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He bares his teeth, hissing and spitting at you as he curses. His hands try valiantly to strike you, or push you away, but you have the upper hand – you always have the upper hand.
Kneeling above your employer’s chest, one hand grasps his throat tightly, squeezing just hard enough to cut most of the airflow to his lungs. You’re not stupid enough to actually choke him to unconsciousness, no. This is his request from you. Your free hand is used to deflect blows and occasionally pin an arm to the ground – usually the robotic one, and your stare is cold, hard, and unreadable as always.
You remember the first time it happened, and every single consecutive time. The first time was special, though. The words were very precise, and ensured to have you “obey.” He asked you to take his control away, and when you agreed, he threw himself at you, attacking. It didn’t take long to have him pinned, and when he finally reduced himself to a gasping, writhing pile of spent rage, only then did your hand leave his throat. It was the same every time, and it would be the same this time.
You were even courteous enough to completely conceal the fact that you noticed that the past two times, his hands have explored lower as he tried to fend you off, and the fact that the past two times, he’d cleverly twisted his body enough to try and hide the bulge in the front of his pants. You’re not one to judge, though, you enjoy torturing people just to see their limits. You enjoy kneeling over Jack’s body, choking him and having him squirm under you. The thought was always fun, but getting to do it seemed like the highest peak of pleasure.
You just had to remind yourself to make him think he was still in control. And so it never went beyond his desire to be “restrained.” You could tell when he was done, and even when he tried to lure you into a false sense of security, you didn’t let up. The first time he realized it, you had to stop yourself from smirking. His eyes – it was always his eyes that gave away his true emotions.
Finally, he stops clawing at your vest, his arms instead grasping for your hands as the motions get less and less violent, and more desperate. His head tilts back and a strained growl leaves his mouth. You know he’s finally at his limit. Slowly, the pressure is let off, and you finally pry your hands from Jack’s neck. He coughs, hacks, and sputters for a few seconds, sucking in deep breaths in between, and finally manages to get himself down to a heavy panting. You, on the other hand, simply stand, grabbing your blazer, and his, and wait for him to get up.
When he is finally done catching his breath, he stands slowly, and stumbles over to you. You hold out his coat, and he takes it, not meeting your stare. He shrugs it on, and then you shrug your own coat on, buttoning it up. He grabs the hats and hands you your own, and without a word, you pull it back onto your head.
“I’m okay,” he says, breathing still a bit heavily. “I’m good. I can deal with this now.”
“I’ll be here,” you respond, nodding. He glances up at you finally, and scowls.
“She’s not going to get me that riled up, Diamonds. Cut the shit,” he snaps, and storms off. You simply smile and watch him leave.
He’ll be back. He always comes back after visiting his bitch. You just have to wait. So you grab a cigar and a newspaper, and head to the kitchen to do just that.
You’re good at waiting.