Touched (The Marnie Baranuik Files) (62 page)

This wasn't the first time I'd been ambushed by unrequested schlong. It
was
my first costumed, anonymous, alarmingly brontosaurian and fairly elderly version. What does one say? My etiquette training, limited as it was, failed me.

“I don't have a slit,” I said, backing up. My squirrel tail, which now seemed puny compared to the substantial wang in front of me, got trapped under the side table. I'm sure Ben could sympathize. He probably got his thing tangled in furniture, too. I tried to extract myself with some dignity but couldn't turn without dumping the table over. I stopped trying.

“Did you rent the suit?” he asked, as though asking where I got my oil changed.

“Well, yeah, cuz I keep my personal giant squirrel suit at home.”
Doesn't everyone?

“Where's home?”

“Nowhere near here, that's for sure. In a whole other state,” I answered, mentally congratulating myself on my smoothness.
Point: Nutty Squirrel
.

His furry hoof peeled back with a loud Velcro rip to reveal a competent-looking hand, tanned along the knuckles and a lot bigger than mine, with which he fondled the seams of my squirrel body in a way that made me blush and cringe and my stomach roll.

“Marnie, are you okay? Do you need me?” Chapel's voice crackled in my headphones. I saw him hovering near the hallway not far from chubby pig and the original unicorn. Ben's back was to him, which I thought was a shame: everyone should have to see his disturbingly epic penis.

De Cabrera clicked in from his safe spot in the van. “She's fine. Baranuik, get the invite, stop pussying around.”

I bit back a sharp retort as Ben's hand pressed between my legs a bit firmer than was strictly necessary to explore more than the seams of the costume. I didn't want him to arouse any part of me, but his fingers played across my plush-covered female parts with the confidence of an older man who'd touched more than his share of clitorises. My brain piped up:
Sir Ben, Seeker of the Polished Pearl
. It was undeniably pleasurable, but that irritating unwanted pleasure that comes at a bad time, like the seatbelt rubbing a nipple while you're trying to merge onto the busy Interstate going eighty miles per hour. I shuddered. Ben took it for delight, giving the knowing chuckle of a man who knows exactly what he's doing. Again, I swallowed an
urk.

“Marnie?” Chapel checked. “Is he touching you? I'm stepping in—”

“No
! I mean, see? No opening,” I said, louder than I'd intended, cheerfully, before remembering I was not supposed to be happy about that. “Probably the stupid thing was made as a Halloween costume.” I tried to use my giant squirrel head to feign an eye roll. The table behind me rattled warningly.

De Cabrera interrupted, “Just keep him in your sights, boss. Baranuik get that invite.”

“Our mark has his hand between her legs,” Chapel yipped, unusually hyper for Mr. Unflappable. “I'm close, Marnie. If you need anything, raise your left hand.”

“Damn.” Ben's apologetic tone said he was sorry for me. “You're right. Nothing. I guess you won't be yiffing. I was going to invite you …”

I was very okay with missing out on whatever the heck yiffing was. Dark Lady bless this rented vagina-less squirrel suit.

De Cabrera burst my bubble. “That's it. You've got him. Accept the invite.”

Balls.
“I could come along,” I suggested. “You know, out-of-character?”

Ben waggled a hoof at me. “No humans in the furpile,” he chided, “you know that.”

“That's okay.” I tried to sound disappointed. “Sort of in the mood for something else tonight anyways.”
Now why the hell did I give him that opening?

He gave me the obligatory, “Oh?”

Quick, think of something
. I heard myself say, “BDSM is more my speed.”
Not THAT!

Inside my costume, I cringed. Chapel sounded like he was being throttled, his seal-barking noises interrupted by the long rush of the Cuban's audible fatigue.

“Swift.” De Cabrera grunted in the headphones. “Gonna ask him to stuff your mouth with a ball gag, dummy?”

Ben the unicorn, his rash-speckled hosepipe still proudly displayed, gave a sharp laugh. “I like a gal who's not afraid to speak her mind. Just how rough are we talking?”

De Cabrera breathed, “ …
tarada. Dios mio
.”

I thought of something safer, mentally dog-paddling toward more familiar waters. “Erm, well, not with humans.”

“Can't help you there. I'm all man, myself,” the unicorn said.

“As one can plainly see.” I gave him my polite chuckle, wondering when I started referring to myself as “one”?

“But I think I know someone who could,” he said. “Do you like vampires?”

A jolt of surprise rocked my rear. I forgot my tail was jammed under a table and turned, sweeping the entire thing over, spilling the
cut-glass jar full of black jelly beans all over the floor. They tapped and skittered, spun away against the baseboards.
Point: Ben, the Yiff-Master
.

“Piss on a shingle,” I said.

“Don't worry about it,” Ben said. “Hey, let me introduce you to my connection. He's a vampire, and he's very dominant.” The crooked penis jutting from his suit twitched further to the right as it thickened distressingly toward turgid. Good news was, if he got that monster fully erect, he'd probably pass out. “He's going to be at this party tonight. I bet he'd let me, you know…watch.”

“Oh, I don't want to interrupt his party plans.” I could hear de Cabrera bleating unhappily at my rejecting the invite, and whispering unfathomable Spanish curse words in my ear. I studiously ignored him while I backpedaled. “You know, it's Thursday, and nobody yiffs on a Thursday; it quite simply isn't done.” My mind boggled:
quite simply isn't done
?

Chapel heard it too, and something else. “Marnie, why are you speaking with a British accent?”

“It's no bother, I want to do him a favor,” Ben admitted with a shaky laugh. “Smooth things out between us. It's been a rough week.”

“Go with it, this is it,” de Cabrera advised through his teeth, if advice could be snarled.

“Are you crazy?” I said to my partner aloud, and then coughed to cover it. “I mean, are you sure?”

“Trust me, what Master Malas wants, Master Malas gets.” Ben grabbed his shaft in his exposed hand and gave it a long squeeze, turning the head an alarming shade of purple. “I'd do just about anything to get back on his good side.”

Presumably by virtue of yiffing and the mastery thereof. New rule, Marnie: you will always lose to Yiff-Master.

With ease of much practice, the unicorn closed his cock away in his fursuit and I was glad to see it go. I heard little snaps as he clicked the slit along the seam. When it was completely tucked away, I knelt and started rounding up jelly beans that scrambled away from my clumsy fursuit hands.

The unicorn misunderstood my position and went for his slit again, saying, “Oh, did you want—”

“No!” I said a bit too harshly. “I mean, no thanks, I'm—heh heh—saving myself for the revenant.”

“Right. ‘Revenant’. I don't blame you.” He laughed, breathy inside his unicorn head. “You can't imagine the things he can do.”

Oh, yes I can.
He made sure his penis was secure in his fursuit and I let out the lungful of air I hadn't realized I was holding, but felt no better. In fact, I thought I might just barf all down the inside of my giant squirrel head, where vomit would make a pretty mess with the earlier coating of phlegm. Probably my fever was worsening. Probably I should be at home in bed. It was too late to call in sick, but maybe I could duck into the bathroom and call in horrified?

“He's probably going to take a while to get there. We can make it another night,” I side-stepped. “I'll give you my number.”
My very, very fake number.

“Marnie, what's wrong?” Chapel whispered.

De Cabrera demanded, “Why are you aborting?”

I hissed back, “I saw Moby Wiener and now I'm scared.”

De Cabrera laughed helplessly, a sharp hoot in my headphones that stabbed my ear drums.

“Stay with him, Marnie,” Chapel insisted. “Whether he's rounding up people for a revenant or just for himself, we need to find out what he's doing at these parties.”

Rogue revenant or fursuit-wearing serial-killer; I didn't know which to hope for. I made a quiet whimper of protest in the microphone.

Chapel reminded, “Three people went missing from Fur Con last night.”

“I'm dying with this cold. It's probably virulent,” I told anyone willing to listen.

No one wanted to hear it. The unicorn planted a hand on his flank and shook the other one at me in an exaggerated shame-shame.

“Don't go getting shy on me now, Little Squirrel. Master Malas is waiting, and he's not a patient man. Come on. I'll drive.” Using his cane to propel, he started limping down the hall, his horsey head looking over his shoulder at me.

“Just gotta grab my portfolio and close down the booth.” I wished I could see his real eyes, or feel anything at all coming from
him, psychically. If he was capable of emotions, he had them behind carefully constructed wall. “This is going to be so great. You don't happen to have a submissive friend do you?”

“As a matter of fact,” I said smugly, lifting my floppy hand to wave Chapel over. “I do.”

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