Vixenscratch

Short stories and serials by Alexandra Herakai

The Fall of Judas: Envy

Things were no different than any other night, not perceptibly. Judas, as always, could use money or a free meal. The club, as always, had more than enough potential sources of either, if he wasn’t too picky about how he’d come by it. The same way as always; it was a calculated risk every time he went looking to expand his client base. A risk of saying the wrong thing to the wrong person, a risk of being asked for a license he didn’t have and couldn’t afford.

Everything was, on the surface, the same. So why was it so unusually difficult for him to have even the most minor stroke of good luck? All he was asking for was one single person, one single patron out of the mosaic mass of people, willing to buy him a meal in exchange for the one thing the broke polecat had to offer. He recognized some of the faces, by now, faces of people he knew wouldn’t be interested. One particular one among them seemed to turn up far too close, far too often, tonight. The rat had come on to him at some point in the past, but had lost interest when Judas had no use for what he had to offer: quick, casual sex right there in some relatively secluded corner of the club.

And, of course, with someone like that around, angling for anything at all in return was problematic. If Judas was going to grab anyone’s attention, it would have to be someone specifically interested in him, not just in finding a guy to get his rocks off. Or someone Nathaniel wouldn’t be interested in.

Settling into a shadow to hold up one of the walls and collect his thoughts, the polecat sighed. He couldn’t seem to help watching the rat, watching the obvious pleasure he took from setting his bait with a well-timed look, watching how effortlessly he reeled in seemingly any man he wanted. Judas bit his lip, wishing that particular familiar face out of sight, yet dreading the moment when the rat would pass out of his field of vision. Dreading it because he knew what would come then.

He’d happened to be in one of the semi-private side rooms when Nathaniel had… entertained… once before. It had been a strange sort of marvel to watch while pretending he wasn’t watching; the rat had moved with experience and confidence Judas couldn’t hope to come even close to rivaling, no matter how many clients he entertained, and he had sunk down on his willing victim’s cock with so little visible outward tension, while the man whose lap he was riding hissed a sharp breath, it had been like watching written erotica in action. The muted sounds of that illicit liason, the corner-of-the-eye sight of the black rat squirming on the raccoon’s lap, had made his own cock harden in sympathy (or perhaps, more accurately, it was a matter of imagining the act with a different pair of players), given him another reason to stay where he was. Eventually, the raccoon had groaned out his climax between gritted teeth, and the rat had leaned back against him and urged his hand along until he, too, reached that point of no return.

Resourceful, that rat; he seemed to always carry both lube and wet wipes. Then again, if he came to the club to pick up a quickie, and wasn’t very careful to cover up, he’d need them.

In a way, Judas wished that could be him, now leading a brightly-plumaged conure off the dance floor. Nathaniel didn’t seem to have many, if any, cares in the world – he got laid and he never seemed to worry much about anything but that. If he was turned down, he just moved on to the next man that caught his eye.

What Judas wouldn’t have given, both for that confidence and that freedom.

The freedom to give up his body because he wanted to.

The confidence, and the courage, to ask.



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