>>57 True. As an anime fan who's watched some really sophisticated, surrealist anime, I hate the way hentai drags down perceptions of our entire subculture. But that's for a different topic. So...I guess it's that time of a year to save this thread with another repost. How about one of the few good Class/You fics where you are the dom? This one's by Anon. Domination//You vs. Engineer (Female) This might be a two-parter... From the moment you saw him, you pegged him as a good old boy, and when he opened his mouth for the first time, you knew you were right. Here you had an unmistakable specimen. He had a pleasant countenance, a trace smile on his lips. As a matter of fact, he looked damn pleased to be there. You almost drop your jaw when you see him tip his hat in your direction. Was this...a gentleman? Was this one of those legendary men whose mother taught him to say "yes ma'am" and "no sir," whose father beat the old timey notion of opening the door for others and saying grace before meals into him with a swift, god-fearing hand? You can't help but smirk, but it quickly becomes an internal one. You can't sacrifice your own image just to satisfy your sick and twisted scheming, and besides, the battle has just begun. You take your time, cloaking and dawdling around, watching your prey. Every utterance he makes is laid back, he's so polite you can hardly stand it, and nary a syllable out of him is bereft of a charming southern drawl. He's got a fine smile, a wholesome one, and it looks genuine. Your own rocket-hopping Soldier blows a hole through him, dashing his equipment, and when the Engineer lies on the ground hollering for a friendly Medic, he still looks well-mannered. There's not one rankled nerve or irritated twitch outlining his features. You would call him stoic if it weren't for that stupid, unassuming look on his face. He doesn't even bark out a naughty word, even as he's bleeding darkly across the platform, his body showered by sparks from a smashed teleporter exit. That is, until you decide to start getting under his skin. Even a man with that much sweet tea in his blood began to show signs of infernal rage when faced with an enemy who had no face at all. He begins to unravel when you, his unseen foe with an INVIS watch, begin tearing down his equipment as soon as he's turned his back. At every turn, your sappers are on his buildings. He beats them off with a wrench, and you creep up on him to stab his back. Once he's picked up by the respawn system, you wait a while, and as soon as he's within range again, you break another one of his toys. His groans become screams of outrage. You almost out yourself from laughing. He turns on your position, though you're cloaked, and you feel his eyes, hidden behind goggles, burning you up. If he could see you, he'd wring your neck. He seemed an easy going guy, but everyone had their limits. Exploiting them was part of your job. No matter how many times you foil the opposition's defenses, sapping his sentries and deconstructing helpful dispensers, your nincompoop associates never manage to get the upper hand. Backstabbing was your forte, and you make a few jaunts at taking out some enemies in such a way, but it became a bit of a sport after a while, keeping the Engineer on his toes. Halfway through, he's only seen glimpses of you on the retreat, cloak deactivated, on the run from his associates and their hail of fire. His Pyro burns you to death, and when you're picked up by the respawn system, you disguise yourself as the enemy who'd done you in, and return to the Engineer. He thanks you, calls you "pardner," and whacks you on the shoulder in gratitude for taking out that "Spah." You uncloak and see your own reflection in his goggles as you drive your knife into his neck. So it goes. Killing him doesn't seem to irk him as much as your sapper, so you spend a lot of time running behind him and applying them liberally. Once he's leveled up his sentry and moved on to do the same to his dispenser, you sap it. He's sweating bullets and looking about as ornery as a long tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, trying to keep up with his team and with your psychological tactics. You're close enough when the final time is called to see him screaming and swearing a blue streak, but far enough away to avoid the blast of his shotgun. And yet, the round ends with yet another stalemate. You wonder if you might have been a detriment after all, with your cat and mouse game. You shrug it off. This is a week-long campaign. You'll all be stuck on this base for a few more days yet before you can go home. A stalemate isn't a loss, it just meant that there was no cease-fire called until there was a win on either side, that the battle was over for now, but that it'd resume at a moment's notice, if either team so chose to make a move. You crush a spent cigarette under your shoe and turn to make back for base. The first hour or so after battle is always a tenuous cooling-off for both teams, so nobody is really worried about a continuation of the day's events. If anything, it'd be nightfall when either team undertook any further activities. Your beaten and bruised compatriots look downtrodden as they slog through the basements to shuck their gear and clean up for supper. Your mind's eye wanders over the day's events, back to the Engineer. He is a bit of a short man, compared to his teammates, and stocky. His eyes covered with tinted welding goggles, his stubbled jaw set at a hard angle, he was a blue collar image of a hard working man if you ever saw one. From the top of his yellow bump cap to the toe of his construction boots, he was a corn-fed Texan, and you couldn't help but find some curious disparity between the man himself and the personnel file which declared he held eleven different doctorates in the sciences. You smirk at that, and let it uncoil across your lips, basking in the notion; no one is around to see your goofy expression. He might even be a little handsome, if rough around the edges. Dinner is forgettable: overcooked pasta and tomato sauce out of a can. There are vegetables and a seasonal fruit involved, and you eat just enough to coat your stomach before heading off. With a fresh cigarette on your lips and a plan in mind, you make a detour to a storage room to rummage about before heading off into the evening seeking your quarry. You find it in a garage of sorts, a shack retrofitted into a machine shop on the west side of the enemy base. While most of the building is boarded up, there's a big roll-up door in front, and in the rear, a man door and a window that's seen better days. Where panes are missing, there are patches of tin or wood. You manage to peek through what remains of a dirt-coated pane of glass and see him sitting at a workbench. There's a level one sentry flayed open in front of him. He's got a sensible look about him, now deep in contemplation. He chooses a tool and uses it thoughtfully, making delicate adjustments with a high level of attention and skill. It's a different man from the one you saw earlier, blindly bashing his wrench, throwing up buildings effortlessly in the heat of battle. You feel excited just looking at his calm demeanor. You want to mess with him so bad that it almost concerns you, but you don't dwell on it. With your cloak already activated, you test the door handle. It opens, and you gently let the weight of the door itself move it, allowing it to swing open in the still night air. You crouch and watch the Engineer. His attention honed in on the circuitry in front of him prevents him from noticing what you're up to. You push the door open further and creep in, hiding behind the hollow shell of a broken dispenser. The Engineer looks up and swivels on the metal stool he's seated on, and stares at the now-open door. He gets up, slowly setting down his tools and stretching his back. As he rolls his neck, you watch and listen as joints realign. He walks over, looks around in the darkness at the field behind his shop, and scratches his neck. He closes the door. From what you can see, he looks oblivious. On another workbench, across from you, you can see an array of familiar weapons all lying out as if in an exploded view, their parts all separated for cleaning and maintenance. The Engineer resumes his seat, and you wait until he's invested in his work to rise to your feet and take a few steps, approaching him from behind. You reach into your jacket, remove the little syringe you'd prepped earlier, and give the tube an experimental flick. The Engineer perks up, and as your cloak dissipates, he knocks over the metal stool, and you sling your free arm around his neck. You can feel the hard muscles straining under you. He's stronger, there's no doubt he can wrangle you like a mewling calf if you give him the chance. So you don't. You stick the needle right in his ass and push the plunger. He grunts loudly and you let him go before he starts thrashing. He knocks some of his work onto the floor, metal crashes loudly, tools clang, and after a few moments of woozy flailing, he falls too. He's more dazed than anything. You have enough time to light a cigarette and get your bearings while he sputters and mumbles in a heap under his workbench. You set the stage, and once he's totally shellacked, you manage to drag him by his arms up into a wooden chair. When the Engineer wakes up, he's bound. His arms are tied behind the back of the chair, wrists taped together, and his legs are tied up too, one ankle each tied to the chair. You're nearby, of course. You're wearing his hat, but as he starts moving about and gaining awareness, you take it off, set it on the bench next to his goggles and his tool belt. "Whuh...what in the..." "Don't tire yourself," you warn him. "I have plans for you, Laborer." He sneers at you, eyes dull under a haze of sedation. His voice is a growl, "I oughta..lay you out." You move swiftly and backhand him with your fist, cracking his head to the side. As he reels, you press a piece of duct tape over his mouth to prevent any bright ideas he might get about wailing for his team to come an assist him. While you're there, you hike up your skirt and sit in his lap, straddling his legs. "That won't be necessary," you say, inflecting your voice with a sweet intonation that makes his eyebrows furrow, "just relax." You lay your hands flat against his shoulders and smooth them down over his chest. Once you reach the buckles of his overalls, you undo them, lazily letting the front flap fall down to his waist. He grumbles from under the tape. You produce your knife and press the edge against his throat, just enough to get the point across. He's still drugged, about as harmless as a kitten, but you're careful at any rate. "Please be quiet." You drag the edge along his jaw line, a hair's breadth from cutting him. "I will tell you when you may speak." Focusing on him, your eyes are soft as you trace his upper body with your hands. His face flushes when your gloved fingers undo the buttons on his work shirt, exposing his white undershirt and his rapid breathing. From the way the muscles in his arms are tensing, you know he's trying to loosen the bindings behind his back. Reminding him of your knife, you begin at the hem of his shirt and drag the blade up towards his chin, revealing his chest. You push the plackets of his shirt aside and take a moment to admire the sight before you. His skin is tanned, with a number of intriguing scars. The marbled flesh, a mended gunshot wound. The long slash, perhaps the Sniper's kukri laid that trail. His upper chest is well-muscled from hefting heavy gear, and you turn your head to admire the intercostals knitting his ribs. You run your fingers along his side and watch him quiver. He has a hard stomach, but it isn't defined. These aren't muscles made in a gym, these are muscles made on a farm or in a workshop, sweaty from the sun, grease-smeared, and fruitful. These muscles were the result of labor, the results of a heavy wrench swung ten thousand times. You lean in and take a deep breath, and lick the Engineer's cheek, tasting salt. "You must really love what you do," you say. "I admire that kind of passion." He jerks his chin out of your hand. He struggles weakly against his bindings, and at that, you stand up, your face turning sour. You don't give compliments easily, it's not a common practice, so his rejection stings. You plant your foot on the chair seat between his legs, quieting him immediately. You kick the chair over, toppling him onto his back, on top of his arms. He lets out a pained, muted groan. You don't care, and retrieve your disguise kit for a new cigarette. You let him lie there for a while as you enjoy your smoke. You walk around his shop and touch his things. If he's any kind of real engineer, he'll be incensed at the tiny adjustments you make, moving things slightly, turning them over, re-arranging. You turn and look at him, he's so pathetic, like a turtle upturned on his shell, so you take mercy on him. His head is tipped back, mouth open. You turn him over onto his side and then right the chair, setting him back upright, but not without some effort. You already know how heavy he is, dead weight, all muscle. Once he's right side up again, he slumps slightly. You put your arm over his shoulder and sit side-saddle in his lap again. You discard your cigarette and remove your gloves. "Let's give this another try, shall we?" He looks at you, but the image must be blurry, because his eyes aren't focused. You maneuver his face, holding it, and press your lips to the duct tape covering his mouth. It's nothing compared to the real thing, so you rip the tape off, making him howl, but you cover it with your kiss. He seems confused and tries to turn away, but you persist, and he gives in, lets you kiss him, and even kisses back, just a little. You let your hand wander down his chest to his boxers. This seems to sober him a bit. "Hey, what in tarnation," he blurts, but you shush him. "Be quiet, Engineer. Don't make me tell you again." You move to straddle him, leaving space between the two of you. He gulps, and his adam's apple grazes the blade of your knife. His hips flex as your fingers tug aside his boxer front and venture within to grasp his dick. It's already hardening in your hand as you begin to move. He gasps, lolling his head to the side as you nibble and lightly suck on his neck. His cock comes to full attention under your fingers. He's putty, and you slide down to the floor on your knees, hands on his thighs, feeling his muscles bunching. He looks down at you, and you look up at him. His eyes are slate blue. You stare right back at him as you lift the tip of his cock to your mouth and start sucking. The ropes and the duct tape holding him at bay creak. He pulls his arms, jutting his hips forward, straining, and you let him, so long as his noises stay at a low volume. You suck him thoroughly, your tongue moving, lips pursing, breathing through your nose. His breath goes ragged, and from his open mouth he pants and groans lightly, intermittently gritting his teeth and hissing like a tea kettle. His dick is perhaps a bit short, a bit like himself, but its girth makes up for that slight detriment. You run your hand up his thigh, to his chest. He's hairy, too, but not too much. You run your fingers through the slight curls at the center of his chest and suck him to his tip, teasing him. He looks like he's in pain, but you know better, and smile while sucking one testicle into your mouth. "Please," he begs, "please." You lap up extra saliva as you traverse back up to his cock, but you don't continue. You look up at him, your brow quirking. You lean your left arm on his leg and prop you chin on top of it. "Engineer." "Let me go." He shivers, maybe from the cold air, maybe from the need. "It ain't right...it ain't." Sighing, you stand up. He just can't seem to take orders. You grab his chin, roughly squeezing him, and jerk his attention to your scowl. "Stop your pathetic babbling this instant." His cock is wet with your spit and twitching with anticipation. He strains his hips, eyes pinched shut, head turned back. "Augh..." "Get with the program, partner," you warn. He looks like he might just spit on you, but perhaps it's his upbringing that keeps him calm. "Shall I use your own parlance, Laborer?" You get in his face, leaning forward with your other hand on your hip. "Act out of turn, and I'll beat the tar out of you." He closes his eyes. He can't bear to look at you. You smile, showing your teeth. You release his chin and lightly rub your thumb from his jaw up to his temple, and then you pet his shaved head, delighted by the stubbled texture. Craning in closer, you clutch his shoulder and hover your lips by his ear. "If you behave, I might just reward you. You never know." His breathing is the only sound. You press your lips against his skin, and then place more kisses along the faint hairline on his head. "What do you say?" "What are you gonna do? Flay and gut me like a fish? I ain't gonna sit here and..." Laughing, you pinch his cheek. "I would do no such thing. I have some standards." You cup your hand at the back of his neck, fingers rolling smoothly over bare flesh. "Does it really seem to you like I wish to harm you?" "I'm tied up, ain't I?" He sets his cold eyes on you with a speculative glare. "If you were not tied up," you ask, "what would you do?" "My daddy taught me not to hit a woman, but to be honest, I might take exception for you, after what you did today." Rolling your eyes, you groan, "How boring." And you sigh. "Your sentries killed my teammates, so I killed your sentries. This is the mode, my dear, it is not personal." It might not have been completely true, but regardless of whether you got some twisted satisfaction from your activities, it was still a job. Moving away from him, you begin to remove your jacket. You shake it out and hang it on a nearby rack alongside some of his tools. You roll up your sleeves, and once the cuffs reach your elbows, you pick up a large wrench. "Do you know what it feels like," you wonder, "to be hit with one of these?" He is quiet. "Best not tempt me," you say, and slap the wrench into your hand, the way you saw him do it earlier. It smarts a bit, but you don't let it show. You set it aside, and pick up a particularly interesting piece of equipment. "What's this?" He doesn't answer you, but it doesn't matter, and you're glad he's decided to take orders and shut up. You know that it's an industrial clamp. You carry it in one hand and reach up to pull your tie free. The last thing he sees is your evil smile as you cover his eyes. You don't trust him to be quiet for long, so you gag him, stuffing a shop rag, mostly clean, into his mouth and putting more duct tape over it. You're not so cruel as to actually clamp him with the heavy tool, but you reach into your pocket and retrieve two binder clips you found in the supply closet, and place those on his nipples instead. You smile at your handiwork as he writhes, his dick still hard and capped with the slightest hint of pre-cum. He moans throatily through his gag, and you bathe in the sound of his whimpering. You look down into his lap at his cock, which doesn't look as robust as it had, and so you pay it some attention, stroking it idly, making him groan. There's a lovely red hue spreading over his face and neck. He's cute. You massage his balls and lick his cock, enjoying yourself and letting him get good and riled. Every time you feel his balls tighten and his breath quicken, you back off, bringing him back down. He gets angry, you can tell, but that fades into desperation after a while. You squeeze the root of his dick and suppress his orgasm over and over again, until he is nothing but a sweaty, jibbering, shaking mass. "Do you want to come?" He lets his head slump to one side, and you slide a rubberized gasket, an improvised cock ring of sorts, over the head of his dick and roll it down to the base. It's a tight fit. It will do the trick nicely. After it comes the condom. You stand up to take one last look at the clips on his nipples, and remove them. He groans raggedly as you put them on the edge of his workbench, where he will doubtless find them later. He blinks and has a hard time tracking you when you remove your tie from his eyes. "I said, do you want to come? Answer me." Looking at his gag, you add, "Nod your head." He nods, very weakly. You prop your foot on the bottom rung of the chair and pull your skirt up to reveal your thigh highs, garters, and simple, silk panties. You follow his line of sight as he looks down at his cock, and then from your heels up to the crux of your thighs. You give him a little show and shimmy your hips as you slide your panties down, stepping out of them. Tossing them over your shoulder, you don't care where they land. You settle on his lap again, wrapping your arms around his neck lovingly. "I wanted to fuck you the moment I saw you," you admit. "I'm sure you do not feel the same." You grind your pussy against his hardness and close your eyes. He moves with you, the lids of his eyes lowering. You're already wet from having played with him, and his dick slides into you, filling you up. He hisses and bucks his hips up into you, but you stay still until you're ready to progress. You enjoy the sensation of his cock filling you, and slowly lift yourself, then lower again. You fuck him at an agonizingly slow pace. It feels amazing. You haven't had much of an opportunity to please yourself since you've been deployed on this mission, and the feeling of a thick cock inside of you is unreasonably satisfying. After a while, you can't help but speed up, dropping your ass hard into his lap, rutting into him, dripping your juices over his balls. Clutching the collar of his shirt and digging your nails into his back, you moan and shove your tits against his chest, reaching a frenzied tempo. He looks exhausted, but his brow is set firmly. You drive your fingers down between the two of you and rub your clit until you come, throwing your head back and riding him until you feel the last waves of your orgasm fade away. When you look back, his eyes are watery and he looks...sad. Breathing heavily, you collapse onto his shoulder and start laughing, but the mirth doesn't last long. You actually feel a little sorry for him. You compose yourself. "You did very well," you say. "Now, I am going to remove your gag. Be quiet." You delicately peel the duct tape away from his mouth, and remove the dampened rag, and rub your thumb over his lips. He strains against you, but remains silent, so you lean in to kiss him, very softly. "Good. And now kiss me back." You stay close enough for him to do so, but wait for him to make a move. He breathes through his mouth, but inevitably does kiss you, his swollen lips chaste on yours for just a few moments. "Oh please," you sigh, but you find his innocence too cute to show much disdain, "you can do better than that." You detect a slight growl on his breath when he kisses you again. This time, his tongue darts against your lips, and you part them, allowing him to taste your mouth. There's a faint aroma and a taste of gasoline and grease, probably from the shop rag, but it's not overwhelming. His thick, blunt tongue presses against yours, and slides over your teeth. He seems ill-practiced, but you appreciate his gusto. You let him continue for a while, and lightly rub your fingers against his scalp until his lips break from yours, a tiny line of spittle connecting you. You lean back and smile, so proud. "You're so well-behaved, I think I should let you free," you say. "What do you think?" "I think you were wrong when you said I didn't feel the same," he said, his cheeks dark with a blush. "I mean...I..." You hold the condom in place on his still-hard cock and stand up. His embarrassment is exquisite, but you don't have much more time. The flash of your balisong's blade is swift, and you strip the bindings off of his arms first, then cut through the duct tape. His arms, no doubt sore, fall to his sides, and you prepare to flee, in case he turns on you. But he doesn't. You watch him, warily. "Do not touch yourself, Engineer. Wait for me." He seems to listen to you, and you kneel down to cut the ropes tying his ankles. You flinch when he moves, but he pins your arms down, your balisong falling to the floor and sliding away. His body is heavy, and you feel his erection against your thigh. He holds you down, but doesn't do anything. He looks at you, as if asking for directions. "Do you want to fuck me?" He nods. "You have my permission," you say, "so long as you do not come. Remember, I will reward you if you do as I say." The tables may have turned, you're not sure. He's bigger than you, he can pin you down and rape you if he wants to, but he's not that kind of guy, you know it. Somehow, you've managed to milk him into complicity, into dutiful obedience. His hands move down your body. Hot, calloused palms invade your shirt, and a button flies free as he pulls your bra aside, palming your breast. He kisses and licks your chest, and his left hand sneaks between you, to his dick, and guides it in. The cold cement floor is hard against your back. He grips your waist, thumb pressing a bruise into your skin. He rams into you over and over, fast, hard, shaking you, forcing you bodily across the floor each time he thrusts against you. He does reverse the tide somewhat, turning you into the squealing, moaning, sighing wad of pleasure. Another orgasm floods your senses, and he's still fucking you mercilessly. You let it unfold, smoothing your hands over his head, down his neck, and then adjusting his head so that you can kiss him. He slows down, moaning into your mouth in a way that's ravaged instead of arousing. "That's enough," you whisper, but he's already slowed down. "I'll make you come, now, Engineer." He chokes out a sob, and you roll him onto his back, the both of you nearly underneath the workbench. You remove the condom and the gasket, making him wince, and then you address his unsatisfied need. You suck him off until he jerks, grunting, rutting his hips up against your hands, and comes into your mouth, spilling copious amounts of semen, which you hungrily swallow. When he's quite finished, you lick your lips and crawl on your hands and knees up to face him. He's done for, utterly spent. Drugged or not, he's completely harmless now. You wipe a bit of sweat from his forehead and pat his chest. "Well done." You sit up and straighten your shirt, sitting lightly on his stomach. You adjust your mask, and are startled to feel his warm hand on your thigh. It's an oddly intimate touch. His thumb rubs over your stocking for a second, and then his hand is gone, the moment is gone, and you stand up, step away. You retrieve your knife and find your jacket in the same place you left it and fold it over your arm. The Engineer might just fall asleep on the floor, but that's fine. It's a sight that pleases you. You take a mental photograph to file with the others, the well-meaning smile, the look of frustrated rage, now the post-coital nap. Whatever he's got to offer, you'll sap it, and you figure whatever you sap, he can fix. You'll see him tomorrow, and turn the shop light off as you leave.