The Hunt [COMMISSION][Gore, Snuff, Femdom]

Every inch of Farrah’s body said she was a Huntress. Wearing a dark green camisole top and stained canvas pants, her build was toned, slim, lithe. Her dark skin curved in all the right places, a gentle but not obnoxious curve at her chest and hips, and a generous, muscular ass. Her bare arms were muscled, with a patchwork of scars all over: remnants of many a successful hunt. Farrah was a jungle cat, a panther, ready to strike.

Her partner and protege, Claire, had a similar build. Her dirty blonde hair ringed an angelic face, cherubic blue eyes that sparkled when she spoke. Those eyes were the last thing many a man had seen, for even though this was Claire’s first hunt as certified Huntress, she was not a novice. She crept up stealthily behind Farrah, making sure that she disturbed the wildlife around her as little as possible.

And finally, the third partner, the verdant jungle that surrounded them, filled with jumpy animals who had never seen a human before, unflappable plants that had seen far too many, and their prey: A single man. Claire ran through the description in her head: Young, probably not older than 30, pale skin that had been whipped and marked until there was a patchwork of scars. And of course, between his shoulder blades, the stylized M, that marked him as meat.

“East? Wind is blowing towards there, he might have thought we’d track his smell?” Claire ventured a guess. It was a good one too.

“Hmmph. The wind flipped an hour ago. He escaped at least three hours ago.” Farrah didn’t make small talk. Using fewer words and making less noise was imperative.

“Well, West then…”

“What do you hear West?”

Claire kept quiet and listened, her pale white ears carefully trying to pick out the noise from among the rustling of the leaves and the chirping of the bugs and the howling of the-

“Wolves.”

“Wolves.” Farrah confirmed. “We go straight.”

And so they did. Farrah was quick to be proven right, for after a few more steps she held up her hand, raising three fingers. Three Signs.

Identity was easy: A pale, gray, unwashed rag was flung into the dirt. Only Men littered like that.

Location: A small trail of footprints was embedded into the water softened mud. A clear sign he was heading to the river.

They still needed time. A trail gone cold was not helpful. Claire looked around, until Farrah jerked her head at a nearby tree. She fluidly moved there, and smelled it immediately. She rubbed a finger against the tree bark, and it came away wet. Ammonia, ie, urine. Fresh. Very, very fresh.

They moved as a team. Two lengths of rope, hunting knives strapped to thigh holsters, and a small pistol on the hip. Huntresses relied on training and skill, not force, to capture prey. As they approached the bank, they spotted a figure, lit by the setting sun, crouching on the ground and drinking water, scooping it up noisily, splashing it everywhere, not caring for the noise he made or the fish he disturbed.

Meat. This is why they were meat.

The next few seconds took an eternity and yet, passed instantly. Farrah tapped Claire on the shoulder, and the young Huntress moved forward, knotting the rope into a loose circle. She whipped it in the air, and though the disturbance in the wind would alert any Huntress, the man paid no attention, continuing to disturb the environment around him. The rope took to the air, and the lasso fell on the Man’s shoulders, perfectly around his head. This finally caused him to jerk up and pay attention but it was too late.

Claire pulled the rope, and the circle constricted and tightened around the pale white neck, even as the man scrabbled at it, trying to throw it off, pulling and tugging as the noose started to choke him.

“NO PLEASE GODDESS PLEASE!!” He was panicked, and attempted to run forward, into the river, hoping it would drag him away. Farrah had anticipated this, and began to help Claire pull a second before he jumped, causing the man to collapse into the mushy riverbed. With the combined strength of two Huntresses, they began to pull, even as the man struggled, his legs flailing wildly. Inch by inch, they pulled him, the noose growing ever tighter as he scratched at it, scratched wildly at his throat, drawing blood, fraying the rope, but not earning his freedom. His muscles strained, and the pale, exposed neck turned first red, and then purple, the Adam’s apple bobbing wildly as the man’s panic grew.

When he was close enough, Claire stepped forward, and executed the maneuver exactly as she had been taught. A quick kick to the head with the point of her leather boot, stunning the man momentarily, and the placing her boot on the vulnerable throat. Farrah took the opposing position, a boot on his cock and balls. Normally, the protege would have that disgraceful position, but Farrah was nice in that way.

Claire’s muddied boots left an imprint on the man’s neck, the dirt soaking into the rope. His eye’s bulged as the boot added even more pressure, the delicate windpipe straining as it delivered pathetically small bursts of air to his burning lungs.

“P-ple-ease *gasp* goddess please let me-*gasp*-go please goddess…” He was murmuring, wasting whatever gasps he could draw into his lungs on pleas that never had a chance of working.

“Meat or trash?” Claire didn’t know what their orders were. Meat was best slaughtered fresh. Trash got tossed away.

“Trash. Plenty of meat at home.”

“Asphyxiation? We’re halfway there, might take a few minutes but…” Claire asked her superior.

“His voice annoys me. Blade.”

“…please.” It was broken this time. Claire dug the heel in even more, her hard leather boot sinking into the soft, exposed throat flesh, nearly crushing the bobbing Adam’s apple. She ground her heel, scratching the skin even more, the friction opening up wounds that would certainly get infected. Well, they would have.

Farrah pointed to the blade on Claire’s hip, and nodded, never taking her foot of his balls. Claire pulled the knife out, and handed it to Farrah, who took it, and in a flash, straddled the man across the chest.

“Watch. Clean swipe.” The blade grazed under the man’s ear, and the fine, keen edge traveled, from one ear to the other, across his bare, unprotected throat. The man had stopped pleading and was simply gulping, his eyes bloodshot with fear and adrenaline. The rope continued to dig into his neck, however, and his windpipe was far too exhausted to give him the oxygen he needed to run.

“…goddess…anything.” It was a whisper. His mouth barely moving as he formed the words. It wouldn’t matter.

The sharp blade made it’s journey a few more times under Claire’s curious eyes. The blade rotated just a touch at the very base of the neck, so that the point would penetrate into the flesh instead of just slicing it open. Farrah’s wrist was practiced, her motions easy.

Abruptly, Farrah got up. She walked to the other side of the man, and faced Claire. “Now, you.” She placed her own boot on his head, stomping it into the muddy dirt so that only half his face was visible.

Claire followed in her mentors footsteps, straddling the man across the chest, her black, leather leggings stretching across her toned thighs. She handed the rope to Farrah, and took the knife in exchange. The grip was warm from her mentor’s touch, and she took a few practice swipes.

“Too high.” The first practice swipe had been too high on the chin, and would likely have pierced the man’s jaw.

“Faster, he’ll flail.” The second one was in the right place, hitting the same path that Farrah had traced, but it was too slow.

Finally, Claire had it. Since Farrah said nothing, she assumed it was satisfactory, and readied herself. There was no count, nothing to let the man know when to struggle. Instead, Farrah pressed down on his head once more, forcing it deeper into the indentation it had already made in the riverbank.

Claire’s swipe was smooth. The tip dug into the soft flesh under the man’s ear, and she pulled it until it reached the center of his neck. Her wrist twisted until the pointed tip pierced directly into the windpipe, and then she pushed it, continuing the dagger’s inexorable journey.

“Than-*brbbbl*” The man’s last words were lost to the mud as an arterial spray of blood burst from his neck. The fine red mist pumped out as the jugular was cut, spraying all over Farrah’s boots and Claire’s kindly face. As she finished up with the man, she looked up Farrah, hoping for approval as the blood dripped from her pale white forehead down onto her clothes and on the twitching man’s body. Farrah leaned down, directly into the path of the blood spray, which was slowly dying down as the man’s heart realized it was pumping blood out and getting none in return.

“Good.” Farrah looked at Claire, as the last spurts of blood hit her cheek. “Very good.”

Source: reddit.com/r/Erotica/comments/mkuhbh/the_hunt_commissiongore_snuff_femdom