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*Trickster *

by anonymous

Part II of III

“This is just a coyote."

She was not just a coyote. She was the coyote, Coyote, the trickster of tricksters. She had brought life to the world. Her derisive spit had shaped lakes and glaciers. Her claws had raked canyons. The hateful poacher, the mortal who held her captive, snickered at his guest's judgment. “Not just."

Coyote felt her hind legs growing longer. She rolled to her side, to let the transformation happen more or less naturally, getting her feet beneath her and rising again. She looked between the poacher and the new man, a more nicely dressed figure—a shopkeeper from the mining town down in the valley, if she recalled correctly. “Son of a gun," the man said.

“Told ya. And this." He toyed with her collar, and ran his finger along the lead. “This keeps her mine. You ain't seen nothin' yet, Bert."

“It binds her?" Bert asked. The poacher handed it over, and he took the end of the cord, wrapping it around his wrist. “Speak."

“What," she began. “Do you want me to say?"

“You're Coyote?"

“Yes. You don't know me. You've forgotten me."

“Yes. I suppose." Bert chuckled, and handed the lead back. “You should bring it into town, then, I think. The sheriff'll be willing to forgive plenty with a find like that. Hell, might even make a lowlife like you mayor. Your ticket to great things."

“Day after tomorrow?"

“That'll work, yeah. Thanks for havin' me over."

The poacher walked him to the front of the cabin, where the man's horse was waiting, leaving her tied to the wheel of a broken wagon. “No trouble a'tall. Wanted to make sure I'd have a good reception. Been thinkin' on this one for weeks, y'know?"

Had it been weeks? Coyote shuddered. Weeks, weeks of him having his way with her. Shooting her. Holding her head under the cold waters of the creek that ran through his property, cackling with the final shudder and rush of bubbles from her muzzle. Oughta let you float down, see if you jam up that precious dam of theirs, he'd said. But he hadn't been able to resist bringing her back. Making her a plaything for his dogs. Springing a trap on her forepaw, challenging her to gnaw it off before the pack went for her throat.

Her captor was not capable of great things. He was cruel, she thought, but simple. On the outs of his own society, lawless. Without the leash he was also powerless. The leash—she heard the sound of hoofbeats as the merchant's horse started off, and realized nobody was watching her. The leash had been secured fast to the spoke, but the spoke itself broke easily. All it took was one well-aimed kick at the rotten wood and she was free.

She ran.

She could take the collar off later—no point in damaging it, and its fine craftsmanship. Her craftsmanship, not his. Now, now she had to get away. Behind her the poacher was cackling, and she didn't have the time to look at why. She heard baying. Not his cur, she thought—another one, more angular, some shepherd mix. Fast. Getting closer.

All you have to do is get into the woods. Buy enough time to get her collar off, and feel ancient power working back into her limbs. The dogs wouldn't matter then. The human and his leering friend wouldn't matter, either.

The dog pounced at her, took her square in the back, and Coyote went sprawling into the dirt, tasting it on her lolling tongue. As she scrambled back to her feet there was a snarl, and a sharp pressure at the back of her thigh that gave way abruptly to a deep chill and then a shouting, white-hot agony.

She got to her knees, but no further; her left leg wouldn't support her, and she glanced to see scarlet rilling down her dusky fur. Further back, the poacher was making his way closer. His shepherd lunged again, and she rolled to take the impact, then just barely managed to get her paws around his throat. The dog thrashed, his teeth scoring her forearms. Saliva flecked her fur from his attempts to get at her.

Escape, though. Escape was so close. Coyote summoned her strength, flung the dog away, and turned to run.

But it put weight on her leg, and when she hobbled the monster was on her again. She threw him again; aimed a kick with her good leg. It connected—there was a fierce snarl of rage and pain—but when she tried a second time he ducked under it, writhing closer to her, jaws snapping. She twisted, and those fangs sunk into her lean belly.

And, as she howled in protest, he ripped her open.

She shoved at him in a panic with her paws as the dog kept biting, tugging, his muzzle inside her now, briefly, coming back soaked with blood. Escape was no longer in her mind, replaced by animal terror, trying to stop him as he tore her apart, her fingers pushing uselessly against slick fur.

There was a sharp pain, and the dog came back with a loop of her intestines clamped in his jaws. No. No, this can't be happening. This can't—_she saw her quivering fingers before him like a beggar seeking alms as he pulled away. Beyond that, the beast's owner, close enough that she could see his expression. Her howl had choked off, and as the dog came in again—biting down, jerking, yanking her guts from her hungrily—she heard her voice break into the anguished, begging yelping of downed prey. _Doomed prey.

The poacher's face reflected that, too. He knew it was over. He was enjoying it.

Coyote curled up, trying to protect herself, but the muscular shepherd forced his way back in easily. His snarls were a coarse counterpoint to the shrieking pleas he was too focused to ignore. The goddess's blows fell weaker and weaker on him—there was nothing to do when he stopped, narrowed eyes at her, and lunged for her throat.

Fangs sunk in, cutting off her air, but before he could finish the job the dog grunted, and she felt the pressure relax. There was a hand at his collar. “That's enough," the poacher said. Coyote gasped for breath. She tried to force a plea to her lips. The shepherd had been so close to ending her. “What's that?"

Coyote, who had treated the geysers of Yellowstone as her plaything, whimpered. She was still whimpering, back hunched reflexively, a fetal position with her spilled innards grouped about her thighs, when he came back from tying the dog up. His boot slammed into her ribs, knocking her onto her back. Clear, brilliant blue sky above taunted her mercilessly.

“Where did you think you were going?"

“Just kill me," she begged. She twisted enough to look at him. “Please…"

“He already did," the human said, nodding towards his dog. “Now we just wait until you give me an answer. Why did you run? Where did you think you'd go?"

The dog had done enough damage before being pulled away that every breath burned. She couldn't answer him. She did not, perhaps, know the answer. The human, the pathetic mortal who held the end of her lead, wrapped it around the nearest tree. Five feet up, perhaps.

He intended to stick around, she realized. As long as it took. Her belly was a ribbon of agony, pulsing with every quiver. It felt like a searing brand had been shoved up into her vitals. For a minute or two she lay there, until she judged that the dog must not have gotten the artery in her thigh. She hadn't bled out yet.

The human figured she couldn't reach the end of the lead. But… but it wasn't five full feet, was it? Perhaps only four. Maybe not even that. I could… hissing, teeth clenched against the pain, she tried to work her insides into place through the gash his dog had rent in her. He chuckled, mocked her strength. Some god you are…

Definitely no more than four feet. Coyote steeled herself, and pushed with her good leg, a hobbling step that pivoted her until she slammed against the base of the tree. The yelp was unbidden, and as she slid down it left an ominous scarlet trail along the bark, but— close. It's so close. She braced herself, stretched up, one paw on her abdomen… please, she whined, saying it to the cord now, her own creation, begging it to drop just a few inches lower.

Warmth spilled down her belly and thighs, first a trickle and then heavier, more slick. Coyote glanced down to see the dog had done worse than she'd first thought; ripped her wider and deeper. Even as her quivering fingers tried to seal the tear in her flesh her entrails were slithering past them, sliding from her in a quickening rush. “No! No—no, no—please…" She struggled with both paws now, the lead forgotten, slumping down the tree with a horrified whimper as her bowels oozed wetly around the dying goddess's frantic attempts to stuff them back into place. “H-help me. Please."

The begging ended in a defeated groan as, at last, her thighs squelched against the mess and she panted raggedly, what was left of her viscera puddled in her useless hold. Four feet was an impossibility—she could barely move, barely think. “You'll get better," she heard him say. Coyote, timeless and immortal and divine, tried to lift a paw beseechingly. A coil of intestine that had briefly trapped her slid from her wrist, and she reached out for help. His knife. His gun, he could use his gun—anything. He doesn't have to let me die like this. Please, don't let me die like this.

He smirked, turned his back to her, and headed back towards his cabin.

Despite the heat of the afternoon she was beginning to grow cold, addled. She craned her head back to look at the end of her rope. It was taunting her—she saw her bloody paw reach up towards it, fingers straining… the paw fell back. She tried again, the movement shaky. Again, this time reaching only halfway. By the fourth attempt she barely had the strength to lift her arm at all.

Instinct, now. Thoughtless. Her fingers worked feebly to push her guts back in, as though it mattered. As though the dog's fangs hadn't sliced lingering, inevitable death into her tripes with every savage bite he'd inflicted despite her futile struggles. As though she could find new strength for her stupidly splayed legs somewhere; hobble back to her feet…

The effort slowed. Weakened. Her whimpering quieted. Her muscles spasmed as she lost control of them. Her paws batted at nothing, erratically. She dimly felt a fresh, pungent warmth spread over her crotch, and her sensitive muzzle caught the scent of her final indignity, but the world was closing in then; she could do nothing about it. And, with a few rasping breaths, it vanished entirely.

How did I fail so completely? How did I let him do that? Running was simple. His dogs were stupid beasts. She could've torn the collar off and had her way with all of them, but somehow… somehow she'd ended up like… Coyote could not even bring herself to look at the soiled corpse of what had once been a goddess. She heard the echoes of her mewling pleas, the tortured yelps of a dying animal…

And she had a dark, thoughtless eternity to turn them over and over in her head before the light returned.

It was evening now. He must've figured she'd suffer for hours. She was tied up back outside his cabin, still on two legs, still naked, sitting with her back to the wall. “You want to try again?" he asked.

“No." Her voice was defeated. Soft.

“Ain't much like any coyote I've seen," the poacher said. “Scream like one when the dogs get you, for sure. But. Maybe, if you ask real nice, this time we'll do something else."

“Like what?"

He shoved her thighs apart, and shoved his hand between them. “My dog sure had fun. Me, I'm thinkin', as long as you're on two legs…"

“You want me to turn human?"

She asked the question because it distracted her from the sensation of his filthy fingers prodding at her spade. Beasts… in some sense, the dog was one thing. Thoughtless. Instinctive. Humans, though… Coyote had coupled with humans before. On Coyote's volition, not theirs. They were not allowed to make that choice on their own. They were Coyote's inferiors. They were meant to worship their gods, not… not this.

She could not stop him from sullying her. In human guise, it was at least something like roleplay. Something like an act, a trick she might have played herself. But he hadn't answered. His finger pushed inside, the friction burning slightly, and she stopped herself from wincing only to avoid having to hear his chuckle.

The human kept teasing, and she surrendered to the inevitable, focusing on the sensations that would let her body respond. If she couldn't escape him and a few mangy curs, what was the use of protesting otherwise? What was the use of pretending she was worthy of worship? He muttered, something about how different she looked, but his fingers came away slick, too.

He pushed her onto her back, and unbuttoned his jeans. After a moment of consideration, he undid his shirt, too, naked as the coyote in the cooling evening. She could smell him, the weeks of unwashed living out in the woods, grime streaking a body used to manual labor. Strong, and coarse. Ugly, like humans were. Base. Degraded.

His blunt cock was already hard. The man settled between her legs. “Nice," he remarked. “Nice and soft. Good pelt on you. Figure you got a good cunt on ya, too, bitch?" No point in giving an answer. He'd find out soon enough.

The bulbous head glided unevenly along her spade while he tried to acquaint himself with her anatomy. His hips shifted, and with a low grunt he popped into her, her canine features contouring around the end of his shaft. Too thick—it would be uncomfortable—but bearable, probably. Fast, she hoped.

Her captor pushed, and found the right angle, sinking smoothly forward with a shuddering, satisfied groan. When he hilted he leaned forward until his chest was crushing hers, and his reeking breath filled her muzzle, and she heard him grunt again. “Oh, fuck. You're so fuckin' warm. How'd I not…"

His hips swiveled to pull him back, and then he hilted a second time before the sentence finished. How had he not done this before? Because she'd snapped at him, before. Because she'd fought him. Because she'd still been able to fight him, and he'd contented himself with torturing her. With setting his dogs on her, humiliating her as their plaything.

Now he started to pump, and the thrusts were already eager and hard. He humped away like she was inanimate, some plaything, unconcerned with how his weight kept her from breathing. The poacher's breath was ragged and hoarse, his tempo building rapidly. Perhaps a minute had gone by? Two?

He stiffened, and his cock flexed. Coyote felt the pulse along the root of it as he began shooting himself into her. At least there was no knot, and at least his climax was quick. A few heavy squirts, the disgusting twitches of his thick, slimy essence coming further and further apart, and he collapsed on her chest. His filthy hands gripped at her shoulders, holding her close.

“Fuck. Ooh. Ooh, we're doin' this again," he promised her. Fingers ran through her pelt, stroking her like a pet. “Awh. Yeah. Yeah, that's good. Never payin' another whore, tell you that…"

At least, Coyote decided, tonight he would leave her be. He'd pull out, and she'd ignore the dribbling cum spilling from her, and even if she had to sleep in it, sleep with his scent despoiling her… even if, anything was better than the humiliation of being disemboweled by his dogs. With any luck she wouldn't even dream about it. She willed him to relax. To focus on his hunger. His chores. His animals.

The poacher's hips wiggled and pushed. He'd started to soften, a little, but as he pushed himself up on his elbows she saw his face take a curious expression. “Might could do this again right now," he mused. He chanced a thrust, with some of his seed slopping around his base when he hilted, and then did it again.

No, he was stiffening already, nearly fully hard. And with one climax behind him, sullying her insides, he could take his time. He rutted in more steadily, looking down at her. Watching her submission. Grunting as he plowed into the bitch, obviously torn between the carnal pleasure of her snug insides gripping his cock and the way she flinched and averted her eyes.

Coyote, worshipped under a thousand names, had lost every last one. They were beyond her recall, and her rapist profaned none of them, fucking her into the dirt. He did not have to. He could assert himself physically, slamming her full while she did nothing to stop him.

He lowered himself to her chest, hammering into Coyote's hips in a brutal rhythm. She almost yelped, and now that he couldn't see her face any more she did allow the pain to express itself in her narrowed eyes, and her pinned ears. He was slightly too large, and significantly too enthusiastic. She needed him to be done, now. To be finished using her.

And he was, at last, growing faster, more purposeful. Groaning. “Gonna cum." He gritted his teeth, but the peak itself seemed to elude him. “Get me off," he ordered. Pushing up on an elbow, he growled it to her again, his pace faltering as he ran out of breath and energy. “Do your job, bitch. C'mon! Do your fucking job."

Coyote tried to squeeze around him, rippling her muscles around the obscene bulk of his smooth human length. She hooked one muscular, athletic leg around his bucking body. She could sense his frustration—his thrusts were rough, angry, fighting her for his release. She cried out in pain and he kept bucking, harder and harder.

And then his arm reached out, and she caught the brief glint of metal in the fading light. “Said—do your—job!" the man snarled, and a cold, deadly pressure sank in below her ribs. Stabbed deep. Angled upwards. Her pained cries sharpened. His face was a strained, tense mask, and in the corner of her vision she could just barely see the hilt of his hunting knife, with his fingers clenched around it. “Yeah? That's better, bitch. Squirm. Fight it."

He twisted the knife, digging in her chest. She struggled desperately to push him off as the blade sought her end and he sought his own—kept thrusting, kept fucking her. Her shrieks sputtered to a gagging, liquid halt. Coyote's muzzle worked futilely until she was suddenly retching blood, spattering his face with it. Her claws raked at him as he seemed to grow heavier, pressing down atop her suddenly, rapidly weakening body.

Their eyes locked: his lust-glazed, hers filled with unvoiced horror. She bucked convulsively, his weight pinning a tortured form that writhed under him like she was reaching climax herself instead of choking out the life he was stealing from her. She couldn't get free—now she didn't even have the strength to claw at him. Blood gurgled freely from her open mouth. He could feel it, could feel her dying under him, and that was what took him over the edge: she saw his eyes roll back as her world darkened.

Her frame jerked once. Twice. A third, weaker spasm and she was just trembling, arms falling back to the earth. Twitching fitfully, helpless to resist this final conquest of her body, she felt the pressure of his hips grow sharp, and then still. A throb, and warmth gushing in her womb. And, accompanying, his sated groan—rich with the triumph, the satisfaction of knowing it was the last thing his victim would hear.

This time he left her to the haunting, wordless cruelty of oblivion more lightless than death for centuries, until morning.