No Copyright Infrigement Intended

Title: Hello, Governor

Author: Stephaniand

Rating: T

Genre: Romance/Crime/Drama

Perspective: Erica Davidson First Person

Pairing: Erica/Franky

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Submission Under Duress

"No," she laughed, "why am I really here?"

I was getting frustrated. I couldn't for the life of me imagine why I had called her into my office. Oh yeah, I thought she could actually help me, a connection within these prison walls, to bridge the gap between myself and the rest of the girls, and find out information. Information I would need if I was to build a case against Jacqueline Holt for the murder of Bea's daughter. Franky Doyle wasn't my only choice, but she definitely was my first choice. I wanted her. But she was making it so difficult to focus on business instead of pleasure, and I was having quite a hard time of it already, with her just sitting there in front of me. She put her feet propped up on my desk, head tilted towards me questioningly, that rebellious twinkle in her eyes as she watched me, that swoon-worthy smile in place. I raised my eyebrows at her. She was too comfortable for her own good.

"If you don't want to help me," I told her, "then just leave."

She looked incredulous, "You don't care about the women."

"Oh," I sighed in defeat and frustration, rolling my eyes to the ceiling, "Here we go again."

"It's all bullshit," She definitely knew to call me out on it. She waited until I was looking at her before speaking again, "You're hiding in here with us," I watched her, my expression blank, "You get off on being here."

Why did she have to make everything about pleasure, my pleasure? As if I was some kind of beast hungering for enjoyment. As if I was denying myself constantly, repressing myself. As if I could have so, so much if I just let myself go. As if she'd just love to indulge me. I had to stop her right there, before she said or did something we might both regret, and enjoy.

"Get out." I said firmly, getting off the desk, walking quickly towards the door. But she wouldn't let me.

She followed me, "And the thing that scares you the most," she whispered lowly into my mouth as she pushed me up against the wall, her hand on my hip. My eyes were wide, watching her every move, like a cornered animal, my lips pressed together tightly, "Is that when you're fucking him…" I couldn't breathe, "You're thinking of me." She finished, so knowing, so cocky. So defiantly, undeniably right.

I remembered that day. That fateful day she filled with suggestion, with temptation. She seduced my mind and body into a trance-like state of hunger. Constant, unforgiving hunger for exotic pleasures, a warm body to burn with a lick of my tongue, a slap of my firm hand, a crackle of my whip. I relished in kinks, and her eyes told me she desperately wanted to indulge my growing need. She'd brought me so much trouble with just a few words. I had watched her shamelessly, hungrily, as she ravished that girl from her block, watched her as she kissed her way down her neck, my hand making its way down my body, unconsciously. I imagined it was me who was under her, me who she ravished, taking me, ruining me forever for anyone else.

And that, she did.

That night I dove straight for my husband. Nevertheless, I didn't have any desire for the security and comfort he would never fail to provide. I needed some relief, from all the desire I had been put through, it was maddening. That, however, he just couldn't provide. But I knew exactly who did. When things finally started to get back to normal, as did our sex life, the only thing that would bring me any sort of enjoyment, any sort of relief from the frustration of seeing her every day, not being able to push her up against a wall, or into a room, and fuck her senselessly, of the sexual tension that weighted down the air around us, words unsaid so heavy, wanting to express themselves with lustful touch. The only thing that would bring me any sort of pleasure these days was imagining it was her who constantly took me on my marriage bed at night. It had been happening more and more over the course of the past few days. My husband wasn't complaining, which wasn't to say that he wasn't suspicious. But I couldn't help it. As the need for her grew stronger and stronger, I found myself waking up in the mornings soaked in sweat, panting heavily, so often. I found myself pushing my husband against a wall as soon as I got home, pleasuring myself if it was necessary, her image always on my mind. I was blinded by desire. And she knew it.

I panicked and tried to push her off of me quickly, harshly. I needed to escape. I needed her to go. Before I did something bad, so very bad, and it would feel oh so good, "Get out!" I exclaimed, louder than the last time, trying to walk away again.

Her skilled hands grabbed at my hips and at my waist, pulling me up against her body, pressing me up against the wall, crashing our lips together.

Wait, what?

I tried my best to fend her off, but I couldn't. As I pushed my hands against different parts of her body, I felt her skin, her skin burning for mine, and I suddenly just wanted to touch her all over. Wanted to touch every part of her skin. My lips told her to get out one more time, even as my hands traveled up her arms and shoulder, grabbing on to her neck. We were fighting, and I was losing. This push and pull of bodies would not end well for me, and I was enjoying every second of it.

My body stopped fighting and I kissed her back, just as passionately, relishing the taste of those lips. I wanted to eat her up alive. To consume her as she did my mind, my body, and now my soul. Her hand traveled down my arm to leave my body completely.

She broke away, grinning at a job well done, tongue licking at her lips, eyes glinting playfully, and walked out of my office.

I stood there. Ruined.