Page 35 of The Knucklebone Brothers

He didn't strike immediately. Instead, he teased me. He ran the flat of the paddle up the inside of my thigh, the leather cool against my overheated skin. I gasped, my hips bucking instinctively. He tilted his head, staring at me through the eyeholes of his mask. Then, he reached out with his free hand, his fingers light, and traced the seam of my pussy lips. I shivered, a jolt of pleasure shooting through me.

Then, he brought the paddle down hard on my clit. Smack. The pain was sharp, stinging, and I cried out, my back arching, my body jerking against Blythe's hold.

He didn't stop there. He rubbed the paddle in circles over my clit, the friction sending waves of sensation through me. Smack. He slapped me again, harder this time, the leather biting into my sensitive flesh.

I was on the edge, my body trembling, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I tried to force myself not to come, to fight the overwhelming pleasure and pain, but it was useless. I was going to come, and I didn't want to give them the satisfaction of making me come again.

Maverick noticed my struggle. He leaned in, his face inches from mine. "You're fighting it, aren't you, pretty thing?" he taunted, his voice dripping with amusement. "You don't want to give us the satisfaction. But it's no use. You're gonna come for us."

He brought the paddle down again, a sharp, stinging slap that echoed through the shack, followed immediately by a slow, agonizing drag of the leather over my sensitive, swollen pussy. He did it over and over, the rhythm maddening—smack, drag, smack, drag—mixing the sharp bite of pain with the friction of the leather against my clit. I was a mess of tears and ragged breaths, my body bowing and arching against the ropes, my hips bucking instinctively.

"Come for us," Blythe said, his voice a dark, dangerous command. "Show us who owns this pretty little pussy."

I fought it with everything I had. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, clenching my fists, trying to force the wave back down. I tried so hard to hold it back, to keep from making a sound, but the sensation was too much. I was on the edge, and with one last, vicious slap, I couldn't take it anymore. I screamed as I came, my back arching off Blythe's chest, my body shaking uncontrollably.

Blythe continued holding my legs apart, his grip tight on my thighs, his fingers digging into my skin. I can feel the bruises already. Slowly, he lowered my legs down until my feet were dangling above the floor. I was still panting, my body was a wreck.

He moved around to the front of me, his face inches from mine. He pulled off his mask, revealing his face. He leaned in and licked me, starting from the top of my pussy and working his way up the side of my neck. I shivered, the sensation sending a jolt through my system. I was sweaty and dirty, and he just cleaned me with his tongue. Why is that both hot and concerning at the same time?

"Let's get you cleaned up," Maverick said, his voice a little too cheerful for the situation.

He grabbed a rough, grey rag from a crate and unscrewed a dusty jug of water he’d found in the corner. He poured the water over the cloth, wringing it out, then stepped in close. He scrubbed the dirt and grime from my face, my neck, my shoulders, the harsh fabric scratching my skin. I hissed, trying to pull away, but he just gripped my jaw tighter, forcing me to stay still while he wiped away the sweat and the dried dirt.

"Stop fighting," he muttered.

Once I was decent, Blythe stepped forward. He didn't say a word as he grabbed the rope around my wrists and cut it loose with a rusty knife. My arms fell limp at my sides, the circulation returning with a painful pins-and-needles buzz. He grabbed my shoulders and hoisted me up.

Maverick reached out and grabbed my dress. It was torn up the side. He held it up, inspecting the damage. "Oops," he chuckled, shaking his head. "My bad, pretty thing. We'll get that fixed. Don't you worry one bit."

Blythe didn't waste time with words. He peeled off his flannel shirt, revealing his tattooed, muscular chest, and tossed it over me. It was huge on me, smelling of him—sweat, tobacco, and something musky. I pulled it on, the sleeves hanging past my fingers, the hem falling to my thighs. I was still bare-assed underneath, the thin fabric of the shirt barely revealing the curve of my hips. I looked ridiculous, a little girl in a grown man's shirt, but at least I wasn't freezing.

"Much better," Maverick clapped his hands together. "Now, let's get you home."

Before I could argue or even take a step, Blythe grabbed me under my knees and around my back. He hoisted me up and tossed me over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I dangled there, my head hanging down, watching the floorboards disappear as he carried me out of the shack and back toward the trailer.

Chapter 13

My head was spinning, bouncing against Blythe’s shoulder with every heavy step he took. I was just swinging between his arm and his back. The flannel shirt he’d given me rode up, exposing my bare ass to the cool night air. I didn't even bother trying to cover up. What was the point?

As we got closer to the main trailer, the familiar smell of woodsmoke and rot filled my nose. But then I saw it. A soft, amber glow was spilling from under the awning of the smaller trailer they’d thrown me in when I first arrived. It wasn't the dim lantern from before. It was warmer, like someone had hung a bunch of lights inside, trying to make the place look cozy.

My heart did a sick lurch. They weren't heading for the main trailer. They were veering right, straight for the cage.

I stared at it, the blood draining from my face. They were taking me back to the box. Just putting the toy back in its place until they wanted to play again. I was going back to the cage, and I knew it.

Blythe dumped me onto my feet, and I stumbled back, my legs shaky. Maverick was already at the door of the trailer, fumbling with a big, old-fashioned iron key. The door swung open with a groan, and the smell hit me first. It wasn't the damp, mildewy stench I remembered. This was cedar and woodsmoke, the sharp, clean scent of beeswax and old, dry timber. It smelled like a home, not a tomb.

I stared inside, my mind refusing to process what I was seeing. This wasn't the same place. They'd been busy. Outside, a crooked little porch had been slapped together, its wooden steps leaning at a drunken angle. An old straw broom, its bristles frayed and worn, leaned against the doorframe next to a freshly swept porch. The faded, ghostly image of a grinning clown face was still barely visible on the door, a remnant of a long-dead carnival.

Inside, the floral wallpaper that had made the place feel like a grandma's sitting room was gone. The walls were now the original wood paneling, scrubbed clean. The floor was a worn black-and-cream checkerboard, patched in places with mismatched squares of linoleum. Heavy burgundy velvet curtains, their gold fringe faded and frayed, hung over the windows, swallowing the darkness outside.

The old oil lamp was gone. In its place, a string of bare, amber-colored bulbs was strung along the ceiling, casting a soft, warm glow that made the whole place feel intimate and strangely cozy.

And then my eyes landed on the cage. It was still there, the iron bars cold and imposing, but everything inside had changed. A small, pot-bellied wood stove glowed softly in the corner outside of the cage.

Inside the cage, on the frame, was a real mattress, covered in a thick, handmade quilt with circus patterns of deep rusty red. There was a small wooden stool next to the cage, and on it, a clay pitcher and a tin cup.

These weren't the touches of someone preparing a prison cell. They were the careful, deliberate efforts of someone making a home. A gilded cage, maybe, but a home nonetheless. And that was somehow more terrifying than the cold, empty cell I'd woken up in.