Emma ran through the jungle, her legs pounding the earth in a frantic sprint. Her breath, short and searing, escaped in desperate gasps, while sweat streamed down her skin, carving glistening trails along her arms. Thorns clawed at her shredded tank top, which clung to her chest, revealing flashes of skin flushed with exertion.
“It’s not possible,” screamed her voice in her head. Tears, hot and bitter, streamed down her cheeks, mingling with sweat. “They couldn’t have done this to me,” she sobbed inwardly, the image of Léo and Marc. Their smiles. Their hands. Their... pops in her head. And yet, in her panic, a treacherous heat stirred in her core from the weeks spent with them.
~oOo~
A few weeks earlier
Emma opened her eyes, roused from oblivion by the cold caress of waves that lapped at her hips. The saltwater licked her skin, seeping into the tears of her clothes, a shredded tank top that bared the curve of her breasts and tattered shorts that had clung to her thighs like a second skin. In the morning light, she resembled a stranded nymph, her shoulder-length red hair plastered to her face in wet, salt-streaked strands and her lips, chapped and faintly burned by the sun.
Despite a throbbing headache, her hands sunk into the wet sand, seeking leverage to rise, but her muscles, sore from the shipwreck, protested with every effort. Grains clung to her skin, tracing irregular patterns across her arms and legs. Her green eyes, clouded by exhaustion, scanned the horizon. A beach littered with debris, edged by a dense jungle. She muttered a curse and forced herself to stand.
Emma’s memory returned in fragments. The boat, its sails snapping in the storm, icy water surging in gigantic waves, then days. How many? Adrift, alone, on a makeshift raft, its broken planks now washed ashore with her on this beach. On vacation, she never tracked their navigation, unaware of their exact location when the storm hit. Somewhere in the Caribbean. The drift, the loss of time, left her more lost.
“Where the hell am I…” she muttered, her voice swallowed by the lapping waves. The beach stretched out, empty and desolate, devoid of any human trace and, before her, the jungle, a wall of tangled vines and dripping foliage. Despite the fatigue and the headache, her mind clung to a cold clarity. Staying there, exposed under the scorching sun, would be a slow death. Hoping for immediate rescue? A delusion. Survival loomed: find fresh water, maybe a fruit or an edible root. She tore herself from the sand, her unsteady steps crunching broken shells, and moved toward the jungle.
~~~
After a forced march that seemed to stretch into eternity through this green hell, Emma felt hope unraveling. No water. The jungle, a maze of dripping vines and oppressive foliage, offered neither stream nor respite, only the drone of mosquitoes, ravenous, feasting on her sweat-soaked skin.
A sharp crack shattered the silence, and she spun, heart pounding. Two men stood there, frozen, their eyes wide with astonishment. The younger, tall and lean, wore a t-shirt slightly torn at the collar and frayed, short, still decent, outlining his muscled frame. The other one, stockier, sported a shirt with tattered sleeves and stained pants, his face etched with hardened ruggedness. They seemed as stunned to see her, half-naked in her shredded clothes, as she was by their presence.
Without thinking, Emma ran to them and, in a desperate surge, dropped to her knees before the younger one, tears bursting. Her trembling fingers clutched the edge of his short, and she rasped, voice shattered: “Please… water… give me something to drink!” He, rooted, felt a heat rise within him, his gaze sliding over the redheaded woman kneeling before him, her form barely veiled by scraps of fabric. For a moment, he was lost in the sight, before snapping back. “Uh, yeah, sure,” he stammered, unclipping a dented metal canteen from his belt and handing it to her. Emma, without a word of thanks, snatched it and drained it in one go, water spilling over her chin, dripping into the damp earth.
The two men watched her in silence, while Emma, still on her knees, gasped for breath, her fingers clutching the empty canteen. “Thank you,” she finally managed. “Hum… you’re welcome,” the younger one replied with a faint smile, with a warm voice. “I’m Léo. And this is Marc, my older brother,” he added, nodding toward the stocky man beside him.
Emma, eyes closed, fought to calm her racing heart, but whispered, “I’m Emma. How long have you been stranded on this island?” A heavy silence stretched. “Months,” Léo finally answered, his voice tinged with gravity. “We’ve lost track.”
Emma opened her eyes, tears welling up again, and stood, swaying on her legs.
“That means I won’t be rescued anytime soon,” she sobbed softly, her voice breaking with despair. Léo tilted his head, an unreadable glint in his eyes. “Hum… we have a shelter nearby. You can join us if you want,” he said, his tone gentle. Marc suddenly grabbed his brother’s hand, his eyes flashing with disapproval, a gesture Emma couldn’t miss. “It’s fine, she needs help,” Léo cut in, his tone firm.
Normally, Emma would have apologized, claimed she could manage alone to avoid causing trouble, but reality anchored her: alone, she had no chance. She stayed silent, waiting.
“Let’s go,” Léo said simply, turning on his heels and plunging into the jungle. Marc, exasperated, rolled his eyes, his sigh heavy, but finally followed, his machete slapping against his thigh with each step. Emma trailed close behind, almost glued to them, desperate not to lose sight of her new companions in misfortune.
After an endless march, they reached a hollow carved into the rock, a cavity that at first glance resembled a mere cave but turned out to be a reinforced shelter, almost an old decommissioned bunker. Léo pushed the rusted door and stepped inside without a word, followed by Marc. Emma crossed the threshold in turn, a shiver running through her as the coolness of the place wrapped around her. She paused in the entryway, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness, revealing a spacious but stark room. Four mismatched armchairs sat around a wobbly table, where a worn deck of cards lay. A shelf held four books, a circle of stones blackened by an extinguished fire, and a closed door at the far end.
Marc slumped into an armchair, the fabric creaking under his weight, while Léo headed to the back door, opening it with a shrill screech. He vanished for a moment before returning, a metal box in his hands. “Sit down,” he said, pointing to an empty armchair, his voice soft but commanding. Emma obeyed. Léo dipped into the box and handed her a dry biscuit. “They’re a bit old, but still good,” he murmured.
“Thanks,” Emma mumbled, taking the biscuit, her fingers brushing his.
A heavy silence settled, broken only by the faint crunch of a biscuit as Emma nibbled it, piece by tiny piece.
Finally, she looked up, her voice hoarse, “What is this place? Where did you find all this?” she asked.
Léo answered without hesitation, “This shelter was here when we washed up. Probably an old war outpost, or something like that. Some things were already here. Others, we brought back, scavenged from shipwreck debris on the other side of the island.”
Another silence stretched.
“So we’re not the first,” Emma whispered, her voice barely audible.
“But we’re the last ones on the island, as far as I know,” Léo cut in, a bit too sharply. Marc seemed to sink deeper into his chair, his expression sullen.
Before Emma could respond, Léo pressed on, his voice colder, “If you want to stay with us, you’re welcome, but we have rules.” He paused, the atmosphere growing heavier.
“Rule number 1: We share everything. If you find food, you tell us, and we split it evenly.” Emma nodded.
“Rule number 2: Everyone does their part. Marc and I bring food…” Emma held her breath, a shiver running through her, waiting for the rest. “You’ll help by fetching potable water, it’s not far, and keeping this place clean and livable.” She exhaled softly, nodding again.
“Rule number 3: If we leave the shelter, we always move in pairs. The jungle is very dangerous,” Léo concluded.
“Dangerous? How?” Emma asked, her throat dry. Léo locked eyes with her, a dark glint flickering in his gaze “We were three. If rule 3 had been followed, we’d be four today.”
Emma swallowed hard, lowering her head. Léo softened his expression, crouching in front of her chair, his face level with hers, his eyes seeking hers. “Like you, we hope to be spotted and rescued someday, but until then, we need to stick together, okay?” he murmured, his voice warm again. Emma wiped a tear rolling down her cheek, a fragile smile tugging at her lips, before nodding once more.
~~~
The following days unfolded in simplicity, shaped by routines that gradually carved out a role for Emma in this strange refuge. She fetched water from a nearby spring, a clear trickle winding through mossy rocks, and swept the bunker’s floor. A kind of peace settled in, despite everything. She no longer feared hunger, each evening offering a worn armchair corner to collapse into. With Léo, a bond formed, his fleeting smiles and encouraging words cutting through the daily dreariness. Marc remained distant. Each morning, the brothers left the shelter to trek to the far side of the island, a day’s march to a lush area, they claimed, where fruit abounded, their bags returning stuffed with juicy mangoes and papayas. But the distance often forced them to spend the night there, in a makeshift shelter they’d found, leaving Emma alone in the bunker.
On nights when Emma found herself alone, the absence of her fiancé was deeply felt. Sitting in her chair, she toyed with her ring, sliding it along her finger. Those nights, the shelter’s darkness became a sanctuary for her desires. She surrendered to solitary pleasures, her fingers tracing known paths, her sighs and cries of ecstasy echoing off the concrete walls.
One evening, Léo returned with a bottle of alcohol, an amber rum with half-peeled label, he’d scavenged from a wreck. Marc, true to his mood, stayed sank in his chair, while Emma and Léo settled by the fire. The alcohol flowed gently, warming their throats, and the atmosphere, initially heavy, softened bit by bit.
“You know, before all this, I loved nights like these… a fire, a drink, some laughter,” Léo murmured, as he shot Emma a playful glance. She blushed faintly, clutching her glass to her chest, and replied in a shy voice, “Me too… with my fiancé, we’d spend hours talking by the fire…” Her voice wavered on the last word, and Léo tilted his head, a soft but troublingly warm smile tugging at his lips. “He’s a lucky guy, your fiancé,” he said, his voice low.
Emma looked away, her cheeks flushing deeper, and a small, nervous laugh escaped her, and Léo chuckled too. “I’m serious; a girl like you, you don’t forget,” he added.
They kept talking. The rum continued to warm their bodies and loosen their tongues. Emma felt the fire’s heat caress her cheeks, but it was Léo’s gaze, even hotter, that unsettled her. He had inched closer, almost imperceptibly, his knee brushing hers as he poured another drink, his fingers grazing hers as he handed her the cup. “To us,” he murmured. Emma blushed, but a small laugh escaped her. “To us,” she echoed softly, before taking a sip. Marc, still sunk in his chair, watched the scene with attention.
Léo sat back down, closer this time, their arms nearly touching, his eyes locking onto hers with a new intensity. “You’re beautiful when you laugh, you know?” he murmured. Emma felt her heart race, a warmth rising within her, and she looked away, flustered, but unable to suppress a smile.
“You’re talking nonsense,” she breathed, but her voice lacked conviction. Léo tilted his head, his warm breath grazing her cheek as he leaned closer still, and in a spontaneous surge, he slid a hand on her nape, his fingers warm against her skin. Their faces drew near, their breaths mingling, and he captured her lips in a soft, almost hesitant kiss that quickly deepened, charged with the intoxication of the moment. But Emma, after a moment, stiffened, a wave of guilt washing over her, and she pulled back, breathless.
"I shouldn't," she whispered, standing up, her voice breaking as she clutched her ring between her fingers.
Léo, motionless for a moment, also rose slowly and stared at her with an intensity that made her shiver. Without a word, he leaned toward her again, capturing her lips in a bolder, hungrier kiss that made Emma waver. She tried to resist, her hands resting on his chest as if to push him away, but the heat of his skin through his torn t-shirt made her hesitate.
Léo, sensing her weakness, slid his hands along her hips, his warm fingers lingering on her curves before drifting lower, grazing her backside through the frayed fabric of her tattered shorts. He squeezed lightly, a possessive gesture that drew a muffled, embarrassed moan from Emma, swallowed against his lips. Then, with growing boldness, he slipped a hand beneath the waistband of her underwear. Emma stiffened, torn between the pull of her body and the guilt tightening her throat, while Marc, was still watching in the shadow of his chair.
Léo leaned closer to her left ear, as he whispered, his tone more direct, almost commanding: “You can try to lie to yourself, but your body doesn’t lie.” His blunt words made Emma blush, but before she could respond, he tightened his grip on her nape, his fingers firm but not harsh, and kissed her again, a deep, demanding kiss that silenced any protest. His hands, now more confident, slid down again, lingering on her hips before slipping under her shorts, his fingers delving deeper, exploring with a boldness that drew another moan from Emma, louder, more desperate.
Emma, breathless, tried to pull away, her hands weakly pushing against his chest, but Léo spun her around in a fluid motion, pressing her gently against the concrete wall, his body pinning hers, trapping her wrists above her head with one hand. “Stop fighting,” he murmured, his voice hoarse, blazing with a mix of desire and dominance. He slid his other hand down her side, trailing to the tattered edge of her shorts, his fingers slipping further, eliciting a shiver that shook Emma entirely. She moaned again, her cheeks burning, as the rough wall grazed her skin, adding a raw edge to the heat rising within her.
Léo, now fully in control, released her wrists to tug down her shorts and underwear in a swift motion, letting them fall to the floor, exposing her to the cool air. He pressed himself against her, his own desire evident through his torn pants, and with a precise move, he made her arch against the wall, one hand firmly on her hips. The other one firmly grabbed her red hair to lift her head, eliciting a cry of pain (or was it pleasure?) from her, “You’re mine tonight,” he murmured into her ear, his voice a husky growl, as she felt the heat of his hard length press against the curve of her backside. Facing the wall, Emma shivered as his impressive engine slid slowly along the cleft of her cheeks, teasing her senses. She bit her lip to stifle another moan. His cock finally rested at the entrance of her now-drenched core, all resistance melted away.
Léo held her firmly, and, without a word, he thrust into her hard, his hips slamming loudly against her. Emma couldn’t hold back her first cry of ecstasy. Each thrust was brutal, a fast and relentless rhythm, their sweaty skin smacking together in a wet, repetitive sound, the noise echoing in the confined space. Sweat dripped from Léo’s forehead, splashing onto Emma’s back, while she panted, her fingers clawing at the wall.
He grunted with each thrust, his hands gripping tighter to hold her in place as he sped up, his cock driving deep into her, filling her with every motion. Emma, breathless, felt a heat rising in her, her body betraying her despite the shame choking her throat. Her moans grew sharper, uncontrollable, and she came hard, her body clenching around him, her legs shaking violently as a raw cry tore from her mouth. The wave of pleasure left her gasping, but reality hit her fast, her mind snapping back. “Léo… wait, I don’t have a pill here. You can’t come inside me,” she whispered, her voice shaky, almost pleading.
Léo barely slowed, a twisted smile on his lips, his eyes gleaming with a dominant glint. "Oh, I fully intend to come inside you, just not in the hole you’re expecting," he whispered with a wicked edge to his voice. He pulled out abruptly, his cock glistening with her juices, then, using his grip on her hair, tugged her away from the wall and brought her to her knees before him, her legs still trembling from her orgasm. Léo towered over her, his hard cock right in front of her face. He guided her head toward him, pressing against her lips, and Emma, her cheeks red with shame, opened her mouth, letting him slide in.
"Fuck, we should’ve done this sooner."
He started fucking her mouth hard, his hips thrusting forward, his cock sliding over her tongue, the salty taste of his sweat and her own juices flooding her throat. Emma’s saliva dripped down her chin, sticky strands spilling as he sped up, his groans growing louder, his hands gripping her hair to keep her in place. Léo panted, his grunts of pleasure turning deeper, more animalistic. “Rule number 2… everyone does their part,” he murmured, his voice trembling, just before he came, his cum shooting into her mouth in thick, filling her throat, struggling to swallow, the warm, sticky texture overwhelming her senses. He pulled out, a final string of saliva and cum connecting her mouth to him, and let her go, leaving her on her knees, gasping, as some of his cum dripped from her mouth onto the floor.
Léo, still catching his breath, looked down at her, a twisted, almost wicked smile stretching his lips, his eyes gleaming with perverse satisfaction. He leaned slightly, staring at Emma, who was still on her knees, her mouth still glistening with saliva and cum, her cheeks red and her eyes teary. “Maybe it’s time you thank Marc for everything he’s done, don’t you think?” he said.
Emma turned her head, breathless, toward Marc, who was still sunk in his chair, legs spread wide. He was jerking off hard, his hand gripping his stiff cock. His eyes locked on Emma, his breathing heavy and ragged. Léo grabbed Emma by the arm, pulling her up, and pushed her gently but firmly toward Marc. He leaned close to her ear, his hot, sticky breath against her skin, and whispered, “Rule number 1… we share everything.” Then, he pushed her slowly to kneel in front of Marc.
Emma, still on her knees, her mouth and chin soaked with saliva, looked up at Marc. She knew he was right. She hadn’t done much for them compared to what they did for her, and it had been months since they’d had any physical contact. And above all, she craved it.
Barely catching her breath, she straightened slightly, and leaned toward Marc, her lips brushing his hard cock before taking it in fully. Marc let out a deep, guttural groan of relief, his hips twitching as Emma closed her mouth around him, her wet heat engulfing him completely.
“Fuck, yes,” Marc growled, his voice rough, as he grabbed Emma’s head with both hands, his fingers digging into her tangled, sweaty hair. “Don’t stop,” he ordered, and he started moving his hips, setting his rhythm. Emma, at first active, soon let him take over, her lips sliding along his shaft, her tongue pressing against him with each back-and-forth. A part of her, despite the shame burning her cheeks, wanted to please him. She forced her throat to relax, taking his cock deeper with each motion, her lips nearly reaching the base, her nose brushing the sweat-soaked hair at his groin.
Marc, breathing hard, felt the pressure build, his grunts turning into animalistic rasps, and he clenched his teeth, his fingers tightening in Emma’s hair. “Keep going… deeper…” he muttered, his voice choppy, and Emma obeyed, forcing his cock even further, her throat clenching around him, her cheeks hollowed from the effort. She wanted to feel him cum, to feel him finally let go, and she gave it everything, her lips sliding, her tongue working, until Marc, unable to hold back, let out a loud groan, his body tensing as he emptied into her mouth, his cum shooting in hot, thick spurts, filling her throat. Emma coughed, swallowing with difficulty, some dripping from the corner of her lips. Marc released her, but she kept him deep in her mouth, her mouth full of his taste, savoring him until she felt him soften.
Léo, leaning against the wall, watched with a satisfied smirk, relishing Emma’s submission.
~oOo~
From that day, rules 1 and 2 became Emma’s submission rules. "Doing her part," under rule 2, no longer meant fetching water or cleaning, it now meant getting on her knees whenever Léo or Marc wanted. Rule 1, "we share everything," meant that if she relieved one, the other demanded his share, sometimes both at the same time, which she had not experienced before. The first time it happened, Emma, on all fours, felt Léo take her from behind, his brutal thrusts slapping against her ass, while Marc fucked her mouth. Their grunts filled the air, and their sweaty bodies slammed against her, reducing her to an object for their pleasure. Emma, panting, felt a strange heat wash over her. She liked it, being dominated, used, a desire she’d never fully explored with her fiancé.
Léo was by far the wildest, showing no restraint, fucking her hard against the wall or table, pushing her limits. Marc, on the other hand, was more relaxed, almost playful. He’d crack jokes during the day, a smirk on his face, before pulling her to him at night, his cock already hard, letting her do the work, hands behind his head while she sucked him off, his moans softer, almost appreciative. Emma, despite everything, enjoyed this dynamic. The regular physical contact, as rough as it was, let her forget her loneliness, her situation, her fiancé. She’d grown to crave being dominated, feeling their hands on her, hearing their groans of pleasure, an escape from her reality.
~~~
One day, while Léo and Marc were out "hunting", their term for gathering fruit on the other side of the island, Emma was cleaning the bunker, sweeping the dust and ashes off the floor. A crumpled piece of paper caught her eye on the floor. She picked it up, unfolding the faded receipt. The words were in Spanish. Emma’s face went pale, her hands shaking as she dropped the broom. “No, this can’t be,” she whispered. Without thinking, she bolted out of the bunker, running through the jungle in the direction Léo and Marc always went, branches scraping her legs, her breath short, her mind clouded with fear and betrayal.
“They couldn’t have done this to me,” she sobbed inwardly.
After twenty minutes, Emma reached a coastal village. Colorful houses lined a white sandy beach, and a hotel complex stood nearby, with a sign: "Punta Gorda. I ❤️ Roatan". Tanned tourists walked around, and the smell of grilled fish hung in the air.
Emma stopped dead, out of breath.
“Roatan… fucking… island…” she muttered, her voice shaking with rage, fists clenched, tears welling in her eyes as she understood Léo and Marc had manipulated her.
----
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