37. Beatrix
37
BEATRIX
I t's hot and stuffy.
That's the first thing I notice as I come to. Sweat is trickling between my breasts and down my temple. I hate sweating. Where am I that it's so hot? The house has a nasty draft this time of year, there's no way the ancient heater is beating it back. It also stinks. Horribly. Like something died and has been rotting for too long. My stomach revolts and I choke on a gag. The movement causes my head to shift, making me aware of the ache in my neck. Now that I'm aware of the throbbing, it becomes too annoying to ignore. A groan slips past my lips. Reaching up, I attempt to rub the ache away. Only, as I do, my elbow hits something hard just above me.
What the...?
Slowly, my eyelids flutter open. My vision is blurry at first, but I make out a strange, warm glow of lights close to my face. The yellowish hue is strange and uncomfortable. Where am I? I blink rapidly to clear my vision. As it clears, the space around me comes into focus.
And I really wish it hadn't.
Less than a foot above me is a smooth, wooden, flat surface. Water stains are barely visible but there, and black mold lingers in patches. Less than a few inches on either side of me are wooden walls, just as moldy and water stained as the ceiling. Hanging on strategically placed nails are fairy lights, strung around the perimeter of the coffin I’m lying in.
“No...” My denial is a soft gasp of disbelief. “No, no, no.”
I reach up to brace my hands on the ceiling and push. It doesn't move. There's no give at all . As if there was weight on it As if there was dirt piled on top. Oh god, am I buried alive? No, Knox wouldn't do this to me, would he?
“Knox?” I call out. My voice is raspy and weak. Even if there’s nothing on top keeping me sealed in here, I doubt he’ll hear me. I try again. “Knox? Can you hear me?”
I get no response. Straining, I try to listen for any movement. But it's utterly silent. Still. I might as well be in a soundproof box. Panic wells up, filling my chest like water pouring into a sinking ship.
“No, wait, please... Let me out!” My hands slap against the wooden barrier between me and freedom, beating at it. “Let me out! Please! Knox! Knox, can you hear me? Please, I'm sorry!”
I scream as my slapping becomes hard. The top doesn't move, and the sound is strangely stifled. Terror wraps itself around my heart, making it hard to breathe. My feet and legs join in on the effort to beat away at the lid of the coffin. It takes me several seconds to realize that the tip of my shoes aren't making contact with the lid—my bare toes are. I stop freaking out for a moment as I realize something.
Lifting my head, I look down at my body. My naked body. For a second, I can't process this revelation. Knox stripped me? Why? My bottom lip trembles as tears leak from the corners of my eyes. Did he... assault me? I know I upset him, but to go this far? Taking a quick inventory, I realize there's no ache between my legs. There’s only a little relief that follows. Just because Knox didn’t penetrate me, who knows what he did do while I was knocked out.
My stomach violently clenches and I gasp, hoping to god I don't end up laying in my own vomit.
“Please,” I whisper to the lid. Swallowing, I force myself to speak out. “Open up. Let me out!”
I can't breathe. My short gasps of the stale air do nothing to quell the rising terror. And the stench? It's bad. So very bad. Judging by the interior and the state of it, this is a much older coffin that has been recently unoccupied by its original owner. I gag violently again. I'm going to suffocate—what a horrible way to die. The slow, agonizing death I’m about to suffer must be some type of karma for opening the door and letting murderers walk into my life. This was never going to work out. Why was I so naive? Was my desperation to feel connected to someone so great that I let it blind me?
I scream, furious at myself and at the Hunt twins for allowing Knox to do this to me. It's followed by another scream, this one twisted with anguish. I can't do this. I can't die like this. Why wouldn't they just stab me? Or break my neck? Something swift and less painful. My fists smash against the lid, as do my knees and feet as I fight the coffin lid and the dirt above it.
“Please, please! Not like this!” I screech.
How long have I been in here? It can't have been too long, right? How much air do I have left? Enough for a few hours? Or have I slept away, sucking in precious air, unaware that they would be my last few breaths? I groan. God, it's so hot down here... Weakly my arms drop to my sides as I attempt to catch my breath. Something crumples under my left hand. For a second, my panicked thoughts convince me it's a cockroach or some sort of bug. I scream, flinching away from the thing. Curling as best I can to look at it, I realize it's not a bug.
It's a balled up piece of paper.
Breathing hard, I reach down and pick it up. My hands tremble as I unroll the scrap of paper. Thanks to the battery-powered fairy lights someone so thoughtfully installed before burying me alive, I can just barely make out the words.
“Dear Beatrix,
So you thought you could spy on us? Well, the joke’s on you because now it’s our turn to watch. Currently, you reside six feet under. There’s a camera buried with you. Put on a show of a lifetime, and we may just let you out.”
Love,
Your stepbrothers they are probably banking on them.
As much as I would like to put a brave face on, they're going to get what they're after.
If this is what their life is like—revolving around situations like this—I can't do it. Every instinct in my body is on high alert and in survival mode. I have to get out of here. Now . Knowing what I have to do, I force my body to relax. It takes a second. Every muscle is locked up. Willing the tension in my legs, arms, gut, and back to ease is like working through a tangled ball of yarn. It takes precious time, many deep breaths, but finally, I'm able to lay here less stiff than the wood that confines me.
“Ok...” I gasp softly as I draw my knees up as far as they will go and allow them to fall to either side. Heat barrels up into my face as I lay in this humiliating position. Thatcher, Sagan, and Knox surely have the best view in the house. I can't remember a time I've felt so exposed and vulnerable—even with Trevor, Sebastian, and Patrick in my life. Resentment causes my heart rate to spike. How could they do this to me? I can hardly stand the shame lying like this, but I must if I'm going to survive.
Reaching up, I skim my fingertips over my sweaty skin, up my stomach and over my breasts. My hands shake as I tweak and roll my nipples. A sob breaks through my pinched lips, but I cut it off as I work both nipples into stiff peaks. My right hand slips away from my breast to travel over my abdomen, over my mound, and to slide through my folds. A hard shiver of disgust and denial almost causes my legs to slam together. Every inch of me is screaming that this is wrong. That this isn't the time or place. I push past my instincts and caress myself. I don't go for my clit right away. It's going to take time and perseverance to find my release.
Nothing happens. For all the touching I’m doing, I can't get myself wet even though my life seems to depend on it.
“Come on!” I hiss, frustrated with myself. “You want to live, right?”
Do I ? If this will be my life, is this what I truly want?
I push away the thought and the whispered answer that follows that I refuse to entertain. Ok, just touching myself isn't working. I need something more to get me going. This punishment is because I was peeping in on a private moment between two people. Knox and Thatcher... It seems Knox has taken it very personally. What did he say just before he knocked me out? That he thought I was just placating him? Mocking him for being different? The idea that I would find Knox anything other than stunning is so absurd a strangled laugh escapes. It dies away swiftly though. The moment doesn't call for laughter.
Maybe... Maybe if I show Knox what I really think of him, he'll see things differently?
I summon up an image of him in my head. His pretty glossy lips, striking pale blue eyes framed with long lashes that are lightly coated with mascara, and a face so lovely angels would cry in envy if they looked at him.
My fingers move through my folds again. This time a spark of desire flickers to life. I squeeze my eyes shut and continue to play with myself. I can see Knox’s smile and his bare chest as he pulled off his shirt the other night to throw it in the laundry room. The softest moan slips past my lips. The other night, Knox had been in the middle of making pizza dough from scratch when I walked in on him. The concentration on his face was beautiful. The soft scowl left the skin between his brows puckered, and his mouth was pressed in a tight line as he kneaded the dough. A smile of success pulled at his mouth. It was a private moment he'd basked in, but I quietly watched on with joy. I hold onto that small, pleased and slightly vulnerable smile as my fingers dive into my core.
“Knox...” I whisper in awe as I find myself leaking now. My hips jerk upward and my clit begins to throb.
I picture his lips on me, skimming across my skin, leaving lip gloss and goosebumps behind in their wake. I don't know much about Knox or what he would be like without being bound like Thatcher had him, but I can imagine his hands gripping my thighs, holding them open as he dove face first between my legs as he did with Thatcher. I do know what his tongue feels like on me. I pull up memories of our first family game night and replay how his tongue slid through me, lapping at my pussy eagerly.
“Oh! Knox...” I can't keep his name out of my mouth as I pull my fingers free of my core to coat my clit with my arousal. A full body shiver rushes over me and, again, my hips jerk upward.
I sink into the desire and pleasure that increases. My breathing comes in soft gasps. Beads of sweat drip down over my body as it grows warmer in the coffin. The sounds of my groans and Knox's name on repeat fill the silence. My other hand kneads my breasts and continues to play with my nipples—alternating between the two.
Somehow, there in the hot confined space, six feet below the earth, where not even God can see me—I cum. My hips grind against my hand as I cry out Knox's name. I can hardly catch my breath as I shiver and shudder at the intensity. Below me, I can feel arousal gathering. As my orgasm subsides, I lay there panting hard but straining to hear the sounds of a shovel overhead. Surely that had to be enough, right?
But time ticks by and nothing happens. The desire cools in my veins as the reality of my situation comes crashing back. I'm still buried alive, and no one is coming to get me. At least not yet. Maybe... Maybe they want more? I can do more. Right? I hope so. Panic causes me to drive my hand back between my legs. I'm overstimulated yet I try to work myself back up. It’s harder than it was the first time. Still, after a while, I manage to cum again with Knox’s name on my lips.
Yet the coffin doesn’t open.
Show of a lifetime. That’s what they want. Ok, well, maybe… maybe a different position? Is that what they mean by that? Humiliation and shame don’t stop me as I flip over to my stomach and get to my knees. I sink into a child’s pose then lift my butt a little higher to give the guys watching a different view. My fingers return to between my legs. This time, I call out Sagan's name, picturing him as he consumes me wholly. And when that doesn't inspire any type of rescue, I work myself back up and call out for Thatcher as he worships my body as he had in the motel.
Still, I'm not set free.
I collapse and roll onto my back, needing a second once I cum again. I’m aware though, I might not have many to spare. The thought inspires another round of panic.
With a wail, I shove my hand back between my legs and work myself back up.