Chapter 8
He kisses me hard, then releases me. The fire door swings shut behind him.
I listen to his boots descend the stairs, steady and unhurried, the patrol rhythm resuming.
I delete the notification and go to bed smiling. The log keeps filling up, one coded entry at a time, and my mother will never read between the lines.
Marcus, standing by the window with his arms crossed, goes pale and then stone-faced and then nods slowly, the motion barely perceptible. The event gets scheduled for the night before the final, full security clearance included.
At 20:30 that evening, I walk into the security office and lock the door behind me.
The room hums with servers and monitor glow. A bank of screens covers the north wall—twelve camera feeds cycling through corridors, stairwells, the front gate.
The live broadcast flickers on the auxiliary screen, pre-game commentary muted. Marcus is in his rolling chair, feet propped on the console, a cup of cold coffee at his elbow.
I cross to him, hike my skirt to my hips, and straddle his lap. The chair rolls back six inches and bumps the console.
His hands come up automatically—one on my hip, one on the armrest.
“You’re going to approve a temporary area-wide camera blackout for the staff-wing corridor,” I say, unbuttoning his polo from the top down. “Plus a five-minute patrol gap, right before the session.
Your deputy can handle the front gate.”
His jaw tightens. “Sienna, that’s a loggable override. If anyone audits—”
“You’re the one who audits.” I grind down on his lap, my bare cunt pressing against the ridge of his cock through his cargo pants. I went commando deliberately.
The heat of him bleeds through the fabric. “You’ve been building blind spots since patrol one. This is just a bigger blind spot. And you’re going to give it to me.”
I free his belt, pop the fly, pull him out. He’s already thick and flushed, the head slick.
I notch him against my opening and sink down in one slow, deliberate slide.
The stretch wrenches a gasp from my throat. He fills me completely—the blunt pressure of his cock spreading my inner walls, the head nudging deep against my cervix.
My clit presses against his pubic bone. I plant my hands on his shoulders and start moving.
“You can’t just ride me into approving a security breach,” he grits out, but his hips are already bucking up to meet my downward strokes. The wet slide of my cunt on his shaft fills the humming silence of the server room.
Skin on skin, slick and obscene.
“I can.” I circle my hips, dragging a groan from his chest. “Because you’re already inside me.
Because you’ve been inside me since the first night. And because you want the blackout as much as I do—you want the whole defensive line in my room, and you want to be there.”
The national anthems blare through the village speakers, muffled but unmistakable. I use the rising crowd roar to set my pace—slow at first, grinding, then faster when the whistle blows. His cock pistons into me, the angle hitting a spot that makes my clit throb with every downstroke.
The chair creaks beneath us, casters squeaking on the tile. His breathing turns ragged. My thighs burn with the effort.
“Look at the screens,” I breathe. “Every corridor empty. Every camera still rolling. Everyone in this village is watching the match except us.”
He glances at the monitor bank. Twelve empty hallways. One live broadcast. My cunt clenching around his cock.
“You’re riding me in my own control room,” he growls, hands finally gripping my ass, fingers digging into the muscle hard enough to bruise. “Who’s in charge now?”
I lean forward, changing the angle, taking him deeper. My cervix aches with the pressure. “I am. Say it.”
“Fuck.” His head drops back, throat exposed, Adam’s apple bobbing. “You are. Right now—you’re in charge.”
From the corridor outside, a sound.
Distant at first—rubber soles on concrete, deliberate, military-paced. Footsteps.
I freeze mid-stroke, his cock buried to the hilt, my inner walls fluttering around him. Marcus goes rigid beneath me, one hand clamping over my mouth, the other still gripping my ass.
The footsteps grow louder. Closer.
A heavy tread, someone who knows these corridors, someone with access. The deputy. It has to be the deputy, doing a secondary sweep while his chief is supposedly monitoring the match.
A shadow crosses the thin strip of light under the door. Pauses.
My heart slams against my ribs. I’m impaled on my stepfather’s cock in a locked security office while the entire village watches the semi-final.
My skirt is bunched around my waist. His belt buckle digs into my inner thigh. Neither of us breathes.
The doorknob doesn’t move. But the shadow stays—a solid, unmoving darkness that means someone is standing right outside, listening.
Maybe hearing the faint squeak of the chair. Maybe hearing nothing.
Marcus’s cock throbs inside me. I can feel his pulse through the shaft, a rapid hammer-beat that matches mine.
The fear feeds the heat in my belly, a dangerous, molten spike that makes my cunt clench involuntarily. He bites down on a groan, jaw corded, eyes locked on the door.
Then the radio on his belt crackles. “Chief, front gate is secure. Heading to the north corridor for sweep. You copy?”
The deputy’s voice. But it’s coming from the radio—not from outside.
The shadow at the door doesn’t belong to the deputy.
A janitor. Or a staffer heading to the laundry.
Someone without a radio, without clearance, just passing through.
The shadow shifts. The footsteps resume, receding down the corridor, fainter and fainter, until they’re swallowed entirely by the distant stadium roar from the broadcast.
Marcus exhales hard against my palm. I pull my mouth free, gasping. “Still all clear.”
“Jesus Christ,” he rasps. “You’re going to kill me.”
“Not until you approve the blackout.” I start moving again, picking up the rhythm, faster now, desperate. The near-miss has drenched my inner thighs.
The wet slap of my cunt taking his cock echoes off the server cabinets. “Say it. Say you’re approving the blackout.”
He’s close—I can feel it in the swelling thickness, the way his thrusts turn erratic. “Approved. Fuck—the blackout is approved. Patrol gap approved. Just—don’t stop—”
I ride him through the first half of the match, pace matching the crowd’s tinder-dry tension. A near-miss on screen—the commentator’s muffled shout—makes me clench.
He groans. At the 43rd minute, a goal rips through the stadium, the roar shaking the walls, and I slam down on his cock at the same instant, burying him so deep my cervix protests.
He spills. Hot pulses flood my cunt, his groan swallowed by the crowd roar, his fingers bruising my hips.
“Goal,” he chokes out, and I don’t know if he means the match or his own release.
I stay seated on him, breathing hard, his cum starting to leak down my inner thigh. The chair creaks once, then stills.
The monitors cycle their empty corridors. The match goes to halftime.
I lean over, pick up his radio, and key the channel. “Unit 14 will require a blackout window tomorrow—security-approved. Log it.”
The deputy’s voice crackles back: “Copy that, Chief. Permanent record.”
I set the radio down. Marcus stares at me—flushed, wrecked, still buried inside me, his authority now permanently logged with my voice on his channel.
“You just gave me my own blackout,” I murmur.
He cups the back of my neck and pulls my forehead to his. “I’d give you the whole security grid if you asked.”
I kiss him, slow and possessive. Outside, the crowd roars for the second half.
The log has a new entry. The blackout is official.
Tomorrow, the whole defensive line will be in my room, and Marcus Delgado will unlock the door for all of them.