Authors Note: Just to say that this is a softcore story, and mostly focused on my sadgirls, but I hope that's still interesting <3
CW for emotional labour and sex work/escorting in a vulnerable situation
---
Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
Letting her know where she lived was a mistake, it'd made fixing the doorbell an operational cost. But Maretta's life had been astro-mined out by those mistakes and there wasn't anywhere to go if she didn't keep
digging
from time to time.
Beo had become all of those mistakes of late.
Ding ding ding- jweep.
She let the door slide open remotely and stayed clear of the path her smuggler-pirate-rebel-something -- you ask only as much as excites them -- would carve as she fell through the open doorway. Beo was furious, just not at Maretta. Not
yet.
"Ooh, what is it darling?" she preened, cocking her brow and pretending a dead-eyed stare. "Something got my princess stressing?" Suddenly Beo's own glare was gutting her, probably what you'd see when she was killing you. Maretta was relieved as she cast it down-
"Fucking stressed!?
You think I
ever
come here to talk about that shit?" She tripped back on to her pull-out bed, startled, but before Beo could flick back to see she'd already paved her feelings over with a sweetened smile.
Princess wasn't the right choice for today.
"Of course not, dear, I'm here for you to relieve all that." Maretta leant forward, deliberately pressing awkwardly pushed-up tits even tighter, and set out her dictate, "Now,
come here."
Beo seemed
big
as she shrugged off the bomber-style undercoat of a voidsuit, and boots with cleats that had definitely been used to break bones, settling into silks she'd gifted that Maretta had used to disguise worn-out springs. Those were probably the most expensive thing in this rented box -- except for her.
She traced Beo's arm down to her hand, tickling scars while silently counting new ones. "Give it to me." Using it to pull up her dress's hem before abandoning it, "Now, squeeze."
Beo's attempt to follow her simple instruction was pitiful, barely pawing an inch at the carefully-cultivated
squish.
So Maretta gave her a dismissing look of disappointment. And Beo looked... fuck, she looked embarrassed? Maretta was losing her. She needed to psych herself into the prey she could tempt Beo to hunt.
Does she think she's fucking better than this,
than me?
"What are you doing? Do I look like a stress ball to you?" It was bratty, disbelieving but not cruel, and Beo sparked with curiosity
-- That's right, I know what you like --
before hastily pushing out a scowl and squeaking at her.
"No."
"Hands. Both of them." It took all Maretta's strength just to limply drag them to her chest. She paused for Beo to act, who just sat there clueless, so had to make a show of it; jutting out her chest and pulling tits free. Tilting her head at Beo like an impatient puppy.
And when Beo did finally cup them, frustrated but averting it from Maretta's gaze, she got
tsked
out. "Took you long enough. Squeeze,
harder."
That got Beo to snap back, she couldn't reconcile needing permission with refusing to ever take orders, so she let the whore feel that tension in her tits. "You think you can tell me--"
"Yes."
Cutting her off. "Because you have
no idea
what you want, only that
I
do. That I know what's best
for you.
That's why you're
hEERRe--"
Beo made her hurt this time.
"Hands off."
Maretta cut. Beo 'obeyed', but she got a boorish sneer of displeasure for it.
Yeah,
now she was mad at her.
Maretta laid herself back and patted silks for Beo to follow. At last, she gestured to her throat. "Don't want me to tell you what to do? Squeeze,
and
harder
you pirate bitch."
Finally.
There was Beo beaming with a devious glee, leaping up to straddle and
throttle her.
That excited force made Maretta sputter, before she felt the pressure ease to something that had been measured and negotiated. Then came Beo's other hand, gracing Maretta's cheeks and melting away her arrogant, wax persona with its sweetness.
"You
are
what's best for me. But
first,
you need to be
begging
and
squealing
for it." Beo struck along each degradation with a slap, before pulling in close to burning cheeks.
Her whore was
insensate,
bucking weakly -- so desperate at her closeness -- in search of a kiss. But Beo forced her back down, laughing.
"Oh no no."
she teased. "You've got a fucking fee to earn before you get
any
of that."
Maretta could only smoulder and burn in her grasp.
She was going to keep making these mistakes.
---
A lot of things- No, scratch that,
most things
hurt right now. The whore was exhausted, and ruined, and was letting her arm drape uncomfortably over the side while she groaned deep into polystyrene-stuffed pillows.
Messed the fuck up.
Yeah, that's how Maretta felt.
But one thing felt nice. Beo was sitting next to her, fingers deep in overdyed black curls, gently twirling away. She was humming too -- a tune too pleasant for the woman supposed to have scuttled defenceless Rev-State couriers just for weapons calibration.
It was a mistake to hear that. Digging.
Maretta turned over, and winced at the indignantly lit room.
Fuck, why did Beo do that? She knows I don't like it.
It let you immediately see why Maretta insisted on the fairy lights.
Plastic vines and half-empty bookshelves alone couldn't hide the mould, and not her landlord nor the port authority gave a fuck to fix it.
Third-class. Minimum-rate. Rathole.
Close enough to the station's equally-uncared-for reactor core that she was probably a little irradiated. Smashed-up alarms her testament to how frustratingly pointless it was to care.
"Ugh,
why you gotta expose me like this?" Beo was startled out of her besotment -- the thing Maretta could tell was going to be the
topic de jour
-- and hastily went to pull a pink, fluffy blanket over her.
"Nooo. No. The lights, Beo."
That got her up, to go flick them off. The woman who was supposed to just
crush gore
under her feet now stepping around her mess like a sheepish toddler. Propping back up a button-eyed teddy that
fun
had knocked down, patting it on the head.
It was another mistake to see that.
Digging.
And then Beo was kneeling next to her. She eased off the ruined dress around Maretta's neck, the one she'd used like a
leash,
that Maretta hadn't yet remembered was there on account of not feeling shit right now.
She remembered the first dress Beo had given her.
---
It'd been an ancient,
pre-colonial
ball gown. One shoulder dressed by a bouquet of black velvet roses, the other utterly bare and a cut in the dress's side so deep Maretta needed tape to keep her stuff in place.
Nothing she'd ever owned had been a tenth so enrapturing as that dress. The phantasmal scent of a garden she was imagining in her cheaply-hawked perfume.
And then,
petal-by-petal,
the pirate bitch had plucked every one of those roses free.
Not the first time Maretta had cried with a client, but the first time she hadn't meant to.
How many weeks of sessions was that thing worth, and she just--
Beo stayed after. Maretta had tried to hide the tears and Beo had stayed for three hours consoling and trying to apologise about it. She must've lost more on docking overstay fees than she'd lost on Maretta.
Some whore she could do better than.
And the worst part is it made her come back, with a dress deliberately not-so-fancy. Both to be disposable and not upsetting.
It was Beo's thing, Maretta guessed. She had a dozen spare now, another operational cost.
There were gifts as well, lots of dresses not meant for that. Maretta tried to explain to her that it wasn't the point, it was just because she grew up--
She was crying,
again.
She didn't know what any of it meant to her, or the pirate, so they stayed stuffed away. Plans she had to ditch fell apart because it would have meant leaving those things behind.
Maretta let it happen. Let this pirate be mean to her, then nice to her, then herself to her.
A mistake.
Other clients were nice to her too -- you worked to make sure of that -- but Maretta
