Work Text:
A tiny square of moonlight is falling on Ray's face.
They tried to escape again during tonight's show, and they all know this means the MOAT again, the reconditioning. Having your will bent, forgetting who you are, being forced to have no thoughts whatsoever; as though DRAAG is a curse that will kill us all and then devour itself.
Ray is lying on his cot. Tonight he hasn't even been allowed to shower (or, well, they didn't hose him down with chilly water) so he's still wearing his marching band uniform, though he has hung up his coat on a rusty nail he had found in a corner in one of his previous stays in this cell. He should sleep, but he doesn't know if he can.
A baton bangs on his door. He knows the drill: he walks up to it, turns his back to the door and presents his hands so he can be cuffed through the slit on it. He can't play guitar for the bliss of the masses if he's handcuffed, but the rest of the time he spends out of his cell, or when someone pays him a visit in it, he's not trusted to not try to kill them with his bare hands.
After he's gone back to his cot and sat down, the door opens and in walks the Secretary dragging her chair and carrying her leather briefcase. She's still wearing her sunglasses, even though the cell is dark as hell, and drops the briefcase on the chair. Without a word, she rummages through it until she takes out a small steel case.
Inside the case there is a vial and a syringe.
“I won't ask you how you are because I don't care,” she snaps. “Look at this, Ray.” She holds up the vial to the moonlight coming in through the minute window and starts filling up the syringe. “DRAAG is going through hardship. Morale is low and our numbers are dwindling. That's another way to say people are too depressed to fuck, so you'll understand.” The Secretary flicks her gloved finger at the syringe to get rid of the bubbles. “So we set the greatest minds of our generation on the task, and now we have a state-of-the-art drug, something the likes of which the world has never seen. What is in this syringe will save the Motherland, Ray. It's not for the likes of you, but I'm feeling generous and wanted to give you a taste.”
The Secretary takes a step towards the cot, and Ray stiffens in defiance. He knows he's helpless, but that doesn't mean he won't put up a fight.
“Oh, so you want to do it the hard way?” The Secretary looks sincerely disappointed. She makes a gesture and twin thugs come into the cell to hold down Ray on his cot, while the Secretary sticks the needle in his neck, next to his pulsating jugular vein. Then they leave and lock the door behind them.
The Secretary puts her briefcase down on the floor, sits on the chair and lights up a cigarette from a silver case. Ray is now panting, sweaty and his hair is a mess from trying to fight the shot of whatever shit she has injected into him.
Before she is finished with her cigarette, Ray is overcome with the mother and father of all raging boners. A boner so desperate that it's painful; not literally painful, but bursting with unbearable yearning. He stares at his tight trousers in confusion and disbelief, and then looks up at the Secretary in search of answers.
She lets out a mirthful laugh.
“DRAAG needs children, Ray. We need healthy, beautiful and pure-blooded people to pass on the right genes so we might survive our darkest hour. So, not the likes of you, my sweet Ray. You don't get to reproduce.”
Ray has already reproduced but really doesn't want to think about his children, their whereabouts or their safety, because he's so blind with desire it's taking everything he has to not wolf down on the Secretary, hands cuffed to his back and all.
A few eternal minutes pass where Ray tries his damnedest to ignore her, and his agitated, heavy breathing turns gradually into wheezing, until he is gasping and trying to take in great gulps or air, to no avail. He turns his eyes towards her, now terrified.
The Secretary is walking leisurely towards the cot, smirking.
“It's a matter of life or death, Ray. Those who lack will to live will perish. So, it's your choice now, sweetheart, inside these four walls.” She stoops down to him, sitting on a bunch of tatty sheets. “You either come or you choke.”
Ray springs from the cot straight for the Secretary's mouth, now completely undone by lust and wild self-preservation. She's ready for it, though; she trips him and has him on his knees in one swift movement. He just needs any kind of stimulation to avoid choking, so he tries to catch one of her legs between his thighs and weakly hump it, but he loses his balance and ends up sprawled on the floor.
“Damn, Ray, have some self respect.” She looks at him from above, still from behind her sunglasses. “Come on, we don't want you choking just yet, let me fix that for you.”
She nudges him with her shiny shoe, and finds his crotch with it. First she rubs the sole all over it, then she uses her toes to bring the boner up against his lower belly. Prisoners are not allowed underwear, so the furious boner tents up the pants. Next she uses the gap between the high heel of her shoe and the flat part of the sole to catch Ray's dick, running her shoe up and down, threatening to step on it from time to time. Ray needs to twist and turn since his hands are cuffed behind him and can't really lay flat on his back, but with the stimulation, his lungs can fill with air again.
When he seems to be out of immediate danger, the Secretary sits down on the chair and lights another cigarette. Ray can feel his heart thumping excitedly on his chest. Not only was being able to breathe again exhilarating, that fucking shot made every single sensation related to his cock multiply tenfold, to the point that he could feel himself diluting in the touch of the Secretary's shoe.
Ray rolls to lie on his belly on the concrete floor, gazing up at her through wet eyelashes, with a feverish flush to his cheeks. He bucks his hips in a trance, trying desperately to rub his dick between his belly and the floor, thus keeping asphyxia at bay.
“Veronika. Please.”
The Secretary tuts at him and flicks her ash in his general direction. Ray is letting out little whining sounds that turn into sobs. A bit of drool is pooling on the concrete where it meets the corner of his mouth.
“Veronika. Please.”
She shushes him now, but leans forward on the chair towards him and gazes intently, like he's some sort of weird insect writhing on the sidewalk. Ray has closed his eyes and keeps bucking aimlessly, folding his legs under himself to catch his cock between them, until stridor comes back and his lungs start whistling again, in an arrythmic little tune punctuated with coughs. That's when the Secretary throws the cigarette butt at the wall and crouches next to Ray wordlessly.
She nudges his shoulder so he'll kind of lie on his back, undoes his fly and frees his dick, which stays hovering about an inch over his belly, aligned with his happy trail, almost visibly throbbing and definitely dripping at the tip. Then she takes off her right shoe and strokes his cock with her stockinged foot. Ray lets out an inhuman noise, from deep in his entrails.
Very appropriate, Veronika thinks to herself.
He can't lie down comfortably, but has settled for bunching his hands under the small of his back and letting them go numb. He can feel the knit of her nylon stockings along his cock, then across, then massaging little circles on it, trapping it between the texture of the nylon and his own body hair, all of which he can feel acutely.
She hops on her shoed foot a couple of times and now uses her stockinged foot on his face, poking at his cheeks, tugging at his jaw, getting her slightly damp toes in his mouth, smelling of new leather and shoeshine.
She takes her other shoe off and walks circles around him meticulously, massaging him here and there, stepping on him to walk to the other side once or twice. Whenever she walks over his face, Ray can see through the daze that she's wearing a garter belt, but it's too dark to tell if she has any underwear on.
However, the drug's effect keeps mounting and soon Ray is wheezing again even through the stimulation.
The Secretary walks over to the rusty nail, drops Ray's coat on the floor and hangs her own jacket there. She moves to the cot, sits on it, lifts her skirt and opens her legs wide, then beckons Ray with one gloved finger. She wasn't wearing anything else after all.
“Have you eaten, Ray? I'm on top of these bozos, but I know sometimes they forget to feed you.”
Ray trips over himself to get to the side of the cot, kneel next to it and bury his mouth in that freshly shaved pussy. It's been so long since he ate, touched or even smelled one. The soft, warm flesh melts in his mouth, and as stridor subsides, he finds himself moaning into it. He's vaguely aware of his hands being covered in pinpricks now that he's not lying on them anymore.
Veronika seems to be ecstatic for the first time since he met her. Sighing and moaning, her stockinged feet resting on Ray's shoulders, licking and biting her lips. She might be rolling her eyes behind the sunglasses.
“What are we going to do about all this hair, Ray?” Veronika sighs, pulling gently at handfuls of it. “You've got that Spanish thing going on. Olé torero. Shame they're an inferior race, they're fun at parties.”
Ray briefly chokes on the pussy, but knows better than to show offense and anyway the drug has turned him into a horny airhead, he hopes only temporarily.
Of course he has been trying to flatter and seduce Veronika for his own ends. Spit shining her shoes and gifting her a pick, in hopes to get a peep of her clipboard, or maybe that she'll let something slip that can be used as intel. The plan, from day one, was to gain her trust, stab her in the back and run for his life.
But the nights in his cell are long and sleepless, and his mind wanders. She's a monster, just like everyone who helps the country-sized meat grinder of DRAAG keep running. But she's also human. She makes mistakes sometimes, and lets her guard down. She'll doubt from time to time. He's seen her hesitate and tap her foot before carrying out orders from above.
Maybe an earful of sweet nothings will knock the fascism out of her.
He has too much time to think, and to fantasize.
She could be a spy. A double agent. He's been watching her closely for months, looking for tells. He's hoping she will understand the pick as a secret message, a token of good will, because there isn't much he can do to communicate with her that will not result in terrible punishment. And also because if she's not one of the good guys, he will not live to tell the tale.
He might not need to stab her in the back. She might turn against them at the right time and flee DRAAG with him, hand him and the boys to some sort of underground railroad that will smuggle them out. She might even come along with him and spend lazy nights together on the road, taking turns to drive and flipping through a stack of counterfeit passports before cuddling and surrendering to sleep side by side.
If Christa is alive and he can find her, well... They'll always have Paris. Or Gubrick.
All of this is happening in a remote corner of his brain. Most of it, though, is overcome by the need to slobber on this pussy. Make out with it, suck on it, kiss it, lick it, get lost in all of its slick recesses, hum a jolly little tune into it. Kneeling down like this, he can rub his dick between his legs, and at this point both his inner thighs are a mess of precum.
But again the drug is catching up to him, and this will just not do. He needs to be inside her, more than he has ever needed anything, because he knows he will literally die if he isn't; so he hauls himself up and tries to get her legs on his shoulders and enter her without using his hands, but the moment he budges from his post, she kicks his shoulders back brutally and has him fall painfully on his naked butt.
“What do you even think you're doing?” she asks, deadpan. Then stands from the cot and offers him her still gloved hand. “Come on, up on your feet.”
She stands terribly close to him, Ray's boner resting lightly on her shirt over her belly, drawing a fine thread of precum as she shuffles to take off her right glove.
“It might be cold,” she warns, but it isn't as her hand closes around Ray's cock. She throws her tie over her shoulder with her free hand.
She turns her head to look at the moon through the window, tutting as if this is some mind-numbing chore, but her hand doesn't say the same thing. She changes up the speed and strength of her strokes, playing with her fingers on his length and girth, thumbing the precum on the head. As though she actually cares that he'll enjoy it.
When she can tell he's close to finally coming, she lifts her sunglasses with her left hand and lets them rest on top of her head, then looks unblinking into his eyes.
He cannot read her expression and is so out of it, so terrified of actually dying at the end of this, but also shocked that this damned thing could be the most intense and, for that reason, downright frightening sex he has ever had.
What is in her eyes? Are they accomplices? Or will she bite his head off when she's done with him?
With a whole body shudder and a muttered curse, he squirts on the Secretary's blouse, a long white ribbon sputtering and splattering on the expensive weave only the higher-ups of the Party are allowed to wear.
The Secretary tsks, rolls her eyes and looks down in disgust.
“Look at the mess you made, Ray. This doesn't come out easily, don't you know? Get on your knees and fix it, right now.”
A wave of calm runs through Ray now, intimately sure that he will live to see at least another day. He obeys and gets rid of his own cum, his tongue irritated by the threads and the taste of detergent, but guessing at the soft skin of Veronika's belly under it. His thoughts are coming back to him in droves. He kind of wishes his hands were uncuffed so he could hold her waist though this.
When she's happy with his cleaning job, she puts her shoes back on, picks up her briefcase and takes her jacket from the nail, then walks towards the door.
“Remember to come get your cuffs off, don't trip on your own pants.” She clicks her heels before the door as it opens and adds, almost as an afterthought: “I hope you know to behave better from now on.”