I chomp down on my bottom lip, trying to contain the arousal lodging itself in my center, when I notice them exchange a quick side glance, like they are trying to develop a game plan of what to do with me.
Excitement burrows in my stomach from waiting for them to make their move. The thrill of the chase, the satisfaction of being held captive—their captive—is what fuels my incessant need to push the boundaries and throw caution to the wind.
I don’t adjust my smirk. Instead, I widen it, keeping my eyes on the stage, reveling in my moment of defiance. They do a quick, obligatory bow, acknowledging the well-deserved applause they receive from the rowdy audience, but their focus remains on me, which is exactly where I want it.
Cillian raises his hand, motioning for the crowd, who is now roaring as they chant for an encore, to settle down. He tilts his head up slightly, faking a forced smile to the crowd—who is cheering their band name, “Midnight Dreary”—before he withdraws the forced smirk and looks right at me, mouthing the word “run.”
I don’t move, not yet. Instead, I wait until their backs are facing me as they walk to the stairs toward the back of the stage. It will only be a matter of minutes, if even that, before they catch up to me. Any other night, I would indulge in the chase, play along, and even drag it out. However, tonight, I don’t want to do anything that will prolong my capture.
The next band takes the stage and begins to set up as a cloud of smog forms, making it difficult to see. I squint as I turn around, trying to make my way out of the sea of people gathered in the tent.
Another cloud of artificial smoke gathers in front of my face. Even as it dissipates, my vision is abruptly robbed by the distinct sensation of cold, smooth silk forcefully draped over my eyes.
They’ve found me.
Like scavengers swooping down on their prey, they came for me, swift and adept.
Judging from the audible grunts spilling from both of their mouths—which should be impossible to hear, given how loud the crowd is cheering for the band now playing on the stage—they aren’t pleased, which only makes me even more eager to discover what they have in store for me. Butterflies swirl in my stomach from knowing that I will be experiencing their lustful wrath in a matter of minutes.
Now blindfolded, every sense feels heightened. Their large hands wrap around each of my arms, securing me in their grasp.
A smug chuckle escapes my mouth as they haul me out of the tent. You have to love rock concerts. Everyone is usually too in the zone, drunk or high, to notice two 6’4” dudes blindfolding and dragging someone out of the crowd. It’s not like if anyone tried to stop them, they could. Not when this level of fury and desire are intermixed.
“You just couldn’t wait another three weeks, could you, baby?” Paxton hisses in my ear, making the pulse between my legs begin to throb intensely like the drums Cillian was playing just moments ago.
“Nope,” I respond with a dash of arrogance. “Don’t act like you both aren’t excited to see me.”
Their rough hands twist against my skin. The friction of their touch melding into my flesh answers my question for me.
“Oh, we are,” Cillian begins before moving his hand past my waistband, bringing his palm flush against my already damp panties. “And judging by how wet and ready this pretty pussy feels, I think you are more than excited to see us. Isn’t that right,diosa?” he purrs into my ear, curling his fingers past the lace of my thong and against my inner walls.
A muffled whimper escapes my mouth, and a warm flush begins to form on my cheeks, wondering who is witnessing me being fingered while we walk.
Cillian glides his hand in deeper, before slowly retracting it from my entrance. He grazes his fingertips along my throbbing clit, swirling the sensitive nub with his slick digits.
He continues teasing my slit, even as we are walking, for a few more seconds before I feel the absence of his hand replaced by a popping sound.
“Mm, Pax, she is sweet and wet. You should have a taste,” he says, as I now realize the popping sound I heard was him licking my arousal off his fingers.
“That all depends,” Paxton says just as we walk past what sounds like a group of rowdy people playing some sort of water shooting game.
“On what?” I interrupt.
Pax leans into my ear, biting down on the lobe. “If you are going to stop being so defiant and start being a good girl.”
“Ourgood girl,” Cillian chimes in, correcting him.
3
Lola
The heady aromaof cedarwood musk and aged leather violently invade my nostrils as I feel my body being hoisted upward by two sets of ravenous hands.
Feeling like I am being suspended mid-air mixed with the silk that obstructs my vision, my every sense, every nerve, every desire seems heightened. The floating sensation dies off when my body is slammed against the rugged wood of what feels like a makeshift wall.
I’ve lost track of how many steps we have taken, but judging by how the music from the concert tent is still audible and not muffled, we couldn’t have gone too far.
Their grasps shift, still pressing me against where they have me fettered under their needy hands, as one of them glides their touch down the front of my legs, squeezing my thighs while lowering themselves in front of me.
