Man-eater

One of my favourite books from my childhood was the Terrible Tiger, by Jack Prelutsky. I think I had that running through my head and it caused this.

Ella started as a simple tigress but she became someone much more complex, and as always something that was going to be light became... grey.

Warning: Contains a scene with violence. Not much, but still too much.

-:- Man-eater -:-

I fumbled back between my thighs and found him, enjoying as always the feeling of a man's hard cock, slick and slippery from me. I loved teasing and stroking the place where I could feel his body end and mine begin, I loved trailing my fingertips around my slick lips and drum-tight entrance stretched over the ridges of a hard and eager lover.

Tonight's choice was working hard behind me, panting and thrusting in and out of me in the dim, awkward confines of the men's toilet cubicle I'd dragged him into. I braced against the cistern, bent over further, letting him have me as deep and hard as he wanted. His penis was nice - not too big, not too small, with a good flare to the head that was spreading me over him in an extremely pleasing way.

I didn't know his name, but that was fairly normal for me these days. I needed to be fucked, I didn't want tiresome conversation and all its conventions - and he'd been hot enough and keen enough for me to get what I needed. He also had decent hygiene - his breath hadn't reeked, and his clean-shaven lips had felt good as I'd kissed him out on the dance floor.

He certainly hadn't objected when I'd taken his hand and pulled him after me.

He was moaning now; I grinned widely to myself. I knew that they all loved how tight I was and the package my tightness came with - blonde hair, narrow hips, a cute little thigh gap that framed my lips, and a slender figure which when sheathed in a short dress was a winning combination amongst many of the other women here. And I smiled a lot, and could flirt with my eyes (and hands and body) in a way that let my carefully-chosen victims know that they were about to have the best few minutes of their week.

His cock felt good. So good. I knew that if he lasted long enough I'd come on him, but I was also pretty sure that he wouldn't last much longer. It didn't matter, I enjoyed having him in me, and later- at home, in the shower (or on my floor, or in bed) I could put my dildo to work and finish what he'd started. At length, to my satisfaction, with no awkwardness afterwards.

I spread my fingers either side of his shaft, opening myself, letting the sides of my fingers brush him each time he thrust and withdrew.

He moaned again, started to lose control.

I shuddered once, bit my lip hard. He was better than average, that was for sure. His penis felt great in me...

I felt him shift as he braced.

And as I judged (with long-honed experience) the exact point of no return, I pulled off him, span, and fumbled his rigid, throbbing cock into my mouth. The involuntary noise of protest that he'd been starting to make at being removed from me died on his lips; I heard him whimper as I took as much of him as I could, tonguing along the ridge of him, working him with my hands, loving the heat of him, the slickness of us, the taste of me on his firm, warm head...

Two, maybe three seconds and he came, grunting, shaking, panting pathetically for breath as he tried to jam his whole penis into my mouth. I laughed softly, deep in my throat, enjoying the sensation, the power... the control.

I loved sex. I particularly loved no-strings-attached, no-defiled-panties, no-inconvenient-semen-trails-down-the-thighs sex. Oral wasn't my favourite... but it was a good option in this situation.

And the men seemed to always enjoy my way of finishing them.

I swallowed, cleaned him up a bit with a slow, languid tongue, then slipped his softening shaft back into his boxers. He stared down at me, flushed, mouth open as he panted.

"That was fun," I told him in a breathy little voice. "I liked that. You have a nice cock."

"Do you... want to come home with me, after..." he began.

"Oh. That's very sweet and sounds like fun. Tell you what. I'm going to go to the ladies and freshen up, and I'll find you again in a little bit?"

He smiled, clearly pleased at the idea of having another go.

"Give me thirty seconds to get clear, and then you should clean yourself up as well," I said. I stood; he gave me a bit of room as I tugged my panties back into place and smoothed my little blue number down over my thighs. I smiled up at him, gave him a few seconds to appreciate my eyes and maybe keep a memory of them to remember me by, then paused, finger placed theatrically to my lips.

He held his breath; I listened carefully.

"All clear," I whispered. "Remember, let me get out of here first, then clean up, and then I'll find you in a bit."

"Okay," he said, smiling stupidly. "Um... what's your name?"

"Theresa," I said, with a false but warm smile. "See you in a bit, lover."

I was lying, of course. I always did. I never, ever went home with them or, even worse, took them home with me.

That way lay madness. That way lay loss, hurt, risk, breakups and everything that came with them.

I was more than done with those.

My way was... better.

I unslung my purse and jacket from the hook behind the cubicle door (so much more convenient than having to hold both while I fucked someone; I blessed the fitter or carpenter responsible).

I closed the door behind me and stalked boldly out of the gents, heels clicking merrily on the old black and white tiles, enjoying some odd glances from men who were coming in. I smiled wickedly at them as I passed, using my powers to their full effect. One of them turned to blatantly watch my bum as I passed him and I gave him a few seconds of extra hip just to show off.

I grinned.

I loved my looks - pretty enough if not model-tier, and I loved my proportions - lithe and catlike rather than curvy.

More than enough to get me what I wanted when I wanted it.

Prey brought down, appetite sated, I made my way for the door. I made my way past the long line of men and women who were trying to get in, and from there out into the cool expansive silence of the night.

My pussy ached and throbbed pleasantly; I'd give myself two or three lovely orgasms once home as a reward for being a wicked girl.

He really had had a very nice cock. It would make good fantasy material for a week or two.

I smiled to myself, and lifted my chin, and set course for home.

.:.

I pulled on my leggings and a tight fleece; fastened my hair up into a tail and pulled on the red woolly headband my mum (motivated, no doubt, by one of her rare occurrences of maternal feelings) had sent me to protect my ears from the worst of the autumn chill. I pulled on my trainers and then dug out my running gloves. I locked my flat, scampered down the three flights of stairs. The sun was just coming up; it was still early enough to be quiet. I would run down to the river, and then cross at the bridge, and from there I'd enjoy a quiet morning jog past the botanical gardens and onwards into town or maybe all the way to the rugby fields on the far side...

A delightfully good-looking man opened the building door for me and gave me an absolutely delicious smile. I slowed, staring up at him in passing, almost unconsciously flirting as I breathed a sultry "Thank you".

I felt strangely... naked... in front of him.

His wonderful blue eyes crinkled. "My pleasure," he answered in a voice that echoed inside me.

I stumbled, then flushed, irritated with myself. I lifted my chin, brushed past him and ran off, knowing that he was probably watching me.

I hoped he was enjoying the view.

The irritation had passed by the first mile marker. Ravens were squawking and swearing at one another, and a small group of the river's mad kayakers were out on the water laughing and joking as I crossed the bridge. It was a lovely morning. A clear, beautiful, crisp dawn of the sort I had loved since I was a little girl.

I wondered who he was. He'd had a lovely smile...

I swore as I realised what I was doing.

"Fuck!" I said.

An old man turned to stare; his Yorkshire terrier gave me a scolding yap.

I turned away from him, pretended to fiddle with my shoe as I fumed at myself.

"No, Ella," I chastised myself. "No. No no no. Don't."

He was extremely attractive. That was fine. He has a nice smile. That was also fine. What was manifestly not fine was to spend any more time thinking about him. Even if he were utterly delicious, he was a local - and I had a firm rule about not hunting locally.

Oh well.

I sighed, stretched out my hamstrings, and started running again.

I'd allow myself to masturbate to him once later, when I was home, to get him out my system.

Okay, maybe twice.

Three times at most.

But that was all.

Nothing else.

I gritted my teeth, and increased my pace, and tried to forget those blue, blue eyes and that deep, rich voice and quite how deeply I'd felt both of them screw with me.

.:.

I cantered down the stairs in my boots, scarf knotted carelessly around my neck and coat draped over an arm. I had a choice of three buses that would get me to the train station on time for me to be early in to London.

When I was early I could take a few minutes near London Bridge and watch the world go by - the beautiful working women, the men in their suits - before turning and continuing my own path.

I liked watching people. I liked admiring the outfits, the hair, the shoes and accessories, the personalities that so many of them wore on their sleeves. And the wicked bit of me loved, loved, to watch the legs and bums of passing good-looking men. Especially ones who'd give me a glance as I posed decoratively against a railing. Men or women, I didn't care. A honest smile, a wistful glance from a power-dressed girl was almost as good as a frank appraisal from one of my usual victims.

I smiled to myself.

I was an unabashed slut, in love with my physicality and the gifts it brought to me...

Shit.

The incredibly gorgeous man was retrieving his mail from the post boxes. He heard my footfalls, turned to look at me, and once more his smile and eyes lit me up like a match dropped into kindling.

I clutched my jacket more tightly to me, lifted my chin, gave him my direct, catty stare.

His grin simply widened.

"Good morning," he said, in that voice from the heavens.

"Hi," I replied, non-committally.

He moved, opened the door for me and held it back out of my way.

"Thanks," I muttered.

"You're welcome."

I stalked through, stalked off, stalked away, face flaming hot and pink, conscious of how ridiculous I was being but powerless to do anything about it.

I hated how he affected me.

I hated how he threw me so very off balance simply by being there.

"Fuck," I whispered.

I made my bus, and found a seat, and sat, staring at my fingers as I tried to chase the warm, rich tones of him and his extremely inconvenient voice out of my head.

Fruitlessly, of course.

By the time I'd reached the office I'd decided that he was to be avoided. I couldn't afford the way he disturbed me.

I needed a distraction.

And so I resolved to go hunting that evening.

Some hot, furtive, anonymous sex would be just the ticket to get me back into character and drive this new and vexing man out of my thoughts.

.:.

I fumbled at my chosen prey; a nice-looking man who'd smiled at me the right way and didn't seem too fussed about formalities as he let me lead him onto the nightclub's dimly-lit floor.

And I danced for him and with him, pressed up to him, let him feel the firm curves of my body as I stared up at him and treated him to a thousand Watts from each of my sea-green eyes. He was powerless, and I rejoiced that I hadn't lost my way. I could feel him against me - firm thighs, a rigid bar of cock pressing into my belly, his hands roaming lower and lower down my back whenever he got a chance.

When I judged he was hot enough for me I turned my back to him, let him run his fingers over my breasts once (briefly), and then caught his hand. I applied pressure; he followed and I towed him after me. We lurked near the club's toilets, kissing, touching, waiting for a gap, and then I quickly took it, pulling him after me into the Gents. I found us a cubicle and dragged him in with me. His hands were immediately back on my breasts and I moaned; I was extremely frustrated, very wet, and I needed him to fill me for a few minutes so that I could forget...

I fought that thought away, kissed my current partner harder. I turned away from him and bent forwards; he got the idea quick enough and I heard him fumbling at his belt. The hard heat of him butted against me and I pulled my dress up for him. I closed my eyes as he fingered me and discovered how ready I was.

He pawed at my panties, I reached between my legs to grant him access and spread myself for him. His penis wasn't as big as my previous victim's but it was good enough - hard, and hot, and ready to enter me.

He rubbed himself against me, then along between my lips.

"Put it in me," I whispered. "Come on, I'm dying here..."

I arched as he entered me; he moaned.

"Fuck you're tight," he grunted.

"Tight and hot and wet and desperate," I crooned, playing the old, old game.

He grasped my hips and began to push and soon enough slip himself in and out of me.

He wasn't that great, really. Something about the way he moved in me didn't do it for me. Some error in tempo, some... lack. I stared at the wall as I ruefully realised that I'd be giving myself a marathon fucking when I got home to make up for this second-rate performance.

I'd let myself fantasise about my blue-eyed man of mystery. I'd let him take me from all sorts of conjured positions, in all sorts of ways. I'd even let him make me scream for him...

Then I froze as I felt my current, very real partner moan and start to pulse deep inside me.

"Did you just..." I said, not quite believing what I'd just let happen.

"Uh huh..." he moaned. "So... hot..."

"Oh."

For fuck sakes.

He shuddered, slid in and out of me once more and then pulled out of me with a whimper. I felt the rush of him dribble and ooze out of me.

I stared at the wall, face flaming, furious with myself.

A schoolgirl error, a stupid lapse of judgement... and I'd just earned myself a wet and uncomfortable trip home.

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

He fumbled at himself and put himself away.

And then he opened the door behind himself and crabbed his way out of the cubicle without a word.

Shocked, I spun and scrabbled the door closed. I didn't want anyone else to see me like this without first earning it.

Then I bent forwards and stared at the milky white semen that now glazed my thighs and lips; touched myself and spread myself, grimacing as my fingers came away sticky.

"What an arse," I grumbled to myself. "Didn't even bother to warn me."

I pulled some paper from the dispenser and cleaned myself as best I could; my clit was sensitive but I was too furious with him and myself to want to do anything about it.

I should have been expecting it. I shouldn't have let my guard down. I shouldn't have let myself get... distracted.

I shifted my hips and growled softly as I felt more come seep out of me. I wiped myself again, dried the crotch of my panties as well as I could, then stood, shoulders straight.

I straightened my dress, found my centre.

I opened the door, stared directly back at a shocked middle-aged man who gaped at me, and stalked out, my claws ready and my rage hot enough to scorch anyone who came my way.

But it was nothing compared to the fury I felt when, half-way home, I had to fight down the sudden urge to cry.

I was strong. I was in control. I didn't need anyone. I didn't need anyone!

Life had made me a good liar.

Even to myself.

.:.

I washed myself clean under my shower, probing deep into myself to get all of his mess out of me. My anger had burned out, leaving only wind-blown ashes behind. I stepped out of the water, naked and dripping, and stared at myself in my chipped three-quarter-length mirror.

I watched the water droplets trail over me, over all the glaring flaws.

I sniffed, once.

The slight discolouration of fatigue under my eyes. The redness from the tears I'd so brutally fought down and away. The way my left nipple pointed slightly elsewhere compared to my right. The unsightly birthmark on my right shoulder.

I spread my legs slightly, opened my lips with my fingers, staring at my small, near-perfect clit.

At least that part of me was lovely.

For now.

I sighed.

I hadn't had a man's fingers on my clit in years, now. I never let them; it was mine and mine alone, it was why I always, always took them into me from behind. It was pure and animalistic fucking - give them what they wanted, what I needed - satiation without having to connect, without having to see their face or feel their lips on me or watch their eyes fixate on that most intimate part of me.

If I wanted it touched I'd do it myself.

If I wanted to come on them I made sure I did.

But they didn't get to touch me. Not there. Or at least, not for long.

Because I had to protect myself.

I shuddered, withdrew my fingers, heart aching.

I was still broken.

Three years on and Rory's cruel, casual, cavalier abandonment of me and our engagement for the shaven cunt and perky C cups of some random Italian girl still had the ability to completely destroy me if I let it.

And tonight it almost had.

His sister Anne and I had been as tight as twins before he'd wrecked... everything. She had a husband now, a little girl of her own, a life removed from the blast zone and rubble.

Whereas I...

I had a box full of mementos, a ring I had not and would not ever give back to him, and enough anger to hamstring a star and drag it down to the bottom of the seas of Despair.

I reached for my towel, slowly started to pat myself dry.

I struggled to meet my own gaze.

I knew my behaviour was self-destructive.

But being on the prowl was one of the few times I still felt really alive and even partly in control of my life.

And I deeply regretted the results of tonight's aborted outing.

I knew better than to stop concentrating on them. I knew better than to lose myself in other thoughts. I was there to satisfy a physical need for human touch.

I was not there to... to daydream while someone emptied three weeks worth of blue-balls into me and left me behind like a used rag.

I scowled.

I stalked to my room and dug out my softest, fluffiest sleepwear.

I put on a stupid romcom, and made myself popcorn.

And I cuddled myself on my worn couch as I tried, very hard, not to feel.

.:.

Morning came at last; a grey and blustery one.

I stomped down the stairs, coated, scarved and booted, and stopped short, staring.

My beautiful tormentor was retrieving his post again. He was sheathed in some sort of tight grey fitness shirt that did absolutely arcane things to the anatomy of his upper body, and his calves (clad in a navy-blue base layer) were to die for.

I couldn't see an ounce of spare weight on him.

He was the complete dish with sides, cheeseboard and after-dinner mint.

I bit my lip, hard. I frowned, assumed a no-nonsense-dont-fuck-with-me face, and scuttled towards the building door. He heard me, turned, and watched me, divine right eyebrow arching upwards over those unfairly-blue eyes that twinkled with amusement.

He sees right through you. He's laughing at you.

Angry and flustered by the unwelcome thought, I forced the front door open against the wind.