Ghost Dance

In Minneapolis, it is raining. The weather has cooled from the mid-nineties to the low sixties. I’m feeling a bit thoughtful today and have since last night when I started posting strange nonsequiturs on Instagram and Twitter. They read well but were symptomatic of the shift in my mood from aggressive pursuit of financial security to the more easy going thoughtfulness that comes with the achievement of my goals. I still have more work to do and not to rely on cliche, but I feel a weight has been lifted.

Today’s story is a piece of erotica I wrote in New Orleans around Halloween last year. It is short, strange and a lot of fun to write. Please enjoy Ghost Dance.

Sleeping_with_ghosts

“The house is haunted. That’s apparently a selling point.” My potential landlord said in a perky tone.

“Really?” I repeated.

“Surprisingly yes. A lot of people enjoy the thrill of living with a ghost. I don’t believe it myself, but it’s definitely been brought up by more than a few tenants.” she went on as she moved through the house.

“I’ll take it.” I found myself warming to the idea of a supernatural roommate. She smiled and brought me to the kitchen to fill out some paperwork and worked through the details of the lease. I nodded absently and found myself already looking for signs of a presence other than our own. I felt nothing. Saw nothing and felt hustled by the absurd pitch.

The apartment was definitely worn. The walls were painted spirit blue and the floors were hardwood. The bedroom and primary room had what looked like an ancient fireplace caked in decades old white paint. It had apparently never functioned as anything more than sound insulation according to the landlord. The apartment had a balcony, a fairly large kitchen, and a spacious bathroom. The place had the smell of age. I stood in the bedroom as she left waiting to see the mysterious wraith. I half expected the walls to bleed the moment she closed the door. Still nothing.

I wanted to believe. I wanted to see something of this hidden world others claimed to have experienced. My grandmother showed me pictures of fairies in the garden and ghosts in her hallway as I grew up. I believed, but only because I was a child. As a grown man, I saw nothing that supported her claims and those pictures never resurfaced in any photo albums and she never spoke of them.

I moved in. Days passed and still my specter refused to appear. I all but forgot about the dubious selling point.

I crept into bed on a chilly night. The sheets chilled me as pulled them over me. After the heat of the previous month, the drop was a welcome change, but it still sent a shiver down my spine. My mind was releasing the work of the day and shedding the last of my tension.

I felt something lightly catch on the hem of my sheet. I shifted and pulled the sheet closer to my chin. Again the sheet shifted and a breeze flowed down over my chest. I pulled it up again and settled onto my side gripping the covering. Something gently touched my cheek and I swatted at it. I opened my eyes to the darkness. The ceiling above was bare and there were no insects buzzing. I shifted upright and sat against the wall. A hand touched my shoulder from behind. I felt a thrill pass through me. My ghost. I let the touch linger tried to focus on it. Every detail. I wanted to remember and tell people later about my haunting.

The touch stayed and moved gingerly down my back and crept over my flank. I let the sheet fall from my chest. Another hand touched my chest and I felt pressure on my lap. A whisper touch on my lips and a flush warmth rose through me. I reached my hands out hoping to find something. I felt skin. The smooth slope of an ass and the crush of invisible breasts on my chest. The ghost’s hands moved down my torso and reached into my briefs.

I held my breath. The world stood still. Nothing in my life had prepared me for this meeting. My eyes opened and closed in rapid succession trying to find my unexpected lover. Feathery hands pulled my penis free. Hot and cold laced together as her phantom hands stroked me.

There was weight and mass, but no image. Nothing for my eyes to focus on, but the spirit blue walls and the foot of my bed. Whatever demon form she took I wanted to see her face. The image must’ve been absurd. My hands hanging in the thin air caressing curves that couldn’t be perceived. My mind filled in her form from the braille of her exquisite body. Sharp shoulder blades. The fan of her hair became clear with my eyes closed.

Her tongue swirled with mine. My hips were bucking against what felt like her thigh. Her hands guiding me into her and I felt the warmth engulf me. There was nothing in my world that could tear me from that moment. The traffic sounds outside dimmed. The dull monotone of the refrigerator. I was still in the waking world. This wasn’t a dream. Her weight shifted and pieces of my will evaporated and I began moaning. Making sounds I hadn’t made since I discovered and explored sex with Becky back in high school.

Spectral nails raked my back. I could hear the slapping sound of our thighs smacking each other over and over again until there was a shudder and the pace had to be started again. Her smell. Her moaning and finally her form materializing like a wash of watercolor in front of my eyes. Her eyes were such an absolute black that it pulled in all light. Her skin was alabaster. Her hair was black and stuck to her forehead from her exertion. She shuddered once more and she smiled before her weight was suddenly gone. Nothing remained.

“Now I believe.” I smiled and drifted off to sleep.

As always, thank you for reading. Please submit a story.

Kristopher Bishop 

note: Image was lifted from a Placebo album cover. I found it on a google search for public use images. I claim no rights to the image.

Malia

It has certainly been a while. I had aspirations for this site, but time and tide swept them away. However I have decided to resurrect Neon Rabbit to showcase my writing and the creative process in general. I have recently moved to New Orleans, Louisiana to pursue film production and other potentially lucrative activities. It has been an incredible journey so far and I look forward to all the new adventures I will have in the coming months and years.

The story that follows is the first creative piece of fiction I have written since arriving in New Orleans. It is part experiment and part love letter to the two things that have inspired me most. My new home and the woman I left behind. 

As always, enjoy.

The French Quarter is hidden away. An anachronism surrounded by the trappings of the modern world, but turn one street and you could see the past with each lonely step. The asphalt was always mounded at the middle and the doors all had the rumpled quality of a hobo. I wanted nothing more than to leave, but I was pinned to a bar by celebrants. The bar was indistinguishable from the other dozen bars I passed on my walk along Bourbon Street. It was a song that drew me in, but the tone of the bar changed as soon as my drink was ordered and by then I was trapped. Outside the constant flow of tourists pushed through the street armed with daiquiris and plastic beads. I resigned myself to my whiskey and the unrelenting beat of the speakers. My gaze scanned the room for an escape route. That’s when she caught my eye. She was a tiny thing and her glasses were too big for her beautiful face. There was a sheen of sweat coating her skin. Her body moved to the rhythm of the music and I was transfixed. The entirety of the bar bled into a frame for this girl who danced alone.

Liquor made me courageous so I approached. She smiled instantly. Tiny crows feet webbed from her eyes when she smiled. Her shirt was damp and nearly translucent under the neon and blacklight. I smiled back awkwardly and beckoned her closer. She came close. The smell of sweat and rum was heady and her body pressed delicately against mine. I said nothing and smiled.

“My name is Malia.” She spoke into my ear. “First time in the Quarter?” Her smile was warm, inviting.

I nodded. “Can I talk with you outside?” I yelled back.

She took my hand and lead me through the crowd. Outside my heart was overwhelming all other sound. I didn’t know what I wanted to say. She looked me over with her perfect face. “What’s your name?” She offered her hand and I gladly took it.

“John. I’m new.” I held her hand longer than I should have. I didn’t want to let go. In this girl who didn’t exist five minutes ago I saw my future. I saw my mistakes and my shortcomings too, but I stuffed those thoughts back.

“Do you want to go somewhere with me?” She offered.

I felt a pang of doubt. She had only just met me. A stranger in a bar and she wants me to follow her to parts unknown. My paranoia flooded and all the horror stories I ever heard pulsed with a new life. “I don’t have any money.” I said before I could stop myself.

She giggled,“Come on.” She moved down the street and didn’t look back. I was offered a choice. Go with her into the unknown or stay and continue my trivial evening with strangers. I resigned myself to the loss of a kidney and ran ahead with Malia.

I was doomed from the start. There was nothing she could say or do that would dissuade me from my adoration.

Malia lead me through the labyrinthine streets of the Quarter. She opened a gate and lead me through with a grin. “Where are we?” I asked and felt simple.

“I live here.” She answered as we continued. Her door was below a wrought iron stairwell. She opened the door and lead me inside. Her furnishings were spartan, a bed and a metal folding chair were the only furniture in her room. She produced a small bottle of whiskey and two mismatched glasses. “have a seat.” She ordered and flopped onto the bed.

“I’m confused.” I confessed.

“Why?” Her eyelids fluttered as she handed me a glass.

“I could be…” My mind raced.

There was more to her than just a body. There was a spark in her that I seldom saw, but perhaps that was the swirling cocktail of hormones and booze needling at my rational brain. I could see her in the flourescent light of her room. She was imperfect. Acne was speckled on her chin and there were a million tiny imperfections that were now made readily apparent in the light. None of these made her any less attractive to me. On the contrary the fact that she was suddenly more real made her irresistible. “My body is my own.” she stated, “If I want you to come to my bed that is my choice. If I told you to leave would you?” I said yes. “So drink and sit.” She patted the bed.

She talked, I listened. She explained how I had been lost, but was begging to be found and I had to agree. We were looking for each other. Not endlessly, not like soul mates and maybe not even after that night. When we found each other in our mutual state of need she assured me of her intentions and of what she would allow.

I moved in for a kiss. She stopped me with a light press against my chest, “I haven’t said yes.” There was no malice in her words, only the understanding.

I sat up and straightened my back, felt awkward for the attempt. She pressed her hand on my shoulder and straddled my lap delicately. She pressed against my chest again and I laid back on her bed. She hovered over me and smiled. Her glasses had slid down her nose and I focused on the point where they had stopped. They were about to fall and my impulse was to move them from the precipice of her nose. I reached up asked, “May I?” she nodded and I carefully removed her glasses.

Her face was a foot above mine. I could feel it when I closed my eyes. I remember she kissed me first. It was gentle, her soft tongue probed through my lips and found mine. I kissed in return. I held my arms above the bed between her delicate flesh and the soft sheets of her bed. To touch her would be a sin, like touching a butterfly’s wings. If I touched her arm would she still be able to fly. My hesitation was noted and she placed my hands on her shoulders looked me in the eye and said, “Yes.”

Hotspur

Note: Another story about the exploits of Martin Tyrone Key, metaphysical detective. This one involves a sex cult with all the graphic detail you would expect from such a story.

Enjoy.

On a cracked and dusty asphalt street in a desert town Martin Tyrone Key ran his fingers through his mohawk as he looked at the picture of Elise her parents had given him. A decrepit building gaped at the boarded up houses that surrounded it. All told thirteen people had entered in the past two hours. Key perused the file; Elise Wilson disappeared two weeks ago with her boyfriend Cody Wilkes. The two had hooked with a sex cult called “Fornicatio Solemnitas” lead by a man called Hotspur.

Key waited until dark to get out of his car. He slipped casually to the side of the building, pulled a silver flask from his coat and took a long swig, capping the flask he took two deep breaths and headed in.

Incense billowed in a massive protean cloud over the congregation. The chamber was vast and candlelit, despite the heat from the thousand little flames a damp chill still hung on every atom of the room. The members of the congregation were all dressed in red robes and masks. Each mask was unique and represented something of the individual who wore it. Some had old plastic Halloween masks others had ornate filigreed treasures. Underneath the robes each celebrant was naked, flashes of genitalia were as common as handshakes and hugs among them.

The congregation swarmed around the altar at the center of the room, oblivious to everything but each other. Key perched himself on a massive boarded windowsill away from the reunion of worshippers. He winced as he took another swig of the sickly sweet Crème de Cocoa in his flask. The liquor did little to warm him against the chill so he stuffed his hands under his armpits and focused his attention on the simple concrete altar.

A young girl, no more than eighteen, stepped into the room while at the opposite side a teenage boy mirrored her entrance. The girl’s robe was red like the others but hers was shorter and only hung to her thigh, additionally it hung open to give a teasing look as to what lay beneath. A hint of breast, a shock of pubic hair, and a flash of muscle along her stomach as she walked. She wore a mask made in the image of a moon. The boy dressed identically save for the sun that adorned his face. The girl was the right age and height for Elise and she had a dirty blue party tattoo of a butterfly on the top of her foot, which fully identified her, leaving Key to surmise that the boy was Cody.

They strode across the floor towards the altar. Members of the congregation began groping each other as the teenagers passed. The congregation was shortly a symphony of hands jerking, kneading, and probing with hedonistic abandon. Some solitary souls merely masturbated as they watched the long journey to the altar.

Elise and Cody ascended the altar to a choir of carnality. The teenagers kneeled in front of each other with mere inches between them. Elise’s palms were sweaty, her mouth was dry, and she felt dizzy. She worried that she might fall into Cody, they were forbidden to touch at this part of the ceremony, and disrupt the proceedings.
The priest entered the room and quickly moved to the altar. He kissed the palms of his hands lightly and touched both of them on the forehead. Then he raised his hands to the ceiling and began chanting.

The congregation’s fervor amplified when he began chanting. One woman obscured by a baby doll mask straddled a man’s cock while she jerked another one off. Beads of cum shot at her like buckshot and she groaned ecstatically and bucked harder against the lover below her. On the opposite side of the altar a man thrust slowly into the ass of another man, both grunting softly with each long stroke. The altar was crackling with energy as the priest continued chanting.

Elise could feel the energy rising up through the altar and pulsing fiercely through her body. She could feel heat sweeping off of Cody. She wanted so badly to touch him, to feel his arms around her. Her arms would not obey; they were two pieces of lumber hanging stubbornly from her shoulders. Her breathing was becoming labored and she felt her muscles twitching as if in a spasm. Cody’s head was swaying lightly and his mouth was moving. His dick, which was exposed through his robe, was rigid and tall. Elise wanted to take it, to touch it, lick it, straddle it, she wanted to feed off of his cock. The impulse was already irresistible and growing more feverish with each moment, but her body was paralyzed by the spasms.

Key lifted himself off the windowsill and crouched behind a bundle of rusted pipes. He saw runes on the altar begin glowing around the lovers. They were arcane symbols whose origins had gone to time and tide. Key pulled a notebook from one of his many pockets and copied them down as best he could.

Elise saw the symbols too. They glowed a putrid blue color and made her head swoon when she tried to look at them. Sweat was pouring down Cody’s body. The priest was screaming and thin ribbons of blood pulsed from his eyes, nose, and ears. His tongue was swollen and splitting like a cooked sausage making the strange language he was speaking come out in wet sloppy consonants. Cody was reeling, his body was shaking and his eyes were rolled back in his head. The sound of sex was reverberating off the walls and it mixed with the low snarls that were coming from Cody. The cacophony was deafening.
Elise felt her need rising, the strain of it was unbearable. Cody, who was no more than twelve inches from her, was heaving and growing. His muscles were flexing and straining. Cody’s raw sexuality was hitting Elise in waves. She could see the fornication around her and she was cherry picking the positions she could try from the menu at her peripherals. She could feel an orgasm rising in her just from looking at him. Then as the cacophony became a din, it was all halted by a loud crack.
The force of Key’s blow sent ripples of force through the clouds of incense. The priest fell to the ground. His face was wet and pulpy from the ritual and slid against the concrete. “Enough!” Key bellowed to the celebrants. The tribal tattoos that gilded Key’s face all but glowed next to the pale blue of the altar and the yellow light of the candles. He stood over the priest with a gun drawn and pointed out in front of him.

“What have you done?” Yelled one worshipper. The group surrounded him boners pointing like spears.

Key fired a shot off into the ceiling. The crowd stood in silence as he grabbed Elise around the waist and eased her off the pedestal. The baby doll stepped forward, her breasts still heaving. “You shouldn’t be here. The rectory is sanctified and there will be retribution from Hotspur.”

Key put his gun in his waistband. “I don’t think he’ll be causing any trouble for me.” He kicked the priest lightly as he hefted Elise into his arms.

“That’s not Hotspur.” She retorted as she pointed at the altar.

Key turned to Cody. Cody fell forward his body steaming from the moisture in the air. His musculature was impressive and preternatural. His mask fell away from his face; his eyes beneath were crusted in blood and his lips were pulled back in a wicked snarl. His head cocked and he looked at Key leaving with his mate. Fury erupted in him, he howled and launched himself at Key.

Key moved as quickly as he could, but Cody become Hotspur was on him. Key and Elise went sprawling across the floor. Hotspur grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him back towards the altar. He threw Key into the concrete block like one would throw a child. Key’s head cracked against the hard altar, which sent flashes of pain through his skull. Hotspur pounced on Key and jammed his thumbs into Key’s eyes. Key’s face was throbbing in white-hot pain; he bellowed as his hands fumbled for his pockets. He gripped a small sack and smashed it against Hotspur’s face.

The pouch erupted in a crystalline cloud; Hotspur released his grip on Key and scratched at his burning face. Key pulled a lighter and a vial from another pocket, a small glass tube with thick reddish liquid, and quickly poured the contents into his mouth, flicked the lighter and spat the substance back at Hotspur in a ball of flame. He forced himself to his feet. Hotspur howled and rubbed his face into the grime-covered floor. Key fell against the altar and weakly pulled the gun from his waistband. His eyes were still pulsing from the attack and his head pounded with jackhammer force.

Key cocked the gun. Hotspur was recovering quickly from the salt and the flame. With sudden ferocity three of the masked celebrants tackled Key, knocking him against the altar again. Key pressed the gun against one of the reveler’s heads held the head firm with the off hand and yelled, “Back! Get back!” They stopped their assault and stepped away. Key pushed the hostage away with the barrel and turned his attention back to Hotspur. The Demon was up and on him. Key fired a shot, but Hotspur pushed his hand away and the shot went wild. The following punch knocked Key across the room. His shoulder hit the ground hard and he thought he felt something snap. Key rolled onto his back as Hotspur raced after him. He leveled the gun again and the barrel sang as a bullet ejected from the gun. The shot tore through Hotspur’s chest and exploded out the back in a spray of red gore.

The creature fell twitching on the ground. Key pulled himself up and staggered over to Elise. Key dropped the gun, kneeled next to Elise, then almost lovingly he lifted and cradled her; she was still unconscious. He pulled a small strange looking rattle from an inside pocket and began methodically rattling and chanting in a sing-songy voice. The congregation did nothing but watch.

The police arrived some time later. The worshippers stories varied wildly as the police questioned each of them about what had happened. The police didn’t charge Martin Tyrone Key with assault or murder. Cody’s body disappeared and the priest, one Harold Kasee, was assumed to be the leader of a vile sex cult that was trying to marry these teenagers in an orgiastic ritual with satanic overtones. He would be convicted of multiple sexual offenses. In prison two years later he would be murdered in the middle of the night by a white supremacist.

Key received medical attention for a dislocated shoulder and concussion, but was released of his own recognizance. He stiffly got into his car with Elise. She turned to him as he slid into the driver’s seat. “What happened?” She asked.

Key silently started the car and drove onto the highway. For thirty minutes he said nothing. He thought very long about what he was going to tell her. He thought about explaining everything that had happened, what the ritual was meant to accomplish, and how her boyfriend had been possessed and murdered by the demon that now inhabited him. Elise tried in vain to get him to answer her questions. Finally he said, “They conjured a demon. You were supposed to be its bride.” It seemed direct.

She mulled over his answer for a moment then retorted, “Bullshit.”
Key simply shrugged and drained the remnants of crème de cocoa from his flask. The ride was long and quiet after that.

FireEater

Dusty paths routed through the carnival, throngs of people moving like a river through the thoroughfare. Milo moved deftly through the crowd, weaving between the bodies. there was a kind of dance to it, but his quiet need made him clumsy and he bumped more than he slid. He hadn’t seen her in a year and only just heard she was here, their meetings were always brief, but the life had its price.
Milo entered the darkened tent, and saw her form. She was naked from the waist down. Her stomach was taut and adorned with an intricate Celtic cross off set from the ends with intricate cursive script. He couldn’t make out the words, but his eyes had no trouble tracing the loops and twists in the cross. Her pubis was shaved bare, he grinned looking at her face “What are you doing to me?” He asked coquettish. She bit her lower lip, her pixie cut hair framed her gorgeous face, her eyes took him in hungrily. He put his arm around her waist. she was light, he lifted her up and supported her ass with his other hand. They fell against the wall, she bit into his neck, he felt the sting of her teeth as his flesh was pierced. His eyes went wide for a moment, but he settled in and ground against her pelvis. She reached for his pants, pulled ineffectually against the denim in a quiet pleading way. “I have to go.” he said trying to pull himself away. She whimpered.
“You’ll come back?” She said.
“No one could stop me.” he responded. The stage waited for him.
Fire grew lazily on the torch. The red glow of the wick shimmered like a phantom beneath the flame. Wispy tendrils of yellow lit the Fire eater’s face from below. he pulled another torch from the decanter, whipped off the excess fluid with a flourish and lit it off the first torch, held them over his head and lowered both into his mouth extinguishing them. He smiled at the audience and held the torches casually at his side before lifting the first torch and igniting it from the fumes in his mouth. He repeated the routine and played the fire against his arms, stroking it lovingly with his hands until finally he dropped both torches on the stage, still lit and lifted the decanter to his mouth and took a hefty swig. He dropped to all fours on the stage and let the fluid loose, atomizing it in a fine mist. the mist ignited from the torch-flame and a fireball erupted. He moved like a beast , slow lumbering movements as he took another pull from the decanter, lifted a torch and blew another fireball out over the audience. They shrieked in delight, he finished the act with a series of fireballs each one from the same mouthful and each one bigger than the one the preceded it.
“Jekyll and Hyde. Beast and man, the primal nature of fire. that’s what I’m trying to get at.” He answered the reporter, the showman hadn’t left from him yet, not with the crowd still lingering. He belched under his breath the non taste of paraffin and the subsequent smell of petrol in his nostrils nauseated him as he tried to make his escape backstage.
“What about the possibility of being burnt or the carcinogenic nature of the oil?” The journalist pressed.
“Risk is the nature of life, I just take it a step further than most, but really my job isn’t as dangerous as a police officer, a fire fighter or even a bike messenger. jobs with inherent risk are the most satisfying I find.” he let off a smile that had coaxed more than a few women into bed.
He left quickly. No more showman, no more talking today, he had another appointment. Dusk was heady at the carnival, the games were louder, the smells of fried food more inviting. the day was for children, but night was when the lovers came. He wove behind tents and moved back into the crowd at varied intervals. As he stepped back behind a tent for the final leg of his walk he stepped into a man. he was big and very strong, Milo fell back from the force, but the man didn’t budge. He stared at Milo, “Sorry about that.” Milo said as he got to his feet.
Milo brushed himself off and was moving to continue his trek, but the strange man wasn’t quite finished with him. He reached out and stopped Milo from his path. The man was strangely still, his suit was purple save for the sleeves which were dark with moisture, his hands were coated with something gummy and his chest didn’t rise or fall. Milo was suddenly very aware of his own heartbeat. A chill fell over him in spite of the summer heat. “Listen,” He said, “I’ve got to get going.” The man gripped Milo by the throat, lifted him off the ground and opened his mouth wider then any human mouth Milo had ever seen. Milo tried to yell, but the grip on his throat was already draining him of oxygen. His vision flickered as his eyelids struggled to stay open. The purple man’s teeth grew sharp in his maw, black, yellow eyes boring into him, black. He pushed at him with whatever feeble strength he could muster and fumbled at his pouch with the other, reached his hand in. no knife, just a flask, pack of cigarettes and a lighter. In a wave of fear he grabbed at the flask, pulled a mouth full and dowsed the man with the rest. The creature’s teeth were closing in a half grin at the corners of his jagged mouth. Milo almost lost consciousness as he pulled the lighter, but managed a burst of strength, brought the lighter to his mouth and blew with as much force as he could. A conflagration burst to life between them.
Milo’s face was lit as well, but the purple man dropped him and he dove into the dirt face first patting his face in a flurry. He turned to the creature who was screaming through the crackle of flame. The creature ran through the carnival lighting tents and people on fire as he passed. Milo released a deep breath and grabbed at his throat. He finished his walk to his girl’s tent slowly and in partial shock.
He heard her weeping gently. he was weary, but quickly moved to her side, “what’s wrong baby?” He said quietly as pulled her into a hug.
“It’s, ah, it’s my brother…” she sobbed.
“What happened?”
“He’s dead. Tonight, he died. Somebody lit him on fire…” She looked up at him through teary eyes. “What happened to your face?”

The Tea

The jungle howled as light crept through the trees. Out of the thickest portion of foliage Melri, a Felarin girl burst through the branches, followed closely by a hoard of Olgri, creatures that appeared to be a marriage of man and boar. Chirping and snorting, they trampled the undergrowth in their pursuit of Melri.
Melri was a slight girl elfin in feature her skin mottled in greens and browns. She was sticky with sweat and her pert breasts heaved as her lungs grasped at the rapidly thinning air. The jungle grew darker as she headed further into the canopy. She knew in her heart that escape was nearly impossible, but the light of the moon shown one possibility, a volcano lay some miles ahead of her indicated by the hazy red mist that shrouded the moonlight. If she could make it there she might be able to find a cave and evade her pursuers.
She was heading for her homestead but she instead found herself lost among the twisting jungle when the Olgri horde came upon her. The Olgri were said to be vicious creatures that cavorted in blood and played malicious games with their prey. The Felarin were raised to watch for signs of Olgri encampments from a very young age. Melri’s people were enlightened but weak in the field of war. The Felarin’s lithe bodies were no matches for the brute strength of Olgri warriors. So they learned to hide themselves among the trees, this coupled with their natural camouflage were their sole defenses against the amoral Olgri.
Melri reached the volcanic rock and forced herself up. Her body bled from a thousand tiny wounds and her muscles screamed for rest, but she pressed herself forward. She reached a high flat plateau and stood for a moment unable to feel anything but the buzzing of her overworked form. She looked back and saw the hoard below, they were quicker than she anticipated, before she was able to turn and run they were two short strides from her. With nothing left to run on and no escape in sight her limbs gave out and the Olgri were on her.
Melri woke on a bed of soft loose feathers. She was in a small hut lit by a cooking fire in the center. Melri sensed a presence; someone else was in the room. The world spun as she tried to lift her head forcing her back down. “Who is here?” She groaned.
“Do not be afraid child.” The voice was soft and inviting. Melri turned very slowly to see another Felarin girl. The girl was a collection of ruddy red and purple hues, She beamed at Melri. “The Olgri are gentle, they will treat you well.”
Melri tried to rise again, “I have to get out of here, my mother…” She fought against the dizziness but was again overcome.
“They will come for you soon. For now you should rest, you’ll need it for tonight.” She giggled at this.
Melri, becoming more resigned, spoke. “Who are you?”
“My name is Illin. I was taken some time ago, I too was afraid at first, but that will soon go away when you see the Olgri generosity.” Illin giggled again amused by her own innuendo.
As the throbbing in Melri’s head began to subside she fell back into a dozing sleep. Illin massaged her shoulders and back lightly, the ministrations were initially unwelcome, but Melri didn’t have the strength to resist and soon enjoyed the relaxing heat of her new companion’s touch.
After a blissful hour the flap of the hut opened and a large Olgri brute entered accompanied by an ancient woman. “Wake yourself child.” The woman hissed.
Melri opened her eyes. The old woman held a cup of steaming liquid she kneeled next to the girl and with surprising strength lifted Melri to a sitting position. “Drink this.” She forced the cup into Melri’s hands. The Olgri watched intently, his head swayed and his muscles were taut. Melri wondered in that moment if they were always ready for war. His bulk was immense, intimidating. She was quietly preparing herself for death. Melri tipped the drink back it was thick and sticky as it touched her lips. The bitterness of the drink made her wince, but as it reached her belly she felt warmed by it and noted idly that the drink had a sweet aftertaste.
Melri’s appetite for the drink grew more voracious until she emptied it and greedily lapped up the remainder at the bottom of the cup. The ancient woman spat at the Olgri “Oonog! Come take this girl.”
Melri’s head swooned from the drink and as she looked up at the creature she saw him with new eyes. He was not so brutish as she remembered, Oonog, was what the woman called him, was strong and lean. He pulled her close. Melri couldn’t help but smile, he smelled musky and strong, like a warrior should smell. What happened here? He was brutish and ugly before, but now as she felt his cock rise against her belly she wanted nothing more than to impale herself on him.
Oonog bit at her neck and she arched her back. Melri was suddenly aware that her hands, acting of their own spirit, began stroking and messaging his thick penis. She looked on it her eyes widening at the prospect of what was about to happen. He breathed heavy and pulled her back by her hair. “You belong to me now.” Melri moaned and swallowed his tongue as she climbed on top of him. She had no idea why she felt the way she did, but more importantly she lost all capacity to care as she pounded herself against him. Five screaming, panting, and scratching hours later she fell back against the feathers and drifted to sleep next to her lover, her master, and her protector.