Archive of Our Own

It’s late.

It’s been a long day, and Ginoza is tired. But there are just a few more things to do. Double check the reports, add some final notes. The paperwork after a big mission is always a pain. But he’ll stay after you; he’ll finish up the little things before he heads back to his quarters. You have a lot on your plate.

He feels for you. You handle the duties of an Inspector well, but he knows exactly what it’s like. 

Well — he knew what it was like, once. So he helps where he can.

But he needs a break before he gets back to it. Even here, away from the desk, his head is pounding . It doesn’t help that he finds the selection of drinks in the vending machine in front of him a little overwhelming. The break rooms are well-stocked; there are more flavors than employees on this floor, probably.

He opts for a ginger ale. This brand is a little bland, but he’s not really craving something with a lot of flavor. It’s just that the water at the fountain always comes out lukewarm, and he wants something that’ll burst on his tongue. Something with carbonation. Something that’ll wake him up, at least for the rest of his shift.

He holds the can in the metal fingers of his left hand and cracks it open with his right, wandering over to the window. The tab lifts under his fingertips before the metal pops down under it — a little jump under his fingers, tactile. Ever since he lost his left, he thinks that his right hand has gotten more sensitive.

A little wisp of something snakes out of the can; beyond the window, the horizon begins to swallow up the sun. He takes small sips, watching night fall. It’s winter, and the sun is setting early.

The metal fingers of his prosthetic grow cold around the can, but of course, he doesn’t feel them. Just the fizzle of the carbonation in his mouth.

“Ginoza.”

He pauses with the can halfway raised to his mouth, ears perking up — a dog attuned to the familiar voice of its owner. His owner’s voice is stern, controlling, but it’s always that way. Somehow, he finds that comforting.

“Inspector.” His tone is formal — respectful. He abandons his drink, lowering the can as he turns to watch you enter the break room. “I thought you were heading out? I’ll take care of the rest of the paperwork.”

“Soon.”

You study the vending machine with a critical eye. He wonders if something there displeases you. If maybe you’re looking for a flavor that isn’t there.

“Is everything alright?” he asks. “Do you need anything?” 

“No, no.”

The beep of a button as it’s pressed, the rattling of a can falling through the machine before it’s deposited in the slot. He averts his eyes when you bend over to get it, fixing his gaze on the fake plant in the corner of the room . He pushes the panel of his suit jacket back, slipping his right hand into the pocket of his slacks. 

There’s a thin layer of dust collecting on the leaves of the plant; he wonders when the last time was that someone came to dust.

“You did very well today, Ginoza.”

His eyes are drawn to the pink of the can in your hand. A strawberry soda. How odd, he thinks. How odd for you. For a person who’s so formal, so severe, and so strict. Of all the things you could choose to drink, you chose a strawberry soda.

“I was impressed with your performance.”

He’s taken aback, doesn’t know how he should respond. In all the time he’s worked under you, he can’t think of one instance of praise. You don’t compliment him. Or anyone else, for that matter. You treat all of your Enforcers equally. A terse nod after a tough mission, maybe. If you’re feeling particularly generous, they might even receive a Thank you all for performing your duty. 

But nothing like this.

Ginoza’s cheeks are hot. He’s flustered, for some reason, watching you take a sip of your strawberry soda. There’s a loose fiber in the pocket of his slacks; he pulls at it until it unravels.

He clears his throat. “It’s always a pleasure to work for you, Inspector.”

You sit on the couch, strawberry soda in-hand, and fix him with a lazy smile. “Is it really?”

He doesn’t think he’s ever seen a smile on your face.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Inspector.”

As strict as you are, as unyielding, you’re efficient. You get things done. You’re a bit like he used to be, he thinks, but more level headed. Much more capable than he was. The control is out of his hands and in yours completely. Some might call your behavior uptight, but he respects it.

He likes it.

“I didn’t think you would,” you say. “You’re too earnest for that.”

You’re resting against the arm of the couch. He finds your posture almost slovenly. It’s usually rigid, upright. It’s usually tense. You cross your legs and sigh, and he sees your shoulders slump just a little. Then you cock your head to the side and fix him with a smile. Loose, he thinks — it looks unnatural on you.

His fist is balled up in his pocket. Nerves.

“This place is like a ghost town after six, isn’t it?” you muse. “Everyone just clears right out.”

Hunters like you don’t make small talk with their dogs, Ginoza thinks. 

After a pause, he says, “It’s quiet.”

It’s empty.

“Am I making you anxious, Ginoza?”

“No, ma’am.”

In the pocket of his slacks, his trimmed nails dig into the skin of his palm. You gesture to the little couch opposite yours with your manicured fingers wrapped around the strawberry soda. 

“Sit down, Ginoza,” you say. “You look a little stiff.”

Obediently, he rounds the couch and sits. Facing you, separated from you just by the little coffee table on top of which he sets his can of ginger ale. He hasn’t had even a quarter of it yet. The coasters on the table are gray. A muted earth tone, just like everything else in this room.

Except for the little strawberry soda in the little pink can.

You run a hand absently down your thigh. Your skirt is riding up, but he looks away as soon as he sees it.

“Kougami’s already gone back to his room?” you ask.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But you stayed after.”

“Yes, ma’am. I told him to go. That I’d handle the rest.”

Nerve-racking. That’s what he’d call every single interaction with you. He wonders if he’s done something wrong, something to displease you. He hopes not.

“He’s difficult sometimes, isn’t he?” you say.

You lean over to the coffee table, dragging his drink just slightly to the side, with one manicured fingernail on the coaster. He’d thought your nail polish was more muted. Some neutral color, something mundane. Closer up, the color is more pinkish. A trick of the fluorescent lights, maybe.

As he watches you place your strawberry soda next to the cold silver of his ginger ale can, he wishes he’d set his coaster in the right place. He hopes he hasn’t inconvenienced you.

The empty space of the tabletop is vast, broken up just by the two cans. They sit, one next to another — dead center, not even an inch apart.

You rise from the couch; he remembers to answer.

“Difficult?” he says in a small voice. 

Watching you pass the coffee table, nearing the couch he’s sitting on, Ginoza feels like the dying sun just before it’s swallowed up by the horizon.

“Disobedient,” you say. “He’s not a team player, is he?” 

Your hand trails over the arm of the couch as you pass him. He loses sight of you as you round the back of it. But he keeps his gaze straight as he listens to your footsteps behind him; he doesn’t have the nerve to turn around.

“I suppose not,” he says shakily. 

Ginoza feels a hand on his left shoulder first, and then one on his right. Your hands, resting on his body, warm. He feels a chill, even as the heat of your fingers starts to seep through the fabric of his suit jacket.

“But not you,” you say. “ You always help when it’s needed.”

The hands on his shoulders squeeze. Ginoza gulps, listening to you speak through a voice that doesn’t sound like your own. This voice is too sweet; the lilt is near-artificial, cloying enough to leave a strange taste in his mouth — a bite of dessert after he’s already overfull, or the lingering flavor of manmade sweetener.

“You’re always there to do whatever you’re told. And so much more. You’re a big help to me. Did you know that?”

The praise makes his cheeks burn, the squeezing of your fingers on his shoulders.

He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “I just want to make your job easier, Inspector.”

Your hands snake downward. Down, from his shoulders, down, skimming over the plane of his chest. You — his austere Inspector, his strict, unforthcoming Inspector —  touching him. You, his withholding superior, bending over the back of the couch, leaning forward to cross your arms over his chest and tilt your head over his shoulder. You — looking into his eyes, with a little smile on your face.

“Ginoza.” 

He can see your tongue in your mouth when you talk. Pink, a gradation of the label on your strawberry soda. He can feel your breaths on his jaw. Warm, just as warm as your arms crossed over his chest, just as warm as this embrace from behind — a close embrace, a familiar embrace so terribly unbecoming of his frigid, ungiving superior.

“Inspector,” he says breathlessly.

“If I tell you something, will you promise to keep it just between us?”

On the table — as close to your soda as you are to him — his ginger ale sits, warming slowly. A droplet runs down the side, slow at first, then quick, cutting a line of dark gray through the silver condensation. The path goes cold again a moment later; the droplet splatters onto the coaster.

“Of course,” he says. “Anything.”

He can smell the strawberry on your breath. He can smell your shampoo. Something sweet, with chemicals underneath.

“Of all my dogs,” you say with a lazy smile, “ you’re my favorite.”

Your favorite. Ginoza’s heart pounds in his chest. The sweetness masks the chemicals until he can barely smell them at all.

“You know what I like about you, Gino?”

He smells toxins again; they prickle in his sharp nose. The nickname is foreign in your mouth. Hostile, almost. Off-putting, awry, like that little smile on your face — just the slightest bit crooked. You drink strawberry, but you’re oleander — a pretty pink flower in the middle of an unassuming forest. Beautiful, but lethal.

“What is it, Inspector?”

You tighten your arms around him. 

“You’re so obedient,” you say. “You’re so good .”

Maybe he likes the proximity.

 “You know just what I want. I never have to tell you twice. Sometimes I don’t even have to tell you at all.”

He does like the proximity, he decides. Maybe he likes the smell of chemicals, too, of toxins. Maybe it’s the combination of toxins that make you sweet.

“No one understands what I need like you do, Gino.”

The sweetness is that enticing; it makes his mouth water. He’ll ingest your poison even if it kills him.

“Anything for you, Inspector.” 

And he means it.

“Tell me something…” you’re drawling.

He wants to shudder — pulse pounding, suddenly fearful. Your lips keep getting closer to him, and he thinks you might consume him, might eat him whole here in the middle of this bleak breakroom. You’re so blinding that he can’t even look at you; everything else is gray in comparison — wilting. On the table, your drink is still cold, condensation beading on the bright pink can, but his has gone warm; it’s too late, it’ll be flat soon, the carbonation bubbling down to nothing —

“Is there anything I can do for you — for my favorite — to make your job easier? More enjoyable? As your Inspector, it’s my responsibility to ensure that your working conditions are good. You can ask me for anything you like.”

A privilege. Special treatment. Gratitude, bubbling up, from deep in his chest, like carbonation. 

Still, the answer is shaky. Demure. He wants to ingest your poison, to take it like medicine, but he’s afraid that it’ll hurt. 

“Nothing at all, ma’am. I - I’m perfectly happy. I love working under you. For you.”

Your face twists into a pout. “Hm.”

The disappointment on your face makes his stomach drop, makes him sick. The thought of displeasing you makes something in his chest twist, and when you withdraw the warmth of your arms from around him, the twist becomes an ache.

He stands as soon as you’ve left him, turning to watch you pace to the window. You stand in front of it, arms crossed, looking outward — downward. The city is far below. Little dots of multicolored light, and you, standing far above it all.

“Inspector,” he says.

He approaches you the way a wounded animal might approach a human with a hand extended — keeping his distance, unsure if the upturned palm will wound or nurture. In the window, his reflection lingers far enough behind yours that, even though he’s much taller than you, he looks small.

At least, compared to you.

“Go ahead.”

“Is there anything I can do,” he ventures, clearing his throat, “for you?”

He thinks he can see you smile in the reflection. But he can’t really tell, because the fluorescent lights cast a strange shadow on your face.

“There is.”

His relief is multiplied when you turn to face him with a pleased expression.

“I need a favor,” you say.

“What is it?”

“Don’t be shy, Ginoza. If you want to help me, you need to come here.”

And even when he’s directly in front of you — even when he’s looking down at you — he feels small. He wonders if the smile on your face is genuine. But he supposes it doesn’t really matter, because he finds it pleasing to the eye either way. The alluring, unnatural, too-bright pink of an oleander flower. Just a single leaf will kill.

He loses sight of it as you round his body again. Circled by a great white, he thinks, treading blood-baited saltwater in a rusting metal cage. He’s read about people doing that for fun: apparently, some people pay to be lowered into the ocean in a little cage. Chum is thrown in the water, and sharks circle. People do it for the thrill.

He’s never seen the appeal of an adrenaline chase like that. He’s never been one to get off on a racing heart. Until now, maybe.

You grip his wrist from behind. Your hand on his, the little squeeze of your fingers on his veins. Pressing into his racing pulse. 

You draw his hand behind his back.

“The Bureau has been issuing us new equipment,” you’re saying. “You’ve already worked with the improved Dominators, but, you know, I haven’t had the chance to try these yet.”

There’s cold metal on his wrist. A snap. Handcuffs closing. You grab his other wrist, fingers on the metal of his prosthetic as you draw it behind his back, too. The click of metal on metal — his left wrist restrained next to his right.

“These new handcuffs are supposed to be even stronger. Strong enough that even augmented prosthetics can’t break through.”

Your hand rests on the small of his back, just above his bound wrists. He watches you come back into view with ice shooting up his spine.

“How are they? Any give?”

He pulls his wrists apart, or tries to. The cuffs catch on the metal of his left wrist with a clink , and dig into the skin of his right. Unyielding, just like you.

“No, ma’am.”

He’s rewarded with a little smile.

“Ah,” you say. “That’s perfect.”

“Do you have the…”

“The keys?” 

Ginoza nods. But he’s cursing himself. He’d stopped himself mid-sentence for a reason. It’s because he doesn’t know if he wants you to unlock the handcuffs.

A click of your strawberry-pink tongue. “Ah. Not on hand, I don’t think.”

Maybe it’s twisted, but Ginoza feels relieved.

He feels thrilled by the look on your face. It isn’t the look of someone who’s forgotten their keys. And, besides, you don’t forget anything. Every single thing you do is intentional.

“Is that a problem?”

He laughs nervously. “Of course not. We can always ask…”

He flounders. He’s in that little shark cage under the surface of an endless ocean. His oxygen tank is running low. The bars on the cage are flimsy. They’re placed too far apart, and the great white is starting to ram against them. The bait in the water isn’t enough; it craves something larger. Something whole.

Ginoza was afraid of the ocean as a child. He liked the shore, but there was always the nagging feeling that something was waiting in the depths. He remembers learning once about female great whites, and how they dwarf their male counterparts by several feet.

You cock your head to the side, eyes widening. Mocking. 

“Who? Who can we ask, Ginoza?’

When something sharp enough lacerates the skin, the initial cut isn’t felt. There’s no sting until seconds after. Ginoza wonders how sharp your teeth are. How many rows you have. How long it’d take you to eat him whole, and if it’d start to sting before you devour him completely.

Even if it were to sting, he thinks, that kind of pain might be pleasant.

“Well…” he says.

“There’s no one here, Ginoza. It’s quiet. Like you said.”

A pause. A shaky breath.

“It’s just you…” you say, placing one perfectly manicured finger in the very center of his chest, “...and me.” 

You smile. His heart jumps under your fingertip. And then you push.

A small push, just with the tip of your finger to his chest. Barely any pressure. But at the same time, there’s so much. He finds himself stepping backward with each step you take forward. He finds himself pushed back and back and back, until there’s the soft impact of the wall behind his shoulder blades, the little thunk of the handcuffs behind his back hitting it too.

Maybe it’d knock the breath out of his lungs, if he had any left. He’s already struggling for air — taking short gasps with his back to the wall. He’s supposed to be your hunting dog, but your teeth are so much sharper than his. 

“Inspector?” he asks, face hot.

Your critical fingers come to his tie. They run down it, flatten it, neaten it — as if something about it is out of order. Just the slightest bit crooked, and you’d be displeased. He knows that. You don’t like things to be off. You put him in order with your fingers just over his pounding heart, and then look up at him. Right in the eyes. 

Holding your gaze makes his head swim. It makes his knees weak.

So when you place your hand on his shoulder, when you apply the slightest bit of pressure, when you command him — Sit down, Ginoza. You look a little stiff. — his knees give with no resistance.

He yields under your palm. It’s so little pressure, but somehow, it’s so heavy. His back slides down the wall, metal cuffs scraping downward, until he’s seated on the floor, looking dizzily up at your towering form. To him, your presence is larger-than-life; your personality expands until it takes up the entire room, a stifling blanket nestled even in the corners, where dust collects. And his personality — it’s tiny, meager, folds in on itself, over and over and over, until it becomes infinitesimally small. No bigger, no more significant, than one of the dust motes floating through the air.

But his eyes are large and fearful.

“You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Ginoza?”

A shaky breath. A dry swallow. A good boy. Praise from you is so scarce that just the slightest amount makes his chest ache.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Why are you so good for me?”

His head is floating — full of so many reasons, too many reasons. I respect you. I admire you. I like you. I want you. But there aren’t enough reasons, because there’s not one that he has the nerve to say. Because here, between your legs, level with your crotch, looking up, at the underside of your tits, and the upward curve of your little smile — he feels too weak. Out of control.

And that makes him feel…

Good.

“Hm?” you prompt.

He feels too weak, but if you insist —

“Don’t make me wait for a simple answer to a simple question, Ginoza.”

If it would please you —

“Because,” he stammers, “because I like you, Inspector.”

“Is that all?”

“Because… ” 

He gulps, eyes on the bottom hem of your skirt, eyes on your thighs , where the fabric is riding a little high. 

“Tell me,” you say. “I’m waiting.”

“Because,” he says breathlessly, “because I want to please you, Inspector.”

“Because, because,” you tease, putting a finger under his chin and nudging it upward. 

He looks into your eyes again, nearly flinches when your finger pushes his hair gently out of his face, nearly flinches when he suddenly detects the smell of something sweet —  strawberry.

Strawberry lotion, on your bare, slightly spread legs. He imagines his bound hands free, running over your calves, spreading lotion over your skin.

Your heels press against the outside of his thighs, caging him in.

“Because you want to service me?” you smile lazily down at him. 

A hazy nod, slow blinks up at you through long, heavy eyelashes. His head is spinning; the fingers of his right hand tingle, crushed into the cold metal of his left hand. And then —

“Because you want to pleasure me?” 

To like you. To please you. To service you. Appropriate for a pet to its master.

Ginoza’s sharp nose detects another smell from between your spread thighs, a smell that’s equally as sweet as the strawberry on your legs and on your tongue.

To pleasure you —

It’s not right, it’s not appropriate, it’s not his place. Ginoza thinks he might soil you — might dirty you with his hands. With the paws of a dog. They’ve been in the dirt, doing your bidding, and your fingers are clean. Like they should be. Your hands are pristine, sullied only by the indentations of your dogs’ leashes on your palms. But those indentations are temporary; they fade away, don’t stain the fingertips like iron in soil does.

“Because you want to make me feel good , Ginoza?”

Pleasuring you. Making you feel good. His cock stirs. It’s been growing for a while now, stiffening against his thigh. Slowly, because he’s been trying hard to curb the rush of blood between his legs. He’s too afraid he’ll disgust you.

But he just can’t help it anymore. The prospect of this — the privilege of being able to pleasure you — is too much. There’s an image of you whirling in his mind, a pretty one, an approximation of how he thinks your features might contort. He shouldn’t be imagining that, but it makes the blood rush to his cock, makes it stiffen. Fast, this time.

Your cold eyes are fixed on his crotch. It embarrasses him. It makes him harder. 

“Yes or no, Ginoza?”

He’d die for it, he thinks.

“More than anything, Inspector,” he chokes.

You fix him with a woeful expression. An expression that makes him want to fix anything in the world that displeases you.

“But it looks like your hands are tied,” you pout.

His response is hasty. It’s pleading. “I can help you. I want to help you—”

But the words die on his tongue, go flat like soda, as he watches your fingers trace the bottom hem of your skirt. Fingernails lacquered in pretty pink slip under the drab gray, lift the drab gray, hike the drab gray up , revealing skin. Pristine skin, lovely skin — the skin of an untouched fruit before it’s broken by the teeth. Skin exposed to someone as undeserving, to someone as dirty , as him.

A treat dangled in front of a panting, sharp-faced shepherd. This shepherd is his master’s most obedient; this shepherd won’t move a muscle, no matter how close the treat comes. Not even if it bumps against his nose.

But he’ll track every single movement. Vigilant. A watchdog, a hunting dog, any kind of dog his master wants.

A lap dog, even. Something easily distracted, easily entranced. Hooked on every new glimpse of your skin as you hike the skirt up and up and up, until he can see the pretty curve of your spread thighs in front of him. Their apex, and the sweet space between them.

And the strawberry pink of your panties.

In the midst of all the dull gray in this break room — the gray carpet, the gray couches, the gray curtains, everything so gray it’s almost greenish under the fluorescent lights, greenish and cold — there are three points of warmth.

The first — that can of strawberry soda, long since warm.

The second — your neatly lacquered fingernails.

The last — your little pink panties. Your little pink thong.

Pink, the same pink as the inside of a ripe strawberry. Your thong is tiny like a strawberry, tight. And sheer.

Ginoza can see your pussy through the lace.

Damp lace grows wet , a dark spot spreading on the crotch of the fabric right in front of his face. The smell of strawberry spreads in his nose, the smell of pussy — the taste of anticipation for one or the other on his tongue. His mouth has gone dry, but his cock is leaking all over his leg.

You hook your pretty fingernails over the sides of your panties. He gulps, he watches, as you shimmy them down your thighs. Ginoza thinks he should look away; he thinks he shouldn’t sully your perfect body with his impure gaze. But he can’t look away. He has to watch — eyes stuck to you like the little gooey line of arousal that sticks to your panties before it breaks.

He has to watch you pull your thong all the way down our thighs, has to watch it drop down your strawberry-lotion-covered calves, has to watch it fall to the bottom of your heels. He has to watch you step out of the garment with your right leg, lift the left, and pull the damp fabric away from your heel.

You tuck your panties away into the band of your skirt — hiding the pretty pink in the gray. That point of warmth is gone, is out of sight, but there’s something much hotter in his vision. Your dog’s object permanence is fickle; he’ll forget about a hidden treat as soon as you brandish a bone.

Sleepy eyes, framed by long, feminine lashes. Dilated pupils, fixed on your bare pussy. His tongue itches for a taste, and his mouth is no longer dry; it’s watering — wet enough to match your glistening pussy. He sees soft, wet flesh; he sees flesh full to bursting with juices.

A fruit that’s plucked from its stem in the dead heat of summer, perfectly ripe.

Something a bad dog might devour with teeth bared. But obedient dogs don’t bite when they’re not supposed to; obedient dogs are gentle with toys their owners give them. Obedient dogs lick , don’t bite, at least not until their owner sic s them.

Ginoza watches his owner play with the toy — watches your manicured fingers slide through the wet skin of your pussy, watches your fingertips brush over your seeping hole and gather up all your wetness right in front of his face.

Like a drooling dog, Ginoza waits for his owner to say fetch. In his slacks, his cock throbs, dribbles, gets his thigh slippery.

But he’s patient; he’s intent, concentration unbroken. He’d stay here forever in limbo — would never leave, if he had a choice. Maybe it’s not limbo, he thinks, but heaven, or maybe even the second circle of hell — the circle of lust, ruled by a pink-horned devil in gray clothing.

He’d stay here, patient, but his fingers don’t have the same restraint; they’re filthy, overwhelmed by the dirty instinct to touch . His wrists test the bounds of the handcuffs, pulling outward until the metal of his left hand clinks against the restraints.

“Are you trying to get away from me, Ginoza?”

Voice breathy in his sharp ears. He loves that sickly-sweet tone, the toxicity layered right beneath.

“No, ma’am,” he says hastily. Never, ma’am. He slackens his hands. “No. I just… I just want…”

To pleasure you. To make you feel good. To touch you, for you, so you can rest your pretty hands.

Pretty hands, he thinks, pretty fingers, suited to touch a pretty pussy. He licks his lips while he looks at it — at how wet it is, watches your fingers get slick and shiny with your own juices.

“You want what? ” you tease, using two slippery fingers to spread yourself open in front of him. “This?”

A wet dream, he thinks. This is a wet dream — you above him, with your skirt hiked up around your waist, fingers sliding over your pussy before teasing little circles into your clit. Breathy moans float in the air, tumble down to him, fill his ears, make his cock pulse.

“Yes,” he says, “please.”

“Well,” you say, breaths hitching, “see, there’s a problem, Ginoza.”

“Let me help you,” he pleads. “What’s the problem, Inspector, what can I do—?” 

But he’s cut off as your wet fingers leave your pussy to rest on his lips. He parts his mouth, takes them in immediately, with a needy whimper — a grateful whimper. He’s lucky, he thinks, lucky that you’ve finally blessed him with a taste. And it’s even better than he expected, tastes even sweeter than it smells; it’s a taste that makes his eyes go soft. Your towering presence above him blurs as he sucks your fingers clean, gets drunk from the taste.

You watch him through eyes slightly narrowed with amusement, your tone woeful — false — as you push your fingers a little deeper into his mouth.

“I just…” 

You sigh. 

“I’ve just been so busy, Ginoza. And I really, really,” — you pause, to push your fingers to the back of his throat; they hit his gag reflex, and the taste of you is deep in his mouth, is dripping down his throat, is coursing through his body, until it reaches his cock, making it so hard that his head spins — “ really need to cum.”

Another whimper around your fingers — this time at the thought of making you cum. He’s so desperate that as soon as you take your fingers out of his mouth he’s already pleading, through lips covered in his own spit —

“Let me help you, Inspector, please.”

“Oh, but you already do so much for me. Staying late all the time. Always going out of your way. Taking care of all the paperwork without being asked. The least I can do is give you a break, right? Do you think… Kou would be willing to help me instead, maybe? I could always pay him a visit.”

“ No. ” Desperate, needy. Possessive — the bark of a guard dog.

You raise your eyebrows and smile down at him. A cruel smile, a severe smile, a smile that’s much more like you. But he’s already correcting himself.

“I’m sorry. Please let me…”

Pretty fingers swipe the spit from his lips. The action is soft, tender, full of warmth — so much warmth from his cold Inspector that his heart melts in his chest. His eyes drop back to your pussy, where you press your fingers to your clit again, massaging his spit around it. His spit, rubbed into you, deemed good enough to lubricate your pristine body, allowed to aid your fingers, allowed to please you and make you moan.

“Let you what, Ginoza?” you ask through a breathy sigh. 

“Let me help you.”

“Be more specific.”

“I want to…” 

He trails off, shaky. He can’t say it, not to you. You’ll think he’s filthy, you’ll think he’s disgusting, because he is.

“You’re not going to get anything if you can’t even say it ,” you tease.

He takes a shaky breath. “I want to… I want to make you cum.”

His cheeks burn hot. Saying that outright to you is awful. It’s embarrassing. But something about it all — the words, the shame they bring him, the cruel smile he can hear in your voice from above when you laugh a little — makes his cock twitch in his slacks. They’re painfully tight; he’s painfully hard, soaking through the fabric over the tip.

“Mm…” Amusement and pleasure in your voice as you rub your clit lazily in front of his face. “...Do you really?” 

“Yes. More than anything.”

It’s not even a want, Ginoza thinks. It’s a need. He needs to make you cum.

“How do you want to make me cum?” you muse.

He can’t meet your eyes. He can’t look at you when he says it, so he looks at your hand instead, watching you rub yourself. Hiding from you under long, heavy eyelashes, he forces it.

“I want to lick your pussy,” he says, voice sheepish and fast and trembling, “I want to make you cum in my mouth. I want to make you feel better.”

A soft laugh from above. He trembles, wondering if you’re disgusted with him.

But your touch is fond when you brush the hair out of his eyes. Fingers carding through, pushing strands backward, then tightening just above his hairline to tug. His chin lifts, head jerked back, eyes forced upward, meeting yours. And he groans. Maybe from the pleased look on your face, maybe from the sharp tug, maybe from your words —

“You’re so sweet. That’s why you’re my favorite, baby.”

Baby. He’s undeserving of the praise, of the honor of being your favorite, and especially of the nickname; the familiarity makes his heart swell.

“Thank you,” he chokes.

“Get my pussy nice and wet with your mouth,” you say from above. “Maybe I’ll ride your cock if you make me feel good enough. Understand?”

His heart races, the throbbing between his legs intensifying — his body responding as he imagines your pussy wrapped around him. Just the thought of being buried inside of you makes his mind go so blank he can barely even manage the breathy, desperate little Yes, ma’am, I understand. 

“Good.”

Another tender touch — your fingers tucking stray hairs behind his ear before skimming around to the back of his head, where his hair is tied up.

“Are you good at eating pussy?” you ask. 

He takes a shaky breath. He’s had several long term relationships; none that worked out, but over time he’s learned how to use his tongue. He’s never left a woman unsatisfied, because he’s patient, because he knows his priorities. 

But he’d never build you up to disappoint you. And, besides, he doesn’t think that anything he could do would be good enough, if it’s done for you. 

“I don’t know,” he stammers.

With a critical look on your face, you grip the rubber band holding his hair up and use it to tug his head back more. He whimpers, feels like a helpless animal — head pulled back, neck exposed, eyelashes fluttering as he looks up at you.

He’s going to eat you, but he thinks you’ve already devoured him.

“Keep your mouth open.”

The closer you get, the stronger the smell of you grows, the sweeter . The scent of your pussy spreads, intoxicating — fills his sharp nose, fills his open mouth. He can taste the tang of you on his tongue and you’re not even in his mouth yet. More than anything, he wants to please you. He’s desperate to make you feel like the women who came before you.

No, he thinks, that’s not right. You’re nothing like the women who came before you. You’re better. So he has to make you feel better.

But does he know what to do? For some reason, in this moment, he can’t remember what to do. He feels like a virgin again: clueless, fumbling and unsure. He can’t remember anything from his past. He can’t remember anyone who came before you. What they were like, what they tasted like.

But, he thinks, nothing from his past could ever compare to his first taste of you.

The first lick to your clit is light, timid. But then he really tastes you — sweeter than strawberries, juices on his tongue, juices dripping from your entrance onto his chin. Then he really hears you — moaning, Can you make me cum, Ginoza? I really need to cum.

The request makes his eyes go hazy. The need to service you takes over; trepidation gives way to instinct, instinct gives way to hunger. His mouth waters for your pussy while he laps at it. 

Even with his head in the clouds, even with his hands restrained, his tongue itches to service you. Muscle memory comes back; he knows what to do. He experiments with the placement first — starts with his tongue flat on your clit when he licks. And he keeps moving it slightly, changing the angle just the tiniest amount until he finds the spot that makes your moans sound the sweetest. 

Every single moan is sweet to him, but he can hear where it feels best.

And once he’s found the right spot, he experiments with the speed. Starts slow, then builds up, until you give him the signs he’s looking for. He’s attuned to your body, always attentive, alert, will pick up on cues no matter how small. A relieved sigh, the slight tremble of your thighs. Hitching breaths, fingers tightening in his hair.

The right spot, the right pace, and consistency . He gives you that, and in return praise pours from your lips the same way arousal oozes from your slit into his waiting mouth.

Right there, baby, just like that, you’re being so good for me, keep going.

Sweet words get him high until he’s a mess for you, falling apart — more precum soaking through his slacks, more blood rushing between his legs. He’s so hard he’s lightheaded, but he’ll keep going , he’ll be good to you , he’ll do anything you ask. For as long as you need him to. For as long as you let him.

And it seems like the longer you let him give you that consistency — a steady pace on the same spot — the better your moans sound. Everything’s redolent, aromatic; juices burst on his tongue, pleasured sighs fill his head, and he can’t help but moan with you: soft, needy, open-mouthed whimpers against your pussy while he licks your clit.

He’s rewarded. More tension as you tighten your fingers in his hair, more of your juices dripping into his hungry mouth, more sweet words —

You’re good with your mouth, you like making me feel good, don’t you? 

He moans, hazy, wishes he could get the words out to tell you that he does. He does like it. He likes it so much that his cock is aching to do more for you. He’d serve you with his entire body if he could; he’d give you more pleasure, make you feel even better. But he’s bound — hands held in place by the cuffs, head held in place by your hand. But even if there were no restraints, he wouldn’t dare move an inch. There’s no place he’d rather be than here, where you want him, servicing you with his tongue.

He thinks his tongue must be getting tired by now, but he doesn’t feel it at all; he’s too wrapped up in your body. Living to serve you, senses fixed on every part of you — ears up, eyes up, blinking at you through long lashes while he licks you.

He feels every change with every one of his senses, hears it clear as day when your moans get particularly lewd . Heavier, more breathy, longer-lasting. He feels his own stomach tightening in response, pleasure coursing through his untouched body. 

A side-effect of the juices dripping onto his tongue.

Sweet nectar of a deadly flower, full of toxins. He’d been afraid to ingest your poison, afraid that it’d hurt. But it turns out that it feels better than anything.

There could be no death sweeter, no death more delicious.

There could be no sight more delicious than the one above him: pink fingernails skimming up your blouse, up to your chest. Your hand squeezes , kneads at your tits gently through your blouse while he eats you. His hands are so much larger, but he thinks they could be just as gentle. They could make you feel just as good, if you wanted. If they weren’t bound behind his back.

But maybe it’s good that they’re bound. Because to touch would be to defile. To touch would be to bring night to a day-blooming flower. He’s lucky he hasn’t already defiled you with his eyes, the impure gaze that observes every contortion of your face as his tongue massages your clit. Somehow, you’re still so pristine, even when you’re moaning filth downward.

Do you want to make me feel even better? Do you want to make me cum? 

That you’d let him — that you’d give him the privilege — leaves him reeling. He’s so desperate to please you, so hooked on the sight of you feeling good above him, that he could cum just from eating you.

Just from watching you, from hearing your cresting moans. Just from your words and from the anticipation they bring.

Do you want my cum in your mouth, baby?

A hazy groan, an open-mouthed whimper against your pussy with his tongue still lapping at your clit — that’s all his mouth can manage. But his head is full of things. 

Anything , he thinks, I’d do anything for it. I want it. I need it. I need you to cum.

But it’s not about what he needs. It’s about what you need, and he knows what you need. The consistency of his tongue on your clit, just a little more to make you cum; all the cues are already heightening. Your hand tight in his hair, your thighs trembling, your breaths picking up until each exhale is a moan.

Each moan is more lewd than the last — a cresting voice full of pleasure filling his ears, more of you seeping into his mouth. Everything that leaves you is sweeter than strawberries in the summertime.

You’re so good for me. I’ll give you all my cum, baby.

But nothing sweeter than that. A promise that makes his lower stomach twist and tighten up so hard he’s just a few moans away from cumming in his slacks. But he crushes the pleasure down, endures it, because this is about you. It’s all about you, about licking you until it’s enough to make you cum. He wants to be enough to send you over; he’d do anything to be enough.

But he can’t believe it when he is.

It starts like a sudden thought that occurs to the unoccupied mind on a lazy, humid summer evening. A thought that gnaws, that expands until it consumes.

Like something out of a fever — that final strangled moan fills his foggy mind, and then it starts.

You tighten your hand in his hair first, tugging his face forward against your pussy, And then he feels your clit pulsing on his tongue, juices flooding from your contracting slit and surging into his mouth. You allow him to indulge, allow him to lick your pussy through your orgasm, allow him to taste while you cum into his mouth.

More and more of you bursting on his tongue. Every drop feeds him, makes him moan. But he’s greedy, and every drop makes him hungrier, until he’s so desperate that little tears bead at the base of his long lashes — dew on grass. He’s not sated, doesn’t think he’ll ever have enough of you.

You’re too intoxicating. Even when it’s done — when he’s licked all of the pleasure out of you, consumed it all — it’s not enough. He’s even worse off now that he’s tasted your cum, he thinks; his cock is harder, the tip wetter, his stomach so tight that he could cum without a touch if he had the permission to.

But he doesn’t have the permission. So he’ll accept what you’re gracious enough to give him — your cum, and the sight of you when you pull back: your pretty pussy in front of him, dripping wet with his spit and your slick arousal.

Desire and tears hang in his fluttering eyelashes, weigh his eyes down; they’re sleepy, heavy, but they’re still fixed between your legs. Your skirt is still hiked up around your waist, your pussy is still bare, and his gaze is still hazy as he watches you drop down.

Down, until you’re crouching over his lap with your weight resting on your heels and your pussy hovering just a few inches above the tent in his slacks. You’re dripping onto the fabric, but it’s already wet, soaked through with his precum.

He doesn’t think his heart can race faster until he looks up at your face. You’re right here, right in front of him, so close to him. You belong so far up, but you deign to stoop to the level of a dog like him. Put yourself on his level, and he’ll worship every detail up close: the perfume lingering on your throat, the pleasure lingering in your voice, the condescension that takes its place.

“Sweetheart,” you say, “you’re crying.” 

Your voice is as cloying as your touch — fingers coming up to cradle his face, soft eyes on you when you swipe your thumbs under his eyelashes, wiping the tears away. But you balance the tenderness with cruelty right after; you suck his tears from your fingertips — you consume.

You feed on Ginoza, you eat him alive — you chew him up and spit out cruelty in return. But when it’s your cruelty, he enjoys it. He’s grateful for it, groaning through gritted teeth when you finally grip his cock through the fabric.

“Do you really need to cum so badly it makes you cry?” 

He shakes his head, panting. With each breath in, he can taste you lingering in his mouth.

“It’s not that,” he murmurs.

“What is it, then?”

“It’s that—” he says breathlessly, “—you taste so good.”

“Really?” 

He nods, watching you settle onto his lap. He feels your pussy on him, pressing down on his cock through the fabric. The warmth bleeds through first, the wetness a moment later, and he throbs under you.

“Then let me taste it,” you say.

Your mouth on his, your tongue parting his lips; you’re too good for him, he’ll ruin you, he’ll cloud you — this intimacy is selfish, like plucking the petals of a flower only for the fleeting beauty before they wilt. But he can’t say no to you, not when you’re kissing him so deeply, licking the taste of yourself from his lips.

He’s so desperate that he thinks he could cry when you pull away.

“Did you like servicing me?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, “so much.”

His voice goes breathy when you grind your hips down on his lap. Your pussy is so close to him, separated from him just by a few layers of fabric. He can feel it. The heat, the wetness. And the tension in his stomach is still so high.

“But you didn’t cum?”

“No, ma’am.”

“It sounded like you were going to. So why didn’t you? You weren’t enjoying yourself enough?”

His heart drops, his cheeks burn — he’s displeased you, he’s ruined his chance. 

“I wanted to cum,” he stammers. “I wanted to. But I was waiting… for you to cum. For permission.”

“ Permission? ” you laugh. “How obedient of you.”

He winces. But you’re smiling, fingers brushing over his chest, slipping under his tie to play with it lazily. He’s woozy, too aware of your weight on his cock, nestled tight between your body and his. It’s throbbing, aching, especially when you start to rock on it — moving your hips forward on his lap, then back, giving him friction. 

Obedient dogs get treats, you say.

He’s so sensitive from holding out for long that it’s unbearable. 

“But how am I supposed to give you permission to cum,” you smile expectantly, nimble fingers undoing his tie, “if you don’t ask me for it ? ”

It’s good that you’re loosening his tie, he thinks; it’s good that you’re pulling the ends apart, that it’s not so tight around his neck anymore, because he’s suffocating. The prospect of you letting him cum while you’re rubbing your pussy over his cock makes his breath come ragged. If you give him permission, he’ll shoot his cum all over his thigh as soon as you say the word.

“Can I,” he chokes through hitching breaths, “can I please cum?” 

He feels selfish for it.

But you shake your head. And in some strange, twisted way, he feels relieved.

“No,” you smile, “I don’t think so.”

Tears fill his eyes again, his vision going foggy as you continue to move your hips in his lap. He won’t cum without permission, but your denial makes his own agonizing — your cruelty makes his cock throb. 

And when you pull his tie loose from around his shoulders, when you hold it up in front of his face length-wise, and say —

“I want to fuck you blind, Ginoza,”

— he can barely keep himself from spilling his cum in his slacks. 

Please , he says, please fuck me.

Good dogs don’t beg, but he just can’t help it — he’ll whine for the smallest scraps you have to give.

You pull his head forward and knot his own tie around his head, blinding him. The last thing he sees before the fabric obscures his vision is the smile on your mouth.

And then all he can do is feel. Out of control — his vision black, his head resting back against the wall, his hands bound behind his back. Everything in your hands. And it feels so good that way, it feels right that way, with everything in your hands. With his zipper in your fingers, pulled down until his cock is finally free from the tension of his slacks.

He groans a little, feels a little relief now that it’s free. It’s still constricted by the damp fabric of his boxers, but now that you’re pulling his slacks down his thighs, he’s so much more sensitive.

So when you wrap your hand around his cock and squeeze him through his boxers, a blind man sees god in white flashes behind the blindfold, like fireworks. He inhales, sharp, bites into his lip so hard that his teeth tear through the skin. A little blood spreads on his tongue. The rest rushes between his thighs.

Ginoza whimpers. You rub his cock through the fabric, move your hand up and down the pulsing length of it, and he aches for you in many more ways than one.

I’m so wet, baby. I need you to make me cum again. Can you do that?

Ginoza’s barely hanging on — but he aches to do whatever you ask.

“Anything,” he pants. “Anything you want to do to me.” Anything to make you cum again.

“I told you I’d ride you if you got me wet enough,” you tease, grazing your thumb over the leaking tip of his dick. “Should I?”

“Please,” he begs.

“Let me be clear. I’m gonna use you to cum. I’m gonna use this —” you pause, and there’s a hard squeeze to his cock that makes him whimper, “—to cum. Understand?”

His head spins. He wants to be of use to you; he could cum in your palm at the thought, spurt sticky liquid out all over his boxers, but he has to stay hard for you.

“Yes, Inspector,” he chokes. 

“You can hold off, can’t you?”

Ginoza’s never been a liar. He’s not one to promise things he can’t follow through on. But he’s not thinking when he says, Yes, yes, ma’am, I can.

He’s blind. To himself — to his own needs. Blindfolded and bound, he can’t see you, can’t touch you. But every remaining sense is fixed on you. Heightened.

He can hear your grin. He can smell your pussy getting wetter. He can feel the little pattern on your fingertips as you pull his boxers down around his thighs, freeing his pulsing cock to jump up against his stomach. That little swirl on your fingertips. Unique to you, yours and yours only — just like him. Minuscule to most, insignificant. But to him, the pattern against his skin is a blessing. The touch of a deity.

A big glob of precum seeps from the tip of his bare cock and runs down the underside of the shaft. Your touch meets the trail of slick liquid starting at the base of his cock, fingers running upward to swipe it up.

You’re so wet for me, sweetheart.

He twitches at the touch. At the praise. 

And it’s a quiet sound, but his senses are sharp; he hears it — the little pop of you sucking his precum off your fingers. And then a louder sound, the jingle of his belt as you pull it free from the loops of his slacks. Your hand on the back of his head, gently pushing it forward, so you can slip the leather of the belt around the back of his neck.

“Can I choke you, Ginoza?” 

He could cry. His words come out like a sob — Please, ma’am.

The belt wraps around his throat: center flat on the back of his neck, two ends pulled tight around the front and held closed — held tightly together — in your fist.

Pulse hammering against the leather, he whimpers, quiet and needy.

“Do you like being choked?”

“Yes,” he says hazily.

“Does it make you wet, baby?”

Breathlessly — yes, yes, more, please, tighter, please.

The pounding of his pulse is everywhere: in between his legs, in the crook of his wrist against the metal of the cuff, at his throat against the leather of the belt. More pressure on his neck  — his master is so good to him, he thinks — and more precum dribbles down his cock.

Everything’s lubricated, wet ; where you’re straddling his lap, your pussy is dripping onto his thighs. And when you wrap your fingers around his bare cock and squeeze the tip, everything gets wetter.

You slide your fist down the shaft, your palm tight and slippery with precum — a quick jerk downward.

That’s all it takes to make his eyes roll back under the blindfold. He strains against the handcuffs and bucks his hips up desperately, fucking once into your fist. He’s whimpering, panting, begging, but his voice sounds strained in his own ears. It sounds small, strangled by the belt around his throat.

“Did I say you could move?” 

Scorn in your voice; his cheeks burn. “No, ma’am.” 

“I guess I should stop. Since you’re being so selfish .”

Tears bead on his lashes behind the blindfold; you’re right here, right in his lap — you’re so close to fucking him.

“No, please ,” he stammers. “Please.”

“Please what?” 

“Please fuck me. Use me.”

“Are you going to be a good boy?”

“I promise. I promise.”

Suspended in anticipation, in darkness, he waits. He doesn’t know if the promise is enough until he feels you adjust on his lap, lifting your pussy from his thighs — leaving them wet. And even then, he doesn’t know if it’s enough until he feels you wrap your pretty fingers around the base of his cock.

He pulses in your palm, waiting. You hold him in place.

A second of blackness, painfully empty — occupied just by his shaky breaths, the tingling of his fingers behind his back, and the warmth of your fingers on his leaking cock.

A dog waiting for its owner to drop a treat.

And then, he feels it. 

He feels your pussy. Your hot, wet, tight little slit on the oozing head of his cock. His eyelashes flutter behind the blindfold; a breathy moan spills from his mouth just from the contact. He moans more, louder, as you give him more of your pussy — walls expanding just enough to fit him and then hugging him tight as you slide down the length. You’re gripping him tight, squeezing all the precum out of him, but it’s already so wet inside of you.

All for him, he thinks, before correcting himself —  he’s all for you. Made to be swallowed up by you, encompassed, owned. You own every moan that’s choked out, every inch of him you sink down on.

Every inch is sensitive, hugged tight by soft walls, and he can feel all the ridges in your pussy leaking around him as you swallow him up. His head lolls back on his shoulders, but you tighten the belt, tug it toward yourself — forcing his head forward as you sink down past the halfway point.

Ginoza groans, gritting his teeth. His head is floating; it’s so foggy that he can’t think. But he doesn’t need to think. He just needs you. You, and the feeling of your pussy on him. But even as you give him more of yourself, you withhold. You deprive him of air, take more and more away from him. 

But the more you take, the better it feels. 

Ginoza’s a good boy; he doesn’t want to do anything to displease you. But the instinct in his trembling body is strong. It’s overwhelming and desperate; heels digging into the floor, he pants through gritted teeth, and jerks his hips up. It’s just a tiny movement to bury himself just a little deeper inside of you. It’s barely anything, but the fast friction on his aching cock brings him so much relief.

It feels good, he mumbles. It feels so good.

And then, immediately, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.

But you’re already stopping, fingers pinching his cheeks together, and he’s whimpering a garbled, distorted apology.

A slap to his mouth, not hard — but it makes him jump, makes his lip sting, makes him moan. The belt tightens around his throat; he chokes out another pleasured sob with you hovering a little more than halfway down his cock.

“What makes you think you can fuck me, Ginoza?” 

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, “I don’t. I don’t. It just feels so —”

Your hand on his pelvis, forcing him down, back into place. He yields under your touch, thighs trembling.

“I don’t care how it feels,” you say. “Stay down and sit. ”

“Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I promise I will.”

“I’m going to use you to cum, and you’re going to stay right there while I fuck you.”

He sniffles, babbling in agreement, desperate to service you. To him, nothing sounds better — nothing could make his dick harder — than you using him to cum.

“That’s my good boy.”

Yours. The praise feels good; the ownership feels better. But nothing can compare to the feeling of your pussy, especially now that you’re sinking down all the way, sitting on the full length of his cock. Wrapped all the way around him, hot and slippery, gripping him tight.

Being buried inside of you, being yours — it’s unreal, it’s too sweet. It’s too tight in your pussy, it feels too good; pleasure swirls, heavily, in his lower stomach, in his upper thighs. The tension is high; he’s desperate .

He pants, open-mouthed, like a dog.

He’s tense everywhere — muscles clenched, tremors running through them. If he’s not careful, the tension might snap. If he’s not careful, he might cum inside of you.

And the thought of that — of you draining him of all his cum until your tight hole is pumped full of it — is too much. The way you’re slurring to him is too much. 

Does it feel good, Ginoza? Do you like it when I give you my pussy? Do you like being fucked by your boss?

Your voice thick and sweet in his ears; he’s drunk on a nectar full of toxins. He’s drunk on your pussy, cock twitching inside of you with every lilting word.

Yes, ma’am, yes, ma’am, thank you.

A little laugh in response. Delight in your voice, in your fingers, the belt tightening around his throat. With enthusiasm, this time. And that enthusiasm feels euphoric, sends his eyes rolling back under the blindfold. His face knits up: brows furrowing, mouth dropping open.

You’re so pretty, Ginoza. 

Pretty — his cheeks go hot.

You look so pretty when your cock’s getting fucked. I could cum just from looking at all the little faces you make.

He gasps, but there’s barely any oxygen to take in; the belt’s too tight around his throat. The lack of oxygen dulls all the sensations in his body except for the spot between his thighs, where the sensitivity keeps growing, especially now that you’re grinding your hips with him buried deep inside. 

He’s trying to focus on any other feeling — the sweat dripping down his chest, the ache of his arm behind his back, his fingernails digging into his palm — but it’s too intense. He’s so deep; he can feel the head of his cock pressing up against your cervix, and he can feel you squeezing your pussy around him, walls wrapped tight all the way around him.

“Does it feel good when I take you this deep?”

“Yes, ma’am. So good. It feels so good.”

“Does it make you want to cum inside me?”

Ginoza sniffles, gritting his teeth. He knows he can’t . It’s taking all the willpower and self-restraint he has, but he’ll hold off; he’ll do anything you ask. He’ll do anything to stay hard for you so he can be your toy .

“Answer me,” you press. “I want to know. Does being inside of me make you want to cum?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he chokes. “So much.”

“Do you want to fill me up? Do you want to pump my pussy nice and full of your cum?”

Ginoza groans; tears wet the fabric of the tie over his eyes. He wishes he could see you, see those filthy words leaving your pretty mouth. But maybe it’s good that he can’t. Because if he could —

You tighten the belt around his throat. “What, baby? Yes? Or no?” 

“Yes, yes, yes,” he stammers finally; the words spill out with desperation, the only release he’s allowed. “I want to fill your pussy up so much, I need to give you all my cum, I need to fuck it deep, I need to —” 

He cuts himself off. He’s getting too close — toes curling in his dress shoes, cock throbbing against your snug walls. He has to dig his heels into the floor again; he has to tense his trembling body, because every desperate fiber is telling him to move , to pump his hips up and fill you. But he can’t.

“You need to what? ”

He can see it in his mind — what he needs : his cum spilling out, deep inside of your pussy, each spurt coating your cervix in white. The thought makes his head spin; strong instincts are overwhelming him, he needs to —

“I need to get you pregnant,” he stammers without thinking, regretting the words as soon as they leave his mouth.

“ Oh. ” He can hear the grin in your voice — cold amusement that makes him whimper. “But good boys don’t get their bosses pregnant, do they, Ginoza?” 

“I know,” he pants, “I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t — I didn’t mean it.”

You laugh . “Yes, you did. Would you really jeopardize my job to dump your cum in me? Are you that much of a filthy dog?”

His cheeks burn. “No, ma’am, I’d never —”

He’d never dream of jeopardizing something for you. Especially not this job. Not this position you hold over him .

“Do you like working under me?”

With gratitude in his voice — “Yes, ma’am.”

“Then you won’t cum inside me when I move, will you? You’ll sit there and take it like a good boy, won’t you?”

“I’ll take it,” he whimpers. “I promise.”

Then your lips are on his — a tender kiss that tastes like strawberries. His heart pounds against the leather of the belt like it could escape, but he would never dream of escaping you. He loves it right here: bound, choked, blind. Buried deep in your pussy, with your tongue deep in his mouth.

Suffocating on you feels better than anything.

“Are you ready for me to fuck you?” you ask with your mouth against his.

One hand squeezing his shoulder, one holding the belt tight on his throat.

“Please, please, I…”

He’d beg some more, but the words catch in his throat; he feels you lift yourself up on his cock, your pussy tight and wet on the shaft as you glide upward. Friction, finally, that makes him groan. You drop back down on it, taking it all the way to the base — one deep, slow stroke before you start to bounce in his lap.

His breathing is ragged; he’s out of control, he’s used, owned , all in your hands. And he’s so hard because of that, because of you , and the way you ride him — fucking him hard, choking him so hard he can barely even hear his own desperate moans through the fog in his head.

It feels so good, please. It feels so good when you fuck me like that. Keep fucking me. Harder, please, harder.

“Like this?” you tease, bouncing harder, taking him deeper, pulling the leather even more taut. “Does this pussy feel good on your cock, baby? Does this belt feel good on your throat?”

“Yes, ma’am, yes.” And Ginoza knows this isn’t about him, but he can’t help but beg at your table like a selfish dog whining for its master’s food. “Can you choke me harder? Please, please.”

Somewhere in his hazy mind, he knows he’s being selfish — that he shouldn’t be feeling this good. But you’re being so good to him, so obliging , giving him more than he deserves even though this is all supposed to be about you.

You’re cooing to him so sweetly, even though he doesn’t deserve it — Anything for my good boy. You ask so nicely. Choking him harder, fucking him harder, squeezing around his cock until his thighs tremble with the effort of holding his orgasm back. You glide up, drop back down, take it deep every time — pussy swallowing him up, getting the entire shaft wet until you’re clenching on the base. It feels best when he’s nudged up against your cervix, a pressure on the sensitive head of his cock that makes the tension in his stomach knot up.

Oh, god, please.

He doesn’t even know what he’s begging for; he knows he’s not allowed a release, knows that no matter how much he wants to he’s not allowed to buck his hips up. He’s not allowed to fuck you, to fill your pussy with his cum, but the urge is so heavy. His moans heighten, needy, breaths hitching as you ride him. He wants to be obedient, he wants to be a good boy, he wants to be your favorite — but it’s all too much; his senses are overwhelmed with you.

Your fingers leave his shoulder, and he can hear you start to rub your clit, the wet sounds of you sliding your fingers around your pussy. He can hear it getting sloppier, messier, and he can feel you getting wetter around his cock, your walls dripping wet and fluttering on the shaft. It’s unbearable: the sounds of your breathless moans, the feeling of you pleasuring yourself while you’re fucking him.

Liquid drips down his cock to the base, a mixture of your wetness and his precum resting there, warm, until your fingers swipe over it and collect it. 

Then your fingertips are on his lips again, forcing their way into his mouth. He accepts them like he does everything else from you, obligingly — sucking the fluids from them while you bounce on his cock, your pussy getting wetter each time it parts around him, greedy.

His mouth is greedy too, ravenous for the taste of your fingers. A mixture, your fluids and his; desperately, he wants to be mixed with you.

His head is clouded by thoughts of giving himself to you — of pumping all his fluids deep inside of you until the two of you are combined. There’s no thought more enticing in this moment, no instinct stronger, than to give you all of his cum. He wants to fill you, over and over and over, until he’s sure that it takes.

His seed in your womb, you pregnant with his kids — he groans around your fingers, spit dripping down his chin. If he keeps thinking about it, he doesn’t know if he’ll last.

But he has to, so he resorts to begging around your fingers, words garbled and small —  Please cum on me. Please. I need you to cum.

He’s losing his composure, panting with his mouth full, trembling as he tries to stay still. It works for a little; he thinks he has himself under control, that he can hold off, until he feels you adjust. You reach behind your body, snake a hand downward, cupping his balls while you bounce on his lap.

They’re sensitive, heavy. They’re tight, and when you squeeze them, he whimpers. 

“Do you need my cum, baby?” you tease. “Do you want me to cum all over your cock? Do you want me to get it all wet? You’re so needy, just look at you.”

He’s trying to hold off, but it feels so good — the way you ride him, the way your hand squeezes with just the right amount of pressure. He chokes out a groan around your fingers, loses his composure for a fraction of a second — just long enough to buck his hips up again. A quick, shallow thrust into your pussy, immediately followed by a shudder and a helpless sob.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to, I promise.”

You’re stern; you’re cold, unforgiving . “What did I say, Ginoza? I told you to sit down and take it, but you keep disappointing me, over and over.”

He hates to disappoint you, and he knows it’s wrong, but the scolding leaves him in even worse shape. And when you squeeze his balls again, he can’t help but jerk his hips up a second time. He’s throbbing, panting, trying to stop the feeling from building.

“Please, please, no,” he babbles around your fingers, “I can’t, I think I’m — I’m going to —”

You lift off his cock right before the coil snaps, leaving him panting as you remove the belt from his throat and your fingers from his mouth. The same fingers come to the back of his head, nimble, to pull the knot of his tie free.

He’s still murmuring apologies and blinking tears from his eyes as you remove the blindfold.

A tender touch first; your fingers brushing the hair away from his flushed, tearful face. And then a cruel one — your hand tightening in his hair, pulling his face back. He looks up at you through lashes still wet and heavy with tears, sniffling.

He’s still throbbing, still close. But some of his desperation is quelled, at least, by the sight of you on his lap. After being deprived of you for so long, it’s the first glimpse of the sun after a long winter.

But your voice is still frigid.

“Listen. You’re servicing me. What don’t you understand about that?”

His lips tremble. “I’ll be good. I’ll be good. I just want you to cum.”

“Good.”

A little softness in your voice — more mercy than he expected, more than he deserves. You really are so good to him, he really is glad to be your hound; he wouldn’t trade this position for anything in the world.

His eyes on you, his attentive gaze coming to your fingers, looking for cues . Your hands tug at the loose collar of your drab gray blouse, stretching it until it’s pulled under your tits. Underneath the blouse, your chest is framed by a skimpy pink bra — the same warm color as your skimpy pink panties. You tug the cups of your bra down too, and put your pretty tits on display for him.

His eyes linger on your tits even as you grip his dick and adjust on his lap. He doesn’t look away from them until you’re starting to sink down on the length of him again.

He bites his lip, moans through it, soft. Watching. Now that he can see — now that he can watch as your pussy takes him in — it’s so much harder for him to hold back. He can see how much you want him now, how wet and puffy your pussy is as you slide down his aching cock. The length glistens when you glide up, coated in more slick with each bounce.

Weight on the balls of your feet, heels on the ground while you fuck him. If his hands weren’t bound, he’d run his fingers up the patent leather of your stilettos, up the thin heel. Classy, he thinks — even when you’re fucking him raw there’s something about you that makes him feel so dirty in comparison.

He’s something that belongs under your heels. Maybe, if he were a little braver, he’d ask you to put the point of your stiletto on his chest.

But, for now, he’ll be a good boy and take it. You ride him deep, fingers laced around the back of his neck. He’s never seen something prettier, eyes drawn everywhere — your contorting face, your bouncing tits, your dripping wet pussy. Slippery juices smear all over his thighs and collect, thick and gooey, around the base of his cock.

He can see how good you’re feeling, but you’re vocal anyway.

You’re making me feel so good. This dick is just what I needed, baby, it’s gonna make me cum so hard.

It’s too much; he feels it building up again — balls tightening, thighs trembling, toes flexing. Nothing in his mind except for your soft, sweet moans and the little wet smacks of your skin on his. You fuck him harder, and harder, and harder, until he can hear the desperation in his own hitching breaths.

He has to take it, but he doesn’t know if he can. He thought he could endure it for you, last long enough to make you cum — he thought he could be a good boy. It’s a simple task. But it’s not an easy one. And if you keep moaning filth to him, if you keep looking at him like that while you ride him — mouth open, pretty face knit up, he’ll —

“Please,” he whimpers, “please, no, I’m trying — it’s too fast — it feels too good —”

His eyes roll back; his head lolls forward, sweat snaking down his temples. His hands are balled up into fists behind his back, and he groans, but you keep torturing him, keep moaning as you drop down on his aching cock.

The words blur together. Filthy, tempting.

Oh, you’re gonna make me cum, right there, this cock feels so good, it’s so good when you let me fuck you, baby, I need to cum again, baby.

He can’t last like this; he doesn’t want to do anything without your permission, but if you don’t stop —

“Please,” he begs, tremors in his voice, “I can’t take it, please , I can’t hold it, if you don’t stop I’m gonna…”

“Gonna what?”

Another tease as you fuck him, and he sobs.

“I’m gonna cum,” he chokes, “I’m gonna fill your pussy if you don’t stop.”

The release hangs heavy, ready to burst in his lower stomach.

“Did I give you permission? Be a good boy, Ginoza. You’ll be good, won’t you?”

He squeezes his teary eyes shut, panting, Mhm. Mhm. Every ounce of willpower, but it’s not enough. He’s doing his best for you, but it’s not enough.

And you’re doing your worst to him — you’re being so cruel, making him feel so good. You keep fucking him with your fingers laced behind his neck, bringing your thumbs to the front of his throat. You press them into his pulse, suffocate him.

He groans, feels his cock pulsing, feels more precum oozing from the tip. It’s so wet inside of you, so soft and so tight — you’ll milk him dry, if he’s not careful.

“Don’t close your eyes,” you coo to him, “look at me, baby. I want you to look at me while I fuck you. Let me see your pretty face.”

His eyes flutter open and then, confronted with your euphoric face, watching the pleasure mounting in your expression, it feels like torture.

“Please stop,” he chokes, “ please, I’m so close, you have to stop before —”

He lets out a needy whine, and right before he crashes over, you lift off of him, leaving his cock flushed and twitching. As soon as you’re off of him, he jerks his hips up desperately, thrusting into nothing. 

“God,” he groans, vision swimming with tears, sweat dripping down his temples, “thank you, thank you.”

“You can take it, can’t you, baby?” you tease, squeezing the base. “You can take it until I cum. I’m so close. You’re doing so well.”

He nods hazily, but he doesn’t even have the chance to catch his breath before you level yourself over him and sink down again. More than anything, he wants to take it until he gives you what you need. He can see you getting close. The pleasure is right there in front of him; it’s everywhere — in your moans, written all over your face. You keep getting wetter and wetter around him, keep clenching, keep dripping all over his thighs.

And it’s all for him. All that relief, all that pleasure — face knit up, insides tensing around his cock — is because of him. Because he’s servicing you.

And in return for that he gets to hear your pretty moans lilt and get more urgent as you approach the edge. He gets to hear you moan, You’re gonna make me cum, you’re gonna make me feel so good, baby. 

A few more desperate bounces, a few more lewd moans, and then you’re dropping over, moaning for him —  I’m cumming, I’m cumming. It’s his privilege to feel you take what you need — fingers digging into his throat, walls spasming and dripping on his cock while you glide up and down.

It’s too much, it feels too good, it looks too good. He chokes on a sob, stomach knotted, pressure building up between his thighs, higher and higher with each bounce. You fuck him through your orgasm, and he wants to hold it, but it’s just too much.

“Please, please, please,” he murmurs, “I can’t—”

But you’re wrapped up, moaning while you use him, and he can’t take it — can’t be good for you anymore, no matter how much he wants to. One more attempt to snuff out the pleasure, but it doesn’t work; his cock is twitching, and each spasm of your pussy feels like you want to suck the cum out of him.

So he murmurs one more desperate plea —  please, please, oh god, I’m sorry, it feels too good, I’m gonna cum — and lets it go.

It feels so good — an instant high to let it go after holding off for so long. He thinks the sudden burst of pleasure is more intense than anything he’s felt before; the tension in his muscles releases, and deep inside of you, his cock throbs. He feels the cum spurting out, shooting up into your contracting insides and coating your pulsing walls.

He knows he shouldn’t be doing this; he’s babbling incoherent, breathy apologies, but he just has so much cum for you, so much to give you. And it feels so strong, so good to cum inside of you, where everything’s so hot and wet. He gives you so much cum that it drips out of your pussy, coating the shaft of his dick, collecting around the base.

And you’re letting him cum inside of you — you’re still fucking him, still cooing to him. You look him in the eyes, with your fingers pressing into his throat, while you take him deep. Over and over and over, until your tensing insides milk every last drop out of him.

You collapse onto his lap with a heavy sigh.

Face on his shoulder, breathing against his neck. It takes him a few moments to catch his breath. His arms are aching behind him, but the pleasure persists. He’s still inside of you, feeling your walls spasm every few seconds — velvety, warm around him, full of his cum.

“I’m sorry, Inspector,” he stammers, “I really didn’t mean to—”

There’s a disappointed sigh against his throat, and his heart drops.

“Did I say you could cum inside me?”

Ginoza feels his cheeks burn. Embarrassment, regret. He had you for a moment, and now he’s ruined it.

“No, ma’am,” he sniffles, “I promise I didn’t mean to.”

The silence is heavy. He thinks you must hate him, that you must be disgusted with him, that he’s not good enough to even be your dog. He’s sick to his stomach.

But when you pull back, your face is soft. Your hands are soft when they move his hair out of his face. They’re warm. You’re warm. The only warm thing in the middle of this cold, gray office is you.

Your pretty hands cradle his face gently, tilting it upward; he feels your thumbs on his cheeks, brushing his tears away. With tenderness. With the warmth of summertime. Summertime sweat lingering on your skin, in the dead of winter — you’re a flower blooming at the very end of fall, after all the others have withered.

“I’m sorry,” he stammers. “I’m really sorry.”

Ginoza wonders if animals can comprehend the concept of deities. He thinks that dogs might view their owners in the same way humans might view a god. As something inexplicable but perfect. As something to be revered without comprehension.

“Will you make it up to me?” you ask. Sweet, soft.

Maybe you’re not the lethal oleander flower, he thinks, but something harmless blooming in an identical shade. A lookalike without the same poison.

He supposes there’s only one way to find out.

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “I’ll do anything.”