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Growing up, Eames didn’t actually fancy himself a James Bond.

He signed up for the SAS because he had nothing else to do with his life, and he took the proffered job at MI6 four years later because of the pay raise.

MI6 is good for Eames, who has little family and few attachments. He works a lot doing what he does best: being someone else. He’s well-liked in the agency for his penchant for completing his assignments and for his wiliness to do almost anything.

This, though, this might be taking it a little too far, because right now his legs are stuffed into black stockings and the garters are cutting off circulation in his thighs and he just knows the skirt is too short and puffy to hide anything when he walks. Eames doesn’t get embarrassed very easily, but this is positively humiliating.

“I’m never doing anything like this again,” Eames informs Yusuf before he gets out of the car.

The club is the sort that men dressed in skirts and heels come to – in fact, many of the so-called cross dressers (Eames would prefer not to think of them in such terms, because he doesn’t want to include himself in the category) have wigs on, as well. Eames would have preferred a wig, to hide behind if nothing else, but they’ve been watching Arthur for a week and apparently he doesn’t like the men with wigs. Eames can understand that, because if he personally got off on fucking men dressed as women, he’d want to be reminded that it actually is a man. Eames would mistake some of the trussed-up men for women if he didn’t know better.

Eames joins the dancing immediately, allowing men to grope all over him and grind filthily against his arse, to keep up appearances. The puffy, utterly useless skirt rides up within seconds, and he wonders how long it will be until he can actually feel some bloke leaking through his trousers and onto Eames’ lace panties. Luckily, he doesn’t find out, because he’s only on the dance floor for a half-hour or so before Yusuf says into his earpiece, “Arthur just walked in, he’s headed to the bar.”

“Got him,” Eames says, casually twisting around – under the guise of wanting to rut against some man’s thigh, who responds by groaning loudly far too close to the earpiece –  and immediately zooming in on Arthur’s three-piece suit and easy grace. “See you in a couple of hours.”

He takes out the earpiece and hands it off to an agent that’s been dancing inconspicuously by him for the last five or so minutes (of course, he’s just in jeans and a t-shirt, no heels or skirts in sight). The man leaves, and Eames knows he’s truly alone now. Since he’s supposed to be seducing Arthur, having any ear pieces or methods of direct communication would be too visible. And the last five times the agency tried to catch Arthur, he noticed the back-up agents and escaped. This time, they are taking no chances. Eames is their only agent in the club.

Eames shifts positions, moving subtly closer to the bar. He’s momentarily distracted by some man taking him by the waist and pulling him back, grinding his prick into Eames’ arse. A purposeful hand reaches around and cups Eames through the lace barely containing his cock and balls. The friction feels wonderful. Eames can’t help but moan and buck into the touch, to which the man grunts, “Yeah, that’s right.”

As Eames dances and studiously ignores the hard-on of the man behind him, he takes his time to observe Arthur. The man is one of the best-dressed in the club in his dark suit and wine red shirt, which is attracting a lot of interested stares, none of which he returns.

Eames breaks away from the dancers and makes for the bar, ignoring Arthur as he leans over the bar and orders a cosmo. When he glances to the side, Arthur is eyeing him appraisingly.

“Hullo,” Eames greets him with a little smirk, making sure to swish his hips in a decidedly feminine way as he takes the three steps needed to be right up against Arthur’s chest. Into Arthur’s ear, he whispers sultrily, “Would you care to dance?”

“I don’t dance,” Arthur replies, but he reaches up predatorily to run a thumb over Eames’ bright red lips.

“Pity,” Eames murmurs, and licks his lips, catching Arthur’s thumb briefly. “Perhaps you would be interested in something else?”

Arthur pauses, his thumb trailing down Eames’ neck until it’s resting over a nipple. He runs his thumb over it once, making Eames whimper.

“I’m staying in a hotel,” Arthur whispers dangerously into Eames’ ear as his other hand trails up one stocking, playing teasingly with the garter. “If you’re interested, there are going to be some guidelines.”

Arthur pulls away, eyes Eames lustfully, and walks away. Eames has no choice but to follow.

He does not lead Eames outside, however. Instead, Eames follows him into the private area of the club, past two couples fucking against the wall and three men being given head by other enthusiastic men in skirts. He watches one man lean against the wall as he grips the wig of his companion, whose face is hidden in the man’s crotch. Another man is explaining how he’s going to fuck you so hard, so you’ll never think of any other cock again. Eames watches the displays, gulping and trying to ignore his cock, which has definitely started to leak precome. He reaches under his skirt to adjust his package as best he can – panties aren’t very good at holding everything in – and is therefore caught by surprise when Arthur wheels around and slams him against the wall. As a professional, Eames is a bit embarrassed, even though he knows he’d have to pretend to be taken off his guard anyways.

Face pressed against the wall with Arthur’s firm hand on his back, he can only wait patiently until Arthur holds something up in his line of vision. Eames squints – it’s very dark – and realizes after some delay that it is a butt plug, still wrapped in its original packaging.

“This goes in, or you don’t come with me,” Arthur says. There’s a crinkling and he pulls out a packet of lube, shows Eames, and adds, “I’ll prepare you.”

Eames nods frantically, and Arthur smiles thinly. He can probably see how much Eames wants it, but he can’t be bothered to care. Arthur pulls up Eames’ skirt clinically and then pulls down Eames’ panties so they are on his thighs. He taps Eames’ legs so that he’ll widen his stance. There’s a delay, probably as Arthur handles the lube, then there is one hand prying his cheeks open and cold, slimy fingers at his pucker.

Eames gasps, and just barely remembers to loosen his muscles before Arthur’s fingers breach him. It’s one finger, then quickly two, and Arthur scissors them in a methodic manner, ghosting over Eames’ prostate a couple of times. Eames suspects it’s just to make sure he’s still hot for it, which he most certainly is. Arthur’s detachment is just a turn on, his silence an even more surprising turn on in contrast to the dirty moans filtering through Eames’ ears. Arthur prepares him rather minimally before the fingers are removed and the plastic plug is pressed up against him.

Arthur presses the plug in slowly, as if he enjoys watching the stretch of Eames’ rim. Eames pants, mouth going slack as he tries to hold still. The plug, alien against his hot skin, makes him want to arch closer and farther away simultaneously. As they go, this plug is not particularly large, but Eames still exhales deeply in relief when the widest part is finally in him and his hole closes, drawing the rest of it in.

Making to straighten, Eames is surprised when Arthur presses his thumb against the plug, pressing it against his prostate. Eames rocks back instinctively, head swimming. He’s ready to burst by now, from so little. Arthur continues his ministrations for an unbearably long time. By the time he backs away Eames can barely stand up, heady from the teasing and the power Arthur exudes.

It’s only then that Arthur pats Eames on the arse and leads him back through the main part of the club and out onto the sidewalk, ignoring Eames’ slower, stumbling gait and muffled whines as the plug presses up into him, ruthlessly rubbing against his most sensitive places. He can only pray someone will tail them to the hotel, although it’s possible they won’t.

Arthur gets a taxi effortlessly and holds the door for Eames, watching him struggle to slide in. Eames feels his cheeks heat up at that superior smirk adorning Arthur’s face.

The taxi ride is a complete mess. Sliding across the seat has caused his skirt to ride up, puffing up around him even more and making him look frankly ridiculous. Eames tries to pull the skirt back over his panties because fuck he can feel Arthur’s amusement, and he can see the taxi driver looking at him with disdain before turning towards Arthur, like Eames is a little tart that isn’t worth the time.

“Where to?”

“The Ritz,” Arthur says, looking bored and so put together Eames can’t even stand it. He himself looks positively debauched, he knows. Arthur hasn’t given him the chance to straighten out his garters or his panties or reapply his lipstick. And the worst part is his hard on, constricted by red lace but still such a prominent bump. The panties are too small and they’ve bunched together, the fabric causing an intimate friction against his hole. Eames squirms.

“Eager, are we?”

Eames blushes hotly and immediately stills. Arthur chuckles, putting one hot hand on Eames’ upper thigh and pressing down deliberately. Eames writhes, canting his hips.

“Such a slut,” Arthur says conversationally. He tsks. “Don’t even have a wig on, do you? Like you want everyone to know what you really are.”

The driver turns up the music, and Arthur begins toying with Eames’ skirt as he says quietly into Eames’ ear, “We’re going to play a little game now. When we get to the hotel, unless I say otherwise, the driver will pull up to the front entrance. You’ll get out, looking like a slut ready to beg for it, and follow me through the lobby. Everyone will stare, they’ll know what you are. Maybe they’ll even want a piece of you.”

“No…” Eames shakes his head, eyes bulging. “No, please don’t. I can’t…”

“Yes, I know,” Arthur soothes, stroking Eames’ thigh. Eames shudders. “That’s why I’m going to give you a chance. It’s a fifteen minute ride to the hotel, probably ten by now. If you come before we get there, only using the plug and rubbing yourself through your panties, I’ll tell the driver to pull around to the back door.”

Eames stares at him, horrified even as his prick twitches with interest.

Arthur pulls something small, white, and plastic out of his pocket. “Here, let me help you.”

There is an audible click, and then the plug starts fucking vibrating.

Eames has enough sense to stuff his fist into his mouth as far as it will go, but that does hardly anything to muffle his long, pained groan. He squirms uncontrollably, the sensation overwhelming. Then he remembers that he needs to come in ten minutes.

As pitiful as it sounds, that isn’t actually a difficult endeavor. Eames is already horny from dancing and Arthur’s attentions and there’s also a fucking vibrating plug up his arse. His cheeks heating with flame, Eames puts a hand to his crotch – the one that’s not in his mouth – and starts palming his needy, neglected prick. He maneuvers the fist in his mouth so that he’s sucking on two fingers with rather astounding intensity, because he’s always had a rather prominent oral fixation. Eames shudders. He thinks maybe if he thinks of this clinically – as palming himself and sucking his fingers as a means of getting off – he’ll be able to do this with some shred of dignity.

Then, of course, he realizes that his hips are rocking.

Mortified at his body’s betrayal, Eames can only lean forward and whimper through his fingers as he just lets his pelvis cant back and forth, riding the plug as best he can and letting out a grunt every time it hits his prostate.

He can feel the heat in his groin, something coiling up deep within him. He gets closer and closer, couldn’t bring himself back down if he tried. Eames whines, thinking back to the men he grinded up against and what it would be like to feel Arthur pressing up behind him, around him, consuming him.

“Please, I need…” Eames’ request turns into a moan as Arthur turns up the vibrator just enough that Eames sees stars and grinds down particularly hard on it, like he would if he were riding a cock. He reaches down with spit-slick fingers to caress one of his nipples, and at the same time presses his palm against his constrained prick, one finger ghosting over the tip. Eames sees white as he comes, still frantically bouncing on the plug.

“Good girl,” Arthur says, looking pleased, finally shutting off the vibrations. Louder, to the driver, he says, “If you could drop us on the other side, by the back door, please.”

The driver grunts, and Eames whimpers as his last spurts soak the panties. A mere minute later, the car stops. Apparently he had cut it rather close.

Despite the humiliation he had to endure for it, Eames is painfully glad that he gets to use the backdoor. Even then, one hotel worker whistles at him and two men stare at him in the elevator.

In the hotel room, Arthur wastes no time in pressing Eames up against a wall and sucking on his neck. Eames tilts his head back in submission, but as soon as he does so Arthur appears to get bored with such easy acceptance and drops to his knees. He holds back Eames’ skirt so that his lips are just inches away from Eames’ cock, already starting to strain against his wet panties again.

“Do you want this?” Arthur breathes.

Eames keens because he really, really does.

“Earn it.”

Conveniently, Eames also really, really doesn’t want Arthur to notice the gun in his stiletto boot, so he uses what strength he has left to pull Arthur up and spin him around, pushing him against the wall. Arthur doesn’t look winded, which is mildly disappointing, but when Eames rubs against him, he can feel that Arthur is hard.

“Oh, I’m very good at earning things,” Eames says, dropping to the ground and mouthing at Arthur through his pants. Arthur chuckles, unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down just enough so that he can pull his cock out of his briefs. Framed perfectly by the material, Eames swallows and takes a deep breath before carefully covering the head with his lips.

Immediately the taste of Arthur’s skin and sweat and salt invades Eames’ senses. Eames wants more – he impulsively takes in more, and more, until he can’t breathe any further. Arthur is slightly larger than average, and Eames wants to take that extra inch, to get more of Arthur’s scent and taste. Two hands come up to cup Eames’ head, running through his hair possessively. Above him, Arthur murmurs, “Yes, just like that, stay like that.”

Eames holds still for as long as he can, sucking and dragging his tongue along the underside of Arthur’s cock. When he is struggling to breathe, Arthur lets him back off a bit. A breath later, and Arthur is rocking into him again. He does this for several times before the pressure against Eames’ head lessens and Eames takes over, bobbing up and down rapidly, sucking hard on the head, running his tongue over the slit, and twisting  his lips around Arthur’s red and leaking prick.

“Jesus, your lips…”

Eames looks up, fascinated, as Arthur arches his back and shudders, hands dropping to his sides.

“I-I’m gonna,” Arthur stutters, and Eames’ hand slowly inches down to his ridiculously large boot. He’s supposed to reach into his right boot and pull out the ridiculously small gun that Yusuf gave him. He’s supposed to take that gun and shoot Arthur as he’s at his most vulnerable, riding through his orgasm.

What actually happens is that Eames reaches into his boot and finds that there is no gun. His eyes widen and on instinct he tries to back off of Arthur’s dick, but the man is too quick. Hands grip his scalp as Eames’ mouth is stuffed with cock and come. Arthur thrusts himself as far into Eames’ mouth as he can go and holds Eames there as he shudders and sighs through his climax.

Eames gags, unable to breathe, but Arthur doesn’t seem to care much. Eames wonders if this is how he’s going to die, choking on an assassin’s cock. By the time he loosens his hold on Eames’ head, snot and tears are mingling with the come leaking out of his mouth, and he’s starting to see white, both from asphyxiation and from the hot fear pulsing through him, because that climax was supposed to be the last thing Arthur felt.

At the last possible moment, Arthur loosens his grip on Eames head enough that he can back off of the now limp cock, choking and sputtering without an ounce of dignity.

“There, there,” Arthur says, but there isn’t much kindness in his voice. He runs a thumb over Eames’ bruised and glistening lips, smudging his red lipstick even more than it already is. “Are you looking for this?”

Eames stares, still drooling slightly and sniffling pathetically, as Arthur reaches into a pocket sewn into the inside of his suit and pulls out Eames’ gun. He watches it catch the light of the one light on in the hotel room, gleaming mockingly. “Now what am I going to do with you?”

Apparently, Arthur knows exactly what to do with Eames, because a second later his hands are cuffed behind his back and a tie is stuffed into his mouth. His cuffs are chained to the handle of the door leading out to a decorative balcony. As Eames stands there, immobile and breathing harshly, Arthur kneels in front of him. In spite of himself, Eames’ dick, already still half-hard, rises further. Arthur smiles at it but carefully avoids touching it as he takes the edges of Eames’ used panties and pulls them down

Eames’ dick pops up, causing him to moan at the relief. Arthur smirks, pulling the panties down over Eames’ stockings and boots. Eames’ dutifully lifts his feet one by one.

“You know,” Arthur says conversationally, running a hand up the back of Eames’ stocking-clad thigh, making him shudder, “the last little slut who tried to kill me at least shaved his legs.”

Arthur stands, Eames’ dirty panties in his hand. He looks ridiculously immaculate, not a hair out of place. He starts walking away, stopping only to turn around and say, “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Eames.”

With a smirk, Arthur turns the plug back on.