My jeans were unzipped now, underwear yanked down just enough to expose what they wanted. The cold air bit into my skin, and shame flushed over me hotter than anything else. One of them reached around and grabbed me again—my cock still betraying me, semi-hard despite everything.
"Sick little thing," the one behind me laughed. "Still leaking."
"Don't worry," the other added, his voice almost tender. "They all confuse fear for lust at first."
Tears stung the corners of my eyes.
This isn't happening. This isn't sex. This is a game I already lost.
I bit my lip harder—so hard I tasted blood again. But still didn't speak.
I wouldn't beg. Not yet.
Then, somewhere outside—through the stone walls or metal vents—I heard it:
A scream.
It wasn't mine.
It was human.
Young. Fragile. Full of desperation.
Someone crying.
A voice sobbed something over and over—"Please stop, I'll do anything, please—"
I froze. My stomach turned.
The two around me chuckled.
