Kink Camp: Hunted Page 2

  So, here I am. Ready to give it a try. It’s probably not exactly what Mom—or the nosy doctor—meant by vacation, but hey. I’m here, right?

  “You know what?” I tell Max. “I’m just gonna go.”

  “I’ll walk you.”

  “No.” I lift a hand, giving her a smile to soften the refusal. “I need to do this on my own. Like, you know, to get into it, I guess.”

  “Oh, right. I can see that. Like, walk alone and get all…”

  What’s she gonna say? Creeped out? Scared? Horny? I don’t think any of those are right, but I do know I need a transition of some sort between this real life I’ve always lived and the fantasy I’m finally diving into. “Acclimated,” I finally tell her. From her knowing smile, I can tell the therapist in her loves that. “Later, gator.”

  “Whatever, crocodile.”

  I wave and smile and start down the path that leads into the quickly darkening woods and the designated spot. It’s my second time heading over there today. The first gave me a chance to check out the scene, sort of envision it, and also make sure I could run around without, you know, tripping on branches, or falling into a pile of poison ivy. What I noticed was, though the spot he’s selected is wooded, it’s been entirely cleared of underbrush. There’s not a single poison ivy leaf, much less a stone to trip on or a low-hanging branch to run into. Whoever’s in charge here really knows what they’re doing.

  That attention to detail, probably more than anything else, calms me as I walk past a group of people singing show tunes around a campfire that provides my last glimmer of artificial light.

  There’s no moon tonight to light my way through the trees. When the sun sets entirely, it’ll be pitch black.

  That’s what he wants.

  I force myself to take deep, measured breaths and slow my pace. It smells like campfires out here. Like safety.

  Turning around, I remind myself, is still an option. It’s always an option.

  Still, I go forward, placing one foot, then the other. Marching towards this fate I’ve chosen.

  The sound of spanking and laughter and singing fades into the background, replaced by the chirping of insects and the crunch of my feet on leaves. It smells different here. Like pine needles and rot. I pass a person wearing an orange arm band, who nods and then ignores me. Security.

  This is it.

  I get the wildest urge to call out, like the first one to die in a horror movie, and then, because this is it—this is my fantasy, dammit—I open my mouth and do it. “Hello?” My voice is lost to the night sky, soaked up by rough bark and damp ground and the calls of a million little creatures. I don’t know why, but suddenly, I need to be heard, by him. “Anybody here?” I make the shaky words carry this time and, God, it’s weird, but I think he hears me. I think he likes it.

  A stick breaks to my right and I jump, not quite holding in a squeak.

  He’s heard me.

  Oh, shit. I can’t breathe. I’m going to hyperventilate. My belly’s a mess of right and wrong and what the fuck am I doing? Forcing myself to stop, I shut my eyes and slow it all down—the fear and excitement blasting through my veins, the chaotic mess in my mind.

  Another footfall, closer this time. The sound so definite, so clear that it centers me.

  I have one job here. One. It’s to run. Run and get caught and—

  No, just run. He’ll do the rest.

  Ready…Set…

  I take off like my life depends on it, like there’s nothing but the rhythm of thrumming blood in my veins, the slap of my feet to the uneven ground, the harsh scrub of air over my dry, tight throat.

  The dark’s closing in. Branches come out of nowhere, roots trip me up. My lungs burn way too fast.

  He’s back there, his footfalls loud and careless. This monster’s not sneaking around, trying to be quiet. He thrashes and pounds, breaks through whatever’s in his way.

  Holy shit, maybe I don’t want to do this. Do I want this? Is it a mistake? It’s a mistake.

  Red! It flashes through my mind. A stoplight, not the word. I should say it. I could. Red Red Red.

  No. No, I want to do this. I’m doing this.

  The knowledge lands hard between my legs and in my stomach. I feel sick and horny and lost out here in the woods.

  I throw my hand out, smack a tree, go right, almost run into another tree, and slow down, hands out wide now. Another tree. Where is he? Where is he?

  I change directions and move on. My wild inner animal pushes me deeper and deeper into the living, breathing, damp moss chaos of the woods. Insects hit my face, a vine grabs my foot and sends me flailing to the ground. I’m up fast, barely cringing at the way my shoulder aches. He’s close now. So close I want to look back.

  My outstretched palm scrapes rough bark—a wide tree. I stop. Cling to it, like a lifeline. Will he see me back here? How small can I make myself? Pulling my limbs in tight, I shut my eyes, quiet my breath and listen.

  Should I look? I need to look, the way I do in the fantasy, when I rub my clit and let my inner self fly.

  Hardly moving at all, I peek out, just the barest bit.

  Oh, shit. Shit, shit, shit.

  He’s right there.

  I push forward again. Arms wrapped around my head for protection. I put on speed, thighs aching. My foot bumps something and I lurch, right myself, keep going. Oh, fuck, my toe. I shut out the pain.

  I think about his silhouette. It was huge. Big enough to blot out more than his share of the night sky. I’m not small, but I am nothing compared to that mass.

  There’s no stopping the whimpering coming from me. It’s the animal.

  I’m prey. Just prey.

  My leg knocks into something hard. I trip, sailing forward, hands braced to take the brunt of it. I told you so. Quick as lightning, I see the ER visit, a cast, no work, explanations. Pain, pain, pain. One hand hits the ground.

  And then I just…stop.

  3

  Grace

  All the air gets knocked out of me. Not from the fall. There’s an arm around my waist.

  I grunt, hover above the ground for a millisecond, like someone out of The Matrix, and rise up, stunned when my back smacks into a wide, hard surface.

  It’s his chest. His other arm wraps around me. Thick, warm muscles. Skin hot against mine.

  He walks us forward a few steps, my feet dangling above the forest floor. We stop. He shoves me toward a tree, brusque, violent, but painless.

  The arms let go and his whole big body moves in, traps me against deeply rutted bark.

  I struggle. Wild, frantic, lost. All I can do is shake myself like a dog, limbs scrabbling, pushing back and back, then to the side. I need out. I need out. Anything. Anything to get away and—

  One callused hand collars my throat. The other tightens in my hair. The threat’s so much more than I’d ever pictured from my safe, soft bed.

  “Please don’t do this.”

  A few silent seconds pass and awareness slips in. I don’t remember wrapping my hand against his wrist, but I’m holding him tightly. We’re pressed together, like we know each other. His palm cups my neck. My pulse races light and high and he must feel it. Can he?

  Can he tell that I still want this?

  My chest moves, expanding to press my breasts to the tree, then contracting. He must feel that. My back’s tight to his front and he’s hot. My God, his chest is pouring out heat like an oven. It should be uncomfortable in this hot summer night, but I like it. It feels…

  Fuck, is it weird to say safe?

  That’s exactly it, though. I’ve been taken down, trapped, held. I sink into this loss of control.

  My mouth works at the sudden idea that I could use the safe word again. Would he stop if I did?

  Yes. I’m sure of it. This man, who’s holding me prisoner without inflicting an ounce of pain, would stop. It’s the last thing I want.

  “Quit fighting,” he grates out, his voice no more than a whisper.

  I kick out. I can’t help it. I’m stubborn like that.

  He tightens his hold. I’m ensnared, my head dragged back against his neck.

  Oh, oh God, I smell him here. Musk. Sweat. I suck in a desperate breath. He’s basic, mineral, earthy. The smell of him punches me low in the belly, mixing fear and guilt and lust into a cocktail I could drown in.

  I want to drown.

  His smell’s good. It feels right, unlike my ex Dean and my boyfriend before him. Every gasp is full of him and me and the raw earth smell.

  A hot tear slides down my face.

  My nipples are hard, my breasts aching. “Let me go,” I force out, as close to a whisper as I can manage.

  “Shhhhh.” He leans into me and, sweet Jesus, his cock’s a hard, huge brand against my back. He’s rough and he’s mean and he’s going to fuck me and then walk away. That’s exactly what I want. “Stay very still and it won’t hurt.”

  The desire’s so strong that it does hurt. My body’s too swollen, too aching, too tense.

  He’s already let go of my hair to work at the front of my jeans, using his weight to pin me to the tree. I don’t even feel the desire to move, but more than that, I want him to pin me in place.

  And then I buck, because I can. I shriek at the feel of his other hand at my neckline. He fists the fabric, stretches it down over my breast, dragging the top of my bra cup with it. Shock tingles in my fingers, my toes, the painful point of my nipple. Those rough fingers pinch me there, sending sparks to every cell in my body.

  I’m so wet I want to sob. Aching and empty and squirming with want that only gets worse when his fingers wind through my pubic hair and give my curls a good, hard tug.

  “Oh, fuck.” I don’t even try to whisper. Disguising my voice worked when I had brain cells. That’s a thing of the past.

  He shushes me, ramping up my humiliation, and tugs my jeans over my hips.

  This is actually happening. I mean, it’s obvious. I know. The penetration, though.

  The orgasm.

  Moaning, I push back, my ass wriggling in invitation.

  This guy’s an asshole, though, whoever he is. He knows that I want it. That I’m close to begging for that big cock I felt against my back.

  It only slows him down, makes him draw things out. He’s a tiger toying with me when he pulls my other cup down and slaps my bare breast.

  And I’m cornered, just like I wanted. No agency. No choice but to take it.

  I lean my forehead on the trunk and try to see something. His hands, if not his face. “Please.” I don’t know why I say it. “Please.”

  All I can make out are dim shapes: my breasts, hanging crudely down, his hand switching painfully from one to the other, forcing ugly, soul-deep grunts into the air.

  He shifts back, grabs both nipples and twists. I swear I go feral, howling or baying or, hell, I don’t know, communing with the moon.

  Something changes. I whimper, try to turn. He holds me down with a hand to the back of my head. “Don’t move.”

  I can’t move like this. “Please.” Pleasure zaps from my core to my limbs. God, please.

  He does something behind me. The condom. I hear the rip and rustle, the smooth hum of a zipper, the plastic snap of the thing going on.

  It’s all happening slowly, and fast. Too quickly for me to latch onto details. I want them, though. I want to bottle it all up for later.

  He’s efficient in the dark. Not his first rodeo. The most absurd spike of jealousy pierces my skin like a splinter.

  Before I can unpack that, he’s got my hip in his grip, he runs that hand down my front and finally—God, finally—he gets to my sopping wet core.

  A growl rumbles out into the night, low and deep, so quiet it’s almost a purring in his chest.

  My pussy clenches, my whole body tense with expectation. I think he likes how tense I’ve gotten. His fingers sweep down, slow and easy, splaying my lips before glancing my clit. His gentle slap forces a gasp from my lungs.

  Without warning, he bends at the knee, urges my hips back, and slides his thick cock between my thighs. It’s so sudden, my mind stutters.

  He’s thick. Fuck, thick and hot.

  One long, slick glide forward, another back. The sound of his erection through all that wetness is obscene and embarrassing and I want to curl in on myself and hide.

  He won’t let me. Of course not.

  Another easy glide of his cock between my legs, the threat of penetration, the promise of something else. I’ve never been so turned on in my life. Every move, sound, smell is right here.

  His crown notches at my entrance.

  I freeze.

  We’re just two animals, in the wild. One toying with the other, threatening, though only gently. I’m at his mercy, waiting.

  Wanting. Aching with need.

  Empty.

  Is he teasing me? Has he changed his mind?

  I reach for him then, which I guess is a mistake. The second my hand touches his erection, he goes absolutely wild.

  And good lord I did not know what I was getting into.

  4

  Grace

  My body moves back, the change so abrupt, I see stars. I slam into him, the tree suddenly gone. I’m a helpless mess—legs caught in my jeans, breasts out, ass buck naked in the woods.

  “Don’t fucking touch me,” he snarls, right into my ear. A split second later, I’m lowered face down to the ground, his body above, then on top of me and…

  Oh fuck. He’s on me, his cock and pubic hair grinding against my cunt. He’s rasping out breaths that heat my neck, my ear, my shoulder.

  It’s terrifying and yet I speak this language. My body wants this.

  I claw for something—his hair—and get a handful of fabric. He grasps my hand and yanks it away with a harsh, “No.”

  It takes me a second to realize it’s a ski mask. He’s wearing a mask. Of course he is.

  “Don’t touch that.”

  “Sorry.” I’m, breathless, eager. Don’t stop.

  My body wants more of this—the fight. Twisting, I work to get him off me. Something primitive’s building inside me, scratching and scrabbling to get out. I can’t grab his hair, but I can push him. I can twist hard and use my knees.

  He grunts and reacts, bigger, more brutal.

  This. This savage, bestial thing. This is what I want. What I need.

  We scuffle in the dirt. My forearm blocks him, cuts him off at the throat. He grunts and gives me his weight. It’s as much of a tool as his blunt hands.

  Why am I fighting this? I honestly don’t know. I don’t know why it feels so right to shove an elbow in his side or twist hard in his grasp. I like it when he traps me, too. Hands on my wrists, legs pegging mine to the cool, mossy earth.

  Oh, fuck, his erection’s right there and I’m so turned on it hurts.

  Everything hurts.

  “Don’t fucking move,” he grunts.

  I follow rules, I don’t break them. Why don’t I listen?

  My inner animal’s too fierce to go gentle into this good night. With a snarl of my own, I twist, hard, truly trying to escape. He counters.

  I crawl maybe two feet before he’s over me, on me, constricting my world into heat and breath, beastly sounds and the damp smell of soil. He’s too fast, too strong, too dominant.

  I’m so wet, it’s slicking down my thighs. I can smell it, mingled with the rich loam of dead leaves and new growth and… Oh, oh, oh my body’s arching up to him, inviting him in while still trying to claw away. My ass is beckoning, my legs straining to open where he’s kept me clamped together.

  I crane my head—not to escape this time, but to turn and, hell, I don’t know, kiss him, maybe? Bite him? I strain to see behind his mask, watch his body, take in the size of the monster who’s overpowered me.

  “Anything you want to say?” This, I know, is my last chance to give the safe word.

  I shut my mouth, shake my head.

  “Good.” He nudges my ear with his nose and breathes in, though I wonder how much he can smell through that mask. “Good girl.” Goosebumps race over my body, painful as the empty ache between my legs. I stretch myself out, an offering to the beast.

  He responds with a firm press of his hips.

  Slowly, almost lazily now, he pulls back enough to push the hot length of his erection between my thighs. Taking his time, he slides a hand under my abdomen and lifts me higher, angling me the way he likes.

  I can’t move. I don’t want to. I’m staying right here. It feels elemental and dirty. And free.

  Being ground into the mud, half-naked, alone with a stranger, I feel more right than I have in years.

  He’s making muted, gruff sounds, more barbarian than man. He thrusts against my folds, hitting my clit. I shudder. I think I groan. I don’t know.

  My body takes his movements, curves into them.

  We’ve danced this way before. The thought comes and goes.

  When he wedges the thick, blunt crown of his cock to my entrance this time, I whine with relief, fear, pure, pure want, real life so far from my mind I might as well not even have a name.

  I couldn’t give it right now if I tried.

  One side of my face is flush to the ground, my ass in the air, my nipples skimming the earth’s surface as he presses harder, deeper, his erection bigger than I’m used to, his body heftier, bossier, mean as all hell.

  I’m pliable, but not weak. Even in this state I know he’s fought for this. We both have. Fuck, it’s so good.

  The way he works himself into me, slowly, inexorably, I feel taken, one slow inch after another, full of him by the time he’s in to the hilt. And then, when that’s not enough, I buck back and, goddamn, he wraps me up in his solid frame, wedging me to him with his chin on my shoulder, his toes under mine.

  I’m his. I’m so definitely, solidly his, that I sigh. I just sigh and press back in search of pleasure now, not distance. My body’s giving and holding, going loose and tense and open to absolutely anything—anything—anything at all.