Monstrous Ranch

Chapter 22

by GigglingGoblin

Tags: #cw:CGL #cw:noncon #breastfeeding #cooing #cowgirl #drugged #intelligence_play #monstergirl #sheepgirl #bondage #catgirl #D/s #dom:female #dom:male #enslavement #f/f #f/m #fantasy #furry #honey #humiliation #indirect_reference_to_p_doph_lia #kinda_actual_racism_by_villains #kitten #lactation #lamia #multiple_partners #petplay #plantgirl #pov:bottom #pov:top #puppy_play #siren #sleep #slime #sub:female #sub:male #trigger
See spoiler tags : #bad_end_(ambiguous_and_not_horrible) #colonialism #prison_industrial_complex_vibes #violence

Anya's heart was being... it was being filled with static. Pleasant, fuzzy static. Like mold on her brain. But she still had some mind to her, and as she lay still, a sort of clarity was drifting back. Her senses were inundated by the strong, intoxicating smell of... something. An aphrodisiac, no doubt.

She had been captured by the fey, and the fey did not exactly smoke tobacco.

The straw cot she lay in was soft, but scratchy. Far from the sort of bed she'd always figured she would get if the fey ever enslaved her. Fey were supposed to have big, comfy beds. Beds that could brainwash you just with how soft they were. Beds laced with fleece sprite wool, beds that smelled of roses. This bed smelled of straw. And it was scratchy.

The scratchiness was the problem. Anya was quite certain she could have happily drifted off completely if she was in a comfortable bed. But this cot was scratchy, and whenever the wagon hit a stone, the bed bumped.


She was in a wagon.

She took a shallow breath in, trying not to inhale too much of the pleasant-smelling drug.

She was on a straw cot, in a large wagon, captured by the fey.

"They knew we were making a move." This voice was rough, and raspy, like gravel slipping down a rocky slope. It bore a thick Eastern accent, but spoke in the Western tongue. "They knew, and you tell me they only left a week ago? Did they know how bad this could get?"

"Easy, Seng. Easy." This voice was sultry, smooth and sly as smoke. "Have another puff."

"Don't tell me what to do, you smokestack shortstack."

"Ooh. How long did it take you to come up with that 'insult', deary?"

"Didn't your daddy ever tell you not to talk down to a jami?"

"Oh, your daddy's told me some things, let me tell you—"

"That doesn't even make sense, we both know you're into women, you fucking—"

As the voices raised, Anya blinked. She became aware that there was a quieter voice beneath it all, speaking rapidly in a tongue she didn't speak. Almost as if... translating?

"Everyone!" snapped a third voice. This one had an even thicker accent than the other two, and had a startling chirpy quality that helped Anya wake herself up a bit more. "We are not here for this stupid infighting. We agreed; it all waits until the Ranch is crushed. Is the Ranch crushed?"

Sour mumbling followed this question.

"Then we do not fight. Kemuri, please don't talk down to an avalanche spirit. Seng, stop taking 'your daddy' jokes literally. Kemuri is trying to anger you by making claims about his own sexual skill coupled with your father's promiscuity."

"Well, why didn't he say so? Smartass smokestack shortstack."

"Seng," said the smoky voice, "please stop repeating that like it is going to become a thing. We need to remain focused on the objective, like our feline friend said."

Anya's eyelids fluttered. The smoke was stronger now, and she realized the hookah had been passed closer to her. A small circle of robed individuals was gathered in the large cart. She leaned back in the cot, as quietly as she could, to avoid secondhand intoxication. These fey could handle it, apparently. She knew she could not.

Some were not in the circle. A few sat to the side, or closer to the source of brightness—the front of the wagon.

And two sat to the side next to Anya's bed. One had a pair of tufted fox ears. She had her arm wrapped around a silver-haired woman. They were not speaking.

"The Ranch," Seng growled.

"The Ranch," Kemuri agreed.

"The wards are ancient," the third speaker declared. "But there is some issue over whether or not they will collapse, as we have predicted. If they collapse, the fey prisoners will all be released. But if they hold..."

"If, if, if," whined a low, almost oozing voice. "Thaaaat's an 'if', caaaaatgirl. And I don't like iiiiiifs.

"Well, neither do the others," snapped the 'catgirl' with a little growl of annoyance. "Which is why they only decided to take off now, now that it looks like those wards are going down no matter what we do."

"Vultures," muttered Seng. "We could've used their help earlier!"

"We could still use it now," Kemuri remarked. He cleared his throat. "So I say we wait."

"I don't like that," Seng said. "Holding back like that. But we're, what, five fey left? And a bunch of mortals. Agh, I dunno." Anya heard the 'jami' spit.

"Moving in now will just result in more dead, more scarecrows," Kemuri said. "You haven't seen Bobbin in action. I have. A house fey on her home terrain is truly a force to reckon with. We shouldn't risk it."

The fox-eared figure next to Anya shifted uneasily, speaking up for the first time. "And what of my sister, Kemuri?"

Kemuri gave a little dismissive noise. "She died to bring the Ranch down in flames. She wouldn't want us risking our lives on her account."

The kitsune stiffened. For a moment, Anya thought she was about to spring at the short, curvaceous speaker. Her hand slipped to her side, as though going for a weapon.

But after a moment, she just seemed to crumple into the dark-haired woman's arms.

There was a long quiet.

"And what are plans for... him?" the catgirl asked, clearing her throat. "The new Master? Do we have to kill him? Seems... a waste."

"Theeeeere are uuuuuuuses for him," moaned the oozing speaker.

"I've got a use for the Wetherdean fellow," Kemuri said cheerfully. "It involves a sword in want of flesh."

Anya stiffened.

They were talking about her brother, she realized.

"There are rules," Seng said, sounding uneasy. "Killing a human could put us in trouble."

"He might," the silver-haired woman said suddenly, her voice uncertain, "be useful for your purposes, ladies and gentleman."

Everyone turned to her, startled.

For a moment, Anya found herself staring at the faces of the fey. A very thin, white-haired catgirl sat alongside a short, very curvaceous red-haired beauty who currently held the hookah and breathed from it thoughtfully. The latter wore what might be assumed to be a feminine form, but everyone was calling 'Kemuri' a man, so Anya supposed it was likely not so simple.

Next to him sat cross-legged a slight woman with muscular arms and large, smooth, shapely feet. Her toes waggled as she regarded the speaker. Finally, a buxom maiden wearing a large conical snail shell atop her head sat to the other side of the catgirl. Her skin was a pale lavender, and seemed strangely slick. All were of clear Eastern descent, but this new speaker, Anya realized, had no accent whatsoever.

"And what might that be, doppelganger?" the catgirl asked. "We talk thus for your benefit, and only for Suisshu's sake—and that only for respect for her lost sister, who perished for the cause. It is a burden on those of us who don't speak good Western. Please, enlighten us."

The doppelganger cleared her throat, then paused.

She glanced back. Her eyes met Anya's.

"Oh," she said softly, "our little mascot here seems to be waking up." She leaned in. "Bumpy ride, dear?" she cooed.

Anya stared up at the silver-haired woman, whose eyes were a piercing silver to match. "F-fuck you," she whispered, struggling in vain to wake herself.

The doppelganger's smile vanished, and she shook her head disapprovingly. "A foul mouth might earn the fey's favor, but not in the way you'd want to use it," she said, leaning in closer. Her eyes started to sparkle. "Now, look into my eyes, my dear..." Her hand caressed Anya's cheek. "Feel yourself... drifting..."


Senya drifted in and out of sleep, a dazed, blissful smile on his face, as Angora's pussy gently milked his hard, needy cock.

His eyelids fluttered. He dreamed of the Thriae, of Mommy, of the beembos and slime girls and puppy sprites, but mostly, he dreamed of the fleece sprites. The fey who had finally—and so, so easily—claimed him.

The fleece sprites embraced him, pouring soft, fuzzy pleasure into his stupid, wooly mind. Their wool soothed him, eased him. Angora rolled her hips and sighed against him, her breathy gasps and moans—so small, so sleepy—a constant soundtrack in his tingling ears.

They kissed him, milked him to orgasm after orgasm, petted him, praised him. He was a good boy, a good bimbo, a good Master, a good, obedient playmate. Submissive. Dreamy. Sleepy. Brainless.

They held him there, lost in dreamy ecstasy, and he felt all will to ever leave their arms fading deep into the mist.

He understood now. He understood it all. Why had he ever tried to resist? This was what he wanted. All he'd ever wanted. Captured and captivated by beautiful fey, lost in lust, lost in submission.

"Good bimbo," one mumbled in his ear.

"Sleepy boy," coed another.

Angora sweetly kissed him, nuzzling against his neck and smiling down at him. He sighed happily.

He had always wanted this, deep down. How could he resist something he wanted? He wanted to lie here forever, lost in dreams, in obedient, pliant, docile bliss, as they used his sleepy, horny body as their eternal sex toy. It was what he deserved. What he craved.

No wonder Jerrod wasn't bothering to save him.

"Good boy," purred Angora, kissing him again and holding him tighter—like a particularly beloved pillow, or a stuffed animal. His chin rested against her fluffy, wool-covered breasts, and this little contact made his head spin down, down, spiraling to the ground like a maple seed. Deeper into fuzzy, fluffy emptiness.

Jerrod and Bobbin would be fine. They were just better than he was—stronger, more resistant. Because they wanted to resist.

They weren't pathetic like Senya. They weren't submissive and needy like Senya. They were in control. The fey here did not master them—they mastered the fey. Owned the fey. Used the fey.

He moaned softly. His mind felt like it was drifting through thunderclouds. Every now and then, a tiny bolt of clarity would strike, then fade as quick as it came. He kept feeling like he was getting closer to something, like he was understanding something.

Luckily, Senya knew he didn't need to understand anything anymore. He could just lie here, and moan, and wriggle, and make the fleece sprites happy.

Jerrod and Bobbin would be fine without him. He'd been a poor successor. He would have made a terrible Master to follow in Great-Uncle Yvun's footsteps.

Not like he would have ever wanted to. Senya smiled up at Angora, who giggled, her eyelids heavy as she nuzzled his cheek. If being a Master meant cruelty and ownership, meant brainwashing prisoners into pets and slaves...

His eyelids fluttered. Again, the lightning flashed by.

"Such a... good pet," Angora said, yawning. She licked his cheek, and he laughed weakly. "It's so nice... so nice, isn't it?"

The lightning gave way to puffy white clouds again as he numbly nodded. Nice to be pliant and docile. Easier to be a good pet. To obey. He would have been a terrible Master. He would make a wonderful pet. A wonderful sleepy bimbo.

Regrets swam through his head like sparrows in the clouds. The business with the Will—but he hadn't even understood it lucid. It was too much for him. Bobbin would sort it out. Cheat it out, like Jerrod had said. He would never see his puppy sprites again, perhaps, unless Bobbin eventually freed him—but what then? He would just sink into the next fey's arms and submit all over again. Perhaps he would see his puppies again, and that made him cum joyously into Angora's slick, smooth pussy. He would miss carpentry—but he hadn't had time for it anyways, serving Bobbin's wishes. No time for anything but pleasure now. He would miss his sister—


He frowned.

He would miss his sister.

Seeing his frown, the fleece sprites gave sympathetic moans. They started kissing and licking all over his neck and face, drowning him in their love. Angora wriggled her hips until he found himself cumming again, and he felt those worries melting away once more, forgotten.

"Good boy," Angora said, her voice soft and wispy. "Good boy..."

He would be a good boy. He smiled, eyelids closing at last as his submission was complete. A good pet. A good obedient, submissive, pliant, docile, horny, sleepy, dreamy, foggy, empty-headed brainless bimbo slave. He heard, faintly, the fleece sprites whispering these words in his ears, but they just seeped in and settled in his mind without him even having to think about them. And it felt so good to just let them... program him. No more time for regrets. There was only softness. There was only sleep. There was only pleasure. There was only music.



Through the drowsy haze, Senya began to hear a strange sort of song.

It was some sort of woodwind tune, like a flute. Its tone was deep and slow. Kind of cute—very cheerful. A lullaby. It was pleasant to Senya, though he wasn't sure why Angora's eyes had turned that bright pink color.

The fleece sprite licked her lips. She licked Senya's lips. Her eyelids were drooping until her eyes were just slits.

Around Senya, he felt the two fleece sprites who held him steady getting out from the pile. He sank into the grass, blinking, startled by the sudden relative chill—though his cock spurting cum into Angora's cunt once again was enough to dispel such worries for now. He mindlessly clutched at her.

The two fleece sprites, meanwhile, started crawling away.

Then Angora started to move. She was breathing heavily, Senya felt, as she disentangled herself from him. He clutched at her weakly, but she, despite her exhaustion, was still stronger. His cock slid out of her pussy with a slick, wet sound, still dribbling a little.

And then she, too, began to crawl. Senya finally looked up.

The three fleece sprites were gathering by the gate. On the other side of the gate stood a strangely familiar woman with long dark hair. She was totally naked, and playing a crudely-carved bamboo flute of sorts.

The fleece sprites' eyes had gone rosy with longing as they leaned against the fence, panting along with the music. From behind, Senya could see their thighs rubbing together, could see their need.

But he was still too foggy to think clearly, and so he just watched as the young woman procured three sticks, each with a ball of golden amber at the end. She hesitated.

Her eyes, Senya noticed, were a bright gold.

And then he realized what those candies were.

The fleece sprites were actually drooling as they stared, eyes half-closed, at the honeypops. They leaned closer, trying to reach them. Their rosy eyes were glazed and distant as the lullaby continued.

And then those golden eyes contacted his own. She stopped playing a moment, but curiously, the music lingered, echoing through the pen. "What are you, stupid?" the woman hissed, gesturing to the fence. "Get out, quick! This won't distract them long, and they can be fast when they need to be!"

She quickly returned to playing.

Senya stared dumbly at her. She stared back at him, urgently nodding towards the fence.

The fleece sprites had acquired their candies, now, and were happily sucking on them, blissful looks on their faces. They sucked like babies at nipples, rapidly reducing the Thriae treats into nothing. Their eyes were sparkling, now, pink and gold.

Senya started crawling slowly towards the fence. The world seemed to be pulsating. Everything was suddenly too bright, too loud, and he was so tired. He swayed back and forth as he crawled, nearly falling on his side more than once.

"Ooh. Master."

He paused, glancing back. His whole head felt like it was full of cotton balls.

Angora was crawling towards him, eyes sparkling gold and pink, a drowsy smile on her angelic face. And then she was next to him, nuzzling his neck. "Do you wanna leave?" she whispered, leaning against him. "Because... you can, if you want."

Senya stared at her as he felt his muscles relaxing. It was true. He could, if he wanted to.

The trouble was... he didn't, did he?

This was what he wanted. His eyelids fluttered as she gave his neck a little lick. And that was the problem here. He was tired of fighting. It felt too good to not fight. It all just felt too good. Too right.

Senya didn't want to be Master. He wanted to be a good boy. And so his arms started to go limp. He started to sink back down, deep, deep down, and back into Angora's tender clutches. "Angora," he moaned.

"Yes, Master," the fleece sprite cooed, stroking his hair. "Sleepy. Sleepy bimbo Master."

"Sleepy... yes, sleepy..." He smiled dreamily as he heard the other fleece sprites crawling up behind him. Angora giggled.

Then he heard a shrill buzzer go off, and he jumped. So did Angora.

Or, to be precise, she fell over. The buzzer went off three times, harsh and screeching, like an angry tin bird. Senya's world throbbed, thrust back into full wakefulness.

And on the third buzz, enough of his proper mind managed to spark back into action to crawl the last few feet forward and grasp at the bard's hands. She yanked him over the fence with a grunt.

He landed roughly in the grass—rough enough that it hurt. He rolled onto his back, and lay there for a moment, the grass irritating his back, his head hurting from the rough fall, his ears ringing from the awful alarm buzzer.

"There!" snapped the woman, sucking in a deep breath. She had fallen over, too, and now she climbed to her feet and folded her arms over her bare chest. "Yeeshus and Nakti, gods of music and noise, that was close!" She stood over him, sticking her upper lip out in thought. "You alright, sir?"

"Um..." He blinked several times. "Yes. Yes!" He struggled to his feet. "Yes, I am!" His head was still spinning. The world was spinning. Why was this woman so familiar? "I... I don't, though..."

She extended a hand. "My name's Merisi. Second-Class Bard of the Bardic Orders Postal Service. Not that that means anything to this lot." She shot a scowl back at the fleece sprites.

Senya shook her hand, smiling weakly. "My name's Senya. Senya Wetherdean."

"Oh, thank the gods." Merisi smirked. "I mean, I owed you a save anyways, but I was really hoping you were Senya."

"You know my name? Wait—" Senya's mind, still sluggish, suddenly kicked into high gear. Reflexively, he drew his hand back. "You were the honey sprite!"

"Second-stage addiction." She scowled at him, gesturing at her eyes—sure enough, the irises were gold, but she still had pupils and whites. "Not a honey sprite."

"Yes, but—" Senya's mind was still racing. He found himself grinning broadly. "You're the messenger! Oh, gods, so Anya has been getting my letters."

"Um. No."

Her face was serious. A bit confused. Worried. Senya's smile dropped off quickly. "Oh. I see." He hesitated, then, biting his lip, looked around. "Wait, where's Jerrod?"

Merisi scratched her head. "Oh, that guy? I saw some hen harpies running off with him and a shaven fleece sprite. I'd have saved him, but I also saw you, and... frankly, I don't fuck with shaven fleece sprites. Speaking of which, we should probably get someplace safer." She gestured to the pen. "Fleece sprites aren't good at long-distance chases, but they can sprint."

"Oh, don't worry." Senya shook his head, the last remnants of grogginess finally slipping from his newly-cleared mind. "The wards don't—"

Out of the corner of his eye, Senya caught movement. He stiffened, his head turning ever-so-slightly to look.

Horror and shock clashed against a strange delight as Angora finished pulling herself over the fence. The other fleece sprite were rising to their feet, too, sluggish but plainly excited.

There was a crackling over the wooden slats, like sparks, and then... nothing.

Angora landed on her hands and knees on the other side, beaming up at him. "H-hi, Master," she said sweetly.

Senya took a step back, biting his lip. She was only a meter or so away from him, and slowly getting back to her feet...

"We should go," Merisi said, grabbing Senya's arm. "Go now. I am not losing you until I can deliver these damn letters."

And jarred back to full wakefulness by the tugging, Senya turned and obediently took off at a run.


Senya only occasionally glanced up from Anya's letters to avoid collisions with bamboo clusters or trees. Otherwise, he was lost in the first correspondence he'd had from his oldest friend in weeks, and he read as he ran.

He worked through them quickly; there were only four, after all, and he was a good reader. Actually, it took him longer than usual. His head still felt a bit slow. And when he was done reading, his head only felt more clogged and cramped.

He ran towards the harpy henhouse, purely by instinct. He wasn't actually sure how he knew where to go, considering he'd never been there that he could recall. Then again, he was beginning to trust his conscious memory less and... Oh, gods, I forgot about that night with Valina! How did I manage forget that I remembered that Bobbin messed with my memory? Okay, that's a stupid-sounding question.

Running was good, he realized. It was pure exertion. After all that groggy brainwashing, it seemed to help clear him out, even though he was fleeing alongside a slender, attractive young bard. It felt all those clogged thoughts were finally sifting out, evening in his mind. And now, with adrenaline flooding through him, he was beginning to...

... organize himself. His missing memories. The Postmaster's note to Anya. The scarecrow. The lawyer. Merisi and the Thriae. Market Day. The crows. The hostile natives. Brigitte's riddle. The glow in the cellar. Valina.

It wasn't that he'd forgotten any of it—rather, it felt like he'd been kept so busy, none of it had had time to sink in.

What time had he had? Shit, he couldn't remember his last length of free time where he hadn't been dealing with some sort of sexual torment! He couldn't even remember how long he'd been here!

It was almost too much. His eyes were tearing up, not with anger, or sorrow, but sheer, overwhelmed mental exhaustion. He was pretty sure the fleece sprites were long behind them, but he just needed to keep running. If he ran, he could keep putting this together. He could keep sorting, compiling. He'd gotten so many hints, so many—

"Wetherdean, wait!"

Senya stopped short, nearly skidding on the grass, as they drew near a chickenwire fence. It encircled a large dirt enclosure containing somewhere around two dozen chickens. Ordinary chickens, scratching around in the dirt, pecking up corn and clucking merrily.

And in the corner of the enclosure was a bright neon-green chicken coop. From within, he could distantly hear a gaggle of what sounded like chattering young women.

Merisi tugged on his shoulder, her eyes narrowed. "What are we doing here?" she hissed. "We need to get the hell out of here!"

Senya stared numbly at the coop for second. He slowly shook his head. "No," he heard himself say. "Need to... I need to get help. The wards are going down."

"Yeah, I kinda put two and two together. This place is full of ancient magic. Generations old. Maybe even centuries. That's way above my pay grade, and definitely above yours."


Senya knew Merisi was right. He also knew that Merisi was right about what was best for the two of them. That was a bard's specialty: the here and now and the who-was-present. But this was bigger than the here-and-now. This was centuries bigger.

"Jerrod is in there," he said, voice shaking. "And—and he and Bobbin are the only ones who know anything about this place. He knows a little."

"No way. Trust me, you cannot handle even one or two hen harpies in this state. They'll have you a giggling bimbo like that." She snapped her fingers. Senya swayed a little, and she gestured with raised eyebrows. "See!"

"You... can do what you want." He turned to the henhouse, heart pounding. "I need to get to Jerrod. If the wards go down completely, it's... I don't know. It's bad. And my fault."

He could resist. He'd have to. Senya knew he could—because he had before, hadn't he! He could fight it! He just... he...

... he needed to want to.

Senya blinked.

Merisi looked to the left, then the right. The bard groaned. "Fuck, of course I'm not just gonna let these fey rape you brainless. Fine." She whipped out the bamboo flute. "But don't tell anyone about this. I am not getting demoted for Rank Heroism over this." Her eyes darted from side to side (scanning the horizon for charging fleece sprites, no doubt). "But, uh, wouldn't it be better to go find that Bobbin? Sounds like she knows more."

He blinked again, then sucked in a deep breath. "N... no." He shook his head. "Not Bobbin. Not Bobbin."

He felt very certain of this. He was not going to go anywhere near Bobbin for the time being.

He needed to remember what was about to happen.


Several hours ago...

Bobbin made her way out towards the Honey Hill, whistling a jaunty tune, hands clasped behind her back. The kitsune they'd captured was juuuust about ripe now. It had been a delicious couple of days, filling her up, teasing her, making her cum her brains out.

Bobbin hadn't been able to survey much of the latter, sadly—so preoccupied had she been with yummy, needy little Master. But soon the time would come. And good thing, too! They were down to just nine scarecrows, so every extra guard helped while they were in this holding pattern.

Master was close, though. Bobbin was hopeful. He would either take charge, and begin to rule the Ranch with a firmer hand, or he would be a passive inheritor, and Bobbin might be the one exerting the 'firmer hand' over him.

She licked her lips guiltily. The latter seemed a bit more likely. The Ranch had never seen a submissive Master before—but then, it had never seen a Master not born on the Ranch before.

Oh, it was a sorry state. But Bobbin was optimistic. Senya might be the start of a new line of Masters—not a bad line, just a different type of leadership. Bobbin had never worked under someone kind before.

Of course, with his obedient streak, it seemed unlikely she would really be working under him, but... she grinned.

Regardless, he would need new scarecrows in the meantime. And what luck to have captured a kitsune! Beastfey always made wonderful scarecrows, once their shapeshifting was neutralized.

Bobbin was, of course, thoroughly immersed in her own thoughts. So much so that she didn't even notice until she drew within speaking distance what was wrong with the scarecrows before her.

They weren't occupied with the kitsune at all.

Instead, the four scarecrows Bobbin had tasked with licking the kitsune to climax after climax after climax last night were on their knees, squealing, as they eagerly licked out two wasp-waisted, amber-eyed, big-breasted blonde beauties who were each clad in nothing but scarlet lingerie.

Behind them, moaning, was Sylvia, eagerly licking the squealing kitsune out. Bobbin felt some initial relief, despite it all. At least the ritual hadn't been interrupted.

But that relief quickly gave way to anger. Bobbin stopped short, eyes blazing. "Five! Six! Fourteen! Twelve! What in the gods' name?"

"Oh... mm..." Six gagged slightly, drinking down the honey greedily. She grinned dizzily at Bobbin as she swallowed. "Sorry, Bobbi. Jus' bein'... good girls..." Her blue button eyes seemed to sparkle with extra luster as she returned to licking.

Bobbin glared at her creation, then up at Lata and Lala. The Thriae had the decency to look nervous—maybe because the closer Bobbin got to them, the hornier they were both programmed to get, and they all knew that. Bobbin took a step forward. "Lata," she said darkly, "Lala, care to elaborate?"

"Oh... mm... B-Bobbi..." Lala had a big smile on her face as Twelve and Six took turns licking her clit with nimble tongues.

"Stop licking them!" Bobbin barked.

Meekly, the scarecrows pulled away, their motions sluggish and reluctant. They crawled back, licking their lips—and the lips of one another—clean of the remaining juices, giggling.

Bobbin was infuriated. Her scarecrows couldn't be poisoned or drugged, so that meant the Thriae had hypnotized them. But they weren't supposed to be able to use their buzzing ability without becoming enormously horny and submissive!

Unless... Bobbin licked her lips. She hadn't reinforced their programming in a while.

Maybe it was time to start.

"Lala," she said sweetly, and relished the look of terror that crossed their faces at this tone of voice, "Lata, care to explain?"

They exchanged looks, biting their bee-stung amber-painted lips. Behind them, Sylvia let out a wordless moan.

Bobbin took a step forward, and smiled brightly as they each swallowed. "Well?"

"Well..." Lata cleared her throat. "Well, see, it's like, you hadn't come by all day, r-right, Lala?"

"Right!" Lala nodded eagerly. "And we were—we were, like, super horny—"

Bobbin took another step forward. "Horny like how?" she asked, cocking her head curiously.

Lata's face was turning red. "L-like... like... super horny."

"Stupid horny," Lala agreed, giving a nervous giggle. "We couldn't help ourselves!"

"Oh?" Bobbin took another step, licking her lips as she saw the Thriae nearly lunge for their own pussies. They barely stopped themselves, no doubt knowing any attempt at self-pleasuring would only make this worse. They were caressing their prodigious curves, now, pinching their nipples, rubbing their hands over their body, anything to distract themselves. Bobbin blinked innocently. "So you didn't have any control?"

"No!" Lata squeaked. "N-no control at all."

"Just a coupla dumb sluts," Lala whined. "Just... couldn't..."

Bobbin took a big stride forward. She was now just a few steps away from arm's length from the pair. She smiled widely. "Resist?" she offered.

"C-can't resist," Lata whispered, her fingers helplessly straying towards her pussy.

"Can't resist," Lala breathed, her hands following Lata's.

Bobbin reached down and gently ran a finger over her own clit, relishing their wantonness around her. She loved breaking them like this. "Now, now," she purred. "No stroking. Just hold your hands a few inches away." Bobbin took another step forward. She smiled at the two flushed, messy Thriae. "So what happened then?"

"We..." Lata was panting with the effort of keeping her hands still. "We saw the scarecrows..."

"And..." Lala moaned. "And we t-tried... buzzing them..."

"'Cause, I mean..." Lata giggled, her voice cracking with the strain. "If it t-triggered us, gosh, we were horny sluts anyways!"

Bobbin stepped forward. "So you mind controlled my scarecrows."

"Th-that's right." Lala sank to her knees, her eyes tearful. "To lick. T-to... obey..."

"To make... Mistresses...happy..." Lata fell to her knees as well.

"You like making your Master happy," Bobbin said firmly, stepping forward. She was now within arm's reach. She was breathing heavily, now, staring down at her blushing, submissive beauties. The Thriae were her own forbidden treat. A gift from an old Master—one of the most dangerous High Fey in the world, their entire culture based around dominance, and submissive totally to Bobbin's own pleasure. "And who is your Master?"

"You," the blubbering Thriae mewled in unison, leaning in to breathe in Bobbin's scent. "It's you!"

Bobbin smiled, her heart racing. She felt the scarecrows embracing her from behind, kissing her neck, licking her sides and shoulders. She reached out and rested a hand on each Thriae's blonde head, drawing them in. "For every second you spend not licking," she cooed, giggling with delight, "I'm going to say bad girl."

The Thriae's eyes widened.

They lunged, already moaning at the horrid half-orgasms that were rushing through them, and began licking together at Bobbin's pussy with wild abandon. They moaned and gasped in between laps, and Bobbin's eyelids fluttered, delighting in those honeyed tongues on her skin. She let out a high-pitched moan.

In seconds, she was sinking to the ground, immersed in the scarecrows' arms, lost in the Thriae's endless licking. Her gasps and cries only spurred them to lick faster. Within a minute, she was orgasming, and this made the scarecrows orgasm, and the Thriae moaned with delight as she gasped out her praise to bring them to the same points of bliss...

Distantly, Bobbin wasn't sure if this was really as effective a punishment as she'd had in mind.

But she moaned and gasped as the tongues lapped eagerly over her tingling clit, unable to really care.

She would have plenty of time to reinforce the programming once her pussy was satisfied. And that would only take... what, a few hours?

Then she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. It took her a moment to register.

Sylvia had picked up a small razor.

And she was cutting through the ropes.

Bobbin blinked. "Hey!" she protested. "St—MMF!" She was cut off by a mind-melting kiss from Lata, long, deep and sweet, that left her gasping. She broke away, struggling in the Thriae's suddenly very firm grips. "Stop! Bad gi—ah! AAH!"

She spasmed as the orgasm was licked from her struggling body. It came like a tidal wave, flooding her in sticky, honeyed pleasure. She tried to form words, to utter even the simplest of triggers, but it was all too much. Her screams of pleasure drowned out any attempt at words.

Sometime after, but before she had recovered enough to speak, Lata resumed kissing her, silencing her panting lips. The scarecrows were still kissing Bobbin, too—either they were firmly under control, or they were too closely linked to Bobbin's id to understand what she truly wanted them to do. Bobbin gasped and moaned into the kiss, lost in the licking, lost in the sweet bliss.

She had to fight. Had to... had to think clearly, had to... ah... ah... gotta... gotta... "AAAH!MMM! "

Barely registered to the hob, whose struggles were increasingly slowing, weakening, Sylvia cut the kitsune free. The fox maid fell into the Thriae's arms, panting, shivering.

And then, grinning, Sylvia tilted the kitsune's wide-eyed, gasping face upwards.

And procured a small pitcher.


Surprisingly enough, the main challenge of getting into the chicken coop safely was working out how to open the door. It appeared most of the hen harpies flew out through a hatch in the roof. Senya, lacking wings and being well aware of his skill at climbing, instead had to work out how to get the door that the chickens went through open.

All the while, chickens gathered noisily around him. The little feathered nuisances were hungry, it seemed. He tried to tune out their endless clucking, as well as the endless babbling chatter and giggling from behind the door.

Luckily, it was all offset by a brisk, jaunty tune. Merisi followed behind him, playing her flute with rabid energy. The bard's magic was like a cold shower, keeping his head cool. Keeping them from doing... whatever it was the hen harpies had done earlier.

Just the memory made him feel a little foggy. Fuck. They just... Senya grimaced. I was already giving in, but when they started talking...

"Keep playing," he whispered to Merisi. "No matter what."

Merisi looked tempted to stop playing to respond sarcastically. Instead, she just rolled her eyes.

Digging his fingers into the seams between door and wall, Senya tugged the door open.

Inside was a mess of feathers, plush carpeting, empty nestboxes and gigantic pillows. It was like a combination chicken coop and slumber party, and remarkably clean. But there were no chickens in the coop at present.

There were a lot of hen harpies. Senya counted at least twelve of the giggling winged bird-legged women. Some of them were curvy, some slender, and most fell somewhere in between. Their hair and feather colors came in all sizes—buff, speckled, blonde, brunette—but all their eyes were the same fresh-grass green.

Several of them were gathered around a madly giggling shaven fleece sprite Senya recognized. She was crying out in glee as several heads bobbed between her legs, licking eagerly. The rest just tickled her with their feathers and babbled horny nonsense in her ears. Moha was being, it seemed, very effectively brainwashed.

The rest, though, were all on Jerrod.

Jerrod was a mess. Senya barely recognized him. The brawny blond stockman lay with his cock fully captured within the pussy of a giggling, rapidly-bouncing hen harpy. His eyes were glazed over, a big, dumb smile on his handsome face. The rest tickled and kissed all over his naked body, almost competing to access him. They kissed his cheeks, his lips, his neck, nibbles his earlobes, massaged his shoulders.

And they tickled him. They tickled him like mad, and he squirmed like mad to match, but he was helpless, dumb and horny and helpless. He was bucking and giggling with wild abandon, almost like a dumb animal.

Senya couldn't help but swallow at the sight. To see the once-powerful stockman in this state of total, brainless submission...

He cleared his throat. "Ten score crocs broke the clock."

As one, every single hen harpy in the coop froze stiff. So did the fleece sprite, her face bright red, still in the middle of laughing. Everything went very, very quiet.

It was surreal. Disturbing, even, and Senya lost a few seconds from sheer amazement at the sight. It was like the world's raciest wax museum.

Then he hurried forward and grabbed Jerrod by the arm, shoving several hen harpies aside—as gently as he could manage—in the process. Jerrod blinked blearily. "Whuh... um... ha..."

"Jerrod," Senya hissed, "where's your amulet?"

"Hee." Jerrod grinned stupidly at Senya. "Um... gosh. Dunno." His hand slipped down, and he started idly stroking himself, biting his lip as he looked over the gorgeous hen harpies surrounding him. "Why're they all... like, not-fucking-me?"

"Third nestbox over there," Merisi said abruptly, lowering her flute. The babbling had ceased, at least for about two hundred seconds. "We need to hurry."

It took Senya a moment to work out where Merisi was indicating. When he worked it out, he rushed over, grabbed out the amulet, and hurried back to Jerrod, slipping it over the bimbified stockman's neck.

Jerrod blinked.

His hand flew away from his groin like it was on fire, and he clutched his head. "Shit. Shit. That... shit!"

"We only have a couple minutes," Senya said urgently, tugging at Jerrod's arm. "Jerrod, I need to talk to you."

"Yeah?" Jerrod looked up, cocking his head to the side. "What about, boss?"

Senya bit his lip. He felt the words swelling within him, in spite of all effort to contain them. Confusion and fear and worry and anger bore them up like gases in a weather balloon, and then, suddenly, they were out. Cool. Cold. So nonchalant, he almost missed that he said them.

"This isn't really a prison at all, is it?"

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