Synopsis: It's a sequel to Pink Haze (I'll think of a better synopsis later lol)

*** Author's Note ***

This story's gonna be a sequel to Pink Haze, set after a timeskip.
If you're interested in reading the preceding story first, the link to Pink Haze is here: https://ponepaste.org/10656













However, if you'd rather skip ahead to this green, the tl;dr for Pink Haze is basically "Anon acquires a harem of three pink mares."

***

>Flowering fields and rolling hills stretch out as far as the eye can see, and all is illuminated under the warm orange glow of the morning sun.
>Draped in a hooded dark-green robe, you stand at the precipice of one such hill—the tallest and widest in the vicinity—giving you a fantastic viewpoint with which to survey your surrounding.
>Feeling the cool autumn breeze lightly brush past your face, you run your gaze down this hill's long-reaching incline and over towards a small settlement in the distance.
>Said settlement consists of no more than ten thatched-roof houses, while a respectable spread of well-tended-to farmland sits next to its right perimeter.
>A flowing river snakes around the back of this settlement, passing through a waterwheel along the way, with the mechanical energy it produces no doubt being used to mill grain or process wood.
>Within the settlement itself, you can see its numerous inhabitants going about their everyday lives—carting wagons, manning stalls, hanging laundry, and so on.
>The inhabitants of this village are mainly comprised of pastel-coloured ponies, but you can see a few other creatures in there as well; there's a griffon, a diamond dog—even a dragon or two.
>Yet regardless of their race, they all wear friendly, carefree smiles on their faces, wholly content with the lot they've been given in life, and completely heedless to the world beyond their borders.
"Hm…"
>There's no denying it: this is an idyllic little hamlet in every way—quiet and quaint.
>Pulling your eyes away from that pleasant vista for a brief moment, you examine your nearby surroundings upon this peaceful hill.
>Roughly two metres to your right, a tall oak tree—sturdy and strong—stands proud, shading your entire body from the rising dawn.
>Your right arm is outstretched all the way, and your hand is currently clasped around the upright shaft of your magical staff.
>It's quite the eye-catcher, your staff; it's made of reliable oak wood, just like your neighbouring tree, and is tipped off with a pink heart-shaped crystal.
>It blends form with function, and has ever been a trusty companion in your day-to-day.

>Of course, you would be remiss to neglect your *other* trusty companion in this present moment.
>Thus, you turn your gaze over to your left, noting the presence of a mare sitting on her haunches directly next to you.
>This mare happens to be an alicorn—a kind of pony that is blessed with both a horn *and* wings—and a full-grown one at that, possessing the bulky physique of a draft horse and easily dwarfing your standing height by around half a metre.
>Her resplendent—if slightly mucky—coat is coloured a natural cerise pink, while her gorgeously long mane is a fiery combination of yellow and orange, possessing a loopy forelock that runs along the right side of her face.
>In terms of accessories, she wears a black studded choker around her neck, bears a golden double helix piercing in her left ear, and has a golden nose ring piercing straight through her nasal septum.
>Her body faces out into the distance, much like yourself.
>Unlike yourself, though, her enchanting amber eyes have been transfixed upon tranquil settlement this whole time.
>Her face wears a soft, thoughtful smile.
>Seizing the moment, you decide to speak up and grab her attention:
"So, what do you think?"
>Both of her ears prick up at your words, attention indeed grabbed.
>You gently rest your left hand upon her withers.
"Is it everything you've ever dreamed of?"
>She closes her eyes as she slowly, deeply, inhales through her nostrils…
>And then lets it all out as a dreamy sigh.
>"Yeah…" she responds, voice light as a feather.
>She opens her eyes to gaze at the village once more, and you see her smile curve upwards ever so slightly, yet remain just as soft.
>"I always imagined just the two of us living somewhere like this."
>Her wistful words coax a similarly soft smile upon your own lips, and you take the chance to lovingly rub her withers with your left hand.
>You feel her back arch subtly, approvingly, into your touch, while you hear her sumptuous tail softly swish across the green grass behind her body.
>After a couple more seconds spent like this, she calmly turns her head away from the settlement and looks to you.
>Her amiable expression is the same as before, yet you can see the faintest hint of crimson flicker within her eyes as she continues:
>"Let's raze it to the ground."

***

>The world is aflame, and the air is thick with the smell of one-sided warfare.
>This tranquil settlement has now been transformed into a savage scene of unrestrained spoliation.
>Thatched roofs burn like a pyre, choking the sky in smoke, while distressed screams echo out in the distance, flooding the area with desperation.
>All throughout the central plaza, wooden wagons lie lopsided and smashed, articles of clothing lie trampled and torn—and fallen bodies lie quiet and still.
>In the dead centre of this plaza, a once-wondrous water fountain has been desecrated beyond recognition; the statue at the very top—depicting a pony and a griffon shaking hoof and claw, symbolising harmony between races—has fallen into the marble basin below, causing the statue to shatter in many places, most notably beheading the griffon and breaking apart the stone limbs that had linked the two figures together.
>This very same impact has also destroyed a sizeable chunk of the basin's exterior, letting its liquid contents fully spill out onto the muddy ground.
>Much like the rest of this doomed village, all this fountain can do now is symbolise desolation and despair, for not a shred of harmony remains.

>Not far from this fountain, a body is suddenly sent flying through a wooden beam that was holding up a house, causing a section of roof to collapse in on itself.
>The body rolls along the damp mud several times before crumpling to a full stop.
>It's a dragon. A male dragon—though it may be more accurate to classify this one as a drake, as he is a naturally wingless sort.
>He's only barely taller than the average stallion, and his body is covered in bright blue scales—the parts that aren't caked in muck or shielded by slipshod armour, at least.
>Currently, this drake lies face down in the dirt road, eyes closed; he's battered and bruised beyond belief—but he's still breathing.
>Opening his eyes, he attempts to slowly pick himself up off the ground.
>He succeeds in using both of his arms to push his upper body above the dirt, despite the pained protests coming from each and every muscle.
>However, his lower body utterly fails to heed his command, offering only worrying numbness in response.
>Pushing all bodily woes to one side for the time being, he weakly lifts his head and surveys his nearby surroundings as best he can.
>On his left, he can see the plaza fountain, once a proud symbol of this village, now lie in complete ruin.
>The sight fills him with anger.
>Beyond the fierce flames that surround his peripheral, he can just about blurringly make out several large bipedal figures stomping about in the distance.
>The sight fills him with fear.
>Looking straight ahead, he notices an object lying on the ground a few metres away from him.
>It's a crude weapon of sorts: a long wooden pole with a sharp pointy stone attached to the end of it; these two components have been neatly tied together using a pink ribbon.
>The drake's eyes widen. That's his spear. He was holding it before he got flung.
>The sight fills him with an inkling of hope. If he can just reach his spear, then…maybe…
>He clenches his eyes shut, cutting his thoughts short and steeling his resolve.
>Opening his eyes once more, he adopts a look of determination towards his waylaid weapon.
>He has to try.

>And so, digging his claws into the dirt and gritting his teeth, he steadily begins to drag his half-crippled body along the ground, one painful pull-up at a time.
>One…
>Two…
>Three…
>He stops for a moment to catch a few raggedy breaths.
>As he does so, he catches sight of somecreature sprinting out from the right side of his vision.
>It's a mare. An earth pony with a blue mane and a cream coat; she's wearing a light-blue dress with a flower motif.
>The drake recognises this mare; she sells freshly grown vegetables, and he's helped watch over her stall many times before.
>With a panicked face and a frantic gait, she desperately gallops across the area between the prone drake and his dirt-caked spear, speeding from the right side of his vision over to his left.
>She's clearly too preoccupied to pay the drake himself any mind.
>But just as she is about to exit his line of sight—she suddenly trips up on her own dress and falls flat on her face.
>The drake spends a blank second staring at the now-fallen mare, still mentally processing her present presence.
>A thought then enters his mind:
>What if he calls out to her?
>He opens his mouth to speak—but something stops him.
>Thud. Thud. Thud.
>Plodding footsteps that shake the very earth.
>Slow. Lumbering.
>Near.
>Thud. Thud. Thud.
>Something stomps into view from the right side of the drake's vision—where the mare came from.
>It is a towering, corpulent creature; something that is more than double his standing height and quadruple his width.
>It walks on two legs and bears the head of a monstrous pig, while its pink, portly body is covered by little more than an off-white loincloth.
>Its slim choice of undergarment leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.
>This creature—this monster—it is undoubtedly male.
>And it has the drake shaking with silent terror.

>The pigmonster comes to a stop and lazily surveys the area, standing only a metre or so from the drake's mud-covered body.
>He effortlessly wields a massive wooden club within his right hand, angling it so that the bulk of the weapon's weight rests squarely against his right shoulder.
>The club is as long as the drake himself—and twice as thick—but what most grips the drake's attention isn't the club's imposing size, but rather its bulbous head.
>Many metal nails have been haphazardly driven into this club's head, transforming it from a mere bludgeon into something far more brutal—far more sadistic.
>Even from his lowly position on the ground, the drake can see those nails drip with fresh blood.
>Just the sight alone makes his throat dry up and his vision quiver.
>It makes his entire body freeze stiff with fear, including his jaw, which still hangs agape as a result of his earlier impulsion to call out to his fallen compatriot.
>And more than anything else, he hopes to all Harmony that horrifying pigmonster does not notice him lying on the ground.
>It would end him in an instant.
>…
>Luckily for him, the pigmonster appears to pay the drake no mind, as his gaze instead falls upon the tripped-up mare a few more metres away.
>Said mare has just about recovered from her prior faceplanting and shakily rises to her hooves.
>Lolling out his thick, blackish tongue and hungrily licking his lips, the pigmonster clumsily makes his way towards the mare, taking step after weighty step.
>Thud. Thud. Thud.

>Feeling the ground quake beneath her hooves, hearing the heavy sound of bare feet thumping on damp dirt, and—above all else—*smelling* his raw presence draw ever closer to her own, the mare chances a wary glance over her shoulder.
>And upon seeing the pigmonster slowly but surely making his way over to her, she screams out a frightened, breathless gasp—and immediately makes to scramble away from him.
>Unfortunately for her, her panic-stricken mind only serves to throttle her already fatigued body, and she can do little else but slip and skid on the uneven mud.
>She trips again and falls flat on her belly. This time, though, instead of clambering back up to a standing position, she desperately attempts to crawl her way to safety.
>Predictably, this last-ditch choice of movement does nothing to deter or evade her pursuer, and the pigmonster soon makes his way over to his target with no issue.
>Bending down and extending his left arm, he grabs a hefty fistful of her blue mane, causing the mare to cry out in both pain and terror.
>He then stands up, turns around, and heads back the way he came; in the process, he continues to hold onto the poor mare's mane, thus roughly dragging her lower body backwards across the dirt and along with him.
>At this point, she can only weakly whimper and pathetically plead in response to whatever fate he has in store for her.
>Alas, her wailing voice falls on apathetic ears, and the two soon disappear from sight.
>Meanwhile, the prone drake, who had been as quiet as a mouse during all of this, finds himself letting out a shaky sigh once the pigmonster fully leaves his vision.
>He feels a deep twinge of guilt at having done absolutely nothing to try and save that mare, but he forces those sentiments back down as far as they can go.
>Up ahead, he can see his makeshift spear lying in the exact same ditch of dirt that it was in previously, having been left mercifully uncrushed by the pigmonster's stomping feet.
>That's right. He needs to pull himself together and retrieve his weapon.
>With it, he could save that mare. He could save everycreature in this village.
>Feeling the emergent embers of hope and determination burn within his breast, the drake once again digs his claws into the dirt and pulls himself along the plaza, pushing past both the pain and the pessimism.
>One…
>Two…
>Three…
>Four…
>It's only a couple of metres away now.
>Five…
>Six…
>A weak smile crosses his face. He can do this. He can really do this!
>Seven…!
>Eight…!
>Nine—
>A hoof suddenly presses against his head from behind, forcing his face deep into the dirt.
>The drake's stuttered advance has been halted completely.
>And with it, he feels all of the remaining fight drain from his body.
>He can't bring himself to look up towards his aggressor—nor does he need to—for he already knows who that hoof belongs to:
>It's her.

>The hoof is fitted with a steel horseshoe, and it is this cold, unfeeling metal that keeps the drake from shifting even a single muscle.
>The fetlock of this hoof is messily unshorn, with its frizzy fur reaching all the way down to the heel.
>And as for the rest of this "her," she's an alicorn—and an imposingly large one at that.
>Her sheer size cannot be understated, for the span between her hoof and elbow alone surpasses a solid metre.
>Her natural coat is a deep cerise pink, and she wears bulky, bright gold armour; it brings to mind the unrestrained intensity of a blazing sun, and fully covers her body from her chest to her gaskins. She also wears golden guards to protect both her knees and her hocks.
>Her neck and head, on the other hand, are completely unguarded, giving her fiery mane free reign to flow wherever it pleases; her orange-and-yellow locks dance in the air like an open flame, while the front of her mane is styled in a loopy forelock that runs along the right side of her face.
>To top it all off, her nasal septum has been pierced with a golden nose ring, her left ear bears a golden double helix piercing, and she wears a black studded choker around her neck.
>She is as majestic as she is intimidating—a demon of war wrapped up in a mare's skin—feared far and wide for her ability to crush any creature's will through mere presence alone.
>The drake never had a chance defying a monster like this; how could he ever have thought otherwise?
>It was all over the moment she decided to take this village.

>The alicorn's piercing amber eyes glare straight down at her draconic prey, which she currently has firmly pinned with her right forehoof.
>No words need be spoken between the two, for the alicorn had already decided upon the drake's fate the moment she laid eyes on him—while the drake himself has opted simply to close his own eyes, offering no resistance beyond the occasional whimpering shudder.
>The alicorn's lips curve upwards into a sinister grin, and her long horn sizzles to life with an ominous crimson aura.
>Her target is the drake beneath her hoof, for his entire body is quickly enveloped within that same aura, causing his eyes to shoot open.
>Pinned by steel and fully enveloped within a magical prison, something soon begins to drain out of the drake's body and float upwards towards the alicorn's face.
>It's a red, amorphous substance, and it seeps out from in between his scales without end, gliding through the air as if being sucked up by a invisible turbine.
>This substance isn't blood, but it is a core component of the drake's very being.
>For it is his innate magical essence.
>This continuous stream of draconic essence quickly makes its way up to the alicorn's smug mug, and she hungrily opens her maw in response.
>The essence then enters her mouth, lands on her outstretched tongue, and slides down her gullet—being consumed as casually as one would a soft drink.
>Seemingly satisfied by the taste, the alicorn emits a throaty hum as she continues to gorge upon the drake's drained essence.
>Of course, such wanton predation does not come without a worldly cost, and the alicorn's sounds of deep gratification are contrasted by the chilling sight of life steadily leaving the drake's body; as more and more essence leaves his body, his eyes become glossier and unfocused, while his bright blue scales lose what little lustre they have left, turning dull and dreary.
>To him, it feels as if everything inside him is drying up to the point of utter dessication.
>After a few more seconds, the drake's body ceases to secrete any more of this red essence, despite the crimson spell still exerting its enervating effects on him.
>His whited-out eyes now stare out into nothing, while his maw hangs listlessly agape.
>It's all gone.

>As the tail end of her magical meal makes its way into her throat, the alicorn closes her mouth, releases her spell, and lets out a hearty sigh.
>Almost immediately after the fact, her eyes shoot open—and she suddenly belts out a loud, undignified belch.
>A large jet of green flame escapes her mouth in the process, though it harmlessly dissipates up into the air soon afterwards.
>With a slight blush forming on her cheeks, she lifts her left foreleg and covers her mouth with a hoof.
>"Oof," she mumbles to herself. "'Scuse me."
>Briefly distracted by her own embarrassment and having one less hoof touching the ground, she unconsciously applies more pressure to her other appendages—including her right forehoof.
>Barely a second passes before a gruesome crunch sounds out from below, causing the alicorn's ears to prick up.
>She throws a glance down along her right foreleg, and she quickly realises what she's now standing in.
>"Oh, whoops."
>Lowering her left foreleg back down and lightly lifting her right foreleg, she casually kicks the body away and off to the side, caring very little for it now that it has served its purpose.
>With her attention still directed downward, she idly begins wiping her sullied hoof off against the dirt—meanwhile, a sharp, hostile screech erupts from some several metres away.
>This sudden noise causes one of the alicorn's to perk up with mild curiosity—yet it fails to elicit any further reaction from her.
>Before any further intrigue can build, the source of this sound swiftly makes itself known—by way of a fluffed-up creature unexpectedly leaping out from some nearby foliage.
>This creature is a griffon. Female. Possessing greyish feathers, dark-brown fur—and eyes full of hate.
>The griffon wastes no time launching herself towards the object of her burning ire: the alicorn.
>She flies low to the ground, low enough to grab a makeshift spear that was lying on the dirt.
>The moment she picks that weapon up in her talons, she soars up into the air and quickly picks up speed, now shooting towards her target at maximum velocity.
>Blinking a bored blink, the alicorn finally, yet leisurely, lifts her head to look her aggressor dead in the eyes—
>Just in time to see the griffon with her spear reared back and ready to gouge straight through one of the alicorn's eye sockets.

>…
>However, the gouging never comes.
>For the griffon's entire body, wielded spear included, has been completely frozen mid-strike, fully suspending her in the air—and wholly preventing her from delivering the killing blow she so desperately desires.
>Her beaked mouth hangs open in a perpetual state of rallying rage, yet her current condition leaves her ruefully unable to utter even a single curse.
>But though her maw may have been made motionless, her voice box is still able to emit some form of sound:
>"Nng…" the paralysed griffon weakly grunts and gasps, "…agh…"
>After taking a second to properly appreciate her would-be-assailant's powerless position, the alicorn's lips curl up into a sly grin.
>"Heh."
>This griffon's sudden stillness is not the result of any natural affliction—but rather, a magical incantation.
>The proof of this magic's presence can be seen through the subtle pink aura that surrounds the griffon, as it is this very aura that keeps her suspended and strengthless.
>Yet this spellbinding spell was not one cast by the alicorn, for her horn has remained inert all throughout this brief and fruitless altercation.
>Thus, it must have been invoked by a third party.
>…
>A figure steps out from behind a nearby burning building.
>He is a large bipedal creature, wearing a hooded dark-green robe that covers most of his body.
>In his right hand, he holds a long wooden staff, tipped off with a pink heart-shaped crystal—which is currently aglow with magical light.
>His facial features are rugged, though otherwise nondescript, with the only standout trait being the presence of a scar that runs down over his left eye.
>He is human.
>He is (You).

>You make your way over to the duo, carefully stepping over a crushed body along the way.
>During that time, your companion—the alicorn—lifts up her right foreleg and lightly runs her hoof along the griffon's left cheek.
>Even through her immobilising aura, the griffon still manages to shudder in response to the steel horseshoe brushing up against her flesh—both in dread and in disgust.
>"Feisty," your companion speaks with a playful tone. "I like you."
>Your companion ends her caress with a gentle boop on the upper tip of the griffon's open beak.
>The griffon's pupils violently shake in response.
>"Mng…gah…!" she angrily grunts out.
>You suppose that was her best attempt at forcing out an expletive.
>After letting her hoof touch back down on the ground, your companion turns her head to look at you.
>"So, what do you think of this one?"
>Cupping your chin with your left hand, you give the frozen griffon a quick once-over.
>You can't deny she certainly has spirit, and it doesn't hurt that she's easy on the eyes, too…
>It doesn't take long at all for you to decide upon your answer.
>Turning back to your companion and lowering your hand, you cast her an approving smile and a silent nod.
>Your affirmative reply inspires her grin to grow wider and toothier.
>"Heh, nice."

>With a jovial swish of her flame-coloured tail, your companion cheerily addresses your captive.
>"Good news, little birdie. We've decided you're a keeper."
>Horn lighting up with an amber aura, your companion uses her magic to casually slide the griffon's shoddy spear out from her talons.
>She then lets the weapon unceremoniously drop to the ground—though not before snapping it in two for good measure.
>"U-unng…!" The griffon's pupils shake once more; this time, however, her eyes appear to be on the verge of tears.
>Grin widening even further, your companion brings her face right up close to the griffon's—close enough that the tip of her nose ring touches the griffon's beak.
>"The three of us are gonna have so much fun together, heh heh heh~"
>Your companion ends her grim statement with a low, snorty chuckle, causing her oppressively warm breath to wholly wash over the griffon's perennially agape face.
>The griffon shudders and clenches her eyes shut, unable to bear any more of this.
>Pulling back, your companion coolly examines the burning village that surrounds the three of you.
>Through the flames, you can see several distant figures dutifully busy themselves with the continued debasement of this village and its inhabitants.
>They're all bipeds, like you.
>"Think we've sacked this place for all it's worth," your companion speaks up.
>She turns to you.
>"You wanna do the honours, or shall I?"
>Using your left hand, you unlatch and retrieve an object that was strapped to your left hip.
>It's a war horn; a beautiful piece of bone, if you do say so yourself.
>You offer it towards your companion with an open palm.
"All yours."
>She nods, then uses her magic to levitate the horn up to her lips.
>After taking a deep breath, she blows into it—hard—causing an extremely loud, majestically deep noise to resonate throughout the village.
>You decide to take another look at those distant figures beyond the flames, seeing them immediately stop in whatever savagery they were previously carrying out.
>Obeying the horn's wordless command, the figures search for any remaining plunder to be looted amidst the chaos, hoisting it over their shoulder once they find something satisfactory.
>Some of them carry crates, while others carry bodies.
>Yet they all begin to make tracks towards exiting this pillaged village.
>And so, today's raid comes to a close.

***

>You and the rest of your compatriots have now relocated to another settlement.
>This one is livelier, louder, lusher—and more importantly, utterly unscorched.
>It is a settlement mainly comprised of yurts: sturdy, circular tents that are known for their reliability, portability, and ease of use.
>There are around twelve yurts evenly spaced throughout this settlement, and you note that the colours of their felt canvases namely draw from an earthy palette, ranging from olive greens, to sandy yellows, to natural whites—though you also note the presence of a yurt draped in deep crimson fabric, and another yurt adorned with royal-blue linens.
>This entire settlement is surrounded by dizzyingly tall trees from every angle, for it is located deep within the gloomy domain of a foreboding forest.
>It's deep enough to dissuade softer spirits from wandering into this place, yet not so deep you risk attracting the attention of those that lurk within the heart of the forest.
>The untamed woods of Equestria happen to house some truly terrifying creatures, and the further you head in, the higher the chance you'll have of encountering something that would send even the mightiest, bravest warrior tearfully fleeing in the other direction and needing a new pair of pants—if they even *got* the chance to run, that is.
>Anyway, this settlement's prudent position makes it perfect for the clandestine needs of you and your allies, being safe, stealthy, and scenic to boot.

>Now, as for who your allies actually are—they're all mammalian bipeds, just like yourself.
>However, they're not human, and the grand title of "Only Human in Equestria" is still very much your own.
>Yet while these creatures may not share your species, they are undoubtedly the most human-like beings that dwell in this land beyond yourself.
>For they are half-human—born as a direct result of your bloodline being intimately entwined with another's.
>These creatures generally possess portly, healthy bodies with strong arms and stout legs.
>They're fairly diverse in terms of skin colour, too; the common complexions on display include various shades of pink, green, and grey—with a couple of rare blueskins on the side.
>Many of them wear little more than a loose-fitting loincloth around their waist, which only barely manage to cover up their unmentionables while leaving the rest of their body bare.
>Not everyone here's a near-streaker, though, for some of the more resourceful among them have chosen to incorporate additional elements into their everyday attire, such as fabric looted from the villages they've raided, and skulls sourced from the beasts they've hunted—sapient or otherwise.
>You can see few more elaborate outfits here, as well, but you've dwelled on their fashion sense long enough.
>And while you certainly don't make a habit of doing so, a single glance at these creature's crotches is enough to tell you that they are all male.
>But their most defining characteristic—to you, at least, as it's what truly separates you from them—is the shape of their head.
>(And to be clear, you're talking about the head above their shoulders.)
>To put things simply, every single one of them bears the bestial head of a pig, floppy ears and all.
>Sure, it's a head that is able to talk fluently and visually express a wide array of emotions—but it's a pig's head nonetheless.
>For that reason alone, those who lay eyes upon these creatures tend to come up with a wide range of swinish monikers for them.
>Some call them "pigmonsters," others call them "hogdemons"—but perhaps the most creative sobriquet you've heard came from someone who referred to them as "minoboars."
>Your other half of this animalistic equation, for her part, was initially quite keen on calling them "pigmen."
>You, however, happen to be quite the genre-savvy individual, having indulged in your fair share of fantasy fiction back on your home world.
>Thus, upon first bearing witness to these humanoid creatures, with their piglike physique and marauding mannerisms, you knew exactly what they should be called:
>Orcs.

>You and your orcs are currently gathered around this forest settlement's central firepit.
>The welcoming heat of the crackling flame works wonders in staving off the air's chill.
>Sidelong tree logs and crudely carved wooden chairs surround this firepit in a loosely linked ring formation, providing suitable seating for any who desire it.
>You are one of those desirers, having sat your rump on the rightmost edge of a tree log, body faced towards the flames.
>The other seats are all similarly occupied, yet there are enough orcs here that some are left standing nonetheless.
>However, let it be known that these pigheaded partiers are not ones to let a lack of accommodation get them down; many of these upright orcs occupy themselves with the celebration of their latest successful raid.
>Some sing orcish folk songs, some play original tunes on handmade instruments, and others dance a merry jig.
>Admittedly, the proficiency exhibited in any of these acts is…subjective at best.
>But hey, at least they're having fun.
>Besides yourself and these orcs, there is another individual enjoying the festivities on display:
>Your alicorn companion.
>Presently, she is sitting down on a bare patch of ground directly to your right.
>It's worth noting that, even while sat down on her haunches, she's still tall enough to tower over everyone else here.
>Her left wing is lightly draped across your back, blanketing you from behind, and she wears a wide, carefree grin upon her face, feeling right at home amongst all of these humanoid pigs.

>Over by the chillier outskirts of this firepit gathering, you can see a multitude of metal cages either stacked on top of each other or sat side by side.
>Each cage contains at least one creature within its barred confines, and they all look either miserable or scared.
>The captives are mainly pastel-coloured ponies, with most of them being female, though there are a couple of other species present, too, including that grey-feathered griffon—what's-her-name.
>Each cage is also securely padlocked and has a wooden tag hanging from one of their top bars; each and every wooden tag has a unique name roughly carved onto it—names such as "Gruk," "Snork," and "Bogduff."
>These aren't the names of the captives, but rather the names of the orcs who now own them—for these creatures are fresh prisoners claimed from your latest conquest, forcibly ordained to serve their new masters until their mortal bodies give out.
>To further cement this newfound servitude, every caged captive wears a heavy iron collar around their neck, a weighty reminder of their current status in life.
>The rare unicorn among them also has a magic-inhibiting ring firmly fixed around the base of their horn, preventing any magical escapades from occurring.
>Though they may not know it right now, that particular equine is actually one of the luckier spellcasters to have been captured by a swinish raider; some of your crueller, more impatient orcs have been known to forego the ring and instead snap off a unicorn's horn entirely, making them far easier to handle—at the cost of hurting their resale value.
>As for your griffon captive, she looks just as miserable as the rest of her peers, having chosen to simply slump down against the metal mat of her claustrophobic cage, encumbered both by the weight of her collar and the weight of her future.
>The wooden tag on her cage reads "Boss."
>Naturally, that's you, being just one of the many titles you've taken for yourself in your noble quest to claim this fertile land.
>The fate of these caged captives is a sorry one, sure—and once upon a time, you may have even objected to such savage treatment being inflicted upon another living being.
>But you are a changed man now. A better man. A more selfish man.
>You've long come to realise that the Kingdom of Equestria and all her inhabitants are yours by right, and with the tremendous power that you and your allies possess—who's to stop you, really?

>The mighty thud of wood on dirt—coupled with the weighty slosh of liquid inside a container—snaps you out of your self-centred inner monologue and brings you back to reality.
>An orc has just placed a large wooden barrel on the ground nearby; the barrel has a metal faucet located near the bottom.
>The sight of this barrel catches the rest of your orcs' attention and causes them all to erupt with great cheer—and for good reason.
>Crouching down with mug in hand, the orc who set the barrel down uses the faucet to fill up his drinking vessel with a frothy golden liquid.
>Upon filling his mug right up to the brim—and sloppily letting some liquid spill out in the process—the orc stands back up, faces his fellows, and happily hoists his drink skyward, adding his own boisterous shouts into the crowd.
>And out comes the alcohol.

>…
>Soon enough, every orc, human, and alicorn here has an alcoholic beverage within their grasp.
>However, none have chosen to quench their thirsts just yet.
>All eyes are on you.
>Naturally, they expect a toast—an invigorating speech to stimulate their spirits and gird their livers.
>And you are all too happy to oblige.
>Standing up, you address your onlookers with a confident tone:
"Orcs!" you begin. "We gather here to celebrate another successful raid!"
>You hoist your mug forward.
"Buildings were burnt, creatures were terrorised, blood was spilt—"
>Pulling your mug back, you slightly stoop towards your crowd as you take on a lower, more wry tone:
"—though not any blood of our own, eh?"
>Your sanguine sense of humour is met with boisterous laughter from all around.
"But more importantly!" you raise your voice and straighten your back. "We return home with loot! With plunder!"
>Using your left hand, you bombastically gesture towards those caged captives several metres away.
"With slaves to build our Empire and slake our lusts!"
>Your orcs cheer and shout in response to your rousing words—the "slake our lusts" part being most popular, you imagine.
"Savour the sweet fruits of our conquest, my orcs. Savour the spoils of war!"
>Bringing your left hand back, you ball it up into a fist.
"For this is a war against common decency!"
>You chew the scenery for a second, before continuing:
"A war…" You thrust your mug sky high for dramatic effect. "…against Harmony!"
>Your theatrics are rewarded with another round of shouts and cheers from your orcs.
>Upon lowering your mug back down to your chest, you turn your head to the right and gaze up at your alicorn companion.
>She's currently looking back at you with a jolly grin on her face; her horn is also aglow with warm amber light, for she is using her magic to hold her mug in front of her snout and just below her chin.
>Naturally, she's quick to read your smile and offer her own two cents.
>And so, facing forward and briefly clearing her throat, she boisterously thrusts her mug into the air and addresses the orcs with aplomb:
>"Drink and be merry, boys! You've earned it!"
>She ends her statement by levitating her mug down to her lips, throwing her head all the way back—and downing her whole drink in one go.
>Her impressive act of alcoholism elicits yet another round of raucous applause from your orcs—which is immediately followed by them attempting to down their own drinks in a similar manner.
>Of course, the key word here is "attempting," but spirits are high and the mood is light.
>For many orcs, this is where celebrations can truly begin.

>As these orcish revelries take a more drunken turn, your alicorn companion magically sets her mug down on a nearby table and stands up.
>"I'm gonna head back to our tent," she addresses you. "Meet me there when you're ready."
>You nod to her.
"Sure."
>And with that, she steps away from the crowd and heads over to another part of your settlement, moving up some hilly steps in the process.
>You, meanwhile, sit back down onto your fallen log, alcoholic beverage in hand, and ready to partake.
>Ah, right, the alcohol.
>The drink of choice for you and your orcs is known as mead.
>It's a type of liquor made by fermenting honey with water.
>Sweet, delicious honey.
>Not only is it easy on the palate, but it has an incredibly potent kick to it; even a mere sip is enough to get you buzzing.
>The Equestrian cider you've had in the past utterly pales in comparison.
>Of course, with great taste comes great responsibility, and you consider yourself to be a prudent drinker.
>Also, this mug you hold is bigger than your head—so you don't think you'll be chugging it down like your companion did any time soon.
>Instead, you calmly bring your mead up to your lips and take a measured sip.
>…
>It's good. Real good.
>It warms your throat with sweet fire while cocooning your brain in a floral embrace.
>It's enough to get a man immediately going for seconds, and then thirds.
>But you are no mere man.
>You are Anonymous.
>…Hm. You do believe that is the first time you've internally monologued your own name in quite a while.
>How curious.
>Anyway.
>You decide to set your mug down on your lap so that you may quietly take in your surroundings.
>The forest canopy high above blocks most natural light from breaching your settlement, but you know the current time of day to be sometime in the afternoon.
>A warm ambience colours the air—that's mainly because of the central firepit, but it's also thanks to the orcish celebrations currently taking place.
>Likewise, your sense of smell is primarily dominated by the smoky scent of burning wood, yet you can also pick the savoury aroma of cooked food. And on some of the adjacent log benches, you can see a few orcs cooking meat skewers by holding them over the firepit.
>The sounds surrounding this firepit are as boisterously upbeat as ever; many orcs continue to sing and laugh and dance and play, being just as drunk on their own antics as they are on alcohol.
>Interest piqued, you mentally tune in to one of their chanted tunes:
>"We burned the farmer in his farm~"
>"We burned the farmer's dog~"
>"And when we claimed the farmer's wife~"
>"We burned the farm again~!"
>It is a…barbarically simple song, but a surprisingly catchy one all the same.
>You might even say that it's fire.

>Occasionally, one of your orcs will decide to break away from the crowd and head towards the collection of metal cages over yonder.
>Once there, they'll unlock one of the cages and pick up the terrified captive—or captives—within, hoisting them over their shoulder to greatly limit their chances of escape.
>Then, they'll begin to make their way towards one of the yurts within the settlement—naturally, it'll be the one they usually live in.
>No doubt these particular orcs plan to partake in pleasures of a more carnal nature.
>You approve. These orcs are your blood, after all, so it's only right that they get the chance to enjoy Equestria's fertile fruits just as you have.
>What kind of father would you be to deny them this liberty?
>Speaking of which, you mustn't forget about the "fertile fruit" waiting for you back in your own yurt.
>Admittedly, she's proven to be a very patient girl when it comes to you, but you'd still feel terribly guilty if you left her by her lonesome overlong.
>At the same time, though, you also have a mug filled with sweet mead to drink.
>May as well see how deep you can go.

>…
>Your mug is now full-empty.
>And by that, you mean it's been completely drunk.
>Drunk?
>Drank?
>Drunken?
>Hm. You're fairly sure it is indeed "drunk."
>Anyway, as much as you'd like to get a refill on your mead, you've got places to be.
>To be clear, you're not some pansy lightweight. You're just…light-minded, that's all.
>Yeah, that makes sense.
>So you stand up, walk over to a nearby table, and set your empty mug down next to the others.
>You're pretty certain your pigmen will be able to party hard just fine without their patriarch watching over them.
>Thus, you then break away from these swinish celebrations and head off into the calmer parts of this settlement.
>Along the way, you catch a glimpse of that captive griffon, who is currently curled up in the fetal position and trying her best to shut out the nearby orcish noise.
>She's quite the looker, even while in a disquieted state.
>You can enjoy her later, though; heading home comes first.
>And so this bird remains caged—for now, at least.

>Your settlement happens to have been built on uneven land—a terraced hill—meaning there are multiple elevations to consider when plotting a route back to your own yurt.
>As the centrepiece of this settlement, the central firepit is conveniently located on the middlemost level—which means that you are also currently on the middlemost level.
>On your left, you can see a set of wooden steps built into an incline heading downwards, while on your right, you can see a similar set of steps built into an incline heading upwards.
>Casting your eyes down along the descending slope, you take a proud moment to appreciate the numerous yurts that have been established at various spots along the terraced terrain.
>These yurts stand sturdy and strong, a testament both to their thoughtful positioning and reliable foundations.
>Of course, there is far more to be found in this settlement than circular tents, for it is also colourfully decorated by other elements of orcish culture—such as tall braziers, bone totems, and medieval-style standards.
>Indeed, this view of your village is a truly breathtaking one, expertly blending orcish ingenuity with natural woodland.
>And it is a type of Harmony you have no qualms praising.
>However, as pleasant as the lower half of this settlement is to look at, you know that your abode won't be found amongst the yurts there.
>As the esteemed Boss of this settlement—and the proud father to all Orckind—it's only right that your yurt should rest at the very top of this hill.
>Thus, that is where you shall go; taking a right, you head up the steps and ascend the settlement.

>Your stepped route snakes up and along the hill, curving and winding in its coexistence with nature.
>Along the way, you catch sight of yet another yurt positioned just off the main path.
>It isn't your yurt; in fact, it is a yurt like any other.
>Yet something about it is enough to make you stop in your tracks and temporarily pique your interest.
>It's not because of its bog-standard appearance, no, but rather…
>It's the sounds that come from within.
>The door to this yurt is currently closed, concealing the intimacy of its interior from your prying eyes.
>But you can nonetheless hear a bestial cacophony of gasping moans, snorting grunts, panting screams…
>And oinking—rapid, frantic oinking.
>This salacious symphony plays out for several more seconds—before hitting its crescendo with a loud, earthy squeal.
>Then…all goes quiet—relatively speaking, anyway.
>…Well, they don't call your orcs half-pig for nothing.

>Having more than had your fill of listening to a pigman getting it on, you decide to resume your homeward journey.
>And soon enough, you reach the flat plateau of this terraced settlement, where your tent—the leader's yurt—stands above it all.
>Incidentally, your yurt also happens to be the largest one here—though it wasn't prestige alone that prompted its impressive size.
>You see, the interior of this particular yurt was designed to be large enough that a pony the size of a draft horse could freely move around and about without feeling confined in any way.
>The reason for that is most likely self-evident at this point.
>Regardless, there's no time like the present.
>Briskly walking up to your yurt's entrance, you pull open the door and head inside.

***

>The inside of your home is as spacious as it is circular.
>The dirt floor is completely covered in dark-red carpet, sparing shoes and hooves alike any further roughness from the great outdoors.
>The white canvas walls are supported by a sturdy wooden lattice that runs along the inner perimeter and is twice your standing height.
>Further up and extending out from the top of this circular lattice, many wooden rafters serve as the structural basis for this yurt's convex roof.
>These rising rafters all connect up towards the crown wheel, which is a central ring positioned at the yurt's domed apex—letting fresh air in and smoke out.
>Speaking of smoke, back down at the ground level, you can see a wood-burning stove placed in the dead centre of the yurt; it connects to a chimney flue that vents gasses up and out through the crown wheel, and it stands atop a smooth granite surface plate so as to not risk burning the carpet.
>The stove is also lit, as it is currently being manned—or perhaps more accurately, mared—by a familiar face:
>It's your alicorn companion, looking as radiant as always.
>You had her attention the moment you entered this yurt, and the moment your eyes meet, you can see the warm smile on her face grow just that little bit more warmer.
>Her body, sat on its haunches, is positioned by the stove's right side, and she's cooking something.
>It's a pot of beef stew, from the smell of things.
>Being a magical horse, she primarily makes use of her amber-coloured magic to handle the pots, pans, and utensils.
>Not only does it vastly improve her effective range, but it also eliminates any risks of accidentally burning oneself.
>You must admit, you're a little jealous of that fact; you possess some magical capabilities of your own, sure, but you've yet to master the art of using it so casually.
>While you silently lament your lack of magical thumbs, the alicorn lifts the lid of her potted stew and stirs through its contents using a long wooden spoon.
>She also takes the time to lean forward and sniff at the stew itself, gauging her own progress.
>The scent clearly satisfies, as it causes her to close her eyes and hum with contentment:
>"Mhm~"
>Upon opening her eyes, she looks to you, unfurls her right wing, and gently wafts the stew's aroma over to you.
>"Smell that?"
>Taking a few steps forward, you decide to sniff what the olfactory hubbub is about.
>Of course, there's the rich, savoury smell of slow-cooking beef—you can whiff that one out a mile away.
>But deep inside this dominant essence, you also smell the earthiness of potatoes, the sweetness of carrots, and the pleasant fragrance of various herbs and spices.
>All in all, you consider this to be a complex, cultured aroma, one that heartens your stomach in anticipation of its rich flavour, and your culinary verdict is a resounding:
"It's good."

>Walking forward with a satisfied spring in your step, you soon make your way over to your alicorn companion and the stove she operates.
>There, you rest your right hand against her left shoulder as you heap on an additional dolloping of honest acclaim:
"You've really outdone yourself this time, Luster."
>Yes, that's right. Your alicorn companion does in fact have an actual name.
>Her full name is Luster Dawn.
>She is the Mother of all Orckind—and your loving wife.
>Once upon a time, she was the mild-mannered protege of a reigning monarch.
>But now, she's become an utter brick shithouse of a mare—possessing a brutish personality to match her impressive muscles and imposing girth.
>She's built like a draft horse—bulky body included—being tall enough that the best you can while standing up is be eye level with her sizeable chest fluff.
>Her voice is husky, her mane is messy, her manners are often completely forgotten—
>And you love every bit of her.

>Luster shyly blushes in response to your earnest praise, breaking eye contact as she does.
>"Aw, shucks…all I'm really doing is tossing a few ingredients in a pot and heating it up…"
>One of her ears makes a few bashful flicks. It's very cute.
>Immediately afterwards, though, her amber eyes flit back to you, and she flashes you a coy smile.
>"A-and besides, it isn't even finished yet! Don'tcha think you're getting a bit ahead of yourself?"
>You let out a good-natured chuckle.
"Hah, perhaps. But it's not just about the stew."
>Her ears perk up, while her expression sparkles with intrigue.
>"Hm?"
"Not only do I get to spend my days raiding villages to my heart's content…"
>Quietly sliding your right hand over her shoulder, you give her withers a few tender rubs.
"…but when I return home, I'm welcomed by the wonderful sight of my beautiful wife making me a home-cooked meal."
>You then cast her a warm smile of your own.
"Even before the food. I already consider myself to be the luckiest stallion in Equestria just by virtue of having you by my side."
>Of course, you are the luckiest *man* in Equestria as well, but the term "stallion" happens to have far broader applications in this pastel pony land—despite what any users of the gender-neutral "creature" may try to tell you.

>Your schmaltzy words strike a clear chord with Luster, as they cause her to stare into her stew with a modest yet toothy grin upon her face.
>It is in those horsey teeth of hers that you can see her sharp canines glisten with heartfelt glee.
>"Ehehe…" she softly giggles.
>Just before you can mentally congratulate yourself on a wooing well done, you catch the makings of a sly smirk forming on her face.
>Then, without any further warning, she suddenly gives you a light, playful nudge with her left shoulder.
"Oop—!"
>The thing about Luster's "light, playful nudges" is that they're the equivalent of a full-force body check from a regular pony.
>She's a big gal, and for you, that means using everything in your power to stay on-balance whenever she decides to get a little frisky like this.
>Luckily, you are also this mare's husband, so you are already well-accustomed to dealing with her various quirks and eccentricities.
>And so you quickly recover from being slammed by the force of a muscly freight train, coming face-to-face with the amber-eyed locomotive herself.
>"Oh, you are *such* a sweet-talker, Master!"
>Ah, there's that title you are so intimately familiar with.
>Indeed, while you may be her beloved husband—you are also her much-respected Master.
>The two of you enjoy a…multi-faceted relationship, to say the very least.
>And that's barely touching the tip of the iceberg.
"What can I say?" you continue. "The silver tongue is just another of my many, many talents."
>Humility, though? That's a…work in progress.
"Words are a powerful tool, Luster."
>Lifting up your right hand, you clench it into a fierce fist.
"Where they may be wickedly wielded as scathing weapons…"
>Then, raising up your left hand, you open your palm and face it towards the ceiling, holding it perfectly flat.
"…they may also be softly applied like a soothing balm."
>Lowering your right hand, you reach forward with your left hand and gently pat her right shoulder.
"Deciding which words to use when and where is a battlefield all its own."

>Your Masterly wisdom, storied though it may be, seemingly fails to leave Luster awestruck as intended.
>Instead, she stares down at you with a wry smile and a partially arched eyebrow.
>"Careful there, Master. You're starting to sound a little like bats-for-brains."
>Pulling your arm back, you place your left hand against your chest in an expression of mock shock.
"Golly, did I lay it on a bit too thick?"
>She snorts out a laugh.
>"Pfft, forget 'thick.' Listening to that was like listening to syrup attempting to speak."
>Her smile takes on an impish glimmer.
>"If you went on any further, I woulda had to start checking you for any secret bows or ribbons."
>That elicits a chuckle out of you.
"Noted. I'll tone it down in the future, then."
>Your concession is met with a jovially toothy grin by Luster.
>You take a brief second to gaze down at your left hand, still lightly held against your chest, before speaking up:
"Ah, but Luster…"
>Instead of lowering your lefty, you instead lift up both of your arms and use them to caress your marewife.
>Your left hand rubs her right shoulder, your right hand strokes the side of her trunk-like neck.
>And you peer deep in her peepers.
"…when it comes to you, my words are as sugary as they are sincere. Never forget that."
>Her enchanting amber eyes, her golden nose ring and double helix earrings, her smooth horsey lips, her black studded choker…
>Everything about her is just perfect, natural or nurtured.
>Oh, and you can't forget her award-winning smile.
>"Mm, I know," she responds with a nod.
>You nod back.

>"Besides," she continues, "you know I prefer my words to be backed up with action."
>You nod again.
"Of course."
>"And *you* would do well to remember that your 'beautiful wife' doesn't just cook tasty meals—she was also out there raiding villages right alongside you, eh?"
>You've got a three-strike rule on nodding, so you simply opt to respond:
"And what a terrifying raider you were—and still are, at that."
>You pull back both arms, ready to switch gears from a lover's touch to a lavish testimonial:
"For even the mere sight of you on the battlefield is enough to send waves of primal dread running through the most stout-hearted soldier."
>Taking a couple steps back, you proudly gesture towards her with your right hand.
"Equestria knows you. And it fears you. It trembles with every step you take and every spell you cast."
>Balling your right hand up into a fist, you lightly pound it against your own chest.
"Because you are Luster Dawn, Queen of War—scourge of all that is good and Harmonious—and the rightful conqueror of this land."
>Your speech prompts a glint in her eye and a sly spark across her lips.
>"…'Rightful conqueror,' eh?"
>Feeling your mouth spring open of its own accord, you curtly turn your balled fist into a pointed index and aim your finger up at the ceiling.
"One of them."
>She snerks.
>"There's that syrup again."
>A bashful smile spreads across your face as you glance to the side and let your arms fall limp.
>Luster, however, isn't done quite just yet; she lowers her neck, extending her head forward so that she's closer to eye level with you.
>As your gaze flits back to hers, you see her wearing a jocund expression.
>"Good thing I've still got my sweet tooth~"
>You find your expression soon mirroring hers.
>Using both hands, you carefully cup her face by her strong jowls.
>She tilts her head downwards and calmly closes her eyes, already anticipating what's to come.
>Leaning forward, you gently rest your forehead against hers and close your own eyes, amiably taking in the cosy homestead ambiance with your large marewife.
>The methodical sizzle of the stove, and the soft bubbling of the stew within.
>The energetic whistle of the wind from outside brushing against the yurt's exterior canvas.
>The contented inhale and exhale of her powerful horsey nostrils.
>And the comforting feel of your skull against hers.
>It all comes together to make a fulfilling life between man and mare.
>Seconds stretch out into minutes as the two of you silently enjoy this perfect moment together.
>Neither of you could ask for nothing more.

>…
>"Um, hey," Luster eventually speaks up, "can I ask a favour?"
>And by "ask for nothing more," you meant that in a cosmic sense, not a casual one.
>Obviously.
>Slowly opening your eyes, you can see that hers are still closed.
"Yeah?"
>She slowly opens her eyes in turn, peering deep into yours.
>"About our last raid."
>You pull back, letting her lift her neck and raise her head.
>Her expression is somewhat modest, and you notice one of her ears flicking about.
>"I, uh…"
>She partially raises her right foreleg, bending her knee upwards.
>"…I think I might have stepped in something."
"Ah…"
>Crouching down, you examine her lifted forehoof in closer detail.
>Like her other three hooves, this one has been fitted with a steel horseshoe.
>And just like the others, it's of exceedingly fine make, having been forged by one of the best smithies in the business.
>However, from a cursory glance, it doesn't *seem* like anything is wrong with either her shoe or her hoof.
>If she stepped in something, that something must have surely come off by now.
>"Can I get the usual?" she blurts out. "You know, just to make sure I don't have anything stuck in-between."
>Still, she's the horse here, not you.
>If she's saying that her hoof feels funny, then it's your duty as her human husband to trust in her word.
>…Plus, you get the distinct feeling that there's an ulterior motive at play here.
>Yet it's also one you're all too happy to oblige.
>And so, standing back up, you give her an affirmative nod.
"Sure thing."
>Her grateful smile could thaw even the coldest of hearts.

>At this point, it's worth going into further detail regarding how your forest homestead is arranged.
>You have the wood-burning stove in the dead centre, of course, but beyond that, you consider your yurt to have four distinct sections—one for each cardinal direction.
>Your back is currently to the south section, which is where the entrance is; there's not much more to it than that.
>On your right and to the east, you have your sleeping quarters.
>Naturally, as a happily married man-mare couple with a healthy sex life, the two of you sleep in the same big bed.
>That being said, it cannot be understated just how big this bed actually is; it easily exceeds "King-sized" dimensions, and while there's probably a classification out there to describe its impressive measurements—perhaps "Alaskan King"—honestly, you prefer to use the term "Horse-sized."
>In any case, your shared bed handily takes up most of the space within the eastern section—and is easily the largest piece of furniture inside your yurt proper.
>It has a rectangular shape, and is luxuriously draped in many colourful quilts, plush pillows, and exotic fabrics, looking more than fit to serve the sleeping needs of royalty.
>It also possesses no legs, instead keeping a low profile to the floor.
>This was a…necessary choice—as you've come to realise that such supporting structures stand exactly zero chance against the boundless enthusiasm of a horny horse.
>Anyway, straight ahead and to the north, you have the lounge and dining area, which is pretty much exactly what it sounds like. There are some comfy chairs, a couch, and a table for where you and Luster plan to eat supper together.
>Additionally, a long wooden cabinet sits at the far end of this northern section.
>Atop this cabinet sits some of your more valuable items, such as Luster's golden armour—and your magical staff.
>Moving on to the last quarter of your yurt, you have the western section over to your left.
>This is the area where you hang your "work" clothes, store your tools—and plan out your conquest together with your wife.
>And it's where you'll be heading next.

>Heading over to the western quarter, you finally decide to remove the hooded dark-green robe that was covering your form.
>You hang it up on a nearby hook, and you briefly check yourself out in a tall mirror that stands atop a wooden dresser.
>Underneath your bygone robe, you wear a plain white shirt that clings tightly to your body—though not too tight.
>The sleeves are short, meaning that most of your arms are now fully exposed to both the elements and any prying eyes.
>And…well, you look good—damn good, even.
>While you may no longer have any other hairless apes to directly compare yourself with, you consider yourself to be in peak human condition.
>You possess a lean, athletic build—having sturdy, sinewy shoulders, well-defined, toned muscles, thick, powerful legs, and a strong, reliable core to top it all off.
>Now, you'd like to say you earned this physique with a fantastic workout regime. And while it's true that the raids you go on help a great deal towards keeping you active and fighting fit…they're not the main reason you have been blessed with such sculpted musculature.
>Truth is, you had some outside help in attaining this build.
>Specifically, it's the kind of help where you have to lie in a slimy, claustrophobic cocoon with a utterly lovestruck royal as she excitedly modifies both your body and hers.
>You'll leave it at that.
>…Still, maintaining these muscles is no small feat, so you'll give yourself that satisfaction, at least.

>Back to the matter at hand; searching through the various cupboards and cabinets within the yurt's western quarter, you quickly locate what you'll need to satisfy Luster's "usual."
>It's a toolbox full of farrier tools, which is a smoking gun in regards to the kind of work you'll be doing; you pick it up and carry it in your left hand.
>You also don a pair of thick leather chaps to protect your legs.
>Turning around, you walk back to Luster, who has been keeping herself busy with an attentive combination of watching over her stew and idly ogling your firm behind.
>Once she catches sight of your chiselled front, though, her nostrils flare a little as she hungrily eyes you up and down.
>"Ooooh~" she coos to you. "Plan on treating me with some eye candy, too~?"
>Luster also happens to be an avid appreciator of your toned physique.
>Unlike you, however, you know these muscles to be a mere bonus for her—a beefy cherry on top of the xenophilia pie.
>She's always been a freak for your human body, no matter its state.
"Play your cards right—" You toss her a flirty wink. "—and you'll be doing a lot more than just looking."
>She heatedly snorts at your words, while her tail amorously swishes from to side to side.
>As you continue making your way over to her, you see her eyes hone in on your lower body—and her horn slyly sizzle to life.
>You open your mouth to address her horny intentions—but before you can say anything, you suddenly feel a warm, ethereal presence slip through your chaps and cup at your crotch.
>The sensation, soft though it may be, stops you in your tracks.
>"This part especially looks *packed* with protein…" Luster near growls out.
>She gives you a greedy, groping squeeze, sending hot shivers tingling throughout your body—and promising more if left unchecked.
>"…and I could *really* go for some protein right about now~"
>Considering her casual, easy-to-talk-to personality, it can sometimes be easy to forget that you're teasing an amazon-sized mare who boasts a high libido and has effectively limitless access to magic.
>Sure, you might be her Master, but the authority such a title provides tends to become murkier the lustier Luster gets.

>Still, you happen to be a tried and true veteran when it comes to this particular song and dance—you know how to handle your mare.
"Easy now," you lightly reprimand her. "You'll get plenty of protein when we dig into our stew."
>You tilt your head towards the still-cooking stove.
"And we don't wanna ruin our appetite before then, do we?"
>Turning her head, she ponders the contents of her stew for a couple seconds.
>"Hm…"
>After which, she turns back to you, wearing a toothy grin on her face.
>"Eheh, fair enough."
>Her grin softens into a somewhat awkward smile, and she finally lets go of your groin.
>With your newfound freedom, you finish making your way back to Luster.
>But before you do anything else, you politely beckon to her with your right hand, prompting her to lower her neck so that she's now eye level with you.
>Using that same hand, you caress the side of her face and gently tilt her head downward.
>Then, you lean forward and plant an affectionate peck upon the bony bridge of her horsey snout.
>She lets out a quiet giggle in response:
>"Ehehe…"
>It's a kiss of love, but also a kiss to reward her restraint.
>Hey, no-one ever said having a huge, horny marewife would be easy.
>However, good things rarely are.
"Now come on," you say, pulling back. "Let's get that hoof of yours looked at."

>…
>You now have a hammer in your right hand, a clinch cutter in your left—
>And a horse's hoof wedged firmly in between your thighs.
>Said horse is, of course, your marewife, who eagerly awaits her upcoming hoofcare.
>The two of you have readjusted your position so that you may better carry out today's procedure.
>Luster has turned around so that she now faces the yurt's northern end, while the stove is on her left side.
>She continues to keep watch over her stew, using her magic to stir it with a spoon whenever she deems it necessary.
>You stand facing the yurt's southern end—its entrance—with your body being positioned right next to Luster's right shoulder.
>This means that the limb you have secured between your legs is her right forehoof—the same hoof she asked you to take care of earlier.
>Her right foreleg is bent at the knee, angling her cannon horizontally so her foot from the fetlock onwards pokes out from in between your thigh gap.
>You feel obligated to add that this fetlock—as well as the other three—is messily unshorn, with its frizzy fur totally covering up the pastern area.
>Temporarily shifting your hammer over to your left hand, you pinch a thick strand of this fetlock fur and rub it in between two of your fingers, feeling its coarse fullness.
"Don't you ever want to get these fetlocks trimmed?"
>You hear Luster snort with pride.
>"'Course not. Fuzzy fetlocks like these are the mark of a true Alpha Mare."
>You idly rub the fur between your fingers for another second, before letting go of it.
"You're not the Alpha Mare, though."
>She huffs at that.
>"Aw, come on, Master. Let me dream."
>You chuckle, then shift your hammer back onto your right hand.
>Being a sapient, talking horse with a respectable degree of self-control, there's no need to restrain her with the likes of knots or cross-ties while you work on her hooves; if she feels uncomfortable in any way, she can simply tell you, and she doesn't spook easily.
>Incidentally, due to her size, you have to stand up basically straight in order to secure her hoof in a manner that's comfortable for the both of you.
>Alright, time to nail this mare good.

>First order of business is removing the current horseshoe.
>And to do that, you start off by loosening the shoe's clinches; these are the nail ends that poke out of the hoof's outer wall, bent over to ensure the shoe stays secured to the hoof.
>There are three clinches on each side of her hoof, making six in total. And it's important to straighten these clinches out so that they don't tear chunks from the hoof once you start pulling out the nails.
>No mare wants to be walking around on fractured hooves—least of all the Queen of Orckind.
>To loosen these clinches, you place the blade of your clinch cutter just beneath the bent end, and you lightly tap it with your hammer until the clinch either straightens or breaks.
>Once that's done, you move on to the next one, and then the next one, and so on, and so forth.
>Luster isn't bothered at all by your hammering, nor has she ever complained about having nails driven through her hoof. This is because the outer wall of her hoof is formed from insensitive keratin, meaning she can't feel any pain there.
>However, the inner frog of a mare's hoof happens to be far more receptive to both pain and pleasure—this, you know from experience.
>Soon enough, you have all six of these bent ends battered into submission, which means you're now ready to remove the shoe's nails proper.
>To that end, you set your hammer and clinch cutter down to one side and pick up a pair of shoe pullers and a pair of creased nail pullers; these two tools are effectively large pliers used primarily to pull out their namesake.
>The shoe pullers have large, bevelled jaws, essential for gripping onto the shoe and applying the necessary force to pry it off; meanwhile, the nail pullers have smaller, beaked jaws, providing the precision needed to lift individual nails from the shoe.
>There were six clinches, so naturally, there are six nails to pull out.
>You start off by using the shoe pullers to try and gently pry the horseshoe from the heel—the hooked ends of the shoe.
>Your exertions succeed in slightly lifting the shoe and dislodging some of the looser nails; these particular nails can be easily removed by the shoe pullers—no extra precision required.
>From there, you scrupulously work around the shoe from heel to toe, using the nail pullers to remove any more stubborn nails along the way.
>It doesn't take much longer until you have all six nails extracted and set to the side.
>At this point, it's just a simple matter of using your shoe pullers to carefully pry the horseshoe from the heel, pulling downwards and inwards.
>And viola, you soon find yourself the proud owner of a now-removed horseshoe—and the uncommon witness to one of Luster's bare hoofsies.

>You take a moment to examine the horseshoe you have just retrieved.
>It looks to be perfectly intact, so you can definitely re-use this one later; after all, even as Equestria's conqueror, there's no need to be wasteful with your gear.
>Anyway, setting your pullers and horseshoe to the side, you get ready to commence phase two of the farrier process: the tender hoof-loving care.
>For this part, you hold the hoof from below with your left hand, keeping it stable while you work your manual magic.
>First comes the file; you attentively rasp around the edges of Luster's hoof, trimming off any excess and making it as even as you can.
>Because you're simply working on her keratin, you don't elicit any reaction from her.
>Once that's done, though, you bring out the wire brush and begin scrubbing in and around her more sensitive frog and inner sole, cleaning out any easily displaced debris.
>"M-mmn…" you hear her shakily hum in contentment.
>One thing you've learned while living in this land is that pastel pony hooves are generally softer and more sensitive than those of your human-world horses.
>You've always wondered why that is—but thinking about it, maybe it's because the ponies themselves are softer and more sensitive than anything back in your old life.
>The equine inhabitants of this land clearly don't live for the likes of war or conquest, instead preferring a more diplomatic approach to solve their disputes; sure, they can fight back if pressed, but their bodies were never built to be battle-hardy.
>To that end, perhaps the reason ponies are more receptive to the world around them is to help them be more attuned with its magic.
>…Eh, that's just your working theory, anyway.

>Brushing is done; now it's time for the nitty gritty.
>Setting your wire brush aside, you pick up a hoof pick.
>And you get to work.
>Interestingly enough, alicorns possess hardier bodies than their baseborn brethren, having hooves closer to the equines you knew rather than the equines you know.
>It could be that their resilient physique is what cements these omnicapable beings as the natural protectors of Ponykind.
>Your Luster Dawn was once a regular pastel pony—a unicorn, in fact.
>She had a wonderfully soft body, and oh-so-sensitive hooves, looking more suited to serving as your personal bed-warmer than a beast of war.
>That all changed when she "ascended," though. Her physique became bulkier, more imposing, more fierce—more destructive.
>And unfortunately for poor Ponykind, when Luster became an alicorn, she bore this godlike mantle not as their benevolent protector—but rather their ruthless oppressor.
>Her loyalty lies only with her family—with you.
>And there's very little she won't trample on to see Equestria claimed in your name.
>…
>This is all to say why you're freely able to scrape and dig around the inside of Luster's hoof with a sharp pick and a curved hook.
>Her hooves hardened in her heavenly growth, almost as if her body was adapting itself to become your ideal warmongering Queen.
>This means that her inner soles are nowhere as soft as they once were, and are far more resistant to outside punishment.
>That's not to say all sensitivity is gone, however; while her capacity for pain has been greatly diminished, ensuring that you've no risk of causing her any discomfort with your current tools, her ability to feel pleasure is still very much present, hence why she reacted positively to your earlier hoof-brushing.
>And when you firmly jab your hoof pick right into one of her frog's collateral grooves…
>"O-oh—!"
>Luster breathlessly gasps up into the air, body tensing and hoof lightly quivering.
>And you don't stop there; you rigorously drive the pick up and down this groove, digging out any dirt or gunk that clings to this area.
>"H-haa~aaa~aah…!"
>She lets out a kind of whickering sigh as her body steadily adjusts to your welcome intrusion and deflates with deep satisfaction.
>The hoof pick is primarily used to clean out the kind of stubborn grime that a wire brush can only tickle.
>For that reason, you're incentivised to use a healthy amount of pressure when poking and prodding at the inner crevices of your mare's hoof.
>And from the sounds she's making, she definitely approves.

>After a good deal more hoof picking from you—and approving hums and sighs from her—you give her sole a few brisk brushes to finish things off, earning a hearty huff from your horsewife.
>Even outside of this procedure, the act of cleaning her hooves like this has become something of a common ritual shared between the both of you, to the point where you perform it for Luster every day that you're together.
>She's a magical-enough mare that she can do it by herself, but you know she loves it more when you're the one taking care of her.
>When it comes to fitting and refitting the horseshoes themselves, though, that's something even she would have trouble handling on her lonesome.
>That's why she has you do it every time.
>Still, it's not like there aren't any easier solutions to this.
>There happens to be another type of hoofwear in Equestria that you're quite knowledgeable about:
>Hoof shoes.
>These fine pieces of fashion more closely resemble the shoes that humans like yourself wear.
>They're also far simpler to fit and remove, being shaped to slide on and off a pony's hoof with zero issue—no nails required.
>If Luster wished it so, she could ditch her current horseshoes and make the switch to hoof shoes instead; having a golden set of hoof shoes forged to match her illustrious armour would be a trivial-enough task.
>In fact, she did wear such hoof shoes during the early days of her ascension, but those specific pieces of hoofwear have long been relegated to a happy memory displayed on a stand somewhere.
>You see, while you would indeed save a lot of time and effort with an efficient change of hoofwear—you also know that this efficiency isn't what Luster desires.
>By her own words, she vastly prefers how horseshoes *feel* in comparison to hoof shoes.
>She particularly enjoys the sensation of her enemies' bones crunching beneath her steel-toed hooves.
>If you had to draw a comparison back to your own world, you suspect that horseshoes feel to her what wearing brass knuckles feel to humans—brutal yet personal.
>Of course, there is another reason she prefers horseshoes over hoof shoes—and it's one neither of you have to state aloud.
>Because ponies pretty much always require a second party to help them put these horseshoes on, she needs you, and you need to be there for her.
>This hand-wrought procedure is an intimate reaffirmation of the instinctual bond between man and mare—one that's made even more intense when you're actually married to her.
>You're outfitting her for war—forging her into a conqueror of everything she's ever known.
>She accepts this—she loves it, even—and the only thing she asks for in return is to stay by your side throughout it all.
>This is what it means to be your Queen.

>The act of refitting Luster's horseshoes is really only something that needs to be done every two months or so.
>However, it's not uncommon for your mare to ask you for the "usual," which namely involves you removing and replacing just one of her horseshoes.
>Often, her excuse is one of mareish whimsy, such as "my shoe itches," or "I think I stepped in something earlier."
>But the both of you know full well the real reason for these impromptu procedures:
>She just wants you to care for her.
>Her needy behaviour reminds you of a certain other clingy mare you're very familiar with—but that's neither here nor there.
>For here in the present, you've got a horseshoe to attach.
>It's the same size, made of the same steel, and has the same amount of holes for nails to go through.
>But it's bound to make her feel like a new mare all the same.
>With her right forehoof still secured between your thighs, you make ready to begin phase three of this man-to-mare procedure.
>Holding the new shoe with your left hand and gingerly aligning it with her hoof, you slot a long nail into one of the shoe's holes—making sure the nail's emblem faces you.
>Then, you bring the shoe in and press it against her hoof, allowing the nail to go through the hole that was left by her previous shoe.
>Holding a hammer in your right hand, you bop the nail's head to hammer it through the rest of the way and fix the shoe to the hoof; you then use the claw end of your hammer to twist off the excess nail that now pokes out from her outer hoof wall.
>Right, that's one nail done. Time for the other five.

>…
>Once upon a time, you were an amateur masseur attempting to ply his trade within a resplendent Equestrian city.
>You knew how to work a pony's body over—or even a creature's—but alas, business never really boomed for you, despite your best efforts.
>One day, though, fortune took favour on you in the form of a scarlet-eyed saviour, and you soon found yourself on a shifting career path from peasant to paragon.
>Yet while you may find yourself feeling on top of the world nowadays, you've never forgotten your humble roots.
>Thus, you still find ways to put your masseurly experience to good use, and you like to think that your present role as a warhorse's personal farrier is a natural extension of that.
>…
>And with that, you have all six nails hammered in.
>For each nail, you've left just enough of the end poking out from the hoof wall for the next step.
>To carry out this task, you hold a clinch block with your left hand, and your trusty hammer with your right.
>Positioning the clinch block underneath the appropriate nail end, you give each nail head a few more taps with your hammer to create a spot for the clinch to be bent into.
>Then, using a pair of clinchers—which is a separate tool used to bend the nail ends into tightened clinches—you carefully finish securing Luster's new horseshoe to her hoof.
>Finally, you file everything over to ensure everything is smooth and that there no sharp edges.
>And that's it. Job done.
>Mission accomplished—and mare satisfied.

>"Phew…"
>Now freed from your thighs, Luster lets her right forehoof fall back to the floor.
>She then takes the time to gently scuff her newly shoed hoof against the red carpet, feeling out her fresh steel.
>After which, she turns her head to look at you, standing by her right shoulder, and offers you a truly grateful smile.
>"Thanks for that."
>Lifting your left hand and placing it upon her withers, you flash her a warm smile.
"You know I'll never skimp out on my Sow's needs."
>You give her withers a few friendly pats for emphasis.
>Your words and actions coax a snorty giggle out of her:
>"Snrt…ehehe~"
>Very cute.
>…Oh, right. Yes. Much like yourself, Luster possesses no shortage of her own titles, such as "Mother of all Orckind," "Queen of War," and "Your Loving Marewife."
>But among these monikers, she also bears the sobriquet of "Sow"—which is shorthand for being your "Mated Sow."
>This swinish term happens to be an earnestly affectionate epithet from you to her.
>You see, Luster isn't just your horse of a wife—she's also your pig of a mare besides.
>Back when she was a pony-sized unicorn, she had the most deliciously chubby body; you could just mindlessly grope her soft stomach for hours on end—and you did, in fact.
>As a full-grown alicorn, though, she's swapped out some of her excess fat for pure bulk.
>There's still a fair bit of belly to fondle at your leisure, but now, her ascended physique is one you'd consider to be "strongfat"—being both weighty *and* powerful.
>But even with her new body, she still relishes the old ways; she loves it when you feel up her horsey heft—just as much as she enjoys having you massage her rumbling tummy after a filling meal.
>She's still your Sow, even as a horse.
>Hell, she's more your Sow now than she was when you first christened her as such—considering she has since birthed an entire legion of rapacious pigmen in your name.

>Now, one might rightly be wondering how on Equestria the intimate union between a human man and a female equine can result in the conception of bipedal swine.
>The answer to this question can be found on Luster's body.
>From your standing position by her right shoulder, you cast your eyes along her thick, broad neck and up to her long, horsey head.
>Her amber gaze is currently refocused on her stove-cooking stew, while her alicorn horn looks as extensive and pointy as always.
>The front of her orange-and-yellow mane is styled in a frizzy forelock, but the back of her mane appears to move of its own accord, lightly undulating in the air with a wavelike motion.
>It's an enchanting sight, but not the answer you're looking for.
>Turning around and swapping the hand you have resting upon her withers, you steadily walk along the right side of Luster's body, making your way to her rump while trailing your right hand across her back.
>Soon enough, you reach the spot where her cutie mark is, and you gently press your left palm against it, feeling her subtly and silently push back against you.
>This is what you're looking for.
>Luster's cutie mark depicts the dawning sun peeking over a watery horizon.
>However, this particular sun happens to contain something special within its nucleus:
>It's a question mark, and it's a representation of the immutable imprint you have left within her being.
>Once upon a time, her cutie mark bore no enigmas at all.
>But then you came along, and you exerted your very essence upon hers, changing her body—and her destiny—forever.
>She became able to bear your young. Her pony womb adapted itself to carry on your humanity.
>Said humanity may have become somewhat…swinish in the process, sure—but that doesn't change the fact that these orcs are all yours.
>And hers.
>Your Sow—the blessed mother of your piglets—is a pony you shall deeply cherish until the end of time itself.
>And you know this feeling is entirely mutual.
>Luster is proud to bear your orcish young, proud to be your wife, proud to be your Sow.
>And she'll loyally follow you until the end.

>Of course, for one to birth the next generation of humanity, one must also be ready to feed it, too.
>Casting your eyes up to the top of Luster's croup, you can see a black strap of silk lingerie hugging her body tightly.
>This silken strap trails straight down both sides of her barrel and leads towards the underside of her lower abdomen.
>You crouch down to get a better look.
>There, you can see the strap connect to a sizeable black bra—which is currently doing its damnedest to contain the weighty heft of a horse's teats.
>Luster happens to have been blessed with, put plainly, a massive pair of fat mare milkers.
>The sheer size of them means that even if you were to try and cup one of her crotchboobs with both hands—plenty of fatty teatflesh would still spill out all around your palms.
>As a regular unicorn, she was already impressively endowed, but as an alicorn, she undoubtedly possesses the biggest breasts you've ever seen—easily beating out any mares you've seen in raunchy magazines.
>Their darker colour and leathery texture makes them stand out from her cerise-pink coat; they're also notably veiny, bearing streaks of blue that subtly bulge out the boobmeat.
>These babies have fed many a nursing piglet during your interspecies matrimony together.
>And once they're all weaned off—her breasts become free real estate for your personal proclivities.
>Incidentally, Luster isn't nursing any orclings right now—nor is she presently pregnant, as a matter of fact.
>That's why she's currently wearing a custom-sized crotchbra.
>Her teats might be tremendous, but when they're not in use—it can be more than a little awkward for her to have them swinging around all the time.

>Still crouched down, you get a closer look at her black bra.
>It's designed to contain both of her mare mammaries in a single durable sling.
>As a result, both of her boobs lightly squish together and dare to spill out from the sides—but are otherwise kept in check.
>Her nipples are surprisingly perky, proudly protruding through the fabric as if smugly displaying her mareish fecundity.
>It is a sumptuous sight indeed, and it coaxes a slyness to cross your lips.
>Driven by this slyness, you reach forward with your right hand and have a light fondle of her right teat's cloth-covered underside, feeling both the soft fabric and the malleable flesh underneath.
>"O-oh…!"
>You immediately hear Luster hitch a shaky breath, and through your left hand—which still rests upon her cutie mark—you can feel her thigh muscles subtly clench beneath your outstretched fingers.
>Feeling caught out, you promptly let go of her groped teat and stand straight up.
>Your gaze flits along her body, and you soon make eye contact with the mare herself, who wears a sly smirk of her own.
"I couldn't help but admire your…superiority."
>She smugly snorts.
>"Ooh, 'superiority,' I *like* that word…"
>Briefly closing her eyes, she nods to herself; then, reopening her eyes, she flashes you a toothy grin.
>"We should bring it along to our next Meet~"
>Lightly chuckling, you give her rump a few light pats with your left hand.
"Easy there…"
>She snickers, finding great amusement in this flirty back-and-forth.
>You must admit, you have a bad habit of feeding your Sow's fat ego a bit more than you should.
>A healthy ego means a happy piggy, but you should always remember to be careful that it doesn't reach critical mass.
>Bad things things happen when it does.
>Namely to your pelvis.
>And also your face.
>So you should probably change the subject.

>Fortuitously, Luster decides to change it for you:
>"You know," she begins, "that's the one downside of having great fat teats like mine."
>She gives her rump a slight wiggle, making her constrained saggers slightly jostle about.
>"Gotta keep 'em both cramped up in that tight cloth, eugh."
>You ponder the pendulous motion of her mammaries for a second, before responding:
"Why contain it? Let these babies run free during our next raid."
>Using your right hand, you playfully gesture down towards her humongous hangers.
"I'm sure you could knock at least one creature out with the sheer force of your teats swinging at them."
>Your words get her snortily guffawing for a solid few seconds.
>"That's…pfft…that *is* a pretty good idea~"
>She then blithely shakes her head.
>"But nah, I couldn't do that. My teats are *way* too good for the likes of them."
>Her jovial expression softens into a heartfelt smile.
>"Plus, the only ones I want touching my teats are my piglets or you."
"Mm…"
>Briefly breaking eye contact, you glance towards her cutie mark.
>You give said cutie mark a thoughtful stroke with your left hand, before looking back to her.
"What about your Sisters?"
>She hums for a second, before answering:
>"If they ask nicely, sure~"
>You let out a light laugh at that.

>The conversation dies down, being replaced by the stove's soft sizzle and the wind rustling against your yurt.
>Your left hand finds its way up to her croup and begins idly scritching at that area, making her rump subtly sway from side to side.
>Your right arm hangs limply by your side, doing nothing of importance.
>Your gaze drifts over to her right flank, and you silently ponder the black bra strap that runs down her barrel.
>It looks a bit uneven. Maybe you should—
>"Sooo…" Luster suddenly speaks up. "Whaddaya think?"
>You re-establish eye contact with Luster.
"Hm?"
>Her eyes slyly flit down to her teats, then back to you.
>"Looking to play with 'em a little? Or maybe…"
>With a flirty grin on her face, she wiggles her eyebrows at you.
>"…maybe have a little light snack before supper~?"
>Eyeing her lingerie, you move your right hand in towards her and curtly slip a finger between her velvet bra strap and firm flank, feeling up the contrast.
"Hm, tempting…"
>You give her bra strap a gentle tug from beneath, stretching it over to the right.
>Then, you let it snap back to her flank, straightening out the strap in the process.
"…but it wouldn't be right to just dive in like this."
>You look back to her.
"Especially after the restraint you showed earlier."
>She lets out a cheeky chuckle.
>"Hey, I'm not gonna judge~"
>She looks away from you and lightly chews her bottom lip in thought.
>"But, hm…"
>After a second or so, her gaze darts back to you.
>"…oh, why don't I bring in our newest toy?"
>She flashes you a knowing grin.
>"Heh, there's *miles* of fun to be had with that one~"
>The…"newest toy," huh?
>…Ah, she must mean "her."
>Yes, you suppose it would be best for the two of you to break her in sooner rather than later.
>So you give Luster a nod.
"Go for it."
>"Heh heh, perfect. I'll go get her."
>She backs up and turns around, facing towards the yurt's doorway.
>Just before she leaves, though, she throws you a glance over her left shoulder.
>"Oh, and could you keep watch over the stew while I'm gone? I won't be long."
>You give her a thumbs up with your left hand.
"Sure thing."
>With a goofily toothy grin on her face, she gives you a magically conjured thumbs up back.
>She then pushes open the door and exits the yurt, quickly leaving your line of sight.

>And with that, you now find yourself the lone watcher of your hearth—and dutiful attendant to the stove, of course.
>It is a trivial enough task, so you decide to take this opportunity to put your farrier tools away, as well as remove your slops.
>Once you've done that, you look to find another way to occupy your contemplative mind during this tranquil time.
>You soon find something suitable to ruminate on.
>It's your magical staff, currently sat on the long wooden cabinet at the northern end of your yurt.
>Stepping over to your staff, you pick it up and ponder it.
>You've described this staff before—being carved from reliable oak wood, and tipped with a pink heart-shaped crystal.
>However, there's a bit more to it than that.
>While the foundation is indeed sturdy and strong, past the midway point, the bark twists and turns as you move up the shaft.
>And once you reach the tip, the wood splits off into three identical "tendrils" that coil and curve through the air.
>These tendrils reach a little higher than the staff's focal crystal, yet they arch downwards to surround it in a triangular cage, their tips pointing inwards.
>This triangular formation of the tendrils covers up the back face of the heart-shaped crystal and flanks both of its sides; this leaves the front face of the crystal still exposed, so you always make sure to angle your staff so that it faces forward and towards whatever your target may be.
>You're quite fond of this staff's design; it's both trustworthy and thaumaturgical, yet those tendrils give it a kind of ominous quality that you like to believe enhances your "warlock factor."

>Before you can continue preening yourself or your staff any further, you hear the solid sound of a door being opened and closed, the sharp jingling of a metal chain—and the telltale noise of heavy hoofsteps re-entering your home.
>Setting your staff back down on the cabinet, you turn around and see your marewife now standing by the entrance.
>You make your way over to her, walking around the western section of your yurt, and greet her:
"Welcome home, honeybuns."
>Luster flashes you a cheesy grin.
>"Eheh. Look who I brought along."
>Her horn is wrapped in an amber glow, and by her right side, she holds the looped end of an iron chain that is attached to something.
>She suddenly yanks the chain forward, forcing that "something" into view.
>It's that griffon the two of you took ownership of after your latest raid.
>Yeah, you remember her.
>After all, she's that very same griffon who attempted to gouge your Luster's eye out with a spear.
>While said attempt thankfully never breached further than pointed intent—an assault upon your precious family is not something so easily forgiven.
>And now that she's your property, you plan on paying her back tenfold for her transgressions.
>Looking her over, you can see that this griffon has greyish feathers, dark-brown fur, while her eyes—just as ireful as they were on that raid—bear a striking yellow hue.
>The iron chain that Luster used to pull the griffon in also serves as this prisoner's leash, for it is connected to a heavy iron collar worn around her neck.
>To further exemplify her newfound bondage, the griffon's wings have been bound to her body with rope, firmly hindering any flappy shenanigans.
>Her lion-like hindlegs have been forced apart with the aid of a metal spreader bar, while her yellow talons have been tied together and forced behind her back with rope, greatly limiting her mobility options.
>Also, the tip of her leonine tail has been tightly tied to the back of her iron collar, tautly preventing any undue flicking.
>And to top it all off, her yellow beak has been forced shut with the aid of a black strap wrapped around its base, completely keeping her from yapping her griffon gob.

"Hm…"
>You must admit, she certainly looks portable, if nothing else.
>But wait, if her limbs have been bound in such a manner, then…
"…did you drag her all the way here?"
>Luster chuckles, then lets her magical hold on the chain slacken, causing the griffon to slump down onto the floor, ass up.
>"Well, I *did* give her the option to walk with me…"
>Flashing a bit of teeth, Luster grins down at the griffon as she continues:
>"She was feeling kinda uncooperative, though."
>She lightly taps her right hindhoof on the carpet.
>"Even tried to jab at me with her beak—"
>She shoots you a cocky grin.
>"—but you can guess how that went, heh."
>Casting your eyes downward, you gaze upon your recalcitrant captive.
>Compared to when you last saw her earlier this afternoon, you notice that the frontal part of her upper beak now looks a little chipped.
"I see."
>"So," Luster speaks up, "I figured her first punishment under our ownership was for her to lose walking privileges."
>With her magic, Luster lets go of her chain leash and instead hoists the whole griffon up in the air, forcing a surprised squeak out of your avian slave.
>Her body now dangles in the air as if held by the scruff of her neck. And from this angle, you can see that her hindlegs from the hocks downward are covered in various bruises and scrapes from having been callously dragged along the path here.
>"But hey," Luster addresses the griffon, "play nice with us from now on, and we *might* just be convinced to let you walk on all fours again."
>Unfurling her right wing, Luster uses her wingtips to playfully pat the griffon on her feathered head.
>"'Cause I've got a swanky pair of oven mitts that I think would look *great* on you~"
>The griffon lets out a muffled yet indignant growl at that.
>"Anyway," Luster continues, "let's get to breaking her in."
>You nod.
"Sounds good."
>Partially turning your body, you gesture towards the northwestern area of your yurt.
"We'll do it over there."

>…
>The margin between the northern and western quarters of your yurt is the margin between a living space and tool storage.
>That's what makes it a most fitting place to enjoy your new slave.
>After quickly making sure that your stew is still in order, you and Luster now find yourselves both looking down at the latest in your long line of captured playthings.
>The greyish griffon now lies on her back and against the dark-red carpet; her body is oriented so that her head points towards the yurt's northern end, while her rump points towards the south.
>You are crouched down by the griffon's left side, left hand resting on the floor and right hand cupping your chin.
>Luster is currently resting on the left side of her barrel, with her body being positioned on the carpeted area that's above the griffon's head.
>The griffon's restraints are mostly the same as before; however, Luster's amber magic now holds your prisoner down by her neck, greatly limiting what little movement options she has left.
>Reaching out with your right hand, you trail a few fingers around the griffon's bare belly, relishing the feeling of her short, dark-brown fur—as well as the angry growls and squeaks coming from the feathered feline herself.
"It's always a treat to have a griffon enter our midst. Your bodies are truly fascinating to me."
>"Shame about their squawking and money grubbing personalities, though," Luster quips with a grin.
>You chuckle at that, before giving your griffon's vulnerable stomach a prying prod, earning another disgruntled grunt from her.
>Griffons happen to be quite curious creatures; they're born like birds, yet nurse like lions.
>To that end, they don't have a navel.
>But they *do* possess a feline's mammaries.
>Your eyes trail down the griffon's slender body, and you count them up:
>Six.
>Six perky pink nipples shyly poking out of her dark-brown fur.
>Unlike a certain pigmare's prodigious crotchboobs, this catbird's tummytits possess very little "meat" to them; they're just milk ducts and nothing more than that.
>And considering how tightly wound your captive is—well, you doubt you'll find even a droplet of milk in there.
>Still, that's no reason to discontinue your hands-on exploration.

>Slyly sliding your fingers down from her total lack of a belly button, you approach her lacking field of natural mosquito bites.
>Locking on to her upper-leftmost nipple, you bump the fingernail of your right index up against her hard nub, making it slightly "lean" the other way.
>"Pfft. Look at 'em," you hear Luster proudly state.
>Looking towards the mare in question, you see her disdainfully turn up her snout.
>"Pathetic. Just like every other griffon I've seen."
>Out from the corner of your eye, you can see the griffon's expression tighten.
>"How about it, Master?" Luster asks you. "Why don't I use some of my magic to help this teatlet stop being so shrimpy?"
>Her words coax a coy smile onto your face.
>Your wife is so unabashedly brash about her breast comparisons.
>You can't help but love that about her.
>That being said, you're not strictly a "bigger is better" kind of guy, and so your answer carries this sentiment forward:
"Now, now, Luster. There's no need to be hasty."
>Looking back to the griffon's range of minute mammaries, you teasingly twirl your index around her nipple, feeling out the flabbier areola that encircles it.
"Teats happen to have their own distinct appeal at every size."
>You then lightly press your finger down against her nub, pushing it into her areola as if it were a pink button—and making the griffon shiver in response.
>With a slightly wider smile on your face, you look back to Luster.
"Even when they're as tiny as these."

>Luster amusedly snorts.
>"Yeah, and I know you have a special taste for 'em when they're as small as they can possibly get~"
>You snerk, not denying her pinpoint accusation in the slightest.
"That, and…"
>Briefly side-eyeing the griffon's teats, you speak to Luster with a conspiratorial tone:
"…well, let's not forget there are *other* ways to make these mounds more bountiful."
>Quickly catching on to your inference, her expression and voice mirror your own:
>"Heh heh, true~"
>With that exchange amiably resolved, you return to groping your griffon—poking, pressing, pinching, and squeezing however you please.
>It's a powerful feeling, this, to play with your pregnable prey at your own perverse pleasure, to have her defenceless body laid bare before your eyes—and to bask in the satisfaction of knowing that she can't do a damn thing to stop you doing whatever you like to her.
>As you continue to openly molest your captive, you can keenly feel the disgusted glares and hear the irate growls coming from her all throughout.
>Her body defiantly twitches under the oppressive strength of her tight restraints, yet cannot ever hope to break their bonds.
>Her belly breathes raggedly and roughly, reflecting the stress of everything that's happened to her.
>Her teats continually pulse with a comely warmth, reminding you that underneath it all, she's still a fertile female waiting to be claimed by a strong, virile male.
>And as Equestria's rightful ruler, that may as well make her your personal broodmare already.

>For your next act of wanton molestation, you pinch her middle-right nipple in between your index and thumb.
>Then, you steadily pull it upwards, watching as the supple areola stretches with it…
>Once you've tugged it as far as you can, you take a succulent moment to appreciate the conical shape of her now-distended teat.
>And you suddenly let go of it, allowing it to snap right back to her belly with a subtle wobble.
>That earns you a shuddering wince from your powerless prisoner.
>Delicious.
>But…hm…
>You know you can tease out even greater reactions from this grey-feathered griffon.
>And you know you can go even further with your fingers.
>It's time to stop playing around with your plaything.
>Pulling your hand back, you examine the current state of your captive.
>Her body is shivering with rage, her face is flush with hate, and the corners of her eyes swell with tears.
>She possesses the tell-tale expression of a defiant slave who would love nothing more than to rip you to shreds should she ever succeed in breaking free.
>It's a truly exquisite sight—one that's just begging to be shocked into shape.

>Focusing on your right hand, you rub your index and thumb together for a few seconds.
>You then steadily pull these fingers away from one another, making a wide "U" shape with them.
>In the process, you catch a brief glimpse of an electrical bolt jumping from one finger to the other.
>It's static electricity—*magical* static electricity.
>Indeed, you can cast magic even without the use of your staff. The staff just happens to make it far easier.
>Anyway, with the power of a good jolt now concealed within your fingertips, you look back to the bird of the hour.
>The griffon clearly saw what you have in store for her, as her pupils have now shrunk to fearful pinpricks, and you can see her frantically shaking her head at you in a fruitless attempt to deter your chosen course.
>Luster, on the other hand, doesn't seem to have noticed your playful prelude; instead, both her amber gaze and her multitasking magic are primarily focused on her simmering stew over by the yurt's centre—though she still keeps the griffon held down by her neck without skipping a beat.
>That's perfectly fine. Your next move is sure to grab your marewife's attention, regardless.
"Brace yourself, little birdie," you teasingly whisper to the griffon. "This next part may come as a…shock to the system."
>Moving back in with your electrified fingertips—and wilfully ignoring your captive's desperate squeaks and grunts throughout—you once again pinch the griffon's middle-right nipple between your index and thumb.
>You give her firm nub an even firmer squeeze—and you promptly jolt her with enough energy to fry an entire lake's worth of fish.
>Her throat immediately forces out a high-pitched shriek, catching the attention of all who reside in this room.
>Her body seizes up and breaks out into a fit of uncontrollable shivers and quivers, convulsing and clenching as you continue to catalyse her titty.
>Her eyes damn-near roll over and fill to the brim with pained tears, beautifully colouring her yellow-eyed defiance with red-veined punishment.
>"Oho…"

>Cancelling your charge, you nonetheless keep the griffons heated teat pinched between your fingers as you look up at Luster, who is nodding to you with approval.
>"Going for a bit of electro-stim, huh?"
>She snortily chuckles:
>"Heh heh, nice~"
>You flash her a sly grin.
"Since *your* first punishment for our slave was to *temporarily* remove her walking privileges…"
>Turning your gaze back onto the griffon's belly, you finally release your two-fingered pinch on her nipple, noting that it's now been charred black.
"…I figured it'd fitting for *my* first punishment to be something a bit more…*permanent.*"
>Luster lifts her right forehoof and proudly gestures towards her chest.
>"Hey, I'm *more* than willing to give our slaves a good shock if need be."
>You give her a wry nod.
"Mm-hmm."
>"It's just, uh…"
>Ear flicking and gaze faltering, Luster lets her forehoof awkwardly flop back down to the floor.
>"…you're a lot better at not going totally overboard than I am, eheh."
>Yes, "not going totally overboard" is one way of putting it.
>Let it be known that Luster Dawn has absolutely zero problem controlling her immense magic; truthfully, she's the most reliable spellcaster you know, and she can be incredibly precise when and where it counts.
>At the same time, however, she also happens to possess a very strong sadistic streak, and she has a bad habit of…well, "overpunishing" your slaves while drunk on her own dominant high.
>You, on the other hand, are a far more analytical and methodical slaveowner, being far more understanding of your victim's limits—yet just as eager to push them.
>Take your jolted griffon, for example: her now-blackened nipple smokes like burnt chicken, while her belly raggedly rises up and down to a barely recovering beat.
>The fish may have been fried, but your slave still yet lives.
>Native Equestrians are a resilient bunch, you've come to realise. Their bodies are built to withstand all kinds of extreme phenomena—perhaps because they're so in tune with the protective magic that innately permeates this land.
>Doesn't mean you can't still cause them a lot of pain where it counts, though.
>By comparison, your orcs aren't nearly as magical—despite their storied heritage—yet their bulky physiques possess not only a natural stone-like hardiness, but also makes them highly resistant to magic; these attributes make them a terrifying force to be reckoned with in any setting, if at the subjective cost of making them far more rigid and inert than the softskins they conquer.

>"Besides," your marewife's raspy voice catches your attention, "what're you even punishing her for, anyway?"
>Looking up to Luster, you see her coyly tilt her head towards the recuperating griffon.
>"'Cause from where I am, she's looking pretty well behaved to me~"
>You toss a glance over to your shocked captive, watching as her tear-stained sights slowly fall back down to earth, and noting how her body continues to spasm and twitch involuntarily.
>Trailing your eyes over to her tittied tummy, you visually reconfirm the presence of one burnt-black nipple.
>However, to you, that just means she still has five more good ones.
"Oh, that's easy," you answer.
>Rubbing your fingers together once more, you generate a few magical sparks.
"It's the punishment…"
>Quickly deciding on your next target, you move in with your right hand and fiercely pinch her lower-left nipple—using three fingers, this time.
"…of looking so damn zappable!"
>Squeezing the griffon's pinkish nub with a gleeful pressure, you promptly discharge your full electrical payload straight into her sensitive skin.
>She squeals, screams, shakes, quakes, cries, almost fucking dies—and all the while, Luster belly laughs like she's got front-row seats to the best circus in town, finding great amusement in watching you shock this griffon's tits off.
>…And you swear, despite your actions primarily being fuelled by a desire for retribution, this is still nowhere *near* as bad as your wife can get.
>Though you must admit, her cruel antics do have a way of rubbing off on you—just as you have a way of rubbing off on her.
>The truth is, toying with your prisoners like this has become quite the intimate bonding activity between Luster and yourself.
>In fact, the two of you frequently make games of seeing just how far you can push your slaves without breaking them, turning this get-together into a fun and friendly competition between man and mare.
>You're not always electrifying your victims, either; other times, you take a more mechanical approach—or take a magical dive into their mental.
>Of course, no matter the method, Luster's aforementioned sadistic streak has her end up throwing to you more often then not, but the two of you always have tons of fun together regardless.
>And hey, even if you *do* end up breaking your toys, you can still reuse them in other ways.
>You and your orcs are very resourceful in that regard.
>As for the griffon presently getting her teats fried underneath your fingertips, while you heavily doubt her chances of ever being able to comfortably nurse a brood of baby birds—she's still a long ways off from what you'd consider "broken."
>She'll live.

>You mercifully let go of the griffon's lower-left nipple, which now shares the same charcoal hue as its middle-right twin.
>That's one third of her milkers made well done by your hand.
>If you were intending to make this catbird into your meal, you'd consider that good progress—once you ignore the burnt bits, of course.
>Alas, this is food you only intend to play with.
>Taking another good look at your captive's current state, you can see that her shell-shocked eyes are busy staring up at some arbitrary spot on your yurt's rafters.
>Her entire body twitches and spasms at random intervals, while her bound wings have involuntarily shed some of her feathers, likely due to her electrically induced stress.
>She makes no noise, but she does appear to be hyperventilating.
>Hm.
>A quick jolt ought to sort that out.
>Channelling another charge into your fingers, you hold your index and your middle finger up together as you move in towards her burnt lower-left teat.
>You then give it a firm bop with both fingers, discharging another round of jump-starting voltage into her system.
>Your electrifying efforts force another pained squeal from her voice box and gets her whole body to seize upwards.
>Luckily for her, though, you really only plan to give her a quick jolt this time.
>And so you remove your stimulatory fingers from her thoroughly sizzled teatflesh, granting her body some leeway to relax itself.
>From there, you begin pondering a new method of teasing your slave…
>…
>"Whoa-hoa! Look at her go!"
>…Or at least you *would* begin pondering a new method—however, something unexpected rises to your attention.
>Your captive is currently voiding her bladder right before your very eyes, arcing it out from in between her hindlegs.
"Ah."
>To her credit, it is quite the impressive stream of cat piss.
>Guess you have your jolts to thank for getting her gushing.
>At least Luster is amused by this sight.
>You, on the other hand, are now brainstorming ways to mask the smell of griffon urine.
>And also how best to punish a slave who can't control her peehole—even while under electrical duress.
>Clean-up can come later.
>For now, punishment comes first.
>…
>Yeah, another electric shock should do it.

>You patiently wait for your slave to arc out the last of her liquid shame before making your move.
>This time, you decide that your volts are best directed towards the source of this particular sin.
>Thus, your gaze journeys across the Scorched Fields of Tittytopia, descends down into the Canyon of the Metallically Spread Legs, and makes its way over towards the Forbidden Sluice.
>Well…no. It might reek of piss, but it's not the kind of sluice one might think of in regards to a half-bird creature that lays eggs.
>Despite being oviparous, griffons possess a standard set of feline genitalia—no cloaca here.
>You'd love to theorise on why that is the case—but alas, you've got some pussy to zap.
>Glancing down at the bound griffon's lion vagina, you can see that her lips are already parted and ready to go, likely due to her prior "stimulation."
>Thanks to this, you quickly locate the position of her clitoris—that fleshy fun button which can make any female creature squeal with delight.
>Unfortunately for her, though, you're about to make her squeal with something else.
>Extending out your index, you focus your current thoughts onto your fingertip.
>You're only using a singular finger this time, so you shouldn't burn her button.
>Probably.
>Wasting no more time, you press your potential finger right up to her pink pearl.
"Bad girl."
>You press—and you pulse.
>The griffon shrieks through her clamped beak, her constrained wings shed even more feathers, her captured thighs vibrate like crazy—
>And her cathole jets out another stream of liquid.
>This stream has a much shorter duration, but comes in frenetic spurts.
>It's also not the same yellow urine from before, instead coming out as a clearer, more viscous fluid.
>Yet despite its different makeup, it splatters out onto the carpet in front of her in much the same way, staining your fuzzy flooring with slavish shame.
>"Whoa, look at that…"
>You glance back to Luster, who is gazing at the griffon's gunk with a mocking grin on her face.
>She then turns her head to you and snerks.
>"Two messes for the price of one, eh?"
>Lifting up her right foreleg, Luster slips her hoof under the griffon's chin and tilts her head backwards so that mare and catbird may face each other.
>"And you!" Luster sternly addresses the griffon. "What have you got to say for yourself, huh?"
>Not only is her beak strapped shut, but the griffon is also seeing stars in a different dimension right now.
>So understandably, she can't offer much in the way of response.
>Something else, however, does.
>A hungry grumbling.
>"E-er."
>A blush crosses Luster's face as she flashes you a bashful grin.
"Hm…"
>You glance towards your marewife's impressively sized, yet hungrily groaning tummy—the source of that earlier sound.
>And you flash her a warm smile.
"I guess we better get ready to dig into our stew, eh?"
>She lets out a chuckle, grin turning more relaxed:
>"Eheh, yeah~"

>…
>You and Luster have moved further east towards the northern quarter of your yurt—which is where your dining area is—and the two of you now sit around a wooden dining table.
>You sit by its western side, back towards the yurt's western quarter—your tool storage.
>Luster sits by its eastern side, back towards the yurt's eastern quarter—your sleeping area.
>And the both of you each have a delicious bowl of piping hot beef stew sitting in front of you, which smells just as good as it sounds.
>The table itself stands on tall legs in order to accommodate Luster's large horsey size.
>As for you, this means you have to sit on a similarly tall stool so that you may comfortably reach the table top.
>Your stool is shaped like an upright tree trunk, and is seated with a comfy pillow, stopping any worry of splinters.
>Admittedly, this tall trunk stool does feel a bit like a booster seat at times—but it does come with a comfy footrest carved further down into the wood, so you can't complain too much.
>Luster, on the other hand, sits on the carpet floor—though she does have a nice comfy pillow like yours to cushion her tush.
>What else…hm…
>Oh, right. Your slave.
>Looking over your right shoulder, you can see her across the room.
>She now lies within the compact confines of a griffon-sized cage that's shaped like a pet carrier.
>The cage has been placed on top of some absorbent towels, with these towels having been layered on top of the carpet that she made a mess of earlier.
>The griffon's gaze is currently lowered down to the floor, and she looks utterly despondent.
>Anyway, that's enough of her—back to your stew.
>Back to your bowl, you can see that you also have a large mug placed right next to it.
>The mug is filled with a frothy alcoholic beverage.
>It's mead, of course—sweet, delicious mead.
>Lifting up your mug with your left hand, you hold it over the table and towards Luster, entreating her to a toast.
"Bon appétit," you say with a smile.
>She chuckles, then levitates up her own mead-filled mug and boisterously toasts you.
>"Let's get our grub on!"
>With that, the two of you pull back your drinks and partake in some pre-meal imbibement.
>Predictably, Luster empties the contents of her mug in mere seconds, chugging it all down with loud and proud gulps.
>You, however, are sober enough that you know far better than to try and match this mare's heavyweight pace, and so you delve into your drink with measured—if respectably energetic—sips.

>Soon enough, you decide it's time to set the remainder of your mead down and focus on your beef stew.
>On the left side of your wooden bowl, you have a handy wooden spoon to scoop up your supper with.
>You might be a barbaric conqueror, but that's no reason not to eat like a civilised human being.
>And as for Luster, well…
>"Slrp, slrp, slrp, slrp, slrp…"
>She rejects convention and cutlery both, choosing instead to dive snout-first into her stew and slurp it up with gusto.
>Because of how close she now is to her own bowl, she also happens to be muddying up her golden nose ring with reddish beef broth in the process.
>Still, you can't deny that her headstrong method to fine dining is adorable in its own horsey way.
>Then again, perhaps it'd be more accurate to call it a piggish approach…
>Regardless, looking back to your own bowl, you pick up your wooden spoon with your right hand, scoop out some stew from the centre, and take a tentative bite…
>…
>Oh…oh man.
>Smelling it is one thing, but *tasting* it…
>How do you even describe this?
>Heavenly? Can you just call it "heavenly" and move on?
>…No. Equestria's rightful ruler does not shy away from any culinary challenge—no matter how divine.
>The complex taste of this hearty beef stew is predominantly wrapped up within a flavourful savouriness that comes from the well-browned meat, fulfilling both the mind and the body with its slow-cooked sublimity.
>And yet despite the standout quality of this premium umami, it somehow manages to harmoniously coexist with its constituents, melding everything together to create the ultimate mouthfeel.
>There's the delicate sweetness of perfectly caramelised vegetables—potatoes, carrots, and onions—forming a sugary sweetness that dances on the tongue and delights the palate.
>There's the aromatic foundation of various herbs and spices infused into the mix, giving the whole stew an earthier contrast that settles you on the ground before lifting you to elysium.
>There's the rich texture of the broth itself, carrying each component forward through its thick gravy and sliding down your throat like smooth butter, turning every single spoonful of splendiferous stew into an ambrosial odyssey.
>All in all, it's…
>Well, it's heavenly.

"Mmf…"
>It's so good, you find yourself unconsciously raising up your left hand and making a "OK" gesture with your fingers.
>Luster, noticing this, momentarily stops her troughing to partially lift her head, and she flashes you a warm grin.
>"Eheh, I take it you like it, then?"
>Taking a moment to swallow the rest of your seraphic spoonful, you respond to her with a nod:
"Definitely. It's cooked to perfection."
>Lowering your right hand so as to let the neck of your spoon balance on the bowl's rim, you cast her a coltish smile.
"*Now* may I say that you've truly outdone yourself?"
>Lifting her head up all the way, Luster beams with pride.
>"Oh yeah." She nods. "And feel free to keep layering those compliments on me. I can take 'em all."
"Is that so? Well, in that case…"
>Playing along with your marewife's whims, you do indeed start showering her with heaps upon heaps of boundless praise—the exact specifics of which are far too saccharine and sycophantic for a play-by-play narration.
>But even though you begin your bout of brown-nosing by commending her cooking, you somehow manage to turn your toadying towards her more general qualities—such as her attractively confident personality, her huskily raspy voice, and her stunningly sexy good looks.
>Luster, of course, soaks in everything you say with a great big grin on her face, being more than happy to eat up your words along with her meal.
>And hey, who says anything bad came from lathering your Sow's fat ego with excessive amounts of flattery?
>A more sober version of you, perhaps—but he's too busy being sent to heaven by the godlike combination of good mead and beef stew.
>So that just leaves you and your words.
>Your sweet, syrupy words.

>…
>Eventually, though, the two of you decide it would be best to focus on your respective meals before they get any colder.
>And now that your taste buds have been given the chance to settle and acclimate to this five-star stew, perhaps it's finally time to address the carnivorous elephant in the room.
>Yes, Luster Dawn is currently slurping up her beef stew without a care.
>It's a succulent sight, to be sure, yet it's also one that would seem noticeably off to any native Equestrian.
>You see, pastel-coloured ponies happen to be a vegetarian species—they generally don't eat meat.
>Luster herself was no exception to this behaviour; back when she was just a cute, chubby unicorn, you knew her to subsist primarily on sugary treats and plant-based products—namely, greasy hayburgers and sweetened hay shakes.
>Upon her ascension, however, she gained an appetite for both the meaty and the magical.
>The former matches up with your own tastes quite nicely—hell, her horsey body even grew out a set of mighty canines to match your human chompers.
>The latter, on the other hand…well, that's a whole different beast entirely.
>As an intimidatingly sized alicorn, Luster enjoys supping on the ethereal essence of the Equestrian populace. And by using a special kind of crimson-coloured magic, she is able to absorb the magical life force of just about anything.
>Incidentally, her absolute favourite creatures to snack on are those of a draconic variety.
>It's a rather…unique quality of hers, you can't deny that.
>But you're not gonna judge it, either.
>After all, you're no stranger to strange tastes.
>Also, while you're on the subject of her ascension, you may as well mention another thing about your wife that changed as she grew bigger.
>Her voice.
>During her unicorn days, she spoke with a harsh, raspy tone; it was the kind of voice that instantly pegged her for the sweaty know-it-all nerd she was—and still kind of is.
>But once she ascended, her voice took on a much deeper and dominant husk, bringing to mind an aggressive musclehead of a mare who would be far more likely to give you a swirlie than read any kind of book.
>Yet despite the incredibly intimidating tone of voice she now possesses, the rasp within has far from died out.
>It's still there, and you can still keenly pick it out whenever you hear her speak.
>There will be times where this rasp is either more or less pronounced than normal—but the nerdy unicorn you fell in love with is always there.

>…
>You finally finish your stew.
>It was rapturous all the way until the end.
>Alas, you must now return to the land of the living.
>It's a land now sorely lacking in Luster's stew.
>But it *does* have Luster herself—so it's not all bad.
>Speaking of which…
"Luster."
>Owing to her larger appetite and much horsier mouth, she actually finished her food a fair bit before you.
>And in the interim between her clearing her bowl and you clearing yours, she has taken the opportunity to work her way through several mead refills.
>"Gluk…gluk… Gluk…aaah~"
>After letting out a satiated sigh, she magically slaps her once-again-emptied mug down on the table, next to her empty bowl, and looks to you.
>"Yeah? What's up?"
"Well…"
>You're not too worried about your marewife being drunk off her rocker quite just yet.
>Luster boasts an extremely high alcohol resistance, so it'll take more than a few kegs of mead to bring this horse down.
>But…there is something else that's been bothering you.
>It's a something that has been messily present the moment she began troughing at her stew.
"…it's your nose ring," you say, pointing your spoon up towards the piercing in question.
>Given the hoggish manner in which she dove into her food, it shouldn't come as much surprise that her nasal accessory now drips with the last remaining remnants of her delicious stew.
>It's not just her golden nose ring, either—various forward-facing parts of her pink muzzle have been similarly sauced by that reddish beef broth.
>Luster, taking head of your pointed concern, goes a little cross-eyed in trying to look at her own protruding piercing.
>She does, however, soon notice the stew that stains it.
>"Oooh…"
>The honey mead she's been downing has managed to indirectly wash some of the stew away—but she's still very much a messy mare.
>This calls for a human touch, you feel.
"Hold on."
>Setting your spoon down into your empty bowl, you stand up and walk along the table's right side, making your way over to your marewife.
>Halfway across the table lies a stack of paper towels; you pick one up in your left hand as you continue moving forward.
"Let me…"
>You hold up your towel and angle it towards her ringed snout.
>Swiftly identifying your intent, Luster's eyes suddenly go wide.
>"Huh?"
>She quickly reels back, lifting her head far above your reach.
>"You're really gonna use *that?*" she says with an arched eyebrow. "Seriously?"
>You open your mouth to respond, but hold your tongue when you catch the makings of a sultry smile forming on her face.
>Letting out a light sigh, you set your now-slightly-crumpled paper towel back on the table surface and away from its untouched brethren.
"Very well, then."
>Sometimes you wonder if those paper towels are only there for show.
>Then again, they're still pretty useful for cleaning everything else.
>It's just that your mare is very particular with how she likes her face to be handled.

>Luster giggles at your compliance, then slightly shuffles her seated body to face your own, and lowers her head so as to be just above eye level with you, stretching her neck above the table surface.
>Reaching up with both hands, you gently cup her face by her jowls and bring her in even closer.
>Soon enough, you're close enough to her piercing that your lips are already brushing up against its looped end.
>Opening your mouth, you take part of her nose ring into your maw, balancing it on your bottom lip, and carefully begin cleaning off her stained accessory with your tongue.
>It tastes…metallic, which is to be expected, you suppose.
>But you can also taste divine traces of her stew's sauce—which you are absolutely here for.
>Luster, for her part, stays mostly still during all of this, merely flaring out her passively sniffing nostrils in response to your close proximity—but otherwise being perfectly happy to watch over you with ardent eyes as you care for your mare.
>It's hungry work, washing your wife in such a mouthy manner—luckily, this task happens to be a self-sustaining one in that regard.
>And so you dutifully lick at and around her nasal piercing, pushing past the polished feeling of cold gold in order to savour the flavour of warm beef broth and even warmer gratitude.
>Once you've lapped her golden loop into a completely spotless state—albeit totally slick with spit—you mentally congratulate yourself on a ring well slurped.
>But you don't stop there; after all, her ring may be clean, but the front of her messy muzzle is still in dire need of some tender licking care.
>Thus, you take your tongue straight to her tactile snoutflesh and lather her face with the attention and care that a big marewife deserves.
>You lovingly lick at her lips, savouring both the stew stuck there and the rubbery sensation of her horsey mouth.
>You carefully lift up her nose ring with the bridge of your own nose and lap at her philtrum, making sure this part of her is just as affectionately washed as everywhere else.
>You meticulously roll your tongue on and around the wide rims of her flared nostrils, even briefly dipping inside her nasal vestibules to make sure you're doing your due diligence.
>All the while, Luster closes her eyes in deep contentment, wordlessly honing in on the warm feeling of being cared for by her devoted husband.
>"Mhm…"
>She softly exhales through her wide nostrils, letting her strong mare breath totally wash over your human face.
>Besides smelling powerful and horsey, her exhalations also carry the telltale scent of alcohol—and the homely aroma of hay.
>It's a truly welcoming fragrance; you could just sniff it for hours.
>But your tasteful obligations come first.

>…
>It doesn't take much longer until you finish washing her muzzle, leaving her face now fully unblemished.
"Alright," you whisper to her, "it's done."
>Her lips subtly part, but she doesn't say anything.
>Gently pulling your hands back, you release the hold you had on her jowls.
>This causes her face to slightly droop—and her expression to tighten a little.
>Her eyes open to look at you, revealing shimmering amber pools of ardent passion.
>Everything about her is utterly mesmerising.
>However, duty calls; you should probably get to work on putting your bowls and such away.
>And so you make to turn around.
"Okay, I—"
>"W-wait."
>In an instant, a hoof reaches out and needily presses itself against the side of your right shoulder, cordoning off your exit.
>It's her left forehoof.
>You look back to Luster, seeing her eyes burn with barely contained desire.
>"Let me…"
>She slides her hoof up your shoulder, clumsily yet clingily resting her limb atop your right clavicle.
>"…let me sniff ya some more."
>You purse your lips as you keep eye contact with your wife.
>Certainly, you have no major objections to indulging in both your and her wants.
>Still, there is some humour to be found in how needy she can be.
>And so, resting your left hand upon the fur-covered pastern of her left forehoof, you respond with a wry yet warm smile on your face:
"Come on, then."
>Her face lights up at that, and she retracts her outstretched limb.
>"Ehehehe…" she softly giggles, "yeah…"
>Sitting straight up, she shuffles her body so it now faces perpendicular to the table—leaving plenty of room for you to get in front of her.
>"C'mere…"
>She unfurls her left wing and holds it out for you.
>"Come to your mare…"
>So not only is she needy—but she's demanding, too.
>You can't help but consider this to be a strangely lovable quality of hers, though.

>Walking around the rest of the table, you soon make your way over to Luster's front, and you feel her fluffy wing fully wrap itself around your back, shrouding your sights in nothing but her.
>Because of her impressive size, you are currently face to face with her tufty chest.
>You're not here to huff up her torso, however—as highly tempting as that scenario might be for the both of you.
>Thus, you hear her horn come to life, and you feel a distinct weightlessness emerge beneath your feet.
>Your vision steadily rises, and so are you; you're being pulled up along her body by way of her amber magic.
>Looking up, you see her equine countenance cordially looking down upon you, with her neck being curved backwards to allow some space for your faces to meet.
>The distance between your faces growing shorter with every second that floats by. And as you rise, you find yourself resting your palm atop her strong, bulky shoulders for additional leverage—even if you know she'd never drop you.
>Her left wing subtly clings to your back during your ascension, cushioning your rump while supporting everything else.
>From experience, you know her wing is more than strong enough to hold and even lift your whole body by itself if need be—yet she's still using her magic to keep you safe and steady regardless.
>As your magical ascent reaches its peak, you feel the bridge of your nose gently push up her nose ring once more—this time, balancing its golden loop against your forehead as your nostrils make room to meet with hers.
>You now find yourself mouth to muzzle with your mare; her amber eyes gaze down her snout at you with lidded adoration, while her flexing nostrils amiably take in your scent.
>Flexing out your own nostrils, you return the favour, taking in her natural horse breath with an even keener fervour than before.
>It's powerful, earthy, hay-scented, mead-soaked—and utterly mareish.
>Barring the alcoholic aftertaste, this is undeniably the homely scent of your horsey wife—warm and welcoming.
>It reminds that this is home—*she* is home—and that no matter where you go, as long as she is by your side, you'll always feel like you belong.
>You know the exact same is true of her, as well.
>The enigmatic rising sun of her cutie mark isn't just to symbolise her pony womb adapting itself to your human swimmers; it's also emblematic of your destiny becoming immutably intertwined with hers—of your bodies bonding together and earnestly accepting each other as ideal, perfect mates.
>You belong to her—just as she belongs to you.

>This tender moment stretches out across many deeply fulfilling minutes.
>Your eyes are closed, as are hers. And neither of you say anything, for no words need breach the simple intimacy of a man and a mare quietly sharing breath with one another.
>But during this sniffly silence, you decide to slide your right hand across from her shoulder and up along the back of her neck.
>Your fingers glide across her cerise-pink coat, soon meeting the roots of her flame-coloured mane.
>Thankfully, despite its fiery colour, her locks are nowhere near hot enough to singe your digits, though they do possess that curious ethereal quality common to alicorn manes that makes them flow through the air as if being carried by an ever-present breeze.
>Back down at the roots, however, her mane feels just as natural as any other horse's—full, fibrous, and reliable.
>You carefully run your fingers along these roots, stroking at the intersection between her coat and mane as you calmly take in more of her comely mare's breath.

>Another minute or so passes like this, before Luster lets out a hearty hum past her horsey lips.
>The two of you slowly open your eyes at around the same time, and you take the opportunity to gaze deep into one another's souls.
"Good?" you whisper against her muzzle.
>She makes a subtle nod.
>"Mm… You've got a good smell."
>She lightly presses her snout against your face and rubs her rubbery lips against yours.
>"It's the smell of my Boar."
>Using her magic, she safely lowers your body back down to the floor.
>"Keeps me grounded."
>She releases her magical hold on you, but keeps her wing wrapped around your back, flexing her feathers ever so slightly.
>"Keeps me strong."
"That's—uff…"
>You feel the muscle of her wing gently push your head into her chest fluff.
>She doesn't push any harder than that, though, perhaps instead hoping you'll reciprocate entirely of your own accord.
>And you must admit, it *is* tempting to throw everything to the wayside and just *lose* yourself in there…
>Alas, you should probably move things along; you can't admire your mare forever—despite your deep-seated desires to the contrary.
>Thus, you place both of your hands against her torso and gingerly push yourself away from her.
>Thankfully, she lets you go with little resistance, coolly retracting her left wing and folding it back against her side.
>With your fingers still submerged in her fluff, you look up at your mare, who gazes back down at you.
"That's great."
>Of course, you're not so heartless as to leave your wife without a few more parting words after a good breath sharing session.
"And you should know…"
>You dig your left hand out of her immersive tuft and use it to cordially pat her right shoulder.
"…I feel the exact same way regarding my Sow's wonderful scent."
>Her lips curve up into a soft smile, and she emits a heartfelt giggle:
>"Ehehe~"
>Luster might be a total monster of a warhorse, but deep down, she's still an affectionate mare who loves to be praised and pampered.
>And no matter whether she's your beauty or your beast—you love her all the same.

>There's one more thing you should address—mentally, anyway.
>Luster referred to you as her "Boar" back there.
>Indeed, the moniker of a male pig of yet another one of the many titles you've picked up during your storied career as Equestria's up-and-coming conqueror.
>And it's not just because you're an animal in the sack, either; this particular appellation happens to reflect your relationship with Luster as a whole.
>After all, much like how Luster is your Mated Sow—you are also her Mated Boar.
>Your bodies have bonded together on a deeply instinctual level. And while you might be a human and she a pony—in the end, the two of you may as well be pigs who prefer to snuggle up in their pigpen and breed out farrows upon farrows of piglets.
>Luster wholly believes that your orcs should be the ones who rightfully inherit this earth, for their savage strength is truly without equal, while their brutish bodies and rapacious virility represent the purest form of humanity there is.
>Honestly, you're somewhat surprised she has your entire species pegged down so accurately, despite you being the only human she knows.
>Then again, you suspect her views on your kind are strongly coloured by the xenophilia-focused fiction she likes to read.
>Regardless, whenever it's just the two of you alone, you find it hard to deny these impassioned claims of hers.
>As their mother, it's only natural that she'd want what's best for her piglets.
>And as their father, it's only right that you should feel the same way.

>…
>"Hey, you alright in there? Not napping on the job, I hope."
>Over by your yurt's western quarter, Luster now stands next to the griffon's carrier cage.
>Lighting up her horn, Luster uses her magic to open this cage's grated door.
>"Come on, out ya go."
>She tugs hard on the chain leash inside, forcing the caged catbird out from within her compact confines.
>The griffon lands onto the dark-red carpet with a padded thud, quickly wincing her eyes shut with discomfort.
>Luster, wearing a nonchalant expression on her face, addresses her captive with confidence:
>"Aw, chin up. We've decided to treat you a little."
>She then levitates the leash up into the air, lifting the upper half of the griffon's body with it.
>"You see, me and my Boar have just had a nice, fulfilling meal together. And since the two of us are both such responsible, caring birdkeepers, you know what that means?"
>The griffon slowly opens her eyes to silently glare at the mare standing above her.
>She couldn't speak up even if she wanted to, for her beak is still strapped shut.
>Thus, Luster answers her own question with a growing smirk:
>"Means it's feeding time for you~"
>With that, Luster happily drags the griffon by her leash, pulling her across the floor and over towards you.
>And where are you, one might ask?
>Why, you're now sat back on your original seat by the dining table.
>This time, however, instead of facing in towards the table surface—you're currently facing out towards your approaching quarry.
>Your posture is composed and relaxed; your back is slightly hunched forward, your legs are laxly spread apart, and your clasped hands hang slack in the space between your knees.
>Soon enough, you find yourself with a feathered feline being presented before your appraising eyes.
>You note that her facial feathers are totally marred with tears, a silent testament to what she's been feeling while you've been eating.
>Her restraints are the same as before: hindlegs forcibly spread apart with a metal bar, wings bound against her body, talons roped and forced behind her back, beak strapped shut, tail tied tight, and a heavy iron collar around her neck—which is connected to a chain leash that levitates high above her head.
>Standing behind and to the right of this griffon, you can see Luster flashing you a knowing smirk, her horn still aglow.
>Looking back to your slave, you can see that she's now glaring up at you.
>Her yellow eyes are as ireful as always.
>Such consistency puts a smile on your face.

>As tempting as it is be to go for a hands-on approach with your slave, you believe this'll be a great chance to stretch your magical muscles.
>Plus, it'll give you more leeway in case she decides to try and headbutt you or something.
>Thus, twisting your left wrist upwards and focusing your thoughts on your left hand, you generate a magical construct that floats just below said limb.
>It's shaped and sized almost exactly like your left hand, but its five digits are noticeably more clawlike in comparison, ending in pointed tips.
>It's also coloured bright pink all the way through, being formed from your own pool of uniquely coloured mana.
>Controlling it is simple enough, as it's basically an ethereal extension of the hand you conjured it from.
>And so, with a subtle downward flex of your real hand, you send your magical hand down to the area just below her beaked chin.
>The griffon eyes your magic with hateful suspicion, but you're not here to get in her good graces.
>Cupping her chin with your magical hand, you lift her body up even higher, raising her hindlegs just off the floor.
>Considering your elevated seating position, she's now high enough for her face to be level with your crotch.
"My, look at you," you say to her, gently caressing the side of her hard beak with a magical digit.
>She wiggles helplessly yet hatefully in the air, causing your smile to grow into a grin.
>You cast your wife a curt nod, and she lets go of the griffon's leash, fully leasing this feathered slave to you.
>Leaning back and tilting your head to the right, you toss a brief glance over your right shoulder and towards the empty bowl on the table.
"Unfortunately, we're all out of stew. It was really quite delicious, you see."
>You look back down at the griffon, and you waggle your right index at her.
"Ah, but don't you worry. We saved a *special* item on the menu for you."
>Lowering your right hand down onto your right thigh, you playfully pat your lap.
"Now, I must admit, I've heard that it has a…peculiar taste—but it's something you'll take to extremely quickly, I'm sure."
>Shakily squinting her eyes, the griffon's gaze briefly flits down to your hand before going back up to you.
"Why, it wouldn't surprise me at all if you started *begging* me to incorporate this particular dish into your meals going forward."
>You hear a snerk from Luster.
>As for your catbird slave, you wonder if she's figured it out yet.
>Not that it matters either way—for she'll soon be presented with the real meat of the matter regardless.

>"'Course," Luster chimes in, "if our little bird's gonna be doing any kind of begging or eating, then she'll need her beak free to do it."
>Lifting your right hand, you affirmatively point your index up in air.
"Exactly."
>Still looking down at your prisoner, you slightly tilt your head to the side.
"After all, a hungry bird is a sad bird—and we don't want that, do we?"
>Using your right hand, you point a playful finger gun at your wife.
"Luster, if you would kindly reinstate our griffon with the gift of the gab…"
>With a cheeky grin on her face, she gives you a small curtsy.
>"Heh, right away, Master."
>Luster's horn lights up, and she magically unlatches the black strap that was keeping the griffon's beak shut, letting it drop to the floor soon afterwards.
>The griffon's face momentarily scrunches up in response to her newfound oral freedom, but she doesn't react any further than that.
>"Alright," Luster speaks up, "lemme go grab the feeding ring."
"Mhm." You cast her a nod. "You do that."
>Turning her attention towards the yurt's western quarter, Luster uses her magic to open and root through a tall cabinet that contains tools of a more…disciplinary nature.
>Because your wife is such a natural adept at handing her own magical energies, she effortlessly wields her amber aura like an extra limb to telekinetically sort through the cabinet's contents—and all without needing to move even a single physical muscle.
>You, on the other hand, would likely need to walk over to the cabinet yourself to make sure that you're picking up the right item, despite your own burgeoning magical capabilities.
>Ah, the joys of acclimating to a new skill.
>"Wh-why…?"
>It's almost as joyful as—
>Wait. That wasn't your wife's voice.
>Arching an eyebrow, you look down at your griffon, whose cupped expression is one of piteous pessimism.
"Oh?"
>Her expression tenses, and she weakly opens her beak to speak:
>"Why…why are you doing this to us…?"
>Ah, the age-old question: "Why?"
>You're pretty sure all of the creatures that you capture ask this question at least once—either to you or themselves.
>From experience, such a question usually marks a turning point in regards to a slave's defiant spirit crumbling away to despondent resignation.
>And considering how feisty she was when you first saw her—honestly, you're a little surprised she asked it so soon.
>Perhaps searing two of her teats smoky black had something to do with that.

>Still, no matter the reason, that doesn't mean you don't have an answer rehearsed for this exact occasion.
"Why, you ask?"
>Straightening your magical hold on the griffon's beak, you hunch forward a little.
"I do this for myself—and for my family."
>She narrows her eyes, and you smugly relish her optical spite for a moment.
>Once that moment passes, however, you hold up your right hand, turn your head, and peer into your open palm.
"Now," you continue, "if you're wondering why I subjected you to such *shocking* cruelty, well…"
>Focusing your thoughts once again, you generate a magical construct based on your right hand.
>This time, though, you conjure up just the one clawed finger—for that's all you'll need.
"…back at the village, you attacked my wife."
>Sneering back down at the griffon, you send your magic finger forward to firmly boop her on the hooked tip of her beak.
"And I don't take kindly to that."
>If she had teeth, you're sure she'd be bearing them at you right now.
>Alas, you'll simply have to settle for a griffon-style scowl instead.
>"You…!" she angrily gasps out. "You attacked us first…!"
>Turning your sneer into a smirk, you open your mouth to respond in a most condescending manner—but before you can utter even a single word, she suddenly snaps forward at your booping digit, causing it to dissipate into the air.
>Thankfully, the destruction of your magic finger means nothing to your real one, but it does shut you up long enough for her to get a few more words in:
>"You…you burned our village!"
>She frustratedly and frantically wiggles about, desperate to break free of her bonds.
>"You killed Commander Brightscale!"
>Her voice cracks with a subtle despair when she speaks that name, which piques your interest and gets you to raise an eyebrow.
"Brightscale…?" you mutter to yourself.

>As you ponder pressing her for more information on this "Brightscale," a familiar voice enters the fray:
>"And you know *why* we attacked you?"
>Luster steps closer to the griffon, approaching her from her left side.
>"It's 'cause you're weak."
>She addresses the griffon with a cold, superior tone:
>"And in *our* world, weaklings like you only exist to be used up by the strong."
>She lifts her right foreleg, extending her hoof towards the griffon's head.
>"So don't be sad, be happy…"
>Her hoof soon lands atop the griffon's head, callously flattening her crest feathers.
>The griffon immediately winces her eyes shut upon feeling Luster's steel horseshoe threateningly press down against her scalp.
>"Be happy that your miserable little life is finally worth something now."
>Luster roughly ruffles the feathers on the griffon's head as she continues:
>"Under our ownership, you'll become our stepping stool, our punching bag, our living toilet…"
>With a sadistic sneer on her face, Luster lowers her neck nearly all the way and huskily growls into the griffon's left ear:
>"Our broodmare."
>The griffon emits a terrified whimper; this response could've come from words alone—or it could've come from the fact that her head is now tightly sandwiched in between your wife's steel shoe and your own clawed hand.

>Considering Luster's clear glee in terrorising those she views as inferior to her, you wonder if you're supposed to play the "good cop" in this scenario.
>Then again, how is one meant to play the nice guy when you've already tased two of her titties off?
>Hm…
>Ah, with a little magical misdirection, perhaps?
>You're certainly educated enough about this particular branch of spellcraft, but you'll need some help in regards to precision.
>Luckily, you happen to know of something that can aid you in this area—and even better, you know exactly where this "something" is.
>Turning your gaze over to the right, you look towards the far end of your yurt's northern quarter.
>You can see it lying atop the long cabinet—your vaunted magical staff.
>It's a fair few metres away from where you're currently seated, but no matter; at this range, you can simply use your magic to retrieve it.
>And so, holding out your right arm towards your staff and flexing your fingers forwards, you channel your thoughts towards pulling your staff over towards you.
>It's a bit like using The Force, but since you live in a sensible world populated by sapient talking horses, you know that what you're doing is easily explainable while also being firmly grounded in facts and logic; you're merely casting a magnetic spell to reverse the polarities between your hand and your staff, thus propelling it in your direction.
>Sure, you *could* use a telekinetic spell instead—but this method of grabbing your staff feels way cooler.
>After about a second of focusing, you succeed in compelling to the staff to move; it wobbles slightly—then swiftly launches itself across the room and towards your right hand.
>And with the dexterity of a god dwelling in human flesh, you promptly catch the staff's shaft within your palm and closely clasp your fingers around it, feeling only the briefest of pushbacks from this high-speed collision.
>The resultant force is nothing compared to the rush of blood victoriously pumping throughout your body.
>Because damn—you're cool as fuck.
>…
>Unfortunately—even with the sharp *thwip* sound your staff made as it flew through the air—you were the only one in the room to appreciate said coolness.
>Your sneering wife is busy relishing the fearful shudders constantly coming from your feathered feline slave, while the griffon herself is currently trying to shut herself out from a compressive world that threatens to turn her beaked head into a fine paste.
>Needless to say, you should probably stop basking in your own ostentation and put your recently reclaimed staff to use.

"Now, now, little birdie. There's no need to be afraid."
>Tilting your staff downwards, you gently rest the exposed face of its pink heart-shaped crystal against the griffon's beak, making sure she can see it when she opens her eyes.
"I know you must be feeling uncertain or even scared right about now, so I've devised a spell to help you relax those frayed nerves."
>Lightly rolling your thumb along your staff's wooden shaft, you start channelling a kind of "soothing spell" through its crystal.
>In response to your mental efforts, the crystal hums to life, emitting a soft sound—and an even softer glow.
>This catches the attention of your griffon, who slowly, shakily opens her eyes.
>"Wh…wha…?"
>But the moment she catches sight of the glowing pink crystal positioned right in front of her face, her eyes shoot open to horrified pinpricks, and she squeaks out a shrill yelp:
>"AH!"
>Wiggling her body and tossing her head, she futilely attempts to look anywhere else.
>"N-no…! No!"
>Yet no matter how or where she moves, her quivering pupils remained locked on to that hypnotic heart. She can't close her eyes—she can't even blink.
>"Stop! P-please! Sto—"
>Her desperate pleads for mercy fizzle out almost as soon as they arrive, and her entire body goes slack.
>The whites of her eyes and the blacks of her pupils both fade out completely, while her yellow irises turn a bright-pink colour.
>You're quite fond of the colour pink. It's a pleasant colour, an obedient colour—your colour.
>Casting your wife a confident nod, she nods back in response and removes her hoof from atop the griffon's head.
>You, on the other hand, continue to keep the griffon's chin firmly cupped within your magical claw.
>After all, the "hand under chin" look fits a totally entranced birdbrain like her to a tee, you feel.

"Well then…"
>Pulling your glowing staff away from the griffon's face—yet still keeping your shaft on standby—you peer deep into those pink pools of hers.
>Her eyes do not appear to peer back, instead staring blankly into the space where your staff's crystal just was—which just so happens to now be straight ahead and into your crotch.
"Can you hear me?" you ask plainly. "Respond if you can."
>It doesn't take long for her to provide said response:
>"Yes. I can hear you."
>Her reply now carries a robotic tone with it, possessing absolutely none of the fire or fear that she had before.
"Hm, that's a start, at least."
>After chewing on your lip for a brief moment, you continue:
"Ah, but it just wouldn't *do* for a mere slave like you to speak to her owner without the proper respect, would it?"
>Luster proudly snorts as she offers a couple words of her own:
>"Too true."
>The griffon offers no snorts, but she does respond respectfully and robotically:
>"How can I rectify this issue?"
>You nod to her.
"Oh, this is a simple fix, really. All you need to do is start addressing me with an appropriate title: something that not only represents the sheer gap in rank between us—but also my unquestionable ownership over everything that you are."
>Playfully pinching the sides of her beak with your claw, you continue:
"Something like…hm…"
>As fitting as it would be to have her simply refer to you her "Owner," the term sounds a little too stilted for your liking—even if it would match up with her current tone of voice quite nicely.
>The title of "Master," however, has become something of a fondly thought moniker to you—you wouldn't let just *any* slave call you that.
>That leaves a fair few more options for you.
>Truth be told, though, this isn't the first time that you've magically hypnotised a hapless creature into robotic compliance, and it just so happens you have a preferred appellation for situations exactly like this.
>So…you'll go with the old reliable—something simple yet striking:
"…call me Sir," you say, releasing your pinch on her beak.
>The griffon blinks, acknowledging your command.
>"Understood, Sir."
>You grin.
"Wonderful."

>Ah, it always feels good to get those boring formal introductions out of the way.
>There's you: the Sir, and her: the griffon.
>…Hm. Hang on a moment.
"You know, little birdie, we've spent so much time together—and had *so* much fun all throughout—yet I don't believe we ever caught your name."
>Slightly lifting up her chin, you give her your next command:
"Tell me it. Tell me your name."
>Her response comes as smoothly robotic as always:
>"My name is Grimwell, Sir."
>Lowering her chin and glancing off to the side, you chew on her name for a moment:
"Grimwell, Grimwell, Grimwell. Hm…"
>You nod to yourself.
"Interesting name. Very…griffony."
>Luster lets out a light scoff.
>"Kind of a sad name, if I'm being honest."
>You chuckle at your wife's brutal candidity.
"Well, it's like you said earlier: I'm sure she must have lived a very miserable life before we…"
>You shoot Luster a coy smirk.
"…uplifted her."
>She snorts out a laugh at that.
>Meanwhile, you look back down at your griffon—your Grimwell.
"And on that note, why have we still not heard any appreciation in regards to our boundless generosity?"
>You playfully wiggle her chin within your cupping claw.
"Go on, Grimwell, thank us for uplifting you."
>You feel a slight shiver from her, but she responds nonetheless:
>"Thank you for uplifting me, Sir."
>You smile with smug self-satisfaction, giving her chin another wiggle.
"Mhm. Keep that up and you'll be well on your way to becoming a good girl."
>You highly doubt that she'll be giving you any standing ovations in her current state, but you'll take what you can get.
>There's also the minor niggle of whether she chose to refer to both you and Luster as a collective "Sir"—or if she omitted your wonderful marewife entirely.
>Eh, you'll hash out the smaller details later.
>For now, you decide to address said wonderful marewife:
"By the way, Luster…"
>Casting your gaze her way, you can see her holding an item within her amber aura.
"…I see you've picked up our 'feeding ring.'"
>She nods.
>"Yeah, picked it up a while ago."
>The item in question is a metal ring that's attached to a black leather strap at two opposite ends.
>"No rush, of course," Luster continues, "but whenever you're ready, feel free to get Little Miss Grimwell's mouth open so I can pop this sucker in."
>You snerk at her choice of nickname.
"Will do."

>Before you decide to get Grimwell strapped in, however, there's one more thing you would have this griffon expound upon.
"So, Grimwell," you begin with an ostentatious tone, "you know me, and I know you."
>You shoot her an impish wink.
"And truth be told, I feel like we've become fast friends already."
>You tilt her chin up, angling it towards your face.
"But what I *don't* know—and what's truly, *deeply* been eating away at me—is what your life was like before we liberated your little village."
>You hunch your back, leaning in towards her.
"Tell me more about this 'Commander Brightscale' of yours, Grimwell."
>This is an idle curiosity of yours, and not much more than that—but you are quite fond of learning more about your victims before you dig into them further.
>Grimwell answers your query with robotic grace:
>"Commander Brightscale is…"
>She pauses, her pink eyes subtly quivering.
>"…was the leader of the town guard, Sir."
>Ooh, that must have been tough for her to say.
>Still, you have a hunch on who this "Brightscale" could've been, so you press her further:
"Was Brightscale a dragon, perchance?"
>"Yes, Sir."
"A male dragon?"
>"Yes, Sir."
"Possessing brightish, blueish scales?"
>"Yes, Sir."
"Hm."
>Back during your village raid, you distinctly remember how Luster used her magic to toy with a smallish, spear-wielding dragon.
>She cruelly tormented him for a good long while—making sure he knew just how helpless he truly was—before choosing to casually toss him through a nearby building.
>You didn't get to see what happened to him after that, though; you had other priorities at the time.

"What was his relationship to you?"
>"I served under Commander Brightscale as the other member of the town guard, Sir."
>You arch an eyebrow.
"'The' other? There were only two of you?"
>"Yes, Sir."
>Well, that explains why you and your raiding party met with barely any resistance when you laid claim to the village.
>The peaceful buggers were never properly prepared to defend against an orcish attack.
>Then again, most Equestrian settlements usually aren't.
"Anything else?"
>"Commander Brightscale was also my fiancé, Sir."
>Just as your arched eyebrow from earlier began to lower, it rises again at her intriguing answer.
"Oh? Your commander *and* your fiancé?"
>You were working on the whimsical assumption that they might have known each other, but…really? Lovers?
>This story is getting spicier by the second.
"My, that smells like a *serious* power imbalance."
>Tilting your staff forward, you give her beak a light boop with your still-glowing crystal.
"How *very* unprofessional of you, Grimwell."
>Pulling your staff back, you lower your voice to a more clandestine tone:
"Hey," you begin, "did the two of you ever…you know…"
>You slyly shift your eyes from left to right before flitting them back to her.
"…fuck?"
>She blinks, taking only slightly longer to answer this question compared to the previous ones.
>"No, Sir."
>You hear a snerk from Luster.
>"Asking the important questions, eh, Master?"
>You shoot your wife a sarcastic look.
"Oh, don't pretend you wouldn't have asked the exact same thing."
>She belts out a strong belly laugh at your accusation.
>"Okay, you got me~"

>Glancing back down at your griffon slave, you decide to press her for further confirmation:
"Ah, and just so we're clear here, Grimwell, this commander of yours—he's dead, correct?"
>You recall her saying as much earlier—but it always feels more definitive to hear it a second time.
>"Yes, Sir."
"How do you know this?"
>"I saw him die, Sir."
"And how *did* he die?"
>"His head was crushed under the alicorn's hoof, Sir."
"Hm, I see…"
>You silently look over to Luster just in case she has any input of her own on the matter.
>She casually shrugs her shoulders in response.
>"Hey, can't keep 'em all."
>You chuckle, lightly shaking your head, before turning your attention back onto your pink-eyed slave.
"You know, Grimwell, much like myself, you should really be addressing your other owner with the proper respect. She's *far* more than just 'the alicorn'—especially to the likes of you."
>Rather than wait on yet another one of her robotic replies, you proceed to issue her another Masterly edict:
"Henceforth, you are to refer to her as your Mistress and answer her as such, understood?"
>You briefly glance at Luster, who nods in approval at the name.
>Grimwell, however, takes a second longer than she usually does to respond—but respond she does regardless:
>"…Understood, Sir."
>You nod with authority.
"Good."
>You look to Luster.
"Anything you'd like to add, 'Mistress?'"
>She shoots you a cocky grin.
>"Other than how much I'd like for *you* to call me that from now on~?"
>You wryly roll your eyes at her remark, and she snorts out a light chuckle.
>Then, she looks to the side, humming quietly and thoughtfully:
>"Hm, no, not that I can think of…"
>Her eyes slightly widen.
>"…oh, wait."

>Lowering her neck so as to move her head closer to the griffon's, Luster calmly addresses Grimwell:
>"Hey, birdbrain, about that dragon you were crushing on—you never got the chance to rut him, right?"
>"No, Mistress."
>Luster nods.
>"Uh huh, uh huh. And did you, uh…"
>She pauses, briefly pursing her lips.
>"…didja even get to kiss him?"
>"No, Mistress."
>Luster blinks, blankly taking in the griffon's frank confession—before snickering loudly:
>"Snrrk, really?"
>Lifting up her right foreleg, Luster playfully waggles her hoof above Grimwell's head.
>"I squashed his little dragon brains underneath my shoe—"
>She then gives the griffon's head a couple of whimsical pats with that same hoof.
>"—and you never even made it to first base!"
>Lowering her leg and lifting her neck, Luster lets out an amused sigh.
>"Just goes to show that not every love story gets to have a happy ending."
>She passes you a sassy wink.
>"Unless you're me, of course~"
>You candidly chuckle at your wife's completely conceited yet curiously charming antics, before turning your attention back to your slave.
"Now tell me, Grimwell," you continue, "while your Mistress was so graciously snuffing out the existence of your commanding fiancé, where were you during all of this?"
>"I was hiding in a nearby bush, sir."
>Ah, you've heard this kind of tale before.
"And let me guess, while everyone you knew was out there running or fighting for their lives, you were busy pissing yourself in fear, am I right?"
>Another second-long silence from her.
>"…Yes, Sir."
"Mm-hmm. I assumed as much."
>If your hands were free right now, you'd use them to give her a round of applause.
>But instead, you shall deliver unto your valiant slave a sardonic tilt of your head.
"Such a brave town guard you are, Grimwell. Brightfang would be proud."
>You recall how this griffon suddenly launched herself out of that bush to make an attempt on your wife's life.
>Alas, by the time Grimwell had finally found her wellspring of courage, it was already far too late for her or anycreature else—and you stopped her with ease.
>Of course, even if she *had* been a bolder bird back then, it wouldn't have changed a damn thing.
>You and your wives' rightful claim on Equestria cannot be stopped.

>You've dawdled long enough; it's high time you cut straight to the meat of things.
"Alright, Grimwell," you begin, "open your mouth as wide as you can. I wanna see your best O-face."
>"Understood, Sir."
>She does as prompted, widening her beak all the way.
>It's not a bad stretch; you could probably fit about three or four sausages in there.
>Luckily, you're only concerned with fitting in just the one.
>"Oho~" Luster quips. "Finally done chatting up our slave?"
"Ah, you know me. I prefer to lather on a healthy layering of set dressing before I dig into the main course."
>She tilts her head with a playful expression.
>"Wait, I thought *she* was the one getting fed here."
>You let out a chuckle, before verbally handing your wife the stage:
"She's all yours, Luster."
>Giving the feeding ring held within her amber aura an airy jingle, your wife nods with a singsong hum:
>"Mm-hmm~"
>Readily displaying her magical expertise, Luster swiftly slips the metal ring inside Grimwell's beaked maw, then wraps the two leather straps around the sides of her feathered head and fastens them together at the back.
>With this setup, the tensile force provided by the straps ensure that this vertically aligned metal ring now keeps Grimwell's mouth fully open for business—and wholly ready for any kind of insertion.
>It likely comes as no surprise, but yes—this "feeding ring" is indeed a ring-shaped mouth gag.
>You find this particular tool to be quite the boon whenever you need to feed an unruly slave with a generous helping of nutritious seed.
>And by that, you mean whenever you want to fuck their face until you cum buckets down their throat.
>…
>Hey, you might as well cease with the subtlety at this point.
>You've got a bird to feed.
>Oh, but first, some praise is in order:
"Great work as always, Luster."
>She flashes you a proud grin.
>"Heh heh, thanks."
>She quickly eyes you up from top to bottom.
>"By the way, since this is a griffon we're dealing with, don't forget about the spell to protect your skin."
>You nod affirmatively.
"Right, of course."

>If there's one thing that'll dissuade anyone sensible from getting some griffon sucky-sucky—it'll be the pointed existence of their hard bird beaks.
>Those things are curved to kill, and even when gagged, these avian mandibles are like to make mincemeat out of any sausage foolish enough to throw itself in.
>Thankfully, being the magically inclined individual that you are, you happen to know a spell that can vastly reduce the chance of your shaft getting torn to shreds in such serrated scenarios.
>What's more, this spell is simple enough that you don't even need your staff to cast it.
>That being said, considering you currently have your staff on hand right now, you're not about to pass up the badass feeling of channelling a vigorous amount of potent energy through your solid wooden shaft.
>And so, turning your head over to the right, you focus on your staff and silently incant a spell of enhanced fortitude through it.
>Your mental efforts quickly bear fruit, as you soon feel a surge of warm magical power flood out of your staff and gently seep into your skin. And in next-to-no time at all, the spell encompasses your whole body, strengthening it beyond natural limits.
>So, what this magic actually does is temporarily make your flesh more rubbery and resilient; while you remain under its fortifying effects, you are effectively immune to any and all forms of impact—be it blunt, bladed, or penetrating.
>It's certainly a handy spell to have in your pocket, make no mistake about that, yet its transient nature means that you have to recast this magic every so often to keep enjoying its effects—and in a casual setting, you've little need to maintain its duration.

>However, even without the aid of any protective spells, you're still a long ways off from being a defenceless damsel, for the selfsame "royal" procedure that blessed you with your peak human physique also brought with it a slew of other benefits as well.
>Firstly, you now possess an inhuman degree of durability, making you tough enough to not only survive being gored by an alicorn horn—but also come out of the experience in one piece.
>Secondly, your internal physiology has been modified and optimised through the aid of a special energy source, granting you an amazingly alienlike adaptability that lets you live comfortably in even the most extreme climates—from the coldest glaciers to the hottest volcanos.
>Thirdly, your flexibility has been stretched to the level of a master contortionist, allowing your body to bend in the most unnatural of ways—and also enabling you to suck your dick while standing straight up, if you really wanted that.
>This impressively expansive list of your bodily boons goes on and on and on, but you'll leave it there for now.
>(Also, don't ask how you know that you're able to survive an alicorn goring; you've still yet to fully forgive your pesky Partner for that particular "prank"—no matter how informative her intentions may have been.)

>Anyway, where were you?
>Ah, right. Your trusty spell of enhanced fortitude.
>Even though you're quite confident in your ability to tank a griffon beak directly to the chest—you're about to take those razor-sharp pincers to a much lower and far more sensitive part of your body, so you'd rather be magically safe than extremely sorry.
>You like to call this specific incantation: "Orcskin"—for it bestows your flesh with a stone-like hardiness similar to what your orcs naturally possess.
>Yes, you're man enough to admit that your swine-hearted children are even beefier than you are whenever your body isn't being bolstered by magic.
>You suppose they must get all of that extra rock-hard muscle from their mother.
>Regardless, your skin is now sturdy enough to suit your salacious aims.
>Your next task is start showing said skin—after all, you can't get your dick sucked while you're still wearing pants.
>Thus, you let go of Grimwell's chin—letting the griffon droop down to a relaxed sitting position.
>You also let go of your magical staff, which frees up both of your hands.
>Then, you get to work on partially pulling down your undergarments.
>There's no need to fully remove these clothes; you only plan for this to be a quickie.
>…
>It doesn't take long at all before you have both your pants and your boxers loosely hanging around your ankles.
>Your bare ass now sits upon your stool's pink cushion.
>It's quite comfy.
>It also feels noticeably chillier around your lower body—but then again, a little cold is nothing to you nowadays.
>Your adamantine erection would agree with you on that matter.
>As would the wolf whistle coming from your wife.
>"Heh, heh, nice~"

>You shoot your mare a cocksure smirk.
"Enjoying the view?"
>She shoots you a frisky wink right back.
>"Oh, you know it~"
>Her eyes drift down to Grimwell, and she partly sucks in her bottom lip.
>"Kinda making me wish *I* was an enslaved griffon right about now…"
>You lightly chuckle at that.
>With your pants out of the way and your penis good to go, your next point of consideration is Grimwell herself.
>Right from the onset, you have two options available to you—two distinct flavours of slavish beakjob you can choose to pursue.
>Option one would be to leave her in her current state of robotic obedience.
>This would make her far easier to control as you fuck her face—but it would also ensure that she remains a dead fish in regards to swallowing your load.
>Option two, on the other hand, would have you release her from this hypnotic spell, fully reinstating her rebellious mind.
>This "adventurous" approach would turn an otherwise mundane act of avian fellatio into a truly wild rodeo between a horny man and an angry catbird.
>At best, you'd be constantly jabbing your own scrotum with sharp keratin—and at worst, you'd effectively be trying to stick your dick into a sentient blender with a serrated tongue.
>Oh yes, that's right. Despite bearing a bird's head, griffons possess a barbed tongue befitting their leonine nature.
>Really, it's as if their bodies have undergone evolutionary pressure to cause as much discomfort to others as possible.
>How irksome of them.
>…
>But at the same time, you're basically indestructible for as long as this spell lasts, *and* you have your wife on standby in case of emergency.
>So what the hell—why not live a little?

>Channelling magic through your left hand, you levitate Grimwell's body up so that her head is once again crotch level with you.
>You then pull her head closer to your crotch and gently cup her chin.
>This time, you're using your actual left hand instead of a magical claw—for there's no need for safety when you're fucking invincible.
>Casting your gaze over to the right, you can see that your trusty staff currently floats close to your side where you left it, waiting on you like a dutiful attendant.
>The heart-shaped crystal at its top continues to softly glow and hum with life, indicating that its hypnotic spell is still in place.
>Using your right hand as a telekinetic focus, you gently push your staff all the way back to the yurt's northern end, carefully resting its oaken shaft against the long cabinet.
>Then, you look back down to Grimwell and briefly ponder your next move.
>Placing this bird under a deep trance required the aid of your staff, but dispelling it is easy enough.
>And it just so happens that you have a pretty fun trick planned in regards to doing exactly that.
>Lowering your right hand so as to hover it just above the griffon's cupped face, you lightly pinch your middle finger and your thumb together.
>You then lean forward and whisper:
"Release."
>Before snapping your fingers, releasing her from her trance.

>Grimwell responds by rapidly blinking her eyes several times.
>With each and every blink, crumbs of clarity start steadily seeping into her countenance.
>Her black pupils resurface and rise above those pools of pink, making their pointed presence known once more.
>Her pink irises wash away that pervasive pigment as if dissolving it with lucidity, soon reclaiming their natural yellow hue.
>And finally, she fully recovers the whites of her eyes, restoring some semblance of sapience to her vision.
>Yet sapience can be as much a curse as it is a blessing, for even though you may have completely robbed Grimwell of her agency with your devilish hypnosis, she still possessed some level of awareness throughout it all.
>So when her consciousness comes back into view, her senses return too.
>She feels her beak being forced into an open state by a metal ring gag.
>She sees your rock-hard cock positioned right in front of her face.
>She *smells* you.
>And she screams.
>She screams, she shakes, she spasms, and she does everything she can to jerk her head away from you and her looming fate.
>But her efforts amount to naught—for you now have both of your strong hands firmly clasped around the sides of her feathered face, keeping her utterly and hopelessly locked in place.
"Now, now, Grimwell," you speak to her "There's no need to be so jumpy."
>Using your right thumb, you gently stroke along her forehead, paying little head to her quivering pupils.
"Don't be afraid. Be gladdened, be grateful."
>You lift up her head even higher, tilting her so that you have just the right angle to thrust her open mouth directly onto your dick.
"Because it's finally feeding time for you."

>Before letting her try anything else, you suddenly slam her agape face against your groin, smoothly sliding your meat through her metal ring and fully hilting yourself inside her maw.
>She desperately wiggles and waggles within your iron-tight grip—but no matter how or where she moves, she cannot pull your pole out of her pecker.
"Haaah…"
>Letting out a heartily satisfied sigh, you take stock of your current sensations as you idly pet the back of Grimwell's feathered head.
>Her avian mandibles, sharp and hooked though they might be, simply feel like the softest of pillows against your magically reinforced skin—while the metal edges of her ring gag may as well be made of silicone to you.
>Her feline tongue, lying completely flat at the bottom of her mouth, registers to your senses as a salivary red carpet that's comfily coating the underside of your glans in fuzzy affection.
>Her beaked maw feels both moist and warm, providing a stimulatory medium for your enduring mast.
>Emphasis on simply "enduring," though, for you happen to be a well-experienced man with extremely refined tastes; while the hot breath of a hamstrung bird might do wonders in tingling your nerves—it's gonna take a lot more than that to get you truly blasting off.
>And so you slowly slide her beaked face up along your turgid pole, feeling the undulating caress of her tongue's barbs from below and the gentle rub of her hooked mandible from above.
>The random and violent thrashes of her defiantly struggling head serve only to bend your highly flexible bone in interesting and somehow-still-arousing ways—keeping your erection elastically steadfast.
>That being said, such foolish attempts to subvert your self-indulgence must not go unpunished; you shall address this promptly.
>Once you finish pulling the rest of your sweltering meat out of her ring hole, you give your griffon the chance to catch exactly one breath—
>And then you swiftly slap her across the face with your right hand, causing her to squeak out in sharp pain.
"Bad girl," you reprimand her. "Stay put while I fuck your face."
>Your stern strike has left her looking quite staggered; her head remains tilted over to the side, her eyes are wide open with shock, and you can see tears freely rolling down her cheek.
>Of course, this sorry sight is nothing more than a convenient opportunity to you—and it's one you fully intend to seize.
>Thus, while she's still stunned from a good smacking, you quickly reorient her face and thrust her mouth back onto your shaft with little resistance.

>Sheathed inside her mouth ring once more, you playfully grind her face against your groin, relishing the way her upper mandible softly scrapes against your resilient flesh—and making *thoroughly* sure that her beaked nose gets a good long whiff of your potent human virility.
>To rub in your authority even further, you lightly buck your hips into her beak a few times, jostling your strong, sturdy balls against the lower half of her face.
>And throughout all of this, you note how her defiant struggles have now greatly lessened in both strength and frequency.
>Her newfound docility puts a confident smile on your face; who knew that the only difference between an angry bird and a docile house cat was one well-timed smack?
>Alas, such quiet capitulation will likely only last until her current daze wears off.
>Still, you'll take what you can get.
>And hey, if she acts up again—you can always slap some more sense into her.
>Once you feel satisfied with having smeared your supremacy straight into the pliant pores of her primitive bird brain, you steadily get to work on pulling her off your cock yet again.
>This time, however, you stop just short of taking your glans through her mouth ring, and you instead hold her head in this position for a few moments, taking in the pleasant contrast between the cool air swirling around your shaft and the hot breath encompassing your tip.
>Now this…this is what conquering a griffon feels like.
>But as soon as you sense some movement from her—you promptly and roughly slam her bird lips against your base once again, making her grunt in surprise and wince her eyes shut.
>From there, you work yourself into a rigorous rhythm: slowly pulling her up—only to fiercely push her back down.
>These are powerful pumps, drawing out your dominance while pounding in her subjugation.
>And whenever you feel like she's beginning to wriggle too much under your grip—you give her another smack to remind her of her place.
>Your bone readily bathes in the slimy strings of her griffon saliva, further lubricating your resolve to deeply seed this bird's throat.
>Your hips occasionally buck up into her mouth as a means to release any excess excitement.
>Your balls energetically bounce up against her lower beak, giving you a pleasantly bumpy feeling whenever it happens.
>The wet schlurpy sounds of you forcing some sloppy toppy from your slave are backed up by your own measured, Masterly moans, forming a debauched symphony of submission and sin.
>This beak wasn't meant for sucking—but that certainly won't stop you from fucking.

>And then there's Luster Dawn, who has been quietly watching all of this transpire with a wide smile on her face.
>She happens to be quite the voyeur, you see, for she views each and every creature you enslave as yet another fertile fuckhole for you to claim however you please.
>As your loyal warhorse, she believes that Equestria and all its wombs are yours by right.
>And as your doting wife, she insists that it's only fitting for her to stand by your side and witness your glorious conquest every step of the way.
>That being said, you're fully confident that her desire to see you seed your slaves isn't one born of any kind of insecurity.
>Luster is an incredibly domineering mare, yes, yet she earnestly adores and respects you above all else—and in her eyes, your dominance is also *her* dominance.
>"By the way, Master," she speaks up. "Don't be afraid to break her beak. We can always get a new one later."
>Pressing said beak firmly against your crotch, you address your wife with a raised eyebrow:
"A new beak or new bird?"
>She snerks.
>"Whichever's easier~"
>Her casual callosity never fails to bring some measure of amusement to your face.
>She does raise a rather pertinent point, though.
>As a virile human male well versed in the women of this land, you have cultivated your sexual stamina to a truly impressive degree.
>There are very few females who could hope to keep up with your incredible libido, and there are fewer still who could ever claim to tame it.
>Unfortunately, this superior human stamina of yours does come packaged with its own unique set of problems—namely, you require a lot more stimulation to get yourself off.
>You do have a few ways to surmount this problem and quicken the process—such as thinking about your wife's fat, winking horsepussy—but if you continue to placidly pound your griffon's feathered face like you're doing right now, then any kind of orgasmic bliss shall likely remain a distant peak.
>You need passion, you need power, you need speed.
>Which means it's time to pick up the pace.

>Reaffirming your grip around Grimwell's head, you hasten your horny movements.
>You yank her face all the way up your shaft—then slam her beak right up against your sturdy pelvis.
>And instead of giving your griffon any time to recover, you repeat this process over and over and over again.
>Your rhythm becomes rapid, frenetic, bestial—and your posture transforms to reflect this.
>Hunching your back forward, you firmly hook your legs around her lower back, bringing her body even closer to yours.
>Your arms work like well-oiled pistons, pumping her up and down your pole while your fingers scratch and claw at her facial feathers.
>Your thighs twitch and clench around her face with every frenzied thrust, while your hips buck up into her beak with far greater force and frequency than before.
>Your face twists into an animalistic snarl, while your grunts and moans turn louder and more primitive, resembling those of a pig in rut rather than a man.
>In this brutish state of mind and body, you become closer than ever to the legions of orcs you've sired.
>You are a rampaging Boar in all but physical form, raping and pillaging however you please—and fathering more of your kind from the wombs of those you've conquered.
>You are the Boarfather.
>Out in the corner of your eye, you catch Luster's nostrils heatedly flare out as her tail excitedly flicks from side to side, her swinish senses keenly attuning with your own.
>Yet you do not dwell on this sight any longer than a second—for your urges compel you to keep furiously throatfucking the griffon in between your powerful thighs.
>Grimwell's bony beak crashes against your bare groin with every full-bodied thrust, and the hooked part of her upper mandible appears to bend against your flesh upon each impact—another sign of her inferior form conforming to yours.
>Her yellow eyes are glossy and unfocused, unable to focus on anything as her pupils involuntarily bounce up and down according to your turbulent tempo.
>Her cute voice emits squeak after squeak, being forced to gasp out air as you repeatedly bash her face against your cock and balls.
>Her serrated tongue can do little more than flick at the underside of your spear with all the intensity of a soggy blanket.
>Human ingenuity and magical talent have turned this griffon's natural deathtrap of a mouth into your own personal pleasure cruise.
>Everything about this bird—from her shrill sounds, to her bending beak, to her moist maw—only serves to spur you on further.
>Thus, you wield her face just like one would any portable fleshlight and hump her beak with reckless abandon, seeking to seed her throat and breed her stomach.

>…
>This salacious symphony of sweaty flesh slapping against solid keratin continues for many more minutes.
>And in that time, Grimwell's facial features have only become more dishevelled than they already were.
>Her greyish cheeks are flush with humiliation and stained with shame, while several of her feathers have been roughly pounded out of place.
>As for you, your vigour has not diminished in the slightest, as pursuing your pleasurable peak easily takes precedence over anything your slave might be feeling.
>However, even now, your orgasmic high still feels like a distant light in the tunnel.
>It's there, and you could definitely reach it with enough effort and creative thinking, but…well…
>Under this protective spell, all points of pain have been completely nullified and instead converted to some form of fleshly pleasure.
>Her mouth feels warm and wet, her tongue feels spongy and soft, her moans sound shrill and shocked—
>But it still doesn't change the fact that all you're doing is fucking a metal ring at the end of the day.
>Perhaps it would be prudent to pace yourself a little, or…
>"Hey, Master," Luster speaks up.
>Looking up to your wife's friendly expression, you can see that her horn is already aglow.
>"Want me to take over from here? Let you relax your arms a little."
>She shoots you a jovial wink.
>"Betcha I can make her throat sing~"
>Holding Grimwell's face down against your groin with your left hand, you thoughtfully scratch your own chin with your right.
"Hm…"
>You could keep going on your own if you really wanted to; the superior stamina you possess isn't just in a sexual sense.
>But at the same time, this is your wife who's offering to help get you off.
>Everything about her stimulates your body in all of the right ways—which is exactly what you need right now.
>You'd be a fool to refuse her.
"Very well," you respond, letting your right hand drift off to the side.
>Plus, you were just about to consider asking for her assistance anyway, so there's that, too.
>Luster's face lights up with a giddy glee.
>"Heh, nice~"
>Her amber aura readily encompasses your slave's head.
>"Feel free to sit back and enjoy the show, Master. I'll have you feeding her in no time~"
>You nod, relaxing your grip.
"Mhm."
>Before she can get started, though, you raise your right index and point it upwards, catching her attention.
"Oh, but do go easy on the beak."
>She snortily chuckles:
>"Heh heh, no promises~"
>Flashing her a cheeky half-smile, you lift your left hand up off Grimwell's feathered head, fully handing the reins of this raunchy rodeo over to your wife.

>Owing to her immense enthusiasm, Luster immediately gets down to business.
>She leisurely levitates your avian onahole up along your dick.
>And once you feel the hook of Grimwell's beak graze against your glans—Luster telekinetically forces those griffon lips right into your scrotum, damn-near knocking the wind out of you.
>Much like yourself, Luster gives your slave very little time to react as she magically bobs Grimwell's mouth up and down your length, expertly guiding you in and out of her ring gag.
>Unlike yourself, however, Luster is far keener on the matter of momentum; her first few thrusts start out tentatively slow, but she very quickly picks up the pace until she's effectively jackhammering Grimwell's face against your groin.
>Each and every beaked impact against your pelvis forces the air from your lungs.
>It doesn't hurt, of course, but it feels like being pecked by pillows—soft yet insistent.
>These frantically paced, toe-curling, breath-stealing sensations impel you to spread your knees outwards, turn your gaze upwards, and recline back against the table that's behind you; meanwhile, your hands tightly grasp the wooden corners of the tabletop, holding on for all its worth as your wife quite literally works her magic on your loins.
>Luster knows your limits; she knows exactly what buttons to press.
>And what's more, she's even using some of her magic to jack you off while you're inside this griffon's mouth.
>It feels like a fuzzy glove that's been heated with love, wholeheartedly enveloping your erection and encouraging you to pop off sooner rather than later.
>Her rigorous rhythm and magical massage amplify your arousal tenfold, transforming that distant light in the tunnel into an oncoming collision with the sun itself.
>Needless to say, this is a beakjob nonpareil.
>You're pretty sure even Grimwell would agree that Luster's magic has wholly enhanced this erotic experience.
>In between your own heaving grunts and shuddering gasps, you're able to cast your eyes down along your body and catch a glimpse of your griffon's beakpussy being put to great and guided work.
>Grimwell's face bobs up and down your bone like a blur, while her totally unfocused pupils roll around like slots in a slot machine.
>Luster, on the other hand, fondly looks you over with a lightly bitten lip as she lustily observes every single one of your vulgar reactions—from your moans, to your groans, to your shakes, to your spasms.
>Your arousal is her ambrosia, and she takes all showings of your sexual satisfaction as yet another sign of a job well done.
>You'd give your wife a thumbs up if you could—but you're deathly worried that you'll slip off your own stool if your steadying hands aren't on deck at all times.
>Alas, you shall simply have to shudder and snort out your appreciation instead.

>After another minute or so of weathering this sensual storm of might and magic, you feel your thighs clench hard and your throat hitch out a quivering gasp.
>Luster, who prides herself on being the foremost expert on your various "tells," playfully addresses you with a smirk on her face:
>"Getting close~?"
>Willing yourself to look at her, you weakly nod and breathily hum:
"M-mhm…"
>She snortily snickers.
>"Heh, knew it~"
>Her primary response to this confirmation is to up the speed of her magical beakjob even more, basically bulldozing Grimwell's griffon gob against your resilient scrotum.
>This smutty escalation only expedites your journey to the inevitable edge.
>The rapid-fire assault of a bouncing beak and a spongy tongue, combined with the spine-tingling heat of Luster's magical massage, proves to be just the ticket in overcoming your vaunted human stamina.
>Unable to bear this incessantly efficient stimulation any more, you find yourself gritting your teeth, clenching your eyes shut, and gripping onto the table for dear life as you brace yourself for the dam to burst.
>In the midst of all of this, Luster leans in close to you, her voice dripping with a husky confidence:
>"Go on, then…"
>Luster rapidly pumps your penis several more times, presaging your peak to a highly degree, before forcing Grimwell's face deep into your groin one last time.
>And she whispers—nay, she *commands:*
>"Cum~"
>Your immediate compliance is heralded by the sound of a climactic moan escaping your lips—and just like that, you furiously rocket off into the griffon's moist mouth, hosing down her throat with what feels like litres upon litres of streaming man seed.
>This explosive orgasm is nothing less than a full expulsion of your pulsing kegs; each and every nut brings with it an overpowering feeling of glorious release, tensing your thighs and clenching your fingers.
>Your rod throbs through Grimwell's ring gag, ensuring you remain pointed at her twitching throatpussy at all times.
>Your balls continue to be gently massaged by Luster's caressive magic, ensuring every last drop of cum is coaxed out of your bulging reservoir and into your slave's salivary maw.
>Your loads are both goopy and voluminous, ensuring your griffon has more than enough birdseed to chew on for her "meal."
>Grimwell herself is locked between a state of utter powerlessness and total stupefaction; her eyes are shot open all the way, while her quavering pupils struggle to focus on anything in particular.
>Her dazed mind undoubtedly registers the hot gunk that's continuously clogging up her throat right now—yet she can do very little to stem its virile flow.
>The only measure of resistance she can offer is to avoid swallowing for as long as she can—but even that will only delay the inevitable.
>She cannot stop your rightful claim over her.

>You continue firing full salvos into her mouth for what feels like a solid half-minute before your orgasm begins to wane.
>From there, your rounds become stringier and slimmer, steadily decreasing in frequency as your waning well of bubbly birdfeed slowly dries out.
>And after what you can only guess to be another half-minute of low-intensity blasting, you shoot your last shot into her gullet, and you deeply exhale through your nostrils, breathing out a sigh of long-sought satisfaction.
>Luster, sensing your cessation of semen, magically pops Grimwell's face up off your pipe and keeps her head held within her amber aura.
>Then, levitating the griffon's body even higher, Luster suspends Grimwell's body in the air so that their heads are level and side by side with each other.
>"There, there," Luster coos in Grimwell's left ear. "Don't wanna spill a drop now, do we?"
>Luster angles Grimwell's head straight up, pointing her beak towards the rafters.
>"Your Master churned up all of that for you, so go on, be grateful…"
>Using her magic, Luster completely blocks Grimwell's nostrils while lightly massaging her throat, causing the griffon's pupils to palpitate with panic.
>"…and swallow."
>Unable to breathe yet also possessing a king's ransom of hot splooge in her maw, Grimwell can do little else but shakily comply with a:
>"U…ulp… Ulp… Uh-ulp…"
>Each shuddering gulp bulges out her throat on the way down and brings a fresh stream of tears to her face.
>"Yeah…" Luster huskily whispers into Grimwell's left ear. "That's the way…"
>The fanged grin on Luster's face makes it crystal clear just how much enjoyment she's getting out of gently guiding your loads into Grimwell's gut.
>As for you, the sight of a prisoner being forced to swallow one of your massive loads never fails to stimulate the loins and satisfy your sense of Masterly pride.
>It almost makes you want to go for a round two.
>Alas, as you mentioned earlier, you had only planned for this to be a quickie.
>You happen to be a very busy Boar; you have places to be after this.
>So for now, you simply watch your slave gulp down the rest of your gunk with a smile on your face.

>It doesn't take much longer until she's downed it all, leaving your prying eyes with the pleasant view of a well-fed catbird.
>She's also a sobbing catbird—but hey, details.
>Resting both hands on your lap, you cast an approving nod towards your wife.
"Well done, Luster."
>Turning her head over to you, Luster flashes you a proud smile.
>"Heh, anything for my Boar."
>With feeding time finally out of the way, you make to pull up your pants and boxers.
>As you do so, you turn your gaze over towards the long cabinet by the yurt's northern end.
>Besides you and your wife's battle gear, you also have a mantel clock on there, too.
>It tells the time in analogue, and from the position of its clock hands, you confirm that evening will soon be upon you.
>Also, the staff that you carefully set to lean against the cabinet is now lying face down on the carpet.
>How very clumsy of you.

>You finish putting on your clothes.
"Well then…"
>Standing up off your stool, you stretch your arms and arch your back, feeling relieved in more ways than one.
>Then, you turn to face your wife, who still holds your griffon within her magic.
"…I reckon we better get ready for our 'thing' then, eh?"
>Luster purses her lips in thought for a second or so, eyes briefly drifting to the side.
>"Oh right, that."
>Gaze flitting back to you, she gives you a nod.
>"Yeah, better not keep her waiting, I guess."
"Mhm."
>Extending out your right hand towards the north, you magically magnetise your staff's shaft straight over to your outstretched palm with a sharp-sounding *thwip*—and all without even needing to look at it.
>Hell yeah. Pulling that off makes you feel like a badass every time.
>You even managed to get Luster to quietly snerk at your antics with that one.
>She's always been supportive of your interest in learning and practising magic—although she can't help but throw a few friendly jabs at your superfluous showboating from time to time.
>Still, she's a great teacher, and you're glad to have her.

>Turning around, you gaze along the long length of your dining table, noting the various used tableware that are still present upon it.
>Using your magic with the staff, it's a simple enough matter of stacking the bowls and bundling the cutlery together.
>Then, you walk on over to the yurt's western quarter, tableware held within your pink magic, and set your items down on the counter.
>Unfortunately, your nomadic abode doesn't come with a dishwasher or even a sink, so you'll have to wash your stuff the old fashioned way.
>That can come later, though, for your current priorities involve garbing yourself in a manner most appropriate for the great outdoors.
>And so, moving left along your counter, you soon reach your hanged-up robe and begin putting it on.
>Technically speaking, your enhanced physiology allows you to comfortably live pretty much anywhere—even while buck-naked.
>However, you're still a human at the end of the day, and maintaining at least some measure of modesty remains a basic psychological need for you.
>…Plus, the robe makes you feel like a cool wizard, so there's that, too.

>Soon enough, you're fully garbed and good to go.
>Your magical staff is now securely strapped to the back of your robe, ready to be whipped out whenever needed.
>Turning around, you take a few steps towards the room's centre, straightening your robe as you do.
>You then cast your gaze over to the right, checking out the yurt's door by the south.
>Right then, all that's left is to—
>"Oh hey, Master."
>Ah, Luster. You were just about to check on her.
>Turning your body over to the left, you can see that she's been standing in the same place you last saw her, likely contemplating this and that.
"Yes?" you ask.
>"Why don't you go on ahead?" she responds. "I'll take care of things here and catch up with you soon."
>Her words have you partly pursing your lips and slightly tilting your head.
>'Things?' What could she…?
>…
>Oh, hold on. She's probably referring to the griffon currently encased within her magical grip.
>The very same griffon who you creampied the throat of mere minutes ago.
>Yes, you suppose that it's only right to clean her up a little and put her back in her cage.
>Your wife can certainly carry out these tasks on her own with zero issue.
>But…
>Well, for starters, said griffon's face is still pointing straight up, her throat is still being magically massaged, and her eyes are still leaking fresh tears.
"Hm."
>Walking up to Luster, you stand in front of her and sternly cross your arms.
"I hope you know that I expect to come home to an *intact* griffon."
>She proudly puffs out her chest and flashes you a cheeky grin.
>"Heh, you know me. When have I ever left them *not* intact?"
>Blinking in an unimpressed manner, you use your left hand to gesture towards a nearby drawer.
"Shall I grab the list?"
>Her grin falters, and a tinge of embarrassment crosses her cheeks.
>"E-eheh," she awkwardly chuckles. "Okay, okay, I hear ya."
>Lifting her left foreleg all the way up, she salutes you.
>"Don't you worry, Master. I won't harm a single feather on our slave's body—Sow's honour."
>You toss a glance towards Grimwell's lower half.
>Then, looking back to Luster, you arch a quizzical eyebrow her way.
"And her fur?"
>Her eyes widen for a brief moment, but she quickly recomposes herself.
>"O-oh yeah." She hastily nods. "And her fur, too."

>Her unconvincing answer does little to assuage your scepticism, and you find yourself exhaling out a light sigh.
>It's not a particularly serious sigh, though.
>She's shifty, sweaty, and skeevy—and she possesses probably the worst poker face in Equestria.
>But she's still your wife, and you ultimately trust her just as much as you love her.
>Thus, you hold out both hands and cup the air in front of you.
>Luster, keenly aware of your silent request, lowers her neck and rests her head within your joined palms.
>Leaning forward, you gently press your forehead against hers and whisper:
"I'll hold you to that, honeybuns."
>You end your statement with a loving kiss on the bridge of her snout, before pulling away.
>"Ehehe~" she softly giggles. "You can count on me, sweetums~"
>Granting her an understanding nod, you pull your hands away from her chin, letting her head rise once more.
>You then turn around and head towards the yurt's entrance, your steps long and confident.
>Pushing open your yurt's door, you cast one more look over your shoulder.
>Luster is in the same spot as before, happily waving at you with a goofy grin on her face.
>You cast her a warm smile right back, then face forward.
>And with that, you exit your yurt and head outside, temporarily leaving your helpless catbird slave in the sole care of your sadistic pigmare wife.
>…Eh, she'll be fine.
>Probably.

>…

>Grimwell forces out a pained gasp as her bound body is unceremoniously dropped onto the floor.
>She lands on her back, and with all of her limbs currently being rendered helpless, she's unable to do much else other than look straight up.
>There, she sees her captor sneering down at her.
>"Hope you enjoyed your meal back there~"
>The aftertaste of shame and disgust still clings to her throat and corrodes her palate.
>She wishes she could wash it away, to shake everything off and return back to how things were.
>But she can't.
>She can't do anything.
>She can't speak.
>She can't even scowl.
>The only thing she can do is spitefully glare up at the giant of a mare who looms over her.
>Said giant appears less than pleased by the griffon's irate expression.
>"Huh, that's a real nasty face you're pulling."
>Luster stomps around Grimwell's supine body, circling the griffon like a predator does its prey.
>Each and every weighty hoofstep against the red carpet quakes Grimwell's vision and makes her heart pound with fear.
>Yet try as she might, this griffon cannot pull her eyes away from her captor's amber-eyed visage.
>"Makes a mare wonder if you were even grateful at all."
>Luster suddenly slams one of her steel-toed hooves right next to Grimwell's face, forcing the griffon's heart out of her chest for a brief, horrifying moment.
>"Maybe your Master didn't discipline you hard enough."
>Using that same hoof, Luster lightly pats Grimwell's left cheek, and the griffon shivers in response to that cold, callous metal touching her skin.
>"That's always been his problem, y'know."
>Stepping back a bit, Luster lowers her neck all the way down, soon hovering her nose-ringed face just above Grimwell's.
>At this proximity, the griffon's senses are completely overwhelmed by the strong-smelling breath of her captor.
>And to her, it's utterly rancid; an eye-wateringly fetid mix of meat, alcohol, and hay—all as rotten as the mare herself.
>"I love him to bits, but he's way too much of a sweetheart."
>Without warning, Luster aggressively snorts in Grimwell's face, making the griffon painfully wheeze through her ring gag as her eyes sting with searing heat.
>"Even to pathetic little shrimps like you."

>Luster curtly pulls away from her target and stands up straight, bearing down on Grimwell with a simpering smirk.
>She then gestures to herself by way of lifting up her right foreleg and proudly patting her own chest.
>"But me?"
>Lowering her leg, Luster promptly presses her hoof right into Grimwell's feathered chest, forcing even more air from the griffon's constricting lungs.
>"I could end you with a single thought."
>The pressure Luster applies is calculated; crushing, but not crunching—splintering, but not splattering.
>"And break you just as easily."
>This is a clear display of superiority from one to another, and the longer Luster stays this compressive course—the more she threatens to rupture something vital.
>However, rather than risk any permanent physical damage to her slave, Luster lifts her hoof up off the griffon's vulnerable torso, granting Grimwell gasping leave to desperately catch her own breath.
>Luster silently ponders the rapid respirations of her prisoner for a few seconds, before her expression twists into something increasingly sinister.
>"In fact…"
>Luster's horn lights up—and Grimwell forces out a high-pitched yelp as her spine jolts upwards and her irises magically shift from natural yellow to imbued amber.
>For Grimwell, it feels as if her brain is being perforated by scalding-hot spears at every angle, lacerating her matter and liquefying her mind.
>For Luster, it's just another day on the job.
>Yet as poignant and painful as this moment is for the griffon, it only lasts a couple of seconds, and Luster soon dispels her magic entirely, letting the griffon's eyes return to normal.
>Of course, the rest of this situation is anything but normal; as Grimwell bitterly reels from the mental anguish inflicted upon her psyche, Luster addresses the griffon with a cruel glint in her eye:
>"Hey, that fiance of yours? Bluebeak or whatever his name was? Try and remember him now."
>Grimwell shakily and suspiciously squints her eyes up at her smirking captor.
>There's no way this griffon would willingly go along with this sadist's suggestions.
>But…her mind can't help but wander towards the one she loved.
>She tries to recall his name, envision his appearance, remember his scent.
>And…
>Her eyes suddenly shoot open, and a horrified gasp escapes her beak.
>Her pupils, pinpricked and palpitating, struggle to focus on the face of her oppressor.
>Her expression is the very reflection of true terror.

>"Heh, you getting it now? It really is that simple."
>Luster rests her steel-toed hoof against Grimwell's forehead and begins lightly trailing a circle around it.
>"Everything about your little bird brain is like playdough to me."
>She need not apply any physical pressure this time—for the mental message is already as clear as day.
>"Unmaking and remaking your mind is as easy as breathing for me."
>Luster gives Grimwell's forehead a couple light hooftaps, making the griffon's brain feel like it's bouncing around inside her skull.
>"And hey, who knows? Maybe I swapped out some of your other memories too."
>Luster snorts out a laugh:
>"Heh, have fun trying to figure *that* one out."
>Grimwell finds herself wholly unable to muster up any more anger or spite towards her captor—only pure, primal fear.
>And it is this display of emotions that Luster avidly eats up with her own two eyes.
>"But you know…"
>Luster lays her hoof flat against Grimwell's head, keeping her limb pointedly still.
>"Maybe I should just skip the middle mare and hollow you out entirely."
>Luster then applies just the tiniest bit of hoof pressure to Grimwell's skull, making the griffon shudder.
>"Replace the current you with something nice and subservient for your Master."
>Before, Grimwell's senses had registered the steel of her captor's horseshoe to be cold and callous, like solid ice.
>But now, this very same metal feels pervasively white hot.
>Like it's branding her brain.
>"Something…*permanently* obedient~"
>Luster lets her hoof linger a second longer—before promptly pulling her whole leg away.
>"But nah."
>Luster turns her head towards the yurt's door, temporarily discarding the griffon from her vision completely.
>"Wouldn't be right to leave my Master out of the fun," she continues. "I know he's looking forward to breaking you just as much as I am."
>Closing her eyes, Luster takes a deep breath in and out of her nostrils, filling her thoughts with those of her beloved husband.
>A satisfied smile graces her lips, and she slowly opens her eyes.
>But when her sights fall back down upon the griffon, her smile quickly takes on a more malevolent edge.
>"Doesn't mean I can't have some fun of my own, though~"

>Luster's horn lights up once more.
>This time, however, her gaze flits to the left, and she uses her magic to open a nearby drawer over in the yurt's western quarter.
>She soon levitates out two identically shaped yet differently coloured objects. And, leaving the drawer open, she floats these objects over to the space above Grimwell's body so the griffon can clearly see them.
>"Hey, know what these are?"
>Luster gives one of these objects a playful waggle in the air to further accentuate her query.
>Grimwell's eyes glaze over said objects—and she immediately comprehends what she's looking at.
>She reflexively scoffs with deep disgust and tosses her head to the side.
>This visceral response only makes Luster chuckle:
>"Heh, gonna take that noise as a yeah~"
>The objects in question are long, shaft-like, and end in a mushroom-shaped tip.
>Beyond this protrusion, they also possess flat bases that each have two spherical shapes hanging from the underside.
>Simply put—they're dildos.
>They both feature a cock and balls, and they're both based upon the same veiny "model"—but one is pink, while the other is orange.
>"Y'see," Luster begins, "once me and Master finish our little errand, we're gonna be back to play with you some more."
>Luster shoots her slave a sassy wink.
>"And I wanna make sure *all* of your holes are good and ready for him the next time he comes in~"
>She levitates the pink dildo up to her lips and plants an affectionate peck on its mushroom tip.
>"Both of these babies are his *exact* size and shape."
>Shrewdly lidding her eyes, she levitates that same dildo around her body and positions it directly behind her rear end.
>She then fully closes her eyes, bites her bottom lip, and lifts her tail up.
>And not even a second later, a quiet squelch can be heard from in between Luster's hindlegs, while the mare herself to arches her back forward and exhales out a hearty moan through her nostrils:
>"Mmmmff~"
>Her stance widens, her nostrils flare, and a wide smile crosses her face.
>"Haaah~" she sighs out with breathy pleasure. "Slides in like a dream~"
>Luster takes a self-indulgent moment to enjoy the filling feeling of her "practical demonstration," keeping her eyes happily closed.

>Meanwhile, these sights and sounds do nothing but deeply nauseate Grimwell on a fundamental level, causing her to shudder with gut-wrenching revulsion; not only because of the hedonism that's currently present—but also because of the depravity she knows her captor has in store for her.
>This repugnance is enough to spur this griffon into evasive action—no matter how hopeless her situation may be.
>Despite having her talons tied and her hindlegs bound, she nonetheless attempts to wiggle backwards in the vain hope that her struggles might somehow take her somewhere away from all of this.
>"Hm?"
>Unfortunately for Grimwell, the sound of a desperate griffon slowly scooting across the carpet is swiftly picked up by her captor's ears.
>Opening her eyes, Luster looks down at her slave, and her pleasured smile morphs into an amused grin.
>"Aw, where are ya going? We haven't even got to the fun part yet."
>Applying just a smidgen more magic, Luster holds Grimwell down by her neck, stopping the griffon's shoddy retreat near instantly.
>"So stay put, why don'tcha? We gotta get your holes properly stretched for Master."
>Tossing a glance over her right shoulder, Luster steadily retrieves her pink toy from its fleshy "sheathe."
>"N-nnf… And…and hey…"
>With a subtle *schlurp,* Luster pulls out her dildo and proudly displays its still-dripping form over Grimwell's body.
>"…I even lubed this one up for ya~"
>A dollop of warm slimy fluid drops down from this dildo and splatters onto Grimwell's feathered chest, eliciting another full-body shiver from the repulsed griffon.

>"Okay then," Luster cheerily continues, "let's start things off by filling up the proper hole first."
>Floating the pink dildo down over to Grimwell's lower body, Luster soon positions its mushroom tip right by the entrance of her tight catpussy.
>After magically applying a restrictive band around Grimwell's waist to minimise any more errant wiggling, Luster flashes her slave a toothy grin.
>"Open wide~"
>Grimwell responds by way of frantically shaking her head as one last-ditch plea to her captor to cease this ceaseless carnal cruelty.
>Luster pays Grimwell's plea absolutely zero mind, and she instead attempts to slowly part the griffon's lower lips with her slimy pink rod.
>However, she quickly finds her first spot of resistance upon realising just how utterly unyielding this hole actually is.
>"Gee," Luster openly muses, "you griffons sure are a *tight-lipped* bunch, aren'tcha? Makes a mare wonder how you can even please your own stallions…"
>She lightly chuckles at her own words, before continuing:
>"Not to worry, though. I know *exactly* how to get this pussy purring~"
>Luster uses her magic to gently rub at Grimwell's clitoral hood while at the same time softly sliding the dildo's head up and down along the griffon's sensitive vulva.
>This two-pronged assault on her senses forces out a few involuntary gasps from Grimwell's mouth.
>She hates that these aren't sounds of pain.
>And she hates it even more that she can feel herself loosen up in response to this unwanted stimulation.
>"Mm…yeah." Luster nods. "Think I'm feeling some give now."

>Luster manages to wiggle and waggle the mushroom head of her grool-coated dildo past Grimwell's loosened lips, finally providing passage into her precious place.
>This invasive intrusion coaxes not only more gasps from Grimwell's beak—but also a mouthy moan, as well.
>It's only when Luster manages to fully slip the glans in does something suddenly snap—eliciting a pained yelp from the griffon.
>Luster's ears prick up at this shrill sound, and she regards her slave with sardonic wit:
>"Gee, you're just stuffed with all kinds of noises, aren'tcha?"
>As Luster's gaze moves back down to Grimwell's pierced flower, her eyes widen with intrigue.
>"Oh, but would you look at that…"
>A tell-tale trickle of deep red has mixed with in the mucus that mantles the dildo's shaft.
>It is a colour that Luster recognises in an instant.
>"So, not only did you not get with your crush—you never got with anypony at all, huh?"
>Luster throws a glance over to Grimwell's tear-stained visage, which is currently directed as far to the side as possible, avoiding eye contact.
>And for a very brief moment, the mare's amber eyes threaten to regard the griffon with some measure of fondness.
>But that all goes away when Luster bursts into a fit of snorty sniggering.
>"Pfftahaha, imagine losing your virginity to a *toy!*
>Her expression gives way to a cheesy grin.
>"Couldn't be me~"
>Despite her best attempts to mentally dismiss the contemptuous mockery of her captor, Grimwell's heart can't help but sink at Luster's incisory words.
>The griffon's gaze quivers as it hopelessly falls to the floor.
>She can barely tell who she is any more. This all feels like a horrible nightmare.
>Her cunt clasps hard around the object that stole her purity, sending constant waves of sinful pleasure pulsing throughout her system.
>Her thighs twitch and spasm like crazy, while her toes flex out and curl inwards repeatedly, totally unable to stay still.
>Her breath rushes in and out of her body like a restless typhoon, reflecting her heightened state of arousal.
>She hates it. She hates how her body is reacting—and she hates how good everything feels.
>This isn't her.
>It can't be.
>It shouldn't be.

>"Heh, you should see the look on your face."
>Unable to ignore that accursed mare's jests and jeers any longer, Grimwell's shame-flushed glare promptly snaps up to meet Luster's cocky smirk.
>"Even after everything you've gone through, I betcha still thought you'd be able to 'hold out' against me or something, am I right?"
>Luster snorts out a laugh, before continuing:
>"Well, here's your reality check, little bird: you're no different from any of the other creatures we've tamed and conquered."
>Using her magic, Luster playfully pinches Grimwell's clitoris—which is now completely exposed—jolting the griffon into cold shivers.
>"You're still only a mere female at the end of the day—a walking womb just waiting to be claimed."
>Grimwell's glare gives way to a humiliated whimper as she finds herself wholly unable to save face among this incessant stimulation.
>"See, your body understands this perfectly fine, which is why it happily opens up whenever it feels some premium-grade pork poking at its walls."
>Luster slides an extra inch of that synthetic shaft into Grimwell's snatch, forcing out another shuddering moan from the griffon as her insides clamp down all the more.
>Grimwell's involuntary reaction makes Luster nod with smug satisfaction.
>"Feel that? This is what a *real* stallion is shaped like. This kinda meat is what you're *truly* built for."
>Grimwell closes her eyes with deep indignity, closing her sights off to the outside world—yet inadvertently heightening her senses to what's worming its way inside of her.

>Luster uses this opportunity to slowly push more and more of that substitute penis inside Grimwell's canal, making sure the griffon can truly feel every human-shaped inch.
>"Embrace it."
>Her treasonous lips form an almost-inescapable seal around her silicone intruder, yet also greedily give way to its intrusive advance.
>"Savour it."
>Her treacherous walls needily clasp and churn around its unwanted length, steadily filling her core with a vile feeling of fullness.
>"Remember it."
>Her traitorous cunt readily conforms to every bump and every vein, scaring her mind into believing that this is a shape her body won't soon forget.
>"And take it aaallllll in~"
>Luster slides even more of her pink dildo into Grimwell's pussy, fully intent on sheathing it up to the sack.
>The toy's titillating trespass proceeds just as planned, making the griffon quiver and clench with every additional inch slipped in.
>That is—until it suddenly bumps against the end of the road, causing Grimwell to squeak out a surprised yip as her eyes shoot open.
>"Hm?"
>Luster gives the dildo a couple of cursory wiggles, coaxing out a few more yips from the griffon while confirming the mare's own suspicions.
>"What? Only halfway? Are you serious?"
>Luster unimpressedly stares at the toy half-submerged into Grimwell's snatch.
>The mare then clicks her tongue in annoyance:
>"Tch. Griffon pussies never fail to disappoint."

>After breathing out a heavy sigh, Luster recomposes herself and addresses Grimwell with jeering joviality:
>"That's okay, though. Just means your butt will have to pull double duty to make up for it."
>Using her magic, Luster lifts up the lower half of Grimwell's body, folding the griffon's body over itself in such a manner that her ass now points straight upwards while her spreader bar hovers above her head.
>Luster uses this new and impelled position to levitate the orange dildo right up to Grimwell's exposed anus, angling it so the toy's tip lightly prods at the griffon's innie opening.
>Despite Grimwell's senses currently being overwhelmed by the other intruding toy that's still stuffing up her snatch, she can't help but feel an ominous chill climb up her spine in response to this second party.
>"You might wanna pucker up," Luster addresses her slave with casual indifference, "'cause I'm not gonna be so gentle this time around."
>Luster uses her magic to spread Grimwell's cheeks wide apart and methodically wiggle the tip of her toy into the griffon's sphincter, loosening her up little by little.
>However, once Luster manages to get the thickest part of the glans past Grimwell's entrance—she roughly shoves the rest of the dildo inside, forcibly hilting it up the base.
>This highly aggressive penetration forces out an anguished scream from Grimwell's lungs.
>For this griffon, it feels like her rectum got ripped apart in a near instant; a pulsing pain rings out from her lower half, directly combatting the pervasive pleasure taking place mere inches away.
>This clashing cacophony of contrasting sensations completely overtakes her mind, causing her to see stars and rendering her unable to focus on anything else.
>"Heh, perfect~"
>Luster, meanwhile, is wholly satisfied with her dirty work.
>With both toys firmly wedged inside this griffon's holes, there are only a few more things left on this mare's agenda before she plans to hit the town.
>"First off," Luster mumbles to herself, "gotta make sure the toys stay in…"
>Turning her head to the left, she looks towards the drawer she had left open earlier.
>She then levitates out a pair of black panties and floats them over to Grimwell's nethers.
>These particular panties happen to be tearaways, meaning that they can be strapped around the griffon's groin without the need to pull them over her hindlegs—which are currently being held apart by her spreader bar.
>Thus, Luster attaches these panties to Grimwell's crotch with ease, fastening the fabric so it keeps the griffon's toys snugly secured inside both her holes.
>"Heh, there we go."
>With that task firmly finished, Luster happily nods to herself and relaxes her magical grip on Grimwell's body, letting the griffon's spread hindlegs unfold back into their semi-natural position.

>Looking back down to the griffon, Luster levitates Grimwell up into the air and flips her whole body both vertically and horizontally, facing the griffon the other way while also orienting her belly down to the floor.
>"Alright," Luster addresses her discombobulated slave, "here's the deal."
>Walking over to the pet carrier cage, Luster casually chucks Grimwell inside its interior and closes the door, angling the griffon's body so that she faces the bars.
>"You're gonna be a good little bird and sit in your cage 'til we get back."
>Turning around and walking further south, Luster opens a nearby wardrobe and begins perusing through its contents.
>"Those toys'll keep you company in the meantime."
>Luster retrieves a brown leather saddle out of the wardrobe, closes it, and flashes a brief yet toothy grin towards the griffon's cage.
>"And trust me—they're both gonna be your very best friends, eheh heh heh~"
>Turning her attention over to herself, Luster magically straps and fastens the saddle to her own back.
>"Mm-hmm…" she affirmatively hums. "Yeah…should be secure now."
>Luster looks herself over for a few moments—then nods, pleased with her new attire.
>"Oh, and one last thing."
>Turning over to that still-open drawer, Luster pulls two more objects out from this wooden container, then finally closes it.
>She then levitates these objects over to Grimwell's cage and sets them down on the carpet floor and in front of the barred door, making sure they both sit well within the griffon's field of view.
>"See these?"
>Grimwell has been trapped in a dazed haze of pleasure and pain ever since that orange dildo was forcefully embedded into her shithole.
>Her bound, still-twitching body lies on the cold floor of this compact cage, ass arched upwards.
>Her soft black panties keep her silicone toys soundly stuck inside her two catholes, stopping any hope of accidentally getting them loose.
>Her beaked, lightly drooling face lies on its left side, pointed towards the cage's entrance.
>Yet despite this griffon's overstimulated and overpunished mind, her glazed-over eyes can nonetheless make out the presence of those two objects that her captor has just set down.
>They both appear to be dials of some kind.
>One of them is pink, while the other is orange.
>Their dials are currently set all the way to the left—labelled "OFF."
>Grimwell shakily squints her eyes to try and make further sense of what she's seeing.
>But as she does, she notices floating wisps of amber magic pinch of the top of each dial.
>The wisps then turn the dials all the way to the right—labelled "MAX."
>A dyad of loud buzzing erupts from behind Grimwell.
>The effects are felt immediately.

>Luster watches as the griffon's cage violently rattles and jitters from side to side.
>She listens to the many groans, moans, and screams that explode from within its bars.
>And she smiles with sick satisfaction.
>"Heh heh heh~" she chortles out loud. "Have fun~"
>With her slave now thoroughly preoccupied, Luster promptly turns around and exits the yurt, her steps as light as silk.

***

>You are now outside, standing several metres away from the wooden archway that serves as the eastern gate to your forest settlement.
>This gate happens to be one of two that lead in and out of your village's borders; the other gate can be found over by the south-western edge.
>As for your specific location, you are currently standing on the left side of a dirt road that goes under the gate and heads deeper into the forest.
>A couple metres away from you and up this road, a pioneer wagon sits on the road's right side, facing east towards the gate.
>This wagon has a contains highly important cargo, and is essential to the task at hand.
>Directly to your left, you can see an orcish yurt standing just off the road.
>This particular yurt boasts a unique appearance among its brethren, for it is the only tent in this settlement to wear a canvas that is crimson in colour.
>The door of this yurt, which faces south towards the road, is painted an even deeper red to help it stand out as a proper entryway.
>A curious symbol has been carved into the wood of this door.
>You recognise this symbol well, for it is colloquially known throughout Equestria as the "Devil's Fork."
>The name of this symbol alone describes it accurately enough, for it is shaped like a trident that possesses a flared butt.
>There are those among your orcs who worship the Devil's Fork and everything that it represents, and it is these devout orcs who call this crimson yurt their home.
>Yet despite their beliefs, these pious pigmen are nonetheless part of your dependable brood.
>Every single orc is born with a deeply instinctual and staunchly unbreakable loyalty to you and Luster Dawn, ensuring they all remain firmly devoted to your cause, no matter their other eccentricities.
>And so, you trust your orthodox orcs just as much as you trust your unorthodox ones.
>To that end, you have two of these sanctimonious swine accompanying you right now.
>Their names are Bert and Bort.
>They're both pinkskin orcs, and as one might surmise from their similar names and shared home, these two orcs are brothers.
>Technically, all of your orcs are related to each other by blood—but even then, there are those among your children who foster stronger familial ties than most.
>The brotherly kinship between Bert and Bort happens to be one such tie.

>Bert is the elder of the two brothers, and he is currently standing by your left side while holding a ledger in both hands.
>He's about as tall as you are—though noticeably portlier.
>His choice of attire is standout among his species—mainly because he's chosen to wear anything above the bare minimum.
>He is garbed in a hooded robe, much like yourself.
>That being said, you must stress that your dark-green garments are what heavily contribute to your all-important "bad-ass wizard" aesthetic.
>Meanwhile, Bert's robes are dyed a deep crimson, giving him more of a…crazed cultist vibe.
>He also wears a gold pendant around his neck, the glitzy colour making it stick out among the sea of red fabric.
>Predictably, the pendant itself has been cast into the shape of the Devil's Fork, further signifying this orc's fervent faith.
>Besides your fashion sense, another thing you and Bert share is your preferred choice of weapon, as the two of you each have a staff that is presently strapped to the back of your robe.
>But while your mystical sceptre ends in a pink heart-shaped crystal, Bert's mighty pole terminates in a crimson metal bell—with the staff's shaft going directly into the bell's mouth to serve as its clapper.
>This bell is as sturdy as it is sonorous, allowing Bert to bash open the brains of his foes without fear of his bludgeon breaking—all while delivering a haunting tune throughout.
>Because Bert is an orc, he is unable to channel any kind of magic by himself, and is thus well-acclimated to wielding his staff like a musical mace in the field of battle.
>However, with the right trinkets and magical crystals on hand, he too can practise sorcery—even if he is limited to spells of a more "canned" nature.
>Still, that doesn't stop him from indulging in the occult when and where he can—such as performing arcane rituals in his own home, or lobbing magical grenades on the battlefield.
>In any case, he's a boon to have on your side, regardless of his religion.

>Bort is the younger of the two brothers, and he is currently leaning back against the left side of the wagon while having both of his arms crossed.
>He's about a head taller than you are, and his bulky body possesses a slew of impressive scars; some are battle-wrought—while others are self-inflicted.
>His choice of attire is much more traditional among Orckind; that is to say—he's barely wearing anything at all.
>That being said, while his burly chest is bare and his large feet are sockless, there is one piece of apparel that sets him apart from his peers—and that's his undergarments.
>While most orcs opt to wear a loose-fitting loincloth around their groin, Bort has instead chosen to don some tight leather underwear to protect his pelvis.
>The pure black pigment of his hide-stitched skivvies make them stand out against his pink pig skin, and…well, honestly, you feel like you've already gone into more than enough detail regarding your son's crotch, so you'll leave it at that.
>Besides his unmentionables, he wears a gold pendant that rests against his bare chest; much like his brother's accessory, this pendant has also been cast into the shape of the Devil's Fork.
>Bort may lack the crimson robe, but he's a devout follower all the same.
>And if his pendant doesn't clue you in on that fact, then there's always his headgear to drive the point home.
>You see, while plenty of orcs out there like to leave their literal pig-headed countenances free for the world to see, Bort wears the upper half of a goat skull—curved horns included—as a bone mask, upping his cultist factor tremendously.
>This has the addedd benefit of giving him an even more monstrous appearance than your average pigman, striking pure primal terror into the hearts of his enemies—and stunning them just long enough for him to tear their bodies apart with his bare hands.
>Bort doesn't wield any weapons, instead preferring to use his fists whenever the need arises.
>He's also an orc of very few words, choosing to leave all of the talking to his brother, with he himself offering little more than an affirmative grunt or hearty oink when spoken to.
>And speaking of talking—it's about high time you cut the exposition and finally get down to business.

>As you mentioned earlier, Bert is currently standing by your left side, ledger in hand.
>And the two of you are facing towards the settlement's eastern gate.
>Bert is double-checking his ledger, making sure everything is in order.
>You, on the other hand, are waiting on your wife to arrive, so you have little else to do other than look important.
>But rather than feel aimless any longer, you decide to take charge and address your robed compatriot with a most-fatherly authority:
"Bert," you begin, "give me a progress report on how things are going."
>He nods to you.
>"Right away, Boarfather."
>A common quality among your orcs is the deep, gravelly voice they all speak with—as well the piglike oinking that intermittently slips into their speech.
>Bert himself is no outlier in this regard.
>"Our wagon is fully loaded," he begins, "we only wait for our Great Pig Mother—*oink*—to join us before we set off."
"Mm-hmm."
>The titles "Boarfather" and "Great Pig Mother" refer to the patriarch and matriarch of Orckind, respectively.
>These honorifics are widespread enough that pretty much every orc uses them when addressing either you or your wife.
>However, if a pigman happens to feel particularly strapped for time in the moment, they have been known to use the much pithier "Boss" instead.
>"When everypig is ready—*oink*—we will take the wagon and leave the village through the eastern gate."
>Shifting the ledger to rest against his right arm, Bert uses his left hand to gesture past said gate.
>"Our journey will take us deeper into the forest. There, we will convene with our allies and—*oink*—carry out an exchange of goods."
"Right. Our goods for theirs."
>You turn your gaze over to the wagon.
"And remind me: what is the status of our cargo?"
>"Untouched and unclaimed," Bert responds. "As is favoured by our allies."
>You nod.
"Good."
>As their esteemed Boarfather, you are candid and cordial with your orcs, treating them with respect while granting them the freedom to speak their piece as they see fit.
>When it comes to your wife, though, while she does indeed love her swinish children just as much as you do, she is far more chummy and churlish in her affections—which admittedly, perfectly reflects how your orcs treat each other.
>If she were here right now, you imagine she'd have something suitably crass to add to the discussion, something like:
>"Pfft, 'untouched and unclaimed?' Probably wants to get those first few scars in herself."
>Yeah, she'd sound *exactly* like that, raspy voice and all.
>Damn, you're getting pretty good at imagining up your wife.
>She sounded so real and smells so good—it's almost like she's actually here!
>…
>Wait a minute.

>Looking above your left shoulder, you can see a horsey head hovering over the conversation.
>Naturally, it's the horsey head of your wife.
"Ah, Luster," you address her, "you made it."
>She pulls her neck back and flashes you a grin.
>"Heh heh, that I did."
>She casts her amber eyes over to the wagon.
>"So, you boys all prepped, then?"
>Bert turns around to face Luster and gives her a slight bow.
>"Yes, Great Pig Mother. We are ready to leave whenever you are."
>Luster nods to Bert.
>"Sweet."
>Her gaze turns over to you, and her grin becomes a bit more bashful.
>"…I, uh, I hope I didn't make you wait too long."
>You shake your head with a smile.
"Not at all. We just finished loading up the wagon a couple minutes ago."
>Her expression lightens at that.
"How about you?" you ask. "Did you take care of everything back home?"
>"Yup," she confidently responds. "Messes have been cleaned up and our bird's been put back in its cage."
>You cross your arms.
"And I trust you exercised due restraint with said bird?"
>She slightly tilts her head.
>"Restraint?"
>After about a second of her looking mildly confused—she hastily responds:
>"Oh. Oh yeah. Just scared her a little, is all."
>You slowly nod your head, expression totally nonplussed.
"Mm-hmm."

>She curtly clears her throat, eager to change the subject.
>"Anyway, enough about our slave. Here, have a look at this…"
>She walks around to your right side and faces her body towards the gate, giving you a longitudinal view of her horsey form.
>From this angle, you notice that she's now wearing a brown leather saddle on her back.
>The saddle is securely strapped to her underside by its cinch, comes with steel stirrups on either side, and provides plenty of room for her wings to move about; it's also designed to maximise comfort for both the mare and her rider, possessing a cushiony seat and a fleecy numnah.
>"Eh? Eh?" Luster playfully waggles her eyebrows at you. "What do you think?"
>You look along your wife's large body to match eyes with the mare herself.
"I'm thinking a certain someone wants to be ridden off to her next meeting."
>"Heh, you read my mind."
>She shoots you a wink.
>"Who says our hearts need to be connected for us to be on the same wavelength~?"
>With a wide grin on her face, she faces her head forward and jovially addresses you:
>"Come on, get on so we can get going."
"Mhm."
>If Luster really wanted to, she could easily lift you up onto her saddle with her magic.
>However, she vastly prefers it when you mount her the old-fashioned way.
>In her own words, doing it manually "makes it feel more natural—more right."
>And as her bonded husband, you're inclined to agree with her on that matter.

>Walking up to your wife's left side, you make ready to mount her.
>First off, you rest both of your hands atop her saddle and look down at her left stirrup.
>Said stirrup currently hangs around the lower half of her barrel, which correlates to where your midsection is.
>Mounting a horse this large straight from the ground takes no small amount of technique and flexibility—luckily, you happen to be extremely talented and gifted in both fields.
>Thus, in one smooth motion—you pull yourself up her body, slip your left foot into her stirrup, swing your right leg over her rump, and seat yourself on her saddle, coolly sliding your other foot into her right stirrup as you do.
>Mounting her this way does put some pressure on her spine, but she's an incredibly sturdy mare, so you know her body can handle your hands without any issue.
>Upon feeling her mate comfortably seat himself upon her strong back, Luster horsily blows past her lips—and then lets out two hoggish oinks right afterwards, proving that your pigmare wife is not ashamed about either of her wild sides.
>Now having steadied yourself atop your steed, you cast your eyes over to the left, where Bert still stands on the ground, looking up at you.
>You give him a silent nod.
>He nods back, then walks ahead of you and Luster.
>There, he signals over to Bort with a short wave.
>Bort replies to his brother's signal with an affirmative grunt, then makes his way over to the front of the wagon.
>Soon enough, the wagon begins moving forward, steadily trailing along the dirt path that lays ahead.
>Everything is in place. All you need to do now is get moving.
>And so, giving your wife's barrel a couple of clicks with your ankles, you address her with composed conviction:
"Alright, let's go."
>She softly whickers in response, then proceeds to walk forwards with a calm gait, following the same path as the wagon in front.
>With that, the four of you head deeper into the forest together—where your "allies" await.

***

>You are now out on the forest path.
>Your convoy consists of you, Luster, Bert, and Bort.
>The pioneer wagon travels down the middle of the road, and is being pulled by Bort in a manner much like how one would operate a rickshaw.
>You and Luster ride along the wagon's right side, while Bert walks along its left.
>And yes, even though your wife is built like a workhorse, it is not her who pulls this wagon.
>This is because she is the much-revered matriarch of all Orckind, so it's important for her image that she leaves the modest task of transporting goods to her underlings.
>While Luster has never been one to care about proper decorum, she does believe in a "Might Makes Right" philosophy. And in her eyes—you and her are the strongest beings on the planet, meaning that all who serve under the two of you should take care of the heavy lifting.
>Orcs, on the other hand, are more than happy to flex their muscles and get stuck in with some manual labour.
>Bort is no exception to this behaviour, so there's zero conflict here.
>One thing your wife absolutely *does* exult in, however, is being your trusty steed.
>It's a huge point of horsey pride for her to have you riding atop her broad back.
>Even now, you can almost feel the utter smugness radiating from her with every clopping step she takes.
>It's as if she's snootily telling the whole world: "This is *my* human, and he chose *me* as his mount—so you better keep your hooves off of him if you know what's good for you."
>She isn't actually saying these things aloud, of course, but her emotions have a way of rubbing off on you, especially when your bodies are intimately connected like this.
>So she's probably thinking it.

>As your wife proudly walks onward, you take this tranquil opportunity to examine the nearby environment.
>Crowds of tall pine trees surround this dirt road at both sides, nearly blotting out the sky with their impressive foliage.
>The sun is currently setting, so all that manage to peek through the treeline and illuminate the forest floor are the orange rays of eventide.
>Gnarled roots and prickly bushes creep along and around this snaking path, their presence a constant reminder for travellers to watch their step wherever they go, lest they eat dirt or worse.
>This foreboding forest happens to house all manner of craven beasts and overgrown creepy crawlies, many of which would love to feast upon the raw flesh of the weak and unsuspecting.
>That being said, those that lurk in these parts know far better than to challenge the likes of a hulking pigman or a full-grown alicorn, meaning that—beyond the numerous eerie eyes peering out at you from the darkness—you and your travelling party are left well alone.
>Alas, not every monster out there is as pragmatically meek as your local peeping toms, for Equestria is home to all kinds of terrifying fauna, such as mountainous ursa majors, many-headed hell hydras, and lake-dwelling dire kelpies—to name a few.
>Monsters like those are far less likely to be intimidated by your motley crew, and some of them even dwell deep within this very forest.
>And while you're pretty confident that your wife could take on any creature in this world and win, you would really prefer not to encounter any complications on this business trip—especially when carting around such precious cargo.
>Thankfully, the meaner and nastier beasts of this land tend to stay out of sight and out of mind; as long as they stay in their natural habit, they only threaten those with a particularly adventurous spirit.
>This road you take, and the rendezvous point ahead, are both well away from any potential danger zones, so it's perfectly safe for you and your orcs.
>With how meek these nearby monsters are in comparison, the only thing your group has to do is look imposing and watch their footing.
>Easy enough—especially for you, since you're simply riding your mare.
>Your butt is comfily sat upon a cushioned seat, while your feet are snugly slipped into the saddle's stirrups.
>Your hands rest upon the saddle's pommel, and your eyes are now cast forward.
>All that's left is to wait for you to reach your destination.

>…
>About half-an-hour of uneventful walking later, the four of you reach a small circular clearing in the forest.
>A thick tree stump sits in the middle of this clearing; it serves as your rendezvous point.
>You know this, because red paint has been haphazardly splashed all over it—at least, you're pretty sure it's paint.
>The four of you proceed onwards, moving closer to the tree stump, and stopping once it's about less than a metre away.
>Then, Bert steps forward, bell staff in hand, and makes his way over to the tree stump's left side.
>He quietly examines the surface of this stump, then soon nods to himself.
>Ah, right. There is one other feature of this stump that marks it as a significant landmark for your meeting.
>A striking symbol of the Devil's Fork has been carved into the stump's surface.
>At the root of where this fork's tines are, a circular opening has been hollowed into the bark, leaving just enough space for something long and shaft-like to slide inside.
>Bert lifts his bell staff above the stump and lowers its wooden base into the opening.
>Once he succeeds in submerging about half of his shaft into the stump, the carving of the Devil's Fork begins to glow crimson—and you pre-emptively cover your ears.
>Soon after that, the bell of Bert's staff sounds out an extremely loud ring that rustles the surrounding foliage while forcing everypig's ears to fall flat.
>It is a truly intense noise, sounding more like the toll of a tall belfry than the chime of a jingling staff.
>That's magic for you.
>Bert's bell booms out three consecutive peals in total, with each successive ring maintaining its impressive volume yet oscillating in pitch, going from low to high.
>And when the third and final bong falls flat, the Devil's Fork stops glowing, and all goes silent for a few seconds.
>Then—a high pitched screech erupts in the far distance, past the tree trunk.
>Bert retrieves his staff and walks back to the wagon's left side, while Bort unhitches his body from the wagon itself.
>You uncover your ears, while Luster lets out a deep sigh and speaks up:
>"And now we wait."
>You nod in affirmation.
"Mhm."

>…
>While you busily bide your time, you may as well use this chance to go deeper into what the Devil's Fork actually is.
>As is likely obvious at this point: the Devil's Fork is far more than just a mere symbol.
>It's an idea, and an incredibly effective one at that—for it holds great influence all across Equestria.
>The Devil's Fork started appearing not long after you decided you were going to conquer this land.
>Its crimson-coloured symbol randomly popped up in the most unassuming of places; from alleyway walls to bathroom stalls, and from clothing brands to newspaper stands—seemingly nowhere was safe from the surprise emergence of this three-pronged icon.
>Most creatures who laid eyes upon the Devil's Fork simply ignored its presence, seeing it as nothing more than typical magical happenstance.
>However, there were also the few who were immediately drawn to this symbol at first sight, choosing to believe that it held some significant, deeper meaning.
>Whether this belief sprouted from curious superstition or as a coping mechanism for other worldly stresses matters not in the end.
>For once a creature places a genuine interest in the Devil's Fork—that's when it sticks its prongs into them.

>These mentally malleable believers will begin to hear things, see things, *feel* things all in regards to the Devil's Fork, reinforcing their fanaticism even further—and transforming innocent intrigue into mad monomania.
>They'll start to incorporate more and more of the Devil's Fork into their everyday life, following whatever the voices in their head tell them to do.
>They'll spread the symbol around like a plague—a plague of the mind—and etch the Devil's Fork whenever they can and wherever they go.
>They'll band together with other like-minded individuals and form secretive cults dedicated to obeying the hidden will of their ominous obsession.
>And once a creature has fallen completely under its seductive sway, they've been known to disappear from the world entirely, leaving very little trace behind; the only hints as to what happened to these individuals come in the form of farewell notes that a rare few of them leave behind, with every one referencing either a "final journey" or a "descent into the darkness."
>The first worshippers of the Devil's Fork were no different in that aspect, having all vanished into the ether long ago.
>Your orcs are far less susceptible to this ultimate fate, despite some of them venerating the Devil's Fork just as fervently.
>But even then, there are still some of those amongst your Fork-revering orcs who end up vanishing from this world under similarly mysterious circumstances.
>Incidentally, one of those missing pigmen happens to be Bert and Bort's brother, who was a fellow advocate of the Devil's Fork.
>Yet the sudden disappearance of their close sibling hasn't diminished their devotion in the slightest—in fact, you dare say it has managed to stoke the fires of their faith even further.
>As for the rest of Equestria, the Devil's Fork has only continued to grow in both power and pull, becoming an increasingly disruptive threat to this world's Harmony.
>And while its impassioned worshippers ever remain a clandestine minority in the land at large, their steadfast devotion to this unseen force almost rivals the innate loyalty your orcs hold towards you and your wife.
>To think, some of Equestria's creatures must have initially looked to the Devil's Fork as a source of order in their tumultuous lives.
>None of those sorry individuals could ever have known what dark forces were waiting for them in this icon's pronged embrace.
>After all, the true purpose of the Devil's Fork was never to bring order.
>It's to sow Chaos.

>…
>"Hey, Master."
>The words of your wife bring you out of your internal explication.
>Looking along her body, you can see her head is tilted to look back at you.
"Yeah?"
>"You ever wonder why she makes us wait so long after we get here?"
>Casting your eyes over to the right, you can see the usual multitude of eerie eyes peering out at you and your group from the deep darkness.
"Probably the same reason she has us ring a bell loud enough to wake the whole forest."
>She snorts sarcastically.
>"Trying to keep us on edge, huh."
>Turning her neck, she casts her eyes forward and lets out a light huff.
>"That's so her."
>That, you can't deny.
>Before you fall into your introspective thoughts once more, a sudden rustling sound catches your attention.
>Past the tree stump and on the opposite side of the clearing, you see movement in the foliage.
>And soon enough, you see some creatures make their way out of the darkness with their own wagon in tow.
>"Finally."
>These creatures are ponies—at least, that's what they look like on first glance.
>Two of them are hauling a pioneer wagon that looks quite similar to yours—though its covering canvas is coloured an abyssal black as opposed to your venerable crimson.
>There is also a third pony walking along this wagon's right side—which means that they're on the left side from your perspective.
>These three ponies make their way over to the side of the tree stump that's opposite yours, and they stop just short of a metre away from it, much like your convoy has.
>"Are you serious…?" you hear Luster mumble to herself.
>The two wagon-hauling ponies then unhitch themselves from their wheeled cargo, and the rightmost one moves further over to the right, lining these three equines up neatly.
>Now that they're all close enough, you can finally get a good look at your liaison group.

>For starters, they're all mares.
>They also all possess wings, while their faintly glowing eyes are all the same shade of deep red.
>And their cutie marks—whatever they were before—have all been branded over with the scorching red symbol of the Devil's Fork.
>Beyond that, they're similar in some ways, yet noticeably different in others.
>The mare on the right was helping pull the wagon just moments ago. She has a dark-brown coat and a blood-red mane, styled short, and she wears a brown waistcoat that covers the upper half of her body.
>The mare in the middle was the other wagon-puller. She has a dark-grey coat and a deep-blue mane, styled into a bun, and she wears a black suit vest that only covers up the upper half of her body.
>This middle mare is also standing slightly ahead of her compatriots, so you assume that she's the leader of this little liaison.
>The mare on the left was simply walking alongside the wagon as it moved. She has a light-grey coat and a pale-pink mane.
>As for her outfit…well, it sure is something.
>She's wearing the pony equivalent of a nun's habit—though you note that it's definitely a sexier take on those consecrated clothes. While this habit does indeed cover up most of her body, it leaves her ample thighs completely exposed, giving lecherous eyes the chance to freely gaze upon the fishnet stockings she has underneath.
>Around her neck and over her black nun's tunic, she wears a rosary necklace that's lined with red beads. A crimson crucifix-like object hangs from the very bottom of this necklace, but instead of being shaped like the holy cross—it's been twisted into the tined form of the Devil's Fork.
>Her black nun's veil comes with a white cloth coif to both frame her face and cover the top of her head, only allowing the fringe of her pale-pink mane to peek through.
>To top it all off, she's also wearing a black blindfold that covers up her eyes, leaving her totally sightless to the world around her.
>It's enough to make the uninformed wonder how she even made it here in the first place.
>However, you happen to be "in the know," as it were, so you have a pretty good idea why this mare is so comfortable moving around without a clear visual.
>The answer lies in the similarities that these three mares share.
>They all possess wings, yes, but these wings are leathery and bat-like, lacking any feathers.
>And while their faintly glowing irises are all indeed the same shade of deep red—that's not the only eye-catching trait about their peepers, for their pupils are also contracted into vertical slits, further differentiating them from the average equine.
>In case it wasn't obvious enough already—these three mares aren't your everyday ponies.
>They're bat ponies.

>One more trait all bat ponies share in common is their distinctive ears.
>Compared to normal ponies, bat pony ears are larger, fluffier, and pointier, giving them an extremely keen sense of hearing.
>And while you're not about to get into the nitty gritty of how their half-bat biology operates—these nocturnal equines are effectively able to perceive the world around them from sound alone.
>This is why that blindfolded bat is not hindered even in the slightest by the blocking of her sight.
>It must also why she's "looking" at you right now.
"…Ah."
>You must have been staring at her for too long.
>She doesn't seem displeased by your attention, though.
>In fact, you believe you can see her otherwise-neutral expression curl up into a soft, slightly sultry smile.
>She's wearing bright-red lipstick.
>Very nice.
>"Ahem."
>The bat mare in the middle—the dark-grey leader—clears her throat.
>You don't think it's because you were getting lost in the other bat's cloth-covered eyes.
>It's probably because she's about to speak up.
>You *are* here to exchange your stuff for theirs, after all.
>"We are here on behalf of our Crimson Mother to trade goods with our orcish allies."
>Stepping forward a little more, the dark-grey bat mare points a hoof towards your wagon and continues:
>"Present your—"
>Luster suddenly groans out loud, rudely interrupting the bat mare and causing her ears to fall flat.

>Sensing your wife's vexation, you lean forward, give the side of her neck a gentle stroke with your right hand, and calmly address her:
"Something up?"
>She lets out a heavy sigh, then answers you:
>"I can't believe this."
>Lifting up her left foreleg, she frustratedly gesticulates with it.
>"She makes us walk *all* the way here, made us wait *all* this time for her cronies to arrive, and guess what?"
>She slams her hoof down into the dirt, causing pigs and bats alike to jump in surprise as the earth itself lightly quakes at the impact.
>"She doesn't even bother showing up!"
>The dark-grey bat mare flinches at this indirect admonishment, taking a couple of steps back.
>Meanwhile, Luster sarcastically clicks her tongue and finishes:
>"What a joke."
>You take the time to continue caressing her neck, cooing to her as you do:
"There, there…"
>She huffs, but is nonetheless glad for your tender touch, leaning her neck into your stroking hand.
>As for the dark-grey bat mare, she nervously turns her head from left to right, looking to her companions for support.
>The nun-cosplaying bat mare on the left looks just as anxious, with her sultry smile from earlier having been supplanted by an unsure frown.
>The waistcoat-wearing bat mare on the right, however, has opted to tackle the awkwardness of this situation in a decidedly different manner.
>She sits down on her haunches, her expression just as apprehensive as her peers, while her forelegs lift themselves up off the ground and move towards her head.
>Her hooves soon grip her chin at both sides, while her lips lightly part and her eyes slightly widen.
>The sickening crack of snapped bone whips through the air as this mare suddenly twists her own neck at a one-eighty-degree angle—severing her spinal cord instantly.
>She then crumples to the ground, lifeless.
>Everyone else within the clearing looks to this fallen bat mare with either silent awe or awkward stupefaction.
>Well, everyone except for Luster—she's far more interested in the loving touch of your right hand than the cadaver of a chiropteran.
>A few more seconds pass, and that bat mare's body begins to twitch erratically.
>These spasms start off small, but soon snowball into shudders and shakes—before culminating in a full-body contraction.
>Her eyes then regain focus, sharpening her red irises to a crimson sheen.
>She casually picks herself up off of the ground, snaps her neck back into place, and looks up at Luster Dawn.
>This dark-brown bat mare's sanguine expression quickly curls up into a sly smirk, and she holds a hoof against her chest as she confidently projects her own voice:
>"Golly! Sounds like *somepony* woke up on the wrong side of the bed today!"

>The bat mare's scratchy voice isn't one you recognise, yet the sugary sweet inflexion hiding within every word is one well familiar to you.
>In any case, it is deathly clear that the mind of this mare isn't her own right now.
>"Really?" Luster speaks up. "You're just gonna hide behind the body of one of your minions?"
>She shakes her head, unimpressed.
>"Some 'Crimson Mother' you are."
>Undaunted by your wife's scathing statement, the dark-brown bat mare hovers up into the air, making herself eye level with Luster.
>"Oh?" the bat mare responds.
>She flutters closer to Luster's face, smirk unbending.
>"Would you rather I use *your* body, instead?"
>She then presses her forehead right up against Luster's, staring into the alicorn's soul, while her cheery tone drops to a low chill:
>"I can do it, you know."
>The bat mare rests both her forehooves against the side of Luster's face, and uses her left hoof to stroke down her right cheek.
>"After all, you would do well to remember that my blood runs within you, too."
>Luster merely scoffs at the bat mare's thinly veiled threat.
>"You can try."
>Luster suddenly thrusts her head forward, sending the bat mare flying back about half a metre before she swiftly recovers her bearings.
>She then regards the bat mare with a smirk of her own, while her husky voice drips with self-assured barbs.
>"Don't count on your mind making it out of there in one piece, though."
>The bat mare briefly sucks in part of her lip as she stares the alicorn down for about a second.
>She then affectedly blinks, and turns her crimson gaze over your wife's right shoulder—towards you.
>"Hm…"
>Flapping her leathery wings, the bat mare gives Luster a wide berth as she circles around her body and over to your right side.
>"Oh, look who we have here…"
>Hovering at around eye level with you, she slowly trails her gaze down along your leg and towards the distant ground.
>"Such a tall, tall seat you have."
>She jerks her head upwards, looking you dead in the eye.
>"Careful you don't fall and crack your skull."
>Sitting up, you match her needling words with a nonchalant smile.
"I think I'll manage."
>She whimsically tilts her head to the side.
>"Are you suuure?"
>She flutters in front of you and rests both forehooves on your shoulders.
>Then, lifting up her right foreleg, she softly pets at the left side of your forehead.
>"You only get one skull, you know."
>She steadily trails her hoof down the scar that runs over your left eye, taking great care not to poke your peeper out in the process; all the while, she gazes at said scar tissue with a thoughtful fondness.
>"And it'd be a *real* shame if you accidentally smashed it open, simply because you…"
>Once her hoof reaches the corner of your lip, she pulls her foreleg back, and her eyes drift back to yours.
>"…chose poorly."

>Your sole response to her airy obliquity is to lightly furrow your brows.
>This reaction doesn't deter her in the slightest, though—in fact, it only seems to spur a sly smile onto her features—and so she continues:
>"Perhaps you'd be better off riding a steed who's more…"
>Her gaze quickly flits down your body, then back to your face, bringing with it a partial lidding of her crimson eyes and a quiet bite of her bottom lip.
>"…suited to your size?"
>She lets her words hang in the air for about a second.
>Then, she fully closes her eyes, and subtly puckers her lips.
>She draws her face closer to yours, intent on sealing the deal.
>But just before your lips can meet—
>"Think my Master chose just fine, thanks."
>The bat mare's nose briefly wrinkles at the outspoken words of your wife.
>"Better he stick with a reliable steed that's big and powerful," Luster continues, "than risk his good luck with some scrawny shrimp of a mare."
>The bat mare opens her eyes—and promptly rolls them.
>She then detaches from your body and, flapping her wings with practised grace, performs a slow-motion backflip through the air and over the long length of Luster's neck, expertly arching her back above the alicorn's pointed horn tip along the way.
>Now hovering right in front of Luster's face, the bat mare crosses her forelegs and speaks with a terse tone:
>"I'm not scrawny."
>Luster sarcastically snerks.
>"Maybe not, but you're definitely a shrimp."
>She forcefully nudges her own head forwards, prompting the bat mare to flutter back a short distance.
>"Which is arguably even worse."
>Luster's coarse vocabulary causes the bat mare's face to twist into a fanged sneer for a brief moment—but she quickly recovers her composure.
>The bat mare then uncrosses her forelegs, turns around, and begins to hover away—
>Only to suddenly turn back around, flit forward, and unleash a strident screech right in Luster's face.
>Everyone else in the clearing hastily covers their ears at this harshly shrill sound, you included.
>Everyone, that is—except Luster Dawn.
>Your wife aloofly stares down her winged aggressor, who is currently baring all of her razor-sharp bat fangs for the world to see—and for Luster to fear.
>Luster, however, is the complete opposite of fear right now.
>"Nope," she states casually. "You're gonna have to try harder than that."

>The bat mare pulls up and away from Luster's face with a tensed, toothy, and utterly embittered expression—clearly considering the idea of "trying harder."
>But rather than follow through on that incursive impulse, she chooses to cast her scornful eyes around the forest clearing—"reading the room," as it were.
>She looks at Bort and Bert, who stand around awkwardly and avoid eye contact with her.
>She looks at her fellow bat mares, who also stand around awkwardly and avoid eye contact with her.
>Finally, she looks over to you, who is currently looking back at her with a somewhat-pitying smile.
>Your expression appears to be the nail in the coffin for her antagonistic outburst—and so she opts to save face instead.
>She purses her lips, concealing her chompers, and emphatically turns around while huffing out a loud:
>"Hmph."
>She makes her way down to the central tree stump and lands on it—which is an action that prompts the dark-grey bat mare to hurriedly step out from the middle and stand over by the right.
>The dark-brown bat mare then turns around and addresses your group with an appropriate amount of pomp:
>"Let us dispense with the pleasantries."
>Lifting up her right foreleg and turning up her nose, she hoofily gestures towards your wagon.
>"Present your offerings, pigs."
>Luster lightly rolls her eyes at that.
>"'Offerings,' sure…" she mumbles to herself.
>Then, turning her head to face her orcs, Luster gestures to them by briefly tilting her head towards your wagon.
>"Go on, boys. Give the good mare what she wants."
>Bert and Bort both nod to their mother, then proceed to walk around your wagon—with Bert walking along its left side, and Bort walking along its right.
>Both orcs soon disappear behind your wagon, and you hear the wooden creaking noise of its tailboard opening, followed by a few authoritative oinks—then a continuous cacophony of tiny hooves hitting the dirt.
>After that, Bert emerges from behind your wagon, and he walks back along its right side, returning the way that his brother came.
>This time, however, an unbroken line of diminutive ponies now gingerly trail behind him.
>They all wear leather tacks, metal muzzle gags, wrought iron collars, and steel harnesses—with each harness being connected in sequence by a long line of sturdy rope.
>Some are male, while others are female; some have bound wings or a capped horn, while others have neither.
>There is one physical characteristic that every one of these equines share in common, though—and that's their age.
>These are all pony children—sinless foals that have been taken as spoils of war from your latest raid.

>There are eight of these foals in total, and their downcast expressions all depict some despondent mix of fear, despair, and depression.
>Meanwhile, the impatient expression of the dark-brown bat mare lights up considerably once she witnesses her "offerings" walking towards her.
>"Golly…" she breathily utters.
>Bert walks past the tree stump, shepherding the line of foals behind him, while the dark-grey bat mare helps direct him to the other side of the opposite wagon.
>Looking over to the back of this line, you can see that Bort is serving as the rearguard for this linear procession of trafficked children, ensuring they all move forward in orderly fashion.
>The dark-brown bat mare, still standing atop the tree stump, watches the fettered foals walk by with a highly pleased expression upon her face.
>"Oh, there's no need to be afraid, young ones…"
>Leaning forward off the edge of the tree stump, she uses her right forehoof to gently brush over one of the foal's heads as they pass her by.
>"Mama will take good care of you~"

>As these foals are slowly guided into the back of the black-tarped wagon by your orcs and the dark-grey bat mare, Luster takes the opportunity to speak up:
>"You know, they'd have probably been a whole lot less 'afraid' if you didn't randomly screech right next to our wagon."
>Lifting her right foreleg, Luster tentatively taps her right ear with her hoof, briefly checking the state of her own hearing.
>Upon lowering her leg, she continues:
>"'Cause those kids were plenty calm when I last checked on 'em."
>The dark-brown bat mare, who is currently facing towards her own wagon, lets out a light huff at your wife's words.
>"'Plenty calm,' you say…"
>She turns around and looks up at Luster with a doubtful expression.
>"Yes, and I'm sure they were all 'plenty calm' when you razed their village and clasped them in chains."
>Luster shrugs her shoulders.
>"Hey, I'm not the one who needs to molest little fillies to get my freak on."
>The bat mare briefly recoils at Luster's curt accusation, but swiftly recovers her composure with a dismissive sigh.
>"Oh, Luster. How many times must I tell you?"
>Lifting her right forehoof, she points at Luster.
>"Unlike you, my goals extend far above any base impulse to 'get my freak on.'"
>She then proudly gestures towards herself.
>"I plan for the future."
>Lowering her hoof and turning her gaze over to her wagon, she fully unfurls her left wing and uses it to gesture towards said black-canvassed cart.
>"And what better way to plan for the future than mould the youth of today?"
>Her left wing curls inwards, while her smug grin curls upwards.
>"They're so much more *malleable* at that age, you see. That's what makes them so highly prized for *my* Equestria."
>And once her smugness reaches its natural apex, so too does she gently rest the leathery tip of her left wing against her bottom lip.
>"After all, why manipulate—" Her eyes flit back to Luster. "—when you can simply indoctrinate~?"
>Luster blinks a slow blink as she gradually takes in the bat mare's self-centred speech.
>She then turns her head to look back at you, wearing a wry half-smile upon her face.
>"Notice how she didn't deny she molests 'em."
>You chuckle at your wife's crass remark—while the bat mare rolls her eyes and groans out an exasperated:
>"Ugh."

>Soon enough, the foals are all stowed away into the bat's wagon.
>Bert and Bort emerge from behind this wagon's rear.
>They now carry large wooden chests which are held against their torso, and they make their way back to your own wagon.
>Once they transport these chests over to the back of your wagon, they return to the bat's wagon and pick up more chests, repeating the process.
>The chests are ornately carved, and contain numerous goods, such as magic crystals, blessed talismans, otherworldly artefacts, bewitched garments, various ritual materials… The list goes on.
>As your orcs are unable to cast any kind of magic by themselves, having a reliable third party ready to provide you with a steady supply of magical items is a tremendous boon—even if said items can have…interesting side effects at times.
>The only thing these bat ponies ask in exchange is that you furnish them with commodities of equivalent value.
>And as the first and foremost exporter of raiding villages and taking prisoners, your analogous offerings usually include freshly captured slaves—and mainly children, at that.
>There also exists another, more practical reason why Orckind and Batkind maintain healthy trade relations with each other—and that's to foster a strong bond of mutual trust between your group and theirs.
>You see, the thing about leading a pugnacious race of marauding pigmen is that you tend to make mortal enemies out of everyone you attack.
>That's why it's important to have at least some allies out there who are willing to support your tomfoolery.
>Bat ponies happen to be a secular and secretive tribe, being more than content to establish their dwellings deep within foreboding caves and monster-infested forests—environments that are far too hostile and dangerous for your orcs to try their luck in.
>And that makes bat ponies the perfect partners-in-crime for your pigmen—provided they stay friendly with one another, of course.
>In truth, you and Luster don't actually need to be here to trade these goods, but your stalwart presence helps officiate the whole affair.
>The same goes for your crimson-eyed bat mare.

>…
>All bat-brought commodities are eventually loaded onto your wagon with no fuss from either party.
>During the interim, the dark-brown bat mare has taken to occupying herself while waiting for her merchandise to change hands.
>And by that, you mean she's now sat right in front of you, resting her rump on your saddle's pommel.
>Her body faces yours, her forelegs hang over your shoulders, her eyes are closed—and her snout softly presses against your nose as she quietly shares breath with you.
>She smells a bit like sweet decay.
>"Hey," Luster suddenly speaks up, "wagon's fully loaded, so you can get your stinky snout off my Boar now."
>The bat mare gradually opens her eyes.
>"Hm…?"
>Her gaze flits to the wagon standing by your left, and she languidly blinks a few times.
>"Oh."
>Reluctantly letting go of your body, she turns around and flutters back to the tree stump, landing atop it with a refined step.
>There, the bat mare pivots to face Luster and affectedly clears her throat.
>"Well," she begins, "while you could certainly still use an attitude adjustment…"
>She pauses, taking the time to twirl her right forehoof in the air.
>"…in *many* places…"
>Letting her lifted hoof fall to the floor, she casts Luster a begrudging nod.
>"…you and your pigs did well today. Good work."
>Luster takes a couple of seconds to fully absorb her compatriot's commendation.
>She then lets out a dramatic gasp.
>"Golly!" she speaks with an exaggerated tone. "High praise from the Crimson Mother herself? Gee whiz—what a world!"
>The bat mare looks less than impressed at this clear mockery.
>Turning her head to the side, she rests a forehoof against her temple and breathes out a heavy sigh.
>"Why do I even bother…"
>Bert, who has now repositioned himself by the left side of your wagon, takes the opportunity to step forward.
>Once he approaches the lower-left edge of the tree stump, he speaks up:
>"Um. If I—*oink*—if I may…"
>His gravelly yet slightly nervous voice catches the bat mare's attention, causing her to cast her crimson gaze his way.
>Bert kneels before the tree stump and sets his gaze to the ground as he resumes his speech:
>"…we are eternally grateful for your continued benediction and divine grace, O Mother."
>The bat mare's ears perk up at that, while her lips lightly part.
>"Well golly…"
>With a quaintly growing smile on her face, the bat mare walks over to the edge of the tree stump and gently rests her right forehoof atop Bert's head.
>"At least your *children* know proper manners, hm-hm-hm~"
>Cheerfully tittering, she gives Bert a few affectionate headpats, causing the orc himself to be at a complete loss of words as he blushes bashfully.
>Luster rolls her eyes at this scene, but doesn't say anything.

>After retrieving her petting hoof from the head of her devoted follower, the bat mare turns around and strides across the tree stump, making her way towards its centre.
>"Now then…"
>She showily stops in place once she reaches her destination, facing the upper-right edge of the tree stump while keeping her eyes closed.
>"This concludes our business transaction for the evening."
>"So we're done, yeah?" Luster responds. "We can go now?"
>Opening her eyes, the bat mare turns her head to look at Luster.
>"Not quite. We have one more item on the agenda before we can put an end to this meeting."
>Luster deflates at that, letting out a tired sigh.
>The bat mare turns her body to face Luster, and she addresses the alicorn with a smile:
>"Oh, don't look so glum. This one is a gift—a gift from us to you."
>Unfurling her left wing, the bat mare uses her wingtip to thoughtfully stroke her chin.
>"Your little settlement in this forest was only recently established, yes?"
>Without waiting on an answer, she fully extends her left wing to the side and continues:
>"If so, then you'll be needing one of ours to help spread the good word~"
>She looks over her left shoulder and nods towards the bat mare who stands left of the black wagon.
>Said bat mare nods back, and proceeds to walk around the left side of the tree stump, making her presence known to you and your orcs.
>It's that light-grey bat mare from earlier—the one dressed as a sexy nun and wearing a black blindfold.
>Considering she hasn't done anything at all throughout this entire exchange beyond look very pretty, it only makes sense that she was brought here for some other purpose.

>The light-grey bat mare takes a polite bow before your group.
>"Greetings," she begins. "I am a Holy Sister of the Crimson Faith, assigned to your settlement by the Crimson Mother herself."
>She lifts her head and takes a step forward, wearing a smile that is as soft as silk.
>"I look forward to serving under our blessed brothers as we blissfully propagate our creed together."
>Yet as she continues her fervent sermon, her smile steadily shifts from its innocent state.
>"Pray with me. Spit on me."
>It becomes sultrier, tinged with subtle sin.
>"Worship me. Debase me."
>It turns tainted, twisted with honest desire.
>"Breed me. Beat me."
>It grows more masochistic, openly hungering for piggish passion.
>"Make me your personal plaything—and punish my body however you please."
>After taking a deep breath in and out through her nostrils, she daintily rests a forehoof against her crucifix.
>"In turn, I shall happily devote every ounce of my divine being to venerating yours, and I shall dutifully ensure that every single one of your needs are taken care of at all times."
>She slowly casts her cloth-covered gaze across your group, moving from Bert, to Bort, to you.
>"For that is my true and rightful place in this world—"
>She lewdly licks her bright-red lips.
>"—as a loyal servant and walking outlet for my orc masters~"
>Bort, who is currently standing in front of your wagon, immediately jerks his head your way after hearing that bat mare's spirited spiel.
>His jaw is fully agape.
>Now, you've still got a ways to go when it comes to reading a pigman's facial expression—especially when he's wearing a goat mask over the upper half of his face—but you're pretty sure he's giving you the pig equivalent of a "Pogchamp" right now.
>You might even call it a Pigchamp.
>…
>Okay, you deserve to be sent to Tartarus for that one.

>Rather then dwell on your ignominious thoughts a second longer, you address the nun bat with a Boarish authority:
"Welcome aboard."
>She gives you a graceful curtsy—while Bort silently fist pumps.
>Bert guides the bat mare over to the back of your wagon, moving along its left side.
>You hear the creaking sound of the bat mare clambering up onto the wooden wagon bed—which is then followed by the loud *SMACK* of a firm orcish hand spanking an ample pony rump.
>The bat mare responds with a playful giggle, before making herself comfortable in your wagon.
>Bert soon emerges around your wagon's left side; he stands with his hands on his hips, looking rather pleased with himself.
>"Right," Luster promptly speaks up. "So *now* we're done, yeah?"
>The dark-brown bat mare, still standing on the tree stump, brings a forehoof up to her chest in mock shock over your wife's words.
>"Golly! Are you really *that* eager to get rid of me?"
>Her ears fall flat, and her lips pucker into a quivering pout.
>"And here I thought we were supposed to be Sisters…"
>Luster, wholly unperturbed by the bat mare's bathetic display, responds with a frank tone of voice:
>"Aye, we're Sisters alright."
>She takes a couple of steps forward—
>"And Sisters know better than to cut too deep into each other's husband time."
>—and slams her right forehoof down on the tree stump, making the bat mare slightly stumble.
>Luster then lowers her neck and leans in, menacingly pressing her face right up against the bat mare's.
>"Else they start getting *real* cranky."
>Face to face with a imposingly large warhorse of an alicorn, the bat mare can't help but tremble a little, knees quickly going wobbly weak.
>Her parted lips subtly quaver, while her shivering pupils are unable to tear themselves away from those intimidating amber pools.
>"I-I…" she stammers out.
>The bat mare rapidly blinks, shuts her eyes, and backs away from the alicorn's extremely close visage.
>She then pivots to the side, clears her throat, and turns up her snout while still keeping her eyes closed.
>"Fine, fine. I get the picture."
>After taking a brief breath to recompose herself, she partly opens her eyes and gives Luster the side-eye.
>"Yes, we're done."
>Lifting up her right forehoof, she makes a shooing motion towards said alicorn.
>"You can all go home now."

>Luster's response is a curt:
>"Good."
>She then takes her hoof down from the stump and lifts up her neck.
>"C'mon, Master," she addresses you. "Let's get going."
"Mhm."
>Luster turns her body to face your wagon, ready to leave.
>Meanwhile, the bat mare hops off of the left side of the stump and lands on the ground.
>She then addresses you with a sweet smile:
>"Pleasure doing business with you!"
>Using her right forehoof, she blows a playful kiss your way.
>"Here's to many more fruitful transactions in the future~"
>You give the bat mare an agreeable nod, while Luster rolls her eyes and responds with a half-hearted:
>"Sure, sure…"
>Letting her lifted forehoof hit the dirt, the bat mare stands perfectly still for a moment, her posture resetting to a neutral position.
>The crimson sheen steadily leaves her eyes, leaving only a listless red, while her cheerful expression falls completely slack.
>A second later—her body suddenly crumples to the ground, becoming just as limp and lifeless as before.
>Luster and your two orcs are busy turning your wagon around, so they have minimal attention to spare on an expired bat.
>However, once your group succeeds in facing your wagon towards the clearing's exit, you catch sight of the bat mare's body twitching.
>A few twitches later, and a faint glimmer of vitality returns to her red eyes.
>Slowly regaining her strength, she struggles to push herself up off the ground—thankfully, her cohort, the dark-grey bat mare from earlier, walks up to the fallen bat mare's side and helps her to her hooves.
>The two bat mares then turn around and make their way back to their own wagon.
>Along the way, the dark-brown bat mare idly paws at the side of her neck with a free forehoof—likely due to some lingering discomfort, you'd wager.
>This is the last you see of them, though, as your trusty steed soon carries you out of the clearing and heads back the way you came.
>With your deal pleasantly concluded and your wagon stocked with bat-based goodies, all that's left is to return to your village with your hard-earned loot.
>And so you descend into this twisting treescape once more.

***

>You are now back in your forest settlement, standing near that familiar eastern gate.
>Luckily, there were no complications to be found on your return trip, so all of your cargo is in pristine shape.
>Speaking of said cargo, you are currently on your feet, helping Bert and Bort offload the various items in their wagon.
>Unlike your wife, you have zero qualms about helping your orcs with menial tasks.
>You doubt you'll be carting around any wagons for them, though.
>Also, speaking of said wife, she is presently sat on her haunches several metres away from your position.
>She alternates between idly checking her forehoof and keeping an attentive eye on you.
>Maybe she just likes seeing you work.
>In any case, it's been an easy enough task lifting and carrying wooden chests from one place to the other.
>There's only one last load left to transport—and since you're the closest one to the wagon, this one's all yours.
>The cargo in question is…
>…
>Ah, right.
>Her.
>The blindfolded bat mare in a sexy nun outfit.
>She patiently stands at the near edge of the wagon bed, ready for pickup.
>If you wanted to, you could effortlessly hoist her over your shoulder or hold her against your chest.
>But…
>Walking over to the bat mare, you formally bow before her, holding out your right hand as you do.
>She softly titters at your display of chivalry, then carefully places her left forehoof in your outstretched hand.
>Stepping forward, she walks off the wagon bed's edge and hovers in the air, keeping her head level with your chest.
>Turning around, the two of you walk over to the crimson-canvassed yurt together, hand in hoof.
>…Come to think of it, she likely could've gotten off of that wagon by herself.
>She might be blindfolded, but she clearly has no trouble getting around.
>Then again, considering her impassioned spiel back at the forest clearing—she probably prefers being considered as mere "cargo."
>Or perhaps she simply wished for a big strapping humanoid to escort her over to her own personal orc gangbang tent.
>Either way, you decide to stop right at the halfway point between the wagon and the yurt.
>You then let go of the bat mare's hoof and address her:
"I think you can take it from here."
>Her bright-red lips lightly part at your gentle dismissal, opening as if wanting to say something.
>However, she relents, opting to instead turn around and slowly flutter her way over to the crimson yurt.
>Over by said yurt, you can see that its door is currently open; Bert stands by the door's right side, bell staff in hand—while Bort is kneeling deep inside the yurt's interior, facing the shrine at the far end and having his hands clasped in silent prayer.

>The bat mare stops partway to the yurt, causing you to arch an intrigued eyebrow.
>Still facing away from you, she thoughtfully clasps her forehooves around her crucifix, lifting it up and "looking" down at it.
>She takes a bracing breath—then swiftly pivots around and flits up to you.
>"I…" she begins.
>Briefly lowering her head, she grabs your right hand with both forehooves and holds it up to her chest.
>Her head rises to "look" at you, while her lips shimmer with a sanguine want.
>"…I would be honoured if the Boar King were to join us in joyous communion."
>You blink a few times, mildly startled by her fervent request.
"Oh…"
>Now it's your turn to have your lips lightly part.
"Um."
>Out from the corner of your vision, you can see Bert steadily making his way towards the two of you, holding out his free hand towards the bat nun.
>You can also hear hoofsteps coming from behind you.
>Being as flabbergasted as you are, you cannot find the words to answer her right now.
>Maybe in a few more seconds.
>The bat mare, however, happily takes your silence as a chance to further plead her passionate case:
>"To worship my God is the highest hope of a Holy Sister. And my holes are always open for—"
>An amber wisp suddenly and harshly flicks her on the snout, sending her flying backwards with a surprised screech.
>The bat mare safely lands against Bert's outstretched palm, but the force applied against her face has partially dislodged her black blindfold, fully revealing one of her faintly glowing red eyes.
>Totally speechless, she directs her wide-eyed gaze up to the imposingly large entity standing right behind you.
>"Too bad," a gruff yet feminine voice speaks up. "He's mine."
>You quickly feel a warm energy possessively envelop your whole body.
>It lifts you up—
"Wh-whoa."
>—and plops you straight onto the saddle of your disgruntled wife.
>She promptly turns around and states:
>"We're going."
>Obviously not taking no for an answer, Luster immediately stomps away from the eastern gate, leaving your orcs and the bat nun to their own devices.
>Once she makes it a good few metres away from that interspecies clergy, you take the opportunity to address your wife:
"And here I thought you wanted me to ravage the many creatures of Equestria."
>Her response is swift and snappy:
>"And I never realised you were into sloppy thirds—but hey, guess we both got things we take issue with."
>You find your mouth opening to respond, but you decide to opt against uttering any half-formed words.
>Your wife is clearly in a bad mood right now.
>Better let her walk it off.
>So instead, you let out an awkward chuckle, calmly slip your feet into her saddle's stirrups, and allow your steed to lead the way.

>…
>You and Luster are currently walking through your forest settlement together.
>And by that, you mean that she's the one doing the walking—you're just here along for the ride.
>Along the way, you pass by the central firepit where you and your raiding party kicked off the afternoon's celebrations.
>It is now officially nighttime.
>Moonlight filters in through the forest canopy, illuminating your settlement with a pale pulchritude.
>Some of your orcs are still dancing and drinking by the fire, their party spirit as inextinguishable as the flames themselves.
>Of course, not every orc wishes to simply dance the night away.
>Some prefer to spend their time in a more intimate setting, enjoying the good company of their freshly conquered slaves.
>And in the case of Bert and Bort, you'd wager that the two of them are most likely furiously spitroasting their bat nun right about now.
>Hm. Yes. That nun.
>You're still thinking about her—and her soft red lips.
>However, you'd be surprised if she was still thinking about you.
>She might have avidly propositioned you back there—but the truth is, any fat cock will have suited her just fine.
>Bat ponies are a rather promiscuous subspecies of pastel equine; their primary directive is to spread their Crimson Faith, and their favoured way to accomplish this is to spread their legs for as many creatures as possible—whether they be male or female.
>Their doctrine is based on debauchery, and so rapturous orgies end up being a commonplace occurence in their everyday life.
>As for the bat mare who just joined your village, her solemn duty is to "reward" the faithful while earnestly pushing other orcs to convert to her hallowed cause.
>Even if you had bagged her, she'd no doubt yearn for her other holes to be filled—and likely go off on her own to propagate her gaping profligacy.
>It's only a matter of time before she forgets about you entirely amidst that endless sea of orc dick she'll be riding.
>That's perfectly fine with you, though; you were never hoping to make that holy mare your homely wife or anything of the sort.
>Plus, there *does* exist a bat mare out there whose holes are truly for you and you alone.
>And even better—this particular bat happens to be the grandest one of them all.

>Since your wife still isn't speaking to you, this'll be a good time as any to dive deeper into what exactly these bat ponies are—as well as the Crimson Faith they all champion.
>You see, before you decided that you were going to conquer Equestria, there lived many small and independent communes of bat ponies all throughout the land.
>These bat ponies were just as secular as they are now, but they were far more varied in their appearances, dispositions, and beliefs.
>There were a fair few bat pony colonies who openly praised the Moon's Grace, but there were also plenty of bat ponies who were happy enough staying agnostic.
>This all changed with the sudden emergence of the Devil's Fork—and the red-eyed bat ponies who zealously worshipped it.
>While nocreature was able to tell where these particular bats came from, these fanatical chiropterans quickly infested the other bat pony communities with their intense fervour, aggressively converting them all to their Chaotic creed.
>And soon enough, every bat pony tribe was completely subsumed into the Crimson Faith, expanding the reach of its influence greatly.
>Nowadays, the Crimson Faith isn't quite so explosive in its expansionist ideology, instead choosing to lurk in the shadows so that it may seduce the susceptible and suggestible over to its side.
>The Devil's Fork is the holy symbol of the Crimson Faith, representing unbridled dissolution and total anarchy.
>In other words—it represents Chaos.
>And indeed, while *nocreature* could ever hope to pinpoint the exact origin of these winged zealots, you certainly can.
>As you recall, the first red-eyed bat ponies were born directly of Chaos's grace—from the Crimson Mother herself.
>This means that these sanguine deviants possess a natural aptitude towards Chaos magic, allowing them to live unfettered within its influence, while additionally granting them the ability to manipulate it to an extent.
>Being the venerable matriarch of these Chaos-born bats, the Crimson Mother is the undisputed ruler and Mother Superior of the Crimson Faith.
>Taking the aforementioned annexation into account—that makes her the absolute leader of all Batkind.
>And much like Luster Dawn, she is also your beloved and loyal wife.
>Also like Luster Dawn, the Crimson Mother boasts no small array of her own impressive-sounding titles, rivalling her fellow ruler in both majesty and malignity.
>Yet out of all these titles, there exists one that this birther of bats is especially fond of, viewing it as an appellation that describes precisely who she is and what she represents to Equestria:
>The Queen of Chaos.

>Orcs and bat ponies share a mutually beneficial relationship, one forged through common trade and strengthened by continual trust.
>Your orcs primarily settle on the outskirts of hostile lands—such as this forest; this helps them stay well out of the public eye and enjoy the fruits of their rapacious pillaging in relative peace.
>Bat ponies, on the other hand, thrive in the very hearts of such hostility, having mastered the art of surviving amidst the fiercest horrors this world has ever known.
>Because of their lived experience in prospering through perilous locations, bat ponies happen to be peerless lookouts.
>Orcs might be nigh-unstoppable masses of magic-resistant muscle, but even they have their limits—chief among them being their need to sleep.
>However, while orcs are a naturally diurnal race—living in the sun and napping under the moon—bat ponies are a wholly nocturnal tribe, having a completely flipped circadian rhythm.
>This is where the pig-bat alliance comes into play, as it means that bat ponies can dutifully keep watch over their orc allies whenever these pigmen need to catch some z's.
>These watchful bats don't stand guard inside the settlement itself, but rather from a respectable distance.
>From your mounted vantage point, you cast a sweeping glance over your settlement.
>Over in the far north-east, past the village border, you spy something sitting atop the tallest branch of a towering tree.
>You cannot make out its shape from this range—but you *can* make out the faint red glow of its eyes as it idly scans your settlement.
>And over in the far south-east of your settlement, you spy a similar red-eyed creature sitting atop similar elevation doing the exact same thing.
>You know you have nothing to fear from these creatures—after all, they're your sentries for tonight.
>If they spot any potential threats heading towards your village, they've been known to release an extremely loud screech as a way to warn its inhabitants; this shrill sound is absolutely guaranteed to wake everypig up—and most likely scare any interlopers away while they're at it.
>And as long as your orcs maintain friendly relations with their bat neighbours, then these leather-winged equines are more than happy to play nocturnal defence for their pork-bellied brothers.

>One last thing you may as well go over is the relationship between the Crimson Faith and those of your orcs who openly worship it.
>As mentioned earlier, the bat pony sentries stationed beyond the border graciously watch over all your orcs, not just the faithful.
>In fact, venerating the Devil's Fork was never a prerequisite for Orckind and Batkind to get along—it's basically a convenient side hustle for the clergy in question.
>Still, the fact that there are those among your pigmen who follow the same creed as these chiropteran clerics makes it far easier for the two tribes to find common ground.
>As such, it is orcs like Bert and Bort who are first to be considered as official representatives for any important meetings between the bats and the pigs.
>While most orcs are positively neutral or slightly appreciative towards their bat pony allies, Bert and Bort fully respect and revere the Crimson Faith—as well as the unbridled Chaos that constitutes it; this is why they live in a crimson-canvassed yurt, and this is why they've adopted a Chaotically orthodox lifestyle.
>Way back when you were getting ready to set off through the eastern gate, you described Bert's crimson robes as giving him a "crazed cultist vibe."
>Truth is, you weren't far off from how the rest of Orckind views these pious pigmen.
>Bert, Bort, and other orcs like them, are cordially considered by the rest of their brethren to be "Crimson Cultists" or "Chaos Cultists"—whichever term hits the tongue first.
>In true Chaotic fashion, your Cultists care very little as to what they're actually called; all that matters to them is that they hold steadfast to their own beliefs and properly venerate the Crimson Mother in everything they do.
>And much like you've mentioned before: they might be an eccentric bunch—but they're your trusty orcs just the same.
>Incidentally, these Chaos Cultists aren't the only oddballs present amongst your pig people.
>Your mounted journey atop Luster's saddled back takes you past another uniquely coloured yurt.
>This one wears a canvas that's dyed royal blue.
>Yes…you suppose you'll have to get to that group later.
>For now, though, you'll quietly enjoy the rest of this ride along with your stomping steed.
>She might be mad at you, but that doesn't change the fact she's still your lovable wife.

>…
>"Hey, um…Master."
>Luster slowly walks up the dirt path leading to the highest point in this settlement—where your yurt awaits.
"Mm?"
>She responds without looking back, but you can tell from her reserved tone of voice that she must be wearing a guilty expression:
>"Sorry if I'm being…difficult."
>She makes it to the top of the hill, and continues:
>"It's just…you know how I feel about those bats."
>She lets out a light huff.
>"Always sticking their snouts in our business and…yeah."
>Leaning forward, you reassuringly caress the side of her neck with your right hand.
"I know. And I'm not upset with you."
>Stopping in place and turning her head, she looks back at you with a somewhat shameful frown.
>You use this opportunity to slip your right hand under her chin and give her some affectionate scritches, making her head tilt into your touch.
"'Cause you're my big dumb horse wife, and I'm used to your big dumb mood swings."
>Her eyes briefly widen at your words—but then she lets out a jovially snorty chuckle.
>"Aw, come on, Master," she speaks with a sportive tone and a puckish smile. "I'm not dumb. I was top of the class back in my old school, remember?"
>You nod.
"Indeed. You *were* top of the class."
>You pull your hand away and lean back, maintaining eye contact with your mare.
"But then you decided to throw it all away and betray your homeland for some hot monkey dick."
>You shoot her a playful smirk.
"That sounds pretty dumb to me."
>She snerks, then shoots you a toothy grin right back.
>"Hey, ponies do stupid things when we're in love~"
>Lightening your expression, you cross your arms and let out a mildly reserved sigh.
"Don't I know it…"
>She giggles at your muttering, faces forward, and walks over to your yurt's door with pep in her step.
>"But alright, fine," she begins. "I'm your big dumb pig of a wife…"
>Making her way over to the left of said door, she faces the right and lights up her horn.
>"…who gets stupidly jealous when other ponies flirt with you…"
>She magically lifts you up off your saddle and carefully levitates you over above her head—sneaking in a gentle grope of your groin along the way.
>"…and is hopelessly addicted to your fat human cock."
>She safely lowers you onto the ground in front of her body, and she bears down upon you with an even wider grin.
>"That sound 'bout right~?"
>Looking up at your wife's cheerful face, you flash her a compassionate smile.
"Well, you went a bit further with that than I did."
>You hold out your hands to make a familiar cupping motion, and Luster soon lowers her head, nestling her chin within your two palms.
"But yes," you continue. "You're right."
>You lean forward and plant a peck upon the bridge of her snout.
"And I cherish every piece of you, foibles and all."
>She gives you another one of her heartfelt giggles for that display of earnest affection.

>Luster might be perfectly okay with you ploughing your numerous captured slaves—but that's only because she holds absolute power over them.
>When it comes to those that exist outside of her immediate dominion, she can be quite the territorial mare.
>Still, you get what you signed up for when it comes to her.
>Speaking of slaves, though, you know just the thing to help your wife unwind.
>…That is, assuming said "thing" has been left in one piece.
>Only one way to find out.
>Pulling your hands back, and letting Luster lift her head, you turn to face the yurt's door.
"C'mon." You rest your right hand on the door's handle. "Let's head inside."
>Turning your head to the left, you give your wife a knowing grin.
"The night's still young."
>She nods with a smile.
>"Yeah, let's."
>With that, you pull open the door, and the two of you head inside your yurt.

***

>"Nothing like a tied-up griffon to lighten the mood, eheh~"
>You chuckle.
"Agreed."
>You and Luster are standing over in the south-west section of your yurt.
>Since entering your home, you and your wife have taken the chance to shed off your heavier gear and set it aside; thus, you've hung up your robe and set aside your staff, while Luster has removed her saddle.
>And now, the two of you are looming over everyone's favourite griffon.
>Grimwell is currently lying spreadeagle on a rectangular wooden table that's fit to be just her size.
>You stand by the left side of this table, while your wife stands by its right.
>The table reaches up to your knees, and has been conjured up by Luster herself.
>All magically created objects all tend to dissipate eventually, but this particular table should last more than long enough for your needs.
>And hey—conjuring up temporary furniture like this saves tons of time that could've been spent lugging it around.

>Back to Grimwell, her body currently faces upwards, while her wrists, hindpaws, neck, and tail have all been tied to metal hinges with steel shackles, rendering her completely immobile.
>Her wings are still bound by rope, but her spreader bar from before has been removed to enable this new position.
>She now wears a red ballgag within her beak, replacing her ring gag from earlier.
>This spherical replacement was mainly your wife's idea.
>Being a total hog of a mare, Luster happens to be a big fan of the "Apple in Mouth" aesthetic, and that ballgag goes a long way towards achieving this.
>Plus, it keeps your slave's screams muffled and her moans stifled, which is quite the appetising bonus.
>Casting your eyes down from Grimwell's grey-feathered chest and along her dark-brown body, you catch sight of her six feline nipples—with her middle-right and lower-left ones still being burnt smoky black.
>Even lower down her body, you can see that she's wearing a pair of black panties over her crotch.
>These panties keep a bicoloured pair of human-dick-shaped vibrators wedged inside her pussy and asshole; the orange dildo is fully hilted within her anus, while the pink dildo is just-over-halfway buried in her snatch.
>Your wife admitted to you that she kept these titillating toys stuck inside the griffon's holes all throughout your bat-based errand—and not only that, but she also set their vibration to the maximum setting.
>Needless to say, your feathered slave was in quite the delirious state when you and Luster returned home.
>You've since lowered these vibrators to a more gentle buzz.
>The reason you haven't switched them off entirely is because you still wish to keep this griffon in a somewhat-disoriented frame of mind.
>This persistently passive pleasure has paid off beautifully—as despite her angry glares and teary stares, you can also see a hazy hopelessness in Grimwell's yellow eyes.
>A good chunk of her has already given up, and you doubt she's even fully cognisant of what's happening to her.
>Or what's about to.

>"So, Master…"
>Looking up and across the table, you can see your wife looking at you with an eager grin.
>"How 'bout we finally get our pet bird 'initiated?'"
>You nod with a smile.
"Sounds like a plan."
>"Heh heh, perfect~"
>Luster looks at Grimwell, bearing down upon the griffon with domineering disdain.
>"Hey, birdbrain, we're gonna let you in on a little secret."
>Leaning in, Luster teasingly pets Grimwell's forehead with her right forehoof.
>"Remember all those pig-headed invaders who torched your village and captured your friends?"
>Her grin widens, becoming toothier.
>"Every single one of them is part of my piglet brood~"
>Leaning back, lowering her right forehoof, and lifting up her left forehoof, she gestures towards herself.
>"They're all born of my blood…"
>She then points towards you, flashing you a proud smile at the same time.
>"…an' tempered with my Boar's~"
>Lowering her leg and looking back to Grimwell, Luster's expression takes a seemingly diffident turn.
>"But, well, the thing is…"
>She slightly tilts her head to the side.
>"Make no mistake, I'm a *very* fertile mare—but I just don't have the time to farrow each and every orc 'til they're all big and strong."
>A streak of confidence creeps back onto her face as she untilts her head.
>"'Cause I'm also a *very* busy Sow, y'know? I've got kingdoms to conquer and my husband to love—I can't be giving birth all the time."
>Lifting up her left foreleg once more, Luster rests her hoof on Grimwell's feathered chest.
>"Thankfully, that's where creatures like you come in."
>She then slowly trails said hoof down the griffon's body, passing straight through her dark-brown valley of pinkish ducts and blackened teats.
>"Y'see, there are certain kinds of rituals out there which can completely modify somepig's body."
>Luster halts her hoof's journey just above Grimwell's pelvis, hovering above the area where the griffon's ovaries are.
>"Including…totally overwriting your eggs with another's."
>Looking back up to Grimwell's face, Luster flashes the griffon a toothy grin fanged with malicious intent.
>"And I gotta say, it was really kind of you to volunteer your body for my growing war efforts~"
>Grimwell's yellow gaze worriedly flits between her captor's face and hoof a few times.
>Her eyes subtly widen.
>And she redoubles her efforts in struggling against her tight shackles—to no avail, of course.
>Luster snerks at the sight.
>"Aw, hey, there's no need to look so worried."
>She playfully pats the griffon's lower abdomen.
>"Think of it like lending your womb for a greater cause."
>She flashes the griffon even more of her fangs.
>"Only…the 'lending' part of it is permanent, eheh heh heh~"

>Luster thoughtfully casts her gaze back to Grimwell's lower abdominal region.
>"Now," she begins, "you're probably wondering if I do this to *all* the slaves we capture."
>Her eyes briefly flit to the griffon's, expression turning more serious.
>"Truth is: no."
>Luster gently kneads into Grimwell's pelvis with her steel-toed hoof, making the griffon shudder with all kinds of emotions.
>"As it happens, orc semen has a special property that modifies a creature's womb for me."
>Luster then strokes her hoof up and down Grimwell's pelvis, stimulating the griffon even further.
>"And that means I'm totally good to leave my boys alone with their hard-earned conquests—'cause they'll fill 'em up with my kids all the same."
>She retrieves her hoof and lets it fall to the floor.
>"But when it comes to our own personal collection…"
>She regards the griffon with a slyly growing smirk—as well as a slowly glowing horn.
>"…I'm more than happy to brand you myself~"
>Conjuring up a magical branding iron, Luster addresses her slave with breedy glee:
>"Now c'mon. Let's get those eggs of yours squealing~"
>The business end of this branding iron is shaped almost exactly like Luster's cutie mark—that semicircle of a sun peeking over a watery horizon.
>This iron is also red hot, being just as ready to leave its mark as the mare herself.
>And so, Luster steadily lowers her poker onto the griffon's pelvis.
>Your wife's expression is focused and serene; the tip of her tongue sticks out the side of her mouth as she concentrates on getting the job done.
>Grimwell, on the other hand, watches that sizzling iron descend upon her body with pure horror in her eyes; her breathing hastens tremendously, and she struggles harder than ever before in a vain attempt to escape her searing fate.
>Unfortunately for her, all four of her leggy limbs remain tightly bound against the table, severely limiting her evasive options—however, her midsection is moving a little too much for your liking, so you sternly press your left hand down upon it to stymie any further squirming.
>"Mhm…hm…hm~"
>Luster lightly hums to herself as she lowers her iron closer and closer to its abdominal destination, making sure to angle her tool just right to get that perfect mark.
>She hovers her poker right above that exposed pelvis, cauterising metal mere inches from coated flesh—
>Then thrusts her brand straight down into Grimwell's skin, scorching this griffon with the might of the sun.

>Eyes bulging wide open, Grimwell shrieks out a blood-curling scream; her sounds are suppressed by her ballgag, yet they nonetheless bear the purest of pains to any who listen.
>Luster is clearly undisturbed by any such noise, as she dutifully holds her iron in place for about five seconds to make sure the mark sticks.
>"Phew…"
>It is only then that your wife lifts her poker, finally freeing her victim from her torrefying torture.
>Partly furrowing her brows, Luster examines the imprint that she has just left on Grimwell's lower abdomen.
>And indeed, this griffon now bears the smoky black brand of a dawning sun just over where her womb is.
>"Oooh~" Luster coos with approval. "Looking good~"
>Pleased with her work, she lets her magical poker harmlessly dissipate into the air.
>Then, turning her gaze over to you, she addresses you with a friendly smile:
>"Wanna put on the finishing touch?"
>You nod.
"Of course."
>It is a very nice brand, but there's still something quite important missing from it—something that marks it as a true representation of your wife's destiny.
>Naturally, you are referring to the enigmatic question mark that should be residing within this dawning sun.
>As it stands now, this griffon is woefully bereft of such a virile riddle.
>And it's up to you to fix that.
>While still keeping Grimwell's body held down with your left hand, you lift up your right hand and begin channelling a particular kind of magic through it.
>This magic is fuelled by thoughts of dominion—of making this creature completely and utterly yours.
>Your right hand glows with a warm pink light once your intent is set, and you move it over to the griffon's fresh brand.
>Hovering your outstretched palm right above her unfinished womb tattoo, you take a deep breath to brace yourself—
>And then firmly press down upon her smoking sun.
>You feel Grimwell's flesh sizzle and shudder underneath your own, and you hear the griffon let out another stifled scream through her ballgag—though this is noticeably weaker than the last.
>Much like your wife, you give it about five seconds before calling your cautery a wrap.
>Once those precious seconds have passed, you raise up your hand and dismiss your branding notions.
>Then, you gaze upon your magical handiwork.
"Ah…"
>The sight before your eyes is one that fills you with Masterly satisfaction.
>Grimwell's brand is just about finished.
>The smoking sun has now been joined with a charred conundrum, making the mark whole.
>There's only one thing left to seal the deal—a coup de grace dealt by time itself.

>With both halves of the griffon's brand fully in place, the entire mark begins to emit magical light, turning from smoky black to a radiant amber.
>This intrusively hot reaction causes Grimwell to make some more noise through her ballgag.
>However, this time, she isn't screaming out in pain—but rather groaning in discomfort while also letting out some involuntary moans here and there.
>Her eyes are clenched shut, her beaked nostrils unsteadily huff in and out, and her whole body weakly writhes about of its own accord.
>Past her glowing pelvis, you catch sight of a curious scene unfolding by her clothed crotch.
>The pink dildo that was just over halfway buried inside her cooch slowly starts sliding more and more of itself into her walls.
>And soon enough, it completely sheathes itself within her slit, hilting that still-buzzing silicone shaft right up to the base.
"Hm."
>Her griffon body is reforming itself before your very eyes, becoming the ideal receptacle to incubate your swinish young.
>Her various holes are automatically adapting to your human girth, and will quickly come to reject catbird dick entirely.
>Her Equestrian womb is submitting to your otherworldly influence, turning race traitor to her homeland regardless of what her brain thinks on the matter.
>She has been irreversibly branded with the lustruous mark of hoggish fertility, sealing her fate as a broodmother for all Orckind—one squealing piglet at a time.
>You must admit, this particular transformation is always a fascinating procedure to witness.
>That being said, you aren't the only one enjoying this heated show.
>Luster smugly watches on as the glowing simulacrum of her own cutie mark subtly yet irrevocably modifies the internals of her feathered slave.
>And as Grimwell continues to wriggle and wiggle and mumble and moan under the feverish influence of her magical brand, Luster takes this opportunity to cheerfully address the griffon:
>"Heh, you feel that?"
>Lifting her left foreleg, she rests her hoof upon that scintillating sun and gazes at it with a proud fondness.
>"That *burning* in your womb?"
>She gives this sun a few slow strokes, deeply relishing the fertile warmth that emanates from it.
>"That's the feeling of your ovaries tossing all your bird brats into the trash where they belong—"
>Luster's eyes flit back to Grimwell's face, and her smile takes on a sadistic sheen.
>"—and getting ready to make some adorable little piglets~"
>Grimwell offers no response to her captor's callous taunts, for this griffon's overwhelmed mind is currently being ping-ponged between a needy heat and a buzzing fullness.

>Your wife isn't wrong, though; the primary purpose of this magical womb tattoo is to continually propagate both your genes and hers.
>To do that, it permanently overwrites the victim's ovaries with Luster's pigmare essence, ensuring any eggs they produce will carry her haploid genome rather than theirs.
>Additionally, owing to the question mark that dwells within its fertile core, this virulent brand contains your genetic blueprint as well—and whenever a sperm cell manages to penetrate one of these magically modified egg cells, the egg will forcibly "corrupt" the interloper's DNA, aggressively overwriting its haploid genome to become yours instead.
>Basically, no matter who impregnates this griffon from now on—she will always birth a child that has you as the biological father and Luster as the biological mother.
>And like your wife mentioned earlier, any female creature that your orcs cum inside also becomes ineluctably and indelibly branded in the exact same way.
>As one might expect, marking your conquests in this manner has proven to be an incredibly effective method of ensuring that your combined bloodline spreads far and wide throughout Equestria—while the magic involved in the process safely irons out any potential issues that may arise from there being only one true mother and father to orcs everywhere.
>All in all, you find it quite convenient.
>Luster, on the other hoof, appreciates this pervasive process through a notably more sadistic lens.
>You see, your wife happens to get a sick sense of satisfaction out of utterly dominating another female's genes with her own—and she  feels even greater ecstasy with the dark knowledge that she's bucked them out of the gene pool entirely.
>It's an especially cruel outlook, even for her, and you can't help but wonder if these bullish inclinations of hers might stem from certain past trauma.
>Truth be told, you and Luster Dawn didn't have the smoothest start to your relationship—in fact, you would even say that the beginnings were remarkably rocky.
>She did some mean things to you, and you did some mean things to her right back—maybe too mean.
>Of course, the two of you have since intimately patched things up and became a happily married couple, healing any wounds that came before.
>But still…perhaps there are some wounds out there that don't fully heal, becoming deeply possessive scars instead.
>…
>Well, anyway, that's all in the past now.
>You can't change what you put her through back then—but you *can* fulfil your wife's orcish urge to sculpt the whole world in your shared image.
>And that's precisely what you intend to do.

>Grimwell's womb tattoo soon stops glowing, leaving behind a brand that's now coloured solid amber.
>It complements her dark-brown coat quite nicely.
>Luster gazes down at this mark with an approving grin.
>"Now *that's* a perfect finish~"
>Luster leans in towards Grimwell's discomforted face and proudly states:
>"Doesn't matter who creampies you now—you'll be popping out my piglets just the same~"
>You nod.
"As it should be."
>"Mhm."
>You wife casts a warm smile your way.
>"And none of this would be possible without my piggies' father."
>She leans back into a neutral position.
>"So whaddaya say, Master?"
>She shoots you a playful wink.
>"Wanna put this newly minted sow through her paces?"
>Smiling back at her, you give her another nod.
"You know it."
>Ah, but first thing's first…
>Looking down along the griffon's bound body, you gaze upon those black panties that cover up her crotch.
>This lacy lingerie is utterly drenched with feline slime—yet it nonetheless keeps both of her lightly buzzing vibrators snugly stuck inside her snatch and stinker.
>Alas, this soft cloth shall have to go.
>And so you reach forward with both hands and unstrap these tearaways from the side; they detach from her groin with little resistance—though do leave several enduring strings of griffon grool behind.
>Holding these panties in your left hand, you use your right hand to pinch your fingers around the pink dildo fully sheathed within her clenching cunt.
>Flexing your fingers, you attempt to pry it out.
>It takes noticeably more effort than what you used to remove her underwear, but with a wet *SCHLOP*—and a full-body shudder from the griffon in question—you succeed in retrieving that slimy silicone sword from her sweltering slit, eliciting a relieved squirt from said hole.
>You then hold vaginal vibrator out to your wife.
"Here. I believe this one's yours."
>"Pfft, thanks~"
>She magically grabs it from your hand and levitates it over to a box over in the western quarter of your yurt that's labelled: "To Clean… Maybe."
>Meanwhile, you gaze upon the pair of *heavily* used panties dangling from your left hand, and you debate handing them over to your wife in a similar manner.
>But…
"…hey, Luster," you address her.
>Lifting up said undergarments, you continue:
"Why don't we put these panties to good use?"
>Your eyes briefly flit over to the griffon's face as you say that.
>Luster's eyes also briefly flit to the griffon's face.
>Then, her expression breaks into a frisky grin.
>"Oooh, I like that~"
>And with that, the two of you get to work.

>…
>It doesn't take much longer for you to fully remove your lower garments.
>You now stand by the lower end of the table, with the only thing you wear being a white shirt over your upper body.
>A griffon's bound body lies in front of you, still in the exact same position it was before.
>This time, though, Grimwell has been staunchly blindfolded with her own dirty underwear, courtesy of Luster's manipulative magic.
>These panties were wrung of most of their fluids beforehand—yet they still bear the sinful stench of her own shame.
>Personally, as sinful as it might be, you like to think this black blindfold also gives the griffon a kind of "holy" appeal.
>That's enough about her face, though—you're currently positioned in front of something far more important.
>Grimwell's forcibly spread legs tantalisingly pave the way to her completely unprotected crotch.
>Her orange dildo is still sheathed inside her cat asshole—but her bare slit is now wholly exposed for the world to see.
>This hole hangs slightly agape, clearly hungering for human seed.
>It is a hunger you are all too happy to oblige.
>Leaning forward and over the table, you rest your hands on its wooden surface by the sides of Grimwell's midsection.
"Brace yourself, little bird. I'm about to put your body to *very* good use."
>Lining yourself up and lightly biting your lip, you slowly slide yourself in.
>You pass through the pearly gates with no issue, and feel her clammy walls warmly welcome you inside.
>It's a damn-near perfect fit, accommodating your entire length with ease despite never having tasted the real deal beforehand.
>That's the power of the mark.
>Grimwell squirms against her binds and moans through her ballgag.
>None of the sounds she makes are of physical pain—these are the throes of bodily pleasure.
>Her mind hates it, but her body adores it.
"Haaah…" you heartily sigh out. "That's a good bird…"
>She cannot glare at you through her blindfold, nor can she fight back against her shackles.
>All she can offer you is the barely restrained approval of her burning loins.
>Her body needs you. It yearns for you—and her brain no longer has any say in the matter.
>You hilt yourself inside your slave without issue, your tip tickling her catbird cervix.
>The walls of her comfy canal ripple and flutter around your shaft, not being able to exact the expert muscle control of an equine cunt—but trying its best to please you all the same.
>The gushes of her natural lubricant serve to ensure complete freedom of movement for your mobile member, giving you leave to pound her pussy at your leisure.
>The base of her orange dildo gently buzzes beneath your balls, providing some unexpected yet welcome stimulation for your own loins.
>She's certainly no horsewife, but your Boarish bone approves of her feline flower well enough.

>Drawing your hips outwards, you begin thrusting your spear in and out of her snatch with deep, powerful pumps.
>You start off slow, for now, but you ensure your bird keenly feels every inch you have to give her.
>Each sweaty crash of your crotch against hers sends her whole body shuddering with involuntary delight as the slimy schlicks of a male and female going at it fill the air.
>Her muffled moans steadily become more and more unmitigated in their swinish passion, while her red ballgag steadily becomes more and more humid with avian drool.
>Her modified body fully gives into its implanted desire to breed with a human man—and desperately tries to drag her defiant brain down along with it.
>The salacious seconds spent powerfully pounding this pigbird's tight pussy stretch out into many snorty minutes.
>Her cunt creams around your cock continually and clampingly, begging for even just a single drop of potent human seed.
>Her nostrils huff and puff heated air, almost threatening to oink of their own accord.
>Her mind has been totally overwhelmed by piggish pleasure, and she does everything she can to stay sane amidst this sea of incessant sex.
>As for you, every hilt of your horn inside her hole gets you grunting with satisfaction.
>Balls hitching, you feel yourself building up to a familiar carnal crescendo, so you temper your movements accordingly.
"Mmph…" you huffily moan out. "Rejoice, Grimwell…"
>Amidst the salacious sounds and fleshy slaps, you address your griffon with a domineering confidence:
"…for once I cum inside you and make you *mine*…"
>You punctuate your taunting truths with growled words and especially *deep* thrusts, making sure to drive your rightful claim straight into her very core.
"…your womb will already be *well* on its way to producing the best piglets *possible* for me."
>You pick up the pace, pumping into her cathole harder and faster—making her body spasm and shiver even more frequently.
"So cease any foolish notions that you'll *ever* return to a normal life—you *won't.*"
>Your manly grunting has wholly transformed into bestial oinking at this point, naturally interspersing with your words like water drenching the soil.
"You're *nothing* more than a mere *pig* who only exists to pop out *piglet* after *piglet!*"
>You take a moment to breathily compose yourself, leaving yourself fully hilted inside her tensed tunnel.
"Give in," you throatily demand.
>You then go full speed ahead, ramming this winged swine with as much hoggish force as you can possibly muster.
"Give in and submit to your newer—*better*—instincts!"
>You feel her messily squirt all over your cock for the umpteenth time, and you ride it out just like the rest of them.

>Once you sense yourself rearing to blow, you deliver your climactic edict to this lowly pigbird.
"Embrace your destined role as a sweaty, *squealing* broodmother for all Orckind."
>You draw your hips all the way back, ready to deliver the final stroke.
"And get—"
>You fiercely bury yourself up to the base.
"—pregnant!"
>You erupt without restraint, plastering your slave's fertile fields with a virile flood of Boarish gunk.
>Pulse after pulse and load after load, you furiously fill her up and ensure no egg remains unfertilised.
>Your fat, sagging balls lightly hang against her butt, being both gently stimulated by her anal vibrator and lovingly fondled by a magical force.
>Ah…that must be your wife.
>This magical force continues to massage your throbbing sack as you continually blast baby batter into your slave.
>It carefully strokes you, playfully jostles your scrotum from side to side, and lifts both of your nuts up at once, before letting gravity naturally take hold.
>It cordially churns your twin cum factories, ensuring you empty yourself to the very last drop inside your newest sow.
>It candidly grabs your right nut and gives it a few greedy gropes, stretching the absolute limits of your enhanced elasticity—
>And then firmly squeezes it.
>Your eyes shoot open—and you squeal out in high-pitched surprise.
>This sharp, crushing pressure strangles your whole system, clenching your everything and forcing your spine forwards.
>Your testicle is gripped like a vice, making you feel like it could burst any moment.
>Your throat goes totally bone dry, leaving you unable to vocalise anything more than breathless gasps.
>Your penis, pulsing with pain and fear, fires your last few rounds deeper than all the rest, piercing straight through Grimwell's cervix and desperately smashing against the back of her slavish womb.
>It's only when you feel yourself truly empty the tank does that magical force release its fierce chokehold on your precious family jewel.
>Your body slumps forwards and your spine arcs backwards as you raggedly catch your breath, steadily recovering from the harrowing experience of having your nut nearly pulverised.
"H-hah… Hah… H-hah…"
>Said nut is sorely numb, but mercifully still intact—all thanks to your resilient physique.
>You're not worried about there being any kind of permanent damage; your wife would never go overboard with something so valuable.
>She knows your limits.
>"Eheh heh heh~"
>Willing your head to lift itself up, you toss a weary glance over to Luster, who wears a mischievous grin on her face.
>"Now *that* was a good squeal~"
>You feel a familiar force give your bare butt a few friendly pats.
>Hanging your head in resignation, you let out a tired sigh.
>This mare…

>With your eyes currently cast downwards, you gaze upon the fucked state of your griffon slave.
>She shakily breathes against her red ballgag, which is seriously slick with bird spit, as she mutely recuperates from her prior ravaging.
>Her body intermittently shudders and shivers against yours, while her filled-up cunt still needily clasps and churns around your cock.
>The sights and sensations both coax a self-satisfied smile onto your face.
>This birdcat's body has been utterly tamed by human dick, claiming it as yet another fully receptive seedbed for your glorious lineage.
>Her brain, on the other hand, likely has a long way to go in regards to accepting her newfound fate—but you shall relish this carnal victory nonetheless.
>And hey, a defiant mind is far more fun to tease than a domesticated one.
>Perhaps a demonstration is in order.
>Breathing out a hearty sigh, you decide to unsheathe yourself from her snatch, pulling your hips back.
>Her wet walls weakly cling to your exiting member, but with a fleshy *plop,* you succeed in prying your penis out from her pulsating depths.
"Phew…"
>Her greedy cunt immediately closes itself around your exit point, retaining as much human seed as piggishly possible.
>Alas, her leaky lips do end up dribbling out some of the excess fluid that you so furiously pumped deep inside her—but you respect her body's best efforts regardless.
>In fact, you believe it's only fair that her mind be informed of how hard her body is working to retain your legacy.
>You walk over to the right side of the table, joining your belovedly bawdy wife.
>There, you look down at your slave's blindfolded face and address her with Masterly approval:
"Take heart, Grimwell. You performed well today."
>You trail your eyes along her body and gaze upon her womb tattoo.
>It is now faintly glowing.
>This isn't as intense a reaction as when it was first applied, but its fecund effects upon her reproductive system cannot be denied.
>Reaching out with your left hand, you gently rest your fingers upon her branded pelvis.
>You note that said pelvis now has a subtle bump to it, so you are careful not to disturb its contents.
"Do you feel that *sloshing* deep inside your very being?"
>You turn your gaze back to her face.
"That's your body hard at work in making your first farrow of piglets."
>You fondly stroke at her pelvic mound.
"Be proud of your piglets, Grimwell. Cherish them."
>Taking your hand away from her lower abdomen, you cast her a soft smile that's lined with sharp edges.
"Because with any luck, they'll all grow up to become big strong orcs who'll raid and pillage innocent villages just like yours."
>You lean forward and whisper in her left ear:
"Wouldn't that be wonderful?"

>Pulling away, you silently gauge Grimwell's reaction to your words.
>At first, there's nothing.
>But soon, there's quiet sobbing.
>Then, there's choked weeping.
>And not long after that, everything culminates into a continuous fit of open wailing.
>This is all being muffled by her ballgag, of course, but her despair at having become her invader's broodmare couldn't be clearer.
>And…well—you'd be lying if you didn't derive some sick sense of satisfaction from this.
>Just another similarity you share with your wife, you suppose.
>"Gee, Master," Luster playfully admonishes you. "Really had to drive it home there, didn'tcha~?"
>Turning over to the right, you cross your arms as you look up at your favourite pigmare.
"What can I say? I learned from the best."
>She shakes her head with an:
>"Uh-uh."
>Unfurling her left wing, she proudly gestures to herself with her wingtip.
>"The best *and* the greatest."
>Relaxing her prideful posture, she shoots you a whimsical wink.
>"Don't forget that~"
>You briefly debate telling her that those two words mean effectively the same thing.
>But then again, you aren't the star student here—so what do you know.
>So you opt instead to simply chuckle at her antics and respond:
"Alright, my best and greatest and most powerful mentor…"
>Lifting up your left arm, you rest it on Luster's right shoulder and flash her a warm smile.
"…what would you like to do now?"
>She hums in thought, closing her eyes and folding her left wing back to her side.
>"Well…" she slowly begins, "your best, greatest, most powerful, and extremely sexy wife…"
>Opening her eyes, she shoots you a bright smile.
>"…would like to unwind with a few drinks next to her hubby." She lightly tilts her head. "Whaddaya say?"
"I'll say…"
>Uncrossing your arms, you give her a nod.
"…that sounds like a perfect way to spend the rest of our night."
>Her smile grows into a toothy grin.
>"Heh, sweet~"

>…
>The magical table from earlier has been dispelled, while Grimwell herself has been safely and securely tucked away back in her cage.
>As for you and Luster, the two of you are now relaxing in the north-eastern section of the yurt together—meaning that you're also directly to the left of your horse-sized bed, which sits a couple metres away.
>You are sitting on the floor; to be specific, you are sitting on a comfortably woolly rug that is shaped like a large circle and coloured bright orange.
>Also—you're once again wearing some goddamn pants.
>Your legs are leisurely kicked out in front of your body, while your back is currently reclining against a soft and sizeable cushion.
>This cushion is also warm, fleshy, and breathing.
>Naturally, that's because said cushion is actually your wife's strong belly.
>Luster currently lies along her left side directly behind you; the lower half of her body extends to your right, while the upper half of her body resides on your left.
>You hold a heavy mug of delicious mead in your right hand, while she has her own mead-filled mug levitating just under her horsey lips.
>A metre or so from your location, a few barrels of mead sit ready to be milked for their alcoholic goodness.
>These barrels are from your personal stash. And while they're not close enough for you to physically reach out and grab a refill—you happen to be mildly proficient in telekinetic magic, enabling you to top up your mug from a distance with relative ease.
>Luster, of course, can do the exact same thing without even needing to think about it, so there's certainly no issue on her end.
>In any case, life is good.
>You take a measured sip of your sweet mead, and you enjoy this cosy homestead ambience together with your wife.

>…
>"Hey," Luster speaks up, "how're your balls feelin'?"
>She takes another swig of mead after so-casually asking that sudden question, leaving you to feel around for an answer.
>Shuffling in place slightly, you look up to your wife with a dry smile.
"My right nut's still sore."
>You lightly lift your mug to accentuate your answer.
"Thank you very much."
>You take a sip of your mead to wet your lips after saying that.
>"Eheh," she bashfully chuckles, "sorry 'bout that."
>She casts you a cheeky grin.
>"Just thought my sexy studmuffin could use a little extra assistance in knocking up his new sow."
>You roll your eyes.
"'Assistance,' right…"
>You cast your gaze forward.
"If nearly turning my grapes into wine counts as 'a little extra assistance' to you—I shudder to think what a full helping hand entails."
>She snerks.
>"Aw, c'mon. It wasn't that bad, was it?"
"It was unprompted and unexpected."
>"That's 'cause I like to keep my Boar on his hooves—er, toes."
>She ends her proclamation of merry mischief there.
>You take another sip of your mead to fill the silence.
>"'Sides," she speaks up again, "if you *really* took issue with what I do…"
>Sensing a subtle wavering in her voice, you look back up at your wife.
>Your eyes meet, and you see her ears drooping a bit.
>"…you'd stop me, right?"
>Gazing deep into those shimmering amber pools of hers, you take stock of the roiling sun reflected upon its waves.
>Those powerful flames could easily swallow a man whole—yet you find yourself utterly enamoured by the passion that fuels them all the same.
>And so you face forward once more, a charmed smile creeping onto your lips and a conciliatory sigh leaving past them, and you respond with a:
"Sure…"
>You take a longer-than-usual sip of your mead and relaxedly recline against your wife's belly, feeling the warmness of her gut and hearing the sound of her tail happily flicking the floor.
>"Heh heh heh," she cheerfully chuckles, "glad we're on the same page~"
>She promptly empties her mug of all its mead, then uses her magic to go for yet another refill.
>Your wife is a real handful.
>But it's what you signed up for.

>…
>"…an' when she started cosying up to you and asking to 'commune' or whatever, it got me so riled up I—ooh—!"
>Luster suddenly and aggressively neighs, inadvertently making your blood pound from this proud sound.
>"I had to lay down the law right then and there—make sure that winged rat knew her place in this village."
>Your wife has gotten rather deep into her drink.
>She'd probably say she's still good to drive, though.
>"Seriously," she groggily yet fervently continues, "who the hay does batbrain think she is, sendin' her bat baby priests over to my comfy settlement? I ain't—*hic*—runnin' a congregation here!"
"She probably thought a fellow Sister would help spread the good word for her."
>"'Good word,' pfft."
>She horsily blows past her lips, venting her outspoken annoyance.
>"I gotta good word for ya: those bats are parasites—leeching off our good will, taking our spoils, and turning our piglets into…into googly eyed crazies!"
"'Taking our spoils?'"
>Turning your body over to its left side, you look up at your wife with a wry smile.
"And what would *you* have done with those orphaned kids, eh?"
>She blinks at your words, before drifting her thoughtfully furrowed gaze to the side.
>"I'd…uh…hm…"
>She spends a second or so pondering with pursed lips, before responding:
>"…enslave 'em, I guess?"
>She chews on her answer for a bit, before nodding affirmatively.
>"Yeah, and I'd even open a slave kindergarten for the little buggers."
>She looks back to you with a self-assured grin.
>"That'd keep 'em all occupied."
>You blink.
"A 'slave kindergarten,' you say…"
>Chuckling to yourself, you once again rest your back against her belly and face forward.
"You know, the two of you really are as bad as each other."
>She snerks, then shakes her head.
>"Nah, she's totally worse. I'm not the one freeloadin' off a Sister's hard work and offerin' nothing in return."
>You turn your head over her way.
"She's not freeloading. Her bats watch over us while we sleep."
>You give another light lift of your mug.
"Keeps our settlement safe at night."
>You then take a not-so-light sip of your mug.
>"Pfft. The only thing those voyeurs do is wake everypig up whenever they see a branch move out of place."
>She chugs back the rest of her drink—then immediately goes for a refill.
>"You think we *need* any nighttime protection? You think anythin' living in this forest—in Equestria—can take us?"
>She boisterously shakes her head.
>"Nah. We'd smoke 'em. We'd smoke 'em all. We don't need any batty guards."
>Bringing her mead back, she energetically clinks her mug against your own before lifting her beverage up to her lips.
>"'Cause our piglets are strong. Stronger than anythin' else."
>She gulps down her mead with gusto.
>You chuckle to yourself at her brazen behaviour.
"So confident…"

>She stops halfway through her latest drink, and she shoots you a cocky grin.
>"What, you doubtin' the power of our combined bloodline?"
>She turns up her snout and snorts.
>"You *really* think we couldn't *easily* take the whole of Equestria with just you, me, and our piggies?"
>Pensively jostling the mug in your right hand, you look away from your wife and glance to the side.
"I didn't say that…"
>You take a muted sip of your mead.
>Then, you look back her.
"But hey, if you're so sure that you don't need their help—why accept it in the first place?"
>She blinks at your words, then huffs to the side.
>"Bah, you know how it is…"
>She magically tilts her mug from side to side, sloshing the mead within.
>"If I started flying solo to do things my own way, my Sisters'd chew my ear off to no end."
>She looks back to you, wearing a resigned smile upon her face.
>"And—more importantly—so will you."
>Bringing her mug up to her lips, she solemnly chugs the rest of its contents down, before continuing:
>"So I gotta hold myself back. Gotta be a good pig who stays in her pen."
>Casting her eyes over to one of the mead barrels, she quietly levitates her mug down to its faucet for another refill.
>You use this silence as an opportunity to turn over to your left side and rest your left hand upon her right shoulder.
"You are a very good pig."
>You gently pat her cerise-pink coat, feeling her short fur and strong muscle.
"The best, even."
>Her eyes drift back to you, and her sombre expression becomes notably sunnier.
>"Heh," she snorts out a chuckle, "don't I know it."
>Bringing her mead back up to her snout, she sniffs at her mug's replenished contents and lets out a contented hum.
>"Y'see, that's the problem with Herd Sisters…"
>She lightly shakes her fully filled mug, causing a small wave of mead to spill over the top and splatter onto the rug below.
>"They're always wanting a piece of your pie."
>Regarding that lost mead with little more than a brief glance, you shoot your wife a coy smile.
"My pie? Or yours?"
>She lets out a great big belly laugh at that, before flashing you a cheesy grin.
>"Depends how drunk I can get 'em~"
>She takes a big swig of her mead, soon letting out a hearty sigh.
>"Just gotta stay the course and put up with my Sister's little bloodsuckers, no matter how loud or annoying they might get."
>Her eyes partly widen, and she drunkenly jostles her mug over in your direction.
>"Oh, and don't even get me *started* on the bugs."
>She lets out an irritable whicker.
>"Seriously. Not even a shred of respect for who I am or what I do…"
>She got started on the bugs.

>…
>"Hey…hey—*hic*—Mashter~"
>Luster now lies on her back, forelegs curled up to her chest and hindlegs languidly spread apart.
>Her majestic neck stretches out across the orange rug, while her amber eyes gaze up at you with inebriated endearment.
>"Pour it in already~"
>You are now standing by her left side, and you hold a filled mug of mead in your left hand.
>Truthfully, you can't remember if this was your mug or her mug—but that doesn't matter.
>This booze is going down her gullet all the same.
"As you wish."
>Closing her eyes, she expectantly opens her mouth, letting her horsey tongue loll out over her bottom lip.
>Leaning forward, you hold your mug over her open maw and get ready to tip its contents in.
>Thankfully, her neck is curved upwards rather than lying flat against the floor, meaning that you only need to stoop your back a little for optimal pouring accuracy.
"Here comes the choo-choo."
>She playfully waggles her tongue at you, and you carefully waterfall your mead into her waiting mouth, using both hands to hold your mug.
>This golden ambrosia smoothly flows down her red carpet like a unceasing stream—though you do make sure to take intermittent pauses here and there so she can safely swallow it all down.
>"Gluk… Gluk…Gluk…"
>Each and every alcoholic gulp bulges out her broad neck as it all travels down to her strong stomach, further fuelling her rampant insobriety.
>"Gluk… Gluk…"
>Soon enough, you find yourself holding a meadless mug once more, its purpose spent and served.
>"Gluk…"
>Your wife, who happens to have a sixth sense for the emptiness of a mug, lets her neck fall back down to the floor and sighs out a satiated:
>"Aaahhh~"
>Kneeling down next to her head, you hold the mug within your right hand as you use your left to gently scritch at the underside of her chin.
>She hums in approval at your touch, and her lips curve up into a dumbly contented smile.
>Her gold-ringed nostrils happily flex in and out, relishing the sensation of more alcohol surging through her system and sloshing inside her belly.
>"Mhm~"
>She savours the feeling of being on top of the world while also being personally cared for by her mate.
>Breathing in deep through her nose, she lets her wings fully unfurl and lay splayed along the floor as she truly relaxes in the moment.

>But suddenly, without any further warning, her eyes shoot open, her head jerks upwards—prompting your hand back to your side—and she releases a very loud, very unfeminine *belch* out into the air.
>She blinks a few times, temporarily stunned by her own eructation.
>Then, her eyes slowly drift to yours, while her lips remain lightly parted.
>Her expression is one of surprise—however, you note that not a hint of red can be seen upon her face.
>So her next reaction doesn't surprise you in the least.
>"Pfft…!"
>Her head promptly falls back down to the floor, and she snortily giggles to herself while cheerfully kicking her forelegs about in the air.
>Your wife's complete and utter lack of shame, coupled with her cute horsey mannerisms, has you quietly chuckling along with her.
"You know," you begin, shaking your head, "you have to be the least ladylike mare I've ever met."
>Her giggling stops.
>"Eh…?"
>Her head tilts your way, and she regards you with a drunken smile.
>"Whaddaya mean? I'm tota—*hic*—totally ladylike~"
>She then attempts to seductively flutter her eyelashes at you.
>At least, you *think* she's trying to be seductive.
>She succeeds in doing the blinking part.
>Mostly.
"Mm, sure."

>"An' you know what?" she tipsily continues. "I'm *more* than ladylike! I'm a—*hic*—I'm a bonafide princess!"
>She bombastically gestures towards you with a wobbly right forehoof.
>"Even got my very own prince! He stormed the tower of my hopeless love life, slew the dragon of my virginity, and woke his princess up with a passionate kiss!"
>Pulling her hoof back, she puckishly sticks her tongue out at you.
>"And he made sure to use plenty of tongue~"
>Sighing with a smile, you set your empty mug down on the floor and move in towards your wife.
>Placing both of your hands next to your wife's horsey head, you lower your face and press your lips against hers.
>"Mm…"
>Her lips are flexible and leathery.
>They feel extremely pleasant to smooch upon—but they're not all you're here for.
>You impatiently prod at her puckered mouth, and she immediately lets you in.
>Your tongues quickly meet in the middle, intertwining like long-familiar mates.
>She happily submits to you—and you wrestle your mare down with impunity.
>"Mmf~"
>She goes wherever you go, and lets you lick wherever you please.
>Her muscly tongue might be much bigger and far stronger than yours, but she wholly understands her place in this moment.
>She is your mare.
>But…perhaps not your princess.
>In any case, you hungrily swap spit with your pigwife as you freely moan into one another's mouths.
>She tastes like alcohol, smells like alcohol, *feels* like alcohol—making every second you spend in her intimate presence appear to dull your senses and lower your inhibitions.
>At this point, you wouldn't be surprised if you were currently making out with some kind of alcohol elemental.
>Still, if you truly *are* getting drunk on her drool, you're pretty sure it isn't due to the mead in her system.
>It's because of the love you feel for her.

>After enjoying your mare's mouth for many more seconds—probably about a half-minute or so—you pull away from her, detaching your tongues with a soft *schlop.*
>You come out of from this deeply sloppy kiss feeling more than a little light-headed, but wearing a great big smile on your face all the same.
>Your wife's expression mirrors your own—though you must admit that her horsey mouth has a far larger capacity for cheer in comparison to yours.
>"Ehehe~"
>Rolling onto her front, she steadily picks herself up and rises to her hooves.
>There, she sits on her haunches and looks down at your kneeling form with jovial fondness.
>"And so the prince's kiss made the princess rise from her slumber~"
>Matching her movements, you steadily rise to your own two feet.
"Hm…"
>Standing straight up, you are now face to face with her tantalisingly fluffy chest—but rather than focus any further on that, you lift your gaze even higher.
>Tilting your head upwards, you match eyes with your wife.
"Actually…"
>You staunchly place both of your hands upon her strong shoulders, and you flash her a sly half-smirk.
"…I think you'd be the dragon in this scenario."
>She blinks a few times.
>"A dragon, huh…"
>She then quizzically tilts her head to the side.
>"Wait, if I'm the dragon, then what happened to the princess?"
>Your eyes slowly drift away from hers, and you respond with a restrained:
"Well…"
>She ponders the implications for a second or so—but then, her expression curls into an impish grin.
>"Oooh, you naughty prince~"
>Unfurling her left wing, she curls it inwards and uses her wingtip to gently lift your chin up, directing your gaze back to hers.
>"Came in to rescue the princess, but walked out with a big bad dragon wife instead~"
>You chuckle light-heartedly.
"What can I say?"
>Tentatively trailing your left hand up her broad neck, you lightly rap your fingers upon the black leather of her studded choker.
"Maybe I have a preference for dragons."
>Her grin grows toothier at your proclamation.
>"Heh~"
>She turns her head over to the left, and you notice her horn readily crackling with crimson light.
>Inhaling through her nostrils, she takes a deep breath—then puffs out a short jet of green flame past her lips.
>This flame safely fizzles out into the air, sparing your yurt its emerald wrath—yet making your mare's message clear as day.
>She shifts her gaze back down to you and flashes you some especially smug fangs.
>"Then maybe you're in luck~"

>You silently stand in momentary awe of Luster's draconic capabilities—even if they are obviously magically fuelled.
>On one hand, her power never ceases to impress, no matter its source.
>On the other, the sight of your sloshed wife spitting out fire gives rise to an entirely different line of thought.
"Maybe…"
>Sliding your left hand back down onto her shoulder, you give her an assuaging smile.
"…maybe you've had too much to drink today."
>She cordially conceals her chompers at your candid words, while the crimson heat around her horn gradually gives way to her natural amber warmth.
>"Heh heh~" she snorts out a chuckle. "Maybe~"
>She pulls her wing away from your chin, folding her feathers back against her side.
>"But you know what?"
>She slightly turns up her snout and flashes you a confident grin.
>"I betcha I could *still* drink you under the table, even now."
>You carefully push yourself away from her body, maintaining eye contact.
"Under the table?"
>Giving her a quick once-over from top to bottom to top, you place your hands on your hips and shoot her a cocksure smile.
"You're basically six feet under as is."
>Spirits riled, she stormily snorts out some smoke—a small side-effect from her prior fire-breathing.
>"Oh yeah?"
>Lifting up her left forehoof, she playfully jabs you in the chest.
>"Well why don't you put your money where your sweet mouth is, huh?"
>This mare's "playful jabs" are enough to send any weaker creature tumbling—but you stand firm.
"Fine." You resolutely cross your arms. "You're on."
>She nods, pleased as fermented punch.
>"Heh. Good."
>She turns her head to your left, her horn still aglow.
>"But hey, why don't we make this interesting, huh?"
>You turn your head to look where she's looking—and are immediately greeted by the sight of a levitated mead barrel slamming itself down onto the rug next to you both.
>However, this isn't just any old barrel of mead.
>This one has pink tape plastered all over and around the body to signal its significance; the tape is continually patterned with light-blue love hearts, further hinting at its royal origin.
>If those barrels from before were from your personal stash…
>This one is your secret stash.
>The barrel has two empty mugs placed upon it, with their handles pointing towards you and Luster respectively; one of those mugs is the one you set on the floor earlier.
>As for the barrel itself, you know exactly what it contains:
"Royal mead…" you mumble to yourself.
>"Heh heh, yup~"
>You turn your head to meet your wife's toothily grinning face.
>"What do you think?" she asks. "Perfect way to cap off the night, right?"
>Your eyes flit back to the barrel, and you hum with some hesitation:
"Mm…"

>Royal mead is far rarer than regular mead; in fact, this singular barrel is all that exists of it within this particular settlement.
>It's also *much* stronger than regular mead—especially for you.
>There's just something about its constituents that make it highly effective at subjugating a King.
>"Something up, Master?" Luster addresses you. "You look a little nervous."
>Your gaze snaps back to hers.
>The magic around her horn is gone, but her grin has taken on a shrewd glint.
>You're pretty sure she can smell your weakness.
>But even if she didn't—you're damn-well certain she knows of this brew's focused effect on you.
>After all, she knows your limits.
>Leisurely lifting her up right foreleg, she rests her hoof on the barrel's rim and peers into the closest mug.
>"We raided a village, dealt with some bats, and conquered our newest slave…"
>She lowers her gaze down to the barrel's faucet.
>"If you ask me, that's more than enough excuse to bust out the good stuff."
>Her eyes dart back to yours, and her grin widens.
>"That is, unless you're scared."
>Unfurling both of her wings, she curls them downwards and places her wingtips on her hips.
>"Unless you're…chicken~"
>She mockingly flaps her wings and makes playful clucking noises at you:
>"Bok bok bok~"
>You are no lily livered poultry, nor are you a cowardly scaredy-cat.
>You are a man. A brave man.
>A man who only barely registers that your wife is speaking a lot more fluently and less drunkenly than before.
>If you were a more prudent man, you would take heed as to why.
>Being a huge horse of a mare, Luster is very good at handling her alcohol—eclipsing your capabilities by miles.
>Not only is she far better at holding in her booze, but she also metabolises it faster, too.
>And when you factor in your aforementioned weakness to this brand of mead, a more rational man would realise that you have exactly zero chance of beating Luster in this drinking competition.
>However, this realisation—if it ever even existed—sails over your head like an inconsequential breeze.
>Because you are also a proud man.
>And a rather inebriated one, at that.
>So you respond to your wife's jests and jeers with a huffy:
"Hmph."
>You than grab the nearest mug with your left hand, crouch down to reach the barrel's tap, and fill your drink up to the brim.
>Standing straight, you give your mug a light lift as you smirk up at your Sow and shoot her a:
"Bring it on."
>She folds up both of her wings and nods with replete approval.
>"Heh, now we're talking~"
>Using her amber magic, she quickly grabs and fills her own mug with that opulent mead, soon levitating it up to her chest.
>She addresses you with an anticipatory smile:
>"Well, whenever you're ready."
>You nod a couple times.
"Mhm."

>You briefly glance into your mug, thoughtfully checking its lightly frothy alcoholic contents.
>Compared to regular mead, royal mead subtly sparkles with magical power; glimmers of love swim beneath the surface, while sparks of passion pop out of the cup.
>Or perhaps that's just your eyes playing tricks on you.
>In any case, there's no point looking a mead mug in the mouth.
>You've got a drinking competition to conquer.
>Raising your gaze, you carefully clink wooden mugs with your wife.
"Cheers," you toast her.
>"May the best mare win~" she toasts back—then immediately gets to gulping down her share.
>Ignoring her gender-biased boast, you bring your mug up to your lips and take a sip.
>Your stately shot smoothly rolls along your tongue, saturating your senses with its regal flavour.
>Royal mead shares a taste quite similar to its common variant, yet cleanly surpasses it in sweetness.
>The sugary overtones expertly shroud this brew's alcoholic intent, almost making you wonder if you accidentally filled your mug with maple syrup instead.
>Yet you can't mistake the sparkling kick this honeyed beverage possesses, for every square inch of your drink damn-near buzzes with excitable energy, tingling your taste buds all the way.
>And once this mead makes its way down your throat—that's when the real fun begins.
>It bounces off your stomach and shoots up your system, setting up a chain reaction of miniature explosions inside your grey matter.
>It's exhilarating and disorienting at the same time.
>It sends the world spinning, and your feet slipping.
>You stumble backwards, landing onto a web of soft down.
>"Whoa, hey," a concerned voice calls out to you. "Easy there…"
>Shaking your head and focusing your vision, you find yourself looking up into your wife's amber eyes.
>Her left wing has been extended, and is currently wrapped around your back, keeping your stance steady.
>"Don't worry," she warmly states, "I got you…"
"Unh…" you weakly groan out.
>Your eyes drift to the mug in your left hand.
>You're still holding it, but you note that it's now being kept upright with a translucent skein of amber magic.
>"Made sure you didn't spill any, so you're still in this."
>You cast your gaze back up to hers, and you strongly attempt to blink away the rattling that persists in your brain.
"Mn…thanks," you manage to mumble out.
>She nods with a tender smile.
>"No prob."

>You take another second or so to recollect yourself, feeling the buzzing fog gradually lift.
>"Hey," your wife speaks up, tilting her head as she does. "Wanna take a sit down? Might be easier for you that way."
>Your manly pride dictates that you reject her proposition and stand on your own two feet.
>Your sloshed mind, however, has just sent another electrifying wave of body-buckling euphoria all throughout your system.
>…Sometimes discretion is the better part of valour.
>Plus, no-one said that you had to be standing up to win this.
"Yeah…" you begrudgingly relent. "That…that might be best, actually."
>"Mm, alright. Follow my lead…"
>Rising to her hooves while keeping her wing wrapped behind your body, Luster gently guides you backwards, helping you take step after shaky step across the carpet floor.
>Soon enough, you feel yourself being carefully sat down upon the springy edge of a large, comfy mattress.
>It's your horse-sized bed—the left side of it, at least.
>Luster sits down on her haunches in front of you, wing still blanketing your back.
>At your seated height, your wife towers over you even more than she usually does.
>Before, your head could only reach up to her chest.
>Now, your face is level with her horsey gut, while your gaze naturally trails down the curvature of her barrel—soon bearing witness to the massive mareteats that hang underneath.
"Oh…"
>Just like before, a sturdy sling of black fabric endeavours to keep these fatty beauties firmly fastened and safe from swinging—yet gravity cannot help but take its weighty toll on these fleshy milk mountains regardless.
>And thanks to your optimal point of vantage, you are able to freely ogle these heavy looking horse breasts from above, giving you an ample eyeful of her heaving cleavage.
>Her purplish crotchboobs sag much like the clothed milkers of a well-endowed human woman, while the subtle blue veins that run along her exposed titflesh never fail to catch your lecherous eye.
"Mmph…"
>You lightly bit your bottom lip as your drunken gaze lingers on these marely mounds for perhaps a bit too long.
>"Heh," the owner of said mounds chuckles, "enjoying the view~?"
>Tilting you head aaallllll the way up her body, you match eyes with your smug-looking wife.
"Good tits, and good mead…"
>You lightly lift your mug for emphasis, then flash her a besotted grin.
"What more can a man ask for?"
>She snortily chuckles at your candidity, before responding with an enthused nod:
>"Now you're talking my language~"

>Your eyes drift over to the magically floating mug that hovers above her right shoulder.
"Did you finish yours already?"
>"Yup."
>She lowers her mug down to your eyes, allowing you to visually confirm that it is indeed empty.
"Ah."
>"Now, I could go for more…"
>She lifts her back up to its previous position.
>"…but it wouldn't be fair to you or our competition if I hogged all our special stock, would it?"
>You nod with understanding.
"Mhm, fair enough…"
>She gently pats you on the back with her wing.
>"So I'll wait for you to finish—then we can grab our refills together."
>You slowly bring your mug up to your lips.
"How very kind of you…"
>Just before you tilt it back, however, you arch an eyebrow up at your wife.
"Wait, how are we judging this competition again?"
>"On speed, 'course."
>She shoots you a sly wink.
>"And just so you know, you already lost this round, big time~"
>She playfully raps at your back with her soft feathers.
>"Good news for you, though, you have aaallllll the time in the world to drink in your own defeat and finish what you've got right now~"
>She tilts her head, tone turning tauntingly nettlesome.
>"But if even *that's* too much for you, then you can always just forfeit—"
"No."
>Sternly interrupting her, you gaze deep into your sparkling brew.
"A man does not run from his mead."
>Tilting your head upwards, you shoot your wife a look of pure determination.
"And neither does a Boar."
>Her expression grows toothy in proud recognition of your fighting spirit.
>"Heh heh, that's my mate~"
>You bring your gaze back down to your mug.
>There are a good nine-tenths of your honeyed drink still left in there.
>You do not fear it.

>Gripping your mug with both hands, you chug it back like a champ.
>It goes down…surprisingly easy, all things considered.
>Each and every gulp feels like getting smacked right in the brain by an explosive mallet—but as long as you focus on the sweetness of your mead, you should be able to stay this alcoholic course.
>Yeah, focus on your sweet, sweet mead…
>Your sweet, sweet wife…
>And sweet, sweet victory.
>…
>You soon empty your mug.
>The world is spinning, your head is rolling, and your vision is spiralling.
>But at least you have your wife to keep you steady.
>She's so reliable. Always keeping you upright. Always supporting you when you need it.
>You love her so much.
>"Hey, well done."
>Her praise is almost as sweet as the mead you just drank.
>Almost.
>You thrust your empty mug up into the air.
"Bring on th'next!" you manage to slur out.
>She chuckles at your exuberance.
>"Alright, easy there, tiger."
>You feel your mug lift out of your hand.
>"I'll go get our mugs filled up."
>Grunting in affirmation, your body slumps forward as you wait on your refill.
>Your eyes quickly fall down to those fat fucking milkers of hers.
>God, you'd love to just dive in there and rub your face against them—
>"Here ya go."
>Lifting your gaze, you see a mead-filled mug hovering by your left side.
>You pick it up with both hands, and you reply with a short:
"Thanks."
>"Heh, no prob."
>You bring your mug back up to your lips, fully focused on drinking yourself into an even sweeter stupor.
>"And hey," your wife continues with a cheery tone, "since you impressed me so well back there—I'll even give you a head start this time."
>You snort dismissively, keeping your eyes trained on your mead.
"Bah, head start. Don't even—*hic*—need it…"
>You boisterously chug back your sugary beverage, just as before.
>It goes down even easier than the last time, like your body is steadily adapting to its extremely potent kick.
>That's great news for you—and bad news for your rival-in-boozing.
>As you tilt your head back and drink your drink, your bleary vision catches sight of your wife looking down at you.
>True to her word, she hasn't gotten started on her own mead yet.
>She is, however, licking her lips while regarding you with a partially lidded gaze.
>Silly mare. If she's so thirsty, she shouldn't have given you that head start.
>You still love her, though.
>But you've got this competition in the bag.

>…
>Many, many chugs later, the barrel has been completely emptied—while your mugs lay haphazardly strewn across the floor.
>The drinking competition ended a while ago.
>Did you win?
>You're…not sure.
>You don't really care, either.
>But you are sucking on a fat horse tongue.
>It's the tongue of your wife.
>The two of you are now on top of your big bed, somewhere in the middle.
>She's lying on her back, and you're sitting on top of her.
>Your legs are straddling her strong torso, while your hands rest upon her fluffy chest.
>You're also near-naked. The only thing you wear at this present moment is your pair of white boxers.
>You're not sure where the rest of your clothes went, but you do know that you don't need them right now.
>It simply feels right for you to be this bare near your mare.
>It's your base state, your natural state, and the state your mate prefers most.
>As you just mentioned, you are currently sucking on your wife's fat horse tongue.
>Your back is arched forwards and your neck is tilted backwards as you lean up into her kiss.
>And this is definitely *her* kiss, not yours—she's the one leading the charge here.
>Her head hovers above yours, while both of her forelegs are crossed around your back and loosely hug your waist from behind.
>Her lips aggressively smooch on your own, peppering your face with soft, leathery kisses.
>Her tongue utterly fills the inside of your mouth, licking wherever it pleases and leaving you to swallow her slimy excess of horsey drool.
>The sloppily slurpy sounds of a deep kiss dominate the air, while the willfully indulgent moans of a man and mare enjoying mouth-to-mouth contact functions as this room's chorus.
>Of course, her powerful moans of mareish pleasure easily overpower your meeker human ones, further reminding you of your place underneath her.
>It is a place you wholeheartedly accept.
>The royal mead you drank earlier clouded your mind at first, but as you came to fully inundate yourself in its buzzing essence, it opened your eyes to the sweet taste of reality, blessing your brain with a myriad of piquant truths.
>But out of all these truths, there was one that stood out to your studly psyche in its honeyed poignancy—for it is a truth somehow even more truer than the rest:
>Man exists solely to serve his mare.

>Luster continues to pillage your mouth at her rapacious leisure, moaning and huffing against your submissive face all the while.
>She furiously subjugates your tongue and assertively laps around your teeth, gunking up your gums with copious globs of her sticky spit.
>She greedily gropes at your butt with her clawlike magic, squeezing and spreading your cheeks in a circular motion.
>She intermittently snorts against your face throughout all of this, steaming your face with her mareish dominance—and leaving you yearning for more.
>"Mmph~"
>Pulling back from your mouth, she positions her face just above yours as she ardently gazes you down with flared nostrils.
>She then lolls out her thick tongue and lets a steady stream of bubbly saliva drip from its tip and into your gaping mouth.
>Her warm slobber slowly dribbles along your own tongue and slimily slides down your throat—and you hungrily gulp it all down like the good pig you are.
"Ulp…ulp…ulp…"
>Your docile behaviour pleases her greatly, and her face toothily twists into a cocksure grin.
>"Heh…"
>She peppers your obedient lips with more horsey kisses, dominating your face with her rubbery mouthfeel.
>"M'gonna…" she huskily speaks between kisses. "M'gonna conquer you~"
>*Mwah* *Mwah* *Mwah*
>"M'gonna conquer you so hard~"
>*Mwah* *Mwah*
>"M'gonna take what's rightfully mine~"
>*Mwah* *Mwah*
>"'Cause you're my Boar~"
>*Mwah*
>"And a Boar belongs to his Sow~"
>She pauses her pecks to blow a dizzyingly hot round of alcoholic mare's breath across your face.
>You happily inhale her horsey essence—using both your nose and your mouth—before offering your own response:
"My…my Alpha Sow…"
>She throatily giggles:
>"Hehe…that's right—your *Alpha.*"
>She growls out the word, making you shudder in a rapturously good way.
>It feels so *right* considering this mare as your Alpha.
>Her molesting magic goes for an especially tight squeeze on your right butt cheek, digging her ethereal claws into your supple flesh and making your thighs quiver with delight.
>She then goes in for another deep smooch to further savour your submissive taste, and you gladly comply with her dominant desires.
>You become her pliant plaything, while she gets to enjoy another breath-snorting, tongue-twisting, saliva-spilling kiss with her Boar.
>All the while, she magically marehandles your human rump like playdough: patting, squeezing, rubbing—and smacking.
>That last one gets you squealing into her mouth like a spanked hog—because that's exactly what you are.
>Your piggish noises coax a low chuckle from your mare, filling you with instinctual contentment at having amused her.
>She gives your clapped butt a consolatory caress, and plunders your mouth with even greater fervour than before.
>Everything is right with the world.
>You and her are alone in your yurt together, and she can do whatever she likes to you—as is her prerogative.
>Only…

>Drawing deep from some unseen well of will, you manage to pull yourself away from her snorty kiss.
"W-wait…"
>She looks none-too-pleased at your impromptu retreat.
>"Hm? What?"
>Her words are spoken with an authoritative growl, making you shiver, and almost impelling you to submit your lips against hers once more to appease your mare.
>But instead, you shakily turn your gaze over to the left—past the foot of the bed.
>In the distance, you can see a compact pet carrier with a closed door.
"O-our slave…"
>There's a griffon inside of it.
"Our slave is still here…"
>"So?" your mare curtly responds. "She's blindfolded. She can't see anything."
>You take a slow, steady blink.
"But…but she can hear…"
>You hear an annoyed huff from your mare.
>She responds a second later, her raspy voice having taken on an even more gravelly edge:
>"Good. Let her hear."
>You feel her clawed magic assertively cup your chin.
>"She may as well learn the true hierarchy here."
>Tilting your head, she firmly directs your gaze back up to hers.
>You can see that her eyes are fiercely narrowed, while her nostrils are dominantly flared.
>"You might be my Master—but I *own* you."
>She tightens her grip on your chin—and belligerently snorts in your subby face, forcing your eyes shut and causing your nose to obediently breathe her in.
>"You're *mine.*"
>She lightly jerks your head up and down, prompting your eyes to open and look at her once more.
>"You got that?"
>Even in this bellicose state of hers, there's just something so majestic about your mare.
>It makes you want to submit your everything to her.
>So you respond:
"Y-yes…"
>You lean into her magical grip and needily knead at her chest fluff with your hands.
"I'm yours…"
>Her toothy grin resurfaces at your servile statement, and she nods with satisfaction.
>"Good pig."
>She slightly turns up her snout, maintaining eye contact.
>"Now call me Mistress."
>Your lips part before your mind can properly parse her request.
>Not that you would deny her, anyway—how could you, when this title makes perfect sense for such a perfect mare?
>So you meekly call out to her:
"Mistress…"
>Warm shivers immediately shoot up your spine upon addressing your mare by her rightful moniker.
>You take a breathy second to savour these all-too-pleasant tingles, before addressing her again:
"My Mistress…"
>Your subservient words reward you with even more euphoric tingles—and the lovely sight of your mare flashing you her sharp fangs.
>"Heh."

>She loosens her grip on your chin—though still keeps you right where she wants you.
>"Hey, close your eyes and open your mouth," she commands. "I got a nice surprise for you~"
>You happily comply, doing exactly as she asks.
>What could she have in store for you, you wonder?
>Could she be planning to dominate with another deeply snorty snog?
>Or maybe drool some more delicious spit into your mouth?
>You find yourself lolling out your tongue in anticipation.
>Soon enough, you feel her fasten something around your neck with a *click.*
>It's…a collar?
>It's made of leather, you're sure.
>Feels like a dog collar of some kind?
>Is this her surprise?
>It isn't doing anything.
>"Now stay still…"
>Oh, she has more planned for you.
>You stay perfectly still, as per your mistress's request.
>And soon, you feel something attach to the back of your collar, lightly tugging it up.
>Like the collar itself, this "something" feels like it's made of leather.
>It travels up along the back of your neck, curves over your scalp, slides down your forehead, and rests in between your eyebrows.
>From there, a thin piece of cold metal slips its way into each of your nostrils.
>Hooks.
>They firmly situate themselves into the uppermost part of your nasal vestibules.
>And pull upwards.
>Hard.
>Eyes shooting wide open, you sharply squeal as your nostrils are forcibly stretched up as far they can possibly go.
>The leather strap that connects these hooks to the spot on your collar behind your neck goes fully taut, ensuring your nostrils remain in their elongated position.
>It stings.
>Your eyes water. Your eyelids twitch. Your nose runs. Your mouth hangs agape.
>Your mare laughs.
>Straining your vision, you look up at your Mistress, who wears a big grin on her face.
>"That's another good squeal from you~"
>Using her magic, she lightly pats your rump, rewarding her Boar for holding out this long.
>She then continues with a cheery tone:
>"Hey, don't move just yet."
>She shoots you a playful wink.
>"I got another pair for ya~"
>In lieu of nodding, you simply respond with a subservient:
"Y-yesh, Mistress…"
>"Heh heh," she snortily chuckles, "that's my Boar~"

>She levitates another pair of metal hooks up to your nose.
>Just like the first two, she slips them into your nostrils, embedding their pointy end into your sensitive nasal vestibules.
>Unlike the first two, however, these ones stretch out to the side; the one in your left nostril pulls to the left, while the one in your right nostril pulls to the right.
>The leather straps that these hooks are attached curve around the sides of your face, applying more pressure to your punctured nostrils the further they go.
>These straps soon connect to the main band that runs up along the back of your head, forming a harness that keeps all four hooks taut and secured—and thus stretching your nostrils as far to the side as possible.
>You let out an involuntary oink at the spacey sensation of having both of your nostrils elongated upwards and sidewards.
>It hurts, though not as much as the first two did—and the pain you feel at having your nose hooked and stretched is nothing compared to the pleasure you savour in serving your Mistress.
>Thanks to these four nose hooks, your nostrils have been widened tremendously, turning your human nose into a pig snout, and making you look more hoggish than ever before.
>"Heh, now *that's* a good look for you~"
>You are in full agreement with your Mistress—and so you happily oink out your accord.
>"Oooh~" she coos. "You think so too, eh?"
>You oink some more, wholly pleased with your piglike state of mind and body.
>It makes your Mistress beam down at you with a confident smile.
>"Perfect~"
>Using the magical claw that still cups your face, she gives the underside of your chin some affectionate scritches.
>"Good pig~" she coos. "Veeery good pig~"
>You blissfully oink at your Mistress's kind words and actions.
>The Boar has been fully tamed by his Sow—as it should be.

>A minute or so passes like this, with you being praised and petted by your benevolent Mistress—and you shamelessly oinking in return.
>You feel yourself acclimating to the stinging pain of the hooks embedded inside your nostrils.
>It's as if your body is treating them like they were always supposed to be there in the first place.
>A piglike snout befits a piglike man, after all.
>Your Mistress stops scritching your chin, and you promptly look up at her smiling face with silent need in your eyes.
>It's a need for more—but it's also a need to serve.
>Whatever your Mistress desires, you shall do your very best to provide.
>"Hey," she addresses you, "why don't we put that oinker of yours to good use, eh?"
>You oink affirmatively, nodding your head.
>"Good."
>Her expression sharpens—as does her tone of voice.
>"Get off the bed," she commands. "Now."
>You oink in compliance, then proceed to unstraddle your Mistress's strong torso.
>Clumsily.
>You fall off to the right and onto your bed's soft mattress, landing on your front.
>Pushing yourself back up to your knees, you turn to the left, swivelling yourself in the direction where your Mistress's upper half is.
>And you suddenly feel a firm spank on your hoggish rump, causing you to squeak in surprise.
>"Thatta way," she airily directs you.
>She spanked you from behind, so she must want you to go forward—and off the left side of the bed.
>Lowering yourself to all fours, you crawl along the bed, making your way towards your destination.
>Your Mistress's ogling eyes follow you all way—with her gaze narrowing once your butt passes by her head.
>And once your hands tentatively grasp at the bed's left edge—her magic whips through the air, smacking your ass with blistering force.
>You let out a shrill squeal as you are sent flying a metre or so forward off the bed, soon landing on the orange woolly rug below.
>As you steadily pick yourself up off the floor and rise to a two-legged standing position, you hear snorting laughter coming from your Mistress.
>You turn to face her, seeing that she has now rolled onto her front and is lying on her belly.
>She wears a highly amused grin on her face.
>"Oh, you fly *so* good~"

>Oinking with discomfort, you use your right hand to sorely rub your licked behind.
>It stings. It feels like you just got a full-force whack from a wooden paddle.
>Looking back to your Mistress, your wincing expression can't help but silently mirror the tender state of your tushy.
>"Aw, hey, don't look at me like that."
>Raising her left forehoof, she points towards you and takes on an accusatory tone:
>"Y'see, it's *your* fault for having such a spankable butt."
>Using that same forehoof, she gestures towards herself.
>"So really, you should be apologising to me."
>She lowers her hoof, yet regards you with a tilted head and an expectant glare.
>"Well? Go on. I'm waiting."
>Your devotion to your Mistress supersedes any pain or shame you might feel—so your next action is an obvious one.
>Lowering yourself to your knees, you submissively bow your head down to the floor, placing your hands and forehead flat against the rug.
"S-sorry for—*oink oink*—having a really spankable butt, Mistress."
>Your spineless apology hangs in the air for a few seconds, making you shiver both with abashment and anticipation.
>Thankfully, your Mistress does eventually respond:
>"Mhm. That's better."
>She uses her magic to pat you on the head, rewarding you for your complete and utter subservience.
>It is a reward you relish above all else.

>"Alright," she dissipates her magic and speaks up, "enough fooling around."
>She barks out her next order with such absolute authority that it makes your heart pound like mad:
>"Get up."
>You quickly rise to your feet, stand at attention, and oink with utmost obedience, ready for your Mistress's next command.
>Lifting her right forehoof, she points past you.
>"Back against the wardrobe, pronto."
>You turn around to look at where she's pointing.
>A tall wooden wardrobe stands by the yurt's lattice wall; it's roughly as tall as your Mistress's standing height.
>Its doors are currently closed to your eyes, but you know that it contains clothes for both you and her, with hers being on the uppermost shelf.
>Not that you are looking to clothe yourself, of course; you are perfectly fine wearing only your white boxers.
>With your leather collar and four nose hooks, you possess an appearance most befitting a servile manpig.
>Now to just—
>"Hey," she barks at you, "don't make me wait."
>A firm magical force impatiently shoves you forward by your still-stinging rump, causing you to let out a sore squeal at the resurfacing pain.
>"Get going."
>You immediately comply with her demands, knowing your place and wishing to make up for your tardiness.
>Putting your best bare foot forward, you walk over to the wardrobe in no time at all.
>You then turn your back to it, facing towards your Mistress on the bed once more.
>"Hmph, good."
>She pulls herself forward and off the bed, effortlessly and gracefully transitioning to a four-legged gait on the floor.
>Taking step after confident step, she swaggers right up to your front, and soon bears down on you with a cocky grin.
>She is majestically tall, towering above your near-naked form with ease.
>You direct your face skywards so that you may peer into your Mistress's gorgeous amber eyes.
>"Well then…" she huskily begins.
>Flashing you some of her predatory teeth, she uses her magic to give your head a couple of playful pats.
>"…looks like you're just the right height to properly service your Sow~"
>You oink in agreement, then lower your gaze down along her neck so as to stare at what's directly in front of your face.
>As always, you stand level with her fluffy chest.
>Your magnificent Mistress happens to be impressively well-endowed in every single field—with the splendour of her tuft being no exception.
>She possesses a veritable forest of cerise-pink fur in between her shoulders.
>It's a forest you could trough in for hours.
>And then there's the brawny sinew packed behind it all.
>This mare may as well be a steeple of stone with how solidly built she is; her powerfully thick forelegs, well-defined torso, and strong broad neck all add up to one hell of a Mistress to worship.
>Whether it be her ample chest fur or the rock-hard muscle hidden underneath, you'll happily devote yourself to each and every part of her.

>"Betcha just wanna dive *right* in there, huh~?"
>You oink affirmatively and nod with need.
>She chuckles at your eagerness, before responding with a singsong:
>"Too bad~"
>She takes a few steps back, leaving you to oink with confusion.
>"Y'see, I have something even *better* in mind for you~"
>Before you can oink out any kind of question, she turns around, swinging that huge rear end of hers with seductive force.
>Said rear end is now facing you.
>Her flame-coloured tail is hiked all the way up and lifted to the side, giving you the full spread of what lies beneath.
>Underneath her raised dock, you can see her puckered horse asshole—and her fat, purplish horsepussy.
>It's currently winking at you—and slightly drooling.
>"Not a bad view, eh~?"
>Straining your swinish sights over her rump and along her back, you can see your Mistress smugly looking over her shoulder and back at you.
>You oink out your amorous accord, making her snort with amusement.
>Her expression then brims with a smoky confidence.
>"Now…" she slowly begins, "Here's my task for you, little piggy…"
>She takes a couple steps back towards you, blocking your vision of her head.
>"One sweaty ponut," she continues, "and it's just *ripe* for worshipping~"
>Oinking solemnly, your eyes drift down to the ponut in question.
>It only makes sense that she dictates your attention be directed here.
>After all, since her fluffy chest is level with your face…
>That means her sweltering anus is, too.
>Her puffy sphincter is currently right in front of your eyes, being positioned less than half a metre away from your face.
>It's around as big as your fist, but stretchy enough to take just about anything you can give it.
>You can see it subtly and slowly pulsate to and fro—almost as if it's "winking" at you.
>And the smell…
>It's raw—the unfiltered musk of a sweat-caked horse butt.
>You love it. It is indeed ripe for worshipping.
>Oinking like the glutton you are, you find yourself subconsciously leaning forward to try and capture even more of that powerful stench.
>"Like it, huh~?"
>You oink happily and dumbly, for you are a pig who's just found his place in the world.
>"Heh, good."
>She takes another careful step backwards, letting your face fall right onto her rubbery ring—and fully flooding your senses with her potent pigstink.
>God. She smells fantastic.
>"'Cause that's where your face is gonna be 'til my say so."

>She briefly leans forward, moving her rump away from you—and taking your utterly enamoured sniffer with it.
>"Now—"
>She suddenly throws her butt backwards, slamming your head against the wardrobe behind you—thus trapping you between a sturdy wooden door and her hot horse asshole.
>"—dig in~"
>She tantalisingly grinds her fat ass against your pliant face, making sure to thoroughly inundate your impressionably docile being with her noisomely mareish essence.
>Your arms meekly and obediently hang by your sides, wholly content to let your Mistress control the raunchy pace of this smelly course with her girthy horse butt.
>"Sniff it. Smooch it. Love it~"
>You oink spiritedly and submissively, ready to both serve your glorious Mistress and sate your swinish hunger.
>Your eyes see naught but the upper rim of her purplish asshole and the twitching base of her pink dock, so you promptly shut them to further sharpen your other senses.
>Your nostrils, still being stretched open by your four nose hooks, are positioned right in the dead centre of her plush ponut, giving your piglike snout uninhibited access to her natural buttsmell, making you snort and oink agreeably as you greedily sniff it up.
>Your mouth, currently planted against the lower rim of her rubbery ring, peppers her flexible flesh with passionate pecks and loving licks, making sure to wash off all of the tart sweat that coats her wrinkly starfish—and leaving it utterly slick with your servile spit.
>She tastes just as good as she smells: wild and free.
>"Mmmff~" she moans out, playfully rubbing her pucker against your face some more. "Now *that's* a good pig~"
>She has you right where she wants you—where she needs you.
>"Keep at it, okay~?"
>She has made you her personal ass-worshipping and butt-lathering slave.
>"'Cause I wanna make sure this scent *sticks* in my little Boar's brain~"
>You wholeheartedly know this to be where you belong, and so you oink subserviently as you continue devoting your everything to this smelly, pulsing ponut.
>This is the part of her that you're *truly* married to; the rest of your Mistress simply owns you as her property—her plaything of a pig.

>Tilting your nose upwards, you take a good long whiff of her pungent ass stink, feeling it fill your swinish mind with mind-meltingly potent musk.
>It makes your entire body shiver with rightful submission, reassuring you that this is exactly where you are meant to be.
>Sliding your face up her slick sphincter, you keep your snuffling nostrils lined up with the upper rim of her aromatic ring as you plant your pig lips right up against her anal entrance.
>You then lay several soft smooches upon her slimy starfish, pressing pucker against pucker and treating your ponut wife with the respect and adoration she deserves.
>"Mmmmh~" your Mistress hums in approval, further squishing your face against the wardrobe and into her ass.
>Oinking with obedient love, you tentatively probe at her anus with your tongue, feeling her flexing ring gradually give way to your oral muscle.
>It doesn't take much longer until her butthole completely lets you in, giving your adventurous taste buds free reign to explore her tight anal cavity.
>"Aaahn~" your Mistress sighs out with great relief, relaxing her massive rump into your piggish face and letting out a horsey whicker from the front.
>The inside of her humid ass possesses an even deeper and darker flavour compared to the outside.
>It's the untamed tang of a sweaty, stinky Sow who stands above it all—especially you.
>You just can't get enough of it; you must have more.
>And so, plunging your swinelike tongue into her very depths and latching your subservient lips onto her supple entrance, you passionately make out with your ponut wife, Frenching her with the heated fervour of a pig in rut.
>"Ooooh~!" your Mistress coos with delight, clenching her canal around your lathering lapper and happily wiggling her bottom against your face.
>Her sweltering tunnel returns your oral affections with a churning massage, squeezing you softly while slathering your taste buds in warm anal lubrication.
>You savour this sour and slimy reward just like you savour the rest of her—with gusto and gluttony.
>With your lips puckered, your snout sniffling, and your tongue wriggling, you continue to worship your wonderful Mistress while lovingly making out with your magnificent wife.
>She deserves nothing less.

>The two of you go at this for a good long while—with you alternating between giving your ponut wife a deep snorty kiss and sniffing your Mistress's pig stench straight from the source.
>You've been oinking and snorting, while she's been moaning and cooing—and you're pretty sure she's squirted her warm squashy mare fluid down your chest more than a few times.
>Truth be told, you're not sure how much time has passed since you began hoggishly venerating her fat horse ass like this.
>A great many of your minutes have been lost to the pungent depths of her delectable ponut—maybe even enough to make an hour's worth.
>In any case, breathing in her butt has become an act as natural as taking in fresh air.
>But between the two—you vastly prefer the raw, rank stench of your Mistress's rear end more than anything else.
>It smells utterly foul, yet reminds you of home, further solidifying your rightful place snout-deep in this fetid pigpen.
>It tastes bitter beyond belief, but possesses a pleasant tart flavour that never fails to keep you coming back for more.
>It feels warm and squelchy and muscly and *strong;* her pulsating pony asshole is just as powerful as the rest of her—which is something her clamping tunnel ensures you stay abreast of with every anal contraction.
>Her sweaty backdoor has your entire body shuddering with euphoric stimulation, rattling your pig brain with her natural marestink and converting it all into rapturous pleasure.
>In fact…you believe that this acridly aromatic experience has gone on long enough to channel that pleasure into something more climactic.
>Her squishy asshole and muscly cheeks has your face sternly squeezed against the wardrobe door and your lungs obediently breathing her in.
>Your upper body feels slick with sticky sweat and various other fluids, but has otherwise been kept servile and still thanks to the plump rump smushing your head against a sturdy surface.
>Your lower half, on the other hand, has been incessantly trembling within these last few minutes.
>In particular, your wavering legs are shaking with excitement, your twitching thighs are rapidly clenching and unclenching—and your energetic hips have been frantically humping the air for the past minute.

>The tension within your loins cannot be ignored any longer.
>You're close, you can feel it.
>The overpoweringly earthy smell of your Mistress's swamp ass is about to give you a hands-free orgasm.
>And like the pitiful pig you are, you can do naught but let this stimulating stink throw you past the finish line.
>So it comes.
>Oinking into your wife and jutting your hips forward, you violently blast ropes of hoggish virility straight into your own boxers, furiously creaming your white underwear while your face is still being crushed by this potent ponut.
>Each quivering round you fire out makes your already wobbly knees all the weaker for it, soon making them buckle entirely.
>With your legs having given up on keeping you up, the only thing steadying your stance is the continuous pressure of your Mistress's fat ass firmly pressing your head against the wardrobe.
>That very same fat ass continues to aggressively stimulate your pathetic pig brain with its rancid stench and powerful contractions, causing you to empty the rest of your balls into your gunked-up undergarments.
>Your whole body convulses against her butthole as your orgasm tapers out and you dribble out the last of your cum into your fully soiled boxers, ending it all on a whimpering oink.
>"Hm?"
>Despite not having witnessed or felt any of this, your Mistress can easily detect when something is up.
>Nostrils flaring, she sniffles and snorts at the air, soon honing in on that telltale scent of a hog's porker having popped off.
>Her eyes narrow.
>"Hey, wait a minute…"

>She walks forward and pulls away from the wardrobe, finally releasing your face from its pungent prison.
>You immediately drop to your knees with a slumped-over posture, feeling those post-coital pangs wash over your body.
>An ethereal claw soon grips your chin and forces your gaze all the way up.
>Your Mistress is now facing you once more.
>She's bearing down upon you with an irritable expression.
>"Did I say you could finish?"
>Unable to form a coherent reply, you meekly oink in response.
>She clicks her tongue in annoyance:
>"Tch. Typical pig. Always thinking about his own pleasure."
>She turns up her snout and narrows her gaze.
>"Take off your—"
>She pauses, then promptly shakes her head.
>The amber magic around her horn swirls with plucky intent.
>And in a flash, it zaps your boxer shorts straight off your person—coaxing a surprised oink from you—and teleports them up to her face.
>"Hm…"
>Levitating your undergarments in front of her snout, she widens the hem and sticks her nose inside.
>She then sniffs and snorfles at the spermy stains you've left within your underwear, closing her eyes and humming out loud as she does:
>"Mhm…*snffsnff*…hm…*snffsnffsnff*…mm…"
>She spends a good several seconds doing this.
>After which, she opens her eyes, pulls her snout out from within your boxers, and regards them with a thoughtful look.
>She then opens her mouth and tosses your undergarments right inside.

>With many loud chomps and a few crunchy munches, she indulgently masticates on your soiled shorts for several more seconds—before swallowing them completely.
>They travel down her throat and land in her stomach, becoming just another savoury meal for your Mistress.
>"Phew…" she sighs out in deep satiation.
>Her irritable expression from earlier slowly grows up into a contented smile.
>But just before this smile can reach its crescendo, her cheeks suddenly bulge outwards—and she burps out a loud horsey belch.
>"Oop." She blithely pats at her chest with a hoof. "'Scuse me."
>Rolling her shoulders, she casually speaks to herself:
>"Sure woulda been nice to get it straight from the source, but I guess your shorts'll have to do."
>She then looks back down to you, bearing a more amenable expression on her face.
>"Alright," she begins, "I *was* thinking of punishing ya for wasting such a good nut, but your undies have put me in a better mood—so I'll let it slide."
>Her smile grows into a jovial grin.
>"Plus, from one pig to another, I know what it's like to let your libido go hog wild, so it's all good~"
>You oink with swinely gratitude.
>Your Mistress is so kind and benevolent.
>"Still…"
>Using the magical claw that cups your chin, she lifts you up to a standing position.
>She keeps your face level with her chest, but angles your gaze up to her toothy mug.
>"…you *are* gonna have to make it up to me, though."
>She conjures up another magical claw and uses it to gently squeeze and freely fondle your sack, making your breath shoot up your throat.
>"And to do that," she continues, "it's only fair you put some of your sweet cream in the right place this time, yeah?"
>You oink shakily—yet affirmatively.
>"Mhm." She nods. "Good."
>Your obsequious mind is fully ready to serve your wonderful Mistress, but your body is still feeling the wobbly shudders from your prior orgasm.
>Casting her eyes down your now-naked form, your Mistress watches your knees struggle to even stay upright—much less support your stance.
>She chuckles at the sight.
>"Can barely stand, huh?"
>She lightly shakes her head.
>"That's okay. You don't need to be on your hooves for this next bit."
>She dissipates the amber-hued appendages that were holding your chin and feeling your balls—and promptly surrounds your whole body within her manipulative magic.
>Using this ethereal shell, she lifts you up into the air—
>"Brace yourself."
>—and tosses you onto your bed.

>You land on your back with a soft *pomf* and a gasping oink.
>Lifting your head, you can see your Mistress walking across the floor and over to you.
>"Not a bad landing."
>Her eyes quickly scan the bed's edge, before returning to you.
>"Buuut…"
>Using her magic, she picks you up and moves you down along the bed's rectangular length, soon setting your butt down upon its lower-left corner.
>Your left leg now hangs from the bed's bottom edge, while your right leg hangs from its left edge.
>"…here would be better."
>This bed doesn't possess a footboard, so you assume this diagonally aligned position of yours must provide your Mistress some additional leeway for whatever she has planned.
>Speaking of your Mistress, she's now standing in front of your body, having followed your movements.
>Her magic no longer surrounds your body, but it still surrounds her horn.
>"First thing's first…"
>A steady stream of amber magic slowly snakes out from her horn's tip.
>"Better get you refuelled, eh?"
>Said amber stream soon coalesces into a long, string-like entity that appears to "swim" in the air; it's about a metre in length.
>Your Mistress gracefully manipulates this magical string like a sparkler, making it perform a whimsical figure-eight motion through the air—
>Before sending it straight into your balls.

>You sharply gasp out in surprise at having your scrotum suddenly penetrated.
>It doesn't hurt, but it feels incredibly intrusive.
>Her magic virulently bounces around inside your sack, pinging off your testicles while soaring up and down your dick.
>It is a strange sensation, but it somehow serves to make you feel like a bigger Boar—in more ways than one.
>Your spent meat springs to virile life, while your emptied balls become fatter and weightier, roiling with newfound vigour.
>Your loins surge with limitless power, and your knees feel like they've been reinforced with steel caps.
>Put plainly, you now feel more than ready to go for a second round.
>Its purpose finished, your Mistress's magic safely dissipates within your scrotum, leaving your balls hanging heavy with a deep need to breed.
>You find yourself letting out a bestial snort—the telltale sound of a Boar just *begging* to be thoroughly tamed by his Sow.
>"Heh, that queenly mead or whatever sure is useful."
>A floating amber claw suddenly grips your shaft with fierce resolve, forcing a squeal out of you.
>This claw then sharply angles your penis so that it points straight up towards the rafters.
>Tilting your gaze upwards, you can see your Mistress now looming over your body.
>She wears a self-satisfied smirk upon her face as she eyes your dick down.
>"Not only does it turn you into the perfect submissive stud—"
>She uses more of her magic to give your left testicle a playful flick, making you grunt out a gasp.
>"—but it also makes sure your body is pumping its energy into *exactly* the right places~"
>She shoots you a confident wink.
>"'Course, there's no harm in using some of *my* magic to speed things up a little, am I right~?"

>She snorts out a chuckle at her own words, before fixing upon you with a sultry fire in her amber eyes.
>"Now then…"
>She then leans forward over the bed—over you—resting her forehooves upon the edges of the mattress and next to your hips.
>The pressure she applies upon the mattress's springs makes the bed sink downwards—and you along with it.
>It's times like this that you're glad your bed has no legs.
>"How 'bout we stick this porker where it *really* belongs, eh~?"
>Gazing down at your groin, your Mistress licks her lips with an animalistic hunger.
>"'Cause my fat winker's been *burning* for a taste of my Boar~"
>Her gaze shifts over to your thighs, and her horn steadily swirls with even more manipulative power.
>"'Course, if I'm gonna get my nightly *breeding* in…"
>She uses her magic to grab ahold of both your legs.
>"…then I better make sure my Boar assumes the proper position."
>She then lifts your legs straight up and spreads them apart, holding them outwards in a V-shape.
>This means that you are effectively presenting yourself to her now.
>Her smirk turns toothy at this.
>"Heh, perfect."
>Lurching forward and adopting a wide-legged stance, she clambers onto the bed, stepping over your body—and bending your own legs backwards in the process.
>You let out a wheezing oink as your Mistress's massive girth completely folds the lower half of your body above your upper half with her assertive advance.
>Her sturdy hindhooves steady themselves on the floor at either side of this bed's corner, while her forehooves now press themselves on a part of the mattress that's far above your head.
>Her powerful thighs utterly dominate yours, forcing your legs up and around her muscly flanks.
>Her horsey barrel hovers directly above your head and wholly encompasses your vision with its wide underside, ensuring you can see nothing other than the hanging flab of her strong gut—and the seductive sag of her fat crotchboobs.
>Your submissive form has been firmly pinned underneath her own, making the lower half of your body curve up into the air and your legs bend backwards towards your head.
>She has put you in an amazon press.

>You hear your Mistress breathe out a contented sigh at having put you in your rightful place.
>"Good. Now to…"
>She bends the knees of her forelegs backwards, resting her weight upon her cannons, as she carefully lowers herself onto you.
>Her ethereal appendage still grips your rock-hard erection, and currently has it angled straight up towards her steadily descending horsepussy—which means that she's basically bending your dick backwards as she keeps pointing it skywards.
>You feel her magical claw give you a teasing squeeze as she painstakingly prepares to stick you in her warmly drooling winker, making your breath sharply hitch and your thighs wimpily clench around her body.
>Soon—very soon—you feel yourself poking at the fleshy folds of a well-familiar entrance.
>"…mmf…"
>You hear her let out a mareish snort as her petals pick up the stirring sensation of her mate's meat waiting just outside her borders.
>Lowering her hips, she slowly takes you in.
>Her walls warmly welcome you in—yet hungrily clamp around your length, eliciting a piglike snort from you.
>The ethereal claw around your cock gradually dissipates into the ether as more and more of your mast is greedily eaten up by your Mistress's churning canal.
>Once you feel yourself sink about half of your member into your Mistress—she suddenly drops her hips onto yours with an impatient huff, swiftly plunging you up to the base and keeping you there.
>"…phew!"
>She lightly wiggles her hips atop yours, moving side to side. making sure to get a good feel for how deeply you're now wedged inside her.
>"Aaahhh~" she lets out a hearty sigh, deeply relishing her dominance.
>She then gently rocks her hips against yours, moving forward and back, as she tentatively tests the limits of your piggish flexibility.
>Despite her immense size, she really is the perfect fit for you.
>Her wet walls hug you tightly, unwilling to let you leave, yet readily lubricating your express passage to her hungering depths with many slurpy squeezes and slushy squirts.
>Her potent heat infectiously melds with your own, surging up your loins and putting you in just a swinishly horny state as her.
>Her thick hindlegs continue to powerfully hold the lower half of your body down above your upper half, further reminding you of your proper role as her submissive breeding stud.
>Your Mistress steadies her body's movements and nods to herself, fully satisfied with the position she's put you in.

>"Now this—"
>She suddenly jerks her hips down into yours, slamming your butt against the bed and forcing a strained squeal from your lips.
>"—now *this* is where a Boar like you belongs."
>Your hands desperately grip the sheets by your sides as you hold on for dear life.
>With another huff, your Mistress lifts her hips up into the air—taking your possessively clamped penis and the rest of your lower half with it.
>Once she pulls you high enough that her hocks are as upright as they can go—she promptly smashes her hips down against yours yet again, pounding your body into the bed.
>"Underneath his Sow."
>She lifts her hips and pounds your pelvis into the mattress once more, making the pained springs creak, making your whole body shudder—and making your swinish lungs squeal.
>"While she takes everything she deserves from him."
>This is her rhythm. Forceful and commanding. Selfish and domineering. Brutish and overpowering.
>She proves her undeniable superiority over you with bracing lifts and vigorous thrusts, putting you in your place with a slam.
>"While he behaves himself and gives her everything she *needs.*"
>Slam.
>"'Cause he's a good little—" She snorts out like a wild hog. "—a good little PIG!"
>SLAM.
>She screams out a loud, earthy squeal—and proceeds to go utterly hog wild on your ass.
>Her overbearing body ploughs yours like a jackhammer as she ruthlessly slamfucks you into the corner of the mattress.
>You snort and shiver and squeal and oink as she continually claims you, over and over and over.
>At this point, it's hard to tell who really possesses the penis here—but she's definitely the one dominating you regardless.
>Her plump horse lips sloppily smush against your base and squishily suck on your spear as she thrusts your entire pelvis up and down in the air.
>Her weighty bellyfat sloshily jiggles above your head while her massive mareteats energetically bounce to and fro as a result of her licentious movements.
>Her powerful thighs repeatedly ram your butt with every passionate pump, making your toned cheeks ripple from the impact; at the same time, her flame-coloured tail sharply slaps your balls, whipping your sensitive system with a painful pleasure.
>She ruts you like a swine in season, heatedly plapping your feeble form against the squeaking mattress—and stretching the very limits of your enhanced flexibility.
>Her hoglike sounds match your own in their piggish potency, yet her oinks and snorts sound *far* more dominant in comparison—far more untamed.
>She is the Alpha Sow of this pigpen, the ruler of the roost, so it's only fair that your throbbing penis totally submits to her squelching pussy.
>Every drop of semen you can give is her personal property—as is her right as your perfect Mistress.

>She soon picks up the pace, fucking your phallus with even greater frequency—and wholly giving herself over to her hoggish instincts.
>As this swinish heat steadily fogs up her magnificent mind, her lusty noises manage to become even more bestial than they were before.
>There are no feminine moans or delicate whimpers to be heard from this pighorse—only the animalistic grunts of a horny hog desperate to get its rocks off by any means necessary.
>Faced with just this huge, heaving belly jostling right above your face, your eyes and ears would struggle to recognise this large creature as anything more than a monstrous pig rutting your rump for its own selfish amusement.
>Yet your porcine brain nonetheless recognises these raunchy stimuli as those that belong to your beloved mate—your wondrous Mistress.
>She possesses absolutely no ladylike qualities right now—and besides the horsey noises she frequently emits, barely any mareish traits.
>She is a muscle-brained beast—a dominant, snorty pig who is currently in the virile process of fiercely claiming her subservient mate.
>Her hole has claimed you; it powerfully churns around your captured cock, wringing you out with ravenous impunity.
>Her scent has claimed you; even now, your face fully reeks of her natural buttsmell, pungently informing anyone you could ever meet about where your pig snout truly belongs.
>Her very *essence* has claimed you; your mind submits to hers by default, while her body has made *thoroughly* certain all of your somatic senses are hopelessly addicted to every single sweaty pore of her being—ensuring you literally cannot live without her.
>And…
>Your pigmare Mistress suddenly lets loose a loud, utterly uninhibited neigh—which is promptly followed by several rapid oinks.
>Her slushy snatch then squirts out several stinky streams of sticky swine grool, firing her liquid excitement forward and towards you.
>She doesn't slow down her raunchy rhythm on account of her own mini-orgasm, no—in fact, she speeds up, pounding your pelvis into the mattress even harder and faster, thus giving her steamy squirts many shifting elevations with which to arc over and across your bare body.
>Some of her swinish mare fluid splatters onto your chest and pools within your bellybutton, staining your omphalos with her stink.
>Other goopy globs of it land on your piggified snout, either dribbling down your elongated nostrils or dripping into your open mouth.
>You snort out the former and eagerly swallow the latter.
>It tastes like rancid pig piss backed by a subtle juicy tang.
>In other words—absolutely delicious.
>Her winked out marecum covers your body, enriches your skin, and satiates your stomach.
>And it is another part of her that has just claimed you.

>Many minutes pass, and your Mistress continues to savagely smash her hips against yours as she furiously pumps your penis in and out of her pussy.
>During this time, she has unleashed several more slimy squirts of hoggish glee all over your naked form, further scent marking you as her property.
>She also hasn't let up in her rough ravaging of your breedable body—not even a little.
>Her horsey heft and swinish strength vastly outclasses your own, and any normal pig—humanoid or otherwise—would've had his pelvic bones completely shattered by now.
>But you are not any normal pig; you are your Mistress's obedient cum pump—something to be fucked hard and used up whenever the mood suits her.
>Your body is tailor-made to take any amount of her mareish frustrations and keep coming back for more.
>Yes, you are built for her personal pleasure and not much else.
>Your bodies are also immutably bonded together, and whenever they're connected like this, your climaxes become synchronised.
>This is why you know that these frequent stanky squirts of hers are merely a taste of what's to come—and not the real deal.
>Your loins surge with hers; when you throb, she clenches—and when you tremble, she rumbles.
>What more proof could you need that you only exist to be her exclusive fucktoy?
>Another squirt from her; this time, a solid jet of her swinish swill lands straight in your mouth, letting you savour the natural tartness of her delectable flavour.
>A certain tension makes itself known to your loins, and your Mistress's savage movements speed up even more.
>You're getting close—which means she is, too.

>Neither of you have to say anything; the rampaging beast above your body only needs to keep mercilessly slamfucking your submissive self at her perverse leisure, and the rest will come naturally.
>Her rutting is rapacious and unrefined, clearly prioritising her own carnal pleasure above all else—yet just so happening to drag you along for the ride.
>Her sounds are snorty and squelchy, creating a lecherous cacophony of fleshy slaps from below and animal noises from above, which is blissful music to your pig ears.
>Her body is bountiful and beauteous, freely flaunting her jiggling assets above your entire person, and further filling your impressionable brain with the virile knowledge that your subservient swimmers can make this Sow grow even larger.
>Those fruitful thoughts are what guide your libido to the finish line.
>Your body is made to breed—to have all of your baby batter bred out of your balls and claimed by your Mistress.
>Every throbbing inch of you belongs to her—to this mountainous monster of a fertile hog.
>Your tightening balls are in wholesale agreement with you on this matter.
>And so you finally cum.
>Or—more accurately—*she* cums.
>Just as you begin to fire off your future piglets into your Mistress's farrow factory, you hear her let loose a squealing whinny that rouses your spirit and stirs your loins.
>She promptly drops her entire body straight onto yours, completely folding your lower half over your upper half—and mercilessly crushing you underneath the unbridled brunt of her full horsey weight.
>Game over.

>Except…your body is built to take exactly this kind of punishment.
>Your face has been forced right up against her squishy gut, while her fat breasts softly smush against your own stomach.
>But you're perfectly fine.
>No—you're better than fine.
>You're cumming.
>And so is she.
>The dam bursts, and her mareish canal utterly floods your groin with her warm, stinky squash soup—totally marinating your pubes in her thick, yellowish essence.
>At the same time, you proceed to blast off round after round of roiling pig seed straight into her deepest depths, while her churning walls ensure that every single one of your shots hits their fecund mark.
>Even now, the two of you are intimately connected up to the hilt—all thanks to the work of her strong pelvis and forceful thighs keeping your lower body firmly pinned down.
>Your all-too-flexible erection is still being pointed up at an awkward angle as her creaming clam continually clings onto your cock, wringing out your sperm.
>Your bent-back legs instinctively yet feebly attempt to lock around the mare who currently holds you in a fierce amazon press, only managing to rest your feet against the upper area of her flanks.
>Your bare arms similarly lift up of their own accord, having been inspirited by an irresistible need to embrace your muscular Mistress, and wrap around her broad barrel, grasping at around her middle.
>She overpowers your body and overwhelms your senses—and nothing exemplifies this more then the sloshing, grumbling gut she currently has pressed against your face.
>It smells sweaty, feels greasy, and sounds powerful.
>It surrounds you with warmth, saggily encompassing your entire being like a slushy beanbag.
>It dominates your docile brain with its potent presence, demanding you worship every inch of it.
>So you do.
>As you continue unloading white-hot ropes inside of your Mistress, your few active brain cells devote their everything to venerating her plush potbelly.
>You needily knead and grope at the sides of her soft stomach, feeling it agreeably churn and rumble under your servile touch.
>You hungrily sniff and snorf at every fold and every crease of her plump paunch, happily taking in her earthy bellysmell through your widened pig snout.
>You lavishly lick and slavishly smooch every single part of your Mistress's bulky breadbasket, allowing you to taste the tartness of her sweat, savour the smoothness of her coat, and glorify the greasiness of her flesh—all while peppering her supple tummy with leagues upon leagues of sloppy, slurpy kisses.

>Her heavy, sagging gut is your whole world right now, squashing you against the mattress and groaning straight to your face.
>Each and every cumshot you obediently pump into her magnificent pussy is another fertile reminder that you're helping this momentous belly expand its reach even further.
>It makes your swelling balls churn up your very best loads so that your pulsing penis may satisfy your Mistress's extremely deep cravings.
>You oink and snort like the pig you are as you continue emptying your nuts inside of her soupy depths.
>With every rocketed round, your lower halves twitchily tremble together, while her fat belly continually rubs itself against your piglike face, smearing you in her tummyscent and demanding more of your oral adulation—which you eagerly oblige.
>Your bodies work in tandem with the other, sharing sexual fluids and comfily making babies.
>She douses you in her appreciation, while you blast her with your veneration.
>The squelchy sounds and animalistic noises of two swine making sweet love steam the air, permeating this yurt with the heady stench of a sweaty pigpen.
>Your rod soon throbs out the remainder of your rounds, draining your kegs to their very dregs.
>You become completely spent, having served your nightly purpose as your Mistress's biddable breeding pump.
>Yet your Mistress shows zero signs of moving off your body, or even releasing your legs from their folded-back position.
>She continues to stay right where she is, keeping you trapped underneath her corpulent form in a powerful amazon press.
>The flow of her squash has now ceased, but her portly paunch still weightily presses against your face and steadily grinds against it, reminding you of your ever-present duty to worship its impressive fecundity.
>She offers no words to you regarding her current intentions or post-coital bliss, only hearty whickers and snorting oinks.
>Your swinish brain instinctively recognises these primal noises to be earnest praise for her beloved mate, making this auditory stimuli fire up your dopamine receptors and mentally reward you for being such a good pig.
>Words do not come easy to your Mistress in this snorty state of mind.
>She's become a breed-brained beast just like you.
>However, you must never forget that she's the dominant—the Alpha—while you're merely her submissive stud.
>She controls the pace. She dictates where you belong at any given moment.
>And right now, she has you right where she needs you.

>She keeps you pinned underneath her great form for at least five more minutes.
>Her squishy belly sloshily churns and amenably rumbles against your kissing lips, where her slushy pussy relaxedly wrings out your wholly sheathed cock.
>During this time, she manages to extract every last drop of virile cum from your sagging balls, maximising her chances of fertilisation.
>You feel warm, content, domesticated—and most importantly, useful to your Mistress.
>As you continue happily submitting your everything to her—she suddenly tightens up, gripping your meat with a measure of lucidity.
>She lets out a loud, throaty hum and arcs her back forward, pushing her greasy gut even deeper into your face.
>Her stomach groans out its honest affection for you, surrounding your bare body in its smushy embrace.
>Your Mistress then lets out a breathily relieved sigh, fully deflating her form onto yours and letting gravity take care of the rest.
>For you, this removes any remaining tension her body was holding, making her soft tummy feel just that little bit softer.
>Your Mistress sniffles at the air a few times, before snorting it all out triumphantly.
>"Now *that* was a good breeding sesh~"
>She laxly crosses her forelegs over each other in front of her chest, and she slightly wiggles her hips on top of your groin—making your hips wiggle with them.
>"Hm…" she thoughtfully hums. "Wouldn't mind just keeping you under there for the rest of the night…"
>She hums some more, genuinely considering the idea.

>A few seconds pass.
>"…Eh, nah," she blithely rejects her own idle whimsy. "I have a better idea."
>With a mareish huff, she painstakingly lifts her hips up into the air—taking yours along with them.
>Your penis, still wedged deep within her Sow hole, endeavours to keep your lower halves connected even at this height—while your trembling legs continue to lightly lock around her loin, playing their own meagre part in helping you stay airborne.
>"Now to just…"
>Utilising her expert muscle control, she releases her hold on your cock.
>As it turns out, your locking legs can do little by themselves—and so your butt promptly drops back down to the mattress as you fully unsheathe from your Mistress.
>Said Mistress puffs out a proud sigh, feeling her personal cum pump be ejected from her body—while her creamy prize yet remains inside her fertile core:
>"Phew~"
>She then lifts the rest of her body and steps backwards, moving away from the bed.
>"Alright…"
>Now standing by the bed's edge and in front of you, she walks past your right side and moves along the bed's length, making her way up to where the pillows are.
>There, she uses her magic to flip over the duvet, exposing the bare mattress underneath.
>She then turns her gaze towards you.
>"Now c'mere," she beckons you with brusque tone and a slight tilt of her head. "You're sleeping naked tonight."
>You blink a couple times, your lethargic pig brain steadily taking in her cogent words.
>But soon enough, your response to her absolute command is—as always—an obedient and affirmative oink.

>…
>You and your Mistress are now in bed together.
>She lies on her back, head against the pillow—while you lie on top of her body, head against her chest.
>Your legs and arms are both wrapped around her horsey barrel, hugging her like she's an extremely soft body pillow.
>Her forelegs hang over your shoulders and laxly cling around your upper back, while her hindlegs are spread far and wide without a care.
>She's careful not to touch you with her steel horseshoes, instead making sure the fuzzy fur of her overgrown fetlocks are what remain in contact with your bare skin.
>Like your Mistress said earlier, you are completely naked; the only things on your person that can be considered clothing are the collar around your neck and the hooks in your nose.
>You are, of course, totally fine with this. It's what your Mistress mandated, after all.
>The bed's duvet is still upturned, but her expansive wings warmly wrap around your entire body and encase you within a comforting cocoon of cerise-pink feathers.
>You feel safe. You feel protected. You feel *right.*
>You feel perfectly at home with your Mistress.
>"Haaah…" she happily sighs out. "This is the life."
>Lifting her right foreleg, she uses the side of her hoof to give your head a few affectionate rubs.
>"Got my Boar in my bed and on his best behaviour."
>She proudly snorts up into the air, tightening the grip her left foreleg has around your upper back.
>"He knows his place—where he *belongs*—while I'm at the tip top of the food chain."
>Turning her head, she gazes over towards her yurt's door.
>"And then we've got a huge army of loyal piglets at our beck and call, ready to take over Equestria for good."
>Her amber eyes burn with ambitious fire.
>"One word from me—and I can turn this whole world into a total pigsty for the both of us."
>She tilts her head to look back down at you.
>"Sounds nice, don't it?"
>She gives your head a thoughtful stroke.
>"Our personal mess…"
>You oink with agreement; how could you not?
>Your Mistress obviously knows what's best for you and this world.
>She cheerfully chuckles at your eager response.
>"See, you get it~"
>But rather than order an attack on Equestria right this very moment, she casts her gaze up to the rafters.
>She wears a ruminatory expression on her face, and she breathes out a resigned sigh:
>"Ah…"
>She shakes her head with a wistful smile.
>"If only…"

>The two of spend a couple more minutes like this: a submissive pig held in the winged embrace of his supremely powerful Mistress.
>Your piglike snout is buried in her ample chest fluff.
>It smells particularly musky, which is incredibly comforting to you.
>"Oh," your Mistress suddenly speaks up, "'fore I forget…"
>She lowers her gaze and addresses you:
>"Hey, lift your head. I want you facing me."
>You do as your Mistress commands, soon making eye contact with her.
>Her gaze briefly flits down to your widened nostrils, before returning to your eyes.
>"Alright, now stay still."
>You once again do as your Mistress commands, this time seeing her horn enshroud itself in amber magic.
>Her magic dextrously manipulates something behind your head, unlatching straps and loosening tension.
>Soon enough, she safely levitates those four metal hooks out from within your nostrils, allowing your stretched snout to retract back to its normal nose shape.
>"There."
>She floats your removed nose hooks over to the western quarter of her yurt and drops them into an unseen container.
>"Don't want you waking up with those things still on," she speaks somewhat bashfully. "You'll probably get mad at me."
>She tentatively tugs at your leather collar for a brief second—before quickly letting go of it.
>"You can keep the collar, though. It suits you to a tee."
>Her face twists into a smug sneer, and she addresses you with a dominantly husky growl:
>"'Cause you're *my* property. And *I'm* your Alpha."
>She suddenly forces your head back into her massive chest fluff with her right forehoof.
>"Now get your face back in my tuft and start sniffing," she barks. "I want my scent following you all the way into your dreams."

>You obey without question, using your newly reformed sniffer to get a good continuous whiff of her natural tuft musk.
>It smells extremely pleasant: sweaty and homey.
>Never mind sleeping here—you want to live in this fluffy forest for the rest of your life.
>"Yeah…" She relaxes her hoof's pressure on your head and gives you an approving rub. "That's the way…"
>Using her magic, she flips the bed's duvet back into its rightful place, blanketing her body from the neck down.
>Of course, since your face is firmly buried in her chest and your limbs are warmly hugging her belly—this means that the duvet now covers your whole body.
>You are thus totally shrouded in murky darkness and fully submerged in her potent musk.
>Her hoof lovingly rests against your head, her wings warmly wrap around your body, and this thick duvet has just provided an additional layer of insulation on top of it all.
>In this multi-coated cocoon, there is absolutely no hope of escape from her mareish essence, nor is there any chance of running from her swinish aroma.
>And for a domesticated pig like yourself—there can be no greater place for you to rest your sniffling snout.
>You happily take her in—all of her.
>Your mare. Your Sow. Your Mistress.
>And you capitulate to her completely.
>She lets out a deeply contented sigh, thoroughly relishing the instinctual subservience of her mated pig.
>"With any luck," she begins, "this'll get you accepting me as your Alpha for real."
>She softly pets your head.
>"Then we could do all that fun stuff I mentioned earlier."
>She spends a few more seconds caressing your noggin, before deflating slightly.
>"Heh, it's nice to dream…"

>More minutes pass in this truly comfortable cuddling position, with neither of you having drifted off to dreamland just yet—though not for any lack of trying.
>Your Mistress's warm body makes a most excellent sleeping aid, serenading your senses with every single aspect of her.
>The steady rise and fall of her soft stomach keeps you adrift over a sea of darkness, reminding you that your Sow is your rock in the tides.
>The pleasant musk of her fluffy tuft fills your nostrils and spreads throughout your system, ensuring every part of you is thoroughly permeated in her potent essence.
>The strong pumps of her horsey heart proudly pump against your bare body, daring to resonate its pulse with your own—yet holding off for fear of one reason or another.
>Still, you could definitely fall asleep to this muscly metronome, guided by your Mistress's scent and supported by her powerful form.
>"…Hey, Master."
>That is the wistful voice of your Mistress.
>You suppose you are her Master, yes—but it feels far more natural to submit to her and be her slave.
>"I know your brain's pretty scrambled right now, but…"
>She takes a breathy pause, before continuing:
>"Just want you to know that I'll always stick by you, no matter what happens."
>You gives your head another stroke with her hoof.
>"Doesn't matter whether I'm your Alpha or not; I'll always keep you safe."
>Her embrace around your body tightens, and she confidently snorts up into the air.
>"I'll *always* protect my mate."
>She relaxes her grip on you, then lightly wiggles her back into the mattress, getting more comfortable.
>"Mhm, yeah. That's about all I wanted to say."
>She lightly pats your head.
>"We'll talk more in the morning when you're less zonked."
>She nestles the back of her head into her plush pillow.
>"For now…"
>She lets out an unabashedly noisy yawn up into the air, smacking her horsey lips together a few times after the fact.
>"…we should get some shuteye. Us pigs need our beauty sleep."
>She snortily sniffles a little bit, then lets her head fall onto its side.
>"G'nite, Master," she mumbles out. "I love you…"
>It doesn't take much longer until you hear her start to loudly saw logs as she falls deep into a snoreful somnolence.
>Your Mistress is so graceful, even in her slumber.
>As for you, the mellifluous melody of your mate's hoglike snores is more than enough to serenade you over to the other side.
>And so you happily drift off to sleep, taking her mareish musk with you into your dreams, and wholly accepting your Mistress as your superior—your Alpha.
>It is what she desires, after all, and as long as your body breathes and your brain submits, you shall venerate your Sow as she deserves.
>With that, you join her in sweet slumber.