Archive of Our Own

A court transcript lay in Jess' hands, simultaneously unreal and yet all consuming. The words on the paper blend together to form a haze, a slurry of legalese and terms she can't quite understand, but the conclusion it all produces is crushing all the same.

Her gut is plunged into a dark, vile pit of hell, twisting and writhing into knots the likes of which she'd never thought possible. Her eyes burning like gasoline from sheer dread, her every muscle tensing and weary.

The holding room that she now calls her temporary prison is a torture, too. The fluorescent lights making her sweat like hell through her "nice" leather jacket, and the AC's busted, because of course it is. Her feet are cramping from standing all day — more so than normal — and she's been up for the last 20 hours, running on caffeine and spite.

None of it matters, not compared to the single word of her verdict.

 Guilty.

Jess had either been too stoned or too dissociated during trial for any of it to render real to her in the moment, and somehow she had convinced herself ahead of time that it would be a slam dunk in her favor.

Groceries. That's all she took. Nobody here can afford them any ways, so what court would seriously convict her for that, right?

But they did, and the sentence delivered booms with a ferocity akin to a gunshot straight through her head — and with much the same connotation.

She's a repeat offender with a criminal record, and a transsexual to boot, so they wanted to make an example out of her. They argued that the stolen goods were supposedly being used to supply a terrorist cell — that she's tied to some sort of anti-patriotic crime ring.

She was taking them to donate to a food drive, part of a mutual aid campaign that her girlfriend was organizing.

The words of the sentence hang in the air like poison gas. Jess can hardly take a breath for she feels it would kill her.

Twenty five years in prison.

No chance of parole.

Her childhood rapist got half the years. She remembers how 'good behavior' got him out in just four.

The thoughts would spur a shot of vomit from her gut if it wasn't for the fact that she hadn't eaten in three days, save for a pack of courtroom peanuts the likes of which would be bland even on an airliner.

Her twitching fingers finally quit their effort to hold the paper any longer, and Jess makes no effort to catch it. It lands on the dusty holding cell floor, just between her roughed up jump boots. She remembers how Mia used to black them for her when they still had the time to spend together. She thinks back to how she used to press them against her girlfriend's cunt, or how she's used their steel toes to kick the teeth in of many a bastard before.

That part of her life is over, now. That and everything else that made her, her. She knows she certainly won't end up in a woman's prison, at least.

The one miracle of her sentence is that she'll probably wind up dead long before the first decade has been spent.

Her life is over.

The crushing weight of it all finally starts to pry open the cracks of her heart, and tears start to flow. She's been in this situation before, but on her own terms. Partners talked her out of it, or doctors brought her back from the brink, but either way it was her choice for it all to end. Not today.

The lack of agency is the worst part. She never thought she'd live to see her "golden years", whatever that even means, but it was always going to be when and how she'd like — Not at the hands of some decrepit judge on trumped up charges beyond her control.

All of Jess' willpower is spent on just trying to keep herself upright such that she doesn't collapse into a mess on the holding room floor.

It's not enough.

She crumples to the ground, almost curling into the fetal position as tears pour from her weary and dehydrated face. It's not like her. If any of the girls saw her in this position, they'd…

What is she even saying? They love her. She knows they do. They'd be here for her, they'd care for her and make sure she was okay, just as Jess had done for them countless times. They'd give her a hand, just as she'd give them one.

But that doesn't make it any better. If anything the knowledge that her girlfriend, sisters and comrades would help her in a heartbeat is just all the more crushing. She won't see any of them again, and there's nothing they could even do — not without putting themselves in immense risk, anyway. She certainly wouldn't ask that of them.

The uncaring buzz of the sweltering lighting which had made up the dull soundscape of the room for hours is suddenly pierced by a rhythmic tapping sound against the floor. Footfalls. They must be coming to haul her off to prison, now.

No more time left to cry, no time left to feel sorry for herself. No time left for anything, now. It's over.

Maybe she could appeal one day. Maybe the revolution will break out and she'll be set free. Maybe she'll do her best and actually pass for good behavior. It's not like she'll survive long enough to see any of those opportunities come to pass, though.

Jess gently wipes her jacket sleeve against her face to rid the tears of her skin but the energy just doesn't come to her to pick herself up off the ground. There's no dignity to be had, here. They can drag her out if they want her that bad.

The tapping grows louder. Closer. More distinct. It's joined by a second, softer pair of footfalls — another guard, probably.

She doesn't pull her head up to check. It doesn't matter, anymore. The tapping grows nearer, with every single footfall heralding a second closer to the end of her life.

Then again, it was practically over the moment she walked out with the stolen goods, she just didn't know it yet.

Maybe she could've been more cautious. Maybe she could've picked a better store, a shift without a narc on watch by the front door. Maybe she could've covered her tracks better, hid her face more securely, or found a better lawyer. Maybe she could've cared enough to try.

Maybe none of it would've mattered. She's not the first of her sisters to wind up in this situation. She won't be the last.

A thought flies through Jess' mind like a stray bullet. It ricochets, bounces around inside her head inflicting god-knows how much damage without any reprise. It comes from a place wholly immaterial, based in none of the theory that she has clung to nor hope which she always sought to forge. Were she in a better state of mind, it would've been swatted out of her head without even the slightest effort, rightfully discarded as unproductive defeatist garbage.

She isn't in such a healthy state of mind, though.

What if this is it? Not just for her — that much is pretty clear by now — but for all of them? For all her sisters, for the oppressed, for everyone. What if they've lost? What if there's no helping it, what if the tyrants have put the right pieces into the right places, and it's too late for anything to be done?

What if it's all over?

What if it's hopeless?

What if this is all they have left to look forward to?

'Jessica Bailey.' Calls out a voice. It's soft, supple and effeminate. It harbors no word of malice nor of cruelty, the sounds of her name sanded off at the edges, a pleasantly safe thing to hold onto in her moment of desperation.

It doesn't sound like a pig's voice, that's for sure, and she doesn't recognize it from any of the people she'd met in the court.

Jess peels her head off of the floor of the cell and turns to face the voice as best as she can.

The voice is gorgeous, but the one who wields it is even more so. Sheer lesbian adoration for the beauty of this delightfully femme woman overtakes Jess in a split second. She's not dressed like any cop or official; instead the woman before her is decorated in a vibrant red dress, with long flowing brunette hair and the subtlest marks of age on her perfectly makeup adorned face.

Her glory is shot down in Jess' eyes as more and more of the details start to click together. The dress is silk, her jewelry seemingly real gold. She's got a watch that Jess can just tell at a glance probably costs more than she's ever had to her name. For all her beauty, Jess knows that it comes with immense wealth.

She's a bourgeois dog. The same sorts that Jess' been fighting against this whole time. Probably the owner of the store, or some similarly haughty ass hole sent to mock her. In a moment, her appreciation inverts into sheer hatred.

The punk girl tries to spit upon the fanciful dress shoes of the aristocrat before her, but not a drop of moisture can be coaxed from her sore mouth, with only a frail cough falling from her lips instead.

The red-clad lady gestures for the guard next to her to unlock the door. With a sort of confidence that only money can buy — the kind that tells you that you truly are untouchable — she strides in and kneels down before Jess.

What could this bitch want with her?

'Oh, you poor thing.' Creaks her voice, saccharine and bathed in a patronizing aura.

The rich cunt extends a hand out to gently caress Jess' hair, and when Jess tries to swat her hand away, she can't help but notice as the guard instinctively reaches for their pistol.

She surrenders, relenting to let the woman touch her, decidedly against her wishes. Her skin is soft, tender as her voice and clearly moisturized and lotion-soaked to hell and back. The bitch's flesh feels almost gentler than the silk of her gaudy dress, an insult to all the callouses, scrapes and cuts that decorate Jess' weathered hands of labor and struggle.

Really, they're perfectly fit for the kind of woman that she no-doubt is.

Jess should fight back. Her life is practically over anyway, so she might as well take this rich ass-hole down with her. She should claw, bite, kick and scream and beat her half to death until they pry Jess off of her and she gets put down. It'd be a hell of a lot more of a dignified way out than whatever awaits her in jail.

But she can't. She tries to flex her muscles, endeavors to push herself upright, strains to fight, and there's just nothing left. Her body listens, but it's even more exhausted than her mind. The sleep deprivation, starvation and poor living has caught up to her, and defeat is all that is known throughout every part of her body.

She can't even try anymore.

'I saw your story in the news, darling.'

Yeah, and what? Is she here to gloat? To mock this wretched tranny freak before she gets shipped off to hell? To talk down on her, make a press appearance and put on a good face for the 'respectable' citizens at home? Fuck her.

'It's tragic, really. I don't think a woman as beautiful as you deserves to have her life ruined over that.'

Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.

The word bounces off of every corner of Jess' frayed mind. It's a term she never uses to describe herself, it's far too femme, and just doesn't align with how she likes to be seen. Handsome, maybe. Hot, absolutely. Scary, definitely. But beautiful?

This bougie bastard has got to be lying through her teeth, anyway. Here Jess lay, crumpled on the floor of a holding cell caked in dirt and grime and unwashed since their building shut the water off last week. She's clad in a rough, torn up leather jacket splattered with various patches, her pants in a similar state of disarray and topped off by a side-shave dyed bright red. There's no world in which a bourgeois prick like this even sees her as a woman, much less a beautiful one.

Yet some part of her can't help but listen to the woman's voice and feel like there's no sarcasm there, that it's not meant to be a mockery of her. If anything, it sounds like the lady in red actually does think she's beautiful, and means it as a sincere compliment.

Jess doesn't even know what to think about that anymore. She's on the brink of passing out even on the rough concrete floor, and certainly doesn't have the energy left to worry about what lay unsaid in that.

'So, I pulled some favors, and I've managed to piece together a way out for you.'

…What?

That's why she's here? To lend a hand? To save Jess?

That can't be right. Her comrades didn't even show up to the trial — probably because they were implicated as part of that "terrorist cell" — but this gaudy, pompous rich woman is the one who's extending an olive branch?

'A rehabilitation programme. No jail time, no community service. No mark on your criminal record.'

What the hell is she talking about? She just gets set free, no strings attached?

'All you have to do is come live with me for a while.' Her voice remains tender and sweet as ever, her smile subtle as can be and gentle to match. From Jess' position beneath her, the woman seems like elegance manifest, her brilliant dress subtly flowing in the air as an open door spawns a draft.

For a moment, for just one fleeting moment, Jess believes her — earnestly believes that she's going to save her. That this is a way out.

She extends a hand down for Jess to hold onto. Something to pull her up out of the dirt, to get her on her feet again.

But it's too good to be true. Has to be. 

What was she thinking? Everything she knows, through lived experience, through theory, through observation, tells her that this is a ploy. This woman is an oppressor, and there's no salvation to be had through collaboration. Even if there was, Jess would be besmirching all of her most cherished principles for her own gain. Death would be a better end than that — she's certainly no traitor.

But then an idea starts to fester. A plan.

Yes, this woman will be her salvation, but not in the way that she thinks. If she's going to live with her, that means she'll have unrestricted access to one of these wealthy assholes. Jess could break her, kill her if she must. Sure, she'd wind up a fugitive, but how is that any worse than the alternative?

Perhaps it's adventurist of her. Perhaps it's wholly opportunistic. Whatever the matter, it'll be a hell of a lot more fun than simply waiting to rot in a prison cell.

With a note of hesitation, Jess takes her hand.

The poor bastard doesn't have the faintest idea of what she's planning.

Cold water crashes into Jess' skin like lightning, setting an icy fire to the scars across her back left by Mia's favorite cat-o-nine last week. She scrambles away from the liquid, pressing up against the sleek marble wall of the shower and just barely standing clear of the spray of water.

Jess is no stranger to pain — but this isn't exactly the type she can get hard over. She reaches over to try and change the water temperature, but of course it's not quite so simple. The shower is devoid of regular taps and levers, because god knows that's much too poor for Rebecca's tastes.

Rebecca — the one who took her in — insisted that she showered first before anything else. She certainly could use it, so she didn't turn it down. Her plans for revenge can come later, for now she's just got to figure out how to make this damn thing stop trying to freeze her to death.

Some minutes of fiddling with a touch screen later — which of course, hardly works when wet — and she's just barely managed to get the temperature bearable. The water still stings on the eagerly-accepted injuries from her partner, but not quite so badly. It's dulled enough under the soothing heat of the liquid that she can stomach it for now.

But the sensation doesn't fade. Every drop that strikes against the cascading red patchwork of scars down her back is a reminder of Mia, of all of the rest of her sisters. Will she get to see them again? She can only hope so.

It's not a comforting notion. She would've thought that surely, the possibility of making it out of here and seeing her girlfriend's face again would be more comforting than the certainty of it being impossible to do so — yet it isn't.

She didn't think anything could be worse than accepting defeat, but this definitely is. The simple act of not knowing stings harder than the wounds on her back, because it means she can still hold onto hope, a hope that she now knows could be taken from her at any moment.

That doesn't mean that she should stop fighting — but if the only reason to keep going can be ripped from her in the blink of an eye all over again, what's the point?

The dirt and grime falls from her skin as the ragged, toned girl stands naked under the flowing warmth of a water bill she doesn't have to pay for, for once. The past week has been a mess, and even just this bit of docility is much appreciated.

She could stay here forever, just under the gentle trickling of the shower. The stinging on her back would surely grow to pass, but the warmth would remain. She's safe here, in a way.

But even this comfort doesn't feel right, because she knows the one providing it.

Rebecca Macleod. 40-something CEO of a pharmaceutical company that Jess knows all-too-well from having to put up with their shit from their overpriced insulin that Mia desperately needs.

Speaking of… Is Mia going to be okay? They were just barely making ends meet together, but now with Jess's income gone…

The other girls will be able to make something work. Surely.

They have to.

She just hopes Mia doesn't turn back to escorting again. They worked so hard to get her out of that mess to start with, and she was so, so happy to leave it all behind. But if she can't afford her medication now, then…

She can't think about that. It's out of her control now — and really that's the only way she can remain sane about a lot of things, to simply ignore it and hope it goes away. She knows it's not a good method, but it's what works to stem her anxiety. Mia will be okay. She has to be.

Jess gently runs her hands along her skin, feeling a softness to it that was betrayed by layers of grime and god-knows what caked into her flesh for far too long. She almost prepares to leave until a bottle of shampoo catches her eye.

Right, that's a thing that people with money actually use.

It's a strange feeling, working the soapy fluid through her fingers and into her hair. It's a brand she certainly doesn't recognize from the few times they've had the money for such things, and she shudders to think how much the bottle must've cost. The obnoxiously plain packaging gives her a feeling that it's more than she makes in a week.

Well, made in a month. It's not like she has any sort of employment, now.

…But maybe she will? Maybe Rebecca is going to put her to work for her company, suck her soul out through a vile office job. Jess would surely kill her if she did that.

Then again, maybe she won't. Since they stepped out of the limo and took the elevator up to their floor — too high up for Jess to count in her addled state of mind — they've hardly talked much, but what Rebecca has said to her has been awfully… coddling.

Jess runs her hands through her hair, and the sensation is startling. The awful, greasy nature of it has died down, replaced with a light and fluffy feeling that's only hampered by the dampness. It feels… fresh. Feminine. Unbefitting of her, really. Maybe she should ditch the shampoo, next time.

…Is it just her, or did her hair lose a bit of its dye…?

'I'm not wearing that.' states Jess bluntly, though to be honest the dress being presented to her hardly warrants a response. The absurdity of her of all people wearing… that should be enough to dismiss it.

The color is nice, she has to admit. She's grateful that Rebecca picked one out in a nice deep black rather than some horribly gaudy floral assortment, but the cut of it is absurd. It's only revealing in all the right places so as to be still deemed 'modest', but exposing enough to be titillating all the same. The regal golden decorations and chains adorning it certainly don't help.

Jess can't help but feel like it's made with the male gaze in mind. The thought makes her want to throw up.

She'll stick to her combat boots and tattered leather, thank-you-very-much.

Though right now she's thoroughly deprived of that, too. Having just stepped out of the shower, Jess' only garments are a bathrobe that grows increasingly uncomfortable by every passing second.

Rebecca looks at her with a crushed expression, dejected and saddened. Good. She has no empathy for this rotten woman, and if Jess had her way that sorrow would be magnified a hundredfold.

'Will you not just try it on? It would look quite nice on you.'

Jess scoffs and responds only with a middle finger.

The bourgeois bastard across from her — dressed in a similar degree of 'elegance' and 'femininity' as the garment being presented — looks down with a brief sigh, before continuing on.

'Look, I didn't want to bring this up, but our deal was contingent on you reforming. We need to show that you're making progress, that you've left that lifestyle behind.'

Pssh. Reforming her?

'In your dreams, bitch.' Jess blurts out as she starts to stride away from Rebecca — only to soon after realize that she hasn't an idea of the layout of the apartment yet, and doesn't even know where she's going. Of course, it's all quite decorated in identical, featureless shined monochrome tiles and the most generic, high-art garbage imaginable, so she can't even tell any of it apart.

'Jessica, I understand you don't want to uproot your entire life. I'm not asking you to. You don't have to change, you just need them to think you have. I'm on your side, really.'

…

The statement gives the punk girl a moment of pause.

She has every reason in the world not to trust a single word that comes from Rebecca's mouth, but the CEO speaks without a drop of malice to her words. For the life of her, Jess can't sense an ulterior motive.

Really, the only thing that stands out as being wrong is the name. Jessica. Nobody calls her that, not even herself. Too fancy, not her style. It's irritating, but lessened slightly by just how Rebecca says it. It rolls of her tongue with grace and ease, not the begrudging forced delivery of it when most people say it out of a mere obligation not to deadname her. She can always tell when they don't mean it — but Rebecca does.

'Besides, your clothes are in the wash for now, so… just try it on, okay? If you don't like it, you can go back to your old attire after.'

…Fine. If nothing else, it gets her out of the bathrobe. She certainly won't be happy about it, though.

Jess grabs the dress with a huff of indignity, and storms off to hopefully find her room alone.

She spends some time awkwardly donning the dress, stuffy and upset with her every motion. It's not the kind of garb she's used to wearing, so it takes her an embarrassingly long time to put it on to begin with, like a child trying something on for the first time.

Jess slips her platform boots back on and strides across the room to the mirror to give herself a quick look up and down.

Her immediate reaction is actually… not one of disgust? The dress certainly isn't something she'd pick for herself, but…

Well, it fits nicely, at the very least. The color matches with that of her platforms, and honestly the contrast between the rough, beat-up leather boots and elegant regal dress is one that she… tolerates, at the least.

Though, she couldn't imagine wearing it without said boots. If it weren't for them and her dyed red hair, then she'd just look like any number of bougie cis women she'd seen around town before; pretty, but utterly soulless.

Thank god it's only temporary.

The view from Jess' room was a lovely novelty on the first day. She'd never seen the city from quite so high up before.

On the second day, it was an artwork. She had the time to herself to truly soak in the view in the late hours of the night, to savor in every little pinprick of light from the skyline she called home.

By the third day, the wonder started to ebb and fade, for it's almost all that she had to see. The posh and insufferable apartment certainly didn't provide much more excitement — and if she was to stray from her room, she'd be more likely to run into Rebecca and one of her lectures.

Now after a week and change, the sights had grown dull. Depressing. Jess longed for nothing more than to be down on those streets, among with the people she knew and loved. Here, everything she could ever "need" for might be taken care of, but that was infinitely less of a concern to her than what she truly needed.

She managed to orient herself quite nicely and piece together a location of the highrise they reside in — since she was still a sobbing, dreadful mess hidden behind tinted glass on the limousine ride here — and as a result she knows the direction that her old neighborhood should be in. Even still, she can't see it. Office skyscrapers plastered in glass, coupled with a thick fog of industry that blankets those parts of her home mean that her view towards the east side is thoroughly stoppered.

That asterisk to the sights from her wall-to-wall window is almost more crushing than the rest of the situation she finds herself in. She has nothing for herself — hasn't been out, hasn't seen anyone, doesn't have a phone nor any other means to access the internet or communicate with Mia and the rest. The apartment is a prison in all but name.

The clock on her bed's nightstand reads 1:13 PM. Rebecca is probably off to "work" by now, but still Jess can't bother to drag herself out of bed. One of the servants will bring her a meal sooner or later — but truthfully she never eats what they bring. Too haughty for her liking, and the stench of exploitation ruins whatever 'elegant' tastes the food might have.

Jess isn't even sure how much she's eaten since being brought here, honestly. She can certainly feel her once plush waistline receding further than even the starvation of the court proceedings caused.

Her plan to topple the wealthy loser who swept her up has been thoroughly shelved for now. Not a drop of energy is found in her body, and Rebecca somehow makes herself both too vacant to study, and too oppressively present to scheme behind.

Sure, Jess could just grab a knife from the kitchen and run her down one day, but then what? How would she clean the blood, dispose of the body? In theory, she could skip on those things and just make a run for it, but they'd catch her shortly, and then it'd be the death penalty for sure.

She has to do it right, do it properly. It's the only way, if she really does want to see Mia and the rest again.

But she just can't for the life of her figure out how. Every time she tries to focus on the thoughts, a vile tarry fog much like the one that coats the bowels of the city sets into her head and stops her mind in its tracks.

Probably the under-eating. She should really get on top of fixing that, at least.

But that can wait another while longer, surely. For all the horrors of her new 'savior', the comfort of her new sleeping arrangement is not something she would squander. God knows she's been in need of some proper rest for a while.

What's another hour or two—

There's a knock at the door, and Jess glances at the clock again.

2:00 PM.

Probably one of the maids.

'Come in.'

The one who pushes open the oversized and grandiose door to Jess' room is none other than Rebecca herself — and for once, she's not wearing some awful, gaudy dress of nobility.

No, today the CEO standing on the precipice to her room with a box in her hands is wearing a pair of sweat pants and a T-shirt.

'…Shouldn't you be at work?'

A small, half-honest chuckle falls from Rebecca's mouth as she sets the box down on the nightstand next to Jess.

'It's Sunday, silly.'

…Has it really been that long? God, the days really have blended together.

'Anyways, I pulled your medical records — you're on injections, right? You're probably overdue.'

An exasperated fury creeps into Jess' face as she sits upright in bed as she starts fuming.

'You had no right to—'

'Well, I am your legal guardian now, and I just want to make sure you're in good health— Have you been eating well?'

Jess rolls her eyes at the question, and Rebecca replies with an awkward face of discomfort at the non-answer. Rebecca turns around and starts unpacking the box, withdrawing various items. Syringes that are shockingly of the proper volume, needles that are mercifully the correct gauge, coupled with some alcohol wipes, band-aids and a prescription vial that looks awfully familiar — but not quite the same as what she's used to.

The sight of the supplies sends a brief shiver down Jess' spine. Rebecca… She cared. Put in effort not only to get Jess her meds, but to get the supplies right?

It's a damn sight more effort than almost anyone else had shown, including just about every actual medical professional she'd ever seen. Only her partners had put more care into this stuff before.

Her injection supplies being laid out before her also helps piece together a few things. The lethargy, the apathy, the depression. Of course she feels like shit, she's way behind on her hormones. This will help get her back to her old self, if nothing else.

Jess gives a hesitant nod to Rebecca and allows her to prepare the dose. She'd do it herself just as she had plenty of times before, but part of her still really doesn't want to move from this bed, and the other part knows that the more time she relaxes, the easier it'll be going in.

Needles never were something she was good with, after all.

So she slows her breathing, she lets her chest rise and fall in an increasingly gentle pace, and her eyes drift to being mostly shut. She still takes the odd glance at Rebecca to ensure she's preparing the dose correctly — and to her credit, she is.

Save for the volume.

'Uh… I usually only do a third of a mil.'

The syringe in Rebecca's hands is holding almost double the volume.

'It's a slightly different concentration, but rest assured, it's the same dose. It's alright, Jessica.'

The CEO sounds like she's telling the truth, and frankly Jess doesn't know what to do but trust her for now. She's living with her for Christ's sake, if Rebecca wished to hurt her, she'd have far easier — and more effective — means of doing so than messing with her estrogen dose.

Jess turns away to expose her thigh for the injection, but just before she does, she can't help but catch a slight tint of a pink hue in the syringe.

She'd never seen that before.

The chill touch of the alcohol wipe sends a shiver down her thigh that distracts her momentarily. It was probably nothing. If she looks back at the syringe now, she'd have to watch as it goes into her flesh — and that just isn't worth it.

A faint pinch goes through her thigh, and she knows intimately what an unsightly thing is happening to her. She tries to push the image of it from her head, but it never stops freaking her out a little bit, even after all this time.

The strange sensation lingers in her body for a second longer than she's used to — probably due to the larger volume of fluid — and then it's gone, replaced by the calm sticky feeling of a band-aid being plastered over the injection site.

It doesn't even look like any of the medication leaked. For what it's worth, Rebecca seems to know her stuff.

Jess' heart pounds a beat, and a faint flutter of warmth runs through her chest. She could almost mistake it for a pang of arousal.

Strange, that's never happened from a shot before.

Rebecca tosses the used syringe into a small sharps bin with a curt 'All done' and turns to leave, resting her hand on the door handle for a second.

'I'm not out to get you, you know.'

Jess doesn't know how to respond.

The view from her window no longer serves as any point of note.

It's just another dull aspect of her repetitive life, now. She's not sure how long it's been since Rebecca swept her up. Longer than a few weeks, that's for sure — since she's had a handful of shots by now.

Really, her injections are the only thing that give her any sense of time. Day after day blends into a menagerie of nothing much interesting at all. She wakes up at some time much later than what Rebecca would like of her. She rots in bed for a good hour or two, she pries herself out of the comfort of her bedding and dons another of those dresses. Everything after that is just a blur of nothing much at all. She doesn't go anywhere, doesn't do anything, doesn't talk to anyone. Rebecca's apartment is no longer this hostile, terrifying space.

Now it's just purgatory.

The humiliation of the dresses has dried up, too. As much as she'd love to cling to her old outfit, she didn't exactly bring enough sets of clothes to last a week, since her things were left behind. They're either still in Mia's caring hands, or swept up and confiscated as part of that "terrorist cell" she was supposedly a part of.

Eventually, she stopped fighting her urge to cling to that sense of normalcy that her own clothes provided. Nothing about this is normal in any way, and after a few weeks the sight of her bitchy jacket just started to wound her instead.

At least she's still got her boots.

The dresses might not be her style, but their lightweight and revealing nature certainly does help with the heat. She hasn't an idea why, but the past few weeks it has just been getting maddeningly hot in the apartment. The thermostat still reads nineteen degrees just as it had on the prior weeks, but she swears it feels like a sauna. It's been getting worse every week, too. She knows that estrogen can make her more susceptible to heat, but it's never been like this before.

A breathy sigh escapes Jess' lips as she sits at the dinner table, half choking under the weight of that burning feeling. Her cheeks run flushed and red, her brow drenched in a slick layer of sweat to boot. She really should bring this up with Rebecca.

One of the maids toiling away to keep the apartment spotless bends over to sweep up a glass that Jess' shaking hands dropped mere minutes earlier. Watching the girl inadvertently exposes herself to Jess' gaze, she can't help but feel her own underwear grow tight and subtly wet from underneath her dress.

For all that the dresses help with the warmth, they certainly do nothing to conceal her erection.

It's humiliating. Jess can tell that the servants notice it from time to time, their eyes wander down to it before darting away to look anywhere else in the whole world but her. The more inexperienced ones seem to let their sight linger a little bit too long, and the maid bending over before her is one of the girls that has made such a mistake.

Maybe she's putting on a show for her, right now.

Rebecca at the very least seems not to fall victim to such curiosities. Although Jess has tried to hide her increasingly present lust from the CEO to the best of her abilities, often she's simply caught unaware, and the rest of the time there's just nothing that can be done to fully hide it.

Yet still, Rebecca never once mentions it, or even seems to acknowledge it. No peeping gaze, no awkward snaps to look away, but rather it's as if it doesn't exist at all.

It's oddly… mature of her. As much as she'd like to say that the attention from the servants turns her on, it doesn't. It just feels horribly awkward and uncomfortable for everyone involved.

Jess wishes that she could ignore her twitching member as well as Rebecca could. Countless times she's slipped away into her room to "deal with something", and every time she only leaves frustrated and more pent up than she had been before. She'd grown too accustomed to having a group of horny, perverse lesbians on hand at all times, and now just jerking off doesn't really do it for her anymore, even in her state of maddening desperation. Plus, it's not like she has access to a phone to mindlessly scroll through porn anymore.

The isolation and lack of release would be bad enough, were it not coupled from the worst heat she's felt in years. It's like she started prog all over again, but amplified tenfold. Worst is, she hasn't even been taking any. She always got it DIY — so it's not on her records — and she certainly isn't going to ask Rebecca about that.

God knows she doesn't need it, right now.

The maid keeps sweeping away at the broken glass, awkwardly shuffling and exposing her far-too-plump ass through tights that hide nothing at all. It looks soft, pristine, and unimaginably nice to—

Jess' breath hitches as she tries to draw her thoughts back into focus. This isn't like her. That poor girl probably doesn't even want to be here, forced to tend to Rebecca's every whim for god knows how little pay. Jess shouldn't be having these thoughts about her, it's not right. She's a victim, just like Jess.

…She could make her into a victim in another kind of way, though—

What the fuck is she thinking?!

Jess' bulge rubs and grinds against her thigh as she awkwardly rises to her feet. She has to deal with this, now; before she does anything stupid.

She takes a step towards her room, trying to do so as silently as possible to not gain any unwanted attention—

'Jessica.' Rebecca's voice interrupts as she's but a step away from the relative privacy of her own room.

Shit.

She contemplates just ignoring Rebecca and rushing inside, but the CEO is nothing if not persistent, she's learned.

Without even turning around to face the woman behind her — and thus exposing her incredibly obvious erection — she hesitantly responds.

'Yyyyes?'

Her voice hitches and cracks under the weight of the lust, almost like she was a teenager again.

…Like she was a teenage boy again.

Eugh. No point dwelling on that.

'You have your hearing today, and we really should be getting ready.'

Fuck! That was today, wasn't it?

It's her first one, and Rebecca has made it painfully clear how important they are for the continued existence of her arrangement. If the judge doesn't seem to think that she's been sufficiently "reformed", she'll be sent straight to prison for the rest of her sentence. Safe to say, it's not a time where she wants to be sporting a boner.

She really, really needs to deal with this, and fast.

'Come, let me help you with your makeup. We need you looking nice and proper, right?'

Nononononononono—

Dread crashes through her. She knows that Rebecca probably won't notice her boner — and if she does notice, that she won't care — but still, she can't let herself be in such close proximity with her when she's this needy.

God knows what she might do.

Then again, why does she… care?

Why is she putting so much effort in to seem respectful towards Rebecca? She shouldn't give a fuck. If Rebecca sees her at full mast, throbbing and dripping with pre, then so what? The dumb bitch is the one who decided to take her in, after all.

The maids are different, they didn't choose to be here. Rebecca did. She couldn't give less of a shit about what she thinks, actually.

Yeah. Yeah, you know what? Fuck her. She'll probably just turn a blind eye anyway.

With an only slightly-creepy smile, Jess turns around and swiftly follows her guardian into the bathroom, knowing full well that her boner is on somewhat-proud display.

Just as expected, Rebecca doesn't pay her any mind.

Jess certainly can't say the same for herself. Striding in tow just behind the drop-dead gorgeous CEO, she has quite the nice view of Rebecca's rear. It's not quite as… enticing as the servant girl, but it's a lot less morally questionable. If anything, eye-fucking her could be seen as praxis.

The way her dress drapes across her curves, helping to mask them in some places and accentuate them in others… god, it's addicting. It leaves just enough up to Jess' perverse imagination, while providing plenty of detail to fill in the blanks. Every second spent staring at it does nothing but exaggerate her already raging lust.

As Jess follows her through the bathroom door, she turns to shut it behind them — and gently brushes her bulge against Rebecca's ass in the process.

A faint gasp falls from Rebecca's mouth and time seems to freeze, the world itself a deer caught in headlights.

The first thought that Jess has which pierces the silence is the sensation.

It was plush. Softer than it looks, even. The thought elicits another throb, another dollop of pre into her fine dress.

What will Rebecca say — if anything at all? She's tried to ignore it thus far, but now that she's felt Jess' cock on her ass?

Rebecca should call her out. She should get offended, throw Jess out of the room, defend herself. It's what any reasonable, self respecting woman would do in this situation.

…But she doesn't.

The eternity of pause comes to an end through Rebecca allowing her body to relax a tiny bit, before trying to awkwardly continue towards the mirror to prepare the makeup.

Something inside of Jess just snaps at that flagrant display of ignorance.

This wealthy bastard, this gifted-from-birth whore who has had everything fed to her on a silver platter doesn't even have the decency to be disgusted at her? Is she still so enamored in the idea of Jess being some fucked up adopted daughter for her, that she can't imagine Jess is capable of assaulting her? Is she just trying to ignore it to make her life easier, or does she not want to believe the fact that she let a perverted, sex-addled tranny into her abode?

Hell, maybe she's trying to be a better victim.

Maybe she wants this. She dresses like a whore, she moves like a slut, her back is always arched to subtly present her ass, and she tries to ignore it all, while constantly playing the oblivious, adoring mother figure? She's practically acting like someone straight out of a porno.

And Jess just can't let that slide. Not when she's this desperate. If Rebecca is going to try and turn a blind eye for the sake of her own convenience, then Jess will give her something she can't quite ignore.

She was planning on killing Rebecca when she had the chance anyway — so what's wrong with having a little fun, first?

The younger girl's hands clasp around Rebecca's waist with the glee of a previously shackled animal set free. She gropes, squeeze, kneads into the CEO's flesh, feeling the softness where her torso ends and her meaty ass begins. She takes a moment to delight in the tenderness of it, before shoving her prize against the bathroom counter, sending god knows how many hundreds of dollars worth of toiletries crashing to the floor in the havoc.

Rebecca lets out a shocked yelp, but no words of actual resistance or confusion come from her mouth. She only whines like the pathetic mutt that she is.

The wretched sounds that ooze from Rebecca's mouth make Jess really excited. God, she's pathetic even by the standards of the girls Jess is much more familiar with. Not to mention how she reminds her of how Mia would squirm, writhe and moan when she held her hand to the pretty girl's neck and pinned her down.

Only Mia was playing. They always had a strong promise of consent and mutual respect there. No such luxury is given to this asshole. She'd fantasized about doing the real thing for a while to be honest, but never thought that…

It's almost too good to be true.

But it's not like she's going to stop now.

She exhausts a breath held in from sheer appreciation of the moment, and hesitates no further. She has her prize within reach, the object of her desire, of her aching need. Jess' hands dig into the soft, silken and whisper thin fabric of Rebecca's dress, and tears it in half with ease.

God, she'd always wanted to do that.

The sight that she beholds is one of pure, magnificent beauty. Not a single imperfection mars the older woman's ass. Not a hair, nor a blemish or spec of dirt can be found. It's perfectly tended to, almost artistic in nature—

oh god.

She's not even wearing panties.

It's like Rebecca wanted this to happen.

She did, didn't she? That's why she pretends to act so oblivious. That's why she always dresses the way she does, that's why she took Jess in. She's a pathetic, chaser whore who secretly wants to get raped by a tranny like Jess.

It's laughable, really. Disgusting, depraved and deeply embarrassing. If Jess wasn't so damn needy for a hole right about now, she'd never dare indulge such a brazenly fetishistic desire from a bougie loser like her.

But she is so needy, and there's only one way to deal with that, now.

She hastily pulls a hand away from Rebecca's exposed ass, and fumbles to pull her dress aside and discard her own underwear. Her dick springs free, leaking and throbbing worse than it's ever been in her life. She fears that even a slight touch with Rebecca's fleshlight of a body would be enough to make her cum.

Jess slaps her twitching cock onto the CEO's bare ass, and a moan pours from her agape mouth from just the subtle bit of warmth that Rebecca's body gives her.

She's going to enjoy every last second of this whore, for all that she's worth—

'Jeremy.' Says Rebecca with the sternness only a mother could command, and the world itself cracks in two.

The name is a blade straight through her heart.

She hasn't heard it in years. For all intents and purposes, Jeremy Bailey ceased to exist over a decade ago.

Even throughout the dissociative fugue of her trial, she doesn't recall hearing it uttered once.

It's more than enough to give her pause in her action, a pause which Rebecca takes full advantage of.

'I'd like you to think very carefully about what it is you're doing, right now.'

She listens. She knows she shouldn't, she knows that every last word that comes out of Rebecca's mouth is going to be some vile deluge of hate after she stooped so low as to use that name on her.

She knows that nobody who would do that has a word worth listening to.

But she can't help herself. The sudden knife-thrust of the name was disarming enough that she can't stop the words from finding purchase in her head.

What is she doing, exactly?

She's raping Rebecca.

Not in the playful way like she "raped" Mia or the countless other girls she's had kinky flings with.

No, this is different. It's assault. It's abhorrent. Wrong in every sense of the word.

It's not something she would do. Not something any decent person would do.

'Does this seem very ladylike of you, Jeremy?'

The name again. The knife twists deeper through her heart, a punctuation of disgust on top of the already crushing weight of what was asked.

Of course it's not. She'd been on the receiving end of this before, and it certainly wasn't a woman who did that.

What is she doing? What was she thinking— god, those horrible, objectifying thoughts that ran through her head… how did she even get to this point to begin with, fuck— she—

Jess staggers back in disgust, her gradually softening dick oozing a disgusting trail of pre that marks her victim's body even in her retreat.

Rebecca shifts around on the counter such that she can look Jess in the eyes.

'Jessica, do you truly wish to be a woman?'

Of course she does.

The only question now is does she deserve to.

Jess nods her head nods in a weak approval.

'Then I think you aught to get more in control of yourself, young lady.'

Jess is lost for words. She's still thinking it back over in her head — the buildup to it all, how did she just… why didn't she stop to think for even a moment? She's had moments of poor judgement stemming from arousal before, but…

She didn't see a single thing was wrong with what she was doing, not until Rebecca confronted her. She would've kept going, would've done god knows what to this woman, and for what?

Nobody deserves that. Not even Rebecca.

Tears start to roll down Jess' cheek as the half-undressed woman approaches, pulling her into an awkwardly stiff hug.

'After all, it's men who do things like this.'

For a moment Jess thinks to combat the notion. To argue. To put up a fight.

But she can't.

She can't because the worst part is that Rebecca is right.

That's why it hurts so badly.

It's not just enough that she violated this poor woman, but in doing so she even violated herself. Her identity. Who she is.

It certainly wasn't a woman who did this.

'We can't have this happening again, okay?'

of course not.

she'd sooner die.

perhaps Rebecca can see how jess feels about it all. perhaps she can see straight into her soul and see how badly she's hurting over this, as the embrace grows tighter and warmer by the second.

or perhaps she can't. perhaps she doesn't think jess cares at all. maybe jess just wants her to know how guilty she feels, how sickly the taste of this all hangs in her mouth.

'I'll help you with everything, dear. Don't worry.'

Rebecca will help her.

though it's not like she deserves it.

'For now though, we have a meeting to attend, okay? Just do as I say.'

jess doesn't think he can trust himself to do much else, anymore.

Jessica isn't quite sure when exactly she came back to her senses. One moment she's half crying in the bathroom, a dysphoric, broken mess of a 'girl', and the next moment she's in bed, with the moon high in the sky outside. The time in between not anything more than a dissociative fog of nothing important at all. She thinks that the meeting went well, though she supposes it had to given the fact that she's still here and not rotting away in a cell.

The only thing she knows for certain is that Rebecca helped her through it. She made sure it was all okay.

She's awfully nice, that way.

It was so kind of her to take Jessica in, even if she wanted nothing to do with her.

It was so kind of her to give Jessica some new clothes, even if she didn't like them at first.

It was so kind of her to help Jessica with her medicine, even if it didn't quite feel right.

It was so kind of her to put Jessica in her place, even if she felt horrible about it.

It was so kind of her to let Jessica sleep in her bed, even if she never asked for—

…what?

Jess suddenly realizes that what details of the dimly lit room she can parse don't quite line up with those from her own room. She turns over onto her side, and there's another body in the bed. From the glimmers of dancing moonlight through the window, she can just make out the face as Rebecca's.

…She certainly smells like the CEO, that's for sure. All her royally gentle fragrances just softly effusing into the room. The floral notes are pleasant. Comforting. Safe.

Jess gently buries her face against Rebecca's sleeping body, taking care to delight in her warmth and perfume.

She really does have a lot to thank her for, doesn't she? She can't imagine what she would've done earlier, had Rebecca not stopped her in the bathroom…

How she would've just… let her hands keep feeling up the CEO's body, just as she does now…

How she would've started to softly grind and rub against her, just like she's currently doing…

How she would've just allowed herself to get lost in the moment, in the lust, in…

Rebecca softly stirs from her sleep with a dull groan.

'Jessica? Is that you?'

Her heart stalls, falling back down to earth. She didn't mean to—

but, then again… god she's so hard. She never did get to deal with her lust from earlier, even if it was lost in that fugue for hours.

What was it that Rebecca said… She'd "help her with anything"? So then that would extend to this, right..?

'…Becca…' Jess moans out, going back to senselessly rutting against her protector's thighs under the blanket.

At this, the older woman quickly turns on the bedside lamp and rolls over to get a look at the needy little girl across from her.

'Oh dear, are you alright?'

All that serves to answer Rebecca's question is a pair of big, beady puppy-dog eyes as Jess' body burns with an aching arousal the likes of which she's never felt, her grinding unceasing. She needs release more than she needs air.

A thought flies through her mind for a moment — this lust, this need that she has — it's not like anything she's felt, even after she's tried countless drugs to spice things up in bed. It's certainly not like anything natural she's felt before. Probably because it isn't natural.

Probably because of whatever that subtle pink hue in her injections has been.

For just a moment, the realization strikes terror into her heart. For just a moment, she realizes what's happened. For just a moment, she—

Rebecca's warm hand suddenly grips her shaft, a ragged moan derailing her every thought.

The touch is electric, the pleasure an agony of overstimulation. Whatever she was thinking about, it's well and truly gone.

Her touch is much more important, obviously.

Rebecca starts slowly moving her hand up and down along Jess' twitching length, every small motion coaxing a hearty glob of pre from her shaft, the tiniest touch of the Woman's fingers an orgasm unto itself.

A wretched, messy moan tears through the calm of the bedroom, the kind of sound that a pathetic girl of sixteen makes when she's lost her virginity — and for the moment, that's who Jess is, again.

For the few minutes that Rebecca spends slowly stroking her shaft without much of a hint of lust on the CEO's face, Jess is reduced to nothing but a squirming, desperate teenage girl.

For the five minutes and seventeen seconds that she manages to last before climax consumes her, she's just a little girl, a pathetic, worthless thing in the hands of a better woman.

Rebecca doesn't say a word for those five minutes, which feel to last an hour at least. The whole experience is silent save for the tortured moans of the poor girl, and if Jess could see through the haze of lust and the shudders of pleasure, then the bland look of disinterest on Rebecca's face would tell her everything.

But she doesn't see that, and even if she did, she's fully lost to the sensations of it all anyway.

Tears shake free from Jess quivering body as she succumbs to pleasure, a vile and overpowering orgasm rippling through her from top to bottom. Normally she's one to give a breathy, romantic moan of her lover's name in the throes of pleasure. Not today. Today, all that comes out of her at climax is another of her worthless, stupid grunts of pleasure mixed with the growing sound of tears.

After a while, the moans subside, and only the soft crying remains.

Rebecca is there to help, though. The older woman pulls her in tight, gently cradling her and pressing Jess' head against her warm, soft body. It doesn't staunch the tears, but it does slow them, her touch making them sting a little less.

She's not sure how long they spend in that soft, heartbroken silence. She doesn't even know what she's crying over, honestly. Isn't this what she wanted?

…Come to think of it, Jess doesn't really know what she wanted, if anything. She had a need — a need that was filled. What is left behind said need is just a strange hollowness.

Before she can hope to dwell on the feeling any longer, Rebecca mercifully pierces the silence.

'I hope you know that this was a one time thing. We can't have this happening again, right?'

Jess nods in a sobbing agreement. She doesn't even know why she's agreeing — or truthfully, what she's agreeing to — but she knows it feels better than spending the effort to fight Her.

'Good.'

Rebecca gives Jess a small pet on the head, and turns to fish something out of the dresser. Jess lay there for a moment with eyes shut and body quivering, before she finally endeavors to let the world back into view.

And sees Rebecca brandishing a flat chastity cage.

'This should help.'

Jess should protest. She should fight this — she knows how much she hates being chaste, and not even in the cutesy-flustered-sub kind of way. She tried it once with a now long gone ex-girlfriend on her insistence, and it was one of the most infuriating and demeaning things she'd ever experienced, having that agency and bodily autonomy stripped from her. The friction it caused was one of the main reasons Jess dumped her.

But this… This is different, right? It's not out of some fetishistic desire, it's just Rebecca looking out for her — the same way She cared to get Jess' medication, the same way She cared to help relieve her. This is just tending to her needs, making sure that she doesn't make the same mistake as earlier today, right?

Rebecca only wants to help her. She's said as much. It's… This is fine, it's fine. Has to be.

…Jess knows that she doesn't even believe what she's telling herself.

But it's easier to accept the lie than confront the alternative.

Being stuck with a sickly sweet caretaker who only wants to help is a hell of a lot easier to swallow than being enslaved to some psychotic aristocrat who drugged her, who baited her into raping her, who abused and dead-named her, who manipulated her into fulfilling her twisted fantasy.

If it were the latter, she'd be letting it all happen without a fight.

If it were the latter, she'd be spreading her legs and laying still for that sick fuck to bind her into chastity.

If it were the latter, she'd be watching without resistance as the key gets stuffed away god-knows-where.

If it were the latter, she'd be crying into her captor's shoulder like some fucked up proof of Stockholm syndrome.

But that's not real, so that doesn't make any sense, right?

It's a lot easier if she just accepts that Rebecca is here to help.

She says as much, and it's a lot easier to fall asleep in her arms that way, no matter how much it makes her cry. No matter how much she can't tell if those tears are sad, happy, or disgusted.

If She says this is all okay, then Jessica isn't a victim again. Instead, she's being saved.

So then, this must be fine.

Rebecca must be here to help.

Right?

It's more comforting than the alternative.

'Goodnight, Jessica.'

'goodnight, Mom.'