The Hunter

The Hunter had tracked the elk for eight miles already, creeping through the snow with feline footsteps, quiet, purposeful. He needed the animal to make it through the long winter, and maybe it was his desperation that cause his mistake. He’d hunted these woods all his life, with his father and his grandfather teaching him the ways of the wild. Step here, don’t step there, this is poison, eat this. He was born a survivor, these woods were a part of his soul. This day, the forest would turn on him.

The bear trap lay hidden underneath the fresh layer of snow, an early gift from Winter that made his quest all the more important. Hunting in winter wasn’t impossible, but game was scarce and the terrane was eminently more dangerous. The elk had taken a sudden turn, veering off his course towards a stream and that’s where the hunter stepped where he shouldn’t.

The jaws of the bear trap clamped around his ankle like a vise, shredding through the worn leather of his boot and snapping the delicate bones of his foot like dry kindling. The white snow bled with him, turning dark red as his life oozed out of his ruined appendage. He barely made a sound, a small grunt muffled by his thick beard, before his vision turned black. He dreamed of fairies, their small bodies dancing around him like flies on a cow paddy.

He awoke shivering with fever, his brow and chest covered in a thick layer of sweat, and he could taste the salt dripping from his mustache. The rusted jaws of the bear trap wouldn’t budge, the mechanism was jammed after years of sitting unchecked in these woods. The hunter couldn’t think of who would have set the trap, surely not his father or grandfather, he knew where all those were. He shimmied his body around, wincing as he felt the bones in his foot crackle unnaturally, and leaned against a nearby tree. He was stuck, and he was fifteen agonizing feet from the bubbling stream that could preserve his life. He took inventory of his rucksack, one canteen of water half full, three bits of salt pork, a couple of hand fulls of dried peas, and a half loaf of old bread. Six days, maybe more if he could get a squirrel or a rabbit. The hunter leaned back against the tree, heavy hearted. This would be a long slow death, a lonely and painful way to leave this world.

The days passed slowly. He spent most of the time working his knife around the trap, trying unsuccessfully to pry open the jaws that tethered him to his demise. He could feel the hot poison of infection spreading higher up his leg every day until his knee became stiff and swollen. There was nothing he could do about that here on this mountainside, but he made sure to pack the canteen with snow, drinking often to keep his angry belly satisfied. Oh, he was hungry. That damn elk sure would come in handy. By the sixth day, his vision got hazy, a white halo appeared around the small world he now inhabited. He knew that it was the beginning of his dance with death, the slow waltz that would carry him into a never ending sleep.

Sleep came often now. He’d slip in and out, from blinding white snow to a dark slumber pained with evil visions. The fairies came back to him every once in a while. He liked those dreams. They were warmer and their orange light was more pleasant to his eyes. The fairies would sing to him, their high pitched voices like the buzzing of insects would join together in a strange harmony that put him at ease.

On the seventh day, he could no longer hear, and he wondered if the fairy songs of his dreams would also be silent. His eyes filled with tears as he tried to bravely embrace his fate. Why had it come to this? His poison-filled body ached with every breath, his fever caused violent hallucinations of devils and demons celebrating his torment, and his belly screamed out to be filled. He was ready to walk with death, so he closed his eyes allowing his mind and body to drift into the unknown.

He dreamed of the fairies again, flying and dancing around him, their sweet songs made his heart beat like the wings of a great bird, steady and strong. He was naked, both of his legs pink and fleshy and whole, not the diseased mangled piece of meat he remembered. His cock, he noticed, was also a healthy pink, standing straight up from where he lay. The fairies danced around it, bringing more life into it with their breathy wings, fluttering and kissing the rounded head. Oh, this must be heaven! He watched as they twirled around his shaft, dancing in the small drop of fluid that escaped his tip. He tried to reach his hand out towards it, wanting to fist it until he spewed, but he couldn’t move. His limbs were weighed down like he was buried in the earth, covered under six feet of dirt. The fairies laughed as he struggled, their tiny insect voices mocked him, but they kept up their teasing dance. He lay his head back and resigned himself to sleep once more. What’s the point in having two legs and a pink cock if you couldn’t use them?

When he awoke, he knew he could hear again. A slurping sound as loud as a thundering river brought him back. Then he felt it. Was it a mouth or a cunt? He could feel the grip on his cock, wet and slick, warming his frozen body. Oh, this must be heaven! He opened one eye slowly, and saw a woman writhing on top of him, her breasts bouncing in the firelight, her sopping cunt squeezed his cock, making a squelching sound with each thrust. He was in a cabin bathed in bright orange light, warm and hazy as if he were looking at the world through an amber broth.

“Welcome back!” She smiled at him but didn’t stop her riding. “Thought you were a gonner. You’re lucky they came for you”. Her voice was distant and hard to hear over the rhythmic wet sounds that filled the cabin.

“Wha…?”

The hunter couldn’t understand, his mind still foggy from fever and pain, the warm feelings in his cock and belly didn’t help matters.

“Shhh!” the woman moaned. “Let me finish you off, you need this to survive”.

The hunter didn’t want to speak anyway. The woman’s grinding had ripped the words from his lips, from his mind, and he could only feel, meeting her hips with his until he came, filling the woman with his seed. She dug her fingers into his chest as she took his offering, her eyes glowing bright orange in the fire light, as she bellowed out her own orgasm. Was it just the reflection of the fire? He drifted off to sleep again, dreaming of dancing flames and naked women with orange eyes.

He awoke at mornings light, cool and bright. The cabin was empty and quiet, the crackling fire still burned in the hearth. He lifted the heavy wool blanket and looked down at his leg, pink and whole, just as it had been in his dream. His naked cock peeked at him from under the cover, still covered in a damp sheen. He thought of fairies and wondered how exactly he’d danced with death and survived.