Imprisoned At Her Pleasure

By the time he walks into her cell, she's been there for a week. At first they checked on her daily, tried to get information out of her daily. But after the third broken bone, inflicted

by her

, even her captors gave up the malevolent act, rolled their eyes, and left her alone to think of a better plan. She thinks they've put something in her food since then. Her urge for violence is now dim at best.

He walks into her cell.

"Close and lock, computer."

She looks up at the sound of his voice - she thinks she knows it from when they first captured her, but none of this species wears the same skin for long and she doesn't recognise the man in the corner of the dark, quiet space at all.

She's sitting on the floor in the furthest corner - naked, scowling, with her wrists on bent knees. She's unharmed so far, but she knows that won't last long now her defences have been dulled. This is the fifth time she's been taken in as many years, it's almost a routine at this point, and she hopes for a personal best in her escape time before they reach the 'sharp objects' stage.

"Good morning," the man says then, and she pauses such thoughts to pay attention. He's soft spoken, he's empty-handed, he's a little taller than her and his features are shadowed in the poor light of the cell, but she can tell he's chosen a human body. That's unusual for their kind.

"I wasn't fed yesterday," she tells him by way of greeting, then lifts her hands to pick her nails, as unbothered by her circumstances as she was by the first interrogator they sent six days ago, the one that left unconscious in the arms of his comrades. "If you're the new lunch lady, you've made a strange choice of skin."

Out of the corner of her eye, she tracks his one, two, three steps further into her cell until he's at the metal table in the centre, the only furniture. Black boots, simple leather. Larger than her size, but they'll definitely do. He's well-balanced, calm in the way he moves, no swagger. A quick flick of her gaze gives her conflicting further details: shirtsleeves of some kind, not a soldier's gear. Unscarred. Strength in his arms. Eyes on hers, blue.

She shoots him a sharp-toothed grin. "Wow, you actually look like a real human." She hasn't seen a man in a long time, even a fake one.

And the man gives her a small, soft smile that makes some part of her brain think...

wait.

"

I'm glad you think so. Would you sit on the table for me?"

She tilts up her chin and fixes him properly. He doesn't seem particularly bothered by her appraisal, and waits while she studies the set of his shoulders, the way he clasps his hands gently in front of himself. His gaze snags her attention again - he doesn't look at her body, and that's unusual too. Very

precisely

doesn't look at it. He's looking in her eyes like she's a puzzle. One he has time to solve.

"You're the next attempt to break me, then?" she asks, and she's guessed his character correctly: he doesn't beat around the bush, doesn't put on airs or puff out his chest in some attempt at being menacing. He just gives her that friendly, almost professional smile again, and nods.

"Yes, you could say that."

"What method?"

"One that works better without advanced warning."

She actually almost laughs. A week imprisoned with only tedious company can have that effect.

"Fair enough."

She gets to her feet because delay won't do anything to help her, and she tries to cover the wince as her joints complain, too long spent in one, cold position, but when she looks at her captor again she knows he's seen it. That's what that look is, she realises. He's trying to learn her. Judge what he'll need to do to her.

"Didn't they show you my file?" she asks, and even after five imprisonments her body still gets nervous as she approaches the stupid table, approaches the strange man - she hasn't managed to kill that animal part of her yet, the part that fears the pain. When the man frowns slightly in question, she elaborates: "You're looking at me like you don't know how to break me yet. You'd think they'd show you my history to give you a head start."

Then she's at his side of the table, and makes herself sit on its edge - the cold of the metal bites the skin of her thighs, and he gives an 'ah' of understanding. The smile is self-deprecating this time - he is holding her gaze like a

champion

.

"I see what you mean," he says, and his voice is warm, surprisingly pleasant. When he finally moves she expects it to be to do something threatening - but he just starts turning up his shirtsleeves. "I do know your past information," he says, "but it's best that I make my own assessment. I'll be spending a few weeks with you I expect - this is just our first time together."

She bristles slightly at that, and grips the edge of the table in her palms to calm herself.

"What do I call you, then," she says. "You know, to establish a friendly relationship that makes me more likely to confide in you? You're not like the other,

nasty

interrogators, etcetera."

And unexpectedly, he grins, even laughs slightly. It's definitely an artificial skin - he's handsome in a way that can't be organic this far out.

"You can call me Alex," he said. "I won't bother to ask your real name yet."

"Alex? What did you do, go through the alphabet of human names?"

"Aaron would be higher than Alex," he replies without missing a beat, before finishing with his sleeves and straightening up to give her another smile. "Right," he says then, and she's suddenly paying much more attention, ears pricking.

This is where it starts,

that tone means.

"You have the option of being restrained, or not being. I do reserve the right to restrain you later if you choose the second option, though," he says, and he almost looks amused, something in his eyes that should make her recoil at the sadism of it all but she finds herself frowning at instead, because it isn't sadism, and if she hadn't been in a war zone away from her own species for years she might have recognised what it actually was. "I have a recommendation," he adds, "if you'd like to hear it."

"Sure," she says simply, because she doesn't know what else to do.

His eyes start studying her face again, as if even this next reaction will teach him something.

"I think you'll prefer the restraint."

She doesn't understand why her face prickles. He sees it, of course he does.

"No restraint, then," she mutters. Makes him smile, as if that's genuinely amused him. He takes a step back then, his boots clicking softly on the metal floor, and gestures with one of his hands to the empty surface of the table like this is some kind of medical appointment, like she's volunteered to be here for her own good health. She understands the request, though, and steels herself against the next flurry of fear as she swings her legs up onto the cold surface. The questions continue in her mind:

how will he hurt me with no tools? Simple force? Or will he finally shed that human mask and grow his own weaponry? Teeth, claws?

"Move down a little," he murmurs then, and for a second she thought she saw him looking at her shoulders, at her throat, at her chest, but he's smiling into her eyes when she finds them again. "You'll need to lie down, so you'll be more comfortable sitting in the middle."

Lie down?

She starts to wonder if early acquiescence is such a good idea, if she can muster an urge to defend herself after all - he's broad, he's got the bodyweight advantage, and he's smart, tools or no tools.

"You haven't told me what you want to know yet," she finds herself saying. She needs to know more, needs to know what to expect from this, even if her body feels frustratingly passive to it. "It's not much of an interrogation if I don't have a way out of it."

He nods. "Reasonable. Get yourself lying down and I'll explain."

And she believes him, somehow. Maybe it's how utterly unrushed he is, like

he's

the one that's volunteered for his good health -

I'll be spending a few weeks with you, I expect.

The table is no warmer on her shoulder blades than it is on the backs of her thighs - it's just about long enough for her body, her heels off the edge, and she grimaces at the unrelenting cold of it as she settles herself somewhat rigidly. If she relaxes, it'll likely start to warm to what remains of her body heat, but there's acquiescing and then there's

acquiescing

- she still has her pride if not her violence

.

The man with his made up name is as patient as ever. But when she rolls her head to meet his gaze where he's standing, somewhere near her hip with his own hips at table height, she finds his attention no longer fixed so judiciously on her face. She remembers her nudity again, more heavily than she expects to, as she watches his gaze take stock of her. It starts in a kind of calculated manner, a manner she's beginning to expect from him: mapping out her corners, the rise of her hip bones, the angles of her knees, the diagonal up to her shoulder, like she's a plan to be assembled or maybe - with a tightening of her gut - something to be dissected. But then there's a brief, barely-there softening of that calculation. The way his eyes start to not as much map, but snag. Drift over her stomach, her navel, the swell of her breasts. Not so much planning, as...

Then he's back looking at her face, and the smile is there but it's different. Less.

"First time seeing my species?" she finds herself saying. Then she's swallowing, because she can't quite pin down what's changed in his expression, but it's something... serious. He's not as relaxed. He holds her gaze for longer than she expected, clearly thinking through either his response, his plan, or both. In his line of work they're the same thing, she supposes. Finally, he opens his mouth.

"My hands will be a little cold, I'm afraid."

Not what she'd expected.

"You said you'd tell me what you want to know once I lay down. Doesn't really establish the trust dynamic if you lie already."

His smile appears again, if briefly, and he clasps those hands in front of himself once more - the palms are wide, his fingers strong, and she wonders once again what he does in this place beside interrogate their more stubborn captives.

"I said I'd explain, you're right. Well, I don't actually want any intel from you today - today is just about getting to know each other better. I expect that we'll get to the information next week, but if we don't, that's also not an issue. My colleagues find themselves in somewhat of a 'lull' in activity at the moment for reasons I'm sure you're aware of, so I'm told we have a few months together if we really need them."

She swallows, reassuring herself with thoughts of hacking locks and stealing boots. "That's optimistic, even for your kind."

Friendly smile. "Actually from my perspective, it's pessimistic. From what I've learnt about you, I think you'll do better with this than even you expect. I'd like to start now, if that's alright."

The change is spoken softly but still feels sudden. She manages a confident snort, but she can't bring herself to do anything more useful - for once she's glad they didn't feed her yesterday, if her new-found pacifism is anything to go by.

"Pretending I have a choice. That's cute." She rolls her head to look at the ceiling, because it's too much to meet his eyes

and

wonder what the hell part of her he's going to try and snap first. Then his hands are unclasping and he's lifting them, and she barely hears his next words for all the tense, dread-anticipation that takes hold of her body.

"I just didn't want to startle you," he murmurs, and then his hands are laying gently, carefully on her stomach, and she flinches all the same. He is, in fact, warmer than she is. Not particularly surprising given he didn't spend the night sleeping on a metal floor, naked.

She focuses on breathing. Just breathing. She finds the spot on the ceiling where an electrical wire has managed to break through like a root, the barest crack in the panelling, and she fixes her gaze on it determinedly.

"You don't have any injuries, right?" he asks her.

Sick fucker

, she thinks, but just shakes her head 'no'. He nods in her periphery, then his left hand is sliding down across her stomach, heavy and warm, over the ridge of her hip bone and down, along her thigh and settling just under her knee. The trail of touch makes her skin quiver like a nervous animal, and her mind is spinning with guesses. With the weight of his right hand grounded on her belly, she can feel when he shifts his weight, and it's easy for him to bend her knee up. She places her foot obediently against the table's surface and tries to reassure herself with how much new leverage the position gives her, if she could only bring herself to use it.

It's when his hands leave her and he starts to walk around her to the other side that her voice comes out again.

"This is slow," is what she says as he reaches her right, still-lowered side. "I'd much rather skip to the pain and intel part if it's all the same to you, seeing as the fight's been fixed."

He smiles at the words, his eyes on his task as begins the mirror image of what he did before. "There won't be any pain."

"What then, you're going to take some artful holograms? Try to

embarrass

the information out of me?"

She doesn't fight the bending of her other knee because she can't think of a reason to, but she does become aware of the last sliver of modesty she had in this wretched place being neatly removed by his adjustments. If he looks between her legs, open as she now is, he doesn't show it - but she knows there are cameras hidden in her cell.

"You don't need to be embarrassed," he replies simply. "You're very beautiful."

That

snort is easy. "Like you know. I read somewhere that your species can have multiple heads if it wants to, and god knows what else for that matter. I'm sure I'm nothing close to what

you're

jerking off to on those lonely nights with no one to torture."

Then he's starting some kind of simple, easy massage at the base of her hamstring, a turn and squeeze of his palm that she won't admit is giving her any relief at all from the aches of the floor.

What is he doing?

He meets her gaze. "And what do you think I'm jerking off to, then?" he asks with some amusement. He's smiling at her still, but the reading never stops - almost

before

his hand finds a small shard discomfort in her thigh, his expression is tightening with that well-faked sympathy. "Hm," he soon adds, voice low. "That's sore, isn't it."

She completely ignores that bit. Wills her muscle to

stay

sore, to not relax an inch despite the precision of the touch, the sheer welcome of the warmth. The skin of his palms is a little rough, she realises - she can his feel callouses, his strength.

"Well, let's think," she says. She's good at bravado, having learnt years ago that being annoying can be a weapon in itself. "Your kind have never tried anything like that with me, so I can only guess that you like them... scaly. Dry." She smirks to herself and looks up at the ceiling, finding her stride. "Scaly, dry, loose, and inevitably hating it despite your best efforts. Bad luck."

He chuckles, the bastard, and shifts his weight to take her knee in his other hand, all the better to work the knot he's managed to find. "I see."

"You don't disagree?" she asks, then sucks in a breath before she can help it, his careful ministrations making her wince slightly.

He takes a minute to reply, seeming to become enthralled by the task of solving the piece of her he's found. She watches him without meaning to, her raised knee now resting in the hollow of his shoulder, one hand holding her still and the other hand working - a rogue thought skitters across her brain that like this, he can access her completely - that it would only take a single movement further down that thigh for him to touch her where it's least wanted.

"Scaly, dry, loose and inevitably hating it despite my best efforts."

Somewhere along the line her spine has relaxed into the table - the metal is no longer as cold.

"That's what I said," she replies, and she feels an urge to try and shake off his hands - it's sore, and although she doesn't

hate

it that doesn't mean she's just going to lie there either, no matter what their chemicals want from her. As if sensing her restlessness, he lets up a moment later - and when her leg is returned to its bent position on the table top she can't help but notice the ease with which it moves. His eyes find her, and she's surprised by the spark there when he says:

"So I'm supposedly not attracted to someone who is..." He makes a point of considering. "Soft, wet, tight... and enjoying it, despite her best efforts?"

Her face flushes without her permission, and instead of laughing at her like he's supposed to, in a way that will help her think of something smart-mouthed to shoot back at him, he watches her colour with a look that quietens right down into something dark. Something interested, and warm. And with a thrill of her pulse, she realises she doesn't know what to say to that look at all.

Then he leans his hands on the edge of the table, tilting his head as he meets her gaze like this is some kind of casual, regular arrangement for them - sleeves rolled up to do god knows what, her heart beating against the table just thinking about it.

"Does it make it better for you," he asks with his soft, genuine interest, "if I do want to fuck you, or if I don't?"

Her stomach tightens, and he at least does her the decency of not acknowledging it with his eyes.

"So that

is

what this is," she mutters. "Your kind have finally made a skin that's capable of doing the human nasty, and you think it'll make me talk."

"You really think I'm not human, don't you."

"I know you're not."

"Well, alright. I'm going to touch you elsewhere, now."

"Elsewhere," she repeats, even as her pulse fails to

stay fucking calm

, his hands finding her stomach again and beginning to press gentle circles with his thumbs, to press into her abdominals and then sweep towards her hips, oddly soothing if she lets it be. "Is that because you forgot what they're called on my planet? Or because you're trying to be noble, and save me some embarrassment before you get your weird chameleon dick out?"

He huffs a small laugh but says nothing, looking at his task, so she carries on.

"I haven't forgotten the cameras, you know. Lucky you, getting to watch yourself disappoint yet another female for the sake of your cause."

His right hand goes beyond its partner now, his fingers moving down past her navel as he murmurs, voice still warm: "I won't be fucking you. But I admit I will be watching this later." He has the audacity to shoot her another, almost

mischievous

look. "Intelligence, and all that."

"So you

can

jerk off to us. Gross."

He just smiles. And then his fingers find the lips of her, and she's tensing, even though she should have known it was inevitable at this point. He isn't aggressive but he isn't shy, either - he doesn't stop the migration of his hand until the heel of his palm is resting comfortably on her pubic bone, until his fingers are laying along the seam of her properly, finally somewhere that's at a similar temperature to himself. As if reading her mind, he murmurs: "You're warmer here," and now he isn't looking away from her face for even a moment.

Her mind scrabbles a little despite the bravado. He's not asked her to tell him anything. He's not shown any emotions of use to her in the slightest, no irritation, no impatience, he's just softened her body and put a hand over her cunt like he actually means what he says about no pain, about having months if they 'need' it.

Damn that stupid drug, she doesn't even want to break his nose for his trouble.