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No Right To Remain Silent

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"There's no need for this to be difficult," the interrogator says. She stands in front of him, making him watch as she slicks up the smooth, unforgiving surface of the police baton. "All you have to do is tell me what I want to know."

"Name, rank, and serial number," Phil says, holding tightly to his resolve. She has him tied to a low bench, his knees on the floor, and it's hard to physically look her in the eye, much less imbue it with as much fuck-you as he wants to. He's got this feeling that it's only getting worse from here.

"Generally you're supposed to say yours there instead of just the labels," she tells him. "It's only common courtesy."

"Good luck with that," Phil says. She slaps him in the face. "Is that the best you've got?"

She laughs unpleasantly. "Not by a long shot."

Phil tries to follow her movements as she walks around behind him; then he realizes she's standing behind him with a police baton covered in lubricant, and he wonders if he actually wants to see what's about to happen to him.

She already cut away his clothing, leaving him naked from the waist down except for a few tatters underneath his legs, and the exposed feeling of it only gets worse when she runs her hands over his ass, spreading him apart. The whole point of it is to remain perfectly calm, but it's not exactly the easiest thing in the world, not when she's stroking slick fingers over his hole, toying with him. For a legitimately terrifying moment, he thinks she's just going to stick it in; it's not that much better when she shoves her fingers inside of him, hard enough that it makes him hiss, but he'll take that one over the other.

She opens him up quickly, roughly, before pulling her fingers out and wiping them on his thigh. Then it's actually happening, the hard circle of the baton pressing against him. It's thick, unforgiving, so very heavy as it slides inside of him. He bites his lip hard as she pushes it in, relentless with it, remorseless, robotic. He can picture the triumph on her face as she does it, and he's grateful that he decided not to look.

She fucks him with it slowly, dragging it out, and it takes most of his energy just to keep his head straight, to keep from begging. The worst part of it, the part that makes him a little sick, is the way she keeps finding his prostate, making it feel so good to have this thing inside of him, taking him.

"Tell me what I want to hear and I'll stop," she says, pulling back until she's almost out of him. She pushes in again, fast enough that it takes his breath away. "Or maybe you want me to keep going."

"Fuck you," he says, through clenched teeth.

"Wrong answer," she tells him. The baton shifts inside of him, the end hitting something; while he's still frowning, trying to figure it out, she walks back around in front of him. She unzips her tight leather pants, shimmying them down over her hips and pulling them off. "But there is something else you can do for me."

There's enough room on the bench for her to sit down in front of him, her legs spread, and she puts her hand in his hair and yanks him forward, pressing his face against her cunt. "Make it good and you can go," she tells him, and he doesn't believe her at all.

There's just enough play in the ropes around his wrists and thighs that he can pull away from her, but when he tries, he learns a very important fact. The baton is braced against something, so if he tries to get away from her, all he gets is more of it up his ass. He can do what she wants, or he can, indeed, go fuck himself.

He reluctantly opens his mouth, and she digs her fingers into his scalp as he starts to lick her, tongue flickering out over her clit. "That's it," she says. "All you have to do is what I say. It isn't like you have a choice."

Phil wants to snarl at her, but there's not much chance of that; he sucks on her clit instead, hard enough that she swears. If he can't get his own back, at least he can drag her down with him, wreck her as much as he possibly can. He might be a little too good at this, though. He does something with his tongue, and she bucks against his face, sending him back hard onto the baton. Phil groans loudly at the jolt of it, the way it makes him see stars. His cock is so hard, tucked uncomfortably underneath him, and none of this is helping, the taste of her, the firm, solid weight of the baton.

She doesn't take long to come, and it doesn't surprise him, not as worked up as she is; she doesn't let him go afterwards, pushing on for another round, and that doesn't surprise him either. "I knew you could be compliant," she tells him, though her voice is breathy. She slides closer to him, so that he doesn't have a choice but to take more of the baton. "It just took the right encouragement, didn't it?"

He doesn't respond, distracted by his goal; he wants to hear her scream, and he's going to make it happen, no matter what it takes. It doesn't take much, as it turns out. She loves it when he does this for her, and he's more than happy to get her off just as much as she can handle, and then some.

Finally she shoves his head away, panting. "Are you ready to tell me what I want to know?" she asks, standing up, looking as intimidating as someone with no pants on can look.

"No," he says.

"Guess it's the guillotine then," she says lightly, walking around behind him.

"Nobody told you to stop," Phil pants as she starts to slide the baton out, looking over his shoulder at her.

Melinda laughs. "You're a slut."

He puts his head down as she starts to move it in and out of him. "You can call me whatever you want as long as you finish me off."

She picks up the knife that's waiting, cutting the ropes around his thighs. It's a little awkward and he really does feel like a slut, but he's able to make enough room between him and the bench for her to slide her hand in and stroke his aching cock. He pushes back on the baton, reaching for it; she moves it just the right way and he comes, messy and loud, completely gone.

She strokes his back as he comes down, melting into the bench. "If only interrogation training had been like that," Phil says.

"You enjoyed it anyway," Melinda teases.

He snorts. "Only when they assigned me to you."

She hums. "That was a good weekend." She runs her hand through his hair. "Ready to get up?"

"Five more minutes," he says stubbornly.

Melinda laughs. "As long as you want."