The Hunt

Before The Hunt, there’s always The Meet.


It’s a simple command, and it takes just a heartbeat of hesitation, then it registers, and you’re fleeing.

Torn dress, hair messy from my hand, the tail held in place by your plug, and you’re running, transformed by one word into my prey. I know you were here yesterday, planning your route through the trees, along the familiar pathways. But to me, they’re new. So although I wait a moment before I begin hunting you down, I don’t quite let you out of my sight.

Long enough to check again I have what I need: Knife, duck tape, belt, camera.

I see you running, weaving between the trees, almost out of sight, the grass of the path keeping enough of a footprint track for me to stalk you if I lose sight of you. You’re not running for play, you’re really running, and the sight from behind you means my hard cock is as much of a handicap for me as I’d hoped the plug in your bottom would be for you.

But I’m more than matching you pace for pace, gaining on you. You can see the gap closing with each anxious look over your shoulder. A glance that only slows you further.

Suddenly I’m on you, pulling you to the ground, my weight over you as I grasp for your wrists to pull them behind your back. But you’re not giving up. You’re struggling, trying to wrest yourself free of your personal predator’s grip, nervous, not knowing which of the many things we’ve discussed is going to happen to you before I take you back to the Cabin.

One slip, one missed grip, and you’re free of me, on your feet and running again. But not for long. You feel my hands grip your dress, pull you back as I catch you. Press you face down into the woodland floor. This time you don’t struggle, the hunt is over. Your body limp under me, like a gazelle resigned to its fate in the lion’s jaws.

You hear me pull a length of duck tape from the roll and bind your wrist, before I stand you and throw the heavy roll over a branch, securing you to it, arm outstretched. You don’t resist as your other arm is bound to a second branch, leaving you standing in the small clearing. Helpless. Vulnerable.

Your chest heaving, partly from your flight, partly from your anticipation, you watch as I walk slowly around my quarry, admiring, deciding.

I step behind you. You feel my hands on your shoulders, stroking down over your dress reaching your bottom, my fingers inside the tear that surrounds your protruding tail, gripping the fabric. In one rough pull, as much as you hear it, you feel your dress torn open, hear the knife leave my pocket before it finishes the hem and begins to stroke up your thigh, the cold hard point lingering on the light material between your legs, pressing against your cunt through it. Then up over your red basque, to the the skin between your shoulders and finally to the shoulder straps of the dress’s remains.

With the dress in pieces at your feet, I drop the knife and pull your lips to mine, kissing your panting mouth, knowing the need that’s been building since I dragged you to the ground. You feel my hand stroke slowly over your breasts, your stomach and into your knickers, my fingers pressing upward against your resistance, until the pressure inside you begins to lift your feet a little from the ground. My palm closes, pressing against your clitoris, and with your face held firmly to mine, the hard movement of my fingers inside you, unable to resist, you feel an orgasm begin to build, feel me roughly take it from you, letting your wet drip from you, onto your thighs and the woodland earth.

You might have hoped for some respite, but long before you catch your breath, your lingerie is gone, the basque torn, cut from you, your knickers following, all joining the dress in rags at your feet.

You feel your prey tail, still held in place by its plug, pulled very slowly from you before you let a small gasp escape your lips. The pavlovian response to the sound of my belt buckle, the draw of the leather through the belt loops, the slight snap after the rising tone as it’s freed.

I see you body tense as you hold your breath. Preparing for the first heavy impact on your vulnerable bottom. You know it’ll be harder than last time but still the contact makes you call out. You feel the gentle touch of my fingers tracing the line I’ve left before another pause and another hard strike on your tender skin.

Slowly, strike after strike cross your beautiful bottom. Just as I can see the colour changing, the pale turn to pink, turn to red, begin to collect livid lines from the edges of the leather, you can feel the heat rising, burning, your calls becoming pleas not to stop, begging for more, begin to earn your next orgasm, and to earn my cock.

As the red welt begin to bloom into bruises, you feel my fingers on you again, my lips kissing your burning skin, leaving it wet, cooling it in the breeze. As I stand against you, my fingers find their way into you, one pressing into your bottom, two from the other hand inside your precious cunt. Moving together, roughly lifting you over and over as they drive into you again and again. Your orgasm so close from your spanking, it breaks over you while you sob your claim for my come.

You’re not quite sure how, but you realise you’re on your knees, cut down from the trees and the tape used to bind your wrists behind your back. I’m standing in front of you, my aching cock freed from my trousers and held in my hand, your hair held in the other. I must’ve been waiting for the light to return to your eyes because as soon as you show me the recognition I need, I draw your mouth to my cock and pull your head onto it, forcing it into your throat in one move.

Holding your face to me, my cock as deep inside your neck as I can reach. You know I’m testing you, seeing how well you’ve been doing your daily practice. As I hold you still, longer and longer, I begin to tell you how well you’ve done, how pleased I am.

When finally I start to move within you, I keep a firm hold of your head, not allowing my cock to leave your neck, feeling the tight, slightly protesting hold of your throat as I move inside it, fucking your throat in the clearing in the woods.

Then you’re off it, completely, your head angled up to look at me, questioning. Perhaps I’m going to come on your face, not in your throat as we’d both hoped I’d be able to. A first.

But as you look, I allow a moment of stillness, to make sure you understand, “Baby, I’m going to come in your throat, Okay?” You nod, a grin begins to form but is stifled as I push my cock full into you again, moving your head over it, you know I must be close, must have been holding back to make sure you were ready, until holding you against me you feel my cock swell in your mouth, the pulse moving quickly into your neck, the release as my come floods from me again and again, encouraged by the vibrations of the deep moan you give to welcome it.


© Charles Rochester 2016


One thought on “The Hunt

  1. Pingback: Sinful Sunday 34 – Table | Filth & Erotica

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