Rutt wondered if he was being dissolved into his mother’s vagina. He wondered if his muscular flesh was being invaded and permeated by the noxious juices of that infernal organ, if his bones were proving all too porous to the drip and dribble of the Tauriarch’s killer cunt.
Minotaurs know their fate. Coded into genetic memory, their ghastly life cycle is an open book to them.
Disgorged into the First Labyrinth by the violent rupture of their personal uterine sac, a neonate Minotaur’s life begins within that maze. A maze deep within the Tauriarch’s body. A maze of motherly vaginal flesh and space/time portals. Tubes of wending, winding pussy meat and flickering Einsteinian apertures leading to the reality outside.
The strong escape. The weak are reabsorbed by the mother before ever seeing daylight.
Be born into the world, young Minotaurs! Flee the branching forks of the Tauriarch’s birth canals! Enter the Lands of Lust and Pain!
Live! Fight! Fuck! Die!
Die... and then return to the mother. For on death, the Minotaur will face the Tauriarch a second time. This time from without and not within. This time gazing on the horror of the monstrous dam’s externality, not to emerge from a cunt but to surrender to one. Masculinity’s ultimate capitulation to its maternal source. Being a man cannot last. Being a bull cannot last. Those are unsustainable conditions. But Momma’s here. Momma’s always here.
At the moment of their death, every Minotaur knows, he will be taken out of linear time and confronted with the Tauriarch.
He will smell the new pussy she has grown just for him. He will fuck it. Then it will eat him.
Total chemical annihilation in a labyrinth outside of linear time is the fate that awaits every Man Bull, dissolution to nutrients by a ravenous toxic quim.
What they do not know, for all their foreknowledge of these bare mechanics, is how loved they will feel as they are destroyed. As their bodies melt into a putrid paste, quickly and greedily absorbed by osmosis into the mucus membrane that engulfs them, each Minotaur’s final thought is that their mother loves them. And that with that love, they are complete. They have come home.
Shush now, little monsters. Wanting is over. Hurting is over. Momma’s here.
Rutt wondered if this was what was happening to him. If what he was feeling right now was his terminal absorption into the great Beef Mother.
It was not.
That was not what was happening at all.
Rutt was just severely concussed and drowning in the moat of a vampire’s castle.
If there was any level on which he understood that, it was because of the temperature. The perfect solvent of the Tauriarch’s juice would surely feel warm as it transformed his body into a snatch-snack. The fluids around him now felt cold, stagnant and still. This was not the warm, fatal embrace of his non-Euclidean mother’s twat. This was an icy, barren place of dying. To die here would feed nothing.
Any warmth in the moat’s water flowed from the bleeding Minotaur. The jagged fall from the castle battlements had met him with collisions and lacerations, and on the last collision with the water itself his blood had poured forth from his wounds to challenge its frigidity with its desperate heat.
Rutt thought of vampires.
In a place of cool death and hot blood, anyone would think of vampires.
Sinking deeper beneath the surface, Rutt the Minotaur did not know where he was or who had put him there, but he thought of vampires.
He knew vampires. He’d fought a few. He’d once helped one organise a charity fundraiser. He’d served alongside one in the Idea Wars; the powerful interplanar Nosferatu Norman Tebbit had served in Rutt’s unit in the early Seventies, alongside his duties as the Conservative Member of Parliament for Epping. Tebbit had even been at Rutt and Vanessa’s wedding.
Rutt knew vampires. Yet he did not understand vampires. Creatures of stasis were alien to his vital nature.
Rutt had never thought he needed to understand them, since he knew how to kill them.
Now it seemed… he did not?
The Minotaur’s brain was full of bruising, his hide was full of wounds and his lungs were filling with water. But nevertheless he began to understand something.
Wherever he was, whatever was happening, this was somehow happening because he had failed to kill some vampires. That was right, wasn’t it? He was dying alone because of vampires.
Or had he died already and made it to the Last Labyrinth? Was he right now being eaten alive by the Tauriarch’s cunt?
Vaginas and vampires filled Rutt’s mind. Vampires and vaginas.
His strong arms began to move of their own accord.
“Vampires!” said his mind.
“Vaginas!” said his mind.
“Swim!” said his body.
Trust the body.
Rutt swam. Bleeding, broken, drowning, dying, Rutt swam for the surface. The ludicrous mantra in his mind became the rhythm of his strokes. “Vampires! Vaginas! Vampires! Vaginas!” his addled mind repeated as his purposeful limbs moved in time.
Vampires. Vaginas. Vampires. Vaginas.
The Minotaur broke the surface. That horned and furious head burst from the waters that had threatened to be his grave.
Rutt looked around.
The first thing he saw was a vampire’s vagina.
“Let me tell you a little something about this gash,” said Ravinical the heterosexual vampire.
She was squatting on the inner bank of the moat. Her legs were spread. The hem of her complex negligee was raised and her fingers were in her cunt. Making the classic inverted ‘V’ with her index and middle fingers, she was holding her twatflaps open wide.
Spluttering out the water he’d inhaled, gasping for breath, and further losing all sense of reality, Rutt focused his gaze on the fuckhole in front of him.
The girlie was nicely thicc, but her cunt looked like it belonged to a much fatter bitch. Big, chubby labia majora. Very slappable. As chalky pale as the rest of her flesh, her swollen outer pudenda promised to quiver like jelly when struck. Her minge was smooth but not baby smooth; it looked like it had been shaved well, but shaved well yesterday. The wet pink seafood frills of her labia minora flapped decorously around the vampire’s demonstrative digits. These lips were on full display, parted extravagantly and firmly to remove all barriers between the world and the vaginal orifice itself.
Rutt’s first coherent thought since breaching the surface was that the quim would look prettier if the slut wasn’t holding it open. The contrast between her delicate folds of pink and the puffy bumpers that bracketed them was enticing, and it would be all the more enticing to see the labia minora naughtily and messily sneaking out from between the meatier lips than to see the whole assemblage pinned open by the girlie’s fingers.
His next coherent thought was given to his own body. Nothing felt fractured. He had enough strength to make it to the bank, and hopefully to clamber out. The cold of the water was slowing his bleeding, and his uncanny Minotaur resilience would kick in and close the wounds as soon as the rest of him was stable. Only secondary drowning risked killing him now, and that was something for which he’d have to watch for symptoms over the coming hours. For now he could return his full attention to this puta’s pudendum.
A lively and insistently erect clitoris peeped coquettishly out from under its hood.
“And those are just seventeen of its great, great features,” said Ravinical.
Rutt realised that she’d been talking about it the whole time.
He arrived at the edge of the moat and mustered all his stamina to drag himself up the uneasy climb between water level and the top of the ditch, and also to listen to this bullshit.
“Another really premium thing about my cunt,” Ravinical continued, “is that it’s hardly been used. Consider my passion for blowjobs, boys’ passion for titfucking my 42H milkers, and me having been married to a gay man for five years. All paints a pretty picture of a barely probed clunge, doesn't it? You betcha it does! Now I'm not gonna oversell it. It's not completely virginial. But while it may have a couple of miles on the clock, this puss-puss is still a choice pick for anyone seeking that Fresh Fuckhole Experience.”
Rutt had made it out of the moat. He lay panting and spent on the muddy ground, prone before this bizarre display.
"Both my lesbian wives, although they don't enjoy interacting with it because of my lack of lesbian skills or arousal in lesbian contexts, have nevertheless said very positive things about its fragrance, taste and general 'mouth feel.'"
"I...know you..." he managed to spit out. And he did. That strong, determined Minotaur consciousness was back in business. Neither a minor traumatic brain injury nor a mild hypoxic brain injury were any match for the manly neuroplasticity of his cerebral matter. He would be fully functional within an hour. His bleeding had already stopped.
He knew what he knew. And he knew he knew this dumb bitch. She was the vampire who hadn't known how to fight like a vampire. The one who'd turned into a one-winged bat after he'd chopped her arm off. She was the one who'd grabbed his dick and swung under his legs while holding it, a combat move that hadn't been tried against him since his tour in Oz. She was a fucking maniac. Her gash was probably the smartest part of her.
"Glad to see I made an impression," smirked the heterosexual. "So what do you think?"
Rutt managed to cough up some more water.
He did not manage to cough up a reply.
"About my cunt?" she prompted. "What do you think about my cunt?"
"Had... had better. Had worse..."
The Minotaur expected this to deflate her. But it didn't. Ravinical smiled.
She stood up, dropped the hem of her fancy sex nightie back down over her cooze, and walked closer to the Minotaur.
She seemed awfully pleased with herself.
She seemed awfully confident for someone who'd just been told her genitals were kinda mid.
Ravinical had a card to play.
"Well, that's the thing, isn't it, Mister Minotaur?" she cooed seductively, "That's the single most exciting feature of my vag. It can offer you an experience you've never had before."
An alarming thought occurred to Rutt.
"It can't dissolve me into a nutrient paste and then consume me via osmosis, can it?"
"NO! What the fuck, man?"
Rutt said nothing.
"Seriously, what the fuck? What the fuck was that?"
"I've got some shit on my mind, okay," said Rutt.
"Nutrient paste?" Ravinical was stomping back and forth along the bank. She'd been all set to play her best card and then...this? What the living fuck was osmosis?
"Okay. Okay. Fuck's sake. Sorry I fucking asked. Sure, sure. Your average looking gash probably won't dissolve me into a nutrient paste. I take it back."
The vampire calmed.
"You wanna know what it can do for you?" she asked, ready to return to her script.
"I guess."
Ravinical told him. Whispered her secret.
Rutt considered her words.
Damn. Damn, that was different. That was different in the most important of ways even from what Peartree's vag could offer.
That was... that was something Rutt wanted to try.
He'd been far too dismissive and disinterested. This would be new.
"Meet me three nights hence," he bade her, "Meet me at midnight in the Lever family's barn. And bring your vagina."
