Hunter from Hull - Revision #11 - February 28, 2008 12:36:10 PM UTC

Princes Quay, Hull :-

She let the smooth creaminess roll around her tongue and wash her palate... the thick, warm, bitter-sweetness, as it flooded her senses and trickled down her throat. She swallowed, and let the glow spread slowly downwards, until it enveloped her. The familiar heat began to build, as blood vessels dilated, and openings began to exude moisture. Perhaps the effect had something to do with the sun shining through the huge east window, and the soft strains of 'Samba Pati' in the background.

But as Puna gave up her whole body, her parted lips couldn't help but let loose a soft moan of delight. Her unpainted, tactile lips - always with that gentle gap between them, begotten of years of experience and confidence - advertising that they belonged to a woman of substance. Amply backed up the rest of her.

By her un-made-up and un-adorned face. By the crows feet around her bright grey eyes. By her unapologetically thick body. Her shiny, coarse, salt and pepper hair, tied in a loose pony tail half way down her back. Braless breasts hanging against her ribcage, nipples subtly protruding through her white vest and half buttoned matching linen blouse. Her blue denim skirt, riding up almost to the top of her right knee-length boot, where the brown suede loosely crossed her left leg.

They all spoke their own volumes. About She. Who called herself 'Puna Concolor'.
Strong, confident, proud, intelligent, and unashamedly carnal.

For a brief moment Puna dwelled on whether there might be others like her, who found it so dampeningly erotic. The wonderous magic of the coffee and cocoa beans and chilli pepper. This was the life! The hour drive from Skeffling was worth it, just for this.

Dismissing the thought, she dived back into the moment and threw back her hair to luxuriate in another lomg draw of the creamy liquid. Her short pink tongue unhurriedly emerging to capture the foam moustache off her upper lip in a slow lazy caress.

Her thoughts turned to the city. Beginning a hunt with a cup of Leornardos' chilli-mocha. What more could one ask for.

Her fortnight out in the Med had been amazing. But she was glad to be back home. Her heart belonged here... this was where she felt safe. It was actually, these days, with all the over-policing to 'clean' it up. But nevertheless, it was and had always been, her city. She belonged to it, and it belonged to her. It was her home ground, where she was born and bred. It always felt like home, even though she didn't live here any more. This city of many faces and colours.

"Hull" !

The city that people who've never been, dread; for some unfathomable reason. Ok, it was true, it had been a bit grim... just a tad, mind... when she was growing up. There used to be a saying in the olden days, "God spare us from Halifax, Hull and Hell". But apparently, that was by the criminals and other no-gooders, so probably a good thing.

"Kingston-upon-Hull" !

University city, sea-gate to Europe, birth place of William Wilberforce and home of the "Deep". Like a quirky kiss, it leaves you thinking about her long after, searching for meaning, searching for more.

The given name for the city, stradling the outlet of the river Hull, where it gushed into the north side of the Humber estuary. Like a room full of rugger players, the Humberside... the area to north and south of the estuary... thrives on it's notoriety. Rough, ready and exciting. But unlike your first time with a Humbrian lover, when you brace yourself with a couple of bottles of VK, and hope hope for the best, Hull gets under your skin very slickly and you find yourself gratefully grasping onto the unexpected sweetness with both arms. And legs. Sucking dry every last drop of the milk and honey. Well, at least that's what the students who keep returning, say... that is, the ones who haven't just because they flunked their exams.

The city that buzzes with life at all hours. They say that London is the city that never sleeps... but how many Londoners have been to Hull !? The fusion of the old and new towns resulting in a synergy and unlikely alliance. Like a pot of honey to bees and flies, its museums, jazz cafes, outdoor concerts, ancient pubs, restaurants and shops, draw them in. The students, beatniks, philosophers, politicos, dock workers, sailors, fishers, yachters. And the tourists and those other weird and wonderful people.

With that chilled out atmosphere associated with leftist havens, some say it's the English Seattle. But long before the advent of the stars and stripes, or the unions and Labour party, that heritage extended beyond the English Civil War. And it lingered still, like the satisfyingly warm dampness, the morning after a moist utopian dream.

Well, whatever Hull was, or had been, it suited Puna perfectly at this peak in her life. Through that institution, that gateway of learning, she had been lured away in her misguided youth, to richer pickings. Only, it seemed like everyone else had had the same great idea, and the 'rich pickings' had been depleted. But she had answered Hulls' siren call home. And the circle had completed. The gateway out of Hull was now the gateway in, for fresh meat. The pickings were plentiful.

For Puna Concolor, Hull was the Happy Hunting Ground !