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* Hunting Vixens 1 * -- (c)2020 Kevin Foxboy. All rights reserved

Yip. I just wanted to tell y'all a little about my visits to the Main Line Hunt Club. A few

families got together and purchased some land so they could make a sort of resort,

and they split the land along the existing access road into a family area for pre-teens,

adolescents and their parents, on the north-east; and an area for adults only, on the

south-west.

The children get to learn about nature and the furry animals we have living there. Within

the border fences we have a lake for supervised swimming in addition to the two-foot

deep pool for young children, the four-foot-deep pool for adolescents, and the six-foot-

deep pool for adults.

Surrounding the lake are ten small one-floor cottages for small families, and three

rather large cabins for small children, for adolescent girls, and for adolescent boys,

who aren't allowed near the girls or young children. The cabins each have two big

rooms with six double-deck bunk beds, plenty of room for clothing trunks, and

windows to the great outdoors, with screens for the hot summers and shutters

for the cold winters.

The small animals get their own barn, divided up and fenced in to keep small children

from bothering or hurting them. They even have ramps and low stairs to the outside

so they can run away if they need to. They're wild, but partly tame so they don't get

too upset seeing people.

The older kids get an informal animal husbandry course where they can care for the

badgers, opossums, and a small red deer herd. Just don't expect to pet them right

away. We used to have a small petting zoo out back, but the state bureaucrats got

annoyed we didn't give them kickbacks, so the health department and animal control

got ticked off.

Yeah it's private property, but once we started letting people besides the owners'

families in, the state and local party-poopers made us stop having fun.

~

Or maybe it was a consequence of us having brown bears on the property, even though

we keep the children a few thousand feet away. The bears don't bother reading the 'no

trespassing' signs, so maybe some parents complained.

Anyway, the chance to learn about nature was what got me involved, first as a six-

year-old girl, then each summer till I was eleven, then my parents moved into separate

homes and shuttled me back and forth till I was sixteen.

I was really glad they let me back; I wasn't sure with all the nanny-state safety restric-

tions they had to accept "for the visitors' safety". Bullshit. Now the private tour cars

had to have roll bars, and they made everyone buckle themselves down with racecar

five-point harnesses. Like anyone would be so dumb as to try to step out of the open

cars if they were still moving.

No, strike that; anyone that dumb *deserves* to get injured. I'd had to learn that life

includes dangers to watch out for; the snooty rich assholes who had nothing else

but file idiot lawsuits should learn too, and leave us alone. Fewer people who thought

their riches meant others should serve them would improve the human gene pool.

My next shock was the rebuilt cottages and cabins. We're out in the woods, fer

chrissakes, let folks make wooden houses that blend in. But oh no, now they had

to be frickin' cinderblocks that look like World War Two Nazi prison barracks!

Some damn idiot had probably tried to pick up a kerosene lantern and couldn't figure

out that burning liquids are hot, so use the wood handle. Oh no, that would make too

much sense! It wasn't the stuck-up nincompoop's error, it had to be the lantern's fault

for burning him, and the manufacturer, and the Hunt Club owners and employees...

Anyone but the stupid idiot himself. Oh, please!

Ok, so I get on a rant, bite me.

~

Anyway, I've asked everyone at the resort to call me Alice ever since I was six. Not

that it's my real name, but it was the first time I was away from home for an entire

summer. Sorta like an actor using a stage name, and I got a kick out of everyone

using the name Alice.

So I started wondering if anyone used their real name, but I wanted people to call

me Alice, so it was only right to use the name they gave and not pry. At six years

old it was just a fun game, but they got used to Alice and I got used to their names.

So each year when I came back with my parents, they started calling me Alice for

six years of summers.

Then at eleven my parents broke up and I had to live with mom's little sister who

was adult but a bit wild. She had her own house rules and spanked me if I was bad

and broke them, even when I turned twelve; but she didn't always bother wearing a

skirt or blouse inside her own home.

Panties and bra were OK, and a terry robe for coverup when someone came to the

door. So she could hardly spank me for doing the same, or just a bikini in summer.

Her house, her rules; and I wasn't quite old enough to worry her about showing

breasts or groin hair.

Until I turned thirteen and sprouted. Actually my aunt still didn't get upset if I came

home from school and wanted to undress; she did it often enough I learned about

adult bodies. I guess because she was younger than Mom she didn't have body

image issues, and she didn't want me to start.

And then there were the 'troubles' every month. Without getting squicky, I was old

enough now to be growing up and growing out, and this was my young body starting

to experiment with my female fertility. I had to deal with it trying to get ready to make

babies once a month, until my aunt and her group of adult lady friends brought some

herbs and made a kind of tea that didn't taste good but did make me feel better.

I'd grown up hearing about the Lord's virility and the Lady's fertility, and now I was old

enough to find out about the herbs and the rituals. We didn't mind using aspirin or cold

medicine if we got sick. I even knew about boiling willow tree bark to treat headaches.

Anyway, so at thirteen I was old enough to meet my aunt's men and women friends.

As some of the more astute readers have probably surmised, they were pagans, and

this was their coven. They let me in as a junior member; although my body was newly

adult, the local, state and federal laws said I was still a child and needed them to pro-

tect me.

From what, you may ask. Mostly from naughty people, most of whom were men, as

it happens. Why not get rid of all the naughty men and make society safer and better

off? I just happened to know some rituals to do that...

So I'm supposed to trust one bunch of people I don't know, to protect me from another

bunch of people I don't know? I'd seen enough man-bashing movies on Lifetime cable

(where it's always some kind-seeming man stalking or home-invading some unguarded

woman or family. Usually with a guy around who doesn't believe the woman or child

trying to convince him there's danger. And then he's ineffectual against the bad guy

anyway. And don't bother trying to tell the police; they're too busy or jaded to bother,

or they're the stalker in disguise.)

OK, sure, there are naughty and downright evil people out there. But these movies seem

to say that women and kids are always victims, especially of others they're supposed

to be able to trust. And they just have to take it, until they get backed into a corner and

grab an impromptu weapon, attack the baddie and save their child and themselves.

This isn't female empowerment, it's violence born of desperation. Sometimes the

victim even ends up going to jail for murder. Just to shout at you that life is unfair,

and there's really nothing you can do, nyah nyah nyah, tune in again tomorrow.

Female empowerment would be, as soon as you see someone skulking around

outside, you remember your police-sanctioned firearm safety course, reach in the

back of the pantry, trip the hidden catch, grab your trusty 9mm, slap the clip home,

*leave the safety on*, don't go running around with an armed loaded deadly weapon,

open the arrowslit, and yell out "go away, the three of us know how to fight, and

we're not afraid to kill you all!"

'Three of us?' you ask. You only saw one woman through the window. Run away

while you still can, because she's got Smith and Wesson, with a side order of Glock

and a ticked-off home-defense all ready for ya.

~

OK, now you're probably wondering, what the frell does this have to do with the Main

Line Hunt Club, and if you've read Kevin's stories about young adults dressing up as

vixens to be chased, or as dogs to chase, you're also confused about this one. Well

just hang on and keep reading; I'll get to the hunt costumes shortly.

My point is, one, people should have the right to defend themselves in their own

homes with deadly force if necessary; two, going outside to gun down someone

in a hoodie walking away down the street is murder, not self-defense; three, a guy

with dark skin shooting a guy with white skin (or vice versa) just cause he looks

different, is racism not justice.

The Hunt Club was formed by men and women who wanted to teach adults about

responsible handgun use. You can't pull a bullet back, so it's up to the gun owner

to make damn sure they know what they're pointing at, to make sure they hit what

they aim at and not the range safety officer, and to get used to firing, calm down

and not have shaking hands.

The gun is a tool, it doesn't have any sense, it requires whoever

holds it to exercise all the caution and do all the careful thinking.

So anyway, here I am, a girl of thirteen learning how to shoot a small revolver safely.

Remember, even Dirty Harry Callahan didn't go around shooting wildly, just the guy

running out of the bank carrying a suitcase while the alarm sounds, and he was a

trained cop. Oh, and he's fictional, while this revolver was real.

The S&W 317 chambered in .22LR is small enough to fit in my hand and light enough

I don't hurt myself on the recoil. I admit I'm not as strong as the men, and anyway, the

LR's six-grain powder, 40-grain bullet is enough to practice aiming with. Keep in mind a

handgun isn't held up to the eye, so you learn to adjust to your hand a few feet lower

and off to the side.

At the Hunt Club beginning shooters start with .22 short (4/19gr) in starter pistols;

they make enough noise to get used to without flinching. Then we move up to .22

long (5/19) and then .22 LR (6/30, 6/40) to really get those tin cans flying, or make

a real mess with tomatos. With a handgun it's also a good idea to wear a thin

shooter's glove - it saves your hand from getting burning gunpowder on it.

Now one thing they're sticklers on is gun safety. If you don't keep the chambers and

barrel clean, bits of unburned gunpowder build up and the gun can explode in your

hand! The MLHC has people certified by the USA Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Fire-

arms and Explosives to not only know gun safety, but teach others.

We generally want folks to give their gun barrels a quick damp mop after every six

revolver shots; remember the cans and veggies don't fight back, so you're not in any

danger, except from yourself if you aren't careful. The cleaning fluid dissolves the

excess gunpowder, and the wadding removes it from the barrel; I've seen new

shooters get surprised by how much black comes out with the cylinder open.

~

The MLHC owners separate target practice from animal hunting. They do have bigger

handguns and rifles the trained employees use for defense; we don't go poking around

the thickets or rock walls just to annoy animals. We don't often see big predators; I

think generations of humans bumbling around the forest scared off their prey. We do

take precautions with anything having a scent, including bubblegum and chapstick, to

keep the bears away.

But without small animals just hanging around waiting to get shot and mounted as

trophies, the hunters get antsy and forget animals don't wear bright orange vests. So

the MLHC lets people get healthy exercise by putting on furry costumes and running

along marked paths.

You may think we're just kinky, or downright indecent, but you've seen men and women

at the beach wearing just skimpy swimsuits, and not getting complaints. I don't have a

problem wearing a tan-through two-piece showing my bare arms, bare legs, bare back

and bare middle; but the furry trim gets the men's eyes off my covered groin and cov-

ered breasts.

As I've said, I don't mind total nudity as long as the men don't just stare, but respect my

human rights. Men are allowed nudity too, and it's a social requirement for everyone

to undress at the south-west pond. Puts us all in the same condition, and it's OK to ask

someone to apply sunscreen as long as you return the favor, and limit your fondling of

bare skin to the lotion.

There's a set of hedges and low thick shrubs surrounding the public side of the pond,

hiding a wood privacy fence painted green, and an arm of fence inside at each gate.

Even if nude sunbathers walk along the fence, the preteens and prudes can't see.

I found out about the pond and the social nudity when I came back the summer I turned

sixteen. After all, I learned about the clothing-optional lifestyle from Aunt Wilma, and

nobody outside the house and coven ever complained, so I like to think they never knew.

I was a bit shocked to find out about the sunscreen fondling, because the quick glances

I got looked a lot like the coven rituals I'd seen. Maybe a lot of adults and almost-adult

teens were pagan and clothing-optional, just followed a different path in their covens.

Anyway, clothes were optional, and another option was the low-rise, low-coverage tan-

thru bikinis on women and girls, and the low-/low- bikini briefs on the men. All the girls

had seen each others' curves and the men's bulges, and of course the adults had seen

more, and nobody jumped on the men or women for sex. Just ask, and even when

someone's already busy, there's usually several luscious young willing adults of your

favorite gender.

I saw my aunt's coven rituals when I turned thirteen, and the MLHC's men and women

in brief bikinis when I was sixteen; and I heard about the sex but wasn't allowed to learn

until I turned eighteen. Since my body was fertile at about thirteen and I had plenty of

older women to guide me, I don't understand what the big deal was.

I'm getting to the skimpy-costume hunts, I promise!

~

I'd been wandering around the Hunt Club property by myself since I first came here

when I was six, the summers warm and the land verdant. I stayed near the young girls'

cabin at first, walking to the long house where the employees slept and we all had

our breakfast and dinner. Lunch was more relaxed, and we ate outdoors on different

cabins' porch steps.

I think I mentioned the property used to have a petting zoo, and I learned to help feed

the pigs, goats, sheep, cows and ponies. I learned to watch out for the tails and walk

away when they flagged up; and I learned where to look to tell the females from the

geldings and the males.

After a few summers I became a bit bolder, and when I learned about guns my aunt

bought me a .22 bolt-action rifle. I carried it around unloaded of course, it wasn't a

semi-automatic to have a safety switch. I carried mostly .22 short cartridges, just

enough of a bang to scare the foxes away, and some blanks in case I got lost and

needed help.

I like to pretend I was alone during those walks, but I realized later on that I was

probably followed at a safe distance by one of the older girls. I think the older

boys followed the younger boys, but I'm pretty sure I never imagined they'd do

anything naughty. The property was just too nice to risk having to leave if they did.

I began to watch the foxes, just playing around it seemed, teaching the kits how to

hunt and cuddling the vixens with their big bushy tails. I wanted to know how it felt

to run my fingers through their fur; and I started leaving some breakfast scraps on

a rock wall.

Soon enough the scraps were gone when I came back from a walk, and I never lead

the growing kits nearer the humans. I did wonder what it'd feel like to cuddle them

or let them cuddle me. I had to make do with the various breeds of dogs on the

property. Watching them roll over for a belly rub was rather fun.

I and the other hunt club guests always entered the dining room from the side steps,

although from inside we could see the big screened windows with wood shutters,

the window where the cooks passed plates of food in, and the kitchen door where

people who bussed tables took used plates. It was a rule that guests could take as

much food as they wanted, but they had to eat all they took.

The remaining door into what had once been an old farmhouse was almost always

closed. Only once did I get a glimpse of a friendly-looking room with an old-fashioned

pot-bellied stove, a small chimney beside a flight of stairs, a large free-standing book-

case and an open door to another porch.

I think the farmhouse had a lot of additions over the years; the dining room and second

kitchen were probably add-ons when the MLHC bought the farm. There's a rather large

meeting room on the other end from the dining room with a cosy big fireplace at the far

end, two doors to the outside, one to that other porch, and the fourth to the office.

That would place the office beside the porch, next to the staircase. From outside, you

could see a whole second floor, from the far end of the meeting room to the start of

the dining room; and if you took the compacted dirt road that led to the gate, just past

the building with showers to the switchback that led past the boys' cabin, you could

see the back of the house from the meeting room past the dual kitchens, nestled up

with a narrow path to the dirt dug out to place the farmhouse.

~

At sixteen I learned about the organized hunts the club was named after. I think I

mentioned the foxes around the property; almost as much opportunists as the

raccoons! However, they were never as much fun to chase as the ones in England,

and besides why spend all that time chasing little animals that never bother you?

So the MLHC owners decided to do something rather kinky: they had men and women

volunteer to sew and glue fake fur onto those skimpy briefs and bikinis, then they'd

run or jog along marked trails, and sportsman guests without guns would chase them

on horseback!

Actually, more recently the fake fur is sewn on runners of material that lets you drape

it on and run it through loops in the bikinis, around your back and curving under the

breasts, then between and up along the bra straps to tie at the back of the neck where

the head hair hides it. There're two short runners of fur on the outsides of the breasts

just to completely hide the bikini bra.

The men just go around bare-chested with their muscles flexing

and the sweat from running making them glisten in the sunlight... yum.

And then there are the cloth runners to make the legs and waist look furry. It takes

a while to get comfortable in just the skimpy bikinis, and the fur brushing against

bare skin. Oh, and the waist runner ties the fake fluffy tail on, to brush the backs

of your thighs and give you a thrill.

I highly recommend all readers to get fur costumes and go around

with it stroking your bare arms and legs, back belly and chest.

~

It's quite warm in the summers, even high up in the mountains where the hunt club

nestles between the city reservoir and the trees growing wild, marching up the rolling

hills. The view from the long house porch includes the wide open blue sky, the clearing

and fire lookout tower a few mountains away, the treetops and bare rock formations,

the working farm halfway down the mountain, the cows from said farm wandering up

and eating the grass so it doesn't get too tall, and the grass with its seed pods waving

around in the breeze coming up the mountain.

Then there's the family of farm workers hauling feed to the barns, and waste from

them. Mostly young men with their well-muscled arms, legs and chests, bare in the

summer heat, sitting on their animals or tractors... Yum and yip. But I digress.

As I've said, I grew up with a relaxed attitude towards wearing clothing, and five years

living clothing-optional at Aunt Wilma's home got me used to wearing nothing at all.

I still don't really understand why so many Americans get so upset with casual nudity;

and it's only the boys and men who grew up in more prudish homes who want to touch

my growing body and think if I undress, it has to be for sex.

Mind you, as I've grown up, I've seen plenty of boys and girls wearing the minimum of

clothing. But I was brought up in coven, and most of our ritual celebrations of the year

cycle are done skyclad. It's not for kink, or to squick the mundanes; we're celebrating

nature, so we do it /au natural/.

I've brought many pagan customs to the MLHC once I found a coven, and we're willing

to show the adults if they don't just tease us or think we're just having orgies. It's on

private property, but we still observe mundane decency laws by excuding those under

eighteen from the skyclad rituals.

I think the animal costumes are a way to sneak respect for nature and animals into

people's lives. We pagans don't purposely annoy those who want to hunt, and we don't

toss animal blood on them to offend them, like PETA activists do. What we do is try

to teach hunters to respect the animals' sacrifice, not treat killing as a right. We're

way past the times when so many animals threatened people's farms.

~

As I've said, I'm frequently nude in the adult half of the club property, or wearing a

bikini when I do housework. I've been living at the MLHC long enough I want to give

something back, and the property does need quite a bit of maintenance. Now if you've

never seen an eighteen-year-old woman scrubbing the cabin floor, c'mon over as a

guest at the property.

I don't mind men watching me with a cart carrying a pail of hot water, floor cleaner

and big sponge, with a bikini or nude, down on my knees bent over, working up a slight

sweat on my exposed curvy body. In fact I rather enjoy them wanting to look me over,

see how my body moves, appreciate my skill at covering the floor area.

I must admit, what with the nanny-state regulations on building, the cabins are painted

to try to hide the ugly cinderblocks. Inside, the paint fills in the rough cinder, and the

linoleum floors are easier to scrub clean than the old wood floors. And they're easier

on my knees and those of the other cleaning staff. No splinters now.

I make sure to wear a bikini when the cabins are occupied, just in case adults or

children aren't used to seeing nude eighteen-year-old young women. I don't actually

mind hiding my groin or restraining my luscious breasts. Two cups surround my

curves, gently holding the curves outside, under and especially between them; and

the cups are held around my chest as well as between them.

And the bikini bottom covers my hips, groin and rump, so I'm decent even for the

prudes. As I've said, you've likely seen more skin on public beaches, it just looks

like the men and women are wearing practically nothing. The tan-though material

is actually tough enough to get pulled on a bit, and it's doubled in panels covering

the front, under the neath, and behind.

Even the men's interesting bulges are covered, and held up in their support. I've gotten

more appreciative of their muscular bodies as I've become an adult. My feminine curves

are held from bouncing even as I scrub the floors, supported held out as offerings to

men. I get a giggle out of the mundane's struggle between their male curiosity and

society's prudishness.

"Don't look. OK look, but don't touch. Well touch, but don't enjoy." I call bullshit; in my

coven, none of the men or boys - or women or girls for that matter - ever touched me

or any of the children inappropriately. They had plenty of older girls to look over, hug

and kiss, casually touch, lick, hold, caress and fondle.

What's important is that they ask the woman first, and get her informed consent before

touching. In my coven growing up, and now in my MLHC coven, boys are taught respect

for female fertility, as girls are taught respect for male virility. It's the Lady's and Lord's

gift to humans, and to avoid conflicts, we have self-respect and social customs.

~

Ok, now I've mentioned the skimpy bikinis and briefs, and the furry trim that lets us

pretend to be biped animals to run around and get chased. I've read Kevin's stories

about the full furry costumes; and the hunt club operates year-round, so we don't get

too sweaty running around fur-clad.

Now if you've never worn a fur-trimmed bikini or briefs, I suggest you get out more,

because I can assure you it's a fun activity. Or come on over to the MLHC and run

along one of the marked trails wearing thin shoes and fur trim, either chasing some-

one or being chased. Or even by yourself or in one of our exercise groups.

After you get comfy in the fur trim, why not get kinky and try one of our full fur-suits?

I personally enjoy dressing up as a vixen, with that sexy bushy fake tail giving me a

thrill by swinging and brushing up against my mostly bare rump and thighs in the bikini,

or waving back and forth in the motion harness when I wear the full suit.

The Japanese have done some interesting work with animatronics, and the look of

surprise when a fursuiter walks up with a full furry face mask, the ears swiveling and

the mouth opening and closing as he or she talks, is really quite gratifying. I do enjoy

my sexy female curves accentuated by the close-fitting fur costume, including the

support bra showing the shape of my breasts.

Go ahead, look, touch, enjoy. Just don't squeeze too hard; they're real, not just silicone

fakes. Frequently I dress up as a vixen, but I've also been a dog bitch of various breeds,

and sometimes a badger or pine marten. Oh, and maybe a weasel or ferret. Dook, giggle.

Sometimes a guest will ask me about the costume, why I don't wear padding to smooth

out my chest, because actual female animals have nipples as mammals, but not the

nice curvy breasts we humans have. Have they ever tried breathing in a tight corset or

breast straps?!

Ok I admit I often wear padding around children or older adults who might object. I don't

want to give kids nightmares seeing storybook characters with sexy bodies, but I've

never gotten complaints, just surprised questions. Only parents seem overly sensitive,

but if you've seen that Disney mermaid lady with just seashells, you'll wonder what the

hoopla is all about.

Sometimes for the MLHC adults, I'll wear a second or even third bra under the fursuit.

With six breasts sized C (my real ones), B and A, and then another pair of nipples, I can

really look like a biped furry female. Authenticity, don'cha know.

Some of the MLHC folks are looking into special-effects fake chests with six breasts

and eight nipples to have under the full-body fur suits. I've even worn multibreasts on

public beaches, making sure a one-piece swimsuit covers my chest. I've never gotten

a real complaint, just 'what kind of a freak are you?!' comments. And lots of stares,

mostly from men who might have a breast fetish.

I think Kevin explained how the MLHC fursuits work; how the hemp weave is loose

enough to let heat out, strong enough to hold the weight of the fake fur, and the thigh

pieces end in flannel cuffs to fit the leg pieces so there's enough slack we can fold

our knees, without being too baggy when we stand.

We started out wearing biped suits with separately-stitched torso, arm and hand, leg

and foot parts, with cuffs to cover them being fitted together. When we got outsiders

interested in the costume hunts, folks worked out foam shapes to fill out baggy legs

to make them look digitigrade without being heavy and pulling the material.

~

When I turned eighteen, the MLHC staff gave me a birthday party, which I sort-of

expected, and the costumers gave me my own vixen fursuit, which I hadn't. Oh, I'd

been in on the group discussions, and the folks seemed to listen to my ideas, but

I'd thought it was just to make all our costumes look more authentic.

When I say "red fox vixen", you probably have in mind a small, four-footed animal.

Please remember that fox animals are vulpine, not canine, although both groups

are canids. It really shouldn't be a strain on people's brains to learn the scientific

terms for taxonomy, or remember the differences.

In addition, there are several species of actual foxes in a few genera, including

/Dusicyon/, /Urocyon/, and my fave, /Vulpes/. I hereby present (giggle) my friend

Cindy as an example of /Urocyon cinereoargenteus/), the gray fox; and by the way,

if you're looking around the MLHC grounds for her, be sure to look up in the trees,

because this sexy vixen likes to climb wearing her complete fursuit including claws

on her footpaws and handpaws.

Oh, and you'll often find Steve in his gray fox todsuit, either on a nearby tree limb

or up another tree. They seem to enjoy hanging out together, even if animal vixens

don't usually give their tods the time of day unless they're in season or raising kits

together. Both tricked out their fox costumes with furry heads and lower jaws that

move with their wearers, as well as swiveling ears.

Oh, and don't forget the oval eye pupils, 42 teeth in their sexy narrow

snouts, no black 'gloves' or 'socks', strong claws and black tail stripe.

It was a few years after I got my vixensuit and started walking, jogging and running

along the MLHC's marked trails that I really got into the thrill of being a hunt girl. I

know, I'm over eighteen now, and my body's been adult for years, but I don't really

mind being called 'girl'.

It's just a custom, and I'm called 'woman' unless I'm wearing fur. Even if I'm scrubbing

cabin floors in just my bikini, I don't mind 'girl' because I am in fact obviously female,

and I want men to know it.

In the five summers since I was here at six years old, I saw the staff carrying surveyers'

equipment and rolls of colored plastic striping. They would walk around the forest

marking pathways in green, yellow, red and blue; and tie the plastic around trees after

measuring out, oh say fifty to a hundred feet.

I knew enough to leave the markers alone, that they weren't meant as toys. I figured out

the colors marked trails for beginners, intermediate (yeah I knew the big word, even if I

had a little trouble pronouncing it), and advanced role-play hunters. In the evenings the

staff was quite willing to talk about their work, and I was one of the few non-employees

to ask about it.

Blue was for expert hunters, beyond advanced. These people didn't even need trodden

paths among the trees; they could keep up a run, even up and down hills and stone

fences, just looking for the hundred-foot markers. And that went for both the hunters

and the hunted.

It took a long time for me to get that skilled, and I was a guest before I went on staff,

taking my time each day to work out the landmarks and avoid the dangerous false

steps. I realised there were one, two and three mark paths at each skill level, making

twelve marked paths for hunting.

I also knew some paths ran along the stone fences quite a distance before crossing,

and sometimes ran along the other side too. These 'beginner' paths were easy to run

or horse-ride along, but with enough changes of scenery to avoid boredom. I started

to enjoy running along, flipping my fake foxy tail up at the crossings to show the red-

and-green scarf tied on, to help the hunters follow along.

The fact that flipping my tail was slightly crude, and showed my furry rump and thighs

briefly covered by the skimpy bikini, was a source of amusement for both the hunted

vixen and the mounted hunters. It was a tease to show what they'd be allowed to run

their fingers through, should they catch me and thus win the hunt.