Author's Note: Thank you to those who reviewed! Please forgive me for not updating a bit sooner. After the flood of reviews and notices that people added me or Concede as a Favorite, I had to write an outline to help with regular future updates. For those who added Concede to your Story Alerts or Favorite Stories, please let me know why you enjoy reading the story. Even if it's nothing more than "Good story. Update soon." OR (goodness forbid) "This sucks. It's disgusting."

To answer questions concerning Cara: Yes, she is based on that Cara—Mord'Sith, Sister of the Agiel and bodyguard and friend of the Seeker Richard Cypher/Rahl. I'm using the image of Tabrett, the actress who takes on the role of Cara, for this character. I couldn't think of anyone better than her to be head Mistress.

Warning: This update includes sexual content between two women, light bondage, scene and role play, Submission, Domination and humiliation/verbal play. At this point, do I even need to mention language?

Concede
Part Two: A Crisis

o o o o o o o

"Hold up, girl. You did what?"

"Mercedes, don't make me repeat it," Quinn begged. She paced the length of the sofa, alternating between rubbing her temples and splaying her fingers wide with a frustrated sigh. "I'm already trying to deal with Puck's even dirtier jokes and could really use someone who can get their brains out of the gutter."

"Hey, don't go bitin' my head off. I'm jus' tryin' to get used to the idea of you…well, you know." The black woman occupied the middle cushion, watching the blonde's back and forth motion.

"Quinn, will you please stop pacing? There's going to be a permanent depression and scuff marks on our newly buffed floors if you continue that."

"Kurt Hummel, I'm not even wearing shoes," the blonde huffed to the young man who just entered the living room.

"I don't care," he replied. "The daily wear and tear will not be expedited by you and whatever issues you've got. I don't understand why you even allowed Puck to persuade you to go to such a place."

"Mr. Theatricality here," Mercedes motioned to Kurt's cotton candy blue and pink pinstriped dress shirt, "is just miffed that his work wasn't selected to show at Best's new exhibition. Oh, don't give me that look. You know very well why you weren't chosen."

Kurt shrugged on a crisp cream-colored jacket to match his pants, preening and styling his hair in its trademark side comb. "I merely requested live models to enhance the swish and sashay of the dresses and that they were to be shown indoors with strict humidity control systems."

"The event was non-profit."

"They could've worked out something with the budget."

"You mean the tiny ass budget they use to create and promote arts programs for underprivileged children?"

Kurt began to tap his foot and repeated, "They could've worked out something with the budget."

"Pssh, artists," the woman got up, heading toward the kitchen.

"If you go anywhere near the couscous, there will be serious consequences."

"You know I've got a knife in my hand, Mister!" Her voice boomed from around the corner.

"Yeah, and when I show up at the hospital bleeding to death, they'll ask what happened and Quinn will have to say that Dr. Jones was one who ruined my favorite shirt!"

"If you want that sandwich…" The doctor left the threat hanging in the air.

Kurt opened his mouth, but promptly closed it, knowing how he and Quinn would have to fend for themselves if Mercedes didn't feed them once in a while. If Mercedes wasn't such a good friend and next-door neighbor, he knew they would've followed through on their initial threats to get the other evicted.

During the two divas' bickering, Quinn had moved to the balcony, absorbing the sights and sounds of the neighborhood just outside San Francisco's performing arts centers. She watched as a steady flow of people dressed in long coats, cocktail dresses, suits and the occasional gang of teenagers and college students made their way to the symphony, ballet or opera. And within those crowds, she knew without a doubt, there were the hopeful souls looking for another that would echo the same sentiment. Sighing, the blonde checked her phone and was barely surprised that there were no missed calls or messages.

"What am I doing?" Combing her fingers through her hair as the wind picked up. "She's not in the phone."

The blonde closed her eyes. Not anymore.

"Talking to yourself?" Kurt joked while closing the sliding door. "Mercedes had to take a call. She'll be back soon. Here, she made that double decker turkey and B.L.T. sandwich with extra bacon you love so much."

Quinn salivated at the smell. "Oh, bless that woman…mmmm-mmm!"

He made a face and cringed at the sight. "Oh, bless your pores for being able to handle all that sodium and fat. Ugh. It makes me shudder to think that I could be sweating that out of my skin."

"You're such a girl sometimes," the blonde mumbled before inhaling more of her sandwich.

As Quinn was taking her final bites, Kurt put on an optimistic smile. "So," he sat up straighter, "were there any cuties that caught your eye?"

Licking the last remnants of bacon-flavored grease from her fingers, she shrugged. It seems like a non-committal enough answer, though it didn't deter the designer from his goal. No one could stand Kurt's gossip mill, but no one could deny him either.

"I will not be swayed, Quinn Fabray. You can't keep this from Mercedes or me for very long. If necessary, you know we have no moral qualms about seeking some rendition of the truth from Puck."

"You wouldn't!"

"As a concerned and loving friend and roommate, you know just how far I would go to have your back."

The blonde visibly deflated, setting her plate aside and standing to look out over the balcony. It wouldn't be so hard to tell Kurt and Mercedes. Like Puck, they had also shown her their true colors and loyalty when her life had taken a turn for the worst. Still, Quinn felt that familiar shame and guilt worm its way from the deep confines of her head where she had shoved and buried it for the past two years. Out of habit, her hand worked its way up her chest to tangle in a gold chain and pendant that were no longer there; and, as if burned, she quickly dropped her hand.

"How dare you wear this and his ring! How can you tell us that you're…you're gay…then say you love us and God?"

"Quinn, honey," Kurt placed a gentle hand on hers, "he can't hurt you anymore." She looked at her roommate, confusion and shock swirling in her hazel gaze. Kurt only smirked.

"Is it really that obvious?"

"I love you, Quinn and can read you better than sewing patterns. There's no need to feel ashamed."

She sighed. "Kurt, it was hard enough coming out. Dealing with…with…"

"Sssh," he hushed, "Let's go inside and you can tell me about what happened, hmm?"

The blonde smiled gratefully, letting Kurt lead her back into the living room. "Okay," she whispered. Sitting on her favorite end of the sofa, Quinn waited for Kurt to bring her a mug of hot chocolate and a tea for himself before opening herself up again.

o o o o o o o

"It would please me very much."

Quinn nearly squeaked when Cara crossed her legs and leaned farther back into the plush cushions of the loveseat, the motion jumpstarting her breathing. The blonde Mistress relaxed as if she were doing nothing more than appreciating the serene view through the room's large bay windows. The easy, light sounds of the rise and fall of Cara's chest were the only stabilizing points Quinn had as she continued to watch the scene before her unfold.

"Where were you during practice?" Santana questioned the still standing and cuffed brunette. The Mistress' hands worked through wavy hair, twirling a lock around her finger.

"I—I wasn't feeling very well," came the breathy reply. "Ah!"

Santana, her fist wrapped in the brunette's tresses, had yanked forcefully down, exposing much of the woman's pale, flawless neck to Quinn's feasting eyes. "You lie." A second harder pull followed. "And you failed to address me properly, RuPaul."

"I'm sorry, Mistress Santana. It won't happen again."

"Now," the Latina breathed, releasing her hair, "tell me where you really were during practice."

"Miss Dia—um—Miss Ranog needed to talk to me…Mistress."

"Hmm…the new teacher?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Tell me what she teaches," Santana said as she lightly raked her nails down the woman's exposed arms, leaving goosebumps and raised hairs in her wake. Quinn was sure she could feel her arms doing the same, though hidden beneath the black of her sleeves.

The other brunette bit her lip. "Drama, Mis—ss…Mistress."

Santana had let her fingers trail down her skirt to her upper thighs. "Surely the new," red lines formed on her thighs, "young," a gentle squeeze of her rump, "blonde," hot breath in her ear, "hot," a resounding slap, "drama teacher didn't need to talk with you about your class…performance…being inadequate."

With a shaky breath, the other brunette replied, "Mistress, she was merely concerned about my health with being on the squad and troupe. She wanted to be sure I was getting sufficient rest and relaxation. She also mentioned not wearing my uniform during rehearsals. Please, Mistress, if I had known it would be such a trivial matter, then I would have been at practice."

The Mistress bent the woman at her waist, planting her upper body on the bed and her spankied-bottom in the air. "Yes, you would have been at practice; so, it being such a trivial matter, why didn't you just leave?"

The cuffed woman could only lick and bite her lip again. Cara watched as Quinn did the same, the young assistant director's gaze was fixated on the two brunettes.

When no answer came, Santana drawled, "We'll just have to consider this your second unexcused absence. That's grounds for expulsion off the squad, RuPaul."

"No, Mistress, please," the other brunette cried out, "I want to be on the squad! Please! Just tell me what I need to do. I'll do anything."

"Anything?" The Latina hummed, "I'm not sure. It seems as if you love Drama more."

"No, that's not true!"

The woman's exclamation earned her a hard slap. Quinn could make out pink mark just below her panty line, a mere shade of what was to come. "You do not tell me what is or is not true!"

"Please forgive me, Mistress Santana."

"No," the Mistress only tightened her ponytail. "I will teach you. On the bed. On your knees."

Quinn practically whimpered. Cara purred.

Santana did not aid her as she stumbled a little to get her legs on the high bed with her hands cuffed behind her. Quinn saw that both Mistresses were taking pleasure watching those long toned legs and curved behind strain and tense. She could not blame them. Not at all.

"I will help you rehearse." Santana began to slowly pull the hidden zipper of the red, white and black uniform top, revealing smooth tanned skin.

"Mistress?"

"Miss Ranog mentioned not wearing your uniform during rehearsals, didn't she?"

"I—I don't think this is what she meant…Mistress," the woman squirmed as Santana's hands moved across the back of her neck and her shoulders. Quinn couldn't deny that despite her conservative façade, watching this play of power was doing more than piquing her curiosity.

"No? Let's see just how good those acting skills of yours really are. I want you to imagine that I am Miss Ranog."

"But, Mistress—ah!"

A resounding slap reverberated in Quinn's ears and sent another flush of red up her neck and face. She bit her lip to keep from licking her lips.

"I am Miss Ranog," Santana repeated, pulling the woman's top farther down. Her breasts spilled from their confines, rosy nipples already hardened from rubbing against the silken comforter. The sight forced the young assistant director to clench her legs tighter. She nervously wondered if Cara could smell her arousal.

Cara just smirked, leaned closer to Quinn and stirring the hairs by her ear, whispered, "Beautiful, isn't she?"

Quinn released the breath she had held. She nodded once. And sent requests to make it through the play session. Has it really only been eight minutes?

"Yes, Mistr—Miss Ranog," the bound woman whispered, her breathing steadily growing more and more labored. Both blondes' eyes were transfixed on her heaving chest, watching her breasts bounce lightly with each breath. The red-clad Mistress bit on a gloved finger, her other hand rubbing circles on her thigh.

Santana continued, "Please, call me Dianna." The Latina caressed the woman's exposed bottom, making it rise farther off the bed.

"Dianna," breathed the other brunette. Santana noted the underlying reverence.

"Now, isn't that better?"

A nod.

Another spanking. Another shade of pink darker. "When I ask a question, I expect an answer."

"Yes, Mistr—Miss Ranog. Yes, it is better."

A slap and a pink-tinged mark on her other cheek followed.

"I've been concerned about a few things." Santana continued to caress her bottom and upper thighs, alternating between kneading and lightly raking the tips of her fingers across smooth warm skin. "The things I hear about you." The Latina undid the button of the woman's skirt. "The way you look at me." A zipper. "How you linger when touching me." Santana slowly, oh-so painfully slid that short skirt down delicious curves and legs. Quinn was certain it would take her a day (or so) to thoroughly explore every inch of those tempting thighs, calves and pretty ankles.

The other brunette said nothing. Her bound hands clenched and unclenched with each shaky breath. Quinn didn't understand how she was able to find something such as this to be so—well—sexy.

"At first, I thought that the rumors were nothing but just that—rumors."

"Miss Ranog, I swear that's all they are. Mmm!"

A particularly hard slap made even Cara quirk an eyebrow.

"You never listen, do you?" Santana grinned, excited and satisfied with the woman's defiance. "I think a lesson needs to be learned. And who better than your favorite teacher?"

"Please…" came the whispered plea, though the word sounded more like a request for more.

"You're such a dirty girl, lusting after a female teacher!" The Mistress gave the woman a short series of spankings, marking her upper thighs and buttocks with darker shades of pink. The bound brunette exhaled loudly after the fifth one.

"Oh, Mistress, please…I'm not—aaah!"

"What. Is. My. Name?" Four hard spankings punctuated each word.

"Miss Ranog—oh!" Another strike. "Dianna!"

Quinn couldn't look away. Why couldn't she look away? She watched as Santana continued her spanking, alternating between light taps and heavy-handed blows that tore screams from the bound woman. Sometimes, the Mistress would caress her reddened flesh. The other brunette would gasp, her muscles and fists clenched in anticipation of a firmer strike. Then immediately relax when no slap came, whimpers and labored breathing escaping pink full lips.

Quinn would also watch Santana, her expression never changed, always cold, calculating and indifferent. At first, the assistant director thought that varying the force of Santana's blows seemed random; but, as the minutes wore on and the woman's moans and screams grew louder so did her dampness between Quinn's thighs.

What control had Cara spoke about? The poor woman had no control over what was being done to her. She wasn't in any position to reclaim her power from the dark-haired Mistress. Quinn began to feel something welling within her, a spark, a quiet and controlled rage that had once driven her. Confidence began to replace embarrassment. Odd understanding began to replace frustration. She felt that something that she hadn't felt in too long—that innate ability to pinpoint exactly what she wanted.

Cara suddenly stood. Looking down at Quinn's confused and flushed expression, the red-clad Mistress said, "Push her."

The hazel-eyed woman knew Cara wasn't talking to her and directed her questioning gaze toward Santana. The Latina nodded once in understanding and drew her hand back while the other caressed the brunette's sweaty back. Quinn saw it happen in slow motion, saw concern flash across the brunette Mistress' face as her hand reached as far back as she dared. She saw how relaxed and trusting the cuffed woman's position was and how she hadn't heard Cara's simple and seemingly cruel order. Quinn wanted to yell for them to stop before someone was hurt, but the moment had escaped her and Santana's arm accelerated in the opposite direction.

The sound that was forced from the woman's lips was agonizing—a scream that melded into a sob and strangled moan. Santana drew back for a second strike.

No!

"Ah, Mistress!"

Santana shook off the slight sting on her palm and reared it for a third blow.

Quinn uncrossed her legs, nearly standing up. No! Stop! Please, stop!

"Aaaaah! Mistress, stop!" Santana hit her for a fourth time, harder and louder than ever. The woman hissed, flinching away from one of the dark-haired Mistress' light touches. The Latina didn't give her much reprieve and spanked her again. Hard.

This time, Quinn stood, looking to Cara. "She said stop," she whispered to the other blonde.

The green-eyed woman ignored her.

Santana raised her hand for her sixth strike. Quinn could finally see concern and remorse etched painfully in the Latina's furrowed brows and clamped teeth.

As if she could sense the coming strike, the cuffed woman yelled, "Apple! Apple!"

The Latina's hand stopped a few inches away from its target. Immediately, Santana climbed on the bed and touched the woman's wrists. "Are you all right? Are your cuffs too tight? Do you want to do something else?"

The short brunette sat up, rubbing her wrists. "No, Mistress. I think I just need some water."

"Okay," Santana cooed, "I'll be right back. Regular breaths, okay?"

The woman smiled and nodded. "Yes, Mistress." Santana quickly poured a small glass from the pitcher on the dresser and brought it back to her client. She gently undid the leather cuffs, caressing the reddened skin of her client's wrists. The Latina brought the water-filled glass to the woman's lips.

"Here. Small sips."

"Thank you, Mistress."

Quinn's eyes nearly bugged out. What had just happened? She looked at Cara who was giving Santana a smile of approval. "Apple?"

The blue-eyed blonde kept her gaze fixed on Quinn as she asked the two women on the bed, "Tell me why didn't Mistress Santana stop until you said 'Apple'?"

The still blindfolded woman looked up in Cara and Quinn's direction and didn't answer until Santana placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I didn't use my safe word, Mistress."

"Very good," Cara purred. The blonde then turned to Santana and asked, "Mistress Santana, why didn't you stop until she used her safe word?"

The Latina took the woman's glass and refilled it for her before answering. "Some people like or need the ability to say No and Stop without actually meaning it. They need that outlet. So, we agree on a safe word, a word that doesn't normally get used in sessions. A safe word is a definite stop." Santana rubbed her hand lightly up and down the woman's back. "I trust her to use her safe word."

Cara returned her attention to Quinn. Her look seemed to ask, "Get it?"

Got it.

The blonde Mistress smirked. "Good."

Quinn tore her blushing face away from the amused Mistress, watching as Santana took the glass from the other brunette again, placing it on the dresser next to the water pitcher. "Thank you, Mistress Santana."

"Hmm…well, shall we continue or have you had enough?" the Latina questioned, sarcasm and humor dancing in her dark eyes as she picked up the discarded skirt from the floor.

"I need to be able to walk tomorrow, so I am afraid that our next play session will have to wait." She reached out for Santana's hand. The woman in question rolled her eyes but grasped the offered hand anyway. The blindfolded brunette placed an open-mouth kiss on her palm and repeated the action with Santana's other hand.

"Rachel…please," Santana huffed, drawing her hands away.

Quinn swore she had whiplash with the speed that she snapped her head back up. Had Santana said the name that the blonde thought she said?

"I like it when you call me Rachel," the other brunette replied.

Quinn's mouth dropped as the brunettes' smiled. Cara's sharp green eyes darted back and forth between the two brunettes and the shocked blonde. Quinn began to back away toward the door, her escape. Her blonde locks shaking back and forth with her head, tears beginning to form in her hazel eyes. Cara turned to face their new client and took a tentative step toward her. Santana and Rachel, oblivious to anything but one another, didn't notice the tension that began to build within the room several feet from them.

"Quinn?" Cara softly called out to her. "Quinn, what's the matter?"

Quinn was drowning in her thoughts and memories, in emotions that had made her feel like they would rip her from the inside out if she didn't physically curl them into herself. That painful yet pleasurable yank from within her chest, her heart traveled to her gut and down to her toes, making her sensible heels seem completely insensible.

Cara's concerned voice barely registered. All she could hear were clips of two voices that were, by most vocabularies, young and carefree and, by all definitions, female and very, very happy. Quinn didn't see the polished furniture or thick carpet; but, instead bright brown eyes, dark brown hair that had been cropped much shorter, a contagious smile and a voice that could stop the world…even if only for a little while.

"Oh, Quinn…I love you," that voice whispered against the sensitive skin of her neck. "You and only you."

"Quinn? Quinn? Quinn!"

Santana was now standing. Her intense dark gaze switched between Cara and the other blonde cowering near the door. Quinn hadn't noticed that the woman had removed her blindfold.

"Quinn…" The addressed blonde swore she felt the axis of the earth shift when her name, spoken that way by that voice, spilled from trembling lips.

It has to be a dream, Quinn thought when she lifted her hazel eyes to reach a dark brown gaze. It must be.Fate would not be so cruel. Or so kind. The blonde said nothing. She could not trust her voice or her unfiltered mouth to say anything remotely reasonable. Of course, what reasonable thing could one say in a situation like this?

The assistant director noted the longer hair and slightly more mature features. Other than more prominent cheekbones, hair that was no longer cropped and a deeper and more controlled tone, the woman she'd met almost three years ago hadn't changed, the woman whose heart she'd broken not long after meeting.

Schooling her body and emotions back in check, Quinn could only breathe out a name that she'd been too terrified and sad to even whisper in the quiet and private confines of her own head. "Rachel…Rachel Berry…"

"Fucking hell! You know Berry!" Cara rolled her eyes shut at Santana's exclamation.

o o o o o o o

Quinn looked up from her hot chocolate just in time to see tea spew from Kurt's gaping mouth back into his mug. She held back a giggle and smirked instead. Not bothering to wipe his chin, the blue-eyed man nearly shouted, "Well, what did you do?"

She kept her gaze locked with his, the answer apparent in her hazel eyes.

Kurt finally dabbed his mouth and chin dry, put down his mug and rested his elbows on his knees, breaking eye contact. "You ran...didn't you?"

Her silence was telling.

"Oh, Quinn," he said, walking around the glass coffee table to wrap an arm around his best friend and roommate. "I'm so sorry you ran into her that way."

The blonde sighed, leaning into her friend's comforting arms. "I'm not sure if I'm sorry about it. I guess it's just been—I don't know—so long since…since…" Silent tears ran down Quinn's reddening cheeks in warm tracks. Kurt started stroking her hair when she began to shake, holding in her sobs for pride's sake.

"Ssssh," he hushed her. "I know, Quinn. I know."

Quinn snuggled further into Kurt, bringing her legs across his, resting her head just under his chin. She listened to his breathing, his steady heartbeat. Soon, she heard a light vibrating against her cheek. Kurt was humming. She smiled and listened.

"When you're down and troubled and you need a helping hand and nothing, whoa, nothing is going right. Close your eyes and think of me and soon I will be there to brighten up even your darkest nights."

Quinn silently sang along as he began the chorus.

"You just call out my name and you know wherever I am, I'll come running to see you again."

She only smiled when Kurt squeezed her shoulder. It was his way of asking her to join him and as he continued to gently rock her, Quinn knew she couldn't deny her Kurt Hummel. She giggled. No, there was no denying her best friend anything, especially when said best friend only improved your wardrobe, made you hot chocolate without prompt and sang sweet songs.

"Winter, spring, summer or fall," they sang together. "All you have to do is call."

"And I'll be there! Yeah, yeah, yeah!" he belted.

"You've got a friend," Quinn continued.

"You've got a friend." He lightly pinched her cheek.

"Yeah, you've got a friend," she sang, jumping up from the sofa.

"Ain't it good to know," they both sang to each other, "that you've got a friend. Oooh, yeah!" Quinn held a hand out to Kurt, twirling when he grasped it. "Ain't it good to know that you've got a friend."

The blonde's smile only mirrored his as he softly sang the last line, "You've got a…friend…" Quinn cried again and she was relieved to know they were tears of happiness. Kurt pulled her into a hug, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead.

"Kurt Hummel and Quinn Fabray, I swear, if you two weren't as queer as a three dollar bill and glittery unicorn, I'd say hurry up and get hitched already!"

Quinn giggled as Kurt sighed dramatically, turning toward the entrance hallway where a smirking Mercedes stood in her diva glory. "Mercedes, I'll have you know that my lesbian wife and I are exclusive and don't take kindly to being walked in on, particularly when we're enjoying an intimate moment."

"Uh huh," she harrumphed. "Anyway, just wanted to tell you to call Puck. He keeps texting asking why you two aren't picking up your phones. Apparently, there's something important he wants to talk to Quinn about."

Kurt nearly fell over when Quinn tugged on his sleeve. "Puck—do you think he knew? About her?"

Her hazel eyes implored him, but before Kurt could even begin to formulate words, Mercedes approached the roommates. "Is something going on that I don't know about?" When Kurt and Quinn only gaped at her like a couple of fish, she went on, "Oh, hell to the no! I'm not going to be left in the dark, especially about something that involves Mistresses and Puck! So, you two better start yapping."

"I'm going to need something a bit more motivating than hot chocolate."

"There are a couple containers of Ben & Jerry's in the freezer," Kurt deadpanned.

"Bring the one with the most in it," Quinn requested. "Oh, and any bacon we have left."

"You really are my lesbian wife, aren't you?"

o o o o o o o

Author's Note: Oh, man, that was difficult! Please review or send a message about what you thought of this update, especially that particular scene. Thank you for reading.

By the way, you will be reading more about impromptu singing scenes. C'mon! It's Glee!

Songs:
You've Got a Friend—James Taylor