Gay Bondage Fiction | Hunting Jarheads: Intro – The Joy of the Hunt

I'm thrilled to post another one of Amalaric's finest series - Hunting Jarheads!

Hunting Jarheads: Intro - The Joy of the Hunt
by Amalaric
Series: Hunting Jarheads
View this page with a white background and black text!

Scattered across the country are several game preserves of astounding richness and variety. MCRD’s at San Diego and Paris Island, the bases at Quantico and, of course, Pendleton…just to name a few, contain herds of healthy young bucks just begging for the skill of a practiced hunter. All unaware, these beasts are wild, energetic and strong- posing the maximum challenge to the skill of the hunter. Well worth the effort, a predatory connoisseur who perseveres and eventually ‘bags’ his prize is rewarded by hours of sport in the identification, stalking, capture and…enjoyment…of specimens of masculine perfection justly famous around the globe.

I am a hunter- not by profession (hard to make a living that way), but by avocation. As such, for me the sport is everything. That is to say, I love the hunt above all else. Once a stud is taken down- oh, sure the feast is also a fine thing- I get restless, thinking of all of the others out there and the joys of going after them. Hunting is an art; complex, requiring a certain amount of skill and a lot of finesse. Sometimes they get away and, very occasionally, sniff the danger and catch you all unaware. I’ve had my nose broken and a few brushes with the law- ha! ‘Hazards of the trade,’ I say, then catch my breath and head out again.

I’m addicted to the quarry and would be content, if forced by timidity or other unforeseeable circumstances, to merely observe, like a bird watcher, as the muscular bucks congregate at their ‘special places’; the spots where they feel safe, or need to go to, all, of course, dictated by the various landscapes where the great herds are found.

Some hunters aren’t very particular about the kind of game they pursue. I can understand this and will even admit that, in lean times, I have also gone after lesser prey. That being said, though, after some years of practice, honing my not inconsiderable skill, I have become accustomed to the best and the best is found among a select species called the US Marine or, affectionately, the jarhead. These men provide the cleanest sport- in the stalking, difficult capture and ultimate reward. Ahhhhh, my friends, how can I describe the thrill in taking down one of these strapping specimens; all pulsing testosterone, hard muscle, hairy virility and not without predatory skills of their own. Are they willing prey? Never! Do they enjoy my ministrations in that exquisite moment of capture and first preparation, as they are readied- like the trophies they are- for the coming feast? No way! The tearing of fabric as shirts are ripped from heaving chests, or the slow descent of a helpless zipper over crisp briefs (with the promise of much more to come) is nothing less than agony as the jarhead rails against impossible fate, cursing in equal measure his own stupidity and the chain of events- planned and executed by one who has mastered him- that led to the moment where he finds himself, on display like a piece of meat, as my captive prize, for pleasure or pain…or both in equal measure. He sees the whip on the nearby table, or smells the ozone, eyeing with growing terror, alligator clamps hooked to a revving generator…and he never shrugs with resignation or begs me to clip his swinging balls and get on with the show. Oh no, my friends, but he does put on a show of his own as splayed muscles strain in bold relief against his bonds, handsome head twisting back and forth in heroic but futile denial, deep voice threatening, then cursing…and finally pleading before fading to the inarticulate jazz of hoarse, manly screams. Oh yeah, I test him- hard- but not on his terms and, in all of the years I have been hunting this magnificent quarry, I’ve never known one to go bonkers like a freaked out rabbit or squirrel and run toward the ‘headlights of my car’, or the ‘sight of my gun’. These guys are nothing if not canny- tough, resilient, used to mastery and comfortable with command. They live by a code but are nevertheless trained killers; honed physical machines of barely restrained power. Do they have weaknesses? You bet, and I exploit them. I’m a sportsman and thrill to the chase. I enjoy the vagaries of the hunt, but count on ultimate victory.

How can I describe the joy of bringing down a big buck- taut, over-used muscles nurtured carefully and taken for granted all at the same time, doe-eyed patriotism, rich drawl of fuck-this-or-that and goofy charm in equal measure, stinking of heady sweat and buzzing masculine pheromones, square jawed and close cropped idealistic jargon riding shotgun with swaggering masculine insouciance just begging for exploitation? Ah, I could wax eloquent! How can I describe the thrill of the hunt? Well…I will try.

1 Comment

1. 

   31118azti - May 24, 2019, 9:32 am

   Whew…what’s next?