Page 73 of Entombed In Sin

“Oh, you’ll play, Little Sister,” Thatcher promises. “Don’t like pain? Don’t want to bleed? Then, I highly suggest you make it a point not to get caught by either of us. Run hard and hide well, and maybe you’ll walk away this evening. But if you get caught? You’re ours to do with as we wish. Three strikes, and you’re out. Got it?”

His words don’t make sense. Not really. So I attempt to talk my way out of a night full of terror.

“I’m sorry, Thatcher! Whatever I did, I’m really sorry. Just tell me, and I won’t do it again!”

“You’re not quite sorry enough for my liking.” His weight shifts down my legs. “But you will be. In the meantime, before we get started, I got you something to wear. It’ll make the game more fun for all of us.”

Before I can reply, the sound of fabric ripping and a cold rush of air over my back cuts me off.

“Did you just cut my dress off?” I shriek in horror.

Thatcher doesn’t answer. Probably because the answer is obvious as he continues. The material is cut off me. Some of the poor lighting manages to reflect off Thatcher’s knife, as he proceeds to slice through the half sleeves of my dress. Beside us, Sagan grabs Knox’s shirt to rip it.

“If you destroy this top, I’m going to be so fucking pissed,” Knox warns. “Let me take it off.”

“I’ll risk your wrath, Pretty Boy,” Sagan spits back and tears the material away.

Knox howls with fury. I cringe at the sound, knowing how vindictive Knox can be in his rage. Sagan, on the other hand, only laughs before pulling out a knife and cutting throughKnox’s pants. Before I can wonder at that, my bra is cut away from my body. Then go my panties.

“No, wait!” I start to thrash again, hating how vulnerable I feel without any clothes on.

“I’ve waited long enough,” Thatcher snarls. “And you were just going to keep me waiting. I’ve lost my patience with your shit, Little Sister.”

There’s the sound of a lid popping open. Knox yelps suddenly from where he is on the ground, but I can’t focus on him right now. I have my own problems. Like how some type of liquid drips down onto my butt and slides between my cheeks. It’s thick and cool. I try to jerk upright but Thatcher’s hand comes back between my shoulder blades to keep me pinned in place. Fingers follow the trail of liquid, finding the entrance to my back door and coating it generously. Abruptly, Thatcher sticks a finger into me. My cry of surprise is echoed by Knox, going through his own ordeal.

“If you think fingers are a shock, you’re in for a treat,” Thatcher promises.

As Thatcher probes me, Sagan’s feet come into view. I look up, tears blurring my vision of him.

“Please, Sagan, help me!”

He crouches down to stare at me, his face impassive, almost bored. Then our eyes meet. There I catch sight of a strange, dim light that brightens both his green eye and the brown one. It could be from the random streetlights around us, or maybe it's a reflection from something nearby. But my gut twists as something instinctually whispers that demonic glow is coming frominsidehim.

“You struck, Little Viper. I am proud of you.” His mouth moves, his lips peeling back into what I think is supposed to be a grin, but it's all teeth, and it brightens that strange gleam in thedepths of his eyes. “I can’t wait until you mark me the way you’ve done my brother. I’ll cherish your teeth in my flesh.”

Sagan stands and steps away from me. At the same time, Thatcher's fingers pull out of me. Just when I think my humiliation is over, something large, smooth, round, and cold comes to rest right at my hole. I don’t know what it is, but I know I don’t want it anywhere inside of me.

“No!” I screech, thrashing harder than ever as it's pressed into me. My muscles protest despite the clear presence of lube. “Please, no!”

The bulbous point is worked into me thanks to the constant pressure applied by Thatcher, who doesn't relent despite my screams. I can't take it. I try to tell him that—my weepy pleas are loud and echo around us. Still, Thatcher works the cold metal into me until there's a popping sensation.

And then the object is sitting inside me. It doesn't hurt nearly as bad as when it entered. I do, however, feel fuller than I've ever felt before. I lie there, my cheek pressed against the cement, breathing heavily, trying to assimilate to the new sensation. There’s weight to the object. Each heavy breath I take, my body clenches around it and the weight causes it to massage my insides.

Behind me, Thatcher shifts. There's a tug on the object inside me. It's slight, but even the tiniest of movements seem to adjust the sensations. I choke on a sound. It certainly can’t be a moan, can it? A shiver of fear races down my spine. What is this? My breathing turns into rapid gasps as panic threatens to consume me once more. Above me, Thatcher’s weight disappears.

“Sit up,” he orders.

I shake my head, and through gasps, I sob out, “I can't.’

“You can. Nowsit up.”

There's a hint of annoyance in his voice, and it's followed by a tug at whatever he's stuck inside me. I yelp and scramble to getto my knees. When I move, the thing inside me shifts. It’s not painful, but it’s certainly noticeable and makes getting to my feet awkward and stiff. Rather than acknowledge Thatcher, I glare at his feet and attempt to will them into combusting into flames.

“Look at me, Little Sister.”

My bottom lip trembles. When I refuse to look up, Thatcher chuckles darkly.

“I can make tonight infinitely more unpleasant if you won’t listen,” he promises.

---