Chapter 2

Chapter Two

We all take off, running as if in formation across the meadow full of tall grass studded with yellow flowers. Buttercups? But I have to run; no time to think. My legs pump, adrenaline driving me on despite the hard ground and the stones under my feet. I try to step carefully, but we’re going too fast, and I have no idea what the consequences might be if I slow down. All I know is I must run, as fast as I can.

We get to the trees—more giant sequoias and oaks—and dash into the woods. I hear laughter from somewhere behind us and dash behind a tree.

“This way,” Jordan says, grabbing my arm and leading me off to the left.

I go with him as the others shoot off in different directions, and another slave I’ve never seen before, a hugely muscled Boy with short blond hair, follows us.

The three of us run, darting around the enormous trees, and my lungs are working as hard as my legs, drawing in the dark scents of the forest: the greenery and tree bark, grasses and the fallen leaves and branches making mulch in the earth.

I dare to look behind me, and I see one of the Masters in camouflage gear, an evil grin on his face as he stalks through the forest. And he has a gun.

A gun?

What the fuck?

They can’t actually be hunting us. If nothing else, we’re too valuable.

But that doesn’t stop my heart from racing, my blood hot in my veins.

Surely they wouldn’t…

“Jordan,” I manage to pant.

He doesn’t look up. He mutters, “Don’t stop. Don’t think. Just go.”

I take his advice and run as if my life depends on it. Perhaps it does. Who the fuck knows what deviant shit they have planned for us?

My body is getting into a rhythm now, pacing with Jordan, and I sink a bit into that rhythm in the same way I sometimes do when I’m being beaten. The rhythm itself is some sort of magic. Subspace, I suppose. Or at least, that’s what it was back in the day before I truly became a slave. Subspace is a constant now. Slavespace. As I run I begin to notice my surroundings: the huge sequoias with their rough, dark red bark, and the sprawling oaks scattered here and there. The moss everywhere, the deep green ferns in clumps at the base of the trees.

Jordan grabs my hand and pulls me sharply to the right, and I follow, but the other Boy does not. I hear the pounding of his feet as he runs, then soon, it’s just our feet, Jordan’s and mine.

But my lungs are beginning to burn. As fast as I know I am, I can’t keep up this pace for much longer, and I slow down.

“Go,” I tell him. “I have to catch my breath.”

“No…” he begins as he slows to a jog to stay beside me.

I look up at him, his exquisite face that is really too pretty for a Boy, his dark buzz cut. The intensity in his dark eyes.

“Jordan. You have to go.”

He gives my hand a squeeze, nods, and dashes ahead. I stop, bending over and bracing my hands on my thighs, drawing in deep breaths as slowly as I can. As my lungs recover, I realize I am completely alone in the woods, that the early summer air is cool beneath the canopy of leaves and smells of damp now. I glance around, pausing to listen, but there’s nothing but the silent woods—not even the rustle of birds in the trees. Not even a breeze moving through the branches.

I’m a city girl, born and raised in L.A., but some sort of primal instinct kicks in and I sense I really am alone, certain no one else is in the immediate vicinity. I jog between a pair of oaks, then downhill a bit, and soon a narrow creek comes into view. I move toward it, my senses on high alert in case any of the Masters—the Hunters—are nearby. That’s what they’ve become in my head. Hunters. Predators in the forest. And from what Dahlia told us, we are in fact being hunted.

Which means I am prey.

Prey .

Yes.

I pause long enough to bend down and scoop some water into my cupped hands. It’s clear and very cold, and I’m so thirsty I’m tempted to take a sip or two. But, even city girl that I am, I know better than to risk drinking it, so I confine myself to splashing some of it on my face and neck. Then I wade across the stream, careful not to slip on the smooth stones as the water ripples over my feet and swirls around my ankles.

Just as I reach the middle I hear a twig snap, and pulse racing, I glance to my right.

A doe stands with her front feet in the water, her huge brown eyes staring at me. And I smile—I can’t help it. In this moment I feel a sort of kinship, as if I understand her on some deep level, as if she understands me in return. Both of us prey. She lowers her head to drink for several moments in which I am filled with a sort of awe and joy and unity. Then she lifts her dainty feet and walks off up the creek bed, disappearing around a bend, and I smile after her, standing there watching as she retreats.

Then there’s another sound. Footsteps?

Must get moving.

On the other side of the creek I climb the bank, and as I reach the top I hear a series of muffled gunshots. Crouching behind a bush with my heart once again a hammer in my chest, I peer around to see a Hunter with a gun shooting at a female slave, splattering her in blue paint.

Paintball.

Thank god that’s all it is. Did I really think they’d have bullets?

Maybe I did. This whole adventure has been an extraordinary mindfuck in a way nothing has ever been before.

She goes down with a groan. I’ve heard the paintballs hurt like hell. But this I can handle.

I stay crouched, quiet, as he walks over to her and yanks her upright by the hair. He pulls a walkie-talkie from his belt and speaks into it.

“I’ve got one! Coming in.”

He drags her off by her hair, and I can only imagine her fate.

Will she be put into a cage? Used for the entertainment of all the Hunters? Made to run again? Or kept for his personal abuse?

This is the true mindfuck, isn’t it? Keeping us guessing. And it’s working like a fucking charm. I have no idea what will happen to me if I am caught. Or what might happen if I’m not. Will the punishment be worse if I’m able to elude them?

Another surge of fear runs through me, goosebumps rising on my skin, and I run to the right, following the edge of the creek until I lose it completely. I keep running, legs pumping, lungs on fire, but I can’t stop. Not now. Not ever. I don’t understand what this is, what will happen. I was told to run, and I do, tears streaming down my face.

I dash into a small clearing and have a split second to realize my foot is caught in something before I hear a sharp snap, and I am lifted—no, not lifted, but snapped up as if into the jaws of a great beast. I scream as a net swallows me and I fly up into the air. I hang there in midair, fighting against the net, but I know I am trapped.

No. I have been trapped. This is the oldest hunting trick in the book, isn’t it?

I’m held tight in the net as I swing from a tree branch, all of my limbs crouched and tight against my body. How long before someone finds me?

One hand is free enough for me to wipe the tears from my eyes.

Stop it .

I’m so fucking mad that I’m crying, and soon I’m angry enough to quiet my tears.

The net is made of rough, toothy rope, and it digs into my skin, but it’s not too bad. The bad part is wondering if I’m to be left here all night.

Time passes, but I don’t know if it’s been an hour or ten minutes. I tell myself to wait. Not that I really have any other option.

Inhale, exhale .

I’ve been made to wait often enough, haven’t I? This is no different than being chained up at the foot of my Mistress’s bed, awaiting her pleasure—or her pain.

“Ah, there she is,” a male voice says. He has a slight accent I can’t quite identify. “Our prize, Erek.”

“Oh, this is excellent, Séverin. It’s a Girl, yes? Let’s get her down and take a good look at her.”

Peering through the net, I can just make them out. The one called Séverin is tall, elegant even in his hunting clothes—perfectly pressed khaki trousers and shirt. A bit older; close to fifty, perhaps? He looks harsh. Stern. I’m a little in love already.

The other man—the other Hunter—is out of sight, but he is apparently doing something to lower the net I’m caught in. I go down slowly, inch by inch, until I’m on the ground, and he’s standing over me, cutting the net with a large hunting knife.

My heart is a hammer again. Will he cut me? I can take knife play, of course, but it still frightens me, as it’s meant to.

When the pieces of net fall aside, I am left crouching on the ground, being careful to keep my head bowed in submission.

And I’m surprised when one of them says in a gentle tone, his fingers beneath my chin, raising my head up, “Look at me, Girl. Let us see your pretty face.”

I do as I’m told—of course I do—and meet his calm blue eyes. Oh, but he’s lovely, with strong, squared features and long blonde hair tied back, a few wisps escaping around his frankly beautiful face. His mouth is lush, without a hint of cruelty, which I know is a ruse. The Masters never fail in their cruelty. It’s something we count on. But I love the contrast, the illusion of softness. I hope this Hunter will take me with him, and I cannot wait to see how hard a Master he might be.

The other approaches and yanks my chin up hard, peering into my face. “Pretty little thing,” he pronounces after scanning my face with sharp brown eyes that are so dark they are almost black. “Almost pretty enough for me to fuck,” he says, making the other one laugh. “I am Master Séverin, and this is Master Erek. And you, my lovely Girl, belong to us now, to do with as we wish. You’ll come to dread our wishes,” he says with a feral smile full of flawless white teeth. The wolf in the forest, ready to tear me to pieces, to devour me. “Won’t she, Erek?”

Another chuckle from the one called Master Erek, then he loops an arm around Master Séverin’s shoulder—an arm thick with muscle and fully tattooed in black and gray, his shirtsleeve rolled up—and he kisses the older Master’s finely sculpted jaw. Master Séverin turns his head and kisses Master Erek’s mouth, and they grin at each other.

Ah, there it is, that wicked gleam in their eyes, and also, if I am not mistaken, love between them.

Oh, to serve these two beautiful men. I almost don’t care what they do to me. Almost. I am theirs, and the world is once more as it should be.

“Stand for us,” the softer one commands, and I do.

The older Master steps forward and grabs my chin in his hand, his long fingers digging into my jaw as he turns my head from one side to the other. He releases my chin and continues his examination, cupping my breasts, squeezing. My nipples go hard in an instant as he gives them a sharp squeeze between his strong fingers. My pussy clenches.

He runs his palms down my sides, over my hips, then reaches behind me, almost as if in an embrace, and his hands stroke down my spine, a lovely, sensual chill chasing his fingertips. I bow my head as he continues, his hands running over my ass, then grabbing the flesh there and squeezing hard. But I’ve seen up close now how handsome he is. How every bone in his face is perfectly placed. Perfectly sculpted. And this perfection is intimidating as hell, because I can also see how evil he will be, how much delight he’ll take in my suffering—suffering he will bring me. I want to sink down to my knees once more and offer myself up to his wickedness, but I have not been told to, so I silently command my legs to hold me in place.

He turns me around roughly so my back is to him. “Spread,” he commands.

I do, instantly, eagerly, and he slides his hand in between my thighs from behind me, his fingers stroking my bare pussy, more gently than I would have expected. I am soaking wet in an instant. Then he yanks me hard against him, my back against his chest, and sliding both arms around my hips, he reaches down and spreads my pussy lips wide with the fingers of both hands, pinching them hard enough to make me pull in a gasping breath.

The other Master—Master Erek—appears before me, that sweet smile on his face as he stares into my eyes. That look alone melts me, and in this moment, I would do anything for him. For them both.

Why is it that even though I have always craved the roughness, the harsh command, these moments of gentleness on their part are making my body surge with need? It’s as if I am discovering for the first time something I didn’t know I’ve missed.

Master Erek moves closer and brushes his lips across my cheek, and I am devastated in some way I don’t think I have been before. And all the while my mind is spinning, questioning. Waiting.

I don’t have long to wait as he pulls back, and with his blue gaze locked on mine, he shoves his fingers into my hungry cunt, and I can’t help the gasp that escapes me.

As wet as I am, his fingers slide inside easily. They fill me up and begin a hard, driving thrusting, deep and seeming to scrape me inside, somehow, and his eyes narrow, his gaze becoming more intense.

Ah, there it is. That glint of evil in him, too.

Yes .

He pumps faster, fucking me harder and harder, and the walls of my pussy are burning, burning, and I don’t understand. I can’t tear my gaze from his as the pain rips through me, pain and pleasure in such equal measures the divide between the two becomes more and more vague with each hurting thrust. Even despite the intense burning, I don’t want him to stop.

They all know the secret to our hearts, the Masters and Mistresses.

His free hand wraps around the back of my neck and his grip is demanding my stillness. I do my best to obey this silent command, but whatever he’s doing deep inside my cunt hurts in a way I’ve never felt before. I am on fire. A tear slips down my cheek, making him smile wickedly, like a wolf about to feast on its fallen prey.

Prey.

Yes .

That is what I am now. No longer Girl. No longer simply a slave. And the idea is both devastating and provocative as hell.

I need this.

He goes faster, adds more fingers…I think. I don’t know. But fuck, it hurts. I feel as if I’m being scalded and torn apart all at the same time, and behind me, the staccato heartbeat of my other new Master hammers against my spine, the buttons of his shirt pressing into my skin.

I hear a small laugh from him. “I’m getting hard,” he murmurs.

It’s not for my ears, of course—I am an object to them, which is as it should be. But I am fascinated.

Then he says, “The ginger oil seems to be working its magic.”

Master Erek grins, then pulls his fingers out of my body, holding them up. They are slick with something more than my own wet need, and three of his fingernails are long and filed into points.

But it’s the ginger oil; that’s the burning, made harsher by those nails tearing at my inner flesh.

What an introduction to these two. I need more— need them—and it’s a craving that’s tearing me apart every bit as much as Master Erek’s sharp nails,

Master Séverin reaches around and pries my mouth open, holding it while Master Erek shoves his fingers into my mouth, then down my throat.

“Suck, pretty Girl,” he commands.

Master Séverin releases his tight hold on my jaw so that I can close my lips, and I suck, my tongue slipping around Master Erek’s thick fingers, tasting myself on him, somehow, even through the evil ginger oil. Then it is my lips and tongue on fire, but not as bad as my pussy. And the dual sensations seem to join these two parts of my body, and I have an odd sense that they are, for the moment, one and the same.

Orifices. Holes to fill. Yes.

I suck harder, needing to please him, to please them both, letting the tips of the nails pierce the surface of my tongue, the inside of my cheek, tasting a hint of my own blood. And as I suck, the two Masters come together and kiss, their faces right next to mine. And I think I might die from the heat these two generate between them.

Master Erek, with his fingers still in my mouth, uses them to turn my head toward them, and Master Séverin kisses my cheek. Gently at first, then he bites it, just hard enough that I know he will leave me marked.

Yes.

His.

Master Erek pulls his fingers from my mouth, replacing them with the other hand, and rams his fingers down my throat until I gag, then choke, and I sputter, trying to drag some air in through my nose. Then a hand wraps around my throat, cutting off the blood supply to my brain, and I barely have time to wonder if he’s going to choke me out before I am gone.

When I come to I’m on the ground, the carpet of leaves soft beneath me. Master Séverin is bent over me, watching my face. And before I can help myself, I smile a little at him.

He slaps me, hard, across the same cheek he bit into, and my head reels for a moment.

“Daring Girl,” he says, but there is more humor in his tone than accusation. He straightens and looks at Master Erek. “She amuses me. Please radio the base and ask them to send someone to prepare her.”

He places his booted foot on my chest, holding me down to the earth as Master Erek walks away, and I can hear him talking faintly. When Master Erek returns a few moments later, he places his boot between my thighs.

“Spread, Girl,” he demands.

I do, and he moves his heavy boot to my mound, pressing down. It should hurt, and it does, but he’s pressing and releasing, pressing and releasing, and in moments I am about to come.

I bite the inside of my cheek, which is already sore, trying to hold back. I know I must. And just when I’m afraid it will really be impossible, a man and a woman arrive.

My two Masters step back, and the new people—Handlers, perhaps?—quickly tie my wrists and ankles in a toothy jute rope that digs into my skin. Ah, I have a love-hate relationship with this sort of rope. It makes me feel utterly taken, which soothes me, but it also itches and scrapes my skin, making me tune into my body perhaps more than I’d like.

They know exactly what they’re doing.

In moments I am tightly bound, then a long pole slides through loops they’ve left in the ropes at both wrists and ankles, and suddenly I’m hanging like a pig on a spit.

Why is this so humiliating? Why does this make the tears come once more as they carry me through the woods? My body sways a bit as they walk, the pole on their shoulders, and soon the rhythm offers me some comfort. I look up at the brilliant blue sky through the heavy branches of the sequoias, and take a deep breath, inhaling the forest smells: earth, green, water. Even the mulching leaves on the forest floor. Once I quiet my mind a bit, I notice a few birds chirping, the wind rustling through the trees, and I remember my encounter with the doe in the creek. I remember her enormous brown eyes. The way she held herself so utterly still until she recognized I wouldn’t hurt her. Or so my mind imagines.

But even as I revel in the beauty around me, my cunt still burns from that evil oil, and with the stark, nearly shattering need to come that has faded only a little.

I have no idea when they will allow me to come, or if they will at all. I have no idea what awaits me. Where they are taking me. What they will do to me once we arrive there. But it’s not my job to know. It is only my job to endure. To serve them in this way. And that is my freedom. To be their captured prey. The victim of the hunt.

How fucking glorious is this?