The Stag grunted from between my legs, pounding into me with relentless force until he found his own release. “You were born for this. To suck one cock while getting fucked by the two of us in your cunt and asshole.”
The praise wrapped in degradation was the final key. It unlocked something deep and dark and hungry inside me. And in The Black Mask, too, as he thrust into my ass one more time before stilling and filling me with semen.
The Skull pulled his cock from my mouth with a soft,slicksound. He looked down at me, my face nodoubt a mess of tears, spit, cum and sweat, with two cocks still filling my body.
“The storm isn’t over,” The Black Mask said. “And neither are we.”
7
Iwoke to the sharp crack of wood and the hush of ice pressing against the windows. The fire was mostly embers now, no longer roaring, just glowing for atmosphere. But heat clung to the room like a held breath.
I was on the living room floor, not cold just aware. The flames flickered, collapsing into sparks of red and orange. My body remembered everything… their hands, their mouths, and the filth and praise intertwined. What I’d allowed. What I’d begged for.
If I closed my eyes, I could almost believe we were back in that moment, the world narrowed to heat and skin, pain and pleasure fused until they were the same thing.
When I finally looked away from the fire, theroom glowed amber in the early light. The little tree in the corner still shimmered, vintage and charming, but there was something uncanny about it now, like it had been watching.
I swallowed and winced. My throat still bore the ghost of the garland, the faint ache proof of how far I’d let them take me. I touched the tender spot, feeling the slow throb answer back in a guilty rhythm. Warmth from the hearth brushed my bare arms. I reached for a blanket and found one already draped around my waist. I pulled it higher.
Someone had covered me while I slept. A gesture that shouldn’t have felt gentle but did.Aftercare,I thought, the word dizzying in this context. One of those masked men had cared enough to keep me warm.
“Gwen.”
The voice came from near my shoulder. It was low, rough, and smoke-laced. My heart jumped.
I turned. He sat on the couch watching me, a mug balanced on his thigh, shirtless, maskless, ink wrapping his skin in patterns I already knew.
The Stag.
He didn’t speak again. He just finished his drink and set the mug aside, forearms resting on his knees.My eyes lingered on his chest, the sheen of his damp hair finger-combed back.
The stag mask sat beside him on the cushion, turned toward the room as if still standing guard. I tore my gaze from it and met his eyes instead. His mouth tilted in a slow, almost cruel, smirk.
“I…” The single syllable caught in my throat and went nowhere. I pushed myself upright, clutching the blanket tighter, pointlessly modest. They’d already seen everything, taken everything, given something back I still didn’t have a name for.
“Surprised we stayed after fucking you hard enough you passed out afterward?” he said at last. His tone was calm but far from gentle.
I blinked, searching for words and finding none.
A dark shape caught my attention. He leaned against the kitchen doorway, steam curling from a mug. The Black Mask.His mask lay on the counter beside him, its reflective metal face turned away, edges sharp enough to cut the air between us.
“Coffee?” he asked, voice low—smooth velvet dragged over gravel.
I swallowed, glancing past him as if expecting The Skull to appear, then nodded. The blanket slipped lower. The Stag’s hand moved beforethought, reaching to pull it back over me—careful, deliberate, protective.
The gesture hit harder than it should’ve. I hadn’t expected to see them after everything and certainly not like this. Daylight should have made them human. Instead, it made them real.
The Black Mask crossed the room, jacket gone, but dark clothes still stretched over muscle and quiet control. He set the mug beside me but didn’t step back right away. His eyes stayed on mine, steady and unreadable, stripping me bare without touch.
The scent of him clung to the air—cinnamon, pine, and smoke from burning wood. I wrapped both hands around the cup and let the heat root me to the moment.
Outside, snow still fell thick and relentless, the gray morning pressing against the glass. The clock on the mantel blinked12:00,red and patient, pretending time still meant something.
Footsteps sounded behind me. Then steam, thicker, warmer. The Skull stepped from the bathroom; the door yawning open behind him, water slicking his skin. He was shirtless, ink winding across his chest in dark spirals that fit the man perfectly—danger rendered beautiful.
Our eyes met. He didn’t speak. Just smirked,winked, and sauntered over to pour himself a cup of coffee.
No one spoke, but heat crept up my chest—not from embarrassment but from awareness. Every breath felt shared.
