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Inhale, exhale.
It’s not working.
For fuck’s sake, it’s not working.
Someone help me.
The tears have turned into sobs; long, drawn-out sobs as the tears slide down my cheeks, gathering at my neck where the cloth bag is fastened, and I feel like I can barely breathe. And suddenly, we stop.
Very quickly the doors of the van are opened, and those hard hands are on me once more, releasing my ankle from the shackle and pulling me from the van. My feet hit dirt this time. There is talking in the distance, a murmur of voices I can’t quite make out.
They pull me along without a word, one of them on either side holding me by my arms, and I stumble once and begin to fall, but they catch me. I am too frightened now to even cry, the tears clogging my throat like a lead weight, choking me. I draw in a desperate breath.
Then suddenly the bag is yanked off my head and I blink and blink in the bright sunlight, trying to clear my eyes.
“Oh, fuck. She’s a god damn mess. Hold still, Girl,” the nondescript one demands as he runs a small towel over my face.
I can hardly believe what’s in front of me; I’ve been so convinced of my fate, with too much time in my own head in the damn van.
They’re walking me toward a line of slaves—probably twenty of them—all of them gloriously naked except for some piercings and tattoos here and there, and the steel collars around their necks. Each one of them is more beautiful than the last. Boys and Girls and Zes, but none decorated with the ribbons or the strap-ons we’re dressed in at the Primal Ranch. There are a few people behind them that I imagine are Handlers.
But this is definitely not the Primal Ranch.
No. This is no place I’ve seen before.
And yet, as I take a few calming breaths, I look at the line of slaves, and I recognize a few faces. Madame Gemma’s dark-haired Jordan, who has been with her for several years. And further down the line I see Lilli, a redhead with glorious curly hair, who Master Anthony and Mistress Alina have recently bought to serve at the Primal Ranch.
Oh yes, we slaves know each other’s names, even though we are addressed only as Boy or Girl or Ze. We whisper to one another in the dark when we are certain not to be caught, even the most obedient of us.
Seeing them is reassuring; I am in the right place, where I am supposed to be. This game has really fucked with my head, which is the Masters’ intention, I know. And as much as I hate it, fear play is often what I need the most. Because this fear they create is reassuring in knowing that ultimately, I am always fine. Cared for. Beaten, yes, made to sleep on the floor, fucked mercilessly in every possible orifice. Made to bleed. But always after are the hot baths, often with attendants to rub me down with a thick towel, to massage my aching body. I am well fed and attended to and kept safe from the world.
It makes me realize that fear is nothing but the fear itself. It’s really nothing at all now, since becoming a slave, because it never manifests into anything I truly have to be frightened of. And in my fucked-up head this calms my anxiety in a way nothing else ever has.
They know me too well. Which is, of course, their job.
Oh, but we are not anywhere near the reassurance part, are we?
All of this rushes through my head as I am put in line with the others, right next to Jordan, and someone slips a steel collar around my neck from behind me and quickly locks it at the back before the two strange men disappear. But I understand what my role is now, and that understanding and the safety of the collar are like a warm blanket around my shoulders. I know what is expected of me. My fate hasn’t changed. Not too much, anyway. Someone will surely tell me what to do shortly, and it comforts me.
Inhale, exhale.
My world rights itself as I take another deep breath, centering myself in that surety. The air is clean and pure, and just a little chilly with the early summer sun high in the brilliant blue sky, lighting the mountain tops in the distance.
The Handlers are talking among themselves behind us, but I do my best not to listen. They will tell us when there’s something I need to know.
There is a shuffling, and a figure pushes between Jordan and me and walks out in front of the lined-up slaves. With my eyes downcast, as is proper, I see only delicate feet clad in fitted, knee-high black leather boots and snug leather pants on a petite frame. Then I hear a familiar voice.
“Slaves! Look up. Look sharp.”
I know the voice, and when I raise my eyes as I am told to, I see Dahlia from the Primal Ranch, who announces the Primal Games and sometimes drives the human pony carriages. My heart beats in anticipation, my body filling with adrenaline, ready for whatever we are meant to do in this place.
“Welcome to the Bambi Hunt!” Dahlia announces.
There’s a shuffling of feet among the slaves; none of us knows what this means.
“There is only one thing you should know, dear Boys, Girls, and Zes,” she continues. “When you hear the starting gun fire, run for the woods!” she announces, gesturing to the heavy stand of trees and brush across the meadow behind her. “And whatever you do, don’t get caught.”
My adrenaline spikes, my blood rushing hot through my veins. The energy emanating from the other slaves—that hot pump of blood, and the need to please—is a nearly palpable thing in the air.
