THE PREDATOR
This is another unpleasant story of brutal domination of the weak by the strong from the perverted imagination of Hugh Masters. You have been warned! Contact: questorius @yahoo.com.uk
CHAPTER 1. THE SHARK BITES
It was during my second year at University that my father retired and my parents, as "empty nesters", decided to sell up the family home and move to Devon. I remember feeling oddly and rather unreasonably betrayed by this. Somehow I felt that when it was time to go home for the Summer vacation I ought to return to the home I had grown up in and to my old room. The thought of my parents upping sticks and going off to some remote bloody part without even consulting me seemed wilfully perverse. Such is the arrogant self- obsessiveness of youth!
Dad met me at the station (he even had a new car!) and as we drove up onto Exmoor I had to concede the beauty of the countryside with lush green valleys plunging down between the high moors. The whitwashed cottage with its heavy oaken beams was a delight too and the views were fantastic - I had to admit it was all a major improvement on suburban Pinner!
I was quite a fitness freak in those days and the quiet, narrow lanes and bridleways made ideal running country. I liked to get up early, about 5.30 am and go for a 5 or 6 mile run before anyone else was stirring in the cool of the morning with the birds singing, then back for a shower and one of Mum's fantastic breakfasts.
One of my favourite runs was up to the ridge across the valley from the cottage where there was an odd geological formation of giant boulders more like Dartmoor tors than less rugged Exmoor. Typically, they were called The Devils Marbles - such dramatic landscape features are invariably called The Devils Chair / Kitchen / Tower or whatever.
It was a pretty steep haul up there and I would take a rest before heading back home. It was a strangely fascinating area with sheep-cropped turf between the huge stones, some as big as a cottage, which formed secret room-like spaces with soft green carpets of grass.
The rhythm of running can be very conducive to erotic fantasies and I would often think of Susan with whom I shared a flat at University. She was my first regular, long term girl and living with her was like being married, with regular sex as opposed to the couple of casual encounters I'd had before. She had gone off to Tuscany with her parents and I missed her badly and thought of her a lot. A few times I wedged myself between a couple of great boulders and jerked off, thinking of her. It felt good wanking off in that strange, secret place and once I even stripped off my shorts and T shirt to enjoy the cool morning air on my naked body.
Then, one morning, with a slight mistiness and the feel of another hot day ahead, I was pounding up the steep, narrow lane leading up to the Marbles when I was startled by the sound of a car close behind me. I had not heard its approach, maybe because I was indulging in a particularly steamy fantasy with Susan! I flattened myself against the high bank to allow the car to pass. It did so very slowly and I saw it was a white police car - a big powerful Rover, hence its quietness - and the driver gave me a disturbingly penetrating stare as he passed, only inches away. I realised I had an erection under my tight, white shorts and that the policeman must have noticed. There was something creepy about the incident, as if a predatory white shark had cruised lazily by, sizing up an attack victim.
I started running again after he passed but he had only gone about 25 yards when the brake lights came on and he stopped. I carried on at a slow lope, not sure what to do. I felt certain he was watching me in his mirror. I decided to pass him on the passenger side where there was a little more room between him and the high bank. Then, when I was only a few feet away I saw the driver lean over and throw open the passenger door which completely blocked the lane. I shuffled to a stop by the open door and glanced into the car. He was looking straight ahead and without turning his face to me he said "Get in". Just that. And I did. Why? Why didn't I ask "Why, officer?" There was something about his manner which commanded obedience, quite apart from the fact that he was a policeman. So I got in but left the door wide open. He told me to close it, in that same quiet commanding voice, so I did and he drove on, still slowly, still with his gaze fixed dead ahead. I didn't know what to do or say. I tried to think of some hypothesis to explain what was going on. Had a dangerous prisoner escaped and been seen nearby and I was being protected? If so why didn't he say so? Had I infinged some by-law and been arrested? I felt so guilty, as one does when confronted by officialdom - like going through Customs, even with nothing to declare. I stole a sideways glance at the driver to see if I could get any clues. He was a big man, about 40, bearded (unusual for a policeman) and in "shirt-sleeve order" - short sleeved white shirt with epaulettes and breast pockets. I noted the thickness of his bare fore-arms and reflected that this was not a man one would care to tangle with!
Unable to stand the silence I blurted out "Have I been arrested?" He didn't answer, did not even glance at me. Eerie and un-nerving! I suddenly felt concious of the nakedness of my thighs in my short running shorts and tried to cover them with my hands as best I could. Eventually we reached the ridge and The Devil's Marbles and to my surprise he pulled off the road onto the sward and parked between a group of giant stones which shielded us from the road. For the first time he turned to look at me. "What's going on?" I demanded, concious of the edge of nervousness in my voice. He still made no reply but reached out to put one hand behind my neck and pulled my head firmly down into his crotch.
I was shocked, horrified, disgusted and tried to pull away. But he held my head in both hands and scrubbed my face in his crotch while I threshed and struggled helplessly. I was concious of the abrasive roughness of his uniform trousers, of the crotch-warmth, of the crotch-smell, of the hard thickness under the coarse fabric, of his strength and power. He pulled my head off him by the hair and I gasped for pure air, wide-eyed with shock and outrage as he opened his flies.
Could I, in those moments have escaped? Even though he still had me by the hair, if I had thrown open the door and torn away with sufficient force, surely I could have broken free? Maybe, maybe. Maybe not. I just don't know. I only know that there, just inches from my face he released a monstrous edifice. Not just huge but ugly - dark roped with thick veins, purple headed, glistening and man-scented. A rampant obscenity! And my face was smashed down onto it like a bill impaled on a filing spike. With both hands again gripping my head he pumped it up and down, using my mouth to masturbate in. He did not fuck my face, he wanked his cock with my mouth, oblivious of my retching and choking and dribbling. Then, suddenly he was holding my head absolutely still in a vise-like grip while his cock pulsed and pumped and jerked inside my head as he emptied himself into me.
He released his grip and I jerked back in my seat, mouth agape, gasping for air. With astonishing swiftness he slewed himself around, seizing my jaw and forcing it shut. "Swallow!" he commanded. Wide eyed with fear and revulsion I shook my head frantically. His strong fingers dug into my jaw. "Swallow!" he repeated. Terrified, I swallowed. I actually swallowed a man's semen down my throat! He released his grip and I threw open the door to vomit, leaning out with my hands on the grass, arms straight, head down.
I heard him start the ignition and simultaneously shove me off the seat so that I sprawled on the ground in my own vomit as he drove off, the passenger door swinging shut as he did so. And suddenly I was alone, up there among The Devil's Marbles, sobbing with self-loathing and self pity, violated and discarded, trying desperately to rid myself of the sickly sweetness of man-spunk that seemed to cloy my back teeth. I staggered to my feet and lurched to the road. I caught a glimpse of whiteness below as the police car slipped down between the hedges on the other side of the ridge. "Bastard!" I swore and stumbled into my secret "room" between the boulders to sit and think and try to come to terms with what had been done to me.
It was the arrogant contempt of the man that outraged me, that he should scoop me up off the highway, use me for his perverted purposes and then toss me out like discarded rubbish. He had said only two things: "Get in" and "Swallow". Talk about police brutality and abuse of power! I sat there, huddled between the giant rocks, seething with outrage: how dare he? How DARE he? As if I was a worthless object to be used for his pleasure in any way he liked, any time he liked. Just because he was a big, strong, lusty male dressed in the uniform of authority did not give him the right to use me as his fuck toy...did it? Did it?
To my deep shame and self disgust I found myself sexually aroused. I'm even more ashamed to admit I jerked off. Then I headed back home, loping along in a sort of numb daze, sick with semen and shame.
Chapter 2 will follow. Think you can take it?