The Hunter's Pet: A Scifi Dystopian Romance

Her legs began to kick in involuntary protest at the treatment, and her hips wriggled back and forth, but all any of that achieved was the increase of the strange sensation of having a full bottom. She was on the verge of tears when he finally stopped and palmed her blister-hot cheeks.

“I've taken your pussy and I've filled your bottom and I've spanked you,” he said grimly. “Now are you going to be a good little pet, or do I need to go cut that switch I promised?”

“I will be good,” she promised, a tear falling.

He gave her one last swat and pulled her up, looking into her face with a serious expression. “It's more important now than it ever has been that you do as you're told, understand me?”

Sarah nodded, sniffing her tears back. With a soft sigh, William drew her against him in a hug. “I know this is harder than you're used to,” he said, rubbing her sore bottom. “And I know you used to do things your way out here, but your way got you a good case of fever and your way got you caught. So we're going to do things my way, understand?”

She murmured her assent into his neck as he held her close and comforted her for a few more minutes before sending her back to the labors she had so foolishly tried to avoid.

Seven

Life became mundane very quickly. It was strange how even the greatest upheavals soon gave way to the inexorable forces of normality. The cabin had been built in record time. It was but one room, but it was a cozy shelter and there was a place to sleep next to the fire, and even a table to work on. Sarah had to admit that it was much more comfortable than a cave would have been. Shuttered windows meant they could control the flow of light and air, and mud-daubed walls kept the elements out. It was simple, but it was home.

Outside, their freshly planted garden was starting to come in, little shoots poking heads above soil, which William tended morning and evening. The hunter had become the farmer, and a very content one at that. Sarah noticed that he looked at the humble cabin with far more pride than he had ever regarded his palatial home in the old city.

There was no doubting that William was a survivor. He had even begun to make his own paper out of mashed plant fibers pressed thin then dried in sheets in the sun. Ink was made from various flowers and his quill was the feather of a bird.

This also meant that lessons had resumed, but Sarah did not mind them so much anymore. She saw that William's strange fondness for the art of writing and reading was not some technological trick, but an archaic discipline with some actual value. He had put it to good use by labeling clay pots containing seeds with their contents, so that they would not be confused for other, similar looking clay pots. He was a one-man force for civilization. In all the years Sarah had lived alone, she had never done much more than tied her food up in trees and made beds in the boughs. She had lived without complication of any kind. William was complication, but it was a good kind of complication.

“I'm going to see if I can catch a rabbit or two,” he said, his beard prickling her cheek as he kissed her. “You hold the fort.”

They had started using all sorts of archaic expressions like that. Many of them seemed to fit their situation, though admittedly there was little in the way of defenses around the cabin. Fire kept most of the beasts away.

Sarah waved goodbye to him and returned to her task of bundling roots to be dried. The sun was shining through the open door of the cabin and life was good. It seemed that William did have some natural resistance to the radiation, for he was showing no signs of illness. If anything, he was more vital than ever. He hunted daily, covering many miles. Usually she went with him, but with colder weather approaching, the decision had been made to put together food stores.

She was humming to herself and binding flaxen rope around root ends when she heard footsteps. “Did you forget something?” She asked the question without looking, flax rope could be difficult to wind, if you didn't hold your fingers just right...

“Woman!”

Rough, guttural words made her drop the roots and turn. It was not William standing outside the cabin. It was a group of wild men. Their leader, presumably the one who had barked the word at her was at the head of the group. He was filthy. His hair hung in dreads and his clothing was almost nonexistent. His sinewy body was covered in paint and scars, great yellow rounds painted from belly to nipples. He wore animal skins roughly stitched together, holes gaping at the seams. His feet were unshod as hers had once been, his thick, horny toenails long and yellowed, much like his body markings except they did not need paint to obtain their hue.