Honeypot

I am eighteen now.

I don't have a birth certificate; fitting enough -- weapons are not born, they are forged. But something in the file on the Magister's desk, my entire existence etched in notes, reports, and studies, must indicate that I am now of age.

"Your academics are exemplary. Cardiovascular tests--top ten percent. Muscular endurance--fifteen percent." His eyes lift, cold and curious. "Marksmanship scores are unprecedented. You started sniper drills at eleven?"

His dark eyes peer over his rimless glasses, one bushy eyebrow raised in a quiet appreciation. He already knows it's true. He's testing my pride.

"Yes, Magister."

"And two assassinations under your belt?" Now, he's testing my humility.

"I pulled the trigger on one. The other, I served as a distraction."

He snaps the binder shut, folds his glasses, and lays both on the corner of the desk. "How many initiates reach this stage?" he asks, unfastening silver cufflinks.

"One in eight." I do not -- I cannot -- think about the other seven.

He stands with a soldier's precision--was he a General once? But when he circles the desk, he leans his hip on the edge of the desk. "One in eight," he repeats. "And what carried you this far?"

"Dedication." A textbook answer.

He arches that bushy eyebrow again. "Dedication? To whom?"

"To Ludus Umbrae," I say. "For giving me a purpose."

The Magister scoffs. He stands, crosses to me, and takes my chin in his hand. His gaze burns as he studies my still boyish features -- my soft brow, the nose I haven't quite grown into, the pale down on my cheeks. "Forget the fucking script," he says, grip on my jaw tightening. "Why you -- Mikel? Why are you here?"

I want to survive, but that doesn't set me apart. They all wanted to survive. Some just weren't strong enough, clever enough. Others tried to run. A few were simply too decent. Not me.

For the first time, I raise my blue eyes to meet his gaze. The boldness tastes like copper on my tongue. "Because I will do anything."

The lines of age around his mouth deepen as he grins. For a moment he looks like a wolf about to bare its teeth.

"Good boy." He releases my face and continues to circle until he stands behind me. Firm hands rest on my shoulders. "Now. Tell me, what is a honeypot?"

I suck in a breath. "A honeypot is an operation designed to leverage romantic or sexual relations as a method of compromising a target."

He laughs, but he is not amused. "You certainly can memorize a definition, can't you." His hands squeeze again but it isn't the same appraising gesture. No, he is working his thumbs into the line of muscle where my neck meets my shoulders.

"A honeypot is a tool, an effective one at that," he says, continuing to knead the muscles of my upper back. I want to lean into it, to... to relax. But I don't dare. "I know you can spill blood, son, but a dead politician is only so useful. Blackmail is far worthier long-term investment."

He walks over to the massive set of bookshelves that line his office, floor to ceiling along the back wall. He tugs on one leather bound tome and, with a hiss of hydraulics, the bookcase slides to reveal a pitch black expanse.

"Every one of my operatives goes through honeypot training when they reach maturity," he says. He waits for me to step across the threshold into the darkness before following me. "The girls have their use of course... But there is something exquisitely damning about a politician being found fucking a teenage boy."

The wall seals shut behind us and for a moment there is nothing. No light, no sound. Even though there is carpet beneath me, my steps should make some noise. These walls were built for secrets.

The recessed lights slowly come to life and the walls emerge from the darkness first. Dark crimson. The exact shade of the Umbrae insignia on my uniform, on every uniform I have ever worn -- on flags, on patches, on the collar of every handler or doctor who ever assessed me.

Sometimes, I think I should bleed this color.

Next, the bed; ornate carved wood, four posts rising toward the ceiling. A matched set of nightstands flank it, and a man-sized wardrobe looms against the wall to my left. My eyes do what they've been trained to -- assess, catalogue. Everything in the barracks is plain, functional, easily manufactured and easily replaced. The furniture in this room is chosen for another purpose -- a display, or a trophy.

...What is inside that wardrobe?

Then my eye catches the sheets and I stop wondering about anything else. The color seems to absorb all the light around it, like it should bend gravity into its darkness, and yet the fabric seems to shine as well.

"Go ahead." His breath, warm against my ear, smells of whiskey and cigars. "You may touch it."

After a moment, I step forward, just close enough to the bed that I can reach out and brush my fingertips across the fabric. It's smooth and cool against my skin.

Behind me, a metal belt buckle clinks as it comes undone, a zipper pulls. When I turn back around, he is standing with his erect penis jutting out from his slacks. My expression amuses him. "What's the matter? You can't tell me you've never seen another man's cock before."

Heat crawls up my cheeks. Of course I have. The showers are communal in the dormitories. And other trainees have, from time to time... well... found ways to relieve tension. I never bothered to stare before. They were never demanding my attention.

It suits him. A natural extension of the way he carries himself. While it is not particularly long, it seems sturdy and thick. Given his pale skin, hair more salt than pepper, it is darker than I would expect -- flushed with blood.

Something stirs low in my belly as I stand there, watching it like a pistol aimed at me. Words tumble from me before I can stop them. "I don't know what to do with it."

The magister barks with laughter; he knows I can handle a pistol. His hand reaches into my blonde locks and tousles them. "I don't expect you to, Mikel," he says. "Don't worry, you will receive the finest instruction, which I know you will absorb as well as your other studies."

The affectionate gesture shifts abruptly as those same thick fingers curl into my hair, forming a fist which pushes my head back. "This is my favor to you," he says. "I want to prepare you for what to expect in the next phase of your training. All you have to do tonight is follow my orders. And I think you are very good at following orders."

His first order is to kneel.

I've knelt on cement floors, on uncooked rice, keeping that position while beaten with sticks by my peers. Basic pain tolerance conditioning. But this doesn't seem to be about pain. The carpeting is even more plush than it looks; there must be padding underneath.

"Open your mouth."

My field of vision narrows to flesh and fabric as he guides the tip of his cock past my lips. Raised veins wind their way along his sex like vines. They thrum with his pulse, racing beyond what I would expect from the steadiness of his demeanor. The heat of him against my tongue catches me off-guard. The softness of him, even more. He tastes of salt and sweat and something that makes me think of the remains of a campfire.

Unprompted, I close my lips around the shaft with a sudden clarity of purpose.

I need to be better than everyone who has knelt here.

He grunts, strokes my hair, then tightens his grasp. "Your situational awareness is an asset. Never forget that."

I breathe in through my nose, taking in the heat radiating from his body, the scent of him filling my lungs. He presses deeper with shallow, unhurried thrusts -- taking his time, appraising. He must be comparing me to the others.

My knowledge is limited here, but he seems to like my tongue. I curl it along the length of him and am rewarded with a deep groan of satisfaction. He pulls my head into his crotch; the zipper scrapes against my nose. I've done something right.

How long does he hold me there? A minute? Two? Does he want to see how long I remain still at his feet? Maybe he is savoring my initiative.

Suddenly, using my hair, he begins to drag my head back and forth along his shaft. One stroke, then another. He uses my face the way boys use their hands in the shower. Slow and steady, he pulls me back so that only the tip remains in my mouth and I jump at the chance to brush my tongue over its slit.

His growl sends something through me, something bright and hot, and my own cock twitches in my uniform. He is a leashed beast, hungry.

"Do it again," he demands. I oblige, lapping at him the way a dog laps up water. I work my tongue over and around and what I lack in technique I make up for in effort. I drink in the sounds he makes because it means I can follow orders, and I can follow them with enthusiasm.

The leash snaps. He drives in, hilt-deep. I swallow and the tip of him lingers in my throat. Breathing heavily, he gives a few short thrusts. I like to think he can't bear the thought of pulling himself out of my mouth.

Good, I need to be able to take a man down from my knees as well as I can from a sniper's nest.

I hum, creating a steady vibration around the cock filling my mouth. He yanks my hair and grinds me against him. "Don't stop," he snarls.

I won't.

He locks my head in place with both fists. I need leverage, something to grasp as he pistons into my mouth. I don't have permission to touch him. My jaw aches, eyes water; I suppress the urge to gag.

His stance.

Optimal for fucking my face -- legs shoulder-width apart, weight evenly distributed, with a slight bend to his knees.

Optimal for severing the femoral artery.

One final time, he pulls my head down, like he's trying to thrust through the back of my skull. His flesh in my mouth spasm and pulses, emptying into my throat. My fingers dig into my thighs -- I've held my breath longer than this -- as I wait for him to finish.

The pressure on my hair relaxes, the bruising grip replaced by long, tender strokes from the crown of my head to the nape of my neck. I feel him looking down at me, committing to memory the sight of me swallowing his ejaculate as he goes soft in my mouth.

"Not bad," he croons, as he finally steps away, dick hanging limp and wet in front of my eyes. He wipes himself off with a handkerchief and tucks it back into his clothes, before fixing me with an appraising look. "Are you sure you haven't done this with any of the others?"

"No, sir," I say, a bit embarrassed by the rough scratch of my voice.

"Never? Then you know what feels good because you've handled matters yourself." I shake my head, and the Magister tilts his. His dark eyes fix on me with a curious scrutiny. "You're a natural then." Pride swells in my chest at his words.

And the Magister seems to notice something else swell as well.

"Eighteen years old, and you've never masturbated? Never experienced an orgasm?"

My breath catches in my throat and I feel how snug my clothing has become. Two fingers beneath my chin lightly tilt my face upwards until he can look me in the eyes. I know I should look away.

I don't.

"Well, we will have to do something about that then, won't we?"