John Friday - Family in chains

"Nungh!" The sound came from the grassy mound across the meadow. "No! Damn it, no! Not again. Not so soon!"

"Don't tell me no, you stupid little cunt! Fucking is all you're good for. If you don't fuck, you don't eat. I might even fix it so you can't open your Goddamned mouth!"

A loud, ringing slap echoed across the valley. The noise came from a thin slit in the side of a large mound, a dark, narrow opening half hidden behind a clump of brush. The mound was the roof of a sod house, a dome of timbers and planks built over a huge pit hollowed out of the ground. The planks had been covered with earth and a layer of sod, disguising it almost perfectly. It seemed to be a natural feature.

In the hollow of the grass-domed house, Melissa sobbed and shielded her face with her hands. A stinging red welt notched one side of her face, and Wes Sharp stood poised to deliver another vicious slap.

He was a huge man, well over six feet, so tall that he could only stand straight in the middle of the room, where the ceiling was highest. Melissa shrank back toward the wall, dragging a heavy chain. It was attached to her left ankle with a hand wrought metal band.

Wes stomped a giant booted foot on the chain, ending her terrified retreat so abruptly that Melissa almost fell. She stood cringing as he approached.

"Don't back away from me either, you bitch. When I say fuck, you get your pretty little ass up on the bed and spread your legs! Understand?"

"Yes," she moaned, but she was too stricken with fear and disgust to make any move toward the bed.

Wes Sharp had a full beard and a bushy mustache of reddish-brown hair. Except when he spoke, his mouth remained hidden. He was smiling now, but Melissa would not have known that even if she'd opened her tear-streaked eyes.

He grabbed the middle of her long chain in his right hand. His hand made a fist the hardness of a granite rock. The chain clanked as he lifted it up.

The metal cuff locked around the girl's ankle pulled tight, and she winced when she felt the strain. A fearful whimper came from her trembling lips.

The other end of the chain was looped and locked around a thick log standing upright in the middle of the room to support the roof. She'd tried to pull free a hundred times at least, but a team of mules couldn't break that chain or pull it off of that sturdy log.

The ten-foot length of chain allowed the girl to reach any point in the hidden dwelling, but not the narrow earth ramp slanting up to sunlight and freedom above. Wes and his brother Silas would never allow that. They both liked fucking Melissa too much.

Wes yanked up on the chain, jerking Melissa's foot off the hard-packed earthen floor. Melissa teetered on one leg and then pitched backward with a howl, crashing onto the bed. It was a frame of rough planks criss-crossed with a web of rawhide thongs. Those supported a mattress-heavy canvas stuffed with straw.

The only covering was a hand-sewn blanket made of squirrel pelts. It had a soft, silvery-blue sheen and felt luxuriously smooth against her skin, but the hides were imperfectly tanned, and it reeked like rotting fish. The stench was a brutal reminder of her awful predicament. Melissa squirmed as though trying to bury herself in the silky fur, mindless of the stink now because he was standing over her, stripping off his fringed buckskin jacket and grimy pants.

She wore only a loincloth Silas made for her from a pair of tawny rabbit skins and a leather thong. It smelled worse than the blanket. One hide covered the sleek dome of her pussy mound. The other draped down and barely covered her ass. And each pelt had a neat round hole punched dead center by a lead ball fired from the flintlock rifle Silas used to bring down the bounding rabbits. The exact placement of those holes remained as mute testimony to his skill with that ancient but still very deadly weapon. Melissa knew that if somehow she could get free of the chain and run from the hidden dungeon, her troubles would only have begun.

Wes Sharp grinned down maliciously. He had all the keen senses of a timber wolf and had no trouble reading the look of utter despair flashing dimly in Melissa's brown eyes. With his jacket off, his upper body looked like a giant fleshy wedge, broad at the shoulder, narrow at the hip, and rock-solid every inch between.

A coarse mat of reddish-brown hair covered the rippling bands of muscle. They flexed and gleamed with sweat as he wiggled out of his tight-fitting buckskin pants. The sight of him gave Melissa the sinking feeling that she had somehow blundered back in time to the early 1800's, when tough, solitary mountain men prowled the high country trapping beavers.

She'd gone backpacking alone in the wilderness area three weeks before, equipped with modem, ultra-lightweight gear, but feeling the same sense of freedom and adventure those early trappers must have felt – never dreaming what a nightmare that adventure would turn into.

Silas laughed when he caught her coming naked out of the lake where she'd gone to take a cooling dip. Being twenty miles from the nearest road, she never dreamed anyone else might be watching.

But Silas had leaped from behind a rock and grabbed her from the rear, mauling her tits with his rough hands. When she shrilled a scream of sheer terror, he had only laughed all the more. He lifted and carried her up the bank, apparently immune to her kicking and thrashing.

"Lookie here," he called to Wes in a voice as scratchy as crushed rock. "I caught us a beaver. Prettiest little beaver I ever did see!"

Wes came out of the house-mound then, leering and wetting his lips. "Sonuvabitch if that ain't right!" Melissa's long dark-brown hair was wet and streaming, tossed by her violent but pointless struggle.

Wes smiled as he gazed into her fear-crazed eyes, wetting his bearded lips again as he said, "Honey, to us what ain't fucked in over a year, you don't know what a pretty sight you are!"

Well she knew now. And Wes was glaring at her with the same fierce look of lust as on that first day. Between the two of them, they'd fucked her almost non-stop for three weeks. Melissa had long since forgotten how many times. All she could remember clearly was the feel of their cocks. Wes had an enormous, thick hot prick, and Silas had one bigger still.

Wes, the older and apparently smarter of the two brothers, reached down and flipped up her little fur cunt covering while he stroked his giant cock with the other hand. "Nice thing about a loin cloth," he said absently. "No time wasted undressing a pretty little bitch like you when a man wants to fuck."

She could see the hammering urgency in the head of his cock. It was blue-red and swollen. "Please," she whined, drawing up her legs. "Can't I rest just a little while? Silas fucked me all night long!"

"I know that… Goddamn, I had to listen to you two grunting and moaning. I could hardly sleep at all. It made me real horny hearing how loud you cry when you cum."

"Uuunnngh!" she groaned. That was the real hell of it. Few of the men Melissa had known in the city had ever brought her to a real climax – even the burly jock she had dated in college. These bastards did it every time, time and time again.

"I wanna hear you holler like that some more," Wes said as he crawled up on the bed. The mattress crunched, and the thong supports squealed under his weight. Melissa guessed him to be at least two hundred fifty pounds. The sonuvabitch should have been playing pro football instead of hiding out in the high country.

Wes spread her legs with a swipe of his rough hands. The chain rattled, and the ankle clasp thudded hard against the foot post of the crude bed. "Hot damn. How many times you think I've fucked that pretty little beaver-furred pussy of yours? A hundred, maybe?"