The Rabbit Dies Pt. 02

The tip reaches my weeping entrance and I shudder and spasm and gasp. She still sits there, eyes locked to mine as she teases me. I groan and the bed rattles with me. As long as the tongue is, it is not quite long enough to actually satisfy, only tease and prod and ratchet the knots in my core tighter as they demand some form or release. I push against her scalp and she does not move. She just keeps circling that long, licking, wonderful tongue in circles, tracing runes and spells and pure unfiltered magic into my open body.

The release will not come this way and despite the purpose, the body refuses to keep pushing against her. No pain, just tired collapse. Such a shame that so little will be needed to break my own. Not that this is unenjoyable. She wanders to so many places, so eager and exited to explore now that my guiding hand has relented. My chest in particular, groping and squeezing and needing, her palms to my breasts, circling and rubbing. It's simple, her touch there, nimble and dancing and meandering. She rises and touches and kisses everything soft and buries and aching on me. And it lights fire and smoke and snaking tendrils into me, the touch of the bard. She writes into me her own song, her own music, and I am lost to the orchestra.

It takes me a moment, but I realize I am the instrument. Pulls and pinches and licks let me make noise and that noise always falls on the beat. Sighs to start the measure, gasps, and moans to close it out. Every so often the breath hitches and catches in terrible silence, only to bring the next beat more impact. I am the instrument she plays, music and song and melody brough to a singular soft form. Just to throw a wrench in the whole thing, I growl when I should sigh. I am not pliable and compliant and my own little rebellion, that I savor.

She starts and pulls away from her craft. My good arm brings her back down. So little strength, but just the touch is enough to keep her going. If she wishes to administer pleasure unto me, then she will do so and not stop and leave me unsatisfied. She takes the hint and continue on my chest. I sigh and the song continues.

Her hands reach lower, until they slip between my thighs and I gasp as she slips inside. Her hands are so warm and soft, and her fingers play and spread and open as they find the folds and turns and all the little spots inside that so desperately need attention. It is good to be full again, to have something giving me warmth and pleasure. And just as she was with the tongue, her fingers play me again. A drum, I am a drum against her, thumping out a primal rhythm that she decides. I look down and see her eyes, her terribly green eyes gaze into me. Through the flesh filling her lips, she smirks and bites, just a little. I yelp and I cannot stop the noise. Another instrument enters the orchestra.

She draws my release quickly from inside my core. More from my own eagerness than her rather formidable skill My breathing slows and hitches in the corners not quite reaching the full of my chest. But she grinds, Annette grinds into me, hammering and playing and spreading me open to the world and I feel no pain.

"C'mon Cottontail," she purrs, "You're almost there. Just a bit further. Just a bit more. You can do it. Cum for me."

She snickers and laughs and keeps going as my face grows flush and red. Still sing-song and light, the birds outside joining in the chorus to revel in my rapture. It's a slow thing as it slithers from me, slowly undoing the tension in my core before tightening again. Wax and wane like the phases of the moon, slow and deliberate and clear, each stage bleeding into the next. As the knot loosens, a short pause later, it tightens again. White, my mind is white and blank and clear as the soft release courses through me.

It ends. It has to end. No matter how skilled the tongue, the fingers, how willing the receiving flesh, it has to end. And I sink into the mattress as Annette stops and lays on top of me. A moment. I have a moment for myself and the calm stillness that floods my mind and warms my core and turns my cheeks apple red.

I breathe deep, deeper than my lungs can hold. I smell spirits and trees and leaves, fresh grown grass, and flower buds. More than anything, I smell Annette. Soap and perfume, careful to wash and clean and freshen herself for me and the act. Beneath it all is something sour, bright sour, like oranges or lemons. Sugar almost, something exciting and cloying and eager to keep going as I rest here and slowly take stock of my body.

"Are you done," she asks, "I thought it would take more than that Cottontail. Not really putting up your A-game."

It's so easy to ignore the words as they flit about the room. Meaningless little things that settle and fly like insects. I know where they are supposed to land, that little pit in my stomach. It still twinges a few miles away. I notice, put it down in its little box and sigh out the breath that I had been holding.

"Warmup," I say as I move to kiss her forehead, "Just a warmup. You've seen the damage. You're the one with unrealistic expectations."

I extract myself from underneath her frame and swing my feet onto the floor. A nice cold shock to the system gets the nerves firing and open. I stand and stretch, the sore sedentary muscles tearing and popping. The joints along my spine crack as I twist. Same with my knuckles as I apply a little pressure. I rip my neck back and forth as something deep within me gives.

Annette is still there lying on the bed, coyly watching my every move. I show off, flexing what is meant to be flexed, straining what is meant to be strained, lapping up her adoration of my form as I in turn devour her with my gaze. Lithe and wiry, certainly some roundness on her chest and hips. Every little tremor sends a ripple across her skin only stopping once the movement slows to molasses. I can see the path her heartbeat takes, outline in the wobble of her chest. Despite that lopsided grin she keeps pasted to her lips, she is nervous.

Good.

I lunge and grab her ankle. The arm protests and whines from that action but once the result reaches the nerves, suddenly the bruise doesn't matter. There is only the act and the partner to it and the partner is not being drawn closer and closer. Light, she is so light and weightless and pliable, open to the will and exertion. She yelps and snickers as the real panic sets in and turns her heart rate jackrabbit.

I lift her. I lift her like she weighs nothing at all, holding her ankles above my head, aligning her mouth, her wonderfully skilled mouth and tongue to my hips. She is open in front of me, legs spread. There is a pesky matter of her trousers still in the way, but I see the dark spot formed from her arousal. I kiss the seam and get another wonderful yelp as the sensation dances through her.

"Eat," I order.

"Yes ma'am," she manages to squeak back. She braces herself on my thighs, arms snaking through my legs and gripping the muscle and the soft skin and the lined toned strength. Her nails dig into me and I shift to give me more leverage.

I am now convinced that all hellions have wonderful tongues and the necessary training to make incredible use of it. Long, long and thin and winding snake of wet, wonderful pleasure shifting and writhing and shaking through me. So many fun twitches she gives to me, fondling and stroking and licking. The slow rumble of my chest, my breath, my rhythm given to me. I weave the noise into me, into her, shifting my grip and keeping her steady and still. The altar is open to her and she will worship, and she will give her tithe to me.

Her hands join the conduction of the orchestra, spreading and opening and filling my core. She tucks and fills and pokes and prods and I hear the song she plays with me and it feels so fucking good. Just like the tongue, she finds and hammers into me, rocking my core and rocking soul. The injuries fade. They don't matter anymore. There is only the warm body in my grasp, and it is devoted to me.

I am hungry now, the will in my core and the urge to devour grows. My other hand goes to the seam again, damp, and willing and needy. I rip it open, and I am greeted with the same cerulean green, wet, and dripping and twitching. Annette whines and moves her hips, trying to find my own mouth. She feels the heat through my lips, my teeth, and seeks it out. I keep pulling away. I keep the dance live and her hips shaking and my mouth just far enough away from her to keep the chase going.

"Claire," she whines, "Please. Please I need it." She has stopped licking and folding and touching and that is the greatest sin she has available to her.

I relent and let her down, back on the bed, back to the welcoming softness and the divot of my body. I still pin her down, still keep her trapped, still keeps her mouth to me.

Voracious, simply voracious, I dive into her flesh. Salt, bitter salt of wet meat fills my mouth and Annette trembles and shakes and screams into me as I start. It's easy, so easy the map of her body and my domination of it. But she is fun, she is beautifully fun to spread and open and rip apart. The color, the black and green and the glisten of her arousal and her need, the rainbow shift in her body and I do not care of her music. There is no song I make with her, no grand bardic inspiration through my mouth and my lust. There is not a single mote of art in my attack. Just brutal pleasure and ecstasy rocking through her.

She yelps and goes silent and once more she stops. I allow. I allow it for the moment, as her body tries to break itself with her attempts to move through the rapture. Her back arches and lifts me up and tries to buck me off. I refuse. I refuse to let the onslaught stop as she climaxes. I will draw this out until the sun grows cold and dead and the stars fade. She fills me with the release, shaking the bed and straining the frame of the mattress.

"I didn't tell you to stop," I say. Calm, despite everything I am calm, the tone and pitch of my voice oddly level.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stop."

I take myself away from her entrance, grinding my hips on her mouth. Apparently, I need to help her along with this. Otherwise, I will never get what I want from her.

I set the tempo. I set the pace at which I ride, and she holds on, using that superbly long tongue to touch and caress where I tell her to go. I throw my head back and sigh and moan and shake the room with the rattle of my core.

It tightens again, that knot of rope in my stomach, that wonderful knot that stretches and creaks and rips into me. It feels good to ratchet the knot tighter to press myself deeper into Annette. One of her hands wanders down between her legs and I snatch it back and take it between mine. She will get another when she has given me mine.

I roar as the knot snaps and breaks within me and every fiber of my being tears apart, and I finally lose some of my strength. I collapse into her belly to belly and filly my sight with black skin, blacker than moonless nights and dead charcoal. I ride with it, the push and pull of the cord at my core. My skin dances with thunderstorms and forest fires as her hands pull more out of me, pull more of the endless thrum that sits inside and I scream. I scream until my throat hurts and the earth shatters and there are only stars in my vision.

Through the blank of my mind, something taps at my leg, anxious and pleading. I sigh and I let the lights linger at the end of my vision for a moment longer, that warm glow, settle a little deeper, before I relent and roll off and away. Annette gasps and sputters and then laughs, laughs deep in her belly. The bed shakes and rattles and protests and finally announces to the world that it has had enough. Finally, finally it gives up and falls to the floor.

A moment of silence out of respect, and then I laugh too. No tension, no knots, no lingering ache at my side. Just pure endless light release over me.

"That was your fault," she says, "Totally your fault."

"Yes, I take all the credit for breaking the bed. You certainly didn't do your part."

"I'm the one that made you do it. I get the credit. You get the fault."

Her laughter devolves to the lingering snicker, hopping and jumping and for once I cannot find the tune she makes. Her hands find my side and trace the lines, the bones, the muscles up and down.

"Claire," she hums, "Look."

The bruise is still there, still angry, and purple and sore. But it is lighter, by a shade or two. I breathe deep and easy and calm. But slowly, gathering speed the bit of knots and cords come back together to tie again at the building need. My eyes flutter close as the sky darkens, and it begins to rain. Really only one thing to do when it's raining outside.

"Again," I say. And she obeys.

---

Heavy, still so heavy, the hammer across my shoulders. Shield and armor were left behind to pay for the damage rendered by the act of putting myself back to some amount of whole. But it's fine. It's really fine. I've trekked with more on me, and despite everything I am relaxed. I am content to put one foot in front of the other and I am confident that it will take me somewhere. All paths lead somewhere, even if it's not somewhere good.

But I find myself standing at the crossroads, that last juncture that I took on my way here. The path is still muddy, still splattering up my boots and staining my trousers. Grass and rain and fresh turned earth. I like it. I really do. The scent decides and I agree that I should probably stay in the forest for the time being, surrounded by trees and grass and flowers. That takes down two of my options.

I could go back the way I came, back past the inn and down that way. A moment's awkwardness as I once again face the wonderful couple and the red-faced Leo who had no choice but to hear my concert last night. Good education for the boy, maybe. I don't know. I just know that he probably can't go any redder. Otherwise, he'd turn into a tomato.

For the life of me, I cannot decide which way I would like to go. I can think of the ways that I do not want to go, but I prefer choosing my ways based on my preferences. Going the ways you don't want to go only makes your life less bad. Not better. Slight distinction but an important one.

The forest goes still and silent as the leaves and the trees wait for the show to start. I sigh and roll my shoulders.

"Turn around stay away.

Laughing so hard, oh here it goes again.

Time will wait for us, so I thought," sings the wind and the footsteps upon sodden grass.

Annette has recovered quicker than I thought she would. Or she is working on it with a song that I can't recall. It's good, just like always. Just like last night and the night before and every single other time I've heard her.

A moment and then another, about a verse and a half from what I can figure, on the precipice of the chorus, it stops and the normal forest song resumes.

"Hi, Cottontail," she says. Despite the tiredness in her voice, her stance, her face, she starts to pick up just from seeing me. I grunt a greeting in response.

"Where you headed now?"

"Nowhere in particular."

"Really? Me too. Come on. I know a short cut."

She turns and starts singing again. I think for a long moment and I follow after her. I let her lead the march.