Title: "Things To Come"
Fandom: Warehouse 13
Disclaimer: "Warehouse 13" is owned by Universal Studios.
Warnings: Explicit references to f/f sexual encounters
Word count: 1,137
Usually, when her lover returns from a long overseas trip, a woman receives a phone call from an airport, taxi or hotel. More often than not reference is made to jet lag, poor airline food, and long security lines, and the call concludes with a vague promise of a nice night out, after having had an opportunity to "crash for a while."
Myka, on the other hand, learned of Helena's return via a message hand-delivered to her by a courier... and not some kid with a bicycle helmet and an outthrust palm, but a dignified man in a uniform and cap, who put the envelope into her hand with a smile and returned to his car without even waiting for a tip.
Myka took the envelope back to her seat next to the crackling fire. It was a chilly, rainy spring day in San Francisco, and the townhouse kept for the use of visiting Warehouse agents was swanky enough to have an actual working fireplace. Turned out it was a lot easier to escape budget cuts when the small-government activists didn't even know your agency existed.
She knew who the envelope was from without having to open it, because it smelled of Nefertiti perfume. That wasn't a brand name. The Warehouse actually owned a jar of the perfume used by the ancient Egyptian queen Nefertiti. Many years ago, Helena had had the scent duplicated for her own use. She'd broken several Warehouse rules in doing so, but that was par for the course. At least she hadn't succeeded in duplicating the original perfume's special power, which was to produce in any male smelling it an overwhelming desire to do whatever its wearer asked. That, and a rock-hard erection. Nefertiti had been the Smokin' Hottie of her era.
Myka opened the enticing envelope, and grinned as she read the even more enticing invitation within:
Clipped to the invitation was a wallet-sized card advertising the St. Regis Hotel, and neatly written on the back of it were the words, "Metropolitan Suite #6."
A suite at the St. Regis? H.G. certainly didn't seem to be lacking for money, or the will to spend it lavishly. Myka hoped they wouldn't be interrupted in the heat of
their reunion by any over-enthusiastic butlers or valets or chief eunuchs, or whatever came with a Metropolitan Suite at the St. Regis.
She went up to her room to dress for the evening.
The invitation specified "sugar" for Myka and "spice" for Helena. Myka knew exactly what "spice" meant. Helena would be wearing lots of leather, maybe some PVC. Leather hot pants and black fishnets, maybe? The secret author of The Time Machine and The War of the Worlds had a rather fabulous pair of legs, as it turned out. She also had a great fondness and talent for fetishistic dress-up games. Maybe that had been a Victorian thing?
"Sugar" meant frilly and lacy and see-thru and skimpy.
Myka searched thoughtfully through her well-stocked lingerie drawers. She'd brought along an entire trunk full of the stuff, and purchased even more after her arrival in SF. She expected she'd go through most of it before this vacation was over.
Tartan knee socks? No, she'd done the horny schoolgirl thing in her last encounter with Helena. White stockings? No, black ones. With garters. Candyfloss thong, worn over the garters for easy removal. Perfect.
That took care of her downstairs. As for upstairs? Myka selected an astonishingly short and nearly transparent powder-blue babydoll chemise, which she'd bought at Victoria's Secret especially in anticipation of this evening.
Her bra drawer remained unopened.
She examined herself in the full-length mirror and smiled. She hadn't even owned stuff like this before she and Helena had become an odd couple. Lesbianism had turned her girly. Who'd have thought?
Still, she mused, it wouldn't do for Helena to get too cocky. So to speak.
Myka got out her work clothes... the shapeless, androgynous ensemble of a no-nonsense government agent. Her long stocking-sheathed legs disappeared into pressed and creased black trousers. The chemise was tucked carefully underneath a bland white button-up shirt, and her black blazer went on over that. Her only concession to visible sexiness was a pair of high heels, rather than her standard patent-leather flats.
Myka couldn't help a self-satisfied smirk. She imagined the look on Helena's face when she saw that her lover had chosen to wear her dowdy work clothes to their first night together in nearly three months... and then how that look would change when she began to slowly unwrap Myka, like a present, and found what was underneath the bland government-regulation exterior.
"There's room for more than one wise-ass trickster in this relationship," Myka told her mirror self.
Agent Bering threw some essentials into her overnight bag and was halfway out of the room before she remembered something very important she'd forgotten. Digging into her underpants drawer, she fished out something oblong, hot pink, and recently replenished with brand-new batteries.
She vividly remembered the night she had introduced H.G. to this particularly wonderful bit of modern technology.
Myka had mercilessly teased and teased and teased her with that vibrator until Helena's breathing had turned into desperate panting, then gasping. Then the teasing ended, as one pink tip nuzzled into place against another. Helena's beautiful brandy-brown eyes had flown wide open, then glazed over. Her hand had clawed weakly at Myka's arm, trying without conviction (or success) to push away the source of such unbearable sensation.
The image of Helena's sweat-soaked, porcelain-white body thrashing and twisting on the bed, lost in speechless, breathless ecstasy, was one of Myka's favorite
Several minutes afterward, a very sleepy and content H.G. Wells had reiterated her love for the wonders of the 21st century, and dubbed her newest little friend "Shivering Betsy," drawing a giggle from Myka.
"But don't bring her along every time we make love," Helena had requested, surprisingly. "Make her a special treat. For when I've been a very good girl."
Myka tossed Betsy into her overnight bag, along with an extra set of batteries.
Fifteen minutes later she was in the back seat of a cab, the overnight bag on the seat beside her, with the invitation in its envelope tucked into the bag's side pocket.
"Man, lady," the cabbie said. "That's some real nice perfume you got on." He rearranged his coat to better cover his lap.
"Queen Nefertiti thanks you," Myka replied.
"Nothing. Take me to the St. Regis Hotel, please."
"Yes, ma'am. Anything you say," the driver said, and pulled out into traffic with more enthusiasm than prudence.
Myka sighed and glanced at the envelope. She and Helena were going to have to have another serious talk, it seemed.
Tomorrow, in the morning. Or maybe a bit closer to noon.