Chapter 1: The Receptionist
Belinda's adventure in the medium-sized maze leaves Bella smarting for revenge. Warnings for weird lady sex.
The old manor house was deserted, most of the corporate guests enjoying the party – and free drinks – out on the lawn. Still, Bella was cautious, making sure she was unobserved before jogging up the stairs. The thick carpeting easily absorbed her footfalls, and she slipped up to the first floor unseen.
The hallway was long, wide and dark, the wood paneling on the wall and the emerald carpeting giving it a mysterious air. Bella counted doors as she passed them, stopping at the third door on the left. Hand resting on its knob, she listened, but she heard nothing inside. She turned the handle and went in.
It was a bedroom, as dark and glowering as the rest of the house, but accented in crimson rather than green. Bella shut the door behind her and crossed immediately to the windows on the far side of the room. They were tall and obscured by heavy drapery. She pushed this aside carefully, not wanting the motion to be noticeable, and looked outside.
As promised, the room provided a bird’s eye view over a section of garden walled off on three sides with tall hedges. A small maze, slightly shabby, was the garden’s main feature. At its centre was a small and rather muddy glade. Inside it, standing against a wooden trellis, a pale, dark-haired woman was being vigorously fucked by a short, hairy man.
So it was true. The slutty new Sales Director was at the party to earn her bread and butter. Bella had heard Tony and Giselle discussing it in the leather room – a room neither of them suspected she knew existed, and which she’d bugged within her first week on the job – but, somehow, Bella hadn’t expected it to be true. This was the pots and pans industry, after all. But then that thing at the bar had happened… Bella’s tits tingled just remembering it. Bella had revised a lot of the assumptions she’d made about this particular corporate spying gig after that night.
In fact, Bella had been so wrong-footed, her real identity, Donna, had nearly been revealed. Luckily Belinda, Giselle and the RSMs had been far too preoccupied with their various taut body parts to notice. But she wouldn’t screw up like that again.
Bella stared at the scene below her. Belinda’s face was screwed up in concentration. She was completely naked, squatting to accommodate the shorter man, her breasts jingling with his every thrust. Idly Bella unbuttoned a few buttons on her blouse and fingered her nipples through the material of her lacy bra. There was something oddly satisfying about seeing Belinda endure the discomfort of what was obviously a terrible lay. In fact… Bella unhooked her front-fastening bra. Her breasts dropped free, and she continued her attentions to them before slipping a hand down her skirt and into her knickers.
Bella found herself ripe for touch already, and proceeded to do just that, all the while watching Belinda’s antics below. She didn’t recognise the man; his back was to her, and she couldn’t make out his face. He was working himself up to climax, but before he got there he sprang back, as if startled, leaving Belinda squatting over nothing, her nudity fully exposed.
The man stumped himself into what looked like a black thong, and after a moment of discussion and without glancing in the house’s direction, he left the maze. Belinda was still against the trellis, and now Bella saw the red handcuffs.
They looked good on her. Bella remembered the quick, sure movements of Belinda’s fingers on her clitoris the week before.
Bella’s vaginal lips were slippery between her fingers. She could feel herself tightening, aroused at Belinda’s humiliation, at her having to play the office whore. But then someone else appeared and Bella’s heart skipped a few beats even as her self-ministrations stuttered to a halt.
The new man in the glade also had his back to her and the house, but Bella recognised the long, lean shape of his body and his fine golden hair. He too was wearing a black thong, but on him it looked like art, whereas on the previous man it had looked like failed rectal surgery. He walked up to Belinda. Moments passed in conversation. Bella could see that Belinda looked intrigued. Then the man reached for Belinda, running his big hands around her neck and shoulders, then her breasts and finally her buttocks.
Bella stepped back from the window in shock, the drapes rustling back into place.
Peter. Peter Rouse. No, it couldn’t be.
But it had been. She’d been twined around his body enough to recognise it, recognise him.
Bella swallowed, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She felt ridiculous and exposed and vulnerable, standing there with her tits out in a stranger’s house, while her one-time lover fucked another woman in the garden below and her own vagina throbbed with need. Bella felt the sudden instinct to flee, but before she could rouse herself to it, the door opened, and Bella was suddenly face-to-face with a surprised looking Giselle.
“Oh, Bella--” Giselle said, but then fell silent as she took in the state of Bella. “At an office party?” Giselle asked, and laughed throatily.
“I--” Bella shook her head and struggled to capture her breasts with her bra cups and clip it back into place, flushing with embarrassment and – even more embarrassingly – arousal.
“Oh no,” Giselle said. There was a sudden note of command there. The tall woman shut the door behind her and leaned against it, her eyes bright in the dim light of the room. “Don’t stop on my account. In fact...” Giselle’s eyes slid up and down Bella’s physique, and her eyes became heavily lidded. “I insist you continue. Demonstrate what you were doing, before I came in.”
Bella knew she could refuse and leave, but it might compromise the job. Giselle wasn’t anything more than a glorified and well-fucked PA, but she was Tony’s glorified and well-fucked PA. He listened to her much more than he realised, and if Bella made a wrong move here, Tony would probably fire her. Months of preparation and planning would be down the drain.
Bella sighed, then dropped her hands away from her fumbling with her bra. The bra fell away as before, the tips of her breasts sticking out from her open blouse. It was with no small amount of bitterness that Bella realised she and Belinda were both playing the whore.
Giselle raised an eyebrow at Bella, as if to ask, “Was that all?”
Bella undid the last few buttons of her blouse, tugging it out from where it’d been tucked into her skirt. She pushed it aside and very deliberately, while making eye contact with Giselle, ran her index fingers and thumbs over their corresponding nipples, plumping them into erectness. She cupped her breasts briefly, then unzipped her skirt and shimmied out of it. She still wore her heels.
Without hesitating, Bella began fingering her clit through her silky panties, rubbing the whole length of her vulva against the material. A bolt of electricity shot up from between her legs to her nipples; a breath that was more moan than oxygen escaped quite against her will.
“Like a hussy,” Giselle commented, with approval. She pushed away from the door and sauntered closer while Bella continued rubbing herself. “Like a bitch in heat.”
Bella nodded her agreement, breathless. Giselle stepped up to her and cupped her breasts, rolling them softly in her hands, before bending to taste first one nipple, then the other. She laved them, nipped them, sucked them; Bella felt Giselle’s attentions all the way to her toes. When she swayed back, Giselle’s spittle quickly dried them to tight peaks.
“You want to cum, Bella?” Giselle asked. She sidled to stand at Bella’s back and squeezed Bella’s buttocks in tandem before reaching to grasp Bella’s working hand, pulling it back from her pleasure. She intertwined their fingers, smearing Bella’s milky moisture over them both.
Bella nodded. Her clit throbbed with need, her cheeks with humiliation.
“Do you want to keep your job?” Giselle leered, whispering the words against her ear.
Bella wet her lips. “Yes,” she whispered back, her voice hoarse and her eyes pricking again.
“If you want to hump like an animal who can’t control herself...” Giselle said. She drew Bella’s reluctant form to a corner, where a heavy, old-fashioned armchair stood, facing the room at an angle. Giselle sat down, sliding in all the way to the back. She removed her shoes – heels similar to what Bella herself was wearing, and which she’d started calling “Office whear” in her own mind. Then Giselle drew one leg onto the chair, her foot flat on it.
“Well?” she asked, when Bella stared at her. “Hump.”
It took Bella a moment to comprehend just what Giselle meant. When she got it, she felt herself flush again. She would have stepped back, but Giselle had captured one of her wrists.
“Bella,” she said.
Mouth dry, Bella positioned herself, Giselle making adjustments. She stood leaned over Giselle, bracing most of her weight on the armrests. Giselle had stripped off Bella’s slippery pair of panties and tossed them aside. Bella’s vagina was completely exposed, the inner labia poking out like pomegranate, though technically she was still half-dressed. A slim trickle of moisture ran languidly down her inner thigh.
“Come on, then,” Giselle said, and raised her knee slightly to catch and smear the droplet.
Swallowing against her fear and her arousal, Bella leaned forward and began to hump Giselle’s leg.
Giselle was wearing a loose, flowing skirt, which she’d pushed up to reveal bare, smooth legs that were tanned and toned. At first Bella felt little more than vague pressure, but she readjusted herself, her tits blooming nipples again, and rubbed more vigorously. She wrapped a hand around Giselle’s calf, pulling it into position. The motion felt better this time and renewed sensation sparked.
Giselle leaned forward to still one of Bella’s bouncing tits in her mouth, sucking on it like it was a lollipop and she was close to the chewy centre. She only withdrew to blow on it, before switching to the other breast.
It was hard, sweaty and humiliating work for Bella. She was so slick that she struggled to find traction on Giselle’s slippery leg. Giselle helpfully switched legs, and Bella latched onto the second one with renewed fervour until finally, finally she climaxed, her pelvis shaking as vaginal contraction after vaginal contraction rippled through her.
Giselle hushed Bella through the last of her tremours, easing the weight of Bella onto her lap, folding her up against her body. Bella’s whole body ached. Tears and perspiration mixed on her face.
“There, there,” Giselle said, “now Bella’s all better, isn’t she?”
Giselle gave Bella a knowing smile when she nodded.
“I wasn’t all too sure about you at first,” Giselle told Bella, tracing a thumb over her lips. “But I can see now you fit right in at our company!”
The pots and pans industry indeed, Bella thought. But behind the smile Bella gave Giselle were a lot of suspicions. How had Giselle known she was in this room, for example? Had she followed her here? Bella would have to be more careful.
Even as Giselle ran her fingers through Bella’s hair, Bella was already carving her anger and humiliation over Belinda, Peter and Giselle into something else. A plan, a need, simple and savage: she’d get back at them. She’d get back at them all, starting with Giselle, and ending with blinking Belinda.
I'm very proud of "office whear", which is a play on "office whore". Ha ha. Ha. Sigh.
Chapter 2: The Hotel
Belinda and Peter have a special, if slightly weird, night at Belinda's hotel. Peter may think he's winning, but what has Belinda got up her sleeve? Warning for horse kink and describing dark hair with adjectives like "raven".
Minutes to midnight there was a soft knock on Belinda’s door at The Horse and Jockey. Belinda blinked, pausing in the act of sweeping a brush through her silky raven tresses. She had spent ten minutes massaging the cum from her hair with shampoo, and her newly-restored hair hung like black ink down her shoulders, dribbling little drops of moisture across her flushed, naked skin, still pink from where she had scrubbed mud from it.
She rose from the bed and walked to the door. Her room was lushly appointed, all warm colours and teak furnishings, with crisp white sheets on the bed. She suspected they’d be thoroughly debauched come morning, and not only because there was bound to be some leftover mud on her person. She wanted to soak the bed with the scent and fluids of her and her lover, Peter Rouse.
She swung the door inwards, and there he stood. He looked freshly laundered himself: his hair swept back, his jaw smooth and lean. He was dressed in black trousers and a pristine white shirt, its top few buttons undone. Shadows at his clavicles hinted at the lean muscle his shirt hid, and she could just see the shadow of his nipples through it. They were erect.
“Peter,” she breathed, and without pausing he pushed her into the room and kicked the door shut behind him. His pale eyes were alight with possessiveness and lust. He backed her up to the bed and pushed her back onto it. Without preamble he pulled her knees apart like sticky toffee and traced the landing strip of pubic hair with his tongue, parting it until he could latch onto her clit and suck.
Belinda shuddered across the coverlet, something aching flaming up in her. It felt like the ghost of his fingers tracing mud onto her skin, like he’d done earlier that day in the maze. At the thought her vagina positively flushed with moisture. When she looked down at Peter, his face was shiny with her. He moaned his approval and reached up to pluck at the tips of her breasts, much abused of late and still aching, until they stood sharp and hard against his palms.
He suddenly withdrew. Belinda blinked, frowning at Peter and reaching for him, but he merely gave her a smile and made quick work of his clothing, shedding it in swift, precise motions. He wore no underwear. Belinda reached for his length, pulling herself up to a sitting position. He fed himself into her mouth like grapes, and she delighted in his musky nectar.
He worked for a moment at her breasts, as if reassuring himself that they were still taut with need. Satisfied, he pushed Belinda back onto the bed, his cock still in her mouth as her lips worked around him, until they were both fully on the bed. He withdrew himself from her mouth slowly, fucking back in just as she prepared to let go. Spit and pre-cum dribbled down her mouth and chin. She looked like a kitten who’d got into the bowl of cream.
“I brought you something,” he said, smearing his thumb over her dick-swollen lips.
“A gift?” Belinda asked. She sucked his thumb into her mouth needily, and they both shuddered.
“Yes, if you want it?”
“Show me,” Belinda told him. She lay down on her side, propping her head up with a hand, and idly caressed her bellybutton.
He rose from the bed and went to the pile of his discarded clothing. He’d brought an overnight back; unzipping it, he withdrew something with leather straps and metal that glinted intriguingly in the room’s low lighting.
“What is it?” Belinda wondered.
By way of answer, Peter flipped Belinda over bodily, then drew her – her back to him – up to her knees. Her damp hair swung over her shoulders and shadowed her breasts. Peter fumbled for a moment, and then something cold and hard slid into Belinda’s mouth.
It was a bit, a horse’s bit.
Tightening his big hands on the reins, Peter tugged on it. It settled between Belinda’s teeth like it’d been made specifically for her. She tensed. Peter ran a reassuring hand down her side, gripping her buttock on the downstroke. He ran his thumb lightly down her crack, dragging it teasingly over the pucker of her asshole and dipped it into her vagina.
“Yes?” Peter asked, his accent thicker with the sheer force of his arousal.
Belinda dropped fully onto all fours, tossed her shadowy hair and braced back into his hand. He slipped two full fingers into her, hunting within her until he made a satisfied sound, and then teased the spot, running his finger tips over it lightly in deliciously slow circles.
Belinda shuddered. Chuckling, Peter withdrew his hand and lined himself up behind her, pushing into her in one smooth motion, drawing back on the reins simultaneously. Belinda reared up before him, Peter seated in her fully. With one hand on the reins controlling her movements, he fingered her clit with the other. Whether she ground forward or backwards, Belinda was caught in a trap of pleasure, and she felt it rising within her, her breasts, stomach, clit, anus and toes fluttering with sensation.
“Do you like that, my precious Belinda?” Peter asked her, riding her easily, his muscles rippling all around her. “Do you, sweetheart?” he repeated, working on the reins, threading her hair through his fingers. But Belinda was so awash with sensation that she could hardly respond. She had never, ever been so carried away, never been fucked harder in her life.
The next instant, a searing pain radiated out from her buttocks, then again. Peter was slapping her with the flat of his hand, the motion hard and rhythmic.
“Belinda,” he cried on each hit. “Belinda, Belinda, Belinda.”
The heat of the strokes took Belinda’s breath away. Pleasure crackled along the edge where sensation registered as pain. Peter tugged on the reins and slapped her on the ass again. It was too much: orgasm bloomed from her like a mushroom cloud. It swept up from Belinda’s toes, her vaginal muscles clenching as she milked Peter’s thick throbbing length for semen, her nipple tips harder than she’d ever felt them.
Belinda was distantly aware of Peter’s moaning her name, his hold on the reins slackening, and then they both collapsed onto the bed, bodies softening like flowers in a compost bin.
Some time later, Belinda wasn’t sure how long, Peter stirred beside her. He gingerly removed the bit from her mouth. Her jaws ached for the lack of its presence, and her lips felt swollen and raw, as did the rest of her body. It had really been through the ringer that day.
“I think it’s safe to say,” Peter said, ladling his arm over her and pulling her closer, “that together we will make very deep inroads into the cookware industry.”
Belinda blinked and smiled over at him, hoping he didn’t notice the triumph she felt inside on her face. “Yes, Peter,” she said, “I think you may be right.”
Chapter 3: The Murder
A murderer is afoot in the pots and pans industry. Warning for murder and necrophilia and being disillusioned about Des Martins.
Returning to work on Monday felt even more mundane than usual after the events which had transpired over the weekend. Bella busied herself with her duties, answering telephones and smiling vacuously at co-workers and clients, but she felt the ghost of humiliation and desire follow her around like a shadow. Her tits ached persistently, and she’d forgone a bra out of sheer frustration, but the fabric of the shirt she wore only rubbed her nipple tips into peaks. She was aware of more than one colleague’s eyes on them.
She’d seen both Giselle and Belinda in passing that morning. Giselle had given her a secretive smile. Bella didn’t know whether she’d done it on purpose, but the other woman wore an even shorter skirt than usual that day, and her long, sexy legs made Bella’s mouth water. Belinda had merely nodded at her, but she positively glowed, the corners of her smile tucking into self-satisfied dimples whenever she thought she was unobserved.
Bella recognised the look; a few months before, on her previous job working with Peter Rouse, she’d worn much the same facial expression.
It was nearly lunch time when Giselle slipped her hand through Bella’s and, after making sure no one was watching, pulled her into the empty stairwell. The landing was small but well-lit. Giselle backed Bella up against the wall and kissed her, her hands rising to cup Bella’s breasts through her shirt.
“I hope you’ve left the knickers off too,” Giselle said slyly, a bit out of breath.
Bella caught Giselle’s hand before she could stick it in somewhere, instead tugging on Giselle’s work inappropriate skirt before running her palm up under it. “Whereas I know you have,” she told Giselle and indeed found her smooth and wet to the touch.
Giselle arched into Bella’s hand, and smirking, Bella worked at Giselle’s clitoris, realising even as she did that she was imitating Belinda’s touch from a week before.
“Here,” Bella suggested, when Giselle shuddered and fucked herself on Bella’s fingers in short, sharp motions, “let me help you.”
“Oh?” Giselle asked, eyes heavy-lidded with desire.
Bella walked Giselle backwards towards the stairs without letting up from her clit. “Let’s lay you down,” Bella told her. “I want to get my mouth on this delicious treat” - pinching her as she spoke, making Giselle shudder again and nod in agreement.
Bella regretted it, but after consideration she’d realised that she couldn’t take the risk. Not if she wanted to finish the job here, and not if she wanted to make Belinda and Peter pay for Peter’s betrayal.
“Like a bitch in heat,” Bella whispered in Giselle’s ear, Giselle’s slick pussy still in hand, before she shoved Giselle backwards down the stairs.
Giselle tumbled head over heels twice, her arms and legs cartwheeling. She lost a shoe on the way down, and by the time she skidded to a halt a few seconds later, crumpled in a motionless heap a floor below, her short skirt had ridden up, revealing Tony’s self-appointed bonus package in all its glory. Bella calmly followed her down the stairs; checking her neck and wrists, she found no pulse. Giselle’s face was slack with surprise, her mouth open and her eyes wide and glassy. Her head lay at an odd angle.
Bella dipped her fingers in Giselle’s slack mouth, cleaning them of Giselle’s lingering moisture, then wiped them down on the dead woman’s skirt. She marched back upstairs without looking back. One down, she thought. Two to go.
Des Martins saw Bella – Donna – walking pertly past his office, her purse slung over her shoulder. He watched her go with narrowed eyes, wondering what she was up to. As far as he knew, Donna didn’t realise he and she worked for the same outfit. He didn’t really think much of her skills; surely she should have been able to work out that someone after an in in the competitive cookware industry wasn’t going to be happy to have only a mere receptionist as their spy. They needed someone in a managerial position as well, which was where he came in.
Des Martins wasn’t his real name – who the hell is named Desmond, anyway? - but the personality he’d crafted for this job was real enough: amiable, bright-eyed and bushy tailed, the ubiquitous funny guy in a dull office. But Des hadn’t gotten into the corporate espionage game on his tits alone, like failed model Donna had. No, he actually had a military background, and not the kind normal people talked about around the dinner table. Des was the one who got things done when runts like Donna failed.
He had a bad feeling about the way Donna had been carrying herself when she walked past. He suspected she’d gotten herself into trouble with the tart who worked for Tony, Stuck-Up Giselle. If she blew this operation…
Checking his watch, Des left his office, making a show of tucking his wallet into his pocket and slinging his jacket over his shoulder. Just another nine-to-fiver on his way to lunch – that was the image he was projecting. But instead of waiting for an elevator, he slipped into the stairwell, shutting its door behind him. He sighed when he saw the unmoving bundle of human limbs at its bottom. Oh Donna, Donna, he thought, what are we going to do with you?
Pushing her curious co-worker down the stairs… Well, it wasn’t how Des would have done it, but he had to admire Donna’s quick thinking in what would have been a very small window of opportunity. People fall down the stairs every day; and as if to underscore this point, one of Giselle’s whorish heels lay halfway down.
Des jogged down to Giselle’s prone form cheerfully, being careful not to disturb anything as he took a closer look. It was quite obvious that her neck had snapped as she fell. Giselle’s death hadn’t been a dignified one: her legs were splayed open, the length and breadth of her pussy exposed. He had to smile at that one, wondering whether Donna had posed her this way. Now there was an intriguing thought… But probably not. Still, he chortled at the irony.
Idly, Des ran a finger down Giselle’s vagina, finding it more moist than he had expected to. He considered, checking the door above, but he doubted any of the drones would come this way. They were all too eager to escape to their pub lunches and their cheeky fags and their senseless gossip. And Giselle had been just the same, only her lunch had usually been Tony’s cock.
How times change, bitch, Des thought.
He withdrew his wallet; he always kept a rubber in there, and he had it open, his pants down and the condom over his dick in short order. He threw one of Giselle’s long, tanned legs – gosh, they really were gorgeous – over one of his shoulder and thrust into her still-wet pussy, savouring how each stroke jarred her otherwise motionless body, her mouth and eyes both open, as if surprised by this turn of events.
“Not too good for my cock now, are you, you stupid bitch,” Des told her, tone conversational, peering down at her. He stroked her hair back from her face before changing his mind and pulling it so that it obscured her staring eyes. He could imagine her mouth was open with panting longing now, he supposed, had he given any kind of shit about her feelings.
Her body was still warm, he noted, quickly approaching his climax. When he came, he bucked into her wildly, then lay panting atop her for a moment or two. “Don’t mind me,” he told her, before laughing and giving her slack lips a peck.
He was careful when he pulled out, pinching the condom closed and tying it shut before he returned it to his wallet. He juggled his junk back into order and zipped up, giving his surroundings – and Giselle – a last look before he picked up his jacket and left for lunch. He whistled as he went.
Chapter 4: The Interrogation
Tony has to deal with the hard consequences of being a suspect in Giselle's death. Warnings for gross abuse of...penal...authority.
Giselle’s body wasn’t found until later that same day.
Bella was stapling her way through a pile of reports when a man’s scream tore through the air. She was one of the first ones to follow the scream – it would have looked odd otherwise, she reasoned – and so she was also among the first to see Tony, face bloodless and panicked, emerge from the stairwell.
“Oh, my god!” he kept repeating, “Oh, my poor Giselle!”
The police were phoned and representatives from the Met showed up less than twenty minutes later. Within the hour the place had been cordoned off. The majority of Steele Pots and Pans employees were requested to stay so that police could take their statements. Bella listened in as many of her colleagues phoned home to prepare their partners and families for a late night, wondering how they would react if they knew she were to blame; that they had a murderer in their midst. Oddly, the thought cheered her, and she kept herself busy with filing while she waited for her turn in the makeshift interview room one of the DIs had set up in their conference room.
“What a terrible tragedy,” Belinda said, startling Bella. Belinda leaned against Bella’s desk, arms crossed over her large breasts, her eyes misty. Bella had seen Belinda and her self-satisfied smile chatting up various clusters of employees, murmuring to them and stroking their arms. Leave it to Belinda Blumenthal to use an office tragedy to drum up her popularity.
“Oh, quite senseless,” Bella agreed.
“They’re treating it like a murder, but Des is convinced it was an accident.” Belinda blinked at no one in particular. “Poor Tony.”
If Belinda were planning on playing tit to cry on for Tony, Bella had some bad news for her. She’d already jerked him off in the bathroom while they waited for the police, the man suckling at her breast like an infant. He had offered her Giselle’s position when she shushed him through the aftershocks. With an increase.
The pots and pans industry, indeed.
It was at that moment that Tony appeared, as if summoned. He looked very uncertain, even agitated. A sergeant in uniform escorted him to the conference room. She held the door open for him and he disappeared inside. The sergeant pulled the door shut behind him and left again, speaking into an Airwave. The blinds around the glass office had been drawn.
Belinda shook her head, bemused, and with a commiserating look at Bella left to comfort some other soul.
Bella acted quickly. Something had clicked in her head when she’d seen Tony go into the conference room, and she hurried into the back of the building, away from the maze of open plan office space to the private offices of the company’s higher-ups. As she’d suspected, no one was around: everyone was out in front, speculating and gossiping. She let herself into the first likely office, pulled its blinds shut and sat down at the desk.
The conference room had had cameras installed earlier that year, officially so that the executives could record and review their brain storming sessions, and unofficially so they could check up on their subordinates and steal their better ideas. Very few people knew about the cameras. Bella only knew because Tony had mentioned it to Giselle around a mouthful of vagina. She had orgasmed almost instantly upon hearing it, Bella assumed because they used the room to have sex in quite frequently.
It didn’t take Bella more than two minutes to find and activate the live feed from the cameras. A surprisingly vivid rendition of the conference room filled the flatscreen. The audio was tinny but clear. Bella had no trouble picking up the gist of Tony’s interrogation.
The Detective Inspector, a large, broad, dark-skinned man named Petrov Macky, perched on the edge of the long desk. Tony sat in a chair in front of him. He looked smaller than usual, deflated of his usual confidence. He fidgeted while Macky spoke to him in low, confidential tones.
“...blame you if you did, Tony,” he was saying. “Accidents happen all the time. Maybe you simply lost your control for one second. One second!” Macky repeated it, holding up a large digit. Tony shrank from it, wilting like a salad. “We can understand that. The CPS will understand that.”
“I don’t know—I didn’t—I found her like that,” he blubbered. His face had gone all splotchy.
The DI regarded him intently for a moment, long enough that he set off a fresh bout of fidgeting. Then he said, “Tony.”
It took Tony a second, but he asked, “What?”
“Do me a favour. Okay?”
Tony visibly swallowed. “I—what? What favour?”
Macky reached into his leather jacket and pulled out something that looked small in the vastness of his hand. He gave it to Tony. Tony took it, obviously confused.
“Just hold it for me,” Macky told him. “No, like this.” He reached out and cupped both Tony’s hands around the small object. “Just like that.”
Bella’s mouth had gone dry. She’d seen a flash of the label, and her belly squiggled with wicked anticipation.
“I don’t understand—what is it?” Tony spluttered, trying to open his hands to get a better look. But Macky kept his own broad hands clamped over Tony’s.
He didn’t break eye contact with Tony when he said, “Personal lubrication. We don’t want it to be chilly when we get started, do we, Tony?”
Tony tried to start several sentences, and failed each time. His cheeks were flushed. Macky smiled at him, his eyes tracking down to Tony’s crotch and back up again.
“It’s alright,” Macky assured him. “I’m hard too.” And with one hand still covering both of Tony’s and a slight shift of his weight, Macky had his trousers open and his thick, angry-looking dick out and pointed at Tony’s gaping mouth.
The little I know of the Met is from Ben Aaronovitch's "Rivers of London" series.
Chapter 5: The Interrogation - Continued
Detective Inspector Petrov Macky continues his thorough interrogation of Giselle's boss and lover, Tony. Warnings for gross abuse of penal authority.
“It’s alright,” Macky said, smirking, “I’m hard too.”
Tony was lost for words. He stared at the detective inspector sitting above him, feeling as helpless as a small animal trapped in approaching headlights. Sweat pooled over the top of his lip, under his arms; he even felt its clammy reach between his arse cheeks.
“I’m not—I don’t...” He swallowed, but the Detective Inspector’s cock demanded his absolute attention: proud and thick and veiny, sheen visible at its fat tip.
“No?” Macky asked him. He reached forward and placed a large palm over Tony’s crotch, smiling at the hardness he felt there and giving it a light, questing massage.
“You can’t do this!” Tony protested. He was at his place of work – he wasn’t guilty – he didn’t want this. He could scream for help. Surely, surely someone would come?
“Can’t I?” Macky asked, all arrogance. “If you run – scream? - maybe I’ll say you confessed. You shoved your girlfriend down the stairs. You’re a murderer, a pervert. You’ll go to prison, Tony. Is that what you want?” Macky chuckled, his palm squeezing Tony’s cock through two layers of material. “Maybe you do want to go to prison...a nice soft boy like you.”
Tony shook his head numbly.
“Convince me what an innocent man you are, then,” Macky said, sitting back again. His dick jutted out, freshly intimidating.
Oh, god help me, Tony thought, squeezing his eyes shut. He wetted his lips and leaned forward, trying not to look. Macky chuckled again and, rousing a hand through Tony’s hair, steered him in the right direction. Tony was still holding the lube, the plastic container clammy in his palms.
The Detective Inspector’s penis was hot and hard and weeping, tangy bitterness prickling Tony’s saliva glands into action. He folded his lips around Macky’s girth. He spluttered, retreated; but Macky merely held onto his hair, a consistent pressure, until Tony tried again. He swallowed against the intrusion reflexively. Macky made an approving sound.
Emboldened, Tony reached out one hand, wrapping his moist palm around the cop. He began to bob his head in time with his hand. Macky readjusted his seating and suddenly hot dick sprung into Tony’s throat. He gagged, swallowed. Macky grunted more approval. Tony’s asshole fluttered and he leaned in. His gag reflex relaxed enough that he could pull Macky in far enough for Tony’s nose to be buried in his coarse, musky pubes.
Tony’s own gut was tight with arousal and an involuntary moan slipped from his gerbil-cheeked mouth.
Suddenly Macky tugged Tony’s head away from his crotch.
“I almost believe your story,” he told Tony. “But I have a few more questions. Get up.”
Tony complied without thinking about it, his jaws aching and slobbering. He was hot and uncomfortably hard in his briefs. It was like the earlier Madonna-and-Child episode with Bella had never even happened.
Macky slipped off the desk and shoved Tony against it, Tony’s back to him. He pressed Tony’s head down; the other man went with nary a complaint, resting his weight on his forearms. Macky jerked Tony’s trousers and pants down in one hard movement. He pushed Tony’s shirt up, running an appreciative hand over the smooth skin of Tony’s buttocks and the wiry hair where buttock met upper thigh.
“Give me the lube,” Macky commanded, cupping Tony’s balls a little harder than necessary. He palpated them while he waited for Tony to comply. Tony yelped and handed the lube over, returning to his original position with what he felt was embarrassing eagerness. He could feel his pucker quivering, his balls drawing closer to his body.
“I’ll ask you again, Tony.” Macky pushed a dry thumb, the nail clipped mercifully short, against Tony’s asshole and kept it there, an uncomfortable pressure that filled Tony with equal parts terror and arousal. Oh my god, he thought, am I gay?
“Y-y-yes?” Tony gasped, when he realised Macky was waiting for a response.
Macky’s other hand gripped one of Tony’s buttcheeks, spreading it out so that the whorl at six o’ clock was more exposed.
“Did you,” he queried, leaning his considerable weight – and the hot pressure of his penis – against Tony’s back, “kill your lover, Giselle?”
“No!” Tony protested, his guts feeling runny with nerves. He realised he was shivering. “I swear I didn’t. I don’t know what happened, I f-f-found her like that, I swear to you...”
Macky circled Tony’s anus with his thumb thoughtfully.
“Very well, Tony. I believe you.”
The pressure disappeared and Tony sagged, making a sound equal parts relief and desperation. But Macky’s weight didn’t disappear: he leaned back and, after a second, a warm sliver of lubrication dribbled down between Tony’s buttcheeks, trickling down his taint and thigh. He was distantly reminded of Belinda’s excellent interview and the squirt of moisture that had stained her landing strip wet.
“We’ll have some more questions for you at the station,” Macky said, the fingers spreading lube over Tony’s hole making all kinds of promises Tony was sure Macky would keep, “but until then...”
Detective Inspector Macky pushed Tony down, lined himself up and, large hands squeezing Tony’s pale, skinny buttocks together around the length of his penis, began fucking his cheeks in earnest.
Macky was a...vigorous man. He had Tony angled so that the hot blunt head of his dick thrust over Tony’s recalcitrant entrance again and again, sensation that strained Tony’s erection to full capacity. Bitter heat chewed at Tony’s pelvis, but when he tried to lift a hand to relieve himself, Macky smacked it back down onto the shiny surface of the conference table and held it there. When he finally let go, it was only so that he could lift Tony’s back end off the floor entirely, his powerful hands keeping Tony in place, his splayed thumbs keeping him open.
Tony mewled, miserable and erect, his dick and balls slapping abdomen and thigh like a pendulum with the force of Macky’s thrusts.
With a grunt and shudder that nearly demolished Tony’s hipbones, Detective Inspector Macky came. His semen scalded Tony’s naked back in hot stripes. He thrust once, twice more…. With a final shudder he half-slumped over Tony, returning Tony’s backside to earth’s custody.
“Anything else you’d like to tell me, Tony?” Macky asked, breathing heavily in Tony’s ear.
Tony’s voice was hoarse. “I-I just--”
Macky’s mass eased enough for him to circle his large, sausage-like fingers loosely around Tony’s piece. But he made no move to stroke Tony. Tony began abortive little thrusts into the police officer’s hand, and Macky tightened his hold in encouragement.
It didn’t take much; five, six thrusts later Tony came apart in the Detective Inspector’s hand. Macky used his cum to massage a few more squirts out of him before Tony went still, panting.
Macky chuckled in his ear. “I think that concludes our interview, Tony.”