GWOT 2 - Temptations
May. 26th, 2019 11:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT 2 Temptations
Being good in the absence of temptation is no virtue.
Everyone on campus had to deal with their temptations. Some of them had been weak and needed help. Others had fallen. Some of those had so fallen that their behavior endangered the lives of others, or the entire campus.
I was comfortable with killing. I still wasn't clear how that had happened. But I had not a single nightmare about headjobbing that looter-leader at the rancher's burned out farm. My only nightmare about that event were about the kid who painfully limped out of the bushes. He was still here, and even at age eleven a valuable contributor to our farming operation. But his eyes were as dead as mine or the SLE's. Both the vet surgeon and Betty had tried to talk to him, no effect. Then, months later, Mo had come to me with that carefully expressionless look that meant death.
"You remember the rancher's kid?"
"Yeah."
"While you were in Nevada..."
"Go on."
"My son found him in one of the barns."
"Shit."
Mo's eight year old son had found him dangling from a rope noose over a beam and a five gallon bucket sideways near his feet. Cartwright had not investigated. The scene was all to hell and gone, of course, so the opportunity had been lost.
I wasn't sure what I was more pissed about: that we hadn't reached out to Jaime and saved his life, or that Mo's son - brought to America to raise in peace at great personal cost - had been dragged into America's stupid and pointless war.
The Firecracker is just too big to think about. So many dead. Cities and towns on continents.
But the little bits are so personal. Kid couldn't handle being raped, so he kills himself. Another kid finds his body. Is it contagious? Well.... yeah.
The technical term is suicide cluster. Betty (that's Dr. Rize to you) and I had discussed it. And it was a serious problem.
###
The .45 tasted metallic in his mouth. It was a heavy pistol with gold trim.
He looked out over the sweeping view of the center of the campus. Originally it had been a sweeping view of the low hills - but he'd wisely traded offices with the sales group. Not just for the obvious security reasons. But his previous receptionist had been murdered in that office.
His thumb went back on the hammer.
The intercom buzzed.
"Sir, you're 2 o'clock."
He stopped.
Took the gun out of his mouth.
Put it in his desk.
Touched the intercom button.
"Very well. Send him in."
###
It wasn't just about self harm. It was also about self destructive behaviors.
Actual fist fights were not uncommon.
Before the Firecracker, one or both participants were fired, and life went on.
Nowadays, to be fired was to go to nearly certain death. So fist fights didn't happen. Officially. Split lips and bruises and black eyes were a thing. But no one said anything.
By the time Security arrived, a reported 'disturbance' had usually self resolved.
I tracked the stats. Disturbance calls were going up.
That was the ones we knew about
###
Then there was our friend [Oliver Stone].
He'd been loud about his unhealthy beliefs.
The popular opinion was that I'd murdered him.
The truth was that I hadn't murdered ... him.
I had kidnapped him and given him a choice: disappear or die.
He'd chosen disappearance. But I'd told Homeland he was dead.
Another loose end. If he broke cover, my first knowledge of it would be a Homeland arrest team.
Not for him. For me.
###
People tried to cope by any means available. Drink, drugs, sex.
Opera. One of the coders had taken to blasting opera from his cheap speakers. After numerous complaints, he'd switched to headphones. And lost most of his hearing.
There had been a time that I'd had no use for Dr. Rize.
Now she was arguably the biggest lifesaver on campus.
Not counting the intelligence work, for which all of us who knew about it would be tortured to death by our affectionate friends at Homeland.
That was a drug too. Risk taking behaviors.
###
I was in the VP-HR's office. The door was closed. We were discussing sensitive personnel matters.
She'd made her one pass at me two months ago. I'd politely turned her down.
When she made her second pass, I was shocked. Especially when I'd heard the faint click as she'd locked the door.
She _knew_ better. She was a Goddamn HR executive!
I thought about it for maybe two seconds.
I steeled myself to accept. I wasn't attracted to her. I wasn't attracted to anyone. Not even Brooke. Or especially not Brooke - even though her body matched my preferences and her soul's scars matched mine ... she was still mourning her wife and probably always would. I didn't understand that love. I was glad she'd had it. I didn't want to screw it up.
Brooke had made it clear that she'd sleep with me if it made me feel any better. But it wouldn't be healthy for either of us.
The VP of HR was a key asset to the site. I would follow Brooke's example.
And now I understood something I hadn't before about Dr. Rize as well.
It is another samurai saying. It is false to die without deploying every weapon you have.
Of course Dr. Rize was using her body to save lives. Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs.
About ten minutes later, on her desk, with both of us in what I would call "a state of undress" in a report, she stopped.
"What am I doing? I am so sorry."
I leaned forward a little, and she created that little hint of body distance that meant this was something we had to talk about.
I had been lying with my body. Apparently not well enough.
"You're the last person I should lean on this way."
At one level that was profoundly true.
At another level, I was the only person she _could_ lean on this way. The only other executives at her rank in her organization were happily married, mourning lost family or of a different preference.
Consent is meaningless without the ability to say no.
She had intuited what I had been trying to lie about. I had decided for ethical reasons that I couldn't say no. Therefore I couldn't actually consent, any more than a subordinate or a prisoner could.
No one ever said she wasn't a good HR executive.
I had to take a wide risk. But I'd done that before.
It was so easy. That falling feeling, when a trusted subordinate turns out to be a traitor. When the IED goes off. When the body falls. When the gunfire intensifies. When the person says, "Are you _sure_?"
It all flashed through my mind in an instant.
I took her chin in my hand with a forceful grip.
My other hand went to her breast. Painfully. On purpose. Clenching.
She gasped. And flinched.
I met her eyes and said slowly as I let go.
"Turnabout is fair play. Bend. Over. The. Desk."
She flushed down to her toes.
And did so.
###
Afterwards started to be awkward, as she lay there exhausted on the desk.
I again took her chin in my hand and ran a finger along her lip.
"This is how this works. Door open, it's the same as it was before. Door closed ... you take your chances. Change your mind, that's OK, but it ends.
"You went there. Now you get it. Every time you lock that door, fast and hard."
I let go. Gently.
Rummaged behind her door, found a towel, handed it to her.
Started rearranging myself.
We composed ourselves in silence.
"Thank you, [Echo 18]," she said slowly when we were dressed.
"Very well," I said, avoiding the obvious but true pun.
###
As I jogged within the limited line of sight safe area, sweating profusely, using the endorphin rush from running to flush the hormones from rough sex, I had the chance to consider consequences.
STDs? No. Pregnancy? No, she'd let slip that she was fixed.
All the other potential issues of romantic relationships in the workplace?
Yeah. Oh hell yeah.
But it wasn't romantic. She'd been thinking with her pussy. And I'd answered her, cock to cunt. But salvaging as much of the professional relationship as possible.
It had been a long time for me. Since before the Firecracker.
But it had felt just as empty as the last time.
I knew that I would do it again the next time she needed it. And I would in fact enjoy it. But it was just another animal function.
I'd been saving sex as a last emergency reserve. My own last ditch defense against a long rope and a short drop.
"Whatever it takes."
I had no sexual attraction to men. Decades ago, it had taken years for me to figure that out. Just one of the issues you get to work through when your first experience is nonconsensual.
"What do broccoli and anal have in common?"
"You like them more if they're not forced on you as a child."
That had been my touchstone. If a male executive had done what she had done, what would I have done?
Probably some question of who ended up bent over the desk. But other than that, exactly the same thing - whether I grunted and thrusted while thinking of a woman to keep an erection, or laid there trying to pretend to enjoy it while fighting off flashbacks.
Whoah.
That was a bad one.
Whatever it takes.
Whatever. It. Takes.
Being good in the absence of temptation is no virtue.
Everyone on campus had to deal with their temptations. Some of them had been weak and needed help. Others had fallen. Some of those had so fallen that their behavior endangered the lives of others, or the entire campus.
I was comfortable with killing. I still wasn't clear how that had happened. But I had not a single nightmare about headjobbing that looter-leader at the rancher's burned out farm. My only nightmare about that event were about the kid who painfully limped out of the bushes. He was still here, and even at age eleven a valuable contributor to our farming operation. But his eyes were as dead as mine or the SLE's. Both the vet surgeon and Betty had tried to talk to him, no effect. Then, months later, Mo had come to me with that carefully expressionless look that meant death.
"You remember the rancher's kid?"
"Yeah."
"While you were in Nevada..."
"Go on."
"My son found him in one of the barns."
"Shit."
Mo's eight year old son had found him dangling from a rope noose over a beam and a five gallon bucket sideways near his feet. Cartwright had not investigated. The scene was all to hell and gone, of course, so the opportunity had been lost.
I wasn't sure what I was more pissed about: that we hadn't reached out to Jaime and saved his life, or that Mo's son - brought to America to raise in peace at great personal cost - had been dragged into America's stupid and pointless war.
The Firecracker is just too big to think about. So many dead. Cities and towns on continents.
But the little bits are so personal. Kid couldn't handle being raped, so he kills himself. Another kid finds his body. Is it contagious? Well.... yeah.
The technical term is suicide cluster. Betty (that's Dr. Rize to you) and I had discussed it. And it was a serious problem.
###
The .45 tasted metallic in his mouth. It was a heavy pistol with gold trim.
He looked out over the sweeping view of the center of the campus. Originally it had been a sweeping view of the low hills - but he'd wisely traded offices with the sales group. Not just for the obvious security reasons. But his previous receptionist had been murdered in that office.
His thumb went back on the hammer.
The intercom buzzed.
"Sir, you're 2 o'clock."
He stopped.
Took the gun out of his mouth.
Put it in his desk.
Touched the intercom button.
"Very well. Send him in."
###
It wasn't just about self harm. It was also about self destructive behaviors.
Actual fist fights were not uncommon.
Before the Firecracker, one or both participants were fired, and life went on.
Nowadays, to be fired was to go to nearly certain death. So fist fights didn't happen. Officially. Split lips and bruises and black eyes were a thing. But no one said anything.
By the time Security arrived, a reported 'disturbance' had usually self resolved.
I tracked the stats. Disturbance calls were going up.
That was the ones we knew about
###
Then there was our friend [Oliver Stone].
He'd been loud about his unhealthy beliefs.
The popular opinion was that I'd murdered him.
The truth was that I hadn't murdered ... him.
I had kidnapped him and given him a choice: disappear or die.
He'd chosen disappearance. But I'd told Homeland he was dead.
Another loose end. If he broke cover, my first knowledge of it would be a Homeland arrest team.
Not for him. For me.
###
People tried to cope by any means available. Drink, drugs, sex.
Opera. One of the coders had taken to blasting opera from his cheap speakers. After numerous complaints, he'd switched to headphones. And lost most of his hearing.
There had been a time that I'd had no use for Dr. Rize.
Now she was arguably the biggest lifesaver on campus.
Not counting the intelligence work, for which all of us who knew about it would be tortured to death by our affectionate friends at Homeland.
That was a drug too. Risk taking behaviors.
###
I was in the VP-HR's office. The door was closed. We were discussing sensitive personnel matters.
She'd made her one pass at me two months ago. I'd politely turned her down.
When she made her second pass, I was shocked. Especially when I'd heard the faint click as she'd locked the door.
She _knew_ better. She was a Goddamn HR executive!
I thought about it for maybe two seconds.
I steeled myself to accept. I wasn't attracted to her. I wasn't attracted to anyone. Not even Brooke. Or especially not Brooke - even though her body matched my preferences and her soul's scars matched mine ... she was still mourning her wife and probably always would. I didn't understand that love. I was glad she'd had it. I didn't want to screw it up.
Brooke had made it clear that she'd sleep with me if it made me feel any better. But it wouldn't be healthy for either of us.
The VP of HR was a key asset to the site. I would follow Brooke's example.
And now I understood something I hadn't before about Dr. Rize as well.
It is another samurai saying. It is false to die without deploying every weapon you have.
Of course Dr. Rize was using her body to save lives. Whatever it takes. Whatever it costs.
About ten minutes later, on her desk, with both of us in what I would call "a state of undress" in a report, she stopped.
"What am I doing? I am so sorry."
I leaned forward a little, and she created that little hint of body distance that meant this was something we had to talk about.
I had been lying with my body. Apparently not well enough.
"You're the last person I should lean on this way."
At one level that was profoundly true.
At another level, I was the only person she _could_ lean on this way. The only other executives at her rank in her organization were happily married, mourning lost family or of a different preference.
Consent is meaningless without the ability to say no.
She had intuited what I had been trying to lie about. I had decided for ethical reasons that I couldn't say no. Therefore I couldn't actually consent, any more than a subordinate or a prisoner could.
No one ever said she wasn't a good HR executive.
I had to take a wide risk. But I'd done that before.
It was so easy. That falling feeling, when a trusted subordinate turns out to be a traitor. When the IED goes off. When the body falls. When the gunfire intensifies. When the person says, "Are you _sure_?"
It all flashed through my mind in an instant.
I took her chin in my hand with a forceful grip.
My other hand went to her breast. Painfully. On purpose. Clenching.
She gasped. And flinched.
I met her eyes and said slowly as I let go.
"Turnabout is fair play. Bend. Over. The. Desk."
She flushed down to her toes.
And did so.
###
Afterwards started to be awkward, as she lay there exhausted on the desk.
I again took her chin in my hand and ran a finger along her lip.
"This is how this works. Door open, it's the same as it was before. Door closed ... you take your chances. Change your mind, that's OK, but it ends.
"You went there. Now you get it. Every time you lock that door, fast and hard."
I let go. Gently.
Rummaged behind her door, found a towel, handed it to her.
Started rearranging myself.
We composed ourselves in silence.
"Thank you, [Echo 18]," she said slowly when we were dressed.
"Very well," I said, avoiding the obvious but true pun.
###
As I jogged within the limited line of sight safe area, sweating profusely, using the endorphin rush from running to flush the hormones from rough sex, I had the chance to consider consequences.
STDs? No. Pregnancy? No, she'd let slip that she was fixed.
All the other potential issues of romantic relationships in the workplace?
Yeah. Oh hell yeah.
But it wasn't romantic. She'd been thinking with her pussy. And I'd answered her, cock to cunt. But salvaging as much of the professional relationship as possible.
It had been a long time for me. Since before the Firecracker.
But it had felt just as empty as the last time.
I knew that I would do it again the next time she needed it. And I would in fact enjoy it. But it was just another animal function.
I'd been saving sex as a last emergency reserve. My own last ditch defense against a long rope and a short drop.
"Whatever it takes."
I had no sexual attraction to men. Decades ago, it had taken years for me to figure that out. Just one of the issues you get to work through when your first experience is nonconsensual.
"What do broccoli and anal have in common?"
"You like them more if they're not forced on you as a child."
That had been my touchstone. If a male executive had done what she had done, what would I have done?
Probably some question of who ended up bent over the desk. But other than that, exactly the same thing - whether I grunted and thrusted while thinking of a woman to keep an erection, or laid there trying to pretend to enjoy it while fighting off flashbacks.
Whoah.
That was a bad one.
Whatever it takes.
Whatever. It. Takes.
