Paint-Ball

One of the men already had his mobile out, but was not calling anyone. He had started to take photographs with his.

There is a joke. You are lying naked on a beach, reading a magazine, when you see friends from church approaching, fully dressed. They have not seen you yet, so you have time to decide. Which part of your body do you hide.

Most people say, their genitals, especially men. Most people get it wrong. You hide your face. Lie with the magazine covering your head. Let them see the rest of you. They will have no idea who it is.

As soon as I saw the mobile being used to take some pictures, I put my hands to my face. Upload my naked body on your Facebook page. I do not care. I just would not want to be recognised, not by my family, nor any of my more uptight friends.

A hand took hold of my arm. Strong grip. Almost hurting me.

"I've got her," the man who had just taken me by my upper arm said to the others.

"Well done, Eric," the woman said, who had been making the call.

At least the man holding my arm was now in front of me, spoiling any more photographs taken by the other man.

"Think you can flash your tits and cunt anywhere you want to, do you?" he said.

Technically it was a question. He was asking. But it did not deserve an answer. Besides, he was taking every opportunity to get up close and voyeuristic with my breasts and cunt. Even at his age, I could tell that he liked what he saw.

Then I heard another shot, and remembered that my head and shoulders could be seen above the car roof. Again, I flinched. No need. I was unhurt. But the guy they had called Eric swore, and touched his chest. Red ink on his checked shirt. Collateral damage. Caught in the cross-fire. But it gave me a moment while Peter was figuring out if that really was his blood.

"Have you been shot?" one of the women.

I ducked, under Eric's arm, then ran. Past the backs of several other cars. Thank you Red, for missing, and for hitting the bystander, who had, in effect, been making his citizen's arrest. Bye, ramblers! Bye, you old farts! You have just seen a girl, stark naked in the countryside, and now you really have got something to talk about over your hot drinks.

I was out of the car park, back on the grass, running parallel to the road. I checked behind me to the left. The hunter in his camo gear was coming. Not fast, but following. A hunter's trot, a crouching run, which will never catch another sprint.

Ahead was just more open space, more grass. Too exposed, although I had now found that I quite liked exposure. But not the kind that got you hit. Or arrested by an uptight citizen. Or fucked by an all too friendly dog.

The woods seemed safer. Not back where I had been. The second hunter I had seen would soon come out on the same track and then there would be two of them, both after me. There had to be a limit to the number of poorly aimed shots a hunter can fire off, before probability theory says that one will hit you as you run and you are dead.

Red fired again. I heard the shot. He missed this time as well. Tough call, to run, then stop, take aim and fire, to hit a moving target. This was actually fun. Even being naked. Even being seen. And stared at, and spoken to like I was filth. Sticks and stones can break my bones, but words can never hurt me.

Paint pellets can. They can hurt me. So I kept running, heading for the trees, then running along the edge of the woods until I found another path that went into the woods themselves, where I turned in. I slowed again. I jogged instead of sprinting. Neither Red nor the other hunter could see me now.

A hundred yards in, there was another crossroads. Tracks met. Five ways to go this time, including the way I had just come. I hesitated. Then I saw her. Sophie. Walking, not running, coming down one of the tracks towards where I was, seemingly relaxed, head high, her full breasts swaying with each stride.

She grinned.

"Hi, how's it going?" she said, as she got close. "Been hit yet?"

"Once," I said. "I saw you at the road, and followed. Got one hit while I was running, on my back. Yellow."

I turned, showing her my shoulder-blade.

"Same," she said. "He got me just before I crossed the road."

She turned and showed me. A bullet mark of yellow paint, staining her black butt. It would have made a good sized target. It would also have hurt a little less, the impact deadened by the generosity of her subcutaneous fat

"Did you hear shooting?" she asked me. "Just now?"

I pointed down a track. Not the one that I had run down. One in between the one that she had used and mine.

"Red saw me. Missed a couple of times. He can't run that fast, but he'll be here soon. I thought maybe go this way..."

I pointed, back the way I had just come. Then added.

"If you go first, I'll watch the rear."

"Okay," she said.

She headed down the track that I had indicated. The one I had just come down, from the open land, escaping Red. I followed her. I had to, since otherwise she would have wondered what was going on. She half walked, half ran, her black butt swaying, the yellow bullet splatter brilliant in the dappled light, thighs and calves working, torso held straight, breasts bouncing, as they would. I kept ten feet behind her, waiting for the inevitable. Red would have followed me back into the woods, and would be coming down this path.

"Fuck!" Sophie exclaimed with a throaty, whispered kind of shout. "A hunter!"

She stopped. She turned. I stopped as well. She waited for me to move, to head back, to get away. Instead I stood there, the path too narrow for her to get past easily.

"What the fuck!" she almost shouted, but kept it low in case he heard. "We need to move!"

I could see the camo on his fatigues, Red, coming down the path, as I knew he would. He shouldered his paint gun, aiming at the two of us.

"All's fair," I said, keeping my body behind Sophie's.

In love and war, I meant.

"Fuck!" she swore, this time not whispering.

Reached for her butt. The other side. Brought her hand around to look at what it had just touched there. Red paint. Just as I had planned. It would suit her. Balance out the yellow on the other side. Both butt cheeks now with bullet splatter, one of them even the colour of blood. Time for me to go, before Red got off another shot, and aimed for me. I ran.

Neat, I thought, as I sprinted back to the five-point cross. I had led her to the slaughter like a lamb. Or should that be like a black sheep. Then blocked her way on purpose, to give red the time to shoot. Bull's eye. Black sheep's butt. Whatever. It had worked exactly as I planned.

At the five-point cross, this time I headed right. Away from Red. Away from the other hunter too, assuming he had stayed in the woods and might now be coming this way. A jogging run. Fast enough to gain ground and lose the hunter who had just claimed his scalp, or rather, his black butt, and who would soon come after my white butt so that he had scored a pair.

I checked my watch again, while running. Seventy minutes into the game. Fifty left. I had been hit just once so far. Sophie twice, the second time because I sent her right to Red himself. The hits still counted. Right at that moment, I was winning, with one hit fewer. My one hit might have lost me a thousand pounds, but I still had four thousand in my hand, if I could just keep clear of any of the three hunters who still were stalking me.

A fork in the path, and I chose left, then realised that between the five-point cross and the fork, I had lost my sense of direction. But I kept running, until I reached the stream, with open land the other side. It was not where I had expected to be, assuming that this was the same stream with the hump-backed bridge that I had crossed an hour ago. My choice was now to cross the stream and risk the open space, or turn around, go back into the woods, and hope that Red, or else the other hunter, would not be coming at me.

No hump backed bridge here. Just six foot's width of water, and a field. I still did not like the idea of getting my shoes wet, so, without a bridge to use, I took them off. Then paddled. No more than ankle deep, but soft beneath my feet. Like mud, my feet sinking into it. The stuff oozing between my toes. So gross. And slippery. Dead leaves decaying. Too fucking slippery, I thought, as one foot slid off to one side, and I went down.

Shit!

The summer's day was warm, for England, but the stream was seriously cold, and I was lying in it, on my side. My butt had taken the brunt of the fall, although the muddy, leafy bottom of the stream had at least served to soften the impact just a bit.

That had hurt. My ego, more than my body. And my shoes. I should have just kept them on. I had been holding them in the hand that had gone down first as I had fallen, and they were soaked.

No time to hang around, or feel sorry for myself. I scrambled up, and gingerly paddled over to the other side. I could have put my gym shoes on again, but that would take more time, and the thought of my feet in the wet rubber made me squirm.

Besides, the grass felt good beneath my feet. And it felt kind of nice, being even more naked than I had been while wearing them. I even thought to take the goggles off, but a pellet in the eye would not be fun.

I started jogging, working out the geography. Fence, stream, road, bridge, cross the road, woods, out to open land, car park, another road, back into the woods, more or less straight on, the stream again, crossed it, which meant, I figured, that somewhere to my left would be the road I had first reached when running from the manor house across the lawn, and following the three-bar fence.

Not quite full circle. Three sides of a square. Now I was jogging in a field, a large one, with hay bales, six stacks of them, each stack three or four bales high, and maybe two or three bales wide.

It brought back memories. Picnics in fields as a kid with my Mum and Dad and my two brothers. Climbing the bales. Jumping from one level to the one below. Parachute dropping, bent legs and rolling sideways. Competing with male genes. Proving that I was every bit as good as them. Using the rope the bales were tied with to pull myself up, reaching the top, and lying flat, soaking in the sun.

Which gave me inspiration.

I tucked my gym shoes in between two bales. They would not get dry like that, but holding them while I climbed would make the climbing difficult, and leaving them on the ground, in sunlight, would give my hiding place away.

The first bale was chest high. I grabbed at the rope tied round the one above it, pulled myself up, digging my feet between the bales, then reaching higher, to the third bale's rope, pulling again, feet on the second bale now, straw digging into my soles, reaching up to the fourth and final bale, pulling, scrabbling again with my feet, missing, hanging from the rope, my breasts scratched by the straw, my thighs too, more scrabbling with my feet, finding the foothold between the third and fourth bales, using it to lift myself, reaching over that last bale's top, finding another rope there, pulling, grazing my breasts even more, my nipples feeling the straw pricks more than the rest, but finally on top, sitting first, then lying flat, dead centre, on my back, legs wide, arms wide, a star beneath the sun.

Perfect! No one could see me up there. Not even from a distance. The stack was wide enough that, as long as I stayed dead centre, dead flat, I would be safe. Brilliant thinking on my part!

Which gave me time to gather my thoughts. To reconnect with myself. No more need to keep alert, and moving. Time to get in touch with all the feelings that the hunt had brought out in me, and feel the excitement, and the warm caress of sun on my bare skin, and the pleasure-pain of nipples dragged against cut straw, and the more gentle, pleasurable feeling that all of this had kindled in between my legs.

Even the sharp straw against my back and butt was a turn on.

And I had time.

And opportunity.

And I could take off those so annoying goggles. Which I did, thinking again of what those ramblers would have thought of me, like a lost, would-be skinny-dipping swimmer looking for a lake.

I use my left hand, for most things, holding a pen, cutting with a knife, playing tennis, masturbating. My middle finger mainly. It found its way between the folds of labia, just the tip at first, delving deliciously inside, with the pad nearest to my palm caressing my wonderfully sensitive clit.

It felt so good!

I was wet. Inside and out. Still wet from my fall back at the stream. Exuding lubricating wetness in my cunt. Cock ready wetness, even if there was no cock to satisfy it. Just my hand. My fingers. My finger-tips now wet with that delightful, wetness from my cunt.

I might have simply carried on, but that was when I saw the slender stem, the leaves, variegated, where nothing should have grown. Yet it made a kind of sense, that seeds can germinate in straw, and grow, which the nettle clearly had.

I dared myself. I pinched the bottom of the fragile stem. This was not strong, well established, growth. My father had explained that if you grasp a nettle firmly, instead of stinging, the tiny hairs that serve as needles to protect it, break, before they pierce the skin. I broke the stem right at the base, and dared myself again.

I used my other hand, two fingers, opening my labia, holding them apart. Then crushed the nettle right between them, closing them against it, massaging them against the leaves. You do not feel the sting at first. Which gave me time to rub the leaves against my clit as well, swollen as it was, and out from hiding underneath its hood.

It felt incredible, that self-inflicted, stinging pain, burning first my labia, then the several thousand clitoral nerve endings that are so dense beneath its tender skin. Unbearably exquisite. Torture of a very special kind. Making me squirm. A delicious private moment, basking in the sun.

Then two fingers. The middle and the ring. All the way inside, until my palm stops them from going deeper. At most three inches, and my hand and fingers are quite slender. Not the seven glorious inches of my husband's cock that I prefer. But I ease my fingers in and out, to an internal rhythm, making sure I graze my tortured clit each time I slide them back inside.

My butt tautens in response to the cunt-teasing I am doing. The same way it does when he is on top and fucking me. Wanting more of him, so pushing up. I play with my clit. Both finger tips. It is throbbing from the nettle I have rubbed against it, but it loves to be abused. Still my middle and ring fingers, srumming on the nub of burning flesh. While my right hand goes to my breast, and finger-thumbs my nipple stub.

Pleasure-pain is such a turn on. John taught me that. Bending me across his knees, using his hand to turn my buttocks red. Then fingering me. Alternating more buttock burning slaps and smacks with probing of my cunt. Pain, pleasure, pain again, more pleasure, until I come so strongly that I gasp and scream.

Then there is nipple teasing pleasure-pain. Squeeze the stub and twist it, til it hurts, and that alone, inflicted while I am fingering my own cunt, or by my husband fucking me, his cock inside me, that squeezing and twisting torture will inevitably make me come. On a hay-stack, in a field, on a summer's day, the self inflicted-nettle stings, together with the straw ends pricking at my back and butt, inexorably bring me to the point of no return.

Three fingers. Middle, ring and index. Side by side, so that they stretch me, but it feels divine. I can even tuck the little finger underneath the ring, my index similarly tucked below my middle finger, four together, stretching my cunt that fraction more. I draw my feet towards my butt, flat on the straw, knees bent, and do the butt tautening so that my butt is lifted off the bale that I am lying on, just feet and shoulders now, and four delightful fingers in my cunt.

A cock would thrust incessantly. Not easy with a hand, but I can still slide those fingers in and out and in and out and fuck myself to tortured heaven, and squeeze that nipple stub, and once the four of them have stretched my cunt enough, my hand can follow, palm deep, right to the thumb, and I can play with the inner surfaces, finger-tip myself so deep inside, with my thumb-pad playing on my clit.

So, yes, I came.

A delicious, orgasmic release of all the tension and excitement of the day, the running naked, being shot, the dog that loved me, and would have fucked me given half the chance, the grabbing at Red's gun, the ramblers, being held by one of them, the black girl, setting her up so that she got shot a second time, which meant that I would win this thing, and get four thousand, and my entire body is one incredible vibrator that all of this has just switched on.

I am a screamer. I am the girl that you will hear in the next hotel room. You will know when I have been fucked to orgasm, because I scream so loud. Out in the open, in a field, my screams would travel. I cannot risk that. Instead I have to swallow that instinctive urge. I clamp my lips together. Just as John clamps one hand across my mouth, when we have guests, or stay with friends, to mute me. I mute myself instead.

But I am a volcano. An earthquake. A tsunami. An avalanche. No, an avalanche is cold and made of snow and I am hot from running, and from climbing up, and from sun, and from my own hand that is so deep within my cunt. I am a hot, shuddering, silently gasping, orgasmic, extension of my cunt and clit and nipple stub, and I feels so amazing.

I am delirious with it. Almost blanking out. My mind has gone. My body follows, collapsing back down onto the straw that I am on. The shuddering, gasping orgasm slowly comes to its natural end, with my hand still in my cunt, and I begin to breathe normally again, and come back to reality, the hunt, that is still on.

I wear my watch on my right wrist, which puzzled Sam, but when you are left handed, that works best. I check it. Nine minutes left. Nine minutes longer, to just lie, and chill, and enjoy the sun, and I have almost won.

I had to look, of course. I was too pleased with myself to just lie there with my fingers deep inside myself. I removed my hand. Rolled to one side. Peered over the edge. And saw them.

Three of them. One coming from the woods. Red, maybe. One coming from where I thought the road would be. Blue or Green. The third coming diagonally across the field, between the other two. Green or Blue. All three of them. As if they knew exactly where I was.

Eight minutes. Not looking at my watch this time. There is a part of my brain that can also tell the time, that can count down seconds.

Fuck!

They had to know exactly where I was. I might have muted my orgasm, but I had raised by knees, and then my body, arching upwards, bringing it into view. They were coming very directly. One might have seen me first, then called the others. Mobile phones. Quarry spotted. The white bitch, in the field, at ten o'clock. The direction, not the time.

It would take them no more than a minute to reach the stack of bales that I was lying on. Another minute for one of them, at least, to climb it. Another hunter could throw up a gun. Bang, bang. I would be dead. Or dead to the prize, if all four shot me, or just one of them, using each of the other's guns.

I squirmed to the far side of the bale stack, bits of straw scratching me as I went. I slid over the edge, holding a rope to stop myself from falling all the way, four bales' height, to the ground. Had I just dropped, it would have hurt. The straw scratched my breasts again. I lowered myself, using the next rope to hold on, arms stretched, taking my entire weight. Pushed off with my feet, away from the bales, and let go with my hands.