Fernando had been chasing after women all his life. Long before he’d understood what compelled him, he had chased them. Stalking them, shadowing them. Studying them from afar. He’d sensed his natural affinity for the chase, and he’d enjoyed it.

But as he’d entered into his teenage years, this passion for the chase had gone from a passive exploitation of circumstance to an active pursuit. He would feel the anticipation building within him, a familiar restlessness that titillated him as it gripped him. Those first pleasured stirrings, elicited from the thrill of the hunt.

Sneaking out from boarding school had been no great feat. By night or by day, he would go into town or hitch a ride to the next. He would prowl through the streets without seeming to prowl for anything. His feet would lead him to one place or another. He would let his instincts guide him. By degrees he would scent out what he was hunting, the trail of that elusive quarry.

At seeming random, he’d encounter some older woman—a waitress, a shopkeeper, a bored and aimless homemaker. It didn’t matter to him if she had a man. In fact, he got a special thrill from seducing married women.

He’d bide his time feeling them out, seeing how they responded to him and his aura of escalating intent. He enjoyed the little things, the small flirtations that were a foretaste of demonstrations to come. The simmer of rising tension.

Sometimes it took days, sometimes just hours. But eventually he would have her cornered in such a way that she’d believe she’d cornered him. She’d throw herself at him in some boudoir or bathroom or kitchen pantry. He’d indulge them both a bit, kissing her and fondling her. Then he would break away and begin to direct her until she was naked and spread and quivering before him just the way he liked best.

What he’d have her do next depended on the woman and the mood he was in. But no matter what, he’d drive them both to the pinnacle of want. Alone, he would leave himself suspended there at the precipice, teetering on the ragged edge of abandon while he watched her writhe in the throes of it—a sliver of dripping red meat dangling before the ravening eye of the beast.

The buildup of lust would fester in him. But on the surface, he would remain ruthlessly composed. She would try to paw at him. She would try to draw him into her. She would beg him with whispered pleas, promises of dark deliverance, but Fernando knew better than to be swayed by such honeyed lies.

To give himself over to a woman was to give her power over him. Even if only for a moment, Fernando refused. He resisted the urge to capitulate in the face of temptation. This fomenting venom was his alone to extract. Anything else would feel to him like defeat. Anticlimax.

His formidable tolerance was the labor of a lifetime. With each successive victory, his power to resist grew stronger. Time and again, Fernando conquered these women without concession. And in so doing, he conquered himself.

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La Gorgona © CS Dark Fantasy