Nobody would ever disagree that Miranda Priestly was a woman in dire need of a few good orgasms. That'd go a long way towards making her something like a pleasant person. Something like one, at any rate. And Andy Sachs had, after a trial-by-fire initiation, made it her purpose in life (and cross to bear) to give Miranda Priestly what she needed.
It wasn't listed in the job description per se, but there was no question but that it was expected of her. A few mumbled words from Emily (who couldn't look Andy in the eye), a meaningful look from Miranda, and Andy had figured out pretty quickly what was going on. It was weird, it was freaky, it was wrong, and Nate was gone, and Stephen was too, and frankly the idea of turning Miranda into goo was too good to resist. Especially now, when Miranda treated Andy better than she ever had before. Not like an equal--not even Nigel got that sort of special treatment--but as someone worthy of trust.
So Andy decided to do the best job possible and, as she pressed Miranda up against a wall in her townhouse for the first time, she was glad that she was good at sex. Really good at it. All her boyfriends had always said so, and while none of them had ever been as exacting as Miranda, it was hard to argue with the way Miranda's eyes went wide with shock when Andy slipped her hand between her legs and they both realized how wet Miranda already was.
"Oh, um--" Miranda said, and then, "ohmyGod," as Andy's fingers stole inside. Andy didn't dare kiss her on the mouth--not even now--but she tried a kiss at the curve of her neck. Miranda grabbed her shoulders and whimpered.
"So," Andy whispered, and kissed her softly again, "you want me to go down on you sometime?"
And about thirty seconds after they'd started, Miranda Priestly arched her back and came with a cry that rang through her house.
When she was done, she tugged at Andy's head, and then kissed her soundly. Andy hadn't been expecting that, but she didn't mind either; if Miranda wanted a kiss, Andy could do that too. She liked kissing, and Miranda's mouth was surprisingly soft.
Then Miranda waved her away and tried not to act like she'd just shrieked an obscenity into her junior assistant's ear mid-orgasm. She almost pulled it off.
After that, "private time" (which was how Andy officially listed it on Miranda's schedule, much to Miranda's disgust) took place almost every evening. Andy no longer had to initiate anything. There was no more pressing Miranda against a wall. In fact, these days, the moment they were alone and the time was right, Miranda practically pounced.
Andy happily gave her what she wanted. It never took much. Miranda seemed to be on slow boil all day long, so by the end of the day, when Andy had her up against a wall or on the couch or the bed or wherever, it only took a few touches, a few kisses, to bring her to shuddering release.
So, in a way Andy had never expected, would never have dreamed, Miranda Priestly's body became part of her daily to-do list. It was a surprisingly…'comfortable' wasn't the right word. But it didn't make Andy squirm with embarrassment, like she'd thought it would, if she'd ever thought about it at all, which she hadn't. Because it wasn't embarrassing. Being made to cry in front of Emily: that was embarrassing. Forgetting the name of the person she was talking to on the phone, because she'd talked to a hundred other people that day: that was embarrassing. Being told by Nigel that today her hair looked like the innocent bystander in a street fight between a curling iron and Aqua Net: that was embarrassing.
This? This was her job. Like getting Miranda's coffee. Like dropping off the book. In fact, since it always happened after Andy arrived at the townhouse with the book and the dry-cleaning, it just felt like an extension of something she already did. Crazy? Fucked in the head? Oh, yes. But true, nevertheless.
Andy had licked Miranda's shoes, kissed Miranda's ass, and now she made Miranda come. At least Miranda was actually happy after this one. It was kind of cool to see it--Miranda, happy. Or close to it, anyway. She was always all-business at work the next day, but more than once Andy looked into her eyes, and more than once she knew Miranda was waiting for night to fall, and for Andy to open the door.
It actually did make her more pleasant. Slightly. Sort of. On the good days.
But then came the day that was…different.
Usually, once she'd made Miranda come, Andy left her with a kiss and either went back to her apartment or scurried off to do the next thing on the schedule while Miranda recovered herself. At first, Andy thought this suited Miranda just fine. You couldn't argue with the end results, after all--especially when the end result was Miranda panting and whimpering with satisfaction. Besides, it was in keeping with Miranda's character: intense, to-the-point, and efficient. Everybody knew how much she hated the glacial pace.
So it came as a surprise to Andy when, one night, she slipped a hand into Miranda's panties, stroked through the wetness, and was rewarded with Miranda's voice snapping, "What's the hurry? Do you have a flight to catch or something?"
Andy blinked at Miranda in surprise. They were in the bedroom tonight (the girls were asleep upstairs). Miranda's breath was as rapid as ever, her eyes as bright as ever, and she was definitely as wet and wound-up as ever. So what was wrong? What was different about tonight? Miranda seemed tenser than usual, somehow, and she was having a hard time looking Andy in the eye. Andy wasn't sure why. It hadn't been a particularly bad or difficult day. Well, no more than usual.
Andy carefully drew her hand out of Miranda's underwear, listening to the bereft whimper Miranda couldn't quite hide. "Um…sorry," she said. "You want it, um, slower?" She saw Miranda's face start to go red, and she quickly added, "Okay, I can do that. Sounds like fun."
"Fun?" Miranda said. Andy forestalled any further bitching with a soft, shallow kiss, the kind that always made Miranda ready for more. She danced her fingertips up and down Miranda's spine, and by the time the kiss was done, Miranda wasn't complaining anymore. She wasn't doing anything but grabbing at Andy's back, like she always did.
Andy smiled, and moved down to her throat. Miranda loved being kissed on her throat. "So how slow do you want it?" Andy murmured. Miranda trembled against her, and gasped. Andy slid one hand up until she could rub over Miranda's nipple with the back of her knuckle. "Can I do this for a little while?" Andy teased, when Miranda gave a tiny cry.
"Oh," was all Miranda could say, and as she appeared to have no objections, Andy spent a rather lovely few moments playing with her through her pajama top. She wasn't sure how 'slow' this was, actually, since Miranda seemed as close to coming as she ever did--which was to say, very.
But Miranda, for once, appeared to be fighting it tooth and nail, which was strange to see. Miranda Priestly wasn't the kind of woman to put anything off for tomorrow that could be done today. Yet here she was, her skin hot and ready beneath her silky pajamas, her nipples pebble-hard, her panties drenched, and she was trying to act like she wasn't gagging for it. It couldn't possibly be a dignity thing, not now. Not after everything Andy had seen, up to and including Miranda almost losing consciousness in the easy chair last week.
Well, she could think forever and still not figure Miranda out. Best not to worry about it right now, and just do whatever made Miranda happy. Experimentally, Andy bent down and licked Miranda's nipple through the silk, enjoying the new texture against her tongue. Miranda arched her back up--nothing, but nothing drove her as crazy as this. A couple of nights ago, Andy'd gotten her off by doing nothing other than kissing her breasts. But Miranda wanted to take it slowly tonight. So Andy agreeably moved her tongue lightly, slowly, against the silk, while Miranda bit her lip and tried not to scream.
After a few moments of this, Andy took mercy on her, and slowly kissed her way back up until they were mouth-to-mouth again. She'd been surprised to discover that Miranda really did love kissing, at least until her concentration broke too much to keep it up. Tonight, she slid her hands up Andy's back, and cupped the back of Andy's neck, her fingernails scratching lightly at the nape. Andy shivered pleasantly. That felt nice. So did Miranda's mouth, soft and hot under her own, so different from a guy's.
"Andrea," Miranda gasped in a pause for breath.
Huh. That was different. Nice, though. Touched by Miranda's thoughtfulness, Andy slipped her hand beneath her pajama top, and let her hand stroke gently against the soft, warm skin over Miranda's ribs. Miranda gasped at Andy's hand on her bare skin: good. "Slow enough?" Andy said, and kissed her again.
"Nnn," Miranda said, which probably didn't mean 'no.' It was just the sort of noise she made when she was pretty far-gone. Andy pulled her hand out--Miranda gasped--and began to unbutton Miranda's top. This made Miranda sigh, and when Andy kissed her throat, and slid her palms up and over her belly and sides, she gave a soft, lost-sounding moan.
Then Andy slid her thigh between Miranda's own, and Miranda stiffened, her hands fumbling at Andy's shoulders. "Oh," she panted, and Andy realized she was trying hard not to thrust her hips. "Not yet--not--!"
What the heck was going on? Sure, Miranda had always come pretty fast before, but 'fast' didn't have to mean 'unsatisfactory.' And right now, she looked more like she was suffering than enjoying herself, like she was two seconds from coming and she couldn't stand it. Andy slid her thigh away quickly, and gave Miranda a few seconds to collect herself, before whispering, "Um, hey--are you okay? I'm, I'm not--am I hurting you?"
"No," Miranda growled, keeping her eyes shut. "I only--is it really so hard to understand that I want--"
"No, no," Andy said quickly, and kissed her. Miranda welcomed her avidly, opening her mouth, trembling all over when Andy teased her with her tongue.
"So," Andy said when they paused, trying to sound seductive instead of totally confused, "is there something in particular you'd like?" She stroked her palm over Miranda's silk-clad thigh, and Miranda shivered again. "You know I'll do pretty much anything, don't you?"
"Except take it slowly, apparently," Miranda snapped, sounding remarkably like herself for a moment. For revenge, Andy tickled her right above her ass, at the base of her spine, and Miranda's glare melted away as her eyes glazed.
"There's all kinds of ways of taking it slowly, though," Andy said softly, and watched Miranda close her eyes, watched her pulse go even faster at her neck. Yeah, this was the ticket. She touched Miranda's breasts again, but kept her fingers away from the nipples, tracing around them instead. "Like this." Miranda whimpered. "You like this?" Miranda moaned. That was a yes, then.
"K-kiss me," Miranda panted. Andy did, and made it so slow and gentle that Miranda was squirming by the end of it, making desperate little noises while Andy kept feeling her up. Andy finally gave in and flicked her thumbs over Miranda's nipples; Miranda gulped, and whimpered again.
"You want me to kiss you here, too?" Andy whispered, and pinched her gently.
"Oh, God!" Miranda said, and Andy grinned--Miranda always started saying that when she was really close. But then, to Andy's surprise, Miranda added, "No! Not yet--" She closed her eyes, obviously struggling for control again.
Wow. "Okay," Andy said agreeably, deciding to let Miranda's strange mood carry them along until they got to wherever Miranda wanted to go. Then a thought occurred to her. "Hey," she murmured, kissing Miranda's throat again, "you know what we haven't done yet?"
"Many things," Miranda whispered, surprising Andy yet again.
"Well…I guess," Andy said, and began kissing her way back down, down Miranda's throat, her collarbone, and towards her belly, avoiding her breasts. By way of an extra hint, she rubbed one hand over the top of Miranda's thigh. Miranda's breath caught and shattered in her throat, and Andy knew the lightbulb had gone on. "I was thinking about something specific, though." She rubbed her hand again. "Why don't you let me give it a try? I can go sl--"
"No," Miranda said, grabbing at Andy's hand with her own trembling one. "No, I don't--I don't like that."
Andy lifted her head and stared at Miranda, not even bothering to disguise her incomprehension. "Huh?" she said.
Miranda glared at her with narrowed, bright eyes. "I said I don't like it," she said. "Oral sex. I don't like it. Don't do it."
Andy shook her head, remembering the first time she'd ever pinned Miranda down, and how the mere suggestion of what she apparently 'didn't like' had made her come like a shrieking banshee. She didn't care if she was breaking the mood; she asked, "What? Why not?"
This time, Miranda's blush was not due to pleasure. "What do you mean, why not? I just don't," she said. "There are things I don't like, and that is one of them." When Andy just kept staring at her blankly, she snapped, "What, does that make me a freak of nature or something?"
"No!" Andy said quickly, shaking her head. "No, of course not. People like all kinds of things."
"Thank you for that, Andrea," Miranda said, and flopped back down ungracefully on the bed, looking thoroughly put out. "Well. This was delightful. Do excuse me for not seeing you to the door--"
Andy rolled her eyes and took emergency measures, bending down and gently taking Miranda's nipple between her teeth. Like Andy had just flipped a switch, Miranda arched up and gasped, and this time, when Andy slid her hand down into her panties, Miranda did not object. She was too busy coming to object to anything; in the spirit of the evening, Andy moved her thumb very, very slowly against her, drawing Miranda's orgasm out for what seemed like forever. She was fascinated, as she always was, by the way Miranda's tension just vanished as pleasure turned her into a puddle, by how Miranda's low, cool voice could make such desperate-sounding cries.
When she'd finished, Andy bent down and gave her the usual soft kiss. "Is that all?" she murmured. Miranda was panting too hard to speak, but Andy assumed a positive answer. She sat up and straightened her top. "I'll call Nigel now. He wanted to know about--"
"Wonderful," Miranda said, sitting up as well. Her opened pajama top flapped around her. She wasn't meeting Andy's eyes. Her voice had been as bitter as Andy had ever heard it.
Andy froze. "Miranda?"
"Just--" Miranda stopped, and rubbed her hands over her face. "I'm tired," she said. "I want to go to sleep. Go do whatever it is that you do when we're finished."
"I…" Andy had screwed up. Obviously. Badly. But how? "Miranda, I'm sorry if I…are you--?"
"Go," Miranda said, not looking up from her hands. Andy worried at her bottom lip, but went, knowing that it would be both impossible and unwise to get anything else out of her right now. Besides, maybe it wasn't serious. Maybe it was just one of the normal mood swings. Miranda had them all the time. Same old, same old.
Maybe Andy was Queen of Romania. She didn't call Nigel. She went home, sat on hercouch, and worried.
Then she decided that there was no point in worrying. Miranda was weird, complex, secretive at the best of times. If she wanted Andy to know what was going on in her head, she'd tell her so. She was just in a bad mood tonight, for some reason.
It'd be better tomorrow. Miranda would be calm again--at least, as calm as she ever got. She always was, on the morning after. Nothing disturbed her equilibrium for long. Not even her divorce, for Christ's sake. Whatever Andy did or didn't do...well, that couldn't possibly cause Miranda more than a few moments' worth of irritation. It wasn't like Andy had missed a call from Karl Lagerfeld, or sent Miranda to the wrong dinner, or anything catastrophic like that.
Andy was good at what she did now. Professional. Even in this, she could keep business and pleasure apart. She knew what to do, and when to do, and how to do it. She could do her job.
And that was all Miranda had ever asked of her, wasn't it?