by Cecilia Tan
He’s so prepared to be disappointed. I can see it in the cant of his shoulders, the half cringe in his eyes, like a dog expecting to be swatted. “Not everything in life has to be a trade-off,” I say. “How about this? Boy Scout by day, captive by night.”
His eyes light up and he sits taller, like the burden on his shoulders has been lifted. “That’s . . . a great idea.”
“Yeah. I’m glad I thought of it.” I scrape the last of the stew out of my can and wash it down with a swig of water from the bottle. “You done eating?”
He nods, suddenly alert and unsure if we’re starting already.
We are. I stand up. I strip out of my shirts, down to bare skin. The cabin’s quite warm now that the stove’s been burning steadily for a couple of hours. His eyes rove over my bare chest and arms. “I captured you for one reason and one reason only,” I say. “To serve my cock. To make you my sex slave.”
He takes one last nervous drink of water, and then gets up himself and backs away from me. “Y-you can’t do that.”
“There’s no one here to help you. No way out. You want to run? Try it.” I rub my hand up and down the bulge in my jeans, and it feels like I’m cocking the hammer of a gun. “Your toes will freeze off before you even reach the water, and the rest of you will follow if you try to swim for it.”
He gives up on dialogue, just makes a kind of dismayed shout and lunges for the door.
I have him trapped against it before he can unbar it. My erection is pressed right between his cheeks, and I’m wishing for some magic way to make our clothes disappear. I’d fuck him right here, like this, if I could.
I put him into an only half-effectual headlock, but he’s playing along enough that he doesn’t escape from it. I manage to get his cargo pants and underwear down to the middle of his thighs. When I try to wrap my fingers around his cock, though, he twists away. He tries to run, but his pants have dropped around his knees and he almost falls.
I tackle him onto the sleeping pallet, where the sleeping bag from his nap earlier is still spread across the insulating pad. I pin him facedown. He’s trying to struggle as I kick his pants off with one of my own feet and then, with one of my knees in his back, I get my belt open. This gives me an idea. I slip it free and loop it around his neck by holding the ends together close to his spine. It’s not looped through the buckle—if I let go, it’ll fall right off—but it must feel like a noose to him. He goes still, panting. Now that I’ve got ahold of him, I can use my other hand to dig the tube of lube out of the gear bag next to the bed.
I toss it down in front of him. “Your choice. You can lube yourself up nice and good, or you can take your chances.”
I can’t help but grin when he chooses to try to escape one more time, gripping the edges of the belt with his fingers and thrashing back and forth. While he struggles, I grit my teeth and growl in his ear, “You know the Boy Scout motto’s ‘Be Prepared,’ right? Before sundown tomorrow it’ll be your job to lube up. Because I might not be so nice next time.”
He gives me that little nod of “yes” even as he’s trying to get free. He doesn’t succeed. I cut off his oxygen just enough that he has to give up the fight. To reward him when he goes still again, I let him breathe. “Put some lube in my hand. Come on. Do it.”
He uncaps it and squirts a dollop into my open palm. I slick my cock with it, groaning. I can’t believe how hard I am. I swear my dick feels bigger in my hand than usual.
By unspoken agreement he doesn’t struggle while I sheathe myself in a tight condom, but once I get one slick finger into him, he starts struggling again. I let go the belt this time and use both hands to wrestle him, trying to get my cock into him. It’s hot as hell but much more difficult to do than I expected. The fight is foreplay for every part of me, though, mind and body, every muscle, every nerve, every sense fully engaged in this one goal: penetrate him.
I’m not sure if it’s that he tires before I do or if he starts subtly cooperating, but his core muscles stop straining so much and his struggles reduce to his arms flailing and reaching for purchase. That’s the break I need to get the angle right and jam my cock into him.
He screams and the sound alone almost makes me come. Sweet mother of God, what a sound, primal and raw. It’s everything. My entire body is throbbing like my cock, my ears ringing, my lungs pumping, my forearms straining to hold us in this position. Sublime. Time stops except for the hammering of my heart.
He’s clenched so tight I’m not even all the way in. “This is what I brought you here for, boy,” I say. There I go again, trying to give it a gangster growl, but it comes out breathless.
He whimpers and pushes invisibly back against me. “My daddy always warned me not to talk to strangers,” he says. “Always said my ass was what they wanted. Always said some big, bad man would rape me if I wasn’t good.”
Goose bumps spread across my back like a sudden sleet storm. He’s playacting, but I can’t help but imagine Aiden saying something like that.
Time to playact back at him. “Is it your first time, boy?”
“Yes, sir.” He heaves a dry sob. “I’m a virgin!” His next sob is a little too close to a laugh, though.
Trying to keep things serious, I tamp down the urge to snicker. “Not anymore,” I say, and give a brutal snap of my hips. “This sweet ass is mine.”
“Daddy was right!”
“Yeah, kid, Big Daddy was right.” I pull back and slam forward again. “He knew cock was your future.” Another slam. “He just didn’t want to admit it.”
The next sob sounds more real, and I wonder if that was way too close to the truth. I resolve to shut up for a while and enjoy the ride. Chase fills the gap left by my silence with protests and begging. “No, please! Stop! Oh God.” Nonstop.
It’s far hotter than I imagined it would be. I don’t think I’ve ever fucked so hard or come so hard in my life. When I strip the condom off, my cock is coated in slime and still insanely hard. I flip him over and rut against him, rubbing my cock against his as it slowly softens, stroking both of us in my hand. After I go soft, I add a dollop of lube to my palm and stroke him.
“That’s it,” I hear myself saying. “Here’s a little taste of what to expect on my watch. When you’re good, sometimes I’ll let you come. When you’re not, well, all I want is that hole of yours.”
His groan is pure lust, any pretense of protest overwhelmed by the needs of the thrusting organ in my fingers. His face is as red as his cock as he pants with effort. My hand slows from a blur to a long, firm stroke, his hips rising to meet me, and suddenly I’m pumping a squirt of jizz on each stroke.
He collapses with a tired noise. I want nothing more than to lie down next to him and pass out for an hour or two, but there’s the fake captor role to maintain.
And the real captor role, too. I realize this arrangement is going to work to my advantage in the best possible way. Not only can I fuck Chase Milford as often as I want, but he’s not going to object if I lock him up for the night so I can get some sleep.
The only drawback to this unwilling captive thing is that now I have to be the one to fetch the water to clean us up. I handcuff him to the bedpost, but I’m already making a mental list of tasks to have the scout do tomorrow before sundown.
Time stamp: 0721 Wednesday, Ledge Island
I open my eyes and am startled to see sunlight coming through the high windows. They were another Garrett feature, all of them installed seven feet up—crank-style windows, a few feet wide but only eight inches tall. They let in light and let out heat in the summer, but they’re defensible and if one were to get broken by, say, flying debris in a windstorm while the cabin’s unoccupied, the hole would still keep out most of the rain and wild animals.
How did it get to be daylight already? Did I really sleep almost twelve hours? I haven’t slept that well or long in years. I expect my body to feel like lead, but I feel light, like the bed platform is a raft, floating on water.
I move slow
ly while I attempt to determine if Chase is awake. If he is, he’s feigning sleep, curled on his side away from me, still wearing the metal handcuffs, looped by a chain around the bedpost.
One of his hands is shaking, though. Trembling. And I can see his fingernails look a little blue.
Shit! What seemed like a sexy idea last night, hiding the handcuff key in my underwear, seems stupid, stupid, stupid now as I peel the key off my balls. I wake him up with my hurried unlocking of the cuffs and the cursing under my breath.
“What’s wrong?” he asks sleepily.
The cuffs hit the wooden floor with a thud and I’ve got his hand between mine. It feels cold, cold. Stupid, stupid, stupid. This is just the kind of miscalculation I can’t afford. All because I’m using my dick instead of my brain. My voice comes out morning rough, barely audible. “Please be okay.”
“I’m fine, what—” He’s starting to clue in that something’s wrong, though. As circulation returns to his hand, the pins and needles start. “Ow, ow, ow!”
He tries to pull out of my grip, as if I’m what’s causing the pain. Who am I kidding? I did cause it. Just not directly. “Hold still.”
Something in my chest does a flip when he instantly obeys me. I reward him with an explanation. “You got twisted in the cuffs while you slept. The hard edge of the metal cut off the circulation to your hand.”
“Oh.” He grimaces as the pins and needles must be getting worse.
“If it hurts, that’s a good sign,” I say.
“It feels hot.” He wiggles his fingers in my grip. “It still works.”
“Let me look at it.” I let go and cradle his hand in my lap. Color’s getting back to normal, but it still feels cold. He wiggles his fingers again, and this time my bark is sharp. “I said hold still!”
He blanches. “I-I’m sorry.”
I’m too busy examining his hand and fingers to notice his face at first. When I finally look directly at him, I see he’s stifling tears. When he sees I’ve “caught” him having this emotion, an apology spills out again. “I won’t do it again. Please don’t be mad at me.”
What? I blink, trying to understand. “I’m not mad at you,” I say. “I’m mad at myself.”
“Oh.” He doesn’t seem to comprehend what I’ve said any better than I comprehend him.
“I shouldn’t have let you spend the whole night in handcuffs.” I get to my feet, trying not to sound angry, but I’m still blaming myself hard. There are safer ways to do that, you stupid fuck. You got lazy. Don’t let it happen again. I remind myself it’s Scout time now. Lesson learned. “You tell me if you feel tingling or anything with that hand or your fingers, okay?”
“Okay.” He’s sitting up cross-legged on the pallet now, flexing his fingers, but his eyes are on me. He’s tamping down his emotions like a good little soldier. “Okay. What are we learning today, sir?”
“We are learning that losing precious daylight to sleep is a one-time thing.” I start heating the kettle. “You wanted to learn to build a shelter? We’ll build a shelter.”
“You mean that?”
I nod slowly. “Did you think I was kidding?”
“I dunno. Sometimes people say things they don’t really mean.” He’s got a gleam of challenge in his eye, and I wonder who he thinks he’s standing up to. Oh, who am I kidding. There’s no way he grew up with Aiden for a father without massive daddy issues.
I feel like a heel, but it has to be said: “I try not to. Now come on. Breakfast first. Then we’ve got branches to cut.” And while we’re at it, I think, we can cut some branches for putting on the roof and eaves of the cabin to soften the outline and camouflage it from prying eyes. You can’t even see the cabin from a boat on the water—the promontory blocks the view from the ocean side and the trees block it from the shore side—but you could from a helicopter.
Not that I think it’ll come to that. But there’s no reason not to prepare for every possibility.
“Okay, let’s pretend we got stranded on this island and it could be days until we’re rescued.” I’ve led him to a copse of trees that’s evergreens on the northern side, deciduous on the southern side, and a mix in the middle. “So we need shelter. Where do you think would be the best place to do that?”
He’s got his hands deep in his coat pockets as he looks around. “I bet we want somewhere dry.”
“Good. The number one thing that could kill us is the cold, and the way the cold gets you is through you being wet or damp. If it’s below sixty-five degrees and you can’t get dry, you’re dead in three days.”
“Sixty-five doesn’t sound that cold.” He stamps his feet, no doubt feeling that it’s half that temperature here right now.
“I know, but it’s thirty degrees colder than your body temperature, and five degrees colder than the temperature at which the body dies. If your clothes are wet, you’re leaching that heat away constantly.” I shrug to indicate the finality of the problem. “Hypothermia’s a bitch, too, because it fucks with your mind. As your body tries to conserve heat in your core, your brain is one of the parts that gets shorted. Confusion, amnesia, insanity. It can all happen from your body temperature getting too low.”
“Wow.”
“It can happen slowly if you’re damp, or fast, if you fall into cold enough water.” We almost lost a man once on a training mission in Alaska. After we pulled him out of the water he kept trying to fight us off, convinced we were trying to kill him instead of help him. Cold can make you nuts. I decide not to tell Chase that story right now. “Anyway. What looks the driest?”
He takes a walk around a tall pine with no branches until near its crown. “Hm. Well, between the trees the ground’s the highest, but the overhead cover’s the thinnest and it might rain. So, I don’t know.”
“Good thinking, but generally it’ll be drier under the trees as long as the tree isn’t in a dip in the ground. Let’s look for two trees close together that are on a bit of a rise.” I can see a good spot, but I’m determined to let him choose where we do this. “About two meters apart. But not too rooty or it won’t be very comfortable to sleep on.”
He walks among the trees for a bit, then asks, “Is it better to be on pine needles or regular leaves?”
“Either one could be good, but you’ll see,” I say.
“And should they be skinny trees?”
“Yeah, but you’ll find if two trees are going to be that close together, they’re usually pretty skinny.”
“Gotcha.” He finds a nice pair of aspens. “Two meters is around six feet, right? Are these birch? You said birch was good for building fires.”
“Yes, I did. These are aspen, but close enough.” I point to the ground between them. “First thing: check out the ground between them. No ant nests or animal burrows, no big rocks sticking up, no wet areas.”
The area is leaf-covered, of course. He begins picking through the leaves with his hands. He’s wearing my work gloves and I cringe a little. “It’s kind of damp underneath.”
“It’s always going to be a little damp under ground litter like that. Why don’t you pick up that branch and use it like a broom?” I point to a branch on the ground that must’ve come down recently. It’s still got some leaves on the end.
He sweeps clear the patch between the trunks. Looks good. The ground is firm. “In an emergency, like if we landed here with only an hour until dark and had to move fast, I’d look for a fallen tree that makes a kind of natural tent. But the problem with a natural shelter is you might not be the only animal wanting to shelter there.”
“And we’ve got all day.”
I chuckle. “Yeah, all seven hours of it we have left. Let’s assume we’ve got a rope and a knife to work with, but nothing else.”
“Okay. What’s next?”
“If we had a tarp we could make a kind of tent, but let’s pretend we don’t even have that. Let’s build a lean-to. Next step: tie a crossbar between the two trunks. Go find a fallen branch that’s long eno
ugh and sturdy enough, but not too thick.”
He hares off into the woods before I can tell him not to go too far or he’ll end up having to drag it a long way. I hear him circling around, though, whistling to himself. The island’s got no bears and the area doesn’t even have poisonous snakes, so I’m not too worried. The way he’s crashing around, anything that might bite him is well scared off, anyway.
He comes back dragging a small sapling, nice and straight and branchless until the top. He’s a little out of breath as he drops his find in front of me. “Check this one out! It was broken off where a spruce fell over there.”
“How do you know it’s spruce?” I ask, intending to josh him a little over his outdoorsman knowledge, or lack thereof.
“It’s the kind we always get as a Christmas tree,” he says, deadpan serious. “Smells just like it.”
“Probably spruce, then,” I say, moving on to the next lesson. “Okay, time to learn some knots.”
We lash the crossbar at about hip height, and then I send him to look for branches to lay along it. “Lots of twigs and leaves still on is good. I’ll pile mine on this side; you pile yours on that side. See who’s done first.”
He seems spurred by the competition, racing back and forth. I take my time since my manhood isn’t threatened by losing this “race.” I find a small fallen maple at the edge of the copse and drag it back to the site, then strip the branches off one by one. The next time he comes back, he takes his coat off and hangs it on a broken branch before he hurries off to get more.
My way is more efficient, but maybe his way is more fun. For him, anyway. Well, for me, too, since I get to watch him run back and forth. I have a vague fantasy of doing this someday on a tropical island with him in a Speedo. Or even this place in the summer. Maine can be scorching in July.
I’ve already got my half of the lean-to loosely covered by the next time he returns, and I see he’s picked up my strategy of getting a larger piece to break the branches off.
