A Hunter's Touch

"She sounds like a cow," the Hunter said. "Now if you don't mind, my wife is pregnant and feeling very ill. She needs her rest and you have disturbed her from sleep. Please leave."

I saw one of the centaurs try to look over the Hunter's shoulder and pulled the blanket over my face.

"Well...I do smell a pregnant woman in there," Jorel said. "Very freshly pregnant, in fact. Congratulations, good sir."

I looked out again and saw the centaur clapping the Hunter on the shoulder and laughing. The Hunter did not budge from his offensive position.

"Ah--very well, then. We'll be going. And do let Magdolon know that we've been by, should he return," Jorel said. The Hunter nodded and slammed the door in their faces.

As soon as their galloping hooves were out of earshot, I sat up in the bed.

"A cow?" I demanded, jumping to my feet. "You think I'm a--a cow?!"

"Shh--hush, they'll hear you. And of course not," the Hunter said, pushing me back onto the bed. "Did you hear how they described you?"

"At least that was somewhat complimentary," I said.

"I got them to leave, did I not?" he said.

I stopped short. "Yes," I said. "You have saved my life once again, and here I am berating you. This is three times now."

"And an awful lot of good I've done you for it, as well," he said, sitting on the bed next to me. "I just raped you."

"You tried to explain," I said. Why was I defending him? He did rape me, if only to throw off the centaurs' sense of smell. "Wait a goddamn minute...I'm not actually pregnant, am I?"

He stood and went to his wardrobe, then drew out a vase full of leaves.

"I'll make you a tea of these," he said. "These are the leaves of the Roilarmon Tree. They have magical properties. They reverse illness, mollify pain. They also prevent unwanted pregnancies."

He filled a pot with water from a barrel by the door and placed it over the stove. I watched him with a strange feeling building in my belly. I wasn't quite sure what it was.

What day is it?

I woke up this morning to the sounds of the Hunter splitting wood again. I sat up in bed and looked around. Magdolon's body was gone.

I joined the Hunter outside and volunteered my help again. We worked together for a half-hour or so before he determined that we had enough.

He asked me a lot of questions that I found difficult to explain--like where I was from, how I met up with the centaurs, and whether I planned on returning to my home. He seemed more than a bit disappointed when I told him that I did plan to get home as soon as I could. I had to get back and feed my cat!

"I'm from somewhere very different," I said. "It's what you call an alternate universe. The future of an alternate universe, to be precise."

He gave me his confused look. "Are you married?"

"Married? God, no. I'm fresh out of grad school. I'm a scholar."

"A woman scholar?"

"That's right."

"That is a very different place."

But he didn't sound resentful or mean. He just sounded awed. He was less of an asshole about it than lots of men at my school, including my professors. And I had an Art History degree for Christ's sake. My major was approximately 90% women and our professors were still misogynistic jerks. That's what I get for studying a subject that requires you to pore over Romantic paintings of odalisques and classical sculptures of sex slaves.

"I was sent to your world by a very wealthy man who hired me to find things like that figurine and bring them back to my universe."

"So...are you a witch?"

I grimaced. Would he burn me at the stake if I said yes? This was probably the only way that he'd even begin to understand.

"I don't mind if you are," he said.

So I nodded. Sure, I'm a witch. We wouldn't have to get into the science behind the parallel universe generator that my boss, Dr. Belfast, built. That's good, because I have absolutely zero understanding of how it works. But when a rich old man approaches you with money and promises of using what people have told you is a useless Master's degree, you listen. And you do whatever he tells you.

Belfast said I would be able to see things that I had always hoped to see in their modern, crumbling forms. I'd see ruins as complete buildings, artifacts as freshly painted masterpieces. I'd see famous, centuries-old works of art when they were brand new, perfect, the way they were intended to be seen. It was any historian's dream.

And it has been a dream so far. But I do want to go home. Unfortunately, I can't. After digging through my pouch some more, I realized that my Trigger was not inside. It must have fallen out sometime between being captured by Magdolon and being rescued by the Hunter. Strangely, the figurine and my journal were still inside, but the Trigger could be anywhere. I need that little button to generate a wormhole that allows Dr. Belfast to tug me back to my universe. It's probably lost for good. And now I'm not sure what I will do.

I told the Hunter about my predicament, and something I couldn't pinpoint flashed over his face. He just nodded and asked me more questions--what did my Trigger look like? How did I operate it? Where did I have to be to use it?

"It works best if I'm somewhere high up, like a hilltop," I said. I scanned the area and saw a hilltop nearby, and noted it. If I ever found my Trigger, I would need to climb that hill before I could push the button to give Belfast the signal. I sighed. A glorified garage door opener was the only thing standing between this universe and mine.

Another day. Who knows when it is?

The Hunter sleeps in his own bed tonight, at my insistence. I have put him out for too long. He offered to share with me, but I'm not tired. And I know what will happen if I climb into bed with him. I'll fuck him. I'll fuck him long and hard in twenty different positions. I'll suck his dick and let him slide it inside me, and I'll beg him to lick me all over. I'll let him have me any way he wants.

And that can't happen. Because if that happens, I may be inclined to stay here forever.

I was writing in my journal earlier when the Hunter walked by. I could tell he was watching me, so I asked if he'd be interested in learning to read a bit.

"I'm not much of a student," he said, but he sat down next to me all the same. I drew the alphabet for him as neatly as I could.

He was a remarkably fast learner. He learned all the English letters within an hour. The housework was forgotten as we spent the day going through my journal. He did his best to sound out the words, and I did my best to be selective about what I let him read. No need for him to know the hairy details of what happened with Magdolon before I was rescued.

It was almost dark when we realized we hadn't had anything to eat all day. The Hunter offered to go out and catch me a meal. I decided to go with him.

I had never been hunting before. I have to say that there's nothing quite as invigorating as catching your own food. The kill made me squeamish, but the Hunter was patient with me. He showed me how to load a bolt into his crossbow and aim it. He showed me how to look for quail and a magical bird called the Coazquat'l that looked a lot like a big, fat turkey. But the Coazquat'l could fly, and it was vicious!

Just as one flew at my face, talons outstretched, I leased a bolt deep into its abdomen. The fragile bird fell heavily to the ground, and the Hunter picked it up by its foot. He held it up to me and I took it gingerly.

"You should be proud of that one," he said. "It's a beautiful bird. And the silver feathers on its tail are valuable." He plucked one and held it up to the light. It glimmered.

"Now that's something I would wear in my hair," I said. He grinned and wove it into my braid for me. His hand brushed against my shoulder and made my stomach drop several inches.

-

So here I am, lying on the floor with a quilt wrapped tightly around me. I masturbated a few minutes ago, sliding my fingers inside myself as I closed my eyes and imagined being fucked by the Hunter instead of actually being fucked by him.

And I'm cold.

What have I done?

This is a very strange situation, the likes of which I have never seen.

All I could think about was the Hunter's warm bed with his warm body as I lay there shivering on the floor. I couldn't join him in his bed. I just couldn't. So I decided to search his small wardrobe for another quilt.

I did not find a quilt. But I found something that greatly disturbed me.

Three simple shift dresses were folded neatly on a shelf. They were beautiful. Tiny stitching, perfect craftsmanship. I held one up to my body. Whoever wore this dress must have been as tiny and nimble as a fairy. I furrowed my brow and carefully refolded the dress to place it back with the others. Did the Hunter have a sister? A cousin? A daughter?

Then I opened a drawer and found another dress. Just as beautiful as the others, but torn and ripped apart at the seams. I turned it over in my hands to examine the tears and saw dark stains--blood.

I gasped and dropped the dress on the floor.

"What are you doing?"

I shrieked and jumped around. The Hunter stood behind me, a wild look in his eyes. He grabbed the bloody dress from the floor and cradled it.

I stepped back, shaking. "What is that? Is it blood? Where's the woman that was in it?" I managed to choke out. He stared me down.

"Did--did you kill her?" I blurted out. "Are you going to kill me?"

He didn't say a word, just stared at me. I continued to back away slowly.

"Those are my wife's dresses." He said simply.

"Your wife? You have a wife? Where is she?" I said.

"She is dead," he said. "Kidnapped and raped by centaurs. They murdered her. I found her in that dress and couldn't bear to throw it away." He continued to stare at me with something like contempt. "Did you not wonder why I was there when the centaurs had you? I was in that pub. I saw what happened. And I followed them to free you. I hate centaurs. They are murderers, rapists, and thieves. I'll kill one on sight. They're all the same."

He broke the gaze that held our eyes together and moved to the bed.

"I buried my wife in her wedding dress, hoping that I might be able to get the stains out of the one she died in. It was her favorite."

He put his face in his hands. "She was right; I was always hopeless with the washing."

I was totally shell-shocked. I have never felt like such an asshole.

"I'm sorry," I said. He didn't move, so I grabbed my journal and sat in a far corner of the room, trying as hard as I could to melt into a puddle and disappear.

I wrote for what seemed like hours when the Hunter spoke.

"What is that thing you are always scratching away at?"

Surprised, I looked up and then followed his gaze to my ballpoint pen.

"Oh, this? It's a journal. I use it to record my thoughts."

"Record?"

I went to a Renaissance Faire once as a child. I remember asking the man in the blacksmith booth where his TV was. He had such a smug response.

"What is this TV you inquire about, little miss?"

That's why I almost accused the Hunter of being full of shit. But I caught myself--he wasn't full of shit. He really didn't know.

"I write things in this book so that I won't forget them," I said.

"Why?"

"Well, I suppose I want to remember what's happened to me," I said. The Hunter grimaced.

"Why would you want to remember the terrible things that have happened to you?" He said. I paused. What could I say? Even if I did explain, he would never understand.

"There's peace in knowing what I've survived. That way I know that I can handle anything, because I have already encountered so much before."

The Hunter's brow knitted together as he digested this concept.

"I'll teach you to write, if you like," I said.

"If I could write, the last thing I would do is to keep a book of memories." He sighed.

I shrugged. Shrugging is not the most sensitive thing to do when someone is reminiscing about his young wife's death, but it was involuntary. I tried to pass it off as rolling a sore shoulder to work out the kinks in my muscles. This made me realize that my muscles were indeed quite sore.

"I'm going to lie down now," I said, and I did--right on the floor in front of the fireplace. As my eyelids slid shut I marveled at the cozy warmth of the fire. The dirt floor was softer than I thought it would be. I would have fallen asleep instantly if my body had not begun to levitate.

I opened my eyes to see that the Hunter had hoisted me from the floor and was carrying me to his bed.

"No--don't--unnecessary," I sputtered, but as my head landed on his plush quilt I was helpless to resist. He pulled the heavy patchwork quilt up to my chin and I was suddenly surrounded by a level of safety and comfort I have never known.

"I haven't been tucked into bed since I was a kid," I murmured. I had never felt so warm and cozy, like it was all over. Everything was going to be okay. I didn't even care about going home anymore. Not as long as I could stay right here in this bed, beside this man, waking up in the morning to split wood and curl up by the fire with my journal. I could continue that routine forever.

The Hunter sat on the bed next to me and arranged the quilt around me, swaddling me. He was close enough that I could see the freckles on his nose. From this close, he looked like a teenager. Only his haunted eyes and slow, measured sighs revealed his age. Mid-thirties, perhaps. Maybe younger. It was tough to tell in the medieval worlds. Life was so hard here.

He locked eyes with me. His warm brown eyes made my heart swell. I couldn't help myself. I pushed the blanket off and reached for him.

At first he looked surprised, but did not resist as I pulled him toward me. I breathed softly into his neck, his breaths in my ear. I pushed the quilt away and he climbed on top of me. I could feel that he was already hard as a rock. My breaths quickened along with my heartbeats. I felt like my heart might burst out of my chest.

With fumbling fingers, we each untied each others' tunics. Mine fell easily from my shoulders, but his fit him much better--it took some maneuvering before I could finally see his bare chest.

Even though he was nearly rail-thin, he was all sinewy muscle and glowing golden skin that had an aura of heat soaked up from hours working in the sun. I kissed his chest and neck, his collarbones and face. From this close, I could see that his rough, dark five-o'-clock shadow was accented with gold and white hairs. I kissed those, too.

I don't remember how I got his breeches off. I was a little preoccupied. I wasn't wearing anything underneath his tunic, so by the time he was naked I had already enjoyed several minutes of him playing softly with my nipples. They were so taut and stood so firmly at attention that I let out an involuntary squeal when he finally put one between his warm, soft lips.

He sucked softly at first, but then his hands found my buttocks. This seemed to excite him more than anything else, as though he had no idea they were there. He squeezed them with vigor and sucked my breast for dear life. When he pulled away, there were bite marks. The pain was delicious.

He sat back on his knees over me. Like an arrow, my eyes went straight to his cock. Not bad. He caught me looking and seemed a little embarrassed. I grabbed it. I don't think he minded anymore.

In an instant, all my clinical thoughts about sex melted away. I didn't need lube. I didn't need for him to wear a condom. I didn't even want him to. I wanted to feel the warmth of him inside of me, the friction. I wanted to feel it all. I was already wet, already hot and I wanted more than anything for him to fuck me ragged. I've always been a missionary-only, gentle sex with plenty of kissing type of girl. In those quick seconds, I knew that everything would be different from now on. I felt like an animal.

He allowed me to settle into the hay on my back and looked me straight in the eyes.

"Is this okay?" He asked.

I grabbed his cock and pushed it inside me. He gasped and fell on top of me as I ground my hips back and forth, moaning loudly. He grunted and hoisted himself up on his hands to get leverage. The questioning look in his eyes was gone. He pumped back and forth vigorously, grunting louder and fucking me harder each time he slid inside me. I felt my wetness all over his cock and my thighs as I squealed with delight.

I could feel his tension mounting. If I didn't do something quickly, he would come and it would all be over! I wanted this to last forever. I pushed him off and rolled over so that I was on top of him. His eyes widened as I mounted him and leaned back onto his legs, my breasts swinging back and forth. I couldn't help it--a low, guttural moan escaped my lips and he grabbed my buttocks and pulled himself deeper inside me.

I rocked back and forth, slowly at first, then faster. He cried out, eyes rolled back in his head. So I started bouncing up and down. He screamed.

I'm not sure I've ever heard a man scream like that from sex. I've heard plenty of grunts and low groans, but nothing that sounded like his soul was abandoning his body like this. It only encouraged me. I bounced harder, my breasts bouncing along with me. He reached up and grabbed them, pulled me down to him, sucked on each of my nipples. He held me close to him for a moment before throwing me off and rolling me onto my stomach.

I knew neither of us had much time left. We were exhausted and ultra-sensitive, each at the end of the rope. As soon as he pushed himself inside me from behind, I bucked up on all fours and pushed back against him as hard as I could. He screamed in ecstasy again as he buried himself inside me to the hilt. We both screamed so loudly that had we been in my apartment, someone would have called the cops.

I felt him explode. All his warm, milky goodness filled me up and cascaded down my thighs as I shuddered at the peak of orgasm. We screamed together again. He leaned forward and pulled at my nipples as we trembled in unison. My legs and arms went numb. We moaned loudly in intervals, then softer and softer until there were no sounds left inside either of us.

We collapsed in a heap on the bed, spent. I could hardly draw enough air into my lungs. I felt like I might pass out, and if his face was any indication, he felt the same way.

As tired as I was, I was even more aroused. I took his hand and dipped it in the milky concoction of our juices mixed together on my thighs. He watched me lick it from his fingers, a ravenous hunger in his eyes.

"I guess I'll need more of that Roilarmon tea," I said. He laughed--a low, sensual sound.

I've never felt like I could go again right after a long fucking session. This was a first. He wiped more of our juices all over me as I moaned, and then thrust back inside me.

Well, I've gone and done it now.

I am beyond infatuation.

I watch him sleep. He snores softly. I smoosh his cheeks together. He stops snoring.

I have to get out of here.

I have paced back and forth around this house fifty times. I can't lie in bed with him because I can't keep my hands from exploring his chest, his stomach, his arms, his buttocks. I can't keep my lips away from his cock. I crave his touch. I want him to caress me, to take me. I want to feel his tongue all over me.

We've already fucked three times in a row. Then I sucked his cock for about an hour, savoring the delicious taste of him. He explored me down below, sucking my clit like he was starved for it. The only reason we stopped is because I forced myself to get up.

I have to break this now. I have to go home.

Time to go.

Just writing about him gets me flustered and hot. I had to start pacing again when I noticed that some of the packed earth floor in this hut looks freshly turned.