At His Mercy

I stop fighting. The decision feels wrong immediately, every survival instinct in my body screaming against it, but the empty canyon yawning beneath me finally wins. I **** myself to go still while Mercury tightens his grip around my ankle and slowly begins hauling me upward hand over hand. Every movement drags my body painfully against the cliff face.

Loose rock scrapes across my bare skin while blood rushes violently through my skull from hanging upside down so long. “See?” Mercury mutters breathlessly above me. “Knew you was smart.” The hole in the cliff face grows larger the closer he pulls me toward it, although larger stops meaning much once I reach the entrance.

The opening barely looks wide enough for a human body at all. Jagged stone presses against my shoulders and hips the moment Mercury starts dragging me inside..I immediately understand why he called himself a Cavefisher. The tunnel is impossibly tight. Cold rock crushes against me from every direction.

Mercury pulls me deeper into the narrow passage inch by inch. I cannot fully lift my arms anymore. I cannot turn around. My bare feet scrape helplessly against stone while the outside world disappears behind me into darkness. Panic rises instantly. “I can’t move,” I whisper.

“Course you can’t,” Mercury says somewhere ahead of me inside the tunnel. “That’s how these holes work.” The confined darkness presses tighter around my body with every foot deeper he drags me inside. The air smells like damp stone, dirt, sweat, and something older underneath all of it. The space is narrow, barely wider than his shoulders, forcing him to press against me in the absolute dark.

My pulse hammers violently while rough rock grinds against my ribs hard enough to make breathing difficult. Then Mercury laughs softly somewhere ahead in the dark. “Don’t fret none,” he says. “Me and you gonna have all kinds’a fun together.” I can feel the coarse weave of his jacket, the hard planes of his body.

One arm wraps around my waist, pinning my arms to my sides, while his other hand finds my face, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw with a curious, almost clinical touch. He shifts, and I feel the hard ridge of his arousal pressed against my hip through our clothes. The air in the hole grows thick, warm, and close with our shared breath.

His mouth finds mine in the dark, a wet, demanding pressure. His tongue pushes past my lips, thick and tasting of stale cigarettes and something metallic. It's a violation of a different kind, intimate and sloppy. At the same time, his hand slides down from my face, roughly pushing aside the torn fabric of my top.

His palm closes over my breast, his fingers digging into the soft flesh with a possessive, kneading grip that borders on pain. He squeezes, clutches, as if testing the give of me, his mouth working hungrily against mine all the while.

In the claustrophobic dark, every sense is amplified. I hear the soft, definitive pop-pop-pop of the snaps on my shorts giving way once more. I smell the damp earth of the pit walls and the sharp, clean scent of his sweat, so different from Pluto's grime. I taste the lingering bitterness of his kiss on my tongue.

I feel the cool night air on newly exposed skin, then the terrifying, familiar pressure of him, thick and insistent, seeking entry. The first touch of his bare flesh against mine is a searing brand of heat. Sight is the only sense denied me, making the brutal, stretching fullness as he shoves himself inside a blind, all-consuming reality.

His cock is a blunt instrument of ruin, carving a path through tender, overused flesh. Each thrust is a wet, tearing sound in the close quiet of the pit, a brutal rhythm that speaks of ownership, not passion. He uses my body like a sheath, his hips pistoning with a relentless, grinding **** that leaves no part of me untouched.

The stretch is a raw, burning agony, a pathetic yielding to his greater strength. I can feel every ridge and vein of him as he rams home, the swollen head battering against depths still sore from Pluto's ****. My own choked gasps are the only counterpoint to his ragged breathing, a symphony of violation in the dark.

His rhythm breaks into something frantic, a ****, hammering pace that rocks my body against the unyielding earth wall. The **** of it steals my breath, each impact a jolt that travels up my spine. There is no technique, only a savage, driving need to finish. His fingers dig into the flesh of my hips, holding me in place for his furious use.

The tight space magnifies every sound, the slick, frantic slap of skin, the choked grunt that escapes him with every drive, the small, broken sounds I can't seem to swallow. It is fast, it is hard, and it is a complete erasure of anything but this moment of brutal fucking.

A final, shuddering groan tears from his throat, and he buries himself to the hilt, his body going rigid against mine. The hot, sudden flood of his release fills me, a searing claim in the dark. He holds there, pulsing, for several long seconds before his weight sags against me.

His mouth finds my ear, his breath hot and labored. "Mine," he rashes, the word a guttural, possessive truth in the silence. "You're my woman now." He says it not as a question, but as a law written in sweat and seed. Then, with a wet, withdrawing slide, he pulls out, leaving me hollow and marked in the cold, close dark.