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femslashficlets2020-09-20 09:13 pm
ilthit) wrote in femslashficlets2020-09-20 09:13 pm
Entry tags:
[278] At Least I Didn't Call You Schmidt-Ho (Boston Legal)
Title: At Least I Didn't Call You Schmidt-Ho
Fandom: Boston Legal
Pairing: Lori Colson/Sally Heep, one-sided Lori/Shirley Schmidt
Rating: explicit
Prompt: 278 Come
Word Count: 1,000
Summary: Sally indulges Lori's fantasy.
Contains: Boss/employee, sexual thoughts about someone else, ritualized light D/s, alcohol, semi-public sex.
If Shirley ever found out, Lori would hate herself. It doesn't matter they haven't worked together in years, or that Shirley has shrugged off worse. Shirley would be so… so disappointed. Lori can hardly think of anything worse.
Still, it happens. Over and over. It might even be that the horrifying thought of it feeds into the thrill.
Lori's made a career out of not being afraid, or ignoring her fear and going ahead anyway. You push to that edge and beyond, and that's how you pay for thousand dollar suits and a nice condo in uptown Boston. If you're lucky.
Sally doesn't question it. Sally is plenty weird herself. That's part of why they work.
"Come in," Sally says to her knock. Lori slides the office door open. It's late; their colleagues have left. Lori made sure of it.
Sally's hips perch on the desk, her hair pulled and pinned back. The waist of her pantsuit is creased, and Lori thinks of stripping that fabric down her legs. "Lori. Good to see you." There is glass of golden liquid in her hand, ice clinking as she sets it down and picks up the bottle. Shirley and Lori's brand.
It's the voice that does it. Lori doesn't need a wig or new wardrobe for these little meetings to pattern into the same brainwaves as her old end-of-the-week meetings with Shirley. The sound of the glass does it, the voice, a gesture here or there. She had gone over the same fantasy so often when she'd worked at Crane, Poole & Schmidt—Shirley leaning over after both of them had their first ceremonial sip, the husky tone of her whispered command. Lori nodding wordlessly and sinking down to the floor. That low long light in the office hallway, behind the glass, just like it shone here, thanks to the uniformity of local office design.
Sally's lips are dark and red and full, her angles sharp. They touch the rims of their glasses together and sink onto the sofa. Sally takes a long sip of her drink, Lori follows suit more slowly, letting the day fall off her shoulders as the taste burns her tongue.
Sally leans in, her voice just right. "Get on your knees."
They shouldn't, of course. Sally is her boss now. Just like Shirley used to be. But Sally has fewer scruples, and Sally likes girls. That helps. ("For about a month in the 80s," Shirley had said when the subject had come up. Lori could still remember the burning in her ears.) Sally's willing to do the whole relationship thing too, even if they have to sneak around a little until Lori gets her promotion. It's in the works.
Lori would be lying if she said she didn't like that part too. Hotels in New York. Little underground gay bars away from the center. Booking different flights to go on vacation together, passing written notes like secret agents. The scandal would be a storm in a tea cup, but maybe Sally likes a bit of drama too. Sally, who will fuck her knowing that sometimes (just sometimes) she's thinking about someone else.
"Hey," Sally says as Lori's mouthing the zipper of her pants. That's off-script. "Call me Sally."
Lori wets her lips, her throat trembling. This is new; and the static that passes through her is a surprise. "Sally," she whispers. "I love this. I love you."
"Enough," says Sally, and her voice is sharp now. Lori can hear the grin behind it. "Get on with it."
So Lori catches that zipper between her teeth and pulls it down, smelling Sally's soap and the faint touch of excitement underneath. That smell goes straight into her nethers, warming her thighs and melting her spine, and she wants to dive right into that crotch, but they do this in stages. Every step of the way, until Sally's got her pinned against the desk and there is no more stopping, no more thinking involved.
Sally's fingers in her hair, a little tug, like an echo of her confession.
The trousers slide down Sally's thighs. Lori is allowed to use her hands to unclip her silk stockings, slide those down too, one by one. Unbutton her top, push it off her breasts. The bra stays on, and Lori's tongue makes it wet, kissing and nibbling the soft material. Only on command do her fingers go into Sally, slipping aside the panties, moist through now. They'll end up in a little plastic bag, stuffed in the bottom of Sally's purse, where her spares are right now.
That sound, stopped in Sally's throat. Lori's head buzzes with pleasure. "Please," she whispers over and over again, "please."
"Don't make me tell you again," Sally hisses, and Lori buries her face into her neck, the scent of Paco Rabanne stronger here, tickling her nose. The wet sound her fingers make.
Sally grabs her wrist before she can finish, and pushes up off the sofa, drags Lori to her feet and slams her against the desk, and here they are, Lori's bottom digging into the edge of the desk, and Sally's hand pushing her skirt up. It isn't about Shirley anymore; maybe it never really was. It just needed to be for a while, to get them here in the first place. Maybe after the number this job had done on Sally's heart, she needed to be someone else before she could allow herself to feel something.
Shirley must never find out. Shirley will never find out. But God, God, Lori has never come so hard as that first time Sally whispered her name in her ear while the two of them were locked in together, sweaty and tight. "Sally," Lori moans now as she wraps her legs around her lover.
It's harmless, right? says a voice at the back of her head. If only it didn't sound like Denny Crane.
Lori's toes curl, and profanities fall from her bitten lips. No more thinking; just this.
Fandom: Boston Legal
Pairing: Lori Colson/Sally Heep, one-sided Lori/Shirley Schmidt
Rating: explicit
Prompt: 278 Come
Word Count: 1,000
Summary: Sally indulges Lori's fantasy.
Contains: Boss/employee, sexual thoughts about someone else, ritualized light D/s, alcohol, semi-public sex.
If Shirley ever found out, Lori would hate herself. It doesn't matter they haven't worked together in years, or that Shirley has shrugged off worse. Shirley would be so… so disappointed. Lori can hardly think of anything worse.
Still, it happens. Over and over. It might even be that the horrifying thought of it feeds into the thrill.
Lori's made a career out of not being afraid, or ignoring her fear and going ahead anyway. You push to that edge and beyond, and that's how you pay for thousand dollar suits and a nice condo in uptown Boston. If you're lucky.
Sally doesn't question it. Sally is plenty weird herself. That's part of why they work.
"Come in," Sally says to her knock. Lori slides the office door open. It's late; their colleagues have left. Lori made sure of it.
Sally's hips perch on the desk, her hair pulled and pinned back. The waist of her pantsuit is creased, and Lori thinks of stripping that fabric down her legs. "Lori. Good to see you." There is glass of golden liquid in her hand, ice clinking as she sets it down and picks up the bottle. Shirley and Lori's brand.
It's the voice that does it. Lori doesn't need a wig or new wardrobe for these little meetings to pattern into the same brainwaves as her old end-of-the-week meetings with Shirley. The sound of the glass does it, the voice, a gesture here or there. She had gone over the same fantasy so often when she'd worked at Crane, Poole & Schmidt—Shirley leaning over after both of them had their first ceremonial sip, the husky tone of her whispered command. Lori nodding wordlessly and sinking down to the floor. That low long light in the office hallway, behind the glass, just like it shone here, thanks to the uniformity of local office design.
Sally's lips are dark and red and full, her angles sharp. They touch the rims of their glasses together and sink onto the sofa. Sally takes a long sip of her drink, Lori follows suit more slowly, letting the day fall off her shoulders as the taste burns her tongue.
Sally leans in, her voice just right. "Get on your knees."
They shouldn't, of course. Sally is her boss now. Just like Shirley used to be. But Sally has fewer scruples, and Sally likes girls. That helps. ("For about a month in the 80s," Shirley had said when the subject had come up. Lori could still remember the burning in her ears.) Sally's willing to do the whole relationship thing too, even if they have to sneak around a little until Lori gets her promotion. It's in the works.
Lori would be lying if she said she didn't like that part too. Hotels in New York. Little underground gay bars away from the center. Booking different flights to go on vacation together, passing written notes like secret agents. The scandal would be a storm in a tea cup, but maybe Sally likes a bit of drama too. Sally, who will fuck her knowing that sometimes (just sometimes) she's thinking about someone else.
"Hey," Sally says as Lori's mouthing the zipper of her pants. That's off-script. "Call me Sally."
Lori wets her lips, her throat trembling. This is new; and the static that passes through her is a surprise. "Sally," she whispers. "I love this. I love you."
"Enough," says Sally, and her voice is sharp now. Lori can hear the grin behind it. "Get on with it."
So Lori catches that zipper between her teeth and pulls it down, smelling Sally's soap and the faint touch of excitement underneath. That smell goes straight into her nethers, warming her thighs and melting her spine, and she wants to dive right into that crotch, but they do this in stages. Every step of the way, until Sally's got her pinned against the desk and there is no more stopping, no more thinking involved.
Sally's fingers in her hair, a little tug, like an echo of her confession.
The trousers slide down Sally's thighs. Lori is allowed to use her hands to unclip her silk stockings, slide those down too, one by one. Unbutton her top, push it off her breasts. The bra stays on, and Lori's tongue makes it wet, kissing and nibbling the soft material. Only on command do her fingers go into Sally, slipping aside the panties, moist through now. They'll end up in a little plastic bag, stuffed in the bottom of Sally's purse, where her spares are right now.
That sound, stopped in Sally's throat. Lori's head buzzes with pleasure. "Please," she whispers over and over again, "please."
"Don't make me tell you again," Sally hisses, and Lori buries her face into her neck, the scent of Paco Rabanne stronger here, tickling her nose. The wet sound her fingers make.
Sally grabs her wrist before she can finish, and pushes up off the sofa, drags Lori to her feet and slams her against the desk, and here they are, Lori's bottom digging into the edge of the desk, and Sally's hand pushing her skirt up. It isn't about Shirley anymore; maybe it never really was. It just needed to be for a while, to get them here in the first place. Maybe after the number this job had done on Sally's heart, she needed to be someone else before she could allow herself to feel something.
Shirley must never find out. Shirley will never find out. But God, God, Lori has never come so hard as that first time Sally whispered her name in her ear while the two of them were locked in together, sweaty and tight. "Sally," Lori moans now as she wraps her legs around her lover.
It's harmless, right? says a voice at the back of her head. If only it didn't sound like Denny Crane.
Lori's toes curl, and profanities fall from her bitten lips. No more thinking; just this.