The Venture Bros, Brock/Molotov, bondage Interrogation
“You are making this harder than necessary, Samson,” Molotov said as she twisted the tip of her dagger lightly against her index finger, bored. “Tell me what I want to know, and then I can kill you, save us both some time.”
“Rot in hell, bitch,” Brock answered, blood dripping out of the corners of his mouth as he sneered. His shoulders were dislocated and aching, and he was pretty sure that she’d broken at least three of his ribs, but he ignored all of this to pour as much venom as possible into his words.
Molotov was not put off. “Oh, that is not nice, baby,” she said sardonically, pursing her lips -- and Brock barely restrained a groan, her lips were so perfect and red and god he wanted to see them wrapped around his cock, he could only imagine the lipstick rings she would leave behind.
She did not seem to notice his difficulty, and instead sighed. “Why can’t you just play nice?” she asked, as if his behaviour was some terrible burden she was being forced to bear, and slowly began sashaying toward him. “I would not have to tie you to the wall if you would only behave like a good boy. Don’t you want to be a good boy?”
This game of hers was becoming way too much for Brock to handle, and so he just growled and bared his teeth, struggling against the ropes binding him to the wall. Molotov smiled a little as she approached him, until she was right in front of him, less than a half a foot away. “Losing your resolve, my Samson?” she asked quietly, hooking her first two fingers under his belt buckle, the only article of his clothing that was still fully intact, and pulling a little, looking up at him.
Brock forced himself to continue glaring, despite what she was doing. Molotov didn’t seem to care. “I think you are, my Samson, my good boy,” she continued, her voice and eyelids both lowering a bit, and she undid his belt buckle before sliding her palm up the line of his erection in his jeans.
“Molotov,” he mumbled, voice wavering a little despite himself, unable to look away from her hands. God, her nails were the same fuck-me red as her lips, it was killing him.
She smiled a little more, and nodded, bending to press her lips against his navel, exposed where the cotton of his tee shirt had torn, continuing to run her hand up and down the length of the bulge in his jeans. “Da?”
Brock groaned, unable to control it anymore, and gave up, because maybe she’d be pleased enough by an answer to let him come. “I... sixteen hundred hours, Friday. Latitude 25.84, longitude -80.19,” he said, then sighed and added, almost inaudibly, “Please?”
Grinning widely, Molotov laughed, twirled her dagger in her free hand, and drove it into his kidney. “Thank you, my Samson,” she called over his screaming, then spun and walked away, ponytail swinging in time with her hips, her skin speckled with his blood.
When Hunter found him and pulled him down off the wall forty-five minutes later, Brock still had a hard-on.