A shiver runs through me—part anticipation, part fear.
The fear’s essential. It’s the part that understands the risks we’re taking here, both physical and emotional. A scene like this can be cathartic and profound and painful—for any one of us. It can be blissful, too. Magic.
But I worry. And the fact that it’s Twyla just ramps it all up. The excitement and the other shit.
At the same time, the worry adds to it, makes it sharper, more intense.
She wants this. And it’s that desire that pumps through me right now—hers, mine, Blade’s. My dick’s hard and ready, pounding between my legs like a third presence.
Yeah, I know you want her, boy. Me, too. Me fucking too.
“That her?” Blade squints at a bright red form visible through the trees.
I nod and force my breathing to deepen, force my guts to simmer the hell down and my limbs to relax.
Does she know with absolute certainty that I’m the one coming to get her? I’ll bet there’s a shadow of doubt in her mind. The idea that she’d allow some random person to do this sends jealousy writhing through me like an uncontrollable monster.
Shit. I stop, close my eyes, inhale. Beside me, Blade waits. Finally, when I’ve gotten back at least a little of my normal calm, I look at him. “It’s her.”
How do I know?
She’s my wife. I’d recognize her anywhere. Her smell, her taste, the sounds she makes when she comes.
Her shape’s clear now, in that cute as fuck red dress. She’s little and round, with tiny ankles and knees and wrists and big tits and an ass that I want to spread apart and press my face into. Tits that I’m dying to play with again, even though I had them in my mouth just this morning.
“It’s fuckin’ her.”
We watch as she bends down to pick a flower.
“Shit,” I breathe.
“She’s so cute, man.”
“She’s mine,” I growl, as if he didn’t already know. She makes me wild like this, sends me over the top, turns me into a creature I don’t even recognize. “Fucking mine.”
“Lucky man,” he whispers. We’re so close now, I don’t need to imagine the bruises or the dimples or the sharp curve of her back. It’s all right there, perched on two tiny little red heels, just begging to be plucked and stolen away.
A few feet to one side, Max sits on a little stone bench, pretending not to see us. The second the scene starts, she’ll throw on her security sash. She’ll keep an eye on things while we’re outside and make sure other campers don’t stumble into us.
We’ve got very clear rules in place: Half hour check-ins. With Twyla, with Max, who will relay with the other security people. Well-marked “Abduction in progress” signs every step of the way. A whole goddamn choreography, which we’ve run through five times, start to finish. We don’t take this shit lightly at camp, as a general rule. And this is Twyla. I’m leaving nothing up to fate.
Except for her reactions, of course. And I can’t fucking wait for those.
“Let’s go,” I mutter.
We cover the last few feet quickly and quietly, moving up behind her. Blade right, me left. He’s swung the hood up and over her head before she knows we’re there and I’ve got her wrists cuffed behind her back in seconds.
Twyla yelps, struggles.
Max walks up, and says, “Safe word?” loud and clear.
Twyla goes still. “Um, um, red. Red.”
“And if you can’t talk?”
She stomps one foot three times.
“Good. Need to safe word now?”
