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He sits back on his knees, his frame still entirely clothed, too-expensive leather dress shoes curling downward beneath him as he kisses down Anna’s stomach. Dr. Morden moans against her skirt as his trembling hands unzip it, and he pants like a dog as he drags her clothing down slow—he moves at the same pace you’d use when backing away from an aggressive animal that you accidentally got too close to, and it is torturous how he waits, how his mouth and tongue roll over her flesh like he’s trying to clean all of her straight off the bone.
To praise him, Anna looks down, and he can feel the scorch of her smile burn against his neck and shoulders. She is simply too bright to be witnessed, the glistening rays of her light blinding him, turning his senses into a silent film—he’ll be euthanized soon for this, no one wants a dog that can’t see the outside world, but for now Anna pets his hair. They’re both thinking it: good boy.
He won’t kneel for her, won’t kneel for anyone—besides Earthforce, besides IPX, but they’re different. No one speaks with the same lilt that Anna’s voice has, no one puts their hands around his neck in the way she does. Earthforce New Technologies and Interplanetary Expeditions are vast and frightening, and Anna sees them in all of their transparency, and she’s here teaching him tricks despite it all. He won’t heel for her, won’t heel for anyone, but he’ll heel for a purpose. That’s the difference; Dr. Sheridan’s purpose and his purpose run parallel from one another. She’s still here above him, though, so tonight purpose is irrelevant.
She runs her hands through his hair, and as he kisses her thighs he feels her hands rest and fidget with the chain around his neck. Moments ago she strung the necklace around him with chilled hands, and as she fastened the clasp the collar was locked on, anchoring him to her side for as long as she desires. Anna pulls at the chain of her gift like she’s pulling at his leash, urging him towards the right places, pulling him and pulling at him until he can no longer breathe and has no choice but to move. He loses himself in her.
Anna’s back rests fully against the wall of her quarters, and Dr. Morden spreads her apart. After a while he stops holding himself back—his kisses run wild, his touch greedy and passionate and starved. She thinks of him like a dog with its ribs poking out, saved just before succumbing. She never stops petting him, even when she’s close, running her hands over his head rhythmically and stroking down his cheeks. Her finger scratches underneath his chin intermittently, adjusting his position.
In a moment of vulnerability Anna herself lets out a bark-like yelp, and he feels her unravel above him, growling at the contact of her grinds against his face. She holds him there and he obeys, keeps licking and serving her with overstimulation, until she can’t take anymore and releases him. Anna is panting now, too—Anna has become as lowly as he is.
Morden does not stand up to face her until she tells him to. He rolls over, he plays dead, and waits for his next orders.