Page 44 of The Wild Man

His lips press into a grim line and anger tightens his eyes. I prepare myself for Wild Man to forcefully take my mouth. He could and there’s really nothing I can do to stop it. I’ve underestimated his strength before, but I quickly learned how big of a mistake it was. What he wants, he gets, even if taken by force.

Surprisingly though, he doesn’t force my head forward like I expected. Instead, after several tense moments, in which he spends looking at my mouth, he releases me so suddenly, I fall back on my ass. Thankfully, the ground is soft with crushed leaves, so I’m left no worse for wear.

He gets up from the ground and stalks through the opening, slapping the branches out of the way. It’s almost comical to see his semi-hard cock slapping around his thighs with his movements.

I watch the opening with trepidation. Wild Man doesn’t know how to give in, so I expect him to return at any moment and demand my kiss. But when he doesn’t appear after a while, I finally start to relax.

I get up from the ground and look around me. I haven’t gotten many chances to check out his living area. More often than not, Wild Man takes me with him when he leaves his tree hut. Or if he does leave me alone, it’s not for long.

I rummage around a couple piles of stuff, finding nothing interesting. I do come across the clothes I was wearing the day he decided to keep me, and as tempting as it is to put them on, I leave them where they are. Wild Man will just take them off me. For some reason, he likes to keep me naked. Maybe because he’s always naked. Or because it gives him easy access when he wants to fuck. Or maybe he just likes looking at a female body. Regardless, I make note of where they are for when I leave.

At the bottom of one pile, I come across a small stack of local newspapers. The thin pages are dirty and crumpled. I look at the date of the first one. Seven years old. I flip through it, not finding anything interesting. I look at the next one with an eight-year-old date.

Where did he get these, I wonder to myself as I flip through another.

When I reach the bottom of the pile, my brows jump up and my hand pauses on the cover. It’s not a newspaper, but a dirty magazine.

What the hell?

The cover has a busty brunette sitting with her legs bent and spread open. She’s sitting on a bed of black silk. One of her hands is holding a red popsicle that she’s licking up the side. Her big perky tits with hard rose-colored nipples are on full display. Her other hand is cupping herself between her legs, hiding her goods from the viewer.

A heated flush coats my cheeks as I stare at the woman.

Why does Wild Man have this? I mean, it’s obvious why he has it. He may have grown up in the wild, but he’s still a man with working parts. But where did he get it from? And how many times has he looked at it? From the worn state of the pages, my guess would be a lot.

An image pops in my head and the heat in my cheeks gets warmer. Wild Man sitting on his log in front of the fire, one hand flipping through the pages of this magazine, while his other strokes up and down his cock. His breathing is heavy as his eyes eat up the images of carnal acts. Why that thought has my legs sliding together is a mystery I refuse to acknowledge.

I lift my head and peek at the opening he left through a bit ago. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I flip the magazine open to a random page. I’ve looked at nudie magazines before, and have even watched my fair share of porn, but it still feels erotic doing it now. I don’t even know why I’m doing it. I guess I want to see what Wild Man has possibly gotten himself off to.

The picture is of a naked blonde woman lying in bed. Her head is hanging off the edge, her long hair touching the floor. A man, equally naked, is in front of her with his hard cock pointed at her lips. Her mouth is wide open as she waits for the man to feed it to her. Another man is on the bed holding her legs open. Her hips are lifted and his cock is nestled inside her. He stares down at where they’re connected with a look of pure lust.

Warmth pools in my stomach at the erotic image.

I flip to another page.

This one is even kinkier.

A redhead woman, again wearing not a stitch of clothing, has her arms raised above her head where she’s tied to a hook in the ceiling. She has on a blindfold and a ball gag stuffed in her mouth. There’s a man behind her, his hips pressed to her ass, no doubt filling her back hole. One of his hands is on her hip and the other is pulling her head back by her hair. Another man stands in front of her, his hand wrapped around his impressive length. He looks like he’s getting ready to stuff his cock in her clean-shaven pussy.

A rustling sound comes from behind me, and I snap the magazine closed. Embarrassment reddens my cheeks more as I spin around and face Wild Man. He stands just inside the opening, his pointed gaze on me. His eyes drop to the magazine in my hand before they lift back to my face. He shows no discomfort at my discovering his dirty magazine, not that I expected him to.

I drop the magazine when he starts walking toward me. Again, I don’t know what to expect from him, and his face gives nothing away. He stops when he’s only a foot from me, forcing my head to tilt back to keep him in view.

He grabs my hand and lifts it, and I feel something slide over my wrist. I look down, and I’m not quite sure what to think at what I find.

A delicate twig, no thicker than a piece of twine has been fashioned into a bracelet. Woven into the twig are tiny lavender flowers.

I lift my arm, a sudden pain scratching the insides of my chest at the kind gesture. In my boredom, I’ve made several twig bracelets. I used to do that all the time when I was out camping with my dad and brothers. While they were out fishing, hunting, or gathering wood, I’d sit and fashion bracelets. They were never really anything special, just something to do when I didn’t want to join my family while they foraged the area.

This one is beautifully perfect though.

I tilt my head back up. Is this his way of apologizing after storming away from me earlier?

If so, he’s definitely on the right track.

“Thank you,” I say.

“Fuck.”