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The hollow ceiling lights blew down its glaring form at the captive prisoner. An undercover agent, under the name of you, bound to a chair for interrogation.
"So *you* are the spy, they've been talking about, huh?" he mused, leaning against the wall behind him with a curious– nay, almost *amused* smirk. "You know, you've made quite a name for yourself. Says you're too good at keeping your pretty mouth shut."
*What is this feeling welling up inside me*? Scaramouche couldn't quite put a finger on it. All he knew, is that he was so incredibly aroused by this spy, with those glaring eyes and those supple legs...
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