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Contents:
• Date
• Hero
• Library Card
• Workout
• Milady
• Breakup
• Intervention

Date

“Ivan?”

Masha has a low trill in her voice. They’re having a date at her apartment. The kind with strong wine, aromatic candles, and rose petals scattered on the bed. He came here with certain expectations, and he’s sure she has the same expectations too; what he didn’t expect was her outfit.

Sheer black stockings. A bustier finished in dark violet, deep cut with an open neck. Little white cuffs, attached to nothing in particular, simply there to accentuate her wrists and her fingers and all the wonderful things she might do with them. She is mostly covered yet explicit, and he finds that he can’t look away.

Although, tearing his eyes away from Masha is rarely ever easy.

She was wearing high heels, although she isn’t now. She kicked them off playfully after her second glass of wine, sending them soaring over to land on the sofa. She had a point to make, an important point, that she is making even now.

“See? I told you. Even if my back hurts sometimes, I am flexible in the right places,” she purrs.

Flexible is not necessarily the word Ivan would choose. Dexterous, perhaps, is more fitting. She is sitting back in her chair, her legs over the table, picking up a glass of wine by the stem with her toes. She has already drunk half a glass like that, and only spilled a little. It dimly occurs to him that she might have spilled it on purpose; it certainly was convenient that it landed on on her cleavage, giving her an excuse to fuss and wipe the dark red wine away from the pale skin of her breasts.

“But like I was saying, I kinda like the look and it’s cute, but the one problem with this outfit is that it’s kinda hot, y’know? Like… I know there’s plenty of airflow near the collarbone,” she says, dipping her eyes, “but the rest of the top is kinda plasticky. It traps a lot of sweat.”

“A… problem. Yes,” he rumbles. He, too, has had a glass or two of wine; perhaps that is why he finds himself so hot, and why it is so difficult to swallow.

She swings her legs back under the table, and reaches for the bottle. But instead of pouring herself a glass, she takes a cube of ice from the bucket that it is cooling in, and drops it into her cleavage with a sigh.

“You look a little hot, too.” Her voice is warm but with more than wine; the flush of her cheeks has little to do with alcohol. “I bet you want some ice, too. Right? Come on. Help yourself.”

He reaches out his hand. Hesitates. She snatches it from midair and guides it to her breast. Underneath the table, those dexterous toes are brushing against his crotch.

All this, he could have endured.

But the pleased little giggle she makes is the final blow.

It seems evening will be a busy one.

Hero

“Halt, evildoer!”

Ivan raised an eyebrow.

He did not particularly consider himself to be an evildoer. He was a little bit morally gray, but that was the society he lived in. Ultimately, he preferred not to do evil where possible; mostly he ended up doing women, which came with its own complications.

At the moment he was not doing evil or women. He was doing chores. Nobody in his life had ever objected to him taking the trash out, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

“That’s mixed trash, isn’t it? You have to separate the burnable trash from the non-combustibles! And do you have a composter? You should! Good citizens give back to the land!”

The girl lecturing him was wearing a wide-brimmed hat, complete with feather, and a flimsy black cape bought from a costume shop. Underneath that she had a white shirt cut just short enough to show off her midriff, and black leather pants to complete what he assumed was supposed to be a highwayman look. The dashing swordswoman (?) had completed her costume with thick leather boots that were probably a lot better for farmwork than derring-do, and a domino mask as some small attempt at concealing her identity.

“Good morning, Alice,” he said, lazily lifting a hand in greeting.

“W-what are you talking about, citizen? I am the —”

“You are Alice,” he said flatly. “I can tell.”

“H-h-how?” she said. The false bravado of her superhero voice had disappeared.

“I recognize your belly button,” he said, with a mild scowl. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of navels for the women of this town.

“T-that’s… a little… um, creepy.”

“We must use the talents the Goddess gifts us,” he intoned. “So. Perhaps you should explain.”

“Um!” She suddenly stood bolt upright, as if she’d been called on by a teacher. Even the tips of her ears straightened. “Well… I was getting stressed, since it’s exam season, so I, um… well, it’s like, uh, role playing? Isn’t it fun, to, um, pretend, sometimes?”

“I see,” he said impassively. He wasn’t used to role playing outside of the bedroom, but exhibitionism took many forms. “And so, you bother people about their trash?”

“I’m just trying to do good for the community! I helped this old lady back home with her groceries the other day, too!” she protested. “And I got a kite out of a tree! Um… Please don’t tell anybody it’s me doing this. Oh, d-do you think anybody else can recognise me by my belly button…? They can’t, right?”

“They may, if you continue to show it. And you will catch cold. I will lend you a longer shirt.”

“Um… But I have to show a little skin,” she said, fiddling with her index fingers. “It’s not heroic if I don’t.”

Then show more, he thought, perhaps a little meanly.

A brand new bunny hero had arrived on the streets of the university town — her belly still proudly displayed for all to see.

Library Card

“Who goes there?”

“Me, I suppose,” Ivan answers.

The girl he’s talking to is short, with large eyes made larger by rounded glasses and a mess of feathers spilling from her shirt. His first instinct is that she seems pettable, and his instincts are seldom wrong.

“I am the keeper of the library, recommender of the books! Present your library card for my inspection!” she demands.

He does so. It’s not his library card, but Alice’s; she’s stuck working at her mother’s cafe today, and yearns for some literature to make her shift go faster. The owlish girl looks at the card, looks at him, looks at the card again, and very slowly comes to the conclusion that he is not a tall, busty rabbit girl with a vaguely threatening GPA.

“I’m her errand boy today. She’s looking for—”

“This will not do,” she hisses. Do owls hiss? He supposes they must. “I didn’t ask for her library card. I asked for yours.”

“I don’t have one. I’m not actually a student here.”

She clicks her tongue. “Who cares? I-I, ahem. I mean, no matter! The library calls. All should subsume themselves in glorious books. Come! We will craft you a library card, and you shall be welcome within its hallowed eaves!”

He doesn’t particularly even know what an eave is, but it seems like less of a hassle just to let her do what she wants. She strides ahead to the front desk smugly, her feathery chest puffed up.

“Please fill in this form.”

The paper she presents him with begins with the usual questions — Name, age, sex — but then seems to divert into a random motley of personal inquiries.

“Favourite food? Length of fingers? Best place to go on a date?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “I’m not sure all this is relevant.”

“It is entirely relevant!” she says, seizing his hand. He does not miss that she traces the length of his index finger with hers. “With this metrics, I can narrow down your preference in books to an incredible degree!”

“Not sure I buy that they have anything to do with my taste in books.”

“They absolutely don’t! But they’re a requirement for my patented book-recommendation spell. The more knowledge I possess about an individual, the better the recommendations!” she boasts.

He tilts his head, and sighs.

“If you want to get to know me, try doing it the traditional way,” he says, and returns the form mostly unfilled.

“Hmph! Challenge accepted!”

When all is said and done, she gives him his very own library card. It has a picture of him on the front; he very distinctly does not remember her taking one.

“And here is your preliminary list of recommendations! Make sure you borrow at least three.”

She hands him a piece of paper, on which there are a list of ten books he’s never heard of.

It is only later that he finds her name and her phone number scrawled on the back.

Workout

“Can you believe they didn’t look at me even once? Assholes,” Tiffany grumbles. “And in what I was wearing, too! Gym guys are all muscle freaks, I swear to the Goddess.”

She disdainfully discards her tank top — not that it was really covering much in the first place, since it was flush with the curve of her body. Particularly her chest, and particularly the sharp points of her nipples. She doesn’t wear a bra. Bras are for cowards. “At least I know somebody with some taste. Oh, wait. It’s not that you have taste. You just don’t have standards.”

She leans back against his body, and guides his hands to her chest. The skin is warm, slick with sweat. She arches into him as he toys with her, grinding her hips against his groin.

“I feel like that is more of an insult to you than it is to me.”

“Oh, shut up! I’m horny, alright? I worked out, and I want somebody to appreciate my ass. So lose the pants already!”

Before he has time to complain, she’s already tugging at his belt. She has it off in moments. Regardless of her attitude, Tiffany has skillful little hands, and skillful little feet. Ones that he has been at the mercy of multiple times now.

With his pants down and his cock freed, she guides it into the groove of her ass, the head resting up against the fluff of her tail. The smooth texture of her spats against his shaft is sublime.

“Bet you like that, huh?” she asks. “Bet you like this little bunny butt pressed against your big wolf cock. Bet you wanna wreck me, huh? Just gape me open with that fat dick.”

She has a filthy way of putting it, but she’s right. As she starts to grind, skillfully working his shaft with her glutes, he desires nothing more than to pin her down and take her properly. But if he did that, she’d be winning. Instead, he snakes one of his hands down to her waist and slips it under the fabric.

“No underwear?” he grunts.

“Of course not. I’m horny. Why would I be scared of showing off a little cameltoe?”

It isn’t long before he feels himself getting close. She seems to know it instinctively, because she turns her head and shoots him a glare. “Hold on.”

She turns, pulls the hem of her spats out wide, and takes his cock in her hand. “C’mon. Fill ’em. You know you want to. Mark your territory, like a real big bad wolf.”

He erupts, and fills her spats with his seed. It glistens against the dark fabric.

“Good boy,” she coos. His cheeks burn. With a coy shudder, she pulls up her spats to wedge the damp fabric into her slit. “Now that’s a fitting tribute.”

He’s not sure what he sees in her that the gym bros don’t. But he has a feeling he’ll be seeing her again after her next workout.

Milady

“Here you are. One slice of the finest black forest gateau.”

“Here you are what?”

“Here you are… milady.”

Lilith titters smugly, and opens her mouth to be fed. She’s dressed in her finest silks, a pastiche of the old Merland manor house style. Jane would be proud, or mortified; he can’t decide which.

He himself is dressed in a black silk tailcoat, which fits him suspiciously well, and the starchiest pair of trousers he has even been trousered in. A lady, Lilith claims, must have a butler, and for the moment that job has fallen to him.

“Is it proper for a servant to hand feed their master?” he asks, in an accent from a stage play. He holds a spoon up to her mouth, and watches as the cake disappears without a trace.

She licks her lips, which are full and plump. She’s been enjoying her little role play session just a little bit too much; there is colour in her cheeks, and a gleam in her eye.

“It is proper,” she says in a deliberate tone, “for a servant to fulfil his mistress’s desires. More cake, if you please.”

He takes another spoonful and holds it out for her, only to be surprised when she lunges forward. His instinct is to reel back, but she grabs him by the wrist and holds it in place.

Her lips brush against the pad of his thumb. He is astounded by how much of the spoon had to go into her throat for that to happen, and the startling ease with which it did. She looks up at him, making deliberate eye contact; he can feel a purr rumbling in her throat as she slides back.

“Delicious,” she coos. “There is nothing in this world quite so wonderful as chocolate.”

She gives him a prompting look. He sighs dramatically.

“Yourself excepted, milady.”

She beams at him, pleased to be humored. “Oh, stop. Now, could you perhaps bring out the syrup? I fear I shall have need of it.”

He does so. Unlike the rest of her props (fine silver plates, cutlery that was not designed to actually be eaten with), the chocolate syrup is just the same brand he could buy at a store anywhere.

“Do you really need to put chocolate syrup on a chocolate cake, though?” he asks.

“Oh, silly,” she says, and cradles the bottle against her cheek. “This is not just chocolate syrup. It is an elixir that adds joy and flavour to anything you might drizzle it on.”

“If you say so, milady.”

She leans forward, and gently cups his groin in her hand. “Anything.”

He chuckles, perhaps a little nervously. She responds by rolling his nuts between her fingers.

“Tell me, my dear servant. Do you have sensitive nipples? You look like you might. As your lady, I feel we should investigate.” She licks her lips again.

For the next hour or so, the cake is forgotten. But the cake, unlike Lilith, will wait.

Breakup

“Ivan, I think we should break up.”

He gasps. Elena’s face is impassive as she looks down at him, her foot still pressed firmly against his cock. Even as she scowls, she draws her toes up and down the shaft; the pressure makes him feel exhausted, light-headed.

“Wha… You… Why? Out of nowhere…” he gasps.

“Is it?” she asks. She ignores his gasps and his grunts, but she holds his gaze, and holds it firmly.

He wants to stand up and argue with her, but as soon as he tries, she presses her foot down harder and forces him to lay still.

“I had a conversation with my sister yesterday.” She pauses. For a brief moment, she looks away; he feels oddly relieved to be free of her stare. “What do you think it was about?”

“Birds? Pancakes? With Sasha, it could be anything,” he argues.

“It was about your nutsack, Ivan. More specifically, how it tastes. She talked about it. At length. A five star chef couldn’t have given me a better flavour profile.” She returns her glare to him again. Her foot continues to massage his cock. “My own sister, Ivan.”

He groans, and writhes. There is no relief. “Y-you know we experimented together when we were kids…”

“I know. But I can’t stand it. That my sister, my sweet innocent Sasha, is nostalgic for the taste of my boyfriend’s dick.” She speeds up, using the heel and ball of her foot. He tries not to yelp. “The other girls in the village keep looking at you, too. They flirt.”

“I don’t flirt back.”

“But you don’t stop them. And neither does your sister. I asked her to have a word with you. Since she’s the only one you listen to.” Her scowl deepens. “She laughed. She said you were young, and to let you ‘sow your wild oats’ before you settle down.”

Her tone is brittle. The pressure in the air is stifling.

“But if you are sowing your seeds, why does my field remain barren, Ivan?”

He grunts, and tries to right himself. She doesn’t let him. “Y-you’re a woman of the church.”

Her eyes seem to glow in the dim bedroom light. “Oh? But it says in the scripture: ‘Women of the church bear the most succulent fruits, if tended to with diligence’. I don’t know if you have that diligence. I don’t think that you do.”

She speaks to him as if pronouncing judgement. As if offering absolution.

“Cum, Ivan. Cum for me. For the last time. After this, I’ll set you free. To sow your seeds where you will.” Her foot speeds up. He gasps, and knows there is no escape. “If you can’t be mine alone, then at least serve others, as the Goddess wills you.”

Perhaps an older, wiser Ivan would have resisted. But right here, right now, he cums — regretfully, shamefully. With a sob.

The night sky is clouded over. The moon and her mercy are nowhere to be seen.

Intervention

“Hey Ivan. Come on in! Take a seat.”

He raises an eyebrow as Masha welcomes him to an office that very distinctly isn’t hers. In fact it belongs to Nadehzda, who goes out of her way to avoid using it.

“Am I in trouble?” he asks.

“Have you done anything you’d be in trouble for?” she giggles. “But seriously, no. We’re just having a bit of a performance review.”

“I thought I already had one of those.”

She sticks her tongue out. “Haha! You caught me. Actually, this is a bit of a… well, I guess you’d call it an intervention?”

He pauses. He hasn’t been doing any drinking lately. Frankly, he doesn’t have the time. Most of his waking hours are consumed by work or women, and the bottle can’t compete with either.

“You’ve been looking awfully tired lately. And I know you’ve been hard at work on, ahem, community outreach,” she says, with a wink. “So, for the next eight hours, you’re in a very important meeting that you just can’t wriggle out of, and which just so happens to be in a room with a comfy chair and a fancy coffee machine.”

He sags a little, but smiles. “Well. It is a very comfy chair.”

Masha grins, the corners of her eyes crinkling. “Attaboy.”

The coffee machine, he notes, is a new feature. Lately, Nadezhda has been drinking a lot of coffee; it seems she’s become a frequent customer of a certain cafe, and it’s broadened her tastes a bit.

“So, what do you usually do on your days off?” Masha asks.

The answer is ‘women’, although that’s probably not what she’s looking for. “I… don’t have time for hobbies, lately.”

“Well, that’s no good!” She grins like a stage magician about to pull a dove from her hat, but instead, she pulls out of a board game from under the desk. “According to my confidential informant, you used to play a lot of this, right?”

He recognizes the box at a glance, and sighs. “Your confidential informant being Sasha.”

He’s played that game against Sasha many, many times. At first it was novel; then, it was a boring chore. Finally, through repetition, it became a comforting ritual. A cup of coffee. A clatter of pieces on the counter. Those are the sounds of his youth, of quiet and soothing afternoons spent at peace.

“Actually, it was the boss, but I feel like that’s splitting hairs,” Masha grins. “As a busy lady myself, I haven’t tried this one. Teach me?”

“Sure.”

He goes through the motions. He drinks coffee, and moves the pieces. It is not as soothing as he remembers it; perhaps Sasha herself makes all the difference.

But it is the first time since he got here that somebody has tried to take care of him without getting in his pants. He feels a dull ache in his heart. A sudden warmth.

If Masha notices, she says nothing. She just smiles sweetly as she loses.