The Most Perverted Game

* * * * *

Notes:

1) This work is inspired by Richard Connell's classic short-story "The Most Dangerous Game," first published 97 years ago this January.

2) Please be warned that it is a non-consent story. It is a work of sheer fantasy in all respects, and is intended for the purposes of erotic entertainment only. In real life it is incumbent on all of us to ensure consent in any situation, and to show respect and empathy to those around us—not just with regard to sex, but in every aspect of life.

3) All characters are over the age of 18.

4) I love to receive positive feedback, and I appreciate constructive suggestions. I hope you enjoy it.

* * * * *

"There's supposed to be an island out there somewhere," said Vitansky, looking at the charts. "Diablo Island, the map says. Suggestive name, don't you think?"

Zarova's icy-blue eyes peered out through the windows of the lounge. A thick, stifling tropical night lay heavy on the water. "Can't see it."

Vitansky laughed humorlessly. "I'm the first to admit that you're a freak of nature, Larisa Yevgenevna. Remember that time in Vologda, when you picked off that gray wolf in the midst of a blizzard? I never even spotted it. But not even you can see five kilometers through a moonless Caribbean night."

Zarova nodded gloomily and drained her glass.

"There will be plenty to see down in Brazil, though," said Vitansky, trying to lighten the mood. "The environmental regulators have agreed to be, shall we say ... flexible with regard to your upcoming hunt."

Zarova brightened a little. "I tell you, Vitansky, it's been too long since I was hunting. Let me ask you something. You're a football fan, right?"

"Isn't everyone?"

"That is what I don't understand. What do you see in it? What is the point of a sport like football? Or hocky? They're fake. Meaningless. A bunch of made-up rules and made-up victories."

Vitansky shrugged.

"But hunting, now," Zarova continued, "that is something entirely different. It's real, genuine. Everyone blathers about animal-rights, but for my money, hunting is still the best sport in the world."

"Hunting may be great for the hunter," Vitansky said with equanimity, "but not so much for the wolf."

"Don't be an idiot, Vitansky," Zarova snapped back. "Who gives a damn what the wolf thinks?"

"Perhaps the wolf does," observed Vitansky.

"Pah! They don't think at all. They're dumb brutes."

"Now you're just being obstinate, Larisa Yevgenevna. You need only look at animals to see that they have some thoughts in their heads. They have some knowledge of death, some knowledge of pain. That much is obvious."

Zarova's laugh carried a hint of scorn. "You are a soft-hearted man, Vitansky. You're lucky I take pity on you. If you looked at things realistically, you'd see that the world divided into two sorts—the hunters and the prey. I know I am a hunter. Your problem, Vitansky, is that you've never decided which you want to be."

Vitansky was silent for a few minutes while Zarova nursed another drink. Then he spoke again. "I wonder if we've passed that island yet. Maybe if we try looking from the fantail, away from the cabin lights, your keen eyes can pick it out."

"Sure," said Zarova, "why not." She grabbed the vodka bottle as they left the lounge.

Outside, Zarova leaned over the rail and pulled on a double-shot. She felt morose again. It was her 33rd-birthday, and she had no one she wanted to spend it with. Just this imbecile Vitansky. Most of the time, she could find meaning and purpose in the cutthroat struggles of politics and business and the hunt. But on a quiet night like this, those vanities seemed empty. Maybe she should have made some room in her life for a family. Maybe it wasn't too late ...

She cursed herself for being maudlin. The hunter cannot afford to have attachments. Better just to stare off into the night, and feel nothing.

The darkness was so complete that it had a kind of hypnotic quality. Like sensory-deprivation, she thought. The almost sub-audible throb of the engines only added to the effect. She had the uncanny feeling of being separated from herself, as if her mind and body were sundered, leaving her physical form grounded, while her intellect wandered off into that inky blackness. Was that idea exhilarating? Or terrifying? ...

There came a sharp crack, somewhere to the right, and she snapped back to herself, instantly alert. It was the sound of a rifle shot; she had no doubt of it.

Zarova strained her eyes in the direction it had come from. Eager to pick out the slightest clue from the murky abyss of night, she stepped up onto the lower rail and craned her head and torso further out over the water. "You heard that, Vitansky?"

She felt his presence loom up, very close behind her. Vitansky was usually so deferential that it was easy to forget how physically imposing he was. Before she could react, she felt him grasp her hips and lift her up. A shout of surprise, anger, outrage welled up within her as she realized she was being tossed overboard. But it was cut short by the briny foam of the Caribbean, flooding into her mouth and down her throat.

She bobbed to the surface amid the chop and chaos of the ship's wake. Briefly, she made out Vitansky's face staring back at her, pale, indifferent, but it quickly vanished in the gloom. The lights of the yacht were receding. Zarova had a fleeting impulse to strike out after it, but she tamped it down. She couldn't afford brainless panic—she needed to maintain her nerve. After all, she told herself, she had been in worse scrapes than this.

She did scream a single time, with all her strength, thinking it might rouse someone else on the ship. But it didn't. The vessel sailed on, serene, and soon disappeared into the night. She was alone.

Zarova tried to use her head. There had been the sound of that shot. So there really must be an island out here somewhere. She kicked off her shoes, wriggled out of her blouse and slacks, and struck off toward where she thought it must be.

She rationed her strength, swimming with a slow, powerful rhythm. With every stroke the sea battled her—buffeting her with its currents, slapping her face with its unexpected crests and wavelets. Every breath became labored and waterlogged, every movement of arm and leg excruciating. It seemed that the night would never end. She was a strong woman, but she began to doubt whether she was strong enough. Maybe it would be better to yield to the sea ...

Then a high screaming whistle pierced the night and a dull reddish glow lit the sky ahead. "Flare," she gasped. She struck off toward the light with pure determination in her heart, all thoughts of surrender banished.

Before long Zarova could hear waves crashing on a broken shore, and she knew she would live. Somehow she navigated the labyrinth of rocks and reefs, though she could barely even make out the foam and spray amidst the blackness. Beyond, she found herself face to face with a shadowy bluff that descended right to the water's edge. Summoning strength she didn't know she had, she pulled herself from the sea and hauled herself up the craggy slope, scraping her hands and bare knees terribly. As soon as she found a flat patch of ground, she threw herself down into it, and fell into a dreamless sleep.

* * * * *

Zarova awoke to find the sun beating down on her from straight overhead. Taking a quick survey, she found herself surprisingly refreshed. But also famished. Obtaining food was the first priority.

She thought back to the gunshot, the flare. What did they mean? Why would anyone fire them off in such an out-of-the-way place? Drug-runners, presumably. She would need to be careful.

Her small patch of dirt lay at the edge of a vast, unbroken stretch of jungle. Its appearance was intimidating—lush, dank, densely matted and intertwined. There were no signs of animal trails, let alone a proper path. She decided to follow the coast.

That way did not prove much easier. The shoreline was rough and rocky and meandering. Zarova picked her way carefully, but her bare feet were soon sore. At length, she came upon something interesting—a spent flare shell. It gave off a whiff of gunpowder as she picked it up.

Scanning the vicinity carefully, she found a clear set of boot-tracks. They headed further along the coast, in the direction she had been travelling. That seemed promising. And as far as she could tell, the mysterious figure had been alone—there were no signs of companions. She was not about to let down her guard, but she began to hope she was not dealing with an entire drug-gang.

Zarova moved more quickly now, hunger and optimism winning out over caution and fatigue. The sun was beginning to set, and she didn't want to spend another night without food or shelter.

Just as the gloom of night had begun to fall in earnest, Zarova spotted lights ahead. Pressing on, she saw they came from a sprawling mansion of modernist design. It looked like a jumble of white cubes and cantilevers, with the whole collection perched precariously on a stony headland. All around the complex, on three sides, lay formidable cliffs and clamorous waves.

There was something unreal and incongruous about the setup. Different possibilities came to mind, some sinister, some benign. But the island had presented Zarova with no alternatives. Feeling apprehensive, ill-at-ease, she approached the massive mahogany doors and pressed the button that she found there.

There was a buzz and the doors swung open. With tentative steps, she passed into a vast entrance-hall, three stories high. The space was flooded with golden light, cast by graceful crystal chandeliers that revealed an artistic sensibility.

A trim, erect man in an expensive dinner-suit was just descending a grand staircase across from her. Surrounded by such opulence, Zarova was painfully aware, suddenly, of her bedraggled hair, her bare feet, and the ragged, salt-stiff underwear she wore. It wasn't that she felt embarrassed, exactly. She was too tough for that. But she was used to being in charge; it was strange and uncomfortable to appear so vulnerable.

Settling on English as the language most likely to be comprehended, she flashed a smile which she hoped was disarming. "P-please forgive my appearance. I fell off a ship and washed up on this island here. Might I ask for your help?" She decided it was best to leave Vitansky and being pitched overboard out of it. It would only raise questions.

The man approached her, hand outstretched, as if it were the most normal thing in the world. He seemed to measure every word carefully, and spoke with a cultured English accent. "Ah, Ms. Larisa Zarova. So pleased to make your acquaintance. Welcome to my home."

Zarova was startled, but she extended a bare arm and shook the man's hand. "You know who I am?"

"Oh, even in this backwater I can read

The Moscow Times

. I have a dedicated satellite link, you see," explained the man. "And I've followed your political career with interest. You can call me Rainsford."

The man was undeniably handsome, extremely so in fact, but there was something else about him too—something uncanny, that Zarova struggled to put her finger on. He was quite tall, approaching middle age perhaps, with a full head of raven-black hair. His eyes were black as well, and glinted keenly. He had high cheekbones, a long, angular nose, and an impenetrable expression. She was could tell he was used to giving orders, one of the world's natural aristocrats.

"We'll talk more later," he continued. "But what you want right now is fresh clothes, something to eat, and a good night's sleep. Follow me."

As they walked up the stair and through the house, Rainsford addressed her casually, as if they were old friends. "I was just sitting down to dinner, but it will keep. Once you've had a chance to change and clean up, I trust you'll come and join me. I'll enjoy the company."

He led her to a vast, well-appointed guest suite. It put the concierge level of most five-star hotels to shame, thought Zarova. Before he left, Rainsford strode into the closet, and returned with an antique-gold cocktail dress, which he laid on the bed. It was from a top Paris design house, very

au-courant

. "Perhaps you'll indulge me," he said with a smile. "Now, take your time. I'll keep the food warm."

One entire wall was mirrored, reminding Zarova how dirty and unkempt she was. She stripped off her tattered underthings, and quickly showered off the salt and sand and sweat, before drying her hair. Then she considered the dress again. It was hardly her style, but she decided she'd better humor her host. At least until she had a better grasp on the situation.

She searched the closet and drawers but couldn't find any fresh underwear. Unwilling to put the old things back on, she shimmied her naked body into the dress.

It fit surprisingly well, and its gold hue was just dark enough to set off her ivory skin and wavy, chin-length platinum bob. The design was retro, with fringe and sequins. Like something from another time, the Roaring 20's perhaps. But its straight line favored her modest bosom and slender figure, and the just-above-the-knee cut highlighted her athletic legs. Spinning before the mirror, she noticed that the fabric was very sheer. She would have to avoid being backlit.

* * * * *

She left her suite feeling rejuvenated. Navigating toward the soft lilt of classical music and the lighted sections of the house, she found her way to the dining room.

The space was magnificent, like a modern reimagining of the old medieval greatroom. The windows were vast, and the soaring ceiling was graced by delicate arched supports. Exposed beams and rough-hewn rock foundation-work gave the airy space a sense of solidity and grounding. The cherrywood table was huge and would easily have seated a party of 30. But most extraordinary was the sense that the table was situated at the center of a wildlife preserve. Game animals of all sorts were arrayed around it, captured forever in lifelike poses, as if they might come alive at any moment. Lions, tigers, moose, bears, even an elephant. Zarova had never seen anything like it.

Rainsford sat alone at the table. He brightened when he saw her enter. "Ah, Ms. Zarova, you look delightful! Might I tempt you with a drink before dinner? Vodka martini perhaps?" She nodded.

The cocktail was excellent, and so were the appointments of the room. Zarova had no idea who this man was, but he had extremely deep pockets.

They sat down to a light, delicately-flavored lemongrass soup. Rainsford eyed her a little sheepishly. "I'm afraid the staff are away at present. I hope you don't find my cooking too unpalatable."

She laughed. "It's delicious." Against her better judgement, Zarova was warming to Rainsford. She, of all people, knew not to trust appearances; yet instinctively she found herself drawn to him. He seemed friendly, approachable, urbane. Slightly eccentric, no doubt, but in a harmless way. Only... there was something about the way he looked at her. Maintaining a bit too much eye contact, perhaps, or gazing at her just a little too searchingly. But that could have all been in her head.

"You were surprised that I recognized you," said Rainsford, "but you see, I make it my business to stay abreast of things. And you have made quite a name for yourself in Russian politics in recent years. Still barely thirty and already people whisper that you will replace the Premier when he goes. It's very impressive."

"You shouldn't believe everything you read," said Zarova casually.

"I also read that you are an avid hunter. That is one passion we share in common, I think."

"These trophies are exquisite," said Zarova gazing around the room. "I've never seen anything quite like it. Are all of them yours?"

Rainsford nodded as he placed a yellowfin fillet before her. It was lightly seared, obviously freshly caught, and tasted of the sea.

"That Cape buffalo is the largest I've ever seen," she went on.

"Yes, he was a brute. Led me a merry chase and then tried his best to disembowel me."

"I believe Cape buffalo may be the most exhilarating of big game," Zarova mused. "So challenging to hunt, and then so satisfying when one bags it." Her eyes shone; it was a rare treat to talk shop with a fellow aficionado. "Do you agree?"

Rainsford smiled in response; but his expression was curious, and he was silent for a moment before he spoke. "I can see why you might think that, my dear, but I assure you there's one game animal far more exciting than the Cape buffalo." He sipped from his wine-glass. "As a matter of fact, I hunt that animal here, on my island, from time to time."

Zarova was confused. "Surely this island can't support big game?"

"I have to stock it, of course," said Rainsford.

"Tigers?" guessed Zarova.

Rainsford seemed to find this amusing. "I'm afraid I tired of tigers long ago. You see, Ms. Zarova, I live for competition. That is what drives me forward. If an animal ceases to pose a challenge, then I have no use for it. And tigers, well, they are simple creatures. I get no thrill from them."

He offered Zarova a Cuban cigar from an ornate ivory humidor, but she declined. He leaned back and puffed on his, giving the room a spicy, woody aroma.

"Then what animal do you hunt?"

"I hesitate to say," said Rainsford coyly, "I fear you will not be amused. But I am proud of this innovation, I must admit. I have completely re-invented hunting, and the results are immensely satisfying. Another glass of port?"

"Thank you."

Rainsford filled both glasses. "As I say, I was made for competition. I live entirely for those moments when I can face the best the world has to offer, with weighty stakes on the line. For a while I thought that would be in the world of business. I left Britain for Wall Street at a young age, and by the age of twenty-two I had mastered the ways of corporate finance. What I found, you see, is that money makes people depressingly predictable. No challenge at all. By the time I had fifty billions squirreled away I was so bored I couldn't get out of bed in the morning."

Zarova stiffened and eyed him narrowly. "There's no need to lie to me. If all that were true, I would have heard of you."

"My dear, I realized early on that, on balance, it would be much easier to enjoy wealth if no one knew I had it. I've been very careful to remain discreet. The NSA has no more notion that I exist than your FSB, I assure you."

He puffed at his cigar.

"I turned my hand to hunting, and for some years I could extract a thrill from that. Crocodiles in the Ganges, rhinoceroses in East Africa, black bears in your own Siberian wastes. That Cape buffalo there. But I was restless, always searching for more compelling game. My moment of crisis hit while I was in the Amazon. I had gone to hunt jaguars, for I had heard they were unusually cunning. They weren't." He sighed. "They were no match at all for a hunter with his wits about him. I was bitterly disappointed. I found myself just lying in my tent, day after day, unable to rouse myself to move, simply bored with living. Can you understand that?"

"I suppose so," said Zarova.

Rainsford smiled. "I needed a reason to go on. And I realized that hunting was ideal in all ways except one: the inadequacy of the prey. It had become too easy. you see? I no longer faced the possibility of failure. I always got my quarry. Always. And I find perfection to be painfully dull."

Rainsford paused a moment to light a fresh cigar, and Zarova found she was impatient for him to continue.

"So: no animal stood a chance against me. The question was, why? When put like that, the explanation was obvious—the animal has nothing but his instinct, while I had reason. Reason will conquer instinct every time. I don't know why I didn't realize it sooner. But once I did, I knew what I had to do."