Posted by Menagerie on September 25, 2004 at 08:35:07:
THRILL OF THE HUNT
As she wormed her way through the underbrush, knife clenched between her teeth, Steele suddenly realized: she was in her element. She was trained—no, born for this.
She had taken on the reconnaissance assignment—strange goings-on east of the Leeward Isles—with a sense of unease. Small boats had disappeared in the vast expanse of ocean, not to be found. A top agent, a veteran of Caribbean surveillance, had been dispatched to investigate; he had not returned. That made it personal for Steele, whose interest in the missing agent was—was more than professional. They’d served on many a mission together, sometimes posing as man and wife. Sometimes, it wasn’t all an act. She thought about his strong arms, his lips; long, intimate hours in a hotel room in Curacao, on a beach in Trinidad…
Requests to the top for an official investigation were nixed; “security” was the vague reason why. She was senior officer for the region, and was tabbed for an undocumented assignment—which meant they wouldn’t be sending out a rescue party if something went wrong.
And something did. The boat had run into something jagged—something that wasn’t there a moment before—just a quarter-kilometre from the beach of the little island. Steele had dragged herself ashore with the little she’d been able to salvage. The radio was shot; the pistol wouldn’t. She gathered together enough driftwood to light a fire, but surely no pilot would be able to spot it. None, after all, were as crazy as she was to be out there in the first place.
Steele shook her mane of blonde, curly hair, her faint overbite curved into the shape of a scowl. She was fair, forty and fit, built like a lean jungle cat. Long legs tapered into slim hips, sloped toward a corded belly. Cone shaped breasts stood proudly on a chest that barely betrayed the outlines of ribs. Biceps swelled as she hefted armfuls of driftwood. Fifteen years in service to the Crown had earned her the rank of colonel and the awe of her subordinates; she had killed a dozen men in the name of the Queen. None of them had died easily.
Now, a desolate landscape offered her cold welcome. The volcanic beach, shimmering in pink and aqua, gave way to dense, dark forest. Fauna was scarce. Colonel Robyn Trinity Steele could live off the land, but this—place—offered little land on which to live; barely ten square kilometres, all of it hostile. She shrugged, started making her way into the forest…cautiously, slowly, ears back…
There were, indeed, few creatures on which to sup. Steele caught a few small turtles, pried them open; the plant life, from what she could figure, was downright non-nutritious. Days passed, then weeks; the remaining fat on her spare frame melted away. The sun beat down relentlessly; 35 degrees or more, every day. She was down to a cut off shirt tied over her flat, hard midriff, and boxer shorts above her long, muscular legs.
The daily forages were getting harder, the food decidedly unappetizing. She had given up hope of finding a rabbit, or bird, something warm-blooded. In the midst of another trudge through the brush, about to chuck it and head back to camp…she heard a noise. A familiar noise. Another human. Humming.
She quietly settled back behind the brush, watched. In the midst of a small clearing, Steele saw another woman, also tall and muscular, and as black as Steele was blonde. She wore…nothing at all, her firm breasts were upthrust, her haunches powerful. Long, kinky hair hung to the small of her impressive back. She, too, seemed to be foraging. Another castaway…
The woman continued to hum, stretching those magnificent muscles as she sifted through one stumpy tree, then another; facing away from Steele, her feet spread, she bent over to move aside some tall grasses, and Steele caught a glimpse of pudenda beneath and behind those firm cheeks.
Weeks ago, Steele may have called out to her, to see if the two of them could find a way off this godforsaken rock. But lack of protein, lack of nourishment…and there, standing before her, a good 70 kg of womanhood…Steele licked her lips as she traced her eyes up the woman’s sepia body, from her well-defined calves to bulging quads, buttocks with barely a trace of fat, a broad and meaty back. She had killed for duty before, thought Steele; now, she’d do it for survival. Then, abruptly, the woman stood and quickly rushed away through the thicket.
This woman seemed at least her equal physically, Steele decided; to trap and kill her, she’d need the element of surprise. She fingered her knife; if she could lure her prey to the edge of the clearing, perhaps she could trip her, slit her throat before she recovered. She sought out, found stringy vines; laid out a web at ankle height. A small, flexible tree could be tied back; it would whip forward when the woman triggered the makeshift tripwires, perhaps blinding her. The island, so small…not many places the other woman could go. Steele crouched, munched on a few turtle eggs, and waited…
She didn’t have to wait long, but her haunches ached when her prey finally arrived, this time with a woven basket; the dusky victim-to-be again started poking through waist-high grasses that brushed against her full, wide hips, the tops of those extraordinary thighs. When she bent over, the woman’s breasts almost seemed to defy gravity, standing in place like a young girl’s. Steele’s mouth was running wet, sweat was beading on her forehead. Come on, you bitch, she thought…a little closer…within my reach.
Maybe Steele made a noise; she hadn’t thought she did. But the woman, seemingly startled, looked up—looked directly into her eyes—and turned to flee. Steele cursed, and chased after her. She needed her, needed her flesh…she couldn’t let her go…blindly plunging through head-high branches, grasses with serrated edges that tore at her legs. She trained on the firm, churning buttocks before her, nearly within her grasp…the haunches that flexed and stretch with each stride. Steele could imaging those thick hams, roasting over a spit…she could fairly smell the aroma of broiling meat. It drove her to new effort; her own lean legs thrashed through the brush. Just a few metres ahead; the woman looked over her shoulder—and—
The sudden movement took Steele’s breath away. A rope had snatched her ankle, swung quickly four metres into the azure Caribbean sky; the knife went flying. She swung back and forth, bumping against trees, and finally swaying to a stop; she panted and rasped. And before her, upside down—there she was. Smiling.
“Hullo. Good day, Colonel. Yes, I know who you are,” she said in a clipped accent. Hands on hips, the nude jungle goddess inspected Steele’s body in much the same way as the clawing, frantic woman dangling from the rope had examined her own. “Not a lot of meat on your bones—but, no matter; can’t be choosy. Welcome to my little getaway, my new home.”
Steele had finally calmed down. “Who are you?” she asked slowly.
“Oh, sorry, forgot the introductions. Felicia Fanshaw. MI 6, retired. They had no choice,” she giggled, “I knew too much, and I—let’s say I had to get out while the getting was good. I had discovered this little paradise, secreted some supplies—figured one of these days, I’d have to get away from it all…”
The story was familiar to Steele. She’d heard about a rogue agent who’d been involved in assassinations, then abruptly disappeared. They said years among the natives of the tiny islands in the eastern Caribbean had…made her strange, left her unable to cope with society. No wonder they’d squelched requests for an official investigation. Steele took a deep breath. “All right, Fanshaw,” she said evenly, “You’ve had your fun; you’ve won our little war game. Let me down, now.”
The naked woman bent down, hands on knees, peered into Steele’s grim, upside-down face. “Oh, I say! You really haven’t caught on, have you? Y’see, you’ve been duped. That little ‘accident’ that beached you? Booby trap; same thing happened to those little vessels you’re looking into.”
“You did them in?” Steele was still trying to get accustomed to talking, upside-down, to a naked, Amazonian madwoman.
Fanshaw laughed merrily. “My little hobby. MI6 lets me have my fun. There are some people at Century House who owe me favors.” She got within a centimetre of Steele’s face, poked out her tongue; slowly drew it all the way around her lips. “Y’might say,” she whispered, “‘service above and beyond’.” Steele understood—and knew there would be no help coming; as far as London would know, she’d have simply, mysteriously vanished. She’d have to try to get out of this herself.
While her tormentor hovered over her, Steele suddenly lunged out with both hands. Fanshaw nimbly sidestepped her, grabbed one arm and slipped a noose around it. Quickly, Steele found her hands bound, tied in a slipknot around her neck. Another grab, and she’d strangle herself. This one knew her stuff.
Fanshaw again bent down. “These islanders,” she hissed, “they’ve had to make do over the years with very little fresh meat. Nothing but turtles around here, you’ve noticed. They’ve taught me all manner of entertaining dishes…but you’ve got to be creative with the ingredients…Colonel.” And with that, the rogue agent poked Steele in the belly, ran a steel-strong index finger along her brisket to her breasts…pinched a nipple, hard, through the thin fabric. The woman on the tether jerked, a fish on a hook.
Fanshaw bent over; again, Steele got a glimpse of those magnificent pubes, framed by lean buttocks and heavily muscled thighs. When she straightened up again she was holding her captive’s knife, running a thumb along the edge. “Kept it well honed, eh, Steele? Suits me just fine.” A few firm, even slashes, and Steele’s shirt was in shreds. Her breasts, still firm despite her years, hung faintly downward, rosy pink nipples pointed straight toward her tormenter. One was swollen from the earlier prodding. “Oh, dear,” Fanshaw exclaimed at the sight of her prisoner’s spare, lean torso. “You really have been wasting away during your stay here. My apologies…but then, I couldn’t well have shared Gardner with you, could I?” And grinned wickedly.
“Gardner?” Steele gasped. The agent who had disappeared. “He’s been here?”
“Been…and down the hatch,” came the response; Fanshaw’s teeth glistened in the tropical sun.
Steele was surprised at the tears that sprang to her eyes. Gardner—gone! The beautiful memories of passionate love, giving way to…the thought was horrible, but she shook it off, came down to earth. The exiled agent’s intentions were becoming all too apparent...and Steele was a lamb, ready for slaughter. Naked, bound, hanging upside-down; her lot didn’t look very promising. She tried lashing out with her free foot; one panther-like move by Fanshaw, and Steele found her leg fettered, her ankle bound to her thigh.
“We’ll have no more of that, Colonel,” the other woman smirked, and proceeded to cut off the remainder of Steele’s clothes. Fanshaw stepped back, examined her captive’s pale, sinewy body, portion by portion. “Hullo!…Good legs; perhaps a stew. I believe I’ll chop your torso in two, roast one half fresh and smoke the other—a homemade smokehouse out back, don’cha know. Amazing what you can do with native woods, a few cutting tools. I do like your bum, Colonel,” she added. “Not much fat in my diet, you know,” and with that she slapped her own well-developed haunch, not an ounce of extra flesh on it, and roared with laughter.
Steele knew she couldn’t bluff, couldn’t claim rescue units were on the way. “You can’t keep living like this, Fanshaw,” she tried to reason. “Sooner or later, somebody important will disappear. They’ll come after you…”
The magnificent Nubian licked her lips again, slowly traced a finger along the bound woman’s inner thigh, from knee to nether regions, then up her belly and along protruding ribs to her breasts. “My larder is nearly depleted, Colonel,” she purred. “You’ve arrived just in time.” Steele desperately fought her bonds; as in so many other things, the predator fondling her body was obviously an expert knotswoman. Fanshaw raised the knife, pointed it at Steele’s belly below her breastbone. “Been charming, Colonel, and all that,” she said airily, “but the time has come.” And with that, she neatly drilled the blade into Steele’s gut, split her open to the crotch…
Before a thatched hut, in a clearing, Felicia Fanshaw tended the fire. Rocks surrounded logs that glowed a dull cherry red. Thick, sturdy branches stood upright on either side of the pit; resting a metre above the fire, in the branches’ crooks, was a tapered pole…
Skewered on the pole was half of what had been Robyn Trinity Steele’s torso, from neck to buttock. Her spine and breastbone had been neatly split. The fat from her breast ran down the browning skin, sputtering as it reached the fire; the meat from her lower back was oozing juices. The inside of her rib cage showed ivory, poking through the flesh as it cooked and retracted.
The former agent finished stirring the fire, grasped one end of the pole and turned it so Steele’s chest faced the flames. She ran a brown finger along the meat over the unfortunate woman’s shoulder blade, tasted the flavors that had emerged from the roasting carcass. “Quite good, Herbert!” she called out.
A man emerged from the hut, bare to the waist, rugged and muscular. He held a wine bottle and two glasses in one beefy hand; he slipped the other around the naked woman’s waist. “I’m looking forward to supper,” he said; she smiled, closed her eyes, turned her face toward him. He lightly kissed her cheek. “Tell me,” he asked, “why did you tell her you’d killed and eaten me, too?”
She grinned, wickedly. “Simply wanted to see the look on her face.” She turned away, began smearing coconut butter on Steele’s bum and flank. “If you had told me you fancied her,” she went on over her shoulder, “I mightn’t have asked my ‘friends’ at Century House to shoo her our way.”
He shrugged. “Should make supper that much sweeter,” he said. He gazed at the butchered carcass of his former paramour as it sizzled on the makeshift spit.
Fanshaw snuggled against him as she sauced the woman who had once shared her partner’s bed. “Which of us was better, Herbert, darling?” she asked, looking down at Steele’s browning flank.
“Felicia, my dear,” he purred, nibbling at her neck, “I’m so pleased you summoned me here.” He began pouring the wine. “No man could be happier. Wine…a truly breathtaking dinner…a romantic evening together...”
The woman smiled distractedly, took up Steele’s own knife, made lengthwise slits in the colonel’s rear end; fat dribbled out. “Yes…life in the tropics can be heavenly!”