3. Desperate for some action

"I'm not certain what type I want you to be," I reply. "Looking at you sat there, I'd have said you were laid back like a type one. You certainly have a lot to say for yourself; type two. And you seem eager to get inside my pants; type three."

"Ah! But you're not wearing any pants, are you?" smiles Cato.

"That is for me to know, and you to merely speculate about," I reply primly.

"Hah! You're a feisty one. I like you," replies Cato, not the least bit put off by my words.

I've nearly finished my drink and I must decide what I'm going to do once I'm done. I feel safe enough clutching my hot drink. If Cato gets too forward, I can always toss my drink in his face and make a dash for my compartment. I'm fairly sure he won't follow me if I do. It'll be a less than elegant retreat, but at least I'll be safe.

Safe. There's an interesting concept. When and where in Panem am I ever going to be safe. When was I ever safe in this cesspit of a world. Safety only exists in your imagination and in fairy tales. I'm kidding myself if I think anything that I do is going to guarantee my safety. So scrub safety and go for broke.

"So are you going to tell me which of these mysterious types you are being tonight?" I say.

"Actually, I'm none of them. The gamemakers don't bother adding drugs to the food of the Districts One and Two tributes. We're all trained warriors, so we don't need the bottled courage the drugs provide."

"And what about Effie and Haymitch? Are they drugged as well. They're supposed to be watching over Peeta and I. They can't do that if they're spaced out on some drug."

"No, they'll have taken an antidote to counter the effects of the drug. Although I'm not certain how it'll affect Haymitch if he's been hitting the bottle as usual. Alcohol and drugs are a bad combination under any circumstances. I'm betting he'll be zonked out for the rest of the night. Why do you ask? Do you feel in need of their protection?"

"No. I'm quite capable of taking care of myself," I reply. "I feel sorry for you though. It's a shame really. Here you are ready and willing to take advantage of my sweet virginal bod, but if what you've said is true, then you can't touch me. I'm under the influence of the gamemakers' drugs, while you aren't. Make a false move and they'll lock you up and throw away the key. You can kiss goodbye to any thoughts of taking the victors' winnings. As I said ... it's a shame really. I'm feeling rather ... um ... amorous."

"Okay. I lied," says Cato. "There are no gamemakers drugs. I just made it up to see how you'd react. Are you really feeling amorous?"

"Oh, I don't know if I could fall for a guy who tells lies. I mean, how do I know you're telling me the truth now? You could be lying yet again."

"Well we can make each other a promise. No lies to each other. Only the truth. Always."

"Seriously?" I laugh. "You must be desperate for some action tonight. We barely know each other and you're promising never to lie to me. Why?"

"In little more than a week at least one of us will be dead. It's hardly a long term commitment. Our lives are no longer measured in years, but in hours. Minutes even. I feel I can't afford to waste time by taking the round about route to anything. I'll be honest with you. I'm attracted to you. I want us to make out."

I could pretend that I'm offended. That a girl likes a bit of sweet talk before she drops her pants for a boy ... not that I'm wearing any. But I'm basing my standards on what? A platonic friendship with Gale back at home, and a few furtive moments with one of the boys from school. I'm not exactly Miss Experience when it comes to this sort of thing. I need to decide whether to run or to play.

What tips my decision is that Cato has described exactly how I feel. My whole life before me has been compressed into a few short days. Five minutes has now become a long time. Added to which I admit that I find Cato attractive. He's not the marrying kind, but he's the sort of guy who knows what he wants and isn't afraid to reach for it. Me in this case. I can respect a guy like Cato.

"Okay," I reply. "Let's make out. Here or in one of the compartments."

"Here. There isn't enough room to swing a cat in the compartments. We won't be disturbed. Come and sit over here."

I put down my empty cup and move towards the chair next to Cato. While it's closer to him than the chair opposite, it isn't the style of chair designed for what we have in mind.

"No, on this chair. Come and sit on my lap."

I've not sat on a man's lap since my dad died. He used to bounce me on his lap when I was five years old. I don't think Cato has the same plans for me tonight, though. I sit gingerly on his lap, not certain how to best position myself. I'm scarcely in place when Cato's hand darts inside the opening of my dressing gown. He confirms what I think he already knew ... that I've no clothes on underneath my gown. He doesn't waste much time before his hand starts stimulating my body. Not that it needs much stimulating. I've spent nearly the entire night in a state of arousal which has only varied in its degree of urgency. Now Cato is bringing me back to the boil. I move slightly to prevent him from tipping me over that blissful edge too soon.

I realise that I must respond in kind, so I busy myself removing his shirt. Cato's trousers are more of a problem with me sat on his lap. I make to stand up so as to get into a better position to attack the rock hard object of my quest. He senses my intentions and he prevents me from standing. He pins my arms behind my back. Frustrated, I sit back onto his lap. I need to try another tactic. To be honest, I'm out of my depth at these sorts of games. I simply lack the experience. I'm more than willing to learn, but I'm not certain Cato is going to be a good teacher. Cato knows what he wants and clearly prefers to control the encounter. But I'm not the passive sort, so this encounter is in danger of becoming a battle of wills.

I try to kiss him, but he only half heartedly responds. He's only interested in achieving his goal; Katniss deflowered. I'm not certain I can prevent him, nor whether I want to even if I could. But if I meekly allow him to achieve his goal without receiving some satisfaction in return, then I'm not going to be able to face myself in the morning. And I'm sure as Hell not going to be able to face Cato on equal terms in the arena.

"Stop," I say firmly, hiding my uncertainty that he'll comply. To my great relief he does as I ask, and he allows me to stand. It's an important victory for both of us. Trust is essential in any relationship.

"This isn't working," I say as I turn to face him. "I'm not a soft toy for you to maul. I'll not let you take all the satisfaction and leave me with none."

Cato looks at me dumbfounded. He's no virgin, but I'm picking I'm the first girl who's taken him to task over his selfish approach to sex. I'm sure there are girls who would quite happily let Cato dominate them entirely. I've heard of tales about women who like to be tied up and spanked during sex. I even know a couple of girls who might fit into that category. But I'm not one of them. It's a critical moment. Cato will either push me away and send me back to my compartment frustrated, or he'll accept the challenge and allow the two of us to explore a way of satisfying both our needs.

He doesn't say anything for what seems like an eternity. At least he doesn't explode in my face or send me on my way. If I was more experienced in these matters I might have been able to handle this better, but for better or worse I've played my best shot.

"What exactly don't you like about what we are doing?" asks Cato warily.

"I want us to share the pleasure. You're sending me wild with desire but you aren't allowing me to reciprocate. You pinned my arms behind my back so I couldn't use them to return the pleasure you're giving me. You have me virtually naked, but you won't allow me to finish undressing you."

"I've never had any complaints before," says Cato defensively.

"That maybe so," I reply. "But I'm guessing our circumstances are different here. We've met as Hunger Games tributes. A long term relationship is out of the question."

"Well there was no long term expectations with the other girls," replies Cato. "A trainee at the District Two Academy is rewarded with certain privileges for top performance during training."

"Prostitutes? Do you mean to say that you're comparing our lovemaking to your experiences with prostitutes?"

"Umm ... I guess so. They weren't exactly prostitutes. More like camp followers. Young women eager to be associated with a potential Hunger Games victor. Some have hopes of marriage, but most are simply there for the thrill."

"Then you're a fool, Cato. You'll never get a complaint from a girl like that, short of beating her senseless. I'm not here to massage your ego. I want sex with you. You want sex with me. We're partners, not master and slave girl."

"God, you're beautiful when you get angry," says Cato, successfully scuttling my tirade. "I wish I could get angry like that without lashing out at anything within range. Okay, so we're partners. Are you game to try again?"

"I need to calm down a bit first," I reply.

"Here. Let me help you with that," says Cato, taking me into his arms.

It feels so different this time. Cato is more considerate, although only time will tell whether he can keep up this behaviour. My anger quickly fades as his hands roam my body. This time he allows me to do the same to him. I've never done this with a boy, but I'm guessing the sensitive spots on my body have a counterpart on him. I soon discover which are the more pleasurable parts and which he finds irritating. I likewise guide him as he explores my body. Moaning gently when he finds a nice spot and making a different noise when he's missed the mark.

I lose several things over the next hour or so. My clothing is the first to go. Not that my dressing gown was a serious impediment to Cato's desire to see me naked. At least he allows me to undress him at the same time. The next thing I lose is all sense of time. Cato said we had a couple of hours and neither of us seem in a rush to take the ultimate step in our union. But that final step eventually comes. Not as a particularly deliberate act, but as a natural progression in the escalating passion of our games.

I had expected a certain amount of pain, but apart from a few bruises and exhausted limbs, I'm feeling on top of the world. I really don't want to return to reality. Unfortunately reality is pulling me back from the stratosphere of my emotions. The first indication that our playtime is about to end is the slight jolt of the car. It's the same sort of jolt I noticed when the District Two cars were attached to ours. It seems likely that the delayed train has finally arrived to join ours. Cato comes to the same conclusion and quickly gathers his clothes and starts to get dressed. My task is somewhat easier, simply requiring me to slip on my dressing gown. I don't know what happened to the belt and I don't have time for more than a quick search.

"You had best go now," says Cato. "The railwaymen are likely to be back at any minute."

"Okay," I reply. "I can't find the belt to my gown. If you see it ... Hey! What are you doing?"

"A parting gift," laughs Cato as he uses the belt of my gown to tie my hands and elbows behind me. "Something to help you to remember our night together. Now, off you go."