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The moment you fell the lion, you know he's angry. You've practically raced him to get here. You only have a vague idea of where he is right now: somewhere to the east, one or two miles away. He's a crack sniper, or used to be til you arrived. Your entire plan is to get a good number of kills in before you have to get back home to normality, and if that means getting in the way of a few seasoned sharpshooters, you're willing to pay that price. You'll be gone soon, anyway. Not like they'll ever have to deal with you again. You're here for one last hunt before you embark on other quests--you'll gather your trophies, send them out to be taxedermied and put back in the old house, and then return to the gilded cage that is your life.
You'd like to end this era with a bang. To you, this means breaking all the rules.
The particular hunter you're thinking of now, the one you know hates your guts for this kill specifically, is a strange case. He's never come up to you in a fit of rage prepared with a speech about poor sportsmanship; he has not so much as shown his face to you. But you know he's out there.
You come back from the day's hunt to find your camp ever so slightly disturbed. Nothing taken, and very little left from the intruder but a telltale arrangement of rocks and sticks into recognizable but indecipherable shapes. It is a warning sign, you suppose, from a culture you never cared to research. Your pattern recognition is still strong enough to know what it means. You've bagged three big animals in as many days (a buffalo the first day, a rhino the second) and had pissed off two other men with guns on safari, so this must be the third, and it must be him. His modus operandi is certainly different, but the message is the same: "fuck off."
That's not to say you don't know what he looks like. You'd seen him from a distance before, peering through your high-powered binoculars when you were supposed to be stalking your next trophy. You'd tried to justify it to yourself as keeping an eye on the competition, but honestly, who would believe that lame excuse? You hardly believe it yourself anymore, but you still repeat it to yourself every time you settle on him on his side of the savanna.
He keeps a small camp and carries only one gun, a hunting rifle with a scope that probably outdoes your binoculars. You like to watch him in the mornings, after you've woken up but before you make yourself hunt-ready. Sometimes you find him in rare moments of reprieve, drinking coffee or water like it's nectar. Your binoculars are good enough to see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, scruffy throat undulating. Sometimes he's scoped in, shoulders up, oblivious to the world outside his viewfinder, as you think you must be.
You feel like you're going crazy. The isolation out here on the savanna is a catalyst for an impulse you thought you had under control, that strange part of your fantasies that you keep hidden from yourself like the dirty magazines you hid from your parents underneath your mattress. It crops up in bad places, strikes you not only in the middle of the night when you can take care of business in your tent but when you're stalking your quarry. Without warning, you'll catch a scent or even just bend over the wrong way and your body activates. Your cunt throbs so hard it's painful. You can't see straight. All you can think about is him, a man you've only encountered at a distance.
You feel ever so slightly weird about it, but it's not enough to get you to stop looking for him, at first surruptitiously, then overtly. One day you swear he catches you, though you must be at least a quarter mile away. His gaze might be directed at something else in the far distance, but when you peek through your binoculars, you could swear he's staring straight at you. Even behind his aviators, you can sense it, that magnetic pull.
You have to wrench yourself away from the sight and you stalk back through the tall grass, carrying your own gun, trying not to be seen.
You wonder if you'll ever actually meet him one of these days, if your paths will cross and you'll learn his name, who he works for, what his techniques are. You wonder what he smells like as you fuck yourself and realize it's probably awful, but you're so used to your own sweat that you realize you could drink someone else's just for variety's sake. You wonder what he sounds like, the timbre of his voice. Right before you cum, you entertain the notion of his hands around your throat, in your hair, pinning you down and ravishing you like an animal in heat, consumed by the need to dominate his prey, and the thought is so shameful that it makes your orgasm even sweeter. You are a resourceful woman, after all, who has tested men before and found them wanting. What use could you have for another?
Every time you think of him that way, you tell yourself it's just a fleeting impulse. It's only a fantasy cooked up by a human mind hungry for stimulation. It's not worth thinking about beyond an elaborate release mechanism. You're letting off steam. It means nothing.
You never consider that he may actually catch you.
You don't see the snare til it's already taut around your ankle. Your body is whipped around and your world goes topsy-turvy. What an odd development, you think distantly.Like it's just another inconvenience of the wilderness. Then it hits you that you've been snared, and the distance shatters. Anger spurts from some gland or another and you cry out in frustration, grabbing hold of the dry grass like it'll save you.
It's dark out and you probably shouldn't have been here anyway, only you wanted to spend one last night out here. If a lion ripped your throat out, so much the better: you'd be free of your obligation to return to your sumptuous life filled with stupid people. But maybe you shouldn't have been here. You're dangerously close to where you last saw your rival, near a specific acacia tree you've always kept in your sight as a landmark and near which he had happened to set up camp.
You hear his footsteps through the grass, too measured and heavy to be anything but another human being. His sillhouette approaches you as you dangle helplessly, all the blood rushing to your head. His body emerges from the shadows and it is tall and wiry. Then, as though it were a curse planted on you, you smell him. It's pure animal musk and now your body is activated in that same damn way: painful, undeniable arousal.
You're too slow to react. The rope goes around your wrists and he pulls it taut before he steps to the side and lowers the snare itself. You come back to earth with a thud. Then he saunters over and just... looks at you for a second, looming, like he's waiting for something to happen.
"You're right quiet for someone who just got snared," he remarks.
He's Australian. That's different. His voice is low and scratchy, much better than whatever you had assumed he would sound like. You want to say something back, something clever and devastating, but it strikes you that that's what he wants. You decide to hinder his efforts instead and keep your mouth shut.
This does not deter him. Not yet. He kneels, talks to you face-to-face. "You know why I'm here."
You know very well, but your lips are sealed.
"You stole something from me."
Damn right you did.
"And I want an apology."
Strange way to get an apology out of someone, even for a hunter, and now you're even less inclined to give one. A smirk crawls across your face.
"Bloody difficult. Right. You're coming with me."
He binds your ankles together with as much skill and as little fanfare as he did your wrists, cuts the snare down, and carries you back to his camp over his shoulder. He hauls you in like he would any other beast and dumps you on the ground with no ceremony or care. Your head only just misses getting bonked, thankfully. You're already woozy from being dangled by the ankle.
The first thing he does is take your knife, snatching the sheath from your belt and tossing it aside, well out of reach. His hands are lithe and powerful, like the rest of him. The second thing he goes for is your rifle, strapped to your back with a harness crossing your chest. He leaves the harness but takes the gun, hefting it appreciatively, and he whistles. "Not something you see every day." This he treats more carefully than the knife, setting it down next to a small boulder, still well out of reach. What is he going to do to you?
He doesn't do anything like that, though. Instead, he hoists you by your harness, which only arouses you further, half-drags and half-walks you across the dirt, props you up in the middle of the site, and sits down opposite you.
He takes off his slouch hat and runs his fingers through his hair, dark brown and overgrown, before scratching his stubbled cheek in thought. The silence between you is the kind that fills your ears. It's like you're listening to a high-definition recording of silence played back at high volume. Likewise, when he finally breaks it, his voice rings.
"So how's it gonna be, then?"
You're still at a loss for words. You swallow, keenly aware that the circumstances ought to frighten you to death, but instead you're the horniest you've ever been.
He looks annoyed and speaks again. "Look, sheila, you ain't gagged. Just tell me--" he points at you--"why you think it's funny, stealing my kills right out from under my bleedin' nose."
His voice remains even, but there's a bit of agitation. You remain silent, wondering just how much you can get from him. You knew you were sick in the head, even consider yourself sexually adventurous (at least in terms of body count), but you hadn't known til now just how much you liked being kidnapped. First time for everything.
Then he pulls out his knife. It's a serious blade, about five inches and serrated, and even though you know better you wonder if he's gonna gut you where you sit. "Don't be scared," he says, and the knife drifts to your face. "I ain't gonna hurt you. Unless you make me." His hand is as steady as his voice. The blade gleams in the dim firelight. He switches his knife to his left hand, reaches for you with his right, and you can't keep from shuddering. You wonder what he'll do. It's so quiet you can hear the tick of his wristwatch over your thudding heartbeat.
His thumb touches your cheek, strokes it softly. The rough callouses on the pads of his fingers, the bare palm. Your breath hitches. For all your adventures, you can't remember the last time a man touched you like this. The irony that a bushman would, and not someone more civilized, though you'd seen through enough rich, well-dressed men to know how vicious and stupid they were at their cores.
At least this one is honest.
His thumb moves from your cheek to your mouth. He gives your lower lip a glance that you can only describe as predatory and you are once again reminded of how horny you are. You wish you were not bound up at the wrists so you could either slap his hand away or caress it. Those options being unavailable, you go for the next-best thing: you speak.
"You're awfully sensitive about a lady taking your kill."
He draws his hand back. You've shocked him. How cute. "You're American."
You didn't think that would be an issue. "What did you expect?"
"Thought only Aussies stole like that."
And you laugh. You squeeze your eyes shut and laugh like a hyena. No, really, this might be the funniest thing to happen to you in a while.
When you return to normal and open your eyes, you look at him directly, and for a second he has softened. The hand with the knife loosens up slightly, his face (though partly obscured by the shadows cast in the wake of firelight) relaxes. The blow to his certainty has put him in a spot.
You chide him: "What, you're not into it anymore now that you know I don't know the rules, or something?" You know how they do things in Australia. Kangaroo boxing isn't just a national pastime, it's a legal rite. Snare-apologizing might just be another elaborate joke unique to the continent. You bet they call it "doing a snarey".
The realization hits you: he wants this too.
Alright. You'll play his game. Even if you are an American--even if you don't know the rules. So you regroup and ask, "How far are you willing to go?" It's not a bluff: you really want to know. It's hard to exude confidence with your hands and feet tied, but somehow you manage.
He leans back a little, settles into a crouch, though he doesn't take his eyes off you. He does not let go of his knife. He's silent for a moment, then says: "How far d'you want me to take it?"
You smile the most evil smile. "What, you don't know better than me?" You wriggle a little. Maybe it's seductive. Your legs are beginning to ache. "If you're taking suggestions, though... maybe all I need is a good spanking." You can't lie to yourself: the mere idea of those hands on you in any capacity is enough to make you giggle like you're a teenager again. If your own hands weren't bound, you might even twirl your hair, just to complete the effect.
You see another subtle shift in his profile. His aviators reflect traces of campfire light, keep his face blank as he leaves his crouch, stands and grabs you again by your harness. He grabs your clothes, unbuckles your belt, and shoves your pants down, exposing your panties: these he nearly tears as he wrestles them down, too, exposing your ass. Then, with another pull of the harness, he puts you back on your knees. The impact is rough but you can take it, you feel. He doesn't wait for you to say what's good or not, only seems determined to put you in your place. Which he does, of course, sitting back down and not-at-all-gently tugging you so you're splayed across his lap, face-down, with your bare ass the center of it all. It ought to make a strange tableau, you think.
He speaks. "You're in for it now."
Oh, you hope you are.
His gloved hand runs through your hair, finds your jaw, your chin, and settles around your throat. He doesn't apply any pressure, only touches your skin. Your heightened senses register the weave of his fingerless glove against the center and his bare fingers splayed across the sides, and not just the cool leather strap around that wrist but the methodical ticking of the wristwatch. His other hand, bare, moves across your ass. He's calculating, you realize, as much as he is appreciating. Mapping you out before making his move.
"One for you."
Smack.
Ooh. Nice and solid.
"One for me."
Smack.
Oh, yeah. You like what he's doing here.
"One for good measure."
Smack. Your ass stings with that one.
"And a few more, 'cos you're stubborn."
Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack. Smack. Each hit sends a jolt of pleasure and giggles through you. Your legs twitch, and though your ankles are bound you can still flex your toes in your boots. Your ass is nearly numb.
He puts his hand on the small of your back, resting. He clears his throat. "What d'you say now?"
That's it? He'll have to do better. You toy with asking for more but your numbness makes you reconsider. "You want an apology," you say, "cut my ankles loose."
He takes hold of your legs and, with the knife, carefully cuts your ankle restraints, albeit with no indication that he wants to lighten the mood. That's fine by you. It adds some spice. You spread your legs and relish the comfort of moving them again. You deliberately open them, even, realizing how wet you still are. Now's the time to kick your pants off.
Much to your delight, he notices. The hand that just smacked you now explores you. You feel the tips of his fingers at your vulva, hear him grunt with what might be appreciation or might be disgust. Maybe at how willing you are. You find yourself kicking your feet a little. He hesitantly slides a finger inside of you, though you think the hesitation is more to do with giving you a hard time rather than any reluctance on his end.
"This is embarrassing," he says. Meaning: it's embarrassing for you. You can hear him sliding in and out of you. You really are dripping.
You half-wish you were putting up resistance, but you want him too much, and the game is too fun. Another finger inside of you and you sigh. You hope it gets on his nerves.
That's enough to elicit a growl. "Keep your mouth shut. Not gonna have you scaring my next quarry off screaming bloody murder."
But you can't help it, because his fingers are too direct, too skilled. You put it together: this is part of the game, too, and so you let out what you hope is a truly raunchy moan and that's it for you. His one gloved hand clamps over your mouth like a punishment. He's well and truly got you now, not only bound but controlling you at both ends. You still moan, for what it's worth, but it's muffled. He pushes his fingers into your wetness like he's cleaning you out and your eyes go soft from the pleasure of it. You wish he would use his mouth on you but you need him inside you just as much.
So much for wishing that, though, because he draws his fingers out of you but keeps his other hand on your mouth. You twitch around where he used to be. Your thighs flutter with need and he strokes one of them almost absently. You hold your breath for a second and you can hear his, the long, slow inhales and measured exhales. His fingers go back to your wetness but not inside you: instead, he smears it down across your clit, and the sensation makes you jolt. Men don't usually touch you there, much less use any kind of lubrication.
You swear you hear him swallow before he experimentally rubs, half on your vulva and half on your clitoris. Still, his gloved hand presses against your mouth, keeping your moans from escaping into the vast, dark wilderness. He slaps your round, firm ass one more time, grabbing it like he's testing how sturdy it is, and then he goes back and pumps his fingers in and out of you til he hits some invisible limit and your body opens up to him, like you're turbo-charged and can't be stopped.
You don't quite come, but you still reach a similar high. His hand, precise and powerful, elevates you, and the pleasure blots out most of the rest of the thoughts in your mind, burning through every concern except for how to stay here for as long as possible. You wriggle without meaning to, trying to get his fingers as deep inside of you as you can. He keeps his other hand clamped firmly over your mouth, and the pressure he puts on you as you push against him makes you feel even hotter.
Then, soon after you plateau, he draws his fingers back out. The wet sound would be nauseating in any other situation, but here it just reaffirms your absurd arousal.
"Had enough, then?" he asks.
Enough? Enough? He thinks he's bested you just because he fingered your pussy? Even if it did feel excellent. "Not nearly," you say.
"You're still going? Bloody hell. You need a proper root."
He almost pushes you off his lap and gets on his knees behind you, manhandling you and adjusting you so you're ass-up in the dirt, though you're perfectly capable of moving yourself around, even if your hands are still tied together. You hear the zipper and it's over for you, you know. His hands grab your thighs, your ass, and you hear a ponderous growl before he finally does it: goes right for your wetness with his mouth.
You feel his stubbly face against the inside of your thighs. You wonder idly if it's possible to be eaten out to death, and if so, then you'd die happy right here in the dirt. No more worries about going home and readjusting. You'll have perished at the top of your game, and having had the best night of your life. You inhale night air and campfire smoke and feel an odd thrill go through you, separate from the sex. Satisfaction. That's what it is. Despite literally being in the middle of the best fuck of your life with no idea how much longer it will last or where this man will take you, you feel satisfied. Not enough to renounce your career as a hunter, and certainly not to the degree that you feel the need to change as a person. You are who you are. And this man sees that, and he is not afraid.
You decide in that moment that whatever he does to you, you'll let him, and you'll like it.
He pulls back to breathe, takes one last lick, and then fucking bites your ass cheek.
You yelp. How could you not? But you won't back down. And damn, it does feel strangely good, that brief sharpness against your tender skin after it's already been assaulted.
"I think you'll need a reminder after we're done here."
"Like the bruises won't remind me?"
"You snotty little brat. Bites leave scars. Bruises fade. Now then..." He backs off once more. "Time for the good part."
He takes himself out and pauses before teasing you with it. Doesn't even touch your wetness, but slides himself over your ass and thighs, leaving streaks of his own where he's just slapped and bit you. Fucking sadist. He is hard and warm and you think he must be long and girthy, or maybe that's your horny brain exaggerating. You're still on your front and can't turn around to see how big it is, but his cock looms, nevertheless. You think he must be sizing you up, seeing how big he is in comparison to you. Is he going to stretch you? His fingers already did so much work. Your thighs twitch again in anticipation.
"Easy, now," he mutters. One, two, three last teases against you before he even brings the tip to your cunt. It's only a small nudge, but you're hungry for anything, and a small "ah" escapes you. This makes him laugh. "Desperate little thing. You're adorable, you know that?"
Then he slides into you, only an inch or so, and it's so sweet already. It must be good for him, too, because he goes "oh" and it's so low you can feel it in your chest. He goes so slowly it's agonizing, drawing it out in such a way that you wonder if he isn't holding back tears, too. "Very nice," he moans, and pushes further into you. God, you're so full of him.
One slow withdrawal and one push and he's in you completely. It's all you can do not to cum immediately, fluttering around him, and you almost let yourself. You've been thoroughly shamed, your body made into a toy, your reputation as a hunter ruined as your hunger for sex overrides every survival instinct your body has developed. It's like you were made for him to fuck. You never stood a chance.
He fucks you slowly from behind. He's not an animal. He's in control of himself. He's not gonna come until he wants to. He'll make sure you go first, though. Maybe he'll even--
"I'm finishing you off." And then he fucks you in earnest.
Oh God oh God oh God oh God you're-- It's too much. He's too big, too fast, and you're too wet. He fills you up to the very brim and pounds into you with no restraint at all. Your mind goes blank, your body quakes, and pleasure blooms in your belly. You're rendered utterly useless.
He pulls out, grabs you by the harness again, and turns you over. You see his face clearly. His eyes shine even through his aviators, which you can't believe he wears even at nighttime; his scruffy neck is covered in sweat, his muscles are taut, and his skin is flush with effort. He, too, must be driven by the hunger and the pleasure, just like you. Yes--you're both insane with want. He is the hunter and you have been his quarry all along.
He scoots back and pushes your legs apart, looking at you. You see his cock clearly. It really is that big. Long and fat and uncut and dark. He twitches as he looks at you. You blink back tears of overwhelm.
Then, after a moment's consideration, he leans over you and enters you one final time. It's different: you can see him enter you, and big as he is, you're awe-struck at how he fits, his pelvis flush against you. He comes in close and stares right into your eyes as he fucks you, speeding up, panting with effort like he's trying to get you to surrender even more than you already have, sweat dripping off his forehead and cheekbones onto your face. The smell, the musk, is dense, and his panting drives you mad. He goes even further and moves one hand away from your hair to rub your clit with his thumb. You're slick with your own wetness and his precum mixed, and the slickness makes every little stroke electric. You spread your legs reflexively, your body acting on its own to accomodate him. His hands find your neck, your hair, and he thrusts into you as he pins you down. The angle is perfect; he hits just the right spot and in moments you are beyond twitching and fluttering. These are full-body spasms of pleasure, something you didn't even know you were capable of. Your body is being used in ways it could not tell you, so numbed it was.
What have you been doing all your life? Parading yourself around, being proud, pushing people away? Some animal sense in you says that this is where you really belong, getting fucked into the dirt by a huge cock, crying for it, split open by a man who will always be two steps ahead of you and who knows how to make you stupid with pleasure. He's put you in your place, says the animal sense. And in the middle of the wildnerness, you have been driven insane by lust, and you and this man together are going at it like beasts in heat, sure, but there's something more, too, like the weight of fate pressing down on you. Explosive inevitability.
Before you know it, driven on by thoughts approaching the metaphysical that make the ravishing even deeper and the pleasure even more powerful, you're on the edge for a third time. He knows it, too, and with one hand he grabs you by your harness once more, leans into your ear and whispers:
"You're gonna show me how much you wanted it. You sorry excuse for a hunter. All you wanted was this."
You can't help it. Not with the way he speaks to you, not with that voice, and not with his utter certainty. You come one final time, clenching around his cock so hard you push him out of you, though he does not stop rubbing you. You scream as loud as you can into the night and he no longer tries to stop you as you crest the wave of your orgasm, shaking, crying, raptured and in disbelief. You are deaf, dumb, and blind to the world. All that matters is the humiliation, the pleasure of being torn apart and made into a fucktoy and sated like you've never been before. Like you didn't think you could be.
He takes his hand off your wet, sore clit. "Dirty girl," he says, and he kneels over your body and jacks off until he calls out, too, and his cum splashes onto your face and tits. It's an overwhelming amount. He must have been waiting a long time for this, too. You decide not to ask about it. You're damn tired, anyway. He collapses on top of you, as exhausted as you are.
You look up and catch your breath as the orgasm clears. His body over yours, lithe and wiry. His scent still recognizable even in the overwhelming cloud of sex and sweat. You are both technically half-dressed, though you are far more naked than he is; what clothes you both still wear are soaked in sweat. Your hands are still bound.
It's dark.
After a moment, you speak up. "I'm not apologizing."
He raises his hand as though to swat a fly. "We've moved past it."
The small campfire crackles and dims.
You lay there next to him and marvel at the thoughts that crossed your mind just moments before: that total surrender, a degree of submission you did not think yourself capable of accepting, let alone enjoying. It was like you'd been fucked so hard you had become another person. His semen on your body is tangible proof of that. It cools on your skin. You think about licking it off, but then again, you want him to see it when his vision clears, too. Not a single man has taken you there before. Probably didn't have the guts.
Even though he never got what he wanted, for that one reason, for what he has just done to you, you are willing to let him win.