Ticklish
The Crucible of Honey and Steel
The morning light in the Pitt was never truly bright; it was a filtered, sickly orange that struggled through the permanent haze of soot and industrial exhaust. Inside the room, however, the air remained thick with the residual heat of the previous night. I woke up sandwiched between the two of them, the heavy, grounding weight of Jack’s arm across my waist and the soft, rhythmic puff of Michael’s breath against my shoulder. My body felt heavy, a pleasant ache radiating from my core, and my skin still felt hypersensitive to the brush of the silk sheets.
Jack was the first to stir. He didn't wake up with the grogginess of a normal man; he transitioned from sleep to alertness with the precision of a machine being switched on. He shifted, his hand sliding up from my waist to cup my cheek, his thumb tracing the line of my jaw.
"You're awake," he noted, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a fresh shiver down my spine.
"Hard not to be when you're staring at me like I'm a blueprint you're trying to memorize," I whispered, offering a small, tired smile.
Michael let out a soft snort, his eyes fluttering open. He looked rumpled and soft, his blonde hair sticking up in every direction. "He’s just checking to see if you’ve reset yet. But I think I see a lingering twitch in your leg. Tactical vulnerability is still at an all-time high."
Jack sat up, the blankets falling away to reveal the scarred, powerful expanse of his torso. He looked down at me, that familiar, dominant spark returning to his eyes. "Michael is right. We’re not quite finished with our 'investigation' from last night. There were a few variables we didn't account for."
"Jack, the shifts start in an hour," I protested weakly, though my heart was already beginning to race. "The workers... the quotas..."
"The workers can wait. The Pitt hasn't collapsed in the last six hours; it won't collapse in the next two," Jack said, his tone final. He looked over at Michael. "Bring the jar. And the silk."
Michael scrambled out of bed with an energy that was frankly offensive for such an early hour. He returned a moment later holding a small, heavy ceramic jar and a length of deep red silk. He sat at the foot of the bed, unscrewing the lid of the jar. The scent hit me immediately—thick, floral, and cloyingly sweet.
"Is that... honey?" I asked, my eyes widening. Real honey was a king’s ransom in the Pitt, something smuggled in from the green world beyond the wastes.
"Wildflower honey from the Shenandoah," Michael said, dipping a finger into the golden liquid and licking it off with a wink. "Jack traded a crate of high-grade steel for it. He said it was for a 'special project.'"
Jack moved behind me, his hands firm on my shoulders as he guided me into a sitting position. He took the red silk from Michael and, with practiced ease, folded it into a blindfold. "The eyes are a distraction," Jack murmured, his breath hot against my ear as he tied the silk behind my head. "When you can't see us coming, your body has to guess. And your body is a very poor guesser."
The world went dark, replaced by the vivid crimson glow of the sunlight through the fabric. I felt my other senses sharpen instantly. I could hear the rhythmic clanking of the mills outside, the steady thrum of Jack’s heart against my back, and the soft, wet sound of Michael stirring the honey.
"Hands behind your back," Jack commanded.
I obeyed, my pulse thudding in my fingertips. I felt the familiar, soft bite of the nylon rope as he secured my wrists. He didn't tie me to the bed this time; he simply kept me bound and upright, using his own body as a backrest.
"Now," Michael’s voice came from somewhere near my knees. I felt the bed dip as he climbed back on. "Let’s see how you taste."
A drop of something thick and warm hit the sensitive skin of my inner thigh. It was followed by another, and another, tracing a sticky, golden path upward. The heat of the honey was a stark contrast to the cool morning air. I gasped, my hips twitching instinctively toward the sensation.
"Stay still," Jack warned, his hands moving to my throat, his thumbs resting lightly over my carotid artery. He wasn't choking me, but the weight was a reminder of who was in control. "Michael is going to be very thorough."
I felt Michael’s tongue follow the path of the honey. He was slow, deliberate, his warmth spreading through me as he licked the golden nectar from my skin. Each lap was a torture of anticipation. I couldn't see where he was going to touch next, and the blindfold made every sensation feel amplified, as if the nerves in my thighs were the only things left in the universe.
"You're so sweet," Michael mumbled against my skin. "Better than the honey. Much better."
He moved higher, his breath hitching as he reached the apex of my legs. I felt the thick, sticky liquid being drizzled directly onto my center. It was heavy and warm, coating me in a way that felt incredibly lewd. I let out a low moan, my head falling back against Jack’s shoulder.
"She likes the honey, Jack," Michael chirped, his voice full of that playful, silly energy that always preceded his most devilish ideas. "But I think she needs a little more... texture."
I heard the sound of something being rustled—paper or fabric. Then, I felt it. Something light and scratchy being pressed into the honey.
"What is that?" I gasped, my body tensing.
"Dried lavender buds," Jack answered for him, his voice a low vibration against my spine. "Michael thought the friction would be an interesting addition to the 'tactical' aspect of the morning."
As Michael moved his fingers, rubbing the small, hard buds into the honey and against my most sensitive skin, I felt a wave of hysterical laughter bubble up in my chest. It wasn't just a tickle; it was a gritty, intense friction that sent sparks of white-hot lightning through my pelvis.
"Michael, stop! It’s—it’s too much!" I shrieked, my laughter breaking through the moans. The sensation was maddening. The sticky honey held the lavender in place, and every time Michael moved his hand, the tiny buds scraped and teased me in a way that made my brain short-circuit.
"You're laughing," Jack noted, his fingers moving to my ribs, joining the assault. He poked and kneaded the sensitive gaps between my bones, his touch firm and relentless. "That’s a good sign. It means you’re still with us."
"I can't—I can't breathe!" I sobbed, my body bucking against Jack’s hold. My bound wrists strained against the rope as I tried to pull away, but Jack was an anchor, unyielding and solid.
Michael didn't stop. He used the honey-slicked lavender to massage my clitoris, the rough texture providing a localized, frantic stimulation that was pushing me toward a cliff edge I wasn't ready for. "Just a little bit more," Michael whispered, his voice dropping the silliness for a moment of raw hunger. "Look at how wet she is, Jack. The honey is just... everywhere."
"I see it," Jack said, his voice thick. He abandoned my ribs to slide his hand down, his fingers finding the mess Michael had created. He joined in, his larger, calloused fingers providing a different kind of pressure against the grit of the lavender.
The dual stimulation was a sensory overload I couldn't survive. The tickling in my mind from the blindfold, the physical tickling of Jack’s hands, and the grinding, sweet torture Michael was inflicting below—it all merged into one singular, overwhelming scream of my name.
"Jack! Michael! Please!" I begged, my voice cracking. I was a mess of honey and tears, my face flushed a deep crimson beneath the silk blindfold. "I'm going to... I'm going to..."
"Go then," Jack commanded, his voice a roar in my ear. He increased the pressure of his fingers, his movements becoming faster, more demanding. "Give us everything you have left."
I shattered. It was a violent, full-body convulsion that left me gasping for air, my heart hammering so hard I thought it might burst through my ribs. The climax was long and jagged, fueled by the strange, gritty friction and the overwhelming sweetness of the honey. I felt Michael’s mouth close over me, catching the peak of my release, while Jack held me tight, his strength the only thing keeping me from collapsing into a heap on the floor.
When the world finally stopped spinning, I was slumped against Jack, my breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. The blindfold was damp with my tears, and I could feel the sticky residue of the honey cooling on my skin.
Jack reached back and untied the silk, the sudden return of the orange light making me wince. He then moved to my wrists, slicing through the nylon rope with a small, sharp blade he kept on the nightstand. My arms fell to my sides, heavy and useless.
Michael looked up from between my legs, his face smeared with honey and a look of pure, unadulterated triumph. "Well," he panted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I think the honey was a success."
"A resounding success," Jack agreed. He pulled me into his lap, ignoring the mess of honey that was now transferring onto his own skin. He tucked my head under his chin, his hand stroking my hair with a tenderness that always surprised me after such intensity.
I stayed silent for a long time, just listening to the sounds of the Pitt waking up outside. The sirens were beginning to wail, signaling the start of the first shift. The smoke was thickening, and the sound of the hammers was beginning to pick up pace.
"You're very quiet," Jack murmured, his lips brushing my temple.
"I'm thinking about how much I hate you both," I whispered, though I was leaning into his warmth, my fingers curling into the hair on his chest.
Michael let out a bright, melodic laugh, crawling up the bed to join the huddle. He rested his head on my thigh, his eyes bright. "Liars don't get honey for breakfast, you know."
"I'm not lying," I said, though a small, traitorous giggle escaped me as Michael poked a sticky finger into my side. "You're both terrible. Tyrants. Monsters."
"And you're ours," Jack said, his voice leaving no room for argument. He looked at Michael, then back at me. "The Pitt takes everything from people. It takes their health, their hope, their time. But it’s not taking this. Not from us."
He tilted my head back, his eyes searching mine. For a moment, the dominant master of the mills was gone, replaced by the man who had traded a month’s worth of rations just to see me laugh and cry in equal measure.
"We have to go," I said softly, glancing toward the window.
"In a moment," Jack replied. He leaned down, catching my lips in a deep, honey-sweet kiss that tasted of wildflower fields and iron.
Michael joined in, his touch light and teasing as he kissed my neck. We stayed like that for a few minutes, a tangled knot of three people who had found something precious in the middle of a wasteland.
Eventually, the reality of our positions could no longer be ignored. Jack stood up, stretching his powerful frame before reaching down to help me to my feet. My legs were still shaky, and I had to lean on him for support.
"Go wash up," Jack said, his voice returning to its professional, serious tone. "I'll see you at the forge in twenty minutes. Don't be late."
"Yes, Boss," I teased, giving him a mock salute.
Michael followed me toward the small, cramped bathroom, his eyes lingering on the honey-stained sheets. "I'll take care of the laundry, Jack! I think I can find a way to explain the smell of lavender to the cleaners."
"Just tell them it’s a new type of industrial lubricant, Robinavich," Jack called out, his voice echoing with amusement. "They’re too afraid of me to ask questions anyway."
As I stood under the meager stream of lukewarm water, scrubbing the sticky sweetness from my skin, I couldn't help but smile. My body was marked, my nerves were frayed, and I was exhausted before the day had even truly begun. But as the soot of the Pitt began to settle on the windowsills once more, I knew I was the most fortunate woman in the wastes.
I had a man who would hold the world at bay and a man who would make the world worth living in. And as long as there was honey in the jar and rope under the bed, the Pitt could never truly touch me.