Fandom: Desperate Housewives, RPFS
Pairing: Bree/Lynette/Marcia/Felicity, in four different combinations of three
Rating: R, bdsm
Word count: 111+111+111+111
A/N: linked @ bree_lynette and desperate_rpf
Lynette knows what she wants. When she walked into the sex shop, heat fluttered in her belly. She wasn’t thinking of Tom. Bree is pristine and unbreachable as the image on a movie screen, but Lynette knows that delectable sins lurk beneath the Technicolor surface. Sure as she knows she could peel off Bree’s sweater-sets and find lingerie and lace.
What Lynette doesn’t know is how to convince Bree.
Felicity is the uninhibited one. Lynette finds her in her trailer, arms wrapped around Marcia’s waist. “I thought you might come to me with this,” Lynette chuckles. Marcia says, “Let me talk to her.” Felicity’s fingers are tracing circles on her skin.
“You look absurd,” Bree says, primly. Lynette is standing on her doorstep in a French maid fetish costume. “And you,” she scolds Marcia, “most certainly should not be here.”
Marcia just smiles. “You’d better let us in, then, before the neighbors start talking.” Lynette idles anxiously in the foyer, twirling the feather duster between her fingers. Brimming with mute longing — in Bree’s vocabulary, there are no words for what she needs.
Marcia says, “She just wants to clean, Bree, what can it hurt?” Lynette’s skirt is so short that, when she’s on hands and knees, the curve of her ass peeks out, tempting. Marcia watches Bree watch Lynette scrub the floor.
“Dear lord,” Felicity says, “that’s hot.” Marcia has Bree pinned against the wall, kissing her.
Bree gets her forearms between them, pushes Marcia away, violently. “How dare you,” Bree says. “How dare you bring these perversions into my house. How dare you make me a deviant. I’m not like you.”
“Aren’t you?” They stare each other down, mirror images. “Lynette wants to help you, Bree. And not just with the housework.”
“Good thing, because she didn’t do a particularly thorough job,” Felicity remarks mildly, bending to run her fingertip along an unrinsed streak of soap on the floor.
“Lynette,” Bree says, “is dirty.”
“Well, why don’t you teach her a lesson?”
The crop whips down on Lynette’s buttocks — whoosh, snap, gasp. Lynette is on her knees again, with her skirt flipped up to expose her entirely. “Every inch,” Bree says, icily. Lynette is cleaning the tiles with her tongue. “What are you?” Bree asks.
“I’m dirty,” Lynette says. And then, “Please, punish me. I deserve it.” Bree is perfect.
Not so perfect, though, that she can wait until Lynette is finished. Bree falls to the floor beside her, pulls aside Lynette’s thong and enters her with two fingers — moan.
Felicity comes up behind, undoes Bree’s pants, works her hand inside. Bree’s as wet as Lynette. Felicity says, “We know what you want.”