Page 133 of Controlled Burn
She rode his face like she was taming something wild and pathetic, using him like a tool—like a match she’d strike and toss aside once it burned out.
Her thighs trembled. Her breath stuttered. She came sharp, biting her wrist to keep it quiet. Not because she was shy. Because the power was hers alone.
She stood. Adjusted her waistband. Smoothed her hair.
Jake was panting, chin wet, eyes glassy. His cock strained against his zipper like a dog begging for scraps.
“You don’t get to come,” she whispered, voice like ice dripping into gasoline.
He blinked. “Why?”
“Because I didn’t say so.”
She turned toward the camera. Held its gaze. Let Brooks see. Let Jake feel the sting of being reduced to a prop.
“Next time you think about running your mouth,” she said softly, “remember what it’s good for.”
Then she walked away.
She didn’t go to her bunk.
She went straight to the backup equipment locker. Keyed in the four-digit code McKenna had pressed into her palm weeks ago:just in case.
Inside: a dusty wall terminal. Hardwired. Invisible to the network.
She slid in a drive. Copied—not deleted—the footage.
And with it, she slipped in a single line of code from a favor she’d cashed in:
ping_request://user.BrooksTerminal_ID17
Now, when Brooks came sniffing for control, he’d leave a footprint.
A breadcrumb.
When he accessed it, she’d know.
Her drive lit green. Transfer complete.
***
Jake stayed on the floor long after she’d gone.
His chest heaved. His cock throbbed. But the ache wasn’t just physical.
It was worse.
She hadn’t wanted him. Not his body. Not his charm. Not him.
She’d wanted his humiliation. His obedience.
He’d been a tool. Disposable.
And the camera had caught every second.
Shame curdled into rage. Into obsession.
By the time he stumbled back to his bunk, his phone buzzed. A message. No sender.
