Page 52 of Boneyard HEA

“Sand? It’s a fucking beach.” The facial scar makes his mouth seem cruel. My stomach twists when he uses my wrists and the hand on my mouth to pull me backward then rakes a callous gaze down my front. This is not the same man that played beach cricket, minutes ago. “What girl goes to the beach with nothing on her ass? One that wants to get tied up and fucked?”

“Grrr.” I try to shake loose, try to get off my knees, but he holds me in place.

“Cute.” He plucks at the bikini top, unties, and discards it, throwing it so far, I have no hope of finding it again. Slaps his hand back over my mouth, squashes it onto my lips, and smiles as he studies my breasts.

“Mmmff!” I’m scowling at him and naked, and how do I get back to the hotel like this?

“Got the tape, Aaron?”

“Yes.” Mr. Loxland arrives, with the backpack zipper gaping open and a roll of tape already partly unwound.

He wedges a strip of the tape across and partly into my mouth, then wraps it around and around my head—it’s soft and not sticky—while Tomás keeps my wrists locked back so my attempts to escape are futile.

Casually, Loxland feels between my legs, shoves a finger into me, and I grunt at the abruptness, then he stands. “Up.” I’m hauled to my feet. “Small problem. Some sand on her pussy.”

I do? Did that happen in the scuffle?

“Shit. What do we do? We’ll sand off our cocks.”

What about me! My extra-fiery glare is activated. “Mmmph!”

“Shush.” Tomás shakes my arm. “Just tie her to the tree, admire our little psycho fucktoy, then come back later with a bucket of water?”

“Little psycho?” Loxland looks amused.

I try to talk past the gag, managing a muffled, “Moooo!”

“Did she say moo?” Tomás actually stumbles as he snorts.

“She did. Fucking sand. Who planned this? Guess we’ll just have to do this.”

What is this? I blink up at them, feeling my lack of height, for once, then try again to wrench loose.

They hasten me along to a thicker grove of trees, then use a dim light to check for bugs—thank god—before strapping a leather cuff to each of my wrists. They tie one hand to a tree using rope attached to the cuff, then do the same to the other on a second tree. My ankles get the same treatment. I’m spreadeagled standing up and naked. Every so often, they play the flashlight over me, as if to advertise what they’re doing.

The moon will be out soon. I hope the nearest houses have no curious people in them. At least the cars here are rare. A breeze picks up and rattles the leaves, and to prove me wrong, a car rumbles past, but we’re deep enough in the trees that only slivers of my body are briefly illuminated.

The night has fallen fast, but my eyes are adjusting.

“Getting chilly there?” Mr. Loxland lifts my breasts in his hands. “These are mine now.”

“Mine, too, chamos,” Tomás reminds him.

They circle me, talking, mocking my lack of clothes.

“Remind me to rope her tits next time. I keep forgetting.”

“Bring any of those bulldog clamps?”

“Fine, fine ass.” One of them slaps it and I hiss, jolted in the ropes.

“We could put a stick up her and stir it around?”

Something else smacks across my ass, and I jerk and crane my neck to see. They’ve brought a small leather flogger with them and Tomás is using it. The smacks increase in frequency and force until I’m yelping, if muffled and quiet. Mr. Loxland watches, arms folded, and seems to smile when I react. Some lighter blows land between my legs, swung up from behind.

It’s enough to scare me, to sting, enough to leisurely flood me with that unique sexual heat I’ve begun to crave. I hang my head, blinking, absorbing the sensations.

I wriggle, a little, my toes exploring the leaf litter.