Maucretia

"Well, if nothing else, it's certainly comfortable," Lucretia remarks, staring down at her new skin-tight bodysuit - admittedly more flattering than she expected - as she exits the change room, "and the shade of blue is pretty."

"And that's just the prototype." Maureen says, a note of excitement in her voice that Lucretia can't help but find a little charming. "The real thing will have inter-dimensional pockets for our adventuring teams' inventories. I'm certain I've perfected the polyelectrolyte enzyme-infused coating technology at this point, though."

Lucretia blinks, as she so often finds herself doing in response to Maureen's science talk. "Poly-what?"

The older woman tuts. "Thought you'd never ask! It's one of the main reasons I asked you to model the suit today. It's a regenerative function, see. Any tears or abrasions can be re-sealed simply with water, meaning far less potential exposure to hazardous chemicals in the field."

Lucretia isn't too sure any of the reclaimers have complained of having encountered such things since the Bureau hired them, and she's about to remark as such when Maureen steps closer, reaching for her hand with an excited glint in her eye.

"Trust me, dear?" She says, and pulls out a knife.

Lucretia scoffs. It's only a small switchblade, but it feels like so much more when Maureen takes Lucretia's gloved hand in her own, and creates a thin, clean line in the fabric over her palm.

The blade doesn't even graze her skin. Surgeon's hands.

Wordlessly, Maureen leads her closer to the laboratory desk, takes a cup of water from it (Lucretia /should have known/, she thinks, /the Millers are never hydrated/), and pours a few drops onto the incision.

The poly-whatever fabric knits itself back to perfection before her eyes.

"Maureen," she breathes, "that's incredible…"

"Still needs to be stress tested."

Lucretia's eyes shoot up to meet Maureen's, finding them sharp and /intentional/ behind her glasses. /Stress testing/. She knows what that's code for, in this lab.

"And what would this test entail, precisely, Doctor Miller?" Lucretia manages, although her heart, traitorous, is already pattering.

"Oh, y'know… a few more cuts in the fabric," she talks slow, casual, but the blunt edge of her pocket knife runs a burning trail over Lucretia's hip, "leaving the polyelectrolytes unbound for a little longer, /stain control testing/, all the basics."

"And you'd like my help with that?" Lucretia asks. As if it's a favour. As if she's even considering saying no.

Maureen grins at that, eyes crinkling behind her glasses. "Oh, very much."

The blade swoops; a slow, even arch from her waist to her bellybutton, tearing fabric with little resistance.

"Interesting," Maureen croons, as if she's not just leering at the exposed part of her lover's stomach, "I may have to focus on adding more initial durability."

Lucretia braces her hands and ass on Maureen's desk behind her, and tries to be subtle about the way she turns her thigh out, just a little.

"Good point, dear assistant!" Maureen chirps, and makes a cut so fast right over the soft of her inner thigh that Lucretia barely sees it happen. Still, no blood or pain, nor trepidation. Just a short gasp, and the feeling of her clit beginning to pulse under the inseam of the suit.

"I doubt leg chafing will be an issue, but I suppose if the wearer's thighs were thicker, a softer underlaid material might be desirable." Maureen pats her coat pocket, presumably searching for the pen stuck in her ponytail, and Lucretia can't take it a moment longer.

"Maureen!" She hisses, and it's all she can do to not stomp her foot like a petulant child. "Stop pretending like you're /not/ going to fuck me."

Never has her smirk felt so frustrating to look at.

"Oh! Well, I mean, if you really think that's necessary, Madam Director."

The blade cuts for barely a second, just above her pubic bone, before Maureen pulls it away. "/Actually/…" is all the warning Lucretia gets before Maureen is kneeling in front of her and /tearing/ through the fabric with her hands, a godawful /rip/ exposing her fully.

"No underwear," she comments, like Lucretia /knew/ she would, and she hates them both in that moment, "interesting."

Any retort Lucretia had about /the silhouette looking ugly with underwear seams/ dies on her lips as Maureen grabs and turns her, far from gentle, until she's facing the desk.

"And so /wet/… I hope this washes out, Lucretia."

She hates that Maureen is a mother sometimes. That /voice/, like she's being chided… /Lucretia/ is the director of this entire facility and /yet/-

"Bend over for me. There's a good girl."

She doesn't even try to hide her moan when Maureen penetrates her, two fingers pressing slow and deep into the most sensitive point of her entrance. She's exhaling onto cold metal and scattered paperwork, all her shame already used up.

"Now, what's that pretty word you like?" A second hand snakes around her front to rub her clit in tight circles. "Ah! /Debauched/. That's exactly how you look right now, bent over getting fucked like this. Is that what you want to hear, Miss Director?"

Lucretia pushes her ass up in response, backing into the touch, but each stroke of cold fingers on her clit makes her twitch forward. She's suspended under Maureen's hands and gaze, as she's found herself an embarrassing number of times before, but as two fingers become three inside her, she can't think of any place better to be.

The hand at her front finds the split seam of the fabric and yanks up, tearing it until it meets the cut over her belly and falls, ripped material draping down her inner thigh. It's that, the /sound/ of it, and the feeling at being /clawed at/, that makes her clench and come around Maureen's pumping fingers. Her legs shake from the effort of it, electricity all the way down to her toes as she rocks back into the older woman's touch, keening nonsense words and moans into cluttered workspace.

Maureen rubs a few final, soothing strokes over the length of her, before withdrawing her hand and wiping it nonchalantly on her lab coat.

"Hm. Very good. Phase one stress testing complete."

Lucretia huffs a few steadying breaths as she attempts to right herself on shaky limbs. "What do you mean, phase /one/?"

/Innocent/ is not an expression Maureen's face can quite manage. "Oh, dear, didn't I mention? We're yet to experiment with the bikini version."