Elon

“Hey, redhead.”

I stop in the hall even though I don’t want to. Jagger sits splayed on his bed, a cloud of smoke over his head.

“No smoking in the lodge,” I parrot. “You know Lincoln doesn’t like it.”

Jagger rolls his eyes, but he rises to lean against the window and blow smoke out the crack. I wait while he stubs the joint out and turns to me with an obnoxious smile, hands splayed to show me the obvious. Like I’ll believe he’s done for the night. As soon as I continue to my room, the joint will be back in his mouth.

“What do you want?”

“Can’t I say hello to my favorite redhead?”

“What’s my name, Jagger?” I wait while he squints at me, lips parting as if he’s going to guess.

“Okay.” Jagger laughs like he told a hilarious joke. “You got me. I never can tell the difference between you two.”

“I’m Elon,” I say patiently.

“Right. You got any booze left, Elon?”

I shrug. I have a bottle of port I’m saving for the first day of fall. My tradition. But Lincoln doesn’t like us drinking on season. One of his funny rules.

Not that it stops Jagger.

“Guess I’ll have to wait until I’m in town,” Jagger sighs dramatically.

“Guess you will,” I say, and turn to keep walking.

“No, no, wait.” Jagger scrambles to the door, staggering a little in his haste. I wrinkle my nose. Jagger’s always heading off into the woods on his breaks. I’m not sure how much stuff he smokes, or how he manages to hide it, but he won’t be long for the crew if Lincoln catches on. Too bad, too. Lincoln’s crew is a sweet deal, even before we got Sierra.

“So the girl,” Jagger lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Whatcha think?”

“She’s all right,” I say. She was more than all right. She’s so sweet, the way she cares about us. Most people look at me and see my brother’s doppelganger. Not Sierra. She pauses to study me carefully before addressing me by name. Every time.

“I’m trying to figure out where she came from, what her deal is. She say anything?”

I shrug negative.

“A hundred bucks says she was turning tricks in town and approached Lincoln.”

I wrinkle my nose. “That doesn’t seem like Sierra.” There was something about her. A freshness, a spark of joy. I can tell when she dances.

“Come on, bet me.”

“No.” I step back. “If you need money, go ask Saint for a loan.”

“Awww, no,” Jagger whines. “He’ll throw me out. Right after he turns me down.”

I shrug. “Guess that’s your answer.”

“But seriously.” Jagger leans close and I automatically retreat. “Something’s up with Sierra. I’m gonna find out. I think she’s fucking Lincoln extra.”

“You’re just annoyed she got the night off tonight.”

“I mean, what else does she have to do?” Jagger exclaims and I step back from the spray.

“Leave her alone, Jagger. You got more things to worry about.” I point behind him when he looks confused. “You better air out your room better than this. Smells like skunk.”

Later, I’m propped in bed. Oren’s next to me, sawing wood. You’d think it’d bother me that he snores all night, but we’ve shared a room forever and I’m just used it.

Tonight, I can’t sleep. Jagger’s words gnaw at me. I’m trying to figure out where she came from, what her deal is. He has me wondering too. Why did Sierra take Lincoln’s offer? What was she doing before? Does she have a place to stay? Friends?

I scoff at myself. Stupid. Of course she had a life before this. Lincoln didn’t conjure her out of the air. She just seems fragile and delicate, a butterfly dancing around a new stump. Oren calls her a fairy, as if she was a magical creature that might up and disappear.

I’m deep in thought when a shadow darts down the hall. I push out of bed and peek out the door.

“Sierra?”

“Hey,” she whispers. She comes close, studying my face. “Elon.”

I take her arm and draw her gently inside my room. Jagger’s door is shut, otherwise he would’ve intercepted her. “Everything okay?”

“I slept all day,” she says, regret coloring her voice. “Like, all day. I didn’t even wake up to eat.”

“You needed your rest.” I lift my hands but don’t touch her. I feel too big, too clumsy, too dumb to say or do anything.

“Well, now I can’t sleep. God what is that noise?”

“Oh…” I half turn so she can see my brother sprawled on the bed. “Oren.”

“Is he always like that?”

“Yeah,” I answer. “Uh, don’t worry about him. He sleeps through anything.”

“Sounds like it.”

I let out a loud laugh, like an idiot. My lips feel too large for my face. Just being close to her, my heart thumps. Her features are perfect and pixie-like. Her skin glows like she’s lit from within.

I’m staring, but I can’t stop.

She drags her gaze away from the bed and glances up at me. “What?” she asks, smiling.

“Nothing. You’re beautiful,” I blurt.

She looks away, biting her lip, before meeting my gaze again boldly. “So are you. What did Jagger say?”

Before jealousy rushes through me she continues, “Jewish mother and Irish dad. What was that like?” she asks.

“I dunno,” I say clumsily. “Loud. Lots of shouting.”

She cocks her head to the side. “Did you get in trouble a lot?”

“Not me. Oren. He did dumb shit.”

“Oooh, did your parents like you better than him?”

“Naw.” I can’t even meet her dancing gaze. “They didn’t bother to find out who did it. He’d blame me and I’d blame him, and they’d just punish us both.”

“Poor you.”

I can’t help but grin at the humor in her voice.

“So where is home for you, Elon?”

“New York.”

“Me too!”

“Really?” I feel a little thrill at having something in common with her.

“Yeah, upstate. Well, my mom was from there. She was a free spirit. Took off and never looked back. My half-brothers are there still, though. I think.” Her brow wrinkles.

“You don’t know them?”

“Did… did you want to sit down? Just to talk or hang or something?”

She hesitates, her eye catching on Oren’s carvings. Just then, my brother lets out a snort, and rolls over, still asleep.

A little laugh gusts from her and she shakes her head. “No. Better not. Don’t want to play favorites. Jagger might get jealous.”

I hide my own jealousy that she cares so much about Jagger’s feelings. That’s just Sierra. She cares. “Well, good night.”

“Good night, Elon.” With a little wave, she’s gone.

Sierra

“You like teasing us, you fucking slut?” Mason’s breath is hot on my ear.

“Oh yeah,” I purr. My body goes hot, then cold, desire filling my headspace like hallucinogenic gas. I’m high, pupils dilating as I get another hit of Mason’s hate. “I love it.”

“You’re a bad, bad girl.” He grips my wrists harder.

“Yes.” I sway my ass, arching my back, seeking contact. He’s pinned me to the door, the shackles of his large hands our only point of contact. His body hovers behind me, just out of reach. Every time I brush him, sensation flares through my body. “Yes.”

“Take off your skirt.” I wore a little black skirt and black bra for Friday night’s performance. The guys told me to take the night off, but as soon as lights went out lodge-wide, I found myself sneaking into Mason’s room, my whole body quivering in anticipation.

I strip off the skirt and start to turn, but he slams me back against the door. “Face the wall. Don’t move.”

His fingers trace the curve of my bottom. My whole pussy clenches, begging for him to touch me. My knees go weak and I sway, leaning into his hard strength to keep from sliding into a juicy puddle on the floor.

“Bad girl.” He swats my ass again. “You’re a bad girl. Say it.”

“I’m a bad girl.” I bite my lip a second before adding, “I should be punished.”

“Oh, I’ll punish you.” He pulls back and drags me to the bed.

“Hands and knees,” he orders. I scramble into position and look back at him expectantly.

Whap! I hiss and jerk forward, away from the punishing palm.

“Back in position.” Mason prowls at the foot of the bed like a lion studying his helpless prey. “You do what I say, and take what I give you.” His fingers trail over my jean-clad backside and I whimper. “You’re gonna take it all.”

Yes. Oh, yes. I push back into his palm.

“I’ll teach you to flaunt your body in front of the crew, lead us on.” He smacks me again and I flinch, but don’t jump away. Pain settles in with an edge of excitement I want. He rubs my ass and arousal surges back.

“This belongs to me.” Mason squeezes my right cheek hard enough to bring tears to my eyes.

“Just tonight,” I whisper.

He growls, low in his throat. “This is mine.” His touch softens, soothing me. Trust me, his fingers say.

“Yours, Mason.” I swallow around the lump in my throat.

He fists a hand in my hair, jerking my head back. “Don’t say my name.” He drags my lips to his cock. I open my mouth and take him in, gagging a little as he fills my mouth, knocking the back of my throat. His hand searches between my legs. I’m wet, sopping. I hum around the head of his dick like I’ve discovered a new musical instrument.

“That’s it, bitch, take it all.” His cock pokes the back of my throat.

I choke and laugh, whipping my head away so I can catch my breath. He’s such a cliché, his malice toward me almost a role he plays. I should keep away.

Yet I’m here, on all fours, sucking him like he’s a lollipop in my favorite flavor. Mason makes me stupid.

Mason’s hand is still knotted in my hair. Once I catch my breath, I roll my eyes. “Been watching a lot of porn, Mason?”

“Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” His hand shoots out, hard fingers digging into either side of my throat, squeezing. My brain soars as my limbs clamber against the bed. Arousal bursts in my pussy, driving me higher and higher into the heights of desire.

Then he lets go and I’m falling back to Earth.

“This”—Mason slaps my pussy and the promise of pleasure shocks through me like electricity—“is mine. I own it tonight. I say whether you cum… or not.”

“Yes,” I agree. Mason is a rough rollercoaster but I enjoy the ride. I sag back into the bed and let him torment me. Fingers, thumbs and mouth come to my pussy until I’m writhing, ready to drag myself over the edge. Little noises escape my throat, but just as pleasure’s close enough to snap and spill light into every corner of me, Mason kneels between my splayed legs, pulls my calves to his shoulders, and slams into me, bending me in half. I break on the fifth thrust, and spasm through the rest of his brutal fucking. He grunts and roots deep inside me for his finale, and we stare at each other.

Do you really hate me? I want to ask. Before I get the nerve, his gaze hardens. He drags his cock out of me—I shudder as liquid spills from my opening. I lay there, panting, as he fiddles with something on the dresser. He returns and cleans me up with a cloth, swabbing slowly and refusing to meet my eyes. Somehow this feels more intimate than anything I’ve ever done with a man.

When he’s done, he stands. He’s shirtless, his cock jutting out from his open jeans.

“You want me to clean you?” I gesture to his wet crotch.

“No. Get out.”

I stumble out of Mason’s room for the second time in two days. The door closes behind me and I lean against the wall, squeezing my eyes shut. I wish it was a dream.

It’s not a dream.

It’s Friday, and Lincoln told me to take the night off. I could do whatever—whoever—I pleased. And after chatting with Elon, I walked right to Mason’s door and knocked.

It wasn’t totally my fault. I slept most of the day, and dreamt of a large, hard body covering mine. It could’ve been any of the guys, really. I almost slipped into Lincoln’s room, but couldn’t bring myself to pass Mason’s door.

Fuck, there’s something wrong with me.

I head to my room, but halfway there, switch directions.

Saint’s light is on. I knock lightly and wait for his deep voice. Cracking the door, I peek through it.

“Sierra.”

“You said to wait until Saturday.” I bite my lip.

Saint shifts and pats the bed. “Get in here, girl.”

I sit on the bed, and he coaxes me close. “Come on. Curl up cozy.” His dark eyes sweep over my face a moment. “Cry a little.”

When I blink at him, he adds, “Do what you need to do.”

I do as he says, taking inventory of my feelings. Is the heaviness in my chest brimming over? Do I need to cry?

I scooch closer to Saint’s giant form. Wrapping a large arm around me, he tucks me into his side. Saint tips me back so he can study my face, I settle and sigh.

“Did he hurt you?” he asks gently.

“No.” I’m surprised at the sniffle in my voice. “Well, yes, but in a way I liked.” I don’t ask him how he knows where I was or who I was doing. Saint knows everything. My brain has filed him somewhere between Einstein and God.

Saint keeps his arm around me, frowning thoughtfully at the floor. “He’s intense. His girl left him and got pregnant by another man.”

I go still, my whole body wrapped around the secret inside me. The baby I now have even more reason to hide. “Fuck.”

“You look like her.” His arms tighten around me briefly, squeeze reassurance.

I stay quiet a few moments, enjoying his hold. He’s a solid wall between me and the world.

“Saint?” I twist so I can see his face. “Have you ever spanked a woman?”

“With my hand or with an implement?” He chuckles at my look of shock. Slowly, as if I’m a wild creature who might bolt, he disentangles us, and heads to the large trunk in the corner. He lifts it without any sign of its weight, and carries it over to me. Watching my face, he opens it.

I bite back a gasp so hard I nearly swallow my tongue .

“When it comes to spanking, nothing wrong with a hand,” Saint tells me. “But there’s so much more to explore.” He rummages in the box while my eyebrows crawl to my hairline.

“Consider this. Which one of these do you think would hurt more?” He lifts a long, inch-thick wooden paddle and a long, thin dowel.

I point to the paddle.

“See, you’re wrong. This gives a nice, thuddy sort of pain.” He sets the paddle down. “Whereas this,” he hefts the dowel. “Stings like a mother.” He fingers the end, then slaps his own palm and shows me the red line. “The cane is too intense for a beginner.”

“So will you use”—I motion to the box—“any of this on me?”

Saint shuts the box. “Do you want me to?”

I swallow. Slowly I nod.

The bed creaks as he reseats himself facing me. With a long finger, he brushes my hair from my face. “Why?”

“What?”

“Why do you want this?”

I lick my lips, searching for the answer. “I’m not having sex after this,” I blurt. A slight flicker of his eyes indicates his surprise. Saint has a pretty good poker face. “I mean, after this gig, I’m going to take a break. From sex and, um”—I wave my hand around vaguely—“men.”

A pause ,then he nods as if he understands. I don’t question how he takes my meaning. I find it quicker to assume Saint knows everything.

I lean closer, feeling bolder. “Until then, I’m up for anything. I mean, I’d like to try more things.”

“Just to be clear, we’re talking about you coming to me and doing a scene. A set amount of time where I take you through your paces and use some of these things on you.”

I don’t look at the trunk. It’s too scary. And yet, I have the feeling I’ll be fantasizing about Saint slapping that cane down on my skin. “Yes.”

A slow smile spreads across Saint’s face. He cups my chin. “Saturday.”

Blindfolded, I kneel on a pillow before the bed. Behind me, Saint rummages in the trunk. I twitch, cocking my ear toward him, every sense straining for clues of what’s to come. The blindfold is soft and snug, and obliterates any light. Funny how such a small scrap of fabric inverts my world.

A whisper of a shadow washes over me and I jump as Saint takes my hand.

“Shhh, girl, easy.” He lifts my hand to the bed, running my fingers down a long handle to a mane of soft leather strips. “Feel this.” I fondle the velvety strands, my breath rushing in and out. “This is a flogger. This is all I’ll use tonight.”

“Will it hurt?” My voice sounds very small.

“Not at first. I’ll start over your clothes.” He brushes my back with the implement. “Give you a chance to get used to it. Then I’ll check in. You ready?”

I swallow, twisting my fingers in my lap. Images cram my mind. The flogger doesn’t seem too intense, but Saint’s a pretty big guy. In his hands, anything can be a weapon.

The silence stretches.

“We don’t have to do this,” he rumbles.

“I know.” More hand twisting. Try as I might, I can’t stomach the thought of giving up, pulling the blindfold off, rising and running out the door. It’s not that I’m brave, I’m just really, really curious.

Another swallow, then I tell him, “I’m ready.”

At first Saint teases me, running the flogger over my shoulders and face, tickling and acclimating me to the sensation. I’m laughing and relaxed by the time he steps behind me, and lets the leather strands wash over my shirt. The flogger falls in an easy rhythm, a gentle, drumming rain soothing me.

“Deep breaths, girl. That’s it,” Saint murmurs, and lays the leather on a little harder. Between the deep breathing and the heat in my back, my whole body relaxes.

He pauses and I twitch, rising from my trance.

“All good?” he asks and I nod.

My pussy is an ocean. I shift on my knees and he snaps the strands with more force, making me flinch. He backs off, flogging me so lightly it feels like a beautiful massage. The blows increase until the final flick stings.

I let out a little moan/sigh.

“Keep going?”

“Yes,” I mumble. My head droops, growing heavier with each impact.

Behind me, Saint chuckles. “You’re in a trance.”

“Mmmm. Don’t stop.”

“All right, girl. Hands up.”

Languid, floating, I raise my arms and let him slip off my shirt. On his orders, I came without a bra. He brushes the flogger over my sensitized back, the merest touch making my pussy throb and my mouth grow lax. I’m in a pleasure trance: my body primed for touch, my mind a thousand miles away. The flogger strokes my skin like extra-soft fingers. I shiver as the tingling in my pussy intensifies.

“Life is stressful,” Saint murmurs. “Sometimes it’s nice to give up control. Keep breathing. Good girl.” He lays on the flogger, whipping me lightly up and down. I’ve melted forward; he pauses to guide me closer to the bed. I lift my arms and stretch them out over the blanket. He flogs up and down my sides, careful blows wrapping the strands around to reach my small breasts. I suck in a breath, but the sensation never rises above the barest sting. Tears well in my eyes as I imagine Saint’s size, the flogger a tiny toy in his great hand, laying the flogger down with such care on my narrow back.

I sink further into a warm darkness, a safe place. I’m floating here, my body suspended in a pool of sensation. I hope I’ll drift forever. All my problems seem so far away.

“Sierra.” Saint’s hand cups the back of my neck and I realize the flogging has stopped. My whole body pulses with the memory of each blow.

“Huh,” I sigh, surfacing. “Everything okay?”

“That’s my line.” He chuckles, a delicious, dark-chocolatey sound. “You with me?”

“I’m here.” I’m practically drooling. “That was awesome.”

“We’re not done.” His large hand slides under my arm, lifting me. “Up and lie down on the bed. On your back. Good girl.”

I press my palms to the bedspread, my breath catching in my chest. Saint props my feet apart, widening my knees and baring the crotch of my jeans. As soon as I realize what he’s about, my hands fist the blanket.

“Shhh.” He drapes the flogger’s strands between my legs, softly thrumming my pussy through the thick denim. “I’ll be gentle. You trust me?”

“Um. Okay. Yeah.”

“You want the blindfold off?”

I think about it. It’s nice to drown in darkness. “No.”

“All right. Relax.” The flogger brushes my jean-clad legs, tickling my inner thighs. My pussy fills with juice. I grit my teeth, digging my nails into the bed, planting my heels and trying not to push up into the soft blows. Saint uses the flogger to deliver the lightest butterfly brushing sensation. He swings the strands back and forth, painting desire on my pussy. My legs tremble.

“Knees apart,” Saint orders. “Don’t make me tell you again.”

Oh god. A plea wells up in my throat, escaping as a needy groan.

“You like when I boss you around, girl?”

My pussy screams Yes but my mind screams No. I open my mouth and lick my lips.

“You don’t have to answer.” Saint’s voice bubbles from the subterranean depths. “Just let go. I got you.” The flogger resumes its drumming beat between my legs. I grip the sheets in earnest, need rising in me. Tears leak out of the corners of my eyes. Without meaning too, I begin to moan. The sound reaches my ears and I cut it out.

“It’s all right, girl. Let it out.”

“I’m scared.” The words escape without check. My mind’s on leave, on vacation, out to lunch. Someone’s driving my body but it’s not me.

Saint pauses, cups my knee. “You feeling out of control?”

“Yes.” I have to search for speech.

“You ready to stop?”

My muscles clench. “No,” I whisper, and say again louder. “No, don’t stop.” Several moments pass before I add, “Please.”

“Good girl.” Saint trails the strands between my legs. My body strains for the slightest sensation. “I could make you cum, just like this,” he murmurs. “It wouldn’t take much. Just a little more force.”

My hips jerk, begging.

“Or I could put the flogger away. Do you think you deserve to cum?”

The question makes me start. Yes, I want to cry out. But I’m not in control. “I’ve been good.”

“Have you?” Saint pushes my knees wider. “It might take quite a few forceful strikes. I don’t know if you can bear it.”

I swallow hard, because I don’t know either.

“No,” he says. “I think I’ll go easy on you. Lie still.”

The bed creaks as he sits beside me. Cool fingers trail over my bare midriff and slip into my jeans. He finds me wet and soaking, quivering.

“Such a sweet little pussy.” He hooks one finger inside me, probing, exploring. I hold my breath. “So greedy.” My inner muscles clench. “It’s not going to take much, is it? Just a little… touch.” He strokes along my clit and I tense, pushing my body up to meet his questing hand. “On my word, you’re going to cum for me.”

A whimper. Yes. A tremor runs through me. He moves his finger and flicks just the spot. My head jerks back, a gasp bursting in my ears.

“Yes. There. Cum for me, girl.” The slightest movement, so small, so perfect, and I break, hips snapping, legs trembling. I lie, weak and happy, as he paints my lips with my own wetness. When he’s done, I lick my lips. “Good girl.”

Saint peels the blindfold off and I blink, re-entering the world reluctantly. He moves to return the flogger to the trunk.

“Wait,” I mumble, clearing my throat. “You’re not gonna fuck me?”

“No, girl.” He pushes the trunk back against the wall, gives it a little pat before turning to me. “You gotta earn it.”

My lower lip pushes out in a blatant pout. It says, Please?

Saint’s broad shoulders move with a huge sigh. “On your knees.” He jerks his chin. I sink back onto the pillow.

He takes himself in hand, tugging, palming the head, his hand jerks faster.

“Touch yourself,” he orders, and I sink my fingers into my wetness, frigging frantically.

“Stop,” he barks. And I do, gritting my teeth as I obey. My pussy throbs as Saint strokes himself off. Staring at his cock, sweat breaks out over my body I want him inside me, so bad. But if I haven’t earned that, I want his cum.

With a shudder and a sigh, Saint cums in his hand.

Offers it to me—a pool of white.

I don’t know what takes hold of me. It was like I was someone else. I seize his wrist and bring it close so I can lap at it with my tongue, a kitten with milk. I clean every inch of his palm.

“Stand up, girl.” He helps me rise, then shoves his sticky hand in my jeans, cupping my pussy and thumbing my clit until my orgasm snaps and floods my body with pleasure.

Weeks pass. I mark the days off my calendar in a rotation of men: Lincoln, Jagger, Elon and Oren, Mason, Saint. They are my days and nights and dreams.

Each man is an acquired taste. Even the twins have differences that give our lovemaking a distinct flavor. Elon comes into me carefully, his blue eyes wide as if the moment is too good to be true. Oren is more methodical, as if I’m a puzzle he can carefully prise apart and put back together better than before. They even have a different scent: Elon smells like pine and fresh air, Oren of sawdust, both delicious. When they come home covered in mud, I greet them gleefully, hugging them, pulling them close to suck in lungfuls of air. They protest I’m getting all dirty and I wink, suggesting we can shower together. I enjoy watching the scarlet creep up their freckled necks.

On my night off, I hang around in the dining hall and play checkers and strip poker with Jagger and the twins. Jagger usually invites me back to his room to drink and smoke a doobie. He reminds me of Jack—a carefree soul. The reminder hurt, which is why I always turned Jagger’s invitations down. That, and I was pregnant.

Saint took it upon himself to complete my education. He gave me stacks of books to read, mostly classic, but a fair number of romance novels too (I couldn’t read murder mysteries or thrillers anymore without nightmares). Lincoln showed me his logs and maps and old forestry textbooks. Even Roy and Tommy befriended me, inviting me to their room to listen to their music. I floated from room to room, listening and learning and living with these men.

And at night I fucked them. Slow fucking, fun fucking, double team, hate fucking and dominance submission scenes.

These were the times when I was present to myself, when I could give up the worry and weight of what was to come. In the late hours of the night, I gave myself to the men, and in return, they gave me a space to just be. I surrender my body, and they seduce my mind.

But I’m careful, so careful, not to risk my heart.