A shiver runs through her, and she nods back up. Takes a moment to focus her eyes before she reasserts a leer, all dark red lips and incandescent with mischief. “Mm, but you know,” she makes a show of surveying the room, “I do like to come around a dick.” Cross lowers her lashes. “Hey Kildare, you pitching another tent already? Kids these days.”

“All those hormones in their processed chicken nuggets,” says Gutierrez, like he isn’t the second most junior agent and only three years older than Kildare.

“Whatever. You gonna share?” Cross asks.

Kildare nods idiotically.

“Then get in, but put on a rubber first. And you better not pop off as fast this time around.”

“No, ma’am! I can go a lot longer on account I already came.”

The kid’s hustling to unwrap a condom when Cross turns to give the rest of the team a wicked grin. She’s looking entirely too pleased with herself until Brock mouths ‘Ma’am.’ Cross scowls and hoists both middle fingers.

She bunches her dress around her hips, snapping a warning about not staining it, and folds one leg under her on the divan so she can keep the asset pressed against her clit while Kildare enters from behind. She guides Kildare to her cunt and the asset’s lips to Kildare, lets it slick their joining with the working of its needy mouth. Lets its tongue bathe the stretch of her flesh around Kildare when he bottoms out. Cross’ running commentary dissolves into gasps by the time she starts rutting against both of them.

Kildare’s so flushed Brock is having doubts about his promise to make it for the long haul, but the kid seems distracted enough that it might work. He keeps doing hover-hands over Cross’ waist, eventually settling on holding up the folds of her dress in parody of a curtsy – not quite touching her, and he won’t have to pay for her dry-cleaning if he keeps the fabric out of the way.

“I’ll tell ya,” Cross pants. “Know who else likes to come around a dick? My pussy-loving pet, here.” She rakes four angry welts down the soldier’s back. The asset groans into her, sopping wet by the sound of it. “Don’t be fooled by this high level cuntwork going on, boys, its full potential is going unfulfilled.”

“More like unfilled, huh?” Rollins snickers. “In the asset.” At least three people boo him.

Brock shakes his head in disgust. “Just for that, it’s gonna be you, Rollins.”

“The hell? I wasn’t volunteering!”

Is he shitting Brock? “You’re shitting me. Literally no one has fucked it yet, so you’ll be the pioneer of pristine, un-sloppy territory. I thought you’d like that, you pedant.” He flicks Jack’s ear. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Didn’t say I wasn’t going to do it,” Rollins grumbles, maneuvering behind the asset. “And I’m not weird about going in after.” Except Jack’s always been weird about touching other dudes’ jizz, so he ought to be over the moon about getting first round.

This motherfucker rolls on a condom anyway.

“Jesus Christ, Rollins, what more do you want?”

“It’s still not hygienic.”

“You know they clean it out six ways to Sunday,” he says, because Jack already knows it can’t incubate disease. “Just look at it.” Brock gestures at the silver plated cuffs and collar, the soldier’s waxed and ostentatiously manicured ass.

“And frankly,” adds Cross, “that’s rude. Our soldier does all this hard work, and you won’t even give it a direct deposit.” She lights up. How is she even talking, humping its face like that. “Hey. Suppose we fill it from both ends, how much jizz you think the asset needs to remain operational, volume-wise?”

Rollins gives her a withering look. “Gross.”

Cross laughs. Kildare manages to squeeze out a weird giggle against her shoulder. No way is he going to outlast Cross.

The asset’s hole is already shiny with lube, but Rollins slathers on more. And the move is maybe a little prissy of him, but truth is the asset is notoriously tight before it gets broken in. Like, to the point of being difficult to even enter. (But how, Brock wonders, how is it still this early in the night? That the thing hasn’t been fucked open yet.)

Regardless, when Rollins mounts it, he slides in easy as Cinderella into a glass slipper. “Holy sh–!” He has to lay across its back for a moment to catch his bearings. The asset squeaks and jerks away from the intrusion. Or ruts against it. Hard to tell.

“Okay, damn.” Rollins struggles upright. “Can’t believe you got it so open and ready with your mouth, Robbie. I mean, it’s still squeezing like fuck, but damn.”

“No problem, man.” Gutierrez is camped by the discarded caviar. He’s apparently decided it doesn’t violate his restricted calorie rules, nor does he share Schwartz’s qualms about exact serving temperatures.

Rollins mutters something in response. He squints into the middle distance while he adjusts to the pressure. And waits. Brock’s about to say something when Rollins begins to stir at last: rocking slow, in increments. The asset responds stiffly, white with tension in the few parts of it not padded with sinew – hips and knuckles, knees and brow – all the places where its skin lay thin and close to the bone. It looks so heavy, so at odds with the small sounds pushed out of it.

Brock wonders how much of the noise is voluntary. Anal stimulation can trigger a gasping reflex, but the asset has been trained to perfect silence when required. They can do anything to its body without drawing so much as a peep. Maybe it’s the drugs loosening its tongue and dampening its inhibitions, because the whimpers pick up as Rollins increases his pace. Louder, needy. Maybe that’s just its nature.

Maybe it was always like this. Because it always starts cold, doesn’t it? Cold and stubborn, but it never ends that way. Soon enough it’s snuffling and sobbing again, rolling eager into human contact, slobbering into Cross while Rollins’ hips pop against its thighs, like it’s searching for something with that beastly stamina. When it gets riled like this, the asset’s hunger won’t subside until things get truly ugly. They will.

But not yet. It’s early, and Cross keeps the asset running hot; she slaps it into life, rakes it bloody. “More,” she rasps. Her nails are an uncertain color between red and black. Must have done them in her room, Brock thinks hazily as he watches Cross bury them in the asset’s hair and nape.

“More. Make me feel it, goddamn you. Eat that pussy.” The asset complies. Cross folds over to bare her teeth against its ear, but doesn’t lower her volume "Yeah, you love it, and you don’t even know. Dontcha? Almost as much as you love taking it. That cock feels so good in you, huh, puppy?"

“Mother of Christ,” Brock’s voice comes out hoarser than he intended. “What’d I say about rhetorical questions?”

“They’ll make the asset confused.” She drags it up by the scalp until its face hangs between her thighs like the world’s most morbid marionette. Empty eyed with hooded lids and full, curved dripping mouth. Nothing there to be confused. Cross shrugs up at Brock, all mock-innocence.

“Fuck off, you know what I mean. Cut out that extraneous shit.” And, because he’s not really mad, “Typical over-achiever. You could have just said you want to see it get fucked.”

“Yeah?” She bats her eyes and pulls the asset back in. “I wanna see it get fucked.” Her deadpan is ruined by whatever the soldier is doing downstairs, because Cross pull an amazing mug when it licks her back open. Brock wishes he had a camera. Or was allowed to actually pull his phone out.

She’s riding its face now, cranking the asset’s neck back at an uncomfortable-looking angle. If it weren’t enhanced, Brock might worry Rollins and Cross are going to telescope it between them, but even now it manages to make the bow of its spine graceful as a stroke of calligraphy.

“Aah, hah. Fff-shit!” Cross runs through a series of curses so elaborate she has to switch to Arabic and German. “Kildare, I swear to God!” She growls at the kid behind her. “If you don’t stop changing your angle, I will go praying mantis on your ass, then use your turgid corpse as a dildo. I am trying to fuckin’ multi-task here, and you’re not helping. There.” Her right thigh spasms. “Haaahh. There, right there. Now hold. Hold that exact spot…”

She flexes up and away from Kildare until his dripping dick pops free. With one hand, she guides the asset’s chin until it’s slavering around his length. Caresses it nice this time, says, “Wet him up for me, puppy-dog.” The asset wets him up. Kildare groans into the hair fallen loose at her nape. The soldier’s tongue washes again and again over the head of his cock, dutifully following him back to her cunt as Cross sinks down an inch at a time. “Fuck.” She purrs a litany: “Mmm. Fuck fuckityfuck.” Brock can see how full she is, the asset’s tongue flicking around her stretched lips and swollen clit. Lapping at every sensitive fold while Kildare strokes and fills her inside.

Cross shivers. Draws an arm across her face to flick the sweat from her eyelashes. “Jack it off a little, huh, Rollins?”

“Nuhn,” Rollins slurs.

“C’mon.” Cross runs one palm from its shoulder to the taut meat of its chest. Farther down its body, the asset’s cock has plumped back up against its belly. “Just a couple jerks.”

“What the hell for?” Once he’s committed to something, Rollins always gets snappish at distractions.

“I’m gonna feed it next!”

“Then you do it.”

“I can’t reach,” Cross pouts, and the pout is a bit of theater, but she’s flushed and out of breath enough to look truly at a loss, so Rollins obliges.

He’s barely grazed the asset’s dick when it startles on reflex. Rollins snaps upright at the same time, a shout punched out of him that tells Brock how hard the asset must be clenching internally. It’s rare to see Jack sent reeling like this. He’s got both hands anchored on the arches of the soldier’s pelvis, but a stiff wind could blow him over.

When Rollins steadies himself enough to reach back around, the tumble into wild fucking is quick and dirty. Strip away the vaulted ceilings and chiffon, and the scene’s as lewd as any skin flick Brock ever sneaked through a veil of static in some shitty hotel room. The soldier eats into Cross; sloppy, frenzied, throwing its upper body into the sweeps of its mouth, the rippling muscle of its back like an extension of its tongue. She urges it on, spitting whatever filth comes to her mind as Kildare fucks her, until the percussion of curses and slaps and rustling expensive cloth drowns the din of conversation from the rest of the room.

He knows she’s coming for real when she finally goes quiet – her cherry-black mouth drops open as if in pain, but no sound comes out.

When her lungs come back online Cross yowls like she’s enraged, grinds down with her jaw set and sinewy arms flexed in a death grip, going to battle with the soldier’s face between her legs. And, Brock would never admit it aloud, but Cross is a handsome enough woman most of the time. For a few, furious moments that doesn’t change. She doesn’t become beautiful in the throes of passion, but Brock is impressed by the scene. Reminds him of something the ancients would have memorialized on cave walls. He shares the thrill of a teammate’s excellence on the field, is proud that in the arena of war, STRIKE represents the finest. What’s better than the best fucking the best?

Cross makes a production of drawing out her orgasm, making up for lost noise with the asset’s lips around her clit as she squeezes Kildare, who looks a wreck, but, miracle of miracles, has managed not to blow his load. Unbelievable.

After two minutes of writhing through the aftershocks, Cross slides off her perch with a satisfied hum and uses one of the complementary towels to sop up the slick between her legs. She rolls into a full-body stretch that tumbles down the bunched folds of her dress.

“Hey, uh.” Kildare presses against the base of his dick. “I didn’t. Yet.”

“Oh, yeah.” Cross glances down at him, then shifts her bodice back up to cover her chest. “Congrats on doing the minimum required of you. You wanna cookie?” She scoffs. “Make another direct deposit if you’re feeling generous.”

She folds into a lazy sit beside the divan. “Cause you’re still hungry, ain’tcha, pretty pooch? You’re aching for it.”

One hand pets circles over the asset’s rumbling belly, the other twists a nipple until it whimpers. “If you want to eat, you gotta come.”