The Rabbit Dies Pt. 03

No servants or staff, just an empty wagon for two. Might be between line ups with Amaru the only hold over. Maybe. I don't know how theater companies work at the best of times, let alone one this specialized and niche. The whole carriage shakes again and sends me to the wall on the bad shoulder. Still not quite the way it used to be, still sore and tight and all sorts of wrong. That's going to hang around for a whole. Hard to hold a shield with a bad shoulder. Not quite as hard with the hammer, but still not great. I roll it and it pops and I wince.

I hear something move around above me, creak in the wood and the grain. The shadows from the lanterns flicker and dance as they follow my trek up. A right, then a left, and a set of stairs and I am one floor up. I also happen to be lost, but that is something to deal with later. If there is another person here, then they would know better than I do as to the layout. Or not. Or I'm in a great big circle and Annette will be there and she will have her promise of later.

As it stands, none of those are correct. It is just another door, although a larger one than the others this time. Double doors of gilded rose wood, thorns sharp and prickly, all shifting to a horizon of crimson sunset. I don't want to see anymore red. I don't want to smell anymore flowers. I want grass and trees and open skies, fresh cold water and ripe berries and Annette naked and clinging and not trapped in this suffocating cage of hollow pleasure.

"Again," Amaru says through the thick wood.

"Insatiable aren't you," Dantea purrs.

"You're one to talk."

I freeze. I do not want to intrude, but that is a lie. It would be improper of me to intrude, but the fog in my mind slips the control to the corners of dust and ghosts. I can hear them rock and creak, laugh and sigh.

And I do not like it.

The knot in my gut wraps around the joints and the bone, the soft center of calm and shatters it like brittle glass. The shock simmers in my spine and before I can stop, I am on the floor, ear pressed to the wood. Like a common voyeur.

The claw knot screams at me to knock down the door and take the black road of rampage. The dream, the dream is in there and for someone else now. That is not how the world should be. The dream, the large man with the soft eyes and broad chest and deep dark inked lines on his flesh was for me. Not for anyone else, angel or devil, or whatever in between.

Bu that pesky little bit that says not to intrude forces me to kneel and listen and seethe silently. Amaru is his own person, his mind of desires and wishes and if he wishes to go again with a demon, I am not in a position to stop him. Feel like I should though. Feel like it would be a smart move to starve something from ember and brimstone. She's congenial enough, but still, the precedent matters. Especially if she is riding my cock.

Dantea laughs and I shift closer and closer, pressing myself to the grain. If I try hard enough, I might just be able to phase through like a spook and haunt them. Watch for a bit, but ultimately take him as my own. But no, I am still solid and corporeal, still layers of well-defined muscle and shapely hips that deserve some attention from a large man with intricate tattoos.

The noise starts and it's the worst rhapsody that has ever done me the privilege of existing for my senses. It's beautiful, simply beautifully, the way the huffs and grunts start and slide together. A symphony of duet, two souls united in a dance horizontal. And vertical if his physique implies a requisite amount of strength. He better be able to actually lift me up. I can certainly train him up to that, but I'd prefer to get that started as soon as possible.

The want, the need, the endless spasming hunger that twitches and shakes between my thighs, weeping for attention, keeps hitting me. Each pound of my heart, each strained muscle, each and every tightening joint surprises that same little bit that holds on to the safe detached space. The absolute void in my soul the shape of Amaru, the dreams gone and empty and I want to shatter the door to splinters.

And I still don't. That terrible little bit of self-control keeps me on the wrong side of the door.

I hear Amaru shift and groan as his mistress shifts. She's on top. She's on top of him and taking him and the little claws of venom fangs tear at the knot and snap the fibers. Still holds. Still holds tight down all the clenching joints and gritted teeth and splintering wood.

"Still not quite full," she says, "But I think Miss Verlaine would be amenable to a meal, no?"

Amaru huffs and grunts and shifts, frustration evident through the voice and the action and the creak.

"Really now, you do such a good job, most of the time, but I need something more. I need a little more than you can give."

Amaru laughs and the knot tightens, and the claws sharpen.

"You're really talking about more with me?" he says, the voice dripping with honeyed pride. Good. He should be prideful. He is mine and that is an honored place.

"I don't mean the physical. Just something different. A feast of a single dish is no feast. Variety, my dear, variety. And I need to be full from a feast."

She does not know of hunger, of want, of need, in this palace of soft cushions and hazy flame. She does not know of barren winters and biting snow, huddled in caves, icy rock taking every ounce of warmth. She does not know of the want with hammer in hand, facing against blade and bow and spear. Coddled thing of warm fire that doesn't have the bite of the wild.

Amaru gasps and my heart clenches. He should fight back. Take the demon by the horns and fight back, buck into her and instead he gasps and whines like a puppy being weaned. Sick, I feel sick at the edge of the door. I press my hand to the rose wood.

And it opens. Slightly, a crack, hairline, but enough, enough to see beyond into the den.

It is warm. It is so incredibly warm and cozy, emanating the floral blanket that filters into my mind and softens the senses and all I want is slip in at the foot of the bed and lay my head there. Lay my head at the foot of the coupling of something sophisticated, fed the scraps and pet when desired.

I hit the floor and the wild comes back. Amaru slaps her ass and muffles the noise. Some fight in him at least, getting a playful giggle in response. Not quite the desired reaction for the situation, but that is something. Small beginnings, and small steps towards the end.

My picture was more or less right from what I could hear, although the shape of it had probably changed. She was riding him at some point. Not now though.

She laid on her fore arms, hips raised and enticing, Amaru rising behind her like a mountain range. The shoulders, the broad shoulders that go to the horizon and back, the chest filling the space. And his tattoos his skin canvas of sky-blue swirls. Hypnotic in stillness, captivation in motion. His entire body is slick with exertion. He is behind her, rutting her like a beast. She just sits there smiling and still, content to let him do all the work. Bored, she almost looks bored with him, at the monument to carnal indulgence inside of her. The name means nothing when made manifest. An idling toy to pass the time with.

Her eyes glance over to the door and see the crack. She has to see the eye peeking from it, my voyeuristic excursion. And she smiles venomous and gleaming daggers, licking the air and tasting my fury. At least she starts to move.

She starts to move with him, matching his thrusts and the tempo, the dance of bored pleasure. A simple thrill through her core, and nothing else. Nothing more than an idle distraction, nothing to waste her time on. And it gets to him, sharpening the breath and huff and the thrusts going wild and wide as his hips send his whole form into the motion. A lot shallower than I thought it would be, given his size. But it works, at least a little. Dantea's eyes flutter shut for a beat and then another as the ripples travel up her body. She sighs and the air shifts around her, the floral wave of decadence wafting off of her in thick sheets.

It hits me. It hits me and sends me sprawling on my back as every single fiber of the grand knot is lit aflame and struck by lightning bolts from on high. It chokes me. The knot tightens and strangles my throat, throttling my breath, taking every ounce of strength from me as the overwhelming heat suffuses my skin and pierces my core and shakes my bones. It's all I am, the soft little pet to coil and curl at the foot of the bed, another hound to be collared and slept by the fire. Fed and watered and pampered. And I like it. I like the feeling of shackles around my mind, the loving embrace of cold iron locks. It will be safe and calm, and I cannot think of anything more than the benign comforts of a smoky caress that takes away all the bad things.

She leans back and stands on her knees, blocking my wonderful view of Amaru and his heaving chest. I growl, I cannot help it but growl and sneer like a caged wolf at the view being taken away. I cannot help but urge the black claw and tightening knot to grow and consume more of me as the floral fog continues to emanate from the roof. It lights a fire in me, and some miracle allows me to move my legs. It helps. It helps simulate some relief in me, but it does not satisfy. That is for the flesh and the blood in the room, occupying the other woman.

She shakes and moans, does the song and dance, now for my enjoyment more than anything. And it is captivating. It is hypnotic, the collision of their bodies. Although, from this angle, I cannot quite see the point of union. I do see the shape his size makes in her though, bulging her stomach from the inside. I am mad. Despite all the reluctance of my dreaming relief, that is mine. That is simply mine. I own that in the dream and thus I own it in the flesh. It is robbery, plain and simple.

My hands dart between my legs and I cannot stop them. The door is a little more open. Better view for me at least. More of their bodies displayed in the effort. More lines and muscle and shifting flesh rippling and spiraling out of control. I gasp as the fingers find the folds within me.

I know my body well enough that it doesn't take a handful of moments more to start my cycle of escalation. I match them. I hate it, but I match them. The rhythm, the spread, the fill of another in me. I do my best to mirror and mimic. But it is not the same. Not the same at all. Fake and simulated, each inch of hollowness inside of me begging for Amaru to toss the madame aside and come to me and my arms.

But he does not. He only goes harder into her, shifting rocks and boulders, sending an avalanche through his frame. He shudders and rocks, gasps and spams, his whole body thrusting into her. A mountain range rising from the earth, a rockslide entombing, quake of the whole body and soul that shrugs the world on his shoulders. He leans into her ear and growls something that gets a laugh out of her. Another wave of floral perfume hits me and takes my breath from me. Robber, a sneak, a thief. This woman thing is all and more. Snatcher and wrecker, pilfer and cut purse and every bit of my rage concentrates in my hands and though my thighs. It helps. The rage crystallizes and helps the fingers spread and prod the slick flesh, joining and folding and shifting the insides.

The groans again the air shatters for the briefest of moments. The floral scent is gone and the smell of clean grass and dark forests under moonless nights. And it slides through me, bringing clarity and peace of warm den under roots. Better than the fake oily flowers ever could. Roses of ethereal void and lilies that wilt with the breeze. I smell grass and wood and pending rain, and it cools the blunt mind. For a moment, a glorious moment, I have my thoughts back again. I have the clarity I need and then I glimpse the demon's stomach. The shape and the bulge, his outline within her, the belly distended. That is mine. Mine and mine alone and I can see it pulse and twitch and beautifully throb within her with his impeding release.

He throws his head back and roars and my claw knot tight roars with him. The scent of grass fields and sunny days falls the oily rose petals of cloying warmth and bedside manners. I shift and the knot tightens in my core. It's good. It's good to just watch him erupt within her.

Dantea moans, finally doing something genuine. The petals of scent batter me and I have to climax with her. It rips away from the black claw grip, spasming and shifting and rocking my core and all I can think of is the emanant gratitude of witness. I saw this. I watch him seed her with his prodigious essence. It is a miracle to see. It is a miracle to just hear of such a union, and I got to see it firsthand.

Stars and lighting and rolling thunder come from my core. Calming tingles under my skin, bouncing joint to joint to joint and stealing my mind. Calm and stagnant air settled and still and I immerse myself in the soothed sensations.

It's over too quick, much too quick, for my liking. Annette draws them out, lets them linger, fading into silence once the note has gone from me and shifted pitch. But this one bows with the curtain fall and I am left with my hands still aching and the hunger in my core unsated. Better though. A little clearer thought, at least.

The madame hums a soft little lullaby as Amaru withdraws. He is spent too. Don't know how many times before I got to my post, but he is finished. His eyelids hang heavy, and he is fighting off sleep. That same rational part of me chuckles. Even he has limitations and it's one I've seen countless times before. Natural really. Nothing to be ashamed of, but certainly something to be frustrated at.

I slowly stagger to my feet as the glow warmth fades from my skin. Red curtain halls and thick perfume are still there to greet me kindly. Greet me as a welcome guest from the trail. The carriage finally rattles again, and I do not falter. I think I will turn in for the evening as well. And Annette is still waiting for me. A short game or two with her before I sleep is in order.

"You'll be delicious," says a voice in the rosewood, bouncing through the echo. My hand clutches at nothing, the gap of where my hammer should be. No one is there, just me and red and a scent that I cannot get out of my mind.

A chuckle travels through and I desperately need to get to Annette. The hunger has spiked, and I cannot stand it anymore. Annette's going to have a wonderful night.

---

I have slightly less of a wonderful night. I tasted hellion for the millionth time, had a few very close encounters between my eyes and her horn. Still need to ask if it's alright to take it down a few inches and maybe not quite so sharp. But it's so nice, that fade of color, black charcoal to emerald green, and I can't ask to get something so magnificent dulled for my safety. My own wellbeing is not as important as that horn.

I still pull myself away early in the morning from the sharp needle that hopes to find anything soft and delicate. I still need some fresh air, something to clean my mind and help me actually think straight. Even now, the flowers and the oil slick send messages to me to go back, to go back and cuddle up in warmth and I just want something cold and harsh against my skin, so I have some frame of reference.

The carriage hasn't started moving yet. Still from the night, still from the dreams, the side of the road holds no dangers. I imagine more magecraft involved, but I do not care to further my understanding. Few more days to Goldenrod. Few more days until I can wash the scent of flowers from my hair and never stroll through so much as a garden again.

To my surprise, there actually is an exit to this place. And it is roughly where the entrance is, just on the other side. Never would have guessed. To further gobsmack me in my already bleeding lip, its unlocked. A slight push open and I can finally feel the forest again.

Green and vibrant and still damp with dew. Every ounce of flower is washed away in the morning sunrise. I breathe deep and actually feel alive once again.

The bushes rustle and I reach for the hammer. Still inside, still leaned up against a bed frame. Probably the floor now, knocked to the wayside.

All the panic was for nothing. A bald head gets bumped by a branch and Amaru swears and rubs the forming nub. Not a threat. Could be, but the smile and the wave melt the fear and replace it with a soft warm glow that takes me by another sort of surprise.

"Morning Claire," he beams at me, "Look, blackberries. Found a good bunch of them."

He holds his hands wide as a plethora of berries sit in his massive palms. He is so proud of himself and I have no clue why.

"Had a thread pull me up in the morning and I figured I would run these by the kitchen before we got underway. I'm hoping that we get some cookies or something. You had the cake last night, right? Dantea's got some talent on the payroll."

I did not in fact partake of the confection. Wanted to, certainly, but it smelled too much like roses. And now it smells like strawberries and that's alright.

"Show me where you got the berries," I say, and he beams. A few blackberries would be nice, but more would be better, and I get to take a nice long walk in the morning with a rather fetching gentlemen who I watched rail a succubus last night. But he doesn't need to know that part.