He'd been overcome by the mood of the moment, knowing it was foolhardy in the extreme (not in the least like his customary meek and mild self) and not caring one whit for the consequences. Passing through the window, he stole across the scuffed linoleum to the door and eased its lock shut. When, still invisible, he lowered his furry bulk onto her, she instinctively wrapped her legs around him. She had her eyes closed. A huge grin swam on the surface of her face. His back claws digging holes in her sheets, he gently licked her forehead, poised to thrust into her.
Then everything went wrong. Her stoned mate began to mewl in the hallway, jiggling the doorknob. When her hand brushed against his wet, quivering nose, she snapped open her eyes and discovered that she seemed to be embracing air only. She began to whimper and struggle. Worse than that, in the throes of impending orgasm, he lost his hold on invisibility. When he materialized—all three hundred pounds of him chittering and dripping like some Wonderland nightmare—she paid out scream after scream, plastering the walls with them. He leaped from the bed and zoomed about the room, displacing desks and chairs, bunching up throw rugs, and upsetting metal wastebaskets. Then he vanished through the window.
For weeks on end, he had cowered in his quarters, hearing nothing but screams. He lived in dread of a visit from God that never came. His heart shuddered to recall that time. He never found out what became of her, nor did he want to know. No, he wasn't about to attempt a human female any time soon.
Visions of Anya rekindled inside him. Dear sainted wife of a saint, betrayed in her own bed while she slept. If only there were some way to wrest her from Santa Claus, if only she would consent to live with him here in his burrow, go down on all fours, spread wide her knees, and graciously beg the inthrust of his bunnyhood.
"Wait," he said. A Wyandotte in mid-lay craned its neck around and blinked at him. "Who do you think you're staring at?" The hen turned away, looking perturbed, and laid a chartreuse egg. "Stupid chicken," he muttered.
Of course. There was nothing to stop him from paying a visit to the North Pole right now. Fairy-fornicator'd be in his workshop this time of day. He would hop boldly up the cottage steps, rap once, accept Anya's kind invitation to enter, and tell her—haltingly and with much feigned regret—what he had witnessed. Perfect. Expose the big blowhard, put Anya ever in his debt, then whisk her away, assuming she would have him.
Ah but that was pure fantasy. She would never have him, never love him as he loved her.
He would bring flowers. Peonies were nice. Perhaps mums or snapdragons on the side. He pictured his precious Anya puttering about the burrow, bringing a woman's touch to it, making it more appealing. She would sidle up to him here in the laying house, stroke his ears or playfully twist his tail as they watched the hens, then go with him hand in paw, her eyes demurely downturned, to their quarters.
His back foot thumped excitedly on the ground.
Abruptly he stopped. His face twisted into a scowl. Bad plan. What proof could he offer of Santa's treachery? Who would believe his word against the word of Santa Claus? No one. Certainly not Santa's wife.
Envy lit a cauldron in his belly. He wanted to boil that fat little goody-twoshoes in it, singe his whiskers, make his balls swell and burst. God had made Santa Claus almost a god himself. He'd given him a winning smile, a wry wink, and an outsized erection. He'd set him atop the world and tied him to the birth of Christ. And who did he stick with the death of Christ? Oh sure, he knew, all of that culminated in the resurrection. But let's face it, for pure appeal, no empty tomb, no death-defying corpse with a pierced side and wounded hands and feet, could hold a candle to Baby Jesus in the manger. What else had God given him? One lousy burrow, one huge bunny body, one night's horrendous delivery schedule each year. And one raging confluence of hormones. No mate to share his love with, no stimulating companions of any kind to keep him from going crazy, and nothing to do during the rest of the year but peep in at bedroom windows.
Nothing to do . . . but peep in . . . at bedroom windows.
Watch Santa Claus fuck the Tooth Fairy.
Rouse the lovely Anya from oblivion.
Yes! He sprang six feet in the air, provoking a startled flurry of wings in the lower tiers. He dashed out into the exercise area and rolled back and forth in the dry earth, chittering wildly.
That's what he'd do. He'd camp out at the North Pole. He'd watch Santa sleep, all night, every night, studying his every toss and turn. And when he winked his lickerish eyes open, peeled back his blankets, and stole from his sleeping wife, there'd be invisible bunny paws following right behind him, tracking him right to that little love-nest the two of them had joked about. The rest was easy. Draw Anya into magic time, lead her to the hut, and stand beside her watching her husband's elfhood slide in and out of fairy flesh.
Goodbye Santa, hello Easter Bunny. That's what Anya would say. Then he'd have her. He'd have something that used to belong to jolly old Saint Nick. He'd have Santa's ex-wife. But would she love him? Would she have him? Oh yes, she would, she would! He scampered excitedly around the perimeter, drawing the thick woodsy air deep down into his lungs. Then he scurried into his quarters and poked his head around the archway.
"Petunia honey, I've got to have you now!" he said. She gleamed back at him like sex absolute. As usual, all was forgiven, they loved one another so. He hopped toward her, doing his best to hide the vision he was conjuring of Anya in his mind, a vision so vivid he was certain it splashed across the twin screens of his pupils. Not that he could fool dear Petunia, who knew of course his every mood and desire. Things just worked out better if they pretended they felt something genuine for each other.
Nuzzling her gently, he licked her about the neck and ears and forehead. She tasted so-so. No, wait. He shut his eyes and now it was Anya's forehead, wise with age and smelling as close and rich as a smooth block of cedar. He lingered there, exuding droplets of scent from the glands on his chin, letting them moisten her.
Time to move behind her. Turned on though he was, he paused to admire her great brown tail. There it was, upthrust and fluffed out above her lovehole. That tail had taken him months to get right, months more to perfect so that it would enhance their lovemaking.
He placed his front paws on her shoulders, readying himself to mount her. His left paw drew back sharply as though shocked. She was cold there. He saw, beneath her shoulderblade, the naked gleam of wire winking at him.
"Easily fixed, my girl," he said. Swiftly he bent his head between his legs, everted his anus, and voided a soft pellet into his mouth. Righting himself, he worked it flat with tongue and saliva and smoothed it into the upper edge of Petunia's wound. Instinctively he licked his mouth clean. Then down he dipped again. Up he came and jawed a second pellet into paste, working patiently at his mate's repair. It took thirty pellets to patch her up, but she looked grand when he was finished.
Now for his reward.
He ran in circles about her and pretended she was doing the same. What a dark beauty she was, all in all. There she crouched, hindquarters lifted, her chest and forelegs pressed eternally to the ground. He pawed away the dimness that separated them, mounted sweet Petunia, and closed his eyes to replace her with Anya.
It was Anya under him. It was dear white-haired Anya at his service, taking his bunnyhood inside her holy body and gasping thank-you's at every thrust. Upon her perfect back he drooled, imagining his dribble stepping down her skintight old-lady vertebrae one by one.
And then the great need came upon him.
In an instant, all thought dispersed. A chaos of feelings swept together and tightened into joy. And the buildup that could build no higher reached up one final inch and trembled there, poised to topple. With a thrust so vehement it brought his back feet off the ground, the Easter Bunny shot Anya full of seed and toppled over on his side, chittering and snorting in a delirium of joy.
6. Spilling the Beans
The dead middle of the night at the North Pole. She dozed like alabaster perfectio
n in the moonlight. One arm lying outside the bedclothes contoured the comforter to her curves. The other had draped itself idly across her breasts.
The Easter Bunny's eyes widened. A soundless chitter passed over his mouth. For an instant, that face made the image of a goddess flare up behind his eyes: before time began, a lone goddess standing—no, not standing, dancing, swaying, weavingXX—upon nothingness, her undraped contours fanning up a wind, fanning him up behind her, creating him out of chaos. But then his memory blinked away from that, and the bedroom was before him again, the big bed where lovely Anya slept.
He sighed. She would never be his. His fantasy would never come to pass. But if she couldn't be his, then she wouldn't be Santa's either.
When he passed his paw over her and twitched his nose twice to bring her into magic time, the breath flowed into her and turned her sculpted features to living flesh. She was stunning in her loveliness. "Anya," he said, gazing down at her.
Her forehead wrinkled and her face flinched, but she slept on. He had spoken too loud. Would she think him brazen, using her first name?
Softer then: "Mrs. Claus."
Her pupils glistened as her lids began to open. She inhaled sharply. The hand flung across her chest went to her face. With thumb and middle finger, she stroked her temples. Then, noticing him, she startled.
"Don't be frightened," he said.
Hugging the bedclothes to her chin, Anya shrank back against her headboard.
"It's all right," he soothed. "I'm not going to hurt you. It's me, the Easter Bunny. You know. Colored eggs and Easter baskets. I leave yours right here every year."
He pointed to the spot near her night table where he had set down the large basket on his last visit. But she was still only half awake. Her right arm shot out toward her husband, connected with bedding.
"Santa's gone for a little walk," he said. "In fact, that's what I've come to talk to you about."
Her breathing slowed and she squinted at him through the moonlight. "The Easter Bunny," she said, as though answering a child's riddle.
She snatched up the gold-rimmed spectacles from her night table and put them on.
His breath caught at her beauty.
Smiling, she shook her head. "You know you gave me quite a turn, you naughty creature. Old women are frail. We shock easily. And you're quite an imposing figure."
"Forgive me if I frightened you," he said.
She laughed and put a hand to her mouth. "The worst of it is seeing you talk. A six-foot-tall white rabbit is bad enough—"
"Eight, counting the ears," he corrected.
Again she laughed, then abruptly stopped, dipping her fingers into the collapsed comforter on her right. "Where did you say my husband was?"
The Easter Bunny worried his lip and looked out the window. Part of the workshop was visible, its bright red facade turned black by the night. Buttressed against it was the stable where Santa's reindeer now slept.
He felt an urge to go no further, to restore Anya to normal time so her husband could materialize next to her from one eyeblink to the next. Anya would, with the power of her husband's persuasion, be convinced his visit had been a dream.
Of course, if he did that, he would never be able to meet her again. There would be no chance for affection to blossom between them, no possibility that that gentle hand of hers would go roving through his fur. His mating would forever be confined to a doleful doe slapped together from shit and saliva. Enough of that, he thought. She was too good for him, she'd never go with him. But oh how precious she was and what pity she roused in him, lying abed in wifely ignorance, knowing not what dark deeds her husband was about. He owed Anya the truth. And he owed himself the satisfaction of seeing Santa toppled.
*****
Anya was amazed how expressive the Easter Bunny's face could be. Her initial fear had swiftly given way to delight at his ability to talk, followed by astonishment at the emotional range his features commanded. At the moment, he was the very image of anguish and remorse, even to the downturn of his whiskers.
"Mrs. Claus," he said. There was a frown about his eyes and an inability to look directly at her for long that she found alarming. "Your beloved husband, whom all the world holds dear for his unbounded generosity, his irrepressible joviality, is, I regret to say, at this moment in the arms of another woman."
Anya felt a clench in her gut. Then it flew out into a dismissive gesture. "Stuff and nonsense." She hugged the blankets to her chest and laughed. "Not that it's any of your business, but Santa and I aired this issue twenty years ago and he vowed to be faithful. You may not know the value of a saint's vow, but I do."
"Long ago, deep in the woods beyond the skating pond, Saint Nicholas built a cozy little hut." It was as if he hadn't heard her, as if he had only paused for breath as she spoke.
"There's no hut in the woods—"
"A hut whose sole purpose is to conceal from you his adulterous goings-on."
There was something else in his eyes, something she couldn't quite read. It was alien, distancing, and cold. His assertions, absurd though they were, revived memories of the emotional devastation she endured when the whole Tooth Fairy business had surfaced. Thank God all of that was behind them.
"Santa Claus does not lie," she insisted.
"He's there now. Both of them are there now. They are . . ."—he raised a furry eyebrow, shrugged as one ashamed, stared at the floor—". . . having sex." The Easter Bunny's words struck hard at her heart.
"What kind of cruel joke is this?" she said.
"It's no joke, I assure—"
"I think you'd better leave. I don't recall inviting you in and I'm not even sure you're who—"
"If you'll be so good as to come with me, I'll take you to their trysting place so you can see for yourself." There was a false note to his solicitude, an undercurrent that made her feel uneasy.
"Now what could possibly induce me to leave my warm bed and go hiking through the woods in the dead of night with a six-foot rabb—"
"Eight—"
"—with an eight-foot rabbit who claims to be the Easter Bunny but who might be something else entirely, for all I know, and whose motives may be less than honorable?"
To this, the creature raised one paw and gave a wry smile. Then he hopped—monstrous hops—over to Santa's closet, slid it open, and took out a pair of workpants. He reached a paw into one pocket after another, fishing for something. At last he stopped, drew forth a piece of dark cloth, sniffed at it, and flung it across the room. It landed on Santa's pillow, part of it spilling into the depression where his head belonged. Moonlight caught the red silk, the ribbons, the betraying shape of the thing. Anya's fingertips, reaching reluctantly to touch it, confirmed what her eyes had guessed.
Devastation claimed her heart.
"Fine," said Anya, clutching the red panties and tossing them away from her. They landed on Santa's side and slithered to the floor. She threw back the covers, anger flaring against her furry messenger. "I'll just put a few things on over my nightgown and we'll be off."
*****
The whiff of Tooth Fairy, still potent after twenty years, nearly drove the Easter Bunny wild. He had to hold Santa's pants in front of him to conceal his arousal from Anya. She had flounced out of bed and now stood by her closet in a wash of moonlight. Feeling his right foot readying to thump against the hardwood floor, he crossed his left over it and jammed down firmly. His free paw he pressed to his mouth to keep from chittering. Then he tore the sexual thoughts from his mind and replaced them with forest images, as bland as he could conjure.
She was rebuking him, something about not believing for a moment his wild accusations and warning him not to try any funny business in the woods.
"You'll be perfectly safe in my company," he said. "I'm here to prevent your being taken advantage of. A woman of your caliber should not have to . . . let me say no more. By the way, if you prefer, feel free to change out of your nightgown rather than piling layers of cloth on
top of it. I'm impervious to the charms of the female human form, you know. Doesn't do a thing for me."
"Forget it," she snapped back, delightful even in her anger. She moved like some rag doll, double-jointed and comical, reaching up for a woolen cap and jamming it over her ears, fumbling with the buttons of her fleece-lined coat, collapsing on the bed to reach down and zip up her snowboots. She tugged on thick mittens and stood up, her face flushed with defiance. "All right, rabbit," she said. "If we're going, let's go. I want to get this stupid little farce over with, throw you the hell off my property, and go back to bed."
Swallowing hard, he raised a paw to the bedroom door. "After you, lovely lady."
*****
Anya stepped off the front porch and followed the Easter Bunny across the commons. Stars hung overhead, stipples of cold fire on a black backdrop. Underfoot, the snow squeaked and crunched in raucous cacophony. They headed toward the pond, scored with the stubborn scars of skate blades. Beyond it lay the elves' quarters.
Skirting the pond, they veered right and headed into the woods. Anya sensed a dread holiness about the place, as though the arching trees formed the ribs and splayed ceiling of some great cathedral whose white-vested prelate now guided her to its corrupt inner sanctum.
Endlessly they worked their way through the snow, he hopping and pausing to wait for her, she moving one tired foot in front of the other. She wanted to believe he was lying, but the bootprints they followed engraved a message of betrayal on her heart.
When it seemed she couldn't walk another step, a wicked patch of orange light winked at her through the trees. The Easter Bunny took her mittened hand and led her into the clearing toward the hut he had spoken of.
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