Witch Of The Wild Woods Ch 08

May 22nd - Friday / Twilight

As it was explained excitedly to Lane by Nina; “It’s the most violent version of Ring-Around-the-Rossy you’ve always wanted to play.”

Lane and the other dozen or so councilors followed Brock, the Recreation Lead up an unlit dirt path toward the Rec-Field. Jude had handed off the opening ceremonies to Brock Aleman, a human-Ken-Doll fresh off the set from the latest basic cable Teen Drama; buzzed blonde hair, chiseled face and abs that defined a jersey shirt two sizes too small. Loves parties, hates not being at parties. He had been dubbed ‘Vegas’ and the name may have been too on the nose. Regardless, this larger than life personality led Lane, Luna, and the other councilors fifty yards up the wide dusty road past the staff cabins.

Behind Brock, a hefty young man, Aiden, carried a twenty-gallon tin trash can above his head. Aiden, rechristened Oxnard, was a tank piloted by a corgi. In addition to being a cabin leader, he also ran the soundboard. A self-proclaimed music savant, Aiden claimed to have mastered every instrument except the tuba. Neglecting the tuba had been a personal choice. Where Brock embraced the cliché of a party animal, Aiden held a refreshing dose of introspection against any type-casting.

As they marched out into the center of a wide, level clearing about the size of a professional soccer field, Lane was desperate for a moment of introspection himself. Here he was, blending in, socializing, pretending everything was fine. He could fake it with the best of them. Being an introvert, however, every second spent acting like he hadn’t just fucked Luna in the shower hours earlier significantly drained Lane’s mental energy. Before he was fully depleted for the evening he needed to know; had it just been sex, or something more?

Ultimately tonight’s opportunity for clarity would be lost. Lane would have to push his feelings and anxieties aside for now; the Night Game was about to commence.

Brock began feeding firewood into the tin-can Aiden had placed in center field. In a voice akin to a drill sergeant still nursing a hangover from the night before Brock shouted; “Alright troops, gather ‘round. Sit your asses down, and shut your mouths up. All y’all gonna be respectful of the game and the new folks that ain’t heard of it before.”

Lane sat beside Luna. She’d actually carried Nina on her shoulders all the way up the hill from the amphitheater. Currently, Nina/Vatican was sitting snuggly in Luna’s lap. Another girl, Mara, the Creative Lead was passing out foot long pieces of thick, nylon straps. She had fiery red hair down to the small of her back and wore the countenance of a young woman that could burst into flames at any moment. Curious and an ample chest made for a dangerously beautiful and intimating presence despite only standing at five and a half feet.

Brock/Vegas continued his instructions; “Tonight, we start this year at Trillion Pines with the traditional sport of... Tiki-Tiki Fire Drum!” Loud whoops and howls erupted and were quickly silenced by Vegas; “Each of you will be handed a piece of rope by Mara... or, damn it what did we call you again this year?”

Someone in the back of the crowd shouted out, “The Witch!”

Mara snapped back, “It’s ‘Wichita,’ Gracie. If you can’t remember, I’ll carve it into your cellulite covered thighs.”

Brock dropped a firm hand on Wichita’s shoulder before she clobbered the girl. He drew in a deep breath and continued, “Each of you has a rope. We’re all going to circle around the can and each of us will hold onto each others rope. From then on, there are only two simple rules; don’t let go of the rope and don’t touch the can.”

Motioning for everyone to rise, Brock emphasized; “You let go or touch the can, you’re out.” Highlighting his last words, Brock lit a handful of matches and dropped them into the can. A soft glow began to emerge from the can, rapidly brightening.

Eventually, the councilors made a mostly circular ring around the can. Lane thought Luna would sit out due to cramps and whatever else had wrecked her body from the inside out. With a wink she assured him; “Found a handful of Midol in the glove compartment, I’m good to go. Can’t let these boys show us up, right?” She gave Lane a slap on the ass. Whether anyone noticed or cared was the last of Lane’s troubles. His mind lingered on the sensation of her touch like a lump of hot coal falling through a block of ice.

Before he blew the whistle, Vegas gave a final warning; “Remember, we’re here to have fun, so no unnecessary roughness, alright? Great. On three, two, one... Tiki!”

The whistle was blown. Nothing happened. At least it felt like nothing was happening. Off to Lane’s right, he saw the boy with the aviator shades, couldn’t remember his real name, but they called Bozeman. Slowly he walked straight toward the can. Then, with a forceful tug, everything to Lane’s left violented swayed and shifted. He found himself being led clockwise around the can. Just as quickly, a hard jerk pulled him right. Lane pulled back. Everyone kept swiftly spinning clockwise: feet gliding across the grass. Their speed rapidly increased. The circle quickly morphed into an elliptical orbit that bowed dangerously close to the can.

Lane was on the downward path toward the tin-can now. He felt the girl to his left tighten her grip on the rope between them. Lane’s palms were on fire. A jerk, a tug, and Lane whipped violently toward the can. At the last minute, before diving headfirst into the fire, Lane leaned back and kicked off the ground. The girl to his left carried Lane with her momentum. Unfortunately, the girl to Lane’s right was not so lucky.

Luna’s toes nicked the can with a light metallic clang.

Brock’s laughter could best be described as a stack of plates falling to the ground as he called out, “First one down! Bummer for, um... Cloudcroft, what are you doing?”

With a devious smile, Luna pulled off her top. Without batting an eye, she grabbed hold of Lane’s rope in her left and Nina’s rope on her right. Luna scanned the circle of councilors; “What? Can’t buy my way back into the game?”

Brock scratched his head. He attempted to judge the concession of the crowd but it was dark; “Traditionally, Tiki Tiki Fire Drum is a game played fully clothed. For safety.”

Luna shrugged, “Well if one wanted to stay fully clothed, they could always stay out, right? I wanna win.”

Granted, neither Lane or Brock could visibly see an accurate poll of uncomfortable faces to those who were genuinely intrigued. So, Brock called Luna’s bluff, “As Rec-Lead this year, I hereby decree that if one wishes to become Tiki Champion, the price of an extra round is one article of clothing. The Rec-Lead has spoken.”

Without any protest from the crowd, everyone tightened their grip on each others’ rope, and the whistle blew once more. Councilors ran around the can, faster and faster. The fire grew higher. They tugged. They pulled. They grappled around the tin-can until eventually another metallic clang rang out. This time it was Bozeman. Without saying a word, Bozeman threw off his shirt, reasserted his grip, and nodded toward Brock.

Again the whistle blew. Another hit. More clothing removed; pants, shirts, bras, briefs all disappeared. Gone. Lane’s hands were on fire from rope burn. His fingers felt as if they may become permanently tightened into fists for the rest of the summer. Around and around they went in a dark and dizzy race. Shadows of nearly naked bodies danced across the tall pines that encircled the recreation field. Hit after, hit, the game continued. On and on they played as tired and sweaty bodies chased after the coveted title of champion. Surprisingly, Lane was one of those few that remained.

No one had a watch. They could have been there for hours. Only the dimming fire gave a hint to how long they’ve been playing. Now, in the naked twilight hours of the night or early morning, it came down to four; Lane, Oxnard, Vegas, and Mara. Oxnard was missing a shirt. Vegas was missing boots and socks. Mara only wore the same determined glare from hours earlier when the game began; this would be her final round.

Vegas held the whistle in his mouth, and through gritted teeth counted down, “Three, two, one... Tiki!”

Oxnard used his considerable strength to lead the group his way. Fortunately for Lane, his oversized opponent wasn’t as nimble. Vegas also employed the same strategy. They weren’t exactly working together, but as the group gained steam both Vegas and Lane took a running dive toward the can. Mara simply held on for the ride, helpless. At the last second, Aiden actually managed to stutter-step around the can.

Mara did not.

Mara’s hips nearly knocked the smoldering can over. She let out an infuriated scream that echoed through the quiet pines. She didn’t say another word. Lane watched as her naked, ivory pear figure bent over to scoop up her clothes. Fiery, windswept hair blew behind her as Mara/Wichita stormed off into the darkness.

Vegas chuckled, “I’ve never seen her come, but I love to watch her leave.”

From the edge of the field, Mara raised a middle finger and kept walking without looking back.

Then there were three.

Lane scooped up a hand full of soil and worked it into his presumably blistered hands. Vegas watched intently. Another whistle. Another dance. Again Vegas and Lane let Oxnard carry them around until he had to catch his breath. Once more, the two Leads made a run for the tin-can. This time, there was no last-minute hustle. Oxnard was out.

Panting for breath, Aiden held up his hands, “Gentlemen, I believe I’m spent.” Extending his hand out to Lane, they both shook like gentlemen. Oxnard simply got a quick low-five from Brock. Vegas’ eyes were dead set on Lane. Taking a breath himself, Lane watched as Oxnard stood over by the other councilors off to the sides. The mountain of a man reached down to pick up his shirt, but one of the other boys kicked it aside. A hasty and wholly disingenuous apology was made.

Before turning back to his final opponent, Lane caught a glimpse of Nina reaching down for Oxnard’s shirt. She shook it out, folded it, and handed it over with her small smile. Lane heard a soft, “Thank you,” from Aiden.

Nina and Aiden’s exchange would be the last pleasantry made this evening. Maybe it was morning now? Lane was too exhausted to care. More than the championship, he mostly wanted to sleep. However, being that his honor was in questionable standing as it was, Lane planned to see the game through. If not for anyone else, he needed a definitive black and white win.

Vegas stretched his arms and cracked his neck; “Just you and me, Roswell.”

Lane nodded with a sleepy smile.

Vegas counted off; “Three, two... Tiki!”

Unprepared, Lane went flying off the ground. Landing a breath away from the tin-can, Lane used all of his body weight and momentum to kick off the ground back toward the tin-drum. At the last possible second, Lane spread his legs wide and cleared the fire by an inch. He landed hard on the other side and with as much force as he could muster, Lane pulled both ropes down and back. A sudden metal clang and a yelp came from Vegas’ as his knuckles struck the side of the tin can.

Luna cheered; “That’s how we do it down in the I.V.C Way to go, Bro!” The only person to join Nina and Luna clapping was Brock: a cliched slow clap.

Shaking his head and shedding his shirt, Vegas readied himself for another round, “Championship is almost yours if you can stick it out. Ready?”

No. Lane was not ready, but clearly, Brock was not the type to let things end. Taking up the reigns, Lane held tight to his ropes while Vegas abruptly whistled. Off they went, forcefully pulling, tugging, and flailing about. Vegas had a few inches on Lane, and muscle mass to spare. It had been almost six years since Lane was on any intramural sports, but the last four years in the Coast Guard kept him lean and toned. Compared to Brock, however, Lane was a young Stallone against a fully roided out Dolph Lundgren.

Against all odds, whether the ground had simply become too slick from the previous players, or Brock legitimately lost his footing, another clang of flesh against metal rang out through the forest. Lane was about to reach out for Brock’s hand, a game well played, but Vegas was busy unfastening his belt and stepping out of his jeans.

He may have been smiling, but the wild look in Vegas’ eyes was anything but pleasant to look at. There was a madness that had either began to form or had finally emerged having been there all along. For Brock, this tug of war had ceased to be a game.

Lane considered throwing the game; just let this guy have his title and be done with it. Forget the crowd that was feverishly chanting. The only thing that made Lane step back up to the drum on fire was Luna. Her eyes shown like bright teal binary stars, and lips as perfect as rose petals. Exhaustion and thin mountain air continued to chip away at Lane’s mental inhibitions. Every time he looked at Luna, he fought a war on two fronts; the physical battle of wills against Brock on one side. Equally, daunting was the ethical conundrum within his heart. Lane would surely lose one of those fights tonight. Of the two battles, the latter that terrified him the most.

Vegas shouted over the crowd, “Final round, Roswell. Think you’ve got it in you?”

What was in Lane now eclipsed all rational thought: a beautiful and terrible thought. No, not a rational thought. A Gordion knot of feelings that pulsed and burned within. Those feelings, that irrational fire burned for Luna.

Unable to extinguish the flames of his illicit desires, Lane distracted himself. He gripped the ropes. Vegas immediately blew the whistle and instantly Lane’s whole body was thrown sideways into the tin-can. It wasn’t as scolding hot as he had expected, but Lane still instinctively rolled away from the flaming trashcan.

In the blink of an eye, Luna was at Lanes’ side; “You alright?”

Winded, all Lane could do was give a weak nod.

Luna pulled her brother up to his aching feet, and peeled off Lane’s sweat-drenched t-shirt; “Then get back in there, Ursa-Major!” Playing off the crowd, Luna tried to rally support for her brother. A few pity claps, and an enthusiastic scream from Nina. Even Aiden tried to muster the energy to shout in Lane’s favor.

Lane’s mind continued to spiral out of control from the soft touch of his sister’s warm brown hands. Like a mental forest fire, the memories of them in within one another in the showers burned brighter, hotter. He tried to fight the sensation. Lane desperately tried to push the images out of his mind. In his mental weakness, his physically drained body reached for the ropes. He drew a deep breath, heard the whistle, and held on for dear life.

Up, down, sideways, Lane was thrown about like a rag doll, but his grip was iron-clad. He’d have his share of bruises tomorrow, but there was no letting go. Lane had to prove to himself that his willpower was an even match against Vegas’ mad determination.

Eventually, both men had dodged and danced around the can to near absolute exhaustion. The crowd was in a frenzy. The fire within the tin can began to subside while the inferno within Lane’s mind raged on. He kept his fists clamped tight and eyes locked on Brock’s. Those steel blue eyes of Lane’s opponent might pop at any moment. That’s when Lane knew he had the advantage. With his back toward the can, Lane slowly led Brock forward. He had to time this gamble just right. When Vegas’ grit and bared his teeth, that’s when Lane had him.

Brock charged straight at Lane. Anticipating the move, Lane fell backward on to the grass, his head only inches from the can. While on his back Lane then kicked his marathon-toned legs up and under Brock, and pulled down hard on the ropes sending Vegas headfirst into the can.

That was all the strength Lane had left. Out of breath, lying on his back, Lane let out a groan as he watched an upside-down Brock jump to his feet and pull off his boxers. Even flaccid from the cool mountain air, Vegas’ dick could have been used as a putter a mini-golf course. He stomped around the can like a mad dog, alternating between rubbing his head and clapping vigorously to pump himself up. Vegas had clearly lost his mind. Winning an empty title couldn’t possibly mean that much to anyone, could it?

Lane called up to the star-filled sky and moaned, “Is there a ref to call the round?”

Vegas jeered, “Call the round? You’re not out yet, Roswell. You’ve still got shoes, socks, and pants, my man. Up and at ‘em. Let’s finish this thing!”

The crowd was silent. They watched an enraged and naked Vegas circle his opponent like a lion. Not an actual lion, but a feral imitation. Why was Lane thinking about Lions? There was something from earlier that afternoon, or yesterday maybe? What time was it even? Lane wanted to sleep. He wanted tea. A hot cup of tea and sleep would be worth all the clout that any championship title held. Let this Brock kid be like a lion. What did Lane have to do to earn sleep?

Mercy came in the form of the mountainous Aiden. Lane sensed the presence of the mighty gentlemen as he dove down to the ground beside his face. He felt Aiden’s bear-like palm slap the cold damp ground as he counted, “Five. Four...”

Luna prompted the rest of the crowd to join in, “Three!”

Brock, still wheezed for breath, “Hey, that doesn’t count.”

Aiden/Oxnard continued his count, “Two. One!” With a wink and gentle pat on the head, Oxnard sprang up from the ground and grabbed Vegas’ arm, lifting it in the air; “Ladies and gentleman, this year’s grand champion of Tiki-Tiki-Fire-Drum the one, the only, Vegas!” Exhausted applause arose from the remaining councilors. Aiden quickly extinguished the fire with a bucket of sand and water. He crocked out over the hiss of steam; “Cabin assignments should be posted on the doors. Goodnight everyone.”

With the help of Luna, Aiden peeled Lane off from the ground and joined the half-dressed crowd into the dark, back to the cabins.

Standing bare, against the night wind, Brock held his ground beside the tin can. Although the game had concluded, and the fire extinguished, something vengeful simmered beneath the shallow surface of Vegas’ mind.