They called her The Wolf. She prowled the local haunts, nightclubs, bars, and bath houses alike. People weren’t sure how she identified herself. She never objected to any pronoun used, but then again she rarely talked, except when stalking her prey.
She seemed to have no preferences, loving cock and pussy alike, tall or short, slim or curvy. Some wondered if it was just the challenge, though she conquered the easy along with the hard.
Everyone wanted to be dragged back to her den. Everyone wanted to be blown away. For that was how each of her conquests described their experience with The Wolf.
Her crew cut hair and leather chaps had most guessing she was butch. Her black corset, silver lips, and red stilettos screamed femme. She defied all expectation, all explanation.
I met Louie, a forty-something leatherman, in a smokey tavern on a Thursday night. He’d come across the wolf about a year ago.
“It was a slow night, much like tonight. It was cold outside. Only the regulars showed, and not even all of them. I’d blown or fucked every man who walked through those doors that night. But then she walked in.
“A femme in the Stallion. She turned heads, if for no other reason than everyone thought she was lost. She wasn’t lost. She was hungry.
“God, she must have blown me for a solid two hours. I’m a faggot, through and through, but she was…persistent. Buying me drinks. Buttering me up, really. She wanted me nice and relaxed, more open to a new experience.
“I hadn’t had head from a chick in ages. God, I didn’t know a chick could suck cock that good. She was all over my dick, sucking my balls, deep throating, tickling the tip with her throat muscles. Shit, I may have had my cock down her throat, but I knew I was her bitch.
“She took forever to let me cum. A whole fucking two hours before she finally let me pop. Every time I got close, every time I was ready to bust in her mouth, she’d stop, grip my dick real hard, squeezing the base of my shaft, and just stare at me, right in my eyes. Just stare and wait til my cock started to go soft. And then she’d start again.
“Fuck, I still don’t know if it was pleasurable or painful. But if she ever came my way again, ever set her sights on me, I wouldn’t turn her away.”
Katra frequented the Kitty Lounge every Friday and Saturday night. Her thigh high boots and latex dress shone, reflecting the club lights and bringing everyone’s attention to her. It took me a full month before I could even get her attention, let alone strike up a conversation.
“She has an impressive assortment of cocks.”
As soon as I realized Katra loved flavored cigars, I kept a fresh stogie and a lighter at the ready. She’d talk as long as the tobacco lasted.
“Not just in size, but in color and texture. And she had different harnesses too.
“Normally, even when a cock is inside me, I am the one who’s fucking. But with her…
“That bitch had me screaming words I haven’t heard since I was in high school, with my Momma bout ready to tear into my ass.”
Katra took a long, knowing inhale, and let the sweet scent drift about her face. I could see the memories floating back to the front of her mind.
“God, my cunt and ass are still sore. She’d fuck one, switch to the other, switch again. Shit, she had me all night and wouldn’t let up.
“I beat boys, hard. I make them cry, make them scream, make them beg, and they love me for it. With her, I was her bitch and I couldn’t stop thanking her. Even as she denied my orgasms, denied me cum after cum. Even as she pounded my pussy, drilled my ass, I just couldn’t stop thanking her.
“Fuck, where does a bitch like that come from?”
She came from a small town from a fly over state that she’d never name. She hated her home, hated her parents. Hated her brothers, hated her sister. She hated her life.
None of them could understand, would ever understand what is was like to want so many, to feel so much, to be more than the life you were born into.
The day she turned eighteen she was gone. No note, nothing. Her family didn’t miss her and she didn’t miss them.
She caught a bus to New York City and never looked back. She got a shitty job, rented a shitty apartment, and lived a less than shitty life. She didn’t care that all of her neighbors were loud at every conceivable hour of the day. Didn’t care that her bed was a mattress on the floor, her couch was some empty milk crates, and her TV was her toaster sized window.
No one threatened to rape or kill her. No one bashed her head into Bibles or screamed about eternal damnation. Most people did all that she ever wanted from anyone else: left her the fuck alone.
She’d been in the city for a few years now. Her job had become less shitty and paid a bit more. Her wardrobe and sex toys chest were the beneficiaries of her increased income. She saw no need to upgrade her furniture. Most nights she slept wherever she fucked. And she fucked, a lot.
I met her on a Monday. It was lunchtime.
As I sat, having downed two glasses quite quickly, she said I should try some pie. I wondered aloud why she suggested dessert instead of a full meal. She told me I looked like I needed to treat myself. I had to admit, she was right. I got two slices of apple, a la mode, with whip cream, no cherry.
I knew it was her when I saw the tattoo. Everyone noted the tattoo: angel wings that spanned her entire back, with dripping blood, seemingly deep gashes, and errant feathers, like she’d been ripped down from heaven.
That day, that balmy August day, she wore a tank top that stuck to her sweaty flesh. When she turned away, after dropping off my dessert for lunch, and giving me the largest warmest smile I’d ever seen, I finally saw it. I’d finally seen her.
I’d finally met The Wolf.
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