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“Hands where I can see ‘em, fuck-o!” the voice boomed from behind, making your hairs stand on end. Your fellow reagent, walking right beside you with cat-like caution, almost dropped the severed head they were carrying at the sudden rapturous command. You didn't want to look behind, but did so out of pure, animalistic instinct — Sergeant Leland motherfucking Coyle eclipsed the door somebody forgot to lock. Very quickly you began to regret your choice of traversion — the fuzzy warmth of a well-lit hallway engulfed you with its treacherous clarity — as the air around you grew charged with the current of inevitable chase. The oxygen entering your system was so thick, you could practically chew on it; your heart detached from your aorta and sank low, low to the grumbling pits of your stomach. The look on your face must've been truly something to behold, judging by the grin that stretched across Coyle’s blistering features. Turning your panicked gaze back to a teammate, you saw a grim yet expected picture painted in strokes of terror — eyes wide, eyebrows knitted, jaw tight. Their fingers squeezed the cold flesh of the evidence so hard, you feared they would crumble the skull and carry the head by the straps of its grey matter.
The heavy footsteps began to rapidly approach your current position, leather boots stomping on dusty linoleum. Thankfully, you didn't have to communicate what you were thinking — the door on the other side of the hallway was a clear point of mutual interest. Putting all your force into the straining muscles of your calves, you pushed off the floor and rushed towards the safe haven of your new destination. The debilitating drum of your heartbeat was drowning out the barbaric threats that would've otherwise weaseled into your ear, paralyzing you from the inside out. The crunch of shattered glass joined this symphony of horror shortly after as you passed the sad remains of a shattered book cabinet. With all kinds of literature scattered over the floor, a distant thought registered itself at the back of your mind — should you grab one and take a wild swing back at your insistent pursuer? You discarded the thought almost immediately, however, thinking that acquainting Coyle with the first-ever book in his life wasn’t worth the risk in the long run. Making him exceptionally upset was only entertaining when he wasn’t breathing down your neck, ready to shock the mischievous light out of your eyes. With how desensitized you’ve gotten to Sinyala’s horrors, it was easy to forget that, despite the elaborately arranged sets of the trial grounds, your actions still had consequences. Gutless mannequins dictating your next move might not have been actual people, but the blood you’ve spilled and the enemies you’ve acquired were very much real and would come to visit you in your worst nightmares. You wondered if the euphoria of Easterman’s praise was worth all that trouble — after all, you weren't really forced to participate in the travesty of this makeshift reality. But was it better to stay in a cramped, perpetually surveilled room, as opposed to a perpetually surveilled but infinitely less cramped trial? One offered you safety — a treasure so rare, you cherished it with every fiber of your tortured being — while the other… had its own set of pros and cons. Thoughts completely scrambled, you were a couple of desperate leaps away from the door when your teammate attempted to bash it open with the side of their shoulder. It creaked almost painfully, like an old crone, but didn’t budge, its hinges stubbornly still. Not even a furious kick to the lock could pave the way to the thick molasses of darkness on the other side — the only breather you could afford to take. The sheer terror on your fellow reagent’s face got injected with panic, mixing and twisting into an explosive concoction of primal anxiety. They would’ve kept tugging the rusted doorknob until it remained nothing more than a piece of junk in their hand if you didn’t push them out of the way and towards a small opening in the wall. Well, ‘a small opening’ was a rather generous way to describe a crooked hole that looked as though someone was desperate enough in their attempts to escape that they started chewing on bricks and concrete. The trial sets were full of those nooks and crannies to slip into, reducing the unfortunate souls that roamed this place to paranoid rats escaping the ire of human violence.
As your teammate began to crawl through the hole, wiggling their limbs into the small opening and trying their hardest not to scrape the evidence on a sharp chip of a brick, you realized that there wasn’t enough time for both of you to make a grand escape. One would have to carry the head back to the scales of Lady Themis — serene in her marble prison — while the other would have to stay behind and buy as much time as humanly possible.
Of course, the choice, now that your teammate was already halfway through on the other side, seemed rather obvious.
“Come and get it then, asshole!” you shouted back at Coyle, throwing him a challenging glare. The faint glow of the chandelier behind him made it seem like he was some sort of a twisted saint, or perhaps a wrathful god in pursuit of divine justice. A second later he was close enough to fully absorb the light in your field of view — a black hole that found itself in the middle of a solar system. Your invitation seemed tempting enough for him to throw his arm back in a swing that would’ve been generational in its devastation if the electric prod in his hand were to connect with your body — tissue-ripping, mind-numbing, and tremor-inducing. But the colossal might of it, conveniently slow in its punishment, allowed you to bend your knees and duck the strike of the wild lightning. With blue sparks still dancing before your eyes, you dove under Coyle's arm and dashed forward, away from danger and your friend and your only means of escape for the foreseeable future.
“Mendacious shit!” Coyle gritted around the butt of his cigarette, turning around on his heel. But you were already sprinting back to the opposite side of the hallway, your lungs ablaze and your hands shaky. This time, however, you didn't have a head start, not to mention the taunt that seemed to only embolden your chaser into an almost animalistic pace behind you. If you didn't know any better, you'd think that a chill running down your spine was his labored breathing as he prepared to sink his teeth into the flesh of your back. Going back to the courtroom was out of the question — with shackles of exhaustion taking over your muscles, you wouldn't last long enough to shake Coyle off your tail. And by god, was he persistent in following it around with a single-minded purpose of catching his unfortunate prey! Your eyes began to wander around the place, frantically searching for anything that could give you a little bit of leeway until they fell on a weathered door, wide open as it beckoned you to jump inside. You passed it without giving it a thorough search on your way here, figuring that a small, warmly lit office had nothing to offer beside a place to idly sit around at. You weren’t exactly wrong in your assumptions, but any amount of space was better than no space at all once you felt Coyle’s venomous spit reach the nape of your neck. In his usual manner, he threw haphazard, nonsensical insults at your back — something about whores and commies and perpetrators. You heard it so many times that the words lost all their initial meaning and became a guileless buzz in your ear, like a mosquito trying to lull you to sleep before sticking its sting in the soft of your skin. You rushed inside the welcoming office with little hesitation and a lot of eagerness, slamming the door shut behind you. With your heart performing fretful somersaults in your chest, you reached upwards along the wooden expanse of the only thing that currently separated you from doom but found absolutely nothing; there was no lock, you quickly realized, and the panic settled in your heavy chest just as fast. Hearing erratic footsteps growing louder and bolder, you turned around and pressed your back against the door, planting your feet into the carpet below — the last line of defense held on unreliable pillars of your wobbly legs and a sliver of hope.
Coyle bashed the door from the other side, and the impact almost sent you flying into the middle of the room, seeing stars and counting your blessings. But you stood stalwart in your defiance, limbs heavy with exhaustion, trepidation, and something else entirely.
“Oh, yer gonna make me work for it?!” he practically growled somewhere above you, but instead of a righteous fury, his words were carried by a palpable thrill. “You know how to get a man worked up, don’tcha, honey?” He gave it another go, and the whole frame rattled with the force of his strike, the vibrations seeping through the wood and into your body — your skin, your flesh, your very bones, swirling the thick marrow. Your stomach churned, eliciting a whimper from your lips that you failed to stop. The sound was small and helpless, like a newborn puppy.
It took only one more try for you to tumble onto the floor as the door behind you flew open, planting your face into a puddle of something that died no less than a couple of weeks ago. The stench was truly abysmal, up there among the most revolting smells you’ve ever had the displeasure of sensing, and you couldn’t stop yourself from violently retching as you flipped over onto your back and away from the source.
A bitter puff of warm smoke engulfed you like a loving, motherly hug, pulling your attention up until your eyes met two black reflective disks. Always hiding behind those damn sunglasses, you thought to yourself as Coyle now stood over your prone body, legs on either side of your thighs. He took a long, languid drag of his cigarette; bright embers of ash fell onto your clothes like sad little snowflakes in the middle of December.
“Hell, I outta whip you raw for making me go through all that trouble.” His shoulders shook in a silent chuckle; unblinking, you watched as the electric blue light of the prod in his hand withered away, the threatening hum dying out without power. He put the prod on the desk behind you, well damn certain you weren’t stupid enough to spring back to your feet and fight for it, and lowered himself down on his haunches. The leather of his uniform squeaked and crinkled at the joints, shining in the intimate light of the room. It wasn't often that you got to see Coyle outside of the yawning darkness and make out more than just the shape of his torso above your trembling body.
Cornered by this bloodthirsty animal, you couldn't really tell when it all started anymore. A sick game of cat and mouse, always rigged to lead to the same outcome no matter how you played — the victor was predetermined since its very conception. Yet you abided by the rules, participating even when your dignity slipped through the cracks of the floor you've been fucked on too many times to remember. Your body in exchange for a painless trial — a deal impossible to pass up as the devil held the contract in one hand and the crackling cattle prod in another. An overwhelming majority of people wouldn't even dare to consider such an offer, still holding onto their marbles and grasping at the fragile straws of humanity, but you had neither — not after watching your friends get torn limb from limb by the Berserker, or burned to a crisp by the Pitcher, or sliced from head to toe by the Night Hunter. You would do anything to avoid this sort of horrible fate, even if that meant shivering in a pool of cum.
It wasn't so bad, a part of you kept repeating like a broken record — a lie to soothe your deteriorating consciousness. The chase would always get your blood nice and hot, rushing to your cheeks and the lower part of your belly, and except for a couple of scientists that kept feverishly scribbling in their notes, no one really knew about the debauchery that took place in the heart of the courthouse. As Murkoff documented your progress, you wondered if they judged your cowardice, or, on the contrary, praised your quaint problem-solving skills. Was fucking a deranged police officer ever affecting the personal grade you would get once the shuttle welcomed you in with a mechanical fizz?
Two heavy hands settled on top of your knees, quickly bringing Coyle back into focus.
“Yer a little shy today, ain’tcha?” he mused, slowly spreading your legs apart. You swallowed thickly before turning your head away.
“Just… thinking,” you mumbled quietly in response. The familiar heat in your belly spread like melted butter once Coyle's fingers brushed along your inner thigh, as if reacquainting himself with your body all over again.
“That ain't a woman's job,” he scoffed, moving the cigarette between his teeth, “find somethin’ better to do.” His other hand shot upwards, fingers pinching your chin and turning your head back to his grinning face. “Like looking at me all pretty n’ submissive.”
Submissive. You hated that word with every fiber of your still prideful being, fighting the urge to take matters into your own hands and just run wherever you could — away from Coyle, from these trials, from Sinyala, from sweet whispers of Easterman on the old radio. But you had to comply if you wanted your skin to still be attached to your flesh and not peel off your body in large sizzling chunks.
You pursed your lips, feeling a small tremble run through your form as Coyle hooked his fingers under the waistband of your pants and tugged them down and away from your legs. There would be no prelude, no consideration for your own pleasure — there never was. Your body was just a means to an end, a currency to trade in order to keep your spirit intact. And without that spirit… you didn't want to think about it; the living husk that would leave this facility could never be you, even if it meant feeling a gentle sunbeam lick your damaged skin.
Coyle repositioned himself on his knees and wiggled his way between your thighs, spreading them further apart in the process. His lean figure fit like a missing puzzle piece between the plush of your willing flesh, almost as if he truly belonged there. The thought alone made you sick, yet the depraved corners of your febrile mind didn’t actually mind the soft warmth that his body provided. If you were to close your eyes and imagine any other place on Earth — like a luxurious resort near a restless sea or a lonesome cabin in the evergreen woods — you could’ve easily pretended that Coyle wasn’t a psycho with a Pontiac battery strapped to his back. Maybe then his coarse drawl wouldn’t be so grating, and his scarred face so nausea-inducing for all the wrong reasons…
A buckle slipped out of the belt loop with a loud clank; a zipper followed next, tugged impatiently at the slider. Practically chewing the butt of his cigarette, Coyle grunted, pushing his pants down the slope of his narrow hips.
“Shit,” he cursed under his breath as the tent of his boxers refused to cooperate — and by the size of it, you knew exactly where most of his blood went. With a hectic hiss, he pulled all the offending garments down, finally freeing his bulbous erection. It sprang eagerly over the hem of his waistband, the swollen cockhead pointing up as if trying to sniff out your reluctant arousal.
Over time, you learned to somewhat enjoy the process. Not enough to jump over that maddening peak and into the sweetest depths of release — god, no! — but enough not to completely hate yourself. The latter was quite easy to succumb to, considering how every smallest encounter in the trials vigilantly tried to mold you into something you weren’t.
“Hey,” Coyle’s husky voice pulled you out of another whirlpool of dissociation; as he leaned over your body, forearm bearing the weight of his daunting form, his gloved hand tangled in your matted hair, “don’t make me repeat myself, sweetums.” His other hand grasped the base of his cock, giving the shaft a few vigorous strokes. Eyes locked on the black holes of his sunglasses, you couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but you damn well felt the way his tip slid in between your puffy folds, searching the honeydew of your arousal. You groaned with the lip between your teeth, eliciting a haughty grin above you. “I believe ya consentin’ to a search of yer person.”
You imagined that the only thing he was ever truly in love with was the sound of his own voice. You’ve never seen a man so obsessed with his image, so set on proving that elusive something that built the foundation of his fragile masculinity. Strangely enough, it made him seem almost normal, almost human. You didn't know what to think about the little sprout of empathy that blossomed deep within the soil of your soul, but luckily you didn't have to — as Coyle's shaft slid up and down your glistening cunt, your brain activity came to a halt. Teeth clenched in an attempt to stifle your delicate moans, you wished he would point his cockhead just a little higher and let it glide just a little farther up your clit. The neglect on his part was painful and most certainly deliberate, as he reveled in the power of denying you even the tiniest bit of pleasure. Did you not earn it? Were you not good enough? You didn't remember the last time you were properly compensated for your titanic efforts — even Easterman’s praises oozing out of the evaluation chamber’s speakers failed to scratch the itch of your starving ego.
The tip of Coyle’s cock suddenly popped inside you — seemingly by accident as he laved himself in your juices, but you knew better than to write it off as unintentional. You jolted, a tiny squeak seeping between your teeth at the stretch. The burn came shortly after, making your muscles clench around the intrusion.
“Agh, fffuck,” he sputtered above you, one hand sliding up the soft expanse of your hip to squeeze so hard it made your eyes water, “never gets old…” His other hand reached for the cigarette, discarding the unfinished tobacco carelessly to the side as he blew the remaining smoke into your scrunched-up face. Your lungs rejected the smell, protesting with a fit of cough that in a matter of seconds became a painful yelp — the rest of Coyle's cock was unceremoniously pushed deeper into your spasming channel, separating the unprepared walls of your cunt. No amount of slickness could make it easier for you; on the other hand, he was having the time of his life. Pulling his shaft out until only the tip remained inside, he slammed it back in with a throaty chuckle, the noise wet and loud and dehumanizing. Your lips parted in a groan, and it came out more wanton than you would have liked.
“Gonna… gonna teach you to respect the law…” He was still trying to figure out his pace, the deep strokes knocking the air out of your lungs, and the quick half-ruts keeping you full until your legs started to tremble. Every muscle in his body was coiled tight, focused on the way your cunt kept sucking him in response to the blunt force. “...fucking… whores n’ junkies… thinkin’ you own this place…” You didn’t mind his senseless blabbering now that he was thrusting in and out of your quivering hole, slowly settling into an energetic pace that spread the burn from your entrance all the way over your body like wildfire. Just have to wait for this to be over, you thought to yourself as the friction between your legs teetered on discomfort, refusing to swing in a direction of blissful ecstasy despite your best efforts to adjust. It was frustration in its purest form, feeling your weeping walls massaged in all the wrong places and having your clit robbed of a delicious friction that would naturally occur when two bodies worked together in a dance of passion and lust. Panting above you, Coyle was chasing his own pleasure, oblivious to the purgatory he subjected you to with every careless sway of his hips. An object to fulfill a man’s desire — a role you were all too familiar with even before the tailwind of fate brought you into this accursed place. Not even the sharp talons of insanity could break the bonds of natural order, a set of rules you were burdened by since the moment you were born with certain genitalia.
A sharp crunch of glass cut through the rhythmic slaps, turning your whole body tense. You remembered the shattered pieces of a book cabinet you saw earlier and the litter it left in its mournful destruction — was someone making their way through the hallway? Coyle caught the noise too, turning his head slightly in the direction of the doorway as he slowed down his pace, now rubbing his throbbing shaft along the upper wall of your cunt. Your body was aching at the sudden influx of stimulation, while your mind was reeling at the possibility of getting caught. Heart beating frantically against the constraints of your ribcage, you froze, eyes darting between the ceiling and Coyle, who obstructed the view of an opened door. His face, contorted in conceited pleasure not even a moment ago, turned serious, the line of his jaw sharp enough to kill. It could’ve been a rat, another ex-pop, hell, a gust of wind for all you knew, but what if it wasn’t? What if your fellow reagents, having completed their scrupulous tasks, were trying to find you and bring you back to the shuttle? What would they possibly think? And would they live long enough to share their unsolicited opinions? A war waged within the palace of your mind, one that had you jumping between ignoring the disturbance entirely or doing something about it in case it was caused by your friends. But what could you even do that would potentially save the lives of the unfortunate trespassers?
It wasn’t an elaborate plan that drove your actions, but sheer desperation rearing its ugly head from the darkest corner of your subconscious. You didn’t get to think twice before your hands reached for Coyle’s face and pulled him into your closest proximity.
“...what’reyou–-” he only managed to mutter before you crashed your mouth into his, turning his attention away from the noise and onto the reckless kiss. You could feel his cock twitch inside you when you sucked in his bottom lip with so much devotion it would give a Catholic priest a run for his money. Coyle tasted awful — all blood and tobacco and teeth he hadn’t brushed in many long, exhausting weeks — but you imagined your own taste wasn’t any better. His skin hit you with an odd texture that felt like biting into a half-chewed-up sponge that was also soaked in spit and other fluids that were much harder to place. He made a noise akin to a furious grumble, and you expected all kinds of hellish punishments for stepping out of line — getting shoved away like a broken toy, all the while he shouted insults until your ears began to ring and kicked your defenseless body to a pulp, turning your skin the color of an unreachable night sky. But instead, Coyle leaned further into the chapped cage of your lips, groaning at the taste. Before you could fully understand what was going on, his tongue was already pushing past the seamline of your mouth, searching more of the closeness that was rare to come by in these parts.
“Want a piece of me, huh?” he growled into your mouth, his hands sliding down the curve of your body; they stopped at the flush of your thighs, grabbing the soft flesh to pull you closer and further onto his cock, “I can oblige…”
The tip fit snugly into the petals of your cervix, and you moaned, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist. You felt his lips stretch into a grin at the maneuver, but what did you have to lose? The last droplets of your dignity had evaporated from your body the moment you decided that a kiss would somehow ease the tension in the air.
“...just can’t stop talking, can you?” you challenged breathlessly against his lips, allowing your hands to rest on the hills of his shoulders. The muscles tensed beneath your touch, deprived of the simplest acts of intimacy the same way you were long deprived of basic human rights. The wires wrapped around his torso, sickly yellow and dimly green, were dangerously hot to the touch.
“Gonna fuck that sass outta ya,” Coyle promised in return, biting on your lower lip like a ferocious shark in deep, murky waters. His hips twitched, delivering a sharp thrust that stirred your insides in a manner that was both hurtful and pleasant; then again, again and again and again, like he was trying to pierce through your womb and fuck you straight into the ribcage. A keen mewl flew from your lips, one that made him laugh as he continued his assault on your cunt, drowning in the slick of your newfound arousal. “...mmm… not so mouthy now…”
“S-shut up,” you managed to stutter out and pulled him in for another kiss before your defiance could really settle in and nurture the deeply rooted wrath in his abdomen. He happily dove in for round two, slobbering you up like he was starving for another bite, all teeth and tongue and barely any lips; his tobacco-soaked saliva filled your mouth with a bitter aftertaste you wouldn't soon forget. Your hands travelled all the way up Coyle's wide shoulders and locked behind his neck, bringing him impossibly close. He didn't seem to mind nor to care, allowing his body to press yours into the grimy floor below to the point of your lungs struggling to keep up with the flow of oxygen. The new position turned quick, short thrusts into erratic humping — almost affectionate in its blindsided passion — and your muffled cries seeped into the stale air, embellishing a beautiful symphony of skin meeting skin. Coyle's fuzzy pelvis finally met your neglected clit, rubbing against the swollen bundle of nerves with maddening intensity. His cock was now molding your walls into its shape, refusing to leave a single inch unattended for more than a few seconds, filling the empty space as if it was made and delivered just for him. You've never felt so utterly taken, so owned by someone who went out of their way to make your life more miserable than it already was. The allure you found in that was surely due to him fucking you senseless, right?...
“...a-ah… ffuck, s’too much–” you whimpered as you pulled away from the ravenous kiss, drool pooling in the corner of your mouth; somehow, Coyle's perpetual shit-eating grin didn't seem to boil you from the inside out with rage anymore.
“Tha-at’s right, honey,” he grunted, hastily shoving his hands under your shirt and threatening to tear the cheap fabric apart, seeking more of you — he couldn't stop taking, he had to have more, “good ol’ Coyle gonna show ya yer place…” Gloved fingers located your pebbled nipples and didn't hesitate to deliver a generous pinch just to feel your cunt squeeze the base of his cock. Face buried in the collar of his shirt — soaked in sweat, gasoline, and god knows what else — you began to rapidly lose your sanity, panting and moaning against the stained fabric. The warmth in your belly intensified with every thrust, every bit of maddening pressure on your clit, every barbaric pinch of your delicate breasts, and you felt like you were hanging over a bottomless pit of fire with no safety net in sight. The pressure inside your cunt was edging on unbearable, one little movement away from exploding. You didn’t even notice how you began to hold your breath, focusing on the destructive wave cradled between your legs that built and built and–
…and then it crashed over you like a roaring tsunami, spreading the molten pleasure through your heated veins. You let out a pathetic mewl, biting the dirty white fabric in a vain attempt to alleviate some of that caustic tension in the knot of your lower belly — tissue-ripping, mind-numbing, and tremor-inducing. Your whole body trembled with the effort of surrendering yourself into pure pleasure, muscles spasming around Coyle’s cock and, much to your dismay, letting him know exactly how he made you feel. Your first orgasm in many endless months — first ever peak with him — and you hated to think how much that stoked his male pride.
“Yer a ba-ad girl, ain’tcha?” Coyle sneered into your ear, the twitches of your sensitive walls making his words come out strangled and breathless, and god why did it sound so hot? “Look at ya milkin’ my cock… fuck… greedy bitch…”
With the sheen of sweat glistening atop his furrowed brows, Coyle kept going, pushing his cock through the fluttering channel of your cunt with renewed intensity. You clung to him like a thirsty tick, like nothing else in the world mattered now that you finally felt good, the primal needs of your reptilian brain satisfied and kept at bay. Your needy whimpers seemed to melt into his savage grunts, stirring the pot of wet, disgusting squelches that rose to the top of the room.
“--ffuck, gonna–- ugh, gonna give ya exactly what ya want…” Coyle’s stubble scratched the tender skin of your cheek as he shoved his tongue into the shell of your ear — the damp, sopping moans fully overtook one of your five senses, with the flexible muscle of his tongue threatening to overtake one more. You arched your back in a loud gasp, further impaling yourself on his throbbing shaft and letting it deliver a demanding kiss to your cervix. “…fuckin’ whore… gonna paint ya white from inside out–- ssshit, mm… fertilize this needy cunt…”
The words made you jolt and open your eyes wide, suddenly acutely aware of the lack of protection between you and the man too lost in the throes of his own pleasure to consider anything that wasn’t his dick. Normally he’d pull out of you at the last moment, giving himself a few finishing strokes before exploding anywhere that wasn’t inside you, but this didn’t seem to be an option anymore.
“N-no, wait-–” The begging that came out of your mouth carried a note of arousal you hadn’t anticipated and weren’t exactly willing to reflect upon. You turned your face up, searching for a smidgen of sense in the shiny blacks of his sunglasses. “Pull out! Please, I can’t-–” Coyle’s palm was quick to muffle your heated blabbering, making it clear as day that he wasn’t interested in what you could or couldn’t allow. It wasn’t your choice to make — nothing at the Sinyala was ever your choice, even when you were led to believe otherwise.
One, two, three more thrusts, and Coyle sheathed himself deep inside your overstimulated cunt; his movements ceased as the lush grin on his face turned into a terrible scowl. His cock pulsed as if gaining a life of its own, then erupted, hot spurts of cum filling the very little space you had left in your channel and seeping into the battered crevices of your cervix. You exhaled a strangled whimper and squeezed your eyes shut, feeling his wicked warmth become a part of you that couldn’t be washed away or scrubbed off. A lick of shameful flame ignited the back of your neck and spread down your spine as you realized that Murkoff already knew. The sleazy scientists behind bulletproof windows would note this day as the day a reagent had been potentially knocked up by the Prime Asset, and you would become a prized guinea pig to show off to their balding investors, and–-
Coyle grunted, peeling himself off of you with what looked to be a colossal amount of effort. His softened cock slipped out of your used cunt with a wet plop, leaving you empty in some places and regrettably full in others. As much as a part of you yearned to have back the ardent pressure that his body provided, you were happy that this was over. You could return to your menial mission and find your fellow reagents, pretending like all that transpired in this suffocating room was nothing more than a minor setback. That is, of course, if the noisy crunch from before didn’t belong to one of your friends as they stumbled into Coyle fucking the life out of your suspiciously willing body, but you preferred not to think about that for the time being.
“Y’know,” Coyle drawled lazily as he tucked himself in, the buckle clicking back in place, “I’m startin’ to think you could be rehabilitated.” You didn’t know exactly what that meant, seeing as though the sense of justice he carried was just as perverse as his deviant tastes. “Hell, in another life…” he reached for the cartridge belt, plucking a thin cigarette out of the loop and placing it between his teeth. His free hand grabbed the cattle prod off the desk and clicked the button on the top of the handle, bringing the device back to life; he lifted it up to his mouth, igniting a spark that lit the exposed tip of tobacco. “...who knows? Maybe ya’d make a good, obedient wife…” The disbelief laced with frayed threads of confusion on your face must’ve been blatantly obvious, eliciting a hoarse cackle. “Clean yerself up. This ain’t a whore house.”
You wanted to speak up so badly — to tell Coyle exactly what you thought of his rules, opinions, and his shitty dilapidated courthouse — but the slimy lump in your throat prevented you from making as much as a ghastly squeak. Coyle wasn’t keen on waiting for you to gather your wits, however. His tense posture turned back to its usual lackadaisical curve as he turned away and sauntered out of the room, leaving after himself nothing but a silver tray of smoke. You lay there for a while longer, struggling to untangle the chain of events that wrapped around your throat in a suffocating lasso, until the chill of the hallway began to prickle your skin with goosebumps. But even as you gathered your clothes and pulled your pants back over your legs, wincing at the lingering soreness in between, you wondered what was worse — becoming Coyle’s fourth, soon-to-be-murdered wife, or going back into the world as a cruel mockery of a human being, a ticking time bomb waiting for someone to push the button.
There was no choice, no agency to hold onto until your knuckles turned white. Your fate was already sealed by the higher-ups at Murkoff, and you just had to wait and see where it takes you next.