God of the Woods

Annoyance floods me as I check my watch for the umpteenth time in the past twenty minutes. My younger brother’s MIA for the third time this week! “What a pain in the ass!”

I know he hasn’t forgotten me. It’s just that he doesn’t want me stinking up the cab of his new truck. But what he doesn’t know is I’m so tired I’d let him lash me across the hood like a deer carcass. Sure, there are washing facilities at the plant, but hot water is always in short supply. I’d rather put up with the stench of fish for another hour than suffer a cold shower.

Damn it! The sooner my truck is out of the shop, the better. I hate having to rely on my brother to get me to and from work. I stamp my foot, pain shooting up my leg, reminding me I’ve spent the past twelve hours on my feet. That my arms are like noodles is a testament to wielding a filleting knife for almost as long.

Still, it could be worse. At the height of the season, we were pulling sixteen-hour days, meaning I had to sleep in the dormitory with all the other women. As soon as the hours had dropped enough to allow for it, I was back home.

I still can’t believe I’m living with my folks. The global downturn had seen me made redundant from my security job in Seattle, with people seeming to think their stuff wasn’t worth guarding anymore. How stupid was that?

With nothing other than minimum-wage crap on offer, and my credit card debt through the roof, there had been nothing for it but to move back home to “Shitka”, Alaska.

Obvious drawbacks aside, at least here I could live rent-free and get work that paid better. Not that I’d choose to work in a fish processing plant, but beggars can’t be choosers and all that.

This isn’t where I thought I’d be at this stage in my life. After finishing the arts degree that my folks had said was a waste of time, I’d struggled to find work. In the end, I’d had to give up on my dream of working in a gallery and settle for a job with a security firm. There were bills to pay.

What had started out as a stopgap had turned into an okay job when management realized I had more brain cells than all their other employees put together. Not that those same brain cells had done me any good when contracts started dropping like flies.

All I had to show for the job when I left was a cardboard box full of dinky desk ornaments, a letter of recommendation, and a propensity to swear. More than someone with an arts degree should.

I had to hand it to my folks, though; they hadn’t once pulled any of that “we told you so” crap. I think they knew I was taking care of that myself.

With thoughts of failure continuing to run through my tired brain, I stare without focus at the spectacular view before me. Growing up amid all this beauty, I don’t see it anymore. Even paradise wears thin when you’d rather be somewhere else.

As I stand there fuming, I face a simple enough question. “Forward or backward?”

I’d already walked a couple of miles toward home to reach my brother’s prearranged pickup point. This meant my options were to walk back to the plant or push on. I’d call and abuse Josh, but a pathetic signal meant my phone was only fit for selfies, and I wasn’t indulging in those when I was a hot mess.

Just three more miles to my folks’ place and a home-cooked meal; less if I take the shortcut through the forest that pops out opposite our driveway. Thankfully, it’s summer, or as summery as it ever gets in Alaska.

Resigned, I swing toward home. My feet hurt, my legs are tired, and the rest of my body is ruined too. It’s this exhaustion that has me deciding ahead of time to cut through the forest. It’s not that it’s dark and spooky—there’s still plenty of light. It’s more that I’ll need to keep my wits about me to make sure I don’t get trampled by a moose or taken out by a bear.

As I walk along, I scan the side of the road, soon spotting what I’m after. The branch is small enough to carry but, if I sling my jacket over it, large enough to make any bear think twice about attacking me. Well, that’s the theory, anyway.

I swing off the sealed road and onto the narrow gravel track that is all that’s between me and a moose casserole. With no chance of being run over, I drop my lump of tree on the ground, ditch my backpack, and shrug out of my jacket. There’s no missing the coolness of the day, leaving me thankful that along with heavy-duty jeans, I’m also wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt and a hoodie.

I put my jacket on the branch, shoving twigs into each sleeve before closing the zipper to hold it in place. Luckily, the branch has heaps of little twigs in all the right places, allowing my jacket to achieve a human-like silhouette.

“You’ll have to do,” I say to my new walking buddy and self-defense device while threading my arms through the shoulder straps of my backpack. After slinging the branch over one shoulder, I stride out along the track with fake enthusiasm.

Given how bone-tired I am, I make pretty good time, all the while scanning the forest and keeping an eye out for any movement. Nothing’s happening other than the leaves shivering in an almost nonexistent breeze. All is quiet apart from the twitter of birds and the loud crunch of gravel underfoot.

When the crunching stops, my senses go on high alert. I’ve walked down this track enough times to know the gravel goes all the way through to the other road. Sure, the undergrowth is trying to overtake it in places, but there’s always that base of rock to make it suitable for quad bikes. It’s also perfect for the dog teams who use the area to practice during the summer months.

Looking down, it takes a moment for me to comprehend that I’m up to my ankles in mud. Given it hasn’t rained in days and there’s no other water source around here that I know of, this shouldn’t be possible.

I turn back to face the way I’ve come, but it does me no good. The track I’ve just crunched my way along has disappeared and been replaced by a river of mud.

Despite swiping my hand across my eyes, the scene before me doesn’t change one iota. “Damn it, I need a vacation,” I mutter before turning back to continue home.

Well, I would if there weren’t a man standing in my way.

“What the hell?” I stagger back, unable to comprehend what I’m looking at.

For one thing, the guy is naked, although not entirely. The bits that should be covered are, but it’s how they’re covered that takes my breath away. No loincloth for this guy. Instead, his cock and balls are encased in what looks to be a custom-made leather condom of sorts.

The mid-tan hide is a perfect match to his skin tone and is tooled all over with intricate patterns. It’s too snug a fit to be called a codpiece, being as it is lashed together in a herringbone pattern along the underside of his cock.

As though to add extra emphasis to its extraordinary length, there’s a leather cord threaded through a loop on the end that then wraps around his muscled waist. The setup is both tidy and intimidating in turn. Just like the man himself.

The guy’s like a mashup of National Geographic and Cosmo centerfolds.

It’s only when he coughs that I stop my detailed examination of his equipment. However, it still takes me a while to look him in the eye, given I have to devote some further attention to what I encounter on the way up.

He’s covered in tattoos, with swirling vines and leaves covering his muscled torso like a living chest plate.

When my gaze clashes with his, I’m further stunned. To call his eyes green doesn’t do them justice. They’d give spring leaves a run for their money, and I’m sure it’s only a trick of the light, but they seem to glow.

These luminescent orbs are edged with dark brown lashes that make mine appear moth-eaten by comparison and are topped with eyebrows that hint at a quick temper. His hair is long and also deep brown.

After sniffing the air, he takes a step in my direction. It’s too close for comfort, with my sense of self-preservation kicking in just as my self-defense instructor said it would.

I jump back to give him room to crumple in a heap at my feet, but he does no such thing. I’m still wearing my steel-capped work boots, so for him to remain standing after I’ve introduced one to his leather-encased cock and balls is of major concern.

Of even more concern is the anger that springs to life in his eyes, changing them from leaf green to something altogether more reminiscent of sludge.

“Subdue and have her washed.” He sniffs the air again. “Make it thorough.”

It takes a heartbeat for my tired brain to work out he’s not talking to me. But before I can react to the new arrival, a large hand lands atop my head, and my brain buzzes like a bee caught in a mason jar.

Not that this slows my reaction. I twist, ready to introduce my footwear to some more reproductive organs, but the palm stays where it is and the buzzing increases to the point things get blurry.

I’m sinking in an ungraceful heap on the ground when I hear Green Eyes say, “No, wait! I think I’ll wash her myself.”

I black out to the sound of rich male laughter.