★ watching me and wanting me

[preventable]

[Making an entrance is an art in and of itself. There are those who are hampered by meekness as they step into a room, clinging to the door as they slide in, making sure it whispers back into its frame rather than slamming. The prolonged whining of an old hinge tends to prolong agony in that type. If it were up to them, they'd be in and out in a matter of seconds, leaving those intended to receive them pondering if they were ever really there. Should these shy ones speak, stammering is the norm and often paired with knocking knees. Every week, one or two of them stumble in to wither under Une's gaze. Intimidation and breathing go hand in hand in the intelligence community. Now and again, Une and her colleagues feign geniality for political gain but when push comes to shove, pretending at politeness gets nowhere.

Going from one extreme to another, there are also those who stroll into Une's office armed with a cocksure swagger and a hundred watt smile. Their insecurity shows in other ways: a handshake that squeezes to tight and lingers too long, informality with the intent to insult and naught but disdain for old world politesse, spittle leaving their lips as they use words far too big for their mouths. It'd be a welcome relief to run across the happy middle between those who wear their fear like a scarlet letter and those who overcompensate for it but people of that temperament are few and far between.

Une reclines on her office chair as her PA buzzes her over the intercom, asking when the next visitor should be allowed in. Non-committal, Une tells the girl to give her two minutes. Pulling out her compact, she checks her teeth for lipstick. A smile meant for negotiation can't be stained. She plumps up her lips with a fresh coat of red before snapping the mirror shut. As a final touch, she combs her fingers through her long brown hair, tucking it behind her ears. Time to meet the storm.

Another day, another deal to be forged. Her agents refer to these informants as "rats," down-on-their-luck traitors selling intel for a big payday. The man now ensconced in her waiting room had guts, making demands of the officers below her on the echelon. He'd show his information to Une and no one else.

He has it on him for sure. Proof of electoral fraud.

That's the report she got from the tail she had on him. Such power in a crude young man's hands. She rises to her feet, straightening out the hem on her skirt to better hide her thigh holster. Her blouse is well-pressed, all buttoned up and proper. When he walks in the door, she moves to close the distance between them, trying not to stare too hard at the way he's dressed. Not everyone can afford a good suit.

But he could have at least rented one.

The leather on his jacket and boots is shabby at best, scuffed up and worn. Under the jacket, he wears a garish red tank top; the kind that comes six to a pack at any department store worth its salt.

Could have at least tucked it in.

She only gives a cursory glance to his trousers; black, not denim. At least he got that right. The blue streak in his messy black hair and the stud in his ear don't inspire much confidence. He has the dark dead eyes of a shark and a nose to match, up-turned as if sniffing out blood in the air. Bleeding near this man might very well mean death. His pursed lips twist in a way that suggests he likes to laugh at all the wrong things. It'll be best to get this over with quickly. She offers her hand to shake, not quite sure what grip to expect.

Firm.

Definitely firm.

Painfully firm.

He grabs her wrist instead of her hand, pulling her in close before whirling her around and marching her toward her desk. Soon, the wooden edge of the table is biting into her waist as he bends her over. She'd scream if she didn't know any better. He wouldn't be this damn bold if he hadn't taken care of everything outside already. There's a click as he cuffs both her hands behind her back before leaning over to breathe against the shell of her ear. Biting her lip, Une steadies her voice.]

What do you want from me?

Comments

[blyat]

[Proof of electoral fraud? That part is bullshit, although those who work above Cain come with a lot of bullshit already. Who knew, maybe they do have evidence on an electoral fraud this woman would want to get her hands on. But that's not why he's here, and his instructions are clear as glass, all he has to do is act on them. Cain's the perfect tool for this job, if only because of his instinct for violence and his ability to obey, like a particularly well-trained attack dog.

It's not always because he wants to, but the organization above him has a very tight collar around his throat. It wouldn't be smart to pull at the end of the leash.

Getting into Lady Une's office is too easy with the promise of political dirt. It's too bad she won't know until too late that the dirt will be on her. The organization is neutral, perhaps if she got to them first they would not have resorted to this against her -- but someone with enough reason to dislike her made the first move. And the rest is history.

Once Une's wrists are trapped by steel at the small of her back and she's bent over the edge of her desk, Cain tucks the key into his back pocket. He hasn't decided whether he'll need it again. It might be better to leave her like this after it's all finished, evidence for a shocked secretary to find. Cain presses the full length of his body to cover her, making a point of his superior strength and presence in this situation. He's the one holding the leash around her throat, now.]

Just your obedience, sweetheart. [Cain's breath is scalding hot against her ear. His boot shoves between her ankles, forcing her legs an inch apart. His hand moves unseen, sliding into that scant gap to finger the gun out of her holster.] You can do that much for me, can't you? This doesn't have to be messy. But if you scream, it will be.

[The gun cradled in his palm, he lays it against her hip. It'll feel cool through her clothes.]

It's not a lucky day, Lady Une.

[His free hand disappears behind her, fingers toying with the hem of her business skirt. And then he begins to peel it up over her ass to show her panties.]

[preventable]

[Deep down, there's no denying that some men are more animalistic than they appear. She should have seen the malice in him when he walked through the door. This boy wears his brutishness like a neon sign, clad in garish red. The color of his shirt is now burned into her brain as she breathes deep to calm herself, trying to commit her brief mental snapshot of him to memory. His face may very well haunt her dreams for years to come if she doesn't play this right.

The low growl of his voice hits her ear, making her stomach lurch as the heat of his breath sends shudders through her. What sort of obedience is he looking for? Was he sent to break her for intel? She'd bite through her own tongue before committing treason. Her legs part for him as he nudges her heels apart. She almost loses her footing, trembling just a little before she steadies herself. Her backside rubs up against him as a result though, if he's noticed, he gives her no indication. Swallowing her fear, she tries not to panic as he takes the gun from her thigh holster, making a show of disarming her by pressing the cold metal nuzzle against her skin.

He talks of getting messy like he's just waiting for her to give him an excuse. Cool air hits the tops of her thighs as he hikes her skirt up. It's easy enough to know what comes next. She plays out various scenarios in her head, moving her wrists and hearing her cuffs clang and clatter. Without anything like a bobby pin, she can't pick the lock. Trying to turn around and grapple with him for the gun would only get her a hole in the head. If she's going to get out of this, she's going to need... diplomacy.]

So you don't like screamers, hm? I thought you might take a little noise as a compliment.

[With her underwear now bared, she rubs the curve of her ass up against him. He's right about resistance making a mess. Feigning surrender is her only strategy for now. It's easier to handle a man when he's thinking with his cock. Thank goodness for throwing scruples out the window years ago. Training at Lake Victoria taught all its soldiers that the body was a weapon, not some sacred temple to be grieved after it's been sacked. In the end, it's just flesh. Use it right and you'll live a long life.]

[blyat]

[She's obedient, but it doesn't faze Cain, because there's really no choice in this situation. It only proves she's smart, because disobedience would warrant violence. He wouldn't kill her -- that's not the point of his current mission here. But Une doesn't know that. As far as she can tell, he's a deranged blackmailing psychopath with a hand on her ass.]

Heh, a little noise is different. You've got a lot of options there.

[Cain's gloved fingers travel the soft skin, pulling the sheer fabric of her panties tight to outline the crease of her ass where it presses up against him. He's not immune to that, the heat of a woman's body against his dick, even through the barrier of his pants. It doesn't mean he'll loose his concentration. She'd be silly to think it would be that easy. Well, at least to assume this is all he's got up his sleeve.]

Moaning, whining, begging... as long as it's not too loud. I'm not picky.

[As a reminder, Cain keeps the gun pressed firm and cold against her hip, an unrelenting threat. His wandering hand slips two fingers further in, dragging them across the slit between her thighs. He digs in, just a little, just enough to give the grind of fabric over that sensitive clit a brutal edge.]

Besides, you're putting on a show for more than just me, sweetheart.

[He lets those words hang ominously in the air like thick black smoke.]

tl;dr introspection i'm sorry orz

[preventable]

[The fabric of her underwear shifts at his touch, smooth silk now rubbing up against her most intimate skin. What was it he said about moaning? Much as she hates to admit it, the situation is arousing. Maybe it's the danger of having a loaded weapon so close. But does she have more to fear from him firing the gun or from the other things he's going to do to her? As his fingers graze her clit, she gives him a whimper. Time to perform for her life.

It's a game for leverage now. Humiliation's the intended result. If worse comes to worst, what would she prefer leaking to the press? Is he getting this on video or going with a more conservative audio recording? Choking down fear and anger, she urges herself toward cold pragmatism, swallowing the bile in her throat with another moan. Does she want to play the victim or the whore?

Bucking against his fingers for more stimulation, she justifies the choice she's making. If she protests against him and weeps, the recording will paint her as a weak woman, humbled and used. The world will look at her with naught but pity. More than a few will wonder what she did to deserve it. But if she makes this seem like rough play... sexual misconduct in the office isn't something new. Besides, this isn't the 21st century any longer. Both men and women in power have found ways to play off sex scandals given the right spin doctor. A good public servant is a a good public servant regardless of their sexual tastes. She'll find a way to get off easy, play it off as a joke about misuse of government property. Better to be a punchline than a victim. In time, jokes get stale and people move on.]

I should give you my best then.

[The words leave her lips in a sensual hush. It's not as if she hasn't spread her legs for political leverage before. This game isn't new. She's used sexual blackmail on her fair share of men in office. Maybe one of them sent her this... retribution. None of them would dare do this themselves. Typical. At least they hired someone easy on the eyes.]

Why don't you give me a preview? Tell me what you want to do with me.

[Her ass rubs up against his crotch again, trying to get a peg on the state of his arousal. The way she moves rattles her cuffs, reminding her of the way the bell around her cat's neck would ring when it was in heat and rubbing up against things. This is debasement, pure and simple. But what choice does she have? Her peers are called political animals for a reason.]

[blyat]

[It's not like all of that hasn't crossed his mind, although Cain is not a political man by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, he dislikes politics, dislikes the very tight leash they put around his throat for the sake of leverage and maintenance. Politicians care little for the people under their heel. Isn't this the same situation? They don't want to do the dirty work, which is why Cain's their attack dog. He can't completely complain -- the woman is attractive.

Cain knows the move she's pulling as she does it, and he's almost satisfied. If she'd tried playing the victim, this would have been much more difficult.]

Thought that much was pretty clear.

[It's clear he's hard when she grinds back against him. He lets his arm curl around her hips, between her body and the table, which slants his upper torso along her spine. It's the same arm that occupies the gun in his hand, and he jerks her shirt out of the waist of her skirt before nuzzling the cool barrel up underneath, across her stomach. He pushes it up further until it skims the valley between her breasts, on top of her bra.]

You want me to spell it out? [Cain's fingers pull the fabric of panties to one side, revealing her pussy to him in the cold air of the office.] Imagine this is my dick. [He teases with the tips of his fingers, rubbing her clit again, vaguely gentle. Then he pushes both fingers at once into her body, stretching that tightness.] When was the last time you let somebody bend you over your desk and fuck you? I'm sure you're used to it.

[preventable]

[This boy is brute force wrapped up in muscle and sinew with a talent for making dolls of people once he has a hold on them. Still, he's no puppeteer. Any brute can grab and squeeze and bend and mock their prey but he'd hold no power if not for his hands on her. While he tries to strike a nerve, she ponders what strings keep him upright and just how she can tug on them. Not an easy feat when his touch drives her to distraction. Say what you will about the lack of finesse in physicality but it has its uses and he's playing it to the hilt.

His erection presses into the small of her back as his arms snake around her body to bind her closer to him. Pinned to the solid strength of his chest with her cuffed hands trapped between them, she wriggles on instinct though he puts a quick stop to it when he tugs her shirt up. From here on out, it's a fight for control. She starts to tremble in his arms, lip quivering as she swallows her fear. The gun traces a line up her skin; from the softness of her belly to the curve of her cleavage. Does he know? No, he can't possibly... He stops the barrel just shy of the bullet scar that nearly pierced her heart almost a decade ago.

The next words out his mouth are near unintelligible though she cries out with a start once his fingers steal their way into her. His insults are shallow at best, a stark contrast to the way his digits are now delving into her. Gasping, she struggles to form an adequate rebuke, trying to derive sense from what he's saying. If she must speak, she needs to provoke rather than wound. Taking an insult too far may be the end of her but a subtle prick might turn the tide in her favor.]

Your dick must be pretty small if you think your fingers measure up to it.