This story is part of Tagg After Dark, a sapphic erotica collection exclusively for readers 18+.
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It’s not the hottest day of the year, not yet, but it certainly feels like it. Moisture blooms under my arms and where my thighs rub together, sticky-rough and unpleasant. She must be sweltering, but she looks comfortable enough in her heavy-duty jeans. I can see the outline of her tucked-in tank top, the hem of her mid-thigh briefs, the telltale bulge of a packer. I might feel guilty for staring if I hadn’t caught her eyes wandering too. My sundress is already starting to stick to my skin and turn transparent, and I’d be lying if that hadn’t factored into my decision to wear it.
That, and the heat. It’s too fucking hot to wear anything but this flimsy excuse for clothing. The humidity is physically oppressive, and I’m struggling to breathe as we trek through bushes and canopies of trees. She’s whistling while she walks, the rifle bouncing up and down where it’s slung over her shoulder. I planned on braving it in silence, I really did, but her chipperness is grating.
“You couldn’t have picked any other day?” I mutter, narrowly avoiding a tree branch.
“Nope,” she says cheerfully. “It’s a perfect day today. No clouds, not even a breath of wind. Nice and clear and quiet.”
“And hot.”
She looks over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised challengingly. “Hey, you’re the one who wanted to come along. Should I take you home?”
“No,” I say, too quickly. Want is too light of a word. She’s indulged my obsession thus far, answering my incessant questions, but it’s just not enough. My imagination isn’t cutting it, no matter how many times I fuck myself frantically with my shitty plastic vibrator and imagine it’s something else— something hollow and heavy and metal-warm.
“That’s what I thought,” she says, just condescending enough to make my face flush.
Finally we reach a clearing. She loads the gun, her hands moving with the practiced ease of muscle memory, and I watch every movement with rapt attention. She works automatically but conscientiously, handling the weapon like a lover. Has she ever touched me with such gentle care? Probably not. I’ve grown to like being handled roughly.
She puts on her headset and goggles, and hands me a pair of each. I equip myself accordingly, conscious of how silly I must look, all geared up but otherwise underdressed for the occasion. She lies down on her stomach, and I imitate obediently. The grass tickles my nose.
“Now what?” I ask.
“Now we wait.”
“What, for an animal?” I take another look around, but the clearing is still as empty as when we came upon it. “What if nothing comes along?”
She shakes her head with confidence. “Something will. If not a deer, then a rabbit for sure. There’s plenty of them around. They fuck like … well. You know.”
So we wait in utter silence, pressed up against each other even though the body heat is almost unbearable in this weather. I watch the rise and fall of her body, involuntarily eyeing the dip of her back, the curve of her ass. A bead of sweat rolls down her temple, sinking into the indent where the gun is pressed to her cheek. Her breathing slows down and evens out as she settles into her position. It does nothing to calm my own heart, which is suddenly speeding up. I’m not a patient person. It would be so easy to roll over on my back, to flip my skirt up and bare my stomach in submission, but I resist. I’ll get fucked later—hard, if the way she looked at me was any indication—but for now, I have to be patient and wait for the show to start.
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