The Bitter Taste of Gun Oil

Their hands are everywhere, and I can't stop them. Mars's fingers pinch and roll a nipple, the sensation a bright, painful spark. Lizard's cold palm slides up my inner thigh, his touch making my stomach clench. I'm pinned, my power useless against the twisted genetics of these desert freaks. They know it, too.

A predatory gleam lights Lizard's flat eyes. "You think you're something special, slut?" he whispers, his breath smelling of dry dust and old meat. "Out here, you're just meat. Tender meat." He leans in, his forked tongue flicking out to trace the shell of my ear. "You like it rough."

Mars’ grip tightens until my shoulders protest. He pins my arms behind me with one hand like it costs him nothing, the other braced across my upper chest to keep me from twisting free. I can feel his breath against the side of my face, hot and steady, like he isn’t even winded. I can't help but flinch.

"You got a real pretty mouth on you, cunt," Mars rumbles, his other hand moving down to squeeze my hip, his grip like being caught in a vise. "Bet it makes all kinds of sweet noises."A sharp, shocking pain lances through me as his fingers tighten cruelly, pulling my flesh away from my chest in a rough, stretching tug.

A gasp tears from my lips, involuntary and raw. "See?" he grunts to Lizard, giving another brutal squeeze that makes my vision swim. "Healthy udders." The humiliation burns hotter than the pain, a pure, bright fury cutting through the last of my lethargy. I am not livestock. My free hand, trapped at my side, claws into the carpet.

"Get your hands off me," I snarl, the command laced with every ounce of demonic will I can muster. It still slides off them, but the fury in my voice makes Lizard pause, his head tilting. Lizard's laugh is a dry rattle. "Sweet? Nah. I bet she makes those dirty little grunts, like a sow rooting in the mud."

The crude comparison, the utter reduction of what happened to something bestial, sends a fresh wave of heat to my face. They're enjoying this, peeling away every layer of pretense I have left. Lizard moves in front of me with my revolver. He turns it over in his hands like a toy he just found, studying it with that same crooked grin.

The cylinder hangs open where Mars wrenched it from me. Lizard glances down at the loose rounds scattered on the floor near the dinette, then crouches slowly, never taking his eyes off me. “Look at this,” he says, voice low and amused. “She brought us presents.”

Mars huffs a laugh behind me. “Told you she was smart,” he replies. “Just not smart enough.” Lizard picks up the cartridges one by one, slow and deliberate, letting each metallic click echo through the cramped trailer as he slides them into the open cylinder. The sound is small, almost delicate, and it makes my stomach knot.

He is not rushing. He wants me to watch. “A pretty little thing like you,” Lizard says, glancing up at me between rounds, “oughta know better than to come out here alone.” Mars shifts his grip just enough to **** me back a step, pressing me against the edge of the counter.

Pain flares through my shoulders as Mars leans his weight in. Lizard snaps the cylinder closed with a sharp flick of his wrist and rises back to his full height. “Now that’s better,” he says. He raises the revolver and points it at me. The barrel looks impossibly large from this distance.

He brings it close to my face, the metal cool against my flushed cheek. "Open up, cunt," he hisses, his forked tongue darting out. "Let's see if that pretty mouth is good for something besides backtalk." Mars's grip on me doesn't loosen, an immovable anchor.

I glare at them, my jaw clenched, but the chrome barrel presses insistently against my lips. The cold, unyielding metal breaches them, a shocking contrast to the fevered heat of the desert. He doesn't wait, just shoves it deeper until the barrel hits the back of my throat, making me gag.

My eyes water. I can taste gun oil. Lizard watches, rapt, as I'm **** to suck on the thing, my tongue moving over the smooth, angular shape. It's a mockery of everything I am, my Peacemaker a perverse tool in the hands of these monsters. But I do it. I hollow my cheeks and take him in, the motion practiced and obscene.

I work the chrome with a slow, deliberate rhythm, my gaze locked on Lizard's triumphant face. A harsh, wheezing laugh bursts from Mars, and Lizard joins in, a dry, rattling sound. "Look at her go," Mars chokes out, his stone-like chest shaking. "Like she was born for it." Their laughter is a physical thing, crowding the small space, mocking and cruel.

It grates against my skin, but I let it wash over me. Inside, behind the performance, a colder part of me is measuring their arrogance. A low, approving sound comes from Mars. They think they've broken me to their will. They have no idea what they're really playing with. Let them laugh. The metallic taste is a bitter promise on my tongue.