by Cecilia Tan
I used to like to roam through the High Bowers, watching the Changes as they occurred, suffering myself to be grabbed and stroked and sniffed and licked in passing. The clients were fascinated by me. They called me the Coquette sometimes. Well, they fascinated me as well. You’d get these grey-haired politicos from the lower city, I remember—glorious huge bellies on those bastards, I used to love lying back and prodding them with my toes, watch my whole little foot disappear between their fat-rolls. They would swoon about the Bowers like marvelous huge pink-white seals, flirting and fingering their new twats, singing songs, simpering over lost loves—for all the world like a pack of just-blooded sweetie-girls.
And not two couches away, there you would find exactly that—a pack of sweeties, I mean, with hair ribbons and coy eyes and painted toes—only instead of perfumed vadjes, these sweeties had monster ropy-veined cocks poking out of their crotches, cocks that would split the most accomodating arsehole you could conjure. Oh, much bigger than mine. Terrible cocks.
Beards and swollen clits and hairy pubes and shaven pubes and hairy swinging balls. Always a party at Tiresias House. I was almost sorry when the management gave me to Doctor, as a gift or tribute or whatever their reason was.
Well. Be truthful: I threw an awful tantrum. Cried for days. Screamed, really, till my throat was raw. They had to take me to her in a cage scarcely bigger than my little curled-up body.
But Doctor was such a dear to me. She loved me at first sight, she’s told me that many times, and it was quite mutual. She dried my tears and fed me with her own hand. I did keep up a childish sniffling for some days, but it finally occurred to me that back at Tiresias they could have as many Coquettes as they wanted, but I would now and always be Doctor’s one and only Mignon-beastie. I’ve always adored exclusivity.
Doctor really was taken with me. She would bind me hand and foot and stretch me so she could examine my privates in very intimate detail. My cock was lotioned and caressed until it achieved its maximum humble size, at which point Doctor subjected it to endless measurings and various interesting tests of sensitivity. She would scribble endlessly in her notebooks, but I flattered myself that much of the testing was really for her own pleasure. She fucked my cock many times in those early days, I have to say much more regularly than she has lately. And Doctor was such a sweet little weight to have riding one’s tied-up body. She knew how I loved to be scratched before and during and after fucking. When I lifted my head off the table and smacked my lips like a nurseling, she knew to give me her fingers or to pull out a sweet-nippled teat for me to suck.
When I Changed for the first time, Doctor watched the process with breathless fascination. My cunt was barely formed before Doctor was fingering it. She put any number of things into it that first day, including her tongue. I was tasted and sucked and bitten, cooed over and fucked endlessly. I was quite sore afterwards. Later I sinned and made my confession and was given to Dog for my punishment, as I’ve told you and then, of course, I was really sore.
In the time that has passed since, I’ve often wondered if that first sin was the reason Doctor has had less and less to do with my body. It’s foolish to think that, I know, but I can’t help it. I would ask her, but I don’t think I could find the right words. She would laugh at me or simply smile and walk away. I couldn’t bear that.
‡
Dog is howling and all around there are answering wails and screams and snivelings. Pain-noises. I’m not doing so well myself. I think Cat’s dead.
She’s only lying there, heaped on the straw in her cage, not moving at all. I had just come down to clean the dinner-dishes, and I found her like that, and all the others howling like agony. I let her alone for some time, squatting over my steaming pails and scrubbing bits of dried fruit from Ape’s dish, my back turned. I was sure she was only shamming. This was Cat, after all. Then I dashed one of the pails on her, out of pique. Still she didn’t move. That was when I became truly frightened.
There was no reason Cat should have died or even been ill. She’s not treated at all badly, none of them are. Doctor examines each of them regularly. And Cat is young, comparatively speaking. At the peak of health. And even though she’s mean and evil-tempered, a crazy thing who hates me, I’ve never had any desire to see her hurt or die. I’m even fond of her in my way.
I unlock the kennel and creep inside, right on top of her, like a child climbing into Sister’s bed and begging her to play. I’m upset enough that my first instinct is to do this, get our skins together. Warmth, I’m thinking; the heat and rhythm of my breath will be a cure-all. My cock grinds on her thigh, anyone would think I was trying to fuck her.
I find Cat’s brown skin warm and pliant. She’s breathing, not dead at all, and that thrills me so that I very nearly do get a bit indiscreet with the poor old thing. I laugh and shout her name, bite her fingers and nips and earlobes. I roll around with her on the sodden straw, give her a really savage tickling. I at least think about getting inside her.
But even though she isn’t dead, she still won’t move. Nothing I do gets so much as a twitch out of her. Her eyes are open and rolled back in her head, so it’s a bit like someone took her real eyes and left her with two white blind stones. So very quickly I become frightened again. All I can think to do is get her out of the kennel, so I take hold of her ankles and shuffle my slow way backwards, pulling her until she’s out and splayed on the concrete.
And suddenly, behind me—there’s Doctor. It’s a bit startling, because of course all I’m good for thinking at that moment is running upstairs to find her. She’s strolling among the kennels and cages, glancing in on their occupants (utterly ignoring their distress), now and then making a jot on a clipboard. She doesn’t seem to notice Cat or I, or if she does, she doesn’t think we’re anything worth commenting on.
When my stutters and whimperings finally catch her attention, she’s quite calm. “Yes, I know. It’s alright. I’ve been expecting this. Wash her, Mignon.”
She’s calm, yes, but something in her voice frightens me. Gentle and composed, but there’s a little tremor of excitement there as well—as though Cat’s condition is a long-anticipated treat she doesn’t quite want to face yet. And the bit about washing puzzles me—it doesn’t make a great deal of sense. Then I see Doctor pointing at my buckets. One, the one I didn’t throw on Cat, is still full.
“She should be washed now. It’s fitting.”
This is Doctor talking, so I pull the bucket close and scoop up a handful of hot water. I slop it onto Cat’s belly and rub my palm round and round her navel. Cat mumbles, whispers, jerks her legs up slightly and lets them drop again. That heartens me. It seems like some sort of progress.
The soap we have for scrubbing the kennel floor and the like is much too harsh, so I wash Cat with just water. I’m very gentle with all her tender places: her vadj and asshole and ears and between her toes and her armpits. For some reason I take great pride in my washing her, like she’s a doll that’s been given me to look after.
Then two things happen. First, Cat pisses. A perfect flood. I only barely manage to get my hands out of the way. Doctor is terribly excited by this for some reason.
The second thing: Cat turns her head and looks at me. Only that, but her eyes are now those of someone I’ve never met. They certainly have nothing to do with the Cat I’ve tormented and been tormented by all these years. The old Cat would have me covered with spit by now. This person on the floor raises a wondering hand to touch my chest.
“So pretty,” she says, which obscurely angers me, even as my nipples stiffen up. “Who are you? Oh....” The “Oh” comes as she raises herself up on one elbow and notices the mess she’s sitting in.
Doctor is delighted. “Never mind! Oh darling, look at you!” There is a suggestion in her voice that she may begin weeping at any moment, that trembling huskiness. Cat’s face goes soft and she does the unforgivable then; she calls Doctor by a name I don’t know and have never heard. No one’s ever done that
. No one ever.
Now I’m forgotten as Doctor dives to her knees. She catches Cat up in her arms. Tearful laughter on both sides. The noise from the kennels has disappeared. They’ve all forgotten the terror that had gripped them just moments ago. Dog is head-down, trying once again (without notable success) to lick his balls. Bear slumps in on himself and goes to sleep. Hog grunts mindlessly and turns to his trough. Ape examines his fingers, one by one. From the stables come Bull’s lowing, Horse’s occasional snort.
I back away discretely, very aware of my filthy bare feet, my still stiff nipples. Very aware too that my cock is shrinking. I can feel it, the old familiar tickle as the flesh shrivels and remakes itself into something plump and slitty and prone to wetness. Normally it’s not so soon between cockings and cuntings, but perhaps this is the beginning of many Changes. Perhaps tomorrow the lovely green veins in my wrists and throat will burst from my skin and spread like fans of coral. I may have paws tomorrow, or tearing fangs or rough scales no one would want to touch, or wings to lift me into the clouds.
It’s a bitter thought. But after all, what am I? What was I made to be? A changing thing. What of me does not and will not change? Only what I see before me: two women fervently embracing on a cold concrete floor; one in coat and shoes and lipstick, one naked like a beast.
The Gantlet by B. Lynch Black
It was already getting dark. The warning siren seemed muted against the thick clouds visible through the window. Maddy Silwa’s glowering eyes framed the same reflection, causing them to appear a whirling mass of purples, reds and black, flecked with white.
This train was not the one Maddy had wanted to take. It meant a change in Detroit; inconvenient since her business was urgent. She’d been told the meeting in Nuestra Donna Amiratsu could not wait until next week when she could have gotten a through train from Albany that would have taken only 12 hours. Her presence was essential, they’d claimed, in order to prevent the delay of initiating the whole Project. Maddy had her doubts about that. What with e-mail, overnight delivery and tele-vid conference calls, it should have been a minor matter. Information could travel far faster than people. It was dealing with fuddy-duddy Susaliis that caused the problem. Terrified of technology. Even Imperiatas never worried as much. The purpose of Condistas like Maddy was to worry efficiently.
Looking out the window again, she frowned, fidgeting in her seat. This was a dangerous time of year to travel. Weather in Tenth Month was often violent and unpredictable. And what had been predicted was not encouraging. She would have tried more strenuously to talk the Corporation Heads out of the trip had it not been for her desire for a change of scenery.
David had been gone from the apartment more than a month, but Maddy still felt edgy and haunted. Their last argument jangled her nerves each time she remembered it. He’d transferred to another pod—a move so unprecedented as to be almost draconian. But it was a measure of the strain their relationship had caused—not just on them but their entire area of the Corporation. Quickly, she took a sip of her orange juice, wishing it were something stronger though she rarely drank alcohol on the train. Too dehydrating. And she never should have boarded so soon. Too much time to think. Still, she hated just sitting out in the terminal. That was even worse. In a public place she would have to keep her face calm and still. At least here in her first class cubicle she could let herself relax.
The passengers were nearly finished loading now. Maddy’s thoughts were distracted by the slight commotion in the entrance to the car. The soft, urgent voice of the attendant was telling a passenger that she had accidentally come in the wrong entrance to the train. There was further explaining that since the train had sounded its last warning, it was too late to send her back out to enter farther down the line in the proper car.
With the attendant leading the way down the aisle, they passed Maddy’s seat near the end of the car. Maddy looked up and her eyes met those of the misdirected passenger for a brief moment. Young, maybe 22 or 23. Small, with dark brown hair caught back in a blue ribbon. Maddy had time only to note large brown eyes and red lips before the attendant moved the girl through the car and on to her seat in the proper class.
Extracting her personal net accessor from her bag, Maddy turned it on, planning to immerse herself in the book she had just ordered, a new fantasy novel. She only read frivolous things on trains, saving real literature for her annual trip to the Georgian Islands. On the regularly scheduled pod vacations to Zurich there was no time to read. The rest of the year she studied tech journals and legal documents. So deeply engrossed in the book was she, even through the meal—a light vegetarian platter—that Maddy didn’t notice there was a problem until a particularly heavy lurching of the car jolted her.
The attendant’s head appeared in the cubicle, smiling apologetically. “I’m afraid there’s a much worse storm out there than anticipated. There may be serious delays in Detroit.”
“I didn’t even know that we’d already hit bad weather.”
“It started about an hour ago, when we reached the Middle Territories land bridge.” He shrugged. “One of those ash storms... worsening as we head West. There was some volcanic activity in the Northwest Platte earlier this week... the precipitation is a nasty mix of snow and ash. Delays can’t be helped.”
Repressing a sigh, Maddy nodded and looked around the first class car. Only four other passenger cubicles were lit. She exited her book and immediately linked herself to the Corporation account. Tapping into the Corporate web, she made reservations at three hotels available to members of her pod in the Detroit terminal area. She then notified her clients in NDA of the possible delay, with copies to her secretaries, pod second, and associates in Albany. The reservations were confirmed. Maddy would wait to see how bad the storm was before choosing exactly where she would spend the night.
Their arrival was 40 minutes late, and it was immediately apparent that there was no hope of going on. The ashy snow was already piled high around the terminal entrance and their train had to be pulled in by an old-fashioned work engine with a plow attached to it. Retrieving her bag from the rack, Maddy heard the announcement informing passengers that attendants in the terminal would be trying to re-book trips but, at present, it was unlikely any hotel rooms would be available. It was even quite possible that all the sleep cubicles had been taken an hour or two ago. For those who had not, or could not, make accommodations, sleeping spaces were available in the terminal, meal passes would be handed out and every effort would be expended to make them comfortable. Maddy and her bag wandered into the terminal along with all the other stranded pilgrims.
One glance out the glass walls of the terminal told Maddy that making the reservations from the train had been a wise move. There was no possibility of any trolleys or electric cars making their way through the murky snow and sludge still falling with no sign of relief. That meant the terminal hotel, then.
On her way to the reception desk, Maddy saw a familiar looking dark-haired girl, standing in the phone area, talking to someone. Ah... the erring passenger. She seemed calm, even cheerful. Beyond her, Maddy could see the screen and her connection—a young man, blond and bearing a blazing tattoo on his forehead. He did not appear as cheerful as his contact, but Maddy couldn’t make out their conversation. All around her in the terminal, the fury of angry, bewildered passengers competed with the outside storm as they clamored for a train—any train—out of there. Attendants did their best to sort out the necessary requests from the merely impatient, the higher castes from the lower. The girl caught Maddy’s eye, shrugged and smiled while she chatted away.
Completing her registration at the hotel desk, Maddy picked up a key then went to her room. Once inside, she hooked into her PNA and released the other two reservations. Good fortune to anyone trying to get out of the terminal to those hotels. She debated showering and changing. But there was only one really decent restaurant in the terminal, and she decided to get a meal while she could.
There was a
45 minute wait she was told, without much apology. Many of the staff had been sent home earlier on a specially provided work force bus, trying to beat the worst of the storm. Officially off-duty, Maddy nodded and took a seat at the bar. She ordered a scotch —the real stuff—and yes, water on the side. Maddy didn’t care that the water was as expensive as the scotch. She drank rarely, and when she did, she liked the best. Her pod had done very well this year; her credit account could afford it.
She sipped her drink slowly and looked around at her fellow customers. Far fewer than she had believed would be here. A man and woman—Condistas—perhaps a bonded couple, maybe even married, they seemed so comfortable with each other. Three or four other women. Five or six men, Susaliis and Condistas scattered here and there. No Imperiatas, naturally. They rarely traveled at all, and never on public transport. One fellow directly opposite her kept trying to catch her eye. Maddy studiously ignored him. She accessed her book again and tried to regain its mood, while drinking her scotch and nibbling the sashimi-minis and tapasitas on the bar hot plates.
Glancing up when the maitre d’ came to update her table status, she spotted the girl from the train sitting at a small table in the bar, reading something on an old model PNA, a glass of wine before her.
Finishing her drink, Maddy ordered another. The book could not hold her interest or relieve her restlessness. She almost wished she still smoked. No, she didn’t. She knew smoking was irresponsible to the Corporation, her group and her pod. The ill health of One was the ill health of All. She wished David were here. Well, no, actually, she didn’t wish that either. The relationship with him had been too fraught with personality conflicts, too many hurts and too many arguments. Even the lovemaking, intense and satisfying as it could be, in the end was not enough to smooth over the rough spots out of the bed. No... she had been calmer, more efficient and useful since their parting. The breakup had given her additional blocks of time to devote to the Project, and this meeting in NDA should be the final step before launching. If all went well, the future might hold no more travel delays such as this.