outsides. He grabbed her breasts cruelly and squeezed, slamming against her from behind, his pace speeding up quickly as her own voice joined his in an arpeggio of animal pleasure.
Gordon saw red as he came inside her.
Amelia saw red as he came inside her.
The room ran red as he came inside her…drops of blood began to rain from the ceiling and run in sheets down the rough stone walls to coat their skin as the couple moaned in the rhythm of their passion and finally moved past their climax to drop gasping and amazed to the floor.
The floor, too, ran red with blood.
Gordon ran a finger across his skin and looked puzzled. She couldn’t have bled that much. But as he looked, the nude woman before him was awash in crimson. It ran in drops across her breasts, and a red rain coated her pussy in the color of horror…and life.
A man walked into their space and held out a hand to Gordon. His skin was so pale that he looked blue. His nudity was not shocking, but somehow pure; his cock hung unaroused. And while his skin seemed completely hairless, his face looked old—wrinkled and tired. But also…pleased.
Gordon took his hand and stood.
“You’ve awakened the room,” the Watcher said. “You are ready.”
“Ready for what?” Gordon asked.
“The rabbit.”
Chapter Seven
The Rabbit
Only losers hung out at Firkin’s Pub on Monday nights. Losers who liked to drink. Alone. Because there weren’t any pickups left at Firkin’s after 10:00 p.m. on a Monday night. They rolled the carpets up in Roselle, and Travis wished they’d lock the doors to this pathetic excuse for an English pub when they did. Because without a locked door…he had to stay open.
And right now…he soooo wanted to close. Travis sat on a stool behind the register at the bar and waited for the last patron to leave (an old man who nursed a Fuller’s ESB as if it were 100-proof liquor—taking it down carefully, sip by sip). Meanwhile, beneath the bar, Travis flipped through a copy of Bondage Monthly . He loved to think about the leather and the chains, but Travis never would go beyond the page. He sat here at the bar night after night and watched the hopefuls connect and disappear…he knew some of them were probably doing the stuff he saw in his magazines. But he didn’t know how to meet them. Or really, how to suss them out. And honestly, if they came on to him…he’d probably run anyway.
Travis wanted it…but not enough. So he flirted with the pages and fantasized…and sat in his place at the bar, pouring drinks for people who were living. Unlike him.
He was enjoying a particularly hot spread—featuring a chick with long carrot-hot hair in black-leather straps that covered none of her private parts, merely bordered them, and a black man who held a cell phone and looked bored as the woman worked through a series of pictures of her in various unconventional (and physically demanding) poses to interest him—when the door to Firkin’s opened. A thickset man walked in and sized up the bar. Which didn’t take him long since the place was virtually all empty seats. And then he walked to the bar.
He studied a photo in his hand and then looked up and repeated the evaluation, this time on Travis. A grin spread across his face as he sat down on a bar stool.
“What time do you close?” the man asked.
“Depends on who is here,” Travis said, smiling. “Honestly, I was hoping that as soon as the last bit of that Fuller’s over there was done…” he nodded at the old man in the corner, “…that I might be able to close it up for the night.”
The man slapped a twenty dollar bill on the bar and asked, “Would you keep it open for me?”
Travis shrugged. “I guess. What are you having?”
The man smiled and said, “Give me a Bud. And keep the change.”
Travis’s eyes went wide, and he poured the four-dollar beer. The man nodded as he delivered it, but didn’t say another word until the old man in the corner stood up, slapped
Gordon saw red as he came inside her.
Amelia saw red as he came inside her.
The room ran red as he came inside her…drops of blood began to rain from the ceiling and run in sheets down the rough stone walls to coat their skin as the couple moaned in the rhythm of their passion and finally moved past their climax to drop gasping and amazed to the floor.
The floor, too, ran red with blood.
Gordon ran a finger across his skin and looked puzzled. She couldn’t have bled that much. But as he looked, the nude woman before him was awash in crimson. It ran in drops across her breasts, and a red rain coated her pussy in the color of horror…and life.
A man walked into their space and held out a hand to Gordon. His skin was so pale that he looked blue. His nudity was not shocking, but somehow pure; his cock hung unaroused. And while his skin seemed completely hairless, his face looked old—wrinkled and tired. But also…pleased.
Gordon took his hand and stood.
“You’ve awakened the room,” the Watcher said. “You are ready.”
“Ready for what?” Gordon asked.
“The rabbit.”
Chapter Seven
The Rabbit
Only losers hung out at Firkin’s Pub on Monday nights. Losers who liked to drink. Alone. Because there weren’t any pickups left at Firkin’s after 10:00 p.m. on a Monday night. They rolled the carpets up in Roselle, and Travis wished they’d lock the doors to this pathetic excuse for an English pub when they did. Because without a locked door…he had to stay open.
And right now…he soooo wanted to close. Travis sat on a stool behind the register at the bar and waited for the last patron to leave (an old man who nursed a Fuller’s ESB as if it were 100-proof liquor—taking it down carefully, sip by sip). Meanwhile, beneath the bar, Travis flipped through a copy of Bondage Monthly . He loved to think about the leather and the chains, but Travis never would go beyond the page. He sat here at the bar night after night and watched the hopefuls connect and disappear…he knew some of them were probably doing the stuff he saw in his magazines. But he didn’t know how to meet them. Or really, how to suss them out. And honestly, if they came on to him…he’d probably run anyway.
Travis wanted it…but not enough. So he flirted with the pages and fantasized…and sat in his place at the bar, pouring drinks for people who were living. Unlike him.
He was enjoying a particularly hot spread—featuring a chick with long carrot-hot hair in black-leather straps that covered none of her private parts, merely bordered them, and a black man who held a cell phone and looked bored as the woman worked through a series of pictures of her in various unconventional (and physically demanding) poses to interest him—when the door to Firkin’s opened. A thickset man walked in and sized up the bar. Which didn’t take him long since the place was virtually all empty seats. And then he walked to the bar.
He studied a photo in his hand and then looked up and repeated the evaluation, this time on Travis. A grin spread across his face as he sat down on a bar stool.
“What time do you close?” the man asked.
“Depends on who is here,” Travis said, smiling. “Honestly, I was hoping that as soon as the last bit of that Fuller’s over there was done…” he nodded at the old man in the corner, “…that I might be able to close it up for the night.”
The man slapped a twenty dollar bill on the bar and asked, “Would you keep it open for me?”
Travis shrugged. “I guess. What are you having?”
The man smiled and said, “Give me a Bud. And keep the change.”
Travis’s eyes went wide, and he poured the four-dollar beer. The man nodded as he delivered it, but didn’t say another word until the old man in the corner stood up, slapped
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