Page 33 of The Knucklebone Brothers

I screamed, the sound echoing off the walls of the shack. The pain was blinding, a sharp, hot spike that radiated outward, making my eyes water.

"Three," Maverick went on, unbothered.

CRACK.

I threw my head back, a ragged moan escaping my lips, tears pricking my eyes. The sting was fading into a dull, throbbing heat, a fire spreading through my skin.

"Four," he said.

CRACK.

I was panting now, my body trembling, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I could feel my skin turning red, a fiery map of his discipline.

"Five," Maverick said.

CRACK.

I arched my back, my ass in the air, my hips bucking against Maverick’s lap. The pain was intense, but it was making something else stir inside me, a deep, aching throb between my legs. My pussy started to ache, a dull throb that was growing stronger, a wet heat that was making me dizzy.

I was confused, terrified, and turned on. I could feel Maverick’s body, his dick twitching, the warmth of his hand on my back. I could feel the heat of the belt, the sting of the leather, the fire spreading through my skin. I was burning up, and I didn't know why. I was questioning myself, my own sanity. Am I really into this? What the fuck?

Maverick leaned in close to my ear. "You like that, don't you?" he whispered, his voice a dark, seductive purr. "You like knowing you're going to be used. You like knowing you're going to be ours."

I couldn't answer. I just moaned, a low, broken sound. I was a mess of pain and pleasure, a fire that was burning out of control.

Maverick’s hand moved over my ass, his fingers tracing the angry, red welts raised by Blythe's belt. The sting made me hiss, a sharp intake of breath that cut through the haze of the room. I lay there, chest heaving. My body ached, sure, but in a way that made my stomach flip, a heavy, throbbing heat that settled right between my legs.

I wanted him to go lower, to run a finger through my pussy, to give me some relief, but he didn't. He just kept rubbing the welts, his thumb digging into the sore flesh, spreading the sting around. He was toying with me, playing with me like a cat with a mouse, knowing exactly how to mess with my head.

Then Blythe grabbed my wrists. He was rough, his grip tight, his fingers digging into my skin. He wrapped a rough hemp rope around them, tying them together quickly and efficiently. I felt like a damn calf being roped up at a rodeo, a dumb animal waiting to be slaughtered. I was helpless, my hands bound, my fate sealed.

Blythe didn't waste a damn second. He grabbed the loose end of the rope and tossed it over a rusted iron beam that ran the length of the ceiling, the kind used to hang carnival signs. He hauled me up, his muscles bunching under his shirt, and I yelped as my arms were jerked upward. The hemp bit into my wrists, rubbing them raw, and I was lifted off Maverick's lap, my body swaying in the air.

My feet dangled a good foot off the floor, my feet searching for the ground. The sudden shift threw my chest forward, straining the skin tight. The air in the shack was cool, a sharp difference to the heat radiating from my body, and it hit my bare skin like a slap. I was exposed, completely on display, my arms stretched wide, my body hanging like a prize piece of meat ready for the carving block.

I dangled there, my arms screaming in their sockets. The blood was rushing to my head, making my vision swim. I tried to shift my weight, to find a comfortable spot, but there wasn't one.

I watched them. Maverick and Blythe were walking in circles around me, their boots crunching on the dirty floor. They were inspecting the junk scattered around the shack—rusty juggling pins, dusty props, piles of forgotten parts of the carnival. They looked like they were shopping in a haunted thrift store, muttering to themselves.

"Hey, look at this," Maverick said, picking up a dusty old mirror. He held it up to his grinning mask. "Does this make me look fat?" he asked, then laughed at his own terrible joke. "Nah."

Blythe didn't say anything. He just kicked over a stack of old tools, sending them clattering to the floor. "Found it," he muttered, his voice low. He was rummaging through a box of carnival prizes, his fingers moving fast, his eyes scanning for something.

"You guys lookin’ for something," I said, my voice strained, hanging there. "What are you lookin’ for?"

Maverick walked over to me, his mask close to my face. "We're looking for the perfect toy, Aurora," he said, his voice a low, throaty purr. He ran a hand down my side, his fingers tracing the curve of my body. "But we can't use you yet. We need to find the right tools for the job."

"Let me down," I said, my voice shaking. "I want to go back to Amos's house."

Blythe looked over at me. "You're not going back to Amos," he said, his voice low, dangerous. "Amos don't want no part in our fun. He's not apart of this."

Blythe stopped his rummaging, a low grunt of satisfaction escaping him. He slowly walked over, his heavy boots thudding softly on the dirt floor. In his hand, he held a flat, cardboard package, the kind you'd see hanging on a hook in a cheap store. It was sealed, the plastic yellowed with age, but the contents were clear. A flat strap paddle, maybe a foot long, made of thick, black leather with a handle wrapped in worn cord. It looked brand new.

He tore open the package with a rough jerk of his hand, the cardboard ripping like dry paper. He pulled the paddle out, his fingers running over the smooth, unblemished leather. He examined it, testing its weight, flexing it slightly, the end making a soft, whistling sound as it cut through the air. He seemed satisfied. Without a word, he handed it to Maverick.

Maverick took it, a low hum escaping his mask. He ran his thumb over the smooth leather, his eyes gleaming with a manic light. "Well now," he drawled, his voice a low, appreciative rumble. "I've been waitin' to use one of these." He gave it another practice swing, the air hissing. "This is gonna be fun."

While Maverick was admiring his new toy, Blythe's eyes scanned the cluttered workbench. He spotted a pair of heavy-duty pliers, rusted at the joints but still solid. He picked them up, the metal looked off in the dim red light. He spun them in his hand, the jaws opening and closing with a soft, metallic click-clack. Then he turned and moved toward me, his expression unreadable, his intentions terrifyingly clear.