27. Sniper #2
She nodded, satisfied, and set the knife down on the table, within reach.
Then she reached for the hem of her thermal and pulled it up, slow and methodical, never breaking eye contact.
The shirt came off. Underneath, she wore nothing: no bra, no jewelry, just skin, pale and marked with a latticework of old scars that looked like they’d been mapped out by a cartographer with a grudge.
She peeled the pants down next, not graceful but efficient, like she was stripping for a medical exam.
She was naked in ten seconds flat, and she did it without flinching.
She climbed onto the table. The surface was cold and slick; her knees made two perfect wet prints as she crawled up my body and straddled my hips. I didn’t move. I watched the ceiling, counting the flickers in the light, waiting for the next variable.
She leaned down, her hair falling around my face, and said, “You’re going to remember this every time you close your eyes.”
She reached between us and grabbed my dick.
It was soft, the way you’d expect from a man chained to a table and worked over for days, but she didn’t let that stop her.
She stroked, slow and patient, the way you start a fire from the last coal.
The first flush of blood hurt—a sharp, mechanical jolt—but then the body did what bodies do.
She kept at it, not looking at me but at her own hand, fascinated by the way she could make the flesh respond.
When I was hard, she eased down onto it, the heat of her a shock after so much cold.
She held my shoulders for leverage, right over the wound, and rode me in silence.
I didn’t close my eyes. I watched her, seeing every detail: the quiver in her lip, the way her hair stuck to her neck, the uneven rhythm of her hips. She was crying, but not loud. Just a trickle of water at the edge of her left eye, the kind you see in kids who are too angry to be embarrassed.
I didn’t resist. I didn’t help, either. My hands were chained, but even if they weren’t, I would’ve let her finish what she needed to finish.
When she came, it was not a climax but a collapse. She folded forward, her body shaking, and for a second I thought she was going to bite my face off. But she just lay there, forehead to my collarbone, her breath ragged and fast. She didn’t say anything for a long time.
When she finally pulled herself together, she climbed off, cleaned herself with a towel from the shelf, and put her clothes back on in reverse order. She never looked at me.
I stared at the camera in the corner. The red light blinked, slow and steady. I hoped Jasmine was still watching.
Emma sat on the stool again, hands loose in her lap.
“You know what happens next?” she said.
I didn’t answer.
She nodded, like she’d expected that. Then she smiled at the camera, as if an idea had just popped into her head.
“Jasmine, Jasmine, Jasmine,” she said and approached me, still watching the camera. “Turnabout is fair play, is it not?”
My dick was still hard despite my efforts to make it not so. Emma leaned over the table and took my dick into her mouth, sucking my cock while watching the camera.
I thought about fishing, baseball, beating the hell out of that Desert Reaper who’d sent me here. None of it worked. My dick stayed hard.
She kept her eyes locked on the lens the whole time.
That was the part that got under my skin—not the wet heat of her mouth, not the way her tongue worked the underside with a precision that said she’d done this before, but the fact that she never looked down.
She was performing for the camera, for Jasmine, for whoever else might be on the other end of that feed, and I was just the prop she’d strapped to the table.
I turned my head and watched the drain. Water pooled at the lip, dark and still, reflecting the fluorescent strip in a warped white line.
I counted the rivulets in the concrete, the hairline cracks spidering out from the bolt in the wall, the number of hooks on the overhead track.
Anything. Everything. The data was the only thing that belonged to me.
Her mouth was skilled in a way that felt rehearsed.
She took me deep, held it, let the back of her throat flutter, then pulled back slow, her lips dragging along the shaft.
She did it again. And again. The rhythm was metronomic, almost cruel in its consistency, like she was trying to prove that even this was a system she’d mastered.
I kept my hands still. The cuffs bit deeper with every pulse of blood, the metal eating into the raw skin at my wrists, but the pain was useful. It gave me something to think about that wasn’t her mouth, wasn’t the camera, wasn’t the fact that Jasmine was watching this from a cell fifty feet below.
Emma’s hand came up and wrapped around the base, squeezing just hard enough to make the veins stand out, then matching the motion of her mouth with a slow, twisting stroke.
She hummed—actually hummed—and the vibration ran through me like a current.
I felt my hips try to push up, the involuntary reflex of a body that didn’t care about dignity, and I locked my core down hard, fighting the table with every muscle I had left.