Chapter 200: Spin The Bottle - Part 7
ALL CHARACTERS ARE OVER THE AGE OF 18.
The slap’s sharp report seemed to hang in the salty air, a punctuation mark to the night’s escalating degradation. Alya remained curled in on herself, the red mark on her skin a stark brand. Jim knelt in the sand, looking at his own hand with a kind of bewildered horror. The fire popped, sending a shower of embers skyward.
Andre unfolded his muscular frame from where he sat. He moved with a calm, predatory grace that silenced the low whispers. The firelight played over the dense muscles of his chest and arms, his nakedness a statement of absolute control. He didn’t look at Alya, or at Jim. His dark eyes, reflective and unreadable, found the bottle lying on its side near Bianca’s feet.
“Seems it’s my turn,” he said, his voice a low rumble. He didn’t ask.
He walked to the center, his steps slow and deliberate in the sand. He picked up the bottle, his large hand making it look like a toy. He held it for a moment, his thumb tracing the slick, cool glass. Then, with a casual flick of his wrist, he sent it spinning.
It twirled, a green blur against the black. The group watched, breath held, as it lost momentum. It wobbled, pointed at Kofi, then past him, slowing... slowing... until it came to a dead stop.
It pointed at Bianca.
Bianca didn’t react at first. She sat perfectly still on her log, her intelligent eyes watching Andre over the rim of an imaginary glass. Her long blonde hair was a cascade over one shoulder, hiding part of her face. She wore only her bra and leggings now, the fabric stretched taut over her curvy frame.
Andre’s gaze settled on her. A slow, dark smile touched his lips. “Psychologist,” he said, the word a soft challenge. “Your turn.”
Bianca stood. She didn’t look nervous. She moved with a quiet, contained confidence, stepping out of her leggings with a simple, efficient motion. She stood before him in only her plain white bra and matching panties. “What’s the directive?” she asked, her voice clinical, almost detached.
Andre closed the distance between them. He was a full head taller, his body a wall of solid muscle compared to her softer curves. He didn’t speak. His hands came up and closed over her breasts, his thumbs rubbing roughly over her nipples through the fabric. Bianca inhaled sharply, but her expression remained studied, observant.
“The directive,” Andre murmured, leaning down so his mouth was by her ear, “is to take this fucking bra off.”
His fingers found the clasp at her back. He unfastened it with a single, practiced tug. The bra fell away. Bianca’s breasts were released, full and pale with small, pink nipples that tightened instantly in the cool night air. Andre didn’t hesitate. His hands reclaimed her flesh, kneading roughly, his fingers digging into the softness. He squeezed her breasts together, then lowered his head.
He took one nipple into his mouth, sucking hard, his tongue lashing it. Bianca’s composure cracked. A small, choked sound escaped her lips. Her hands came up, not to push him away, but to clutch at his powerful shoulders.
“Not so analytical now, are you?” Andre growled against her skin, switching to her other breast, biting the nipple gently before sucking it deep.
“Fuck you,” Bianca breathed, but it was breathy, lacking conviction.
Andre straightened up. “That’s the idea.” He looked down at her panties, then back at her face. “These too. Off.”
Bianca, her chest heaving, her skin flushed, hooked her thumbs into the sides of her white panties. She pushed them down over her hips, down her thighs, and let them fall to the sand. She stood naked before him, and for the first time, a flicker of vulnerability crossed her features.
Andre’s appraisal was cold, thorough. “On your hands and knees,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for debate.
Bianca hesitated for only a second. Then, with a resigned slump of her shoulders, she lowered herself onto the sand. She got onto her hands and knees, presenting herself to him, her head hung low so her hair curtained her face. The firelight illuminated the full, round curves of her ass, the narrow dip of her waist.
Andre knelt behind her. He ran a hand over the swell of her ass, a possessive, rough caress. Then he spat onto his fingers, a crude, wet sound, and pressed them against her opening. She was tight, dry. He worked two fingers inside her with a brutal, twisting motion. Bianca gasped, her back arching.
“Not wet for me, doctor?” he taunted, scissoring his fingers. “We’ll fix that.”
He leaned forward, his other hand gripping her hip. He positioned himself, the broad, purple head of his enormous cock pressing against her. He didn’t ask. He didn’t tease. He just pushed.
The penetration was a slow, relentless invasion. Bianca cried out, a raw sound of shock and pain. Her fingers dug into the sand. Andre grunted, forcing his thick length into her tightness, stretching her impossibly wide. He bottomed out inside her with a final, punishing thrust, his hips flush against her ass.
“Oh god,” Bianca whimpered, her body trembling.
Andre pulled back almost all the way, then slammed back in. He set a ruthless, pounding rhythm from the start. Each thrust drove her forward on her hands, her breasts swaying. The sound was obscene: the wet slap of flesh on flesh, his guttural grunts, her sharp, panting cries.
“You like that, you stuck-up bitch?” Andre snarled, his calm veneer shattered by raw aggression. He gripped her hair, yanking her head back so her spine arched painfully. “You like getting fucked like a whore in the dirt?”
“Yes!” Bianca screamed, the word ripped from her. It was half-sob, half-confession. “Fuck me, you animal! Use me!”
He released her hair and grabbed both her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh. He hammered into her, his balls slapping against her skin. The pace was brutal, mechanical. Bianca’s cries turned into a continuous, ragged moan. She pushed back against him, meeting his thrusts, her earlier analysis completely obliterated by sensation.
“Whose filthy cunt is this?” Andre demanded, his voice ragged with effort.
“Yours!” she shrieked. “It’s yours, Andre! Fuck!”
He drove into her, over and over, the rough sand grinding against her knees and palms. The others watched, silent and rapt. Briv watched Andre’s massive back muscles cord and flex, a machine of pure fuck. Alya watched Bianca’s face, twisted in a mask of pleasure-pain, a reflection of her own shame.
Andre’s rhythm became frantic, losing its controlled force for something more primal, desperate. “Gonna fill you up,” he grunted, his thrusts turning shallow and jerky. “Gonna pump this tight little pussy full of my cum.”
He slammed into her one final time, burying himself to the hilt. A rough, broken shout tore from his throat as he came. His body locked, shuddering, as he emptied himself inside her in pulsing jets. He held himself there, pulsing, for a long moment before collapsing forward slightly, his weight pressing Bianca down into the sand.
He pulled out with a wet, slick sound. Bianca collapsed onto her side, curling into a fetal position, shaking. Andre stood up, his cock still glistening and semi-hard. He looked down at her, his expression unreadable again, the aggression gone as quickly as it had come. He turned and walked back to his spot, leaving her there.
The bottle lay on its side where he’d left it. Alya stared at it, then at Bianca’s trembling form. Something hardened in her eyes, a brittle shell forming over the humiliation. She stood up. Her movements were stiff, but her chin was lifted.
“My spin,” she said, her voice surprisingly steady.
She walked to the bottle, her bare feet leaving deep prints in the sand. She didn’t look at anyone. She picked it up, feeling the residual warmth from Andre’s hand. She took a deep breath, and spun.
The bottle pirouetted wildly, a dizzying green cyclone. It spun and spun, a manifestation of the chaos inside her. It finally began to slow, weaving unsteadily. It passed Kofi, passed Nicola… and settled.
It pointed at Andre.
A low murmur rippled through the group. Andre, now sitting again, looked up. A faint, intrigued smile touched his lips. He gave a single, slow nod.
Alya walked towards him. She stopped a foot away, her body silhouetted against the fire. She said nothing. She simply turned around, presenting her back to him.
Andre stood up. He circled her slowly, a shark assessing prey. His eyes traveled over the red handprint on her ass, over the narrow waist, up to the clasp of her bra. He stopped in front of her.
His hands came up, not with violence, but with a deliberate, unsettling possessiveness. They slid around her back, his fingers finding the clasp of her bra with ease. He unhooked it.
The straps loosened. Alya didn’t move to catch it. She let the garment fall forward, down her arms, and drop into the sand at her feet. Her small, firm breasts were exposed, the nipples tight peaks.
Andre’s hands came around to cup them. His touch was not like it had been with Bianca. It was slower, more sensual, almost reverent. He weighed them in his palms, his thumbs circling her areolas. He leaned in, his breath hot on her neck.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, a stark contrast to his previous brutality.
He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth. He suckled it deeply, his tongue working in slow, luxurious circles. Alya shuddered, a full-body tremor. A soft, involuntary moan escaped her lips. He switched to the other breast, lavishing it with the same thorough, worshipful attention. He nipped at the peak with his teeth, then soothed it with his tongue.
One of his hands slid down her stomach, over the waistband of her leggings, and cupped her mound through the fabric. He pressed the heel of his hand against her, a firm, grinding pressure. Alya’s head fell back against his shoulder, her eyes closing. Her resistance, what little remained, was melting under this unexpected, focused sensuality.
He kissed her shoulder, her collarbone, the valley between her breasts. His hand continued to massage her through her clothes, a steady, claiming rhythm. “So perfect,” he whispered against her skin, his voice a dark silk. “All mine for now.”
He didn’t take it further. He didn’t strip her leggings off. He simply held her there, half-naked against his fully naked body, fondling her, kissing her, until her breathing was as ragged as if he’d been fucking her. Then, as suddenly as he had begun, he stopped. He released her breasts, removed his hand from between her legs, and took a step back.
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He released her breasts, removed his hand from between her legs, and took a step back.
Alya stood there, exposed and shuddering, her skin humming from his touch. The firelight painted her upper body in gold and shifting shadow. She stared at the ground for a long moment, her breath coming in controlled hitches. Then, with a visible hardening of her resolve, she turned and walked back to the bottle. She left her bra in the sand.
Her fingers, when she picked up the glass, were steady. She didn’t look at Briv, but he felt the air tighten, a wire pulled taut between them. The entire circle watched, a silent audience to their shared history. She placed the bottle down and gave it a firm, decisive spin.
It twirled, a green arbiter of fate. Briv watched it, his heart a trapped bird beating against his ribs. He wanted it to point to him. He dreaded it pointing to him. The bottle slowed, wobbling on its base. It passed Dariana. It passed Kofi. It teetered, spun a final quarter turn, and stopped.
The neck pointed directly at Briv.
Alya’s eyes lifted and met his. In them, he saw a challenge, a residue of humiliation, and a flicker of something older and more fragile. She said nothing. She simply walked toward him, stopping a few feet away. The only sound was the crackle of driftwood surrendering to flame.
Briv stood. The night air felt cool on his skin. He closed the distance, his own near-nakedness feeling suddenly insignificant. They were inches apart now. He could see the fine goosebumps on her arms, the rapid flutter of a pulse in her throat.
“Well?” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
His hands rose. They didn’t tremble now. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her remaining leggings, his fingers brushing the warm skin of her hips. He held her gaze as he pushed the fabric down. It slid over the curve of her ass, down her slender thighs, pooling at her ankles. She stepped out of them, kicking the garment aside.
Now she stood before him, completely naked. The red imprint of Jim’s hand stood out on the pale swell of her ass. Her small, perfect breasts rose and fell with her quickening breath. Briv drank her in, the familiar landscape made foreign by circumstance.
He knelt. The sand was cool and granular under his knees. He placed his hands on her thighs, just above her knees. Her skin was so soft. He leaned forward, his face inches from the neat, dark triangle of hair between her legs. Her scent, familiar and uniquely hers—clean skin, salt, a faint floral trace of her soap—filled his senses, overwhelming the smell of woodsmoke and sea.
He didn’t start with his mouth. He pressed his face into her, inhaling deeply, nuzzling the coarse hair. A soft, shocked gasp escaped her lips. His hands slid up her thighs, pulling her gently wider. He kissed the inside of one thigh, a soft, lingering press of his lips. He felt her muscle tense, then quiver.
He shifted closer. He planted a line of soft kisses up her inner thigh, moving with agonizing slowness toward her center. Her breathing grew ragged, hitching in her throat. When his lips finally met her outer lips, she flinched as if touched by a live wire.
He kissed her there, a soft, closed-mouth press against her folds. Then he licked her, a slow, flat stroke from the base of her opening to the top. She tasted of salt and heat and Alya. A low, broken moan tumbled from her mouth. Her hands tangled in his hair, not pushing, not pulling, just gripping.
He licked her again, deeper this time, seeking the hidden seam of her. He found her entrance, dipping just the tip of his tongue inside, tasting her deeper essence. She whimpered, her hips giving a tiny, involuntary thrust. “Briv,” she breathed, his name a question and an answer.
He focused his attention upward, finding the hard, swollen bud of her clit. He circled it with the very tip of his tongue, light and teasing. She shuddered, her fingers tightening in his hair. “Don’t… tease,” she managed to say, her voice thick.
He obeyed. He took her clit into his mouth and sucked, hard. She cried out, her back arching. He sucked and licked, worshipping that little nub with a fervor born of memory and jealousy and a desperate, drowning want. He slid a finger into her, finding her slick and hot. She was so wet. The knowledge that her arousal was real, that it was for him in this fucked-up moment, sent a jolt of possessive triumph through him.
He added a second finger, curling them inside her, searching for that spot he knew so well. He found it, a rough patch he rubbed in slow, firm circles with his fingertips. His mouth worked her clit in counterpoint, sucking, flicking, relentless.
“Oh, god, right there,” she sobbed, her thighs clamping around his head. Her body was bow-string tight, trembling on the edge. “Just like that, don’t stop, please don’t stop.”
He didn’t. He drove her with his mouth and fingers, a frantic, intimate cadence. Her moans became high-pitched, desperate pleas. He could feel her inner muscles begin to flutter around his fingers, could taste the sharpening change in her scent.
He redoubled his efforts, sucking her clit deep, fucking her with his fingers with hard, purposeful strokes. “Come for me,” he growled against her, the vibrations pushing her further. “Come on my face, Alya.”
It was the command that broke her. Her orgasm ripped through her with a sudden, violent intensity. She screamed, a raw, ragged sound that tore through the night, her body convulsing around his fingers. He kept his mouth sealed on her, drinking her in, swallowing every shudder, every pulse, until she was pushing his head away, oversensitive and spent.
She collapsed backwards onto the sand, her chest heaving, her skin sheened with sweat. Briv sat back on his heels, wiping his wet mouth with the back of his hand. He was painfully hard, straining against his underwear. He looked down at her, at her naked, undone form lying in the sand, and a complex storm of emotions—triumph, sorrow, desire, and a deep, hollow ache—twisted inside him.
Alya covered her face with her arm, her breathing gradually slowing. After a long moment, she sat up. She didn’t look at him. She scooted back to her place in the circle, drawing her knees up to her chest, hiding nothing and everything all at once.