My First Hunt: The Shy Boy at The Cockatoo Who Shattered My World
The Cockatoo’s parking lot. Night swallowing everything. I sit in my Mini, heart hammering. This is it. My first real hunt. No turning back. Skirt falls past knees, boots click with purpose. Silk blouse hints at red lace. Lips blood-red. Hair loose. I step out. Smooth the fabric. Check the mirror. Breathe. Push the door hard. Bang echoes. Heads turn. I freeze. Scan them. Bold eyes meet mine. Others glance away. Then him. Glasses. Thirty-ish. Eyes drop fast, but flick back. Timid. Hungry. Mine.
I sidle to the bar. Next to him. Back half-turned. He knows. I let him stew. Minutes tick. Turn. ‘Buy me a Laphroaig?’ Eyes wide like a fish. Stammers the order. ‘Jeremy?’ He nods. ‘Like women, Jeremy?’ Blush creeps. ‘Timid?’ More stutters. I grill him. Yes. No. Euh. Beers down. Whisky burns sweet. He’s buzzed. Perfect. ‘I want you. Come home with me.’ No breath left in him. I drive. His hand on my waist. Mine strokes his crotch. Pants. He follows.
The Approach: Heart Pounding in the Dark
Courtyard. Kiss him hard. Hands on his ass. ‘Nice.’ Belt undone. Pants drop. Decent cock, stiff. Kiss it quick. Inside. Living room. Deep kiss. Taller in heels. Tongues tangle. Grind. Fresh meat. So firm. Strip him. Suck a bit. Clothes off. Rug. Condom from the box. Missionary. He thrusts wild. Done in seconds. Roars like a calf. ‘Already?’ Cold stare. Frustrated fire.
Bathroom ploy. Hold his cock over the bowl. Stroke slow. Can’t pee. ‘Sit.’ Jet hits porcelain. Press tits to his back. Pet his hair. ‘Good boy.’ Back to bed. Dim pink walls. Brass bed. Push him down. Oil-slick glide. Nipples drag his chest. Ylang-ylang haze. Almost there. His hands grab ass. ‘Stop!’ Tie wrists with silk scarves. ‘Be a man. Submit.’ Feed him tits. Suck hard. Pinch if teeth graze. Power surges. Risk thrills.
The Instant: Raw Collision of Flesh
Straddle face. Grind. Nose hits clit, rim. Sparks explode. He bucks. Free him a sec. Suck cock. Twitches. Too close. Break. Freshen up. Stars outside. Return. Kiss feet up. Untie. Scarf leash. ‘Doggy. Fuck me like a bitch.’ Four paws. Arched. He slams. Belly slaps ass. Open. Wet. Screaming. He howls. Collapse. Sweat-soaked.
Silence. Curled fetal. Then: ‘Time to go, kitten.’ Stunned stare. Taxi called. No number. Door shuts. Mirror mocks. Tired eyes. Crow’s feet. Chest sags a bit. High crashes hard. Innocence gone. Hunted. Dominated. Surrendered. Craved more. Fresh meat hooked me forever. But settle down? Nah. Not yet.
