Page 11 of Final Girls and F*ck Boys

“Give her your fingers, At. Fill her up.” At Camber’s dark words, Atley’s dirty laugh filled the air around us, and I felt him rut against me, hard, cloth-covered cock pressing teasingly against me before disappearing. Whining, totally shameless now, I arched my back, spreading my knees so wide, my hips ached.

“Yes,” I babbled. “Yes, please, yes. Fuck me with your fingers.”

“I got you, baby girl,” Atley cooed as two fingers trailed through my slit.

He gathered the wetness, soaking his fingers before he plunged them into me. To my great dismay, it was slow and deep—not the fast, riotous finger-fucking my body was craving.

“Please,” I murmured, lips nearly touching Camber’s even through the metal. His hand tightened around my throat until my breath squeaked out of me and I couldn’t speak any longer. I braced my hands on his fabric-covered thighs, desperate to grip something as my mind grew hazy.

Atley’s lazy strokes inside me, combined with the untamed debauchery of the party and Camber’s demanding grip, had me ready to explode. I was already primed, on the edge of the tallest mountain I’d ever climbed, one foot on land while the other hung midair, ready for the jump. Suddenly, Camber’s free hand was diving down my body, and with unerring expertise, he found my clit, swollen and needy and overly sensitive. He stroked it hard, jerking it between two knuckles. The pleasure was so sudden and so overwhelming that my eyes rolled back in my head.

“Get ready,” I heard Camber say, but it was muffled, like there was cotton in my ears.

“Aye, aye, Capitan,” came Atley’s laughing reply.

Ready for what?I thought, but it was whisked away before it could fully form when Atley added a third finger, pumpingthem into me, his hand making filthy noises against my cunt. The hand he’d been using as an anchor on my hip slid around to my front, pressing deep on my lower belly. The pleasure changed almost immediately, increasing sharply as Atley’s fingers drilled my G-spot and Camber worked my clit. My hips jerked, shuddering, my body unsure how to process the bliss flowing through me.

I tried to moan, to scream, but no noises could escape through the tight collar of Camber’s hand on my throat. My vision grew hazy, blinking in and out as glitter blurred at my peripherals.

Just as I was at the edge of climax, about to be thrown off that precarious cliff, Camber jerked my head to the side once more before covering my mouth with a damp cloth. I gagged at the smell, hardly struggling as the hand around my throat loosened enough to let me scream out my release just before I passed out.

8

Iwoke suddenly, my senses on high alert.

It wasn’t the sharp jolt of waking from a nightmare, but the quiet, instinctual stillness of prey that knows a predator is near. My body was rigid, every muscle tensed as I tried to decipher where I was and what had woken me. The air around me was thick with the smell of dirt and rotted wood, so strong that I could taste it on my tongue. It was gritty, pungent, and clung to the back of my throat like a foul residue. Each breath I took only made it worse, the particles of dirt sifting into my nose and mouth, threatening to choke me.

I tried to move, but my hand met something solid and rough just inches from my face. The impact sent a jolt of realization through me, and I froze. My heart was thudding painfully in my chest, the only sound in the suffocating silence. Slowly, I raised my other hand, carefully feeling the space around me. My fingertips brushed against splintered wood, old and brittle yet confining. As I cautiously explored, the horrifying truth began to dawn on me—I was inside a box, a small, coffin-like enclosure barely wider than the span of my shoulders.

A breath shuddered out of me as the realization hit like a punch to the gut.

They had buried me alive.

Oh, my God.

Oh, my God.

OH MY GOD.

Panic surged through me like a tidal wave, crashing against the walls of my fragile composure. My breathing wanted to turn rapid, frantic, but I knew I couldn’t afford that. Hyperventilating would only waste what little oxygen I had.

I had to stay calm.

I had to think.

I forced myself to take slow, measured breaths, letting the adrenaline wash over me. I clung to the edge of fear, feeling its sharp, exhilarating rush. My boys wouldn’t actually hurt me—not like this. They knew I was an adrenaline junkie; they knew I lived for the thrill. They must have left me a way out, a clue, something. They wouldn’t have trapped me here without a way to escape.

Would they?

I was beginning to get lightheaded, the tightness in my chest growing more pronounced. I wasn’t sure if it was from the lack of oxygen or the panic attack I was barely keeping at bay. The walls of the box felt like they were closing in on me, the air growing thinner with each passing second.

I had to move.

I had to get out.

If they hadn’t left a trowel or something to dig with, that meant I must be in a shallow enough grave to claw my way out.

I had to be.

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