Fox and Hound

The naked man tore through the undergrowth, and the branches, brambles, nettles and thorns tore back at his bare flesh in mocking retribution, leaving an easy blood trail and potent scent for his pursuers. Panting and exhausted, Jack collapsed in the woodland swill. Regret and nausea rose within him. He really shouldn’t have taken that bet, but it had seemed such a fun idea at the time.

It was only a laughing sop to the smuggers. In the bar, that preening oik had challenged him to swap places with the fox on the morning’s hunt, to experience the victim’s supposed terror, and Jack had taken the gauntlet. He had earned a round of applause, and bought matching drinks to celebrate.

Still just a joke, but he would have been a bad sport to have welshed, so Rupert had informed him that hungover morning. Now, his guts weren’t heaving with laughter, as the cries of “Hallo!” were getting nearer, and the bugle cut through his bowels sharper than the breeze on his balls.

Jack stumbled on, the safety of The Ram in sight. Surely the pack would be rested before their kill, he prayed. As the voracious beasts surrounded him, he glimpsed Rupert smirking as he consoled Jack’s fiancee Penny in his arms, and realised his arrogant mistake.

In the thicket a watching russet fox bore a rictus grin, as Jack’s own beloved Sam clamped enthusiastic fangs on his master’s manhood. He despairingly hoped they wouldn’t be blooding the children after.

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