the rescuers : monster : fiction
Jan. 15th, 2007 12:00 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
greenappleMonster
Disney's The Rescuers
Madame Medusa, Nero, Brutus
400 words
January 2007
Adult content: explicit sex, concepts
Summary: She shakes it free and holds it up to the lamplight. Emerald green phallus, rippled and cool as a crocodile’s back.
She opens the drawer to her vanity. It sticks; swollen shut, warped and touched with rot, like everything in the Devil’s Bayou, and she gives a sharp, petulant yank to the handle. Sending everything to rattling: glass bottles, burnt spoon, and tin boxes of rouge; chartreuse, eau de toilette, Miss Clairol; hairbrushes. All clatter and are still.
In she sticks her hand and searches blind, until her fingers find it. “A little plaything I picked up in New Orleans,” she says in her nasal, northern accent, tourist pronunciation still after all these years a visitor, the name of the city drawn out in a grinning toothshine slither. Nero paces and Brutus grunts, half napping in the heat. In her hand, victorious: a heavy treasure, wrapped in black velveteen. She cannot remember when the animals were last fed; she likes them hungry. They sniff the bars, hoping for meat.
She shakes it free and holds it up to the lamplight. Emerald green phallus, rippled and cool as a crocodile’s back. On one end, a stylized reptilian skull, false rubies for eyes.
In one fist she bunches, tugs, snatches up her dress, worn at least a week and smelling pleasantly of herself. Red is the color of passion, she reaffirms, and ignores the misshapen spots of soiled satinesque; these also of passion, and indulgence, and of fear and neglect. She lies on the crooked, tilting floor before them, and they eye her with their beastly intelligence as she spreads her legs.
They smell her; they snap and hiss in their cage.
She shivers. She is an oily, weeping, sweating, seeping, underwater creature. Her body grabs at the cold gem slithering between her fat clamshell flesh. The gleaming stone she smothers with undulating muscle.
“My precious, my pets,” she says, uncoiling each poisonous syllable. “Don’t you wish you could come out and play?”
Nero swings his head low, jaw dripping with stringy spit, nostrils flaring wildly. Brutus flicks his thick tail and rumbles, purring, waves of sound to lick at her.
She sinks it deep, again, again, fingers vicious on her clit, and imagines the day when she will be strong enough to let them out. Their nails, their teeth, and the dead green gas of their breath. Their teeth, their cocks, like worming, lying tongues inside her. Their sharp, their bite, and the caress of their hands. Until she is in ribbons; until she is red ribbons.
Disney's The Rescuers
Madame Medusa, Nero, Brutus
400 words
January 2007
Adult content: explicit sex, concepts
Summary: She shakes it free and holds it up to the lamplight. Emerald green phallus, rippled and cool as a crocodile’s back.
She opens the drawer to her vanity. It sticks; swollen shut, warped and touched with rot, like everything in the Devil’s Bayou, and she gives a sharp, petulant yank to the handle. Sending everything to rattling: glass bottles, burnt spoon, and tin boxes of rouge; chartreuse, eau de toilette, Miss Clairol; hairbrushes. All clatter and are still.
In she sticks her hand and searches blind, until her fingers find it. “A little plaything I picked up in New Orleans,” she says in her nasal, northern accent, tourist pronunciation still after all these years a visitor, the name of the city drawn out in a grinning toothshine slither. Nero paces and Brutus grunts, half napping in the heat. In her hand, victorious: a heavy treasure, wrapped in black velveteen. She cannot remember when the animals were last fed; she likes them hungry. They sniff the bars, hoping for meat.
She shakes it free and holds it up to the lamplight. Emerald green phallus, rippled and cool as a crocodile’s back. On one end, a stylized reptilian skull, false rubies for eyes.
In one fist she bunches, tugs, snatches up her dress, worn at least a week and smelling pleasantly of herself. Red is the color of passion, she reaffirms, and ignores the misshapen spots of soiled satinesque; these also of passion, and indulgence, and of fear and neglect. She lies on the crooked, tilting floor before them, and they eye her with their beastly intelligence as she spreads her legs.
They smell her; they snap and hiss in their cage.
She shivers. She is an oily, weeping, sweating, seeping, underwater creature. Her body grabs at the cold gem slithering between her fat clamshell flesh. The gleaming stone she smothers with undulating muscle.
“My precious, my pets,” she says, uncoiling each poisonous syllable. “Don’t you wish you could come out and play?”
Nero swings his head low, jaw dripping with stringy spit, nostrils flaring wildly. Brutus flicks his thick tail and rumbles, purring, waves of sound to lick at her.
She sinks it deep, again, again, fingers vicious on her clit, and imagines the day when she will be strong enough to let them out. Their nails, their teeth, and the dead green gas of their breath. Their teeth, their cocks, like worming, lying tongues inside her. Their sharp, their bite, and the caress of their hands. Until she is in ribbons; until she is red ribbons.