Daisy couldn’t believe her eyes, but she also couldn’t look away.
Heat, warm and unwelcome, twisted low in her belly, slithering then throbbing as she watched the men help themselves to every hole. The tribute was no longer pinned down. Now, she held a man in each hand. Whenever one finished, he painted her moonlit skin in a glistening release.
Daisy tried to slip away, but every time she moved, eyes followed. There were five of them. And they weren’t selective.
They smeared their hands over her breasts, pinching and pulling, tugging and praising. Some even fed the proof of their pleasure into her mouth.
“Beautiful.” Another hunter climbed over her ribs to straddle the tribute’s torso, finding yet another way to get off as he held her breasts.
Daisy couldn’t watch anymore. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t bear how her belly pulsed in the most unsettling way, as if... As if there were something tempting about what was happening to that poor woman.
Sickened by her body’s response, she wished she could run, but she was too afraid of being spotted and caught.
“Flip her over, boys, so I can have her ass.”
They rolled the tribute to her knees, hitching up her hips.
One hunter kneeled in front of her, grabbing a fistful of her hair. “Open wide, sweetness.” He thrust into her mouth, and she moaned.
“Fuck, I gotta go find a doe,” another hunter said, rubbing his bulging crotch. “There’s only so many holes a man can fill.” He scanned the gardens, his gaze sweeping over the shadows and arborvitaes where Daisy hid.
She ducked low, her heart beating wildly out of sync. She couldn’t do what that woman was doing. She couldn’t get caught.
The smack of flesh slapping flesh closed in as the tribute’s moans grew to a peak of ecstasy. Was this Daisy’s future? Was there any hope of ever making it out of there unharmed?
Uninhibited jazz shrilled from hidden speakers, as whoops and hollers bled from multiple directions. Primitive calls of men. Overpowered moans of women.
Whatever dignity they had at the start of the night had crumbled into affluent decay. They scented blood and wanted more. This depraved playground of madness was nothing more than a soulless graveyard where innocence came to die.
Deep moans bounced off hedges and surrounding stone walls, multiplying, until the entire garden wailed with primal, carnal yelps of life that were too close to cries of death for Daisy’s ears.
Backing up, deeper and deeper into the overgrowth where the critters nested and wild things crawled, Daisy stumbled. Disoriented by the darkness, she stared up at the tall pines blocking her view. Mud squelched through her pantyhose and between her toes
A woman’s cry belted through the night. Spinning, Daisy found an opening in the branches and spotted a man, sitting on a concrete bench, with a tribute bent over his lap, her gown thrown over her head. He spanked her and grinned with twisted glee.
The tribute cried out, and he hit her again.
No more.
Daisy needed to get out of there.
Rushing toward a grove of silver birch, away from the debauchery on the lawn, into a copse of trees. She staggered to a stop as two bodies entwined ahead. They didn’t see her. Not yet.
She backed away slowly, but there was little cover. The bark of the birch trees glowed ghostly white in the dappled moonlight, their branches reaching overhead like fingers spread in supplication.
She was cornered from all angles. Spanker on the left. Orgy on the right. And a couple up ahead.
Through the trees, she glimpsed movement.
The direction of the lone couple was her safest bet. Two bodies intertwined on a carpet of moss, shadows merging and separating in a slow rhythm. Not nearly as aggressive as the last few.
They were so involved, they didn’t look up as Daisy crept by, even when she stumbled, realizing they were two men. A hunter and a tribute, or maybe two hunters. They were both stripped down to their masks and so engrossed with each other, they didn’t notice her—or if they did, they simply didn’t care.
Their dance was a mixture of surrender and conquest, a tango of power over virtue that ended in the truest form of invasion. Or was it surrender?
The distinct difference between passion and fetishism sharpened. Did they know each other? How long they waited for an evening like this, when gender roles dissolved in the darkness and baser instincts were fully accepted?
Here, no fantasy was too taboo.
