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Violent Games

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It’s always a story about power.

Back in the prison palace, Ferguson has yet to don the crowns. Detained after her altercation in the yard, the phoenix-to-be finds herself in an isolated unit. Protective custody, Miss Bennett (unworthy of the proper title) assures Joan with a grim smirk. Mousy, little Vera could hardly fill the pants she wore.   

The slot accurately described the cramp cell with its stiff cot. On supposed remand, the rightful Governor remains in her house clothes torn by the hands of many a wild animal. Novak, in the pit of her grief, was no match for her. How utterly patheTic. Icarus flew too close to the sun. Her pride locks her up and throws away the key. In self-defense, a wolf tore into sheep. They were no match for her.

Though Ferguson had skirted through medical, her chest heaved. These minor lacerations, covered by gauze, would heal. Breath follows ragged pants, her pupils dilated. Flushed, a sadist has consumed her fill. Addicted to power, she recalls all the lives she’s held in her leather-clad hands, both proverbially and in real-time.

The caged beast stirs within. From adrenaline, the bruise on her cheek fails to ache. Wild and hungry, Joan paces. She sets her sights on the bed. The sweater comes off, neatly folded in a perfect pile. Her shoes, aligned properly, situate themselves at the end of the cot in military fashion.

Joan Ferguson possesses the unquenchable thirst of Koschei. Her nursemaid warned her of those tales. She dismissed them as rubbish, echoing the barren conscience of her father. The thrill of the fight, however, yields a fiendish mania, an irresistible high.

There is nothing soft about her.

Plagued by a case of bloodlust, she slithers back into her mind’s palace. The collar of her shirt wrinkles as she sprawls across the mattress. She wets her lips, her gaze half-lidded. Vera failed her. Smith had been a worthy adversary. In her own insatiable way, she pays tribute.

Andromeda recalls a worthy opponent. Joan’s position as Governor was sacrosanct. In memory and as a comfort, she ventures back to that place with a hankering for ultraviolence. Back to a cell where the CCTV learns to look the other way, fugitive resentment lingers in Smith’s golden stare. The alpha of the pack, the authentic Top Dog, places her hands on the wall, a resistance to each movement.

In a sexual hallucination, she dreams of violence. In these fantasies, Smith is beneath her. Their hatred reeks of horrible intimacy. Layer by layer, the teal falls off, fluttering to the ground. When nude, she’s smaller, her spine curved sharply, her jaw screwed shut. Still, Smith struggles for the thrill, a wetness pulsing between her legs. Sensing that irresistible scent makes the Governor’s clit throb.

Nails down the back, the affliction of bruises and bitemarks, all occur before the leather snaps on. Caught in a secular haze, she fantasizes rooting her hand in her carmine curls. The promise of ultraviolence riles her while she tugs hair as red as blood. In solitude, she emits a selfish growl.

Deprived for so long, it’s not a matter of giving in, but celebrating. One by one, the dominoes will fall. Jakey’s cunning has nothing on her. The suffering of another proves far sweeter than lemon drops. Her actions spoke to a great, primal urge to quench that hunger.

Killing palms slip beneath her clothing. She unfastens her black bra which compresses and squeezes, but not in the way she needs. She grips her breasts, hard and rough, nails grazing her nipples. Her cunt clenches. Feral nature acts like a spark. Her body’s electrified, humming with raw yearning. So, she’s gluttonous with the appetite of another mad emperor.

In her dream-like delusions of the Governorship, Smith is back in her hands, malleable and willing with a hint of resistance. Bea struggles against her, aspiring to gain control. How she bucks her hips against long, graceful fingers which pull apart.

This is the taste of a struggle. How she relishes it like fine season. How would Smith’s tears taste: salty, sweet, or bittersweet? She had been the only worthy one. Her glossy lips part, her husky breath reduced to a near demonic hiss. How Ferguson wished to hold a knife to her exposed throat, just to elicit a hint of blood to use as a mark. As a brand of possession.

And how would she bleed? Thick and fast, slow and sluggish?

They’re no longer the same people that once entered this complex.

Groaning faintly, she entertains the notion of Smith on her hands and knees, wrists cuffed together with an eager tongue pleasing her. The chair – her rightful throne – would make for the opportune place.

In her frustration, the sheets shift and writhe. Tiny rivulets pool beneath her, courtesy of the aftermath. Nostrils flare as she ruts against her hand, slipping a finger deep inside as she would to drag out Smith’s eminent pleasure. It wasn’t as beautiful as you expected it to be.

She imagines her begging, she imagines her desperate for more, all too enthused to be buried between marble thighs.

Beneath the waistband, a hand roves past the mass of silver and black curls which carry a gleam. With such an animal ferocity, she increases the tempo of her thrusts. The self-righteous, self-satisfying action mirrors the screwdriver plunging into Queen Bea over and over again. It was wet, sticky, and nearly as messy.

In another dance, she would fuck that Top Dog against the window overlooking the yard. Her sharp, white teeth would sink into her neck, her shoulder, her arm bruising the skin until it turned black and blue.

That perpetual ache reaches fulfillment. She clenches around herself, her fingers running along her wetness. A low, guttural cry reverberates within her cell. Torn asunder by her dastardly ministrations, she comes undone, panting to reclaim the eerie calm that follows.

Not every action needs to be described.

Exactly as Bluebeard’s room would, it smells like sex and poison. Governor Bennett has a hard time turning a blind eye. From her newly minted office, she pays as much attention as a lurking voyeur would. Her hands clamp beneath her chin, brows furrowed together. Vera swears she sees Joan’s lips move in the aftermath of destruction and if she’s read that lying mouth correctly, then it’s Smith’s name that flies free.

That’s just another ghost, Vera reassures herself and in her disgust fused with envy, she flicks off the CCTV.