Paint-Ball

The other girl was black. Serious black. As in Somalian black, not Caribbean black. Not coffee coloured, or at least not coffee that had had a touch of milk. Her genes were undiluted by anything that might have lightened her complexion. Black skin, even her head, which was devoid of hair. Shaved, I guessed, the way so many guys do now, but not so many girls.

Which gave her the advantage. In bright sunlight, my white complexion would stand out, against whatever background I could find, trees mostly, was my guess, perhaps a building, not much else. She would blend into woodland like a shadow. Could lie in long grass like a mound. A real advantage for this game.

Even her shaved skull would give her an advantage over me. She looked like one of those Vogue models, but with dark lips, not glossed scarlet, not made up for a photo-shoot, just natural, for playing sport, or games, if outdoor hunting is a game. I have a mane. Blonde. Waist length. Not straight, nor curly. Somewhere in between. Tied back, for running, a pony tail, scrunchied close to my scalp, another mid-way down, a third right at the end. Dressage, they call it.

We were standing opposite each other, waiting for the klaxon that would signal the beginning of the hunt. Ready to run. To wherever seemed a good place to duck and dive and hide. We had been given no prior briefing on the layout of the grounds. All that I knew was that the view on either side of the long driveway, leading to what seemed like a large manor house, was open grass, with copses of oak and ash and chestnut, with some pine trees, and some weeping willows standing separately here and there.

She was the first and only black girl I had seen butt naked. Nice body. I could see why she had passed the selection interview. My height. More muscle. Sprinter's thighs, where mine are more long distance runner's. Strong calves. An afro butt. Not quite the kind that you could rest a glass on, but getting close to that.

Slim waist, hard stomach, flat and firm. An outie navel. Good breasts. Fuller than mine, and mine are pleasantly more than a handful. I wondered if in the part of Africa that her family had come from, there were melons, whose skin was just as black. Wide areolas, barely distinguishable, since every inch of flesh was black, except that where most of her skin was matt, the taut skin of her areolas had been polished to a sheen, right to her thick, eraser, nipple stubs.

She would be fast, over shorter distances at least, but I can run as well. Former college champion at ten kilometres, I can last the distance. She would tire, get out of breath. Her breasts would slow her down.

Mine need a sports bra, normally, and since I could not wear one for the hunt, they would slow me as well, but not as much as hers would do. They are full enough to push out tee-shirts, with small areolas, coin sized, and cherry nipple stubs. Like someone tied some thread around them, and pulled it tight, so that they look like balls of chewing gum, stuck on the areolas, or pink-red M and M's, without the nut inside, just sensitive nerve endings, packed beneath the skin. Malteasers.

Not that my nipples are going to make a different in this race. Still comparing me with her, my core is not as strong as hers was either. Where her stomach wall seemed to emerge from just below her breasts, my rib-cage shows. My stomach is concave, my pelvic girdle shows beneath my skin, rounded by my butt flesh, but by no means hidden.

Her mound was just that, a mound, with a slit of an entrance, hairless, whether she shaved it like her head, or had depilated it some other way. Mine, with its protruding labial flaps, is quite pronounced. Not that I starve myself. Just my metabolism, burning calories as fast as I consume them, before they turn to fat. I no longer need to shave. Laser made it permanently smooth.

And, of course, I run. That burns the calories that I consume. Thinking of which I checked her shoes. Like mine, issued to us as we were getting changed. Not trainers. More like swimming shoes. Slip-ons. Elasticated canvass tops, and rubber soles. Flat heels, no cushioning for running. More like running barefoot. At least we were the same, except that hers were black, like her, and mine were white, like me.

She spoke first, to break the awkward silence as we waited by the door.

"Have you done this before?" she asked.

Not what I expected. Not Brixton. She could have been Sloane Square. Private school. Well spoken. Like myself, I guess.

"First time," I said.

"Mine too," she said.

"I'm hoping it will be fun," I told her.

"Me too," she said.

Then silence. We were competitors, not friends. One prize going. Worth good money. Five thousand up for grabs, for just two hours. If I could win it. Which meant beating her, and, of course, avoiding them.

"Do you think that it will hurt?" she asked. "Getting shot, I mean."

"They said it won't," I said. "Or not so much we need to worry. They said that it might leave a bruise, but that would fade."

"At least that won't show on me," she grinned.

I had not thought of that before. I bruise, too easily. My milk white skin turns dark purple when a squash ball hits it hard, or if I bang my leg, or anything. Black skin, the kind of black she was, is far too dark to let a bruise show through.

She had a nice smile. Full lips, good teeth. Nice eyes, that smiled along with her mouth. I could like her, I thought. It was a pity this was as much a contest between ourselves, as it was against the men.

I wondered who the men would be. Reasonably rich, of course. Able to afford to pay to hunt for fun. Not shooting deer, or grouse, or rabbits, but live human targets, on the run. Four men, each contributing a decent lump of cash, covering the prize itself, the costs of the equipment, the grounds, the administration and the recruitment of the girls. A moderately expensive pastime. But possibly no more so than golf, at one of those elite clubs like my father's was, below the Surrey Downs.

So they would be reasonably rich, but old, or young, or in between, and fit, and fast, or overweight and slow to get around? Hopefully the latter. Hopefully the kind of guy I could outrun. Zig-zagging, so as not to be an easy target.

They had let me try a gun. Outside, before undressing and waiting to be released. The range, Sam had explained, was fifty metres. Bull's eye style targets mounted on straw bales. Blue outer, white next, and red, dead centre. I had hit blue, the two times that I hit anything at all. It had felt good, though, firing the rifle, looking down the sight.

They would be using the same sight, but not with any bull's eye target. They would be lining up to fire at me. Or her. Pellets. Not live ammunition. Not bullets. Nothing that would break the skin. Gas propelled paint balls. An oil based dye, Sam said, clear evidence you had been hit, not washable, not without some kind of alcohol based wipe. No way to remove it on the field of play. A hit would be a hit, Sam had explained.

I had not asked her name. The other girl. Or told her mine. I was about to put that right, except the door opened, the one that led outside. Sam walked in and closed it.

"Two minutes to klaxon," she said. "Remember, you have just a two-minute start on the hunters. It's not that long. Your decision whether to maximise your distance, or to hunker down and hide. You can go anywhere. The borders of the grounds are the roads and the stream. Cross them, and you are on public land. Which you are free to do, if that's what you decide."

It was a restatement of what we knew already, but Sam was just doing her job.

Shorter than both of us. Seriously petite, since I am just five-five. Dressed in army fatigues, right down to the beret. Shaved back and sides. What remained was blonde, and crew-cut short. Or so I had seen, when she had interviewed me. With her beret covering the top, she might as well have been shaved as close my competitor, all round. On my opponent, her shaved skull could have meant anything. On Sam, it suggested she was gay. A latent lesbian, or active, who liked overseeing the hunting of naked, heterosexual girls.

"Five thousand in the kitty," she said. "That's at the start. Each time that you are hit, the prize drops by one thousand, so don't get hit. Whichever of you has least hits, will win whatever's left. If it's a draw, it's split. All understood?"

"Understood," we both said, as we were a duet, school-children saying 'yes' to teacher.

It was a novel way to finance a holiday. Some wives work. Some husbands earn enough to fund things on their own. I had been made redundant, "down-sizing due to Covid" had been the management excuse. My husband's job was good, and covered most things, but did not stretch to let us have the kind of holiday where everything is paid for, and you just enjoy the sun.

So when I saw the advert, I had dropped an email asking to know more, and met with Sam, and here I was, about to try to win five thousand in two hours, or at the minimum, to win at least the one.

"Check watches," she told us.

I checked mine.

Black, digital, strapped to my wrist by Sam when she was showing me where I should change, if undressing, and leaving your clothes and waiting naked, can be described as changing.

Not quite mid-day. Thirty seconds still to go.

"Goggles," Sam instructed us.

The one precaution they were taking, to make sure we did not get a paint ball in the eye. Like swimming goggles. The same colours as our footwear. Hers were black. Mine white. The straps that is. The plastic covering the eyes was clear. I put mine on. The black girl did the same. The lenses were quite clear. Not much distortion. Vision good. I checked my watch again. Eleven seconds, and counting down.

"What's your name?" I asked her.

"Sophie," she said.

I told her mine, just as the klaxon sounded, outside, somewhere in the grounds Like an air raid siren, two long blasts.

Sam opened the door. I did not hesitate. Each second mattered. I went first. Outside, I ran, crossing an extensive lawn. Not straight. Diagonally, to my left. The hunters would assume we would go straight, I thought.

A ten-kilometre run will take me less than an hour. You do not sprint. You run, at pace, but steadily. Which gave me time to turn. Sophie was sprinting, off to the right, legs thrusting, breasts bouncing wildly. The game was on. Just her, and me, and some men who soon would follow, armed with guns.

Red, blue, green and yellow. That was what Sam had said. Four men. Each with a different colour of pellet. The most times you could get hit was four. Which left one thousand. That had been the clincher. The way that Sam had sold it to me.

"You can't lose," she had said, while we were drinking wine together in the pub in Oxford. "The prize reduces, but never less than a thousand. So if it's help with uni fees..."

I took that as a compliment. Twenty-eight, and still mistaken for a student. But then, who else would do this, voluntarily. Not many married women. Not that my husband knew. I had told John that I was out walking for the day, while he was catching up with paperwork. That was all. Not being hunted. Not by four men. Just how I would explain the money, I would work out later, assuming that I won. Sam had sold it to me as a certainty. Sales hype, to be persuasive, I knew that now that I had met the other girl who would be hunted with me.

What Sam had not said was that there would be two of us, or that if the other girl was hit by fewer of the hunters than I was, she would get the prize, the lot, with whatever was deducted for the number of paint ball hits that she received.

"Okay, Sophie," I thought. "It's you and me. And I intend to win this game!"

The taxi drive up to the house had been reasonably long. Long enough to twist and turn a few times. Maybe the best part of a mile. Which led me to assume that the land behind the house, where I was running, would be just as extensive. Space enough in which I could lose myself and hide from harm. I got that wrong.

I heard the traffic first. In front of me. A road, somewhere ahead. Mostly low rumbling, tyres on tarmac. Some engine noise as well.

I was still heading diagonally left from the rear door of the house that I had run from. Flat ground. Grass, cut short, a massive lawn. Solitary trees. No copses. Nowhere I could hide.

Some of these estates have high brick walls, built a hundred or more years ago. This one had a fence. Three bars between each upright. No animals to keep in. No worries about foxes, who could come and go. No real concern that trespassers could climb through, it seemed. Cars passing on the other side of it. No screening. You could see over and between those fence bars. I was in full view.

I stopped, perplexed. Checked my watch. One minute gone, and seconds digitally marching on.

Behind me, the grounds were far too small to hide in. Not with four men all searching. You can hide beneath a weeping willow, where the fronds hang down and touch the ground, and form a tent around the trunk, but there were no weeping willows at the back. The best that I could do would be to stand behind a tree trunk, hoping that the men would go the other way. Not a great game plan, when they had two hours to find and kill their prey.

I had to cross the road, or tack back right and hope for something better. A split-second coin toss in my head and I was on the run again, tacking right, running parallel with the fence, just feet from it, ignoring cars that passed me as I ran. At least I was pretty certain John would not be driving past, nor anyone I knew.

Not that they ignored the naked girl, streaking on the massive lawn behind the house. Some looked. Others used their car horns. Amused, appreciative, or outraged. I could not tell. I just kept running, straight.

I spotted it before I saw the stream. The hump-backed bridge. England's quick and easy way of crossing narrow water. No gentle slope. Just up and over, and if you drive too fast the risk of front wheels leaving contact with the ground, and landing with a crunch to test the car's suspension. Red brick sides, supporting the hump of road.

"Fuck!"

It was just a stream, but too wide to jump across, and with no stepping stones. Clean water, flowing slowly, the bottom visible, and no more than ankle deep, so I could have waded it, but my shoes would get wet, and running with wet shoes, wet canvass, and potentially water still inside, would not be anything like fun.

Beyond were woods. Dense trees. Perfect to hide in. I could last two hours in there. It would take an Indian scout to find me, to track the broken twigs and stomped on grass, and my guess was, none of the men who had paid to hunt me would be Cherokee or Sioux.

The fence stopped at the bridge, where either side was low brick wall, festooned with moss, and then continued on the other side. I had seconds to decide. The cars were not exactly bumper to bumper, but there were enough of them to make going onto the road seem daunting, except I had no choice. I did not even wait for any kind of quiet gap. I just went straight to the fence.

I put one leg through, between the middle cross-bar and the top. Then I ducked, and got my head and body through. For just a moment I had one foot on the ground on either side, and the middle cross-bar nestling high between my legs. I pulled my other leg through, and I was on the road.

A car passed. The driver used their horn, two light taps, warning or appreciation, I could not tell. I did not know if they were male or female. Right then I did not care. I followed it, running up the slope of the bridge, over the hump, and down the other side, as another car came toward me. Another horn.

There was no time to care about the fact that I was naked. This was a chase, a real time hunt, and by now four men would have started stalking me, each carrying a gun. I felt incredibly vulnerable, my back and butt exposed. I did not care that drivers coming towards me could see my front, my breasts and cunt. What really scared me was the thought of being shot at by a hunter, my rear a target for anyone who might be following behind.

Another car, behind me. This time the car horn was much louder, and prolonged. Intended as a warning, probably, but serving to alert the hunters that something, at least, was going on.

I had to get away. There were woods on both sides of the road, now that I had used the bridge to cross the stream. Instead of ducking back through the fence to the woods on the side of the road I had been on, I crossed it. Just as another car drove by, and like the others, used its horn.

I ducked through the fence on the far side of the road, and immediately got stung. I should have looked. Nettles. Calf length. Not just by the fence, but extending into the woods, blending in with knee high ferns. If this was what the woods were like, hiding would be painful. Ducking down would inevitably be worse. Nettles at my butt and cunt. Not worth the time to think about.

Stay on the road, was suddenly the only choice that came to mind.

I clambered through the fence again, from nettles back to tarmac, and started running. Always, in the countryside, you walk or run towards the oncoming traffic. That way you see what is coming towards you, instead of risking being hit from behind. Drummed into me by my parents on our country rambles, any time we had to use a road.

This time, on the firm road surface, I was more conscious that the rubber soles of my foorwear provided little cushioning against the impact of each stride. I tried to land on my toes, instead of my heels, and to have my knees partially bent already as my foot came down, using my thighs as shock absorbers to minimise the impact as I ran.

It worked, up to a point. My breasts, without support, bounced rhythmically to my steady pace, left and right, as well as up and down. As I described, they are not unduly large, but breast flesh, unlike muscle, will move freely, unconstrained. It felt so very different to running on a track, in trainers, with a sports bra holding things in check.

The oncoming traffic mostly just ignored me. The drivers looked, of course. Even at the thirty miles an hour or so that they were doing, I could see their eyes. Some carried passengers. Some had children in the back. Two lorries had to swerve around me. They used their horns, more like wolf-whistles than irritation. Strangely, I got used to it, and I felt good.

Someplace, somewhere up the road, there had to be a gate, a track, or something, entering the woods. That was my theory. A black shape crossing several hundred feet in front of me confirmed it. Sophie. She had got there first.

Two hundred feet is just ten seconds. I turned into the track and followed her, and immediately felt the stinging pain. My back, below my shoulder blade. I reached around and fingered it, still running. Yellow paint on my finger-tips. A hit. My prize, if I survived to win, was down to one thousand pounds.

"Fuck!"

That had to have been meant for Sophie. She had to have been seen, and followed, and would have been shot, except I had arrived and been that much closer to whichever hunter had fired from his side of the road, and hit the nearer target. And Sam had understated just how much the impact hurt. Maybe she had never actually been shot herself to know.

The track that I was on, was vehicle width, grass in the middle, hard, dry mud on either side, where tyres had worn the grass until it died. If the hunter who had shot me was not alone, I was a sitting duck. Especially running straight. Time to zig-zag. Which I did. While looking for a pathway, anything, to get off to the side, into the safety of the trees.

Sophie had gone. Which way, I had not seen. How far ahead when she had disappeared, I also had not taken in. I had been far too distracted by that fucking pellet hitting me.