Paint-Ball

This was, of course, insane. Two naked girls, running wild in woods, in England, being hunted like deer, except we knew that we were being hunted, while deer just graze and only realise if they catch the hunter's scent. These, I also realised were not private woods. Not the way that Sam had said it was. Not part of the estate. Public. Anyone could go there, for peace and quiet, time to think, and walk.

There was an opening on my right. I turned. A path, of sorts. Not a vehicle track. One central, hard mud, curving trail. People walked here, not jeeps or vehicles of any kind. I ran, then slowed, thinking that even if I was now the quarry, being pursued, it would be guile and cunning that would keep me safe, as much as burning thighs, aching lungs and pounding heart.

Dead end. One hundred feet or so into the woods, the trail came to a stop. These trails are supposed to form a mesh in any wood, criss-crossing it, meeting one another, allowing short-cuts here and there, excitement for children running wild, and panic for their parents, when they lost sight of energetic offspring. The paths are not supposed to stop. But this one had just come to nothing, only uncut grass, and ferns, and possibly more nettles in between the trees ahead.

Going back seemed unwise. The wide track that I had been on was open ground. If any of the other hunters had followed Yellow, I would be shot again, too easily. Another thousand down. Going on, to God knows where, seemed not that great a choice. Standing still seemed just as bad, a sitting target, or standing, unless I really did sit down.

I went for something in between the last two choices. I walked on. Taking care to trample down the undergrowth, and crush whatever nettles might be there, high steps, in the knee high undergrowth, instead of dragging my feet through.

Twenty feet further in, I went behind an oak, and stopped, hiding from anyone who followed by standing tight against the trunk. The bark felt rough against my back and butt, but it felt good as well. I guess that tree huggers experience something of the same. A wholesome strength that emanates from within the living tree.

For several beautiful minutes I got my breath back, and with it my thoughts, now settling. Hiding like this was easy. The chance that one of the hunters would find me here were slim. All I had to do was wait it out.

The woods were my friend. My place of safety. I was on the far side of the road, in what I knew was public land, as Sam had said, but it was quiet here, the breeze rustling leaves above me, the sun filtering through, not that I needed its warmth on my body. The ambient summer temperature, and the exercise I had just had in running, were all I needed to keep warm.

Then more rustling. Not leaves blown by a breeze, but something moving, getting close, travelling through ferns. Not footsteps. Movement. An animal. Maybe a bird. But too loud and bulky. I thought of foxes roaming in the woods. At least it could not be a wolf, not in England, but I still did not relish a naked encounter with Brer Fox.

I felt goose bumps emerging. A shiver going through my spine. Not just my spine. My breasts as well. My nipples engorging with a flow of blood. They do not elongate. They swell. My cunt feeling the shiver right to my clit. Feeling so exposed as well. Woods can be friendly. They can be scary places too, with sounds that can make you think of bears or boars. Not that we have bears here either. But tell my brain that.

"Rusty!"

A woman's voice, but not describing aging metal. A golden retriever, but more russet in its coat than gold. Which rustled its way between the trees from just behind me, maybe having smelled my scent, but finding me and snuffling round my legs, and nosing in between my thighs and at my cunt.

It barked. A friendly bark. But still a bark, that could give me away.

I crouched down, to pet it, and hopefully keep it calm. With my knees together, to protect my cunt. Like all dogs, his or her nose would be wet and cold. I love dogs. My father had bred German shepherds. This dog was beautiful. Dark eyes, long coat, so good to stroke and run my fingers through. It loved me too. Tail wagging, trying to climb all over me. Just friendly, playful, frisky, spirited, or that was what I thought.

"Rusty, you naughty dog..., leave her alone!"

She was just ten feet in front of me. Sixties, grey hair cut like the Queen's had been, before she died, plaid skirt, strong walking boots, and windcheater top.

Rusty kept on jumping, while I was balanced on my toes, and not too stable, and also feeling very naked, now that someone, clearly not participating in the game, was standing right up close. Not travelling at speed, behind a windscreen, but there in person, looking straight and sternly at the disgusting, naked girl.

My brain was whirring, trying to work out how I had failed to notice the path that she was on, cursing myself, but forgiving myself as well, since the footpaths here were narrow, the undergrowth dense, and even when you are quite close to them, side on, they would be difficult to see.

I lost my balance. Knocked sideways. Thirty canine kilogrammes of weight displacing my own fifty-five. Dogs moved fast. Even thirty kilo dogs. I was still on my side, in ferns and grass, scrabbling to get up, when I felt the cold of Rusty's nose prodding from behind, my butt and cunt.

"No, Rusty!," the woman was calling. "Oh no! Oh no!"

I managed to sit up, then thought that standing might be good, to face her, unafraid. I turned onto my knees, hands on the grass in front of me, intending to straighten up and get to my feet that way. A serious mistake.

Rusty jumped. While I was on my hands and knees. Dogs do doggy, all the time, not just to get a change from face to face. His body weight landing on my butt and back. Forelegs on either side of me. Rear still on the ground. Something prodding at my thigh. His cock. Out of its sheath and wet, all too ready, primed, and seeking somewhere warm and slick, where it could slide inside and thrust and spurt and impregnate, to spawn a Rusty litter with the convenient bitch he had just found.

I knew, from watching when my father had arranged for his female German shepherd to be taken by a male, that once inside, they knotted. The dog's cock, my father has explained, would swell, and lock inside the bitch's vagina, so that until it came, and its cock reduced in size again, they were literally locked together.

I felt it touch my cunt, prod at my labia.

"Rusty, no!" I heard again.

No dog, however well trained by its owner, will be obedient all the time. They will still chase rabbits. Or fuck a bitch in heat. I have even known some of the smaller breeds who will hump a cushion, or will rub themselves against your leg. I guess you have to forgive a dog for following its instincts, as the Rusty dog was doing. My cunt was there, and it was about to do the deed.

I dropped. Women have instincts. Self preservation. My cunt is not available for any rampant mammal with a cock. I took my arms away and let my body fall, my cunt no longer right where Rusty wanted it. Had my assailant been a man, he could have still dropped down on me and found a way to fuck me, but my new four-legged would-be fuck-mate could not get down that low.

Walking boots make short work of ferns and grass, and do not risk the wearer getting nettle stings. Rusty's owner grabbed him by the collar, clipping on his leash, and then pulling him franticly away. For someone in her sixties, she seemed suddenly quite strong. Panic does that. Adrenaline. Terror of the unthinkable.

"I am so sorry!" she began. "But..., but..., what are you doing..., I mean..., you can't just..., what are you thinking...?"

She ran out of things to say. Her mouth continued to open and close, as if she was saying something more, but she was speechless. Rusty was still straining at the leash. If dogs can look confused, he did. Clearly wondering what he had done wrong, six inches of brilliant pink-red cock between his hind legs, narrower where it emerged than most men's but bulging towards the business end. It almost made me wish that men had cocks designed to bulge and lock inside a cunt, the way he did.

Whilst that thought flashed through my brain, I was also feeling so exposed, and mortified, and my breasts were suddenly stinging me like fire, and that sent alarm bells ringing, and I remembered that there had been nettles, and got up on my hands and knees again, and saw the so easily recognisable leaves, a clump of them, crushed where I had been lying, their serrated edges full of poison, and my breasts beginning to show the tiny bumps of pink where I had indeed been stung.

It was a weird kind of pain. Yes, it was stinging, but my nipples had been stung as well, and there was something strangely pleasurable about the way they felt. I would have liked that feeling at my cunt. Unbearable, but bizarrely exquisite too. My clit, as well. Nettles as an erotic fetish, stinging those most sensitive of nerve endings, packed into the little nub of flesh, raw and burning, yet so tempting. Something to explore another time, when I was not being stared at by an irate woman with her still so very rampant dog.

I was still scrambling to my feet when she gave me both barrels, finding her voice again, letting loose her parting shot.

"You just disgust me!" she exclaimed. "You should be ashamed! You can't blame my dog! You brought it all upon yourself, going around like that! I really don't know what you young girls are coming to!"

Neither, I thought, did I.

I said nothing. She turned and went back to the still invisible path she had been on, Rusty following reluctantly. As far as he was concerned, any bitch would do.

Right then, I was shaken by what had just happened. More so, than by being hit with the paint pellet. Being naked in woods like this suddenly had risks that I had never even dreamed of. Not that I had much choice. I was going to be staying naked, as I was, until the klaxon that would end the game.

I checked my watch. Just twenty minutes gone. So much can happen in so short a time.

I wondered about Sophie, where she was, how far she had run, whether she was keeping on the move, or hiding. Whether she, like me, had been hit already. Then I thought about the hunters. Stalking. Carrying their guns. Scanning as they walked, peering through the trees for pure white, naked flesh, or black.

Sam had been in army style fatigues. Green and brown camo. The hunters, I guessed, might be wearing something the same. I wondered what kind of strategy they would use, to try to find us. I was not that far into these woods, but I had no idea how far they went on. You could prowl around for hours here and still see no one. No naked quarry.

Unless they worked together, as a team, and spread out, covering more ground. Both Sophie and I had been seen running down the wide track. Whether Yellow, having hit myself at least, had noticed where we each branched off, or would tell the others, I could only guess. Best to assume the worst, I thought. The other three could be uncomfortably close.

I took the risk. Walked gingerly the ten feet to the narrow trail that Rusty and his owner had been on. Checked both directions. Nothing. Rusty and her majesty had gone left. I jogged right. The trail curved one way, then the other. More people. A man and a woman, and another dog. A black alsation.

Dog walker's paradise. Streaker's paradise too. I ran on towards them. They saw me coming, stared for a moment, taking in the naked girl, then stepped sideways, leaving the trail free. The dog ignored me, more interested in rabbit tracks than a mere human. Maybe the alsation was in fact a bitch, not interested in passing cunts, like mine. I id not stop to look. Instead I jogged on past. The couple, still in their thirties watched me pass. Her mouth open, his eyes wide, while I was running on.

A crossroads. Cross-tracks. The same narrow paths meeting in one place. Straight on, or left, or right? Right should be back towards the road. Left would be safer. I turned left. Continued jogging. Rounded yet more curves. Two minutes jogging, further on, someone ahead of me. Army fatigues. Green camo. Carrying a gun.

Fuck!

I stopped. Ducked back, just far enough to see him still, but not be seen, or so I hoped. One way, I thought, not to be tracked, might be to track the tracker. The last thing that a hunter would expect, would be for his quarry to be right behind.

Unless he turned, and saw me following.

I bottled it. Too risky. I turned around and started back. I should have gone straight on at the junction of the paths instead of turning left. I still could, as soon as I got back there. Except another hunter was already there. Side on to me. Looking down the path that I had planned to take.

I ducked back again. Just out of sight. I waited. Ready to run, if I saw any sign of him approaching. Which, inevitably, I did. Even with his camo, I could see him moving, looking through the trees. Coming my way, on my track.

My white skin would stand out even more than his camo, if he looked in my direction, so I had no choice except to move. Except I now knew that I was caught between two hunters. Move too quickly, and I would just run right into the first hunter I had seen, so once I thought I might be getting close to him, I slowed.

Good move. Another careful twenty yards or so, and he was there, although he still had his back to me. Looking around. No longer looking through trees. Where he was standing, there were no more trees. Just open land.

I knew that the last place that he was likely to look was back down the path that he had just come. I also knew that somewhere not too far behind me, the second hunter would be following, closing what was not that great a gap.

I had been looking left and right. Desperate for another route. But nothing. My breasts were still irritating me from lying on that clump of nettles, so I was not keen to head into the trees, and risk whatever would be growing in the ferns and grass and worse.

Also, the nature of the undergrowth had changed. In autumn this would be a blackberry picker's paradise. Right then, the berries were still small, and tight, and red, but the ground was covered with long strands of thorny brambles that would rip bare skin, and my skin was extremely bare.

I was not entirely sure if what I thought of doing was within the rules, but right then it seemed the only option left. I ran. Not jogged. I sprinted. Straight down last few yards of narrow track, out of the trees, into the open land, to where the first hunter I had seen, was standing, still uncertain which, if any, way to go.

He heard me, but by then I had closed the distance between us to mere yards. He turned. He was carrying his paint gun in one hand, a serious looking rifle with a metal shoulder stock and a magazine to reload the pellets automatically each time it was fired. The same kind Sam had let me try that morning.

The guy was carrying it midway along its length, a casual, relaxed way to hold a gun, not with his finger on the trigger, primed to fire. I had planned to hit it, if I could, to jerk it, spoil his chance to aim and fire, and run into the open land ahead and zig and zag while looking for more trees, or somewhere else to hide.

Instead, last minute thinking, or sheer instinct, I grabbed instead. The barrel. He had no real hold on it, and was completely taken by surprise. He lost his grip. I had it, swinging from my hand, but the unexpected weight of it swung it against my leg. It hurt. Not agonising, but enough to make me drop it. Meanwhile my momentum had me well past the guy, and so I did what I had started out to do. I ran.

No need to zig or zag quite yet. He had to get to where I had dropped the gun, then pick it up, then aim, before he fired. Ten seconds. Maybe twenty. A sprinter can make a hundred metres in just ten. I had already sprinted thirty before I had grabbed the gun, but still I covered a good bit of ground before I had to slow, heart pounding, thighs screaming, back to my ten kilometre pace, long paces, rhythm steady, but still uncertain where to go.

I heard him fire. Expected to feel the stinging pain that I had felt the first time. Nothing. He had to have missed. Not a trained assassin. An amateur. But I started evasive action, side to side, diagonally, instead of straight. Then realised what I was zig-zagging towards. A car park, not tarmac, one of those informal places, dry earth, where you could drive into, to stop and take a walk. Quite full of cars. Upwards of ten that I could see. Beyond the car park, another road, spasmodic traffic.

He fired again. I flinched. No pain again. Another miss. I got there, to the cars, and ran behind one, stopping, catching my breath, and ducking down below its roof height. I pictured all those television shows, with shoot outs, people firing from behind crashed cars. Except I had no gun. This was a one-sided shoot out, and even just a nick would be a kill shot, another thousand of the prize money, done and gone.

"Are you okay? What's going on?" from just behind me.

A man, in jeans, checked shirt and walking boots, a mass of wild, grey hair and straggly beard. Walking towards me, looking seriously concerned. A plastic cup of something steaming in his hand. Further behind him, more than a dozen others, men and women, also holding plastic cups.

Saturday. A weekend ramblers' group. Just back from walking. Having tea or coffee from the flasks that they had brought, and their weekly chat, before they all went home.

I never felt so naked. I was still crouched down, side on to the rear of the car I was behind, side on to the concerned, elderly citizen doing his duty in checking if the naked girl in plastic goggles, who had just run into the car park, was in need of any help.

"It's fine," I said. "It's just..."

I stopped. I could not think of a way to explain to him that this was all a game. That although I was being hunted, I had actually volunteered for this, and no one had taken my clothes, or was after me for any other reason than to shoot me with a pellet that had paint that would prove I had been hit. Not an easy explanation to give, while crouching down for safety, to persuade him there was no need for his concern.

"Is everything alright, Peter?"

A woman from the group, joining the man.

"Oh my goodness? Is she naked? What on earth...?", she added.

I stood up where I was and turned to them, thinking what I could say to reassure them. Meanwhile several more were coming over. All of an age. All with their steaming drinks in hand. I could have done with a strong coffee right then, but it was not the time to ask.

Of course, standing, facing them, meant being even more exposed. Crouching down, my legs were tight together, and this Peter guy had seen me only from the side. Standing, arms by my sides, meant they could see my breasts, and even more embarrassing, my cunt, with my protruding labial lips.

Yet, the aspect of my nakedness that I really felt most keenly was not my cherry nipple stubs, nor the prominence of my labia, protruding from my cunt. It was the crop of swellings on my breasts, the nettle stings, still there, and obvious, impairing the otherwise pure white complexion I would have shown.

"I'm fine," I said again. "It's just a kind of game. It's all okay."

"Honestly," the woman said. "What gives you the right...? I mean..., it's just indecent...! That's what it is..., indecent!"

By then there were six of them, ramblers all, staring at me, as if I was the most disgusting thing that they had ever seen. Worse than dog excrement left, uncollected by the owner.

"I'm going to call the police," one woman said, as she was getting out her mobile phone.