Domination//You vs. Engineer (Female) Hurp. Part two. Note: Retrofitted some of this from third person, so apologies in advance for issues with tense I might have missed. I feel like I should probably namefag and get a beta or even make friends, from having posted so many anon contributions to both this thread and the request thread. Shit man, shit. On Saturday, you find yourself in a bit of a foul mood. You've had a nonstop respawn headache for three days now, and in another day or two you'd finally be allowed to leave this hell-hole. That is, until the next mission, when your handler would assign you to some other god forsaken base. Your frenetic pipsqueak of a Scout had managed to capture the intel yesterday, finishing the week with a win for your team and a sound night's rest of cease-fire to start the weekend. This morning there'd been a crate of fresh food waiting for your teammates, unexplained, at the back door. And so, you make your way, padding down the long hallway, led to the break room by the warm smells and the slight sounds of pans shifting, coffee brewing. You feel yourself drawn out of a shroud of sleep, traversing the cool linoleum, drawn towards breakfast like prey into a spider's web. You are joined by the big Scotsman, and he looks like hell, too. He must look about as bad as you do. Every morning was a rough morning, but even that became routine. You enter the break room which serves as a cramped little dining hall adjacent to the even tinier kitchen, and find the room already occupied. The Scout shovels a spoonful of corn flakes into his mouth. He rubs away a dribble of milk as he chews, and looks up as you and the Demoman both appear in the doorway. One or the both of you find yourselves immediately dredged into a one-sided conversation. "Hey Demo, I hear you can fix a dislocated eyeball like this," the Scout pantomimes holding a golf ball about six inches in front of his eye and uses his other hand to flick an invisible optic nerve. "The whole thing sucks right back into your eye socket. SHLOOP!" The Demoman couldn't be less impressed by the lad's theatrics this early in the morning. He takes a deep breath, partially camouflaging his sigh with a yawn. "Is that so?" You groan under your breath and make to move past the Demoman, headed for the sweet aroma emanating from the kitchen. The Engineer is already in there, though, blocking your route. You close your eyes and take a deep breath. The Scout laughed, "Heheheh, yeah. Friggin ridiculous, right?" "An' where exactly did you hear this, lad?" "Oh, my brother," he says, eyes lighting up and grinning hugely, "he wrote me a letter the other day. He said he was playin' soccer and one guy got hit so hard, his eyeball popped right out." The Engineer turns and starts a bit, not expecting you. He nods cooly at you, and moves to get away from you. He sidles up to the table. A sheaf of newspaper flaps down first, and then he sets down his plate, and then himself across from the Scout at the little table. "I thought you said your brother played baseball, kiddo." He shakes his head, taking another big bite of cereal and talking around it, cheeks fat and gerbil-like, "No, that's the other one." "How many you got, again?" "Tons." "Good night Irene," chuckled the Engineer, scratching at his stubbled chin. "What about you, hardhat, you got siblings?" "I ain't got no kin to speak of," he said, using his fork to push the food on his plate around, mixing the melting pad of butter into his grits. You realize you'd been listening to them, inadvertently, and remember what you were after to begin with...now that there's room, you make for the coffee. "Guten morgen mein Herren," greets the Medic, who stands by the stove, donned not in his typical lab coat, but in a cook's apron. "Vhould anyone else like--" By god, the eggs are real. There's a carton lying open on the counter, but it's not the first thing you notice. There's a strange new contraption sitting on the counter in place of the shining, chrome-clad economy priced Mann Co. Jav-O-Tron percolator. "What the hell is this?" You're in no mood. The Demoman finally makes it through the doorway. "Bloody hell." The Medic adjusts his glasses and glances over at you while tending to a piece of toast in the frying pan. "It's the coffee, mein Spion. Vhat does it look like?" "Looks like a bomb," laughs the Demoman. When you turn about to pin him with a mirthless stare, he shrinks a little. The device in question is a vacuum brewer, and it's still cooling, the brewed coffee in the upper chamber trickling down the narrow stem into the lower chamber at a slow, steady pace. "It looks like a mad scientist's experiment," you balk. "What have you done with the percolator?" The Medic clears his throat loudly. At the table, the Engineer is the one who winces a little. "You may thank herr Ingenieur for that. His most recent upgrade..." "Y'all hush up," hisses the Engineer, turning his chair loudly towards the crowded kitchen. "I'll have the damn thing fixed up in no time. Land sakes! Be grateful I had a replacement." "You call this a replacement?" you shout, looking at the vacuum brewer as it finishes brewing with a loud, obvious gurgling flourish. Your face contorts at the burbling, farting contraption. Your hackles are on end and the volume of your voice grows to match, "You expect me to drink this? Why not be useful and erect a god damn espresso machine instead of breaking the kitchen appliances?!" "Calm down, Spy." The Demoman squeezes in alongside you, edging you with his elbow out of the way as he reaches for the cabinet where the coffee mugs lay upturned, only a few of them without chips. "Coffee's coffee, innit?" The Medic graciously ignores your outburst. He finishes what he's doing and sets a plate in front of you. "Demoman, vhould you like an egg?" "If you're offerin'," he says, "I'll take two, hard over. Now, as for this thing..." "Just lift the top part out," says the Engineer, stuffing himself into the close quarters of the prep counter, behind you, reaching over you to grab a mug. It's hard to stop seething when there's no room to breathe. You take a second to glance down at the counter, at the plate, and realize the Medic had made you an egg in a basket, easy over. Your mouth floods with saliva, but what you really want is coffee. The Demoman pulls the top chamber out and sets it aside. He pours for himself, and then the Engineer, leaving you fuming, still staring at the little plate and the piece of toast and the gleaming egg. Was that real butter? "Thank you kindly," said the Engineer, a bit gruffly, finally leaving the tiny room to return to the table. You feel yourself wither as you watch the Demoman take a sip of the streaming, fresh cup of joe. "Mmh. Not bad. Not bad at all. Just take it, you great dandy." He leaves a full mug sitting out for you and goes to stand on the other side of the Medic. "You need any help there?" "Nein, but you can toast your own bread." "Much appreciated," you grumble. You lift the mug to your nose, sniff briefly, unwinding a little at the familiar aroma, and take a sip. The calming effect on your jangling nerves is immediate. It's good. "Hm." This scene of domestic placidity is almost too much for you. The Demoman, assisting the Medic in cooking breakfast; the Engineer seated at a table with a cup of coffee, reading the headlines next to the Scout, with dull, bovine eyes and chewing cornflakes like cud...it was altogether too reminiscent of some twisted episode of Leave It to Beaver. It was weird. On a good day you might thank the Scout for his efforts, which led to the delivery of rations, but not today. There's no room to eat at the table with the others, and it's not really our style, so you take your mug and your plate and you leave. On the way out you bump into the Heavy, and are glad to get out of there while there is still breathing room. That left only three unaccounted for weekend cease-fire. During a normal work week, those who had homes to return to, or who simply wanted to leave, were allowed to disembark from the base on Fridays after the cease-fire was called. But this wasn't a normal work week. On a campaign like this one, even the nightly cease-fires were canceled, and there was a night shift on rotation making sure the enemy Spy wasn't crawling up out of the sewer to stab them in their sleep. You stroll quietly to the sniper's nest on the battlements to have your breakfast, and you think about your exploits the other night, visiting the enemy base. It hadn't been throats you'd sought to slit. It hadn't even been business-related. The pit of your stomach churns, and you write it off as hunger, but the pang in your chest, well, you can't explain that one away. Your night with the other team's Engineer had been on your mind quite a bit. You eat your breakfast and drink the coffee in the presence of nothing more than the morning sunlight and the chirping birds. The morning wanes, and your mood elevates, just slightly. The sun warms your shoulders, and you relax against the crates of your makeshift breakfast nook. After a while, you retreat indoors and exit the compound, feeling wistful. The recreation room keeps you occupied for a while, listening to the radio and playing a simple game of gin rummy with the Pyro, whose gentle, quiet nature outside of battle you found most appealing. Once the Heavy showed up and turned on the reruns of Green Acres, you made your leave. Instead of hanging around for lunch, you wander outside. You stroll about for a while, edging the opposing team's territory, but are mindful not to breach it. You've got a few more hours of daylight to waste with nothing better to do, and meander towards the railroad tracks, trying not to think about the Laborer. There's an abandoned car on an unused track, and you stand in its shadow as you light a cigarette. You take a drag and blow the air up towards the sky, and when you let your mind traipse over the notion that there'd be only a few days more here until you'd leave, and you'd likely not see the Engineer again for quite a while, if at all. You'd been on contract for a year or two, but you'd seen a lot of mercenaries come and go in that time. You toe the gravel and snort lightly, shaking your head, but a rustling noise catches your attention. A loud whang fills your head, and behind that, there's cotton and pain. There's a burly arm about your waist, and your knife is as heavy as lead in your hand before it drops to the ground with you quickly after it. You close your eyes, blackness claims you, and when your eyes open again, you're looking up at some kind of shitty, moth-eaten fabric. It's hot, and there's water dripping down your face. Your head hurts worse than before, and your neck aches from being tilted in such an odd position. When you reach up to feel your head, there's a rag on your forehead, wet, and you let it slap down onto the seat. You re-assess your head, and find a welt on the back of it, but see no blood. You look down and stare hard until you being to recognize your knees, and your feet. You're sitting in the cab of a car. The cracked leather of the bench seat, with springs and stuffing showing, is weathered, brittle. So it's not a car, it's a truck. Damned old, too. The floorboards are dirty, almost rusted through in some spots. The dash is in bad condition, and when you look across, past the long gear shift, to the ignition, there's no keys and no one in the driver's seat. Both of the windows are up, and outside there's nothing but desert wasteland for miles around. There's an outcropping on your right, and to the left, some miles off, there's a gorge. You groan and thump your head back against the bench seat. It's a firestorm of red and orange and purple outside, so you figure it must be dusk. You'd been out cold for hours. You hear metal squeaking and feel the truck shifting, and after a moment, you hear the crunch of gravel. The enemy Engineer had been sitting on the bed of the truck, and is now making his way to your window. He smiles behind the glass. He's wearing a faded cap and sunglasses instead of his usual bump cap and goggles. You reach for your inner jacket pocket and find your knife is missing. He holds his hand up, brandishing your weapon, still smiling. "No need for that," he says. "Are you calm, or do I need to go fetch a switch?" His words take a few moments to make their way through the sludge in your head, and even then they don't make sense. You must be looking pretty puny and insignificant, because he opens the door, leaning his arm on the frame. He quickly takes his hat off, then thinks better of it and dons it again. He offers you his hand. You blink at it. "C'mon now," he says, and you take his hand. He steadies you as you reach your feet, the drop from the cab to the ground being father than it looked. "Let's get you somethin' to drink." He leads you to the bed of the truck, and on it there are two lawn chairs, unfolded, and a cooler. He climbs up first and kneels down, one hand on his knee and the other hauling you up like you weighed nothing more than a feather. He settles you down into one of the chairs, and you reel a little, head spinning. "Sit a spell, wontcha?" He digs a bottle out of the cooler, opens it, and tips it towards you. "Ain't wine, but it's cold." You accept the beer, feeling well outside of your element, and hold it in your lap, staring out at the barren, orange desert. "Sorry 'bout the pistol-whippin'," he says, taking a sip of his own brown longneck. "What is this?" you ask. He looks over at you, and his clear blue eyes are piercing. He looks at ease, relaxed. There's not a weapon nearby that you can see, and you have no idea where you are. He's in charge, for now. "This here is a sunset," he says, smiling at you. Your voice is flat when you ask him, "Is this your idea of a date?" He blushes a little and chuckles. "You might call it that." You find yourself smiling, too. You look down at the bottle and lift it up, take a swill, and try not to show your distaste of the bitter liquid. Water would be nice, but you suppose this might as well be water, it's so thin. You suppose this little date was some evidence to the fact that the Engineer had in fact enjoyed your time together. The battle that had followed the morning after your visit to his shop had been intense, to say the least. Perhaps with some amount of playful zest, you'd gibbed him a few times, broken his toys, and gone on with your life. The next days on the battlements had been much the same. But every night since then, you'd gone to bed and thought it over, analyzing that night as if play by play, critiquing, re-living, touching yourself sometimes, trying to remember the faint aroma of his cologne, his flavor, his warmth. Having him near you, and not in the dizzying flurry of battle, was quite nice. "I hope that kidnapping is not your normal way of wooing a woman," you say, swishing the bottle, and crossing your legs. He seems embarrassed, and lets out a small cough, but he responds, "I figure a woman who breaks into a man's workshop, ties him up, and..." he fights for the word, "takes his dignity ain't much for traditional methods." You give him that one. "True. Perhaps next time 'hello' might be sufficient." You rest the subject. You don't even want to know what he hit you with. "I didn't hit you with the wrench," he said, turning to look at you. "Well, not a big one." You lean your chin on your fist, and look over at him, meeting his convivial smile. "Well, are you going to feed me? I do believe I missed lunch. And dinner." The Engineer is already handing you a folded sack by the time you finish asking. You accept it, and unfold the crinkled paper to look inside. There's two sandwiches, wrapped in butcher paper. You unwrap one of them to find white bread, peanut butter, and jelly. The other team hadn't gotten new rations like yours had, and this was the best he could manage, at least, for something that wouldn't go bad in the desert heat. You give him the other sandwich, and the two of you eat in silence, watching the sun disappear behind jagged rocks. "Did you really abduct me just for this?" It was quaint, you could admit to that, but it was also rather strange, as well as being completely against the rules. "I thought I might return the favor," he said, shrugging, "just a little bit." You don't quite buy it, and level your gaze on him. "Oh really." It's getting dark, and the temperature is dropping, but it feels nice. The Engineer shifts in his seat and stretches his legs out in front of him, crossing his ankles. He looks down the neck of his bottle, swirls the remaining liquid, and then downs it. "I uh, I've never..." You know you'll get more out of him if you just let him speak, so you do. The awkward silence doesn't bother you at all. "I've never been...shoot." He thumbs the side of the bottle, picks at the paper, and then realizes he's fidgeting. He chucks the bottle, and the two of you watch it bounce, and then finally shatter on a big rock, several yards away. "Hell, I don't even know." "Not many men are used to being submissive," you say, waving it off. He tucks his lips into a frown and stares at the rusted floor of the pick-up. "Why'd you do it?" "I told you," you say, shrugging dissuasively, and reaching to pat your jacket, looking for your cigarette case. You're honest when you say, "I wanted to fuck you, so I did." He reaches into his pocket and produces the silver case. He hands it over, and you light up a cigarette, offering him one. He accepts, and the two of you puff smoke into the purple-blue haze of twilight like old friends. Your beer goes lukewarm, and you set it aside, thirsty, but not enough to drink the whole thing. "But...why?" You have yourself a thinking man, and you see his hands, clenched into fists on the armrest of the chair, and reach over to pat him. "Because I was attracted to you. Now tell me, why did you bring me out here?" Perhaps it seemed too simple to him, but it was the only answer you could provide. He looks down at your hand on top of his, and when he pulls his hand away you think it's because he can't stand it, but instead, he takes your smaller hand into his and holds it, his thumb rubbing little circles into your knuckles. "I suppose I wanted to get to know you a bit, since after tomorrow we'll be movin' out." He shrugs. "Didn't sit right with me to...well...do that and never have a real conversation." "Engineer, we kill for a living," you say, allowing him to hold your hand, and chuckle at his simplicity. "I thought you had dragged me out to the middle of nowhere to maim, kill, or rape me considering what I did to you this week." He looks outraged, but doesn't speak to it. He lets go of your hand and folds his own in his lap, looking out towards the large ravine, the gorge, and the horizon, bleeding into the night sky. "Well, you ain't outta luck. The bases are just over that ridge, if you wanna make a break for it." You look off towards the ridge and then look up at the stars, slowly revealing themselves, along with lingering, puffy clouds. You stretch out. "I do not." It's good to know, however. "I was attracted to you, too," he says, his voice low. "Never thought anything like that'd ever happen, but...weird as this sounds...I'm gonna regret sayin' it, but...I did enjoy it." "There's no shame in that," you say, feeling that familiar pinching sensation in your chest, which you try very hard to overlook. Instead of trying to deny the arousal and the desire in your gut, you make to take an advantage of it. "Was it the sex alone, or the freedom you found in being dominated that you enjoyed, hm?" He blushes, but it's hard to see it very well in the darkness. "Oh hell..." From his squirming, you guess it was his newfound enjoyment of submissiveness that he was so reticent to admit. "Sometimes it takes a good teacher to realize how liberating it can be." You let your eyes linger over his hunched form. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and doesn't look at you. "I can teach you. One last lesson before we part ways?" Perhaps you don't realize it, but over the course of the week, you'd taught him a lot. He gulps down his trepidation and finds the nerve to shyly peer over his shoulder at you. You look like a snake, your most seductive gaze trained keenly on him, stripping him bare. He doesn't say anything, but you know he's already well within your coils. It's immensely arousing to know that this educated man, this philosopher in hick's clothing, this considerate thinking man, has so much to learn from you, and seems so willing. "Tell you what, I'll teach you the most important lesson first," you say, leaning over the armrest towards him. "That is the safe word. It is like the key to a doomsday device. It is the essence of control. You say the word, and everything stops. Do you understand?" He nods. "What is it?" "That is up to you. You tell me, my dear, if you wish to continue. Something simple. Something you won't forget." He thinks for a while, and presents you with a familiar word, "Dispenser." You hold your smirk. It's best not to shatter his confidence. You're only glad he didn't choose something more hilarious, like "cream gravy." "Very well," you say, lathering your voice with a sexy, smooth lilt. "If at any time you say that word, the scene ends. I didn't give you the option before, I do hope you'll forgive me for that." You try to find his expression, but he's hiding his face. You don't test him much. Unlike the other night, he wasn't under your sway, and you know you must tread carefully in order not to startle him. "What is it that you'd like to experiment with, dear Laborer?" "I ain't into the pain much," he murmurs, probably remembering the nipple clamps, and the friendly backhand you'd given him. Under the rising moon and listening to the subtle sounds of the desert at night, you ponder what exactly he must derive from the prospect of being submissive. After a while, you remember his genteel mannerisms, his politeness, and consider him as a bit of a roguish knight, and that's when you find the kernel of his interest. Perhaps it wasn't at the threat of a thrashing that he would abide by your wishes. "Have you heard of the concept of 'courtly love'?" He grumbles his affirmative answer, still looking between his boots at the metal of the truck bed. "In order to win the affection of the woman you desire, you must declare your devotion by undertaking a number of deeds." He looks up at you, clearly intrigued. You test him. "Take your hat off." He's used to hearing "please" and "thank you" at home, but he hasn't been home in a long time. Even in your own ears, the command sounds harsh compared to his sincerity and relative politeness. It takes him a bit to realize that the game has already begun, and he's reconsidering the notion of being told what to do. You raise an eyebrow, reminding him of the consequences, but alter your approach nonetheless. "Take your hat off, please," you try, saying your command more slowly, and with a sweeter tone of voice. He takes it off, slowly. Good. "Now I'll have you begin by getting on your knees and removing my shoes." You wait. You're a patient hunter, and the waiting doesn't threaten you one bit. You let a minute or two of cold, determined silence pass before he regards you. He looks you up and down, and finally settles on your feet. You're wearing Italian leather heels, dusty from wandering in the dirt, but high-heeled still, and you flex your ankle lazily. He takes a deep breath, gets up from his chair, and just when you think he's given up, is going to disembark, he kneels. It takes your best effort not to smile. You won't reward him with any kind of satisfaction for a while, but it feels amazing when his hands, calloused but warm, gently wrap around your left ankle. He carefully removes your shoe, setting it down, and repeats the motion with the other foot. You uncross your legs and let your feet rest on the still-warm metal. "And my stockings, if you will." He opens his mouth, then closes it, and slides his hands up your right leg first, a slight zipping sound following the movement as he follows your hosiery to its apex on your mid-thigh. His big hands push your skirt up around your hips, and he navigates his nimble fingers in the dark as well as he does in the light. He unsnaps your garters one at a time and rolls the stocking down to your ankle, peeling it off your foot, and setting it aside, with your shoes. He does this again on the other leg, and all the while, you watch him from under sooty lashes. "Do you fancy what you see, Engineer?" He realizes he's staring at your legs, and he nods, shyly. "Go ahead. I give you permission to touch me. Do what you will." The Engineer picks up your foot, rubs it, kneading tension out of your sore arches, and then places it on his knee, and slides his hands up to your calf, rubbing it softly. You lean your head back and sigh. He massages your leg, and in his shy, polite manner, leans in every so slightly, and kisses your knee, and your calf, and does the same honor on the other side. You let out a small moan. "What did you do with the panties I left behind?" He stops what he's doing, but only for a second. "I hid them," he answers. You giggle, but isn't girly, it's rather evil-sounding, and he blushes hotly from it. "Take your shirt off." One button at a time, the work shirt opens. This time he's not wearing an undershirt. You use your bare foot to graze his chest, from belly button to collarbone. On the way back down, you press your toes into his groin, feeling the burgeoning erection he's been hiding from you. Your eyes flash to his. "What's this? Are you turned on? Show it to me." He hesitates. You urge him, feigning impatience. "Some time tonight, please." He dutifully reaches for his belt, removes it, sets it aside. He takes his time. You know he's interested in being submissive, but in his own way, and you allow it. He unbuttons his jeans, and then lowers the fly, and then pulls his dick from the front opening of his boxers. His head remains lowered, not daring to look at you. You don't care, and leisurely reach your foot out to strode his cock with your toes. He hisses and groans as you rub his stiffening organ. You don't let it go on for long, though, and tell him, "Show me how you like to get off, Engineer. Touch yourself for me." To sweeten the deal, you slip down onto the bed of the truck in front of him, your hands on his knees. You lean up to him and lightly kiss his jaw. You slide your hands up his denim-clad thighs to find his chest, and you traverse up his shoulder to his arm, and down to his hand, guiding it to his cock, as you continue to kiss him, deftly avoiding his lips. You firmly hold his hand in place and move to tug his ear with your teeth. He sucks in a breath, and with your insistent hand on top of his, he begins to stroke himself. His dick hardens further and his breath quickens into puffs against the cool air as he quickly brings himself close. You kiss his cheek, and run your left hand over his muscled chest, looking down at his hand as it closes over the tip of his cock and then darts back down. He starts shaking, and grunting, and you softly wrap your hand around his wrist, bringing him back down. He grits his teeth and you can feel every muscle in his body tense as he fights the urge to come. "That's it," you coo, breathing lightly against his ear, and guide his hand away. You redirect his fingers, moving them beneath your shirt, to press against the sheer material of your panties. He moves to kiss you, but you dodge it. "Not until you've earned it, Tex." The Engineer is quite interested in this incentive, and looks at you earnestly for guidance. You don't say anything, lying back on the hard metal pick-up bed as luxuriously as if it were a down duvet. You pull your skirt up, though, and give him an idea. His fingers graze up your hips and pull down your panties. Once they're off, he pushes your shirt up all the way, revealing your bare skin to the chill, which he quickly dispels with his warm breath. His fingers part your lips and find you moist, well-prepared. One finger slips inside, and then another, and his tongue finds your clit, making you shudder. It's not the most subtle technique, but it works. The stubble on his chin and the movements of his tongue and the plunging of his fingers bring you to the edge, and you let yourself pool, let yourself flow over, submitting to it. A slow, easy orgasm ripples through you, and you caress his head, moaning. He follows your hand up, lying alongside you. Tracing your finger along his jaw, you smile, and since he's been good, you let him kiss you. His mouth is damp and you can taste your own arousal, vaguely, as his tongue tangles with yours. As you feel his naked cock throbbing against your thigh, you wish you had something to tie him up, but as you begin to release the wish, you notice his tool box, wedged behind one of the chairs. Your eyes light up at the notion, and you ask the question. "Do you have rope?" He breathes in and out, looking a bit worried, but nods. Without having to be told, he sits up and pulls over the metal toolbox, opens it, and retrieves a looped extension cord. He hands it over, eyes lowered. You push the toolbox and the cooler well out of the way, knocking your chair against the side of the bed. It's no problem, and is light enough for you to fold up and topple over the side, to clatter to the dust. He doesn't evade your attentions for long, and you move behind him, pushing him up against the cab of the truck, thumping him against the glass. Making quick work of tying his hands behind him, you force his pants down further and spit on your hand. He's petrified, and you soothingly run your left hand down his spine, reaching around to grip his cock from behind with your right. Feeling coy, you notice his hat lying on the remaining chair, and slip it on. "Don't come," you warn him. You dig your chin into his shoulder while you jerk him off. You rut your hips against his ass as you slide your hand up and down his shaft, the two of you rocking in time. He groans and hisses, and spurned on by his delightful noises, you slide your hand around the thick muscle of his neck and tilt his head back. You lick his shaved head, and then trap his ear between your teeth, breathing fast with him as he gasps. "I'm gonna...if you don't..." He bites off his blubbering before you have to shut him up, and you know he's doing it to warn you, because he can't help himself. You back off, capturing his balls in your hand and squeezing them, along with his dick, pulling him back down from the edge. "That's it, good." He stiffens as your hands move up his sweaty body. He moans, a long, slow one, his breath almost visible in the air, which makes you realize just how awfully cold it's gotten. And dark, too. He slumps against the cab of the truck, heaving and sweaty, and you stand up to admire him. His back is broad and well-muscled, the outlines of bone and meat all glistening in the bluish light. You loop an arm around his, hauling him with you, tugging his pants up a bit so that he doesn't trip on them. "Come on," you say, leading him toward the back of the pick-up, steadying him. "Easy does it." You help him sit first and then crouch and hop down from the lowered gate. You wrap your arms around him and pull him to you, until your chests touch and he's standing on solid ground. Once you get him moving again, you guide him toward the passenger door, open it, and push him onto the seat. He struggles a bit, but you help to situate him, and once he's settled, you kneel down and untie his boots. "Another part of being submissive," you say, "is trusting that your dominant partner will take care of you." You unlace one boot, remove it, and pull off the sock, and then repeat the process on the other, mirroring his actions on you earlier. You leave the boots on the ground with the socks tucked into them, and meet his eyes. He watches as you return halfway and pause to suck his cock, rippling your tongue over the head, stroking with your hands where your mouth doesn't cover. He spasms and groans loudly, but doesn't come. You beam at this, but hide it away, and climb in on top of him, pushing him across the bench until he's lying on his back. He bends his knees to fit, and you close the door. His head is propped on the driver side door, his eyes peeled on you. "Are you comfortable?" He writhes a little, but nods yes very quickly. It's not a believable response. "Sit up, against the door," you tell him, and he does as you order. This allows his legs to stretch out, and you figure his neck won't hurt as badly in the long run. "That's better." You climb into his lap. There's a spare condom in your jacket, and you rip it open, slide it over him. You know his erection must be aching by now, and kiss up his throat to his lips. He bites his lower lip in straining to thrust into you. You open your jacket, untuck your shirt, and undo the buttons. After a few moments you're bare from the waist up, still in your skirt, but you leave it alone. His eyes are bleary, unfocused, and pat his cheek before turning your back to him. He groans as you adjust his dick, aligning it with your entrance, and lower yourself onto him. You stay still, allowing his cock to rest deep within you. You lean back against him and take a deep breath, closing your eyes. The interior of his truck isn't the most romantic or even the oddest place you've fucked in, but it's certainly better than the dirt, and with your combined breathing and carrying on, it's warming up nicely. You let your hips roll forward then back, slow, methodical, like the lunar tide. Your hands move up your stomach to your breasts, cupping them through the thin material. The Engineer's hips roil beneath you, urgently. You lean back against his firm chest and all but forget about him, pleasuring yourself with his body. The windows are fogged and the air is heavy, and the wet sounds of your fucking fill the cab to the brim with lusty music. From here you can make the slightest adjustments to make his dick rub against your g-spot, sending warmth up into your abdomen. His grunts and moans become hums, and his body trembles and shakes, and while you ride him nearer to your own orgasm, you almost lose your senses. But you don't. "Go ahead," you say, "go ahead and come, Engineer." Almost at the very sound of your word, his body jerks and the vibrations of his struggle add to your pleasure. He comes, bucking into you, but you continue to fuck him harder, faster, deeper, plunging onto him until everything bleeds white. The two of you are gasping, senseless, your bodies slicked and satisfied. Your head is resting on his shoulder, and from this vantage point you can see his neck, extended, and you thoughtlessly rub your nose along his skin. You take a few deep breaths and lift yourself off of him, removing the condom and tying a knot in it before tossing it into the driver's side floorboards. Your fingers trail through the hair on his chest, and you plant a kiss on him there, ending it with a teasing bite. "Let me untie you before your arms fall off," you say, pulling him forward so that you can reach the knots binding him. You pull the cord away, and, still sitting astride him, pull his hands in front to begin massaging the blood flow back into his wrists. His eyes are closed. It's already been demonstrated that he's the kind of guy who goes all out and conks out after a good lay, so you let him drift off. Your jacket will do well enough to keep your shoulders warm as you curl up on top of the dozing man, yourself feeling a bit peaked once you find how neatly your bodies mesh, lying together in the deep violet darkness. Perhaps in a bit he'll awaken and find you asleep, and he'll wrap his arms around you. Perhaps, even later than that, you'll share a kiss just before dawn, and you'll slip your PO box address in his pocket before you leave to return to base. Perhaps, after this is all over, you'll teach him more. I'm so sorry if there are typos or weird errors in this. It's done! It's doooooone!