes apart until she was bathed in the intense light of a Vegas midafternoon, she could feel the heat reaching her even through the double glazed glass and cool conditioned air of the apartment—good—maybe the sunlight would make her drowsy. Leaving one of her feet propped on the window ledge she cast about for something to occupy her while she waited for oblivion, anything to keep her brain from turning over the images from her dream. The small still form, the pale fingers, so tiny and perfect. Even the bright sunshine couldn’t stop her from shivering. Anytime they had an abuse case it was hard, but God, kids were the worst. Intellectually she knew the dream was merely her brain’s way of trying to process the horror but Sara hadn’t realized she’d started to brood on it until she felt a sharp pain in her thumb. She’d chewed the skin raw again and hadn’t noticed. She frowned in annoyance; sometimes having a one-track mind was a curse. Okay, time for a distraction.
She spied Greg’s collection of “coffee table” books. He’d tried telling her that the books had made the ladies think he was cultured and a deep thinker and stuff, but he couldn’t quite keep his face straight when he did. Neither could she when she saw most of them had been glossy paeans to exotic automobiles or devoted to “erotic art”.
“This is porn, Greg…” She’d told him at the time.
“What! A Lamborghini isn’t porn.”
Sara had flopped the book open to the middle where a large gateway fold opened to reveal the slick organic contours of a car sensuously beaded with water.
“Tell me that isn’t a money shot.”
“How does a nice girl like you know about the money shot?” He’d pretended to be shocked but her words had put a devilish gleam into his eyes.
Sara felt a frisson of desire when she recalled where the rest of that conversation had taken them. She was pretty sure all the warmth she was feeling in her belly wasn’t just from the mug of tea she had propped there. She grunted as she leaned over awkwardly and grabbed the topmost book off of the pile. Sucker was heavier than she expected…
“Shit!” Sara cursed softly as hot tea slopped over the rim of the mug and soaked through the shirt. Quickly she set the tea down and jumped up. After dancing around for a minute to cool her reddened skin, she looked down at the book she still held: “Bettie Page: Queen of the Pin-up’s”.
Sara thought the black haired woman smiling saucily up at her on the cover looked familiar, so this was Bettie Page. She opened the book and flipped through a few pages, she didn’t notice when she slowly sank back down into the chair again, so absorbed was she in the book.
***
She Gives Great Face
The text, what little there was of it, was breathless and admiring, if not a tad grandiose: “Surely, Bettie Page set the standard for postwar sexiness, her dark gleeful gaze and eloquent lustiness acted as a binary opposition to that other perennial icon of femininity: the Blonde, as evidenced by Marilyn and her kin…”
Sara snorted, this “icon of femininity” sure looked like some random 1950’s babe in the nude to her. She flipped a few more pages; she grudgingly had to admit that judging by the grin on Bettie’s face, she did look like she was having a whole lot of fun. Those get-ups though? Sara was all for fancy lingerie but she restricted herself to the standard bra and panty combo, with the odd thong thrown into the mix for variety. But this, this was a whole other level of lingerie; sheer stockings and lacy garter belts, elaborate corsets, some sort of see-thru skirt deelie…How did women walk around with all that on anyway? Sara silently thanked whoever invented microfibre.
She turned another page and frowned; yet another shot of Bettie posing, knees spread, back arched, devilish grin in place, wearing a leopard print bra and panty set. A very familiar bra and panty set, actually. One that looked an awful lot like the bra and panty set had Greg surprised her with last month, “just because you’d look so incredibly righteous in this, Sar’…a real hot jungle momma!” he’d told her. And despite finding the whole thing slightly ridiculous and a little outré, she’d accepted his gift and worn it for him. Sara flushed, no she hadn’t just worn it for him…she’d taunted him, and teased him with it, strutting around giggling until finally he’d chased her around her apartment while growling and making other silly cat noises and the whole time that jerk had been pretending she was some stupid pin-up girl!
“WhaddayerdoinupSar?”
Sara yelped and lurched up out of her seat, heart pounding.
Furiously, she turned to face a very bleary Greg, regarding her quizzically and trying to hide a monster yawn.
“You jerk!” She belted him with the book. Ineffectually he tried to defend himself.
“Whoa! Stop! I’m sorry I thought you heard me! Ow! Stop hitting me!”
“No, I won’t, I should break your stupid head open.” She raised the book threateningly.
Greg looked at her, confusion and the beginnings of anger all over his face.
“Look, I’m sorry I scared you but—”
“I wasn’t scared.” Sara said hotly, ignoring her racing heart.
“Explain this!” She thrust the book with its incriminating photo towards him.
“Explain Bettie Page?” The anger was wiped away by honest bafflement.
“Well, she was this super hot pin-up girl from—”
“Not her,” she snapped, “the outfit she’s wearing.”
“Uhhh…it’s cute?” he ventured.
“Why do I have an outfit that’s just like this one, an outfit you gave to me?”
“Because I thought you would look sexy in it?” Greg’s face wore the slightly hopeful yet wary expression of a man who wasn’t quite sure how he’d earned feminine ire but who vainly hoped like hell to emerge unscathed.
“Because you wanted me to act like some slutty pin-up.”
“Only if you want to—hey!” Greg must be waking up; he dodged her swipe at him that time. “Whoa, lets all just chill here okay?” He approached her, hands up to defend himself against possible attacks.
“If it wasn’t for the bruises I know I’m going to have later, I’d swear I was having a weird ass dream…Sara, what is going on?” He tried to grasp her hands, when she wouldn’t let him, he encircled her wrists and lightly stroked with his thumbs. Sara ignored the shivers the motion sent up her arms. She jerked away and sat stiffly on the couch. Undeterred, Greg sat down beside her. “Why are you so pissed?”
“Because you want me to be like her.” She jabbed an angry finger at the book.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve never asked you to pose naked so I could photograph you, I may be reckless but I’m not suicidal.” he joked.
Sara huffed an angry sigh, “No, you want me to act like some slutty pin-up girl, because you have a major boner for this Bettie Page hootchie and you bought me the underwear—” Sara broke off and glared at Greg who had the temerity to be chuckling at her.
“Boner? Hootchie? I’m sorry, Sara did I just wake up in 1989? Alright calm down,” he pulled her back onto the couch beside him, “Look, I’m a guy. And like most guys I like sexy chicks, and because I happen to be dating a sexy chick—woman—sorry, I thought you’d look hot—nice—pretty…pretty in that lingerie, which is why I bought it for you in the first place. Because lets face it Sara, you’re smoking hot.”
She sniffed, unimpressed.
“It’s not empty flattery Sara, most women I know wouldn’t have been cool enough to parade around just to fulfill my admittedly lame Tarzan fantasy…you will, and that makes you all kinds of sexy.”
“Tarzan? Why were you making cat noises then? No don’t answer that, why do you want me to be her?”
“What? I don’t want you to be Bettie Page…I want you to be you. That’s enough for me…” He paused and she nudged him,
“What? Tell me.”
“Well, I guess there is something about you that reminds me of her.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“Me?”
“Yes! You, Sara Sidle. You have that same sort of—”
“Hair color?”
“I was gonna say air of sexy abandon.”
“Me?”
“Here we go again…” Greg gently grabbed her chin and kissed her.
“Just take the damn compliment okay? You, Sara are so unbelievably sexy, when we’re together and we…”
“Do the things we do?” She offered.
“Yeah. When you let go, you have the best…” Greg blushed but gamely kept going, “fu—uh, sex face I’ve ever seen. There. Happy?”
“You were going to say fuck, weren’t you? You were actually going to tell me I have a good fuck face?” Sara grinned at him; he was so cute when he was flustered. Greg rallied, his relief at having dodged another random bullet of female eccentricity making him bold.
“Like a porn star babe. Just thinking about it makes me hard, also when you get all crude on me and say fuck, by the way.”
“You are a sick sick man.” So why was her hand stroking him now?
He sucked in an unsteady breath, “Not that I’m not appreciative…”
“But?” Her hand slowed, her fingers teasingly brushed his cock.
“Uh…” Greg swallowed and firmly put his own hand on top of hers, stilling her. “Can’t think when you do that.”
She squeezed gently and smiled when he couldn’t resist arching up into her grasp.
“Or that.” He said warningly.
“Thinking’s overrated.” She licked her lips and slid to her knees in front of him.
“Oh damn. Can we fight like this every day?” He breathed.
“It wasn’t a fight.” She said primly, “Because we both agree you can be a kinky jerk.”
He laughed and she grinned, tongue curling between her teeth. He looked down at her and cupped her cheek.
“There. Right there. You are so incredibly sexy right now.” He said softly. “Bettie hasn’t got anything on you, no woman has.”
Sara knew she was no pin up, she was kneeling on cheap Berber, wearing a tee shirt with stains on it, some of which she’d put there, she knew she had bed head and bags under each eye to round out the picture of an overtired, stressed, public servant but just then, basking in that patch of hot sunlight in front of her lover she felt like the sexiest woman in Vegas, maybe even the whole world.
She leaned forward and blew a teasing breath across his cock. She felt Greg’s hand slide through her hair to cup her nape, she loved it when he held her like that, right there, she could almost feel his thumb stroking lightly on her neck but instead he held her still.
Surprised she looked up into his face.
“Sara, trust me most of me is kicking myself right now but…I need to get this straight with you. You know I don’t want to be with anyone else right?”
She rolled her eyes and leaned an impatient elbow against his thigh,
“Yes. I do.” He almost looked absurdly thankful; a small part of her couldn’t resist tormenting him a little because kinky jerks do things
like that to one another, “Well…this whole Bettie Page thing?”
“Yeah?” The concern was back, it was endearing really, his earnestness.
She looked up at him as innocently as she could, as if unaware of how close her mouth was to him, as if she couldn’t hear his ragged breathing.
“You really think I’m like her? That you could see me doing that, those things…like with the whip?”
“Well maybe not the whip thing—maybe only if you were real drunk—or lost a bet?” He said hopefully.
She looked flatly at him.
“Right. No whips. But sexy like her, hell yes.”
“But I never act like that...putting it all…out there.”
“Sure you do.”
“When?” she challenged.
“When you’re with me.”
“That’s different.”
Greg sighed in frustration. Sara felt sorry for him, “Hey man, you were the one who wanted to talk…”
“I know...I just don’t know when to shut up do I?”
She leaned in and barely licked him, tongue flicking him gently. His hand tightened gratifyingly on the back of her neck.
“No you don’t.” She replied playfully. “So let me give you some advice, Greg…shut up.”
“Yes’m.”
TBC
This starts out PG and keeps on going like the freakin Engergizer Bunny but eventually it gets very naughty indeed.
Pairing: Greg/Sara
Disclaimer: Oyyez oyyez! This be a work of fanfiction and no profit be intended.
Summary: An insubstantial bit of fluff involving Greg, Sara, corsets, high heels, naughty escapades and the incomparable Bettie Page.
Snapshot
Goosebumps pebbled Sara’s naked skin as she stood peering into Greg’s fridge. Nothing had changed since the last time she’d opened the fridge not more than ten minutes ago. Inside were two jars of salsa, both half empty, a desiccated lemon half, wrapped in saran like a bizarre futuristic mummy, and the remains of the last meal they’d eaten here, nearly two weeks ago now, in a Tupperware container that common sense told her wasn’t worth opening—she had anyway, fuzzy grayish matter of indeterminate origin that was once vegetarian risotto greeted her when she had—assorted esoteric condiments and six bottles of Sam Adams’ finest chattered against each other when she sighed and swung the door closed cutting off the cheery glow of the fridge. The kitchen was plunged into gloom once more and Sara rubbed her bare arms against the chill that long minutes of standing in front of Greg’s fridge contemplating her need for “just one beer” had given her.
She glanced at the clock, 2 pm, middle of the night for her and Greg considering they’d have to be up for shift in a few hours, and sighed. She really wanted that beer. She wondered if it would always be like that, if her first instinct would be to reach for the cold comfort of a beer, or if gradually, over time she’d be able to get past that need. She looked at the fridge door again. The cheerful magnets there—3D plastic fruit, cartoon characters and a truly hideous neon representation of a flamingo promoting its namesake casino were mute on the matter. But she thought she could almost see shrewd cunning in the flamingo’s lurid gaze; as if it knew the beer wouldn’t help her sleep, if perhaps she should consider gambling instead. Sara sourly flicked the flamingo with her finger.
“Whatever, Pinky…nice try. But I don’t need you or the beer.”
She turned and put on the kettle instead. If sleep wasn’t an option, and after that last dream Sara was pretty sure it wasn’t, she may as well take consolation in a cup of tea and maybe some of those pecan sandies, sly Greg had thought he’d hidden from her. While she waited for the water Sara padded silently through the apartment, its shuttered midday dimness almost as familiar to her as her own apartment now, and leaning against the doorjamb carefully reached into Greg’s bedroom and snagged one of his shirts from the floor where he’d dropped it. She told herself she was just checking for “freshness” and not trying to catch traces of Greg’s scent when she buried her nose in the fabric as she watched him sleep. He was in his habitual sprawl; blanket wrapped around him twice, still managing to leave most of his ass exposed, she noticed with a grin, one hand shoved up underneath her pillow—invading her personal space even when he was unconscious. She knew she could awaken him, push the door wide open and run her cold hands along his arms until he woke up and turned to her, but she let him sleep. No sense in both of them being awake, besides she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell him about her dream. Or even if she could—aloud—her dreams always sounded so silly to her; they were robbed of their terror once spoken, and she felt stupid then.
She made it back to the kitchen, cutting the kettle off just as it started to send a tentative whistle of steam up the spout, slipping into his shirt at the same time.
She grabbed her mug of tea, a handful of purloined cookies, and settled herself in a chair she’d dragged in front of the large window in his living room. Reaching out with her foot she pushed the heavy drapes apart until she was bathed in the intense light of a Vegas midafternoon, she could feel the heat reaching her even through the double glazed glass and cool conditioned air of the apartment—good—maybe the sunlight would make her drowsy. Leaving one of her feet propped on the window ledge she cast about for something to occupy her while she waited for oblivion, anything to keep her brain from turning over the images from her dream. The small still form, the pale fingers, so tiny and perfect. Even the bright sunshine couldn’t stop her from shivering. Anytime they had an abuse case it was hard, but God, kids were the worst. Intellectually she knew the dream was merely her brain’s way of trying to process the horror but Sara hadn’t realized she’d started to brood on it until she felt a sharp pain in her thumb. She’d chewed the skin raw again and hadn’t noticed. She frowned in annoyance; sometimes having a one-track mind was a curse. Okay, time for a distraction.
She spied Greg’s collection of “coffee table” books. He’d tried telling her that the books had made the ladies think he was cultured and a deep thinker and stuff, but he couldn’t quite keep his face straight when he did. Neither could she when she saw most of them had been glossy paeans to exotic automobiles or devoted to “erotic art”.
“This is porn, Greg…” She’d told him at the time.
“What! A Lamborghini isn’t porn.”
Sara had flopped the book open to the middle where a large gateway fold opened to reveal the slick organic contours of a car sensuously beaded with water.
“Tell me that isn’t a money shot.”
“How does a nice girl like you know about the money shot?” He’d pretended to be shocked but her words had put a devilish gleam into his eyes.
Sara felt a frisson of desire when she recalled where the rest of that conversation had taken them. She was pretty sure all the warmth she was feeling in her belly wasn’t just from the mug of tea she had propped there. She grunted as she leaned over awkwardly and grabbed the topmost book off of the pile. Sucker was heavier than she expected…
“Shit!” Sara cursed softly as hot tea slopped over the rim of the mug and soaked through the shirt. Quickly she set the tea down and jumped up. After dancing around for a minute to cool her reddened skin, she looked down at the book she still held: “Bettie Page: Queen of the Pin-up’s”.
Sara thought the black haired woman smiling saucily up at her on the cover looked familiar, so this was Bettie Page. She opened the book and flipped through a few pages, she didn’t notice when she slowly sank back down into the chair again, so absorbed was she in the book.
***
She Gives Great Face
The text, what little there was of it, was breathless and admiring, if not a tad grandiose: “Surely, Bettie Page set the standard for postwar sexiness, her dark gleeful gaze and eloquent lustiness acted as a binary opposition to that other perennial icon of femininity: the Blonde, as evidenced by Marilyn and her kin…”
Sara snorted, this “icon of femininity” sure looked like some random 1950’s babe in the nude to her. She flipped a few more pages; she grudgingly had to admit that judging by the grin on Bettie’s face, she did look like she was having a whole lot of fun. Those get-ups though? Sara was all for fancy lingerie but she restricted herself to the standard bra and panty combo, with the odd thong thrown into the mix for variety. But this, this was a whole other level of lingerie; sheer stockings and lacy garter belts, elaborate corsets, some sort of see-thru skirt deelie…How did women walk around with all that on anyway? Sara silently thanked whoever invented microfibre.
She turned another page and frowned; yet another shot of Bettie posing, knees spread, back arched, devilish grin in place, wearing a leopard print bra and panty set. A very familiar bra and panty set, actually. One that looked an awful lot like the bra and panty set had Greg surprised her with last month, “just because you’d look so incredibly righteous in this, Sar’…a real hot jungle momma!” he’d told her. And despite finding the whole thing slightly ridiculous and a little outré, she’d accepted his gift and worn it for him. Sara flushed, no she hadn’t just worn it for him…she’d taunted him, and teased him with it, strutting around giggling until finally he’d chased her around her apartment while growling and making other silly cat noises and the whole time that jerk had been pretending she was some stupid pin-up girl!
“WhaddayerdoinupSar?”
Sara yelped and lurched up out of her seat, heart pounding.
Furiously, she turned to face a very bleary Greg, regarding her quizzically and trying to hide a monster yawn.
“You jerk!” She belted him with the book. Ineffectually he tried to defend himself.
“Whoa! Stop! I’m sorry I thought you heard me! Ow! Stop hitting me!”
“No, I won’t, I should break your stupid head open.” She raised the book threateningly.
Greg looked at her, confusion and the beginnings of anger all over his face.
“Look, I’m sorry I scared you but—”
“I wasn’t scared.” Sara said hotly, ignoring her racing heart.
“Explain this!” She thrust the book with its incriminating photo towards him.
“Explain Bettie Page?” The anger was wiped away by honest bafflement.
“Well, she was this super hot pin-up girl from—”
“Not her,” she snapped, “the outfit she’s wearing.”
“Uhhh…it’s cute?” he ventured.
“Why do I have an outfit that’s just like this one, an outfit you gave to me?”
“Because I thought you would look sexy in it?” Greg’s face wore the slightly hopeful yet wary expression of a man who wasn’t quite sure how he’d earned feminine ire but who vainly hoped like hell to emerge unscathed.
“Because you wanted me to act like some slutty pin-up.”
“Only if you want to—hey!” Greg must be waking up; he dodged her swipe at him that time. “Whoa, lets all just chill here okay?” He approached her, hands up to defend himself against possible attacks.
“If it wasn’t for the bruises I know I’m going to have later, I’d swear I was having a weird ass dream…Sara, what is going on?” He tried to grasp her hands, when she wouldn’t let him, he encircled her wrists and lightly stroked with his thumbs. Sara ignored the shivers the motion sent up her arms. She jerked away and sat stiffly on the couch. Undeterred, Greg sat down beside her. “Why are you so pissed?”
“Because you want me to be like her.” She jabbed an angry finger at the book.
“I’m pretty sure I’ve never asked you to pose naked so I could photograph you, I may be reckless but I’m not suicidal.” he joked.
Sara huffed an angry sigh, “No, you want me to act like some slutty pin-up girl, because you have a major boner for this Bettie Page hootchie and you bought me the underwear—” Sara broke off and glared at Greg who had the temerity to be chuckling at her.
“Boner? Hootchie? I’m sorry, Sara did I just wake up in 1989? Alright calm down,” he pulled her back onto the couch beside him, “Look, I’m a guy. And like most guys I like sexy chicks, and because I happen to be dating a sexy chick—woman—sorry, I thought you’d look hot—nice—pretty…pretty in that lingerie, which is why I bought it for you in the first place. Because lets face it Sara, you’re smoking hot.”
She sniffed, unimpressed.
“It’s not empty flattery Sara, most women I know wouldn’t have been cool enough to parade around just to fulfill my admittedly lame Tarzan fantasy…you will, and that makes you all kinds of sexy.”
“Tarzan? Why were you making cat noises then? No don’t answer that, why do you want me to be her?”
“What? I don’t want you to be Bettie Page…I want you to be you. That’s enough for me…” He paused and she nudged him,
“What? Tell me.”
“Well, I guess there is something about you that reminds me of her.”
“Me?”
“Yeah.”
“Me?”
“Yes! You, Sara Sidle. You have that same sort of—”
“Hair color?”
“I was gonna say air of sexy abandon.”
“Me?”
“Here we go again…” Greg gently grabbed her chin and kissed her.
“Just take the damn compliment okay? You, Sara are so unbelievably sexy, when we’re together and we…”
“Do the things we do?” She offered.
“Yeah. When you let go, you have the best…” Greg blushed but gamely kept going, “fu—uh, sex face I’ve ever seen. There. Happy?”
“You were going to say fuck, weren’t you? You were actually going to tell me I have a good fuck face?” Sara grinned at him; he was so cute when he was flustered. Greg rallied, his relief at having dodged another random bullet of female eccentricity making him bold.
“Like a porn star babe. Just thinking about it makes me hard, also when you get all crude on me and say fuck, by the way.”
“You are a sick sick man.” So why was her hand stroking him now?
He sucked in an unsteady breath, “Not that I’m not appreciative…”
“But?” Her hand slowed, her fingers teasingly brushed his cock.
“Uh…” Greg swallowed and firmly put his own hand on top of hers, stilling her. “Can’t think when you do that.”
She squeezed gently and smiled when he couldn’t resist arching up into her grasp.
“Or that.” He said warningly.
“Thinking’s overrated.” She licked her lips and slid to her knees in front of him.
“Oh damn. Can we fight like this every day?” He breathed.
“It wasn’t a fight.” She said primly, “Because we both agree you can be a kinky jerk.”
He laughed and she grinned, tongue curling between her teeth. He looked down at her and cupped her cheek.
“There. Right there. You are so incredibly sexy right now.” He said softly. “Bettie hasn’t got anything on you, no woman has.”
Sara knew she was no pin up, she was kneeling on cheap Berber, wearing a tee shirt with stains on it, some of which she’d put there, she knew she had bed head and bags under each eye to round out the picture of an overtired, stressed, public servant but just then, basking in that patch of hot sunlight in front of her lover she felt like the sexiest woman in Vegas, maybe even the whole world.
She leaned forward and blew a teasing breath across his cock. She felt Greg’s hand slide through her hair to cup her nape, she loved it when he held her like that, right there, she could almost feel his thumb stroking lightly on her neck but instead he held her still.
Surprised she looked up into his face.
“Sara, trust me most of me is kicking myself right now but…I need to get this straight with you. You know I don’t want to be with anyone else right?”
She rolled her eyes and leaned an impatient elbow against his thigh,
“Yes. I do.” He almost looked absurdly thankful; a small part of her couldn’t resist tormenting him a little because kinky jerks do things
like that to one another, “Well…this whole Bettie Page thing?”
“Yeah?” The concern was back, it was endearing really, his earnestness.
She looked up at him as innocently as she could, as if unaware of how close her mouth was to him, as if she couldn’t hear his ragged breathing.
“You really think I’m like her? That you could see me doing that, those things…like with the whip?”
“Well maybe not the whip thing—maybe only if you were real drunk—or lost a bet?” He said hopefully.
She looked flatly at him.
“Right. No whips. But sexy like her, hell yes.”
“But I never act like that...putting it all…out there.”
“Sure you do.”
“When?” she challenged.
“When you’re with me.”
“That’s different.”
Greg sighed in frustration. Sara felt sorry for him, “Hey man, you were the one who wanted to talk…”
“I know...I just don’t know when to shut up do I?”
She leaned in and barely licked him, tongue flicking him gently. His hand tightened gratifyingly on the back of her neck.
“No you don’t.” She replied playfully. “So let me give you some advice, Greg…shut up.”
“Yes’m.”
TBC