The Cook leaned against the white bathroom counter, hiccupping with the tail end of sobs, her back to the wall mirror. She'd pushed her glasses off and they lay on the counter beside her, speckled with tears. Goddamn it, she thought, how the hell am I going to get my job done under these conditions? And what the hell is wrong with me that I'm reacting this strongly? She'd been in a handful of kitchens with men who ranged from mildly insinuating to men who'd humped her whenever she'd bent over to pick anything up. She'd had fist fights over it without running like this, like a child running from the monster in the closet.
She ground the heels of her hands into her eyes with a growl of frustration. It was hard enough working with this many men without being so easy to upset. They would be on her like wolves and she'd all but put up a sign. Masochist. Here.
Every time she let that part of herself emerge, it destroyed her life. A drink, two drinks, she'd relax enough to let go, and she'd find herself picking fights with strangers, or people she knew, a flare of attraction from working closely with someone boiling over. She'd find herself begging them to hit her, putting their hands around her neck, daring them to fuck her. Men she'd supervised, women she was working with, people that she knew better than to touch: she wanted them to do something, anything, to reduce the pressure behind her eyes, the itch in her skin, the need to escape from herself, to fuck until she physically couldn't move. The next day, without fail, her job was ruined. Her relationship was over. Her friends weren't talking to her. The people at the bar she'd finally let herself visit were telling stories.
She was an urban legend in several cities by now.
It had been a year since she'd let herself get near anyone, let herself chance that destructive cycle. She could not believe she'd been stupid enough to hope that she could take this job, that the isolation and self-control would help her avoid another episode. As her hiccups died down, she leaned against the counter, cradling her throbbing head. Maybe, she thought, if I just go immediately to bed every night and cry hysterically, I can avoid doing something really stupid. Maybe I can avoid doing someone really stupid.
"Miss? Miss Cook?" Someone knocked gently on the door.
"Go away." She couldn't stand to look at any of them, to have to see them lose respect for her. If they had any left, she thought darkly.
"Cook, it's just me. Engie." He leaned gently against the door, staring at the wood. The Engineer could hear faint hiccups from the other side of the door—it was clear she'd been crying. Her voice was thick and breathy.
"What do you want, Engie?" She scrubbed her glasses with the tails of her flannel, smearing tears across them with an annoyed grunt. The Cook reached for the towel and absently rubbed at the lenses, concentrating on the small task to avoid having to think about anything else.
"We should talk, Cook."
She froze for a moment, then responded. "I don't have anything to say."
"Well, I do, and you should really hear it."
The Cook glanced at herself in the mirror. Her face was red, her eyes were red, her hair was red, her lips were quivering and anyone seeing her would know she had been crying. "Go away."
"No, Miss, you really do need to hear this."
The Cook scrubbed the tears off her face with the towel. "Fine. Give me a minute." In the mirror, she looked at herself. "No," she murmured. "I can't let them see me this way."
"What was that, Miss?"
"I'll be out in a minute," she shrieked. In the mirror, she made her lip stop quivering. "I can be angry about this," she muttered, staring at herself in the mirror. "This is worth getting angry about. Goddamn it, have I really been lonely long enough to be such a fucking easy mark?"
When she opened the door, the Cook had worked herself into a fine rage. "What is so goddamn important, Engie?"
When the door opened, the room was full. Every single mercenary in the base was sitting on her bed, or rifling through her bureau, or sitting in her chair, or leaning against her wall. She spun on her heel, grabbing for the bathroom door. If the Engineer hadn't grabbed it with his metal hand, she would have slammed and locked it. She tugged at the doorknob helplessly, then kicked the Engineer in the shin when he wouldn't let go. He winced, but kept holding the door. She wound down under the collective stares of the men in her room, ruthlessly suppressing the urge to punch someone or have another bout of hysterics. When she got herself under control, she was left with rage.
"What do you want?" The Cook balled her hands into fists held flat at her side. Her shoulders squared, and she made herself stare around the room, daring someone to turn it into a fist fight. A small, rational part of her mind pointed out that even this, too, was masochistic, that even the smallest man in the room outweighed her by at least fifty pounds of muscle, and that if they took her up on it, she'd be in the hospital for months.
Some part of herself hoped they would, that they would save her from the lust that so closely followed being ashamed to look them in the eye.
"I think that, Vipere, is obvious." The Spy pushed off against the wall by her door. "I would rather be more subtle, but our friends Demo and Engie yelled until we all agreed to come talk like this." He sneered at them both, in turn.
"Miss Cook," the Engineer said, looking down at the top of her head, the part wandering the curve of her skull. "I told you we were lonely and there would be problems."
"Fräulein," the Medic interrupted, his arms folded across his chest, "your presence leaves us with a bit of a dilemma."
The Demo raised his hands in the air and dropped them. "Would yeh just ask the lassie already?"
"Miss Cook, what else would you want to do?" The Engineer shifted from foot to foot, then took a breath and made eye contact. "How much else might you want to do?"
The mercenaries in the room stilled, all eyes on the Cook. She paled, backing up until she hit the wall and fumbled behind her trying to get back to the bathroom. It was like one of those horrible nightmares—she'd come to work naked, in front of all the men she managed, and she had no idea until someone pointed it out and they all laughed. It was like every bad night in a kitchen, every night the men around her had turned, eerily as if of one mind, and tried to beat her authority down with harassment.
"What? You don't mean…. I can't." she said. Her breath caught in her throat. "This is not a good idea. This is a bad idea and I can't do this and you can't expect me to put up with because you don't understand and I have to work here and—" She realized she was babbling, hysteria rising with her voice, and shut her mouth hard, biting her tongue in her hurry.
"Miss, we kill each other for a living all day long. We can't age until the company lets us go. We're barely allowed into town, and we can't get to know anyone else because they'll notice we don't age. Do we look like a normal group of men? Does this look like a normal situation?" The Engineer raised his free hand in a shrug and looked around before his eyes settled back on hers.
The Cook started to hyperventilate, eyes wide and rolling around the room like a trapped animal.
"Ah, excellent. She's going to faint. This is the best approach." The Spy hissed at the Engineer. "A little wine, a touch of a push, and she would have been flat on her back."
"Let me through." The Medic pushed his way between the Demo and Engineer. "Fräu, you must breathe normally. Count with me. In-2-3-4 and out-2-3-4…."
The Cook slumped to the floor and put her head between her knees, fingers laced behind her head.
The Medic crouched down to rub circles between her shoulder blades. "In and out. It will pass."
"That's awful nice, Nursie," snorted the Engineer. "Don't let her see the saw until you get her in the surgery."
The Medic glared up at him, violence on his face, then looked down at the Cook's huddled form. "It will pass," he repeated gently. "Count the breaths."
When the Cook raised her face, it was the color of paper. "What, exactly, do you all want?"
The Sniper leaned forward from his seat on her bed. "You," he snarled, "screaming yourself hoarse."
The room spun for a moment, and she genuinely thought she might faint. It was a living nightmare. She was going to wake up any second to the alarm for her shift at …. She realized she couldn't remember her last shift. The Cook put her hands flat on the floor and stared at the concrete between her knees. She was awake and this was happening and she was about to make a complete idiot out of herself. She was about to make a complete idiot out of herself and she would be stuck with the consequences in front of that goddamn Spy.
And of course, she thought dully, this is a great time to be ridiculously, dripping wet. Sometimes, I really fucking hate myself. I hate every fucking thing about being a fucking masochist.
The Spy made a cutting gesture at the Sniper. "We have agreed to share. We have our own… interests…." He paused, looking down the blade of his nose at her. "You respond well enough, and it would not unduly interfere with your work."
The Medic's hand on her back stilled. "We are not all animals. Some of us will take the no. And the rest will learn to take it." He glared at the Sniper, who smiled nastily and turned to the Cook.
"She doesn't want to say no. Been lonely there, little Bird? It's hard to find—," he leaned forward on his knees from his seat on her bed, hooking two long fingers up in a come-hither, "good company."
The Cook could distantly feel another flush climbing her cheeks as the humiliation of her position sent another wave of warmth through her. Beside her, she felt the Medic lean in slightly, breath held. "I… fuck you!" The Cook stared at the Sniper. "Fuck you!"
He smirked and laced his fingers in on his knee. "That, little Bird, was a strong response to an innocent question. A bit telling, wasn't it?" Something about her, kneeling as she was on the floor, reminded him of that moment just before he released an arrow, the deer looking at him and waiting for the shaft.
The Engineer sighed. Both the Spy and the Sniper were behaving with the same predictable, stupid arrogance that made them nearly impossible to work with, and embarrassing to be seen with in public. The poor girl looking up at them all from the floor had no idea what was coming, or she would have pushed past them all and run out into the desert. Or at least have brought her knives with her.
"Well, Miss, the good news is that you don't have to stay. We can just tell the office we didn't like your cooking or something." The Engineer let go of the door. That poor girl was about to get fucked, and not, if the twitchy expression on the Sniper's face was any guide, gently. The Spy was equally intent, and the Engineer noticed with an irritated surge, appeared to be downright possessive. Neither of 'em is interested in the girl's opinion on the matter. Except, he thought, as a way to humiliate her further. He wished, not for the first time, both for the comfort of his wife and to be a few hundred miles away, on a wooden porch, watching the sun go down. But she was gone, and he was here, in the middle of nowhere, watching two grown men act like dogs with a bone. The Engineer sneered at them, then looked down and regretted it at the lost expression on her face. He wanted to wrap her up in a blanket and put her to bed.
He wanted to climb in with her, to get the chance to hold someone again. His eyes slid away from her, from the whole room.
The Spy chuckled. "And where, dear Engineer, would she get another offer like this?" The Engineer's response amused him—this one needed power, not a cuddle, and the man was probably thinking about his dead wife again. If he'd measured the woman on the floor correctly, she had very little experience and a great deal of frustration. Touchy, needy, and vulnerable, he thought, biting the corner of his lower lip to combat the trill of his nerves. How perfect.
"How are you feeling," the Medic asked her, watching the color start to come back to her face. She was still panting, he noticed with very nearly clinical dispassion, but slowly enough to permit consciousness. "We can leave."
"Oh no you don't," the Sniper said. "You can leave. I'm staying." He wanted to snarl at them all—he was not leaving, not while she crouched on the floor with that look on her face that made him want to tear her clothes off and make her keep crying.
"As will I," said the Spy. "I would hate for something awful to happen to our little Vipere." The thrumming tension in the Sniper was, as always, fascinating. The man looked as if he wanted to eat the girl, not just fuck her, and the Spy could not wait to watch the Bushman at work.
"Fräu, do you want us to go?" The Medic's voice was soft.
Her pulse jumped in her neck as she stared silently at the Sniper. She wanted to punch him right in his smug face. No, you don't, said the rational part of her brain. What you want to do is get down on your knees and beg for sex. Her entire body felt like it was on fire.
"Fräu, do you need us all to go?" The hand on her back was still gentle, and not helping her in the slightest, the warm circles adding yet another layer of prickling heat to the poisonous warmth under her skin. She was seconds from simply dropping to her hands and knees and begging, broken, for someone to do something. The Cook closed her eyes. No, she thought, I have at least a little pride. Or if not pride, I can at least be angry. Anger was a comfortable emotion, an emotion that she could use to keep herself off her knees.
"I need to talk to the Sniper." The Cook found herself estimating the number of steps it would take to get close enough to punch him in his smug mouth for being right and so goddamn happy about it.
"Very well. Out, everyone!" The room emptied and the Medic lingered in the door, staring at the Spy.
"You will bring her to the surgery later. Do not let the tier have his way."
"Of course, of course." The Spy waved a gloved hand absently at the Medic. "Go." The girl was left standing, uncertain, beside her bathroom door, the tracks of tears on her face and her lips still swollen and red. She reached across herself as he watched, holding her arm with her other hand, every movement telegraphing uncertainty, even fear.
He was already hard, and, from the line of the Sniper's pants, he wasn't alone. The Spy smiled. This was his favorite game, this little game—the reluctant, inexperienced figure who wanted, needed him to hurt and to fuck and to make her scream.
When the door closed, the Cook jumped. The Spy, watching her, blinked slowly. Too late, he thought, for escape now. Now you're just prey.
The Spy let himself circle her, seemingly studying the walls of the room and circling closer to her. He sniffed, the role settling on him easily—tonight, he'd be displeased, even somewhat harsh, but still the voice of sweet reason compared to the Sniper. From the look on the Sniper's face, he was struggling not to jump on the girl and rip her clothes off.
"There is not much in the way of tools here, but our Vipere would probably die of shock if we played hard tonight."
"No, Sneak, this one can play hard. Can't you, little Bird?" The Sniper was careful, oh so careful, riding the line between the nearly manic desire to hear her scream and the knowledge that he had to maintain some distance, some barrier that would allow him to do just enough to make her get that lost, glossy-eyed look as she hung somewhere between agony and orgasm. It had been too long.
The Cook stood, rooted to the spot by the surprised fear of being so easily guessed and the poisonous stir of arousal. Goddamn him, the last year of celibacy, and her infernal curiosity—what were they like? What was at the end of all the tension she could feel, making the air snap and bite? She took a deep breath, staring at the Sniper.
The Sniper closed his eyes and took off his yellow shades, placing them on the nightstand, then patted the bed between his legs. "Here, little Bird," he said softly. "Come perch next to me."
Behind her, the Spy breathed on her neck, breaking her out in goose flesh. "Yes, Vipere, go to our Bête."
When the Cook finally moved, the Spy put his hands on her shoulders, guiding her—warm, firm, soporific. It was all she could do to remember that she was angry, furious. She was exposed, and whatever idiocy she got up to that night would make her life impossible.
"Good, Vipere." The Spy walked beside her, his voice a smooth, warm baritone.
As soon as she was close enough, her arm drew back to punch the Sniper in the face. She had to maintain something—some core of resistance, some backbone with which to push back against the urge to rip her clothes off and beg to be fucked. As the Cook started forward with the punch, which the Sniper didn't bother to dodge, the Spy clicked his tongue and bent her arms backward, pulling them hard.
"Bad Vipere. Naughty, naughty girl." This too, he knew, was a part of the game—she was struggling to put up resistance, struggling against the urge to submit, and they would crush it until there was nothing left but obedience, her body moving pliantly under their hands.
Over her shoulder, he looked down at the Sniper. "Whatever shall we do to our little wild thing?"
In response, the Sniper sat up slightly to draw his kukuri. "Why, we'll have to skin it, of course, to see where it keeps its claws."
In the Cook, something stirred and she snapped at the Sniper, teeth clacking together. Her heart pounded, breath stuttering in her chest. She wanted to bite, and to hurt, and to see if they could fight back, if they were good enough to be allowed to hurt her, self-possession dissolving under the urges she'd spent the last year denying.
The Spy, looking down at her as she snapped, was briefly startled. He would not have assumed she had the kind of instinctual, feral response she'd just shown. This woman, whoever she was, would make a good plaything for them both.
The Sniper slowly, teasingly, brought the kukuri forward, inviting her to slice herself against it as she struggled. The Cook watched the tip as he laid it against the open vee of her shirt and shivered.
The Spy grinned over her shoulder at the Sniper. As always, the man did not disappoint: watching her snarling, snapping face grow calm as she realized the blade was there, and then seeing her shiver, feeling her body move, involuntarily, against his. For a dizzying moment, the Spy was not sure who he wanted to fuck more, the woman he was holding or the man in front of him.
"Shouldn't move, little Birdie," the Sniper said, "or we'll do a bit more skinning than we meant to."
The Cook stood up on her tiptoes to get away from the blade, stretched trembling against the Spy as the kukuri dipped and twisted, the blade sliding between button and hole. The button popped from her shirt and hit the concrete floor with a faint clink.
"That's one button," the Sniper teased. "What's under that skin of yours?"
Behind her, the Spy rubbed himself against her ass.
"Two buttons. The little Birdie wears pink lace. How adorable."
Again, the Spy rubbed himself against her.
"Three buttons. Sneak, do you think she's wet?"
A chuckle ghosted past her ear. "If not, she will be."
"Four buttons. The shirt is almost gone."
The Cook's eyes opened wide, white showing all around her irises, her skin tingling with an arousal that was almost terror.
"You'll make her faint, Bête." The Spy's tone was slyly scolding, a game the Sniper recognized with amusement: naughty, naughty. Mustn't do it, bad boy.
"Not this one," the Sniper responded. "She won't faint, but she will be nice and woozy." Her breath was loud and ragged, a cornered, feral sound.
"Last button, and let's see what's under her skin."
The Sniper used the kukuri to nudge aside the edges of her skirt and traced the edges of her breasts. "Look at those pretty things. I believe I'll play her make our Birdie sing."
"Unless, of course, she wants us to stop, Bête. Do you, Vipere? Do you want this to stop?"
The Cook made a whining noise in the back of her throat. "No," she whispered, watching the glittering tip of the blade, a small nick near the top promising pain. She could hear herself panting, trapped against the warm wall of the Spy's chest, could feel the Spy's smug enjoyment. A small part of her wondered how they looked, what someone watching would think. She wondered what the rest of the mercenaries were doing, how this would end, how far they would take it. She shifted against the Spy, rubbing him, goading him to respond.
"Why Bête, I believe you were right about the Vipere." There was a mocking note of surprise in his voice.
"I see you grinding yourself against her there, Sneak. Don't get too excited yet."
"Fear not, Bête. I am not so easy, as you know." Anticipation curled through him, raising the hairs on his arms in a wave of electricity.
The Sniper laughed and grabbed the Cook's hips, pulling her forward. "Ah, but we haven't skinned our little Birdie yet. Shall we cut off these jeans, Sneak?" He could see the pleasure on his lover's face, the hunger stripping the man's need to be civilized away from him and making them mirrors of each other—the Spy clung to his effete, civilized façade as if it could save him from the bestial self the Sniper knew lay under his suit and the urbanity it represented. It was a slow seduction, stripping the civility from his lover in a contest that risked his wildness against his lover's need for control. The risk made it irresistible—the woman, as with any woman they shared, was merely bait.
"Too long, Bête." The Spy's breath was shallow, sharing the rhythm of the woman between them.
The Sniper deftly unhooked the button and pulled down the zipper of the Cook's jeans as she sagged in the Spy's arms.
"Vipere, Vipere," the Spy murmured in her ear. "You cannot escape now."
With several hard jerks, the Sniper pulled down jeans and underwear, yanking at her shoes and socks until the Cook stood mostly naked against the clothed Spy. She could feel her lips sliding against themselves between her legs, a warm tide that sapped the strength from her bones.
"I think I'll keep the bra," said Sniper, standing up. "I like a trophy."
He picked the kukuri up from the bed and carefully worked its tip between the Cook and the bra, then pulled back, nicking the Cook and cutting the bra in half. The Sniper stuck his free hand out, capturing the first well of blood between her breasts and smearing it on the exposed vee of his chest. "Let her go, Sneak, so we can finish skinning her."
The Spy pulled the bra down her arms and stepped back. The Cook stood shivering, arms restless at her sides.
"I believe, Bête, you wanted to go first?"
"I did. Come here, little Bird. Crawl over here." The Sniper sat down on the edge of the bed, long legs spread. Behind her, the Spy pressed her shoulders until she knelt down, and took her first hesitant crawl forward.
"Good Vipere." Beside her, the Spy kept pace, unbuttoning his vest and discarding it with a shrug. When she reached the Sniper, she sat back and waited. The Sniper grabbed the back of her hair, pressing her nose to the crotch of his jeans.
"Little Birdie," he crooned, "do you know any tricks?" He unzipped, arcing slightly off the bed to wriggle his jeans down. "Show me a trick, little Birdie, and I'll give you a treat."
The Sniper's cock stood long and straight, veins crawling up to a tapered head. The Cook's eyes unfocused and her head lolled as she imagined it inside her. The Sniper leaned forward and casually slapped her.
"Focus, little Birdie."
The Cook came up on her knees, and took his cock in her hands before sliding it into her mouth. Above her, the Spy leaned over to kiss the Sniper, who grabbed a handful of her hair and thrust at first shallowly into her mouth, then deeper, until he tapped the back of her throat. Taking a hard grip on her hair, he forced her head down on his cock. The Spy broke the kiss to look down at her, watching her flush and drool, watching her look up at them both. The sight of it—her red face, helpless, airless—the Spy struggled to remain watching, waiting for her reaction to add another layer of sensation.
"The little Vipere has her mouth full." The Spy could see the tension in his partner's body, could see how close the man was to orgasm.
"That she does. And…" The Sniper moaned before letting her pull her head back and breathe, gagging, "we're going to fill her up. Don't be shy, Sneak."
Above her, she heard a wry chuckle. "I do not intend to, Bête. It is just a pretty sight."
The Cook's cunt squeezed and she drew a shaky breath, the fear flipping from panic to arousal like a switch. The Spy's cock throbbed—that had been what he was waiting for, that little shaky breath that told him she was ready for more. "Pull her up further on the bed."
The Sniper hooked his arms under her armpits and pulled her on top of him, then turned her around to watch the Spy strip. The Spy smiled, a wicked, lazy expression, and slowly put his hands to his shirt, watching her respond. The crisp shirt opened button by button over a triangle of dark hair, and the long lines of his stomach. The Spy smoothed his hands over his chest, down to his crotch and cupped himself in his slacks before shrugging out of the shirt. He stepped out of his shoes and socks, then put his hands to his belt. At the sound of the tongue being pulled out of the leather, the Cook bit her lip.
No surprises there, the Spy thought. I've never met one that didn't. The Spy smiled again and tossed his belt at the Sniper. "We found one toy."
The Sniper's laughter shook the Cook cradled against his chest. "Who doesn't like a nice spank?" He rubbed himself against her. "Would you like that, little Birdie? Would you like us to give you a spanking for being such a wild little beastie?"
The Cook reached behind herself to stroke the Sniper, wordlessly, as the Spy stepped out of his pants. The Spy parted her legs, reaching in to run a finger along her lips. "I believe our little Vipere is wet," he said to his lover. "I'll entertain her a bit while you get undressed."
The Sniper pushed her off his chest and stood. As he stripped, the Spy grabbed the belt and pushed the Cook face down into the bed. "Ass up, Vipere."
When she complied, he snapped the belt together to watch her jump, a convulsive little movement that made him immediately think of pushing himself into her. It would be good, but better after she was bruised and oh-so-sensitive. "Bête, I believe I will take this first."
She shivered—knowing the belt was coming but unable to see when, her skin already flush with anticipation, tingling, the little hairs standing up, the anticipation of pleasure sending fluttering fingers through her.
The Sniper watched the Spy as he undressed, watched the man's pupils dilate, and his body yearning toward the figure on the bed, swept up in desire. The Sniper scooted around the bed in front of her, eyes on the Spy, the high flush on both the man's cheeks and the enraptured expression on his face. "I'll just keep her mouth entertained. If she does a bad job, I'll let you know."
"Ah yes, Bête," the Spy's voice was a soft sigh. "We must punish bad work."
As the Sniper slid his cock between her lips, the belt licked her ass the first time with a sharp crack and the Cook gasped, the pain flooding through her in tingling shards. She curled her fingers in the cotton sheets and arched her back, the cock in her mouth throbbing in sympathy. She froze, overwhelmed, the last year of aching, perfect need screaming in her head—more.
"Concentrate, Birdie, or we'll stop being so nice." The Sniper put one hand behind his head and wrapped the other in her hair, setting the rhythm. His gaze wandered down to the sweating, tangled mass of hair in his hand, the sight of her head moving and the wet, warm friction as her head bobbed. He forced himself to keep the rhythm slow and steady, to tease himself with her mouth.
At each snap of the belt, her ass turned redder and redder, and she started to writhe, trying to avoid the leather as it came down, the body's instinctive response to pain. The Sniper's hand on her hair kept her still, fingers tightening in delicious pressure against her scalp. She could feel herself, dripping with sweat and wet, and achingly empty—her whine was muffled by the cock in her mouth.
As his balls drew tight, she could feel Sniper starting to throb, the tiny little vibrations that told her he was seconds from orgasm. He pulled her head up, looking at her regretfully. "Oh very good little Bird, but I won't come yet."
Behind her, the Spy gave a particularly vicious strike and she finally started to cry, the tears stinging her eyes. The Sniper's eyes grew dark and he smiled down at her. "I'm going to enjoy fucking your bruised ass and making you cry again."
Her mouth was a wet oh of surprise, lips fat from friction, and the tears made his hand tighten again, wrapping her hair around it until she made a startled cry that he felt to him like a caress.
Over her head, he asked, "So how wet is she?"
The Cook felt the Spy's fingers stroke the outside of her lips and chased them, helplessly. "Very, Bête. You may go first."
Using her hair as a handle, the Sniper pulled her up and licked the cut on her chest, making it sting. She whimpered, eyes wide, the sound making him shiver. "Back up on your knees, little Bird. Sneak, get her hands."
The Spy was happy enough, the Sniper noticed wryly, to obey when it pleased him. He could see the man still struggling to keep a slow pace, not to simply push her down and fuck her violently. It pleased him, as it always pleased him, to see the Spy working so hard not to give in. The Sniper slid down, positioning himself so that he just touched her lips, that slick warmth just teasingly close.
The Spy knelt behind her, capturing her arms and pulling her elbows up painfully behind her, eliciting another of those breathy little noises. With a grunt, the Sniper rammed himself into her and the Spy pulled her arms back, bending her between them so that every thrust battered her g spot.
The Cook screamed as the Sniper set up a brutal rhythm, the wet smack of his hips against her inner thighs drowned in the sounds coming out of her throat. Every thrust stung against the welts on the ass and thighs, pushing against that irresistible spot hard enough to be pain, a drowning welter of sensations that made it impossible to do anything but scream, hoarsely. Her eyes rolled up, wide and wet, to the ceiling, and the Spy bent her back until her head was on his shoulder, lolling loosely as the muscles in her thighs worked atop the Sniper.
The Sniper ground his teeth, trying to hold his orgasm off just a little longer against the sound of the woman between them screaming, against the muscular contractions that were milking him senseless. "Oh fuck, Sneak," he panted. "You should feel her rippling against me. Hurt her some more."
The Spy pushed her head to the side with his and bit her, teeth grinding into the side of her neck as her eyes rolled up in the back of her head.
"Fucking Christ. Pull her back more when you do that."
The Spy pulled her, bowing her back until she nearly fell backward, and the Sniper sped up. The Cook made a gurgling noise and started a breathy moan. "Please please please please…."
"She begs. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck oh…" The Sniper gave one last thrust and dug his fingernails into her hips, shouting. "FUCK."
The feel of him spasming in her pushed her into an orgasm so hard she thought she would faint. Her cunt clamped down on him, the peak causing her to jerk in Spy's arms and cry out wordlessly as the ripples spread through her body.
The Spy was inches from orgasm himself, from the sight of the Sniper coming and the feel of the woman between them going limp. I was right, he thought. This one had definitely not had much experience, and by her exquisitely sensitive reaction, would be a lastingly fun little toy.
She slumped limply in Spy's arms as he chuckled. "My turn."
The Spy yanked up on her arms as she tried to get her shaky legs to bear up under her weight, watching her scrabble for balance, her breath sharp with pain. The Sniper slid out from under her to retake his place in front of her.
The Spy looked down the line of her body to the slick, deep red folds of her lips, swollen from the pounding she'd just gotten from the Sniper. He wanted to push her further, to make her make those pained little sounds while he was inside her, to feel her squirming mindlessly on top of him. "I've always liked the ass," he said, breathless in anticipation, "but we brought no lube. We'll have to plan better."
The Sniper looked at the Spy as the Spy grabbed the Cook's hips and pulled her to her knees. "I know how you are, Sneak." The man was nearly shaking with the desire to fuck her, and the Sniper had to admit, given her response to a simple spank and fuck, the idea was appealing.
He looked down at the Cook. "Clean me off."
The Cook, still shaking gently with aftershocks, found his fingers prying her mouth open and the familiar feel of his cock sliding into her mouth. Behind her, a pair of long fingers slid into her using Sniper's cum as lube and scissored gently, making the nerves protest and thrum.
She shook, still sensitive from the orgasm. "Oh, very good, Bête. She is bruised, and sensitive, and very, very wet."
"And me on my best behavior, Sneak. You have to break them in gently." The Sniper's eyelids fluttered shut, the warmth of her mouth right on the line between pain and pleasure on his over-sensitive cock. He forced his eyes open, to savor the sight of his partner pushing into the woman, the expression on the Spy's face when he finally got what he wanted from her.
The Spy's fingers were replaced by the blunt head of his cock and she moaned against the Sniper. The Sniper watched the Spy's face change as he slowly pushed himself into her, watched the man's face twist as his hips came forward. The noises she made as the Spy pushed himself inside her were a small, wet vibration that threatened to steal his breath entirely.
It took the Spy a moment of stillness to speak, voice strained with the need to move. "You were right, Bête. She does squeeze when you hurt her."
The Spy pulled himself out of her and jolted forward with a wet slap, forcing her head down on the Sniper, who shuddered with brief pain. So he's in that mood, the Sniper thought. Pain does the job just fine. He moaned once, raggedly, and the Spy's eyes snapped open, fixed on his face. The Spy shivered, then looked down and the woman between them.
"Does it hurt, Vipere? Good."
She froze between them, unable to think, unable to move, her mind empty of everything but the sensations pouring through her, every nerve in her body singing. The Sniper slapped the back of her head, jolting her into movement.
"Concentrate, Birdie," he growled.
The Cook sucked at him, tasting salt and sour and musk around his cock as it once again began to choke her. The Spy pounded her painfully, little shocks as his cock smashed into her and his hips met her bruises. She could feel herself dripping on the bed below her, saliva from her mouth and the cum from her cunt dripping little puddles on the bed. She felt herself tighten, muscles clutching at the Spy.
"Very, very good Vipere." The Spy gave a hoarse moan. "Bête, we will have to do this more. I cannot wait to stretch her out around us both."
In her mouth, the Sniper started to thrust, hands on either side of her face. "I wonder how loud we can make her be?"
"We could wake up the BLU in their base with this."
She could hear her pulse in her own ears, the feel of Sniper's cock sliding down her throat and Spy bruising her cunt. The Cook was suspended between them, eyes closed, body sparking, loud moans muffled by the Sniper's cock. With a shout, she felt the Spy come inside her, slowly bending down over her back with the force of his orgasm. The Spy reached underneath her, still twitching, and slid his fingers wetly around her clit, teasing it hard before pinching it. The Cook came, Sniper's cock down her throat, choking her, and the feel of Spy's cock still gently pulsing with aftershocks.
Her body sagged, and both men popped their cocks out of her.
"I believe," the Spy panted, "we have tired her out."
"I'm not tired." The Sniper looked at them both: the woman lying in the huge wet spot on the bed and the Spy, collapsed on the bed beside her, catching his breath. Oh no, he thought, you're not getting out of it that easily. Both the woman and the Spy—he was going to fuck the Spy into shaky incoherence, and the woman was going to help him do it.
"I'll be right back," he said. "Keep our little Birdie entertained." The Sniper pulled on his jeans and strode out of the room, padding barefoot through the base and leaving the door open.
The Spy pushed the Cook onto her back and slid two fingers into her, watching her eyes roll nervously over to the door. "I wonder what our Bête could be getting, Vipere. Could it be something to keep you occupied while we play? And how shall we use you, Vipere?" His fingers pressed her swollen g spot and she flinched, tensing. "How shall we wring pretty little noises from you?"
He leaned closer, whispering in her ear. "Are you afraid someone will walk by? Do you not want anyone to see you?"
The Cook could feel herself starting to warm again, that strange alchemy that is pain in one second and pleasure in the next, arching off the bed into his probing fingers. She bit her lip, trying not to make noise. She hoped no one would walk by the door to see what he was doing.
She hoped someone would.
"Will you beg again, Vipere? Will you cry for us?" Her wide open eyes were still focused on the door, and the Spy reminded himself to make something of her fear of being exposed the next time he played with her.
The Sniper walked in with his hands full, kicking the door shut. "We're keeping the base awake. I bet at least half are wanking into their beds right now. Nobody stopped me, but it's tense out there." He looked at the Cook on the bed, the pornographic flush on her face and breasts, and smiled at the Spy. The man had clever, clever fingers and no inhibitions except his ridiculous insistence that there be rules for everything when he was on top. The woman looked halfway to another orgasm.
She was about to be really frustrated. The thought added a quick spike of pleasure to his warmth. He set a small plug beside the Spy, along with a bottle of lube.
"Good," the Spy purred. "They can wait their turn. Roll over, Vipere."
The Cook rolled over, boneless. She felt the Spy pull her hips up—her legs were twitching, barely able to hold her weight, and she shifted uneasily on her knees.
"Look at it, Bête. Look at how full she is." The cold air made the Cook shiver, then more violently at the thick stream of cold lube.
"Shhh, shhh, now, Vipere. We're just going to occupy you for a time longer." A slick finger teased the edge of her ass, making a slick circle and pressing until she made a low cry, her head thrown back.
"This was an excellent idea, Bête."
The Sniper smiled indulgently behind the Spy. The man was nothing if not predictable, and loved anal. Giving, receiving, he didn't seem to care. It was one of the Sniper's favorite things about the Spy, that greedy hunger to fuck or be fucked.
"You're bottoming this time, Sneak."
"If you wish." The Spy took a shaky breath.
The Spy's finger popped into her, pressing the second ring of muscle and she raised a hand to touch her clit. He slapped it. "Non. For this, you will endure."
The Cook whined a little as the first finger pressed past the second ring of muscle and fluttered gently. The second finger burned a bit, forcing the muscle open and fluttering again inside her, making her squirm. "Oh no, Vipere, you will take this."
Once the third finger was able to slide into her, the Spy pulled his fingers out and she felt the cold, wide head of a plug push past her slack muscles and bury itself in her, stinging. She gasped, knotting her fingers in her sheets at the intrusion. "Up!"
She sat up, feeling herself slide around the plug, and turned around to find the Spy's cock in her face.
"Suck, Vipere." He pressed her down until he could crouch over her, cock buried in her mouth. When the Sniper slid a finger into the Spy's ass, she felt him clench, his cock bobbing in her mouth.
The Spy hissed, his eyes closing. Every new finger made Spy throb again, tremors running through his body. When the Sniper finally slid his cock into the Spy, the Spy ground his cock into her throat, holding her head as she choked. He let her head go as the Sniper found a rough rhythm. "Suck, Vipere. Harder."
He placed one of her hands on his balls and fucked her face as Sniper fucked him. The plug slid around in her ass she moved, keeping her from bending fully and reminding her with spiteful little pulses that she was filled.
The Sniper held the Spy's hips in his hands, eyes closed against the sight of his cock disappearing. It never ceased to make him want to howl: the long line of the Spy's spine and the elegant curves of his ass, the clutching heat around the Sniper's cock and the way the Spy threw his head back, surrendering utterly to the cock inside him. If they didn't have an audience, the man would be babbling—a stream of moans and incoherent French falling from his lips and his hips jolting back, fucking the Sniper as roughly as he was fucked. The Sniper knew the Spy was holding back, knew the lips wrapped around his cock and the cock in his ass must be making the man dizzy. He pulled the man up slightly, wrapping his arms around his chest so that he could get a better angle and the feeling of the Spy's body against his, so he could see the woman's head moving, and fucked the Spy harder, holding him so that he was helpless.
The Spy, beautifully sensitive as always, simply surrendered and let his head fall back against the Sniper's shoulder, a long, guttural moan spilling out of his lips before a string of mangled French, his ass rippling around the Sniper. The Sniper tightened his arms, and bending his knees, fucked the Spy hard enough to bring him up on his toes. The Spy made a noise that fluttered between a scream and choking, and came, shaking. The Sniper joined him seconds later, with a howl. The men stood, locked together, and the Cook watched them, eyes wide and cunt squeezing. The Spy opened his eyes, then pulled his cock free from the Cook and put his hand over her mouth. The Sniper was still buried in him, still shuddering with aftershocks.
"Now swallow, Vipere," the Spy panted. She did, her face twisting, watching the Sniper bend the Spy gently and slide himself out. The Sniper stood for a moment, chest heaving and head down, and the Spy turned to watch his lover recovering. After a moment, the Sniper looked up, hair matted with sweat.
"I want to keep the plug in overnight," he panted.
"The naughty little thing will pull it out when we leave, won't you." It wasn't a question. The Spy could tell from her glassy eyes and flush that she was desperate for relief, and that as soon as they weren't watching her, she'd be flat on her back with whatever vibrators she'd brought with her. And after her orgasm, she'd be sensitive and she'd pull the plug out as if her pleasure was the point of what they'd done. By the look of it, it wouldn't take her long. If we let it be too easy, the Spy thought, she wouldn't be this close to frenzy, and this easy to make comply.
The Cook wriggled around the plug, watching them both.
"One of us will have to keep an eye on her." The Spy looked over at the Sniper where he'd laid down, winded.
"Do you care, Sneak?" The Sniper ran a hand down his chest, and lightly cupped himself. The man was very nearly insatiable, the Spy thought. If I don't leave, we'll be at it again, shortly. "Non. You may watch her."
The Spy grabbed his slacks and stepped into them, pulling them up and adjusting himself. He stretched, taking a deep breath, picked up his clothes. "Have fun, Bête."
The Sniper grinned at the Spy, then turned his attention to the Cook as the Spy left the room, closing the door. He gestured. "Come here, little Birdie."
The Cook frowned at him. "Why are you staying? Don't you want to follow him?" If I can't come, she thought, I'm going to fucking explode. Go away.
The Sniper smirked and pulled her down into his arms. "Oh, he'll be fine without me."
When she laid down, he slipped a hand between her legs and stroked gently at her clit until she whined and humped his hand. The Spy, clever manipulator that he was, had been right to keep her this way, afire with hunger. It would make her more tractable, an easier toy for his games with his lover.
"Oh, I won't let you come. But knowing you're filled and aching next to me is satisfying. Be grateful I didn't bring any of the other fun toys. Now try to sleep."
His tickling, teasing fingers brushed her again, then withdrew and he cupped her breast. "Sleep, Birdie."
To her surprise, the Cook eventually fell asleep.