The other girl was black. Serious black. As in Somalian black, not Caribbean black. Not coffee coloured, or at least not coffee that had had a touch of milk. Her genes were undiluted by anything that might have lightened her complexion. Black skin, even her head, which was devoid of hair. Shaved, I guessed, the way so many guys do now, but not so many girls.
Which gave her the advantage. In bright sunlight, my white complexion would stand out, against whatever background I could find, trees mostly, was my guess, perhaps a building, not much else. She would blend into woodland like a shadow. Could lie in long grass like a mound. A real advantage for this game.
Even her shaved skull would give her an advantage over me. She looked like one of those Vogue models, but with dark lips, not glossed scarlet, not made up for a photo-shoot, just natural, for playing sport, or games, if outdoor hunting is a game. I have a mane. Blonde. Waist length. Not straight, nor curly. Somewhere in between. Tied back, for running, a pony tail, scrunchied close to my scalp, another mid-way down, a third right at the end. Dressage, they call it.
We were standing opposite each other, waiting for the klaxon that would signal the beginning of the hunt. Ready to run. To wherever seemed a good place to duck and dive and hide. We had been given no prior briefing on the layout of the grounds. All that I knew was that the view on either side of the long driveway, leading to what seemed like a large manor house, was open grass, with copses of oak and ash and chestnut, with some pine trees, and some weeping willows standing separately here and there.
She was the first and only black girl I had seen butt naked. Nice body. I could see why she had passed the selection interview. My height. More muscle. Sprinter's thighs, where mine are more long distance runner's. Strong calves. An afro butt. Not quite the kind that you could rest a glass on, but getting close to that.
Slim waist, hard stomach, flat and firm. An outie navel. Good breasts. Fuller than mine, and mine are pleasantly more than a handful. I wondered if in the part of Africa that her family had come from, there were melons, whose skin was just as black. Wide areolas, barely distinguishable, since every inch of flesh was black, except that where most of her skin was matt, the taut skin of her areolas had been polished to a sheen, right to her thick, eraser, nipple stubs.
She would be fast, over shorter distances at least, but I can run as well. Former college champion at ten kilometres, I can last the distance. She would tire, get out of breath. Her breasts would slow her down.
Mine need a sports bra, normally, and since I could not wear one for the hunt, they would slow me as well, but not as much as hers would do. They are full enough to push out tee-shirts, with small areolas, coin sized, and cherry nipple stubs. Like someone tied some thread around them, and pulled it tight, so that they look like balls of chewing gum, stuck on the areolas, or pink-red M and M's, without the nut inside, just sensitive nerve endings, packed beneath the skin. Malteasers.
Not that my nipples are going to make a different in this race. Still comparing me with her, my core is not as strong as hers was either. Where her stomach wall seemed to emerge from just below her breasts, my rib-cage shows. My stomach is concave, my pelvic girdle shows beneath my skin, rounded by my butt flesh, but by no means hidden.
Her mound was just that, a mound, with a slit of an entrance, hairless, whether she shaved it like her head, or had depilated it some other way. Mine, with its protruding labial flaps, is quite pronounced. Not that I starve myself. Just my metabolism, burning calories as fast as I consume them, before they turn to fat. I no longer need to shave. Laser made it permanently smooth.
And, of course, I run. That burns the calories that I consume. Thinking of which I checked her shoes. Like mine, issued to us as we were getting changed. Not trainers. More like swimming shoes. Slip-ons. Elasticated canvass tops, and rubber soles. Flat heels, no cushioning for running. More like running barefoot. At least we were the same, except that hers were black, like her, and mine were white, like me.
She spoke first, to break the awkward silence as we waited by the door.
"Have you done this before?" she asked.
Not what I expected. Not Brixton. She could have been Sloane Square. Private school. Well spoken. Like myself, I guess.
"First time," I said.
"Mine too," she said.
"I'm hoping it will be fun," I told her.
"Me too," she said.
Then silence. We were competitors, not friends. One prize going. Worth good money. Five thousand up for grabs, for just two hours. If I could win it. Which meant beating her, and, of course, avoiding them.
"Do you think that it will hurt?" she asked. "Getting shot, I mean."
"They said it won't," I said. "Or not so much we need to worry. They said that it might leave a bruise, but that would fade."
"At least that won't show on me," she grinned.
I had not thought of that before. I bruise, too easily. My milk white skin turns dark purple when a squash ball hits it hard, or if I bang my leg, or anything. Black skin, the kind of black she was, is far too dark to let a bruise show through.
She had a nice smile. Full lips, good teeth. Nice eyes, that smiled along with her mouth. I could like her, I thought. It was a pity this was as much a contest between ourselves, as it was against the men.
I wondered who the men would be. Reasonably rich, of course. Able to afford to pay to hunt for fun. Not shooting deer, or grouse, or rabbits, but live human targets, on the run. Four men, each contributing a decent lump of cash, covering the prize itself, the costs of the equipment, the grounds, the administration and the recruitment of the girls. A moderately expensive pastime. But possibly no more so than golf, at one of those elite clubs like my father's was, below the Surrey Downs.
So they would be reasonably rich, but old, or young, or in between, and fit, and fast, or overweight and slow to get around? Hopefully the latter. Hopefully the kind of guy I could outrun. Zig-zagging, so as not to be an easy target.
They had let me try a gun. Outside, before undressing and waiting to be released. The range, Sam had explained, was fifty metres. Bull's eye style targets mounted on straw bales. Blue outer, white next, and red, dead centre. I had hit blue, the two times that I hit anything at all. It had felt good, though, firing the rifle, looking down the sight.
