Hunter & Hell - Revision #12 - March 13, 2008 5:58:35 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 tried to hold on and let the rich flavours suffuse every pore in her mouth. But the urge kept growing, until she could bear it no longer. She swallowed noisily. The glow spread, slowly at first, down, into her core. Then radiating like an orgasmic explosion, it enveloped her. Blood vessels engorged, 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 contentment. Those unpainted and tactile lips - always with that gentle gap between them, giving evidence of the confidence that comes with years of experience - advertising that they belonged to a woman of substance. Which was amply backed up the rest of her.

By the crows feet around her bright grey eyes. By her un-made face and lack of jewelery. The odd hairs and wrinkles on her upper lip. Her unapologetically thick body and square shoulders. Her shiny, coarse, salt and pepper hair, tied in a loose pony tail half way down her back. The small, free breasts, sagging lightly against her lower ribs. Their nipples, subtly making their presence known 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 it's mid-tan suede lightly crossed her left knee.

They all spoke their own volumes. About She. Who might have been mistaken for a hippie. About She. Who was undeniably strong, confident, proud, intelligent, and unashamedly woman. About She. Who called herself 'Puna Concolor'.

For a brief moment Puna dwelled on whether there might be others like her, who found it so dampening. The wonderous magic of the coffee and cocoa beans and the 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 long draw of the creamy liquid. Her short pink tongue unhurriedly gliding out to capture the foamy moustache off her upper lip, in a slow lazy caress.

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

"Hull" !

The given name for that city, stradling the luscious lips of the Hull, where it gushes spasmodically from the north bank of the Humber estuary. Like a room full of rugger players, the Humberside thrives on it's notoriety. Rough, ready and exciting.

It's the city that people who've never been, dread. "God spare us from Halifax, Hull and Hell", they used to say in the old days.

But Hull's strong continental links make it a damp oasis, in the parched yellow sands of Englands' belly. Hull may catch you off guard, the first time. Unlike a Belly lover, where you brace yourself with a couple of bottles of VK, and hope for a surprise... which never comes. Hull... Hull gets under your skin very slickly, and you find yourself gratefully grasping onto the unexpected sweetness with both arms. And legs. Drawing it in... greedily lapping up the burst of milk and honey. Filling yourself up with that warm sweetness.

"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.

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.

Modern Hull is a fusion of the old and new towns.. a flamboyant union of youth and maturity... the result of an unpredicted synergy and beautiful waltz of Ceroc and D&B. It's like a pot of honey to bees and ants, and other sweet toothed creatures. The museums, jazz cafes, outdoor concerts, ancient pubs, clubs, 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 as well.

With that luxuriatingly chilled out atmosphere normally associated with leftist havens, the scent of Hull lingers on you, like the satisfyingly warm dampness, the morning after a moist dream of utopic proportions.

Hull was the perfect hunting ground for a Cougar !

Puna Concolors' reverie was broken by the arrival of a group of students. What perfect timing !