by L. A. Witt
Mike huffed sharply. Crumpling the wrapper from his sandwich, he eyed Stefan. “Only collateral damage out there is going to be your Yank ego.”
Stefan puffed out his chest. “Bring it, Brit.”
Geoff laughed. “I like this guy already, and I ain’t even shot him yet.” His affected American drawl sounded pretty convincing, too.
Mike and Frank laughed.
“Yet?” Stefan snorted. “Keep dreaming.”
“Uh-huh.” Geoff reached into his car. When he straightened again, he was holding a small box. “Here, Stefan. You’ll need these.” He tossed it to Stefan.
Stefan caught it. “What the—” He glared at Geoff. “Band-Aids? Really?”
Frank smothered a laugh. Oh, yes, this was exactly the kind of crowd to introduce to Stefan.
Stefan held up the package of plasters. “I’ll hang on to it. Might be good to have around when I come to help your ass off the field.”
The guys laughed, and Frank and Stefan pulled their equipment out of the boot of the car. Stefan had an impressive gun—paintball gun—that almost immediately gave Geoff a gear boner. All the shit-talking was forgotten as Geoff drooled over the tricked-out piece. Stefan had gone all out on the thing, with added toys and gizmos Frank didn’t even recognise, but apparently Geoff did.
“You mind if I try her out?” Geoff extended a hand.
Stefan shrugged and let him have it. “Sure.”
Geoff’s face lit up. They grabbed their masks, some paint, and an air tank, and headed over to the calibration area.
Mike watched them go. “Now that’s quite the pair.”
“Figured they’d get along.” Frank opened his bag and started getting kitted up. “No idea how good this kid is on the field, but I figure he at least knows which end the paint comes out of.”
“I’m not too concerned about his paintball savvy, mate.” Mike unzipped his case and pulled out his own marker. As he unscrewed the barrel, he watched the other two. They were behind the protective netting, backs turned and masks on as Geoff aimed Stefan’s gun into the paint-splattered trees.
Frank chuckled. “Didn’t figure you would be.”
“Where’d you find this one?” Mike turned to him. “He’s not one of your boys, is he?”
Frank nodded. “New guy.”
“Oh yeah?” Mike ran a squeegee through his barrel, tugging it free before glancing over towards Geoff again. “He good at his job?”
Frank scoffed with mock indignation. “You think I’d hire a man who wasn’t?”
“You’ve said yourself you’ve had a few bad apples.” As he screwed the barrel back on, Mike threw another look at Stefan, who was gesturing over the gun as Geoff nodded at whatever he was saying. “This isn’t one of ’em, eh?”
“Not from what I’ve heard.” He smirked at Mike. “You’ll have to tell me how he turns out.”
Mike grinned, saluting sharply with two fingers. “I’ll have a full report to you by sundown.”
A few more cars pulled in, and within half an hour, the entire group had arrived. Fifteen today, which meant teams of six and three refs. Perfect.
Stefan, who’d been assigned to red team, had no trouble fitting in with the group. He flirted, he talked shit, and he oohed and ahhed over the impressive kit some of the boys had brought along. Most of them didn’t have markers quite as tricked out as his own, but they weren’t off-the-rack pieces of crap either.
At some point, Stefan managed to get a handful of grenades from Chris, the hot guy everybody wanted to get their hands on, but Frank didn’t know—and didn’t ask—if he’d bought them or exchanged a promise of a favour. That was the preferred means of currency out here, after all. And Chris and Stefan were on opposite teams, which meant they were both there for the other’s taking.
Frank’s mouth watered. That was a pair he’d pay good money to watch. Chris was former military himself. RAF, and without much in the way of ground combat experience, but he had the attitude and the physique. Didn’t keep his blond hair cut so short anymore, not like Stefan did, but he still had that gleam in his eye that came with the kind of hotshot ego a man needed to get into the cockpit of a fighter jet. Too bad it wasn’t a cold day; he sometimes wore his flight suit under his camouflage for a little extra warmth. Frank would have offered up a severed limb to watch Stefan pin that motherfucker down and make him come all over that.
Once everyone had their equipment together—air tanks full, hoppers loaded up with paintballs, masks in hand if not already on—Geoff called the group together.
“Most of you have been here before, so you know the rules.” He turned to look everybody in the eye. “You take a paintball? You’re out. Hold up your weapon, yell ‘out,’ and get the fuck off the field. Guy captures you with a barrel tap”—he tapped Mike’s shoulder with the barrel of his marker to demonstrate—“or you surrender?” He grinned. “Well, you’re his prisoner. Going out on this field, you’re consenting to do whatever your captor tells you to do. Universal safeword is ‘Geneva.’ Everyone’s here to have a good time, so let’s keep it as safe and sane as it can be out there. Any questions?”
Heads shook, and no one raised a hand.
Geoff went on. “And guys, I’m not fucking kidding when I say that masks stay on at all times when you’re inside the yellow tape.” He pointed a gloved hand at the yellow ribbon that marked the outermost boundary of the field. “You want to fool around without masks on? Get off the field. If the refs or myself catch you without a mask for any reason, I don’t care if you’re sucking a dick or putting your contact back in, I’m banning you from the field for the rest of the weekend.”
The teams fastened on their armbands—blue for one team, red for the other—and huddled on opposite sides of the ready area to strategise.
Frank, Mike, and Geoff put on their bright orange armbands, and similarly coloured tape on their masks, shoes, and the backs of their gloves. All the other guys kept themselves as subdued as possible, but it behooved the refs to be able to identify themselves without taking fire. Pinned behind a bunker by a shooter mistaking him for an opponent, a ref’s safest bet was to raise a hand or stick a foot out and let the orange tape correct the error.
“I’ll put a tenner on Chris getting the new guy on his back within the hour,” Mike said as he checked the laces on his boots.
Geoff nodded. “I’ll throw twenty in. Yankee’s all mouth.”
Frank suppressed a smirk as he wrapped orange tape around his ankle. “Twenty quid and a round of beers says you’re wrong.”
“How wrong we talking?” Mike asked. “Chris doesn’t get him? Or the new kid turns the tables and pins him?”
“Twenty says Chris doesn’t get his hands on Stefan.” Frank peeled off another strip of orange tape from the roll. “Twenty more and a round at the Lion says Stefan puts him on his back or his knees.”
Geoff laughed. “You really buy into this kid, don’t you?” He pulled his wallet out of his back pocket. Fingers moving nimbly in spite of the plated gloves, he pulled the cash out of the fold. “All right, then. Twenty. Pony up, lads.”
They all pulled out the agreed upon money and folded it inside Mike’s toolkit along with a scrap of paper on which Frank had scribbled “round of beer @ Lion.”
“You’re going to be buying those beers, Frank.” Geoff clapped his shoulder. “Trust me.”
“Oh yeah? What makes you say that?”
Geoff gave a sharp sniff of amusement and slid his gaze towards Stefan, who was still huddled with the rest of the red team. “See that gun he’s got?”
“Yeah. You were pretty impressed with it.”
“Aye. But that’s the gun tech talking. Toy like that? He’s got his strategy tied up in gear. Boys with guns like that don’t know a damned thing about anything except how to shoot. Not a bloody clue about strategy or not getting shot.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “He’s ex-Army, you know.”
“Mm-hmm.” Geoff patted his shoulder,
then picked up his mask. “If he was any good, maybe he would still be Army.”
Frank chuckled. Stefan may have a pretty toy to play with, but Frank suspected the kid knew his way around a battlefield. Particularly when the stakes included getting his hands on that former pilot’s cock. Frank, for one, was looking forward to Stefan kicking arse. Or, alternatively, Stefan getting his arse handed to him, as long as Frank got to watch. The game could really go either way to please him, as long as the end result encompassed sweat, dirt, and camo.
“Right.” Frank put on his mask. “Let’s have some fun.”
Geoff headed to the teams to explain the first scenario, while Mike and Frank headed onto the playing field. This first setup was easy enough. Put the teams with their flags on opposite sides of the playing field, and whoever got the enemy flag first, won. This sometimes turned into Last Man Standing, when the guys were having too much fun shooting at each other and attempting a capture to think of any objective.
The first game was either cautious and probing as desk workers stretched their legs for the first time in a week, or rowdy and boisterous as people let go of a week’s worth of pent-up stress. This one might fall into the second category, thanks to the addition of a new guy. People would be keen to see him in action.
Frank moved to the edge of the field. Teams tended to split up, and if two guys teamed up for a flanking manoeuvre, he intended to be there and close enough to watch. The uneven ground offered some protection from stray paint, too.
Mike gave the signal with a hand-wound siren, and Frank could feel even his own blood pound. Stalk, kill, capture or be captured. Something beautiful and primal about it that wiped away all of life’s other concerns. Out here in the forest, none of that mattered.
As predicted, the blue team split up. Two stayed behind to protect the flag, and the others formed teams of two and flanked, one from the left, the other from the right, advancing swiftly. Frank couldn’t see the other team yet, didn’t hear a shot fired, either, but moved sideways, ahead of the team flanking along the far left.
A lone red shooter creeping along the edge of the field turned his head towards Frank. Stefan in his American camo with his tricked-out gun. Behind the mask’s tinted visor, Frank imagined the eyes of a hunter.
Frank moved backwards, staying out of the way as he watched the reds advance.
There! A flash of movement between the tree stumps, the hiss and pop of balls fired, and the splat as they hit a tree near Frank, cool spray landing on the exposed skin of his neck. He swiftly moved further back. Providing Stefan with some ref-shaped moving cover was not what he had planned, and taking balls for him was not on the agenda either. He hunkered down behind some fallen logs, the yellow boundary tape close enough to reach if he extended a hand. From there, he watched Stefan move carefully, silently, before he took cover behind a tree to squeeze off a few shots at the advancing blues.
“Fuck!” somebody shouted, and then “Out! I’m out!” Not far away, one of the blue team stepped out of cover, marker raised and waving. Frank kept an eye on him getting off the field. When he turned back, he’d lost Stefan.
Frank frowned in his mask, swept the area, but Stefan was gone. He did see another guy who was entering a pitched battle with two others, balls flying and paint splatting the ground around and behind him, until Frank was damn near sure the pinned player would never survive this round. Then the shooting abruptly stopped, and he heard some cursing from behind the bunker covering the two shooters.
“Out!” One of the blue shooters called, holding up his marker to signal he’d been hit. Frank moved forwards, curious about what exactly had happened.
A second blue was making his way off the field to trudge back to the start point, cursing under his breath and refilling his paint hopper as he walked.
Then Frank noticed two guys. He quickly recognised Stefan as the one coming up behind a solitary blue shooter.
Oh. Chris.
Frank hung back, trying not to alert him.
Stefan snuck up behind Chris. The ex-pilot scanned the battlefield in front of him, oblivious to the soundless soldier creeping up on him.
Then Stefan touched him on the shoulder with a gloved hand. “Captured,” he said loudly enough for Frank to hear.
Chris very nearly dropped his marker in shock, then lifted his hands.
Stefan turned his head and looked right at Frank, like he knew exactly where Frank was hiding. In spite of the glare on Stefan’s visor, Frank was sure Stefan winked at him. First capture of the day, what, ten minutes into the first game? The man was a bloody wizard on the field.
Stefan kept a hand on Chris’s shoulder and walked him out. Captured fair and square, and for all his bluster and ego, Chris was likely completely okay with it. Plenty of guys tried to catch him, but Frank suspected Chris pretty much chose the men he wanted to be captured by.
They moved beyond the yellow line and a little further behind some raised earth that would protect them from a stray round. Frank kept half an eye on the field, another on what was going on there.
Stefan took off Chris’s mask, but kept his own on. Frank liked that. Something about the captor’s hidden face and eyes, not to mention the vulnerability of the unmasked captive, reinforced the fantasy for him, drove home that bit about power. And the gloved hand pushing down on Chris’s shoulder—yeah, that too.
Frank swallowed dryly when Chris fell to his knees. He lifted his hands, but Stefan batted his fingers away and opened his own trousers. He was only half-hard, but Frank bit back a groan of appreciation. Shit, that was a nice dick, and Chris certainly seemed to think the same, biting his lip as Stefan stroked himself inches from his face. Chris widened his stance on his knees, preparing for whatever came.
Frank swallowed when Stefan pushed a gloved thumb between Chris’s lips. Chris eagerly sucked on it, but that wasn’t what Stefan had in mind, either. He hooked his thumb in and opened Chris mouth, then took his own hardening dick and pushed it inside. Chris took it, sucking and swallowing for all he was worth.
And again, Stefan’s masked gaze sought Frank’s, rippling electricity exchanging in the cool air between them. Whether Chris was aware they had a witness, Frank had no idea, though he knew the man wasn’t shy. It was that masked stare that very nearly did him in, such little attention on Chris—everybody’s favourite target—and all of that attention on him.
Frank struggled for breath, and it only got worse when Stefan started to thrust, easy, relaxed movements from his hips, stance solid, one gloved hand on Chris’s head while his eyes stayed fixed on Frank.
That’s what I want to do to you, his stare seemed to promise.
Stefan showed off every inch of that gorgeous thick cock sliding in and out of Chris’s mouth, and then he grasped Chris’s head and forced him to take all of it. Chris swallowed and took it, pinking skin and tightly shut eyes showing the strain of fighting the gag. Face-fuck. Holy shit.
Frank balled his hands into fists, watching the increasingly rough fuck. Chris didn’t even get a chance to jerk off, was barely allowed to breathe before Stefan plunged deep into his throat again, easily and just the good side of harsh.
Frank couldn’t decide which of them he was more envious of. It seemed like forever since he’d taken another man like that, and even longer since somebody had simply claimed him.
He kept his hands at his sides, allowed the arousal to build along with theirs, watched Chris’s face and Stefan’s cock, the small movements, caught their sounds, wet and desperate and horny as hell.
He’d take that image and those sounds with him, was already filing them away for later. Before long, Stefan was pressing Chris’s face to his groin, kept him there and went rigid, head tilted back, jerky movements from his hips betraying that he was coming.
Frank studied the tension in Stefan’s arms, his legs, his throat, and would have ripped the man’s clothes off if he were standing anywhere near close. Watching Stefan lose it—though the mask hid all of the faci
al expressions and most of the flushed skin he loved seeing when a man came—had to count amongst the most erotic things of the year. He shook his head and pulled away, forced himself to concentrate and calm down.
Calm down? Not likely. Not after what he’d witnessed. If it was that hot to watch Stefan come—barely betraying he had—Frank couldn’t begin to imagine what it would be like to see him without the mask, without the gloves, without anything to camouflage all the tells and signals. Fuck. He was going to lose his goddamned mind before the evening.
A whistle blew, indicating the round was over. Frank rose, brushing leaves and dirt off his knees.
Stefan had already fixed his trousers and offered a hand to Chris. Chris clasped Stefan’s forearm and rose on shaking legs, moving gingerly, which didn’t surprise Frank; Chris had certainly been blessed below the belt, and he was visibly aroused beneath those snug camo trousers. Frank was willing to bet money that Chris would capture someone in the next game, and whoever the lucky bastard was would be getting one hell of a fuck.
Maybe that lucky bastard would be Stefan. If Frank knew Chris, the cocky ex-pilot was already plotting how to stalk Stefan on the field, capture him, and give him the revenge fuck of his life. Frank made a mental note to keep a close eye on both of them.
The guys picked up their markers. Stefan kept an arm around Chris’s waist as they started back towards the field, and Frank followed them to the ready area, where most of the others had gathered.
One round in, and some were already comparing battle scars.
“This one’s going to bruise up nice and dark.” One of the players yanked up his sleeve and revealed a bright red welt on his forearm. “Might have to put a picture of that fucker on Facebook once it’s got some colour.”
Mike grimaced. “Fuck, mate. That looks like it hurts.”
“Of course it does.” The other guy winked. “That’s why you’re a ref, lad. Can’t handle a little bump or two.”
“Yeah, fuck you.” Mike waved a gloved hand. “I’ve got scars from worse shots than that.”
“Check this one out.” Another player pulled up his trouser leg. “Mark like this, someone’s got their gun turned up too hot.”
