Cujo — Male zombie; 22; likes to eat people (what zombie doesn't?); his mission is to survive; feral, paranoid, quietly intelligent; after a shotgun blast to the face (courtesy of Alek), the left side of his jaw is exposed/mangled

Alek — Human male; 28; Slavic; enjoys harming others; bored, masochistic, self-destructive; weapon of choice: fireaxe

Cujo forced to give a blowjob.

Alek and Cujo, both predator and prey in their own rights, had a long and bloody fight. Cujo managed to bite a few fingers off, even took a good chunk of Alek's arm. But Alek was well-fed, fit, and he wasn't suffering from a slow-burn, fatal infection. It was inevitable he would win. And as Cujo lay there, heaving, Alek grabbed the back of his head—tightly winding the strands around his fist—and forced Cujo to kneel between his legs. The Hunter growled, of course, because survival was all it knew. But for Alek, this had nothing to do with survival. No... he fought for pleasure. And now, it was time to reap his reward, to let off some steam. Surviving is stressful, you know.

Alek stuck a gun to Cujo's head. Immediately, Cujo went quiet with fear, his bloodshot eyes staring at the man. Hunters may be primitive, more beast than man, but even they knew guns were bad. Guns were loud, and they burned, and they stopped survival. He wanted to live, so he stopped fighting. Alek took that at his cue to continue, and with a smirk, he quickly unzipped his pants, revealing his large, throbbing cock. Cujo shuddered at the sight of it. Meat. But he could not bite, he had to be still or the gun would kiss his brain goodnight.

The hunter—this feral, dangerous, man-eating machine—is forced to suck off his prey—like a worthless prostitute. Like he's nothing, like his survival is just a game he can play with. Cujo chokes on Alek's cock. He's large and aggressive, leaving little chance for Cujo to breathe. His cock was too big—he's too big he's too big... 

The wound on Cujo's jaw tears, spilling blood and loose tissue on the floor, where his clenched, furious hands shake. He wants to bite, but he can't—he wants to pull back and breathe—but he can't. He resigns himself. Given up and given in. He whimpers, like the worthless, helpless creature he is.

Choking is underrated.

Picture it: The Smoker's tongue wrapped around Cujo's throat, using a tree branch as leverage to hang him. His claws rip at the tongue, struggling for breath, while his feet kick above the ground. 

Or Cujo choking a man, a woman—doesn't matter. Or Cujo is getting choked, maybe by the Bounty Hunter. Repeatedly. He writhes under the man's weight, desperate to break free, but everything's getting dark. Spots fill his vision as he claws at the road, then his body grows heavy, slow. With a weak whimper, he slumps like a dead weight. The man waits for a beat, then after a moment of silence, releases him. 

Air rushes into his lungs with a desperate, crying gasp. But he doesn't get to breathe for very long. The hands are on him again—choking, squeezing—darkness—breathe. Choke, release, choke, release.

"Just breathe... that's it, good boy," a voice whispers.

Soon, the man stops choking him, but Cujo's too delirious to notice. His head rolls from side to side, mouth gaping like a fish out of water. His pupils too big—too dull—like something that's already dead. The hands descend on him again, but he doesn't flinch.

My absolute favorite is vivisection.

Imagine Cujo is tightly restrained. Yellow eyes dart from side to side, trembling with quiet, animalistic fear that will soon be heard. He's overwhelmed by the bright lights, sharp chemical smells, and straps wound too tight. A head moves in front of the light, blocking it. Now all he can see is the scientist's mask and two cold, sterile eyes—already looking through him. Analyzing what's beneath. He swallows, but doesn't cry. Hunters don't cry.

First, they unravel his intestines. Then they remove his bladder, his kidneys, a liver. Everything's dragged out of him, bit by painful bit, all while he screams. He melts into the pain. His entire world consumed by it. Above him, the scientist lifts each organ to the light, tilting it this way and that. Their eyes never change expression.

All he can do is watch.

Despite himself, the scientist looks... not bad. Male or female, doesn't matter. Either way, his cock hardens. Perhaps excited at the sight of her breasts, the smell of her wet cunt. Or his cock jumps when those strong, muscular arms lean across his belly, reaching for another tool. He finds himself rutting against the straps, helpless, completely unable to move. Between his shaking legs, his cock lays ignored against his thigh. Dirty monsters like him don't get to cum. That's just making a mess of their corrupted seed.

The scientist wouldn't give him another glance, wouldn't even look at his cock. Maybe they'll saw him in half, annoyed with his animalistic display. And as he's torn in half, his cock points to the sky, leaking harder.

He never got to cum.

Not even in his final moments.

And those are some of my dirty Hunter thoughts. I have many, many more... would you like to read them? 👀

Let me know if you find a typo or weirdo sentence (I wasn't brave enough to ask a beta-reader).