Hunter The Dom
Shadowplay Bonus Scene
Before Hunter met Winter, he had a scene—literally—with the flight attendant on the way back from Turkyie. While we don’t like Jami, we do like Hunter the Dom.
© 2024 Angel M. Shaw
Hunter
I toggle my phone to darkness to shut out the message I’ve stared at for the last eight hours. The interactive flight map shows I have two more hours left on the flight to Dulles.
It might as well be two days for how this flight drags on.
For the last three months, I’ve been in Turkyie setting up our manufacturing plant. Well, that’s what I was there for on paper. In reality, I spent one day meeting with politicians in Istanbul, shook some hands, and then spent the rest of my time fucking around.
I left the rest to the plant director, whose name I forgot the moment he told me.
When I learned August and Maiya were missing, I was with a French model who’d come with friends to sail around Fethiye for the week. They’ve been gone for five days, and I just found out about their disappearances hours ago.
They just figured I’d want to know about it today. That’s how much they think of me.
I tilt my head to the side, focusing on the hot stretch in my muscles before moving to the opposite side, groaning when my neck cracks. I’m tense and angry because here are the facts of the situation:
The high school girlfriend I knocked up and have been taking care of for the last fifteen years has died.
They’ve found my son, and I am now the sole parent to the child I left behind.
I need to return to the one place I’d promised myself never to step foot in.
So yeah. I’m tense and angry. And scared.
My phone buzzes in my hand with another text from my best friend and business partner, Leo. “He’s stable,” is all it says. The choked sob and persistent nausea I’ve battled for the last twelve hours both sharpen and abate.
I am a body full of contradictions.
I slide away the notification and open the photos app once again. August’s face stares back at me. His eyes focus on the camera, but he doesn’t smile.
His blue eyes are like mine. His hair is dark blonde, like Maiya’s.
And now Maiya is dead.
I know nothing about the day he took this picture. I know nothing about what was said or what he was doing. All I know is that I have this picture—this fragmented moment where I see my son.
I swallow against the horror riding me.
Don’t act like Father of the Year now.
I drum my fingers on the table in front of me, mentally slapping away the thought. My eyes slide shut as I fall against the plush leather headrest.
I’ve learned how to keep the noisiness in my brain to a minimum. I’ve learned that pain—giving and receiving—feeds the fucked up part of my psyche enough to keep my mind silent.
But the thoughts are always there, taunting me, making me remember all the things I’ve done and who I am.
Forcing me to remember the bloodshed that’s synonymous with my family name.
You can’t run from the truth of who you are.
I slam my fist on the table so hard the hinges crack against the strain. I flatten my palm and flex my fingers against the woodgrain of the swivel table.
I’m hijacked by a fucked up mind. No matter what I do, the thoughts never leave.
Energy is neither created nor destroyed but transformed, dear Hunter.
My phone buzzes again—a message from the VP of Development. I’m cc’d on the message, but it’s really for Leo.
Leo has always been the homebody, preferring to stay in D.C. while I traveled around the globe to shake hands and kiss babies. We’re co-owners, but in reality, I’m pointless. A figurehead for the assholes who don’t want to deal with Leo for whatever ignorant reason.
I don’t respond to the email, not that I’m expected to.
Instead, I set my vacation notification to on, which is something I’ve never done in the entire ten-year history of BwP’s existence.
From the corner of my eye, a blond ponytail swishes past the curtain at the front galley area, and soon, I see the face of the flight attendant who has been plying me with drinks since we left Istanbul. Being the only passenger has its perks.
Two hours left on the flight. Two hours until everything fucking changes.
You’re a fuck up. You’re scum. You’re the worst excuse for a father ever to walk the earth. Of course, you should have left him behind. But that’s all you know how to do, isn’t it?
You’re worse than your own fucking father.
Slam, slam, slam.
I ram my head against the headrest one, two, three times. The thoughts are loud now, amplified by the sharp edge of my guilt and fear.
“Fuck this,” I say out loud to the empty plane. Catching the flight attendant’s eye, I lift my chin, and she leaves the front of the plane and heads toward my seat.
“Mr. Brigham, would you like another drink?” She blushes prettily. Her lipgloss looks freshly reapplied, and her upturned eyes pin me with a look that telegraphs her interest.
Get drunk and drown the thoughts in Macallan single malt? Or …
I don’t say anything to her—Jami, as her name badge says—but I analyze the now-empty glass in my hand.
The half-melted ice casts fractals across the smooth desk from the spotlight embedded in the ceiling. The flight attendant reaches out to grab the drink from me, and I take my other hand to grab her wrist.
“Mr. Brigham?” she says with a breathy gasp.
Her golden strands shimmer against the expensive lighting as she locates her co-worker. I see the pant leg of the male flight attendant peeking from the same curtain she’d come from. He’s in the jump seat, probably scrolling on his phone.
“Tell the other flight attendant you’ll be back before it’s time to get ready for landing. Be in the back room in the next three minutes.”
I get up, crowding her in the narrow aisle.
She smiles.
I don’t.
Walking toward the private bedroom in the back of the plane, I sit on the bed and unbutton my cuffs. My phone buzzes again, and a jolt of anxiety rushes through me when I see Leo’s name again. Another text.
I swipe the notification away, tossing the device on the side table.
When I met Leonardo Polanco, we were both rich fuckers with way too much alone time on our hands. The one thing we do have is money. What we don’t have is someone who actually gives a fuck about us.
Leo’s father and mine were business associates, but in the WASPy world of northern Virginia, Leo was an outsider with his accent and dark features.
That’s why we clicked.
And our common thread? We both wanted out of the worlds our fathers ruled—a world steeped in death, destruction, and violence.
But while Leo planned his path forward by becoming more powerful than his family, I dealt with life the opposite way. I ran. I avoided. I threw myself into enough things—pussy, drugs, money—to forget.
So, life up until year 34? It’s been pretty fucked up so far.
Just another tragedy about a shit-head rich kid who screws up their life.
Slouching on the plush bed, I put my head in my hands and run my fingers through my hair. I clutch the thick, dark strands, reveling in the sharp sting as the hairs tug at the roots.
Fucked up. This is all so fucked up.
Maiya was my high school girlfriend—a girl from the wrong side of the tracks whose presence in my life made my father livid. I loved the shit out of his reaction. Plus, if Maiya could do anything, she could suck and fuck a cock. But then, she got pregnant right after graduation.
So I did the best thing I could do for everyone involved when she adamantly said she wouldn’t abort: I gave her money and stayed the hell away.
Because if I’d stayed, there was no way I could have kept them and kept them safe. I didn’t really want Maiya, and that probably makes me an asshole.
But I wanted August. I still want my son. But staying away has always been the safe option.
How will I keep August safe now?
The energy in my body pulses and sharpens, looking for an exit out of the prison of my skin. I place my hands flat on my thighs and press them into the sore muscle to ground myself.
The door opens, and the flight attendant—Jami—slides in.
“So, um,” she starts to say, and I walk the few steps to stand in front of her.
“I want to fuck you,” I say bluntly. Her eyes widen. “Do you want to fuck me?”
She wets her lips, and if possible, her cheeks get even redder. She nods slowly at first, then faster, making her ponytail swing.
Unbuttoning her crisp white shirt, I say, “So let’s not make it complicated.” I place my hand on her neck, squeezing gently, and her eyes drop as that flush in her cheeks travels down her chest.
Dropping her shirt from her shoulders, I sigh at the sight of her pink-tipped tits begging for a bite. Her skin would bruise so prettily. She closes her eyes and tilts her face back as if to receive a kiss.
“That’s not what this is about,” I say, and her eyes shoot open before darting to the side of the room.
I grab her hands and place them on my belt buckle.
Her eyes dip before she kneels on the floor. In moments, she has my zipper undone, and my hard cock is in her tiny hands.
“Open,” I say, and she sticks her tongue out flat to lick my cock from root to tip. I close my eyes and lean my head back, inhaling deeply for the first time since I’d learned of Maiya and August’s disappearance.
August.
Anxiety rockets through me, and my back stiffens.
Piece of shit. Worthless waste of space.
“Suck.” I feel my anger, my rage, begin to bubble in my chest as she swallows me down eagerly, taking me to the back of her throat and fisting the base of my cock that won’t fit down her throat.
The buzzing beneath my skin becomes thick, congealing at my fingertips and prompting me to rock harder into her mouth.
Lip gloss smears across her chin, and her mascara runs down her face.
Hurt. Make it hurt.
Dragging my dick out of her mouth, I pull her up by her upper arm and spin her around, slamming her face first over the edge of the bed. I slap my hand on her wool-covered ass and fist the material, pulling the skirt over her ass.
Her bare, panty-less ass greets me, and I feel a growl rumble in my throat.
One slap turns into another; tension pools in my hands.
Now. Now my mind is clear.
I revel in the nothingness.
I could have hit her five more times or a dozen when a sharp cry breaks me from my trance. The woman in front of me comes into view. Sweat beads along her back, and she’s gripping the bed sheets in fists. Her eyes are red and teary as she looks over her shoulder at me. Her ass is bright red, and welts begin to mar her milky skin.
A primal part of me loves the sight.
“Good?” I ask gruffly. She bites her lip but nods in the affirmative.
Kicking her left leg to widen her stance and picking her right leg up to rest on the bed, I rip my shirt over my head and kick my pants off all the way. Her bare cunt glistens and her arousal collects on her upper thighs. I run my finger through the cream, circling her clit and eliciting a moan from her. Her back arches.
I plunge one finger into her pussy, the quiet click of wet friction and skin on skin filling the room alongside her labored breaths. I add one more finger and then another. I slap my hand over her mouth as she begins to let out a keening cry into the small space. My thumb rubs firm circles over her clit, making her hips rock as she trips toward orgasm.
“Listen to me, and I want you to nod if you understand.” I’m leaning over her, rocking my hard cock into the cleft of her ass. Her teary eyes widen. “I’m going to fuck you now. You will come. Hard. Then, I’m going to pull you onto your knees, and you’re going to swallow every drop of my cum down your throat. Understand?”
She nods quickly. I roll the condom onto my hard cock one-handed.
“Good.” I slam my hips forward, filling her to the brim and kissing the hard nob of her cervix in one thrust.
A muffled “fuuuck” sounds out behind my hand covering her mouth, and I feel tears and snot run over my firm grip.
This is all you’re good for.
I drive my cock into her, and the hand covered in her arousal slides between her body and the bed to apply firm pressure where it matters the most. In seconds, she’s screaming into my hand, squeezing me with her muscles. I rub her clit furiously, drawing out her orgasm before ripping my dick and hand away.
I pull her up and thrust her to the ground, and she lands awkwardly on her hip.
I’m angry. I’m angry that she’s here. That she’s in this room with me, happily, eagerly, peacefully, while the world is spinning off its axis.
“Suck my dick until I come,” I growl at her, snapping the condom off. She scrambles to get me back into her mouth. She sucks and sucks, and even though I’m as hard as I’ve ever been, the orgasm that should be coalescing is absent. The buzz under my skin is still there.
A red haze clouds my vision.
You’re going to lose your son. You’re nothing. You’re worthless. You’re a fucking monster. You’re fucking crazy, Hunter.
I cut off the voice in my head and grip the woman by the back of the neck, stunning her and causing her to stutter on my cock. Her eyes snap toward mine with a questioning look.
Not good enough.
My vision starts to darken around the edges, and the buzzing gets louder and louder.
“Get up,” I bite out, and she scrambles to stand on trembling legs. I reach for the pants that I’d discarded and grab the belt.
Should I bind her hands? Feet? Blind her eyes so she can’t see?
I squeeze the pliable leather as my eyes zero in on her neck.
With her facing me, I push her back on the bed, and she bounces slightly before rising onto her elbows.
“What are you—” she begins.
“Don’t fucking talk,” I whisper in a hoarse voice, not looking at her eyes but at the thump-thump-thump of her pulse beating in her carotid artery.
With a sharp tug, I pull her legs until her hips meet the edge of the bed. I loop the belt around her neck, feeding the strap into the buckle. Her hands reach up and claw at the leather.
Her eyes bulge, and at that moment, I see it. Fear.
Saliva pools in my mouth, and my cock turns to steel.
I wind the strap tight in my hand and push on one of her legs and then the other until her cunt is spread open in front of me, gaping open obscenely. Looking at her face again, I see she's frozen, paralyzed with a look that’s clearly aroused but also with an edge of terror.
“This is a lot, Mr. Brigham,” she rasps. Her voice is thin, hoarse.
In response, I raise my free hand and slap it across her pussy lips. She screeches, and her lower lips quiver, the result plain in the contracting of her sheath.
Her skin flushes red.
Perfect.
I lean down and suck her clit. Hard. A strangled moan leaves her mouth, and a glance up shows her eyes rolling to the back of her head. I loosen the strap a fraction, and air surges into her lungs when she inhales sharply.
“Ah!” she yells out, and I pull on the strap again, sucking and fucking her with my fingers until she surges up from the bed, yelling her release.
Worthless.
Before her pulsing pussy fully lets go of my fingers, I stand up, grab another condom, and feed my dick back into her, picking up the pace to punish her for existing in my space when I want to burn the world down.
She’s unfortunate collateral damage in my whirlwind of misery.
Her arms collapse beneath her.
The orgasm I’d been aiming for shoots from the base of my spine to my balls, and after several tense seconds, I come. As the last spurts leave the tip of my dick, I look at her face. Her mouth moves wordlessly, her fingers fumbling with the belt loop.
I scramble up the bed to remove the strap from around her neck.
Instantly, she’s panting and coughing, and I move off the bed, turning my back as I walk toward the small en-suite. Regret, guilt, and disgust are at war in my chest.
I should apologize to her. That was fucked.
“What … was … that?” she pants out behind me, her voice broken by coughing and clearing her throat.
“Hmm?” I reply, turning on the taps to wash my hands. I don’t look up at my reflection in the mirror.
Monster.
I slap my hands flat on the sink and stare as the water swirls down the drain.
“I mean, I know I agreed to fuck, but that was really—” I turn around and face her image peeking through the open bathroom door. “... A lot,” she finishes.
Discomfort bubbles to the top of my consciousness.
“You didn’t enjoy it? Didn’t you come twice?” I cross my arms against my chest as she eyes my naked body up and down. I know what she sees. The thick muscles cording across my chest, shoulders, and arms. The cock that was inside her moments before hanging calmly to rest on my thigh.
And I know she sees the smattering of burn marks marring the entire left side of my body from kneecap to pectoral, weaving around dozens of tattoos.
Her mouth hangs open, but she collects herself enough to scramble off the bed and begin re-dressing. I fumble around in the tiny drawer in the bathroom before finding what I’m looking for. Opening the pack, I put the two small pills in my palm.
She’s hopping on one foot to put her shoe back on when I reach her again. She looks normal except for a few purple splotches and shallow abrasions around her neck. She pops her collar up to hide the evidence.
“Take these,” I say.
“What? I can’t do drugs. I get randomly tested.”
“It’s not drugs.”
“What is it? Pain relievers?” Her entire face brightens. “That’s so, um, thoughtful.”
“No, it’s Plan B.”
Her mouth opens and closes unattractively, and I feel the Post-Nut Clarity settling into my psyche. Luckily, that’s all I’m feeling now. The energy is at rest. The voices are silent.
For now.
I reach behind her to where the water pitcher and clear glasses rest on the side table.
“You used a condom, and I’m on birth control. I—”
“I don’t actually give a fuck.”
Her mouth opens again to say something, and I shove the pills inside. I place the glass at her lips.
Her eyes narrow to slits, but she takes the drink and brings it to her mouth. Swallowing, she makes a show of opening her mouth and sticking out her tongue, moving it around to show that she did, in fact, take the pills.
“Good girl,” I say. Her shoulders bunch.
“Asshole,” she hisses, splashing the remaining water onto my face.
I’m silent for a moment.
“I’ll rest here until it’s time for landing.”
She huffs like she wants to say more but instead turns around and leaves the room with a quiet snick.
The chill from the AC finally registers on my skin, and I grab a pair of black fitted boxers before sitting back down on the bed.
Grabbing my phone, I open my messages, going to the one from Leo that I’d ignored.
Leo: August will be okay. I know he will.
But that’s the thing. I don’t know if he’ll be okay with me.
“Fuck!” I shout. The plush fabrics absorb the sound.
Exhaustion settles into my bones, and I lurch back to the bed, falling face-first into the plush comforter.
“August will be safe with me.” I whisper the vow into the empty cabin.
I’ll trade my life to make sure it happens.
