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The Hunt (Shadow X)

The Hunt by Shadow X

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They are lovers. She is human. He is a changeling, able to transform at will into a savage but civilised beast. He wants to hunt. She wants to be hunted. It is a game that they have never played before... until tonight, at least.

Product type: EBook    Published by:     Published: 12 / 2017

No. words: 10333

Style: OM - ShapeShifters , Erotic Thriller / Horror

Available Formats: MobiPocket (MOBI)  EPUB  PDF  MS Reader  This book has a format which can be downloaded to Kindle


The Hunt
An Erotic Story

By Shadow X

Copyright © 2017 by Shadow X

Published by Lascivity.

This story contains graphic and detailed descriptions of BDSM and rough sex.

If you’re reading this, you’re probably into that.

If you’re not into that, maybe go read a magazine or something?

For kinky stories, snippets of filth, sex guides and more of you can check out my blog.

(Although I’m also on FetLife and Tumblr if that’s more your jam.)

The Hunt

It is a game that they have never played before, and like all their games there are rules to abide by. She listens carefully as he relates them to her from the front of the car. She is sitting in the back, gagged, her hands bound loosely in front of her with a rough piece of cord. Legs the same. She isn’t sure what he’s used to gag her, but it’s some kind of fabric. The material sits against her tongue, soaking up her spit. It’s effective. She couldn’t speak even if she dared to.

“You’ll have a head start,” he says. “Ten minutes. No more than that. I’m faster than you, but you can cover a lot of ground in that time. If you’re smart.”

She watches his hands on the wheel. The way he drives – like everything he does it’s accomplished with a degree of precision. Perhaps even grace. She can feel her heart beating against the wall of her chest. That’s how he hunts too – sharp and quick. She has never seen him in pursuit of prey, but she knows it all the same.

“The reserve is closed at night. No people,” he says. “You can make all the noise you want. There’s the lake between here and civilisation.”

She swallows. Throat dry. Nods to shows that she’s listening. That she understands. When they discussed this back in her bedroom a week ago, lying in a post-coital haze, it all seemed easy. Thrilling. The reality of it is starting to sink in now. The rope is rough against her wrists. She can feel the first twinge of a cramp in her legs which will develop if they don’t arrive soon. It is a cool late-summer night, but there’s sweat beading in the small of her back.

“You can run. Hide. Fight me. Do whatever you need to do.” They are pulling into a car park now – empty, and lit only by a single crooked lamp, leering from the top end of the tarmac. Empty spaces glow through the windscreen. She wonders, for a moment, how far they are from the next nearest human. And then she wonders more deeply if he is the man she thinks he is. If she can trust him like she thinks she can. If not, it’s too late to pull out now.

He parks the car at the far end of the car park, underneath the leaning lamp. The engine dies, and there’s a pervasive silence. It rings in her ears. He climbs out, stretches, then opens her door as well. With one hand on her shoulder and one hand on the back of her head he helps her stand. With legs and arms both bound she is unsteady, but she hobbles out nonetheless. Even now she can feel his strength, the ease with which he moves her.

From his pocket he produces a folding knife. Despite herself she feels an extra thrill of uncertainty – a folding of the fear already butterflying in her belly. But he only uses it to slice through the cords that bind her wrists and ankles, discarding them. They leave behind striped red marks, pressed into her pale flesh. She flexes limbs, rubs them gently, feeling the marks the bondage has left on her. Pleadingly, she looks up at him. He smiles back down. White, straight, strangely sharp teeth. His hands move behind her head for a moment and the gag comes away.

The moment she can speak again she understands why he gagged her. There are a dozen questions she wants to ask, a hundred things she wants reassurance on. The answers she knows already, but the desire to hear him say it, to seek confirmation of what she already knows is overwhelming. Are you sure, she wants to ask, you’ll be able to control yourself? When you change, she wants to ask, are you still really you?

She bites back the questions even as they rise to her lips. There was a time for those, and it was days ago. Now they are standing in a remote car park on the edge of a nature reserve. The sodium light from the single lamp pools on his broad shoulders, reflects in his eyes.

From the front of the car he produces a flask. He unscrews the lid and takes a long swallow of the water within. She waits, and once he is done he offers it to her, holding it out in front of her face. She opens her mouth – which is still dry from the gag – and he tips the lip of the container gently against hers. Three long swallows of sweet, slightly metallic water. It wets her throat. Slips cool into her belly. He is capable of gentle moments like that – of extreme care and great ferocity. With him, more than with any other man, she never knows quite what to expect.

He returns the flask to the car and swings shut both doors. Locks them and then kneels to place the key on top of the rear wheel. Straightening, he starts to unbutton his shirt. She feels a lurch of panic. The ten minute head start he spoke of – has it already begun?

“You understand everything?” he says, eyes fixed flat on her. She nods. “You still want to play?” She nods again. “Good,” he says. He shrugs out of his shirt and the light glows now on the muscles of his chest, their complex interplay, like some layered machine. He approaches her, and leans in. She thinks for a moment that he is about to kiss her, which is something that she would welcome, something she moves towards. But instead he is simply leaning into her neck, drawing in a deep breath, taking the scent of her. He does this twice. Long inhales. Then pulls back and kisses her once on the mouth, lightly and quietly.

The kiss lasts several seconds, and no time at all. Then he breaks it and steps away from her. They lock eyes. Again she feels those questions bubbling up from somewhere inside her – pleas for confirmation. But to give voice to them would be to collapse the web that they have built around themselves of not knowing, of possible violence, of doubt and pleasure. She licks her lips, tongue still cool from the water.

“Ten minutes,” he says. “Go.” He nods towards a break in the treeline, the path there sunken in shadow. A wash of fear passes over her like a cold wave, bringing her skin up in goosebumps. She turns and starts moving, a little uncertainly, towards the dark. She turns back once, but he isn’t watching her. He is pacing. Already, clearly, counting away the seconds before he changes and gives chase. Her breath shortens. How long now? Nine minutes and how many seconds. She turns and sets off at a swift jog into the wide, tree-lined darkness before her.


He is private about the changeling side of him. In the year that they’ve been dating he’s never once allowed her to see him transform. He says that the process is ugly. That it’s private. And she understands that and at the same time is desperately, darkly curious. It’s a curiosity she knows she should put aside. If he doesn’t want her to observe his transformations then there is, perhaps, a good reason for that.

But she has seen him in his other form. Many times now. She still remembers the first time he changed for her – the strange thrill she felt as he emerged from the shadows, loping and tall, a beast of muscle and fur. All that power contained within a skin that was still somehow familiar to her. She had been scared then, the fear a deep and primal thing that shivered like a lightning bolt from her brain to the pit of her stomach. But she had held onto that fear. Stepped tremblingly forward and touched the centre of his chest. Furred now. The structure of the ribs so different from what she had come to know.

The first time he changed for her was the first time he fucked her in his other form as well. They did it without words, without speaking. She barely dared to breathe. It was in her house, and he had moved into the corridor beyond her bedroom to change. He had warned her before doing so not to touch him when he was changed. To keep her distance. And she didn’t do either of those things. It was so strange to see this creature, wild and dangerous and powerful, and know that it was him – the complex, quiet man she had come to know. She had to touch him. And so she did. She put her hand on his chest.

After that it was only a matter of minutes. She was touching him, and he bent his head close to hers and smelled her. His features mapped onto a powerful muzzle, teeth the size of her fingertips, sharp as picks. She could sense the savagery of him lurking just beneath the surface and it made her wet. Helplessly wet. The kind of rushed, urgent arousal that was beyond any real explanation, beyond words. She felt like something was dissolving in her belly, a need that was almost effervescent.

She touched him. He smelled her. His hands (still shaped like his hands, but more muscled now, larger, tipped with claws that she knew could shred her flesh) hovered an inch from her skin. He held himself back from her. Eyes narrowed. Scenting her. And she stood, terrified but trying not to show it.

“It’s me,” she said. “You recognise me?” He nodded. He recognised her. And she recognised him, however changed he was. A foot taller. Bristling with fur. Claws and jaws and muzzle and snout. But she recognised him. “You can touch me,” she said. “It’s okay.”

So he touched her. And then he grabbed her and pushed her down. She went onto the floor, hands and knees, and he was on top of her, heavy weight bearing her down. Arms wrapping around her. Breath huffing hot and animal into the curve of her neck. His claws were too clumsy in this form to undo the delicate fastenings of her skirt, but he didn’t need to. Pain raked down her back and her skirt fell away, her tights ripped to shreds. Later she would crane to look over her shoulder in the mirror at the four parallel scratches that ran down the long white curve of her spine.

She didn’t speak during it. She could not. He was inside her within seconds, and this felt right. No human preamble, foreplay, dawdling, drawn out moments of waiting. This was base, vital. Animals rutting like they had since the beginning of time. His cock was bigger too, stretching her almost to the point of pain as he pushed in deep. Almost too deep. She yelped and clutched the carpet. Words were something she had left behind. Words had no meaning now.

He pumped into her, hard and fast, her wetness welcoming him. After a few strokes the pain eased, and she loosened to him. His weight pushing her face down into the carpet, holding her in place. Her ass up in the air, legs spread, open and offering. His hot breath still on her, ragged and panting now. Those teeth an inch or two from her ear. Part of her longed wildly for him to bite her, take the scruff of her neck in his jaws.

He didn’t bite her, but she could sense that he wanted to. Strong thrusts, hard and fast and deep. She could feel his fur tickling her back and his claws digging into the flesh of her hips, her shoulders. There would be marks there too, she sensed, and she welcomed them. She could feel herself shaking. A mental image: her smallness compared to him. Her pale body beside his huge and muscled and furred one. All the power of his muscles – she could feel it in the way he held her down. She could do nothing to resist him.

In the moment she didn’t think of anything. There was no time or space to think – no words in her head with which to form human, cogent thoughts. Just blurred impressions. The mingled pain and pleasure of his cock thrusting into her. The animal lust of it, the absolute, basic urgency. But later she would lie in his arms and reflect on how different he was when changed. Brutal. Swift. Taking and using. A rough, half-wild animal. Primal and fierce. And how, in his arms, she became just as animal, responding to something ancient and ingrained in a way that was far beyond her own control.

He was rough with her from the start, but as he neared his climax she felt his strokes becoming wilder. He was growling – the noise starting deep in the back of his throat. It was a noise she felt way down in her stomach. Growling with each thrust and pushing deep and clumsy, and she knew that it was going to happen a second before it did. She felt his cock twitching inside of her, swelling up an extra little bit.

She came when he did. When he pushed deep into her and made a hoarse, urgent sound of pleasure in his throat, and wrapped his arms tight around her. Strong muscles enveloping her, holding her in place even as his cock bucked and spilled inside her. His come was hot. He pumped into her and she could feel it, actually feel it filling her up, and for a moment everything about that was right. Being held so tightly it almost hurt and filled up and the thrum and heat of him against her back. She felt her body twitch. The twitches always started a second or two before the waves of pleasure. Her body losing control, untensioning. And then the pleasure, flooding and soaking through her like water spilled from a vase. Wave after wave, bright and keening.

He held her through all of it. She had never been held like that – by something so much bigger and more powerful than her. Something that could rip her into pieces if it so chose. But he held her tightly and she could not move, and she did not want to move. She shivered in his arms. Twitching. Coming. Knowing that he was coming too.

She came down slowly afterwards. She hadn’t realised quite how high she had been. Slowly, slowly, his breathing returned to normal. Heavy breath giving way to lighter. His arms loosened from around her, but she reached up and held one furred forearm in place, just for a moment. Then he pulled back, slipped out of her. She sank to the floor, loose and spent. From where she lay she couldn’t see him, but could hear him padding softly from the room.

She lay there, his come still warm and heavy inside of her. Leaking out now. He had moved away into the darkness of the corridor outside her bedroom and she thought that she could hear him changing – the shifting of his skin and the melting of his bones. The reforming of his human shape marked by a faint series of creaks and clicks. Then he was back, in his human form once more.

He picked her up, very gently, from the floor and helped her to the bed. She lay there, limp and unresisting, and he folded himself around her. The same arm that had held her a minute before now looped around her shoulder, but it was smaller, less furred, the muscles less hardened. She snuggled back into his warmth. It would be a while, she thought, before she was really capable of words again, or civilised, human thought. But she was content to lie there, cupped by his human body, and wait.

They didn’t speak about it that night. But the next morning, he traced the claw marks on her back with gentle fingers. “I told you not to touch me,” he said.

She smiled. “I don’t mind. I wanted it. From the moment I saw you I wanted it.”

He huffed a laugh. “I could smell how turned on you were. Turned on. Afraid.”

“I wasn’t afraid.”

“You were.”

“Only a little.”

“A little is enough.” He turned her around. They were standing, both naked still having only just risen from bed, in her bedroom. The tattered remains of her clothes from the night before lay in a pile on the floor. Ripped to shreds. He put his hand on her jaw and turned her head gently left and right, looking for other wounds – bite marks perhaps.

“I’m not as fragile as you think I am,” she said, looking him in the eye. She could feel him inspecting her, looking her over. She could feel, still, the rake of his claws down her back. The urgent, hard thrusts of his animal self. “I promise.”

He smiled. Human teeth. Square rather than sharp. White. “You should be careful all the same,” he said. “I’m wild when I’m changed. I’m different.”

“You’re still you,” she said, and they spoke no more about it, but kissed at length, then went downstairs to start on breakfast.


It takes a minute or two for her eyes to adjust to the dark. It is complete, at first, a blackness as deep as though she’s wearing a blindfold – but when she stares deep into it things slowly define themselves. Dim swatches of moonlight, filtered by the branches above, catch the edges of leaves and paint the tall shadows of the trees that line the path. Everything is made out in tones of grey, half-colours. Shadow on top of shadow. When she looks down, she can only just make out her own feet.

It is quiet in the wood. She expected, perhaps, to be able to hear the steady rumble of traffic on distant roads, or the calls of night birds. There isn’t any of that though – just a steady hushing sound: wind moving through a million gaps between a million leaves. The smells of rich earth and loam heavy on the air. It strikes her that all the greenery which surrounds her is slowly growing, expanding, breathing the same as any living organism. She read once that trees speak to one another through their roots. Here, in the forest at night, she can easily believe that.

She tries running. A slow jog, at first, stumbling as she kicks into undergrowth and unseen dips and potholes in the path. Slim screens of leaves bat at her face. She remembers what he said – ten minutes would be enough to put some distance between him and her, if she was smart. But what does being smart entail? She should leave the path – she feels that very strongly. To someone who sees better in the dark than she ever possibly could, a woman sticking to the path would be easy prey. She should get out of the open and make her way through the undergrowth, the thick heart of the forest. But by doing so will she leave more of a trail?

The thought that she is leaving a trail for him to follow momentarily distracts her. It is one of those thoughts that seems to teeter on a knife edge between fear and intense arousal. The contrast between the two makes her pause and rub absently at her wrists. A nettle sting on her calf announces itself – a small, hot itch. She isn’t dressed, particularly, for the forest. He picked the clothes for her, and she wore them without question: a pair of denim shorts and a white sleeveless top. Canvas shoes. Tights that have done little to protect against sharp twigs and stinging things. She sweeps back her long hair and ties it with the band from around her wrist. Better. She’s hardly travelled any distance from the car park and she’s already out of breath.

Ahead of her the path forks. Two dirt tracks cut off between the trees, quickly becoming invisible in the dark. One is narrower than the other, fringed by trampled undergrowth and framed by low-hanging branches. She takes it at once, high-stepping to keep her feet from getting caught.

She’s no more than a dozen steps down the track when she hears it. The sound starts off low and quiet, barely there, but rises up and up like an air raid siren. It’s a howl. Low and animal and cold as the moon. She feels it in her belly. This is the howl that her distant ancestors sheltered in caves from. The howl that pioneers crossed themselves and shuttered doors against. And here she is, alone in the woods and suddenly aware of how very, very small she is.

Ten minutes seemed like a long time when she stood with him by the car on the edge of the woods. But the darkness has swallowed up those minutes like it swallows everything else. He’s coming for her now. Right now. Hunting her. She can picture him, changed, huge, loping from the car park into the dark, tree-lined opening through which she herself stepped not so long ago.

She starts running then, in earnest. Now, with the howl still reverberating in the quiet air, it suddenly isn’t so difficult to pick her way through the undergrowth. She is running, arms crossed in front of her face to keep herself from slamming headlong into any low-slung branches. Slender twigs whip the undersides of her arms. Thorny things catch and rip at her tights. She finds that she didn’t care in the slightest. With the howl in her ears she’s found new breath.

Something moves in the trees off to her right, and in a moment of shock and terror she falls. Even as her feet slip from under her she knows somewhere deep in her hindbrain that it is an animal of some kind. The sound, small and scuffling, couldn’t possibly be him. A fox surely. A badger. More likely a mouse. How absurd. But her body won’t listen to her. She hits the ground, scraping her knee on some jagged bit of stone, and finds herself scrambling up again almost instantly despite the pain. She thrashes off the path, away from the source of the sound, whatever it is. She feels her mouth open, hears her own panting breath.

She falls twice more before she manages to get a hold of herself. She’s left the path, and now stands knee deep in foliage, breath heaving, clutching the rough bough of a nearby tree. For the life of her she cannot tell from which direction she has come. She blinks. Widens her eyes against the dark. The depth of her own panic was intoxicating. It felt, in that moment, like an electric shock animating her limbs, dragging her along on the back of its current.

“Just a fox. Stupid animal,” she whispers. “It’s nothing. Nothing.”

Her heart kicks against the inside of her ribs. Her skin prickles with adrenaline, and it is a long moment before she feels the sting of the graze on her knee. Reaching down she felt her tights torn – something slick and liquid there. Blood. She knows it at once, even without being able to see. She rubs the wet away between her fingers and thinks of sharks. Sharks hunt by the smell of blood. They can detect a drop of it in a thousand litres of water.

“Okay,” she says to herself. “Keep going.” And that is, after a moment or two, exactly what she does. She thrashes on through the dark, creepers tangling around her legs, until she finds some narrow trampled way that might be the path she was on before, or might be another route altogether. She doesn’t care. She takes it, and starts running once more.


Most of the time they made love when he was human. A dozen times when he was changed. She marvelled, each time, at how different an experience it was – and how similar too. There was no doubting that it was him. His wolf and human selves shared a hundred little mannerisms. The way he kissed, fierce, as if feeding on her. The way he took the scent of her, or held her as he fucked her. The wordless sounds of his pleasure, and the sharp look in his eye just before. There were wolfish things, she noticed, in his human self, and human things in his wolf.

Afterwards, he always changed back. She loved to lie with him when he was changed and spent. When he had taken her and was wild still, but sated, calm. The rough texture of his breath. His fur. The way he something licked and nuzzled the curve of her neck as they lay together regaining their breath. But, before long, he would rise and slink from the room and return moments later, human once more.

“Have you ever met another one?” she asked him once, as he slipped back into bed with her. She had gotten underneath the covers while he was out of the room, and he joined her, their bodies slotting warmly together like puzzle pieces. “Another person, I mean, who can change?”

“Never,” he said, his voice still a little faint, breathy. “All my years. Not one.”

She thought about that. The solitude of being the only one. Being truly alone. She couldn’t imagine how it might be to never find another that shared some part of you. To never have kin. He didn’t sound sad when he spoke about it, but then she could never really read him. She bit her lip, and steered their conversation away from such dangerous waters.

“What does it feel like?”

“To change?”

“Yeah. And once you are changed. What does it feel like to be… like that?”

He shrugged. She felt the muscles in his shoulder move beneath her cheek. “My sense of smell gets stronger. No. Not just stronger. It’s like I tune into this whole other world of scents. I can read them. I can see how recent they are. How strong. I can tell when someone has been in a room. What animals have passed through a garden.”

“Do I have a scent?”

“Everyone has a scent. All humans. I like yours. It’s clean. Feminine. Not flowers. I can smell the soap you use, but underneath that I can smell your skin. Almost taste it. If I’d never set eyes on you I’d still know you were a woman. I can smell when you’re horny.”

She licked her lips. “What’s it like?”

“Like… coppery. Like blood. There’s a heat to you. Your body shedding all these pheromones. Rich. Kind of like perfume. It’s inviting. I mean, it triggers something in me. I can feel it. It reaches some part of me that other scents don’t. Flicks a switch. And then I’m changed anyway… everything is so much simpler when I’m changed. The want is flatter. It’s like an instinct. I just want to take. That always feel very right, very simple. Nothing there to complicate things. When I’m human I have all these other thoughts crowding in, taking up space in my head. But when I’m changed there’s just want. That’s all there is. I don’t think there’s room for anything else.”

She swallows. “I can tell, sometimes. You’re so… direct. You take.”

“You want to be taken. You let me take you.”

“I want it.” She nodded. “It feels like I’m playing with something dangerous. Elemental. Basic. Like fire. Like you could eat me whole. Bite me. Break me. I don’t know. There’s something there and that’s scary, but I like it. It’s real, at least.”

“When I’m human I don’t want to scare you.”

“And when you’re changed?”

He thought about it for a moment. His hand was in her hair, stroking gently, fingers combing through the soft lines of it. “When I’m changed I can smell the fear in you. And I like it. It makes me want you all the more.”

Enjoyed Reading?

That’s the end of the extract! If you want to read the rest of the story, please buy a copy of this book. It costs about the same as a coffee, and I’m willing to bet you’ll enjoy it at least as much as one.

Author Information

I'm Shadow - writer, sex nerd and (somewhat twisted) mind behind the professionally-filthy sex blog Lascivity. I'm based in Edinburgh, but travel extensively. I read a lot. I'm obsessed with psychology, sociology, games of all kind, true crime and tech.

I am also indescribably perverted.

I write dirty stories about things that happened to me. I write fantasy erotica. I write things that verge on being serious literature and I write things that are undeniably farcical. I interview my friends about thier sex lives, and I write guides to everything from anal sex to insertable toy cleaning routines. My bibliography is a messy, strange, wonderful portfolio of filth.


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