Tender Tigers
by Nancy A. Collins
Hopedale Press
2015
Tender Tigers copyright by Nancy A. Collins
This digital edition copyright 2015 by Hopedale Press
Cover Art copyright by Miss Monster
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The Ogre does what ogres can,
Deeds quite impossible for Man,
But one prize is beyond his reach,
The ogre cannot master Speech:
About a subjugated plain
Among it’s desperate and slain
The Ogre stalks with hands on hips,
While drivel gushes from his lips.
The Ogre, W.H. Auden
You don’t hear much about ogres nowadays. There are tons of books and movies and other such crap about fairies, same with elves. I guess people don’t feel threatened by them like they used to because they’re supposed to be cutesy-poo make-believe shit. The same goes for the proliferation of vampires in today’s pop culture; except in that case they’ve been reinvented as the ultimate misunderstood boyfriend. It’s hard to believe that humans can take something like reanimated corpses who feed on the blood of the living and turn them into romantic icons, but there you go.
It doesn’t work for ogres, though. They’re too scary for the modern nursery, and they certainly don’t cut it as sex symbols—unless your idea of a romantic evening is a close cuddle on the couch with Leatherface. In a world that can produce the likes of Jeffrey Dahmer, stories of cannibal monsters who look enough like humans that they can marry into normal families without anyone noticing cuts a little too close to the bone, so to speak.
So ogres have been downgraded from threat to superstition to folklore to fairy tale, along with all the other long-legged beasties and things that used to go bump in the night. Which suits them just fine: it is much easier to go about your work when nobody believes you exist.
If the stories about the ogres are true, their Glory Days were back when they used to prey upon the Neanderthals. Back then, they were the kings of Shit Mountain. Then Homo Sapiens made the scene. Although they might have been considerably smaller and physically weaker than the ogres, the Cro Magnons had a nasty habit of using tools, especially sharp ones that could be used from a distance. Things have been on a down-hill slide for the ogres ever since.
In the millennia since being toppled from the top of Shit Mountain, the ogres have managed to make a niche for themselves within the larger canopy of Pretender society. With their immense strength, hardy physique, and smallish brains, they often provide muscle to those willing to pay for it. They make loyal servants and tireless watchdogs. Despite their immense strength, they’re exceptionally vulnerable as a species, since they lack the vampires’ mesmeric powers, the were-races’ ability to shapeshift, and the strega and sidhe’s talent for sorcery. What they do have in their favor is that the females of the species can usually pass for human. However, once the males start developing bull ogre attributes—normally around puberty—its impossible for them to mistaken for “normal”—not without considerable camouflage.
I’ve had more than a few run-ins with these brutes over the years, mostly because they were in the service of a vampire Noble or doing wet-work for some crime bosses or dictator. But every now and again I run across the odd free-range ogre. One thing I will say for them is that they are, in their way, dedicated parents. As commendable as that might sound, you have to bear in mind that how they raise their young involves stalking human families, hollowing them out, and living inside them. Not literally, mind you. But close enough.
***
It’s not that unusual to see unsupervised youngsters in the city going to and from laundromats with bundles of clothes. What caught my eye was how young this particular child was—she couldn’t have been any older than seven or eight. She was far too small to be manhandling the wire shopping cart full of laundry along a city street so late at night. She could barely see over the top of the cart, which she had to push with both hands. As she doggedly maneuvered the overloaded cart up the street, I scanned a half-block in front of and behind her, trying to spot any sign of an adult accompanying her. There was none to be found. This made my antennae go up.
Unattended children are the favorite prey of virtually every breed of Pretender—not to mention run-of-the-mill human monsters. As a precaution, I opened my sight even farther, scanning the pedestrians and other passers-by in the area. While there were plenty of seedy types loitering on the surrounding doorsteps and street corners, none of them were werewolves or vampires.
As the child rounded the corner and headed up a side street, I decided to follow her. I kept to the shadows, trailing a safe distance behind her—not so closely that I would be noticed, but near enough I could come to her assistance should a smiling stranger emerge from a doorway or lean out of a passing car.
Without any warning, one of the wheels on the overloaded laundry cart gave way, jack-knifing its contents onto the pavement. The girl gave a horrified gasp and clapped her hands to her mouth. The look of fear on her face was more in keeping with someone who had foreseen their imminent death. That’s when I decided to surrender the shadows in favor of stepping forward.
“Hey, kid—do you need some help?”
She spun to face me, utter panic in her bright blue eyes. Upon realizing I was a stranger, the fear disappeared, to be replaced by relief. “Fiona’s gonna be mad,” she said simply as she stooped to gather up the dropped clothes.
“Is that so?” I replied as I righted the cart. “Is Fiona your mom?”
“No,” she said, with an emphatic shake of her head. “My mommy’s dead.”
“Then who is she then?” I asked, taking an armload of freshly folded laundry and dropping it back into the cart.
“She’s my daddy’s wife.”
I lifted an eyebrow and tried to smile as openly as I could without showing my teeth. “My name’s Sonja. What’s yours?”
“Tiffany.”
“That’s a pretty name.”
Tiffany shrugged shoulders as fragile as those of a baby bird. “My daddy says I’m named after a lamp.”
“They’re very beautiful lamps.”
A look of curiosity crossed her pale features, transforming her weary expression into that of a child again. “Really? Have you seen one?”
I found her amazement touching, and I couldn’t keep myself from chuckling. “Not only have I seen one, I actually own one.”
“Wow! Could I see it sometime?” she asked, her eyes sparkling like her namesake.
“Tiffany!”
The voice was as shrill as a dentist’s drill, and just as pleasant to experience. I looked up and saw a woman with a towering pouf, heavy thighs, and an ample bosom, dressed in skin-tight zebra-print leggings and an appliquéd kitty-cat sweatshirt, rapidly bearing down on me. Tiffany’s face drained of all color and animation, returning to its previous gray slack
ness.
“Fiona,” she said dully, in way of explanation.
As Tiffany’s stepmother drew closer, I caught a scent not unlike that of the lion house at the zoo. Fiona froze in her tracks, her piggish eyes narrowing at the sight of me. She tossed her head and made a snorting noise, like a wild boar that’s caught wind of a mountain lion. On closer inspection, it was easy to spot the flaws in the ogress’s camouflage. Her fingernails were unnaturally long and curled inward, with elaborate tribal totems etched into their surface. She wore her hair in a large pouf to camouflage the sagittal crest atop her head. Her skin was coarsely grained, like that of a well-oiled catcher’s mitt, and her sweat gave off a rank, animal odor. When she spoke I saw that her teeth came to a point, like those of a cat.
“Tiffany,” she said, lowering her voice so it no longer sounded like a table saw cutting through sheet metal. “What’s keeping you, child?”
Tiffany glanced in my direction before answering. “The wheel on the cart came off again, and this lady helped me fix it.”
“I’m more than happy to help push the cart the rest of the way home,” I said, keeping my voice as even as I could.
“I’ll take over from here, if you don’t mind,” Fiona said brusquely. She recognized me as a far stronger predator, yet was unprepared to relinquish the child. She took a step forward, extending her hand towards Tiffany. “Come along, dear. Your dinner’s getting cold.”
Tiffany frowned, clearly baffled by Fiona’s behavior. It was obvious that the presence of strangers had never kept her stepmother’s wrath at bay before. She looked at me again, her brow furrowed.
“Hey, Mama—s’up? Got trouble?”
The ogre who came shambling up to join Fiona was young—probably no more than nine or ten—but he was already the size of a sixteen-year-old human, with a jutting jaw, beetling brow, wide nostrils and jagged teeth. His shoulders were heavily muscled, with long arms and oversized hands. His build was hidden, for the most part, by ultra-baggy hip-hop pants and a long shirt, and he wore a stocking cap pulled low over his beetling brow. Judging from the size of his feet and the width of his shoulders, he would probably top out at seven-and-half feet tall, by the time he reached puberty. There was no way I could risk a confrontation with two ogres, so I relinquished my grip on the cart.
“No, Garth,” Fiona said, patting her whelp on the shoulder. “There’s no trouble. Now,” she smiled, displaying a fearsome set of fangs.
“Come along home, Tiffany, dear,” Fiona said for the benefit of whatever human might be watching. “We mustn’t keep your daddy waiting.”
There was nothing I could do but stand and watch as Fiona and her hulking son escorted Tiffany to a nearby apartment building, like wolves ushering a lamb to the slaughter. For appearances sake, Garth was now pushing the heavily laden cart instead of Tiffany.
I knew the ogres would be watching to see what I might do next, so I continued up the street without looking back. Once I had safely rounded the corner, I broke into a run and doubled-back on the next street over. I entered the cramped lobby of the tenement that stood back-to-back with the building I had seen the ogres enter and pushed all the intercom buttons until I was rewarded with a buzz.
I ignored the dingy elevator, and instead took the crooked stairs three at a time. I made the roof in less than two minutes. Tiffany’s building had a rear courtyard, which meant there was at least thirty feet between her rooftop and the one I was standing on. I moved to the opposite ledge and sprinted forward at a dead run. One moment I was bound by gravity, the next I was flying through the air, my nostrils filled with the pungent reek of rotting garbage that arose from five stories below.
I hit the rooftop, rolling with the fall like a paratrooper, and came up on my feet. I quickly brushed myself off and trotted to the fire escape at the rear of the building. I eased myself onto the metal stairs, careful to avoid the potted plants and hibachis stored on the landings. I had learned a long time ago how not to be seen, but I had yet to figure out how not to be heard. I had to be careful not to alert not only my prey, but their neighbors as well.
It didn’t take me long to figure out which apartment was Tiffany’s, as the reek of cooped-up ogre is hard to miss. Careful to remain in shadow, I peeked in through the window into what looked like a kitchen. My first impression was that the room was full of jellyfish. Then I realized the tendrils hanging down from the ceiling were scores of yellowed fly-paper strips.
Tiffany’s father sat at a filthy Formica dinette table. He was dressed in a dirty polo shirt and a pair of stained khaki pants. With his sallow complexion, bleary eyes, and unshaven jaw he looked like a junkie. I knew he was strung out, all right, but not on smack, meth or even that old standby, demon rum. No, the drug he was addicted to was far more insidious than any that could be snorted, smoked, run up or guzzled.
Suddenly the front door of the apartment opened and Fiona and Garth entered, followed by Tiffany, who was once more pushing the heavy cart. The moment the door closed behind them, the stepmother’s mouth pulled into a snarl that would have backed down a mandrill baboon.
“Stupid, horrid little bitch!” Fiona growled as she cuffed the girl’s ear, knocking her to the floor. “How many times have I told you to talk to no one?”
Tiffany’s father flinched as his daughter was struck, but did not open his mouth or offer to stand up.
“Yeah,” Garth said, grinning like a jack o-lantern, drool dripping from his lower lip. “You’re stupid.” Fiona abruptly whirled about and slapped Garth in mid-taunt. The ogree rubbed his jutting jaw, an uncomprehending look on his face. “What’d I do, Ma?”
“You’re no better than she is!” his mother snarled. “You don’t even realize how much danger we were in out there!”
Garth furrowed his brow and stuck out his lower lip. “I could have handled it...”
“She was a Noble, you witless fool!” Fiona hissed. “She could have torn you apart like fresh bread!”
Garth blinked a couple of times as he attempted to process the information he’d been given. He pulled the stocking hat off his head, revealing a bald, leathery pate and a pronounced crest, like that of a mountain gorilla. “You mean that was a vampire?”
Fiona merely shook her head in disgust. Her gaze returned to Tiffany, who was still huddled on the floor, struggling to control her tears. “Stop your whimpering, you little wretch!” she spat, roughly yanking the child onto her feet. “You still have chores to do it you expect to be fed!”
“Let go! You’re hurting me!” Tiffany cried as Fiona’s talons bit into the flesh of her upper arm.
Tiffany’s father’s eyes flashed and his body jerked as if he’d been given a jolt of electricity. “Let her go, damn you!” he snapped.
Fiona released the child’s arm and turned to face her husband. “My-my-my!” she sneered. “Looks like someone is trying to growing a backbone; that means you’re ready for another fix.”
Tiffany’s father twitched and a look of anticipation mixed with sick fear crossed his wasted features. She was threatening him with what he both dreaded and lived for. He licked his lips with a dry tongue. “Please,” he whispered hoarsely. It was impossible to tell if he was begging for mercy or pleading for more.
Fiona pulled her sweatshirt off, baring her upper torso. Her breasts were large and heavy, the nipples the size of a man’s thumb, the aureole the color of bruised flesh. Tiffany’s father’s twitch became a full blown tremor as he vibrated like a tuning fork. The look on his face was a mixture of lust and horror. Garth smirked as his dame removed her leggings, chuckling in anticipation of what was to come. Tiffany lowered her head and hurried from the room, her cheeks burning bright red.
The ogress stood nude before her human husband, her hands planted on her hips, legs splayed to better display her sex. Her lips pulled into a twisted smile as she studied her victim’s face. “You’re jonesin’ bad, ain’t ya?” she sneered. She then grabbed Tiffany’s father by the throat, lifting him from
his seat as if he weighed no more than his daughter. His eyes bugged slightly from the pressure, his mouth working like a goldfish’s, but he did not put up a struggle. Fiona then tossed him onto the kitchen floor, where he lay sprawled on his back. The only sign that he was still alive was the erection tenting his pants.
The ogress straddled her human husband, unzipped his fly, and after a few seconds of rummaging, freed his penis from his trousers. She laughed and glanced over at her son, who grinned and nodded his head. Then, without further preliminaries, Fiona lowered herself onto Tiffany’s father and began pumping her hips with the indifference of a farmer milking a cow. His eyelids trembled like those of a junkie on the needle and his jaw dropped open.
Since the rise of the human empires, ogres have managed to continue their species by making sexual slaves of human males and then using them to help raise their young. The moment a human male sticks his dick in an ogress, he’s in for the fuck of his life, no two ways about it, since the mucous membranes of their vaginas are impregnated with hormones that act like a cross between Viagra and meth, and are absorbed directly through the skin.
The fairy tales get some things right, though. Ogresses tend to seek out widowed or divorced human males and utilize their loneliness to turn them into sex slaves. The human males they pick are usually passive to begin with, and once they become addicted, they are completely under the control of their ‘wife’. They surrender their pay checks, their homes, everything of any possible value, in order to keep getting their fuck-fix. This also enables the ogresses to pass off their latest whelp—spawned in their clan’s orgy pits—as their victim’s ‘new family’, eventually feeding the children from the previous marriage to their young ogree.
Nancy A Collins - [Sonja Blue 09] - Tender Tigers Page 1
