Geoff inspected the welt, which was even more impressive than the one the first guy had shown off. Shaking his head, Geoff looked out at the rest of the guys. “Right, then. Everybody calibrate your markers again before you go out on the field. Somebody’s running hot.”
Grumbling and mumbling rippled through the group, but everyone nodded obediently and picked up their weapons before filing towards the calibration bench. One by one, everyone fired their markers over the chronograph, adjusting them to make sure their paint wasn’t flying dangerously fast. All the while, the battle scar comparisons continued, as they likely would until well into tomorrow when welts had turned to bruises.
Geoff looked up from calibrating Chris’s marker. “I think we’re missing the most important issue here. Anyone score a capture yet?”
Chris and Stefan exchanged grins.
“There was at least one I’m aware of.” Stefan arched an eyebrow at Chris.
“It’s true.” Chris gave a resigned nod. “Motherfucking new guy snuck up on me out of nowhere.”
Mike’s jaw dropped. “Seriously?”
Chris nodded again. “Guy’s like a damned ninja out there.”
“Son of a bitch.” Geoff glanced at Frank. “All right, you win.”
“Win?” Stefan redirected that arched eyebrow to Frank. “Win what?”
Frank grinned. “A friendly little wager.”
“Oh yeah?” Stefan eyed Geoff. “What were the terms?”
“That you’d get your arse handed to you.” Mike pulled his gloves off. “Except this arsehole figured you’d capture someone.” He glared at Chris. “Thanks, Chris. You cost me twenty quid there.”
Frank lifted a finger. “Don’t forget a round of beers.”
Chris laughed. “I’d say I’m sorry, but . . .” His gaze slid towards Stefan, and they grinned at each other again.
Then Stefan tucked his marker under his arm, pulled off one glove with his teeth, and took his wallet out of the back pocket of his trousers. He freed a few bills and set them on the bench beside Chris’s marker.
“Well, as long as we’re placing bets, I’ve got one of my own.”
Geoff picked up the bills and counted them. His eyebrows jumped. “Hundred quid, eh? For what?”
Stefan stared right at Frank. “That I can capture a ref.”
A chorus of “ooh, shit” went up from the men, and the three refs exchanged glances, wide-eyed and speechless.
“Isn’t that against the rules?” Chris picked up his marker.
Geoff looked Stefan up and down, making no small gesture of taking in everything the kid had on display.
Oh, Geoff, you haven’t even seen the half of it. Frank shivered.
“Yeah, it’s against the rules.” Geoff reached for his own wallet. “But a hundred quid and a shot at that?” He laid the money on the bench beside Stefan’s. “Count me in.”
Frank’s heart pounded. There was more to his preference for refereeing than just keeping up with the younger guys. He could watch the guys who got captured, store up a few mental images for himself, and things remained simpler. Much simpler. Even when the prospective captor wasn’t one of his rentboys, which held untold potential for all kinds of trouble.
Mike smirked at Stefan. “So do I have to pony up to be eligible to be one of the captured refs?”
Stefan nodded. “Consider it preemptive consent.”
Mike damn near tore a couple of the bills in his hurry to get them out of his wallet and onto the bench.
Then all eyes were on Frank.
“Well?” Stefan squared his shoulders. “You in?”
Geoff and Mike both had the same question in their eyes, but didn’t push. They knew, and they’d back him up if he backed out.
Frank cleared his throat. “I think we’d better have at least one ref paying attention to watching the other boys instead of protecting—or not—his own arse.”
“Good idea.” Geoff added a subtle “read you loud and clear” nod.
Stefan threw him a good-natured scowl. “Afraid of getting caught?”
“Afraid of it?” You have no idea. Frank laughed. “I don’t think so. Anyway, are we going to get back out there before the sun’s down?”
Several of the guys muttered affirmatives, so that topic was successfully changed, though it didn’t fool Stefan. The man gave Frank a level stare that made his knees weak, and he remembered Stefan’s gloved hand keeping Chris’s head under control as he’d fucked his throat, staring at Frank the entire time. Maybe it had been this kind of stare behind the visor.
Frank grabbed his mask and gloves and pushed away from the group, trying to clear his mind. Maybe this whole thing had been a dreadful idea. He hadn’t expected the Yank to be so persistent. Damn, Chris would fit Stefan like a glove. They were similar ages, similar cocky arseholes, and they clearly played well together. They should shack up and pick out curtains, and everything could go back to normal.
Geoff stood next to him as he checked his mask, then leaned in closer, checking his mask, too, though it wasn’t necessary. “Young buck got you spooked, right?”
Frank rolled his shoulders and put the mask on. “He knows I don’t fuck employees.”
Geoff put his on and leaned in close enough that Frank could see his eyes through the visor. “He grabbed Chris. Entirely possible one of us is next.”
“Not me.” Frank shook his head. “Though he’s very sneaky. Guy’s damn near invisible out there.”
“Should I keep an eye on your arse?”
“Just keep an eye on Mike.”
“He likes it.” Geoff slapped him on the shoulder. “Should help him relax after the stress he’s had with that bloody client.” He stepped away and grabbed the siren. “Right, guys, everybody in position.”
Out on the field, Frank couldn’t help keeping an eye on Stefan. Partly in case the kid decided to make a move. He played by the field rules as near as Frank could tell, so he’d probably stay back since Frank hadn’t contributed to the bet. Still, it didn’t hurt to be vigilant. With a ref-hungry player on the field, he was damn sure watching his six.
That wasn’t the only reason, though. The fact was, Stefan made stealth and strategy into an art form. A sexy, tempting art form.
Two minutes after the siren had sounded, Stefan was slithering on his stomach and elbows towards a pair of snipers hunkered down behind a plywood bunker. They were whispering back and forth, making sharp gestures as they presumably planned an attack, completely oblivious to the impending ambush.
Frank watched intently, certain Stefan had every nuance of his attack planned out, strategised, plotted down to the inch; he’d probably already decided which of the two men would suck the other off or watch while someone got fucked.
Under the cover of a bush and a fallen branch, Stefan lifted his marker. His elbows became his bipod, and he aimed.
Pop. Pop.
Both players ducked and spun around, hands flying to the splatters of paint on their backs. Then their shoulders dropped in defeat, and they raised their markers in the air.
“Out,” both called, and stepped out from behind the bunker. “Where the fuck is he?” One of them stopped and scanned their surroundings.
“Fuck if I know.” The other craned his neck, shoulders drawn up defensively. “Let’s get out of here before someone else shoots us.”
Guns still over their heads, they marched off the field, and Stefan didn’t move. For a good minute and a half, he was completely still.
Then he slowly turned his head, and there was no doubt he was looking right at Frank again. He gave a single nod before sliding backwards into the bushes, the viper retreating into its den.
Some shots went off in the other direction. Frank checked, making sure the two “killed” players weren’t being lit up on their way off the field. When he turned his head again, Stefan wasn’t there.
Frank’s pulse shot up. It wasn’t arousal—well, not much—but the paranoia that came with suddenly r
ealising one was possibly being hunted.
He heard more shots and shouts in the distance. Time to go check out what was going on over there. He came out from behind his own bunker and strode across the field, hoping some of the more trigger-happy guys saw the orange tape before they squeezed off a few shots at anything that moved. Even if they did, oh well. He needed to put some space between him and Stefan.
He glanced back. He didn’t see or hear Stefan, but that didn’t mean a damned thing. The limited peripheral vision thanks to his mask didn’t help to slow his pulse. The last thing potential prey needed was a massive blind spot. As if he’d see Stefan anyway. For all he knew, the man was creeping through the branches over his head and was going to drop out of the sky and tackle him at any moment.
Which would be hot.
And so, so not a good idea.
On his way around another set of bunkers, some bright orange caught his eye. On his second glance, he recognised both the jacket and the tense, crouched posture: Mike.
Frank grinned inside his mask. What better way to put a predator off his trail than to put an even easier prey in his path? The kinky paintball equivalent of tripping your friend so the grizzly would eat him instead of you. Decidedly more pleasant for the one left to the grizzly, too.
He ducked behind a bunker as paint flew past his head. Then, staying low, he jogged past Mike. Moved to a second, third, and finally fourth bunker.
He stopped and looked back.
There.
Stefan wasn’t on his belly this time. He slipped through the shadows, crouched and soundless. Even the leaves and sticks under his feet were silent, as if he were weightless. Or they, like Frank, were consciously avoiding drawing Stefan’s attention.
And as Frank had hoped, Stefan had someone in his sights.
Frank stayed behind cover and watched both of them, Mike being stalked and likely, on a subconscious level, picking up on the danger he was in. All it would have taken as Stefan moved in for the kill was to lift his own marker and shoot next to Mike, startle him and alert him to the direction the danger was coming from. Though that meant likely ruining the guy’s weekend even more than the client had managed.
Frank grinned inside his mask and watched the approach again, Stefan touching the man on the leg with a gloved hand. “You’re dead.”
Mike spun around and tumbled back against the bunker. “What the . . .”
“And mine.”
Frank was close enough to hear the hushed words.
“Shit. And I thought you were after the big guy.” Mike sounded nervous and excited.
Stefan indicated one of the bunkers right next to Frank’s. “Bet said a ref. You’re a ref. Move it.” Stefan assumed an air of command that had Mike instantly obedient, and guided him to one of the bunkers.
Once they were inside, Frank moved closer to make sure they weren’t getting shot at. With the game likely already winding down, Geoff would have his hands full but would be fine on his own.
Stefan pushed Mike down. “On your front, hands against your neck.”
Mike obeyed, and Stefan knelt over him. Ripping of Velcro straps again as he opened Mike’s trousers. Frank’s breath caught as Stefan made short work of the trousers and pulled them down just enough to bare Mike’s arse, then pulled off his own gloves and opened his own trousers. A few strokes had him fully hard, and Frank pressed his fist against his thigh. Good God. That could have been him down there, leaves and stones digging into his body, his arse bared to the enemy.
Stefan fished a condom from his pocket, ripped the pack, and rolled the condom down over his cock. Lube next, all efficient, proven movements while Mike kept the position Stefan had ordered, legs opened a bit.
He pushed lubed fingers between Mike’s cheeks, then wiped them on Mike’s trousers. He settled his weight on Mike, sliding his dick between his cheeks, pausing briefly to guide himself. Mike jerked when, Frank assumed, Stefan breached him, and groaned when Stefan pushed deeper and further. Frank pressed his lips together; the image was perfect. All still totally sane, and yet here were strangers playing out that capture-and-fuck fantasy he craved. God damn Stefan, but he knew what he was doing, too. He bared nearly nothing, only his hands and the cock sticking out of his trousers, remaining otherwise totally anonymous.
Mike pushed up his arse further, allowing Stefan better access, more leverage, and they quickly found an agreement, a common rhythm as Stefan unleashed a fuck that was altogether savage, bone-grinding need. It wasn’t meant to last, at all. The whistle would go off in a few minutes.
Hypnotised, Frank watched the end of the condom move, the slide and the rubbing of cloth, skin, Mike attempting to break position, maybe to steady himself or touch Stefan, but Stefan pinned his hands and his neck while delivering that wild fucking, bodies slapping together.
Frank couldn’t help it, couldn’t keep himself under control, took his cock through his trousers and squeezed and rubbed in time with those thrusts, mindless and incoherent, breath too loud in his mask Just as he was getting close, Stefan rose up and glanced behind him, right at Frank, and then delivered a vicious snap of his hips, and another, that pushed Frank over the edge.
In my mind, I’m fucking you.
The message couldn’t have been clearer.
Frank came helplessly into his trousers and fell back, breathless.
Thank God the whistle sounded.
A growl rose from inside the bunker, and then Mike moaned helplessly. He bucked against Stefan as much as he could in that pinned, surrendered position. Stefan grabbed Mike’s hips and thrust faster, shoulders hunching and head bowing like the tension of his own impending orgasm was bordering on unbearable.
Frank swore he could see—feel—the muscles tensing and quivering beneath Stefan’s camouflage jacket, and Stefan’s eyes screwing shut and lips pulling into a grimace behind that dark plastic lens.
Then Stefan gasped, threw his head back so hard he almost dislodged his mask, and forced himself all the way into Mike. His thrusts were sharp and irregular now, and Mike whimpered and clawed at the ground, but there was nothing at all for him to do except lie there and take it.
Stefan slumped over Mike. The front of his mask touched the back of Mike’s head, and Frank imagined Stefan wishing he could sink his teeth into Mike’s neck. One last sharp reminder of whose conquest this had been. No kissing. Nothing affectionate. Even if they’d both been naked and in a bed somewhere, nothing about that fuck lent itself to gentle touches and tenderness.
Frank left them to catch their breath and headed back to the ready area to clean himself up. As soon as he was off the field, he pulled off his mask and wiped some sweat off his forehead with a shaking hand.
“Hey, Frank,” Geoff said as he walked past him. “I’m missing some bodies. You seen Mike and—” His eyes darted towards the field. Then back to Frank. His shoulders dropped. “I’m out a hundred quid, aren’t I?”
Frank nodded. “Probably want to go easy on your man tonight, too.”
“Oh yeah?” Geoff tilted his head. “Why’s that?”
Frank tossed his mask on the ground and started peeling off his gloves. “Why do you think?”
Geoff gulped. “Holy fuck.”
“You have no idea.” Frank left his gear by the car, grabbed another set of clothes, and went into the concrete building with the restrooms and showers. Once he’d cleaned himself up, he came back, and right about then, Stefan and Mike returned.
Stefan had his arm around Mike’s waist. Stefan’s knees were dark with the same dirt that covered the front of Mike’s camouflage, and Mike wasn’t quite steady on his feet, even limping a bit. When he tore off his mask, though, he didn’t seem too unhappy about his predicament. That blissed-out grin told everyone in the ready area what Frank already knew, and the “nice going” claps on the arm started almost immediately.
Naturally, when Stefan took off his own mask, he had a smug grin on his face. He was still flushed too, and sweaty, which didn’t
help Frank’s breathing in the slightest.
Geoff put his arm around Mike, relieving Stefan of the man’s weight, and the two long-time partners exchanged a few whispered words and a couple of grins. Frank had no doubt Geoff would be hearing all about it later, probably whispered in his ear while Mike did to him what Stefan had done. He shivered. What he wouldn’t have given . . .
Stefan collected his winnings and tucked them into his pocket. Then he dropped his gear beside Frank’s and glanced at him. “You know, between working for you and playing here, I’ll be driving a Ferrari by the end of the year.”
Frank laughed. “You’ve obviously found your niche, haven’t you?”
“I think I have.” Stefan dabbed at his face with a towel. “You seem to enjoy what I do.” He dropped the towel and met Frank’s eyes with a challenging stare. “Don’t you?”
“You’re certainly easy on the eyes when you’re displaying your talents.”
Stefan laughed dryly. “So, you only ref? You don’t play?” He inclined his head. “No war and no spoils?”
“What can I say?” Frank picked up his jacket and brushed some dirt off the arm. “I like to watch.”
“But you don’t play. Why not?”
Frank swallowed. Then he dropped his jacket on top of his gear. “Watching is more my style. And I think Geoff and Mike need some help putting up the tents.” He didn’t wait for a response.
It made sense to put up the tents while they still had light. Geoff had bought them in a surplus store, and they offered a little protection from eyes and the elements for the latter half of the day. Towards mid to late afternoon, things were more about the spoils than the war. For several of the guys, the shooting was merely a way to whet the appetite, since captures were pretty rare during the game. This was the part where people put down the paintball equipment and really indulged in their fantasies. Already, he heard people talking about it and negotiating their limits.
The first tent was up in no time at all. Another guy got a fire going in a fire pit, shielded again from the road, and the second tent, a couple metres away from the first, was up in a few minutes. Everybody was eager to move on to the main course.
Capture & Surrender Page 4