This is the start of a much longer story I'm working on—and it marks one of the few times I've really felt like a prologue was really necessary. As such, this first mini-chapter is short and non-erotic. The overall story, however, will be much closer to my ordinary blend of sex and plot, so if you like weresheep, holstaurs, mermaids, alraune, and other monster girls, bear with me for a little bit!

As always, these stories will involve mind control, nonconsent, the sexualized degradation of men and women as sex objects, and annoying character development that gets in the way of the sex scenes. Reader discretion is advised. ;D

This story was inspired by the excellent ideas of VoidGolem.

~~~~ ~~~~

To my dear sister,

I'm beginning to think you were right about Great-Uncle Yvun, you know. What a strange, strange day. I don't even know where to begin, but I guess I'll start with the most unpleasant sentence I can think of: I woke up early this morning to meet with a lawyer.

You remember how in the last letter I talked about some sort of mention in the will? Get this: I actually inherited one of our uncle's three ranches. Yeah, that's right, Great-Uncle Yvun, the creepy old racist who never showed up to family parties without a barely-dressed girl on either arm, owned three ranches. And he didn't even leave his own granddaughter a penny! Just that old book of his. The will explicitly underlines how only a "properly penised" (?!) man, "unrestricted from natural attraction to a female breast", can be trusted to run one of his ranches.

I know you probably want to go strangle a corpse right now. Same here. Thing is, there are a lot of other weird conditions on here. I have to go alone, though there will be employees at the ranch (I wonder if they get paid for the hours they wait there while the boss is dead). I also can't bring any silver with me, nor any "instruments of masculine masturbation".

Getting weird yet? Well, just wait, because it gets better. See, I met the stockman today ...

There was sort of a gradient regarding table wood quality. Some tables gave good knocks, good, strong sounds that spoke of properly treated hardwood. Some tables gave nice, ringing hollow knocks that spoke of thin boards, cheap but solid, ideal investments for the frugal furnisher. Some tables gave creaking sounds every time Senya so much as looked at them.

This table was of the creaks-at-a-look variety.

Bad wood, he thought. Rotten for carving. Rotten, period, probably.

"Somethin' wrong, boss?" Jerrod asked.

"No," Senya said, biting his lip. He gave the stockman a smile he hoped seemed genuine, despite his nerves. "Just... checking the wood."

"Ah." Jerrod glanced at the table. "Food should be here soon. Sorry, the service ain't normally this bad."

"Don't worry about it." Senya shrugged. "It's not the worst place a guy's taken me."

Jerrod looked up sharply. He was a funny-looking fellow, alright. He probably stood six feet, at least, and perhaps half as wide—a real brute. Straw blond hair complimented ruddy cheeks and pale blue eyes. He would be handsome, Senya thought, but he had the face of a man who'd been in a fair few scrapes and lost at least a couple. His nose was crooked, and there were a few scars on his cheek. He wasn't ugly, but he wasn't exactly a great beauty, anyways, save perhaps in a very rugged way. "I think the will was clear," he said, clearing his throat nervously. "Strictly stated—it's no concern of mine, mind—"

"I know." Senya remembered just in time and held up a hand. "Don't worry. I'm 'unrestricted'." He winked. "Great admirer of the female breast."

"Ah. Good." Jerrod seemed to relax. "Yeah, the boss was real firm on that point. Maybe for the wrong reasons, but..."

Senya wondered what the 'right reasons' were. He probably didn't want to know. "So," he said, "just how far is this ranch of mine?"

"Ambrosia Ranch is just a week's ride," Jerrod said. "A day's mage ferry, if you're up for payin' for it."

"I'm definitely not." Senya laughed. "When I got the news about the will, I was almost dead broke. Anya handles most of my expenses."

"Right. Your sister, she's that mage artist, ain't she? Good to have someone to fall back on."

"Including dead great-uncles." Senya raised his cup. The bar was too cheap to provide proper glass, so the cup was just ceramic bleached of color by some nickle-dime mage. The opaque white color was returning around the edges, showing its age.

Jerrod accepted the toast. The stockman of the Ambrosia Ranch didn't seem the type to really stick on respect for the dead, Senya thought.

They waited in silence for about a minute. A harried barmaid finally showed up with a tray bearing two plates of flapjacks. No syrup, but Senya supposed that wasn't covered in 'travel expenses'. He gratefully accepted the plate. "Thanks!" he said uncomfortably, knowing she was waiting for a tip.

He glanced at Jerrod, who shrugged and dropped a few coppers on the tray and flashed the waitress a wide leering grin. "Why don't you shake those buns away an' give us something to watch, eh?"

The waitress smiled thinly and walked away, ignoring Jerrod's lingering stare. Senya coughed to disrupt it. "So what can you tell me about the ranch? What are the, um, livestock?"

"Sheep." Jerrod shrugged. "Cattle. Bees. We also run a vineyard, a cranberry bog, and a, uh, puppy kennel of sorts."

"Hm." Senya considered this. "That's sort of eclectic."

"Iiiit..." Jerrod had the look in his eye of someone who'd just heard a word he didn't know and didn't want to admit it. "Yes, it is. But we turn a real profit, and it's good work. I only just dropped by a week or so ago, though, to talk to the straw boss."

"Straw boss?"

"Uh." Jerrod coughed. "It's a farm term. Sorta like a manager on a ranch. Doesn't own the place, but directs most affairs when the owner's out. You'll be getting a lot of direction from the straw boss at first, but they'll ease up when you've got the ropes."

"You really can't tell me much, can you? Can you promise you aren't here for my organs?"

"I can—" Jerrod coughed. "Well, I'm not after any organs, I can tell you that much."

Senya couldn't shake the feeling that that had been an overly precise answer, but he was too occupied with the flapjacks to ask too many questions just yet.

He'd meant to ask more precisely when he was done chewing, but by then, Jerrod was speaking again. "We'll need to leave after breakfast. If that doesn't work for you, well, we'll default to your Cousin Jem."

"I have a sister, you know." Senya rolled his eyes.

The stockman laughed. "Old boss's rules, Boss. Sorry. Not my call."

"Fair."

"Anyways, we'll leave by the old carriage. Now, when we get to the ranch, it'll be... tricky to get used to." Jerrod cut off a piece of flapjack and shoveled it into his mouth. "Just trust me when I say it's all legitimate and legal," he said through a full mouth of cake. "Questionable, but legal. Ain't no funny business."

"Okay, you're making me nervous." Senya tried for a relaxed laugh, but it came off a bit more stiff than he'd wanted. "You said the ranch just deals in cows and stuff. What about that is going to shock m..." He trailed off, as an ugly thought occurred to him. "Hang on. This farm."

"Ranch," Jerrod corrected, looking uncomfortable.

"What labor does it employ?" Senya asked, frowning. "Is it indentured labor?" Or worse? he thought. "This is the Wild East. I know people from back home who think they can treat the East like their own personal playground, pull whatever they like with the natives outside their cities. My sister and I are trying to avoid that... tendency."

"Oh! No!" Jerrod was plainly relieved. What did he think I was going to ask? Senya wondered. "No natives are employed at all, actually. Old boss believed in keeping everything... tight. Within the family."

"What does that say about you?"

Jerrod grinned and rolled up the sleeve of his arm. Senya flinched slightly as he made out a black tattoo he knew well. "Piracy. We caught... cargo. Nasty, violent stuff."

"How'd you get caught?" Senya didn't mean to ask it, but his curiosity outpaced his mouth once again.

"Well, you know how it is in piracy." Jerrd gave the sort of casual shrug that showed he didn't really care if Senya didn't. "After a decade or so, the captain starts to get tired of fightin'. Starts pickin' favorites, looking for people who want to make it straight and narrow. Then she makes a deal with the Black Boats, and..." He tapped the tattoo once, wincing even at that slight contact as the paints seemed to ripple. "One way or another, a life of crime always ends. Either with a serious try at a fresh start, a noose, or one of these."

"Hm." Senya had never seen an Everyflag before. They were used by the riders of the Black Boats to 'encourage' obedience to local laws. The tattoos were infamous for adhering to whatever the local laws were, no matter how injust—a well-known tale in taverns was the story of Anne the Barber, a vicious cutthroat branded with the mark who'd accidentally wandered into the Kingdom of the Chosen. Stories differed on whether or not she had submitted to the male-dominated cult's regime or deliberately set herself ablaze. Regardless, the Everyflag was only reserved for the most brutal or unpopular criminals.

Such as a pirate who refused to accept an early retirement with sheathed steel.

"Anyways," Jerrod said, "your uncle's lawyer picked me up. The will called for an extra hand—someone who could be trusted, but, in the lawyer's words, 'managed as an expendable'. Funny chap."

"Yes." Senya blanched. The lawyer had been a decidedly unpleasant sort, a pallid, ghoulish man in a bowler hat with small, thick spectacles that had almost concealed his eyes completely. In other words, the exact sort of fellow Senya would have expected for his great-uncle Ysun's attorney. "Well, I think I'm ready to go."

"So you're accepting?" Jerrod asked. "Lemme be clear here: Once you say yes, you're in for the long haul. We don't wanna waste time picking up that Jem, you hear me?" He held out his un-tattooed hand to shake.

Senya hesitated.

This is a bad idea. Anya told you it's a bad idea. You know it's a bad idea. There's some catch here. Uncle was a sick, twisted bastard.

But maybe it's nothing. Maybe it really is just a ranch with sexist hiring policies. And I really need the money.

He reached out and took Jerrod's hand, returning a firm handshake. "It's a deal."

~~~~

"Boy," Jerrod muttered, "what are the fucking odds our carriage breaks down halfway to the village?"

He shot a cautious glance back towards Senya. The guy was just staring at the wagon wheel, as if trying to work out why a broken spoke would cause it not to work. "Aren't you a woodcarver?" he snapped. Senya looked up at him sharply, and Jerrod quickly made his tone a bit more conversational. "I mean, don't you know how to fix that?"

"I'm really more of a sculptor," Senya said, tapping his index fingers together nervously. "What made the wheel break? Is it just... old, or—"

"I don't think so." Jerrod's eyes narrowed. He shoved the skinny carver out of the way and stooped by the wheel. "There's something off about this thing."

"It's from a different wood than the other three." Senya coughed. "Does that mean anything?"

Jerrod blinked. He looked at the three working wheels, then back at the broken one, comparing them. "Huh. Guess you do know something." He looked around. "I don't like it here."

"I've always liked the Eastern bamboo forests," Senya said. "Ever since Anya and I moved out here. It's so different from—"

"Nah, the trees are fine." Jerrod cracked a little grin, but it was a smile tinged with danger. There were shadows out there, and it was way too close to nighttime. "And the ladies that inhabit 'em are even finer. Not good at the language, but they know how to talk dirty, eh?"

"Really." Senya sounded uncomfortable. Again, Jerrod prayed that the new boss was into women. If he wasn't... well, the will wasn't vague on the requirements. Jerrod didn't want to think about what would happen if the will fell through.

"Hey, Senya," Jerrod said, straightening. "Get in the carriage and get the leather bag. Be smart and small about it. Keep your eyes peeled."

"What?" Senya started to obey, though. At least the man had some sense.

"I think the Easterners are fucking with us," Jerrod hissed, backing after his boss. "There's some crows out here don't much like your uncle."

He heard Senya pause while entering the carriage. To his right, he heard the mules grumbling uneasily. Yup. We're definitely not alone here. "That would have been nice to know," Senya said, "before I agreed to all this. What did he do?"

"What? Nothing." Jerrod rolled his eyes. "Way I understand it, natives just got a beef. It's Easterners. They don't need reasons for half the shit they pull." He tried not to jump as he heard a twig snap from right in front of him. "Get the bag, take out the sword and shield, and get it to me. And pray these savages couldn't afford repeaters."

"What's a repeater?"

"Ugh." Jerrod had forgotten that repeaters were still a fairly local invention. He'd seen enough of them in action over the last couple weeks to know he did not like facing a repeating crossbow. "Just get me the—"

A shout from the brush almost made him miss the sword hilt placed over his shoulder. He grabbed the sword, accepted the shield, and adopted a combat ready stance. "Here they come," he said, hearing rushing footsteps. Where the hell are they coming from? "Can you fight, Boss?"

"Um. I used to throw stones at birds."

"Great." Jerrod rolled his eyes. "I got a dangerous animal-hurting psychopath on my side. Those metaphor crows better watch out."

"... they were really loud birds, th—"

Senya's rationalization of childhood animal cruelty was cut short by loud shouting in a language Jerrod didn't know. Probably an Eastern dialect native to the area. He turned, realizing that a band of about twenty natives was rushing forth from up the path. "Shit!" he snarled. "Boss—shit!"

The natives were shouting and waving torches. One of them, however, held up a long bamboo staff that glowed with a crimson light. She was old—very old. Jerrod recognized her mostly from her wrinkles. "Matriarch Zhau," he said aloud, swallowing.

The noises in the brush had stopped. The matriarch eyed them coolly, then advanced, a tall, reedy-looking man dressed almost as nicely—but distinctly not as nicely—accompanying her. She started to speak in the language, shaking the stick irritably.

"Matriarch Zhau says," the translator rasped, "that you have greatly disappointed us in returning. We warned that violence would come."

"Oh, yeah?" Jerrod snapped. "Twenty on one. Sorry, Boss, two. Real fair fight."

The translator rolled his eyes and quickly transferred the message. The Matriarch only smiled for a moment before speaking very quickly.

"We are not here to fight you," the translator relayed. "Had we not come to head off our misguided neighbors, you would be dead right now. And if you ask me," he added, and there was an air of you-should-ask-me to his voice as he ceased translating, "even that would be more than you deserve. You are lucky we respect the rule of law more than we—"

"Alright, I get it," Jerrod muttered, casting an uneasy glance at the plainly curious Senya. "Will you get a move on? I'll pay eight coins for someone to fix the wagon." He looked over the crowd. "Any takers? We want to get some sleep before we check in."

After a moment, a young women exited the crowd. Someone called her back, but she ignored them. She was dressed like the artisans of this land dressed, with lots of belts and bandoliers full of tools. She spoke in halting Western. "I can fix wheel," she said. "For ten."

Jerrod really hated these natives.

TO BE CONTINUED...