#seberg

Your torturous week drags on like that: learning and coaching with James and April, you and Jack getting hot and bothered, then the sudden, startling end that leaves you breathless and near tears. You end each night the same way, too. You get back to the hotel, Jack’s familiar combination of bourbon and a cigarette does little to settle his frayed nerves, and you touch yourself to get to sleep, replaying the events of the evening to get yourself off.

Finally, you’ve had enough. Six days is enough. You don’t think you can take another night of Jack’s teasing.

“I can go in for a solo tonight, if you want,” you offer, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“Huh?” Jack looks up from his notebook and sets his coffee down. You’re doing your usual morning brief. Jack had gone down to the hotel lobby and returned with a cup of black coffee for each of you. You’d ordinarily review your notes and personal accounts of the prior evening, identify an area of exploration for your upcoming night, and make a game plan for how to steer the scene there and get as much information out of James and April as you possibly could.

But just the thought of another night with Jack makes you want to scream.

“A solo,” you repeat. “I can go in by myself tonight. Might give us a better perspective.”

“Uh…sure,” he replies. Jack’s not really sure what to make of your offer. “You’ll, um, you’ll need to wear a wire.”

You weren’t expecting that.

“What?”

“That’s what Ford said,” Jack replies. “If we go in solo we need to keep a mic on it. Data collection and all.”

“How am I supposed to…hide a microphone in there?” you counter hotly.

Jack stands and crosses to his suitcase, pulling out a small hard-sided case. He unbuckles it and removes a tiny recording device. It’s only about as big as a Zippo. He turns back to you.

“In your bra,” he says plainly.

“You cannot be serious,” you huff, rolling your eyes.

“It’s the only…place…to…put it,” Jack stumbles, his eyes nervously darting away from you as he runs a hand through his hair.

“Can’t I just keep it in my purse?” you protest.

“Your purse that you’re going to set down and walk away from?” he retorts.

“I don’t walk away from my purse!”

“Well the…the conversation is happening…away from your purse,” he counters. “Just–” he sighs. “Look, I’ve put some thought into this, okay?”

You feel your cheeks get warm at the idea of Jack imagining you stripping, brainstorming where on your body he could hide a microphone.

“The sensitivity of these mics…they need to be close to their target. Believe it or not, I do sometimes know what I’m talking about,” he finishes with a snark.

“Fine. Give it here,” you finally relent, holding out your hand. Jack passes you the small recorder and coiled up wire. 

“Let me just…give me a second,” you tell him. You head for the small bathroom and shut the door behind you. The counter is littered with his things: toothbrush, comb, razor. You eye the dark bottle of cologne sitting on the white tile. You set the mic down and pick up the glass bottle, removing the small gold cap and inhaling deeply. It smells like Jack. You’re tempted to dab it behind your ears, but think better of it and replace the cap and bottle.

Jack sits on the edge of his bed. He imagines you in the club, with another man, while he sits behind and listens to the whole thing. It somehow excites him and enrages him– he can’t stomach the idea of another man touching you, but he thinks about hearing you, directly in his ears, listening as you actually have an orgasm. It’d be even clearer than having to listen through the thin hotel walls.

In the bathroom, you turn your attention back to the microphone…the idea of Jack listening to you in the club with another man makes your heart pound. You try not to think about it as you undo the buttons on your blouse and bury the small device in the bottom of the left cup of your bra, holding down the tiny button on its side until the light next to it flashes green three times. You thread the wire up just enough to be close to the edge of the soft satin cup, but not showing. You quickly button up your shirt again, then turn the handle on the bathroom door.

“Here. You need to test it or something?” you spit out quickly, startling Jack.

“Yeah, let me check the fit,” he says, resting back on his hands and nodding in your direction.

“What?”

“I gotta make sure it’s not visible,” he replies, hoping his tone sounds even enough not to betray his eagerness. 

You draw in a deep breath, catching his meaning. You swallow hard, your eyes locked on him, before bringing your hands to the buttons at the collar of your blouse. Your fingers slowly work the tiny plastic buttons, your shirt falling open as you make your way down. Jack’s eyes are locked on your hands as they continue down your body.

Jack can feel something in his brain shift. He gently releases his breath. He’s suddenly laser focused on you, in awe at your obedience to his simple command. 

When you’ve opened your shirt entirely, you look up at Jack. You catch him drawing in a sharp breath as his eyes snap up to meet yours. Not trusting your voice, you quietly throw your hands up in a silent gesture: this good? 

He wishes you were at the club instead of in this tiny, too-hot hotel room. At the club, he could at least take out some of this frustration on you. Here, any moves he makes are real; and yet, he can’t stop himself from pushing it. Jack chuckles. 

“What, you’re gonna let him just open your shirt?” he challenges. “Keep it on while he fucks you?”

You tear your gaze away from him, your cheeks burning. Jack relishes in your embarrassment. He makes a sharp, quick click sound with his tongue, drawing your attention once more.

“C’mere,” he says in a low voice, holding his hand out in your direction. You cross the room toward the edge of the bed, reaching out for his hand. He withdraws before you can reach him, grinning slyly as your attention follows his hand back towards his body. You stand between his legs, your cleavage tauntingly close to his face. He gently takes the fabric of your blouse between two fingers and tugs.

“Off,” he whispers.

You shrug off your shirt, letting it fall off of your body and onto the floor. You’re breathing deeply and fast, desperate to get some air now that you’re standing just inches from him. His eyes fall to your feet, then slowly drag up your body. He stares at your chest.

“Turn,” he says plainly. You obey, gently stepping in a small circle while he looks you up and down. Jack feels lightheaded, seeing you so readily submit to him, even in this way. It makes him want to put his hands on you, make you squirm and beg him to let go of you.

He eyes you up and down. No wires are exposed, and he can’t see the mic as he stares at your tits.

“Good,” he praises you, sounding gentle and breathless.

“What,” you stammer, trying to steady your voice. “What if…you know…what if I have to take my bra off?”

Jack can feel his face getting hot at the idea of another man unhooking your bra, touching you. Getting you to make all the cute little noises he’s heard all week through the wall.

“Well, then,” he counters, his voice tense. “I guess you’d be fucked.”

The double meaning of his words makes you swallow, your eyes on his. He leans back again and pulls his cigarette case from his pocket. He pops it open, taking one out and putting it between his teeth, never breaking eye contact. Your eyes are drawn to the way the orange filter looks between his soft lips. 

Without thinking, you hum softly and hold out a hand. His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but he considers you for a second. He didn’t know you smoked. He gently takes out another cigarette. Instead of putting it in your outstretched hand, he flips it around in his fingers, then lifts it to your mouth. You take it between your lips and he digs back into his pocket for his lighter. 

He lights his first, taking a long drag to steady the slight shake in his hand he hopes you don’t catch. He plucks the lit cigarette from his mouth and exhales a long stream of smoke. He stares at you, unlit cigarette between your lips, standing in front of him in just your bra. He imagines another man pulling the straps from your shoulders, finding the recorder nestled against your soft skin. His thumb rolls over the spark wheel on his Zippo and he lifts it to the end of your cigarette. He watches the way your chest expands as you inhale. You exhale the smoke, trying to settle the rapid beating of your heart.

“You’ll be fine,” Jack says around his cigarette. “Just don’t let him see your tits.”

That evening, Jack is set up with a tape recorder and his headphones in the hotel across the street from the club. He’d called that morning, shortly after your little fashion show, to book a room for the evening. That was the challenge with New York City; it was nearly impossible to stake out in a van or find a vacant storefront nearby that the Bureau could commandeer. He managed to book a room on the 5th floor– low enough that he wasn’t worried about losing your feed, but high up enough that street noise wouldn’t be as big of an obstacle.

He has his headphones on, facing the window that overlooks the entrance to Club Midnight. It’s a discreet red door, just a few steps down from the street, occupying the basement of another business. The tape recorder in front of him is set up; he’s going to be live monitoring your investigation and simultaneously recording. The device that’s nestled in your bra is small; it’s not even big enough to carry a microtape. All it can do is broadcast. Jack intercepts the broadcast with his receiver, and the recorder copies the transmission onto the tape. The spools lazily turn in front of him as he gently readjusts the receiver to get a better angle toward the club.

Your voice pumps into his headphones, static-y and crackly at first.

“Hi, J--s!”

“Gw– how ar– ou?” 

Jack fiddles with some of the dials on the receiver, tweaking slightly to combat the static.

“–ood, thanks. How about you?”

Jack flips the switch on his recorder that begins the recording, the spools of tape whirring to life in front of him.

“I’m well, thank you. No Peter today?”

“No, we, um…” Jack grins at the way you trail off. “We talked about it and we each wanted a little time…just…on our own. Here.”

James laughs.

“I get it. We get couples all the time who want to do something similar. Sometimes it’s nice to take a break from your usual partner.”

Jack can feel his face getting hot.

“That’s why it can be complicated introducing BDSM to an already existing romantic or sexual relationship. But you guys have been doing so well, and it’s great to see that you even have an understanding of how necessary that distance is sometimes.”

Jack brings his fingers to his brow and gently massages his forehead. He wishes there was a way to fast forward the conversation. 

“What were you looking for tonight, then?” James asks.

“Well, I…”

Jack bites his lip.

“I wanted to…submit…to…someone else,” you manage to get out.

James smiles softly at you.

“Of course,” he says. “Man, woman?”

“Man,” you reply. You actually hadn’t talked about that with Jack. You’re guessing he just assumed you’d be with a man. But with the way you could still feel Jack’s hands on your body from every night this week, you needed someone else, someone you could replace with Jack in your mind, to finally satisfy you.

“Did you have anyone in mind?” James asks gently. “Someone who’s caught your eye?”

“Could I um…could I do it with you?” you ask. 

Jack feels a wave of heat run through his body at the thought of you and James together. He understands why you’re doing it, of course; this man who has already been teaching you and taking care of you all week feels safe, familiar. 

But because he’s your trainer, you figure he’ll be knowledgeable, too. The more information you can get out of him, the better you can justify doing this without Jack’s presence.

“Of course,” James smiles gently. “If you want to.”

You nod, then remember what Jack had told you before you left the hotel room: you need to verbalize everything to recreate the circumstances accurately on the tape.

“Yes,” you correct. 

Jack tries to imagine James taking you down the long hallway that split off into the private rooms of the club. He pictures you walking into one, and tries to guess where you’re sitting– the chairs, the bed…

“How are you feeling?” James asks.

“Good,” you reply from your spot on the bed. “Nervous,” you add, because it’s the truth.

“That’s okay. Just relax.”

Jack listens to James take you through a discussion about your boundaries, where he can touch you, what you want him to do. 

“Here?”

“Mhm.”

“What about here?”

“Puh-please, yes, there, please.”

Jack wants to take the headphones off, but he can’t. Something about not being able to see you, having to imagine you in his mind, where James’s hands are, what’s making your breath hitch…it sends his head spinning. His heart races in his chest.

“I-I…I want it.”

“What do you say?”

“Please?” 

“Good girl…God, you sound so pretty…I wish your husband could hear you.”

It makes your heart flutter; he can, you think. He is.

James’s hands dance over your waist underneath your shirt.

“I just…can I keep my bra on?” you ask in a tiny voice.

“Of course,” James coos. “Whatever you want.”

You fumble with the buttons on your blouse, ripping it open as quickly as you can.

“I need you to touch me, please, I can’t–aghh–”

Jack tears the headphones down around his neck. The faint sound of your moans still rises to his ears in the quiet of the hotel room, so he knows the feed is still recording. But he can’t stand having your soft, breathy voice directly in his ears anymore. Jack takes the headphones off his neck, setting them down on the desk, and stands. He can feel himself getting hard and tries to take a few deep breaths to relax. He reaches into his pocket for his cigarette case and gently grazes his erection through his pants, whining softly. 

When Jack’s shaky hands finally light the cigarette between his lips, he sighs out a long stream of smoke. He sits back at the desk, pulling the black ashtray up underneath him before putting his headphones back on.

Jack listens to your moans and desperate pleading. The noises you’re making…it sounds even better through the recording than it does through the wall at night. Jack’s hand dips below his belt as he listens to your panting breath. He stokes himself lazily, his touch soft and teasing. As he listens to you and James, he pictures you, sweaty, pinned down…bra still on. Jack moves his hand faster, desperate to finish.

“Ja-James, fuck, please, please, God, make me…make me– ahh!”

Jack listens to you choke on your words. He listens to you sob. 

You beg James through tears to make you cum. It feels so good– this entire week has brought you so close to the edge, without the satisfaction of falling. You squeeze your eyes closed, more hot tears snaking down your face, and picture Jack’s face over you.

As Jack listens to you cum, he squeezes himself especially rough and runs his fist up and down a few more times, until he can feel his own mess on the back of his hand.

“Shit, shit,” Jack hisses, unable to stop his hand just yet. “Fuck.”

When he can finally take his hand off his cock, Jack shudders out a breath.

“Thank you,” Jack can hear your breathy voice. “Thank you, thank you…”

The next night, Jack insists on going with you to the club again. He claims it’s to get as many perspectives as possible on your last night in New York, but that’s only part of the reason. The other part of the reason is that he feels he might lose his mind if he has to listen to someone else fuck you again. 

James and April are there to get you set up for your last night with them. It’s Saturday; as the final part of your training with them, they’re going to supervise the start of your scene to make sure you’re following the club’s rules around safety and communication. But then they’ll leave the room.

There’s been a weird, unspoken feeling between the two of you since last night. You don’t want to think about Jack with his headphones on, listening to you actually have an orgasm. James leads you to a room, as usual, and you waste no time in sitting on the bed.

“How do you feel?” April asks you.

“Fine,” you lie. Jack unbuttons his shirt, leaving it open over his undershirt. 

“And you?” April turns to him.

“Good,” he replies in a voice that tells you his answer might be truthful. “Ready.”

“Good,” April smiles. “Then let’s get started. We’ll leave you two as soon as things get going.”

“Get on top of her,” James instructs Jack. Jack awkwardly climbs over you, resting one knee on either side of your waist. He doesn’t lower his hips, so you can only feel his weight in the way the mattress sinks underneath you.

“Look at her,” James says in a gentle voice. Jack looks down at you and you stare up into his eyes. You can see his chest rising and falling quickly as he takes you in. Your own breath feels too shallow, too light, in your body.

“Relax,” James tells Jack. Jack slowly lowers himself, a breath shuddering out of him as he settles his weight on top of you. You feel so close to him. More than the feeling of his body on yours, the feeling of his gaze makes your head feel fuzzy. Jack swallows hard, eyes quickly scanning over your body before meeting your eye again.

“Alright, Peter,” James continues. “What do you want to do to her?”

“Make her scream.”

His reply comes too quickly; he knows that. Jack swallows thickly, eyes still glued to you.

“Make her scream…” James muses. “In pleasure? In pain?”

“Pleasure,” Jack exhales. It sounds like he’s choking on the amount of oxygen in his lungs. “Pain. Both.”

You draw in a deep breath as your eyes follow a vein running from his collarbone down into his undershirt.

“What do you want him to do to you?” James asks you softly.

You don’t know what you want. You want his hands on you. Everywhere. You want him to kiss you. You want him to make you cry. You want him to make you lose your voice. Hit you. Bite you. Mark you up and make you walk into the office tomorrow with his name written all over your body in bruises.

“I want…I want you to use me,” you whisper to Jack.

You’re both breathing hard, barely disguising your desire. Jack brings one hand to your knee and does that thing, that annoying thing he does where he rubs gentle circles into your flesh with his thumb. You tug on his shirt, pulling it off of his shoulders. Jack helps you the rest of the way and discards the button up on the floor.

“Please,” you whisper. “I can’t–”

You cut yourself off. The plea of I can’t take it anymore! dies in your throat at the realization that James and April are still in the room.

“You can’t what, baby?” Jack purrs.

“I can’t– I just– I need you,” you whine, pawing at his chest. You wish it was a lie.

“Any limits that are different from your baseline?” Jack asks, his tone now less taunting and more professional. This was the procedure James and April had instilled in you. Rather than reiterating your boundaries each time you entered a scene, you both were supposed to check and see if anything had newly become off-limits.

You shake your head.

“No,” you reply, breathless, “you?”

“No,” Jack continues.

“Good,” April coaches you. “Let’s get a little more specific with what we want. Peter?”

“I want you to resist again,” Jack mutters, the pink color returning to his cheeks. He leans over you. “And I want to be rough with you. Is that okay?”

“Yes, yes, God,” you breathe. “I want you to be rough with me. Please.” 

Jack takes your wrists and holds them over you in one hand.

“You still want me to say nice things to you?” he asks, somewhere in between sweet and taunting.

“Y-yes, yes please,” you breathe unsteadily.

James and April make you repeat your safewords before they leave the room. 

Well. This is it. 

This is the moment it’ll come crashing down.

The moment Jack will pull away, make some excuse about documenting everything, taking photos, scribbling notes. You want to strangle him.

You wish your body wasn’t on fire under his fingers, that your mind wasn’t saturated with him.

He’s so close to you it’s making you dizzy. You’re breathing heavily, your chest fighting to expand underneath his weight. Jack holds your wrists firmly above your head. His blue eyes bore into yours, and you can’t stand it. Jack watches as your eyes dart down to his lips, then back up to catch his gaze again. He can feel your breath gently landing on his skin in soft puffs. 

Jack can’t think straight. His head is swirling at the sight of you pinned beneath him. The wiggling of your hips under his, the feeling of you fighting against him…he hates that it turns him on. He wants to possess you. Own you. Destroy you.

He kisses you instead.

It’s surprisingly soft; given the circumstances, you expected fervor or a franticness that you’re shocked to find totally absent in his demeanor. When he pulls away from you, you gently open your eyes, finding his again.

“Tell me if you want me to stop,” Jack whispers.

You don’t. He brings his hand to the fabric over your center and presses down roughly, drawing his hand in a circle over you as you squeak.

“You want me to stop?” he asks you gently.

“N-no,” you reply in a hushed whisper. “No, please.” 

Jack snakes his way down your body, leaving gentle, chaste little kisses along your skin as he goes. When he places one at your navel, just above the lace edge of your panties, his eyes flick up to look at your face. He grips your hips firmly in his hands as you try to twist away from him.

“Ah-ah,” he chastises you. “Be good.”

He dips his thumbs and hooks them around your waistband, then slowly draws your panties down your legs. The cool air in the room against your already sticky center sends a shiver up your spine, but Jack presses a hand against your midsection to settle you back against the bed.

“Stop,” he hisses. “Just let me take care of you, sweetheart…promise I’m gonna make it all better.”

He settles back between your legs, his hands on your thighs, gently holding you open.

“God, I’ve been fucking waiting for this,” he groans, his breath hot against your core. 

“Jack,” you gasp, again pointlessly struggling in his grip.

“Shhh, baby, it’s okay,” he shushes you. “I’m gonna take care of you.”

“Jack, wait, no,” you beg, your false protests only fueling his desire.

“Shh, shh,” he quiets you again. Jack presses his thumb against your clit, making you inhale sharply. “Just let me make you cum, please. I’ve been so patient, baby, please…I’m done waiting.”

Jack can feel the saliva pooling in his mouth. He kneads the soft flesh around your hips in his hands, using his thumbs to dig into the pressure points in your hip sockets and make you squirm. He stares at your cunt, already smeared and glistening with your wetness.

When he presses his tongue against you, you choke on a yelp that dies halfway out of your throat. Jack licks one stripe through your folds, collecting your juices on his tongue, then swallows reverently.

“God, you taste so good,” Jack moans, his voice nearly cracking. The heat of your thighs around his face, the sounds you’re making echoing in his ears, the taste of you on his tongue…it’s almost completely overwhelming. Jack plunges his tongue back into you, making you whine and fight against his hands on your hips.

“Jack,” you pant. You want to beg him not to stop, whine about how good he’s making you feel. It’s hard to remember that he wants you to fight back. You put the energy of your desire into your resistance. “Jack, stop it, please, please.”

“Shh, just let me do it baby, please,” he shushes you. He sits up and leans back over you, bringing one finger up to your temple, tapping gently. “Isn’t it just easier to turn it off, sweetheart? Let me take care of everything?”

You nod; it is easier. You want him to just hold you down and eat you until you can’t even remember your name. Jack sits back.

“So just relax,” he coos. “And take it.” 

He returns to his place between your thighs and licks you again, making you moan so loud you’re hit with a wave of embarrassment. Your whole body feels hot. Jack leans back and spits on your clit, the lewd sound of it making you whine. Jack smears his saliva across your clit with his thumb and you wriggle under his hands, overstimulated by the pressure on your nerve endings and the way your head is twirling.

Jack digs his nails into your flesh and sits up, dragging your hips down until you’re straddling his thigh. He leans down over you. You take the cue to start playing it up again.

“Jack, please, stop, I don’t wanna do this,” you whine.

“Did I fucking ask if you wanted to do this?” he growls.

“Pl-please, I won’t tell anyone!” you beg. Jack laughs. You’re nearing tears, feeling so strung out and wound up that you can’t help but grind down on Jack’s leg. Jack grips your neck with his right hand.

“Ohhh, thank you sweetheart, that’s so nice of you,” Jack sneers. “But even if you wanted to tell everyone…” You squeak as he squeezes your throat. Your heart feels like it’s rattling in your chest, shaking through your body. “You’d have to tell them how much you liked it.” 

“I-I don’t–”

He cuts you off by roughly sticking a hand between your legs, gathering your wetness on his fingers, then shoving them into your mouth.

“If you didn’t want this, you wouldn’t be this wet, sweetheart,” he teases you. “Taste how fucking sweet you are.”

He presses down on your tongue, then slowly drags his hand in and out of your mouth, fucking your face with his fingers. He pulls his hand away, then swiftly lands it on your cheek, shocking you as the slap turns your head abruptly to the side. Your mouth hangs open until Jack grabs your jaw and jerks your gaze back to him.

“So stop. Your fucking crying. Be a good girl…” You whine at that. “And let me have what I want. Got it?”

You nod, your chin still in his grip. He releases you, then once again settles between your legs. He uses one arm across your hips to keep you down as he returns to your sticky folds. Jack licks and sucks at you. He massages your clit with quick, soft strokes of his tongue, and it takes everything in you to resist squirming and twitching your hips, chasing the high. You want to ride Jack’s face, help him bring you over the edge. But you also want to obey him. You want him to praise you, want to hear him call you sweet names and tell you how good you are. So you take a shaky breath, settle back against the bed, and let Jack take you apart.

“Good job, baby,” he  mumbles, running his hand over your skin. He knows he needs to praise you for being obedient in the moment. “Good, baby, relax.” 

He kisses your cunt, then returns to dragging his tongue over you. You whimper, sensitive from his teasing so far. Jack returns to your clit, sucking hard, and you land a hand in his hair, tugging roughly.

“N-no, no, please, stop,” you babble senselessly. “Don’t make m-me cum, pleaseee.”

Jack fights against your grip. The feeling of you fighting against him, hearing you beg him to stop…he replays his interactions with Linette again in his mind, her refusals and gentle shoves when Jack became too fixated on her. He lets himself pretend that your begging is her begging, and he firmly grips your hips, tugging you closer to his face. It feels good to overpower you, to take what he wants.

Your breath is erratic and ragged in your throat, heat spreading through your body. You can’t believe how good Jack is making you feel. You’ve never had a guy so eager to go down on you, and Jack is attached to your center like he’s sucking water from a bottle after running a marathon. Your fingers are tangled in his hair, and you pull it again, trying to bring him back up to your clit. Jack growls but complies, sucking hard on your sensitive button. He tortures you for a few more seconds before prodding your entrance again with his tongue.

You unravel. Your hands in his hair ball into fists as you scream– truly, scream. You’d be embarrassed if you had even a scrap of dignity left. The heat that blooms through your body makes you writhe and squirm underneath Jack’s grip while he holds you down and savagely slurps up your release.

Your juices on his tongue drive him crazy. He ruts his hips against the mattress. 

“Jack, Jack, oh my God, please,” you pant. You don’t actually know what you’re begging for. For him to stop? To keep going?

“Gimme, baby, come on,” he mutters. He drags his tongue against your sensitive cunt again, making you squirm. Jack swallows your cum like it’s the only thing that might save him. You can feel his hips hit the mattress a few more times before he sits up, frantically undoing his fly. 

He grabs his cock and you can see he’s practically seconds from bursting. He’s hard, the tip flushed and leaking, and he strokes himself fervently. 

“Take your bra off,” he commands you, his voice firm. “Let me see you.”

All you can do is obey. You bring your fingers to the hooks in the back and slip your bra off your shoulders. Jack jerks himself quickly, taking in your naked body underneath him. You reach up and grab one of his hands, bringing it to your chest. Jack makes a strangled, choked noise as you help him play with you. 

“God, you’re so fucking perfect,” he pants. The praise makes your cheeks warm. “I’m gonna cum all over these perfect tits, yeah?”

You nod, open your mouth, then feel the hot spurts of his cum start to shoot out over your skin as Jack moans. He collapses over you, one hand pressed to the mattress near your head, his hot breath hitting your face. You try not to think about how cute his noises are as he whines and heaves, struggling for air. You stay like that for a bit, pinned beneath him, as you attempt to ward off your rational mind that’s trying to sneak back in. 

Jack–your partner–just made you orgasm. He just painted your body with cum. You feel sticky and disgusting and bad. Like you weren’t supposed to do this. You weren’t supposed to want this.

“Good girl,” Jack breathes in your ear. “Good job. Holy fuck.” 

There are no words to describe the excruciating remainder of your “business trip.” 

Your cab ride back to the hotel is awkward, as it always is, but this time amplified by the shared weight between you. Your final night in the hotel is restless, and you roll over at 5am to throw your things in your bag. You barely catch Jack’s eye in the hotel lobby as you grab a cup of coffee to take with you in the cab. The cab ride to the airport, the plane ride home, the cab ride back to headquarters. You spend so much time with Jack that is filled with nothing but silence and the burden of this unspeakable thing.

The elevator ride down to the basement is the first time you’re truly alone with him since leaving the club. You’re thankful it’s just 45 seconds. You both quickly head to your desks, arranging a few things, dropping off your notes and anything else you’d gathered as research. You tuck some Polaroids of yourself into an envelope with a sharp inhale, then drop the envelope into a drawer and swiftly shut it. 

You mumble a halfhearted good night to Jack before bolting for the elevator again.

When Jack finally gets home, he brings his things straight to his office, dropping his briefcase and suitcase on the floor near his desk. He collapses into his desk chair, resting his elbows on the hard wooden surface in front of him and dropping his face into his hands.

Jack rubs at his face, trying to shake off the overwhelming feeling pounding through his veins. He can’t quite tell what it is; it’s not entirely exhaustion, not anxiety, not anger or frustration or even fear. Whatever it is, he can feel it dialed up to a thousand. His head is pounding, his body feels hot, his stomach feels like a hollow pit in the center of his body.

He sighs, leaning over to flip open his suitcase and begin sorting through his things. He’s made it a habit to always bring anything from work into the house through his office first. Anything, a jacket, a bag, leftover food from the office Christmas party, that had been in that building always came from his car directly into the office. His first few weeks in Surveillance had instilled in him a certain level of paranoia about accidentally disclosing classified information through some scrap of paper left in a pants pocket and discovered in the laundry.

As he pulls out his dirty clothes, methodically turning every pocket inside out, the feeling gnaws away at him, weighing his chest down. Jack sets down a pair of pants, adding it to the growing pile of laundry, and reaches back into the suitcase, finding his tape box. He’d forgotten he still had it buried in his bag, his compulsive habit saving him– not for the first time in his career. He unbuckles the case, and takes out a cassette. Shit.

It’s your tape. He gently removes it, staring at the spool of tape wound all the way through. His heart pounds in his chest; Jack almost thinks he can feel it hitting his ribs each time. He shouldn’t have this at his house; this is official evidence. But he can’t stop his hands as he opens the bottom drawer of his desk, pulling out his cassette player. Jack sits back at his desk, the tape and the player in front of him. He reaches back into the bottom drawer and removes his headphones. He used to frequently transcribe tapes after stings and interviews– every young agent in Surveillance had done his fair share of pencil pushing work on his way up to field missions. 

Jack plugs the headphones into the small player, then opens the lid and snaps the cassette into place. He draws in a deep breath and exhales slowly as he contemplates what he’s actually doing. But it’s like he’s still on autopilot; he presses the rewind button on the player and listens to the cassette whirring in his ears as it wraps around the spool on the other side of the tape.

When he hears the soft click that tells him the tape is entirely rewound, he hits the stop button. He takes a final deep breath before he presses play.

Your voice lands in his ears through the headphones, and he listens to the familiar conversation you had with James about your boundaries. He holds down the button to run the tape forward a bit, then quickly hits stop and play once more. Your desperate whines hit his ear now.

“I-I…I want it,” you beg.

“What do you say?” James smirks.

“Please?” you whimper.

“Good girl,” James praises you.

The satisfied sigh that escapes your mouth floods Jack’s brain as he gently closes his eyes. He takes his lower lip between his teeth as he listens to the little gasps and whines James coaxes out of you.

You inhale sharply on the tape as James does…something to you. The gaps, the parts where Jack can only imagine the things that are eliciting your reactions, are some of his favorite parts.

“You sound so pretty,” James muses. “I wish your husband could hear you.”

A knock at the door sends Jack’s already racing heart into orbit. He quickly hits the stop button on the tape player and yanks his headphones down around his neck as he whips around in his chair. Linette’s standing in the now open door.

“Sorry– you must not have heard me–” she starts.

“What, what is it?” Jack asks, hoping he sounds more distracted than irritated at the interruption.

“Um,” she falters, unsure of how to read Jack’s tone. “Peg and Daniel just called, they asked if we wanted to go out with them. What should I say?”

Jack sighs.

“Yeah…sorry,” he says as he brings his hand up to the bridge of his nose. Jack massages his face for a second, trying to clear you from his mind, before he finally addresses his wife again. “Sorry, just…back from the trip…my brain is still playing catch up…I didn’t mean to snap at you, sorry.”

“It’s alright,” Linette replies. It had been awhile since Jack had to travel for work, let alone for such a long time. She didn’t doubt that he wasn’t entirely himself. “You want me to give them a rain check?”

“No, no,” he tells her. “No, that’s…it sounds great. What time?”

“They were talking about meeting at Calo’s at seven?”

“Sounds perfect,” Jack concedes. He needs to get out of the house. He needs to be with Linette. She smiles.

“Okay. I’ll let them know. Leave around…six-thirty?” she asks, checking her watch. The watch he got her for her birthday two years ago. Jack nods.

“Yeah, works for me,” he sighs, running his hands along his thighs. “I’ll get ready.”

“Sounds good,” Linette says, then steps back out in the hallway, gently shutting the door behind her. 

Jack turns forward at his desk again and looks back down at the tape player. He stands abruptly, yanking his headphones off and dropping them on the tabletop. Jack reaches for the black box on the top of the bookshelf along the right side of his desk. He takes it down and quickly pulls the top off. It’s an unassuming box, meant to hold vinyls. Instead, it’s filled with Jack’s old copies of Playboy. Linette had once blown up at him for “reading” something that was so degrading to women. Jack picks up the most recent issue he added to his collection, the one from last month, and lazily flips through it. The slick, glossy paper is printed with images of girls posing naked, smiling at the camera.

Jack remembers the magazines at work, filled with blurry images, pictures taken in haste of girls crying, tied up, written on in marker, covered in cum. Maybe they knew their picture was being taken to be put into a magazine, mailed across the country, used as fantasy material for sick freaks like him. Maybe they knew. Or maybe they didn’t.

Jack swallows hard.

He tosses the magazine back into the box, and follows it quickly with the tape player, still holding your tape. He replaces the lid on the box and returns it to his bookshelf. He re-packs his tape box and tucks its case into his briefcase so he can return it to work tomorrow morning. Jack stands in his office for a second, looking around at the clutter in the room. He sees the shirt that you pulled off of him peeking out from his suitcase. 

Jack hurriedly gathers the dirty laundry in his arms and drops it into the large hamper in the laundry room down the hall before he joins Linette in the bathroom to get ready for the evening.

Your next trip is to San Francisco. You’re due out on Wednesday of next week. It’s a quick turnaround; just enough time to unpack, do some laundry, and re-pack. In the intervening days, however, you and Jack are supposed to carry on as normal in your claustrophobic conference room, analyzing the “discoveries” you’ve made over the last week.

What a joke.

You have no idea how to act around him now. It wasn’t so horrible in the morning, when you could each sit quietly at your desks, ignoring each other and busying yourselves with cataloguing evidence. You had honestly hoped that you could analyze most of your research solo, with little reason to talk to Jack, but Ford had insisted on your total collaboration. Now, you’re in the conference room, silently staring at photographs of yourself at Club Midnight and trying not to remember the shocking first feeling of Jack’s hand around your throat– or his tongue on your–

“I think now that we’ve got a solid foundation on it, we could benefit from a wider range of locations and experiences,” Jack interjects on your thoughts.

“Huh? Oh– yeah,” you agree halfheartedly.

“I think San Francisco especially would be a great opportunity to start some research on the intersection of deviance and homosexuality,” he continues. He sounds like a textbook. You have no idea how he can be so technical and objective at a time like this.

“Yeah…”

“You okay?”

You sigh. God, he’s so stupid. 

“Yeah, no it’s…you know, no, actually,” you finally relent with an irritated sigh.

“What’s the matter?”

You laugh. Really, truly, like-a-lunatic, laugh. 

“Oh, I don’t know, Jack,” you finally manage through your fit. “We had sex two days ago…freaky, kinky, BDSM sex,” you continue, punctuating each word by tossing a Polaroid across the table at him. In each one, Jack sees you– tears streaking down your face, his hand around your throat.

“And all week, doing everything but fucking, and we took pictures…as evidence. You know, for our jobs?”

Jack stares in silence at the images in front of him. 

“Should we talk about that?” you snip.

“We’ll just get rid of these ones,” Jack mumbles, quickly collecting the photographs.

“Get rid of those ones?” you echo in shock. “Jack–”

“What?” he retorts, trying not to betray his panic at the physical evidence of your encounter.

“It’s not about the pictures, Jack!” you shout, wincing and catching yourself on your volume only when it’s too late. The conference room is off a small hallway, tucked further away from the large main room that houses everyone’s makeshift cubicles. Still, you know the thin walls are far from soundproof. 

“Watch your tone,” Jack hisses. The venom in his voice sends a wave of heat through your body. He sighs. “What do you want me to say?” he asks finally.

You stare at him. The only sound is the faint buzzing of the fluorescent lights above you.

“I asked you if you wanted me to stop…” Jack says quietly. “Did you want me to stop?”

“No,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. Jack studies your face. He can see something in your expression, that same unnameable look that would wash over you when he had you pinned down at the club. That look flips the switch in Jack’s brain. Suddenly, he doesn’t care that you’re partners. He doesn’t care that you’re at work. He’s consumed by that too-familiar fire in his chest and hunger in his heart.

Jack presses his palms to the wood in front of him, slowly standing. He glances down at you, then walks around to your side of the table, gently leaning against the tabletop in front of you. He folds his arms over his chest. He can feel his own heart pounding beneath his ribs.

“Did you like it?” Jack asks, his voice low in his throat. You nod slowly, avoiding his gaze. He clicks his tongue quickly, which forces you to involuntarily bring your eyes back to his. “Use your words,” he purrs. “Did you like it?”

You nod again.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“What did you like about it?” Jack asks plainly. He watches as your cheeks flush. “Come on,” he taunts you. His words feel heavy in the silence. He leans back and grabs the Polaroids you threw at him and returns the favor, tossing them down on the table in front of you. “You wanted to talk about it, so talk.”

Though he doesn’t raise his voice, his tone reminds you of the enormous feeling of his presence in the room.

“What did you like about it?” he repeats.

“I liked…” you start sheepishly. “I liked…”

“Just say it,” he encourages you softly. “Just tell me.” He gently brings one hand to your chin, making you look at him. “Tell me and maybe I’ll do it again.”

“I liked letting you take care of me,” you admit finally. It’s the truth– shutting your brain off and surrendering yourself to him completely, letting yourself focus on nothing but the physical sensations of his hands and his tongue on you– it felt like you were floating outside of your body. 

“And I liked…saying no to you,” you add quietly. Jack cocks his head to the side.

“Why?”

“It feels…good,” you say finally.

“What feels good about it, baby?” Jack hums, bringing his right thumb to trace over your cupid’s bow.

“It feels like…it doesn’t feel like I’m having sex with you,” you explain breathlessly. “It feels like you’re having sex with me.”

Your cheeks feel hot and your eyelids flutter closed. You’re certain that you’re not making any sense. Jack brings his hand up to your cheek, softly stroking your skin with his thumb. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest again. 

“You wanna fool around?” he asks, his tone soft and hushed. All you can do is nod. “Then let’s fool around.”

You part your lips and turn your head to take his thumb in your mouth. Jack lets out a soft breath and presses down on your tongue as you suck on his finger. When he pulls his hand from your mouth, a clear string of saliva briefly connects his thumb to your lips.

“What do you want me to do?” he prompts you, his voice cloaked in gentleness.

“I wanna…I wanna take care of you,” you reply, bringing your fingers to his belt buckle. “Can I?”

Jack feels like he could faint. A wave of overwhelming feeling washes over him watching you so willingly paw at him, want him. He nods and you quickly start to tug at his belt. Jack brings his hand back to your jaw, rubbing firmly before pushing his hand back further to grip your hair at the root. You gently lean your head back, into his touch.

“Can I pull your hair?” Jack asks breathlessly.

“Yes, pl-ease.” You can’t even finish your sentence before Jack tugs your head back. He stares at the skin of your neck, now pulled taught against your flesh. He imagines covering that skin with bruises– from his fingers, his teeth. Jack can hear your breath as it shakes through your throat.

“Good,” he muses. You don’t know if the praise is intended for you, or just an expression of his approval at your consent to his request. But it makes you squirm in your chair, desperate to get closer to him. “Can I…push your head down?”

“Yes, God, yes,” you pant, struggling a bit now to get breath at this awkward angle. He releases your hair and you quickly return to his belt. Your fingers fumble with the buckle.

“Can you be quick?” Jack pants. You nod, unbuttoning and unzipping his trousers. You need him; you can’t make your hands move fast enough. When you free his cock, you immediately lean forward and press your tongue to the base of his shaft, licking all the way up his length. Jack chokes on a moan, trying to be quiet. “Fuck,” he hisses.

You waste no time in taking him in your mouth, pressing a soft kiss against his tip before taking him as far as you can. Jack shudders out a breath, bringing his hand back to your hair. He leans his head back, eyebrows crinkled together as he pants. You bob your head, trying to keep your noises soft as you struggle to take him in your throat. 

“Relax, baby, relax your jaw,” Jack coos, fisting your hair. Not pulling, just tightening. You exhale through your nose and draw in a slow breath, trying to relax. Feeling your jaw settle, Jack uses his grip in your hair to push you down further on his cock. 

“Goooood, good girl,” Jack breathes. He rocks his hips up against your face and you sputter, feeling him poke at the back of your throat. “Come on, take it, take it,” Jack mutters.

You want nothing more than to be good for him. You swallow and the constriction of your throat around his tip draws a whine out of Jack. You settle back over him, resting your hands gently on his thighs, and let him fuck your mouth.

Jack pulls back on your hair, and you let him guide you up, flattening your tongue against him. When he pushes you back down, you exhale through your nose and do your best to relax your jaw and throat to let him in all the way. You continue like that for a bit, Jack slowly jerking himself off by pulling your hair, before he starts to pick up speed.

“God,” he breathes. “You feel so good.”

You hum in satisfaction and swallow again, making him keen once more.

“Anyone could come in right now,” Jack continues. You moan. The idea of one of your colleagues, your male colleagues, barging into the room, seeing your face buried in Jack’s crotch, should terrify you. But instead it makes you press your thighs together. Jack notices.

“You’d like that, huh?” he teases you, a grin creeping across his face. “You want someone to see you taking my cock like this? You want everyone to watch?” 

He fucks his hips up into your face faster, prodding at the back of your throat with each swift thrust. 

“You a little exhibitionist, baby?” he sneers. You can feel tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, one quickly running down your cheek. You moan around Jack still in your mouth. Seeing the dark streak of mascara running down your face, Jack hisses and heaves out a breath to avoid making too much noise.

I am. I think I actually am. 

It’s what you would say if you didn’t have your mouth stuffed with his cock.

Suddenly, Jack shoves you down as far as he can, his palm spread wide across the back of your head as you choke on him. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum, I’m gonna cum, shit,” Jack babbles. You feel his release hit the back of your mouth, hot and salty as it slips down your throat. “Swallow it, swallow it, come on,” Jack says, his tone somewhere between commanding and begging. “Don’t let anyone see what a slut you are, clean it all up, come on,” he continues.

You’re still lost in your haze. You have to be good for him. You swallow every drop he pumps into your throat. He hasn’t touched you, but you feel so good. Like you’ve fulfilled your purpose.

When Jack pulls you off of him, you gulp one final time, then struggle to catch your breath. Jack watches as you lean back in your chair. Your lipgloss is a mess, mingled with spit and smeared all down your chin. Your mascara is smudged around your eyes and streaked down your cheeks from your tears. Jack resists the urge to grab you and use you again.

Instead, he reaches for the box of tissues that lives on the table of the conference room. Jack can feel his heart slowing down, and with it, his feelings of domination softening from control into care. He quickly cleans himself off and tucks himself back into his trousers. Then he takes another tissue and gently reaches out to hold your face, wiping some of the mess from your face.

“Thank you,” he whispers. “You did a good job.” He grabs a fresh tissue. “Close your eyes,” he commands softly. You obey, fluttering your eyelids closed. Jack gently dabs at the mascara around your lashes. “Good, good…thank you…” Jack mumbles.

When he’s done, Jack withdraws from you. You open your eyes to see him peeking down at you, still leaning cooly against the table. 

“All done,” he says sweetly. He takes your chin again in his hand, swiping at your cupid’s bow again with his thumb. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

You sigh and lean into his touch. His praise feels so good as it sinks into your bones and runs through your blood. Jack pushes himself to his feet and starts to gather your papers and the photographs from the table.

“Come on,” he says, sighing gently. “Let’s get out of here. It’s been a long day.”

You watch as he swiftly moves around the table, stacking up papers and folders, tucking some into his briefcase. His eyes dart back over to you, still in the chair.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You nod. You think you’re okay.

It’s getting harder and harder to tell.

“Well, I suppose let’s start with, how would you define sexual deviance?” Dr. Carr asks in a quiet, calm voice. The question is too intense for you at 9:15 in the morning. You sip your coffee, letting Jack take it instead. He flips open his notes and reads.

“Sexual deviance is defined as–”

“No,” Dr. Carr corrects him gently. Jack looks up at her. “How would you define it? Based on your research, your interactions with these individuals?”

Jack swallows, thinking.

“Um. I dunno,” he mumbles. “They’re into some pretty…intense stuff.”

“Intense like dangerous?” Dr. Carr pushes him.

“Yeah…”

You roll your eyes from the seat next to him. He’s facing Dr. Carr, so he misses your display of irritation.

“Like what?” she asks.

“Well, more than one person we talked to described fantasies of rape or sexual assault–”

“Consensual non-consent is not the same as rape fantasies,” you cut him off sharply.

“No? Then what would you call it?” Solomon asks harshly, twisting in his chair to face you. The two of you still weren’t on great terms. You open your mouth to respond before Dr. Carr cuts you off.

“Let’s…try a different question,” she presses before either of you can object. “Who should be considered ‘deviant?’”

Jack turns back to her, confused.

“What do you mean?” he asks, puzzled. “People who are, y’know…into this kinda stuff.”

“Yes, but what does it mean to be ‘into’ BDSM? Or any other area of sexual deviance– fetishism, homosexuality?” she continues. “You’ve interviewed a few individuals who willingly identify as sexual deviants, but could you identify it in others?”

You ponder her question. It’s true– you haven’t yet had to categorize and label individuals based on their sexual preferences or behavior, and you know that your study is supposed to include the development and proven testing of psychological pedagogy.

Jack is similarly silent– it was a question he’d thought to himself, privately, for longer than he’d ever admit– since your first day combing through the books, when he saw the word cunnilingus underlined on a page beneath a heading that read: INDICATIVE PERVERSIONS AND DESIRES.

“I mean,” Dr. Carr continues. “A man who is otherwise average– married, steady job, otherwise psychologically sound– but fantasizes about sexual sadism, engages with sadistic pornography–”

Jack’s eyes flick up to her in a moment of panic. Two days ago, you’d been consumed in your books and research as normal. When you excused yourself to take your lunch break, Jack had stumbled across a box of explicit magazines. He lost track of time delicately flipping through the pages, first pausing to take notes, then forgetting to as he continued staring at the images on the flimsy, glossy paper. He picked up another magazine, titled simply, BOUND. On the cover was an image of a girl bound so tightly with intricate knotwork that her flesh was bulging around the rope, her skin rubbed raw and irritated. Her hands were tied behind her back, her ass in the air, and her face was pressed into the carpet below her, so much so that Jack couldn’t see her face. He imagined your face instead, then jumped out of his seat when you re-entered the conference room.

“Did you get something to eat?” you asked him as he dropped the magazine, shuffling the papers on the table in front of him in an effort to appear occupied.

“No, I, uh– I was waiting for you to get back,” he stammered.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you told him. “Well, I’ve got it now. Go take your break,” you reassured him, sitting back at your place at the table.

“Sure, thanks,” Jack muttered, quickly dashing to the bathroom before you could see the bulge in his trousers.

“Should a man like that be considered deviant?” Dr. Carr says at last.

Neither of you have an answer. You shoot him a quick glance and catch him looking at you. He looks away, preoccupying himself with his pen instead. Dr. Carr looks between the two of you.

“I think, it’s, uhh…” you begin. “I think it’s a little early for us to tell.”

“I see,” Dr. Carr says slowly.

Silence fills the room.

“Here’s another question,” she says at last. “Are sexual deviants more likely to become criminals?” 

You pick your head up and watch her a little more closely, waiting for her to expand on the thought. Jack’s eyebrows are crinkled together above the bridge of his nose.

“You’ve spent significant time with a few of them– did they seem violent, disturbed, dangerous?”

“...no…” you say finally. Jack gently shakes his head in agreement.

“You know,” Dr. Carr says at last. “There is a group of psychologists, psychiatrists, and neurologists who have been campaigning for the last several years to get sexual deviance removed from the DSM altogether.”

She looks between the two of you, the ghost of a tiny smile across her face. It’s the most emotion you’ve seen out of her since you met her.

“I’ll be very curious to hear your thoughts on that one as your research progresses.”

Your first undercover mission is just four days away. Your continued research and analysis with Dr. Carr had shaped the itinerary you and Jack had built. You were just grateful your contact had gotten you into Club Midnight. You had heard of it, a few of your interviewees bringing up the club with reverence both for its ‘process’ and for its exclusivity.

You’d be lying if you said you weren’t excited. It had been ages since you’d planned an undercover operation, and your heart was racing at the idea of being back in the field.

At least, you’re pretty sure that’s the reason.

“Alright, what else?” Jack asks brazenly.

“You didn’t write any of that down,” you reply pointedly.

“I got it– you know, it’s really not that different from what we do in Surveillance, going under with a wire.”

“It’s entirely different,” you retort. “Surveillance is passive. Sure, you’re wearing a wire, but you just need to be near your target when they’re saying things. Going under is active, full immersion. You have to create a version of yourself that exists in the world you’re trying to infiltrate.”

Jack cracks a smile and rolls his eyes as he picks up his pen. It’s cute to see you get so worked up.

“You know, you really should take this more seriously,” you hiss. “Maybe that’s why they always sent Sullivan into the field,” you say with a dismissive bite in your voice.

Special Agent Garrett Sullivan.

He was the Lex Luthor to Jack’s Superman. They graduated in the same class at Quantico. Both were assigned to the Surveillance unit at headquarters immediately upon graduation. It seemed every move Jack made, Sullivan was always right there with him. Maybe not ahead of him; but always right in step with him, always keeping pace.

“And what does Sullivan have to do with this?” Jack asks, anger bubbling in the undercurrent of his voice.

“Nothing,” you lie, relishing in the jealousy that’s instantly flowing from Solomon at the mention of his other half. You smirk. “Just that, you know, he seems to have more of an aptitude for this kind of thing, that’s all.”

Jack huffs and jots something down on his notepad. It’s so childish and stupid, but you smile to yourself at the small victory.

“When do we pick our fake names?” he asks, bitter sarcasm still coloring his voice.

“You should pick a fake last name– something you’ll remember, but nothing that would be easily connected back to you,” you respond, choosing to ignore his tone. “The name of your second grade teacher, something like that.”

“What about first names?”

“Keep your first name. You’ll react to it naturally, and if anyone recognizes you while you’re under, you’re not at risk of conflicting names.”

“Conflicting names?” Jack asks. You sigh at his genuine cluelessness. “So-rry,” he  says, throwing his hands up defensively. “We can’t all be Jane Fonda.” 

“Right, well, playing dress up is a little harder than it looks, maybe you should pay attention,” you snap. 

A puzzled look crosses Jack’s face before you see it click, and his cheeks start to turn his usual shade of embarrassed. You think you’ve seen that color more than his natural hue; it suits him.

“Conflicting names,” you repeat. “You go under as, oh, I don’t know, Garrett.”

Jack bites the inside of his cheek.

“Someone calls you Garrett and you don’t answer right away. You run into one of your buddies and he calls you Jack. Now you have to explain that Jack is somehow your nickname…looking suspicious yet?” You drive the words home in your annoyance.

“However,” you breathe, catching your temper and forcing it back down. “A lot of these clubs use aliases to protect the anonymity of members. So we should each pick a first name to use while we’re…working.”

Jack fidgets with his pen between his fingers for a second, his tongue between his teeth, lost in thought. He snaps back to reality.

“Peter,” he says, resolute. 

“Is there any way that could be traced to you?” you ask him.

“...no,” he mutters, shaking his head briefly. Something in his expression alerts your suspicion. 

 “A friend named Peter, or a family member…?” you press. “Come on, Solomon, you’ve got that look on your face.”

“What look?” Jack retorts defensively.

“That ‘losing it all in Atlantic City’ poker face of yours,” you huff, rolling your eyes. “Remind me that we’ll have to work on that. What is it? Who’s Peter?”

“Nobody,” Jack replies, the blush coming back faintly to his cheeks. You eye him. “It’s uh…it’s Spiderman's secret identity. Peter Parker,” he admits at last. 

“What do you usually use?” he asks off handedly.

You’re speechless for a second.

“Well,” you start, a bite in your voice. You can feel your face getting hot. “I don’t usually go to places like this, if that’s what you’re–”

“Oh, shit, sorry, no, I meant…yeah, no,” Jack stammers. “Well,” he continues, trying to fight his way out of the awkward fuck up. “I just meant, like, if you don’t have one, you could use Mary Jane.”

Your eyebrows shoot up.

“She’s Spiderman’s…she’s from Spiderman, too.”

“Is there a Spiderman character I could be that would make me less attractive to all the stoners?” you ask with a chuckle. Jack’s eyes flick up for a second in thought, then back to you.

“Gwen,” he says at last. “You could be Gwen.”

You shrug.

“Fine. Whatever. Gwen.”

He grins, then starts to fidget with his pen again.

“So,” he asks you, “do we need a backstory?”

“Yeah, I started working on it already,” you reply, reaching across the table and handing him your mocked-up brief. “It’s pretty straightforward– married high school sweethearts looking to try something new. Typical stuff for places like these.”

Jack’s eyes scan the paper, then glance up at you.

“How long did this take you?” he asks again. You shrug.

“Not long.”

It’s quiet for a second while he looks over the typed page of notes detailing your fake relationship– sure enough, high school sweethearts, married right out of school, before Jack’s tour in Vietnam. He bristles a little, reading that; he knew many guys that had actually been to ‘Nam, and many that never came back. It was something he’d always felt a tinge of guilt over.

He continues reading the brief, impressed at your attention to detail. You’ve written an entire life: the two of you live in a one bedroom in Hell’s Kitchen, no kids– by choice, Jack notices you’ve specified– but looking to “spice up your marriage.”

“Spice up our marriage?” he asks you quizzically.

“It’s a thing they all say, the couples that go to these places,” you explain, hoping there’s nothing in your voice that betrays the butterflies in your stomach that started fluttering when Jack said our marriage.

“Whose idea was it?” Jack asks, eyes returning to the paper.

“Doesn’t matter,” you reply. He looks back at you. “We could say it was my idea.”

“Registering as bi-curious switches?” Jack reads from the document. “Do I even want to know what that means?”

You sigh.

“You don’t want to, but you need to,” you tell him. You’d been putting this off for a while now, but you do need to prepare him. “Solomon,” you begin, “we’re investigating the whole spectrum of sexual deviance.”

“Right…”

“Well, so, a dominant prefers only to dominate their partner. A submissive prefers only to submit.”

“Yeah, I got that part,” Jack says.

“Well…in order for us to really…explore all our options, I registered us as switches— someone who likes to do both,” you finish carefully.

The pink color returns to Jack’s cheeks. You wish he would stop doing that.

“So, what,” Jack chuckles, trying to appear casual. “That means sometimes you’re the one beating me up?”

“Something like that,” you mumble.

“What about this ‘bi-curious’ part, what does that mean?” he asks, looking back down at the paper. You take a deep breath.

“Well, another…part of sexual deviance that we’ve been studying is…homosexuality.”

Jack’s eyes quickly lock on you, though he stays silent.

“Bi is short for bisexual,” you say in a small voice. “Attracted to men and women.”

Jack slowly lowers the paper, letting your words sink in.

“I said ‘bi-curious’ which means we’re just interested in it, not totally committed,” you rush on. “You can always decline an, um. An interaction.”

You can’t read the look on his face. He’s quiet, but when he finally speaks, it’s not the irate torrent of words you were anticipating.

“Okay,” he says in a low tone. “Yeah. That’ll just, um.” He swallows. “That’ll give us the best…data.”

“Yeah,” you agree, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “So, um. I think that’s it,” you stumble, checking your notes to make sure you didn’t miss any important details. “Let me know if you have any questions.”

You start to gather your papers, ready to head back to your desk– the conference room always gets stuffy, even with just the two of you in here. Jack stays seated, eyes still on the document in front of him, though he’s not actually reading any of the words.

“How do you…” he starts. You freeze, startled by his sudden yet serene voice. “How do you keep it from getting too…personal?”

You’re quiet, considering his question. It feels like the silence between you stretches for hours. Finally, you have some semblance of an answer for him.

“You don’t,” you say quietly. “It is personal. It has to be personal.”

Jack watches you, a newfound softness in his eyes.

“My SSA– McFadden, if you’ve heard the name– he always said, the worst thing you can do while you’re undercover is lie,” you continue, smiling gently, remembering the day he told you that. Another shared smoke break, and he’d said it like it was nothing. “And nothing is a lie,” you go on, quoting your mentor, “as long as you believe it.”

Jack’s still staring at you, trying not to think about how lovely you look, even under the harsh fluorescent lights.

“Your body knows when your mind is lying,” you explain. “It’s why polygraphs– ooh, we should get you on the poly,” you grin mischievously. “It’s why polygraphs measure physical symptoms–breathing, heart rate. You start to stutter, or blush,” Jack looks back down at his paper. “Because you know you’re hiding something.”

He looks back at you.

“You have to create a version of yourself that could exist in that world. You have to…tap into the part of yourself that wants to be there.”

You glance at him.

“And sometimes that means you have to do some…pretty weird stuff,” you admit gently. “But you’ll be okay,” you reassure him. “It’s always easier with a partner.”

The short plane ride was uneventful compared to the nearly vomit-inducing cab ride from LaGuardia to your hotel in Hell’s Kitchen. Staying in the same neighborhood that you “lived” in was another of your ideas– if someone offered to split a cab, or catch the subway with you, you could be sure you were going the right direction.

When you get up to your floor, you find your rooms, 2407 and 2408, eager to get some rest before your trip to Club Midnight. It opens at eight o’clock, but new members were supposed to arrive at seven, to offer a quieter, gentler start to the evening.

And in your case, training. Your first few evenings at Club Midnight were to involve careful training in the intricacies and safe practices of BDSM– part of the club’s policy for all new members, which made it perfect for your research. And, you had to admit, you’re grateful that your first target is a place that takes such care in educating those “new to the lifestyle.”

You turn your key in the lock and push, opening your door. You step inside and drop your duffel bag by the door, turning back to Jack, who’s still in the hallway.

“Alright, well,” he says. “What do you think? Six?”

You nod.

“Sure.”

“Perfect, yeah, I’ll just knock on the–” he nods to the door connecting your adjoining rooms. You nod. “Right, cool,” he says. You can hear the exhaustion already in his voice. It’s been a long day of travel. He crosses to his door, unlocking it. “See you then.”

You each close your doors. Unknowingly, but in perfect sync, you each lean against your door, sigh, and glance at the tiny digital alarm clock at the bedside.

Fifteen thirty, Jack thinks. Just enough time to take a nap, try to clear his head. He looks down at his right hand quivering gently at his side.

Or have a cigarette.

When you get to Club Midnight, you’re greeted by some of the folks in charge of orienting new members– one of the names you recognize from talking to your contact, the others are all new. Immediately you’re struck by the people here, both staff and patrons. Some are dressed eclectically: leather and denim and piercings and tattoos, shaggy haircuts, smelling like pot. But others are dressed plainly, like any other person you’d see in the grocery store. You’d told Jack to wear anything that wasn’t a suit. When he showed you the polo shirt he planned on wearing, you amended your directive to anything that doesn’t make you look like a cop. 

A girl holding a clipboard is circling the room, going up to couples and individuals gathered in the small lobby, speaking to them in a low voice. When she reaches you, she glances down at her paperwork.

“And…Peter and Gwen?” she asks you. You nod. “Great! We’re partnering you with James and April,” she says. “They’ll be out to grab you in a minute, but because it’s your first day, you’ll be in a training space with them all day today.”

“Great, thanks!” you pipe up when it’s obvious Jack is too stunned to speak.

The girl moves on to the next person on her list. After a few minutes, a couple step through the swinging door that leads to the main room and approach you. You tug on Jack’s shirt slightly and nod to them. They greet you with wide smiles.

“Hi,” the woman purrs. Her voice is gentle and velvety. “I’m April, you must be Gwen, and Peter,” she says, turning to the both of you.

“Yes,” Jack says at last, sticking his hand out for her to shake. She does. The man approaches.

“And this is James,” April adds. “We’ll be training you.”

“Thanks,” you say, finally starting to feel the nerves kick in. 

“Come on,” James says, “let’s go somewhere a little more private.”

You take a deep breath as James and April lead you toward the door. You cross the threshold into the main room. 

There’s small round tables, low to the ground, dotted around the perimeter of the room. They’re surrounded by benches, a few chairs, but everything is cushioned and soft. The floor is carpeted in a dark shag, and orange lantern shades hang by gold chains from the ceiling. It’s hard to tell what color the walls are– a deep yellow, you think. The orange light floods the whole landscape, tinting everything a shade of amber. It smells like cigarettes and perfume– expensive perfume, you notice. 

James leads you down a narrow hallway, the dim light already playing tricks on you. You know it can’t be later than 7:15, but you can’t feel the time in this place. James opens a door and steps into a private room, holding the door for you, Jack, and April. This room is much like the main room, decorated in the same style. But there’s a few pieces of furniture in here; several chairs, a small countertop with a sink, and a huge bed.

“Please, sit down,” April tells you, motioning to two of the chairs. You and Jack sit, and April drags a chair to sit across from you.

“Welcome,” she says warmly. You smile back at her, and find your gratitude at her kindness is genuine. “We’re glad to have you at Club Midnight.”

“Thanks for having us,” Jack says, and you can’t believe how stiff and unnatural he sounds.

“We’re happy to be here,” you correct. Jack glances from you back to April and nods briefly in agreement.

“Well, as you know, the first few days or sessions at the club– for all new members– involve lots of guided training. It’s part of our safety policy,” James chimes in. “So that’s what we’re here to do.” He looks down at a paper on the counter beside him. “I know you both registered as switches, but it looks like for our first scene, we’re doing Peter dom and Gwen sub. Is that right?”

They had let you choose your roles for your first scene, and you and Jack had both agreed that you wanted to start with a fairly…conventional dynamic. 

You nod. James reaches back onto the countertop behind him and pulls out two clipboards with pens, handing you each one.

“The foundations of BDSM are these two things, above all else: safety, and communication,” he says. “The first page is a survey– Gwen you’ll be filling out the one for submissives today, Peter, you’re filling out the one for dominants. You can complete the other survey later.”

You nod again. Your mouth is too dry to form words. Just as well– your brain feels too fuzzy to form thoughts in the first place. 

“Only April and I will read the survey,” James continues. “We just want to know what you know already, what you’re interested in exploring, and what you want to learn more about.”

You don’t take long with it; your research has given you enough of an idea about most of the activities listed on the page. You rank your knowledge of each one first, then turn your attention to the second column, above which reads:

On a scale of 0 to 5 (5 being the highest) indicate your level of sexual interest in each:

You scan the list.

Choking. 

Bondage.

Degradation.

Free use.

Consensual non-consent.

It goes on forever.

Reading it out of a book is one thing– studying it like a science, something that other people do, that you’re only researching and learning about from a distance. But this is different. This is about you. What you like. What you want.

You fill it out as quickly as you can, trying not to linger on any one word too long. You notice Jack is working at a similar pace. When you finish, handing your papers to James, he directs you both to the second page. The words “Personal Statement of Desire” are typed at the top.

“This is what we use to model healthy communication for a scene,” April explains. “You’ll be completing them throughout the week until Saturday night, when you’ll engage in your first scene with all of the training wheels off.”

“For now, you should each fill out the page,” James explains. “And when you’re done, we’ll have a little pre-scene conversation, we’ll walk you through a guided start to the scene, we’ll leave the room for a bit, and then you can decide if you want us present to guide the aftercare conversation as well.”

Your cheeks feel like they’re burning. You can’t even look at Jack to see if he’s blushing. The idea of having sex with Jack, with your partner– even partially, even pretend– is starting to make you feel lightheaded. Thinking of doing it while the two of them tell you what to do makes you feel even dizzier. You focus on the words on the page in front of you and scribble with your pen, seeing Jack doing the same out of the corner of your eye.

It essentially guides you through a script, having you fill in all the details: names you want him to call you, all the places you want him to touch you, all the ways you want him to touch you. It prompts you to choose a safe word. Then there’s a section where you list all the places you don’t want his hands, all the words that are off limits, and any fantasies or kinks you absolutely do not want introduced to the scene.

That list is pretty short.

All in the name of research, you think to yourself.

After about ten minutes, you hand your sheet to April so she can look it over; Jack gives his to James. You didn’t realize sexual deviance involved so much paperwork.

April reviews your paper, James reads Jack’s, and your mind races.

Jack’s going to dominate you.

The thought sinks into your brain as you stare at the huge bed, April still scanning your page. When she finishes, she smiles up at you, handing it back.

“This looks great,” she says.

“Same here,” James says to Jack, returning his paper as well. “You’ll need these as we step through the beginnings of the scene. Are you guys ready to get started?”

Neither of you say anything.

“Uh–” Jack stumbles. April laughs, a bright sound in the dim room that reminds you to take a breath.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” she tells you. “What’s important is to be honest about how you feel. In fact, let’s do a quick check in before we begin. How are you feeling?” she asks you. You answer honestly.

“Nervous,” you admit.

The whole truth, of course, is that it feels like your heart is pounding out of your chest, that your entire body feels hot, that you can’t even look at Jack without passing out.

“Okay,” April says, not dismissing your feeling, but not dwelling on it. “And you?” She turns to Jack.

“Nervous,” he echoes. April smiles warmly.

“That’s what we’re here for,” she reminds you. “But now that we know we both feel nervous…doesn’t that take some of that awkwardness out of the room?”

You release your shoulders, gently rolling them back. It does feel better knowing that Jack feels as apprehensive as you do.

“Now,” April says gently. “There are a few play spaces in this room,” she notes. “The bed, of course, being the most traditional– and for most people, the most comfortable– pick for a first scene. But the chairs are also an option, the counter…do you have any strong preferences?”

All the color has drained from Jack’s face.

“Just– the bed is fine,” he says, sounding a little breathless. You nod in agreement.

“Okay,” April replies, keeping her voice soft, low, comforting. “Gwen, why don’t you take a seat?”

“Do you want me to lie down?” you squeak. You wish you didn’t sound so pathetic. You can hear Jack exhale gently. What you don’t know is that the tone of your voice is what makes Jack breathe a little deeper, desperate to ease the tightness in his chest and the feeling that the floor might collapse from under him.

“Not yet,” April tells you. “We’ll have our pre-conversation on level ground.”

You kick off your shoes– more out of habit than anything else– and sit on the bed, wriggling so you’re sitting with your knees up to your chest near the head of the bed.

“Okay, Peter?” April motions for Jack to join you. He takes off his shoes too, then puts one knee up on the bed, followed by the other, so he’s resting on his heels, kneeling in front of you. You look up at him.

“Like we said, we’re only going to help you initiate and guide the beginning of the scene, cover any safety basics you need to know, that sort of thing,” April says. “But you’ll have a chance for a little privacy once we get you set up here.”

They both talk about this like it’s something so normal, but your heart is racing watching Jack. You feel certain he can hear your heartbeat, even at this distance. 

“We’re gonna start just by reading our statements of desire, clarifying our preferences and boundaries, and reviewing some safety measures,” James adds. “Do either of you have a preference on who goes first?”

You’re both silent again.

“Whatever’s, um, you know,” Jack stumbles. “Whatever is normal, I guess.”

Normal. Nothing about this is normal.

“It’s considered courtesy for a dom to initiate, at least on the first go around,” James says gently. Jack draws in a shaky breath, and you wonder if he’s regretting opening his mouth. But he nods.

“Okay, Peter,” James instructs Jack. Your head is already spinning trying to remember all the new names, including Jack’s alias– another reason you hate using fake first names. You wonder if it would just be easier to start calling him Peter in your head, too. “Read over what you wrote, quietly, to yourself,” James continues. “When you’re ready, you’re going to tell Gwen what you want from the scene. You can follow the script exactly as written, you can make it your own, whatever works for you, but you have to hit everything on that page.”

You watch as Jack’s eyes drop to his paper and quickly scan it. He takes a few deep breaths, then you see his feather-light lashes flick up as he lands his eyes back on you.

It’s really happening. This is the precipice. The final moment that asks you if you really want to cross this line, surrender yourself to this. You lock eyes with Jack. Together, without meaning to, you both take a deep breath in.

“I want to put my hands all over you,” Jack says breathlessly. “I…want…I wanna take all your clothes off and look at you.”

You’re surprised by the relative innocence of his desire. You were expecting something darker, something out of one of your books. 

“Good,” James says quietly. “What else?”

“I wanna taste you,” he says in a low voice, his eyes dropping to your body and dragging up your form until he’s looking back at you again. “And I want you to…resist.”

The word makes your breath stop in your throat.

“Okay, good,” James says again. “Let’s clarify, what do you mean by resist? Do you want her to hit you?”

“Not yet,” Jack answers automatically, blushing at his quick response. “I mean, no. Not…” 

He sighs, running a hand through his hair.

“I want you to say no,” he says in a small voice. His cheeks are burning their usual shade of pink. “And I want you to…try to get away, try to push me off.”

Jack draws in a sharp breath. Having to say what he wants, having to tell you what he wants…it makes him feel so vulnerable. Letting the words sit in the room, feeling the weight of what he’s asking for…to ask for anything at all is foreign to him. 

“Good,” James says at last. April nods.

“Gwen?” she encourages you. 

“That, I want that,” you breathe. Your head feels like it weighs nothing, like you’re floating, not really here.

“Read your paper,” she corrects you gently. “Don’t rush into submission before we’ve set some boundaries, okay?”

You swallow thickly. Your mouth feels too dry to form words. You read over the paper in your hands one more time. The script does feel a little formal, especially after Jack spoke to you so…honestly. 

You take a deep breath, closing your eyes. 

The part of yourself that wants to be here. 

You listen to her.

You let her use your mouth to say:

“I want you to make me cum until I can’t think.”

Jack draws in a sharp, shaky breath.

“And I…” you continue. Your cheeks warm as you brace yourself to ask for your next request. “I want you to…say nice things to me.”

“Like what?” April pushes you softly. Your attention is only locked on Jack.

“Like…I want you to call me pretty,” you whisper. “And tell me you want me. And…I want you…to tell me if I’m doing a good job.”

It feels like a unique form of torture, asking Jack to praise you. This man who scoffed about you behind your back to his colleagues, who probably makes lewd jokes about you at the bar with his buddies, who fuels your vitriol daily…asking him to call you pretty makes you feel so pathetic. 

He nods.

“I can do that,” he says breathlessly.

“Good…good, guys,” April tells you. “Anything else, Gwen?”

“Can you…” you glance down at Jack’s hands, still resting gently on his knees. You stare at the veins that lace across his hands and swallow, feeling the lump in your throat. “I want you to choke me.”

April nods. “Good,” she says again. 

You and Jack stare at each other in the silence that lingers in the room. It’s hard to tell where you end and Gwen begins now. You wonder if he feels the same.

“Let’s do this,” James says in a low voice, as if he’s afraid to break the quiet. “We’ll guide you through some of the initial physical contact, review how to choke your partner–”

You watch Jack’s eyes scan over your body.

“And then we’ll give you two some space, okay?”

“Sounds good,” Jack muses. You can tell he’s on that autopilot mode he goes into when you’re deep into research and you ask him if he wants a break– physically present but with his mind somewhere else.

James walks you through a discussion of your boundaries. He has you each clarify your safe word. You tell Jack all the things that are off limits– you don’t want him to call you mean names or to hit you. At least, not yet; you’re certain your research will bring you there eventually. Most importantly, you don’t want him to do anything that you haven’t talked about yet.

“All the stuff you mentioned…” you start, blushing at how awkward it feels to talk so frankly about this. “That’s fine. But don’t…you know. Don’t try anything without asking first. Please.”

He nods, his eyebrows crinkling together.

“Of course,” he says gently. He brings his hand to one of your knees, rubbing circles with his thumb. A breath shudders out of you. “Is there anywhere you don’t…want me to touch you?”

“No,” you admit quietly. “No, you…everywhere.”

He nods, then it’s his turn to share. He doesn’t want you to mark him in any way– bites, scratches, hitting, nothing that will linger on his skin. 

“And, um,” he adds, looking down. “Don’t…don’t try to kiss me.”

There’s an awkward hesitation in the air as you try to rationalize his request.

“Some people, especially couples, sometimes prefer to keep romance and BDSM separate,” April explains, seeing the confusion in your expression. “It’s totally normal. Your BDSM relationship does not need to extend to your romantic relationship. Some people even like to take their rings off while they’re in a scene.”

You glance down at your left hand and it clicks. Your ring is fake; Jack’s is real.

“What do you want to do?” you ask him. You have less skin in this game. You want to let him decide.

“Can- can we leave them on?” he stammers. You glance up at him.

You hate him.

You hate how good he looks. Hate that you can see his anxiety— and something else, you can’t quite make out what— in his face. Hate that you can see the freckles along the very tops of his cheeks, hate that you can see the way his throat moves when he swallows.

When you look into those deep blue eyes that you hate so much, you soften. He looks scared. And Jack would never admit it, but he’s fucking terrified. It’s why he wants to keep his ring on; he doesn't want to think about all the things he would do to you if he was allowed to let go of this tiny piece of metal that tethers him to his wife.

You nod.

“Okay,” James says. “Excellent work so far, guys. Are we ready to talk about the choking?”

The two of you nod, both silently grateful to have something to focus on that isn’t Jack’s marriage.

“Alright, Gwen, can you lie down?” James asks you. You reposition yourself until you’re on your back, staring up at the ceiling. You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths, trying to slow the rapid fluttering of your heart.

“You okay?” Jack whispers. You nod, eyes still closed. You appreciate his concern, but you can’t let your mind linger on him.

“Then Peter, you have to get on top of her,” James  says. “Just put your– there you go, exactly.”

Jack rests a knee on either side of your hips, straddling you. His hips are hovering over you until James tells him to relax all the way. You silently remind yourself that, according to your cover, the two of you are married and not having sex for the first time. There will be no way to explain that just the weight of Jack’s hips on yours makes you gasp, so you instead settle for a deep breath in through your nose.

“Okay, now take just one hand and rest it on her neck,” James continues. “Don’t add any pressure yet.”

Jack brings his right hand up and gently places it on your throat. He can feel the blood pounding through your veins underneath your skin.

“Alright, this is important,” James goes on. “You don’t want to press down on her windpipe. You want to squeeze the sides of her throat to constrict blood flow to the head. That’s what we’re after.” Jack nods. “Gwen, are you ready to try it?”

You nod too, and you can feel Jack’s fingers twitch on your skin.

“Alright, give it a go,” James tells him.

Jack follows his orders, squeezing his fingers around your throat. Your head feels like it’s pounding. Your breath is ragged as you inhale what air you can. Physically, you can still breathe fine, but you’re panting enough that it feels rushed and desperate. The feeling of his hand around your throat, making you dizzy…it feels good. Your eyes flick open and onto his face above you. Looking into his eyes, the same blue eyes that roll during your never-ending arguments, it makes you rub your thighs together. You’re certain he can feel you squirm. You need a second. You need to think. You need his hands off of you. 

You tap his forearm twice with your hand, then wrap your fingers around his wrist– a tactile gesture drilled into both of you at Quantico. Automatically, Jack withdraws from you, releasing your throat and sitting back.

“Are you okay?” he asks you, worry saturating his voice. “Did I hurt you?”

You shake your head, sitting up again.

“No- no, I just…it was good. I just need a second,” you respond, hoping you don’t sound as desperate as you feel.

“You two have excellent communication,” April notes, saving you. “I can really tell that you have a good relationship.”

It almost makes you laugh. 

“How are we feeling?” April asks the both of you. You look between Jack and her and nod.

“Yeah- yeah, I’m…I think I’m good,” you say.

“Yeah,” Jack echoes.

“Are we feeling ready to start the scene?” she questions gently. You both nod and answer in the affirmative once more.

“How you initiate a scene is entirely up to you,” April continues. “Some people like to set a very specific cue, visual or verbal, to confirm that both partners are ready to begin. A lot of people even just use a simple ‘I’m starting the scene now.’ Do you want to set a cue?”

“I don’t know,” Jack starts. “Do we really need to–”

“I think that’s a good idea,” you pipe up. The thought of Jack putting his hands on you, grabbing you, manhandling you without warning, makes your stomach feel like it’s doing somersaults. 

“Well, what do you want the signal to be?” he asks. He sounds more relaxed now, more like the Jack that always asks you questions like that instead of contributing any useful ideas.

“I don’t know,” you retort. “Something.”

“Fine, let’s just do the basic one, ‘I’m starting the scene,’” Jack suggests, irritated.

“Can’t we find anything less…clinical?” you huff.

“Then what do you suggest? ‘Let’s fool around?’” Jack snips, falling into your familiar bickering pattern. Your cheeks feel hot at his words and your eyes drop quickly. Jack studies your face, then locks eyes with you when you look back at him through your lashes. “Oh…you like that, huh?” he purrs in a low voice. “Then let’s fool around, baby.”

He rests a hand on your knee and again rubs circles over your skin with his thumb. You wonder if it’s something he does with his wife. His eyes briefly dart over to James, who nods in turn. Jack continues, gently pushing your knee aside. Without thinking, your other leg mirrors the one under his touch until you’ve fully parted your legs.

Jesus fucking Christ. Parting your legs for your coworker. You try to push the thought out of your mind.

“I wanna touch you, can I touch you?” he asks, obviously trying to catch his breath. Your answer doesn’t register in your brain before it comes out of your mouth.

“Please,” you beg. “Please touch me.”

He grins.

“Where?” he teases you. “Here?” he asks, lacing his hand with yours. You can feel the cool metal of his wedding ring. You try to let go of his hand, to get him to touch you where you really want him.

“No, no…let go,” you whine.

“Where, baby?” he asks innocently.

“Ev-everywhere, everywhere, fuck, just put your hands on me,” you babble. You sound so desperate, so pathetic…you feel your cheeks warm in embarrassment. 

“Then I think we gotta get rid of some of this, sweetheart,” he says, tracing one finger along the neckline of your blouse and then down towards the waistband of your skirt. His voice is smooth and velvety and bends you to his will without struggle. You hurriedly untuck your blouse from the elastic that’s hugging your waist and pull it over your head. You reach for the eye hook fastening the side of your skirt.

“Do you want me to take this off too?” you ask him. You can’t believe yourself. It’s like a switch has flipped in your brain. Every voice that was screaming at you to slow down, to back out of this, is now not only silenced, but seems to have changed its tune altogether, instead urging you to get closer to Jack. To give him every part of yourself.

“Yeah,” he tells you, his voice dropping into something lower and gentler. “Wanna see how pretty you are, baby.”

Your hands can’t move fast enough. You undo your skirt and awkwardly shimmy it down your legs and off, tossing it aside next to your top. Jack stares at you, really stares at you, the girl who’d done nothing but piss him off for the last few weeks, his eyes lingering on your cleavage.

You can’t think straight. Your chest is heaving with every breath, which you’re sure is only putting on a better show for him. 

“Wha- what do I do now?” you say in a tiny voice to April, still lingering with James a ways back from the bedside.

“Ask him for what you want,” April tells you.

“Touch me, please,” you whine to Jack. “Please, I’ll do whatever you want–”

Jack’s mind races as he watches you unravel before him. There’s something in your eyes, something that he’s not sure if you’re faking– you are the best of the undercover unit, after all. But he can tell that something is…different. Shifted within you.

“Take a deep breath, Gwen,” April instructs you, her voice a little louder and firmer. “Reset yourself.”

You press your eyes closed and draw in a deep breath. It serves to steady your heartbeat just a bit, and helps you slow your mind.

“Peter,” James chimes in. “Part of a dom’s job is to help guide the emotional experience of the sub as well. If you notice her slipping like that, do what we just did. A soft timeout, just a reset, until everyone is in a good headspace to continue. Yeah?”

“Got it,” Jack breathes, nodding slightly. He’s still watching you. “Then…are we good?”

“Ask her,” James tells him.

“Are you okay?” he asks, gentler than you were expecting. You open your eyes, finding Jack again, and this time, you don’t feel anxious, or nervous, or embarrassed. You feel safe. 

“Yeah…yeah I’m okay,” you reply. “We can keep going.”

He blushes at that.

“Can I touch you again?” he whispers. You nod, then shiver when he brings his fingers to just barely graze over the skin of your midsection. It tickles and you squeak. His brows shoot up as his eyes snap back to your face. He dances his fingertips along your skin, moving to your arms, your neck, your chest. He repositions his leg so one knee is resting between your thighs, then he leans over you. He brings his hand up to cup your face.

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbles as his thumb strokes your cheek. “Love lookin’ at you, baby.”

His hand slides down and gently rests around your throat, his fingers slick with your sweat. When he starts to squeeze, that hot, cloudy feeling returns to your head. You can breathe, but you feel like you can’t. You feel like you’re standing atop a high ledge being held there only by his grip.

You squeak and squirm under him until he slots his knee between your thighs. Your breath catches in your throat and you release a pathetic, strangled cry.

“Feels good, huh?” he grins. “It’s alright, sweetheart, go ahead. Talk to me.”

“P-p-p-” you sputter, your airflow still restricted by his grasp. He relaxes his hand until his fingers are gently tracing lazy patterns along the skin of your neck. “Please.”

You grind your hips against Jack’s knee, chasing the stimulation. Without thinking, you reach out and claw at his still-clothed shoulders.

“Not fair,” you whine. “You’re not even–ngggh, Ja– Peter…”

“What?” he smirks.

“You’re still dressed,” you pout. 

Jack wants to take your hand and rest it on top of the bulge in his pants. He catches himself just in time– it’s one thing to tease you and touch you, but to admit he’s turned on by watching you come undone for him…

There would be no coming back from that.

As if reading his mind, you reach out towards Jack’s belt buckle before he snatches your hand.

“Fucking. Don’t,” he growls, leaning over you. You let out a tiny cry at the way he’s gripping your wrist. His eyes are steely and cold. The sudden snap from teasing to commanding makes your heart race. “You wanna be a good girl?” he asks you, his voice breathy, but still firm. You nod.

“Then fucking behave.”

He wants to follow it up with ‘you stupid bitch,’ but remembers your request.

“Sweetie…” he coos, his tone softening again. Your mind flashes to several weeks prior, Jack picking up the phone at the desk across from yours.

Hi, sweetie.

You whimper.

“I wanna put my mouth on you,” he breathes, impossibly close to you. You want to beg him to do it, to do anything, just to make this feeling stop, this violent, burning desire that aches in your limbs. But you remember what he wants. You let the intensity of your feeling seep into the words you don’t mean.

“No!” you exclaim. 

“Come on, sweetie,” Jack purrs, digging his fingers into your wrist. The pressure of his fingers makes you squeal in surprise. “Let me have a little taste.”

“No, Ja– Peter,” you wince. “Let me go.”

“Just let me make you feel good, sweetheart, come on,” he presses, grinding his knee up into you. You roll your hips, chasing the friction. “Promise I’ll take care of you, baby.”

“Peter, stop,” you plead, desperation in your tone.

The number of times he’d begged Linette to let him kneel between her legs, only to be met with rejection…it made him feel like a freak. 

Jack drinks you in with his eyes, watching you whine and wriggle and try to twist away from him. He grips your throat again and squeezes. 

Then he imagines you’re his wife.

When he looks at you, he doesn’t see Linette’s face. But he lets himself imagine that the ring on your left hand is real, and that he put it there.

He imagines you, as his wife, begging him to stop…and forcing your legs open anyway. The memory with Linette strobes through his mind, intercut with the fantasy of you, until he can’t tell which version of himself is real– the Jack who retreats at his wife’s protests, or the one who devours you despite yours.

April and James share a look, then quietly exit, closing the door behind them. The only sound in the room is yours and Jack’s heavy panting as he leans over you on the bed. He’s so close to you that you can see the way his pupils are eclipsing the blue of his irises. Still on autopilot, Jack gently curls his fingers around the column of your throat one more time until you squeak. The noise shakes him out of his haze.

He coughs, sitting back on his heels and taking his hands off of you. 

“They’re, um. I guess we can stop now,” Jack pants, one hand rubbing at the back of his neck. He can’t even look at you. His face is burning.

You lie there quietly for a moment, trying to catch your breath. The abrupt end to the moment halts your heart. You blink quickly, then squeeze your eyes shut.

A part of you feels relieved, that you no longer need to wonder how far you’re willing to go to keep your cover. But another part of you feels crushed. Rejected. Unwanted. You feel like a pop bottle that’s been shaken furiously then put back in the fridge. The stinging feeling in your chest burrows in deeper as you turn your head to the side, desperate to put any distance between you that you can right now. 

Jack watches your chest rising and falling, still transfixed on you. His mind swirls with all the things he still wants to do to you. Your begging and protests are seared into his brain. He’s not sure how he can ever look at you or have another conversation with you when you both return to the office. 

As he stares at you, a thin sheen of sweat on your chest, he remembers what you wanted.

I want you to make me cum until I can’t think.

Right now, he just wants to satisfy your request.

He swallows hard, then quickly sits up and stands from the bed, leaving you lying there. He fishes around in his pocket, then produces his cigarettes and his Zippo.

“You think they’ll let me smoke in here?” Jack asks, hoping his voice doesn’t sound as shaky as his body feels. His trembling fingers bring a cigarette to his mouth and he gently takes it between his teeth. He turns away from you so you don’t see him using both hands to steady the lighter as he lights up.

He takes a long drag then exhales the stream of smoke, gently closing his eyes. You still can’t speak. Your clothes are still on the floor. You’ll have to stand up, in your bra and your now-soaked panties, and bend over in front of him just to get dressed. Jack just leans against the counter, smoking his cigarette.

You feel so stupid. This is the same Jack that thought you were just an accessory to the men doing the real work. The same Jack who belittled you and questioned your every move, doubting your competency. You can’t stand him, and yet here you are, a deep aching in your chest because he pushed you away from him.

You scramble to get dressed. Jack doesn’t look at you. He’s worried he’ll stop you.

The rest of your evening at Club Midnight is tense. You scribble in a tiny notepad while Jack snaps pictures of the room with the small camera you’d tucked into your purse. You don’t talk. When April and James come to collect you, you know they can sense the change in both of you. They don’t poke at it though, and let the two of you leave for the night after doing a final check in with them.

The cab ride back to the hotel is torturous. You have nothing to say to Jack, but sitting in silence somehow feels worse. When you finally emerge from the car and head into the hotel, Jack invites you to join him at the hotel bar. You decline, partially for the reason you give him: that you want to go upstairs, shower, and go to bed right away. The other reason is that you truly feel like you’ll throw up if you have to have a conversation with him now. You take the elevator up to your room while Jack lingers in the small hotel bar, sipping a bourbon and smoking another cigarette that still isn’t doing anything to ease the shaking in his hands.

You shower and change into the soft terrycloth shorts and oversized t-shirt you sleep in. You finally settle into the only mildly uncomfortable hotel bed. You try your best to clear your mind as the events of the day unfold again in your head. You turn off the lamp on the bedside table and lie there in the darkness until you can feel the weight of your eyelids and quietly float off.

You wake in the night, twisting in the covers and blinking in the darkness. Red numbers glare at you from the alarm clock on the hotel nightstand: 2:36 am. You sigh, then roll over onto your back to stare up at the ceiling. Your mind won’t stop cycling through flashes of today.

Jack over you. Jack’s hand around your throat. Jack’s knee grinding against you. Jack staring at you in just your bra and panties. Jack calling you pretty.

You squeeze your thighs together, humming lightly. You bring your hand down to the waistband of your shorts, your fingers gently playing with the tie. You can still picture Jack’s cold blue eyes in your mind, tracing up and down your body with that cruel, all-consuming gaze. Shivering, you draw your hand lower, below the elastic around your hips, until you find your clit.

You sigh softly as you gently rub soft, slow circles over yourself. You picture Jack hovering over you, that mean, commanding look in his eye. You think you want him to be meaner next time.

Next time. You don’t even pause to acknowledge how insane the thought is.

You continue to tease yourself, the sensation of heat building in your tummy. 

You think about next time.

So pretty, stupid girl…

I’m n-not st-stupid…

No? Well what else would I call the dumb bitch who drools when she thinks about having my cock in her mouth?

You whine and dip your hand lower, gathering some of the slick that’s already started leaking from your entrance. You work your hand faster over your sensitive spot, the feeling in your body starting to feel less like pleasure and more like tension.

You bring your hand to your neck and squeeze, fuzzing your own vision. You recall the feel of Jack’s fingers around your throat– the rough callouses, the cold stinging feeling of the golden band around his finger in contrast to the heat of his palms.

“J-Jack,” you breathe. “Jack, please.”

Shhh, it’s okay, baby, I know what she needs. Just turn this off, baby…you don’t need to think about anything. Isn’t it easier to just be my dumb little cockslut?

You twist your head against the pillow and moan. On the other side of the wall, a still-drunk Jack listens to the faint sounds of your whimpers. His head is still spinning from the bourbon, so he doesn’t think twice before spitting on his hand and taking his length in his hand, quickly chasing any kind of stimulation.

Ending things as quickly as you did had left Jack with a disgusting, ravenous feeling in his chest. All he wanted in that moment was to pin you down while you cried and begged him to stop. To press his tongue to your center and drink you down as he pleased you, making good on his promise to make you cum until you couldn’t think.

His own desire terrified him. He had to stop.

But now, he listens to the sounds of your breathy moans through the cheap drywall and minimal insulation and chases his release without hesitation.

You twitch your hips against your hand, the electric feeling in your body continuing to spread. You can feel it in your chest, at the base of your skull, in your thighs as they shake and quiver, as if you’ve just run a marathon. You squeeze your throat again, and the dizzy, floaty feeling returns to your mind. You sigh in your bliss.

Jack bites his lip and breathes through his nose, doing his best to stay quiet.

You rub a few more circles, fast and pressing hard to your clit. 

“J-Jack, Jack” you whimper. “Pl-please can I cum?”

“Do it, baby,” Jack mutters on the other side of the wall.

You’ve been such a good girl, sweetheart. Cum on my tongue, baby, do it.

You unravel, the spring in your stomach snapping and filling your whole body with sparks. You choke out a cry, trying desperately to be quiet.

But as Jack hears your orgasm hit you, he chases soon after, wincing and tugging on his cock a few more times until he paints his hand and his bare stomach.

You lie there for a second, panting, sweat sticking strands of your hair to your temples. You blink at the clock. 2:42am. 

A whole week of this. 

A whole year of this.

You don’t know how much you can take. 

Your eyes flutter closed, and your mind is two weeks in the past, in the conference room with Jack.

“Well, here, it says, ‘unusual or bizarre imagery or acts are necessary for sexual excitement,’” he reads from his notes. “So maybe part of this is about…needing it. Maybe you’re only deviant if you, y’know…need it.”

Your eyes flick open, back into the dark room of the present. You gently rub at the stinging skin of your neck.

Why did you do that?

You release your throat and quickly sit up in bed. Your fingers are still sticky and glistening with you.

Why did you do that?

You try to shake the thought from your mind. You plant your feet on the floor and cross to your tiny bathroom to clean yourself up. Afterwards, you hold one of the small glasses still sitting upside down on the counter and stick it under the running faucet. You gulp down the entire glass, then go to fill it again. When you finally return to the bed, the alarm clock still glares at you. 3:01am.

You lie back and stare at the ceiling. You can still feel the burning of your own fingers digging into the sides of your throat.

You close your eyes. You try not to think about it.

You try not to think about him.

At some point, the world slips into blackness, and you’re finally free of it all. The low buzz of the window air conditioner lulls you into a dreamless sleep.