Changeling (Completed)

Day Seventeen-and-a-Half

Day Seventeen-and-a-Half - Thirteen Days Left

This is so important. So. Important. I put it all in its own entry. Take note, Council thugs. I am Ronson's mistress. Mistress. You need a definition? Here you go:

Mistress (noun)

mis·​tress | \ ˈmi-strəs \

- something personified as female that rules, directs, or dominates (like me!)

or

- a woman other than his wife with whom a married man has a continuing sexual relationship (also like me!)

or even...

- archaic: SWEETHEART - used archaically as a title prefixed to the name of a married or unmarried woman (maybe like me? I'm not sure, I'll have to ask Goon. He reads a lot of historical romance books)

Anyway... Day Seventeen-and-a-Half - Thirteen Days Left

My arms ache from hauling around the 3 lb tub of crunchy peanut butter cookie dough, but I refuse to put it down. I stick the spoon into it and scoop out my next bite, nudging open Ronson's office door with my toe as I do.

I walk inside without thinking, only to pull up short at the sight of Ronson embracing Shana, their mouths fused together intimately. "Ew, barf!" I try to say, but the peanut butter makes my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth, so my exclamation of disgust sounds... well, I imagine it still sounds like disgust. Message achieved.

Ronson casually disengages from his fiance while the woman smirks smugly at me. "Innie, what did you need, sweetheart?" Shana's arrogant smile vanishes. A hiss of angry air escapes her mouth as the prettiest red flush rushes to her cheeks.

"Ronson! I know you like that pathetic mutt, but enough with the pet names!" Shana snaps at him.

Ronson walks to his desk and picks up a glass of dark amber liquid. He knocks it back, his adam's apple bobbing. Swallowing, he gives Shana a grim look. "Innie is my mistress, Shana, and I'll call her whatever I like. It's a fair compromise, isn't it?"

I spit out, "you fucker!" but it emerges as just more peanut-butter babble. My favorite snack is betraying me. Shana also sputters incoherently and she doesn't have anything in her mouth. Then again, she just had Ronson's tongue halfway down her throat, so I imagine maybe she can't focus her words properly yet.

Ronson pours another measure of scotch into his glass. He strolls to me casually, his eyes pinning me in place. One hand slides around my nape and tilts my head back just slightly. The other lifts the amber liquid to my mouth.

It burns on the way down almost as much as GCHSWR does when it backfires on me. I inhale, feeling the strong alcohol wash away the last of the peanut butter. Gasping from the strong taste, I inhale and immediately regret it as the combined scents of Ronson and Shana hit me.

"Ew," I manage to say, finally. Ronson just smiles wickedly at me, brown eyes flashing yellow, his hand massaging my nape.

"Your mistress?" Shana chokes out, speaking for us both. Her pretty flush is now the most unbecoming shade of red. Tears shimmer in her eyes. Her smirking mouth is drawn to two thin and angry curls downward. 

Revenge is back on! Screw GCHSWR. Shana-Getting-Caught-Sucking-On-Ronson's-Tongue is so much better. SGCSORT means I can heap the humiliation onto her almost ceaselessly for the next twelve days. Call me the Mistress. Where's my scarlet letter? I'm game.

I've been a mistress, oh, maybe three times? Four if you consider that one man in the Ottoman Empire but as I was one of many women in his life so I'm not sure it counts. In my experience(s), being a mistress can be terrible but also utterly freeing, sometimes at the same time. To put it simply; none of the responsibility, all of the fun.