It's Friday night in Mtkvari, the capital city of Tkroy. In the entertainment district near the spaceport, pounding dance music and a kaleidoscope of flashing lights spill out into the teeming streets from the open doors of numerous clubs. Raucous laughter and boisterous shouts fill the air. The night is alive with good times.

A narrow alleyway separates two of the more popular clubs. Every now and then, someone will duck into the dark alley, seemingly unnoticed by the crowds that fill the brightly lit street. At the end of the alley, a flight of stairs leads down to an unmarked white door. The door has a heavy deadbolt, but tonight it's not locked. In ones and twos, people go through the door into the dark hallway beyond. 

The hallway is lined with more doors; it's probably best not to speculate as to what's behind them. The doors all appear identical, but people know which one to go to. Beyond this door is a small, brightly lit antechamber. A lone bouncer stands guard, only allowing people through the next door if they know the proper code.

"I met a man the other day who said he hadn't had a bite in three weeks," says the bouncer.

"How'd he taste?" says the person seeking to gain entrance.

Beyond this last door is a set of stairs that goes down to the club. Most of the large, low-ceilinged room is dimly lit, illuminated only by small shaded lamps on each of the tables that are spread around the floor. Private booths line the walls. The minimal lighting suits most of the well-heeled clientele, who would rather not be seen in a place like this. The only overhead lights are directed at a wooden stage that projects out into the room.

Most of the diners tonight are Tkrojans, the saurian race of carnivores native to this world, but here and there the occasional human or vulpine can be seen in the gloom, and a lone equine is sitting at a table at the very back of the room. 

Its patrons know it as The White Door, but officially this place does not have a name. In fact, an extensive investigation by the city police determined conclusively and beyond any shadow of a doubt that this place does not even exist, and they should know: that's the commissioner sitting at the table by the stage, sipping a dark red drink that is definitely not wine. 

The stage lights go up and the chatter of the diners goes silent. The evening's host walks out onto the stage to a smattering of applause. He's dressed in an exquisitely tailored white suit and is wearing a blank white mask that hides his features. He has no name; he is simply The Host.

"Good evening, my friends, and welcome," he enunciates slowly and evenly, "I do hope you are all having a good time, and I sincerely hope you will enjoy the acts I have scheduled tonight for your entertainment. Our first performer tonight is the wonderfully talented Miss Lola Lapin." 

The Host exits the stage and the lights go down for a moment so that the stagehands can set up for Lola's performance. When the lights go up again, the stage is occupied by a four-legged round wooden stool positioned directly under a plain rope noose hanging from the ceiling. A single spotlight shines on the back of the stage and Lola steps out from behind the curtain to enthusiastic applause.

Lola is a rabbit with soft fur the color of caramel and bright blue eyes. She is wearing a plain white dress and long white stockings, and a white flower is tucked next to one of her large, half-erect ears. Lola blinks her large, shy eyes in the glare of the stage lights before strolling out onto the stage. As she slowly approaches the noose at the center of the stage, her ears begin to perk up in anticipation.

She stops and reaches one hand up to the noose and twists it in her fingers while she softly caresses her own throat with her other hand. Lola closes her eyes in an expression of blissful expectation. She releases her grip on the noose and leaves it gently swaying as she lowers her hand and begins to undress.

First, Lola slips out of the plain white dress, revealing the velvety caramel fur covering her body and the thicker white fur covering her belly. A pair of petite round breasts forms the topography of her chest; Lola briefly cups them in her hands as she strokes smooth the fur that was mussed when she removed her dress. She briefly turns away from the audience to neatly fold her dress and her small scut of a tail comes into view; a bright flash of white above the hazel curves of her buttocks. 

Her delicate underwear is removed next; Lola shimmies out of her lacy white panties and with a flick of her stocking toes casts them down beside the discarded dress. 

Lola sits down on the stool beneath the ticking pendulum of the noose and lifts her right leg out straight. As she slowly pulls off her right stocking, half the audience has a clear view of the shining pink folds of flesh between her legs, already glistening with passionate expectation. Lola switches legs and slips off her left stocking in one slow, fluid motion, giving the other half of the audience a view.

Now fully naked aside from the flower by her ear, she wiggles her dainty toes for the audience to see. Lola playfully tickles her vagina and lets out a quiet moan of pleasure. She raises her eyes to the noose above her head and the eyes of the audience follow her gaze as she stands up on top of the stool.

The hunger of the audience is palpable as Lola arrests the swaying of the noose and holds it still. She closes her eyes and nuzzles it gently with her soft pink nose. She presses the coarse rope to her cheek, savoring the texture of it against her fur. With one hand, she explores the intricate shape of the knot; her questing fingers tracing every coil of the rope, admiring the hidden power of such an innocuous object. With her other hand, Lola gently caresses her pert, pink nipples.

Carefully and without hurry, Lola lifts the noose over her head and guides it past her upright ears and down below her chin. She draws the knot tight against the nape of her neck, enclosing her slender throat in the rope's fatal embrace. Lola continues to work her fingers over the rope, running her hands over the supporting rope above her head that will soon take her weight and tracing the simple loop around her neck that will shortly afterward take her life.

The atmosphere of The White Door is thick with expectation as Lola gently works her feet forward to the rim of the stool until her toes are gripping the edge. She stands perfectly still for a moment, letting the tension build and giving the audience a chance to visually savor the tableau of her imminent death.

She looks out across the audience and blinks her blue eyes languidly. Her entire life has been building towards this moment; a single performance in the spotlights of the stage. With a gentle sigh, she shifts her weight forward, rocking the stool onto two legs, and then kicks back. The stool tips onto the floor and rolls a short ways away. 

The rope is pulled taut and Lola gasps sharply as she drops barely an inch. Her caramel feet kick reflexively in a futile effort to find purchase on the empty air. She clutches desperately at her throat, trying to claw her self-ensnared neck free. 

The initial moment of instinctual panic past, Lola begins to relax. This is the dance she has been training for, what she was bred for, what she was born to do. She continues to struggle, but in a much more even, controlled fashion. There is a new grace to her movements, a rhythm that could never be achieved by random reflex.

Lola writhes sensually at the end of her rope, her hips gyrating smoothly as the noose grows incrementally tighter with each passing second. Her hands are at her throat, lightly grasping the coarse rope digging into her neck. She tosses her head from side to side, her upright ears waving, her eyes bulging, her breath coming in choked gasps from her wide open mouth. Between her legs, there are clear signs that Lola may be enjoying the experience at least as much as her audience.

For several agonizing minutes, Lola elegantly fights a battle she has neither hope nor desire of winning. She twists and squirms in a magnificent display of equal parts euphoric pleasure and grotesque pain. Her lips and protruding tongue slowly turn blue and the pink interiors of her gradually sagging ears take on a pleasing purple hue as her body begins to run out of oxygen. As Lola continues to pedal the air the only sounds are the creaking of the rope, the rustling of her soft caramel fur, and the gentle squeaking of her final breaths. 

Then, with a trilling spasm that sends a shiver across her entire body, Lola experiences one final pleasure; a trickle of viscous fluid drips out of her aroused folds and a strangled moan forces its way out of her collapsed throat.

Mere moments later, Lola loses consciousness completely as her body begins to give up the fight. Her head slumps forward, her ears fall limp, her eyelids sag over her unseeing blue eyes, and after a final feeble twitching her limbs cease moving and hang slack. A small quantity of piss chases the cum of her final orgasm down her caramel thighs.

Her chest rises and falls, rises weakly and falls, but does not rise again. Lola is dead.

All is still and silent.

The audience erupts in wildly enthusiastic applause; this has easily been one of the best "Lola Lapin" performances in a while. Cheers and whistles fall on Lola's unhearing ears as the Host makes his way back onto the stage. 

"That was wonderful, my dear," he says in a soft tone that nevertheless is heard by everyone present. The masked host cups her chin in one hand and pantomimes kissing her bulging cheek while surreptitiously checking for a pulse to confirm that the lapine is in fact deceased.

The Host turns to the audience. "Now, my friends, who wants to enjoy the flesh of the late Miss Lola Lapin? We shall start the bidding at two thousand."

"Two thousand," says a voice in the audience.

"Twenty-six hundred," says a second.

"Twenty-eight hundred," calls a third voice.

"Three thousand," counters the first voice.

"TEN THOUSAND!" bellows a voice from one of the booths and the room goes silent.

"Sold, to the gentleman in the booth for ten thousand," the Host calmly states. "Waiter, if you would be so kind as to deliver him his prize?"

Lola's limp body is lowered to the stage and the noose is removed from around her strangled neck; her soft fur hides the bruises well. She's arranged on a wheeled tray and the waiter carefully threads his way through the tables occupying the floor. Many patrons look on as she passes with obvious desire.

Arriving at the booth, Lola is transferred from the tray to the table. Many patrons pretend not to watch the Tkrojan diner, a prominent local politician who is, according to his schedule, definitely not here, as he mounts the table and buries his already throbbing erection deep inside Lola's unresisting vagina and begins thrusting furiously. He sinks his teeth into her delicate throat as the waiter discretely closes the heavy privacy curtains across the booth.

For a while, the bone-crunching, flesh-tearing sounds of violent mastication can be heard coming from the booth as the evening's scheduled entertainment continues on the stage.





**

Author's Notes

First draft begun January 16, 2009, then left unfinished for a while, and completed October 11, 2009. Final revisions completed October 20, 2009. 

Not inspired by anything in particular, but the idea has been lurking in the depths of my mind for a while. If the last bit disturbs you, I'd like to point out that Tkrojans are carnivores, and they hate to see good food go to waste.