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wicked games

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Take you down another level / get you dancing with the Devil

 

Leather creaks beneath the Governor’s weight; the coveted throne has changed crowns, from mentor to mentee, from Deputy to it’s fucking Governor.

Vera has large footsteps to follow, but marks her own path that does its best not to stray from the light.

Yet, taking the moral high ground in her work does little to explain for the foreboding presence of Inmate Ferguson in the shadows. The clock strikes midnight, and her decision to take Joan’s invitation taints her path with an underlying insidiousness – Vera Bennett is not so innocent as she seems, and never has been.

“Lock the door.” The command is given clearly, firmly. A reddened, bandaged hand reaches for the lock. This office is no longer spartan and entirely dedicated to the professional, but lined with art from the inmates, and other items to personalize it. Of course, it’s in Vera’s tastes to claim the space as her own, different than what she would have become. 

Distance makes the heart grow fonder, but being apart in close quarters tests self-control and restraint.

Long strides cross the room, standing before the desk. Out of habit, Joan desires to clear it, to set items straight, aligned in proper positions. She clenches a fist, fights the compulsion. This isn’t why she is here.

“You asked to see me?” Joan plays coy; she knows the reason, but pries, pushes, tests boundaries. Vera’s jaw sets, chapped lips pursed in a firm line. This isn’t the time to fall into another of Joan’s wicked games.

Governor,” She asserts; she bites back, voice a little sharper, features a little older. Ocean blue eyes hold the ire of a winter storm, unsettled waves threatening to crash and capsize.

Governor,” Joan repeats, but the mocking air is still hidden beneath the surface. The crowns are rightfully hers, though she is here for the long game – and it includes playing into these whims, these one-off encounters hidden in the dimmed lights and closed blinds. Even Jake, her puppet, knows nothing of this.

She’s playing them both, one after the other.  

Leather creaks again. Vera leans back, pushes herself from the desk. Much in the image of her maker, she invokes old memories; subservient and ever willing, she’d been on her knees, praising power above with prayers gone unanswered. Except now, she’s here to play God to test her new-found strength.

“Come here, Ferguson.” Even the use of her surname elicits satisfaction; here, legally, Joan has little power – she knows the rules, lives and breathes regulation, but it isn’t enough to thwart the system entirely with the odds stacked against her, and Vera on the war path.

Again, the ghost of Wentworth crosses boundaries, from hell into their own purgatory. Upright, Joan dwarfs Vera sat atop her throne, golden crowns glistening in the orange hue of the night time yard. Black eyes fixate – they will be hers by the end, but not until the time is right.

En garde, Vera.

“Get on your knees.” Each order reads like a commandment – as part of their holy practice, but in the new testament rather than the old.

Joan hums, haws for a moment – she obliges, one leg bending before the other, sinking to an equal level. She plays into the role, but even here, her hands continue to mould, to shape what Vera has already become. 

Her body aches; prison is not kind on the inside. Her joints creak and crack, but go unnoticed by the Governor. Vera spreads her knees apart, beckons Joan within.

At first, Vera’s bare hand extends, takes hold of her chin between forefinger and thumb and forces her to peer upwards. This power comes at a cost she has yet to put to the ledger. Joan is warm, softer than remembered. Her grip tightens, threatens to leave a mark left to be explained to the others.

“You’re taking your time, Vera. What point are you trying to make?” The voice of reason filters through the usual monologues; she can afford to be straightforward when time is against them.

The Governor’s face brightens; the next part of her plan comes into fruition as her hand retracts from Joan’s face, to reach into the pockets of her pants, retrieving an item of note.

Leather creaks as it slides over her fingers, one after the other. It’s much too large for her, though she pulls it onto her wrist, letting the material snap into place.

Joan’s lip twitches; such a personal piece of herself put on display for Vera to manipulate invokes the silent kind of anger burning within. Once both gloves are in place, the Governor returns, tracing the lines of Joan’s face beneath her fingertips, one by one. Over her lips, her index finger traces the space between them.

Vera can remember a time when she craved nothing more than to kiss and to praise her maker through affection. Now, she intends to make a point, to leave her mark in remembrance. The old Vera died along with her mother; Joan will live with what she created.

“In your absence, you left a number of interesting personal details behind. For a time, I thought nothing of it, but that safe of yours… certainly left a few things to us,” Some of which became evidence. Others were kept behind, left to Vera’s discretion. Some, discarded, others returned during Joan’s stay in the mental ward.  “I found these to be… the most intriguing.”

Spoken with confidence previously unheard, Vera pushes between Joan’s lips, teases a finger along their inner surface. With some hesitancy, Joan obliges.

Joan is in no place to bargain. Little does Vera know of the deaths one pair of gloves have provided their previous owner. Even so, the blood on her hands is ingrained in the leather; it cannot be washed, even by the great Neptune’s ocean.

Even still, Vera persists. She pushes a finger between parted lips, makes Joan taste her sins right to the knuckle.

Wentworth’s newest Top Dog obliges; they’re to work together, after all.

Her head cants to the side, lets leather slide over her tongue. Vera wants to play it like this – she’ll allow it, if it gives her a sense of being in control. Let her have it until she doesn’t. Everything is in place to come undone as soon as Joan decides when to strike.

Slowly, Vera withdraws, traces the wet leather over Joan’s lip. While part of this had been planned, her curiosity shines through the darkness. A gentle caress traces the lines beside Joan’s mouth, along her jowl to jaw. She’s greyer round the temples now. The hand returns, and her thumb pushes in this time, letting her fingers settle against her cheek. Over and over, leather presses against Joan’s tongue; not to suffocate, not to choke, but to control.

Though, the birthday incident is a fresh wound and for a moment, Vera thinks about pulling her tongue, ripping it out – revenge.

She refrains, buries that thought six feet under.

She could never.

A hum from Joan breaks the silence. Her eyes remain upon Vera’s, but the sensation of leather to skin arouses her. Pupils dilate, and she eases into this treatment.

“I can see why you like them so much, Joan,” Vera says finally, gradually pulling her hand away, giving Ferguson her earned reprieve. “Soft, and supple and…” The Governor trails off, rising to her feet. Quick, nimble hands make work of her trousers; pale hands rise and assist, pulling them to her ankles.

This role reversal may be new, but old habits die hard. 

Off they come, and already, Joan goes for the kill – but leather clad hands take hold in her hair, freeing the iron curtain.

“Oh, no, Joan. Not like that,” Vera muses, returning to her throne. “That won’t do. You’re Top Dog now. I expect more from you.”

The faux Governor makes her next move; Joan thinks on the fly. It isn’t difficult to decipher just how, exactly, Vera demands more than their standard.

Like the phoenix, Joan rises.

To her feet, she stands tall and imposing, deliberating her next advance. Vera awaits, eagerness hidden in the stormy depths. She links her leather clad fingers in her lap; she feigns an innocence that both women know isn’t there – they know better.

“More,” Joan repeats, lets the word idle on her lips. Her tongue traces along the front of her teeth; the taste of leather remains. Despite her marred hand, her strength has not faltered – only grown in her time on the other side of the bars. Each hand reaches for a thigh, and pulls Vera forward, upwards with a grunt.

The Governor does not weigh as heavily as the crowns upon her shoulders do.

Manicured nails dig into bare, plump flesh of her behind; much to the sudden surprise of being lifted out of her throne, Vera gasps, throws her arms around Joan’s broad shoulders. She feels like she could fall, but even here, Joan won’t drop her.

A low chuckle follows once steady upon her feet. To take control again is to be satisfied with the change in hand, even as she bears the teal.

The throne is pushed aside with a foot, rolled away out of sight, out of mind.

A set of looks are exchanged. Joan has the Governor where she wants her – at her mercy – and yet, the Devil doesn’t strike. Instead, she savours this moment together. Temptation draws her in, closer and closer until she captures Vera’s lips beneath her own.

This sordid affair never ends, even as their titles change, and roles reverse. Joan digs in with teeth to Vera’s bottom lip. The gesture elicits a moan of longing. Small hands claw at the back of her head, threading through the iron curtain to try and maintain some semblance of control – and fails.

The animal within rears her head, dignified profile defined in the shadows – it makes her features sharp as she moves from Vera’s mouth, to her neck – intent on leaving her mark. Teeth sink into the curve of her neck. She sucks hard on her skin, enough to leave a bruise that the collar of her shirt will barely cover.

Joan takes what little gains she can get.  

“Joan…” Vera moans into her ear, locks her ankles together behind Ferguson’s tall, thick figure. Even under the cover of darkness, the Governor risks detection to voice her praise. Her head falls back, lets Ferguson have her way – she can’t help what her body desires, what her body has missed.

Another, and another are left upon her neck. They will ache come the morning light; her make-up skills will not suffice, but Joan intentionally leaves them beneath the collar – she’ll only have to hide them from Jake.

The thought of playing the puppet more so than he believes is arousing in of itself; the end result will bury Governor Bennett for good, and leave Jake as her pawn to become king. It’s for her own good, Joan decides as she pulls back from Vera’s neck, admiring her masterpiece.

“Joan…” Vera warns again, dropping the surname. Her front falls apart in Joan’s arms; the former Governor knows the truth of her demeanour, knows who she really is as a person. It’s too difficult to hide for long beneath her hard, darkened stare.

Briefly, Joan’s eyes flick to the wall behind them. The light of the yard filters in orange and yellow hues, making the insignia on the wall glint in gold and green.

The Devil smirks and sets her sights upon the goal ahead. For now, she intends to delve in what’s been offered to her on a silver goddamn platter. Without a warning, she takes two powerful steps forward, uses her strength and pushes Vera’s back to the wall to the frame of the tiled logo, using the leverage to get beneath her. Sinewy legs bear the brunt of her shoulders. Taut thighs frame Joan’s face, burying her in a mess of her own hair and greeted with the heat of Vera’s arousal.

She takes her first taste and savours it before swallowing her whole.