The Hunt

The following story is for the purposes of entertainment and amusement only. Any resemblance between the characters and any person, living or dead, is accidental and unintended. The story includes matters of a sexual nature involving an adult male and a young teenage boy if such matters are not to your taste or are prohibited for you, then you should read no further.

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The Hunt

An entertainment by Ivor Sukwell


It would not be easy. Usually he laid snares, traps he didn't even bother to conceal, knowing that prey would blunder into them. Not always; sometimes a snare would remain empty and he'd be forced to move it, place it somewhere new, but eventually he would catch something. Catch it and enjoy it briefly, for most of the prey he snared was random and not worth savouring for long.

Sometimes, instead of open snares he would use bait, casting it into a shoal and waiting for one, braver or more stupid than the rest, to take the lure, be reeled in and captured. Every catch was worth enjoying, but almost always he threw it back afterwards, considering it not worth the keeping.

Occasionally he would spy something that did whet his appetite, something that would be worth keeping and enjoying; something with the slender grace of a young colt. A young teen that Michelangelo would have immortalised in marble or paint, or Caravaggio have depicted as a lustful young fawn after revealing to him the pleasures that are to be found in lustful young fawns.

Prey of that nature is hard to catch; countless other predators lay snares and traps, dangle tempting bait, often bait of a more exotic nature than anything he could use, and the target becomes wary, scenting danger, and moves lightly away never to be seen again.

He had been lucky, caught such a one. He'd chosen the right words of his spell, said them properly and, when the time was right, cast his bait, the boy grasping it eagerly. But then, when his juices had been consumed, he had wriggled free, smiled, and with a wave of a delicate hand, departed in search of adventures new.

Now he too, wanted adventure new. Boys he could have, had indeed had, but all fleeting encounters, and however intense the passion of the moment, when the boy had been sucked dry, his essence savoured, the encounter over, neither prey nor predator was interested in a repeat. There was other prey and other predators.

Nightly now, as he fondled and stroked himself to orgasm, he pondered and dreamed on the prey he would hunt. It would be like no other prey, no other hunt. This would end in no brief encounter for he would bind his prey in silken strands, hold him captive in his web and feast on his juices time and time again, for though he would daily drain him of his essence the words of magic would be strong, and on the morrow his prey would be full of juice once more.

He had no specific prey in mind; nightly when he stroked, no particular image of face or form floated in his mind. This would be a real hunt, he would not know his prey until he saw it. Until that time he could not set his snares, lay his traps, choose his bait nor cast his lure, for, as yet, he did not know the nature of his prey.


It was summer and the teenage prey and the small fry, released from their holding pens, filtered through the streets and gathered on corners, in shopping malls and in parks. Not in shoals but in small groups, but close, so predators could be discouraged by numbers. All boys knew that they were prey, that danger lurked not just in shadows but in full sunlight as well, for their teachers and their parents had made it known to them that they must be always alert and that any stranger may mean danger.

In numbers there was safety, for the predators who sought them would not swoop and pluck one from amongst many, but wait, and lurk and pounce only on the lone and defenceless boy.

But though there was safety in numbers there was also danger, for even amongst themselves there may be one who, though he was prey, had the instincts of a predator and could lure away an unsuspecting boy from the safety of the group and feast, in secret, on his juices.

Predators also had their young, and such survived by disguising themselves as prey; a boy needed to be always alert to the danger within as well as the danger without.

A few there were who did not swim with the rest, who ignored the safety of numbers and made their own way through the streets, arcades and parks, confident that they could see any danger and flee from it when they chose.

One such was sitting on a park bench in the summer sun, drinking from a can and concentrating on his phone, sending text messages or playing a game of electronic complexity, unaware of the circling predators.

Predators there were, for the boy was perfect prey.

Tousled hair of a dirty blond, an unbuttoned shirt of pale blue that revealed glimpses of a smooth, slender chest, one nipple enticingly exposed; shorts of a darker blue that, though fashionably long were drawn up just a little by sitting so that a few inches of slender thigh, seeming as innocent of hair as the slender chest above, could be seen by any who looked.

Many looked. Some with casual interest; others, more serious predators, with calculating gaze, but though they circled, none struck. The boy, though alone, was protected by the empty space around him and none dared cross that space, get close enough to offer temptation.

The man looked from the safe distance of a bench perhaps twenty yards from the lone boy. He noticed the boy and the circling predators. He noticed also that the boy seemed unaware that he was surrounded by danger, innocently oblivious that his virtue may need defending.

The man smiled, for in the boy's innocence was his perfect defence, for no predator can strike from a distance, and none would dare cross the open space, for to do so would mark them as a predator and the prey utter its danger call of, "Fuck off, you queer."

He was not now a predator; though the young prey held an allure and fascination for him, he thought himself too old at fifty to have any chance of catching such a one and had no wish to hear that dreaded danger call shouted in his direction. Boys attracted and delighted him, but his time was past and he was content to simply admire from a distance the beauty that is boys.

And so he looked and admired, wondered how the boy would look stripped of his protective covering, and knew, even as he wondered, that the boy would look wonderful indeed, for any boy who is slender and coltish would look wonderful when so revealed.

Satisfied with his admiration, he rose from his bench to leave, knowing he would return tomorrow, hoping the boy would also return, or if not him, then perhaps another, though he doubted if another would be worthy of similar admiration.

The boy also rose to leave; a glance at the watch on his wrist told him it was time, and he left, leaving behind disappointed predators, though one, bolder than the others, made a move to follow him.

The predator did not head straight to his lair, instead he made his way into the maze of streets, to a house where he knew a boy waited.

The boy was not prey, for prey needs to be hunted and this boy needed no hunting. Weeks before he had walked willingly into the predator's hands, before even a snare had been laid or a trap baited, and now he waited, dressed only in a tee that hardly reached his navel, eager for the encounter to come.

Lustfully the predator stroked the satin of the boy's long, slender, milk-chocolate, only-just-adolescent thighs before engulfing the few inches of the boy's delight in his cock-hungry mouth.

Skilfully he eased back the covering skin with his lips, flicked the exposed tip with his tongue and brought forth moans of pleasure from the boy.

Soon it would be time for the boy to be without even his one remaining garment, for his slender body to be stroked from neck to knee; for his full lips to be kissed and the tongue that now teased his cock to be inside his mouth, and then for that mouth to taste, not just tongue, but also the hard, boy-piercing prick of predator.

But not yet. The boy was not prey to be caught and used; he was a willing servant to predator-cock, and in his own time his urges would lead to him offering both mouth and arse and he would give pleasure to many and take his own pleasure from the pleasure he gave.

For now the predator was content to suckle the boy, bring him to orgasm and savour the sweetness of his young essence. He knew that his own cock would be the first in the boy's mouth, the first to penetrate his virgin hole, and that when those moments came they should come of the boy's insistence, of his need, so that in satisfying his need the boy created within himself an even greater need.

In the months and short years to come this boy would search for other predators and offer his sweet flesh to satisfy both their needs and his own.

The prey, blissfully unaware that it was prey, made its way directly to its home, and, though far from innocent as the day is long, had a night untroubled by dreams.

Curiosity took the man to the park again when the early afternoon sun warmed the grass.

The boy had been a delight to his eye, though why that should be so he was not sure. The boy was not beautiful, no model of perfection; he was simply a boy.

Tousled hair of dirty blond. Slender body and smooth chest, he was no more beautiful than any other boy. And no less.

The man knew and understood that there is a beauty in the adolescent boy that is not matched by any other thing. No creature, no flower, no sunset, can match the beauty of a boy.

A boy does not have to be exceptional in face or figure to be beautiful, he needs only to be a boy.

Yes, there are boys who are not beautiful; overweight creatures fed on junk and blubber, but they are perversions of boyhood, aberrations of adolescence, and they attract no admiration. No Hadrian would found and name cities after such as they.

This boy was not such. He was slender and full of grace, a fawn who Pan would have played his pipes for; not a Ganymede for Zeus, but a boy for a lesser god perhaps.

"All they who love not tobacco and boys be fooles," the man smiled to himself as he lit a casual cigarette. Marlowe was more basic, more down-to-earth than Shakespeare when it came to boys; he did not compare their beauty to a summer's day, he knew that boys have parts that men delight to see and made no secret of that knowing.

Was that why he found the boy attracted him so? the man wondered as he blew out smoke and looked at the bench opposite where, once again, the boy sat engrossed with the electronic device in his slender hand.

Was it because he wondered what was the nature of the delight that lay concealed beneath the boy's dark blue shorts?

That it would be a delight he had no doubt, for that part of a boy is always a delight.

Would it be long or small, thick or slender; would it be partly hidden by the growth of hair or would that growth be no more than just enough to highlight it, draw the eye downward to where it hung, softly enticing over a full sac?

Would it have been spared the knife? He hoped so and laughed at himself for so hoping, for he knew that it mattered not to him if the boy was complete or not, for he knew his eyes would not feast on the boy's hidden glory.

Had he been twenty years younger, then the boy would have been prey and he would have hunted him with some hope of success.

He had hunted then, been a predator indeed, and trapped more than a few, enjoyed the wonders of their young, adolescent flesh, filled them with the sperm of an alpha male and swallowed with greed their teenage offerings.

Perhaps, he smiled wryly to himself, it was the boy's youth that attracted him now, a reminder of his own, now long past younger days. Days when he had been prey and been hunted, hunted and caught and hunted again; later days when he had done the hunting and made catches of his own.

"The times that we have seen," he smiled sadly to himself and eyed the boy with a desire that had no hope in it.

The boy also permitted himself an inward smile, though his was of amusement and not regret.
He knew that his slender, lithe, young body attracted predators; that his youthful looks were as blood in the sea to the sharks who circled.

But there is no threat in the toothless gullet of an aged shark, and those who circled now, keeping safe distance, were all aged sharks indeed and should content themselves with carrion, not seek fresh young prey.

He looked no more than fourteen, but was, indeed, two years older, and wiser, than that. He was legal prey, but he doubted that, even if they had been aware of that fact, any of the sharks that circled now would have dared to attack.

But does the greater danger come from a shark who circles openly, or from a lion or wolf who hunts silently and secretly?

Perhaps the greatest danger of all comes not from open nor hidden predator, but from the one who hunts without moving; the honeyed trap that draws its prey effortlessly inward.

Beware a Greek bearing gifts, beware also the sweet scent of carnivorous flowers.

The boy concentrated his amused mind on his game; there were no predators in the park who offered threat to him.

"I am a Cretan; all Cretans are liars," his mind whispered as he slew more warriors in his electronic game.

This time the predator found the boy waiting for him dressed only in his skin and he smiled openly, drinking in the delights that barely thirteen-year-old flesh has to offer. Instead of the living room couch, as had always been the case before, the boy led his abuser, though `user' would be a better term, up to his bedroom, and lay on his bed, hands behind his head and legs parted, encouraging full access by hand and mouth to his milk-chocolate coloured body.

The predator wasted no time in starting his feast of tender young flesh, his hands roving rapidly over the boy's body, from neck to knee and back, light strokes of hand that tingled through the boy's body and made his hard, young nail throb and bounce.

Receiving only encouragement from the boy's sighs and moans, the predator moved in to taste the boy, sampling the softness of neck and the hardness of bony shoulder, the flat firmness of stomach and the incomparable soft-hardness of curving young thigh.

The boy purred with pleasure as his skin was tasted, his young flesh adored. He gasped loud and wriggled and writhed as new, fierce sensations charged through him when his nipples were licked, kissed and nibbled, his hardness throbbing as though ready to burst.

Allowed so much and eager for more, the predator moved his mouth to the boy's, his lips brushing the full redness that awaited him there.

For a moment the boy froze and then his lips slowly parted, his mouth opened to receive predator tongue. His hands moved, no longer behind his head, but wrapped round the predator now, holding him close while tongues lashed and danced and lips ground together.

"Oh, fuck!" the boy breathed when the kiss ended.

"Not today, but soon now," the predator thought but did not say, and moved down the boy's body to swallow his young cock and suck out his juices.

Once more the prey slept, untroubled by fears or dreams.

The man stared at the empty bench opposite and lit a disconsolate cigarette. The boy was not there today, had not come today.

Disappointment but not surprise. Boys are creatures of impulse as well as habit and his boy no doubt had things better to do than sit on a park bench and be circled by aged predators.

`His boy'? He snorted inwardly at the words. The boy was not his, would never be his. For two days the boy had lent the park his glory. For two days the man had sat and silently admired the boy, enjoyed his adolescent beauty, /2 and now he was gone.

The sun shone still, but the day seemed less bright.

The man rose from his bench, knowing it was past boy-time, and made his way to town and to a cafe, a favourite of his that had tables, continental style on the pavement of a pedestrian precinct.

He collected a latte, took it outside and settled to allow it to cool enough to drink.

His eyes widened with surprise, an involuntary widening, for there, a mere two tables away, was the boy. His boy.

Not engrossed in an electronic game this time, though his phone lay on the table before him, but lounging, one arm round the back of his chair, drinking coke from a bottle with the other.

The boy saw him, saw perhaps his look of surprise, and his eyes twinkled.

The day brightened again.

"I know you," the boy said across two empty tables, "I've seen you in the park. Are you stalking me?"

Although the boy's lips were smiling and his eyes twinkling, it seemed to the man that a cloud had covered the sun.

Had the boy divined his park-distant admiration, labelled him as a predator?

"That was a joke," the boy said, "You don't look the type."

His smile was infectious, innocent and unthreatening, and the man smiled back.

"Is there a type?" he asked, his voice deliberately light.

This was not the sort of word game he had played with boys in the past, a game designed to talk a boy out of his armour and into a bed, but it was a word game and he was playing it with a boy. His boy.

"Oh yes," the boy grinned, "Usually old guys who dream of things they shouldn't be dreaming of. You can spot them a mile off."

"And I'm not one of them?" the man asked.

"No way," the boy grinned again, "You're nowhere near old enough for a start."

"Thank you for that," the man allowed himself a smile, "But I may still be dreaming things I shouldn't dream."

He surprised himself by how easily the words slipped off his tongue, almost as though he was thinking of talking the boy out of the armour of his dark blue shorts.

"I think you're allowed to dream," the boy said, "As long as you don't tell me what you're dreaming of, of course."

"I couldn't possibly do that, could I. You can't be more than fourteen for a start."

That was a dangerous line, too close to the truth of what he'd like to be thinking.

The boy laughed, flicked some stray hair back onto his head with a movement of a slender hand that was delicate, graceful and almost feminine, but was, nevertheless, pure boy.

"Actually, I'm sixteen, but thanks for thinking I'm younger. That's as good for my ego as me telling you you're not too old was for yours." The boy's smile was innocent wickedness. "So you can have those dreams."

"But I should keep them to myself?"

"Probably best," the boy smiled again, "Especially if you're going to keep stalking me." This time the boy's smile was wider, showing white teeth. Not perfect teeth. Boy's teeth. Teeth perfect for a boy.

"I thought we agreed I'm not stalking you," the man said, beginning to feel he was losing control of this game of words.

"I lied," the boy grinned, "But I don't mind. You're nice."

With that, the boy placed his empty bottle on the table with a graceful hand, unwound himself from his seat and was gone, a gazelle threading his way through the obstacle course of tables and chairs.

Not a look back, but a delicate wave of a slender hand behind him that was neither a farewell nor the promise of a future encounter.

The man replayed that scene over and over as he drank his cooling coffee.

Oh, that he were only twenty years younger, he thought.

But did he need to be twenty years younger? Had not the boy said he was not too old?

But not too old to dream was what the boy had said, he reminded himself. Well, he would dream; the boy had allowed him to do that.

The boy was naked again when the predator arrived, and once more he was led to the boy's bedroom.

It was time, he thought, for the next step, and he, too, was naked when he lay beside the boy on his bed.

The boy's eyes widened with amazement when he saw, for the first time, predator prick. It was, to the boy's eyes, enormous, so, so much bigger than his own; and where he had but a dozen silky hairs, the predator had a neatly trimmed bush.

He held it in his small hands, wondering at the warmth, the silkiness of the smoothly gliding skin, and the sheer power of the thing.

He was a slave to that power, and when the predator eased the boy's head downwards, he opened wide his mouth and thrilled as he tasted his first cock.

This time it was the predator who sighed as full, red lips wrapped around the head and a third of the shaft of a cock that had known other boys, but, as always, the first time in a new mouth was a wonder.

The boy had no skill with his sucking, but he had a natural greed for cock that was more than a compensation, and the predator allowed the boy to work until his untrained mouth grew tired.

He climbed on top of the now prone boy, placed his thick, predator hardness between the boy's slender thighs and pulled them closed with his knees.

The boy's face, inches from his own, split into a grin of lust, the new sensation of cock pushing against his young balls and rubbing his smooth perineum, delighting his cock-crazed mind.

Slowly at first, but with increasing vigour, the predator thigh-fucked the young boy until his climax neared.

He moved then, climbed up the young body, placing his cock against full, red lips.

"Suck it and rub it at the same time," he ordered, "I'm going to shoot in your mouth and you are going to eat every drop."

Eagerly the boy opened his mouth, eagerly he gripped the shaft in a small hand, and in a haze of lust he sucked and rubbed until the cock jerked and erupted in his young mouth.

He gulped and swallowed, desperate to waste nothing, lost in the lust of having a cock spunk in his mouth.

"Fuck!" he breathed when the deed was done, "Oh, fuck! That was awesome!"

The predator left the boy exhausted, bringing him to orgasm three times. It was Saturday tomorrow and the boy not available his parents did not work at weekends.

The park was boyless, and no fair youth adorned a table at his favourite cafe.

Disappointment again, but no deep, resentful disappointment. The boy fascinated him, that much was certainly true. He was fair of face, though no heart-stopping beauty; his body was slender and graceful, though no more so than any other adolescent fawn, so why then was he so fascinating?

It was, the man decided, had decided earlier when he stroked himself, thinking only of the boy as he did so, the simple, pure `boyness' of the boy.

Perhaps, had the boy been present in park or cafe this Saturday morning, he may have been tempted to turn predator again, hunt the boy as he had hunted before.

It would have been a hopeless hunt, of that he was sure; the boy would have out-thought his every move, remained always within sight but never quite within reach, and when he had tired of the game, would have laughed, flicked his tail and swum away into distant reeds, leaving him with himself, a foolish, fond old man.

He went now to his Saturday haunt, to the Leisure Centre with its big pool where he could buy a coffee and watch the boys at play in the water.

It was a safe place to look at boys, the cafe distant and above the pool, and he made as though to read his Kindle as he looked at the swimming, jumping, playing boys.

Most were of no interest to him, other than as sights to see. Most were young fry and he had never felt an attraction to them. Yes, they were sometimes a pleasure to the eye, and to the mind as he contemplated how they would look in a year or three, but even in his younger days he had never thought of them as prey.

He smiled a smile of contentment, for the water was full of children, laughing excitedly, and a voice behind him said,

"I knew you were stalking me."

The boy? His boy? It could be no other, and with suddenly thumping heart he turned to see the smiling face of the tousle-haired fawn who had, somehow, tied a silken strand around that thumping heart.

He should have had a witty response, words that would have dismissed the boy's remark for the nonsense it was, for other ears might have heard and thought it not nonsense.

Instead he just looked, gaping like a stranded goldfish, for never had he thought to see the boy in this place.

And there was more boy to see. A towel slung carelessly over a shoulder concealed not only shoulder but the nipple beneath, and all else was revealed save that part covered by swim shorts of gold.

Not the horrid, modern fashion of swim shorts that reach the knee, but much briefer, thigh-exposing shorts that made the imagination work and wonder.

"You could always buy me a coke," the boy smiled, "To make up for stalking me."

"I'm not stalking you," were the words he should have said, but instead, "Of course," were the ones that came from his mouth.

"I'm surprised," the boy said, his eyes twinkling, when the man had brought him his coke and another coffee for himself, "I would have thought they were all far too young for you."

A sudden coldness went through the man; the boy had seen that he was a predator, not an active one, though the boy would not know that, but a predator at heart.

"They are," he agreed, and in so doing defined himself as a predator indeed, "But I enjoy their splashing around."

A brief silence while he collected his thoughts. If the boy had placed him as a predator, then he should at least make some move in that direction, if only for his self-esteem.

"You look even less sixteen now than you did in the park," he ventured, for indeed, with almost all uncovered, the slender fawn did look more like the fourteen he had at first taken him for.

"Flattery will get you nowhere," the boy grinned at him, "Or, you never know, it may get you everywhere." The grin widened, "And thank-you for the compliment. I like looking young."

Despite himself, the words slipped off his tongue, "I like you looking young as well."

Now the boy would shout, "Pervert!" and leave this place, but, instead, he simply said,

"That's good, then," and tilted his coke bottle to his mouth.

"I'm going for a swim," he said when the bottle was empty, "You can watch me if you want. Can't come in the changing rooms, of course, but I expect I'll be in the park on Monday if it isn't raining. Catch me if you can."

He was gone, but his words remained and the man pondered them carefully.

The boy had recognised him as a predator, a hunter, and the boy knew that he was prey. `Catch me if you can,' was an invitation to hunt, it could be nothing else.

The boy wanted to be hunted, he craved the thrill of the chase and he had laid down a challenge.

Very well, he would hunt the boy, chase the boy, though he had no hopes of succeeding. It was a game, a game the boy was bound to win, it was a game he had not played for far too long, but he would play it now. Even an unsuccessful hunt is still a hunt and is a pleasure in itself.

Sunday is a day of rest and contemplation. Boy rested, predator saved his desires for Monday and the man contemplated.

It was going to be an unusual hunt, unusual because he had not tracked down the prey, the prey had come to him, enticingly close, almost within the reach of a strike as though the prey were bait.

Live bait.

Was that possible?

The boy said he was sixteen, but was he really? Was he perhaps the fourteen that he looked?

It was possible.

There were, he knew, other hunters, those who searched for predators, entrapped them and imprisoned them. Was the boy the bait of such a hunter?

Those hunters were the apex predators in this jungle of man and boy, and apex predators are always ruthless. They would have no hesitation in using a boy as bait to catch a predator, dangling him delightfully in front of his once-again-boy-hungry eyes, waiting patiently for the one, false move that would allow them to cast their net.

Why him if that were so?

There were other predators in the park, the streets, the cafes, the leisure centre, predators more obvious than he, predators who would have already struck if such bait had been dangled before them.

Was that the reason?

He had always hunted with care, searched for legal prey, even, at times, waiting until a not-yet-legal boy who had taken bait, a lure not meant for him, had reached his legal time before he had drained him of his juices.

Not always.

There had been some who had not needed hunting, some who leapt from the safety of the shoal to lie, gasping on the beach, waiting to be collected, picked up and put in the basket of a bed, offering their young, adolescent delights to all who wanted to enjoy them.

Did the hunters know that? That he had walked along the shore and found, more than one, wriggling, and eager-to-be-used early teen and relished in the incomparable taste of fresh young flesh?

Did they now think to snare him by using such a one as bait?

Fear faded and resolution returned. The boy was not bait and he would play the game. The lad was a lure, no doubt of that, but he was his own lure, not tied on a line held by a hunter.

The boy knew his charms were sexual, that because he was a boy there were men who would want him for their pleasure, and, because he was a boy, he was excited and entranced by that knowledge.

Excited too by the thrill of danger, for he knew that prey can be caught, and the possibility of that was another thrill.

This game, the man now understood, was a mating game, a ritual to be performed. The boy might not be caught, but if he did, by chance, take the offered hook and was reeled, struggling in, then he would accept his fate with as much enjoyment as his captor.

"Catch me if you can," was an offer the man could not refuse.

He would watch for hunters of course, but he would smile if he saw them.

Monday was fine and the boy was in the park.

The man smiled, an open smile, and crossed the barrier of grass to sit beside the boy on his bench, Not close, and he placed the bag he had been carrying on the bench between them.

He could feel the silent snarls and glares of the other predators as he dared to destroy their hopes. The boy had been taken, at least for now, and they drifted away in hopeful search of other prey.

"You are definitely stalking me, you can't deny it now," the boy grinned at him, his eyes twinkling. "Be careful or I may start to think that you're a dirty old man."

"Can't stop you thinking that," the man agreed, "And, who knows, you may even be right."

The boy leaned back on the bench, hands behind his head, a movement that caused his, pale blue today, shorts to ride up a fraction, exposing a tiny bit more of slender, very smooth, adolescent thigh.

"You are a dirty old man," the boy said cheerfully, "You're staring at my legs."

"I'd stare more if there was more to stare at," the man grinned, "I definitely preferred the shorts you were wearing in the pool."

"Expect you did," the boy agreed, "But these are okay; they're quite thin cotton."

He knew that remark would cause the man's eyes to look a little higher and he was not disappointed, but he also knew that his shirt, not unbuttoned today but worn outside his shorts, hid from view any possibility of a bulge to be seen.

He did, however, move his hands and adjust things a little so another inch of leg was exposed.

"Better?" he teased.

"A bit," the man agreed, though he did not take his eyes from where he hoped a bulge may be seen.

"So what have you brought me?" the boy asked. "You must have brought me something."

He had indeed brought the boy something, and he reached into the bag to produce a small cool-box, opening it to show two bottles of coke.

"Are they both for me?" the boy cooed, "How thoughtful."

"I try," the man smiled; it was impossible not to smile, the boy made him want to smile.

"You'll need more than two bottles of coke to catch me, though," the boy said as he removed one, unscrewed to top and then lifted it to his lips.

"There's a couple of mars bars in there as well," the man pointed out. "Sweets for the sweet."

The boy slowly eased the coke bottle from his mouth, his lips lingering on the neck. He knew what he was doing, knew the image he was creating in the man's mind.

Once again he was not disappointed, he could see the image in the man's eyes.

"Naughty," he breathed, "But nice."

"You want me to chase you, don't you," the man said, taking the plunge.

"Do you want to chase me?"

"I think you know the answer to that."

"You think I'm worth chasing?"

"I think you know the answer to that as well."

"Why should someone of your age want to chase after a sixteen-year-old boy who looks fourteen?"

"We both know that's a very silly question."

"I suppose it is," the boy sighed, "But I'd still like to hear the answer."

"Perhaps it's because he's a rather attractive boy of sixteen, and the fact that he looks fourteen adds to that attraction."

"You think I'm attractive, then?"

"Would I be bringing you cokes and mars bars if I didn't?"

"Why did you bring them?"

"Because I wanted to."

"Nothing else?"

"Yes," the man admitted, "Something else as well. Because you intrigue me and because, if you didn't throw them back at me and run away, I might be able to spend a little time in your company and get to know a little more about you."

"That's nice," the boy said, "But you left out the bit about wanting to see more of my legs."

"You know exactly what you're doing, don't you," the man said, looking the boy directly in the eyes.

"Yes," the boy agreed, "Do you?"

The boy and man parted company, another silken strand looped and tied.

"I prefer Twix to Mars," the boy called over his shoulder as he left.

The boy was waiting for his predator, eagerly naked as he always was now and hurried him to his bedroom when he arrived.

He spread himself on the bed, anxious for the adoration of his only-just-thirteen-year-old flesh to start, and sighed with only-just-adolescent lust when it began.

As before he was fondled and licked from neck to knee, and, as before, bolts of lightning seared his young frame when his nipples were nibbled.

He clung lasciviously to his user, joining desperately in the search for tonsils, and when mouths were tired and lips puffed, he lay back, awaiting the sucking that would bring forth his watery seed.

Instead his user lifted high his slender legs and the boy gasped loud in shock, amazement and wonder when mouth went where he had never believed mouth would go.

The wonder of lips and tongue on his tiny, tight, virgin hole was more than he could bear and he whimpered and whined as his user slurped and probed.

So many light years from the simple, plain pleasure of stroking himself that his mind could not comprehend it.

His user stopped using him there and brought his legs down, going at last for the impossibly hard nail that jutted as far as it could jut from the boy's so slender body, and he sighed with pleasure, only to gasp again as one leg was lifted and slick finger probed where tongue had just been.

Briefly his young body debated this new event, his anus as yet unconvinced that it was a point of entry as well as exit, until it gave up the unequal struggle, and with a squeak and a squeal from the boy's mouth it relaxed its defences and the finger was inside him.

Lost now in the depths of lust the boy gripped tight at the finger that was filling him and humped his nail in the warm wetness of the mouth that enclosed it.

Impossibly a second finger joined the first and something inside him was touched that made him think his balls would burst and his anus took on a life of its own, pulsing, opening and closing on the fingers inside him.

He thought he could take no more, but he was wrong, for a third finger joined the others, stretching him wider and moving inside him so his body would not forget that it could accommodate so much, and touching that place that made his balls want to burst.

His orgasm came in a blinding flash, a huge eruption from deep inside him and he flooded his user's mouth with more, and less watery, juice than he had ever shot before.

He was exhausted, but boys of barely thirteen do not stay exhausted for long, and soon his mouth was full of user-prick, sucking and suckling, eager for the flow of the hot, strange-tasting, slimy cream that he was already addicted to.

Twice more he was sucked and fingered and on the third time his hole opened eagerly, taking the fingers not one at a time, but all three together, and deep, knuckle-deep, inside him.

"You're ready for fucking now," the predator told him as he gave him a final, gentle kiss.

"Oh, please!" the boy sighed, "Please fuck me soon."

Days passed and man met boy, in the park the cafe and the leisure centre, and the leisure centre was, for the man, the best place, for there he could glut his eyes on almost all of the boy and the boy smiled when those eyes devoured him.

Though the boy's swim shorts were brief they were not tight, and try as he might, the man could discern no hint of bulge, and that also gave the boy cause to smile. He knew well enough what the man longed to see, but he kept his secret well hidden.

Days became weeks and they talked of cabbages and kings, alluding to but never mentioning outright the fearful word `sex'.

And, day by day, though the prey knew it not, the binding, silken strands were fastened, one by one.

The predator did not see the thirteen-year-old boy now. He had accomplished his task, relieved the boy of the burden of virginity and turned him loose in the world to be a plaything for all who wanted. He had led the boy down the primrose path to adolescent copulation, and from that country no traveller returns.

He embraced his destiny with open legs, the remainder of his young years now dedicated to the service of the god Cock.

August began to die and it wept for its coming end. No longer could boy and man meet in park or pavement cafe and it seemed that the chase must end. It was, the man thought, no more than a summer's breeze, sweet while it lasted, but always destined to fade away.

"Catch me if you can," well, he had not caught the boy but he had enjoyed the game. He would think much of the boy in the winter to come.

"It is getting hard to meet here now," the boy said one rare dry afternoon.

"There is the cafe," the man offered with more hope than conviction, "Inside."

"Inside, yes," the boy agreed, "But not the cafe."

"Where, then?"

The boy looked at the man, his eyes twinkling as they so often did.

"It's strange, isn't it," he said, "That you have never invited me to your home. We meet almost every day and never once have you tried to get me on my own, away from others."

"When I am with you we are alone," the man said, and he meant that.

"You want me in your bed," the boy said, voicing for the first time the thought that had been kept secret between them, "But you have made no attempt to get me there."

"I never caught you," the man smiled, a soft smile, aimed at both himself and the boy, "But I never expected to."

"Why then did you keep chasing me?"

"Because I wanted to. I knew I would never catch you, but I did manage to keep you in sight."

"And that was enough?"

"I could look at your legs, so, yes, it was enough."

"But you dreamed of more."

"We are such stuff as dreams are made on," the man quoted with a smile, "So, yes, I dreamed of more."

"In a few days' time I will have to start college," the boy said, leaving the subject of dreams.

"What will you do there?"

"I don't know. It is not my choice. Sixteen may be the age of consent for some things, but not for education. It is eighteen for that."

"And then I will not see you again."

"Do you want to? See me again?"

"That is a question you should know you do not need to ask."

"Then tomorrow I'll see you at your house. I know where it is."

"Sorry to be so over-dressed," the boy grinned when he arrived at the man's house clad in sweater and trackie bottoms, "It's not warm out there today."

"Not a day for the park," the man agreed, foolishly disappointed that the boy was not in shorts.

"Certainly not," the boy shuddered, "But if you've got a coke in the fridge I won't say no."

"As it happens, I do have half a dozen left. I'll get you one and make myself a coffee. Make yourself comfortable for a minute."

When he returned the boy was no longer in sweater and trackies, but stood wearing a bright white polo shirt and green satin shorts that, while not as brief as his swim shorts, were several inches shorter than anything he had worn so far. Discarded clothing was folded neatly on an armchair.

"Like?" the boy grinned while the man struggled to retain a grip on both coke and coffee.

"Very much," the man's smile was all appreciation. "I didn't think you could still get shorts like that."

"Can if they've got `Age 10 to 13' on the label," the boy grinned even wider, "Got them in the market this morning."

"You did?"

"Thought you'd like them," the boy said, sounding almost off-hand about it, "And they only cost a couple of quid."

"Couple of quid very well spent in my opinion," the man smiled and handed the boy his coke, putting his coffee on the low table in front of his sofa.

The boy stood a moment longer, allowing the man's gaze to register that not only was there a decent amount of leg to look at, there was also, for the very first time, a definite hint of bulge.

"Good, glad you like them," the boy smiled, "Cos I got them for you."

He semi-posed a moment longer, and then sat beside the man on the sofa. Not close, as they had never been close on the park bench, but on the same seat.

There were two other chairs the boy could have sat on, well, perhaps one, as the other was playing host to his neatly folded outer layers.

"I think we need to talk, don't you?" the boy said, sounding for the first time in all their encounters, slightly hesitant, slightly unsure of himself.

"I suppose we should," the man nodded, "It has been a nice summer ...... seeing your legs everyday." There was a tinge of sadness in his words; the summer was almost over. "But I could easily say the wrong things, so perhaps you'd better start."

The boy nodded and sipped his coke, perhaps wondering where, and how, to begin.

"You ever had sex with a boy?" he asked, bluntly, suddenly, unexpectedly.

Had he been drinking his coffee the man would have choked. As it was he reached instinctively for the packet of cigarettes on the table and then changed his mind. He'd never seen the boy smoke and didn't want to offend him now. Not that it mattered really, as this was probably their last meeting.

"It's okay," the boy grinned, noting the movement and counter-movement, "You can have a fag if you want, I don't mind. Every man should have a hobby of some sort."

Gratefully, because it gave him time to think, the man took a cigarette and lit it. He did notice the boy's allusion though, and was surprised by it.

"What about me?" the boy asked.

"I didn't think you smoked. I've never seen you smoking."

"Lots of things about me you've never seen," the boy sniggered a little, "And I only smoke now and again."

"And this is a `now'?"

"Think so."

His cigarette lit, the boy asked again.

"So, have you? Had sex with a boy?"

"Not a lot of point in denying it, is there," the man said, grateful again that he could give concentration to his own cigarette.

"None," the boy agreed, "But I wanted to hear you admit it."


"Because I really didn't want to be your first."

"Sorry?" the man said, not quite believing what he had heard.

"I've had several boys but not a man yet, and I wanted my first man to at least have some idea what to do."

"Am I hearing you right? You want to have sex with a man?"

"Not any man," the boy blew out smoke, "You. I'm nowhere near being a virgin at the front, but I am at the back, by the way."

"You want to have sex with me?"

"What else?"

"It's a wonderful thought," the man smiled, "But ........ well, not something I was expecting you to say."

"Is it a wonderful thought?" The boy seemed both pleased and uncertain at the same time.

"You must have known for a long time that it's not just your legs I want to look at."

"Yeh, I worked that out easy enough," the boy grinned, "That's why I kept letting you, make sure you were properly interested."

"So you were teasing me," the man nodded, "Fair enough."

"A bit," the boy grinned again and stretched out his long, smooth, slender legs, the green satin of his shorts riding up to expose more skin and also a more definite hint of bulge. "But more than just teasing."

"You wanted me to chase you," the man said, thinking he understood.

"Sort of," the boy was almost laughing now, "I wanted to see what you'd do if I opened up my sticky little petals. You flew straight in. You just couldn't keep your eyes off my legs," the boy sniggered.

"And you've had boys?" the man was still trying to get things sorted in his increasingly bewildered mind.

"First couple of weeks I was seeing you I was breaking in a very tasty young teen when I left the park. A very young teen, by the way."

"And now?"

"No, not now. I got him broken in and turned him loose. I expect a few of the guys that wander round the park have sampled him by now."

"So why open up your sticky little petals for me? If you've been doing a boy then surely ..........."

"Told you," the boy interrupted him, "Because I want a man. You do boys, but you get done by a man. Different."

"True," the man nodded; long, long ago when he was a boy, he'd bedded boys and been bedded by men. He understood the difference. "So all this was planned? It was you stalking me?"

"Yeh, I was seducing you. I know it's the wrong way round," he grinned, "You not mad at me, are you? I know you fancy me."

"No, I'm not mad. Flattered more than anything. And yes, I do fancy you, fancy you like crazy to be honest."

"That was the plan," the boy's smile was infectious and the man smiled with him, "But you more than just fancy me, don't you." It was a statement, not a question.

"If by that you mean that I fancy you so much that I'd like to have you around all the time, look at those lovely legs for more than just about an hour a day, then, yes, I do more than simply fancy you."

"Could be arranged," the boy closed his sticky little petals around the trapped man, wound his last silken thread tight. All that was needed now was to fasten him to his web.

"If you fancy me enough to want to get me breakfast in bed every day, after you've had breakfast from me of course; see me off to college with a kiss and can't wait till I get home so you can feed again, then it could be arranged."

"Sounds like heaven," the man said, either unaware of the web that was set to catch and hold him, or simply not caring that it was there.

"Why don't you get your hand on my leg, then?" the boy asked, smiling, "And you can go as far up as you want."

The man did, his hand moving to the boy's slender thigh and he was caught, stuck fast in the web.

The predator sighed happily as the hand moved under his shorts, seeking his essentials. He had caught his prey, captured and secured it; now he could relax and enjoy it.

He lifted his hips so his shorts could be removed and smiled delightedly when the prey gasped in admiration at what was revealed.

"It's seven and a half inches," he purred as his prey grasped and fondled him, "And it needs lots and lots of attention."

It had been a good hunt, now it was time to enjoy the rewards.