I like to think of patience as one of my best qualities.

Impatient hunters rarely go far. The resistance may be a bunch of delusional women — and the occasional male simp, no doubt — but they mean business, and captured bounty hunters can’t exactly expect mercy, or a fair trial. Even the feminists can’t afford to be that stupid, these days.

I’m the best at what I do. I’m a woman in a man’s business, a man’s world, really. I am awesome. Ergo, it logically follows that I must possess the quality of patience, as well.

But this time, even I can feel the impatience starting to boil over.

I squint against the glare of the midday sun, wiping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand. Several days have passed since I left Ava and Sophia bound in that shed. Several days of trudging through increasingly difficult terrain, rationing my supplies, and sleeping with one eye open.

But I’m close now. So close I can almost taste it.

The mountains loom before me, their jagged peaks cutting into the cloudless sky like broken teeth. The air is thinner up here. My legs ache from the constant uphill climb, and my shoulders burn from the weight of my pack.

Still, I press on. The abandoned factory complex is somewhere at the foot of those mountains, and in it, my quarry.

The rebel cell’s main hideout. The culmination of my hunt.

Truly, the hardest part of my work is almost done. I don’t even need to fight anyone — just spot them, and radio in the coordinates. Then… I’ll do what the big male boss wants me to do, I suppose, be a good girl, step aside, and let the men handle the capture.

I ball my hands into fists just thinking about the Warden. One day, he’ll regret forcing me to suck his cock. One day…

But first, I’ll get my month of freedom, which is what really matters. I’ll also ask him for the opportunity to rape my pick from the feminists they’ll capture. You only live once, after all! Gotta enjoy the pleasures life throws your way.

It will also be a good opportunity to release some of my frustrations. Yes, I’m frustrated, and that’s part of the reason why I feel impatient.

I’m frustrated that fucking Mireia almost got the drop on me. I want to do things to the Warden that would make even his regime flinch, for daring to touch me. I’m upset that Sophia successfully counter-ambushed me, until I put her back in her fucking place.

Everything always comes so easy to me. But for some reason, not this time. Why?

I pause to calm down and take a swig from my canteen, crouching in the boreal vegetation. It grows thinner the more I climb, as do the signs of civilization. I haven’t seen a single human soul in days. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess the entire area has been left uninhabited since… well, since the end, I suppose.

I guess that’s rather the point. These rebels aren’t stupid enough to advertise their presence. They’ve chosen this location precisely because it’s remote, difficult to access, and offers excellent visibility of any approaching threats.

Threats like me.

I trudge onward, feeling the crunch of pine needles under my boots. My muscles burn pleasantly with exertion. I’m in excellent shape – have to be, in my line of work – but even I feel the strain of this climb.

I pause to survey my surroundings, taking in the panoramic view that stretches out below me. From this height, I can see for miles – rolling hills giving way to distant plains, a silver ribbon of river winding through it all. Somewhere down there is Green Meadows, that pitiful excuse for a town. Somewhere down there, Ava and Sophia have probably already been processed, their minds being methodically broken and remolded to serve the regime.

The thought brings a smile to my face. I wonder if they’ll put them on the same re-education schedule, force them to watch each other’s demotion to nonhuman status. That would be poetic justice. Being transformed into rapemeat is just what they deserve for being so goddamn annoying.

They dared pose a challenge to me. Stupid sluts.

I shake my head, and resume walking up the incline. The path I’m following isn’t really a path at all, just game trails and natural breaks in the vegetation.

Eventually, I round a bend in the makeshift trail… and I stop. The scene before me makes me pause in my tracks.

Well, this is unexpected.

A man stands with his back to me, pants around his ankles, hips thrusting rhythmically. Before him, bent over a fallen tree stump, is a woman. Her wrists are cuffed behind her back, and a thick leather collar encircles her neck. She’s nude from the waist down, her clothes in tatters, her face a mask of resignation. The wet slapping sounds of flesh against flesh fill the clearing.

A bounty hunter?

I take a moment to observe the scene. The man’s technique is not particularly inspired. The woman isn’t screaming – broken already, then. Probably been his captive for a day or two at least.

Then the man shifts slightly, and I get a better look at his profile. I’d recognize that weathered face, that salt-and-pepper stubble anywhere.

Marcus.

Bounty hunters work together just as frequently as they betray one another. Honestly, sometimes I think I’d enjoy working more frequently with other hunters — it would give me the opportunity to do some healthy backstabbing myself, and that just sounds so fun — but my survival instincts always prevail over that impulse. As a general rule, I’m better off alone.

Marcus, however, is a bit of an exception.

My mask slides on.

I don’t know when I learned to do this, exactly. I suppose it was always second instinct to me. People like to think they’re complex, but for the most part, they’re predictable things. All you have to do is arrange your facial muscles just so, and they’ll start making all sorts of crazy assumptions about you: that you’re emotionally invested in them, or that you can be trusted, or that you mean them no harm. That goes double, if you’re a pretty girl.

It’s truly bizarre. But since it makes my job so much easier, I’m not going to complain.

I clear my throat loudly as I step into the clearing. “Well, well. Small world, Marcus.”

Marcus doesn’t even pause in his thrusting as he glances over his shoulder. When he sees me, his face breaks into a wide grin.

“Larissa!” he calls out, as casually as if we’d bumped into each other at the grocery store. “Fancy meeting you here, kiddo!”

It takes all my self control not to roll my eyes at the “kiddo” – he’s been calling me that since our first hunt together three years ago. For some unfathomable reason, something about me seems to trigger his paternal instincts. Not that I mind – his misplaced affection has proven useful more than once.

I don’t reciprocate it, of course. I don’t even know how that’s supposed to feel like. Fortunately, you just need the barest imitation of friendliness to fool most people.

I laugh at his mediocre jokes, pretend to seriously consider his advice, and nod at all the small talk he makes, and that seems to do the trick.

Humans really are such cattle, on average.

The captive woman’s eyes meet mine, wide and desperate. For the briefest, most beautiful moment, hope flickers across her face. Aww! The dog thinks I’m here to save her. Another woman in the wilderness, surely I must be her salvation, right?

Oh, I am going to enjoy this.

I allow a genuine grin to spread across my face as I look at her. Then, making an affectation of casual friendliness, I turn towards Marcus with a sly smile. “You’re catching up on your cardio, I see. By all means, don’t stop on my account!”

He laughs, a booming sound that echoes through the trees. Still fucking the rebel woman, he gestures for me to come closer. “Come, come! Don’t be a stranger.”

The girl is confused, now. She’s trying to rationalize my relaxed posture, the casual way I’m chatting with her rapist. She’s trying to rationalize it, and failing.

I stride over, but my eyes aren’t on Marcus, they’re on the girl. I want to catch the exact moment that the realization hits her and she breaks. There’s quite nothing like the slowly dawning horror of a dumb farm animal like her, realizing that the wolves are at the door for real this time.

She’s young – early twenties, maybe – with a lean, athletic build. A fighter, or at least she was. Now she’s just another piece of meat being tenderized before processing.

Ah, there it is.

It really is like light has just gone out of her eyes. They look dull and hopeless now. Vacant. She deflates, slackening against the tree stump, relaxing into her rape.

I love that this is my job.

I saunter closer, circling around to get a better look at her face. She’s got the thousand-yard stare of someone who’s retreated deep inside themselves. I reach out, almost absently, and stroke her hair.

Like one might pet a dog while chatting with its owner.

“Fresh catch?”

Marcus grunts, adjusting his grip on her hips. “Three… ugh, uhm, days ago. Part of a foraging party, separated from the main group. Not too bright, this one.”

“You know, they never are,” I say, continuing to stroke the woman’s hair while Marcus rapes her. Her skin is clammy with sweat, and I can feel her trembling beneath my touch.

Interesting. So the rebels are sending out supply parties. That confirms they’re established enough to need regular provisions, which matches what Ava told me.

It also lines up with rumors I’ve heard from bounty hunters performing check-ins on the radio. The feminists must truly be overly emboldened up here. There’s even rumors that they’ve conducted a frontal assault on a re-education center, though I’m not sure if I believe it. There was speculation as to whether this hypothetical raid was about freeing specific female cattle, or stealing something from the prison itself.

Though I don’t really know what a re-education center holds that could possibly be of any value to the resistance.

“She give you any trouble?” I ask, lifting the woman’s chin with my finger. She shivers beneath my touch, a full-body tremor that seems to start at her neck and ripple all the way down to where Marcus’s hands grip her hips.

“At first,” Marcus says with a chuckle. “Feisty little thing. Tried to stab me with a hunting knife. And she tried to bite, too!” He reaches down and slaps the woman’s ass hard enough to leave a red handprint. “Didn’t you, sweetheart?”

Her only response is a soft, desperate whimper. I nod in appreciation — he must have promptly taught her better.

I cup the girl’s face in both hands, squeezing slightly. She flinches slightly at my continued touch, but doesn’t pull away. She can’t, really. Pinned between Marcus’s thrusting hips and the tree stump, she’s at our complete mercy. Just another piece of feminist meat ready for the re-education grinder.

There’s a strange intimacy to the moment, the three of us isolated in this clearing, miles from civilization. Just us, the trees, and the dismantling of another woman’s very personhood.

That’s fine. She wasn’t doing much useful with one, anyway.

“Heading north?” Marcus asks, his breathing growing slightly labored, as I continue kneading the cheeks of the sow he’s currently raping. “Last I heard, you were down south, hunting… umph… for some high-value target.”

I shrug, letting my fingers trail from the woman’s hair down to her neck.

“Mmm,” I confirm, noncommittally. Marcus is more predictable than other bounty hunters, but I don’t really do trust. Never saw the appeal in it, even before the end. “Just following a lead. You?”

He grins, seeing right through my evasion. “Who are you trying to fool, kiddo? I know the bounty you’re after. Don’t worry, I’m not here to steal your glory.”

I blink, momentarily taken aback. Have I overestimated my discretion?

I raise an eyebrow. “Word travels fast.”

“In our line of work, it always does.”

That is true enough. But I’m in no mood to just let that go. What gave me away? It must have been the damn radio call sharing Ava and Sophia’s location. I’m not exactly the sharing type.

Maybe other hunters have done two plus two in their heads — if I was leaving two captives behind, it could only mean I’m after something even more valuable.

Maybe. There could be other explanations, too. Maybe the Warden has sent out other hunters. Or his superiors have. Or who knows. Either way, it irritates me, because I don’t feel like the smartest person in the metaphorical room, and that’s just unconscionable.

I can’t exactly take my frustration out on Marcus, either. He may mean nothing to me, and be ultimately disposable, but it doesn’t mean he’s useless.

Fortunately, there’s someone I can totally take it out on…

My fingers drift lower, tracing the woman’s collarbone through the tattered remnants of her shirt. She’s trembling now, little shivers that run through her entire body. Whether from fear, cold, or some combination of the two, I can’t tell. Not that it matters.

I rest my hands on the swell of the whore’s udders.

“If you’re not here for the bounty, why are you here? Just passing through?”

He slows his thrusting for a bit, gathering his breath. I suppose he isn’t getting any younger.

“Something like that. There seems to be a lot of back and forth of feminists in this area, more than there used to be. I thought I’d get an opportunistic catch before the bitches can go to ground again. I was hoping to go for two, but this fucktoy here is so low in the foodchain that she barely gave me any useful intel. I’ll squeeze a few more rapes out of her, and into re-ed she goes.”

I cluck my tongue in mock disappointment, giving the woman’s tits a sudden, vicious squeeze. She yelps, the sound high and panicked, like a wounded animal. “Not being helpful, are we? That’s not very nice.”

Well, if she’s withholding info, the re-education center will get it out of her. If she’s just that useless, she can always make up for it by being a good fleshlight.

Her eyes meet mine, wide and pleading. Somehow, that just makes me even more upset. Hasn’t she learned that hope is useless? That putting faith in others is stupid?

Maybe I’m in the wrong, here, to be fair. I’m giving her too much credit. I must assume that she’s not capable of learning through logic, the way a thinking being would. She can only learn the way an animal can. Through, say, association and reinforcement.

Let’s try.

I pinch her nipple hard through the fabric of her shirt, and twist.

The girl screams, a delicious, high-pitched sound of pain that makes me want to ride her face into oblivion.

“Music to my ears,” I say, releasing her nipple only to grab both tits and squeeze them brutally. “Sing for me, little rebel.”

She does, her scream even louder this time. Her body bucks and writhes between us, but there’s nowhere for her to go. Marcus grunts in approval, his pace quickening.

“That’s it,” he says, his voice rough with exertion. “Tighten that cunt up for me, sweetheart. Milk my cock.”

I lean in close to the woman’s ear, breathing in the scent of her fear, her sweat, her despair. “You hear that? You’re being useful after all. How does it feel to be nothing more than a sexual prosthetic that fits snugly onto your rapist’s dick?”

Her only response is a broken sob. I smile, satisfied, and straighten up.

Marcus watches me with an appraising eye, slowing down his thrusts. He looks thoughtful, and his hips now slam into her at intervals of a few seconds. I never thought anyone could make fucking look pensive, yet somehow, he does.

“You know, Larissa,” he says, “I’ve never understood why you took this gig.”

I glance at him, momentarily confused by the shift in conversation. “What do you mean?”

He adjusts his grip on the woman’s hips. “The bounty hunting. You took the deal. It never made sense to me.”

I bristle slightly at his words, instantly on guard. “We’re both standing there because you took the deal, too. I’m sure we both agree it’s better than rotting in prison.”

“Is it, though? I mean, for me maybe, yeah, I was in for rape anyway. But you had a shorter sentence.” He gives the female dog beneath him a half-hearted spank, which still elicits a deliciously helpless yelp from her. “You’re a strong, badass woman who could physically bring most regular men to their knees if you wanted to. Women like that are rare these days.”

I snort, turning my attention back to the girl. I sneak one hand in the space between her collar and her skin, and then grip her throat. Gently… for now.

“What’s your point, Marcus?”

“My point is… there’s always gonna be men who are into dommes and stuff,” Marcus says in-between thrusts into his prize’s cunt. I’m actually kind of impressed by his multi tasking here, it’s fun. “Not exactly politically correct to admit it these days, but it’s true. The dick wants what the dick wants.”

As a fellow rapist, he would certainly know! I laugh, a genuine sound of amusement that startles even me. “Didn’t know you were into femdom, Marcus. Should I be taking notes?”

He chuckles, but there’s something serious in his eyes.

“Not me, kiddo. I like my women like this—” he gives a particularly brutal thrust that makes the girl cry out “—broken and compliant. But there are plenty who don’t, and then what’s a fellow to do? He can’t exactly shop around for a domme. He’d get fined for incitement to sexual subversion, and the woman would go to re-ed. Or she’d be executed.”

A charming prospect, as always. “With you so far.”

“On top of that,” he goes on, “a domme these days ain’t exactly easy to find, yeah? Gals who go through re-education, that’s bad enough, the stuff they spit out is more animal than human.”

I briefly squeeze the girl’s throat, as if to say, hear that?

“But you won’t have much luck with regular womenfolk, either,” Marcus goes on. “The ones who weren’t actively part of the resistance? They’re mentally intact, sure, but most of them are so broken and docile they might as well have done re-ed themselves. Even those with defiance deep in their hearts know better than to show it, and act all submissive.”

“Correct,” I comment, my tone deliberately casual. “By and large, my fellow women have gone quietly into the night of their own subjugation.”

I tighten my grip on the woman’s throat, feeling her pulse flutter frantically against my palm. With my other hand, I proffer two fingers before her trembling lips.

I probably shouldn’t take the chance, but Marcus did say she doesn’t bite, and right now, I really feel like humiliating her.

“Suck.”

Her eyes, wide with terror and humiliation, meet mine. But the fight has literally been beaten out of her. Obediently, she takes my two fingers between her lips, and starts reluctantly bobbing her head in tiny motions, back and forth.

The feel of her wet, warm mouth is nice. But what’s nicer is the way this looks. It’s so… phallic. If I had a cock, I’d definitely force women to suck it. She looks so good like this, her facial muscles distended, her eyes closed, her lips propped open by the intrusion. Unable to speak, just reduced to a lapping dog.

“Good girl.”

Marcus watches us with undisguised interest.

“See, that’s what I’m getting at,” he continues, his breathing more labored. His fucking is definitely not pensive, now. “You could’ve served your time, you know? What were you in for, some money shit, right?”

I jam my fingers deeper in the whore’s mouth.

“Yeah, so?” I say, my voice deliberately casual despite the irritation I feel bubbling up. I don’t like being reminded of my past life, of the mistakes that led me here.

“So,” Marcus says, emphasizing the word with a particularly forceful thrust that makes the woman whimper around my fingers, “once you were out, you could’ve found yourself a nice, submissive guy to marry. The kind who’s obviously not cut out for the whole dominant patriarch shtick. The kind who’d worship the ground you walk on.”

I pull my fingers from her mouth, a thin strand of saliva stretching between them and her lips. I wipe them clean on her hair — what else is it for? That, and being a set of makeshift reins — and collect my thoughts.

Marcus is starting to grate on my nerves.

Who the fuck does he think he is, anyway? Just because he’s a decade or so older than me, he thinks he can offer me life advice? While he’s balls-deep in some broken resistance fighter?

“You could have wrapped him around your finger,” he says. “You’d be living the best approximation of a regular life that you can, under the uh… the way things are.”

A surge of rage flashes through me, hot and sudden. I want to tell him to shut the fuck up, to mind his own goddamn business. I want to remind him that he knows nothing about me.

But I don’t. Instead, I keep my face carefully neutral.

I search for a logical rebuttal, something that would put him in his place without revealing how much his words are getting under my skin. But to my intense frustration, I can’t think of one. He’s not entirely wrong, and that’s what pisses me off the most.

I could have had that life. I could have served my time, kept my head down, and eventually been released as a model citizen. I could have found some weak-willed man who secretly craved a woman’s boot on his neck. I could have manipulated him, controlled him, lived through him.

It does sound boring. Pedestrian. The idea fills me with a revulsion so deep it makes my skin crawl, honestly. But if I’d chosen that life, I wouldn’t have to worry about prison each month. I wouldn’t have had to suck the Warden’s cock…

I need to redirect this conversation, and fast.

I lift my right foot and place the toe of my boot against the girl’s chin. She flinches at the contact, her eyes widening in confusion and fear.

“You know what’s really satisfying?” I say, my voice deliberately casual as I apply pressure with my hands, forcing her head down until her lips are inches away from my boot. “This. Right here.”

I press the boot against her lips. “Open wide, sweetheart.”

It’s the second simulacrum of fellatio I demand of this so-called feminist, and for the second time in a row, she dares not refuse me. She parts her lips, accepting her duty, her place in the world, and I grunt in satisfaction as I push the toe of my boot into her mouth.

Take that, you dumb cow.

“Suck it like it’s a cock. Show me how beaten you are.”

She makes a muffled sound of distress, but complies, her tongue moving reluctantly against the leather, her lips gliding up and down the tip. She’s already servicing my footwear with the dedication of a trained animal.

Sometimes I wonder if every feminist is secretly a submissive worm. Certainly every one I’ve captured melts into a puddle of cunt juices when she’s raped.

Maybe it’s some counterphobic shit, I don’t know.

“That’s what I’m talking about,” I tell Marcus, keeping my tone light, conversational. “This power. This control. You really think I’d trade this for playing house?”

I push my boot deeper. It’s an equestrian, flat-heeled boot, of course, so the tip isn’t narrow enough for me to really push, but I make a good show of it, just to drive the point home. The girl looks up at me the same way she’d look up at a rapist she’s sucking off, I’m sure. Her eyes are so…

Cowlike. There’s nothing there anymore – just a hollow shell where a person used to be.

“Mmm, you’re getting this boot nice and clean, aren’t you? Do you like the taste? All that dirt and grime? Does it taste like freedom, sweetie?”

Her lips are cracked and bleeding and yet so feminine as they form a gentle, submissive O around the tip of my boot, fellating it with such humility, the performative blowjob of someone that’s not sucking to be sexy – she’s sucking to beg, non verbally, please don’t destroy me. The fact that the three of us perfectly know that she will, in fact, be destroyed, just makes her act that more exquisite.

I withdraw my boot from her mouth with a wet pop, leaving her gasping. A string of drool connects her lips to the now-gleaming leather. I admire her work with a critical eye.

“Not bad,” I say, patting her cheek condescendingly. “You’re learning.”

“Besides,” I add, turning to Marcus, “it’s a bit late for that now, isn’t it? My reputation precedes me these days. Even if I wanted that life, it’s not exactly an option anymore.”

“Correct,” he says. “That’s why I said that taking the deal was stupid.”

Mph.

I feel testy. Snappy. Angry. Impatient.

I shove my other boot against the girl’s face, pressing the filthy sole against her cheek, smearing dirt and God-knows-what across her skin. Her head lolls to the side with the force of it, but she doesn’t resist. I feel a perverse thrill at how quickly she’s accepted her place – not as a freedom fighter, not as a human being, but as a piece of female-shaped furniture.

“Alright, I’ll get off your case,” Marcus says. Seriously, he’s got his cock inside a captured cunt, what kind of man keeps talking instead of focusing on that? “Just trying to understand your mindset, kiddo. No judgment here.”

But there is judgment in his eyes, I can see it. A hint of pity, perhaps, as if he knows something I don’t. As if he’s lived longer and seen more and somehow that makes him wiser than me. It makes my blood boil.

I channel my growing rage into cruelty, grabbing a fistful of the girl’s hair and wrenching her head back at a painful angle. Her neck is exposed, vulnerable, save for the leather collar. I slap her hard across the face, once, twice, three times in rapid succession. The sound echoes through the clearing like gunshots.

“You think you’re so fucking smart,” I snarl, though I’m not entirely sure if I’m talking to Marcus or the woman beneath me. Maybe both. “You think you’ve got it all figured out.”

Marcus raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment on my sudden intensity. The woman’s face is bright red now, my handprints stark against her skin. Tears stream down her cheeks, but she makes no sound beyond a soft, continuous whimper.

I release her hair and step back, chest heaving slightly. I need to get a grip. This isn’t like me. I don’t let my emotions get the better of me.

I take a deep breath, forcing my features to relax. Getting worked up over Marcus’s stupid observations is beneath me. What does he know anyway?

“There’s one more thing I want to tell you, kiddo. This bounty you’re after, look… word’s getting around.”

“Evidently it is,” I say, a little coolly. “As we’ve established.”

“No, I mean beyond just me,” he says. He’s barely fucking the girl at this point. She’s more acting like a cockwarmer, or a holster. “I mean that yoou’re no longer the only hunter on this trail. Not anymore.”

That gives me pause. I hadn’t considered the possibility of direct competition. But of course, information like this – a major rebel cell, ripe for the taking – wouldn’t stay secret for long. If Marcus knows, then it stands to reason that other hunters would as well.

“You saying I should be worried?” I ask, my voice deliberately casual.

Marcus shrugs. “Just saying you should watch your back, kiddo. There are hunters out there who’d stop at nothing for a bounty that big. Some fellows just have greed in their hearts, you know? They’re not all mellow like me.”

I throw him a long, amused look, nodding theatrically towards the woman he’s currently busy raping. We both have a good laugh about it.

But while my facial muscles are busy performatively laughing, my brain’s busy doing the thinking.

Marcus means well, even if he has no rational reason to feel investment in my success. He has never stabbed me in the back, never stolen my prey, never left me high and dry when we’ve worked together.

That doesn’t mean I trust him. I don’t trust anyone. But I respect his skills and his experience enough to at least consider his warning.

For about half a second.

“I appreciate the concern,” I say, patting the captive’s cheek with mock tenderness. “But I can handle myself.”

Well, there’s one thing that’s always sure to shut up a man. Time to use it, and kill this conversation away from my life choices. I’ve had enough armchair psychology for one day.

“I think all this talking is distracting you from the fucking. You gonna cum inside her or what?”

Marcus grins, his weathered face crinkling at the corners. “You’re a rascal. But you’re right.” He tightens his grip on the captive’s hips, his knuckles whitening. “I think I’m about ready to give this rebel slut a little present.”

I crouch down to get eye-level with her. Her gaze is unfocused, glassy, but I want her to see me. I want to be the last thing she sees before she’s filled with Marcus’s cum. I want her to remember this moment when she’s strapped to a chair in the re-education center, being pumped full of mind-altering chemicals.

“Hear that, sweetheart?” I whisper, brushing a strand of hair from her sweat-slicked forehead with mock tenderness. “You’re about to get a nice hot load inside you. Aren’t you excited?”

A single tear slips down her cheek, cutting a clean path through the dirt and grime.

I find myself leaning in.

The girl’s eyes widen as she realizes what’s coming. I see the last flicker of resistance there, a final, feeble attempt to preserve some shred of dignity. It’s adorable, really. Like watching a butterfly struggle in a spider’s web.

My lips crash against hers with bruising force. This isn’t a kiss—it’s an invasion, a conquest. I force my tongue past her teeth, thrusting it deep into her mouth. She makes a startled, muffled sound, but I swallow it whole, consuming her protest like I’m consuming her.

My left hand wraps around her throat, fingers finding the space just below her leather collar. I squeeze much harder than I did the first time. Not enough to completely cut off her air, but enough to remind her that her very breath is at my mercy.

My right hand cups her cheek, my nails digging into her soft skin. I temporarily withdraw from the kiss, and scratch down, and she whimpers and squirms in pain as I draw blood, but she takes it, like a good stress toy.

She tastes like fear and desperation, like sweat and tears and defeat. Her mouth is slack against mine, neither resisting nor participating, just… accepting. She embodies the feminine resignation to rape that I’ve come to know so well.

I kiss her again and thrust my tongue deeper, practically fucking her mouth with it. I want to reach down her throat, to violate every part of her. I want her to feel me everywhere, inside and out. I want to leave an imprint on her that even the regime’s drugs and hypnosis can’t erase.

Behind her, Marcus’s rhythm changes. His thrusts become more erratic, more desperate. I can tell he’s close. The sight of me violating this woman’s mouth while he violates her cunt is pushing him over the edge.

Good. That was the point.

I squeeze harder.

I break this kiss too, just for a moment, pulling back just enough to look into her eyes. They’re unfocused, glazed with a mixture of terror and oxygen deprivation.

Perfect.

I dive back. I bite her lower lip, hard. I fuck her mouth with my tongue. I throw a quick glance up at Marcus, to see the effect I’m having on him. Predictably, he grunts behind her, his thrusts becoming erratic. “Fuck, I’m close…”

I press my forehead against hers, forcing her to look at me.

“He’s going to fill you up. Going to mark you from the inside out. And you know what? You’re going to thank him for it.”

I pull back, looking into her eyes. “Aren’t you?”

She stares at me, uncomprehending, broken.

I slap her hard across the face, the sound sharp in the quiet clearing. “I said, aren’t you?”

She flinches, her lips trembling. “Y-yes,” she whispers, the word barely audible.

The moment I see Marcus’ face contort with pleasure, the instant his body stiffens with that first pulse of orgasm, I move. My free hand clamps down hard over the girl’s mouth and nose, forming an airtight seal. Her eyes bulge with sudden panic, the primal terror of oxygen deprivation flooding her system.

“Breathe me in,” I whisper against her ear as I squeeze her throat more firmly with my other hand. “Feel me become your air.”

Marcus throws his head back, lost in his climax, completely oblivious to—or perhaps excited by—my improvised breath play. The captive’s body convulses, trapped between his thrusting hips and my suffocating grip. Her chest heaves desperately, lungs burning for air that can’t reach them.

I watch her face with clinical fascination as the seconds tick by. The initial panic in her eyes gives way to a foggy desperation until, finally, Marcus groans one last time and stills, his climax complete. He slumps forward slightly, catching his breath, his hands still gripping the whore’s hips.

Only then, do I release my grip.

She draws in a bunch of deep, gulping, desperate breaths. Her eyes are watery, her face is red, and her will is broken.

She aptly demonstrates it by doing what I instructed.

“T-t-thank you for c-coming inside me, Sir…” she whispers, to Marcus. And then, staring vacantly at the tip of my boots, she adds, “And thank you for letting me b-b-b-breathe… ma’am.”

I nod, but even though I know this moment of supreme achievement should bring me such joy, it fails to do so, this time. Marcus has spoiled my mood. I just want to get on with things as soon as possible. I want to get this mission done, and forget about it.

I’m… feeling dangerously impatient.

I shake my head. Fucking Marcus. You can always trust a guy to ruin the vibe. Here I was, just trying to enjoy a good rape in peace…

Just because they rule the world, men always think they know better. The Warden did, too, when he chastised me for ‘failing’ his mission. Well, I may be a woman, but I’m no feminist, I’m no cow, and I’m no rapemeat. I am the fucking best. There is nothing inside me save for clarity of purpose and a terrible thought. I am a woman with no past, likely with no future, and definitely with no mercy.

No matter what he says… I know that I’ll be fine.

***

I am restless all night.

Marcus’s words echo in my head. I’ve set up camp a good distance from him and his cow – I prefer my own company, and odd as it is to say, I don’t really feel like raping her again today. Besides, I need to be on the move at first light.

I lie on my back, staring up at the stars through the canopy of trees. They’re beautiful tonight, countless pinpricks of silver in the velvet darkness.

I was a city girl, before the end. Insane to think about. Back then, I never noticed stars. There was too much light pollution to see them properly, anyway.

I roll onto my side, annoyed at the direction of my thoughts. The past is irrelevant. Only the present matters. Only survival.

Sleep comes fitfully, in patches and fragments, and I welcome the first hint of dawn with relief.

The day is clear and bright, the sky a perfect blue. I make good time, pushing myself harder than usual. The terrain grows steeper, rockier, the vegetation sparser.

By midday, I’ve reached a point where I can see the ridge clearly. It’s not far now – maybe a few more hours of hiking. If I’ve guessed correctly, the rebel hideout should be just beyond, nestled in a small depression at the foot of the mountains.

By the time I pause to catch my breath, the late afternoon sun is casting long shadows across the mountainside. The small clearing I’m at is the perfect opportunity to rest for the night. I have some more energy left in me, but it isn’t wise to venture further in the dark, and if I don’t find another clearing before sundown, I might just have to turn back.

No, this will have to do.

I set up camp and start a fire. I snack on a couple of protein bars for dinner, lie next to the fire, and stare at the stars for a while. It’s a quiet, peaceful evening.

Until it isn’t.

Somewhere, in the darkness beyond the firelight, a twig snaps.

I freeze, every muscle tensing. My hand moves silently to the knife at my belt.

Another sound – the soft crunch of pine needles under a boot. Someone is approaching. Not bothering to hide their presence.

I rise slowly to my feet, drawing my knife in one fluid motion.

A chuckle, low and masculine, emerges from the darkness. “Sharp ears. I’m impressed.”

A figure steps into the firelight – a man, tall and broad-shouldered. He’s dressed for the wilderness, much like me – sturdy boots, practical clothing, a pack slung over one shoulder. His face is weathered, tanned from long days outdoors. A scar runs from his left temple to his jaw, stark white against his skin. His eyes reflect the firelight.

I don’t recognize him. He’s not one of the hunters I’ve worked with before.

I keep my knife raised, my stance defensive. “That’s close enough, buddy.”

He stops, raising his hands in a gesture of mock surrender, though his posture remains relaxed, confident. “No need for that. We’re colleagues, after all.”

I take a moment to assess him, my knife still at the ready. Everything about him screams predator. I just know it, in my gut. After all, it takes one to know one.

“Colleagues?” I say, keeping my voice neutral. “I don’t recall seeing you at the last office Christmas party.”

He laughs, a rich sound that seems to fill the clearing.

“We’ve never met before, but I doubt there’s many bounty hunters left in this area who haven’t heard of Larissa the gender traitor. The woman who hunts women. The Regime’s pet.”

“Sounds like you have me at a disadvantage, then.”

He tilts his head. “Oh, where are my manners? The name’s Reeve. Not that it matters much.”

“Well, Reeve, if you’ve heard of me, then you know I work alone.” I adjust my grip on the knife, the firelight dancing along its edge. “So why don’t you tell me what you’re really doing here, before I decide you’re not worth the conversation?”

He smiles, and there’s something almost reptilian about it—cold, calculating, patient. “Like I said, we’re colleagues. After the same prize.” He gestures vaguely northward. “The rebel cell in the old factory complex. High-value target. Lots of important feminists hiding out there. A career-making bounty.”

A chill runs through me that has nothing to do with the night air. So Marcus was right. Word has spread, and now I have competition.

“I found it first,” I say, my voice hard. “I’ve been tracking them for weeks. The cell is mine.”

“Mmm, see, that’s where you’re wrong.” He drops his pack to the ground with a soft thud. “Nothing out here belongs to anyone. It’s all just… up for grabs.”

The way he says those last words, with his eyes visibly travelling up and down my legs, makes my skin crawl. There’s a subtext here that has nothing to do with the rebel cell.

“There’s plenty of bounty to go around,” I say carefully, taking a step back to maintain the distance between us. “The regime doesn’t care who brings them in, as long as they’re brought in.”

“True enough.” He stretches leisurely, rolling his shoulders as if working out a kink. The movement ripples through his muscular frame, a subtle reminder of his physical power. “But I’m not particularly interested in sharing. I guess we have that in common…”

Reeve circles around the fire slowly, like a wolf stalking its prey. I pivot to keep him in my line of sight, the knife steady in my hand. The flames cast long, dancing shadows across his face, making his scar appear to writhe like a living thing.

“I’ve heard stories about you,” he continues. “About how you take your time with the female hominids you capture. How you enjoy it. I respect that, you know? This can’t just… only be a job. It has to be more. A calling.”

“If you have a point, make it.”

Reeve stops circling, his eyes locked on mine. The fire crackles between us, sending embers floating up into the night sky like tiny, dying stars.

“My point,” he says, his voice dropping to a near whisper that somehow carries clearly across the clearing, “is that you may be good, but you’re not as good as you think you are.”

“Is that so?” I say, snorting. “Please, do tell me more, I’m eager for constructive feedback. By the way, you’re standing in the open, announcing your presence instead of taking me by surprise. Not exactly a master tactician, are you?”

He laughs again.

“Why would I need the element of surprise? You’re a woman.” He says the last word like he’s spitting out something foul-tasting. “I think playing Warden’s pet has made you forget that simple basic fact of biology. And it’s time someone reminded you.”

He cracks his knuckles, before continuing in the most matter-of-fact, nonchalant tone in the world.

“Which is why, Larissa, I’m now going to overpower you, beat you senseless, and of course, rape you.”

And with that, he lunges towards me.

TO BE CONTINUED...