Caitlin & Emma VI
Nine hundred and eighty-three kilometres.
That's what the dashboard read when we finally pulled onto the red dirt track leading into the Mundi Mundi Bash.
Nearly a thousand clicks of Caitlin's boot tapping against my floorboard, her fingers drumming on the window frame, her voice hoarse from singing along to every track on her phone.
Three days of camping and music out here in the NSW desert, and she'd been vibrating with anticipation since we left Sydney.
I kill the engine and the silence hits like a physical weight. Heat shimmers off the bonnet. The red plains stretch to the horizon, broken only by the distant silhouette of the Barrier Range. Already I can hear the bass thump from the main stage, feel it vibrating through the cracked earth under my boots when I step out.
Caitlin's already at the back of the ute, yanking out her festival bag. She's been in her civvies for the drive—tank top, shorts, practical shit—but that's not going to last. Not here.
"Get the tent up first," I say, but she's already digging past the pegs, pulling out a black duffel I know contains her annual transformation.
"Later." Her eyes have that wicked glint, the one that makes my stomach tighten. "The procession's at sunset. I'm not missing it looking like a fucking accountant."
She strips right there in the open. No hesitation. No shame.
The tank top goes over her head and her heavy breasts swing free, dark areolas tight from the air conditioning still clinging to her skin.
She kicks off her shorts, bends over to rummage through the duffel, and I watch the tanned curves of her ass flex as she shifts her weight. My mouth goes dry.
The outfit comes together piece by piece. Faux-leather moto jacket—worn soft at the elbows, covered in stud patches from festivals I haven't attended. Cut-off denim shorts so high they barely cover the crease where her thighs meet her ass.
Leather harnesses crisscross her chest, framing those soft breasts, the straps pressing into the flesh just enough to make the skin bulge on either side. Heavy boots. Fingerless gloves. Metal collars clicking around her throat.
She catches me staring. Smiles. Runs her tongue along her bottom lip.
"Like what you see?"
I don't answer. I grab the tent bag and start hammering pegs into the hard ground.
By the time we make it to the festival grounds, the sun's already sliding toward the horizon, painting everything in shades of copper and rust.
The Mad Max-themed procession is forming near the main stage—vehicles cobbled together from scrap metal and spray paint, spikes and skulls and flames, people in costumes that look like they crawled out of the Wasteland itself.
Caitlin fits right in. More than fits in—she belongs here, strutting through the dust with her jacket slung over one shoulder, her hips rolling with each step, drawing eyes from every direction.
Her favorite band is setting up on the second stage. Some industrial-punk outfit from Melbourne that sounds like a chainsaw fucking a drum machine. She drags me to the front of the crowd, plants herself against the barrier, and loses her fucking mind when the first chord screams through the speakers.
I watch her more than the band. The way her body moves—all hips and shoulders, throwing herself into the music like she's trying to shake something loose.
Sweat darkens her hair at the temples, runs down the curve of her neck, disappears into the harness straps.
Her tits bounce with every jump, nearly spilling out of the leather framing them. The denim cutoffs ride up until half her ass is hanging out, tanned skin gleaming with perspiration.
She turns around during a breakdown, grinding her back against my front, her ass pressed into my crotch. Her hands reach back, grip my thighs. Her head falls against my shoulder.
"This is so fucking good," she shouts over the music, and I can feel her voice vibrating through her body into mine.
My hands find her hips. Pull her closer. She wriggles against me, teasing, always fucking teasing.
The sun sinks lower. The sky bleeds from copper to crimson to deep purple. The band plays their final song and Caitlin screams along to every word, her throat working, tendons standing out in her neck.
When the set ends, she's buzzing. Pacing. Running her hands through her damp hair, her chest heaving, her eyes too bright. That post-show energy that needs somewhere to go.
I know exactly where it's going.
"Come on." I grab her wrist. Her pulse jumps under my fingers.
"Where are we—"
"Somewhere quiet."
I lead her away from the main crowd, past the art installations, past the rows of tents and utes and campervans, out toward the edge of the festival grounds where the desert takes over.
There's a rocky outcrop about two hundred meters from the nearest campsite, just tall enough to provide some cover. I scoped it on the map before we left.
The last light is fading when I push her against the sun-warmed rock. Her back hits the stone and she gasps, her eyes going wide, that wicked glint sharpening into something hungrier.
"Emma—"
"Shut up." I pull the leather cuffs from my back pocket. I've been carrying them all day, waiting for this. Her gaze drops to them and her breath catches. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips.
"You planned this."
"Of course I fucking planned this." I grab her wrists, pin them above her head against the rock. The metal of the cuffs is warm from my body heat as I snap them around her wrists, loop the chain through a rocky protrusion, click the lock into place. "You've been asking for it all day."
She tests the restraints. The chain rattles against stone. Her arms flex, shoulders straining, and the harness pulls tight across her chest, pushing her tits up until they're practically spilling out.
"Is that all you've got?" The challenge in her voice. The defiance. The need.
I answer with my palm. A sharp crack across her left breast, right where the flesh bulges above the harness strap. She jerks, gasps, and her nipple hardens visibly through the leather.
"More." Her voice is thicker now. Lower.
I spank the other breast. Harder. The sound echoes off the rocks. Her back arches off the stone, pushing her chest toward me, asking for more without words.
"You're such a fucking tart." I yank the harness aside, freeing her heavy tits completely. The dark areolas are tight, nipples peaked and straining. I slap each one again, watching the flesh ripple and redden, watching her face contort with each impact.
"Ah—fuck—" She's squirming now, her hips rolling against nothing, her thighs pressing together.
I spin her around. The cuffs twist, the chain clanks, and now her cheek is pressed against the warm rock, her ass pushed out toward me. Those ridiculous cutoffs barely cover anything. I can see the dark outline of her pussy through the denim, damp and swollen.
The first spank lands on her right ass cheek. Hard. The sound is sharp and satisfying. Her flesh bounces, a red handprint blooming on tanned skin.
"One," she whispers.
I spank the left cheek. Harder.
"Two."
I alternate, building rhythm and intensity, each strike harder than the last. Her ass cheeks flush pink, then red, then deep crimson. She's counting between gasps, her voice breaking on the higher numbers.
By ten, she's trembling. By fifteen, she's whimpering. By twenty, there are tears tracking through the dust on her cheeks and her cunt is so wet I can smell it.
"Please—" The word comes out broken. "Emma, please—"
I yank her shorts down to her thighs. No panties. Of course no panties. Her pussy is soaked, her inner thighs glistening, her asshole winking at me in the fading light.
I spank her cunt. The wet slap is obscene. She screams, her whole body jerking against the restraints, her tits scraping against the rough stone.
"Oh fuck—oh fuck oh fuck—" Her voice is high and thin, nothing like the confident tease from earlier.
I spank her pussy again. And again. Each strike sends droplets of her arousal flying. Her clit is swollen and red, poking out from its hood, begging for attention I won't give yet.
"You're going to come from this," I tell her, my mouth close to her ear. "From being spanked like the desperate little slut you are."
She whines. Her hips buck backward, seeking contact.
I spank her cunt harder. Her thighs shake. Her asshole clenches. She's right on the edge, hanging there, her body wound tight as a spring.
"Come for me, Caitlin."
She shatters. A high, keening cry tears from her throat as her pussy convulses, juices gushing down her thighs, her whole body shaking against the rock.
I keep spanking her through it—cunt, ass, cunt, ass—drawing out every spasm until she's limp against the stone, held up only by the cuffs, her chest heaving, her skin streaked with sweat and tears and cum.
The desert is quiet except for her ragged breathing. Somewhere distant, the bass from the main stage still thumps. The first stars are appearing overhead.
I unlock the cuffs. She slumps into my arms, boneless, trembling, her face buried in my neck.
"Good girl," I murmur into her damp hair.
She laughs, weak and breathless. "You're such a fucking bastard."
"You love it."
She doesn't deny it.