A/N: This is set after 5x06 - Hopeless.
Tara would never get used to being a vampire. One minute she was taking a hard right from Jessica that sent her flying past the bar (with some satisfaction, she landed in the shelf of Pam's precious bourbons), the next her Maker had her by the ear and was dragging her into the here it comes, Tara thought. The next moment she was pinned to the wall, Pam's hand at her throat. Predictable, but effective.
"You wanna read me the Riot Act, fine," Tara said, her interruption spoiling the stern look on Pam's face. "But you're a fucking hypocrite if you keep tellin' me to enjoy being a vampire, then trying ta lock my shit down whenever I color outside your lines."
Pam salvaged an eyeroll from Tara's interjection. "Oh, shut the fuck up, Jonathan Livingston Seagull. I don't give a shit that you deigned to get your ass kicked by Anne of Green Gables, although I do find it excessive that you felt the need to have your foxy boxing in front of paying customers. We're vampires, not the UFC! But that's forgivable; you're young and very stupid. No, Tara. What I care about is that your black ass was just handed to you by Bill fucking Compton's baby vamp."
"I could've taken her," Tara mumbled, to which Pam clamped down on her throat. She didn't have to breathe, but it still hurt.
"Vampire 101. Only bet on a sure thing. If you were human, you'd maybe have ten good years before your tits start to sag, but now that you've been ever so slightly improved, you need to start thinking about what you're doing for the next ten thousand years."
"Really hoping Buffy was real."
"Oh, the self-pity again?" Pam threw Tara to the ground, taking some satisfaction in how Tara cartoonishly tried to catch herself but couldn't quite manage. "God's sake, you make me want to buy you therapy, and I pay you more than enough to afford your own."
"I make below minimum wage, like tips are supposed to make up the difference."
"The beer's half off, ain't it? Do I really have to explain the principles of alcoholism to you? Fuck it. As long as you stop beating up my clients—and losing to them—I don't care where you're at on your little journey of self-discovery." Pam crossed her arms and gave Tara a firm scowl. "Say 'I promise, my beloved Maker.'"
Tara scrambled up to a crouch. "Fuck you. If I don't take shit from you, I'm damn sure not going to take it from whatever Nosferatu motherfuckers come into your dive bar. .S. Fangtasia is a stupid-ass name for a bar. Even hipsters have more respect than to come to a place that puns on a Disney movie."
"The Disney movie was named after us, you stupid—" Pam put her face in her hand to knead her sinuses. "Kids. Either stop fucking around or I'm going to have to punish you."
"Oh, so that's what's up." Tara stood, affronted. "Please, massa, don't punish me! I be good! I be good!"
Pam waved her hand like she was warding off a gnat. "Put it back in the deck, Thornton."
"Or what? What're you gonna do to me that's worse than being a blood-drinking, soulless freak of the ni—"
Pam didn't even let her finish. "As your Maker, I command you to drop your pants."
Tara resisted, flickering a second, then undid her belt with a hiss and let her pants drop. Her legs were long and toned and bare. Pam smiled down at her pink panties.
"Maybe I should put you on the cleaning staff. You do make this place look better."
"You lay one hand on me, you're gonna be drinking your blood through a straw."
Pam smirked at the deadly serious look on Tara's face. "You haven't earned me touching you. Come along, kiddo. Leave those pants right where they are."
Hampered by the pants around her ankles, Tara frog-marched herself after Pam, through Fangtasia's backrooms. The serving staff gave her slight out-of-the-ordinary looks, but minded their own business. If Pam was leading her around by the nose, it must've been legit.
"In!" Pam finished, throwing the door to her office open for Tara.
The baby vamp tried hard not to fling herself inside. When the door closed behind her, she let out the deep breath she'd subconsciously taken. More people had just gotten a look of her drawers in the last five minutes than had in the past two years.
"Aren't you glad I didn't go out through the dance floor?" Pam sat behind her desk, finding a manila envelope waiting for her. She opened it with a fingernail and leafed through the paperwork. "Fucking IRS…"
Tara couldn't help herself from looking around. Pam's office was a funhouse reflection of herself—a little girly Katy Perry shit, a lot business world bitch with stilettos. It was demure, appealing, and effortlessly elegant, even if Tara wasn't sure whether pictures of kittens on the walls were meant ironically or not.
"You've made your point," Tara said, the breeze from the air conditioning putting a tingle in her thin panties.
"I don't think I have. You're provincial, immature, close-minded, obnoxious, and quite frequently, rude. Hold on." Pam looked back down at the IRS document to reread a paragraph. "Motherfuckers… oh, this is not good for you, Tara. I'm in a bad mood. I tend to take those out on everyone."
"When was your last good mood, the seventies?"
"Yes, I quite liked Nixon and Pong." Pam shepherded the papers together, knocking them straight on her desk. "I'm going to be here all night getting Eric's financial shit together, since Vikings can't fill out forms. I need some easy listening and since the radio won't stop playing that Macklemore asshole… touch yourself."
"The fuck you just say to me?"
Pam looked at her quizzically. "Touch yourself, please?" She bopped her own forehead. "Oh, right, I forgot: As your Maker, I command you to touch yourself."
Tara's nostrils flared as her eyes narrowed. Her hands obeyed despite herself. Her body knew exactly what Pam meant, even if her mind took a second. In a moment, she had a firm grip between her legs, squeezing her mound like she (her body) thought Pam might like.
"Feel free to keep a running commentary," Pam said, taking one last look at Tara before abandoning her for the paperwork. "I love the sound of a woman moaning in ecstasy."
Well then. Tara would be damned (or more damned, depending on how you looked at vampiric spirituality) if she let Pamela de la Whateverthefuck embarrass her after she'd spent all this time not being a whore. She touched herself, and if she was going to touch herself, she was going to enjoy it. She pictured Pam at one of her old MMA matches, getting slapped around like a redheaded stepchild trying to do half of what Tara had done. Yeah. That was a good thought. So was the thought of Pam asking her what she'd thought about, and Tara telling her in excruciating detail.
Obstinately silent, Pam arced her body so her jacket fell off, then pulled down her top with her free hand. Her bra was a little trickier, but it went away too. Pam raised her eyebrow, but didn't look up.
Tara pictured her bent over that desk, a guy big enough to play football pounding into her from behind, Pam screaming with the pain and pleasure of it. The image made her clench and her nipples swelled like they would burst. She tweaked one, then the other, defusing them. The vision of Pam became more vivid. She could imagine the sweat running down her face as she was fucked hard.
"You like that?" she asked the imagined Pam, just low enough that maybe the real one couldn't hear, testing her vampire ears. "You like getting fucked? No, you like getting fucked hard." She punctuated the sentiment with a hard thrust inside herself, the feeling surprisingly intense. Maybe it was just from being watched.
Great, she was finding out about an exhibitionist streak from the Queen of the Dead.
"Try shaking your hand," Pam said. She was actually writing something out as she spoke, her eyes locked onto her pen's supple movements. When Tara didn't follow, Pam took her confusion for disobedience. "Do it now."
Tara did. Her hand took on a life of its own, blurring at the edges as it worked her groin like a jackhammer. It was too intense, painful a little, so she slipped her shaking hand up to her stomach and let the vibrations dull into her flesh. It was a good feeling. She relaxed into it, lowering her hand to her thighs, trailing it up and down her legs as she got used to the pulsing.
It was just like a vibrator. Not that she'd ever been able to afford a decent vibrator on Sam Merlotte's salary. No, this was actually better. She brought her hand up between her thighs, back to her panty-clad sex. It buzzed against her groin, summoning a warm, liquid feeling that spread and settled on her like a narcotic haze.
She forgot about Pam, at least, the Pam that wasn't still getting shotputted like a bodybuilder, fucked so hard she'd been too busy tryna ta see straight to tell Tara what to do. She missed the sly smile on Pam's face. Then her little finger brushed over her clit and Tara fell in love.
"Feels good, doesn't it?" Tara's eyes refocused on Pam, who was still facing the papers, but her eyes were up, like she was looking over the rims of an invisible pair of glasses. Her accent, real or fake, had congealed, ending up like a pound of ground beef scorched into a delicious burger. Her smile was lethal. "It feels good because you're being fucked by a vampire."
Tara imagined Pam getting fucked by two guys, one in each hole, her vampire mouth spewing obscenities, not sure whether to beg for mercy or for more. Then she stilled her hand and pushed three fingers into her sex. They twisted and turned inside her, nearly going supersonic again, turning the waves of lust from before into tsunamis. She took her hand away from her breasts, figuring her nipples were as hard as they were going to get, and shucked her panties off. One hand she put on her clit, letting it vibrate as slowly as superhumanly possible. The other one, at human speeds, plunged into her sex, one then two then three fingers, a fourth seeming painful but inevitable.
Pam loudly flipped the paper she was reading, bringing Tara back to what passed for reality. After a second's glance at the figures, Pam leaned back in her chair, popped her neck, and removed her jacket. Underneath it, her blouse was obnoxiously sexualized—the kind of thing bitches Tara hated always wore. But damn, did it show off her cleavage.
Pam knew exactly what to do. Three fingers inside her, her other palm on her clit, she vibrated both hands.
It hurt. It felt so good it hurt.
She'd had better orgasms, but never so fast. They—yes, they—just hit her over and over again, like a gun firing. For about ten seconds, the vibration seemed to get far too intense, far too fast… her cunt was vibrating against her fingers just as fast as they were, setting off pleasure she hadn't known about, like landmines or a fucking cave-in. Then they hit. Boom. Boom. Boom. She threw her head to the side, back the other way, and finally tilted it back like her spine was broken, seeing the halo of light around the incandescent bulb on the ceiling as her multiple trailed off, all the vibration wrenched from her except a soft quiver she couldn't shake. Her hands felt wet. Both of them.
She gave Pam her most insouciant smirk, only to find the blonde vampire staring at her, almost impressed. "I didn't tell you you could come," her Maker said, smug as ever.
"Then maybe you shouldn't have slipped a nip."
Pam fell for it, glancing down at her chest before swiveling back to Tara. "Looks like you haven't learned your lesson. Need more discipline. A Maker's work is never done."
Tara smiled fiercely in challenge. Stroked herself once to draw the pleasure out a little more.
Pam glanced down, watching her finger's progress. "And I know just what your punishment should be."