A/N: Thanks for the comments on chapter 35, guys. I'm glad proposal #3 was such a hit and that the Rebecca storyline resonated with some of you. girleffect: Totally agree that Hendrix seems slimy. I love Mary Stuart Masterson, but that character is just... off. And Liv has such a strong reaction to her. I've always felt like there was more going on there than we ever heard about. Turns out there was, at least in the Devilishverse, lol. Okay, this chapter. What can I say, I thought it was time for some smut. I was also feeling silly and creative and drew some digital art of Amanda's card for Liv, to enhance the reading experience, as well. ;D I posted it on Twitter (crystallinejen), AO3 (chief_johnson), and DeviantArt (crystallinejen), if you decide to have a look-see. We're coming up fast on the end now. I'm really going to miss these weekly updates, sigh. And on that note...
CHAPTER 36: Seventh Heaven
. . .
Happy Bzzzzirthday, baby! the card header read, above the doodle of the little Chibi girl riding an unusually shaped rocket accented by quotation marks that suggested vibration. Amanda had given the girl brown hair and brown eyes to match Olivia's, but her drawing skills were rusty from years of disuse and the cartoon simply looked like a cartoon.
The "rocket," however, actually bore a strong resemblance to the sex toy it depicted. And the stimulator itself, though rather pretty as sex toys went—dusty rose-colored grip, not particularly phallic—reminded Amanda of Birdo, the creature who shot eggs from her trumpetlike beak, from the Super Mario Bros. 2 video game.
The Satisfyer Pro 2 didn't fire projectiles, but according to Daphne, its white silicone snout, designed to fit over the clitoris and simulate oral sex via pulsation and suction, shot out orgasms faster than even Amanda's quick draw could deliver. Amanda hadn't tested it yet herself, wanting to give Olivia first dibs. It was her birthday present, after all.
Shopping had been stressful so soon after Christmas and that horrible night before New Year's Eve. Amanda was torn between the desire to lavish Olivia with gifts, as the captain tended to do for her, and the fear of overspending, of having another relapse. In the end, she'd shopped from home to avoid temptation, only searching online for the items she was certain she would purchase: the Satisfyer, some book by some feminist Olivia couldn't stop raving about, a vinyl LP of Dusty in Memphis (if she couldn't sway her fiancée with the quintessential country icons, she would ease the little fussbudget into it with some stealth country, in the form of Ms. Springfield, Linda Ronstadt, and Stevie Nicks), a pretty chocolate-brown cardigan to replace the one that had recently started to unravel, and a paperweight in the shape of a peach (the crystal egg at work had fallen off the captain's desk and cracked).
Amanda had a feeling the toy was going to be the most popular of her selections. She'd held it back to be opened in private that evening—explaining what air-pulse stimulators were to the kids didn't sound like a pleasant experience for anyone—and so far, Olivia appeared adequately intrigued. She was reading the back of the box with interest (11 settings! it boasted), a faint smile still lingering on her lips from that silly doodle Amanda had whipped out in a moment of adolescent inspiration.
"Feel like tryin' it out?" Amanda asked, gazing up innocently from the foot rub she was giving Olivia, whose long legs stretched infinitely across the bedspread in their comfy joggers, bare feet in Amanda's lap. "If you're up for it. Has been a long day . . . "
She wasn't fooling anyone, least of all her bride-to-be. Olivia glanced over the top of her thick-rimmed glasses, smile gone lopsided, hitching up in a sly smirk. With the edge of her fingernail, she peeled back the circular sticker that sealed the box lid, which Amanda had already loosened when she opened it to charge the toy. Nothing wrong with preparing ahead, even Olivia would have to admit that. She did chuckle to find the inner packaging already removed, the toy peeking up at her like the sad solo puppy that remained after its littermates were adopted. Take me home. Play with me. Pretty, pretty please.
"Looks to me as though you've already taken her for a little test run," Olivia commented, removing Birdo from the box and tossing the latter aside. She hefted the toy in her palm, as if checking the weight of a weapon she was selecting for battle. The thing was about the size of a remote control and only slightly heavier, probably to support all its inner orgasm producing mechanisms. The clitoris was far more complicated and involved than any flat screen.
"Nope. Just charged the batteries ahead to save you the hassle. Like we did with the kids' toys on Christmas." Amanda grinned, working her thumbs into the ball of Olivia's foot. She never used to enjoy massaging someone else's feet—hell, she didn't even like having her own feet messed with—but there was literally not a single part of Olivia she found unpleasant to touch. She would lean down and kiss all ten of those pretty toes if the captain requested it. "I wanted you to do the honors."
"So you can just sit down there and watch while I do all the work?" Olivia asked, and though her eyebrows were obscured by the glasses, one of them was most definitely quirked. Amanda detected it in her voice. "That's some reverse psychology pillow princess bullshit, if I ever heard it. Get that cute little ass up here and help me figure it out. You know I'm hopeless with electronics."
That part was true; Olivia seemed to have given up on technology somewhere around 2015 or '16. More out of impatience than an inability to use it. And now that she had another set of hands to figure them out for her, she tended to defer all new electronics to Amanda. She was playing this to the hilt, though—you only had to press the plus or minus button to adjust the intensity of the gadget. But she was also being extra feisty, which meant she was in the mood for a different type of playing altogether.
Excellent.
"Yeah, you kinda are," Amanda agreed, placing Olivia's feet on the bedspread, one at a time, on either side of her lap. She crossed her wrists at her waist, grabbing the hem of the Siena College sweatshirt she'd stolen from Olivia, and peeling it up and off in one smooth motion.
Underneath was the pink lace bra—if you could call a sheer, cropped peasant top with no means of support a bra—she had worn in anticipation of this evening. The matching thong, little more than a strip of gossamer material suspended by velvet ribbons tied into bows at each hip, was in place beneath her frumpy gray sweats, which she shucked off now, taking her thick wool socks with them. "But if you think I planned to just lie down on the job, you don't know me very well, Cap'n."
Olivia had observed the decidedly unglamorous striptease with equal parts amusement (especially when Amanda skimmed a finger into the crotch of the panties, adjusting it over the glimpse of pink labium that pouted from one side) and desire. The desire won out as Amanda presented herself on parted knees, head tipped coquettishly to let its blonde strands spill against one alert and barely concealed breast.
"Jesus," Olivia breathed, eyes roving every inch of the body in front of her. Amanda was not happy with the present state of her abs, or the constellation of scars she had accumulated—between the star-shaped bullet and screwdriver wounds and the comet tail of her C-section scar, her belly was starting to look like the goddamned Milky Way—but she had been pleased to find that the cute lingerie set still fit like a glove. A very skimpy, see-through glove.
And Olivia looked quite pleased as well. Her cheeks were almost as pink as the lingerie itself, and she wetted her lips a few times, tongue gliding between them in a way that was overtly provocative, whether she meant it to be or not. She crooked her index finger at Amanda, summoning her forward on hands and knees, and settled back on the pillows propped against the headboard.
Oh yeah, she had definitely meant it.
When Amanda crawled over top of her, Olivia wrapped both arms around her neck and pulled her in for a deep, sensual kiss. As it heated up, each stroke of Olivia's tongue awakened every last nerve-ending in Amanda's body, until her skin was practically ahum with it; she actually did hum, once and warmly, as the captain's hands drifted down to her ass for a firm squeeze at the cheeks accentuated by the slender wedge of fabric.
"Surprise," Amanda purred into Olivia's slack mouth as the kiss tapered off. She drew back a little at a time, luring Olivia forward with a series of soft, elusive kisses she had to chase after, like flitting, teasing butterflies, for capture.
"Thought I was supposed to be the one in my birthday suit," Olivia murmured, striving for Amanda's lips and tongue, all the while her hands roaming exposed skin and gauzy lace.
The captain was so tactile, Amanda had found herself selecting only the finest, most delicate materials in her wardrobe, especially for encounters such as this. A win-win, really—it attracted Olivia's hands without fail (now, for instance, they were grazing Amanda's sides, fingers trickling along her rib cage like the water in one of those rippled wall fountains, and up to her breasts after that, loving them as tenderly and passionately as the kisses above), and it felt good against Amanda's own skin as well.
"Only if you wanna be." Amanda was getting breathless already, love drunk on the make-out session, the light pinching sensation that made her nipples ache deliciously, the upraised knee nuzzling her perineum that made everything else from the waist down ache even more. But she wouldn't continue without Olivia's consent, even if it killed her. And it just might, the way her heart and libido were pounding. "Can I?"
Without hesitation, Olivia raised her arms for Amanda to lift the hem of her raglan shirt (Hello Ms. President, it read across the chest), a cute and cozy pairing with the joggers, and one that the captain filled out so well, she might have been clad in a form-fitting bodysuit rather than loungewear. "Yes, please," she added, before Amanda could ask to hear the confirmation out loud. "I, Olivia Benson, being of sound mind and body, hereby bequeath said body unto you, Amanda Rollins, for the purpose of hot, dirty birthday sex."
Amanda had sat back on Olivia's thighs to listen to the impromptu last will and testament with a bemused smirk. She pondered it for a moment, then gave a nod of approval. "I think you mean be-queef, though."
"Ew." Olivia crinkled her nose. "I do not do that."
"Uh, I beg to differ."
"You can beg all you want, sweetheart, you're still full of shit."
The raglan shirt came off in a swoosh of stretchy cotton and tumbling brunette locks, and landed silently on the carpet below. Goodbye Ms. President, Hello Ms. Benson. The bra went next and then the joggers. Down to a simple pair of white cotton panties adorned in little blue flowers, which were somehow just as sexy as any overdone lingerie set, Olivia lounged against the pillows with the regality of Cleopatra. If Cleopatra were fiddling curiously with a brand new sex toy.
"It kinda looks like a dental tool," she observed, hitching up her hips as Amanda slid the underwear down to her thighs and whisked them free of those long, powerful legs.
You say dental tool, I say deformed video game bird, Amanda thought, grinning to herself. She ran her fingers up the length of Olivia's leg, reveling in the miles of perfectly smooth skin. Lucky duck hadn't needed to shave since menopause hit. "Well, it sure as hell ain't for your teeth, baby. You gonna hand it over now, or do I gotta wrassle you for it?"
The second it was out, bringing with it images of a struggle—pinning someone down (or against a dresser), hair being pulled, refusing to take no for an answer—Amanda regretted it. She winced at her own thoughtlessness, but Olivia had a very different reaction: a wicked twinkle in her brown eyes, she held the toy up next to her, sidelong, like she was advertising a new brand of toothpaste, and waggled it tauntingly.
"Come and get it, tough guy," she challenged, and though not intimidating in the least, it was a daunting prospect with her poured out on the bed that way, wearing nothing but a mischievous smile.
Good thing Amanda wasn't scared of a little mischief. Still as a statue one second, she lunged for the Satisfyer the next—and gave an indignant huff when Olivia easily snatched it away. She was quick, was Captain Benson. But Amanda hadn't earned her reputation as a speed demon for no reason. She caught hold of the toy on her second grab and attempted to prize it from her fiancée's hand.
That proved more difficult. Olivia's reflexes might not be quite as lightning fast as Amanda's, but her strength was at least equal to or greater than. Amanda had no choice but to fight dirty. She leaned in and planted a hungry kiss to Olivia's unsuspecting lips, and the moment they reciprocated, the captain dropping her guard, Amanda plucked the toy from her grasp.
"Ha ha!" she cried a tad maniacally, brandishing the Birdo-shaped stimulator as if she'd just snagged a coveted trophy at the end of a grueling marathon.
"I let you win," Olivia said with a casual air, shrugging her pretty, bare shoulders. (Who the hell other than Olivia Margaret Benson even had pretty shoulders?) "Thought you could use the ego boost."
"Uh-huh. Keep tellin' yourself that, city girl. Whatever helps you sleep at night." Amanda attempted to twirl the Satisfyer through her fingers like a baton, but quickly abandoned the effort when she almost dropped it. Her cool, confident image would be much harder to sustain if she broke the damn toy before they got to use it. "Next thing, you'll be claiming the orgasms didn't make you scream, you were just practicing your opera."
"Hey, I'm not the one the neighbors are going to issue a noise complaint about. That's all you, pal." Olivia clapped Amanda lightly on the hips, her hands settling there, encouraging a subtle rocking of the pelvis, a slow grind that was excruciating not to increase in speed or pressure. The good captain fought dirty sometimes too. "I don't believe I've ever screamed once during sex. I have my dignity."
It was true—Olivia was not a screamer. A moaner and a cusser, yes, and during particularly intense moments, she had been known to cry Amanda's name (or part of it) at a loud, breathy volume. But outright screaming wasn't for either of them. Amanda preferred to think of her sex noises, in the rare instances she considered such a thing, as emphatic agreement with occasional bursts of unbridled enthusiasm (although, she managed little more than a loose-wheel squeak when Olivia went for the G-spot). It was basically how she sounded at most sporting events, just with a lot less booing.
"Well, that's about to change," Amanda said, gliding the toy's silicone nozzle down the center of Olivia's chest, tracing it around the circumference of one breast and then the other. "You can kiss your dignity goodbye, Cap'n. I'm gonna make you come so hard and so fast, you'll lose all self-control. You might even black out, FYI."
Maybe she was exaggerating just a smidge, but Daphne had been pretty convincing. She'd guaranteed that the toy would render any user orgasmic in under three minutes: "Unless they're dead or made of stone, and even then it might restore some semblance of life." That piqued Amanda's interest, since there were still moments when she had difficulty bringing Olivia to climax. Rarely now, but when it did happen, they both ended up frustrated and feeling like they had let each other down.
What finally sealed the deal, though, was Daphne's declaration that she was swearing off women for good. "Who needs the hassle when there's this thing and the mental image of Charlize Theron?" The clerk would be back on the prowl within a week or two, no doubt, but whatever inspired her to make that claim had to be impressive. Daphne loved women the way Amanda loved leftover pizza for breakfast.
"You sound pretty sure of—" Olivia's wry smile faltered only for a second when the silicone dragged across her erect nipples, which sprung back up like buoys upon release. She cleared her throat delicately. "Yourself."
"Oh, I am very sure of myself." Amanda nodded resolutely and pressed the Satisfyer on at a low setting—just for starters. It emitted a faint hum, but was already much quieter and less jittery than any of their other battery-operated devices. She ghosted the tip over one of Olivia's nipples again, teasing her with a devilish grin that widened at the anticipatory gasp, the just perceptible twitch of abdomen its nearness elicited. Yep, under three minutes indeed.
Resting the tip in place, she took a moment to enjoy the luxurious sigh Olivia exhaled, the hint of pearly white teeth pincushioning her bottom lip, the elegant golden slope of neck exposed when she rolled her head gently onto her shoulder. She had never breastfed and her nipples were still as sensitive and perfectly proportioned as a virginal young woman's; Amanda loved that.
In some ways her fiancée's body—in spite of the significant scarring and twelve-year age difference—seemed more dewy and untouched than her own, never having gone through the rigors of childbirth. It awakened a fiercely protective impulse in Amanda, as if she were personally in charge of guarding Olivia's virtue. It also filled her with an inexplicable desire to put Olivia in her mouth, to taste and suck like she was working her way through a heart-shaped Valentine's sampler. Creamy milk chocolate, smooth rich toffee, gooey caramel . . .
It was probably some kind of Freudian oral fixation that she would eventually have to hash out in therapy, but for now she wasn't going to overthink it. She was going to do what she did best, and act. Ducking forward, she brought the other nipple into her mouth, plying with her lips and tongue. "Mmm," she hummed in unison with Olivia, whose hands were in her hair, at her shoulders, traversing her back. Her captain had a way of being everywhere at once.
Omnipresent Olivia, she thought, smiling around the tender bit of flesh between her lips. When it was the same rosy brown as Olivia's birthmarks, Amanda dragged it from her teeth, kissed and warmed it with her breath, nuzzled the breast it topped like the cherry on a voluptuous sundae. Turning her cheek to the soft, inviting mound, she gazed up to find heavy-lidded brown eyes on her. "Sorry, what was I saying? Got hungry."
"Mm, something about making me come until I black out or my head explodes, I don't know." Olivia compressed her lips, rubbing them together as if she were applying lipstick. Eyes fluttering closed, she clasped Amanda by the wrist of the same hand that held the Satisfyer to her breast. Her deep, sensual sighs warmed Amanda to the core. "I think you were exaggerating just a . . . "
The captain ended the sentence there, basking in the sensations the toy provided on one side, Amanda's fingers taking up the task on the other. She was already so blissed out, it probably wouldn't even take a full minute to push her over the edge. Still, Amanda decided to give herself a little leeway for her next proposition: "I bet you I can—"
Sonuvabitch.
She bit down viciously on her bottom lip, cursing herself again for the poor word choice: I bet you. It was only a figure of speech, and one she had always used without a second thought, but her timing could not have been worse. They didn't need the reminder that she was a screwup addict ("A recovered addict who made a mistake," Dr. Hanover would undoubtedly have corrected her) looming over them right now.
But just when Amanda was sure she'd ruined the moment, Olivia's eyes opened and focused on her. "Go on," the captain prompted, easing back Amanda's wrist and navigating the toy lower, the meaning clear as her legs gently parted. "That sounded like a challenge. You know how much I love those."
If luck was in fact a lady, her name must be Olivia Benson. Offering up a small, grateful smile, Amanda drew a calming breath and resumed her previous swagger. "How 'bout this? You hold out for longer than two minutes, I promise I'll be the one who wears the dress when we get married."
She probably should have upped it to three, but to be honest, she wasn't terribly opposed to wearing a dress for the wedding—especially after seeing some of the options Olivia had linked her to via text while they were bored at their desks during a rare quiet moment at SVU. Olivia knew her style well and Amanda had actually caught herself fawning over a few selections. Of course, she would kill for the chance to see her captain in traditional bridal attire as well, but if Olivia insisted on a white fitted pantsuit with a low-cut lace bustier, who was Amanda to complain?
"Ooh, I like that. You've got yourself a deal, sweetheart." Olivia sounded for all the world like a used car salesman who had just pawned off a clunker. Any minute now she was going to start pressing the flesh and handing out her business card. "With the veil and everything?"
Scrunching up one eye, Amanda made a show of thinking it over. In the meantime, she teased idly at Olivia's dark swatch of pubic hair with the pulsing head of the toy. "I dunno," she drawled, wincing as if the decision were a dicey one. "That might require some extra conditions to be met."
"Such as?"
"Such as, I'll only wear the veil if—" Amanda stroked the Satisfyer between Olivia's legs, letting the thrumming silicone coast over her clit. She got just the reaction she was hoping for: a soft gasp, barely audible but enough to prove her point. " . . . If you can keep from making noises any louder than the one you just made. And if you're screamin' my name by the end? You have to wear a dress, too."
Olivia contemplated her options, glancing down at the toy as though she were weighing her endurance against that of an opponent. She must have had a lot of faith in her own willpower, because she tilted her pelvis invitingly and, with a sultry look, pronounced with every part of her lips, teeth, and tongue, "Done."
She could probably just enunciate every word like that, lips doing the sexy little tug to the side thing that was so uniquely her, and achieve pretty much the same effect as the Satisfyer on Amanda. But that would have to wait until their competition was over. At the moment, Amanda had wedding arrangements to attend to.
"You're gonna look real pretty in your dress, darlin'," she husked, thumbing the plus button on the toy to increase the intensity by two settings. With the thumb and index finger of one hand, she gently spread apart Olivia's labia and placed the soft nozzle over her clit like she was extinguishing a candle flame with a douter.
And igniting another fire altogether.
Olivia Benson was not a screamer, no. But after her first minute under the sex toy, she was panting and fisting the pillow behind her head. She exhaled a shaky breath through the heart-shaped opening formed by her rounded lips. The deep breathing exercises weren't going to help with this, nor would pressing her lips together until a pallid outline formed around the taut edges. An attempt to stifle a moan produced a whimper instead, but she cut it short immediately, squeezing her eyes shut even tighter, a deep furrow between her eyebrows.
"Too much, baby?" Amanda slowed the wrist she was using to rotate the nozzle, adding to the stimulation, and lightly cupped the breast she'd been massaging with her free hand.
It was harder to read Olivia's expression when those big brown eyes were closed, but a fierce little shake of her head assuaged most of Amanda's concern. "Want me to keep going?" she asked, and the shake turned into a fierce little nod.
"Mm-hmm," Olivia whined, violating the volume rule they had established with a needy sound—part moan, part pained cry—that escaped the back of her throat like a bird from a cage the second her lips parted. (Amanda would probably wear the veil anyway.)
They were thirty seconds from cutoff time, and Olivia was clearly struggling to contain the mounting pressure within, her hips rolling towards each pulse from the Satisfyer, thighs clenched so tight around Amanda's hand they trembled. "'Manda fu-fuck," she whispered, then grabbed blindly for the corner of a pillow, stuffed it into her mouth, and bit.
"S'okay, baby." Amanda murmured soft, unintelligible comfort, almost a melody, as she stroked her way down Olivia's writhing abdomen. She nestled the heel of her palm in the short, wiry curls below, rubbing Olivia's pubic mound firmly, diligently. That usually did the trick. "I'll wear the dress no matter what. You can—"
At two minutes on the nose, Olivia gave in—the first in a series of intense orgasms that didn't lead to any screaming but sure as hell weren't quiet or the least bit dignified. She forgot herself entirely and with absolute abandon. Amanda was there to guide her through it every step of the way.
. . .
2/7/21
Five. Five! I made her come five times in a row, y'all. Well, okay, the Satisfyer thing did, but holy shit, that's got to be some kind of record. I've never even had that many orgasms in a row before, and I'm usually the one who has multiples. I thought she might actually black out like I teased her about. (She didn't, but she did finally beg me to turn it off.)
Poor thing was so wiped out afterwards, she just lay there limp as a wet noodle, staring at the ceiling and panting like Frannie after a run. I'll admit I wanted to try the thing out for myself—especially after seeing Liv enter another plane of existence like that—but when she reached for it, still a little shaky from The Most Orgasms Ever, I asked if I could just hold her for a while. She was all about that. Woman loves to cuddle.
Not sure what possessed me to say it, other than being drunk on the scent and taste of her (Why does she even smell good after sex? Who does that?), and getting used to spilling my guts in therapy (Well . . . trying to get used to it, anyway), but she was lying there with her hand on my belly while I played with her hair, and the question kinda just popped out: "When should we have a baby?"
She was quiet for a really, really long time. I would've thought she was asleep, if I hadn't looked down and seen her eyelashes flutter. Her fingers found the scar from Jesse's C-section, just above the ribbon of those ridiculous (but hot) tissue paper panties, and traced it end to end. I half expected her to lie and say she didn't want to, even though I know for a fact she does. I'd have to be blind not to see it. But she said, "Let's wait at least until we're married, and then we can talk about that some more. Yeah?"
"Sounds like a plan," I said, and kissed the scar on her forehead. I still don't know how she got it. "You're so smart, always thinkin' ahead."
I almost made a joke about how at least one of our kids wouldn't be born out of wedlock, but considering how Liv came into this world, and who Noah and Tilly's birth parents were, I don't think it would've been very funny. Good one, Amanda. Why not just call her and all the kids bastards while you're at it?
Anyway. The kids and I made her breakfast in bed this morning. I was in charge of the French toast; Noah did an okay job with the scrambled eggs, though they were a little rubbery (Liv fed half of them to the dogs when no one was looking, ha!). I let the girls "decorate" the toast with powdered sugar and fresh fruit, but I think they got more of it in their hair than on the plate. At least they smelled good when we served her the creepy clownface monstrosity they dreamed up.
She's so cute when we do stuff like that for her. Always so surprised and a bit flustered, like she can't believe we put that much time and effort into something for her. I had to laugh a little (just in an "aww babe don't cry" kind of way) when she teared up over the French toast. I know it's about way more than toast—thanks to that bitch of a mother she had, she can't wrap her brain around the idea that anyone would love her enough to do special things for her.
Well, she better get used to it. I'm gonna spend the rest of my life making damn sure she knows how much she means to me.
P.S. When she thought the kids weren't listening, she told me to get ready for some afternoon delight with the new toy. Jesse overheard of course and kept asking "what toy" and could she "play with it" too? "We're a'sposed to share our toys, ain't we, Mama?" That kid. I thought Liv was going to shoot orange juice straight out of her nose. Luckily she didn't and we got the kids settled in front of the very loud TV for a good solid hour of Sunday cartoons. Meanwhile, their sweet, strait-laced (ha again!) mommy defiled me in the bedroom. That's why this entry is so long. I'm a damn poet when I got a few good orgasms in me.
. . .
