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I can feel the burn of ropes around my wrists, burning into my soft skin, scraping like claws when I make even the slightest attempt to move my arms. It aches all the way down from my wrists to my shoulders, and I can feel my body starting to cramp up from sitting in this tense position for so long.
My legs are shoved widely apart, my pussy wet and glistening with need. My wrists are bound with cords to the bed posts, keeping me wide open and vulnerable, just a delicate prey for the predators stalking on either side of the bed.
Two men, tall and strong, with bulging muscles and hard, long cocks like spears stand over me, looking down at me as though they could dive in and devour every inch of my exposed flesh at any moment. I feel just the slightest shiver of fear, but the fear only adds to the anticipation, the desperation swelling up inside of me.
I need them to touch me. I need them to lay their huge, rough hands on my skin and move and bend me as they please. I want them to mark me up, use me, treat me however they want to, fill me up with their fingers, their cocks, their cum. I want to be stuffed full, I want to be fucked until I can’t breathe or think straight.
I only wish I could see their faces.
But they move about in swaths of shadow, the darkness falling over their faces whenever I try to strain my eyes to get a better look. Faceless and powerful, they are almost more like beasts than men. Wild animals poised to rip me to shreds, tear me apart and feast on me like the tempting morsel I am.
I can hear my own heart beating loudly in my ears, the blood rush in my veins that I know they can hear, they can smell. I wonder if my fear exhilarates them, turns them on like it turns me on. I have never wanted anything so badly as I want these two faceless men. It’s a need that burns and rages within me. I can’t ignore it. I can’t push it back down. I need them to fuck me. Now.
I open my mouth to whimper, to beg them.
“Please,” I manage to choke out, but it’s softer than a whisper, like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs. Still, my two suitors understand me perfectly, and they descend on me like animals.
Four hands, rough and calloused, roving up and down my soft, shivering body. I moan as two hands close over my full, perky breasts, sliding his thumbs up and over my nipples until they stand erect and sensitive to his every touch. He’s groping me, caressing me, seizing my breasts like they belong to him. Like every part of me belongs to them. He leans down to pull my nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it so that I’m gasping and moaning.
The other man is caressing my taut stomach, manhandling my hips, squeezing and tracing his fingers along my trembling thighs. He’s teasing me. Playing with me as though I’m a toy. He knows how badly I need him without even asking.
Both of them can see right through me. I feel like they can read my minds, pushing into even the darkest, most cobwebby corners of my mind to seek out my deepest, most hidden fantasies.
They can tell what I want before I even know it fully myself, anticipating my every sigh and whi
mper. The second man pushes my thighs even further apart, climbing onto the bed to lower himself down and breathe in my special womanly scent, which sets me apart.
I bite my lip, looking down at him with my breath caught and held in my throat. I’m afraid to move, for fear that either one of them will stop touching me. I need them to keep touching me. I feel like I will fall apart the second they let go of me.
The first man bends down to kiss me, even though I still cannot see his face. But he finds my lips easily, and I sigh into his soft, warm mouth. He kisses me gently at first, more placating and calming than pushing.
But then he probes his tongue into my mouth and I allow him gladly, straining up to meet him, hoping he won’t pull away. He gently bites my lower lip, making me shiver appreciatively. The second man is kneeling down on the bed, his face nestled between my legs. I feel his tongue lightly slide up and down my slick folds.
“Mmm,” he growls, nuzzling into my cunt. It sends a vibration up through my body and I feel the pleasure begin to mount higher and higher.
They begin to speak to me in low, raspy voices. Guttural hums and growls that sound like speech but I can’t quite decipher it, as hard as I try. And really, it doesn’t matter. The words don’t have to make sense to me to know what they’re talking about: me. My body. How much they enjoy touching me and bringing me closer and closer to the edge…
Until I wake up with a start, my eyes opening wide to the blazing pillar of dawn’s light streaming in through the window. I roll over in bed, slowly waking up out of my unfinished dream. I wonder what woke me up. I was so close to a release. I can’t help but feel cheated out of something. Then a little bird on the tree branch outside my window starts his cheerful little song and I realize that is what woke me up.
“Ugh, you little bastard,” I groan. “I needed that dream.”
I close my eyes tightly again and try to will myself back to sleep, hoping I can pick back up where the dream woefully left off. But I have never been the type to fall back asleep once I’m woken up. It’s annoying, but that little bird has ruined any chances of my having that dream again this morning. So instead I slide my hand down inside of my panties and begin to touch myself. If the two faceless men in my dream can’t get me off, I’ll just have to do it on my own. I massage tiny, soft circles into my clit, rolling my hips slowly as I cling to the sensory memory of two men touching me at once, four rough hands caressing my body and bringing me pleasure. Sure, maybe it’s a little odd to be doing this here, in my childhood bedroom. But then again, it’s not like I didn’t touch myself in this same bed as a horny teenager years ago. I begin to rub faster and harder, my mouth falling open as my breaths come more quickly. I arch my back, giving in to the waves of bliss rippling through my body, and cum with a shuddering sigh.
I lie there for a few minutes, coming down from the high. As my pleasure ebbs away, my stress comes rushing back in to take its place. I groan and crawl out of bed, my toes curling when they touch the cool wooden floors. I trudge out of the bedroom, still decorated as it was when I lived here four years ago, before I headed off to university in New York. I walk down the quiet hallway, the walls lined with family portraits and terrible paintings I made as a kid. I don’t know why my parents held on to all this stuff, but it’s also impossible for me to imagine this house any other way. The organized clutter, the personal touches, even the flaws-- they all make me feel at home. This is a house of love, full of happy memories that I cherish above all else.
Which is why, I think to myself as I get into the shower, I have to find a way to keep the house. This place is my heart and soul, and I can’t bear to let it go. In fact, this house is basically the whole reason I moved back home from New York. I went off to college in Syracuse, getting my master’s degree in creative writing. It was a great experience, and at the end of it, I landed a well-known agent in the city. She wanted me to move to Brooklyn and write there, so she was a little put out when I moved back here to North Carolina.
But the truth is, as much as I loved it up north, nowhere in the world inspires me quite like home does. This house lies in the picturesque foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, shaded by huge trees. Hiking trails leading to gorgeous waterfalls or cliffs with breathtaking views riddle these hills. My family home is on the edge of a forest, safely secluded from the suburbs and the hustle and bustle of Asheville. Growing up here was idyllic: playing in the woods from dawn till dusk, fishing in the creeks, climbing trees, picking wild strawberries and foraging for mushrooms with my pseudo-hippie parents. This old house has stood proudly on the hill surrounded by trees since the early 1900s, long before my parents bought the house and fixed it up. They got it for cheap back in the ‘80s, since it was a falling-apart old Victorian relic at the time. But they refurbished and renovated everything, breathing new life into the old beauty.
I assumed my parents would live here forever, but when I went off to college, they decided to retire to Florida. They want those white sandy beaches and a change of scenery, so they left the house to me. So I moved home, planning to use this place as a writer’s retreat, to inspire my work. But then my mother fell ill. Suddenly, the only way they could keep to their retirement plan was to sell off everything. The house is our final asset. And now it’s up for grabs, too, because some realty development company flashed a big number at my parents. An offer they could not afford to refuse. My mom required an emergency surgery, and it was an expensive one. The months of rehabilitation were pricey, too, even with their great insurance. Suddenly, our comfortable lives were turned upside down. She’s been getting treated down in Florida, close to the beachside cottage they’re renting for cheap.
Thankfully, my mother recovered from her illness, no doubt soothed and nursed back to health by a combination of my father’s devotion and the balmy sea air. But this still leaves our family home hanging in the balance. I’ve spent the last few weeks struggling to figure out how I can scrounge up money to save the house. As a freelance writer with a kickass agent, I make fairly good money. And since moving back here, my writing has flourished. I love to write romance novels, often centered around a cozy small town where everyone knows each other. Living here in the beautiful countryside is exactly the right location for that kind of writing. My success is slowly building, and I live comfortably. But it’s still not enough money to match the massive amount these developers are offering. I’ve tried fundraising. I’ve considered taking out loans… but nothing seems to be a good plan.
I dry off and get dressed, then walk outside into the brisk autumn air to check the mail. The leaves on the trees are turning vivid shades of orange and gold, like a blazing fire through the forest. It’s beautiful. I’ll never get tired of seeing the leaves turn. I just hope I can find a way to hold onto this place, whatever it takes.
I reach into the mailbox and pull out a letter with my parents’ name on it. I open up the envelope and read it over, noting the header at the top that says WILSON & WARREN DEVELOPMENT COMPANY. The letter informs my parents that an inspector will be coming by soon to appraise the house and see how to go about demolishing it.
“Wait. What?” I murmur, my heart racing. I read over it again, just to be sure.
