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It was a cool autumn evening, and Robert was getting ready for an evening out.
A friend of Carol’s was putting on an “interactive theatre piece”, set in the prohibition era with a dress code to match. Carol and her band were doing the music. She’d slipped him a flyer after the last meeting. Joked about how it would probably be nostalgic for him. He didn’t have the heart to tell her that he’d been decapitating tourists in a Swiss ski village at the time, completely unaware of what a miserable, teetotal time the Americans were having.
But it was a chance for a nice night out. He’d been getting better at that, at saying “yes” to things- especially with Rebecca. She’d taken him up on the offer of dinner (once they’d scrubbed the blood out of their clothes and had a moment to breathe) and things had been progressing fairly naturally from there, if Cosmopolitan and the “DRAGG girliessss xoxo 💗💗💅” groupchat had given him a semi-accurate understanding of twenty-first century courtship practices. They’d waited three dates before she’d stayed overnight (ridiculous in hindsight, given how enmeshed they’d been by that point), and he’d been very good about what she called “not acting like it was 1802”- splitting bills and kissing in public and so on.
He quite enjoyed such freedoms of modernity.
He was just finishing up his hairstyle when she knocked on the door. It wasn’t like he’d had to change it much to make it period-accurate, but he’d been parting it the same way for so long that it didn’t want to tolerate being styled even slightly differently. He’d been careful with the costuming, getting it not-too-right— the cut of his blazer was decidedly more ‘30s, and he was wearing black tennis shoes, instead of his shabby old oxfords. Rebecca would probably be more on-theme than he was; they’d gone through dress suggestions by text and he was looking forward to seeing her in something with fringe and art-deco beading. Hopefully she wouldn’t wear one of those godawful feathered headbands that had been in all the magazines.
Even if she did, it would probably look beautiful on her.
Or… less awful, anyway.
When he opened the door to greet her, Rebecca was not wearing a godawful headband.
She wasn’t even wearing a dress.
She was wearing a three-piece suit.
Fern-green herringbone tweed, clearly good quality. Fitted to her, perfectly— the blazer nipped tantalisingly in at her waist, flaring out at the hips. The waistcoat was darted, hugging her chest more than most of her clothes, and formed a neat and traditional v-shape at the collar. Beneath it, a striped tie. She was checking what was clearly a man’s wristwatch, chunky and intimidating in its golden solidity, and the movement pulled her sleeve up to reveal the cuff of a perfect, starch-white shirt cuff. Her cufflinks were square, sophisticated, set with tiger’s eye, her hair in a faux-bob with finger waves on the sides, framing her face. A matching tiger’s-eye barrette pinned the hair back on one side.
Robert forgot that he was going to say hello. He forgot the word hello, along with most of the rest of his vocabulary. Had she not looked up to speak to him, he might have just stood and stared forever.
“Hey,” Rebecca said, then, catching his expression, changed her tone— “Hey. Ya like the outfit?”
He nodded, dumbstruck.
“Well we’re running late, so you’re gonna have to like it in the car.”
She turned, as if she hadn’t just shaken his world to its absolute core, and walked toward the stairwell, the soles of her perfectly-shined dress shoes clacking on the concrete floor. He became immediately obsessed with the confident strike of those footsteps, clearly those of someone used to walking with the expectation that everyone in their path would move out of the way.
He followed, a little bit embarrassed by how fascinated he was. He was entranced by all of it- the familiarity of the cut of the jacket, the slight difference in the seams about the shoulders— accommodating the darting for her chest, he bet— and the way the trousers hugged the round, pert shape of her arse.
This was probably very “1802” of him. Becoming immediately besotted the moment he saw a woman in a necktie. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen Rebecca in most of the elements of the outfit before— she always wore trousers, and her uniform had included a collared shirt, and she’d include a blazer in anything attempting to look buisinessy- but this was different. Better.
‘Liking the outfit in the car’ turned out to be just as difficult.
A big part of this relationship was being… sensible. Normal. It wasn’t like things had been… before, when his priority was to be a tool of pleasure above all else; a healthy relationship existed in the world, where people could see it, and generally nobody existing in the world and being seen would say things like please, turn this car around and let me see that outfit on my bedroom floor or If I promise to be a good boy can I lick your shoes clean or the like, at least not outside of the house. But he was looking at Rebecca from the corner of his eye and thinking all of that and more.
Jesus Christ. The play was nearly two hours.
He could cry.
“Are you like, good over there?” Rebecca was mostly teasing, her eyes still on the road. “You’re super red.”
“Oh god, am I?” He dabbed ineffectually at his face with his sleeve, finding it hot but not sweaty.
“Is it the outfit?” She knew it was, and was being a total bastard about it. Her voice was airy with feigned innocence. “But didn’t everyone used to dress like this? You used to dress like this.”
“Everyone isn’t you, ” he ret orted, knowing he sounded immensely petulant . “ I didn’t look nearly as nice in a suit, and neither did most people in 1925. You’re— you’re absolutely radiant, and it’ s very unfair to me.”
“Aww.” She was smiling, in that soft, subconscious way he loved so much. “You’re radiant too.”
He wasn’t, not in something cotton and off-the-rack, not next to her. He tried to focus on that— the mismatch— to give him a chance in hell of being in a suitable state to walk into a crowded theatre. At least it would probably be dark. He continued this line of thinking, about his horrible styling and his socks only matching in that they were both black, and tried very hard to focus on that embarrassment rather than Rebecca.
It almost worked.
Just as they’d parked behind the venue, he noticed.
“Your laces,” he said, as Rebecca was reaching to unlock the door.
“What about them?”
“They’re not— we didn’t tie them like that.” Oh, to be a version of himself with more impulse control. “Let me help.”
She looked at him for a moment. Back at her chunky watch. And then she pivoted sideways in her seat, scooted over to stretch her legs across the centre console and stuck her foot in his lap.
“Okay,” She said, grinning wolfishly. Her eyes were sparkling. “Help.”
Her heel was resting precariously on his inner thigh, positioned just-so; if she slipped even an inch…
“You’re mean.” he complained, unlacing her dainty brown oxford nevertheless. She’d done it up in the style of a modern running shoe, completely wrong. She just pointed the narrow toe at him, digging in a little with the heel, smirking because she knew what she was doing.
“You’re nice,” she replied, watching as he deftly re-laced it, proper bar lacing this time. “And great with your hands.”
“Mean.” He tied the laces in a bow, which was so sloppy it probably would have gotten him detention at school, and pushed her foot away. “Other shoe.”
She offered it, a little less insistent this time.
“I’ll be nicer once we’re inside,” she said. He looked up at her, sprawling, the lining of her jacket visible as she rested one elbow on the dashboard, effortlessly occupying the space. He’d always envied that- the power without performance, unpractised and innate, just the way she held her body. “I wanna save you for later.”
“Save me for— you’re awful.”
They entered the theatre, Robert shucking off his jacket so he could drape it casually over an arm to hide behind. They found their seats— narrow little folding chairs at the edges of a too-small auditorium, only a few rows of seating either side— and Rebecca tapped his shoulder. Leaned in body-heat close to half-whisper something in his ear.
“You want a drink?”
Two drinks meant more time away from her to calm down, so he agreed to ‘whatever sounded good’ and squinted at the programme in the dim lighting. There was no intermission, and the sections of the play all had seemingly random titles in French. It could be interesting, but the programme wasn’t exactly getting his hopes up.
The lights were down when Rebecca got back. Carefully handed him his drink, in a real glass, too, not the plastic that was so popular. She was holding her own in the opposite hand— a chunky, short glass, this one without a straw. A curl of orange peel as a garnish. His was in a highball glass, and had flower petals in it.
“Drink up, princess,” she whispered. “There’s a twenty-minute monologue coming up, you’re gonna need it.”
Princess .
She was clearly trying to kill him.
He tasted the cocktail, finding it pleasantly semi-sweet. There was definitely gin in it, though hers was probably virgin— because of the driving— and he liked that slight imbalance, as insignificant as it may have been.
“What did you get?” he asked. Players were starting to file into the set, which consisted of an old wooden dining table, chairs, and a hanging chandelier.
“Earl grey negroni,” she sipped it, even that simple action looking bold. The darkness of the theatre space had rendered her half-visible, a collection of shapes and shadows and glimpses of the white of her dress shirt. “Wanna try it?”
When he nodded, she stole the straw from his glass, dropped it in hers. It bobbed precariously among the ice cubes before settling.
“Go ahead.”
She held the glass out, deliberately too low, so he’d have to duck his head to reach it. He was suddenly reminded of the prefect he’d been beholden to in second year. He would play the exact same trick with a glass of wine or a bottle of cheap beer. He could see across the playing area to the other side of the audience; their eyes weren’t on them, but they were close enough that anyone could see exactly what they were doing.
“Too much?”
“You are tormenting me,” he said, in that careful tone of not-quite-tearful that let her know he loved it. He leaned forward, wrapped his lips around the straw. Looked up as he did so, saw the burning glint in her dark eyes. She was clearly enjoying herself.
He really did appreciate the teasing. It gave him a chance to bite back, to fuss and whine and know that no amount of either would end in brutality. Or, none that they hadn’t agreed on first . He’d just get fucked harder. But god could it be frustrating, being trapped in the anticipation she so liked to create.
The stage lights went up, highlighting a blonde woman in a pink dress, who launched into the twenty-minute monolauge. It established the situation as some kind of murder-mystery, described some characters, and was generally fairly mediocre, even with excellent musical accompaniment. It was all very modern and subversive, and a little outside both his interest and understanding— but that didn’t matter, because he spent most of it focused on Rebecca.
She seemed to understand the work more than he did, following the actions of the characters with rapt attention. She’d leaned forward against the empty seat before her, now-empty glass held languidly between a few fingers. He’d always loved that look on people; casual and comfortable and wearing half a year’s rent in made-to-order tailoring. And the way she watched — he’d noticed it first at Mulates, a steely intensity to her gaze, wholly absorbing the object of her attention.
How he wished to be that object.
About two thirds of the way through, he nudged her with an elbow. Pointed to one of the props.
“That phone is inaccurate, you know.” He tried to make it sound conversational, not too pleading. “Those wouldn’t be introduced for about five more years.”
Rebecca looked at him, one eyebrow raised in accusation. Which. Fair, though it was a little embarrassing to be caught out so easily.
“Needy.” she said, turning back to the stage. “Let me watch the show, babe. We have the whole evening after this.”
He thought for a moment she was genuinely annoyed. That he’d gone too far, been too demanding, finally found the limit of what he deserved— but her hand moved to rest on his thigh, gently stroking. Attention, regardless.
He sighed softly, relaxing at the touch. He loved her so much it made his chest ache.
When at last the lights went up, she applauded. Saw Carol packing up her guitar, caught her eye, waved. Robert waved too, and watched from across the room as Carol’s face broke into a huge smile. Maybe the waiting was all worth it, to see someone that happy.
“We can meet up with her in the lobby?” Rebecca suggested. “Get more drinks?”
He nodded, briefly able to focus on something other than her. She’d shed her jacket at some point, the room stuffy from so many people in such a small space, and was bending to pick up her bag, revealing an ornate paisley pattern on the back panel of her waistcoat. He was quickly becoming absolutely fixated on that waistcoat; the way it folded just slightly at the pull of the rear cinch, the way it hugged her breasts, the dark horn buttons.
Maybe if he asked nicely, she’d wear it again?
They made it to the bar, a slightly-too-loud crush of a crowd, Rebecca shrugging her blazer back on as they stepped into a room with actual air conditioning. There was a fascinating range of fashion on display— he’d always thought Carol’s growing-out buzzcut and torn jeans were a little daring, but that was apparently just because he’d never been amongst modern bohemians. There was someone— a man or a woman, he couldn’t tell— with fluffy blue hair and chunky earrings, wearing overalls that had mushrooms on them and the brightest-coloured shirt he’d every seen. He counted seven entirely novel clothing prints and four people who he would consider “shirtless” before they even made it to the drinks line.
Rebecca had grabbed his sleeve at some point, as she usually did in crowds, so he was close behind her when the bartender (green hair, cheese-shaped drop earrings, piercings, a tiny tattoo of a frog behind one ear) pushed their drinks over.
“That’ll be $21.58, sir.” They drawled, a thick southern accent, the warmth of flirting. Robert wasn’t sure which bothered him more— the flirting or the sir— but Rebecca didn’t seem ruffled by either.
“Thanks.” She just tapped her card like it was normal, handing him one of the glasses. “You have a nice evening.”
“You too, sir.”
He thought she was just… being Rebecca about it; unfazed rather than un bothered , unt il they stepped into a slightly better-lit area and he noticed she was blushing.
“ So,” he said, tasting his new drink— recognisably a dark and stormy, which she knew he liked— “Sir?”
Rebecca almost dropped her diet coke.
“What about it?” She found them a little table, a booth on one side, just as the rest got too crowded. She took the chair.
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
“What, being respected?” Her eyes were dark, focused on him, assessing. Just a tiny bit off-kilter, a tiny bit worried. My turn, he thought.
“Well then… sir,” he was honest with the way he said it; breathy and low, the word full of want. “Are we staying for the dinner?”
She was gripping the coke can so hard it almost buckled. He had her full, rapt attention, his reflection a pale smudge in her blown-wide pupils. Then she grinned, visibly wrestling back her composure.
“I guess we could eat at home.”
They barely made it through the door before he was undressing. It was a leftover habit from before ; he’d been trained at some point into having a little instinctual voice in his head that went stripstripstrip at moments like this, and he was down to his undershirt before Rebecca caught his wrists, pushing him against the one free bit of wall in the flat, his ankles knocking against the shoe rack.
“Slow down,” she said. She pressed her hips close, grinding against him where he was already hard, already getting desperate. “I like when you’re patient.”
And she does, he knows she does, but mostly she likes when he has time to assess— to make sure he wants it. But he’d been assessing for over two hours, and he was firmly convinced that he needed to tear her out of that gorgeous outfit or he’d become hysterical.“Please, sir.” He was begging; earnest and wide-eyed, knowing in the back of his mind just how well that worked. “Let me...”
Rebecca let his wrists go, put her arms around his neck so she could pull herself up to kiss him. Her mouth was hot and hungry, the warmth still a little shocking, even after months. His fingers found those beautiful horn buttons, fumbled them through stiff buttonholes so she could shuck the outer layers to the floor.
He paused, then, admiring her in just the well-fitted trousers and shirtsleeves; this would have been such an intimate way to see someone, when he was young. Her hair was starting to come loose from the mock-bob; he could see the knotted bun at the back now. He pictured her, hair down, in that white shirt, and wriggled immediately free so he could drag her to the bedroom.
“Eager, aren’t you?” she teased, as if she wasn’t, her cheeks flushed, eyes burning.
“Mhm.” he was too enthralled to argue, busy pushing her to sit on the bed and placing himself at her feet, kneeling. Waiting for orders, he realised, a little too late.
“Whatever you want, babydoll.” she said, leaning back on her elbows. “You’ve been so good for me, you deserve a reward.”
He wants— it was a jumble of need and desire and nerves; he’s still not quite used to the freedom. So he reached out, up, getting to one knee so he could work at the buttons of her shirt; they were oriented like they were on women’s blouses, the right way round from his vantage point.
He’d seen her in modern underwear before, but that wasn’t what he was met with.
She was wearing just an undershirt; vest-style like some of his were, the cut not quite right on her— the swell of her breasts strained against the fabric, her dark nipples visible through the cream-coloured cotton. Something about the juxtaposition— the masculine cut and carelessness, the feminine shape of her body— reached and pushed a button in his mind that made him even more ravenous, the desire almost to the point of compulsion.
He leaned in, kissed her collarbone, then moved down to her sternum, tasting laundry soap and sweat on the cloth. He could feel her heartbeat against his lips, jackrabbit fast, betraying her beneath the facade of perfect control.
“Can I suck your tits?” He was barely done asking before he caved to the want, pressing his tongue against rough fabric, looking desperately up at her for confirmation.
She pretended to consider it for a brief, agonising moment, head cocked to the side.
“Can I suck your tits, what?”
“Please can I suck your tits, sir?” he was breathless already, his hardness straining the tight fit of his trousers. Rebecca was so mean sometimes. “Please?”
She nodded, and that was all the answer he needed, attacking through the fabric, sucking at the skin. It was an interesting sensation, a beautiful contrast, the softness of her breast and the rough weave of masculine clothing. He moved onto her nipple; teased with his teeth, and was rewarded with a husky moan. He cupped her other breast with one hand, rubbing gently at her nipple with his thumb, feeling it harden from the soft areola. God, he adored that sensation; what he could do with a touch, knowing even without words that he was doing well.
She was panting, flushed when he looked up at her, eyes hazy with adoration. She grabbed his face, one hand splayed on each side of his head. Bent to kiss him, open-mouthed and messy, her tongue darting into his mouth.
“Fuck me,” she said. “B-be a good boy and eat me out then fuck me.”
“Yes, sir.”
He was unbuttoning her trousers before she’d even finished the sentence, tugging them down over her hips, too rushed to take any care with the nice fabric. He did the same to his own, almost tearing the cheap fabric in his haste.
She was wearing shirt garters. The sort that clipped at the sides, the bands biting into her plush thighs, strained by her sitting down. They kept the shirt in place, meaning the only bit of underwear he could see was the very bottom of a simple pair of blue briefs, only extant in his mind as an obstacle. He tugged the gusset to the side instead of bothering with the shirt-stays. He needed his mouth on her sooner than that. She was already wet, slick with arousal. Had he done that? God, he hoped. He savoured the taste of her, reverent, sucking and kissing, feeling her thighs twitch when he got the movement right. He didn’t have the restraint for this, to tease, to warm up— he wanted to devour her, to ruin her, to suck her lips into his mouth and go at her with his tongue until she screamed— but she clearly didn’t either. It wasn’t long before she pushed his head away, gasping.
“Up here.” She patted the bed, like he was a dog, and he climbed up with the obedience of one. “Sit against the headboard.”
She slid off the bed to figure out her underwear, eventually unclipping one of the shirt garters so she could step out of it, then pulling it off through the other. That left her in the dress shirt, crumpled and unbuttoned to the waist, and her spit-wet undershirt, transparent where his mouth had been. Beautiful , wearing his hard work.
He’d tucked his hands behind his back on instinct; she tutted, moving them to her lower back as she climbed up to straddle his lap; his cock pressing against the dark fuzz of her pubic hair, grazing the slight, soft swell of her belly. He wasn’t going to be defiant, but he hated waiting— his hips bucked up involuntarily at that stimulation alone.
“Remember, you can touch,” she said. “It’s not 1802.”
“Sorry, sir.” He could feel her, hot and slick against his thighs, taunting proximity. He wanted her more than anything on earth, more than life itself.
“Good boy.” she said, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Keep that in mind while you’re inside me.”
She rose onto her knees, using her fingers to splay herself open, guiding the head of his cock into place. Moaned as she sank down, hot and wet and perfect around his length.
She could set the pace like this; it was part of what he liked about letting her be on top, being able to just sit back and be used. But that didn’t seem like the plan today.
“Hands,” she reminded him. “Or I’ll stop.”
He stroked her back as she moved, then went back to her tits, then reached down to rub at her clit with his thumb, fingers splayed across her hip. His hands always looked huge on her body, by comparison, and he adored it— all his strength, useless against his reverence for her.
“I’ve been watching you,” she panted. “Watching you watch me, all day. All daydreamy and horny, I bet you’ve been imagining this the whole time, huh?”
“Yeah-” she ground her hips down hard, drew back at an angle, cutting the rest of the sentence off; making him moan. Heat gathered in his lower abdomen, a burning swell of feeling.
“Sorry?” she taunted, grinning. “What was that?”
“I-” he gasped as she leaned forward to kiss his neck, sucking hard at the skin, that would bruise— show off to everyone what she did— “I’ve- the whole day, I, I, I was looking at you, sir, thinking-”
She bit down hard, and he lost the thread of his thoughts again, too occupied with more and closer and Rebecca, Rebecca, Rebecca pleasepleasplease. He was losing control, hips thrusting up in a stuttery rhythm, hands fisted in the back of her shirt. He could only breathe in gaspy little moans now, head back against the headboard, his mouth gaping open.
“Thinking about this moment, right?” She was half-mumbling, the same kind of pleasure-drunk and far-gone. Moved in to kiss him, to nip at his lower lip with her teeth before continuing, words warm against his lips. “My nice clothes on your shitty carpet, getting to cum inside one of your betters?”
The orgasm overwhelmed him, curled his body in around the place where they were joined, tearing a low, primal sound from his chest. Rebecca didn’t stop, spurred on instead, moving faster and faster until she, too, peaked, her cunt clenching rhythmically around him as if trying to draw him further in.
She collapsed against his chest, panting. He hugged her close, kissed the crown of her head.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Uh-huh.”
She was always a little bit out of it after she came, getting her bearings again. After a few seconds had passed, she eased herself off of him. Leaned back, legs spread, his spend threatening to drip out onto the bedsheets.
“Come here,” she told him. “Clean up your mess.”