Harrison

Hunted. And the men are feral.

“We start with a run. So civilised. He’s in grey sweatpants against my black. He’s soon hot with afternoon sweat, and the dark line between his cheeks is pretty distracting. He turns and his cock’s outrageously lined in sweat too. He’s a sight for the eyes.

“We set to planning a course. This isn’t really a run. More of an orientation visit. We head off down the obvious paths and then check back, loop round, find a different way.

“Let’s call this place a hidden gem. There are trails, so dog walkers at the least know it. The ground slopes away towards the city, but its far enough away that it’s not really on anyone’s radar. Midsummer and it is lush with new growth, and in its deepest places wild with brambles. Dark enough in mid-afternoon. It’ll be the black of hell at the after-midnight slot we imagine.

“The paths curve and dip. Take surprising angles as they slink around the terrain. The trees are old. Wide enough to hide a man, should he consider hiding. Gnarled beneath the hand. They’ll watch over him, as he runs.

“The naked man.

“The hunted.

“He’ll have his phone. He’ll have strong boots: I don’t want the poor fucker to trip and fuck up his ankle.

“And he’ll have whatever he learns from this afternoon with me. Places to lie low. Places to run fast, or change direction and confuse. In daylight? It’s a couple of acres. At midnight it’ll be large enough to get lost in. Infinite darkness.

“And he’s smart. The things he’s saying. The things he’s seeing. He asks about moonlight. He asks about weather. He’s still, and we do some experiments about how far sound carries. If I speak into all this beautiful green stillness, how far off can he hear me? He’s a smart bloke, this one.

“In short he gives himself every chance.

“Every chance of avoiding the hounds.”