For about 12 years now, I’ve been planning to write a novel. It’s a political thriller, set in a dystopian colony on Mars. Finally, I have begun to write, finding that tackling discrete scenes as short stories first is much easier than starting with Chapter One and proceeding chronologically. Here’s an extract from the work so far – if it’s lacking in context or characterisation, I apologise; hopefully once it’s integrated into the end result those flaws will be addressed. If you’re just here for the filth, perhaps you can overlook other shortcomings.
CW: this is a fictional scene depicting a sexual relationship interaction that starts off coercive and non-consensual. If that’s likely to cause you distress, please don’t read any further. Always take care of yourselves and each other.
Claire and Tommy had an arrangement. She would do something she shouldn’t, and when he caught her at it, he’d do something he shouldn’t.
It had started last autumn when she’d been running a stash of buds over to Grendall in the North Sector. She’d started down the alleyway just a fraction too late as the patrol passed and it hadn’t quite been dark enough to obscure her movement from the patrol leader’s sharp eyes. He’d ordered a halt and investigated; found her crouched down behind a stack of empty plastic packing crates.
“What’s this?” he says, pulling her to her feet. She contemplates making a run for it, but there are too many of them waiting outside the alley. Even if she got away from this one, she’d never make it more than twenty metres before they took her down. She’s kicking herself for getting caught, one more arrest and she’s likely to lose her engineer’s license. She glares sullenly up at the bulky uniform looming over her.
“You’re out late”. There is a mocking twist to his lips, he’s no fool. No-one out this late with legitimate business would be hiding in alleyways. He’s bagged a live one and he’s going to enjoy it. He doesn’t expect her to answer; no hastily-concocted excuse could be persuasive.
She spits viciously, aiming for and hitting his boot-tips. So shiny this morning, they are now covered with a thin film of fine red dust. Her saliva tracks a trail of silver across the metal caps as it slides towards the concrete. She’s not going without a fight – she can’t win but any damage she can inflict is a bonus. First target is always their pride. Once you’ve injured that, the body hits are almost irrelevant. She clenches her fists.
He tuts, shakes his head. “That wasn’t clever. Anyone would think you were asking for trouble.”
As though she wasn’t in enough already
He grabs her wrists, spins her around until she’s pressed against the alloy wall of the alleyway; raises her arms, kicks her feet apart until she’s star-shaped, ready for the search. She’s sneering at him, at the sadistic amusement creeping across his rough-hewn features.
“Any blades?” he asks her directly, and she shakes her head.
“You’d better not be lying to me” he remarks mildly and starts patting her down. Perhaps his hands grasp a little more firmly than is necessary. Perhaps he’s just being thorough. Thorough enough to find the wraps she’d tucked into her underwear, certainly. He draws each out slowly, fanning them across his fingers like a hand of cards.
“Oh dear” he says “You’re really in trouble now.”
She knows it
Could she see, even then, the hunger in his eyes as he glared sternly down at her from beneath his peaked cap? She can’t remember, her memories of that day skewed by what has occurred between them since. She remembers his hot breath on her neck as he moves closer, recalls with perfect clarity the steel-fingered grip with which he held her wrists behind her. If the words he used have become indistinct with time, her shock – and intrigue at their intent remains as clear in her memory as though she were still leaning against that cold metal wall, listening.
“Drugs charges are a serious thing” he purrs into her ear. “Looks like enough here for an intent-to-distribute charge to stick”. She feels him shaking his head slowly. “That’s bad news for you sweetheart.”
She stays silent, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of a response to his gloating.
“Probably you’ll be sent to the camps up at Acidalia. Some bad shit goes on up there, I’ve heard.”
She’s heard that too, and a shudder of fear runs through her too quickly to suppress. This asshole is playing hardball, what does he want; a commendation for fulfilling his arrest quota or something? She stares at the floor.
“I’d hate to see a nice girl like you sent up there” he continues, his tone regretful. Out come the cuffs, and he secures her wrists tightly behind her back.
“‘Cause, y’know, I believe in redemption for all souls”
What the fuck, is this guy trying to lay some kind of Jesus rap on her? She’s unable to stop herself from rolling her eyes; fortunately he can’t see her face from his position behind her. Then as he presses himself hard against her, she realises. He’s not talking about spiritual matters here.
His fingers trail lightly across the nape of her neck. “Such a waste of a young life. As soon as I file the report, you’re on a one-way track to a blue jumpsuit. I don’t think blue would suit you so much. Now, if you could persuade me that you’re worth giving a second chance…”
He’s offering her an out.
“I believe everyone deserves a second chance” she says, huskily, glancing over her shoulder at him.
He doesn’t smile.
“Redemption’s gotta be earned, lady. There’s a price to be paid.”
Somewhere deep inside her, a tiny flutter of hope. She can walk away from this.
That first time, did he cradle her head in his hands and thrust into her mouth with the abandon she has since come to hunger for? She recalls how he pushed her onto her knees and opened his trousers in greedy haste, his eyes locked on her upturned face. She’d licked her lips involuntarily and smiled her most inviting smile for him, a part of her observing indifferently that she ought to be afraid, she ought to be outraged.
Claire was never good at doing the things she ought to be doing.
Kneeling, cuffed and pinned against the wall with the seargant’s cock between her lips, Claire finds that she’s….enjoying herself. She’s always found this a pleasant pastime, and as an alternative to the prison camps – well, it’s practically a bonus, one she doesn’t deserve for being stupid enough to get caught. As she runs her tongue around the rim of his taut swollen head, she feels his breath catch and meets his eyes.
“Good girl” he breathes and starts to thrust into her open mouth. They watch each other, complicit in their crimes, spurred on by the evident pleasure they see reflected back at them.
Towards the end, yes, he’d grabbed her hair and pulled her down onto him hard, jerking his hips as the warm salty splash hit the back of her throat. She’d swallowed theatrically and licked her lips again, grinning up at him. What had he said as he unlocked the cuffs? Something like “now stay straight, or next time you might not run into someone as charitable as me”? Advice she’d taken to heart. She wouldn’t want to run into anyone else, next time. Finding out his patrol schedule had been easy, a matter of observation and deduction.
She’s out after curfew, a non-serious offence if backed by a good excuse (mission of mercy, sick friend living alone) but one which could earn her a reprimand and a docked paycheck if caught.
She intends to be caught. She’s bare beneath her grey engineer’s jumpsuit and wet already thinking of the ways that a second offence might be redeemed.
He’s surprised to see her, the stony expression narrowing to quizzical as she turns to face him.
She nods, head bowed, biting her lip. Hoping. Anticipating.
“Are you taking the piss?”. She hadn’t noticed last time but there’s a trace of Terran Eastern Europe in his accent. Authoritative. Sexy.
She shakes her head.
“So. Perhaps you have not learned as well as I thought.” he muses. “Is it that you are in need of another lesson?”
She glances up at him, eyes wide.
“Please, what?” His harsh tone belied by the amusement in his eyes
He twists her arm up behind her back, marches her into the alleyway – the same alleyway – and throws her against the wall.
“Undress. Bend over those crates. Arms behind your back.” Snaps the cuffs on.
As he enters her roughly, a sigh of pleasure escapes her.
He slaps her exposed buttocks, hard, chortles. “You’re a bad girl”
Leans in, pulls her hair so that she must arch her back as he whispers into her ear.
“Bad girls get punished”
He’s known all along that the sentence for ‘fraternising’ would be as stern as – if not worse than – those for the misdemeanours by which she baits him. It crosses his mind occasionally, am I being set up? Surely not, her willing acquiescence to his demands, the look of glazed pleasure in her eyes as he fills her cunt, the wicked grin with which she departs after their trysts all point more to carnal collaboration than to blackmail.
Tonight, he is patrolling the commercial district again.
She will be waiting.