Page 20 of The Wild Man

Before I can stop them, my eyes dart down. From the way his dick is poking at the cloth, I would say desire is probably the dominant feeling, which does not bode well for me.

“I have to pee.” I blurt the first thing that comes to mind, hoping to use it as a distraction.

His brows scrunch together, and at first he looks like he might be confused. The look quickly fades and his expression turns blank. His hand whips out and he grabs my wrist. He turns on his heel, and I’m practically dragged behind him as he takes me to the tree the rope is tied to. He unties the knot too fast for me to try to watch and learn. Once he’s done, he grabs the rope and pulls me from his little hut. I’m so stunned that I don’t even try to yank away from him. But I do have trouble keeping up with his long strides.

I’m just about to open my mouth to tell him to slow the hell down, when we come to a sudden stop. We’re about a hundred feet away from the tree hut in a semi-clearing. We stop near a bush that has big leafy leaves.

He lets my hand go and points to the bush. I look from him to the bush before glancing back at him.

“What?”

“Pee.”

I kinda figured that’s what he was getting at.

I cross my arms over my chest. “Turn around.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just glares at me as he mirrors my stance by crossing his arms over his own chest.

My lips tighten. This is fucking ridiculous. Has the man ever heard of privacy?

I mentally snort at that thought. Of course he hasn’t. He wouldn’t know what the word meant if it slapped him in the face. He’s had plenty of privacy himself, living out in the wilderness all alone, but only because no one comes out here.

If I didn’t have to relieve my bladder so badly, I’d fight him on the issue, but I’m barely holding it in just standing here.

Shooting him a heated glare, I stomp over to where Wild Man indicated. I turn so he only has a side view of me. I damn sure don’t plan to give him more of a view than he already has.

At least I don’t have to worry about my stream getting on my clothes. I like to consider myself a half-glass full kind of girl.

My eyes fall closed at the instant relief.

They jerk open a fraction of a second later when I hear the trickle of more liquid hit the ground.

I damn near fall on my ass when Wild Man stands in front of me, his dick in his hand, letting his own urine flow. What has my mouth dropping open in shock—which is stupid given the circumstances—is that he’s aiming his stream so it hits mine.

What in the hell kind of sick shit is he doing?

But then it dawns on me.

He’s a fucking animal marking his territory.

I try to stop my flow so I can get the hell away from him, but I can’t. My bladder is too full to stop now. So I stay squatted. My eyes drop and they get caught by the combined stream splashing on the ground below me. His pee comes so close to hitting me, but Wild Man has good aim, apparently.

We finish at the same time, and I hurriedly wiggle my ass to get rid of any drips before I stand. Wild Man lets his dick go and it just flops there. Before the cloth falls in place, I notice a drop of clear liquid still clinging to the tip. I’m careful where I put my feet so I don’t step in our urine.

seven

Everlee

Hours of doing nothing as I sit on my burlap sack and watch Wild Man piddle around is driving me fucking crazy. I’ve tried talking to him a few times, but all I get in response is nothing or a stupid grunt.

Earlier, he brought me the water jug and a few dried pieces of meat. When I asked him if I could have my cloth back, he ignored the request and continued skinning a squirrel. A fucking squirrel. It made the meat I ate earlier sour in my stomach.

I’m currently sitting with my legs out in front of me, my ankles crossed together. I’ve lost all modesty. Being forcefully taken by a man then sitting naked in front of him all day does that to a woman.

I haven’t been sitting idle though. I’ve been slowly, and discreetly, trying to work at the knots on the rope. So far, the dumb thing hasn’t budged. I’ll eventually get it though. It’s only a matter of time. Then a new worry will follow. How in the hell I’m going to get away.

Sweat trickles between my breasts and the grit of dirt abrades my skin anytime I move. I hate being dirty. Especially my hands and feet. It’s a pet peeve I have. Even the slightest bit of dirt on my hands or feet has me rushing to the bathroom to clean them. I’ve been this way since I became an adult. You’d think it strange since I spent a good portion of my childhood outside.