Shell
Shell
By Neal Brake
Of all the legends available in the world, the one about the cabin on the beach was probably the least interesting. In fact, it wasn't so much a legend as a sort of ghost story passed off-handedly from one generation to the next, when parents were bored or a child wanted to prove how much more he knew than the other children. It wasn't even the kind of story you told on purpose; usually it was prompted by someone uttering, "Wouldn't it be lovely to build a house here? Right here, on this spot, with the beach just down the cliffs and this magnificent view? Yes, just a small wooden thing, something we could probably even build ourselves!" or something to that effect.
If this was uttered in the presence of a native, the native would most likely say something along the lines of, "Yes, wouldn't it, though?" or, "And look, there, at that lovely fjord, too!" or, "The view is actually better from that ridge up there." On rare occasions a native might go so far as to explain that, while yes, owning a home here would be lovely, zoning laws simply wouldn't permit it, and besides, who has half a million dollars to spend on a thousand square feet of living space? They would then continue on, the boat (for that's the only way to see this particular part of the island; you aren't really allowed to walk on it) would take them back around to Eleele or all the way around to Nawiliwili Harbor, where the tourists could shop and buy expensive food. After the tourists had left and the guides gone back to their homes, they could regale their families and friends with tales of the wonderfully naive souls from the mainland.
Rarely when the subject of living among the cliffs was broached, a native guide would regale his passengers with the tale of the Cabin on the Cliffs, though, as he would warn them and as you have been warned, it is not a very good one.
It goes like this:
There was once an okapi who built a cabin among the cliffs. It was a simple place, small but comfortable enough for a single male who planned on entertaining very few guests. He was notoriously anthrophobic, and though he loved the outdoors and had on more than one occasion been heard to publicly denounce agoraphobia as "chitin for the indolent," he himself rarely saw anyone into his home and even more rarely did he venture out into civilized society. It was thought quite fitting, then, though perhaps a bit odd, when he moved to the emerald cliffs to live in near absolute solitude. For a couple of years anyone daring or bored enough to circumnavigate the island could see it there, nestled stoutly in a trough. If the time of day was right they might have seen the okapi himself sitting outside, though as soon as he spotted them looking he retreated to the safety of the house. (It should be noted that his aforementioned comment on the merits of agoraphobia were heard and recorded through his closed and locked cellar door.)
Now, this seems a prime setting-up for a ghost story. We have the man alone in a cabin in the wilderness, a noted recluse, with nobody around for miles. There were no satellite images nor, indeed, were there satellites capable of capturing such images that weren't under the direct control of the type of people who held no interest in hermits living illegally in the woods. The okapi was alone and without anyone to call upon for aid in dire circumstances. And some even had it that the okapi was a witch doctor of some sort, exiled from his home for dabbling in forbidden arts. Alas, there were no ghosts, nor ghouls, nor risen corpses or strange, psychotic hikers to trouble the okapi. In fact, this is the point at which the story loses what little momentum it had heretofore gained. For the okapi's cabin suddenly disappeared one day. There was nothing to portend its disappearance; it simply wasn't there anymore. As waking on that part of the island was discouraged nobody bothered to go and get a firsthand look. The okapi, however, was seen again, though the next time anyone spied him was in Los Angeles and, frankly, that may have been a different okapi, as there were a lot of them.
Art had heard this tale when he was traveling around the island with some large beavers and an enthusiastic young noio who had been happy to answer Art's questions then and more than happy to accommodate him in other matters later. The noio, whose name was Reid, told Art privately that he didn't for a second believe such nonsense, and who cares about some stupid cabin anyway? The otter had been quick to agree as he stroked the young bird's beak. The rest of the night was passed most pleasurably, and they were both tired come morning.
When Art had come back to the island in part to visit Reid, the native noio had been somewhat surprised that his mainland otter companion was planning on hiking through the undeveloped territory. Art had come prepared, with a large backpack and three weeks' worth of vacation time under his belt and a suitable story involving business trips for his wife. After spending an agreeable week with Reid, Art had set off into what he thought of as the wilderness. He was careful, for he had heard of the none-too-friendly outcasts and poachers who lived there, but he wasn't too worried. He had always been nimble, though he didn't look at all athletic. He also had brought a knife, which he fancied would be enough to ward off any would-be troublemakers. Armed with this and his confidence he ran headlong--figuratively--into the unknown.
He'd been there for four days when he found the cabin.
Really, he hadn't even been looking for it, or at least, it wasn't the reason he'd come back. He'd wanted adventure, and during his trek he'd thought he would spend some time by those lovely cliffs and maybe look in passing for the cabin from the story. He had not reckoned on finding it, much less finding it intact and in the exact spot he had looked for and not found it from the deck of the boat.
"Well," he said in some consternation as he gazed at it.
It was remarkably like the description Reid had given. It was tiny, barely as big as Art's drawing room at home, and made entirely of wood that had obviously been worked by hand. There was no glass in the windows, though there were shutters, which were closed. A small rail-less porch on the front had a chair and a small table, and the single step up creaked when weight was put on it.
Art walked up to the front door and knocked. Nobody answered. Cautiously, Art pulled at the door. It opened with much creaking and snapping. Cautiously, Art peered inside. There was nobody there. Even more cautiously, he took a step inside, and when nobody jumped out from behind a wall to shout "surprise!" he started to relax. He made a mental note to tell Reid about his discovery. Probably, thought Art, who was a pragmatist, it was just some old cabin around which the flighty natives had built a story with which to pass the time.
The cabin was borderline paradise for Art, who had thought he would have to spend his entire trip without the amenities upon which he had come to rely. Traipsing off into the jungle with naught but a pack and his fur had seemed such a good idea when he was sitting forty-six stories off the ground in his apartment looking over the lake. The first thing he did was open the shutters. This let in light that revealed how strange the place was, though the otter, well-bred and used to finery, didn't at first pick up on the stranger details, such as the complete lack of dust or the cushiony futon or the luxurious king size bed. This isn't to say he didn't notice the futon or the bed, because he did--but he did not register the peculiarity of their being clean so much as appreciate that they were. There was no kitchen or privy. Indeed, there was only the one room. Within this room was, in addition to the couch and bed, two end tables, a cabinet full of handmade clay dishes, a table in the center, and an area rug underneath it all. An elevated counter ran halfway along one wall, and two empty basins sat atop it. Apart from the basins, the only other interesting thing in the room was on the table: a small spiral shell with a cord through it. Art picked up the shell and examined it, but it appeared to be an ordinary shell, dull blues and cyans following the spiral of the shell. He put it on, figuring that if it was left here it couldn't be too valuable, and though the original tenant obviously had not wanted it, it would make a lovely souvenir. The rear window above the bed framed the cliffs, which framed the ocean beyond, which sparkled and danced in the waning sunlight.
Art did not like to be rude, but he deduced that obviously nobody had lived here in some time, especially since the okapi who built it must have been long dead by now. Also, Art was not one to turn down a bed after having slept on an unfurled roll for the past three nights. He set his bag down and made the bed--the linens were there, and this, at least, did manage to sneak past Art's preconception of the rightness of a ready room, but he dismissed it, figuring that everybody needed fine sheets to sleep under. It took him a couple of minutes to figure out what the basins were for, but by the time the sun set he guessed that one was for washing dishes and the other for clothes. He took one outside and found a small convenient stream gurgling merrily not fifty feet from the porch. This provided enough water for a drink that night.
The next day Art explored the land surrounding the cabin and discovered a concealed path that led down to the ocean. He bathed then, and carried his clothes back to the cabin and hung them on branches around it. He changed his boxers, too, which had obviously gotten soaked while bathing. He then spent some time attempting to find his GPS coordinates with his phone, but he got no signal, and eventually he gave up on that in favor of finding some food. He was not a bad forager, and, thanks to a couple of competitive brothers, a decent fisher, and he brought two small silver things back to the cabin for supper. Then he got ready for sleep.
The first night he'd slept on the futon, some bred sense of propriety keeping him there. This night, however, he decided to utilize the actual bed, and discovered it a paragon of sleeping devices. As he fell into a luxurious sleep he made a mental note to look for a bed just like it when he got back home.
It was the middle of the night when his twin showed up.
Art was awakened by a knocking at the door. His first reaction was to immediately check the clock, but he had none. Seeing as how he couldn't very well shout "Do you have any idea what time it is?" when he himself had no idea what time it was, Art slid out of bed and padded tiredly to the door. It was only as he opened that it occurred to him to wonder who would be knocking at the door of a cabin in the middle of the forest on an island. What he saw when he opened the door surprised him out of his sleepy stupor.
"Aloha," the naked otter said.
Art blinked. "Hi," he returned awkwardly. The otter in the doorway just smiled, which filled Art with apprehension instead of easing it. The otter in the doorway seemed to realize this, for he stopped, though a playful sort of grin did keep about his mouth. His eyes traveled up and down Art slowly, as though he were looking at a fine piece of artwork he intended to memorize. Art was looking at the other otter in much the same way.
"Um. What are you?" he asked lamely.
Now, while this may seem a strange question to ask someone who has just knocked on your front door--especially when he is of the same species as you--in this case it was actually a quite sensible one. For, when Art opened the door he saw not merely a person of the same species as himself; he saw himself. As far as it was possible to tell, the otter standing outside the cabin was the same as the otter standing inside the cabin. Which, as Art knew, was impossible. Yet here he was, looking at himself across a doorway as though it was a mirror. Art even reached out to see if he could touch the surface of the mirror he supposed must be there, but his hand passed right through, and besides, the other otter didn't move his arm when Art did. He just stood there with a small smile playing over his lips.
The otter asked something with a lilt and tilt of the head.
Art said of course he could and stepped aside, but the Other Art was fast. Quick as you please he slipped in and grabbed Art on the cheeks and brought his mouth forward. Poor Art was too slowed with confusion to react properly, and so before he knew what was happening he felt his mouth being probed with a warm little tongue.
Art had no idea how to react to this, but he found the impetus to do something about it when the Other Art put a grabbing hand down his pants. This forced Art to his toes and he pushed the Other Art away. The Other Art lingered for a second more, just long enough to lick sensuously over the side of Art's nose in a way that always made him shiver with pleasure.
"Stop," he said, and realized he was panting. How long had they been going at it? Now that he had a moment to catch his breath he realized that somehow the door had closed and the Other Art had filled his sheath and was poking out of it, which he hadn't been before--Art had looked. He found himself licking over his teeth and stopped.
"Why?" the Other Art asked.
Art opened his mouth to reply. Then he realized he didn't have one ready, so he closed his mouth. Why had he asked the Other Art to stop? He had been out in the forest for days now, and in that time not only had he been without anyone else, but he had managed somehow to keep from using his paw, too. His plan, as he had seen it and as much as such a tenuous lustfully capricious desire could be called a plan, was to wait until he returned to Lihue and relieve his tension with Reid in what he had imagined without conceit would be one of the best nights of the younger noio's life. (In his mind it would be followed thereafter by the best morning of the younger noio's life, but thinking along these lines often led Art to the kind of physical response he was so desperately trying to avoid). Besides which this was obviously a dream, as life-size Other Arts did not spontaneously walk into houses in the middle of the forest on Kauai. What could be the hurt in letting himself partake of this peculiar, yet strangely arousing dream?
Then he remembered what he wanted to do with Reid, and his wavering resolve strengthened temporarily. He would tell his Other Self that he was sorry, but it simply wasn't to be, this night or any other night here. He would be fine with seeing him later, though, say, after he had returned to the mainland and no longer had the prospect of the sexy and submissive Reid to dangling in front of him. He would be more than happy to see him then, ecstatic, even. Maybe they could spend many nights together; and, given the nature of dreams, perhaps they could even return to this cabin when they met.
This is what he opened his mouth to say. What he said instead, however, was a sort of strangled moan as the Other Art snaked up his body and bent in as though to kiss, stopping less than a hair's breadth from Art's mouth. Then he waited there for whatever Art was going to say, but whatever Art was going to say had been summarily beaten and hogtied by his other less-than-noble intentions when he had felt his Other Self's breath on his mouth. When he said nothing, the Other Art seemed to shrug minutely and press forward the last fraction of an inch, and Art found himself unable to breathe for the feelings that coursed through him. He didn't object this time when the other otter's hands found his waist and pulled, exposing his hardening length to the warm night air where it was quickly and expertly wrapped by a warm paw.
They were on the bed and Art on his back before he knew what was happening, their bodies and erections pressing together sending shivers of pleasure through his spine. His Other Self was nibbling and licking in all the places that made Art squeal--literally squeal!--with delight. Paws pressed into fur, ran up and down a body familiar and yet somehow foreign at the same time, feeling over the otter's rump and following the base of his thick tail down as far as he could, then coming back up and caressing his ears. The Other Art licked and nibbled all up and down his body, treating Art's erogenous zones with an intimacy and familiarity lost on him in the moment, but which made him squirm and moan unlike any of his previous lovers. Oh, he knew to move his tongue that way around Art's nipple, and to pull lightly on his lips before diving back in for another kiss! His Other Self stopped his ministrations long enough to slide back up Art's writhing body and whisper to him.
"Let's keep going," his Other Self said.
Art said he wasn't stopping him.
"You have to tell me to keep going."
"What?" Art gasped as the Other Art grasped their erections and stroked them together.
"We can keep going as long as you want. I can please you as only someone who knows you as you know yourself could. I can keep you gasping and begging just the way you like. I can give you the nights to which you will compare every other lay you have ever had or will ever have. Only thing is, I want you, and you have to know that, otherwise I'm not allowed to do it. Rules, you see." As he spoke he pressed his groin into Art's, rubbing heavily and eliciting pitiful noises as he swayed his hips.
"What?"
"I want your essence, Art. I want every bit of you that I can take, and I want to take as much of it as I can, but you have to tell me that I can do it. Rules, Art."
"What? Rules what?" Art knew there was something off about the Other Art's questions but he couldn't quite place it. Something about the young otter like an aphrodisiac. Art hadn't been quite this hot and bothered since the day he lost his virginity to his high-school quarterback in the gym locker room.
The Other Art clicked his tongue and whistled. "It's the rules of me, Art. It's my rules, and I can't keep doing this if you don't tell me to. You have to tell me you want me. Tell me I can make you feel things you've only ever imagined on lonely nights that you could feel if only you found that one special someone who knew your every intimate pleasure. Tell me I can give you what you want."
Art gasped as he was pleasured. He would have thought himself beyond comprehending anything, but somehow he had heard every word his doppelganger had said. The speech brought his rational mind back, briefly, to the forefront of the war within his body. Remember Reid! A smaller, more easily dismissible part of him tried to remember his wife, but it was so used to being ignored that it didn't really try that hard. Remember that you're in a cabin in the middle of nowhere with someone who looks just like you, and this doesn't feel like a dream! Remember that you've done so well, almost four nights without relief, four nights without taking a paw to yourself even when you had a hard-on that just wouldn't go away no matter what you thought of! Remember--
His penis had had enough. His rational mind, it decided, could go fuck itself.
"Yes," he breathed. "I want you..."
"Good," his Other Self breathed back.
So worked up was he that it really didn't take any time at all for his forgotten plan to be brought crushed to the ground. The other otter slid down his body, licking and sucking and nibbling until he came to Art's groin and engorged member, which he grabbed with one paw. With his eyes meeting Art's he lowered his head and took just Art's tip into his mouth--and growled. Art's world exploded and his vision clouded and he let out several short, sharp barks. He thrust his hips as far as he could with the other otter holding him down, but somehow just his tip stayed warm and wet, and the dichotomy of sensation was too much for him and he came powerfully into the other otter's muzzle. It didn't help. He just felt more worked up than before. After a moment more of torture the muzzle mercifully slid down until a nose pressed into his groin, submerging his entire length into the damp warmth. This made Art sigh and some of the tension went out of him as he settled back to the mattress and continued to spurt bits of himself down a working throat.
Art panted heavily. On some level he was surprised at how exhausted he was, but he put it down to being generally tired. It was, after all, the middle of the night. Which reminded him--he was dreaming. He settled back onto his pillows, a rather foolish smile on his face considering he'd just broken four days and nights of self-imposed celibacy on a whim because he had a dream of himself coming to break it for him. It was such a naughty thought! He hadn't considered that he would be the kind of person who'd be turned on at the prospect of sex with himself. He chuckled and chalked that one up to being pent-up. At least no one would find out about his naughty dream.
"Good Art," the Other Art mumbled as he slid up Art's body and kissed him wetly.
An indefinable warmth was how he woke up. He squirmed and moaned lightly in pleasure and then realized that both of his paws were busy rubbing his eyes and not the particular part of his anatomy that was making him groan. He opened sleep-lidded eyes and found himself staring into his own face as his own body rode his own member. He tried to sit up but he was so tired that the Other Art had no trouble holding him down, and in truth Art's will to fight was nominal at best. He lay back and focused on the exquisite way he slid in and out of the otter's body. The Other Art grinned down at him and put both paws on Art's chest and continued to move, chirping happily.
It wasn't long before he was emptying himself weakly into the other otter's warm body. The sigh that escaped him was born of the kind of bliss only waking up with sex can bring.
"Aloha kakahiaka."
"Yeah, aloha to you, too." Art found his eyes were closed and he opened them again. The Other Art was smiling at him.
"Hana hou!"
"Yes, very much." Art made as if to get up, but the Other Art wiggled his hips and Art, who was still inside him, stopped softening up and grunted. "If you don't stop that, I'll never leave."
To which Other Art's face did something strange and quite indefinable, and which would have made Art uneasy had he been quick enough to spot it. He started off on a long string of foreign words of which Art could make neither heads nor tails, and his understanding was not enhanced any further by the energetic way in which the otter astride him constantly moved his hips as he spoke. Whatever he was saying seemed to be of the utmost importance, though. He leaned forward and placed his paws on Art's chest and looked directly into Art's eyes as he spoke.
To give Art some credit, he did realize that something was different this morning than last night, though he couldn't quite tell what it was. But he was not terribly concerned with figuring out why. It wasn't long before he was completely hard again, at which point he grabbed the other otter about the waist and pushed him lightly backwards and off him. The Other Art cried out in surprise and protest as he fell, but Art caught him about the wrist so he didn't fall off the bed--which he needn't have done, considering how big the bed was. With years of bedroom experience as his guide Art deftly flipped the other otter onto his back and then rolled him over onto his belly; then he more or less gracelessly flopped on top of him, wrapped an arm around the otter's neck and pushed himself slowly into him, sighing as the warmth enveloped him. This seemed to mollify the Other Art somewhat, and he cooed and purred happily as Art mounted him with long, deep thrusts. At some point during this particular mating Art wrapped his paw around the other's shaft, but the Other Art wiggled out of it and made clear, through a series of trills and other words, that he didn't want that, and Art, who was at this point hilted inside of him, was more than happy to focus on his own pleasure. This mating was slow and enjoyable, and the sun was well up over the horizon before Art came for the second time this morning. The Other Art cooed with pleasure when he did.
"You are...a feisty little guy, aren't you?" Art panted as he withdrew. He flopped back onto his pillows with his hands behind his head and tried to catch his breath.
The other otter, who was indeed a feisty little thing, made a small noise of happiness and rolled smoothly onto his back and stared up at Art from between his legs. The sight made Art laugh lightly. Then, with a kind of Olympian show of will, he forced himself to get up and out of bed. The day was still young and he wanted to get an early start of it, though when he paused in mid-stretch to think about that, he realized there was nothing he really needed to do.
They passed the rest of the day in relative bliss. First they went to wash down at the beach, by way of the path Art had found earlier and which the Other Art seemed to know of already. There they spent an enjoyable half hour while the Other Art showed once again just how skilled he was with his muzzle. They got only nominally cleaner, though Art certainly didn't feel any worse when he and his doppelganger traipsed back up to the cabin for another go 'round.
The next three days were filled almost wall to wall with sex--or otter-to-wall, otter-to-bed, otter-to-floor, otter-to-tree, and otter-to-just-about-anything-available when the mood struck--which was often. Art had been sexually active for most of his post-pubescent life, and some weeks more active than others, but never had he spent more time or energy on any of his partners than he did now. Conversely, he was filled not with fatigue but with vigor, his activities seemingly pushing him up instead of pulling him down. The Other Art's mere presence was enervating in a way Art wouldn't have thought possible. Every time the other otter raised his tail Art was ready to take advantage. He spent almost all of his time unclothed; he was in the middle of the jungle on an island. Besides, his visitor didn't seem to even own any clothes. The only thing Art wore at all was the shell necklace he had found upon first entering the cabin, which the Other Art insisted he should wear at all times.
There was only one thing that bothered Art: a small discomfort in his chest, just below where the shell hung when he was standing. At first it was so slight he didn't notice it. But, as the days wore on and he happily became more and more resigned to spending egregious amounts of time inside his lover and he began to focus more and more on how his own body felt, he noticed a slight pressure in his chest. No, he decided as he thrust his hips, eliciting a moan from beneath him; not a pressure, but a sort of hole, or a vacuum. Whatever it was, it was the opposite of filled, like something had been taken from within him. At that point the Other Art had taken advantage of Art's thought-induced lull and twisted around to kiss him. And though Art had not forgotten about the strange vacancy completely, it was shunted to the back of his mind for the remainder of the day.
The vacancy in his chest seemed to grow like ivy, and soon it had writhed its way through his ribcage and deeper inside of him. It bothered him when he thought about it. But whenever he did, he spotted the Other Art standing cutely in a sunbeam or lying on the bed on his back with his erection in the air and his mouth open just enough to be inviting, and Art went to him and buried himself in the strange otter's warmth and forgot about whatever it was he had been worrying about.
In fact, Art was so preoccupied with sex that he wasn't able to focus on other things, and, consequently, missed several things that may have served to fill him with a greater sense of caution than he had. For instance, what he saw when he looked at the Other Art was simply his own face staring back at him, echoing all his desires and contorting into all the right expressions that filled Art with a renewed sense of incest-inspired naughtiness and horniness. When he was mounting himself, he lost himself completely to the sensations and the little coos and chirps that greeted his thrusting hips. He saw the other otter smile at him and felt the other otter when he wrapped his hands around his body and tasted the other otter on his tongue. All of these things were there, and he did well to notice them. What he missed, however, were things much more subtle: the way the other otter's mouth curled just-so when he smiled, as though he knew something Art didn't; how when they embraced, it seemed as though he didn't want to let Art go; how, for someone who was hardly aggressive in the actual act of sex, his kisses were almost startling in their intensity; and other such small details. By far the biggest thing he missed, however, was the shell. When he had first acquired it, pocked and scratched, the blues and cyans were muted, rubbed to gray with age and natural wear. Now, its surface was smooth, and the blues and cyans running and jumping across were striking in their vibrancy. He never noticed this, though.
The main thing that struck Art as time passed was an ineffable lethargy that pervaded the (very short) times between sex. Given how much time he had spent with the Other Art it was understandable, and indeed that was the direction Art's reasoning took when he stopped to think about it, which wasn't often. When he did stop to think about it--which generally occurred on the rare occasions he was not actually having sex--he noticed a peculiar thing: when he was with the Other Art, his energy seemed to increase rather than decrease. This made some sense given the energetic and always exciting nature of their couplings. But not for a moment did he ever decline the other's offer, nor did he ever have second thoughts about accepting. Such was the Other Art's energy and willingness that Art's poor brain never really stood a chance. This was perhaps not as unfortunate as one might imagine, because in all likelihood his brain would have made the same decisions his loins did.
So Art became as a creature taking an addictive drug without even knowing that was what was happening. At times he would feel so tired simply lying on the bed that he would almost pass out. At such times he would instead roll over and pull his reflection to his body, and the reflection would smile with something other than selflessness even as Art sighed in relief.
The numbness spread. It had started off as a small point in his chest that was as easily ignored as noticed; by the end of the week, however, it had spread to his whole chest, most of his left arm, and his legs up to the knees. The spreading numbness had fortuitously avoided his groin, but it probably would not have made a difference had it settled there as well; whenever he and the Other Art got to fooling around, the numbness abated and he was filled with what he would call warmth and what was actually lust.
(This should not be considered odd, however; he was never very good at differentiating between the two.)
On this particular night Art was lying on his stomach, arms folded under the pillow under his head. A light drizzle clicked off the roof and dribbled down in a stream past the window to pool just beneath it. The wind shook the trees over the cabin and caused heavy drops to hammer the roof periodically. It had been raining for the past couple of days, and they had spent much of their time indoors, though they had ventured out on several occasions and gotten very wet and messy. Now Art was lying on the bed, eyes closed and listening to the rain play against the rest of nature. His phone sat neglected on the table, battery dead four days now.
He shivered with anticipation as the other otter snaked up his body. He felt warm breath on his ear, followed quickly by wetness as it was taken into a warm muzzle.
For some reason the energy didn't seem to be returning this time the way it had been. It was kind of there, but mostly he still felt that pervading numbness and exhaustion. The thought of sex right now made his groin throb briefly with pain. "Stop that," he mumbled, and tried to push the other otter off of him.
His ear was released and licks and kisses planted on his neck and cheek as the Other Art positioned himself. Art shivered.
"Not right now," he said weakly.
"Why not?" the Other Art asked, licking down Art's belly. "All you have to do is lie there."
"Please, I'm just...I'm tired."
"Mmm." But the Other Art did not stop. Art gasped and writhed, not entirely in pleasure, as the otter's hands resumed their position on his sac and sheath and rubbed him to arousal. "As long as you're just lying there." Art pushed himself up to say something about how tired he was and maybe later, but all he saw was the other otter's head sink to his groin. The next second he gasped as a tongue forced its way into his sheath to caress his glans, and the cold numbness in his body seeped slowly out through his fingertips as he stiffened. "See? It's not so bad."
When the Other Art removed his mouth to say that, the cold swept in again, making Art shiver. The Other Art smiled benignly at him and replaced Art's member in his mouth, sucking sweetly.
Art's mind was numb. He wanted to push the other otter away, force him to leave him alone so he could recuperate, recover his strength. Maybe wait out this weird thing that was happening to him. But he was afraid of what would happen if the otter left. He had to gasp and shiver again when his lover released him so he could straddle him, the cold sweeping in during the brief period wherein his member was untouched. This time when he penetrated, the warmth that surrounded him was less like a blissful vacation and more like a campfire in the middle of the Antarctic.
In all the time they'd been here, and with as many times as they had mated, he had not once been on the receiving end. He'd tried, of course. At one point he'd even managed to get the other otter into his mouth and down his throat. But the other otter didn't seem to want that at all. In fact, this was without a doubt the most submissive person Art had ever met. It was made stranger by the fact that this other otter looked exactly like him, so in effect, every time he lay with him he was really laying with himself, and that thought made him both shudder and blush, and when he tried to figure it out he ended up with a headache that had forced him to decide not to worry about it. He had tried asking once why it was that the otter looked like a mirror image of himself, but the Other Art had simply smiled and gone down on his knees and made Art completely forget about it again.
It was a mark of how sybaritic Art was that he didn't attribute as much import to this as he probably should have. To Art, the appearance of this other was something close to an answered prayer. For, in addition to looking like him--and Art did not consider himself to be lacking in fine looks, and he was right--this Other Art knew exactly what kind of things Art liked in a partner. It was, he decided, the best sex he had ever had, bar none.
Except that now there was something off about it all. Now, as before, he gripped and twisted the sheets as the Other Art rode him, but it was not in bliss. It was as though he was clinging desperately to the face of a cliff, with endless cold water lapping noisily at the rocks below and the only thing holding him up this weird mirror image of himself. He could hear the waves, could feel the spray of the waves brush his extremities. Desperate to stay out of that numbing cold Art pushed up as hard as he could, burying as much of himself in the warmth of the other otter as he could. The Other Art made an agreeable noise and pushed back. It wasn't enough. There had to be more. Art pushed again, and again was stopped maddeningly when his hips connected. The cold did not advance, but neither did it abate. He hung on the precipice like a mouse on a cat's paw, the gaping maw of the water calling up to him, beckoning.
A warmth, which began in his loins and then spread to the rest of him, making him shudder. It was like a light, driving the waters back. But it was only momentary. The light erupted from him and the Other Art took it in, smiling a smile that the light made into a devil's smile, even as he held onto Art. The light was gone, and Art felt himself slipping down toward the advancing dark water. It roared hungrily up at him.
The other otter's grip on him tightened and he pulled, and Art was just a little bit higher than the water. "Not yet," the Other Art whispered by his ear. "Not yet."
He lost track of the time. Hours. Days. The words lost all meaning to him. He was in a constant state of fear and exhaustion, all his energy spent on keeping himself above the hungry water below him. The numbness in his body was all-consuming. He could not even eat, could not even get himself out of bed--the Other Art had to do that for him. Art's only way of keeping time was, crassly, whenever he felt himself engulfed in warmth and the numbness ebbed. And then he would come, and the numbness would creep on, more complete and consuming than before. And the only thing he was able to think was, "More, please..."
Now the Other Art slid his erection between Art's cheeks, stopping at the base of his tail. Art wanted to say something, but his mind was gone. It was fully occupied with keeping the cold at bay. He grunted as the otter slid inside him, but other than that he could only lie there as he was mounted.
A strange thing happened. As they mated, Art felt all the residual numbness that had subsided return, then leave, then return again. It put him in mind of lying on the beach just where the waves were coming and rocking him forward as they came in, back as they departed. The cold would hit as the member was buried deep within him, then lessen as it was withdrawn. He tried to open his eyes to look at the Other Art--he was on his back--but the Other Art had curled up on himself.
Awareness vanished completely as he was greedily swallowed up to the hilt. Art, whose upper body was relatively unencumbered by anything, arched his back in pleasure. The Other Art slammed his hips forward as he engulfed Art's member, then released it as he withdrew. It didn't help Art's stamina any that with each thrust his prostate was jolted with shove, and in just about no time he felt the unsubtle rush of release. He thrust into the warm muzzle and cried out; the other otter swallowed around him.
"Good, good," the Other Art murmured softly as he released the wet member. "Almost."
"Huh...what?" Art panted.
"Nothing. Quiet. Hush." The other otter once again flipped Art over back onto his stomach. Art didn't have the wherewithal to cry out, but he did have the energy to moan as the doppelganger started thrusting again. There was a sense of urgency this time that had been absent from previous matings, and in his muddled state Art supposed it was to do with reversal of their roles. The Other Art had not accepted Art's muzzle or tail, but had made his readily available to Art. Come to think of it, Art could not recall ever having seen the Other Art come at all. The entire time they had been together, he had not seen so much as a drop. Of course, he had assumed it was there. It must have been. Obviously, he had missed it.
A particularly violent thrust made him gasp, but not from pain. The sensation accompanying the thrust was something altogether different from pain and pleasure.
"So close, so...nng, so close," the Other Art murmured. He started slamming into Art hard, grinding against him as he did so. "So--ah! There! Yes!"
Art gasped. The Other Art grasped him around the chest and held on tightly and muttering. As he came, Art felt a coolness spread within him, though it wasn't exactly cool. No, not cool, but numb! That same numbness! It was the same sensation he'd been feeling off and on for the week in his chest and his--
"Stop thinking about that," the Other Art commanded, and Art did. He didn't feel any desire to think about the numbness anymore. Numbness? What numbness? There was a perfectly good cock inside of him right now. He wriggled back against it. It should have been warm, though, and it wasn't. Why wasn't it warm? Maybe there was something wrong with Art, Art thought placidly. That's no good. Below him, the waves beckoned. He looked down at them dispassionately. Why had be been afraid of them before? He couldn't remember. They were calling at him, beckoning, promising things.
"Stop thinking," the Other Art said. And Art did. He didn't think anymore. The world became omnipresent cold. He sighed in contentment and let his body go limp. The Other Art lay atop him and gently stroked his whiskers, causing him to trill. "Hush," the Other Art said, and Art hushed. "Just lay there. Now we sleep. Go to sleep."
The waves below him were angry. He didn't understand why. What had he done? Suddenly he was burning, as though on fire. Below, the cold waves roared in fury. When he asked what they were furious about, they pointed up the cliff at the Other Art, who was, now that Art looked at him, not an Other Art at all. He was not even an otter. He was okapi. The okapi was no longer holding on to Art, but Art was still clinging desperately to the okapi's wrist. The waves screamed. Something had been stolen from them. And then Art understood. It was the okapi that had been stolen, it was for the okapi that they hungered. But the okapi was up so high, and he did not look like he would be going back. Art writhed. Please, he shouted, or tried to, please take me instead! The waves screamed at him and grabbed at his ankles, and where they touched him the burning stopped, and only numbness remained. With no last glance at the okapi Art let go and plunged into the bottomless cold.
In the context of mornings when one is tired and would rather sleep in than be up for the sunrise, there are no such things as good birds. This is a Universal truth: Any bird that wakes you up in the morning is annoying. There were several such birds outside the window and Kulu cursed all of them, individually, under his breath before opening his eyes.
Morning light flowed through the open window like jelly, dampened by clouds into immutable gray that spilled everywhere but didn't quite seem to untangle itself long enough to illuminate anything to a useful degree. Wind mingled with insects and birds to create soothing morning noises. In the distance, waves leapt high on the rough shore.
Kulu rubbed his eyes and yawned. He stretched his aching back--apparently he'd slept wrong on it. He'd have to be more careful of that in the future. His left arm was tingling from stymied blood flow from his head, and at some point in the night he'd tossed the sheets off the bed and onto the floor. The morning breeze played over his fur. He slid off the bed and padded across the room to the corner into which the bags had been thrown. He knelt down and opened one to look through. It was full of useless things padded with clothes around the edges. A souvenir spoon from one of the other islands, a couple of shot glasses, a bottle of liquor, and other oddities that had no place being here. Kulu discarded them all. The clothes were mostly shorts, boxers, and a couple of swim trunks. He kept them all but the swim trunks.
He did much the same with the other bag, which was much smaller and contained only a handful of clothes and one or two oddities that were discarded. He then looked through the rest of the cabin, but discovered nothing else, which matched what he had seen earlier. Nothing else had been brought, and nothing else would be taken. Those were the rules. He'd broken them once before, thinking he could get the best of them, and that little bit of hubris had trapped him beneath the waves outside of forever for many years. It wasn't because the rules had thought; it was because in thinking he was better than them, he'd thought he was better than whoever had made them. But now he was out, and the outside of forever had its warm body and soul and would hopefully be satisfied.
Kulu needed to change his name. Now the outside of forever would be watching him, waiting for his pride to best him again so it could steal him away. But if he had a different name, it wouldn't know where to find him. He looked within his new otter body and pulled its name, shackled it to his soul, shucking off the old one like a discarded snake skin.
So Art set about making the cabin right. He discarded the trash from the bags and set the bags with clothes in them outside. The blankets were badly in need of washing, so he took them down to the water and afterward draped them over the rail on the porch to dry--the rail hadn't been there before, but then, neither had the cabin, and Art saw little use in picking nits. He went about tidying up the rest of the cabin as they dried, moving efficiently and pausing only when he found the shell under the covers. Anyone watching would most likely have been confused by the way he seemed to handle it with something approaching dread. They might speculate that it was an important family heirloom, or else something given by a loved one as a present or an inheritance and he was afraid of dropping it. They would have been completely wrong, but then, they weren't watching. No one was watching, which was the point. Art set the shell on the table where it belonged, noting with satisfaction that its colors had run out again. With that observation fresh on his mind he gave his own fur a once-over and saw that it was sleek and shiny as though it had always belonged to him. It would take some more time getting completely used to feet instead of hooves, but he'd already had some practice this past week. A small part of him lamented the okapi body he no longer wore, but any body would do, so long as it was out of that damned shell. He tossed the cursed thing a venomous look.
He retrieved the sheet and replaced it, taking special care to flatten it and make hospital corners, then did one final straightening of the room. Nothing appeared to be out of place, and the cabin looked like new; no dust or cobwebs, nothing out of place. The next time someone set foot in here, they would feel as though it was made for them. Which, in a sense, it was. The outside of forever was not picky when it came to exactly which warm body it tried to steal. The last three people to find the cabin had not survived long enough, Art's need to escape overriding his patience and the unfortunate travelers dead long before Art had stolen enough of their being to climb out. With a final look at the inside Art shut the door and walked off the porch.
He got about fifty paces before he looked back again, but the cabin was gone.
Smiling to himself, Art sauntered through the forest. This one had memories of someone named Reid, and they were all deliciously lewd. He would pay the noio a visit, then have a look for a boat that was leaving the island. He'd make his way to the Big Island and catch a flight from there to L.A., then make his way to wherever he wanted to go from there. He'd used to be afraid of people, but he'd spent so long confined and hidden away from everybody that his shyness had probably evaporated by this point. And if it hadn't, well, he'd just force himself to get over it, just as he'd forced himself to learn all about his prison and the rules that guarded it. It would take some time. But, as of right now, Art felt he had all the time in the world.