Surprised Awakening
Chapter Two, The Hunt
You crawl towards the smell of wet earth and rotting pine needles, the forest floor biting into your knees. The door behind you closes and disappears into the hill. "Move, rabbit!" Vera's voice sounds through the rustling leaves from speakers hidden among the trees. The tracker embedded in your thigh blinks a relentless crimson pulse synced with the vibrator still working deep inside you. Its low hum a constant betrayal in the silence. Your breath is superficial, torn between the ache in your raw wrists and the cruel promise in her whisper: They always find their prey. The chains are gone, but freedom tastes like the metallic tang of blood on your lip and the phantom grip of the collar you'd escaped.
Pushing yourself onto trembling legs, every muscle protests as you stagger deeper into the moon-drenched forest. Scanning the shadows, your eyes catch the glint of a rotten log half-buried beneath a thicket of ferns - its hollow core just wide enough to crawl into. Pine needles stab your raw knees as you wedge yourself inside, the damp wood pressing cold against your bare skin while the tracker's crimson pulse paints rhythmic streaks on the decaying bark. The vibrator shifts to a low, insistent thrum inside you, a mocking counterpoint to your frantic breaths as you claw moss over the entrance, masking your scent with earth and decay. Hidden at last, you press a shaking hand over the tracker on your thigh, smearing dirt from the ground across its unblinking red eye—useless, but the instinct to conceal it overwhelms reason. In the suffocating darkness, you taste iron and terror, counting each labored heartbeat against the relentless rhythm of the hunt's countdown.
"Deeper, rabbit," Vera's voice purrs from the trees above, shockingly close. "Hide well. The hounds haven't been fed yet." Sometime later a branch snaps nearby - deliberate, heavy. You freeze, bile rising in your throat. The vibrator spikes into a rapid flutter, drawing a choked gasp from you. Footsteps circle your hiding place, slow and predatory. Leather creaks, and a low chuckle echoes - a man's voice, thick with anticipation. "Told you he'd pick the rot," he grunts to someone unseen. "Little rabbits always burrow." Your pulse hammers against the tracker now, its light bleeding crimson through your fingers. Inside, the vibrator pulses harder, syncing with the footsteps outside - closer, closer - until moonlight slices through your moss curtain as a boot kicks aside the ferns. "Found him," the hunter announces, grinning down at your curled form. "Miss Vera's is going to love this."
In an attempt to escape, you surge upward with desperate strength, muscles screaming from exhaustion and abuse - but the hunter's hand clamps down on your shoulder. He wrenches you backward, your naked skin scraping across pine needles and damp soil as he flips you onto your stomach. "Naughty little rabbit," he growls, his knee digging into your spine while strong fingers rip the vibrating plug from your ass without warning. The sudden emptiness is almost as violent as the intrusion that follows - he pushes his large dick brutally into you, no preparation, no mercy, his grunts syncopated with Vera's laughter crackling from his comm unit. Every thrust jars your raw body, pine duff scratching your cheek, as he uses you like a flesh-and-blood toy while his companion watches impassively nearby. When he finishes with a final, punishing shove, he yanks out and shoves something cold and fluffed against your entrance - a silicone rabbit tail plug, its base stretching you wider than before as it clicks into place.
Seizing your momentary relief, you twist violently and drive your heel upward—a perfect, desperate strike that kicks right into his groin. He collapses with a choked wheeze, curling like a baby on the forest floor as you scramble away on torn knees. The second hunter lunges but stumbles over roots, giving you a crucial two-second head start as you bolt into dense undergrowth, the rabbit tail bobbing absurdly with each frantic stride. Behind you, Vera's voice sounds with amusement over comms: "Don't lose him! Track the pulse” - but the forest swallows their curses as darkness thickens between ancient oaks.
Branches whip your face as you sprint blindly, lungs burning, the rabbit tail plug vibrating faintly now - not pleasure, but humiliation made tangible. Moonlight slices through canopy gaps, glinting off something massive ahead: a concrete wall rising twenty feet high, its crown coiled with razor-wire and high voltage warning signs. You come to a halt at its base, gasping, palms slamming against damp concrete as you scan frantically - no handholds, no pipes, just sheer vertical impossibility. The tracker on your thigh pulses crimson, betraying your location, while Vera's amplified whisper echoes through hidden speakers embedded in the trees: "Dead end, little rabbit." Footsteps crunch nearby—too close - and you press flat against the wall, adrenaline screaming. Cold panic floods your veins as shadows shift – the two hunters emerge from the tree line, silhouetted against moonlight. One smirks, lowering his tranquilizer rifle. "Should we just shoot it?" The other shakes his head and, sliding a knife from his belt while looking at your stiff member says, "Let me carve off that useless tail first."
You scramble sideways along the wall, palms smeared with moss and grime as you shield your groin - fingers covering your cock with fear - just as the hunter's knife catches moonlight. The blade slices empty air where you stood seconds before, scraping concrete with a metallic screech. "Tricky little rabbit," the knife-wielder growls, lunging again, but you're already bolting parallel to the barrier, gravel biting into your bleeding feet. The second hunter raises his tranquilizer rifle - a soft phfft—and you feel the dart whistle past your ear, embedding itself in damp moss beside your heel.
Vera's voice crackles through birch trees overhead: "Herding protocol initiated. Close the pincer." Suddenly, floodlights blaze from hidden poles in the forest, carving intersecting beams that funnel you away from the wall's refuge and deeper into the clearing's center. The hunters split - one circling left, the other right - their boots crunching synchronously on fallen branches as they drive you forward like cornered game. You stumble over exposed roots, the tail plug jolting painfully inside you with every misstep, while the tracker's crimson pulse quickens to match your hammering heart. Forty yards ahead, the ground slopes upward into a treeless mound dotted with metal stakes - a cruel parody of a finish line. "Almost home, rabbit," the rifleman taunts, his voice unnervingly close now as another dart thuds into dirt by your ankle.
The tackle hits like a sack of bricks - sudden, brutal, and totally unexpected. Air explodes from your lungs as you crash face-first into wet ferns, the impact jarring your spine and grinding the rabbit tail plug deep inside you. Black latex-clad thighs clamp around your waist like industrial vices, high-heeled boots digging painfully into the backs of your thighs as a black clad figure pins you flat. A latex gloved hand slams your cheek into the loam, filling your nostrils with the scent of rotting leaves and damp soil while her other hand grips your bleeding wrists and wrenches them behind your back.
"Found you," she breathes, her voice low and amused against your ear - not Vera's silken taunt, but rougher, hungrier. The hunters close in instantly - boots thudding nearby - as the rifleman laughs sharply: "Nice tackle, Mistress Lynx." You thrash wildly beneath her, but her weight is perfectly distributed; every buck and twist only drives the vibrating plug harder against your prostate. Cold metal clicks against your raw wrists. The tracker pulses crimson beneath smeared blood on your thigh, its rhythm syncing with Lynx's low chuckle as she leans closer. "Such fire," she murmurs, her latex-clad fingers stroking your spine mockingly. "Don't wear yourself out yet - Vera wants you fresh for the next show." Above, floodlights paint the clearing in stark white, turning dew on ferns into tiny diamonds as shadows converge around you.
Your gasp catches in your throat as Lynx's latex-covered thigh presses hard against your hip - a slick, cool pressure that contrasts sharply with the heat flooding your groin. Despite the terror and the rabbit tail plug's relentless vibration, blood surges into your cock causing an erection, trapped painfully against the soft earth beneath you. The hunter with the knife lets out a low whistle. "Look at that, the little rabbit's still got fight and appetite," he sneers, nudging your thigh with his boot where the tracker pulses crimson beneath smeared blood.
Lynx shifts her weight, grinding her hipbone deliberately against your hard cock as she cinches the handcuffs tighter around your raw wrists. "Admiring the view?" she murmurs, her breath hot against your ear as her gloved fingers trace the base of the tail plug. "Vera warned us you'd get… inspired." The sudden fullness makes you arch involuntarily, a choked moan escaping you as the plug vibrates harder against your prostate - punishment and perverse reward fused into one. Lynx laughs, a rough, smoky sound, as she pulls a thin leather leash from her belt. "Let's put that enthusiasm to use," she purrs, looping the cord around your scrotum in a swift, practiced motion. The knot tightens instantly - a biting, intimate pressure that steals your breath - as Lynx tugs upward, forcing you onto your knees in the damp ferns. Above, Vera's voice crackles through hidden speakers: "Bring him to Stage Three, Lynx. The audience wants to see him crawl."
Suddenly an orgasm tears through you without warning - one moment Lynx's gloved fingers are tightening the leash around your scrotum, the next your hips jerk violently as raw pleasure detonates in your core. The vibrating rabbit tail plug grinds deep into your prostate, triggering wave after wave of cum while Lynx's knee pins your trembling thigh. Blood roars in your ears as the climax locks your muscles rigid, a strangled cry muffled by ferns pressed against your mouth. Above you, Lynx barks a surprised laugh - Is this number Twelve already? Greedy little fucktoy" - as the tracker embedded in your thigh flares crimson, syncing with your convulsions.
From hidden speakers, Vera's voice cuts through the night: "Counter increment confirmed. Audience requests immediate compliance." Lynx doesn't wait; she yanks the leash upward with brutal force, the sudden bite forcing you onto all fours while tears blur your vision. Your spent cock aches against the cold soil, still twitching as she pulls you forward by the balls toward the floodlit structure. The hunters fall into step behind - one reloading tranquilizer darts with clinical precision, the other wiping his knife on his thigh as he eyes your trembling form. Every stumble sends fresh agony through the leash's intimate grip, while the plug's vibrations shift to a low, relentless thrum—a cruel reminder that submission won't spare you. Ahead, the steel doors grind open, revealing sterile white corridors smelling of antiseptic, swallowing you whole as Lynx's boots click rhythmically on polished concrete.