Chapter 10: Still Waters Run Deep
The smell of the forest was different here—damp earth, rotting wood, and the stale, sweet ghost of old mash clinging to the copper coils overhead. Erin’s back was pressed against the cold, rough wood of a massive fermentation vat. The rusted iron shackles around her wrists were cold, biting into her skin as Ryan clicked the last padlock shut.
“Comfy?” Ryan asked, his voice a low rumble that vibrated through her.
She tested the chains. They gave her maybe two inches of play. “Fucking peachy,” she spat, the bratty defiance a familiar armor, even as her heart hammered against her ribs.
Shane appeared from the shadows of the still, a mason jar of amber liquid swirling in his hand. The late afternoon sun cut through the broken roof beams, glinting off the blade of the combat knife tucked into his belt. His boots crunched on the gravel floor as he approached.
“You remember the rules from last time, don’t you, babygirl?” Shane said, his gaze trailing from her face down to where her legs were spread wide, anchored apart by more chains bolted to the floor. “The factory. The winch. All those friendly faces making you scream.”
A flush that had nothing to do with shame heated her skin. She did remember. The sensation of the suspension frame, the dizzying height, the searing wax and the cold clips on her flesh. The overwhelming, terrifying freedom of it.
“That was then,” she said, lifting her chin.
“This is now,” Shane corrected. He uncorked the jar. The pungent, sharp smell of homemade whiskey filled the air between them. “Private stock. Bell’s been running it for forty years. Too good for you, really.”
Before she could retort, he tilted the jar. The liquid cascaded down in a golden stream, not onto the ground, but onto the exposed apex of her thighs. It was shockingly cold, a river of fire and ice that soaked her pubic hair, flooded her folds, and dripped onto the packed earth beneath the wooden platform she was forced to stand on.
Erin gasped, her body jerking against the shackles. The alcohol stung the sensitive skin, a sharp, cleansing bite that was immediately followed by the low, smoky aroma enveloping her.
Shane set the empty jar down with a definitive clink. He leaned in, his breath hot against her ear. “Here’s the new rule. You lick it up. Every last fucking drop. You get that pretty little tongue down there and you clean yourself up with it.”
Her eyes widened. “You’re insane. I can’t—”
The back of his hand connected with her inner thigh, not a slap but a heavy, warning press. “You can. Or we invite the whole militia to fuck it out of you. Remember the crowd from the warehouse? Imagine them here. No winches, no fancy frames. Just you, chained to this wood, and a line of guys who haven’t been home to their wives in six months.”
Ryan moved to stand beside Shane, a silent pillar of solidarity. He ran a thumb along her jawline, his touch deceptively gentle. “It’s your choice, Erin. Always your choice. Serve yourself to us, or we serve you to them.”
The threat was visceral, real. She believed them. The memory of hungry eyes in the dungeon shadows was proof enough. A war raged inside her—the headstrong need to tell them to go to hell, and the deep, submissive craving that saw their ultimatum as the only possible path to take.
A tear of pure frustration escaped her eye. She hated them. She adored them.
With a shuddering breath, she bent her knees slightly, lowering her body as much as the chains allowed. She had to crane her neck, the position absurdly vulnerable and difficult. The smell of the whiskey was overwhelming. She stuck out her tongue, the very tip of it making contact with her own soaked skin.
The taste was explosive—oak, corn, sharp alcohol, and underneath, the familiar, musky salt of her own arousal. It was filthy and intoxicating. She lapped, a slow, kittenish stroke, her eyes locked on Shane’s.
“That’s it,” Ryan murmured, his voice thick. “Get it all.”
She worked harder, her tongue flattening, delving into her own folds to gather the pooled liquor. She swallowed, the burn traveling down her throat to mix with the heat building in her belly. Her cheeks were flushed with effort and humiliation, a potent cocktail that made her cunt clench around nothing. She was cleaning herself like an animal, on their command, and it was making her drip anew.
Shane watched, his blue eyes dark. He pulled the combat knife from his belt. The sound of the blade clearing leather was a sharp whisper in the quiet glade. He didn’t point it at her. Instead, he dragged the flat, cold side of the steel up the inside of her other thigh, the one not tingling from her ministrations.
The metal was a shocking contrast to the warmth of her mouth and her skin. She whimpered against herself, the vibration earning a low groan from Ryan.
“You missed a spot,” Shane said, tapping the blade lightly against her lower lip.
She redoubled her efforts, her tongue fucking into her own hole now, chasing the last remnants of whiskey, her motions becoming sloppy and desperate. The obscene, wet sounds echoed off the copper stills. She was fucking her own face on their order, lost in the debasement of it.
“Fuck, look at her,” Ryan said, palming the obvious bulge in his jeans.
“Think she’s earned a reward?” Shane asked, his tone conversational as he watched her tremble.
“Little bit. Little bit more.”
Shane nodded. He pulled the knife away and unbuckled his belt with his free hand. The rasp of the leather was loud. He freed his cock, already thick and fully hard, the head beading with moisture. He stepped forward, the tip nudging against her wet, whiskey-smeared lips.
“Suck,” he commanded, his voice leaving no room for anything but obedience. “Clean me up while you’re at it.”
Erin opened her mouth without hesitation, enveloping him in the heat of her mouth, the residual taste of whiskey and her own pussy a strange, heady mix on her tongue. She swirled her tongue around the crown, lapping at the pre-cum, taking him deeper until he hit the back of her throat.
“Goddamn,” Shane sighed, his hand coming to rest on the back of her head, not forcing, just holding.
Ryan moved behind her then. She felt his hands on her hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. He was still clothed, the rough denim of his jeans scraping against her ass. He spat once, twice into his palm, and she heard the slick sound of him stroking himself before the broad, blunt head of his cock pressed against her entrance.
He didn’t ask. He didn’t need to.
With a single, powerful thrust, he buried himself inside her to the hilt.
Erin screamed around Shane’s cock, the vibration drawing a guttural curse from him. The feeling of being filled so completely, so suddenly, while chained and occupied, was catastrophic. Ryan set a relentless, deep rhythm immediately, each drive of his hips slamming her forward onto Shane’s length.
The world narrowed to sensation. The copper taste of Shane in her mouth, the scrape of his zipper against her nose. The brutal, perfect fullness of Ryan pounding into her from behind, the slapping sound of their bodies meeting mingling with the distant call of crows. The cold chains rattling with every驱动. The smell of sex and whiskey and forest decay.
Shane began to fuck her face in earnest, his grip on her hair tightening, guiding her pace. “Take it, you greedy little bitch,” he grunted. “Swallow it all.”
She couldn’t breathe. Tears streamed down her face. Her body was a conduit for their use, a vessel being filled and claimed, and the orgasm that had been building since the first drop of whiskey hit her skin gathered into a taut, screaming wire.
Ryan’s pace became jagged, frantic. “Shane, I’m gonna—”
“Do it,” Shane growled, his own hips stuttering. “Fill her up.”
Ryan’s roar was muffled by the trees as he plunged deep and held, his hot release pulsing inside her in thick waves. The sensation of being claimed so intimately tipped her over the edge. Her own climax tore through her, a silent, breathless convulsion that clenched violently around Ryan’s still-spurting cock and milked Shane with her throat.
Shane pulled out just as his control shattered, painting sticky stripes across her face and bruised lips. She gasped for air, choking, swallowing, her body spasming through the aftershocks.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breathing and the chains’ soft jingle as Erin sagged in her bonds, utterly spent, covered in the evidence of their possession.
Ryan slowly pulled out of her, a soft, wet sound that made her flinch. He tucked himself away, his hands surprisingly tender as he smoothed her tangled hair.
Shane tucked himself back into his jeans, a dark, satisfied look on his face. He leaned close, licking a stray droplet of his own release from her cheekbone. “Good girl,” he whispered, the praise as devastating as the cruelty.
He stepped back and looked at Ryan. “She got it all. The whiskey’s gone.”
Ryan nodded, working the key into the shackles on her wrists. They fell away, and her arms dropped, numb and heavy. He caught her before her legs could buckle, lowering her gently to sit on the edge of the wooden platform.
“The militia?” she croaked, the words raw.
Shane smirked, cleaning his knife blade on his jeans before sheathing it. “What militia? We’re it, babygirl. Until next time.”
He offered her his hand. Exhausted, broken, and remade, she took it. The forest seemed quieter now, the shadows longer. As they led her, stumbling, back toward the truck, the only thought in her hazy mind was a question.
What’s next time?
And the terrifying, thrilling part was, she couldn’t wait to find out.