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I hear a small laugh from him. “I’m getting hard,” he murmurs.
It’s not for my ears, of course—I am an object to them, which is as it should be. But I am fascinated.
Then he says, “The ginger oil seems to be working its magic.”
Master Erek grins, then pulls his fingers out of my body, holding them up. They are slick with something more than my own wet need, and three of his fingernails are long and filed into points.
But it’s the ginger oil; that’s the burning, made harsher by those nails tearing at my inner flesh.
What an introduction to these two. I need more—need them—and it’s a craving that’s tearing me apart every bit as much as Master Erek’s sharp nails,
Master Séverin reaches around and pries my mouth open, holding it while Master Erek shoves his fingers into my mouth, then down my throat.
“Suck, pretty Girl,” he commands.
Master Séverin releases his tight hold on my jaw so that I can close my lips, and I suck, my tongue slipping around Master Erek’s thick fingers, tasting myself on him, somehow, even through the evil ginger oil. Then it is my lips and tongue on fire, but not as bad as my pussy. And the dual sensations seem to join these two parts of my body, and I have an odd sense that they are, for the moment, one and the same.
Orifices. Holes to fill. Yes.
I suck harder, needing to please him, to please them both, letting the tips of the nails pierce the surface of my tongue, the inside of my cheek, tasting a hint of my own blood. And as I suck, the two Masters come together and kiss, their faces right next to mine. And I think I might die from the heat these two generate between them.
Master Erek, with his fingers still in my mouth, uses them to turn my head toward them, and Master Séverin kisses my cheek. Gently at first, then he bites it, just hard enough that I know he will leave me marked.
Yes.
His.
Master Erek pulls his fingers from my mouth, replacing them with the other hand, and rams his fingers down my throat until I gag, then choke, and I sputter, trying to drag some air in through my nose. Then a hand wraps around my throat, cutting off the blood supply to my brain, and I barely have time to wonder if he’s going to choke me out before I am gone.
When I come to I’m on the ground, the carpet of leaves soft beneath me. Master Séverin is bent over me, watching my face. And before I can help myself, I smile a little at him.
He slaps me, hard, across the same cheek he bit into, and my head reels for a moment.
“Daring Girl,” he says, but there is more humor in his tone than accusation. He straightens and looks at Master Erek. “She amuses me. Please radio the base and ask them to send someone to prepare her.”
He places his booted foot on my chest, holding me down to the earth as Master Erek walks away, and I can hear him talking faintly. When Master Erek returns a few moments later, he places his boot between my thighs.
“Spread, Girl,” he demands.
I do, and he moves his heavy boot to my mound, pressing down. It should hurt, and it does, but he’s pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing, and in moments I am about to come.
I bite the inside of my cheek, which is already sore, trying to hold back. I know I must. And just when I’m afraid it will really be impossible, a man and a woman arrive.
My two Masters step back, and the new people—Handlers, perhaps?—quickly tie my wrists and ankles in a toothy jute rope that digs into my skin. Ah, I have a love-hate relationship with this sort of rope. It makes me feel utterly taken, which soothes me, but it also itches and scrapes my skin, making me tune into my body perhaps more than I’d like.
They know exactly what they’re doing.
In moments I am tightly bound, then a long pole slides through loops they’ve left in the ropes at both wrists and ankles, and suddenly I’m hanging like a pig on a spit.
Why is this so humiliating? Why does this make the tears come once more as they carry me through the woods? My body sways a bit as they walk, the pole on their shoulders, and soon the rhythm offers me some comfort. I look up at the brilliant blue sky through the heavy branches of the sequoias, and take a deep breath, inhaling the forest smells: earth, green, water. Even the mulching leaves on the forest floor. Once I quiet my mind a bit, I notice a few birds chirping, the wind rustling through the trees, and I remember my encounter with the doe in the creek. I remember her enormous brown eyes. The way she held herself so utterly still until she recognized I wouldn’t hurt her. Or so my mind imagines.
But even as I revel in the beauty around me, my cunt still burns from that evil oil, and with the stark, nearly shattering need to come that has faded only a little.
I have no idea when they will allow me to come, or if they will at all. I have no idea what awaits me. Where they are taking me. What they will do to me once we arrive there. But it’s not my job to know. It is only my job to endure. To serve them in this way. And that is my freedom. To be their captured prey. The victim of the hunt.
How fucking glorious is this?
Chapter Three
