it’s incomplete, there’s no sex, just the implications that sex is GOING to happen… and… i haven’t decided if i’m going to finish it yet, but here:






His fingers around your neck is what brings you back to consciousness  tight and pressed over your windpipe, your body jerking you awake with a desperate gasp- you struggle in his hold, looking up, panicked, into his dark eyes.

"Wakey wakey," he laughs and loosens his fingers just a bit, crouching down over you with his knees planted to the sandy ground on either side of your hips- he towers over you, dark skinned from the sun and messy with blood, "we’re just gettin’ started here senorita."

He shoves your face to the side, until you can taste the dirt against your lips, and leans down, dragging his nose along your jawline and sliding his cheek against yours- his stubble scratching your skin and curling shivers down your spine.

"You see," he says as his mouth reaches your ear, his breath too hot and stinking of cheap booze, "your little friends, they didn’t put up a fight- just laid there like rich white whores and spread for me, for my men, for my knife," and his fingers clench around your throat, your hips twisting underneath him as you try to push up, try to shove and twist yourself away- you dig your heels into the sand and jerk up just enough to lift him for a moment, "but you," it’s half whispered, his teeth sliding along the shell of your ear, "you’ve still got a little fight."

When he flips you onto your stomach with your hands twisted behind you, rope burning into your wrists when you pull- you push forward, crawl and shift away, the sand getting in your mouth, sticking to the wet line his tongue left across your jaw.

You can hear him laughing and can’t help but look back- he’s crouched where you left him, watching with his head tilted and his smile lopsided, “Go on then, run,” your shoulders ache from the strain of shoving across the ground and you can hear the pop in his knee when he stands up behind you, “I SAID RUN,” he takes a step, kicks the dirt at you and you keep pulling forward, close your eyes and push, “OH COMEON, RUN YOU LITTLE CUNT.”

His hand catches your ankle and you gasp in pain when he twists and drags you backwards, the sand burning your skin and jagged rocks tearing at your clothes and then he’s ontop of you with his forearm braced across your back to hold you down- the heat of his body covers you and he shifts his hips just enough that you can feel the long, thick, hard press of his cock against the curve of your ass, “Keep fighting,” he says, pressing the words against the nape of your neck and it’s then that you feel the sharp, cold slide of a blade slipping underneath the fabric of your shirt, “it’s more fun for me.”

You stop, still beneath him and close your eyes tighter, try to ignore the cool metal of the knife against your skin and the sound of his breathing against your ear as he cuts off your shirt and traces the point of the knife down along the ridges of your spine. He twists the knife, the serrated edge cutting into your skin leaving a burn across your hip, across your lower back and the top swell of your ass- you grunt in pain and open your mouth to scream needlessly but he shoves your face down into the dirt and laughs, his whole body shaking from it, “Tsk, you scream and they all come runnin’” he’s got his knee wedged between your legs, pushing them open while he cuts your clothes away, “but, you see, I got a problem with sharing you just yet.”

The knife’s thrown to the side, so close but so out of reach- his free hand drags across the open wounds on your skin, fingers covered with sand and making them burn as he smears the blood over you. You can hear the rattle of his clothes as he pulls his pants down over his hips and drags you back across the dirt to shove against you.

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