Slave Hunt Read online

  “He’s not gonna mount you either, National Velvet,” Dave told Cinnamon.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Miles step on Dave’s foot.

  For a second, Cinnamon’s face registered genuine hurt. I felt the flicker in her energy, the way the wall sort of collapsed, leaving her open, vulnerable. Then it was back up. “Velvet is a girl, not a horse.”

  “Exactly.” Dave had many good qualities, but knowing when to quit was not one of them.

  “And I wouldn’t touch any of you with a ten-foot pole, but it’s nice that you flatter yourselves.”

  Dave muttered something I didn’t catch.

  I pulled a pack of travel tissues from my pocket and pulled one out. “Allergies,” I said ruefully, catching her eye.

  Cinnamon glanced up at me again, wary. “Me too.”

  “Are you allergic to yourself?” Dave asked her. “Pony dander?”

  Neither of us looked at him. For a second, there was a connection, a sort of latching of her prana to mine. Not in a creepy way—it was like she’d taken my hand, tentatively, and then immediately let it go. I offered her the pack of tissues. She took one.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled. “At least someone here’s a gentleman.” She blew, then tucked the tissue in her pocket and nodded toward the hunter group. “I’m gonna go rejoin my people.”

  “Happy trails,” Dave singsonged.

  “Wait,” Maya called to Cinnamon. “‘Your people’? So you’re helping the hunters?”

  Cinnamon turned and beamed smugly, like she’d been waiting for this moment. “Oh no. No, no. I’m going to hunt.”

  “Hunt?” Dave repeated. “You mean—”

  “With a gun, David.” Her grin broadened. “And believe me, I so look forward to meeting you in the woods.” She spun and continued walking.

  “Well, crap,” Kamen said when she was gone.

  Dave turned to me. “You gave her a tissue. You gave her a tissue, and she’s such a bitch.”

  I smiled gently. “I gave her a tissue because she needed a tissue.”

  He shook his head. “I feel like that means something deep in your vampyre Buddha world. But to me, she’s just a bitch.”

  People will always hate me.

  I’ve grown accustomed to this. Tucked the knowledge away, used it alternately as a shield and a weapon. I was a divisive figure even before Hal. From the time I was eight and invented a trendy card game called Triple Ten at school, to the time I was thirty-four and accepted Bill’s re-application for Riddle membership, people either looked to me as a competent, assertive leader, or else found me overbearing and ill-informed. It was like being onstage for a curtain call and finding myself under a hail of flowers and tomatoes.

  “All right, everyone, listen up!” I raised my clipboard.

  The motley crew gazed back at me. They were arranged on blankets and towels on the grass by the sign-in table. Slaves to the left of the table, hunters to the right. Many of the hunters were standing, but most of the slaves were sitting. I found that amusing. Some of the slaves wore powder-blue wristbands. All, I was pleased to see, had heeded my instructions to come fully clothed.

  Greg and I had considered making the hunt play-at-your-own risk, but once we’d decided to use paintball guns, we’d had to implement more rules. I didn’t want anyone taking hits on bare skin, or getting infected scrotal cuts from twigs, or anything like that. The outfits varied wildly. From Dave’s disconcertingly snug camo pants, to Maya’s Hunger Games costume, to Girltoy’s ever-present fairy wings and Bowser’s rather formal sweater, no two people were dressed exactly alike.

  It was a good group. The hunt had attracted, for the most part, responsible players with senses of humor and friendly dispositions. Such an age range too. From twenty-one-year-old Maya to sixty-three-year-old Peter.

  I tapped my pen against the board. “The rules are fairly simple, but please pay attention. If you have not signed in, please do so. The sheet is on the table.”

  Two people hopped up and went to the table.

  “In twenty minutes, all slaves will be released into the woods and given a ten-minute head start. Hunters, you will come up here and get guns and pod belts for your ammo. You may also practice with the guns and paper targets while you wait. After ten minutes, you will be permitted to enter the woods and pursue the slaves. The hunting perimeter is marked with yellow caution tape. Please do not venture beyond the tape. There may be wolves and forest sprites and other dangers.”

  “I love forest sprites,” Girltoy protested.

  “Hunters, the range of your guns is about one hundred feet. If you are less than twenty feet from a slave, you must give that slave the option to surrender before you shoot. If the slave refuses to surrender, get some space between the two of you and then fire. You can do this by yelling, ‘Surrender!’ And a slave may respond by yelling back, ‘I surrender!’ or by raising their arms. The guns have been dialed down, but the paintballs may still sting, especially at close range.” I looked down the rows of faces. “You will wear protective eye gear at all times. Let me say that again: You will wear protective eye gear at all times.” I paused. “What will you wear at all times?”

  “Protective eye gear,” the group chorused back at me.

  “Very good.”

  When I was in my twenties, I had trained to be a master. I’d gotten a reputation for being loud, bossy. Which was funny, since I considered my topping style pretty quiet. I didn’t raise my voice. With Gould, I often didn’t speak at all.

  Speaking of Gould . . . He was still on all fours, beside Dave. Of course. In the absence of Greg or me, he’d gravitate toward the next safest person. He caught my eye, and I gave him a slight upward nod. He sat back on his heels, crossing his wrists behind his back.

  It was incredible, that feeling of commanding someone with a look, with a touch. Gould was not at all what you’d think. I’d seen him at Riddle one night, years ago: This big guy, mop of curls. I’d expected a geek boy, awkward, out of his depth. I’d thought, How . . . how does someone look so lost and at peace at the same time?

  I’d heard other people talk about him: Shy. Detached. Zen. But he wasn’t quite any of those things. He was quick, watching everything. Whether he actually took in what he was seeing was another story. He certainly wasn’t detached, but he often had his head in the clouds. His quiet agreeability could, I supposed, be read as Zen. But there was a lot happening under the surface. He got nervous. He got flustered by new people, new situations. And it was hard for him to reconcile being an adult, being a man with having that level of anxiety, with wanting comfort. He rarely asked for reassurance, but he needed it.

  That was my job.

  I didn’t know the different levels of love. At what point, precisely, it shifted from affection, to friendship, to romance, to living without you is unthinkable. I just knew that I’d played with a lot of subs and felt warmth for all of them. But Gould actually made me hurt with how much I adored him—how much I appreciated his compassion, his thoughtfulness, his need to please. He considered his own sensitivity embarrassing: an aberration that diminished his manhood, made him less valuable to people. Thought he was lucky that I kept him around, that I tolerated his weakness.

  That was changing, slowly, but it was a battle I knew he still fought. I didn’t know how to make him understand how much strength I saw in him. How rare a thing true submission was from a man. Greg resisted me. Not always directly, but by making jokes, following my orders almost to the letter, finding subtle ways to avoid relinquishing control. Gould just gave. Even when it hurt, even when it was embarrassing. Even when he didn’t know where it would take him. He obeyed. He trusted.

  Without that trust, I was a fraud. Without that trust, I was not a master.

  “Uh, hon?” Greg nudged me.

  “Right.” I looked back at the clipboard, locating the rules I hadn’t checked off yet. “Hunters will wear pod belts to carry their ammo. Anyone without a pod belt, it can be assumed, is a s
lave. Hunters, a capture is when a slave either surrenders to you, or when you hit the slave with a paintball. A fair hit is one that lands on the slave’s body—not one that hits a tree and splatters on the slave. You may not shoot a slave in the head or face. Or genitals. I realize we’re all wearing pants, but do not aim for that area.”

  Some chuckles.

  “Hunters, when you capture a slave, you must take that slave back to camp and bind them to the whipping posts over—” I pointed with my pen “—there. We have six posts. That should be enough at any given time. Their bases have been weighted with sandbags, but I would still not recommend hanging from them with your full weight. We have cuffs, but if a slave prefers their own set of restraints, you may use those. Slaves stay up on the posts for half an hour—after which time you must give up your post if someone else is waiting for it. Bella and Regina will be womanning the camp, so, hunters, they will help you locate your captured slave’s postcards, which specify that slave’s limits. The cards must be tacked to the post, and the limits will be respected. If you have doubts about whether something you want to do to a slave is okay, ask the slave. Or ask the top who speaks on the slave’s behalf, if the top is available. Absolutely no aggressive behavior will be tolerated, and that includes doing anything to a slave without explicit consent, or pressuring a slave into going along with something you want to do. House safewords are red, yellow, and green, and they apply to all people and all situations today. Remember, this is supposed to be fun.”

  Girltoy raised her hand.

  “Hold on.” I held up a finger. “Let me get through these rules, and then I’ll take questions. Hunters, once you chain your slave to the whipping post, you may stay and play with the slave—or other slaves on the posts—or you may return immediately to the woods to hunt. Your choice. If there are neglected slaves on the posts, I have it on good authority that Bella and Reg are armed with glitter paddles and will be happy to give lonely bottoms some attention.”

  A few people whooped.

  I looked up. “It goes without saying that some slaves will need cuddles after their time on the whipping post. Hunters who stay and play, please be prepared to devote some time to aftercare if a slave requires it.”

  Everyone nodded, and a few people whispered and grinned.

  “As mentioned in hunt emails, the prize for the hunter who bags the most prey is a hundred-dollar gift certificate to our partner in crime, the Pleasure Center. Any slave that eludes capture for the entire hunt gets a fifty-dollar certificate. Every participant gets an awesome tote bag full of Pleasure Center swag, including condoms, lube, and . . . stuff.”

  People laughed. I saw Miles straighten—either because he liked stuff, or because something had forced that rod a little farther up his ass. I had mixed feelings about Gould’s friends. I tried to love them because he loved them, but Dave and I had a relationship that was turbulent at best. Miles I found difficult to relax around. Kamen was sweet, but a little too Rob Gronkowski for me.

  And Hal . . . well, you weren’t supposed to speak ill of the dead. And I tried not to. But he’d had no business in BDSM. He’d never taken rules seriously, and he’d never really seemed to think beyond himself. Even though I knew Gould had loved him—worshipped him—I had trouble believing Hal had treated Gould particularly well. I’d seen them together in Riddle sometimes, and had been put off by the way Hal pushed Gould, teased him past the point of what seemed friendly.

  I bit the end of my pen. What was I forgetting?

  “Oh! If a slave is wearing a blue wristband, this indicates that the slave, upon capture, is willing to be stripped down and ravished by the captor. Right there in the woods. You may ravish with clean digits, or with barrier-protected genitals. You might want to put down a jacket, towel, or blanket—if you’ve never fucked outdoors before, it’s not as romantic as you might think.” I deliberately didn’t look at Greg. “Do not give a slave crap if that slave rejects your advances. Even blue-wristbanded slaves have a right to change their minds, or to be discerning about which captors they wish to be ravished by.”

  I gazed slowly across the two groups for emphasis. “Don’t, under any circumstances, have sexual contact with a slave in the woods who is not wearing a blue wristband. Take the slave to the whipping posts and negotiate there. GK and I will not be hunting today, but we will be patrolling the woods, along with Michael, checking up on things.”

  I watched warily for reactions to Michael’s name. Michael was the DM who’d been on duty the night Hal had died, and he’d finally returned to Riddle a couple of years ago after taking some time to deal with his guilt. Most people treated him well, but there were a few members who thought Greg and I should have barred Michael from the club. “We will be wearing these highlighter-yellow vests—” I tugged on mine “—so hunters, don’t shoot us.” I held up a plastic whistle. “Each one of you will get one of these for use in emergencies. If you get lost or injured, give a whistle, and a member of the woodland patrol will assist you. Greg, Regina, and I are all first aid certified and can help with hunt-related injuries.”

  Michael jumped in. “We’ll be carrying snacks and water too. So look for us if you need sustenance.”

  Hal’s death hadn’t been Michael’s fault. Back in those days, Greg and I usually kept two DMs circulating the club throughout the night. That evening, we’d only had Michael, who couldn’t be everywhere at once. Incidents at Riddle were so rare—usually all we needed the DMs for was to tell people to put away their cell phones, or remind newbies to wipe down the furniture—that patrol duty was pretty relaxed.

  A discomfort settled over me as I remembered the inquisition afterward. Cops, lawyers, insurance people . . . all wanting to know exactly what measures Greg and I had taken to ensure the safety of our members. How we could have failed so badly. Those sleepless weeks when I was sure Riddle would be shut down. That Greg and I would be implicated—arrested, maybe. I’d almost prayed for that outcome: to be absolved of the responsibility of trying to keep the club going. To be made to pay for what I’d done, or failed to do.

  I tried to shake it off. I’d been down too many of these rabbit holes over the past four years, and for what? I could lie awake, night after night, adrift in a sea of “if-onlys,” and it would change nothing.

  If only I’d never accepted Bill’s membership application. If only I’d noticed what Bill and Hal were doing that night. If only I’d had a DM stationed at every room. If only I’d made breath play against the rules when Riddle opened. I’d been so smug back then—thirty-two and determined to run the edgiest dungeon in the city, a place where people could be completely themselves. Bleed or choke or fuck or scream . . . I’d wanted to trust that everyone knew how to be themselves safely without Greg and me breathing down their necks.

  I gripped the pen harder and finished. “Speaking of snacks: we will keep a steady supply on the table here. Water’s in the cooler. After a slave’s time at the posts is up, slaves who wish to be maltreated further by the hunters will be placed in the paddock over there.” I motioned to the collapsible dog playpen to my left. “Slaves in the paddock must be prepared to be hosed down, spanked, and, naturally, ravished. Safe sex is a must. If you need condoms of any type—male, female, finger, nonlatex, vegan—or lube, see Bella or Regina. Or a member of the woodland patrol.”

  I was suddenly swamped in visions of things that could go wrong: slaves raped in the woods. People tripping, hitting their heads on rocks or breaking their necks or drowning in streams . . .

  Everyone will be fine. Everyone will have fun.

  I cleared my throat. “There are a few universal hard limits. No blood. No watersports. No breath play. No collars or neck garments are to be worn in the woods. Slaves, you are to stay fully clothed until you are captured. Hunters, do not shoot at naked people. Also: sunscreen. We have lots of it. Put it on. Are there—” my voice was hoarse, my throat dry “—any questions?”

  I fielded questions for a few minutes. Reminded mysel
f I was among friends. Intelligent, cautious, well-intentioned friends who would not let one another get hurt. I caught Gould’s eye again, and he smiled at me. He was still in position, hands behind his back. I gave him a nod, and he released his arms, sinking back onto his heels.

  Greg squeezed my arm. “Are we ready to release the slaves?”

  “I think so.” I smiled. “Slaves, you may rise, grab a whistle, and walk to the entrance.”

  Twenty of them rose. They walked toward the trees, taking whistles from Greg as they passed. Gould hesitated, clearly uncertain whether he had permission to rise. Dave stayed with him. I met Gould’s gaze and nodded. “You may stand.”

  “Thank you, Master.” He got to his feet, and he and Dave headed to the trees. I watched him go, feeling so . . . glad. I loved getting to play with him in public like this. I was careful. Gould didn’t always know his own limits, and he often asked for far more humiliation than he could handle in reality. So while he’d been adamant that he wanted to be used by every hunter here today, I suspected that level of stranger-play would be tough for him.

  So we’d negotiated mutual fantasy: he wanted to be used by the other hunters; I wanted him to be used. But I was going to be in the woods patrolling. I had done up his postcards myself, careful to specify the limits he still had a hard time gauging. Since I likely wouldn’t see what people did to him, I’d instructed him to remember every detail of what happened on the post, and tell me all about it later. Because as much fun as it was to watch others top him, the idea of being deprived of the visual, and then listening to the story later, was hot as hell.

  It would be a good challenge for him too, since he tended to get shy talking about sex. I could arm myself with a crop or a belt or something and let him have it each time his description wasn’t detailed enough. Could even use the strap-on cock—bury myself in him and fuck the story out of him. Make it hurt if he was skimping on the details; make it feel good when he was doing well.