He liked to think of himself as a shark in the fishpond, a tiger in the sheepfold, a wolf in among the goats. It amused him to reflect that little goats are called ‘kids’, and what better place to find kids than in a playground?
He stood at the edge of the park, half hidden in the trees, a place from where he could survey the en- tire grassy area before him.
"City parks are the best," he thought, and special- ly on the sunny days of early summer. "The kids are out of school, they’ve got a lot of pent-up energy, and the parents have gotten a little careless. Can’t beat it."
The park was huge, an erstwhile military base long since handed over to the city. Acres of woods, trails, and playfields, with only the occasional abandoned bunker to betray its former purpose. Miles of room to disappear in.
He loved this place.
He’d come here for months, until he knew the entire park blind-folded. Not during the day, of course; dangerous to let himself be seen and known to that extent. But it wasn’t hard to find places to slip through the fence, and exploring by night had its own special thrill. He had gone over most of the city this way, until he had satisfied himself he’d found all the places where the kids could be found, and the safe places they could be taken to afterwards.
He made it his habit to have as few habits as pos- sible. Where there were sheep, there were sheepdogs, and he had no desire to draw their attention. He was smart; he was clever. He had never been suspected, much less caught, and he had every intention of keeping it that way.
A tennis ball flew into the bushes ten feet from him. He came to alert, then relaxed when, seconds later, a large black Lab, tail wagging ecstatically, crashed into the brush, grabbed the ball, and ran back out again.
He settled to wait again, pushing the hunger back down. Patience was good, control was vital. The right one would show up, and at the right time. If not here, then at one of the other places he’d scoped out with equal care. And if he had to wait--well, the hunger would be that much sharper, and its satisfaction that much fuller.
He watched with interest a family crossing the wide field. Automatically assessing the parents for aggres- siveness, he focussed in on the children. Two boys, and he expertly guessed their ages at six and nine. The parents were "nice people"--pushovers. This had possibilities.
He didn’t prefer boys, and it disturbed him to notice that lately, when he took one, rage followed satiety. The larger the mess, he reminded himself, the longer the cleanup. But he still found himself drifting through the trees, following them. It was the six-year-old, he decided; he just had a soft spot for blond curls.
The boys raced ahead to claim a picnic table not ten feet from the wood’s edge, and he took his position twenty feet in, watching as Mom and Dad caught up with them and started unloading their sacks. He ignored the food, it was the toys he was looking for. And there they were: Frisbees, throwing rings, a couple of soft- balls. Better and better.
The kids were already starting to scatter, explor- ing their surroundings. He heard Mommy give the obligatory "don’t go too far, boys," but she was already engrossed setting up their picnic. He left his position and slipped through the woods, moving ahead of them.
As he expected they would, the kids zeroed in on the concrete-shell restroom forty feet away from the table. He grinned; you could count on it every time. Give a kid three acres of open field to play in, and the first thing he wants to do is turn on a faucet and splash in the water. Which made this particular rest- room so perfect for him. Its featureless back wall pressed up against the woods, with a foot-wide space between it and a wall of brush. He could be invisible, waiting behind that brush. From there it was so easy. Wait for the kid to come through alone, grab him, and it would be as if he vanished into thin air.
As the boys reached the dripping faucet at the side of the building, he moved past them, hunkering down behind a tree trunk where he could watch both them and their parents. So close. The hunger rose, so strong and sweet the air shimmered before his eyes. Control! He grabbed the hunger like a physical thing and shoved it back down, allowing himself only the reward of savoring the erection that sprang painfully to life in his cramped jeans. Soon. Soon.
He knew it! The older boy got bored first, and wandered away, leaving his brother alone. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small device he’d found in a novelty store. He pushed a button, and it responded with the unmistakable croak of a frog.
The little boy’s head came up, and he looked around for the sound.
That’s it, c’mon. He punched the button repeatedly and the boy, peering with cautious curiosity, began to squeeze into the space behind the building. C’mon, c’mon. Stay in control now. Fighting against the hunger rising like a blood tide, he got ready to move from behind the tree.
"Whatcha doin’, mister?"
Only his long-trained control kept him from shout- ing. As it was, the galvanic response from his legs shot him painfully forward into the tree trunk. He rebounded, almost fell, before managing to steady him- self against the trunk long enough to turn around.
She stood in the low brush not ten feet away, lit by an errant shaft of sunlight, and looking at him through wide blue eyes. Ten years old, no more, with long blonde hair framing an impossibly pretty face before falling in soft curls to the middle of her chest. She embodied his dream better even than he knew, and even through his shock he could feel the hunger shrieking. She shivered for a second, then was again still.
The little boy aimlessly pushing past the brush behind him was now totally forgotten. He licked his lips unconsciously.
"What’re ya doin’?" she asked again. "Did you hurt yourself?"
With her second question, he realized that, in the instant of panic, his right hand had whipped behind him , grabbing at the handle of the hunting knife he kept in hidden sheath there. Now, back in control, he relaxed, brought his hand back out, and straightened up.
"No--I. . .no, I’m fine. You just surprised me, that’s all. Where’d you come from?"
She twisted gracefully to wave a bare arm vaguely off to her left. "That way. Were you hunting for something?"
He fought the impulse to respond, "Yes, you." Instead he pushed a practiced mild expression over his face and said, "I thought I heard a frog. I was look- ing for it. Do you like frogs?"
She made a face. "Not really. I like things with fur on ‘em." She spun back and forth, standing on one foot, the short skirt of her dress swirling around her black leotards. It was all he could do to keep from lunging at her. She quivered again, very briefly.
"Do you like squirrels?"
"Oh, yes," she smiled. "Squirrels are funny."
"Well, I saw some earlier, playing in the trees over there." He pointed over her shoulder, back into the woods. "Shall we go see if they’re still there?"
Her delighted smile almost blinded him. He moved forward to show her the way, and just as he reached her, there was a keening scream from overhead. She glanced into the treetops. "That was an eagle," she said, suddenly sober. "He’s hunting something." She grinned impishly. "He’s not the only one, is he?"
Oh, little girl, he thought. What you don’t know; But the smile he put on was gentle. "That’s right. But we won’t hurt them, like he would." No, not them. He pointed to a nearly overgrown trail that ran between the trees, disappearing around a tall mound of black- berry vines. "I saw them back there, on the other side of the clump. Shall we go?"
She clapped her hands, once, then danced on ahead down the trail, pausing briefly to spin around and giggle, "And I didn’t think I was going to have *any* fun today!" He waited until her back was turned again before reaching into the top of his jeans and straight- ening out his achingly bent cock. Then he followed her quickly through the woods. But not too quickly. Don’t get too close. Not yet. No good hunter would scare the prey away at this point.
The trail ended on the other side of the tangle of vines, just as he knew it would, since he had made it. She was standing at trail’s end, looking around in cute confusion. "Where to now, mister?" she asked when she saw him. "Where are the squirrels?"
"Hunh. . ." He feigned a look up and around. "They *were* here." He peered into the vines. "Well! Maybe they went in here."
"Where? Oh, my!"
They were standing at the vine-draped opening of a large concrete bunker, a gray box that formed the sup- port for the black-berries that arched over and covered it. The afternoon sun filtered through the leaves and splayed across the soft sand floor, illuminating per- haps four or five feet into the structure. Further back, it faded into a featureless gray gloom. Whatever reasons the military might have had for putting it here originally, he didn’t know and cared less. But he had more than once thanked them for doing so. For his needs, it could hardly have been more perfectly placed.
He pulled the vines aside and repeated, "Maybe they went in here. Shall we go see?"
She bent forward, peering into the darkness. "But why would they?" she asked. "Squirrels like to be in trees. Why would they go in there?"
He thought quickly. "Well, they have to bury their nuts somewhere, don’t they?" He nearly giggled at his own joke.
She looked at him, expressionless, and for a second he thought she wasn’t going to buy it. Then, with a smile almost sad, she slipped under his arm and stepped into the bunker. As he moved in behind her, his smile, held for too long, crawled off his face, leaving a feral snarl behind.
She stood at the edge of the light, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness beyond. She was just starting to turn around when the heel of his hand slam- med between her shoulder blades, shoving her violently face down into the dry sand.
Instantly he was on her back, fist in her hair yanking her head back, his knife dimpling the soft skin at her throat.
"Listen, you little bitch," he grated. "And listen good. You make a sound, cry, yell, anything! and I’ll kill you right now. You do as I say, we’ll have some fun, and I’ll let you live. Y’unnerstand?"
She started to sob, regaining the wind that had been knocked out of her. He yanked her hair again. "Shut up! Are you going to do as I say? Yes or no?"
"Y--yes. . ." she gasped.
"Good," he grunted. In one move he lifted off her, flipped her over, and squatted again on her thighs, effectively pinning her. He passed the blade back and forth before her eyes in mute menace, sheathing it only when he was satisfied she was cowed. He grabbed the collar of her dress and with one yank ripped it to her waist, exposing her firm young unformed-tits. Almost lovingly he ran his hands down her trembling body, from her throat down over her nipples, already tightening in the open air, caressing her taut smooth belly before moving up again. He lay flat upon her, face to face, and lifted the hair framing her face, the golden strands sifting through his fingers like gold through a miser’s dreams.
She stared at him, unblinking and intense, her ex- pression a nearly unreadable mixture of loathing, anger, and something else. He decided that something else was lust. He pushed his hand between them, down into the waistband of her tights and panties and pushed her legs apart. Yeah, she was wet. Oh, yeah. This was going to be good.
He jammed his knee between her legs, pushing them apart, then roughly worked her tights and panties off, baring her slim lovely body from neck to ankles. He found it surprisingly easy to slip a finger into her sweet little cunt, enjoying the feel of the juices that coated his hand, and the sight of his fingers disappearing into her. Her hips started to move with his thrusting fingers.
"Oh, yes. Oh, yes, feels good, doesn’t it?" he crooned. "Oh, yes. But wait till I fuck you. Oh, yes, that’ll really feel good, and you’ll want more, won’t you, little bitch? Oh, yes." Then he realized he hadn’t hit an obstruction. "Why, you little slut. You’ve done this before, haven’t you? Whore! Hunh? Haven’t you?" A slap rocked her head from side to side. "Whore! Little bitch slut fucking whore cunt!" He was about to hit her again when she looked him full in the face.
Her expression almost shocked him. None of the emotions he expected to see were there. Instead, for a split second, he was looking straight into a hunger as naked and fierce as his own. No fear, no pain, only a white-hot incandescent indefinable need. For one horrible moment, he saw himself mirrored in the depths of her eyes. Then the spectre was gone, and all he saw was a little girl, pinned beneath him, waiting for his next move.
A carefully trained warning voice started yammering in the back of his head. "Something’s wrong. Do her and get out--now!" He crouched over her, for the first time uncertain. Then she moved.
Languorously, leisurely, she brought one hand up to her budding breast, across the nipple set in its dime- sized areola, and then stroked down her slim, golden- tanned body. He watched in hypnotised fascination as the fingers went to her cuntlips, slipped inside, and began moving in slow voluptuous circles around her clit. It startled him when she lifted the other hand and brushed her fingers tantalizingly across the taut crotch of his jeans.
The voice in the back of his head was screaming in terror, but it didn’t matter. The hunger was too great, his cock ached too much, he could wait no longer. He unzipped his jeans, yanked jeans and shorts down together, and crawled on top of her.
He wasn’t surprised when she grabbed his cock and positioned him at her entrance. He wasn’t even sur- prised that he could slip into her so easily. What he wasn’t prepared for was how unbelievabley good she felt. Her cunt slid over his cock like a velvet vise, tight and hot. His nerve endings were in overdrive; he could feel every inner ridge as it slipped over his tight-veined erection. He was so engorged it was nearly painful, and she felt like a soothing healing balm. She felt like coming home.
Lost in his own ecstasy, he wanted this to go on forever. Every stroke, every move felt better than the last, so that when he was sliding in, he was already anticipating how good it would feel on the way out, and when he was moving out, his cock ached to be going back in. Her drooling cunt massaged him, mumbled around him, and sucked him in again and again.
"She’s too good. She’s the best. Maybe this one I’ll let live," he thought to himself, knowing deep within that again he was lying.
Then it was upon him. Palms in the sand, he arched up off her, eyes closed, lost in sensation. He came once, deep, and again deeper. And again and again. Thrust into her tight clasping cunt as far as he could go, he couldn’t stop cumming. He could feel her cunt milking him in waves, and he couldn’t stop cumming, and the pleasure kept spiraling up to an impossible peak until he thought he would lose consciousness.
Which is when his hips imploded.
The sudden crash of pain blasted him out of his reverie. He threw a look over his shoulder, and was dumbfounded to see that his body now had an hourglass shape. His hips were nearly gone. His lower back and upper legs looked surrealistically plastic, merging together and gradually disappearing at the same time, like water down a drain. He could feel his upper body sliding down her torso toward her crotch.
And still he felt himself cumming, although the mounting pleasure was now overwashed with an unendur- able pain. Still unbelieving, he turned to look at her.
She was smiling at him in quiet victory. He could feel her stomach muscles rippling as she drew him deeper in.
The voice in the back of his head, now gibbering insanely, finally broke through. He twisted around, scrabbling for the knife. His knees and rib cage were touching. His feet were just about to slip out of his pants. With a desperate lunge, he grabbed for and caught the waistband, frantically searching for the knife handle. He caught it, and found that twisting back was much more difficult, since everything between his armpits and ankles had disappeared into her. He raised the knife in both hands to plunge it into her heart.
Her smile turned to a grin, and she flexed her stomach muscles again. An avalanche of pain smashed through what was left of his nervous system, and the knife dropped from nerveless fingers.
She was up on her elbows now, watching his vanish- ing act. His arms were gone now, slurped into her like strands of spaghetti. His own heels kicked him in the back of his head and disappeared. His last thought, as his eyes slipped below the horizon of her cuntlips, was surprise that through the universe of pain enveloping him, she still felt good.
The little girl sat up and brushed the empty clothes from her lap. She kicked them into the back of the bunker, there to rot or be found by some tran- sient, she really didn’t care. She shrugged out of her own ruined clothing and examined it ruefully. It pissed her off when they did that; it really wasn’t necessary.
Naked, she strode to the back corner and retrieved the backpack she’d left there earlier. While she dressed, she evaluated her meal.
He’d been rather skinny, she decided, not much meat on him. She patted her flat, perfect tummy. Plenty of room for one more.
She’d heard rumors from some of the kids of a high- school boy who hung around the playground at the far end of the park, bothering the little girls there. Sounded promising. But word was he liked brunettes. She lifted a hand through her long blonde hair. Oh, well.
She left the bunker, raven-black hair shining in the afternoon sunlight, and went in search of her prey.