A day at the baths
A day at the baths
By Strega
Rurik stank, and he knew it.
Gul are smelly at the best of times. Even fresh out of a bath, fur dried and brushed into order, there is a certain weaselly musk. Rurik was a month from his last bath, and for most of that time he'd worn armor. The accumulated sweat of weeks matted his fur and stiffened the gambeson that served as padding under the metal.
Add in a certain amount of blood - four species worth, including his own - that stained his gear and fur and had long since gone sour; add the mud and filth of weeks of travel and tending the caravan horses. To top it all off, only a day ago they'd had to fight off a dire wolverine - a distant relative of his, perhaps - and it'd sprayed its stinking musk everywhere. The stench had probably saved his life by helping convince a band of raiding hill giants to seek easier pickings elsewhere, but neither he nor the other guards had thanked the beast. Despite his best efforts some of it had gotten on him, and when he walked through the gates of Greyston he could be smelled from twenty feet away. His pelt itched with accumulated grime. The only clean thing he owned was the blade of his greatsword, of that peculiar long-handled gul style.
And yet he was smiling. He threw back the visor of his wedge-shaped helm and grinned, his dark-furred muzzle splitting to reveal yellowed fangs. Rurik was a gul, six and a half feet tall, fearsomely broad across the shoulders. In armor he might be mistaken for a man were it not for his ferrety face and the short furry tail hanging down behind. Rurik would have counted his latest stint as a caravan guard a waste of time had it been uneventful, but it hadn't been. Men and monsters had died, bandits had attacked three separate times, and his own armor had new creases and stains. It'd been a good month.
He took his payment - with bonuses - from the caravan master. The train of wagons was breaking up; the assembly area just inside the city gates was thick with them, some rumbling up the cobblestoned streets to the warehouse district, others heading to the markets to set up as traveling shops. Typically for a caravan headed for this city, the guards were a mixture of races. They blended in easily with the varied flavors of Monstertown (Greyston, formally) natives: goblins, gnolls, bugbears, Hestans and other flavors of catfolk, the occasional ogre or troll, and stranger things. An armored kobold - wearing a guard colonel's insignia no less - rode by on a barded tiger as watched. There were plenty of humans, but every second face had fur, scales, feathers, or more rarely, was naked bone.
"Rurik! Good traveling with you." A towering Khardaki lion-man thumped him on the shoulder. The gilded shield and spear marked him as a wanderer, a "sun-chaser", out earning money and gaining experience before returning to his clan to take wives. He had a claw scar across his feline nose, product of an argument Rurik had come to regret. Over the course of a month the initial loathing he'd had for the glittering, undisciplined oaf had become something like respect. Perhaps even friendship.
"It was, Orah," Rurik rumbled, and grinned again. "Whence now for you? Whoring, I bet."
The lion-man shook his head. "I have relatives I must visit. Family business, you know." There was a whole district of the city inhabited by catfolk and other beastmen.
Rurik scratched under his arm and watched a dark-skinned human unload crates of weapons from a wagon. The man, Engald, had been the guard-captain of the caravan, and a good captain at that. It appeared he'd be escorting the cases of Keoish crossbows all the way to the shops. Rurik shrugged.
"Are you going to hit the bathhouse first? If I go another hour without hot water my pelt will crawl off to take up its own existence."
Orah's nose wrinkled. He'd been facing down the giants when the dire wolverine sprayed Rurik. "Yes. Yes it will. Not me, though." He looked up as a vast shadow passed over them, and shuddered. Up the road from the caravansary was the Dragon Court, where the great lizards landed to converse, trade, and negotiate. The red dragon that'd blotted out the sun had been another of the city's guard colonels. Firewing, Rurik remembered. Some name like that, anyway.
"Where was I," Orah said. "Oh yes. Family. I'm a guest, they'll have a bath ready. And someone to share it with me, I hope."
"Yes," Rurik said, and wondered what species would be in that bath with the lion. He knew enough about khardaki to know they were both popular and not choosy. It'd be female no doubt, but beyond that, everything was negotiable, up to and including number of limbs. Orah had boasted of bedding a centauress on his last visit here.
Orah clapped him on the shoulder again. "I must go, friend. Perhaps we'll fight together again."
"I'd like that," Rurik said, and thumped his friend on the back as the lion strode away. Rurik's eyes followed him as he left. His gaze strayed downward, and he watched until the lion's rump and tufted tail disappeared around a corner. Briefly he licked his lips.
"Well now," he muttered. "To the baths."
There were parts of Monstertown more or less segregated by species. Mantowne, Gianttowne, Kobold Alley. Those tended to be toward the fringes of the steep-walled valley the city occupied. In the center was the peak upon which rested Lord Gray's castle; close to it were the districts that welcomed anyone. 'Alltowne', where he stood in the caravansary, was one of those. As he left the caravan compound and headed up the hill, he encountered twenty or more flavors of sapience. Others of the Maker's peoples were there; elegant volpa in tailored clothing, the little praka raccoon-folk hustling along with their workman's tools. He even spotted a cluster of fellow gul, but the black armor with its back to back Rs - one reversed - of the Maker on the shoulders meant they were still in the wizard's service and probably here on business.
A many-legged creature like a cross between a dragon and a centipede blocked the wooden sidewalk for a moment. Elaborate bands of twisted silver and gold encircled its horns, and individual plates of its chitinous blue armor were filigreed with precious metal and inset gems. After much cursing from passers-by it pulled in its legs enough to leave a path that didn't involve using the muck-encrusted street. It was hotly engaged in argument with a hooded individual. Occasionally a tentacle emerged from the hood, only to suck back out of sight the moment sunlight touched it. Rurik shrugged and made his way past. Not his business, and the baths were close now.
Between the caravansary and the market lay the All Folke Inne, a sprawling complex of bars, eating places, stables, and public baths. No noble would dream of staying in such low class digs, but the food and lodging were cheap, there was indoor plumbing, and a thin mattress and blankets were adequate for one who slept stretched out out on top. It lacked the security of the better inns, and he'd had his room robbed once, but on another occasion a half-elven thief had crept into his room and never left. Rurik licked his chops as he remembered that meal, for he was hungry, but just now hot water and a brush were more important even than a full belly.
In twenty minutes he had checked in and dropped off his armor to be cleaned and mended. Taking it off reminded him how filthy he was; his gambeson actually stuck to the fur on his shoulder blades as he peeled it off. He sent that torn and filthy garment off to burned; he gave the serving-boy a silver piece to buy him a new one. It took two more servants to carry his armor. Rurik stood there in a loincloth scratching himself, then left his greatsword in the corner and headed to the baths.
Without his armor he was obviously inhuman. Dark brown, shaggy fur eliminated the need for clothing; a lighter stripe ran down his sides and another wrapped from his cheeks up over his forehead. Small, dark eyes and black nose, long white claws on padded hands and feet: he was a beastman, a gul, kin to wolverines. There were those of his race who were almost feral, little more than intelligent, four-legged beasts. He was closer to human, but even ignoring the fur and fangs, his legs were a bit short, his arms a bit long, his torso oddly proportioned, his neck thick and tapering. Then there was his bestial face and his tail. Only in Monstertown, or the Maker's demesne, could be blend into a crowd.
Noses wrinkled in the common room of the inn as he made his way to the door, for removing his clothes had freed the stink from his pelt. Without being asked the bouncer - a towering hulk of a man, probably half-ogre - pointed to the complex of bath buildings. The unspoken message was that tolerant as the Inne was, certain standards of cleanliness were maintained. Rurik flicked and ear and followed the pointed finger.
He found himself at a newly renovated bath building, one that'd been closed the last time he visited. The sign above the door had a stylized bear's head on a human body. So! They had a bath now that specialized in serving beastmen. Perfect. He'd been in enough fights about "wet dog" smells to last a lifetime. A bit further down the wall was a similar sign with the bear's head on a buxomed figure. This bath was segregated by gender: common enough, and it suited him today.
The door was thick wood, heavy with moisture absorbed from the baths. He pushed it open and found himself in an entry room, its walls covered with lockers and hooks for cloaks. Beyond was a much larger room with pools of hot and cold water sunk into the floor. The smell of steam told him there were saunas somewhere. Creatures of varied species lounged there, some mostly submerged, others sitting on stone benches. Gnolls, bugbears, khardaki, Hestan cat-folk, and a group of three probably-werewolves. There was a strange male of a seeming mixture of species - one side of his face feathered, the other furred with porcupine quills. A griffon had one sizable pool to himself, save for the attendant scrubbing his back with a long-handled brush. A few other attendants, mostly males of smaller furred species, moved from bath to bath to tend the needs of the clients. Praka raccoon-folk, with their natural affinity for water, were unsurprisingly heavily represented.
The sight of so much muscular flesh had an unwelcome effect on him, and he quickly turned his attention to the money-taker. Comfortable as the common baths looked, that simply would not do: Rurik slid two silver Lunars across the table to the attendant. "Private room, medium hot water, no steam. Cold water in buckets or a second, cold bath, if I can get one for two Lunars."
The attendant was himself unusual in two ways. He was a minotaur, uncommon in Greyston; standing, his bull's head with its copper-studded horns would have towered over even Rurik's. Second, he was a slave, evidenced by the thick, leather-padded iron collar around his neck. While slaves were common enough - slavery, temporary or permanent, was a common punishment meted out by Lord Gray's courts - it was odd to find a slave solely in charge of a place as busy as this bath.
The minotaur pushed a bronze key across the table to him. "Room five. I'll send an attendant in with towels and brushes. For another silver he'll brush you and oil your fur."
Feeling extravagant, Rurik tossed him a third coin. He could get a day and a half's room and board for this much money if he ate cheaply, but he really needed a bath. After a month on the trail he'd earned it. He made his way around the great common room, smelling steam and wet fur, until he reached the door with a 5 on it. The number on the door glowed as he approached: some minor magic bound the key and door together. Probably nothing as expensive as a lock spell, just some little glamour placed as a nod to the illiterate or foreign.
With a sigh of relief he shut the door behind him. Hopefully no one had noticed his reaction on seeing the other males, especially the black-maned khardaki soaking in the pool right outside his door. So much like Orah, right up to the scar across his nose. Rurik shook his head and stripped off his loincloth before stepping into the bath. He ignored a certain stiffness, telling himself he could visit a brothel later. It was just a reaction to too much trail time and too few women.
Like the ones outside the bath was a broad, deep pool with inset steps and ledges so a patron could sit with his head and shoulders above water. Rurik ignored them and ducked under, rubbing his padded hands over his pelt to loosen the accumulated grime. An intense itching developed as the muck loosened, and he raked his claws through his fur. This always happened, and the urge to rub himself against the walls of the bath was almost overpowering. It would be worse still when he got out, but then he would have towels.
The water turned nearly black with dirt. He was filthy, pelt matted, as grimy as a flea-bitten gnoll barbarian. Speaking of which - he scratched under his arm - hopefully the water would drown any vermin he'd picked up on the road. He watched with considerable interest as the water went from muddy to clear in moments, then darkened again as he brushed more dirt out of his pelt. There was at least one spell at work here to clean the water, and maybe another to heat it. No doubt establishing such magics had cost a good number of gold Wheels, but the blessing of not having to clean fur and dirt out of the baths must make it worth it to the owners.
He surfaced to reach for the soap and found the attendant just entering. Rurik blinked and sat there, streaming water, for he'd never encountered this race before. The bath-boy was a five and a half foot tall long-bodied, short-legged otter.
"Good e'en Sir," the otter chirped, and bowed bonelessly to the dark, dripping head in the water. "We don't get many gul here, if you are of the Maker's people as I think."
"You think right," Rurik rumbled as he looked the otter over. Webbed hands and feet, no sandals, merely a loincloth and a few brass wrist-rings. The otter had a straw basket full of odds and ends - Rurik saw a jar of fur oil, among other things - in one hand and three different size brushes in the other. Whiskery of muzzle and long of tail, the little otter could hardly have weighed a third what he did. Small, but nimble, judging from the way he twirled the longest brush without dropping the other two.
"For my part, I don't know your people."
"Ah!" said the otter. "Where you find marshes, you will find otters. And I come from a line of large and not particularly nice otters. These large, not very nice otters have an eye for smaller females - humans, goblins, whatever. Most often their advances are rebuffed, but they are most insistent, and occasionally the result of such a coupling is me." He grinned. Then the grin faded. "When the otter does not eat his lover, that is."
"Yes, I saw a big otter-man gladiator in the arena once. Hardly humanoid at all. He was much bigger than you, though."
"Sweetwater," the otter said as he came over with the brushes. Without being asked he soaped one up and began to scrub Rurik's back. "His name is Sweetwater. They caught him and some of his kin when they came out of the marsh to hunt people. He was notorious for eating people he beat in the arena, he swallowed a couple of popular gladiators. I think he earned enough to buy his freedom, or maybe he was killed. Haven't heard about him for a while."
"Mm." Small and sleek though he was, the otter was clearly nothing but muscle. He moved with an easy energy, bounding around on his short little legs to scrub Rurik's broad shoulders. Beneath the loincloth he wore there was a glimpse of a long ridge. The untoward reaction Rurik had been trying to ignore returned, and he felt hot water against flesh that was not normally exposed. He closed his eyes and thought about making chain-mail. Riveting, that was the hardest part. You had to pound the ends of every link flat and -
"Sit up on the ledge please, Sir," the otter said, and poked him with the brush. "The soap will wash off the brush if I stick it that far under water."
Rurik's eyes popped open. His eyes darted downward; thankfully, the soapy foam rendered the water opaque. "I'm comfortable here," he rumbled. "You will just have to get what you can get."
"Yes, Sir," the otter said and dived into the bath. Rurik's eyes went wide with horror as the water-weasel popped back up not a foot away, brush still in hand, and began scrubbing farther and farther down his chest. Of course the bath-boy had dived in. He was an otter!
"You don't need to do that," he said uselessly, for the otter had ducked back under the surface again. He stayed under a worryingly long time, but it wasn't the pool-boy's health Rurik worried about. No, it was the brush getting closer and closer to certain things. Already he'd felt something, maybe the otter's tail, bump into exposed flesh. Damn, he was just getting harder!
Any hope he had that the otter didn't know what was happening fled as whiskers brushed his skin. A webbed paw gripped onto his thigh as the whiskers tickled. The last inch of sheath retracted, leaving his whole length exposed, and a moment after that whisker-tickle a broad, soft tongue slid up from his balls to his tip.
"Long time on the trail, huh?" the bath-boy said cheerfully as his face reappeared. The webbed paw was wrapped around Rurik's cock now, stroking it. The little otter's fingers didn't quite meet at the back. Rurik bit his lip and mumbled.
"It's the water, you know." He looked away from the bright inquisitive face so close to his own. "And a long time on the trail. I'm going to hit a whorehouse later."
"Of course, Sir," the otter said again, and ducked back under the surface.
"Now, wait a -" Rurik said, and groaned. Under the sloshing, soapy surface the otter was just a dark shape, but he felt the tongue again, then a careful scrape of fangs as the otter mouthed his tip. The pool-boy was sucking his cock and stroking what lay outside his mouth. The excitement he'd been trying to repress since seeing Orah earlier could no longer be repressed, and he snarled his arousal as he went rock-hard under the otter's attentions.
He could push the otter away. He was three times the size and many times the strength of the little pool-boy. He'd made meals of larger people than the one sucking his dick. He did nothing: his arousal was so intense now it paralyzed him. His claws dug into cracks between the tiles. It wasn't the first time he'd had his dick sucked, just - probably - the first time by a male. There were drunken evenings he tried to forget, and that suspiciously deep-voiced volpa women. No, those were accidents, and he hadn't really been interested in Orah. It was just awkwardness brought on by too long between women, that was all.
After perhaps two minutes the tongue left his tip and the otter popped to the surface to take a breath. "Wow, I've seen ogres smaller than you," he said, and ducked back under.
"But," Rurik said, and then the mouth was on his cock again. Bit by bit the otter sucked in more of him, until he realized the otter was actually swallowing his shaft. Rurik's dick was the size of the otter's forearm, but the teeth scraped their way along until the pool-boy's chin pressed against his balls. Then the otter swallowed.
Half his dick was wrapped in throat, and the muscular ripples caressing him were too much to take. Rurik snarled and came, head jerking back and claws digging grooves in the tile. His seed gouted out and was swallowed; if any escaped the otter's gullet, it was lost in the milky foam of soap bubbles. When the last bit vanished into the water-weasel the throat relaxed its grip and the fangs tickled their way back up his shaft.
"Now if you will sit on the ledge Sir, I will soap the rest of you." Spikey-furred, whiskers dripping, the otter smiled at him. Without a word, Rurik complied.
"So many scars," the otter said a few minutes later, when Rurik had moved off the ledge to sit on the edge of the pool. Thankfully his sheath had returned to its usual place by the time he got that far out of the water. The pool boy was soaping his thighs and tail, and then Rurik's legs as the wolverine held them clear of the water.
"A warrior's lot," Rurik grumbled noncommittally. "There is not always a priest to heal wounds, especially when they are minor. They fade, eventually."
"Some of these don't feel minor. Lean forward, please." The otter scrubbed his rump. At some point the pool boy lost his loincloth; down there they were similar, though Rurik of course much larger. Oval testicles and a long sheath half-sunk into the belly. The otter crouched behind him, brush busy, both on their knees. The pool-boy's hand lingered on Rurik's hip for a moment, and Rurik was tempted to lean further forward, go to all fours...but that was a ridiculous thought. He was just feeling the aftereffects of orgasm. That's all it was.
"Into the cold bath please, to rinse," said the otter. When that was done - the soapy suds disappeared in moments, a stronger cleaning magic - he followed the pointing finger to a thick straw mat. Yet another minor magic dried the mat as fast he dripped on it, and after going through a dozen towels he stretched out to have his fur brushed.
Rurik dozed as the otter brushed and combed. The pool boy started at his nape, where the first long fur grew, then worked down his neck and shoulders. Then his back, his short but long-furred tail, his rump - again, that moment's temptation to move it aside was repressed - and his thighs. When his calves were brushed and the otter completed a minute examination of Rurik's hand-and-footpads, the pool boy reached for the fur oil.
A gul's pelt is oily, accounting for their characteristic odor, and without that oil the fur would fray and go dull. Washing with water didn't trouble it, but soap did, and after a bath like this one it was necessary to replenish that natural oil. The bathhouse staff knew this, for it was not a problem limited to wolverines; the otter, and probably most of the other furred clients had the same issues. So the jar of oil was brought forth, a brush was dampened and run through Rurik's fur.
The pool boy was as thorough as ever. Midway through the process, with the otter combing his rump, Rurik woke up feeling once more the onset of stiffness. This time, though, when the otter prodded his shoulder he rolled over without complaint. The otter merely smiled to see him half unsheathed, and began to comb his chest. Blotches of off-white fur lay along Rurik's collarbone like a necklace, and farther down a similar stripe was vanishing as his sheath retracted.
Rurik watched him work, the smooth motions, the deceptively muscular, streamlined ottery body. He didn't need the webbed hand that reached down to caress his black-skinned cock from time to time. He grew hard just watching the otter move. Surely he'd be just as excited to see a woman move there, so close to his cock. Surely. Did it really matter that it was a male's hand touching, and soon a male's mouth? No one need know, it was just the two of them.
The otter's hand was slippery with fur oil as it stroked him. Rurik was fully unsheathed now, a thick black shaft hard in the otter's paw. The pool boy faced away, brushing his legs; Rurik raked claws gently through the otter's back-fur to let him know that attention further north was needed. Rurik expected the otter to bend bonelessly around and start sucking; the pool-boy's every movement confirmed his willingness to service his client.
What happened next surprised him just the same. His legs were slightly bent, his knees raised, and the otter put one hand on each, lifted his tail, and sat on Rurik's cock. A woman might have done that, if she thought her pussy able to take it, but for a male - and a small male at that - to take him up the ass! Yet with a little grunt the otter took his tip in under his tail and rocked his hips, slowly impaling himself. The oil slicking down the thick black cock made it possible, if barely, for it to slip in. Rurik watched with astonishment and growing pleasure as a foot of wolverine shaft spitted the little otter like a roast.
It should have disgusted him. A hand, yes, or a mouth, those might belong to anyone. But he was beginning to see that an asshole might belong to anyone, too. The otter impaled himself, trimmed claws digging into the fur of Rurik's knees, and began to rock back and forth. With faint, wet squelches several inches of wolverine cock appeared and disappeared back into the pool boy's rectum.
"If I didn't see it with my own eyes," Rurik said as his hands wrapped around the otter's waist, "I wouldn't believe it." Every few bounces, when his need was greatest, he tugged the otter down onto his shaft. Other times he let the little water-weasel guide him. Clearly the otter knew more about this sort of thing than he did.
"I get that a lot," the otter giggled, and guided Rurik's huge hand around in front of him. Rurik had never touched another male's cock before, but smooth otter flesh filled his palm now, and in the privacy of the bath he admitted to himself that there'd been other times he wished he were in this position. Before he left the Maker's service there were other gul males he found strangely attractive, and he'd had a dream about the massive, black-furred lord of the gul he had never shared with a soul. The increasing discomfort of hiding his interest, without even knowing what it was he really wanted, was one reason he'd left.
In retrospect there were others who probably felt as he did. That one time Farow invited him to join a patrol, the patrol that never seemed to change its membership. Seven gul, two volpa and two praka. Several of them seemed...odd, and looking back more than one had watched him in the same way he'd watched Orah. If he had gone with them, would this have happened years before?
It was not unheard-of for a male gul to rape a male of another species, but that was to show how defeated the other was. To go to another male's bed voluntarily? Unheard-of. Or, he realized now, perhaps just unspoken. It happened with humans, and volpa and praka and who knew how many other species. He began to realize it happened with gul too, and other gul looked the other way. Even Vrassry must know, and if the lord of the gul tolerated it...?
His attention returned to the task at hand as the otter began to chirp, thrusting himself more and more vigorously onto Rurik's shaft. Enough oil had gotten onto his leathery palm that the otter's shaft slid smoothly through his grip, and he squeezed clumsily but carefully as the otter began to buck. The otter was perhaps two-thirds his length and only half the thickness, but that flesh was just as sensitive as his own. Warm goo spurted suddenly, jetting out of his hand to splatter his thigh as the otter came. The feel of it hitting his fur, along with the tight clench of otter around his cock, was the last incentive he needed. With a hoarse growl he came as well.
His fangs sank into the otter's scruff as he ejaculated, pushing the little pool-boy down onto his shaft until their balls met. There he held him as they each shuddered, releasing pent-up lust with a long snarl of pleasure. The otter's seed went onto Rurik's hand and fur; his own disappeared as thoroughly as before, entering the otter's digestive system from the other end this time.
They were silent, eventually, and his fangs left the otter's nape. The thick, tough hide had absorbed the love bite without damage. Rurik gave the spot a lick, just in case.
"I've never done that with a male before," he rumbled. "I think I didn't know I wanted to."
"It happens more than you might think," said the otter. "Don't worry, I won't tell anyone."
"Correct," said Rurik, and took the otter's head in his mouth. Before the startled pool boy could utter a sound he tilted his muzzle toward their mutual groins, opened his throat, and swallowed. There was a scream, muffled to a whisper by the surrounding muscle and fur, as his lips surrounded the otter's shoulders. The otter's face was already a bulge in his carefully brushed neckfur.
Rurik worked his jaws wider, engulfing the start of the streamlined torso. His huge hands moved from the otter's hip and cock to the forearms, keeping them pinned as he rapidly devoured his meal. He hadn't intended to eat the pool-boy. He rarely swallowed people, though the ability to do so was the very last gift he accepted from the Maker before leaving his service. On the rare occasions he did it was to hide evidence, as when the half-elf had snuck in to rob him. That elf had left only after a trip through Rurik's innards, and Rurik had been glad the Inne possessed indoor plumbing. "I heard he's hiding out in the sewers," he planned to joke if the subject ever came up, but he'd never heard a word about a missing thief. Well, not about that particular thief anyway.
His cock slipped out of the otter's ass he he hauled the pool boy upward, stuffing in and swallowing the last of his chest. A less flexible creature would be dead by now, neck or spine broken, but the endlessly flexible water-weasel bent backwards like a noodle and slipped into his gullet. The otter knew too much; Rurik couldn't let him talk, and the otter surely would. It would have been even worse if he'd succumbed to impulse and let the otter mount him. Either way, Rurik wouldn't become the butt of jokes when he could easily dispose of the only witness.
The otter's still-unsheathed cock almost jabbed him in the eye as he bolted down the long belly of his meal. At the last second he blocked the tip with his hand, then with a toss of his muzzle and a great contraction of his throat muscles the otter's hips were gone. The shaft was a rigid bar in his throat now, somehow still erect this long after the water-weasel came.
He ignored the desperately kicking legs; even the toe-claws were filed short and polished. With another toss of his muzzle the thighs were half swallowed, and the feet kicked helplessly as the otter began a short, unstoppable slide to his doom. Rurik's throat had such a grip now that without help the otter could not possibly save himself. The muscular tail slapped him bruisingly on the shoulder, but that was the last bit of resistance the pool boy offered. Rhythmic contractions in Rurik's gullet pulled the webbed feet into his mouth, and he stretched out his muzzle and swallowed one last time. The feet bumped against his palate then were gone, sliding smoothly after the rest.
Rurik worked his jaws to reattach the joints as the tapered tail slipped in. It twitched once then disappeared, though he felt it wriggling like a snake all the way down. The rib-stretching pressure in his chest eased as the otter arrived in his stomach, first the rounded head, then the rest of the streamlined water-weasel. Finally it was done, the tail slipping through the stomach valve with a last tickle. As an afterthought he used the otter's loincloth to wipe the pool boy's seed from his thigh, then swallowed it. It was cotton, and thus indigestible, but it would pass though harmlessly and leaving it might provoke awkward questions. Best the otter disappear as tracelessly as possible.
A long, rumbling belch bubbled up out of him as he wrapped his own loincloth around his waist. He'd like nothing better than to stretch out on the mat and digest his meal, but the longer he stayed the greater the risk that someone might wonder where the otter went. Surprisingly, his meal was still wiggling. The elf had succumbed before being fully swallowed, and few of his other meals had lasted this long. He waited impatiently until the squirming weakened, then sucked in his gut as much as was possible and headed for the door. Gul are bulky, thick-bodied creatures, and he'd been there more than an hour. Hopefully no one would connect the missing otter with a suddenly more well-rounded wolverine man.
He made his way along the edge of the common bath area without incident, noting in passing that most of the patrons from before were gone. New ones had taken their place, ones who hadn't seen him enter. A new group of khardaki were there, and he turned his gaze firmly from the handsome lion-men. There was something about the way one of them had his arm draped over the other's shoulder...but that could be left for another time.
His smile vanished as he stepped into the entry room. The minotaur wasn't behind his desk; he was in front of the door, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Next to him was a wolf-man, almost certainly one of the probably-werewolves from before. Now the wolf was armored, and on the breastplate rested the pentacle of a city guard lieutenant. Without a word the minotaur pointed at an open door.
Not for a moment did he think to fight his way out. With a third his weight in meat in his belly he was logy and slow, the werewolf was armed, and the scars on the minotaur's face told him of many a battle. Plus, while competent with his claws and teeth, he was not an expert. He had spent years perfecting his swordsmanship, not his ability to eviscerate someone with a clawed kick. Instead of making a scene in front of all the bathers he went meekly through the door.
It was one of the smaller baths, much like the one he and the otter had enjoyed. When the door was shut and it was just the three of them the minotaur pointed at the water. "Spit him up."
Rurik shrugged and did as he was told. It was the first time he'd ever done it, but he reasoned that if he squeezed his belly with one hand and pressed the other into his throat it should provoke a gag reaction. On the second try it did, and the otter reappeared head-first from his jaws. The limp, dead, but not yet digested water-weasel slid into the water as Rurik retched. When he was done he looked up. "All right. What now?"
"Now we see if in addition to being stupid, you are also lucky," snarled the werewolf. His muzzle was even less suited to Common than Rurik's. He stuck out a sandaled foot and dragged the otter over to the side of the bath. Without taking his eyes off the gul he hooked the otter's head up onto the edge of the pool, and with a gasp the water-weasel woke up.
Rurik blinked. It had been five minutes since he swallowed the otter, more or less. By all rights he should be dead. Yet there he was, ducking his head back under the water and rubbing himself down with soap to rinse off the digestive juices. His black nose was pinker now, his eyes reddened, but other than that he appeared unhurt. The three of them watched the pool boy clean himself until the otter climbed out of the pool. The loincloth had come up with him, and he fished it out and wrapped it around his waist. He was smiling.
"I told you I wouldn't tell anyone," he said. "And I still won't. Come back any time." With that he opened the door and left, leaving Rurik gaping after him.
"Breeze does like his men big," the minotaur said. He fingered his collar. "He prefers not to end up inside them, but he's so darned tasty it keeps happening."
"But," Rurik said. And paused. "But."
"Let me spell it out for you," the werewolf rasped. "This is not the first time this has happened. Bareun there," he nodded to the minotaur, "Is a slave because he ate Breeze. Only he tore the otter apart. It took expensive magic to bring him back, which he could not pay for, and he's paying for it by working here. He has seven more years to serve. The griffon you saw earlier gulped Breeze down just last week, and he ended up stuffed in this room, barfing up the otter. He got lucky, Breeze can hold his breath a very long time. Plus, he uses an oil on his fur that resists acid for a few minutes. Bloodfeather had enough money to contribute to Breeze's resurrection fund, so he's still free."
Rurik looked at the bath, which smelled faintly of bile, and at the other things in the room. Brushes, salves. What was probably a couple of healing potions. Bandages. Jars of fur oil with writing in crabbed lettering. He felt the weight of his coin purse, which held the savings from a year of work.
"You can keep that," the werewolf said. "And my friends outside will come in, we'll rough you up. Unless you have silvered claws, you'll end up looking worse than we will. Then you'll end up with a collar just like Bareur's. Or maybe if you put up too much of a fight you'll end up at the meat market. I assume you've heard of that."
It was a slave auction with a proviso: The slaves were cheap, but they had to die inside a week. The most dangerous prisoners got an escort from the time they were bought there until the moment they died. Rurik had a friend or two who bought the occasional meal there. It was a cheap and legal way to enjoy a thinking meal, one you could abuse to your heart's content first. You had to do something pretty bad to end up there, like kill your master when serving as a normal slave...or piss off a Guard officer. He handed over his pouch.
"Breeze likes you, for some reason." The minotaur shook his head. "No accounting for taste. Likes me, too. That's why there aren't three werewolves in here beating the crap out of you right now. I assume he liked your dick."
Rurik flicked an ear. It hadn't occurred to him before, but he must stink of otter. 'Lovers have only one scent,' the hestan saying went. He'd been stupid from start to finish.
The werewolf finished counting. "Eleven Wheels," he said, sliding the thick gold coins around. That was two hundred twenty silver pieces, and one silver bought a room at the Inne for a night. It was as much as he made in three stints as a caravan guard. "Seventeen silver Lunars, a few copper Clacks. Not enough."
Rurik sighed and pulled up his loincloth. "Just a moment." It was his best loincloth, the one he wore in town. Thick red cotton with rolled edges and brass beading. He ignored the minotaur, who was sneaking a look at his balls, and picked open the seam with a claw tip. He hooked out the end of a silvery chain and drew it out; it ran entirely around the edge of the cloth, its weight concealed by the heavy-looking but hollow brass beads. It only weighed as much as a couple of silver pieces, but it was platinum and finely made.
The wolf grunted as he looked it over. "Nice work. Must be worth a thousand, two thousand Lunars." He flipped one Wheel back to Rurik. "Fine, go about your business, and keep your nose clean. I catch you eating someone in Greyston again, you're going to the meat market."
Newly broke, with enough coin for maybe a week's stay and none to pay for armor repair - he had to hope they hadn't started working on it yet - Rurik turned towards the door. He had to find a better job one of these days. Much as he liked caravan work, it just didn't pay enough. The minotaur stopped him with a word.
"Before you go," Bareur said, "Breeze really does like you, I can tell. Come by again and I can almost guarantee you'll have an otter wrapped around your dick. Or maybe you could try something else. Breeze isn't the only one here who likes men big and furry, and there's almost always a private bath if you want company."
Maybe, Rurik thought as he went out the door, and if he wasn't smiling, he wasn't exactly frowning either.