“Let’s go,” I say in the low, angry voice I’ve taken on naturally since the start of this thing.
This thing. Fuck, this is so much more than athing. It’s… I don’t know. Not just a scene or an experience. It’s…a beginning, maybe? Is that it?
I squeeze her squirming thigh, let my hand slide up, up to where her pussy’s pressed to my shoulder, and twist to cup her and find…
“Fuck. Brat’s soaking wet for us.”
“Knew it,” says Blade, his tone gruff. “Little slut’s been begging for this. For days.”
I grunt. “She’ll regret it,” I warn. “Gonna destroy this pussy.”
“Both holes. If she can take it.” He laughs. “Think we’ll fit?”
“I know we will.” My cock pulses at the way she twists, working to get some friction on that pussy. “We’ll give her no fuckin’ choice.”
Up ahead, the shack’s ready and waiting, prepped with every toy, rope, and torture device we’ll need over the next few hours. Hidden behind a partition, there’s a kitchen with food and drinks, and a bathroom. Nothing else. No windows, no decor. Just a big bed, an x-cross against a wall, a bench. It’s the perfect sordid little space for what we’ve got planned.
My booted feet hit the porch steps, the sound satisfyingly ominous. Her body stops fighting, goes still. I can feel her listening.
I turn sideways and wait for Blade to open the door before going in. Max gives a final thumbs up and sits on a chair out on the porch, settling in for a long wait.
“Where…where are we? What is this?” Twyla sounds truly scared. I have to work to push back the part of me that wants to coddle her, take care of her. That guy—who’s more dominant than I’d ever imagined—doesn’t want to put her through this, despite it being exactly what she asked for. That guy wants to wrap her up in velvet and silk, hand her a glass of wine, and draw her a bath full of bubbles. He wants to buy her shit and watch her revel in it. He’s the guy who wanted to marry her in the first place—not as a plan hatched by some PR team, as we told her, but as a caretaker.
“Shut up,” I force through my throat. Because, alongside that sweet, caring man is a total asshole. And the asshole’s been invited—by Twyla herself—to come out and play. So here he fucking is.
And he’s a real piece of work.
“On the floor,” I tell Blade, though he already knows this.
The floor’s bumpy. We’ll only leave her there for a minute or two, but I want her to get a feel for how crude this place is, how rough. I want her to picture the filth—though it’s been thoroughly cleaned.
It’s the idea that matters.
I lean and drop her—gently—onto her knees. I don’t want to hurt her. She whimpers, fights against her cuffs, tries to scuffle away, and comes up short against Blade’s jeans-covered legs.
“I love it when they fight, man. Don’t you?” asks Blade.
I squat, grab her by the chain loosely knotted around her neck, and draw her head close. “You know why he wants you to fight? Huh?” When she doesn’t reply, I go on. “’Cause he’s just dyin’ to teach you a lesson.”
She moans, twists. I tighten my hold, forcing her to push up higher on her knees. Her tits almost spill out of the cute little dress. I want to rip it open, but manage to hold off.
“Now,” I put my head against hers, holding her tight, almost hugging her. “You gonna be a good girl and let us do what we’ve got to do or are you gonna fight us every step of the way?”
29
Twyla
“Be good. I want to be good,” I tell Kidnapper #1. The one who carried me. The one who sounds like Zion.
He tightens his hold on me—a quick hug—and pulls away. “Good. Very good.” Something tugs at my neckline. “How about you start with a little act of good faith, huh? Come here.”
My whole dress is ripped open—top to bottom. Buttons fly everywhere. I’m in nothing but a bra, a hood, and a buttplug, which feels huge in my ass.
“Fuck, man,” the second voice says. Do I recognize him? I don’t know. “These tits… You see the nipples? They’re fucking huge.”
One of my bra cups is yanked down, my breast manhandled, weighed, like an object being evaluated. It hits the bull’s eye of my deepest, darkest fantasy and my pussy clenches, hard, around nothing.
“Yeah.” Another hand grabs my other breast, rough and efficient. “Nice, right?”
