It started like a buzz. That warmth, low down, past her navel. Buckeye shifted against the jacket straps, where they ran between her thighs, more noticeable now. Itchy.
The buzz opened up to a tingle. She felt loose. Some of her nerves bled away, and her tongue tried the texture of fabric where it wedged between her teeth like a rope. The woman in front of her made a noise. It was only small, and quiet, but something in it had Buckeye taking note of the curve of an ass spooning into her hips.
Her nipples dragged against canvas.
What did they do?
Behind her, an erection nudged.
What the fuck did they do?
A single, hot trickle beaded past the lips of her pussy. A receding part of her knew terror, but now, first and foremost, Buckeye Wheeler was looking to get fucked.
So was everyone else lying bound in the back of the truck.
When the man at her back pressed his cock to her cheeks, Buckeye found herself pushing to meet him, lending friction. The enforcers had stuffed her into the jacket over top of her clothes. Britches still barred the way, but without the intervening fabric, she knew her hips would’ve been angling to get him inside, to reach where she couldn’t scratch.
Her breath came heavy now, and she could hear the same from lungs all around her. A warm backside pressed heavily into her groin, and Buckeye humped at it, mindless, seeking. The man wriggled closer, grinding and grunting, and all she could think of was cock. Holes stretching. Fluids sluicing.
Someone needed to fuck her, and right this goddamn minute.
The dark space was humid with groans. Writhing, restrained bodies. Buckeye saw pink and red and purple behind sticky eyelids. Sweat pooled and fear escalated, along with the need for anyone, anything to ravage her swollen cunt and just get her off already.
It went on, maddening, never enough friction. Not even from her pants, no matter how she tried to rub the seam along her clit. She came to a place of pure delirium, endless tears begging for release that wouldn’t come for who knew how long.
Somewhere in the midst of it, the door rolled up again. Buckeye didn’t care. None of them did. She worked her hips, bearing down on the woman in front of her. The man at her back jerked and hissed through his gag, rutting the heat of his bulge into her crack as though if clothing weren’t in the way, he would’ve had her pregnant already.
Not-August whistled. “Damn, son. Stuff gets right to work.”
Why is this idiot talking? He needs to get in here and help!
“You think they could tell if we, uh … pulled one or two of ‘em out? You know, for ‘personal use’?”
Buckeye groaned the instant she took his meaning and started hollering for his attention around the gag.
Yes. YES. Personal use. Use me. Fuck me, oh god ohgod!
“Don’t be fucking stupid,” said August. “We take ‘em, we get paid, then you can find something to stick your dick in.”
No! Now! Dick, NOW!
The other man grumbled something, but she could only hear August negating him. “Yeah, well I’m gonna need you to keep it together and ride back here anyway. We’re close enough and they’re expecting one driver.”
More muttered complaints, but the door clattered shut. A minute later, the truck rumbled back to life. They were moving. To where, it didn’t matter. No one around her had paused in their striving for relief, and neither had Buckeye. The bounce of wheels over rough terrain made the only difference.
After a time, there was a new struggle of sounds. Somewhere over the general chorus of moaning and teeming flesh, she heard a hurried song of profanity. No gag muffled this tongue, and there was slapping. Flesh on flesh. Dull cries of satisfaction came from under a hood.
Not-August had ignored the other man’s instructions just as soon as he thought the boss was looking the other way. A spike of envy, fueled by mystery drugs, had Buckeye wishing it was her getting pounded, getting the itch scratched.
The only way out was exhaustion, and by the time it came, the smallest chunk of her humanity had gone missing. She didn’t have the presence of mind, there in the humid black cargo box of a truck bound for god-knew-where, to wonder if she’d ever able to get it back.
With a boom and a lurch, Buckeye came gasping out of a ragged sleep. Similar cries went up from the bodies around her. Not-August swore, his voice moving toward the cab.
Her britches were clammy up under the jacket straps and the burn in her bladder was gone. At some point, she’d lost control, but that was the least of her problems.
Two more loud cracks, from outside, closer.
Gunfire?