Fandom: Human Target
Summary: For once, what Ames wants and what she deserves happily coincide.
That the latter was true probably had more to do with Chance's cajoling than with Guerrero's personal preference; Ames knew that. She wasn't dumb. And if Guerrero didn't want to kill her, he at least wanted to be rid of her. She could read it in the tense set of his shoulders, in the glint of his narrowed eyes, in the way his words emerged like the only warning growl one might hear before the wild thing in the bushes leapt.
She never meant for things to come to this. Despite what he-- what they all-- must think of her, she really did want to learn. But it didn't always work. Respect and obedience were still foreign, chafing things, and there were days like today when it became a little too much, too soon.
She made her apologies once he'd finished: it would never happen again. And it wouldn't either. Not in that exact form, anyway. Because Ames was very good at finding new ways to needle, at plucking every one of Guerrero's nerves until she struck the one that made him sing.
That night-- mission over, threats ended, clients fat and happy in whatever hole they'd crawled from-- Ames lay in bed luxuriating in the stiff scratch of the sheets against her bare skin. One hand splayed over her stomach, while the other lay at her breast. Eyes closed, her body warm and pliant in anticipation of pleasure to come, it was easier to imagine a different fallout for her latest misstep. After all, Guerrero would only put up with her antics for so long. And maybe some day, instead of scuffing her heels during a hushed admonition in a hallway, Ames would find herself nervously trailing after him to his car. He wouldn't tell her where they were going and she'd be too scared to ask.
They were in some dive masquerading as Guerrero's apartment. He'd told her to sit on the sofa and wait for him. She did, hands tangling in her lap, foot beating out a staccato rhythm against her calf. In the kitchen the familiar click click hiss of a gas stove igniting eventually gave way to the shrill cry of a kettle. When Guerrero emerged again there was a mug of tea in his hand. He leaned against the wall directly across from her and slowly swirled the tea bag in the water, not paying her the slightest bit of attention.
The silence seemed thicker than the air. It was getting hard to breathe. She swallowed and untangled her fingers, settling for fisting them in the fabric of her skirt.
"Guerrero--" She began.
He gave her a look. The words shriveled and died on her tongue.
The hands of the wall clock ticked on.
After a while, Guerrero took a sip of his tea. He nodded, the only concession she'd ever seen him make to something pleasurable. Then, he set the mug down on the table next to him and finally looked at her.
"You want to know what your problem is, Ames?"
She narrowed her eyes and screwed up her mouth, but otherwise didn't respond.
"You're a punk." He continued. "But worse, you're a brat. And you need to learn some manners."
"Yeah?" She said. "What are you going to do about it?"
The words sprang to her lips unbidden, her brain's reflexive response to fear. This encounter felt like her first meeting with Guerrero (in another strange room, in another chair) all over again, and she wondered if she'd pushed him too far.
And, for one bewildering second, if she'd pushed him far enough.
But Guerrero just shrugged one shoulder. His tone remained conversational, his expression untroubled.
"I figure if you're going to behave like a child I should start treating you like one."
He pushed himself off the wall and gestured to the middle of the floor.
"Stand up." He said.
Ames clenched her fists and glared at him, but ultimately stood and warily approached the spot he'd indicated.
"Good." He said. "Bend over."
He crossed his arms and raised his eyebrows. You heard me.
The front door was tantalizingly close. Guerrero followed her gaze but made no motion to object or block her path. Instead he tipped his head towards the door as though to say, "you're welcome to it."
"This-- This is ridiculous!" She sputtered. "Do you actually expect me to-- are you actually going to-- what do you think I am, five?"
But of course he did. He'd said as much, hadn't he? And...okay, she could be immature at times. A lot of the time. And she was kind of a smart-ass. But that didn't mean--
That didn't mean that sometimes she didn't deserve it.
It was the same treacherous voice that had egged her on earlier. Ames swallowed hard and flushed all the way to her toes.
She turned her back to him, though he hadn't asked her to. She debated getting on all fours but decided that her dignity couldn't stand it, so instead she stretched her fingers towards the floor until she'd bent herself neatly in half.
She could see Guerrero's feet in the space between her legs. He was still leaning against the wall, one ankle crossed casually behind the other. He made no motion to approach her and there was nothing for her to do but wait, feeling the cool air of the room sweep under her skirt and caress her most private places.
Suddenly he shifted to a proper standing position. Ames heard the clink of a buckle coming undone, the rasp of leather sliding over denim.
Her whole body jerked as the sound of a slap rent the air. It took her a second to realize that the sound came not from impact with her skin, but from Guerrero (presumably) slapping the belt against his own palm. He did it again, and again, each slap in time with his slow footsteps towards her.
Ames' stomach flip-flopped in the aftershock of the warm throb between her legs.
He stopped behind her with his feet roughly lined up to her own. He didn't slap the belt again but she could feel him waiting. Considering. Ames tensed, closed her eyes...
...but instead of the inspected rush of pain she felt the tips of his fingers on her thigh, curling under the hem of her skirt. He hiked it up over her hips until he'd exposed her green cotton panties, the pale mounds of her ass. Goosebumps raced to the surface of her bare skin except where the warmth of his palm rested on the curve of her right cheek. She shivered and arched up slightly into the contact.
The first crack echoed in the air, as startling in its volume as it was in its intensity. Ames yelped and rocked dangerously before managing to recover. She blinked back the tears that had sprung to the corners of her eyes as the initial shock of the strike dissipated, leaving only fire radiating across her backside.
"I'm going to do twelve." Said Guerrero. His voice was still calm. Gentle, even. "And I want you to count them. After that, we'll be done. Sound fair?"
She exhaled shakily.
"Yes." She whispered.
A wet cry burst from her lips. He'd lashed the other cheek this time, and now both throbbed in concert.
"Oh. Uh. T-Two."
The blows fell to no rhythm other than the choked sound of her voice as she kept count. Four and five landed neatly on the same spot, driving the pain deeper beneath her skin. There was a pause between eight and nine just long enough for her to catch her breath before nine, ten, and eleven landed in rapid succession. And through it all Ames could do nothing but sob and whimper as the sting of the belt rang through her like a bell.
"Last one." Guerrero said, though the belt didn't fall right away. Ames couldn't decide which was worse: the lash or the anticipation.
"Twelve!" She gasped out.
"All right." Ames winced when she felt contact on her skin once more, but it was only his hand patting one stinging cheek. "That's it."
When Ames peeled her eyes open she saw that he'd backed away, which she took as permission to begin an unsteady rise to her feet. She took stock of herself standing there: her ass was on fire. Her face was a snotty mess. Her cunt was swollen and sticky and ached to be touched, and she didn't think she'd ever been more turned on in her life.
Aching, humiliated, but above all horny, she'd tug her skirt down over her thighs and hesitantly face him. His expression would be as neutral as it had been at the beginning of all this, though his face would have flushed a little from exertion. From his stance, it would be easy to think that the entire episode had been nothing but a necessary chore to him. But the bulge straining against his jeans would suggest otherwise.
"Anything you want to say?" He'd ask.
"Let me suck your cock," she'd respond. Or, "I'm sorry I was a brat," or "For God’s sake, fuck me already." Or maybe she'd just stay frozen there, any words she might have said having been dislodged and scattered by the crack of the belt. But regardless of what did or didn't leave her lips (and regardless of his response-- to laugh and show her the door, or to bend her over the sofa back until she forgot how to breathe), there was one constant in the dozens of endings to this fantasy: that in the end, she wanted him. Oh god, did she want him.
Ames' body shuddered through her climax. Her fingers eased their frantic rhythm inside her, and when the last waves of pleasure had ebbed she slumped against the sheets, panting softly.
True, she never meant to piss Guerrero off. But that didn't mean that when she did a part of her didn't brighten, watching the proceedings with hopeful eyes. Maybe this time...