"Someone save me...?!"

They climbed onto the bed like animals.

Not men. Animals. The fat one first—his knees hitting the silk sheets with a wet slap, his belly swinging beneath him as he crawled on all fours, his cock dragging against the fabric, leaving a thin trail of pre-cum on the white silk. His eyes were fixed on Sera’s body. On her bra. On her panty. On the dark hair visible through the soaked cotton.

SLAP SLAP SLAP—

His knees on the sheets. His hands reaching. Grabbing.

The weasel-faced one climbed from the other side. He was faster. Leaner. His thin body slithered across the silk like a rat through grain. His cock swung between his legs—six inches, curved, the head purple and leaking. His hands found Sera’s ankle. He pulled.

"No—!" Sera gasped. Her voice was barely a sound. A breath shaped like a word. She tried to crawl. Her hands found the sheets. She grabbed fistfuls of silk. She pulled herself toward the headboard, her legs kicking, her body twisting, her bra slipping further, the cup pulling away from her left breast, the nipple hard and dark and exposed to the candlelight.

"Where are you going, little barber?" the fat one said. His hand landed on her belly. Flat. Heavy. His palm pressed against the taut muscle of her stomach, his fingers spreading wide, covering her navel, the heel of his hand pushing into the soft flesh above her panty line. "Come back here. We have not even started."

His hand moved down.

Over her belly. Over the waistband of her panty. His fingers found the fabric. He pulled. Not hard. Not yet. A tug. A suggestion. The cotton shifted. The waistband rolled down half an inch. More hair was visible. Dark. Thick. Untrimmed.

"Look at this," he said. His voice was thick. Wet. The voice of a man whose mouth is watering. "She is hairy down here. Like a wild thing. Like she has never even trimmed it. Have you ever trimmed it, girl? Has anyone ever taught you what a woman is supposed to do with her body?"

His fingers rubbed.

Through the fabric. Through the wet cotton. His fat fingers pressed against her pussy. He could feel the hair beneath. He could feel the shape of her—the mound, the lips, the heat. He rubbed in slow circles. His cock twitched against the sheets.

"Mmm," he moaned. "She is warm. She is warm down here. Even through the cloth."

Sera grabbed his hand.

Her fingers wrapped around his wrist. Her grip was strong—the grip of a woman who had held a sword for sixteen years. She pulled. She tried to push his hand away. Her face was twisted. Her eyes were wet. Tears ran down her temples and into her hair and onto the silk.

"Stop—!" she gasped. "No—! Get your hands off me—!"

The weasel-faced one grabbed her wrists.

Both of them. He pulled them above her head. He pinned them to the mattress. His thin fingers wrapped around both her wrists, his grip surprisingly strong, his knuckles white. He held her down. Her arms were stretched above her head. Her back arched. Her bra slipped further. Both cups were pulling away. Her breasts were half-exposed. The nipples were visible—dark, stiff, pressing against the edge of the cotton.

"Stay still, girl," he said. His voice was a hiss. A whisper. The voice of a snake that has cornered a mouse. "Stay still and let us enjoy. You will enjoy too. Eventually. They all do."

The fat one’s hand went back to her pussy.

He rubbed. Harder now. His fingers pressed the wet cotton against her. He could feel the shape of her cunt lips through the fabric. He pushed. The fabric sank between the lips. The cotton was so thin, so worn, that it provided no barrier. His fingers traced the outline of her opening. He pressed against it. Not entering. Not yet. Just pressing. Feeling. Testing.

"I can feel her through the cloth," he said. He looked at the weasel-faced one. "She is tight. Even through the fabric. I can feel it. She is fucking tight."

"Of course she is," the weasel-faced one said. He was holding her wrists with one hand now. His other hand went to her bra. He grabbed the cup. He pulled it down. Her right breast was exposed. Full. Firm. The nipple was dark. Stiff. The areola was small. Tight. Puckered from cold and fear. "She is a fighter. Everything about her is tight. Her arms. Her legs. Her ass." He leaned down. His mouth found her nipple.

SLURP—

"Ah—!" Sera cried. Her body jerked. Her back arched off the bed. The sensation was electric—a wet, warm mouth on her nipple, a tongue circling the stiff peak, teeth grazing the sensitive skin. She had never been touched there. Not by anyone. Not by herself. Her body was a weapon. She had never treated it as anything else.

His mouth sucked. His lips sealed around the areola. He pulled. The breast stretched. The nipple elongated between his lips. His tongue flicked. Fast. Wet. Relentless.

SLURP SLURP SLURP—

"St-stop—!" she gasped. "Please—! No—! Do not—! Ah—! Hn—!"

Her voice broke. Her words fragmented. They came in pieces—half syllables, half breaths, half sobs. The sounds that emerged from her mouth were not the sounds of a knight. They were not the sounds of a woman who had spent sixteen years forging herself into steel. They were the sounds of a girl. A frightened, exposed, helpless girl whose body was being touched by hands she could not stop.

The fat one’s other hand went to her thigh.

He rubbed. His fat fingers traced the muscle. The defined, hard muscle of a fighter’s thigh. He squeezed. His fingers sank into the flesh—not deeply, because the muscle was too dense, too firm—but enough to grip. Enough to hold.

"Feel this leg," he said. His voice was reverent. Hungry. "Feel this fucking leg. It is like iron. Like she was forged in a smithy. I have never felt a woman like this."

He rubbed his cock on her thigh.

The head pressed against the muscle. It was hot. Wet. Leaking. The pre-cum smeared on her skin. It left a shining trail along the defined line of her quadricep. He thrust his hips. Slowly. His cock slid along her thigh. The shaft pressed against the muscle. The head caught on the edge of her boot—still on, the laces loose, the leather dark with sweat.

"Fuck," he groaned. "Even her leg feels good. I could fuck her thigh and cum. That is how good she feels."

Goliath watched.

He stood at the foot of the bed. His enhanced cock stood rigid against his stomach. The head was dark purple. Swollen. Angry. Pre-cum leaked from the slit in a steady stream. It ran down the shaft. It dripped onto the silk sheets. He stroked himself. Slow. Deliberate. His hand wrapped around the seven-inch shaft. He pumped. His balls swayed. Heavy. Full. He watched the two men work on Sera’s body the way a conductor watches an orchestra.

"Since I used a cheat," he said, "you should too."

He reached into his coat pocket again. He pulled out another vial. Smaller. The pills inside were not blue. They were pink. Small. Round. He opened the vial. He tipped one pill onto his palm.

He walked to the head of the bed.

He knelt beside Sera’s face. His cock was inches from her cheek. The heat of it radiated against her skin. The smell was sharp. Musky. The smell of a man who had taken enhancement pills and whose body was producing more seed than it could hold.

"Open your mouth," he said.