Being Prey to the Night

It is the lonely hours that get to me. I can deal with nearly everything. But when the night is dark and long, boredom and some primal longing for adventure overcome me. To play the game of the unprotected prey, to throw the dice and let fate decide the night. This is the moment when I leave my apartment against my better judgement in the middle of the night. This is the hour that clouds my judgement and leads me on the path of the daring and plain stupid.

I should know better and I most certainly do at daytime. Yet, there is nothing more enticing than the luring call of the night. I love the vulnerable feeling of the exposed, the exhilarating silence of the moment before and the breath taking brutality of a fantasy in action. I do not appreciate safety nets nor escape routes. I like it when I know that there is only one way for my night to end: as the trophy of success, as the meat on the table of the hunter.

I play this game alone, I never felt like belonging to a herd. I don't appreciate the rules and the conventions of a group and I happily forfeit the protection of the crowd to gain absolute freedom. There is nobody that knows when I am out in the streets, mindlessly offering my pulsating life to the city. Nobody that would be out looking for me if I don't check in, nobody that would miss me when I am not answering the phone. I like it this way. The risk of the night is only complete in its lust when it is not shared.

I have a ritual for these lonely nights. When I start to feel the tingling in my nerves and I know deep inside that it is going to be another one of those hours that draws me outside, then I take a long bath to prepare my youthful body for the abuse ahead. I take good care of my skin, massage some lotion into the silky surface of my lusting soul. I shave every bit of hair from my body, taking pride in the absolute smoothness of my long legs, my arms and armpits, my flat belly and my hairless pussy. I want to be soft and fleeting in the hands of any hunter in the shadows. I make sure to wash my hair with a caressing conditioner and to rinse every thought of my day out of the black curls that ever so lightly touch my shoulders. When I get out of my bath, I rinse myself off with a parfumed stream of water that makes sure that no hunting party will ever forget our paths crossing and that will allow any sniffing dog of a man to find me.

I am 19 years old and my friends know me as Chloe. But the night's shadows know no names nor ages. The hug us all with the same unmerciful desire. This is how I like it, and this is what I like to prepare for in these moments. After my bath, I do not need much. I insert my nipple piercings, one stud for each nipple vertically and another horizontally. I love the feeling of these piercings throbbing under my skin, stretching my imagination and completing the appearance of my firm C cups. I finish my preparations by sending a text to a number of an unknown stranger who likes to orchestrate the adventures of innocent young girls like me.

Then I wait, long, tasteful and unbearably sweet moments while flicking my index finger exactly 20 times a minute over my clit piercing, a small tasteful little crystal between my lips. It usually takes 3 to 7 minutes until I receive a response. These are never words, no expression of gratitude, excitement or acknowledgement. Simply coordinates. From this moment onwards it is my obligation to simply make my way to this point in the night, accept its embrace and to never ever budge.

I tremble when I conclude my ritual and grab my gag from the wardrobe. Every single time, my hands shake when I adjust the metal around my head and between my full lips. I inhale sharply the night's air every time I take a deep breath and step outside with the gag between my teeth, forcing my mouth open. I love the fresh breeze of the night on my naked skin and the cold stones under my bare feet when I take step by step into the darkness. My goose bumps usually accompany me for the first kilometre of walking nude and exposed from my apartment into the city. Afterwards, the cat whistling and name calling, the first timid hands reaching out for my bare butt and the first not so ambiguous offers take their toll on my body.

I will stop shaking because of the boldness of my steps, of my nudity in the cold night or of the sharp stones penetrating my bare feet. Instead, my body's lusts and desires start taking over, with a steadily increasing flow of pussy juices wetting my legs. I love the first moment of the night when a man steps out of a shadow and demands my devotion. The anticipation of it continuously makes my way through the city a path of pleasure, a journey with increasingly erect nipples and moist pussy.

And inevitably, this moment always comes. I do not blame the city, quite the opposite actually, I admire it for this. I can barely contain my excitement over how incredibly erotic it is to know that unavoidably there will be a pervert on your way to the indicated destination, demanding a toll for passage, or chasing you until the alley is sufficiently dark and shady. I have sworn myself that never ever will I resist any of the temptations, challenges or demands between me and the night's target.

This is how I found my model-material body manhandled, fondled and abused in countless ways so far. This promise to myself is way more interesting than what usually awaits at the communicated coordinates. The willingness to always, unconditionally, without boundaries give in to the desires of the streets can lead you down some rabbit holes that are surprisingly deep, erotic and greedily twisted.

I have, in no particular order, found myself gangraped, romantically embraced, orally gagged, caressed slowly and deliberately, anally violated with a number of objects and cocks, slowly fucked like a first lover from a virgin boy, hit, slapped and spit upon. This is even how I got a tattoo on my left ribcage with the signatures of all members of a bachelor party who stopped me one night shortly before my destination, dragged me into a private club, fucked me senseless in all my sloppy holes and demanded that I would immortalise our drunken deviation from everything proper on my body, previously untouched by a needle. They took me to a tattoo parlour in the middle of the night, signed each on one of my ribs and offered the tattooist my ass for his artistry. Unsurprisingly, he didn't hesitate and added his own name under the other six just before pounding me deep and hard into my sore tight ass.

I have never once regretted taking the plunge and walking off naked, dressed only with my piercings and a gag in my mouth into the night. The city is full of adventures and surprises. Arguably, not all are pleasant but what more exciting could a prey wish for than a hunter that is as brutal as one is vulnerable?

The destination is almost always a semi-public place. However, I do enjoy endlessly the creativity with which the place is selected. It may be a church in ruins with an altar awaiting my sacrifice, a cementary with an open grave, the back stage of a concert, the dark room of a club, the alley behind the town hall or the entry of the house of our local politician.

Once I arrive, there is another ritual to follow. I have never seen the person arranging for this procedure nor do I wish to ever meet him or her. All I know is that my submission is valued and I can feel how much it is appreciated. I will arrive and kneel down. The moment my knees hit the ground, some strong hands will grab my wrists and fix me with ropes or chains to whatever is available. Sometimes my privacy will be guarded by a blindfold, just increasing the anticipation of the unknown for myself, whereas sometimes my depravation will be openly displayed. In all cases, there will be a small sign hanging between my full breasts that sets out the terms of the encounter in this place. I have never once actually been able to read it, but it seems to include encouragements and rules.

What I do know is what I experienced so far. My body is shaking from excitement when remembering some of the highlights. The range of my experiences is vast: from bukakke to having to receive insults and physical injuries (including cuts with small razor blades), from being a fucktoy to all those passing by to being the female part of a public sex show, from receiving fisting and anal treatments to simply being fondled in public. It is not uncommon that the end would be signalled by a creampie closure fuck by one or several people. After this, someone would let me loose, put a robe around my shoulder and push me into a taxi. I have not once been able to get home after one of those nights without having to pay the taxi driver in kind, I have the feeling this is part of the deal.

So what leads me into these nights of depravity and submission? Why would a young, beautiful and slender girl like me give in to the longings of the city in such an uncontrolled way? It is the lonely hours that get to me. When the night is dark and long, boredom and some primal longing for adventure overcome me. I can never resist the thrill nor the lust building up within me. I thrive on the feeling that someone out there is waiting for me to submit myself tonight. To be the unprotected prey that offers herself like a sacrifice to the will of the masses. To throw the dice and let fate decide what my body will endure and what experience will burn itself into my memories. To dare, to be rewarded or to be punished. To live, like only 19 year olds can.