Page 6 of Property of Necro
Still.
Endure.
It’s going to be okay.
A sharp piece of metal pierces through my flesh. My toes flex as the flash of pain tears through my breast, radiating into my middle before it fades out, leaving a warm throb.
But I’m still. I’m quiet. I endure.
When they move to the next breast and do the same, I breathe through it. I’m ready for it. It must be a needle. It has to be.
The hand on my shoulder caresses me there. The rough callouses are a welcome comfort. I focus on the silent support and don’t flinch or fight when my legsare bent and my feet planted on the altar. Dragging the fabric down, they scoot me along with it to the bottom edge.
As my pierced breasts throb to the beat of my heart, my legs are spread wide, held by two strong sets of hands, exposing my most intimate parts to whoever wishes to look. Air hits my bare folds. I’m glad I shaved last night and trimmed on top to tame the wild curls.
Someone gruffly hums their approval.
Rot brushes his fingers across my neck until he settles there, wrapping his hand around my throat as someone shifts between my legs, and those baring me to the world force me to spread wider.
Something wet brushes my clit, and I gasp. The fingers around my throat squeeze in gentle reprimand as something slides up my clit, and then there’s… pain. Radiant pain. Horrible pain.
Fuck!
Clenching my teeth, I force myself to breathe through the agony as what must be jewelry settles in place, and my body is left on fire from clit to tits.
Christ, these men don’t mess around, do they?
Hot breath tickles my ear. “Good girl,” Rot whispers.
But I’m not a good girl, am I?
I’m here to spy on them, and in return, what? They blindfold me, cut off my clothes, and pierce me? Now what?
Before I can process another thought, my back arches off the altar as blunt fingers slam into my core. Curling slightly, hitting my G-spot, they fuck me, and I moan. I can’t help it. The sounds rip from my throat, and theydon’t stop as they pour from my soul like the desperate sex fiend I am.
It’s been weeks since I’ve been touched.
Weeks.
For someone like me, that’s far too long.
This is what I know.
This is what I crave.
Soon, those fingers are replaced with a thick cock, ribbed in what must be jewelry. My hands ball into fists, and I sob as the studded shaft wrecks me. He’s neither patient nor kind. He doesn’t whisper sweet nothings or promise me a good time. The men hold me, and he takes, stealing my pleasure for his own, slamming his cock into me over and over. My sore tits bounce, and the throbbing soon morphs into more—a mixture of bliss and heat.
I endure the onslaught.
The cock.
Those ridges.
Oh. I endure him. All of him.
When I come, I don’t hold back.
If they need me to be quiet.
