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It's been about half an hour since you were roused from your bed. Like the uncomfortable, metal-and-lumpy-mattress contraption could really be restful, any more so than the cold porcelain currently freezing your naked legs and the skin beneath your committee-issued underwear.
That's not the important part, though, not at all. The black belts and ensuing buckles seem to be a much more pressing issue, biting into the meat of your thighs and adding blissful friction to what's already building up between your legs.
...The muzzle of the gun pushed into your temple helps, too. Chalk that up to the lack of sleep and palatable food rewiring your brain in new and interesting ways. "Don't move," he orders, and you don't. There's a brief moment where you wonder if he means it, the way he's stuffed full of cheap sex-shop jelly rubber and all splayed out, but as with most things in this hellhole, you don't care to find out. Not when there's much more appetizing things to be had right in your lap.
Out there, he's little more than a drone. The worker bee, perpetually snapped at and scolded, not allowed to speak unless spoken to first. Yes, sir, no, sir, I'll take care of it at once, the lot. It must've gotten tiresome, you figure, gripping the flimsy plastic of the seat and pushing your toes into the tile floor 'till the bloodstained canvas of your sneakers bends. You have to ground yourself.
Because as submissive as this guy acts right now, as easy as it is for him to fade into the background noise amongst the horrid copper-smelling playground your life has become -- as easy as it is for him to follow you like a dog on a scent --
He rides you, cowgirl style. He's really doing his best to blow his own back out in your lap right now. Crack those joints like a piece of honeycomb, burnt-sugar thin. The thought makes you huff, and with another slam downwards onto the hot pink shaft your hand flies up to grab at his hip. Hard. If he wanted, he could easily end this, alert one of his fellow security personnel, but the muffled noises he's making and the way he's squeezing your shoulder make it clear that he doesn't want this to stop for a while. You're way too tired to think about how he probably prepared himself beforehand in his...wherever they slept. Waited till the others were asleep, snuck in dead quiet. Always a step ahead; you the dog, chasing after something that you can't possibly catch, and he the rabbit on the lure.
You'll have bruises, yeah. These tracksuits are cheap and don't offer much protection. You can't say that you care, either, dark-circled eyes scrunching up in a smile up at the unflinching black mesh of his mask. "You're a nasty boy, Square," for lack of a better name, and for a moment you swear he laughs too, or maybe that's just how hard he's panting, the gun slipping in the perspiration finally filming up across your skin. What you can see of his toned body is covered in sweat, hips slamming into yours. But you're being good, eyes kept mostly fixed on the grate bearing the white symbol, and he seems to...appreciate it.
To say the least. His poor cock, it's stuck between the two of you, the gun dropping from its insistent push against your temple, and he wraps his arms around your shoulders like he's terrified of falling off. The thought makes you laugh again amongst his panting breaths echoing off the tile. "Fuuuuck," muffled through the layers of material covering his face, "harder." He can't just bounce on you forever, much as he'd like to, and it seems you'll have to help your new friend along as your other hand pinches at his opposite hip, roaming toward his peach of an ass, pushing him down to grind in your lap, frustrated and horny.
Your mind is helping you along, picturing tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. "I like the sounds you're making," you coo, and he groans as if on cue.
"Don't--don't say things like that," he grumbles, flustered as hell as his face drops to nuzzle in between your neck and shoulder in seeming defeat. This might be his little game, but at the moment it feels like it is for you and you only. The way his thighs are tensing up makes you realize you're more than likely nailing his sweet spot, his words going straight to the delicious ache in your stomach. He's breathy. Needy. Wants to be held, every last drop milked out of his burning body.
"Ask me," and you know he's too far gone to worry about things like authority. "Ask me nicely to come," you insist, turning to press a small kiss into the screen obscuring his face, and that just does it for the Square.
He always was so weak for people ordering him around.
"Please," his voice is low as he pleads so nice and sweet. "M-may I come? Please?"
"Go ahead," you ignore the heat between your thighs in favor of letting your fingers curl around his shaft, making the guard startle a bit as your wrist rolls, giving his stiff cock a few lazy pumps. "That's a good boy, come on my dick-"
Your eyes go wide as he lets out what sounds entirely too loud and shrill of a moan for this hour, clenching down on the strap, shuddering and streaking both your uniforms in white. Poor thing's clearly been pent up for the duration of the games, his spend sticky and cooling between the two of you while he slumps forward, limp and unable to move. He's a heavy boy, wearing all this gear, but you don't mind.
"...Thank you," he mumbles, your clean hand patting softly at his back. He sounds drunk, his façade slipping further by the minute, but neither of you seem to mind in the least. "Gimme...a sec, an' I'll return the favor...'kay?"
If you make it out of here alive, your sleep-deprived brain swears you're keeping him.