Chapter 10: Warrick
1249 Words
Chapter 10: WarrickThe stress of the past two days had exhausted me, and once I climbed aboard the train to Calais and found a seat, I dozed off.
I had the nightmare for the first time.
Thomas refused to see me. I was his best friend, I had been his lover, but now he wouldn’t even speak to me.
Added to that was the ambivalence of being back at Thorny Walk for the first time in so long. I was bitter and hurt.
A spot of shooting might lift my spirits. Blowing the head off Peter Rabbit sounded like a notion I could live with just then.
I handed Monte’s reins to a new stable boy who Father had hired after Alfie had been called up then went to fetch a shotgun. Jack, Father’s favourite liver and white spaniel, danced excitedly at my feet, and I decided to let him come along.
We tramped over the fields, flushing quail and partridge, which I shot at half-heartedly.
I was far from home when a sudden fog descended on us, and the further away we went, the denser it became.
I began to feel uneasy and decided to turn back. Jack seemed to pick up on my emotions.
There was the snap in the underbrush in the wood nearby, as if an animal had stepped on a fallen branch. Only—no animal would do that, and the two of us froze. Jack’s floppy ears were c****d, and he listened alertly, his nose raised as he scented the air.
And then his ears went down, his lips curled, and he began to bark, high pitched and frenzied, in challenge to whatever was just out of sight.
I started toward the wood, determined to find what was there, and Jack threw himself against my legs. He became almost hysterical in his efforts to keep me away from what he perceived as the danger that lurked there.
The fog made it impossible to get off a clear shot, and the dog’s fear telegraphed itself to me. My gut clenched, my mouth went dry, and I began backing away.
Jack obviously approved.
The sounds that tracked us came closer, and now we could hear the low-pitched growls. I didn’t know what kind of creature it could be: there were no wild animals in this part of Kent.
Jack latched onto my trouser leg, trying to pull me further away. “Damned dog.” I shook him free, raised the shotgun, and fired off a blast.
There was a grunt of pain, and the growl rose to a furious howl. I fumbled with the shotgun, knowing I would never have the time to reload, and I shook so hard I dropped the pellets.
Coward that I was, I broke and ran, Jack positioning himself between me and the threat. But the fog made it impossible to know in what direction I was going, and I was hopelessly turned around.
From behind me came an anguished yelp, and I knew that whatever it was had got Jack. He was still alive—his whimpers let me know that. The gallant dog had been injured trying to save me, and I wouldn’t leave him to face his fate alone. I ducked behind a tree, only then realizing that somewhere along the way I had lost my weapon. I’d have to confront that creature with nothing for defence but my bare hands.
I crept back the way I had come as silently as I could. The fog was like damp, clammy tendrils that stroked across my face, and I shuddered at the touch, barely able to make out my hand in front of me.
My foot caught on a rotted branch, and I went tumbling head first to the ground, landing on something soft and furry and wet: Jack, his head twisted at an unnatural angle, a gaping wound opening him from chest to groin.
With a low moan, I pushed myself away from the dog’s mangled body. Before I could get to my feet, something came lunging at me, knocking me backwards. Fetid breath clogged my nostrils, and I retched violently.
It backed off and I thought I might be able to escape. I crawled to my knees and tried to scramble away, but jaws closed over my shoulder, clamping down like fiery pincers to secure me. To my horror, I could feel the creature’s c**k, hot and hard, probing my trouser-covered arse.
It growled in frustration, and its claws ripped at my trousers, shredding them and giving the beast access to me. Its hips rocked jerkily, stabbing at me, trying to find my anus. When the slim, pointed c**k found its goal, it slammed into me, and I cried out in shock.
Large paws gripped my waist, forcing me to submit to it. Its jaws eased their hold, and its tongue lolled out as it buggered me. Drops of its saliva mingled with the blood that oozed from the wound on my shoulder.
The creature’s p***s rubbed continually against that spot inside me. I’d only been buggered once before, years ago, but I found myself growing hard, shivering from the humiliating, unexpected pleasure—helpless under the savage pounding it was giving my back passage.
With one last, powerful thrust, it drove the knot at the base of its c**k deep into me and stilled. The knot began to swell, plugging me, stretching me, and then copious spurts of its seed poured into my channel, filling me with liquid heat, soothing the abused walls.
The creature rested on my back, holding me motionless. Lazily its tongue licked my bloody shoulder in what was almost a caress. I crouched beneath it, ashamed and yet unbearably aroused.
I wanted to roll over and offer it my unprotected throat, surrendering completely to its will. I wanted to expose my oozing c**k to the beast’s slavering mouth, to have its long tongue wrapped around my shaft, licking it, tasting my essence.
But the beast turned its head with a jerk and growled. It pulled sharply out of me, causing me to cry out from the pain. It growled again, this time at me, and I knew it wanted me to keep silent.
And then I heard what it had heard.
“Rick!” Someone was calling my name, searching for me.
The creature abruptly rose above me on two legs, standing manlike, as if to challenge whoever approached for possession of me.
“Warrick!”
I tried to croak out a warning, and the creature whirled and snarled, and a massive paw took a swipe at me.
I shied away and…
I woke with a start. The passenger beside me on the bench seat had driven his elbow into my side.
“Cease!” he snarled in French. “I’m not your pillow.”
“Pardonnez-moi,” I muttered and moved away from him.
He grunted and turned to look out the window.
I fumbled for a packet of cigarettes and box of matches, not really surprised that my hands shook so badly I dropped the matches to the floor of the train car. I needed something stronger than a cigarette, and reflexively I reached for the flask of brandy I’d taken to carrying after the Somme.
Of course it was no longer there. When I’d found myself relying too much on the brandy, I’d stopped keeping it on my person.
But my God, I could stand a drink.
- Writer
