Winifred stood proudly in the gray light of dawn. A hair over five feet tall, seven stone, and barely nineteen years old, she was stark naked save a pair of Jack’s childhood hunting boots and a bright red fox hat, its tail flapping in the wind. She blushed down to her navel, and her green eyes burned with fear and excitement.
Jack and the others watched her stand there, her cream skin with nary a blemish nor a freckle was sheened with morning dew. Her smallish breasts were high and pert, the curve of her bottom seemed to jut out at a lurid angle. Her chest heaved, and her heart raced from the shame of being naked, the joy of being the savior of the foxes, and, if Jack guessed correctly, the wicked thrill of being wildly bad.
She turned, the contrast of the black of the boots against her white skin making her seem even more naked and the bright splash of carrot orange between her legs directing every eye down to the virgin shadow every man in the hunting party almost painfully longed for.
Norman Gordon-Stanton, tallish, lean, bespectacled, and wearing a dark gray hunting suit and deerstalker, took off his gloves to shake Jack’s hand properly.
“An outstanding diversion,” he said, clasping Jack’s hand and shoulder.
The other seven men murmured, “hear hear!”
Lord Strachey, by far the cruelest among the hunters, took a rifle from his valet and aimed it high into the air and away from the group and the girl. Even though they knew the sound was coming, each man jumped a bit as the thunderous crack of the shot echoed through the woods.
Winifred jumped at the sound and, startled, turned in a flash and ran. The poor thing managed only a few feet before she stumbled and tripped forward, her white knees painted green and red with grass and blood. She waited there for a moment on all fours, like the very game she was proxy for, and unknowingly gave the hunters a view of the pink split peach between her thin legs.
Jack’s hands tightened into fists in his leather gloves, and he suddenly felt very good about his marital choice.
After a moment, the girl finally got up, and without looking back, she sprinted into the woods.
Strachey fetched something small and white from his saddlebag. Jack saw it was a pair of his child-bride’s knickers. The cruel man rubbed said garments into the dogs’ noses, which waited as patiently as hounds could.
“They’re good boys, they won’t hurt her,” he promised with a steely glare.
The clubmen held the hounds back as they mounted their horses. They gave the girl a fighting chance, then, after a good fifteen minutes, the horn was blown, and they were off.