Online_Ratt
Guard
Eminent Domain v1.41
By Online_Ratt
M/f, outdoors, kidnapping, rape, beating, strict bondage, torture, forced smoking, burning, strangling, asphyx, male masturbation, male urination
——
Summary: A university ecologist hiking in the woods falls into the trap of a survivalist determined to protect his land. He wants to know what brought her there and, enjoying having a pretty captive in his clutches, questions her more and more harshly as he transports her towards his lonely homestead — from which she knows she won’t escape.
——
Every three months. Every three months they came trespassing, and it enraged him. He didn't care what the judge had ruled: it was not federal land, it was his. He had located it with the old family map, tamed it, built his home on it fair and square. And then the courts said it wasn't his? Ridiculous.
Thanks to their arrangement, the sheriff didn’t hassle him much, so he’d laid low and made his living, unmolested except for the odd hiker or two. But now, university students kept coming onto his land. “Quarterly ecology survey,” the first batch had said. “Critical to know how the wildlife is doing in the drought.” What he knew was that the hunting was fine and they were trespassing. Their babble about “must be some mistake... federal land” only made him strengthen his argument from words to warning shots.
It wasn’t until later he’d realized what they must actually be after: the map and the deed. The scraps of paper from a century ago that proved — proved, damn it — that the land was his. If those should disappear, he wouldn’t have a legal leg to stand on. And the sheriff wouldn’t have plausible deniability: he’d have to evict him if the feds so much as snapped their fingers.
But it wasn't like the students were smart. They came into the valley through the deep woods to the west. If they'd come in from the east, they could've just walked down the rough track he used to haul in supplies with his old Blazer 4x4. But that road — such as it was — wasn't on any map, and the big trees made it barely discernible by drone or satellite. So they hiked in the hard way. So much the better.
He was ready for the next incursion. He'd posted misdirecting signs. Blocked the easy routes in. Put out a few special greeting cards. When they showed up, they’d see his land was dangerous and turn back. At least this state had gotten that much right, he thought grimly: when you're protecting your home, stand your ground.
If they got through, it had to be because they were after something. And he’d find out what they knew about the deed’s location.
When the day arrived, he went to the trail head early and parked out of sight. He waited, eager to see whom he'd be dealing with, thumbing through the Hustler and Swank magazines he'd picked up at the gas station on the way. The selection wasn't what it used to be. Old Harley had said the Internet had made paper porn obsolete. Well, he didn't have luxuries like a computer out in the bush; he made his own entertainment. He put down the black ballpoint he'd been using to draw ropes on the wrists and ankles of the self-satisfied bitch on the page and picked up a red one instead. He added a bright slash across one breast, then another, and a few more on her thighs. Better, he thought. Needs more, though. He picked up the black pen again and began sketching the tail of a whip striking her belly, just above her pubis. Ball-breaker deserved it.
The sound of tires on gravel made him look up. It was a Lexus hybrid running on electric — that's why he hadn't heard the engine. The rear window sported a state university parking sticker. They were here.
But to his surprise, after the car parked, just one person got out: a fit, tanned young woman in brown cargo shorts and a tight aqua t-shirt. Her long, golden-brown hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, showing off inquisitive blue eyes set in a freckled, friendly, pointy-nosed girl-next-door face. She wore sensible trail boots and carried a small backpack festooned with high-end gear: an ultralight tent and sleeping bag, a Platypus water pack, wildlife collar tracker, and bright yellow emergency GPS satellite phone. It looked like she was going in by herself, probably, he thought, to save some Jew professor a few bucks on a research grant. Practical, as long as she could signal for help in an emergency.
He lit a cigarette and watched as she opened the rear hatch of her car and rooted around for something. Tight ass; long legs. Very nice. She straightened holding a small tube, made a moue of distaste, and began to slather the sunscreen on her exposed skin. Definitely shapely. Full tits. Narrow waist but round hips. Finishing up, she stowed the sunscreen in her bag, zipped it shut, and shouldered it. The man squinted and leaned forward: there had been a flash of yellow falling from a broken carabiner, but she hadn't seen it. She checked that her car doors were locked, peeked through the windows to make sure nothing valuable was showing, then squared her shoulders, put on her Oakley sunglasses, and set off into the woods. Behind her, the satphone lay just out of sight under her car.
He sat for a moment longer, finishing his smoke, pondering. That pretty young thing would be traversing his land all alone. With no way to call for help.
Tossing his cigarette butt out the window, he opened the door, got out, and stretched. He started for the hybrid but a noise distracted him: the rabbit. Shortly after he'd arrived, he'd set up a snare nearby in the bush. To his surprise, it hadn't taken long to snag something — a small rabbit, too light for his wire noose to tighten and kill. It had been hanging there, kicking now and then, for the last 45 minutes. Dumb thing. Time to help it along. He pulled his hunting knife and cut its throat, watching the blood gush, then drip. Always the best part of the hunt. He dressed it quickly, dumped the pelt, offal, and head, and threw the carcass into his cooler for supper later.
Then, wiping his hands, he strode over to the girl's car. He'd need to move it to divert attention, but he could do that later. It would be much easier after he acquired the keys. He reached down behind the tire and picked up the satphone. There. Nothing to arouse suspicion. Now he could go be sociable. Smiling, he turned back to his Blazer.
——
The girl was hot, dusty, and frustrated. Things had been going wrong from the moment her Zen Tibetan Bowl alarm clock gonged her out of bed. Reaching a sleepy hand to hit snooze, she'd knocked it off the table and dented it, souring its tone. Trying to fix it had made her late, and then she'd forgotten her no-paraben zinc-based sunscreen and had to resort to the chemical stuff in the trunk. And now she was making poor time. She'd had to double-back once already because the trail she'd expected to use was a dead end. An hour later, she had to scramble up a rock face to get around a blockade of felled trees. Something was wrong: the valley had changed too much in three months. To her trained eyes, it looked like someone was deliberately trying to stop people from getting to the game preserve. Poachers, maybe. She'd have to stay alert.
At least the guy in the Blazer at the trailhead hadn't given her any trouble. When she'd pulled in and first noticed him, he'd had a hungry look she hadn't liked, despite his being preoccupied with whatever was in his lap. She'd wondered if he might try to follow her. But he'd shown no signs of stirring, and she'd left without incident, safe. And better, she was nearing the game preserve at last. She pulled a stray hair from her perspiring face and started up the next hill.
It was early afternoon, the hot sun just climbing to its apex, when it happened: a sudden loud click, then agony enveloped her right ankle and yanked it out from under her. She crashed face-first to the ground, her shriek ending in a whouff as the breath thudded out of her lungs. Chest heaving, spitting out pine needles and dirt between gasps, she struggled onto all-fours and flipped over, clawing at her pinioned leg for the source of the pain. It was a wolf trap, its teeth filed blunt: an arch of dull burnished metal holding her fast. Her fingers scrabbled at it, hunting for its release, desperate to prise it open and relieve the crushing pressure, but when she got a decent grip on its well-oiled surface, she couldn't force its jaws back apart. The leaf springs were too strong.
Quickly, she scanned around her for anything that might help. Her knife wasn’t long enough to give her leverage. The largest branch she could reach pushed the jaws open just millimeters before breaking, tortuously adding to the bruising on her shin when it snapped shut again. Smashing the trap with a rock did nothing. And it was secured to the ground by a short, heavy chain and a thick spike: dragging the heavy thing back to civilization on her foot was out of the question even if she could dig the spike loose.
Twenty minutes later, tears of frustration poured down her cheeks. She couldn't budge the trap. Her ankle was purple and raw, blood welling from gouges where the metal had cut through the boot and peeled her skin away. Aching bruises had blossomed across her breasts and stomach from the fall. And worst of all, the satellite phone wasn't clipped to her backpack. She had searched the ground frantically for it, then dug through her bag to see if she'd moved it and forgotten, but nothing. Her lifeline was gone. With the first tremors of real fear coursing through her, she started to yell for help. And soon, guided by her voice, the man arrived.
He strode around the side of the hill and came straight towards her, as if he knew where she'd be, his boots crunching softly on the drought-baked undergrowth. He carried a carbine easily over a shoulder and a large dog kept meticulous pace by his side. She squinted at them as they advanced, her brow wrinkling: she'd seen that black cowboy hat and leather vest before.
Ten feet away from her, he stopped, cocked his head to the side, and lifted a gloved hand to stroke his unshaven chin in mock surprise. He ran his eyes along her prostrate form.
“My, my. What have we here?” he asked. His voice was deep, with a slow country twang.
Tear-streaked, shading her eyes, she stared up at him. It really was the creep from the parking lot. “It's — it's you,” she said stupidly. Just great: today's lucky streak stayed all bad. Then, remembering she had limited options: “Help me! My leg is caught in some asshole poacher's trap. Get me out of it. Please! It really, really hurts....”
He pushed a branch out of his way and came closer, still looking her over appreciatively. “That does look like it hurts. And I will get you out of it. Because you and me have business.”
“Business? What do you mean?”
“I know that you’re here to steal from me. And I know what you’re trying to steal.” He smirked. “So I put out this little welcome mat for you.”
She sat aghast, not believing what she was hearing. “You did this?” she screeched. “Why? These things are illegal! The damage it's doing to my leg could be permanent, you son of a bitch! Help me! Right now, if you want to avoid a lawsuit!”
In two strides, he closed the distance between them and backhanded her viciously across the face. She fell onto her side with a yelp as her body twisted against trap’s chain, wrenching her ankle. Inside her boot, more blood trickled from scraped-off skin. “Don't you fucking order me, bitch!” he spat. “You’re on my land -- my home! You're a trespassing thief. I'm protecting myself like the Constitution says I can.”
He put a knee down onto her trapped shin and leaned his full weight onto it. Pain rocketed up her leg: she screamed and threw her free arm up to hit him but he was ready: he snatched her forearm out of the air and levered it behind her back, fighting her flailing. Leaning in, he slid a weather-toughened hand beneath her body and grabbed the wrist she lay on, pulling it out from under her and behind her back too, holding them together with an iron one-handed grip. With his free arm, he pulled a length of rough rope from a vest pocket and looped it around her wrists, cinching them tight while she cursed and panted. Then he rose to his feet.
She thrashed, arms twisting, struggling to sit back up and free herself. “Fuck! Seriously? Fuck! The university knows I'm here, asshole! The others will be here soon. I've... already called for help with my satellite phone!” She glared at him, shoulders back with adrenaline-fuelled bravado.
“That so? Well, we'd best be moving along then. I'll open the trap and let you up, then we'll take a nice little walk together to somewhere we can talk.”
“I'm not going anywhere with you!”
Ignoring this, he bent her knee until the trap lay flat on the ground, then put a foot on each leaf spring. The jaws went slack. Fast as a viper, she jerked her foot up into his groin. It wasn't a clean hit, but he staggered back, surprised. The trap snapped shut on air as his weight left it. She levered herself to her feet with fear-given agility, pivoted, and dashed away.
She got four steps before she stumbled and fell. Her foot was numb; her ankle blazed with pain when she put weight on it. She staggered back up to run again, her bound hands providing little help, but the man was already on her, sinewy and solid, his unyielding arms grabbing and pulling at her, knocking her off balance. A hand yanked her ponytail, dragging her head back; a fist hit her solar plexus and the breath vanished from her lungs. She hit the ground. She was fighting for air, fighting to get up, fighting like a cat to get out of the ropes that she could feel him winding around her.
Then she was lying immobile on her side on the hot earth, breathing hard, tangled hair across her face, looking sideways up at the man, the lengthening shadows from the trees reaching towards her like dark fingers.
“Champion calf roper when I was a kid,” he said matter of factly. “Spent a few extra seconds with you to do it right.”
She was hogtied. He'd secured her ankles together, then run a line up her back and around her neck, holding her partly strangled in an unnatural backwards bow. Tears ran sideways down her face to the ground. Her hands had been pulled high up her back and tied to the central line as well, so moving any of her limbs tightened her neck rope, cutting off her air. This she learned quickly from her first few struggles: she forced herself to lie still, her fingers twitching and clenching instinctively, fruitlessly trying to reach the knots. Her legs began to cramp.
“Now,” the man drawled, “I’m betting your boss found out about the deed from the court records. Who is he, and why don’t you tell me where he thinks it is?”
The girl blinked, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t this.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” she grated out past the rope. “I’m here to track wildlife! See the radio tracker on my bag there?”
The man sighed, then stepped out of her line of sight for a few moments. She heard him in the brush nearby, snapping and splitting brittle branches. Soon he was back, carrying an armful dry wood. As she watched, he assembled it into a small pyramid about five feet from her belly and lit it. It burned bright and smokeless. His head swivelled towards her.
“Not gonna lie — I was hoping you might be a little difficult, might need some incentive to tell me what I want to know.” He pulled a large hunting knife from its sheath, knelt next to her, and reached for the collar of her shirt. “I can oblige.”
She promised herself she wouldn't scream or cry. “Wait,” she said carefully. “Listen. Nothing that's happened here needs to be reported. To anyone. So just... stop now and let me go, and we'll forget this whole thing. Ok? Just... stop.”
He guffawed, hooked a finger into the shirt's neck, and pulled the tight material up off her body. She flinched away from his touch, then jerked her chin high and away from the blade as he slid his knife into the gap and pulled it down. The cloth separated easily; under it, she smelled of soap and sweat and sandalwood: healthy, fit. Air warmed by the fire played across her shoulders and chest, contrasting with the cold metal as it slid lower, raising goosebumps, puckering her nipples. The urge to flee rose in her like bile: to kick him, bite him, something. Anything. She squirmed. Her neck rope tightened and she froze again. The blade parted the bottom of her shirt, and the man flicked the flaps apart to expose her teal spandex hiking bra.
“Mmm — pretty gift wrap,” he murmured. “Let's see the goods.”
“Wait. Wait!” she ground out again, and the man paused.
“You ready to tell me who’s paying you? What the plan is when you have the deed?”
“This is crazy! I don’t know anything about any deed! I’m telling you!”
The man rolled his eyes. With a few efficient cuts, he slit her sleeves and pulled the shirt off her torso in two pieces. He dropped one, then cut the other in two again. He tucked a large rectangle of the cloth into a vest pocket; she couldn't guess why. Then he stuck his knife blade-first into the ground and brought the remaining half to her mouth.
“Last chance to get off easy,” he said.
“You're fucking nuts!” she yelled. He paused, surprised by her vehemence, and she continued. “Don't touch me, you motherfucker! You'll be sorry when—”
He crammed the cloth in. She squealed, the organic cotton stifling the sound, her eyes squeezing shut as he forced the scrap of t-shirt past her teeth, keeping his fingers clear. Her face elongated as her jaw was forced down and cheeks out by the thick wad. Stray threads dangled on her stretched lips, tickling them. Grunting furiously, she tried to push back with her tongue and jaw, to work the material back out, but the man jammed a knot of rough rope between her teeth to keep the gag in place and knotted the makeshift bridle behind her head.
“There. Let's hear the fucking attitude now!” The man raised his eyebrows smugly. The girl gave a few sullen squawks. Useless. After a moment, she lay quiet.
He smirked, then picked up the other half of her shirt from where it lay and threw it onto the fire. It blackened and caught, glowing red holes opening in it like cancer, expanding until the material flamed up and vanished. Then he pulled his knife from the ground and brought it towards her, leaning forward in anticipation. She bleated and jerked, trying to pull back, big blue eyes wide, but he followed her body with his blade, touching her soft skin with its tip, dragging it more and more firmly up her gently-perfumed stomach, leaving a white scratch along her creamy-bronze flesh, until he reached her bra. Three more quick cuts and her amber breasts spilled out. She lay stiff and stoic, nipples rising in fear, as he ran the tips of his fingers over the meat of her tits, then hefted them — good-sized handfuls. He gave them a squeeze so hard she gasped and moaned behind her gag.
“Nice rack,” he complimented. “Cute pink little nipples.” He gave them a casual pinch. “Hoping to distract me with those before you started searching my place? Got a little Mata Hari in you?” He raked his eyes over her body again. “No tan lines. What's your secret? Tanning booth? Nude beach?” He chuckled.
Without ceremony, he pulled the bra’s remains off her and threw them into the flames. She squeezed her eyes shut, moisture collecting under her lashes, doleful drops threatening to escape. She would not cry.
By Online_Ratt
M/f, outdoors, kidnapping, rape, beating, strict bondage, torture, forced smoking, burning, strangling, asphyx, male masturbation, male urination
——
Summary: A university ecologist hiking in the woods falls into the trap of a survivalist determined to protect his land. He wants to know what brought her there and, enjoying having a pretty captive in his clutches, questions her more and more harshly as he transports her towards his lonely homestead — from which she knows she won’t escape.
——
Every three months. Every three months they came trespassing, and it enraged him. He didn't care what the judge had ruled: it was not federal land, it was his. He had located it with the old family map, tamed it, built his home on it fair and square. And then the courts said it wasn't his? Ridiculous.
Thanks to their arrangement, the sheriff didn’t hassle him much, so he’d laid low and made his living, unmolested except for the odd hiker or two. But now, university students kept coming onto his land. “Quarterly ecology survey,” the first batch had said. “Critical to know how the wildlife is doing in the drought.” What he knew was that the hunting was fine and they were trespassing. Their babble about “must be some mistake... federal land” only made him strengthen his argument from words to warning shots.
It wasn’t until later he’d realized what they must actually be after: the map and the deed. The scraps of paper from a century ago that proved — proved, damn it — that the land was his. If those should disappear, he wouldn’t have a legal leg to stand on. And the sheriff wouldn’t have plausible deniability: he’d have to evict him if the feds so much as snapped their fingers.
But it wasn't like the students were smart. They came into the valley through the deep woods to the west. If they'd come in from the east, they could've just walked down the rough track he used to haul in supplies with his old Blazer 4x4. But that road — such as it was — wasn't on any map, and the big trees made it barely discernible by drone or satellite. So they hiked in the hard way. So much the better.
He was ready for the next incursion. He'd posted misdirecting signs. Blocked the easy routes in. Put out a few special greeting cards. When they showed up, they’d see his land was dangerous and turn back. At least this state had gotten that much right, he thought grimly: when you're protecting your home, stand your ground.
If they got through, it had to be because they were after something. And he’d find out what they knew about the deed’s location.
When the day arrived, he went to the trail head early and parked out of sight. He waited, eager to see whom he'd be dealing with, thumbing through the Hustler and Swank magazines he'd picked up at the gas station on the way. The selection wasn't what it used to be. Old Harley had said the Internet had made paper porn obsolete. Well, he didn't have luxuries like a computer out in the bush; he made his own entertainment. He put down the black ballpoint he'd been using to draw ropes on the wrists and ankles of the self-satisfied bitch on the page and picked up a red one instead. He added a bright slash across one breast, then another, and a few more on her thighs. Better, he thought. Needs more, though. He picked up the black pen again and began sketching the tail of a whip striking her belly, just above her pubis. Ball-breaker deserved it.
The sound of tires on gravel made him look up. It was a Lexus hybrid running on electric — that's why he hadn't heard the engine. The rear window sported a state university parking sticker. They were here.
But to his surprise, after the car parked, just one person got out: a fit, tanned young woman in brown cargo shorts and a tight aqua t-shirt. Her long, golden-brown hair was pulled back into a tight ponytail, showing off inquisitive blue eyes set in a freckled, friendly, pointy-nosed girl-next-door face. She wore sensible trail boots and carried a small backpack festooned with high-end gear: an ultralight tent and sleeping bag, a Platypus water pack, wildlife collar tracker, and bright yellow emergency GPS satellite phone. It looked like she was going in by herself, probably, he thought, to save some Jew professor a few bucks on a research grant. Practical, as long as she could signal for help in an emergency.
He lit a cigarette and watched as she opened the rear hatch of her car and rooted around for something. Tight ass; long legs. Very nice. She straightened holding a small tube, made a moue of distaste, and began to slather the sunscreen on her exposed skin. Definitely shapely. Full tits. Narrow waist but round hips. Finishing up, she stowed the sunscreen in her bag, zipped it shut, and shouldered it. The man squinted and leaned forward: there had been a flash of yellow falling from a broken carabiner, but she hadn't seen it. She checked that her car doors were locked, peeked through the windows to make sure nothing valuable was showing, then squared her shoulders, put on her Oakley sunglasses, and set off into the woods. Behind her, the satphone lay just out of sight under her car.
He sat for a moment longer, finishing his smoke, pondering. That pretty young thing would be traversing his land all alone. With no way to call for help.
Tossing his cigarette butt out the window, he opened the door, got out, and stretched. He started for the hybrid but a noise distracted him: the rabbit. Shortly after he'd arrived, he'd set up a snare nearby in the bush. To his surprise, it hadn't taken long to snag something — a small rabbit, too light for his wire noose to tighten and kill. It had been hanging there, kicking now and then, for the last 45 minutes. Dumb thing. Time to help it along. He pulled his hunting knife and cut its throat, watching the blood gush, then drip. Always the best part of the hunt. He dressed it quickly, dumped the pelt, offal, and head, and threw the carcass into his cooler for supper later.
Then, wiping his hands, he strode over to the girl's car. He'd need to move it to divert attention, but he could do that later. It would be much easier after he acquired the keys. He reached down behind the tire and picked up the satphone. There. Nothing to arouse suspicion. Now he could go be sociable. Smiling, he turned back to his Blazer.
——
The girl was hot, dusty, and frustrated. Things had been going wrong from the moment her Zen Tibetan Bowl alarm clock gonged her out of bed. Reaching a sleepy hand to hit snooze, she'd knocked it off the table and dented it, souring its tone. Trying to fix it had made her late, and then she'd forgotten her no-paraben zinc-based sunscreen and had to resort to the chemical stuff in the trunk. And now she was making poor time. She'd had to double-back once already because the trail she'd expected to use was a dead end. An hour later, she had to scramble up a rock face to get around a blockade of felled trees. Something was wrong: the valley had changed too much in three months. To her trained eyes, it looked like someone was deliberately trying to stop people from getting to the game preserve. Poachers, maybe. She'd have to stay alert.
At least the guy in the Blazer at the trailhead hadn't given her any trouble. When she'd pulled in and first noticed him, he'd had a hungry look she hadn't liked, despite his being preoccupied with whatever was in his lap. She'd wondered if he might try to follow her. But he'd shown no signs of stirring, and she'd left without incident, safe. And better, she was nearing the game preserve at last. She pulled a stray hair from her perspiring face and started up the next hill.
It was early afternoon, the hot sun just climbing to its apex, when it happened: a sudden loud click, then agony enveloped her right ankle and yanked it out from under her. She crashed face-first to the ground, her shriek ending in a whouff as the breath thudded out of her lungs. Chest heaving, spitting out pine needles and dirt between gasps, she struggled onto all-fours and flipped over, clawing at her pinioned leg for the source of the pain. It was a wolf trap, its teeth filed blunt: an arch of dull burnished metal holding her fast. Her fingers scrabbled at it, hunting for its release, desperate to prise it open and relieve the crushing pressure, but when she got a decent grip on its well-oiled surface, she couldn't force its jaws back apart. The leaf springs were too strong.
Quickly, she scanned around her for anything that might help. Her knife wasn’t long enough to give her leverage. The largest branch she could reach pushed the jaws open just millimeters before breaking, tortuously adding to the bruising on her shin when it snapped shut again. Smashing the trap with a rock did nothing. And it was secured to the ground by a short, heavy chain and a thick spike: dragging the heavy thing back to civilization on her foot was out of the question even if she could dig the spike loose.
Twenty minutes later, tears of frustration poured down her cheeks. She couldn't budge the trap. Her ankle was purple and raw, blood welling from gouges where the metal had cut through the boot and peeled her skin away. Aching bruises had blossomed across her breasts and stomach from the fall. And worst of all, the satellite phone wasn't clipped to her backpack. She had searched the ground frantically for it, then dug through her bag to see if she'd moved it and forgotten, but nothing. Her lifeline was gone. With the first tremors of real fear coursing through her, she started to yell for help. And soon, guided by her voice, the man arrived.
He strode around the side of the hill and came straight towards her, as if he knew where she'd be, his boots crunching softly on the drought-baked undergrowth. He carried a carbine easily over a shoulder and a large dog kept meticulous pace by his side. She squinted at them as they advanced, her brow wrinkling: she'd seen that black cowboy hat and leather vest before.
Ten feet away from her, he stopped, cocked his head to the side, and lifted a gloved hand to stroke his unshaven chin in mock surprise. He ran his eyes along her prostrate form.
“My, my. What have we here?” he asked. His voice was deep, with a slow country twang.
Tear-streaked, shading her eyes, she stared up at him. It really was the creep from the parking lot. “It's — it's you,” she said stupidly. Just great: today's lucky streak stayed all bad. Then, remembering she had limited options: “Help me! My leg is caught in some asshole poacher's trap. Get me out of it. Please! It really, really hurts....”
He pushed a branch out of his way and came closer, still looking her over appreciatively. “That does look like it hurts. And I will get you out of it. Because you and me have business.”
“Business? What do you mean?”
“I know that you’re here to steal from me. And I know what you’re trying to steal.” He smirked. “So I put out this little welcome mat for you.”
She sat aghast, not believing what she was hearing. “You did this?” she screeched. “Why? These things are illegal! The damage it's doing to my leg could be permanent, you son of a bitch! Help me! Right now, if you want to avoid a lawsuit!”
In two strides, he closed the distance between them and backhanded her viciously across the face. She fell onto her side with a yelp as her body twisted against trap’s chain, wrenching her ankle. Inside her boot, more blood trickled from scraped-off skin. “Don't you fucking order me, bitch!” he spat. “You’re on my land -- my home! You're a trespassing thief. I'm protecting myself like the Constitution says I can.”
He put a knee down onto her trapped shin and leaned his full weight onto it. Pain rocketed up her leg: she screamed and threw her free arm up to hit him but he was ready: he snatched her forearm out of the air and levered it behind her back, fighting her flailing. Leaning in, he slid a weather-toughened hand beneath her body and grabbed the wrist she lay on, pulling it out from under her and behind her back too, holding them together with an iron one-handed grip. With his free arm, he pulled a length of rough rope from a vest pocket and looped it around her wrists, cinching them tight while she cursed and panted. Then he rose to his feet.
She thrashed, arms twisting, struggling to sit back up and free herself. “Fuck! Seriously? Fuck! The university knows I'm here, asshole! The others will be here soon. I've... already called for help with my satellite phone!” She glared at him, shoulders back with adrenaline-fuelled bravado.
“That so? Well, we'd best be moving along then. I'll open the trap and let you up, then we'll take a nice little walk together to somewhere we can talk.”
“I'm not going anywhere with you!”
Ignoring this, he bent her knee until the trap lay flat on the ground, then put a foot on each leaf spring. The jaws went slack. Fast as a viper, she jerked her foot up into his groin. It wasn't a clean hit, but he staggered back, surprised. The trap snapped shut on air as his weight left it. She levered herself to her feet with fear-given agility, pivoted, and dashed away.
She got four steps before she stumbled and fell. Her foot was numb; her ankle blazed with pain when she put weight on it. She staggered back up to run again, her bound hands providing little help, but the man was already on her, sinewy and solid, his unyielding arms grabbing and pulling at her, knocking her off balance. A hand yanked her ponytail, dragging her head back; a fist hit her solar plexus and the breath vanished from her lungs. She hit the ground. She was fighting for air, fighting to get up, fighting like a cat to get out of the ropes that she could feel him winding around her.
Then she was lying immobile on her side on the hot earth, breathing hard, tangled hair across her face, looking sideways up at the man, the lengthening shadows from the trees reaching towards her like dark fingers.
“Champion calf roper when I was a kid,” he said matter of factly. “Spent a few extra seconds with you to do it right.”
She was hogtied. He'd secured her ankles together, then run a line up her back and around her neck, holding her partly strangled in an unnatural backwards bow. Tears ran sideways down her face to the ground. Her hands had been pulled high up her back and tied to the central line as well, so moving any of her limbs tightened her neck rope, cutting off her air. This she learned quickly from her first few struggles: she forced herself to lie still, her fingers twitching and clenching instinctively, fruitlessly trying to reach the knots. Her legs began to cramp.
“Now,” the man drawled, “I’m betting your boss found out about the deed from the court records. Who is he, and why don’t you tell me where he thinks it is?”
The girl blinked, her forehead wrinkling in confusion. She didn’t know what she’d expected, but it wasn’t this.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” she grated out past the rope. “I’m here to track wildlife! See the radio tracker on my bag there?”
The man sighed, then stepped out of her line of sight for a few moments. She heard him in the brush nearby, snapping and splitting brittle branches. Soon he was back, carrying an armful dry wood. As she watched, he assembled it into a small pyramid about five feet from her belly and lit it. It burned bright and smokeless. His head swivelled towards her.
“Not gonna lie — I was hoping you might be a little difficult, might need some incentive to tell me what I want to know.” He pulled a large hunting knife from its sheath, knelt next to her, and reached for the collar of her shirt. “I can oblige.”
She promised herself she wouldn't scream or cry. “Wait,” she said carefully. “Listen. Nothing that's happened here needs to be reported. To anyone. So just... stop now and let me go, and we'll forget this whole thing. Ok? Just... stop.”
He guffawed, hooked a finger into the shirt's neck, and pulled the tight material up off her body. She flinched away from his touch, then jerked her chin high and away from the blade as he slid his knife into the gap and pulled it down. The cloth separated easily; under it, she smelled of soap and sweat and sandalwood: healthy, fit. Air warmed by the fire played across her shoulders and chest, contrasting with the cold metal as it slid lower, raising goosebumps, puckering her nipples. The urge to flee rose in her like bile: to kick him, bite him, something. Anything. She squirmed. Her neck rope tightened and she froze again. The blade parted the bottom of her shirt, and the man flicked the flaps apart to expose her teal spandex hiking bra.
“Mmm — pretty gift wrap,” he murmured. “Let's see the goods.”
“Wait. Wait!” she ground out again, and the man paused.
“You ready to tell me who’s paying you? What the plan is when you have the deed?”
“This is crazy! I don’t know anything about any deed! I’m telling you!”
The man rolled his eyes. With a few efficient cuts, he slit her sleeves and pulled the shirt off her torso in two pieces. He dropped one, then cut the other in two again. He tucked a large rectangle of the cloth into a vest pocket; she couldn't guess why. Then he stuck his knife blade-first into the ground and brought the remaining half to her mouth.
“Last chance to get off easy,” he said.
“You're fucking nuts!” she yelled. He paused, surprised by her vehemence, and she continued. “Don't touch me, you motherfucker! You'll be sorry when—”
He crammed the cloth in. She squealed, the organic cotton stifling the sound, her eyes squeezing shut as he forced the scrap of t-shirt past her teeth, keeping his fingers clear. Her face elongated as her jaw was forced down and cheeks out by the thick wad. Stray threads dangled on her stretched lips, tickling them. Grunting furiously, she tried to push back with her tongue and jaw, to work the material back out, but the man jammed a knot of rough rope between her teeth to keep the gag in place and knotted the makeshift bridle behind her head.
“There. Let's hear the fucking attitude now!” The man raised his eyebrows smugly. The girl gave a few sullen squawks. Useless. After a moment, she lay quiet.
He smirked, then picked up the other half of her shirt from where it lay and threw it onto the fire. It blackened and caught, glowing red holes opening in it like cancer, expanding until the material flamed up and vanished. Then he pulled his knife from the ground and brought it towards her, leaning forward in anticipation. She bleated and jerked, trying to pull back, big blue eyes wide, but he followed her body with his blade, touching her soft skin with its tip, dragging it more and more firmly up her gently-perfumed stomach, leaving a white scratch along her creamy-bronze flesh, until he reached her bra. Three more quick cuts and her amber breasts spilled out. She lay stiff and stoic, nipples rising in fear, as he ran the tips of his fingers over the meat of her tits, then hefted them — good-sized handfuls. He gave them a squeeze so hard she gasped and moaned behind her gag.
“Nice rack,” he complimented. “Cute pink little nipples.” He gave them a casual pinch. “Hoping to distract me with those before you started searching my place? Got a little Mata Hari in you?” He raked his eyes over her body again. “No tan lines. What's your secret? Tanning booth? Nude beach?” He chuckled.
Without ceremony, he pulled the bra’s remains off her and threw them into the flames. She squeezed her eyes shut, moisture collecting under her lashes, doleful drops threatening to escape. She would not cry.
