10. Invitations Accepted
Needling his way in and out of an immense gloom-gray blanket of cloudcover, the Easter Bunny strained to pick out the tiny island from the vast wash of ocean. It had to be close by. There was no mistaking the ill winds weaving fiercely for miles now, nor the blind rage that shot through those winds, a rage whose precise counterpart he had seen spill out of Wendy’s bedroom when the Tooth Fairy reared up and blasted Santa Claus above the child’s bed. Banking low out of the clouds, he saw, no more than a mile ahead, the unmistakable sliver of land rising like a rude welt on the bare buttocks of the ocean.
She squatted upon the sand at the island’s northern extremity. Near her hunched a cedar tree. Tattered strands of seaweed hung from the twists of its limbs; broken seashells lay like shattered bone about its base. At its top he saw the torn half of a starfish, as blue and lifeless as the hand of a dead Morlock. The Tooth Fairy’s elbows locked her knees rigidly together. Her arms shot straight out, ending in tight claws turned up to the sky. Her eyes, shooting dread far out to sea, burned into a wall of gray that seemed continually to be thudding down upon the horizon.
With caution and cowardice, the Easter Bunny touched paw to sand fifty yards off and hopped closer on a zigzag, pretending to sniff curiously at the stiff dune plants, at driftwood, at strewn clumps of seaweed which marked the limits of the last tide. Her stillness spooked him. Were it not for the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of her necklace of teeth and the dreadful in-out-in-out of her belly, he might have thought her transfixed into statuary.
But despite her apparent calm, there was something unsettling about this ravishing creature’s vital signs. Being near her had set up resonances in him, echoes from some dim time, the time before God made him the Easter Bunny, the old time when he had been more in control of his life, and perhaps of the universe itself. His brain hummed dangerously. He suddenly wished himself safe and snug in his burrow with Petunia, whose passivity covered not some smoldering fireball of fury but more passivity, passivity pure and simple.
His heart nearly gave out when she turned her head and demanded: “What do you want?” Leaping straight up, he collapsed into a heap of confusion and cowered in the sand, emitting a faint high-pitched squeal like a cornered piglet. She watched him with cobra eyes, waiting for an answer.
Swallowing his fear, the Easter Bunny hopped closer and sat back on his haunches. “I watch at windows,” he began. “I watch acts of copulation. It excites me.” He fell silent, though his jaws twitched, wanting to go on.
“Is there a point to this?”
He shut his eyes for a moment and forced his neck to bend forward. When he opened them, he was looking at the animal perfection of her midriff, tight and smooth-haired and kissable where it disappeared behind a muscled arc of upper thigh. “I watched you tonight with Santa Claus. After you—”
“You did?” Rising inflection and a razor-thin edge to her voice.
“Well,” he said, losing air, “yes I suppose I did. It’s harmless really. Just something I do. At windows. But when you—”
“And did you like what you saw?”
“When you left, he—”
“Answer me, you little shit!”
His glance shot to her eyes, then darted off. Why had he come? Things were always easier in the planning. Reality always tumbled out whichever way it liked, wild and out of control. He swallowed with difficulty. “Yes, I did. I liked what I saw, very much. But I don’t think you’re going to—”
“What in particular did you like?” He was sure she had not yet blinked. Her eyebeams bored like lasers through his left cheek.
“Well uh, I guess when, when you uh, crouched over his face and, you know, moved your hips real slow so he could see your, your fairyhood all wet and swollen, and you fingered yourself until your juices gathered and grew into shiny droplets and splashed onto his beard. That was, that was really”—(Good God, stay on track!)—”but as I was saying, after you left, Santa went—”
Her voice cut in like acid. “And what specifically did you like about that?”
“Well . . . you know.”
“I’d like you to tell me.”
“Not to me it isn’t.”
Some hot hard thing spread upon his mind, twisting his words: “Well uh, I don’t know, the glisten, the slickness, the openness of it, it’s hard to say, maybe it’s seeing it move and shift, knowing he’s watching it and taking the abrupt fall of your fluid on his lips and running his tongue over them and reaching out for you and pulling you down onto his mouth, feasting on all those gathering juices, maybe that’s it; but—(Duck out from under!)—Santa went upstairs and spent twice as much time in bed with Rachel McGinnis—”
“—and he told her he loves her and wants her to come live with him at the North Pole.” He rode the last tumble of words out over her, pitching them louder and faster and feeling feverish and tight-chested beneath the oppressive cloudcover.
Pure stun beside him.
He became aware of the waves schussing at the shore, at the shore, the shore, shore. Overhead a seagull flew, high and white. The sand felt cold and gritty beneath his haunches.
He took a deep calming breath.
When at last she spoke, her voice was low and flat, but full of points and edges. “Tell me everything they did and said, Mister Rabbit. All of it, right down to the last detail.”
And that’s what he did. He chattered every bit of it out before her like a pagan worshiper laying the fruits of his labor at the feet of an idol. He not only reported every word and deed, but also volunteered precise contrasts between Santa’s interaction with her downstairs and with Rachel upstairs. He scattered before her there on the beach the exact words of love Santa had murmured to the mortal woman. These he lingered over like a jeweler contemplating a velvet of diamonds, then set beside them the dead sheen and roughcut facets of Santa’s endearments to her. Upstairs, he told her, every thrust, every caress, every lick, clip, and cuddle carried special meaning, special caring. Downstairs, all was, by his account, an impressive display of divine animality, a slickening into sweat, a desperate feasting on body parts—a feasting with its own sensual integrity, to be sure, but one which paled beside identical acts done out of the love Santa had come quickly to share with Rachel McGinnis.
As he spoke, the Easter Bunny’s eyes grew bold. They drifted over the Tooth Fairy’s flawless body, settling in to linger upon cheek or chin, nape or nipple, thigh or cunt or rump-lovely buttock. She was daunting in her ways, this fairy woman. But he wanted her more than he had ever wanted anything. His verbal recounting of her intercourse with Santa brought back into his groin all the passion that had typhooned out of Wendy’s bed and washed over him as he watched them. His erection now rose thick and red, right out in front of the Tooth Fairy. He felt no need to conceal it.
“The longer I watched, the more indignant I grew on your behalf,” he said. “So when they’d got in their last licks at one another and said goodbye, I took to the sky and crossed the ocean to inform you of Santa’s perfidy, knowing that vengeance might interest you, and, if I may be frank, hoping that your sense of gratitude would allow you to . . . to see your way clear to . . . well to—”
But before he could weasel out his oily proposition, his innards began to rumble and pound like thunder. He glanced over in alarm at the Tooth Fairy, who remained in her impassive squat on the strand, staring out to sea. A fist of fury seized on his guts, twisted there with an anger not his own, and splayed open its fingers. He quickly yielded to it, letting it own him and move him, feeling it entwine so with his lust for the Tooth Fairy that it turned into a monstrous meld of emotions, which stood his fur up with rage and sexual need.
“Vengeance?” she said. “The world of men and elves does not yet understand the meaning of the word. But I understand it. And I can see you do too.”
“Yes, yes I do. Now please—”
“We feel it in our bones, don’t we, you and I?”
“I’m possessed by it, oh believe me I am. But I also need to, to possess, to be possessed by you. Look at the state I’m in and pity me.” His head throbbed. His brain felt near to bursting with desire. It didn’t help matters to touch a paw to his erection; that felt like the closing of yet another high-voltage circuit in his body.
The Tooth Fairy fell to her knees, her back arched as if to bay at the moon. Her breasts were magnificently pendent. Her fingers dug deep into the sand like gnarled tree roots. At his words, she glanced his way: first a flash of contempt, then a longer look at his privates, a mix of bemusement and loathing and curiosity and some perverse form of reverence. “You want me to give this prick,” she reached out and wrapped a rough hand around it, “what it so richly deserves?”
Colors deepened at her touch. Sounds too. “Oh God, yes, anything you say. Please, make me your slave.”
“On your back, bunny.” She pushed him down onto the sand, leaping upon him like some savage panther and skewering herself on his stiffness. She was dry and harsh there, coarse sandpaper against his tender dickskin.
“Wait, oh Christ, that hurts,” he yelped, tearing her thighs to ribbons with his back claws. Splashes of blood spattered the sand behind her.
“Shut the fuck up!” A backhand seared across his face. Never letting up on the bone-dry coitus below, she thrust her hands into his mouth and wrenched his jaw open, straining his facial muscles to their limit. He gave a series of high-pitched squeals and opened deep wounds in her flesh with front claws and back, lacerating her breasts and buttocks until they streamed with gore. But his attacks only turned her on. Her face fisted smack into his mouth and she bit into his huge front teeth, punching through the enamel to the pulp and wrenching at them like a dog worrying a rag, until at last their roots could hold no longer and they broke free of their sockets, drawing fountains of blood after them. She grabbed his front paws and pressed them down into the sand, munching, cheeks full, glaring at him and flaying his dick with her dry tight vagina. Bunny blood embittered his mouth. His jaw muscles throbbed in agony, but shoots of tooth grew back where she had taken her bloody harvest. Down below, sprung sperm coiled up like whomps of flame through his erection, defining it in his mind as one raging column of torment. Every spasm opened a raw wound. Each wrenching spurt dug another barbed hook into his balls. And then she was off him. Blessed healing visited him as he reeled there and her anus opened and dropped gold-foiled coins of chocolate onto the blood-stained beach.
“Did you enjoy that, Mister Rabbit?”
“No, I mean yes, that is I . . .” He was overwhelmed and tingling everywhere.
“Now listen,” she said, gripping his testicles and squeezing hard, “I don’t give a shit whether you enjoyed it or not, but you’d better get used to it because that’s going to be what it’s like as long as we work together. And we are going to work together, you and me, aren’t we?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he gasped. His claws unsheathed into the sand. He hurt everywhere. But by God the pain proved he existed, and my how she thrilled his senses even as she drove them beyond their limits. No, he would gladly give up a ba-zillion nights with Petunia for one eviscerating evening with the Tooth Fairy.
“Be my eyes and ears, bunny rabbit,” she said. “I give the fat elf one year to wise up and reclaim my love. I want to know his every move, what he says and where he goes, who he shares his bed with. I want to know every eyeblink, every wink, every sigh. You’ll do that for me, won’t you? You’ll spy on Santa Claus for me?”
Slowly nodding, his eyes wide with pain: “Whatever pleases you.” One raised paw. “But what if he doesn’t want you back?”
“Why then, my friend,” she said, twisting his balls until he beat the sand with his back feet and screamed for mercy, “you and I are going to hurt the fat little bastard like he’s never been hurt before.”
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