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Synopsis:
More fables of Rue, the Viscountess of Skin, and the other Powers who stalk the surreal dangers of the Line World.
Disconnected fables from—
Gutter-princess of Xanadu
collected by Chase Nightenruhk
Folio Two
Thought-record, month of Tires, 2003
Viscountess Rue
Rat slid into the café chair. “OK, I lost the buggers. Where did you hide the dragon?”
Sipping her iced tea, Rue paused and discreetly waved the emerald straw. The straw’s tiny scales glittered in the slant of afternoon sun.
“Ugh!” Rat’s dark face scrunched around her bladed nose. “Sipping tea through a dragon. That’s disgusting. You don’t know where it’s been.”
Thought-record, month of Tongue, 2005
: Saint Rat
I wanted your flesh.
This wasn’t the first time you’d come to watch me sing. I longed for the moment the spotlight might die, my song give up its last notes, and the smoky air erupt with applause from the dark silhouettes of the audience.
Because then I’d move off the stage and brush by you as I sauntered to the bar.
Your hair smelled of lavender and cedar tonight. Again, you stared at your drink, as if our eyes must not meet. I liked that you had secrets. The musk drifted up from between your legs making me sweat with the phantom taste of burying my tongue inside you.
Would my heat kill you? Burn you from the inside out? Were you hiding your eyes because you knew the answer to that, my little flower?
I’d eaten lovers just that way: burning through their dreams. Ones that knew letting me between their legs was the last decision they would ever make. You seemed different. You were not weak or undecided, but subtle and cunning. I hungered for you even on the nights you did not come. Your scent reminded me of the holds of Carthaginian spice traders, dark and buttery sweet.
You brought cherished memories to mind: crossing the Mediterranean padded within a cask of sandalwood, days of drowsy sleep, only awake to finger my slippery sex and think of new flesh waiting me in Greek cities. The salt air was so heavy, the darkness close, and the ocean’s soft rocking always dragged my thoughts back to mortal womb.
Now sliding onto the leather stool, I felt the crush of my wet swollen need for you. I teased myself, sipped a scotch straight, my thighs tensed and milked my cunt; my ass tight with the thought of your pale hands on my darkness.
In the mirror behind the bar, you turned to look at my back. The tip of your tongue traced your lips. The club’s shadows did not hide your hard nipples from my eyes. My blood burned then, for you lifted your thumb and slipped it into your mouth. This small gesture, so like a child, told me you flamed with the heat between us. I bit my tongue and squeezed my stockinged legs very tight.
Whose control should I cut down first, leaving us sucking at each other’s secrets?
Yours?
Or mine?
So it is written, month of Tickle, 2005
: Rose
Rat’s face was a study of sharp femininity rendered in shadowed chocolate.
And still as frozen water.
A gray tendril of cigarette smoke curled from her nose and began to caress upward through her eyelashes.
The college sophomore with three music scholarships and nervous hands approached. She poised with her shadow falling on the back of the newspaper that Rat consulted. “Excuse me? Aren’t you the singer, Rat Noir?”
The young lady’s hand was already in her purse. Her touch activated a digital recorder.
The singer blew smoke down onto her short-skirted lap. “You’ve been watching me from across the street for half an hour. You know who I am.” She continued scanning the ‘lost animal’ listings.
Surprised, the girl licked her lips. “Well, I’d heard you never record your music, mademoiselle. However, I know a lot of producers, and my stepfather owns a small label. I know I could get you a very nice recording contract. I’ve been to almost twenty of your shows. Your voice is a treasure. All the girls at school think—.”
Noir’s eyes came up over the edge of the newspaper and locked on hers: pale gold; mostly white orbs, huge with light from the shop-front glass behind them both. Those bright circles reflected the street outside the club; people walking by. Lovers. Students. A man on a red bicycle. Intense white light haloed about her mirrored outline in those eyes, swallowing the details. A crowd of figures slid into the sea of her tiny echoed shadow. Her body thinned in the brightness—thinner still as she looked deeper. Her dark head squeezed by the glare outside reflected in those pale eyes. Thinner. Tighter. No room for her thoughts in that narrowing shadow that was her head.
The singer’s eyes cut her off from the world. She feared to look away; scared that the edges of those eyes would slice her face and thoughts clean away if she dared twist against the white blades of that gaze.
She felt the floor cold under her knees. Was that right? She looked deep into the brightness, tried to see what was happening to her reflection. A slim shadow-figure bent to lick a stockinged knee and tugged a tiny recorder out of her purse. So very bright and hard to see now. She stared harder. The little figure softly whimpered on her knees while she tongued a warm chocolate thigh. Dragging the tiny device from her purse, she pushed the machine onto the tabletop until it touched the half-empty pack of cigarettes.
Phantom blades of terrible light wrapped all around her head. Her senses shoved at her thoughts. She leaned towards a sweet heated smell of comfort. The scent of cilantro and the buttery sweet juices on her tongue ran down from the clean-shaven sex shadowed by mini-skirt and spread thighs. The girl whined and stuffed her tongue on the hard ripe clitoris with a frenzy.
The folded water melted and simmered as it dripped from the shadowed flower, searing tongue, down the clear skin of the frenzied chin to fall on the cool marble floor.
“Thanks, my little flower.” Rat murmured and gripped her stainless steel lighter. With a snapping slash, she hammered the lighter on the tape recorder, cutting it into nine hundred pieces. She sighed; opened her legs a little further. Rat turned the page. The power of irony. Some folks struggled damn hard to find stray pussy.
Thought-record, month of Thorns, 1917
: Viscountess Rue
“So how long do you think we have?” whispering, Rue leaned over the slim sweaty shoulder and rubbed it lightly with the underside of her chin.
Rat rotated the Bowie blade in the gloom as the tingle of death withdrew. She smiled and licked the bloody knife dripping on her dark gloves. “It’s not the search that will find us. It’s the stink of our power that will draw down the Misérables lightning to scamper within our thin skulls. We’ll dance at our own barbeque, sweetie.”
Rue yanked her close. “Oh, you prosey bitch. Shut up and kiss me.”
Thought-record, month of Tipplers, 1997
: Chase
The convulsions ran from my toes upward. Bad enough until they struck my face, by which time they hammered at my skull until I feared it would powder. I’d watched the last seizure in the bathroom mirror and retched when I saw my skin bubble and balloon.
Never again. My eyes refused to open, locked down by the pain and fear and memory.
I heard her heels on the wood floor and then a cool ice bag rested on my forehead. “I hate you.”
“Yes, Chase.”
“No, really. I despise you.”
“Hate is more accurate.”
My anger tangled and sank to my cock. It pulled in the energy and hardened. “Viscountess, never do that again.”
“Very well.”
“Really. Not ever.”
She sighed somewhere in the twelve-thousand-a-night suite. The heels retreated. “As you wish.”
“Wait!” I tried to sit up, but my bones were rubber. I was so weary. “You sound serious. Don’t fuck with me.”
“Isn’t that what I just agreed to?” Her voice held the sweet mystery of command and honeyed musings.
I swallowed. I thought about Rue’s gleaming red ballet-heels; the black rubber stockings on her amazing legs. I recalled the ten minutes of vacuum pumping her nipples until they swelled larger than pacifiers and so bloated red. Everything I’d begged for, she had done. My energy spiraled into my cock and slammed through to the chakra at the base of my spine. Skin jumped and danced across my chest.
But my head didn’t fall off. I almost felt better with the icepack. I licked my lips. “Viscountess? Are you still there?” Damn my eyes. It was too quiet. My heartbeat thundered. “Rue?”
“Yes? I was going to order something from room service. What do you want?”
No. Yes. What do I want? Her standing half-nude in the open doorway balanced on toe while a food cart is wheeled into the suite. Oh, yes.
I swallowed as heat crested through me. She played my brain strings through the concerto of my blissful body. “I’ll take one of those little Thai appetizer plates we had last night and another blowjob.”
“Please.” Stern.
“Please?”
I heard her pick up the phone and trembled hot and ready. Just once more. I knew her games. I could take it.
So it is written, month of Tires, 2004
: Viscountess Rue
London taxis often have real leather seats. If you tease them just so, they love to gossip. They never forget an ass—or a hurried tryst. Secrets are better than gold in the Line World.
Rue tipped the driver double the fare and ignored his startled protest.
The Power stepped across a trash-filled puddle and removed her sunglasses while she gave the sidewalks a long look in both directions. She nodded to the newspaper kiosk standing sentry and entered the Meet. She stopped just inside the front doors and stared at the broken Fey dandies pegged to the reception wall. In blood beneath them was written: “Rumors of their death are greatly exaggerated. It was much, much slower.”
The Viscountess nodded slowly for the benefit of the vending machines watching.
“Can I help you, miss?”
Mundanes might think the receptionist perky. Rue saw across the Line: so clear in this instance that the Duke’s tastes aligned more and more with his mythic estate. The young woman was a blow-up doll who loved her work. She wasn’t a drone to his power. Not yet. “Yes. I have an appointment with His Grace?”
“Viscountess?” A nod back from Rue. “He’s expecting you. Through these doors and top of the stairs.”
“I know the way. Thank you.”
Rue knocked softly at the door, but walked in before a response.
The Duke’s face lit up and he jumped up from behind his desk to come forward and offer his hand. “Viscountess, so grand of you to come on short notice. Can I get you a drink? Naked-navel, isn’t it?”
She nodded and took a moment to look around while he fussed at the elegant sidebar. “The Fey giving you trouble, Floppsie?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.” The Duke changed course from returning with drinks and set both quickly on his desk. He turned, took Rue’s hand and kissed it. “Why haven’t I seen you in a year? Why does it take an official call for you to come see me?”
She looked down into his upturned gaze but didn’t pull her hand away. “Perhaps you misunderstood my attention and help last year?”
He pulled her hand closer and leaned against her leg. “No. We had something special. You said you’d never bent a will as lusty as mine. I still have the bunny suit. You could force me to put it on?”
Rue pulled his fingers to her lips. “Two years gone you were fresh to the Crossing of the Line. You were scared. I was doing my duty to orient you. You glowed with your Power. We were madcap.”
He leaned closer still and breathed against her ear. “But today’s my birthday. I’m twenty-one.”
“Oh,” Rue flushed. “You’re much too old for all that now.”
He stood upright; mouth gaped, dismayed.
Rue laughed. “Fine. Get the freezing suit.”
He hopped to obey with a grin.
So it is written, month of Tears, 1997
: Chase
The Viscountess foretold: “If I can show you how the world really works, you’ll become my companion, otherwise, our association will be brief.”
So it is written, month of Tires, 2004
: Perdy
Perdy didn’t really know why she became so horny when the Duke received female visitors. She kept thinking she should break off the affair with him. And who said he was a real Duke? She doubted it. Google didn’t list him as peerage. She stared at the vending machines lined up across the far wall. The gleaming faces burned bright, colorful and sleek, sculpted in some sort of retro science-fiction artistry.
No. No candy. She needed to diet. Her bras were way too tight lately. She rocked in her seat for a few minutes, staring at the bright smiling mechanisms. Her eyes stretched and stretched until they shone, too.
Fuck the diet. She got up and bought another chocolate bar. When she sat back down she shivered at how soaked her panties were. She jammed the candy in her mouth. Then she forgot her doubts.
Thought-record, month of Testatrix, 2006
: Chase
“Everything?” Rose asked.
I watched them work it out between them.
“Everything,” the Viscountess said.
“The bar napkin?”
Rue nodded.
“The straw in my drink? The table?”
“Everything,” Rue whispered, but her voice carried perfectly beneath the sweet jazz sounds from the trio fifteen feet away where Saint Rat sang.
Rose looked at me as if it was my turn to jump in and straighten things out. I, of course, knew insanity and sanity were really misnomers.
Then Rose said the magic words: “So prove it.”
My heart twitched. It is by consent that some Cross the Line.
The Viscountess was not so quick to be drawn out. “Not that easy. I don’t intend to make your straw scream for your entertainment.”
Rose smiled, lazy, sensuous and sure. “But you insist everything is actually alive—with a spirit you can talk to?”
Again, Rue nodded.
The laugh adorned her face before Rose voiced it. It was sweet, innocent, and powerfully young. Certainly with that particular laugh, the gauntlet was thrown. This whole transition would hurt. I wanted to be somewhere else.
“Don’t get up, Chase,” Rue commanded. She smiled at Rose and leaned closer to her. “Now don’t squeal.”
I felt her Reach; shift her Regard.
Rue hissed a few words down at Rose’s lap.
Rose shrieked, knocked her drink off the table and turned heads around the bar. Rose shivered and hyperventilated. Still staring at her splayed legs, she gasped, “How. Did. You?”
I leaned to look. Her black stockings were crazed with runs. Hundreds of them.
Rose moaned as the Crossing bent her inside and out. Drool ran from the corner of her crimson mouth. Her eyes rolled up to show white. Of course, self-preservation was in effect, the other mundanes looked away and became oh-so-busy with other things.
Rue lit a cigarette and blew smoke at the ceiling. “Judicious truth. Some spirits are by their nature cowardly and unable to deal with life’s little jolts. You tell your average pantyhose chi it is snugged up to the stems of a rose—they run.”
“Fey wun,” Rose echoed. Her hands rubbed her thighs and she giggled.
The secrets sucked me in again, curiosity my addiction of choice. I watched poor Rose trembling in seizure and burned with the shame of my exquisite hardening cock.
Thought-record, month of Testatrix, 2006
: Rose
“Tho whornee. Whum tha fok mwee?” My blundered secret words aroused me. I giggled, not feeling drunk at all, but strangely weightless. I slapped at my tits to watch the nipples harden as they rocked. Deep inside me ached. Was this my room? My shower? Nothing seemed really familiar. Something dark whispered—yearning at me from between my legs.
Fuck me. So horny. Fuck.
I grabbed the soap and started to wash under the hot spray. I didn’t remember the cause of the sticky film down my neck and spotted over my tits. Mixed drink? Vomit? Drool? If I was drunk, why did I feel so good? So fuckable?
Giggles escaped.
When the soap reached my thighs and crotch, glimpses of events filtered back to me. Hot for a reason: I remembered Rue’s eyes on me. And my legs.
“Fey wun.” I snickered.
Secrets. Hot legs. So horny. So fuckable. So fucked. Fuck me. My toes curled.
That writer. The quiet nosey guy. I examined the memory of him closely and could not recall his name. Track? Hunt? He had gotten me to my room, helped me undress and told me to shower.
He got me back here safe. Knight errant. I remembered pissing myself in the elevator and giggling; how the warmth tickled down my fucked legs. So horny. Fuckable. Fuck me.
“Fey wun,” I whispered again. Hot.
I stiffened then, flushed firm and pulsing, my body full of the hottest blood, the world slid past me wet and welcoming and tight and hot. So horny. I wrapped legs around wrist and thrust my forearm hard against melting slick lips. I came. The soap burned my snatch. Everything of me from the waist down felt as one very exposed, oddly shaped clit.
And I wanted that writer guy to touch me all night while I whispered broken secrets to him. Opening the shower door, I threw the soap on the floor and went to find him. When I passed the wide-eyed soapy girl shivering in the mirror, I whispered a secret to her. “Fey wun.”
She winced and moaned like a fuck zombie.
How fuck-me hot was that?