Excerpt: Pussy Hunt

Lookee here! A brand new anthology out from Mischief Books. My Boyfriend's Boyfriends: a collection of greedy girl stories (their titles are getting longer every time, I swear) is full of filthy fun concerning women who aren't satisfied by just one guy at a time. So, basically, one of my FAVOURITE themes! And for only £0.99! (Or $1.64 if you are of an American persuasion.)
:-)

My own story is called Pussy Hunt and it's about a woman who challenges seven (yes, seven!) ex-Special Forces dudes to a woodland widegame.  I think she may be hoping to lose. There's an excerpt below...

The full author line-up, by the way, is as follows:

Proving Them Wrong - Primula Bond
Pussy Hunt - Janine Ashbless
Red Room - Lisette Ashton
Everybody's Favourite - Penny Birch
For Better . . . Or Better Yet - Chrissie Bentley
A Taste for Cheating - Heather Towne
Secrets and Seductions - Kathleen Tudor
The Overnighter - Elizabeth Coldwell
Anything She Wants - Giselle Renarde
The Proposal - Dominic Santi


And now I'm off to - ahem - catch  up on my reading :-)

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‘Stay in the car for the moment,’ says Dane, opening the driver’s door.
   
I obey, watching as he walks out around the front, greeting the others. Ours isn’t the only Land Rover parked here in the trees and, like Dane, the other men are all dressed in camouflage greens. It’s momentarily hard to tell everyone apart. I squint through the windscreen, trying to identify faces I’ve only really seen in photos. There’s Lewis – I remember him from his daughter’s wedding. That was almost my first weekend away with Dane, over a year ago now. And that blond guy – he looks familiar. I think he was the one who sang karaoke to Nickleback’s ‘Rockstar’ at the reception.  But it was all a bit of a blur then, and I’d only had eyes for Dane at the time. If the others were at the wedding, I don’t remember.
   
They’re grasping hands, and thumping each other on the back, and sharing cigarettes. My mouth is dry, but I can feel myself sweating a little. My heart’s running fast. I thrust my hands down between my thighs and feel the warmth there. I clench my thigh muscles rhythmically, because there’s nothing else I can do for my nerves.
   
I’m not sure which scares me more: the thought of them saying Yes, or the possibility they might reject me.
   
Then Dane half-turns, and beckons me out.

I step from the car and the smell of the summer woodland hits me, along with the sound of birdsong. I feel ungainly as I walk forward, into what has become a semi-circle of men turning to watch. I should slink seductively, but I’m too tense. I lick my lips, wrecking the scarlet lipstick I’ve painted on so carefully.
   
They’re all remarkably similar-looking, in their military get-up. Big, tough looking men. They haven’t let themselves go, though most have been retired from active duty for ten years or so, like Dane. He runs a military fitness business now, honing soft managerial types and skinny wannabe-toughguy youths. He works hard and makes lots of money. And every six months he drives up to the Lake District to meet up with his old comrades in a bit of private woodland, and they shoot the crap out of each other with paintballs, and piss lager into bonfires, and smoke themselves cross-eyed.
   

So to some extent they all look like him: weathered, fortyish, high foreheads, lined about the eyes, deep notches forming like bookends around their mouths. I don’t mind that. I’ve always liked older men. Dane’s got fifteen years on me and a lifetime of experiences he won’t discuss, but that just makes him more interesting as far as I’m concerned. He’s like a puzzle box of nested secrets.   
   
I see all those open, smiling faces close up, becoming guarded.
   
‘Zadie,’ grunts Lewis, with a tiny nod of his head. I’m surprised he remembers me, but at least it’s an acknowledgement, albeit a reluctant one.
   
‘Meet the boys, Zadie.’ Dane drops an arm around my shoulders and rattles off a list of names, but I’m not able to take them in. Or meet the guys’ eyes. 
   
‘Hey,’ I mutter. 
   
The ginger one isn’t as polite. ‘Come on, Dane,’ he complains, grinding out his cigarette end. ‘No wives, no girlfriends – you know the rules.’
   
‘Fuck off, Dec,’ says Dane amiably. ‘It’s my turn to set the Game. Well, this is it. We’re going on a Pussy Hunt.’
   
There’s absolute silence for a moment. I feel six pairs of locked on me like sniper scopes.
   
‘Huh,’ says someone.
   
‘What sort . . ?’
   
‘A Pussy Hunt,’ he repeats. ‘A proper one. I reckon we give her twenty minutes head start. She’s pretty good across rough country. The first man to catch her – or the last man standing – gets her pussy.’
   
Someone snorts. Slow grins break across those hard faces.
   
‘Shit . . .’
   
‘You dirty bastard, Dane.’
   
‘Whose idea was that?’ asks Lewis, mildly incredulous.
   
He lifts an open hand to me. ‘Hers.’
   
That’s not exactly true.

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