It's early; very early, by the looks of it — everything is still dark. What am I doing again… ? Oh, right. I'm in bed. Sleeping. Or I was.

It takes me a minute, but I suddenly realize what's woken me up — the bright, vibrating phone next to my face. I reach for it and, squinting, try to make out the letters. It's a text: from Regina.

What time is it?

"Jesus," I mumble to myself, reading the screen's clock and then unlocking my phone with a passcode. 5:23 am. What could she possibly want at this hour?

Opening the message, I read one simple phrase:

- Are you awake?

Rolling my eyes, I respond, laying back down against the pillow and holding the phone above me.

- Somebody better be dying.

There is only a few seconds delay before I see the three little dots indicating she is typing a response … she's awake. And she must really want to talk.

- I need a favor from you.

Ugh.

- Does it involve getting up at this hour?

Typing . . .

- Don't be coy with me.

I smirk, slightly, and wait for her to finish the rest of the message — she's still typing. So like her to put me in my place first, though. The rest comes through just as expected; I struggle to read it in the dark.

- I simply need you to get a package for me. I'm in the office today. In my bedroom, on my vanity, there is a small, black box; it is wrapped. Come by later and drop it off. Henry will let you in.

Though it's not a problem, I can't help but to begrudge her for waking me up, and for something so simple. Regina's always been a morning person — at least more so than me, who is not in the slightest — but it's never been a problem; we've never gotten in each other's way over it. I would usually just wake up to an empty bed— that was typical. Regina wasn't one to linger in the morning, no matter how much I sometimes wished she would. But I get it.

Today, though . . . I'm a little put off.

- You couldn't have asked me to do this in a few hours? When the sun was up?

- I need it by nine.

Sighing, loudly, blowing a raspberry out through my lips, I don't answer right away; instead, I cross my arms in front of me and lay back down onto my pillow, dangling my phone over the bed. Damn. She's lucky I'd do anything for her because nine . . . yeah. That's pushing it. If I wanted to make it to her house and then her office in time, I'd have to leave here by 8 . . . at the latest. Ugh. Only an hour or so left to sleep.

Begrudgingly, I lift my head a little bit, pull my phone back up, and send a hasty reply.

- Sure. See you then. Bye.

I'm here. Finally. It's a Saturday, it's five of nine, and I'm here, one shower and three cups of coffee later. Holding the package Regina wanted me to get, I enter her office, fully prepared to set it down on her desk and then go back to sleep. Any other day I would have probably peeked at it— I'm sure it's probably just documents; something she needs for mayoral purposes. But today, I don't care.

I don't see her at her desk, or at all, at first. Maybe she's stepped out. I don't know. Doing a once-through scan, I call out to her as I approach her desk, setting the box down upon it.

"Regina. Here. Got your thing. K? …Uh, cool. I'm heading out now."

Turning on my heel, giving the room a last, quick glance, I start to stride out… but someone grabs me by the wrist, making me jump. It's Regina, but that doesn't mean my heart hasn't skipped about twenty beats.

"Shit! Jesus!" I whirl around and face her, straightening out. "What the hell!" Taking a few deep breaths, I shake my head. "Don't do that!"

She doesn't say a word, though. Gripping tightly onto my wrist, she parts her lips, and, smirking, closes her eyes and leans forward, kissing me. She's taking my mouth completely in hers; softly and hungrily. Her breath is in perfect, calm synchronization with her demeanor; but I can sense a heated excitement within, like the wolf upon her subordinate. She smiles against my lips, confidently.

I kiss her back; it's all I can do, of course . . . but I'm slow, and lazy . . . admittedly not quite as into it as she is. I mean, it's nine in the morning. I still feel the heaviness upon my whole body; I'm groggy, and nearly unexcitable. After a moment we pull away, and I can feel my brows furrow.

"Since when are you so affectionate?" I ask, genuinely surprised at her hello.

Again, she doesn't speak; but this time, she isn't smiling — her face looks, instead, inquisitive . . . lips parted, eyes staring somewhere into the distance of her own mind . . . but there is an overwhelming cunningness to it that she is attempting, pretty unsuccessfully, to mask. Regina could never look innocent; not to me. She looks away, and to the side, now; then behind her at the package I just placed.

"Open it," she says.

Frowning, I stare at her for a second. When she doesn't speak further, I break away from her contact and walk over to the package. Taking it between my fingers, I open the box and tear away the tissue paper inside — it is a simple, white skirt with fishnet stockings. I pull it out, and look at it.

"Uhh. Let me guess," I say, looking at it, and then at her. "You want me to put it on."

Regina raises both brows and lowers her chin, grinning at me in absolute satisfaction. "You've gotten sharper, my dear." She smiles more fully, her lip curling up to show me her teeth. "I'll give you a moment." And with that, she turns around.

I've always found it silly, the way Regina refuses to look at me when I change. It's as if she thinks I'll be embarrassed — as if she hasn't already seen all of me, one hundred times over, already. What's a little change going to do? But every time I would get out of bed to pull my pants on, or fasten my bra, Regina would avert her eyes, and I figured I might as well let her do it. Regina never liked me watching her change; she would always signal for me to turn the other way . . . and she almost never got fully undressed during sex, anyway . . . she made sure it was always under dim lighting. It was just out of respect, I guess, that she granted me the same privilege. But I didn't need it.

Her back to me, she signals with her hand to hurry it up, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Go on," she commands.

I sigh, but I know I've agreed to be at her every beck and call, and with that, I begin. Pulling my skinny jeans off, I slide into the skirt . . . it's short . . . and, with some difficulty, pull on the stockings, too. Ugh. I never wear these sorts of things. It takes me a minute, and, when I'm finally in them, I feel . . . weird.

"Alright," I say.

Slowly, Regina turns around — she's smirking again, as she does— taking me in. Bringing one hand up, resting her index finger upon her chin, she studies me as her mouth curls further and further.

"Mm. Lose the jacket as well," she finally says; she's referring to the red leather jacket I threw on before leaving today. I do so, sliding it off my shoulders and letting it fall to the floor, never taking my eyes off of hers. But I feel small, somehow; I'm not very sexy at the moment. I woke up an hour ago and I probably smell like toothpaste and coffee. My hair's a mess, and I'm in just a white tank top underneath. That with the skirt and stockings makes a pretty stupid combination.

Yet, Regina's looking at me like the most delicious piece of meat she's ever seen. I frown, lowering my head, but still keep my eyes on hers.

She edges forward, saying nothing; I watch her, my head down. If I were a cat, my ears would be pressed flat against my head — she the dominant alpha — asserting herself in her territory. As she reaches me, she slowly leans forward and kisses me again, her teeth grazing my bottom lip . . . her hands running up and down my arms, gripping them. She's almost purring. I back up a bit, so I can lean on her desk, and I bring one leg up to rest upon it, both palms pressed against the cold surface. Arching my back a little to meet her hips with my own, I kiss her back, lazily. She's much more aggressive, however — her hands trailing my body, up and down . . . she removes herself from my mouth and begins placing kisses along my neck; I arch it so allow her easier exposure.

Damn. This is probably the most affectionate she's ever been since . . . well. God knows when.

"My God, Regina," I say between kisses, breathily; she's hardly listening, though . . . instead, she's ravenously kissing at my neck, biting my skin . . . she's leaning forward, into me, as far as she can go, her body between my legs, now . . . crawling, pushing me further and further upon the desk.

She curls her long fingernails into one of my thighs, hard — I jump. "Ow!"

But it's enough to shut me up, and I bring my free hand up to her hair then, running my fingers through the thick, brunette tresses. I was unsure of this at first; really not in the mood to play— not this early . . . but Regina's getting more and more aggressive — her hands are teasing, resting on both of my thighs, the fingernails curled ever so slightly into my flesh . . . she's nipping at my neck, and I finally find myself closing my eyes, parting my own lips . . . letting out a soft moan.

"Regina," I almost protest, again, in small sighs.

Regina suddenly pulls her neck up, backing up a little; she looks me in the eyes, and then stands, straightening. I'm still leaning against her desk, looking back at her.

"You wanna take this to—"

But before I can finish, Regina leans forward, again, placing both hands on my hips, gripping me tightly. She pulls me up, away from the desk, and then pushes me so I'm facing toward the left wall of her office; I obey, willingly. There is such force in her nonverbal command — it throws me off guard. And then, she pushes me again. She's leading me to the side of the room; a long, rectangular mirror upon the wall, between two caudlepieces. Beneath the mirror is an end table, which is good — it's somewhere to grip onto — to place my hands. Facing the wall, I stare at my own confused, frowning reflection . . . and then at hers, behind me. She looks completely serious; nothing on her face is giving her away.

Her hands still upon my hips, she slowly situates herself behind me, pushing her body up against my own, gripping tightly to my waist. Her lips are pressed against my ear now; I stare at us in the mirror.

"Right on time," she whispers, and I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand. Her voice gives me goosebumps.

It's been a few days since I've seen her, but even so, this is almost too much for me to take in. This is the most Regina's seemed to crave sex I've ever seen her. God. She's got me in fishnets in the middle of her office at nine am, for Christ's sake . . . I should have figured it out.

She's biting my earlobe; latching onto the bottom with her white teeth. Running her long nails down the length of my arms, then my waist, my hips . . . and down to my thighs. Still biting at my ear, she trails one hand up, between my thighs, and presses at the fabric there; applying pressure to my clit.

I swallow, staring blankly at my reflection.

Regina's moved her other hand back up to hold me by the waist, now, and she's pressing into me with her hips; my legs are spread, my stomach pressed against the small side table beneath the mirror. I'm gripping it gently, with both hands, so as to keep my balance.

I feel one of her hands slither away from my clit, now . . . she's scratching her nails against the skin between my thighs instead, and the fabric of the stockings. Hooking one of her claw-like nails into a hole, she tears it; I hear it rip.

"What, you buy these just so you could ruin them—"

"Shhhh," she hisses immediately in my ear, and then bites down once more, harder, stopping what she is doing to dig her nails into my skin. I swallow lightly, holding back a yelp. My heart skips. The grip she has with her other hand upon my hip is gentle, though — she's helping to balance me.

"Tell me what you'd like, Miss Swan."

I look at her face in the mirror; her cheek is pressed against me, mouth next to my ear . . . she's smirking, a grin so catlike in its regal, poisonous serenity. I know better than to disobey.

"Yeah," I finally bring myself to say, softly. "Okay." Feeling a bit more into it — becoming more aroused as she continues trailing her fingers in circles between my thighs . . . the cool air against my bare skin now that the fabric is torn . . . yeah. I get braver. "Fuck me."

And then, without warning at all, she slides two fingers inside of me. I open my mouth at the sudden entrance; it's not often Regina gets me off this way. She doesn't need to. Her nails are incredibly sharp, which adds to the tenseness I feel — and I gasp. But Regina grips me tighter with the hand upon my waist— maybe it's a reassurance — she's masterful — she knows how to angle her fingers so they will not scratch. Curling them inside of me, the fleshy part against me, rather . . . she searches . . . she gets a feel for me, gently . . . I grip the table, hard, swallowing again, looking down and away from our reflections. I want to concentrate; help her find what she's looking for. I move my hips in slow circles.

"You're tense, dear," she muses, her voice smooth and husky. "Relax."

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and then release it, leaning more forward, gripping the table harder, and opening my legs more. It helps; Regina re-situates the fingers upon my waist, and curls the two inside of me even further. She pushes upward. I gasp at the strong feeling; she grins. I see her in the mirror; her eyes have lit up in triumphant victory.

"There we are," she purrs, against my neck. Massaging the same spot with her curled fingers, gently, she picks up speed a bit. Her rhythm is fast; small tiny, albeit rapid gestures against me.

I groan a little bit; it's definitely been a while since she's done this. Since I've even tried to do this. But her fingers are curling . . . tempting me . . . coaxing me, and, in response, I close my eyes, swallow, and lean forward more, spreading my legs even further apart. It feels more comfortable, so I begin to move with her rhythm. I don't look at our reflection; my eyes are shut . . . I want to concentrate on the sole feeling. Pushing my hips more into the table, gripping tightly, I can start to feel myself gyrating with her fingers . . . forward, back . . . forward, back. . . slow at first, as I find it . . . and then, I pick up speed as she does, opening my mouth . . . letting a small gasp escape. She's pushing up into my walls so intensely that I feel my own abdomen lifting — I'm pushing myself up, with her — my body does not touch the surface for a mere moment. We resume, faster . . . harder . . . the table is starting to move, too, as I bump it each time I come back down and forward . . . I open my eyes and stare into my own, in front of me . . . my reflection is trembling; the mirror almost vibrating as she coaxes me.

Or is that me?

"Regi—Regina—" I gasp; breathily, as I slam against the desk, again and again. In my state, I've, once again, forgotten her preferred name . . .

Suddenly, though, she's removed the hand from upon my waist and gripped a full handful of my long hair. Yanking it, pulling my neck back, I close my eyes and open my mouth; the surprise of the pull makes me moan. Regina hisses, though, holding me there as she continues pushing up inside of me.

"Don't make a sound," she hisses, "until I tellyou to."

I don't respond; I can't. It takes all of the strength within me to hold back my cries, and, as I feel myself on the verge of cumming, I let out a tiny whimper. It just escapes — I can't hold it back. It is all that escapes, thought, and if Regina wasn't so strangely fucking terrifying at the moment, it would've been much, much louder.

She pulls back on my hair harder in response; I stop, immediately. Falling silent, I bite my lip to keep the sounds in. My face is toward the ceiling; I open my eyes for a moment, but close them almost instantly.

Regina's stopped, now . . . she's no longer motioning with her fingers . . . she pushes up, hard, but slowly . . . it's as if she's calming . . . going to stop. But my legs are shaky — I was so close — how can she be stopping now? God fucking damn it, Regina! Frustrated, I let out a huff. At the sound, Regina tugs on my hair again; I open my mouth, frown, almost angrily now, and furrow my brows.

Sighing doesn't count. I argue with her in my head; it's all I can do.

Regina's suddenly moving behind me . . . I can feel her push herself further forward . . . her breasts are suddenly against the back of my shoulders . . .

"Move, and I will destroy you," she commands. She sounds exactly like the Evil Queen she once was; I know she's serious. I blink; stare, blankly . . . and do exactly as she says. She's let go of my hair, now, and is instead trailing her free hand down the jugular artery in my neck, letting her nails graze against the flesh as if I am a cat worthy of adoration. But she is, ironically, the one with the claws.

Her fingers are still inside of me, and she leans, a bit, bending her elbow . . . situating herself so she can hit my clit with her thumb as well. I can see the lust in her eyes in the mirror . . . and I hadn't realized just how distressed I looked until now. My hair is messy, as if gently windblown, and it's falling around my shoulders . . . my face holds a deep desperation and determination and . . . what is that . . . submission? God. I've never known. I'm frowning, too; struggling to stay quiet under my Queen's command. She has no idea what the hell she can do to me. Or, well. That look on her face indicates that she probably does know exactly what she can do. And she is.

Regina's massaging my clit with her thumb now, hard, and curling her fingers again, massaging my spot from inside. She's leaning into the motion, her other hand resting upon my waist, again, holding me in place as I struggle to grip the table; I've pretty much forgotten it's there.

"Nowwww," she purrs, moving her entire body with the motion that makes me want to scream . . . so slow and intricate and fuck, is it good. "Who am I, Miss Swan."

I swallow, closing my eyes now, moving my hips with the motions of her hand once more. I'm shaking.

Apparently, though, I haven't answered quickly enough for her, because she removes the hand from the curve of my waist and grabs my hair again, pulling me back so my ear rests against her mouth. "Who am I," she demands, and I open my mouth — but only a whimper comes out.

"M-M . . . "

"What was that?" Regina asks, teasing my clit again. Fuck. This is torturous. "Would you like to be able to make some noise, dear? Hm?"

I don't answer, but fuck would I. This whole silence thing is killing me. And the fact that she is, quite literally, dangling me on the edge of my orgasm . . . if such a thing were possible . . . fuck. I can't stand it. Swallowing again, I open my eyes, and side-glance at her from in the mirror . . . god, is she enjoying this. Holy shit. She looks like a snake.

"Who am I?" She presses, once more, thumb still on my clit.

"My . . . queen . . . " I manage to get out, and, with that, she lets go of my hair, and curls her fingers gently around my neck instead, pulling me back further . . . this time, not forcibly. She bites my earlobe. Increasing her rhythm, she coaxes, harder and harder, massages me, faster and faster . . . I'm moving with her, we've got it . . . we've got it— fuck.

"Fuck!" I yell out, and Regina keeps going . . . god. I'm so close; so fucking close. Whining, I try to move up and almost away from her touch, as it is so intense . . . but her teeth are still hooked upon my ear, and she follows in response.

I tense, immediately . . . and open my eyes, letting out a final cry of defeat.

And suddenly, Regina's stopped, once more. I can physically feel the weight of my desire, wanting to take me over; eat me alive. I'm so tense I'm shaking, and she's not fucking finishing me. What the hell did I do?! What did I do wrong?

"And there it is. Again." I hear her say, against my ear, her entire body against my back, her breath hot as her lips curl up, and I feel the smirk form against my skin. "I told you not to make a sound until I say so." Slowly, torturously, she slides her two wet fingers, likely dripping with my fluids, out of me; I feel myself panic.

"Bad women don't get happy endings, now do they?"

It's too much for me. In an intense moment of overwhelming frustration, I whip around, grab Regina by the arms, twirl her around and push her back, against the desk — we've now swapped positions. I'm upon her. She doesn't stop me; she's easy to overpower — and I can tell by the surprised look on her face that I've caught her completely off guard.

"God DAMN it, Regina — would you just fucking finish me!?" I snarl, slipping both of my fingers inside of myself in front of her, bucking my hips forward. With the other hand, I'm gripping onto the desk, and suddenly I reach for her hand, attempting to force her into me . . .

But Regina's fast. In one simple flick of the wrist, she's thrown me to the other side of the room — my back to the wall. I struggle, but to no avail, and she's advancing on me, her upper lip curled in a disgusted sneer.

"You think you have the right to give me orders?" She berates, angrily, stepping closer and closer, holding me against the wall with a strong, invisible force of magic. I struggle, but my resistance is useless. Still — like hell I'm going to just let her win like that. She's pissing me off — big time. I wish she'd stop playing with me like a little laboratory rat and give me what I want! I didn't come out here this morning to be tortured. My heart's pounding in my chest, and I'm sneering right back at her, my teeth clenched in both anger and the force of the magic holding me against the wall. Regina tilts her head and continues, staring me down. "You're forgetting, my pet — I am the Queen."

I'm panting; my hands are binded at my sides — I can't even move them at all. Regina's right in front of me now, her face inches from mine, and, after a few long moments, she's suddenly reached forward and grabbed my neck.

I gasp, but she hasn't closed her fingers around it yet; it's a warning. With her other free hand, Regina's now teasing my clit, violently, and I feel myself wanting to cry out again; I'm almost burning with the arousal. Moving my hips with her, I close my eyes and let out a yelp — I'm so close — so fucking close — Regina's got me right on the edge — and then she closes her fingers around my neck, tight. I can't breathe in; I can't say a word. I choke, and struggle against her.

"R—g—Regin—a," I stammer out through choked, tight air, and open my mouth, letting my eyes roll back into my head. Between the ministrations she's providing and the grip she has on my throat I'm feeling lightheaded, and my world is going out of focus . . .

And suddenly, all at once, she lets go, releases me, and stops touching me altogether. Coughing violently, I slide down against the wall and to the floor — my legs will no longer hold me — they're shaking too much. My entire body feels chilled; I can't even move for a second. Shit. Goddamn it, shit — I'm so fucking wet and so fucking tense. I need her to touch me so badly. I can't function. I can't even get off of the floor.

"Get out of here," Regina suddenly growls, and after a long moment, I bring myself to look up at her blurred form; she's standing over me, her upper lip still curled against her teeth. She's angry. Very angry.

"You can't… be— serious," I pant, watching as the details of her severe face sharpen as they fall into back focus; I spread my palms against the floor. I'm heated, and it feels like everything between my legs is pounding — as is my pulse. "You can't just—leave me—like this! Fuck, Regina!"

"I said LEAVE," she snarls again, this time with more gusto, and her voice is louder with the hiss. "You are not deserving of gratification, Emma."

She's used my first name, and that's how I know she's serious. On all levels. Frowning, I furrow my brows and glance up at her in desperation.

"Now."

"I'm not leaving until you finish me," I say, boldly. "YOU made me get up at the crack of dawn. YOU made me come out here. YOU fucked with me; you can't just … leave me like this!"

"Oh, but I can," Regina replies, and then narrows her eyes, looking down at me with such a fierceness I might have even wanted to flinch. "And I will."

And with that, a puff of purple smoke — it engulfs her form — it clears, and she's gone.

"GodDAMN it!" I yell, and climb to my feet, kicking the wall violently. I'm so mad I can't even see straight. But Regina's gone, and here I am, standing in her office, alone. I've got no choice but to leave; I know she won't be back until I do so. Clenching my fists and throwing out a few more choice words, I gather my stuff and storm out in a fury, my fingernails dug so tightly into my palms that one of them starts bleeding on the way. In my anger, I haven't even bothered to change into the right clothes . . . but it doesn't matter. I drive home carelessly, staring ahead without seeing.

She's going to finish me if it's the last thing I make her do.