Cassandra IV
Wreath stumbled uncaring towards the fringes of the forest, the
branch strewn floor hauntingly uninviting with Cassandra's badly fitted suit
squeezing uncomfortably across his shoulders, the plug slipping half out and
rubbing against his raw sphincter with every jarring movement of his legs.
Followed by the jeering laughter of his tormentors, the only
thought crossing Wreath's mind was distance. As far, and as fast, as possible.
In his haste he forgot to check his direction; Wreath was heading away from the
woods cottage, and away from the sprawling estate, deeper into the wilderness
with the weather closing in quickly overhead, clouds threatening heavy rain.
Whispers heard in his younger days whirled around in
Wreath's mind, bringing him up short, panting heavily. Stale sweat clung to his
hair, dripping down the collar of the suit. He pulled on the lock, trying to
dislodge it from the zip, or failing that, rip the zip off entirely. This thing
needed to come off; He needed freedom of movement, and shelter for the night.
After another hour of walking Wreath was broken. His legs ached,
the leather chafed. Any possible solace at the easier path he had found left
him full of foreboding; An overgrown road, thick with roots and dead grass, led
away through the sheets of rain to gods knew where. "Maybe the rumors about a
dead city here are wrong, maybe this is just an old road to an outpost, or
something" He reasoned with himself, as exhaustion drove him to shelter in the
lee of an aging pine, fear keeping him awake.
Mid morning dragged on, giving way to afternoon as Wreath sat
in abject misery, alternately pulling hard on the lock and halfheartedly
rubbing himself through the thin leather. The needs of the body eventually
brought him out of his stupor, the shame and humiliation waiting back home
making the decision for him. Onwards, to see the supposed ruins, and finding a
way out of the damn suit.
Wreath wandered along the road, watching the afternoon sun
sink through the clouds warily. Night was drawing close, and he had yet to find
shelter or food. A painful chase after a fat Coney through the brush
surrounding what he now considered to be "His" road left him with nothing but
saliva to ruminate on. He needed to reach what looked like the blasted remains
of an old roadhouse a mile or so ahead before resting. Wreath knew the next time
he sat would be for hours, well into the night. He could only force so much
from his pampered body.
The building sat in the middle of an old concrete mat, weeds
pushing through the cracks, an unidentifiable roughly square hunk of rusted
metal sitting to one side. The door was long gone, as well as much of the roof.
The rafters had fallen in, leaving a mess of broken shingles covering rotten,
stinking furniture inside. An old counter top ran the length of the back of the
main room, which Wreath gratefully crawled under, getting away from the driving
rain.
Wreath was perking up; Foul, but reasonably dry, secure
quarters for the night, a few choice prizes after rustling through the debris
littering one of the back rooms. Someone, ages back, had forgotten an aluminum
travel case there, which he was lucky enough to happen upon and successfully
pry open with a snapped off bit of rebar from an aborted attempt to rebuild
part of the damaged structure.
Wreath threw aside the rotten muck of what once had been
food in favor of a sloshing bottle, which he forced open and gratefully
slugged at. The taste of stale water ran down the back of his throat, filling
his belly as he sat back and contemplated the case in the fading light. An old
torch, batteries no doubt dead, nail file, and a change of clothes that smelled
terrible after close contact with the forgotten food. A fat folder contained
the last of the items; matches, cigarettes and an assortment of small saws.
"Some sort of hardware salesman, then, on the road. Thank fuck he left these little
prizes behind" Wreath crowed, arms at an awkward angle behind his head as he
began to work on the thin metal loop of the lock holding the zip in place.
Peeling the leather catsuit off his body slowly, Wreath
tried not to rub the blisters forming on the inside of his thighs, which itched
like fire. Half an hour of hard labor had been met with success! The jagged
remains of the lock lay broken at his feet, covered in saw marks. Old clothes
were washed in a puddle, removing much of the smell. Hungry, tired and sore,
Wreath lay on the cold floor, murmuring words of solace to himself as his
finger found its way across his hard belly, and rubbed gently at his slit,
coaxing his soft cock out of hiding.
Wreath looked across his body in the meager light as he
started rubbing himself, running a finger over the top of his pale cock,
admiring the contrast against the small, hard blue scales. His thoughts jumped inevitably
to Cassandra as he started to harden, despite the recent abuse he had received at
her hands. There was no denying it; He was fixated on her. Wanted her, despite
the attachment she had formed with Azure, her new protector.
The need for sleep warred with carnal desire and won, after
a hard fought struggle. Wreath left himself unsatisfied, hand covered with a
sheen of sticky ichor as he rolled over, lying with his back against the inner
wall of the counter, trying to conserve what warmth he had left as he fell into
a fitful sleep. The first time he had slept in the wild, away from his soft bed
and friendly playmates in years.
Morning announced itself with glorious heat. The sun burned
away the remaining few scraps of cloud, shafting through the massive gaps in
the broken roof, warming the counter and sending plumes of condensation skyward
as the clothes stretched out across it began to dry off. Wreath stirred in his
private little hovel, luxuriating in the morning warmth as the shivers wracking
his body slowly subsided.
Carefully lighting one of the stale cigarettes, Wreath stood
and surveyed what had been his kingdom for the night. Rain had washed away much
of the grime, and soaked into the material of the old furniture. Water was
still pooled in the far corner of the room, where the concrete slab it had been
built on sagged into the soft earth.
After filling the bottle in the clear puddle, he dressed in
the worn slacks and faded maroon shirt left by the would-be salesman. Wreath
dumped what remained of his belongings pack into the case, and slung the
leather catsuit over his shoulder. Cassandra would wear it for him again, one
day. His shame would allow no compromise.
Back on the road, Wreath set a brisk pace in his more
comfortable clothing. Eager to see what lay ahead, he could only glimpse the
tops of broken buildings sitting in what he assumed was a small dell in the far
distance, near the base of the mountains. "One quick look, a day, maybe two.
Then back, to rebuild. And take what is mine" Wreath thought, repeating it to
himself like a mantra, covering the complaints of his empty stomach as he loped
onwards.
Desiccated buildings began to appear alongside the overgrown
roadway, windows covered with old wood, doors hung with condemned signs. Nobody
had been this way in decades, at least. The rumor went that the old city had once
serviced the needs of several small mines, during its heyday. The mines ran
dry, the town was abandoned. Usual story. The only part Wreath couldn't
understand (As the rumors were no doubt true, he could see the proof of them
with his own eyes) was why the small city had been all but erased from history,
why the denizens of the estate spoke of it only in whispers.
On the very outskirts of the city, the tarmac spread into a
four lane monstrosity covered with cracks and silt. A nearby stream had changed
course, gurgling slowly over the expanse of faded tar. To his surprise, a
rudimentary bridge made of planks and rusted iron rods stood guard over the stream.
The area was not meant to have anyone living on it, as it was still part of
estate grounds, if on the outskirts. Squatters might have taken up residence,
but with the well patrolled perimeter, he doubted it.
Proceeding warily, Wreath began to look for the mysterious
bridge builders. Signs were everywhere - A small park outside what might have
once been a school bore signs of cultivation, straight rows of something akin
to lettuce growing in weed free soil. A path trampled through the ferns led to
a lean-to constructed against the side of the school, looking much like
temporary accommodation that had become permanent.
Finding nobody, Wreath decided to make himself at home. He
rifled through the blankets in the small shelter, coming up with bits of dried
meat that he wolfed down greedily, eating for the first time in two days. He
took a sturdy looking pair of boots, stuffing the toes with a shred of material
pulled from the blanket, as they were a size too big for him.
Hissing gleefully, he picked through the assortment of
knives on the shelf hung badly at the back of the shelter. Stuffing a small
homemade piece with a creatively sharpened length of recycled steel into his
waistband, he backed out of the lean-to, planning on making his escape. Wreath
had seen what he had come to see; He had no wish to cross the owner of the
pitiful existence out here.
He ran towards the tarmac, dumping the catsuit along the
path as he went. "A present for the sad fuck staying here" Wreath thought,
giggling as he hurried over the bridge, making for the safety of the treeline.
Plans swam through his mind as he cleared the stream, moving to the side of the
road so as to be out of direct sight of anyone coming up behind. How was he
going to explain his sojourn in the forest to the others? Maybe, if he was
lucky, Azure and Cassandra would be quiet about their shared escapade, giving
him time to plot, time to come up with a suitable punishment. His cock
hardened, head slipping moistly out of his slit at the happy thought of beating
the pair of them into submission.
The boots chafed but increased his speed greatly; without
having to worry over every concealed hole or bit of rusted wire snagging his
bare feet, Wreath could run unhindered, ignoring the painful blisters covering
his inner thighs. Late evening would bring him back to the estate lawns, where
he could dump the crap he had been hauling with him all day, and walk in
triumphant. In his mind, Wreath had beaten the wild on his own, driving back
the forces of nature and conquering feral strangers in their absence.
A howl of rage, echoing over the broken city skyline drew
Wreath to greater speed. He had no wish to meet the previous owner of his new
boots, not until he could come back and pay the squatter in kind. Cassandra he
would keep for himself, but Azure? Azure he could give away, maybe, to settle
an unpaid debt. Vengeance is sweet, after all.