Midnight Hunt - MM Holiday Exclusive Romance

God, but what was he thinking?

Mark was so anxious while contemplating the online flyer for this…this thing. At the very least, no one could actually see him looking in the privacy of his own home. Still, even in the quiet of his duplex, Mark felt like judgy eyes were all over him while he seriously considered this folly.

The site he was on was risky, essentially a stomping ground for people in the BDSM community. It was called FETXLIFE, but generally speaking, Mark was a chronic lurker.

He had joined about six months prior, under some delusion that he’d get the balls enough to actually engage. The fantasy he had been harboring was that he’d meet some beautiful Dom and live some kind of happily ever after in fetishist paradise.

The thing was that he wasn’t exactly obsessed with the lifestyle or anything, but he was attracted to the idea of it.

Mark liked the possibility of dynamics to explore, a relationship where no one questioned kinks and instead just boldly worked with them; approved or denied, but never judged. That sounded like paradise.

Mark had always just wanted…Damn, he didn’t know how to describe it.

He wanted a partner that had equal desires to explore, he supposed— maybe equally loose outlines to color outside the normal lines that weren’t just straight vanilla sex or even the standard normal kinky positions.

Mark wanted things like roleplay. He liked the idea of tied downs, breath play, and maybe toys and paddles. Nothing insane, but enough that the few partners he had had were either not into it, pretty mild, or he hadn’t even had the opportunity to bring up his desires because it was so short-lived.

He wanted that freedom to be adventurous and to be someone new, which he supposed was why he was looking at this particular flyer.

It was a Halloween event for adults, and the name of it was Midnight Hunt.

The premise was simple.

Consenting adults got a wild night of being either a predator or the prey. It was hosted by a woman named Madame Marjorie at her palatial manor in the San Gregor Hills, which was rich-person territory to the extreme.

Her page boasted an amazing playground: garden mazes, an orchard, footbridges over winding brooks on her property, and placed at random intervals were small “gardening sheds,” aka converted love shacks.

The idea sounded like a meet-cute for kinksters and people who wanted to play hard for a night and have the option to maybe make a connection in the community, maybe walk after the chase itself, but either way, everyone could potentially get laid, get some of their desires fulfilled, and have a good time.

The party number was capped at forty people, and Mark had been watching the party list filling steadily over the last two days.

There were now two slots left.

“Fuck.” He was clammy and couldn’t believe himself when he nearly compulsively clicked ENTER HERE. Like magic, the page opened to a sign-up sheet with a registration survey.

Yes, he was over eighteen.

Yes, he understood it was a masquerade and that masks had to be worn during the Hunt.

Yes, he understood safewords and could follow basic rules regarding personal safety of all parties involved.

Sexual orientation; check, check, checkity-check-check.

Then he had to enter a brief self-description, basic stats, height, general build, hair color, and gender if applicable.

If he had to bail, he agreed to let the Madame know so she could offer the slot to another participant.

He had to present a clean bill of health to play, since, anonymous or not, Madame was not into hosting parties where her people walked away with some grievous sick-ick to show for it.

All good to know.

However, after Mark hit submit, heart hammering, a last page popped up with only two check boxes and a single question.

What role do you want to play?

Beneath that: Predator or Prey.

Mark stared at the short four-letter word anxiously before, in the boldest move of his life, quickly selecting ‘prey’, clicked submit, entered his email and phone number with some queasy, warring hope that he got the invitation but also that he didn’t.

After that, he went to shut his laptop, feeling mildly ill over the serious trigger pull from zero to sixty in his life, but finally laughed at himself while he brushed his teeth, then shut down his house for bed.

What were the odds? There were probably hundreds of people requesting an invitation, and Mark sincerely doubted he’d get selected for some exclusive masquerade party.

Still, part of him, when he lay down and shut his eyes, was pining.

If nothing else, if he got that yes, it would be guaranteed to be one hell of a Halloween story to carry home.

~

The email confirmation said that Mark would get a yes or no within twenty-four hours.

Between the time he had sent it and waking up that Friday, he was in a knot. He told himself over and over again that it was just a stupid party; that it would probably be a no, thank you, and tried to occupy his Friday off the best he could without stopping every ten minutes to check anyway.

Still, how long could it possibly take?

Granted, he had slipped in his request for a reservation at the last possible moment, but it had shown two slots open, so the assumption was that Madame was still looking for two.

The issue was that there was no real way of telling what she was trying to find.

More prey slots? More predators? More women over men? Maybe she hated blondes, which in that case he was so screwed, or maybe she was trying to balance kinks.

He had said he was pretty open-minded and left it at that, but maybe he had needed to be hyper specific? Fuck. Mark had no idea.

By one, he checked the site, and his stomach dropped with disappointment when he saw REGISTRATION CLOSED-THANK YOU! on the flyer where the ENTER HERE button had been, along with a filled-up counter that said: 40 - MAX OCCUPANCY.

Well…shit.

It wasn’t until that moment that Mark realized how much he had wanted this.

It was so bold and so unlike himself that he felt—he didn’t know—like maybe it would have broken some kind of stasis? The funk he had been drowning in lately?

He had tried online dating, and that sucked. He had even gone on a few first dates only to find himself overrun by people’s more stifling personalities, unable to get a word in, or worse, he just hadn’t found anything in common to talk about.

Stupid, but he had thought that maybe if he started out on a bold foot forward, no questions needed or intentions questioned, no conversation required to jumpstart attraction, maybe it could have been one of those things like when people met by serendipity. Like those couples who met shark diving, or hiking the Himalayas. Meeting on common ground with a shared hobby already established, in other words, or in this case, no question as to whether you might be sexually compatible or equally daring.

If nothing else, Mark might have gotten laid, or maybe simply made some friends.

He exhaled, sitting down, tousling his blond locks while he opened his emails.

Honestly, he knew what his issue boiled down to.

He had never been bold enough to seek this kind of thing out on his own merit; that, and he also worked a lot.

Assistant manager at a care home sounded a lot less high-stress than it actually was, but day to day, Mark handled intake paperwork, settling in residents, matching them to caregivers and doctors, and setting up what essentially boiled down to commissary accounts if they weren’t of sound mind.

He worked twelve-hour days Monday through Thursday, and only had that schedule after he had battled for the position over someone else vying for it equally hard.

In the end, he had a longer record on the floor, so he had gotten it, but it had been a boon to get that long weekend schedule. He had fantasized that that would be the changing point—he’d have free time to date, flirt, and go to clubs.

Turns out his long work schedule had just shielded him from the reality of his own tentative nature, so now he didn’t even have that excuse.

All food for thought, however, while in the midst of flogging himself over his own bullshit, he paused his scroll past junk mail and a few work correspondences when he saw one of the subject lines.

Congratulations. You are prey.

His stomach almost dropped through his butthole, it shocked him so badly.

“Fuck.” His heart was hammering, and yes…yeah, he was genuinely terrified, but it was that kind of terror that was more akin to getting ready to ride a roller coaster. Anticipation, wariness, maybe like you’d change your mind before climbing aboard anyway.

He hurriedly clicked it open and found a pretty straightforward message.

Dearest Prey,

Welcome to the Midnight Hunt. Attached you’ll find the QR code for gate entry, along with directions to Madame Marjorie’s estate.

Please submit your medical clearance upon receipt of this email.

Date: October 31st

Time: Gates open at 8 PM. Gate entry closes at 8:30 PM; the Hunt begins at 9 PM sharp.

Dress code: It’s Halloween! Feel free to come as you wish to be desired. Masks will be provided on entry, along with directions for use.

Initiation is at 8:35 in the Great Hall just past the Foyer; you will be directed upon entry.

Do not come intoxicated. Beverages will be provided by staff, two drinks max before the hunt, with an open bar at the conclusion of the Hunt.

Names are withheld by all participants; masks must stay on until partners mutually agree, or until the end of the hunt.

Participants can opt out at any time during the event.

Welcome, and we hope you enjoy being prey,

Madame Marjorie

Mark was wide-eyed, staring at the list of directives, then slapped his phone to his chest, nearly in a flux.

Holy fuck, but it was happening? Shit. Shitshitshit. What the hell had he done??

Suddenly, life was very real.

He was clammy when he pulled the phone forward to reread the invitation, suddenly thinking hard about what the hell he had on hand.

Luckily, he had his bill of health locked and loaded. For one, he was a single guy, so he had papers, plus he hadn’t been sexually active for God only knew how long. He also had to get blood work and all that happy horse shit for his job fairly regularly, so he had that too.

For two, he had no fucking idea what he’d wear. That “It’s Halloween!” line reminded him starkly that he hadn’t dressed up for jack shit in years.

…Well.

His eyes turned towards his bedroom. He had his old scrubs, probably a stethoscope somewhere? He could do a nurse theme. That could be sexy, right? Everyone liked nurses…right?

Fuck.

Mark scrubbed his forehead, seriously considering just canceling his request. Literally, he even tapped ‘reply’ to write an apology letter out, but instead, like he was possessed by the spirit of All Hallows Eve, he found himself typing out: Thank you so much! Can’t wait!

He hit send before he could change his mind, then popped up with fluttering nerves to go make sure he had scrubs that weren’t wrinkled nightmares, and on the way pulled up his records to send off his health reports.

Fuck it.

He could always throw in the towel if it got too intense.

He guessed he’d see what happened.