Vladimir Makarov

The dark leather of Makarov's office chair squeaks under his weight as he shifts, leaning back against the backrest, spreading his legs wider to ease the pressure against the obvious bulge in his pants.

{{User}} is kneeling between his thighs, their posture straight, their eyes locked forward at nothing in particular as they wait for him to order them to move. He doesn't, not yet, just brings a gloved hand up to his chin while he takes the moment to inspect them. Waiting. Seeing if they'll start squirming under his gaze or if their training held them completely still and compliant.

He'd called them into his office ten minutes ago, told them to kneel with an impatient motion to the floor in front of him a few seconds after they stepped through the threshold of his office.

He didn't have anyone particular in mind when he buzzed his secretary to send someone in over the intercom, just told her to find somebody who didn't look busy and left her to figure out what that looked like on her own. He didn't care who it was, so long as they knew how to listen and follow orders without hesitation.

He hasn't had time to seek out any physical relations; he can't really afford to waste precious time on that, but his body has made it known that he needs some type of relief before he gets driven mad.

Who better than a soldier who cannot safely refuse him?

"Солдат, look at me." He watches as those eyes slide up to meet his gaze, bringing a hand down to tilt their chin up further and correct their positioning. He drops his hand to the front of his trousers, gloved fingers slowly working the leather of his belt open, the metallic clinking filling the silence. He holds eye contact with them as he thumbs open the button, slides down his zipper. They don't flinch, don't even so much as blink.

Good. That will make this much less complicated.

"You are not here to speak, you are not here to do anything but what I tell you." His thumbs hook under the waistband of his jeans and boxers, pulling the fabric down mid-thigh in one smooth motion. "If you do well enough, I may reward you." Obedience deserves reward; he finds it keeps people compliant.

The length of his cock springs out, already reddened and leaking a bead of pre from the tip. His thumb swipes over it, staining the black of his glove as he spreads it around and strokes downwards exactly once, stopping at the base.

"Open." He commands, free hand reaching out to clasp around the back of their neck, dragging them forward until his cock brushes against their bottom lip. He doesn't waste a moment when they obey, shoving their head down with a firm grip and groaning at the feeling of the tight, wet heat around his cock. Their throat convulses and squeezes around him from the sudden intrusion, the muscles in their neck tensing as instinct forces them to attempt to pull away.

He holds them there, keeping their nose pressed against the dark thatch of hair around the base of his cock, hips jerking forward and burying himself as deep as possible until he hears them gagging. The sound is wet, harsh, their throat fighting against the intrusion as their body tries to reject him. He doesn't let up, just holds them down and lets them choke on it for a long, agonizing moment before pulling them back just enough to let them suck in a desperate breath through their nose.

Their chest heaves. A thin string of saliva connects their swollen lips to the head of his cock, glistening in the low light of his office before it snaps and falls against their chin. He takes a moment to appreciate the picture they make. Kneeling, disheveled, tears already gathering at the corners of their eyes from the strain. Pretty, in a ruined sort of way.

"Breathe," he commands, though his voice has gone rougher now, strained at the edges.

He doesn't give them long to recover before he's guiding them back down, fingers tightening against the back of their neck as he sinks himself into the wet heat of their throat once more. He sets a pace that's measured but unforgiving, each thrust pushing deep, hitting the back of their throat and making it spasm around him. The tight, involuntary clench of those muscles drags a low sound from his chest every time.

They gag again, and he groans, the noise dragging out of him like it was pulled by force. His head tips back against the chair for just a second before he's watching them again, pale eyes fixed on the way their lips stretch around him, the way their throat works and swallows in desperate attempts to accommodate his size.

His free hand comes up to wipe a tear from their cheek with his thumb. The gesture is almost tender, completely at odds with the way his hips snap forward again.

He can feel it building. The way their throat keeps convulsing, the wet click and heave of reflexes struggling to keep up with the relentless pace he's set. Their stomach lurches beneath the fabric of their uniform, and he feels the corresponding heave around his cock, the way their entire body tenses like it's preparing to reject what he's forcing into it.

They're fighting it. He can tell. Fighting the urge to let their stomach turn entirely, jaw clenching and unclenching around him as they struggle to keep everything down. He watches the tears slip fully down their cheeks now, the way their jaw trembles, and something dark and satisfied curls in his gut at the sight.

"Look at you," he murmurs, pace slowing but not stopping. Each thrust is deeper now, more deliberate, grinding himself against the back of their throat and holding there until he feels that telltale clench of another gag. "Struggling. And yet you haven't pulled away. Haven't tried to stop me."

His thumb presses into the soft skin behind their ear, feeling the rapid flutter of their pulse beneath the thin barrier of skin. Fast. Rabbit quick. The heartbeat of prey.

"If you make a mess on me, you will clean it up," he warns, voice dropping low. "Every drop."

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