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05 March 2009 @ 11:31 pm
Fic: Doors Left Open, GL, Olivia/Natalia  
Title:  Doors Left Open
Author: DiNovia
Fandom: Guiding Light
Pairing: Olivia/Natalia
Rating:  NC-17
Words: 903
Archival:  P&P and Kimly, of course.  Everyone else, please ask.
Spoilers:  None
Summary:  This is exactly why they put locks on bedroom doors...
Content Disclaimer: There is no excuse for this other than I'm having trouble with another story I'm working on and Tanked Muse felt like writing tonight.  This is what we ended up with.
Source Disclaimer:  I do not own Guiding Light or the characters therein depicted.  I do not seek to profit from this story. 
A/N:  A warning for those of you who hate this: it's written in 2nd person, present tense.  Also, it is unbeta-ed, so any mistakes are my own.  Feel free to point them out, as long as you do so constructively.

Most days, your love for her is a yearning fullness in your borrowed heart.  Adoration.  Tender regard.

Today is not one of those days.

Today, you hunger.

It began as a pressure behind your eyes when you woke and spread like a virus to encompass your whole body while you showered, hot water snaking sensuously down your body.  It stayed with you as you dressed, encouraged by blood red undergarments chosen to enhance rather than to deny.  Your nipples, already painfully hard, brush against the inside of your bra with every breath, even now.  Your visceral animal self aches with want. 

You are in a constant state of arousal at work and all day your employees avoid you, confused by your mixed signals. 

You are edgy and restless when you come home to her in the evening, annoyed by her innocence, by her sweet obliviousness.

Dinner is a silent, strained stalemate and she can't help but notice your mood.  You deflect, blame work, though your silk bikini bottoms are soaked with your frustrated longing.  She lapses into hurt silence and you turn away because it's become almost impossible to see her past the image of the bruising kiss you're giving her in your mind's eye.

After dinner, she offers to do the dishes as an apology.  For what, she doesn't know. 

You let her, irritated by her reflexive atonement.  You go upstairs to your room to change for bed.  When you are bare except for the indecent triangle of cloth between your thighs, you finally surrender.  You retrieve your iPod from the bedside table and slip the earbuds into your ears, shivering even from that brief caress.  You choose a song and slip lightly between cool sheets.

The song is dark, loud, throbbing.  You feel it pulse through your body.

Your hips begin to rock even before you touch yourself. 

You want this, want her.  You need this. 

A few private moments to imagine her mouth on you, her fingers inside you.  To imagine lust in her walnut-colored eyes.  To imagine the weight of her straddling you.  To imagine the taste of her kisses.

You tug your own nipple, imagining her fingertips there.

You brush your fingertips across your clit, imagining her tongue there.

The music transports you and you succumb to its pounding rhythm.

She is there with you, all around you, inside you, touching you, loving you.

The fantasy is so complete, you even breathe her scent...


You don't know what you did this time.  You wash the dishes within an inch of their lives, going over the whole day. 

What did you say?  What didn't you say?

You wait for her in the living room but she never comes.  At first, you scoff.  You don't care!  She's been so moody lately, so impossible!  Let her sulk in her room if she wants.  That's fine by you.

You sit on the couch and flip absently through a magazine on the coffee table.  You consider turning on the news but think better of it.  It would only depress you.

Moments later, still staring off into space, you decide this is ridiculous and you march up the stairs, preparing to do battle with the dragon.  You don't even knock when you open her bedroom door because you're going to have this conversation whether she wants to or--

You freeze, your hand still on the doorknob.  All the blood drains from your face and rushes...elsewhere.  You dare not breathe.

She's in bed, a cream-colored sheet draped haphazardly over her body.  Her back arches and she turns her head, biting her bottom lip to keep from crying out.  You see the iPod cord and realize she hasn't heard you, doesn't realize you're there.

You want to leave, relieved that she hasn't noticed you.  Your face burns with embarrassment and you tell yourself "This is wrong.  I shouldn't be here, shouldn't see this."  But you can't move.   

Her left hand is beneath the sheet, between her legs, and you can see quick, rhythmic strokes in relief under cool cotton.  Her breasts are uncovered and she lazily tugs at one nipple, rolling it between her immaculately manicured fingertips.  She is astonishingly gorgeous.

Then she moans, her breath catching high in the back of her throat, and you are undone.

You feel your nipples tighten.  You feel your knees go weak.  You feel a rush of desire that stops your heart in your chest and floods your aching core.

You watch her brazenly as she finds that final rhythm.  She whimpers and her head thrashes against her pillow.  Her hips rock and thrust and in your mind you are begging her to come because you want to see it, are desperate to see it.  Crazily, you think she might spread hidden wings and take flight.

You have never seen anything as beautiful as she is right now.

Her cries are frantic now and she is close, so close to the edge.  She rushes toward her release and you lean toward her, eyes wide.  You silence a covetous groan, ashamed of yourself and yet unbelievably, undeniably aroused.

Her eyes snap open just as she tumbles into orgasm and she changes everything in your whole world with one strangled, broken word...



Now I can go to sleep; Tanked Muse has been placated...


My State of Mind: sleepysleepy