Story Excerpt

The moss is soft beneath my knees, slick and cool against my skin. The air here is thick humid and green, smelling of decay and new growth tangled together. Spanish moss hangs low from the cypress trees above me, swaying gently like they’re watching. The swamp breathes around us, alive with the hum of insects and the distant croak of frogs, but all I can focus on is the heat of their bodies surrounding me.
I can’t see. The blindfold is tight, cutting off everything but sound and touch and scent. My heart pounds in my chest, not from fear never fear but from the electric thrill of not knowing. My ears twitch, trying to track them. One behind me. Two in front. I hear the rustle of fabric, the creak of leather, the wet sound of their breathing.
My wrists are bound in front of me, rough rope digging into my skin just enough to remind me I’m caught. My tail flicks anxiously, brushing against my lower back, the only part of me that still feels like it has any control. But even that is an illusion.
“You came out here alone, little fox,” one of them murmurs, his voice low and gravelly, tinged with amusement. His hand trails down my shoulder, rough fingertips skating over the rope that binds my breasts. “That was your first mistake.”
I part my lips, tasting salt and earth on the air, but I don’t speak. I don’t need to. They already know why I’m here.
The second man steps closer. I feel the heat radiating off him before he even touches me. His hand curls around the back of my neck, firm and possessive, tilting my head back. “She’s not struggling,” he says, almost to himself. “She wants this.”
I do. God, I do.
The first touch is gentle a hand cupping my breast, thumb brushing over my nipple, already hard from the cool air and the anticipation. I gasp, arching into it, and hear the satisfied chuckle from somewhere behind me. The third one. Silent until now.
“Good girl,” he whispers, and the praise shoots straight through me, pooling low in my belly.
Then all at once, they’re on me.
Hands everywhere. Gripping my hips, spreading my thighs, sliding over the curve of my ass. My tail is pulled gently to the side, exposing me completely, and I whimper at the vulnerability of it. The man behind me groans, low and hungry, and I feel the blunt press of him against my entrance, slick and insistent.
“Wait,” I breathe, but it’s not a protest it’s anticipation. A plea.
He doesn’t wait.
The first thrust steals the air from my lungs. I cry out, the sound swallowed by the swamp, and my body arches, rope biting into my skin as I try to adjust to the fullness. But there’s no time. The man in front of me grips my chin, tilting my face up, and I feel the head of his cock brush against my lips.
“Open,” he commands, and I do. I always do.
The taste of him floods my mouth salt and musk and something raw. He pushes forward slowly, letting me adjust, and I hollow my cheeks, taking him deeper. The man behind me sets a rhythm, hard and unforgiving, and I’m caught between them, pinned and used and utterly lost in it.
I can’t think. I can’t do anything but feel.
The stretch. The fullness. The wet, obscene sounds of our bodies moving together. The hand in my hair, guiding me. The fingers digging into my hips, holding me steady. The praise—”so good,” “perfect,” “take it all”—whispered like prayers.
My body responds instinctively. My hips rock back to meet every thrust, even as my throat constricts around the cock in my mouth. I’m drowning in sensation, every nerve ending alight, and when the third man’s hand slides between my legs, fingers circling my clit with maddening precision, I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me, violent and unexpected, and I scream around the cock in my mouth, my whole-body trembling. They don’t stop. They don’t slow. They chase their own release, using me, and I let them.
When it’s over when they’ve finished and pulled away, leaving me gasping and trembling on the moss the blindfold is gently removed. I blink up at the canopy above, at the fading light filtering through the trees, and feel the cool air against my heated skin.
One of them crouches beside me, brushing damp hair away from my face. “You are good, little fox?”
I nodded, too breathless to speak.
He smiles. “Good. Because we’re not done yet.”
My hands are still tied, behind my back as they help lift me up, and over to another location as I am standing as another one of them lies down on the moss cover ground, which is muddy and the air smells of both life and decay.