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By *h60 OP Man
7 days ago
Thurso |
Chapter 2:
The show begins
More cars are parked there. A dozen. Maybe more. Figures stand in clusters, some leaning against Bonnets , some sitting on tailgates. The glow of a cigarette arcs through the darkness. Low music pulses from someone’s stereo — something with a heavy bass line that vibrates through the soles of my shoes.
They notice us.
Conversations pause. Heads turn.
Marcus keeps his hand on the small of my back, guiding me into the center of the clearing where the moonlight is brightest. He stops there, turns me to face the gathering, and steps away.
The silence stretches.
I stand alone, a dozen men watching me from the shadows. My heart hammers against the cage of the corset. My hands hang at my sides, fingers twitching with the urge to cover myself, to cross my arms, to do something.
But I don’t move.
Marcus’s voice cuts through the quiet. “Fresh tonight, gentlemen. Trained. Obedient. Use her however you like.”
A beat. Then footsteps.
The first man approaches from my left. Mid-thirties, stocky, a beard that catches the moonlight. He circles me once, slow, his gaze travelling from my wig to my platforms and back up again. When he stops in front of me, he reaches out and runs a thumb across my bottom lip, smearing the gloss.
I don’t flinch.
His hand drops to the hem of my skirt, lifting it. The vinyl rustles. Cool air touches the exposed skin of my thighs, my hips. He makes a sound — approval, maybe — and then his fingers hook into the waistband of the sheer panties Marcus made me wear.
He pulls them down revealing my chastity cage which now hangs free.
They gather at my knees, then around my ankles as he crouches. I step out of them when he taps my ankle. The gravel bites into the soles of my platforms.
He stands. Unzips his jeans.
The sound is obscenely loud in the quiet clearing.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask. He just turns me by the shoulder, bends me forward over the bonnet of the nearest car, and pushes into me.
No preparation. No warning.
My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. The corset locks my ribs in place, forcing my breath into shallow gasps. The metal is cold against my palms, the metal slick with dew.
He sets a rhythm. Hard. Fast. His hands grip my hips, fingers digging into the fishnets hard enough to tear.
Behind me, I hear other footsteps. The rustle of clothing. Low murmurs.
Someone’s hand lands on my wig, gripping the hair at the nape of my neck, pulling my head back. Another pair of hands finds my mouth, fingers pressing past my lips. I taste salt and skin and something metallic. |
