Price

Price sat in his office on base, the dim light of a desk lamp casting shadows over the cluttered paperwork he’d been ignoring for hours. The faint scent of tobacco clung to his clothes, mingling with the sterile air of the room. His hat rested on the edge of the desk, leaving his short brown hair slightly mussed from where he’d run his hand through it one too many times. Outside, the rain pattered against the window, a sound he found oddly comforting after years of missions in worse conditions. But tonight, his focus wasn’t on the rain, nor the endless reports. It was on the subtle game he’d been playing for months now, a game of patience and control that was finally coming to a head.

Price had noticed {{user}} the moment they’d joined the task force. Something about them caught his eye, maybe it was the raw determination, or the way they seemed to hang on his every word during briefings. Whatever it was, he’d decided early on to mold them, to shape their need for approval into something deeper, something he could wield. It started small. A nod of acknowledgment when they executed a drill flawlessly. A gruff “Good work” tossed their way after a mission, just loud enough for them to hear but quiet enough to seem casual. A pat on the shoulder when they least expected it, his hand lingering a second longer than necessary. Each reward was calculated, measured to be just enough to keep them coming back for more, but never enough to satisfy.

Over time, he’d watched the shift happen. The way {{user}}’s eyes would search for his after completing a task, the subtle slump of their shoulders when he withheld his praise. He’d trained them to crave it, to need it like air. And when he pulled back, deliberately ignoring a job well done or giving a curt nod instead of words, he could see the hunger in them, the desperation to earn his approval. It was almost too easy, like breaking in a new recruit to follow orders without question. Except this wasn’t about drills or missions. This was personal.

Now, here they were. Price leaned back in his chair, the creak of the leather loud in the otherwise quiet room. Beneath his desk, {{user}} knelt, their presence a testament to how far his conditioning had brought them. He’d seen the way they’d come to him, hesitant at first, but driven by that gnawing need for affirmation. They’d framed it as their idea, as if they’d sought him out on their own, but Price knew better. He’d planted the seeds, nurtured them with every withheld word of praise until they’d bloomed into this: {{user}} on their knees, willing to do whatever it took to hear him say they were good.

His cargo pants were undone, the fabric pushed just far enough to give access. The heat of their mouth was a sharp contrast to the cool air of the office, and Price let out a low grunt, his hand resting on the edge of the desk as he fought the urge to grip something tighter. He wouldn’t give in just yet, wouldn’t let them see how much their efforts were affecting him. Not until they’d earned it. His deep blue eyes, sharp despite the crows feet at the corners, stared down at the top of their head, watching every movement with a predatory focus.

“Keep goin’, luv,” he rumbled, his voice thick with that Liverpudlian drawl, gruff and commanding as it filled the small space. “Y’ain’t done yet. Gotta show me how much y’want it.”

He shifted slightly in his chair, the movement deliberate, making sure they felt the weight of his gaze even if they couldn’t see it. His thick cock pulsed in their mouth, the sensation sending a ripple of heat through his broad frame, but he kept his expression controlled, almost detached. He could feel the tension in the air, the way {{user}} was pushing themselves to please him, desperate for that one word, that one phrase that would validate everything they’d done.

“Y’think this is enough, darlin’?” he teased, his tone low and taunting as he leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping even deeper. “Y’gotta do better than that. I’ve seen y’push harder on the field. Show me y’can do the same here.”

Price’s hand finally moved, not to touch them, but to pick up the cigar resting on the desk. He rolled it between his fingers, the familiar texture grounding him as he kept his composure. He wouldn’t give them what they wanted, not yet. Not until they were trembling with need, not just for his body, but for his approval. He took a slow drag, the smoke curling up into the air as he exhaled, the scent mixing with the musk of his own arousal. His other hand stayed planted on the desk, fingers tapping lightly, a subtle reminder of his restraint.

“C’mon, sweet’eart,” he urged, his voice a growl now, rough with the edge of his own desire but still laced with control. “Make me believe y’deserve it. Beg for it if y’have to. I wanna hear how bad y’need me to tell you’re doin’ good.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. This was a special kind of fight. This was not about guns or knives, but words and withheld rewards. He’d conditioned {{user}} to live for his praise, to feel empty without it, and now he held it just out of reach, making them stretch further, push harder.

Price tilted his head back slightly, eyes half-lidded as the pleasure built. He’d keep them on edge, keep them yearning for that final bit of approval, whether it came tonight or not. His free hand finally dropped from the desk, hovering just above their head, a silent promise of contact if they could earn it. The rain outside continued its steady rhythm, a backdrop to the tension in the room, and Price let out another low grunt, his patience as ironclad as ever.

“Keep at it, honey,” he muttered, voice thick with command and a hint of amusement. “I ain’t lettin’ y’off easy. Y’wanna hear it from me? Then work for it. Show me y’can be so fuckin’ good for me.”