The Hunter (NinjaV Gift)
#1 of Other Gifts
In which a seemingly-ordinary locker room becomes a hunting ground, for a predator of uncanny capability.
And here we have a little thing I made for a friend of mine who goes by "NinjaV." I tend to call him certain other things, like "Vin," "goofball," or "snarklord." Seriously though, he's a great guy. I made this piece as "revenge" for no specific slight on his part, other than having fetishes that are amusing to tease him with--if one can indeed call that a slight to begin with. He must not have minded too much, as he even provided an illustration! You'll have to check it out over on FA, given the lack of ability to add thumbnails here. It's worth it, trust me. Anyhow, here it is! Do enjoy.
There it was--the prey he'd been seeking. From the looks of things, the predator had sighted his quarry in what wasn't exactly native habitat...amidst the forest of metal plates, steel bars, and rubber cables, the feathery-furred wolf and his average build seemed like an only occasional visitor--none of the hard-bodied glamour and steely-eyed pride of the consummate bodybuilder, the native species to this communal stomping grounds. It wasn't that the prey was especially small--his height was just as average as his build--nor that he seemed like he would give all that satisfying of a chase, for where would he run to? No, what caught this predator's eye was the prey's furtive glances at the predator's flaunted physique--that way of stealing peeks with some sort of shame following it, like smoke follows fire. This prey wanted to be caught...but he'd never openly admit it. He wasn't one of the slutty ones that would dress in booty-length gym shorts and a G-string underneath, no...he was the sort that would never go to a gay bar for fear of meeting someone he knew; he was the sort that might even date a woman or two, just to throw people off his scent. But his behavior here, where the objects of his furtive desires paraded in sweaty glory, was tantamount to a gazelle tripping in the savannah before the eyes of a hungry lion. The predator would not be swayed. Were it blood he hunted, he would already be feeling in his mind his jaws around the prey's helpless neck...but it was not his stomach he sought to satisfy... He waited for the prey to finish his feeble attempts at weight-lifting--the sort of half-assed routine that said "I only do this because I'm supposed to," lacking the passion of those bent upon building flesh into spectacle. True, the predator's work here was also a farce, but he portrayed it with practiced expertise, and routinely fooled those whose efforts were honest... He remained on the weight floor for precisely two minutes after his prey had left for the locker room, then followed. 120 seconds, in a tense environment where everyone is watching everyone but pretending to be entirely self-immersed, is more than enough time to make anything seem coincidental. He doubted his prey would even expect him. He swept through the door, then immediately whisked into a corner, using his talents at shifting his shape to conceal his form with a disguise. Taking the form of a slightly taller, greatly fatter hippopotamus, he trudged down the corridors of benches, lockers, showers and sinks, tracking his quarry. Sure enough, he found the white-and-grey lupine again, this time carefully disrobing after his flimsy work on the main floor. The wolf had tied a towel around his waist so that he could remove his gym shorts without showing anyone anything--extraordinary lengths in a room where males commonly wandered about naked without the slightest reservation. The predator opened a locker, prestidigitating a knee brace out of it as though it had always been there--when it fact it was freshly made by his own extraordinary talents, and a ruse if there ever was one--and began to put it on himself, giving the prey reason to hurry his work. Nothing hastened the flight of prey like the feeling of being possibly watched by someone ugly; with someone attractive, they might stay in spite of themselves for the opportunity to steal more furtive observation of that which they secretly craved. The wolf practically fled to the shower cubicles. The gym had open shower floors which were commonly used by the regulars and men too fat to care what people thought they looked like, while the freshly-constructed cubicles, with their floor-to-ceiling doors of frosted glass, were added by the prudish new owner to allow her college-aged boys to shower in privacy. They were practically a salt lick trap to the sort the predator sought--though they offered a feeling of safety to the self-conscious prey, they made it all too easy for him to close in on his quarry and subdue them, all without a person in the world to possibly intervene and ruin his post-chase reward. With the wolf out of sight he shifted again, this time taking the form of an armadillo in a janitor's costume. He popped open the supply closet--it was never locked--and rolled a mop bucket out into the room, taking a Caution Wet Floor clapboard for extra realism. On occasions his final pursuit had to be timed well to prevent the interference of passersby, for there was always a window in which the chase could be intercepted. But that was part of what made it a thrill. Fortune favored him. He scarcely had to mop for a fraction of a minute before he was satisfied that he would not be seen during what he was about to do. He leaned the mop in its bucket against the wall, casually deserting it; it would not be missed and would be overlooked easily. His form silently changed back to that which was his own, but without clothing to get in the way; a tendril of his mass slid out from his arm and through the weatherstripping on the cubicle door, slowly and silently depressing the retaining latch so that it could be opened silently (he oiled the hinges himself on a regular basis, just for moments like this). He let his form become somewhat fluid so he could open the door fractionally and squeeze through the opening, elongating himself sideways to fit. That moment, that breach, was a common time for the prey to notice him, and he held a tendril ready to stifle any surprised cries, as experience had taught him to do. But again this chase was too perfect; the wolf was facing the shower nozzle, and remained utterly oblivious. He held his breath as the tendril silently closed the shower behind him, his actions hastier now that his prey was so close before him. The moment the door was secured shut again, he lashed forward with his hands, catching the prey's wrists with forward momentum and pinning them high to the wall; the slippery floor would ensure the prey would not gain purchase with his feet to attempt to escape. The tendril streaked forward, sealing the prey's muzzle, proof against any attempts to scream, or yell for help. A yelp of surprise greeted his trap, but muffled as it was into the textured tendril, he would be the only to hear it. Working quickly, he spread the prey's wrists further and pressed forward with his body, sandwiching the smaller prey between him and the wall. The impact caused a confused grunt to puff into the muffling mouth-binder. He ground his package, already hardening from the thrill of the chase, just above the cleft of the prey's rump, their difference in stature evident from where it came against the wolf's body. "It's no use screaming, little one...you're mine now..." The prey seemed bent on resisting, and though its hands and arms were all but flat against the wall, the smaller beast tried to push back, squirming and writhing as best he could. He tossed his head back, attempting to smash the predator's nose with some kind of reverse headbutt. He stomped about with one foot, trying to pound one of the predator's own between heel and unforgiving tile. But the predator would not be deterred by such simple measures. Prey that resisted emotionally only were easy enough to sway with coercive threats--even if they rarely needed real physical assaults to be subdued--but prey that resisted physically would receive physical retaliation. He hardened his nose and feet into solid angles, creating surfaces that would bruise and agonize--but not pierce--soft flesh as the prey bashed against it. His soles were padded in such a way as to maximize traction against the floor, even when wet. And his strength alone was more than enough to restrain the little prey, if his greater stature and breadth did nothing else to aid him. He lifted the prey roughly and bodily by his wrists, causing the wolf's head to impact the showerhead--taking care not to hit it so hard as to break the skin, but hard enough to probably make the prey see stars, as evidenced by the inarticulate grunt/yelp the wolf gave off. He slid one hip forward as he then yanked the prey's wrists back down, causing the prey to be suspended off the ground by the predator's hip and thigh clamping the prey to the wall at his crotch--a position which likely caused some testicular pain. The prey's reactive whimper in response, muffled though it was, indicated that this little bout of coercion might be sufficient. "You're not escaping, mutt," said the predator, showing his fangs and trailing off with a growl. "Promise to be good, or I'll show you just how much more creative I can be in using a shower stall to punish bad dogs." It took a careful ear to discern that the muffled words, dazed though they were, were "Like Hell you will..." He rewarded them by drawing his upper incisors along the prey's lower neck, just above where the predator's arm still pressed the smaller body against the wall. "Don't lie, dirty little wolf...I saw you eyeing me, and I could smell your need just as much as I could see it. You come here every week, desperate for the muscle parading around, like some kind of feeble voyeur...You feign at lifting weights to have an excuse to be here, then come inside and empty your testicles with fantasies of their rugged bodies against yours..." He changed his angle, using one arm and pressure along the prey's upper back to keep him pinned--and eased up the pressure with just his hips so he could feel at the prey's groin with the other hand, groping him roughly--provoking a strangled half-whine, half-growl. "Your own flesh betrays you...I can feel the warmth of your blood, your cock half-hard in my hand...and now, your fantasy becomes real, and you pretend at screaming? You beg for it to go away?...I am no dirty thought in your depraved little mind, pup, and I will not wash away with the water...I'm enjoying this little exercise in coerced submission already, but you'd best not give me reason to dabble in masochism for our little encounter..." A wordless whimper, quieted, was all the prey had to say. This meant, the predator knew, that he was either submitting out of real fear, or submitting because the fantasy was indeed taking root, and that his body was refusing to let him try to bow out of it. Either case would do. He scooped his claws in front of the prey, letting his tendrils do the work of keeping the prey's far joints pressed against the wall, and held the tips, pointed and sharp, in arcs upon the flesh of the wolf's mediocre pectorals. There would be no shying away from his body, not if the wolf didn't want to bleed. "Swear to be quiet and I'll let you speak, I'll let you beg...on pain of suffering..." He momentarily applied pressure with the claws, as though to punctuate his point with a threat. The wolf wordlessly nodded, his eyes wide as he kept his neck craned sideways to try to behold his assailant. A mere thought was all that he needed to deflect the tendril from the wolf's mouth, but he held it before the smaller beast's muzzle, just in case a muffle or gag would be necessary. Words, but quiet ones, tense and strained, poured out. "Please don't do this, I promise I'll never ogle again--" The predator gave a growl and took the back of the wolf's neck in his jaws--harshly, but not with the intent to injure. "None of that," he said, after holding it for a few moments. "You're lying. You can't change your stripes...and you can't hide your desire." He gave another meaningful thrust of his hips, his spire now almost as turgid as it could get in this form, knowing that the movement would grind the prey's own half-hardened loins against the wall as well. A whispered "oh gods--" was all that the prey had to say. His body, pulsing with adrenaline but alight with the near-infernal glow of his once-secret passions, was almost like one huge erogenous zone in the predator's grasp; he could have run a handful of toy jacks down the wolf's back and it would have felt like a thousand tiny points of pleasure. Then in one swift motion the predator reeled his hips back and down, then jammed his lance into the wolf's rear entrance, easily forcing aside the feathery tail held tucked down over it. He reflexively drew in on the muzzle gag, for he well anticipated the strangled cry that accompanied those unused to taking lengths as sizable and thick as his own--and this prey was no exception in that. A growl of predatory delight cascaded from the predator's throat; this one's body was tight with fear, but titillating with desire, and it surrounded his heavy meat with a fleshy tension worth craving. Now it was something between whining and weeping that strained at the gag over the prey's muzzle, and his salty tears mingled with the remnants of the shower's waters, disappearing into the pelt-darkening layer atop his transfixed face. Shock? Pain? Sorrow? Role-playing? It didn't matter to the predator which of these bounded about in the mind of the prey like a golf ball hit in a basement--the feeling of the body in his arms, around his cock, pressed to his torso, was the reward of his hunt, and he would savor every moment and every inch. His taller frame easily let him slide one arm under the underarm of the prey, while the other went over the opposite shoulder, across the neck, and to the other collarbone. As he stepped back with his legs, the weight in his arms dropped him forward somewhat, and he was now in a position that lent itself well to feral rutting. He used it well for its purpose. As he hammered that granite spear into the prey's body, he loosened the gag gradually, letting the prey's pitiful whining, verbal and otherwise, to escape. The prey had learned to keep it quiet, even when a sudden thrust shot up his spine and exploded in his mind like a shrapnel grenade, tearing his awareness momentarily into shreds with fiery trails of pain and pleasure. The predator could feel over time as the prey's body slowly surrendered somewhat, letting outward signs of fear and panic flow slightly into those of enjoyment--but never too much, never completely. The prey knew his place, as all prey would, once convinced that they'd been hunted, caught, and were at the predator's mercy. The predator then pressed forward once more to the wall, lifting the prey's body in his arms, pinning him bodily betwixt torso, arms, and tile, his feet completely off the ground. It was a simple thing for the predator to keep him there, rutting or no rutting, and he plied the prey with even greater force and speed, now that the wall absorbed the momentum of his thrusts, rather than allowing the force to resonate back and interfere. The prey's voice rose in tone sharply, and at times the gag had to be resealed as the prey, now putty in the predator's arms, gave vocalizations just short of screams--pain? pleasure? Who could say? They were the sounds of torment, the death rattles of any resistance, and they were the sign that the final wall had cracked. He knew what it would take to bring it down on his own time and terms. One more tendril, unique compared to the rest, rose up between the prey's spread legs. Warm, moist, soft, and yet gently tingling with bioelectricity, it was as specialized as an anglerfish's lure, and no less deadly despite the wiles of prey. It slid upward, coiling around the flailing shaft of the prey, engulfing it in a spiral path of heat and stimulus. He knew it was working, as the prey began to nearly hyperventilate, his tone becoming weak and mewling into the gag. It had no sooner coiled to the tip than the prey lost his battle against his body's wishes and his essence shot forth, spattering glistening glaze upon the tile wall and the arms that held him aloft, feet continuing to dangle uselessly even as his legs seized, along with his body, in the throes of orgasm. The tightness, the sounds, the perfect glory of the hunt, all of it surged through the senses of the predator and made him redouble his efforts, pounding the useless body of the prey until his own loins laid their claim to the very insides of the prey. He clamped his jaws around the base of the prey's neck, drawing tiny pinpoints of blood as his prolific seed painted the prey's passages liberally. All this, along with the difficulty walking smoothly the prey would have for days, would mark him as having been dominated by the predator. His growls died away amidst the heightened breathing of the wide-eyed prey--far from the slack afterglow of sex with a lover. He drew his jaws away, tasting the traces of blood remaining on his teeth. "And now here you are, little weakling, marked and claimed. Is it everything you ever dreamed of?" The question was semi-rhetorical, and the still-pinned prey merely stared back at him, uncertain of how to answer. "No matter. Dry off and go home. Let the smell of your shame remind you of your two-facedness. Return with your eyes to yourself, or pitch yourself at the objects of your desires," he said, roughly jerking his still-turgid staff from the prey's body, eliciting a yelp, "but keep up your lukewarm farce, and I'll come for you again. You won't know I'm there," he continued, his voice ebbing dangerously quiet as he drew his mouth to the prey's ear, "until it's too late." With that he forcibly opened the shower door, and, still holding the prey aloft, he turned and dumped the wolf unceremoniously outside, closing the door again with a note of finality. He turned off the water and stared at the frosted glass, where he knew the wolf's head to be--a stare he knew the wolf would feel until he fled as directed. He knew that the habits of prey died hard, and the wolf would be no exception--in fact, he heard the wolf grumble "Shut yer arrogant mob, fruitcake...", as though to salvage what scraps of ego he could scrabble to reclaim. It might be days, weeks, or months before the prey returned, but inevitably he would, and the predator would be ready for him, ready to claim him yet again, to feed upon those furtive desires, that voyeuristic passivity. He'd have to start thinking about what to do next time, as the same trap wasn't always effective twice...perhaps he'd masquerade as a hunk who frequented the place, as a snare for the wolf's eyes...