Hot under the pants in Austin part two
knelt, rummaging beneath the mattress, and pulled out a coiled pink leather belt. Its surface was embossed with dozens of tiny Hello Kitty faces, their cheerful expressions stark against the supple leather. Kabine unrolled it slowly, letting the belt unfurl like a tongue. She gripped the buckle end firmly, walking forward until she stood about three and a half feet behind Fletcher, the pink leather trailing along the marble floor. Fletcher, who had been looking behind him to see what she was doing, was mortified at the sight of the implement.
Wendy’s hand shot out, gripping Fletcher’s chin and forcing his gaze back around to meet hers. Her shiny sapphire Iris is bore into his.
“Keep those pretty eyes right here, baby," she murmured, her thumb tracing his lower lip. He nodded and she let go, folding her arms just like her friend had.
Behind him, Kabine raised her arm to shoulder height, the Hello Kitty belt dangling like a poised serpent. She snapped her wrist forward with viper speed. The belt cracked through the air, its pink leather biting deep into the crest of Fletcher’s left buttock. White-hot agony exploded across his skin—a searing brand that stole his breath. A raw, guttural scream tore from his throat, echoing off the marble.
Before the echo faded, Kabine switched the belt to her right hand. Another vicious snap sent the leather lashing across his right cheek with equal precision. Fire bloomed anew, mirroring the first. Fletcher’s body jerked violently against the cords, tendons standing out in his neck as he screamed again, tears streaming freely. Kabine didn’t pause. She began a relentless cadence—left cheek, right cheek, left, right—each strike landing with stinging accuracy on the upper swell of his buttocks, avoiding the towel. The cheerful Hello Kitty faces blurred into a pink streak of pain.
Wendy watched Kabine’s arm rise and fall, her sapphire eyes locked on Fletcher’s contorted face. A slow, satisfied smile touched her lips. She couldn't decide which thrilled her more: the visceral impact of her own palm connecting with yielding flesh, the sharp *crack* echoing in her ears, or witnessing Kabine wield the belt with such cold expertise. Both flooded her veins with heat, made her pulse hammer against her ribs, and sent a slick warmth pooling low in her belly. Especially when the victim was a man. Men dominated boardrooms, politics, battlefields—every damn facet. Women like her had to claw twice as hard just to be heard, often labeled 'belligerent' for daring to speak plainly. Yet so many of those same proud lions secretly sought out women like her and Kabine, paying handsomely to kneel, tremble, and beg. She despised the fakes—the ones who strutted like Hercules but crumbled into whimpering, ego-driven boys the moment real pressure hit. Fletcher’s raw honesty, his refusal to hide his fear or his innocence? That was rare. That was real. Meeting him felt like finding water in a desert.
Kabine maintained her brutal rhythm—left, right, left, right—the pink leather biting into Fletcher’s upper buttocks with relentless precision. Sixty lashes landed in sixty seconds, each strike a fresh explosion of agony that tore ragged screams from Fletcher’s throat. His body convulsed against the cords, muscles straining, sweat slicking his skin beneath the towel.
“Stop! Please, Kabine!" he gasped between cries, his voice shredded.
“It feels like you're flaying me alive!"
Kabine’s expression didn’t soften; if anything, the desperate plea sharpened the predatory gleam in her dark eyes. She paused for a heartbeat, letting the silence amplify his ragged breaths, then resumed with renewed ferocity. The belt snapped harder, while the one second pace remained the same. Fletcher’s begging dissolved into incoherent sobs, his pleas only fueling Kabine’s resolve. She drove him deeper into the pain, each lash a deliberate punctuation to his suffering.
After exactly sixty more seconds—one hundred twenty blows total—Kabine froze mid-swing. The abrupt silence rang louder than the belt’s crack. She coiled the Hello Kitty strap slowly, admiring Fletcher’s buttocks: twin canvases of deep crimson, crisscrossed with raised welts that pulsed angrily under the fluorescent lights. Kabine planted her fists on her hips, a satisfied smirk curling her lips.
"Unhook him," she commanded Wendy, her voice cool and clipped. Wendy moved swiftly, climbing onto the dining table to unhook the yellow bungee cord from the ceiling fan rod. The tension vanished instantly. Fletcher sagged forward, legs buckling, but Kabine was already there, catching him effortlessly against her silk-clad body before he could crumple onto the cool marble. Wendy unhooked the jade cord from his wrist, her touch brisk and efficient, then coiled both cords and returned them to the cabinet beneath the sink.
Together, they guided Fletcher’s trembling form to one of the plush black leather chairs nestled against the tinted window behind the passenger seat. Kabine pressed his shoulders down firmly, bending him over the chair’s broad armrest. His scorched buttocks arched high, exposed and vulnerable.
Kabine knelt down, her gaze lingering on Fletcher’s crimson skin. She raised both of her hands, fingers spread wide, her gold-painted nails gleaming like polished talons. With deliberate slowness, she dug all ten nails deep into the swollen flesh of his butticks. Fletcher screamed—a raw, guttural sound that echoed off the marble—as she dragged her nails downward in parallel furrows, slow and excruciating, carving fiery trails from the crest of his cheek to the top of his thigh. The sensation wasn’t just pain; it felt like white-hot knives were peeling his skin away.
When Kabine finally withdrew her hands, Fletcher’s body shuddered violently. Four parallel welts pulsed angrily on each cheek. Kabine rose smoothly, her silk pants whispering against her legs. She nodded at Wendy.
“Your turn."
Wendy knelt behind Fletcher, her fingers hovering over the ravaged landscape Kabine had carved. She didn’t hesitate. Both hands plunged deep, nails—long, sharp, and gleaming purple—digging into the raw welts Kabine had left. Fletcher screamed again, a ragged, tearing sound, as Wendy dragged her nails downward with agonizing slowness. It felt like jagged glass scraping bone, each millimeter a fresh eruption of white-hot agony. She carved four new furrows parallel to Kabine’s, tracing paths from the crest of his buttocks down to the trembling tops of his thighs. When she withdrew, Fletcher slumped forward, gasping, tears dripping onto the cool leather seat beneath him. His entire backside was a throbbing tapestry of crimson welts, crisscrossed and weeping.
Kabine moved back into position without a word. Her expression remained coolly detached, almost clinical, as she knelt once more. Her gold-tipped nails found untouched patches of inflamed skin between the existing furrows. She pressed in hard, eliciting a choked sob from Fletcher, then dragged downward with deliberate, grinding pressure. The sensation was beyond pain—it was violation, a slow, deliberate flaying. Fletcher’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the chair’s armrest, his body arching involuntarily against the torment. Kabine carved four more parallel lines, deepening the crimson landscape until his skin resembled shredded silk.
Wendy took her turn immediately after, her purple nails seeking out the ridges Kabine had raised. She didn’t just scratch; she pinched and twisted the swollen flesh between her fingertips before raking downward. Each movement was calculated, precise—a surgeon of agony. Fletcher’s screams dissolved into ragged, wet gasps, his forehead pressed against the leather, sweat and tears mingling beneath him. The alternating rhythm became a brutal dance: Kabine’s methodical carving, Wendy’s vicious tearing, back and forth, over and over, until every inch of his buttocks and upper thighs was a latticework of raw, weeping stripes.
Kabine rose abruptly, leaving Fletcher trembling over the chair. She strode to the sleek stainless-steel refrigerator, pulled out a small glass bowl filled with round red-and-white peppermint candies, and selected two. Returning, she pressed them firmly against Fletcher’s slack lips.
"Suck," she ordered. He obeyed weakly, the sharp, icy mint flooding his mouth, momentarily numbing the taste of salt and blood. Wendy stroked his damp hair as he worked the candies slowly, the cooling sensation spreading down his throat. Sixty seconds later, the mints dissolved entirely. Kabine wiped his chin with her thumb.
"Relax now," she murmured, her voice unnervingly gentle.
"We’re going somewhere fun." Both women patted his buttocks gently, the touch feather-light against his ravaged skin, making him wince, and then headed for the RVs cockpit.
Kabine slid into the driver’s seat while Wendy settled beside her in the passenger seat. The RV’s engine rumbled to life, vibrating through the marble floor beneath Fletcher’s bare feet. As they pulled out of the supermarket parking lot, the rhythmic sway and low hum lulled him into an exhausted stupor. He slumped against the leather armrest of the chair, the throbbing in his backside fading to a dull ache, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Forty-five minutes later, gentle hands shook Fletcher’s shoulders. He blinked awake to find Wendy and Kabine leaning over him, both wrapped in thick red towels knotted loosely above their breasts. The RV rocked with a gentle, unfamiliar sway—not the jolt of tires on asphalt, but the fluid lift and dip of water.
"Wake up, sleepyhead," Kabine murmured, her eyes sparkling.
"We’re not on land anymore." Fletcher stared, uncomprehending, until Wendy grinned.
"Surprise! The Beast floats. Got a yellow inflatable skirt underneath and twin propellers out back."
They hauled him up, his legs surprisingly steady, and guided him to the tinted side window. Outside, nothing but dark, rippling water stretched to distant tree-lined banks. At the rear window, twin trails of churned foam fanned out behind them like liquid wings.
"Think you’re recovered enough for a swim?" Wendy asked.
"If not, we’ve got boards or floaties." Fletcher stretched, testing his muscles.
"Forty-five minutes was plenty," he said, voice clearer now.
"Legs feel solid." Kabine nodded.
"Good. We’re on the San Marcos River. Would’ve been here sooner, but Austin traffic’s a nightmare."
Kabine shrugged dismissively. Before Fletcher could ask more, both women seized his hands—despite his steady legs—and steered him toward the RV’s rear exit. They descended the narrow steps, the humid river air rushing in as Wendy swung the door open wide. In unison, they dropped their red towels onto the deck. Beneath, Wendy wore a lime-green bikini patterned with cartoonish four-leaf clovers, while Kabine’s was raspberry-red with tiny, embroidered fruit motifs. The skimpy fabric clung to their curves, leaving little to the imagination. Then the latter ran back up the stairs and handed him the towels.
"Be a dear?" the brunette chirped, nodding toward a burgundy hamper wedged beside the washing machine. Fletcher obeyed silently, scooping up the damp towels and stuffing them inside. As he turned back, Kabine’s fingers pressed firmly against his lower spine—a gentle but insistent nudge toward the water. He descended the steps cautiously, the aluminum cool under his bare feet, until his toes touched the river’s surprisingly warm surface. Then, without warning, Wendy and Kabine grabbed his shoulders and flung him forward with a coordinated heave. He splashed into the San Marcos, sinking briefly before surfacing with smooth, practiced strokes—arms sweeping wide, legs scissoring effortlessly instead of dog-paddling.
The women plunged in after him, their laughter echoing across the water. They circled Fletcher like sleek predators, Kabine’s raspberry-red bikini flashing as she darted beneath him, her fingertips grazing his calf. Wendy surfaced beside him, lime-green clovers plastered to her skin, and brushed her thigh against his hip before twisting away in a spray of droplets. Their touches were deliberate—teasing, possessive—as they wove around him in lazy figure-eights, their bodies gliding through the tea-colored current.
Fletcher treaded water, the river’s warmth soothing the lingering sting across his backside. He watched Kabine dive deep, her form vanishing into the murk near a submerged cypress knee. Wendy floated on her back nearby, eyes closed, letting the current carry her downstream a few yards. That’s when Fletcher spotted them: two figures standing motionless on the far bank, silhouetted against the dense thicket of river cane. One wore a blaze-orange hunting cap pulled low over his eyes, a faded camo jacket draped over his shoulders despite the heat. Beside him stood a man in khaki from head to toe—straw cowboy hat, short-sleeved shirt, shorts—holding a fishing rod loosely at his side. Their stillness felt unnerving, like statues planted in the mud.
The hunter nudged the fisherman’s arm, nodding toward the women. Fletcher saw the fisherman’s lips curl into a slow, appreciative grin as he openly tracked Wendy’s and Kabine’s drifting form.
"Lucky guy," the hunter mouthed, shaking his head with a chuckle.
"Damn right!" the fisherman grinned back, leaning on his rod as his gaze lingered on Kabine's dive. Fletcher felt a flush creep up his neck—not from pain, but absurd relief. Thank god the river hid his welted backside; only his shoulders, arms, and calves broke the surface like unmarked driftwood. The men saw two women playing with a man, nothing more. They couldn't see the roadmap of agony beneath the tea-colored water, the raised furrows still throbbing like live wires.
Kabine surfaced beside Fletcher, her raspberry bikini slick against his arm. Her dark eyes flicked to the bank, then locked onto Wendy’s. A silent understanding passed between them—sharp as the belt cracks earlier. Wendy’s grin turned predatory. She surged forward, her lime-green clovers pressing flush against Fletcher’s chest. Before he could react, her hands clamped behind his head, fingers tangling in his damp Afro. She pulled him into a deep, claiming kiss, her tongue sliding against his with deliberate force. Then she twisted her body sideways, angling their embrace toward the watching men, displaying Fletcher’s stunned expression and her own triumphant smirk like a trophy.
Kabine didn’t hesitate. She swam behind Fletcher, her breasts pressing against the back of his skull as she gripped his shoulders. Her fingers dug possessively into his muscles, anchoring him while she arched her own body outward. The raspberry fabric strained against her curves as she tilted her head back, letting the sunlight catch the water beading on her throat—a silent, taunting display for the distant hunter and fisherman. Fletcher remained trapped between them, Wendy’s mouth still locked on his, Kabine’s hold unyielding, his body a living prop in their exhibition.
On the bank, the fisherman’s grin vanished, replaced by slack-jawed awe. He shifted his weight, the fishing rod trembling in his grip as his khaki shorts tented visibly beneath the denim flap of his overshirt. Beside him, the hunter adjusted his camo jacket, pulling it lower over his waist. But the stiff, unmistakable bulge straining against his cargo pants betrayed him—a rigid line pointing toward the river like a compass needle. Neither man spoke now; their breathing grew shallow, eyes fixed on the women’s intertwined limbs and Fletcher’s captive form.
Wendy’s hand shot out, gripping Fletcher’s chin and forcing his gaze back around to meet hers. Her shiny sapphire Iris is bore into his.
“Keep those pretty eyes right here, baby," she murmured, her thumb tracing his lower lip. He nodded and she let go, folding her arms just like her friend had.
Behind him, Kabine raised her arm to shoulder height, the Hello Kitty belt dangling like a poised serpent. She snapped her wrist forward with viper speed. The belt cracked through the air, its pink leather biting deep into the crest of Fletcher’s left buttock. White-hot agony exploded across his skin—a searing brand that stole his breath. A raw, guttural scream tore from his throat, echoing off the marble.
Before the echo faded, Kabine switched the belt to her right hand. Another vicious snap sent the leather lashing across his right cheek with equal precision. Fire bloomed anew, mirroring the first. Fletcher’s body jerked violently against the cords, tendons standing out in his neck as he screamed again, tears streaming freely. Kabine didn’t pause. She began a relentless cadence—left cheek, right cheek, left, right—each strike landing with stinging accuracy on the upper swell of his buttocks, avoiding the towel. The cheerful Hello Kitty faces blurred into a pink streak of pain.
Wendy watched Kabine’s arm rise and fall, her sapphire eyes locked on Fletcher’s contorted face. A slow, satisfied smile touched her lips. She couldn't decide which thrilled her more: the visceral impact of her own palm connecting with yielding flesh, the sharp *crack* echoing in her ears, or witnessing Kabine wield the belt with such cold expertise. Both flooded her veins with heat, made her pulse hammer against her ribs, and sent a slick warmth pooling low in her belly. Especially when the victim was a man. Men dominated boardrooms, politics, battlefields—every damn facet. Women like her had to claw twice as hard just to be heard, often labeled 'belligerent' for daring to speak plainly. Yet so many of those same proud lions secretly sought out women like her and Kabine, paying handsomely to kneel, tremble, and beg. She despised the fakes—the ones who strutted like Hercules but crumbled into whimpering, ego-driven boys the moment real pressure hit. Fletcher’s raw honesty, his refusal to hide his fear or his innocence? That was rare. That was real. Meeting him felt like finding water in a desert.
Kabine maintained her brutal rhythm—left, right, left, right—the pink leather biting into Fletcher’s upper buttocks with relentless precision. Sixty lashes landed in sixty seconds, each strike a fresh explosion of agony that tore ragged screams from Fletcher’s throat. His body convulsed against the cords, muscles straining, sweat slicking his skin beneath the towel.
“Stop! Please, Kabine!" he gasped between cries, his voice shredded.
“It feels like you're flaying me alive!"
Kabine’s expression didn’t soften; if anything, the desperate plea sharpened the predatory gleam in her dark eyes. She paused for a heartbeat, letting the silence amplify his ragged breaths, then resumed with renewed ferocity. The belt snapped harder, while the one second pace remained the same. Fletcher’s begging dissolved into incoherent sobs, his pleas only fueling Kabine’s resolve. She drove him deeper into the pain, each lash a deliberate punctuation to his suffering.
After exactly sixty more seconds—one hundred twenty blows total—Kabine froze mid-swing. The abrupt silence rang louder than the belt’s crack. She coiled the Hello Kitty strap slowly, admiring Fletcher’s buttocks: twin canvases of deep crimson, crisscrossed with raised welts that pulsed angrily under the fluorescent lights. Kabine planted her fists on her hips, a satisfied smirk curling her lips.
"Unhook him," she commanded Wendy, her voice cool and clipped. Wendy moved swiftly, climbing onto the dining table to unhook the yellow bungee cord from the ceiling fan rod. The tension vanished instantly. Fletcher sagged forward, legs buckling, but Kabine was already there, catching him effortlessly against her silk-clad body before he could crumple onto the cool marble. Wendy unhooked the jade cord from his wrist, her touch brisk and efficient, then coiled both cords and returned them to the cabinet beneath the sink.
Together, they guided Fletcher’s trembling form to one of the plush black leather chairs nestled against the tinted window behind the passenger seat. Kabine pressed his shoulders down firmly, bending him over the chair’s broad armrest. His scorched buttocks arched high, exposed and vulnerable.
Kabine knelt down, her gaze lingering on Fletcher’s crimson skin. She raised both of her hands, fingers spread wide, her gold-painted nails gleaming like polished talons. With deliberate slowness, she dug all ten nails deep into the swollen flesh of his butticks. Fletcher screamed—a raw, guttural sound that echoed off the marble—as she dragged her nails downward in parallel furrows, slow and excruciating, carving fiery trails from the crest of his cheek to the top of his thigh. The sensation wasn’t just pain; it felt like white-hot knives were peeling his skin away.
When Kabine finally withdrew her hands, Fletcher’s body shuddered violently. Four parallel welts pulsed angrily on each cheek. Kabine rose smoothly, her silk pants whispering against her legs. She nodded at Wendy.
“Your turn."
Wendy knelt behind Fletcher, her fingers hovering over the ravaged landscape Kabine had carved. She didn’t hesitate. Both hands plunged deep, nails—long, sharp, and gleaming purple—digging into the raw welts Kabine had left. Fletcher screamed again, a ragged, tearing sound, as Wendy dragged her nails downward with agonizing slowness. It felt like jagged glass scraping bone, each millimeter a fresh eruption of white-hot agony. She carved four new furrows parallel to Kabine’s, tracing paths from the crest of his buttocks down to the trembling tops of his thighs. When she withdrew, Fletcher slumped forward, gasping, tears dripping onto the cool leather seat beneath him. His entire backside was a throbbing tapestry of crimson welts, crisscrossed and weeping.
Kabine moved back into position without a word. Her expression remained coolly detached, almost clinical, as she knelt once more. Her gold-tipped nails found untouched patches of inflamed skin between the existing furrows. She pressed in hard, eliciting a choked sob from Fletcher, then dragged downward with deliberate, grinding pressure. The sensation was beyond pain—it was violation, a slow, deliberate flaying. Fletcher’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the chair’s armrest, his body arching involuntarily against the torment. Kabine carved four more parallel lines, deepening the crimson landscape until his skin resembled shredded silk.
Wendy took her turn immediately after, her purple nails seeking out the ridges Kabine had raised. She didn’t just scratch; she pinched and twisted the swollen flesh between her fingertips before raking downward. Each movement was calculated, precise—a surgeon of agony. Fletcher’s screams dissolved into ragged, wet gasps, his forehead pressed against the leather, sweat and tears mingling beneath him. The alternating rhythm became a brutal dance: Kabine’s methodical carving, Wendy’s vicious tearing, back and forth, over and over, until every inch of his buttocks and upper thighs was a latticework of raw, weeping stripes.
Kabine rose abruptly, leaving Fletcher trembling over the chair. She strode to the sleek stainless-steel refrigerator, pulled out a small glass bowl filled with round red-and-white peppermint candies, and selected two. Returning, she pressed them firmly against Fletcher’s slack lips.
"Suck," she ordered. He obeyed weakly, the sharp, icy mint flooding his mouth, momentarily numbing the taste of salt and blood. Wendy stroked his damp hair as he worked the candies slowly, the cooling sensation spreading down his throat. Sixty seconds later, the mints dissolved entirely. Kabine wiped his chin with her thumb.
"Relax now," she murmured, her voice unnervingly gentle.
"We’re going somewhere fun." Both women patted his buttocks gently, the touch feather-light against his ravaged skin, making him wince, and then headed for the RVs cockpit.
Kabine slid into the driver’s seat while Wendy settled beside her in the passenger seat. The RV’s engine rumbled to life, vibrating through the marble floor beneath Fletcher’s bare feet. As they pulled out of the supermarket parking lot, the rhythmic sway and low hum lulled him into an exhausted stupor. He slumped against the leather armrest of the chair, the throbbing in his backside fading to a dull ache, and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Forty-five minutes later, gentle hands shook Fletcher’s shoulders. He blinked awake to find Wendy and Kabine leaning over him, both wrapped in thick red towels knotted loosely above their breasts. The RV rocked with a gentle, unfamiliar sway—not the jolt of tires on asphalt, but the fluid lift and dip of water.
"Wake up, sleepyhead," Kabine murmured, her eyes sparkling.
"We’re not on land anymore." Fletcher stared, uncomprehending, until Wendy grinned.
"Surprise! The Beast floats. Got a yellow inflatable skirt underneath and twin propellers out back."
They hauled him up, his legs surprisingly steady, and guided him to the tinted side window. Outside, nothing but dark, rippling water stretched to distant tree-lined banks. At the rear window, twin trails of churned foam fanned out behind them like liquid wings.
"Think you’re recovered enough for a swim?" Wendy asked.
"If not, we’ve got boards or floaties." Fletcher stretched, testing his muscles.
"Forty-five minutes was plenty," he said, voice clearer now.
"Legs feel solid." Kabine nodded.
"Good. We’re on the San Marcos River. Would’ve been here sooner, but Austin traffic’s a nightmare."
Kabine shrugged dismissively. Before Fletcher could ask more, both women seized his hands—despite his steady legs—and steered him toward the RV’s rear exit. They descended the narrow steps, the humid river air rushing in as Wendy swung the door open wide. In unison, they dropped their red towels onto the deck. Beneath, Wendy wore a lime-green bikini patterned with cartoonish four-leaf clovers, while Kabine’s was raspberry-red with tiny, embroidered fruit motifs. The skimpy fabric clung to their curves, leaving little to the imagination. Then the latter ran back up the stairs and handed him the towels.
"Be a dear?" the brunette chirped, nodding toward a burgundy hamper wedged beside the washing machine. Fletcher obeyed silently, scooping up the damp towels and stuffing them inside. As he turned back, Kabine’s fingers pressed firmly against his lower spine—a gentle but insistent nudge toward the water. He descended the steps cautiously, the aluminum cool under his bare feet, until his toes touched the river’s surprisingly warm surface. Then, without warning, Wendy and Kabine grabbed his shoulders and flung him forward with a coordinated heave. He splashed into the San Marcos, sinking briefly before surfacing with smooth, practiced strokes—arms sweeping wide, legs scissoring effortlessly instead of dog-paddling.
The women plunged in after him, their laughter echoing across the water. They circled Fletcher like sleek predators, Kabine’s raspberry-red bikini flashing as she darted beneath him, her fingertips grazing his calf. Wendy surfaced beside him, lime-green clovers plastered to her skin, and brushed her thigh against his hip before twisting away in a spray of droplets. Their touches were deliberate—teasing, possessive—as they wove around him in lazy figure-eights, their bodies gliding through the tea-colored current.
Fletcher treaded water, the river’s warmth soothing the lingering sting across his backside. He watched Kabine dive deep, her form vanishing into the murk near a submerged cypress knee. Wendy floated on her back nearby, eyes closed, letting the current carry her downstream a few yards. That’s when Fletcher spotted them: two figures standing motionless on the far bank, silhouetted against the dense thicket of river cane. One wore a blaze-orange hunting cap pulled low over his eyes, a faded camo jacket draped over his shoulders despite the heat. Beside him stood a man in khaki from head to toe—straw cowboy hat, short-sleeved shirt, shorts—holding a fishing rod loosely at his side. Their stillness felt unnerving, like statues planted in the mud.
The hunter nudged the fisherman’s arm, nodding toward the women. Fletcher saw the fisherman’s lips curl into a slow, appreciative grin as he openly tracked Wendy’s and Kabine’s drifting form.
"Lucky guy," the hunter mouthed, shaking his head with a chuckle.
"Damn right!" the fisherman grinned back, leaning on his rod as his gaze lingered on Kabine's dive. Fletcher felt a flush creep up his neck—not from pain, but absurd relief. Thank god the river hid his welted backside; only his shoulders, arms, and calves broke the surface like unmarked driftwood. The men saw two women playing with a man, nothing more. They couldn't see the roadmap of agony beneath the tea-colored water, the raised furrows still throbbing like live wires.
Kabine surfaced beside Fletcher, her raspberry bikini slick against his arm. Her dark eyes flicked to the bank, then locked onto Wendy’s. A silent understanding passed between them—sharp as the belt cracks earlier. Wendy’s grin turned predatory. She surged forward, her lime-green clovers pressing flush against Fletcher’s chest. Before he could react, her hands clamped behind his head, fingers tangling in his damp Afro. She pulled him into a deep, claiming kiss, her tongue sliding against his with deliberate force. Then she twisted her body sideways, angling their embrace toward the watching men, displaying Fletcher’s stunned expression and her own triumphant smirk like a trophy.
Kabine didn’t hesitate. She swam behind Fletcher, her breasts pressing against the back of his skull as she gripped his shoulders. Her fingers dug possessively into his muscles, anchoring him while she arched her own body outward. The raspberry fabric strained against her curves as she tilted her head back, letting the sunlight catch the water beading on her throat—a silent, taunting display for the distant hunter and fisherman. Fletcher remained trapped between them, Wendy’s mouth still locked on his, Kabine’s hold unyielding, his body a living prop in their exhibition.
On the bank, the fisherman’s grin vanished, replaced by slack-jawed awe. He shifted his weight, the fishing rod trembling in his grip as his khaki shorts tented visibly beneath the denim flap of his overshirt. Beside him, the hunter adjusted his camo jacket, pulling it lower over his waist. But the stiff, unmistakable bulge straining against his cargo pants betrayed him—a rigid line pointing toward the river like a compass needle. Neither man spoke now; their breathing grew shallow, eyes fixed on the women’s intertwined limbs and Fletcher’s captive form.
31-35, M
