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River Cartwright puts Diana Taverner in mind of a golden retriever. He has that air of eagerness, of being perpetually ready to spring into action, which can be temporarily suppressed but never actually eliminated, no matter how long he’s kept in the third-rate boarding kennel of Slough House.
And like most golden retrievers, especially the ones that haven’t quite been trained properly, he’s simultaneously very intelligent and very stupid.
Diana had wondered if he would sense something was up as soon as she approached him for an off-the-books job. It wouldn’t be the first time that the Park had borrowed a Slough House Joe for something dubious, but it wouldn’t normally be her doing it, at least not directly. One might also think that Webb’s debacle with the Russians would make Cartwright at least a little wary. Instead, he metaphorically wagged his tail and rolled over to show his belly.
Cartwright’s part in the Russian fiasco seems to have at least stripped him of the rather unattractive grudge he’s been carrying since Stansted. He might not believe that he deserved to be sent to Slough House in the first place, but he’s very aware that he fucked up badly enough in Upshott that he does deserve to be there now.
Now he’s desperate to redeem himself, to be brought back from Siberia, to stop embarrassing his grandfather and become a proper agent again. He should know by now that it’s the things that one wants the most that make one the most vulnerable. Which is a little rich for Diana to be noting in this context, obviously, but at least she’s aware of what’s happening here.
Cartwright has spent the evening monitoring a genuine person of interest in Brighton. Not a person of significant interest, obviously, or a real agent would be doing it. An adequately resourced agency would be keeping an proper eye on him, but since this is Britain in the twenty-first century, they have to prioritise who they monitor, and this target hasn’t made the cut. Since Cartwright is actually quite good at this kind of thing – too good, really – he might even gather some intelligence which could justify proper surveillance.
And if not, the job has got him out of London and into the shabby windowless office where he’ll be ‘debriefing’ Diana.
He arrives wearing a black suit with a black shirt and black tie, all of it probably from some High Street chain. Certainly off the peg. Perhaps she should talk to David about buying his grandson a proper suit for Christmas.
Cartwright junior stands loosely to attention in the middle of the room, waiting for her to say something. She slowly walks around him, taking him in from all sides. She reviewed the Stansted footage before planning any of this, idly calculating how much time he spent running at full tilt. He obviously has stamina.
Once she’s completed the full circuit, she stands in front of him, slightly too close to be professional. She’s chosen the perfect pair of heels: absolute murder on the feet, but high enough that he has to look up slightly to meet her eyes. She sees that he’s nervous, eager to hear that he’s done a good job, and unaware that the job he’s actually here for hasn’t yet begun. He still believes he’s in Brighton to carry out surveillance. It’s quite sweet, really.
“Well?” she snaps, like he should have started talking without her telling him to. “Give me your report.”
There’s a look of confusion in his eyes, and shame at getting it wrong, again. If he had a better sense for this, he’d know this isn’t a game he can win. But if he knew what was happening, it wouldn’t be anywhere near as fun.
He gives his report rather nervously: too much detail, not enough sense for what she needs to hear. Although to be fair, she doesn’t need to hear any of it, and he can hardly say nothing.
She half listens to him; the target appears to be cheating on his wife, which could be useful in future. Mostly she focuses on Cartwright’s mouth: the full bottom lip looks even more biteable close up. And his facial hair looks fairly soft, which is a relief, given that making him shave would increase the risk of Lamb working out that she’s been at one of his joes again.
Eventually he trails to a halt, and she looks him in the eyes again. That desperate eagerness: he needs to be told he’s a good boy.
“Yes, very good,” she says, her voice conveying bored politeness rather than conviction.
He has the sense not to reply. There’s a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes, but he hasn’t got the praise that he’s looking for.
“I like your attitude, Cartwright,” she adds. And there it is: he thinks he’s pleased her, and he’s elated. Oh yes, this is going to be fun.
She moves slightly closer, their lips now just inches apart and their bodies nearly touching. She can see that he’s starting to work it out, or at least realise that this operation isn’t what he thought it was.
“No hesitation about taking this job,” she whispers. “So keen. So eager to please.”
He swallows; he’s worked it out. Clever boy.
There’s a whole mix of emotions in his eyes: still some confusion, but also desire and a healthy whack of fear, which indicates that he’s not a complete moron. There’s also determination: he’s clearly made a snap decision that if this is what it takes to get him out of Slough House, he’ll do it with the same level of gung-ho commitment that he puts into racing through crowds and incapacitating airport police officers.
This will not, in fact, get him out of Slough House. But at this point it would be cruel to crush his illusions.
She runs her finger along his collar. Someone needs to point him at a tailor; maybe it’ll be her, if he’s good.
“You do have a choice, you know,” she says, stroking her thumb up the back of his neck and up into his hair. “You can walk away, now, without repercussion, if you don’t want to be here.”
She can see that he doesn’t really believe her. That doesn’t matter, though, because she can also see that he does want this, and not just because he thinks it’ll help his career.
“No, Ma’am,” he says. “I mean, yes.”
She smirks at him. God, he looks delicious when he’s flustered. It’s going to be difficult not to push that too far.
He takes a deep breath and manages to finally engage his brain. “Yes, I know I have a choice. No, I don’t want to leave.”
“Good,” she says, and kisses him.
He lets her take the lead, mirroring the level of pressure in her kiss, and keeping his hands to her back and shoulders while hers roam all over his torso and down to his pleasingly firm ass cheeks. She’s pressed into him now, and she can feel his cock through his trousers, against her thigh. She tries to get a sense of the size, but that’s going to take further investigation.
She leans back slightly and undoes his tie, then starts on his shirt buttons. He slides his hands down to her hips and lets them lightly sit there.
“You are allowed to move your hands down, Cartwright,” she says, leaving the “you fucking muppet” part unsaid but not unheard.
“Sorry,” he says, moving his hands onto her ass.
“Sorry, ma’am.”
His breath catches and he actually blushes as he repeats the words. Oh no. This is going to be far too tempting. This could actually get her in trouble, if she’s not careful.
Cartwright’s shirt is now fully undone, so she pushes it and his jacket back far enough for him to take the hint and remove them. He drops the clothes on the floor and she sees him hesitate, unsure of whether he should also be removing anything else.
She steps back and sits on the cheap laminated desk, her knees apart.
“Come here,” she orders.
Sitting on the desk removes the advantage of her heels, so when he stands between her legs, she has to look up at him. Or she would, if she wasn’t focusing her eyes, mouth and hands on his neck and torso. He feels good: firm muscle and soft skin, a bit of hair, but not too much, near the top of his chest. She kisses down his neck, along his collarbone, and down to his left nipple, which she bites quite hard.
His yelp doesn’t sound like it involved any pleasure. Oops.
“You don’t like pain?”
He hesitates before saying, “Not if I can avoid it.”
“Noted.”
It’s tempting to hurt him a little bit anyway, but that would be entirely unnecessarily given that he’s already very aware that she’s the boss, literally and figuratively. Besides, she’d prefer that he actually enjoyed this.
She kisses him again and wraps her legs around his waist, shifting slightly so that his cock is pressed on to her clit through their clothes. He grabs her thighs and starts slowly grinding into her, which is a slight liberty but not one that she’s inclined to object to.
Leaning back slightly, propped up with one hand, gives her an even better angle. She lets her jaw drop and a moan escape her lips, because fuck this feels good. He gets faster, and the only thing she can see in his eyes now is desire. She wonders how much of it is for the physical, and how much is still desire for her approval.
Only one way to find out.
“God, you’re magnificent,” she murmurs, looking him in the eyes.
For a second she thinks she’s overplayed it and made him come: he entirely loses his rhythm and he looks like he’s about to swallow his own tongue. But he recovers and keeps going.
She strokes the side of his face. “Good boy.”
He swallows. “Thank you, ma’am.”
She taps him on the shoulder. “On your knees.”
He drops down instantly. She removes her underwear and hikes up her dress, then leans back on her elbows and lets him go to work. He’s enthusiastic; she gets the impression that he actually enjoys cunnilingus, as opposed to tolerating it as a chore en route to the main event. He’s also very good at it, and moans into her when she tells him so.
“Oh Jesus Christ, River,” she gasps, and doesn’t have enough time to properly register that she’s fucked up and called him by his first name before her whole body convulses with the best orgasm she’s had in a long time. Christ, where did he learn to do it like that? Can it be taught?
She sits up, and he gets to his feet, a slightly smug smile on his face. She can’t have that.
“You can go now, Cartwright,” she says, closing her legs.
The look of crushed disappointment on his face is adorable.
“Wait,” she says.
His face lights up, and then drops when she hands him a mini packet of tissues from her handbag.
“Clean yourself up. Your face is a mess.”
*
The next time, Diana doesn’t bother with a fake mission; she just has Cartwright drugged and kidnapped.
When he wakes up, he’s sitting on a sofa in a mid-range hotel room, still wearing the clothes he was in when he went out to a bar in Soho a few hours previously. His arms are stretched along the back of the sofa, a rope on each wrist tied to the sofa legs. There’s another rope tying his ankles together, and then running under and behind the sofa to connect with the back of the collar around his neck.
Through the camera on the table, Diana watches him struggle frantically to free himself. He apparently hasn’t got any better at getting out of ropework, but then the black bag operative she engaged to bring him here is very good at this kind of thing.
Enjoyable though it is to watch him struggle, she probably needs to get in there before he hurts himself or – less likely – manages to escape. He clearly doesn’t know why he’s there, and he doesn’t have a good track record of working out why someone might have tied him up, even when it really should be obvious.
She turns the camera feed off and walks out the en suite. His head whips around when he hears her footsteps, and his face turns to surprise and relief when he sees her. And some anger, which is to be expected.
“Jesus Christ,” he says.
“Close, but no. How do you feel?”
She sees him do a physical stocktake and register that he’s not injured, or suffering any real damage from being drugged. “A bit thirsty.”
“Yes, it does have that effect.” She fills a glass at the sink and brings it over to him, holding it to his lips so he can sip the water. “Sloppy tradecraft, Cartwright. You should know not to leave your drink unattended in a bar.”
“I wasn’t expecting to get roofied on my night off.”
“Exactly.”
“So is this a training exercise, ma’am? Do you do this with all the agents?”
“Don’t be cheeky.”
She puts the glass on the coffee table and kneels on the sofa next to him.
“You could have just called me,” he says.
“Yes, but this is much more fun. Besides, it is good training. Apart from not letting yourself be kidnapped, you have to learn to get yourself untied at some point in your career.”
“I’m grateful for the assistance.”
She smiles and straddles his lap. “I told you not to be cheeky.”
He’s not meeting her eyes, so she puts a finger under his chin and tilts his head up. From the feel of him, his body is fully on board with this, but she can tell from his eyes that he’s still pissed off at her.
“You know, I meant it when I said I liked your attitude,” she says, stroking his face. “And not just because of this. You have an extraordinary drive which is really very admirable, especially considering the circumstances.”
She feels him relax slightly, and sees some of the annoyance drain away. It’s refreshing how simple his needs are.
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed your work. You have a remarkable ability to carry it out in a way which creates more problems for me, but you’ll make an exceptional agent once you learn to think before you act.”
“I’m working on it.”
“Glad to hear it. Now, shall we stop talking shop?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He smiles and she feels his cock twitch underneath her. “Yes, ma’am.”
She tilts her face down towards him, and he lifts his up towards her. The rope on his collar catches him with his lips half an inch away from hers, and she keeps herself just out of reach, enjoying seeing him strain at his restraints as he tries to chase her mouth.
She presses her crotch into his and kisses his neck, feeling his breath heavy on her ear. His body writhes underneath her as he continues to struggle against the ropes; she suspects more because he enjoys the feeling than because he’s actually trying to get out.
Leaning back, she unbuttons his shirt and explores his chest with her mouth and hands. She resists the temptation to bite him; apart from the fact that he doesn’t like it, she doesn’t want him to have physical evidence of any of this.
The shirt is still in her way despite being unbuttoned, and she can’t get it off with his wrists tied. She considers cutting it off, but he doesn’t have a spare shirt here, and it’d be tedious to have to get him a new one before he can leave. She’s mildly annoyed at herself for not considering this earlier.
“Something wrong, ma’am?” he asks.
“I should have made them remove your shirt before they tied you up.”
“You could always re-tie me.”
She smiles. This is going well. “But what if you try to escape?”
“You’ll have to take that risk, ma’am.”
She gets off him and kneels by his left wrist, picking at the knot. It takes longer than it should because she keeps sneaking glances at him. He’s obviously going to do something, and it’s absolutely delightful that she doesn’t know exactly what.
When it’s nearly undone she pins his forearm to the sofa, putting all her weight on it with one hand while she finishes untying the knot with the other. Once the knot is undone, he flexes his hand and rotates his wrist but doesn’t make any effort to escape. There’s minor rope burns around the wrist, which isn’t ideal; it’s possible, although unlikely, that his fellow slow horses might notice, and ask questions.
He’s still not trying to escape, so she lifts some of her weight off his arm so that she can get his shirt off. Which is when he whips his arm off the couch, wraps it around her waist, pulls her back into his lap and kisses her.
The impertinence.
She kisses him back for a few seconds, then slides out of his grip and grabs his wrist with both hands. He’s quite thrillingly strong, and the two of them struggle for some time before she gets his arm pinned to the sofa again. Her heart is racing and her hair’s a mess; she hasn’t had this much fun for a long time.
The trouble is that keeping his arm in place requires both her hands and her full body weight, which means that his blasted shirt is no closer to being removed.
She can see him starting to wonder if he’s fucked up. He opens his mouth to say something.
“Do shut up, Cartwright,” she says before he can actually speak. She releases his arm and straddles him again, then kisses him and doesn’t object when he puts his free arm around her, pulling her tight against his body.
“That shirt is coming off if I have to break your damn arm.”
“Not necessary, ma’am.”
He lets her go, and they work together to get his arm out of the shirtsleeve. Then she pins his forearm to the sofa again, and he doesn’t try to resist as she reties his wrist.
“Comfortable?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How’s the other wrist?”
“A little tight.”
“Yes, they did take it seriously.”
She moves to his right wrist and unties it without pinning his arm. His arm stays relaxed on the back of the sofa as she slides the shirt off. She glances at the label before dropping it on the floor. Marks and Spencer. She really does need to do something about that, although perhaps the solution is simply to ensure that she rarely sees him with a shirt on.
She re-ties his wrist, making sure he’s unlikely to get any new rope burns, and allowing a little bit of slack in the rope.
“Good?”
He pulls at the rope to test it. “Yes, ma’am.”
She takes a step back to admire the sight. The position brings his arm muscles into full definition, like a late Renaissance crucifixion altarpiece, although any artist who painted the saviour with the look Cartwright has in his eyes right now would be done for blasphemy.
She’s wearing a loose silk sun dress, which she pulls off over her head and hangs over the back of a chair. Underneath she’s wearing what’s likely to be the most expensive bra and panties set that Cartwright has ever seen, perfectly designed to flatter and support. He clearly likes what he sees, for which she gives silent thanks to her personal trainer. The amount of work required to stop herself turning into the female version of Jackson Lamb is an absolute nightmare, but it’s an acceptable price for being able to do this with confidence.
She straddles Cartwright again, grinding into his cock through his trousers and grateful that he’s wearing black again, so the wet patch she’s probably leaving won’t show up.
For a second she wonders why he’s ignoring her breasts, and then remembers that, as well as having his hands tied, his head is also being held back by the rope at the back of his collar. She reaches around and unclips the end of the rope, deciding to leave the collar in place. It suits him.
Free to move his head, he buries his face in her cleavage, muffling his moans. She strokes his hair and whispers in his ear.
“You’re so good.”
She’s rewarded with a full body shudder and his hips bucking up into her. She really needs to get the rest of his clothes off.
Getting off him, she undoes his belt and trousers, then unties his ankles and pulls off his footwear, trousers and boxer shorts. He has a nice looking cock, uncut and slightly curved, and currently extremely hard and leaking pre-cum. His pubic hair is ginger and nicely trimmed; she wonders if he did that with anyone in mind, or whether it’s just part of his normal grooming routine.
“I think I’ve got a condom in my coat,” he says.
“They didn’t bring your coat with you,” she says, removing her bra and panties. “Besides which, pregnancy is not a factor for me, and I’ve seen your medical records so I know you don’t have anything I need to worry about. And you donated blood two weeks ago, so you’re not concerned about anything you might have done more recently. Unless you’ve somehow found time for any adventures since then?”
He takes a second to take all that in, then shakes his head. “No, ma’am.”
“Good.”
She kneels over him, taking his cock in hand and using the head to rub her clit. They’re both slippery, and it feels so good she’s tempted to just skip the fucking and make herself come like this. Although that might make Cartwright burst into flames.
“Oh god.” He pulls against the ropes and lets his head roll back, his eyes looking at her with raw need. “Oh fuck. Ma’am.”
She runs the head along her slit, pulling herself back as he bucks his hips up towards her.
“Patience,” she scolds him, putting a wet finger to his lips.
“Sorry,” he gasps. “Didn’t mean to.”
“I see I’m going to have to train you in self-control.”
He whines like he’s been kicked out to his kennel.
“That includes being quiet.”
He bites his lip and closes his eyes as she continues to rub his head around her clit and up and down her slit. His chest heaves, and out of the corners of her eyes she can see him flexing his hands and twisting his wrists in the ropes. She could probably keep doing this all night, but it’s time to be merciful.
She lowers herself onto him, his cock sliding into her with just enough friction to make her sigh with pleasure. She starts out slow, grabbing hold of his shoulders to get him deep inside her at just the right angle. Soon she needs it faster and harder, and then he starts thrusting into her and they find a rhythm together, and both of them forget about being quiet.
Looking down and feeling herself on the edge of orgasm, she registers that he has his eyes closed and a look of concentration on his face; he’s clearly trying to think about something else to stop himself from coming.
“I’m going to come,” she gasps. “I want to feel you too.”
Then she’s there, and as he feels her clench around him he lets himself go. She buries him deep inside her and wraps her arms around his shoulders as they both shudder into each other. Diana loses the ability to think for a few seconds.
When her brain reboots, she’s got one hand in his hair and her mouth resting against his forehead. She can feel his breath on her neck.
They stay like that for a while, their breathing slowly returning to normal, before she gets up and fetches a towel from the en suite. She throws it onto the sofa next to him and sits on it, leaning against his side, light-headed.
“God, I miss smoking indoors,” she says, more to herself than him.
“Ma’am?”
“Yes?”
“Do you think you could untie me?”
“Oh! Yes.”
She rolls over onto her knees and clumsily picks at the knot around his right wrist. “This was supposed to be a simple knot,” she mutters to herself. She doesn’t quite have fine motor control back yet.
Eventually she gets the knot undone, and he reaches past her to untie his other wrist. She leans back on the arm of the sofa with her legs tucked in next to her, looking vaguely in his direction but already starting to think about a suspected FSB agent she needs to have followed.
Cartwright puts a hand on her knee, breaking her train of thought.
“We’re not cuddling, Cartwright. It’s not that sort of arrangement.”
He pulls his hand back like he’s been burnt. “No, no, of course. Ma’am. Um, do you want me to go? Or I can stay, if you want?”
“No, you can go.”
He gets up and starts looking for his clothes. “Right. Okay.”
“By the way, in the unlikely event that you appear in the Park in the near future, I’ll probably need to give you a bollocking about the Upshott business. For the sake of appearances.”
“Understood.”
“Oh, and you should probably take the collar off.”
He puts his hand to his throat, having obviously forgotten he was wearing it. Even taking into account that he’s just had what looked like a spectacular orgasm, he really needs to work on actually using his brain. He fiddles with the buckle until he can get the collar off. He’s got a slight rash from it.
“You can keep it, if you like,” she says. “Bring it with you next time.”
He smiles. “Yeah, okay.”
“Do you prefer a call or a text?”
“Uh, a call. Although a text can be more discrete. Except when… it’s up to you, ma’am. Whatever you prefer.”
“But not having you drugged and brought to a hotel in Cardiff?”
“We’re in Wales??”
“Yes, I had one of those bloody stupid devolution things. I needed to entertain myself somehow.”
“I have work tomorrow morning.”
“Today, actually. Stop complaining, there’s a train ticket on the bedside cabinet, and you can sleep en route.”
He sighs. “Yes, ma’am.”
“You should shower and leave now if you want to get to Slough House by eight.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Until next time.”
“Until next time, ma’am.”