Fic: Clicker (NC-17, Torchwood, Jack/Alice Guppy)
Title: Clicker
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Jack Harkness/Alice Guppy
Rating: NC-17 (sexual slavery, sort of, dub-con)
Author's Notes: For the Porn Battle V: Historical Sex. This didn't suck until my computer ate the good bits. Thanks to angstslashhope and lionessvalenti for looking at this and telling me that it was not made of crap, even if it is. You cannot blame them.
Summary: After all, that's what they're here to do, slap the cattle and leer and pretend that they know all about the sale of slaves here on the auction block, because Emily had offered him this job and he'd accepted it from the moment she'd said 'illicit alien sex ring'.
Jack wants to slap 'em a little, just a smack or two when they walk by in the club. It's a veritable smorgasbord of flesh, pale and tanned, red and blue and sometimes covered in scales. His hands twitch; he can't help himself.
After all, that's what they're here to do, slap the cattle and leer and pretend that they know all about the sale of slaves here on the auction block, because Emily had offered him this job and he'd accepted it from the moment she'd said 'illicit alien sex ring'.
Illicit alien sex? On this backwater planet? In the tail end of the Victorian era? Oh. Yeah. Yes, please.
Small problem, in the form of Alice, who stands next to him and pulls at his leash. Yeah, see, Emily's sense of humor is rather dry, and she hadn't been too specific as to who Jack is supposed to be. Alice buys their way in by stabbing him with a knife and watching him die and come back to life, and the blood stains his pretty fucking scant loincloth. The Haxxorian sniffs him and decides that his 51st century smell is alien enough, and when they grant him and Alice entrance into the club she grabs him by the collar and yanks him in with a smirk that reads, You really are different, Jack-o.
Jack has no issues with that. Even if he hadn't been immortal, he's not like her, hasn't been since 1941, and he's fine with that.
He sits there when they auction off a new round of slaves, Alice perched primly in her chair. Her ankles are tiny and they peek out from her skirts, encased in the leather of her boots, and he wants to lick them. It has nothing to do with the collar on his throat, or the way her hand, the hand that's so quick with a blade, reaches down to smooth his hair and then grasp him by the back of the neck and press his head against her thigh. Jack closes his eyes and pretends that this is real, that he's actually a slave, a slave who needs to be saved.
Because maybe if Jack is in trouble, He'll come.
Instead, he finds that he wants to run his hands up under Alice's skirts, to tease her, because he knows that she doesn't wear knickers. He listens to the Haxxorians garble about pricing on a young bit of Welsh arse with little interest, not even when she squeals and writhes under their paddle and he knows that she's just plying to the crowd. Alice shifts in her seat; a glance up at her shows him that she is sweating, and that her eyes are riveted to the stage. The girl up there is pilloried to the carpeted posts, her arse red and striped, and she is rolling her hips a little, her red hair tossing over her shoulders. Jack licks his open lips when she twists her torso a bit in the restraints and he can see her breasts, those small things that always stand up at the barest of touches.
Emily's hand is loose on the back of his neck, and he tilts his head to rub his face into her arm. When she is able to tear her gaze away from the stage and give him somewhat of a sharp look, Jack decides that later, weeks from now, maybe, he'd going to tie Miss Alice up to a post, maybe in a stable somewhere. He’ll pay the horse boy there a crown to sod off for the evening, and then he'll lift her delicate wrists above her head and lash her there, some maiden tied to the wreck of the Hesperus, and then he'll pull all that hair down and watch it stick to the blood he blossoms on her back when he beats her. Because Alice wants blood.
But for now, he is bold in public and walks his fingers up her calf, eyes never leaving hers, and she responds when he arrives at her knee by clenching on his hair at the back and pulling. Oh, Alice, he wants to say, Alice with your forceful ways and little knives and plum size breasts. Alice, take me to a back room.
Who knows why she does. They hadn't intended on doing more than watching the first time round. They certainly don't have leave to interfere or buy anyone, and Jack has to admit that he's a little disappointed about that second one. Well, the first one too. He's not big on sexual slavery, no matter how conditioned the subjects. Unless, of course, it's Alice, because he's been imagining that in his head for the past fifteen minutes.
Alice's hand is gripped around his leash so tight that there have to be bloody crescents in her palm. He trots a little to keep up with her pace, which is funny because he has the longer stride, but something about the yank on his neck makes him stoop a little and fall behind. He also kind of likes to watch her ass, hidden as it is by the bustle she's wearing under her Torchwood-issue eveningwear. Alice would normally never bother with frills and red lace.
They stand there for the guard, a tall Haxxorian with the markings of the lower caste on his face, and he sniffs Jack and is standoffish about Alice, and then he admits them to the narrow dim hallway, where the breeze is chilling and makes Jack's balls want to crawl up inside him. The loincloth? Not so much with the effective warmth.
Alice takes the bracelets from the guard without the slightest clue as to what they can do, and Jack widens his eyes involuntarily because those things are dangerous. He's all for a little pain, but these, he thinks as he holds out his wrists to receive them, these will be bad. He hasn't seen conditioning cuffs since he put a pair on Hart. Just the memory of his former partner following him around for a week begging to please him is enthralling, and a little chilling. Mostly because well, now-
He glances at Alice. Oh hell.
"These are for you," the guard says, looking Jack over as Alice finishes snapping the last metal clasp in place. "In case your buck gets out of hand." He delivers a smack to Jack's arse and Jack takes the time to memorise the pattern of red spots on his blue face because he's going to enjoy introducing them to his fist later on.
Alice is infinitely amused at that. "My buck," she says, looking back at him, and he knows that the next time they get a moment alone he's going to be taking something out on her cunt. She probably knows it too. She lets him repay her in kind every time she kills him, bending her over barrels and railings and sometimes dead bodies. For all that she and Emily belong to each other, Alice wants to fuck the alienness of him, the one thing that she cannot kill, steal the life from. Jack is probably the best grift she's never had.
Once they are alone in the small backroom, designed for privacy and whipping and probably a great deal of things that Alice hasn't thought of but he has, he feels the zip of the bracelets as they activate and burn into his arms. The shock of the feeling, enervating and arousing, made to teach slaves that their body wants what's happening to them, shitty alien tech at it's worst, hits his system, and he thinks that he doesn't want to be at Alice's private mercy. He also thinks that he doesn't like the way that the tech has already hacked into his mental barriers and is now slathering on programming like bad butter on toast.
Normally it wouldn't bother him; he's felt a little pain before, right, hey? And he's shaken off better psychic invasions than this, but he's distracted, thinking of that girl on the pillory, and Alice is pulling the pins from her chignon and with one finger toying with the bust of her dress. Oh, that's nice, really.
"How long should we wait?" she asks, messing with her hair. When she does, her decolletage jostles and Jack has to drag his eyes to the Persian carpet. He thinks about visual imprinting in creatures and remembers that it can be avoided it one doesn't look at the other person.
When she sinks onto the divan, it occurs to him dully that she thinks they're back here as cover. Well, oh, no, no no.
"You're horrible at this," he says to her, choking on the words a little, the negativity of them. But he means them inside, because Alice is clueless and blinking, and that's not a good look for her. She toys with the button in her hand, the shiny silver one that matches his cuffs and he really, really, really doesn't want her to press it, because if she does, and she sees what it can do, she'll never stop pressing it. She'll smuggle it out of here and glue the button down.
He paces because that’s the only thing he can do, as she isn't peeling off her clothes or lying back and asking for him or even looking at him like something to fuck. He's tense and a little anxious and he wonders if he's displeased her and he really doesn't want to displease her and-Jesus, since when does he even care what Alice Guppy thinks?
The bracelets go off, and he groans. He would rather have the skin peeled from his arms. Instead, it resonates in his groin and he stops in front of her. The last of the jolt is coursing through him, bouncing on his nerves, and it's not altogether unpleasant. The pain goes away entirely when he sees her smile and she's pleased. That's nice.
"We have to smell like sex when we leave this room, you know," he says, trying not to sound as if he's begging her. Begging Alice never works, even when she hasn't put the knife in yet, even when her finger isn't on the trigger.
He has to do something about these bracelets, because the more he looks at her, the more he wants to just ask her to tell him what to do, and the worst part is that he'll mean it. Cold day in hell. The breeze from the hallway is gone, but he concentrates on the noises outside in the hallway: people laughing, the snap of a whip, crashing glass, a faint ribbon of music from an old upright. If he thinks about these things then he won't focus on the way he wants to worship Alice's cunt.
Hey, not. Helping.
Alice sits up in front of him, bringing her knees round and looking at the button in her hand. 'What's it doing?" Oh fuck, he wants to tell her, he wants to spill about what he feels and his cock is impossibly hard and so Jack decides that he has to concentrate on that. Obviously the bordello setting (red velvet? Really?) and moaning coming from the next room over are slightly distressing. Oh well, his dick has gotten him out of plenty of sticky situations, and it could possibly save him now.
"I wasn't joking, about the sex," he says, ignoring her question and the answer it demands and instead deciding to hot-wire the bracelets' subtle programming writing itself in his head. In order to please her, they have to get out of here alive. In order to do that, they have to keep their cover. In order to do that, they should have sex of some sort. In order to do that, he should initiate it, because Alice is a tease, but she's his tease, because that's their game. And in order to initiate it, he has to get closer.
And take the fucking bracelets off. Why didn't he think of that before?
Just thinking of unfastening the bracelets scares the shit out of him, and that in turn scares the shit out of him. It occurs to him idly that he wouldn't have felt this way about Rose having her finger on the button, because she wouldn't have used it.
So finally, he just decides that he's going to give himself the pain of his life, several lives. He reaches inside his head and evades the greasy fingers of the bracelets' not-so-subtle programming and tears it aside, just like he's been taught, and Jesus, it hurts, but it's a good hurt, really, like popping a shoulder back in. The bracelets go off in protest and Alice slides her hand up the sides of his thighs when he tenses in front of her. Not the best moment for him, no.
"What shall I do for you, then?" she says, in that phrasing Jack is able to pull himself out of his own head and stare at her, her hair undone, her lips wet, her face hovering just in front of the loincloth, mouth impossibly close, like any trashy dime store romance novel heroine ever. When she bends like this he can see the line of her cleavage, that little well that comes from breasts being pushed together. He rather wants to fuck that well.
The bracelets go off.
He doesn't say anything, he can't really, because he's busy trying to say something other than "Let me love you," because holy fuck, his brain is defragging almost and that sentence has been lifted from another person's file in his head and dropped into Alice's. He can blame the bracelets for that.
The music in the other room ceases, and now Jack can hear the whipping noises around them more clearly, coming into sharp aural focus. The candles seem to catch onto his vibe and they gutter for a second, even though there is no breeze. Jack's hips thrust a little, but he figures that he can't help it.
He has to do something. Alice reaches out, pulling the loincloth aside and running her fingers down his cock. "Is this what he meant by 'buck-'" Jack pushes into her mouth while she's still talking, and she sputters around him, one of her hands waving wildly in the air.
He is unsure whether it is her mouth and how hot it feels, or the force of the act itself, but Jack suddenly remembers the pillory and the whipping, and Alice's little leather boots, and the way he knows her back will feel when he's reddened it up. The bracelets, cheap pieces of shite, give up. He is disappointed that they don't smoke. And they're not really broken, he realises as they just decide to go off at random intervals and the pain lances up his arms and to his shoulder, sometimes traveling to his chest and jolting it there.
Alice chokes on his cock and he remembers everything. Every death, every leer, or put down, every time she's called him 'man whore', which doesn't mostly bother him because it's technically, but not authentically true.
She looks good down there for once, and he thrusts, holding tight to her hair. "Alice, Alice, what am I to do with you? Can't top, can't bottom, can only go sideways." He fucks her mouth and she lets him, because her hands finally settle on his hips, her eyes rolling upwards to see his face. He gives her a grin. "Halfway up, halfway down, that's where my cock is, right?"
Alice crushes the buzzer in her fist and he's torn between wanting to come in her mouth and beg her forgiveness. It goes off in pulses when she releases it and squeezes it again and again, in time with her mouth on his cock. Time whites out and he can hear Little Miss Welsh being dragged down the hallway, he can tell it's her by the delicious whimpers. Alice digs her fingers into his arsecheeks, and that's fantastic. He thinks to make her shove the button up his arse, but he doesn't want her any closer to it than she already is.
"Alice, you should let me fuck your mouth more often," he says. When he isn't talking he's thinking about how much he loves her. "After all, I've been everywhere else, right? Does Emily even know?" The bracelets burn with intensity and he can hear the clicker noise of the button being mashed down repeatedly by her thumb. "I didn't think so," he chuckles.
When he comes, he shoves his cock so far in her mouth that she has to have gagged on it, and he doesn't even care. He can't stab Alice with a knife, not really. This'll do. She falls backwards on the divan and glares at him, the lower half of her face slick with spit. He stumbles against the wooden door before sliding down to the floor and sitting, not caring about modesty or filth or anything, just getting the fucking things off his wrists.
When he has them in his hands, he looks up at her, twirling them both on one finger. "Was it good for you?"
Alice rises up and settles on her elbows, her legs splayed hopelessly apart. If her skirt had been shorter, he would have seen everything. That is probably her point.
She raises the button and depresses it, holding it there, and his finger jerks.
When they arrive back at the Hub and he can retrieve his clothes, Jack takes off the bracelets and considers throwing them into the Bay. He stands there in the shadows of the open room, where he had deposited his clothes and rubs the bands together with one hand.
Somewhere above him, Alice laughs with Emily, full throated. He slips them into his pocket, and they clink merrily, full of promise.
END
Yeah, it's rough, but I'm done with it. I might use the bracelets in the future.
Fandom: Torchwood
Characters: Jack Harkness/Alice Guppy
Rating: NC-17 (sexual slavery, sort of, dub-con)
Author's Notes: For the Porn Battle V: Historical Sex. This didn't suck until my computer ate the good bits. Thanks to angstslashhope and lionessvalenti for looking at this and telling me that it was not made of crap, even if it is. You cannot blame them.
Summary: After all, that's what they're here to do, slap the cattle and leer and pretend that they know all about the sale of slaves here on the auction block, because Emily had offered him this job and he'd accepted it from the moment she'd said 'illicit alien sex ring'.
Jack wants to slap 'em a little, just a smack or two when they walk by in the club. It's a veritable smorgasbord of flesh, pale and tanned, red and blue and sometimes covered in scales. His hands twitch; he can't help himself.
After all, that's what they're here to do, slap the cattle and leer and pretend that they know all about the sale of slaves here on the auction block, because Emily had offered him this job and he'd accepted it from the moment she'd said 'illicit alien sex ring'.
Illicit alien sex? On this backwater planet? In the tail end of the Victorian era? Oh. Yeah. Yes, please.
Small problem, in the form of Alice, who stands next to him and pulls at his leash. Yeah, see, Emily's sense of humor is rather dry, and she hadn't been too specific as to who Jack is supposed to be. Alice buys their way in by stabbing him with a knife and watching him die and come back to life, and the blood stains his pretty fucking scant loincloth. The Haxxorian sniffs him and decides that his 51st century smell is alien enough, and when they grant him and Alice entrance into the club she grabs him by the collar and yanks him in with a smirk that reads, You really are different, Jack-o.
Jack has no issues with that. Even if he hadn't been immortal, he's not like her, hasn't been since 1941, and he's fine with that.
He sits there when they auction off a new round of slaves, Alice perched primly in her chair. Her ankles are tiny and they peek out from her skirts, encased in the leather of her boots, and he wants to lick them. It has nothing to do with the collar on his throat, or the way her hand, the hand that's so quick with a blade, reaches down to smooth his hair and then grasp him by the back of the neck and press his head against her thigh. Jack closes his eyes and pretends that this is real, that he's actually a slave, a slave who needs to be saved.
Because maybe if Jack is in trouble, He'll come.
Instead, he finds that he wants to run his hands up under Alice's skirts, to tease her, because he knows that she doesn't wear knickers. He listens to the Haxxorians garble about pricing on a young bit of Welsh arse with little interest, not even when she squeals and writhes under their paddle and he knows that she's just plying to the crowd. Alice shifts in her seat; a glance up at her shows him that she is sweating, and that her eyes are riveted to the stage. The girl up there is pilloried to the carpeted posts, her arse red and striped, and she is rolling her hips a little, her red hair tossing over her shoulders. Jack licks his open lips when she twists her torso a bit in the restraints and he can see her breasts, those small things that always stand up at the barest of touches.
Emily's hand is loose on the back of his neck, and he tilts his head to rub his face into her arm. When she is able to tear her gaze away from the stage and give him somewhat of a sharp look, Jack decides that later, weeks from now, maybe, he'd going to tie Miss Alice up to a post, maybe in a stable somewhere. He’ll pay the horse boy there a crown to sod off for the evening, and then he'll lift her delicate wrists above her head and lash her there, some maiden tied to the wreck of the Hesperus, and then he'll pull all that hair down and watch it stick to the blood he blossoms on her back when he beats her. Because Alice wants blood.
But for now, he is bold in public and walks his fingers up her calf, eyes never leaving hers, and she responds when he arrives at her knee by clenching on his hair at the back and pulling. Oh, Alice, he wants to say, Alice with your forceful ways and little knives and plum size breasts. Alice, take me to a back room.
Who knows why she does. They hadn't intended on doing more than watching the first time round. They certainly don't have leave to interfere or buy anyone, and Jack has to admit that he's a little disappointed about that second one. Well, the first one too. He's not big on sexual slavery, no matter how conditioned the subjects. Unless, of course, it's Alice, because he's been imagining that in his head for the past fifteen minutes.
Alice's hand is gripped around his leash so tight that there have to be bloody crescents in her palm. He trots a little to keep up with her pace, which is funny because he has the longer stride, but something about the yank on his neck makes him stoop a little and fall behind. He also kind of likes to watch her ass, hidden as it is by the bustle she's wearing under her Torchwood-issue eveningwear. Alice would normally never bother with frills and red lace.
They stand there for the guard, a tall Haxxorian with the markings of the lower caste on his face, and he sniffs Jack and is standoffish about Alice, and then he admits them to the narrow dim hallway, where the breeze is chilling and makes Jack's balls want to crawl up inside him. The loincloth? Not so much with the effective warmth.
Alice takes the bracelets from the guard without the slightest clue as to what they can do, and Jack widens his eyes involuntarily because those things are dangerous. He's all for a little pain, but these, he thinks as he holds out his wrists to receive them, these will be bad. He hasn't seen conditioning cuffs since he put a pair on Hart. Just the memory of his former partner following him around for a week begging to please him is enthralling, and a little chilling. Mostly because well, now-
He glances at Alice. Oh hell.
"These are for you," the guard says, looking Jack over as Alice finishes snapping the last metal clasp in place. "In case your buck gets out of hand." He delivers a smack to Jack's arse and Jack takes the time to memorise the pattern of red spots on his blue face because he's going to enjoy introducing them to his fist later on.
Alice is infinitely amused at that. "My buck," she says, looking back at him, and he knows that the next time they get a moment alone he's going to be taking something out on her cunt. She probably knows it too. She lets him repay her in kind every time she kills him, bending her over barrels and railings and sometimes dead bodies. For all that she and Emily belong to each other, Alice wants to fuck the alienness of him, the one thing that she cannot kill, steal the life from. Jack is probably the best grift she's never had.
Once they are alone in the small backroom, designed for privacy and whipping and probably a great deal of things that Alice hasn't thought of but he has, he feels the zip of the bracelets as they activate and burn into his arms. The shock of the feeling, enervating and arousing, made to teach slaves that their body wants what's happening to them, shitty alien tech at it's worst, hits his system, and he thinks that he doesn't want to be at Alice's private mercy. He also thinks that he doesn't like the way that the tech has already hacked into his mental barriers and is now slathering on programming like bad butter on toast.
Normally it wouldn't bother him; he's felt a little pain before, right, hey? And he's shaken off better psychic invasions than this, but he's distracted, thinking of that girl on the pillory, and Alice is pulling the pins from her chignon and with one finger toying with the bust of her dress. Oh, that's nice, really.
"How long should we wait?" she asks, messing with her hair. When she does, her decolletage jostles and Jack has to drag his eyes to the Persian carpet. He thinks about visual imprinting in creatures and remembers that it can be avoided it one doesn't look at the other person.
When she sinks onto the divan, it occurs to him dully that she thinks they're back here as cover. Well, oh, no, no no.
"You're horrible at this," he says to her, choking on the words a little, the negativity of them. But he means them inside, because Alice is clueless and blinking, and that's not a good look for her. She toys with the button in her hand, the shiny silver one that matches his cuffs and he really, really, really doesn't want her to press it, because if she does, and she sees what it can do, she'll never stop pressing it. She'll smuggle it out of here and glue the button down.
He paces because that’s the only thing he can do, as she isn't peeling off her clothes or lying back and asking for him or even looking at him like something to fuck. He's tense and a little anxious and he wonders if he's displeased her and he really doesn't want to displease her and-Jesus, since when does he even care what Alice Guppy thinks?
The bracelets go off, and he groans. He would rather have the skin peeled from his arms. Instead, it resonates in his groin and he stops in front of her. The last of the jolt is coursing through him, bouncing on his nerves, and it's not altogether unpleasant. The pain goes away entirely when he sees her smile and she's pleased. That's nice.
"We have to smell like sex when we leave this room, you know," he says, trying not to sound as if he's begging her. Begging Alice never works, even when she hasn't put the knife in yet, even when her finger isn't on the trigger.
He has to do something about these bracelets, because the more he looks at her, the more he wants to just ask her to tell him what to do, and the worst part is that he'll mean it. Cold day in hell. The breeze from the hallway is gone, but he concentrates on the noises outside in the hallway: people laughing, the snap of a whip, crashing glass, a faint ribbon of music from an old upright. If he thinks about these things then he won't focus on the way he wants to worship Alice's cunt.
Hey, not. Helping.
Alice sits up in front of him, bringing her knees round and looking at the button in her hand. 'What's it doing?" Oh fuck, he wants to tell her, he wants to spill about what he feels and his cock is impossibly hard and so Jack decides that he has to concentrate on that. Obviously the bordello setting (red velvet? Really?) and moaning coming from the next room over are slightly distressing. Oh well, his dick has gotten him out of plenty of sticky situations, and it could possibly save him now.
"I wasn't joking, about the sex," he says, ignoring her question and the answer it demands and instead deciding to hot-wire the bracelets' subtle programming writing itself in his head. In order to please her, they have to get out of here alive. In order to do that, they have to keep their cover. In order to do that, they should have sex of some sort. In order to do that, he should initiate it, because Alice is a tease, but she's his tease, because that's their game. And in order to initiate it, he has to get closer.
And take the fucking bracelets off. Why didn't he think of that before?
Just thinking of unfastening the bracelets scares the shit out of him, and that in turn scares the shit out of him. It occurs to him idly that he wouldn't have felt this way about Rose having her finger on the button, because she wouldn't have used it.
So finally, he just decides that he's going to give himself the pain of his life, several lives. He reaches inside his head and evades the greasy fingers of the bracelets' not-so-subtle programming and tears it aside, just like he's been taught, and Jesus, it hurts, but it's a good hurt, really, like popping a shoulder back in. The bracelets go off in protest and Alice slides her hand up the sides of his thighs when he tenses in front of her. Not the best moment for him, no.
"What shall I do for you, then?" she says, in that phrasing Jack is able to pull himself out of his own head and stare at her, her hair undone, her lips wet, her face hovering just in front of the loincloth, mouth impossibly close, like any trashy dime store romance novel heroine ever. When she bends like this he can see the line of her cleavage, that little well that comes from breasts being pushed together. He rather wants to fuck that well.
The bracelets go off.
He doesn't say anything, he can't really, because he's busy trying to say something other than "Let me love you," because holy fuck, his brain is defragging almost and that sentence has been lifted from another person's file in his head and dropped into Alice's. He can blame the bracelets for that.
The music in the other room ceases, and now Jack can hear the whipping noises around them more clearly, coming into sharp aural focus. The candles seem to catch onto his vibe and they gutter for a second, even though there is no breeze. Jack's hips thrust a little, but he figures that he can't help it.
He has to do something. Alice reaches out, pulling the loincloth aside and running her fingers down his cock. "Is this what he meant by 'buck-'" Jack pushes into her mouth while she's still talking, and she sputters around him, one of her hands waving wildly in the air.
He is unsure whether it is her mouth and how hot it feels, or the force of the act itself, but Jack suddenly remembers the pillory and the whipping, and Alice's little leather boots, and the way he knows her back will feel when he's reddened it up. The bracelets, cheap pieces of shite, give up. He is disappointed that they don't smoke. And they're not really broken, he realises as they just decide to go off at random intervals and the pain lances up his arms and to his shoulder, sometimes traveling to his chest and jolting it there.
Alice chokes on his cock and he remembers everything. Every death, every leer, or put down, every time she's called him 'man whore', which doesn't mostly bother him because it's technically, but not authentically true.
She looks good down there for once, and he thrusts, holding tight to her hair. "Alice, Alice, what am I to do with you? Can't top, can't bottom, can only go sideways." He fucks her mouth and she lets him, because her hands finally settle on his hips, her eyes rolling upwards to see his face. He gives her a grin. "Halfway up, halfway down, that's where my cock is, right?"
Alice crushes the buzzer in her fist and he's torn between wanting to come in her mouth and beg her forgiveness. It goes off in pulses when she releases it and squeezes it again and again, in time with her mouth on his cock. Time whites out and he can hear Little Miss Welsh being dragged down the hallway, he can tell it's her by the delicious whimpers. Alice digs her fingers into his arsecheeks, and that's fantastic. He thinks to make her shove the button up his arse, but he doesn't want her any closer to it than she already is.
"Alice, you should let me fuck your mouth more often," he says. When he isn't talking he's thinking about how much he loves her. "After all, I've been everywhere else, right? Does Emily even know?" The bracelets burn with intensity and he can hear the clicker noise of the button being mashed down repeatedly by her thumb. "I didn't think so," he chuckles.
When he comes, he shoves his cock so far in her mouth that she has to have gagged on it, and he doesn't even care. He can't stab Alice with a knife, not really. This'll do. She falls backwards on the divan and glares at him, the lower half of her face slick with spit. He stumbles against the wooden door before sliding down to the floor and sitting, not caring about modesty or filth or anything, just getting the fucking things off his wrists.
When he has them in his hands, he looks up at her, twirling them both on one finger. "Was it good for you?"
Alice rises up and settles on her elbows, her legs splayed hopelessly apart. If her skirt had been shorter, he would have seen everything. That is probably her point.
She raises the button and depresses it, holding it there, and his finger jerks.
When they arrive back at the Hub and he can retrieve his clothes, Jack takes off the bracelets and considers throwing them into the Bay. He stands there in the shadows of the open room, where he had deposited his clothes and rubs the bands together with one hand.
Somewhere above him, Alice laughs with Emily, full throated. He slips them into his pocket, and they clink merrily, full of promise.
END
Yeah, it's rough, but I'm done with it. I might use the bracelets in the future.