Arrie and the Wolf 2

by Glass Eileen

  “What are you?”

  He answers, “Yours.”

  Another kiss. I’m open and receiving this time. The ink trickles into my hair, like many fingers massaging my scalp while Rex’s tongue slips between my lips, and I breathe into my nose, breathe into him. Yes, this does cure pain. The burning scent repairs all the little fissures and cracks in my spirit.

  And I’m awake, but in a focused, distinct way.

  Edith doesn’t exist. The faint dirty sensation from sleeping on the dusty floor is but a memory almost forgotten. Even my hate, always nagging me, fades to something like a bad day, in the past and done. I’m with him now, and that’s all.

  “You aren’t for eating.”

  A nose nuzzles my jawline, a tongue slicks my adam’s apple.

  I swallow.

  I’m exposed to him, my arms thrown back, my head bent aside, my eyes drifting open and closed like those dolls with rolling eyes.

  He holds me like this. My thighs lift off the concrete an inch, and the ribbons snake underneath. I have the sensation of being held as a child again, supported by the arms of a parent. The ribbons don’t have that heavy solidness, they’re light and airy, but stronger than those arms when they choose to be. My skirt rides up, and I inhale sharply when a stray tendril slides up my inner thigh and flicks near the elastic hem of my underwear. The thicker ribbons form a seat like two grabby hands on my rump, the constant wiggling against my other cheeks.

  He’s the perfect sex toy. The greatest massage oil, the softest hands, and the strongest arms.

  I arch. Doesn’t do any good. The ribbons are only firm where they need to be, and move with my skin otherwise.

  “What are you?” he asks.

  What I am is a man. I pant and try to remember who I am. Once a human man with an odd obsession for pretty, a tendency for depression, and a secret longing for an extraordinary world. My vision of extraordinary was manifesting a magnificent mansion, a sexy car, and a sexier man. The American dream with more rainbow and glitter, please.

  Then this.

  “You called me. Yet, the other is my mistress.” He huffs against my neck.

  “I’m a friend,” I say, weakly. I’m fully hard now, exhausted or no, I can’t deny it. I’m straining for that ribbon wiggling at my panties, and rethinking my initial appreciation for the soft gentleness of the ink. I don’t want soft. I want tight.

  Can’t arch any further, but I push my hips, bite my lips. The exploring tendril touches, but it doesn’t seek under the fabric, doesn’t touch me though I’m almost popping out of my panties.

  I’m going to owe Rex a very big apology. I’m going to blame the beast even if I know better. I’ve gotten away with a few stolen kisses by blaming a beer, I’m sure I can do it again.

  I’m shivering.

  “You’re different.” The low growl he speaks with should be off putting. Humans don’t talk like that.

  I love it.

  I think I’ve discovered my new kink. I’m going to be a very lonely, dissatisfied man if I ever go back to a normal life.

  I could never go back.

  But the future can’t be contemplated when his breath trails down my neck, and he starts sniffing and huffing at my chest, his nose and mouth incidentally passing over my nipples. I whine.

  “I’m a good friend, Red, I swear, I can explain…” I whisper painfully.

  Worst friend ever, more like. He was here minutes ago, in pain. Not only can I not hate this beast for his misery, I can’t seem to help being fascinated by him.

  Touch me, I want to say, but I don’t dare. Blame the ‘liquor,’ that’s what I’ll do. My liquor is satin and oh so softly brushing the underside of my balls.

  Okay. Breathe. Think.

  He bites the hardened nub of my nipple through my shirt, and I all but scream.

  Then he smiles, so devilishly pleased.

  “What ever you are…I like it.” The words seem to come from someplace inside his chest, from a different voice box, a different creature inside my human friend. That should creep me out.

  “I like you too.” Now take me, demon.

  I’d make such a bad character in those exorcist films, trying to lay the monster rather than slay it.

  “I’m hungry…” His nuzzling trails lower, to the waistband of my skirt. Or so I think, until, alas, I muster the strength to lift my neck and look at him, to see if he’s going to blow me or any version thereof. I haven’t afforded my imagination time to plot all the dirty uses for a demon like this. I find that he actually hasn’t moved an inch. I’m the one moving, now about two feet in the air. I’m suspended by him, as easily as if I actually were a limp doll, held in the hand of this creature for inspection.

  And that’s exactly what he’s up to. Inspection. He huffs and sniffs at my stomach, nosing under my blouse a little. His tongue—Rex’s tongue, I mean—dabs at the skin of stomach, but only just. His nose pokes lower. Lower.

  I’ve no blood in my brain for which to think.

  “So hungry,” he growls, loudly and sudden. I have a panicked thought for the safety of my jewels. He opens his mouth, chomps down hard, and I almost scream a different kind of wail—the high pitched squeal of a man about to be disemboweled. He shakes the material of my skirt between his teeth, grumbling a dissatisfied noise, chewing the frilly lace, and spits it out.

  He exhales. “But you’re not for eating.”

  Is that disappointment?

  What exactly is turning me on so much right now? Shall I add skirt munching to my already very strange list of sexual quirks?

  I’m so hard, I’m about to cry. If Rex comes to, I’ll jump his bones so fast he may not realize my vagina is an asshole until he’s too blitzed to care.

  Wishful thinking. I know, I know. That tactic has already blown up in my face. Please, just forgive me when it’s over.

  His nose pushes into my crotch and I’m gone. The fabric of the panties is tight, I’m about to pop out, and when I see his tongue come out to lap, there’s still two layers of fabric that need to go.

  “Cock tease.”

  He looks up at me and his ears perk like a curious puppy.

  “Under the skirt. Now.” I try to squirm, try to open my legs for him, but the ribbons aren’t like manacles or ropes that can be pulled upon. Liquid and thin as air, only solid as a ropes when he chooses them to be. I really must be a delicate little doll to him, and with that thought comes a dark revelation:

  Were I for eating, he would likely rip me apart.

  That dampens the mood a bit. But only a bit because his attention drops to the bottom ruffles of my skirt. He dips his head and carefully, curiously pushes his nose underneath.

  His hot breath puffs against the damp fabric. The silk thankfully firms and slip aside the panties, coil around me and squeeze.

  “Thank you, yes, please.” Panting like the little engine that could, I throw my back into it, pushing into the grip, only to be frustrated by my inability to move and let out an angry cry. He’s not going to let me, I realize.

  I find him watching me bemusedly from down there, while the satin slicks up and down and around, firm but never tight enough.

  “What do I have to do?” I almost don’t recognize my own gravelly voice.

  The tendril swirls and dabs at the head. That might be enough, if only he’d keep it up and stop with the gentle stroking that isn’t getting me anywhere.

  “I am the mistress,” he says, a grin breaking out.

  “Master, you’re the master, dummy.”

  “Mm.” The touch retreats.

  “No, no, no! Bad! Ah! You’re the mistress. You’re whatever the hell you want to be.” He definitely looks smug as the touch returns. “I’ll call you teacher if you like, but please, finish me.”

  The touch is lighter than before.

  “Hmm.” He’s in no hurry as he ponders, and I summon the patience of a god not to start cussing at him. It’s not right to leave me hanging like this. “I like Sw
eetie,” he says, and raises his palms. Runes flare alive, and he places them on my chest, black ink growing out in all directions from where they land, stroking my sides, encircling my throat.

  Wrapped in him like a blanket, exactly how I wanted. It’s like laying in satin sheets hot from the dryer, naked and needy. They coil tight on my limbs, their heat felt through my clothes, and they gently squeeze. All of it tightens around me like a hug.

  It’s enough.

  Horny isn’t such a great term. Dangerous might be better, considering the trouble a man can get himself into. Impulsive is a better term for me, for I’ve never met an obstacle I didn’t at least try to climb when I really wanted someone. Got me in trouble in high school. Dad stopped taking me to church.

  It’s just how I am, honestly. When I want something, I’m obsessed.

  What did I want here?

  Rex? The creature?

  To be completely honest, both attract me, but what I really wanted was pure selfish release. Maybe pleasure before the hag wakes up, maybe. Mostly, though, it was all about tension release.

  With it done, I sag in the beast’s hold. He lets me down, licks my cheek, pets me, calls me his. Whether or not that’s a good thing, I hope to live long enough to find out. Perhaps. I look into his red eyes and think maybe not.

  Then I cover my face and try not to cry. Idiot girl thing to do, I know, but I’m dressed for the privilege and I just feel so…bereft with that tension gone.

  Dangerous is a good term. A man knows he’s done something wrong when the shame sets in.

  A ribbon wraps around my wrist, tugs, but stops as I shake my head.

  “Hm,” he grumbles, moving around me, the tendrils tapping and brushing across my shoulders as he moves, and I know he’s examining me.

  I won’t put my hands away until I’ve got control again. I try to summon that hate, and it backfires because all I hate is myself now. But I’m a big boy. I’ve got this. I’m in a shit situation, and I sort of did a shit thing. Not the first time. Now buck up, son, get over it.

  “Ahrrie?”

  He hogs my oxygen. The cinnamon is nice. Still. And that kind of annoys me. I shouldn’t like him so much. I shouldn’t feel so attached.

  I say attached because attraction is too meek a word.

  I peek through my fingers, and he’s right there in front of my face, stooping in Rex’s tall form to meet my eyes at my height. Tendrils pet at my neck and wrists. It isn’t fair that he’s constantly touching me. The ink feels too good. How can I hate or fear him when he’s doing that?

  Not his fault, of course. He’s just a thing.

  I’m the one with a functioning conscience. I’m the responsible party here.

  I whisper, “Can Rex see?”

  The thing frowns, grumbles, doesn’t answer me. Doesn’t get mad either.

  “He is not I,” is all he says, but his petting retreats from everywhere but my wrists.

  “Don’t hurt him, please. He’s a good guy. He’s…” My friend, I want to say, and lips draw shut when I try.

  “I am not hurting him.”

  Okay. So there’s that.

  What does he think of me if he’s in there, watching this creature use his body?

  All I can think of is that it must be like rape of the very worst kind.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have.”

  A curious tilt of his head. Makes him look adorable.

  I rub my eyes and let my hands fall away. I’ve got it together now, or so I tell myself. Minor mishap. Can’t change the past.

  “I sort of lost myself there, huh? I don’t know…I don’t know what…” I shake my head. “Nevermind.”

  This isn’t my first ride on the twirly cup of shame. I’ve done this before, cursing myself for my own nature.

  “Ew.” I bat away a curious tendril from my skirt. I doubt he was trying to arouse me again. More likely he was just petting, as he pets all of me. The tendril breaks and disappears into smoke then nothing as I swipe at it.

  He flinches.

  I muster a small smile for him.

  “I’ve got gunk on my skirt,” I say, and shrug like my previous little meltdown is of no consequence.

  My nonchalance vanishes as his left eye swirls to chocolate brown, and half of his face spasms.

  “Rex?” I ask fearfully.

  Back to red.

  “No.” And he looks very unhappy, so I stroke his arm and give him a little pat.

  “Sweetie.” I say with a praising voice of a man petting his dog. “Sorry about that. I’m a little…off, after…you know. I just didn’t expect that to happen.” In a whisper I add, “I don’t know why it did.” With a heavy sigh, I let it go. Always healing, that’s me. “But I’m glad I’m not for eating. Uh, thanks for that. I guess.”

  Always the funny guy. With gunk on his skirt.

  And that’s a puzzle. The solution is a pale white bowl on the other side of the cell, and I frown distastefully.

  I could write a screenplay for all the reasons I’m glad the beast didn’t go all the way. (And I would of let him in the moment. No self control here.) One of those reasons would be the lack of a faucet.

  “She has a sink down here,” I complain as I cross to the bowl. “And a hose too, apparently. All this plumbing, and all we get is a freaking toilet? What a moron.”

  I consider. There’s a precious thin amount of toilet paper left. No matter how little she feeds me, I’ll need it in the morning.

  I consider straddling the bowl. I consider using a sleeve of Rex’s jacket. We could call it the cum sleeve. Then I consider tearing off the sleeve of my own blouse. I’ve seen ladies tear up their clothes in movies. Heck, I could tear my skirt probably, it’s flimsy. But wiping off the stuff would still leave a crusty spot and I wince.

  Poor judgment. Yeah, there’s a term we can all agree on. I hate dirty clothes, dirty hair, dirty nails, dirty anything. I’ve been a good sport. I’m a man, believe it or not, and I can rough it when I have to. But gunk skirt? Nuh uh.

  I check over my shoulder real quick. He’s staring at me. ‘Course he is, what else is he going to do, chew on my shoe?

  He’s pretty. The lines make patterns on his temples that follow the contours of his face down to his eyes and lightly curve to his lips. My attraction to him wasn’t some cinnamon spell or a need of a release. He’s like a tiger at the zoo, oh so gorgeous and silky, but you’re glad for the bars. Except I’m in the cage too.

  Eyes back to the bowl. Far less appealing. No cute inky ears here, no thick and fluffy red hair, no sexy tattoos. Just my dim, disgusted reflection in the shit water and a gruesome task ahead of me.

  I’m asking her for hand sanitizer and TP in the morning.

  Then I’ll kill her.

  “Thirsty?” The beasts asks, and I know it’s him because his words always linger, his vowels always whisper. He breathes his words rather than plainly speaking them.

  “No. Dirty and unhappy about it,” I tell him, and finally resign myself to the task. Might as well get it over with.

  My skirt is loose around my legs, but tight around my butt. Not so good for maidly chores, but I picked it because it was the longest thing I had. I hook my fingers under the waistband on my hip, work on the little hooks that keep this garment fastened.

  Dressing is one of my fascinations with women’s clothing. Hooks, snaps, buckles, buttons. There’s all kinds of wonderful assets to play with. I don’t think of myself as a girl, but I do like to think of myself as pretty, and wearing pretty clothes makes me feel good.

  A hand covers mine, and I snap out of my self analysis as the tendrils tap and stroke…basically everywhere. Petting my back through my blouse, touching my aching wrist. The best kind of hug from behind that isn’t a jerk off. And his lips are in full pout when I meet his eyes.

  His fingers feel around mine. I know what he wants.

  I guess, after what I let him do, this is the least of Rex’s violation.

  “Different,
” he breathes against my skin. And I feel him shiver behind me.

  The hooks snap one by one, the thin tendrils tickling as they go, but never grabbing or exploring possessively. If he does, I’ll shove him. No more of that. I’m not dangerous anymore. But this doesn’t feel lustful like the previous touches.

  “You live up to your name, sweetie,” I whisper.

  “Mm,” he purrs. Then gold surges in his eyes, his hold on my hip digs in.

  “Fuck me,” I snarl, but the context isn’t dangerous.

  Fine time for him to come back, and I don’t care that it’s ungracious for me to think so.

  I wrench the last of the hooks free and tug my skirt down so that the affected spot can dip into the water. I do a sloppy job of it since the stain is on the inside. And while I’m scrubbing and cussing, and quietly crying inside, he’s backing up, pulling at his hair, turning clumsy circles and muttering, “Let me out, let me out…”

  I can’t have gunk on my skirt. I can’t have my skirt off for that matter. So I do the job, and the whole garment practically gets soaked in the shit water, and then I’m forced to tug the thing back up, soggy and cold as it is. The front dark stain makes it look like I’ve wet myself.

  He lets out a groan, his back hunching, one shoulder twitching, and the ink shuddering. Flinching almost, for how it retreats with twitches and flashes from one rune to the next. Gnarled and malformed ribbons twist amongst themselves before they recede, nothing like the usual grace with which they swim.

  Am I fooled by this thing’s host? Is it not a wolf but a sentient sludge?

  The wet soaks into my panties. I’m gross inside and out.

  “Ahh!”

  Rex wins the battle of his selves, as I knew he would. On his knees, breathing hard. The ink is a mess, but not because he’s crying. When he looks up, I see hate in the lines around his eyes, the wrinkling of his nose.

  “You,” he says.

  This hurts.

  “I’m so sorry, Rex.”

  “Don’t say that anymore. You can’t do anything for me.”

  “I’m…” What else is there to say? “So, um, I guess you know…you know.” He has to, he’s been using my boob-less chest as a pillow all night. “I wanted to tell you but I was…I was terrible. Please don’t punch me.”