Hunter wasn't one, not even close. Years of service and training had shaped his body into a machine out of muscles, fangs and testosterone. He was a born predator, like his comrades in arms, and since he was always surrounded by others of his kind there was no escape from the distinct smell of warring men.
But a predator needs a prey: the smaller, the more defenseless and fragile, the better. So weak that its squeaks and screams would fall out of earshot.
Cubs... they were the ideal size, they had no strength nor understanding enough to resist him, so they were on his mind day and night. The more time he spent in the service, the more frustrated he became, his fantasies eroding his restraint, his morals coming apart at the seams as each month passed. He started stealing pictures of his comrades' sons whenever he could, just to have something to release his pent up rage against. But that wasn't enough.
Finally, just as he was getting desperate, there was a lull in the fighting and he was allowed a furlough: he found himself spending the very first day walking in areas where cubs would gather, unsure of what he would do if he was given an opportunity... It came, sooner than he expected, in the form of a primary schoolboy on his way home, traversing a near empty park.
Hunter's last remnant of morality went up in flames, all he cared about was getting satisfaction, burying his cock inside the screaming boy. How would he explain the scent of a defiled pup on his uniform to his husband? Would the cub even survive? What would happen if he answered the puppy's father on the phone?
He didn't care anymore.
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