He'd started to explain it to Warrick once or twice. He'd always wondered how much Warrick knew, how much he guessed, how much he wouldn't let himself see.
Warrick must know some of it, if only because when Toreth had brought it up in the past Warrick had slammed the conversational shutters down with incredible speed and whatever means necessary, even using the safe word. They'd talked about it exactly once, in the lift at SimTech before the smell of smoke cut the conversation short before they'd had time to do more than start the topic.
You hate interrogations, but you fuck me, he'd asked. How does that work?
Warrick's answer had been that he didn't think about it, that the interrogation skills didn't matter, only the physical training and prisoner restraint techniques. Which might all be bollocks, but it obviously helped Warrick sleep at night.
Typical prissy fucking corporate, Toreth thought, pushing deep and twisting until Warrick was whimpering aloud. Not wanting to know about the dirty work that went on to keep their shiny little world safe and profitable.
Not so fucking prissy that he wouldn't take the results, though. That he wouldn't do this, bending over the scarred surface of the bench, sweat starting to gleam on his skin. Focusing on the sight in front of him wiped the momentary anger away. Toreth leaned in and bit at Warrick's shoulder, salty-clean against his mouth, pressing in deep with his fingers again.
"Is this what you want?" Toreth asked.
"Yes. God, yes. Don't stop."
No, he wouldn't. Definitely not in the plan. Keeping going until the extra finger Warrick was panting for wouldn't be anything like enough — that was the plan. Going on long enough that when Toreth finally pushed the third finger in, stretching him open with a brutal thrust, Warrick sobbed on a breath and a heartbeat later demanded, "More."
The room was soundproofed well beyond this, but out of habit he brought his hand up over Warrick's mouth — more a warning than a serious attempt to silence. Warrick bucked hard, pushing back onto Toreth's hand.
"Good?"
"Smell it on your fingers," Warrick said. "The oil. It's . . . I can taste the smell."
"Jesus, this really fucking turns you on, doesn't it?"
He pressed against Warrick's mouth, forcing his lips open, pushing inside to let Warrick taste him. Filling his mouth as his other hand was filling his arse. Warrick's mouth closed eagerly round his fingers, sucking, his breathing a moan deep in his throat, and the wet heat sent a bolt of lightning jarring down Toreth's spine.
Fuck him now, fuck him now — a low chant grew more insistent in his mind, in tempo with the fingerfuck and the pulsing suction heating his blood. Fuck him now, fuck him —
Toreth's elbow bumped something and he looked down to find the forgotten gun.
Now
there
was an interesting idea.
A very interesting idea, and Toreth tried to hide a smile, even though Warrick wasn't looking at him — was, in fact, totally focused on working his hips hard in counterpoint against Toreth's fingers. When Toreth pulled out his hand, Warrick whimpered once, then stilled, braced against the hard edge of the bench.
Thinking he knew what was coming next, and thinking wrong, or at least Toreth hoped so.
The grip of the gun felt cold to Toreth's oil-slippery hand, because despite the SimTech equipment — and the excessive body heat they were both generating right now — the room was still cool.
The barrel would be colder still.
He pulled his fingers away from Warrick's mouth, ignoring the determined press of his tongue, then twined them in Warrick's hair, holding him still. "Spread your legs. Wider. Are you ready?"
The nods tugged at his grip. "Please."
"Are you sure? Do you want it?"
"God,
yes
."
He set the tip of the gun against Warrick's body and began to slide it oh-so-very-fucking-slowly inside. For a moment, there was no resistance from the slick, well-prepared passage, then the invasion of hard, cold metal registered and Warrick tensed reflexively.
"What . . . " And for a few seconds Toreth could see that he really didn't know, that he hadn't guessed, and the delighted triumph kicked through him like downing a glass of vodka. Then realisation dawned and Warrick breathed, "
No
."
Toreth pulled the tip of the gun back, just a fraction, and Warrick followed hungrily.
"No?" Toreth tightened his grip on Warrick's hair, and he stopped, trembling slightly, his hips making tiny, helpless movements. "You fucking liar. You want it."
Warrick's breath was hitching as he fought for control. The most he could manage was a tiny, pathetically unconvincing shake of his head.
"Ask for it," Toreth said. He stroked the rounded tip of the barrel down, nudging behind Warrick's balls, caressing him with the slick, solid,
dangerous
weight of the thing. Then he slid it back up, poised against Warrick's hole. "Ask me for it."
The silence lasted for longer than he would have credited before Warrick breathed, "Yes, do it."
"More," Toreth said.
"Fuck me." Warrick jerked suddenly, as if he'd heard the words from someone else, then braced himself. "Fuck me, please."
Toreth released his hair, taking a light grip on his hip instead. Warrick tensed against him in anticipation. "How?" Toreth asked.
For a moment, he really didn't think Warrick
would
ask, as desperately as he obviously wanted it. They'd hit limits before — not many of them — and he wondered if this was one. Then Warrick shivered, his head falling forwards.
"With the gun," he whispered. "God. Fuck me with the gun. No . . . "
"No?"
"
Yes
. Fuck me with — with the gun." He said in a kind of stunned amazement, tasting the words.
He could have gone in hard — he knew Warrick's limits better than he did himself — but he didn't. He kept to the tormentingly slow pace of the earlier game, watching Warrick's face as he worked the gun in and out, fractionally deeper with every return, until he hit the right spot and Warrick's face twisted and he bit his lip. Another few millimetres, with a tilt of the gun, and Warrick moaned aloud.
"Is it okay?"
The gasp was almost laughter. "I can't believe . . . yes. God, yes. Incredible. But . . . harder. Please."
Then Toreth looked down, actually saw his hand and what he was doing, and Warrick spread for him, sweating desperation, and the reality hit him like a dose of one of Daedra's more potent fuck drugs, the kind that came with a warning about not using near children and animals. His cock ached, screaming to touch flesh. He pulled the gun back and thrust in, again, twice, again, Warrick's choked reaction sounding distant because Toreth couldn't believe that Warrick was really letting him do this, trusting him this much. Just
taking
it.
He wanted very badly to see Warrick come like this, with the gun inside him, wanting it almost more than he wanted to come himself.
Oil made his fingers slip on the grip, and he curled them tighter around the trigger and the trigger guard. Every thrust now pressed his fingers up against Warrick's shuddering body.
"Let me, please," Warrick was gasping, and it took Toreth a moment to work out what the fuck he was talking about, to remember the instructions he'd given. And it brought a new resolution.
"Move your arms and I'll break them." Fumbling desperately, Toreth managed to unfasten his own trousers one-handed, never letting up the movement of the gun inside Warrick. "This is going to be enough. You're going to come just from this."
"Please." With every thrust, Warrick squirmed back against him as hard as he could without disobeying and releasing his hold. "I can't."
"Yes, you can." Finally, he had his cock free. He touched Warrick's hip, curling his fingers round towards Warrick's cock without making contact with it, then tightened his grip to hold Warrick steady. "It's like this or not at all."
"I can't. Please, touch me, just . . . "
"It's loaded," he whispered into Warrick's ear, twisting the gun at a new angle — deeper, moving faster.
Warrick choked out a cry, whether in response to the barrel or the words Toreth wasn't sure.
"Did you hear me?"
The response was a contradictory shake of his head. "No, it's n — liar," Warrick panted.
"It's loaded," he repeated, then paused so that Warrick would hear the click. "And that was the safety. My finger's on the trigger. How long do you think it'll be before I slip?"
"No . . . God, no, I can't — " Then the words were swallowed into sharp panting breaths, closer and faster as Warrick's shoulders tensed, pulling back.
Impossible, utterly impossible, but it was really happening, and the realisation snapped his control and his determination to watch Warrick come. He pressed up against Warrick, feeling the cold hard edge of the gun against his hip bone and the heat of Warrick's oil-slick body against his cock. Four quick thrusts and he was almost there. His hands clenched reflexively and the trigger clicked, seeming deafeningly loud. Warrick jerked forward away from the noise, breath whooping in, then screamed as he came. Toreth felt the strength of it as Warrick's muscles clenched round the gun, and then his own orgasm swept through him, hot and wonderful, while he looked down to watch in dark, delighted disbelief as his come spurted over the gun and his hand, and the curve of Warrick's buttock.
When the spasms stopped, Warrick was leaning on the bench, head on his arms, his fingers gripping the far edge tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. He was still shaking and Toreth wondered if his knees were about to give way. He slid the gun out carefully and laid it back on the bench. Taking hold of Warrick's shoulder, he pulled gently until he came back, away from the support, fingers uncurling reluctantly. Toreth leaned against the wall of the station, sliding slowly down and guiding Warrick down with him until the sat on the floor — Toreth with his back to the panel, Warrick curled against him, his head on Toreth's knees.
The only noises in the room came from their breath and the humming SimTech equipment.
Toreth leaned forward to kiss Warrick's shoulder.
"It wasn't loaded," Toreth said.
"I know. Hell." He lifted his head slightly, then put it back down. The shivers were slowly subsiding. "I know that. There wasn't any ammunition in the cabinet. But what I didn't know is that it's possible to come just from being so — so — "
"So fucking shit scared?"
"Yes."
"See." He draped one arm over Warrick's shoulders. "I told you. They're not fucking toys."
It took a moment before Warrick started to laugh weakly. "As it were." He looked up at the clock. "If we clean up quickly, we'll have ten minutes to grab a sandwich."
When Toreth wanted to plot anything these days, he had to do it at Sara's place. Not so different, in a way, because he'd done most of it here before anyway, starting with the collar and manacles, fucking years ago now. Technically, though, that had been at her old flat, from the dim and distant past Before The Revolt. Different flats for both of them, and the original manacles were gone too. Sometimes he wondered how the hell his life had turned into this, and what else might be waiting around the corner to blackjack him.
He shook his head. Depressing ideas for what was supposed to be fun evening.
Sara was sitting beside him on her sofa, beer bottle in her hand. She was paging slowly through the designs on the screen, flipping back and forth to compare them.
"What do you think?" he asked her. "Picked one yet?"
"I like the curvy one, with the three colours of wood. That goes best with the rest of the flat, doesn't it? Although I don't really remember what the bedroom looks like — I only saw it the once with the furniture in, at the flat warming."
"Yeah. I took some pictures round to show her, along with the measurements."
"What did you tell her?" she asked.
"I told her to design something that would match the furniture and the flat, and that it had to be the right shape and solid enough to tie someone to and fuck them as hard — hey!" he exclaimed, as Sara spluttered beer over the screen.
"Sorry," she gasped, still coughing. "You didn't?"
"Why not?" He fished a tissue out of his pocket and wiped the screen. "It's what it's for."
"Yes, but the woman is . . . I mean, she makes bespoke furniture. For really posh people. I read her advert. I
found
her advert,
and
I made the appointment for you."
"So? You're not planning to order anything from her, are you?"
"No . . . no, I suppose not. Definitely not now she knows I work for a pervert. What did she
say
?"
Toreth grinned. "That she'd better use all-wooden pegged joints because they squeak less. And that they were more expensive."
Sara stared at him, then started giggling. "My God. You are so
bad
. Not to mention an evil influence." She finished her beer and waved the bottle. "D'you want another one?"
"I'll get it."
In the kitchen, the remains of the Thai takeaway were piled on the table. Bastard stood in the middle, lapping up the Tom Yum soup Sara had been forced to give up on because it was too hot. Toreth lifted his hand and raised an eyebrow, causing Bastard to crouch down and flatten his ears. As Toreth started the swing, Bastard hissed malevolently and shot off the table and out of the room.
No doubt gone to slink into the living room and pretend to Sara that he'd been cruelly abused. Toreth grinned and opened the fridge. Inside he found mostly beer, along with an assortment of revolting-looking low calorie drinks: Sara's traditional pre-New Year-blowout health regime looked to be starting in good time this year.
At least some things didn't change.
It would never have occurred to Toreth that it would cost so much to get something made out of dead trees. The cabinet had been expensive, but that was antique. Antiques ought to be expensive.