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Synopsis:
The fourth collection of fables of Rue, the Viscountess of Skin, and the weird secrets of the World beyond the Line.
GPX Folio One, Two and Three are available at a reputable link near you.
Disconnected fables from—
Gutter-princess of Xanadu
collected by Chase Nightenruhk
Folio Four
So it is written, month of Rigors, 2011
: Inès
Inès popped the hard shaft out of her mouth. “Is it good? Am I doing it right?”
There was no response, which made her horny and angry.
She slid the wet shaft back into her mouth and let her tongue enfold it. She squeezed her thighs tight on her steaming cunt. Her finger rubbed the fabric over her clitoris.
The acts were too shameful and yet nearly always on her mind. So horny all the time. She could not stop lavishing attention on the damned Porsche. The repetitive rhythm of the stick shift banging deep against the back of her throat made her whole body shake with lust that overrode her thoughts.
Her eyes rolled up in her head as she prayed for the Porsche to show her just a small bit of the lust it had that day with Rue. Inès pushed three fingers past the tight edge of her bicycle shorts, deep into her snatch and thought about a huge leather seatcock up her ass. Her blood sang. Her knees stretched apart and spread her thighs wide.
She came hard, her hand a frenzy of motion in her groin. The garage filled with muffled cries of passion. She sucked and licked at the cool leather-topped shaft.
A few minutes passed before Inès slid the still hard stick from her mouth. “So nasty.” She licked her lips. A few twists of her torso and she sat up in the driver’s seat. Her bicycle shorts sopped with her juices.
She slammed both palms against the steering wheel. “Why? Why do you make me do this? Why won’t you respond? I clean you. I wax you. We take long drives. I try to understand. I thought we had something—something huge and wonderful and dark and dirty.” She felt the tears threatening again. The orgasm hadn’t touched her deeply enough.
Inès glared at the dashboard and hissed. “You fucker! You arrogant German dick. When are you going to ass-fuck me again?”
Thought-record, month of Romp, 2011
: Viscountess Rue
The Viscountess Rue enjoyed her dark cigarette and idly counted scattered yellow clouds. The terrace under the ancient stars provided a graceful hiatus from the overwrought dinner party inside the Palazzo di Urina. It was always a bore when dozens of Powers got together to socialize, but someone from the Chancel had to go.
A sour step nearby and her seclusion ended.
Rue glanced askew through the wreathe of smoke mantled upon her bare shoulders. “Oh, hello. Your party not interesting?”
The Marchese shrugged. “Forse. What’s your brand?”
“Bitter, as you know.” The corner of her mouth turned up.
He nodded. “May I pinch one?”
She smiled and deftly fussed with the purse dangling off her wrist. She provided the delight and then lit it for him.
He blew the first cloud back into her face with a nasty smile. Then he gave her a slow licentious look. Rue wore white heels and stockings under a bright silk flapper-dress that became see-through in any amount of light. He said, “You haven’t changed an inch, Skinny.”
Rue blinked back the memory of lust and the two of them sweaty and tangled. “So I still bother you, Excellency?”
“Never think about you.”
“Fraud.”
He glowered. “Cunt.”
“Perhaps the best you’ve had based on your churlish—.”
“Whore.”
Rue eyed the clouds and resumed her meditation on them. Any answer to his last remark would perjure her on his turf. Bad form. He’d taught her that among other glorious things.
Unnaturally, he finished his smoke first. He licked his lips and leaned towards her to sip from her smoky wreathe. “Any chance you will ever tell me where you get your smokes? Them, I miss.”
She smirked.
His eyes yellowed alarmingly. “I didn’t think so. Good night, Skinny.”
She inclined her head. “My regards to your Beatific.”
Rue said not a word the rest of the night. Later in her carriage back to the Sunset Realm, she lit a smoke and whispered the answer he wanted, and then she laughed.
Thought-record, month of Rain, 2009
: Duke of Mercenary Devices
“All right, your Grace,” demanded Perdy, slamming the door behind her, “Now that you’re back we can have this out. How dare you get me involved with some slimy drug conspiracy? What kind of candy are you selling downstairs? My nipples are now practically black. My tits are bigger than ever and I don’t—.” She jerked to a stop.
The Duke concentrated on a coin spinning on his desktop. The metal danced with light from the windows on the right side of the room.
Perdy stared. The flickering brightness flashing off the fifty-pence piece sent a shiver of arousal up her legs. It was nice. “I don’t—.”
“Yes, Perdy?”
She blinked hard. The coin seemed larger, the light warmer and her limbs felt lighter. “I don’t—.”
“Don’t like tits?”
Perdy frowned. “No. I like tits. Don’t confuse—.”
“Don’t like candy?”
Perdy mumbled. “No. I like candy. Don’t change—.”
“There are no drugs in the candy. Many people use the vending machines besides you.”
She nodded and blinked. “That’s true. But then—.”
“You’re a late bloomer, Perdy. Many of the most beautiful women are, you know.”
She flushed. Beautiful? She put a hand to her throat and smiled. “My goodness. But my nipples are—.”
“Fabulous. I love the color of chocolate; don’t you love the color of chocolate, Perdy?”
She nodded. Of course. She shifted her weight to her other foot. So horny. She was beautiful. She liked tits. Loved chocolate. He adored her chocolate tits. Her kisses. Nipples fat like chocolate kisses. She laughed. The room was so warm and full of light. “Was there anything else, your Grace?”
“I missed you on my vacation.”
Perdy tightened her thighs. “Well, I think you deserve a welcome home present.” She reached up and fondled her breasts. Her hard nipples thrust beneath her bra and blouse.
The Duke reached and stopped the spinning coin. “I cannot, in good conscience, refuse.”
Thought-record, month of Rampage, 2011
: Viscountess Rue
In her private library, behind a cordon of shrunken heads with orders to screen any visitors, the Viscountess lay naked. Swirls of ashes from hundreds of smoked cigarettes drifted about the frozen lemon-sorbet floor beneath her settee.
Serenity lately avoided the Chancel of the Sunset Realm.
After years, the Rat was cross with her still. Her friend, her companion in mystery, her rock of stability had shared barely thirty words with her since Rose bent.
Rue lit another cigarette. Chase fell into temptation regularly with Rose but was a good guide for the poor girl. That should help—eventually. Rue counted on Rose getting better.
But how to make things up to Rat? A party? A trip?
And it came to her so simply. Rue smiled.
A hunt.
Thought-record, month of Remorse, 2010
: Duke of Mercenary Devices
Damn Rue for showing him that coin trick. Now he’d surely lost fine control of his estate. Our Beatific might replace him: a ghastly thought. He ran a hand over his face. “Perdy?”
She stared at him and fussed with the edges of her opened blouse. Her jutting breasts pointed upward with the soft rhythm of her breathing. “Your Grace?”
“Get dressed. I’ll have to consider a fix.”
Perdy hesitated.
“Yes?” He rubbed an eyebrow.
“I don’t want you to fix it. I just thought you would want to see the finished product.”
“What?” His head ached but his cock started throbbing.
“I figured it out. I am your desire. I’m a randy rude. A sex toy. A fuck doll. It makes sense, the inflated tits, all the hair not on my head has fallen off, and I think about horny things all the time I’m not pushing candy bars in my big red ‘o’ of a mouth. I even get off watching myself in the reflective glass of the vending machines.” She relaxed and her face went completely blank while her mouth popped open in a circle of juicy wet surprise. Her face animated again when she spoke. “Like that.”
He stared and his cock slammed awake with heat. Definitely. On more fronts than one, he’d been too inattentive of things around him. The power of his estate reached everywhere and never slept. Lord, she looked just like a blow-up doll come to life. He cleared his throat. “Well, I think a fix is in order and that is for me to decide, Perdy.” He looked at her more closely and realized most of what had happened to her so far lay hidden to mundane eyes.
How had she figured this out? Oh. To keep his attention. Her need for his need.
Perdy stared at him. “I’ll quit and sell myself on the street if you try to make me less attractive and sexy, your Grace.”
“What!” The Duke jolted with guilt and confused lust. He stared at his half-naked creation: her voice so perky and matter of fact about her corruption. He adored those big dark nipples that tasted of the finest Swiss chocolates. “Pull up your brassiere. Button your blouse. Go to work, Perdy. You are not quitting. I’ll find an answer that meets your challenge.”
Perdy grinned. “You’re so easy to manipulate, your Grace. Thank you.” After a quick showy squeeze of her tits, she arranged her clothes and left his office.
He rubbed at his cock. “Hades. Should I see Rue? No. I’ll solve this myself.”
Thought-record, month of Rampage, 2011
: Marchese of Piss and Blood
In his palace library, behind a battalion of crack soldiers with orders to shoot intruders and then question them, the Marchese lay naked. A nearby champagne bucket held ashes from hundreds of smoked cigarettes. His guests were gone. The party done. “I hate her.”
No one objected to his observation.
“I must find a way to hurt her.” Though immortal, the Marchese’s face took on a tired look of despair and haunted memory.
This potent admission did not pass unnoticed. With a gust of ill wind, a pair of delicate glass doors to the terrace blew open. The Power of Entrances landed lightly on the marble floor and bowed.
The Marchese sat up and his eyes yellowed dangerously. “How nice of you to drop by, Bishop. I was hardly expecting company.”
“Forgive the sudden drama, Marchese, but I have waited years for you to invite me here for the specific purpose you have just mentioned.” The narrow-faced man put his palms together in a gesture of prayer.
His host raised a guarded eyebrow. “Rue. She is your frustration as well? You know how to take that American hubris and smash it? Please sit down.”
With polite words, they began to intrigue.
So it is written, month of Rampage, 2011
: Chase
The bar flowed with small sounds of glass containers and quiet conversations. The two women, one Polynesian with a perfect complexion and one skinned like a mahogany princess, slid into a booth and ordered drinks.
I walked to the bar and ordered a Kamikaze. I settled into a seat and pulled out my notebook.
Talk between the two women began to drift over the booths near theirs. I saw subtle changes moving within the faces of the men catching wisps of the ladies’ voices. This was the fifth bar tonight. The hunt continued.
Watching the hunt reminded me of a chess game. I’m not good at chess, but I understand how it is supposed to work. I know the value of the pieces and how dangerous they are based on their moves: straight, jumps and diagonal. I knew tonight’s social occasion between Rue and Rat was much more than an apology or quest for forgiveness. I watched two chess masters fence with each other, while the pieces thought they were running the war.
But then, I only saw with mundane eyes, and I’m not that good at chess.
A pawn tried to move to their booth. They chatted, but he didn’t get to sit down. A pair of straight-ahead rooks tried next. More chat, they got to sit. Much smiling and laughing and more drinks. One guy put a hand on Rat’s leg. Some shared whispers between the Powers. Hands wandered under the table.
Having seen Rat with her bare mitts snap attack-dogs in half, I shivered for the fellow with the hand inching up her leg. My drug of choice: curiosity. I had to get closer and hear things.
I resettled at a table. The nice waitress gave me a second Kamikaze. Somehow, the rooks were captured and sent packing within moments of my taking a seat again. I think they were pale-faced, smiling and holding hands when they left. Missed what caused that. Dammit.
Ten minutes went by; I thought they might move to another bar. Then another fellow moved to their table. He leaned toward them talking and smiling. His braced arms went wide at the table edge, his eyes zeroed to theirs. A knight?
I sweated arousal now. Not understanding the hunt any better than I did chess, this knight seemed an important move.
It took several minutes to realize he spoke with a cadence. I twisted my neck to see around his back. Couldn’t. Then I realized that was deliberate. The knight didn’t want anyone to see what he was doing.
Hard and hot at the core. My cock harder still by the instant.
I got up and walked to the bar. Mirrors there gave me more viewing options. Both ladies were staring at the candle flame on their table. Their eyelids rested at half-mast. The knight talked and talked. The knight revealed as a Player? Or did he just think he was? Were they hunting sheep or tiger?
The knight stopped talking. He snapped his fingers.
The two ladies shifted and slowly looked at each other. They leaned closer, so slowly, and kissed. Lips crushed in slow motion and mouths widened. My cock flamed. I rubbed against the bar, unthinking, and moaned.
The knight rapped on the table. They stilled; stopped so fast that two kissing statues could not be more immobile. I came in my pants.
Tiger. Definitely, tiger. My notebook filled with shorthand scribble. I felt close to a second orgasm.
The tiger leaned over the table: said one word. The Powers blinked, unfroze and muttered revulsion. Their faces twisted. Rat wiped her mouth. That had to be faked. Right? Or did Rat’s long tiff with Rue mean they might come to blows over a kiss?
Tiger rapped the table. They froze again in expressions of shock.
My brain danced, my fingers shook, writing furiously. I glanced at the clock—back to the table. Tiger reached across the table and plucked at their nipples while they remained helpless. I bit my lip not to moan again.
The Tiger gathered his prey with a finger snap and whispers. They slid out of the booth and into his hands. Arm in arm the three walked out into the night.
I followed, pained by the hot iron in my pants.
Thought-record, month of Rickets, 1971
: Viscountess Rue
The Singapore street hissed with alarm and its dusky bitumen skin vibrated under her feet. At the corner newsstand, naked models screamed from their raunchy magazine covers. “We bleed. Danger. Perfidy. Help us, oh, so quickly.”
Half-turning in her café seat, Rue sighed and put down her paper. “It had to be me that got an estate with a thin skin.”
So it is written, month of Rampage, 2011
: Chase
So nauseous every time I remember the hunt’s end. I have to get this down before my brain rejects everything I saw and felt. What else is there but more secrets?
Tiger took them both to a closed bookshop and did something to the locked door. They went in and I hesitated to cross in front of the glass. My belief that Rue and Rat could take care of themselves was unshakable.
What are the Misérables? I hope I never understand too well. But I know they don’t belong here. The Tiger was one of Them. I certainly remember Rue shouting as the fight started, ‘Not a Deceiver! A Mimic!’
So I looked. Ugh. There was—. Erk. Don’t know. I saw black rubber hoses instead of a head. The dark hoses ended in mandibles—grips? There were eyes, bright and hollow and glimmering insect-like within the hose cluster. It laughed spittle that smoked and struck surfaces like musical bits of glass. Hypodermics flew like daggers from hands on multiple Kali-arms. It had a prick like an elephant’s trunk. Pale silvery fluid dripped from that cock and beckoned to me. I started forward because I had to stroke that huge cold wrinkled penis.
Excuse me, retch time again.
I recall Rue kicking my legs out from under me. Pain. Upside down for a minute, I could swear Rat pitched credit cards through the air, each one a fluttering blur. Her hand, her purse, her toss, and the bright plastic icons spun into the Misérables with meaty thunks. As Tiger fell apart, it bled jabbering voices—all of victims it had eaten: ‘Do me. Eat me. Stretch me. Bind me. Enslave me. Fuck me.’ The clutching wrongness of the scene smacked into me as soon as it was over.
And left me humping the floor.
I’m half sure I spoke at length to Rue afterwards, questions, questions, but it’s all a haze already. My head hurts. I need to get laid. I hate my life. I love my life. Please. Don’t. Stop.
So it is written, month of Rampage, 2011
: Chase
I’m writing this down so I can read it later. Never let her touch me again. Remember!
This morning at breakfast, Rue to Rat: “Did you think the raspberry scent on its rubbery armor made it more lickable? This one seemed adorable in a shallow, unoriginal sort of way.”
Rat replied blandly, “Smelled like axle grease to me.”
“Oh.” Rue considered. “I wonder what that tastes like.”
Then I needed to vomit again.
So it is written, month of Rage, 2011
: Inès
When Rue picked up for the page, I turned around from my fake phone conversation and put the cocked pistol to her head.
She froze. “Hello, Inès. How awfully clever of you to find me.”
My victim had decided to be Asian today. A lucky break as I’d seen this face before. “Good day, Rue. I wasn’t sure with the things I’ve seen you do that this would get your attention. I figured two things in my favor, but several against.”
“Would you like to tell me what they are? I’m curious.”
“I will,” I nodded, “outside in the hotel parking lot. Do not try to touch me. Do not pick up anything without asking me. If you bolt or move too fast, I will pull the trigger until the gun is empty and I’m sure I will hit someone, if not you.”
She thought about it for a second or two, which caused a cold sweat down the center of my back. Perhaps she sensed I had drilled with the weapon, or as I suspected, her power controlled things that were not part of someone else’s focus. I concentrated clearly on my ownership of the pistol.
Rue smiled. “Agreed.”
I proved another suspicion as we crossed the lobby. It wasn’t that no one saw I held a gun to Rue’s head; it was as if they didn’t want to notice. People did not make eye contact. A little girl of nine or ten stared and put a hand to her mouth as we passed, but her mother didn’t react at all, even when the child called for her mother’s attention.
Then we were out the glass doors and into the tree-surrounded lot. I uncocked the gun’s hammer. “When we get to the car, you get in the passenger side, roll down the window and sit while we talk.”
Rue drummed her fingertips against her hip as she strolled. Other than this small sign, it seemed our meeting might work out. “Fine.”
I could tell her eyes scanned about us. This part of my plan was very weak. There weren’t enough people in the parking lot to support the threat about shooting innocents. But then we were at the Porsche; a thumb press chirped the locks allowing Rue to open the door. She sat.
“Ow! Bitch!” Rue’s eyes got huge. Her jaw set.
Expecting a reaction when she sat on the planted needle, I shifted my foot to her lap and pressed down hard as I could.
Her lovely terrible hands both seized about my calf. For half a second, I dreaded she would rip my leg off. I did not want to shoot her. Did she already know that? The fear made every color, every scent in the moment painfully glorious. She relaxed with a grimace and looked at me. “What’s in the hypo, nasty little Inès?”
I leaned harder on her leg, working the toe of my shoe against her belly. “If I wasn’t taken for a fool, it is a commercial-grade dose of relaxants and aphrodisiacs. About seven times the ‘date rape’ dosage that was part of that college scandal three years ago. You should be unconscious or licking my ass in a minute. Right now, I don’t care which.” But the gun shook in my hand. My clothes soaked through with sweat.
Rue grinned. “Naughty, naughty. Licking your ass sounds very un-Puritan.”
I kept the pistol pointed at the monster until her eyelids fell. Then an irrational impulse visited.
‘Shoot her now. Kill her. You want to see her blood spraying.’
I didn’t. I wanted answers. But it seemed too right a moment. It seemed perversely fitting somehow. If I made an ugly opening in her head, the answers I wanted would rush out. Hand shaking, I put the pistol to her eyelid.
Touching it. Rue’s eye fluttered open. “Thiz iz borrring. Arrre we going to play dominus?”
I stared. Even crocked she held a dim perception of what transpired. Why would I murder her? It made no sense. Amazed at myself, I cocked the hammer anyway. I couldn’t believe I would do this. My teeth hurt from the clamping of my jaw.
The Porsche’s horn blared loud and angry.
I blinked and uncocked the pistol. Rushing around the car, I got behind the wheel. The engine started before I could put the key in. I wept with excitement. The handbrake released and my love peeled rubber out of the parking lot. I would have to buy him new tires if he kept that macho shit up.
“You dirty beast. Do you only have life when Rue is near?” I was so glad I had worn thigh-high hose. My love’s leather felt hot and randy under my ass. I smiled into the rear view mirror. “Oh, I seem to have forgotten my underwear. Do you suppose someone will take advantage of me? I’m all slick for it.”
The engine roared. The seat melted and pulsed and impaled me, ripping my skirt as the thick seatcock took my ass.
I laughed and drummed palms on the wheel. I shook my hair free of holding clips. My knees crushed wide against his leather interior. My ass hurt from his powerful stroke and I loved it. “Fuck me baby. Fuck me hard.”
The radio abruptly blared out ugly German heavy-metal rock, but I didn’t care. The first orgasm hammered my ass cheeks hot as sin. I screamed, thrilled with whorish satisfaction. The Porsche pulsed inside me. Rewards indeed were commensurate with risks.
My passenger, my deadly darling victim blinked and tried to hold up her head. “Save some forrr me, eh?”
I reached and belted her in. “Get your own dick. I haven’t been screwed properly since you left us. Until I know why this works, you aren’t getting any.”
But oh, that made her laugh. I grabbed the gun firmly. She cackled. My lover was mine again. I shoved my ass harder onto his lovely thick cock. Still, the snigger continued, sent tremors through my flesh and added a dirty high to what I already felt.
Arousal at being laughed at? No. I didn’t want that. But even as my thoughts connected the two, my toes curled hotter in my shoes.
Rue leaned towards me as far as the seatbelt would allow. Her hands roamed inside her thighs and teased at her crotch. “Enjoy the ride, lamb. Don’t ask how the love happens. It’s a bit scary.”
I swallowed. I felt filthy with heat. “Yes. Let’s play dominus. Inès says, ‘finger fuck yourself’.” My pussy gushed at this harsh, lewd declaration.
But Rue obeyed.
Her drunken smile teased the wise lines near her eyes and those lovely hands violently frigged away. The wet sounds became so vulgar I gripped the wheel and felt my thighs strain further apart. I chewed my lips and sucked at moist air; moaned listening to her do it. “Harder!”
The engine roar upped again.
Rue obeyed. One foot kicked a bit, her hips shifted. Then she gasped loudly; panted. I stared, not quite believing. Four fingers thrust in-out and hammered at the syrupy folds of her sex. I moved a hand from the wheel to pinch at my clit.
The Porsche zagged around some turtling sedan.
“Yes!” Now both hands off the wheel. I tugged a nipple. Excitement lit everything. “Harder!” I knew I would come. Thrusting my ass, my own explosion roared towards me. My feet arched tight in my shoes. “Harder!”
Rue obeyed. Her hand pumped. Slopped. Strained. Slammed. Juice spattered her thighs on every thrust. “As. You. Command!”
The three of us came together. Such a perfect moment needed no answers.
Love is scary.