The Rabbit Dies Pt. 04

There is no more preparation. There can be no more because that would prolong the act even further. I am ready anyways. The entrance twitches and spasm and my core responds in kind. There is no more procrastination.

But there is savoring. There is relishing in the slow descent, every inch gained a celebration of carnal indulgence more jubilant and raucous than the sham production. And throughout it all, I remark on my own silence. The breathing hitches and stops and hisses sure, but it is calm. It is calm, my claim of the length of vein and throb and pulse. Amaru is not though. Every little ground I gain on him is met with shudders and gasps and delicious groans of mountain avalanches and falling trees. Deep bestial noises that finally draw away from the empty pomp and circumstance of the paint lining his eyes. That can still stay though. I don't mind that at all, the cutting pale that looks into me as I glare back at him. The blush on the cheeks, that can stay as well.

I hit the halfway mark and settle there for a moment. He is deep within, warmth and wet enveloping him. I embrace the sensation the fullness within, the shots of preseed that still shoot from him and impart the warmth into me. I hum and shift, letting him feel the embrace the folds the ripples and once again he rumbles beneath me. And he shakes, like a scared fawn, and the trembles shift him inside of me and I relish the rattle of his length. I lean down, kissing him once more, letting my taste eke out that worthless demon's.

"Claire," he moans. He barely even gets the one syllable out. He shudders and gasps my name and that is the best song I've ever heard. Annette has talent, but there is something to be said when I am the one making music. He groans and shudders and moans, such sweet, beautiful noises that echo and bounce and join together with the others.

I slip and inch further down him and I finally let out the noise that has been in my stomach ever since I entered that damned carriage. It takes my whole body into the black knot of howling beast claws. The whole body bends and shifts and breaks over him with the air in my lungs refusing to empty, finding another ounce, another cup, another pint to spill out into wonderful song. No words, no syllables. I have no need for such high concepts with Amaru so deep in my core. But the meaning, the cold rapture of him inside, the moan carries that better than words could. I slip down a little more and he hits spots and triggers and all sorts of wonderful machinations that slide up my spine.

The knot breaks and the noise stops and all I see is pure blinding white before me. Beautiful stark white star, pale milk light of moon, flashes and nova eruptions as he goes deeper and deeper and wider, spreading me and filling me and finally, finally letting the mind go blank and empty. I squeeze and spasm and the knot, the terrible knot that is my basest self, snaps.

A heartbeat, and then another. Then a handful more, each pounding in my ears loud enough to break the drums and make them bleed. I lose count of them as each one is swallowed by the binding white. Each one lost and I do not know if I am breathing. I think I am. My heart is beating, and that generally means I am breathing as well. Not quite linked, those two functions, but if one happens, then the other is usually functional.

The white fades glacially. Music, I hear music through the deafening roar of my summit. Meandering strings and a warbling hum that feels sore and tired as it drifts through my mind. The knot lays in tired strands, finally undone. I lay atop Amaru's broad chest, listening to his hammer heartbeat and the slow rise and fall of his breath. Calming, meditative, trying to find some mote of peace within him. My senses travel down to my core and alight. He is still hard. He has not finished. And that means he remains unbroken. I made a promise to him. Maybe a threat now that the words come back to me, but still, an idea made manifest through words and I would not be an honorable person if I did not go through with it.

The loose strands in my stomach come back to life. He is still hard and in me and our hips are not joined quite yet. So, I have to keep going. I have to keep going otherwise the knot will shatter me and break me and the only thing that can worm its way through the tight strands is that wonderful length and girth of breeding prowess still so eager and hungry.

I come down from the summit and look into his eyes. Shut tight, scrunched, and sealed and sewn into one another, teeth gritted so hard they might crack. I let go of that last little bit of tension within me and I take all of him.

And I laugh, triumphant. Victorious. Mine, all mine, tip to root claimed and stolen and ripped from him into me. It is mine now and mine alone, to see and use as I wish. The lights slowly dim, and he opens his once more. Wide in fearful awe as I pin him with my body and shut him down to the cushions. I smile something savage and terrible and sharp and the wonderful terror pouts from him and shakes him and his is trembling. I hold him, embrace him and the painted ink on his skin as I raise my hips and savor the lingering gap.

I slam down and the eyes go back to shut and screwed and scared.

The boards creek beneath us as I rise and fall, savoring the full and the empty, shifting hips and parting bone and ripping muscle. A hand to my stomach, I believe it is mine, traces the shape he makes within me, past my navel, breaking the hard lines and divots and asserts its form over mine. I linger until he opens his eyes again, wide eyed, and he stares at what he is doing to me. He gawks and looks in silent awe at the shape he makes, the form I take for him and once more, I lean into his lips. His length twitches and shakes, scraping the back of my core as I move him within me.

"I can't take anymore," he whines into the endless still air, "Claire, please."

"Do you want me to get serious," I hum. He nods and tenses and another splash of wonderful warmth fills me and sings its grand song of virility. I feel his sack twitch and writhe and bounce against me.

One last time, one last time I raise until only his tip remains. It hurts my soul to only have that embraced. Always the full length, always all of it, always every single inch he can give me, should be inside me. Every single moment of every single day until the sun and the stars fade into darkness, and then even still, I ride him.

My hips rise and fall. My hips shift and slam and bounce on top of him, putting every ounce of my weight, my strength into every motion I take. He tries to buck and thrust. He tries to set the tempo and the apace and every single time I break it with my own motions. The grip and the fingers try so hard to stop me, to stop the end of the world housed in my core.

Something shifts and breaks in the floor and we drop an inch. Nail and screw and iron and splinters and I do not care. I am still on him, subjugating the rhythm. A deep pull in his core and my own click and I howl as he swears and damns me. I unleash violence and end upon him with my hips. The flesh bruises and breaks and shatters and he still fights, still rages against the endless onslaught of my body.

And finally, finally, once the pain reaches into his mind, the fear starts turning to rage. Rage against the demon on him, the failure of the previous mistress that could not quite satisfy him and rage at the world for denying that existence of his with pathetic appeasement. The grip turns from weak oak to iron, digging into my thighs and asserting his own rhythm.

The weak thrusts find new strength, new tempo, new melody within. The moans and mewls start to deepen and sharpen, growls and bestial hisses to match my own. Amaru finally drags himself down into the mud with me, the primal need beyond the theater. We are not civilized people. We are not civilized things and the grand sacrilege of trying to elevate the union beyond the basest forms angers me. It is already perfect and whole.

His latent savagery pumps into me, the ink and lines and the paint on his eyes bludgeoning my senses with their blur and the fury of his need hurts. He hurts me so good, finding parts of me to unravel with his length, parts of me to batter and break and bruise and shatter within me and my core. And I break him back, wrenching and twisting and bending and turning over him, fighting him on every claim to his pace. It is a fight, a struggle between us now in the echoing halls of the theater. The sounds of our flesh, our voices collide and bounce and shake the room to the silent audience that sits in rapt awe. No cheers, no boos, silent observation of the basest of natures and they do not interfere. There is no stopping the inevitable and they are wise enough to know that. Anette has stopped playing and that is terrible, Understandable, but terrible. A measured choice that it is time to cease all distractions so that we may focus. Ended up being the wrong one, but I understand the logic behind it. Not worthy of punishment.

To my immeasurable disappointment, his climax is coming. The twitches the spasms the breath all point to that single instant a few moments from now. A not insignificant part of me wants to strike him for his lack of performance, but that terrible little piece of rationality stays my hand. If I hit him, he might be less likely to mate with me in the future. Unless he likes that, but it is not worth the risk at this point.

But it is still welcome, the twitch and the hit and the throb inside of me, our heartbeats synching for the briefest moment. The hands grip even tighter, even more strength eked out from his digits, eked out from the soft hands and desperate need. I can no longer ride as I wish. I am trapped, bone to bone, with him as he shifts and moans and roars his release into me. Shame I don't have quite the same. The stars dance and flicker between my eyes and show me wonderful lighting storms in my core. That all-consuming white that would snap me like a twig, though, that is gone again, that brief moment of absolute clarity lost to moment. But it is still rapturous, still shaking my core and flowing my voice from my throat and I lose control. I collapse onto his chest as it rises and falls like the tide.

It doesn't come in shots and pulses, his release. It is a continuous flow of rapid white water into me. Ebbing and flowing, sure, but always more, always more for me from him. Full, so incredibly full of blistering warmth. Thick and heavy, his seed sits in my stomach, dragging the muscle and flesh down into him. His voice cuts out with rough hoarse growl and he pants like a dog.

The release slows to shots, mighty pulses of his tectonic strength ravaging his core. Amaru's stomach tenses and flexes. Every ounce of his body goes into the next throb and I milk him dry. His twitch is matched with my pulse. We are the same rhythm, and I will drain him dry. I do not count them. There is no point. He will give me enough and if he doesn't, we will go again. Long, long pulses of flexing muscle, so numerous and virile, so strong and plentiful, my core drowns in him.

But still, it ends. The river goes sluggish, then stagnant, then dry. And I am still on top of him as his eyes flutter and flicker in the dark spotlight center stage. My hand goes to my stomach. Rounded, just a little, from his release and his shape. The thought and the realization make me shiver.

The worst part is whatever wind he had for that glorious moment has faded. He slumps, defeated and dead to the world. Still, panting, huffing ragged breath to my cheek. I move and his seed moves with me.

"I think you're done," I whisper to him. He just nods meekly, and I kiss him on the cheek. I look out to the crowd and do not see anyone. There is just the sound of solitary applause and the darkness spills forth and takes me in its cold embrace.

"So full," says a thing with no mouth.

---

Everything feels wonderful. Simply wonderful. A little achy, sure, but the good kind of ache. The ones that fade and burn for a moment when stretched, the ones that speak of a past night well spent. I smell green grass and fresh wood and the gentle suggestion of rain a few hours coming. Plenty of time to seek some shelter and wait it out. Maybe start a small fire and tell stories if need be. And I have a very good mat to sleep on, warm and broad and breathing.

The realization hits me like a stone to the temple, although still not quite enough to actually arouse me. Amaru makes a very, very good mattress and he should be proud of that fact. Being a piece of furniture is a hard line of work. I do shift though. My cheek is a little too close to his collar bone and it's starting to hurt my jaw. I doze off again. It's fine. The conversation we'll have will come later and the potential consequences are no reason to cut a good morning to sleep in short. He snores a little, softly and I nuzzle further into his chest.

A particular bitch of a woman snickers in the distance. And a particular bitch of a woman will bleed for that.

"Sorry," Annette fake whispers, "But that was cute. You're cute, Cottontail. Don't mind me."

Amaru does not wake as I pull away from him. My gaze lingers on his chest, trailing down to his stomach. He is still naked and that is simply the best part of the morning. It slowly becomes less enjoyable when I see the massive bruise clawing up his crotch. I look down to my own naked body and see a similar splotch of dark purple and nasty yellow green between my thighs. Annette laughs again and my wonderful bed awakens with a pleading groan.

"The pain means it all happened, right?" he whines. Fair enough, honestly. I imagine at some point it will hit me too and then the world will be terrible again and I will want to crush everything with my hammer.

"Oh absolutely, big guy," Annette says, "And stay down. Both of you. I amazed you can even speak after all that."

"Me too," says the man whose seed still fills my belly rather rapturously. There is no pain, but there is an overwhelming numbness that takes over and sends me falling like a cut tree back into him. He groans again, turns into a cough. I don't apologize. I can't. I am having some trouble speaking at the moment.

We're in a desolate clearing, some ruins of some forgotten town with no name. Might never have had one. A ring of stumps slowly encroaches into the forest beyond. Whatever structures were here have fallen and faded and we currently lie in a massive, overturned wagon turned lean-to. A pair of skulls, horse, sit bleached white by the elements some way away.

Annette sits on what was probably a very nice porch at some point, completely nude. Now, it's little more than a mossy set of boards and nails with relatively few sharp edges. She strums idly at her lyre. My hammer sits close to her. Good. Very good. That made it out at least. Everything is fine and dandy save for the lingering scent of floral perfume tea.

"Lost the dresses," she says. Dantea is a terrible demon, and I should kill her again. If I killed her the first time. I should kill her anyway. But that can come later. Amaru is breathing deeply again, and I wish to join in our dreams once more.