Hunter
The music is pulsing through my fucking body like water through a sieve. It’s not bad and I don’t mind it but what I fucking love is this tight young slut that’s totally just shaking her ass and grinding backwards on my cock.
That’s right. I’m at Marquee – it’s still the hottest fucking club in the Meatpacking District and I think as long as New York City is around it’s going to stay the hottest club to get some pussy between fights when I’m on the fucking prowl.
And don’t get me wrong, this girl that I peeled from her friends, she’s good, but I’m not sure it’s the flavor I want tonight. She’s thin, with a nice backside. My eyes pulled her to me as I walked onto the dance floor. She was in a group, dancing with some friends. But one look at my body and she couldn’t help herself. I don’t blame her. I absolutely understand the effect that I’m going to have on her.
It didn’t take her long to shuck her barely covered ass on my pole. God, I love it when the fucking sluts do the work for me, getting me all fucking hard as they try to get themselves off on me. I can feel my cock nestle into the curves of her ass cheeks. God, if I take her home to fuck her, I can tell she’ll be willing. It won’t fucking matter if she has to leave her friends. She’ll fucking do anything for me right now, her eyes are so fucking clouded by lust. Who the fuck knows. She may even have a boyfriend or husband in the outside world.
But right now, she belongs to me. I raise my hands up her side. Maybe I’ll just take her right here. Use my strong fucking arms to guide her down to her knees. Have her take my cock in her mouth right here on the dance floor. Then maybe take her over to the VIP section behind the velvet rope. Bend her over and stick my cock inside of her. Make her moan so loud as I fucking take her to paradise. Scoop her juices that run down her legs with my fingers and feed them to her.
All that is interrupted by one fucking phrase.
“Oh my God, did you see this thing on Logan Daniels?”
My head jerks automatically. The little slut is still writhing against me. She’s still going at it. But somehow, in that split second, my mind is now a million miles away.
I’ve left the dance floor and my fight mode comes back on. Logan fucking Daniels. That motherfucker.
I scan the crowd and see where the statement came from.
Don’t fucking shake your head. I know the music is playing in this club so loud that you can hear it from the streets. I know the bass is going to the point where it makes your bones shake. I don’t know how I heard just that one snippet of conversation from two scantily clad hussies drinking fucking cosmos at the bar, maybe two yards from where I’m standing.
The little slut I was teasing turns around toward me. Her eyes are pouty. She’s wondering why she’s not getting any more attention from the big strong boxer who was just a second ago thrusting his massive hard cock into her.
Sorry, babe. There’s one thing that gets my blood boiling more than wet pussy in front of me.
There’s one thing I can only imagine doing and enjoying more than fucking up that nasty little snatch that’s being rubbed on my cock.
And that’s fucking up Logan Daniels. Seriously, smashing his fucking face. Destroying his rib cage. Breaking his nose. Making him fucking bleed for what he fucking did to me. I fucking hate that motherfucker with every single breath that I fucking got.
I’ve forgotten the little slut. I don’t even register her in my brain anymore.
No, instead I’m walking toward the two women standing at the bar.
I approach them and they turn their heads toward me. Their eyes light up as they scan up and down and take in my warrior’s physique. Their bodies immediately lose the defensiveness that we get when approached by a stranger. Their brains are probably screaming at them to make themselves more appealing – fulfilling the evolutionary desire to mate with a superior representative of the race.
“Did you say Logan Daniels?” I ask, by way of fucking greeting.
It takes a moment for one of the women to register what I said, but without thinking twice, she nods.
“Show me,” I command and without fail the woman hands over her phone from her purse. They’re both enraptured by the sight of me before them. Both of their brains are struggling with the overload of fantasies playing out in their head. If I told them I wanted to take both of them home with me, they would agree. They’d both happily take turns sucking my cock like a popsicle. They’d coo with lust as I came in their mouths. They’d even swap my cum between them and show me all in an effort to get me hard again.
But you know what? I wouldn’t really fucking care. Because as I’m looking at the phone with the headline from the Gazette, “Logan Daniels – the Boxer Who Can’t Go Wrong” my fucking heart is sinking.
Here I am, seen as this massive douchebag and fuckup of a person who just boxes well. The bad boy of the boxing world. The black sheep of the fight club.
And what about Logan?
Motherfucker is a fucking pillar of the fucking community apparently according to this piece of shit news story.
How the fuck and in what fucking universe does this happen where I’m the fucking loser and he’s the hero?
But that’s the fucking truth, isn’t it?
I can beat as many poor Russians to a fucking pulp in the ring as I want, but until I get some good PR from the press, I’m still a fucking chump compared to a whining little bitch like Logan Daniels.
“Thanks,” I say, handing the phone back to the girl whose name I didn’t even get.
But it doesn’t even matter because I’ve already turned around and I'm walking to the exit. I can hear the girls call out to me briefly but I don’t have time to listen to them.
See, I gotta get home. Get a good night's sleep.
Then tomorrow, I gotta figure out how to make the appropriately needed level of splash at the Gazette.
Logan Daniels, your days are fucking numbered.