Monstrous Ranch Ch. 21

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.

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—

Oh.

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.

Wait.

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.