The Most Dangerous Game Chapter 1 - Only A Terrible Thought

Mireia twists her head to the side, trying to catch my eye. "Then why? Why are you doing this?"

I let the silence stretch between us for a long moment, letting her stew in her own confusion and despair. The night air is cold against my skin, but I barely feel it. The heat of Mireia's body beneath me, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the hammering of her heartbeat - that's what I feel. That's what I revel in.

Finally, she speaks again, her voice barely above a whisper. "You were in prison, weren't you? Before... before all this. That's why you're doing this. They offered you a deal."

I can't help but smile at that. She's not as dumb of a cow as I thought she was.

"Bingo," I say, my voice casual, almost bored. "One captured rebel equals one month of freedom. And let me tell you, sweetheart, after being locked up in a cage, you'd be amazed at what you're willing to do for a taste of fresh air."

Mireia is silent for a moment, processing this. I can practically hear the gears turning in her head. "What were you in for?" she asks at last. I guess morbid curiosity must have won out over hatred and fear.

I chuckle softly, shifting my weight to make myself more comfortable atop her prone form. "Embezzlement," I say, my tone light and airy, as if we're discussing the weather. "White collar crime. Not very exciting, I know. But it turns out, I'm pretty damn good at making money disappear. Or, well, I guess I was."

Mireia makes a sound that's half laugh, half sob. "And now you're hunting women for the regime. Quite the career change."

I shrug. "I'm just a survivor."

Mireia snarls again, trembling from panic, or rage, or both. "You should fight them! You should help us! We can make a difference, we can-"

"We can what?" I say, cutting her off. "Overthrow the regime? Restore women's rights? I already told you, don't be absurd."

I shake my head, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. "Your resistance is a joke, Mireia. A handful of scared, scattered women against the might of the entire fucking planet. You never stood a chance."

"But we have to try," she says, her voice thick and unsteady. Is she about to cry? That'd be adorable. "We can't just give up, we can't let them win..."

"They've already won! Don't you get it? This is the world now. Their world. And the only way to survive is to play by their rules."

"You keep using that word, surviving," she says. "You call this surviving? Being a lapdog, a tool for fascist men? Wake up, Larissa. Wake the fuck up! You're just as much a prisoner as I am. What happens when there are no more rebels left? When the resistance is crushed and the New Order reigns supreme? What do you think they'll do to you, then?"

I feel a flare of anger at her accusation. How dare she judge me?

"You think I don't know that?" I say, in a low, hissing voice. "You think I haven't thought about how this story ends?"

I lean in close, my lips brushing against her ear as I speak. "I know exactly what awaits me. I know that day will come. But here's the thing, Mireia. Every one of you I bring in buys me a little more time. Time to..."

What? Set up a hideout? Stockpile resources? Find some way, any way, to get out of this nightmare once and for all?

Fuck if I know. All I know is I need to keep going for as long as I can, by whatever means necessary.

And if that means throwing my fellow women to the wolves, then so be it. Better them than me.

"... to figure things out," I continue at last. "I had it all planned out, you see. You were going to buy me so much more than just a measly month of freedom. But then you had to go and fuck it all up, didn't you?"

Of course, it's not a total loss. I'm still going to deliver her. And tomorrow, when I can set things up for a proper interrogation, I intend to extract information about the feminist cell from her myself. I could still make the rendezvous on my own, I suppose, but without Mireia to vouch for me, it'd be much dicier, and I'm not sure I can set up a forceful takeover in time.

Still, I'm sure Mireia has information I can use to continue my hunt. I'm sure they'd get answers from her at the re-education center, but then the warden would take the credit for it.

Besides, the idea of interrogating Mireia seems especially appealing now that I'm shaking with rage. This weak bitch who can't even light her own fire presumes to lecture me?

I don't think so.

I carefully place my knee against her arm, to make sure she isn't going anywhere, and I grab the length of rope from my pack. I start looping it around the bitch's wrists, cinching the knots tight.

"You fucking bitch," she sobs again, but there's a note of despair in her voice now. She knows she's trapped. Helpless.

At my mercy.

With a grunt of effort, I roll her over onto her back. She lands with a pained oof, her bound arms pinned beneath her. I straddle her hips, my weight bearing down on her, trapping her even further.

I lean down, my face mere inches from hers. I can feel her breath on my skin, quick and shallow with fear.

"Is that any way to talk to the woman who holds your fate in her hands?" I ask softly. "You know, I've got to give it to the New Order. There is one thing about the deal that I find especially sweet."

Mireia stiffens beneath me, a new kind of fear entering her voice. "W-what do you mean?"

My hand slides down her side, feeling the curve of her hip, the firmness of her thigh. She's trembling now, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. "P-please," she whimpers, and oh, how I love the sound of that word on her lips. "Please don't do this."

"Do what?" I ask innocently, my hand slipping under the hem of her shirt as I gently roll it upwards.

Her eyes widen in horror. "No," she whispers. "No, you can't..."

"Oh, but I can," I say, my lips curling into a smile. Not the charming, disarming smile I flashed for her before, no. This is a much more honest smile.

The grin of a predator.

"It's part of the deal, you see. Say what you want about men, about what they've done to us, but... the fuckers understand the value of incentive. The appeal of, shall we say, first dibs..."

Mireia's chest is heaving with panic. No more lecturing from her, huh? "Please," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Please please please please."

Reduced to one word only. She's coming along nicely. At this rate, she'll go nonverbal before I've even done anything. I ignore her whelping and let my hands roam freely over her body, taking what is mine by right of conquest.

"Shh, shh. Don't fight it, Mireia. It'll only make things worse for you. You wouldn't want me to pull out the knife again, right, sweetie? Just relax and let it happen. Who knows, you might even enjoy it..."

She lets out a choked sob as I roughly grope her breasts through her thin shirt. Then, just as she's braced herself for me to really hurt her, I switch to a feather-light touch, teasing her nipples with the tip of my fingers. I dip my head to suckle at her neck, nipping and biting gently at the skin.

It takes some time, and patience, and some gentle rubbing of my hips against hers for good measure, but eventually, her nipples begin to stiffen.

I smile to myself. This is how you truly break your prey. You make her enjoy her own rape.

Withdrawing, I start undoing her pants, tugging them down over her hips along with her underwear. She struggles a little at that, but it's a feeble thing that just makes her look even more helpless.

My hands slide lower, tugging at the waistband of her pants. She renews her struggles then, bucking and twisting beneath me, but it's useless. I'm far too strong for her.

I trail my fingers lightly over the inside of her thigh, slowly but inexorably making my way towards her exposed cunt. She gasps when I touch her there, her hips bucking involuntarily into my touch. I smile, circling her clit with the pad of my thumb, relishing the way she twitches and writhes.

"Men think that we women aren't dangerous," I tell her, voicing my earlier thoughts, "but they're wrong. This... the way your body is responding to me right now... it's what a human body does when it's conquered. Men do it to us all the time. But, as you can see... a woman can do that, too. Does that make you feel better, pet?"

"No... no..." Mireia whines, twisting her hips in a feeble attempt to evade my probing touch. But there's nowhere for her to go.

I circle her clit with my thumb more firmly, going on and on until she's squirming from the forced stimulation. She's panting now, her chest heaving, a sheen of sweat glistening on her skin. Little mewls and whimpers escape her with each breath, sounds of pleasure she can't quite bite back.

I slip a finger inside her, then two, curling them just so. She cries out at that, her back arching off the ground, her hands clenching into fists where they're bound behind her back.

I quicken my pace, pumping my fingers in and out of her, my thumb still circling her clit. She's close now, approaching the edge... closer, closer, closer...

I withdraw my fingers.

The high-pitched whine of animalistic deprivation she emits at that is the most pathetic sound I've heard in my life. Some feminist hero she must have been, before the fall.

Dumb bitch.

"Something wrong, Mireia?" I ask softly, teasingly. "Tell me. No secret between girls!"

She squeezes her eyes shut, pressing her lips together, refusing to say anything. That's fine. I have always preferred deeds to words anyway.

I lower my head between her legs, replacing my fingers with my tongue.

What a glorious shudder that causes. I flick my tongue against her clit, and let her own reactions prove my point.

"P-please..." she gasps out between ragged breaths. "Please don't..."

But her body betrays her, hips bucking up to meet my mouth, seeking more of that delicious friction despite herself. I chuckle darkly against her flesh, the vibrations making her cry out.

"Don't what, pet?" I ask, lifting my head just enough to meet her wide, panicked eyes. "Don't make you cum? But you're so close already, I can feel it. Your pretty little cunt is just begging for release."

I give a firm suck to her clit and she nearly screams, head thrashing from side to side. "No! I don't want- I don't-"

Her final denial morphs into a throaty moan. Her thighs tremble around my head, stomach muscles fluttering as she rapidly approaches orgasm.

"Theeere you go," I say, in-between flicks of my tongue. "Even when your mind falters, your body knows the truth. Your body knows its master. Cum, now. Cum for master."

And with a wailing sob, she does. Her whole body goes taut as a bowstring, shaking and shuddering as wave after wave of forced ecstasy crashes over her. I continue my ministrations throughout, prolonging her orgasm until she's babbling incoherently, tears streaming down her face.

Only when the last aftershocks have faded do I relent, sitting back on my haunches to survey my handiwork. Mireia lays sprawled before me, thoroughly debauched. Her hair is a wild tangle, her skin flushed and gleaming with sweat. Just like her cunt is glistening with her juices.

She looks utterly broken. Conquered.

Mine.

A deep, dark satisfaction unfurls within me like a banner at the glorious sight of pure, concentrated defeat.

This, right here, is power in its purest form. The power to take, to claim, to bend another to your will. It's a heady thing, intoxicating and addictive. No wonder men are so loathe to give it up.

I suppose I can't really blame them for enslaving us. In their place, I might have wanted to do the same thing.

I mean, in the end, I just have, right?

For all the things the New Order has taken from me, I will never fail to recognize they've given me this. I never would have gotten away with the thrill of raping a girl, in the old order.

In life, it's important to look at the bright side.

Speaking of which, it's time to take what's mine. I shed my own clothes, kicking them aside while Mireia stares at me with a look of resignation that's simply irresistible. She knows what's coming.

I straddle her face, my knees on either side of her head. I can feel her breath, hot and quick, against my exposed flesh. She tries to turn away, but I grab a fistful of her hair, holding her in place.

"Ah ah ah. You're not going anywhere, pet. You have a job to do."

With my free hand, I reach for my knife, holding it up so the blade glints in the moonlight. Mireia's eyes widen in fear.

"Now, I'd prefer not to use this," I say, my voice deceptively soft. "So don't get any weird ideas. Understand?"

She nods frantically, tears welling up in her eyes. "Please. Please don't hurt me."

"Then be a good girl and make me cum," I say, unceremoniously lowering myself onto her face.

For a moment, she remains still, frozen with fear and revulsion. But then, tentatively, I feel her tongue dart out.

There is something in the psychology of a defeated person that changes radically, when such a threshold is crossed. Everything could go awry for me tomorrow, the feminists in her cell might free her before I can deliver her to the re-education center, and still, she wouldn't be able to un-lick my cunt. She would have to live the entirety of her life with the knowledge that this is who she is.

That's a form of triumph money just can't buy.

I let out a soft moan of encouragement. "Good pet. Eager puppy. Just like that."

She begins to work in earnest then, lapping at me with a desperation born of self-preservation. Her technique is sloppy and unpracticed, but what she lacks in skill she makes up for in enthusiasm. Or rather, in a fervent desire to avoid further pain.

I grind down against her face, relishing the way her nose bumps against my clit with each roll of my hips. I can feel her struggling for air beneath me, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps against my heated flesh whenever she can snatch a moment.

But I don't relent. If anything, her distress only heightens my arousal, the knowledge that I hold her very life in my hands sending electric thrills down my spine.

I reach down, tangling my fingers in her hair, holding her in place as I roll my hips, rubbing my aching clit against her nose and mouth. She whimpers and moans, the vibrations sending delicious shockwaves through my core.

"See how well-behaved you are after a good rape," I say, my head falling back in pleasure. "Keep going, you pathetic little slut. Make me cum all over your face."

Tears stream from the corners of her eyes, mixing with my wetness on her skin. That sight, that picture of complete humiliaton, is what finally pushes me over the brink.

"Fuck, fuck, fuuuuck!" I cry out, my body shaking and shuddering, and then, with a final, shuddering moan, I cum, my thighs clenching tightly around her head as I draw her face even deeper into my cunt. Only when the last aftershocks have faded do I finally relent, lifting myself off her face.

She immediately turns her head to the side, gasping and coughing as she sucks in desperate lungfuls of air. She looks utterly wrecked, marked with my cunt juices, her spirit broken. Her defiance has been extinguished, replaced by a hollow emptiness.

Good.

I collapse, back-first, against the soft ground, my chest heaving, my heart pounding in my ears. The night air feels cool against my flushed skin.

See, mister Warden, Sir? I think to myself. I don't need brainwashing or hypnosis to break a girl. A true professional does it without cheating.

Not that I'd ever dare tell him something like that to his face.

Slowly, languidly, I stretch out my limbs, relishing the pleasant ache in my muscles. I love the way my body feels after a good rape. I feel sated, content in a way I haven't felt in a long time.

Not since my last hunt, I suppose.

Even missing the opportunity to infiltrate the cell doesn't rankle quite so badly, now.

But even as I bask in the afterglow, I know I can't afford to let my guard down. Not fully, not ever. The world is too dangerous for that now, especially for a woman. One moment of weakness, and it could all be over.

I turn my head to look at Mireia, sprawled beside me. She's curled in on herself, her bound hands held protectively against her chest, her face hidden behind a curtain of tangled hair. She's sobbing.

I shake my head. She doesn't realize it yet. She's heard about the centers, but she's never seen what goes on in there. In a few weeks, she'll look back to this rape as the last time she had sex like a person. A captive one, sure, but a person nonetheless.

I shrug. At the end of the day, that's nothing to me. There'll always be another woman to hunt. And the next, and the next...

Until I'm next, my mind supplies, unhelpfully. As if I don't know that already. I'll cross that bridge when I get to it, ideally after I've finally busted this cell and given myself time to be free, time to think. For now...

I have a delivery to make.

***

The trek back through the woods has been harder than I expected.

Even for someone as physically fit as myself, the uneven terrain, the dense underbrush, the occasional stream to ford -- it's all taken a toll. Especially because I'm carrying luggage around, so to speak, which makes everything a lot more arduous.

If I'd infiltrated the cell, I could have asked the warden back at the center to send me the support needed to collect the bounty, but the New Order won't bestir itself for just one captive. So, I have to deliver her the old-fashioned way.

Mireia stumbles along behind me, her wrists bound in front of her, a makeshift leash connecting her to my belt. I keep the pace brisk, not out of any particular sadism, but simply because I want to get this over with. The sooner I deliver her to the re-education center, the sooner I can collect my reward and resume hunting for her comrades.

Still, it is a little funny, every time she trips or falters. It never gets old, for some reason.

I guess I'm a woman of simple tastes.

As for Mireia, the past few days have been...educational for her, to say the least. I've taken my time with her, savoring the slow erosion of her will, the gradual shattering of her defiance. It's not just the rapes, though those have certainly played their part. It's the constant degradation, the small humiliations, the inescapable reality of her utter powerlessness.

I've made her beg for food and water. She resisted to that more than I liked -- grovelling a little, but never as much as I wanted her to. She even refused to lick my boots. But it takes time for water to erode stone.

I've been taming her like an animal, and it's working.

The change in her is absolutely remarkable, small pockets of internal resistance notwithstanding. The once-proud feminist firebrand has been reduced to a cowering, submissive thing, flinching at my every move, desperate to avoid my displeasure.

What a pity that the center's brainwashing is going to nuke all this beautiful handiwork I've done. Really, there's no artistry in mind control. This is much superior, in my opinion.

But in the New Order, no one cares about my opinion.

We crest a hill and there, nestled in the valley below, is our destination. The re-education center looms like a dark scar on the landscape, all brutalist concrete and razor wire. Even from this distance, I can feel the aura of despair emanating from it. It's a misogyny factory, a gravity well of dehumanization.

A place where female power comes to die.

As we descend into the valley towards the towering grey walls of the re-education center, Mireia seems to snap out of her numb resignation. With each step closer to her impending doom, her panic mounts.

"No, no, no, please Larissa, please don't do this," she begs frantically, trying to pull away from me. But my grip on her leash remains firm.