When Peter realizes the feint was a trick, it's too late.
He thrashes violently, his small feet pounding worthlessly
against the brick wall of Sergei's abdomen. The effort not
only produces no adverse impact, it seems to bring a sick
smile to the Hunter's lips.
Sergei pushes past his excitement to continue his assault;
he grasps down furiously on the youngster's wrists and
crushes the web-shooter components engulfed by his hands,
and Peter lets loose an agonizing cry. Further satisfied,
Sergei presses on simply to cause distress.
Finally, unexpectedly, he loosens one of the wrists and almost
imperceptibly pulls back and delivers a sledgehammer fist to
the exposed gut of the traumatized boy.
Kraven reminds himself he is not taking advantage of
being nearly double the boy's size as well as age; the spider
conduit is ill-experienced with the rules or war, and though
easily more powerful, not at all prepared. "What a waste
of youth...all this energy and sinew," he muses as the lad
loses the ability to speak.
Kraven repeatedly plows his hammering, concrete-slab of
hand into the vulnerable, soft stomach of the whelmed
young man with both rhythmic precision and wild abandon.
The severity and ferocity of the assault are outside the
comprehension or stamina of the youngster to withstand.
Kraven doubles Peter over with a final crude fist slammed
mercilessly into his shallow gut. Kraven feels pride eyeing his
craggy, massive mitts...a roadmap of hardness and tough scrapes.
He feels his magnificence rise as he sees the supple young boy dropped
mercilessly to the ground, floundering, agonizing, gasping
for air...his nose only filled with the virile, musky sweat of
Kraven's drenched loins.
The Russian plants his massive meat hooks around Peter's
slender neck and crushs, lifting the boy back into the air with
ease....a defeated prey as warning to all comers.
After smashing the lithe young man's body into the ground
multiple times, the brutal attack finally fells the exhausted
Spider-Man, who now lays completely wrecked at Kraven's
ample dark feet. Sergei strips off his lion pelt with a careless
fling, and rips his leopard print tights from his bulging legs
as if unwrapping a gift.
Peter, bedraggled and barely conscious, feels the Russian's
hands tugging at his cowl, unveiling the sweat-stained and
hair-mopped face of the recalcitrant combatant. As Sergei's
hands move southward, a reluctance and fear enters Peter's
periphery. "Wha--?!" he groggily utters.
"Silence, boy. You must be prepared to hunt properly."
Expertly, roughly, Sergei cuts off the reinforced top,
exposing the barely developed physique of a bruised
and battered stripling. He stands over his prey, triumphant,
yet lacking satisfaction.
He repeats the procedure with the boy's leggings, leaving
him exposed. His veins pump rapidly, taking in the musk
and sweet odors of the defiant youth. His muscles tense and
release as anticipation throbs in his organs. His breathing
starts to normalize as his deep puffs decrease, his spectacular
hirsute chest heaving less.
Sergei wipes a heavy hand across his thick moustache,
savoring this moment. He leans and grips Peter once more,
lifting him high where he dangles by Sergei's hand.
"In the morning, we will start the game anew. You, fed
and rested. Me, primed and fresh. In our true glory, the
natural state of hunting, I shall take you on fully. We will
see what you are made of without color and bluster as a
mask. The most inner parts laid bare. Do not bother
struggling. I administered a sedative while you were laid out
on the ground. You are mine now, supplicant. I own you."
Sergei smiled grimly as the boy's meekly parted eye lids
showed enough alertness to comprehend. His pale, thin,
frame however hung quite listless and powerless, unable
to fend off further attack. He would be unable to resist any
plans the Hunter had for him.
***
