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Jack Thompson slumps over his office desk, pouring out the last of his success into a cracked mug. It leaks, and the amber liquid is far more suited to an old fashion glass. Given that he’s given up on actually making the cocktail and is just drinking straight bourbon, he ought to get points for using crockery at all and not drinking directly from the bottle.
(That’s reserved for nights that aren’t successes.)
But today was a win. He did the thing. Got the proof the wife wanted. She didn’t even look upset either – he hates it when they cry. He can’t stand women crying on him, for all it seems like that’s half his job. Never knows how he should comfort them, most of the time he screws up and depending on their personalities they either cry harder or haul off and smack him one. (Honestly, he’ll take the smack any day, because they usually flounce out after that. He’d rather they leave without paying than have to deal with them crying.)
She’d wanted to thank him too. Said that way too, real deep and purring-like, her hand far too far over Jack’s side of the desk to just be going for the papers. Jack’s a PI, he notices these types of things. Jack’s not an idiot; he doesn’t shit where he eats. He’s not about to get involved with his clientele. Even if she weren’t, any person who could be presented with photographic evidence that your spouse was fucking their PA and then turn around and proposition the person that brought you that news is not the type of person one gets into bed with.
So Jack cast a wary eye over her too-sharp, too-perfect, too-close fingernails, and just said if she was feeling real generous, he did accept gratuity on top of his per-diem. .
She’d thrown her head back and laughed, throat a long, pale line, dark red lips open. When she looked back, her eyes crinkled at the corners, but there was a flatness to the corners of her mouth that Jack still didn’t like.
She tipped 20% and walked away with a sway to her body that, God forgive him, Jack could not drag his eyes away from.
The type of man that’d let a dame like that go… what a world. What a world.
But Jack’s an old hand at passing time with other people’s misfortunes - one could say he earns his living from it - and her footsteps have barely stopped echoing before he’s opening up the filing cabinet and pulling out the celebratory bourbon.
One thing leads to another and before Jack knows it, most of the bottle is gone and he’s slumped over his desk.
“So hard won, so easily lost,” he muses, rolling the bottle idly back and forth along the marked surface of his desk.
It’s late enough that it’s early, and he really ought to put himself to bed. Lucky for Jack, this office has both an old, battered couch that has served as his bed on many an occasion, and an adjoining water closet, tiny as it may be. Everything a bachelor could want, with the benefit of being a five minute stumble to the nearest greasy spoon.
He grunts, rubs a hand over his face, winces at the harsh scrape of stubble. He should have shaved a few days ago but adultery waits for no man.
He’s also dying for a smoke.
His head shoots up and his hand flies to his gun as three sharp raps shatter the early morning silence. Through the half-glass door of his office, he can see a newly familiar silhouette.
The woman tilts her head and holds up what Jack can clearly tell, even through the warped glass, must be a bottle of alcohol.
“It’s open,” he calls, hauling himself into a proper, upright position, clearing the desk of the detritus it’s collected over the course of his long night.
There’s a Lady present, after all.
She opens the door and steps through - having been the last one through it, many hours before - and does indeed flash a bottle of whiskey at Jack. “All things considered, I thought this could be put to better use as a thank you rather than continuing to collect dust on my soon to be ex-husband’s bar cart.”
Jack tilts his head and nods, acknowledging the point, and then decides to cut to the chase, so to speak. “Bit late for a visit.”
Her lips, still perfect, still red, curve in a smile. “I was doing my own celebration with my girlfriends. You wouldn’t begrudge a newly single woman a night out on the town, would you?”
Jack snorts.
She makes herself comfortable, hooking her coat on the stand by the door and resettling her hair with a practiced toss of her head. She settles down into the chair opposite Jack with all the delicacy of a bird, kicking up and arranging her legs, one on top of the other so that a smooth expanse of thigh and calf shows from a slit in her skirt.
Jack leans down and gets a clean glass for her.
Her smile deepens. “I’ll pour, shall I?"
He tips his head and pushes both his dirty glass and her new glass towards her. She opens the whiskey with a smooth twist of her wrist, the bottle makes a satisfying sound as she breaks the protective seal.
"So tell me, Mr Detective," she says. Jack's eyes dart up to meet hers, and though she still smiles, her eyes are dark and intent. "What's a man like you doing in a place like this?"
"Ain't that my line?" Jack drawls, drawing his glass back to himself, swirling it to aerate it out of habit.
Her eyes crinkle at the corners. "A gal can't try to turn the tables? Besides, I rather think you know just about all there is to know about me by this stage of things, it's you that's the mystery here."
"Just a man trying to get by," Jack demurs.
She laughs and takes a sip of her drink. Jack does the same. He's clearly got too used to the cheap stuff, even this has a strange taste to it.
A flicker must pass over his face slow enough for her to note.
"The '78 was supposed to be a decent year - do you not like it? I did mean this to be a thank you and a celebration." She frowns and takes a sip of her own drink, clearly lingering in the flavour.
Jack feels a twinge in that part of him that's weak for upset women. "No, truthfully, it's good! I simply don't often have whiskey." He takes a big mouthful to prove his point and swallows it with the grace of one who is a habitual alcoholic.
"Oh, well, my apologies then. What is your preferred alcohol?"
"I'm rather fond of bourbon," he indicates the bottle he hadn't the time to put away, she nods. "Gin's quite nice, depends on the herbs."
She hums in agreement, and they drink together in slightly awkward silence.
He's just about to ask her what's her preferred type of alcohol - he assumes whiskey but perhaps that's just her husband's? - when it occurs to him that the fog in his head is too thick for the amount of alcohol he's consumed.
He barely has time to complete the thought before his body gives way completely and he slumps face first onto his desk.
The woman sighs, puts down her glass and stands up, brushing off her skirt. "About goddamned time."
Jack isn't quite unconscious, but he is quite incapable of fighting back as she strides around his desk, gets an arm around him and hauls him to his feet. His office sways in his vision as though he is walking on a ship. He can barely keep his eyes open, his eyelids have become incredibly heavy.
But he'd rather have some idea of what's going to happen than none, and so he fights with all his might to stay conscious.
He's deposited none too gently face first onto his couch. He remains sprawled in the position he was dropped in, one leg and one arm on the couch, one knee and one hand brushing the floor, his face smashed into a pillow. It is already difficult to breathe. He's vaguely aware of footsteps ringing out, echoing strangely and incorrectly as the woman leaves him. He thinks she goes to her coat and then returns, but he's not certain of her destination nor of her return until her cool hand rests on the back of his neck.
"There were other ways this could have gone down, I want you to know that," she says, sounding bored.
She lifts his head and turns it so that he's facing his office, and can breathe.
His eyes are watering, and it takes several long, slow blinks before they clear, and the blinks are difficult to do because his eyelids are so heavy. But he needs to be able to see, and she must want him to be able to see her, to know what's going to happen to him, because when he finally manages to focus his eyesight, she stands before him.
A vision. A beauty in ivory lingerie, the type so fine and delicate that the callouses on Jack's hands would catch on the hose and lace and tear it up. Every curve and line of her figure is adorned and supported and there's not a person alive that doesn't enjoy women that wouldn't fall to their knees at the sight of her.
And between her thighs, a bulky, leather harness in a sharply contrasting black, holding a phallus so large that she cannot enclose her hand around it as she shows it off to Jack.
Jack's stomach turns over.
Her smile grows teeth.
She climbs into the bed behind Jack, straddling his thighs. Jack squirms as best he can, but he has as much control over his body right now as he does over the situation: which is to say, none. Deft hands slide underneath him and unbuckle his belt and fly, pulling his belt free with one long move.
"This could be useful," she hums thoughtfully.
She leans down, so close to Jack that her breasts and sex toy are pressed flat to his back, to grab the hand that lies on the floor. As she does, she pauses, and presses a kiss just behind Jack's ear.
His body breaks out in goosebumps. She hums thoughtfully.
She leans back, takes that hand and Jack's other hand, drawing them both to the small of Jack's back.
"What're you doing?" he manages to grunt.
"Providing myself with a handle, for the future."
Deftly she wraps his own belt around his wrists multiple times and eventually buckles it closed, ruthlessly punching a new hole in the leather.
"A little reminder," she purrs, and shuffles back so that she can kiss his wrists. "There, now you'll stay until I'm good and done with you."
Jack snarls but it's a useless sound of petty defiance and they both know it. She coos and drops another kiss on him.
She scoots further down and tugs his pants and underwear down to mid thigh.
Jack tries to tense and fight, but his body is both liquid and heavy.
She sighs, a shuddering, happy sigh, and presses the head of her toy to Jack.
"One of the many benefits about doing it like this is that you're so relaxed, dearheart. With a little lubricant one can just glide right in."
She begins to bear down on him.
She's right in that his muscles are as relaxed as they'll ever get, but it's been a long, long time since Jack's Academy days, and he's not exactly used to this sort of thing anymore.
He grits his teeth but can't help a thin whine leaking out as she bullies the full length of that thick cock inside of him.
"Stop," he hisses.
"No," she croons, "I don't think I shall."
The drag out is just as bad, raw nerves firing. His body twitches and flinches but randomly and slowly and not fast enough to fight her off, push her off.
"Get out," he slurs.
She leans down and bites him, that same place behind his ear that she'd kissed before. The movement forces her cock to go deep enough that her pelvis presses flat to his ass.
"You should see - the ripple of muscle that goes down your back!" she says, voice deep and husky.
Another too slow, too painful draw back, another thrust inwards. He swears her movements drag muscle with her, his body moving with her cock, unable to let it go.
"Stop," he asks. Quietly. Slowly. Forming the sounds as precisely as he can.
She just moves faster, excited by his words.
"Will you beg?" Sharp nails drag down his back sending goosebumps prickling up in their wake.
He feels raw.
"Please."
She shifts position, putting one foot on the ground to get better leverage. One hand holds her 'handle', the other his shoulder, hauling him back into her thrusts.
"Come on, you can do better than that, can't you Mr Detective?"
He can feel tears start to bead in his eyes. He blinks and one leaks out, pooling in his nose and then trailing down the rest of his face.
Her smile is wide, delighted. "What a good boy you've been," she croons, and the hand that was on his shoulder goes round under his belly.
She makes a moue of disappointment when she discovers that Jack is flacid.
"Well now that just won't do, will it?"
Her hand curls around Jack's penis and begins to stroke him in time with her thrusts.
His stomach turns over, sickened. Everything is too dry, it hurts. His skin pulls, what lube there was on the toy is not nearly enough for his cramping insides, and now this?
"Please!"
"Be a good boy."
She tilts her hips differently, driving them down at an angle, and even through everything he's ashamed that there's a flicker of something not pain deep in his gut, and his cock twitches in her hand.
She croons, delighted, and drops kisses all over his back. Each makes his skin tingle and crawl. Each is accompanied by a deep thrust to that spot, a flick of her wrist and an expert twist of her fingers.
"Why?" Jack pants, bewildered as his cock slowly comes to life. Everything hurts but it still feels good but it still hurts.
She throws her head back and laughs, fucks him deeper. "You just can't resist, can you? You like to call us sluts but look at this. In so much pain but that slightest touch and still you're rising to the occasion! Truly, led around by your cock."
Jack twitches and, to his great shame, tries to move his hips forward into her hand.
She laughs and fucks him punishingly hard, jerking him off in perfect time. He squirms, pinned, helpless. He can't do anything but feel and sob.
"You're so close already, aren't you, you little whore?"
Jack nods and cries.
She leans down so she can whisper in his ear, "then come."
He comes so hard his cock jerks out of her touch.
Everything finally, thankfully, goes black.
–
By the time he blinks awake she's long gone. The muzziness of the drug has finally worn off too.
"Well," he says to the other side of the room. "Fuck."
It's not the first time he's had his hands tied behind his back (usually it's with rope) so with a bit of struggle he manages to work a hand free and then stumble to his feet.
And then go right back down and then collapse onto his side because yes ow for walking but also ow for sitting.
With an idea of what he'll be facing now, over the course of minutes he slowly scoots himself to the arm of the couch and then leans against it right to the point of almost pain before slowly, carefully leavering himself to his feet.
He limps to the water closet, slumped against a wall the whole way, mostly just sort of dragging his aching body along.
The flourescent light nearly blinds him when he flicks it on, painfully bright. He winces, holds a hand in front of his face as he rapidly blinks.
Eventually, he gets used to it and he lowers his hand, squinting at the needs a clean mirror over the tiny sink.
Beneath his ear looks like he got mauled, red lipstick and blooming bruises. He turns to check his back as best he can and it's just absolutely covered in those red lipstick kisses.
"Well," he says, staring at his marked wrists. "Fuck."