In a place near San Diego's harbor, among a graveyard of rusted and paint-blotched warehouses, a hold-up appears in progress. Buckles flicker under opaque sun; leather murmurs in cool, marine air; and heavy boots positions and reposition their grips on the asphalt. A leather arm grips a neck. Another holds two smaller, flannelled arms. Keys jangle, chains protest: it is the taking of a valuable commodity.

On closer inspection, however, the encounter is victimless; the purpose, clear. The hunter pulls at the clothes of the prey: hands pull at shirts, unbuckle belts, unzip and jerk down jeans. The hunter roughly turns the prey to a paint-blotched warehouse, rips away his prey's underwear, fingers his ass, and squeezes the prey's hairy butt in his thick, calloused hands.

The hunter again starts his probe: first one finger, then two, perhaps three. The hunter is impressed: his prey will be able to take his 8-incher-encouraged by leather-strapped, weighted balls. The prey bites away sharp pain and relaxes his ass around the three fingers. Massaging his prey's ass, the hunter feels reception to seduction, that slow succumbing submission, the giving of trust.

The hunter removes his fingers, pushes a hand into the prey's back to bend him forward, spits in his other one, applies spittle to his thick cock-a vein-etched, purple bludgeon of force-and rams it into the prey.

The hunter grunts, the prey counters. The hunter sets the rhythm: a grunt for a grunt, a moan for a moan, and a push of effort for mounting pleasure.

Next, the hunter eases to long and fluid strokes, teasingly slow and smooth; he follows with more pressure, more purpose, thrusts of will, of aggression; thrusts that transmit dominance. The thrusts grow faster, angrier; they are powered by pleasure: pleasure in aggression, pleasure in perceived violence, but violence tempered with control, with experience.

The hunter is a mature aggressor, an aggressor of experience, of responsibility, who knows that violence, for violence's sake, holds only pleasure for the troubled, for the insignificant. And sadism is an excursion best saved for more experienced prey: those who know its essence, who know its spiritual core.

The hunter begins to feel spiritual and goes faster; his strokes become shorter and jerkier; he finds his center, moves into his meditative state.

And feeling that familiar fire--that exquisite, perfect knowledge-he leaves his prey behind to move toward the undefined state of being. He has gone where his prey can't, for the prey knows not the true meaning of dominance, of submission, of truth through fucking. The hunter uses the prey, but use is reciprocal: something for something, someone for a moment. The prey is a vehicle for the hunter to reach higher, to see clearer, to feel deeper, and to blur the boundary between experiential and existential.

Only the hunter knows this perfect feeling, this perfect knowledge doesn't last long; and he must make the most of it; must make it last as long as his mind, body, and soul can sustain it. For after each time he reaches it, he dies a little.

Both men gulp deeper for air, and although their efforts are for a similar end, the prey only wants orgasm. The hunter wants much more. The hunter moans desire and pleasure, for he knows he will experience the wonder of arriving and lingering in that existence where time is replaced by nothingness, where physics is disobeyed, and where mere mortality moves to a fist of indescribable, incomprehensible feelings. The hunter's pistoned rhythm accelerates. Faster. Faster still. Then cries from the prey acknowledges the hunter's success, which, in turn, are followed by cries from the hunter's acknowledged arrival: the reciprocal of mutual pleasure-pain, of given-received validation.

"Yes! Oh God, Yes!" is said by the prey, yet much more is felt by the hunter, who curls his upper lip, for he IS God-or at least he becomes God in the fleeting brilliance of Perfect Knowledge.

And it has arrived.

The action suddenly stops. The hunter is returning to banality, but he tries to linger in Perfection's brilliance. His pelvis pushes forward and holds; the prey's ass pushes back to meet it; and a cry of futile resistance prefaces an initial shot of cum, a branding cum, a mark of ownership, followed by several more that coat the hot cavern of the prey.

Then more cum shoot into the prey's trembling ass. The prey rises almost to standing, but the hunter pushes him back to bending. He cries louder than before as his own cum streaks the side of the warehouse and splatters the oil-slick asphalt.

And it is done. Lust is satisfied. Perfect Knowledge is glimpsed and forgotten. Behind the eyes of the hunter, the redness of his lids replaces the brilliance.

It is gone.

In silence the hunter and the prey slow their breathing, pull on their clothes, and finally turn to each other. Sated smiles are exchanged.

The hunter corrals his quarry with a leather arm around the neck, and the two walk back to the "The Dungeon."



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