Chapter 25
Hidden
wc: 3.5k
cw: public, denial, mocking
You stared up at her – wide-eyed, breath already shallow. Abby didn’t speak. She just gave one short nod toward her boot.
Your stomach dropped.
You hesitated only a second before slipping out of your jeans. The air under the metal desk felt colder than it should have — a recycled draft from the vents stealing heat from your skin. You sat back on your heels, clothed only in your underwear. Your eyebrows bent upward — a silent Are you sure? — but before you could read her response, the office door clicked open.
Abby’s posture shifted immediately.
Her boot slid closer beneath the desk — a small movement, but deliberate.
Owen barreled in with the lazy swagger of someone who hadn’t slept enough — and never would again. The couch springs protested as he dropped onto it. Papers rustled. The ceiling fan’s old motor whined overhead.
Abby tapped her boot once against the floor.
Not loud — but controlled. A subtle percussion meant only for you.
Your heartbeat ricocheted in your chest. You knew what she wanted. And worse — you wanted it too. Your body was so ready to obey that it scared you. But what if they saw? What if Owen got up and walked behind that desk?
The thought made your vision blur.
Then Abby cleared her throat — steady, commanding — and asked Owen about patrol rotations like nothing was wrong. On the surface, she sounded composed. Professional. But her hand… her hand sank into her pocket. You saw the tension building in her shoulders, controlling every part of her face.
The meeting began.
She tapped the boot again.
This time her gaze snapped down to you — a precise, sharpened warning. There was no mistaking it.
Do it.
Your hands trembled as you braced yourself against the leg of her desk. The sound of Owen flipping through papers seemed to echo through your entire body. You adjusted your posture — slow, careful — and the desk creaked as if it knew what you were doing.
You slid closer.
Your pulse roared in your ears like wind through broken stadium beams. Every muscle in your body was tight with restraint. Breath shallow. Throat dry.
Then she lifted her leg slightly — just enough for you to feel the pressure of her control — and your hand found the fabric of her cargo pants, gripping them just to stay grounded.
You slid down onto the silicon. The stretch dizzied as you sunk all the way down. A pressure filled in your lower stomach, you wanted to drool.
That was when she slipped something down to you.
A torn scrap of paper. Creased. Written quickly — like she’d planned this the second she heard Manny’s knock, or maybe long before that.
Don’t. Move.
You stared at it — the words somehow louder than everything in the room.
She didn’t want relief for you. She didn’t want motion. She wanted endurance. Tension. Control. She wanted you over the edge and held there, teetering — like she always did.
You lowered your head onto her knee.
Her hand — resting casually on the desk above — drifted down for just a moment. Two fingers brushed the crown of your head. A silent command. A quiet praise. Maybe both.
And all the while, Owen kept talking. Weather reports. Patrol losses. Supply estimates. He had no idea.
Your entire body was trembling. Every second lasted a minute. Every breath felt stolen.
Her foot jerked upward instinctively as Manny barreled back in with Mel, the door creaking open then slamming shut behind them. Voices filled the war room — complaints about the hatchery, the power reserves, the same shit recycled into different words. But her boot didn’t move off you. It pressed — deeper this time. The weight of it, the hard sole, shoved the toy further inside. The angle hit something electric.
Your teeth clamped down on the seam of her pants.
She didn’t flinch. Just bounced her foot slightly, like this was any other day. The silicon inside you pulsed with every shift of her heel.
A scream boiled in your throat.
But you didn’t let it out.
Her boot ground higher into you — not harshly, not to hurt — but with that quiet authority Abby always carried. The message was clear: Keep quiet.
So you obeyed.
Your forehead rested against her thigh, and you tried to breathe through your nose, hot bursts of air fogging up the dark fabric of her fatigues. You could smell sweat on her skin. Gun oil from her belt. Everything about her was war-worn and solid — and you were coming apart against her boot in a room full of soldiers.
You could feel every throb of your body. Slick heat soaked your thighs, and the toy flexed cruelly inside you each time she moved just a little. You were soaked. Trembling. Your fingers gripped the sides of her pants, digging into the seams like you’d fall without her. Your legs had started to shake minutes ago, and they hadn't stopped.
The meeting had two hours left.
Your mind barely registered the conversation until Mel’s voice cut in, sharp and familiar: “This happened years ago, back when we were younger — but we haven’t had it since we lost the sector.”
A chair scraped across the concrete. You flinched like it was thunder.
Abby’s voice was calm. “We’ll get it back.”
You wanted to scream. You wanted to beg. But all you did was press your forehead harder into her leg and bite down again.
The movement of her foot was subtle — barely a shift — but it was enough to send pressure surging up your spine. You twitched, every nerve exposed. One bounce, two — casual, like she was impatient. Or bored. Or just proving she could.
And you stayed silent.
Good. Like always.
Because Abby made it impossible to be anything else.
Owen cleared his throat, stepping forward to the head of the long metal table. The map tube in his hands snapped open, laminate unrolling with a slap against the scratched surface. Grease pencil marks glared under the dim overhead light, routes and red X’s from old patrol paths sketched like scars across the territory. He leaned in, palms flat.
“Alright. Focus up,” he said, voice clipped, professional. “We lost the hatchery three weeks ago, but we know who’s holding it now. They’ve got a camp dug into the hill ridge just south of the aquifer line.”
He tapped a spot on the map.
You barely heard him.
Because Abby’s foot finally stilled.
It didn’t pull away. Just… stopped. The weight still pressed heavy, the toy locked deep, but the cruel bouncing had gone. Your body twitched in the absence, like it missed the punishment. Like it craved it. Your hands had long gone numb clinging to her pants, your thighs were trembling, and your breath came out shaky through your nose.
Then, she shifted.
Abby leaned forward just slightly, resting her elbow on the armrest. Her fingers curled under her jaw as she tilted her head and sighed, face going blank with that mask she wore for meetings. Detached. Strong. Above it all.
But her boot stayed right where it was.
Like she forgot you were even there — or worse, remembered exactly where you were and didn’t care.
“The ridge gives them a higher vantage,” Owen continued. “It’s good for them — but they’ve spread too thin. We have a small window before reinforcements loop back from the west route. If we hit at night, we’ve got a shot. Clear out the perimeter, smoke the camp, and take back the hatchery.”
Chairs squeaked. Papers shifted.
You couldn’t move.
Your body was buzzing with unsatisfied heat, with pulsing waves of arousal and restraint. Your head swam. And still, Abby said nothing. Didn’t look down. Didn’t acknowledge you.
She just let you sit there — flushed, soaked, desperate — with your face against her thigh and her foot still pinning that toy inside you.
It was so hard to stay quiet.
Owen dragged on — not f*cking done — his voice circling the same goddamn map for the third time. Fuel lines. Blind spots. Perimeter flanks. His words felt like static, drawn-out and grating. You wanted to scream just to end the meeting, let alone for the ache tearing you apart from the inside.
And still… Abby didn’t move.
Not except for her foot.
Every so often, she gave it a slight raise — just enough to drive the toy deeper, press it harder against that throbbing spot inside you. It wasn’t rhythm so much as method, like she knew exactly when you were regaining control — just to take it from you again.
It was like psychological warfare.
You started tracking the pattern, memorizing her timing like it might save you: Three minutes still. One shallow bounce. Then another, slower. Sometimes she’d go ten minutes without moving at all, and just when you thought maybe she’d forgotten— She pressed again. Worse every time.
Your eyes fluttered back, lashes heavy. The pain in your knees had turned to pins and needles. Your thighs were long past sore — more like hollowed out. Your muscles were jelly and fire. And your slick was everywhere. On her boot. On the floor. On you. You were soaking.
You started to move.
Just barely — rocking your hips down in slow, shameful circles, like if you went slow enough maybe she wouldn’t notice. Like maybe it wasn’t technically disobedience. Your breath hitched. Your lip trembled. You couldn’t help it anymore. It had been thirty minutes of this. Of her foot. Of silence.
Your hands gripped her pants like a lifeline. You looked up at her, lip bitten raw, drooling from the corner of your mouth as you stared, eyes wide with desperation.
You were so close.
You could feel your whole body tightening around it, heartbeat pounding between your legs. You needed release. Needed it like water. You were trembling — and she hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t even touched you. Just… kept you there. Like a filthy secret beneath the desk.
Then Abby’s eyes flicked down.
Just a glance.
But it hit you like a gunshot.
You froze mid-grind, your whole body locking up just inches from release. You tried to hold it back, tried to obey — but your thighs trembled so violently it made the toy shift inside you. That alone nearly set you off again. You had to grip harder. Your jaw clenched.
She didn't speak. She didn't have to.
Then her boot rose again. Fast. Hard. Punishing.
A choked noise caught in your throat, and before you could stop yourself, your teeth found her thigh. You bit down, desperate to muffle the cry. The pain of it grounded you — the press, the fullness, the ache — all of it building so fast it made your eyes sting.
Another glance down from her — cool and unreadable.
You loosened your jaw. Pulled back. And collapsed against her knee, forehead resting like you were begging for mercy.
You nodded once.
You wouldn’t move again. You wouldn’t come. You’d sit on it like she wanted — stuffed, shaking, dripping. Her boot still pressed firm, anchoring you down. And she said nothing.
Above you, Owen kept talking.
You slipped your fingers lower, trembling. Just a little pressure—just the right kind—might help. Your bud ached sharply, throbbing so hard it almost felt bruised. The urge to touch was overwhelming, nearly painful, like your body had been wound tight for hours and had nowhere to release. You didn’t dare meet her eyes. You turned your head to the side, blinking hard. Your lashes were wet. The room was quiet except for the low murmur of voices at the far end and the creak of chairs, all of it fading into static.
You circled twice, slow and desperate, trying to take the edge off—
Her hand fisted in your hair.
Your breath caught as she yanked your face back toward hers. Her eyes—sharp, wild, and glinting with control—pinned you where you knelt. The pressure in your core stuttered.
Your hand jerked off yourself instantly, scrambling to grab her pants instead. You gripped them hard, knuckles white, holding on like you might fall. Your entire body trembled with restraint. You hated this. Hated how much it worked. Hated how it made you need.
Your thoughts blurred. The air in the room felt thick with tension and sweat and the stagnant heat of too many bodies and too many hours. The meeting had dragged on forever. People bickered and went in circles. Every decision was met with resistance. Every time Abby disagreed with someone, it felt deliberate. It felt calculated. Because every single time, her boot pressed higher.
By the time the last chair scraped against the concrete and the door finally clicked shut, you were soaked, shaking, and silent. Your breath came out in unsteady hitches. Tears had long since carved tracks down your cheeks, drying halfway. Your hips ached from the unnatural position. Your legs felt hollow. Your jaw was tight from clenching.
Abby laughed softly above you.
"Feel okay?" she asked, tilting her head, her voice a syrupy mockery of concern. A smirk curled her lips.
You looked up at her, ruined. Your mouth opened but only a broken whimper came out. You managed to shake your head. "N-no," you breathed, a hiccup in your voice.
She chuckled like you'd told her a joke and slowly pulled her boot away. You whimpered, a pathetic sound from deep in your throat, your body leaning forward to chase what you’d lost.
"Abby, no—no, please, that's not fair!"
She bent down, her tone indulgent as she clicked off the strap-on from the base of her boot and kissed the top of your head like a reward. "I know, I know. I'm so mean, aren't I?"
Your body shook as you tried to adjust, legs screaming in protest after being bent beneath you for so long. The cold of the floor bit into your knees. Your thighs burned. "Abby…" you whimpered again, voice hoarse.
She sighed and finally reached to help you. Her touch was careful now, almost sweet, like none of it had happened. She wiped you off gently and tugged your pants back on, her hands brushing across skin like she hadn't just kept you knotted up and dripping for hours.
"Go to my room," she said. "I’ve got another meeting in ten. Take a nap. Wait for me."
You nodded dumbly. Your legs were jelly beneath you. Every step felt like walking through water. You shuffled toward the hallway, into the quiet of her quarters. The door clicked shut behind you, muffling the noise of the base. You stood there, frozen.
It was dim. Still. You were alone now.
You wanted to scream. To cry. To claw at something. But you didn’t.
You just stood there, body shaking, heart echoing in your ears.
You laid down on her bed then, bones aching, head spinning. You’d kicked off your pants without ceremony, your thighs bare against the sheets. The tank top you pulled on was one of hers—faded black, loose, the hem brushing your hips. It still clung to her scent: salt and cedar, a trace of sweat, sun-warmed cotton. It made your stomach clench.
You didn’t bother with socks. Your feet were cold, but you liked the way the sheets felt. You rolled, curling into yourself, head sinking into one pillow while the other you pulled tight to your chest. You buried your face in it. It smelled like Abby. The heat pooled low in your stomach instantly. You clenched your thighs together.
You whimpered—soft at first, but real. It slipped out of you before you could stop it. A breathy, needy sound. Your hips bucked forward, instinctive, pressing the pillow tighter between your legs. “Abby…” you breathed, voice breaking on her name like a prayer. A curse. A need.
There was no one there. But you spoke as if she’d hear you.
You rolled your hips again. Just right this time. The friction pulled another sound out of you, sharper now. Your legs began to shake. “Abby… more… more,” you whimpered again, the words coming high and desperate into the cotton. You ground down hard, climbing onto the pillow, panting into the mattress now as your body took over. Your hands twisted in the sheets. The bed groaned. You were moving without thought, without shame, just craving her.
“Abby… Abby… Abby—” You chanted her name like you were alone in the world. Like she was carved into you.
The door clicked. You froze.
The metallic sound of the handle turning. Then the low thud of boots across the floorboards. Your heart thundered. Your thighs clenched, still trembling. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t even lift your head.
And then she was there. Standing over you.
“Meeting got cancelled,” Abby said, voice thick with amusement. She was already unhooking her belt, jaw tight, eyes burning a path down your spine. “Lucky me.”
You shifted slowly, your body heavy with heat and shame and something darker. You turned your face to her, cheeks flushed, lips wet, still panting into the pillow. Your voice wouldn’t come.
She stepped closer, kneeling one knee onto the mattress beside you. Her voice dropped to a growl.
“I told you,” Abby said, leaning close enough for her breath to graze your temple, “to take a nap.”
You swallowed hard, throat tight, pulse stuttering in your ears. The words tumbled out before you could stop them, raw and cracked with frustration.
“Abby… it’s been so long. You keep refusing to let me come and I—I can’t take it anymore—”
But you didn’t get to finish.
She kissed you.
Hard. Hungry. Her mouth swallowed the rest of your plea, lips claiming yours with the same rough control she always held over you. Her breath was hot, her teeth catching your bottom lip just enough to make you whimper.
“My greedy girl,” Abby murmured into your mouth, the words silk and threat all at once. Her voice sent a shiver straight down your spine. “I’m gonna make you wish you never begged to come.”
Your breath hitched.
And then her hand came down.
All of it—broad, calloused, warm—pressed into your slick with no warning. Her palm ground against you, slow and punishing, the heel of it hitting your clit just right. You yelped, your back arching as your fingers fisted in the fabric of her shirt. You dragged her down by it, clinging to her like a lifeline.
She laughed. Quiet and low and mean.
“You’re soaked,” she said, climbing over you, her thighs bracketing your hips as she kissed you again, slower now but just as deep. “So greedy,” she cooed against your lips, her tongue brushing yours like she wasn’t currently wrecking you with one hand.
Your hips bucked up helplessly, chasing more friction, more pressure. You didn’t care how pathetic you looked. You’d passed that point long ago. Her thigh pressed into you, slick smearing against the muscle, and you couldn’t stop the moan that spilled out.
“So desperate,” Abby muttered, more to herself than to you, her voice thick with arousal as she rolled her hips down, dragging her thigh against you again. Your body jolted—tight and overwhelmed and already shaking.
You whimpered, biting your lip hard enough to sting, your face burning.
Shame was long gone.
You didn’t care anymore. You’d let her ruin you like this a hundred times if it meant she’d touch you again.
If she’d let you come.
