The Law of Eye and Ear
The Law of Eye and Ear - by ColinCougar - 07/07/07
The fox was having his mouth plowed by a stud lizard's big member, a fate he shared with both the hare and the lion lying equally bound to either side of him. But no sound could be heard over the general buzz, as those among the thick crowd of onlookers were talking loudly to each other, commenting on the action or plainly cheering the three scaly rapists on. Syrell didn't mind. True, he did not really know what was going on, couldn't even fathom a sane reason why a multiple rape of males would be staged like this, but he did not mind. The masses were enthralled by it, and that was all that mattered for someone of his trade. For Syrell was a thief - a cutpurse, to be precise. And in his trade the saying went: only a diverted customer is a good customer.
So far, Syrell had already successfully 'acquired' two leather moneybags. Even though they were only sparingly filled with coin, he had started his little mission merely some ten minutes ago. However strange the folk on this small, isolated island might be, they had an easy-going, all-too-trusting air about them that made a scoundrel like him quite happy. And to imagine that he would have missed all this if the Windfinder hadn't encountered three Spanish ships on the open sea. Her captain had fled here before the Spaniards could pursue them, fearing retribution for Admiral Drake laying siege to Cadiz. What a fortunate twist of fate...
The thief found another potential victim in the crowd - a huge, somewhat bulky bear. His round, brown-furred head was fixed on the lizards' show without so much as moving a fraction to the side. Syrell continued to watch him for some thirty seconds. The bear did not direct a single glance at anything happening around him. Perfect.
Syrell moved in for the kill. He weaved his way through the mass of people, and could not keep a satisfied smirk from forming on his muzzle when the crowd thinned slightly. The bear's truly massive form was a gigantic obstacle for anyone smaller behind his back. Which was everyone, actually, as the bear topped the crowd by at least a head. Those who had the ill luck to stand behind this monster naturally tried to gain a step or two of space to the side, so that they might see past the ursine bulk. A difficult task, that, with everyone standing shoulder to shoulder. Although the press thinned in the shadow of this giant, there were enough people pushing in from all sides so that it could not disperse completely. Syrell would have more leeway around the bear, but still enough cover not to be noticed while he cut the string that attached the bag to its owner's belt. This was more than perfect - this was paradise.
He finally stood diagonally behind the bear, eyeing him. The brown bear appeared to wear only black. Pitch-black trousers ended in knee-high black boots adorned with one broad silver buckle each. A fine black cotton coat that would have reached a smaller person to the shins ended only a paw below the thick black leather belt at his waist. A look at his front, however, told Syrell that the bear knew at least a few other colors. The arms of the black coat ended in white cuffs, a stark contrast especially since Syrell could not detect one smudge on them. Under the coat, the bear wore a shirt matching the color of the cuffs, pure white and equally unblemished. Between his shoulders to his ribcage, the letter "V" seemed to be written in brown on white - the bear's thick darkish fur, visible because the shirt was cut to display a large part of his chest. Framing the v-neck at his throat, a golden yellow bandanna was tied tight around his neck, certainly his most colorful piece of clothing. But - for Syrell - it was not the most fascinating one. That honor held true for the leather belt. Another silver buckle matched those on the boots, and a single ray of sunlight danced on the silvery blade of the saber that hung from the right side of his hip. On the left, made solely out of black cloth and thus almost unnoticeable, hung the moneybag. It was fat, certainly weighing well above what would be considered average on the mainland.
With the thrill that always accompanied him the moments before his strike, Syrell cautiously waited for the perfect moment to grab the thing. He didn't have to wait long. A wave of shouts rippled through the crowd, a few surprised, many exultant, and some even filled with satisfaction. Something significant was happening on the wooden platform staging the rapes. Syrell's mind was fixed on his task, though. His right paw enveloped the object of his desire with delicateness. It was going to be one of his best 'redistributions' ever. This is why his shock was twice as pronounced when the bear's left paw shot out quick as a flash and tightened around the moneybag. Firmly. With his paw trapped in between.
Shock and panic resulted in an involuntary whimper that left Syrell's mouth only to be swept away by the noises of the crowd. Under other circumstances Syrell would have been thankful for that, but all the thief's mind could process was the fact that he had been caught. His heart thumped with an intensity that easily bypassed the effects of a usual thrill. Syrell raised his head and looked at his captor, fearing to be stared down, even to be shouted out for the crowd as the thief he was. What he did not expect was the bear still looking unperturbed at the staged perversion in front of them. Involuntary he followed the ursine gaze - just in time to witness the third lizard pulling his member out of the hare's throat and spraying the inside of his victim's muzzle with a large quantity of cold-blooded gooey white sperm.
To see such an unnatural and disgusting intimacy displayed publicly made Syrell slightly sick - and shook him out of his daze. If the bear wanted to study this... madness (and a quick look out of the corner of his eye told the pickpocket that this was indeed the case), fine with him. He would use the distraction to disappear between the masses. His dagger had dropped to the ground from its hiding place in his right sleeve when the bear's paw had struck like a snake. But if stabbing the brown-coated wall of flesh was no option, kicking the bear's thigh hard was. Syrell shifted his weight to his left foot carefully and slowly, as not to forewarn his captor, he lifted his right leg, prepared for the kick and...
... nearly fell to his knees as the bear tightened his already firm grip so hard Syrell could hear his bones grating. Legs atremble and weakening, all Syrell could do was get his swinging foot back to the ground and not cry out. And shower his torturer with expletives in a strangled voice. The bear increased the force of his grip, all but breaking the thief's fingers between a gigantic palm and a pawful of silver coins. Syrell's eyes bulged, his knees danced the conga and his voice lost its last remainders of heat and volume altogether.
"Please," he pleaded. "Please, you are crushing my paw!"
Up to this day, Syrell had always prided himself on wearing a ring. Few thieves could wear jewelry on their fingers while working - at least few could do so without being caught. Now he realized what a stupid idea wearing the ring had always been. The metal was pressing sharply into his ring finger, almost cutting the skin and squashing the flesh beneath. The pain alone was enough to nearly make him faint.
"Please, sir."
And, to his surprise, the grip loosened a bit.
"You are not from here." The bear's voice was a deep rumble, low and authoritative, as impressing as its owner's figure. The words directed at the pickpocket weren't a question.
"No," Syrell answered and, when he felt the muscles in the bear's left paw tensing again, hastened to add, "No, sir, I am not. I'm from the Old Continent. Arrived with a ship from England five days ago. Her name was Windfinder."
The bear was still not looking at him, but at least the pressure to his paw lessened somewhat.
"Five days...," the bear mused. "I wonder how much a young cheetah from Europe has learned about us Aruun'as in five days. Tell me, boy, what do you know about the Law of Eye and Ear?"
Syrell's head swam. The whole situation was surreal: the calm way the conversation went despite the fact that he - a thief - had just been caught red-handed on the island's main square in the midst of hundreds of others... The casualness with which he had just been named a boy despite his twenty-four years... The ease with which his captor held his paw trapped... This out-of-the-blue question about the Law of Eye and Ear... He shook his head. He really didn't know much about this Law of Eye and Ear. He had heard it occasionally during his few days on Aruun'a, often in sentences like "The Law of Eye and Ear will see to it", but every time it was mentioned, it was voiced in a tone that made it sound like a creed. And delving too deep into the beliefs of others was a good way to get yourself hurt or worse, so Syrell had always ensured to steer clear of the topic.
"I don't really know what it means, sir," he admitted aloud, for the bear had not accepted his head-shaking gesture as a suitable answer and was crushing his paw again. The pressure eased the instant he replied.
"In that case, lad, take a good look at the scaffold and I will tell you."
Syrell did as he was told. There weren't any other options, really.
"Those three bound there, the lion, the fox and the hare, are convicted rapists. They were caught in the act and thus there is no doubt whatsoever of their guilt. Foreign sailors, all three of them, or they would not have been so stupid as to do what they did, the way they did it. The treatment they are receiving right now is part of their punishment." He paused a moment until Syrell's incredulous gasp had faded away. "Unlike the laws of most countries, ours is simple. Basically, it follows the bible: an eye for an eye. Any proven crime is punished in a way that is the same or at least equals the severity of the original crime. Now you might understand why so many people are standing here today - any month in fact - and why so many of us cheer for the lizards: a rape for a rape. Only murder is more severely punished, or the rape of children and virgins.
"However, that is only half of the Law of Eye and Ear. Watch closely. What do you see?"
Dumbfounded, Syrell needed a few seconds for the question to register. Even then his first impulse was to say that he saw nothing unusual. Well... nothing more unusual, anyway. It was the crowd that made him swallow his words unspoken. People were definitely becoming livelier. A look over the heads in the crowd told him what he saw held true for those on the scaffold, too.
"The prisoners... They are becoming more... fidgety," he finished, struggling for a suitable word.
"Indeed they are," the bear said in almost a chuckle, "You would, too, if you suddenly realized you can't breathe through your mouth any longer."
"What?"
The bruin ignored Syrell's doubting yell. He was still watching the scaffold intently, and Syrell realized he had not yet looked at him once.
"On Aruun'a, we believe a criminal has come off lightly if he only has to pay an eye for an eye. He has caused severe harm to others, and the Eye only serves as a punishment for the pain he has caused, not for deed itself. The Ear pays for that. It is a plant that can only be found on Aruun'a. Its full name is Catsear, actually, because that's what its calyx is shaped like, but we simply call it the Ear. Dried and ground, this plant has some very peculiar characteristics. No matter the species, age or gender, everybody reacts allergic to the powder. Sometimes. If you show an allergic reaction to the plant today, it might not harm you in the slightest tomorrow, but will again the day thereafter. Or maybe it won't.
"Every time a sentence is passed on Aruun'a, the Ear is involved."
His free right paw made a gesture toward the scaffold. Syrell, who had again stared up at his captor in disbelief and curiosity, turned his head to see the lizards remove tiny leather pouches from their belts (the only items of clothing they wore). Each untied the string and tilted the pouch so that a pawful of the blood red powder within collected in his palm, then went to his captive and released the flakes over his head. Three faces were simultaneously showered with sparkling catsear powder.
A murmur rippled through the crowd and talks quieted down to a whispering level, like the soft breeze in a field of high grass.
The bear continued his lecture in a just minimally muted voice. "Only the lizard people of Kahuur'a are allowed the duty of punishing those who raped on Aruun'a. Like many snakes, their sperm solidifies when it is exposed to the air. Of course, nature's true reason is to prevent others of their kind to impregnate a female after they had a go themselves, just as any canine knot achieves the same by tying the two dogs together for a longer period. But this trait also makes them a lover's nightmare for anyone but females of their own kind, as those three poor fellows up there surely can attest to. They can neither swallow nor spit out the sperm in their mouths due to their intricate gags. And the reason they started...," a smirk touched the ursine muzzle, "fidgeting... was that they suddenly felt it hardening into a sizeable sperm plug that efficiently glued to the back of their mouths. Just as if you held a sip of water in your raised mouth and it suddenly turned to stone. All they can do now is to breath through their noses."
Syrell could hardly swallow himself. He had an inkling where this was leading and the scenario his mind created rooted him to the spot. Though he did not realize it, he would not have been able to run away if the bear had released his paw from its prison.
"All three of them," the bear continued, "have breathed in some of the catsear powder by now. God willing, their deeds will be forgiven and the Ear won't bother them. They will be free to go as if their crimes had never happened. But if they react allergic to the powder, their noses will swell shut and..."
There was no need to continue. The bound hare suddenly convulsed wildly in an all too vivid demonstration of what would happen in such a case. The crowd erupted. Syrell felt the dire urge to vomit and wished he had never set foot on this strange island with its even stranger Law.
"Can you imagine the sentence a cutpurse faces by Law of Eye and Ear?" Syrell's forced companion said casually, as if nothing out of the ordinary was happening. "Even if he has just stolen a purse, you cannot punish him with the same crime - who can tell whether the coin he has on him is truly his or not. Maybe it belongs to some other poor fellow he picked earlier. No, you must punish him in a way that at least equals the crime he has committed, and we have adopted a punishment that is a popular penalty for pickpockets all around the world. I leave it to your imagination to think up what that might be."
The color drained from Syrell's face. There was little imagination needed. He looked at the bear's waist, where his paw lay trapped beneath that monster's iron grip, and gulped.
"How many moneybags had you already acquired before you ran into me, little cheetah?"
Syrell looked up and started. The bear was looking him straight in the eye, expectant. His irises were two deep pools of authority in a face of maybe 45 years. Dark brown in color, they changed to black whenever they caught the sunlight from the side. Those eyes demanded an answer. The thief considered lying for a moment, then discarded the notion. There was nothing to be gained by a lie, and - although he did not even want to admit this to himself - he did not dare lying to his captor.
"Two," he said truthfully.
Those eyes stared at him a moment longer, but finally the bear nodded. "Just two."
"I had only begun some ten minutes ago," Syrell defended his pride without thinking. He slapped himself mentally for his loose tongue.
"Really?" The bear sounded unimpressed. "If I shouted your crime for all the world to hear, two more voices would soon be seconding mine. And either today or in a month, you would be shoved up the same five wooden steps that the poor hare walked up half an hour ago, and lose your right paw on the chopping block. Ear powder would be strewn over the wound and the stump be bandaged. Who knows what you would do. Maybe you'd walk away, hoping for the best. Or you'd try hacking off your arm at the elbow, before the Ear-caused infection spreads too far. Maybe you'd just wait and let the infection spread into your upper arm, still denying that your whole arm has to be amputated. And then it reaches past your shoulder, into your torso, and nothing but a quick death can save you from the endless days of suffering that lie ahead of you until your heart finally stops.
"Tell me, youngling, was your ten-minute excursion really worth it?"
"Wh... what can I do?" He knew how much it sounded like a plea, knew the bear must notice the shakes in his right paw, but... the chopping block...
"I'm thinking on it, boy."
Syrell waited. Trembled. Sweated.
The bruin's gaze fixed on him again. "The ring on your finger, is it yours?"
"It is," Syrell answered eagerly.
In one swift motion, the bear shifted his grip on Syrell's paw to the wrist, leaving the thief's fingers exposed. Blood rushed back again into Syrell's fingertips, which pained like hell, yet he flexed his joints thankfully. The bear plucked the ring from Syrell's finger and the cheetah felt hope return. If his captor accepted the golden jewelry as his ransom, he would get the next ship off the island and gladly accept his loss as the price for his foolishness.
The bear was holding the ring between his index finger and thumb and reading the engraving on the inner side. "Syrell DeMeryyn," the cutpurse heard his full name spoken aloud. "Is that your name?"
"Yes."
For a short moment, Syrell could get a first glimpse of surprise on the bear's face, and then the giant bellowed a laugh that made not only Syrell but everyone within five feet jump.
It took a while for the masses to turn back to the spectacle on the scaffold. It took some more time, however, until the bear's laughter had faded away and he put the ring into his breast pocket. When he spoke to Syrell again, there was still a pronounced chuckle in his voice. "Bold as brass! I don't think I have ever met another thief as bold as you, boy, and certainly none so stupid!"
As much as it hurt to admit, Syrell had come to the same conclusion during the last few minutes.
"How about a little wager?"
Syrell's tongue stumbled. "P..., p..., pardon?"
"A wager, boy. Your whole enterprise is a challenge. Two bags 'in only ten minutes'...? You said that as if you were straining to excel your personal record, little cheetah. And the ring with your name on it...? You could just as well shout out loud that you are too clever for the world, that no one will ever catch you. Well, looks like I did, though. And since you seem to enjoy challenges, I'll give you the chance to get out of your awkward predicament almost unscratched. All you have to do is to accept and win my wager."
The prospect of getting out of the situation unharmed held great appeal, but this latest sudden turn of events had Syrell doubting the bear's offer. It must have shown in his features.
"Boy, don't make a face like I asked you to walk on water! It's a wager. I won't set anything such a fine thief like you couldn't manage." There was the chuckle again.
"Do I have a choice?"
The bear's grip tightened once again. Those deep black eyes fixed on his face as pain shot through his wrist. The demand for respect was clear. Syrell realized the older fur would not tolerate any proud defiance and gave in to his fate. "I'm sorry, Sir. What do I have to do?" The pain ended. Syrell closed his eyes and sighed.
"Do you see the clock tower, boy?"
Syrell checked the buildings around the plaza over the crowd until his gaze settled on the white wooden structure of the island's only church. The clock tower was pitiably small, yet the round face of the clock was big enough to be read from the distance.
"I see it."
"Good. It now shows ten minutes to four. At half past five, I expect you to meet me at the Passing Wanderer. I take it you know the place?"
"Yes." The Passing Wanderer was a tavern of the finer sort, located at the town's northern wall, a good twenty minutes' walk from the plaza.
"Fine. Then I'll be brief, for you will need every minute. You are going to prove your extraordinary ability as a cutpurse in the crowd, and at half past five, you will hand over the twenty-five moneybags you have acquired to me.
Syrell's eyes nearly popped. "Twenty-five moneybags! But that's..." A silent stare muted him. "Yes, sir; twenty-five bags." He juggled some figures in his head. Twenty-five purses in a hundred minutes meant he had four minutes for each purse. Sweat began beading on his forehead.
"If you win, I'll take the moneybags and forget I ever met you, boy. You will even get your golden ring back."
"And if I lose?"
"That depends, boy. If I think you didn't put enough energy into your task, I swear I'll put some cuffs on you and use them to drag you back to the scaffold myself. If you fail my wager despite your best effort, I'll still let you go without telling anyone about your... unethical little job. But in the latter case, there are three conditions you will have to adhere to."
The cheetah waited for the bear to speak on, but he kept silent. Syrell thought about leaving it at that, until he realized time was against him.
"And those conditions are?"
"Firstly, I will hear you admit that there is a wide gap between the abilities you claim for yourself and those you really possess. Secondly, I won't have your arrogance. You can be as arrogant as you want the day you finally show some justification for it, but until then you had better learn to swallow your pride when you screwed up badly. You gambled high and lost, so you will address me respectfully with every sentence, not only when some pain to your paw reminds you of your manners."
Arrogant, he? The bear could talk! Yet he was at the bear's mercy, so Syrell would bend low to please this stranger if that got him out of his predicament. And though it stung, admitting his failure to the bear and addressing him with "sir" in every sentence wasn't too bad.
"And lastly, you will owe me a personal favor for every moneybag you're short on our agreement. Understood?"
"Ye..., yes." Syrell stuttered. The personal flavor bit raised the fur on his neck, but he couldn't bring himself to inquire further. Every precious second that passed by unused felt like a blow.
Suddenly, his paw was free. Syrell was too perplexed to do anything but rub his aching wrist. The bear used his now free paw to tug at his moneybag with such force that the string to his belt snapped in two. Syrell felt his jaw drop when the bag was tossed to him.
"A little help for the start. Still, it's a long way to the twenty-five you need, so you'd better hurry! Ask the Wanderer's owner for my whereabouts when you're there. And I suggest you be on time, boy! I'm not fond of waiting."
With that, the bear began forcing his way through the crowd.
Syrell came to himself. "Sir," he shouted, turning. The bear stopped and looked over his shoulder. Syrell went to him quickly. "How can you be sure that I do not simply run away?"
The bear's smile split his face in two. "The question was your first show at wisdom today, boy."
The cheetah blushed with anger and embarrassment.
"You have been on Aruun'a for five days, so you must have heard about the break-in at the governor's the day before yesterday."
"It has been common talk everywhere." Of course it had been. A governor robbed without anyone of the household even noticing the miscreants, that would have made the gossip on every isle, but the fact that the thieves had only... abstracted... the bull's own marble bust added to the flavor. As did the fact that the bust had been found on the docks the very next morning, swapped with the head of the bare-breasted, full-bosomed figurehead on the Admiral's flagship. The combination of bull's head and stark naked mermaid torso naturally drew every eye. This governor is the navy's whore, it seemed to say, and it was certainly what people now affirmed to each other in the taverns and inns on... well, not only on Aruun'a, but on every island a ship from Aruun'a had reached within the last two days.
Needless to say, the governor was livid. He wanted the heads of those responsible for his trophy wall. Quite literally!
"Well, up to now our all-beloved bull hasn't found a clue as to who shamed him so thoroughly, but I think I might be able to throw this," and he patted Syrell's ring through the cloth of his breast pocket, "far enough and precisely enough onto his estate that it will be found within the day. It is not hard to put two and two together as to what will happen then."
The ground seemed to sway beneath Syrell. He was just glad he hadn't simply tried running off. "I will be at the tavern."
"I never thought otherwise, boy."
Once more he made to go, and once more a sudden thought popped into Syrell's head. How could he ask the owner of the tavern about this bear if...
"Sir, you haven't given me your name yet!"
This time the bear turned, grinning at the cheetah. "Trevis Brunn, at your service."
He paused, considering.
"Two smart questions in a row; I'm impressed. I think you have earned yourself another fifteen minutes to our wager. Until quarter to six, boy."
And, with a sly wink, he leisurely vanished in the crowd.
Syrell did too, but not at all at ease, an invisible clock ticking loudly inside his head.
Time was running short. Syrell, in contrast, was running in longer and longer strides down the streets of Aruun'a's capital. He reached the blind alley he sought and soon found the facade of the Passing Wanderer. Before Syrell could reach for the door handle, the wooden thing opened to the outside and a visibly drunk raccoon stumbled into the open. She bumped heavily into Syrell, who used the window of opportunity to relieve the drunkard of her moneybag. With no free pocket to go into, Syrell contented himself with holding it tightly in his paw. It was his twenty-fifth - if now he found the bear in four minutes, he had won the wager.
The situation had not always looked so bright, of course. Syrell had fought with several problems along the way. The first was his right paw, which had needed another half an hour before it had lost all the stiffness from Trevis's not too gentle handling. Until then, skillful work and the fingers of his right paw had not gone well together, forcing Syrell to use his other paw for a while. He was just as proficient with his left paw as he was with his right, yet not nearly as quick. By the time he could use his preferred paw again, Syrell had acquired only five more bags and was bathed in sweat.
Then there was the gathering on the main square itself, which had offered an abundance of potential victims, but had suddenly begun to disperse after some fifty minutes, to Syrell's great shock. It seemed the convicted criminals were sorted and summoned by the severity of their crimes. Once the lion had stopped thrashing about ten minutes after Syrell had started his mission anew (he must have been chocking even before Syrell and Trevis had separated, and yet the cheetah hadn't noticed) and the fox was freed, only one more sentence had to be passed: on a nasty-looking, filthy ferret who had murdered a whole family on the remote side of the island. Syrell had been too busy to see much of the trial. Judging by what he'd heard in the crowd and from the haunting screams the ferret had let go before the end, he did not doubt the bear's words that there was no crime punished more severely on Aruun'a than murder, though. Afterwards the folk ebbed away. Syrell was forced to let the crowd sweep him away with them, floating from cluster to cluster whenever he spotted a larger group of people in which he could hunt for coin safest. He still made some good stealing, true, but in the ruckus he had involuntarily moved into the southern part of town, away from the tavern he intended to reach until quarter to six. When he had noticed, with a total of 18 bags on him, all he could do was hurry his way back to the Passing Wanderer. He'd had to snatch the other seven moneybags on his way, often risking detection by dipping people outside of a crowd, like the drunkard.
The problem of hiding twenty-five bags, by contrast, had proven comparatively minor. Syrell was surprised how many he could hide in his clothes, even if he had had to stuff them everywhere on his body and now felt like a scarecrow, stuffed with coin instead of straw.
"Trevis Brunn?" he shouted over the general hubbub at the graying malamute behind the counter, throwing him a copper. He received a most peculiar stare in return. Maybe he should have spared a silver coin; it wasn't his own anyway.
The dog spat a large quantity of chewing tobacco into a silver metal bowl with quite a few disgusting brown streaks, and pointed at a large staircase in the shadow to his right. "Room under the roof. Just follow the stairs up, lad."
Goddamn, half the people on this crazed island had this infuriating habit of calling him 'boy' or 'lad' or something similar. Syrell told the malamute what he thought of that by not deigning to thank him for the information. He made for the staircase. A grandfather clock next to it looked as if whoever had built it had been dead a hundred years already, yet beneath the grime Syrell could see it was still working. 5:43 - he had two more minutes.
Grinning, he jumped up the stairs. Twenty-five moneybags in just under two hours... He had thought it almost impossible, and, certainly, so had this Trevis Brunn.
The arrogant bear would be in for quite a surprise!
The noise from the ground floor was muted on the second floor and completely gone on the third. Here the staircase ended. Syrell looked around, puzzled. At the far end of the floor, a smaller flight of stairs could be seen behind a dark open doorway. He walked down the corridor and climbed up the winding staircase, nearly stumbling headfirst into the closed door in the dark. Angrily he pulled it open without knocking and entered the room.
It was warm inside, with the sun shining onto the roof of the tavern. The king-size four-poster at the far end of the room caught the thief's attention first. Its fine bedstead, headboard and curtained columns were carved from a dark brown wood, possibly teak, and polished to a shine. A white linen sheet covered a thick straw mattress that looked nothing like the flat, often flea-infested hammocks Syrell knew only too well from his voyage to Aruun'a. No less than three white feather pillows lay on the bed, but no blanket. That (another white linen sheet) had been hung to cover the room's only window like a screen, to ward off any direct sunlight. Nonetheless the sunrays filtered through the cloth to lighten the room and silhouettes danced across the floorboards with every passing cloud.
The room's ceiling was comparatively low, only some seven or eight feet above the ground, which made the use of a chandelier impossible. Instead, five waist-high candlesticks stood on the floor, one for each corner of the room, the fifth in its center, every fat candle unnecessarily lit. The two candlesticks on the northern side of the room framed another teak piece of furniture: a large writing desk with a beautifully ornate top.
Sitting next to it, on the only chair in the room, the bear was expecting the cheetah already.
"You are just on time, boy," he said nonchalantly, a glass of white wine in his right paw. The bottle stood opened on the floor beside this padded leviathan of an armchair; it looked costly.
Syrell felt color rise to his cheeks again, and this time it was out of pure anger. This belittling of his person had gone on far too long! He put on a vicious smile.
"I said I would be here, old man, and I have brought the twenty-five moneybags you asked for."
The bear raised an eyebrow. "Really?"
"Oh, yes, I did. It seems I do possess the abilities I claim, Trevis, so maybe it is you who should apologize to me, not the other way around."
Now the bruin looked amused. Syrell felt the dire urge to punch him.
"Not part of our wager, boy. You should have voiced your condition the moment we made the deal, not now that it is due. And if you think you can wriggle out of our wager by boasting, you are dearly mistaken."
"I am not boasting!" Syrell snarled.
"Is that so? Perhaps we should up the ante, then?"
"You bet we should, old man." If the bear didn't believe his word, well... his misfortune.
"Fine, since you asked so nicely," the bear said wryly. "If you can indeed show me the twenty-five moneybags we agreed on, I will apologize in all form for ever having doubted your talent. What is more, I will let you keep the money. All of it, even my own moneybag, despite the small fortune it will cost me. I think that alone is quite agreeable, but perhaps there is something else you ask for?"
He looked mildly curiously at Syrell, whose angry stare had been replaced by a look of surprise. He could even keep the money? Wondering over that, the cutpurse couldn't come up with any other demand on the spot, so he shook his head.
"Agreed, then, unless you do not approve of my extra condition. If you fail to hand me over the twenty-five bags you boast to have, I will demand one additional favor from you, boy!"
"Agreed!" Syrell said at once. Not that it mattered anyway, but he had expected some outrageous claim, not such an insignificant change to their original wager.
"Fine, let's see what you've got."
Smirking proudly, Syrell walked over to the desk and let go of the bag in his paw. Once it had fallen heavily onto the writing surface, he dropped to one knee and rolled up his right trouser leg. Just like Trevis, he wore black boots that reached halfway to his shins, although they looked slightly more worn than the bear's. Three bags were stuffed firmly into the top, so they would not rattle when he walked. Another almost empty bag had already fallen into his paw when he rolled up his sleeve. All four landed on the desk and he shifted from his left knee to the other, producing three more moneybags hidden on his left leg. Now the total was eight.
He stood and untied a ninth bag hanging from his belt. Everybody wore such a thing on this island. Who would have guessed that Syrell hadn't had any on him when he went to the main square?
Next followed those bags Syrell had hidden inside his gray trousers. He blushed a little as he groped in his groin area under the watchful eyes of the bear, but carried on anyway. Now was no time for modesty. A tenth bag appeared, and his paw's second dive into his pants revealed another two moneybags he had tied together and wound around his tail at its root. (Retrieving them was far easier than putting them there unnoticed had been...) Twelve.
Two small folds in the cloth of his trousers, just below his belt, one on each side of his body, revealed hidden pockets with another two bags each. A fifth he extracted from a secret compartment in the leather behind his belt-buckle. Seventeen.
Syrell fidgeted with the several pockets inside his auburn coat, visible and concealed. He pulled out Trevis's massive moneybag from one, which was quickly followed by another two... three... five other bags that looked puny by comparison.
Twenty-three.
His blood suddenly pulsed in his ears and his heart raced. Six bags in his coat pockets. Seventeen plus six made twenty-three. He couldn't have miscounted on something as crucial as this, now could he?
Frantic, he patted his torso. Patting became frisking, and when not even that produced any effect, Syrell began to jump up and down, wishing fervently for the sweet jingle of coin to echo in the room. There had been twenty-five moneybags, he was sure of it!
Yet his efforts brought him nothing. No metallic sound, no leather or fabric bag. After a full minute, even Syrell had to admit that shaking his paws and legs would only get him cramps. His ears folded, his head dropped to his chest.
"You are two bags short on the twenty-five you promised, boy." The bear's tone was mild, but still Syrell could feel a tear forming in his eye.
He had lost the wager.
A thousand explanations came to Syrell's mind. Had not the gathering ended early, he would have had the twenty-five bags... He had miscounted, and of course would have had two more moneybags with him had he not... He had had the twenty-five bags, but lost some while he was running... He was unfamiliar with the town and...
Excuses, all of them!
The cheetah took a deep breath. His eyes had closed and he felt the warm streak on his face where the tear was making its way to his chin under his fur. He knew he could give the bear no excuses if he ever wanted his ring back. He had screwed up, screwed up badly. All he could do was to admit his failure. But it was unspeakably hard to do so.
It had to be said, though, even if it shamed him to the core. Taking another deep breath, Syrell started in a trembling voice. "I am sorry, Tre..., errr, Mr. Brunn..., sir." He managed to open his eyes and raised his head a little. The bear was still looking at him calmly, not a hint of gloating in his features. Nonetheless that tranquil expression pained Syrell as much as if he had been cackled at. Every word was a big lump in his throat. "It seems I have overestimated my own abilities."
"'It seems'?"
Syrell groaned silently.
"I mean... I have overestimated my own abilities, sir. I... I was too con...fident in... my pickpocket talent." There, he had said it.
"I guess you were, boy. Glad you have finally come to realize it yourself. And your manners have also improved. I hope you learned your lesson?"
"I have, sir."
"Good." The bear took a sip from his wine glass, savored the liquid on his tongue, swallowed and dabbed his lips with a white handkerchief. "Now, I think you owe me a few favors."
"Yes, sir," Syrell said uncertainly. He had secretly hoped that if he stayed meekly enough, the bear would settle for another hour of groveling, and send him on his way with just a rebuke. Syrell wasn't from Aruun'a. What favors could he offer, what favors could this stranger possibly demand, except something to do with his profession? Certainly the bear could not expect another theft marathon, could he? Syrell desperately hoped he didn't have to go stealing again already.
"Sir, what favors do you have in mind?"
The bear seemed to consider something. "Maybe you should lock the door first."
That sounded odd. Syrell walked to the door with mounting unease. The iron bar already in his paw and ready to secure it in the wall, he dared voicing his qualms.
"Why must I lock the door, sir?"
"I never said you had to, lad. I don't care if the door is locked or wide open; I'm not prudish. But I am sure you would find it unpleasant if someone should walk in on us while I'm fucking you senseless."
"Wh... what?" Syrell croaked.
"You heard me, boy. Before this day is done, I will have had a piece of your fine young ass."
"But... but... but...," Syrell spluttered, his mind cartwheeling, "you can't! You just... can't... You... you know the penalty for rape here."
"Who said anything about rape, boy? In case you haven't noticed, I'm sitting here, and you're already at the door. One push and you're out of this room in an instant. Nobody will stop you if you walk out of the tavern."
"And my... my ring?"
"If you do not keep your word, our deal is null and void. You can beg back your ring from the governor, then. Or you try getting a ship off the island before he has you arrested. I wouldn't put a wager on you, though. The governor's estate is only a five-minute walk from here and you have just given me enough money to bribe his whole household. The ring would be found in his mansion within the hour. And, well, the bull's as eager to lay paws on the one who mocked him as I am to lay paws on you, though for quite another reason, naturally. I wouldn't put it past him to order a blockade on the harbor, just to keep anybody from fleeing his wrath.
"But I do not hold you against your will. If that's the way you choose, the door is still unlocked."
Syrell wanted to cry. The bear might think of it as choosing a way; he could only call it blackmailing. He had never made - never had been forced to make! - a more difficult decision in his life. His head felt like it would explode, his body shook like a ship's banner in a gale. Syrell watched his fingers tremble around the iron bar so hard, his joints bumped painfully against the wooden doorframe constantly. Jowl quivering, he moved the bar, locking the door.
Trevis put his wine glass on the floor, nodding. "Come here," he said.
The cheetah reacted to the soft-spoken words, turning ever so slowly away from the door. Only when he was standing but two paces away from the sitting bear did he notice that he was mewling. Quelling the whimpers took Syrell more effort than he knew he possessed, but he managed, if barely. Just in time before he reached the armchair.
Seated, the giant bear still was of one height with Syrell. Now he cupped the despondent cutpurse's chin in his paw and made him look into his eyes.
"You made the right decision, boy."
Syrell couldn't say he agreed.
"You have become unusually quiet," Trevis said after neither of them had moved for a minute.
"I..."
"Yes?"
"I don't know what to say."
"Well, it would not be the worst idea if you asked what to do next. As handsome as your face may be, it is not my intention simply to stare at it all day long."
"What... should I do next?" Syrell managed.
"For the start, you should make some space on the writing desk, so you can put your clothes in a neatly file there."
"Oh... al...all right."
He grabbed some moneybags and stacked them upon another until he had fulfilled the first part of the instruction. The second part was harder to accomplish. Every fiber of his mind wanted to undress in the farthest corner of the room, with his back turned to the bear. Undressing right where he stood was an act of will. His coat went onto the desk first, any attempt at folding it already undone when his shaking paws left the cloth. His shirt was next, quickly followed by his boots, which went beneath the furniture. Bared to the waist, Syrell undid his belt, but needed a couple of deep breaths before he let his trousers fall to his ankles. It joined the pile last, and - eyes folded in shame - the cheetah turned from the desk to face his tormentor, nude as on his naming day.
"Now, now! Such a body is nothing to be ashamed of," commented the bear. While it did not help his ears at all, it made Syrell blush fiercely as well.
Trevis took in the sight for a moment. He hadn't lied. The cutpurse had a slender, athletic body that was a beauty to look at. If anything, the long voyage on Windfinder had left him a bit too thin, but after five days on the isle, the Aruun'an cuisine had already put some sheen back to his golden fur. Two black stripes marked the form of a 'v' on his back from shoulder to pelvis, where they joined together to run down his tail. Only the white tail tip had escaped the dyeing. Two smaller black stripes began under Syrell's eyes, lined his nose and curved over his cheeks to end at the corners of his mouth. Any other black coloring in the cheetah's fur came in spots, some but coin-sized, others as big as a fist, some merging together, others running in a parallel pattern. The fur of his cheeks (sans the black stripes), chest and groin was white, with the exception of his testicles, whose amber fur matched the color of his eyes.
"Come, move closer."
The two steps back to the chair took Syrell an eternity. When he had done as he was told, the bear reached out and let his paw circle through the fur on Syrell's chest. The thief tensed at first, yet round and round the huge brown palm went without ever diving down beneath his bellybutton, and Syrell had to admit the feeling was quite pleasant. The bear's left paw fell on his shoulder. A long index finger softly began stroking the side of his neck, betimes caressing his earlobe. Syrell was only half successfully suppressing a purr when suddenly the paw on his shoulder pulled him in. His purr turned into another whimper that was cut short the moment ursine lips met his own. Too surprised to close his mouth in time, Syrell felt Trevis's tongue move across his incisors.
Syrell jerked his head back and clamped his mouth shut.
The bear chuckled quietly. "Remember what I told you on the plaza, boy? If I think you don't put enough energy into your task..." he trailed off, leaving the threat hang in the air unspoken.
The cheetah had withdrawn on instinct, and nearly bitten into the tip of the bear's tongue doing so. As he realized that, he stopped wiping his mouth with the back of his paw.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said abashed.
"Apology accepted. If you rectify your mistake."
Syrell gulped. The faint bouquet of wine was still lingering on his tongue. Nothing was farther from him mind than to intensify that taste, but what else could he do? Timidly, he leaned forward, closed his eyes and engaged in his second ever all-male kiss. When the ursine tongue darted forth again, Syrell let it pass his lips. The eager muscle examined every part of the cheetah's mouth, played with its kind and - when it finally retreated - dared Syrell's tongue to follow it into its lair. It accepted the invitation gingerly, and Syrell found himself French kissing the bear for the longest part of a minute before the older male ended the kiss abruptly.
"It is time you got me out of my clothes, lad." His speech was still calm, but a certain timbre had entered his voice.
Syrell, on the other paw, felt disappointment surge through him like a wave. The kissing had not been too gross, compared to what else the bear still had in mind for him. This sudden end felt like teasing and so did Trevis's order. Syrell never would have imagined that he was to undress the bear. It was the bear who wanted this abomination, not him. It should be the bear who did the disrobing.
He took the bear's left foot, lifted it from the floor and pulled the boot off unceremoniously. The second boot followed suit, thrown all the way through the room to the other wall. Let Trevis take it for eagerness, all Syrell wanted was a vent for his anger. Something that would not reprimand him for being sulky... He pulled Trevis to his feet by the collar of his coat, which he would never have managed without anger lending him strength. He tugged at the left sleeve hard, quickly got it off the bear's arm, and stepped behind the bear's back to pull the coat off completely. The other arm freed, Syrell heedlessly let the coat fall to the ground with satisfaction. The yellow scarf landed on the floor the same way, as did the bear's white shirt. The saber made a most gratifying clamor as it hit the wall...
Only with a half-naked, massive wall of brown fur standing before him did Syrell come back to his senses. Haste had been another stupid idea. A very stupid idea!
"You haven't forgotten how to unbuckle a belt, have you?" This time, the bear was definitely teasing.
"Do I really have to..."
"Kid, I told you already," the bruin interrupted him the moment the thief's own voice trailed off, "you don't have to do anything. If you still want to back out, back out. You make the decision, you face the consequences. Either way."
"I... Yes, sir."
How he got the belt unbuckled with his knotted fingers, Syrell couldn't say. He must have managed, though, for eventually his paws gripped at either side of the bear's waist, pulling at cloth. The belt slid over the pelvic bone. Black trousers fell to the floor.
"Good. Now get them off my feet."
Syrell swallowed, hesitated, then sighed and dropped to his knees. This gave him a first glance at the bear's nether region. Which, of course, must have been the bear's intention in the first place, Syrell was sure. He noticed the huge twin orbs that hung between Trevis's legs, and the small speck of red just above the sheath that starkly contrasted the surrounding sea of brown fur. Hastily, he fixed his eyes on the ground.
Trevis made one step back, but another one forward the moment Syrell pulled the trousers away. It left the latter with only two choices: he could stay kneeling before this giant of a bear in his first stages of arousal, or stand up again, even if it meant getting another peak at the bear's furless tip. Syrell chose to rise. He was greeted with a warm smile.
"I could spend hours watching you blush, boy. It makes you cute, you know."
Syrell's cheeks turned an even darker shade of crimson.
The bear walked forward and pulled him into a third deep buss. Syrell let it happen gladly, thankful that they were back to harmless kissing. Only, it wasn't so harmless any longer. Trevis hadn't left any gap between them and the arms on his back told Syrell that he did not intend to allow him any free space either. He could feel their naked bodies rubbing against each other, the bear's elonging penis an uncomfortable spearhead pressing at his navel. The tips of Syrell's ears started to burn.
"Your kissing technique has fairly improved," the bear congratulated Syrell when their heads finally parted. "Why don't you explore the rest of my body?"
This was what Syrell had feared. Even under the bear's penetrating stare, it took him a while to find the bravery to react. Weak-kneed, he leaned forward and kissed Trevis's cheek.
"Go on."
Easier said than done, Syrell thought bitterly. He shut his eyes and gave the cheek a brief lick. The bear tasted of the wine he had drunk, of clean mineral earth and the salty sea, mixed slightly with the bitterer, fainter scent of fresh sweat and musk. It was an... aromatic flavor, Syrell could not phrase it better, and to his surprise he didn't find it altogether unpleasant. Hesitantly, his tongue tested the waters, wandering from the fur on the bear's cheek down the side of his face, to come to a rest below the hollow of the neck.
"You're doing fine there, lad," the bear breathed heavily. He was tracing the black stripes on the cheetah's back caressingly with his fingertips, sending shivers down Syrell's spine. "Just continue."
Knowing that it had to happen ultimately, Syrell let his head slip down past the shoulder. His jaw traced Trevis's chest and bumped over his right breast. A rough feline tongue circled the fur it found there until the bear's nipple reacted to the ministrations and hardened.
Trevis was in heaven. "Go deeper," he commanded. He put his left paw on Syrell's head and applied some pressure to emphasize his wish.
The slight touch of wine vanished completely from Trevis's smell, whereas the musk intensified. The fragrance that was unique to the bear grew ever the more rich on Syrell's way south. After another two inches, though, the thief's chin ran into a warm, pointed obstacle that left a damp spot on his fur. Revolted, he gave it a wide berth. His tongue described a semicircle that brought Syrell's head to the bear's side in the horizontal alignment of his navel, then followed the curve of Trevis's belly down and back towards the middle of his body. He had reached his alternative destination, his nose buried in the skin fold between the brown balls, his tongue rasping at the sizeable ovals. True, he did find this disgusting, too, but preferable by far to lapping at the pulsating pole that now towered above his head.
Doing his best to persuade the bear into agreeing with his decision, he began licking in earnest. Almost instantly, the bear's paw tightened in Syrell's mane and never let go while Syrell was slithering his muscle up and down and around the ballsac. When he put it into his mouth, the bear actually groaned. Oh yes, he was agreeing!
"You show... some real talent there, boy," Trevis panted, "but I'm... afraid you... missed your target!"
Syrell mewed in frustration around his prey, and reluctantly let go of it. He did not want to move on to... the other target! Perhaps he could still convince the brown bear of his plan. He nibbled at Trevis's sac, toyed with the skin between his teeth and gave it a tender lick afterwards. The giant form before him only chuckled.
"Nice try, but I must insist." With that, he grabbed the cheetah under the arms and hoisted him into the armchair. Before Syrell could recover from surprise, the bear had positioned himself over the furniture, legs spread to either side of the armrests, effectively pinning the cutpurse to the chair.
And Syrell found himself face-to-face with the monster he had hoped to escape.
Silently cursing his fate in general and his tormentor in particular, he opened his quivering mouth and moved his head forward. One inch... Another... Another... The head of the penis, shining wet with precum, passed his lips and he forced his tongue to caress it.
It was as repulsive as he had feared. The flavor was overwhelming, and although it reminded Syrell of the bear's body smell (which was acceptable), it was much too salty in taste, too gluey in substance. Just barely did he suppress a gag reflex. His tongue brushed the tip and was rewarded with another spurt of pre. Syrell thought he might become sick.
"Yes, that feels good," came the bear's voice from somewhere above him. His paws cupped the young cheetah's ears and massaged the back of his head. "Don't stop now."
Syrell could have screamed, cried, anything, yet his tongue kept going. The bear above him began to moan audibly.
If there was one positive aspect to his situation, Syrell noted after a minute, it was the fact that the bear contented himself with fucking his mouth. He did not 'let go anchor' as he had heard sailors aboard the Windfinder paraphrase deep-throating in their tales about harlots - never tried to push his reddish organ all the way in, until it would lodge in his throat. He made good use of the space Syrell's jaws offered, though. More than once the cheetah had one of his cheeks visibly and jarringly stuffed or his tongue bent in quite an unusual fashion.
"More lips, less teeth!" Trevis advised, and Syrell felt ashamed for the discomfort he caused the bear, then felt ashamed for feeling ashamed. Nonetheless he did the best he could to cover his canines and incisors with his lips as he slid up and down the bruin's thick tool, pausing only occasionally to clamp his mouth shut around the stiff meat and to suck the air out of his mouth.
There was no warning, no time to react. Syrell's indrawn cheeks had just expanded again when the penis erupted on his tongue with the might of a geyser. The first thick shot hit his uvula and slid to the back of his throat, where Syrell swallowed it before he even realized what he was doing. Again, he instinctively tried to pull away, but the back of his head was pressed against the headrest of the chair. Trevis had driven him there without the cheetah ever noticing. Two, three... six more spurts coated the inside of his cheeks, his palate and tongue, a deep puddle of semen Syrell intended to keep separated from its earlier comrades at all cost. The taste was even saltier than the pre, stronger - like rum compared to water.
Then the flood ceased, and Syrell heard the bear's labored but satisfied pants as he slowly pulled out of his mouth. Not wanting the sticky semen to coat his fur, the cutpurse quickly closed his lips when the tip departed, searching instead for a fitting object in which to spit the vile liquid. His choice fell on the empty wine glass, but before he could even stretch his paw out toward it, the bear laid a finger over his mouth, guiding his head back to the headrest.
"Now, now, we do not want any stains on the padding, do we?"
The thief's ears drooped. He would have whimpered again, pleaded again, but both were hard to accomplish in his current state. All he could do was to look up at the bear beseechingly.
Trevis's only answer was his thumb circling the wet spot in the fur under the cheetah's chin.
"Boy, after all you already did..." he said softly, stroking the younger one's Adam's apple.
Syrell swallowed.
The bear patted his head. "There. That wasn't so bad, now was it?"
"I think you enjoyed this rather more than I did," Syrell replied, coughing. He had intended the words to be acid, yet the oral tour de force had left him exhausted, and his voice was missing all its heat.
Trevis laughed. "A superb answer. Not a lie - and I would have been really sorry if you had lied to me -, but neither did you say openly that you did not like blowing me, though your face tells me you did. Don't worry, lad, I can understand your dislike. It might take some time to get used to the flavor."
If one could get used to drinking something this slimy and salty, Syrell thought, people would have bucketed the ocean by now, and served it with slugs. But as there would never be a repeat of him 'blowing' anybody, he didn't really care. If the bear now gave him back his ring, he would be out of there and on his way to the next ship leaving the harbor in...
"Why don't you lie down on the bed, boy?"
"What?!" Syrell's world shattered. "But I... we just... I... fulfilled my part of the wager."
The bear kept silent, only staring hard at Syrell until the latter broke under the gaze and added, "Sir."
"You just swallowed my first favor, lad. Unless I'm sorely mistaken, you still owe me two."
"I thought what we just did counted for three," the cheetah mumbled despairingly.
"Oh, no, certainly not. I told you I was going to have a piece of your ass today. You didn't think I forgot, did you? Be glad I trade one climax for one favor - I could just as easily have demanded a night for each."
Syrell blanched. One climax per favor... Suddenly Trevis's insignificant extra condition didn't seem so altruistic after all. And he had fallen for the bait hook, line, and sinker. Damn his cursed pride!
"Sir..."
"Yes, kitten?"
"Will..." He stopped. He had been going to ask if he really had to do this, but he knew what the bear's reply would be. "Will you be gentle?" he asked instead.
A thumb brushed Syrell's forehead, stroked his eyebrow. "I promise I will be as gentle as I can. Now move to the bed, boy." He stood and stepped back, allowing the cheetah the freedom to rise from the furniture he'd been imprisoned in.
Tail curled up between his legs, the pickpocket walked slowly over to the four-poster and sat down on its edge. The bear's promise had not really quenched his worries and he watched with some trepidation as the naked giant poured himself another glass of white wine and made to join him on the mattress.
"Do you want some?" the bear offered to share. When Syrell shook his head, he drained the only half-filled glass in one go and smacked his lips appreciatively. A waft of alcohol drifted over to the cheetah, who began regretting his blind refusal. The wine might have washed the persistent taste of salt from his tongue.
"I'm... sorry, sir," he half stuttered, half begged, "I might have been too quick to say no. Is there still any wine left in the bottle?"
Trevis smiled down at him, his paw a warm plaster between Syrell's shoulder blades. "There might be. I'll get you the bottle. If you vow to climb onto the sheet and get onto all fours after you had your drink, boy."
"Ye... yes, sir."
The bear handed his glass over to the young fur beside him. The mattress decompressed and soon was squeezed again when the bear returned. He filled Syrell's glass to the brim and put the bottle onto a chest of drawers the cutpurse hadn't noticed beside the impressive bed earlier.
"Thank you, sir."
Syrell drank his wine in sips, which took him an eternity, yet he reached the bottom of the glass all too soon. He placed the glass beside the bottle and looked up at Trevis, who calmly returned the gaze and said nothing. He knew the bear was waiting expectantly, though. And Syrell realized it was too late anyway to reevaluate his decisions... He climbed onto the bed and presented himself to the bear.
Trevis walked around to the foot of the bed. The cheetah was facing the head of the bed on his paws and knees, tail still drawn up tightly between his legs protectively. Trevis got up onto the mattress himself and gripped firmly at the base of Syrell's tail, causing him to stiffen even more.
"Relax, boy!" he said. "Nothing is ever gained by tensing up like this."
Syrell only whimpered.
"It would help if you raised this," the bear pulled the younger fur's tail up and stroked it with tenderness, "and lowered your head."
The trembling cheetah let himself drop to his forearms. Something wet flowed over his buttocks, and Syrell craned his neck even before he could bury his head in the cushions. Unnoticed to him, the bear had taken the wine bottle from the chest of drawers and poured some of its contents over his ass.
"Up is the opposite direction, boy," the bear chortled, and Syrell realized his tail had gotten a good dose of the wine, too, because he had pulled it in between his legs again. Somehow, he convinced his knotted muscles to raise it high above his back.
Trevis lowered his head and began licking the liquid from the cutpurse's fur. His broad warm tongue zigzagged down Syrell's right buttock and up his left, then glided over to the base of his tail and gave it a thorough bathing. It trailed the course of the wine up to the tail tip on its sensitive underside, jumped right back to the root and repeated the process on the topside. It teased Syrell's lower back, just above the base of his tail, where he had always been ticklish, causing the thief to lower his head further onto the bed in confusion over the sensations he felt.
Syrell could feel the cold bottleneck against his skin and a second splash of wine trickled down his firm buns. The bear's tongue was soon lapping it up again, mapping every inch of his flesh. Syrell loosened up despite his best effort.
A third time the bottle was upended above his tail, a good part of the liquid now running down between his cheeks rather than over his ass. Syrell heard a heavy thump as the empty bottle fell to the floor, thankfully not breaking, and then the fiendish tongue returned, all-consuming his thoughts. It toyed with him as it moved in on its quarry, slithering teasingly close to his crack and back over his buttocks, then back again to the crack. Deeper and deeper it probed, until it finally licked at the virgin orifice hidden within.
Involuntarily, Syrell became aware that the organ inside his sheath was responding to the bear's ministrations. For the first time since he had decided to... honor... their not-so-innocent little wager, the thief felt himself blush out of embarrassment. An ursine muzzle traversed his canyon, kissed his rosebud, kneaded it again and again, and the thief had to swallow a moan. He could not stop the blood from rushing into his member, though.
Suddenly the tongue was gone and Syrell sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenwards. His penis tip had begun to come out of its hiding place; no doubt another few minutes of the bear's expert handling and the whole thing would have betrayed him.
His recovery was short-lived, however. The bear leaned over Syrell to open the topmost drawer of the dresser and returned to his position behind the cheetah with a small cylindrical glass carafe in his paw. He pulled the stopper off its narrow neck and tipped the bottle against his thumb. It shone with oil when he removed it again. Trevis rubbed his thumb against the first two fingers of his paw, spreading the lubricant, while his other paw put the carafe aside, once more safely corked.
The bear commenced his manipulations anew, spreading Syrell's butt cheeks with one paw and deftly massaging the oil into his sphincter with the other. This went on for quite some time, the cheetah unaware that he was purring softly. The bear's thumb rubbed his hollow masterly... His thick forefinger lovingly traced the circular muscle... A claw grazed the most sensitive area around his hole and Syrell leaped into the air.
He had just moved himself back into position again (this couldn't really count as pressing back against the fingers, could it?), when another brush of the claw sent him fleeing forward again.
Behind him, Trevis laughed heartily. "Forget what I said about blushing, boy. You look even cuter when you're all jumpy. I could do this all night long." Claw extended, he emphasized his words with another light touch to Syrell's sphincter. Of course, it gave the desired effect. Syrell jumped. Trevis laughed even harder.
"Maybe I should do this all night long."
Apparently, not all his blood had flowed to his loins, for Syrell flushed his deepest shade of red yet. He willed himself to endure the next grazing claw without flinching. And he might even have succeeded, had not the bear decided on a surprise move that left four instantly fading scratch marks on his testicles. Syrell jumped so far, his head bounced off the upright cushion at the headboard.
Trevis roared with laughter...
...and used the opportunity to position himself over the feline that now lay sprawled on his stomach.
"Enough with the teasing. I think it is time we move on from the foreplay, lad."
"Will... will it hurt?" Syrell asked. He was trapped between the sheet beneath and the chest of the older, heavier fur above him.
"Don't waste your time with questions you already have the answer to, boy. You know it will hurt. But I promised I'd be gentle."
"I... I know, sir."
"And do you doubt my word?"
"N...no, sir."
Trevis leaned forward and kissed the cheetah's cheek. "I'm pleased to hear it," he whispered into the cutpurse's ear.
Once again he reached for the carafe and poured a few drops of oil over his erect member, careful not to spill too much onto the bed and less onto his paws. He spread the oil along his shaft with but one finger, wiped the joint on the sheet after stoppering the bottle, and positioned his paws under Syrell's armpits for the best grip. His hips started forward.
"Prepare yourself. It will be easier for you if you don't tense up again."
Which, as might be expected, Syrell certainly did the moment he heard those words.
The bear set his tongue to work on the young one's neck. "Shhh, boy," he said between licks, "just relax." His tip found the right spot between Syrell's cheek and he slowly entered the cheetah.
Syrell cried out. Lubricated or not, the invader was hurting him a lot. It was simply too thick, too hard and - Syrell gurgled inarticulately at the thought - too long. Only the head was past his sphincter so far, and already it felt as if it was on fire.
"Ple... please, please... sir."
"Bite the pillow, boy. It will help slightly."
Any advice on how to minimize his torment was welcome, and Syrell gladly accepted it. His fangs buried deep in the white cloth before him, tearing it apart. His paws closed, his claws extended, and he pressed them hard into his palms. The ache was a sweet distraction from the other pain.
When the pulsing aggressor was halfway inside him, the worst pain suddenly subsided. It was as if the bear's cock had passed some obstacle that had been the cause for the stabbing agony. The situation was still far from comfortable for the cheetah, it even remained relatively painful, yet his bowels seemed to accommodate slowly to the spear of flesh.
Trevis repositioned his paws to the thief's hips and pushed his cock in all the way.
"Nnhhnnhhhnnhhh," Syrell whimpered around the pillow. For a moment, the pain had returned in full. Perhaps some movements were worse than others after all.
"The worst is over," Trevis tried to soothe him, nipping his ear affectionately. He had ceased all his momentum and let Syrell get used to the thick foreign body in his rectum.
Bit by bit, Syrell got his breath back. His vision was blurred with tears and his claws had pierced the skin on both palms, but the pain in his ass was receding again. Now it mostly felt uncomfortably stuffed.
"Just keep relaxed and I will go on slowly."
"I will... try. Sir."
A finger trailed the black stripes on his back. "You're doing fine enough, lad."
True to his word, the bear stayed motionless for a couple of minutes, only moving occasionally to keep his hilted member stiff. Every thrust was a sharp flash of pain, but like its weather namesakes, those flashes were gone almost in an instant. After some five minutes, however, Trevis's actions followed faster on each other, and the simple thrusts more and more alternated with gyrating motions.
Syrell's body experienced a short surge of delight and a gasp escaped his lips. The ursine cock had hit some sensitive spot deep inside him.
Trevis heard him moan, too. "Now the real fun begins, you'll see," he remarked.
He began fucking the thief in earnest. His pace and thrusts increased, and he varied his movements so often, they seemed to flow naturally into another, an intricate dance that went on and on and on... His hips were a velvet feather that glided erotically over Syrell's buttocks, his balls a satin cushion that nestled intimately against his own. And those fingers... The thief couldn't even begin to describe the feeling he got when they occasionally sketched random patterns into the fur on his sides and back.
Even the painful stabs Syrell dreaded so much made themselves scarce. Syrell's penis had never fully retreated into its sheath, but to say the few minutes of Trevis's painful probing had aroused it further would have been an outright lie. Now it pulsed and lengthened every time the bear hit this magic spot within him. The feeling was incredible. It made Syrell squeal in delight and almost drove him insane. He began humping the sheets beneath him, seeking release for the tension that was building up in him.
A giant paw enveloped Syrell's cock, pressed it once and let go again, rubbed his chest instead.
"Please...," Syrell mewed imploringly for its return to his member.
His wish was granted. The cheetah would have thanked the bear for the expert kneading he was receiving, yet the words caught in his throat, were swallowed by a deep moan of lust, and all that escaped his lips audible enough to be understood was the word "sir".
The bear acknowledged his feeble attempts at speech with a gentle headrub.
"I'm very close to... cumming, boy," he warned his bedfellow this time. Syrell wished he hadn't, though. It brought some part of him back from oblivion - a tiny voice inside his head that revolted at the thought of being used by another male. The bear would fill his bowels with his seed, and his fur bristled in indignation that...
Claws brushed his balls again, moved up his quivering shaft in circles and the thief forgot to worry. The touch was bliss, the mix of tickling and ever-so-slightly painful sensations making him anything but jump now. Syrell ground his cock head against the paw that manipulated him so deftly, and the leathery feel of Trevis's palm against his barbs finally sent him over the edge.
He tensed in orgasm. His bowels clamped down on the bear's slick member and he, too, stiffened as he crossed the point of no return with a roar.
Trevis's penis pulsed rapidly inside the cheetah, coating his innards with torrents of warm and gooey spunk. Syrell's own load shot all over the bear's paw and the linen sheets beneath, the overwhelming, relentless assault of pleasure an otherworldly experience for the young feline's mind and body. He had never felt as intense an orgasm before.
With a deep sigh, he guided his head down onto the pillows and let it rest on his left cheek, utterly spent.
"That wasn't... so bad, now... was it?" the bear repeated the question he had asked after their oral interlude, albeit more breathlessly.
"No, sir," Syrell panted.
"Did you enjoy it... as much as I did, boy?" he teased in a mock imitation of Syrell's earlier comment.
"Yes, sir," Syrell heard himself reply.
The bear chuckled, waving his cum-coated paw in front of the cutpurse's face. "I can see that."
He brushed Syrell's nose with a sticky finger, leaving a smear behind. The thief very consciously inhaled a composition of smells that was Syrell DeMeryyn, pure and clean. Its source did not repulse him any longer; the salty liquid actually smelled quite good. Confused as to what that meant, the now insecure young cheetah closed his eyes.
Above him, Trevis shifted his torso over to the left side of the bed, but took great care not to let his softening member slip out of its tight and comfortable embrace. He opened another drawer. Syrell could hear the soft ring of coins as he rummaged through it on his search for what had to be - the thief was certain - a piece of cloth to wipe his paw clean. Surely enough, when the bear curled his arms around his companion again, most of the stickiness was gone. The paws nestled against Syrell's ribs and the bear's giant form covered his bare back from behind, protecting it from the cold that had begun to seep into the room. Syrell realized the sun had long set. The only light in the room came from the five candles, which had burned down more than half already.
A broad muzzle came to rest against his cheek and nuzzled him gently. It was comforting, really. The mattress rocked lightly with every movement under their weight. Syrell gave in to the motion and, the older fur's soft breathing a steady lullaby in his ear, let exhaustion claim him.
He did not know what woke him. Perhaps it was the flickering light from the dying candles, perhaps a chilly gust of wind. Or maybe it was because he could no longer feel the warm pole of flesh inside him.
Syrell rose. His butt was sore and throbbed when he sat up, but compared to what he had experienced hours before, he could not exactly call it pain. The live plug was indeed gone from his rear. Cum had leaked from the hole and dried in the fur around his ass and on his balls. It stung with every movement. There were other matted spots in his fur as well, an especially numerous collection visible on his stomach and thighs. However, his throat had suffered worst of all, as hard as it was to believe. It felt raw and hot, almost inflamed, but not from any oral practice, Syrell realized in shame, but from the incessant moaning that had accompanied Trevis fucking him.
Where was the bear anyway? Syrell peered into the dark and found Trevis in the armchair once more. He had turned it so it now faced the bed, and sat there fully clothed, eyes fixed on the cheetah with the same all-knowing expression he had worn when Syrell stumbled into the room.
"You know, every time I congratulate myself on catching such a beautiful, spirited young kitten, you say or do something that makes you even more desirable. This cute blush you cannot control even though you have mastered its charm to perfection... The controversial mix of reluctance and avidity that guides your actions while making love... The peacefulness you display in your sleep... When you're lying there outstretched on the bed, without a care in the world, all innocent and dreaming, your naked body truly is a sight to behold."
He walked over to the thief and pulled him into a long and thorough kiss.
"And yet I'm glad you are awake, boy," he said with a smile.
"How long have I slept, sir?"
"Slightly less than two hours, lad, but almost too long. I would very much have regretted leaving you without saying goodbye. A written message can only convey a limited insight into the emotions behind its words. I think you know what I mean. Certainly a written note about your sexiest qualities wouldn't have put such a lovely dark shade of red on your cheeks."
It most certainly wouldn't have, Syrell had to acknowledge. He hated his uncontrolled blushes, absolutely hated them. Trevis saw his discomfort and chuckled again.
"Sir, what... what about the third favor?"
"Why, are you eager for more, or do you fear what there still might be to come?"
Syrell opened and closed his mouth soundlessly. Truth was, in that moment he wouldn't have been able to answer the question even if his life depended on it.
"Still confused about what happened, eh, boy? Well, I'll give you some time to get your thoughts and feelings sorted. Your third favor is to meet me here again, at eight o'clock in the evening the day after tomorrow."
"Just... just meet you?"
Trevis smiled. "You heard me: just meet me and our wager is settled. You won't have to do anything you don't want to. But perhaps," he said, and placed one paw unambiguously on the cutpurse's sheath, "we can make our little arrangement more... permanent."
He teased Syrell's flesh one last time, stole one more kiss from his feline lover and stood up.
"Stay in bed if you like, boy. The room's been paid for the night. Nobody will force you out of here before noon. And don't mind the torn cushions or the stains on the sheets. I know the owner of the tavern; he won't bother much about them," he said with a broad (and anything but innocent) grin on his muzzle. "I'm looking forward to seeing you in two days, Syrell DeMeryyn."
Said, and was gone from the room.
Syrell fell back onto the pillows. Another meeting in two days... Even if it was nothing more than a meeting, the prospect of seeing the dominating bear again was something his mind still had to process. Of course he did not want to meet this Trevis Brunn again. What he had made him do was just... just... wrong... Syrell was furious that he was unable to come up with a harsher word. 'Wrong' almost sounded... friendly. Well, being forced to suck the bear's dick had certainly been vile. The taste had been plain disgusting. And the pain when he had been mounted... Yes, he would rejoice if he never saw that monster again!
The problem was, on hearing this thought a part inside of him raised its ugly head and called him a liar. The same part of him that wanted to forgive Trevis... The part of him that had partially enjoyed the evening, the part that had surrendered to the great brown bear... Syrell tried hard to batter it down with all his might.
It would not be quelled, though.
It was not as if he had any choice, anyhow. The bear still had his ring. He could not leave the island without his ring. It was the only item of value he possessed, unless the bear had forgotten the money Syrell had stolen for him. He looked at the writing desk. No, the bags were gone, as could be expected. So he was broke, and few captains would accept a financially hard-pressed landlubber on their ship. He certainly knew of none. And even if he stole the pay for the crossing, who said the governor wouldn't send someone after him? From what Syrell had heard during the last days, such a drastic measure would be just like the bull. It would mean facing the Law of Eye and Ear eventually...
So he had to meet the bear again. He needed his ring...
He had no other choice... It was the only... logical thing to do...
Syrell sighed, eyes wandering aimlessly through the room. If only he could convince himself...
His gaze fell on the chest of drawers beside the bed and his breath caught in surprise. Lying on its top - and clearly not accidentally forgotten there because a white rose had been put through its loop - was his ring.
And, to either side of it, Syrell found the things the bear had used to wipe his paw clean.
It was the two moneybags he had been missing.