Chapter 1: gross misconduct (bargain sex: coyle)
Chapter Text
You know you're fucked when your strained ears pick up the tell-tale crackle of Coyle's stun baton as it springs to life from the depths of the wide darkness which fill the space you had only recently crept through.
The shuttle had travelled you down to a faintly familiar police station, a building you had only visited a few times before with different groups, but today you had entered the shuttle alone due to Dr. Easterman's recent campaign to place a greater emphasis on reagents completing their tasks without assistance. 'A push to promote independence' is what the staff sold it as and the promise of extra reward was too tempting to ignore.
The generator which you had been so desperately trying to mend was quick to sputter and groan its broken state as you diligently sought out a canister of gas to fill it with before starting work on the breaker switches which covered both sides. The buttons on the left had been easy enough to correct but the ones on the right, which you were currently tinkering with, were giving you hell.
Hell enough that you didn't even hear the approach of the monster pursuing you until it was too late to really do anything about it.
Surprisingly, it's not electricity you feel frying your nerves as you make a panicked attempt to bolt to the safety of the nearby door but the heavy, sharp weight of the stun baton itself as Coyle swings it harshly across your upper shoulders, the force of the blow enough to send you reeling forwards as you scream in mixed pain and fear.
"Think you can touch my shit? We got fucking laws around here you stupid bitch."
Having avoided him so far, the accented syllables are terrifying as he barks them at you – his sudden presence filling the space and closing in around you like a snare. His words burn in your ears as your body connects with the floor, immediately stunning you as the breath flees your lungs and the side of your head bounces off the hard ground in such a way that stars explode across your vision while you wheeze pitifully.
Face pressing into the floor as you struggle with the disorientation, Coyle’s foot is quick to correct your positioning as it connects harshly with your side, pain flaring across your ribs as he flips you on to your back with a brutal kick. Howling at the sharp discomfort, your hands fly to your side as you apply pressure to the aching space and fight for breath. Knowing you're caught with no chance of escape, fight and flight seem to abandon you in favour of freeze, and your watery eyes gaze up at Coyle with unrestrained fear as his stocky frame remains illuminated by the faint light of the generator and the blue crackle of his stun baton.
The wires wrapping around his body give him an odd outline, all stemming from the thick battery which is held against his back to power the baton. He's in the same outfit as ever, the only one anyone has seen him in, with his cops clothing paired by a filthy white shirt and red tie poking free at his neck. His face is almost obscured by both the police cap which sits atop his skull and the dark aviator sunglasses that hide his eyes from sight.
One hand gripping his weapon while the other plucks the thin, glowing cigarette from his mouth, Coyle blows a wide plume of smoke into the air with a satisfied whistle as he brings his foot down on your stomach - pinning you in place with the thick tread of his boot.
"So what are you, huh? A commie whore? One of those do-gooders who flouts the law and thinks they won't get their teeth kicked in for it? You touch my shit, you fry like the rest of them!"
Working himself into a quick frenzy, his movements become more animated as he swings the baton around and fresh ash falls from the cigarette to land against your shorts. His boot presses harder, the pressure making you whine as dull pain radiates from your squashed gut. Coyle peers down, eyes still hidden behind the dark sunglasses which are perched on his nose, but you feel the weight of his gaze as he visibly takes his time in looking you up and down. He’s sizing up his catch and you feel every inch the prey animal you absolutely are.
The trial had already been a total pain in the ass as a wayward giant taking a swing with their jagged club had ripped the lower half of your shirt to shreds like a hot knife scoring through butter. Dried blood coated the exposed area, the club having gouged a thin chunk from your skin which was quickly stemmed by some of the very odd healing liquid which always littered the trials. On top of that, your frayed shorts were just as distressed, grime and wiped oil from the generator staining the light fabric which had already been through a lot.
The overall outfit was less modest than you would have liked, your legs and stomach now exposed with the sleeves of your shirt rolling up past your elbows, but it was all you had until you could earn the means to purchase replacements from the staff or barter with the other reagents.
Not quite ready to die, your panicked flailing and scrambling limbs are quickly frozen into place by the tip of Coyle's stun baton as he presses ithe sharp points into the uncovered flesh of your collarbone. Your heart vibrates in your chest, pure fear of the electric shock to come making your expression wide and eyes squeeze shut in anticipation.
Pain explodes from your chest, your body turning rigid as your scream is caught in your throat. It's like fire, spreading across your skin and tearing apart the muscles while you convulse. However, the raw intensity is over almost as quickly as it starts and your pain-filled pants roar in your ears as you struggle to recover from the assault.
Again and again, fresh points of pure agony spring to life as Coyle gleefully presses the baton to different areas of your skin, sometimes breaking the skin with the sharp edges and sometimes not. Collarbone, arms, stomach, legs, all victims to his weapon as your lungs begin to burn from the screaming that you simply cannot hold back.
"Hrm, fucking waste of a pretty little thing." Coyle comments after a moment of reprieve, using the prongs of the baton to push the opening of your shirt to the side and shamelessly steal a glance at your covered tits. "Almost a crime to have to kill you when my dicks hard and twitching like this."
"I'll fuck you if you let me go."
You surprise yourself with your own offer, the words falling from your lips in a single, desperate blurt – more of a sob than anything - as a hint of hope dares to flash across your thoughts. You didn’t want to die. Not like this. Anything would be better than feeling your skin fry and heart explode because of that damned weapon of his.
"Easterman sending in whores for us to play with now? Didn't think the shitbird had it in him. You think I need you to bargain with me? I’m a fucking man of the law. I'll take what I want, when I want, from whatever junkie criminal fuck I want!" Coyle’s anger is obvious, baton alighting as he shocks the air just over your cringing, wide-eyed expression.
"But I'll do what you want." You counter quickly, wrapping a soft hand around the back of his ankle as his foot continues to press into your stomach. "I'll let you fuck me h-however you want, and do what you want. I won't fight it."
"Now where's the fun in that?" Coyle scoffs but his head tilts down at you as he tucks the baton away and continues to peer at you from behind his glasses. “Ain't no fun in a dead fuck. Trust me on that one, whore.”
A memory rises.
One of other reagents leaving the shuttle, fresh from their victory as three of them bounced off to visit the pharmacy and stock up on some items. But not the fourth. A thin woman, hair dark but greying at the temples, left the shuttle with no smile, no joy at whatever similar feedback had been received from her work. Her gaze was empty, despondent, and filled with something which had made your heart ache as she locked eyes with you. A weak smile from your lips had received nothing but a soft wave, one which showcased an obvious burn mark - one branded into her skin by an electric baton - as she shook herself off, stood tall, and limped off to follow her team.
The others whispered, told stories and rumours they had heard about the various prime assets. Gooseberry’s delusions, Franco’s insane perversions, and the similar tales about Coyle were often allowed to fade off into implication as very few were willing to pay lip service to the horrors which each of the monsters had been known to inflict on unfortunate reagents.
And he was a monster. A torturer. A sadist. A murderer. A rapist. A man who used every part of himself to inflict misery on his victims. And here you were, offering up your neck in the hope that he might not bite down as heavily if his prey let him put his mouth there willingly.
Coyle's silence is deafening as he considers his options but it only lasts for a few painful moments, each second making your heart feel like it is going to vibrate free of your chest, before he rolls his shoulders back into a more relaxed stance and hooks his fingers onto his belt.
"But I really ain't had one throw themselves at me like a whore before. Might be nice to relax and blow off some steam fucking something which ain't kicking out like a stubborn mule." Slipping his baton up behind his neck, Coyle blows another puff of smoke high above his head. "Ah, fuck it. Stand up, bitch, and get those hands on the fence so we can get to business."
Unsure you had heard him correctly and taking in a deep, relieved breath as his boot pulls free of your stomach - the sharp discomfort dissipating in an instant to a vague ache - you slowly roll to your front before pushing up onto your knees. Body tensed and expecting a fresh blow of his baton as you struggle to force yourself to your feet, your heart beats frantically as you wait for him to change his mind and cruelly knock you to your ass again.
"I said MOVE!" Unhappy with the wait, Coyle snatches the fabric at the back of your neck and hoists you to your feet - the shirt choking you for an instant as you gasp, sputter, and shakily turn to press your back and fingers into the chain link fence.
"Legs apart, inmate. I'll need to conduct a search and make sure you ain't hiding anything nasty to turn on me with. Try to run or do anything fucking dumb and I'll smack a hole in that pretty head and fuck that instead. Spread 'em."
His hands are rough and careless of your comfort as they slide across your shirt and grope at your tits, thighs, and any other skin which is peeking out from your torn outfit. Under the pretence of a search, you can do nothing but stand there and hold on to the fence like it were a lifeline as humiliation and fear build across your chest.
The search goes on for a full minute, only ending when Coyle slips his hand between your legs and cups roughly at your cunt through the shorts. You keep your legs spread, afraid of what he'll do if you move them, even slightly.
"Hard to get a feel for any contraband when you're so decent." He grumbles before barking out a new order. "Now, strip."
Knowing it was inevitable, you try to stop the shaking of your hands as you slowly drop your fingers to your shorts and slip them free of your ass. Your skin feels like it's burning as you slowly expose more of yourself, lower half now only covered by the thin fabric of your panties.
Shorts in a messy pile on the floor, you move quickly to have your shirt follow but Coyle knocks your hand away as you finish unbuttoning it. His hands are warm and textured as he delves into your bra and pulls your tits free, letting them hang atop the fabric of your bra in the cool air. Satisfied, he grunts at the view before rocking back on his heel and taking a deep inhale of his cigarette as his other hand continues to explore your skin.
This position, with your face just below his own as you stand frozen in place and boxed in by his wider frame, gives you a much closer look at Coyle as you try to focus on anything which wasn't the scarred hands gripping at your flesh hard enough that you knew bruises will soon form.
In another life, he could have been handsome enough as he really did have a cops face. Lined and serious, it was a face which held authority as easily as it could charm, but there was a bestial cruelty in his features. Predatory, sadistic righteousness shone from his gaze and any possible attraction which his features could have generated was quickly stripped away and replaced with cold dread as that righteousness spelled real danger for anyone who stood in his way.
His full beard looks rough and a little unkempt, the dark hair flecked with more than its fair share of grey. The scarring and burns on his face aren't too terrible, not as bad as some of the other monsters you had seen lurking around the trials. The skin bubbled and scarred, the right hand side of his face is a pitted mess which makes you think of pictures of men who had suffered in wars and accidents with similar patches of torn, angry skin.
On a good day, you could squint and pretend that Coyle was just any other guy. A guy you'd made the bad decision to pick up in a bar with a few scars across his face from a work job gone wrong.
But he wasn't that, and all the playing pretend in the world couldn't hide the fact that you'd agreed to fuck this monster in exchange for a vague agreement that he'd let you live. Luckily though, his hat and the shadows which it cast are enough to hide most of his predatory leering and you are thankful for that at least.
Obviously growing bored with his search, Coyle takes a big step forward and smirks as you press your back harder into the chain link fence to keep what little space you had to offer. His hand rises to settle in your hair, pulling your head tight against the fence with a vicious snap of his wrist as his body lays flush against your own. The burn in your scalp is wicked, pain making your mouth tremble as you stand to your tiptoes - desperate to alleviate the strain as your skull throbs.
"You do this for the other assets too? Hmm? Spread your legs for that dickless Italian freak? Let the fat bitch with the mouthy puppet take a ride on you with that drill of hers?"
You can't hide the grimace which stretches your lips thin as you think of the other monsters which haunted the various trials. They were just as horrific, but at least with him you could try to pretend.
"No. I haven’t- well, since-it's been…fuck -"
"Fucking spit it out." Coyle rolls his eyes, his hand tightening in your hair as the stun baton crackled threateningly. "Don't got all fucking day."
"I haven't fucked anyone since I've been stuck in here."
"Lying bitch." Coyle snaps. "That's all you junkies and sluts do back in those cells they keep you in. Ain't nothing to do but sleep, smoke, and fuck anything with a pulse."
"Well, I fucking haven't."
He ignores the snapped denial, once again switching his focus back to your body as a smirk at your outburst curls his mouth. The tip of the stun baton drops to threaten your lower stomach, placed tactfully to prevent any thought of escape, and the crackle of the electric sparks are like small needles of heat as they glance off your skin.
"Mmm, I like a bit of fire. A bit of meat. Really gives me something to work and hold onto while I tear you a new one." His eyes rove across your trembling chest, leering openly as his tongue licks at his cracked lips.
Overcome by a sudden wave of self-conscious fear, the onslaught of it making your throat constrict, you can't stop your hand moving and it quickly shifts to cover your chest - elbow tucking tight against your side to cover as much skin as possible.
You realise your mistake instantly.
Coyle's face twists into uncontrolled rage and a huff of air is the only warning you get before a sharp pain spears through your cheek as the back of his hand glances off your face, quick as a whippet.
"It's by the good grace of the lord that you're not a smoking pile of dead fuck on the floor, waiting to be scraped up by the assholes who run this place." Coyle snarls, his hand snapping around your own and gripping with enough strength to make you whine pathetically as he drags it away from his sight. "Don't make me sorry for being so kind cause I’ll use this stick to fry your holes and then just fuck what's left."
Frozen in place by the very real threat, your head moves of its own accord as you nod and agree with his words without conscious thought; your lips spewing a stream of incomprehensible apologies as you dig your nails into your outer thighs to force them to remain still. Your cheek burns, his backhand slap really showcasing his strength as the area continues to ache even as you nod.
"But you're clean," Coyle continues his tone almost begrudging, "so I think I'll forgive that little slip up. The badge makes people nervous sometimes."
"Thanks." You breath out, not quite sure what for and even less sure that you meant it.
Coyle grins at the apology as his hand drops to his belt once more. Beside his hand, the line of cigarettes holstered within the belt would be comical in any other situation but humour was the furthest thing from your mind as you stare hopelessly at the collar of his stained shirt.
"Now take my cock out and show me why you're so desperate for it."
Biting the back of your tongue as you attempt to steady your breathing and follow through on your earlier offer, you lean forward enough to reach his fly and release his cock. Despite it all, all the terrifying strength and the monstrous sadism, his cock is surprisingly normal as you pull it free. About average length, it wasn't the biggest cock you'd ever seen, but it was certainly the thickest and the slight flare of his cock head appeared a much darker shade than his shaft - the scarce light making any other details too difficult to see.
"What? You holding it so I can take a piss? You forget how to treat an officer of the law? Cause I got a firm hand to help you remember."
Startled by his words, you quickly shake your head and start to slowly pump your hand along his cock. He's already half hard from terrorising you and his dick twitches into your palm, your grip soft and too afraid to squeeze tightly in case it angered him in some way. You stroke along the length, feeling every inch of the velvety skin against your own as it hangs heavy and hot against your palm. But it's dry, too dry to really let you build up any momentum, and your fingers feel uncomfortable against the raw skin.
Releasing him, you see the outrage flair in his face for only a blink until he watches you spit into your hand - the noise vulgar and nasty against the gentle whirr of the generator - and then his lips split into another wide grin as you instantly return to the task at hand. The spit gives some lubrication, allowing your hand to slide more easily along his length as your fingers rub along the sensitive ridge where the shaft meets cockhead. It gains you a low grunt of approval, Coyle's breath visibly sharpening at the extra stimulation and he raises a hand to the chain link fence as he leans in even closer to your trapped positioning.
"You're a talented whore. I like the extra effort," Coyle growls into your ear, "and, hell, I'll even let you choose which hole I fuck cause I like it so much."
Having not even considered that he might demand to fuck your ass or throat, your hand stutters on his cock as fear cleaves at your chest. But you cover it quickly, resuming jerking his now fully hard cock as you struggle to clear your throat of your anxieties and answer him.
"Please, sir, fuck my-"
"Yeah, yeah." Coyle breathes, cutting you off in an instant as he pulls his cock free of your grip with one fluid jerk of his hips and replaces it with his own hand. "I ain't fucking stupid. I know what you want. But let's see if all my being nice is gonna be worth what I'm getting-" Coyle trails off, his other hand gliding past your lower stomach and within the waistband of your panties to weave through the trimmed hair of your cunt - the sensation making him quirk a brow as his teeth visibly clamp around the cigarette between them.
His fingers push past your slit, pressing up against your hole roughly, and you whimper at the stiff intrusion. He's too rough, too fast, and you aren't prepared at all to accept him as he struggles to slide his fingers in any further.
A fact which he notices in an instant.
"I thought you'd be soaked, honey. Ol' Coyle not firing up your juices? Or maybe you just need some help."
"Help?" You stutter out, eyeing the stun baton with open fear as your gaze flicks between it and his leering gaze.
"You think a respectable law bringer like me needs the lightning to keep you in line? Nah, we're gonna have a hell of a time. Just some old-fashioned perversion between a good man and the whore who wants him."
Coyle finishes his little mocking speech by dropping to one knee before you, the sudden shift making you jerk in position and gasp, and his hands are hard against your thighs as he roughly spreads your inner thighs before tearing your panties down. The fabric falls to your knees without protest and your fingers once again lock against the chain link fence which presses into your back.
Unable to do anything, you bite at your lip to save the pathetic noises which threaten to slip free as you feel the heat of Coyle's breath against your cunt. But before you can really dwell too much on what is happening, a scream snaps free of your throat as his blunted teeth sink themselves into the swell of your left inner thigh. The bite is hard, the skin roaring its distress in a dull, lasting ache until Coyle pulls away and refocuses his attention on his main prize.
Coyle's beard is rough and the sensation of it dragging along your cunt is not as unpleasant as it could have been. But any good feeling is cut short in an instant by how insistent and sloppy he is in his immediate fervour. His tongue is messy, forcing itself along your slit before delving into your hole without any focus or thought. This wasn't about bringing pleasure, not real pleasure anyway, it was about control and him forcing you to endure it. Knowing that you had to let him do as he wished.
Having his mouth devouring such an intimate location, one which very few of your previous partners had ever really been allowed, feels somehow worse than anything else he'd already subjected you to - despite the very slight twinge of arousal which traitorously licks up your spine when his nose greedily bumps against your clit as he presses himself tightly against your groin.
It's invasive and humiliating, his tongue leaving no part of you neglected as he uses his mouth to slicken you up and take what he wants. His facial hair burns as it grinds into your most sensitive skin, the friction adding a cruel stimulation that forces your hole to clench around nothing and arousal to continue to steadily grow within your gut.
"Mm, for a condemned whore you sure do taste good. Even better than my second wife. Put out a lot easier too…"
Second wife?
He had been married? More than once? In light of that revelation, you choose to ignore the insult which Coyle had also tacked onto the end of his comments as he pulls away from you and quickly rises to his feet once more. Relief floods you, sweeping across your skin as he quits his assault on your sex, but with it comes renewed anxiety as you know he’s going to want his promised fuck.
"No thanks?" Coyle spits out after a second of staring at you, his fingers striking forward to grip your chin so tightly that you're afraid he's going to rip the skin. "A man gets down on one knee and you don't even show him the proper respect? Didn't peg you for an ungrateful bitch- maybe I should have just fucked you high and dry?"
"Sorry, sir. Thank you." Grovelling the words out in a muttered rush due to the pressure Coyle is keeping on your jaw, you can't help the widening of your eyes as pain-filled tears blur your vision.
"Finally, a little fucking respect around here." Coyle says, the crackle of his baton flashing just to the left of your head as you flinch away in terror. He ignores the flinch and instead mutters a hissing warning as he trails the business end of the baton across your skin, carving a line past your tits and down to your thighs. Running the side of the baton along your slit, he pushes the cold metal up hard into your sex.
"Now, let's see how those cunt juices are firing off."
You grunt as he taps the baton against your slit, every heavy thud more pain than pleasure as it strikes the slightly exposed skin of your clit - the sensation making your knees jerk with every direct hit. It's too much and you bite your lip to keep the noises in your throat clamped up and unable to escape.
Coyle, his face only a few inches away from your own and only just illuminated by the glow of his cigarette, tilts his head as he finally drops your jaw from his inhumane grip.
"I fuck like a man, honey. So, yeah, I see you exercising your right to remain silent but it's just gonna make me want to hurt you more. I want to hear the little canary sing."
He punctuates his final words by grinding the baton into your cunt. Ensuring that the cool metal is wettened by his own saliva and your arousal, he holds the baton there until your whimpers and discomfort have satisfied his sadistic whims before snatching it away and bringing it to your mouth instead.
"Clean it off, bitch."
Humiliated, you press your tongue to the metal as fear that he will press the button and deliver a truly evil shock makes your entire body tremble. Immediately filling your senses, the taste of your own arousal - made acrid by the addition of Coyle's tobacco-stained spit - makes your nose wrinkle but you obediently follow his instructions. Too afraid to put a foot out of line, you work your tongue along the part presented to you until the baton is clean and glistening slightly in the limited light.
Satisfied by your work, Coyle moves so quickly into action that you can't prevent the short yelp of surprise you unleash as he sheaths his baton back in his belt and picks you up by the waist. Airborne for only a blink, you grunt in pain as he slams your back into the nearby generator. Using the crank screen as a makeshift ledge, he balances your ass on it with little effort as his stocky body pins you into place - his rock hard cock pressing insistently at your sex as he grinds himself into your mound.
"Now that I've been all gentlemanly and warmed you up, time to bury this bone and see if it was really worth all the being nice for."
In a single sharp and punishing thrust, he adjusts himself with his hand and sheathes himself inside you so roughly that you feel your back scrape against the generator. Your cry of discomfort, of the stretch and utter sting at his brutal intrusion, only nets you a tilted smirk as Coyle pauses long enough to drink in your distressed appearance. Your nails dig in to the leather of his jacket, the material too thick to allow him any sensation from it but you can feel that he's loving how tight your walls are squeezing him as he holds his cock still.
"Fucking hell, honey. Goddamn tighter than some of those mannequins around here. Or maybe you ain't fucked a real man before. Probably only been with them nancy boys that wouldn’t know what to do with their dick even if it told them."
Unable to catch your breath enough to reply, all you can offer is a discomforting whimper as you pull your legs up and around his waist in a vain attempt to alleviate some of the pressure on your lower half.
He seems fine with it though, and Coyle quickly drops his head to your exposed chest - tits still hanging over your bra as your shirt flutters uselessly around your sides. Pulling you towards him, his mouth makes itself known on your collarbone as his tongue draws a sloppy line across the burn marks which he had delivered earlier with his stun baton - almost as though he's trying to taste the residual electricity as it thrums within your veins. He quick to bite too, his teeth clamping down on whatever skin he can find purchase on as he sucks livid marks into your chest.
Never one to have shied away from a little bit of roughhousing with your pleasure, a sweeping cloud of shame fogs up your mind as you can't help but enjoy the harsh ministrations - every brush of his beard leaving a tickling heat behind which lasts for a few moments. Coyle, his cock rocking slowly back and forth while he adjusts you as he sees fit, is quick to pick up on the attitude shift, a shit-earing grin slipping across his lips as he raises his head from your skin.
"Huh, I think you actually enjoy me pulling on these pigtails of yours. You like it when I hurt you, yeah?" Releasing one of his hands from your waist, he pinches your nipple between textured fingers and the sharp pain makes your back arch and cunt clamp around his cock. "Hrm, I like that a whole lot. Pity I ain't the marrying type these days…" He trails off, mostly to himself, returning his hand to ensuring you were tightly pinned into place and unable to escape him.
Thrusting harshly with every comment, you try to focus on the pleasure which builds as the dull ache of his intrusion begins to fade. His cock is thick, so as much as it stretches you out, it's also brushing your nerves with every rock of his hips - sending thrills of arousal across your gut and shifting your groin as you seek out more and more.
His mouth now shifts its attention to your left tit, mouth greedily sucking your nipple between his lips as the bluntness of his teeth press at the sensitive bud. Moaning, you can't help but slip your hand up from its death grip on his jacket until your fingers find purchase against the back of his neck. It's the first physical contact you've initiated and the heat of his skin on your palm shocks you back into the reality of your situation and what you were allowing to happen.
Arousal, shame, disgust, heat, and something too self-loathing to really pin down pulses through your veins as you admit that, despite it all, you were finding pleasure in this monster. Just another fucked-up fact to add to the other horrors which haunted your broken nights back in the facility. Unable to really fall lower as a sudden shift of despair hollows your gut, you push it deep inside to focus on finishing securing your freedom.
Ignorant to your internal hell as he continues to rut into your body like a beast, Coyle's mouth never stops in its movements. From harsh bites to wild grunts and muttered insults which are lost due to their volume, he's vocal in a way which fills the small space - his only competition being your whimpers and the hum of the generator you are pinned to. Giving a particularly harsh thrust, you can feel the tickle of his dark pubic hair pressing against your groin through the hole of his fly and you stutter out something incomprehensible - the words between a plea and a groan - but he ignores it in favour of lowering his hand to fumble messily at the baton on his belt.
"Ready to ride the lightning, darlin'"?
Shaking your head frantically as you watch him turn the intensity of the baton to full, Coyle places the prongs perfectly at the juncture where his groin connects with your own, ensuring that the shock will connect fully with you both when he presses the button. Fear floods you. His previous shocks had apparently been held a lower setting and the thought of a full-scale taste of the voltage terrifies in a way you never could have anticipated.
"Fuck! No, please- don’t! I'm doing everything you want! Please-" is all you manage to squeal out before pain explodes across your frame.
Your muscles spasm, growing rigid in an instant as your eyes roll back into your skull and heat, like hellfire in a fucked-up handbasket, radiates across your groin to spread across your flesh. It's so intense that you can't even scream, throat and mouth locking into an open position that only allows for a desperate pull of strained oxygen as your brain whites out.
Through it all, heat of another kind makes itself known and you feel Coyle’s orgasm as it burns hot within your cunt, his gasping growls of pleasure rolling across your ears as his higher tolerance for pain allows him to continue his punishing assault on your cunt even as your body twitches and spasms around him.
Despite everything, despite the pain and the abuse you'd endured at his hands since being caught, you cannot prevent the inevitable and your groan as you come is deep and guttural - walls squeezing even more harshly around Coyle's pulsing cock as your desperate body attempts to claw as much pleasure from the pain as it can.
Limbs trembling and twitching from the exhaustion of the electricity, you pretty much can't help but go limp in Coyle's arms as your orgasm ebbs away and you're left with nothing but the residual aches and discomforts of his attention as your feet drop back to the floor. He pulls himself free in a smooth motion, his wilting cock a mess as he tucks it away quickly and steps back from your position.
Your legs feel unsteady as hell and you are thankful for the pressure of the generator as you lean on it heavily for support. Aching, exposed, and grimacing at the feel of his release as it drips free of your abused hole, all you want is a shower and you want it so badly that you could almost feel the desperate tears which threatened to well up in the corner of your eyes.
"Just one more job left to do." Coyle announces, his voice giddy yet almost slurred by his own satiated arousal as he fixed his hat. And without warning he plucks the shortened cigarette from his lips and grinds the stub of it out on the exposed skin of your right inner thigh.
Pain, sharp as a knife and searing in its intensity, flares in the burned skin as a scream pulls itself free of your throat - pain and shock making you writhe in place as he holds you there with a firm hard pressing into your leg until the skin is well and truly branded by the cigarette.
"What the fuck?" You sob out, a tear rolling down your cheek while your fingers drop to gently brush over the abused skin as Coyle releases you and tilts his head to admire his handiwork.
"Hell, just something to remember me by. A little gift to show you what that kinda whoring and public indecency gets you around here. Plus, it lets me keep a tally, one for each time you enjoy a visit with your favourite officer of the law."
Body bending to snatch up your abandoned panties, the simple gesture makes your nerves scream their discomfort and you whimper as you pull the scant fabric back on before quickly sliding your tits back within the bra and fixing the rest of your scant outfit.
Coyle watches with vague interest, his hand cupping his clothed cock as he stands back and hooks his other hand in his belt. "Next time you're gonna be on those knees and I'm gonna fuck that throat bloody. So, make sure you ain't staying away for too long cause ol' Coyle has needs too y'know. I’ll be watching out for you, honey."
Laughing at his own comments as you cringe at the scornful pet name, Coyle's gaze falls on an abandoned brick which lays not too far from his foot. Kicking it towards you with a swipe of his leg, Coyle turns on his heel and disappears back into the darkness - his sadistic needs satiated and not a single fuck given about you or your journey back to the shuttle. As he disappears, you can hear him whistling some tune as it grows fainted and fainter with each passing moment.
Shattered, fucked, abused, and absolutely bone weary, the strength which powers you allows you to hold it together for now as you force your broken body into motion. Limping off to find a barrel to hide in while you await the shuttle picking you up, it's impossible to ignore the smell of burned skin which seems imprinted in your senses.
I'll fuck you if you let me go.
At least your plan had worked and you could live to fight another day.
That had to be worth something.
Right?
Chapter 2: vindicate the guilty (rough sex: coyle)
Notes:
Requested over on tumblr! Some "Vindicate the Guilty" rough sex xx
Chapter Text
"Quit squirming or I'm going to snatch your neck and dunk that pretty face in all that chemcial shit you just poured in here til it's nothing but fucking slush."
Unable to look away from the severed head which stared lifelessly back at you, the scent of the acid pooling around its neck - slowly melting away the skin and bone as it sizzled and bubbled - filled the air with a revolting stench. One which caught in the back of your throat and forced you to fight back a wicked retch as Coyle continued to fuck you without mercy.
The cool marble of the fountain scraped along the exposed parts of your chest as you lay bent against it; Coyle keeping your hands pinned behind your back and your cheek pressing harshly into the smooth stone as he pushed you down with enough force to make the bones in your wrists creak and ache.
"Please, don't hurt me like that." Whimpering out the plea in one desperate rush of breath as his stun baton crackled to life for only a moment by your ear, you can't help the flinch of your body, nor the way your cunt clenches around his thick length. You pretend not to hear it, the messy wet sound which his cock drags from you as it almost pulls free only to thrust itself fully once more. However, his affect on your body was undeniable and your legs trembled against the marble with the effort of keeping you in place. "Coyle, please. Please, don't-"
"I love it when you beg, honey." Growling his confession from behind, you can't see him but you can feel the smirk in his tone as he bites the words out around his ever present cigarette. "Hell, if you weren't trying to fuck with Lady Justice then maybe I'd go a little easier on ya for it. But then I think you kinda like firing me up, knowing what I'll do to you."
Unable to deny the words due to his roughened fingers clenching around the fresh acid wounds on your wrists, a careless earlier slip-up with the large jug as you dodged a live electrical trap, your refusal sounds more like a lurid moan as your face screws up and winces against the marble.
"Yeah," Coyle continues as he enjoys himself with your pliant frame, "you're a real piece of work. Dropping skirt at the first flash of the badge. Whoring for an officer of the law. A real good piece of fucking work."
Punctuating each word with a harsh slam of his hips, his cock glancing off your cervix painfully and leaving you with an almost hollow feeling at the dull pain, you can't even muster the energy to fight back as you watch the severed head fall to the side as the acid starts to creep up the hollows of its cheek and steal the balance it so precariously held onto.
Chapter 3: on the lookout (teasing: coyle)
Chapter Text
The flashing red beacon which sat atop the gate lit the small space as well as it could as you face off against the monster which had been pursuing you since the shuttle had dropped you off at the courthouse – Easterman’s demands that you destroy some evidence which had cropped up against Murkoff almost forgotten in the desperate scramble for survival.
Seeing the courthouse meant one thing. Coyle. And your history with Coyle was one which was mired in very bad decision making and a deep-seated thing for uniforms which always meant that a trial with the officer would result in more bodily fluids than most.
Not always though. Part of the fun was the game itself and if Coyle couldn’t catch you then he got nothing from you, a fact which always fuelled the fire of his actions as his predatory instincts lit up at the first hint of you being in his assigned arenas.
Like today.
"This here's my fucking courthouse.” Coyle spat, his stun baton battering off the nearby wall as he wrapped one hand around the thick metal gate which separated you. “Ain't no hiding from me in here and when this gate opens, you're gonna feel the full brunt of the laws we got."
Feeling bold despite the way your heart always hammers in your chest at his close proximity, you slide closer up to the gate and press yourself into the metal until your body is almost perfectly opposite his. Reaching down without breaking eye contact, you slip your fingers through the open slats of the gate and angle them enough that you can brush the very tips against the bulge of his cock as it remains hidden away behind his uniform.
"Is that what you want? You want to teach me a lesson? Show me some of that nasty police brutality?" Punctuating each question with a definite rub against his trapped cock, you don't miss the way his body leans into it - chasing the soft movements and trying to greedily steal what he can.
"You want to see police brutality, you stop evading the law and come through this fucking gate and even the good lord won't be able to forgive what I do."
"But what if I did? What if I cooperated?"
Glancing up at his face, his large shades hide his eyes from view but the shameless arousal which leaks from his sleazy features is unmistakable. He loved this as much as he hated it, loved the fantasy of having something wicked to chase and conquer and put into its place. Every tease and disrespect adds fuel to that already raging inferno but common sense in this place had fled you almost as quickly as the sanity had.
"What if I actually handed myself in to the strong police officer who wanted to capture me? Would you still want to be so mean to me?"
You continue with innocent eyes, caution thrown to the wind as you settle into your role and wind him up with little thought to the consequences.
"There's only one way of fixing whores like you." Coyle growls, his face pressing hard against the bars as he holds his cigarette close to the side of his face, pinched between two thick, scarred fingers. "You need a firm hand to remind you how to be respectable. Lucky I've got two firm hands and enough fucking patience to knock some sense into any pervert or whore who needs a lesson."
Smirking at that, you push your face up to meet his own, skin only separated by two inches of metal. The smell of cigarette smoke is strong, pairing with something almost like a storm - electricity swirling and just waiting to strike out against some innocent target.
His beard is as unkempt as the last time you saw him and you glance between his lips and your reflection in his shades as you speak in a low, teasing tone.
"Aren't you worried that if you put me over your knee then I might like it?"
You can see the effect your words are having on him. You see it in the way his hand tightens on the stun baton and his lips part slightly.
“Lord al-fucking-mighty, you’re a nasty piece of ass.”
“Yours if you can catch me.” Winking, you continue to stroke along the bulge of his cock. “But we both know that’s not gonna happen.”
Coyle grunts his annoyance at your confident tone, mouth muttering something intelligible as he presses his stun baton under his arm to free up one of his hands. Sliding his now-free hand though one of the larger slats, his palm and fingers press up hard to cup at your cunt, his lips hissing with a self-satisfied noise as you push into his touch.
“Game on, honey. And when you’re riding the lightning and my cock, I want to hear you scream. I want to hear the pretty songbird sing like a fucking canary.”
Game on indeed.
Snatching your body away from him, you are slow and methodical in your teasing as you slowly work around the ESOP to unbutton the shirt which clings to your frame. His hands pressing hard into the gate, you can feel Coyle’s eyes drinking in the free show as you slowly expose your tits to his hungry gaze.
“Maybe I’ll make you sing, Leland.” You speak his first name with a moan as your hand slips up to play lazily with your right nipple. “But we’ll see.”
Tucking your tits back into the shirt as you quickly redo the buttons, you fight the urge to slip back up to the gate and continue your little heavy petting session. Instead, you take another step back and fix Coyle with a heated look – the insanity of your fucked up game making adrenaline thrum in your veins with more intensity than any of those stupid syringes which litter the courthouse.
“Your turn, Officer Coyle.”
And with that, you offer him a wink as you turn on your heel and sprint up the corridor to begin hunting down the evidence you need, smirking at the hurled threats and abuse which follow you from the painfully aroused prime asset who you knew was now going to hunt you down with everything he had.
Chapter 4: physical evidence (come marking: coyle)
Notes:
New MK trial! New fic! xx
Chapter Text
Coyle's grip on your scalp is merciless as he fucks himself into your throat without any care for your safety or need for oxygen. Eyes puffy and bloodshot from his earlier assault, the burn of his touch is actually a welcomed distraction from the bile which threatens to break free of your throat as he buries his cock deep and pulls at your skull until your nose has no choice but to bury itself in his pubic hair.
The pain is almost overwhelming, every part of your body screaming out in discomfort from the residual ache of his fists and heavy boots – the boots in particular having scraped some of the skin from your legs where the tread only skimmed the flesh. Nose still bleeding and eyes feeling more swollen with every blink, you were in such a sorry state that you couldn’t even attempt to fight back against the vicious use of your mouth.
"No. Good. Fucking. Criminal. Bitch." Punctuating each word with a harsh slam of his hips, Coyle pins your kneeling body against the wall with the sheer strength of him – the back of your head bouncing off the wall with enough pressure to force stars to flash dangerously in your vision as you fought to stay conscious, too afraid of what liberties he may take otherwise. "Next time, you fucking drop to your knees and respect the badge the first time I ask. You make me work for it and I’ll take it back in spades."
If anything, you really had learned your lesson. Too slow to his demands, the beating he had delivered to your sobbing frame had made you painfully compliant as your twitching muscles were still struggling to recover from the added assault of his stun baton; the white-hot pain of the electrodes making your limbs rigid in unnatural ways as you screamed your apologies and promises to be good.
Coyle stops for a moment, his groin flush against your face as you gaze up at him with tear-filled eyes as he blocks your throat with his cock.
"Now you’re gonna open wide and take it all, honey."
The panic lasts only another moment as Coyle pulls his cock free of your throat long enough to allow the words to sink in and you realise what his plans are as he finally reaches his climax. The heat of his release is shocking, ropes of his come splashing across your opened mouth and chin as he fisted his cock in his gloved hand and grunted like a wild animal.
Along with the blood and the tears which already coated your abused skin, it was just another humiliation and the salty taste of him against your tongue reignited the urge to gag as you dutifully kept your mouth open until he was completely finished, afraid of messing up again.
Satisfied and panting, with his wilting cock still hanging free of his uniform, Coyle switches tactics with impressive speed as he instead drops a hand to wrap around your neck and pull you forcefully from the floor to your feet. His thick fingers constrict your windpipe immediately, sparking a fresh, shattering fear which makes your limbs lash out in a vain attempt to throw him off.
"Disrespect the badge again with even a little assault and I'll open up that ass with this baton so I can fry your insides while I fuck you. You'll squeeze me like a fucking vice as you ride the lightning and I'll love every second."
With gargantuan effort, you manage to lower your hands and his grip on your throat lessens slightly.
"Now, here's the deal, honey." Coyle growls, blowing a heavy plume of smoke into your face as he exhales his latest cigarette draw and forces you to choke and splutter on it. "I'm gonna cut you loose and walk my ass on over to that escape shuttle you think you’re getting out of and wait. You arrive still wearing all those gifts I sprayed all over that pretty mouth, and I'll be nice and let you go. I see a single drop missing and I'll rip you something new to fuck instead. You hear?"
Clawing at his fingers as they tighten around your throat once more, you try to agree, try to nod, try to do anything that will get him to let up as your legs kick out hopelessly at his shins.
He enjoys your open terror for a moment, his dark shades reflecting your own come-stained and beaten expression as you are forced to stare at and accept your own weakness. But he does relent, dropping you back to the floor as you collapse like a broken doll, wheezing and taking in great gasps of air into your burning lungs.
"Hell, give me a decent repeat performance at the shuttle and I might even slip ya a little something to help fix up that other mess I made of your face." Dropping to one knee with a grunt, his gloved thumb presses harshly into the developing bruises which will eventually completely blacken your right eye. A movement which pulls a keening whine from your throat as the pain flares and makes you wince. "Or, maybe not.” Coyle continues. “I kinda like seeing the leftovers of our little spat, it reminds me of my first wife. Just a little bit of sweet god-fearing nostalgia."
Coyle pulls his hand away and you breathe a pained sigh of relief as he stands to his feet and swings his stun baton in a casual arc, the blue sparks illuminating the space for an instant. Turning on his heel, he calls to you from over his shoulder as he disappears into the corridor leading to the nearby holding cells.
"Hop along now, honey. And remember, touch what I've given you and then I suppose I'll have to give you something even harder to forget."
Face still aching from its earlier abuse and uncomfortably sticky due to the splotches of come which decorate your mouth and lower chin, you can't help the grimace which screws up your features - the small gesture sparking fresh pain across the battered features. Your throat feels raw, a faint coppery taste speaking the unseen damage which his forceful fucking had caused.
Too afraid to go against Coyle's demands, you leave his mess where it is as you shakily rise to your feet and limp off towards the objective which still awaited your attention.
Chapter 5: operant conditioning (drugged sex: easterman)
Notes:
First time writing for Easterman! Lots of fun, lemme tell ye <3
Requests are open over at acapelladitty.
Chapter Text
You awaken with a start. The familiar nightmares which mark any sleep you manage to achieve within your private room are quick to fade away in the light of your sudden consciousness; the sound of grinding bones and wicked laughter pairing with the now-recognisable scent of melting flesh and exposed viscera slowly melting as your eyes remain squeezed shut and your body perfectly still.
After a few moments, you decide to grab some water from the nearby sink. Taking a deep breath as you open your eyes, you find your sight opening to absolute darkness and quickly realise that that your eyes have been blocked by a blindfold. Fear rocks through your body and it only amplifies in an instant as you find that you cannot move.
You mentally pull frantically at your arms and legs, attempting to force any kind of movement from the limbs which feel as though they are made of solid concrete. Not even a toe or finger moves an inch as you find that your head is just as trapped. But you can tell that you are definitely in your own bed, the paralysis of your frame somehow not having robbed all sensation as you feel the weight of your thin pyjamas and the rough sheets which touch your heels and the back of your head.
“You’re panicking, I can feel it. No need to panic, little lamb.”
Easterman’s voice rolls across the room and despite the surprise which it initially sparks, with it comes a cruel soothing quality, his praises and encouragements some of the only positive regards which you’ve ever been afforded in this hellish place.
Unable to speak, confusion sits in your chest. It was rare for Easterman’s voice to come through the room speakers, his speeches typically saved for more personal moments where no others were present to hear what was being said.
“No need to panic.” His soft voice repeats and absolute horror tears through your mind as you feel the heat of breath on your cheek as the repeated words are muttered directly into your ear.
He was here. In your room. The blindfold. The paralysis. All him.
But why?
Perhaps sensing your fear, or perhaps seeing the rapid rise and fall of your chest as you struggle to regulate your breathing, Easterman pulls away and you can feel his presence fall back slightly as the unusual scent of masculine cologne grows less intense.
“Why? I hear you ask. Well, you have impressed me.” Easterman purrs, his voice wrapping around the words as he audibly paces the length of your bed. “I have watched, with awe, at how beautifully your horror has dwindled to practicality. How you have taken my learnings, held them in your heart, and grown to be something damn near perfect. They say that a teacher should never love a student, but you?”
A hand comes to rest on your stomach, the physical feeling of its weight making your throat clench as his praises take on an almost intimate edge.
“You’re perfect.”
Despite yourself, you flush at the words.
“I often feel like a father, one who has to use love and discipline in equal measure to ensure that my teachings are understood. To ensure that failure is not an option. But you, you have become an inspiration, not only to the others who lurk in your brilliant shadow, but to me. I give you everything and you give me it back in spades, you take my sadism and humiliation and give me brilliance and perfect results. You have complicated my feelings.”
Barely able to comprehend what he’s saying, you don’t miss the way in which his hand ghosts across your stomach to push up the hem of your pyjama top and allow his fingers to press into your exposed hip – the physical contact making his words stutter slightly as he continues.
“A proud father should not possess these feelings, a fact one of our prime assets could learn from, but I cannot help what you have inspired. A perfect masochist, aching for the touch of their sadist and desperate for that connection. It’s almost shameful how I have been driven to give it in to it.”
His hand shifts across your hip, teasing the elastic of your waistband and you only manage a soft whimper as he slowly pulls your pyjama shorts down, his hooked fingers carrying your cotton underwear with it as he exposes your entire lower half to his unseen gaze.
Shame flushes hot across your skin and you can feel the blush rising on your cheeks. Everything feels wrong and filthy, the thumping of your heart pairing with a traitorous heat which also sparks in your groin as you imagine his attention, undivided and as focused as his praise.
“So willing to thrust yourself into danger, into self-discovery. All to become the best possible lamb that you could be.” Easterman mutters, his hands pressing against the inside of your thighs as he spreads the soft skin there, taking stock of your most intimate area while a gentle groan slips free of his lips. “Beautiful.”
Heat pours into your gut as calloused fingers graze across your pubic hair, tickling the skin as they press down your slit, almost testing the skin there. Your breath quickens, body stiff and unmoving as all you can do is open and close your eyes behind the blindfold, darkness the result either way. Easterman shifts his approach, spreading you folds with his fingers as he audibly gasps at what he finds.
“You deserve to be shown how special you are.” A finger drops to trace your hole, the ease with which it swirls across the skin letting you know how damp you already are as Easterman hums at the discovery clearly pleased. “Afraid of nothing. You take pleasure where you know it will be given.”
Easterman presses two of his fingers within your cunt, the digits curling against your walls as he explores the soft wetness which greets him. His thumb slides higher, the thicker pad of it tracing gentle shapes across the hood of your clit in such a way that you feel your mouth go dry.
You should be angry, furious even, that your body was being taken advantage of in such a perverse way. Easterman had robbed you of your sanity, your health, your dignity, and now he had even robbed you of your choice. And yet-
“I have seen it. Heard it. Those nights you’ve spent masturbating within these walls as you accept the memory of the day’s horrors within your mind. You have found the beauty in such depravity. I can feel that now.”
His hand pulls free of your cunt, the emptiness somehow worse than anything, and your strained ears vaguely pick up the telltale sounds of his mouth. He was tasting you and the knowledge of that made your clit throb, desperate for more attention.
“So sweet. So…understanding.” Easterman hums, returning his hand to your aching cunt. This time his fingers move faster, pumping within your hole with purpose as he pushes you towards your peak.
Paralysed, the way in which his fingers stroke along those sensitive spots within your walls have your breath coming in short, sharp bursts as your chest moves in tandem. You wish you could speak, could do anything, because if you had your voice then you would tell him to squeeze your chest – your nipples always painfully sensitive when aroused.
But no, your voice was as locked away as your other choices and it was all you could do to try and control your breathing as the band of tension within your gut grew more intense, hips desperate to roll and press down harder into his hand but unable.
Before too long, you come hard against his fingers and the silence of your body feels wrong compared to the fireworks which spark off behind your eyes as wicked waves of pleasure roll across your flushing skin. Your cunt spasms and you feel your release as it coats his hand, the tension in your groin almost unbearable as you can’t do anything to satiate it until the high of your orgasm begins to ebb away.
“Look at what you are capable of!” Wiping his hand off on your thigh, the open wonder in Easterman’s voice pairs with the undeniable arousal which makes his tone sound lower as you hear him shift from your lower half to stand closer to your side. “Absolute perfection. Again. Always.”
You blink in surprise as a cool hand wraps around your wrist, pulling your arm from its paralysed position by your body to rise into the air and angle out from the bed which holds you. Your arm feels impossibly heavy and your eyes widen behind the blindfold as Easterman manipulates your fingers into a makeshift fist and you realise what he’s planning to do with you. His cock snakes it way between your fingers, unseen but undeniable, and you can feel the length of him as he slowly uses your hand to jerk his cock.
He’s hard, warm, and there’s a vein running on the underside of his cock that grazes your palm with every stroke as you picture what that might look like – the unknown quality of what you were working with surprisingly erotic as you wish you had a little more control over your hand to pleasure him more fully.
“Just like this.” Easterman moans, shockingly vocal as he whimpers and whines while he pleasures himself with your hand. “So good! So perfect. So,” he pauses, “mine.”
Something damp touches your fingers and you realise its his pre-come, no doubt leaking from his cockhead as he breathlessly runs your hand along his shaft and presses your palm into his cockhead. He’s insistent and your focus is split between the sensation of his cock in your hand and the feel of your release as it’s allowed to trickle free of your hole, cool against your heated skin.
A sharp gasp escapes him and his cock jerks within your palm as Easterman whines out his release, his cold hand stuttering over your own as it messily jerks him off to completion. Warmth travels across your fingers and you can feel his release as it sits stickily on your skin while he slows down his pace and wrings every drop of pleasure from his cock.
His cock wilts quickly, pulling free of your hand with an obscenely slick noise which would make you cringe if you could. But your hand stays clasped within his as something soft comes to rub against the soiled skin. A tissue. One which he uses to clean each of your fingers diligently, removing any trace of his being there with an almost clinical precision.
Your mind whirls with everything which has just happened. Uncertainty and arousal swirling into a dangerous mess which threatens to unravel another thread of your sanity as you lie there, a passive party to your own free use.
“Sweet little lamb.” Easterman purrs, his breath still slightly elevated as you feel him move closer to your face. Chapped lips drop to press against your forehead, the kiss oddly intimate as the scent of wooden cologne tickles your nose with its intensity. “Now, remember. Not a word of this to any of the other students or I may need to lay on a punishment which will still that disobedient tongue forever.”
The whiplash of the sudden threat throws your mind into fresh chaos, especially when you know – when he knows – that you have no way of agreeing to his words. It is just another power play, another chance for him to show that he holds every possible control he can over your sanity and your life.
“Sweet dreams.” A final parting shot, and you feel Easterman’s presence growing less oppressive as his footsteps grow fainter – a quick click of your door announcing his exit as the door closes behind him with equal care for silence.
Still unable to move, you lay there with unsteady breaths. Your cunt feels abandoned, still exposed to the cold air of the sleep room as your release feels even chillier against your skin – all warmth having fizzled away quickly. Your hand tingles, dry and holding no evidence of the filthy use it had been put to. You want to sleep, but a bigger part of you knows that your whirling mind would never allow it until you at least had control over your limbs again.
Sweet dreams.
Blinking against the blindfold which remains tight against your eyes, you find it impossible to focus on anything but the vague scent of cologne which clings to your nose.
Chapter 6: Italians and spiders (lactation kink: franco)
Notes:
This little freak...
Chapter Text
Whatever the fuck Murkoff was paying your master to have you agree to this visit was definitely not enough. All that you had been told was that you were a ‘treat’, a gift for some guy who had earned a reward, and that reward came at the expense of your tits and the recent success your master had enjoyed in inducing lactation without pregnancy.
Months of suction, of constant expression and pumping as you watched your nipples grow in size and sensitivity, even the slightest brush of clothing making them ache after a particularly intense day.
It had been master’s idea. An opportunity he called it, as he made allusions to an interested third party who required a willing body with warm milk for an event which would result in heavy compensation for the attendee.
It was an opportunity you actually welcomed, nipple play being well within your usual wheelhouse as he often combined pumps and clamps in your typical play and training. And it wasn’t like your master hadn’t shared you before; many heated nights at local BDSM clubs serving faceless men and women with a smile having left you with little shame as you both enjoyed the free use.
The journey had been weird. Very hush-hush and with blacked out windows which essentially hid the location of the building that you had swiftly been escorted into. Now, standing alone in a room which felt very cold and almost interrogational, you startle as a firm voice blares into the small space.
“Welcome! You understand why you are here?”
Clearing your throat with a soft cough, your hands tighten around the long coat which covers most of your body as the very even tone speaks to you almost conversationally.
“Yes. I’m here for my services to be used.”
“Then drop your coat and expose the wonderful creature you are.”
A bit weirded out by that but unwilling to show it, you shuffle from your coat and place it across the single wooden table which is bolted to the centre of the room. Now wearing only a thin lace underwear set, the dark fabric lays against your skin to hug your curves.
“Beautiful!” The voice announces, its tenor never wavering from the subtle excitement which clouds the words. “Perfect! You are special and Franco is also a special kind of man. His appearance might be a touch startling but you will service him like any other.”
“It’s my chest, isn’t it? He wants to drink, my milk I mean?” Voice not quite as loud as you would have liked as you pull the lace of your bra down to expose your chest, you know the question has been heard regardless as the voice is quick to respond.
“Yes. Franco will want to drink from you. Suckle like the babe he believes himself to be. And you will lay back on that table and let him.”
“Okay.” Taking a deep breath, you steady yourself with thoughts of your master, who was waiting. “I can do that.”
“A word to the wise,” the disembodied voice added, “he might say he’s going to have sex with you. I wouldn’t recommend it. He will not react well to any attempts to please him. Lay there and let him use you and you might escape without incident.” He paused. “Just show him how wonderful you are and you will come out stronger from the experience.” And with that, a soft click of an ending call rolls through the room and you quickly assume your position on the table as you lay out flat.
A flashing yellow light springs to life over the only other door to the room and you steel yourself against the sudden light as you quickly make sure that the lace of your bra is pulled neatly below the swell of your tit. Your nipples, freshly pumped only that morning, are reddened and sensitive, a very small bead of milk only beginning to threaten to escape your right nipple as you recline.
His name is Franco, you remind yourself, and you feel a real sense of pride at how well you hide your revulsion as he strolls through the room door, the electromagnetic locks quickly clicking back into place behind him as he emerges from the darkness of the hallway. Still laid out flat on the table, you have to turn your head fully to look at him.
He’s shorter than you would have thought, his average sized body housed by an old-fashioned white pinstripe suit which is offset by a purple shirt. He looks like a gangster, down to the blue bowtie which sits neatly against his neck, just above what looks like a pacifier hanging down like a necklace. But what catches you attention isn’t his outfit, it’s his head. Larger than anything you had ever seen, his deformed skull looked massive atop his body and the left side looked almost mutilated – sporting livid red marks which resembled raw, pulsing meat. It is repulsive and you bite down hard on your tongue as you force your eyes to drag away from it.
His face is equally as odd. Hair a filthy blonde colour and balding in most spots, what remains is an open mess. Bulging eyes, a pale cornflour blue, appear bloodshot and damaged in such a way that you are surprised that he seems able to see you clearly. Skin incredibly pale, it sits against the light suit in such a way that it makes him seem ill, like sickness lives beneath the veil just waiting to seep free and infect what it can.
Franco’s buggy eyes are narrowed as he pauses to survey your naked form, gaze finding it difficult to pull away from the bulge of your tits and the stiffness of your nipples as they peak in the cool air. His attention repulses you but you push those feeling down to handle the task at hand.
“You’re a real tasty little whore, I’ll give you that. Easterman knows how to pick ‘em. But a man has his appetites and a big man has big appetites, yeah?”
You nod, arching your back slightly to push your chest from the table – willingly igniting his interest and ensuring that you were fulfilling your task.
“Tummy’s rumbling, want some milk.” Franco mutters, hand cupping his cock as he strokes himself through his suit. So excited, you can see the pacifier hanging from his neck move in tandem with his shaking torso. “Gotta drink it all like a fucking milkshake. Best fucking decision I’ll make all day.”
His mouth latches around your right nipple, his chapped lips instantly creating a strong suction as he pulls at your tit. It’s a familiar feeling but still strange as his mouth is hot and human and much different to the various pumps which had previously stretched your teat. Inhaling deeply, you can’t hold back the grunt of discomfort as Franco’s other hand rises to squeeze at your left tit – his strong grip forcing a few droplets of milk to drip free of your nipple and coat his thick, scarred fingers.
As he suckles, his hand drops to his cock. Standing to the side of the table, you can only just see his groin and the way his cock hangs from his open fly – not quite hard enough to do anything with as he jerks his fist across it.
“What do you think, baby? Too much for you handle?”
“Mm-hmm. Too much.” You parrot the words back at him as you try to calm your nerves, fingers pressing flat into the table as you focus on the sensation of the hard wood and not the painful pull of your nipple as his mouth achieves a cruel latch. It’s almost painful, nothing like the mechanical tug which you were used to as your master slowly built up your tolerance to the discomfort.
Franco’s mouth switches target, his stunted body quickly walking around the table as he sinks his mouth on your other tit. This time, you feel his teeth and there’s no holding back the cry as his blunted teeth bite at the nub – almost chewing the flesh as he forces free a few droplets of milk.
Desperate to avoid falling into hysteria as you fight against the growing horror which guts your stomach from the inside out, you think of your master as you attempt to ignore the terrifying creature currently suckling at your tit. You think of the money this will earn you both and you force a small smile to pull at the corner of your lips in a hopeful sign of encouragement.
“You laughing at me, cunt?” Franco’s voice is as sharp as glass as you turn to look at him. His face, previously gleeful, is now twisted in fury and the shock of it makes your body stiffen as fear clenches your chest. “You want to make me look like a fucking jerk?” He continues.
You wipe the smile from your face in a blink, replacing it with honest panic.
“What?” You stutter. “N-no, Franco, I was just enjoying-”
“You know, I think baby wants a cuddle to feel better.” He rages, his short body vibrating with unchecked anger as his hands wave around threateningly before one drops to press harshly against your stomach, momentarily knocking the air from your lungs. “You feeling fucking cuddly, slut? Want me to open you right up and bury my head in there? I’ll drink you from the inside out, you fucking junkie whore.”
Genuine fear rolls through your body, making you instinctively shrink away from him as you shake your head in distress. From the way he spoke and the madness which lurked in his terrifying eyes, you knew, without a doubt, that he was a man who would follow through on those threats, and had no doubt subjected some other poor women to a similar fate.
“That piss pig fuck Easterman took my lupara. Fucking jerk. If I had it, oh boy, I’d show you what a baby could do. You fucking whore.” His hand stretches across to grip at your tit, his fingers curling into the sensitive skin so roughly that you were surprised he didn’t break the skin. Holding back a squeal, you press yourself into the table as much as you can.
You can feel the danger in the air, the growing threat almost like a brewing electrical storm as it charged the tension. Your limbs trembling, chest visibly shaking under his harsh hand as you debate trying to escape; just leaping from the table and pounding at the door, hoping that someone would open it before he could really hurt you.
“Your lupara has been fixed, Franco. Time for you to come and get her.”
Saved by the disembodied voice as you both jump a little in place, Franco immediately releases your chest as he focuses his attention on one of the wall mounted speakers.
“Fuck your mother, Easterman.” He snarls.
“Exit through the door and retrieve her. You’ve had your fun.”
Bloodshot blue eyes darting between your shivering body and the exit door, Franco growls as he makes his decision and stomps over to the yellow flashing lights once more.
“Be seeing you around, whore. Next time, I’ll give you something hard to suck on as I show you what a bad baby I am.”
And with that, he disappeared, taking the stench of outdated cologne and rot with him as the doors clicked shut and you were once again left alone in the room with nothing but an aching chest and a sense of relief so intense that you felt tears pricking the very corners of your eyes.
Chapter 7: diamond sky (locker sex: pusher)
Chapter Text
Despite the bandages which are wrapped tightly around your calf, you can feel the trickle of liquid down your legs as the graze wound continues to bleed out from beneath the fabric. What you need is rest and a nearby locker, one located close to the shuttle on the docks, seems like the ideal place for you to take a short breather.
You slip within the double locker, using the right door to let yourself in before sliding over to the left-hand side to lean against the wall – allowing your good leg to take the weight of your body as you give the other a little bit of peace. Peace that didn’t seem to want to last when a familiar blare of sirens makes you jump in place as the flashing yellow lights which sit atop the metal door on the other side of the dock spring to life.
Something was coming, and knowing you were on the docks, you really hoped it wasn’t Franco again. With your leg in the state it was, dodging another shot from his lupara wasn’t something you wanted to attempt.
But no, as the doors slid open to reveal their monster, you found yourself squinting at the sudden appearance of the Pusher.
Gas mask covering his face as always, the constant yet rhythmic wheeze of his drug apparatus announced his arrival before his words even could.
“Pills before swine.”
Shouted to no one, you watch with frightened eyes as the Pusher begins to walk around the area between you, your safety only separated by a few wooden crates and the smooth metal of the locker door. As far as the ex-pops went, the Pusher wasn’t the worst possible outcome to have limped through the door.
The psychosis gas was horrific; choking and blinding all in one, the hallucinations it sparked were terrifying as reality shifted to introduce you to disembodied tentacles and a humanoid monster which seemed to thrive in the shadows to slowly pursue and drain you of both your sanity and your health. But still, Murkoff were always kind enough to litter the various trials with antidotes and that’s more than could be said for the pathetic bandages which were expected to alleviate some of the damage which other ex-pops like the Pitcher could cause.
But still, the less time spent being pursued by any of these monsters the better. Especially when you are in this state as your shirt and shorts combo are not ideal for keeping your wounds safe and clean.
The Pusher draws closer, green puffs of psychosis gas escaping the pressure spray with a casual rhythm, and he’s speaking but his words are too muffled to be understandable. His ripped brown overalls and filthy underwear are splattered with blood and some other unknown fluids which make your skin crawl. He seems to be looking for something, looking for you, but you have no idea how the hell he could possibly know you were in the area. Unless Murkoff had dropped a hint as they deployed him into the trial.
Looking past him to the ground he is staring at intently, your heart freezes in your veins as you realise what he is looking at.
Blood.
A trail of it, having dripped free of your injured leg, leading him directly to your hiding place.
Adrenaline and fear seizing you as the Pusher pulls his head from the floor to look at the locker, you briefly consider leaping out and making a run for it; trying to push your leg as far as it will go without fully giving out in a vain attempt at escape. Your last brick has found itself smashed against the head of the Night Hunter as he pursued you through the Chem-Co lab so you had nothing left to defend yourself with.
The choice is quickly taken out of your hand as the Pusher’s thin body limps over to block the doors of the locker.
“Knock, knock, baby!” His manic voice is painfully gleeful and absolute terror seizes your chest as he wrenches the right door open, slips inside, and pulls it closed behind him in one smooth motion.
“Fuck!” Screaming the word as you struggle to wrap your fingers around the lock for the left door, the scent of blood and something chemically acrid invades your senses. “Let me out! Let me fucking out!”
“You need some medicine to relax!” A thin hand wraps around your wrist, pulling it away from the locker doors as the Pusher forces you close to him – the gas mask hiding his face from sight. “Let’s push those limits together, man.”
Before you can do anything else, the locker fills with familiar green gas. Psychosis gas. It’s everywhere in an instant, burning your nose and throat as your panicked inhales only grow more frantic while the chemicals are pulling into your system with every shuddering gasp.
Eyes burning despite how tightly closed they are, your senses are so fried by the onslaught of the gas that you almost miss the Pusher as he turns your flailing body to press against the solid side of the locker, your face tilted towards the exit door.
Trapped against the side of the locker, your cheek pressing into the cold metal, the darkness within the small space feels claustrophobic; every shadow shifting and writhing like it were alive and desperate to swallow you up whole.
“Let your doctor show you how good it feels.” Audibly excited as you writhe against him, the Pusher presses his groin against your ass and shock cuts across your panic as you feel the hard length of his cock grinding on your shorts. “We’ll get that mind out of it’s cage and see what the body wants.”
Bile rising in your throat, you know that you have no choice. No amount of kicking or screaming would stop what is going to happen and the gas has already robbed you of most of your fight, your heart beating mercilessly in your chest as your breaths come in short, sharp bursts – almost hyperventilating.
“No, please no. No!”
“C’mon, baby!” Clawing fingers pull at the waistband of your shorts, snatching them and your underwear down past your ass in one smooth motion as the fabric is allowed to fall to your ankles. “I’m just trying to help.”
Not prepared to be fucked in the slightest, your shattering mind has enough focus left within it to realise that if he fucked you like this then it was going to hurt more than it had to. Your injured leg already screaming its irritation as it found itself jostled and shuffled around without care, you decide to try and make things as smooth as possible and deal with the aftermath later.
“N-no. Let me, let me-”
Wetting your fingers in your mouth, a tall task given how dry the psychosis gas had left your entire throat, you work up some saliva and coat your fingers before dropping your hand to your cunt. You take a quick moment to dampen your hole, splitting your attention between lubing up the area and using your thumb to stroke your clit with a gentle, quick rhythm – desperately hoping to spark some natural lubrication and keep things from being too uncomfortable.
“Hell yeah.” The Pusher groans, rubbing his unseen cock against your ass. The heat of his length is shocking, almost inhumane in how warm it feels against your already warm skin and you’re thankful for the darkness of the locker, not wanting to see the monster which was preparing to fuck you. “Let’s lube up, baby, and get this party started.”
His cock is wet as the blunt head of it pokes messily at your hole, obviously slicked up with his own saliva even though you hadn’t heard him spit, and it only takes a little manoeuvring for him to angle it enough that he’s able to push inside your cunt – his cock sinking two inches without much difficulty due to your earlier efforts.
Your lungs burn from both the earlier gas assault and also the unshed bile which keep rising low in your throat as the Pusher sets to work quickly, his cock building a rapid rhythm as he stretches you out with every thrust pushing his length just a little deeper. It’s not good but there’s a hint of pleasure as your drugged out frame is too weakened to really fight against the natural arousal which his stimulation is providing.
Opening your eyes, you squint at the open slats of the locker, looking out from your trapped position with a bleary gaze – desperately trying to ignore the growing heat in your cunt as the Pusher ruts into you like an animal. Your body feels heavy, sluggish in a now-familiar way as it attempts to fight off the effects of the psychosis gas, and your eyes lock onto a growing figure in the far distance of the docks, his outline blurring and undefined as it slowly rose from a dark puddle on the floor.
The Skinner Man.
“Oh, fuck!” Watching the slow approach of the monster as it forms into its typical humanoid shape and begins to walk slowly towards the locker, you can’t keep the fresh tremble from your limbs as you thrash your head and refuse to pull your eyes from it. “Oh, God!
“It’s a fucking trip, yeah? All filled up and ready to ride!” Pusher grunts, his thin fingers digging harsh marks into your hips that you can already feel are going to bruise up. You can’t see him but you can feel his frantic pleasure in the way that the air wheezes free of his gas mask. “Fucking bliss, baby! Want another hit?”
“No, please!” Finally turning away from the wicked hallucination of the Skinner Man, you tilt your head back in a vain attempt to pathetically plead your case with the delusional ex-pop. “Don’t-I don’t think I can- it’s already too much. My head is-”
“Be cool, bitch, and breathe it in.”
Once again, the tiny locker fills with psychosis gas.
It’s somehow worse than the first time, your nose and lungs haven’t fully recovered from the sting and you splutter out incomprehensible phrases. Desperate and begging, even you can’t understand what you’re trying to say and it’s made all the worse by the tension in your cunt as the added drugs only serve to stoke the heat there and make you clamp down on the Pusher’s cock – milking him in such a way that you can hear his gasping breaths pick up speed.
Your orgasm catches you off guard, the tension which had been building in your gut snapping with a particularly wicked thrust from the Pusher and you suffer through the waves of pleasure in silence as your throat burns too much from the follow-up gas attack to manage anything more than pathetic whimpers.
“Fucking sweet.” The Pusher grunts, drawing the second word out with a playfulness that sparks nausea in your chest even as you tilt your body forward slightly to give him easier access to your hole. Your spasming cunt must feel good to him and you swear you can hear a smugness in his manic tone as he continues to grunt. “Let’s finish this up.”
His thrusts grow more erratic, groin bouncing off your ass as he buries his cock as deeply as he can manage within the wet heat of your cunt. A wet heat he is quick to add to as a stuttering gasp escapes him while he comes; one hand pulling free of your hips to instead press harshly against the back of your head, forcing your face to press on the locker wall and pin you in place.
Having satisfied himself, the Pusher wheezes out his comedown and snatches his cock free of your cunt without comment. As he does, you can feel his release trickle down your thigh – mixed arousals only adding to the sensory hell which your body is going through as your leg screams in pain and your nose, throat, and eyes continue to burn from the gas exposure.
Outside of the locker, a screeching noise announces the approach of the shuttle to whisk you off back to the sleep rooms and you turn watery eyes back to the slats. Despite still being under the influence of the psychosis gas, you feel a jolt of relief to see that the Skinner Man seems to have disappeared, no doubt biding his time to catch you as soon as you turned a corner.
“Every itch is worth a scratch, man.” Also hearing the approach of the shuttle, the Pusher wheezes and his hand slaps your ass as he pulls himself away from your trembling frame. “Even if it’s gotta be a house call.”
And with that, he shoulders the locker door open and slips free of the small space with just as much speed as he had entered and you wait until you hear the thump of his feet whittle off into the slide of the metal door before you exhale the breath which has been sitting in your lungs since your discovery. You had survived, and the shuttle was here; the safe haven containing antidotes which could be used to recover what remained of your shattered sanity.
Leg bleeding, mind fried, and cunt slowly dripping a release which you are certain is going to require some medication from the pharmacist to protect you from, you take a step backwards and slowly limp free of the locker – making the short journey to the revolving shuttle doors without taking your eyes off the floor, too afraid of tempting the Skinner Man into a fresh appearance.
Chapter 8: titles (daddy kink: easterman)
Chapter Text
Perching on Easterman’s lap, there is little you can do but whimper into the quiet of the room as your mind shatters between the sensation of his cock impaling your soaked cunt and the tension of his tie as it tightens around your throat, his fist pulling at the makeshift noose to control your breathing as you face away from him and bounce on his lap.
“You know, not every little lamb gets to come sit on daddies lap and show him just how happy she is for how much he’s taught her.” Purring the words into your ear, you can smell the whisky on Easterman’s breath as your back arches to take some of the pressure off your neck. “And you’ve made such a mess.” He continues, the murmuring comment dissolving into more of a whine as you squeeze tightly around his length. “My suit is ruined with your filth, what do you have to say about that?”
“Sorry, daddy.” You gasp, struggling to get any words out around his tie even as the title makes your face flush. “I’ll clean- oh god - clean it up when we’re finished.”
You feel the rumble in his chest as Easterman growls, his approval clear as he loops one arm around your stomach to pull you flush against his groin, “Mm, such a good girl for your father, my little lamb.”
Chapter 9: protect and serve (submission: coyle)
Notes:
Want him :/
Chapter Text
At this point, there was little that Murkoff could throw your way which would genuinely surprise you. Horrify? Yes. Sicken? Always. But their pattern of cruelty and a shocking disregard for any kind of safety or kindness had left you hollow in a way you were beginning to believe was genuinely unfixable.
So, with that in mind, stumbling out from the shuttle to find yourself walking into a new area which you had never seen before was a little shocking. It was only a corridor, dim red and white flashing lights leading you down towards a single door which felt ominous – the handle of the door so cold within your hand that you are hesitant to see what lay behind it. Pushing that uncertainty down, you turn the handle and press through, preparing yourself for whatever horrors lay on the other side.
What you find is something altogether different.
It’s a plain room, wooden floors filthy and walls stained with hell knows what kind of nasty fluids. But what catches you attention is the figure which sits in the centre of the room. His hands and ankles tightly zip-tied to the study wooden chair which is bolted into the floor, Leland Coyle is visibly as surprised to see you are you are to see him.
“What the fuck is this?” Coyle demands, his body pulling at the restraints as he stares at you from behind his dark shades.
To the side of his prone positioning lies a small trolley, the top layer littered with various medical tools from scalpels to thick medical needles which lay with no attachments; their presence clearly just for causing pain rather than injecting any liquid.
“What the fuck is this?” You mirror back, a rising panic despite the fact that you clearly held the power here making your limbs tremble as you remain rooted in place. But, just as confusion took hold, with it comes some comprehension of what was going on.
It was a test.
The staging of the medical implements suggested that you were supposed to be using them on Coyle but something about that implication felt off. You had seen what happened to the others who had attacked the prime assets beyond what Easterman and the staff deemed acceptable. The ones who had been resourceful, used other methods to attack, had quickly found themselves dragged off kicking and screaming to never be seen again.
It was a test.
There was no denying that Murkoff knew the history which lay between you and Coyle, the dubious consent turned somewhat less dubious as time crafted your sexually charged encounters into something almost like a wicked game. You had often wondered why Easterman had allowed it to continue, but a part of you knew he was interested in the long-term effects, curiosity staying his unseen hand.
It was a test.
And it was something you had to pass.
“The fuck are you doing here?” Coyle yelled again, his anger on full display as his fingers curled around nothing, almost mimicking an imaginary neck for him to wring.
“I don’t know.” You confess, eyes darting around the room to work out where the various cameras were no doubt placed. Certain of Coyle’s obvious restraints, you spoke more freely than you typically would, panic making your tongue loose. “They obviously want me to do something.”
“You fucking let me out of this. That’s what you do.” Coyle growled, struggling against the chair as he mumbled his discontent. “Dragged from my bed like a fucking criminal to be hauled in here and tied up like a hog for the slaughter. Killed one of those commie fuckers though, snapped his neck like a twig. Won’t be doing it again.”
“Do they want-” Your gaze shifts to the trolley once more and Coyle head follows as it snaps to the side and comes to a similar conclusion.
“You touch me with any of that shit and it’s assault. The full weight of the law will stamp down on that pretty neck ‘til it snaps and I’ll be there to fuck what’s left.” Coyle snarls, his head jerking forward in a vain attempt to collide with your own, the movement doing surprisingly little to shift the police cap which seems glued to his skull. “I’m warning you, fuck-o.”
“Coyle…” You mutter, unaffected by his threats.
“What?”
“I think they want to see what I do.” The words almost less than a whisper, you let them hang in the air.
“You let me out is what the fuck you do.” Coyle repeats.
“So that you can kill me? Not fucking likely.” The words snap from your throat in such a way that even you are caught off guard by how vicious they come across as Coyle’s nose flares at the disrespect. “I didn’t do this and I’m not getting killed for it.”
“Brave little girl all of a sudden.” Teeth gnashing, Coyle takes the words in stride but doesn’t deny them. “I’m gonna enjoy making you scream and beg for your mama as you die.”
“I’m not letting you out when you’re like this.” You gesture wildly at him, taking in his appearance as the apparent loss of control has pushed him into an almost feral state of being. “No fucking way.”
“You fucking-”
In a flash, you cut his words off with your hand as you press your palm roughly to his mouth – shutting him up as your mind whirls with possible ideas. It proves to be a bad choice as you immediately feel the hard press of his teeth as he attempts to take a bite from your hand.
“Shit!” You squeal, pulling your hand away before he can do any actual damage.
“Don’t put your filthy hands on me again, scum.”
“I thought you liked my hands,” you shoot back with venom. “You definitely don’t complain when they’re wrapped around your dick.”
An idea sparks and with it comes clarity.
Murkoff wanted to see what you would do. Would you choose violence and punish the asset or foolishness and free the asset, hoping for mercy. But there was a third option and the clarity of why Coyle had been chosen for this was unmistakable.
“Here, let me remind you.” You mutter.
Dropping to your haunches between his knees, the sudden motion clearly confuses him as he tilts his head down at you and you again see his fingers flexing.
“The fuck are you doing?”
Taking your time to let him adjust to your plans, you work on his clothing with shaking fingers, unbuttoning and pulling down the zip of his uniform pants as his chest rises and falls just above your eyeline. Coyle picks up quickly on what you’re doing as his efforts to pull free of the zip-ties doubles, the lack of control making him wild as a spew of incomprehensible insults flies free of his snarling mouth.
Confident that this is what Murkoff wanted, you push past the anxiety gripping your chest to delve your hand past his dark boxers and wrap your fist around his cock – pulling it free into the stale air of the room as he inhales sharply.
“You do this and you’re a dead cunt.”
Coyle speaks with a cold certainty, nothing like his previous incandescent rage and the confidence in the quiet threat is chilling. Something you haven’t heard before in your various encounters.
Gazing up at him with empty eyes, you nod, accepting the threat for what it was as you refocus your attention on his dick.
His cock is as hard as ever, already leaking pre-cum despite his big bravado about not wanting touched.
Thick and velvety in your palm, the weight of him is familiar and you stroke along his length with your fist – pausing as you reach the livid skin of his cockhead, his arousal making the slight flare of his mushroom head almost seem to pulse beneath your fingers.
“Murkoff doesn’t want me to hurt you or to free you.” You explain quietly, using his distraction over the gentle hand job to get your suspicions across. “They want to see how this plays out. I think Easterman sees what we’ve been doing and wants to know what would happen when the roles are switched. He wants me to be in charge.”
In lieu of an actual answer, Coyle growls and the sound is low and guttural – almost animalistic in how much aggression it carries.
Despite it all, you can’t deny that you’re turned on by the control.
Typically, Coyle set your pace, be in with him pinning you to a generator and making a valiant effort to fuck you through it, or him forcing you to your knees to lodge his cock firmly down your throat. To have the power was heady, your fingers trembling and chest heaving as you consider just how to play this out.
“You’re a whore, using a man like this when he can’t even defend himself. Ain’t right. A woman shouldn’t be making these kind of choices.”
“So, you want me to stop?” Squeezing his cockhead in your palm and feeling your skin dampen from the pre-cum, you can feel how much he is enjoying the attention despite the circumstances. “Just leave you here and see if Murkoff wants to send someone else in to finish the job?”
That gets a reaction from him and you swear you see his shoulders stiffen in fear at the idea. You were under no illusions about who Coyle is as a man. A rapist and a monster, a man who craved control and used fear and pain to control everyone around him. Making them little more than playthings for his sadistic and sexual needs.
To have himself reduced to a similar role for an unknown entity must frighten him. The thought of one of his previous victims having the chance to exact some terrible revenge is something which would spark terror in even the most sadistic of creatures.
In that regard, Coyle was lucky that you were more afraid of Murkoff that you were determined to get your own back against the man who had robbed you of more than just your sanity. Your ongoing engagements were borne of desperation and something broken which forced you to chase what little pleasures you could in the hell which was Murkoff’s trials.
A fact he knew, had to know, but took advantage of regardless.
Releasing his cock, you decide to play into your role with a bit more enthusiasm, knowing that there will be hell to pay the next time you have to cross paths with the furious man before you.
The skirt you wore is a recent purchase from the sleep room commissar and you slip your hand up your thigh with ease as your fingers crawl towards their target. Pressing past your panties, you aren’t too surprised to find that you’re soaked – arousal clear in how easily your fingers are able to slip within your hole.
“I won’t be mean like you.” Winking at Coyle, you pull your fingers free and bring them up to his face, showing him just how turned on you are at his predicament – hoping that at some part of him will be flattered by the attention. “Don’t you want to know what nice things I could do for you? How I could use my power here to make you feel good?”
“Fuck off.”
Frowning, you run your wet fingers across his mouth, smearing arousal across his salt and pepper beard and smirk at the defiant way in which he keeps his lips pursed – refusing to give in despite his obvious arousal as his cock jerks at the familiar smell.
“Taste me,” you purr, “and if you’re good then maybe I’ll sit on your lap and let your poor little nightstick see some real action.”
Your hand drops back to stroke along his cock with harsh tugs, every motion blurring the line between pleasure and discomfort as his length twitches under the sudden assault.
“Taste you?” He barks, his attitude as shit as ever as he takes to his forced submission like oil takes to water. “I’ll do more than that. This country has gone to shit and I’m gonna tear it back with my teeth. I ain’t gonna be here forever and when I catch you I’m gon’ make you grab those ankles as I wrap a rope around that neck.”
Holding his cock still, fist clenched just below the ridge of his cockhead, you bring your fingers down in a playful slap – fingertips glancing off his sensitive, swollen head. The reaction is immediate as his entire chest heaves off the chair, pushing towards you as his breath catches in his throat and his mouth opens into something almost like shock.
“You fucking-” But whatever slurred insult he planned to deliver is shot dead as you bring your hand down once more, making sure that your fingers strike against his piss slit as his cock continues to leak pre-cum.
“Remember what I said about being nice.” You warn, releasing the tension on his cock in favour of a gentle rub, making sure to pay attention to his reddened cockhead as you caress it softly. “Think of all the shit you’ve done to me, this ain’t anything.” You mimic his accent slightly, mocking him as he blanches at the disrespect.
You look at his dark shades with narrowing eyes, the temptation to pull them free and force him to face you properly as tempting as hell. But something pauses your hand, some unknown boundary that you know you will not be able to uncross.
Instead you focus on his cock once more, gently increasing your pace as you move to jerk him to completion – his slit openly weeping pre-cum in such a way that you knew he was close.
“I’m gonna tear you something fuckable for this. Something new and pink and I’m gonna fuck it so hard you’re gonna wish your mama hadn’t birthed you.” Coyle hisses but his expression is glazed and you can feel his desperation to claw back some of the dignity which has been stripped from him. “Then, when you’re good and sorry, I’ll make you ride the lightning ‘til that pink is cooked.”
“Even if I do this?”
Dropping to your knees without warning, you lick a stripe up the underside of his cock and you bring it to your mouth. So focused on your task, you almost miss the guttural groan which escapes his lips as he pauses the insults which he is spewing at you without care. As he groans, his length jerks against your tongue and you see his balls pulsing as he comes – release dribbling free of his slit as a wayward spurt arcs gracefully in the air before landing on his covered stomach, staining the leather jacket.
Jerking him through the comedown of his orgasm, you only release his cock when his knees start to shake in discomfort. He’s surprisingly quiet, and the lack of immediate verbal abuse throws you for a moment as you choose to try and rile him up.
“Ask me to clean you up.”
“Fuck off.”
Typical response, one paired with him spitting to the floor at his side.
Dropping your hand to his cock once more as you stand to your feet, you roll your palm across the flared head and enjoy the way that he immediately starts to pull against his restraints – the overstimulation clearly unbearable. His release wets your palm and you use it to help your hand glide as Coyle’s struggle only increases, his mouth forming interesting shapes as he alternates between gasping pants and growled whines.
You give him mercy after another few seconds as you bring your fingers to your mouth, tasting his mess along with the residual tang of your earlier arousal.
“Better now?”
His eyes hidden, you can feel the intensity of his gaze as Coyle raises his head enough to ensure that you hear his every word, as breathless as they are.
“The only thing I want from you is to hear you screaming, begging for mercy, and dripping red as I make you dance. Gonna have you so slippery I won’t even know what I’m fucking.”
“Well, that’s a weird way of saying thank you.” You grumble, wiping your hand off on your shirt and taking a step back from him.
Standing awkwardly now that you genuinely had nothing left that you wanted to do, Coyle falls almost silent as he grumbles his complaints to himself. Confident that you had passed whatever fucked up test this had been, all you can manage is an expectant look at one of the cameras which sits high in the corner of the room as you hope that, sooner rather than later, someone releases you from this fucking room.
Chapter 10: specialised support (bondage: easterman)
Notes:
Want him
Chapter Text
Catching the attention of the elusive Dr Easterman had proven to be somewhat of a double-edged sword. Gone were the more intense trials, your continued exposure to the prime assets deemed unnecessary as your paperwork mysteriously updated to inform staff that your therapies were to be conducted in a more formal setting.
Said setting being Easterman’s personal office as he slowly but surely fashioned you into what he wanted you to be across your own private therapy sessions. You were to be a perfect little plaything for him to blow off steam with, a toy for him to use as he conducted his other important tasks, and you had accepted his persuasive offer – happy to no longer have your life on the line as you indulged other more humiliating tasks.
His reasoning in that first session had been clear. Each word delivered as your blindfolded body had slowly accepted his cock, stretching around his unseen length as he spread you across his desk and explained your new role.
“Trial after trial. Horror after horror. Always resulting in the same disappointing B ratings. You should be perfect, such beauty would create an ideal candidate, one who would steal any room she entered with a single glance. And you are far from a failure, but you are not as,” he paused, “academic as our other lambs. Always that same B and it made me think, perhaps your talents lay elsewhere.”
And in the time since, he had shown himself to be nothing if not diligent in his training.
Even now, the upgraded eye mask which hugs your skull has been designed with a special purpose in mind. Small slots have been built in to the plush design, enough to allow you a small slice of vision but only by looking down. Never up. Never at your master and his true appearance, something which has been hidden from you at every turn.
The sight this eye mask affords you now is a front row view of the length of cock which is burying itself between your lips, the chain which connects your collar, and the dark suit trousers from which Easterman’s cock juts free.
The thick collar, leather and cool against your skin, is as flush as ever and the small metal chain which is looped through the ring at the bottom connects straight to the thin black cock ring which circles the base of Easterman’s cock – the ring tight enough to keep him hard between his releases as he uses your throat without care. However, the chain is wicked in design, its length having been carefully measured enough to ensure that no matter how far back you pull, you are never able to fully drop Easterman’s cock from your lips.
Your ears partially blocked by the eye mask, the only sounds within the office – aside from the obscenely wet noises of your throat as you choke and gasp around his cock – come from Easterman’s voice as he occasionally pauses in his reading of the papers on his desk to deliver some feedback to successful reagents using the standing microphone on his desk.
Having regulated your breathing around his length, the velvety weight of it having taken some getting used to, you pull back enough to inhale a few deep breaths as you adjust your knees and put a little additional pressure on Easterman’s thighs to take some of the weight from your uncomfortable knees.
Easterman notices in an instant as his body stiffens at the additional touch and you startle in place as thin fingers drop to card along the top of your head, almost as though they were stroking a beloved pet.
"One and a half hours.” Easterman’s smooth voice rolls over you in equal parts soothing and agitating as he lets you catch your breath, the head of his cock sitting heavily against your tongue. “You have sustained yourself with my pleasure. One and a half hours and not once have you allowed yourself to fail and incur my disappointment.” The words are warm, encouraging, and you can’t help but bask in the praise which was so easily given. “Rather, you have proven yourself more than capable as you swallow down my gifts, not spilling a single drop.”
Not that you really had much of a choice.
Easterman’s use of your throat was casual as he worked, typically allowing you to set the pace as you alternate between pushing your head down to swallow his length and pulling free enough to wrap your lips and tongue around his cockhead - the colour there darker as a constant stream of pre-cum dripped from his slit into your waiting mouth.
But that same casualness was quick to die in the crib on both occasions when his need release came calling. Gone was his self-control and in its place, desperation took hold, as his hands would drop from the desk to wrap around your head and force your head down, choking you with his cock as his panting whines grew higher and more stuttering.
Like now.
Having distracted him from his work, you can feel the familiar throb in his cock which tells you he needs a fresh release and you relax your throat around his cock as you press down gently to swallow another inch. Encouraging him wordlessly, you flex your tongue against his shaft and admire the way you feel his length twitch.
Easterman groans at that, his sounds as strained and open as ever, and a wash of arousal floods your cunt as you drink in the little noises, his vocal nature making it easy to tell how much he’s enjoying using your mouth.
“You are,” Easterman gasps for air, his unseen mouth clearly struggling to continue to form words as his fingertips drop to dig into the nape of your neck, “perfect. For me. Accepting everything I have to throw at you, everything I want to fill you with.”
The way his fingers are spread across your skull makes it impossible for you to do anything but follow his positioning as he forces your head down to spear you on his cock. You try to relax your throat as much as you can - a hard task as his frantic, erratic thrusting keeps knocking the blunted head of his cock off the sensitive wall at the back of your mouth in such a way that you can feel the heat of bile threaten your throat. But you push past it, swallowing down the sensation as you fist your hands hard against his thighs.
Each jerk of your head causes the short chain which connects your collar to his cock ring to rattle, a gentle sound which rings in your ears like a bell as it rhythmically jingles in tune to your hard use. The tip of your nose brushes the starchy fabric of his dark suit with every bob, his pubic hair hidden away behind the opened fly as it cushions your nose from any real damages.
“Tight and warm and oh so perfect.” His words a stuttering garble of praises and groans, Easterman’s thighs tense beneath your fists and the cock within your throat jerks once, twice, and then you finally feel the heat of his release as he pulls you tight to his groin – cutting of your air supply and forcing you to swallow down every drop he has to offer as the chain rattles with your struggle.
Sight wrecked by the hot tears which gather in your eyes as you fight for oxygen, it isn’t until Easterman pulls away that you can snatch your head back enough to inhale thankful lungfuls of air. Each gasp burns and you struggle to fully gain a solid breath as the short chain ensures that the head of his cock is still able to sit between your aching jaw.
Feeling ruined and tired as the discomfort in your knees and throat reaches its peak, your fingers massage Easterman’s thighs gently – hoping that he’s ready to take a little mercy on you.
Seemingly reading your thoughts, Easterman’s voice – thick with sated arousal – rings out from unseen lips.
“Perhaps you have earned a reward for such a wonderful performance.” He hums, his fingers dropping to play casually with the chain which connects your head to his cock. “Let’s loosen this restraint, get you off those knees, and onto daddies lap so I can guide you through your next task.”
Chapter 11: vindicta mea est (revenge: coyle)
Chapter Text
With the other three reagents off hunting down the fuel needed to spark up the basement generators, you knew it wouldn’t be long before Coyle found you. His ability to sniff you out as soon as you stepped into his domain was impressive and you can’t help the way your chest tightens as a familiar hum of electricity and heavy boots announce his approach.
Sitting atop the jail cell bed with your back pressing against the thick stone wall, your head tilts as he turns the corner and pauses at the open bars of the cell – his shoulder reclining against the heavy metal as a low, appreciative growl slips free of his lips.
“Should’ve known I’d find you in here. Ain’t enough rehabilitation in the world to keep whores like you in line.”
“Does it count as whoring if it’s only for one man?” You ask, standing to your feet and slowly making your way across the jail cell – each step slow and deliberate as you try to avoid the worst of the aches but it’s not enough to keep the limp from your left leg.
Coyle whistles at your approach, his intelligent eyes taking in the state of your appearance. The blackened eye which is only just starting to heal, the busted lip which opens fresh every time you try to eat a meal, the cautious movements of your lower body as you try to keep your bruised legs from hurting too badly.
“You look like warmed-up shit.” Coyle comments, making a point to curl his lips in amusement. “And I don’t remember dishing out this kind of discipline recently so what the shit happened? Did the beefy woman with the drill knock some fresh sense into you? I can’t smell ash so I’m guessing it wasn’t the fire scum. So which fucko got the better of you, honey?”
Reaching him, you link your fingers through the loops of his belt, carefully avoiding the row of cigarettes, and keep your gaze close to the floor as you admire the shine of his boots for a second. The scent of leather and oil is as overpowering as ever, every smell clouded by something primal as the electricity which surrounds him creates a hum of dangerous energy.
Time had given you a little bit of comfort in his presence, but it was a comfort which hung by a thread. A thread which was easily cut by anything from a slight misspeak to Coyle just being in a shitty mood from events out with your control. Regardless, it truly had been a while since he’s raised a fist or boot against you in anger, his preference for leaving marks using other more satisfying methods undeniable as you remained submissive to his wants.
Sometimes you wonder if you remind him of a time before whatever the fuck this living hell was. He had been married before, you knew that much, and multiple times at that, so it wasn’t hard to imagine that he found establishing a dynamic which benefitted him too difficult.
“Didn’t happen in the trials,” you mutter, knowing the interrogation which is going to follow “I got these from the facility. Turns out that even here, men don’t like being told no.” Your words are quiet and factual, keeping the tremble from your burst lips.
Silence hangs heavy for a moment as Coyle puts two and two together.
“The fuck you say?”
A gloved hand rises to your neck, pushing your head high until your eyes are able to meet the dark glass of his shades, your battered appearance reflecting back at you as you feel the weight of his gaze scoring across your features.
“Another reagent did this to me. He cornered me in my room, asked me for sex and I told him no. He pressed for more and I told him to get the fuck out. Which he did,” you pause, “eventually. The pharmacist was good at giving me some painkillers to take away the worst of it while he was locked back in his own room after it had been stripped of all contraband and commissar.”
You tell the story in a quick ramble, feeling more uncomfortable with every word as Coyle remains painfully quiet, his eyes hidden away and his mouth set into a firm line.
The silence is terrifying. You have seen Coyle in many forms but each of them has been marked by the constant bark of his voice, his narcissism making his voice music to his own ears as he roared, hollered and grunted his way through his various tasks and hunts.
“He beat you like a fucking dog?”
“Yeah, but he didn’t touch m-”
“He fucked with what’s mine?”
Coyle snarls the final word with a possessive edge that, despite everything, sparks something warm within your chest. To have his favour, as twisted and deliriously agonising as it could be, was still much better than having his ire. His rage is palpable though, and his hand twitches towards his stun baton as muscle memory forces him to reach for his favourite toy.
“He’s gonna learn! Gonna learn a hard lesson in respectin’ others property when I stick this lightning up his ass and have him ride it to his grave.”
“Coyle-”
“I’ll take it back, take it back in teeth and fucking piss. Touch what’s mine, mark what’s mine, and get the fucking screws ‘til I can rip those fingernails off.”
“Hey?”
“What?” Coyle rounds on you with a hard push, twisting your body in place as your shoulders slam into the nearby wall, the force enough to pull a pained squeak from your lips.
“He’s in this trial. The tall blonde.” You confess in a rush, knowing that you were as good as signing the idiot’s death warrant with every word. “I haven’t seen him since it happened since personnel thought it was a good idea to keep us apart but today’s trials were names out a hat.”
The shift in Coyle’s attitude is terrifying, the rage almost immediately mellowing out into something infinitely more predatory and calculating as he releases his palm from your shoulder.
“Here? Now? In my fucking station?”
“Yeah, in the basement.”
A leather glove snakes around your throat and you allow it, fear making you submissive in the face of his open anger. Thankfully though, Coyle’s focus seems to be on moving your head from side to side as he catalogues the various visible injuries which litter your skin.
“Let me tell you what’s gonna happen, honey. I’m gonna find this pervert fucko then ol’ Coyle is going to spend some time showing him what happens to junkie scum. I’ll fry the cunt hairs off his pecker and make him cry for his momma.” Working himself back into a frenzy, Coyle drops his hand from your throat as he wraps it around your lower body, squeezing your ass roughly as he explains his plans.
“Then i’ll leave him in a puddle of blood, cum, and piss and bring you a special charred little somethin’ to make up for that pretty face.”
Coyle pauses, waiting for your response and you fall into line with his plans as a cruel satisfaction creeps up your spine at the thought of your attacker getting what was coming to him.
“He deserves the full force of the law.” You agree, wrapping your fingers around the knot of Coyle’s red tie and fighting off a wince as his grip on your ass tightens. “Show him what happens when someone fucks with Sergeant Leland Coyle.”
Sadistic delight lights up Coyle’s expression, his tobacco-stained teeth flashing in a wolfish grin which promises misery for someone.
“Or maybe I should drag you down there with me?” Coyle growls, pushing himself forward to trap you fully between the wall and his stocky frame as the heat of him envelops you. “Could break this fucker’s knees to keep him still and show him how a real man treats a woman.”
Choosing to ignore the irony and hypocrisy of his words, you loop an arm around his neck to balance yourself as he continues.
“Spread you wide and fuck you right there in front of him so he can see what he’s not allowed to have before I fry his insides like a fucking thanksgiving turkey. Then, I’ll have you on your knees with something hard in that pretty mouth to say thank you for such a swift response from your local sergeant.”
In no position to argue, his fury and manic glee making any refusal an easy cause for a beating, all you can do is smile and nod – feeding into the very worst of him for selfish gain.
Chapter 12: dogwalked (pup play: coyle) (5 Sentence Fic)
Chapter Text
An experimental therapy is what Murkoff sold it to you as, making it clear that any refusal to participate in their latest testing would result in consequences which you would rather avoid. However, as you tug at the thick leather strap which is looped between your fingers, the sharp motion forcing a grunt from your newest makeshift pet, you had to admit that it could have been worse.
Heels clicking against the cheap linoleum which lined the assigned walking route, you pause to glance down at the dangerous mutt which had been assigned to your stern hand. Sergeant Leland Coyle glares back up at you from behind his dark shades with nothing but pure malice, his limbs restrained in such a way that he can’t rise from all fours until the metal which loops around his joints is loosened from its stiff positioning.
A dark muzzle covers most of the lower half of his face, his hairless scalp also hidden away by his familiar police cap, but the hatred which seeps from his features is unmistakable.
Tobacco-stained teeth flash from behind the muzzle as he bares them, the restraint making it very difficult for him to speak even as he attempts to bark out the sadistic threats and cruel insults which sit so easily on his tongue.
Adjusting your nurses cap, you drop to your haunches at his side and stroke a manicured hand from between his shoulders blades all the way down to the base of his spine in an open mockery as you pet him like the good dog you want him to be. He stiffens at the contact, his throat tearing into a feral growl which does nothing to hide the tent in his pants – his cock always shamefully hard from the moment he awakens in the now familiar restraints.
“Another mile, stud.” You smirk, enjoying the power which Murkoff had so easily slipped within your hands. “And then maybe I’ll take care of that little problem between your legs if you promise not to bite the nice scientists when they come to take your muzzle off.”