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Ciara's head felt like it was splitting apart. Like her skull was broken.

It wasn't. A fumbling, blind touch to her scalp revealed it was all still intact, but a warm liquid mess covered her fingers.

What was this? Where was this? She was sitting, somewhat upright, in an uncomfortably hard chair. Her eyes felt dry and swollen but she forced them open despite every fiber of her being wanting to sink back into that blind eternity of nothingness. Unconsciousness seemed like bliss.

She saw a faint glint of light from a narrow gap high above, moonlight probably, reaching inside through some imperfection in the building's construction. The building – was it a bunker?

Ciara took a step towards the narrow strip of light – above and ahead of her – and fell, a steel cuff catching her leg mid-stride. It was a handless fall; she was still dizzy from whatever had left her unconscious, and her arms were too slow to stop it. Her chest hit the damp concrete of wherever she had been restrained, knocking the breath that she had been planning to use to scream out of her lungs.

Calm, girl. Calm. If you panic, you'll never get out of this, whatever it is. Calm, calm, calmthefuckdown, one fragment of her shuddering mind told her.

Someone's abducted you. Must be your lucky day, a more sarcastic side replied.

How the fuck do I get out? How? I can't be here, I can't die here, I can't, I can't- the panicking animal self screamed so loudly that it almost drowned out all the other voices in her head.

Every writer, as she always said, was multitudes. At some point, after writing so many characters, some remained like externalized fragments in your head, advising you when requested to. It wasn't madness. She knew those voices weren't real. They were her own mind using her own characters to express certain ideas.

The panicking scream was the closest to what she had been born as.

Ciara forced herself to ignore it. Fuck. There was no denying it. Someone had abducted her, kidnapped her, and left her in some damp basement, tied to a chair. She pulled on the chain that restrained her, and it didn't budge an inch.

Yeah, you can't bend steel. Knew that. You get out by getting help or talking your captor out of it, the sarcastic voice said.

Stay. Calm. Deep breaths. Who did this, and why?

Ciara lay there, resting her face against the cold concrete of the floor. It was the only way she felt like she could breathe at all. Slowly, she willed her heart rate to slow down. If she was dead, the otter reasoned, she was dead. The worst that could happen was that she died. She wasn't afraid of death, even if she didn't welcome it.

Ciara hated the idea of dying, but it wasn't the same as fear.

What she was deathly afraid of was the unknown. The darkness around her, hiding things she couldn't see. Her nameless, faceless captor, and their unknown intents. Ciara's heart threatened to race again even as she took stock of the situation.

She was a writer for a reason. It was so that she could explore all of the unknowns and reveal them to the world. To explore the meanings behind fears and fetishes, and to share her theories. Once something had an explanation it stopped being terrifying. It had helped her grow used to her own strange, often deviant desires. Some deep-set desire for self-annihilation, perhaps. Or simple arousal. Freud suggested a death drive that accompanied the sex drive, but Ciara had found them to sing the same song more often than not.

That was the darkness inside her that inspired almost all of her writings.

Of course, recently she hadn't written anything at all. She felt like she had fully explored it all, like there was nothing left. Maybe it wasn't the best thing for the number on her bank account. No new stories written meant no money. But it brought some peace of mind to know that she had finally expunged enough of that dark side to feel some measure of peace.

She had gone outside for a walk for the first time in a while after all that; a leisurely walk, during which someone had… well, Ciara remembered only a rapid series of footsteps and then a deafening crack on her head, in broad daylight, after which she had no memory at all until now.

Then that someone had, it seemed, kidnapped her, without anyone else walking outside that morning doing a damn thing about it.

It wasn't as if she hadn't written about it before, researched it too, but in her stories and all the documented cases, the kidnapper had a reason. Greed – wanting her money. Lust – wanting her body. Pure madness – wanting death. The reasons weren't all logical or even comprehensible, but they were reasons, and the reasons were always revealed. Whoever had stolen her real body had left her here with nothing to go by at all, and that terrified her.

The lights flickered and then came on. Ciara blinked. Her first glance was towards her hands, where the brown fur was stained with rusty red. Then, she looked forward; the strip of light was a gap at the top of a concrete staircase leading out of a concrete basement, almost featureless except for the chair she had been tied to. A chair, a table tucked away in the corner, and as she looked at the third and final point of interest in the little space she was confined in, a desk with a typewriter on it.

A note, in front of the machine. It said write. It said you know what you did.

Ciara had no earthly idea. Her darkness was a fantasy. It had never once affected the real world. Had it? If it had, she couldn't remember it, and that once again left her anxiety fluttering like early autumn leaves in the cold wind, afraid of being knocked loose.

What had the otter done that warranted this? She was only a writer.

She forced herself back up and onto the chair despite the pounding ache that tightened around her skull like a vice as her blood pressure sank.

You're going to die, said her animal mind, closest to the truth. The voice sounded like a sobbing whimper.

Stay calm, said the voice of reason, cultivated in adulthood by analyzing every situation with a steadfast, rigorous attention to detail

Hey, here comes the guy who did it. Big smiles, said the sarcastic fragment that summarized every snarky protagonist and hard-boiled detective she had ever written. Big smiles, and then you strangle him with your bare hands.

Wait, who was coming-

-a creak from above. Someone was walking in the room over the basement. A few steps, then silence. Deafening silence but only for a second, then the rattling of a key in a lock, turned by an unsteady hand.

The trapdoor to the basement swung open. Above was a building. A barn, maybe. It was night, but the barn was full of holes, through which the moon and stars shone, in their limited capacity for illumination.

Her captor stepped down the stairs. A figure in a dress and a mask; a zebra mask. That- that didn't make any sense. The Zebra-Mask Zebra was a recurring character from Ciara's stories. She wasn't real, and Ciara didn't for a second believe that her writings had suddenly become real, either.

This was a prank. Had to be. Or a psycho.

“Welcome. Let's play a little game," the zebra-mask said. “I want you to-“

“-wait, stop," Ciara interrupted her. “You're not my character. What's going on here?"

Good idea interrupting her. At least that's one less kind of torture if she kills you.

Bad idea interrupting her when you're tied to a chair. Let her talk and look for a way out.

You're going to die.

Her three inner voices had settled into a patter. The sarcastic detective-self spoke first, followed by the calm rational part of her, and both were underlined by the panicking animal.

“Aw, not in the mood for games?" her captor sighed, dramatically. “I thought you'd like to play along to make it more fun."

“No, no, I really don't, I…" Ciara replied, trying to formulate the kind of response that'd have her set free, but those only existed in poorly written fiction. “I'd rather just you untied me and let me go?"

It was a hopeful gamble, but like every hopeful gamble, it was as lucky as rolling snake eyes when going all in at the casino.

“Oh. Oh, no, no. I'd love to, but I can't do that, or you'll just return to not writing anything," the zebra-mask replied, her voice a sigh. “See, I had a whole thing planned here, where I'd captured you because you've left your readers starved, and… well, never mind that, that is why I captured you."

“You're a fan of mine?" Ciara asked. “Like, of my stories? I didn't think anyone- I mean, yeah, but… I definitely can't write if you don't get let me go."

“No, honey, that's why you're here. I know you can't write right now, I follow you on all the social media. But that just means you need inspiration! Like all the characters in your stories!"

The rubber mask left her captor's voice just a little muffled, and the way it flapped as she spoke was more than a little uncanny. Her words, though, were the scariest part by far.

“What kind of inspiration?" Ciara asked. She tried her hardest to not think about the axe on the other nearby table – the only piece of furniture in the basement beyond the desk and chair – or anything else that a psychotic fan might allow to transpire in a bare concrete basement.

“Oh, whatever it takes, I have some plans I think you'll enjoy," the masked woman replied, sounding so very enthusiastic. “…ugh, I gotta get this mask off. It's horrible. I have no idea how the Zebra-Mask Zebra manages to wear it all the time."

The Zebra-Mask Zebra ain't real, genius.

Focus on the inspiration. Maybe you can write something that'll make her let you go.

Dead, dead, dead, dead, there's no way out of this. If she shows you her face she has to kill you.

Her captor pulled her mask off before Ciara could protest. Her damp, flushed-looking face was that of a donkey, rather than a zebra like in the otter's stories of debauchery.

“Oh, thank god, I forgot how good it feels to breathe," she panted. She had long, greasy hair that clung to the sides of her head like the fur of a wet dog, and a broad, almost masculine body that contrasted with her heavy-looking breasts. “Okay, now let's get down to business. Turn around and start writing."

“Start- start writing? Just like that? The last time I used a typewriter was in third grade, and I don't have any ideas, either," Ciara said.

“No, you misunderstand me," the donkey replied, her voice flat. “I want you to come up with new ideas. Something terrifying and sexy."

“I, I can't just force a new idea out like that. It has to make sense, and it has to be good, too. I need silence and I need to be at home in my writing space," Ciara protested.

The donkey's gaze darkened. She furrowed her brow

“Look, I know you have the ideas. You've written so many amazing stories," she said. “Just start using them again."

“That's not how it-“

“It is how it works, you stupid bitch," the donkey growled. “I- fuck, I'm sorry, you're not a stupid bitch, but you are being kind of a bitch right now."

“It literally isn't, I can't force new ideas to happen!" Ciara said.

“Well, I guess that's why I'm here. I'll be your muse," the donkey sighed. “Only right that I'd be the one to do it. I'm like your biggest fan. Angelica, by the way. Nice to meet you, even if you might need a second to see how nice it is!"

She walked over to the other table in the room. It was the one with the axe on it.

“Would you find it easier to write if I chopped off a couple of toes?" she asked, with no affectation whatsoever in her voice. “They do that in your stories all the time. A finger? No, finger won't do, you need them all to type quickly."

Her fingers caressed the axe's handle. It looked like wood, worn smooth from constant use, though not by the rather untrained-looking donkey herself. Maybe a grandfather. The blade reflected the light in a way that told Ciara that it was honed to perfection, though.

“What if I just break a couple of fingers? With the flat end?" Angelica asked, hefting the axe in her hand.

“No, please, that'll make writing harder, you understand that!" Ciara protested. “And it'll be goddamn months before I can write anything if you break my fingers."

Angelica sighed. “Okay. Yeah, I can see how that would be a problem. God, I don't fucking want to wait another five years for one of your stories."

She set the axe aside. “I have some more ideas, though. Oh, let's see… what would really work for someone like you?"

Suggest freedom. She's dumb enough to buy that.

Just say 'a cup of tea' or something, and then write a basic boring story. Any excuse to escape.

She's going to kill you if you don't start writing right now! She's going to chop you into tiny fucking pieces!

Sarcastic, logical, panicking animal.

Ciara was horribly afraid that it was the last voice that spoke the truth. Or whatever was closest to the truth, anyway.

“Oh!" the donkey exclaimed theatrically. She held up a finger like the cartoon stereotype of a person who suddenly had an idea. If it wasn't for being terrified and angry, it might've been amusing. “I know, I have a friend who likes helping with this stuff too."

She grabbed a phone from her pocket and quickly dialed a few numbers. It rang only once, and then she was talking. Ciara could only hear what her “greatest fan" said, not whoever she was talking with.

“Yeah, so, I need you to come do your thing… yeah, just like I said, Ciara, the author, she's not really into having her toes cut off like I thought," she said. “Mhm. Yeah, yeah. No, she's not able to run. Yeah, I have that. Ten minutes? Great."

Angelica hung up and set her phone down, next to the axe. Ciara had the creeping suspicion that whatever she had just decided with her psychopath-in-arms would be just as devastating as the axe.

“Okay, Ms. Awesome, I got a real nice surprise on the way for you! It's exactly like all that other stuff you keep writing about, mhm!"

The stuff about strangling fans with her attitude?

She means the smut. God only knows what specifically, with how much of it you write.

She's going to fucking rape you, and you'll wish you were dead.

“I got this friend," Angelica beamed. “Horse with a huge cock, he always comes over when I have visitors like you."

“And… and what does he do?" Ciara asked, though she already knew.

“Well in your case he's going to breed you until you're begging for it, silly! Knock you up with a total stranger's foal, just like in your saucier stories," Angelica exclaimed, her tail swishing back and forth with excitement.

“That's a fantasy," Cyntha cried. “I don't actually want that in real life!"

Yet, want or not, the thought still made her twitch. Was this crazy donkey actually going to go through with it, and then what? Would she be forced to remain here until she gave birth, or what, typing forever on a ratty old typewriter?

Her head hurt, and she wouldn't be able to overcome her writer's block no matter what. But the donkey was beyond any argument; she had lost what tenuous connection with reality she had a long time ago. Had it been because of Ciara's novels, she asked herself? Maybe. A novel wouldn't make someone crazy, but maybe she had built her warped worldview on the foundations of the endlessly hedonistic, October-tinged, dark, and ironically rather Saturnalian stories that she kept publishing.

Well, soon enough there was a heavy knock on the trapdoor above, and Angelica quickly walked to open it. She had locked it from the inside upon arriving with a heavy-looking padlock that opened soundlessly, and she pushed the door open.

“Oh, that was quick. You must be real damn horny today," Ciara heard her captor laugh.

A deep voice answered her. “Is she in heat? It's always more fun to fuck them when they're in heat."

Rip his balls off, that'll make him simmer down.

Remember that Plan B exists, so as long as you get out of here later, you'll be fine.

HELP HE'S GOING TO RAPE AND THEN MURDER YOU HELP HELP

Ciara swallowed, hard. She steeled herself for what was about to happen. She would've been lying if she had claimed that the scenario didn't excite her at all, because for the love of god, it did excite her. There was a reason she wrote about these scenarios so much, of women like herself getting impregnated against their will, bred like farm animals, forced to conceive some stranger's unwanted children, but it was all just that: fantasy.

It was nothing but the dreamlike desires of her libido, conjured up by her hypervivid imagination and then expelled through writing and orgasms, it wasn't something she would ever want in real life!

The horse walked down the stairs, the clopping of his hooves against the concrete sounding choked with the small basement offering little echo at all.

He was like the very archetype of masculinity. Lean but muscular, he was almost twice her size in both height and width and looked like a farm boy – a farm man – with his blue jeans bulged at the front, as if they were several sizes too small for what he was packing. The kind of horse who lived to breed, that was the first thought that popped into Ciara's head. Or maybe it was the dominance that got him off. Some narcissistic need to force women to have his offspring.

“Well, she's looking pretty good, despite the… uh, blood," the horse noted, inspecting the tied-up otter from a distance. “You didn't even clean your big hero after clubbing her?"

At least that confirmed it was indeed Angelica who had assaulted her.

It also confirmed that… fuck.

Everything was very fucked up right now.

Ciara closed her eyes and forced herself to ignore whatever the two assailants were saying. Circus music. Entrance of the Gladiators. Anything at all to not have to listen to their plans. She looked at the cuff around her leg, and unfortunately it seemed very solid. She'd need a key, or maybe the axe that Angelica kept fondling. Not to cut off her own leg, she wasn't that stupid, but to smash up the chair enough that there was nothing for her to be stuck to.

Suddenly the horse was next to her, and he grabbed her by the neck. Not squeezing, but hard enough to make it clear that he could squeeze if he wanted to.

“So, are you going to play along and let me inspire you?" he asked, in a mocking tone.

Angelica stepped forward. “I have a better idea… it's like she said, she can't really write if you hurt her too much. But I have this."

She pulled out a little syringe from one of her many pockets. It was full of a yellowish liquid.

If you wanted to get me high, you could've just asked.

It's probably some kind of aphrodisiac.

Poison! It's poison!

“What's that? I don't want to fuck her if you poison her first," the horse sighed.

“Oh, it's just an aphrodisiac. Heat inducer, you know. I actually got that idea from her stories too," the donkey laughed.

“How long does it take to work? I mean, I got work tomorrow, and I just want to fuck this bitch now," the horse said.

Angelica stepped closer yet and then stabbed the syringe into Ciara's arm. The otter didn't dare look. She didn't want to watch that sickly yellow liquid disappear into her body. It burned like fire in her veins, but only briefly.

And once you get out of here, you're giving her a lobotomy with that syringe.

Don't resist. You can fix things later and it'll be easier if they don't break all your limbs.

Poison! Poison! Pois-

A heady fog washed over her only moments later. It felt a little like opiates, which the otter had only ever had in painkillers. A drunken, warm happiness that had her limply slump into the horse's arms. All the voices in her head went quiet. There was really nothing to worry about anymore.

Well, there was, and she knew that, but she didn't feel it anymore, leaving her predicament feeling rather like a distant problem for someone else to take care of some other time. It seemed the drug was more than a heat inducer, though it certainly did that too; against her almost nonexistent will, the otter found herself quickly growing familiarly horny. It started as a dampness and tingling, and then she felt her stomach, or maybe her womb, twitch with quickly intensifying need.

It was degrading and wrong, and of course, it was all because of the drugs, but the horse looked hotter and hotter with each passing second. It was the age-old song; her body wanted him, even if her mind did not. Just like in her goddamn stories. Deep inside, the otter wished she had never written them at all, now.

But she couldn't focus on that thought. It kept slipping from her mind like a dream upon waking up. Instead, she leaned into the masculine, muscular horse, taking in his wonderfully musky scent.

Fuck it. There was no point in resisting. She gave in to that forced, growing need.

“That's some good stuff," the horse chuckled while peeling off his undersized-seeming pants. “You steal it from the hospital, or?"

“Nah, just asked my dealer," the donkey replied. She got to work pulling off Ciara's clothes. They all needed a good wash, anyway; she couldn't let her hero write while she was all dirty.

“Tell him to get some more, 'cause I-“ he grunted as he pulled out his half-hard cock, which flopped enticingly against Ciara's now bare chest. “-have this mare at work who's way too uptight for her own good."

It was sort of the opposite of a panic. No, not the opposite, but the mirror image. Ravenous lust was a frenzied, panicked attraction. Panic was being repelled by something. Otherwise, they were the same. Oh, Ciara couldn't keep track of her thoughts, especially not when the horse grabbed her by the waist and lifted her off the chair. Angelica had taken off the cuff, and she hadn't even realized. Not with that massive equine manhood taking up so much of her thoughts. She couldn't look away from it, engorged and pink-splotched ebony as it was, so ready to breed someone, to breed her.

It was almost as big as her forearm, but the otter was rapidly consumed by pure fucklust, an animal in heat taking the place of the panicking one, and making her pussy weep with excitement as the horse lowered her on some hastily placed ragged towels that Angelica had dug up.

“Time to have a foal, you dumb slut," the horse snorted. “God, I love you idiots."

Ciara whimpered in response. She spread her legs wider, showing off her soaked pussy for the horse who already knelt between them. The otter felt so deeply sexy, but more than anything, she felt needy, and she needed the horse's cock like she'd never needed anything in her life. The tingly itch inside her was going to drive her mad otherwise.

“I hope this doesn't scramble her brains too bad," Angelica said, her voice trembling ever so slightly as she watched, probably mostly with arousal. “Still need her to finish that story about the werewolves…"

“Well, usually my cock makes 'em sing," the horse replied with cocky bravado. He grabbed his shaft around the medial ring and rubbed the bloated, flared tip against Ciara's yearning, defenseless pussy that he'd soon be inseminating with his unwanted seed. Well, unwanted once the otter sobered up anyway, but by then she'd already be pregnant, just like the two dozen or so other women that Angelica had brought him for one reason or another.

This one was the first celebrity, though, and that only made his cock harder.

Slowly, he pushed, muscles flexing as he put more pressure on Ciara's folds. The otter's body yielded eagerly, offering almost no resistance at all as his cock slid into her, maybe an inch at first, stretching her lips taut around it. Ciara moaned, her fur bristling with pleasure as she took every inch that was offered, though even that sound came out slurred from her relaxed throat. Naturally. She was deeply drunk on both her burgeoning heat and whatever else the donkey had mixed into the syringe. But it felt like ecstasy, feeling the horse's shaft push deeper and deeper into her.

“F-fucking fuck, you're right. Maybe I can bring some friends over to fuck that tightness out," the horse said, grunting as he worked himself deeper.

“No, no, she has to write after that. You can't just keep fucking her!" Angelica complained.

“So what if I do? Who the fuck reads books- ngh-“ he replied, the flare of his cock bumping against Ciara's defenseless cervix, the same one that'd soon be drinking his cum and sating the heat the otter had been forced into. “-yeah fine, just shut up and… fucking tight."

And then he started fucking her. Just as he had bragged, his cock certainly made the drugged otter sing, with her moaning at the top of her lungs at the heavenly sensation of being stretched, of his flare digging into her yielding inner walls, the hot squirts of precum that gave a preview of what being knocked up would feel like, all of it intensified tenfold by the fact that she was in heat, ovulating, her body primed to receive an unwanted child.

Just as with panic, her body didn't care about what the mind wanted. Not one bit. For her soaked cunt, this was exactly what it existed for it, its entire purpose, and with that, her entire purpose. A woman was merely a vessel to fill with children, or so she thought in that feverish heat-haze.

The horse wasn't being gentle. He fucked Ciara like she was a nothing but a toy, roughly, hard enough to no doubt bruise her, but her body already burned with the far greater intensity of need, with her wetness serving as a constant reminder of just how badly she needed this. How badly her body wanted to be fertilized by a male – any male – to the point that she barely felt any pain even as the horse smashed against her awaiting cervix. What she could feel were his massive, heavy balls slapping against her, heralding what was to come.

He kept rutting into her, rocking the otter back and forth on the towels. Every nerve of her being was eagerly waiting for that first throb. She needed it. Just like the characters in her stories needed it. She had never truly understood that it was possible to actually feel so needy. And that was it. Inspiration. Feeling that truly sex-starved hunger – no, not even starved, but beastly, gluttonous, boundless-

“Yeah, you know what, I'm- f-fuck, I'm gonna keep her," the horse snorted. “Right after she's written your stupid books. Keep her hopped up on this shit while I- oh, fucking Christ, I'm gonna cum-"

The horse shuddered atop her, his muscles tensing as he prepared to finish performing his unwanted masculine duty of breeding someone who clearly wasn't capable of saying anything beyond an intoxicated, moaning, begging cry.

He thumped his cock into her. Down to the hilt, her body's capacity didn't matter – he didn't care if he bruised, hurt, or even left her torn – and felt his flare swell even bigger, forming a perfectly tight seal against her cervix.

“Here it comes, your… stupid… foal," her assailant grunted. And then he pulsed inside her, his disgusting, wonderful cock bucking and jerking as heat rushed into Ciara's body.

She moaned in absolute bliss. The otter had never actually had sex while at the peak of her heat. Despite all her writings, Ciara didn't want to get pregnant. It was a part of womanhood that she merrily gave a wide birth, and now it was happening anyway, and it was amazing. The immense burst of slick heat deep in her very core, followed immediately by a rush of satisfaction, deeper than anything any drug could provide.

Ciara felt divine. Like a goddess, receiving her offering. This was something she could write about, she thought, in a frenzied orgasm-state, where all inhibitions burned away and her muse finally returned to her. The circumstances of it all no longer mattered. She received every drop of the horse's seed with blistering joy, moaning eagerly and even clenching around his oversized, throbbing member as animal instincts overrode every conscious thought. Her toes curled and her back arched in the throes of the immense orgasm, heart beating so rapidly that she thought it might burst.

Maybe it had burst. Suddenly, the otter saw the world as if through a long, dark tunnel, escaping away from her until it was only a faint pinprick of light at the center of her vision, and in another blink, it was gone.

She laid there, unconscious if not comatose or dead, as the horse finishing spending himself inside her helpless body, pumping the most intimate part of her full of his unwanted cum.

For a moment there was silence, and Angelica rushed to her side, worried that the horse might've hurt the object of her undying adoration, but nothing seemed to be wrong with the otter. She was still breathing, almost peacefully, with her stud's cum slowly oozing from her exhausted pussy.

The horse only slowly pulled out, grinning a mean but very satisfied grin as he did, his cock leaving Ciara's sex stretched and loose, at least for a few minutes.

“Kinda rare for sluts to literally pass out when getting fucked," he laughed.

“You sure you didn't hurt her?" Angelica asked, her voice heavy with worry. “She's not waking up."

“Nah, just came her brains out," the horse grinned. “It's not the first time I fuck a mare unconscious."

Angelica wasn't too sure about that, but she could, she supposed, understand the desire to just fall asleep after a powerful orgasm. It was just a question of it the otter felt like that too. And if she'd been successfully inspired or not.

“But yeah, she's some good pussy. Let me know when-"

Then, suddenly, just as the stud was pulling his boxers back on, darkness exploded forth, pouring from Ciara's body.

“-what the actual fuck?"

The horse recoiled from what he saw, bouncing away like a scared cat despite all his bulk and bravado.

It was the kind of darkness, like an eclipse, that drew the eye, forced every errant gaze to focus on it. Painfully sharp against the fading light, the sheer inky black seemed to absorb it all, a jagged wound in the air from which legs protruded. Legs, or perhaps tentacles, bending every which way bonelessly before solidifying against the concrete and digging into it.

“Inspiration," it spoke, caressing the word as if it were the last fading whisper of a dead language. “You've found it, through perfect deduction. You stupid fuck. A poor calculation. You poor, scared animal."

The darkness turned, or at least so it seemed, for it had no eyes or any true geometry, only the kind of angles and impossible surfaces that made the eyes water and the mind ache. It turned towards Angelica.

“Isn't it beautiful, like something that a person like you would enjoy?" it asked. “Isn't it breathtaking? Isn't it terrifying? Don't you want to run away from your demise? I will smear you into unrecognizable grit, or so you think."

“W-what are you-“ Angelica stammered. She was familiar enough with a certain superficial interpretation of darkness. The sort of darkness that Ciara wrote about, a reflection of the reality of the darkest heart of people as a collective entity. But this was something else. It spoke in three voices at once, though they all overlapped. The mere sight of it made even her jaded heart skip beats, it made her skin crawl and twitch.

“Her mind," the darkness whispered. A sharply outlined tendril of shadow reached to caress Ciara's cheek. “She creates such beauty, and I am her muse. And you are nothing. Yet. But you will be."

The horse was almost out. He had just reached the stairs, walking stiffly with his body almost paralyzed by overwhelming terror, as a thousand sharp, ink-bleeding claws dug into him at once and tore him apart like an overripe mango. He had no time to scream, probably not even to feel anything beyond the slightest first stinging hint of pain.

“He did his duty, poorly. Now we do ours, well. You let me out, and as such, I'll inspire you too," the black void whispered. It hung in the air, silent and heavy like mourning. “OPEN UP."

Angelica didn't really comprehend any of it. She was looking at something as impossible as a void, a bleeding hollow gap in reality, floating in the air despite walking. A dark-thing that couldn't exist outside of hopeless nightmares. A black hole, maybe, was the closest real equivalent, but black holes were merciful, objective, and quick. The shivering blackness in the air was none of those things, and in her next breath, it dove into Angelica, leaving Ciara to rest, entirely unconscious, on the dirty towels.

Angelica's eyes widened as she suddenly saw the world just like Ciara did. Oh, yes, it had to be! Every beautiful idea was crashing into her mind at once. Endless possibilities! Endless plots, endless stories, endless breathtakingly erotic kinks.

She had to take part in all of them, and she had to get started right away. With trembling hands, barely able to believe – much less comprehend – the treasure trove of fascination and inspiration, the whitewater rapids of endless ideas, plot hooks, and climaxes, Angelica picked up the axe she had threatened Ciara with. Oh, how could she have even done that, threatening such beauty? The axe sang along with her in a sublimely beautiful angelic choir.

She was bristling with energy. The world wobbled and shifted as if viewed through a mirage! If this was how Ciara really perceived everything, no wonder she was such a talented writer!

Angelica grabbed the axe by its head and pulled the blade along the thin skin of her wrist, marveling at how the blood bubbled forth like a spring, like the fountain of youth and vitality, oozing down her brown fur and down, down, down her arms, splattering onto the floor like rain. The axe's pitch changed, resonating along with the vibrations of her blood. Amazing. Beautiful! She felt like she could've written an entire story about just that simple act, but that'd be boring! First, unlike that disciplined and dreadfully boring otter, she'd have to explore every aspect of her inspired mind. Just thinking of it made her pussy dampen and twitch with desire.

Oh, oh, it was too much. She could feel her mind swimming, her vision fading to black, memory-gaps forming like from having too much to drink. No! She wanted to see it all, wanted to see herself-

-bouncing on a stranger's cock in a filthy alleyway littered with refuse, rats, used condoms-

-nailing a wailing cat to the wall with-

-being fucked like feral bitch by a stray dog, bred if she wasn't already pregnant-

-the axe coming down, the sweet snap of a shoulder blade splintering like rotten wood around the blade-

It was like a frenzied slideshow of the most depraved acts she could've ever imagined, performed by a psychotic woman and spliced together by a mad genius of an editor, directing her mental cinema to stupendous heights with every convulsion of his black, sharp un-limbs, egging her on, pushing her until she wanted to throw up and then did throw up. Repeatedly and violently, vomiting up acid, bile and blood from being so utterly, divinely energized.

When Angelica came to again, it was with her dress soaked in blood and her pussy in cum. The latter filled her. The former wasn't her own, either. She felt like one might feel after a long night of dreamless sleep. Her entire body ached, but still thrummed with a dark, bestial vigor, as if someone had doped her to be twice her size and strength and she had just contracted back, every muscle – and her brain most of all – feeling two sizes too small for her skin.

Her axe had fallen asleep next to her, and she was surrounded by people yelling at her sharply, people with guns and batons, demanding things that her fuzzy mind couldn't possibly provide. She vaguely recognized them as police. It wasn't that she couldn't stomp their angry faces and muzzles into gritty slop. It was that her muse – no, it wasn't hers, it was Ciara's muse – was telling her not to, that there was so much more to discover by letting them have their way.

She slumped forward onto the corpse of her thirteenth lover of the night. Angelica was tired now, but she hadn't felt this good in ages, so revitalized. Yes, she, lacking Ciara's ability to channel her muse onto paper and thus subvert its crushing dark will, had lived out every blackened, rotten fantasy it could conjure in her mind. She was like a black widow with her lovers, a corpse-burrowing maggot, and it felt wonderful.

She didn't even mind it when the police handcuffed her and dragged her limp body to one of their many cars, leaving her dreaming away. A whole house of people to inspire awaited her! And whatever they punished her with! Ha, it'd be w-w-w-

Just like that, the muse that wasn't truly hers was gone. One second, Angelica had been sitting up. The next, she collapsed sideways onto the back seat, like a puppet with its strings cut, and convulsed.

“-seizure? We really gonna call an-“

“-ears bleeding like-“

“-meth? Cocaine-“

The voices of the police faded into a darkness far more enduring than what she had felt before or would ever feel again. As her body – having lost all cohesion, driven to the breaking point by Ciara's muse, infused with so much raw energy that it had left every vein and artery in her body weeping, every cell caught in uncontrolled, ravenous growth, and her mind shattered more akin to a stained-glass window hit by a bullet than her normal obsessive self – fell apart and began to dissolve and melt into the back seat of the police cruiser, her last thought was of the incredibly beauty that her brief life as an artist would have offered her subjects a fleeting glance into.

She didn't scream, but they did, and it was like music to her decaying ears.

Ciara's consciousness returned a few hours after that. Her muse, too, had returned. It was, after all, part of her, and her mind was overflowing with new story ideas, as if someone had recharged her very inspiration. She awoke on the surprisingly comfortable towels, and despite the mess between her legs, quickly got dressed up, unsure if the good feeling was because of the drugs or something else.

Had Angelica succeeded, then? Oh, it didn't matter. She had to get to a computer right now; no more of these stupid typewriters, she had to write as soon and as much as possible!

She left the basement. The stairs echoed with a kind of menace with each step, except the part where she walked through the gore left by the stud. She forced herself not to think about it. It wasn't as if it was any worse than strawberry jam under the soles of her shoes anyway. Strawberry jam. Positive thoughts, she could work through the trauma later, and not think about his skull collapsing with the sound of a slice of toast being ripped apart. Briefly, she wondered if she had ended up pregnant, but that felt like a distant worry at the moment.

Ciara was whistling merrily, without paying a second thought to what had become of her captor after a few more ponderings. The donkey had gotten exactly what she wanted anyway – Ciara had overcome her writer's block – and as such, really, Ciara should've thanked her. Sadly, she was nowhere to be found.

It bothered her a little, because at the same time, she really should've called the police too – or maybe both thanked and called the cops on her – but right now the hypomanic energy surging through her with her muse unleashed called only for one thing: writing. She had little choice in the matter. Someone had to write the ideas down, and she couldn't do that in a damp basement.

Outside, the weather was still. The sun had just risen after a long night, and she emerged from a decrepit farmhouse. Whoever had built a basement beneath it had to have been planning to use it specifically for kidnappings and worse. Outside, the building was a ruin.

Ciara shook off the rest of the aches in her body as she emerged from the darkness and into the warm caress of dawn. One last glance back at the ruin. Yeah, she couldn't stay here. A gravel path led away from the barn, and onto a bigger road. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear the rumble of a highway, and regardless of which highway it was, it'd be the one she needed to get home.

The lack of closure was a little irritating. But ah, well! At least Angelica would no doubt be happy when the otter released her next bunch of stories. The first one, she thought, would be about a woman who killed each lover who bred her, ensuring that every bloodline of males that loved her could only go through her. No, maybe it'd be about a villain going mad. No, better yet, both at once, with the madness as the cause of her deviant habits, inflicted upon her after digging far too deep at an archeological site dedicated to something she didn't fully understand.

Guided by her muses, Ciara never had to think about how she was going to find her way home. Her feet took her where she needed, towards the highway – the little country road was completely deserted, and the otter wondered if Angelica might've been the last holdout who lived here instead of in the nearby cities – and then hitchhiking her way to back to the safety of her home.

All that really mattered was that she got those stories out of her head and onto paper. That was the whole reason she had started writing. To exorcise her personal demons, to get disturbing fantasies out of her head and onto paper where they could do no harm, no matter how horrifying, erotic, or horrifyingly erotic they might be.

It was the cheapest form of therapy she could imagine, and she had always been thankful to her muse for it, even if she might've preferred to write less lurid and outrageous things sometimes.

And besides, if she didn't put the ideas on paper, they grew and grew in compulsive power inside her, becoming little gods that threatened to make her do foolish things.

In other words, without her writing the ideas down, they might end up as reality. And nobody wanted that.