I'm not >>84 but I took the challenge. Packin' Heat Pyro & You (gender ambiguous) ++++++++++++++++++++++++ The keys dig into your pocket as you walk briskly to the service door, tugging the strap of your messenger bag and your smaller attache case close to your torso. You mindlessly pat the side pockets of your jacket, looking for them, before you realize they're in the front pocket of your trousers, bunched into a lump, there's so many of them. It's cold, and while you tuck your chin down into the collar of your jacket, you can see your breath billow up in thin white clouds. There's a small set of stairs ahead of you, you take them quickly and grab the handle, rattling the keys as you sort out the right one. The base has a lot of doors, and many of them are keyed differently. You're one of the few research lab technicians who has all of the keys, even the ones that open the "secret" doors with the numerical keypad locks. You know the access codes, too, but just in case...you've got a big ring of jangling metal like a janitor, like a deputy, like a jailer. The key you're looking for is gold, with a big, flat, squared-off handle. There are two keys like it on your key ring, the other is for...well...a different base. You find the right key, and unlock the door, hastily letting yourself in and shaking off the cold, stamping your feet. It's not snowing, at least not yet. You jam your hands into your jacket pockets, trapping the case against your side. First things first, you turn on the lights, and they flicker on one segment at a time, lighting up the basement. You hear the auxiliary generator kick on. The base is empty. You'd been keeping an eye on the monitors back at the lab, making sure the mercs all left as they were supposed to, and then you'd spent a day coordinating with the science team and the logistics department on the timeline for getting the job done. This would be the first opportunity in many months for your team to come on site and check the place out, gather data, collect recording devices, and replace them with new ones. You're the first technician to show up, tasked with getting the place functional before the others arrive. It's chilly. The place has been on nominal power for at least a full day with no heat and very little life support. There's a list of things to check on, and though you know the drill well, you take your time getting your bearings. You find a small metal cabinet nearby. You open the door to find it ransacked, just empty pill bottles, ravaged first aid kits, garbage, and other detritus in there. One of the shelves does just fine to situate your attache, and you open it partially to find the map you need. The generator room is nearby. You go and turn on the main power, bringing the base back up to full functionality. You're gonna do a lot of back-tracking, and decide to carry your stuff with you off to the top floor, to the administration and control room. It's behind a special door, but you have the key. Once there, you use another, smaller key to unlock the box on the wall, like a prized treasure chest, to find the thermostat. You turn up the heat, and sigh happily. It'll take a while, but even just thinking about having the heat on makes everything feel just a bit better. The admin room will be your ground zero, the place you call home. From here you can access every feed from every camera on the base and outside of it to the five mile perimeter. You unload the contents of your briefcase on the desk: dossiers, schematics, maps, favorite pens, notepads, your clipboard, the policy guidebook, a handful of SOPs, and a sheaf of checklists. Your messenger bag has your tools: the extendable mirror, a flashlight, various PDAs, allen wrench set, screwdrivers, voice recorder, geiger counter, pH strips, all kinds of things you need, nifty things. It's a nerdy job, but it suits you. You spend the first thirty minutes in the kitchen, brewing coffee from what little remained in the rations you found in the larder. You snack on a candy bar and wander around a bit on the barracks level, listening to the perc on the stove and waiting anxiously for the excited burbling that would herald a hot cuppa. Being on base alone has never bothered you. You've done this before, on other bases, on different battlements, after certain missions were over. This was the main fort, though, it's home base for the men who do this work, and it's always been a bit eery to come in after they've gone. The other bases never had this permeation, this lived-in feeling. Adjacent to the kitchen, which is filthy with left-behind dirty dishes, half-eaten food, and personal articles, you see the long corridor with five doors on each side, ten dorm style rooms, nine of them occupied during the near endless "on season." There are very basic identifiers on the doors showing who lived in each room, some of them crudely written names, or drawn caricatures, either of the man himself or his class logo. There are also pictures jammed onto a community cork board, which you look at for a bit. There's a calendar of chores--doesn't look like they really use it, it's three months out of date. There's a note, anonymous, complaining about leaving food sitting out, other passive aggressive remarks alluding to hygiene, common sense...you skim the note down to the sarcastically written closing, "signed, the management." On the blank space was written in all tall, capital letters, "MEDIC SUCKS," and beneath that, in another script, in a different color ink, "scoot wuz here." You snigger lightly at that, and as soon as you hear the percolator begin hissing and hopping, you turn hungrily towards it, but there's a creaking sound that reaches your ear, makes you stop. The base is old and makes a lot of noises, you're aware of this. The furnace moans and groans, the floors squeak, the pipes rattle, there's all kinds of background noise, but this one is altogether too nearby. You swivel around to face the direction of the noise, and wonder if the second door to the right had always been open. Maybe there had been a pressure change somewhere, the door wasn't shut all the way. The percolator is quiet, and you quickly return to the kitchen and see a weird, hunched shape hovering over the stove. You scream a little, and feel embarrassed immediately, clamping your hands over your mouth. "Oh, lord!" you exclaim, recognizing the form as the black, shiny head appears. "Hey! Hey! What are you doing here?" It's the Pyro. From what you can tell, he, she, it doesn't give a damn about you. It's fully suited and garbed up, holding the percolator in one hand and rummaging in the cabinet for a coffee cup with the other. It makes a groaning noise a bit like a bear, waking from hibernation. You approach, but with caution. You're not supposed to interface with the mercenaries, but they're not supposed to be here, so you're not sure what to do. It's furlough for another two days, a long weekend. You can't have him--for lack of a better assessment--here while your team is trying to do work. "Um...do you...mind..." It continues to make griping, irritable noises from under the gas mask until it manages to find a coffee cup that's not coated with filth and mold. You can't really see what's going on, but the Pyro pulls up the bottom of its mask and slams back the coffee, still steaming. "Woah, jesus," you bark, jumping towards the Pyro. "That's hot!" You grab for the percolator but the Pyro's not having it, he lifts the urn high over your head and shoves you, splashing coffee on your arm. "Watch it!" The Pyro fills the mug one more time and chugs it down, holding his gloved hand up at you, gulp, gulp, gulp. You're busy fussing after your arm, and when you look up, the mask is back on and the Pyro seems much more relaxed. He grasps your scalded hand and drags you over to the sink, runs cold water over it. He talks to you from under the mask, and you can sort of tell what he's trying to say, apologizing for being so rough with you, he's not a morning person. He rubs your hand and seems to stare at you, unblinking tinted lenses trained on your face. He reaches and very gently tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear, smooths down a stubborn cowlick, and grazes his thumb along your jaw. "Um, thanks," you offer, feeling a little weirded out by the guy, to be frank. You remove your hand from the stream of water and turn off the tap. "I hate to break it to you, but you can't be here. I've gotta escort you off the property." The Pyro looks you up and down and you feel stripped nude. This...thing....gets paid a lot of money to kill people, and he can see right through you. You clear your throat and reconsider your options. "Well, I don't guess I have the authority to do that," you say, looking over his shoulder at the percolator, "but...the issue stands. You were supposed to leave. We've got to...clean up the base. And...make repairs." You try to edge past the Pyro to grab the percolator and get just a little bit of coffee out of it, just the dregs, hell, even if it's crunchy it's still coffee... But the Pyro has other ideas, and wraps his gloved fingers around your upper arm. He laughs and begins hauling you out of the kitchen. You sputter and try to resist, but his grip is ironclad, and you're his prisoner. You choose to let this madman do what he pleases in the spirit of keeping him calm, but you know his file, he's unpredictable. All you can do is hope that he's going to show you his bottle cap collection because he's lonely. The rest of your team is still at least forty-five minutes out, bringing the big truck with them full of equipment. They had to drive slow in this weather, considering how poorly the road conditions got this far out. You gulp down your trepidation when you find the Pyro leading you towards the Engineer's shop, and the nearest exit. He's babbling a little bit, you pick out a few words here and there, but the whole time you're thinking about how much trouble you're going to get into if your supervisor finds out one of the test subj--the contract workers saw you, or the rest of the team, or the big TF Industries truck full of classified machinery. It was your fault. You were the one who verified on the clearance paperwork that you'd personally seen them all leave. You thought you had seen them all leave, but maybe...this one had come back, or he'd never left at all. The Pyro grabs a handful of your collar and starts to shove you out the door, but you claw at the doorjamb and root yourself there, resisting. "No, no, no!" You force your back against him, scrabbling. It's freezing out there. You can still salvage this situation. "I'm gonna get my ass handed to me, Mr. Pyro, please don't do this! Let's make a deal! I'll do anything if you just...hide while we're here." He murmurs under his mask, "Mrph mphda mphphl?" "I don't care, so long as you get out of here and don't come back until the furlough is over." You're begging. You've never been above it, it's how you got this job in the first place. The Pyro reflects on his options, gives you yet another once-over, and then nods. "Hhn hnna mphhha!" "You'll do it?" He nods again, and you feel like you could cry from relief, but then you feel like crying because you just gave the Pyro free rein to do what he liked with you for, oh, the next forty minutes. "Okay, great, but...the team is gonna be here soon. You have to be gone before they get here." The Pyro shrugs and starts dragging you back towards the Engineer's shop. You feel the weight of impending doom falling all around you, but try to stay optimistic. The Engineer's shop is full of nifty things, heavy blunt objects like wrenches, things you can use to brain the Pyro and knock him out. You could drag him into a closet or stuff him in an air vent. It doesn't sit well with you, having to use violence, and its unlikely that with the scrub down the place is going to get over the next two days, that the body wouldn't be discovered. You find yourself bent over the Engineer's workbench before you realize what's going on. You bite your lip. A deal is a deal, and you hope the Pyro honors it. If he doesn't, you'll find the inner strength to dash his brains somehow. A hard plastic cord bites around your wrists, and they're quickly bound behind your back. The Pyro's creepy laugh terrifies you. The toe of his thick, insulated boot kicks your feet out wide. He reaches around to your front and rubs his hand over your stomach, down to your groin. You can feel his body, an amorphous, rubbery mass, against your back. His fingers cup around you, he fondles you down there with softness in obvious disparity to the situation you find yourself in, tied up, manhandled. You groan, and then blush immediately when you think you hear the Pyro call you a slut. He jerks you up from the workbench and pushes you to the ground, roughly. You land on your ass and watch the Pyro unbuckle his belts, dropping the heavy oxygen tank to the floor. He comes to stand over you and points at his feet. He tells you to start sucking, and you look up at him with big stupid doe eyes until he puts his hands on his hips and taps his foot, yelling through the mask to lick his fucking boots. You've been called a bootlicker before, so you figure you'd best prove it. You gather yourself to your knees and plant a kiss on his boot, and then another, and experimentally trace your tongue over the rubber. You hurl curses from within your mind when you feel yourself tense with arousal. The taste is bitter, medicinal, but you close your eyes and lick anyways, you figure you'd best try to enjoy it. The Pyro moans a little. Your saliva leaves a shiny trail on his boots as you continue to lick and suck you way up his front. You despairingly remember that no sex was indicated in the Pyro's personnel file. You make your way to his groin to investigate for yourself, but he stops you, curls his fingers through your hair, and pushes you back down. He unbuckles your belt and jerks your pants down to your ankles. You close your eyes and flush horribly as you feel his shielded gaze all over your body. There's a long beat where nothing happens, and you open one eye to peek at the Pyro, who is slathering some kind of salve on his fingers from a metal tube. You feel his hand on your slim hip, and then you feel his fingers rubbing against your entrance, pushing a slippery, greased digit inside of you. You gasp like a whore and clamp your muscles around his finger. In response to your wincing and simpering, he wags his finger inside of you, pulling more and more noise out of your mouth as you writhe around. The plastic cord cutting into your hands is a very real reminder of who is in charge. Whatever he put on his hand, it's starting to tingle. The Pyro's finger leave you, and is then quickly replaced with two, and he begins thrusting them into you, curling them, pressing them against your insides. Your hips buck slightly in response, your body accepting him wholly. The tingling sensation has ripped into a full tilt burn, and it makes you wriggle and cry out in protestation. The Pyro spreads your knees wide and continues to fuck you with his hand, plunging deep, to the knuckle. You shudder and gasp as his fingers blindly dart in and out, sometimes jabbing you in that bundle of nerves, shooting a hot river of pleasure up your spine each time. The Pyro pulls out of you and jerks you up by your arms. All you can think about is the burning. He lies back and positions you so that you lie on top of him, with one knee between his legs. He grips you, wraps his legs around yours, and grinds against you. He hitches your other leg up around his hip and jams his fingers, three this time, back inside. The rubber suit he's wearing makes all kinds of interesting noises. Fluid is leaking out of you, you can feel it slip down your inner thigh. With your hands tied around your back, you can't support yourself, and your face presses into his shoulder. You open your mouth and find yourself latching onto the Pyro's neck. You lick his mask, suck on it, and bite against the slick material, finding no purchase. This maniac is fucking the shit out of you, and his hips are jerking hard against you, trapping your leg. He groans, and you sigh and moan, and when he slaps your ass, you see stars. Everything is hot, pulsating. You hole is on fire, and he's pushing it deeper up inside of you. You feel an insane urge to kiss him, and end up ridiculous in your efforts to tongue the exhaust port and the intake vents of his mask. His pace reaches an intense fever pitch, humping you within inches of your life. His breathing is a loud, rasping wheeze. In his chest you can hear the rattling of his breath even deeper. You feel the son of a bitch force one more finger inside of you, and you intrusion is painful, but he rams into you nonetheless as a tear slides down your face, or maybe it's sweat. It hurts, but even the pain feels good. You close your eyes and let the swelling sensations fill you up from the inside. He spasms against you, groaning raggedly, and you find yourself slipping over the edge too, once his big hand clamps over your ass and squeezes it, jamming his groin up in to you one final time. You collapse into a wet heap on top of him, and he lets his arms fall aside, rocking you up and down with his labored breath. "Holy...shit..." you gasp, blinking, hovering in the afterglow for only a moment. The very real and very urgent burning feeling is still there, but it's not as bad. "Please...let me go now." You don't even care that much about the bargain right now, you just need to go to the bathroom and do a damage report. The Pyro groans and pushes you off of him, and watches you curiously, probably smirking, as you shift your hips uncomfortably. He rolls you over and undoes the complicated knot from your wrists, the cord falling away. You get up, trying to hurry and pull up your pants, but everything hurts, and you jolt as a white hot spike of pain shoots up your back. You wince and begin to limp away, checking your watch. "They'll be here soon," you mutter. You feel a little odd, having just gotten off with the Pyro, but you'll live. You never thought you'd enjoy being tied up. You make it to the Engineer's workbench and use it to brace yourself. The Pyro saunters over to you, throws an arm around your shoulder. He tips your chin towards him and makes a low noise, but it sounds cheerful. He leaves you with one more part of the deal to fulfill, and vows that he'll leave. You consider it. He looks damned innocent, but you know better now. After what you'd just let him do to you, this was tame, but still. If you give a Pyro the opportunity to take you, what else would he want? "Hrmmn," he trills, tilting his masked head, squeezing your shoulder, but softly this time. He lifts his wrist, mock gesturing at a nonexistent watch. The truck's loud, diesel engine is a dull roar in the background. You feel desperate. You press a chaste kiss against the Pyro's rubber cheek and hurry him off towards the exit. "Go, go," you hiss. The Pyro slips out the door, but reappears only a few moments later, calling after you. You're already headed for the control room. You've got to wipe some footage off the security cameras before anyone shows up to catch you doing it. You ignore him and turn the corner, smugly thinking to yourself, hah, there won't be a next time. Maybe, though, if you manage to keep your job, there might be an opportunity to figure out what kind of heat the Pyro's really packing, next time.