George thought she could get used to this. The last three days had been almost like a vacation. Yeah, they had to work at feeding themselves, and building or maintaining shelters, but still. George wasn't being assigned souls to take every day. She didn't have to face a boring office job to support herself. Her days--and nights--were very different now.
A couple or three hours spent foraging or checking and resetting snares in the morning, made more enjoyable by plenty of kissing and groping and the occasional frantic coupling. Between Carlos, Hugh and Tommy, George was getting a thorough education on how to clean small game for cooking, and how to cure skins under such rude conditions.
Then a swim, lunch, a "siesta" that had George stumbling back to camp on wobbly legs and high on endorphins. Their siestas weren't fooling anybody, but George was learning not to care. Amanda wasn't the only one who was jealous, just the most obvious about it, but most people seemed to be happy for her--or at worst, neutral.
Late afternoons and evenings were generally devoted to in-camp chores and dinner and socializing. George was getting much better at weaving mats with all that practice--though she was glad that the wear and tear on her fingers healed so quickly. She talked a little during the evening, but mostly she listened.
George knew a great deal about many of the other survivors now, in some cases way more than she really wanted to know. Without electronic entertainment to distract them, people talked. And talked and talked.
Not always about their lives, though. Anecdotes, jokes, ghost stories (that was traditional, and George kept quiet), and round robin question games were common. Once or twice someone began talking about foods they missed, but they were always shouted down by others who didn't want to dwell on what they couldn't have.
And when you (and by "you" George was thinking of herself and Carlos) were tired of talking, or just horny, there was always sex. When they went to bed, when Carlos got back from standing a watch, in the morning. It was glorious and ecstatic and relentless and it couldn't go on at this white hot pace indefinitely--could it?
George smiled and looked at--where was Carlos? She was waist deep in the water and Carlos was nowhere to be seen. George turned in a circle. No Carlos. He couldn't just disappear so, where...? George looked down just as hands clamped on her ankles and upended her.
George struggled to her feet, clearing hair from her face and wiping water from her eyes. Carlos popped up a few yards away, watching her intently but not moving closer. "Ah," he said, "the unwary prey has at last noticed the predator. The predator holds perfectly still, knowing that herd animals are weak and stupid and will soon forget the imminent threat."
George glared at him, but grinned. "You know, I'm right here. I can see and hear you."
"Hoping to discourage the predator, the prey bleats in protest," Carlos said, as if talking to himself. He moved a little closer. "Secure in the stupidity of the prey, the predator moves slowly closer."
George began backing away. "Knock it off," she said, knowing it was useless. "Help!"
Carlos closed a little faster. "The prey bleats for help from a hostile and uncaring world..."
George turned and tried to flee, mired in the waist-deep water. Carlos lunged. George shrieked.
[George] Lat Me Sum Up... (tag Carlos, open)
A couple or three hours spent foraging or checking and resetting snares in the morning, made more enjoyable by plenty of kissing and groping and the occasional frantic coupling. Between Carlos, Hugh and Tommy, George was getting a thorough education on how to clean small game for cooking, and how to cure skins under such rude conditions.
Then a swim, lunch, a "siesta" that had George stumbling back to camp on wobbly legs and high on endorphins. Their siestas weren't fooling anybody, but George was learning not to care. Amanda wasn't the only one who was jealous, just the most obvious about it, but most people seemed to be happy for her--or at worst, neutral.
Late afternoons and evenings were generally devoted to in-camp chores and dinner and socializing. George was getting much better at weaving mats with all that practice--though she was glad that the wear and tear on her fingers healed so quickly. She talked a little during the evening, but mostly she listened.
George knew a great deal about many of the other survivors now, in some cases way more than she really wanted to know. Without electronic entertainment to distract them, people talked. And talked and talked.
Not always about their lives, though. Anecdotes, jokes, ghost stories (that was traditional, and George kept quiet), and round robin question games were common. Once or twice someone began talking about foods they missed, but they were always shouted down by others who didn't want to dwell on what they couldn't have.
And when you (and by "you" George was thinking of herself and Carlos) were tired of talking, or just horny, there was always sex. When they went to bed, when Carlos got back from standing a watch, in the morning. It was glorious and ecstatic and relentless and it couldn't go on at this white hot pace indefinitely--could it?
George smiled and looked at--where was Carlos? She was waist deep in the water and Carlos was nowhere to be seen. George turned in a circle. No Carlos. He couldn't just disappear so, where...? George looked down just as hands clamped on her ankles and upended her.
George struggled to her feet, clearing hair from her face and wiping water from her eyes. Carlos popped up a few yards away, watching her intently but not moving closer. "Ah," he said, "the unwary prey has at last noticed the predator. The predator holds perfectly still, knowing that herd animals are weak and stupid and will soon forget the imminent threat."
George glared at him, but grinned. "You know, I'm right here. I can see and hear you."
"Hoping to discourage the predator, the prey bleats in protest," Carlos said, as if talking to himself. He moved a little closer. "Secure in the stupidity of the prey, the predator moves slowly closer."
George began backing away. "Knock it off," she said, knowing it was useless. "Help!"
Carlos closed a little faster. "The prey bleats for help from a hostile and uncaring world..."
George turned and tried to flee, mired in the waist-deep water. Carlos lunged. George shrieked.