First Hunt [FF] [Fantasy/Sci Fi] {Post-Apocalypse] [Hunting] [Gore]

**First Hunt**

Tiny curves of Orla’s hair fell twirling past her eyes to the ground. Some caught on the light, chilly wind and were tossed high into the air, over the heads of the women standing in a circle around her. The repetitive noise of the scissors, like air being ripped in two, reformed in her mind as the body of the girl she was being peeled away, like a snake shedding it’s skin, inch by inch. As her long hair formed a pool on the muddy ground where she knelt, the breeze noticed her scalp and began to caress it, sending shivers down her bare back. Small coils of hair tumbled down her chest, over her skin, the colour of orange segments, and some caught on her nipples, trembling on the edge.

Lain’s hand gripped Orla’s neck as she took the scissors to her long, honey hair, firmly, holding her head stock-still to cut as close to the scalp as possible with the razor sharp blades. With the hand on her neck and the hair falling over her face, she could only glance momentarily up at the crowd gathered around her, watching in silence. All the women of the reserve, except for those minding the girls, had come out to see her emerge as a woman.

Some weeks before, she had finally mastered enough disciplines to be chosen for shearing. She had woven, planted, harvested and sung. She had fought, hunted fowl and tended to a feverish child. She had recorded the histories of several of her sisters, in both words and images. And so the process had begun, sitting each night at home, as each woman of the reserve visited her; some for minutes and some for hours. Some to talk, some to listen and some to simply sit together. And when all the grown women of the reserve had come and gone from her home, she was invited to be shorn.

When the long, amber hair she had grown and tended to throughout her childhood was cut from her head, leaving only the short, soft stubble of freshly grown hair, she was ready to join the other grown women on the reserve in protecting and providing for the whole community. Her shorn hair would be left on the ground, where it fell, to rejoin the earth.

The snips were becoming quicker and less frequent now, until she felt Lain’s hand drop from her neck, the scissors were slid into their block, and Lain’s hoisted her firmly to her feet. Her knees popped and tingled after so long bearing her weight and the cold breeze whipped the last loose hairs from her face, except for those held firm by her tears.

She stood, naked, in front of all the women of the reserve, and they erupted into whooping and cheering, shouting and stamping of their bare feet on the ground. Lain wrapped her arms around her and held her tight and Orla began to laugh.

The rest of the night is a blur. Fermented apples and plums, mushrooms, games and singing, all diffused together like a sweet tea, until she must have toppled into bed, though she had no memory of doing so.

In the half-dark of night, she was shaken awake, roughly. A tall, slender shape with broad shoulders atop a triangular frame, knelt over her.

“Wake up, Orla, we don’t have time for this”, muttered Fran, the head hunter. “You should have been up ages ago. It’s now or never.”

Orla grunted, hoisting herself to her elbows, but immediately her head began to pound, and she whimpered in pain and tensed her jaw against the nausea. She looked up at Fran, her eyes watering and begging forgiveness. This was not how she had wanted to greet her first morning as a grown woman.

“Fucking hell”, Fran muttered. She got down on one knee, and wrapped her long, strong arms around Orla. For a second, Orla was confused; Fran was not a hugger. But in one swift movement, Fran hoisted Orla to her feet and lifted her roughly over her shoulder. Though Fran’s strength and skill as a hunter was known even beyond the reserve, she was shocked at the ease with which Fran lifted her off the ground and carried her out of the shelter. In the low moonlight, the trees and rocks accented in electric blue, Orla was carried to the river and, before she could protest or struggle, dumped into the icy, rushing water.

She gasped in shock, her muscles recoiling and the breath forced out of her lungs. After recent rains on the mountains, the river was moving swiftly, and each time she tried to stand and stride to the shore, the current would pull her legs from under her and return her to the freezing water. Naked and writhing on her belly, she managed to drag herself to the shore, gagging and coughing, her freshly shaven head burning with the cold.

As she lay, panting on the shore, Fran stood over her and dropped a long flint knife on the ground.

“How’s your head?”, she said without humour.

Orla scowled, then checked herself. Despite the ache of cold coursing through her and the numbness in her fingers and toes, her headache and nausea had been washed away in the torrent.

“Better. Thank you.”

“Good. Pick yourself up and let’s go hunting.”

After a hard, fast run over the rocks, then the low grasslands on the edge of the reserve, Fran reached the edge of the woods. The sky had warmed a little, from black ink to a fleshy, dark blue, but the woods were still dark.

Orla lagged behind, pursuing Fran, who would race ahead and then stop, crouch and wait for her to catch up. Orla could see the strength in Fran’s long, sinewy back and legs, her thighs bulging as she would stop and squat down every few hundred metres. Fran’s body was like a long, shining eel; smooth, muscular, her hips narrow above her thick thighs, her shoulders broad and her breasts small and firm, no more pronounced than the pectoral or abdominal muscles that framed them. She moved like an eel, too: low and smooth, as if every movement was planned several steps in advance. The moment Orla came near her, Fran would race ahead again, so that by the time they reached the woods, Orla was breathless, her heart pounding, but body warm again. Her chest was heaving, drops of sweat running between her breasts, but she fought to keep her breathing quiet.

Fran turned her head slowly to look at her, her dark eyebrows frowning over piercing blue eyes reflecting the moonlight.

“You need to speed up. It’s almost dawn and we haven’t even begun. I’m starting to think you weren’t ready to be shorn.”

“I’m sorry. I’ll do better”, whispered Orla, afraid to look Fran in the eyes.

“Do”, hissed Fran. “Stay to my right, and do what I say, or I’ll leave you in the woods as bait.”

Before Orla could respond, Fran had disappeared between the tight knots of trees, and Orla sprang after her.

As if the contrast in their abilities and demeanour wasn’t already enough to make Orla feel small, she could not have been less physically like Fran either. Orla’s brown eyes were level with Fran’s shoulders and her body was strong, but not, she worried, where it mattered. Her arms were thin and her shoulders were narrow, her body sweeping outwards like a bell to her strong hips and buttocks, and her thick thighs and calves. Her breasts were firm, but larger and heavier than Fran’s, and she preferred to run and hunt with them strapped in cloth. And where Fran’s dark hair and complexion helped her to hide in the shadows and undergrowth, Orla’s skin and shorn hair were golden and pale, glowing against the watery greys and greens of moss and bark. There was nothing to be done about that now, but to push herself harder and prove herself against Fran’s steely gaze.

She took off, running hard to catch up to Fran and keep pace a couple of dozen metres to her right. The air in the woods was thick and wet, suspended with sticky golden spider webs and dense clouds of dust and pollen that stuck to the sweat that coated Orla’s body. The ground was soft and mossy, punctuated by rocks and fallen branches and it took all of Orla’s concentration to avoid blunting or piercing her bare feet as she ran. The sky through the dense forest canopy was lightening to blue, but in the forest it was still dark and shadowy.

She heard a high, arcing whistle and saw Fran crouch to a halt behind a fallen tree, from where she signaled Orla to stop and hide herself, using hand signals that Orla had learned in the months and years prior. For a moment, Orla gazed through the dappled darkness at Fran, crouched and breathing steadily. For all Fran’s animosity towards her, she radiated confidence and calm, and it was hard not to be impressed by her. And though her body was sculpted for the function of hunting, her sharply defined muscles and dark skin were undeniably beautiful, like the flint knife that Orla clutched tightly in her fist.

Orla was brought sharply out of her admiration, as Fran signaled ahead and whistled twice, high and quick. Orla looked and, sure enough, twenty or so metres away, mostly masked by bark and branches, was a deer, it’s back turned to them and grazing quietly in a small clearing.

Orla remembered her training and began to rise slowly to her feet, surveying for clear paths and hiding places between her and their unsuspecting prey. But as she began to step forward, she heard a hiss.

“Stay there and watch. We don’t have enough time for you to get this wrong”, Fran said, smirking a little.

Orla flushed with shame and looked away, hiding her grimace. But even so, the force of Fran’s words sent a shiver through her and formed a hot, pleasing ache in the base of her stomach. In the cool morning mist, she felt her cunt become warmer.

She lowered herself back down onto her haunches and watched from behind the log as Fran advanced noiselessly on the deer, it’s head buried in a dense bush. The tall trees creaked to each other as Fran, long and low, advanced through the woods, cautious step by cautious step. After interminable second, Orla watched as Fran slid over a fallen tree, bringing her within a few metres of the deer, still oblivious. Fran’s calloused hand gripped her long flint knife, point down, arm straight out to her side, as she drifted, gently, closer.

Orla’s gaze snapped away as she heard, from her right, the crack and crash of broken branches, and her breath froze like ice in her throat as a stag, gigantic and head lowered, launched itself from the darkness between the trees. Fran only had time to turn and cover her head with her arms before the stag gathered her up in its wide, dull antlers and tossed her brutally across the small clearing, her body folding in two as it collided with a tree.

The female deer shot away as if it had always been in motion and the stag bellowed, reared and bore down on Fran, who was gasping for air hoisting herself up against the tree trunk. The stag’s antlers clattered noisily against the tree as it tried furiously to pierce and batter Fran as she crouched in a ball among the roots. A dull point of the antlers suddenly tore a chunk of flesh from Fran’s shoulder and she let out a horrific, inhuman yelp.

If Orla had imagined herself, she would have thought she was curled in a foetal ball, overwhelmed. In reality, she had climbed onto the log that had hidden her, her strong legs and stomach muscles wound tightly like knotted leather. She leapt forward without a noise and crossed the forest floor in a second. The stag, occupied with its rage, kept its focus on Fran. Orla gripped the long flint knife in her hands, which she held out in front of her body like a bayonet as she ran. As she reached the stag, side-on, she didn’t slow down or stop, but ran her full weight into its broad neck, feeling the knife slide smoothly in until her whole torso was brought to a sudden halt by the animal’s weight. The stag bellowed in pain and span away, carrying Orla with it, her hands gripping the knife’s handle like a bear trap. She screamed as her feet left the ground and came within inches of striking a tree. Losing blood and bearing Orla’s weight, the stag’s head and neck dropped suddenly, it’s breathing ragged, and through the dreamy blur of tears, she saw Fran on her feet again and climbing purposefully onto the deer’s back. Seated above Orla like a mythical queen, Fran plunged her blade deep into the base of the animal’s skull, severing the cervical vertebrae. Orla watched the stag sway from side to side as paralysis stole its life away, before launching her full weight into its shoulder, toppling it away from her like a felled tree. Fran, still astride the dying animal, was thrown off and rolled noisily through the undergrowth.

Silence descended on the small clearing again. Sunlight was beginning to push its way through the treetops and drip like syrup into the clearing.

Orla crawled to the stag’s warm body and used it to climb shakily to her feet. Clambering over it, she lurched across the clearing to Fran, who was face down, her heavy breathing blowing fragments of leaves in all directions. Blood oozed from her shoulder. Orla slid her hands into Fran’s armpits, slick with sweat, and hoisted her haltingly to her feet. Fran was surprisingly light and Orla felt suddenly superhuman, still flooded with adrenaline, enjoying the velvety texture of Fran’s skin against her own. But the moment was brief, as Fran suddenly lurched away from her.

“We don’t have long before the innards spoil the meat, remember?”, she said. “Help me take this thing apart.”

Summoning energy from deep wells within them, they set to work, gutting the beast and hoisting its entrails into a pile on the forest floor. Their hands sliding over and across each other, slick to the elbow with warm blood, as they pulled organs and lengths of intestine out of the cavity. Orla watched Fran’s back and buttocks, glistening with sweat, as she got on all fours and reached deep inside the ribcage to sever the heart and lungs. Squatting alongside her, their bodies pressed against each other, sliding over each other, Orla let Fran pass her the heavy pillows of flesh, which she tossed to one side.

“Wipe the sweat from my eyes, I can’t see”, said Orla.

Naked and bloody, without even hair to mop the sweat, Orla obediently ran her palm across Fran’s forehead, leaving a thick smear of blood. Her whole body was pulsing. She felt so gigantic that were she to stand up, she imagined her head would break through the canopy above and she would see to the horizon. She was stronger than she’d ever been and deeply rooted in the earth beneath her. She felt as she always imagined a woman would feel. And when Fran finally emerged from the chest of the animal and pivoted to face her, arms and shoulders and face covered in blood, Orla looked her in the eye for the first time, unflinching.

A beat. Then Fran, holding Orla’s gaze, grabbed her by the wrist and placed her hand on the hard ridges of her stomach before moving her hand, sliding on a film of dark blood, down past her navel, over her small patch of dark hair and deep into her hot, slick cunt. Orla felt a shock run up her arm and burst through her body like tindersticks catching. Fran’s cunt was tight, muscular, but soft and yielding like no other part of her. Orla inched forward over the scraps of fur and gristle to reach deeper inside, and Fran wrapped her arm round Orla’s wait, pulling her tight and close. Orla hooked her fingers, as she’d been taught to do, and plucked gently at the soft ridges. The delicate movement, though, amplified as it flowed through Fran’s arching body, caused her to grunt deeply and sank her teeth deep into Orla’s shoulder. The pain was sharp and hot, and Orla tried to pull away, while Fran’s arms tightened like rope around her.

Their bodies pressed and shifted against each other, Orla’s breasts flattened, aching, against Fran’s hard, muscular chest. Fran’s lips and teeth began to climb Orla’s neck like a spider, leaving sharp, precise bites and soft kisses as she moved to her mouth and their lips pressed together, then mouths open, their breath blending like two clouds in the sky. Their bodies softened and gave way, Fran’s arms relaxing, climbing to Orla’s soft, shaven hair, leaving trails of drying blood like dark footprints in golden sand. But before Orla could relax and let go of the tension that had held her since she awoke, hours before, Fran pulled away and looked her dead in the eye. This time, Orla couldn’t hold her cold, cobalt gaze, and Fran’s face hardened again.

She gripped the back of Orla’s head in her red hands and toppled backwards, pulling Orla down on top of her. Then, with her long legs, she kicked Orla’s knees roughly from under her, leaving her lying between Fran’s legs and her vision filled with her blood-stained, glistening cunt. Beneath Orla’s body, coated in cold sweat, prickled the countless fragments and insects of the forest floor. The gigantic wall of the stag lay beside them, it’s chest and belly a wet, red cave, still sending tendrils of steam into the cold air. Orla glanced up to see the landscape of Fran’s body laid out before her like the rolling hills that circled the reserve. Fran’s iron eyes were commanding.

Fran stretched out her long, strong hand, covered in blood that was now becoming syrup-like, and gripped Orla’s head, but did not push down. Instead, her palm followed Orla as she lowered her face eagerly towards Fran’s cunt, spread out and glistening, each soft fold and edge circling another, enticing Orla to the fuschia centre. Orla, achingly hungry now, greedily spread her tongue across the folds and drew it slowly up until she felt the hard pebble of Fran’s clitoris. She repeated the motion, and with each repetition the reaction from Fran grew stronger, like fanning a flame. She reached up, tracing the lines of Fran’s stomach, until her extended fingers brushed Fran’s nipple and pinched it tight between two fingers. With her eyes closed, the sunlight dancing behind her lids, she pictured the landscape of Fran’s cunt, and imagined herself a goddess tracing its shape with her tongue, pushing it, like time, into new forms. Fran’s strong body was now working against her, bucking and wriggling away from her mouth, and she chased her, relentlessly, each time hunting down and trapping Fran’s clitoris beneath her tongue. Each time Orla drew her tongue the full length of Fran’s cunt, she would gather a thick drop of her wetness on the tip of her tongue and paint her clitoris with it.

Fran’s body began to quiet again as the sensations worked their way deeper into her body. As Orla’s tongue worked at Fran’s clitoris, she gripped her flint blade in one hand and drew it up, between her legs, letting the tip trace a sharp line along her inner thigh. Then, as she reached the stifling, wet warmth of Fran’s cunt, she span the blade in her hand and slid the rounded, leathery handle slowly inside her. Fran’s cunt resisted, momentarily, then drew the handle inside, in one fluid motion, until the hilt drew the blade to a sudden halt. Orla felt the clit grow harder, and somehow redder, in her mouth as she worked the thick handle in and out of Fran’s swollen opening. Each time it emerged, it shone more brightly, the leather a deeper and richer brown.

Fran was now digging her nails deep into Orla’s scalp, which tingled in response and sent flutters down her neck and back. Orla began to fuck Fran harder, holding her clitoris down with her tongue and sending the handle deeper and harder inside. As she did so, something twisted and snapped inside Fran’s body, her hand relaxed and it seemed that every motion Orla made with her hands and her mouth was refracted and doubled through Fran’s hips and chest, thick waves through a body now fluid and malleable. Her fist aching and her jaw now senseless, Orla fucked Fran harder and harder, punishing her thick clitoris, until she saw in her mind a vibration echo through Fran’s body. It began in her hips, quivered through her long thighs and reflected through her tight stomach. Fran was drawn tight, crumpled like a dried flower, and then burst open again, defying nature, and sent shudders through Orla’s hot cheeks, shaking Orla’s breasts and stomach, pressed to the forest floor, and crackled with sparks through Orla’s dripping cunt.
There was silence, hushed wind and the occasional drop of a leaf. Orla drew the blade handle from Fran’s now quiet cunt, which gripped it mournfully before releasing it. They lay, listening to the life and death in the clearing, blood drying on their skin, then began to draw each other to their knees. Orla looked Fran in the eyes again, smiling warmly, but shifted backwards in fright as she saw the intensity of Fran’s stare, exposing her.

Fran gripped Orla by the shoulders, where her teeth marks now glowed red, and threw her roughly, face first, against the cooling carcass of the stag. As she fell forward, Orla’s slick palms slid up the stag’s neck and her hands instinctively gripped the antlers, leaving her arms above her head, her face pressed to the still-warm body and her back arched. Fran slid a hand around her throat and squeezed, and as Orla strained to breathe as her nose filled with the tang of blood in the air. Then she felt Fran’s bloodied fingers slide deep into her exposed cunt, pushing against and probing her cervix.

Orla had fucked other women in the reserve – she was open, friendly and curious – but she had never felt this before; this grinding feeling like a millstone, deep inside. She cried out, her face close to the pelt, as the low, inaudible song began to build in her cunt and rise like smoke up her spine. The sun was high now, everything illuminated, but flickering stars filled her vision as Fran’s grip tightened around her neck. The smoke up her spine thickened and became a snake, coiling around her body, constricting and pulling her taut, she could no longer breath, the ache in her legs was transformed to a beating of wings and she squeezed the horns til her knuckles popped.

And like the hot, heavy summer rains wash the heat and static from the air, a flood poured through her body from her shaved crown to her fleshy, swollen cunt, gripping Fran’s fist like quicksand. Fran’s hand fell from Orla’s neck and all of the pent up, wordless noise exploded from her throat, pouring into the knife wound in the stag’s neck.

As Orla lay on the blood-stained soil, foraging for herself in the thick foliage in her mind, Fran began to truss the legs of the stag using thick twine. Orla, blearily, wondered where she had been carrying it. She watched as Fran rearranged the entrails and organs into a ritual order, across the clearing, and knelt and kissed the ground in thanks. Then she watched as Fran strode towards her. She tensed herself, anticipating a sharp kick or word, but instead Fran reached out her muddy, bloody hand and hoisted her to her feet with ease.

Their eyes met so briefly that Orla later doubted whether she had imagined it.

Together, without the energy left for words, they wrapped the twine around and around their torsos, the coils threading over and under Orla’s aching breasts, and hauled the stag’s carcass foot by heavy foot out of the forest, lifting it as it snagged on twigs and rocks, and then with relative ease over the thick, padded grasses of the lowlands, and onwards, back to the reserve and the women that awaited their return.

Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/c94gv9/first_hunt_ff_fantasysci_fi_postapocalypse