Slave Hunt Read online

  “YOU ARE THE BEST,” I CORRECTED HIM.

  HE PUT HIS ARMS AROUND MY WAIST AND PULLED. I COLLAPSED TO MY KNEES, AND HE PUT HIS GIANT HANDS ON MY SHOULDERS AND KISSED SO HARD I WENT OVER BACKWARD. HE PINNED ME WITH HIS ARMS ON EITHER SIDE OF ME AND THEN LOWERED HIMSELF UNTIL HE WAS HALF ON TOP OF ME, HALF ON THE GRASS.

  WE STAYED LIKE THAT AS THE RAIN GRADUALLY SUBSIDED. ANYONE WHO WANTED TO USE A WHIPPING POST WAS GONNA HAVE TO FIND ANOTHER ONE.

  ’CAUSE THE RYMEN GROPEFEST HAD JUST PUT THIS ONE OUT OF COMMISSION.

  I might as well return to camp. For I had nothing.

  It was 11:05. I had won my competition against D, but there was little satisfaction in winning. Because winning apparently meant being alone. And that was the one thing I sucked at more than stealth, more than patience, more than slingshot-ing small game.

  “D?” I said, tentatively at first. And then louder, in case he was nearby: “D?”

  I sat on Ryan’s stump, wincing as my pants squeezed me. I fumbled for a moment with the fly, but my fingers were too cold and the waistband too tight for me to undo it. I gave up, groaning in frustration. “I hate the woods!”

  When I heard the footsteps, I thought the wolves had finally come for me. Or the ghosts. Or that Cinnamon was back to kill me.

  But then there was a familiar grunt and cough.

  I went still, hardly daring to believe that the woods had answered my prayers.

  “Well, David.” A low, gruff monotone.

  I couldn’t stop the grin that spread across my face. “You found me.”

  “You won.”

  I whirled. He looked as burly and rugged as I’d ever seen him, and the sight of his gun and pod belt made whatever bloodless husk was left of my dick start to rise. “So I’m stealthy?” I demanded.

  “You are . . . capable of stealth.”

  “And I’m skilled?”

  “You’ve learned well.”

  “The corvid bests the kestrel.”

  “For now.”

  I tried to get up, but the pants cut so sharply into my middle that I oofed.

  “What’s wrong?” An edge of concern in his tone.

  “Pants.”

  He walked to the stump, sat beside me, and began working the button of my fly.

  “My fingers are cold,” I explained. “I can’t get it . . .”

  “David. These are not pants. They are a—” he grunted, jaw clenched “—tourniquet.” He finally popped the button. My breath left in a rush of the most divine relief I’d ever experienced.

  “I think I might actually be having an orgasm. I can’t tell.”

  He glared at me. “I may have spoken too soon about your survival skills.”

  I collapsed against him. “But I won. I won, D. Even in the pants Satan makes Hitler wear in Hell.”

  He snorted and rubbed my shoulder. “You won,” he agreed.

  “So no spanking on the whipping post.” I tried to hide my disappointment.

  He looked down at me. “Not on the whipping post, no. But if you desire a celebratory spanking in the privacy of the woods, I suppose that can be arranged.”

  “You may want to wait until circulation returns to my lower body. Otherwise it’ll be like spanking a corpse.”

  “I can wait.”

  I kept my lips pressed to his sleeve, my arms around his paunchy waist. “I missed you.”

  “It was only two hours.”

  I shook my head. “Survival’s no fun without you.”

  “Well,” he said slowly. “Then it’s a good thing you won’t have to survive without me anymore.”

  Time: 1108

  Weather: Fuck it.

  Nature: Unimportant.

  Mood: Deeply pleased.

  Target: Target is beautiful. Target is mine. Target is loved.

  POA: No fucking clue.

  I suppose I could attempt to explain.

  Though elaborating does not come naturally to me.

  I have found much to admire about David over the past two and a half years.

  And it matters very little to me if others understand.

  I realize he is loud. Defiant. On occasion, illogical and rude.

  And far more energetic than anyone his age has a right to be.

  Back in my day, life began beating you down the instant you entered adulthood. If not before. Your only option was to gird up your loins, take a couple of shots of strong whiskey, and embrace destiny’s bleak offerings.

  I do not understand this modern breed of optimistic, effusive young men who believe they will alter life’s eternal injustice with a Twitter hashtag. Who believe that words are any match for deeds.

  Perhaps I am envious.

  Because I see in David a sort of maturity I lack. One that comes from knowing and being sure of yourself. From loving the people around you loudly and defiantly. From being unafraid of how people will look at you if you state your feelings boldly, trust openly, and let yourself grow and learn.

  I do not squeal over Oscar dresses. I do not cry when I am sad, or when I am happy. I assume that others are, for the most part, incompetent and untrustworthy.

  And maybe this is because I am not very brave at all.

  David is always nervous before a spanking. Excited, but nervous. And this may be what I appreciate so much about the act: that there is all this to-do over one person slapping another’s ass. It makes me nervous at times too—though I’ve never told him that. Because I want so much for him to enjoy it.

  “I would like you,” I told him calmly, “to go to that white ash. Bend over. Place your hands on the trunk. Stick your ass out.”

  He looked at me—that look I have never quite understood. Amused and doleful at once, like he is sharing both a wicked secret and a quiet plea.

  I walked with him to the ash.

  “Let’s take off those ridiculous pants.”

  “Please,” he agreed.

  Even with the fly open, the pants were too tight for me to slide them past his hips. I clamped my tongue between my teeth. Exerted more effort. He shook with quiet laughter.

  “Suck it in,” I ordered.

  He did, and I yanked them down.

  Next I had him lift each leg so I could remove his shoes and the pants. Finally he stood there in just a pair of white briefs and black socks. Hands pressed so hard against the tree his knuckles were pale.

  I touched the band of chafed skin around his waist.

  “They weren’t good pants,” he whispered.

  “No. But your ass did look amazing in them.”

  “My spleen is crushed. Go easy on me.”

  I touched my palm to the seat of his briefs. Felt his momentary wince. I tugged the waistband with one finger.

  He reached back and put a hand over his ass. I snorted. Took his wrist and guided his hand back to the trunk. I placed his palm against the rough bark, put my hand over his, and we stayed like that a moment. His hand small, soft, and warm under mine.

  I leaned forward until my lips were nearly touching his neck. “I love you.”

  His shoulders tightened. “Don’t. You know I cry over everything.”

  “I love you.”

  “Stop. I can’t—I can’t take a spanking if I’m—”

  I slapped the seat of his briefs lightly. “Can’t you?”

  “D—” His voice was rough.

  I kept my other hand over his. Swatted him a couple more times, just as gently, the act as familiar to both of us as getting out of bed in the morning. He ducked his head and tensed at each swat. But I never hit any harder.

  The game was usually like so: He fought. I growled. He gave up. I won.

  But this time was different.

  He was crying softly. I paused every couple of swats to kiss his neck again and tell him I loved him.

  The words did not seem trite. Or unnecessary.

  He wiped his cheek on his outstretched arm.

  I paused and tugged down his underwear. Pressed the small of his back to
make him stick his ass out. Ran a thumb over the pink skin. Smacked him once. Twice. Then he straightened without permission, turned, and buried his face silently against my shoulder.

  I placed my arms around him. What a good man. What a moment.

  He took a breath. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

  “Okay.”

  I led him back to the stump. Sat and pulled him onto my lap.

  He was not hard. There was something oddly touching about the sight of his cock soft and resting on a patch of brown hair. I lifted his hips and pulled his underwear up to cover him. Left my hand on his lower abdomen, feeling the contracting and releasing of muscles, the warmth of his skin. The smooth trail of hair leading down to the waistband of his briefs.

  He shifted, trying to get closer. I remained stoic as I took a bony elbow to the gut. He leaned against me. “I’m so stupid. I get so emotional—”

  “Good.”

  “I’m a grown man. I shouldn’t—”

  “It’s one of the many things I love about you.”

  “What happened to you? Did you have a heart-to-heart with a magical talking badger who taught you to express your feelings?”

  “Something like that.”

  His jaw dropped. “Did you see an eagle? Is that what changed you?”

  I shook my head. “I was not so fortunate.”

  He tilted his face toward the sky. “It’s about to rain.”

  “A little rain never hurt anyone.”

  He butted my chest gently. “Maybe not you, beast. But I’m delicate.”

  “You were hardy today.”

  “Then can my reward be not getting rained on?”

  “Yes.” I stood, pulling him up with me. “Your pants are by the tree.”

  “I can’t put those on again. My innards are bruised. I’ll have to walk back like this.”

  I paused. Then I toed off my boots. Undid my pod belt. My regular belt. And finally my fly.

  I removed my pants.

  Handed them to him. “Here.”

  He looked at the pants, then up at me. “You’re . . . giving me your pants?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Put them on. The rain is coming.”

  He hesitated, then stepped into them. They were many sizes too large.

  He held the waistband away from his body like an “after” weight loss image. “Uhhh . . .” He laughed.

  The belt was unlikely to be of much help, designed as it was for men more ample than he.

  I offered him the pod belt. “It is fully adjustable.”

  He strapped it around his waist and pulled it tight enough to hold the pants up. “This is beautiful. Like when a guy gives a girl his jacket. Except it’s pants.” He shoved his feet into his shoes.

  I pulled my boots back on. Picked up his ridiculous camo pants. “Come on, you.”

  I started toward camp just as the rain began rustling through the leaves. I held out an arm. He stepped under it, and I settled it around his shoulders.

  It did feel strange, to be walking around outside in my underwear.

  But in all the time we had been together, he had always been more willing to be naked than I.

  It felt good to level the playing field.

  I was having fun.

  Drix and I sat side by side on the blanket we’d brought, leaning against one another. I was half-dressed—still sans shirt. Gould was stretched out beside me, covered with a jacket. The light rain had stopped, and the sun was shining faintly. I’d called my mother half an hour ago to check on things, and she’d put Zac on the phone. He’d told me about the cartoons he’d watched, and about how he and Grandma were going to make popcorn tonight. As far as I could tell, there were no hard feelings between us.

  “He forgives so easily,” I’d said to Drix.

  “He’s seven. He doesn’t have the attention span to hold a grudge.”

  Thank goodness.

  So that left me free to concentrate on Drix for the time being. Drix, who was going to live with me. Drix, who had just vampyre-magicked my dear friend into a deep sleep. Gould didn’t even stir when Dave walked over to us.

  “This is the best pile of people I’ve seen in a while,” Dave announced.

  I looked up at him. “Hello. Your pants are trop grand.”

  “They’re D’s.” He shook his own blanket out and sat on it. Nodded toward the snack table. “Look at him in his undies. Isn’t he stately?”

  I turned and saw D in his navy boxers, loading up a plate with pretzels and chips. “Uh. Sure.”

  “He’s my fucking man.” He turned back to us. “Drix, I heard you shot like five slaves.”

  Drix smiled. “I got pretty lucky.”

  “Enjoy that gift card, man. You earned it.” Dave dipped his head toward Gould and mouthed Thank you to Drix. Drix nodded.

  Gould woke up after a few minutes and crawled over to Dave’s blanket to sit with him. I could hear them talking—loudly.

  “Look at Miles’s body,” Dave was saying. I assumed he meant my nettle welts and nipple bruising, but he went on. “I’ve never thought about what’s under Miles’s sweaters. I think I assumed it would be like Sammy from Wayside School, and he’d just keep taking off cardigan after cardigan until we discovered there was just a dead rat underneath. But he’s ripped.”

  I rolled my eyes at Drix. He raised his eyebrows and flicked his gaze to my abs as though to say, He has a point.

  Gould plucked a blade of grass and folded it. “You’ve seen him do scenes at Riddle.”

  “Are you kidding? I avoid watching his scenes at all cost. It’s like a Tarantino movie. You have to watch eighty percent of it through your fingers.”

  “You’re an idiot.”

  I turned to them. “I can hear you, you know.”

  Dave grinned. “I know. We’ll leave you to canoodle with your vamypre.”

  I shook my head. Bête, the both of them. I studied the entrance to the woods. “Where are GK and Kel? Are they the only ones not back?”

  Dave stretched, cracking his knuckles. “Maybe it was too far. And Kel was just too old.”

  Gould slapped his arm. “Shut up.”

  Kamen staggered over and collapsed on Dave’s blanket, still wearing nothing but panties. “This is the best day of my life. This hunt was so fun. I love everybody.”

  Dave high-fived him. “Did you know Gould took a bullet for me to keep me from getting caught by Cinnamon? It was actually Drix’s bullet, but the point is he was willing to die for me.”

  “Whaaaat?”

  “Yeah, I was on the ground, and Cinnamon was about to shoot. And Gould just, like, somersaulted across the ground and shielded me.”

  Kamen stared at Gould. “You barrel-rolled?”

  “Uhhhh . . .” Gould said.

  “Like in movies when people barrel-roll to get out of danger?”

  “Well, to be fair, I barrel-rolled into danger, not out of it.”

  “But you barrel-rolled to be a hero?”

  “Yes.” Dave knocked Gould with his shoulder. “He barrel-rolled to be a hero.”

  “What can I say?” Gould shrugged. “I’m a badass.”

  Dave turned to him. “You know what you could do next time, though? To make it just a tiny bit better?”

  “You’re giving me advice on how to save you?”

  “No, just think about this, though. How awesome would it have been if, right when she was about to shoot, the triumphant Jurassic Park music had started to play—you know the music when the raptors leap onto the T-rex and attack it?—and you’d run at Cinnamon with your hands out like claws and jumped on her?”

  “Who’s gonna play the music? God?”

  “Uh, yeah. If God looked down and saw a situation like that unfolding, he would totally DJ.”

  I sighed and rested my head against Drix’s arm, tuning my friends out. I scanned the field, enjoying the sight of so many happy people. Maya was laughing with the two pups and their owner. Even Ci
nnamon looked to be having an amicable chat with other hunters.

  Eventually Kel and Greg returned to camp, and Kel revealed the hunt’s winners. Drix had taken the Ultimate Hunter award. Dave and two other slaves got gift certificates for eluding capture. My group ended up staying almost an hour after the hunt to talk and eat and help clean up.

  Finally, the meadow looked like an ordinary meadow again—no banners or tables or dog runs or whipping posts. I helped load the last post into Regina’s truck, then turned to Drix. “Well. Shall we head home?”

  I’d called my house “home” in conversation with Drix before, and so had he. But it felt good to say it and . . . mean it on a whole new level, I suppose.

  “I think we should stop at the Pleasure Center on the way.”

  “We shouldn’t. Not yet. We don’t have enough—”

  “Miles. There will always be something else we should spend our money on. But today, we’re going to spend it on this.”

  I sometimes quite enjoyed it when he took charge.

  Dave held something out to us. “I’ll help.”

  His gift card.

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “That’s yours.”

  “I’m not gonna use it. D makes all our stuff. Put it toward your damn vac bed.”

  Drix reached out and plucked the gift card from his hand. “Thank you.”

  I sighed. “All right. We will stop at the Pleasure Center on the way home.”

  Drix put an arm around me and kissed my temple. “That’s more like it.”

  “—and then Maya got to have some time on the whipping post, which made her really happy.” I paused. “I don’t even think she was bummed about being disqualified. She said she just wanted to have lots of sensual experiences with lots of people. And she did. And then Drix won the Ultimate Hunter award, so I’m guessing he and Miles got themselves a good housewarming present.”

  “Babe?” Kel said. “We were there for that part.”

  I rolled my eyes up to meet her gaze. Grinned. “I know. You wanted the whole story, though.” We were on the couch, the three of us, with Kel in the middle and Greg and me leaning on her.

  She traced my collar. “We’ve heard a lot about what you saw happen to other people. But I thought you were gonna tell us about what happened to you on the whipping post.”