FRAGMENT FROM A COLLABORATION

(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 their long ears, whiskery noses, 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 fondle each other's pussies. This went on for about a minute. Then they shifted position: now each could thrust her tongue into the other's tight little bunny twat, and they proceeded to do so. Soon they were thrashing and kicking and whimpering as the pressure built. Finally 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 frantically struggled, 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 had been killed more than a week before.

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, oh please God, don't!" they wailed..

"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? Lots of girlfriends, fiancees, and newlyweds here. 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. (Mythicans believe that fays relive the day of their capture and demise over and over again in the underworld; so 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 twat. 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 anyway.

"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 we 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 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."

(To be continued)

FRAGMENT FROM A COLLABORATION

(Fragment Two)

By C

Before they had gotten very far down the river, Thief suddenly fell back into the canoe and began to snore. Coyote and Catgirl had to do all the paddling now.

"Could this guy be any more obnoxious?" said Catgirl. "I mean–he makes you seem almost tolerable by comparison."

"Thanks," said Coyote. "I guess we'll just have to bear up . . . at least for the time being. And in answer to your unspoken question: no, he can't be killed."

"Darn," she said, baring her teeth.

They paddled on for a while in silence. Then Catgirl brought her fist down on one of the gunwales. "God! God! God!" she cried. "I just can't stand the per-fucked-up-vasive sexism of this crappy little fantasy world! Here I am, more than capable of depantying a whole tribe of New Gotham fay-bitches all by myself, and I'm stuck with you two! A sexist jerk and . . . and

. . . whatever the next thing is beyond a sexist jerk! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!"

"Really, it's not so bad as all that," said Coyote. "May I tell you a true story?"

"Oh why the hell not," said Catgirl.

"It's the story of Connie the Merboy Killer, and I think it'll prove you're being very unfair to Mythica."

"Whatever."

"It goes like this: Once upon a time, in the riverside village of Fleur-de-lys, a spunky, adventuresome young miss named Connie ran the local snack bar and bait shop.

Years before, her Grandpap Bertrand Fishermeister had won renown by capturing two wicked mermaid sisters who'd been terrorizing the village. It seems Bertrand was a mean shot with a spear gun. He rigged up a gun that could fire two spears in quick succession. Then he availed himself of an underwater breathing spell he'd learned from the Witchy Woman, a wise old sorceress who lived near the village. He put on a wetsuit one morning, rowed a small boat out over the deepest part of the river, attached stones to his feet to weigh him down, and then plunged into the water. He settled into the ooze at the bottom and waited. It took hours, but at last the vicious lovelies arrived, attracted by the boat and the hope of murdering some luckless fisherman. They had the heads and torsos of beautiful, black-haired women, and the tails of dolphins.

Grandpap aimed with the utmost care, then sent a spear into each girl's belly. (Oh how they squealed!) They took off lickety-split, but each spear was joined to a stout cable, and each cable was tied securely around Grandpap's waist. At first it seemed as if the girls would pull him apart, but they were losing blood fast. Soon Grandpap was towing them! It was a struggle, but at last he pulled them out of the water and lined them up, crying in bitter despair, on the river bank.

They begged for their lives, of course. They tried to seduce him with the promise of wishes granted, but their tricks didn't work, for he was quite happy with his present lot. His answer to their pleas was to take two white carnations out of a waterproof bag he kept with him and apply each flower to a mermaid pussy. Such was the power of the carnations that it burned out all the poison from each cunt. 'Oh it hurts! It hurts!' they cried. But Grandpap didn't relent until the two flowers had turned blood-red. Then he had his way with each girl until he'd fucked them both to death. Finally, he hanged the evil duo by their tails from a lamppost in the middle of the village. The villagers cheered and took lots of pictures, many of which now decorated Connie's snack bar. 'Nobody gets tail like Bertrand Fishermeister!' some wag said, and soon it became almost a proverb.

Bertrand now had a room at the Fleur-de-lys Home for Senescent Fishermen, but his granddaughter kept the old man's achievement alive in any way she could.

Well, many years had passed since Grandpap distinguished himself. In all that time, Fleur-de-lys was untroubled by wicked supernaturals. Then, one day, a young woman from the village disappeared. Her body was pulled from the river a week later; she had been drained of blood. Another girl met the same fate, and then another. What could be happening?

On a warm Spring day a month after the first death, the villagers were about their business, when, suddenly, a bright light appeared just above the deepest part of the river. Amazed, everyone looked out over the water. Where the light was brightest, two very handsome boys rose up out of the stream. They were blond, with well-muscled bodies. They looked back at the villagers, and one of them spoke.

'Citizens of Fleur-de-lys!' he said. 'I am Reccared, and this is my cousin Vaballath. We are sons of the two beautiful mermaids who graced you with their presence many years ago. My mother Amalasuntha and my aunt Zenobia bestowed on you this undeserved privilege--and then, some ingrate from among you . . . destroyed them!' (At this, the boy's voice choked with rage.) 'We are here now to exact revenge. We will stay until we have drained the blood from every girl--and every boy--in your village! Before we're done, you'll bow down to us and beg our forgiveness! Don't try to hide your young folk, or send them to safety elsewhere; we've placed a glamor upon you, so that no one may leave or be concealed. We will have our fill of vengeance; of that you may be certain!' With these words, the two boys dived down into the water. Each had a dolphin's tail.

Connie was there and heard it all. Gloriosky! she thought, I've got to go see Grandpap. He'll know what to do!

She grabbed a full coffeepot from the snack bar, then ran to the Home as fast as her feet could carry her. Luckily, visiting hours were not yet over. When she got to his room, Grandpap was seated in his recliner, staring vacantly out the window. As she approached him, the old man started singing:

' Holy moly, shiver me timber!

Give me a whore who's really limber! '

'Grandpap! Grandpap!' Connie cried. 'Fleur-de-lys needs your help!'

'W-who are you? You sure look booty-licious! Come here and sit in my lap!'

'I'm your granddaughter, you old pervert! Merfolk are plaguing us again; you have to come back to your senses!'

'Huhh?' said Grandpap. Spittle began dripping from his mouth.

'I was afraid of this,' said Connie. 'It's java time!'

She found his water glass and filled it to the top with three-hour old snack bar coffee. Then she sat down next to him and forced him to drink it.

'Gaaawrrr-yugghh!' he cried. 'That's awful! I, uh, I . . . .' Just then, the coffee reached his brain. Grandpap cried out, as if in agony, clapped both hands to his temples, and fell backward out of his chair.

'Grandpap!' Connie shouted. 'Are you all right?' In a panic, she knelt down beside him.

Grandpap groaned, then rose unsteadily to a sitting position. 'Not . . . much time,' he said. 'That swill has . . . augmented my intellect . . . but it won't last. Listen carefully. You'll need . . . an underwater breathing spell . . . from the old Witchy Woman, out by Frogspawn Ditch. Plus, white carnations, to suck the poison out of their pussies.'

'Grandpap, these mers are male.'

'Hmmm, don't know if it works on mer-cock. Give it a try . . . if the carnations turn red, they worked. Don't have any fun with them till the flowers have gone completely red.'

'Grandpap, what are you suggesting?'

'Can it,' said the old man. 'If you're kin of mine, you're a loose-limbed slut. Just be careful. Now . . . you're also gonna need my old speargun . . . I put it in the attic . . . over the snack bar. That and my wetsuit.'

'But Grandpap, I don't know jack about spearguns . . . .'

'Stop interrupting; that liquid manure you fed me is wearing off. You're my granddaughter; you got a natural knack. Just aim, hold your breath, and squeeze the trigger. But remember: all you'll get is the two shots. Now hurry! Time's a-wasting! I wish you the . . . I wish . . . I wish

. . . . Ook, I wish I hadn't just crapped myself.'

'Oh Grandpap! Yuck!' said Connie as she quickly got up.

The old man began once more to sing:

' Oh give me a home

Where the bow-legg'd gals roam,

And my pecker is perky all day . . . .'

Holding her nose, Connie left his room.

Her next stop was the Witchy Woman's shack, right next to Frogspawn Ditch. The Witch was a hard bargainer: by the time Connie left with the spell she needed, plus a little something extra, she'd handed over a one-quarter interest in the snack bar. Well, she thought, in an effort to console herself, one quarter of nearly nothing is . . . even nearer to nothing.

Then she went back to the snack bar, and up into Grandpap's attic. Sure enough, there was the speargun, with two spears, wrapped up in an old wetsuit. She familiarized herself with the mechanism, then loaded the spears. Just then, she noticed two targets painted on the far wall of the attic. She aimed, held her breath, and squeezed: bull's eye! She repeated the procedure . . . and nailed the second target, too! 'I am his granddaughter,' she said out loud.

Dressed in Grandpap's wetsuit, with the speargun slung over her shoulder, she made her way down to the dock. On the way, she plucked two of the whitest carnations she had ever seen. These she slipped into her fanny pack, along with the something extra she'd purchased from the Witchy Woman. She didn't think Grandpap's boat trick would work a second time, so she just uttered the breathing spell and let herself down into the water. Like her grandfather, she'd ballasted herself with stones tied to her ankles, so it was a simple matter to walk across the river bottom till she'd gone midway.

She next tied a cable to each spear and wrapped the other end around her waist. Now it was time for that something extra. She opened the fanny pack and pulled out two large pink blooms, which looked rather like orchids. Each had hundreds of little tendrils attached to it, which started to agitate the water as soon as she brought them out. She released the flowers, and the tendrils, vibrating like cilia, propelled them to a point about ten feet above her head. There they hovered, the big pink petals pulsing with a very un-flowerlike energy. Then she buried herself in the murk and mire till almost nothing was showing. At this point, all Connie could do was wait.

It took a few hours, but at last the boys arrived, drawn by the pulsing rhythm of the flowers. These of course were Cockbaits, underwater plants that enjoy a strange symbiosis with male mers. As the Witchy Woman had explained, merboys are the horniest of critters. If they can't discharge the pints of spunk they produce every month, their pouches rupture, and they die. The Cockbait wraps its petals around a merboy's member and milks him of his jizzum. He gets relief; the Cockbait gets a big burst of protein. To be sure, mers run a risk every time they conjugate in this fashion: there's a lethal little lake spider that can mimic the flower long enough to wrap herself around a stiff mer prick; and no mer has ever escaped her embrace. But risk or not, when a boy hears that telltale pulse, he heads right for the source.

True to form, when Reccared and Vaballath saw the two big blooms, they dashed right up, grabbed them, and thrust them over their spurs. The petals fit themselves snugly around both cock and pouch, and then contracted. The boys whimpered with pleasure. It wasn't long before they were coming buckets. Their tails thrashed with each spasm, and they groaned as they were milked. Connie let them have their fill of flower-fucking.

When Reccared and Vaballath had given all they had, their bodies relaxed. The flowers, now sated, slid off. The boys just lay there in the water and began to drift off to sleep. Connie aimed her speargun, held her breath, and squeezed the trigger.

Reccared screamed as the spear skewered his pouch. Vaballath looked over at his cousin to see what the matter might be. Then he screamed, too; another hole in one! Shocked and in pain, the boys nonetheless did just what they should have done: they took off as fast as their tails could propel them. Connie gasped as the cables tightened cruelly around her waist,–then she was off, towed at top speed in one direction, and then another, and then still another. All she could do was cling to the cables and hope they didn't break.

Luckily for her, unluckily for the merboys, the cables held. Blood loss was beginning to tell: slowly but surely, the force exerted on the two lines lessened. At last, the pulling stopped, though the cables continued to twitch and tremble. Connie again sank to the river's bottom. She now began to pull in turn, drawing the stricken boys behind her as she trudged back to the dock. She clambered up onto the wet, rotting wood and lay there for a while, utterly exhausted.

Some villagers were there, and they dragged the boys up out of the water and deposited them on the dock, next to Connie. "Bind their wrists behind them!" she cried, and so someone did. When she had recovered, she got up and had a look at what she'd caught.

They were breathtakingly beautiful. Their blond hair was thick and lustrous. They had big, blue eyes, with long black lashes. Their eyelids and lips were green, as were their nipples. Each had a compact, hairless scrotum, shaped rather like a peach,–still very pretty though punctured and bleeding. Their spurs were pointed, not unlike a whale's, and very, very stiff. Below their groins, each had the powerful tail and flukes of an adult dolphin. Both boys were trembling violently and crying their pretty eyes out–which somehow made them even more lovely.

Connie knew they were evil, but she felt some pity for them all the same. As gently as she could, she pulled her spears from their pouches.

Reccared looked up at her and said: 'Y-you got us! You . . . got us both!'

This seemed to Connie to belabor the obvious, but the Witchy Woman had warned her that mers had a taste for melodrama. 'Let them talk and talk,' she had said, 'as long as they don't talk their way out of your trap.' Connie opted for a brusque reply: 'Yes, I got you both. Your game is over now. You're through.'

'O-over?' Vaballath said. "You . . . you must not know much about us. Promise to let us go, and any two wishes you have will be granted . . . any at all.'

'Any wishes?' she said, and despite her best efforts, the powerful mer enchantment began to work. Unlike Grandpap, she was not happy with her lot. She started thinking of the snack bar and how she wished she were quit of it.

'Anything you desire,' said Vaballath, with a winsome smile that caused a sudden stir in Connie's tummy. That was his mistake; for she looked at him and his cousin and realized what she wanted most of all right now. 'Okay,' she said, 'I'll let you go . . . as soon as I have . . . Reccared and Vaballath!'

'No! No!' they cried, but it was too late. She would have them now, no matter how sweetly they begged, no matter what enchantments they used; for whenever a mer grants a wish, it must be fulfilled. And her having them would be the death of them,–as always when a human couples with a mer. She might die, too, but what good would that do them? Their crying before was nothing compared to their convulsive sobbing now.

For the time being, she let them cry. Word of the wicked duo's capture had spread through Fleur-de-lys, and within minutes the whole village was out in force. They had stood silent and amazed for a while, not knowing whether Connie had really carried the day. But now they sensed that the evil pair were truly finished. They cheered, clapped, and laughed, and many begged for Connie's picture. So, grinning broadly, she posed as the two bagged boys trembled and wept at her feet.

At last the happy villagers calmed down a bit. Connie saw her chance and addressed the crowd: 'Citizens of Fleur-de-lys, please heed my words! These wicked mers are caught, but not yet destroyed. I give you my word I will destroy them, but I must do so in private. I will soon offer you proof beyond any doubt that I have dispatched them, but you have to trust me.'

'No! No!' the wretched boys cried.

'Yes! Yes!' cried the villagers.

So Connie knelt down and hoisted a victim over each shoulder. (They were surprisingly light.) She rose to her feet and headed back to her little apartment behind the snack bar. The crowd cheered her as she went.

Once she got inside, she locked the door and carried her unwilling guests into her modest living room. There she laid them out, side by side on their backs.

After a while, Reccared spoke: 'Oh, g-great huntress, you've . . . outwitted us twice! First you

. . . caught us . . . and then you . . . twisted our m-magic against us. You're . . . too clever, too clever by far!' And he began to cry all over again.

'Yes,' cried Vaballath, 'so very clever! And now for us it's . . .over! Over!' And he burst into tears once more.

Good grief! thought Connie. Some of it was just dumb luck! But it was sort of flattering, so she let them believe what they liked. 'Yes,' she said, 'I outwitted you at every turn. And now your time is at hand.'

'Or . . . or is it?" said Reccared, a new look of hope in his eyes. 'You said . . . you said you wanted to "have" us. You can have us, the wish can be properly granted . . . if you have us as . . . your loyal slaves, scouring the lakes and seas for any treasure you require! That way . . . you could have us forever. Surely that would be better?'

'Yes!' said Vaballath. 'Much better!'

'No,' said Connie. 'No. I mean, you're just too wicked, for one thing. If I blow the chance to put a stop to you, what does that say about me? And besides . . . I've seen those stiff cocks of yours, those pretty, cream-packed pouches. I just . . . I just want to fuck you to death, so that's what I'm going to do. Do you need to cry a little more? I can wait.'

Vaballath was content with weeping, but Reccared had more to say. 'Oh! Oh!' he wailed. 'You've made us a bed of . . . bitterness and tears! What a world! What a pass you've brought us to: all our wicked beauty . . . undone! Our pouches punctured . . . our cocks all hard and hurty! Waiting to come . . . for the last six or seven times! Then over, over . . . and I don't want it to be over! And this crying . . . it's spoiling my face!'

'No it's not,' said Connie.

'Yes it is; it's making me ugly!'

'No, really. It's making you more beautiful. Caught fays are . . . so beautiful. The more you cry, the more I want to fuck you.'

'You . . . you mean it?'

'Sure,' she said, and she went and got a mirror from the bedroom. She held it up, so that the boys could see for themselves how much lovelier capture had made them. Vain creatures that they were, they drew some comfort from this knowledge. No more speeches now; just quiet sobbing from both.

Judging it was more than time, Connie peeled off the wetsuit. Beneath it, she was dressed in only a bra and panties. She then picked up her fanny pack and pulled out the two white carnations. She walked over to Reccared and wrapped one of the flowers around the tip of his spur. The moment the petals touched his flesh, he screamed.

'It hurts! It hurts!' he cried, 'Oh my God, it hurts!' He thrashed back and forth and smacked the floor several times with his tail. Undaunted, Connie kept the bloom in place until it had turned as red as fresh blood. 'That's it,' she said. 'Now I can kill you, but you can't kill me.' Then she applied the second flower to Vaballath's cock. He, too, cried out as his genitals were purged of their poison. The second flower turned as red as the first.

Now for the real fun. She slipped out of her panties, then crouched down over Reccared and impaled herself on his member. He screamed again, for the carnation had left him very sore.

'It's all right, sweetie, it's all right,' she said, bending down to kiss his cheeks. 'Cry some more; I'm sure it'll make you feel better.' The boy readily obeyed. 'That's it . . . that's it,' she cooed.

It took a while, but at last a sharp, unrelenting pressure built up in Reccared's groin. He gasped and trembled, and his hips began to buck. 'That's it,' said Connie. 'I'm gonna milk you even better than a Cockbait. That's it, my sweet bad boy!' And soon Reccared was spurting gout after gout of boy cream. It was thick and hot, and Connie groaned as it jetted up her cunt. The boy came six . . . seven . . . eight times! And then he died.

Now it was Vaballath's turn. 'I haven't forgotten you, pretty boy,' said Connie. 'Beddy-bye's just round the corner.' She mounted him, and before long ('that's my boy, that's my pretty boy') he, too, was spurting and dying.

When it was over, Connie looked down at the beautiful, dead boys and said: 'That's all. You can go now.' No one answered. 'Oh well,' she sighed.

It was time to prove things for the villagers. Connie returned to her fanny pack and took out a sharp knife she used for gutting fish. With this, the sliced off the genitals of her two victims. Almost instantly, their bodies disintegrated into a fine white dust. Carrying a cock and pouch in each hand, she walked out of the apartment, to the waiting crowd. Then she raised up her bloody trophies. Everyone cheered, even more deliriously than before.

The Witchy Woman had told her all about merboy genitalia: how they lasted just about forever; and how, even when removed from their owner's body, they still produced, when stimulated, a magical cream. Every woman who tasted it found her complexion improved and her breath sweetened. What's more, the cream was a sure remedy for menstrual cramps. Connie got rich selling the stuff. So did the Witchy Woman, what with her one-quarter share."

"I think the lesson of this story is clear," said Coyote. "If Connie Fishermeister could attain to greatness, then so can you, however sexist this fantasy world may be."

"Oh you just made it all up!" said Catgirl.

"Hardly," said Coyote. "Look to your right. We're passing Fleur-de-lys now."

Catgirl looked over to the south bank of the river, just ten or so feet away. Sure enough, there was a village. On a dock stood a pretty young woman dressed in a wetsuit. At her feet, crying, trembling, and flicking their tails, lay a mergirl and merboy. Each had been speared in the belly. When the young woman saw Catgirl, she smiled and waved. Not knowing what else to do, Catgirl waved back.

(To be continued)

FRAGMENT FROM A COLLABORATION

(Fragment 3)

By Comneno

Part I

The three travelers salvaged what they could from their wrecked canoe and made their way as best they could on foot. Before long, they had come to a deep, dark wood.

"If my map is correct," said Coyote, "This is the Forest of Fingal, also known as the Lair of the Three."

"And why might that be?" said Catgirl with an irritated sigh. She knew she was in for an explanation, whether she wanted it or not.

"Because," said Coyote with a smirk, "it's home to three particularly powerful forest fays: Marcella, Drusilla, and Latifah. Very few travelers ever survive a trip through their forest–or so legend has it."

"Bummer," said Thief, 'cause it's the shortest route to where we want to go. Well, since I'm an immortal and all, why don't you guys take a safe detour, and I'll trek through alone."

"And cheat us out of our fee at the other end?" said Catgirl. "Good try, dog face."

"Grrrrrr," said Thief.

"Would both of you kindly shut up?" said Coyote. "I mean: are we the best hunters alive or not? And what a match-up: three against three! I can't get over the serendipity. I propose we take the opportunity we've been given and go kick some fairy bootay. It'll make us look that much better to the folks in New Gotham."

"If we survive," said Catgirl. "Just what do you know about these three bad bitches?"

"Not much," said Coyote. They are bad, and they've killed more than one hunter who tried to separate them from their panties. It should be fun."

Catgirl sighed again. "Okay, okay. If you're going after them, so am I. Not that I have anything to prove, of course."

"Oh no," said Thief.

"Certainly not," said Coyote.

"Fuck both of you," Catgirl retorted. "Now how do you want to do this?"

"Division of labor and a little competition," said Coyote. "Let's each pick a girl and go after her alone. The one who bags a babe first will win . . . oh, I don't know . . . ."

"I do," said Catgirl. "If I win, you two lazy male good-for-nothings can do all the cleanup for a week."

"A week?" said Thief.

" You haven't done any yet!" Catgirl snapped. "What are you complaining about?"

"Oh nothing." (Thief had already been scratched by Catgirl once.) "Sounds fine. I assume that if I win . . . ."

"Yes of course: Coyote and I do a week of scut work, and so on and so forth."

"Sounds good to me," said Coyote. "Now let's figure out who goes after which girl. I suggest we draw lots." With those words, he pulled three sticks from behind his back.

"Wait a minute," Catgirl said. "You've already made lots? Just what are you up to?"

"Nothing, nothing," said Coyote with a look of aggrieved innocence on his face. "I knew we'd be coming this way, so I did some preparing."

"What kind of shell game is this?!" shouted Catgirl. "I'll bet there's something funny about those sticks!"

"Nothing of the sort," said Coyote. "We have to assign three hunters to three fays. These are just three sticks of equal length, each with the name of one of the fays written on it. Here, I'll shuffle them." (And he did.) "Do you want to inspect them?"

"No," Catgirl sighed. "I must be getting a little paranoid in my old age. After all, what difference could it make?" She walked up to Coyote, took a stick, and read the name scribbled on it. "Latifah. Fine."

Next, Thief took a stick. He got Drusilla.

"That leaves me with Marcella," said Coyote. "All right. Marcella, I'm told, lives due east of here. Drusilla is south of us. And Latifah is somewhere to the north. See that oak tree over there? That's where we'll all meet up with whatever we've caught. The first one back with a properly bagged babe is the winner. Oh, and one other thing: weapons don't work in this forest. Besides our teeth and claws, rope is the only thing we can use."

"Now you tell us!" snarled Thief.

"Hey, I forgot."

"Whatever," said Catgirl. "I'm getting tired of jawing. Let's go." And so they did.

Part II

As she made her way north, Catgirl thought: That mangy coyote knows more than he's letting on. But what? Then she concentrated on the path in front of her, for the surrounding woods were getting darker and more tangled by the minute. After about an hour, she came to a glen. A little carelessly, she walked straight into it, and there, at the far end, was Latifah.

Latifah was a beautiful, buxom black fay with a snub nose, full red lips, skin the color of milk chocolate, and thick dark hair corkscrewing down to her shoulders. Her breasts, big and heavy, were scarcely contained by a dazzling white blouse. Her ample bottom and plump pussy were covered by tight white panties. Her powerful, curvaceous legs were accentuated by white pumps. She was sitting on the trunk of a long-dead tree, but when she saw Catgirl she stood up. She was at least ten feet tall.

Latifah spoke: "What do you want, you little furry bitch?"

"Oh, uh, nothing," Catgirl replied, then turned and ran for all she was worth into what looked like the thickest part of the forest.

"You'd best be running, Miss fuzzy thing!" Latifah called after her.

When she was sure she was not being pursued, Catgirl stopped and spent the next several minutes cursing Coyote under her breath. Then, when she had regained some of her composure, she found her way back to the path that had taken her into the glen. This time she did a better job of reconnoitering, and she made sure, without being detected, that Latifah had not left her spot.

Now Catgirl got to work. She picked a suitable part of the path, not far from the glen. Then she pulled a length of rope from her backpack, muttered an ensnarement spell over it, and made herself a nice, big noose. She attached the other end of the rope to a sapling and pulled it as far back as it could go. Her ensnarement magic secured the noose to the ground, right in the middle of the path. She finished up by memorizing exactly where her trap lay and covering it with detritus from the forest. Since everything seemed to be in order, she went back into the glen.

Latifah was seated again on her tree trunk. "I thought I sent you on your way," she said when she saw the little huntress.

"Well I came back. I think you're too fat for your panties. I'm here to take them down."

Latifah shrieked with rage and sprang up from her seat. Catgirl waited till the last possible moment; then she turned and ran back the way she'd come. Latifah went pounding after her. Catgirl began a series of leaps–both to put more space between her and her pursuer and to clear the noose without arousing any suspicion. Her last jump brought her down just inches in front of her trap. Latifah, of course, was too heavy for leaping. When her right foot landed within the noose, its magic released it. The sapling to which it was tied snapped back into place, the noose caught Latifah by the ankle, and she was yanked sideways. She fell, hard, to the ground. The noose had tightened around her ankle, and she made the mistake of attempting two things at once: getting up and freeing her leg. As she thrashed and floundered, Catgirl darted up to her and scratched her on her right thigh. Latifah shrieked, and tried to grab Catgirl in her powerful arms, but the little huntress was too quick. Latifah struggled to her feet; whereupon Catgirl grabbed the rope still attached to her leg and gave it a vicious tug. The fay fell to the ground once again, and Catgirl was able to dash in and score her shoulder. Latifah shrieked once more, this time as much from fear as from rage.

And so it went. Catgirl closed with her quarry just long enough to draw blood, and then she withdrew, looking for another target. She scratched Latifah's left thigh, then hurt her right thigh a second time, then got behind her and bit one of her calves. It took a while, but the venom in Catgirl's claws and teeth began its work. Before much longer, Latifah was staggering and swaying.

"Stop! Oh dear God, please stop!" she cried.

"Not a chance," said the huntress. "I told you, I'm here to take your panties down!"

Knowing how gravely she had weakened the big fay, Catgirl grabbed the rope once again and pulled it so that this time Latifah fell on her back. Then she boldly jumped on top of her victim and bit one of her breasts, right at the nipple. Latifah screamed and tried to lift her arms, but could not. When she saw the fay's hands fluttering helplessly at her sides, Catgirl twisted around, forced her head between Latifah's madly kicking legs, and sank her teeth into the plump swell of her pussy. She held on tight as her prey let out a long, shrill, heartbroken scream. Knowing she'd won, Catgirl withdrew again to await the inevitable conclusion.

It took a while: Latifah squealed, and sobbed, and kicked frantically for several minutes. But at last (as many fays must when the time has come for surrender and despair), she drew her splendid legs up and back, so that her pumps pointed tremblingly skyward. Her breasts and lower lip were trembling, too. Catgirl undid the noose that still encumbered Latifah's right ankle, then pushed the fay onto her side and used the rope to bind her wrists behind her. (No harm in making absolutely sure of things.). Then she put Latifah on her back once again and took hold of her now blood-spotted panties. The fairy shuddered and fell into new spasms of weeping and kicking as these were pulled to her knees.

"Oh my panties, my panties, oh God you got my panties!" Latifah wailed.

"I got more than those," Catgirl said, and inspected what she had uncovered: a succulent mons veneris, with a muff of thick black hair surmounting a vulva all red and swollen from her venom. She breathed in the musky aroma and purred. "Now it's time to show you off to the others." Like most fays, Latifah was lighter than she looked, but that wasn't saying a great deal. Using dead branches and other underbrush, Catgirl rigged up a crude travois and wrestled her victim onto it. Then she pulled the weeping fay back down the path, toward the oak the hunters had picked for their rendezvous.

Part III

Coyote got to the oak tree first. He had Marcella with him, slung face down and bottom foremost over his right shoulder. She was a flying fay (or she had been), and her white butterfly wings still trembled. Otherwise she was quite still. She was about four feet in height, a milky-skinned blonde in pale green chemise, panties, and heels. Her wrists were bound behind her with rope. Her panties were at her knees; and Coyote used his prehensile tongue from time to time to dab up the blood that dripped from her pussy. He laid the unconscious girl out on her back, as close to the oak as he could put her. Then he waited.

Thief arrived next. He looked as if he had been through a Cuisinart. His face was scratched and bleeding, and clumps of fur had been torn out of his hide in several places. He carried Drusilla over his shoulder. Much larger than Marcella, about as big as her captor in fact, she had alabaster skin and hair as black as coal. She wore a black boustier, black pumps, and black panties. The pants had been tugged down, just like Marcella's. Her wrists were bound behind her as well, and her sharp red nails, still wet with Thief's blood, were plain to see. Like Marcella, she was unconscious.

"Oh Goddammit," said Thief when he saw that Coyote was already there. Then he got a good look at the size of Coyote's victim. "What the . . . fucking fuck?!"

"Why, what's the problem?" Coyote asked.

"I . . . I don't know how you did it, but you rigged those sticks so you could get the easy one! This wager's off!"

"Oh, you're just a sore loser," said Coyote.

"I'd blast you," Thief snarled, "if I weren't under a contractual obligation not to!" Scowling, he laid Drusilla out, face up, next to Marcella. Clearly, the larger girl's puss had taken a good nipping, too.

Just then, cursing and gasping, Catgirl hauled her captured cargo into view. She deposited the still-weeping Latifah next to the others, then pulled the travois out from under her to make her more comfortable.

Latifah looked over at her companions in capture and cried: "Oh my God! I'm . . . in the bag with those two wimpy white girls! Who'd have thought it? Who'd have thought it?"

"Nothing to wonder at," said Catgirl. "Sooner or later, even the biggest has to kick up her heels and cry, just like all the others."

Latifah gazed up at her captor. "A . . . a witch woman once told me: only the . . . Queen of Hunters could tug my . . . panties to my knees. You must be the Queen, little cat lady, you . . . must be the Queen!" And she sobbed with renewed gusto.

Catgirl drew up as straight and tall as she could. She surveyed their trophy line for a moment, and then she spoke: "The little one's Marcella, I presume?"

"Yup," said Thief.

Catgirl strode over to Coyote and slapped him, hard, on his snout. He yipped and withdrew to a safe distance. "Here's how it's going to be," she said. "Thief and I are taking the week off from all chores: cooking, cleanup, you name it. It won't be anything new for Thief, of course, but guess what'll be different?"

"I'll be doing it all?" said Coyote.

"You've got it."

"Okay," he said, still rubbing his nose.

"Now let's eat." Catgirl knelt down and took hold of Latifah's thighs. Coyote and Thief prodded their victims into tearful wakefulness. When they came to, they obligingly raised their legs.

Marcella spoke now: "Oh Latifah! C-can't you help us?"

"Yes!" cried Drusilla. "Help us, please!"

"Sorry, little sisters," Latifah said. "It's . . . kicky time for Latifah, too. The Queen of Hunters came and . . . just look at my panties! Just look at them! But here's a trick: c-cry your hearts out and it won't . . .won't hurt so much." So they all did.

Soon the hunters were sucking the juice from three punctured pussies. And who do you think had the best meal?

(To be continued)