After a long battle with Task Force 141, Vladimir Makarov had retreated.

His office was quiet as he smoked his cigar and drank his whiskey.

His dark eyes were fixed on yours.

You sat obediently on your knees, your jaw aching and drool running down the corners of your mouth as you swallowed at his size.

His hand brushed some of the strands of hair out of your face as he gave you a superior grin.