Street Rats Ch. 01

"Drop the towels," Longhair told her. "Show us your body, witch."

"You two go in and sit down first for me, like I told you."

They did not obey her instructions. They lunged and snatched the towels from her, baring her in a flash. Also spinning her around as they jerked those coverings away. Obviously she was taken by surprise and alarmed by this. Stunned speechless, in fact. As bad as if they'd struck her across the face.

"Get in there on the floor," they told her, "Get down on your hands and knees."

She shook her head—to shake off her stupefaction as much as to indicate refusal. "We're not going to do it that way," she insisted, with a determined stamp of her foot, and for added emphasis she snapped her fingers under each of their noses. "I'm going to be on top of you. That's what I want and that's how it will be. I'm going to ride each of you, one after the other, until I'm satisfied. Neither of you shall put your filthy hands or your mouths on me as I'm riding you unless I decide to tell you otherwise in the course of the proceedings. Now go on and do as your damn well told."

But they wouldn't. They only grinned and shook their heads. Longhair said, "If it was a pair of quiet well-behaved little gentlemen you were wanting, to only sit still for you so you could bounce yourself off on them, you should have hired the lady's lads that work in here. She's got them all trained nice. We don't play like that, not lads like us. You paid us to fuck you—not to fuck us."

"Don't be obnoxious. My money, my rules. I give the orders, boys."

"No, you don't, witch-bitch. You don't give orders to street rats like us, out of the alleys, out of the filth. Not when you're standing there naked and horny. If you decide to bring lads like us into this place, then what you wanna do—what you need to do, is take them, from us. Until we're done."

And Bald Boy said: "Don't cover yourself." Instinctively, when they had stripped her, she had shielded her treasures with her hands. Which was ridiculous, but at the same time, dammit, she was the one that got to decide when it was the moment to reveal herself to them! They were spoiling this! He whipped at her with the towel he'd grabbed—but she dodged it easily, and then remembered she still had the towel on her head, around her hair. She pulled it free—accidentally making her glasses drop against her chest in the process—and covered herself with it, best as she could manage. Just held it hanging down her front—since it wasn't large enough to cover all of her if she wrapped it around her like the others had been.

"Let go of that." Again, they tried to grab it from her.

"Stop! You brutes! Do as I say! Do your hear me? Idiots! I'm paying you!"

She got a real slap across the face, for that, and lost the towel at the same time.

"This is what you're paying for! I just explained." And now he mentioned it, that was true, of course, with types like these.

Longhair got hold of her hair and one wrist, twisting it behind her back, and propelled her ahead of him into the steam room. The clogs slipped off her feet, when he shoved her. Her last bit of covering, not that they'd covered much. "Stop it! Let go! Stop!" she wailed. But he wouldn't.

The damp tile was surprisingly cold and gritty, now that the soles of her feet could feel it. And in another moment she would be feeling that tile with the palms of her hands, as well, and against her knees and shins.

She knew, the whole time, the woman that ran this bath house wouldn't let the thugs really harm her. This was all part of the "show" she'd bought for herself. She still felt foolish. She hadn't intended it to go quite this direction, at least not as far as this. At least not right away. But it was too late now, it seemed. She should have been more specific with her instructions at the beginning. She could call it all off—the woman had given her a dismissal signal, like they always did. All she had to say was "Whiskers." Then even if the boys didn't immediately back down, the woman would send guards in to pull them off her and punish them. But she wasn't gonna use the word. At least she didn't think she was. This was a bit more than she had bargained on, and yet even so, embarrassing and ridiculous as it was, she was caught up in it, by this point. She was really feeling it like it was real ... and it wasn't a bad feeling. Or not all bad. She'd come here for a good messy going-over, and that was what she was gonna get. That was what she was getting.

It was all just a game, in any case. A diversion. It didn't matter. She was safe and nobody'd ever know—nobody that knew her, anyway. Nobody that mattered.

3.

Must be said, these boys were quite good at what they did. Gave you your money's worth. What she got from them wasn't exactly what she had intended to purchase. But the fault for that was hers—perhaps not completely, but more hers than theirs ... And now one couldn't help but wonder if on some subconscious level she had made the mistake deliberately. Judged in their own terms, the pair gave good service. Delivered a fine product. It wasn't just fucking—it was good, satisfying fucking. A whole world of difference.

You would expect young brutes like this not to know how to please a woman, nor to care if they did or didn't. That they would take their own pleasure as rapidly as possible, with no consideration for hers. At best, if they thought over the matter at all, most males of their age would only assume women must experience the same pleasure in the act that they did, thus achieving equal satisfaction with equal ease ... But these two alley thugs, one way or another, had been better schooled. Violent and commanding as their actions were, she soon recognized that they were nevertheless exceedingly careful with her, every moment. Their brutality was actually an illusion. Each and every motion was targeted and paced with militaristic precision—so that only positive sensations were stimulated. They didn't hurt her at all, nothing they did—or at least no more than a moment or two.

Then again, the pleasures they inflicted were so intense, so overwhelming, the entire experience could be described as almost continuously painful. But it was sweet pain—a sweet, straining ache you never wanted to ease. You wanted to keep hurting like that forever.

She could tell it was a point of pride between them. They had made the act—the art, rather—of pleasuring a woman into a thing to crow over—a demonstration of masculine prowess. A sport, in fact! And it wasn't her, the customer, they were trying to impress. Oh no, not really—not at all! The pair were competing, trying to outdo each other, outlast each other. Taking turns with her, again and again—and each time—each bout—setting out to make her come faster and harder than previously ...

She had expected they would take her together—one behind and the other at her mouth. But that wasn't their way. Instead it was a game of turns ... They made no use of her mouth at all. That would at least have partially prevented her from vocalizing her pleasure—and for their contest it was important for both to be able to hear her clearly, in order to gauge their successes. It would also have been a distraction, wouldn't it? Interference in each man's individual performance—perhaps sucking one while the other was hammering her would have slowed her climaxes, or perhaps it might have sped the cycles up. Either way, would have made it much harder all around to keep a fair score.

She should never have tolerated such use, such demeaning objectification, going on as long as it did—as if she were a race horse, to be ridden 'round and 'round in circles, or a ball they were bouncing back and forth between them—except they were both so incredibly talented. Her pleasure kept increasing, cycle after cycle. And the turnover between peaks continued to speed up, as well. This was turning out to be the strangest, wildest sexual encounter she'd ever had. How much further could the lads take her? How long could the bastards keep this going? Well, she had to find out. No quitting now.

Thus this mad contest of theirs might very well have gone on for a considerable length of time—hours, perhaps. Except all the sudden the game got spoiled. They were rudely interrupted ...

Worst of luck. Soldiers raided the bathhouse.

4.

They wore the same light armor as the two women the elf girl had been drinking with, back at the tavern—in fact she thought she recognized one of their faces. But she might have been mistaken—it was only the briefest of glimpses. Chade still wasn't sure if they were city guards or mercenaries. Could be either, considering their leaders ...

Which turned out to be other witches! At least half a dozen. Red capes, veiled faces, and distinctive white hats with broad, triangular brims. Of course—the Sisterhood of Pillars. They were a young sisterhood, very new indeed, and very reactionary. Self-appointed protectors of virtue and morality. They sought to purge the vice and crime from Mundane cities. Hence this raid. No doubt they were attacking similar establishments throughout the city at the same moment. If Chade was arrested by them in this place, doing what she was doing, it would cause a furious scandal. And there could be no refuting the facts.

She would never have been able to fight her way out—not against so many. And in fact she was so appalled by what was happening, petrified with mortification, she would have allowed herself to be taken without the slightest struggle or protest, had it not been for the alley boys. They saved her.

"My word!" pronounced the witch at the doorway, the two troops at her shoulders both brandishing hooked truncheons, "What have we here?" Her voice positively dripped with scorn. "This is supposed to be a house of cleansing, is it not?"

Chade almost fainted, but neither street rat seemed to flinch. The bald one, without even extricating his cock from her passage, snatched the knives from his arm and his leg and hurled them with remarkable accuracy—he pierced the soldier on the left through the eye, and the other one on the right through the throat. Even as their bodies were still toppling, Longhair had seized the hem of the witch's cape, and flung it up over her head, to blind her, if only for a few moments ... Time enough for them all to dodge around the shrieking woman out of the room and away down the hall.

"This way! Come with us!" Longhair had grabbed her wrist and was dragging her along through the narrow, winding, steamy corridors ... They ran and ran, turning corner after corner. This bath house was quite a maze, and far larger than she had realized, before.

Two or three other soldiers got in their way, hollering and waving their weaponry, but the boys were able to either avoid them through other sideways passages, or once, just bowled straight over the man, despite his size and fury.

Then at last they'd reached an exit—a small trap door into a tunnel. A bolt hole! A few of the house boys were leaping down into it ahead of them.

"Where does this go?" she asked.

"Out and away, of course! Go on!"

"But my things! What of my things?"

She saw the boys had both grabbed their breeches off the floor outside the steam room, though obviously they hadn't taken the time to put them back on yet. And the bald one had also retrieved his knives. But she had nothing—even her cursed dratted spectacles were gone! The little stupid cord must have snapped from around her neck, at some point.

"Just go on! Get down that hole! Hustle!"

"But I can't! Not like this! For heaven's sake, I'm naked!"

"Doesn't matter! Do you want to be caught? Do you know what those bitches will do to us, if we're taken?"

Longhair gently squeezed her shoulder. "We'll take care of you, don't worry. We'll lead you to a safe hideaway, and then we'll get your things back, soon as we can. Or new things, if need be. I give you my word."

"I give you mine, as well. Now go on! Move! We must fly!"

Bare naked she jumped down the hole into the filthy tunnel. No other choice.

5.

Though she couldn't tell for certain, the street rats seemed to have brought her clear across the city through those tunnels—which turned out to be the sewers. Thankfully most of the pipes they'd used had all been dry at the time, not half as dirty or smelly as one would have expected. She had seen many rats along the way—real rats, teeming hordes of them. Which was unpleasant except again she had cause to be thankful—for the creatures never troubled them, just always fled further up the pipes ahead of them.

The promised hideaway was a hidden cellar. Hidden because the building above, a factory of some sort, had been improperly constructed and its roof had collapsed—the resulting heap of rubble had not yet been cleared away because the site was supposed to be cursed and haunted. The ruin overlooked a steep slope. When she peered through tiny ventilation holes in the cellar wall—arranged in a line of decorative diamond patterns about the size of her hand—she saw rooftops a significant distance below, as if she was at the top of tower. Yet to enter the room you descended a staircase from the opposite corner behind her. The original trapdoor at the top of those stairs couldn't be opened—if it could, you'd bring a rain of broken bricks upon you; instead to exit you crawled sideways through a jagged gap punched in the wall on that end about a third of the way down the steps. This put you into a sewer pipe that happened to pass along the other side of that wall.

The cellar was not large and not well lit—you got a little sun beaming through the air holes, not much. Otherwise you used candles, and they only possessed a few pathetic stubs. There wasn't much else in the place—besides the candle stubs, they had a few empty crates for crude furniture, a clay jug of wine, and half a dozen tattered canvas grain sacks that didn't have any grain left in them. Instead they'd been filled with straw and piled together as makeshift cushions. They were scratchy to sit on, when your bottom was bare. Still more comfortable than the splintered crates or the concrete floor.

It was extraordinarily warm in the cellar, for some reason. That puzzled her. Cellars usually stayed cool. Probably it had a great deal to do with the wall on one side being exposed to the sun. But she didn't remember the sewer tunnels feeling any better. Humid vapors blew through them, occasionally strong enough to make a groaning sound. They had a moldy smell. Not nice. Preferable to the stink of shit, she kept reminding herself.

The longhaired street rat had told her his name was Stathan, while the other one, the bald one, was named Shogo. Stathan had left them together almost as soon as they'd reached the cellar. He'd said he was going back for her things, now she was "settled." Which she had considered an odd choice of word—she decided he must have meant it as a joke, one that came out weak like her own jokes tended to do.

He was gone for hours and hours. She finally curled up and took a nap, since there was nothing else to do, and Stathan still hadn't returned when she woke up. Shogo wasn't worried, however. He fiddled with his knives (the wrapping had come loose from one of the handles and he was trying different ways to fix it) and shrugged whenever she asked him questions, or outright shushed her, like a child.

She tried to go back to sleep and couldn't. She'd had plenty by then—her nap had lasted far longer than originally intended. So long it probably no longer qualified as a nap. If that hadn't been the case it wouldn't have mattered. She was feeling too anxious, and too damned annoyed. Worst of all, it was too damned hot. Hotter than it had been before, and that had been horrible enough. She might as well have been a pot in a kiln. Probably the angle of the sun against the wall had changed while she was asleep. All the narrow beams through the airholes looked straighter than earlier, and also seemed brighter, if she wasn't imagining the difference.

Chade didn't think she'd ever sweated so much in her life. She could feel it streaming in thick rivulets down her skin—her back, her ribs, her belly. She could feel heavy, quivering droplets gather in a line along her upper lip, and along her brow the same way, and sliding down her nose. It occurred to her she would have sweated even worse if she had clothing—but then again, she wouldn't have had to just sit there suffering. She could have gone off somewhere cooler.

Tiny flies buzzed around her face—swatting at the things did nothing to discourage them. Shogo started passing her the jug of wine. She'd take a tiny sip and hand it back to him. He'd take a much longer drink and then pass it over again. All those tiny sips, tiny as they were, gradually added up inside her belly and inside her head. The room began to sway around her, like the deck of a ship.

Shogo went up the stairs and took a long, sizzling piss through the hole in the wall. After he'd come back down, Chade went up there for the same purpose. Of course it was a little trickier for her. She cut the back of her knee slightly, trying to sit on the rim of the hole with her ass sticking though it. It was a tiny enough cut that she could immediately heal it. Only then the minor spell left her more lightheaded than it should have, even someone with as small a Talent as she had. She got dizzy and tripped on her return down the stairs. Might have seriously hurt herself if Shogo hadn't caught her at the bottom.

"Feel like a fuck?" he asked her.

Actually she decided she did. It would pass the time better, if nothing else. Perhaps, if he did a decent job—and he probably would, in light of his previous performance at the bathhouse—it would take her mind off things. Let her forget her troubles.

"I suppose I don't find the thought objectionable."

"Too bad you've no more money to pay for it, this time," he said.

"Ha ha," she replied. "Foolish of me to think you were making the offer as a friend."

"Must consider my livelihood. Bad business, to start making exceptions."

"You can add it to my account, if you want. Provided the terms haven't suddenly gone up on me."

"Same terms. Is that agreeable?"

She half-nodded, half-shrugged. "Might we take things a bit easier today? Could I be on top, like I wanted in the beginning? Or would that count as another exception—thus potentially dangerous to your reputation?"

"In this heat, I'll admit, that sounds a more comfortable approach. For both of us."

"Exactly my perspective, yes."

So he pushed his breeches off and laid back and she crawled over on top of him ... but then they didn't stay in that position for very long. Only until she had climaxed on him, which she did with surprising speed, even though she was trying to take the business slow with the intention of stretching it out—and the distractions it provided—as long as possible. Somehow almost as soon as she got started, she lost control of herself—when she mounted herself upon him, they had achieved a remarkable angle, inside of her. More by chance than design—his fit was ideal. The stimulation produced when she began to move on him was so extraordinary it made her laugh aloud. It was so impossibly perfect it was ridiculous. Sex was supposed to be like this only when you found your perfect soul mate—while this was just a meaningless fuck with a street rat. A boy who was billing her for it! (If he hadn't been joking about that—she honestly wasn't sure.)

The orgasm was so strong she almost fainted. When it was done, gasping like a landed fish, she rolled off him for a rest. But she didn't get one, or not enough of one. She was too dazed to realize what he was doing with her until it was done. Despite what he'd said before, she found herself seized and flipped around on her hands and knees—and Shogo was again plowing her from behind. The brute had made a bitch of her once more without even asking her leave.