Work Text:
They fight. Of course, they fight - they’re like oil and water. Like magnets of the same polarity being pressed together. Throw-away jabs, mostly. Angry looks exchanged over the machinery of nascent games. Stabs at each other’s physicality and intellect, digs at what they can perceive of each other’s deeper issues.
Amanda likes to insult Mark’s intelligence and engineering skills; Mark bites back about her physical weakness and history of addiction. It’s another night of this - ribbing that’s devolved into a pissing contest. They throw around digs like a frisbee - back and forth and back.
I could do this. Well, I could do that. You did that wrong. And you fucked that other thing up incorrigibly. Back and forth and back and forth.
“I could make you cry, and I wouldn’t even need to leave a mark on you,” Amanda hisses, all the while smiling her winning smile. She has a feminine viciousness about her when she’s angry - a suppressed violence to the cadence of her voice and the slant of her body language. Equally likely to drop the subject and stab him in the jugular.
Mark scowls back at her, a loathing bubbling up in his chest at the way she tries so hard to be top dog. Too hard - the insecurity of it stinks up the whole room. “I’d like to see you try, Young,” he mutters, mouth tilted in a particularly mean and derisive half smile. He does it because she hates to be belittled.
And it works - the fire in her eyes growing as if in an explosion - white hot ant horrible.
“You think you’re all that and more,” Amanda says, laughing airily, the sound bouncing off the walls and echoing darkly, “Well - we’ll see where you end up if you keep underestimating me.”
Mark scoffs, “Yeah, sure, Mandy. Sure.”
--
Mark wakes up with a killer headache. Slow and turtle-ish in motion, blinded by the overly bright overhead lights that shine down on him like LED headlights on a Jeep. He feels himself shrivel up under that harsh glare.
And then he realises the predicament he’s in. Laid flat out on his back, naked and strapped down to what can only be some manner of obstetric chair. Thick leather straps around his arms, bound tight to his sides. And similar straps around his ankles, poised high in stirrups and spread wide enough for a person to comfortably stand between his legs and still have free room. Another strap over his belly, and a final one around his neck. Pinned like a butterfly to cardboard. Vulnerable.
There’s little question in him as to who could have done this. Amanda’s face burns in his mind's eye like a branding iron, red-hot and glowing with it. His hunch is confirmed when he turns his head to the side and sees her - facing away and fiddling with something on a platter on a rolling table. He can’t see her face, but he recognises the hunch of her shoulders, the haphazard fall of her unevenly cut hair. The soft sound of objects being rearranged on metal meets his ears.
He has the vague idea of danger. That whatever she is doing over there will soon turn into something she’ll do to him. That it will hurt.
In retrospect, it’s all his own fault. He knew better than to fall into a rivalry with a junkie with a bone to pick, but he’d given into his lower urges and bit back as good as he got each time. He’d egged the whole thing on, even. Found those things that pissed Amanda off and pushed her buttons on purpose. He was warned, but he’d ignored said warning in favour of childish taunting.
And now he doesn’t even know what to say. It’s obvious she’d knocked him out and dragged him here all by herself with nothing but spite fueling her. An impressive feat, considering she’s just around half his weight and width. He’d genuinely thought himself safe from her - and he’d never considered turning the thing between them on this particular axis of reality himself.
He has no idea what she’s about to do, and that’s dangerous.
All he knows is that Amanda’s probably acting of her own initiative, and not on John’s orders. He wouldn’t be seeing her otherwise. At least, he hopes. John has no plans of testing Mark - he’s pure muscle in their operation, a willing believer of the ideology, so, surely-
Something clatters on the plate, dragging Mark out of his thoughts. He can’t see what it was, not with Amanda’s body in the way of his sight. Then, she turns her head just enough to look at him over her shoulder, and their eyes meet.
There is a tense moment of stillness, during which Amanda’s face blooms into a pleasant smile. “Good morning, sleepyhead,” she says, “did you have a nice beauty nap?”
“Not really,” he mutters, “what’s this about?”
“I just want to prove something,” Amanda answers. She walks closer, the smile on her face dimming as she approaches. Once close enough, she runs her fingers over Mark’s cheek. Gentle as anything.
He squirms back, away from her hand, as far as the collar allows. “And what’s that?”
“That I can make you cry without even hurting you, of course. You remember - I said I could, and you scoffed at me,” she says. “Really rude, by the way. I get the feeling you don’t respect me, Mark. That you look down on me.”
Mark stays quiet, gauging that anything coming out of his mouth right now would make the sentence more severe.
“Nothing to add?” Amanda asks, half teasing and half derogatory. Then, with an edge of viciousness, “You know I’m right.”
“What do you want me to say?” Mark asks, temper flaring. “You’ve got me where you want me already. Obviously, you’re gonna do whatever it is you have planned. What I say doesn’t matter.”
Amanda’s face twists, displeased. Then she moves back to the platter without another word. Mark can see now - something rubber, something metal, and a container of… lube?
His heart tumbles in his chest. I can make you cry without hurting you.
“What exactly are you going to do to me?” he asks, voice a hushed whisper. Amanda ignores the question as she settles herself between his spread legs, tools a comfortable distance away. All too painfully, Mark is reminded of his current state of dress. Or rather, lack of dress.
Completely naked. Completely open.
Amanda pulls on a pair of rubber gloves, one by one, the hems snapping loudly against her wrists. Then, she leans in, her hands finding purchase on the tender skin of Mark’s inner thighs. She kneads at the flesh, pinching too tight, pulling too taut. Her hands are cold through the gloves.
Mark feels a humiliated flush climb his face as he tries to close his thighs, to no avail. He can only squirm in displeasure as Amanda’s hands inch closer and closer to his crotch.
“I like you like this,” Amanda says suddenly, “you’re soft under all those clothes. Vulnerable.” She meets his gaze, a spark of mirth in her eye, “Aw, are you shy? Is this too much?”
There’s a knot in Mark’s throat.
“Oh, Hoffman,” Amanda sighs, “the things I’m gonna do to you. You don’t even know.”
Well, isn’t that the truth.
--
Amanda is slow and meticulous. The foreplay with her is like pulling teeth. The churning humiliation burns in his belly all the more for it.
Mark bites his tongue to keep quiet. The collar makes it hard to breathe, the restraints make it impossible to move and hide the minute reactions of his body and face. Oh, the things he’d give just to be able to cover his face right now.
Her fingers inside him, opening him up. The slick sounds of it as she eases back and forth. He can feel himself, puffy at the abuse. Latex, slick with thick lube. Inside him, inside him. Smooth and soothing against his walls. Digging deeper, splitting him wider and crowding him out.
And then there is the betrayal of his own body as his cock begins to fill out against his thigh. Slow and sleepy but undeniable, flushing as the head peeks out from beneath the foreskin.
Mark doesn’t moan, and keeps his writhing to a minimum. Can’t show her how much she affects him, can’t give into the pleasure of it. Because there is pleasure to it, pleasure he’d be revelling in if the situation were different. If it wasn’t Amanda, if it wasn’t here and now. He’s been in situations like this before, at play-parties and when bringing partners over. Tied up and at someone else’s mercy.
“Is that the best you got?” he asks, petulant, as she’s three fingers deep and stroking circles around his prostate. His cock thick and heavy as it bobs under its own weight against his thigh.
Amanda smiles at him in answer, her eyes knowing.
--
The thing is, she’s definitely given it a lot of thought. Once she’s done fingering him open, once he’s all lubed up and aching inside for more - he won’t beg, but he wants it so bad -, she takes an object off the platter.
An innocuous thing, small enough to fit in her palm. A black rubber plug. But what’s interesting about it is the tube that comes out the flared end of it. A tube connected to a pump.
“You know what this is, Mark?” she asks. Her cheeks are ruddy with excitement. Eyes betrayingly bright and hands too gesticulative. She’s enjoying this too, more than she wants him to know.
“Enlighten me,” he mutters.
Her smile is dazzling and menacing all in one. “An inflatable anal plug,” she says, chuckles, “and - oh - you’d be surprised by how big it gets.”
A shiver of fear-tinged excitement up his spine even as he clenches down on nothing. She’s prepared and worked him up well enough that he wants this. Wants to be filled up. God, he’s so fucking gross.
“But then again,” she leans over him, bracing a wet hand on his belly, slick fingers running through the hair there, “You’ll feel it in a bit.”
--
The plug indeed gets very large, Mark can soon attest.
The fullness in his belly is enough to make him feel lightheaded. Amanda rocks it back and forth - just enough to stretch him wide around the swell of it to the brink of pain, again and again, and again. It’s firm with just enough give. It’s filling him up so well. It’s rubbing against every tender square millimetre of his rectum and sending shivers and jolts up his spine, down his dick.
He’s sweaty and panting and his cock is leaking as the plug ploughs through his guts.
“You’re almost cute like this,” Amanda says, “if i liked men I might just like you.”
“Fuck you,” Mark managed to growl, biting back the needy sounds in his throat. He feels like he’s on fire. He feels like he’s about to burst open. Worst of all - he feels like it’s not enough.
“No, Mark,” Amanda says, and then - punctuating with a well-timed thrust, “Fuck you.”
--
Though the plug drives him up the wall, it’s not all Amanda’s got up her sleeve. Just when she has him on the edge of cumming, she stops. For a moment, all Mark can do is breathe, eyes closed, trying to count to ten in his mind. It’s too much. It’s not enough. He needs to cum. He wants to cry.
And then she touches his dick. The alarm of touch only really settles in when Mark realises she’s holding it, rather than stroking. And then he sees what she has in her other arm.
A thin rod, with a swelling at the end, ribbed all throughout. It doesn’t click what it’s for until she poises the end of it to the head of his dick.
“Oh, no,” Mark says, alarmed, “no, you can’t-”
But she does. The slide is an odd mix of painful and pleasurable. He can feel the head of it, can feel each rib as it slips further up his cock. The noise he makes at the back of his throat is something between the whimper of a kicked dog and a sobbing moan.
He tenses, every muscle in his body clenching down. The plug inside him shifts deeper, just against where it feels best. His vision feels fuzzy.
“How’s that?” Amanda asks, and there’s a note of glee in her voice, “You feel like crying yet, Mark?”
Orgasm sneaks up on him and tides over just as the sound bottoms out, the crossbar of it reaching the head of his dick. But it’s all wrong - he can feel his balls clench, but he can’t ejaculate. A thin dribble of sperm swells like a dewdrop around the edges of the sound, but that’s about it.
Wave after wave flows over him, up until it fucking hurts. Mark wails weakly as the feeling ebbs, leaving him scratched raw and tender on the inside.
What the fuck.
“Good, huh?” Amanda taunts him. And then - sick, sadistic bitch that she is - she moves the rod. A twirl, to start with, but then she wiggles it back and forth inside his - poor, abused and oversensitive - dick; and Mark screams.
Thrashing offers little help though, he’s strapped in so tight that he can only make the most minute of motions. And Amanda moves along with his squirming with little trouble, grinning like a hungry shark.
“Stop, please-” he pleads, feeling tears well up inside his eyes, “I can’t-”
It’s too much, too sensitive. It feels like he’s burning alive. His skin stings and itches, his balls feel too tight, and his dick feels like it’s about to explode. The all-too-familiar sensations mesh with the nascent ones in a horrible cocktail of sensation.
A fat, dewy tear rolls down Mark’s flaming cheek, but it’s a long while still until Amanda is done with him.