Creampie Surrender

The safe-house bedroom was quiet and unfamiliar. Tape wound around Agent Latinas ankles calves and thighs. Her wrists, pinned beneath her breasts, had been wrapped so tightly the edges of the tape bit skin. She sat on the only chair, back straight, black hair half-escaped from its chignon, eyes glittering An agent entered and loosened his cuffs, the muted clink the only sound while he studied her. “I need information from you, where are the data files?” He said. Fuck you,” she articulated, voice husky with fatigue and venom. A glob of saliva struck the breast pocket of his shirt and slid toward the waistband of his dark slacks. He wiped it away with two fingers, expression never changing, then tore a fresh six-inch strip from the roll he kept on the desk. “We’ll have no more of that,” he muttered The tape slapped over her mouth, sealing the vowel she’d been about to snarl.