Scam Artists

Peyton and Emma Ray were swimming in cash from their latest score, a fifty-grand car they sold for parts and paint. The money lay in their bedroom drawer. They talked loud and laughed louder, already planning the next mark. The door burst open. Blake Lavista and Rosie Satin stormed in, eyes hard, demanding the money they’d been conned out of. Before Peyton or Emma could blink, the two intruders had them pinned, roping their wrists and ankles tight to the bed frame. Emma spat that they could go fuck themselves. Tape sealed both mouths, cutting the curses short. Blake and Rosie worked fast and sharp. A riding crop cracked across bare thighs. Skin jumped under the sting. They switched off, blonde and brunette, stroking the leather crop over quivering flesh, raising red stripes while the tied pair writhed and muffled curses leaked around the tape. Every strike asked the same question: where’s the money. Every silence earned another lash. Sweat slicked skin. Rope creaked. The room smelled of leather and fear-laced heat. Blake and Rosie leaned close, whispering what came next if the girls stayed stubborn, and the crop kept time between words, marking minutes until someone broke.