Predator Type 1

Warnings: Cub, rape, blood, watersports, scat, shameless-self-insert


Predator Type

He had always considered himself to be that type.

The tall, strapping, 28-year-old tiger walked up the stairs to the skyscraper's front entrance at mid-morning, his bulging chest muscles barely concealed beneath the tight dress shirt, the blood-red tie swinging back and forth as he strode. His briefcase held tightly, his mouth set in a tight line of confidence, his slacks making soft swishes as he went. He always walked this way. With purpose, with drive and motivation, because he was THAT type.

Type-A, they sometimes called them. Woke up early and slammed the alarm clock with his mighty paw before it could even start to buzz; dressed neatly in minutes; went to the bathroom and brushed his pearly white fangs; stepped out of the door and the whole world felt his presence. He was a winner. A mover of society. A businessman and a damn good one at that. He was rich. William thought of himself, not as a type-A, but as a predator.

Predator. It was his favorite word in the entire English language. He loved the way the word felt as it slipped over his tongue. And that's precisely what he was. That's what made everyone, EVERYONE cower before him, shut up when he spoke, shy away when he bore his teeth. They were the prey, he was the predator.

He went to the office, as every other day (weekends were for failures), dominated his underlings and clients, as usual, and left for home, as usual. But today, he did something that was not in his daily routine; it was more of an occasional pleasure, but one he enjoyed more than anything. Besides, he wanted to have his ego stroked good today.

William had changed out of his dress uniform, into something more casual but that still looked damn good: tight jeans and an even tighter polo shirt. He left his briefcase in the car, took out a very large gym bag, and headed to the alleyways. His most favorite prey was always there. Children were always there.

It was with a deep fondness — and a grin of satisfaction — that he remembered his first time with a child. She had been a stick-figure twelve-year-old whore in some backwoods part of Southeast Asia, five years or so back when he'd been on a conference. A close friend who dealt in the shady types of business had introduced him to the idea; he said it was "just what you need", and he was right. She wasn't very pretty (but then he often thought children usually aren't), and she definitely wasn't a virgin. But William figured that her ass might be tighter than her cunt, and he was very correct.

He later heard from his friend that the phrase the little whore kept screaming, over and over in a language he didn't understand, was, "Stop, stop! It's too big!". She probably wasn't lying, either, because William had made her BLEED. It had been so delicious.

William continued down the alley, ignoring the noises around him. Nobody would dare try to attack a 6'8", 240 pound beast with knives for teeth; they'd just stay in the shadows and wait for easier prey. He chuckled in the back of his throat. The whole world was HIS prey.

Now, the tiger had never been the type to feel inadequate. He always left his sexual partners (male or female, he didn't care) satisfied with the strength and stamina he put into fucking them. Sadly, the truth was that William was still a cat. With a world filled with dire wolves and horses and bulls, his manhood tended toward average. He hadn't realized until he'd left that prepubescent girl dripping with her blood and his semen that he'd never heard that before. For all their moans and cries and "oh God!"s and incomprehensible babbles of ecstasy, William had never heard a partner tell him that he was big. And he LIKED it! As it turned out, when you're fucking an eight-year-old up the butt, you're always big. They usually tear open. They usually scream themselves hoarse. They always cried and begged for it to stop. Such delicious prey. Their soft, young flesh in his rough paws, their scrawny, tender neck in his jaws, their immature genitals reddening from his crushing gropes and slaps. He didn't even need to actually kill them to feel as if they were left dead.

He had checked the usual places by now. There were no homeless urchins rooting through the dumpsters, there were no young gang-members looking for a fight (and oh, how William loved to give them one!), and no orphans who were going to and from school and didn't yet know to avoid this part of town. William was starting to get discouraged. He might have to do something crazy like pick up a kid from a suburb, a kid who had a family and who would talk about what happened.

The big cat's chuckle turned into a hearty laugh, a laugh like a lion's roar. He had done it before, and it didn't matter. He knew people. He had the police in his back pocket. He could get away with anything. And that is when he spotted his prey.

It was a boy of about ten or eleven, dressed in worn cargo shorts and a cheap blue t-shirt, barefoot on digitigrade paws and with a stout school backpack. Best yet, he looked somewhat lost. William could offer assistance and lead him back into the darkness of the alley. William's favorite kids were always the canines, as if to scoff at that old adage of "dogs chasing cats" and he noticed this boy looked somewhat canine. Somewhat. William would have a better idea of his species when he stripped off the kid's clothes. For now, he could see the boy had short fox-like fur with a range of colors from a dusky orange to shades of grey and black. The kid was looking down at the ground, so William couldn't get a clear view of his face. His large tail was noticeably striped. The tiger furrowed his brow trying to think of the species. Something about the boy's rounded ears made him think of an African Wild Dog, which might explain the color variety, but he couldn't picture what one's tail was supposed to look like.

Ah, it didn't matter. Whatever the breed, they were all the same under their tails: sensitive, soft and delicate pink, wonderfully tight, and so easily broken open. He was getting tight in his pants just thinking about it. William smiled, showing off his teeth as the kid walked by.

He said: "Lovely day, isn't it? A good day to take a walk."

The boy ignored him and kept walking. William tightened his fists. Kids were usually among the most respectful, but this one would need to be taught a lesson in listening to his elders. He watched the child walk toward the alleys, and decided to try and different tact.

"But you don't want to walk that way, son. It's dangerous. Someone might try and hurt you."

The kid stopped. Turned to look at him. William saw he had a dark mask like a raccoon but a fox's amber eyes, and he was struck dumb by this sight. What the fuck was he?! Hybrids were a reality in the world, of course, but only as kids for millionaires and billionaires, because the cost to create one was comparable to the cost of a Porsche or three. There was no way one would be out HERE dressed like an orphan all by himself instead of in a limo with a couple servants. William had to be mistaken; the kid had to just be some species of canine he couldn't picture right at the moment.

"Well, don't worry. I can show you the way."

"I'll be fine," said the boy, and he turned back and continued walking.

William caught up to him with a few easy strides, saying: "Oh, I understand. You're not supposed to go anywhere with strangers. Have you been around here before?"

"Nope," the kid said with aplomb. "I like looking for new shortcuts. I'm not scared."

Oh, thought the tiger, it's going to be fun to break this one!

"Well, tell ya what. Let me just tell you the quickest way through the alleys. Takes you right to Fifth Avenue. Okay?"

The kid shrugged his shoulders. "Sure."

William described a path that would take the kid right into the darkest part of the slums, ending at a blind alley with nowhere to go. The best part? He knew an alternate way to get there so he'd end up right behind the kid as soon as he realized he was trapped. He picked up his bag and headed that way.

Everything went as planned. He stepped around the corner into the blind alley, and about halfway down was the kid, looking so small and vulnerable. He had stopped and was looking from side to side in confusion, probably wondering if he'd misheard the directions. William snuck up behind, inaudible on his feline paws, holding a wet, cold rag. It was soaked in a compound of diethyl ether, as he'd found chloroform could prove fatal to little kids. The boy sniffed at the air suddenly, but as William had showered before leaving work, it couldn't be his scent. It had to be the chemical. The kid had a sharp nose, but he was still too slow. Before he could turn around, William pounced upon him, holding the rag to the boy's face.

Their eyes met, but William did not spot the fear he'd been expecting, just some kind of odd confusion. The kid closed his eyes and dropped slack much faster than he expected, but maybe he was more frail than he looked.

"Poor kid," he said with a grin. "Being an orphan must be such a tough life. Bet you haven't eaten in days. I'll be sure to fill your belly up good."

Taking a moment to look around, he saw nobody and heard nobody and smelt nobody. He emptied his gym bag of its pile of useless bleached rags, and stuffed the kid inside of it. Hefting it over his shoulder, he walked back to his car and dispassionately tossed it into the back seat.

Now the fun part begins! he thought.