Alternative Part three of the boys getting dosed by Truth Serum but instead of Soap and Ghost, it was Price
Through the one way glass, you watched Captain John Price sit in the interrogation chair. He wasn’t the one being questioned, that privilege had belonged to a Konni courier who’d breathed something in the holding cell and started singing like a canary before she face planted.
Then you watched Price inhale a lungful of the same shimmering mist as he hauled the woman out.
“Truth serum,” Laswell had muttered, already on comms with medical. “As the name implies it compels honesty. Doesn’t impair cognition. Side effects include sweating, blushing, and unwanted life choices.”
“Brilliant,” Gaz said. “So like tequila, but without the dancing.”
They pulled Price out when it became clear the courier was done and the only man suffering in there was the one suddenly not allowing himself to speak. His jaw was locked so hard the tendon stood out like a steel cable. He took one look at you through the glass and looked away, like the sun hurt.
“Cap.” Soap did an uncertain little wave. “How we doin’?”
Price held a thumb up. Then lowered it. Then stuck it halfway. He wasn’t sweating. He was steaming.
Ghost dragged in a chair and plunked it behind him. “Sit.”
Price sat. Forearms on thighs. Hands braced. Eyes closed like he was negotiating with God.
Ghost set a water bottle at his boot and helpfully placed a brand new roll of duct tape on the table.
Price didn’t look at the tape. He put a pencil crosswise between his molars like a bit, clasped his hands together, and settled into the purity of not saying a single word.
You tried to keep your face neutral, clipboard steady. It would be fine. You’d all been exposed to worse in the field. And, as Laswell had said, cognition intact. He could choose not to talk.
“Right,” Gaz whispered, leaning in at your shoulder. “Worst case, he confesses to… I dunno… tax evasion?”
“Arson,” Soap offered. “At the 2018 holiday party. There’s a spark in his eye.”
Ghost cocked his head. “He’ll say he doesn’t actually like us.”
“John?” Laswell tried first. “Vitals feel okay? Nod or shake.”
“Good. We’ll keep it yes/no, then.” And then because she couldn’t help herself. “Crimes you’d like to disclose?”
Price side eyed her like she’d asked if he flossed. Shake.
Soap folded his arms. “He’s gonna break on ‘I once hotboxed a Land Rover.’”
Price’s knuckles went white. The pencil groaned between his molars like a tree in a gale. A vein in his temple ticked; sweat gathered at his hairline and crawled down the sideburn into his beard. He squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, shut them again like maybe if he blinked hard enough he could reboot his soul.
“He’s blanching like a Victorian heroine,” Gaz whispered, delighted.
Soap leaned in, elbows down. “Blink if ye need a priest, Cap.”
“John,” Laswell said, calm in the way of someone spiritually clocking out, “please continue not talking if that’s your choice.”
Price rolled his shoulders back like he was trying to lower his resting truth rate. His hands laced together so hard the knuckles bulged, tendons like cable. He refused to look at you. He looked near you: at your clipboard, your sleeve, the smear of light on the glass.
Soap nudged Gaz. “Ask him something mean.”
Gaz nodded, solemn. “Captain, do you secretly not give a toss about us?”
Price stared at Gaz, then Ghost, then Soap, then briefly, fatally at you. He gave a single, stubborn shake no.
Ghost raised a brow. “We all heard the swallow. He’s on the ropes.”
Price took the pencil out just long enough to flex his jaw. The joint popped like a knuckle. He put the pencil back and bit down harder. His thigh bounced once. Twice. His shirt stuck to him at the chest. The truth wanted out.
Soap slid a legal pad toward him. “Write it, then. Honesty tae paper.”
Price pushed the pad back with one furious finger. No.
Then your pen slipped from your clipboard, clacked across the tile, and his control detonated like a landmine.
The pencil dropped. He sat forward, elbows on his knees, head down, and spoke in a low, wrecked voice that felt like it had been waiting behind his teeth for a year:
“I want you to call me Daddy.”
Your soul tripped over its own shoes. Gaz made a kettle noise. Soap slapped both hands over his mouth like he’d just watched a penguin ride a skateboard. Ghost sat perfectly still, eyes bright.
Then, very calmly, like a woman choosing peace, she said, “I could leave and go raise goats.”
Price lifted his head an inch. Just enough for you to see his face flushed, wrecked, eyes blown dark like the truth had finally chewed through his restraints and was now pacing the room.
The air in the room turned molten.
“I want you to call me Daddy. Loud. I want it to echo in that pretty mouth when you can’t even think straight.” His voice was ruined, hoarse, low, gravel edged, rolling right over the dead silence that followed. “I think all the time about your lips wrapped around my cock, tears in your eyes, gagging a little ‘cause you’re greedy and you want to show off. I want to make you drool, sweetheart. Want to see you on your knees with spit all over your chin, eyes up, waiting for permission just so you can swallow me down like a good girl.”
Soap let out a yelp, clapped both hands over his face. “Oh, hell, Cap, you’re a menace!”
Gaz wheezed, delighted. “This is the best episode of Maury I’ve ever seen.”
Price’s eyes burned holes in you. “I want you bent over my desk, skirt rucked up, arse bare, panties stuffed in your mouth so everyone knows you can’t shut up unless I make you. Want you whimpering, spread for me, dripping so fucking much I ruin the paperwork under you.”
Ghost just nodded, as if listening to the world’s most interesting podcast. “He’s not even breathing between lines.”
Laswell hummed. “I have a passport. There’s a farm in the Pyrenees. I can grow olives, forget this ever happened…”
Price couldn’t stop. Couldn’t even slow down. He was sweating, voice gone pure command, and his words turned filthier, rougher, “Want to fuck you so deep you can’t walk straight. Want you to feel every inch for days. Want to leave my handprint on your ass, my cum dripping down your thighs, my name on your lips while you thank me for wrecking you.”
Soap had to get up and walk it off, cackling. “He’s going feral, mate! Christ!”
Gaz’s face was halfway between horror and applause. “I’m taking notes. For science.”
Ghost deadpanned, “At least we know what to put on your tombstone: ‘Here lies John Price- filthiest mouth in the SAS.’”
Price only stared at you, locked on target, sweating through his shirt. “I want to hear you call me Daddy while you try to keep quiet, knowing anyone could walk by. I want you so fucked out you can’t even remember your own name, only mine, only ‘please’ and ‘more’ and ‘yes, Daddy, anything you want.’ I want you broken in on my cock, ruined for anyone else, knowing you’ll ache for me every time you sit down.”
The words just kept coming, rolling out of him like he’d been saving them for years.
“Want to see you gag on it, feel your throat clench, hear you struggle to say ‘thank you, Daddy’ with your mouth full. Want to fuck you so slow you beg, then hold you down and rail you till you’re cockdrunk and babbling. Want you crying with it, wet and desperate, begging for permission to come, only to make you wait, make you work for it, tell you what a filthy little thing you are.”
You could barely breathe. The room was spinning. Soap was crying laughing. Gaz was fanning himself with a folder. Ghost looked like he wanted to buy popcorn.
Laswell didn’t even look at them. She was staring at the far wall like a portal might open. “I’m selling everything I own and moving to a vineyard in Portugal. I don’t even like wine.”
Ghost stage whispered, “Ask him about kinks, Johnny.”
Soap, hoarse: “Cap, top three kinks, go.”
Price didn’t miss a beat. “Obedience. Gagging. Telling you what a desperate slut you are while you soak my cock and beg for Daddy to fill you up.”
Gaz wheezed. “Fucking hell.”
Price smirked, dark and proud. “And I’d make you say thank you for every filthy thing I do to you, or you get nothing but my hand around your throat and my voice in your ear, telling you how pretty you look when you’re ruined.”
Soap made an inhuman noise. Gaz buried his face in his elbow, shoulders shaking, and Ghost just leaned back in his chair, the living embodiment of well, this is my entertainment for the week.
Price, now fully in his element, fixed you with that steel blue stare. “You ever want it, sweetheart, you come ask Daddy nice. I’ll show you exactly what happens when you mouth off in my office.”
Soap, literally on the floor, gasping: “That’s it, I’m dead, tell my mum I loved her.”
Price’s head tipped, tongue rolling over his teeth. He was panting, cheeks flushed. “I want to wreck you. Want to fuck you so hard you can’t talk, just little broken sounds, choking on my cock or my fingers or both if you’re lucky. I’d edge you for hours, make you beg. Tell you to be a good little slut and come for Daddy. And you would, wouldn’t you? ‘Cause you’d do anything I told you if I had my hand around your throat, wouldn’t you?”
Your heart was a jackhammer. Your mouth was dry. Your knees felt like they were going to give out, and you weren’t even the one in the chair.
Laswell pinched the bridge of her nose, her soul miles away. “Goats don’t do this. Goats don’t talk about throats and cocks. Goats just eat grass. I want a goat. I want a vineyard. I never want to hear the word ‘Daddy’ again.”
Price looked at you then, finally, locking you in place. His voice dropped to a dangerous, commanding purr. want to ruin your makeup, fuck you until you cry, kiss it all better. I want you up against a wall, skirt around your waist, legs over my shoulders while I eat your pussy till you scream my name. Want you on the conference table, on the floor of the safehouse, in the showers, hands flat on the tiles, steam everywhere, my hand tangled in your hair, hips slamming into you while you beg me not to stop. Want you so used to my cock you can’t cum without it.”
Soap let out a wheeze. “Boss, please, tell us you’d at least let ‘er cum- ”
Price snarled, “Not till I say. I want you desperate, sobbing, begging. Want to hear you say ‘please, Daddy, please, I’ll be good, I promise- ’ and then maybe I’ll give it to you. Or maybe I’ll make you watch while I fist your hair and finish on your pretty face instead.”
Ghost just shook his head, approving. “Dirty bastard.”
Price’s words kept pouring, breathless, dirty as sin. “You wanna know what else? I want you to text me while I’m in meetings, let me see how wet you are, send me photos, tell me what you need. Want to come home and find you waiting, naked, on your knees at the door, eyes wide, ready to please. Want to spit in your mouth, hear you say ‘thank you,’ see you shiver when I call you my filthy little thing.”
The room was pure chaos. Soap had his head on the table. Gaz had to step outside, tears of laughter streaming down his face. Ghost only folded his arms, deeply satisfied, watching the spectacle.
Laswell paused. “I am absolutely buying a farm. I will have goats and silence. I will never set foot in a military base again. I’m going to forget I ever knew anyone named John.”
Price finally ran out of air.
He leaned back in the chair, chest heaving, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt, eyes blown and feral like he’d just survived a firefight entirely inside his own head. The room was dead silent for half a heartbeat.
Then Laswell stood up so abruptly her chair screeched.
“I am,” she said flatly. “Googling how many goats are too many goats, because whatever the answer is, I’m buying one more.”
She was already pulling her phone out. “I’m thinking vineyard. Hillside. Sun. No men. No truth serums. No one named John. Just me, some grapes, and several emotionally supportive goats.”
Soap was crying laughing now. Fully gone. Bent double, one hand on the table, the other wiping tears from his eyes. “Cap- Captain- ” he wheezed, “I’ve been in firefights with less casualties than whatever the fuck that was.”
Gaz was grinning like Christmas came early. “I’m never calling you ‘sir’ again. It’s ruined. It’s irreparably ruined.”
You, meanwhile, were pretty sure you were experiencing some kind of medical event.
Your face felt like it was on fire. Your ears were ringing. The room tilted just a little, like you’d stood up too fast. You had both hands braced on the table now, clipboard abandoned entirely, desperately pretending that the concrete floor was the most interesting thing you’d ever seen.
Soap noticed immediately. “Oh look,” he sing songed. “She’s short circuiting.”
Gaz leaned into your space, stage whispering. “Blink twice if you need a paper bag. Or a cold shower. Or a priest.”
Ghost tilted his head, eyes flicking between you and Price. “She’s gone pink. That’s new.”
Price snapped his head up. “Oi. Back off.” His voice was rough, but the edge was protective now, control snapping back into place. “Enough.”
Soap held up his hands, still grinning. “All right, all right. We’ll stop traumatising her.” A beat. “Mostly.”
Laswell finally looked up from her phone. “For the record, the internet says there is no such thing as too many goats. Which feels like a sign.”
She pointed at all of them. “Debrief over. Medical can deal with Captain… whatever that was. You three- out. Before I start assigning mandatory therapy.”
Ghost stood smoothly, clearly pleased with the day’s work. “Aye. Good talk, Captain Daddy.”
Price threw the roll of duct tape at his head.
