Vera is beautiful in a plain way.
There's no denying the fact. Something about her lips, the roundness, and the softness in her eyes… the way they betray her thoughts. Joan has always been drawn to people who expose themselves through their facial expressions.
It both fascinates and irritates her.
Sometimes she wants to shake Vera into place. A prison is no place for emotions. You don't get to wear your heart on your sleeve. Doesn't she know better? Joan's thoughts, once solely focused on the prison, on revenge and things of importance, now sway.
Her father's voice echoes in her ear.
Joan, you must always know your time to exit.
But…
She has never been one to walk away from a challenge.
It's clear when visiting Vera at home that the mother runs the household. This bothers Joan. A household should be run by the person in charge. The income earner. The one that cooks, cleans, contributes the most. Vera should be in charge but she is weak.
Letting her mother say those things… letting her mother cry so helplessly… Women who know how to command recognize other women who know how to command. Joan immediately realizes that she and Rita are playing the same game on the same field.
But Joan isn't concerned.
"Mum," Vera says. Precious and rottenly docile. Everything Joan hates in the world but at the same time everything she wants. "That's enough for now, don't you think?"
She will make Vera need her, only her, and this old specimen, this useless mother, will dissolve as quickly as dust.
Vera isn't a lush, but she isn't a lightweight, either. It takes more than two glasses to get her to open up. White wine creases her lips as they sit, chair by chair, in Joan's office. The night crew is skeleton. The halls are quiet. Most of the prisoners have long since gone to sleep.
Always know your time to exit.
For the first occasion in months, Joan has allowed herself two glasses of wine. She prefers Shiraz but this Pinot is what Vera brought—the white. So rebellious. Maybe there is some toughness in her after all, just hidden deep down.
"He was a bit… inept," Vera admits about Fletcher, and her cheeks heat as the confession slips out.
Joan stares.
Those lips. What she would not give to know how they taste, how it feels to bite down on them…
"Governor?"
"My dear," Joan says, and turns her gaze back to the woman's eyes. "Matthew Fletcher doesn't deserve any more of your time. Don't you agree?"
"Of course. You're right. Of course." Vera's eyelashes flutter. Her legs cross, forcing the uniform skirt up her thighs. A button on her shirt has undone, leaving the faintest hint of skin beneath the white. Smooth and toned. She is all bottled up, held together by string. Begging to be unwrapped.
"It's late. Do I need to drive you home?"
Vera's eyes flicker. She loves so much to be cared about. It's sickening, really. How much she needs. How much she wants. It's alluring. It's ruining. "I think I can manage," Vera says finally. "But thank you for offering."
The deputy stands, brushes her skirt flat. She looks down and lets out a small breath upon seeing her top button undone, then quickly moves to fix it. Joan moves forward, halting the motion of her hands. Too close and she can smell Vera's perfume. The faint tint of powder makeup on her cheeks.
"Gov—"
Joan buttons the shirt and her fingers linger. Electricity churns her stomach, wet hot heat burning her insides. They stare at one another and after a moment, she reaches up to cup Vera's face in her palm. Lets her fingers splay across the younger woman's jawline. She is not wearing her gloves.
No, there are some things Joan believes are meant to be felt by the flesh. Gardening, the cultivation of life amongst seedlings and sprouting flowers is one. Touching the tender skin of her deputy's cheek is the other.
The after work visits continue.
They drink wine and discuss Will's tendency for self-destruction. Linda's drinking habits. Fletcher's oafishness. They talk policy. Vera surprises her with a level headed approach to both practical and political matters. She is extremely smart and when she's not trembling in her boots, the younger woman is also very eloquent.
Joan leaves her each time with a different touch—the neck, waist, the small of her back, the side of her ribcage, so close to her chest she can feel the swell of Vera's breast. One night she goes as far as to slip her hand around the firmness of her deputy's left thigh, squeezing the tense muscle and feeling the heat of her.
"Miss Ferguson?"
"Yes, Vera?"
Vera shifts. A flush taints her skin. "What are we… what are we doing here?"
"We are simply enjoying one another's company, my dear."
The room falls into silence. For a moment, Joan fears rejection, but it passes just as quickly. Vera stares up into her eyes, enamored. She looks a touch excited. Pleased to be noticed. To be talked to like an equal, even though they are not.
"Is there something else, Vera?"
Vera bats her eyelashes. Bites her lip. She is not playing coy. Vera wouldn't know how to play coy if she tried. She is just innocent and naïve but this will change. Joan will make sure of it. "I just wanted to thank you for… this. It's been so nice to have someone to talk to here."
Joan smiles inwardly. She will rip into this woman.
She will mold her.
She will make her better.
After another month, Joan gets to the point where she is able to undress Vera. The starched uniform is peeled away. Gloveless, she slides the younger woman's bra straps down her shoulders and watches as her nipples harden upon hitting the cold air. They take more wine. More wine than Joan is comfortable with.
Always know your time to exit.
"Bend over the desk," Joan commands.
Vera fidgets. Her hair is down today, curled impeccably. Joan likes the bun, the neatness of it, but there is something deliciously vulnerable about Vera's long hair draping over her shoulders. "Excuse me?"
"Come," Joan commands, and motions for her to draw closer.
Vera does, albeit hesitantly. A shiver trembles her nude body. She is so beautiful in the light. "What are you going to do?"
Joan places one hand on Vera's shoulder, runs the other up and down her hip. Soothing. Calming the soft tremors. Then, slowly, Joan bends her deputy over the desk. The younger woman's skin pebbles from the cold wood and glass. She lets loose a sharp exhalation and turns her head slightly, her bottom exposed, thighs clenched together with her breasts dangling mere inches above the glass. "Joan…"
"My dear," she croons. There are no kisses, no love bites, no nicknames or whispers of love. Joan does not do these things. She never will. But by touching someone's body, you can teach them control. You can teach them reverence and respect and conviction. "Are you going to trust me?"
Vera hesitates. Shadows flit across her face, her breasts rising and falling in time with her uneven breaths. She pinches her lips. Swallows. Finally she cranes her neck so their gazes meet, bending low so her chest presses to the desk. "Yes, Governor," she says.
She relaxes and a moment later, Joan slips two fingers inside her.
Joan works her over, hard. Brings her to the edge of oblivion and then stops, smiling as the younger woman begs for release, her face pinked and sweat brimming around her hairline. She struggles against the desk as Joan works in and out of her, relentless. Stops every time as she's right on the brink.
"Please," Vera begs. "Just…"
"Patience."
"Joan."
"You will address me by my correct title."
Vera bites her lip after a particularly hard thrust and the desk shakes. Neck craned to face Joan, her eyes roll back. Eyelids flutter shut. "Governor," she says. Her voice is calm and composed even though she pants, sweats. She swallows once and when she opens her eyes again, there is a calmness there. A security. "No more playing games."
Liquid pools between Joan's thighs. This is something new. Something she hasn't felt since…
She rolls Vera's clit between her fingers, for once unbothered by the stickiness, the heat, the messiness of it all. And after Vera's found her release, crying out softly as she's been told, Joan goes against all her own rules and finds oblivion with Vera's mouth on her center, those neatly curled locks spilling down over her thighs.