Kiss chase in a forest: predator and prey

Image by the brilliant Stuart F Taylor

I spotted that this week’s Kink of the Week topic was ‘hunting/chasing prey’ and realised with utter delight that I had a half-finished draft which I could polish off for it. So here goes: a fuck in which I get to revel in the idea of being ravished by a predator. Note that this story contains a tiny bit of implied non-consent (but it is consensual) and also some barely-lubed anal (which I’d recommend against in real life, even though it’s hot in fantasies because in fantasies you can pretend that spit would totally work). 

Primal fear

On our fourth date (or perhaps it was our fifth? I forget) my ex took me to a zombie apocalypse. Not a real one: just a game. The sort of game you probably couldn’t play these days because it’s too dangerous. Groups of actors zombies had been let loose in an area of London just south of the river, and we who had tickets were released in groups to go and find clues and work out where the safe zone was. On the way, we had to avoid getting caught by the zombies who sat in wait for us – little pockets of horror for us to navigate as we ran.

Getting got wasn’t an especially dangerous thing. They weren’t real zombies: they’d never eat you. If you got caught they’d draw a line on your hand with UV pen, and if you got enough lines then when you made it to the safe zone (the after party) you’d be made up as a zombie yourself – white powder, grey eyes, fake blood, the lot. Victory for those who managed to avoid getting tagged, but still fun for those who hadn’t quite escaped.

During the safety orientation, the organisers made a point of emphasising that no matter what happened, no matter where we saw zombies or how afraid we were, we should not run out into traffic. The pair of us scoffed. We weren’t stupid. Of course we’d never run out into fucking traffic!

Can you see where this is going?

Jogging along a backstreet during the opening three minutes of our game, a couple of zombie nurses – in scrubs, covered in blood, faces white-grey and arms outstretched – leapt at us from the shadows of a doorway and our team scattered like a flock of pigeons. Most of us ran directly into the road.

Primal fear isn’t rational, you see. That’s part of what makes these things fun. You know the zombies will not hurt you, but you’re running from them anyway. And once you start running from something, your animal instinct takes over. It doesn’t matter how much you want to be caught, when your legs are pounding the ground and your heart is thumping and your breathing’s ragged in your chest… when you hear someone chasing chasing chasing you, every neuron in your lizard brain sings with the panic of prey being hunted by predator.

With that in mind, here’s part 2 of a story I started writing a while ago: kiss chase in a forest. Catch up with part 1 at that link, then pop back here for the conclusion.

Predator and prey

I foolishly believe my fear has peaked the moment I start to run. Leaping up from the picnic blanket on which he first challenged me, grinning because I’m eager to get started. So keen to be chased, so desperate to lose. I jump up and spring forward, like a sprinter escaping the starting blocks, not so much running as firing myself away from him. One step after another. Faster than I ever thought I could, I run from this man by whom I’m so desperate to be caught. A wave of adrenaline floods my veins and I set about burning through it with eager intensity, dodging around trees and jumping over patches of mud that would otherwise slow me down.

“Let’s play kiss chase,” he’d said to me, and my whole body had thrummed with desire for it, “but this time, we’re not playing for kisses. This time, if I catch you: I take you.”

It echoes in my ears along with the thunder of blood. Feeding the part of my brain that so easily convinces itself he is a genuine predator. When you’re busy running from a predator, your body shuts down the parts it doesn’t need. The aching thud in my cunt – the one that longs for him to catch me – is gone, and all that’s left is the urgent in-out motion of my lungs, and the blood thumping to my muscles, every limb exerting every single ounce of energy on the chase.

I think my fear has peaked, but it hasn’t. In the distance, though still surprisingly close given how swiftly I took my head start, I hear his voice in that singsong playful way calling:

“Coming! Ready or not!”

I want this man inside me. I want him to cling so tightly to me it crushes the breath from my lungs. I want his fingers gripping deep and firm into the flesh of my arse, so hard he leaves bruises when he’s done. I want him to plunge his dick into me and bite the flesh where my neck meets my shoulder as he comes hard and heavy into my cunt.

Yet when he sings out ‘ready or not’ my lizard brain takes over: my blood runs cold.

I race to put more distance between us, but every step I take gives him a better read on where I am. He can hear the twigs snapping as I put one foot in front of another, see glimpses of my body as I rush through the trees.

His legs are long like mine and he can leap over mud and fallen branches as well as I can, but somehow he’s still catching up. Right now, in this heart-pulse moment, he’s stronger than me. And faster. This isn’t about ability, it’s a question of which is more powerful: his determination or my irrational, lizard-brain fear.

Predator or prey.

My fear is strong, but it can’t power me forever. Because the sound of his feet crunching on the fallen leaves, pacing faster and faster towards me, makes my limbs go weak and limp and I start to tremble. I force myself to keep looking forwards as I tear through the woods, not turning back to see how close he’s getting: just running running running like it’s what I was born to do.

And soon the crackle of leaves and broken twigs is joined by the sound of his panting. His ragged, gasping, heaving breath so close – so close – behind me. Lizard brain says panic and run faster.

Get away get away get away.

I can’t picture him in detail, all the energy I have is laser-focused on my muscles and my heart and my lungs. I can’t remember his gentle smile or his skilled hands or the playful way he raised an eyebrow when he first suggested kiss chase. Instead I just feel a presence: a predator. The swell of dread that tightens around my chest, imagining how it will feel if I get caught. Trapped by strong arms, biceps which pin me. Held down and punish-fucked, shuddering with horror as someone (something) growls and grunts above me. Face pinned in the mud and leaves and dead detritus of the forest floor. Clothes torn and cast aside, skin scratched and bruised as I twist and writhe and try to scream.

Fear is primal. But there are other primal needs that fear can’t conquer.

It’s his scent that does it, I think. He’s close enough that we’re almost touching and I breathe in to muster the air for a panicked shriek but… in that single breath I catch a note of the familiar, delicious combination that makes up the essence of him. Body wash and shampoo and deodorant and washing powder, of course, but more importantly the scent of his blood-warm skin. The sweat of effort as he powers through the woods. Fear is fierce and innate, but there’s something even more basic here.

The scent of him trips the most deep-rooted instincts. My body wants him, even as my brain itself screams ‘danger!’

So I turn and look over my shoulder.

And that’s when he pounces.

One extra-strong push off the ground with his left foot, and he reaches for me with his right hand, grabbing for my wrist and only just missing as I whip it out of the way. I face forward again, try to conjure an extra burst of speed but I know it’s too late. He’s too close.

And besides, I’ve seen him now, so I want him again. It’s as simple as that – I am done for. The blood that was keeping my muscles going now floods to my crotch, and as strong as I felt before now I feel weak and empty. I stumble and break stride and he’s right there behind me.

Grabbing my wrist and holding it now with a solid, tight grip like the jaws of a wolf. Dragging me backwards into him so he can wrap both his arms around my trembling body. Pinning my hands to my sides as he crushes my chest and buries his face in the back of my neck. Not quite biting, just resting his open mouth on the soft flesh where neck meets shoulder. Panting in time with me. In-out, in-out, in-out.

That’s the moment when we both know I am vanquished.

I struggle against him anyway. Savagely. This is not play. I have no rational capacity to calculate exactly how much energy to put into each twist and writhe to avoid escape. I’m panting and exhausted from the flight, which limits my strength. But the running’s tripped my lizard-brain predator fear, so now I fight with every single ounce of whatever I have left.

I’m in that perfect state of pure motion: acting without thinking. I am a trembling, thrashing, twitching ball of instincts. And he has me in his grip. Standing behind me, both arms clamped around my torso so I cannot move my arms, crotch pressed up tight against my backside so he can feel every movement as I squirm.

“I win,” he gasps into my ear, and there’s little else for me to say but “fuck you!”

He laughs. Deep and long and low like he’s growling. I’m expecting him to drag me to a nearby tree. I’ll kick and scream just enough to put up a fight before forcing myself to stay still so he can finally claim the prize I’m so eager to give him – shoving my face up against the rough bark and yanking down my jeans so he can plunge in his thickening cock.

But he doesn’t do that.

Instead he keeps that powerful hold on me and simply drops onto the forest floor, slamming my body down into the dirt with his, where I grapple and squeal and flail. He rolls me into the pile of dead leaves and mud and defeat. I land with my arse pressed against him, and I can feel the way his cock is beginning to fill with the blood that his muscles no longer need.

And so I respond, of course. Because now I need too.

My body, which had been so utterly focused on escaping this man, now turns every single adrenaline-boosted cell towards reminding me how much I hurt for him. Flushing hot and full in every place that matters. He tears at my shirt, ripping it open, and I take the advantage as one of his hands is busy to try and slip from his grasp.

“Oh no you fucking don’t,” he says, his singsong tone smug with arousal and victory. “Cry ‘mercy’ if you want me to stop,”

I don’t, I won’t

“…but unless you do that I am taking what you owe me.”

There’s anger now, along with the primal fear and the urgent arousal. I want to put more fight in my arms and legs but they’re burning with lactic acid and suddenly incapable. I settle for a squeal as he twists one of my arms behind my back, pinning me face-down into the tattered mess of the shirt he’s just torn off. Shifting position to better deal with my increasingly-feeble defence, he straddles my back, facing away from my head and down towards my arse and my scrabbling, kicking legs. With my arms pinned to my sides by his thighs, he now has both hands free to yank down my jeans. Not just pulling them to my knees but battling with thrashing thighs and kicking ankles till he has them fully off.

He makes short work of my knickers too: rrrrip.

Stripped, humiliated and defeated: my favourite way to be. The arousal has eclipsed my terror so swiftly and so utterly that I am almost dizzy with confusion.

He shifts position again, now straddling my naked thighs. He has both my arms twisted behind my back, grabbing my two slim wrists in one of his large hands. Pressing down on me with all his weight as he uses his other hand to fumble open his fly.

My body sings out to get fucked by him now, even as my blood runs hot with rage. Am I angry at him for winning? Or angry at myself for giving in so easily? Perhaps I’m still riding those waves of fear: prey that’s existentially angry now it’s caught.

He pulls his dick out and spits liberally on his fingers. I can hear the slick, wet sound of him spreading it all over the head of his cock. My chest burns with shame as I realise what he’ll do, just a split second before he gives my ass the same treatment: spit, smear. And again. Pushing one fingertip roughly inside to spread it further.

Then he leans forward. The weight of his body on mine, my arms pinned behind my back, the scent of him and the forest and the stinging shame of my loss and humiliation… too many emotions, all primal, nothing rational. I am no longer capable of complex thought. Of love or hope or reason or restraint.

In this moment, I am nothing at all.

His dick presses firmly against the tight ring of my ass, stretching the skin but not quite penetrating. The apex predator’s merely toying with his prey.

“Please,” I manage to stammer out between ragged pants, voice weak and cracking with the effort. “Please…”

“Please what?” he asks, pausing there – all his muscles taut and flexed, the wet tip of his unyielding dick pinning me in place as I catch my breath and throb with animal lust. “Please don’t? Or please do?”

A heartbeat. Then another. With all my senses heightened I can smell him even through the sweat from my shredded shirt and the stench of dead leaves that fill my nostrils as I’m pressed into the forest floor. Enduring the hot, hard weight of his cock shoved tight up against my ass: poised and ready.

“Please,” I say, with a sigh of both need and defeat. “please please take what I owe you.”



As ever with Kink of the Week posts, please do go check out what other people are writing for this topic! Especially if you’re one of those people who likes to complain when I cut off sex scenes before the actual fuck: I bet there’ll be some great fucks over there. 


  • SpaceCaptainSmith says:

    Oh yeah, I did something like the zombie game once. Only it was even sillier, as it was a vaguely Harry Potter inspired game of witches and wizards. Turns out that when it’s late at night in a dark deserted area, even someone dressed as a wizard jumping out of the bushes pointing a stick at you can be scary… :D

    I am aware there are BDSM groups that actually do real life ‘hunts’ in (presumably enclosed) outdoor areas. Though probably with less outdoor fucking I’m guessing.

    Anyway, nice work.

  • Molly says:

    All the fuck yes. I struggled with my piece because there are so many little parts of that are hot buttons for me making sense of it can feel almost overwhelming. At some point I need to try writing them more as stories.

    Also the fear…. that I think is the bit for me that I can’t quote capture in words, the fear and how that turns me on


  • Bee says:

    That zombie experience sounds amazing and I properly giggled at rational adults running into the road!

    As for the rest…FFFFUUUUUUUUUUUCCK, yes please!

  • SwearyPrincess says:

    One of my friends was telling me about a similar game they played at a kinky camping event, in this case a Fox Hunt, where the foxes had to avoid being captured and dragged back to a play tent…

    Needless to say, we’re all now planning to go camping together 😏

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