Archive of Our Own

A string of cheap lights blinked on and off along the top of Kathy’s cubicle, out of time with the flashing Christmas tree on her desk. Neither of which were in rhythm with the large tree in the office entrance which you could see out of the corner of your eye. There was an atmosphere of pre-Christmas levity in the air, the usual office seriousness tinted by a festive cheer. It was a little like the last day of school, you thought, smiling to yourself. It had been a long time since you’d worked in a place that took down time as seriously as it took the work.

A string of cheap lights blinked on and off along the top of Kathy’s cubicle, out of time with the flashing Christmas tree on her desk. Neither of which were in rhythm with the large tree in the office entrance which you could see out of the corner of your eye. There was an atmosphere of pre-Christmas levity in the air, the usual office seriousness tinted by a festive cheer. It was a little like the last day of school, you thought, smiling to yourself. It had been a long time since you’d worked in a place that took down time as seriously as it took the work.

You’d been at Prism Security for a little over a year, and it had been a welcome change. The company prided itself on a spotless reputation, whether a job involved a big name client or an individual with far less money but a similar need for safety. That was something that had drawn you to the organisation: the respect it had written in to every contract, and the way it treated clients and employees alike. Prism was intent on retaining both and so, while it demanded the utmost from everyone who worked there, it also understood its employees’ need for down time.

You’d been amazed and gratified when, as an “acknowledgement of the effort made” during your first year there, you’d been given ten days holiday over the festive season. It seemed that many of the longer standing employees actually liked to work through the festive season, as it was usually quieter and they could catch up on things, saving their vacation time for later dates. But you welcomed the break and so you’d happily accepted the time off.

“So, what are the plans then?” Kathy asked, swivelling round to face you where you stood at the entrance to her work space. “Off to the Caribbean? A spa?” You shook your head, raising your eyebrow at her. She knew you didn’t really like beach breaks or beauty treatments: you weren’t great in the heat, preferring the mountains or a wintry city break. And the idea of lying on a massage bed made you feel itchy.

Kathy chuckled and winked, leaning closer. “What about a date with one of the sec guys?” she said, lowering her voice and peering conspiratorially over the cubicle wall before you slapped her arm playfully and she sat back down, still smiling. “Anthony’s nice,” she went on and you wrinkled your nose. “Ok, er, Jason? I’m sure he could show you a good time,” she laughed. You shrugged. Neither of these guys really interested you. They were nice enough but they just didn’t give you any sort of feeling. Besides, you already knew exactly what you were going to do over the holidays.

“I’m planning on hibernating in my apartment with a stack of movies, books and a supply of chocolate,” you said, proudly. “Just me and Desmond. I might go for the occasional walk, but I fully intend to lounge.” Desmond was your cat, a beautiful black feline with one white paw. Kathy rolled her eyes. “Bor-ring,” she said, “Well, not Desmond, he’s a sweetie. But if it’s what you need, I’m happy for you.”

The office was emptying; people heading out early as business was strangely slower at this time of year. Maybe people put aside their differences for a while, and had a break from threatening CEOs of oil companies and ex-partners, but whatever the reason, people were relaxed and smiling.

“Happy holidays, ladies,” a male voice said and someone passed behind you. Kathy waved back and said “You too, Dave,” and you looked round and saw your colleague Dave York, suit jacket over his arm and a plastic bag with a tube of wrapping paper sticking out. “What’re you up to over Christmas?” Kathy asked.

“Not much,” Dave said, “Not got the girls this year, so just a bit of down time. Have a good one!” he said and carried on to the bank of elevators in the foyer. Kathy looked at you, smiling, “He’s nice.” You made a non-committal sound and she waved her hand at you. “Oh just go and enjoy your books. Give Des a cuddle from me.”

The elevator doors were shiny metal, a grey mirror to what was going on inside the office, so Dave York could still see you chatting to Kathy while he waited for the doors to open. He always watched you; had done since the day you started working there. And he knew that you’d booked ten days off over the holidays. Knew that you intended to spend it alone with your cat. Knew where you lived.

He also knew where you shopped, where you got your hair cut, which gym you went to. He knew you didn’t like fried food that much, drank two espressos a day and sometimes had a cup of herbal tea around 4pm. He knew the parking space you liked to use in the underground garage and that you always stopped to chat to the cleaning staff. And he knew that you hadn’t dated anyone this year, not even a hook up, which he was happy about but also thought was ridiculous.

You were one of the most interesting women he’d ever met, and he’d been into you from the first day you’d been introduced to the security team. You were confident and sure of yourself, smiling briefly and shaking everyone’s hands. A couple of the guys had tried to ask you out over the next weeks, but you’d shut them down quickly, in that same sure way you had about you, but without making them feel bad. Tom had said that it was the nicest refusal he’d ever had.

He’d wanted to ask you out too, but was too afraid of getting one of those “nice” refusals. He was convinced, however, that if he had your attention, unbroken for even just a short while, he could show you exactly what he could do for you. So a few months ago he’d hacked into the Prism computer system and found out all the details he could, and then leveraged an old debt to get all the info he could from the FBI, everything they had on record about you. Since then you’d been the only thing on his mind outside work; and sometimes at work too.

Dave had had a lot of time to think and had planned a little Christmas surprise for you, one he hoped you were going to like. And even if you weren’t sure at first, he’d persuade you. He was good at that.

He was going to make this the most interesting Christmas you’d ever had.

You’d done all the shopping you needed to, given the house a minimal clean and were sitting on the sofa, with a glass of white wine, Desmond snoozing peacefully next to you. Your place wasn’t large, just enough for the two of you, and it was easy to manage and had been easy to tastefully decorate with a small tree, some lights and a few festive ornaments you’d gathered over the years. It was Christmas Eve and so far, you’d managed to do quite a lot of that lounging and reading you’d told Kathy about. The run up to the big day had been calm and relaxing.

The chilled playlist you had on was throwing out some festive jazz standards, the volume low so you could still hear the sound of Desmond’s light snoring and the occasional passing car. It was exactly as you’d planned; a low-key grown up Christmas. And yet you had this feeling in your chest: just like the feeling you’d get as a child on Christmas Eve. That sense of anticipation, of longing and waiting. Part of it was that melancholy that people got around that time of year: reminders of childhood times coupled with wondering what the next year would bring.

It was like you were waiting for something. Yeah, Santa to come down my chimney. You laughed to yourself, waking Desmond with a jolt. He looked at you with disdain and curled up around himself again. “Sorry, buddy,” you whispered and sank down into the sofa, reaching for your book.

At about the same time as you were getting comfortable on your sofa, Dave pulled shut his front door, automatically looking up to check the tiny red light on his hidden security camera, and headed down the stairs of his building to the street, his heart rate slightly higher than normal, although he was in control. There was just an edge to things, an awareness.

It was busy outside, the constant stream of cars and taxis. Nothing like the quiet of the leafy suburb where he’d lived with Carol and the girls. He’d already brought his car up from the underground car park and he checked his surroundings as he approached the vehicle: second nature to him after his years in intelligence, but there were only late evening shoppers and people heading home or out to dinner. Placing a black hold-all in the trunk, he sat behind the wheel for a moment, running through things one more time.

Dave’s career had been persuading people to give him what he wanted, mainly information: the art of human intelligence gathering. Whether through interviewing, liaising, using his charm, he got people to talk. And there was always blackmail. He’d even resorted to torture, though he didn’t enjoy it like some of his colleagues did. What gave him satisfaction was getting his way without having to resort to hurting people: when you went that far, you’d already partly lost, he felt.

Dave had been all over the world, had garnered intelligence from thousands of people, both willing and unwilling and he was good at it. At least he believed he was. And he liked to think that if the agency hadn’t restructured; hadn’t let him go, he would be higher up by now, working his way to the top.

But he wasn’t with the department any longer and he wasn’t doing any of those increasingly dubious private contract jobs that his former team has kept persuading him into. That had been the only time he’s felt like he was losing his grip on things; wondering where his loyalties lay. It had been a time of sleepless nights and mysterious ‘business trips’, coming home strung out and doubtful of both himself and his future. It was only when McCall had appeared back in his life, and when his former colleague, his mentor, his friend, had become the next target, that he finally woke up and saw where he was headed.

And then there was Prism. And you. It had started off as attraction, developed into a crush and then burst into flame as need and, even he would have to admit it: obsession. It was the unknowable part of you that drove his most fevered night time fantasies. You were open with everyone, friendly and considerate, but no matter how much he watched you, listened to you or chatted to you over coffee in the break room or sat beside you in meetings, he just felt that he never got to the kernel of you.

And for Dave York, former DIA agent, this was the locked room mystery he wanted to solve, the conundrum he turned over and over in his mind.

You were a smart, hardworking woman, but you were single. He had heard that you weren’t into women, because Lucy in accounts had suggested a date and then had been found crying in the ladies bathroom about how gently and considerately you’d held her hand and told her that if she’d been able to choose her sexuality, she’d have definitely been into dating her.

And one night, in the early hours, while he tossed and turned, Dave had come to the conclusion that a confident woman like you might feel embarrassed to ask for what she really needed. You were always the one in control, and he’d been with a couple of women like that before he met Carol: women who’d needed someone else to take control for a while.

And Dave knew he had all the skills needed to persuade you that this is what you needed and one of the techniques that he’d really mastered during his time in intelligence was going to let him do that. This technique, used by agents who were skilled at emotional manipulation and spoken interrogation, took the form of a persuasive monologue, which gradually made the subject more and more comfortable with the interrogator. Dave was adept at maintaining a patient and understanding demeanour, taking his time to draw the subject to the conclusion he wanted.

And he was going to use this failsafe technique on you. He wouldn’t force you: he’d just allow you to come to your own conclusions, that he could give you what you wanted; what you’d been denying yourself for so long.

With a quick nod to himself, he started the car and drove off, feeling himself shift into a different mode: his entire focus now on you and the evening ahead.

Your street was out of the way, in one of the newish suburbs that had sprung up over the last decade. Smallish houses nestled with larger family homes and each time he drove down it, he thought it must be a nice place to live. And he’d driven down it a lot.

He remembered the first time. He had actually been nearby and took a quick detour, just to see where you lived. Those had been the days when he’d merely been interested in you, wondering about the parts of your life he didn’t see. He’d looked at your house, noted the entrances, windows, escape routes almost before he could stop himself. Then the finer details: the well-kept front lawn, the trash cans neatly lined up.

But then he’d driven past again and again and now he had lost count of the times he’d gone there, and then started to park up, watch your house, sometimes catching sight of you at a window. He’d seen your cat slinking under the side gate; envied it returning to the safety of the house. Did it curl up next to you, enjoying your warmth?

He’d thought about going in when he knew you weren’t there, stealing into your private space, maybe taking something; but despite his plans, it just felt wrong. Just because he could didn’t mean he should and despite the plans he’d made, he wasn’t going to do anything you didn’t want. The point was to show you that you wanted it.

As the street quietened down and lights started to go out in the houses along the street, Dave grabbed his bag and made his way to your house.

You had dozed off, your book in your lap and your head falling back against the headrest. But you were awake as soon as the perimeter alarm sounded, your eyes open in a second. Grabbing your phone, you swiped on the alert, opening the app which gave you access to the motion-activated cameras you had outside the house.

The guy who installed the sec system had been happy for your business, although he had been slightly baffled at the fact that you’d bought the top bundle. He didn’t know your past, or what you read about every day at Prism, but he did make a comment about scumbags and so you let him assume you had a creepy ex-boyfriend or whatever. It was much better to be safe than sorry, something you were thankful for when a darkly dressed figure came into sight on the side of the house.

The hairs on the back of your neck stood up as you watched the man - instantly identifiable as such from the gait, the height and the broad shoulders - made his way along the side path. He was dressed in black combat wear, you could see from the outline of the form fitting clothes, the black beanie pulled down over his ears in a rather unflattering way; the neat backpack across his back. It looked exactly what the Prism sec guys wore when they went out on night ops. This man wasn’t muscled or particularly tall, but he was precise and his movements were practiced. This guy knew where to look for cameras, and he spotted yours, or at least he thought he did.

But you’d been clever: what the man thought were your security cameras were decoys and so while he tried to avoid being seen by them, he actually turned towards the ones you’d hidden. Working in security had taught you many things, one of which was to try and get one step ahead. And the decoys worked their magic: the darkly dressed figure turned from what he thought was the security feed, and you were able to get a good look at his face. And as you did, you chuckled, shaking your head and smiling to yourself.

“Well, well, well,” you said, looking down at Desmond, who raised an eyebrow as if in curiosity. You felt that shiver on the back of your neck again. It felt like time stood still for a moment, like you were on the cusp of something new. Dave York took another couple of steps toward the back yard, reaching into his coat pocket for what you presumed was a lock pick.

You reached over and switched off the table lamp beside you, plunging the room into darkness, the only light now the glow of the infrared security app. Then you closed that, the quiet and the dark heightening your senses to the house around you. Like hearing a creak in the middle of the night, you knew the sounds of your surroundings, what was right and what was out of place. You stilled, even Desmond’s purrs quietening in the darkness.

And then, almost so hushed that at first you doubted yourself, there was a sound from the kitchen: the sound of the door opening. You rose from the sofa and tiptoed down the hall to your bedroom.

Dave had spotted the security cameras immediately, and almost laughed to himself at how easy it was to avoid them. He was glad you had them, but they were incredibly easy to evade for someone with his training. He slid along the side of the property, imagining you there on the other side of the wall, and it sent a thrill through him. He was so close. So close to you; so close to achieving what he had been planning for so long.

Reaching the back yard, he stopped outside the kitchen door. There had been a light on inside when he’d approached the house, but now it was dark within. The corner of his mouth tugged upwards: this could only mean that you’d gone to bed. Whether you were asleep or just chilling out, reading or streaming some show, it didnt matter: the bedroom had no escape route, and if you were in there, it was going to make his job a lot easier.

He paused, intensely aware of the sounds around him. The noise of a car a few streets away, the rough crack of a dog bark, then silence again. He reached for the door.

Light from the street illuminated the first part of the corridor towards your bedroom but after three steps, he was in darkness. No light came from the space under the door; no sound from the bedroom within. Dave moved along the hallway with care, his boots making no sound on the floor, each step a tentative touch before he let his weight fall, listening and feeling for floorboards that might give him away.

He paused again outside the door, his ear pressed to the wood, the only sound the measured rhythm of his breath. This proximity; a rush of blood to his head, to his groin. A full body ache which threatened to take over and ruin the whole thing, but he got himself under control and inched open the door.

He put his backpack down just inside the door. A quick scan of the room: medium sized, the space exactly how he’d mapped out in his mind from the floor plans he’d downloaded. The curtains drawn against the night, lamps off, a tantalising fragrance lacing the air. Five steps to the window, four to the built-ins, three to the bed. He took those three short steps, his mouth dry with anticipation: he was there before he even knew it, looking down at the sleeping figure under the covers. This was it: this was his chance to show you what you needed; to make you see; to make you his.

And yet something snagged at the corners of his consciousness, even through the fog of arousal. Something that years of experience should have alerted him to sooner. The form in the bed, too straight, too unreal….. shit.

But it was too late. Someone was behind him before he could react: the beanie yanked down over his eyes, a hand on the back of his head, bending him sharply forward onto the bed, a foot between his legs, kicking them apart, making him lose his balance in the confusion - his mind unable to decide which assault to tackle.

He tried to regain his equilibrium but the figure was on him now, on his back, their knee a hard brace pushing him into the soft covers of the bed; the disguised pillows that he’d stupidly taken for you.

And then a soft cloth over his mouth and nose, and his struggle intensified. He knew what happened now, had done it a hundred times before. Chloroform; surrender; oblivion. But the expected didn’t happen.

Instead when he inhaled sharply, he smelled something floral, soothing. He was so distracted that he didn’t react when his right arm was yanked out from under him, pulled sharply across the bed. Still fumbling in his mind for the startling aroma, he only snapped back into reality when he felt the cold sting of the metal ring close round his wrist. A light snapped on, the soft glow of a bedside lamp.

It was as if he rushed headlong out of the tunnel of his confusion at the speed of light into an awful awareness that he was in so much trouble. It was sickening. He pulled hard against the handcuff, expecting to feel the bed shake as it in turn moved the headboard, but the mattress remained strangely inert.

He rolled onto his back, grabbing at the beanie, throwing it off and turning to look at his bound wrist: the handcuff was linked to short chain sunk right into the wall above the bed. Another hard tug only confirmed that it was locked in there tight.

Snapping his head back round, he brought his attention back to the room, to his assailant, and his gaze landed on a figure in sweats and a balaclava, one hand on their hip, the other dangling a small piece of string with a key at the end.

It was lucky really that Dave’s unit had been disbanded when it was because the reality was that he would never have been promoted any higher. Unfortunately, this had given him a false sense of his abilities. He was a great field agent, worked great as a team member, was clever, quick, charming when he needed to be. He could even do ruthless for shorts spells. He was tough when necessary, focused, thorough; but never cruel. The only issue was that he had one blind spot, one thing that others saw but he didn’t: Dave tended to underestimate women.

Although he never knew, he’d been passed over for high level jobs involving gathering intelligence from female targets. His superiors simply recognised that his skills lay elsewhere, and there were more than enough male suspects to keep him busy. In his private life, though, Dave was a mess. It was as if all the techniques he had learned, all the ways in which he was able to shut off and focus weren’t worth shit when it came to the opposite sex.

Take Carol for instance: he’d been absolutely blindsided when she’d asked for a divorce. They’d been together since college and he had assumed that she was on board with the way his career was going. But when she told him she was no longer prepared to parent alone while she waited for him to come back from whatever op he’d been sent on, he’d been left open mouthed. It was only when the house was quiet and the sound of the girls’ laughter and squabbling was gone, that he had time to think about what life must have been like for Carol. He knew it was over, but as he got the house ready to put on the market, he wondered what he could have done differently.

And what was happening to him now was the direct result of his inability to read women. If he’d been better at it, he might not have ended up in the predicament in which he currently found himself.

He kicked out, trying to grab hold of whoever it was with his legs, but the person was quick. They stepped back and he heard a chuckle coming from under the balaclava and then a voice said, “Naughty.”

His brain glitched for a second. It couldn’t be. And then the figure gave a huff of annoyance and pulled at the balaclava. “I’m fucking sweltering in this thing,” said a female voice: a voice he knew. The mask was off, a hand went up to smooth out your mussed up hair and there you were, slightly out of breath. Dave’s jaw dropped open.

“God, that’s better,” you said, throwing the balaclava across the room. “Those things are so constricting. And itchy.” The key followed seconds later. Dave watched its arch as it sailed over the bed and landed in the corner, out of reach. He gave a roar of frustration, pulling on the chain, kicking out again. You just stood there, waiting for him to stop, your head tilted to one side, until he gave one last grunt and stilled. You waited another moment, the silence of your calm coating the stillness, before you let out an exaggerated sigh.

“Will you be needing some more lavender oil, Dave?” you asked, as if it was the most normal question in the world. Lavender? It had been fucking lavender oil?

“What the fuck is this?” he growled, and you tucked your chin in, a surprised look on your face.

“You’re asking me?” you quipped, “I’m not the one creeping into someone’s bedroom like some fucking stalkery Santa Claus.” You seemed entirely unfazed that he’d broken into your house. More amused than anything. What the hell was going on?

While his mind scrambled to understand how he had got here, the more instinctive part of his brain only thought of one thing: how to get out of his present predicament and recover the upper hand he so desperately wanted.

Dave was calm for a moment, but you weren’t taken in. You could see the confusion in him turning to anger; sensed the frustration bubbling up. So you weren’t in the least bit surprised when he kicked out at you again, this time managing to hook his leg round the back of your knee, bringing you towards him. He probably thought he’d taken you by surprise, but you’d been purposefully standing close enough for him to do it.

You half fell onto the bed, your hand spreading onto the covers between his legs, inches away from making contact. He got hold of your other wrist in a rock solid grip, but you didn’t struggle, instead moving your gaze to the hand between his thighs.

When his eyes followed yours you fisted the sheets, flexing your hand, letting one of your knuckles graze the inside of his thigh. You were rewarded by a sharp intake of breath and just a slight twitch from under Dave’s black combats. Very interesting

“You can hit out at me all you like,” you said softly, “but if you knock me out, you can’t reach those keys.” You nodded at the corner. “You need those keys if you want to get out of here.”

“Get this goddam cuff off me,” he demanded, pulling on your wrist, as if it gave him the power to make you do what he wanted. “You know me, this isn’t what you think.”

You rose to your feet, but stayed bent over him, that fist still dangerously close, and brought your face to his until you could see the rise and fall of his chest, the confusion in his eyes.

“Oh Dave,” you said, your voice soothing, like a mother comforting a child, “I think we both know that’s not true.” Dave opened his mouth to try again, but you brought a finger to his lips. “Sssh, Dave,” you crooned, and watched the play of emotions on his face, shock, outrage, a glint of desire.

“I know you might have had some plans when you arrived here,” you said, and he shook his head to dislodge the finger you still had pressed to his mouth, “But things have changed. You aren’t the one in charge right now.” Dave looked around the room, furtively, and you could see the chain of thoughts his mind as going through, because you would have done the same. “So what you need to do now,” you said gently but firmly, “is to accept that this is happening, and relax.”

He recognised those words. Had said them himself a thousand times in interviews. You saw the moment the realisation hit, his eyes narrowing then opening in surprise. “You’re intelligence?” he said carefully, hardly believing it himself, you could see. There it was: the little glimmer of uncertainty, the spark of fear that what you thought was true, was safe, really wasn’t any more. This was what they taught you to do first: to gain the upper hand by tilting your target’s world just enough to make them doubt everything they thought they knew.

You winked at him. “Well done Dave, nice to see you catching up.” He muttered some expletives under his breath, but you could see he was thinking, calculating, and you would expect nothing less. You got up from the bed, taking a couple of steps back.

“I think you need to get this cuff off me,” Dave said firmly. He was changing tack; now he was the dependable, affable Prism security exec, and this had all been a hilarious misunderstanding.

“In time, Dave, in time,” you replied and walked over to your bedside table, opening the drawer. Dave’s eyes were on you, watching, as you pulled a manila folder out of the drawer. As you walked back you saw Desmond prowl into the room. “Hey sweetie,” you said, looking down, and he jumped onto the bed.

“Desmond, meet Dave,” you said, and the cat hissed at him, making Dave pull back. “Desmond is a very good judge of character,” you said, stroking the cat’s head. Dave just narrowed his eyes at you. Then he hissed back at Desmond, and the cat jumped back onto the rug and slunk out of the door.

“Not a cat person, Dave?” you said pointedly, “Well, we’ll have to work on that. But right now I’d like to tell you a little story. It is Christmas Eve after all.”

“Listen…” Dave started, but you shushed him again and went on, slightly louder.

“Someone went digging to find out about me,” you said, putting your hand to your chin like the caricature of a detective. “Someone thorough and professional. But I did a little digging of my own,” you went on, and you noticed that Dave had gone very quiet. “I saw how much they’d tried to find out and how often they’d looked me up.” At least Dave had the good grace to blush here. “You’ve been doing a lot of peeping, Dave. I’m flattered.”

“Ok,” he tried again, “Can we just talk about this?” he pleaded, and you noted that he was falling into the trap of the interrogation technique that the DIA used, and he hadn’t even noticed. He was trying to bargain.

“But I haven’t finished my story, Dave,” you teased, “Don’t you want to know what’s in here?” you said, opening the folder and flipping through the pages inside.

“All the info on you, Dave,” you told him, “Pages and pages of it.”

“You printed it out?” he asked, his face crumpling in disbelief. “What sort of lunatic prints things out these days?” You looked at him over the folder in your hands, and opened it, raising an eyebrow at him.

“It’s for dramatic effect Dave,” you said your tone ever so serious. “So you’ll keep quiet while I enjoy myself. I knew you were good, Dave, assumed that you had some intelligence background. And from what I can tell, you are good. But not as good as me. So I’m going to tell you what I found.”

You knew his history because you’d seen his files - all of them, from when he was a DIA agent, his murky years after and his employment files at Prism. Knew he’d worked all over the world, and risen through the ranks until the reorg and funding issues led to his department being shelved. And Dave with it.

After that he’d worked privately for a while with his former team, something the department and the CIA had conveniently ignored. You’d had to dig deep to find out what the team had been up to, but it hadn’t taken long, and you had to admit that you would have turned a blind eye too if it had been up to you: none of the people they’d targeted would be missed. But then suddenly the group had gone quiet.

You’d had to dig deeper for this information. The lives of the other men on his team had all reached convenient dead ends and you knew from experience what that meant. It meant they’d either been involved in one last job that they hadn’t come back from, or they’d got sloppy and found their way onto a hit list themselves and became loose ends that needed tying up.

But not Dave. For some reason his life had taken a different course. You dug deeper, reached out to old contacts and that was when you came across the name Robert McCall. And a source deep inside the agency had sent you a classified file that filled in all the blanks. How they’d once been a team - all of them. How McCall had gone dark, but come back into the light after the death of a friend, looking for the perpetrators. How McCall had worked out that Dave’s team were taking on jobs even he didn’t know about. Dark side missions that didn’t just skirt the edges of legitimacy: they crossed them in no uncertain terms. And one of those had been his friend.

Pictures of Dave and McCall in a park, outside Dave’s house, two dark SUVs caught on a bridge to McCall’s hometown in a storm. McCall and Dave teaming up to pick off the rest of their former team and the agency covering it all up. Dave joining Prism.

You knew all of this, had been able to garner this information, put it together and fill in the blanks because you’d been DIA too. And you were not only good at your job; you were very good. You’d risen quickly to high level team leadership and stayed there. And it was the same reorg that pushed you out; not because you lost your job, but because you didn’t like the way the organisation changed. So you left, taking a couple of different positions until you arrived at Prism.

And finally, after a long time, you relaxed into a job that didn’t require your entire soul. You probably could have run Prism single-handed, but these days you weren’t after a job that kept you up at night and had you working weekends. You had a healthy bank balance from years of working all hours and not having free time to spend it on, plus the stupidly large golden handshake that came with the NDA you’d signed on leaving the department. You probably could have taken a few months off a year and still been fine financially, but you liked to work; liked the contact, the people, even if you also liked your alone time.

So you’d selectively doctored your resume, making sure that your official files at the DIA showed a handful of mid-level admin roles, and you’d come to Prism. And you were happy there. The job was interesting, easy and allowed you plenty of free time to finally pursue some hobbies. Like normal people of your age did. Desmond was happier too, not having a series of cat sitters to look after him.

And then you’d become aware that someone was watching you. The first time you’d be alerted to the spyware that was gathering info on you, a shiver had gone down your spine. You’d worked hard to mask the traces of your past occupation, just for safety’s sake, and so someone digging into you would have to have known who you were, what your former job had been.

But as you looked further, the info gathering wasn’t just an attempt to find out about your past (and not even much of that either, this individual clearly wasn’t that interested in your job history). It was more about who you were: what you bought, where, what you did at the weekend, what you searched online. It was like someone was compiling a Wikipedia page on you, not looking for blackmail material.

So when a colleague from the agency helped you to trace the searched back to a certain security specialist at your firm, the pieces fell into place.

Dave listened to all this with his face a practiced mask, unwilling to reveal the emotions broiling within him. He had moved up the bed in an effort to get more comfortable, and was now sitting against the headboard. He’d dragged you nearly on top of him and it hadn’t rattled you one bit, that’s what kept running through his mind. You’d almost been playing with him, although he couldn’t imagine that you’d want anything more than to carry out some sort of punishment for him violating your private space in this way.

And yet things just weren’t adding up for him. His head was swimming. As he’d tried to sit up, you’d moved forward and taken hold of one of his boots. He froze, but you merely tutted and said no shoes on the bed and had proceeded to remove first one and then the other of his shoes and placed them next to the door, before carrying on your astonishingly detailed resumé of his career to date.

“So you see, I’ve been expecting you to make a move for quite some time,” you said and his heart sank. You’d been on to him all along. All those times he’d chatted to you in the break room or the elevator, all the work lunches and meetings where he smiled smugly to himself that he knew more about you than you realised. You’d had the upper hand all along.

Fuck The humiliation he felt at that moment was like nothing he’d felt before. All the plans he’d made, all the ways in which he thought he’d have you in his control, all the lonely nights he’d fantasised…. Carol came back into his mind, and the feeling of shame and the realisation of how useless he was made him screw his eyes shut, it was so painful.

When he opened his eyes, you were watching him, your face unreadable. You’d seen everything he was feeling, he knew that, but you weren’t gloating. You looked concerned. After a second you looked around and he saw you move towards the door and pick up his backpack and his heart rate increased again.

“There’s nothing in there,” he protested and even he could hear the strain in his voice. This was just going from bad to worse.

“I presume you came here tonight for a reason, Dave, and it wasn’t to deliver presents.” You chuckled then, a sort of ridiculous snort that he’d never heard you make before. It was so unlike your workplace persona.

You weighed the bag in your hand for a moment before placing it on the bed and looking at him. “This is heavy” you said, almost as if you were proud of him, “Your poor back, Dave. You should be careful.” You looked down at him, your head cocked and then started to unzip the top section. He panicked.

“Listen, just put the bag down,” he tried, and when you kept slowly unzipping it, he shouted, “Just…would you just stop?” He tried to move forward to get at it, even though he knew it was useless. His body jerked back as he reached the end of the handcuffs’ leash. But you were already looking inside and there was a moment of silence while you took in the contents of his bag. He swallowed hard, but didn’t have any word right then.

“My my Dave, you did bring a lot of things,” you said in a tone of mock admiration, reaching into the bag, pulling out a length of rope. You considered it for a moment before throwing it onto the bed and reaching inside again. You pulled out a blindfold, which seemed to interest you and then some handcuffs. “Huh, mine are better,” you muttered and put them back inside, as if the contents bored you.

“Ok, can you just hold up for a minute?” Dave asked, feeling the panic rising as things slowly slipped further and further out of his control.

You regarded him, placed the bag down on the floor and moved towards the bed. “Sit back against the headboard,” you told him, “otherwise you’ll hurt your shoulder.” He was aware of his arm tensed uncomfortably behind him and gave a grunt, shuffling back until he met the headboard and was able to let his arm relax beside him. The length of the chain was long enough to allow this; was long enough to wrap round someone’s neck, but there was still the problem of the key. He was going to have to try and talk his way out.

You moved onto the bed, and he was able to look at you calmly for the first time. Your baggy sweats, hair pushed away from your face. You knelt in front of him and he could see a pair of ridiculous fluffy socks with cats on them. Your face was clean and fresh, without makeup as you’d been enjoying a quiet evening at home. You sat there, just watching him for a moment and through his anxiety, he felt the nagging attraction that had driven him here in the first place.

You looked lovely, he realised. Not scared or on edge, but relaxed, and you wouldn’t have been if this had turned out the way he’d planned. But he put those thoughts out of his mind, and met your gaze as you watched him. Oh you’d been right, you were good. Better than him. And he had no idea what was going to happen next.

Dave seemed more resigned now. He’d moved into the next stage of interrogation: acceptance. The slow realisation that there wasn’t much you could do, and the best thing would be to submit to what was happening, maybe gaining the trust of your interrogator.

You sighed. “I think we should have a talk, don’t you?” you asked him, “A frank chat about exactly why you came here tonight?” The poor guy visibly blanched. And you felt for him in that moment, because you knew all about him and you didn’t believe he was dangerous or cruel. If you’d had even an inkling of that you would have shut the whole thing down before it even happened. You would have had someone have a chat with him, and if that hadn’t worked you knew people with more persuasive methods.

But the more you’d looked into Dave, the more you’d seen a man who you believed needed something. He needed to let go and feel. You’d seen scumbags and narcissists and psychopaths in your job and Dave just wasn’t that. He’d been heartbroken at the end of his marriage (you’d sent the therapist’s notes), was a doting father (you’d read the custody documents and the school reports on the girls) and he had a soft spot for animals (he donated to the SPCA, for Christ’s sake).

“I know you came here for a reason, Dave,” you told him, “And the fact that you crept into my bedroom with some very unorthodox presents, tells me exactly what reason that was.” You paused then, giving him the chance to formulate a reply, watching as he considered the options available to him, and relieved when he picked the easiest one.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his face grim, “i just…..fuck. I’m sorry, OK? I don’t know what else to say.”

“I’m afraid it’s a bit too late for sorry, Dave,” you told him, and his eyes snapped to yours. “I mean, you should have thought about that before you came slinking in here with a bag full of bad intentions.”

He looked angry at that. “I didn’t have bad intentions!” he said angrily, and you raised your eyebrows. “I mean, I had intentions,” he clarified, clearing his throat, but then slumped, as if he didn’t have the strength to even carry on talking. And this is exactly what you’d expect.

If you’d had to profile Dave, this would have been exactly the kind of reaction you would have predicted. Dave was good at planning and research: had ended up here in your house where he would have taken most people completely by surprise. And even five years ago he probably would have put more effort into trying to manipulate his way around you; would have needled and pleaded and bargained.

But this Dave here in front of you? This man was tired. He was losing self-confidence, lonely and unsure of what he needed, never mind how to get it. And now he just looked dejected. And you couldn’t have that now could you?

“Are you going to let me go?” he asked suddenly. You could see that all he wanted to do was slink back home with his tail between his legs, but that would never do. You shook your head slowly.

“Not yet, Dave,” you told him, “There are some things we need to do.” He froze. “What are you going to do?” he asked, but his voice was flat and emotionless. It was time to get things moving along.

Dave couldn’t even catch hold of what part of this misguided plan had been the biggest fuckup. His mind was spinning and now he had a sick feeling in his gut that all your smiles and the calm you were showing was just a facade. And he knew from experience that women were adept at hiding what they were feeling, and rarely got caught: most of the people he had interrogated over the years had been men, the women just too difficult to track and apprehend. He’d always wondered about it.

You told him to lie down on the bed and make himself comfortable and he hesitated for a moment and then decided that humouring you was the best thing he could do right now. And frankly, he was exhausted, and your bed was comfortable and if he closed his eyes for a moment, he might just be able to pretend he was here willingly….

Then he felt you shuffle back off the bed and opened his eyes to find you stripping off your baggy sweatpants to reveal a pair of green lacy boy shorts that skimmed the top of your thighs and clung to every dip and curve in between. He was speechless, but then you climbed back onto the bed and didn’t stop at his feet: you inched further until you were straddling his thighs, your bare legs on either side of his, the sweatshirt slumping down to cover your shorts.

He instinctively reached out a hand to touch your thigh but you slapped it away. “Did I say you could touch me?” you snapped, and he had that feeling again, but you gave him the look of a teacher reprimanding a favourite student and wiggled a finger at him. “You, Dave, are going to listen while I lay down some ground rules,” you said.

“Huh..?” was all that he managed to utter. Was he dreaming?

You reached out slowly and put your hands on his hips, bending forward slowly, putting slightly more pressure on his thighs, so that your touch seemed to be everywhere around his cock, but nowhere near it. Were you teasing him or were you threatening him? He had no fucking idea.

And then you moved again, lifting yourself off him, shifting forward, your hands on either side of his chest, and hovered there, inches above his groin, but not touching. All he’d have to do was reach out his hand, grab your hip and pull you down and you’d make contact, you’d be there on his cock, which was suddenly waking up the the idea that you were so painfully close. But he didn’t; he couldn’t. You’d said hands off and that was what he was doing. Because he had the feeling that if he didn’t do exactly as you told him, he was going to regret it. And that regret wouldn’t be because he got hurt but because he would miss something and he had to find out what that was.

He felt the tightness in his combats as he started to harden and moved to shift the discomfort, and you noticed. You looked down to the space between your legs and smiled - you fucking smirked; and not a malicious one, you actually looked pleased.

“Feels nice to do as you’re told, doesn’t it?” you said softly. Dave looked as if his brain was being scrambled and rewired over and over, his look at once wary and full of need. You walked two fingers up his chest and felt the intake of breath as his gaze moved between you and the place on his chest where they stopped and rubbed slow curves against the soft fabric of his top.

“This is what you came for isn’t it Dave?” you asked gently, and the look he gave you was one of longing tinged with regret. He still thought that he’d messed everything up beyond repair.

You decided he needed to make a decision for himself now, to choose what he wanted to happen next. “You have two choices right now,” you told him, “You can leave if you like. I’ll let you out of these cuffs and open the door for you gladly.” He started to answer but you cut him off with a raised finger. “But that will be it. We’ll be back to being colleagues from now on. We can chat, we can socialise, but there will be a line. Is that what you want?”

“No,” Dave replied, decisively, and you were pleased. “But this isn’t.…” he struggled to find the words so you found them for him.

“But what?” you chided gently. “You thought it was going to be you in control, Dave, is that it?” You waited and were rewarded by a stunned silence. “Well, that’s not going to happen, Dave. If you can accept that, we can go on. You want to play games, you play them with my rules, you understand?”

“Can I get out of these cuffs?” he asked sheepishly, and you scoffed.

“Absolutely not, Dave,” you said firmly. “And I think you will thank me later, although you can’t quite grasp that yet.” You stalked further up his prone body, watching his free hand twitch but stay where it was at his side. When you were on all fours over him, you lowered yourself onto one elbow, watching him. You pushed your other hand slowly into his hair, and watched his gaze soften at the intimacy of the touch. God this man needed to be touched.

You massaged his scalp lightly for a moment and then gripped his hair, not painfully, but just hard enough to pull his head back slightly, and were rewarded with a quiet groan. And that was the moment that Dave York decided to take the leap and go with whatever you were suggesting. You could see it in his face, hear it in that timid moan, and it was so beautiful to watch.

Because you’d like Dave from the moment you’d met him. First as an attractive guy to flirt with in the office and then, when you found out that he was into you and was first cyber stalking and then actually stalking you (you’d seen his car parked at the end of the road), you had to make up your mind if you wanted to accept it or nip it in the bud.

You trusted your instincts, that had got you far in your job, but also in your personal life. If it felt right, you usually went with it, and Dave had started to feel right. Had become something that you’d daydreamed about yourself. Wondering what he was thinking, what he wanted to do with you. To you. And what you wanted to do with him.

“What have you decided Dave?” you pushed for his answer. He nodded, but you needed him to say it and you told him so. He licked his lips nervously.

“Yes,” he mumbled, “But I’ve never…..” he stammered, looking away.

“You’ve never been in this position?” He nodded. “I know, but I think this is what you need right now. Because I‘m going to tell you one thing: I’ve seen you and you are wound tighter than a toy drum at Christmas. And I know you think you always have to be on top, be the one in control, but it’s exhausting isn’t it Dave?

“Yes,” he admitted, squeezing his eyes closed, unable to even say it without shame.

“I’ve watched you around the office. Your neck is stiff, your hands tight fists. You eat badly, you sleep badly. You need to relax, to let go, but you don’t now how.” He nodded again. “But I do,” you whispered, close to his ear, and he shivered, sending a thrill down your spine too.

Underneath your sweatshirt, you felt your nipples harden, the sight of him slowly starting to relax under your touch, your words, so empowering and so very hot.

“So I need you to trust me, Dave, even though you can’t get free. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Ok,” he said. But you needed him to say it, just one more time: to be fully in.

“Tell me that this is what you want,” you told him. “Use your words.”

The change in him was electrifying. It was as if his shoulders relaxed and his breath eased but he didn’t slump, like he had done earlier: for a few seconds, he came alive, his eyes bright, his cheeks flushing. The wariness came back almost immediately, but you’d seen it, that spark that gave you the go ahead, even while he told you this is what I want.

You leant even closer, your breath sweeping the side of his head as you murmured good boy against his ear. This time his sharp exhale left you in no doubt as to the effect you had on him.

“Now I need you to pick a safe word. Something you’d never normally say in a situation like this.” He quirked his eyebrow at this and you had to stifle a smile. You didn’t want him thinking he had the upper hand in any way. “If either of us doesn’t like where this is going, we use the safe word, ok? What is it?”

“Er…tinsel?” He said sheepishly and you nodded appreciatively. “Festive, Dave, I like it,” you said, moving backwards down his body, scanning him as you did. You couldn’t wait to get his clothes off him now, but you would have to take things slowly.

“So here’s what you’re going to do,” you continued. “You’re going to do everything I tell you to do, and I’m going to do what I want with you, unless I hear the safe word. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

“You may ask for permission to touch me, but if I say no, you obey, ok?”

“Yes.”

“And you stay in the cuffs. I can let you out, but everything stops. You leave and we never speak about this again. Do you understand Dave, because this part is very important?”

“I understand,” he replied, and there was a moment of stillness between the two of you, a calm that came from both of you moving towards a place of understanding, even if Dave wasn’t fully there yet. You sat back on your heels beside him, and saw him look up and down your body, watched him drag his gaze up your legs, desperate now to see the rest of you, hidden by your jumper. Not yet.

He wanted to reach out and run his hand up your leg, the only part of your body he could see. Your smooth skin was tempting in the soft light, the rest of you still caped in that outsized jumper. But he knew that everything depended on him doing exactly as you said, and he suddenly realised how simply carrying out orders was something liberating.

When he’d been with the agency, there had been rules, structure, technique. He hadn’t had to worry about which path to take - it was planned out for him most of the time whether by guidelines, interrogation strategy or simply orders from above. And this was happening now. You were looking at him with…was that desire? As if in answer, you bit your bottom lip and turned to remove his socks.

He flinched, but your touch was so gentle, so careful that he allowed himself to relax, to watch you. You turned back to face him and the sight of you looking down on him was one of the hottest things he’d ever seen in his life. He just couldn’t quite grasp the fact that this was happening. You cupped his chin then and made him look at you and he realised you had asked him something.

“Concentrate please,” you chided and he nodded, “I’m going to take these combats off now, is that ok? I’m sure you’ll feel more comfortable.” He swallowed but told you that was ok, and you reached for his belt, again moving your hands so carefully that he almost didn’t feel them. You unbuckled the metal and slid the leather out of the buckle, the sound so sensual it made him catch his breath. You could strangle him with this belt, but he got the sense that you wouldn’t.

“Lift up for me,” you urged, and he lifted his middle so you could gently pull his trousers away. You got off the bed and stood at his feet, pulling the fabric an inch at a time, so he could feel every part of his legs exposed to the air bit by teasing bit. You folded the combats and placed them on a chair and stood looking at him for a moment before kneeling next to him again.

“I’d like to take this top off too, if that’s ok. But as I’m not going to undo the cuff, I’ll need to cut it off.” You told him. “Is it ok for me to do that?” Your tone was so soft. So kind, so clear that even though he should have been wary, he couldn’t be. He was losing himself in your gentle voice, didn’t want you to stop.

“You can do that,” he croaked, his mouth suddenly dry. “Do you need some water?” you asked and he nodded and you left the room for a moment, returning with a glass of water. You helped him drink it, smoothing his hair from his temple and placed the empty glass on the night stand. Then you opened the drawer and took out a large pair of scissors. You exchanged a glance.

“What’s the safe word, Dave?” you prompted.

“Tinsel,” he replied and you nodded. You placed the scissors at the bottom of the shirt and slowly began to cut. The blades were heavy, probably made for fabric and made a soft slicing sound as they cut through the top. He shivered as the cold blade glided smoothly up his stomach, and you worked gently to cut the shirt into two parts. You moved to the sleeve of his tethered wrist and did the same, cutting it right to the other opening before shutting the scissors back in the drawer.

You didn’t remove the fabric yet, but something about the feel of it half on and half off his skin, the exposed sensation, was exciting. You leant over him and touched the inside of his bound arm, running your hand down to his shoulder, then back up again, and then once again down, this time using your nails to gently scratch his skin. The sensations he was feeling were so intense, but tender, only bordering on sensual. It was so long since he’d felt this kind of contact.

You straddled him again and then your hands were on his chest, pushing his ruined top aside, gliding up and over his collarbone up to his neck and back. You made a soft noise of appreciation.

“You’re so warm,” you said, and he felt a rush of satisfaction, a warmth inside that heated him through with emotion. “I’ve watched this chest under your shirt, your shoulders, your neck,” you continued. “I’ve brushed past you in the break room, had my thighs inches from yours in meetings, and each time I’ve thought about what it would be like to just close that gap,” you were almost humming the words, “To have my hands on you.”

He was lost for words. “You…you were thinking about that?” he stammered, trying to visualise times when he’d missed that. “But I…” You ran your hands back down his chest.

“I’m not surprised you didn’t notice,” you said sympathetically, with a face that told him how little he knew. “You’ve been inside your head too much, Dave. Planning and fantasising and not seeing what was right in front of you. Am I right?” He didn’t know what to say. Because you were right.

“I know when you’re concentrating that you bite the inside of your mouth a little, but only on the left side, that you turn your cellphone around on your hand like a fidget toy when someone takes too long in the weekly round up meeting. I know you watch me sometimes in the reflection from the elevators, and that one time when we were alone in the office last year, you nearly asked me to have dinner with you.”

He just stared at you. All of that was right, all of it. He’d been planning when he should have been looking; thinking when he should have been feeling. But were you telling him that despite what he had tried to do, that it wasn’t too late? He realised that a hope had started to build up inside him, and that hope was about tonight but also more: about tomorrow. He was feeling something he hadn’t felt in such a long time, something he didn’t want to end after tonight.

“Move onto your stomach now,” you said, and only hesitated a moment before shifting to a diagonal position on the bed, face down, shedding the broken shreds of his black combat top. He heard you moving about behind him and then you straddled him again, sitting back down gently on the small of his back. He heard the sound of what seemed like a bottle and the scent of something woodsy and then the unexpected feeling of something cold and sticky being dribbled on his back. He flinched, but you hushed him and the next moment your hands were on his back and he felt the pressure of them smoothing the liquid up and down, the smell enveloping him.

You moved your palms up and down in long, generous sweeps, spreading oil across his skin, until on one upward journey, you gripped the top of his shoulders and massaged deep into he tissue with your thumbs. He thought his whole body was going to melt. He let out a groan that should have been embarrassing, but he didn’t care. He felt like he was sinking into the bed with pleasure.

“God, I’ve been waiting to get my hands on these shoulders,” you cooed, kneading his neck. His eyes rolled back and he shut them, not able to resist the feeling of bliss that flowed through him. And you carried on. He gave himself up to the sweep and flow, the grip and spread of your hands, working his tight muscles as if he was made of dough. It seemed to go on forever, and still, when your hands broke contact, he hadn’t had nearly enough.

You shuffled down his legs and he felt you lightly tug the waistband of his underwear and start to pull them down. Somewhere in his brain he registered a threat but he didn’t care, and he raised his ass slightly to let you pull them down his legs. He wasn’t even hard, lying there naked on your bed. He just so fucking relaxed.

You must have reversed your position, and he wondered if he turned his head, he’d catch a glimpse of your ass facing him, but you grabbed a foot and went to work and his jaw dropped open because he’d forgotten that his feet could feel and the sensations flooding him now just didn’t leave room for any other gesture.

“Ungghhh,” he managed to utter and he heard you chuckle.

“I’m taking that as a thank you,” you said, and he could hear the laughter in your voice. You were enjoying this. You spent time on each of his feet and then turned once more, because he could hear your voice clearly again and you worked your hands up his thighs, one on each, until this time, you spread palms cupped his ass and stopped.

You paused. His breath shortened. Your fingers spidered towards his hips, over his hips, round towards his groin. And that sensation of being so relaxed that he hadn’t even got hard? Yeah, that was gone.

With a jolt, he realised that for the last however minutes that you’d been rubbing him down, he hadn’t had a thought in his head. Nothing. Just touch, just sensation, just warmth. And now, in the space left by that touch, in the drained reservoir of his mind, what flooded in was need. Something inside of him had been wanting you forever and now it was clean and unfiltered, not lost anymore in the static of fantasies, schemes and false hopes.

And all that need was flooding to one place.

You walked round the bed and knelt on the floor in front of his face, and you stroked his cheek. He wanted to return the gesture but didn’t dare. You had something in your hand and showed him: the blindfold he’d brought with him. He raised an eyebrow. But you only smiled and it just made him want to reach out and pull your lips down to his.

If the two of you had been lovers, he suddenly realised, you would have been kissing already, but that didn’t seem to be on offer. And then he understood that your kiss was something he was going to have to earn. It wouldn’t be given freely.

“This is going to make everything feel so much better,” you promised him. “But I need to know that you’re ok with it. And we have the safe word still.” He felt like an explorer being offered the sight of a hidden treasure, but only if he agreed to go in blind. And he knew that whatever you were telling him, it was worth believing, worth trusting, even if there was still a chance you might be lying.

“Put it on please,” he said, and you nodded and tied the fabric around his eyes, the low light of your bedroom gone in an instant. And then he felt your breath, and to his amazement you placed a soft kiss to his forehead, lingering there a moment. He reached out and found your wrist, where you held the sides of his head. You froze there against his face and pulled back.

“I want to kiss you,” he said, hoping with everything he had that he wasn’t making a huge mistake. But you just shook off his grip and moved away, whispering a small no.

Then your hand was back at his hip, your fingers stroking up and down one side of him. “What am I going to find when I turn you over, Dave?” you said, and his cock twitched against the bed covers. Then you were straddling him, bending against his back again to whisper in his ear. “Am I going to get a pleasant surprise?” You bit the lobe gently and he groaned. The answer to that question was becoming painfully obviously and uncomfortable squashed against the mattress.

“Turn over,” you ordered, “Lie on your back.” And he did. He turned, shifting into a comfortable position and it was relief and exposure at the same time. The blindfold let him have no clues about the look on your face, and you didn’t move. He was your captive, waiting for the next move.

Dave turned and his cock sprung free, and you were gratified to see that he was fully on board with the scenario. You let silence descend on the room for a moment as you took him in. Broad hairless chest dotted with freckles, wide-spaces nipples. His back was muscled and taut, his shoulders firm, but his stomach wasn’t flat. There was a little chubbiness there, just a bit, and it was freaking adorable. You wanted to bite it, but you didn’t want to scare him. He was already giving you so much trust.

He was there in front of you, waiting, and you didn’t want him to wait any more.

You bent over him, your sweatshirt hanging forward and brushing his cock. He inhaled, gripped the sheets and you kissed the side of his neck, eliciting a sigh. You kissed his neck softly and then bit, listening to the quickening of his breath. You could see his hand hovering about the sheets, desperate to touch you, but he kept pulling himself back. He deserved praise for that.

“You’re doing so well, Dave,” you murmured against his neck. “I knew you were good at following the rules, but I didn’t think you’d be such a good boy.” You peppered the words with kissed, nips and sucks down his chest, and he squirmed as you inched further and further down.

Lying on your side next to him, stroked across his deliciously plump waistline, trailing a finger down into the light hair that led downward. And when you got to his cock, you didn’t stop, you just trailed that finger upwards towards the tip.

Dave’s head sunk into the bed. “Fuuuuck,” he moaned as you circled the tip gently and trailed your finger back down to his groin. You did the same movement again, and were rewarded with another oh fuck.

When you had finished, you reached onto the night stand for a bottle of lube, pumping some into your hand. He turned his head to catch the sound and you caught that telltale bite of the cheek. You waited a second and then grasped him with your palm, and began to move your hand up and down, but slowly.

“Oh god,” he mumbled, and started to thrust into your grip. You pulled your hand away.

“Now did I say you could move, Dave?” you chided and he replied with a strangled no. “Well then I’m going to need you to stay still, is that clear?”

“Yes…” he said, as if it was going to take every ounce of willpower he had.

“Good,” you crooned, “Your only task is to lie still.” And you placed your hand round him and started again, watching for movement, but he was still, the only movement his head pushing back against the pillow, his neck tense, tendons tight, showing all of the frustrated energy he couldn’t use. You increased your speed.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck he was….he was….FUCK. The blank space where his mind had once been was now filled with the unbelievable feeling of your soft hand working his cock and there was nothing else in the entire universe. Now that his sight was closed off by the blindfold, all that focus had shifted, rerouted to his nerves, his auditory perception, and for the last god knows how long, all he had been able to comprehend had been your touch, your lips, the orders you gave and now your fingers working him over languidly.

There was nothing there to distract him, just sensation , most of this sensation currently in his rock hard erection and he was quickly realising that if you carried on much longer, he wouldn’t last much longer. He’d never been at the receiving end of so much attention without at least reciprocating and it didn’t feel fair. He’d come here for you after all.

“Tinsel,” he bit out, and you stopped immediately, allowing him a moment of respite although the absence of your hand was like being dunked into an ice bath.

“You don’t like this?” you asked, and he could hear the confusion in your voice. He had to make you understand.

“No,” he started, and then stammered, “I mean yes, fuck, yes. God, I love this,” he told you, and he said your name then, pleading almost. “But what about you?”

“Sex isn’t transactional, Dave,” you said gently. “Right now this isn’t about me. Now are you going to be a good boy and let me continue or do we stop?” He almost laughed out loud. The idea of stopping, of ever leaving this bed again apparently, seemed entirely ridiculous.

“Please, keep going,” he pleaded and you hummed contentedly and he felt you move in.

“Good use of the safe word, by the way,” you told him, “You might want to keep that in mind.” And before he had time to ask why, he felt a warm wetness envelop his cock and understood with mind-blowing certainty that you had taken him in your mouth.

It took him a moment to recalibrate, but when he did you were rewarded with the most delicious moans to have come out of Dave York’s mouth so far this evening. He twitched and bucked slightly underneath you as you took the head of his cock in your mouth and slid down, a series of muttered expletives falling from his mouth.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” he rambled, “Oh god, yes. God that’s good.” You added your tongue to the proceedings, swirling around his shaft, in random patterns until he was practically incoherent. You were kneeling between his legs, and he hooked his ankles across the backs of your knees, and the feeling of him locking you there was so satisfying that you didn’t even reprimand him for it. You had to let the guy get away with some things.

“Fuck, I want to…..ngggh…..wanna put my hand on your head,” he groaned, and your heart melted. “Can I? Please, god, please let me,” he begged. And this was where you’d been trying to take him since he broke into your house, to the point where he had to plead for control, but didn’t realise he had all the power. And it made you smile as you lifted off him for a second and said, “Yes, hold on to me.”

Dave’s hand shot to you and his fingers slid into your soft hair. He didn’t grab, just closed his fingers gently, grounding himself. Because he knew it was your mouth on him, your lips forming a seal around his shaft, your tongue dipping and swirling in a way that made his jaw clench, but it was only when his hand found the gently bobbing motion of your head that he was able to fully comprehend that it was you.

His thighs were braced on either side of you, locked down to try and stave off the orgasm that he could feel building. But he knew that he couldn’t hold off forever. You’d led him here step by step and it was inevitable and part of the growing thrill was just that: you. You touching him, playing, teasing, you with your mouth locked on him right fucking now.

“I’m gonna……tinsel,” he panted, and you stopped for a moment, the cold from the absence of your mouth almost unbearable. “I’m gonna come if you keep doing that,” he told you.

“That’s good,” you said softly, “isn’t it?” There was a lightness to your voice as if you were laughing slightly at him, but not unkindly. “Or is there something wrong?”

“No!” he protested, “God, no, it’s….it’s perfect, but I….” he stumbled over the words, “Where do you want me to, you know….” You chuckled.

“Where do you want to, Dave?” you said gently. He paused for a moment.

“I get to decide?” he asked, shocked. You gave an amused sound.

“Well, you’ve decided everything else so far, so why not this?” you said.

“Um….I….What?” he stammered. “You’re the one who…” And this time you laughed.

“Oh Dave, you’ve made all the decisions so far. You decided to stay, to accept the cuffs, to let me put my hands on you, my mouth. You decided to enjoy it.” You paused. “So you get to decide this.” You lazily ran your finger up and down his thigh as he thought. But he didn’t think too long.

“In your mouth,” he began and was about to elaborate when his breath was taken away as you slid him back between your lips. You pressed down on his thighs and went to work and his hand slid back into your hair and he had never felt so light. He was in control without the burden of responsibility, had the power to decide but not the fear of any consequences. The noises coming from his mouth were like none he’d ever thought to utter, pure moans of pleasure.

And that letting go hit him at the same time as you drove him over the edge. He came, hard, emptying into your mouth, felt you slide your fingers into his free hand and lace your fingers with his as he arched his back in agonising ecstasy. You kept going, drawing every last pulse out of him until he fell back, panting on the mattress, making small satisfied sighs.

He couldn’t move. Not even to remove the blindfold. He felt you rise from the bed, return with a warm cloth, which you used to clean him gently. Then he felt you pull the covers over him and move up behind him. He was already falling asleep, utterly spent. You snuggled in behind him and nuzzled his hair. Then he felt the handcuff being removed from his wrist and he knew deep down somewhere that he should move: he should take this moment to escape, but he couldn’t.

You kissed the inside of his wrist, delicate butterfly kisses, and brought his arm round in front of him and that was all the permission he needed to slide into sleep.

You’d been awake for a while, faking sleep when you felt Dave stir. He hadn’t moved for the first part of the night, and you’d been worried for a moment that you’d given him a heart attack, but the pulse in his neck was strong when you put your fingers there. He probably hadn’t had a good night’s sleep for a while, so you were happy to see him relax.

Sometime early in the morning you felt him wake and you turned over, away from him, allowing him a moment to remember where he was. He was quiet for a while, you could hear his breathing, and then he reached over you, and you heard the clink of the handcuffs, felt the cold ring encircle your wrist. Dave made a satisfied sound but missed the small smile you made to yourself.

“Wake up,” Dave whispered in your ear, and you pretended to stretch and yawn and seem entirely perplexed to wake up cuffed like he had been the night before.

“Merry Christmas,” he said, and leaned on his elbow next to you, just watching you. He’d put his boxers back on, but his chest was still bare, probably because his shirt was on the floor in shreds. You didn’t say anything and his brow creased. “I’m sorry about that,” he said, indicating the cuff, “Well, actually I’m not,” he went on. “I came here last night with some ideas in mind and I really, really would like the chance to carry them out.”

“Should I be scared?” you asked, biting the inside of your mouth so he wouldn’t know you felt like laughing and he pushed himself further up on his elbow. He looked down at you, and this time his gaze went down your body, over your baggy sweatshirt and he gently pulled the covers off your legs. He reached out and touched your thigh, gently stroking up and down. The way he looked at you was already heating you.

“No,” he said, his tone playful, “ I just….Just give me the chance to show you. I think my plans might have changed slightly.” He chuckled and reached out to stroke your face. “What’s the safe word?” he asked, “Do you still want tinsel?”

“Do I have a choice?” you asked him. He’d been distracted by your leg again but looked up at you now.

“Yes, you have a choice. Like I did,” he said, “One word and it ends here. I’ll go.” He seemed upset at the thought though, and you could hear it in his voice. “Do you want me to leave?”

You took a deep breath and bit your bottom lip, as if in earnest contemplation. He probably thought you didn’t hear, but you caught the small rumble in his throat, his eyes locked on your mouth.

“I want you to stay,” you told him and you couldn’t miss the small relieved slump of his shoulders. You looked at him as if you didn’t know what to expect and he thought for a moment and then spoke.

“Tell me where I can touch you,” he demanded, “Your hair?”

“Yes,” you said.

“Your neck?” yes. “Your chest? Your nipples?” yes. “Your stomach?” yes he went on and you told him that every inch of your body was up for his caress, except one.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, and you shook your head. No. He looked crestfallen, but you made your mouth a tight line, appearing to withdraw slightly and he didn’t like that because he soothed you, touched your cheek and told you it was fine, although his gaze fell once again on your mouth like it was forbidden fruit that he need to taste.

He had to admit that he’d wanted to kiss you last night, wanted to when he woke up next to you and wanted to even more now that you’d vetoed it. He had to hide his disappointment. But maybe he could work his way up to asking you again: there was always hope, he told himself.

“Let’s get rid of this sweatshirt,” he said, “I’d like to see what’s underneath.” You nodded and he was about to ask for the scissors when he realised that he couldn’t cut it open. You looked so cute in it and it was almost sentimental to him now, how it could hide so much and yet be such an alluring item of clothing. So instead of ruining it, he pulled it up over your head and bunched it up near your cuffed wrist and let his eyes finally wander to what it had been hiding.

“Oh fuck,” he muttered, as his eyes went down your torso, “Oh god, look at you.” He’d been fantasising about this moment for so long, he’d worried that reality might let him down, but it didn’t. Seeing you now, like this, your body under his gaze, did something to him. It was awe and tenderness and lust all mixed into one intoxicating cocktail. Your bra didn’t match those boy shorts you had on, but it was green too and more lace than fabric. He traced his finger along the line where your breast escaped over the top of the cup and saw you squirm slightly. Good.

“Keep still” he said, his voice low, dipping his mouth to your neck, finally placing a few chaste kisses there, loving the way you sighed as he did so. As if to reiterate this command, he placed his leg lightly across your hips, holding you in place and pinned your free hand to the bed as he began to kiss your clavicle and then further down.

He reached the fabric of your bra and knew he couldn’t destroy it either. There was just a tiny hope inside him that this wouldn’t be the only time he would see it, would be here like this with you, and he felt he needed to save every beautiful part of this moment.

“This is too nice to cut off so I’m just gonna….” he said, pulling down first one cup and then the other, gently palming your breasts and pulling them free. He heard your breath hitch and wanted to take his time, but he couldn’t and took one of your nipples in his mouth and the moan that came from you was everything he ever wanted to hear.

Dave’s warm tongue lapping at your nipple made you want to roll your eyes back in your head. You arched to try and meet him but he pushed you down, making a warning noise in his throat without breaking contact. That dominance just made the sensation even more powerful, and you knew it was the moment you could let go and just enjoy everything he was about to do to you. He wanted to have control, but he wanted it while pleasuring you and that was all the permission you needed.

He moved to the other breast and you moaned again, this time hearing him match you with his own. Looking down, his eyes were closed as he worshipped you with his mouth, and the sensations that had been building at your core flared up in a burst of arousal. He hadn’t even touched you there and you were on fire for him.

As if he heard your thoughts, Dave swept a hand down over your stomach, kissing as he went, and slid it just under the band of your shorts. Then he brought his eyes to yours and kept them there while he worked your underwear down over your legs, never looking down there, just at you.

“Open your legs,” he said, still focusing on your face. You hesitated, wanting to see what he did, challenging him. There was a fraction of a pause and then he told you again.

“Open. Your. Legs. Do it.” This time it was you who issued the satisfied groan as you did as you were told. Dave giving orders was the man you’d hoped to coax out into the open. And not the Dave who didn’t know what he wanted from you, but the decisive man who did. And here he was.

“Mmmm, look at you,” he groaned, “So turned on already.” His hand slid down between your legs but skirted your pussy, teasing you until you wanted to grab his hand and put it on you. It was his face that stopped you, watching where his hand moved around your core, like he’d never get enough of what he saw. It was the hottest thing you’d ever seen. You squirmed your hips in frustration.

“Keep. Still,” he ground out, “Don’t you move.” And then he took your hand and brought it down between your legs, and told you to touch yourself, to do what felt good. “Show me how to touch you,” he said, with a need that warmed you. Would he have asked you this last night, if he had managed to catch you before you caught him? You had no idea, but you did what he asked and started to stroke yourself.

Dave knew you’d cracked something in him last night. He had had no thought of learning from you until he had you there under him and suddenly the way forward wasn’t to show you, but to make you show him. You’d been watching him for so long, had understood what he needed, and he had this one chance to do the same and he was damned if he was going to fuck it up.

“Show me,” he told you, and there was a soft tone in his words that he could hear, because he wasn’t demanding this of you now, he was begging. He needed you to show him what you wanted, how you liked to be touched, because you were letting him see the most intimate part of you, were trusting him to treat you with care, and that’s exactly what he was going to do.

For a white hot moment the shame of how he’d been the last few months seared through him, and he wanted to tell you how sorry he was, but words weren’t enough right now. You needed to know, to fell how much he regretted what he’d tried to do, how fucking grateful he was that you’d understood enough to give him this second chance.

Your eyes closed as your middle finger slid over your clit, gathering slick and moving back up to rub and circle over your tenderest spot. And he watched, memorising the tempo, flicking back between your blissed out expression and your finger. When he was confident he had it, he gently nudged your hand aside and took over, feeling the velvet smooth slip of your skin, the softest part of you, chasing the pathway you’d shown him; hearing your delighted moan.

He lay next down next to you, never breaking motion, just touching you the way you had shown him, watching you arch, dipping his mouth to your nipple again, feeling the way it ramped everything up.

“Are you close?” he murmured, even though he suspected he knew the answer. You nodded feverishly, but he wanted to hear you. “Say it,” he demanded, “Tell me you’re close to coming on my fingers.” You gasped.

“I’m close….” you sighed and he saw it in your eyes, bent his forehead to yours, kissed your temple.

“That’s it baby,” he crooned and your eyes snapped to his, wide at the endearment and it was all you needed. You broke apart under him, your eyes rolling closed, your hips chasing the sensations coursing through you. “That’s it baby,” he soothed, and it just seemed to make you keep going. “Sweetheart, so good for me,” he said, rapt at the beauty of you in this moment, the energy, the vulnerability in you. It was breathtaking.

He kept soothing you as you came down, as you nuzzled against his shoulder, a thin sheen of sweat in the dip of your throat. And then your eyes opened and you looked at him and there was undisguised lust there. And things shifted between the two of you before he could even take a moment to understand.

“I need you,” you said, your gaze burning into him and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. He was yours to command. He stripped off his boxers and settled himself between your legs, only now able to focus on his fucking hard he was. He stroked himself across your pussy, getting himself wet, and then lined himself up and started to push inside you.

Oh it was so good when he started to thrust inside you, so right. He eased in gently, then circled his hips while you got used to the feel of him, both of you looking down to where he disappeared inside you.

Then he was looking at your face while he pulled out and moved back in, watching your expressions, still learning you. Your hand went up to his face, cupping it, and then the fact that your other arm was still attached to the wall became an annoyance. You placed your thumb on the flat part of the cuffs and they popped open, calibrated to your print. It took Dave a moment to realise that both your hands were on his shoulders.

“Wait….what?” he stammered, losing momentum and you growled at him, “Don’t stop!”.

“Fuck, sorry,” he panted and started his rhythm up again, this time questioning you in between thrusts. “So you could……get out….of those….cuffs……all along?” he ground out. You nodded, feeling that familiar feeling building, the feel of him, his weight pinning you to the bed, his thrusts.

And then he laughed, this time not losing pace, and his face broke into a beautiful smile and you were lost. He shook his head, chuckling. “I want to kiss you,” he said, his voice desperate. “Please let me kiss you, baby. Let me kiss you.” And what could you say to that?

You grabbed his face with both hands and pulled him down to you, his lips taking yours in a searing kiss. He didn’t stop, devouring you, muttering endearments while he kissed you. He continued to drive into you, your legs round him, alternating between kissing you and breaking off to look down to where you were joined. And he didn’t stop until both of you were coming and moaning against each others’ mouths.

He collapsed on top of you, then shifted off you slightly, while you stroked his back and he kissed the side of your neck. Then his lips were on yours again and you made out for what seemed like hours.

Finally, hunger drove you into the kitchen where you made turkey and cranberry sandwiches, as it was Christmas Day after all. Dave sat at the island watching you, enjoying a glass of wine, wearing one of your biggest T-shirts, which just about fit him. Desmond wove himself between the legs of Dave’s stool and he threw him down bits of turkey when he thought you weren’t looking.

He looked you up and down when you walked to the refrigerator. “I love that sweatshirt and those ridiculous socks,” he smiled. “I’m gonna buy you ten more sets.” You chuckled. Then he looked more serious.

“Do you have somewhere to be today?” he asked, trying not to appear disappointed even though you could hear it in his voice. He didn’t know what this was, you realised. Didn’t know whether this was a one time thing. You thought you’d better show him.

You placed the turkey sandwich down in front of him and walked to the back door where you clicked the lock shut, before turning to face him.

“Eat up, Dave,” you said sternly, “because nobody is going anywhere.”

The smile that lit up Dave York’s face as he hastily bit into his sandwich was one you would remember for a long time.

New Year’s Eve found Dave on his own, in front of the television. He didn’t mind, to be honest. You’d said you would leave your parents party in the early hours and message him when you were on your way. He could wait.

When the ball dropped, he raised his beer glass to the screen and settled in to wait for your call. But it was late and his eyes started to close…

What woke him, he didn’t know, but the whole apartment was in darkness. Across the way, the building had lights, so it must be his block, he thought. And then he felt a presence in the room, not a sound, just a shift in the atmosphere. For a moment he froze, but then there was the familiar scent of lavender, the sound of someone moving behind him and a blindfold fell across his eyes.

“Happy New Year Dave,” you whispered in his ear. He chuckled. It was going to be a good one.