Stallion's Treasure

Until the Board of Adjustment decided her father was dead, Timura Nelaji had been an ordinary student at Miss Turulov's Finishing School. The young lynx attended classes, fantasized about the handsome tiger that taught geography, and gossiped just like all the other furs at Miss Turulov's. And if she enjoyed with unusual vigor the extra-curricular activities open to a fur just coming into the fullness of sexual maturity, that was understandable for one with her attractiveness and stamina.

She was, however, the only fur at Miss Turulov's with no parents. Her mother died when she was still a kitten. Her father had raise her alone, but even he disappeared four years ago. At the time, he was waving to her from the gondola of a departing airship, leaving her the care of servants.

Her sire was an importer. From his villa in the city of Sondosia, on the central coast, he brokered the sale of unusual artifacts from the cities of the East, the tropical Archipelago to the west, and Shael in the frozen north, from whence he had come many years ago. Before he left on his final voyage, he told his kitten that a buyer had requested his presence on a trip to the outer Archipelago, but he would return as soon as the business was finished. Four years later, she still believed him.

She assumed that everyone else did too, until the day a letter arrived bearing the seal of the Board of Adjustment. It passed judgment and enumerated consequences. If only her civics teacher hadn't such a distractingly well-formed muzzle she might have learned that the Board of Adjustment lacked the power to unilaterally impose retroactive tax assessments without the consent of the Committee for Faravashi Hill, in whose jurisdiction the villa lay. If she had spent time reading her sire's mail instead of her paramours' love letters she might have also known that her family held a hereditary membership in the Confraternity of Antiquities--which maintained a permanent representative on the Board (for the purpose of rendering appraisals), to whom she might have turned for help. Ignorant as she was, however, the letter's demands left her drained and shaking.

Mixed fear and relief followed the news that a Mr. Nikolai Almas had called on her the following day. She had been out at the time, unsuccessfully seeking solace in the bed of a wolven musketeer whose third leg was as proportionally long as his hind two. The visitor had left a card, with his name and his position as Notarius for the Committee of Ten. That committee she'd actually heard of, though, she couldn't quite recall where. When she turned the card over in her paw, she saw that he had written a time and place: this very evening, at a club near the docks.

An hour after sunset, the gaslights along the boardwalk did not penetrate very far, but that did not trouble one with her night vision. Down one alley, two unbroken rows of bars vanished into the darkness, each hidden behind a thick door and windowless walls. There was little to distinguish one from another, save the simple wooden signs bearing each establishment's name. Pausing to examine each sign as she went, Timura found what she was looking for only long leaving the circle of light at the mouth of the alley.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed the door open. Unconsciously acknowledging the bar mistress's softly spoken greeting with a nod, she looked around. To her left, the rich, dark brown wood of the bar stretched to the far wall. The empty barstools matched, with elaborately lathed legs and dark green cushions. Two lamps hung behind the bar, bathing the place in warm light that danced in the polished copper tops of the tables to her right. With a start, she realized that a ferret was calling her from the far table.

"Miss Nelaji...Miss Nelaji. Thank you for coming. Would you care to join me?" He asked. The ferret wore a gray suit, with a black bow tie that accentuated the matching stripe across his eyes. The wrinkle-free drape spoke of paw-tailoring and Timura felt self-conscious in her flouncy skirt and deeply scooped neckline.

As she sat, a hostess emerged from the bead curtain at the back of the bar and stepped to the table. Her gray fur, stubby muzzle, and round ears reminded Timura of the koalas she'd seen in the Archipelago. She'd been there with her sire once, and she remembered thinking that the natives' slow, heavy bodies matched the aroma of tropical flowers that filled the islands. This one filled her high-collared dress completely, threatening to burst open the ties holding it together in front and preventing the waist-high slits on each side from closing. No underwear lines, Timura noticed idly; but that wasn't a surprise at a place like this. The ferret never even glanced at the koala's buxom chest.

The hostess bowed and offered Timura a glass of iced water. Refusing, Timura asked for a glass of rakija. The ferret's eyes widened as the hostess poured and backed away, but he said nothing as she raised her glass and sipped the apricot brandy. Uncomfortable under his stare, she fixed her eyes on the glass and lowered it to the table. When the silence became unbearable, she blurted out:

"You said you wanted to talk to me?"

"Ah...yes, thank you for coming." His long body swayed. "Forgive my rudeness. My name is Nikolai. Nikolai Almas. I am...a minor functionary for the Committee of Ten."

He spoke in fits and starts, as if he needed to stop in the middle of sentences to figure out what came next. Reaching under the table Nikolai pulled his battered leather briefcase and placed it on the table. Placing his paws on the case, he paused for a moment and opened the latches with a loud snap. From inside the case he extracted a file bound in silk ribbon. Then he placed a pair of half-moon spectacles next to the file. That accomplished, he began.

"I wanted to talk to you about your...sire."

"What?" Timura's ears snapped forward. "Have you heard from him?" She asked eagerly.

"Well, that's the problem. We haven't." Timura's ears drooped. "Now, you and I know that your sire is a resourceful man, and--"

"Did you--I mean, do you know him?" Timura asked.

"I have the privilege, yes. As I was saying, though..." Nikolai's black eyes narrowed. "You and I know that we shouldn't give up hope, but I'm afraid the Board of Adjustment doesn't feel the same way."

"Wha-what do you mean?" Timura asked, a pit opening in her stomach.

"I hate to be bearer of ill tidings, but I expect you've read the letter? They've declared him dead and...plan to seize the villa and its contents."

"B-b-but--" She stuttered. That would leave her penniless, living on the street.

"I know, it isn't right, but they've put a lien on your possessions for failure to pay your sire's...death tax."

"But--he's not--" Tears welled in Timura's eyes and her tail lashed helplessly.

"I know how hard this must be for you." Nikolai placed his small paws atop her larger ones sympathetically. "Unfortunately, they decided he died three years ago, which means there are substantial tax penalties for not having paid. It's absurd, I know, but apparently they exceed the value of the villa itself."

"I need to talk to them." Timura said. She jerked her paws back from the table as her claws slid out and her ears snapped flat back against her head. She stared at the ferret, vision narrowing until she could distinguish each quiver of his whiskers.

"Well, I doubt that will do much." He ignored her stare and continued. "You know how the great Committees are, anyone you talk to will blame everyone else and say there's nothing he can do about it. If you ask me, there's someone on the Board with an eye on that villa for himself."

"There must be something I can do." Her claws scraped against the copper sheathing of the table.

"Um. Yesss." He stopped, and took a slow drink. "Some...associates of your sire did have a suggestion."

"They did?" She asked desperately, swiveling her ears forward. "What did they say?"

"Oh, it's not--I think we should just forget I said that." He replied, shaking his head. Timura raised her glass and drank deeply.

"Tell me." She insisted.

"It's nothing a gentlefur like yourself--"

"Tell me!" The hostess shrank back as Timura's roar filled the room.

"Hmm." Nikolai shrugged, ignoring her anger. "I suppose it can't hurt to tell you. Though...it's nothing I recommend you associate yourself with."

"Yes, yes, so what is it?" She hissed.

"There is an...artifact...in the far Eastern city of Chamilla. Years ago it was stolen and made its way to a man in business there. My contacts tell me that a certain individual on the Board of Adjustment would...look very favorably on whoever managed to secure it for him."

"You want me to buy it? Can't you--"

"Unfortunately, no. We've...concerned individuals have tried, but the current holder is unwilling to sell."

"You mean..." Timura whispered. The fur on her neck rose.

"Yes." Nikolai said glumly. "Now you understand why I didn't want to tell you."

"But how?" Timura's ears drooped. "I'm not a thief. I wouldn't have the first idea of where to start."

"I understand completely. The silly thing is that they actually put together a plan tailored for your skills--as if you would be interested in something like that." He sniffed.

"A plan? What--what sort of plan." Timura asked. Her claws disappeared and she leaned forwards.

"Oh, you don't want to know." He said firmly. "Trust me on this."

"I appreciate your concern, but..."

"I don't think..."

"It can't hurt to hear it." She mewled, and he shrugged in acquiescence.

"Apparently the stallion who holds it has a fondness for pale fur like yours. You asked me to tell you this, remember. " He held up a paw to forestall her anger. When she closed her mouth again he continued. "One might arrange a contact for you with a local madam known for employing Shaelian tabbies. You could entertain him at his home, then walk out with the artifact."

"You want me to turn a trick for you?!" Timura demanded, claws extending once more.

"Outrageous, I know. I apologize, and I only mentioned it because you insisted." He shook his head.

"I'm not that kind of tabby." Timura said firmly.

"Absolutely." Nikolai nodded in agreement, letting the silence lengthen.

"Why did the Board..." Her question trailed off and Nikolai ignored it.

"It's just that--" His mouth twisted as if he was eating a sour plum.

"What?" She asked nervously.

"Well...I looked at the Board's reports about the case. Please understand, I didn't mean to pry, I just...wanted to see if I could understand why this happened now, of all times. But what I saw, well...how should I put this?" Nikolai placed the spectacles on his muzzle and untied the file. Carefully folding the ribbon and laying it to one side, he opened the file to reveal a stack of onionskin paper, covered in paw-written scribbles. The writing was too cribbed for her to make out what it said from across the table. Holding them up to his face, Nikolai leafed through, mumbling as he read.

"Ah, here we are." He began to read. "Her success at Miss Turulov's School belies her obsession with physical pleasure. Observations of her daily schedule lead us to conclude that the only explanation for the high marks that she receives in school is that she is buying her instructors' approval with her body. Her accomplishments in the gymnasium are likewise explainable by her exceptional hip and thigh strength, or perhaps by the natural cat's flexibility she shows in assuming an astonishing variety of sexual positions."

Timura's eyes widened and her ears went back. Sure, she'd let three, no, four of her teachers mate with her this year, but it wasn't for the grades. She did fine on tests. It wasn't her fault that Miss Turulov hired such attractive teachers--and she wasn't the only one who wanted to bear a litter of orange and black kittens for Teacher Shirvati. And if she was the only tabby to score with him, she couldn't help being attractive, could she? Just thinking about the tiger brought a tingling between her thighs, and she---

"It goes on in some detail, actually." The ferret interrupted her pleasant reverie. "The fur who wrote this must have been something of a pervert. He even has the gall to libel you with claims that you and your live-in friend--"

"Scherade." Timura interrupted softly, hoping he wouldn't drag her friend into this. For all that Timura liked to party, Scherade was the only fur that she counted as a true friend, even as a sister after Scherade moved in the previous year during her parents' separation. She'd met the silver fox at school and proved the adage that opposites attract. Besides the mirror image coloring, the fox was shy and soft-spoken next to the boisterous lynx; Scherade enjoyed complicated plans where Timura preferred to roar and leap. The one thing they had in common was enjoying each other--and more than just conversationally.

"Yes. In fact, I believe that the plan contains a...role for her as well. But as I was saying, the writer claims you entertain furs in your home regularly. Sometimes," He pursed his mouth in disapproval, "even in groups."

"I could--No," Her ear tufts flew as she shook her head fiercely. Okay, so she'd done everything he accused her of, but...partying hard was one thing, and this went way beyond that. "I can't. I'm not a thief, and I'm not a whore."

"I understand completely." Nikolai comforted her, closing the file. "Forget I said anything about this."

"But..." Timura said as the lamplight sparkled off the tears welling up in her eyes.

"Hmm?" Nikolai encouraged her.

"My sire. And the villa..." She said in a soft, desperate voice. Losing her material wealth wasn't the worst of it. Her faith that he was still alive depended on preserving his place at home, keeping it the way he liked it. She wasn't ready to deal with the thought of moving out.

"Ah." Nikolai leaned his long ferret's body over the table until he was close enough that she could see the needle-sharp points of his teeth. "Yes, Ms. Nelaji, that is the crux of the issue, isn't it."

"But..." She mewled. Nikolai leaned back and sipped his rakija, waiting for her surrender to the inevitable. "Why me?" She raised her head to look at him and he could see where her tears were spilling over and running down her cheeks.

"Apparently the artifact's current...holder...has wards to cripple any would-be thieves who have not been personally invited into his home. Unfortunately, that rules out run-of-the-mill burglars. You, on the other paw, have the heredity and...shall I say, assets to secure an invitation, no?" Nikolai said briskly with a nod to her impressive chest. "And contrary to the Council's doubts about your schoolwork, I have no doubts about your aptitude for archeology. You should have no trouble identifying the artifact in question from among his collection."

Surrendering, Timura's ears drooped. Her whiskers followed suit as Nikolai explained that he would stop by the next day with more details and begin planning their travels. When he finished, she threw back the last of her rakija, exhaling in a gust as it burned her throat.

"Tomorrow, then." She said with a curt bow and left, wondering what she should tell Scherade. She knew her friend would agree to help if asked, but she felt guilty about entangling the fox in such a sorry affair.

Nikolai accepted a refill from the waiting koala and stared at the door.

"Oh, you'll be a wonderful thief, Ms. Nelaji." He hissed through his fangs. "It's in your blood."

***

After sufficient preparation, and a fair amount of sobbing over innocence lost, Timura and her friend Scherade travelled as far from Sondosia as is safe to travel, to the city of Chamilla.

Temples do a brisk business in that city, where red brimstone lamps light the shrouding smoke like an eternal pyre and the soot of a continent's foundries follows its inhabitants to an early grave. The busiest of all temples in Chamilla is monastery of Lady Kamini the Ever-ready, not far from the docks where long piers wait for the steamships that take the city's steel across the sea. Rumor holds that the abbess herself raises her cottontail for half of the city's alchemists, to ensure a steady supply of the Celer dust that precipitates smoke out of the air and leaves the monastery an oasis of fresh air. Inside its walls, a warren of passageways wind between sand rooms where penitents are brushed clean, and pillowed alcoves where the nuns provide a different kind of solace. In spite of their popularity, though, not all hold the Lady's servants in such high regard.

One such fur owned a townhouse not far from the Ignasia Forge, whose products he sold to Archipelagite traders. The offspring of ironworkers himself, he was a brawny stallion, with broad shoulders and a bristly chestnut coat. A steady worker, his one vice was the novelty of pale fur from frosty Shael, a color rarely found among the jills serving the Lady in Chamilla. As we rejoin our story, then, it should be no surprise to see Timura's salt and pepper fur running naked through his parlor.

She was running because the bedroom door had opened at the wrong time, allowing one of the stallion's servants to see her lean out the window into the moonlight and drop a small object to Scherade's waiting paws below. For a moment the bull stood gawking at the pearly globes of her ass, that shone white like the moon herself had come down through the open window, and Timura felt a fleeting hope that she might get out of the house alive--if well-used.

In fact, until the servant opened the door and saw her nude silhouette in the window, Nikolai's assessment had proven remarkably prescient. After arriving in Chamilla by airship, Timura received an introduction to a certain Madam Acalia, known for procuring the finest in Shaelian fur, and it wasn't long before she was delivered to the stallion's house.

Timura was happy to postpone the inevitable with dinner, but found little satisfaction in the spiced bean curry the stallion's chef brought out. Her tastes ran to raw fish and the last thing she needed that night was gas. The strong spices made her nose twitch, too. Pleading that she lacked an appetite in the Chamillan heat turned the stallion's attention away from encouraging her to eat, but unfortunately it also stirred his fetish with northerner fur. Coming around behind her stool he began to stroke her coat, burying his long jaw in her back. His forelegs reached around to cup her breasts roughly.

"Let's go." He said. She stood quickly in attempt to dislodge him but he was too strong for her. Her ears burned as the stallion's servants watch him paw her as they left the dining room.

Pushing her down on his bed he stripped off his shirt, exposing pectoral muscles bigger than her boobs.

"Lick it." He ordered her.

Timura's ears trembled with uncertainty as she unfastened his pants. She'd blown more furs than she could count back in Sondosia, but playtime with a wolf was nothing like being dominated by this horse. He smelled of must and sweat--not pleasant, but it carried his maleness to a place deep in her brain.

She took his cock gingerly between her paws. It was black and rubbery, not the reddish sheen of her normal playmates. Limp, most of its length was still in its sheath. Kneeling between his legs she ran her long tongue along the shaft, curling around the head. With each wet stroke of her tongue it came a little farther out.

When it had grown as long as her forearm the stallion shoved her back onto the cushions. He pinned her hind legs under his kneeling weight, exposing the space between her thighs. With one hand he grabbed his cock by the base, slapping against her belly.

"Squeeze 'em. Squeeze 'em together for me." He made urgent thrusting motions with his hips, sliding his horsecock across her belly and between her tits.