Chapter 1: "devils roll the dice"
Dressed for the occasion, Deborah opted for a darker than midnight tuxedo jacket and pants, the stripe of black silk down each leg a perfect reflection of the jacket’s lapels. The first plan had been for a crisp white shirt underneath, maybe even some ironic ruffles in French linen. But even doing poppers on her couch all those years ago, Liberace himself would have found that a little much on her.
Which also meant no gold lamé or leopard print, not even on the shoes for once. Deborah had rubbed her fingers along the rows upon rows of once-worn stilettos and their lower-heeled counterparts, but there was only ever one destination in mind.
Louboutins. Patent black leather with that infamous blood red sole.
If she matched her lipstick to it, who would notice? Ava? Well, she might notice that there was lipstick in the first place, which would be an achievement in and of its goddamned self. She did look good, at DJ’s birthday, having bothered with something darker than a smear of chapstick for a change. Not that Deborah Vance had the time or inclination to register every time Ava dressed like anything other than a homeless person.
No, tonight the only concession to Deborah’s usual glittering persona was a cascading diamond necklace that pointed like a dripping, sparkling arrow to the very centre of her décolletage.
It didn’t matter that it took tit tape and some generous tailoring around the darts in the fabric, she knew the effect was stunning. Nobody’s gaze had landed anywhere else all night, because even the gay guys appreciated a good rack done right. (She could hear Ava’s snarky response to that without much effort: what was that, a rejected line from The Golden Girls pilot?)
Deborah always knew when an outfit slayed, the same way she could tell from the audience’s first collective intake of breath--not the laugh, the laugh comes later--if a joke was going to land. That moment that every good comic could sense.
It was almost the same feeling to render someone speechless at the first sight of Deborah, dressed to kill.
The usual suspects were lining up to fawn over Deborah, from Marty and his eternal optimism wrapped in a blanket of sleaze, through to Marcus who really did just love the aesthetic, bless his heart. Each reaction, every compliment, left Deborah restless and itching for more. Somehow that stuttering, cartoon-eyed reaction didn’t mean a damn thing until it came from one particular person.
And Ava, for once, did not disappoint.
“Ho-hooo-leeee shit, D.”
“What have I told you about calling me that?” Deborah didn’t find herself sounding too peeved, not when Ava was slack-jawed with lust, like that old (older than Deborah) Tex Avery cartoon that coined the term ‘wolf-whistle’. Ava’s entire face looked like the fucking heart-eyes emoji, and damn if Deborah didn’t long for a time when she didn’t know what the hell an emoji was.
“Well in that getup, I think you’re aiming for a whole new D-word. I respect the hustle.”
“Did you hit your head on something? Or is another ovary trying to break free and scrambling your brain again?”
“Hey!” Ava gave a credible enough pout. She had at least dressed for the occasion, though it looked more like DJ’s influence than Kiki’s this time, judging by the clunky necklace that distracted from the strappy forest green dress. “There’s every chance I’m just high.”
“Are you?” Deborah hadn’t thought so, on first inspection. She had gotten good at the various flushes and glassy-eyed looks of Ava’s preferred intoxicants. This didn’t look like anything worse than champagne bubbles and maybe a decent Scotch or two. For a broke-ass millennial intent on bringing down industries, Ava certainly had the drinking tastes of a one-percenter three times her age.
Which, technically, Deborah was. She flagged down a server and a heavy crystal tumbler was pressed into her palm seconds later.
“How did you get the good stuff brought to you?” Ava asked, wide-eyed in that way she had upon discovering another little layer of privilege. “Kiki and I had to go to the bar to get served.”
“I’m a frequent flier here at Marty’s, remember? The good staff remember what the VIPs like. Plus, I suspect Damian spent two hours here earlier threatening them all. What was it, by the way?”
“What was what?” Ava instinctively moved closer to Deborah’s side as a ripple passed through the crowd, a few bodies moving nearer without permission. She’d gotten good at running that kind of interference on the road.
“This other D-word you were babbling about. None of your usual witty insults seem to fit.”
Deborah ran her fingertips across the silk lapel of her tux without thinking, realizing too late the simple action had rendered Ava speechless again.
“What? Oh, uh, it wasn’t an insult. It’s just all a bit daddy, as an ensemble.”
Withholding an eye roll that time took almost superhuman strength. They’d spent half the week arguing over who did or didn’t have BDE, and whether Planned Parenthood should be a punchline, and Deborah refusing to admit how she’d found out about Frank and Kathy. Now Ava was throwing around daddy the same way she said power bottom or super switchy and there was no mistaking the spark in her eyes as she did.
But hell, wasn’t that exactly what Deborah hoped for when she rejected seven different dress options and plucked this unworn pantsuit from an almost-forgotten rack in her aircraft hangar of a closet?
“Daddy? As in… who’s your…?”
Ava nodded, and when yet another server ignored her, she helped herself to Deborah’s untouched glass. Taking a sip and replacing it in Deborah’s hand like she was just a convenient drinks station at mile twenty on the marathon.
“Huh. Never been a sugar daddy before.” Deborah rolled the term around on her tongue to get used to it. “What are the rules? Butch it up a little and pay for everything? Am I on the right track?”
“That Tiffany chandelier around your neck is subverting it a little, but you’re in the right direction. Like I keep telling you, the whole point is that gender is fluid. Anyone can be anything, if they have the right energy.”
“So…” Deborah had no idea how to frame her question. Then she clocked the mayor approaching on her six, and in an uncharacteristic panic, Deborah clutched at Ava’s elbow. “Get us out of here.”
It only took a look in the right direction to set Ava off, and she pulled them through the crowded room like some goth navigating a mosh pit. Deborah was mostly impressed she hadn’t spilled any of her drink by the time she was yanked unceremoniously through a previously closed door.
“Ta da!” Ava announced, fumbling for a lightswitch. “I should have been Secret Service, that was tight!”
“This is Marty’s office,” Deborah realized out loud. It was the one room in this godforsaken sprawl that wasn’t a glass opening to the heavens. In here, Marty fancied himself the Marlon Brando mob boss, the classic leather and walnut type. Despite the fact that he could barely sign his own name, Deborah clocked the first editions on every shelf.
“Yeah, why are we still coming to Marty stuff?” Ava asked like the question had really been bugging her, the fake nonchalance giving her away every time. “I thought the whole free of the Palmetto life meant flipping him the Vs from the road and never going back to his dump of a hotel. Or this fishbowl of a house.”
“Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. At least close enough to take a swing at.” Deborah shrugged, setting her drink down and leaning against the front of the ostentatious desk. The lighting in here was more than flattering. How many of Marty’s carousel of girlfriends had been seduced in the privacy of this room? Deborah didn’t care to think about it.
She did want to think about the way Ava was watching her from over by the door. Hesitant as always, she hung back in the unfamiliar space. Deborah had learned a long time ago how to walk into any room like she owned it, but Ava had a long way to go on that front.
“So, are we hiding in here all night or…?” Ava looked around. “Do you think there’s a TV hidden somewhere?”
Deborah walked around the desk in even strides, the patent stilettos still pinching. She made a show of looking for something--a remote, maybe--but the only open drawer yielded nothing more interesting than a box of disgustingly expensive Cohibas. Knowing Marty, he probably had them boosted out of Castro’s coffin.
The visual was irresistible as soon as she laid eyes on them. Helping herself to the first one in the box, Deborah relaxed back in Marty’s oversized leather desk chair, kicking her feet up on the desk without giving a single damn if her killer heels gouged the woodwork.
“Whaddya think?” She asked, placing the cigar between her lips like she’d been smoking them all her life. “That daddy enough for you, A?”
“If I can’t call you D--”
“Uh uh, I asked a question.” Deborah raised a finger of her free hand in warning. “Where would this rank on your… what did you call it again?”
“Oh, my index of Queerable MILFs?” Ava lit up that Deborah had remembered that particular drunken ramble. Something about a whiteboard and The L Word, and god if Holland hadn’t been smug as hell about getting a part on that show. “Oh legit top tier. Top five overall, top slot on the daddy index as long as you’re going full Lewinsky with the cigar instead of smoking it.”
“Aha!” Deborah couldn’t resist making her point, whether it killed the mood or not. “See? You’re supposed to be the great feminist hope but even you refer to it as the Lewinsky scandal. She didn’t do anything wrong, remember? So why not the Clinton scandal?”
“Well, for a start there are two of them you could be referring to… three, if you count Chelsea. And that’s not a double standard, that’s respecting her agency!”
Ava did what she always did in these petty squabbles, closed in on Deborah’s personal space until they were on the same side of the desk once more.
“Sure. Keep telling yourself that.”
“God! You are so fucking smug, you know that? This is, like, peak Deborah Vance, trying to win a bullshit argument and making it look like a seduction.”
Deborah swallowed. Now or never. “Who says I’m trying to seduce you?”
All it took from there was Ava nudging one of Deborah’s feet from the desk, letting the heel hit the floor so she could step between Deborah’s parted legs, the right still stretched out on the desk’s surface.
Deborah set the cigar down and ran her fingers up the tight bodice of Ava’s dress, hooking her index finger in one flimsy strap. One tug was all it took to pull her closer.
“Well,” Deborah replied. “What if I am?”
Chapter 2: "angels roll their eyes"
And then, the promised smut did arrive.
“You know that door isn’t locked, right?” Ava’s gaze could barely flicker from Deborah’s cleavage even as she gave the warning. Were diamonds hypnotic? Was Deborah actually a witch? Somehow in this Viagra-boner of an office, all things suddenly seemed possible.
“Oh, the girl who sends unsolicited nudes has a problem with a spot of exhibitionism?”
“First of all, there’s a difference between unsolicited and unappreciated,” Ava started to tick off her list on her fingers, but Deborah interrupted with a derisive snort.
“Yet you managed to make yours both.” She made that little pout that drove Ava crazy, the one that said Deborah knew she’d made an argument-ending point.
“And secondly, sending a DM is a million miles from… whatever this is. Propositioning someone while looking like sex itself, all while tucked up in your sometime fuck-buddy’s private office.”
“You quite finished there?” Deborah’s voice had that bored tone to it, but Ava didn’t miss the way she’d swallowed before talking, or the slightly jittery way that she couldn’t meet Ava’s gaze. “Because I think I liked it better when you were about to call me daddy. I’ll understand if you find it easier to get on your knees first, though.”
“You’re not fucking around, are you?”
And maybe it was the champagne, plus the Scotch, or maybe it was because Ava never met a bad idea she didn’t want to fuck and get breakfast with after, but damn if she didn’t drop to her knees like a puppet with her strings cut. The fact that she didn’t injure herself, or fall over with her usual lack of grace, suggested the universe was on her side for this one.
But oh, if seeing Deborah from standing had made Ava weak in the knees, then kneeling between her parted thighs was enough to make her breath catch in her throat.
“You’re stunning, you know that?” Ava had to say it. She reached for the button of those silky tuxedo pants without waiting to be asked, thrilled to confirm there was no hint of a silk camisole beneath the jacket, only bare skin. “And going commando? Why, Ms Vance...”
“Didn’t want to confuse you with another layer,” Deborah replied, the words ending in a hiss as Ava raked her nails along her hipbone. “You’re easily distracted.”
“You’re lucky you look majestic as fuck in this chair. Might as well be a throne, honestly.”
“You already got in my pants, can we move this along?”
“Okay, just one thing…” Ava fumbled for her purse, which she had dropped without giving a second thought. A tiny, impractical thing that barely held her phone and cards, she had borrowed it from Kiki because it sort of went with the dress and most importantly wasn’t a full-on backpack. She plucked the discreet little bottle of lubricant from under her phone, and set it beside her on the floor. Since she planned to go down on Deborah for as long as the other woman could stand it, it was touch and go whether it would even be needed.
“You carry lube in your purse?”
“Uh, yeah? Never know where the night might take you. Or what kind of stuff you might get up to, some of which definitely requires lubrication.”
“You don’t carry sunscreen, or loose change, but this you always leave the house with?”
Ava huffed a little, shifting weight from one knee to the other. “Does it matter, other than in a ‘good job, way to be prepared’ sort of way? I mean, this might not even be necessary if your weirdass tea works like you say.”
“I’m not going to the back of the cave yet, baby. But admittedly, a little extra help in that area would not be… unwelcome. I just didn’t expect you to be so…”
“Considerate? Organized? Confident that I’d be banging you at some point?”
Deborah pressed a fingertip to the centre of her eyebrow, as though warding off a headache. “All of the above. Maybe it’s not so insane that I can’t stop thinking about doing this. With you, of all people.”
“Careful, you keep up with these compliments and I might not get down on my knees for you… oh wait.”
And Ava actually had another point to make, because god knew they couldn’t do a damn thing without talking themselves to death first, but Deborah read the room in that way only she could, and silenced them both by leaning forward to kiss Ava.
Oh hell, and could Deborah kiss. It figured, someone who made a career from being good with her mouth, but she kissed Ava like her sole intention was to scramble any coherent thought Ava might be able to form.
When Ava’s circuits started firing again instead of sparking hopelessly inside her head, she was aware of Deborah’s fingers threaded through her hair, the stroke of her thumb against Ava’s cheek--just like the dream--and fuck the dream had nothing on this particular reality. The two buttons of the tux jacket gave way to Ava’s wandering hands, and then she had the full Deborah Vance experience laid out beneath her, just about trembling in anticipation of where Ava’s mouth would land next. Deborah muttered something about tape, a grumble of pain maybe, but soon quieted down.
Being tall (though not as tall as Deborah) even on her knees worked in Ava’s favor for once, because she was able to linger on every single point of Deborah’s skin that she had gazed at, stared at, or downright obsessed over. That smooth few inches of skin right beneath her ear, the hollow of her collarbone. The leather of the chair creaked just a little as Deborah squirmed, even though it was that expensive, buttery kind of leather that gave vegans palpitations. Ava pressed open-mouthed and firm-lipped kisses in alternating patterns, down over the planes of Deborah’s chest to greet the main event.
If those tits were the result of some judicious work done at some point in the past? Well Ava’s opinion on plastic surgery just went from neutral to a standing goddamn ovation. Hard nipples responded to the stroke of her thumb just as readily as the swirl of her tongue or the sucking of her lips. Deborah’s back arched, and those professionally-manicured talons clamped down on Ava’s bare shoulder almost hard enough to draw blood.
“Careful.” Ava breathed the warning against Deborah’s navel, kissing her way down to immaculately groomed curls in the dirty blonde of Deborah’s natural color. “Wait, did you trim your nails just for this?”
“Shut. Up.” Deborah heaved out the word on slightly ragged breaths as Ava grazed her mouth over her mound, barely touching at all and letting her breath tickle. “Shorter is more practical, that’s all.”
“You want these fingers inside you or not?”
“Yes ma’am,” Ava replied, quick to see the error of her ways. “But not… just… yet.” She felt that the best way to make her point was to finally let her mouth do something more than talking, and a cursory stroke of her tongue gave her that first real, instantly addictive taste of Deborah.
There was the pleasant thud of Deborah’s head connecting with the back of the chair as Ava picked up her pace. She spread Deborah’s labia with her thumbs, drinking in the sight of her flushed and wanting before the next experimental lick, and the next. Although Deborah was definitely aroused, Ava was glad she’d brought a little assistance, and she popped the cap on her fancy Goop-approved lube that cost more than her actual vibrator for God’s sake--but only the best for Deborah Vance--and warmed some on her fingers before briefly letting them take over for her tongue.
And hmm, the taste of Deborah mixed with a hint of silky smooth green tea? Hell yeah, Ava was quite literally down with that taste combo. She’d considered the CBD option but in the end this one had been closer to a ‘fuck you’ on behalf of her abandoned matcha latte station. Some rejections stung worse than others.
Every fantasy Ava had stored up or dreamed of was finally playing out, and she gave her absolute best oral game until Deborah was tugging on Ava’s hair, simultaneously pushing her away but pulling her closer, riding Ava’s tongue with her clit until all pretense of finesse fucked off and Ava decided just to ride it out for dear life.
From that first climax it took a little soothing, some butterfly-light touches to ease Deborah over the crest and down again, but she was soon ready to be teased all over again, and this time Ava lingered with swirling caresses that let her thrust her tongue inside, where her fingers itched to follow. By the time she worked Deborah up into a second, shuddering orgasm, curses were filling the air like confetti and Ava was pretty sure she’d sprained a minor tongue muscle in the best possible way.
“If that’s all you learned to do at college,” Deborah finally said, catching her breath with her eyes still closed. “Then it was worth every fucking penny of your tuition. You should have made the Dean’s List.”
Ava frowned at the mention of her failed degree, but tucked the compliment away for a long dark night of the soul; one of those would be along soon, like goddamned clockwork, and it was important to keep the material fresh.
Part of her, the part that had bedded a few too many straight girl crushes who had been utter pillow princesses, expected Deborah to duck out on reciprocating--special Sapphic manicure or not. Before she could open her mouth and ruin the moment, Ava felt Deborah’s finger crook under her chin, a surprisingly intimate gesture even despite what they’d just done.
This time when they kissed, it was soft and almost hesitating, as though each meeting of their lips might be the last one allowed. A change in pace, sure, but it also left Ava completely pliable when Deborah paused just long enough to whisper in her ear, “Bend over that desk. Now.”
For once, Ava didn’t need telling twice. She luxuriated in the stretch as she got up from her knees, reveling in the hungry way Deborah looked her up and down. Not that she stayed in the chair, as soon as Ava bent at the waist, Deborah was standing behind her, running those blunted nails up and down bared back hard enough to leave angry pink lines that Ava couldn’t wait to study later, in the huge mirror that took up half a wall of her guest bathroom at Deborah’s house.
Then those fingertips were dragging up the backs of Ava’s thighs and she was so doomed it was almost funny in its own weird way. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, leaning on her elbows and exposing herself entirely to Deborah’s gaze, and hopefully her touch.
“Like what you see?”
“I think that should be ‘like what you see, Daddy?”
Fuck. What had she gotten herself into? Ava hadn’t even thought that was her kink until tonight, but as with so many things since she moved to the desert, her deepest desires had become something of a moving target. If she ever started paying for Zoom therapy again, that poor bastard was going to have a field day.
She expected something too hesitant, or maybe even something clumsy, but the first touch of Deborah’s fingers where she wanted them most was assured and just right. No need for lube with how soaked Ava already was, as Deborah dragged her fingers in firm lines through the wetness, it was like a full-body reaction the first time she so much as grazed Ava’s clit. It got harder to keep track of anything but sensations from there, though Ava was more than aware of one, two, and a slender, easy third finger slipping inside her. The stretch was minimal, pleasant, like her body had just been waiting to welcome Deborah’s elegant fingers into her cunt.
Not that Deborah was anything other than a perfectionist, because damn if the woman wasn’t multi-tasking. With her other thumb she kept up circling pressure on Ava’s clit, far more direct this time instead of glancing touches, and the combined pincer action of sensations had Ava crying out against the leather blotter that dominated the desk beneath her. She closed her eyes and surrendered to the pressure building, punctuated by the soft groans from Deborah as the thrusts got harder, her necklace rattling with the force of it. Ava glanced back over her shoulder a couple of times, taking in the sight of Deborah with her jacket barely on, naked from the waist down still, fucking Ava in nothing else but her jewelry and stilettos.
Ava came hard enough that first time to sprain a wrist, but Deborah rode it out like a champ. Any care Ava had about not overdoing it faded as her second climax thundered down the road at her, and she might have legitimately blacked out for a second or two, or maybe she’d just forgotten how blinking worked. Either seemed possible as she felt that telltale gush and her knees gave out. There was something undignified in how she had to clutch the front of the desk to stay in place, but at the same time she knew Deborah and those wonderful hands wouldn’t let her fall.
Fuck. That was dangerously close to an actual feeling.
Ava shook her head, and when Deborah pulled back just a little, they began the clumsy process of extricating themselves. Ava had no qualms about collapsing right into the chair.
“Jesus Christ, you went off like one of Wayne Newton’s fountains!”
“Well, I would have warned you but I didn’t know you had that kind of game. Guess all those Melissa Etheridge jokes really were a smokescreen.”
“Shut up,” Deborah said, not for the first time, and kissed Ava soundly on the mouth to make sure she did, at least for a minute or two. “We’re probably pushing our luck, being in here so long.”
As if to make the point, muffled voices passed a little too loudly just outside the door, making them both jump. With unspoken agreement, they pulled their clothes back into place, smoothing things out as best they could. Ava reached out to wipe the corner of Deborah’s mouth with her thumb, removing a lipstick smudge with some regret, because it was a perfect visual reminder of how utterly fuckable Deborah was and continued to be in that moment.
“Kinda made a mess of his desk there, didn’t we?” Ava nodded to the slightly chaotic scene in front of them. “Should we clean up or…?”
“Leave it. But bring that,” Deborah pointed to the small bottle of lube that Ava had forgotten to pop back in her purse. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t think the night is over quite yet.”
“Oh yeah? What did you have in mind?”
“Well, one of the perks of my little empire is that I actually have a closet full of a range we never quite found the time to bring to market. Intimates by Deborah Vance.”
“Holy fuck, are you saying you have your own sex toy range?” Ava always wondered what it would be like to have Christmas, her birthday, and all eight nights of Hannukah at the same time. She might just have gotten her answer.
“Prototypes, sure, but some of them I think you’ll particularly like. I know I’m curious about a few of them, and I wasn’t about to ask Marcus for an explanation.” Deborah was texting in that distracted way of hers, where she concentrated extra hard to compensate for not having her reading glasses on. “The car will be round in five. Let’s go!”
“Don’t boss me around. Such a Daddy.”
“Don’t be an ungrateful brat and I won’t have to. Come on.” Deborah ushered Ava toward the door but hesitated at the desk for just a moment. She unclipped one of her earrings, tossing it into the thick carpet beneath the table.
“What’s that for?” Ava had a feeling she knew the answer.
“When he works it out, I want him to know it was me. Problem?”
Ava shook her head. “Nuh uh. Now let’s go play with that toy stash.”