Fragment from a Collaboration

Posted by C on August 31, 2002 at 07:35:57:

I was working on a collaborative effort, which seems to have slipped into limbo as they usually do. Here's a bit from the beginning that may prove entertaining. Comments, as always, appreciated.

(Fragment One)
By C

Part I

It was a fine spring day at McGregor's Agricorp.  In one of the many forest preserves that bordered Mr. McGregor's vast holdings, a McGregor employee stepped quietly out from behind a tree.  She was perhaps the most unusual person ever to work for Agricorp:  a cat/human hybrid.  She looked like a girl for the most part, except that she had pointed ears, big yellow cat's eyes, and a cat's whiskers.  Her body was covered by a light orange down with black stripes.  Moreover, she had a tail, downed and striped as well, that snaked out behind her.  Also, her fingers were clawed; and if and when she opened her mouth, you'd see a cat's fangs.  Otherwise, quite human.  She wore a diaphanous pink min-sari, extending only to her waist, a red mini-skirt, and red knee-length boots.  

Over each shoulder, she had slung one of the bunnies she had just caught:  bottoms up, legs before, heads behind.  These were Mythican bunnies, of course: quite human in form, except for the their long ears, prominent front teeth, and fluffy white tails.  The tails stood straight up, as normally happens when the tender flesh beneath them has been wounded.  Dressed only in white long-sleeved chemises and white high heels, these were two members of an all-girl bunny species.  Their wrists were bound behind them with rope-a probably unnecessary precaution; they were quite out of it, from loss of blood.

Catgirl (for that had been her name as long as anyone knew) had used her usual stratagem to capture these two.  She'd leave a heap of lettuce, carrots, parsley and what not in a clearing.  Food and sex are the two most important things in a bunny's life, so an abundance of one naturally prompts thoughts of the other.  But Catgirl took no chances:  she always laced her bait with a powerful Acme patented aphrodisiac.  No bunny had ever resisted it; none had ever wanted to.  The wily huntress would then hide behind a nearby tree.  If only one bunny appeared and took the bait, Catgirl would let her go; ninety-nine times out of a hundred, she'd bring back a friend within minutes.  Today, no waiting had been necessary:  an especially pretty couple walked hand in hand into the clearing.

When they saw the pile of provender, they gave out little cries of delight and descended on it.  They ate, and ate, and ate, all thought of danger banished from their food-crazed little brains.  When at last they had stuffed themselves beyond the possibility of any further stuffing, they lay down side by side and began to snuggle and fondle each other's pussies.  This went on for less than a minute, and then they shifted position: now each could thrust her tongue into the other's tight little bunny twat, and proceeded to do so.  Soon they were thrashing, and kicking, and whimpering as the pressure built. Then they groaned, loudly and with abandon, as girl-semen jetted from their tongues.  Just then, Catgirl fell on them.  She threw herself across their bodies and savagely bit at their groins, again and again.  Her victims screamed and struggled frantically, but it was hopeless.  Soon, capture orgasms were wracking their bodies:  their cunts spurted blood, once, twice, a third time.  At last, they lost consciousness.   Catgirl tied their wrists behind them, put one over each shoulder, and set out for Field 67.

Field 67 lay fallow this season.  Catgirl and Mr. McGregor had agreed she'd bring her prey here.  Once a week, he'd come out for an inspection, and pay her a bounty for each bagged bunny.  When she stepped into the field, the first thing she noticed, as always, was the sweet, almost over-powering fragrance of bunny pussy.  Not surprising at all: one hundred dead bunnies were lined up in rows of ten on the field, their cunts as moist as ever.  Bunnies stayed fresh a really long time, and none of these was more than a week dead.  

As she entered the field, her two charges began to come to.  Moaning, they looked around them for a while.  Then the noise really got started.

"No!  No!  Oh dear God, no!  Don't kill us, oh please God no!" they said.  

"Shush," said Catgirl.  "You're already dead.  You just have a little more kicking to do."

"Oh please, please, please, we're newlyweds!" one of the girls cried.  "Have a heart, please!"

"Newlyweds, you say?  Then you have at least one thing in common with all the others.  Welcome to the bridal suite!"

"Oh no, no, no, no!  Oh dear God no!  Have mercy, please, no!" and so on.

Catgirl sighed, and then yawned.  Could this be the high water mark of her career:  bagging brainless bunnies?  These were 101 and 102, so she started a new row.  Down they went, right next to each other.  "No!  No!  Oh God, God, no!"  Catgirl noticed (was it for the first time?) that both had green eyes and yellow hair.  The eyes were wide with terror.

"Eeny meeny miny mo," said Catgirl, then took hold of a pair of thighs.  The victim kicked and struggled, but her captor was too strong for her.  The girl's legs came apart, and the huntress sank her teeth into the already wounded bunny cunt.  This new injury prompted a high, thin, ghostly scream.  Then it was nip, and suck up the juice; nip, and suck up the juice--as the hapless lagomorph thrashed, wailed, and moaned.  It wasn't long before the final orgasms were wringing out her body.  Then she was done.

"Now for number two."  Catgirl sank her teeth into the second girl's groin.  (Doing so prompted another high, unearthly scream).  Again, it was nip, nip, nip, till this victim started spouting.  Her cunt cream was thicker, and hotter, than her mate's, and she shrieked with every spurt.  A last hard, surge of cream; a last hard kick; and she was as dead as all the others.

"Whew," said Catgirl, and yawned again.  She hoped that she'd given the two a worthy send-off.  (In Mythican belief, fays relive the day of their capture and demise over and over again in the underworld; it's important to give them a last day to remember.)  She hoped, but it was hard to pull out all the stops these days.  Her heart just wasn't in it.  Surely, there was something more to life than this?

"Nice work," someone said behind her, and it wasn't Mr. McGregor.  Catgirl turned and realized, with an infuriating mix of irritation and embarrassment, that Coyote was standing ten feet behind her.

"Those bunnies are warded," she said.  "I'd be careful if I were you."

"Oh, I know that," said Coyote, as he reached down to fondle a dead but still inviting bunny cunt.  A green spark leapt up from the defunct female and touched his paw.  He yipped and jumped six feet into the air.  

"I don't tell you these things because I'm in love with the sound of my own voice," said Catgirl.

"I'm sure you're not," said Coyote, rolling on the ground now to put out several small fires on his fur.

"Now, poaching aside, is there anything else you want?  If not, I suggest you beat a swift retreat. Mr. McGregor is coming in another minute or so, and he's not someone it pays to make angry."

Having extinguished the fires, Coyote gave his voice a tone of wounded dignity and said: "Mr. McGregor asked me to meet him here."

"Oh, he did?"  Catgirl was trying to sound scornful, but something very different was going through her mind.  Oh great.  McGregor probably wants to hire him, and show me the door.  That fucking figures.

"Yes he did," said Coyote, shaking his head vigorously to disperse any lingering smoke.  "It seems he's heard of a mission (a possibly very lucrative mission) that would be ideal for my talents-and yours."

"Mine?  He said that?"

"Yup.  He told me he thinks you're wasting your gifts here, bringing down brain-damaged bunnies by the bushel."

"Well duhhh," said Catgirl.  "If it weren't for this goddamned sexist fantasy world I'm stuck in, maybe I'd be putting my talents to better use."

"Why don't you go to a world that's more, uh, congenial?"

"Because I can't afford the paradigm shift.  But I'm saving up for it, believe me."

"Hmm," said Coyote.  "If all you need is a loan, I could certainly . . . ."

"No.  No way.  I'm not gonna wind up owing you anything.  I know you too well for that.  Good try, fuzz face."

"That's sort of like the pot calling the . . . ."

"Oh, just shut up.  Did McGregor tell you what sort of 'mission' he was talking about?"

"No.  He didn't know the details.  He said it's not his baby; some consortium or other out East is behind it.  But he gets two finder's fees if he convinces you and me to sign up."

"I knew there had to be something in it for him.  Well, let's see what he has to say when he arrives.  It can't be much longer."

As if on cue, they heard a voice:  "Hewwo, evwybody!"  A small, plump, completely bald man stepped into the field.  He was wearing a blue pinstripe suit.  To either side of him were several very large, very muscular-looking associates, also in blue pinstripe.  These gentlemen all wore black, reflecting sunglasses.

Mr. McGregor ran up, his henchmen coming silently behind him.  "Catgiwl!  Coyote!  How's twicks?"  As he said this, he pumped Coyote's injured paw.  Coyote winced very visibly, but just said: "Fine, fine; and how are you, sir?"

"Wight as wain!" He then looked at the rows and rows of dead bunnies.  "Hmmm," he said, "let's suwvey the damage, shaww we?"  Then he began to count, very slowly.  When he had reached 102, he exclaimed: "Catgiwl!  Youw best week yet.  I'm pwoud of you!"  He then gave her a big kiss on the cheek.  Turning to an associate, he said: "Pay the wady."  The associate counted out the bills and handed them over.

"Now enough chit-chit," said McGregor.  "I have a pwoposaw fow both of you.  It seems thewe's this consowtium in New Gotham.  I checked 'em out:  they'we all pwominent business and powitical weadas.  They got a big fay pwobwem out thewe-one they haven't had much wuck handwing so faw.  They need some fiwst cwass tawent, and I'd say that means you two.  The pay sounds pwetty good.  Intewested?"

Turning down a proposal from Mr. McGregor would mean, at the very least, that she never worked again in this part of Mythica.  Catgirl said: "It sounds great, sir."  

"Count me in too . . . sir," said Coyote.

"Gweat, gweat."  McGregor snapped a finger, and an associate brought over a pair of contracts.  When the two hunters had read the small print, they and McGregor signed.

"Well then," said Coyote.  "When do we set out?"

"Wight now," said McGregor.  "You have to get to Miwwa's Cwossing by nightfaww."

"Miller's Crossing?" Coyote queried.

"That's what I said:  Miwwa's Cwossing.  When you awwive, you'ww meet a thiwd hunta.  He awways wowks independentwy, so I get no finda's fee fow him.  Dwat.  Anyway, you meet him at Miwwa's Cwossing.  He'ww have instwuctions for the next weg of the jouwney.  Good wuck."

At this point, McGregor's eye was caught by an especially fetching, black-haired bunny girl.  Her eyes appeared to be clenched shut; her buckteeth were bared.  Clearly her face was still twisted by the painful pleasure of her last orgasm, though that had been a week ago.  "Wovewy, just wovewy," said McGregor as he bent down and slipped a finger into the dead girl's snatch.  There was no magic warding spark this time.  He licked his finger and said: "I wove wabbits; I wove 'em dead, that is!  Who's gonna wid the pwace of 'em with you gone, Catgiwl?  You gotta weaw tawent for it."                 

A few more pleasantries, and Coyote and Catgirl were on their way.  Not knowing what to expect, they traveled light:  just two backpacks.

Catgirl wasn't seeking conversation, but Coyote managed to get one started any way.

"Curiouser and curiouser," he said.

"How so?"

"Who would dare to be an independent agent in McGregor's territory?"

"Someone McGregor can't hurt?"

"And who would that be?"

"How the fuck would I know."

"And why," said Coyote, pausing for emphasis, "don't we get the whole itinerary right away?"

"That's easy.  They're worried about leaks.  The less each of us knows, the less we can let slip."

"So what are up against that security is so important?"

"Not to mention that three hunters are needed.  I'd say this isn't your standard 'slam, bam, you're de-pantied, ma'am" operation."

"Very bothersome," said Coyote.

"Well, you did sign on," said Catgirl.  "Best not to complain at this point and just try to get the job done."

"A wise woman," said Coyote.

"Oh fuck you," said Catgirl.

They were making good time, and they reached Miller's Crossing well before sundown.  They looked around, but found nobody.  "Well," said Coyote, "while we wait, how about an early supper?"

"If you're making it . . . . " said Catgirl.

"We could make it . . . together," Coyote suggested.

"Good try, fuzzball.  Just get to work, would you?"

"You don't have to be . . . ." Coyote started to say, when suddenly there was a crash like thunder, followed by a blinding white light.  The two hunters threw themselves on the ground.

"No need to kneel!" a loud voice boomed at them.  "On the other hand, if you feel it's appropriate . . . ."

Coyote and Catgirl looked up.  Before them stood . . . what?  A sort of wolfish, coyoteish, foxish fellow in black jeans and a black t-shirt ("Fucked up 24/7" was stenciled on the front of the shirt).  He had dark dreadlocks, tied back with another a rag-or perhaps it was another t-shirt.  

"W-who are you?" said Catgirl.

"You're in awe of me, aren't you?" he said.  "Oh this is so exciting!  I'm Thief, one of a distinguished family of . . . ."

"Immortals," Coyote said.  "Crikey, they've hooked us up with an immortal."