Disclaimer: I don't own anything Wicked.
Rating: T
Glinda was naked. Not only was she naked, she was also quite cold. She pulled out an arm from under her duvet and pulled down a few strands of hair from next to her ears in an attempt to keep her ears warm. In was no use though so she dragged herself onto her side and pulled the duvet right over her shoulder. The fresh bedding smelt divine and it masked the smell of sex that was lingering about the big bed.
She had been alone for a couple of hours now. Just lying. Trying not to think. She glanced up at the clock next to the bed, it was nearly 3 in the morning. In 4 hours she would be called to wake and then she would wait for her husband to arrive back from his trip. Lord Chuffery had been away on some business for a few days and she knew he always missed her terribly. Of course, he'd come back with armfuls of presents, he always did, whether she deserved them or not. She put a fingertip to her face and felt her cold, perfect skin. A couple of hours ago her skin had been drenched in warm sweat. Her pretty pink cheeks flushed with effort.
When her husband was away, Glinda had a secret. When her husband was away, she would share her bed with other women. Prostitutes. She'd hire them for a couple of hours, some even for the whole night. She'd lie while they pleasured her. While they touched her, sucked her, kissed her. She'd lie with her eyes closed, her body right there but her mind somewhere different. It didn't take long for her to reach her climax and as she did she'd imagine long green fingers plunging into her. Her hips would buck and she'd call out her name. The name she always called out. The name that the prostitutes were used to her saying when the Lady came.
Glinda turned back onto her back. She felt a wave of guilt wash over her. She looked over to the bedside table to where a few money notes were lying. She always tried to pay them more. She never looked in their eyes though, one because she was ashamed and two because she didn't want to shatter her illusion. Because if it were to shatter what would she have then? A prostitute and a broken wealthy woman. She stared up at the dark ceiling. That's what she was though, she supposed, a broken woman. A woman still grieving from the death of her best friend. A woman whose last word on the day she died would be that, the word she shouted when she climaxed, the name she would never forget, the name of her long dead lover.
"Elphaba..."
