A Jail Built for Sinners: The 2nd Offense

March 2

The night was thick with heat, clinging to my skin like a second layer, wrapping around me like it knew what was about to happen. The cicadas hummed low in the distance, and the air smelled like damp earth and slow-burning indulgence. The moon hung heavy and swollen, casting golden light through the branches of the live oak at the edge of town—the kind of place where sins weren’t confessed, only committed.

I wasn’t here for confession. I was here to be ruined.

Us was waiting for me, leaning against the tree like they’d always belonged there, arms crossed, watching me with something darker than lust—something that said they already knew how this night would end.

They had seen me, really seen me. Not just the soft curve of my belly, the thick, powerful thighs that had carried me through life. Not just the gleaming skin of my shaved head, catching the candlelight like polished gold. They had seen the hunger beneath my careful control, the way I carried desire like a tightly coiled secret, locked away where no one could reach it.

But they were here to unlock it.

“Come here,” they murmured, voice rough, steady.

A shiver ran through me. Not from ***. From anticipation.

My feet moved before my mind caught up, each step pulling me deeper into something I couldn’t walk away from. Their fingers found my wrist, trailing up the inside of my arm, over the fullness of my shoulder, my collarbone, my throat. Their touch was deliberate, like they were memorizing me. Like they already owned me.

“Breathe,” they said, tilting my chin up, eyes locked onto mine.

I did, but it came out shaky.

Then their mouth was on mine.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t teasing. It was a claim, a taking. Their tongue swept against mine, their teeth catching my lip, and just like that, my knees nearly buckled. Their hands slid down my back, gripping my hips, pulling me against them, my body pressing into something solid, something demanding.

I gasped when they pushed me back against the tree, my spine against rough bark, my breath catching as their thigh pressed between mine.

“You’re already ready for me,” they murmured against my lips, their fingers grazing my inner thigh, teasing, testing.

I was. God help me, I was drenched.

They dropped to their knees in front of me, hands gripping my thighs, spreading me open, their breath hot against my skin. Their mouth moved slowly, teasing, dragging over the sensitive skin of my belly, down, down, until I was trembling, my hands gripping their shoulders for balance. Their tongue flicked out, tasting me, their fingers pressing into my flesh, holding me open as they feasted.

My head fell back against the tree, a broken moan spilling from my lips as they worked me open with their mouth, their fingers, their tongue sliding deep, curling, stroking, coaxing pleasure from me with ruthless precision. They were relentless, licking, sucking, teasing until my thighs shook, until my breath came in ragged gasps.

I came hard, the intensity of it knocking the wind from my lungs, my body clenching around their fingers as they continued, dragging it out, making me shudder.

But they weren’t done.

Their hands caught my wrists, pulling me forward, guiding me toward the house—the small, dimly lit space where the real surrender would happen.

The moment we crossed the threshold, I knew I wasn’t alone.

Three figures waited in the flickering candlelight, watching. Waiting.

One sat in an old wooden chair, legs spread wide, their fingers drumming against their thigh. Another leaned against the wall, their eyes tracing the marks already forming on my skin. The third sat on the edge of a wooden table, legs spread, hands resting between them, a smirk playing on their lips.

Us guided me forward, but I wasn’t resisting.

Hands found my body—multiple, different, exploring, gripping. Someone lifted my breasts in their palms, their thumbs rolling over my nipples, teasing them into stiff peaks. Another traced the curve of my back, trailing lower, lower, until a firm slap landed against the soft flesh of my ass, making me yelp.

“She’s so damn soft,” someone murmured, their hands kneading my flesh.

“She’s going to be softer when we’re done with her,” another said, voice full of wicked promise.

I was already shaking with need when I was pulled down to my knees. A hand fisted in the back of my head, guiding my mouth to waiting heat, a low, satisfied groan filling the air as my lips wrapped around them.

Someone moved behind me, their fingers trailing down my spine, testing, pressing, sliding between my thighs to feel how ready I was. I moaned around the length filling my mouth as another slid inside me from behind, stretching me open, pushing deep, deep until I had no breath left.

I was used, taken, given no mercy. One hand gripped my throat, another squeezed my hips, bodies pressing against me from all sides. I was filled, stretched, handled like something precious and breakable but strong enough to take everything they had to give.

And I wanted more.

Shame and pleasure blurred as a belt snapped against my skin, a sharp slap against my thigh, the sting followed by the slow, soothing press of a tongue against the welt. I whimpered, lost in sensation, in the rhythm of them using me, worshiping me, claiming me.

One pulled free, only to be replaced by another, their breath hot against my ear as they whispered, “You can take more.”

And I did.

I was bent over the table, my body marked by hands, by lips, by the bite of leather and the slow, deliberate thrust of bodies pressing into mine. Someone tangled their fingers in my sweat-slicked scalp, holding me in place as I moaned, as my body shuddered, my thighs trembling as I came again, harder, longer, my cries muffled by the palm pressed against my mouth.

By the time they finished with me, I was spent, trembling, my skin covered in the evidence of their pleasure. I collapsed against the table, my breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps.

I felt Us kneel beside me, their hand curling around my throat, tilting my head back just enough so our lips were a breath apart.

“Now you know,” they whispered.

And I did.

I knew what it meant to be desired, to be devoured, to be filled so thoroughly I couldn’t tell where I ended and they began. I knew what it meant to be taken, to be given no escape, no control, only pleasure.

And I knew, without a doubt, that this would not be the last time.