The Hunter's Prey

by Diane Whiteside

  And thank heavens, Don Rafael’s hand began to tease and tempt my clit. I groaned and spread my legs wide, wagging my hips in invitation. I cared nothing for what either man thought, or why they were there, just so long as they gave me what I hungered for.

  The ivory wand slipped out, to be replaced by two fingers. I pushed back on them, aching for something bigger and hotter and harder. A chuckle, a few soft words in Spanish and three fingers entered me, stretching me wide. Four fingers widened me and I writhed. I’d have screamed my demands like a fishwife except that Templeton tasted too good to leave.

  A blunt tip glided up through my folds and teased my backside. I shuddered in longing for more . . . and it slipped in. Just the tip, mind, but that was enough. I froze in shock, then his finger teased me again. I groaned as the sweet tremor flashed through my hips. His cock began to move again, every inch marked by another skillful stroke to my clit or through my nether lips.

  Frankly, I’m not sure I needed those attentions. I was so eager for cock that the slow, hot ache as he filled me felt like the prelude to heaven.

  He paused when he was buried to the hilt in my ass. Only the tip of Templeton’s cock rested in my mouth now as a long shudder ran through me. And I wanted more. I needed to be the woman who held everything these two strong Texas men could give her.

  Don Rafael said something harsh and urgent in Spanish. He started to ride me, long and slow at first while encouraging my clit, then deeper and faster as I responded. Templeton gripped my head and began to fuck my throat in an answering rhythm. Fire blazed up and down my body, from my deepest core through my backbone and out through my skin, until I was a bonfire waiting only for the torch. They tunneled deeper into me, their thrusts seeming to meet at my heart. Nothing existed for me except the two stallions filling me.

  Climax came closer, closer . . . I pushed harder and harder into the two men until suddenly, I came. A scintillating pinwheel of sparks blazed before my eyes as wave after wave roared through me. I was dimly conscious of first Templeton, then Don Rafael’s climaxing into me.

  I think I smiled. I know I fell asleep without opening my eyes. And afterward . . .

  I began my stay as only a month’s diversion for them but they taught me how to look toward tomorrow, not yesterday, while finding joy in the present. They rescued me from my brothers and gave me a fresh start in Colorado afterward. More reward than a cat burglar deserved and the sweetest punishment a woman could hope for.

  May they find as bright a future as they gave me.

  champagne cocktail a tale of ethan templeton with mention of don rafael perez and jean-marie st. just

  Bartender! I’ll have another one of your champagne cocktails, please.

  How many have I had so far? Does it really matter?

  You sure do know how to make a real champagne cocktail. Sugar cube soaked in bitters, then champagne, finally brandy. Of course, you do need a really excellent French brandy to top it off. It’s a drink that’s a lot like life, don’t you think?

  Thank you, young man. What a lovely night this is, sitting here looking out at the moonlight on the ocean, with a good drink and a handsome man close by.

  Did you tell me what your name is? John? That’s a lovely name. Did I mention I have a fellow named Johnny? Of course, he’s a much older man than you are. Johnny has a waistline that a girl can’t hardly put her arms around.

  But he’s definitely good for a lot of banging, if you know what I mean. His tongue knows how to take a girl to the stars, too. I’ve spent many an hour, writhing and yowling like a cat in heat, while Johnny worked that magic.

  Johnny always knew how to treat a girl right. He loved to give me presents, expensive presents like a fur coat and fancy silk underthings. He used to give me cash too, lots of beautiful money to go shopping with. Sometimes I’d just take some money for myself and have a fine time shopping.

  If Johnny knew I’d taken the money, he never said anything. He’d just rub my rear so that my underthings rode high, letting his hand in. His fingers would go to work until I grabbed anything nearby for balance. He always liked to hear me ask him for more.

  Champagne was my drink then. It had to be champagne, bubbling and bright as my mood. Johnny bought me my first champagne cocktail on the night we met.

  I can tell that you know how to treat a girl right, too. The way you pour that champagne out of the bottle so that the bubbles foam up in the glass . . . Mmm, that must draw the ladies like flies to honey.

  Oh yes, I had a lot of fun with Johnny. He had a speakeasy back when those places were highly sought. It was the finest speakeasy in Austin. He let me decorate it just the way I wanted. So I got a fancy decorator from New York City and we did it up first-class: gold and mirrors, with bright lights and straight lines. They called the style Art Deco and I thought it looked just as elegant as that fancy French king’s palace.

  Everything in it was the best that money could buy. Johnny would even bring in pricey wines and liquors from New Orleans. He always said he wanted to make Texas proud of his place. All the high-class people came there regularly, including the chief of police.

  Of course, lots of people were resentful of Johnny. They kept trying to cause trouble for him. So Johnny just had to keep a bunch of young men around to head off trouble. Fine young men too, muscled and fast with their guns . . .

  Did I mention their weapons? Well, I made sure that those young men had good weapons—other than what Mr. Colt provided. You see, Johnny couldn’t always come through for a girl, if you know what I mean. But he really enjoyed watching me with someone else. Of course, what he really preferred was seeing me with other women.

  But I, well, I like the feel of a big dick pushing up into me, pardon my language. There’s just something about the feel of a man sweating and straining away as he pounds between your legs. It’s a pulse that’s always sent shivers up my spine. . . .

  Where was I? Oh yes, Johnny’s young men. Well, Johnny and I worked out an arrangement. He got to see me from time to time with young women. But I got to audition all his young toughs for display in his bed. I made sure that, if and when Johnny ever wanted to see me being well-ridden, there was a young man handy who was ready, willing, and able to perform. Such lovely boys they were too.

  I had to ask Johnny’s permission first, of course. He called me his Theda Bara, for all the young men crowding around me. I liked the sound of that and tried to live up to the name. I dressed like a vamp, and I had fun like a vamp. Isn’t it crazy, the things you do when you’re young?

  One day, Johnny started having trouble with another speakeasy owner. Police raids had always been just a nuisance before, but now the police started coming by all the time and even destroying things. I lost a fine set of champagne flutes once. It was dreadful.

  So of course, Johnny’s friends made sure that the police treated the other man’s place similarly. Matters became more exciting when the young toughs were involved. One time, some of Johnny’s young men even sprayed the other speakeasy with gunfire, and a handful of guys were killed too.

  Once, the other owner sent a few boys past Johnny’s place to shoot things up. A truck was delivering some wine at the time, and both the driver and all his stock were lost in the gunplay. The street was red for days until the next hard rain.

  Johnny took me out for dinner at a fine steak house to get my mind off that bloody street. The restaurant was famous for the best steaks in Texas but it looked very old-fashioned with its dark woods and scarlet drapes. It even had steer horns on the walls.

  They seated us in one of the private rooms, so everyone could pretend that we weren’t going to drink alcohol. Johnny ordered his usual fancy French wine. (You’d know about expensive wines, wouldn’t you, sugar?) But the waiter said they didn’t have any of that vintage. Johnny got angry and started fuming. He just wasn’t used to anyone saying no to him. Why, his face even turned red.

  The waiter called in a fancy Frenchman, tall and well-dressed, with
blue eyes and light brown hair. I didn’t pay much attention to him because I was watching Johnny. I could see that Johnny wasn’t paying much heed either to all the Frenchie’s talk of other wines. Johnny just kept getting louder and louder as he demanded the wine he always ordered.

  The commotion brought another man over. The waiter really snapped to attention at his arrival and called him Don Rafael. Don Rafael explained that his supplier had lost a deliveryman in the current troubles, the same deliveryman who had died outside Johnny’s place.

  Well, Johnny didn’t like this explanation but Don Rafael and I worked together to quiet him down. Don Rafael was a big Spaniard—taller than any other Spaniard I’d ever seen. He had black hair and black eyes, like most Spaniards, and his nose hooked like an eagle’s beak. With that nasty scar over one eye, he didn’t look the type to get ruffled by the loss of a wine shipment. His calm helped settle Johnny down.

  Finally Johnny let himself be bribed by the promise of a special show, featuring me and one of the hat-check girls back at the speakeasy. Don Rafael treated us to some fine brandy before we drove back to Austin. I always drank fine brandy after dinner with Johnny. . . .

  Thank you, sugar. A new cocktail tastes really good right now. I haven’t thought of that dinner in years. I’ve never spoken of it before, even to Johnny.

  It was right after that when the drifter showed up. Johnny had put out the word in Dallas and Kansas City that he was looking to hire. A number of young toughs showed up but most of them weren’t worth the time of day. So Johnny and I would both audition them and then let them go.

  But this fellow was different. Tall and slender, with blond hair and hazel eyes, he moved like a wildcat. All quiet-like and very dangerous. You knew that this one had killed before. That his crotch was well-filled-out was an added bonus to my way of thinking.

  He sat down at the bar, just sipping on a whisky and watching the room. Our fellows noticed him immediately and passed the word to Johnny. One of the cigarette girls mentioned him to me when I was freshening up after a quickie with the bouncer. Of course, I went out to see the drifter too.

  I perched myself next to him at the bar and tried to talk to him. He looked me over and seemed to see all of me, right down to my brand of French underthings. I know he could see that my dress hem didn’t quite reach the top of my stockings. (I’ve always enjoyed seeing a man’s response to my legs. They’re good, don’t you think?)

  But he didn’t react like men always did to me. He told me that I wasn’t worth the effort needed to screw me. Can you imagine? No man had ever turned down an invitation from me. The North Pole was warmer than his eyes when he went back to his drink.

  I was sure that I could change his mind if I just worked hard enough. I talked to him some more, sipping my champagne cocktail and leaning close. But he always kept a distance between us. I stroked his arm and felt the muscles under his sleeve. He moved his arm away and I could have cursed.

  One of the guys came out and asked the drifter upstairs to talk to Johnny. He stood up right away for that invitation. I followed along behind, watching that smooth walk. He strolled as confidently as a gunfighter moving down a cow town’s main street. He truly had the finest ass I have ever seen on a man.

  He shook hands with Johnny in the office and they looked each other over. Something passed between them and Johnny told me to leave. I started to protest but Johnny insisted. I let him get away with it this time, because he didn’t seem quite himself. A little distracted maybe. I went back to the bar and tried to amuse myself by looking at all the men there. I couldn’t imagine any of them with a better weapon than that new fellow though.

  Finally, Johnny summoned all his men upstairs, and I went too. Johnny was waiting in his office with the new guy over by the window. Johnny had a spot of blood on his collar. It seemed odd to me because he didn’t need to shave more than once a day.

  He introduced the new fellow as Ethan and said he’d be joining the gang. Ethan was good with a gun and would be doing some special work. We all knew what that meant—the undertaker would be doing cleanup after the special work.

  Some of the fellows were pleased because they wouldn’t have to do the killing. But most of them were just plain frightened. I just became hotter for Ethan, even though I was a little scared.

  I talked to Johnny later that night about me and Ethan putting on a special performance for him. I waited until he was content and sleepy after a really good fuck before I asked him. I was curled up against him, the way he liked me. Boneless as I always was after Johnny’s brand of starting things off before finishing with a roar.

  Johnny said that Ethan would be the best judge of whether or not he would perform with me. But until Ethan asked me, I wasn’t supposed to bother him. That angered me but Johnny wouldn’t listen to any of my arguments. Finally, I had to drop the subject.

  Johnny’s refusal didn’t stop me from watching Ethan every chance I got. I knew every detail of him, from the way he walked to the way he smelled. He looked so good under the electric lights in the speakeasy, and I daydreamed about how he’d look in my bed, that blond hair lit by the early morning sun . . .

  You’d stretch out fine in bed, wouldn’t you, sugar, for a beautiful woman? A woman hot and eager for you? A woman can just tell when a man knows how to pour himself into his lady like he pours a drink. I know you can do that, sugar; I’ve been sitting here watching you mix drinks. . . .

  Thank you, sugar, for the fresh drink. Fine alcohol served by an expert makes it a real pleasure to sit here chatting. Just talking about what happened so long ago . . .

  Johnny started acting funny about money matters shortly after that. He’d never cared much about money before; he’d just said that it was mostly for keeping score and spending on pretty ladies. Now he had all the books brought to his office and started reading them at all hours of the day and night. I’d catch him sometimes with the books laid out on the table while he talked to Ethan.

  I tried to distract him. I paraded in silks straight from Paris and writhed under his hands and tongue until my voice was hoarse. I sucked him off more than once, surrounded by ledger books.

  But nothing worked. Johnny’s bookkeeper even got concerned that Johnny didn’t trust him. Johnny reassured him about that and the bookkeeper relaxed a bit. But the books stayed in Johnny’s office, close to him at all times. I kept wondering why Johnny was fussing about things that had never mattered to him before . . .

  Do you ever find yourself doing that, sugar? Suddenly just polishing a part of the bar that no one can see? That no one can get to? Just to have something to do. Maybe it was only nerves on Johnny’s part. But he’d never been nervous before . . .

  Johnny’s chief lieutenant, Hickok, didn’t like Ethan at all. He muttered on and on about how no one knew Ethan and how Ethan could be doing all sorts of nasty things during the daytime, especially since Ethan only showed up after dark. He kept trying to pick fights with Ethan. But Ethan would just look at him in that cold way and move on. I figured the problem was that Hickok was simply drunk and jealous of the time Johnny spent with Ethan.

  One night, Hickok had even more whisky in him than usual. I heard him come upstairs, hitting his hands against the wall. (You ever seen a man do that when he’s too drunk to stand upright without help? Walks down the hall, thumping the walls every step just to make sure he knows which way is up.) A big heavy guy like Hickok—well, it almost sounded like a hammer.

  I was in my room, trying on a new dress in hopes of getting some attention out of Ethan. I came out right away to stop Hickok before he bothered Johnny. But I found the oddest sight in the hallway.

  There was Hickok in Ethan’s arms. It looked like Ethan was kissing him on the neck, and I stopped dead. I burned with envy, feverish to have Ethan’s arms around me. I felt my whole body clench with lust.

  Then the men shifted slightly and I could see more. Hickok had his eyes shut, with a horrified look on his face. He wasn’t fighting though.
I hesitated, not sure what to do.

  Ethan’s eyes opened and he stared at me. I could see a little blood on his lip. I knew then and there that I had interrupted something that was none of my business.

  I blinked and popped back into my room, mumbling something about being sorry to disturb them. The last thing I saw was Ethan watching me with his mouth still fastened to Hickok’s neck. It almost looked like he was sucking on Hickok, but surely that couldn’t be.

  Do you go to the cinema often, sugar? I always have. Now I’ve seen a lot of things in the movies, from vampires to King Kong. But those were made-up stories about monsters, not real-life. This was real. A man’s teeth on another man’s body. It still shakes me up to think of it. . . .

  Yes, thank you. A drink tastes real good after remembering that sight.

  What happened to Hickok? Did he sober up? Would you, a bartender, want a good customer to stop drinking?

  I wish he had though.

  I heard the next morning that they’d found Hickok dead in an alley off Guadeloupe. He’d been filled with bullets and there wasn’t much left of him. Funny thing though, the newspaper photos didn’t show any blood around the body. But maybe the newspaper prettied up the photo some to make it acceptable for family viewing.

  Johnny got angry, said the other gang was responsible for Hickok’s death. Ethan never said anything about seeing Hickok that night and I wondered if I’d really seen anything. I went to church though, for the first time in years, and said a prayer for Hickok. . . .

  Thank you, sugar. I needed another drink. I’ve been drinking champagne cocktails since I was sixteen. You make a very good one and it takes me right back. . . .

  The fellows were more nervous after Hickok’s death. The men walked around each other like bantam roosters just looking for a chance to strike at the other gang.

  I couldn’t help myself. No matter how much I sweated and sobbed in Johnny’s bed, no matter what I’d seen or not seen, no matter how much death seemed to be walking the halls, I kept watching Ethan, begging him with my eyes for an opportunity to get closer. I was half-scared he would touch me and half-scared that he wouldn’t. It was like chewing the sugar cube at the bottom of a champagne cocktail: sweet and bitter at the same time.