Page 2 of Room 13: Bred By the Bears

I hated the city.It was noisy in a way that grated. There were too many smells layered on top of one another. None of them had the wet earth and moss smell of home. Bogue Chitto sat up in the Louisiana high country. Locals called them mountains, though real mountain folk would probably laugh and call them ant hills. Down here, so close to the ocean, it feltoff.

There was too much history in New Orleans. Too much death. Old death and recent death. It clung to the city in a way that set my teeth on edge. I needed to get out somewhere and run. Preferably not any place where running in the dark would turn me into the meal of a lucky albeit unsuspecting alligator.

The Club sat on a gorgeous piece of property, far away from the city, with huge green space out back covered with trees. It had already been dark when we arrived so no fun for me outside for the time being. Once I could walk the grounds in daylight and knew the lay of the land, I’d let my inner beast free.

It didn’t appear there were any stated Primals at the club. While we’d been people watching in the lounge, a curious looking woman appeared in the doorway. She’d introduced herself when we arrived and checked in. She was some kind of client services person. It didn’t matter to me who she was. It was her companion who snagged my attention and threw a leash around my neck. I couldn’t look away.

Copper colored hair, long, thick legs and shapely calves, the sweetest pair of flats, and a cream-colored lace dress that would have put any lady brunching at The Peacock Room to shame. Her understated elegance should have pushed me off. Sent me careening back into the conversation with Ryker and Obsidian about his installation at the newly renovated Hotel Montmartre. Instead, I felt trapped. Caged in a way that both pressed against my inner primal and spellbound me in a way I couldn’t describe.

While she was beautiful in a curated and elegant way, she wasn’t any of our normal preferences in a play partner. She was too put together. Our tastes leaned towards the wild, the uninhibited and spirted. The loud ones that drank whiskey neat, wore dreadlocks in their hair in a rainbow of colors, pierced their septum, or had menacing looking tattoos cascading from thigh to ankle.

Her alabaster skin didn’t even have so much as a freckle marring it. Her copper hair fell in large ringlets down her shoulders and curling around her breasts. While not plus sized, she was soft in her middle, her waist and hips begged for my hands to grab hold and manhandle her into whatever position I wanted her in.

I wondered if she shaved. I hoped not. I pictured a thick, golden sunset thatch of hair full of our cum, ripe with the scent of us. Of holding her legs up and pressing her knees to her shoulders to expose all of her pink to me. Watching cum ooze from cunt and asshole, and her long fingers reaching between her legs to push it back inside her and hold it there for me. The smell would be fucking amazing. As if sensing me staring at her and thinking dirty thoughts, she tilted her head and regarded me for long moments before making some comment to her friend before turning and leaving.

“Armel, do you have an opinion on anything we’re talking about?”

Not only did I not have an opinion, I hadn’t heard a damn word they said. And now, as my copper queen left the room I felt the pull of her imaginary leash enticing me to follow. I know I imagined it. The scent.Herscent. It would have been impossible to notice anything over the cloying mixture of colognes and perfumes permeating the room already. The New Orleans crown obviously eschewed the rules about wearing such things to play.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

Obsidian wrapped his hand around my bicep, and I nearlygrowledat him. What the fuck was wrong with me? But I desperately wanted to find out about the woman.

“I saw something I need.”

That was the simplest truth. I needed her. My curiosity needed to be sated. To learn what it was about her. My subconscious had me in a stranglehold and refused to let go, and until I knew why, I wouldn’t be able to concentrate on anything else.

three

While New Orleanswasn’t trulyhome, it was the closest the three of us had really ever known to one. We tried not to make it a habit of coming back too often. Bogue Chitto was more tolerable than NOLA, though even that felt constraining. If I had my way, we’d move to the middle of nowhere. Somewhere with clean air, and mountains, and a bunch of people who stayed the fuck out of everyone’s business. New Orleans was too incestuous. Too many “old” families. Recycled power, old money, secret influence. Hard pass. Every day of the week.

The plan was to head back up the mountain once the installation at the Hotel Montmartre completed. And what a shit show it turned out to be. I hated having to put the cart before the horse. I worked best creating from my soul. Not being told what a vision for a space was and being forced to work within it.

I wouldn’t have even accepted the job, but I’d been feeling off. Uninspired. I’d lost the fire that usually fueled my creativity. Obsidian suggested spending time in New Orleans before I was even commissioned for the Montmartre work.

While we spent little time in New Orleans, it was the closest Club Sin to us, and given our tastes leaned toward the unusual, it was the only place we could find women who liked it wild and uninhibited.Thatwas what Obsidian thought I needed. A few months in New Orleans gorging ourselves on sin and depravity before heading back up the mountain again. Or, hill, really. Only flatlanders would call Bogue Chitto a mountain.

My expectations for finding anyone to play with were pretty low. Armel as the resident primal was the one who found people for all of us to play with, but I hadn’t seen a declared breeder in easily two years. But the Primals aligned in enough ways I could still satisfy that itch to like eighty percent.

“How are the pieces coming along?” Armel asked, passing me an Old Fashioned.

The last thing I wanted to do when my cock was hard was talk about fucking work.

“Frustrating. I hate taking commissions. I feel stilted. Constrained. They liked my work because they obviously wantmydesigns in their hotel, but they want to control them, to have a say in what that process looks like. It makes me want to punch someone.”

I worked with metals. Sometimes overlayed and intertwined were other things, fur, sometimes vinyl, lacquer, whatever struck my fancy to get my vision across. But metalwork was mostly what I did. The hotel thought that metal on its own felt too industrial for their vision. Yet, they knew I worked in metals before they commissioned me.

“Who is that?” Armel asked, tossing his head toward the door. “The one standing with the check-in girl.”

“Thecheck-in womanhas a name,” Obsidian corrected him. “Her name is Chantilly St. Cyr. Her father owns the haberdashery where you had that suit made. And she’s more than a check-in girl. She is the one you go to forconnections.”

There was no way Chantilly was a breeder or primal. Her braided hair was too perfectly styled, the lingerie she wore didn’t just scream opulence it proudly proclaimed that it wrote the book on the subject. A gorgeous, jeweled purple, dazzling against the rich mahogany of her skin, it appeared to be a custom job, just like my suit. I wondered off hand if working for her father was her day job.

“Her makeup is too pretty.” Armel smiled into his glass. “There is no way she’d be okay with the likes of us biting and sucking it all off. Leaving her face and neck full of teeth marks. Twenty bucks says her daddy thinks she sells bibles or some shit not that she prances around here in cock stiffening teddies.”

“Back to the question at hand,” Obsidian replied, “I’ve never seen her. Chantilly’s friend. Though this is only our second weekend here.”

As if she knew we were speaking about her, Chantilly cocked her eyebrow at us before turning her back to us. Damn. I wished I was into uppity pretty girls that liked someone to force them to their knees. I bet she was quite the sight her knees.

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