by Esmeralda Barrett
(11/03/04)

I'm hunting. The thought shoots pleasure straight to my groin. I seldom hunted even when I was single, but it was the best pleasure of all.

Grandfather always said that hunting cleared the blood and the head. He meant bow hunting -- but then, I've always wandered from our traditions.

I haven't been to a bar like this in three years. My nose curls at the smoke and spilled alcohol. I count the steps going down, following the blue lights. A cavernous space comes into view. Torches burn on the black walls. I pause to think how long it must take to light all the candles. Generic techno throbs through oversized speakers, a generic crowd pulsing below it. Somewhere in that crowd is my prey. She won't be generic.

I think of my years of monogamy. I didn't know they were long until she said so. We met when I was too young -- and I'm still young. Small favors. I could've covered a lot of ground during that time. I was practically celibate toward the end. She was not.

At the upper bar I order a beer, scanning the crowd.

I spot the quarry. Leaning over the railing, I watch her dance with a group of women. She moves, sleek, all in black. Her arms undulate overhead; her body slides through the interstitial spaces in the drumbeats. Interesting.

Wedding band. More interesting. What's she doing here?

She finishes the song, slaps a couple of shoulders, and snakes her way to a table. Ah, there he is. The other wedding band. He sat one out to guard her drink. He's been watching her, all horned up.

She's not exactly beautiful, but I like her sharp jaw, her sweaty hair, the way her shoulders square. He's hot, tightly wound, has a predatory look. They laugh together, old, old friends. I head to the stairs, keeping my eyes on them so I don't lose them in the crowd. She looks up. Startles.

Thatta girl. Gorgeous eyes that slide away, as if she saw me only by accident. But they slide back. That warrants a grin from me, a slow, dangerous grin that puts her on alert.

He's talking into her ear, something dirty, no doubt. He hasn't seen me. I walk straight to their table. He looks up, a question. I give him a friendly nod but address her.

"I was wondering if you'd let me make you come."

She's already flushed from dancing, but her color brightens considerably. Nice. I'd rather have asked her away from him so she'd be more likely to consider it, but so be it. The room's full of potential prey. I take a slug of my beer and wait.

It takes her a moment to gather her wits. "Never heard that one before. Do I have to decide before you sit down?" Husband looks startled.

"Nah." I park my ass on the bar stool. "I've got a couple minutes. But hurry up." I say it with only the barest glint of humor.

I'm willing to bet they came here hoping for this. Not exactly this, I can guarantee, because I'm hard to anticipate. But something. I can tell this is not a regular gig. Novices. Her anyway. Husband's been around -- I recognize another hunter. It's been a while since he stretched his legs. He's found a permanent food source and is happy with it.

"I have a few questions," she says over the music.

"Shoot." I take another swig.

Her eyes flick to my neck, taking in the tattoos, the absence of piercings (except for my platinum ear stud), the quality clothing. "No charge?"

"Not even services in kind, Baby."

"Diseases?" Her color hasn't faded a bit. Husband is really taken aback now...in an admiring sort of way.

"None."

"What about tests?" the husband ventures.

I snort. "Unless your tests are less than five minutes old, man, I don't know where your dick's been since. So would you trust my papers?" That makes her grin, and I look straight in her eyes for the next bit. "But it doesn't matter -- safe all the way."

She looks at her drink, then back up at me, her head cocking. "What about him?"

"I'm sure he knows how to beat off quite fetchingly. Invite him for eye-candy." That makes her eyes blaze.

"And after?"

"I'm on my way, no phone numbers, no stalking, no problems."

"What if I don't want it that way?"

I shrug. "Tough shit."

She pauses, then, looking uncomfortable, says, "I'm not fast."

"Good." I can't stop the hunger from entering my voice. "You don't really have to give a warning. Keep your options open."

She bites her lip. "Where?"

"Back room. The proprietress is cool. We're old friends."

She doesn't like this: a privacy-and-bed-with-clean-sheets girl. Her coat smells of incense through the smoke of the bar. She likes it "nice." Hard but nice. I've lost her.

"Let's go," she says. It's my turn to be surprised. She gets up. He lags for a moment, stunned. She heads for the bar. No idea where she's going, but she's determined not to just follow. That's promising. I take her elbow and steer her to the far end of the bar. Husband is following, anxious, hard as a rock in his pants. He's the adventurer. So this is a role reversal. He loves it. This is why he brought her here, but he never dreamed she'd do it. He didn't count on me.

"I'm interested in a question you didn't ask me," I say close to her ear.

"Name?"

"Gender."

She shrugs. "I know what it is."

"Really."

"Perhaps other people aren't observant in the right way."

"After..." I linger on the word, "...tell me what you think, and I'll tell you if you're right." I can feel her pulse hammering. "Here we are." I nod to Jasmine, and from behind the bar she grins big, nostalgia showing past the cynical Goth accoutrements. She reaches into her leather bar apron and tosses me a key. She waggles a pair of cuffs at me, but I shake my head.

We push through swinging doors and walk the dim hallway. People are clinching, sliding along one another's clothed bodies, a row of standing dry-fucks, and an actual orgasm is underway on the left wall. The incessant music gives them all more privacy. It's worse along the other hall, the one to the unisex restrooms; condoms are in use there and I'm relieved that the pulse still hammering under my fingers won't have to run that gauntlet. She might flee. She might anyway.

I unlock the door and shoulder my way in. Husband ducks under my arm. I draw her inside in front of me, pushing the door shut behind us. It locks. The techno reduces to a loud throb.

The lights are on, higher than they need to be. It doesn't break the spell. In good light she's got fantastic skin. What I thought was tasteful makeup was very little makeup at all. I run a hand along her cheek, thumbing the cheekbone.

"Fuckable skin," I say, startling her. I'm not a lot taller, just a couple of inches. I pull her over to one of the leather couches, giving her a nudge until she sits. Husband adjusts the dimmer switch and finds a seat in the deep leather chair next to us. "Good boy," I mutter, loud enough for him to hear. Control's not my thing, but it's a necessity sometimes. He's a natural leader; command keeps him at bay.

To cast the spell needed to devour prey alive, you have to recognize what prey needs, the particular bait needed to lure it in. The hypnosis of a snake's eyes. Some prey like to pretend they're the hunter. That's cool too. She's not like that. On the other hand, she's not entirely passive. Resistive, wary, but aggressive inside. She keeps herself caged.

I kneel on the rug, a fine wool Persian, deep and fluid-resistant. It's seen many a party, but it hasn't seen me for awhile.

The pulse is fluttering at her throat. Damn, she's nervous. I grip her thighs, kneading them a little.

I look at Husband. His eyes are dark with arousal and slightly menacing. Time to be direct. "Any rules? I don't fancy hand-to-hand combat."

He swallows. "Don't hurt her."

"I wouldn't. But what if she wants that?" My eyes return to her face.

"She doesn't. Trust me."

I do. He's fiercely protective. He's also unlocking her cage. So a few words of reassurance are in order. "Let's just establish that I'm into pleasure. Lots of pleasure. Not pain." She looks back at me with those gorgeous eyes that I can't read. My fingers caress her legs. "How about you, Sugar? Any rules?"

Her eyebrows flit together and apart. She shakes her head. I wonder if she would stop me if I did something she didn't like. If she'll communicate what she truly likes. I leave my hands where they are and lean forward to brush her neck with my lips, just under her ear. A tiny shiver runs through her as I let my breath warm and moisten the skin.

When I pull back, her pupils are huge, stoned huge. An interesting quality. Other animals look that way in fear, in pain, in heat. I'd like to know which we're dealing with here. I slide off her boots and socks, trailing fingers along the sole of each foot, then reach for her belt and unbuckle it. I unzip her jeans and pull them down, catching her underwear in my fingers. She's frozen for a moment, then lifts her hips to help me. My hair brushes her as I work, and I press my fingers against her legs as I draw the clothing off.

I catch her scent on the way by. Yum. Too bad we're not eating this one.

Her naked ass touches the leather couch and she flinches. It feels cold, but it'll warm up. She'll warm up. She's unconsciously keeping her knees turned in.

I lean back and take off my leather coat. The white shirt and jeans give nothing away, but I feel Husband looking. I think it's wild that he doesn't demand to know if a man or a woman is touching his wife. As I lean forward again, looking at her face, not her crotch, my hair brushes her again. Her hand starts off the couch, then falls.

"Go ahead." Everyone wants to touch it, but I don't like being petted like a dog. I wait. First, she strokes down from the crown of my head about halfway, palm flat, feeling the gloss. Then, she singles out a section and lets it pour through her fingers. She's self-conscious though, and stops.

I reach into the inner pocket of my coat and retrieve black latex gloves. I don't look at her as I put them on -- prey gets freaked about now. My fingers are long, and it took a while to find the right fit. God bless the Internet. I smooth out the wrinkles.

I put both hands on her knees and run my thumbs up the crease in her thighs. I watch my hands, not her face, and don't try to open her legs. I reach her pussy and brush over it, then invert a hand, palm up. My middle finger slides through her labia, testing whether I need the lube. No. No indeed.

Without ceremony I'm inside, feeling the slick, bumpy terrain, the intense heat. My eyes flick up and lock with hers. These are not her husband's hands.

Her knees open a little and I take the liberty of pressing one leg back into the couch. I glance down. Pink is inadequate. The writer in me always looks for the perfect word. Rubescent comes to mind. Glistening against the dark glove.

Intentionally, I haven't touched her clit yet. I once had magic. I need to know if it still works. Back and forth, I feather the digit inside her, seeking. Will her heart open so that I can hear it?

I start to breathe with her, matching her pattern, but then I draw her along with me, changing her inhalations. My finger keeps moving. Back and forth, then slightly circular, tiny movements. She's wondering how to tell me this isn't so great.

"Patience," I manage to husk, "you aren't fast, remember? This isn't either." My other hand moves to lazily cup her cunt from above, pressing just enough not to abandon the throb it's developing.

I'm patient, whether she is or not. Running down a deer after a poor bow-shot is a slow process. By the time it crashes to the forest floor, you hurt in every fiber. I've done that once, for someone else's shot. I used my knife to finish the delicate animal, a swift cut to each side of the neck. A not-so-swift bleed-out followed, covering me with slick, copper-scented death. I held its head, breathed with it to help it accept death, gave thanks and asked its forgiveness. I knew what to do. Thanks to Grandfather, I did everything right. But I didn't feel the nobility of tradition, the necessity of taking the life. I only felt sympathy and remorse for the suffering. I had no joy in the eating of it later.

I look up at her face, beautiful eyes darkened, lips parting, and the sight drives the bloody vision away, far away. This. My kind of hunt.

Her heart is pounding; I hear it as I chase her through the underbrush that tangles the way of her pleasure. Her forest is dark, thick with roots to trip the unwary. She knows where they are. I don't. I haven't found the sunlit clearing yet. I continue stroking her inside, keeping my eyes on hers. She's shy of my gaze, but fights past her fear and embarrassment. Brave.

A quick fuck in the hallway would've been easier. I'm not about easy.

Husband is ceasing to be entirely quiet. He's been stroking himself through his trousers for long minutes now. Soon I think we'll hear a zipper. He's trying to decide if he should ask permission. He doesn't want to break her mood.

"Take it out," I tell him. "Just don't be noisy. I'm concentrating." He complies swiftly. I'm surprised he's so aroused, given the lack of any obvious action. I'm not sure watching this would get me off. I check him out of the corner of my eye: really good equipment. They'd be fun to watch fuck. For a moment, I consider letting her off the hook in exchange for that.

She very carefully doesn't look at him. That's okay, I prefer her attention on me, on herself. I'm sweating a little now with the effort of holding everything still except my hand. I wipe my upper lip on my shoulder.

Her hand brushes my arm. "You okay?" she whispers.

"Don't try to take care of me," I say. She lies back, compliant, and I feel a brief regret.

When I first learned to do this, the teacher talked about fear and trust, trauma and joy -- all the emotions this touch could release. I listened through his tired, western-tantric rhetoric about the "sacred yoni," and scoffed over the alleged orgasmic effects, not believing. But after class I walked out the door, found the next available woman, and gave it a whirl. She came like a banshee. She must have said "fuck" fifty times.

There were complications, though. Emotional ones. After that, I took more care in selecting prey. Until The Commitment.

I have a deeper sense of satisfaction with women I've never met before. It's giving the finger to the New Age.

I pull out just a little, still stroking, then slide back in until she goes rigid with a sharp intake of breath. Found it. I kneel closer, stroking. I feel hot liquid slide past my gloved skin.

"Oh," she says, surprised. "Oh."

Her eyelids lower, her breath comes long and ragged. After another minute I shift my thumb, wet with her juices, to rub her clit, as my hand continues inside her. Her eyes close. She has strong thighs that flex in rhythm with my touch.

We're running in slow motion. She's tiring, and I'm catching up. Hooves on the forest floor. I hear the thud of her heartbeat. Light breaks through the branches.

Her head has fallen back on the cushions. Her nipples jut through the fabric of bra and shirt, but I don't have hands to spare and I couldn't reach her with my lips anyway. She's gripped the top of both thighs with her hands, hanging on. My eyes slide for a moment to Husband. His eyes are on her, his cock purple with blood. He's holding back. There's high voltage between them even though she's not looking at him.

My other hand presses downward, almost touching the thumb that circles her clit. Blood pounds in my groin and I think how hard I'll let go. Later, when the time comes. Can't think about that now. I lean further forward, awkward, but with a purpose. My hair grazes her; its feather touch makes her shiver.

My lips touch her navel, teasing it open, my tongue slipping in to stroke the tender flesh inside. Her back arches, driving her against my hand.

The clearing. We crash to the forest floor together, sunlight blazing around us. I hold tight as I hear the first sounds of pleasure that she cannot keep quiet. She surges against me, death throes and birth throes mingled, resurrection in the making. A hum, a strange vibration sounds against my finger for a split second, then a cascade of pulses rolls through her cunt, gripping and releasing me. She shrieks so loudly that I know her throat will be raw. I throb with her, but I will wait, wait until later.

I lay my cheek against her stomach as she is still coming, feeling skin-to-skin the power of it. I see that Husband will wait no longer; he fucks his hand, explodes upward with violence. He tries to catch all of it in his hands and fails.

I cherish her every quiver and moan. I haven't lost my touch. Waiting while she quiets is easy, though my knees ache. That isn't the worst ache.

When I look, her eyes are clear and fierce. Not prey, now. She's not crying.

Most cry. I expected she would. Instead, she looks radiant. She smiles as she pants to catch her breath, the openmouthed grin of a great bird. The eagle rises in her. Strange to hear Grandfather's voice and words derived of a spirituality I do not share.

I slide my hand free and she doesn't flinch. I strip off the gloves, tossing them in the wastebasket. She still hasn't broken eye contact. I place bare hands on her thighs and squeeze. Some women panic right about now. She doesn't.

Husband is looking for a box of tissues. Finds them, cleans up. " Damn," he says, shaking his head. "Damn. That was fantastic."

I reach for her underwear and, one foot at a time, begin to help her into them.

"Wait." I realize there's a huge wet spot under her. I reach for the tissues and soak up some of the spill. She bites her lip, starting to lose the power already, slipping back into self-consciousness.

"Don't do that," I say, surprised at myself. I take her chin in my hands. She's magnetic. Against my own rules, I lean into her and kiss her. Not enough for Husband to belatedly kick my ass, but enough to let my heart beat against hers for a moment, to say thank you. I pull up her panties and squeeze her ass to elicit a laugh. It works.

I reach for my coat, shrugging into it. I stand and so does she, grabbing her jeans, pulling them on. Then her hand is on my shoulder, and she's whispering in my ear.

I take her other palm, press it to my crotch, my hand covering hers for a minute. She flexes her fingers against me. Something else to savor later.

"You knew, Sugar," I say, "but don't be too smug." I wink at Husband. Then I'm out the door.

Jasmine's eyebrow takes in my crooked smile and she nods when I hand her the key.

I make my way through the crowd, looking forward, not back. I take the stairs up. Up, into the frosty air of freedom.

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