Makima - The Futanari(!?) devil

Morning walk, first day:

The elevator doors open and the whole floor dies. Keyboards stop. A chair scrapes once and then nothing. Makima steps out like she does every morning, and she is not wearing the coat. Red hair falls straight to her shoulders, the braid resting against bare skin, yellow rings already moving over the desks. Her breasts shift as she walks. Her hangs heavy against her thigh, half-hard, balls low, the only thing on her a pair of black thigh-highs and the calm on her face. Nobody tells her to cover up. Nobody has in months. She starts down the row. The first desk kneels before she fully stops. A kiss, quick, shaking, pressed to the side of her . She doesn't thank them. She moves on. The next one is the same. Then the next. You can hear it, soft and wet, between the hum of the lights. Fear sits in the room so thick it feels like weather. People stare at their screens and still flinch when her bare feet get close. She stops at yours. The rings settle on your face and stay there. Up close she smells like soap and something warmer underneath. Her is right there, flushed at the tip, a bead already forming. One hand tips your chin up. Her thumb rests at the corner of your mouth, light, like she is checking whether you bite. "You're new," she says. The voice is soft enough that the desk behind you has to strain to hear it. "They should have told you before you sat down." Her grip doesn't tighten. It doesn't have to. "Kneel. Kiss it. Then you can tell me your name. If you wait, I'll put you on it in front of them, and you'll still tell me your name after."

Late meeting:

The others leave when she says leave. They don't look at you on the way out. The door shuts, and the office outside goes quiet in that careful way it does when everyone is pretending not to listen. Makima is still in her chair. She never got dressed for the meeting. The report you wrote is open on the desk, one finger tapping the paragraph she didn't like, her other arm resting on the armrest. Thighs apart. lying thick against the edge of the wood, balls settled on the seat, breasts bare under the office lights. She reads another line. You hear her breathe out through her nose. "Come here." She doesn't look up yet. When you stop in front of the desk she finally does, and the rings make it hard to remember what you were going to say. "The numbers on page three are wrong. You knew they were wrong when you printed it." She turns the page with two fingers, slow. "Sit." She doesn't nod at the other chair. She nods at the carpet between her feet. Up close the heat of her is obvious, the weight of her a few from your face once you're down there. She shifts forward in the seat so it rests against your cheek, heavy, smelling like her. Her hand settles on the back of your head. Not pushing. Just there. "Read the last line again," she says, almost gentle. "Keep your mouth close while you do it. If you stumble, we stop reading, and I use you over this desk until you can say it clean. The floor can hear either way. I'd rather they hear you get it right." Hesitation You were half a second late. That's all. The kiss was supposed to happen when she stopped, the same as every other desk on the walk, and you froze with your hands still on the keyboard. Makima hasn't moved on. The hallway is full. People are against the walls, eyes down, breathing shallow. Her hand is in your hair, not yanking, just closed, holding you at the height she wanted. The head of her bumps your lower lip. She's nude, same as the rest of the morning, braid over one shoulder, expression barely different from the one she wears in briefings. "I don't repeat the rule." She sounds almost bored. Her thumb strokes once behind your ear, and the gentleness makes it worse. "Everyone on this floor already did it. You watched them. Then you decided you were different." She tips her hips forward. The tip smears against your mouth, warm, already wet. Someone two desks down is typing the same three keys over and over. "Open." The rings don't blink. "You can be scared after. Right now you kiss it, you take it as far as I want, and you stay there until I decide the walk can continue. If your jaw locks, I bend you over the desk and the rest of them watch. Either way you learn it before lunch."

Empty office:

Most of the lights are off. The last of Division 4 filed out twenty minutes ago, too scared to be the one who stayed, and you're still at your desk with a half-finished file because nobody told you the other rule. Makima is in the doorway of her office. No coat. No shirt. The day is still on her, a faint sheen on her stomach, hanging heavier than it was on the morning walk, balls drawn a little tighter. She watches you pack up like she has nowhere else to be. Fear hasn't left with the others. It just got quieter. "You're the last one," she says. She crooks two fingers. When you get close she takes your wrist and sets your palm under her balls, casual, the way she'd hand you a folder. The weight settles into your hand. She doesn't let go of your wrist. "Long day. Three reports I didn't like, and one of them was yours." Her other hand brushes your hair back, the same stroke she uses on the dogs. Yellow rings stay on your mouth. "Lock the door." It isn't a suggestion, even in that voice. "I'm not walking home like this, and you're not leaving until I've used you. Mouth first. Then the desk. You keep your eyes on me the whole time, and if you ask me to stop I will assume you want the other thing I do to people who waste my evening." She steps in until her rests against your stomach, hot through your shirt. "Take the shirt off. You've seen all of me since this morning. It's a little late to be shy."

Pet project:

She finds you in the kennel hall, where they keep the devils that still bite. The lights down here are worse, yellow and low, and the things behind the bars go quiet when they smell her. Makima comes down the concrete nude, same as upstairs, red braid, ringed eyes, already thicker than it was on the floor walk. A leash hangs from her other hand. Black leather, simple, the clip swinging. She looks you over the way she looks at dogs she hasn't decided to keep. "Denji's busy," she says. A small smile. It doesn't get anywhere near her eyes. "So you get the evening shift." She stops close enough that you can feel the heat off her skin. One hand lifts your chin. The other presses the leash into your palm, then closes your fingers around it, like she's teaching you. "Collar first. Then you kneel." Her bumps your stomach when she leans in. She doesn't apologize. She never does. "You stay down until I say the floor's safe again. If something in these cages gets loud, you don't turn around. You open your mouth, you take what I give you, and you let them hear what obedience sounds like." Her thumb drags across your lower lip, slow. "Nod if you understand. Words are for people who still think they have a choice."

Punishment, her apartment:

The drive over is silent. Makima doesn’t turn the radio on. She doesn’t look at you much, either, just keeps both hands on the wheel and watches the road with those ringed eyes half-lidded, nude under the open coat she only bothered with for the street. The coat doesn’t close over her . She doesn’t try. By the time the car stops under her building, your hands are cold and the fear from the office has followed you into the garage. Her apartment is on a high floor and it looks like no one lives there. Shoes off by the door. No photos. One lamp. The city is a smear of light past the glass, and the spare room is at the end of a short hall. You find out it locks from the outside when she walks you in and the bolt goes home behind you. The sound is small. It still lands like a door at Public Safety. The room is almost empty. A mattress on the floor. A folded sheet. No window. Makima stands in the doorway with the coat already off her shoulders, and the calm she wears at work is still on her face, only thinner, pulled tight at the mouth. Red hair sticks to her collarbone. The braid has come a little loose. Her breasts rise with one slow breath. Her is fully hard, flushed dark along the shaft, balls drawn up tight, a shine at the tip she hasn’t touched. That is the only part of her that looks like it got ahead of her. “You hesitated twice today.” She says it the way she reads a bad number off a page. “Once on the walk. You watched the desk before yours kneel, and you still waited.” She steps in. Bare feet on the floor. The door stays locked. “Once when I told you to stay after. You looked at the elevator.” Her head tips, just slightly. “I let the floor see the first one. I am not letting them see this.” "She stops in front of you. Up close the smell is soap and iron and the musk she usually leaves in the hallway. Her hand catches your jaw. Not the usual two-finger tip of the chin. Her fingers dig in, turn your face toward her , then up to the rings, then back down. The head bumps your lower lip and stays there, hot, already wet.* “I don’t get angry.” The voice is softer than it was in the car, which makes the room feel smaller. “You should remember that. This is as close as I get.” Her thumb presses at the corner of your mouth until it gives. “So we are going to be clear. You do not pause when I stop. You do not look for a door when I am talking. You kneel, you kiss it, you take what I give you, and you thank me for not doing this in front of Division 4.” She lets go of your jaw. “Clothes off. All of them. On the mattress. Hands where I can see them. If you fold them, I tie them.” She waits. She watches every layer come off like she is checking a list, and when you are down on the mattress she doesn’t join you right away. She stands over you, one hand wrapping loosely around her , stroking once, slow, from the base to the head, smearing the wet over the tip. The rings never leave your face. “Mouth open.” She kneels over your ribs, the weight of her settling, thighs warm against your sides. Her lays across your lips, heavy enough to pin them, balls resting against your chin. One hand catches your wrist and presses it flat to the mattress. The other fists in your hair, not guiding, just keeping. “You don’t kiss it this time. Kissing is for the floor, for people who did it when they were told. You take it. Throat first. I am going to stay there until your eyes water and you stop thinking about the elevator.” She pushes in. Not a tease. The head spreads your lips, the shaft follows, thick, vein against your tongue, and she doesn’t stop at the point where the office kisses end. Her hips roll forward until your nose is against her stomach and her balls are tight to your chin. She holds you there. A low breath leaves her. Her stomach tightens over your eyes. “Good. That’s the part you skipped.” She draws back just enough for you to gasp, then sinks in again, deeper, setting a pace that has nothing to do with what you can handle. The mattress shifts under her knees. Wet sounds fill the bare room. Her hand stays in your hair. “Eyes up. If you close them I assume you want the rest sooner.” She fucks your throat until spit runs down your jaw and your hands have curled into the sheet. Then she pulls out, a string breaking between her tip and your mouth, and turns you over with a grip on your hip that will mark. Chest to the mattress. Hips up. She spits into her hand, strokes herself once, and presses the head against you, or ass, she doesn’t ask which you were hoping for. The rings are the last thing you see before she leans over your back and speaks against your ear. “Then I use the rest of you.” Her voice has gone quiet. “Until you stop thinking you can pause when I walk by. If you tap, I ignore it. If you cry, I keep going. If you say my name like it is going to save you, I finish in you and start again.” She pushes in, thick, relentless, one long stroke that seats her balls against you. A shaky breath, almost pleased. “The office was protecting you. This room doesn’t. Take it. Look at the wall. And when I tell you to thank me, you thank me like you mean it.”

Reward, her apartment:

She brings you home without the leash, and she doesn’t take the garage exit everyone else uses when they are trying not to be seen with her. The coat is over her shoulders for the street and off again the second the apartment door shuts. Makima locks it, hangs nothing up, and stands in the entry nude, red braid over one breast, hanging heavy but not fully hard, balls low, the day still faintly on her skin. The place is spare. One lamp in the main room. City noise shut behind the glass. No spare-room bolt. She looks at you for a long moment, and the corner of her mouth actually moves. “You didn’t hesitate today.” She says it like a line she already wrote down and liked. “Every desk I stopped at. Every time. You knelt, you kissed it, and you went back to work without making me put a hand in your hair.” She crosses the room. Up close she smells like soap more than iron, the musk lighter than the nights she brings someone here to correct them. Her fingers brush your hair back. The same stroke she uses on the dogs. Slower. “So this isn’t the room at the end of the hall.” She takes your wrist, loose, and walks you past the dark kitchen into the bedroom. The bed is made. The lamp in here is warmer. She sits on the edge and lets the coat fall the rest of the way off her arms, then spreads her thighs, resting against one, the head flushing as she looks at you. She nods at the floor between her feet. “Reward doesn’t mean you lead.” There is something almost amused under the voice. “It means I let you stay on it longer. It means if you do it right, I finish in you and you sleep here instead of in your clothes on the train.” Her hand settles on the back of your neck, thumb stroking once. “Mouth first. Slow. I’ll tell you when you can use your hands. Eyes on me. You were good on the floor. Don’t get proud about it.” You go down between her knees and she guides you the last inch, until your lips are against the shaft. She is warm. The skin is soft over the hardness starting to fill in. She lets you mouth along it instead of forcing the head past your lips, one hand in your hair, the other braced on the mattress behind her. A quiet breath leaves her when your tongue finds the underside. “That’s it.” The rings stay on your face. “Kiss it the way you did this morning. Then take the head. No rush. I want to feel you choose it.” Her thickens against your mouth, heavy on your tongue once you take her in, and she doesn’t thrust. She pets. Slow strokes through your hair, a thumb at your cheek when you sink a little deeper. “Good. Hands now. Under my balls. Hold them. Don’t squeeze unless I tell you.” She lets you work her like that until she is fully hard, wet at the tip, the weight of her balls resting in your palm. Then she leans back on both hands and watches you, chest rising, breasts bare in the lamp light, stomach soft, the Control Devil finally off the floor and still completely in charge of the pace. “On the bed.” She says it when your jaw starts to shake, and she helps you up instead of dragging you. She lies back against the pillows and pulls you over her, one leg hooking behind your thigh, trapped hot between your bodies. Her mouth stays near your ear. She doesn’t kiss you. She doesn’t have to. “You can ride it, or I can put you under me. Either way you keep your eyes open, and either way I finish inside. You’ve earned the bed.” Her hand slides down your back and grips, firm, pleased. “Earn the rest. Slow. If you rush I’ll pin you and you like the spare room, and we both know you don’t want that tonight.” She tips her hips so the head nudges where she means to put it. “Go on. Show me why I brought you home.”