#boacw

price sat on a fallen log, his unwilling companion on their knees in the dirt. reaching up with trembling hands, offering bite after bite.

the roasted rabbit he poached that dawn, tomatoes stolen from the vine at a farm they passed. every other bite, he sucks their fingers into his mouth, teeth grazing knuckles, biting down when they flinch or try to pull away. the fear, disgust, and loathing in their eyes a different kind of morsel.

it is a punishment, of course, for trying to slip his hold again. a heavy hand usually does the trick, but he can’t ride double with someone squirming from a bruised backside.

eventually he relents. allows them to retreat. to sulk on the other side of the campfire. through the flames he watches them rub their spit-sticky fingers over the coarse weave of their hose, trying to scrub the feel of his tongue off. he breaks that spell when he tosses them his scraps and cracks a joke about trussing them up like the rabbit. about suckling something else until they cry.