In Your Wildest Dreams

by thebicolouredhydra

Who said dreams are harmless? [A Sniper x femReader fic. Not a short read.]

It was the dream. That was what had set it all off. That was where it had all began. At least, that's what you keep telling yourself. Perhaps if you repeat it in your head enough times, it may come true.

But let's be honest: you've had such dreams about others before, and it never affected you like this. Infrequent though they are, such involuntary, nocturnal fabrications leave you somewhat bemused but stronger in your conviction that they mean nothing... just your brain toying with all manner of conceptual tidbits, like a child playing at make-believe. It's never taken you long to push them from your awareness. Even that one you'd had of Soldier had been less about the man and more about what he'd held in his hand.

That bloody riding crop. Why your brain had decided to play with that in an amorous scenario still escapes you. Plus, it was Solly, for god's sake! The man was insane. A certifiable nutcase, and that's saying something considering the company you're in. He was far more likely to strap someone with the Disciplinary Action in anger than in ardour.

You'd thought you'd consigned that alarming night-time escapade to the what-the-fuck section of your memory. However, the next morning, Soldier had been screaming his lungs out at one of the others over some perceived infraction, the blood surging in his face and his large fist clenched around that damn riding crop. Your eyes had latched onto it and before you could've stopped yourself, you'd giggled. An egregious error. Soldier's head had snapped around lightning fast, his vituperation descending on you like fire and brimstone from above.

"You find this funny, private?" he'd bellowed in your face.

In that moment, your response options had been less than limited. "Well, actually, I was laughing about the dream I had last night where you used that crop on me in a way that's illegal in ten states" didn't seem like a good thing to relay, but you'd thought of it nonetheless and it had just made you laugh harder. That was how you ended up face first in the dirt embarking on the two hundred he'd demanded you give him. It had the beneficial effect of leaching the humour out of the situation for you, but also caused you to vomit your breakfast up at around the hundred mark. On the upside, not wanting to fall flat into a puddle of your own semi-digested eggs and bacon had spurred you on through the second hundred and out of the blast range of Solly's continued ill-humour.

You suppose you should thank him for that. Now whenever you think of that dream or see that riding crop, your stomach clenches and you have the urge to run as fast as you possibly can. Any erotic dreams about that screaming maniac had ceased, and that was just fine by you!

But this dream... this dream...

You sigh and your eyes flick quickly towards the other end of the table. Fast enough that no-one would notice, but just long enough for you to double check he hadn't moved. His presence makes you edgy these days, and given the choice, you'd slide away as surreptitiously as possible and avoid the discomfort, but sometimes that just isn't feasible without drawing attention to yourself, and that is the last thing you need. You'd learnt that little lesson the hard way once before!

This dream had bothered you for nearly two months now, despite your best efforts to shake it out of your mind. Ignoring it hadn't worked. It had been too perverse, too sensual... too much. Rationalising it had failed. It had burned itself into your nerves, your skin, your muscles. Laughing about it was impossible. It had been carnal. Fetishistic. Delicious. Worse still, it had left you unsatiated.

Your brain - the ultimate tease - had ended the show prematurely, startling you into wakefulness before you'd gotten to feel anything more than his tongue inside you. You can't recall clearly, but you're pretty sure you'd sworn loudly in frustration. Then you'd sworn again when you'd realised who you'd been dreaming about. Going back to sleep had been impossible after that. You couldn't decide whether to be horrified or fascinated.

Looking back on it, you wonder if not attending to your body's reaction to the dream straight away had done more damage than good. The trouble was that in this place, anything more than a swift self-pleasuring left you open to discovery, accidental or otherwise. Here, it seemed an unspoken rule for people to burst in on each other at inopportune moments like it was a British farce. Personal boundaries and privacy were made a mockery of. You've lost track of the number of times one of the others has barged in on you whilst in a state of dishabille. If it wasn't a blatant interruption, there was always the distinct possibility you were being covertly watched. Spy was always being accused of being a "filthy voyeur", and with good reason. He was sly enough without his cloaking device, and that fact has held you back from a more exploratory, fulsome and delectable attention to your needs lest he had managed to find his way into your room after hours. Consequently you've pared down your writhe to fulfilment to something truly swift and unerotic. Matter-of-fact. But more importantly, fast. This also means that visualisation has been ditched as part of your repertoire. It takes too long to play out, so you focus only on the sensations you bestow on yourself, and fantasy has been left out in the cold in favour of rapid completion. Tragic, but you've come to accept it as a way to avoid the chance of being leered at or made fun of.

The day after the dream had been a nightmarish pastiche of mistakes, fumbling, disorientation and lack of focus, earning the spectrum from puzzlement to outright fury from the others. You hadn't been able to concentrate on anything except that vivid, prematurely-ended dream and it had rendered you a physical idiot. Blessedly, the perpetrator of your arousal had loped off to one of his hiding spots, saving you from the potential embarrassment of noticeably avoiding his gaze lest he see your discomfort at the memory of what his mouth had done to your body. The fact such sordid things had not occurred in reality was besides the point.

You risk another fleeting glance. He doesn't move very much at the breakfast table. In fact, you're never sure if he's actually awake or not. Sniper's never been much of a morning person. He just sits there with that mug of revolting mud he calls coffee, the heel of one hand stuck under his cheekbone and his elbow on the table, slumped to one side like a pile of hastily dropped planks. Whether his eyes are open or shut is a mystery since the light hits the surface of his aviators just so, turning them opaque. Regardless, he remains still and unaffected by whatever is occurring around him; a sole, untouched apple in front of him the only breakfast he takes. Come to think of it, you never even see him take a mouthful out of that mug either. It's entirely possible that his body carries him here out of habit and goes through the motions of some form of morning routine until his awareness comes back online in its own good time.

Easier for you. There's no conversational exchange to get awkward about, no penetrating gaze that could spot the thinly veiled recollection behind your eyes. Being as far away from him as possible whilst still remaining in the same room does you just fine. There's always enough chaos going on around you to cloak the awkward way you sit, the way your hands shake ever so slightly as you reach for the butter, and the flush in your face that you just know is there because you can feel its betraying heat.

The night after the dream, you had resolved to fix the problem that you should have solved before. At that point you couldn't have given two shits if Spy had been in the room. You were going to do it efficiently and effectively just to get your mind back on track so to hell with it if the Frenchman was lurking in the dark! You weren't going to give him much of a show anyway.

Problem was, halfway through, that track that you were desperately trying to get your mind back on to was nowhere to be found. Worse, you'd jack-knifed on to what could only be described as the erotic equivalent of the downward plummet of a rollercoaster. Before you knew it, an image had formed in your mind that had sealed your fate and overridden what you had been doing with your hands. The long, lean body, steel-cabled forearms, shark-like teeth, hawkish blue eyes and Antipodean growl belonged to one person and that same person was determinedly rutting against you with your ankles gripped in his large hands and his dick sliding along you in a heart-stopping, slick, sawing motion.

Your hands had flown from between your legs to clamp over your mouth in that age-old gesture of shock. The drenching dichotomy of algid stupefaction and sultry arousal had made your head spin... it was fortunate that you'd been lying down. Your body had screamed for you to continue, but your mind, aghast at what you had allowed it to generate, overrode the baser instincts and left you sleepless for yet another night. Sleepless and unfulfilled.

What you had hoped would banish the problem did nothing but exacerbate it. Two nights without adequate rest and a libido that had risen out of the depths of your sexual purgatory like a rampaging leviathan began to fray the edges of your sanity.

Standing outside the mess for fifteen minutes at breakfast time, taking one step back and forth in an abbreviated parody of a dance, did little to calm your nerves. You debated endlessly on how to avoid giving anything away that would suggest you had developed a carnal proclivity for a six-foot, lanky bushman. Simply having your trousers on and not pinning him to the ground with your hips wasn't sufficient. You thought about how you should walk into the room: briskly or casually? Whether you should talk more than normal to distract people or keep quiet to avoid blurting something out. If you should eat fast and get out of there, claiming chores, or linger to show there was nothing amiss... nothing that had the power to make you bolt. The more you thought about it, the more you realised that there were so many factors to consider in this charade... so many that you started to panic and wondered if skipping breakfast altogether was the wiser course of action.

That was when someone behind you cleared their throat, making you jump a foot in the air and squawk like you'd been goosed. When you saw who it was, you lost the ability to use consonants so what came out of your mouth was little more than a sludge of inarticulate noise. It made the slight crease between his brows deepen but you didn't stick around lest he actually ask what you were doing. With luck you'd turned away fast enough to hide the rush of blood to your face from him, but you knew that if you went into that room, your crimson stained cheeks would be spotted... and undoubtedly remarked upon. It was a risk you just daren't take, so you scuttled off down the corridor, not looking back to see what Sniper's reaction was to your departure. You'd prefer to not know, quite frankly.

Your stomach rumbled dreadfully until the next meal, hating you for being a coward over nothing. For running.

The next morning you made sure you took breakfast an hour earlier than was your custom, just to avoid running into Sniper. It was easier... better... just to avoid as much contact with him as possible. 'Contact' wasn't really the right word. After all, he rarely spoke to you as it was. But then, he rarely spoke much to anyone, so you were hardly singled out for any form of special, disinterested treatment. Up until that fateful dream, you would have sworn that you saw him almost as rarely, but now it seems as if he is everywhere. Now, you've become sensitised to the smallest trace of his presence. At first, it was just the sight of him that had your insides knotting into a macramé of lust-tainted distress. Then it was the sound; the rare, low, southern-tinted vowels and dropped consonants that slipped insidiously into your ears. Finally it was the pulse-quickening scent of him that told you where he was and where he had been: sun and dust, metal and leather, far and away.

As each day ticks past, it grows harder and harder to hide your body's reaction. Making yourself scarce only worked for a short while. Your habits and routines are well known. That happened when you coexisted with others in close quarters.

A headache. Fatigue. Family worries. Just a bad day. Your excuses grow tired and stretched beyond their reach.

You cannot face anyone when there is a bacchanalia of such pulsing, lubricious depravity playing over and over in your mind... a relentless, honey-sweet mental fucking that never stops. That a part of you doesn't want to stop.

You've tried to overcome this hijacking of your imagination, but every time you surrendered to your body's hunger, it came with a side of Australian. Jesus, not even a side! It was a full fucking main course! Frustrated with the inefficacy of your self-pleasuring and backing away from your own imagination, you finally succumbed and just let the fantasy play out. It proved earth-shattering, and afterwards, panting and sweating in the dark, you prayed that no-one had heard your pillow-muffled cries as you came again and again. Some of the things you'd seen in your mind's eye you'd not thought possible, let alone having even done them before.

Your moan of despair encapsulated your confusion as to why this was happening to you, your shaking hands clamped to the sides of your face, the scent of your orgasm filling your nostrils and increasing the rush of blood to your cheeks. How could you even look at him now without curling up into a cringing ball of shame? It was intolerable to feel this way about a colleague, one who had never shown the slightest interest in you. At least if he had, you could rationalise all this on some level.

Late one night when you'd waited until the base grew quiet, you sought solitude in the rec room. Perhaps one of those dreadful black and white films would give enough distraction for you. You could lay slumped on the couch and let the sham drop, safe in the knowledge that no-one would be there to ask embarrassing, searching questions as to why your face went from white to red for no reason, why you were sweating when it wasn't hot, or why you shook so badly that you had to fidget constantly in order to hide it.

One foot inside the room and you realised that even this haven was lost to you. Curse him, he had even managed to insinuate himself here, where you'd thought to escape to - one long arm draped across the back of the worn couch, gangling legs stretched out in front of him. The television was playing some ambiguous team sport that involved a ball and burly guys crashing into each other. You didn't stay long enough to find out what sport it was, backing away a few steps and then turning to run straight into Spy, who clearly hadn't anticipated your about-face. One gloved hand clamped around your wrist as you shied away, stammering out a broken string of swear words.

"Leaving before you 'ave arrived?"

Your brain log-jammed and refused to offer up a response that didn't sound ludicrous.

Those calculating, icily-penetrating eyes flicked over your shoulder and saw what you were running from. They narrowed and returned to your face, the glint in the depths of them a search beam that pierced straight through your clumsy charade. You panicked. Say something! Anything!

"I think I left something on fire!" you bellowed abruptly and desperately, making Spy flinch back and let go of your wrist. You took your chance and shot past him like a rabbit bolting from a greyhound. But you knew it was too late. You'd given him more than enough to twist you around his calfskin-clad finger and make you do anything to keep your shame from the others. Even worse: he'd ferret out every shred of your secret with an indefatigable persistence. You might as well have scrawled a crude rendition of your dreams on the walls of the barracks and set off fireworks. Maybe you should do that. It'd get it over with far quicker than the agonising extortion Spy'll put you through; like a band-aid ripped off an eyeball a millimeter at at time.

But if there's one thing Spy knows how to do, it's draw out the pain into a torturous, red-tinged line that arcs across your throat. Fortunate that you are spared the icy bite of his balisong, but the forge-heated swedge of his silent taunting is just as deadly. Every hour that passes in the surety that he now knows what is knotting you into a frustrated skein of worry is an agony harmonised with the bittersweet threat that he will give voice to what you would have buried in the dark pit of oblivion. Or worse: hiss his unexpected discovery into the ear of the wrong person. There are times that you don't know which outcome is worse, and so you watch him closely to see if you can determine which way he will tip the scales.

You'd have more luck learning to fly than to know what Spy intends to do at any given moment. His façade is too polished, too opaque. You will never see beyond it, but try as you might, you cannot help but attempt it. The gentle smile you fancy you see on his face is his only comment on your futile effort. He knows he has you around the throat and he will take his time in squeezing those leather-shrouded fingers until you choke. He doesn't even need to look at you to tighten his grip. It's in the slope of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the languid way he lights his cigarette and breathes out the pearly souls of those he has destroyed with perception and deception.

And you will twist while you wait for the sword of Damocles to fall.

Now you cannot even seek relief in your own quarters. The paranoia... the nigh-on certainty that Spy is there, invisible and all-seeing, binds shackles made of cold terror around your wrists. Now there is no assuagement, no neap tide of the slithering, lascivious desire that sinks into and withdraws from your flesh, a bodiless lover that has locked you tightly in a coupling embrace.

There is no screen. No haven. No bolt hole.

Until you see the cupboard. You pause for a few seconds, torn between critically assessing its adequacy to your needs and disbelieving that you're at such a point of desperation that you'd even consider it. Biting the inside of your lip, you decide that it would be sufficient. It has the significant advantage of being so small that only you could fit in there. The pin-striped Frenchman was good, but his cloaking device couldn't pare his mass down to allow him to squeeze in with you: a definite plus. The cupboard is also away from main areas of activity: less chance of anyone seeing you slip in and slip out. It is also, as you discover when you open its doors, full of brooms and mops. You snort. No reason for any of the others to seek out the cupboard's contents. Their notions of cleaning were dubious at best, and broom handles made uninteresting weapons when compared to garden rakes, dead fish and frying pans.

It's good enough, and you have to do it now, lest you lose the opportunity. Just this once. It'll be enough to calm you down to some manageable level. Just to settle you. Yes. That's all.

It's awkward with your legs tangled amongst broom handles, but it's dark and quiet and you make do. Function over form. Treatment over titillation. The whole process has as little grace as it does eroticism, but you're not in there to play with fantasies - just to shut your libido up for five damn minutes!

At first you feel ridiculous: manipulating your way to orgasm while trying to fend off a mop that keeps keeling over and flopping on to your head, but your brain and your body have bifurcated in their duties through pure necessity. So despite your exasperated battle with cleaning equipment, your free hand teases its fingers through soft wetness until the muscles in your legs tense and shake and your jaw clenches painfully to hold back the verbal exultation as you hit the peak. You spend longer in recovery than you did in the deed itself, but the flush of blood in your cheeks and the floating sensation of satiation is a sweet dessert that can't be spoiled by the smell of bleach and floor wax. It carries you through the remainder of your day with looser shoulders and an unfurrowed brow, your fervid little self-indulgence undetected.

And that has become the unexpected trouble. Because you can fiddle your way to fulfillment without anyone being any the wiser, you find yourself going back to that awkward cupboard with its teetering mops and dried-out cloths. It's just to get things under control, you tell yourself, revelling in the lie as you brace your feet against the inside of the cupboard, trapping the handles of those fidgety mops and brooms so you have both hands free to do whatever your body desires. And it seems your body has a lot of desires: perverse and bitter-sweet, rough and smooth, dominating and submissive. The complexity and range of your needs continues to expand with every clandestine visit to that wretched cupboard, but you cannot help yourself. This is no cure, but it's all you have, and now there is exasperation threaded through the satisfaction as you clamber in and out of this self-pleasuring addict's box once a day, day after day.

And it has made you careless, and too late you realise this as you scuttle away from your latest erotic gorging. The sharp sting that snaps across your left buttock first has you leaping like a startled animal, then gasping like a child caught in a blatant lie, to anger at the physical punishment. Scout and his damned slingshot! You vow you'll shove that y-shaped stick so far up his ass even Medic won't be able to remove it. You clap your hand to your butt to try and press the needlepoint of pain into numbness but your fingers collide with something cold and metal. Your fingers wrap around it awkwardly, the movement of the shaft sending a burning lightning bolt through the speared muscle, but you drag the thing out from your flesh and stare at it stupidly. You expected it to be one of Medic`s hypodermic needles, but it's a dart with a funny little red tuft at the top of it. It's the last thing you remember seeing as your legs turned to water and your vision to blackness, only distantly feeling the impact of your knees hitting the ground but very definitely the firm grip on the back of your shirt that stopped you from hitting the floor face first.

"Shit."

A cloying, spinning blackness enfolds you.

"... wouldn't listen to me when I…"

"... idea that we do this, so how can it be…"

"... funny, how the hell was I supposed to…"

"... insist that it's more complicated than it actually…"

"... say that you weren't suspicious…"

"... what you were thinking, so now we've…"

"... your problem to deal with…"

The voices rise and fall, in and out of your consciousness like flotsam on a heaving ocean wave, but it's the tickle of your own saliva leaking from your open mouth that pulls you from the darkness into a muzzy-headed nausea. You move to wipe the drool off your chin with the back of your hand and discover your arms are locked behind you. That snaps you into full awareness in a brutal instant, and you find yourself sat awkwardly on the floor, staring into the afternoon sun as it grapples its way through a dusty, smashed window. The panic, the sense of displacement, the rusted ache in your knees and the sickening roil of your stomach all work against you as you try to figure out precisely where you are. It takes a few moments to patch it all together: the wooden structure, the dessicated pieces of lucerne on the floor, the dust motes that swirl in the fingers of sunlight reaching towards you, the timber crate angled next to the window… just so. The old hay loft.

You freeze, shoulders tightening up around your ears. You know this place. It sits a short distance from the base, from where you were stuck in the rump with a tranq-dart like a dangerous animal. Why have you been brought here, trussed and drugged as if you would bolt? This isn't a case of being caught in an embarrassing moment and your little secret flayed open for everyone to peer at and ridicule. This is something far more ominous.

Without moving, you try to check if there's anyone else nearby, eyes swivelling from left to right as far as they can go. You stop breathing to try and hear for a sound, any sound, that would betray the presence of someone behind you. You know there had been at least two people near you at some point: the fragments of voices breaking into your stupor. You frown as you attempt to identify the owners, but the tranquilliser had flattened and dimmed the tones until only the words and cadence remained. However, the epithet muttered before you passed out has given one of the perpetrators away.

Slowly, ever so slowly, you try to pull your hands apart, to test the binding around your wrists, to see if there's the slightest chance you could twist and wriggle your way out of the rope wound around them.

"Don't bother. I'm pretty good at tyin' a knot."

You jump at Sniper's voice behind you, your muscles clenching into tight bundles that bounce you up off the planked floor and then back down to painfully roll over the puncture wound. It sends an ugly spark of hurt crackling its way up your spine that blooms into a throbbing headache.

"You seem to be pretty bad at untying them," you snap back, deciding that aggression is your better option than letting the jarring, acidic fear in the pit of your stomach leak into your voice. "What the fuck am I doing here?"

"It's as good a place as any," was the flat reply.

"For what?" you spit over your shoulder.

He chuckles at that, amused at your nasty tone which does little to stem your anger. "Askin' a few questions."

"Is that how you normally hold a conversation? By shooting someone in the rump with a tranq-dart?"

"I've been known to do that when somethin' I want keeps runnin' away from me."

That dashes ice water over your fury to leave the humiliation it hid raw and exposed. The admission was given calmly, with not a trace of guilt anywhere in it. The fine hairs on your arms stand up, and a prickle of uncertainty starts between your shoulder blades as you realise you're now even less keen to have him behind you where you can't see him. So you start to shuffle awkwardly on your behind to turn and face the unrepentant bastard but he drives his foot between your bound wrists and leans his weight down until your hands are pressed against the floor. It pulls you back and off-balance, making you yelp as your knuckles grind against the wooden planks. The jut of his knee is jammed up under the base of your skull, preventing you from both from keeling over backwards or tipping your head up and back to look at him.

"Eyes front, I think."

"Arsehole!" you hiss back at him through gritted teeth. "The second you untie me I'm going to punch you in the dick!"

"Can't imagine why I'd leave your hands bound," Sniper replies drily. "You've been acting a little strange lately. Makin' people suspicious. Suspicious enough to wonder what the problem is."

You clamp your mouth shut, nostrils flaring under the effort of your breathing and your pounding heart and aching head.

"All that shaking and sweating, Demo thought that perhaps you'd gotten yourself a filthy little habit that you couldn't keep under control."

That struck far too close to the truth and your stomach lurched.

"The doc didn't seem to think so. Said you'd been odd for a few weeks now. Seemed pretty close-mouthed about it though, like he knew somethin' but wasn't about to cough it up."

Oh god. Medic knew?

"So then Dell suggested it might be somethin' nastier." He bends slightly to bring his mouth closer to your ear, leg pressing more firmly into your back. "More insidious." He draws the sibilance out, making you shiver at the thrum of pleasure that his voice, so near, elicits. It's a shiver that sharpens your senses to the sound of him, the smell of him, the touch of him. "So we wanted to find out if you were feelin' a little… blue."

You blink rapidly at that, not sure what he's insinuating. 'I don't… uh…"

"It's just that we've been havin' a little trouble with infiltration lately, and given your little hiding spot, one might be tempted to thinkin' you're not what you seem."

Your brain latches on to what he's hinting at, relief flooding through you in a hot sluice of blood rush.

"You think I'm the BLU Spy?!" The laughter that erupts out of you is as much a pressure release of tension as it is amusement. "Ridiculous! Didn't you realise that was wrong when you shot me?"

"Yep."

You can`t make out from that singular word what he thinks of your derision, but he keeps his knee jammed into the back of your head. Implacable.

"Then untie me, you shit!' you shout, losing your temper and pushing back against his leg sharply.

"So you can go runnin' off again? I think not," Sniper replies mildly, taking his foot off the cords of rope between your wrists. "I'm a patient man. I can wait a long time if I have to, but I don't think you can outlast me. I've been trying to corner you but you just keep wrigglin' away like an eel. Now why would that be?"

"You're imagining things," you tell him, a little faster than would suggest innocence on your part.

You hear him crouch down behind you: fabric sliding against skin and the slight click of tendon over bone. "Am I now?" he asks softly, his breath brushing against the side of your neck.

The afternoon sun has dropped lower in the sky, sending its dusty claws through the shattered window and straight into your eyes, making you squint and turn your head to one side so the ear he whispered into moves away from his mouth. You know he knows. You can tell from the tone of his voice that he does. That fucking bastard Spy must have told him!

"What were y' doin' in that cupboard?"

"Nothing!" you respond with panic-borne alacrity that makes you wince and paints the word as the falsity it is, the one word that you'd been using over and over again for weeks to hide the truth from others. From him. From yourself.

The gentle, disbelieving laugh he holds behind his teeth skitters down your side in a twist and writhe of muscle, through nerve and flesh until it can go no further, curling your toes into an awkward, tight clench.

"So if I smelled y' hands, that'd be no problem, now, would it?"

Oh god. "No! No no no, don't do that!" The rapid staccato of denial fires out before you could stop it, and you struggle futilely against the rope bindings to get your guilty hands as far away from him as possible. Your shoulders bunch and turn to help you shuffle forward on your behind, the heels of your boots scraping ineffectually against the pitted wooden floor, but you don't manage to move even a hand-span before his leg swings over your shoulder to place his foot down between your thighs, bracing the inside of his calf against the front of your body. Your head is pushed off to the left with his knee lodged up under your jawline and digging painfully into the soft flesh. You try going into reverse. It frees your head from the jab of his knee but he grabs the bindings around your wrists and pulls your arms up until you squawk. Unyielding tendons and stubborn joints begin to shriek, so you bend forward, your exposed throat sliding down the fabric of his trousers until you can bend no further, the crook of your neck wedged against his leg. But still he keeps pulling your arms upwards, so you're forced to roll your shoulders back until the blades squeeze in towards each other, locking your arms out straight. You swear through clenched jaws, your body unable to move any farther forward and your shoulders past the point of their natural movement.

It feels like your eyes are bulging out of their sockets, and the pressure of his leg crushed into the base of your neck makes the blood trapped in your head throb in strangled vessels. A pity he's forced you so far forward; his leg is now out of the range of snapping teeth, but you're not sure even that would make him drop your arms. He's dealt with far worse, and many times over.

The floorboards under you creak slightly as he leans down, the brush of the tip of his nose along your fingers making you flinch as your dishonesty is finally ripped away. You scrunch your eyes shut and swear again, this time quietly and to yourself, wondering dimly how much of the blood in your face was from shame.

The warm huff of breath against your hands is the only warning you get. Your eyelids pop open and your jaw goes slack as something soft and moist entwines itself through your fingers. You suck in a ragged breath and make to sit up and get your hands away from his mouth, but he feels your weight shift and pulls your arms up another inch. Your wriggling stops dead, and you're struck dumb by the agony of your wrenched joints and protracted tendons. If he pulls your hands up any higher, you're sure something would snap, so you hold yourself as still as you can, tiny pants of breath through your nose that make your ribcage flutter like that of a mouse hiding in the grass. You will be still and quiet, you tell yourself. He knows just how to pull to make it hurt.

Now that he's ensured you'll not squirm, he goes back to stealing the furtive disgrace from your fingers, and the gentle, slick slide of his tongue on your skin is a cruel counterpoint to the barbed pain in your shoulders and the bee-sting in your rump where the bastard stuck you with the tranquilliser dart. He's thorough, not missing one digit, sampling them all, drawing them slowly and deeply into his mouth. The velvet touch gives way to the silken embrace of his mouth as he buries in each finger to the knuckle, a sucking ripple of muscle to drink every minute you spent in that godforsaken cupboard giving way to the feverish need in your body; the same vicious need that flares into life at the slip of his tongue over your skin. A gentle scrape of teeth reminds you that under his even-tempered, laid-back exterior, he's a killer. With bullet or blade, the result is the same, even if he has to wait for days in some cramped hiding spot. Patience is more than an art-form to him. It is a tool that he wields with impeccable skill and the graceful ease of one who has mastered it long ago. He's not naturally aggressive - at least, you don't believe so - but he can be prodded into some spectacularly frightening displays of rage and blood-thirst. So, you will be still and quiet. A mouse in the grass. Waiting for the hawk to pass.

He's tasted each finger, and you allow yourself a slightly larger breath to mark your relief.

"Ambidextrous. Interestin'."

Your arms are allowed to drop, finally, but the motion provides pain before release, the strangled yelp out of your mouth like that from a kicked dog. He keeps the rope that ties your wrists together held firmly, pulling your hands down to the floor so that you straighten up and back as he swings around to crouch behind you, bent knees just visible in your peripheral vision. The forearm of his free hand rests across one of them. Thumb and middle finger rub against each other slowly, the movement drawing your eyes. It's a gesture that speaks of patience and assessment.

"Now why would you be getting up to somethin' like that in a cupboard? Bit unusual, don't y' think?"

You say nothing, your teeth clenched tightly, the thump of blood in your cheeks so strong you're certain they'll bruise with the pressure of the humiliation of both your guilt and your body's traitorous reaction to how he sucked the shame off your fingers like a delicacy.

"I've heard some people like the thrill of nearly being caught in public doin' somethin' they shouldn't. Not really a very good idea in this place."

You hear him stand back up again.

"Perhaps you'd better to find somewhere else to quench that thirst."

A sharp thunk in front of you makes you shy back, and you squint your eyes against the setting sun to find a hunting knife stuck upright, tip buried deep into the wood, right between your feet. You stare at it, body cramped into tight knot, as you hear Sniper back away and walk unhurriedly down the wooden steps out into the approaching evening.

You wait a little longer to be sure he really has gone before you shuffle awkwardly along the floor, turning with a side-to-side rocking so that your bound hands are held to the knife's blade. And slowly, ever so slowly, you use the razor-sharp edge to chafe the rope free of your wrists. You cut yourself several times, unable to see the press of metal against fibre, shaking from relief and delayed rage.

Bastard son of a bitch! How dare he humiliate you in this way, drugging you and binding you like a rabid animal! Your rising fury rewards you with another slice into the flesh of your wrist, and the hot trickle of blood down your fingers tells you that this cut is deeper than the others. Instead of forcing caution into you, it goads you on, strengthening your indignation and firming your resolve to exact revenge.

The rope breaks abruptly, freeing your arms into a stinging ache as you bring your lacerated wrists up to your mouth. You suck angrily at the cuts in your skin, but the touch of your own tongue awakens that pulsing heat inside you again and you snatch your hands away from your face. The anger is as much at yourself as at him. It wasn't right that you should have been so aroused by his tongue winding around your fingers, but before you can stop yourself, you trail your fingertips across your lips, gently. You fancy that you can still smell that aroma of lust on them, despite how thoroughly Sniper had suckled the taste of your body off your fingers.

It had been your secret to keep! A delightful sordidness you could hold in your mind and fondle whenever it amused you to do so. You thought you'd been careful, but you realise now how cavalier your attitude had become the more you had pleasured yourself, the more frequently you had used your fantasy for that sweet, orgasmic rush. And a small part of you whispers, "You used him. His hands, his tongue, his teeth and, oh god, his cock. Never mind that it was only in your imagination. Never mind that it had started out as an inadvertent dream. You made him work your body like an insatiable deviant because you wanted to. Because you wanted it. Because you want him."

And he knew. Whether Spy had whispered in his ear, or he had guessed it himself, to have been waiting for you to come out of that cupboard, tranquilliser gun at the ready, he must have known. The suspicions of infiltration may have been true, but you realise now that he'd been putting himself directly in your path. You'd assumed that you'd just become hypersensitive to his presence around the base, but you wonder if he had been pre-empting where you'd go. Deliberately letting you see him: a calculated, clever pursuit that you never recognised because he knew how to lure a skittish animal closer. It had never made you feel chased even though you had run from him.

The tip of your tongue brushes against the pads of your fingers lightly, seeking the taste of his mouth.

He'd said he'd been trying to corner you but you just kept wriggling away. He'd suspected your use of the cupboard was questionable, otherwise he wouldn't have smelled your hands.

You slide your fingers into your mouth, a tingling warmth fluttering towards a blazing fire between your thighs.

He'd said he wanted you. You remember the words now. Not what he wanted you for, but still. And he'd offered himself as an alternative to hand-fucking yourself in a cupboard. Not outright, but the phrasing he used hinted at it and the knife in the floor was an intriguing metaphor that underlined the inference. Had he opened the door for you to use him in reality the way you used him in your mind? He'd hunted you so slyly, edging closer and closer until he could strike. Holding you just long enough to make you feel ensnared before letting you go. Because he knew that the best way to seduce you was to make you come after him.

Your hand wraps tightly around the hilt of the hunting knife, and you jerk the blade out of the wood with a sharp pull and a spray of splinters. You realise that you don't care about how you've been manipulated. You're going to step right into the trap willingly and draw the predator closer to his prey, because you want to feel what it's like to be consumed in wanton hunger, to experience the primal rush of being conquered, to lose yourself in a savage physical need.

You stagger to your feet clumsily, adrenaline and tranquilliser combining in a swirl of unsteadiness, the nasty ink-cloud of your headache making your eyes water.

Yes, you want to seize this chance at erotic domination, a chance you've never had before even though you've wished for it again and again over the years. You were disappointed every time, your bedmates woefully inadequate to the task, ineffective if not simply brutal. They'd never understood what you needed even when you'd gathered the courage to tell them.

It was possible that your imagination and reality just couldn't be reconciled, but you are so starved of sexual sustenance that you will risk it, hoping that he desires you the same way you do him. The dream may have been the first time you were aware of the potential, but given its stranglehold on you, its power that no other sordid dream managed to wield over you, you surmise there had been something buried deeper inside you. A hook, piercing slowly and inexorably into and through the mouth of your lust.

But you won't go to him like this, stinking of sweat and fear and fury, and if the position of the sun out of the shattered window tells true, you don't have much time. Until recently, his habits and routines were well known to you. That happened when you coexisted with others in close quarters. Prey you might be, but you know how to turn his methods against him now.

So it seems like no time at all between you leaving the hay loft and lying in wait for him. You moved as fast as you could but your knees, bruised black from your surrender to the tranquilliser, screamed their pain the entire way from the hay loft to the base to the van. It kept you focussed and cautious - you will not make a mistake this time. There is even a way for you to back out should you have read the situation wrong.

It is lucky that the van has a ladder set onto the back of it, because even without the busted up knees, the wrenched shoulder joints and shaking muscles you would have struggled to get on to the vehicle's roof in the failing light. You had little time to wonder why there was a clean patch in the dust caked on the metal before the daylight merged into twilight. You settle down and wait, body pressed to the metal still warm from the sun's hours-long touch, the dampness from your rushed shower having soaked into your clothes and turning cool on your back. You watch, and listen, tensed, as the minutes tick past and the night deepens, enshrouding you… a faithful accomplice.

It is hard to tell how long it is until you hear the crunch of boots on parched earth. You flatten yourself against the roof, trusting that the angle of Sniper's approach and the night will hide you for long enough. His silhouette slides around the corner of the boulder that blocks the base from your view. You knew he never slept through the night there, preferring to retreat to this clapped out refuge on wheels, and the isolation is perfect for your plan.

He's carrying his rifle across his shoulder, head tipped toward the ground making it even less likely that he'll spot you. You bare your teeth in recognition of your fortune, a surge of anticipation at the potential for either success or discovery… either will do because you intend the outcome to be the same.

You remain still as he reaches the van, slowing your breathing lest he hear even the slightest suspicious sound and watching him through squinted eyes as he opens the door and steps inside. The van`s suspension shifts with a squeak, making you tighten your grip reflexively on the roof`s edge. Sounds of movement within, but the door remains open, and a light is turned on to spill out in a rectangle on the dirt.

Your instinct tells you to wait.

So you remain motionless until he reappears, divested of hat, jacket and aviators, kukri held loosely in one hand and the other raising an unlit cigarette to his mouth. The body of the van shifts again as he sits in the doorway, laying the weapon across his knees so he can strike a match.

You stare at the back of Sniper's head as he lifts the kukri to look along the blade, checking for nicks and scratches, running his thumbnail along a deep scrape in the metal. You don't often see him bareheaded, but when you do, you always wonder why he keeps his hair that length: enough to allow a very firm grip, and you didn't hesitate to incorporate it into your salacious fantasies.

It's intoxicating to be able to catch him this unaware, lost in the mundanity of his evening routine, and as he draws a whetstone along the profaned metal edge, you let your eyes travel down the back of his neck, along his broad shoulders and down to his forearms, the muscles tensing and relaxing as he sharpens his blade. You shake you head slightly, finding this all too much like a heady mixture of foreplay and voyeurism, and it's then you realise that you can see your own reflection in the flat of the blade. Sniper only needs to shift his gaze an inch and he'll be staring right at you. Alarmed at this, you shift your body to scoot back from the edge but you're betrayed by a hollow 'bnk' as the roof flexes with your weight. You freeze.

Sniper just lets out a sigh and rubs his thumb against his forehead in a weary gesture that matches his voice. "Not tonight, Spy. I aint in the mood."

"And what are you in the mood for?"

Your voice is an electrified jab that unseats him, spinning around to face you as you peer over the edge of the roof at him. The anger on his face gives way rapidly to suspicion, mouth clamped tight and eyes narrowed, one hand wrapped around handle of the kukri, half-smoked cigarette lying abandoned on the packed dirt. Little reason for stealth now, so you slide down off the roof and land heavily, trying not to wince or wobble as the impact slams through your bruised knees.

"You don't look very happy to see me," you point out in sarcastic understatement. "I can't imagine why."

"You know very well the reason why," he growls, like a dog warning another to stay back.

"Yes, I think it's time we had a little chat about that," you announce, planting your fists on your hips, undaunted by the threat in Sniper's voice

He actually bares his teeth at you, canines catching the light and giving him a feral cast to his features. "I said everything I had to say."

"And quite the monologue it was," you forge on, spurred by a backdraft of your anger at his lack of remorse. "Seems a bit unfair that I'm not allowed a rebuttal of any kind."

"Go away," he tells you, stony-faced, eyes narrowing to slits and a flush of colour across his cheekbones.

"But I have something for you," you roll on with a disingenuous innocence but there's a sneaking suspicion growing in you as you see the redness in his face deepen.

"Fuck. Off."

This seems overly aggressive on his part, and coupled with the stiffness in his body and the white-knuckled grip on the kukri, you start to experience a moment of doubt. You blink a couple of times. "Are you embarrassed?" you ask in a tone of faint disbelief. That didn't make any sense to you. He evinced not a trace of shame earlier, but now you can definitely see he's uncomfortable and trying to cover it. What the hell is going on here?

"I don't want you anywhere near me," Sniper mutters, raising the kukri to point at you in emphasis.

You goggle at that. "Why? Flustered I caught you polishing your weapon?" you fire back facetiously, which turns out to be a very bad idea because before you can jump back, you see Sniper swing his arm in a blurring arc. There's only enough time to turn your body away from the incoming blow before the flat of the kukri's blade smacks against your ribs. You stagger to one side, far more shocked than anything, but it's not even close to the astonishment you see pasted across his face.

The pieces fall into place. "You thought I was the Spy?" Unbelievable! And he has the gall to shrug slightly. "I told you I wasn't!" Your fury boils up like lava as the angry sting across your ribcage begins to flare. You pull the hunting knife out from the back of your belt and hurl it at his feet. It skitters across the dirt to rest against his boot, a sufficient distraction to allow you to bolt forward and sink your fist into his stomach before he can sidestep it - a shoulder-powered uppercut with the added force of your outrage behind it.

There is an incredibly satisfying whoosh of air out of Sniper`s mouth as he doubles over and hits the ground, knees first. You feel a perverse sense of justice in that, and not a shred of regret for the way he has to choke air into his lungs.

"I also told you then when I got loose I was going to punch you in the dick! Did you forget about that?"

"You missed," he hisses through clenched teeth, body curled over, one fist knotted into the front of his shirt.

"Well, stand up and let's have another crack at it!" you yell, indignant that he has the temerity to smart-mouth back at you after socking him in the guts.

"I wasn't lying about the infiltration," he tells you, trying to push himself upright so he can suck in more air past muscles that have locked themselves into spasm.

"And why the fuck would the BLU Spy be mooching around your van?" you ask. You shake your head rapidly as something occurs to you. "And why would he be disguised as me?"

Sniper sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "He likes to wind me up," he sighs. "I think he's more interested in aggravating Dell, though," he adds, wincing as he tries to straighten out his torso. "That's why Dell wanted me to dart you. He was so sure you were the BLU Spy." Another one of those slight shrugs. "I tried to tell him but you know what he's like when he gets stubborn."

"So you shot me in the arse anyway?!"

He actually has the gall to smile at that. "I never turn down the chance to practice marksmanship."

"Right, stand up so I can punch you in the dick," you order him in a flat tone.

"Nope. You had one chance and you blew it." He looks up at you with a lopsided grin. "Better luck next time."

You step forward to loom over him. "Oh, you think there's going to be a next time, do you?" you seethe through gritted teeth. Insouciant bastard, smiling up at you without an iota of guilt, those alarmingly blue eyes far too captivating for your own good, and you feel it in that moment: that teetering on a razor's edge of two outcomes, and Sniper`s given you the power to decide which one to take.

So you lean down, bringing your mouth oh so close to his, noting the way his lips part ever so slightly in anticipation of your touch, and you brush the tip of your nose against the side of his, baiting him to make that subtle shift that`ll make you commit. You feel him sit up off his heels just a fraction, and that is enough, and your mouth is on his.

There is warmth and fervour and exultation as you clutch at each other in a brief, acute surge of appetence, your nails dragging firmly down the sides of his face as if to mark him as decisively yours as the grip he has on the back of your neck claims you as his. Then before you know it, you're both rolling in the dirt like a pair of fighting cats, twisting and turning as one briefly gains the upper hand over the other, mouths still locked together. You know he's playing with you; his strength is far too great for you to overcome, but you give it your best shot anyway, the physical exertion only ramping up the sensual, electric spark that grows brighter the more your bodies touch. With an almost snakelike twist, he flips you on to your back and uses his full weight to stop you from squirming out from under him. You arch your back to press against him, and it's that insistence that makes him drag his mouth from yours.

"Not out here," he growls, and with a scuffle of dirt, you're pulled up from the ground and shoved firmly toward the van. You barely catch yourself from falling face first on the floor inside as the door slams shut behind you, metal reverberating throughout the vehicle. You turn to find Sniper with his back against the door, arms splayed crookedly out to the sides, his kukri now back in his hand. The dishevelled clothes, colour in his face, flared nostrils and mussed hair echo the way you've pictured him in your endless fantasies, and it makes you so hungry, so desperate for him that you are almost frozen in place, muscles locked tight in anticipation.

"I have to lock the door," he tells you. His brows draw together for a moment. "Not to keep you in. Just to… ah… keep others out." You tilt your head slightly in a silent question, but he ignores it, flicking the latch on the door and sliding the kukri carefully into a leather sheath mounted on the wall by the doorframe.

You turn to look at the inside of the van and are momentarily nonplussed to find it so spartan; almost sterile. There is surprisingly little in here that identifies the owner: no clutter, no personal effects, no discarded clothes, neither tchotchke nor trophy that even hints who sleeps here except for the knife by the door and the rifle resting in a bracket above it.

"What-?"

"Some people like to rummage through my belongings for… ammunition," he tells you in a low voice, threaded with threat. "I don't like that much."

"And what about people who are looking for something a bit more… physical?" you ask, turning your head slightly so you can see him in your periphery as he slides up behind you.

"That very much depends on who it is," he points out. "I'm not in the habit of givin' out personal invitations." You shudder as you feel his breath brush against the back of your neck.

"What if I told you I had a thirst I just don't know how to quench?"

He laughs at the way you've turned his metaphorical suggestion from earlier into a question that is clearly rhetorical, for you both now know for certain what each of you want.

"Then it would be rude of me not to see to that," Sniper points out, sliding the tip of his nose lightly along the arc of your ear.

"Polite host that you are," you reply with a blush of sarcasm through your gasp.

"Your obedient servant," he whispers in your ear, hands trailing up the sides of your thighs before hooking his fingers around your hips to pull you back and into the hard planes of his body.

You'll learn that he's a liar. There is little that is submissive or restrained in what he does. He is insubordinate and dominating in the most delicious and wanton ways. It's a discovery that unfolds the more his hands claim your body as his, the more his mouth tastes your skin, with each sharp nip of his teeth and insistent grind of his hips.

You think for a moment that he'll take you right here, standing in the campervan, your backside angled up to give him access to where you're desperate to have him go. He has one arm bound tight under your chest whilst the hand of the other snakes down between your legs, fingers pressing on you tightly through your trousers. A deep, angled scoop of his hips tilts you forward even more so that he can align the swell of his arousal right over that slick itch you've had for him for weeks now. That there are two layers of fabric between you doesn't prevent him from shamelessly and firmly thrusting himself against you, the rhythmic motion pushing you up onto your toes and tipping you off balance.

"I'm going to fall!" you gasp, clutching at his thighs, feeling the muscles tense and relax in waves.

The dark chuckle into the crook of your neck sends goosebumps down your arms. "I can pin you down, if you prefer. I can get deeper into you if you're lyin' down." The big, slow thrust he gives you leaves no doubt in your mind that his statement will be proven true.

There really aren't that many suitable surfaces available. You lift your gaze to the sleeping alcove above the driving cabin, a metal ladder leading up. You stare at the cramped space, wondering how on earth he sleeps in it. He would have to either fold himself up awkwardly or dangle his legs over the side.

"The bed's kind of... small," you point out, gasping as he sinks his teeth firmly into your neck. "Not much room to ...ah... move." Your breath catches as his hand slides up under your shirt to your breast to squeeze, palm kneading your flesh hungrily, fingers sliding and catching and tugging at the hardening peak through the material of your bra.

"Room enough, trust me" he assured, his teeth still worrying at you. "Besides, I thought you liked small spaces, and keepin' you contained while I fuck you is gonna be quite a challenge."

The verbal confirmation of his intentions ramps up your desire to an alarming degree. His use of the word "fuck" is deliciously coarse, grated out with a steely determination. This will be hard... rough... exhausting. He'll hold you down and plunge into you with the sustained fervour of an animal in rut. Your realisation of this is both exciting and galling.

"Hope you're not expecting me to lay there and just take it," you hiss at him, bucking back sharply to emphasise.

He uses his body to push you eagerly towards the metal ladder. "Perfect! The more you demand, the harder I'll get, so you just go ahead and yowl like a devil and give me everythin' you've got!"

The metal of the ladder is cool in your damp hands, and you're nudged firmly up the first two steps before his hands tighten around your hips.

"Not so fast, sweetness," he purrs up at you, his fingers unfastening your trousers and slipping inside. The slide of lightly-calloused skin over your abdomen makes the breath hitch in your chest, and your grip tightens on the ladder to steady you as he strips your lower body with determined efficiency. Palms stroke over your behind, the heat of his breath on your exposed skin making you shake. The tip of his nose trails over the small puncture wound from the tranq-dart, followed by the gentle brush of his mouth. You make a ridiculous cross between a yelp and a squeak as he sinks those sharp teeth into you, not hard enough to break the skin, but with enough pressure to clearly indicate how he intends to proceed. The flat, liquid swipe of his tongue goes some way to soothing the rasp of incisors and canines, swirling in complex patterns ever inwards, drawing a sigh from you as you lean forward onto the mattress in front of you, your hands grasping the sheets convulsively. You bury your face into the fabric to muffle your whimpers - you don't want him to know how easily he's able to affect you like this. You want at least the chance of challenging his domination of you. But the sheets smell so deliciously of him, having wrapped themselves around his body as he slept, cool cotton against hot flesh. You briefly wonder if he sleeps naked before the titillating notion is scrambled in your head. His long thumbs slide in parallel between your flesh, opening you gently to his attentions. Your whole body tenses in a pleasurable shock at the slither of tongue, suckle of mouth and scuff of stubble. He's greedy and voracious, nimble fingers working in seamless and agile unison with his mouth. He's unashamedly and loudly appreciative, the vibration of his growls shuddering into you through moist, engorged flesh, the hungry suck and lapping that reaches your ears is so blatant and carnal that you're forced to press your face into the mattress to hide your own cries of encouragement.

His voice is muffled as he pushes in deeper.

"Don't stifle it, gorgeous. I won't know if I'm doin' it right."

You fancy that you can hear the grin in his voice and you curse him silently as he burrows farther in, drinking the fresh excitement and searching for that spot that'll make your toes curl and your teeth clench. He takes his sweet time getting there, but when he does, you know you're not going to last much longer. Perhaps it's been too long since you took a lover. Perhaps you're easily pleased. Perhaps he's just that fucking good.

He uses the firm tip of his tongue to swirl around your clit before drawing it gently into his mouth and then releasing it, repeating this pulsing suckling in a steady rhythm, fingers spread wide over your buttocks. You can feel the start of your orgasm build and your hands scrabble for purchase on the bedsheets, anything to help anchor you so you can stop your legs from buckling as they shake and quiver. His mouth strays briefly to the soft skin of your inner thighs, scraping his teeth against you as if to take a deep bite of your flesh, saliva letting the sharp edges slide harmlessly over you, driving you faster towards a gratifying release. And just before your orgasm wrenches through you, he opens his mouth wide, tongue sliding over your clit to ripple in an upward motion, leaving him free to drink the slippery liquid that squeezes out of you as you come. You swear raggedly into the mattress, pressing back against his face, feeling the suck of his mouth as he ravenously feeds off your pleasure. It's not only your eagerness but his as well that draws your orgasm out into a long, shuddering convulsion that whitens your vision and dulls your hearing.

There is scant time for you to recover before Sniper pushes you farther up the ladder, hands on your hips to help steady you until you stretch out along the mattress. He shucks off his shirt before clambering up and sliding in behind you, his back to the wall of the van, pulling you up against him so you can feel the keen firmness of his body behind you. You sneak your arm around, trying to find the waistband of his trousers, but his fingers slip around your wrist and pluck your questing hand away.

"Ah ah ah, not yet," his whispers into your ear, nudging his knee between your thighs so your legs part, and dragging your shirt up and under your chin so he can turn his attention to your breasts. He scoops his fingers into your bra and coaxes out the soft plenty so it lies squeezed between the taut fabric and the pulled cotton of your shirt across your collarbones, framed and exposed for him to indulge in.

There is a delight in the way he works your breasts: slowly, firmly, savouring the weight of them in the palm of his hand, sliding the tips of his fingers over the nipples to keep them hard. He answers the squeeze of your thighs against the leg he has between the both of yours with a grind of his hips, making your back arch as you push your breasts into his grip and your behind against the firm length of his cock still trapped in his trousers.

"You've been a terrible distraction lately," he whispers in your ear as he slides his hand down the front of your body. "Messin' up my aim, and I can't have that. I take my job very seriously, and havin' my attention wander isn't very professional." Long, firm fingers slip between your thighs. "I'd much rather deal with a hard on when I'm not blowing people's brains out but I've been forced to take some quite drastic measures to save myself from embarrassment." Sniper draws the length of his middle finger up and along your clit, making you moan. "If I get caught with my hand down my pants at the end of a mission, what will people think of me?" Back and forth his finger slides, languid and smooth, as you rock your hips to the same rhythm, relishing the way your buttocks stroke against his cock. You reach back and grasp the hair at the back of his head, damp and soft and the perfect length for you to grip and pull. He bites your neck in response, sending a tingling flush through your body, nipples tautening again. The gentle sweep of his finger makes you writhe and pant, thighs squeezing in against the leg he still has between yours, stopping you from clamping his hand even more tightly to you. "I've lost count of the ways I've imagined fucking you," he breathes along your throat. "So many ideas you've given me I don't know where to begin."

"Don't rush on my account," you gasp in response.

That low, gentle laugh makes your muscles flex. "Don't you worry about that." He rolls on to his back, pulling you on top of him, both knees between yours so he can hold your legs wide open and sink his fingers into you. They slide in so nicely, deep and slow, in and out. "I'm a man that likes to take his time."

You rest your head back on his shoulder, your mouth right by his ear. "Take anything you want," you whisper, and run your tongue along his earlobe before biting down firmly as his fingers slither out of your cunt and over the tightness lower down.

"You sure about that?" he asks, pressing down lightly.

"Oh god, yes!" you tell him, fractionally losing control at the thought of him fucking your ass, hot and tight and hard, one of your dirtier fantasies coming to life in a shivering rush.

"Greedy little vixen!" he admonishes you. "It's okay to say no. I'm adaptable." As if to illustrate his point, he returns his slicked fingers back inside you while his other hand brushes fingertips in a curious beat against your clit that makes your legs shake; curious until you make the connection: it's the same gesture he uses to roll a bullet through his fingers and into the chamber of his rifle, muscle memory burned into his hand. You wonder which application preceded the other, but coherence is leaking out of you as Sniper's fingers flow over and into you, the fantasies he's had that mirror your own murmured into your ear and under the panting of your breath as you writhe in his grasp, until you arch in sleek, creamy orgasm a second time, barely able to hold in the verbal exultation behind clenched teeth. He waits a few seconds before drawing his fingers out of you and up into his mouth, a groan of appreciation thrumming through him.

"Richer than honey," he tells you with a self-satisfied tone that both irks and pleases you. "And I have quite a sweet tooth." He turns his body so you slide off him and back on to the mattress, face almost pressed against the front wall of the van until he's positioned himself over you.

Your hands fumble eagerly at the waistband of his trousers, nearly tearing the button off in the process. His body is arched awkwardly over you, back pressed against the roof of the alcove and one forearm braced against the wall behind your head. You hear the deep intake of breath through his nose as you slide the zip down carefully and reach inside. Your fingers slip around him firmly as your other hand tugs the fabric aside so you can ease him out. Your touch makes the muscles in his abdomen tense and quiver, hips pushing forward slightly as the full length of him is freed. It's a sight that makes you glad he's already made you come twice, because you're not certain you'll be able to take him in completely. You know that not all tall men are well-endowed, that not all men with large hands and feet can boast such size in other areas, that a long nose doesn't equal a length for pleasure, but in his case the odds have proved very, very favourable in what he has to offer.

You savour the feel and the heat of him, sliding your grip from base the tip and back again, fingers running over satin flesh and throbbing vein, delighting in the way he groans as you do. His face is hidden from you, but the pant of breath by your ear, the slight rocking of his hips and the squeeze of his thighs against yours encourage you to explore what thrills him. Firm or soft, swift or slow… he accepts them all from your hands, teasing him, torturing him. You're fascinated with the way his body responds so willingly, swelling to a tightness that must surely border on pain. You smooth your fingertips over the head and through the ripe bead of liquid that slips from him, spreading it over the skin in a light, circling motion.

"Are you playing with me?" he growls into your ear as you trace your touch down the thick ridge on the underside of him.

"Yes," you reply smugly, encircling the base of his cock with your thumb and forefinger and squeezing it firmly.

"Good. Don`t stop," he hisses above you, and begins to thrust through your grip. Just a little, at first, enough for you to feel the shift of his skin against the rigid core underneath, but slowly… slowly pulling and pushing more and more until he is stroking all of his cock back and forth. You cannot take your eyes from it, this rare pleasuring of a man. Too often in the past your bedmates have been too eager to seize hold of themselves, wringing their grips back and forth almost mechanically over you, like a bully posturing over a victim. That always left you cold, that metaphorical power-play that always made you feel that you were little more than a visual aid to their own gratification. The few times you tried to edge their hands away, they either tolerated it for only a short time or refused to let go.

But Sniper lets you discover for yourself what he enjoys best, muttering appreciation under his breath and gasping when you surprise him with what you can do with your hands clasped around him.

When he shuffles back, you think perhaps you've brought him too clos, but his cock slides from your grip to rest heavily between your breasts, and you oblige, squeezing your upper arms towards each other so that your flesh provides a firm cradle. His fingers press down so he can keep the shaft deep between your breasts as he pushes his hips forward in sweeping arcs, rubbing deliciously against you.

The long, slippery thrusts between your breasts are exquisite. Hot and hard, you can feel the juicy tip of him nuzzling into the hollow at the base of your throat, so you raise your head off the pillow and open your mouth to suckle him in with each forward motion of his hips. The rhythmic squeak of the campervan's suspension blends sweetly with the wet slap of flesh, the suck and lap of tongue, the pant of spiralling need and guttural moans as he slides back and forth, the saliva from your mouth making the friction even smoother until he is groaning in pleasure. One hand slips behind your head, pushing gently but firmly so he can bury himself in deeper. The slight plead in his voice as the inability to fuck your mouth any more than an inch in becomes clear to him fuels your appetite. You desperately need your hands free to sink into the velvety slickness between your thighs, but they're busy squeezing in to crush the engorged thickness ramming back and forth with increasing cadence. Sight, sound, taste, sensation... all are converging in on you relentlessly. The pummeling thrust of his hips and spearing drive of his long cock is all you can see, muscles taut and straining, sweat running into the dark hair around the base of him, dampening it into locks.

You're pinned under him, and it's an illicit pleasure that you didn't realise you'd enjoy this much, but seeing how his body moves - fluid and eager - feeling the strong grip of his legs squeezing your ribs as he rides you, hearing the possessive growl that shudders up from his chest and out through clenched, bared, sharp teeth, tasting the fresh sweat and salty sweetness of his flesh in your mouth... it all makes you realise that this is a delectation you want an even larger portion of. And if you let him get much farther down this path, you're not sure he'll last past ploughing a furrow between your breasts. So it's time to assert yourself so that you'll know for sure you'll get every last hard inch far inside you again, and again, and again, until you wring him dry. You want him on his back, your hand on his throat to keep him down and snarling, his hands squeezing and kneading and stroking, his hips bucking and grinding under you as you stare right into his eyes as you fuck him. You want to hear him beg as your body consumes him... for more, for faster, for harder... you don't really care just as long as it's his voice begging.

You wrestle him off you and push him over on to his back, stripping his trousers off and casting them aside. Now you can run your hands and your gaze over his body, appreciating how his skin goes from dark to light along his arms and down his neck, trailing fingertips over scars and rises of muscle, following the flow of hair from his chest and towards his groin, hands sliding over sweat-beaded flesh, leading you to an oral worship of his cock.

While you use your mouth to keep him hard and eager, he uses his to keep you hungry and wet, crooning at you with an alarming dirtiness of words and promises and fantasies, inspiring you to swallow him down, "Yes, just like that, princess, let me fuck your mouth just… like… that" while your hands squeeze and roll his balls, tugging gently until he urges a firmer pull, harder than you think could bring pleasure but he arches readily under your mouth and your hands, bracing his feet against the mattress so he can push farther down your throat until you start to choke "yes, let me hear you choke on it, oh fuck, I`ve wanted you for months, just... like... this". His hands stroke through your hair, never forcing your head down, letting you decide how deep you`ll let his cock penetrate, how hard you suck along the length of him and how lightly you flutter your tongue against the blood-flushed head, lapping up those little beads of pre-cum hungrily.

The taste and the feel and the sound of him has slickened you afresh, so you drag your nails up along his body and brace your hands against his chest so you can straddle his hips. With your upper back pressed against the roof of the alcove, you can anchor yourself in place the same way he had, and you guide his glistening cock over your clit and hold it in place as you tilt your hips back and forth, stroking that delighted bud eagerly along the hot, taut peak of his arousal as his hands seize your hips, then your breasts, then your waist, changing his grip on your body as if debating whether to harness you or enflame you. Long fingers tease your nipples, grip your buttocks, slip into your mouth. Hips rock and rise and stir.

You stare defiantly into his eyes as you position him, breathing in deep for the pain-pleasure pierce of his body into yours when his hands tighten on your hips and hold you off him.

"Wait!" he tells you, and reaches down between the edge of the mattress and the wall of the van up near his head. You blink in surprise as he tears the edge of the foil square with his teeth, plucks the condom out and strokes it down over his cock in a swift and practiced motion. He smiles at your expression. "Pregnancy`s not very erotic, plus it helps me last longer," he explains, hand delving back again for a silver tube. He doesn't care about losing the lid amongst the sheets, squeezing out an almost ludicrous amount of blue-tinged lubricant into the palm of his hand. "And chafe's just a nuisance and you've got that look on your face that suggests you're gonna bang me 'til I'm empty." He slickens his cock thoroughly before drawing his palm from your tailbone to your clit, making you gasp as the cool tingle of the gel mixes with your own solution to an unpleasant abrasion. "Not that I'm complaining," Sniper adds huskily. "Aussie women are tigers in the sack so I'm used to being fucked flat out." You have to lean over him so you can lance him into you with a stinging stretch, gasping loudly as his thick fervour for your body sinks in deep and slow, making you grateful that he was so generous with the lube, your breasts brought close to his mouth. He doesn't hesitate to help himself to them with tongue and teeth, suckling greedily and firmly, sending arcs of raw pleasure from his mouth down to the succulent reaming of your cunt.

Your moans mix together in a harmony of shared pleasure as you take in more and more of him, right to the limit of your body, and there is still more of him to be swallowed up. You shift position again to that he doesn't slam painfully against your cervix, but this pulls your breasts away from his mouth. Now he can only hold his tongue out to accept the brush of nipples, tender from his vigorous feeding, as your breasts sway back and forth ripely, enticingly, while you fuck him. He slips a curling finger into your ass, testing how tight you are. He likes what he feels, thrusting his cock up into you as another finger slides inside, driving you crazy and making you cry out. Sniper wraps his free arm around you, pulling you down and away from the roof, mouth clamped on your breast, fingers churning in a smooth circle, cock pulsing as you devour it. You struggle against him, the delight from his body inside you and against you resonating in increasing waves, your fingers digging into the ropy muscles of his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, then winding around his throat firmly so you can push his head back and into the pillow.

"Is this what you wanted?" you hiss at him through clenched teeth, feeling the cords in his neck flex against your fingers, a glorious tingle running down your spine at having him underneath you, writhing. Just the way you wanted.

He laughs throatily at you, body working rhythmically in response. "If you have it, I want it," he admits. "But I think I'll make you take it my way."

You're lifted off him and pulled back underneath, face down into the mattress as he mounts you, your knees pushed up towards your shoulders, your wrists in his large, powerful hands.

"Trust me, angel, I'll make it softer than butter and smoother than silk," he breathes into your ear, and before he's even finished saying it, his cock slips into you again with a creamy and slow squeeze. You groan loudly as his girth stretches you, pushing out against the tense, slick muscle inside, a flush of tingling heat radiating outwards from the friction as he pumps his hips gently against you, body pressed against your back.

You pant from the way his hands tighten and pull with each lazy thrust, how his teeth latch firmly on to your neck and his abdomen tenses and releases against you. He keeps his pace even and steady, pushing in only as far as you can cope and making you oh so glad that he patiently groomed your body to swallow him up so eagerly.

You rock in unison, your body milking that delicious cock as it slides in and out, driving you mad with a hungry lust that urges you towards a spectacular release. You recall his words, ground out in that low, sultry voice, of his fantasies of how he fucked you, again and again, in every possible way, and you beg him to push faster and harder. He obliges, cadence and strength increasing, the slap of his body against yours getting louder and louder, the rock of the van becoming wilder. His weight shifts to one side as one hand releases your wrist and snakes under your body, fingers finding your silkily plump clit.

Your soft cries become louder as he rides you, fingertips sliding either side of that engorged bundle of delighted nerves and tugging outwards lightly, showing you that he knows how to tease and pleasure your body just as skillfully as his own.

You press your palms flat against the wall of the alcove so you can buck back wildly against him and along him as he hisses in your ear, sending you crazy with words filthy and sensual, tongue sliding over your skin and teeth marking you as his. The wave inside you begins to swell and despite your struggle under him, he refuses to match your increasing rhythm, forcing you to slow and match his firm thrusts into your body. It keeps you dangling just out of reach of your orgasm, and he knows this, laughing cruelly against your neck, fingertips wanking you mercilessly until you curse him loudly and raggedly. You're drowning in the sensations his body pumps into you, yowling like a cat in heat until he takes pity on you and starts to pound harder, hoisting your hips up higher, fingertips scooping up as much wetness as they can gather to spread up from where his cock pierces into you, slicking over your ass firmly, pressing down in a pulsing push against that tight ring of muscle, matching the pace of his masterful fucking of your juicy, lush cunt. His fingers squeeze past that clasping barrier, plunging steadily and determinedly, scissoring apart gently and sending your body into a feverish throb as he readies you to accept the hot width and length of him. The electric surge in your stomach begins to swell stronger and higher, and the choke of your orgasm just begins to bite as Sniper slides his cock out of your cunt and into your ass with one smooth, slow, firm drive, all the way to the thick, hard base as you shriek in pleasure at how completely he fills you. In and out, in and out… that glorious spear he's been wanting to impale you with thrusting unrelentingly in his carnal domination of your body. The sharp smack of his hips against your buttocks is almost drowned out by his snarl, his balls slapping against your clit repeatedly until they draw up tightly against his body. He drives into you for a few more ecstasy-drenched seconds before the cum surges out of him in long, luscious beats. You cry out in your own frenzy, the pressure of him deep in your ass squeezing out your own fluids in eager pulses as you continue to greedily stroke him with your body until you orgasm again with an earth-shattering intensity, grinding your hips in a circular motion to feel the throbbing length of him churn inside you. And wonder of wonders, you feel him come a second time in strong, thumping pulsations, his fingers on either side of your clit pressing in toward each other, rubbing firmly and slowly until your entire body shakes and your voice draws out into a crude expletive.

You both lay there, his body moulded to yours, slickened and shiny with sweat and exhaustion, shuddering with aftershocks until he slides his hand out from between your thighs and takes some of his own weight on his elbows.

"Princess, you gotta relax or I'm never gonna get out," he sighs between pants, easing his way out of your body slowly as you groan with the sensation of his still-hard cock slipping reluctantly out of that taut muscle's grip. The sweat on your body turns cool as you hear him climb down out of the alcove, and you can finally stretch out your legs behind you gingerly. The adrenaline rush is wearing off and now your bruised knees are starting up their buzz-saw of pain, the strained tendons in your shoulders and the knife slap across your ribs joining in the concert of distress.

You wonder if you drifted off into an near-sleep of insensibility when a nudge at your elbow brings you around again.

"Here." A steel cup of water is proffered, and you take it gratefully. The water is not cold, but you drink it down to the last drop.

"More?" you croak, hopeful.

Sniper grins lopsidedly at you. "Water, or fucking?" He doesn't wait for your answer, turning back towards the small sink, the light in the van running down and along the perspiration covered planes of his lean body. When he brings the refilled cup back to you, there is a dampened cloth in his other hand, and while you drink again, he runs the cool material over and down your body, all the way to your heels and then back up to dip gently between your thighs and up to your tailbone. It is an incongruously intimate gesture, and one no lover of yours has ever thought to make. Usually you were lucky if your partner bothered to allow you enough room in the bed to not be left lying on a cum-soaked twist of sheet.

You watch him through narrowed eyes as he tends to his own thirst out of a slightly dented canteen, leaning with one hand on the edge of the sink, head tipped and eyes closed, drinking deeply. You notice the small crescent scratches in his neck from your fingernails, the red marks where your knuckles drove up into his stomach, just near the line of his ribs. Here and there, the pale scar from a knife or sharp claw or keen rock breaks across the lines of his muscles, curious details that intrigue you as much as the ease with which he stands, naked and unconcerned at your stare.

"Who was she?"

Sniper lowers the canteen, its lid clinking back against the metal, his head turning toward you. His hair is stuck up ludicrously on one side, giving him a quizzical look that flavours the steadiness of his blue gaze into a question of his own.

Your lips press together as you try to find a way to phrase what you're really asking: how did he learn to fuck a woman like that? Men fucked however they liked to. You'd not come across anyone who thought of you first, who knew a way to satisfy both you and himself in a way that left you both in a pleasurable exhaustion, that didn't wheedle their way out of any concern for you past blowing their load either on you or in you.

His hands were too knowledgeable, his mouth too accurate, his endurance too certain, his voice too well-honed into a weapon.

"Who taught you to fuck like that?"

Sniper's smile goes all the way past his canines. "How d'you know I'm not a natural-born sex god?" he quips before raising the canteen back up to his mouth, drinking long and slow, body facing you so you can get a completely unhindered view as if to underline his nonchalant riposte to your curiosity, cock still an eyeful and capable of filling other places more than adequately even after fucking you into oblivion.

Your scowl, when he sees it, just makes him laugh. Curse him if that doesn't make you want him to fuck you again!

"Friend of a friend of the family," he says, relenting, returning your gaze calmly. "Owned a sheep ranch a few hours away from my parents. Widower. Said she needed help during the breeding season, so I jackerooed for her for a few months. She liked the way I rode." He catches your expression. "Horses, filth merchant!" he corrects you pointedly and then shrugs. "She said a good horse rider was usually a good fucker so she taught me how to ride her exactly how she liked it. What nineteen year-old'd say no to that?"

He puts down the canteen and runs the tap so he can splash water onto his face and down his neck. "Turns out it's how a lot of women like to be fucked," he reveals, raking his damp fingers through his hair to flatten it. "I still pick up a new thing now and then," he admits, running the pad of his middle finger over the tip of his tongue in a blatant gesture. "Keeps it interestin', but… ah… should you wish to to take the reins, I'm as weak as a kitten in the mornings." He turns his hips so his long cock sways heavily from side to side. "Well, most of me is." You can't help but shake your head at his blithe smugness, but you know you'll be riding him with ferocious abandon before the sun even rises.

Sniper looks at his watch. "But it's a few hours til dawn, and I still have a hunger to get my mouth on that sweet, juicy peach of yours," he confesses almost apologetically.

And it's as you lay back, your hips clasped and lifted in his large hands, his nose nuzzling your clit and his tongue plunging deep, deep inside that you realise that this was how it all began, except this time, it's no dream.