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The man put his finger in the Hunter’s mouth and said, "Don’t bite. If you bite, I’ll turn your ass inside out. Close your lips around it real gentle. That’s right. Now suck. Show me what you’ve got." Hunter sucked away with a will, smiling and looking at the man with wide, innocent-seeming eyes as he cradled his finger with his tongue, pretending it was a very different portion of the man’s anatomy. The finger wasn’t much like a cock; it was hard like a cock, certainly, with a salty taste of sweat on the skin, but unlike a cock it was jointed and leathery. Hunter thought idly that this what it might be like to give head to an alien - an alien whose sex-organs were like, and yet unlike those of a man. The idea broke through the haze of drunkeness clouding his senses, putting a little prickle in his balls. He leaned forward, sucking more eagerly, moving his head gently from side to side. The man watched him impassively, a cigarette smouldering between his lips. "Good," he grunted. "I’ve had better, mind you, but it’s not bad. Not bad at all." He pulled his finger smoothly from Hunter’s lips and wiped it on his shirt. "One little tip: next time you might want to use the tip of your tongue on the man’s cuticle; tease it a little, show him how you’d do his cockhead." Hunter nodded, a little peevishly. It wasn’t that he found the man terribly attractive - he was built the same as his finger, bone-lean and leathery. He was also a bit older than Hunter liked. But it had been a long week at the bank - he’d had to deal with bitch after bitch at his teller’s window - and pickings at the bars had been disappointingly lean. The man had impressed him with his coolness, his grey-streaked beard and his commanding manner. After a few drinks, he’d been more than willing to go home with him. Still, most pick-ups were much more cooperative. They didn’t grade his finger-sucking like a shop-teacher grading a birdhouse. Most men would be drooling all over themselves by now, trying to please him, begging him to stop teasing and take his clothes off so they could suck him - and not just his finger, either. Hunter was quite good-looking. He was tall and blonde, and whenever he walked into a room, eyes tended to follow him - eyes belonging to both men and women. His face had an angelic, faintly mischievous quality that went very well with his muscular build; it made him look very approachable, not like the snotty, glowering gym-bunnies who strode the clubs like untouchable gods. He had a huge following of middle-aged and overweight men who vied to buy him drinks and shower him with compliments. He could have been a model, they told him, an actor, anything he wanted. Hunter accepted the tribute with preening grace; it sometimes did bother him that he’d never done much of anything with his looks except attract hordes of admirers. But having hordes of admirers had its compensations, after all. But this man didn’t seem inclined to be an admirer; he seemed coolly immune to Hunter’s charms. Hunter decided he would change that. He leaned forward on the couch and put his arm around the man’s shoulders, giving him a frank, open-eyed stare that would have melted the heart - and hardened the dick - of the staunchest heterosexual. He let one hand move casually into the man’s lap. "You know," he whispered. "You never did tell me your name." The man looked amused. He lifted Hunter’s hand gently out of his lap and said "The name is Smith." Hunter’s lips curled into an I’ve-heard-that-one-before smile. "Smith, huh?" "Smith. Just Smith to you. Now get down. On the floor, please." Hunter smiled derisively again, then more broadly as Smith put his hand in his lap. A moment later he wasn’t smiling; Smith had his thumb driven into Hunter’s left ball in a very unpleasant way. He gasped, his shoulders pressing into the couch-cushions. "On the floor, I said," Smith said evenly. "I’m not joking, kiddo. Joke-time is over. It’s time to get serious."
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