Lucky Rabbit's Foot
Once again, I must apologize to you, my dear reader, for what you are
about to read. This story isn't extremely yiffy, but one of the
demons of my mind forced me to scribe its existance into reality. If
you are so kind as to read its entire length, and wish to comment on
it, I would be overjoyed.
This story does contain some level of violence, some small amount of
vore, and is, in my opinion, quite dark and depressing. There may be
stories in the future regarding the main character, but I doubt it.
The old dog raised himself slowly from his bed. His old bones ached
as he sat up, and then they gave their standard protest as he twisted
himself in his bed ever so slowly. He noticed that once again he had
wet himself in the night. He had lived with this so long that he was
well past the point of shame, embarrassment, or even annoyance. He
pulled off his dank sheets and then slid himself into his wheelchair.
This took a great deal of effort these days, and he stopped to rest
and to think.
He looked at his matted down fur, and his limp tail cocked in what
should be a very painful position. He adjusted it with his forepaws-
no need to stop circulation to it and have one more indignity thrust
upon him with an amputation. This thought drew his eyes to the stump
on his left leg, where he had done something equally stupid a year
ago.
Looking at his legs, however, brought a string of powerful emotions to
the forefront of his mind. He glanced up onto the shelf over his bed,
and looked at the championship trophies. He had many first place
ones, but his proudest achievement happened to be a small ribbon. It
was attached to a magazine with his picture on the cover. That hunt
had taken him days, and he was almost killed by the vermin in the
process. But after a long fight, several unexpected ambushes, and two
days after the hunt was officially declared completed, he pulled his
quarry across the finish line. This one feat pushed him into the
national spotlight as the most dedicated hunter. A dog to be feared.
He quickly grabbed his scratching stick and knocked the picture over.
His grandson would straighten it later, no doubt. He always did. The
old dog bent his head in shame and simply wept. The last hunt he was
in was ten years before his grandson was born. He didn't even place
in that one. He sighed again and started to wheel himself to the door
when it sprung open.
His two sons, one bitch of a daughter-in-law, and three grandsons and
various other relatives ran into the room celebrating. He smiled
weakly, swallowed, wiped away the tears from his eyes, quickly pulled
a blanket over his lap, and then put on the largest fake smile he
could.
"Happy Birthday, Gramps!" His children ran in smiling and hugging.
All his grandchildren except Roy sheepishly slipped in and gave a
brief and obviously forced hug. Roy came over and squeezed his hand
and smiled warmly. It was almost enough to break the black ice of the
depression he was currently suffering. But if he thought for a moment
the thaw was imminent, the Indian Summer gave way to a rush of cold as
he saw his gift.
A rabbit.
On a leash.
Perfect. Just frickin' perfect. And he thought knocking over all the
pictures was enough of a hint that he didn't want any reminders of
victories past. Well, he still smiled and thanked them for what he
knew was an expensive present. His nurse then showed up to give him a
birthday breakfast of a poached egg, and his family took their chance
to take leave of him. Soon he was in a room alone with a nervous
rabbit.
He finished his egg slowly, nearly choking, and looked over at it.
"So, what am I supposed to call you?"
"Er, uh, you're supposed to choose, since I am now yours."
"Fine. I name you Rabbit." He grinned inwardly as he knew this would
annoy the creature. Inevitably it thought it was going to be the
boyhood pal of some happy puppy. But now, it was the birthday present
to an ancient hunter. And this brought his mind back to his
birthday.
It really wasn't fair. He had outlived his wife, a daughter, and all
of his friends. Each death had been horrible for him, and when his
last friend died a few years ago, he was simply angry at him for
leaving him alone in the world. Now he was just old, and quickly
becoming something of a museum piece-- something for people to be
proud of having, instead of someone they are proud to know.
He wheeled over to the door and locked it. Then slowly turned back to
face Rabbit, who was nervously shifting from one foot to the other.
He was completely average for his species, standing at a bit under
four feet, and weighing in around 60 pounds. He looked pretty lean,
possibly a reasonable runner. The old dog's eyes slid down to the
stump of a leg, and he sighed.
He debated what to do with the creature. Once they got comfortable,
they became quite talkative. He had had a similar rabbit eons ago
when he was a pup. Quite a clever critter, and their games of hide-
and-seek gave him insight into the lagomorph mind much deeper than his
friends could see. Other memories of his friendship with the furry
lightning bolt summoned a feeling in his groin he had thought long
since vanquished. He untied the Rabbit's leash from the closet
doorknob and tugged him over to his bed.
With a few pulls, the mattress slid off onto the ground, exposing the
wire frame beneath. Without looking at the creature, he simply said,
"Up." Rabbit appeared to be very well trained, and quickly hopped
onto the wire mesh, awkwardly moving around to get a little
comfortable.
The old dog pulled the leash through the mesh and with a couple of
wraps, had the small beast's throat immobilized against the frame. He
then ran his paw over the soft body that seemed to quiver beneath his
touch. He sniffed the air, hoping for that tell-tale sign of fear
that his kind gave off. That unmistakable scent of sweat and musk
that seemed to ooze from their very bones. But he couldn't sense it.
And a look at the eyes of his prey showed why. It wasn't fear that
caused him to quiver, it was disgust.
The old dog snarled, "I disgust you?"
The brief pause and the averted eyes of the Rabbit only served to
answer his inquiry in the affirmative. "No, I'm just -- cold." A
storm cloud passed over the furrowed brow of the once-great hunter.
The animal didn't even respect him enough to tell the truth. Hell, the
animal didn't even respect him enough to come up with a good lie.
Well, the hunter knew he didn't have the patience to teach the animal
to respect him. However, he did have the time to make the animal fear
him. He rolled over to his writing desk and opened the bottom
drawer. In it he found his prized hunting knife. A glance at the
blade confirmed that while it may have lost its edge, it was still
ready for the job at hand. With the knife resting in his lap, he
returned to his prey.
With the knife in view of the Rabbit, the dog quickly got a whiff of
the scent he had earlier desired. He noticed the animal had stopped
quivering as well. He resumed his leisurely feel of the supple fur on
the beast. When he closed his eyes, it almost took him back to those
days when he and his pet would lie under the trees stroking each
other. He would sniff at his friend for hours, noting each minute
change of odor, and interpreting its meaning. He had tasted of his
pet more than once, and many times they had consummated their
friendship.
He opened his eyes to find his paw rubbing at Rabbit's crotch, and the
small pinkness sliding between his fingers made him laugh inwardly.
Whenever his pet had mounted him, he would have to pretend a lot more
than he actually felt, since only occasionally would the small tool
slip even partially into him. He knew his pet wasn't pretending,
however, when their positions were reversed.
His paw gripped roughly at Rabbit's groin, making the small bunny
gasp. He released the firmness and picked up the knife. Despite his
stiff fingers, he twirled the blade slowly in his paw as he thought.
His mind considered, reconsidered, and then savored the idea that
percolated through him. Finally, his resolve was made, and once made,
his mood seemed to brighten considerably.
He rubbed his paw over Rabbit again gently, soothing him with a gentle
coo. He then picked up the knife and leaned over the rabbit's leg.
With a short stab, he wedged the knife between the bones of the
animal's calf, and then twisted it.
Rabbit started screaming and writing on the wire frame, putting up
quite a struggle. The old dog grinned, but the noise quickly got on
his nerves. He punched the creature in the gut and then shoved part
of his bed sheet into Rabbit's gasping mouth. This silenced the
creature enough, and made the flailing much more enjoyable.
He let his prey do most of the work, by holding the knife still as
Rabbit thrashed around, he soon had the hind foot almost severed. He
started to twist at it, and after fifteen or twenty minutes of working
at it, it finally came loose in his hand.
There was a knocking at the door, and the knob jiggled. "Are you OK
in there?"
"I'm fine," he called back, "I have my call button if there's
trouble. Now leave me alone." So saying, he pulled the call button
and cord out of the wall, and used it to tie the Rabbit's legs to the
metal frame. He listened as he heard his nurse depart, and with a
smile he looked at his meal.
It was still dripping. He tasted the warm and salty blood. All of
his hunts came back into his mind, one after the other. Each capture
a triumph. Each kill was the sweetest of joys. His teeth weren't
good enough to tear through the boney flesh now, so he used his knife
to pare off a bite sized piece. He watched the expression of his prey
as he placed the morsel on his tongue.
The meat was still warm, and quite tender. He moved it around in his
mouth slowly. Then closed his eyes and swallowed. The mass instantly
lodged in his throat, and cut off his breathing.
At first he sat quite calm. He started to rub himself with one paw,
and found himself starting to pound the other one on his wheelchair.
His eyes watered, so he closed them, and was amazed at the colors he
could see. His chest convulsed with the need for air, and his jaws
worked involuntarily trying to choke up the bone that was now killing
him.
His consciousness faded, and with a slow, fumbling paw at his groin,
his final orgasm leaked out of him as he collapsed, folding forward
and onto the bunny now in shock before him.
Three hours later, his nurse found the door still locked when she went
to deliver his lunch. She decided to leave him alone until dinner,
and then had maintenance open the door. They found the old hunter
quite dead, on top of a dead rabbit. The family was so heart-stricken
by his loss that they paid the paper for the second paragraph in his
obituary.