Bride of Meephos

[Anath Nananja]

Era XIV Post Fractum, Spring, Third of Immanis
Vortex: Necromantic dark city mired in controversy.



Anath Nananja leaned hard on her right stiletto, hip jutted, letting the skin-tight leather do most the selling. There wasn’t very much of it, a thong, leash, skullcap, her mask, and a corset. The constricting undergarment, stiffened with whale bone, strangled her waist, accented her hips, and made her dusky breasts pop like the eyes of some asphyxiated corpse. Uncomfortable wasn’t the word, it was painful, and the mixed elf liked it.

She stood in a line with three other women, two humans and a dwarf. The latter consistently saw twice the business most other girls attracted, especially the droll humans. Nothing surprised Anath, least of all that perverts roaming the slums of Vortex were curious enough to pay for a four-foot woman dressed in clown makeup toting an oversized lollipop. However, Anath was the top seller and the most expensive in the bunch, partially for her unique breed, mostly for her unique lusts.

Lighting a cigarette off to the side of them was Braise, their pimp. He wasn’t particularly cruel, unless you missed the night’s mark or really got him going. Human, like the majority of Vortex, and middle aged, but kept in wonderful shape. His sin was vanity. He worked out regularly and dyed his hair a greasy black. He was a greasy individual, oily skinned, oily fingered, who often partook in what he sold. Anath had had the… pleasure more than once, and while he lacked creativity, he certainly was strong.

Anath appreciated a man who never pulled punches and wasn’t afraid to get dirty, another reason why she wore the mask and skullcap. Braise had given her two black eyes and torn a clump of her platinum white hair out by the roots. It was the best he’d ever performed. She’d subsequently shaved her head and decided on a burglar’s eye strap, though even had she left herself sloppy there would still have been buyers. They’d be the mean kind, her favorite kind. While Anath never shied from pain, Braise insisted she clean herself up. Pansy.

A potential buyer lurked just outside the pub across their way, loitering by the bushes like some dog sniffing for a place to leak. This was how a lot of buyers came about, lingering around the bars and, upon leaving empty handed, abandoned charm for paid sex. She only hoped this one wouldn’t pass out as soon as he hit the pillow. The girls called those godsends, Anath thought them boring.

Braise spotted him too, sneaking glances as he wet the bricks, and positioned himself for a sale. Anath and the girls did as well, perking up, posing, one human dumb enough to whistle. Braise flashed the girl a look like he was going to smack her, and probably would if the sale was scared off, but the man zipped up and strolled over.

“Evening.” He said with a slur.

“Sure is.” Braise began. “Shame to spend it alone.”

The man grinned, looking over the row of whores before him like a pig at the trough. There was the tiny clown with candy, the brunette human with the pink bunny ears, the blonde whistler with a red tutu, and of course Anath, black leather and breasts. His gaze avoided the dwarf after one glance, apparently not into that. Anath wondered if he had a little daughter and the likeness was just too much. She hoped so as he uncomfortably inched closer to the humans.

Bunny smiled and turned around, shaking the bushy, little tail sewn to her short shorts. He seemed to like that, but the whistler stole his gaze when she completed a perfect fouetté en tournant. As her leg spun, it brushed suggestively across his leg. Anath liked her little move and leaned back to see whether or not she could pull off the sale and avoid Braise’s ire later in the night.

“I could be your private dancer,” she cooed, making further contact with a hand traced down his buttoned shirt.

He seemed about ready to mount her in the street, might have been thinking it as he looked around. Sensing the sale was all whistlers without a little nudge, Anath shifted her weight as the man looked her by. As their eyes locked, she shoved her entire fist into her mouth. It was blunt, lacking any finesse, repugnant even, and the stretched corners of her mouth curved upward in a smile. She slowly removed her hand, letting saliva link her fingers and her lips in a long, glistening thread.

“How much for the elf?” He asked absently, his eyes locked on her chest as spit dribbled.

Braise rolled his eyes as he walked up behind the customer and rested his hands on the man’s shoulders. He massaged them slightly, “Fine choice, friend. Anath is one of this blocks up and coming talents. And just because I’m feeling generous, seven crowns.”

Anath casually walked up to the man and slipped her arms around his torso. She was slightly taller than him and bent her knees enough to appear just a little shorter than him instead. She rested her head underneath his chin and nuzzled until he whimpered, “Sold.”

After he paid Braise, Anath led him by the hand to a one-room hovel that doubled as her home and her office. It wasn’t much more than a flimsy wood shack, but she kept a neat rose garden beneath the broken-out windows. Walking up the stone steps, Anath turned and smiled. Carved above the door by fingernails was Some People Don’t Want to be Saved. How true it was…

“Come into my parlor,” said the spider to the fly. Anath unlocked the door and entered. Her client paused a moment and followed.

The hovel’s interior was dimly lit by two candelabras flanking the massive bed. It took up the majority of the floor space, obviously, and was draped with all manners of velvet, cotton and tweed. Four great purple pillows and a bearskin rug rested over that. A thin mosquito net encircled it all, tacked to the ceiling along with a cracked mirror facing downward. Anath shattered it the time she bedded that giant, quite a messy situation rolling around in the glass with a mammoth.

If only this man were a giant, she sighed, masking it as anticipatory as she walked around to the toy rack. There wasn’t much there, as girls had to buy or make their own, but she planned on expanding her collection with her next cut. As they hung, there was a glass bottle, a cat o’ nine tails, rope, handcuffs, a gag and a feather duster. “Pick your poison.”

The man looked approvingly as Anath tried each of the toys on herself, undressing as she did so. When it came time to undo the last of her corset cords, she let the fumbling drunk have the honors. She could smell the beer on his breath, feel it ooze from his pours and spatter onto her naked flesh. She faced him and licked the sweat off his brow. Their first kiss was clumsy, but he didn’t pay for critiques, and she matched his forcefulness with her own.

They fell on the bed, tearing some of the net with them, and wrestled on the bearskin. He tore away her skullcap and, finding her bald, laughed a little as he caressed her scalp. She winced as he pressed on the area Braise had torn hair from, still terribly sore, and positioned in a way that made sure he kept rubbing it. Tears welled in her eyes as she laughed to herself. Then he pulled off her mask and ran his trembling, groping fingers over her face, down her body, to her center.

Part of her job was to act, though any oaf could provide some sort of pleasure. She embraced what he could offer her and magnified it with her tried and tested cries. He was mechanical, a dog with few tricks, and what he did think worked grew tiresome within the first few minutes. Still, happy he wasn’t passed out already, she tried a few tricks of her own. At first he was shocked, slowing his pace as he grew uncomfortable, but as Anath began activating pleasure centers he’d never even dreamed of with his bland wife or uninspired mistress, his cries of pleasure were soon drowning out her fakes. Long into the night it ran as Anath schooled Bard, his name discovered in a mage-apprentice role-play.

When he finally stopped and laid a soaked wreck across the bed, she sat up and stared at his meagerness. He snored so loudly for such a slight man. She teasingly ran the bottle over his stomach and he barely mustered the effort to slap it away. He was finished, his seven crowns well spent. She felt somewhat less satisfied.

Sliding off the bed, she found herself unable to take her eyes off him. It was as if she was suddenly seeing him for the first time. She saw through the pale flesh, the patchy hairiness, crooked tooth and overgrown lashes. She even saw through his bravado, his skills (or lack there of), his hidden family life, looked past his very name and race. She could see the spark, his life force, the only thing of worth he possessed. Money was not the issue. He could spare money, he could spare a night in the slums, but the one thing he had that was truly precious was his life. And he owed her something.

Casually passing around the bed and to the toy rack, she lifted the gag. She slid beside him on the bed and dangled the leather strap with the rubber ball at one end over his face. He barely stirred. Lifting his head gently, nuzzling it as she did so, Anath slipped the strap behind his head. Then she moved back to the rack to get the handcuffs. It was a bit trickier getting his to move his hands close enough for them to be cuffed, but she managed with a little help from her breasts. Click.

“Wha-what are you doing, Anath?” He groaned, his eyes still closed. “I have a wicked hangover. I’m not in the mood.”

“One last game, Bard.” She said, taking the rope off the rack and winding it around his ankles.

He kicked at first, “I’m serious,” but the thought of one last kinky escapade eventually won him over. She finished tying up his ankles and looped the remaining rope around the cuff chains. He looked like a feast day pig. All she needed was a spit to cook him on.

“Cute. Now how about you play where I can’t reach.” He said, his last words before she gagged him.

He still looked calm even as she lifted the bottle and examined him curiously. “Try to escape.”

He struggled for a few seconds and muffled something to the effects of “I can’t.”

Anath allowed the growing thrill to take her and she beamed a real smile, something Bard hadn’t seen until that moment. It wasn’t the smile of a painted beauty or a subservient sex slave, it was a dangerous grin, a hungry expression, expectant, crazed even. He didn’t like it at all and muffled something more urgently as he struggled harder. The ropes and cuffs held.

Raising the bottle over her head by its neck, Anath broke it against the bedpost. Glass rained over them both, but the mixed elf could only laugh. The sound was clarion and cruel and got Bard rocking helplessly. Careful as a cat stalking an injured bird, she crept between his legs. Lifting the bottle, looking up into the mirror to see his frightened eyes and her vague form in the reflection of the reflection of his pupils, she stabbed down. He screamed from behind the gag, but men were always screaming from her abode and she never met trouble. She stabbed down again and again, the fun of it taking her, and she lost herself in the reflections in the mirror, in his frozen eyes, in the puddle. She stabbed until there was little solid flesh left and she grew drowsy on the effort. Anath fell into a deep sleep, a sound sleep, cuddled next to the pulp.

When she awoke it was like being reborn, covered in blood and seeing a motherly face staring back at her. Of course it was her own reflection through the broken mirror, but it distorted her features enough that she appeared a different person. And she was.