Chapter Text
The first thing you noticed was how fast the trees swallowed your signal. One turn off the main road, onto a winding path the GPS barely acknowledged, and your phone dropped from two bars to none.
Your car crunched over the gravel as you eased onto the long, narrow trail that lead into the woods. This was supposed to be peaceful. Quiet. A break from the city and your job and the noise that chews up your thoughts. You’d found the Airbnb listing last week, advertised as a “newly renovated” remote cabin perfect for solo getaways. Secluded. Undisturbed.
You wanted that. A little seclusion. A little silence. A chance to disappear for a few days.
But now, thirty minutes from the nearest gas station, with the sun already dragging itself beneath the line of pines, that silence felt less like peace and more like a warning. Still, you kept driving.
The cabin came into view slowly. No lights on. No smoke from the chimney. Just a squat silhouette in the treeline, buried under branches and crooked shadows.
It didn’t quite look like the photos. It was older. Darker. The wood siding was warped in places, patches of moss creeping up the corners like fingers. The porch sagged slightly, the railing uneven. But there was something still… inviting about it. Like it had been waiting for you.
You pulled up beside it and killed the engine. The world went silent. Just the crunch of your boots on the ground could be heard as you stepped out into the cold and grabbed your bag from the trunk.
You found the key under the mat, just like the instructions on Airbnb had told you. The door resisted your key at first. The lock stuck. You had to jiggle it a little, shoulder your weight into it, and when it finally clicked open, the creak that followed was loud.
Inside, the air was stale. Cold. The kind of cold that feels ancient, like no one had lived here in years. But the furniture was clean. A little dusty, but arranged exactly like the pictures: couch, stone fireplace, open kitchen, dining table, a few chairs, stairs leading up to a loft bed. There was no TV, Wi-Fi, or thermostat. Just a fireplace and a box of matches sitting neatly on the mantle.
You took a deep breath. You were alone. That’s what you had wanted. So you shut the door behind you, dropped your bag by the couch, and set about making the space feel livable.
It took an hour to unpack, light the fire, and warm the place enough to peel off your jacket. You walked around slowly, fingers trailing across woodgrain and old stone, eyes drifting from the old photographs nailed to the walls to the cabinets in the tiny kitchen. Everything looked untouched.
Outside, the sun was nearly gone. Only the faintest light slipped through the trees now, casting long, spindly shadows across the windows. You thought about checking your phone again, maybe there was service near the porch, but decided against it.
Instead, you went to the bathroom to freshen up, and then changed into something cozier: thick socks, oversized sweater worn loose over bare skin, soft shorts. You curled up in front of the fire with a book you barely remember packing, and a bottle of wine you definitely remember packing.
You tried to settle in, to just enjoy the evening.
Just beyond the treeline, no more than a few hundred feet out, two figures stood tucked between the trees. Watching. Neither of them spoke at first. They didn’t need to.
The cabin’s never had power before. Not in the years they’d been watching it, walking past it, seeing it from a distance.
But now? It glowed.
A dull yellow flicker behind aged glass. Movement. The shadow of a girl pacing by the window, too far to see clearly, but close enough to make out the shape of her hips when she lifted her sweater and disappeared from view.
Tim’s cigarette crackled between his lips. Smoke curled past the edge of his mask, and he exhaled through his nose, watching the cabin like it was prey. One hand rested near the handle of the axe slung across his back. Brian stood still beside him. Just watching, head tilted slightly.
It was easier to forget the isolation with the fire lit and the wine kicking in.
The bottle had only been open a half hour, but you’d already drank one fourth of it, give or take. The heat from the fire had finally chased the chill from the floorboards, and you’d kicked off your socks and tucked your bare feet into the throw blanket on the couch. Your book was resting open on your chest, half-forgotten, the words starting to blur.
You weren’t drunk, but you were warm. Loose. Floaty in that way that made your skin feel a little too sensitive, your thoughts a little too curious.
It had been a while. You barely remembered the last time you’d had sex. Let alone someone to share a bed with. Maybe it was the isolation, maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the knowledge that no one could see you out here.
You reached down slowly. Testing yourself. Fingertips dragging under the edge of your sweater and down your stomach. Your other hand still held the wine bottle lazily, a pool of red tilting toward the rim. A little buzzed, a little bored, and a little wet.
Your fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. Then your panties. Just enough to graze. The air caught in your throat when you touched yourself - hotter than you expected, the tension curled tighter than you’d realized.
You lay there for a moment, fingers ghosting over your clit, one leg bent lazily over the arm of the couch. The soft, almost drunken heat between your legs built slowly, hazily. Your lips parted. Your breath stuttered.
You hadn’t even closed your eyes when–
Knock.
Your heart jumped.
Bottle clinked against your teeth. You sat bolt upright, legs closing as your fingers pulled away, slick and trembling.
For a moment, all you heard was the wind pushing against the eaves. Then–
Knock.
Again. Harder this time.
You froze. Who the fuck–
You put the bottle of wine back on the side table. Your sweater had slipped half off your shoulder. You were panting. Your hand was still wet.
Panic bloomed sharp in your chest. You scrambled to your feet, nearly stumbling over the blanket as you stood, ears straining.
It could’ve been a branch. A tree. Maybe–
Knock.
Slow. Deliberate.
You didn’t move for five full seconds. Then, finally, you turned toward the kitchen.
The knife block sat by the sink.
Your bare feet slapped softly against the wood floor as you moved. You yanked the smallest knife from the set - more paring than threatening, but it was something. Your fingers trembled around the handle.
The door had a window. Covered by a curtain.
You stood there in front of it for what felt like minutes, breathing shallow and fast. Your heartbeat was in your ears. You couldn’t hear anything else.
You almost didn’t open it. You shouldn’t have opened it. But your hand moved anyway.
You pulled the curtain aside. Two men stood on your porch.
Not boys. Men. One a little taller than the other, both bundled in layered clothes and jackets. Their shoulders were broad. Solid. The taller one stood slightly behind the other, hands in his pockets, face sharp and unreadable. The closer one - dark hair, a shadow of stubble along his jaw - tilted his head when you looked out, like he already knew how scared you were.
No masks. No weapons - at least not that you could see.
But they didn’t look like hikers. Didn’t look lost either. You cracked the door just an inch, the knife hidden behind your thigh. “...Can I help you?”
The closer one smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes. “Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, voice low, rough like he’d smoked too long and too often. “We just saw the lights on. Nobody usually stays here.”
The taller one said nothing. Just looked at you - first your eyes, then lower. Slowly. Down your bare thighs. Your shorts. The oversized sweater slipping off one shoulder.
You tugged the hem down instinctively. “I–I booked it for the weekend. It’s an Airbnb.”
The man nodded. “Yeah, figured. New listing?”
You swallowed. “...Yes.”
His eyes flicked to the fire glowing behind you. The bottle of wine on the table. Your flushed skin. You felt seen. Fully. In a way that made the air feel too thick to breathe.
“You up here alone?” he asked.
You hesitated. “Is that your business?”
That earned the ghost of a smirk.
“No,” he said. “But it’s an answer.”
His tone wasn’t threatening. But it didn’t strike you as casual either.
The other man - taller, quieter, eyes like slate - tilted his head slightly. His expression was unreadable.
“I don’t mean to be rude,” you said, “but it’s late.”
“We know,” the first man replied. “Just thought we’d check in. Cabin’s been empty a long time.”
You gripped the door a little tighter. “Well… it’s not now.”
Another pause. The two of them exchanged a glance - brief, but heavy with meaning.
Then the quiet one spoke, his voice deeper, slower. “It’s cold.”
You blinked. “What?”
“You’ve got a fire going.”
You looked at him. Then the other.
“I… don’t have anything to offer you,” you said cautiously. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“Yeah,” said the first man. “We noticed.”
They didn’t move. Just stood there.
You didn’t invite them in. You didn’t have to.
The moment you stepped back - just half a foot, just enough to show hesitation - they moved. Not fast or forceful. Just... confident. Certain.
The man with the dark hair stepped over the threshold first, and you caught the faintest smell of smoke and autumn air on his clothes as he passed. It wasn’t unpleasant, just intrusive, like he brought the cold inside with him. The taller one followed a breath behind, ducking his head slightly under the frame, shoulders nearly brushing yours. Neither touched you.
You shut the door behind them on autopilot. Locked it, too. Not that it would make a difference now.
The first one, he was rugged, a little unshaven, clearly robust under his layers. His eyes were quick, too quick. You could feel them tracking everything at once: the curve of your legs, the wine bottle, the half-buried knife handle still clutched in your right hand. When he looked directly at it, at you, he smirked.
“Cute,” he said. The word burned.
The taller one, broader in the shoulders, more still, had already moved to the small wooden dining table near the window. He didn’t sit yet, just rested one hand against the back of the chair, eyes sweeping over the room like he was taking inventory. His face was pale in the firelight, sharp jaw, dark blonde hair, that same expressionless calm that made your skin itch. He looked like he belonged here.
“Y’know,” the first one said as he turned toward the fire, “you’re lucky it was us and not someone else. A girl like you? Out here alone?”
He dropped into the second chair like he lived in this cabin.
The taller one, still silent, finally sat across from him, resting his elbows on the table. His jacket creaked as he leaned forward, and you saw, just for a second, something tucked under his jacket. The faint glint of metal. It wasn’t a phone. It wasn’t a flask.
You still held the knife.
“Hey,” the dark-haired one said, voice smooth now, relaxed. “You can put that down.”
You hesitated. Gripped it tighter.
He raised both palms briefly, mock surrender. “We’re not gonna hurt you. If we wanted to, we already would’ve.”
Your stomach dropped. That didn’t make you feel better.
He leaned back in the chair, arms draped lazily over the sides. “You got a name, sweetheart?”
You swallowed hard. “What do you want?”
“I asked first.”
Your silence stretched long.
The taller one watched you without blinking. Still hadn’t spoken again. His eyes lingered, slow and methodical, tracking the curve of your legs, the way your thighs were pressed together, the sweat beginning to bead at your collarbone.
You suddenly felt naked, even though you weren’t. Not really. But the shorts. The off-shoulder sweater. The way your face still burned. You hadn’t had time to clean your hand.
He could smell you. You were sure of it.
“I didn’t catch your names,” you said stiffly, voice hoarse. You were trying to stay steady, trying not to shake. You were failing.
“Tim,” the dark-haired one said after a beat. Then jerked a thumb toward the silent man across from him. “That’s Brian.”
Brian didn’t react. Just kept watching you. Slowly blinking. Patient.
“You live around here?” you asked. It felt stupid the moment it left your mouth. You regretted it instantly.
Tim chuckled. “You could say that.”
The heat from the fire suddenly felt like it was too much. The room was too small.
Tim reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a crushed pack of cigarettes. Tapped one out. Put it between his lips. Looked at you while he lit it.
The flare of the lighter flickered against his face. For a second, you saw the edge of something feral under his casual exterior. Something wrong.
“You mind?” he asked.
You shook your head automatically. Your mouth was too dry to answer. Tim took a drag. Long. Deep. Exhaled toward the ceiling. “Want one?”
You hesitated again. Then nodded.
He leaned forward, offering the pack. You stepped forward on stiff legs, set the knife down carefully on the counter. You were aware of Brian watching your every movement - eyes tracking your hips, your fingers, the way you didn’t dare turn your back to them.
You took a cigarette with shaking fingers. Tim lit it for you with the same lighter. When you inhaled, it burned. But the distraction helped.
“I think there’s an ashtray,” you murmured, half to yourself, and turned toward the kitchen counter.
Your legs felt heavy. Weak. You weren’t sure if it was the wine or the fear or the sudden crash of adrenaline that hadn’t quite passed. Your vision narrowed a little as you opened the drawer near the sink and pulled out a ceramic ashtray - light blue, painted with birds. Too soft for this moment.
When you turned back, Tim had already taken a swig from your wine bottle.
“Hope you don’t mind,” he said.
He knew you did.
You set the ashtray down on the table, sat opposite them, and placed the cigarette between your lips again. The fire cracked. The silence that followed was heavy.
“So,” Tim said, dragging the word out. “Airbnb, huh?”
You gave a tiny nod.
“All alone in the woods. You’re either brave or stupid.”
You shrugged a little, sucking on your cigarette.
Brian blinked slowly. His hands were steepled on the table. You noticed his knuckles. Scarred. Like someone who used them more often than most.
Tim exhaled smoke again, this time toward you. “How long you planning on staying?”
“Just the weekend,” you replied, too quickly.
Tim smirked.
You looked down at the wine bottle. His fingerprints were on the neck. Your hand was still trembling where it held the cigarette.
“You always come out here by yourself?” Tim asked.
You hesitated. “I needed space.”
Brian’s eyes never left your face. Not once.
Tim nodded slowly, flicking ash into the tray. “We get it. The world’s loud.”
He leaned forward. “But you do know how dangerous it is, right?”
That made your pulse spike again. You took another drag, not because you wanted it, but because you needed something between your lips to keep from saying the wrong thing.
Tim grinned. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’re not gonna bite.”
Brian finally spoke again, voice deep, measured. “Not unless you ask.”
Your whole body went cold. You forced a smile. It didn’t reach your eyes.
“Well… I should probably get to bed soon.”
It came out too gently. Like a suggestion, not a boundary. Like you were still pretending they’d listen to manners.
Tim’s gaze didn’t shift. “You tired already?” he asked, not unkind, just amused. “It’s barely ten.”
“It’s been a long drive.”
Brian’s eyes followed the smoke trailing from your cigarette, then dropped back to your mouth. You couldn’t tell if he was bored or just watching. He hadn’t blinked in a while.
“I’ve got an early morning,” you added, more firmly this time.
Neither of them moved.
The fire popped in the silence. You wished it would die. Its heat made your skin feel too raw, your sweater too thin. You could still smell yourself on your fingers, faint but present - proof you’d been relaxed in this place only minutes ago. That version of you didn’t exist anymore. She evaporated the moment the door opened.
You cleared your throat. “You probably have things to do too.”
Tim smirked at that. “Not really.”
Brian leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes still on you. One broad palm dragged slowly down the grain of the table, thumb brushing over a small nick in the wood. He didn’t say a word. But the motion was deliberate. Like he was getting to know the space. Your space.
“I don’t want to be rude–”
“You don’t strike me as rude,” Tim interrupted. He tipped his head to the side and dragged his tongue slowly over his bottom lip. “You’ve been real sweet, actually.”
The compliment felt like a hook. Something sharp with a smile wrapped around it.
Your fingers tightened on the cigarette. You’d smoked more of it than you meant to. Your chest buzzed, stomach too empty for this kind of edge.
“I just… I didn’t expect company,” you said quietly. “I’m not really… prepared.”
Tim’s brow lifted slightly. “Don’t worry. We’re not picky.”
The implication made your blood run cold. You felt your thighs press tighter together without meaning to. Brian noticed. You knew he did. His head tilted just a little. His expression didn’t change, but the silence between you stretched longer, heavier.
You stood suddenly, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray. “Maybe I should–”
Brian stood too.
It was instant. And deliberate. The scrape of the chair legs against the wood made you flinch. He didn’t speak. Just straightened to his full height and stepped slightly closer to the fireplace, like he was just checking it. But his body was angled between you and the hallway now. Between you and the stairs.
Your heartbeat slammed in your ears. You tried not to let it show.
“Hey,” Tim said casually.
When you turned to look at him, his gaze was lower. Not at your face. Not anymore.
“You always get this flushed when you’re nervous?” he asked, tapping ash into the tray with one hand, the other loosely gripping the neck of your wine bottle.
Your mouth opened. Closed.
He grinned, sharp and unapologetic. “Or was that from before we knocked?”
Your lungs seized.
The silence that followed was brutal.
He knew.
You hadn’t even pulled your hand from your shorts before the first knock landed - and you hadn’t washed it. Hadn’t fixed yourself.
You couldn’t breathe. You felt the fire, the wine, the smoke, all of it swelling in your head like a fever.
“I–I think you should go,” you said.
Tim’s smile didn’t fade.
“Sure,” he said, so easily it made your skin crawl. “After one more drink.”
Brian reached out. You flinched, but all he did was grab a log from the rack beside the fireplace. He dropped it into the flames with a solid thunk, and the fire sparked again. His hand brushed a few stray embers off his jacket. You saw his wrist - scarred, faint marks disappearing under his sleeve.
“I didn’t say you could–”
“You didn’t say no,” Tim cut in smoothly. “And you let us in.”
He raised the bottle toward you like a toast. “So… cheers, sweetheart.”
Your mouth was dry. You didn’t speak.
Tim took a swig directly from the bottle. His throat bobbed with the swallow, and when he licked the drip from the corner of his mouth, it was slow. Deliberate. His eyes locked on yours the whole time. “Wine’s decent,” he added. “Bit cheap. But who can blame you?”
Then he laughed. “You didn’t think this through at all, did you?”
That landed like a slap. And maybe that was the point.
You stared at the knife on the counter, still within reach - but Brian was closer. You knew he could reach you in three steps. Maybe two. And there was still something under his jacket. You weren’t stupid.
The weight of your body suddenly felt all wrong. Your sweater was too warm, but your legs were freezing. Your heartbeat was no longer steady. It was panic-fast, trapped-animal fast.
“I want you to leave,” you said again. Firmer.
Brian moved first.
He stepped toward you - not fast, but not slowly either - and brushed past, headed for the window. You spun slightly to keep eyes on both of them.
He pulled the curtain back and looked out. Then let it fall.
“We’re not keeping you,” Tim said, voice low. “But it’s a long way to the road in the dark. Cold as hell out there. No signal. No neighbors. No traffic.”
You didn’t move. You didn’t even breathe.
He took another drag off the cigarette and flicked the ash onto the floor this time. Not even pretending to care.
“We’ll be gone soon.”
You weren’t sure if that was a threat or a lie.
Brian turned away from the window, eyes unreadable. He walked past the table again, and as he did, his shoulder brushed yours, just slightly. But you felt it everywhere.He didn’t say sorry. Just kept walking, slow and silent, until he was standing between the fire and the couch where you’d been earlier.
He looked down at the blanket. At the imprint of your body still in the cushions. At the book. At the spot where your legs had been spread apart.
Tim chuckled behind you. “She was getting cozy before we came in, huh?”
Your throat locked. Your mouth had gone completely numb.
Brian didn’t laugh. He just looked back at you, and for the first time… He smiled.
It wasn’t big. It wasn’t obvious. Just a small curl at the corner of his mouth. Like he’d made a decision.
He stood there, glancing down at the couch like he could see everything that had happened there before the knock. His hand moved slowly - reaching out, fingers grazing the throw blanket. Just two fingers. Dragging them across the fabric. Feeling the warmth still lingering in it. Your warmth.
He picked up the book you'd left open on the armrest. Turned it over in one hand. Eyes scanning the cover, the spine. Then - without looking away from it - he spoke, low and flat.
“This is what you were doing?”
You swallowed. Didn’t answer.
He already knew the answer.
Brian set the book down again, precisely in the center of the cushion where you’d been lying. Like he was marking the spot. Then he looked up - directly at you.
You froze.
There was no question in his eyes. No curiosity. No courtesy. Just quiet calculation. Like he’d already taken stock of you. Like the only thing left was deciding what to do with you.
Tim snorted softly behind you. “Should’ve known you’d be the kind of girl who gets off alone in a cabin in the woods,” he said. “Little wine, little fire, no panties getting in the way...”
Your stomach turned. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Your tongue was a heavy, useless thing in your mouth. You wanted to say leave. You wanted to scream. But your lungs felt locked under a thick, invisible weight.
You weren’t even sure how long you’d been standing. Your knees ached.
Brian turned slowly and walked to the other side of the couch - toward the shirt you’d tossed earlier in the evening when you had been changing into your more comfy outfit. He picked it up carefully, held it between two hands.
Then brought it to his nose.
You took a step back. Instinct. Your spine hit the edge of the table behind you.
Tim saw. Of course he saw. “She’s scared now,” he said. Almost gleeful. “Look at that.”
He took another drag, then reached toward the ashtray - and missed it on purpose, flicking ash onto the wood surface instead. Watching your face.
You flinched.
“Relax,” he muttered, in a tone that wasn’t comforting at all. “We’re just talking.”
Brian dropped your shirt back onto the couch. He didn’t toss it - he laid it out. Like he was dressing a mannequin. Like he was arranging something. Or preparing.
“You don’t like this,” Tim said, shifting his chair back just slightly. “But part of you does.”
You snapped your eyes to him, panicked. “No,” you said. “I–I didn’t ask for this. You need to–”
“Ask for what?” he interrupted smoothly. “We’re not touching you. We haven’t laid a fucking hand on you.”
Yet.
He didn’t say the word. He didn’t need to.
Brian moved again. This time toward the table.
You backed away without meaning to. Your heel bumped the side of the rug, snagged slightly on the fray. You caught yourself on the chair.
“You should sit,” Tim said. Not a suggestion.
You didn’t.
So he rose slowly. Dragging the chair back with a loud scrape and circling around the table toward you, all easy swagger and coiled patience.
His eyes were darker now. Hungrier.
“We came all this way,” he murmured, gesturing lazily at the cabin. “Seems rude not to make us feel welcome.”
You stared at him. Your throat felt too tight to speak.
Tim stopped a few feet in front of you. Close enough to smell the smoke on his breath. The tang of wine. The faint spice of something older, leather and sweat.
You didn’t move.
His gaze dropped again - your throat, your bare thighs, the twitch of your fingers at your side. He leaned a little closer. Not touching. Just near enough that you could feel the heat from his body. “I think,” he said quietly, “you like being watched.”
You sucked in a breath.
Brian’s voice came from behind, low and final. “She liked being caught.”
That was it. The thread of denial snapped.
You turned sharply - grabbing the nearest chair and dragging it between you and them like a barrier. It was pathetic. Pointless. But it was something. Something physical. Something solid. “I want you to leave. Right now.”
Tim tilted his head. “You sure?” he asked. “’Cause the way you were rubbing that little pussy under the blanket before we came in–”
“Stop it.” Your voice cracked. Shaky. But loud. The first real thing you’d said.
They did stop.
Just for a second.
Then Tim’s mouth curled into a slow, cruel smile. “There she is,” he murmured.
Brian didn’t smile. He just stepped forward and took the chair you’d pulled out of your way. Lifted it easily. Carried it back to its place at the table like it weighed nothing. “You keep trying to make rules,” he said.
He wasn’t looking at you when he said it. He was looking at the fire. “You think if you sound firm enough, we’ll listen. That being polite will buy you something.”
He turned then. “That’s not how this works out here.”
You were shaking now. No more pretending you weren’t. Your body wasn’t responding the way you wanted. Everything felt slow. Muffled. Like you were watching this from underwater.
Tim’s voice cut through again, sharp and low. “You really think we don’t see it?”
He stepped closer. “The way you breathe when we get near. The way your thighs tense. The way you looked at us when we walked in.”
You shook your head. “No. That’s not–”
“You’re wet.”
Your mouth slammed shut.
“You’ve been wet this whole time,” he said. “Ever since we knocked.”
Brian moved again.
You didn’t realize what he was doing at first. Not until he picked up the wine bottle and placed it in front of you.
“Drink,” he said.
You didn’t move.
“Or don’t,” he added after a beat. “We don’t care either way.”
They were circling you now. Not literally. But emotionally. Everything you did, they boxed in. Every attempt at control was met with a smile, a shrug, a reminder that you were outnumbered and outplayed.
Tim lit a second cigarette and held it out to you.
You didn’t take it.
He chuckled. “Suit yourself.”
Then he dropped into the chair again - legs spread, shoulders loose, cigarette between his fingers like it belonged there. He took a slow drag. Let it sit in his chest a second too long, leaned forward, tapped the ash once.
Then he leaned back again, relaxed. Watching you.
Brian didn’t sit. He stayed by the couch, one hand on the back of it, eyes flicking between you and the fire. Still. Silent. Waiting.
The cabin was too quiet now. Even the crackle of the fire had gone low. And in the silence, you could hear your own breath. Shallow. Disjointed.
There was nothing between you and them now. Not really. The walls were too thin. The woods too far. The front door still locked - by your own hand.
You realized suddenly: They hadn’t broken in. They hadn’t shouted. They hadn’t taken anything. Not yet. They were just waiting for you to let go.
The silence buzzed in your ears like static. Your throat burned. You hadn’t realized you’d stopped breathing properly. Short, shallow breaths. Too much smoke. Too much wine. Not enough air.
You stared at the bottle Brian had placed in front of you. It was nearly empty now, smudged with fingerprints, and for some reason, that struck you as the most terrifying part. Their prints. On your things. On your night. On you.
Your hand twitched toward the bottle. Not even because you wanted it. But because you wanted to do something. Move. Speak. Act like you still had a say.
You picked it up. Your fingers barely wrapped around it. The wine was lukewarm now. You took a sip. Small. Shaky.
Brian watched you drink it like he was watching you strip.
You set it back down with a tiny clink.
Tim’s grin widened. “There’s our girl.”
You flinched at the word - our - but didn’t say anything.
Brian moved again. Not toward you. Not directly. Just a few steps around the couch, like he was surveying the space. Your shirt was still draped over the cushions, the crumpled blanket hanging limp at one end. He ran a hand across the back of the couch, slow and smooth, fingers tapping the edge.
“You were going to come,” he said simply. “Weren’t you?” His voice wasn’t teasing. It was closer to…curious. Like he was solving a puzzle.
You swallowed. Your hands curled into fists against your thighs.
“Before we knocked,” he added, glancing back over his shoulder. “You were close.”
You looked away.
But not before Tim laughed under his breath. Low and warm like it was all a private joke.
“Yeah, she was close,” he said. “I can still smell it.”
That made your stomach turn. But worse - your thighs clenched again. Automatically. Reflexively. As if your body hadn’t gotten the message yet.
Brian saw. You didn’t need to look to know it. You felt it.
The floor felt unsteady under your feet. You wanted to back away, but there was nowhere to go. The kitchen was behind you. The hallway, too far. And even if you ran - what then? No shoes. No phone. No one coming. No one even knowing you were here.
You had let them in. You had said yes without ever speaking it.
Tim tapped ash lazily into the tray, glancing up at you with that same heavy-lidded expression. “Still waiting for that thank you, by the way.”
You blinked, confused. “For what?”
He shrugged. “For stopping you from doing something real fucking lonely.” He leaned forward, voice dropping. “You’d have cum on your fingers in the dark, all by yourself. Shivering. Instead, you got an audience.”
Brian finally moved forward.
Your heart stopped.
He didn’t say anything. Didn’t smile. Just walked right up to you - close enough that your breath caught in your chest. Close enough that you could see the fine scratches across his jacket zipper, the faint smell of pine and old smoke clinging to his clothes.
He reached out. And touched your face. Just one knuckle. Right under your jaw. A featherlight stroke.
You froze completely. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The touch wasn’t hard. Wasn’t even unkind. But it was owned. Your knees went weak. From fear. From knowing there was no one to stop this. Not even you.
Brian looked down at your throat. Watched it flutter. His eyes tracked the tremble in your lip. “You’re soft,” he said, voice almost too quiet to hear. “Too soft to be out here alone.”
His hand moved lower. Not groping - just following the line of your sweater, the curve of your collarbone. He traced the fabric, like he was cataloging it. Like he was unwrapping something delicate.
“Brian,” you whispered.
It wasn’t a protest. It wasn’t anything. It just slipped out. Your voice, trying to take shape around something that had no name.
He smiled - barely.
Behind you, Tim blew smoke toward the ceiling and laughed.
“She says it like she knows you.” He stood again. “You two already getting cozy while I’m just sitting here with my dick in my hand?”
You turned to him sharply, shame blooming hot across your face.
But Tim didn’t wait for a response.
He stepped forward. Walked right up to you. His presence was like heat - like a storm pushing in. Big and solid and inevitable. “She’s gonna break,” Tim said softly. “You see it?”
Brian nodded. Still touching you. Still gentle. Cruel in its patience. “I see it.”
You opened your mouth. Then closed it. What could you say?
Your hands were shaking.
Tim leaned closer, lips near your ear. “She doesn’t need convincing,” he murmured. “She just needs a little push.”
And then he did something small.
He brushed your hair back.
Not yanked. Not grabbed. Just tucked it behind your ear like a lover might. His knuckles grazed your neck, and you shivered.
Your breath hitched. You couldn’t hide it.
Brian’s fingers, still resting against your collarbone, slid just slightly down to the swell of your chest.
He just rested his palm there. Heavy. Warm. Unavoidable.
Your body betrayed you. Again.
Your thighs pressed together. Your stomach tightened. Your nipples peaked through the fabric of your sweater.
Tim noticed first. “Fuck,” he said under his breath, grinning wide now. “There she is.”
Your eyes burned. Your chest heaved. “Stop–” you whispered. But there was no weight in it.
Brian’s hand didn’t move. Neither did yours.
“Tell us to go,” Tim said. Voice low. Serious.
You didn’t.
“You want us to leave, say it.”
Still nothing.
“Huh?”
Your lips parted. But the words never came.
Tim took that as his answer.
And stepped closer.
You didn’t move, not because you didn’t want to, but because you couldn’t. Your knees felt like they didn’t belong to you anymore, the blood in your body too busy pounding through your ears to reach your limbs.
His boot scuffed the floor beside yours, and then his hand - gloved, warm from the cigarette - slid against the side of your neck. Just resting there. A silent threat disguised as contact.
“You feel that?” he murmured.
Your breath hitched.
“Your pulse,” he clarified, thumb brushing slowly along the edge of your throat. “It’s going crazy.”
Beside you, Brian hadn’t stepped back. His palm was still anchored on your chest, unmoving. Heavy, possessive, a reminder of how small you were between the two of them.
“She’s terrified,” Tim said.
Brian hummed. “Not just that.”
Your thighs tensed again. Both of them felt it.
“Yeah,” Tim said with a grin. “She wants this.”
You shook your head - not hard, not enough to mean it - but it made Tim chuckle anyway. He leaned down, speaking right against your ear.
“You wanna prove us wrong, sweetheart?” he whispered. “Say the word.”
Still nothing.
His lips brushed your temple.
“Didn’t think so.”
Tim’s hand moved lower - trailing from your throat to the dip of your collarbone, across the front of your sweater. His fingers played at the hem, tugging just slightly. Testing. “Take it off.”
You blinked. “W-what?”
He tilted his head, eyes lazy but unreadable. “The sweater. Off.”
You hesitated.
Tim didn’t raise his voice. Just turned slightly, took one more drag of his cigarette, and let the ash fall. Right onto your bare thigh.
You flinched hard. The heat was sharp, quick, but not enough to burn, just enough to sting.
You gasped. Your hand instinctively swatted down at your leg, but Tim caught your wrist halfway, grinning around the cigarette.
“Thought you were getting comfy out here,” he said, voice low. “Isn’t that what this whole weekend was for?”
Brian’s hand finally moved - up, then down, then lower still. Just skimming your side, across the curve of your waist, following the waistband of your shorts without slipping under it.
His fingers found the drawstring. Tugged. Not untying it - just reminding you it was there.
You looked at him.
Still no expression. Still patient. But his eyes were sharper now. More direct. As if he’d let Tim play with your head so he could read what was left behind.
“Take it off,” Tim said again, voice firmer this time.
This time… you obeyed.
Your hands felt foreign as they moved. You reached for the hem of your sweater with stiff fingers, dragged it up and over your head in one slow, fumbling motion.
Goosebumps rose instantly along your bare skin. The fire still glowed in the hearth, but you felt cold. Vulnerable. Visible.
Your nipples were hard. Embarrassingly so. Both of them noticed.
“Jesus,” Tim muttered, eyes dragging across your chest. “Fucking pretty.”
You dropped the sweater onto the floor. Your arms crossed automatically over your chest - but Tim’s hand was already closing around your wrist again.
“Uh-uh,” he said. “Don’t you fucking hide now.” He dragged your arm back down, gentle but unrelenting.
Brian stepped back just enough to look. His gaze lingered.
Tim’s hand moved again - this time to your jaw. He tilted your face up toward him, cigarette now pinched between his fingers, the tip glowing red with another slow inhale.
You didn’t mean to look at his mouth. But you did. And he saw.
“Open.”
Your lips parted.
He leaned down - and let the smoke drift straight into your mouth.
You inhaled.
Brian moved again. You felt his fingers at your waistband, a slow, downward tug that peeled your shorts lower, inch by inch, until they bunched around your thighs.
You made a small sound. Humiliated.
“Panties too,” he murmured.
Your hands shook as you reached for them.
Tim stepped back to let you do it.
Your thumbs hooked into the waistband, dragged them down. You didn’t meet their eyes as you stood there - naked, trembling, underwear caught around your thighs like a confession you couldn’t take back.
Brian stepped forward.
Tim didn't touch you this time.
Brian did.
He reached between your legs - slow and deliberate - and let the back of his fingers brush against your cunt. You jolted.
He did it again. Firmer. Then let his fingers part you just slightly, a soft tug that made you sway forward on your feet.
Tim whistled low. “Dripping. Look at her.”
Brian said nothing. Just brought his hand up. Held it in front of your face. Wet. Slick. Yours.
He waited. You stared at it.
Then, slowly, you leaned forward.
Your lips wrapped around his fingers, tongue rubbing against them and tasting your own slick. You sucked his fingers clean, your eyes never leaving his. You felt so filthy.
That was the last thread of denial snapping loose.
Tim stepped back, eyes fixed on you like you were his last meal. “Well, fuck,” he muttered, reaching up to push a hand through his hair. “The slut is eager.”
You flinched at that, from the weight of his words. As if you were the one who’d asked for this.
Tim leaned down again, pulled the cigarette from his lips, and tapped the last bit of ash right onto your thigh. You didn’t flinch this time. “Gonna get real with you now, sweetheart,” he said. “You don’t get to play innocent anymore.”
Then he stepped back, pulling down the zipper of his jacket with unhurried precision. Layer by layer came off - outer jacket, inner flannel. You watched his body emerge slowly from beneath the bulk: broad, muscular, worn. Scarred. He left his shirt on, a simple black tee that was sitting tightly on his biceps, his thick arms covered in scars and wounds.
He looked like he was built for work. Dirty work.
You didn’t even want to see what he kept under his waistband.
Brian’s voice cut through the thickening silence. “I’ll get them.”
He didn’t explain.
You turned to glance at him, and in that one glance, your breath caught again. As he walked toward the door, you saw it: the handle of something metal under his jacket, again. Gun. Blade. Something. You didn’t know what, but your heart skipped anyway.
Tim saw your eyes track it. “Yeah,” he said with a grin, “we’re not just pretty faces.”
The door creaked open. Brian stepped outside into the cold night air. You felt it creep into the cabin immediately - biting, sharp. A reminder of how exposed you really were.
You were naked, standing in the center of the room. And Tim? Tim was watching you with the calm hunger of someone who’d already decided how this would end.
“You ever seen a predator get dressed?” he asked.
You stared at him. Your mouth opened, but no sound came. What the fuck does that even mean?
The door creaked again.
Brian came back in, quiet as ever. He carried three things: two… masks, and–
–an axe.
He leaned it carefully by the couch. Just… placed it there. Like it had always belonged in this cabin.
Then he handed one of the masks to Tim, and slipped the other one on. It was black, with red eyes and a haunting red frown.
Tim slowly pulled his mask over his face too. The whole motion took maybe four seconds, but you swore time stretched to hours. His was white with black holes for eyes, black eyebrows, and black lips. When he looked at you, those dark eyes staring through narrow holes - you stopped breathing entirely.
“Better,” he said. His voice was distorted now. Rougher. More distant. The same voice from your nightmares, except you were awake, and he was real.
You stepped back.
Tim noticed.
“No,” he said, stepping forward. “No more hiding.”
He pointed to the floor. “Knees. Now.”
You didn’t move.
His hand grabbed your hair, hard. He dragged your face upward until your eyes met his through the mask. “You know what happens when you don’t listen?” he asked.
You whimpered.
“Answer me.”
“N-no…”
He chuckled under the mask. “Liar.”
Then he pushed you down.
Firm enough to make you stumble back, knees colling with the floor beneath you with a thud. You caught yourself on your hands, legs shaking slightly, your breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts.
Brian stepped behind you, still silent.
Tim stepped in front of you. His gloved fingers brushed your jaw. He tilted your chin up and looked down at you through the black holes of his mask. “You wanna be used, don’t you?” he asked. “You wanna be ruined.”
You didn’t answer.
A sharp slap.
Your cheek burned. You gasped.
“Say it.”
Your body betrayed you first - hips shifting forward, breath shuddering, eyes wet.
Then, softly–
“…yes.”
Brian’s one hand wrapped around your throat, holding you firmly. Making you feel it. “You belong here,” he said.
Tim started unbuckling his belt. His zipper came down. And then he pulled his cock free - thick, flushed, already leaking at the tip - and let it slap against your cheek with a wet, obscene sound. You flinched. Your breath caught.
You couldn’t look away. “You’re gonna make eye contact,” Tim said. “The whole time.”
You nodded. “Yes.”
“Good girl.”
That praise - low and biting - shot heat through your stomach so fast it almost hurt.
Tim gripped your hair at the base of your skull and guided your mouth open. “Open up, baby,” he said. “Let me wreck that pretty little throat.”
Your lips parted.
He slid the head of his cock past them - slowly, watching your eyes - and you felt the weight of it stretch your jaw instantly. The heat. The pressure.
The way it stole your breath in the best possible way.
You moaned around him.
Behind you, Brian let out a low, satisfied breath.
Tim’s hips rolled forward.
One slow thrust - deep. All the way back. You gagged immediately, throat clenching, eyes watering. He didn’t pull back. Just held there, cock heavy on your tongue, his hand tightening slightly in your hair.
“You’re gonna take it,” he said. “No pulling away.”
He rocked his hips again.
This time was faster. Deeper. The burn of it made your thighs clench, your hands scrabbling at his pants for something to hold onto. He set a rhythm that bordered on cruel - not slamming, not brutal, but constant, unrelenting.
“You were made for this,” Tim growled. “Just a dumb little thing, throat full of dick, dripping all over the fucking floor.”
You were dripping.
You could feel it - slick running down your thighs, soaking your inner legs.
Behind you, the floor creaked.
Brian was moving.
Tim didn’t stop. He just held you there, feeding you rhythm after rhythm, your lips stretched wide and cheeks soaked with tears.
“She's taking it,” he said. “Like a good little slut.”
Brian didn’t reply.
Instead, you heard the soft rustle of fabric - his jacket unzipping. You didn’t look back. You couldn’t - Tim was still fucking your throat like he owned it.
Then came the sound of a belt unbuckling.
A thud. Something laid down on the table. Something heavy.
You didn't need to see it. Just the sound - deliberate, careful - sent heat through your belly. It must’ve been a weapon, the one that was previously poking out from under his jacket.
He stepped in close.
Tim pulled out of your mouth with a wet sound - your jaw going slack, spit connecting your bottom lip to the head of his cock in a long, trembling string. You coughed. Gasped. But you didn’t look away.
Brian grabbed your jaw without warning. His grip was hard, his thumb forcing your chin up as he leaned down just enough to speak.
“No crying out for him,” he said, voice low. “Not until I’m done with you.”
Then he twisted your body - rough, unceremonious - dragging you by the shoulders until you were turned toward him instead, still on your knees, still leaking spit and heat and need.
His jacket was now off, a simple dark tee still clinging to his body, jeans pooled at his knees. You barely caught your breath before his cock was in your face - flushed and thick, already hard, the tip brushing against your lips without hesitation.
You opened for him instinctively.
“No,” Brian said. “Beg.”
You blinked. “W-what?”
He slapped you. Not hard enough to knock you back - just enough to sting.
"Beg. You took his cock easy. You want mine, ask for it.”
You swallowed, voice trembling. “Please… please let me suck your dick. I want it. I want it, Brian.”
A beat passed.
Then he shoved it into your mouth.
There was no buildup. No gentle push. He grabbed the back of your head with one large, calloused hand and forced himself down your throat in one smooth, brutal motion.
You choked again. Your whole body jerked, but his other hand braced your neck, holding you still. You made a tiny noise - helpless, humiliated - and he moaned.
"That's better."
You weren’t even breathing anymore. Just a mess of spit and muffled gags and twitching thighs, your hands clenched into fists against your knees, tears slipping freely now from the corners of your eyes.
Tim sat on the armrest of the couch behind you, watching, hand lazily stroking his cock again. “She’s perfect like this,” he said. “Look at her. Fucking wrecked.”
Brian didn’t speak. Just thrust into your mouth like it was a right, not a privilege - heavy, steady, your throat stretching to take him, spit leaking freely down your chin. His hands framed your face, one braced along your jaw, the other in your hair, holding your head still like you were just a piece of furniture built to be used.
Behind you, Tim made a low sound, something between a grunt and a laugh. “Fuck, look at her. She’s gone.”
You were.
Your eyes were glassy, lips swollen, breath caught between chokes and moans. But even through the fog, even as Brian’s cock bullied the back of your throat, you reached for Tim - blindly, desperately.
Your hand grazed his thigh first.
Then slid up.
He didn’t stop you.
He watched.
Watched your trembling fingers wrap around the base of his cock, already slick from your spit, and start to stroke him.
Slow at first. Then with more intent. More want.
A little whimper bubbled in your chest as Brian pushed in deeper. Your hand tightened around Tim in reflex. He hissed through his teeth.
“Look at that,” he muttered, voice distorted through the mask. “Still trying to please both of us. Fucking overachiever.”
He grabbed your wrist. Held it still for a second.
Then pushed your hand lower. Forced you to cup his balls.
“Play with ‘em,” he ordered. “Let me feel that pretty little hand while your mouth’s busy with him.”
You obeyed instantly, gently rolling them in your palm, rubbing slow circles with your thumb. The noise Tim made was raw. Half-snarled.
Brian finally pulled back, cock dragging from your throat with a wet pop. You gasped.
Air hit your lungs like lightning, your whole body jolting from the rush. You were dizzy. Ruined. But when you looked up - mascara running, mouth open, spit on your tits - neither man looked satisfied yet.
Brian grabbed you by the chin again, tilting your face up toward his mask. “Couch,” he said. “Now.”
Your legs shook as you stood, guided more by his hands than your own strength. You stumbled back until the backs of your thighs hit the cushions.
“On all fours,” Brian said. “Ass up.”
You obeyed.
Face pressed into the fabric where your tears had already soaked a dark patch. You felt the scratch of the upholstery against your skin. Heard the thud of footsteps behind you. Then–
Hands on your hips.
Brian again.
He knelt behind you and didn’t wait. One hand guided the head of his cock to your entrance - already soaked and twitching for him - and shoved inside with one sharp thrust. You almost screamed into the couch.
Your pussy clenched hard, walls fluttering, desperate to adjust around the stretch. He was thick. Hot. Unforgiving. You couldn’t even catch your breath before he was moving - setting a pace that was sharp, punishing, each thrust grinding against your deepest point.
Then Tim stepped around the couch. That mask of his glaring daggers at you.
He didn’t say a word. Just walked to the front of the couch and stared down at you - trembling, pinned, ruined - like you were prey twitching in the jaws.
You looked up at him, mouth open.
He didn’t have to ask.
You reached for him again - both hands this time. One gripping his thigh, the other guiding his cock back to your lips.
You moaned around him as he slid back into your mouth.
Now you were full again. Mouth. Pussy. Controlled.
Owned.
Tim kept one hand on your hair, guiding your head. Brian’s grip on your hips turned bruising. Their movements started syncing up - one thrusting forward as the other pulled back, rocking your body like a fucktoy caught in the tide.
“Perfect,” Tim groaned. “Fucking perfect.”
“She’s clenching,” Brian said behind you. “Like she wants to cum already.”
“You don’t get to cum yet,” Tim told you.
You moaned anyway.
The pressure was unbearable, building fast and low, coiling tight in your stomach, your thighs shaking with the effort of holding yourself up. Your eyes rolled back as Tim used your mouth and Brian used everything else.
“You’re dripping,” Brian growled. “Fucking dripping down my balls.”
He slapped your ass, and your hips bucked hard. The sting was instant. You moaned around Tim’s cock, muffled, pleading.
Tim pulled back for a second, just enough to speak. “You want to cum, sweetheart?”
You nodded fast. Eyes wild. Face wrecked.
Brian slowed just enough to grind deep. Too deep.
You moaned loudly, your legs shaking.
Tim grabbed your hair again, yanked your head back. “Too fucking bad.”
You were panting through your nose, throat raw, hips bruised from the way Brian kept pulling you back onto him. Each thrust made your tits bounce, sweat slicking your chest and arms. Tim still held your hair in one fist, guiding your mouth up and down his cock like he owned your breath - because right now, he did.
Brian thrust deep, then held. Buried to the base.
You sobbed around Tim’s length. Your whole body trembling, seconds from snapping.
Then Brian leaned down. His chest brushed your back, masked face beside your ear.
“You like this?” he murmured, voice gravel through that black frown. “Being used like this? Railed by masked strangers in the woods?”
You moaned, a desperate, shameful sound. You didn’t say yes. You didn’t have to.
Tim chuckled from above you. “She’s addicted.”
He pulled out of your mouth again, slowly, teasingly, and used his cock to smear spit across your lips and cheek.
“Tell me which one you like more,” he said. “My mask, or his.”
You blinked up at him, dazed and ruined. “I-I don’t know–”
Tim slapped you. Just a quick sting to the face. You whimpered. “Wrong answer.”
Brian’s hand slid up your spine slowly, fingers trailing until they tangled in your hair again. “She likes both,” he said flatly. “Doesn’t care who’s under the mask. Just wants the cock. Right?”
He thrust again, sharp. You yelped into the couch.
Tim crouched lower in front of you, mask tilted. That black and white face - painted, permanent - was all you could see. “We don’t have to tell Brian, baby,” he whispered. “I know you like mine more.”
Then–
Metal.
You heard the scrape before you felt it. The unmistakable clink of something heavy being lifted from the floor.
The axe.
Brian had picked it up.
Your stomach flipped. Your back arched.
He didn’t say a word. You just felt it, the flat side of the blade, press slowly against your lower back. Cold. Heavy. Threatening.
You froze. Your breath caught.
“Relax,” he said, almost bored. “Be good and I won’t use it.”
He dragged the edge lower. Down your spine. Along your ass.
You whimpered. The fear and arousal tangled until you couldn’t tell which was which anymore.
“She’s shaking,” Tim said, voice low with approval. “Fucking loves it.”
Brian pressed the blunt side of the axe against your shoulder blades - pinning you down, holding you in place while he started to move again.
Faster. Rougher.
He was fucking you like you were his now. Not a girl. Not a person. Just a wet, needy cunt clenching around him like it belonged to him. Your thighs began to twitch uncontrollably. The heat was unbearable now - coiled so tightly in your gut you could barely think.
“I-I’m gonna–” you gasped. “Please–don’t stop–I need to–” You didn’t even know what you were saying. Just a babble of desperation. You were seconds away. Right there.
Brian slammed into you one last time–
Then pulled out.
You gasped.
The emptiness hit like a slap to the soul. You bucked, clawing at the couch, trying to grind against anything, anyone, just to finish.
But there was nothing. Just emptiness. Cold air. Slick dripping down your thighs with no pressure to push it higher.
Tim barked a laugh.
“Aww. Poor thing.”
Brian stood behind you, breathing steady. You couldn’t see his face - only that black mask with the red frown. That haunting red frown staring down at your ruined, twitching body like it enjoyed your pain.
“She thought we were gonna let her,” he said flatly. “Like she’d earned it.”
“I was so close–” you choked.
Brian leaned down again, that cold mask brushing your temple.
“You don’t get to finish,” he whispered. “Not until we say so.”
Then, without another word, he handed Tim the axe. The blade passed between them with terrifying ease - no tension, no hesitation. Just an understanding. The same way hunters share tools before the final blow.
Tim took it in one hand and dragged the blunt side along your ass as he walked by, slow and deliberate.
You gasped - the cold shock of steel against hot, sensitive skin making your hips jerk forward.
“I want a piece of that pussy too,” Tim said, voice low and distorted under the white mask. “You’re not keeping it to yourself, Bri.”
You blinked at him, still panting, still hovering in that cruel, ruined space just shy of orgasm.
Then he dropped onto the couch with a thud. His thighs spread, cock standing proud, and he patted his lap. “Come here, baby.”
Your legs wobbled as you moved - slow, shaky, still soaked between the thighs. You straddled him on instinct, your hands bracing against his chest, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt. The axe was now set across the armrest beside you. You could feel it watching.
Tim grabbed his cock and guided the tip to your entrance. “Sit down.”
You did.
He pushed inside easily - not because you weren’t tight, but because you were soaked. His cock slid in with a filthy squelch, and your whole body jolted.
You cried out. Loud. Raw.
He was deep. So deep. Deeper than before, with you sitting directly on his lap, legs spread wide across his thighs.
“Fuck yes,” he groaned. “That’s my good girl.”
But you barely had time to move before the couch shifted behind you.
You turned your head.
Brian.
Climbing behind you, onto the couch - one knee on each side of Tim’s thighs. Towering.
Oh. Oh. You understood at once what he was going to do next.
You looked up at him, eyes wide. “No, please, I–I can’t–”
He reached between your thighs and grabbed Tim’s cock at the base, adjusted both of you slightly, and then pressed the head of his own length right against your pussy.
“You can. And you will.”
He pressed forward.
The second stretch was impossible. Your cunt screamed in protest, your body shivering with the force of it. You gripped Tim’s shoulders hard, nails biting through the fabric, and gasped as Brian forced his cock alongside Tim’s.
There was no room. No space left. You felt your body seize, stretch beyond anything you'd imagined. Tim cursed under you, hips bucking slightly. “She’s gonna fucking split,” he growled. “Jesus.”
Brian didn’t stop. He kept pushing, slow but relentless, until he was inside too.
You were stuffed, completely, painfully, exquisitely full. Your cunt pulsed and trembled, walls stretched so far around them you felt like you were about to be torn in half and rebuilt again.
You collapsed forward onto Tim’s chest, moaning into his shoulder.
Brian grunted behind you. “Hold her open.”
Tim reached down, grabbed your ass, and spread your ass apart. Exposing everything. Making it worse. Making it better.
They started to move.
Not full thrusts, just the start of a rhythm. Grinding. Rolling their hips in tandem. Pressure building like a furnace inside you.
You were shaking uncontrollably. Mouth open. Eyes unfocused. Whimpering between gasps.
“Say thank you,” Tim snarled.
You couldn’t. Not at first.
Another sharp slap from behind. Brian’s turn.
“Say it.”
You sobbed. “T-thank you–”
Tim thrust up. Brian thrust down.
You screamed.
“Louder.”
“Thank you–thank you–please–”
They kept moving.
Tim beneath you, hips snapping upward, forcing his cock deeper with every bounce. Brian behind you, grinding alongside him, the brutal stretch of the double penetration turning your body into a live wire - overloaded, spasming, ruined.
You couldn't hold it.
The pressure had been coiling for too long - the denial, the edging, the stretch. And now both of them were inside you, masked and relentless, using your cunt like it belonged to them.
You moaned. Cried. Sobbed something that was supposed to be “wait–please–”
Too late.
It hit you like a wave crashing through your spine - violent, uncontrollable, your whole body seizing as the orgasm ripped through you. Your walls clamped down tight, spasming around them both, your nails digging into Brian’s forearm behind you as your back arched.
You scratched him. Hard.
You didn’t mean to. It wasn’t a choice. Your body just broke.
Brian went still behind you.
Tim froze beneath you.
The silence that followed was not kind.
Your breath hitched.
Tim was the first to speak. Low. Cold.
“You didn’t ask.”
You looked down at him, eyes wide, mouth trembling. “I-I’m sorry–I couldn’t–”
Brian’s hand closed around the back of your neck.
Tight. Squeezing.
“You came without permission,” he said, voice flat. “And you fucking scratched me.”
You whimpered, panic blooming now. You weren’t sure which was worse.
“You’re not sorry,” Tim said. “You’re just desperate.”
“I-I didn’t mean to–”
Tim’s gloved hand slapped your face. The sound cracked through the cabin like a warning shot.
You gasped.
Brian pulled out slowly - dragging his cock from your still-clenching pussy, the stretch turning to empty, aching heat. He let go of your neck just long enough to grab your wrists and twist your arms behind your back.
Your chest collapsed onto Tim’s as he held you pinned in place.
“Fucking whore,” Brian muttered.
“She thought she could get away with it,” Tim added. “Poor little thing. Overwhelmed and dumb, just leaking all over us.”
Brian shifted. You heard something move - something heavy.
The axe.
You tensed.
You were too busy trying to see what he was going to do next to notice Tim’s hand sneaking down - between your thighs, rough and merciless. Pinching your oversensitive clit, hard.
You whimpered into Tim’s shoulder, whole body jolting.
“No–wait–I can’t–”
“Shut the fuck up.” Brian said through clenched teeth.
Tim grabbed your jaw, forcing you to face him again. His mask stared straight into your soul.
“You thought you could cum without permission?” he asked. “Do you know how bad you fucked up?”
“I’ll be good–please–”
“Too late for that.”
Tim pinched again, harder.
You were sobbing now - overstimulated, twitching, body bucking against the overwhelming pressure, hips trying desperately to move.
And Tim was just watching you. Holding you there. Letting his cock stay deep inside you while your body gave up. “She’s gonna break,” he said, voice thick. “Look at her. Fucking pathetic.”
Brian leaned in close behind you again. “You’ll beg next time,” he whispered. “Louder. And with your fucking hands to yourself.”
Your legs were jelly, your vision gone soft around the edges, your pussy throbbing from the orgasm they didn’t allow. But the punishment hadn’t even started yet.
Brian glanced at Tim and motioned for him to stand up. “Get up,” he said to Tim, voice calm. Cold.
Tim raised a brow behind his white mask. Brian nodded toward the table. “Grab the gun.”
Tim didn’t hesitate.
He pushed you off him, stood, cock still wet with your slick, and sauntered over to where Brian’s gun rested beside the half-empty wine bottle. The same one that had been tucked in his waistband earlier. You hadn’t been sure what it was then - gun, blade, something else - but now, in the firelight, there was no mistaking it. A glock, black, heavy, very real. Tim picked it up like it was an afterthought, like it weighed nothing.
You tensed. But Brian’s voice cut in again - low, rumbling.
“Don’t flinch,” he said. “Unless you want a bullet in that pretty little head of yours.”
You shuddered.
Tim returned, gun in hand, and sank back into the couch beside you. He rested the barrel across his thigh. Casual. Loose. Watching.
“You’re going to make it up to us,” Brian said.
You nodded quickly. “Yes–yes, I will–I’m sorry–”
“Not to me,” he cut in. “Not to him.”
He reached for the axe and brought it up to your face.
That same dull gleam in the firelight. The red eyes of his mask stared down at you while he held it in both hands - heavy, deliberate - and laid it flat across your lap like it was sacred.
Your heart skipped.
“You came without permission,” he said. “You scratched me. You got greedy.”
You stared at the axe, barely breathing.
“Now you’re going to play nice.”
He pressed your forehead down until it touched the cold metal of the blade.
“Kiss it.”
Your lips trembled.
“I-I–”
“Kiss the fucking axe.”
You obeyed. Pressed your lips to the cold steel, soft and lingering. The taste of metal filled your mouth. You whimpered against it.
“Again,” he said. “Slower.”
You did. Kissed it again. This time longer. Deeper. Like it meant something.
Tim let out a low whistle. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“She’s not done,” Brian said. “Suck it.”
You blinked. “W-what?”
Tim raised the gun - just slightly.
Brian tilted the axe’s handle up, the rounded edge of the blade near your mouth. “Wrap your lips around it. Like you mean it.”
Your face burned with shame.
But you parted your lips.
And you sucked.
The metal was too big, too wide - your jaw stretched around it, tongue pressed to the cool surface. You moaned softly, ashamed and humiliated, but unable to stop the way it made your pussy twitch again.
“That’s it,” Brian said. “Look at you. Slut for an axe.”
Tim chuckled from the couch, gun resting on one knee, his cock lazily stroked with the other hand. “Bet she’d cum again just from this.”
You nearly did.
Brian pulled the axe back just slightly, dragging it down your chest, over your nipple - slow enough to make you gasp.
“Now apologize,” he said.
Your throat tightened.
“Go on,” Tim echoed. “Say it. To the axe.”
You looked down at it. At your own reflection warped in the blade. You were flushed, wrecked, soaked.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m sorry I disrespected you. I’m sorry I wasn’t good. I’ll be better.”
Brian tilted your chin up to face him. “Say you’ll take anything we give you.”
Your voice was barely a breath. “I’ll take anything. Anything you want. Anything you give me.”
Tim raised the gun - just to rest it against your shoulder. “You sure about that, sweetheart?”
The weight of the barrel made you flinch. But you nodded.
Brian shoved the axe aside and grabbed your face, forcing you to look up at that demonic red frown. “You better mean it.”
Tim chuckled. Wasting no time, he grabbed you by the thighs, flipped you onto your back in one smooth motion. You gasped, body still aching, oversensitive. But your legs parted for him like they were trained - knees falling open, pussy still glistening from the double stretch.
“Pretty,” he muttered through the mask. “Fucking ruined. And you still open for more.”
You blinked up at him, dazed, breath catching in your chest.
“Look at me.”
You did.
Straight into those black eye holes - cold, hollow, painted with cruel brows and a mouth that never smiled. But you could feel the grin beneath the surface.
He lined up with you and slid in slowly.
You both groaned.
Your pussy clenched around him - still slick, still raw, and stretched enough that he bottomed out in one smooth push. His cock settled inside you deep, thick, and personal.
His hands gripped your thighs and pulled them higher, pinning them against your chest, folding you open for him.
“Missionary,” he muttered with mock sweetness. “How romantic.”
You moaned, cheeks burning.
Behind him, Brian sat back in the chair beside the fire. One leg spread, one hand stroking his cock in slow, steady pulls. The red eyes of his mask never left you.
Watching.
Judging.
Tim started to move.
Not rough - not at first. Just deep. Slow. Like he wanted you to feel every inch. His mask hovered just inches above yours, breath hot through the slits, body pressing into yours with weight and control.
“You thought you could take both of us without consequences?” he murmured. “Thought you could cum without asking, scratch him like a brat, and we’d just fuck it away?”
You whimpered. “I-I’m sorry-”
“You will be.”
His hips snapped forward, hard, and your head jerked back against the cushion.
“Keep your eyes on me.”
You tried. You did.
But when his hand slid down, when it reached and grabbed the gun from the cushion behind him - your whole body went rigid.
He brought it down, flat side of the barrel resting against your inner thigh.
“Miss this?” he asked, cock buried inside you, voice dark and dripping with cruelty.
You whimpered.
He dragged the barrel up - slow. Along the slick seam of your pussy. Pressed the metal just against your stretched entrance, beside his cock, as if to tease the memory of being filled by two again.
“Your little hole remembers, doesn’t it?” he said. “How full you were. How fucking helpless.”
The barrel tapped lightly against your clit. You twitched.
Behind him, Brian exhaled through the mask. Still slow. Still stroking himself.
“She’s squeezing you,” he muttered. “She wants it back.”
Tim groaned.
“Of course she does. Filthy little slut. Can’t go back to one once you’ve had two.”
You choked out a sob, legs shaking. The threat. The pressure. The shame.
The gun pressed lower. Tim thrust again - slow but deep. The sound of wet skin echoed with the crackle of the fire.
You couldn’t stop the moans.
Brian grunted.
Tim pressed the barrel of the gun harder against your cunt.
“You wanna cum again?” he asked. “You want to do it while I’ve got a gun to your pussy and a killer watching from the fire?”
A killer? The fuck did he mean by that? Too in heat to react, you simply sobbed.
But your hips lifted.
Your body already choosing for you.
Tim shifted his weight slightly, still deep inside you, the pressure of his cock grinding into your sore, soaked pussy in slow, deliberate strokes.
But then–
The barrel of the gun. He tilted it. Pressed it lower.
And then nudged it inside.
Just the tip of the metal. Just enough to slide in beside his cock.
Your back arched immediately - a sharp cry tearing from your throat. The cold metal pressed against your heat, your walls forced to stretch even more, snug around both his cock and the barrel. The feeling was brutal. Intimate. Degrading.
You loved it.
“Holy fuck,” Tim breathed, voice thick behind the mask. “She’s taking it. You’re taking it.”
You were sobbing now, hands clutching his biceps, body a mess of spasms and overstimulation.
“Please,” you gasped. “Please-I need to-please let me-”
Tim looked down at you - your flushed face, your eyes full of panic and lust, the way your thighs trembled around his waist.
And for a second–
He softened.
Not in cock. In voice.
“You wanna cum?” he murmured, just loud enough for you to hear. “Like this? With my dick and a gun inside you?”
You nodded wildly. “Yes-yes-I’ll do anything-please–”
Tim’s hand cradled your cheek, the mask hovering inches from your lips.
“Then cum for me,” he said. “Cum now, baby.”
And you did.
It tore through you like a fever - blinding, raw, violent. Your whole body seized, legs locking around his waist, your pussy clenching down so tight around his cock and the barrel that you saw stars.
You screamed.
Loud. Real.
The sound of it echoed through the cabin.
Behind Tim, Brian cursed. “Are you done yet?”
Tim didn’t even look at him. Just pressed in deeper. “Shut the fuck up,” he snapped. “I’m close.”
Brian stood now - looming behind the couch, cock still in hand, mask staring down at the scene like a hunter waiting his turn at the carcass. “She’s not gonna survive another round,” he growled. “So finish.”
Tim’s thrusts turned erratic - his control cracking, hands gripping your hips so tight they ached. “You hear that?” he panted. “Better thank me for this while I’m still fucking nice.”
“I-I am–” you choked out, still trembling. “Thank you–thank you–please–fill me–”
That was all it took.
Tim groaned - loud and sharp, his hips slamming into you one final time as he came. Hard. Deep. Filling you in thick pulses that made your pussy clench all over again. The wet heat of it filled every corner of your stretched, trembling hole.
The gun slipped free with a slick noise, dropping to the floor beside the couch.
You collapsed beneath him, twitching, half-conscious. He stayed buried in you for a second, chest heaving.
Then–
A voice.
Flat. Final.
“My turn.”
Tim pulled out with a low groan, his cock twitching once more as your body sagged beneath him. You whimpered at the loss, at the heat inside you gone, at the wet, messy stretch giving way to hollow ache.
He didn’t say anything right away. Just grabbed the edge of the couch and pushed himself up, picking up his jeans from the floor and tucking himself back into them, slow and lazy.
“Gonna let you two finish,” he muttered, already digging a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket.
He dropped into the chair by the fire with a grunt, legs spread, mask slightly pushed up. The flame of the lighter flickered, then smoke curled from his mouth as he took the first drag.
“Don’t disappoint me, Bri,” he said casually. “She’s still twitching.”
Brian didn’t respond.
He just stepped forward.
His cock was hard. Fully. Rage-hard. Hunger-hard.
You blinked up at him, dazed, barely able to lift your head from the cushions. Your body felt like jello. Overused. Done.
But Brian didn’t ask.
He grabbed you, yanked your hips down to the edge of the couch like he was dragging a body off a slab. Your legs flopped open, thighs still sticky with Tim’s cum, your pussy red and glistening from the brutal stretch.
You couldn’t stop the tiny moan that escaped.
Brian looked down at you, then scoffed.
“Oh, look,” he muttered, deadpan through the mask. “I can be romantic like Tim.”
Then he pulled his mask up to reveal his mouth, and spit.
Right onto your pussy.
Thick, wet, disgusting.
It hit your clit, slid down between your folds, mixed with the mess already there. You gasped - from the heat, the shame, the sudden weight of it all.
He lined up and slammed in.
You screamed - a real sound, hoarse and broken, your arms scrambling against the cushions.
Brian didn’t care. He was pounding you now, merciless, fast, like his only goal was to use what was left of your body before it gave out. Every thrust punched a gasp from your chest, your whole body rocking against the couch with the force of him.
“Fucking–wrecked,” he grunted. “So sloppy. Bet you don’t even know your name right now.”
He reached behind him. You heard the scrape. You knew what it was before you saw it.
The axe.
He grabbed it by the handle and dragged it forward, resting the dull side of the blade against your throat.
You froze. You couldn’t even breathe.
“Don’t move.” he said, voice low.
Your legs shook uncontrollably. You weren’t even trying to cum, not really, but your body was reacting on its own. Pussy clenching, desperate, fucked into compliance.
Brian fucked harder. The axe didn’t move.
Then–
His other hand came up and shoved two fingers into your mouth.
“Bite me,” he said, “and I swear to Christ I’ll shove this axe so far up your pussy–”
You gagged around his fingers, eyes rolling back, body twitching. You couldn’t take much more. The pressure was building again - fast, sharp, cruel. Every thrust hit your g-spot now, and your clit was swollen, raw, aching for friction.
Brian leaned closer, voice a snarl in your ear. “You wanna cum?” he growled. “You think you deserve that?”
You sobbed around his fingers.
He pulled them from your mouth.
“Beg.”
“P-please–please, Brian–I need it–I can’t–”
“Louder.”
“Please let me cum–fuck–please–I’ll do anything–”
He slammed into you again - deep, final.
“Then cum.”
And you did.
Just as hard as before.
Your vision went white, your thighs locking up, your pussy clenching so violently it pulled a choked curse from Brian’s throat.
He slammed forward one more time, burying himself to the hilt–
And came.
Hot. Violent. Deep.
You felt him pulse inside you, cock twitching, hips grinding against yours as if he could brand the orgasm into your womb. His hand still held the axe steady at your throat. His breath ragged.
You didn’t move. Couldn’t.
Not even when the axe slipped away from your throat, leaving behind a thin, stinging line of blood across your throat where he’d pressed just a little too hard.
Not even when Brian pulled out, his cum mixing with Tim’s, dripping out of you in obscene, wet strings.
You just lay there.
Ravaged. Empty. Owned.
From the fire, Tim exhaled smoke.
“Well,” he muttered. “That’s a weekend she won’t forget.”
The silence after was thick.
Heavy.
All you could hear was the fire crackling and your own blood pounding in your ears. You lay there on the couch - legs open, pussy dripping, skin sticky with sweat and cum and spit. You couldn’t even close your thighs. Couldn’t lift your arms. Couldn’t move if you tried.
Just… breathing.
Barely.
Brian stepped away.
No fanfare. Just pulled his jeans up, slow and clinical, as if he hadn’t just come inside you like a man staking a claim.
He looked down at you. Quiet. Mask still on.
Then, finally, he pushed it up. Not off, just lifted it so it sat perched on the top of his head like a helmet. His face beneath was exactly what you expected. Sharp. Pale. Unreadable.
He didn’t say anything. Just looked at you like you were done now - a scene finished, a weapon sheathed.
Tim, still sitting by the fire, stretched lazily. “So,” he said, voice a little rough now, “that was fun.”
He stood with a small groan, like his back had popped. Then tossed the cigarette into the fire. His mask was pushed up, too. Messy dark hair damp with sweat. A little stubble on his jaw. His smirk was all teeth.
He looked at Brian. “You dressing or just gonna let your balls hang while we say goodbye?”
Brian rolled his eyes but zipped up the rest of the way.
Tim walked over to you, crouched down, and gently tapped your cheek with two fingers.
“Still breathing, sweetheart?”
You blinked up at him. Barely.
He grinned.
“Atta girl.”
He leaned in, pressed a soft kiss to your forehead - mocking and sweet all at once.
“You enjoy the rest of your weekend, yeah?” he said. “Warm fire, quiet woods, legs full of cum… sounds like peace to me.”
Brian grabbed his jacket off the chair, slung it over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”
Tim stood, still smiling.
“Oh, and uh… don’t lock the door,” he added, pointing toward it casually. “Might save us the trouble tomorrow night.”
You made a small sound. You weren’t sure if it was agreement, protest, or just the last working breath in your lungs.
They didn’t wait.
Boots thudding across the floor. Door creaking open. Cold air rushing in.
Just before it shut again, you heard Tim’s voice outside, casual and amused.
“Hey, you think we should bring Toby tomorrow? He’s been doing good lately.”
A pause.
Then Brian’s reply - dry as ever, deadpan and disgusted.
“Pffffft. No way I’m putting my dick in the same hole as him.”
The door shut behind them.
And you were alone again.