The Examiner
"Failed three times. She offers him a private retest. The price isn't credits."
Third time.
Third fucking time I've failed this licensing exam, and I'm starting to think the system is rigged. The written portion was flawless—98th percentile. The practical was clean—no violations, no errors, perfect form.
But Examiner Volkova failed me anyway.
"Insufficient spatial awareness," she wrote. "Recommend additional training before retest."
Bullshit.
I storm into the Neo-Detroit DMV at 4:47 PM, thirteen minutes before closing, ready to file a formal complaint. The fluorescent lights flicker overhead. The waiting room is empty—everyone else has given up on government efficiency for the day.
The clerk at the counter points toward the back.
"Examiner Volkova's office. End of the hall."
I go.
Her office is smaller than I expected.
Cramped, cluttered with forms and certifications, dominated by a desk that's seen better decades. And behind it, reviewing something on a tablet, sits the woman who's been systematically destroying my transportation future.
Irina Volkova. Fifty-two years old, according to the nameplate. Built like a Soviet monument—broad shoulders, thick arms, a body that fills her government-issue uniform in ways that strain every seam. She's easily two-forty, maybe more, with steel-grey hair cropped short and eyes the color of frozen lakes.
She looks up when I enter.
"Mr. Okafor." Her accent is heavy, Russian, dripping with bureaucratic disdain. "I was expecting you."
"You failed me again."
"Yes."
"The test was perfect. I didn't make a single mistake."
"According to your perception." She sets down the tablet. "According to mine, you lack the instincts necessary for safe operation of a personal vehicle in Neo-Detroit traffic conditions."
"That's subjective bullshit and you know it."
Her eyes narrow. "Careful, Mr. Okafor. I can ban you from retesting for six months with a single form."
I bite my tongue. Force myself to breathe.
"What do I have to do?" I ask, quieter now. "I need this license. My job depends on it. I'll do anything."
Something shifts in her expression.
"Anything?"
She stands.
Moves around the desk with a deliberateness that makes me suddenly aware of how small this office is. How close the walls are. How thoroughly soundproofed government buildings tend to be.
"I've been an examiner for twenty-three years," she says. "Twenty-three years of watching young men like you—arrogant, impatient, certain the world owes them everything." She stops in front of me. Close. Too close. "Do you know what I've learned?"
"No."
"That arrogance can be... redirected." Her hand finds my chest, presses flat against my racing heart. "That impatience, properly channeled, becomes eagerness. That certainty—" Her fingers curl into my shirt. "—can become devotion."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying there's a private retest available. Off the books. No forms, no records, no appeals." Her other hand finds my belt, rests there without moving. "But the payment isn't credits."
My mouth goes dry.
"You want me to—"
"I want you to serve." The word lands like a command. "To demonstrate that you can follow instructions. Submit to authority. Obey." Her fingers undo my belt buckle. "Pass my personal examination, Mr. Okafor, and I'll sign whatever license you require."
I should leave.
Report her. File a complaint with whatever oversight body handles corrupt DMV examiners. This is coercion, pure and simple—she's using her power over my license to extract sexual favors.
But I don't leave.
Because her hand is inside my pants now, wrapping around my cock, and despite everything—the ethics, the power imbalance, the sheer insanity of the situation—I'm hard as steel.
"Interesting," she murmurs. "Your body, at least, knows how to respond to authority."
"This is—"
"Wrong? Illegal? Unprofessional?" She squeezes, and I gasp. "Yes. All of those things. And yet—" She strokes slowly. "—here you are. Hard in my hand. Already leaking."
"I need the license."
"No. You want it." She releases me, steps back. "What you need is to admit you want this too. That some part of you—" She gestures at my obvious arousal. "—has been thinking about it since the first time I failed you."
"I haven't—"
"Don't lie to an examiner, Mr. Okafor. We're trained to detect dishonesty."
She begins unbuttoning her uniform.
Beneath the government-issue fabric, she's wearing nothing but plain white underwear.
Functional. Utilitarian. And somehow the most erotic thing I've ever seen.
Her body is massive. Breasts that hang heavy to her waist, encased in a bra that's fighting a losing battle. A belly that rounds soft and full, marked with stretch marks like tiger stripes. Hips wide enough to block doorways, thighs thick as my torso, everything about her screaming power in a way that has nothing to do with her government authority.
"On your knees," she commands.
I kneel.
She steps forward until her belly is inches from my face, until I can smell her—clean sweat, something floral, and beneath it all the musk of arousal.
"Show me you can follow instructions. Demonstrate your... spatial awareness."
I lean forward and press my mouth to her belly.
I worship her like she's a goddess.
Because she is. In this moment, in this cramped government office, she's the arbiter of my fate, and I'm nothing but a supplicant at her altar.
I kiss every inch of her stomach—the soft rolls, the silvered stretch marks, the deep indent of her navel. I work my way down, hooking my fingers in her underwear, pulling them down thick thighs as she steps out of them.
She's bare. Slick with want. And she grabs the back of my head and pulls me against her.
"Now. Show me what that mouth is good for."
I show her.
I bury my face between her thighs and I serve—tongue working her folds, her clit, every sensitive inch I can reach. She's wet enough to coat my chin, my cheeks, and the sounds she makes echo off the office walls.
"Da—yes—there—"
I find her clit and focus everything on it—circling, flicking, sucking. Her thighs clamp around my head, soft flesh pressing against my ears, and I couldn't escape if I wanted to.
I don't want to.
She comes with a growl, grinding against my face, using me, and I swallow everything she gives me.
"Acceptable," she pants. "Now. The practical portion."
She pulls me up by my hair. Shoves me toward the desk. Papers scatter as I catch myself, and then she's behind me, yanking down my pants, and—
"Examiner Volkova—"
"Irina. When you're inside me, you call me Irina."
She climbs onto the desk, lies back, spreads those massive thighs. The invitation is unmistakable.
"Demonstrate your... vehicle handling skills."
I climb over her. Position myself. And when I push inside—
We both groan.
She's hot and tight and commanding, even lying beneath me. Her legs wrap around my waist—thick thighs gripping, heels digging into my ass—and she pulls me deeper, demanding more.
"Harder. I'm not fragile."
I give her harder. Brace myself on the desk and pound into her, watching her body ripple with every thrust, watching those enormous breasts bounce and sway. She's moaning now—Russian words I don't understand, mixed with my name, mixed with yes and more and don't you dare stop.
"You're—fuck—you're passing—"
"Tell me I'm good."
"You're good—" She's clawing at my back. "—you're so fucking good—"
"Tell me I earned it."
"You've earned everything—everything—don't stop—don't—"
She comes again, clenching around me, and the pressure drags me over the edge with her.
We lie in the wreckage of her office.
Papers everywhere. Desk shifted six inches. Both of us sweating, panting, tangled together in a way that no government regulation could possibly anticipate.
"Well." Her voice is hoarse. Satisfied. "That was... comprehensive."
"Did I pass?"
She laughs—a real laugh, surprising and warm.
"Flying colors, Mr. Okafor." She traces a finger down my chest. "I'll have your license processed by morning."
"And this? Was this a one-time... examination?"
She's quiet for a moment.
"I've been doing this job for twenty-three years. Failing young men who don't deserve it. Passing ones who bribe or threaten or bore me." She looks at me, and there's something vulnerable beneath the authority. "No one has ever actually... served. Not like that."
"I can serve again. If you need me to."
"Need is a strong word."
"Is want better?"
Another pause.
"Yes." She pulls me down for a kiss—slow, thorough, nothing like the commands from before. "Come back tomorrow. Four-thirty. After the office closes."
"For another examination?"
"For whatever I decide you need." Her smile is sharp. Hungry. "You belong to me now, Mr. Okafor. I've failed you three times—that means I've invested significant effort in your development."
"And what do I get in return?"
"The privilege of serving me." She squeezes my softening cock, and I shiver. "And unlimited license renewals. For life."
I become a regular at the Neo-Detroit DMV.
Every week, after closing, I report to Examiner Volkova's office. She tests me in ways that no formal examination could cover. She grades me on performance, endurance, obedience. She fails me sometimes—deliberately, to watch me try harder—and passes me when I exceed expectations.
"You've improved significantly," she tells me one evening.
We're in her apartment now—she invited me home a month in. It's small, neat, filled with books in Russian and photographs of places I'll never see.
"I have a good teacher."
"You have a demanding one." She's lying in my arms, soft and heavy and mine. "Most men would have filed a complaint. Reported me. Run away."
"Most men are idiots."
"Da." She kisses my chest. "They are."
"Irina?"
"Mm?"
"I love you."
She goes still. For a long moment, I think I've made a terrible mistake.
Then she laughs—soft, surprised, wondering.
"You're insane."
"Probably."
"I'm fifty-two. I coerced you. Our entire relationship began with corruption."
"And?"
"And—" She lifts her head, looks at me with those frozen-lake eyes. "—I love you too, you impossible boy. God help us both."
We never tell anyone how we met.
When people ask—and they do, because a young man with a thick Russian girlfriend raises questions—we say we met at the DMV. Which is technically true.
The details stay between us.
Between the examiner who abused her power and the young man who discovered he liked being powerless. Between the late nights in government offices and the mornings in her small apartment. Between the tests and the passing grades and the love that grew from the strangest possible soil.
Some licenses are worth more than others.
Mine cost me my pride, my certainty, and every assumption I ever had about what I wanted.
It was the best investment I ever made.
Passed.
Permanently.