Her Majesty’s Rat-Catcher

Johanna sits in her accustomed chair, idly swirling the last drops of brandy around her glass. It’s a comfortable chair, well-positioned in one of the many nooks ringing the lounge’s floor; it gives her a good view of what’s going on, and a place to keep her papers. All of the other nooks are curtained booths with cushioned benches and high tables; hers is unique only because of her contributions to the social club. Rank brings its privileges, even when no one can quite say where one’s rank comes from—for despite it all, Johanna is merely a rat-catcher.

She is as yet undecided on whether she wants another drink. The alcohol sits warmly in her stomach, a ward against the winter chill lingering in her leathers; yet it also taints her mind’s clockwork precision. It makes things slippery and improper. Temptation comes all too easily to her, whether through the deficiency of her birth or her own personal failings, and she has seen what such weakness brings.

No, she thinks. Not tonight. Not here.

This early in the evening the lounge is mostly empty. The sun hadn’t even set when she came in, and none of the other booths are occupied; the gaggle of hopefuls clustered near the bar are sad, bedraggled things. Too eager by half—the way their eyes keep on twitching to the door, to the booths! Even, laughably, to her. Perhaps some of the ones playing at being ingenues really are; perhaps they simply haven’t heard about her tendencies.

What silly things.

She drains the dregs and makes to stand, her leathers creaking; but, halfway out of her seat, she finds her path blocked by two of the waifs. Clever things, to balance the weakness of their approach by putting her off her guard; she settles back and waits. Zugzwang, dear creatures.

“Ma’am,” the first says, “we’d heard that you sometimes have work for those what need it.” Polite and solicitous, though obviously uneducated; close-cropped hair and careful features. Charcoal stains on its cheeks. Hmm.

The other one tries and fails to hide behind it. A small thing trying to make herself smaller; features marked by a childhood of malnutrition. Clean, healthy hair, though; an uncommon indulgence for a street rat. Uncomfortable in her not-quite-modest dress; unwilling to make eye contact. Perhaps, Johanna thinks.

“Sometimes, sometimes,” she allows. “What, are you hoping to become ratters? Got a cat already, have you?”

They glance at each other, suddenly uncertain. A wild bird and a mouse, Johanna decides, and fixes that assessment in her thoughts; an odd pair.

“N-no, ma’am, though we wouldn’t say no to honest work. We was told of a more,” the bird lowers its voice, and the mouse squirms behind it, “delicate kind of work. This being the place where that sort of thing is, ah …”

“What a silly idea,” Johanna grins. A piece of scrap paper is close to hand; she jots down an address. Large letters; surely they’ll be able to find someone to read them. “But perhaps if you’re there this evening,” she taps the paper, “I’ll have something for you.”

She brushes past them, leaving the scrap behind. Doesn’t bother to understand whatever they’re whispering to each other. Either they’ll be at her door or they won’t; and if not she’ll find another way to fulfill her obligations. There are always more rats.

Patience has never been one of the Ailurine Princess’s many virtues. It did not have to be as she grew, with servants all around to expedite her demands and soothe her needs; her frown brought punishment and her tears begat death. Virtue must be nurtured lest it withers and dies, or so the saints say; wisdom may be taught, and justice drips down the empire’s blade, but patience only comes through practiced denial.

Now, as she stares down adulthood’s long road, she finds little enough before her except the exercise of patience. She must await the end of her mother’s unnaturally-extended life (as bloody or uneventful as that should be); she must await the slow accumulation of her agents’ poisons within the bodies of her more-favored sisters; she must await the discovery of whether or not those gilded women have embarked on their own programs of slow sororicide. Perhaps, if she is very lucky indeed, the queen will decide that she is a suitable instrument to enact the royal will upon her more unruly subjects, in which case even more waiting will ensue before she can get to any of the fun parts.

It’s enough to make her scream, really!

Not that she would. A princess does not scream.

A princess must instead find other ways to soothe her frustrations. She paces, ruining carpets; there has been discussion of replacing her boudoir’s floor with marble. She picks and fiddles, ruining dresses; she needles and second-guesses, ruining chambermaids. She is a horrid, needy creature, as princesses often are, and her needs are such simple things.

It’s past sunset when the knock finally comes at her door, precisely timed with the distant bells ringing out their call to slumber. She almost groans; probably her visitor was waiting outside for the agreed upon time, when she could have just gotten there early and made the princess’s life a tiny bit less frustrating.

“Enter!”, the Ailurine Princess calls, and a moment later Her Majesty’s Rat-catcher does.

The woman is taller than the princess (which she has always found offensive) and dressed in rakish leathers. Her face is masked beneath a veil, and her hat’s thick brim and curling cone could masquerade as a serviceable umbrella in a pinch (and often have). None of her skin is visible this early in the night; she hates for anyone to see her. Exposing herself fully is the one order that the princess knows she will never obey, no matter how emphatically she stomps her foot.

Her mother’s rat-catcher is truly the most irritating creature.

“Your royal highness,” the rat-catcher murmurs, bowing deeply, “I must beg forgiveness for my lateness.”

“Shut up,” the princess replies, “you made me wait!”

“I did, your highness.”

“Harrumph. Well. What do you have for me tonight?” The naked hunger in her voice is embarrassing. It is not a voice she is meant to show to servants; not a side of herself that anyone outside the royal family is meant to see. They are well past such concerns by now, of course.

The rat-catcher gestures to someone outside the door, and they push a little cart into the room; the boudoir’s worn rug is hardly any resistance at all. On the cart is a varnished crate, and there is no space in the princess’s eyes for anything but it. She doesn’t even notice the door closing. It’s almost a coffin, really, and the princess’s body has long since learned to anticipate its arrival. Her rouged cheeks can’t conceal her spreading blush.

“First of all,” the rat-catcher gestures at her apparent assistant, standing behind the cart. They’re dressed in an apprentice’s uniform, baggy fabric shaped by tight leather belts at their joints and waist, though without any of the accouterments that the princess understands are an apprentice rat-catcher’s marks. “I would like to introduce this stray bird, who happened into my hand this afternoon. It is here for your pleasure, highness.”

The princess nods graciously, eyeing the bird. It is unusual for the rat-catcher to bring two things for her, and more unusual still to allow one to entire outside of the box—but, she supposes, they do fit the role they’re pretending at. Perhaps too well. They seem boring.

“And, if you would allow me …?”

“Just get on with it! Stop making me waittt,” she whines unbecomingly. If anyone else ever heard her like that! It has the desired effect, though, as she sees the rat-catcher’s hips shift.

“Of course, highness. No more delays.” She’s sure the rat-catcher is smirking as she swings the box’s lid open. The princess steps closer, eager to see whatever’s waiting inside. “And I would like to offer you this mouse, highness, who I caught alongside the bird. She is also here for your pleasure.”

The princess’s mouth is watering.

Nobs are fucking weird.

That’s always been Shrike’s assessment of them, ever since he got old enough to understand that there were nobs, and that there were people like him and Poppy. A simple binary. Nobs get what they want, and everyone else gets their leavings.

Perhaps it’s more complicated than that. There are nobs and Nobs, after all, and the layer-cake-looking lady cooing over Poppy’s all-but-naked body obviously deserves the capital letter. The rat-catcher didn’t bother telling him who she was, because why would she have? Information is almost as good as currency. But obviously someone important. Obviously a pervert. All according to plan, yeah?

The lingerie the rat-catcher put Poppy in is like something from a bacchanal, all lace and embroidered bands, that somehow manages to cover much of her body while not doing anything at all to conceal the bits that matter. She looks more naked than when she’s actually naked, and she’d surely freeze to death if she tried wearing the get-up anywhere except a nob’s house, where some strange magic keeps the air more-or-less comfortable and the ground warm enough to melt butter.

Can’t have a nob getting cold feet in the morning, Shrike supposes. It’s downright pathetic how pampered they are.

Watching the nob toy with Poppy isn’t unpleasant, though. The—what did the rat-catcher call her? A mouse? not a bad word for her—mouse is always so responsive. A few kind touches and a bit of attention and she melts in your hands, so fucking eager to please. So easy for people to take advantage of. It’s a good thing she has Shrike around to keep her safe.

She’s already hard, too, and the nob certainly seems to like that. Everyone loves a good dick on a pretty girl. Probably it’s the only reason they’re here. It’s wasted on Poppy, really. Stars above, if he had that instead of her he’d have bagged some wayward merchant’s wife already instead of being stuck out in the slums. Not that he resents Poppy or anything, for that or the magic that she somehow got her hands on, but … why couldn’t it be him, you know? Why not?

Maybe he resents her a little bit.

… oh, and the nob wants him involved too? Ugh.

Watching the princess enjoy new toys is always delicious, Johanna thinks as she follows them into the bedroom proper. It’s just the same as it was the last time she was here, barely a week before; the glass-fronted cabinets showing off the princess’s jewelry, the vast array of cosmetics spilling out of her vanity’s drawers, the scattered pillows leaking feathers. And, most importantly, the bed. A vast, overstuffed treasure; a senseless indulgence.

Someone’s moved her chair, and by the time she finds it and shifts it back into a spot with a good view the princess has already started on the mouse. She’s so predictable with new toys; she likes to explore them. To find what makes them react and how to use it against them. Johanna would be hard pressed to call her a skilled lover, but she is selfish and manipulative and a careless eye might be forgiven for mistaking the one for the other.

She shifts in her seat; unlaces her codpiece. She’s already hard inside her cage. Painful, with the nubs digging in, but pleasantly so. It focuses the mind. And the princess’s reaction, when she glances over, is delicious. The poor thing simply can’t stand the idea of there being something that she’s not allowed to have, and the mouse’s cock in her cunt and the bird’s lips on her clit are a poor substitute for forbidden fruit.

It has always been obvious to Johanna that the Ailurine Princess doesn’t understand what makes her attractive. This is often the case with powerful people, she has found in her time as the queen’s rat-catcher; they like to think that there is something special about them. That they are uniquely valuable. That being born to divine right means they’re better than everyone else.

She has never known a noble to react well to the suggestion that they would be nothing without the crown. That their lovers are fucking the thing they represent, not them—that these two rats are more attracted to the promise of their payment then they are to her.

Well. The bird, certainly. The mouse is harder to judge; she plays an overwhelmed innocent better than most Johanna’s seen. Perhaps she’ll be worth keeping.

None of this is the thought that makes her throb inside her cage, though; none of this is what she’s thinking when she wraps her hand around it and presses, eking out every last crumb of stimulation she can find in its unyielding metal. It’s not what makes her breath hitch and her heart throb.

Johanna has lived a lifetime of discipline and quiet denial in the service of greater aims. It is rare for her to indulge her desires, and she never lets herself lose control. The Ailurine Princess’s self-indulgence is disgusting, obscene—and deeply, deeply gratifying to watch. She doesn’t even realize how she’s degrading herself; she doesn’t even realize how much power she’s ceded. What is there she wouldn’t do, if she was all wound up and she thought it would get her off?

How far could Johanna push her princess?

Stars above, she’s leaking into her cage, warm and gooey. She’ll need to bathe again after this, and for the third time this week! Pathetic. She’ll ruin her gloves if she isn’t careful.

Still, it offers an opportunity; she opens her eyes, ready to raise her hand and let the princess see the liquid soaking it, another thing that she knows she won’t be permitted to taste, another forbidden delight to drive her into a tizzy …

But, oh.

That isn’t right.

When did that happen?

Shrike holds the knife at the rat-catcher’s throat while Poppy ties her to the chair. Fucking pervert didn’t even notice them getting near, and the cum-drunk nob was too busy fingering herself to call a warning. Who knows if she would have otherwise, though; there’s something strange in the air between them. Shrike doesn’t get why they don’t just fuck each other instead of putting in all this effort.

Not that he minds, of course. If they didn’t want to rob the nobs then fucking them would mean being paid, and since they are robbing them it was a nice way to get inside. And it’s always good to give Poppy a chance to get her dick wet, even if she hasn’t gotten off yet. Shrike’s certain that the witchwork sigil wrapped around her bellybutton must be defective; he can’t believe she was ever this fucking horny before it. What a hassle.

Even now, as she fusses about the quality of her knots, her dick’s curved up to her stomach, twitching and leaking. So pathetic! Maybe he’ll let her finish herself off in the nob when they’re done robbing the place. See how that changes her reactions, huh? Better than having to finish her off himself, anyway. No fucking way is he going to let her inside him, and she always makes such a horrible mess when he uses his hands.

Anyway.

He watches the rat-catcher test the strength of Poppy’s knots for a minute. He can’t see her eyes behind the veil—and who does she think she is, dressing like that? One of the fucking kindly ones or somesuch?—but he’s sure she’s staring daggers at both of them. Ah well; better trust that she can’t get out. If she does …

Shrike’s seen what rat-catchers do when the queen demands a purge.

It’s hard to stay focused. Really, really hard.

Poppy was chasing her undoing through the nob’s clenching cunt when Shrike rudely pulled her out and told her that it was time. She doesn’t know why he couldn’t have waited another few minutes! It was going to be a big one, she could feel it, and now it’s right there every single time she moves. An overwhelming need barely restrained.

“Shrike, please,” she whimpers, holding open a sack while he shovels in a never-ending stream of jewelry. Poppy hopes he’s got a plan for what comes after. She’s not the smart one, after all, especially not when she’s struggling to resist the urge to rub herself against the sack’s rough cloth. “I need to, please, it hurrrts …”

“Oh, shut up,” Shrike growls, “have some self-respect, yeah? You fucking slattern,” the insult makes Poppy shiver. He definitely means it, and that feels so, so good.

They’re barely three cabinets in before the sack is full. The wealth on display is obscene and tasteless; a magpie’s hoard large enough to change the course of ten thousand lives. Poppy wonders who the nob is; where did all this come from? A bit longer and her thoughts might connect, might reach a terrifying conclusion, but the thought of the nob seamlessly blends into how it would feel to spend herself in her and Poppy is once again squirming and whimpering and dripping onto the soft carpet.

Shrike’s pulling his borrowed clothes back on when Poppy asks permission again, and this time—this time!—he relents. “Sure, whatever. I’ll get this out,” he hoists the bag, “yeah? You finish up and meet me back home.”

She doesn’t know how to get out of the nob’s mansion, and she doesn’t have anything to wear but the lingerie the rat-catcher gave her, but that doesn’t matter much to Poppy. By this point her brain is practically leaking out of her cock; if Shrike doesn’t consider something—if he doesn’t tell her that it matters—then it can’t be at all important.

Besides, there’s the nob lying on the bed, her hands and feet bound as gently as Poppy could manage. Gagged with a silk scarf. Just because they’re robbing her doesn’t mean that they have to be mean, right?

She doesn’t resist. If anything, she seems confused; like this is a new game and no one’s told her the rules.

Taking her feels so much better than being used by her.

Poppy’s almost there, mindlessly rutting and so deliciously close to coming undone. She’s lost in the thought of filling her, her climax’s senseless light burning away everything else; she’s forgotten all about the rest of the world, all about Shrike and the rat-catcher and whether or not her knots were strong enough.

They were not.

The Ailurine Princess is having a surprisingly lovely time with her new toys. Oh, sure, she prefers when her servants ask her about new elements, but there’s something so delightful about being bound! It’s relaxing, really, even though she’s not terribly happy about the pause in the middle, when the mouse wandered off instead of fucking her. What a rude creature, really!

But then she came back, and, gosh. There was something so deliciously different about her! Dangerous and feral, and her dick was hitting just the right place without the princess even having to tell her! Oh, what a thing …

The princess is just about to vow to keep her when the rat-catcher picks up her new toy by the scruff of her neck and pulls her off—and out of—the princess. Her hand is so large around the mouse’s neck. She’s squeezing as the mouse’s cock twitches and spurts all over her, why is she squeezing, oh its face is turning purple, that can’t be good—!

Finally, finally, her mother’s rat-catcher notices her shaking her head. Reaches down and pulls the gag out of her mouth, her other hand still strangling the mouse.

“Johanna! Stop it!”

“Your highness?” The rat-catcher’s face is, as always, hidden behind her veil; but confusion fills her voice. “She—they were—”

“Drop her!” The voice of command. It’s just like talking to a dog, really, and in the end that’s all Johanna is: a ratter who’s forgotten her place. Her toy falls onto the bed with a thump, wheezing. “You don’t break my things without asking first.”

“I … yes, your highness. As you say. I’m deeply sorry.”

“And what were you thinking? This isn’t like you! Mousey and I were just playing.”

“… your highness, these two rapscallions conspired to rob you and deceive me. The other absconded with a sack filled with your jewelry. I merely though—”

“Well,” the princess huffs, “you’ll just have to go retrieve the other, then, won’t you? You are a rat-catcher. But this one is mine.”

“Of course, highness. I’ll just,” the princess can’t help smiling at how lost and confused her rat-catcher suddenly seems. It’s surprisingly satisfying. “I’ll just go and find the bird, then …?”

“Yes. Oh, but first, find me a collar for my new toy. One of the special ones.”

“Yes, your highness. Anything you want.”