Got - Wrap After-Party

Author's note: After many months spent on a project of futa novel, I decided to clear my head with a short story. The self-imposed rule was to write as fast as possible, without the painfully long rewriting and overthinking I usually indulge in, and then to see what happens. I hope the result is readable. Feel free to tell otherwise in the comments.

Given the setting, I tried to make use of the British lingo as best as I could. I ain't no specialist though, so I apologize in advance to my Albionic readers and to the Queen.

Also DISCLAIMER: Obviously this is a work of fiction. If some elements are based on real events, none of the scenes described happened, because we live in the worst timeline.

None of the situations and dialogues were intended to be calumnious toward the celebrities named therein, or to convey rumors. They only served the story and are for entertainment purposes.

*****

The wrap party had reached its climax. The 2,500 people (more or less) in Waterfront Hall were raising the final glass to the most successful show in the world, shedding the last tear, wetting the shoulder of the final hug for a cast and crew about to be officially dissolved after eight seasons.

Most of them had showed up to the giant get-together, actors, writers, tech people, money people, famous, non-famous, infamous, with a usual court of freeloaders, and were wholeheartedly hitting the peak of celebration through booze and uproar. But most of them had enough experience of the industry to know how things would go from there.

All the throwback videos played, all the speeches made, the theme from

Game of Thrones

would resound in the auditorium, met by an unsurprised but overly emotional rumble of dragonish chants, then the exhilarated sense of kinship and all the short-lived promises would crumble under their own weight. Despite the DJ turning the music up, going into a seamless stream of catchy songs and strobing lights, supposed to get everybody on the dance-floor till dawn, the ballroom would start to empty, slowly and then inexorably.

The more people had been involved in the show, the less likely they were to hang around. No one wants to get stuck for eternity in a black & white group photograph where it's painfully obvious you're drunk and already wallowing in the question of the big thereafter, the hardest one in show business.

After these few hours and drinks, after the ultimate ruckus, the true ending of a farewell party, they would leave the place to the +1s, who never have to sober up.

For some the small afterwards would be a good night sleep, a red eye out of Belfast for others, and to all a phone call to an agent first thing tomorrow.

For Emilia Clarke, it was an after-party.

Like everyone else at this moment she was crying her little heart out in the mess of castmates and co-workers surrounding her like an earthquake, sad to say goodbye, good luck, good memories, but her emotions had been somewhat hollowed out three minutes ago by a text message.

First by the

*ding*

of her phone she had managed to hear in the deafening crowd—after all she had been waiting for it all evening—and then reading it did the rest. The frantic excitement around her became a blur, its noise a drone, and only her internal voice appeared steady and full, repeating the four-word text over and over:

Room 68, 15min

, counting down

Room 68, 14min... Room 68, 13min... Room 68, 12min...

as her mind was slipping towards more intimate excitements.

To make things more nerve-wracking, the text wasn't asking for an RSVP. The first text a month before had made it clear. As clear as its implication: no bargaining, you were either in or out.

Emilia was in. She had been from the beginning, her brain and the circumstances never gave her a chance.

She was in her hotel room when it all began, after a day of shooting, fresh out of the shower and ready for a night of testing out the brand new dildo from Bad Dragon, which they had gracefully sent her.

There was a knock on her door. Her pussy, damp with anticipation, became as tingly as her mind's eye already visualizing the kind of sapphic delights this night knocker had planned for her and she ran for the door.

But it was only

a package for you Ms. Clarke

and she'd better put on a dressing gown.

She tipped the bellboy unenthusiastically and then dropped the cardboard box on a coffee table among the pile of other gifts and letters and flowers without any more enthusiasm, leaving its content for tomorrow. She had already forgotten about it striding off to the other box, the one on her bed, full of sextoys and cumlube, but that's when she received a text, the first text.

The perfect timing gave her a hint that she should read it immediately.

Just seeing the first line made her run back to the coffee table and snatch up the box without any mercy for the expensive gift bags standing in her way.

And now she had two boxes of sextoys on her bed, side by side, one from a manufacturer, the other from Sophie Turner, slut extraordinaire and master strategist, Emilia's regular night knocker and the only person in this world who could rock her knickers off without even being in the room.

The message consisted of short, clear instructions. No reply. And Emilia, still horny, still using her mind's eye, gave in, struck by an additional shiver down her loins when she saw the text was a group text.

She followed what it said, waiting for further orders, hoping it wasn't all a dream the rest of the month of shooting.

The second, final text had woken her up from the dream. Harshly.

The reality of its last instructions

Room 68, 9min...

was blazing like ice and fire over the frivolous confusion of the wrap party. It made it hard to see who had left and who was still here among the female cast; who was in and who was out. There would be no support, no certainties, she was to be alone with her instructions until she would enter Room 68,

8min...

There went a certain bassline of cello. Emilia gulped down her last round of whiskey, chewed on the ice cubes almost cartoonishly and after a last—almost feigned—look at her watch, escaped the forest of drunk arms and lips, strolling as casually as possible, like a respectable celebrity, to the underground passage connecting the auditorium to the Hilton hotel nearby.

The next day, a paparazzi photograph would simply read

EMILIA CLARKE LEAVING THE PARTY BEHIND FOR OTHER IRON THRONES.

*****

In other circumstances, the muzak version of the

GoT

theme playing in the lift would have made Emilia laugh to tears, but all the humidity of her body was hogged by one central point. She was wet, counting the floors as they passed by on the panel.

4

th

floor... 5

th

floor...

waiting for the

*ding*

6

th

floor. The doors opened. She stepped into a hushed silence and the brushing of her heels on the thick carpet.

It was as if everything had calmed down gradually from the flashing ballroom to this well-lit hallway. Such irony. Here everyone could hear her nervousness or see her horniness, which would soon trickle down the inside of her thighs. She had to keep moving.

There was a man at the end of the path, twice as tall as her.

It's not the end, only the middle

, she thought.

His calm presence pulled her to the door of Room 68.

'Good evening Ms. Clarke,' the bodyguard said, 'Mrs. Turner is waiting for you. If you allow me, I have to check for your price of entry.'

'Oh...of course!' Emilia stammered. The instructions came to her once again, in the voice of Sophie.

The man drew a handheld metal detector from under his Italian cut jacket. 'Just spread your legs, please.'

It was over before Emilia could understand what was happening. The man checked her crotch

*ding*

She was in the clear. He stepped away from the door and ushered her in without a word.

And just like that, she was in. She could hear it, there was a music of feminine voices. It guided her through a dim entryway, told her everything would be all right, and hot, excruciatingly hot. One last corner and here they were.

Room 68, 0min.

'Milly, you came!' Sophie Turner said, darting towards her.

Before she could reply, Emilia was in her arms. She wanted to close her eyes, as tight as this embrace, and maybe expel all her feelings at Sophie, everything the fear had compressed inside her heart all evening, but she needed to look around. Almost an atavistic precaution.

There were two women lying lavishly on the L-shaped couch that spread across the room, looking back at her.

Natalie Dormer was not a surprise. Rose Leslie on the other hand: definitely. Emilia and her were friends, confidants, and knew everything of each other's long nights with Sophie Turner. Mostly. But Rose was a blusher, someone who always swore it was the last time everytime.

Being here tonight was more than having one last lesbian orgy with your soon-to-be ex-colleagues, it was breaking her promise one last time forever. In just one glimpse, their stunned gaze said

I guess that's it, we're finally having sex together tonight and you'll also discover how much of a slut I am.

If it wasn't for the body heat of Sophie surrounding her, Emilia would have panicked.

Hey

, the two women said from the couch. Emilia waved back from inside the tight hug and then a tongue invaded her mouth. It shoved in the fact that she didn't have to pretend, they had all gathered here for one thing and there was no need for any composure or modesty. Those belonged to Sophie now.

So Emilia closed her eyes and let herself be watched. After all she knew it would be like this, it was part of the thrill, to show her co-workers that yes, she too belonged to Sophie Turner, that all this time she had been her booty call.

The French kiss became very intense, everyone could hear each other breathing heavily. When Emilia was suddenly let go, she backed up for air.

'Amir has locked the door now,' Sophie said (It meant no going out). 'You're the last one. I expected more but I guess they didn't make it. Their loss!'

A list of names scrolled in Emilia's mind, images of what could have happened... Again she turned towards Rose.

Why does fear have to be so close to arousal?

she wondered. She was incapable of discerning the two when she was looking at her friend and her red hair, her freckles, her blue eyes...

Unaware or indifferent to these considerations, Sophie invited Emilia to sit and help herself with a glass of champagne.

She had her own considerations. She placed herself in front of her guests, magnetic, gorgeous and surprisingly timid:

'So, first I wanna thank you all for being here. These last four years you saw me fuck my way across the cast of this stupid show and not really paying attention to what any of you might feel. You had every reason to just stay the fuck away forever now that it's over. Especially you Natalie, you had it the toughest because of those pictures at Comic-Con.'

'For the last time Sophie, unlike you I wasn't drunk that day, I knew what I was doing. And really I'm honoured I was your first, it was worth the gossip.'

Sophie nodded, unable to lift her eyes from the floor. If she did she would have seen Natalie smiling tenderly at her.

She went on:

'What I'm trying to say is: you guys are awesome, thank you, from the bottom of my heart. If I organized this after-party and if I made it so hard to access, it's because I'm done playing sexual butterfly with you. I want something else. If you're here you've guessed the nature of it. I want to be yours. And I want you to be mine. Like... it's like if I renounce these one-night-stands with you and have you all at the same time... like... if you belong to me instead of belonging to my every whim, it could be like we are actually...

a thing

? Does it make sense?'

None of them could answer that. Natalie tried:

'Well, I mean when I got that package, I guess Rose and Emilia will agree with me, I knew you'd want more than just sex from us. And...Sophie, our relationship has always been all-in from the start, I mean...'

'What does Joe think about it?' Emilia asked.

Sophie snorted. 'I'm his beard!'

'What?'

'Google it!'

Emilia did just that and if she had never heard the word before, she was not surprised of its definition. It was still common practice in the wonderful world of entertainment.

Rose tried to figure it out: 'So it would be like the Mormons or something? You're the husband and you want us to be the wives.'

'I'd prefer the term

harem

.'

'All right but how does it work?'

'I don't know.'

'Oh...'

Sophie went on, 'I really don't know. To me submission/domination is still this thing almost comical with whips and leather jackets and stuff, I don't know what to make of it. And I don't know how we can sort things out with our careers and everything. But I'm sure we'll find something. Because if you decide to belong to me, if we get things to that extreme, we'll have no other choice but to make it work.'

There was a long silence. It had been a confused speech overall, compared to the determined sobriety of her two text messages. But the meaning was the same. And one word had stuck out: renouncement. They liked this word. They related to it more than ever.

Emilia (and Natalie, and Rose) had already her mind set. Even before the first text, she had let Sophie penetrate her every thoughts, her days and her nights. The pain of seeing her fucking other people only ever showed how strong her bond was, only ever made way for the plenitude of submission.

To her, it had reached that point where Sophie could only be described in French: she was a

raison d'être

.

'What would Kit think about this?' Sophie asked Rose.

'Well... I guess he doesn't have to know.'

'Emilia, your boyfriend?'

She shrugged. 'Who cares?'

'Nat?'

'Single!'

Sophie sat down crossed-legged on the floor and asked one more time.

'You're here because you chose to follow my instructions. Now will you follow me forever?'

If tingles in the tummy had been a noisy phenomenon, the long silence that followed would have been cacophonous.

Emilia spoke first. 'Of course I want to be with you, Sophie. Actually I don't see how it would change anything, I've always been yours, baby, you know that!'

'But do you really want to be mine

this way

?'

Emilia took a pause that wasn't hesitation. 'Yes.'

'Why?'

'I don't know. That's the whole point. Because if it made enough sense I could think myself out of it.'

As the conversation was slipping towards these religious undertones, Natalie and Rose stepped in, each in their own way, with their own words, but their answer was the same. They gave Sophie their soul by handing her their body.

And then there were tears. From the four of them. Until Sophie added: 'I propose you call me mistress—'

Her three slaves burst out laughing, saying

No fucking way!

and Sophie joined them in, with her whole heart and humour. Nothing breaks if it can bend, this she learned playing powerplay. And after all they were friends. None of them had to forget that. They were. They really were.

Deep down Emilia knew they would do it eventually, as ridiculous as it would sound out loud, she

was

their mistress, their goddess, she had been for a long time and they had accepted it the moment they crossed the door of Room 68.

'The gifts I sent you have a tracking device inside,' Sophie explained, 'I'll be able to know where you are anywhere on earth. I can give you the app if you wanna have fun together someday.'

Emilia had always been too shy to ask Natalie Dormer out and too respectful to ask Rose to cheat, but in the glance the three of them exchanged, all she saw was the possibility of eight years of sexual frustration evaporating.

'From the look on your faces I guess it's a yes,' Sophie said. 'I propose we spend the rest of the night fucking each other's brains out, to celebrate.'

'Yes!'

'Yes!'

'Yes!'

She sprang up and dropped into their arms for a group hug that had nothing to do with fucking or with brains. They were four girls, still friends, still laughing, about to plunge into a strange relationship, based on strange feelings, of which they'd still have to figure out the rules and the nature. It was a liberating reaction, and as opposed to the moshing in the auditorium, it was not a hug for an ending, it was a hug forward.

They messed around on the couch like a bunch of kids, then, spontaneously, adulting came over and they began to kiss, a four-way sloppy kiss with lots of tongue and frisky hands.

Emilia was taking in everything she could, she now had not one but three mouths to perceive and communicate with, three women to fall in love with. She could vividly remember every time she had sex with Sophie, but she had lost count of how many times she had masturbated thinking about Rose or Natalie. And now she could taste their lips, she could taste Sophie on their lips, it was incredible, nuanced, a friend, a lover and a celebrity crush, the three melting in, bleeding out. And she wanted more.

Sophie noticed. She grabbed Emilia by the upper arm and made her get up.

'Take your clothes off,' she said to her.

As blunt as it was, Emilia didn't budge. She didn't have to repress any surprise in her because there was none. Sophie had only stated the obvious, her clothes were a stain on the hierarchy now implicit to Room 68. Her place was to be naked.

She walked to the centre of the room, three pairs of eyes getting attentive, running up and down her body, Sophie in the middle, her two slaves flanking her on either side.

It was like her first time on stage all over again. But this time she wasn't going to play someone else.

Her fingers reached for the straps of her dress, she marked a pause so her audience could see they were trembling.

'Go on then, it's nothing we haven't seen before!' Sophie quipped and the Givenchy silk camisole dress fell between her ankles in a heap, unceremoniously, with no music, no dance moves and certainly no twerking. Emilia wasn't wearing any underwear, as is customary with designer clothes, neither nipple pasties nor a flesh-coloured thong. She had made herself simply and utterly bare for all to see.

But she wasn't done yet, she crouched to unbuckle her heels. Underneath, she was wearing delicate ankle socks. As she took these off, a moan escaped her lips. Not just because she was finally completely naked, because she loved showing her feet. She loved any and all attention to them. It was her twisted nudity, her sweet, sweet shame. She never made a secret of it either, as a lot of photographers could attest and most of her photoshoots could prove. Fame had greatly helped her indulge in flaunting them to the world. Tonight no less than three celebrities were perving at her feet and it outshined the countless nights she spent thinking about all the loads shot to her soles, every clit rubbed for her toes.

'Look at this absolute footslut!' Sophie sneered, 'I bet you creamed your pants when you had your last pedicure, thinking about tonight!'

'I did. The girl at the waxing salon noticed how wet I was, it was awkward...'

Emilia expected all eyes to rise up to her smooth mons but it didn't happen. It made her moan again and she would have had a feet orgasm on the spot if such a thing existed.

'Did you touch yourself when you got back home?'