Chapter 35: Predator in the park.

The rage was still there, deeper now. The hate still burned. I needed ... More.

I ran until I hit the entrance to Mackenzie Park. The fog was a thick, wet blanket here, muffling the world, clinging to the dry creek bed and the skeletons of the rusted swing sets. The gray morning light filtered through like dirty gauze, making everything look ethereal, abandoned, perfect for what was about to happen.

Or maybe I just needed it to be perfect. Maybe I was constructing meaning where there was only fog and rust and my own burning need to fuck away the feeling of almost dying. The human condition: nearly get assassinated, immediately need to come. We’re all just animals trying to not think about death by thinking about anything else—preferably something warm and tight we can shove ourselves into.

He was sitting on a concrete picnic table, his skateboard at his feet. A kid. Eighteen, maybe nineteen. He had the sharp, lanky arrogance of youth that hadn’t been beaten out of him yet, a ratty black hoodie with band patches sewn crooked, and torn jeans that hung off narrow hips. Headphones around his neck attached to a Walkman clipped to his belt, the orange foam stained with sweat and oil. He was one of them—the punks from earlier on my route, the ones who’d hooted and catcalled as I ran past. I remembered his face—angular, with that teenage sneer that thought it understood desire when it was about to learn what real hunger looked like.

The thing about hunger is it’s never really about food or sex or drugs or whatever you’re shoving in your holes. It’s about the void. And the void doesn’t give a fuck how young and pretty you are. The void will take you at eighteen just as easily as it’ll take you at forty-three.

He was alone, smoking a joint, and he’d been watching me approach. Not the frantic, guilty watching of someone caught staring. This was deliberate. Hungry. Predatory in its own adolescent way. His eyes glued to my “naked” form, following every curve visible through the transparent fabric, a smirk playing at his lips like he knew exactly what he was seeing and wanted more. The sweet, skunky smell of weed drifted through the fog.

I stopped ten feet from him. My breath plumed in ragged clouds, steam pouring from my mouth in the cold. My whole body was flushed, heated despite the temperature. The Lycra clung obscenely—still soaked from the water I’d poured over my head at the 7-Eleven, transparent with sweat and arousal, the kid’s cum from the 7-Eleven still leaking from my pussy, the homeless man’s cum dried on my Nikes, the cum from my own fingers in the alley mixed with everything else. The wet fabric showed the pink of my pussy through the beige material, nipples stabbing through the transparent tank top like bullets. My shoulder throbbed where I’d scraped it against the brick wall dodging the assassination attempt—probably still bleeding through the wet fabric.

Bodies betray us. That’s their job. No matter how much authority you carry, how many badges you pin to your chest, your cunt still gets wet when it wants to and your nipples still harden in the cold and you’re still just meat animated by electricity and bad decisions.

“Take a picture, kid,” I rasped, my voice a low growl. “It’ll last longer.”

He didn’t startle. Didn’t look away. He grinned wider, took a long, slow drag from the joint, held it, then exhaled a cloud of smoke that mingled with the fog. “Fuck. Ah thought ya were naked.” His eyes dropped deliberately to my crotch, lingering on the dark, damp patch soaked with evidence of what I’d done in that alley. “Guess you kinda are. That’s ... fucking hot.”

Bold little shit. Most boys would’ve stammered, looked away, pretended they weren’t staring at what looked like a naked woman jogging through the fog. Not this one. This one leaned into it.

He held out the joint to me. An offering. A peace treaty. An invitation.

I stalked toward him, took it from his fingers without breaking eye contact. Brought it to my lips. Inhaled deep, held it, feeling the smoke fill my lungs, feeling the THC start to work its way into my bloodstream, adding another layer to the adrenaline, the arousal, the rage still simmering from the assassination attempt. Exhaled slowly, watching his eyes track the smoke leaving my mouth.

Took another hit. Longer this time. Deeper. Let the weed soften the edges, blur the boundaries, make everything more intense and less real simultaneously.

I thought about boundaries. About how they’re just lines we draw in the sand to pretend we’re civilized, to pretend we’re not all constantly thinking about eating, fucking, shitting, dying. About how the weed made it easier to admit what I already knew: that I was going to fuck this kid because I needed to feel alive and nothing makes you feel more alive than taking something you shouldn’t have.

Handed it back to him. Our fingers touched. Electric.

A normal woman would have kept running.

But what the fuck is normal? Normal is just another word for lying about what you want. Normal is pretending you don’t think about death during sex or sex during funerals or how your body is just a temporary container for consciousness that’s going to rot anyway so you might as well use it while it still works.

I laughed. A raw, throaty sound that made his grin sharpen, made something flicker in his eyes—excitement, not fear. Hunger, not hesitation.

I didn’t stop until my bare, sweat-slicked stomach was inches from his face as he sat. I could smell the weed on his breath mixing with something else—teenage boy smell, cologne and sweat and hormones. My heavy, braless tits, their dark nipples stabbing through the transparent, wet tank top, swung right in front of his eyes. So close he could see the goosebumps on my areolas, the sheen of sweat between my breasts, the way they moved with each breath.

“Ya like what ya see?” I purred, my voice dangerous.

“Fuck yeah.” No stammer. No hesitation. His eyes locked onto my tits, traced their outline, then moved back to my face, fearless. “Been watching you run for weeks. Every morning. Never thought I’d get this close.” His voice dropped lower, more intimate. “Hoped, though. Fucking hoped.”

My cunt was still tender from the alley, from my own brutal fingers, from that homeless man’s hungry stare. The seam had rubbed me for miles—constant friction building toward something unreleased. My thighs were sticky with dried arousal and fresh wetness that wouldn’t stop. The baby inside me—invisible, impossible, just a cluster of cells dividing in darkness—made everything more intense. Pregnancy hormones plus THC flooding my system, making my skin electric, making my clit throb with every heartbeat, making every sensation sharper, more desperate, more consuming.

We’re all just vessels for other things. Babies. Ideas. Corruption. The universe using our bodies to experience itself in increasingly fucked up ways. And right now the universe wanted to experience a pregnant sheriff fucking a teenager in a public park at dawn. Who was I to argue with the cosmos?

I thought about bodies. About how desire didn’t care about power dynamics or consequences or should versus shouldn’t. About how his teenage hunger was as real as my depravity, as honest as my corruption. About how we were both predators circling something neither of us should want but couldn’t resist.

“You’ve been watching me?” I leaned in closer, let my tits brush against his face through the wet fabric.

“Every morning you run.” His voice was steady, confident, thick with want. “Figured out your route. Been timing my skateboard sessions to when you’d pass. Been hoping you’d notice.” He took another hit from the joint, held it, exhaled slowly. “Been jerking off thinking about this. About you. About what I’d do if I ever got the chance.”

Heat flooded through me. Not anger. Arousal. He’d been hunting me as much as I was hunting him now.

The predator-prey dynamic is bullshit anyway. We’re all both. We’re all consuming and being consumed simultaneously. That’s the whole deal. Eat or be eaten, fuck or be fucked, and preferably both at the same time because that’s the only honest transaction.

“What’s your name?”

“Leo. Leo Winters.” No hesitation at all. He wanted me to know. Wanted his name in my mouth, wanted to exist for me. “Ya’re Sheriff Teresa Davis. County sheriff. Ah know exactly who ya are.”

My pulse quickened. He knew. Knew my position, my authority, my power over him. And he was still sitting here, still staring at my tits, still licking his lips like he was starving. “And you’re not scared?”

“Terrified.” But his cock was already hardening—I could see the bulge forming in his jeans, pressing against the denim, betraying him. “Best kind of scared. The kind that makes everything better. Makes it real.”

County jurisdiction. Constitutional authority. Badge as aphrodisiac. He understood the power dynamic completely and it made him harder, not softer.

Fear and arousal—same chemical response, different narrative. The body doesn’t know the difference. It just knows: THIS IS IMPORTANT, PAY ATTENTION, FEEL EVERYTHING. And we spend our whole lives trying to manufacture that feeling in increasingly elaborate ways.

I thought about authority. About how it corrupted absolutely. About how the badge made this hotter for him, not more frightening. About how power was the ultimate aphrodisiac and he was drinking it in, getting drunk on it, getting high on it along with the weed.

“Good boy.” I shoved him. Hard. Two-handed push to his chest.

He fell backward onto the concrete table with a laugh that turned into a grunt when the air knocked out of him. The joint flew from his fingers, landed on the concrete still smoking. His Walkman hit with a clatter. But he was grinning up at me through the impact, eyes bright with excitement, with joy, with adolescent triumph.

“Fuck yes,” he breathed, not complaining, celebrating.

I climbed onto the table, straddling his legs, pinning him. My cunt hovering inches above his crotch.

“Ya talk a lot of shit, baby boy,” I snarled, my face inches from his. “Let’s see if you can back it up.”

“Try me, Sheriff.” Pure teenage bravado, backed with genuine hunger. His hands came up, hovering near my thighs but not touching—waiting for permission. “I’ve been ready for this my whole life.”

Nobody’s ready. That’s the joke. You think you’re ready and then life fucks you anyway and you realize ready was just another word for delusional. But the delusion is necessary. We need it to function. We need to believe we have control even as we’re careening toward entropy.

I grabbed the front of his jeans. “You want this?”

“More than anything.” His voice cracked slightly, betraying his youth, but his eyes stayed locked on mine. “Please. God, please. I’ve dreamed about this. About you.”

I hooked my thumbs into my waistband and shoved the Lycra down with a grunt.

The wet fabric peeled away, exposing my raw, swollen pussy to the cold air and his hungry gaze.

“Holy fuck,” he whispered, his eyes going wide—not with horror, with awe. “You’re perfect. You’re fucking perfect.”

Nothing’s perfect. Perfect is a lie we tell to make meaning out of chaos. But my pussy was swollen and aching and glistening, and he was staring at it like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and maybe that was its own kind of truth. The truth of bodies wanting other bodies, the only honest religion.

“Sheriff Davis...” His voice was reverent now, worshipful. “Can I ... can I taste you first?”

I thought about giving. About how his eagerness made this consensual and depraved simultaneously. About how we were both using each other and both being used and that was fine, that was the whole arrangement, mutual consumption masquerading as connection.

“Later. Right now, Ah need ya inside me.”

“Fuck yes.” He was already working his jeans open, fingers fumbling with excitement. He shoved his jeans and boxers down. His young, thick cock sprang free, dripping, hard as steel.

I grabbed his thick, veiny teenage cock—rock-hard, throbbing in my fist, the swollen purple head already slick with his pre-cum oozing like hot syrup from the slit—and lined it up with my dripping, cum-smeared cunt lips, still gaping slightly from my earlier alley-fingering. “Shut up an’ let me fuck ya, Leo,” I snarled, slamming my hips down in one brutal thrust, impaling myself balls-deep on his shaft.

The stretch burned deliciously—that good pain, the kind that reminds you you’re alive because dead things don’t feel anything. His girth split my swollen pussy walls wide, the ridged veins dragging against every sensitive ridge inside me as his cockhead battered my cervix like a battering ram. We both screamed—”FUUUUCK!”—the raw sound echoing off the fog-shrouded swing sets, my juices squirting out around his base in a hot gush, soaking his pubes and balls. Bodies making animal sounds because that’s what we are. Animals who learned to lie.

“Oh mah god, oh mah god, Sheriff Davis ... yer cunt’s so fuckin’ tight an’ wet, suckin’ mah dick like a goddamn vacuum—milkin’ me already!” Leo chanted, his lanky hands clamping onto my hips like vices, nails digging into my sweat-slicked skin as he bucked up wildly, his hips snapping to meet my grinding descent. I rode him like a feral animal, slow deep rolls at first—feeling every inch of him plunge in and out, the obscene schlick-schlick of my sopping pussy devouring his cock filling the air, mixed with the heavy musk of sex, weed smoke, and my arousal’s tangy scent wafting up between us. His balls slapped wetly against my ass with each downward slam, the friction on my clit from his coarse pubes sending electric jolts up my spine; sweat poured off my braless tits, nipples scraping his chest through the transparent tank top as I leaned forward, shoving one into his gasping mouth. He latched on like a starving pup, sucking hard, teeth grazing the hard peak, tongue swirling as he moaned vibrations straight to my core—”Mmmph, your tits taste like salty heaven, so fucking heavy and real.”

I slowed my rhythm deliberately, grinding deep circles that made him groan beneath me. Our eyes locked—his pupils blown wide with lust and THC, mine calculating, predatory. “Ya ever fuck a real woman before, Leo?” I asked, voice dripping with challenge.

He hesitated, a flush creeping up his neck—vulnerability flashing across his face even as his cock twitched harder inside me. His hands tightened on my hips, torn between shame and desperate need. “Yeah ... Ah mean, kinda...” He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “My cousin Brittany. Senior year. We were both curious and ... fuck ... it just happened. It was quick, awkward, nothing like this.”