"Hooked & Gaffed"

Keywords: mf sf

fishing: sun-blonde hair combed just so, beach towel spread out on the sand
in an artfully careless-looking swirl, and the bait -- herself -- in all her
luscious nudity, with one knee up in enticing concealment. The sun was warm,
the sand soft, but hunger kept her wide awake -- listening for the drone of
an outboard motor against the sigh of wind through the pines.

A splash caught her ear. She looked down to the water just in time to see a
silvery canoe shoot past the headland of the islet and cut across the
sparkling water.

``Hi, there,'' she called, waving.

A deeply tanned young man with jet black hair looked up from the canoe,
flashed a grin, and waved back.

``Come on ashore,'' she called. ``I want somebody to talk to.'' She sat up
just enough to give him a momentary glimpse of her bare breasts, then
modestly rolled onto her stomach and watched him approach.

The canoe spun, then darted to the beach. The young man jumped out, pulled
the canoe high on the beach, then mounted the slope toward her with an easy
stride. She examined him with a hungry glance -- broad shoulders, sturdy
limbs, clean-cut pectorals over a wide, deep chest. _This is no city-bred
boy,_ she told herself, _but a man used to getting around by the strength of
his own muscles._ A scarlet bathing suit girded his narrow hips, with a
bulge at the crotch that re-awakened her hunger. _A splendid catch,_ she
thought to herself, _now to hook him._

She rolled to her feet, deftly catching up her towel so that he got but the
barest flash of her bosom. ``It's chilly down here,'' she said, turning away
from him. ``Let's go over to the other side of the dune. There's a lovely
little hollow there. . . .'' She walked briskly up the soft sand; his
footsteps crunched along behind her.

Over the crest of the dune they went, and there she spread her towel, not
looking back but comfortably aware that he was close behind her. She
stretched herself out, face down, on one side of the towel and patted it
invitingly beside her, still not looking up. His shadow crossed the sun, the
towel shifted, and she heard him lie down beside her.

She smiled a secret smile then: _blood-red swimming suit -- how
appropriate._ Hunger urged her to hurry, but caution made her take a long
minute to glance around the little depression in the sand, sheltered by the
pines and the hump of the dune. The pines hid them >from anyone on the lake,
while the wind in those trees would cover any cry for help. She hid her
smile and turned to her quarry.

The young man lay prone, his red-brown body just inches from her own. She
met his gaze, and found herself looking into dark-brown eyes set in a
strong, high-cheekboned face.

``What's a beautiful siren doing on a little lake like this?'' he asked.
``You ought to be at the sea-shore, luring honest mariners to their doom.''

She grinned back at him. ``All the mariners have taken to humping each other
on the hatch-covers. We sirens have to change with the times.''

``And lure honest Indians instead,'' he said with a flash of strong, white
teeth.

``And what's an honest Indian like you doing in an aluminum canoe, instead
of using birch bark from the beavers?''

``I'm only half Indian. And aluminum lasts longer. We change with the times
too.''

``Half or whole, it's nice blood,'' she murmured. She put one hand on his
shoulder, rubbed his smooth, powerful muscles.

The young man responded with a contented ``Mmmmmmmmm'' like a contented
puma. Hunger touched her again as she caressed him, lying beside her,
muscular, lusty and virile, with hot blood pulsing through that splendid
body. She longed to taste, but knew she must hook him carefully.

He opened his eyes again. She stopped rubbing. ``You'll get sunburned if you
don't turn over,'' he said, his brown eyes dancing as he watched her.

``But -- I'm not wearing anything and you are.''

``No, I'm not -- not any more,'' he said. He rolled onto his side, baring
the front of his torso to her.

She took him in with a hungry glance: not a stitch hid his muscular physique
now, and a long, hard cock curved up toward his chest from his crotch.

``Unless wearing a hard-on counts,'' he add with a hint of shyness in his
voice as he reached down and touched his velvety glans.

``Magnificent,'' she whispered. He was even better than he had hoped. She
rolled onto her side, then squirmed closer toward him, their naked bodies
parallel, facing each other. ``Magnificent.'' She put out her right hand,
spread it flat on the warm muscles of his chest. She ran her fingers down
his torso and touched his rock-hard shaft, then gently squeezed his heavy
balls.

When she looked up from his genitals, he met her gaze, grinned, and reached
out and touched her ripe nipples. Then, with effortless power, he pressed
his broad chest against her breasts, tightened his powerful arms around her,
and mounted her as he gently rolled her onto her back.

She spread her thighs wide as he settled himself down onto her. His thick,
iron-hard shaft scarcely needed guiding, but she gripped him with both hands
until she felt his glans part her vulva. _He's hooked now,_ she thought to
herself, _and this hot-blooded stud is all mine!_ She wrapped her arms
around his chest, locked her legs around his supple waist, and squirmed
eagerly while that hard shaft slowly impaled her, inch by irresistible inch,
till he was in to the hilt. They kissed for a long, breathless moment. As
their mouths parted, she felt him withdraw a few inches, thrust again, pull
back, thrust, and on into a powerful, pumping rhythm, somehow going deeper
with every thrust.

``How's my little siren?'' he asked, without missing a stroke.

``I'd rather be a succubus,'' she murmured, meeting each thrust with an
upward curl of her own hips. He raised one eyebrow in wordless question. At
the bottom of his next stroke she squeezed extra-hard with the muscles of
her vagina, relaxed them, and started to explain: ``A succubus lures men to
fuck her.''

``Including honest Indians?'' he asked, maintaining his stroke.

``Including honest Indians. _Especially_ magnificent Indians with muscles
like yours. A succubus is just like woman -- except that she feeds on
blood.''

``Like a vampire?'' the youth asked. He gradually accelerated his stroke,
going deeper with every thrust.

``Much neater than a vampire. _Much.''_ She paused, tightened her arms
around his broad chest. ``She has teeth in her vagina. And when her victim
climaxes, she bites into the tip of his prong -- his glans. She cuts him
open -- and sucks his blood, sucks him dry.'' She raised her head and kissed
the young man on the tip of his nose.

He was breathing deeply now, muscles tightening, hips pumping, going ever
deeper with his virile shaft.
She smiled, not bothering to hide it this time, as she though to herself,
_It's such fun hooking a lusty stud who keeps on pumping, even when he knows
what will happen when he finally shoots his load. And unless he didn't hear
what I said . . ._
``How -- how will I taste?''
``Delicious.'' _Aha! He does know what's coming, but he can't stop!_
Suddenly, the muscular body atop hers went rigid. His shaft, buried to the
hilt inside her, jetted a great rush of hot fluid, another, and another. He
relaxed, pulled back, and rammed himself hilt-deep again.
She smiled again. ``You _do_ taste delicious,'' she crowed. ``Now to taste
your blood as well . . .'' She locked a band of muscle tightly around the
base of his throbbing shaft. He was hooked: now to gaff this lusty catch.
She tensed the muscles that moved dozens of needle-sharp teeth, ready to
rasp away the flesh of his glans and open the gush of hot blood -- only --
somehow -- his glans had already gone too deep, was now sliding into her
entrails.
The young man grinned down at her. ``Am I in far enough for you now? I've
got a secret too. Heap big secret.'' He laughed, a deep rumble in his broad,
beautiful chest. ``I'm half Indian, half incubus.''
She wriggled desperately, but his big arms held her tight, while his shaft
slowly bored deeper and deeper . . .
``An incubus,'' he explained, ``lures pretty girls -- especially pretty
pale-face girls -- and sirens and succubi -- and fucks _them._ And while
they --'' He chuckled again, bent his head, and kissed her nose. ``And while
_we_ fuck them, we feed on them with our prongs.''
``Then -- it's not my imagination,'' she gasped. ``You're going _all_ the
way in and -- and you've already started _eating_ me, eating me alive.'' She
started to scream, tried to squirm free, then fell back. ``I picked a place
where my victim couldn't be heard, and now that _I'm_ the victim . . .''
``That's right,'' the youth said cheerfully. He straightened his arms,
raising his muscular torso clear of her breasts, so that only his long shaft
linked their bodies. ``Just now, while we talk, my prong-tip's starting to
work on your liver. Being eaten alive like this hurts, yes; but I'm hurting
you less than you hurt the men you've drained. And besides that, it's a
waste just to drink a man's blood, instead of eating the all that good meat
inside.''
``Just -- my -- fucking -- luck: an environmentally conscious incubus.'' The
blond succubus ran her hands over the Indian's powerful chest, touched his
shoulders, rubbed his muscular arms. ``You're most magnificent stud I've
ever hooked, but now _you're_ eating _me_ alive, instead of . . .'' She
thrust her hips up against his, impaled herself to the hilt on the prong
that was gutting her, and gasped, ``. . . letting me feed on you. So -- how
do I taste, O Long-Prong, the half-Indian?''
The young man grinned at his squirming victim. ``Not bad, not bad at all,''
he said, thrusting slowly with his lean hips. He licked his lips, grinned,
then lowered his muscle-sheatheded chest onto her breasts and tightened his
arms around her again.
She met each stroke with an upward thrust of her own, pulling him ever
deeper into her naked body as they fucked.