Chapter Text
Frida’s feet were definitely aching, but that hardly mattered.
This had to be the fourth store, on their quest to find the perfect dress. Dresses.
That amount of shops usually drained Frida, but to be honest, it was a blur. Cleopatra knew, as if drawn by some invisible force, exactly which dresses she wanted to try, which size it would be.
Frida’s arm became covered in dresses before she realized it, but if there was one thing Frida was, it was incredibly obedient.
Shopping was fun when it was for other people, especially when you fit everything like a sexy, sexy glove. It was also fun when you had a lot of money. Cleo had a lot of money.
And ah, the convenience of heteronormativity--nobody blinked twice when two girls entered a single fitting room.
Frida had seen Cleopatra naked, but what was the use in pretending that when Cleo peeled off her clothes, she didn't buzz with delight.
Fuck, even in the unflattering light of the fitting rooms, Cleopatra was a goddess. Perhaps best of all, she wasn’t trying! Not a damn bit!
Her attention was completely on the task of trying on clothes, looking at every angle.
She’d ask Frida questions, and it became clear that funny answers were incorrect. Did this dress look right? Or this one? Imagine this but with boots. Okay, now imagine this but my hair pulled up.
The seriousness was infectious, (adorable, too) and Frida forced herself to not get distracted, or distract Cleopatra.
Fuck, it was hard.
It was hard when Cleopatra had her zip and unzip her dozens of times, forcing her to trail up and down her body—and the dresses themselves!
Hugging every scrumptious curve like a Porsche on a mountain road—yes, of course the neckline was deep and yes of course, there was much skin exposed.
Red, every shade of red. Some purple thrown in for good measure, some black.
It stunned Frida how she could pull off every style. She didn’t have to think about it: she put it on and it was done. The long, drapey dresses, the open-backed sundresses, the cocktail dresses, maxi dresses, dresses with names she didn’t know—the cuts and shapes foreign to her, but gorgeous was gorgeous any way you sliced it.
At some point, Frida wondered if Cleo was even picking a dress for the showcase anymore, when any of the last 10 could have worked. And she already bought like, five. But why interrupt this?
“Okay, ready? Boom.” Cleopatra whirled around in the mirror.
Boom, indeed. Frida’s eyes fell immediately to the leg, exposed by a high sharp slit in thin, black silk.
“What’s this one for?” Frida asked dutifully. That’s how it went, then she’d give her opinion if the vibe was correct or not.
“An afterparty. Which one? Don’t know, don’t care,” Cleopatra turned this way and that, “But I don’t know how to feel about the ass.”
“I know how to feel about it.” Frida said, under her breath.
Cleopatra raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
After a few turns and poses, she called out, “Fri, could you come over here for a sec?”
Ready to unzip, Frida trotted over—
— only to get pushed up against the floor-length mirror. She gasped, a noise forced out by a knee between her legs.
“I was wondering why you haven’t even tried to touch me yet–” Cleopatra whispered into her ear, “—Here I thought you were too goody-goody about being in public. But you’ve been aching for it, huh?”
“I-I,” Frida swallowed, trying to ignore the instant throb in between her legs, “Maybe?”
“Maybe?” Cleo ground a little into her, earning a muted hiss, “You sure?”
“Fuck, okay, yes,” Frida’s palms were sticking to the mirror, “Yes, okay. You’re just so fucking hot.”
“Then why the fuck you been sitting there with your legs crossed?”
….Why had she? The reason was ebbing away, to the pulse of budding arousal.
“Y-You were busy? And we’re in public so…” Frida stuttered, forcing herself to look Cleopatra in the eyes, not at what was at eye level, begging to be seen.
Cleopatra didn’t say a word.
Slowly, she released Frida, her knee slipping away.
“Right, right. I get it. Can you get my heels, then?” Cleopatra stepped back.
Dazed, unsure, Frida nodded and went back to the seat, gait awkward.
Shit, I’m wet.
She sat on the chair, reaching down for the heels.
“Could you unzip me too?”
“Yeah, sure!” Frida said, “Just—“
Suddenly—
—Cleo was sitting on her lap, her back to Frida. Frida dropped the heels.
Frida forgot what words were, forgot where to put her hands.
A whine escaped her, she slapped her mouth closed.
“Unzip me.”
And it was the best case of deja vu.
In her short, humble, lesbian life, Frida thought she could say with confidence that she could handle large amounts of ass.
But as was usually the case with Cleo, she was unprepared for the reality sitting heavy on her lap.
Slowly, Frida reached for the zipper. She pulled, carefully, down her spine. Cleopatra sighed, as the dress loosened, as the zipper dropped down, down—
Oh my god.
“You’re gonna have to pull the dress up to take it off.” Cleopatra said.
And fuck, she was right.
Trembling, Frida bent closer, gathering the silk pooling on Cleo’s legs in her hands. She tried not to squeeze at the soft, supple skin of her legs.
There was a piece stuck underneath her, between Cleopatra’s ass and her lap. The sweet spot that well, if Cleo didn’t move, there was no problem. A tease, but nothing too impossible to manage, right?
Frida tried to tug it, but the fabric was caught tight between them. And since it was still technically not theirs, she had to be careful.
“You need me to get up?” Cleopatra asked.
“Yeah, just a little—“
“—Okay,” Cleo lifted herself off, just enough to get the dress out and—
—grind back down into her.
This time, the friction ripped a shrill gasp of air from her.
“Shhh,” Cleopatra shook her head, “We’re in public, remember? Quiet.”
“Right,” Frida said, the dress still in her useless hands, fearing (and hoping) that she might do it again.
As Frida slipped the dress up, Cleo leaned back into her, to give better access to Frida’s hands, ghosting up her body as she worked the dress off.
But that meant running her palms up her waist, past her ribs. Cleopatra’s body pressed tight against hers, that fucking perfume was a drug. Her shoulder pushed against Frida’s mouth.
The dress was off, but before she could move her hands away, Cleo took them and set them onto her hips.
“You can touch,” Cleopatra said.
On her lap, it was unreal. The view she got in the bathroom of that party, was nothing like this one, perfect, round, soft under her hands.
“It’s too bad we’re in public.” Cleopatra sighed, “But you know what I’d do if we were alone?”
Frida swallowed, her heart racing, “What?”
She knew it was a trap, but she was a willing mouse.
Cleo rocked, up, down on her crotch. To a beat she couldn’t hear, Cleo grinded down on her, each roll of her hips sent a wave of pleasure through her and Frida held her breath, fighting back the groan— oh my god.
There were people! She could hear people moving in the other rooms, she could hear them talking and they— oh, Frida reared back, breathing through clenched teeth as Cleopatra was practically riding her, hands on her knees.
It was Cleo's smug look back, the tongue that poked out of the smile, that broke Frida.
Frida took her by the hips and they fell into a slow rock together—a deep friction that pushed Frida’s shorts up, made her eyes flutter.
Cleopatra knew how to ride, that was obvious, the butter-smooth way her hips rolled and backed up, in circles. Always grinding down at her center, where her zipper rubbed against the tip of her clit.
Fuck being in public, fuck all those people in the fitting rooms next to them, she hoped the music playing was loud enough—Frida pushed herself up, meeting each grind with a roll of her own.
And god, she could imagine what it would be like to fuck her from behind, to feel the pressure on her clit with every stroke—
—Lost in the dream, Frida slammed Cleopatra down, the sound much too loud, but—
—Cleo turned around, a blur of legs, momentary release, and now she was straddling her, a-and her tits were–
“We are in public, remember?” Cleopatra breathed, grinning, “Be quiet.”
How? How could she, when Cleo’s thighs were trapping her, and she was bouncing, up, down, the chair creaking–
“Maybe–” Frida panted, “You could help me be quiet?”
Great, horny minds think alike. Cleopatra undid her bra, smirking.
Frida felt lightheaded when the blue bra fell off. She had to act like she’s been here before, like she’d seen these before— but it was impossible to not feel reverence, like passing the center aisle in a church.
She could be quiet, but could Cleo?
Frida was willing to find out, and she stuffed her mouth full, without a sound.
Blinded, half-suffocated, she couldn’t see Cleo’s face, but she could hear her breathing change, feel the hands grasping at her head, strong hips grinding a desperate stroke into her—
—They heard the handle of the door shake.
Frida jerked back, but Cleopatra had her tight against her.
“Occupied! Sorry!” Cleopatra called out, cheerfully.
Oh, she’s good.
Frida sucked, feeling Cleopatra hitch forward.
“Oh okay! Sorry!” The voice outside walked away.
The fear of being caught sent her heart into overdrive, but it wasn’t altogether terrible. The adrenaline made her tingle. Interesting.
Frida held her closer, squeezing her ass as she sucked, Cleopatra clinging to her.
Fuck, Frida wanted to take her to a perreo, she wanted this on a dance floor. She wanted to hold an overpriced Paloma in one hand, and Cleopatra's hips in another, grinding into her to the beat of reggaeton, raunchy and filthy. Who gave a fuck about the eyes watching, what they were thinking—they were together. They were together, they wanted each other loudly.
Frida sucked the thin skin of her breast between her teeth. That would leave a mark, but Cleopatra loved being branded, just like with the hickies on her neck. Cleo arched into her, grasping at Frida's face.
“There’s—,” Frida broke away, delirious with lust, “—There’s a toy. I think we should try—“
“—Let me guess,” Cleopatra rubbed against her, “A dildo. You wanna fuck me from the back.”
“Woah. How’d you know?” Frida grinned.
“They always want to,” Cleopatra tilted her head, with a similar grin.
“But you’re curious about it,” Frida licked up the saliva left on her titty, “Aren’t you?”
“About straps?” Cleopatra thought about it, “Yeah. I’ve heard about them, I’ve seen them.”
“Have you felt them?” Frida asked.
“No,” Cleopatra played with her hair, “Will you be my first?"
Frida smiled, "You've said that a couple times, I bet."
"You know me so well," Cleopatra sighed, "Where do they sell 'em?"
“Not the mall,” Frida said, fingering the string of Cleopatra's thong, “Wanna get one?”
“I do want one,” Cleopatra came down to her ear, “And I wanna start breaking it in.”
Frida kissed her cheek, “Then we might need to leave the dressing room.”
“You don’t want me on you anymore?” Cleopatra whined, her hand tricking under her shirt.
“I don’t wanna be quiet.” Frida said, pushing up on her, “You’re too good for quiet.”
“I love how your brain works,” Cleopatra kissed her, sucking on her tongue.
Frida broke away, “Hey, we’re gonna buy this dress right—-“
“—Yeah, it did the job," Cleo said, "Seducing you."
"You don't need a dress for that, babe, I promise."