The Hunters Tale

They erupted at the perfect crescendo.

She collapsed atop his heaving chest with a pleased purr, and a pussy slick with cum. His and hers.

The man underneath was simply in awe, and for a moment, out of breath.

"My god...you are...out of this world." But words would eventually come to mind.

"Toldja I knew a few things." Her disarming giggle tickled against his neck as they both came down from their mutual orgasmic peak.

"...that you do. That you...whew, I ain't met a girl quite like you."

"Ain't many girls like me, pretty boy," she cooed atop his panting torso, one naked body draped over the other.

His throbbing extension of manhood was still buried deep within her womb, keeping their youthful forms tethered to one another in lingering, lustful harmony.

Only the pale moon above watched the two lovers under its lunar stare.

"Amen to that!" Staring out at the brightly shining stars with eyes still in disbelief of what they saw, he told the slim woman laying on top of him, "Gawd, I wouldn't mind another go at this soon. Maybe when you're free again?"

"I'm always free, pretty boy." Her voice tinged with sensual promise.

"That's good. That's...ah hell, you rode me sore. I think I might need a minute."

"I don't." A seductive squeeze of her warm and wet pussy against his still captured cock was plenty indication of that.

"You...you this eager with all the other guys?"

"Darling, you have no idea."

"Oh, okay." He proceeded to take the opportunity to catch his breath while the woman slowly peeled off his chest, bracing her palms against his pectoral muscles. "This- this made my damn week."

Her hands massaged his chest. "Yeah baby?"

"As God as my witness, hell yeah," he smiled up at her, settling into the post-orgasmic bliss for a moment more.

Mid-massage, her expression changed.

"I wanna go again," she told him firmly.

Looking up at the naked perfection above him, he was reluctant to say no. Very reluctant.

"And I'd love to go with ya, but..." He gave a sigh of sudden exhaustion, "...I think I've given you my best tonight. Don't think I have another run in me."

"No." She shook her head, dark tendrils of hair concealing a dark smile. "You haven't given me what

I

want yet."

He chuckled some. "Listen, I like you and all, but I'm not fixin' for fatherhood right now, alright? Hell, I don't even know your name."

"Silly man-thing." Flashing him a brighter smile that lit up a mischievous face, she playfully traced one finger down his lip, teasing down to the center of his chest. "I don't just want your seed. I want your soul."

He laughed again. "Come again?"

She wasn't laughing with him.

Rather, she was looking at him like a predator fixed on prey. "I'm hungry, pretty boy. So...damn...hungry."

The feelings of warmth and sexual satisfaction dissolved in thin air, replaced by an unnerving coldness creeping up his spine. "I-I don't think I understand."

"You're not supposed to," she smiled down at him before diving down and kissing under his neck and chin.

At the same time, her hips slammed down on his manhood!

He moaned- and moaned again as she began to ride him anew.

"Yes...fill me back up, baby." She whispered wantonly against his ear while pressing her body back against his.

There was no fatigue or falter in her flourishes.

"Shit...shit slow down. I said I was done," he grunted out, but she kept going.

"You're done when I get what I want," she growled, driving her powerful pussy down on his somehow still hard shaft.

"God...stop...

stop

, damn it!" Now he was starting to panic.

And she was just settling into a new rhythm. Faster. Harder.

He couldn't keep up. He was gasping, wheezing for air.

"Please...stop..."

She didn't stop. She just smiled. And kept fucking him.

"Enjoy oblivion, sweet thing," she giggled into his ear, coming down harder than before and then

squeezing

.

"Fuck...gonna...oh fu-"

________________________________________

The young man died with a smile on his face.

His eyes were open but sunken. His cheeks hollowed and devoid of expression.

And yet his lips remained curled in an eternal grin, as the rest of his withered body lay exposed under the fresh morning sun.

He was a blacksmith once, with the build becoming of a metal welder.

It was once his life's calling, but life had long since abandoned his body.

Now, he was as his smile indicated.

Happily deceased.

"God save his soul."

A lawman tipped his hat at the already decaying corpse.

His face was weathered, a thick mustache lining his lips and sympathy in his eyes.

A distinctive yellow star clung to his brown jacket, a gold chain hanging down from the vest he wore underneath it.

He wore pants of a similar color, brown boots completing the look of the town sheriff.

In his hands, he clutched a double-barrel shotgun, with a grip that was fearfully tight.

"It's not up to Him now."'

The man of the law turned to the side. "Hell you mean by that?"

Across from him, another man examined the youth's discarded cadaver with a noticeably different twinkle in his eyes.

Not a glint of sympathy, but rather, sullen, sobering familiarity.

They were in a wheat field, a lone windmill towering next to them while the concerned farmhands who first discovered the body watched from a wary distance.

"Maybe it's better you don't know," was his ominous response.

Unfortunately, he did know of the young man's true fate. And it was something not easily digested by the uninitiated.

Taking his reply for what it was, the sheriff turned back to the withered body. "He was a good kid, this one. Never run afoul of the badge, never done nothing to upset nobody. And to just leave him like this? We put people on the noose for crimes against humanity. This is a crime against nature itself. You're gonna find the devil-whore who did this, right?"

"I'm following some leads."

"That ain't good enough." The lawman turned to him fully, his growling words barely suppressing the building fury. "She's been doing this for too goddamn long. People are scared, fearing for their lives. It's only a matter of time before it hits the national papers."

"It won't get that far."

The young man continued to smile on the ground between them, his gaunt face forever frozen in grinning rigor mortis.

"As you say. So what the hell am I supposed to tell folks huh? To keep them from packing up and taking the Transcontinental back north?"

"Tell them it ends tonight."

"See that it does. You've got a reputation to uphold, I reckon."

"I've handled her kind before. She's no different than the rest."

"She'll go down like the others?"

"...as I said, it ends tonight."

______________________________________

"What'd you say her name was again? Suc-hew-bis?"

"Succubus."

The farmer in the straw hat gave a whistle at that. "God damn. You sure she ain't European? With a name like that, she must be a foreigner."

"Not in the way you think."

"Huh. Anyways, getting back to your question, yeah I've seen her 'round here before."

"Where?"

"She don't stay in one place for long. Sometimes she's down by the stables, sometimes by the saloon. Every time I'm in town to sell my chickens, I see her with a new man. Never the same fellow twice. That learned me up real good about her true intentions, if you catch my drift."

"Has she taken anyone you knew?"

"Yeah." His voice grew solemn. "Jeremiah. He was one of my best hands. Boy could herd cattle like nobody's business. One day when I'm hauling crops over to market, there they are, just enjoying each other's company. I go off to warn him, but it's too late. They're already on his horse, riding off into the sunset. And that's the last I ever seen him."

"Anyone else in town ever get a good look at her?"

_______________________________________

"

Sí señor

, I've seen her."

"What did she look like?"

"

Muy bonita

," one of the Mexican farmhands interjected with a knowing nod before the main Latino provided more details, "She got the devil in her,

señor

. I saw it in her eyes, too."

"What did you see in her eyes?"

"Death,

señor

. Nothing but black death.

Ojos del diablo

."

________________________________________

"So there I was. Wind on my back. Rifle on my shoulder. Hell, piss running down my leg. We were scared soaked, but there wasn't no chance in hell we'd let the Yanks cross the river. The general had us dug in good, too. We woulda held out to the last man, let me tell you."

"Must've been quite the feeling. The few of you against all of them Union boys." A woman responded to him, her tone southern and sweet.

"Please." With a derisive scoff, the bearded man slammed his mug down on the wooden counter.

The container was already near empty. For the fifth or sixth time.

He wiped at his lip while smoothing out his slightly faded gray coat- a coat with various military honors stitched to the left sleeve.

"Those government lackeys couldn't do shit if they didn't have the numbers. We sent them running damn near every time. Only problem with being so good at shooting though is you run out of bullets to shoot folks with, which is what happened. That's all that fucking happened, you hear me?"

"Loud and clear, Mr. Johnson. Would you care for a refill?"

"Fill her up." Passing the emptied mug down, the grizzled war veteran continued his story, "Anyways, we ended up losing the town- Vicksburg, if memory serves. Lotta good men died for the cause that week, y'know. Real good friends of mine."

The double doors of the saloon swung open, a new pair of footsteps coming in from the dirt outside to the wooden floorboards inside.

Leather boots sauntered through the gathering of local men either playing cards, getting drunk, or more likely a mixture of both.

At some tables, a few of them would dare to glance up at the passing presence.

Those same individuals would quickly return to their previous activity upon receiving confirmation of who it was.

All except one.

"We lost a bunch other towns, too. Matter of fact, I ended up taking shrapnel from cannonfire from when we held steady in Atlanta." Mr. Johnson rubbed a spot just below his collarbone, the presumed spot of his battlefield wound before continuing, "All that blood we spilled, and our leadership bent the goddamn knee to Grant anyways."

"That must've been frustrating for you."

"Ain't even the half of it. I come back after three years fighting for my country, and everything done gone to shit. Wife gone and left me for my brother. We was gonna start a family, see? Me and him ain't never got along much anyways, so fuck him once and fuck her twice. Not to mention Lincoln went and set all my property free."

His mug of freshly replenished whiskey was passed back over the counter. "Your property?"

"The blacks," the bearded man growled at her with sustained bitterness. "While I was waiting to be released from my fighting duties, a bunch of feds came to my farm where all my slaves were still doing their God-given jobs. Read off some fancy paper about emancipation, whatever the hell that means, then sent them ungrateful sons of bitches running right off their leashes. You know I paid top dollar for them Negros. Bought them at auction in Savannah, yes I did. Got a good deal considering one of them was real lame in the head. But he picked the cotton just like the others so we ain't never had a problem. Hell, looking back, maybe I shoulda saved my coin up and paid for a more faithful wife instead."

A man took a seat at the bar counter next to the venting veteran.

"You shouldn't live your life with regrets, Mr. Johnson."

"I know, I know." Scratching at his scraggly chin, he continued, "Once I lost all my hard labor, the farm was damn near useless. I mean, I wasn't gonna break my back swinging the plow. Sure as hell weren't gonna pay them black bastards to come work the fields again neither. So I packed my bags, got on a train, and here I fucking am. Drinking myself half to death in this damn town."

He took another resentful swig of his alcoholic beverage.

"I'm sorry to hear that, Mr. Johnson."

He put it down with a scoff. "Yeah. Anyways, you got something stronger back there, ma'am? Talking about the war usually brings back the kind of memories that won't go away so easy."

"Of course." Her tone was a swoon of understanding. "Be just one minute, dear."

Footsteps led into a swinging of double doors leading to the supply room.

The veteran put the mug aside, drunkenly trying to organize his thoughts together.

Finding little success in that endeavor, he turned to the man sitting next to him. "So what's your story, friend?"

"...too long to get into," was his curt response.

Mr. Johnson shrugged. "Hell, I got time. That's about all I got these days."

"You got your life. That's more than can be said for most people."

"I'll drink to that." The veteran turned to face the stranger fully.

Weary and worn would be the two words best befitting the man in question.

He had on a black jacket concealing his undershirt, and a black hat with a wide brim mostly concealing his face.

Strapped to his waist was a silver belt with a leather holster, the polished handle of a revolver clear in sight.

Below that, he had on black pants and boots with what looked like dried crimson stained against the leather.

Even in his inebriated state, the veteran could look into his eyes, and see, perhaps, a kindred spirit. "You in the war?"

The man in black replied without looking, "No."

"Oh, now I'm gonna have to call bullshit on that, friend. Them eyes of yours, they've seen some shit. Trust me, I know."

"You don't know anything."

"The fuck you just say to-?" The veteran stood up in an indignant huff but faltered short of finishing the sentence as he soon found himself staring down the barrel of that same gun.

A six-shooter Colt revolver in the ready hand of the man in black, who had it pointed right under his chin.

Finger on the hammer. Finger on the trigger.

He stammered in an apologetic tone, "N-now hold up just a second, friend. I-I didn't mean to offend-"

"Leave. I got business to conduct here." The man finally turned to face him, the swinging light of the hanging lantern from above illuminating his determined face with hazel eyes glaring at him.

Stretching down his cheek was a visible scar. "I'm doing you a favor, you understand?"

"...yeah, yeah I'll just..." Taking the cue well enough, the veteran backed away and kept backing, nearly bumping into a table before ultimately stumbling out of the saloon.

There were words engraved on the side of the barrel. Words of Latin.

Sighing, the man slipped the gun back in his holster, and resumed what he was previously doing.

Waiting.

Until finally...

"I got something fresh from the tap just for..." The woman returned, noting the veteran's sudden absence. "Pity."

She gingerly placed a filled mug on the countertop, a creamy foam at the top.

The man's gaze lifted against the brim of his hat, meeting her eyes.

Her

very

flirty eyes. "Why hello there, mister. Haven't seen your handsome face around here. You must be new."

"I've been around."

"Fair enough. What'll it be tonight?"

"I don't want a drink. I want to talk."

"Can't we do both?"

"No." He took off his hat, revealing his unkempt raven black locks. "Just talk."

The woman crossed her arms.

She was of course the saloon bartender, wearing a corseted dress that covered her body almost entirely with an apron down the front.

Her blonde hair was done up in a bun, and her eyes were ocean blue.

But almost no man would even notice any of those things at first.

It was her chest, instead, that captivated the male attention.

Her breasts could rival the size of full-grown melons, their proportions nigh impossible to reconcile with her relatively slim and slender frame.

Simply put, she possessed beauty so natural it almost seemed unnatural.

With her smile alone, she could leave an impression on one far greater than a full night with the average painted lady.

And that was exactly why the man teased one finger against his pistol handle.

"What's your name, handsome?" she asked him with a slight smirk, her voice ripe with honey and intrigue.

"You know my name." His answer was stoic and steadfast.

The woman chuckled. "Sweetheart, I'm afraid I've never seen you a day in my life."

"You know who I am, and I know

what

you are," he told her with a clear, cutting conviction.

The woman continued to smile, but there was a subtle change in her eyes.

A change that was all too familiar to him.

When she spoke next, it was without the facade. "You're one of them, then? A Hunter?"

"I'm the best of them," he corrected her grimly.

"Such arrogance." Her voice would change, from sympathetic and sweet to sneering and contemptible.

"I think I've killed enough of your kind to earn some respect, don't you think...cow?" the Hunter replied with cool confidence.

Her lips would curl in a disdainful sneer for a second before she quickly regained her composure with a distracting smile. "My my, I do apologize for forgetting my manners. How may I be of service, mister?"

"Information." He laid out the simple, one-word request. "That's what I need from you. Nothing but."

"Well..." She slid the mug over in front of him with one finger. "If it is knowledge you seek, perhaps we can come to an arrangement."

"I know where your farm is, cow. I'm not here for you and yours." Ignoring the proffered beverage, he continued, "I'm looking for a succubus."

The blonde woman's smile dropped for a fleeting moment as the name resonated with her.

She knew.

"Tell me where she is." And the Hunter knew that she knew.

But that didn't necessarily mean she would part ways with such valued information. "You ask me to betray my own race, dear."

"She'd sell you out without a second thought," he pointed out.

To that, she gave him a teasing smirk, "And you know of this how, exactly?"

"A demon knows no loyalty, only survival. I learned that lesson a long time ago," he told her.

Her smile lingered. "Indeed. And who was it that taught you that lesson, I wonder?"

"Doesn't matter. I'm alive, and she isn't. The same's gonna be said for you if you don't get to talking."

She cooed, almost out of respect. "You are an accomplished slayer, then. No wonder you talk with such brazen disregard for your own life."

Click.

His ears perked to the all too familiar sound leveled at the back of his head.

The sound of a loaded gun.

He cursed under his breath.

"Then again, the last slayer I encountered was a little more observant of his surroundings," she purred, resting her palms on the countertop and leaning forward.

Just enough that he could see the jutting allure of her ample breasts.

"In this establishment, I don't appreciate being threatened. Such conduct by my patrons is seldom tolerated. Isn't that so, my bull?"

There was an agreeing grunt from behind him.

"Please relieve this gentleman of his weapon, if you would be so kind," she instructed him.

The Hunter remained still (for now) as the man removed his revolver from the holster and laid it out on the flat countertop, disarming him.

"Now..." Smiling from ear to ear, she clapped her hands together happily. "Where were we?"

"You were telling me where the succubus was?" he prompted her, his tone unwavering even with the possibility of a swift and immediate death only a finger-squeeze away.

She chuckled at him, an amused melancholy. "No, I wasn't."

"Nngghh!" The Hunter suddenly growled out as the man grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, yanking him off his seat.