Rescuing the Fallen Ch. 05

Author's Note: So we're back again. I know it's been a while, but finally I've gotten a chance to continue this story. As always, I feel the need to reiterate that the misogynistic views depicted in this story are terrible, but they are a necessary evil for the story I wish to tell.

As the author Daniel Handler once said, "I am at a loss for how to write villains who do not do villainous things." If you can't handle that, perhaps this story is not for you.

Anyway, as always, I respond to almost every comment I receive, so feel free to tell me your thoughts.

Enjoy:

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11) The Criminal.

Abigail

"So, you're certain that Agent Evans is not making any real progress?"

I can hear the voice, but I can't see its source. I know whom the words belong to, however. They flow out confidently with a powerful, heavy tone, which exudes a domineering sense of might. Of course they do. It's a male who is speaking. All the fibers of my being tell me that each and every syllable contains power... so much power. The words have authority over me. Every deep, masculine syllable that touches my ears reminds me that the speaker possesses a wellspring of unquestionable strength.

I feel a tremor of awe resonating throughout my being. A part of me finds this authority terrifying, but I work to remind myself that ultimately, it's comforting. I am a willing servant to the voice, and so I am safe from its fury. I find a deep sense of relief in that realization.

By now, I have come to understand that every man has a place over me. Of course, part of my mind has been insisting that for some time now, but Gregory, my former-Dearest, had ingrained in me the idea that he was the one that I should serve above all. The past few weeks have helped me to fully comprehend that it wasn't just him that I needed to cower beneath. I am the ground for the heel of every man. Even this one.

This male, Bogart, Gregory... every single man is my ruler, and I am merely a worthless, mousey underling. Even Thomas Evans... that bastard who wants to give all women back their rights and take away the constant pleasure that our servitude affords us... even he holds a place above me. He rejected my attempts to service him; of course, that was his prerogative as one of my masters. His decision to spurn my advances wounded me to my soul, but it was a perfect chance to show me how lowly and pathetic I am.

The voice speaks again, resonating with a dominant magnetism. "I understand that he seems to be struggling, but I'm worried that he may hit upon something useful to his goals. We can't risk Thomas making some seemingly innocuous discovery and sharing it with others. Any tiny chink in the payload is a threat to our beautiful status quo. You don't think that he could possibly be on the verge of a breakthrough?"

Honestly, I would never in my life have expected to hear this particular man in my current location. At the moment, I'm in Bogart's office. A field office of the FBI is not a place where one expects to hear such a sinister, evil person.

It isn't my place to judge, obviously. With all of my proper training, I am aware that I can never question him or the validity of his words, and yet I still know that he is a wicked, heinous being. The fact that he is one of my masters changes nothing. In a world where the weaker sex has been fully and irrevocably subjugated, I still believe that there is an objective morality that exists. I mean, it isn't my place to care, and I'm powerless to do anything about it, obviously; just the same, I am still capable of knowing these things. No man has yet told me to stop, so I continue to ponder them.

It goes without saying that I am merely a tool, to be used at the behest of a man. Men are responsible for both their actions and the actions of their possessions. And as a possession, I am free from responsibility and guilt. This is a good thing, honestly. Because if I am ordered to do something terrible, of course I will do it, and I will probably revel in it. It feels incredible to be used. That's just the way of the world now. I don't need to feel any sense of shame for my actions, because they were not based on my own decisions.

I imagine a hammer, somehow granted sentience by a trickster god. If the hammer was used to build a beautiful home, could it somehow claim credit for the construction of the house? Not really. It was only a single implement utilized by the craftsman to accomplish the task. On the other hand, if the hammer were used to cave in the skull of another man or a child, could the hammer be held responsible? No. It would only be the murderer who could be blamed.

The same applies to me. If I am commanded to obey an evil request, I am not guilty. Such burdens are no longer mine to endure. I must simply accomplish my tasks as they are given to me and enjoy the delectable reward. What a blissful place in the world that I've been allowed to hold. I simply serve my masters and soak in all of the cerebral rapture as it floods in.

Somewhere, from the deepest cavern of my brain, a tiny, hideous thought flairs. 'I am responsible for my actions. I am to blame for my own wickedness; I cannot dodge accountability for any of my misdeeds.'

I shake my head forcefully, trying to banish such unfathomable thoughts from my mind. 'I cannot be guilty if I merely serve! I cannot be guilty, if I merely serve!' I continue repeating these thoughts within my mind, and they work their way out in a gentle hum. I silence the sounds immediately, however. Women should never speak without permission.

My eyes close, and I stifle a contented sigh, as these wise thoughts send a pleasant, soothing sensation rippling throughout my body. I grin slightly. It is a bit difficult to form a true smile, with my mouth spread as it is. Dearest is currently stretching my lips uncomfortably far apart, but that's a good thing. Ultimately, I know that any discomfort I experience is worth it, when you consider how nice it must feel for Dearest. While not particularly rigid at the moment, I do continue to gently suckle... I never know when Dearest might stiffen up a bit, and I can put my skills to work, granting yet another climax and receiving the delicious reward that comes with such a doting job well done.

"Dearest" isn't my name for Bogart, incidentally. Surprisingly, he has not requested any special name. No, "Dearest" is my name for Bogart's cock... it's the name he demands I use. So I continue to work, making sure that Dearest receives all the tender, wet stimulation that it deserves. The base of the shaft is unbelievably hairy. When his cock is flaccid, it sits so close to his bushy sack that I'm reminded of the sensation of kissing a shaggy dog. I doubt that he's ever groomed in his life, and his natural musk is almost overwhelming.

Of course, there is a deep and insistent part of my mind that reminds me that all of these "short-comings" only improve the quality of my servitude. If Bogart were more attractive, or if he groomed, or if his body odor was more pleasant, then it might seem like I was doing all of this down here for my own sexual gratification. And that would be all wrong. A subservient woman doesn't pleasure a man for selfish reasons... she does it because it's right and proper. The fact that it is ultimately the hottest, most disgustingly erotic experience that she's capable of participating in... that is merely coincidental.

Reassuring endorphins flood outward from my properly programmed mind. I don't fully understand how I know that this is happening, but I do, and I revel in it. I'm sure that I was aware at some point, long ago, but such concepts baffle me now. Why should I focus on them? They're irrelevant to mine or Dearest's pleasure. The voices continue over the sounds of my soft ministrations, and a lazy part of my mind tunes in.

I can sense Bogart shaking his head. "No, Agent Evans has almost reached a standstill. Multiple factors have worked to hamper his efforts. He finally gave in and collared his wife, and he also collared another beautiful, young slut... he's probably fucking that bitch's brains out as we speak."

"Is that so?"

"Yes," Bogart chuckles, although I sense something that resembles envy in the sound. "I can't imagine Thomas trying to end the payload now; it would mean he'd have to give up that hot piece of ass. Of course, he claims that he hasn't touched her, but I think we all know that's bullshit. Tom's been struggling with tons of subtle obstacles, almost all of which were placed in his way by me." Bogart chortles again, and the prideful satisfaction is obvious in his voice.

"I see. How interesting that you take the majority of the credit for his failure," the unseen speaker muses, and my brain conjures up the image of its owner. Nicholas Gambini; as the name touches my consciousness, I feel a tremor of awe and fear within my spine.

His face materializes within my mind automatically. I can see his square and incredibly masculine jawline. He has a darkly handsome visage, edged by a full head of pitch black hair. His deep, steely eyes have an uncomfortable way of watching others. I have only seen him once, years ago, at an arraignment during which he successfully dodged prosecution. I think... it can be so hard to remember such silly things now. I certainly doubt he remembers me, but I could never forget a face as striking as his.

I know that Gambini is many things to me. He is a master, ruler, and an irrefutable authority figure. He is many other things as well. Criminal mastermind, head of an organized crime family, and perhaps a murderer too... if the Bureau's intel is correct. None of that affects me directly, though. Such matters are far above my station, but that doesn't mean I can't understand them in a general, passive way.

Bogart lets out a huff that I can feel inside my mouth. "I can take credit for his failures, because I have been orchestrating them from the start. I have placed other like-minded parties in his way, which slow him down more than I could alone. I've been able to ensure that every other agent on the case shares our opinions on the payload, and I've been slowly increasing Evan's workload with other irrelevant tasks. Lastly, I have an ace in the hole, you might say... an extra bit of insurance that allows me to get daily, precise reports about his progress. Or lack thereof. Much more information than anyone else would get by reading the official reports that Evans releases."

"You're referring to Agent James Owens, correct? Your little double agent?" There is a smug tone in Gambini's voice, which I recognize immediately. It is so self assured and prideful. His words contain the type of inflection that a man might use when speaking to someone of an infinitely lower station... like a woman, perhaps, or a dog.

But he isn't speaking to a pet or a canine. He's speaking to Bogart, and I can feel Dearest retract ever so slightly. It's a tiny gesture... but the human mouth is incredibly sensitive.

"How did you know about him!?" My master snaps and shifts in his seat uncomfortably, and Dearest almost slips from my lips. I work quickly to adjust; I don't want to let the stubby little thing get away.

"I have other means of getting information, besides you, Bogart. You would be wise to remember that. I know that James pretends to hate the payload, and I suppose he has that idiot Thomas fooled. But I am also aware that he has two collared women in that hotel room with him." I hear Nicholas' chair creak as he leans it backward with a sigh. "Bogart, look. I realize that the Bureau views me as a threat, and of course in most matters the FBI's goals are... let us say, misaligned with my own. While we do happen to agree on the payload for the most part, you'll understand if I don't exactly trust you or your people."

"I see."

"Naturally. I need to keep my ear to the ground in all things. You don't get to where I am by trusting the Feds. You understand."

As the talking continues, my mind drifts back to my own situation. Their conversation isn't really something that I have to worry about. Sometimes I like to listen in, but it's like a child listening in on her parents' financial discussions. I have no say in the proceedings, and I doubt my dim, feminine mind could comprehend it fully, anyway. It's best if I concentrate on my own interests... and Dearest's, of course.

My knees are getting incredibly sore. This is unsurprising, considering the fact that I've been kneeling beneath Bogart's desk for hours, slowly servicing him. He still isn't particularly hard at the moment, but I've continued gently lavishing on Dearest with my warm, wet mouth. I know that it's a proper place for me, but part of me wishes that I wasn't stuffed down here. If I was allowed to move around more, I might be able to serve Bogart and Dearest even better. Sometimes when I really get going, my head bumps the underside of the table. Bogart hates that, so I always work to prevent it.

Of course, I'm not alone underneath this desk. Blair is with me. One would assume that it would be incredibly cramped with the two of us stuffed under here; that isn't the case, however. Bogart's desk is absolutely massive. You could probably fit another person easily. Discomfort aside, I do love it here. What a joy it is, to be in a place so low, doing a job that you know that you can handle completely, with no chance of error.

In the past, back when I pretended that I was a Federal Agent, I used to worry about success. I used to think that if I failed in my endeavors, criminals would go free... but those stresses no longer plague me anymore. Now all I have to worry about is pleasuring Dearest. If I can please every nerve ending within its length, then I will know that I have accomplished everything that is ever required of me. It's so lovely to be able to know with certainty that you can succeed in life. No more concerns about what decisions I should make. Everything is so simple. So easy. And so fucking hot.

Of course, Bogart does require me to work endlessly at his home, cleaning and doing all the housework. He also requires me to entertain a seemingly endless number of male guests that stop by. It seems that all of my time is spent on my knees. I'm either on the floor scrubbing the tile, or I'm on all fours getting my holes filled. In all honesty, it hardly matters to me. I am serving regardless, and it feels amazing simply to obey.

Blair is hard at work as well, polishing Bogart's black leather shoes with her tongue. There is a clear look of subservient pleasure in her eyes. The sounds of her passionate ministrations are muffled, but I'm so close that I can hear them clearly, even over the two men having their discussion.

Without warning, Dearest begins to harden slightly, and I pick up my pace, trying to increase his pleasure as quickly as possible. His fat prick elongates, dragging along my tongue as it grows. I can sense as Bogart tries to stifle a shiver of excitement; he only partially succeeds.

Gambini is speaking about Thomas and James; I think, but he halts abruptly. "Bogart, you realize I'm a busy man, right? I give you the respect to come down here PERSONALLY, instead of sending one of my men, and you won't even have the fucking common courtesy to wait until I leave before you get your dick sucked? Shit."

There is an embarrassed inflection in Bogart's voice as he retorts, "Hey, I'm trying to train this bitch on the proper way to treat her owner, and..."

"Yeah, and...?" Nicholas interrupts, his deep voice flavored with annoyance. "Do you know how many women I have ready for my cock at a moment's notice? Unlike you, I had ladies begging to please me BEFORE they lost all of their free will. And still, I have the damn tact to wait until I'm not in a fucking meeting to enjoy my playthings."

"I bet you've never had a Federal Agent sucking you off, though." With this boast, the cock within my mouth stands at full attention; it's instantaneously hard as steel. Looking up, I can see an evil look of pride beaming from Bogart's face. It sickens me, and it thrills me as well. "Yeah, I've got two federal agents under this desk. So excuse me if I want to take full advantage of their services. This meeting was unscheduled. I don't have to apologize to you."

Gambini clicks his tongue thoughtfully. "You know, I guess you've got me there. I've never had an FBI agent tend to my needs. Until now, I'd never really given it any thought. But now that you mention it, I think I'm interested in experiencing what the Bureau has to offer. There's a dark sense of poetry to that. Who do you have down there, anyway?"

The pure sense of egotistical glee emanating from Bogart is palpable. Somehow I can taste it, even as I taste the rest of Dearest. His eyes are windows into his prideful soul, and his grin is dripping with dark delight.

"Agents Jones and Harris."

"Abigail Harris?!" Gambini exclaims. "Hmmm... that blonde-haired angel must genuinely be a treat!"

Even as I continue cramming the cock into my face, I can feel my pulse quicken. How could Nicholas remember me, after all this time? It's been years since I've seen him, and somehow he knows me by my full name? Part of my mind thrums, reminding me that this is obvious. He is a man. Obviously, he's wiser than me; he would remember so much more than I would. It's part of the reason he is one of my masters.

"Yes... Abigail Harris." Bogart is doing his best to keep his voice calm and even, but I have already begun working overtime as I suck him. My orders have not changed; I'm trying my hardest to make him climax yet again. I can see his fingernails gripping into the arms of his desk chair.

"Hmmm... do you think that I could steal her away from you? Just for a day or so? I assure you that I will compensate you for her service, and... DAMMIT, BOGART! TELL HER TO STOP FOR ONE FUCKING SECOND! I'm trying to have a goddamn conversation with you!" There is a terrifying power in that simple command. The words are dripping with authority.

With a disappointed grunt, Bogart pats my head, motioning for me to stop. I bring my lips to rest at the base of his bushy cock, and I struggle to look up at him over the flab of his jutting belly.

"Abigail, go over to Mr Nicholas. Blair, take over for her."

Before I can even fully move, Blair pushes me aside, latching onto Bogart's chubby dick like a hungry piglet. Her dark, curly hair is peppered with floor lint from the time she spent tonguing our master's shoes. I can see her eyes rolling back in her head; the ecstasy of servitude is rewarding her body, as she's upgraded from shoe cleaner to cock sucker. She goes to work immediately, dragging her soft mouth over the cockhead with a determined sense of purpose. She is well trained.

Bogart slides his chair backwards and allows me to slip out from under the desk. Blair trails behind him, her lips holding a vacuum suction on the source of her pleasure. She's already begun rapidly fellating on Dearest, and I can feel a twinge of jealousy rising within my mind. I did all the hard work to get Dearest stiff again, and now she's going to reap my reward. That bitch.

All of my envy vanishes immediately as soon as I turn to look at Nicholas. His silvery blue eyes bore into my soul, and I lower my gaze immediately; I am unable to maintain eye contact with him. He is still glaring at me with an unknowable gleam in his eye.

He has not changed since the last time I saw him. Impeccably dressed in an expensive suit, with a full, jet black head of hair, which has not yet begun to show any gray; it is styled to perfection. His face is clean shaven, and it reveals every attractive inch of his stunning visage. His mere presence exudes masculinity, in a way that Bogart could never hope to achieve.