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.
As promised, it doesn’t take too long. I’ve started to lose focus, daydreaming about her hands and my thighs and a hunting knife, but a flicker in the corner of my eye brings me back. We both watch the rabbit, frolicking unwittingly at the edge of the clearing. There’s a funny urge inside me to cry out, to startle it away, but I swallow it down. Adrenaline is coursing through me, making my body thrum, and I hold my breath until I hear the muffled bang.
I feel it more than hear it, really, in the way her whole body hitches with the force of the shot. I exhale, air rushing back into my lungs and making my head spin. She sits up with a triumphant shout, and I follow suit quickly, ripping my headset off. The faint chirps of birds and insects are suddenly too loud, ringing in my ears.
“Did you get it?” I ask, breathless again.
“Go find out,” she says, confident and grinning. I raise myself onto shaky legs and wade through the tall grass until a splash of color makes me stop short. Red blood and pink guts, clashing luridly with the pale end-of-summer grass and the rabbit’s brown fur. Acrid gunpowder and hot copper fill my nostrils. It makes me dizzy, and it doesn’t help when I feel her hands snaking around my waist.
I let myself be led, docile, to the nearest tree, against which she pushes me up. Her gun-warm hand finds my leg. I let her trail it up and up and up, under the waistband of my panties. She laughs when she feels how wet I am, and the hot lick of shame makes me ache with want.
“You’re fucked up,” she says, but I can tell she’s pleased with it because she doesn’t tease like usual. Two fingers right away. No foreplay. No mercy. I throw my head back and let my hair tangle in the leaves. Her sweet little hands are smaller than mine, but somehow I can never fill myself up the way she does. She curls her fingers inside me, the way they did around the trigger, and my body jerks in the cage of her embrace.
“Shhh,” she whispers into my neck with a warning bite. I try to swallow my pitchy whimpers, but it’s just too good, too much. Her tongue is tracing wetly along the shell of my ear and my shoulder blades are getting scratched up by the tree bark and oh, fuck, she’s pushing in another finger, and she grunts in satisfaction when she manages to force it in, and how can I possibly keep quiet? The more I try to stifle my sounds, the more urgent and pathetic they come out, little lamb bleats.
She bites down again, harder this time. “Open up,” she says, so softly that I barely catch it, but my mouth drops open before the command even registers in my brain. She knows all about my oral fixation, and I know how much she likes feeling my tongue and teeth on her fingertips. But it’s not her fingers that she puts in my mouth this time. It’s the barrel of the gun, still hot like a living thing. She coaxes it in so gently it’s almost perverse, especially compared to how ruthlessly she’s fucking me, hard enough that I’m slamming into the tree with every thrust.
It tastes bitter and unpleasant and it floods my mouth with spit, but I can’t really swallow, so I let it drool down my neck and soak the front of my dress. My tongue drags helplessly along the underside of the barrel, drawing it deeper into my mouth until I gag weakly on it.
Teeth indents in my skin. She’s grinning. “You really like that, don’t you? God, you’d be such a terrible prey animal.”
I want to say no I wouldn’t, I would be good, so good— good for you, of course, not good for myself, because I always want what’s bad for me and I trust so easily and I’m sweet and pliant and brave oh so brave I can take it I promise I can take anything you give me and I’d never complain and I’d do it with a smile and I’d be so, so fucking good, but I can’t exactly talk right now so I settle for moaning and shaking my head and gagging a little bit more.
I’m embarrassingly close already, after hours of anticipation, and I just need it a little harder. I grab her wrist and shove her hand further into me, eliciting a gasp of surprise from her and one of pleasure-pain from me. She gets the message, gets brutal with it, slamming into my cervix repeatedly because she knows that’s the easiest way to get me off. I come with my nails digging into her back and stars behind my eyelids, alternating between crying out her name and God’s.
Only then does she pull the gun out of my mouth, and I feel all too empty now. Luckily, she replaces it with her fingers, letting me suck them clean. The taste of my cunt on her metallic fingers makes me salivate, and I lap up every drop. She watches me with dark, heavy eyes, and when I’m done she claims my lips in a filthy kiss, tonguing the inside of my mouth like she’s trying to fuck me again.
She pushes her body flush against mine, and my legs spread open willingly, lovingly, waiting in anticipation for her thigh shoved between them. This is my favorite part. All her composure and controlled restraint dissipates in these moments, when I get her so worked up that all she can do is rut against me like I’m the only thing that matters. I relish her wild, animalistic groans, muffled unsuccessfully into my neck where she teeths aimlessly at the skin, like she’s trying to ground herself. The more control she loses, the more in control I feel; the only time I feel like I have the upper hand is when she’s using me for her own pleasure. It should be debasing and humiliating, but it feels like a success every time, the way her thrusts grow sloppier and more desperate.
I can’t help but whisper in her ear, just inches from my mouth. “You can’t help yourself, can you? You like this just as much as I do, puppy. Maybe even more.”
She shudders, sighs, bites down hard enough to break flesh. I don’t know if it’s my words or the taste of my blood, but she cums soon after. I know because she gets so quiet, so still. I convince myself that I can feel her cunt throbbing even through all the layers of denim and cotton and soft silicone. My mouth waters just at the thought, and I fumble for her belt. “Let me,” I beg, unabashed, but she shakes her head and pulls away. Our bodies are sticky when they part, and the loss of warmth makes me shiver all over.
And there she is again: guarded eyes, set jaw, post-orgasm embarrassment. Her carefully crafted walls are back up in an instant. If one of us is a prey animal, it certainly isn’t me. She’s a master of disguise and concealment, and she never lets her guard down, and she spooks like a deer. I can already see her preparing to run away, ears perked for the first sign of a twig snapping, so I change the subject.
“Will you teach me how to shoot?” I ask, still breathless, pulling my dress back down.
A smile breaks her cautious expression. “I don’t think they’re in the business of giving gun licenses to people who are likely to put them in their mouths.”
“But it’s a sex thing, not a suicide thing,” I protest, and then another thought comes to mind. “Wait—was it loaded? Just then?”
She thinks for a second, and actually has the decency to look guilty. “Shit. Yeah. Sorry.”
“It’s fine,” I say, secretly thrilled. Danger is no longer something that concerns me. Not because I trust her, but because the opposite. Because I know there’s no version of us that doesn’t end up with me getting hurt, and every time I walk away with only flesh wounds, I become more determined to go back. Some people stick their hands into the mouths of lions and crocodiles and pose for pictures, smiling and safe. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be the first bunny to be cradled gently in the jaws of a wolf. Wrapped up in her tongue like a blanket.