Slave Hunt Page 10

The key to evading capture was to be aware of your trail. Hide your tracks when it was beneficial to do so; show them when it might confuse your pursuer. So I jumped onto rocks and walked along fallen trees wherever I could. Kicked pine needles over my footprints. Snapped twigs on shrubs that were off the path I actually intended to take.

  I jerked to attention as I heard rustling. I dropped to my belly and crawled into some brush. It was, admittedly, very difficult to crawl in these pants.

  A band of hunters passed several yards away, talking in low voices and laughing. I lay flat until they were gone. Then I stood and continued on, silent as the gathering clouds.

  “Daaaave.”

  I jumped.

  Someone had just whispered my fucking name.

  I looked around nervously, but saw nothing. I was so busy suddenly believing in ghosts that I almost didn’t notice the figure passing through the trees to my right. Tall and pale, with an intensity of expression that was evident even behind her goggles.

  Cinnamon.

  I gasped before I could stop myself. She halted, straightened. I swore she sniffed the air. But she didn’t see me.

  I stepped behind a tree and pressed my back against it, praying that the trunk was wide enough to conceal me. She stood there for what seemed like hours, while cold sweat rolled down my forehead and my pants made balloon animals out of my intestines.

  Finally—finally—I heard the soft hush, hush, hush of her footsteps on the leaves.

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  That had almost gone badly.

  You’re forgetting something very important, I chided myself. D is not your only enemy here today.

  I vowed I would not forget again. I straightened my goggles and trudged on.

  I followed the action without becoming involved in it. People were so engrossed in their individual dramas—pursuing a slave, evading capture, fucking in the woods—that they didn’t notice me shadowing them. So I just wandered and watched. Not the fucking, because that seemed weird to spy on. But I watched hunters hunt, and I watched slaves look for hiding places.

  I saw Cinnamon hunting alone, her expression intent, almost desperate. Rachel, whom I didn’t have much to do with anymore—she was too tangled up in the whole Bill mess—hunting with Coming-Inside-You. But they were talking so loudly that every slave in the vicinity had plenty of warning.

  And through it all, I wondered, Why the fuck doesn’t anyone see me?

  Yes, I was being quiet. Yes, I felt a preservationist instinct to avoid capture, even though I wanted to be on the post. But . . . really? Wasn’t anyone I trailed gonna turn around and be like, Oh, look, a slave?

  I whistled “Mr. Cellophane” as I walked along a shallow, soggy depression that ran through a relatively clear area of the woods.

  Eventually I just sat for a while on a log. Thought about going on hikes in the woods behind Camp Firefly as a kid. Thought about Kel and Greg and what we might do tonight. I thought about Hal too. Four years ago, my friends and I had scattered Hal’s ashes in the state forest, a couple of hours from here. I hadn’t visited in nearly two years.

  I was finding a balance now that had eluded me for a long time. I could bring Hal up around my friends without being afraid they’d think I was obsessing about his death, or about Bill. And they could bring him up without it making my brain go haywire. I still thought about him a lot, but the thoughts weren’t as intrusive, and the memories weren’t so painful. At first it had made me nervous, like it should hurt—otherwise it meant I was forgetting about him. But now I liked the way he could exist in my mind without taking over.

  I was down to once a month with my therapy sessions. Therapy had started as grief counseling, but the more I talked with the counselor the more we uncovered issues that went beyond Hal. Just . . . stuff about my self-esteem, and about my parents, and like, how to be as submissive as I was and still . . . assert myself, I guess. We talked about how my friends had protected me for years, a topic that had pissed me off at first. I had a job, I had hobbies—I faced the “real world” all the time without my friends around.

  But then I kind of got what my therapist was saying: My friends created a safe environment for me, where I could be myself. And sometimes it meant that I didn’t try as hard to be open with other people, because I could just zone out from life and wait until I was with my friends again to get those needs for socialization and acceptance and whatever met. So I’d been going out for drinks more with my coworkers at the bank, and I was part of a Meetup group for amateur cyclists. And I was happier—even if it sometimes felt like I was trying too hard to do happiness right.

  My counselor’s name was Dave, which was weird and Freudian and one Dave too many in my life, so I called him by his last name, Perkins, like we were on a sports team together. He was kink-friendly, so he understood my relationship pretty well. And we talked a ton about Kel and Greg. Especially Greg. We discussed how, even if I wasn’t as attracted to Greg as I was to Kel, I could still find ways to make him feel needed and like he was being a good semi-master to me.

  What I liked about my relationship was that it gave me something to focus on every day. How could I serve them? What good things could I do for myself that would make me a better slave? Because I couldn’t serve Kel or Greg unless I was healthy. Confident. So the answer today was, I could have an awesome time at the hunt. And make sure I gave Kel what she wanted this evening: a story.

  Whether I got captured or whether I won this thing, I wanted to have a damn good story.

  The problem was the aforementioned lack of conflict. I’d expected this choice—get myself caught and put on the whipping post, or obey Kel and win—to be more of a dilemma. A struggle. Instead, it looked as though I was going to end up following Kel’s order through sheer inability to get noticed by the hunters.

  I stood and kept going. If I had to put on a top hat and dance in front of a hunter, I’d do it.

  I’d do it.

  The thought hit me in a kind of corny, epiphanic way that would have made Perkins proud. A couple of months ago, we’d been talking about the stories I used to tell myself. Start with one image: A cliff, a beach, a castle, a park. I’d move through whatever landscape had appeared in my mind, letting things happen to me, ignoring the real world. We’d talked about what it meant that I’d never let myself direct those stories—that things changed or broke or grew around me, and I had no control over it.

  Perkins had said it wasn’t a bad thing that I daydreamed. “But,” he’d asked me, “what’s your favorite story you’ve ever told yourself?”

  I didn’t have an answer, but I’d promised to spend the interim between sessions thinking about it. When I’d seen him next, I’d admitted that my favorite stories were the ones I’d made up about Kel, before I’d had the guts to tell her what sort of relationship I wanted. I used to imagine doing anything for her—anything she wanted. Imagined her hurting me, using me, humiliating me . . . imagined being able to give her happiness.

  “What’s special about those stories?” he’d asked.

  Uh, aside from the fact that they were epic stroke material?

  “They’re about her?” I’d ventured.

  He’d pointed out that they were different because I controlled them. Which was the opposite of how I viewed it. “What do you mean? I was fantasizing about her controlling me.”

  “But how did you feel in those fantasies?”

  Like a fucking baller. Like I was finally getting what I needed.

  So maybe that was what I needed today: a story that I wrote. And it couldn’t be about me wandering aimlessly through the woods, feeling sorry for myself. It needed to have action—action I directed. And for once, I wasn’t doing this to take myself away from my surroundings. I was doing it to place myself very firmly here.

  So I started with one image: a clearing in the woods, under an overcast sky. Trees with patches of their bark scoured away, roots tangled under grass and weeds. And me, standing there in my j
eans and hoodie, ready to make some magic happen.

  I chose a direction and started walking.

  I arrived back at camp, this time without a captive in tow.

  Miles was cuffed to the leftmost whipping post, Bowser beside him. Bowser’s temples were sweaty, and his beard was frizzing out of the ponytail holder.

  Miles was drooping in a way he only did when he was exhausted, in subspace, or both. He had a bunch of nettle leaves between his legs. Cane welts on his ass, and a zipper of black clothespins across the lowest part of his butt. As I got closer, I could see lines of bruising on his dark skin, where other zippers had been yanked off.

  Bowser spotted me first. “Drix! You’re a welcome sight.”

  “May I have a moment with this slave?” I asked.

  “Absolutely.” Bowser stepped aside.

  I walked behind Miles.

  “Drix?” He sounded floaty, hoarse. Had he been screaming for Bowser? “Aren’t you s’posed to be hunting?”

  My hand hovered just above his shoulder, but I didn’t touch him yet. “I decided to take a little time-out.” I placed my hand against his warm skin, feeling him jerk slightly in his bonds. “To finish what Bowser started.”

  He lowered his head. “I failed.”

  “You didn’t fail.” I traced a cane welt above the line of clothespins, hard enough to make him hiss.

  He whispered something I couldn’t hear.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “I wanted you. This whole time.”

  “Well.” I kissed the crook of his shoulder and inhaled. He smelled so familiar, so wonderful—like the woods and sweat and soap and sex. He was mine, always was, no matter where we lived, no matter how busy or distracted or anxious we got. We belonged to each other, and I made up my mind that gift cards or no gift cards, I was buying this man a vac bed tonight. And I was going to give him the most mind-blowing experience of his life. “I’m here now.”

  I sank one fang into the soft skin just under his jaw. He whimpered. I slid my hand around to his bare stomach, felt the muscles contract under my palm. Slid lower, until I held his thick cock.

  His head tipped back to rest it on my shoulder. The leaves fell from between his legs, and I looked down and saw welts all over his thighs. The clothespins pressed against my pants, clicking softly against one another as he leaned into me. I got harder, heat rolling through me as I kissed his neck again. Dragged the point of my tooth along the line of his throat, balancing it right on his Adam’s apple, then bit down. He gasped, forehead furrowing, and then all the tension flooded out of him. I pumped his cock, letting my knuckles shove against the welts with each stroke.

  He started begging then, under his breath. “Drix . . . please . . . fuck . . .”

  I pushed him gently forward so I could flick the end of each clothespin, back and forth down the line until he was panting.

  “You’re mine.” I twisted a clothespin on the last word.

  His breath caught, and he choked.

  I tugged on the pin, stretching the bruised skin. “All mine.”

  “I know. I know.” His voice had a slight hitch in it. “Show me?”

  “With pleasure.”

  Then I grabbed the end of the string. And yanked.

  The pain took a while to bleed away. But once it did, I was remarkably clearheaded.

  Drix took me down from the post, and I let him rub my shoulders. Let him trace the throbbing lines on my ass where the clothespins had been, his fingers gentle, his lips soft as they brushed the top of my head. But I wasn’t thinking about pain, or my persistent erection, or what would happen now.

  All I could think was: Good grief. What a fool I’ve been.

  “I want you to live with me.” I paused, still trying to catch my breath. My thighs stung so fiercely and in so many places it made my legs shake. “If you want. I’d want that.”

  He pulled me against him, wrapping his long arms tightly around my shoulders. “Very sweet. But let’s wait until you’re not high to dis—”

  “I am not high. I want you to live with me. I don’t want to share my home five nights a week. I want to share it forever.” I threw my arms around him. I was unpracticed in the art of hugging enthusiastically, and I think I startled him. It took us a second to get ourselves arranged into a comfortable embrace, but then I could feel his body soften, feel the warmth that was always a part of him—in his body, his voice, his . . . energy.

  “Please?” I whispered, suddenly afraid I’d gauged the situation inadequately. That I had completely fabricated his desire to move in with me. “I’m sorry I waited so long to ask.”

  “I’m immortal,” he whispered back. “I’m in no hurry.”

  I laughed. “You’re very strange and I love you.”

  He stroked the back of my head. “We’ll talk logistics later, okay?”

  “But that’s a yes.”

  “It’s a yes.”

  Good. Good. I swayed against him. I couldn’t have handled it if it wasn’t a yes.

  “Come on,” he said, low in my ear. “Let’s go take care of you.”

  I patted his shoulder. “You should go back to the hunt.” I tried to step away, but he didn’t let me budge.

  “In a few minutes. I’m going to get you settled first.”

  I was disinclined to argue.

  You probably figured I got shot trying to save my hot sauce.

  Wrong.

  Kent was pretty worried because Max had followed Maya beyond the perimeter, so he hardly paid any attention to me when he got down to the bottom of the slope. He was all like, “When she gets in that puppy headspace, sometimes she really can’t think like a human.”

  “But if she’s thinking like a dog, won’t she have a good sense of direction?”

  He said he wasn’t sure it worked that way.

  Glazer ran down the slope a minute later, and he crouched and got all waggly around Kent’s legs. I kept my distance, ’cause I’d had Glazer go to Humptown on me before, and it was not my scene.

  “I could help you look for her.”

  Kent glanced at me. “Yeah?”

  I got to my feet, clutching the hot sauce. “Yeah.”

  “If you do, I won’t . . . you know. Capture you.”

  Yessss.

  “Okay, awesome.” I brushed leaves off my shirt. “I need you to be frealz benevolent, though. ’Cause I already got someone who’s gonna capture me. I just need to find him. After I help you find Max, I mean.”

  “I promise.” He ran a hand over his mouth. “She’s not even my pup. So I have to make sure she’s safe, you know?”

  “Sure, dude. I gotta make sure Maya’s okay too.”

  Probs what I really had to do was make sure everyone else was safe from Maya.

  Glazer whined at Kent’s feet, and Kent patted him. “Up.” Glazer got on two legs, still wagging his butt. “All right,” Kent said. “Let’s go.”

  Glazer took off, moving his paw-gloves in time with his human legs.

  I jammed the hot sauce in my pocket, beside my whistle. “Wait for me,” I whispered to Ryan, wherever he was. I was having some real Last of the Mohicans-type thoughts. “‘I will find you. No matter how long it takes, no matter how far. I will find you.’”

  Then me and Kent and Glazer started off after Maya and Max.

  Time: 1023

  Weather: Ominous.

  Nature: Encountered a very tall, rangy specimen. Sharp teeth. Fine manners. We discussed our feelings.

  Note: Sterilized the end of an ash twig with a lighter and dug the tick head out of my hip.

  Mood: Swift

  Target: Have lost target’s trail along the meadow. Found a string attached to a bell. Believed at first that target had been snared by a clever hunter. But evidence seems to indicate that target has braved the actual woods, and that I must follow.

  POA: Go hence into the abyss.

  I was patrolling the east end of the hunting grounds when somebody approached me f
rom behind. I wondered if it was possible to know the sound of somebody’s footsteps, even in an unfamiliar place. At home, I could always tell the difference between Greg entering the house and Gould entering the house—or coming down the stairs, or using the bathroom, or climbing into bed beside me in the dark . . . But here in the woods? How was I so sure I knew who was approaching?

  “Condoms? Lube? Juice box?” I asked without turning around.

  “I’m not looking for juice boxes. I’m looking for you.”

  I turned slowly and nearly had to shield my eyes against the brightness of Greg’s vest. “Hello, sexy.”

  He walked right up and kissed me, backing me against a tree. Our goggles clicked, and I made a surprised noise into his mouth.

  He took a step back. “Hello.”

  I rubbed my lips together. “What was that in honor of?”

  He gazed at me, and even through his goggles I recognized the soft look he gets sometimes that reminds me he’s so much more than a dude. “Because I’m proud of you.”

  I cupped his cheek, stroking the smooth skin with my thumb. “Really? Why?”

  “Everyone I’ve handed out condoms to so far is having a great time. You organized a damn fine event. You look so hot in that vest. You’re perfect. I saw our slave; he’s perfect too. And I remember a time maybe eight or so years ago when a beautiful young woman and I had sex in the woods. And it was very romantic.”

  “We were covered in mosquito bites. I had pine needles in my vag folds.”

  “I liked it.”

  I laughed. Glanced away, then back at him, leaning against the tree and pushing my boobs out just so I could watch him try to stay focused on my face. “I did too.”

  “And I know we can’t have sex in the woods right now, because we’re responsible adults. But I just want you to know that I can’t resist you.”

  I moved my hand down to his chest. “You are an incredibly handsome man.”

  He put his hand over mine. Then lifted mine and kissed it. “I know you were worried about this going well. But guess what I saw this morning?”