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At the first lull in a steady, droning stream of fundraising presentations and overly flowery monetary dedications of values that Samira can hardly even wrap her head around, a low purr off to her right blows a sudden sign of animate life all the way down her spine.
“You look even more stunning than I imagined you would,” Baran says, simultaneously whisper-quiet and deafeningly loud enough to continue ringing through Samira’s ears even over the roaring murmur of the surrounding crowd. The headlining benefactors and other patrons whose wealth earned them an invitation to tonight’s event had for the most part excused themselves to take advantage of the small break in processions; whether to use the restroom or to help themselves to another drink, the rest of the guests seated at their table had been among them, leaving Baran and her plus-one to their first solitary moment since the evening had begun.
Before Samira can swallow her surprise and properly thank Baran for the compliment, she startles with a gentle gasp at a sudden warmth against her thigh. She dips her gaze to see Baran’s impeccable cream colored manicure flush against the black dress Samira had received just earlier that afternoon, tucked inside a package done up with a neat ribbon bow and a small handwritten note. For tonight, it read in what she instantly recognized to be Baran’s professional penmanship. No pictures beforehand. Surprise me, sweet girl. Signed only with a kiss printed in Baran’s favorite shade of lipstick. Her stomach flips now in the same way it had when she’d first laid eyes on it.
“Thank you,” Samira finally manages after she clears her throat. “I… feel like a girl playing dress-up.” Her fingers fidget with the hem of the tablecloth that hangs mere inches over her lap. It’s an oddly honest confession—Samira’s not sure she’s ever smelled so much luxury in the air in one fixed place, and something tells her this gown is likely the most expensive piece of clothing she’s ever worn—but when Baran gingerly brushes the shell of her ear to examine the diamonds that she had also paid to see dangling there, Samira’s mind is suddenly tabula rasa and she promptly forgets that she’d even felt silly in the first place.
“Are the heels comfortable?” Baran asks with such an earnest attentiveness that Samira feels a heat rising to her face so roseate she may as well be caught under the harsh beam of a spotlight. She gulps hard as she watches Baran lean back just enough to lay lascivious eyes on the connecting strap of her shoes that fastens around her bare ankle. “You’re such a beautiful young woman. You must have been made for this.”
The flattery does nothing to help the pooling color in Samira’s cheeks. She adjusts herself anxiously in her seat and Baran’s hand doesn’t budge in the slightest. “For what, hospital fundraising banquets?”
Baran is smiling like she wants to devour her. “For being spoiled,” she croons, liquid smooth like the sip of wine she washes it down with.
A deep inhale is the only response Samira can come up with now that she’s finally turned to face her own benefactress and finds herself looking right into her dark, hungry stare. The statement piece of a necklace that Baran had adorned her with herself just before the event suddenly seems to weigh several pounds heavier over her clavicle. Any more pressure and she’ll buckle, submitting fully to taking her last breath with Baran wrapped in some fashion around her neck. Samira had eagerly accepted at the start of their arrangement that it would happen like this one way or another; whether she’d be suffocated by her charity, smothered beneath overwhelmingly maternal affection, or bled dry by pantheress teeth in the side of her neck she couldn’t be sure. It doesn’t matter now and it never had. She’d obediently succumb to any fate handpicked for her with a smile on her face.
Baran takes another sip of her wine before slowly beginning to inch her hand further down the inside of Samira’s leg. Samira trembles under the suggestive touch and finds herself struggling to come up with anything intelligent to say, so she fills the gaps where she hesitates by tucking a coil of hair that had come loose from her bun back behind her ear.
“Have you given any thought to which residency programs you may be interested in?” Baran asks next, voice brimming with a velvet provocation. “I know you’re still a year away from applying, but I’m curious what you might be thinking.”
Anything I can get, Samira wants to say, but that isn’t what Baran’s money is trying to buy her. “I don’t really know yet,” she admits, which is mostly truthful. She’s just trying to take her MS3 year one week at a time. “I thought I’d try and decide after I’ve been through a few more clinical rotations.”
Something far off in Baran’s eye twinkles the same it does when Samira is pinned beneath her and at her mercy. “Smart girl,” she says with an honest reverence. It’s momentarily dizzying until a voice abruptly booms over the microphone announcing that speeches made on behalf of the recipient hospital’s administration will begin in the next handful of minutes. The man in the seat to Samira’s left returns to the table along with a multitude of other guests who had stepped out for the brief recess. She reaches her quivering fingertips toward her glass of water as a leap of faith in trying to form a game plan for how she’s going to manage to sit still through another round of boring addresses being ogled by the very woman whose eye candy she’s already cashed the check to be for the evening.
“Excuse me,” Baran says unexpectedly to those reconvening at the table, and then to Samira beside her as she begins to rise from her chair. “Just going to use the restroom,” she adds, sultry as the fleeting touch between Samira’s shoulderblades before it’s gone altogether the next moment.
Samira turns to watch Baran as she slips off in the direction of the ladies’ room. Shit, she pities herself now that she has an unobstructed view of the older woman’s ass in her perfectly tailored navy pantsuit, tight curls bouncing over her shoulders as she moves. I’m not even going to live to see residency.
Despite the mild alarm at being left to her own devices in closing a social circle with people wearing more money than she’s probably ever had at once before meeting Baran, Samira nods politely when she’s acknowledged and idly taps her fingers against her knee through the slit up the left side of her dress. She’s not sure how many minutes pass as the last of the stragglers reseat themselves in Baran’s absence, but once the coordinator’s voice reappears over the microphone on the small stage, Samira’s budding anxiety can’t go anywhere but up.
Just then her phone buzzes from where she’d laid it face down on the table when she had last checked the time. As courteously as she can, Samira first makes sure all the attention has returned to the front of the room before she slides her phone off the table and into her lap. A single notification glows on her lockscreen from a contact labeled ‘Mama Bear’ with a heart emoji next to it.
I’m waiting for you, honey, it reads. Samira tastes her heartbeat in her throat.
The decision to draw as little notice to herself as possible as she gets to her feet and follows in Baran’s wake is one of the easiest she’s ever made. Samira isn’t even sure she actually knows where she’s trying to go, she just knows without a doubt that she needs to get there. The soft click of her heels is drowned out by the applause the audience erupts into after some committee president or another’s introduction. Her steps echo once she makes it out of the main banquet hall and into the corridor, turning the first promising-looking corner. At the end of the next hallway, Samira’s chest pounds and makes easy work of pumping a cocktail of hormones through her bloodstream: estradiol, progesterone, oxytocin. Each flood her in equal parts and swell into the same crescendoing ache: arousal. She’s in front of the women’s bathroom, already buzzing with a gnawing desire before she even opens the door.
When she does finally make her way inside, Samira is instantly pressed against the back of the bathroom door. It isn’t five seconds before those familiar hands are groping her waist and Baran is kissing her like it’d been killing her to keep her mouth to herself.
“You look so sexy in everything I buy you, you know?” Baran asks breathlessly into the crook of Samira’s neck. “Look what you’re doing to me, baby.” Those alluring teeth graze the thin skin beneath her jaw. “I need to feel you.”
“Dr. Al-Hashimi,” Samira sighs after she overcomes the initial shock of practically being jumped. Once that rush is settled, there’s no universe in which she continues to put the throbbing heat between her legs on the back burner. “Baran. Mama.” She can’t possibly pick which to settle on, but if the way Baran groans softly is anything to go off, there are no wrong answers. “Are we—in here?” She’s lightheaded and it shows in strides each time she opens her mouth.
Baran is already walking Samira away from the door and leading her towards the long countertop that houses a number of faucets. “If you think you can be good for me,” Baran murmurs, guiding her forward as her hand lingers on the small of her back. She tingles everywhere Baran caresses.
“What if—”
“Hush, princess,” Baran eases as Samira is easily crowded against the edge of the counter. “Nobody’s going to find us. Everyone went during the break.” The certainty in her tone blows a pleasant shudder through Samira’s limbs. “I have to be inside you,” she adds against Samira’s lips between heady kisses and whining that’s just as likely hers as it is Baran’s.
“Yes,” she begs, her throat already hoarse. Definitely not living to see residency. “Please. Yeah.”
With Baran’s help, Samira hoists herself up onto the edge of the counter and wastes no time in wrapping herself around Baran’s torso, careful to avoid scuffing her blazer with the bottoms of her heels. Warm, wet tongues slide evenly against each other in another open-mouthed and desperate kiss until Samira has practically forgotten what year it is.
“Oh,” Baran exhales in awe. “You’re so pretty, Samira. Let Mama see you.” Samira’s grip tightens considerably on the edge of the counter while trying to strike a careful balance between not falling into the sink beside her or concussing herself on the mirror. Still, her head lolls back with each fervent nod and mouthed yes, yes, yes. Her legs are spread further and her thighs are on display now, having reeled so fiercely over Baran’s cloying praise that she’d somehow missed the part where she’d slid a hand into the slit of her dress and rucked it up like its price tag didn’t have at least four digits.
Samira blinks clarity into her glossy eyes once she realizes that Baran’s fingers are hooked in the waistband of her panties and trying to tug them off. With her bottom lip between her teeth, she lifts herself off the marble just until Baran pulls them over her ass, then perches back on the edge.
A proud hum fills the temporary silence once Samira’s underwear is down to her calves. She lifts her heavy head to search through hooded eyes at what Baran is musing over and finds her answer as soon as it registers that her panties are visible.
“That’s my girl.” Not even making it to MS4. Baran contends with such finality that Samira can only whimper high in her throat. While getting dressed she’d picked a pair of underwear that Baran had gifted her but not yet seen her in: black, lacy, and largely see-through over her hips with a small pink bow and an embroidered “B” at the front. “You’re so good, ‘Mira.”
“Mama,” Samira mewls unashamedly when Baran takes away her hands just long enough to shrug off her navy blazer, revealing a much racier cream blouse underneath. The blazer is tossed a little ways down the counter before Baran comes back close enough to smell the citrus on her. Or is it the bathroom air freshener? A number of cuffed bracelets clink around each of her wrists just before Samira gasps at a full-handed squeeze to each of her inner thighs.
Baran grips Samira’s waist with one hand while she hastily positions two fingertips on the other at her twitching entrance. The sound Baran makes when Samira’s physical arousal becomes shared knowledge is enough to raise her core temperature into dangerous fever territory.
“Already?” Baran teases. “You’re so easy.” Samira might be wetter than she’s been in her entire life when she’s breached by two fingers knuckle by knuckle. It does everything and nothing to fill her, stretch her, fuck her. She squirms in a wordless plea to take their length inside her entirely.
“Oh, my God,” Samira moans when those two fingers begin to gently scissor her open further. Baran sinks into her soaking cunt once, twice, three more times before she’s trembling for the third finger she knows she can take. “Fuck, please. Please.”
“Please…” Baran’s voice raises at the tail end like she’s expecting something more.
“Please, Mama,” she’s begging like a mantra without even giving it a second thought. Three fingers push inside her without any resistance. Halfway into taking her Samira is throbbing so wildly that she clenches, something Baran can’t seem to get enough of.
All three skilled fingers are finally stuffed all the way inside her when Baran leans in and whispers, “You’re so fucking tight, but you still just suck me all the way in, huh?”
Samira has nothing coherent to say, but even if she did, Baran claims her mouth again in another searing kiss. She empties, fills, empties with the pace her mentor sets to thrust in and out of the slick squeeze of her pulsating cunt. “Fuck. Fuck. I want a vacation,” Samira babbles against Baran’s lips apropos of nothing and through a strangled moan. “After—shit—this year, when—oh, oh—when I submit, submit my applications—ah! Take me,” she cries, “take me somewhere. Don’t—don’t care where, I’ll do—Mama, Mama, I’ll do anything. Anything.”
“Yeah?” Baran coos as she peppers kisses all along the side of her jaw and face, tasting her diamond earrings with a lick over her earlobe. Samira can feel her thrumming with an excitement so thick it clouds her already bleary vision. “Anything, honey? Would you cum for me?”
She can’t speak, only nods with such conviction it’s a wonder her head stays attached to the rest of her. Her gut swells with a wave of building pleasure that needs more, just a little more, just a little friction against her clit—and just before she loses herself in the zenith of ecstasy, Samira is empty.
“Good,” Baran chirps, the corners of her mouth turned up in a mawkish smirk. She presses the fingers she’d just buried in Samira to her puffy mouth. Any fate with a smile. Samira tastes herself when her tongue darts through parted lips and she thinks she may be able to finish like this. “Then you can, once Mama’s all done here.”
Swallowing down a confused whine, Samira nearly falls off the counter trying to chase Baran’s hand the further it moves away. It ends up in the sink to her side and she stares, dazed, as her Mama washes herself clean.
“What?” Samira bleats pathetically, brows knit tightly together.
Baran wrings her hands out in the sink before she waves in front of the paper towel dispenser. “We’re going back to the table. I think you can handle it,” she says, honeyed and saccharine as anything else. “I’ll take you on a Figs shopping spree if you can sit pretty through the rest of tonight while I decide where I’m going to take you.”
Samira lifts her gaze to find Baran already searching for it. It’s easier than anything to concede when the caramel of her eyes looks even more enticing through fluttering lashes; Samira has always had a sweet tooth, after all.