Free The Administration Series by Manna Francis Page A

the bed but still pinning him tight. His fingers tangled in Warrick's hair, pulled his head round. "Keep still, or I'll break your fucking neck," Toreth whispered right in his ear.
    Warrick did, clenching his hands on the sheet because, depending on how caught up in the fantasy Toreth had become, this might hurt.
    In fact, it was just a finger, and a not ungentle finger at that. That might have broken the spell except for the low stream of words hot against his ear, whispered threats and promises that squirmed down his spine. Two fingers, working into him harder, a little uncomfortable because he was out of practice at this in the real world — years out of practice.
    It was the discomfort, undeniably actual, that tore away the last of the cocooning sense of unreality, twisting his nerves to a higher pitch of arousal. He was really here, really alone with this dangerous, desirable man who knew how to hurt, how to kill, how to take whatever he wanted without hesitation or compassion. Now he was wriggling, wanting more, forgetting to fight.
    Then the fingers were gone and the rough voice said, "I want to hear you ask for it."
    Oh, God, yes. Warrick shook his head, as best he could.
    The hand in his hair tightened and he shivered. Toreth's other hand gripped his right wrist, strong fingers digging into his tendons.
    "Ask for it."
    "Bastard. Ah!"
    Toreth twisted his arm up behind his back, sending a flare of pain through him, shockingly arousing. He'd never thought —
    "
Ask
."
    He wanted to keep it going longer, but he couldn't. It was too real. Too perfectly real to bear. "Yes. Please, yes."
    "Please yes, what? I want to hear it."
    "Fuck me."
    "Again."
    Barely forcing the words past the excitement threatening to choke him, Warrick gasped, "F — fuck me."
    The weight shifted, pinning him more completely to the bed. Toreth untangled his fingers from his hair and slipped his hand round to cover his mouth. "Don't want you screaming," he murmured in a voice that made it clear that was exactly the opposite of what he did want. Warrick closed his eyes tightly, dizzied with desire and anticipation.
    Toreth's other hand held his hip as he pushed slowly, slowly into him. "Does it hurt?"
    Warrick shook his head emphatically. "Yes," he whimpered into the fingers pressed against his lips.
    "Good."
    He started to struggle again until Toreth took his hand away from his mouth and caught both his wrists, pinning them above his head.
    It was perfect, as perfect as anything in the sim — and yet it wasn't, and the imperfections only made it better. His arms stretched out harder than he would have thought he wanted; a too-hard bite in his shoulder; the two of them moving perfectly together, then losing the rhythm for a few seconds and the sweet relief as they caught it again. All the distant details the sim would never have generated or would have smoothed away: footsteps in the corridor, vehicles passing outside.
    In the sim, his mind controlled the world around him; here, even his self-control was slipping helplessly away. Too much detail, too much sensation, leaving him shuddering with the intensity. For a weird, disconnected moment, a still-lucid part of his mind began to shape the idea into a project proposal. 'Imperfections in the sensory modalities as a technique for enhancing the experience of fucking . . . being fucked . . . being
fucked
— '
    Then Toreth thrust into him hard and froze, his fingers digging in painfully. Warrick gasped, half from pain, half from need.
    "Don't stop!"
    Toreth laughed thickly. "Very —" He cleared his throat and started again. "Very good. But I want something else."
    He began to rock his hips slowly, and Warrick couldn't stop a moan escaping. "What?" he managed. "Anything. Please."
    Toreth released his wrists, twining his fingers in his hair again. "Touch yourself. I want to watch you make yourself come."
    Warrick didn't move, not because he didn't want to but because for a moment he simply couldn't make