This story is a work of fiction and contains scenes of non-consensual sex. Please do not read this if it will cause you distress.
I watch him from across the bar. His tie is loosened, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing a Rolex that gleams under the neon lights. He's talking to a group of men in suits, their laughter echoing in the dimly lit room, a stark contrast to the seriousness of their day jobs. Politicians, I think to myself, feeling a strange mix of contempt and fascination. They're like sharks in a sea of lobbyists and journalists, all circling, looking for their next meal.
The MP, a man I've studied for weeks, finally breaks away from his pack. He signals the bartender for a refill, and I make my move. Casually, I slip the vial into my pocket and weave through the crowd. I lean against the bar, close enough to feel the sticky residue of spilled drinks on my shirt. The bartender nods my way, and I flash a charming smile. "Could you do me a favor?" I ask, sliding a crisp note into his hand. He looks at the money, then at me, and nods again.
I watch as he pours the MP's drink, the amber liquid glinting with the promise of oblivion. He adds a dash of something from the bottle I gave him, something that won't be noticed in the whiskey's rich hue. The MP's eyes are glazed over, his attention on his phone, scrolling through messages that I'm sure hold the fate of many. I can see the cruelty in his eyes, the same cruelty that led him to me, and now it will be his downfall.
The MP takes the drink, the ice clinking against the glass as he brings it to his lips. He takes a sip, and then another, and I see the moment the drug starts to take effect. His posture sags slightly, his smile fading into a confused grimace. The room seems to tilt around him as he tries to maintain his composure. He stumbles, and one of his companions slaps him on the back, assuming it's the alcohol that's gotten to him.
I step outside into the cool night air, my heart racing. The rain has stopped, leaving the streets glistening with neon reflections. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of damp cobblestones and the faint aroma of greasy food from the nearby kebab shop. My black taxi is parked just down the road. I slide into the driver's seat, my grip tightening on the wheel as I wait for the MP to emerge. The leather feels slick under my palms, a reminder of the darkness that's about to unfold.
The door to the pub opens, and I watch in the rearview mirror as he stumbles out, his tie askew and his eyes unfocused. He looks around, disoriented, before spotting my taxi. He waves, his hand moving in a lazy arc through the air. I don't acknowledge him, just keep my eyes on the mirror, watching as he approaches. He's a big man, but the drug has taken the fight out of him. He leans heavily against the car as I unlock the door.
His face is flushed, his cheeks red from the whiskey and the effort of standing upright. His hair is thick and dark, but there's a touch of gray at the temples, hinting at his age and the weight of his secrets. His features are strong, with a square jaw and a straight, prominent nose that's been broken at least once, an old rugby injury. His eyes are brown, usually sharp and calculating, but now they're clouded, the pupils dilated to the size of pennies. He tries to smile, to play it off, but the corners of his mouth won't cooperate.
"Where to, sir?" I ask, my voice a practiced blend of boredom and respect.
The MP mumbles something incoherent, his tongue thick with the drug. He fumbles with his phone, trying to unlock it, his fingers clumsy and uncooperative. After a few moments, he slurs out an address in an expensive neighborhood, a place that matches the image of the man he presents to the world. I nod, the corners of my mouth twitching up in a smile that doesn't quite reach my eyes. "Right you are, sir," I say, turning the key in the ignition. The taxi's interior lights flicker to life, illuminating the plush seats and the tinted windows that will shield us from prying eyes.
As we drive, his head lolls against the seat, and I can see his eyelids fluttering. He's fighting it, trying to stay conscious, but it's a losing battle. The potent cocktail is working its way through his system, shutting down his defenses one by one. His hand, still clutching his phone, falls to his side, and the device clatters to the floor. We're going in the opposite direction of his home, but he's too far gone to realize it.
The streets are mostly empty at this hour, the occasional splash of a puddle the only sound to break the silence. The MP's breathing deepens, and I can feel the anticipation building in my chest. This is it. This is what I've been waiting for. The moment when power shifts from the man who's used and abused it to the one who's about to take it.
I pull into a narrow, dimly lit alley, the kind that's forgotten by the city's planners. The headlights cut through the darkness, casting long shadows on the damp brick walls. The MP's eyes flutter open, and he tries to sit up, but his body won't respond. He looks around, confusion turning to fear as he realizes where he is.
"Wha... what's happening?" he slurs, his voice barely audible. The MP's eyes widen, but he's too slow to react as I slide out of the driver's seat and open the back door of the taxi.
With a grunt, I hoist him lengthways into the backseat of the taxi. He falls back, his eyes rolling back in his head. The leather of the seat creaks under his weight. I lean over him, my breath hot against his ear. "You're going to pay for your sins," I murmur, the words sending a shiver down his spine. I pull out a set of handcuffs from my pocket, the metal cold and unforgiving.
The MP tries to push me away, his strength draining with every passing second. I pin his wrists together, the sound of metal on metal ringing through the car as I secure them to the inner handle above the door. His legs kick out, but they're no match for the sedative. I manage to straddle him, one hand pressing down on his chest to keep him still while the other locks the cuffs into place. He's panting now, his chest heaving with fear and the effort of trying to resist.
I lean back, admiring my handiwork. He looks up at me, his eyes pleading, but I just smile, the kind of smile that doesn't reach my eyes. The kind of smile that tells him this is just the beginning. I pull out a roll of duct tape from the glove compartment and tear off a strip with my teeth, the sound echoing in the small space. He tries to protest, but I quickly cover his mouth with the tape, the sticky residue smothering his words. His muffled cries are music to my ears, the sweet sound of justice being served.
Leaning closer, I lick the MP's cheek, savoring the salty taste of his fear. His body jerks, his eyes wide with revulsion. The stubble of his beard pricks my tongue, but I don't care. I can see the realisation in his eyes, the horror of what's about to happen. It's a powerful feeling, one that sends a thrill through my body.
I reach down and with a flick of my wrist, I unbuckle his belt and unzip his trousers. I reach in and pull his cock and balls out, they are damp and heavy. He tries to twist away, his eyes pleading, but he's too weak to fight me off. The handcuffs bite into his wrists as he struggles, leaving red marks that I know will bruise. I ignore his muffled protests, reaching down to grasp his cock. It's warm but flaccid in my hand, but despite his protests, it's already starting to stiffen, just a bit.
The MP's eyes widen as I carefully unbutton his shirt and lean in to lick one of his nipples. He tries to jerk away, but the only result is a faint whimper. His body responds to the sensation, the involuntary twitch of arousal. I can see the revulsion in his eyes, the way he's trying to reject the pleasure, but his body won't let him. His cock jumps in my grip, and I feel a thrill of victory. This man, who's taken so much, is now helpless to resist. I suck harder, feeling him swell as I tease the sensitive flesh with my tongue. His chest rises and falls with his rapid breaths, his eyes squeezed shut as if he can somehow hide from what's happening.
My other hand moves down to cup his balls, rolling them gently in my palm. He makes a muffled sound, his body arching slightly despite the handcuffs. I smirk, knowing I've found his weakness. The power is intoxicating, and I revel in it, feeling the thrill of control as I manipulate his body against his will. His cock is now fully erect, a silent testament to the primal instincts that drive him even as his mind screams for me to stop. I kiss my way down his stomach, my breath hot on his skin.
With one swift motion, I take him into my mouth, my tongue swirling around the head of his cock. The MP's eyes bulge, and he lets out a muffled groan. The taste of him is surprisingly bitter, like the taste of his own corruption. I suck harder, feeling his body tense. His hips buck, and I can feel his desperation to escape the pleasure, the horror of his own arousal. But the handcuffs hold him firmly in place.
His dick is thick and veiny, the skin soft yet firm. It's a contradiction, much like the man himself—powerful on the outside, yet vulnerable and weak when exposed. I trace the length of him with my tongue, savoring the way he feels, the way his body responds despite his mind's screams. The head of his cock is like a plum, ripe and ready to burst. It's a delicious dance, the way he fights against his own desires.
The MP's hips jerk as I take him deeper into my mouth, his body betraying him. He's getting close now, I can feel it. His breaths are coming in short gasps, his eyes squeezed shut as if to block out the sight of his own humiliation. But I won't let him. I want him to see, to understand the depth of his own depravity. I pull back, my hand stroking him firmly as I watch his face contort in agony. His eyes lock onto mine, and in that moment, I see the truth. He's not just afraid of me—he's afraid of what I'm making him feel.
I lean back in, my mouth enveloping him again, my teeth grazing his shaft lightly. He tries to pull away, but the handcuffs keep him in place. His cock is like a living thing now, pulsing and demanding release. I can feel his muscles tensing, his body begging for it. I suck harder, my cheeks hollowing as I draw him closer to the edge. And then, with a muffled roar, it happens. He cums, hot and bitter, filling my mouth with the evidence of his betrayal. His whole body shakes with the force of it, the handcuffs rattling against the metal handle above the door.
As the MP's orgasm subsides, his body goes slack, and his eyes glaze over. I release him from my mouth, his cock slipping out with a wet pop. The smell of sex fills the taxi, mingling with the stale scent of leather and the faint metallic tang of fear. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, smearing his cum across my cheek. He's still trying to struggle, but it's a feeble effort now, the last gasp of a dying animal.
I pull down his trousers and boxers which fall to his ankles, leaving him exposed and vulnerable. His cock has already started to soften, but the fear keeps it from fully retreating.
"It's your turn now," I say, my voice low and menacing. "Time to see how it feels to be fucked."
He's still trying to kick, his legs thrashing weakly, but the drug has stolen the fight from him. I grab his ankles, pulling him towards the middle of the seat and placing his legs in the air. His knees knock against the car's roof, his feet dangling uselessly. The leather squeaks under his weight as he tries to find purchase, but the angle is wrong, the handcuffs too tight.
I strip off my own trousers, my cock springing free, hard and eager for the conquest ahead. The MP's eyes widen in horror, his pupils dilating even further as he takes in the sight of me. He's helpless, a ragdoll in my grasp. I lean over him, my breath hot and heavy with anticipation. His body shudders as I position my cock at his entrance, the tip glistening with precum. I can feel the heat of his arse, the tremble of his thighs. He's trying to close his legs, but I'm too fast, too strong.
With one firm push, I'm inside him. He lets out a muffled scream, his body taut with the invasion. The sound is muffled by the tape over his mouth, but his eyes tell the whole story—pain, fear, and a flicker of anger. I ignore his pathetic struggles, relishing the feel of his tight hole clamping down on me. His arse is surprisingly firm, and I can feel the muscles contracting around my cock as he tries to expel me. But I'm in too deep, too determined.
The MP's face is a picture of horror. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes bulging with unshed tears. The tape over his mouth distorts his features, stretching his skin taut and turning his handsome features into a grotesque mask. His nose is red and splotchy, his breath coming in ragged gasps. His brown hair is plastered to his forehead with sweat, and the veins in his neck stand out, pulsing with the effort of his futile resistance.
I start to move, my hips rocking back and forth, pushing deeper into him. His eyes roll back, and he lets out a muffled sound—half scream, half whimper. The leather of the seat creaks with every thrust, a rhythmic counterpoint to his muffled cries. I'm merciless, my movements swift and rough, claiming his body with an animalistic hunger. The power is intoxicating, the knowledge that this man who has taken so much is now giving it all back to me.
My hand slides up his chest, fingers toying with his nipples. I tweak and pull, watching the horror dawn in his eyes as his body responds despite his mind's protest. His cock starts to swell again, a betrayal of his fear. I chuckle, the sound low and dark. "You like this, don't you?" I murmur, my voice thick with lust. "You're just like the rest of them." His body tenses, trying to resist the building arousal, but the drug makes his flesh pliant and eager.
I lean in closer, my breath hot and heavy against his ear. "You think you're above it all, don't you?" I whisper. "But here you are, just another whore in the back of my cab." His eyes widen in shock and outrage, but there's no denying the truth in my words. He's just like the others—weak, greedy, and now, at my mercy. I bite his earlobe, hard enough to draw a gasp that turns into a muffled whine.
The MP's eyes are wet with unshed tears, his body trembling with the effort of keeping his emotions in check. But he can't hide the way his cock responds to the pain, growing harder with each twist of my fingers. It's a delicate dance, keeping him on the edge of pleasure and pain, making him crave more even as he begs for it to stop. His eyes implore me, but I'm beyond mercy. This is his penance, his punishment for the sins he's committed in the name of power.
My thrusts become more deliberate, more forceful. His ass is tight around me, clenching with each push and release. I can feel the tension building, the heat rising in both of us. His body arches up, his feet pushing against the taxi's roof as he tries to find some semblance of control. But it's useless. He's mine now, and I'll take from him what I will. The handcuffs rattle above him.
As the MP's cries grow more desperate, his cock starts to pulse in my hand. He tries to fight it, but his body can't resist the relentless onslaught of sensation. His eyes are squeezed shut, and his teeth are clenched, but the betrayal is evident in the way his hips start to move with me, his body seeking the release it craves even as his mind recoils in horror.
With a final, brutal thrust, I feel the MP's body spasm around me. His muffled moan fills the taxi, a sound that's equal parts pleasure and pain. His cock erupts in my hand, spurts of cum hitting the side of the seat and his own chest. The sight of his release sends me over the edge, and with a roar of triumph, I let loose, I fill him up. The feeling of power is indescribable.
Satisfied, I pull out and remove the tape from his mouth. His breath is hot and ragged, his eyes wide with shock. He tries to speak, to curse me, but I silence him with a kiss. It's a hard, claiming kiss, my tongue pushing past his lips to explore the depths of his mouth. He tastes of fear and whiskey, the bitterness of his defeat. His body goes rigid, his eyes squeezed shut, but he doesn't push me away. Maybe he's too stunned, too overwhelmed by what's just happened to resist.
When I pull back, the MP finally finds his voice. "What the fuck did you do to me?" he slurs, his words thick with anger and confusion.
I smile, a cold, calculated smile as I pull my trousers up and tuck myself away. "You remember the dodgy deal you pushed through last year?" I ask, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "The one that got approved right before the environmental report came back with evidence of a cancer cluster?" His eyes narrow, and the beginnings of understanding flicker in the depths of his drug-addled gaze. "That was my boyfriend's town," I say, my voice calm and measured. "He's dead now."
The MP's face pales, the color draining from his cheeks. The realisation of his culpability is like a slap in the face, sobering him up slightly. "What do you want from me?" he whispers, his voice hoarse from the tape.
I lean back, stroking his cheek with the back of my hand. "Oh, I've already taken what I wanted, sweetheart" I reply, my voice a low purr. "But don't worry, you're not the first, and you won't be the last." His eyes widen, the horror of my confession sinking in.
I pull out my phone and snap a few photos of him, his body exposed, his expression one of utter defeat. The flash illuminates the taxi's interior, capturing the sheen of sweat on his skin, the wetness of his cum on his chest, and the stark terror in his eyes. Each picture is a trophy, but also insurance, a reminder of the power I hold over these men who think themselves untouchable.
The MP's eyes follow me as I stand up, the phone in my hand. He tries to kick me again, but I just laugh.
With a hard smack to his arse, I climb out of the taxi and grab his ankles, pulling him out onto the wet pavement. He lands with a thump, his bare ass hitting the ground with a sickening sound. His trousers and underwear are tangled around his ankles, leaving him completely exposed to the cold night air. He tries to scramble away, but the handcuffs keep his wrists pinned to the inside of the cab door. I chuckle, watching him squirm like a worm on a hook.
"Please," he whimpers, the word barely audible. "Please, let me go."
Ignoring his pleas, I unbuckle the handcuffs and watch him uncurl on the wet pavement. He tries to cover himself with his shirt, his bare arse and legs looking pathetic as he struggles to pull his trousers back up. His eyes are wild, searching for a way out, for some semblance of dignity. But there's none to be found here, not in this alley, not in the back of my taxi.
As he stumbles away, I climb back into the driver's seat and slam the door shut. The MP's retreating form is a blur through the tinted windows, his wrenching sobs echoing in the night as he hobbles down the alley. I take a moment to savor the victory, the sweet taste of power still lingering on my lips. But it's a fleeting feeling, replaced quickly by the hunger for more.
My thoughts turn to the next target. Another crook, another man who believes himself untouchable. This one is a banker, a slick-haired snake in a tailored suit. He slithers through the city's financial district, leaving a trail of ruined lives in his wake. His name is Richard Cunningham, and he's got a taste for the high life—expensive whiskey, fast cars, and even faster women. The kind of man who'd sell his own mother for a buck if he thought it'd make him richer.
The MP's cries fade into the distance, and I start the engine, pulling out of the alley and into the night. The city's lights blur into a neon haze outside the taxi's windows, the world passing by in a whirlwind of color and sound. I make a mental note to return to the alley, to clean up any evidence of what's transpired. But that's for later. Right now, there's a new hunt to plan, a new predator to bring to heel.
