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One Larcher pulls a flower from the pocket of his hoodie and nods his head before pressing it into my palm. It’s large-petaled and yellow; that’s all I can make out in this light with my brain wigging out after coming apart. The other produced a bag from inside his jacket. This thing is huge. A white abstract flower on a thick, fleshy stem. It’s not something I recognize, but in this light, only something obvious like an onion or pinecone would be identifiable.

The urge to sink into the dank ground and swallow cock is unparalleled. To have it stuffed so far down my throat until it elicits a gag reflex and a threat of panicked tears. No one rides the knife’s edge like I do. Nobody.

The other Larcher guides me down while offering his botanical gift. A stem with elongated leaves alternating before a fuzzy, tufted flower adorns the crown. It smells terrible; like burned, crushed garlic almost. I place it on the ground beside the other two. When I look up again, he stands before me, struggling against labored breathing, trembling with anticipation. I’m almost eye level with his groin, and he’s packing some serious heat. His chin dips; he stares down at me with imperceptible eyes, a color so common it’s almost laughable. They all have dark brown eyes? When he grasps my wrists and drags them to his zipper, another flood of arousal releases. I unfasten the button and lower the zipper, before releasing his straining erection. He slams both hands against the trunk above me when I take him all the way to the back of my throat. His hips jerk forward, an involuntary movement increasing the friction. I’m more than happy to oblige.

The final Larcher watches with aloof indifference. I hear a dragged click as flint strikes. A lighter brought to the end of a cigarette. It glows a vivid red-orange before the flame is snuffed out when a metallic cover snaps shut. The Larcher inhales, the tip aglow against his pale mask. He makes no move to close the distance, leaning a braced shoulder to the bark as he watches, inhaling to a rhythm only he knows.

I get off on being treated like a filthy little plaything.

I was worried about my choices out here in the wilderness. You can keep your chaste kisses and missionary vanilla lovemaking. Desire me. Defile me. Make it hurt enough to wash the pain away. May it drip in a viscous river. Because everyone I loved left me. No one stays.

My previous partners tended to be singular. This is another new kink unlocked, and please melt down that fucking key because I’m never going back.

Chapter Twelve

Fox

ARROYO WILLOW (SALIX LASIOLEPIS)

Aspen was the one tree in the forest of millions we were always destined to find. She skittered along tight paths worn in sections by previous foot traffic, never slowing as little arms pumped faster.

The area is home to bears, both black and grizzly, wolves, and caribou. Our prey moved with intent, hurdling felled logs and ducking under others. It didn’t matter; we knew where she was, thanks to a tiny chip nestled in her boot between the sole and upper. All we needed to do was stay behind her, a respectable distance at first to lull her into a sense of safety. Other Larchers were redirected through hand signals and physical warnings, so our little blinking dot was all alone and waiting—for us.

Her heartbeat gallops as she shelters behind the Sitka spruce. It’s practically thrumming through her chest cavity. She must be shaking like a little leaf back there. Perfection. Add in her sinful scent—arousal spiked by a sliver of fear. Aspen wants this, wants us. Yes, Ms. Aspen. There are four Larchers in pursuit.

I watch the other three take turns with the prize. I can’t see from here who eats her out, and who it is has no bearing on the outcome that we all want… her. I sat in the pre-Larch briefing, playing with my father’s old lighter as the rules and suggestions were laid out again, like last year. What was refreshing was Aspen Aldereyne’s involvement. She’s pristine and pure. Not in a plastic factory, stereotypical way with silicone oozing from her face—no—she’s not afraid to get her hands dirty with organic samples and thrives in real-world situations. Like now.

Aspen is choking on Luk’s cock as he struggles to hold back on the need to thrust into her throat. Yep, that’s Luk alright. I know his silhouette well enough; we share a dorm for fuck’s sake. But it’s more than that. I can tell he lacks the emotional maturity of the other two. Sure, experience and age are different, but the strain in Lukaz’s rigid posture demonstrates his struggle, something both other Larchers nailed down—just. Every single one of us is desperate to fuck her, but given that the hour is almost up, and she’s too precious to have a train run on her in the dirt among leaf litter, we will bide our time. For how long? That’s anyone’s guess.

With his head bowed, Luk comes with a muffled roar that abruptly ceases after he’s slapped behind the head. The vow of silence, asshole. Don’t fuck this up for the rest of us. His shoulders rise and fall with the increased effort of his exertion. I’m not sure why, when Aspen’s tongue and mouth did all the work. The way her hand circled the length of him she couldn’t swallow down, and the way it slid under his shaft to massage his balls had my own ready to empty. I readjust myself and ash the cigarette, stomping out any embers under the sole of my boot. The last thing I need is this place to go up in flames. Wouldn’t that be something? Media front pages would run with something corny like “University Forest Orgy Ends When Cosplayers Are Cremated. More details to follow.” I get enough hate hurled my way as it is. All of it juvenile bullshit, but it stings. The irony of losing my family to a car accident and exposure, only for me to be accused of incinerating my fellow Botanical Science student body isn’t lost on me. They can all fucking burn, except for Aspen and a select few.

As I suck in another long drag, the cherry glows bright before receding to a dull ember. Like me, who once had a family and a future, only for it all to be sucked away in a few seconds. When the butt is crushed under the other boot, I stride forward, conscious of our time constraints.

Aspen’s palms are splayed on her bent knees, head slightly bowed as if awaiting instruction. I like this look, I must say. I stop short and study her from multiple angles. She’s a perfectly proportioned doll made for debauchery. Just the way I want her. So pliant. Her fingers flex over the Lycra while there is enough wind to rouse her hair a little. It’s not an issue for us; our hair is tucked up under the tops of the masks and hoods, but for her dirty-blonde strings with a hint of rosy-pink, she looks like an angel descended to earth. I sink to my haunches and take hold of her chin, looking into those mossy irises while ragged breaths fill her needy lungs.

My first kiss is on her forehead. The second ghosts the tip of her petite nose, while the third lands south of her cupid’s bow. She is ethereal. Her hot breath tickles my skin as she exhales. The things I want to do to her stir the frenzied filing cabinet of chaos in my mind. Her lips are hot and swollen, a testament to the kisses they’d exchanged. I don’t care. I’d watch her kiss a thousand men a thousand times each if it meant I got her last. And have her I will; but not here.

I swallow down the sublime taste intermingled with the others, and no doubt Luk’s cum, and give her menthol in return. She sighs into my mouth, content in this intimate moment. This is her gift to me. A moment of solitude to embrace the quiet and let the chaos drip from me like an upturned vial. Both calming and arousing, demanding and compliant, deliciously dark and so delicate all at once. Captivating.

I break our kiss, both of us panting out puffs of breath into the air between us. I rise, scooping a hand under each of her arms to lift her with me. She wobbles like a baby fawn before the blood flows to her extremities, and mine does the same. Sure, I’m still hard, but that’s nothing new when she’s around. Offering one last peck of my lips to the satiny softness of her cheek, I give her my sprig of Arroyo Willow. I know this is a red herring, a deliberate one. My full name is Foxglove Anderson Muir. Should I gift foxglove to an Ash, I might as well enter the forest without a mask for all the anonymity that would offer. How cliché. And while I may be many things, predictable isn’t one of them.

Chapter Thirteen

Aspen

TOXIC AND POISONOUS

A yellow lily with a pinkish-red band, some obscure white orchid I’ve never seen before, A Russian Knapweed flower that’s stinking up the dorm more because it’s crushed stem is releasing more garlicky smells, and something common I can’t quite place now because my brain is trying to compute botanical samples quicker than my pulse is racing.

So far, I’m one from four. The knapweed aside, I have two flowers and a stem section with willow buds, and simple, alternate, lance-shaped leaves. They are glossy dark green on the upper surface, while the underside has a tactile soft fuzz and is a pale gray to white hue.

“Four, no fucking way, girlfriend. High five! Or are you so well fucked and floppy you can’t raise your hand?”

I’m exhausted but well fucked isn’t entirely accurate. Among the caribou shit and wolf tracks, I’m not complaining.

“And you’ve only identified one, right? A weed? Who would choose that?”

This occurred to me on the walk back to campus. The walk where I was escorted in between four masked men. The closer we came to the university grounds, the more distance grew between us. They melted into the darkness, choosing to circumvent the campus proper dotted with security lighting and hugged the shadows like specters.