The last gym session i ever had.

[jasmine18]

Teaser:He reached for the zip-ties at her ankles, the plastic snapping under his knife. Before she could kick, he grabbed her right calf, yanking it sideways
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The author of this story has read and accepted the rules for posting stories. They guarantee that the following story depicts none of the themes listed in the Forbidden Content section of the rules.

The following story is a work of fiction meant for entertainment purposes only. It depicts nonconsensual sexual acts between adults. It is in no way meant to be understood as an endorsement of nonconsensual sex in real life. Any similarities of the characters in the story to real people are purely fictional
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Title: The last gym session I ever had
Author: Jasmine18

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Heres a story ive been writing on and off, hope you like it.
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Title of the Story

Title of Chapter

"That's it—fifty squats, done." The woman exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders as she straightened up. Her reflection in the gym's floor-to-ceiling mirrors caught every detail: legs toned to perfection, the kind that made heads turn without trying. Her scrunch shorts clung just right, highlighting the curve of her hips, the kind of effortless shape that came from years of disciplined workouts, not just genetics.

Her black sports bra hugged her torso, the fabric slightly damp from exertion, outlining the lean muscles of her abdomen. She wasn't just fit—she was sculpted, the kind of body that belonged on a billboard or a runway. High cheekbones, full lips, and piercing green eyes framed by dark lashes gave her an almost unreal quality, like someone had airbrushed her into existence. Even the way she tucked a loose strand of honey-blonde hair behind her ear looked deliberate, effortless.

The gym was nearly empty now, the fluorescent lights flickering faintly as the night shift janitor pushed his mop lazily across the floor. She grabbed her water bottle, took one last swig, and slung her duffel bag over her shoulder. The automatic doors slid open with a soft whoosh, spilling her out into the parking lot. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to her skin like a second layer. Distant thunder rumbled somewhere beyond the city skyline, promising a storm.

Her sneakers scuffed against the asphalt as she made her way toward her car—a sleek silver sedan parked under a flickering lamppost. Keys already in hand, she didn’t notice the van idling nearby, its engine a low, predatory hum beneath the sound of crickets. Then, a shadow shifted. Too fast. Her reflexes kicked in—muscles tensing, breath hitching—but not fast enough. A gloved hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her scream before it could escape.

The attacker yanked her backward, her spine slamming into something soft and yielding—his gut, pressing against her like a sack of wet dough. The smell hit her next: stale sweat, fried food clinging to his pores. His belly jiggled against her lower back as he dragged her toward the van, his breath hot and uneven against her ear. "Don’t fucking move," he growled, the words slurred with adrenaline. Her duffel bag slipped from her shoulder, hitting the pavement with a thud.

Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out everything but the slick sound of her own sneakers skidding uselessly against the asphalt. She twisted, teeth sinking into the meat of his palm—leather glove be damned—but he only grunted and tightened his grip. Another shape lunged from the van’s shadows, grabbing her ankles. Together, they lifted her like she weighed nothing, her muscles screaming as her legs kicked empty air. The van’s interior smelled of motor oil and old fast-food wrappers, the metal floor cold against her bare thighs as they shoved her inside.

The door slammed, plunging her into near-darkness except for the erratic glow of streetlights bleeding through the grimy windows. She scrambled backward, nails scraping against the corrugated steel, but a knee dug into her ribs, pinning her down. "Pretty little thing," the second man rasped, his breath reeking of nicotine as he yanked her wrists above her head. Plastic zip-ties bit into her skin, the sharp click of them tightening louder than the van’s engine revving to life.

Something rough—a burlap sack, maybe—was dragged over her face, the fibers scratching her cheeks as it settled. The stench of mildew and diesel filled her nostrils, suffocating. She jerked her head, trying to dislodge it, but fingers twisted into her hair, wrenching her skull against the floor. "Keep still," the first man hissed, his weight shifting as the van lurched forward. Tires squealed, throwing her sideways, her hipbone slamming into a toolbox bolted to the wall. Pain flared, white-hot, but she choked back the whimper. Showing fear would only egg them on.

The engine growled, accelerating, and she could feel every pothole vibrating through the metal beneath her. Her wrists burned where the zip-ties dug deeper, the plastic edges sawing at her skin. She flexed her fingers, testing the restraints—no give. The second man’s hand slid down her thigh, his calloused palm rasping against her bare skin. "Look at these fucking legs," he muttered, squeezing hard enough to bruise. She kicked blindly, her heel connecting with something solid—a grunt, a curse. The first man laughed, low and mean. "Feisty. Gonna make it fun."

The van took a sharp turn, throwing her onto her side. The burlap sack shifted, and for a split second, she caught a glimpse of the first man’s face—pockmarked, greasy stubble, eyes glittering with something hungry. Then the sack was yanked back down. His knee pressed between her thighs, pinning her in place. "You scream, I break your jaw," he whispered. She could feel his erection pressing against her hip, thick and insistent.

His hand slid up her ribcage, slow, almost reverent—like he was savoring the way her muscles tensed beneath his fingers. The sports bra’s fabric was thin, damp with sweat, and his thumb traced the edge of the band where it dug into her skin. He exhaled sharply, his breath sour with cheap whiskey. "Fuck, you’re built," he muttered. His fingers dipped under the hem, skimming her abs, the rough pads catching on every ridge of muscle. She jerked, but the zip-ties held firm.

The van hit a bump, jostling them together. His palm cupped her breast through the bra, squeezing just hard enough to make her gasp. The material strained, her nipple pebbling against the pressure. His chuckle was wet, wheezing. "Bet you never thought you’d get felt up like this after leg day, huh?" His other hand fumbled at her waistband, fingers slipping beneath the scrunch shorts’ elastic. The fabric rolled down her hips with a whisper, exposing the warm skin beneath. His nails raked over her hipbone, possessive.

Then—a grunt from the darkness. The second man’s voice cut in, gravelly and impatient. "Cool it, Vince. Boss said no playtime till we’re at the spot." The hand retreated, but not before giving her ass a rough slap that stung. "Gotta save the main course," the second man added. Vince exhaled sharply through his nose, his knee digging deeper between her legs. "Fuckin’ buzzkill," he muttered, but he shifted back, the pressure relenting slightly.

She could feel Vince’s fingers twitching against her thigh, like he was fighting the urge to touch her again. The van swerved, throwing his weight against her. His hips pressed flush against her, and she could feel him—hard and eager—grinding into her hip. "Just a little taste," he whispered, breath hot against her ear. His hand slipped under her bra again, this time squeezing roughly. She arched, trying to twist away, but his grip tightened. "Still intact," he mocked, fingers pinching her nipple until she hissed. "See? No harm done."

A radio crackled somewhere near the front. The second man muttered something she couldn’t catch, but Vince groaned and finally pulled away, his weight leaving her ribs with reluctant finality. "Fuckin’ cockblock," he spat, but he settled back against the van’s wall. The engine’s growl deepened—they were picking up speed, tires whining against asphalt. The occasional streetlamp flickered through the burlap, casting jagged stripes of light across her bound wrists.

She focused on breathing—slow, controlled—even as her pulse hammered against her throat. The air was thick with Vince’s musk, the sour tang of sweat and stale beer clinging to every inhale. His knee stayed pressed against her thigh, a constant reminder of his presence. Something metallic rattled nearby—chains? Tools?—and her stomach lurched. The van swerved sharply again, throwing her into Vince’s lap. He grunted, his hands immediately gripping her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh above her hips. "Eager now, huh?" he chuckled, breath hot against her scalp.

A new sound cut through the engine’s growl: rain. Fat droplets hammered against the roof, a sudden downpour turning the van’s interior into a drum. The musty scent of wet pavement seeped through the cracks, mixing with the stench of oil and male sweat. Vince shifted, his belt buckle clinking as he adjusted himself. His thumb traced idle circles on her hipbone, just above where her shorts had been tugged down. "Bet you’re thinking ‘why me?’" he mused, voice low. "But shit, sweetheart—you’re the kinda woman who makes men stupid." His hand slid lower, fingertips brushing the crease of her thigh. "Can’t blame ‘em."

The van slowed, tires crunching over gravel. The second man swore under his breath, radio crackling again. "Boss is early," he muttered. Vince’s grip tightened, fingers digging into her flesh like he was marking territory. "Fuck," he breathed, hot against her ear. "Means we gotta skip the appetizer." His hand retreated reluctantly, but not before dragging his knuckles down her inner thigh—slow, deliberate. The van rocked to a stop, engine idling. Doors slammed outside. Heavy footsteps approached.

The burlap stayed firmly in place, rough fibers scratching her cheeks as someone yanked the van’s rear doors open. Cold, damp air rushed in, carrying the scent of wet earth and gasoline. Hands grabbed her ankles, hauling her toward the edge. She kicked, but a sharp slap across her thigh made her gasp. "None of that," a new voice growled—deeper, smoother. Boss. His fingers circled her calf, thumb pressing into the tendon hard enough to make her twitch. "Tie her legs."

Plastic zip-ties snaked around her ankles, the bite just as vicious as the ones on her wrists. Vince chuckled somewhere behind her, his breath hot on her neck. "Told you she’d fight." Boss ignored him, gripping her waist and lifting her like a sack of grain. Her stomach lurched as he swung her over his shoulder, her ribs digging into the hard ridge of his collarbone. Rain slapped her exposed skin—legs, lower back, the strip of stomach where her sports bra had ridden up. The drops felt like needles.

Boss’s boots crunched on gravel, each step jolting through her. She tried to twist, but his forearm clamped across the back of her thighs, pinning her in place. "Where—" she started, but his hand smacked her ass, the sting sharp enough to make her gasp. "Shut it," he muttered. The scent of wet pine and diesel hit her—outskirts of the city, maybe. Trees rustled in the wind, branches clawing at the sky. Somewhere distant, a dog barked, the sound swallowed by the storm.

The blindfold stayed on, scratchy burlap digging into her cheekbones as Boss adjusted his grip. Rain dripped down her spine, pooling in the hollow of her back. She could hear Vince and the other one shuffling behind them, their boots kicking through mud. A door creaked open—wooden, unoiled hinges—and the air changed, warmer, thick with cigarette smoke and mildew. Concrete underfoot now, gritty beneath Boss’s boots. He shifted her weight, one hand sliding up to grip the back of her neck, fingers pressing into her pulse point. "Stairs," he warned, right before her stomach dropped as he descended.

Her ribs slammed into his shoulder with each step, breath punched out in ragged bursts. The stairs groaned under their combined weight, the sound muffled by the drumming rain outside. Then, a flat surface—basement floor. Cold seeped through her shorts, the damp fabric clinging to her thighs. Boss dumped her unceremoniously onto something hard—a metal chair, from the clang of it—and she barely had time to brace before rough hands yanked her wrists down, securing them behind the chair’s back with another zip-tie. The plastic edges sawed into her skin, fresh pain blooming. Vince’s laugh echoed off the walls, too close. "Like that, huh? All tied up and nowhere to go." His fingers trailed up her inner thigh, stopping just shy of the hem of her shorts.

Boss’s bootsteps circled her, slow, deliberate. The scent of wet leather and gun oil clung to him, overpowering the basement’s mildew. "Told you to wait," he growled, not to her—to Vince. A sharp crack—a slap? Vince hissed. "Fuck, man! She’s right there!" Boss’s voice dropped, a predator’s purr. "And I’m first." His knuckles grazed her jaw, tracing the line of her throat down to the collar of her sports bra. The fabric was still damp, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake. He hooked a thumb under the strap, snapping it against her skin. "You’ll watch," he told Vince, the words thick with authority. "Learn how it’s done."

His palm flattened over her ribs, pressing hard enough to make her arch. The chair creaked beneath her, metal legs scraping concrete.. He exhaled—slow, savoring—as his fingers mapped the ridges of her abs. "Bet you hate this," he murmured, thumb digging into the hollow beneath her ribcage. "All that training, and look at you." His other hand fisted in her hair, yanking her head back. The burlap shifted, exposing her mouth. His breath was hot, whiskey-laced. "Can’t even bite now." His teeth scraped her lower lip, not quite a kiss, not quite violence. Behind her, Vince’s breathing turned ragged.

Boss’s knee nudged her thighs apart, the denim of his jeans rough against her skin. The chair tipped precariously as he leaned in, his belt buckle cold against her stomach. His fingers traced the waistband of her shorts—slow, mocking—before hooking beneath the elastic. The fabric stretched taut. "Still got that fight?" he mused, twisting his wrist until the seam dug into her hipbone. She jerked, muscles straining against the zip-ties, but his grip only tightened. Vince groaned from the shadows. "Jesus, boss—"

The rip of fabric was obscenely loud. Her shorts split along the seam, cool air rushing over her exposed skin. Boss exhaled sharply through his nose, his fingers skating down her thigh. "Pretty," he muttered, thumb pressing into the divot of her hip. The chair legs screeched as he shoved it backward, her shoulders slamming into the wall. His boot pinned her knee wide, the pressure just shy of painful. Behind them, Vince’s footsteps shuffled closer, his breath hitching. Boss didn’t turn. "Watch," he ordered, voice gravel. His palm slid up her inner thigh, callouses catching on skin.

He reached for the zip-ties at her ankles, the plastic snapping under his knife. Before she could kick, he grabbed her right calf, yanking it sideways. A fresh zip-tie looped around her ankle and the chair leg, cinching tight. The other leg followed, knees splayed obscenely wide. Vince groaned, his knuckles cracking as he fisted his hands. Boss traced the arch of her foot with the blade’s tip, the metal cold. "Still gonna fight?" he murmured, dragging the flat side up her shin. The blade caught the light—stark against the basement’s gloom—before he flipped it shut with a click. His thumb pressed into the hollow behind her knee, kneading the tendon until she twitched.

The basement smelled of wet concrete and copper, the air thick with Vince’s ragged breathing. Boss’s belt buckle clinked as he unbuckled it, the leather slithering free with a hiss. His palm slid up her thigh, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her inner leg. She arched, but the chair held fast. "Good," he growled, thumb brushing the lace edge of her underwear. Vince shifted behind him, boots scraping concrete. "Fuck, boss—" Boss backhanded him without looking, the slap echoing off the walls. "I said watch."

Rain hammered against the basement’s small, grimy windows, the glass rattling in its frames. Boss’s fingers hooked into her underwear, the lace stretching taut before snapping at the hip. The sound was obscenely loud. Cold air kissed her skin, followed by the heat of his calloused palm. Vince moaned, his knees hitting the floor beside them. Boss’s breath hitched as he traced her, fingertips rough. "Christ," he muttered, dragging a thumb over her. She jerked, but the zip-ties bit deeper. "Still tight," he noted, almost approving. "Even like this."

The burlap hood shifted as Boss leaned in, his forehead pressing against hers through the scratchy fabric. His breath was whiskey-sour, his grip bruising. "Time to take off this hood," he growled, yanking it back. The sudden light stabbed her eyes—a single bulb swinging from the ceiling, casting jagged shadows. Vince gasped behind them. "Fuck," he breathed. Her face was wet—rain, sweat, maybe tears. Boss studied her, thumb wiping her lower lip. "Pretty," he murmured, almost gentle. Then his grip tightened, fingers digging into her jaw. "Now watch."

He stood up, he looked pretty ugly. His nose was crooked from breaks, his jawline shadowed with stubble like steel wool. She watched as he took off his shoes and then his pants, his movements unhurried, deliberate. The belt buckle clattered to the concrete, followed by the rasp of denim sliding down thick thighs. His boxers clung to his hips, the fabric straining over his erection. Vince made a noise—half groan, half whimper—but Boss ignored him, stepping closer. His thighs brushed her knees, the heat radiating off him like a furnace. "Still wanna fight?" he asked, palming himself through the cotton. The fabric darkened with precome.

A hand grabbed Vince’s shoulder, shoving him backward. "Mattress," Boss ordered. Vince scrambled to obey, his boots scuffling across the basement. Rusted bedsprings squealed as he dragged a stained mattress from the corner. Dust billowed up, catching in the swinging light. He dropped it beside her chair, the impact jostling her bound wrists. "Comfortable?" Vince asked, voice cracking. Boss snorted. Vince knelt beside her, hands hovering like he wanted to touch but didn’t dare. His fingers twitched toward her bare thigh—then snatched back when Boss cleared his throat.

Boss grabbed her chair by the backrest, tilting it forward. The zip-ties dug into her wrists as he reached beneath the seat. A knife clicked open, its blade cold against her skin. He sawed through the plastic restraints with slow, deliberate strokes. The zip-ties snapped one by one, her arms flopping free. She gasped—blood rushed back into her hands, prickling like static. Vince groaned at the sight of her wrists, rubbed raw. "Christ," he muttered. Boss ignored him, gripping her waist and lifting her off the chair. Her legs wobbled—muscles stiff from being pinned—but Boss didn’t let go. He carried her like a bride, her bare thighs pressing into his forearms.

"Well, let me introduce myself," he growled as he lowered her onto the mattress. The springs groaned beneath her. The fabric smelled of sweat and mildew, its surface scratchy against her skin. He knelt over her, one knee sinking into the mattress beside her hip. His hand slid up her ribcage, fingers tracing the edge of her sports bra. "Name’s Harker," he murmured, thumb hooking under the strap. His other hand cupped her jaw, fingers pressing into her pulse. "And you?"

Her breath hitched as he snapped the elastic against her skin. The strap dug in—too tight, almost painful—but Harker didn’t let up. His thumb stroked her collarbone, slow, proprietary. "Cat got your tongue?" Behind him, Vince shifted, his boots scuffing concrete. Harker didn’t look back. "Answer," he ordered, grip tightening. She swallowed. "L—Lena." The name tasted like bile. Harker exhaled, nostrils flaring. "Lena," he repeated, savoring it. His thumb brushed her lower lip. "Pretty."

"Please," she whispered, voice cracking. The mattress springs creaked as she tried to shift away. "Just let me go. I swear—I’ll tell nobody about you." The words tumbled out, desperate. Harker chuckled, low and mean. His knee pressed deeper into the mattress, pinning her hip. "Sweetheart," he murmured, fingers tracing her jawline. "You think that’s how this works?" Behind him, Vince groaned, palming himself through his jeans. Harker didn’t glance back. "Vince. Zip it."

His calloused hands slid down her ribcage, fingers dipping beneath her sports bra. The fabric strained, her chest rising with each ragged breath. Harker exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. "Look, here’s what’s gonna happen." His thumb brushed her nipple through the damp fabric, circling lazily. "I’m gonna sample the goods." The bra strap snapped against her skin. "Then Vince gets his turn." Behind them, Vince whimpered. Harker ignored him, fingers tightening. "Afterwards?" His breath ghosted over her collarbone. "My men get a go. Every last one."

Lena twisted, but his knee pinned her thigh. The mattress springs groaned beneath her. "Then?" Harker grinned, all teeth. "You’ll board a plane." His palm slid down her stomach, fingers hooking into her ruined shorts. "Overseas." The fabric ripped further. "Making me money." Vince’s zipper clinked behind them.

Harker leaned in—his breath smelled like gunpowder. "Ever been to Dubai?" His thumb traced the ridge of her hipbone. "Sheikhs pay top dollar for American muscle." Behind him, Vince hissed. "Christ, boss—she’s fucking sculpted." Harker smirked. "Six-figure flesh." His fingers dug into her waist, branding. "Every vein, every ridge—auctioned."

The basement light flickered—rain still hammering the windows—as Harker dragged his palm up her torso. He paused at her sternum, pressing down hard enough to make her gasp. "Bidders’ll fight over who gets to break you first." His knee nudged her thighs wider. "Training’s wasted now." Lena bucked, but his grip was iron. Vince whimpered. "Fuck, boss—she’s still fighting!" Harker laughed—dark, wet. "Let ‘em try." His teeth scraped her collarbone. "Makes the sale sweeter."

He stood abruptly, boots scraping concrete, and jerked his chin toward the far wall. "Rope." Vince scrambled to obey, nearly tripping over his own feet as he hauled a coiled length of rough hemp from a rusted hook. The fibers smelled of mildew and salt, the braids coarse against Lena’s bare legs as Vince draped it over her thighs. Harker snatched it mid-air. "Watch." His hands moved with practiced precision—looping, twisting, cinching. The first knot bit into her wrist, yanking her arm sideways toward a rusted eyelet bolted to the floor. The second followed, stretching her left leg taut toward the opposite wall.

The rope rasped against her skin, each tug carving fresh friction burns. Harker’s knee pressed into her ribs as he worked, his breath steady. "You’ll learn to hold still." The third knot anchored her right ankle to a floor-mounted ring, splaying her obscenely wide. Vince audibly swallowed. Harker backhanded him without looking. "Pay attention." He grabbed Lena’s free wrist, forcing it above her head. The final rope lashed around a ceiling pipe, suspending her arm at a brutal angle. Her shoulder screamed.

Rainwater dripped through a crack in the ceiling, landing icy on her sternum. Harker traced the droplet’s path with his knife tip—down her ribs, over her abdomen—before flicking the blade shut. His palm replaced it, hot and rough. "Count the knots," he ordered Vince. "Memorize them." Behind him, Vince nodded frantically, eyes darting between her restraints. Harker grabbed her chin, forcing eye contact. His thumb dug into her cheek. "Last chance to beg."

"Please don’t do this," Lena whispered, voice frayed. The ropes creaked as she twisted her wrists—useless. "I just want to go home." Her ribs ached with each shallow breath. Harker exhaled through his nose, nostrils flaring. His grip tightened—then released abruptly.

"Home?" He leaned back, legs planted wide on either side of her hips. His knuckles grazed her inner thigh—slow, mocking—as he studied her face. "Sweetheart." His thumb pressed into the hollow behind her knee. "You *are* home." The rope bit deeper as he cinched it tighter with one sharp tug. "Well." His teeth flashed in the dim light. "Until we’ve had our go."

His fingers trailed upward, tracing the seam where thigh met hip. Lena jerked—uselessly—as he hooked a thumb into the tattered remains of her shorts. The fabric stretched, damp from rain and sweat, before ripping clean off. Vince groaned behind them, knees hitting the concrete. Harker didn’t look away from her face. "Time to see what you’re hiding."

Cold air kissed her bare skin. Goosebumps prickled in its wake, but Harker’s palm chased them away—hot, rough, pressing flat against her abdomen like he was mapping her pulse points. His thumb slid lower, dragging through coarse curls, and she bucked, ropes biting into flesh. A choked noise escaped her throat. Harker grinned, all teeth. "Bet you’re tight," he mused, fingers circling lazily. "Bet you clench up when you run." Behind him, Vince whimpered, hands fisted in his own hair.

Harker hooked a finger into the lace edge of her panties—the last barrier—and paused. The fabric stretched taut, damp from sweat and rain. "Still hiding?" His knuckles brushed her inner thigh, slow as a blade being drawn. Lena clenched her jaw. His breath hitched—then he ripped sideways. The lace gave with a snap, threads popping like gunshots. Vince groaned, forehead hitting the floor. Harker exhaled sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring. "Christ."

Oh your wax of course you do—the phrase slithered through her mind, nonsensical, ripped from some half-remembered poem. Her thoughts fractured as Harker's calloused thumb pressed against her, blunt and unyielding. The rope at her wrists creaked when she arched, but his grip tightened, pinning her hip to the mattress. "Look at you," he murmured, thumb circling lazily. "All that training, and here you are." His fingers dipped lower, probing. "Tighter than I thought." Behind him, Vince whimpered, hands scrabbling at his own belt. Harker didn't glance back. "Zip it."

The bra strap dug into her shoulder blades, the only fabric left. Harker's free hand slid up her ribcage, fingers spidering beneath the damp elastic. "Now for the bra," he growled, hooking two fingers under the clasp. The metal teeth groaned—then snapped. The fabric peeled away like a second skin, baring her to the basement's humid air. Vince made a sound like a dying animal. Harker exhaled sharply, nostrils flaring. "Christ." His palm scraped across her nipple, rough as sandpaper. "Pretty."

Her breasts were taut from adrenaline, nipples peaked against the stale air. Harker's thumb circled one, slow and deliberate, before pinching hard enough to make her gasp. "Perfect size," he murmured, rolling the bud between his fingers. "Not too big, not too small." Behind him, Vince whimpered, hands fisted in his own hair. "Fuck, boss—they're so perky." Harker backhanded him without looking. "Shut it." His other hand palmed her breast, squeezing just shy of pain. "Just right for marking."

Lena twisted her face away, but Harker grabbed her chin, forcing her to look. His boxers clung obscenely, tented over his erection. "Goddamn," he muttered, hooking his thumbs in the waistband. The elastic snapped against his hips as he shoved them down, his cock springing free—thick, flushed, veins standing in stark relief. Vince groaned like he'd been punched. Harker exhaled sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring. "Christ, I'm hard." His hand wrapped around himself, giving a slow stroke. "Gonna make me a fortune."

His knees pressed into the mattress on either side of her hips, the springs shrieking. Lena arched—uselessly—as he dragged the head of his cock up her thigh, leaving a slick trail. The scent of musk and gun oil thickened the air. Harker's breath hitched as he rubbed against her, the friction just shy of penetration. "Still wet from the rain," he mused, thumb brushing her folds. Behind them, Vince whimpered, fingers digging into his own thighs. Harker ignored him, gripping Lena's hip with his free hand. "Gonna split you open."

"No, please—" she gasped, twisting her face away as he positioned himself. The ropes bit into her wrists when she tried to buck. "Get that away from me—" Harker laughed, low and dark, his fingers tightening on her waist. Her plea seemed to pulse through him—his cock twitched against her thigh, veins standing rigid. "Oh, sweetheart," he growled, teeth scraping her shoulder. "Your fucking begs..." He thrust shallowly, just the tip breaching her, and she choked on a sob. "Christ, they make me harder."

Harker exhaled sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring as he gripped her hips. He pushed in another inch—slow, deliberate—and his head tipped back, tendons standing stark in his neck. "Oh fuck," he gritted out, hips jerking reflexively. "You feel so damn tight." His fingers dug bruises into her flesh as he bottomed out, her body clamping around him like a vice. The rope at her wrists groaned when she arched, but he pinned her down with his weight, grinding deeper. "Fuck—" His voice cracked. "Like you're trying to—" Another thrust, ragged. "Squeeze me dry."

She screamed, "Get off me!"—the words ripped from her throat raw as his hot breath hit her face, whiskey-sour and panting. Her thighs trembled against the ropes, muscles straining uselessly. Harker groaned, hips stuttering, and buried himself to the hilt. "Christ," he rasped, forehead dropping to hers. His pulse hammered visibly in his throat. "You're gonna—" His fingers twisted in her hair, yanking her head back. "Fucking ruin me." Behind them, Vince whimpered, hand shoved down his pants. Harker didn't glance away from her face. "Tell me to stop," he challenged, voice wrecked. His next thrust rocked the mattress. "Go on. Beg."

"Stop—please stop," she gasped, voice cracking on the second word. The ropes sawed into her wrists as she twisted, but his weight pinned her hips. Harker laughed—dark, wet—and dragged his teeth over her collarbone. "Louder," he taunted, snapping his hips. The bedsprings shrieked. Vince groaned, knees hitting the floor. Harker's breath hitched as he pistoned into her, each thrust punctuated by the slap of skin. "Beg like you mean it."

Tears streaked her temples, soaking into the stained mattress. She choked on another plea—"Please, I can't—"—but Harker covered her mouth with his palm, fingers digging into her cheeks. "Uh-uh," he growled, thumb pressing down on her tongue. His other hand gripped her thigh, nails carving crescents into flesh. "You *can*." His hips stuttered, sweat dripping onto her sternum. "And you *will*."

Vince crawled forward on his knees, eyes wild. His fingers brushed Lena's ankle—then snatched back when Harker snarled. "Stay put," he ordered, voice ragged. Vince whimpered but obeyed, hands fisting his own hair as he watched Harker's cock disappear inside her again and again. The ropes groaned with each thrust, fibers fraying against her raw skin.

Harker's breath came in harsh pants now, his rhythm fracturing. He gripped her jaw, forcing eye contact. "Look at me when I fuck you," he growled, thumb pressing into the hinge of her jaw. Behind them, Vince moaned, hips jerking erratically against his own hand. Harker's nostrils flared as he watched Lena's face contort—then he suddenly stilled, buried to the hilt. A shudder wracked his frame. "Christ—" His fingers tightened in her hair. "Gonna—"

Cum, he screamed, god that felt so damn good. His hips jerked erratically, pumping his release deep inside her as his thighs trembled. They definitely gonna pay a lot for this, he thought hazily, watching her stomach clench beneath him. Vince whimpered, fingers digging into his own thighs hard enough to bruise. Harker exhaled sharply through his nose, still twitching inside her. "Fuck," he muttered, dragging his thumb through the sweat on her sternum. "You feel even better than I—" His voice cracked as he pulled out slowly, his cum dripping from her onto the stained mattress.

"Well, that was fun," Harker panted, rolling off her with a grunt. His boxers and pants lay in a heap nearby, and he grabbed them with one hand while wiping his mouth with the back of the other. "Vince—it's your shot." Vince made a sound like a kicked dog, scrambling forward on his knees before Harker's glare stopped him cold. "Not yet." Harker hooked his thumb into his boxers, stepping into them with deliberate slowness. The fabric clung obscenely to his softening cock. "Clean her up first."

Vince hesitated, fingers twitching toward Lena's bare thigh. "How?" His voice cracked. Harker sighed, rubbing his temples. "Christ, Vince." He grabbed a grimy rag from a nearby toolbox and tossed it at his chest. "Wipe her down." Vince caught it clumsily, eyes darting between Lena and the damp cloth. "But—she's still—" Harker backhanded him without looking. "Do it."

Lena flinched as Vince knelt beside her, the mattress sagging under his weight. His fingers trembled where they hovered over her stomach, tracking the slick trails of Harker's release. He swallowed hard, Adam's apple bobbing. "Sorry," he muttered, pressing the rag to her skin. The rough fabric scraped over her ribs, catching on dried sweat. Behind them, Harker chuckled, buckling his belt. "Pathetic."

The rag reeked of motor oil and stale coffee, its fibers sticking to her damp skin. Vince wiped in tentative circles, avoiding her breasts even as his gaze lingered. A droplet of sweat rolled down his temple when his fingers accidentally brushed her nipple. He jerked back like he'd been burned. "Fuck," he hissed, wiping his palm on his jeans. Harker snorted. "Jesus, Vince. She's not made of glass."

Lena turned her face away, jaw clenched. The rope above her head creaked as she flexed her wrists—still useless. Vince exhaled shakily and dragged the rag lower, over the concave dip of her abdomen. His fingers trembled where they skimmed the mess between her thighs. The cloth snagged on tender flesh, drawing a whimper from her lips. Vince froze. "Sorry," he mumbled again, cheeks flushing. Harker rolled his eyes and kicked the mattress. "Faster."

Vince swallowed hard and pressed the rag between her legs with more force, scrubbing in quick, jerky strokes. Lena bit her lip until copper flooded her tongue. The fibers scratched her raw skin, but she refused to make another sound. The moment the rag came away clean—streaked with pink—Vince exhaled sharply and tossed it aside. "Done," he announced, voice cracking. Harker smirked. "Good boy." He gestured lazily toward Lena's splayed body. "Now play."

Lena's stomach lurched. Vince was no prize—soft around the middle, his hands damp with nervous sweat as he unbuckled his belt with clumsy fingers. His pants sagged around his hips, revealing a thick trail of hair disappearing beneath stained briefs. When he shoved them down, his cock sprang free—pale and stubby, already leaking against his belly. Lena's throat tightened. He wasn't even hard yet, and the sight made her skin crawl worse than Harker's brutal efficiency.

"Christ," Vince muttered, gripping himself with shaking fingers. He pumped twice—fast, desperate—before shuffling closer on his knees. The mattress springs groaned under his weight. Lena twisted her face away, but Vince grabbed her chin, forcing her to look. His breath smelled like stale cigarettes and cheap beer. "You're so fucking pretty," he breathed, thumb tracing her bottom lip. Behind them, Harker snorted. "Get on with it."

Vince's fingers trembled where they skimmed her ribs, mapping the bruises Harker had left. His cock twitched against her thigh, smearing precome on her skin. "I won't—won't hurt you," he lied, hips jerking forward. The tip caught at her entrance, too dry, and she gasped at the burn. Vince whimpered, fingers digging into her hips. "Fuck, you're tight," he panted, thrusting shallowly.

Harker snorted from the corner where he lit a cigarette. The match flared, illuminating Vince's sweaty face screwed up in concentration. "Use your damn spit," Harker growled. Vince whined but obeyed, spitting into his palm before slicking himself roughly. His next thrust slid deeper, and Lena's nails bit into her own palms where they strained against the ropes.

The storm outside reached a crescendo—rain hammered the basement's single window as Vince's hips stuttered against hers. His breath came in wet pants against her neck. "You feel so good," he mumbled, teeth scraping her shoulder. The words sounded rehearsed, like he'd practiced them in a mirror. His thrusts lacked rhythm, all frantic jerks and awkward angles. The rope at Lena's left wrist frayed as she twisted—just a little give, barely noticeable.

Vince pulled back suddenly, hands trembling where they braced against the mattress. His eyes flickered down her body—lingering on her breasts, her waist—before settling on her mouth. He swallowed hard. "I've always wanted to kiss a beauty like you," he admitted, voice cracking. His thumbs brushed her cheekbones, tentative as a teenager's. "But none would give me a chance." The admission hung between them, pathetic and raw. Behind them, Harker exhaled smoke through his nose. "Christ, Vince. Just fuck her."

He kissed her luscious lips—too hard, too wet, his teeth clacking against hers. His tongue shoved into her mouth like he was trying to swallow her whole, hot and insistent. Lena gagged, twisting her face away, but Vince grabbed her chin with clammy fingers, forcing her back. "No—please," she gasped against his lips, but he moaned like she'd begged for it, hips jerking forward. The ropes groaned as she arched, but Vince pressed her down with his weight, his cock sliding deeper.

"Fuck—" Vince's breath hitched, his thrusts growing erratic. His fingers dug into her waist, leaving crescent-shaped bruises as he pistoned into her. The mattress springs shrieked beneath them. "You feel so—so good," he panted, forehead dropping to hers. His breath smelled like rotting mints and desperation. Lena turned her face away, but he licked a stripe up her neck, lapping at her sweat like a starved dog. "So soft," he mumbled against her pulse point. His teeth scraped her collarbone—not hard enough to break skin, but enough to make her shudder.

Harker exhaled a plume of smoke from the corner. "Finish up," he ordered, flicking ash onto the concrete floor. Vince whimpered but obeyed, hips stuttering faster. His cock twitched inside her—hot and pulsing—as he rutted mindlessly. The ropes creaked as Lena twisted her wrists, the fibers fraying against her skin. Vince's breath came in wet gasps against her ear. "I'm—I'm gonna—" His fingers tightened on her ribs, nails biting flesh.

Lena felt the moment he lost control—his body tensed, hips jerking erratically before he stilled with a choked cry. Heat flooded her insides as Vince shuddered, his forehead pressed to her shoulder. "Oh fuck," he slurred, hips twitching weakly. Harker snorted. "Pathetic." Vince pulled out slowly, his release dripping onto the mattress. He stared at it, dazed, before wiping himself with the discarded rag.

Harker exhaled sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring as he grabbed Vince's collar and hauled him off the mattress. "Clean her properly this time," he growled, tossing another rag at him. Vince caught it clumsily, fingers trembling as he wiped between her thighs. The rough fabric scraped over tender flesh, making her flinch. "Careful!" Harker barked. "She's worth more intact."

The moment Vince retreated, Harker jerked his chin toward a battered dresser wedged against the basement wall. Its top drawer sagged open slightly, revealing a tangle of fabric inside. "There's clothes in the drawer over there you can use," he muttered, buckling his belt. "Put something on her before she catches cold." Vince scrambled toward the dresser like a kicked dog, his knees scraping against the concrete floor. The drawer screeched open, releasing the scent of mothballs and stale perfume.

Harker turned toward Lena, his shadow stretching over her like a shroud. His fingers dipped into his pocket, emerging with a slim syringe filled with murky liquid. The needle gleamed under the flickering bulb. "None of this is personal," he said as he flicked the cap off with his thumb. "But you're too much of a fighter to dress without a hassle." His free hand clamped over her mouth before she could scream, fingers digging into her jaw. The needle pricked the side of her neck—cold steel sliding beneath skin—and Lena's vision instantly blurred.

She blinked rapidly, lashes fluttering as the drug burned through her veins like ice. Harker's chuckle sounded underwater, distant and distorted. His hand slid down her torso—slow, deliberate—pausing just above her left breast. The callouses on his palm scraped her nipple as he gave a cruel, testing squeeze. Lena's breath hitched, but her limbs were already leaden, the ropes suddenly unnecessary. The last thing she saw before the darkness swallowed her whole was his thumb pressing into the soft flesh, indenting it with possessive familiarity.

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[SoftGameHunter]

@jasmine18 , you had some seriously odd fonts going here. I think you neglected to close the color, size, and bold mark-ups, so everything was huge, bold, and red. I went ahead and fixed them for you, unless that really was your intent, in which case I'll change them back. Okay, now to read your story...

And now it's read. I like this. You've got a good, brutally erotic set up, and as a piece of writing you've got great pacing and description and all that usual stuff that's invisible when done well but stands out when it's poorly done. I would like to urge you, though, to give us more of Lena's head space. Well, maybe not Lena, but for future stories. She's the viewpoint character, but we barely get any awareness that she's alive and thinking. Interiority. She kicks some, struggles, curses and all that, but it's so detached, and this would be a stellar story if we had more of who she is and what she's going through.

[RapeU]

This story has potential, but there are tells that you depended on AI to write this. Suddenly the burlap sack turned into a blindfold. Somehow rain fell down on her stomach when she was being shoulder carried. And the really, really tell all tells are the frequent — — — — — — —

I'm not sure what drove you to generate this story with AI. Your story Matt Finally Loses His Virginity is really good. You're a better author than this. Now, there's nothing wrong with using AI to write a story. I used AI to help me figure out honeymoon activities in Hawaii for my characters because I had never been to Hawaii. But there's a major difference between using it for that purpose verses depending on AI to write the story for you. The longer you have AI write a story, the more obvious continuity errors will pop up. Especially if you just have AI generate a story without editing it yourself.