tagGay MaleHunting with Hunter

Hunting with Hunter

byMSTarot©

Journal entry: July 5th, 1979

How has it come to this? I always thought I knew what I was capable of. And yet here I am planning this. Have I gone slightly mad and no one thought to tell me? Why have none of my friends clued me in? Freddie, Brian, Roger, John ... where were you guys when this insanity began to take hold of me? Why did not one of you tell me this was too crazy?

Putting down my pen, I swallowed the last bite of my pimento cheese sandwich and looked at the blue ink on the crisp white page. It was the first time I'd acknowledged to myself that what I was doing was nuts. But yet ... something had to be done! It cannot go on like this. I should be in a bed, my body sore, my mind content, emotionally happy and sexually sated, or almost. Curled up around some warm piece of male eye-candy, waiting for him to wake up and scratch the last itch I might have.

But no. No.

I was in this old building, putting high school woodshop skills to work designing furniture that hid secret hidden traps for holding a fully grown man against his will. Mantraps? I liked the sound of that. Mantraps to catch the whole damn lot of those cock teasing fucker!

"Oh, I'm not really gay; I just tell girls that I'm bi to be cool. It helps me get pussy. You understand right?"

Taking a deep breath, I wiped dried glue off my fingers and looked at my latest masterpiece. A very "chic" Queen Anne wingback chair, covered in a zebra print. With a smirk, I tripped the mechanism and watched the arms fold in like the jaws on a bear trap. Not as grisly as sharp metal teeth but much stronger. Powerful enough to hold even a strong man. Men like that collective group of lying bastards I'm going to have to make honest men out of. One by one.

I glanced over at the other completed pieces of furniture for my Jungle Room. The black leather sofa, that folds flat and has hidden straps to tie hands and feet to the legs. I can almost picture a man belly down on it, one of those lying bastards from the clubs, maybe his cock wedged in between the middle cushions as I mounted him. Took his man-cherry, despite protests. How wet with sex sweat that leather is going to get under him.

"Ummm..." I moaned, enjoying the slight erection that springs to life at the thought.

Folding up my journal, I tied the black leather thong on the cover and left it. I had so much work to get done. I still had to paint the room. Call the carpet men to come get the floor covered. Hang those wonderful leopard print velour drapes that will hide the rings and ropes mounted to the walls. So very much work to do. This "Man-trapping" wasn't an easy job.

I shifted my hard-on in my 501s. But then, the effort of the hunt, was always half the fun.

Journal entry: July 29th, 1979

The room is finished. All the "lovely" things are in place. The cost of this little project has gone way past what I thought to spend. The rent on the old apartment building alone was a shock, but then in the whole of the city is there a single place more tailor-made to my needs? My Realtor, that lovely fellow Kenny, he thought I was the one in need of a "mad room" before he finally found one for me.

The century old building had been renovated in the late '60s, or else this whole plan might have fallen to nothing but wet dream fantasies. The contractor he called asking for one knew a guy, who knew a guy that had worked on this building. Then, of course, when I asked the building's owner to pull off a piece of the cheap wood paneling so I could see it, he had nearly refused me. But in the end he did it, probably because the check book was in my hand ready to give him the first years rent on the spot. Yeah ... that had something to do with it I'm sure.

Six wonderfully thick inches of hundred year old cork wood. You could hold a Kiss concert in that room, complete with screaming, makeup-smeared fans and never hear a thing in the rest of the house. Perfect. Costly, yes. But simply perfect.


Scrunching my toes in the thick green shag carpets, I looked around the room with pride. Elvis would lounge happily in my "Jungle Room" feeling right at home. From the overuse of everything, to the incredible excess of appetite this one room was designed to draw in a man like no other before it. Comfort? Luxury? Sex? Oh, they seeped from the walls.

Now. Time for me to do the same.

I glanced over at the gold framed mirror, which covered most of one wall, and then approached it with my best "Hi there" walk. My "What you doing tonight?" smile. I slicked the dark brown mustache away from my overly full lips. Reaching into my pocket, I took out my sunglasses, those wonderful yellow-gold lensed, burnished-steel framed ones I had bought yesterday, with that hint of mirrored shine. Perfect. I frowned, in an unattractive way, at my hair though. I still missed my long dark locks. But then I didn't come up with this style, I just own it like no other ... clone ... out there. I tucked my crisp white "wife-beater" T-shirt in to my skin-tight, sky-blue 501s a bit more, making it show off my shoulders better.

"Not bad bait, there Hunter. Not bad at all." I licked my teeth feeling the recent cleaning still making them slick as precum. "Time to go put dinner 'meat' on the table."

Laughing at the level of insanity I was quickly falling into, I left the trap behind me, springs all set. Ready for the prize to walk in and take a seat. I ran my fingers across the cover of my journal, as I put it away from the night, on my way out the building. Oh, just how many fun entries I will be adding to this over the next few week? Months? Who knows, maybe even years? I had no delusion of course. I was going to probably end up in jail before this little crusade was over. But it would have a good long run before the cuffs went on.

The odds were all in my favor.

How many "straights" were ever going to go to the police and say they were lured into a "bent" guy's house and then sexually assaulted? No! Or that they had agreed "under duress' to have sex with the gay guy? Right. The press would devour them if they got wind of it, and I would make sure the press did. My prey might as well wear a sign around their necks, "I had sex with a guy" for the rest of their lives and most of them would rather die first. Oh, I'm sure there will be serious repercussions; fallout is inevitable in any modern war after all, but the levels of fun that could be had between then and now make it more than worth it.

My new ... to me anyway, red and black De Tomaso Pantera was in the lot next to the building, under the matching red-black car cover. I peeled it off and smiled at myself in that waxed hi-gloss shine. There was a lot about this whole scheme that bothered me but not this. I might not like my hair cut, might ponder my mental sanity, the ethics of what I was going to do, hell might even feel a tweak of conscience tugging at me. But the car? No, I loved the car. At five years old it was the newest ride I had ever owned and it had been in almost perfect condition when I got it. A single scratch hidden with red nail polish, and a new pair of floor mats and the thing might as well have been brand new.

Hopping in, I cranked the big V8, rolled the windows down and started nodding my head in time with Deep Purple's Smoke on the Water. Off in the distance were the bright lights, the big city. The "straight" nightclubs were calling to me.

Calling to me with whispers that told of exotic hungers for rare foods I had never known I had an appetite for. Time to sample some new fare. Time to hunt the dangerous prey. To seek them in the shadows of their nightclubs where they thought themselves the predators. Where they were themselves hunting, never knowing they were about to be trapped. Hunting for some woman, stupid enough, to buy their lines of bullshit. A sexy woman to take back to their lairs and molest all night long till she begged to be set free. Her body bruised and sore from their pounding cocks.

Well, after this night they would know what that felt like. Exactly to a "T" what that felt like. Shifting the red and black car into first, I tore out the parking lot with smoking tires. It was time to spring the trap.

Journal entry: July 27th, 1979 (just after midnight)

I did it! Oh, my god I did it. He's up in the room even now. Tied up. Waiting. I had to leave him there to settle down. If not for the cork walls they would hear his yelling all the way back to the nightclub. I had to calm myself down as well. I'm shaking like a leaf.

Oh, it was perfect.

He was exactly what I had been looking for. Acting like he was the stud-king of the whole place. Telling all the girls that he like to "swing both ways" then, when a guy approached, he would shy off like the virgin ass he is. Oh, how sweet it was to hunt him through that crowded dance floor, following him to the bar and finally into the bathroom. When I then made my pass and he "confided in me" that he was just telling people he was Bi to "get pussy" I had grinned and told him I was doing the same thing.

And the fucker bought it!

He bought it lock, stock, and barrel. Then I told him about the party. The party I was setting up at my place. Just me and three girls, I had just met out on the dance floor and that if he was interested I could sure use some help. "Oh, the girls? I gave them my address. They are going to meet us there."

And he bought it! Least ways till the chair arms slammed shut on him pinning him in place. Oh, god! The look on his face. More in a bit. After I've had my fun.


Leaving the journal, I went to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, hating how my hand was shaking. Calmly, Hunter. Calmly. Maybe a drink? Something to settle my nerves.

"No! No numbing yourself. This is the hunt. Simple adrenaline shakes are not to be feared but to be relished. The prey is trapped." I took a pair of scissors out the kitchen junk drawer. "Nothing left but to skin him and enjoy the feast."

Heading up to the Jungle Room, I stopped by the door and took a deep breath. I pushed away the thoughts that there was still time to back out of this. To just turn him loose and let him walk away, ego bruised but ... no. No this kind of crap has to stop. There are dozens of them out there. Filthy cock-teasing bastards, taking on airs of being like us--to get them what they want--but not being willing to ease the ache they cause in other men. Men they've turned on with the silly bi games. How dare they! How fucking dare they! What next? If we let them get away with this here, what next?

I had to fight back the anger building in me. This was not the time for my rage over all the injustices out in San Francisco two months ago to surface. This was a hunt, and tonight was not a night of rage. No White Night Riot level rage ... but the same passion must drive me. No, not rage, lust must hold this night in its cum slick hand.

Opening the door, I walked inside. Strutted.

"LET ME UP FROM HERE YOU FUCKER!

"Now, now no reason to use such language." My words were a purr as lilting as I could make them. Let him sweat homophobe bullets. With a carefree saunter I approached him; him so completely trapped there in the very jaws of my plan. "Now, now Philip. None of that. This is going to be a night of fun. That's what you wanted ... to have some fun. Yes? To get fucked? To cum? Well, you're going to do all of those things." I snipped the scissors together in front of his eyes. "The only thing in question for tonight is whether you leave with your balls in the morning."

Oh, the fear in his eyes then. Just like all of us ... gay, bi, or straight ... threaten the family jewels and you have our full attention. With a smile, I knelt down and began to cut my way up his pants legs, making sure to let the cold metal of the scissors touch his leg before they cut denim.

"Don't worry about your clothes. You won't need them anymore." It took me all I had to look down and keep the smile off my face, to not burst out laughing at the look in his eyes. The terror there, in those steel gray eyes. His heart must be about to pound out his chest. This summer is not so long since the Summer of Sam. How easily fear can be spread.

"Tell me, Philip, when you put on these clothes last night. Styled your hair in the mirror, looked at yourself like you think you're God's gift to women, did you give one thought to the men like men? The men you were pretending to be the same as?" The cold metal slid past his knee. "Men that might not like that you are using our image to chase after women." When the end of the scissors cut through the top of the thickly stitched waistband, I moved to his other pants leg and repeated the process up that leg. "See, even though we are gay, we are men the same as you. With all the same hungers for sex as yourself and for you to dress like this, to prance among us like you're one of us. Well, if a mouse roars like a cat it cannot be the cat's fault when it goes to investigate that sound and the mouse gets fucked by the cat ... yes? It's not the cat's fault it was mistaken or do you disagree? Common mistakes like that can happen. Right?"

I stopped and moved the scissors till I knew they had to be touching the side of his cock through his underwear.

"But when a mouse dresses himself in cat skins, claws at the door and meows in the manner of his betters then that is no mistake. That is a mouse trying to be a cat ... yes?" I cut through the last of his pants and taking both legs pulled them out from under him. I looked down at the white Fruit of the Loom underwear. "But see, there's the problem. You're not one of us. Anyone can see this room is filled with animal prints and you're in basic white. How tacky! A total lack of understanding of style that no gay man would ever display. Philip, if you are going to play the part of a gay man you have to do more than just know your lines, you have to dress the role." I pointed to his cock with the scissors. "And those are just wrong."

I laid the cold metal against my cheek tapping my jaw line with my fingers. "Now ... what shall we do about those?" I smiled at him "That was a question Philip."

"Ah... ah... I ... ah don't know."

"Well, thankfully I do know but first, you're terribly overdressed still." His shirt was simple cotton. I placed one edge of the scissors under it and pulled the shirt back on the blade letting it slice, blade like, sawing up till I was just under his neck. "Don't move, Philip. Wouldn't want to nick you with these. They are very sharp."

When his shirt was gone, I left him there in the chair in just his underwear. Moving to the wall, I pulled two of my ropes free and moved them over to him. The premade loops on the end, I fastened over his trapped wrists. One by one. With a smile, I touched the foot pedal that freed him from the chair but compressed a button in my hand and set the truck-style winches to work at the same time. Even as he was struggling to get at me, they were pulling him backwards. I walked with him as they dragged him, struggling, across the room and then watched them pull his arms up over his head. I only took my finger off the button when his toes alone were left touching the floor.

"LET GO OF ME YOU FAGGOT!"

"Oh tisk, tisk such nasty words." I slipped my scissors under the edge of his underwear and his eyes went very wide as cold metal touched his dick. "Don't make me punish you, Philip. Now where were we? Oh yes, this dreadfully tacky underwear. Can't be having that now. Can we? Style must be maintained by us gay guys ... right Philip? We have a certain fashion image to keep. Can't let a fake like you soil our good name. Gay men simply do not let singing dancing fruit sell us our underwear." I had to laugh at that.

With two quick snips a piece of white cotton fell to the floor. No longer clothes, just a rag.

I didn't try to hide my appreciation of him. I had chosen very well. He was a delicious piece of work. Muscled, but not too much. Tanned, with a crisp tan lined butt and crotch. His chest had sparse hair but the rest of him was all but bare. Except ... "Philip, what is that? Were you smuggling a wookiee in your underwear for a reason? Philip! If you're going to act like you are gay you have to at least know how to trim the shrubbery." With a shake of my head, I walked to the oriental shoji screen hiding the small bathroom on the back wall. When I returned with a can of Barbasol and a razor he began to jerk and twist in the straps holding him by his wrists. "Now, now Philip. If you don't hold still I might do you a serious injury. Hell, I would advise not even breathe too deeply; my hands have been a touch shaky tonight. What I might cut off, well ... let's just say we would both be sad."

He froze except for his chest which was heaving. And as I sprayed a cupped handful of foam that panting grew. I smiled and gave him a wink.

"Don't worry ... I'll respect you in the morning."

Taking hold of his cock I ran my foam coated fingers down to the base. The cool menthol tingled on my fingers I could only imagine what he must be feeling at the moment. As if I was caressing his balls with ice would probably be close. I admit to playing longer with him than necessary to get him ready to be shaved. But then there was no rush.

He and I have all night.

Holding his cock up, I carefully laid the razor right below the head and shaved a path clean to the base.

~Scrape~

"You hurt my friends with what you do, you know that? Right? You and the others. The ones that go to the clubs telling everyone your bi-men, when you're not."

~Scrape~

"It's like having a woman teasing you then not putting out. That not fun is it? It's not nice of them to tease a man, knowing he has needs then stomping on them ... but then, they are women. They have no insight into our level of sexual need. What woman could really know what it is to have a man's needs?" I looked up at his fear laden eyes. I let the razor press harder into his skin. "But you do, Philip. You're a man just like me. You know what it feels like to have that crap done to you. To be teased that way."

~Scrape~

With him holding his breath, and my hand as steady as I could keep it, I slowly cleaned him of all the unwanted hair. My scissors then took care of the dirty-blond thatch, leaving a nice "hedge" next to his pruned "tree." I had to smile as his dick hardened under my touch, his body responding even if he was terrified. Time to do more for that side. The fear had been fun but that was not the goal of this night ... well, not just that. I went back behind the screen and returned with a pan of warm water and a sponge. With exquisite care I cleaned his crotch and legs of hair clippings and soap.

It was when I went behind him and began to clean his ass that the fun began. I knew it was going to happen but had to grin seeing a man trying to get himself away from me ... that terribly ... simply because I was washing his butt. Standing up, I leaned in right next to his ear.

"Easy, Philip." I reached around him and cradled his cock in my hand. "We're not at that point yet. I just want you clean."

"Get your hands off me, you queer."

I chuckled. Good, he had found his inner fighter. I hoped he would. He was too macho a man to take kindly to all these threats without bowing up at some point. Of course can't let him get away with that sort of thing. I gripped him tighter and stroked his cock. I smiled at his squirming. He wanted so badly for me not to be touching him. Then, to make it even more fun, I let my other hand slip down his side to hold him tight by his hip bone. I pulled his bare ass back against my jeans and he jumped like a bee had stung him when he felt my own hard, jean covered, cock pressed against him.

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