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“President Zuko was not available to join us, so I had to reschedule… Yes, I am aware that this matter is important, but our meeting with everyone else was cut short because… No, no, I left right away, I’m just swinging by my home to pick up some stuff, so don’t wait on me.”
The sound of the call being cut off follows shortly after, and Katara sighs. She says something to him as well, but Zuko finds himself a little busy at the moment.
When Katara shifts in her seat, he chokes, the strap buried in his throat threatening to push deeper. His eyes go wide, and he thinks he is running out of breath. Nimble, deceptively gentle fingers tangle in his hair and Katara shushes him. He tries to calm down, blinks away the tears – it was a change of pace from simply keeping her strap warm for the past hour.
Her soft breath feels closer to his skin now, but… it’s condescending. It’s not meant to be calming. There is amusement in her cooing over his struggling to regain his composure around the length keeping his throat stretched, his lips numb with the girth of it, his own drool pooling onto her pristine, navy slacks, all over his chin and cheek. Katara is grinning at him, all sharp and mean.
And Zuko is losing his mind.
“There, there, you were nice and quiet before. Don’t get fussy on me now, President.”
The title stings, and, if possible, his cheeks get redder with embarrassment. He thinks someone could fry an egg on his face, but Katara continues staring at him, drinking him in, as if he is a meal, an exquisite treat she is waiting to devour.
“But I have to admit… I bet you’re getting bored, aren’t you?” There must be something on his face, because her grin widens. “We should have some more fun then, shouldn’t we?”
He squirms, but doesn’t get far.
Kneeling on the floor of his own office, hunched under his own desk with Katara’s dick down his throat, while his knees chafe on the blazer she’d put under him to try and save his skin from the worst of the carpet, Zuko has forgotten. He risks a glance up at her, eyes teary, throat protesting at the movement, and when it happens again, he goes a little cross-eyed.
The plug in him vibrates harder this time. His tender insides clench, trying to pull it in deeper, push it out, he doesn’t know. It’s been nestled in his hole for so long, its presence had blended in with everything else: the hands tangled in his hair, the nails scratching down the nape of his neck, the tie holding his wrists together, his own dick straining against his boxers, the pants still tangled around one of his ankles, Katara’s cock, tasting of lube and silicone and his own spit bullying its way past his lip, his gag reflex–
“Are you still with me?”
Thunderous, almost. Her voice is deep, like the ocean in her eyes, and so, so sharp. Zuko thinks he would plead if he could. He’s lost track of time, only a pretty thing to look at for her whilst she worked, only entertainment, to keep her hands busy. She’d been alternating between phone calls, quiet humming, clacking away at her laptop keyboard, the noise of pen scratching on paper – everything he was also supposed to be doing.
Instead of that, of the diligent work his employees expected of him, all he was doing was debasing himself on his girlfriend’s cock.
Squirming again doesn’t get him anywhere, the plug shifting against his sensitive walls. His rim still drips with the excess of lube she’d made him use, and it mortifies him, how good this all feels. The vibrations knock it against his prostate, and he lets out a squeak, a high-pitched noise that has Katara narrowing her eyes.
“I asked you a question, Zuko.” This time, meaner, somehow, even though the tone is softer. She scoffs and turns off the plug. He tries to hold the noise in, but the disappointed whine still pushes through.
It serves him no good.
“You little whore, you should start talking soon.” A condescending, humiliating pat, against his cheek, the way you’d nudge a dog in the right direction. It makes his blood boil.
Sometimes he wishes she’d slap him harder, thinks he deserves it, for being… Katara refuses to entertain such thoughts. She’d do nothing that would further them, and Zuko loves her so much, it chokes him.
“Are you that stupid?” She asks. Zuko tries to keep up, but it’s then Katara starts moving. He’s been holding her in his mouth for so long, it takes him by surprise. He struggles to keep up with the pace, but she doesn’t let him adjust. She gives him a few staccato thrusts, before falling into a rhythm of sinuous, lazy movements, forcing her cock into his well-used mouth. “I haven’t even fucked you yet, and you’re acting like this. Moaning when you have nothing inside you, dripping wet all over your own floors. Look, you ruined my pants too.”
The hand in his hair, the hand he’d forgotten about, abruptly pulls him off. He coughs, tries to catch his breath, his hands struggling against the restraints.
“I said look, Zuko.”
Her voice is almost a growl, a satisfied curl to her lips. He forces his eyes open and is met with a wet patch against Katara’s thigh. Already a dark blue, the fabric isn’t that much worse, but the knowledge that it’s there, that he did that, sets his nerves on fire. He whines.
“Oh? You like that? You like being this much of a slut? How sloppy.”
Zuko wants to look away, close his eyes. Katara doesn’t let him, pulling on his hair again, forcing him to meet her eye. It’s unfair, how put-together she looks, whereas he feels filthy; tender, like a raw nerve, both his holes stretched, ready for her to make use of. Like a toy. Like a prized pet.
It’s a wonder he can still form coherent thoughts.
“Once more, I ask you a question and all you do is stare dumbly. Are you good for nothing, Zuko? I asked, do you like choking on cock all day?”
Of course, the answer Katara wants to hear, the only answer she’ll accept, is a polite yes. A smile, maybe. He gulps.
“P-please…”
A hm. “You can do better.”
It feels challenging. He narrows his eyes. Maybe he can do better than yes.
“I do. I do, please. I like choking on– on cock all day, please, I love it. Use me, Kat, fuck me, please.”
For a brief second, her eyes widen and she exhales shakily. It’s triumph, and maybe his smugness shows on his face. It’s proof she’s not as unaffected as she’s acting.
In a second, it shifts into something else.
The satisfaction in her eyes is unmistakable, and this time, her hand rests on his cheek, wiping away tears he hadn’t even noticed slipping down his face. The spit has yet to dry on his face, a nasty squelch when Katara moves her hand. She grips his chin, fingers digging against his throat as she pushes against his bottom lip with her thumb. He watches her watch him. Her eyes are trained on his mouth, and he already knows what it must look like, plush lips, raw, swollen and wet and pink.
A thumb pushes inside, and he opens his mouth obediently, letting it press against his tongue. His breath is heavy, her own hot puffs of air hitting his heated skin. She shifts her hand, replacing the thumb with two fingers, and he suckles on them immediately, a practised motion, swirling his tongue, coating them with drool. She smiles at him, all teeth, sending shivers of anticipation down his spine.
“You’re so lucky you’re this pretty,” she murmurs. Her voice is husky, and it all feels like she’s holding herself back. His fingers twitch. “You were made for this, to have something in your mouth at all times. It’s much better for this than for talking. You’re just a pretty doll, aren’t you?”
Zuko closes his eyes, allowing her words to wash over him. This time, he isn’t chastised for it, and she adds another finger, and another, pumping them in and out of his mouth. They’re long, but not as long as her dick, and he lets her use him, use his mouth, just as he’d asked. It’s grounding, in a way. He trusts her with his life, and she gives back tenfold for that trust, makes him feel so, so good.
He feels tiny. Small, safe, kept here, between her legs, under his desk, it’s as though he is disconnected from the rest of the world, and he relishes the emotion. His skin is thrumming with pleasure, with tension, with the need for release. He wants to be bent over that damned desk, fucked within an inch of his life. He wants her to sit on his face, let him taste her, let him taste her skin, make him forget his own name. He wants her to drain him, he wants to be good, to be of service, to–
“Do you want it, Zuko? Do you want me to fuck your throat? Stretch it out, give it to you good, the way you need it? I’ll fuck your other hole too, later, if you’re good.”
He nods so fast it takes her by surprise and he unexpectedly chokes on her fingers, a brief flash of panic, replaced by lazy embarrassment. She pulls her hand away, and can’t hold back a snort. Once he’s calmed down, he chuckles with her, and shakes his head in defeat.
“Sorry,” she says.
“It’s alright,” he reassures her. “Please keep going.”
“Colour?”
“Insanely green.”
Katara stands, and like this, she towers over him. Her shirt, unbuttoned, reveals her breasts, and her slacks are pulled down just enough to pull out the strap. Her hair is still in its neat bun. It would take her mere moments to look presentable enough to lead a meeting.
Zuko probably looks like you could pick him up off of the street for a good time.
“Of course you do. Come here, open your mouth.”
Unlike him, Katara doesn’t seem to think his mouth is wet enough. An easy fix, Zuko realises, cheeks aflame. Her spit lands on his tongue, and he exhales shakily, tries to think of anything, of Uncle Iroh in an onsen, his father, to try not to cum then and there. She doesn’t let him swallow.
“Why don’t you ask me politely to fuck your throat?”
The attempt is honourable, but all he manages is babbles, senseless and shameful. Katara laughs, making him out to be some horny teenager, a pervert who can’t think without cock in him, and Zuko feels the tears pricking at the edges of his vision. However, the aborted attempts at begging seem to be enough, because a few adjustments later, there are hands in his hair, a dick on his tongue and the next thing he knows he is being facefucked into the next decade.
He struggles to breathe through the rough pace, the strap bullying its way into his throat, before being abruptly ripped out. He clenches his eyes, pinching the skin of his wrist to hold back his orgasm. It’s embarrassingly close, so close to the edge, just from this, the plug buzzing away inside him. Without realising, his hips begin to move on their own, small thrusts into nothing, as the wet patch on his boxers grows larger, his dick weeping with need.
“There you go,” Katara says, somewhat out of breath. Her grip on his hair tightens, and one of her hands trails down his face, tracing his stretched lips. She pushes almost the entire thing in, keeps it there. Zuko tries to swallow, to regain some of his awareness, as she trails her fingers around his mouth. “Look how well you take it, doll, what a good girl.”
Zuko whines, a high-pitched sound, drawn-out. Oh. Katara arches a sharp eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of her deep-red lips. Zuko himself preferred lighter colours of lip tint, but he thinks you wouldn’t be able to guess that now.
Just as he has grounded himself, one of Katara’s finger pulls at his mouth. His eyes widen, and his breath picks up, heaving as she pushes it in alongside her strap.
It punches a groan out of her, the sight.
“You’re so beautiful,” she tells him, and he whimpers. “Imagine. This is how I’ll stretch your hole, later. I can’t wait, I can’t wait to have you on my dick, your mouth free to let out all these pretty noises.”
Then do it, he wants to scream.
“What would your poor secretaries think, hm? For all they know, you’re signing agreements. Reviewing meeting notes, taking phone calls. Look at you, all you’re taking right now is my dick, like the pretty doll you are.” She draws in a sharp breath, pulling out her finger. “What would they do, if they saw how gorgeous you looked like this, empty-headed, eager to please? A shame they won’t… you’re mine to use, aren’t you?”
Words fail him. His head is filled with static, and it’s like he is underwater beneath her hands. Buried by waves of pleasure, of her dominance, her strong hold. Katara’s eyes are feral.
“I’ll give it to you. I’ll fuck you right here, on his desk of yours. Make you hold yourself open, watch your hole clench around nothing, make you beg, ask nicely. You’ll ask me nicely, won’t you? You’ll be good, won’t you?”
Two things happen at once, and Zuko thinks he blacks out for a few minutes.
Abruptly, Katara resumes her thrusts, the earlier movements, just as fast. At the same time, the plug is turned back on, the highest setting, and Zuko can’t hold it back this time.
He arches his back with a loud moan, a scream muffled only by the cock down his throat, one that must’ve been heard from outside the office. Her earlier words float around his mind, and he squeezes his eyes shut. Katara lets him, keeps the vibrations on, keeps pumping her hips.
His vision goes white, as he shakes through the orgasm, a wail pushing its way past his lips. It washes over him, and he slumps, like a puppet with its strings cut. When Katara pulls out, a lazy smile stretches over his face, a faraway look in his eyes before the vibrations push him into the pleasurable pain of overstimulation. He whines, like a kicked dog, and tries to free his hands, to clutch at Katara’s legs.
“T-turn it off…” he whispers. His voice is rough, deep and husky, and it shocks him. His throat must be ruined. “Turn it off, fuck, Kat, please–”
“Turn it off?” A scoff, before Katara’s boot nudges his cock. He gasps, and his dick gives an interested kick, despite having just cum. The boxers feel disgusting against his heated skin, with the rapidly cooling fluid, but he can’t do much. Katara doesn’t remove her foot as she asks: “Weren’t you just moaning like a bitch in heat to get fucked?”
“Please, it’s… it’s different, please, you can fuck me later, please, turn it off.”
He could say it, the one word it would take for her to stop.
It doesn’t even cross his mind.
Katara laughs. “Of course I can fuck you. I don’t need approval, do I? You’re so needy.”
“Yes, yes, please…”
“Then I’ll fuck you, until I’m satisfied. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
His sobs cease at once with the plug, and he exhales.
“There, there. I’ll give you what you want, doll. Get up.”
It takes a lot of struggle and wobbly knees, but he manages to stand. Katara does not let him enjoy the victory, her calloused hand coming to rest at the small of his back. She pushes him down, laying his torso on the desk. The cold of the wood makes him hiss, and Katara shushes him, an apologetic caress to his flank.
He forces his eyes open, and he sees the clock on his desk, but his brain has yet to kick back in. It’s one of the last thoughts he has, before there is a hand gripping the edge of the plug.
“A-ah, ah, ah…”
“Shh, just relax, my love,” she whispers, like he is a wild animal, a scared beast that needs taming. He feels wild, he feels like he could crawl out of his skin, and the endorphins of the previous orgasm give way to sour desperation, as he starts getting hard again.
Zuko is making noise, he realises, as Katara plays with his rim, with the plug, a slow, tortuous game, probably ensuring he is plenty stretched. She pulls it out, keeps him stretched around the widest part of it, pushes it back in, against his sweet spot. Small whines, whimpers, choked off moans, as he tries to breathe, to think. It’s pathetic to his own ears, but it only serves to incite Katara further.
Gentle hands pat down his torso, a small massage to his shoulders. She works out the kinks, and all the tension leaves him as he lets out a small sigh. There is a water bottle brought up to his lips, and he gulps down a few hesitant sips. More pets, more water.
“Are you ready, doll?”
The question sounds innocent when she asks. It makes him nauseous, almost, how sweet she manages to make her voice. He loves her so much, it’s dizzying.
“Y-yeah.”
It’s all the approval she needs, before her hands turn rough. She grips the back of his neck, holds him down, and with her other hand grasps his hip, hard enough to bruise, her fingertips pushing deep into his skin, and he’s giddy at the thought of seeing purple bruises over his pale skin tomorrow.
The strap feels much bigger now than it had down his throat. It grazes his skin, barely, and he holds his breath. The reprieve she’d given him had brought his much needed awareness back, except now every sensation is so much… more.
Zuko thinks he feels every shift, every movement, her teasing growing insufferable.
And, gods above, is she teasing.
The head of the dildo keeps catching on his loosened rim, not quite pushing in, not quite sliding by. Her fingers flex on his nape, grip loosening and tightening in a completely arbitrary pattern. He suddenly wishes it were against his throat instead. It keeps him on edge, an edge he can’t wait to fall off of, if she’d just let him.
“Katara…”
When she answers, she lets out a genuinely surprised sound, as though, somehow, she’d forgotten about him. “Hm?”
He squeezes his eyes shut. “Please, Katara…”
“Please? Please what?” Before he can think, or talk or do anything, she speaks up again. “Didn’t we agree you need to tell me what you need? Ask politely?”
If Zuko were in different circumstances, he’d tell her to shove her politeness up her ass and get to work, but all he can do now is force his drained body to shift, allowing him to narrow his eyes at her over his shoulder. She seems delighted at his reaction.
"Fuck me," he says briskly, and she arches an eyebrow at him.
"Ooh, where's this attitude coming from? Maybe I should sit back in this chair and make you ride me. Maybe working for it will make you more grateful."
He thinks about it, lets the image settle in at the front of his mind. Katara, sprawled in his directorial chair, looking regal, authoritative, clad in her perfectly pressed navy slacks, her unbuttoned shirt. Resting her head on her hand. Him, naked, sweaty, dripping wet at both ends, bouncing himself on her cock, tongue lolling out, eyes rolled back.
A manicured hand coming up to twist his nipples, maybe wrap around his throat, like a collar.
The chair is big enough. It would be silent, save for his laboured breathing. The squelch of his hole. He'd have to beg for release, try and rub against her abdomen, maybe she'd let him.
"Fuck," he shivers at the thought. Katara grins at him, and he takes a moment to regulate his breathing. His cock is red, weeping at the tip, and he wants, needs to come again so badly.
"Ready to try again, doll?"
He swallows down the rest of his pride. "Kat… please fuck me, I need it. Give me your strap, make yourself feel good, use me, fuck me, just, please– nngh!"
His eyes widen when Katara pushes the whole thing, all six inches, inside in one go. The noise he makes is barely human, and he drops his forehead to the desk.
Katara is heaving too, at his back, her fingers rubbing soothing circles in his skin, her mouth tracing his spine, leaving behind open mouthed kisses. No matter how often they do this, the stretch still nearly sends him spiralling into an orgasm. He struggles for breath, his hole spasming frantically around the intrusion, both trying to push it back out and pull it deeper.
"Good girl," Katara says again, out of breath. Her voice is husky, and it makes him shiver. Another moment, and then she begins thrusting.
She sets a merciless pace from the start, no build-up to it aside from those first few seconds she gave him to adjust. She screws into him like he's nothing more than a toy. His toes curl and he bites his lip, as he squeezes his eyes shut in a desperate attempt to stay silent. He struggles to match her thrusts, but he stands no chance
And Katara notices his aborted movements, because of course she does.
"Pretty thing, no need to do all of that,” she scolds playfully. Despite her best attempts to see completely composed, Zuko can tell how affected she is. Her hips do not slow their movement as she adds, a condescending tone, “Why don’t you just lie there and take it– aah. You feel – so fucking good, so tight for me, yes? Just fucking take what I give you, like a good little bitch."
"H-harder…"
Her fingers tighten their grip, and he thinks he sees stars.
Zuko's nearly sliding up the desk with the force of her thrusts, the wood faintly creaking against the marble floors, but he can't quite bring himself to care about scratches or anyone who might be listening. He remembers once more how deceptive her smaller frame is, the strength it packs beneath lean muscles.
He's making noises, little ah, ah, ah's, interrupted by choked off moans. Katara's nearly growling behind him, huffing, hair finally falling out of its neat bun, and Zuko thinks he's going to burst out of his skin.
"I'm, I'm gonna cum–" He manages, and expects her to stop, to laugh at him, to make him beg again.
Instead she says, delighted, "Go ahead, doll. Cum as much as you want, I'm not stopping until I decide to."
Katara isn't much of a fan of denial the way he is, the way he enjoys it, needs it. He likes working for it, he likes earning it, and Katara indulges him, because it makes him happy. It makes him feel good, so they hash out scenes like that rather often.
So she ties him to the bed, to a chair, keeps him on edge for hours as she rides his cock or his mouth, as she pushes vibrators and dildos into him, makes him choke on her strap, makes him call her sir, makes him debase himself in the best ways.
Sometimes, though, when she's feeling particularly mean, when she has a difficult day at work, she pushes Zuko's face down on the bed, ass up, and fucks him until he can't quite form words anymore, can't quite remember how much he'd come, until she's satisfied that the only name in his head is hers.
Now, it seems to be one of those rare occasions.
His reaction to her words is immediate, and he clenches around the length, gasping. "K-Katara–"
All it takes is a brush of a hand against his dick for him to come. It hits him like a truck, and he lets out a high-pitched whine, his fingers tightening into fists, and he pulls on the tie holding them together so hard, he hears a distinct rip through the cotton in his ears. He doesn't quite blank out, but he does feel weightless for nearly a minute. Waves of pleasure wrack his body and his limbs feel numb with it.
As his thoughts start piecing themselves back together, and his senses fly back into his body, he realises that Katara is still going.
There is a more frantic edge to her rhythm now, as though his orgasm has given her reason to go harder.
"So gorgeous, Zuko. You sounded like a proper whore, you know that?"
Tears gather on his lashes, and Katara leans over him. She's not quite as tall as he is, and can't quite reach his ears, his neck, properly. Instead she ghosts her teeth all over the skin of his back, biting here and there, licking down the smooth planes of his hips.
"I can't get enough of you, doll. You're so sweet, so dirty, you were made to take cock, look at you. Filthy thing, make more noise for me, yeah?"
Consciously or not, Zuko thinks he obeys. He isn't sure he could not obey her words right now. With every thrust, he feels that delicious friction, the fake veins of the dildo dragging against his sensitive walls, the leftover lube dripping down his thighs. He is so wet, it’s mortifying, and he wants more, he wants it faster, harder, he–
To his horror, he realises his cock is filling up again as the hunger pools in his stomach.
The sounds coming from his hole are obscene, and they make his cheeks burn even hotter. Sweat drips down his temple, and he realises he's drooling, his mouth not quite closing anymore.
Katara trails her hand down from his nape down his spine, to the small of his back, her short, blunt, nails leaving traces of lube down his skin, making him hiss at the chill. "Imagine if I had a real dick. I'd come inside you, fill you up, wouldn't you love that? Leave you dripping, fuck–"
The mental imagery of that is enough to have his own cock weeping again, and he wants to get a hand on it so badly, but his wrists are still tied.
She's avoiding his prostate, he can tell, the deliberate angle of her thrusts. She's probably worried about over stimulating him too much, but if he had the strength, he’d probably start begging again, but his tongue is heavy in his mouth.
Still.
"F-fuck Kat, choke me, please–"
This time, at least, she doesn't have anything mean to say about it.
Katara brings her hand up with little finesse. She shifts somewhat, to comfortably get her hand around his throat, but when she does, she gives an experimental little squeeze. She won't properly choke him properly, he knows, with so little control over the situation, but the loose grip she has on him is comforting enough.
It’s enough to drive Zuko insane with lust. His dick nearly hurts with the need for release.
He briefly considers what people would say if they were to walk in. What they'd see. Katara, proper and elegant, him, fucked open and bruised, moaning and crying like a bitch in heat. He knows it won't happen, that Katara won't let it happen, but the possibility is enough of a drug.
Her infernal pace stops, and she grinds down, against the bundle of nerves that makes him see stats. Zuko clenches around the dildo, wines low in his throat, trying to get her to resume her pace.
Katara seems to have other ideas.
"Maybe I should bring you to meetings just for this,” she mutters thoughtfully. Zuko’s breath hitches. “Make you suck me off, push you over the table, put you in my lap. You'd love it, anything to get your hole stretched."
"Fucking hell–aah, keep going–"
“At home. I'll– I'll get the red strap, the one with the suction cup. Put you in the office, make you ride it while I work. Give me something pretty to look at. Would you like that better? I'll take a phone call, and you'll have to be very quiet."
"I'm gonna come again, fuck…"
"What an easy slut you are, cheap thing. Go on, doll, go ahead, come."
"Kiss me, Kat, please–"
It takes a little adjusting, and he thinks she's standing on her tiptoes (cute) but then there's a mouth on his, a hot, wet tongue bullying its way past his bruised lips, the grip on his neck tightens and there's another hand on his dick, quick, sharp pulls on his heated skin, and it’s all he needs before he's cumming and cumming–
The thrusts resume abruptly, alternating with rough grinding, likely Katara getting off against the bottom of the strap before she, too, is letting out a breath, a moan, "Zuko–"
Things go fuzzy for a while, before he's able to catch his breath. He realises Katara has since stopped and pulled out, his stretched hole clenching around nothing, the cold air settling against his sweaty, overheated skin. His hands have been untied, and she's rubbing his chafed skin.
"You with me again, love?"
All he can manage is a soft mhm, before there's a chuckle and a peck on his cheek. “Let’s get ourselves cleaned up then.”
Zuko tries to work his jaw into forming actual words, and it takes a long second before he’s able to mumble, “You’re gonna have to do that on your own… just saying – not my fault.”
She laughs, light and airy. “Yes, yes, blame me. I was the one saying ‘harder, faster’ just seconds ago. Begging even. I was a real menace.”
Zuko groans. “You’re insufferable.”
“I am, now up you go. Let’s stop by your Uncle’s, get some tea.”
“...would really not rather see my uncle right now.”
“...right. Pizza?”