Conditioning

A lot of men hit on her, failing to understand what will happen. Some of them lose interest. Others freak out. But eventually she’s in a room with two of them who haven’t given up. Latched on like dogs. Two straight males in a back office of the facility. Lights off. The blinds slice evening across their bodies in sickly orange bars.

“So what? Are you going to make us fight?” And that is interesting, already; seeing which one tenses, and which one is prepared to do violence. She wonders if that dynamic will stay true.

She uses the question to lead them closer to the truth. To wrap it around them like invisible ropes. Testing, teasing, opening them up. A couple agents with drinks inside them. She says, “Would you fight for me?”

One hesitates, then follows the other. Yes. Sure. Their words don’t matter. It’s the body language. They’re already testing the idea of taking the other down. For a chance at what: a date with her? These drunk dogs are probably thinking of fucking her in this nice, dark room. And that too leads them closer.

She sits on the desk and dangles her boot off it. Knowing her thigh spreads out nicely in these trousers. And the shadows do so much work in all the folds they’re looking at. She’s a silhouette of every beautiful woman they’ve ever jerked off to, even if she’s really a bit ugly by most standards. If she let them fuck her, she’d be nothing to them. Just another hole of convenience, forgotten after this war. That’s why she makes them chase her. Beautiful or ugly, nothing deranges people more than what they can’t have.

“Pin him down. Winner gets to stick it in.”

One of them laughs. The other looks uncomfortable. Then it happens. A feint turns into something real, they’re grappling, knocking a chair over, nothing too serious yet, they’re feeling a little foolish maybe, but then one hits the other too hard and splits his lip. Brown Hair pissed off Dark Hair and now arm is hooked around neck, putting those killing muscles to use. Neither of them is a carved statue, but they’ve had enough training to make the civilian fat slough off, and tensed up like this you can see the bulge of wiry limbs, highlighted by sparks of sweat.

Black Hair’s face turns red, he keeps trying to get out of the pin. His nails rip fibers from the carpet, his boots scrape helplessly, and he’s running out of air. Brown Hair looks up, triumphant. She walks over and pours ethanol into his mouth, straight from the bottle. His adrenaline is pumping hard enough that he swallows the nasty, high-proof shit without spitting it out, dribbling from his chin onto the back of Dark Hair’s neck. Associating the burning pleasure with his weight on the other male. Reinforcing the behaviors she wants.

Her blond hair swings away, and she’s back on the desk. It creaks under her broad hips. She finishes the bottle and says, “Now fuck him.”

Brown Hair laughs. Of course he does. A funny joke. The men are always making jokes, the kind that make her painfully wet, surrounded by the stink of testosterone and their homoironic games.

“If you get off him, I’m never touching either of you.”

She undoes her top button, and leans toward the sodium lighting trickling through the blinds. Razors of yellow light across her cleavage. Careful, buddy. Don’t get an erection on top of another guy. Not a full erection. Maybe it just gets heavier. Some blood flow. Your body already knows what it has to do. You’ll catch up.

“Kiss him.” She says it lightly, letting the buzz creep into her voice. Kissing is easy. Most of these guys would do it to fuck with each other, typical barracks games, and half of them would kiss to impress some drunk girl. It’s not beyond the pale.

She watches Brown Hair kiss Dark Hair and it’s over too quickly, of course. Looking up like a dog that did a trick, not understanding how utterly insufficient it was. Not the slightest twinge in her pelvis.

“With tongue, please.”

It’s not funny anymore. He jams his tongue past the sputtering lips like she knew he would, because anything is better than taking it seriously. Not a single note of delicacy can enter the motion. Violence purifies the act. And plays right into her plans.

“Put your dick in his mouth.”

That takes another round of negotiation. Another bottle, conveniently hidden in her desk. Like the last one, the label is a lie. She poured a much higher proof inside. They don’t understand how stupid they’re getting. And all the other symptoms of severe intoxication. It takes at least fifteen minutes and a casual slither of her hair across his face, and her crotch at eye level, and bending over so her cleavage squeezes together real nice, but his cock is out, and it’s hard, but it’s not like anything is going to happen. He’s going to bite my fucking dick off. I’m not putting my shit in that.

Dark Hair doesn’t like any of this. His face is really red. She bends over again, pouring her attention into him like a shot of ethanol.

“If you make him cum, you get to fuck me. And he never touches me again.”

She tilts the bottle into his mouth, and he coughs, struggling to keep down the burning fluid. Like she’s preparing him for a surgical procedure. This nasty fucking shit should be illegal. Burning through his neurons. The world is swimming around him, a vortex of office and bitch and booze and this sweaty smelly mass of male limbs crushing him into the carpet. Somehow he’s in control again. A chance to fuck over the guy he hates. And fuck her. So the tip of Brown Hair’s penis is in his mouth and she’s directing it like a movie. “No teeth. Thatta boy. Get some slobber on it. Grip the balls.” Those balls that wanted to empty into her, are now fighting not to blow inside Dark Hair’s flushed face.

“I’m not gay.” Both of them said this at various points. And it’s true. That’s what makes this so satisfying to her. Makes it truly perverse. She wants them to suffer. To be disgusted by themselves. The way she’d feel touching them.

Another round for both of them. Drink up, boys. Brown Hair’s eyes are rolling back, and maybe he’s blacking out, or maybe–

“Put your finger up his ass.”

And that’s when the balls lift and those toned cheeks tighten, and Dark Hair panics like he forgot what the point of sucking a dick is, but he’s too drunk to react in time, and the cock too hard, it would punch straight up into his brain if it could. Semen paints the back of his throat, and the spurting head bulges in his cheek before finally bouncing free. He spits on the carpet, big ropes of sperm dangling from his mouth.

“Fuck off,” she tells Brown Hair. He pulls his pants up and escapes. She hears him throwing up in the bathroom down the hall. Echoing through the empty facility. She hopes this night is scarred into his mind. That he can’t touch himself without blooms of shame, murky ethanol-fixed sensations.

“You said I could fuck you,” Dark Hair says. Stumbling, crawling toward her.

“Yes.” Her face is blank, but her body is hot and charged with everything she has seen. She exhales through her nose. Wanting to finger herself. But not around him.

She observes him like a dog that wandered in. Studying his coordination. “Very well.” She leans back on her desk, into the darkness, and spreads her legs so only her shiny black boots stick out. And then: the rasp of her zipper. Tooth by tooth. He pulls his pants off and bangs into the side of the desk, then manages to climb on top. His dick hangs out, shrunk and soft. He rubs it desperately, staring into the void between her meaty thighs. She smells like tobacco, cleaning agents, and wet pussy. Like chemicals on top of the place his penis needs to be. Like those spoiled lunch meats they dump out back and pour bleach on so the animals won’t come around. He pants with his tongue hanging out, come on come on, jerking so furiously his hand slaps into the base of his pubic mound, but there’s not enough to even fill his palm. If he could just show her what he has, show her he’s a man, everything will make sense, he just has to–

The beige desk is hard under his knees. He can’t stop tasting the other male’s semen. He can barely keep his head up.

“Too bad,” she says.

“Come on. Wait.”

“Maybe you really are gay. Sucked him off like a champ.” She feels the humiliation stirring in his limbs, threatening to burst into violence. She touches his hair, curly with sweat. “Come on. You did well.”

A little praise goes so far. All that agonized oxygen comes out of him at once, and he deflates. Meek to her touch. “One more chance. Meet me here next week. And don’t jerk off.”

He’s gone. She goes to the stain of wrestler’s sweat on the carpet. White blobs of semen. She smears them with her glove. Tasting. Other hand down the front of her trousers. Sinking into her sopping pussy.

She wonders how long he’ll last. Long enough to jerk off to gay porn for her? Long enough to take it up the ass? That would be just swell. She bends over, blond hair hitting the floor, and in that smoky curtain her saliva strains through gritted teeth. She swallows herself to the knuckles, jamming deep and hard, scraping herself out. The thought of really permanently fucking his psyche, ruining him into a neurotic mess that can’t be around all those dicks and armpits without getting hard. That would just. Be. So. Satisfactory. Making him her little fag who just wants to fuck her. Trapping him between her thighs as she holds open a magazine of faggots having hardcore anal sex with each other. Making him inhale her vaginal odor as she does this bizarro conversion therapy on him. Forcing him to splat his semen onto every page of this magazine like some kind of activity for children, do 10 puzzles to win a prize. And then when those pages are all stuck together, maybe he can look at this pussy, maybe he can bob for apples, after he’s managed to genuinely ejaculate to all these twinks slobbering on hard cocks, huffing and crushing fat red scrotums, holding open each other’s asses and sucking the semen out, urinals and watersports, rectal electrocution, fingering and fisting and ejaculating–

She groans and collapses on the carpet, hand trapped inside herself, belly fat crushing her wrist. Her hips shake as something like soda bursts and fizzes into the carpet. Her golden hair is stuck to her face and she breathes it like a fish trapped in tidal netting. Chlorine smell of semen mixes with her fucked fingers and she sucks cunt juice off them. Blond strands overflow her zipper and she pushes her hairy pubic lard back inside so she can do herself up without ripping something.

She rolls over, sweat cooling on her exposed belly, then tucks her blouse in. Considering which magazine to make his gauntlet. Anal Hardcore, or Rubber Torture. If he’s truly devoted, he’ll do both.