The Cat Opened The Door

You're not fond of the city. There's a sooty smell in the air and it's always a little too hot or a little too cold. Tonight it's the latter. It's a full moon tonight, giving the smog-filled sky this strange wispy glow that struggles, and ultimately fails, to light your way. The braziers serve you better, burning high on the brick walls boxing in the property. The gate creaks and sways uneasily, bent and forced and useless, on its hinges. The (text-colour:orange)[[[lock->The Lock]]] sits at your feet, an ugly piece of wrought iron made so by massive, hungry jaws. The manor looms above all of it, three stories of utter flagrancy. You need only (text-colour:orange)[[[step through->The Courtyard]]]. <audio src="https://freesound.org/data/previews/352/352867_4187409-lq.mp3" autoplay>

The bricks could be frozen with how they bite under your hindpaws. A nice little fountain decorated with doves is still running perfectly well in the center of the courtyard, trickling softly. Everyone arrived for the party hours ago, though it only **really** began some minutes back, when your beasts came knocking. You were preoccupied when they made their grand entrance, but everything seems to have gone just fine in your absence. Through latticed windows you see silhouettes revel and utterly *toss the place.* (t8n:"shudder")+(link:"(text-colour:orange)[Speaking of,]")[Speaking of, a chair smashes into a (text-colour:orange)[[[window->Scolding]]] on an upper story and you jolt as glass comes raining down on you.] <audio src="https://freesound.org/data/previews/352/352867_4187409-lq.mp3" autoplay>

All this stone and all this steel and they couldn't even keep the wolves at bay. Bless their hearts, if they haven't been (text-colour:orange)[[[ripped out->The Gate]]]. <audio src="https://freesound.org/data/previews/352/352867_4187409-lq.mp3" autoplay>

The mansion is so excessive that you could see it from halfway across town. Now that you're here, you're all but certain it's nothing but (link:"(text-colour:orange)[insecurity.]")[insecurity. (text-colour:orange)[[[Carriages->Carriages]]], all sleek and elegant and avant-garde, line either end of the avenue. Fewer than there were, suggesting some got away, and there isn't a rider in sight. (if:$Horses is 0)[The horses that haven't broken loose have by and large stopped panicking, at least until you approach and send their dispositions fraying anew. (text-colour:orange)[[[Poor dears.->Horses]]]] Ahead of you are the (text-colour:orange)[[[gates.->The Gate]]] You're running a little late.] <audio src="https://freesound.org/data/previews/352/352867_4187409-lq.mp3" autoplay>

You shield your face with a sleeve. A tiny little shard here and there bounces off the leather. You shake sparkly dust out of your hair and squint up at the offending pane. (text-colour:#ffc078)["CRIPES! TAKE IT EASY UP THERE!"] A canid face presses incautiously against the thin metal bars of the shattered window's lattice to peer down at you from high above. He doesn't span the full height of the window, but he's big enough to come close. Ears fold flat. An apology is growled out. He ducks back into the darkness, mildly ashamed. Oh, who could stay mad at a face like that? You brush some extra glass off your shoulders. Right. (text-colour:orange)[(t8n-depart:"fade-down")+(t8n-arrive:"fade-up")[[The door->The Cat Opened The Door]]], please. <audio src="https://freesound.org/data/previews/352/352867_4187409-lq.mp3" autoplay>

<img src="https://i.gyazo.com/2464cb724968dc8789cfc7c2ab28902b.png" width="770" height="560" alt="Cat Opened The Door"> (text-colour:grey)[^^An NSFW Text Adventure by @HypnoCatto on Twitter Made in Twine: Harlowe 3.2.1^^] ... and (t8n-depart:"blur")+(t8n-arrive:"fade-down")+(text-colour:orange)[[[steps inside->The Foyer]]]. <audio src="https://freesound.org/data/previews/346/346211_5121236-lq.mp3" autoplay>

You unsheathe your (link-reveal:"(text-colour:orange)[claws...]")[= ... and, after taking some time to calm them down, cut them free. It's a futile action. There's no freedom in this cobble-maze. But it might inconvenience *someone*, and yes, you're (text-colour:orange)[[[*precisely*->The Street]]] that petty. (if:visits is 1)[(set: $Horses to 1)]<audio src="https://freesound.org/data/previews/352/352867_4187409-lq.mp3" autoplay>

(t8n:"shudder")+(link:"(text-colour:orange)[Velvet]")[Scratched] seats. (t8n:"shudder")+(link:"(text-colour:orange)[Gilded]")[Busted] spokes. Elegant coats of arms on the (t8n:"shudder")+(link:"(text-colour:orange)[doors.]")[doors, of which you have taken great pride in carving cocks into with your claws.] (more:)[That was fun. But don't you have (text-colour:orange)[[[somewhere->The Street]]] to be?] <audio src="https://freesound.org/data/previews/352/352867_4187409-lq.mp3" autoplay>

(text-colour:#f1f3f5)[***The Foyer*** ---] A grand chandelier hangs over black-and-white tiles. Yellow-gold mantua festoons the walls. It's clear this was a scene of considerable chaos: purses, monocoles, the occasional high-heel, spilled or shattered wine glasses, and a powdered wig have all been littered and abandoned in the panic of the guests. Ornate double doors sit at your left and right, leading to the (text-colour:orange)[[[West Wing->The West Wing]]] and (text-colour:orange)[[[East Wing->The East Wing]]] respectively. There's the exit, too, naturally. A border-collie (text-colour:orange)[[[butler->The Butler]]] sits on his hands and knees by the elegant (text-colour:orange)[[[stairwell->Upper Floors]]], bearing (text-colour:orange)[[[Sonata->Sonata]]] on his back like a chaisse lounge. The feline files his claws and acknowledges you with a devil-may-care bow of the head.

(text-colour:#f1f3f5)[***The West Wing*** ---] Vases have been toppled and shattered across the red-and-gold medallion carpets lining the way. Foot traffic was clearly heavy here. Through the doors leading to the (text-colour:orange)[[[Dining Room->The Dining Room]]], you can hear murmurs and growls alike. Pots, pans and cabinets can be heard banging around in the (text-colour:orange)[[[Kitchen->The Kitchen]]]. The (text-colour:orange)[[[Foyer->The Foyer]]] is just down that way, through the tall twin doors.

(text-colour:#f1f3f5)[***The Second Floor*** ---] The second of three stories. Bedrooms have long been ransacked, doors hanging bent and kicked in or ripped flat off their hinges. Those precious few rooms that seem untouched are tightly sealed, which of course makes you want to open them more than anything in the world. There's the doors to the (text-colour:orange)[[[Private Study->Private Study Door]]], as well as the (text-colour:orange)[[[Master Bedroom->Master Bedroom Door]]]. The (text-colour:orange)[[[Foyer->The Foyer]]] is just down the too-many stairs.

(text-colour:#f1f3f5)[***The East Wing*** ---] (if:$RamsesKey is not 2)[(text-colour:orange)[[[Oil Paintings->Paintings]]]](if:$RamsesKey is 2)[Oil paintings] glare down at you as you traipse through the hall. They are either overly flattering, entirely tasteless, or just a tinge embarrassing. All three, in one case. Occasionally you find a frame that's ever-so-slightly (text-rotate-z:3)[askew] where someone was tossed into the wall, or claw marks raking down the canvas. Up ahead, tall well-embellished doors lead the way to the (text-colour:orange)[[[Ball Room->The Ball Room]]]. You can slip into the (text-colour:orange)[[[Bar->The Bar]]] and the (text-colour:orange)[[[Servant's Quarters->The Servant's Quarters]]] from here, too. And the (text-colour:orange)[[[Foyer->The Foyer]]]'s just down that way.

Oh, Sonata did a *splendid* job on this one. He must have been a refined sort of man, just ten minutes ago. Not so much anymore. His suit jacket is unbuttoned, his trousers tenting and dripping through the fabric with pre, his eyes glazed over and dotted with hearts, his mouth gagged with a balled-up lace stocking. Even still, his tail wags to a happy little rhythm, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, the man quickly broken into an adoring piece of furniture for the beautiful feline above.(if:$Butler is 0)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[• Bully him!->The Puppy]]]](if:$Butler is 1)[ He's still basking in the afterglow of the *first* time you played with him. His tail wags instinctively when you pay him closer attention, and you encourage the habit with a few rubs of the ears. Adorable, really, but you'd best give him some space. Wouldn't wanna spoil him, now would you?] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Step back->The Foyer]]]

Crouching down, you get a hand around the man's prick, grasping him through the fabric. It can't have been *that* long since Sonata caught him, but you'd never know with how desperate he is to buck in your hand. He's been well-trained towards etiquette, and keeps his 'rider' well in mind enough not to roll his hips *too* hard, but it's a plain and clear uphill battle, as much as he's trying. All that effort deserves to be (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**rewarded.**]")[**rewarded.** You can feel him pulse and throb **hard** in his pants. Of course, you still have every intent to take your time; your fingers, made deft and delicate through years of both witchcraft and debauchery, give a firm squeeze and settle into a steady, even rhythm of pumping him. He pants out into the sock between his jaws, soaking the garment with drool, eyes fluttering as you wring out prespunk into his trousers. You don't see much point in soiling your hand further than necessary, on just one *pup*. So you content yourself with helping him out through that thin and frail barrier, as just another humiliation for the **mutt** to endure among the evening's oh-so-many. Ah, well. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[At least he doesn't mind.]")[At least he doesn't mind. Sonata titters softly up above, his laughter pleasant and easy. He reaches down to tease the dog's ears, eliciting an honest-to-goodness **whine** from his plaything as he's pushed that little bit deeper into debauched, toe-curling **submission** at your hands. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["Oh, he's been such a *treat*, darling-- don't **humiliate** the poor dear. I can do that just fine on my own, no?"] Oh, *fine.* You roll your eyes and unbutton his trousers; the fat red thing it's restrained springs forth with a *deluge* of pre, drooling onto the fine tiles in an avalanche of canid potency. He must be quite the little stud, all things considered. Perhaps he'll even make a good hound one day. His seed mats down your palm as you take him for a few bare strokes, the warm silk of your paw a sweeter vice than the friction of his clothes, pushing him (link:"(text-colour:orange)[closer,]")[closer, (link:"(text-colour:orange)[closer,]")[closer, *even closer* to that (link:"(text-colour:orange)[edge...]")[edge... Good. You've got more pressing matters to attend to, as pleasing a diversion as this is, so the sooner he lets it all out the *better*. You redouble the tempo, pumping him harder, setting the poor dog into an utterly *quivering fit* below Sonata... Before finally hitting his limit, and **hosing down** the floor in a display that's almost *impressive*, if not for the fact that he's *below* just another slave. Oh, well. At least he'll entertain your entertainer, if you decide to leave him with your darling kitten. Sonata twists around, straddling his back, just so he can stroke the back of his cock with a stocking-clad sole, coaxing free another hot glob of *spunk* onto the ground. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["What an adorable *pooch*... almost makes you forget where we picked him up from, no, Citrine?"] A roll of the eyes, a few lazy glides of the (link:"(text-colour:orange)[hindpaw...]")[hindpaw... then he's right back to lounging, content atop his perch. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["I'll take splendid care of him, at least until you come to a decision, but I truly do think he'd make a *wonderful* addition to my room. Might even see if he can mix a cocktail." Sonata glances down. "Do you mix cocktails?"] (text-colour:#adb5bd)[^^"Mmph--"^^] (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["It's rude to talk with your mouth full, dear."] Chuckling, you wipe your hand off on the mutt's tail and rise to a stand to rejoin the (text-colour:orange)[[[party->The Foyer]]].]]]]]](set: $Butler to 1)

Sonata's a pretty little morsel. Pale fur, silver hair, fancy dress in a nice shade of robin egg blue. He used to be a singer at parties just like these, before you got him wrapped around your finger. He tends to take to it fairly well, though usually not without an attitude-- something you can take or leave, depending wholly on your mood. He looks up at you, greets you politely like he's been trained, resumes filing his nails. A little //blasè//, but you'll take it. (if:visits >=2)[(text-colour:#dbe4ff)["Something else on your mind, darling?"]] (if:visits <= 1)[(link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'How's the party?']")[(text-colour:#dbe4ff)["Oh, sweetheart, it has been positively ''dreary'' without you. The hounds have pulled their weight for a certainty, but they can be so *rowdy* without direction... Locke won't stop staring at the *clock* for some reason, the foxes are stealing anything not nailed down, and nobody can trance your guests quite like *you*, so the brunt of them are stirring a lousy fuss."] He pauses in his manicure, reaching down to toussel the butler's hair, smiling wan. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["Well, except *this* one. I might just keep him, with your permission of course."] He looks down at his lounge. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["Would you like that, puppy?"] (text-colour:#adb5bd)["*Mmph,*"] the butler assents from around the sock-gag, tail wagging away. (link-reveal:"(text-colour:#dbe4ff)[\"Good puppy!\"]")[= His laugh is sweet and bubbly, like ice cold champagne. A fluttery sigh. He looks back to you, and for the first time tonight seems half-genuine in his affection. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["... It's sweet that you're doing this all the same, darling, truly. Talk with the others, enjoy yourself. Oh-- and be a peach and get in the uncle's head, won't you? He's such a dreadful *nuisance*."] He wrinkles his nose, then gets (text-colour:orange)[[[back->The Foyer]]] to filing.]](if:visits >= 2)[(link:"(text-colour:orange)[(text-colour:orange)[• 'Where is everyone?']]")[(text-colour:#dbe4ff)["Hum, let's see here... Locke should be in the kitchen with the other foxes, for one. Felicity's in the ballroom with the musicians. The hounds corraled all the guests into the dining hall. There's the rest of the servants in their quarters, along with a *cute* little morsel that's hoping to join us. We think the Master of the estate is up in his bedroom, but we can't get the door open. His brother should help with that, I'd hazard. And don't ask for directions: I'm not your tour guide, darling."]]] (if:visits >= 2)[(link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'What'd I miss?']")[(text-colour:#dbe4ff)["Oh, you know."] He admires the fine points of his nails in the light of the chandelier. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["What *normally* happens when you take us out anywhere."]]](if:visits >= 2)[(if:$FelicityQuest is 1)[ (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'Ever play the violin?']")[He cocks an eyebrow, curious. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["I might be a tad rusty, but I'm familiar, darling. Need me to play? I'm not exactly *prepared*, but you know I'd do my best for you... provided I can get my hands on an actual *violin*. Look around-- there's got to be at least *one* here, somewhere..."](if:$Violin is 1)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[• 'Like this one?'->Sonata Violin]]]]]]] (if:visits >= 2)[(text-colour:orange)[[[• Step back.->The Foyer]]]]

(text-colour:#f1f3f5)[***The Kitchen*** ---] Hickory smoke and saffron seasons the air. A trio of your (if:$FoxesFucked is 0)[(text-colour:orange)[[[vixens->The Vulpine Trio]]] root around in the cupboards for the most expensive spices, stuffing them into sacks and boxes. You'll eat well for the Winter, for once. That's nice.](if:$FoxesFucked is 3)[vixens bask in the afterglow of their recent usage, too drunk off your influence to be of much real use. Well, let them be. They serve you well, bless 'em.] Silver dishes cover much of the (text-colour:orange)[[[desserts->Dishes]]] that have yet to go out. Your (text-colour:orange)[[[golem->Locke]]] is standing in front of a (text-colour:orange)[[[cuckoo clock->Clock]]], watching it tick away. You can step out into the (text-colour:orange)[[[West Wing->The West Wing]]]. A door leads out into the cool air of the (text-colour:orange)[[[Garden->The Garden]]].

(text-colour:#f1f3f5)[***The Garden*** ---] Loosely organized rows of (text-colour:orange)[[[flower bushes->Bushes]]] bloom despite the chill. They're hardy little plants, you'll give them that. You take a deep breath. Hold it in. Gardenias and white roses censer the air in a sugary haze that almost leaves you feeling dizzy. It would seem that even witch hunters have something of a sweet tooth. Perhaps they picked all white flowers for *purity*. Your breath escapes in a derisive gigglesnort. The wall is dotted with spikes, looming high over the yard. They are not foolish enough to let the ivy creep up too high, which is why you had to come in through the front to begin with. Oh, well. What's done is done is done. Two back doors sit at either end of the rear, leading into the (text-colour:orange)[[[Kitchen->The Kitchen]]] and (text-colour:orange)[[[Servant's Quarters->The Servant's Quarters]]] respectively.

(text-colour:#f1f3f5)[***The Servant's Quarters*** ---] It felt like poor taste to throw the *actual* servants under new management, so you told the hounds to leave them alone, unless they wanted a *different* type of employment. They're here now, in this small humble room of three double-beds and a potbelly stove, packing away what little luggage they have and their choice of valuables from the estate. A hound stands by the door, ensuring none of them have the gumption to intervene. A (text-colour:orange)[[[utility closet->Utility Closet]]] sits in the corner.(if:$ThistleFucked is 0)[ One (text-colour:orange)[[[servant->Thistle]]] stands out from the rest. A kodkod, or if you're unfamiliar, a little feline thing spackled in spots. He's clutching a sack stitched of curtains and stuffed with fancy clothes, watching the stove simmer down to embers.](if:$ThistleFucked is 1)[ Thistle is tuckered out like little else in bed, still drooling and purring softly in the afterglow of his **total ruination.** Best to let him sleep, for now... but there's no way you're not hauling him back home, once you're done with everyone else.] From here, you can step out into the (text-colour:orange)[[[Garden->The Garden]]] or the (text-colour:orange)[[[East Wing->The East Wing]]].

He's a sweet little thing, evidently. A precious inch or two shorter than you, which is rare enough to draw your interest. He neatly adjusts his uniform, and looks up at you with soft, curious eyes. (text-colour:#c5f6fa)["... Citrine? Or, well-- I suppose I should say, Master? I'm Thistle. The foxes said I could join your care, if I behaved myself. Is that, um... is that true?"] You nod. He sucks in a little breath. (text-colour:#c5f6fa)["... Then... f-for *everything*..."] (text-colour:#c5f6fa)["... I just wanted to say-- thank you so much!~"] ... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[You blink.]")[You blink. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'You're... excited?']")[Your confusion is palpable. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Why are you *excited*?"] The kodkod holds his sack close. His tail's nearly as big as he is; it sways to an almost *happy* rhythm, to and fro just behind him. (text-colour:#c5f6fa)["Matthias and his brother, they're some of the best witch hunters this side of the country. Not, um, **the** best, but high enough that... well, that you can hazard they're not great people."] You rest a hand at your hip, silent. You could do more than *hazard*. The little cat continues. (text-colour:#c5f6fa)["For a lot of us, it's just a job. But I've been here a while, and I've seen a lot-- and to tell you the truth, I'd really like to... *forget* most of it... if you can make that happen, and make me as happy as the *others*, it just seems like the best of both worlds! ... Soooo..."] He steps forward. Tilts his chin up. Looks you in the eyes. (text-colour:#c5f6fa)["... if you're willing to give me peace of mind... I'd be **honored** to wear your collar-- if that's alright, of course... *Sir.*"] Oh, he is just *begging* for it. (text-colour:orange)[[[• Instaloss this cat.->Thistle Dicking]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Excuse yourself.->The Servant's Quarters]]]]]

(link:"(text-colour:orange)[Tick.]")[Tick. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Tock.]")[Tock. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Tick.]")[Tick. (text-colour:#994b00)["... Hello Mister Cat!"] Locke turns to face you, the keys around his neck jingle-jangling. He always rattles, be it from the key ring he wears for a collar or the tumblers in his locks. Two steely locks look down at you where eyes would be on any other fox, and he wrings his hands nervously when he realizes he's made you wait. (text-colour:#994b00)["H-How can I be of s-service?"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'What's with the clock...?']")[(text-colour:#994b00)["You will *never* believe this but a b-b-**bird** popped out! It poked in and out of its little house a few times, but it was very *very* f-fast. So I have been trying to get it to come out for a little while now using s-seeds and food and kind words, but I think it is *quite* intimidated by my appearances. That is why when it comes out again, I will show it I am nothing to f-fear, and I will bring it home for safety!"]] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'Find anything useful?']")[Locke tap - taps his fingers together. (text-colour:#994b00)["Milking secrets from people is something I am very v-*very* good at. But I have not gotten to do very much, as I would very greatly enjoy saving this small bird..."]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Ask if he wants a kiss.->Locke Smooching]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Step back.->The Kitchen]]]]]]

The faux-fox lights up like a Christmas tree. It seems that you have finally found something that interests him more than the cuckoo clock. (text-colour:#994b00)["Oh wow! Really? You are s-so *busy* tonight, I would hate to keep you occupied... but if you are s-sure!"] He hooks his arms under yours and (link:"(text-colour:orange)[lifts you like a sack of grain.]")[lifts you like a sack of grain. Up close like this, you can appreciate why one might initially fear him. It's not quite just the sharp keys that line his jaws in bear trap implication, nor the peculiar nature of his hollow lock-eyes, nor the stitches in his pelt, nor the unnatural strength by which he marionettes you. What does you in the most is the **fat, foot-long tongue** that slithers out from his muzzle, swaying prehensile, serpentine, *intimidating* just in front of your face. You do not get the opportunity to double-back on your offer. Pulling you in, he forces that drool-dripping muscle past your lips, stuffing your muzzle-- not your throat, not yet-- with the full of its sordid length. Your short little tongue doesn't stand a chance, not against all of Locke's, and it's easily wrestled into the coils of his embrace, with ample more length to spare for it to explore your maw at his discretion. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*Shlrrrrp...~*]")[*Shlrrrrp...~* Originally, you built Locke to serve as a sort of confidant-- a secret-keeping golem born from your early days of the craft. But you're a lascivious little cat, if this party hasn't made that clear, and you've made little modifications throughout the years, up to and including the construct's potent ability to practically **kiss** the secrets out of your better-guarded victims. There's nothing about you he doesn't know, so it's not much a matter of interrogation, not here, not now, but that fat tendril of **tongue** is an easy thing to lose yourself to all the same, the steady piston-pumping through your lips leaving fur to froth with drool, and your cheeks burning a rosy red. You mewl, despite yourself, cupping Locke's cheeks and *holding* him there for more, trying-- and failing-- to push back into his messy, mechanical affections... an effort that goes from *difficult* to *hopeless* when he ceases toying with your mouth, and makes the grand push into your throat. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[***Schlrrrrrrck...~***]")[***Schlrrrrrrck...~*** Your eyes roll back, heart fluttering. It's the kind of kiss that flings you into the far-end of arousal without so much as a *brush* between your legs, straining your shorts with pre-drooling arousal, throbbing, pulsing, straddling the line between trigger and release. Your throat bulges as you're forced to swallow dollop after dollop of his spit, slightly saccharine: a detail for your sweet tooth. He's an expert at squeezing secrets from whoever he ensnares... ... but you'd be lying if you said it wasn't mostly for **you**. It's rare that you find someone capable of putting you in your place that you can trust near as much as your own construct. So you adjusted all his finest points, left him toys to practice on, tempered him to push your buttons *just right*, and now, with his tongue writhing in your throat, you reap the spoils of years of lurid work. The tongue thrusts once more, going from gentle squirming to a *battering ram* against your palate, wrenching adorable little ^^glrks^^ and ^^*schlrks*^^ and ^^glchks^^ from your chest in every tongue-smothering PUMP. It's all an act of worship, in his own fashion, an act that lets the creation know that it serves its purpose and serves it well. But he worships you *relentlessly*, with his only thought towards your oncoming climax being offering you something to hump: still holding you up, the construct sits on the edge of a counter and sits you down on his thigh, letting you **grind** into the plush, furry give of it as he lays siege to your throat. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[***Schlck! Schlrp! Shlllllp!~***]")[***Schlck! Schlrp! Shlllllp!~*** You swoon, falling limp, your hips bucking down into the pillowy fluff, your hands falling from his face to gently paw at his chest. The simple act of being *abused* like this makes your toes curl and pushes you closer still to the edge, until you're mere moments from toppling over it completely. Your foxes titter, a quiet audience to your sloppy throat-stretching domination, and the simple humiliation of being brought so low, so quickly, so openly, is enough to do you in completely... You consider yourself a dominant sort of feline-- little indulges you half as well as a pretty servant lapping at your feet or spearing themselves in your lap. But hypnosis, for you, is a game of temptation and pleasure, and you would not be as talented at it as you are if you didn't know just how **good** it felt when you **broke**. It is not a black and white thing, to hold control over someone. And you make that clear with your thunderous hands-free orgasm, back arching as you fire off rope after hot white rope into your clothes, virility wasted as it drools almost **pitifully** down your leg and his, making near as much a mess as your own spit-matted muzzle. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**Schlrrrrrp...**]")[**Schlrrrrrp...** (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**... pop!~**]")[**... pop!~** You gasp for breath when his tongue slithers out of your throat, shuddering softly as he pets over your head, down your neck, down your back, down your sides. He's good at helping you down from the high of his kisses. This is hardly your first time with him, after all, nor will it be your last. (text-colour:#994b00)["Did you have f-fun, Mister Cat?"] He wipes your face against his chest, content to mop the slobber up in the fur and fabric. (text-colour:#994b00)["I think I am getting much **much** better at this, th-thanks to you!"] You nod, quietly. That alone is enough to set him beaming, all sharp teeth on proud and full display. He dips in to give you another peck, which pushes an honest *mewl* from you, but he's done making use of you for tonight, for good or for ill. So he helps you to your feet, and calls the foxes to clean you up, and resumes his station in front of the clock, as though nothing at all's changed. That's golems for you. Now, (text-colour:orange)[[[where were you...->The Kitchen]]]]]]]]]

You flash a grin so sharp it makes the poor cat almost flinch. You're a sweet, understanding sort of cat. So you don't make him wait. You cup the kitty's fuzzy, blushing cheeks and draw him in close. Your gaze fills his vision, glowing bright, brighter, brighter still, this golden hue that drenches the mind in honey. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Don't worry, kitten... we'll get rid of **everything** we need to."] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[FLASH.]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] --- (text-colour:#c5f6fa)["-- Ah! Nngh...! F-Fffgh...!~"] You're not the **most** courteous cat, but you at least have the common decency to make the other servants witness you *breaking in* one of their own. Thistle's first time having his mind **ruined** happens in the chill air of the garden; pinned back against the brickwork of the estate, he clings to you for warmth, forehead knocked with yours, focus locked entirely on the brain-melting (text-colour:#ffa94d)[**glare**] of your bright, *beautiful* eyes. Drool creeps down the corner of his bitten lip as you hammer into his ass, keeping up a brisk and cruel rhythm that sets balls smacking with authority and his senses in a state of utter disarray. Not five minutes in, and the poor thing looks like he's fallen in *love.~* It's different when someone's ready to embrace your witchery from the very beginning. It's a lot of guesswork at first, with your *usual* victims, figuring out all the minutiae that tempts their minds, lulls their inhibitions deep below the waters, baits the trap for all those *messy* and *needless* thoughts that keep them from being **all yours**. But this kitten's neck felt unpleasantly bare from the start, didn't it? Why wait to slap a collar around his throat? Why beat around the bush, when he's so desperate to *crumble* for you? Why not end his story swiftly, briskly, in an (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*instant*?]")[*instant*? If it's unpleasantness he wants to forget, you'll do more than uproot those unkind thoughts. You'll scour his brain and fill the gaps with so much delight that *fear* and *doubt* will feel like fuzzy, distant nightmares. There's only room for dreams, now; dreams of you, of the cat that's claimed him, and stretching his cute little ring taut around the barb-spackled heft of your fat cock. He paws at your chest, mewls like a housecat, rolls his hips back down in a vain and fruitless endeavor to meet you half-way. He doesn't need to, though, not really. He doesn't even need to think. You can do that for him, with each (text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH**] and (text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLARE**] of your eyes playing sledgehammer to his consciousness, leaving his own pretty gaze a reflection of your own: beautiful glowing shades of orange-gold that spiral and mimic your (link:"(text-colour:orange)[mind-fizzling tempo.]")[mind-fizzling tempo. (text-colour:#c5f6fa)["G-Ghk...! I'll... obey! I-I'll serve! I'm yours! Master, pluh-*please*...!"] See? *Begging* for it. You're too kind an owner not to address his needs. So you square your feet and redouble your efforts and SLAM into that poor, well-used hole to a fever pitch, your shaft thick enough that he could practically COUNT every soft barb flaring and raking through his walls, assuming he'd have the wherewithal to count at all. Each **thrust** is another blow to those fussy, bothersome memories. The day he came to this estate? (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] **Gone.** With a pulse of prespunk, the memory, just like that, is replaced with that of wandering through the woods on an every day hike, only to wind up caught by the cat, forced against a tree, and made to stare **deep** in the witch's eyes, just as he is now. It was... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH--**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH--**] *love at first sight.* The kitty fell in love. As far as the narrative you're making is concerned, he's never **been** in love before. You were his first crush, his first *need*-- so he tilted his chin up and waited to wear your collar, obedient from the first. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] Gone are memories of struggling here in the estate. Welcome, memories of bouncing obediently in Master's lap. Gone are the days spent in Matthias' bed, put to use as some-- (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH--**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH**]-- *lesser man's* plaything. He's the sweet, loving sucktoy of a *cat*, now and forever, and his heart flutters whenever he reminisces on the long fuzzy days you pinned him down and softly fucked his face. Then you go deeper. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] He's never even *been* to this estate before. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] He's never met the lions that once had him at their beck and call. He's only ever belonged to Citrine. Only ever belonged to *Master.* (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] (text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASHFLASHFLASH*FLASHFLASH*--**] His attempts to buck back against you have completely ground to a halt; he falls limp, babbling praise and submission, succumbing to your wicked affections and accepting a life at your heels. Long before *you* fire off, the kitty has begun to climax, less *explosive* than it is messy: dribbling and sputtering from his adorable little cocktip in an alabaster fountain, **pulsing** with each burst of witchery assaulting his lust-addled brain. You must be grinding against his prostate-- that, or you've gone so hard on his head that all he can do is *leak* obediently while you use him for a (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*fleshlight.*]")[*fleshlight.* You're not too far behind him, admittedly. It's rare you throw yourself so thoroughly into someone so easily *broken*, but the kitty's purring so deep, mewling so *much*, with that docile, heart-meltingly **adorable** smile creeping at the corners of his lips... that puffy little asshole clings to your shaft like a glove that's *just* a size too small, clamping down hard, lending a lurid friction to every thrust that makes your head swim near as much as the *cat's*... Your claws sink into his hips, your purr transcends into a sharp **hiss**-- then you PUSH to the root, until your sheath is practically *smooching* his asshole, and fire off rope after rope of hot, potent **cat spunk** deep in your fresh vassal's very core! It's a testament to your virility-- a display of your sheer volume, outpacing that of lesser men by leaps and bounds, until every steady **pump...~ pump...~ *pump...~*** has him utterly **drooling** seed down your thighs, blending in a slurry in the grass, leaving a precious little (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*bump* in his belly.]")[*bump* in his belly. ... But why stop (link:"(text-colour:orange)[there?]")[there? One of his paws drifts from your chest to cradle his stomach. His eyes are utterly dizzy, ears near-permanently resigned to sitting folded back atop his head. He's in love. Pure, unadulterated *love* after the thorough **brainwashing** you've given him. Even his breaths are adorable, low and shallow panting that compliments his weak purr so *well*... But he doesn't get to enjoy the afterglow for long. You're a greedy cat like that-- and it's only in fairytales that a plaything is tamed from just one **breeding.** You make that much evident, when your claws sink in again, and you heft him back up, and your hips pick up the pace afresh: another few **THRUSTS**, a shocked little **MEWL**, a bright (text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH**] to sedate him, and your catch is drooling, sputtering and *sinking* all over again, just as he will for the (text-colour:orange)[*[[rest of his life.->Thistle Broken]]*]]]]]]]]]]]]]]](set: $ThistleFucked to 1)

(if:$FelicityQuest is 0)[Your pink-furred kitten whirls around on his heel to face you. He has an almost supernatural sense for you that you'd almost peg for witchery, if you didn't know better. He's cute as a button, an effeminate little thing in a beautiful dress. He's in love with you, of course, but more than the usual servant: it drips and oozes off his every inflection, *particularly* when speaking to you directly. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Oh, *Meowster!~*"] He prances over to you at once, wrapping his arms tight around your shoulders. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Did you get here safe and sound? How'd everything go? Are you enjoying the party? Thank you so much for arranging tonight, I was so excited that my heart could **burst**!"] He's speaking a mile a minute, excited like little else. You laugh a kind of laugh others rarely get to hear, and stroke your claws down the feline's back. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Hey, kitten,"] is the best answer he's going to get. And he contents himself with that, enough to pull out from the embrace. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["That you did this all for me is just... oh, it's so *wonderful* of you." I knew you cared about all of us-- it was never a question, and tonight is a **perfect** show of that! Although... well, no, nevermind, it's nothing-- did you wanna dance? I haven't danced with *anyone* yet, because I wanted you to be my first!~"] The performers in the background groan, no doubt lost in the throes of another (link:"(text-colour:orange)[climax.]")[climax. ... Felicity coughs, picking up his drink and taking a delicate, if awkward, sip. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Noooot that I've been keeping *entirely* to myselfffff, obviously... which, um, actually brings up a bit of a problem? I-I think I overdid it with the musicians. Can you find someone to play us some music? I looked everywhere in here, but no luck..."] You kiss him on the cheek, and promise that you'll (text-colour:orange)[[[see what you can do.->The Ball Room]]] (set: $FelicityQuest to 1)]](if:visits >= 2)[(if:$FelicityQuest is 1)[Felicity nurses at his drink, tail sweeping. He really is a precious little soul: polite and delicate, prim and proper, the perfect image of a well-behaved *girlfriend.* He wants to be *your* girlfriend, one day, and passionately pursues that goal to the point of becoming one of your favorites. He's the reason why you're here tonight. He looks you up and down, smiling warm and bright. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["How may I be of service, Meowster?~"](if:$Violin is 0)[ (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'Where can I find a violin?']")[Felicity taps his cheek thoughtfully. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Dunno! Snoop around? It's a biiiig mansion. I'm sure they have, like, **one** violin around. For the sake of rich person posterity!"]]] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'Enjoying the party?']")[He grins a cheeky, malicious little smile and glances to the musicians. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["It seems like a funny punishment, for how much more *they're* enjoying it than *me*. Any party is a good one with *you*, though... my Meowster...~"]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Excuse yourself.->The Ball Room]]]]](if:$FelicityQuest is 2)[Much of the night has worn away his tolerance for liquor, but he keeps strong for you. And, you know, strong for all the witch hunters. Good to keep atop your game, here. When he sees you approaching, he straightens out his dress, face flushed. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["... My Meowster.~ Is it time...?"] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Wait for Sonata with Felicity.->Felicity Waiting]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Hold off for now.->The Ball Room]]]](if:$FelicityQuest is 3)[Felicity is practically glowing, cheeks still tinted the same soft, rosy hue from when you kissed. You think so, at least. It's hard to tell with pink fur. He offers you a warm little smile, unable to contain his purr as you approach. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Hello again, Meowster..."] He reaches out, stroking down your chest. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["... How might I be of service?~"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'What'd you do with the musicians, anyway?']")[A coquettish titter. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Oh, nothing you wouldn't *approve* of... I've got some tricks up my sleeve, let's just say. Those cute pups were *begging* to kiss my heels by the end. Maybe I can show you a thing or two, some time?"] He's clearly quite proud of himself.] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'Enjoying the party?']")[His hooded eyes answer you before he does, entirely full of desire. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["... Better than I could have ever dreamed, Sir.~"]] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'About that kiss...']")[(text-colour:#ffaec9)["I'm sorry I put you on the spot like that, Meowster... I couldn't control myself! The moment was just, *you know*, too right! ... I won't look too deeply into it, don't worry... but it *did* mean a lot to me."] Now you're *certain* he's blushing.] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Excuse yourself.->The Ball Room]]]](if:$FelicityQuest is 4)[You expect that much of the reason why poor Felicity's taken it upon himself to *work* is embarrassment from the would-be kiss. He's taking it in stride, though; genuine delight fills his purr when he hears the *happiness* in a coyote's voice as he asks, *politely*, to spit-shine the servant's chastity cage. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Goooood boy...~"] He perks right up when you arrive, though, whirling around on his heel and meeting you with the same chipper glow you can always expect of your kitten. "Hello again, Meowster! How might I be of service?" (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'How's your pups?']")[He **grins**, smile cut like a sugar-glazed knife. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["I thought I'd get them ready! It's the least I can do for you, after indulging me like that. They're gonna take some work, but I'm easing 'em into it. Here, listen:"] He leans down to the tied-up musicians, voice taking on an authoritative tint. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Who owns you?"] (text-colour:#e1c699)["M... Master Citrine!"] (text-colour:#ffaec9)["And I don't *believe* I've heard you say *anything* to Master yet..."] (text-colour:#e1c699)["-- Hello, Master Citrine! How... h-how can we serve?"] He beams brightly, seeking approval in your eyes, and finding it in spades.] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'Enjoying the party?']")[He giggles softly! (text-colour:#ffaec9)["It's been a **lot** of fun, Owner-- especially in company like *this.*"] The cat emphasizes the point by softly rubbing a bare hindpaw into one lucky coyote's snout. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["I doubt I have to spell out the highlight of my evening, though. Maybe we can dance again some time?~"]] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'About that kiss...']")[He rubs at the back of his neck. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["... Books make it sound so easy. I guess because writers know what makes the most romantic story. I don't, though, to tell you the truth."] Perhaps sensing some concern on your part, he reaches out to take your hand. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Buuuut... I'm not too beat up about it, I ought to say. Even if I never wind up a girlfriend for you, ^^though I to-tal-ly *will* one day,^^ I'm happy just being *yours.* You make me *so happy*, rain or shine!~"]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Excuse yourself.->The Ball Room]]]]

(text-colour:#f1f3f5)[***The Ball Room*** ---] Of course, these nobles are witch hunters before all else, and their dance hall expresses this with a lack the gaudiness in the dance hall. It's still too much, make no mistake, but some among the upper crust might thumb their nose at the violent flair to it. Between banners hang the shields and swords of dozens of hunters, some refurbished to a regal shine, others proudly wearing their battle-scars on display: singe marks from witch's flame, deep gauges from unnatural bladework, warped into strange coloration by water that burned like acid. The musicians are tied and bound by their broken instruments, already thoroughly enthralled; a gaggle of coyotes in snappy little tailcoats, eyes spiraling in the depths of trance, each and all of them missing their pants, jerking one another off with their plush hindpaws.(if:$FelicityQuest < 3)[ You have (text-colour:orange)[[[Felicity->Felicity]]] to thank for that, no doubt, who's currently sipping at mulled wine by the draped windows, clearly waiting for you.](if:$FelicityQuest is 3)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[Felicity->Felicity]]] is responsible for that, you're certain, though the pretty kitten's too distracted to spare them much attention, entirely lost in his own world after your dance together. He sways softly to an unsung rhythm.](if:$FelicityQuest is 4)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[Felicity->Felicity]]] is responsible for that-- and it isn't enough for his standards, it would seem. The pretty kitten is taking his time to see them properly domesticated, running them through etiquette lessons, giving you a head start on **breaking** them when they're back in your woods.] You can head out into the (text-colour:orange)[[[hall->The East Wing]]] through those tall twin doors, whenever you're finished here.

(text-colour:#f1f3f5)[***The Bar*** ---] A vibrant collection of liquors. Deep reds, pale whites, exotic-looking bottles, all on proud display behind the sprucewood counter. All talk of sin and overindulgence must end at the door, you assume. An ornate case of latticed steel sits in the corner, (if:$Violin is 0)[bearing an elegant-looking (text-colour:orange)[[[violin->Violin Case]]]](if:$Violin is 1)[which has been pried open and looted like most everything else around the estate]. The (text-colour:orange)[[[hounds->The Hounds]]] take hearty swigs from full casks of madeira and laugh a tremorous laugh. Tranced guests sit nestled between their thighs, tonguing their sheathes while the mutts revel. They see you, raise their drinks to cheer the boss, then get back to work in reaping tonight's spoils. The hall's just (text-colour:orange)[[[back->The East Wing]]] the way you came.

(text-colour:#f1f3f5)[***The Dining Room*** ---] Two halves of the table sit convex, dishes and silverware sloughing down into the center point across a stained, torn and now-worthless table cloth. Someone must have been tossed clean onto it. It's here where the (text-colour:orange)[[[pack->Good Boys]]] is at its thickest; your hounds prowl at the edges of the room, make fucktoys from groups of would-be adventurers, or otherwise stand guard around the remainder of your (text-colour:orange)[[[guests->The Guests]]], which have been herded into a crowd by the back of the room. Among them...(if:$MatthiasBetrayal < 2)[ Among them, you see *him*. A proud, powerful (text-colour:orange)[[[lion->Matthias Mantra]]]. Golden fur, swept-back mane, shiny pince-nez. The kin of the man you're here seeking justice from. He sits against the back of the room, flanked by a pair of hounds, brought to his knees with his arms bound behind his back.](if:$MatthiasBetrayal is 2)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[Matthias->Matthias Decision]]] is still against the back wall, though he seems to be growing... anxious, now that you've stripped him of his protection. He shifts in his binds and casts a cold, furious glare at you from across the room when you stop to really look at him.](if:$MatthiasBetrayal is 3)[ Matthias mumbles a new kind of mantra, now. The hounds scarcely need to keep him guarded, with how thoroughly you've gotten him: he stares blankly into the screen wrapped around his head, cock drooling in his trousers, his domestication ingrained further and further still with every moment spent lost in your toy. You titter coquettishly. He's almost kind of *cute* like this.](if:$MatthiasBetrayal is 4)[ Matthias prays to a different kind of divinity, now: you. He runs his thumbpad over the edge of his pentacle, quiet but for how he solidifies his new faith... dazed from the simple shock of being so easily **swayed**, yet comforted by that very same sentiment, knowing now that he's found *true* power. He glances up to you from his place in the back of the room, and offers a tentative smile. He needs work. You will guide his hand.](if:$MatthiasBetrayal is 5)[ Matthias pants tiredly, still exhausted in the aftermath of his abuse at Locke's hands (who has by now returned to the kitchen, where he may resume his bird watching). Poor man must be shellshocked-- he cracked and you didn't even really *brainwash* him into doing it. The hounds chuff and taunt him, leaving the poor lion shrinking in place, cowed well into submission. You shouldn't have to worry about him any time soon.] Back out in the hall is the (text-colour:orange)[[[West Wing->The West Wing]]].

Matthias Foster. He's close as all get out to Ramses-- brothers in blood and the hunt alike. You can only imagine how many of your kind he's dragged to the stake, clawing, crying, screaming. You intend to make him **beg** before he forsakes his duties. And you intend to take your time getting him there. You squat down in front of him, lips pursed in a curt frown. He mutters beneath his breath in a deep and bassy monotone voice, some prayer in a language you don't quite recognize. It hurts your ears, but you ignore it. You try to get his attention a few times, snapping your fingers, waving your hand in front of his face, going so far as to tug at his ears. Nothing. It seems that he's lost in a trance of his own... one that you're uncertain even witchery can breach, until you know precisely the way to pull him back into reality. What an annoying little defense.(if:$MatthiasBetrayal is 1)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[• Ring the bell.->Matthias Bell]]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Step back.->The Dining Room]]]

The frame of the door has holy mantras cited by half a dozen faiths etched meticulously into its molding. You sniff the wood-- rosemary implies it's been consecrated. A holy symbol is engraved in the handle, which appears to be made partly of cold iron, partly of silver. The warding would almost impress you if it wasn't so annoying. A plaque bearing an elegant ***M*** hangs over the door.(if:$MatthiasKey is 1)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[• Enter.->Private Study]]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Step back.->Upper Floors]]]

This door is somehow more heavily protected than the other room, bordering on the paranoid. Prayer seals have been pasted over its surface, elaborate depictions of religious scenes carved gorgeously into the woodwork, the scent of sage clinging to its very fibers. It is locked three times over, and the handles are carefully engraved with a ring of holy symbols. You get a headache just from looking at the whole thing. A plaque bearing an elegant ***R*** hangs over the doors. Your lips pull in a tight line. This is **his** room.(if:$RamsesKey is 2)[ You realize, with key in hand, that your night ends with Ramses subjugated at your heels. You'd best make certain you've done all you wanted before you tie a pretty ribbon around this story's neck. (text-colour:orange)[[[• Go in.->Ramses Door]]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Step back.->Upper Floors]]]

You withdraw the visor from your bag, turning it over a few times, admiring how the crystal of it glints in the light. The lion pales at once, bringing a wicked little grin to your snout. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Any idea what *this* is, kitty cat?"] (text-colour:#ffe066)["Devilry,"] he spits. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Oh, you think **everything's** devilry. I had it built kinda experimental-like-- see, my eyes are *pretty*... but I've only got two of 'em, and even *I* gotta blink eventually. I thought I could do something a liii~ittle more thorough! Think of it like..."] You lean down, perhaps dangerously close given his frustration, his sharp teeth, how little he has to lose. (text-colour:#ffc078)["... a *different* brand of glasses-- a new way of looking through the world. One that I promise is going to serve you wayyyyy better than the old.~"] Perhaps it's some hardwired sense of self-preservation that prevents him from taking a bite of you. You find that to be commonplace, among even the fiercest of hunters. They all think themselves content to be martyrs, then deign it a waste to die for a petty scar. It's that hesitation which keeps Matthias from leaping forward to sink his teeth in your throat. It's that faintest little waver in his faith that tells you he's already (link:"(text-colour:orange)[yours.]")[yours. You reach forward and delicately pluck away his glasses, eliciting a fierce growl which is promptly silenced when you CLAMP the visor over his head. It's a good, snug fit, nestled over the bridge of his nose, clasped just behind the head. The glass tints his world a calming kind of golden-orange, soothing the mind long before you even *begin*-- well, to a degree. He makes an effort to throw them off the second you draw your hand back, perhaps hoping to break it on the hardwood, but it's held tight around his temples and refuses to let go. Even if someone were to come in and rescue him *right now*, prying it off would take so *long*... by the time it was removed, he'd already be a trained, happy kitty. Assuming it works. You haven't tested this too much, admittedly. But that's what he's here for, (link:"(text-colour:orange)[isn't it?]")[isn't it? (text-colour:#ffc078)["You shouldn't have to worry,"] you assure as he settles down, the brute breathing heavily. (text-colour:#ffc078)["I knoooow you value your mind a fair bit... and I'm not gonna take it away from you. Well, not *fully.* That's one misconception a lot of you hunters have-- I don't *like* dolls. All my pets... they belong to me 'cause they want to. 'Cause nothing feels better than the happy thoughts I pump through their heads. You'll feel that way, too. So focus *hard*, for as hard as you like, okay? I want you to remember *everything* that's going to happen to you...~"] (text-colour:#ffe066)["Faith is not *surface-deep*, you blasphemous WRETCH. Meditation is only one tool; my Gods have fortified me with an *armory*. Do your wors--"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*Snap.~*]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)[*Snap.~*] With a click of your claws and a spark of your witchery, the visor lights up in your trademark glossy gold, burning bright enough to put a pin in Matthias' monologue as swiftly as it flashes to life. He's taken aback at first, shutting his eyes, mumbling beneath his breath, but it's not a device so simply subverted. It's bright enough that the glow is clear even with his eyes closed. Nestling into his ears are little silvery buds that hum with the witch's own purr, drowning out whatever prayers he may be relying on to keep his sanity, his pride, his virtue. If they're answered, he'll never be able to hear it. The only one to look to for faith is the **witch**, now. Not that he can look to much of anything, blinded by that glow. But the it begins to shift, zooming in on itself; pulsating from bright gold to warm orange, orange to copper, copper to gold, gold to orange. At first he can't **stand** it. It drills into the brain and sucks at his immediate focus like wet muck at his boots, unrepentantly distracting, making it difficult to compose coherent thought... at first, at least. Those brilliant hues churning away serve to shred and scatter anything he doesn't need to fret over, the hesitations and petty inhibitions that so often get in the way of bliss. It takes time, here, to fully preoccupy the lion's sharp mind. But it's not a permanent arrangement, you weren't lying when you said you wanted him to focus, to remember, to *ruminate*. Just on the things that matter. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[OBEY.]")[(text-colour:#ffe066)[OBEY.] The pattern shifts to a soft gold and *holds* there, focusing on the same brilliant hue, playing a pleasant reprieve to the constant changing that's been **kneading** his psyche. It's in that shiny tone that lurid day dreams bubble up, unbidden, in the back of his head... as clear as a memory, he can see himself kneeling in front of the witch: armored, unbound, yet entirely docile before a witch he may once have cut down without hesitation. With reverence, he speaks vows of submission, foregoing oaths made as a knight in favor of service to you. It's a pact he'd made of his own volition, with honor, with reverence. It's so vivid that he can smell the incense in the air, describe the grin on Master's-- *your* face. He can taste it, when in that fantasy you stalk forward, accept him, and rest your fat, heavy **cock** over his drooling lips. (text-colour:#ffe066)[^^"... what...?"^^] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[SERVE.]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)[SERVE.] A brisk BURST of colors flashing, orange and gold and copper, intense and distracting and... almost soothing, like white noise for the mind. Another shift, another few moments spent simply focusing on one hue, now a brilliant orange. Matthias can see himself on his back in a warm, comfortable bed-- *Master's* bed-- **your** bed. He pants softly, arms wrapped around your back as you rut the larger man like a lover, piston-pumping that snug ring with more intensity than perhaps he was expecting. It was his first time *ever* having sex, your visor insists, uprooting contradictory memories and supplanting them with fantasies to support this fresh new narrative. (text-colour:#ffe066)["... mmgh-- n-no, wait..."] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[SUBMIT.]")[(text-colour:#ffd8a8)[SUBMIT.] Another series of sharp, flashing lights to scrub the palette of needless thoughts. Conflictions over how *comforting* it is are being lost in every assault on his mind; some fear skulks in the back of his mind that it will get to a point where he *doesn't care* so long as it's good, but that, too, is swiftly snuffed out by the visor's dazzling patterns. They shift. They focus on that pleasant copper tone, and visions-- dreams-- memories?-- stir once again, this time of him on his knees, side-by-side with other witch hunters, joining his once-brethren for reeducation at the tomcat's hands. He does so with a bright, happy smile, content to sit among the ranks of his Master's captives, delighted to set an example as one by one their mouths are fucked and their minds are simply **reformatted** to suit your will. (text-colour:#ffe066)["... but... huh...?"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[OBEY.]")[(text-colour:#ffe066)[OBEY.] You watch with a wicked little grin of your own, as Matthias struggles in his own head. He must be trying so hard, bless his heart, to parse reality from what's being shown through the visor. You make it difficult, though. Memories he **knows** as reality are revisited in the glow of the visor, interspersed seamlessly with those debauched scenes of submission at your heels... though even in the case of *genuine* memories, you can't help but make minor tweaks. Days of squirehood may have once left Matthias with an occasional budding crush; now, his heart will have been reserved for the gray cat he's seen on wanted posters throughout the kingdom, a moral qualm he struggles with regularly. Perhaps it's even why he trained with his brother to join the order, to one day come face to face with the witch he knows, deep down, would claim him. (text-colour:#ffe066)["... nngh..."] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[SERVE.]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)[SERVE.] Another series of flashes, another few moments spent in shades of gold. Quests to hunt down witches have been respun in a light that seem less *heroic* than they do *miserable*. Sure, he'd always heard stories that witches were *evil* and *blasphemous*, but their screams at the pyre are things he's always struggled with, dragging them from their homes for no crime at all a heavy weight in his heart. It was only when he sacrificed himself to you that he could pursue true redemption; you've helped him find a peace he never could have known outside of your control, and proven what he's always known about practitioners of the arts. That they are as natural and good as **any** man of faith. (text-colour:#ffe066)["... s-suh..."] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[SUBMIT.]")[(text-colour:#ffd8a8)[SUBMIT.] Fabricating these false memories is something of a balancing act, but few have balance half as good as a cat's, and while it's your first time playing with this visor, it is not your first time playing with someone's mind. You fill in the gaps, erase the contradictions, scrub away notes of doubt in-between Matthias' fantasies of serving you. (text-colour:#ffc078)[FLASH FLASH FLASH FLASH FLASH--] how did he fall to you in the first place? Simple: when rumors circulated among his sect that The Witch of the Woods had been spotted, he himself sought out to hunt you, be it to submit or to lay to rest his troubled mind on the matter of his pagan *crush.* He was lost there in the wilderness, for days and days hunting for you, until fatigue took him. You nursed him back to health, and forevermore had he been in your debt. (text-colour:#ffc078)[FLASHFLASHFLASHFLASHFLASH--] how did he wind up in this household, if he'd sworn his life to you? Easy: he'd been leading a double life, then inevitably left to stay with Ramses in the city to protect you both, albeit with a heavy heart. The less you **really** have to change about his history, the better. It's been years, but his worship of you has always been a critical part of his nightly rituals, and his vows to you still held true, all this time later. That's just part of what makes him a perfect slave. (text-colour:#ffe066)["... mmph..."] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[OBEY.]")[(text-colour:#ffe066)[OBEY.] His mind is softened by the barrage of *satisfying* colors, then molded to suit your needs. He will keep his personality, retain much of his memory, but all of it will be trained to just such an end that he'll never want anything more than to **submit to his tomcat.** His desires are adjusted, adapted, to make him easy for you to command. He **loves** you, nearly as much as Felicity: personal tastes tweaked to fit you to a T. He **loves** little cats. He **adores** feeling this complacent, this deeply lost in trance, this thoroughly under your thumb. Everything else is just an added bonus, like the virility to your scent, or the way you always manage to **batter** his prostate when you're balls-deep in his ass. (text-colour:#ffe066)["... o-obey..."] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[SERVE.]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)[SERVE.] Then it's right back to more fantasies, more false-memories, more chances for the lucky lion to **indulge** in all his newfound desires. You've altered his past, you've adjusted his present-- now it's a matter of preparing him for what's to come. He can see himself on all fours, being ridden around town like your very own mount, his obedience and submission a display for everyone you pass. His locked-up cock is played with by your hindpaw, every now and again, looping around to nudge, stroke, knead and jostle the chilly steel *cage* clinging snug to his endowments. If he behaves, he might be let out... someone in the street offers to buy Matthias off you for a considerable sum. To his *upmost* delight, though, you simply rub your leo behind the ears and inform the bystander he's not for sale. You love him too much for that, just as *he* loves *you.* (text-colour:#ffe066)["S... ssserve..."] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[SUBMIT.]")[(text-colour:#ffd8a8)[SUBMIT.] He's shown what to expect from obedience: the chance to nurse prespunk from your cockhead, the privilege of licking you clean after breeding something cute, the luxury of picking out a new bodysuit, the honor of sleeping at your feet or kissing your rings or having your cum glaze his meals. Each and every fantasy, no matter how debasing, no matter how demasculating, sends a rush of arousal crashing into him. Perhaps he should be worried that it feels so good *because* it's so humiliating, but the part of his mind that *worries* has long since fallen beneath the waves. Submission is bliss. He should be happy to just... *just*... (text-colour:#ffe066)["... Submit.~"] You cackle. You can't help it-- it's a different breed of hypnosis than you're used to, but you might very well grow a **taste** for it with how utterly *precious* he looks, swaying in place, drooling muzzle parted, cock straining his trousers with every hard **pulse**. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Poooooor lion... dumb, *obedient* lion-- for how highly you value your wits, you're more *mane* than *brain*, huh?~"] You reach down to rub at one of his ears as his mind's assaulted by one pulse after the next, a burst of fluttering golden hues, then a long shade that drags his train of thought **deep** into the churning patterns before his eyes, transitioning him to the next depraved fantasy. He's drooling, obviously. On the verge of breaking altogether. (text-colour:#ffc078)["I bet there's still a little bit of you left that's tryin' to **resist**... not for long, though, so I'll keep it brief: I wasn't lyin'. I could use a cat like you, keepin' the books back at the house. You're fuzzy an' blank for *now*, but that'll fade once you start getting acclimated. Then you'll be nice and ready to talk in *earnest*, about what it means to be a nice, *well-behaved* kitty cat."] You play a hand over his ear. On instinct, he **purrs.** (text-colour:#ffc078)["Just let go, Matthias... you're in good hands, now."] There is one draw back to this visor, you discover. You see him perk up, you see his posture correct itself into something *proper*, you see his tail swish-swaying like some housecat's... But you don't get to see the look in his eyes when he finally (link:"(text-colour:orange)[***SNAPS.***]")[***SNAPS.*** (text-colour:#ffe066)[OBEY.] (text-colour:#ffe066)["OBEY."] (text-colour:#ffc078)[SERVE.] (text-colour:#ffe066)["SERVE."] (text-colour:#ffd8a8)[SUBMIT.] (text-colour:#ffe066)["SUBMIT!"] (text-colour:#ffe066)[OBEY.] (text-colour:#ffe066)["OBEY."] (text-colour:#ffc078)[SERVE.] (text-colour:#ffe066)["SERVE."] (text-colour:#ffd8a8)[SUBMIT.] (text-colour:#ffe066)["SUBMIT!"] (text-colour:#ffe066)[OBEY.] (text-colour:#ffe066)[**"OBEY."**] (text-colour:#ffc078)[SERVE.] (text-colour:#ffe066)[**"SERVE."**] (text-colour:#ffd8a8)[SUBMIT.] (text-colour:#ffe066)[***"SUBMIT!"***] You look up at the clock, grinning maliciously. If you had to hazard a guess, it's been... ten minutes, now? You let Matthias stew in the visor's grip for a little longer just to give you some buffer, in the event that its effects aren't as potent as you hoped. It's nice, anyway, just listening to him repeat that oh-so-simple mantra. Easier on the ears at least, compared to whatever nonsense he was sputtering to protect his mind. (text-colour:#ffc078)["... hi, kitty. How're you feeling? Was a good revelation, wasn't it? You're gonna be pretty fuzzy for a bit, but tell me *everythi*--"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[He lunges for you.]")[He lunges for you. You've been dancing on the edge this whole time; the possibility of the visor's effects not quite *sticking*, the risk of some final act of deffiance against the witch that lead Matthias' life to ruin, the chance that he'd take martyrdom over pleasure and make his move. Your hounds knew it, they were *waiting* for it, but even they were caught off guard when the beast in all his bondage leaped, pinning you to the floor, seizing you by the collar of your shirt. The beasts are fast, but he's fast, faster than you expected. Stronger than you expected. And you were expecting quite a *lot* of him. You were not expecting the (link:"(text-colour:orange)[kiss.]")[kiss. His muzzle locks with yours. He tastes like smoky, heady liquors; his tongue plays over the points of your fangs, then **forces deeper** with a grunt. Drool oozes down the corners of his lips. Your fingers are curled in his mane, knuckles white, heart thundering... but his affection's so thick that the tension dissolves like sugar. The hounds seem as confused as you are, claws scraping across the hardwood as they skid to a halt. Matthias draws back, drool bridging your muzzles. Through the crystalline, his eyes are hooded, dazed, and utterly full of **love.** (text-colour:#ffe066)["... Thank you, Master. I've been so blind. I will obey. I will serve. I will submit. How may I please you?"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[...]")[... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[...]")[... (text-colour:#ffc078)[^^"... holy fuck it worked,"^^] you (link:"(text-colour:orange)[breathe.]")[breathe. --- What you learn from him is admittedly (link:"(text-colour:orange)[lackluster.]")[lackluster. Ramses and Matthias are close like little else, but the greater lion's always been a paranoid sort: they both kept access to their inner sanctums well-maintained secrets, just in the event of... well, something precisely like this. You have to help him back down into trance, often, as he's cowed into betraying his brother. You remind him to have faith in you, that he'll worship you for more than just pleasure, but for leadership, guidance, the simple understanding that you'll do what's right. It helps with your visor still clinging to his temples, ready to pulse new obedience into the loyal drone's brain. He's already *gone*-- it's just going to take a little bit of adjustment, first. There's a spare key, supposedly, hidden somewhere in the estate. 'Behind a mask of his own face', is all he suggests to know. You push him to tell you more, but anything else you glean of his brother from him is admittedly of little consequence: his strengths, his intellect, his many successes in the field. He's the kind of catch you *drool* over getting for yourself-- but it's for that very reason why you tread such dangerous waters. You ask of weaknesses, and he can offer nothing. It's frustrating, how little the man truly knows. You'd hoped for better. But if it's all he can offer, it's all he can offer, and you content yourself with (text-colour:orange)[[[that->Matthias Clue]]].(set: $MatthiasBetrayal to 3)]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]

Done up in silks and lace, well-tailored suits and elegant dresses, with strings of pearls around their necks and rubies at their knuckles, with brass-tipped walking sticks and beautiful folding fans featuring half a hundred tableaus. As they are now, you almost wouldn't recognize them as witch hunters. All these glitters they're decorated in were paid for in the blood of your kin, in acknowledgement and delight of the vicar of the high diocese. Just looking at them makes your blood curdle. They scarcely deserve a life under your heels. The brunt of them you'll likely as not ransom back to their respective families, for all the good that capital does you. You do see *some* pretty faces among the crowd, though. And each and all of them could use thorough lessons in *courtesy.* (text-colour:orange)[[[• Step back.->The Dining Room]]]

Ramses, evidently, is a very popular man among hunting circles. You have no small number of playthings to pick from, too many to sort through in just one night. Marching all these guests back home will prove to be a challenge, but the whole reason why you were late was to ensure a smooth escape: you worked your magic and distracted the constables, and now only fools will attempt to stop you as they're lead, one by one, from the city limits into your woods. And there aren't many fools to be an issue, here in the city. Just the rich and the struggling and the cravens in between. You cup one lucky thrall-to-be's chin, admiring her fondly. She's a proud little labrador that might do fantastically as a hound, with a little bit of work, a little bit of training. A pretty green dress clings to her well-toned frame, though she seems better suited for battle than formal affairs, if you had to guess. You ruffle one of her ears, eliciting a growl, practically *begging* her to snap his jaws at you. You pull your paw back when she actually tries-- feisty! But liquor's made her slow and *senseless* more than she is angry, and you can work at that as well as any trance. "Y-You're flying too close to the sun," she spits, "thinking you can steal our city's **finest** right from its very heart--!" You roll your eyes. Then your grip returns to her chin, holding her there, fixing her on the bright *glow* of your gaze. It's a soft, honeyed sort of glimmer, like mead highlighted by candlelight. She's growling under your touch, ears folded back... but-- it *gets* her, in a way she wasn't entirely expecting. Her anger melts infinitesimally on her tongue, bit by bit, second by second, until the growl grows quieter, quieter, under your glare. A big part of hypnotism is finding the right angle by which to dig into someone's defenses. Empathy's a large part of it, being aware of the minutiae that tells you what's loved, what's loathed, what comforts her, what terrifies her... case in point! She's a fairly experienced a hunter, but not on par with, say, your host-- her efforts to seem unshaken are admirable, but the drink weakens the facade and makes gaps in all his little details. She has a problem with indulgence, judging by how much deeper in her glass she is compared to her peers. That's not a bad thing. Makes it easier to hook her on a newer, *healthier* vice. A trance can be a lot like a high or a buzz, warm and cozy tendrils writhing through the mind and pulling it down, down, *down*... "... Poor puppy," you coo, holding her there in your gaze. Simply gazing into it for too long can help the mind into an easy sense of complacency: they burn through the usual petty reasons not to *submit to you* like they're nothing more than kindling, leaving only the idle warmth that comes with enjoying his presence. But you go a step further and rub at her ear, spoiling her like a *pup*, and that goes a long, long ways. She sways a little on her knees, eyes lidding, breathing long, deep, even breaths. "Already gone all quiet and drooly, and I've barely spoken a word to you yet. That's okay, though. Some girls just like that feeling of drifting and sinking, melting under that warm, sweet purr... you like how my purr sounds, don't you? When I speak to you all low and calm like this, and you hear it under my every word, glazing your thoughts in a nice film of sugar... *good* girl." "... mmph..." She doesn't have a response to that. That's alright, though. You can do most of the thinking on her behalf. She can just *sit* and *stare* like a good dog, as you lean in, admiring her scent-- rosewater and pine needles... and even *arousal*. You'd almost think she was getting off to the taboo, of being at a witch's mercy like this. You doubt you'd mind exploring that, a littl-- ... You breathe her scent in deeper. Arousal is just the surface. It's been kept masked, under that heady layer of liquor, but... the way her cheeks tint a rosy hue isn't from the wine at all. Your irises take on a feline kind of cut. Your breath hitches. She's in **heat.** --- **Hard cut** to when you've got her on her back, with her ankles pinned down beside her ears, with her tail wagging a mile a minute as you **SLAMFUCK** your latest catch into a yapping, panting heap. Keeping true to the namesake of a *mating press*, there's no way in hell you're not putting a litter of kittens in her-- she's been serving alongside other witch hunters for long enough that it simply feels to be an appropriate punishment, that she helps repopulate your kind, and carnal instinct has a vice-grip around your head, doing away with any real need for *reasons* or *excuses*. It wouldn't feel much like punishment, besides. When someone's that far down in your eyes, begging to bear your wicked brood simply seems *natural*. You wish you could say you're simply taking her like this as an *example* for the other guests to appreciate in earnest-- and it still *is*, make no mistake. You look up from the preciously *stupid* tongue-out face this mutt's making and appreciate the crowd, grinning sharp, as if to say '*you're up next*'... and those sweet, soft sighs you ram out of this bitch seems to melt their resolve better than any *trance* really could. There's still flickers of umbrage... but this warrior was broken with little more than a soft purr and the snap of your fingers, this *huntress* among her peers. Of course there's *jealousy* in their eyes, wondering how good it must be. You make a point to show them, when you're not *hammering* the puss in front of you. But again, this isn't about that. Deep, deep down, you're every bit the alley cat you were all those years ago, back before you were given the magic that makes you what you are today. And alley cats are hardwired with a certain feralistic need to *breed* that often overpowers everything else, when you catch hint of some lucky bitch to steal up for yourself. There's days where you can stave it off, days where you can tell when some lust-addled servant's trying to use their estrus to have you all to themselves, making a **mate** of you. But not tonight. Not now. Not when there's such a promising **womb** here for you to fill, and claim for feline kind. Empathy or not, you can tell she doesn't take many men to bed with her. It's every other detail you wring from your catch that gives it away. She's so *snug* that you'd almost think she was a virgin, hugging your shaft like a vice, rippling every time you drill her good and **deep.** She's so ill-prepared for the sensation of your barbs raking through her petals, plucking each sensitive fold, leaving her to **clamp down** and *squirm* in your clutches from the overstimulation. Poor dear... not that you're going to *hold back* on her any. You'll fizzle out her brain, make her sweat, and make a rather permanent mark on her preferences for *cats* over anything else-- and you won't even need your *magic* to make that happen. Just another chance to **dick. Her. Down.** The biggest tell might be how quickly she's brought to orgasm. But you aren't really paying that much attention to her *own* pleasure, besides perhaps how it has her clamping down that little bit harder around you, trying to milk out as much of your *prespunk* deep into her core. All that matters to you, in your breed-hungry mind, is that there's a fresh, fertile *cunt* to claim for yourself, and by the Gods you're going to claim it *thoroughly.* Your claws sink in at her ankles, and your tempo redoubles, balls smacking her ass to a stacatto that puts a blush on *every* face in the hall, playing a sordid percussion to her panting, and squealing, and *praise*. "A-Anngh...! Hhhhah, hhhhah...! Too thick, too-- ^^f-fuck--^^ too **good**...! Please-- p-please, *breed me!* I *need* y--!" You shut the mutt up rather promptly with a *kiss*, muzzle locking with muzzle. A cat's snout isn't quite *designed* to fit with a canid's, but you make it work. You're too worked up *not* to make it work, stuffing your tongue past her lips, the piston-pumping of your hips a chaotic and arhythmic affair. She's hardly the FIRST dog you've ever taken like this... but Gods, you've never appreciated just how *perfect* their cunts are until now. Heatstruck petals and puffy folds nurse away at your deluge of pre in a way that has you as spellbound as *her*, sucking on you *deep* whenever you make the mistake of lingering too long inside her, shaving away your endurance in terrible *chunks* as her body works to make a **mate** out of you. And... you're a witch. Adhering to nature is simply part of who you are. To deny nature's whims just sounds *crazy*, here and now, with the pretty lab drooling down your lips. So you obey. You obey as if you were just another servant, and brace your heels, and plunge into her *one last time*-- Before you set about utterly FLOODING your latest bitch, and **hose down** her womb. It doesn't matter if you're not the same species. Certainly not by *this* point. Perversion's driven you to seeking *other* ways to pursue and indulge your rampant breedlust... up to and including sapping the virility of servants who simply don't have a use for it, under you. You're potent enough to ensure she's given a healthy batch of kittens on the very first *shot* you fire off, to say nothing of the second... third... ... sixth... seventh... ... ninth...~ Your output is perhaps more than she was expecting. And she's not expecting a whole *lot* in that heat-driven head.

And not just any trio, neither. YOUR trio. A red fox, an arcitc, a mocha-furred fennec. (text-colour:#e0621f)[Sara], (text-colour:#e9ecef)[Aela], (text-colour:#c39b77)[Arie]. Three of your best, scarcely rivaled in their devotion, their manners, and the simple skill by which they share in *draining your balls*. They all stick together more often than not, a cocktail-blend of sweetness that leaves you drunk in all their affections with efficacy bordering the outlandish. The trio are your very favorites, the top shelf of your collection, and won't they just let everyone know if given half the chance. You were surprised they offered to tag along for the ball, given it's *Felicity* who you're crashing it for. The cat and the trio share an... *almost* endearing rivalry between one another, all over their deep love of you-- Felicity coveting you like a boyfriend, the trio cherishing you like a husband, and neither one of them inclined to surrender a position as your **very finest**... But you're all family, in some strange fashion. You keep after your own, even in the worst of times. It shouldn't have surprised you so much, that they'd come along to avenge their fellow servant. The trio perk their heads up when they see you approaching, one after another, putting a pin in all their rampant looting to greet you as politely as can be; a delicate curtsy, a bow of the head, a warm and humbled smile. (text-colour:#e0621f)["Good evening, Master. We're almost done here-- hope you don't mind if we take some liberties to play with your catches, after we wrap up...~"] (text-colour:#e9ecef)["Ég bjóst við að þeir yrðu betri. Þetta hús er fullt af vonbrigðum."] (text-colour:#c39b77)["In the *meantime*, is there anything your vixens can do for you? Anything at all?"] Arie rests a hand on your chest, playing well-manicured claws down, toying with button after button. (link:"(text-colour:#ff922b)[• 'Surprised you came...']")[The fennec, Arie, flutters her lashes in confusion. (text-colour:#c39b77)["You say that like it was ever an *option*, Master... oh, and I do mean that very kindly-- Felicity's one of us!"] (text-colour:#e0621f)["Don't get me wrong, he can be... uh..."] The red fox folds her arms over her chest, clearly picking her words carefully. (text-colour:#e0621f)["... *difficult*--"] "Ég vil stíga á hann," Aela adds. If Sara understands, she deigns it inappropriate to explain. (text-colour:#e0621f)["But he's still yours. And **nobody** is allowed to cross what's yours."] A mutual nod between the group.] (link:"(text-colour:#ff922b)[• 'Enjoying the party?']")[They make their enjoyment abundantly clear; you're encircled by your vixens, one by one, toying with you like prey, if ever there was affection between a predator and its catch. Claws brush your hair aside. Knuckles gently rub into your shoulders. Paws continue to play down your chest. Your cheeks tint a rosy hue, when Sara rumbles, (text-colour:#e0621f)["if I were still a hunter, I'd hazard I'd fall for you all over again... Sir. So, yeah-- I'd say the party's going *pretty well.*"]] (text-colour:#ff922b)[[[• **RUIN them.**->The Trio: Who's First?]]] (text-colour:#ff922b)[[[• Step back.->The Kitchen]]]

You look over your trio of well-fucked vixens, grinning sharply. Arie does her best to compose herself from the **heat** you've foisted upon her, while Sara struggles to keep her tail from wagging and Aela nurses her sore throat. A job well done, all in all. They each pay their dues as is expected of a vixen: they each dip in to kiss your nuts, leaving pretty lipstick marks in their wake, before peeling themselves up to bow-legged stands... and bowing, politely, for their Master. (text-colour:#e0621f)["... Th-Thank you for choosing us for your pleasure..."] (text-colour:#c39b77)["Please be certain to take us again, Master...~"] "Þakka þér fyrir, herra..." As they turn away from you, you ask what they think they're doing, bringing them to an *immediate* (link:"(text-colour:orange)[halt.]")[halt. Still shaky and rattled by your *use* of them, they go ramrod stiff, tails bristling. They're silent. With a roll of the eyes, you nod down to your prick; half-hard, now, and dripping with the need of every pretty thing you've claimed for yourself tonight. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Didn't think you could leave the job half-done, *did* you? Can't have me headin' out like **this**. Clean me up. *Now.*"] Hypnotism is a delicate art. You'd never think it was with *these* ones, though. They're all so deeply enamored by the mere sight of your dripping, drooling prick that purring a command through their minds might *only* be a distraction. One by one, they neatly fold their hands behind their backs. (text-colour:#c39b77)["... Shall we start?"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[A toothy grin.]")[A toothy grin. (text-colour:#ffc078)["*One* of you can start."] Excitable little glances are exchanged between the trio. Mouths water. You laugh softly, and take your time in picking out who's to *clean your cock.* (text-colour:orange)[[[• Sara.->Sara Cleaning]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Aela.->Aela Cleaning]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Arie.->Arie Cleaning]]]]]

You don't let your pack have their fill of you often. They're hungry sorts of hounds, the kinds that could tame greater men than you without so much as an ounce of witchery to temper their minds. That's much of their appeal, really, their ability to break what you might not. What they lack in your delicacy and leadership, they make up for with the strength and sheer force of will to topple a whole estate of upper crust witch hunters, provided their cat (link:"(text-colour:orange)[opens the door.]")[opens the door. It's you they're opening up tonight, though. When you offer them your company, they welcome it wholeheartedly, dragging you into the booth. You're sandwiched between a pair of the mutts as they drink and jeer and fuck around, your diminutive height emphasized side-to-side like this. In uncommon fashion, they're taking their time with you, savoring this rare treat of having Owner so close to hand. Must be the wine. Heavy paws grope over your body wherever they can fit; kneading the plush give of your ass, palming between your thighs, scritching behind your ears like you're just another housecat. A purr is coaxed from you, to the mounting amusement of the hounds, only driving them to work harder at (link:"(text-colour:orange)[toying with your body.]")[toying with your body. (text-colour:grey)["Heh, you doin' alright down there, boss?"] The mutt's breath rolls down on you, thick with liquor. (text-colour:grey)["Barely touched a drink an' you're looking fuckin' *drunk*."] Their sharp claws are not at all discrete in their efforts to disrobe you, nearly ripping buttons off altogether, pulling off your coat, leaving your fluffy chest at their mercy. (text-colour:grey)["Y'know,"] another hound butts in, teasing coarse fingers over your nipples, (text-colour:grey)["you're a tough lil' cat, but there's no shame in leaving th'reigns to someone else." "Yeah! Y'did a lotta work tonight, pullin' all those strings. Should let us help you *relax*."] You find yourself inclined to agree. Your cock stirs and strains your shorts, staining the fabric with pre. You're gripped through your clothes for a few lazy jerks, the friction enough to set you bucking and drooling, before they rip the garment off altogether and leave you throbbing in the air. A heavy paw grabs at the back of your head before you can answer... ... and yanks you in under an arm, heavy bicep clamping down over your head, putting a resounding end to your dominant streak the moment your nose is ground in that (link:"(text-colour:orange)[sweaty, heady pit.]")[sweaty, heady pit. (text-colour:grey)["*Fuck yeah*-- get in there, kitty."] As someone well-versed in hypnosis, one might expect you to hold some sort of restraint when it comes to temptation. But enthrallment is just comfort, and nobody's immune to the pleasance of warmth. You've learned as much through experience-- you learn again as you press your muzzle in under the mutt's arm and draw in deep, reverent breaths of his *sweat*, your purring inexorably crumbling into lust-addled **mrowls** that come muffled under the hound's thick fur. *Warm* does not quite do it justice. *Warm* shouldn't melt your mind quite as well as the potent scent of a well-worked canid, virile and head-swirling, leaving you lost in the fog of your own head as your short, raspy tongue works dutifully against the grain. Regular worship proves difficult, when the hound starts out-and-out **scrubbing** your face deep into his armpit, but you try, bless your little heart, foregoing your own mounting arousal in favor of the hound's worship, no matter how heavily your pre just **drools**. After all, sweatrags shouldn't fuss over cumming. They should do what they do (link:"(text-colour:orange)[best.]")[best. The hound uses a foot to push away their lucky catch to make room for you, as he hefts you up into his lap and sits your fat ass clear on his cock. He outpaces you in size, too; hot crimson flesh that pulses to a powerful heartbeat, just barely nestled between your fluffy cheeks. Then back your muzzle goes, tucked neatly into the crook of his *other* pit, the fresh dose enough to leave you utterly **swooning** against his front. Your shaft brushes against his toned, fuzzy belly, and your hips roll autonomously, a thoughtless, instinctual need to **rut** on something, even as your mind occupies itself on more servile matters. Your short, raspy tongue is perfect for lapping the mutt clean; you drag it up the other's curve, head tilting to get a better angle, then draw a smooth wet path riiiight back down, settling into a steady rhythm. Your hounds bark derisive comments from all around you, but your usual wit has long been dulled on the musk of better men. (text-colour:grey)["Hah! Someone should've told these chumps it was just this easy, fuckin' with the boss." "Pretty fuckin' cat ought'a visit more often-- could **use** tongue-baths like this, after the hunt." "Barely **touched** 'im and the kitten's gonna cum. Dumb horny *cat.*"] Heavy hands fall back on your ass; a firm **SMACK** sets your back arching, and tugs you, just briefly, back into reality. You squirm, running your claws through the fur of your fairweather superior's broad chest, shuddering as you're handled like little more than a toy in his big, strong hands. He gropes you, stretches you apart, tugs on your tail, shows you off to his friends. You're no virgin, but it's rare you're taken, rarer still by brutes of this calliber. So it's really best when he spends a few moments getting your mind well and truly *dimmed* on his scent, rubbing your face in cruel little circles under his arm, until you're right back to drooling, and lapping, and mewling, and *obeying*. It makes it easier when he once again lifts your hips, nestling that drooling tapered tip against your snug anal ring... and simply lets you **sink**, spreading you luridly taut, until his cock is grazing your prostate and you're utterly **exploding** across stomach in rope after rope of wasted feline seed, long before you even **come close** to sitting on his (link:"(text-colour:orange)[knot.]")[knot. Giving you just a precious few beats to get comfortable as a canid's cocksleeve, the beast sets into an unsteady pace of fucking you **hard**. Harder than you're remotely used to. Harder than you remember being taken before. You're not sure how to feel, for all those would-be warriors they caught and broke before your arrival. As his rough stacatto of feverish *humping* drills away at your sanity, you toe the line between feeling bad and feeling **jealous**, but it's ultimately of little consequence: another few huffs, and all you're feeling is the simple bliss of being a cock toy, already right back to full hardness and trailing loving kisses along his underarm. Fortunately, they are not brutes commonly known for their endurance. They are known for their **strength** and **speed** and **virility**, and all of these things are made plain as his hot red cock *spikes* into your core to an unkind pace, so productive in his payload that pre oozes from your ring long before he nears completion. Holding you close, he pulls you by the hair and reintroduces you to the chilly open air. Your complaints wouldn't be coherent by this point, but they never even escape your lips, halted well in their tracks by the beast's fat tongue as he steals you for a rough, sloppy kiss. He can probably taste *himself* on you as much as your sweet little maw, maybe even moreso, but knowing that he's left his mark so *thoroughly* on your cute little snout is perhaps only an additive. The dichotomy between your muzzle shapes has drool dribbling down the corners of your lips, ribboning over your cum-soaked cock. It's enough to threaten another orgasm... But his, as you're readily accepting it *should* be, comes (link:"(text-colour:orange)[first.]")[first. He doesn't deign to knot you, not this time. Your ass smacks off on the fat crimson bulb, ring kissing the hot, mind-splitting *surface* of it, and you fantasize, blearily, about what it'd be like to have it **forced** to and fro through your well-used rear. Those fantasies go as hot-white as the beast's own spunk when he pushes you down and **unloads**, firing off deep into your guts, pumping you full to the humiliating point where you develop an honest-to-goodness *bump* in your belly. Your thighs are a mess, his more, the boothseat most of all. You cum again, weaker than before, eyes rolling up, throat bulged with tongue and drool alike. Another wolf smacks your ass; chatter which you're beyond the threshold of understanding. You don't need to be especially sharp, however, to understand the simple math of only **one** hound finishing in a crowd of... Well, okay, *counting* is still pretty difficult. Maybe if you can have a moment to clear your head, some time in between getting **yanked** off one hound, passed off like a doll to the next, and having your head buried under the snug, hot arm of another of your brutes. But you doubt it. Nor do you really want it. Who needs thinking when you're at the disposal of dogs like *these*...? (link:"(text-colour:orange)[You're taken again.]")[You're taken again. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[You're kissed again, after providing another rough tongue-washing.]")[You're kissed again, after providing another rough tongue-washing. And (link:"(text-colour:orange)[then...]")[then... (t8n-depart:"blur")+(t8n-arrive:"blur")+(t8n-time:2.0s)+(text-colour:orange)[[[...->The Spare Bedroom]]] ]]]]]]]]]

Massive beasts with black fur thick enough to serve like chainmail in battle. Bear trap teeth clack loudly as they bark and howl and holler amongst themselves. They're bigger than you by twice your height, barely able to squeeze into the booth they've crowded into, leaving one to question why they bothered with it at all. Old habit, perhaps. Many were once witch hunters just like the ones you've found here tonight, sworn now to the service and protection of the very cat they sought to kill. They're not as brainwashed as one might think (though they're still brainwashed, make no mistake). They have their reasons for betraying their own. And so long as they still stare deeply into your eyes when you're talking, and listen closely as you purr, and keep fighting such a good long fight, that's perfectly fine by you. They flash jagged smiles. The wet sounds of their playthings sucking over their sheathes is practically muted, under their bassy, heady voices. They rarely speak, but the gravelly tone is a soothing sort of coarse. (text-colour:grey)["Evenin', Boss. Treatin' us real good, y'know that? Not often we get invited to fancy parties these days-- if only they made tuxes our size, yeah?"] A belly-laugh. You love them to death. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'Having fun?']")[Somehow, their smiles manage to get toothier. Big and deadly grins as brutal as saw blades. The brute doing the talking thumbs over the ears of a catboy purring between his legs, some effete black-furred thing that may have at one point been a noble. It would be more accurate to call him a cock-cleaning *toy* now, though. (text-colour:grey)["A real ball of a time, hah. Tried to save some pretty faces for you, 'course, back in the dining room. Thank us later!"]] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'Where is he?']")[They shrug helplessly. (text-colour:grey)["If you mean, heh, our *host*-- no clue, boss. Probably hidin' somewhere pissin' his pants. We'll sniff 'im out, don't worry. He'll get what's comin' to 'im."] A solemn nod is shared by the crowd.] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• Join them for drinks...]")[Join them for drinks... if you're ready to burn time on getting utterly *ruined*, that is. (text-colour:orange)[[[Proceed->The Hounds, Reveling]]] at your own peril. They get rough if they think they can. Those pretty things down there have it *easy*. (text-colour:red)[^^Warning: kinks include musk, armpits, downtalking and very much so being on bottom.^^]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Step back.->The Bar]]]

<img src="https://i.gyazo.com/e374a9f0c7b14b33105ad97f4fb4c8b5.png" width="350" height="480" alt="Ramses"> One catches your eye as (link:"(text-colour:orange)[familiar.]")[familiar. An imposing lion with a brilliant mane. He's every bit as massive as the portrait might implicate. A broad, powerful chest, with cutting verdant eyes that make your jaw tighten by instinct.(if:$RamsesKey is 0)[ You wonder how he'll look as a *drone*. You spit to the side and (text-colour:orange)[[[turn away->The East Wing]]].](if:$RamsesKey is 1)[ *^^"... A mask of his own face..."^^* You stand on your toes and lift the portrait off the wall. ^^Plink!~^^ Surely enough, a room key falls off its hook, rattling by your paws. You hook the painting back into place, lean down, and pluck it up between your pads. Shouldn't be long, now, before you've got the hunter on his knees... (text-colour:orange)[[[Let's go say hi.->The East Wing]]](set: $RamsesKey to 2)]]

And it may be too late to say, by the time the bow meets the strings... But you're actually an **awful** dancer. When it comes to nimbleness, you're rarely outmatched-- it comes with the territory of surviving in the wild, for as long as you have. But nobility is a different jungle you've never felt interested in exploring. That's okay, though. Felicity knows you well enough to take the lead. He takes your hand and pulls you to the center of the ball room, a healthy distance from his victims. His paw's a delicate thing; yours, guided to rest at his back, looped just under an arm, with the other entangled in his. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Try not to focus on your feet too much,"] he murmurs. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Just... let yourself go with the push and pull."] A simple sway is how it starts. Back... forth... back... forth... there is something almost hypnotic to the rhythm. You are not used to it, not under vaulted ceilings to the tune of a violin, but witchery is much like this: the simple sensations, the rhythm in the air, the way it sparks your senses. Magic is like a dance, with the world as your partner, an intimate thing you share: the warmth in your heart is just a kind of spell. But intimacy can only go so far, with all the world as your partner. Felicity takes you a step further. Step left, right, left, right. You're getting into it, now, and he knows that too. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["See? It's easy!"] You take his hand, twirl him, and he bubbles up with laughter. There's something about the sound that plucks a chord, and you laugh with him, muffled... no, enhanched, rather, by Sonata's playing, as if you're playing the cat like just another instrument in a quartet. Tonight's a lurid night, of putting lesser men through their paces. But at least here, in this one long moment, where you drift with Felicity and follow in his steps, where you lean in to rest your heads, where you can feel his heartbeat in his pulse and his lilac scent swirling in your head, the only one truly tranced is (text-colour:orange)[[[you->Felicity Pause]]]. <audio src="https://orangefreesounds.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/02/Salut-d-amour.mp3" autoplay>

Surprisingly rustic for a place like this. You watch it with Locke. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Tick.]")[Tick. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Tock.]")[Tock. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Tick.]")[Tick. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Tock.]")[Tock. (more:)[With this new appreciation for time, you decide you have (text-colour:orange)[[[better things->The Kitchen]]] to do with it.]]]]]

... And then, eventually, you stir awake in one of the upper floor (link:"(text-colour:orange)[bedrooms.]")[bedrooms. The least ransacked of them, it'd seem, bless the hearts of your hounds. Someone has laid out clean clothes for you on the (otherwise looted) bedside table. Your head is still swimming, your scent still marred by the countless brutes that laid a claim on you. How long did they **have** you? It seems dark out still, judging by the (cracked) window, which is... good, you think, but you're supposed to be on something of a tight schedule... ... ... no matter. After *that*, you're not sure there's very much about you that's *tight* anymore. You slip into your things, fix your hair, do your best to compose yourself. Breathe. And perhaps this time steer clear from the bar, assuming you've any intention of being **productive** tonight. The hounds can have their fun in the comforts of the kennels. But you have work to do, thank-you-very-much, and you'll need at least *some* headspace to accomplish it with. A door leads back out into the (text-colour:orange)[[[Upper Floors->Upper Floors]]] of the estate.]

It's a tall ornate glass cabinet, cradled in curls and flourishes of steel. Inside, you see a proudly displayed violin: an expensive little piece sure to fetch a proud penny with your usual fence. It doesn't seem like you can force it open by hand, though, and while you're certain the hounds could make do with enough effort, you're *also* certain there's an easier way...(if:$Prybar is 1)[(if:$Violin is 0)[ (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• Use the pry bar.]")[You use the pry bar to leverage open the door. It's sturdy, but clearly more embellished than secure, and with a satisfying **SNAP**, you bust its lock and the door swings open, letting you scoop the violin up without further fuss.(set: $Violin to 1)]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Step back.->The Bar]]]

You feel like *you're* the one in trance, looking at the spread that remains. The foxes have picked at much of it, but cider cakes and almond biscuits, snowdon pudding, chocolate pudding, pastries you don't fully recognize. Your sweet tooth could leap right out of your mouth. You grab one, inhale it, and force yourself to focus on (text-colour:orange)[[[other things->The Kitchen]]] before you spend half the night in a dessert-induced coma.

You hurry to follow him up the creaking and uneasy steps. The stairwell is narrow; your hounds will need their time getting up here. So be it. You are well beyond the point of relying on your beasts for everything. You throw open the door when you reach the top of the stairs, but Ramses is already nowhere to be found. The attic is a sprawling mess of towering boxes and splintering support beams, a labyrinth of storage and forgotten antiquities. His thundering footsteps rattle boxes of forgotten china and shake dust from the rafters, but it is dark, and it is tight, and it is tense. All the more when his movements go (link:"(text-colour:orange)[quiet.]")[quiet. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Some *warrior*,"] you shout out into the gloom. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Skulkin' around in the dark like some... some *rat!*"] You move quickly. Your position is not something you deign to flaunt with further taunts. It is a hunt, and certainly not your first. (text-colour:orange)[[[Tread lightly->Ramses Attic]]]. These are not your woods.]

(text-colour:#f1f3f5)[***The Private Study*** ---] The air is thick with the scent of cigar smoke, rosemary and old parchment. Bookshelves line the walls here, packed with hundreds of holy texts from hundreds of corners of the world. You're almost tempted to pick through the collection... but then, look at the kind of ideas it put in *his* head. There's a (text-colour:orange)[[[desk->Desk]]] covered in parchments, silver daggers, holy symbols, scrolls. It's an utter mess, all in all. A cot sits against the wall-- you imagine the man spent enough nights in here to warrant it. A heavy-looking (if:$Visor is 0)[(text-colour:orange)[[[trunk->Trunk]]] sits just under the window.](if:$Visor is 1)[trunk sits just under the window, with a collection of confiscated tomes and tools invaluable to the long-forgotten lives of so many witches. You'll have the hounds carry it back home-- it's worth more than every servant-to-be in this mansion combined. All those burned at the stake *will* be honored.] You can step back out into the (text-colour:orange)[[[hall->Upper Floors]]] when you're done.

As Sonata closes out the song, Felicity sways to a halt, content to rest in your arms, heedless of any worldly concerns beyond them. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[...]")[... Slowly, he leans in. His scent's like lilacs and candy, his breath rolling gentle down your neck. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[...]")[... He moves to kiss you. (text-colour:orange)[[[• Kiss back.->Felicity Embraced]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Gently decline.->Felicity Playful]]]]]

Your arms around his back, your muzzle tipped aside. You meet the affection halfway. The kitten's always had his heart set on you, to the point where you're not entirely certain where your training begins and ends. It gives him hope when your lips meet his, that maybe those fantasies don't have to just be fantasies. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["... I care about you so much, Meowster."] The words nearly catch in his throat, when he breaks away to speak. There was a chance, he must have realized, that you'd turn away the little show of affection. But as ready as he thought he was for it, you swear he's doing his best to hold back tears as he wraps his arms around your shoulders, smiling warm and deep. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["**So much**, you know...?"] (text-colour:orange)[[[You know.->Felicity Chat]]](set: $FelicityQuest to 3)

You care about him dearly... but you don't want him to get the wrong idea. He may yearn to be your partner, a true partner, but it's too soon, and the night is too early. So when he leans in, you just bump foreheads with the guy, like an affectionate pair of housecats. And he laughs again, cheeks tinted a rosy hue, bumping you right back. It's not quite the same swept-away laugh from before, though. He seems a little quieter, a little more embarrassed. He leans away and plays claws over the back of his neck. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["You must think it's a little selfish... having the crush that I have. Wanting you all for myself. You have so many *wonderful* kittens... but a cat can dream, can't he? Even if for just one song?"] He drapes his arms over your shoulders. Whether there's hope that one day you can be together or not, he's content just to (text-colour:orange)[[[be with you at all.->Felicity Chat]]](set: $FelicityQuest to 4)

(link:"(text-colour:orange)[Sonata cle-e-e-eaaaars his throat.]")[Sonata cle-e-e-eaaaars his throat. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["A sweet moment, darlings, but I've got places to be-- puppies to trample, I'm sure you understand. Unless you'd like an encore?"] You roll your eyes and dismiss him. A delicate bow of the head, then he sashays across the tiles and heads out the doors, back to the idle domination of his border collie. You really need to reign him in, one of these days. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Oh, well.]")[Oh, well. Felicity rubs at his eyes with the heel of a palm. ^^He wasn't tearing up, was he...?^^ (text-colour:#ffaec9)["... Meowster, about tonight... are you sure I'm... worth it?"] Of course. You run your thumb over the cat's knuckles. He casts his gaze down, not entirely satisfied with your answer. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["I'm scared. Not just for your safety, but a night like this could mean **war** for us. I mean, a whole house of fancy well-known witch hunters, disappearing overnight?"] You hold him close. It was war the second they laid a hand on him, you say below your breath. Your fingers trail down his neck. He's done so well to cover it up-- blush and powders, brushing fur as best he could over the marks. But you can still feel it there, the raw space where the rope was wound around his throat. He was nearly lynched, for the simple blasphemy of consorting with a witch. Ramses Foster took his sweet time with the act, perhaps hoping to draw you out of hiding. It's the only reason why your kitten's alive, and the burning reason behind why you came here, to bring them all to heel. The cat frowns as you ruminate. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["But, you know, I'm still here. That's enough, isn't it, Meowster?"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'They hurt you.']")[(text-colour:#ffaec9)["When you first caught me, I was... nervous, to tell you the truth. I didn't entirely know *why* I wanted to be your servant. But I'm not yours for your protection, Meowster."] He plays a hand through your hair. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["I'm here out of *love*."]] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'It's about making a statement.']")[(text-colour:#ffaec9)["Guh, puh-*lease* Owner... you and I know as well as anyone that nothing's going to stop witch hunters from hunting witches. It wouldn't be enough to steal a few lousy hunters and end one lousy party."]] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• 'I can't let them find us again.']")[(text-colour:#ffaec9)["They probably will, sooner or later... but we'll be ready for them. One at a time. You can't keep us hidden forever."]] (more:)[(link:"(text-colour:orange)[• ...]")[... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Felicity brushes his snout against yours.]")[Felicity brushes his snout against yours. Then, after a beat, he (link:"(text-colour:orange)[lets you go.]")[lets you go. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["I'm letting my nerves put a big old dent in our night, aren't I...?"] You wish you could say they *were* just nerves, but that might imply they're unfounded. They aren't. These are simply the risks you run when you make a game of hypnotizing whoever dares to cross you. It's not one you play often. But there's exceptions. And tonight was an (link:"(text-colour:orange)[imperative one.]")[imperative one. He takes your hand in his again; pushes a little silver key into your palm, and curls your fingers around it. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["I got this off one of the guests earlier. Goes someplace upstairs, I think. I can tell you're serious, no matter what I say. And... it means a lot, what you're doing here. I trust you know what you're getting yourself into, and that you'll keep us safe. But be safe *yourself*, okay? If something happened to you because of me, I'd NEVER live it down...!"] You kiss him on the cheek. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[You promise...]")[You promise... ... and he leaves it at that, if only for now. Felicity smiles, more for you than anything, and returns to watching the street outside. Right, then. (text-colour:orange)[[[Let's see what you can find.->The Ball Room]]] (set: $MatthiasKey to 1)]]]]]]]]

(if:$HoundsFucked is 0)[A hound gives you an affectionate little lick up the neck when you step up to pet his ears. If they weren't murder machines twice your height, it'd probably seem outright adorable. It still **is** adorable, just not to *dead weights* like your guests. A few moments of doting, then you're (text-colour:orange)[[[back to business.->The Dining Room]]]] (if:$HoundsFucked is 1)[You give a dog a firm rub over the ears. Another sniffs you, catching onto your oh-so-canid scent. You get a little **smack** under the tail that sets your back arching. ... You'll punish him (text-colour:orange)[[[later->The Dining Room]]] for that. ^^Ideally when your cheeks aren't so red...^^]

You deign not to pry too deeply into your newest catch's head, after that, or at least not for yourself; what he wanted you to **burn out** has been burned out, and it doesn't quite feel appropriate to sift through the ashes for what's useful and what's not. You haul him up over your shoulder, heft him back into the servant's quarters, and set him down into his bed as he murmurs drunkenly in his sleepy haze. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[... Although...]")[... Although... You spot something glitter at the edge of his pillow-- another key, small as your thumb. You pluck it up, roll it between your knuckles, and tuck it in your pocket. If he was close to Matthias, it might go to something... interesting, if not useful. Shaking your head, you turn to the rest of the (text-colour:orange)[[[quarters->The Servant's Quarters]]].](set: $TrunkKey to 1)

You let the holy symbol you found in the garden dangle on its chain, right before his eyes. (text-colour:#ffc078)["There's so many Gods and Goddesses that it's hard for me to keep track... but you're all so terribly convinced that they want me dead, that I'll burn up just from looking at their symbols. But that's not true, is it? It's not burning me, or making me uncomfortable. No divine intervention's coming to save you. It's just dangling from my fingers..."] With his focus on the charm, you tilt your hand infinitesimally, just enough to set it swinging softly. Perhaps it's how the light seems to glint off its edge, drawing his eye like a moth to flame. Perhaps it's some excuse to center his attention on anything but the witch's gaze. Perhaps it's a zealous, misplaced obsession with his faith. It doesn't matter so long as he continues to stare, following the pendant as it settles into broader strokes... back... and forth... back... and forth... its pace as lazy and gentle as the sway of a (link:"(text-colour:orange)[cat's tail.]")[cat's tail. (text-colour:#ffc078)["... Can you feel your head getting heavy...? It's been such a long, *tiresome* night. You *lost*,"] you murmur, a point that cause the leo's ears to flicker and his throat to stir with the beginnings of a snarl. He is silent, though, and you doubt it's entirely out of stubbornness. (text-colour:#ffc078)["I get how terrifying that is, losing everything you know. I've been through it myself. But trust me, kitten... I think you'll find this is gonna end *much* nicer than you expect."] (text-colour:#ffe066)["... Mmph."] Little else can quite retain his attention, but that pretty charm. Your purr rolls through his ears like molten honey, drowning out the white noise of the dining room in thick, mouth-watering rivulets. His own thoughts wind up caught in the torrent; years of mantras and precautions caught like pesky, buzzing flies in the pull of Citrine's very presence, while the charm maintains perfect even tempo, and keeps him occupied from the (link:"(text-colour:orange)[terrible implication therein.]")[terrible implication therein. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Back...]")[Back... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Forth...]")[Forth... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Back...]")[Back... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Forth...]")[Forth... You give him ample time to grow comfortable in its sway. Your claws take on a *glow*, soft, captivating, alluring, which drifts down the chain and gleams across the symbol. Under any other circumstance, he might have deigned to pull away by this point-- but he's too caught up in following the pendant's swing that he can do little more but grunt in confusion. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Shhhh,"] you coo, reaching out with your free hand to brush deft claws through his mane. More bold than perhaps you ought to be, with a seasoned veteran in staving away witchery, but you know when you've got someone on the hook-- past all his training and tutelage, behind his tricks and toys, it would seem that Matthias cracks and crumbles as well as anyone. Nobody is immune to your purr. Nobody is immune to (link:"(text-colour:orange)[comfort.]")[comfort. (text-colour:#ffc078)["It's gonna be alright. I'm not going to hurt you, or make you do anything you don't want to do. You have a lot in common with the other folk in my care, you know that? You're as proud as my kittens... capable as my foxes... powerful as my hounds. It's because of your faith in something greater than you, isn't it? Among the many reasons, I'm sure. It's like that for them, too. They worship me as thoroughly as *you* worship *your* Gods."] He begins to lean into the crook of your paw. You cradle his jaw line, scratch under his chin, let him grow more and more at ease, his gaze dulling in the pendant's unnatural glimmer. Then your paw's drawn back, just so you can fish out a *different* pendant, this time your own: a little silver pentacle. His eyes are still transfixed entirely on the holy symbol, even as you begin to swing your own pendant... at least, before the pendants *click* together, and that soft orange glow transfers seamlessly to the other, which, in kind, pulls Matthias' gaze onto a *new* focus: an icon for the very thing he hates the most. That'll change, though. You've only just (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*begun.*]")[*begun.* (text-colour:#ffc078)["Not to put myself on par, of course... but worship isn't black or white. Witches, we have faith in all *sorts* of things-- some even overlap with yours. I won't take anything away from you, you know... Felicity, Sonata, all the other kittens-- they worship more than just me. Faith is *powerful*. Who's to say you can't explore it a little... deeper?"] You drop the other symbol. He doesn't even notice, by this point. His head hangs heavy, his glasses threatening to slip right off the bridge of his muzzle, reflecting the shine of your pentacle, as it swings back... and forth... and back... and... forth... every time it sways like that, he can feel whole prayers peeled away; words he's learned by heart pulled into the waves of that pendulum, to melt and wear away under the control of that silver star. He'd made his whole life the study of these things-- and he can still recall them, in some measure, but it becomes... harder to draw on the knowledge, like fishing something out of a vat of honey. Sticky, slimy... warm. Pleasant on the senses, even if it matts down his fur, drools between his fingers, drools through the gaps in his brain. What comes easiest, in all his understanding of religion, is the symbol before him... and even *then*, the fuzziness of what he's already known around witchery is only emboldened, in the absence of all else. His first experience with it, (link:"(text-colour:orange)[his first *true* experience of it...]")[his first *true* experience of it... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[... is...]")[... is... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[... it's *good*...]")[... it's *good*... Ah. Here comes your hand again, rubbing at his cheek like he's little more than a house cat, the gentle affection enough to pull a soft, weak smile up the corners of his lips. It feels *good*, simply focusing on the star swinging before his gaze, resigning himself to the push-and-pull sway, realizing the truth in what you've said. He can stop looking at any point, if he so wished. He's not being **forced** to do anything, like he'd speculated of so many of your victims. But why would he stop, when it brings him such... relief? Such *purpose*? It speaks to a carnal part of him so rarely touched by more humble pleasures. Your touch is electric, sparks of delight correcting his posture even as he's eased this way and that, your purr a warmth scarcely rivaled that seeps in through his head like a reprieve. He... feels his heart fluttering, as though he were enamored. Redness flushes to his cheeks. His cock has already hardened, there in his trousers. And you have every intent to handle that too. With a fabric-bound hindpaw, you simply press the plush, dainty sole over his length. (text-colour:#ffe066)["A-Agh,"] he groans, instinctually rolling his hips up to meet you, in tune with the pendulum's sway: slow, lazy, **powerful** thrusts that encourage you to apply greater pressure, kneading his cock through his (link:"(text-colour:orange)[silks.]")[silks. What drives him to faith? The belief in something greater than him? A promise of strength? Security against damnation? The moral conviction to do good? All of these things you intend to challenge, one lurid stroke at a time. Here under a witch's sole, it's unquestionable that you're *greater*. Greater than the men that have pursued your capture, evident by how thoroughly each and all of them have fallen to your whims. You're no divine force, but you're something *tangible*, something *intimate*, something *natural*, as Godly as any need. And what of strength? Would *any* amount of strength outpace you, when you can lull him into trance as easily as the swing of a cord? You'd keep him safe, against whatever fate the next step of life may bring. And gracious knows there's no moral in ridding the world of someone like *you*. He must find the underside of your foot, as he bucks, thrusts and humps against you, to be rather holy by its own merits. Drooling pre... panting softly... with your free hand, you play with the buckle of your belt, just to let your fat, heavy **cock** hang free, and the scent is just another nail in the (link:"(text-colour:orange)[coffin.]")[coffin. (text-colour:#ffc078)["It's okay to worship something different,"] you murmur, brushing his cock between a pair of toes. You grip your own shaft, spare it a few pumps. His focus seems stretched thin, trapped now between the swaying of the pendulum and the steady **throbs** of your considerable heft. (text-colour:#ffc078)["It's okay to worship *me.*"] The assurance is not met with protest. He is well beyond that, by this tender point. So close to the point of breaking, so close to forsaking the holy edict he's sworn his life to, from the faintest tastes of bliss at the hands of a witch. Small wonder he was so inclined to purge them. He never stood a chance when one came to **collect**. You make it easy for him. You knead your foot down, rubbing (link:"(text-colour:orange)[harder...]")[harder... Then *plap* your fat shaft across his snout, burying his nose just against the crook where shaft meets your balls, and give him just a single, simple command: (text-colour:#ffc078)["***Convert.***"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*Ping!~*]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)[*Ping!~*] -- He sits up straight. Back arched, ears perked, eyes bright, head kept lowered to play altar for your cock. No sooner than you give the command does he seem to drop completely, deeper than before, deeper than you *anticipated*, as deep as his faith once ran, now relocated to the church of one smug little cat. (text-colour:#ffe066)["... how... can I start...?"] It's with this final acceptance that he cums, though the reaction it milks from him is muted at best: heavy breaths, fluttering eyes, an utterly **stupid** smile as he fires rope after thick, reeking load into his silks. Like a (link:"(text-colour:orange)[good, dumb follower.]")[good, dumb follower. You titter coquettishly, and reach around his neck, fixing the pentacle around his throat. (text-colour:#ffc078)["You already have, kitten. You're gonna loooove worshiping me... I just need you to do a couple things now, and I'll teach you *everything* you need to know about your brand new faith. You need to tell me how I can open up your brother's room... and once you've done that, and swear your vows to me... and tongue my *cock*..."] You grin, sharp as a nail, resuming pumping his cock with your foot, intent to drag him to a second climax. He's already well on his way as he falls to the despairing pleasure of forsaking his beliefs, drooling prespunk into the messy fabric, making an utter **mess** of the floor. (text-colour:#ffc078)["I'll keep you as my very own acolyte.~"] You'll have to march him home naked, at this rate, for how utterly *sloppy* his pants have gotten. But he nods and obeys with such an eagerness that you doubt that'll be (link:"(text-colour:orange)[much of a problem.]")[much of a problem. (text-colour:#ffe066)["Of..."] He bows his head further, a hint of teeth in his lust-fueled smile. (text-colour:#ffe066)["Of course, my Witch. I shall obey. May you bless me with the strength to endure as I recall..."] ... You could get (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**used** to this.]")[**used** to this. --- What you learn from him is admittedly (link:"(text-colour:orange)[lackluster.]")[lackluster. Ramses and Matthias are close like little else, but the greater lion's always been a paranoid sort: they both kept access to their inner sanctums well-maintained secrets, just in the event of... well, something precisely like this. You have to help him back down into trance, often, as he's cowed into betraying his brother. You remind him to have faith in you, that he'll worship you for more than just pleasure, but for leadership, guidance, the simple understanding that you'll do what's right. It helps with your foot still playing with his cock, and your musk frying what's left of his sense to help lull him below your control. He's already *gone*-- it's just going to take a little bit of adjustment, first. There's a spare key, supposedly, hidden somewhere in the estate. 'Behind a mask of his own face', is all he suggests to know. You push him to tell you more, but anything else you glean of his brother from him is admittedly of little consequence: his strengths, his intellect, his many successes in the field. He's the kind of catch you *drool* over getting for yourself-- but it's for that very reason why you tread such dangerous waters. You ask of weaknesses, and he can offer nothing. When you're satisfied, you let your fat, heavy shaft drag over his snout a few times, really **rubbing him** into the barbs, the texture, the sex-slick prick that's helped put an end to the Foster Manor's great name. (text-colour:#ffc078)["... Alright. Submit, kitty. It's time to surrender properly.~"] ... He's nervous, at first. Of course he's nervous: it's with these final statements that he signs away his old life, all in the span of... half an hour, perhaps? Almost shameful, how quickly he folded under your direct influence. But then, anyone that might *blame* him simply hasn't met you. The lion straightens his back, clears his throat... and speaks loudly enough that every other guest may hear him, even with your cock still (link:"(text-colour:orange)[rested on his face.]")[rested on his face. (text-colour:#ffe066)["... I willingly surrender myself, in heart, body and mind, to the service and sanctity of my Witch, now and forevermore. I declare that I shall serve obediently and with grace; humility and reverence; complete devotion unto my Master..."] He pauses, midway, to take your cock in hand. He's not quite as big as the hounds, but he outpaces you in height by far, to the point where it may be somewhat awkward to manage a grip. Maybe you'll size him down, when you're back home. Maybe. For now, you're content in his strong, warm, *soft* grip; he pumps you with reverence, looking to you for approval. You nod as he continues, (link:"(text-colour:orange)[grinning sharp.]")[grinning sharp. (text-colour:#ffe066)["... With these words, I express my clear and honest intent, to protect my Sir and his constituents, his belongings and his loved ones, his health and his image. To submit to his will in its entirety, without question nor falter, falling in line with his command as high law, acting in accordance with his beliefs, or barring this, in unity and absolution with my fellow servants."] His cheeks burn a deep red, flustered like you'd never expect from a man of his stature. You expect that despite how *deeply* you've helped him sink into the addictive bliss of your spell, this level of intimacy with other men is... uncommon, for him. Poor boy. He's a fast learner, at least; his broad, flat tongue trails up the curve of your balls during this brief reprieve in his vows, tasting the sweat, their *potency*, the hints of the other playthings you've taken just tonight. It drags a **mewl** out of him, from somewhere deep-- in just a long drag of his tongue, he has found yet more evidence by which to worship you: despite both being men, his body simply processes you as a (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*proper breeding partner.*]")[*proper breeding partner.* (text-colour:#ffe066)["... to *love him* as I would any divinity, to prostrate myself before his feet, to confess my sins, to pray for mercy, at the altar of my Sir. In his absence, I shall resign myself to the commands of his highest thralls and the perpetuation of his desires: barring that which may interfere with the rules of my Witch, I will conform to those laws which most convenience my Sir's edict."] He can barely contain himself. You murmur that it's okay, that he can have a taste, that you won't shun him, that it's no test-- it's important that your believer can trust you in all things, from now on. And so he indulges, just briefly, just long enough to really **feel** your shaft on his tongue, lips wrapping sweetly around your root. His tongue explores your barbs, setting your toes curling and heels digging into the woodwork of the dining hall. He can taste it. Every reason he's accepting you into his heart, his mind, his soul-- he can taste it in every curl and squeeze of the tongue. Your strength. Your *virility.* Your taste, playing havoc over his senses, clouding his mind, bending his will. Sucking the witch early was a mistake. His eyelids hang heavy, and all thoughts beyond your service vacate his mind completely... until you *snap* your fingers, and give his mane a little tug, urging him to continue. He does so with drool still hanging on his lip, and (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*hearts* in his eyes.]")[*hearts* in his eyes. (text-colour:#ffe066)["... Glory be to Master Citrine, the Witch of the Woods, Liberator of Hunters. My faith... my divinity... my law."] It almost seems like a great catharsis, when it's finally finished. He is no longer chained down to fears or regrets; it's an oath that binds him to this new life, one worlds stronger than that forged at a chapel, but rather before the very object of his religion: the cat whose cock he's licking (link:"(text-colour:orange)[clean.]")[clean. (text-colour:#ffc078)["... good kitten. I acknowledge your vows. Go on, now, no more distractions. I said suck. So **suck.**"] And he (link:"(text-colour:orange)[does.]")[does. His mouth clamps around your shaft once more, **sucking** at your dick obediently, even as drool ribbons down from the corners of his lips. His mouth is hot, wet... clumsy, just a touch, but you can give him practice in the way of serving a man's cock in the weeks and months and years to come, until he's dutifully submitting at the altar of your shaft, lavishing over the fluffy curvature of your balls like a *natural.* For now, you content yourself with his hungry slurps, rolling your hips against his muzzle with a soft little mewl, your flow of prespunk as utterly *disarming* as ever, leaving him to swallow it down, gulp by gulp, as he nurses you into his maw. He cums again, of course. Most men do once they first taste you. You knead it over his cock through the fabric utterly *clinging* to him now, rolling your eyes with a snide little laugh. It isn't long before you're on the verge of your *own* climax, neither. You're no more immune to bliss than your new convert, and little quite matches the *zest* of seeing a proud, powerful witch hunter crack and vow his life to yours. You might even get him to play with *magic* one day... but that's getting ahead of yourself-- the bottom line is it hits an itch like you've only *rarely* known, and it blends in a wicked cocktail with his deep, affectionate *slurps* that you're drunk off it in (link:"(text-colour:orange)[moments.]")[moments. Running your claws through his mane, you rock your hips against his snout *hard*, leaving much of the actual work to him, allowing him to explore your endowment personally, just so that he's comfortable when you're rutting his muzzle back home. It's hard, though, when you're this close to the edge, with the leo's wet, raspy tongue wrapping you so closely, so thoroughly, his gaze bright and empty and **loving**... To the point where when he **cranes** forward, taking you down to your base, kissing your sheath like a lover, you go careening into climax just - like - that: purring, mewling, hilted there on his lips, you fire off rope after hot, potent, ***litter-sowing*** rope into his throat, overflowing his mouth in spite of the dichotomy of your sizes, leaving your mess to dribble down his chin like a kitten that's had too much cream... until he's *swallowing*, at least, his tongue wringing out as much of your seed as it can, out-and-out *milking* your barb-spackled shaft for everything it's worth! To call it *intense* is an understatement-- even in the company of all the larger, greater men you've caught, your freshly converted lion is a *natural* cock sucker... and just imagine how he'll do after he's gone through his training. He'll worship you (text-colour:orange)[[[**so** well.~->Matthias Clue]]](set: $MatthiasBetrayal to 4)]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]

Witches have their secrets, but the secrets of witch hunters tend to weigh more heavily on their hearts-- bribes exchanged to buy the steely fist of the Church, where they bury the bodies, desires that could warrant persecution for simply being harbored at all. Who better to wring them all out than a golem designed to *keep* secrets? Who is better built to break down a man like Matthias than the fox you built by hand? You grin a sharp little grin, leaning down some, just so that you're level with the brute's gaze. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Wanna meet a pal of mine?"] (text-colour:#ffe066)["I'd soone--"] You cut him off with a sharp, piercing whistle that makes him wince, but he is otherwise unphased: he doesn't know any better, after all. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Not *yet.*]")[Not *yet.* (text-colour:#ffc078)["*LOOOOOO~OOOOOOCKE!~*"] Your construct might have been... distracted, for most of the night, but he is still yours, and heeds your call with an unrivaled devotion: service to you is, after all, the whole purpose of his existance. You hear him before you see him, the pattering of footsteps and the jingling of locks and keys as he bounds through the hall, peeping in through the doors with a bright little (link:"(text-colour:orange)[smile.]")[smile. (text-colour:#994b00)["Hello Mister Cat! Is he ready?"] Matthias hisses a sharp breath as the thing bounces closer. The metal edges of Locke's locks gleam, hollow and unmoving, embedded where eyes would be on a natural creature. Fur has been stitched together hither and tither: he's built of the pelts and hides of six large foxes (the non-sentient kind, thank-you-very-much), and the seams are hard to fully miss. You make a sweeping gesture up and down your golem, showing him off to the lion's muted horror. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Matthias? Meet Locke, my own homebrewed fox! Locke? Meet Matthias. You're both gonna get **so** well-acquainted-- oh, the gossip you're gonna *share*...~"] The lion is more wrapped up in your creation's nature than anything. That you've been able to purr *life* into something is clearly giving him more of an existential crisis than perhaps you bargained for. Not that Locke is necessarily alive, of course, no more than any other tool: at most, he's an extension of your magic, for whatever good the distinction might mean for your rattled old captive. (text-colour:#ffe066)["What foul convention is *this*...? -- Bah! It doesn't matter what monsters you drag out from your closet, *witch*. I will yield to none of th--"] He must be getting so tired, getting (link:"(text-colour:orange)[cut off like this.]")[cut off like this. But constructs are creatures of action and obedience. They have a purpose, orders to fulfil, and they serve these things as if they were all that mattered in the world to them, chiefly because they **are.** Yours, bless him, is no exception. There is a lion to tame and extract secrets from, and your golem wastes no time at all in leaping to POUNCE the brute, tackling him to the floor with a shuddering **thud**. Locke is more like a doll than Matthias could ever be, but the larger man is handled with such effortless ease, there on his back, that you'd think he was just another toy in your golem's greedy clutches. His jaw is pried open by the construct's paws, his sharp teeth inconsequential to the faux thing's knuckles-- just new stitches for you to sort out when you're all back home. The lion's maw, latticed with drool and forced wide open, is utterly defenseless as it's crammed full with fat, thick tongue, large enough to make even a witch hunter of this one's stature gag and sputter when it delves into his **throat**. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[***Schlllllck...~***]")[***Schlllllck...~*** He's a sweetheart, your golem. A secret keeper that's curious about the world. The kind of thing that frets and fusses about the state of a cuckoo clock's cuckoo. But all that does is make it even more startling when he works the skills you've given him towards the end of breaking better men, and forcing them to drool and suckle pitifully around the thick wet muscle thrashing around in their mouths, battering at their palates, luridly distending their well-abused throats. Matthias isn't quite there, not yet, but he'll get there, bit by bit, thrust by thrust past his jaws. Already the fur of his face has been matted down and made a sloppy, spit-darkened mess as Locke explores his maw, easily pushing back against the lion's tongue, wrestling it into submission. Not so cruel as to leave your catch **entirely** to Locke's devices, you settle down between the lion's legs, do away with his belt, and tug them down to confirm budding suspicions: he's starting to get *hard*, from just a few sloppy **slurps** down his throat. Perhaps that's to be expected, despite it all. Matthias and his brother do not seem to be shining examples of morality beyond closed doors, but intimacy must be an infrequent thing, and you doubt that when it *does* hit him it's anything so intense as Locke's hungry, domineering *smooches.* You help him along, wrapping as much as your dainty little paw that you can around the larger man's cock, feeling its unruly weight against your palm, stroking him to full mast while the golem sets to work in earnest, his tongue rough and sloppy in its every thrust, your paw soft and petite in every pump... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**Schlrp! Shlrp! Slrp!~**]")[**Schlrp! Shlrp! Slrp!~** (text-colour:#ffe066)["M-Mmph--! Mmnngh...! ... ^^M-Mm...^^"] Moments stretch into minutes: initial shock cracks, crumbles and melts under the steady assault from Locke's tongue, and soon it becomes entirely impossible to deny the fact that it feels just plain **good**, getting your throat delved by the construct's thick wet muscle, glazing his maw in a fine film of off-sweet drool that tickles the senses and leaves the mouth to involuntarily water. You're never working *that* hard to get him off, on your end of things, only stroking him enough to keep him hard and leaky, precum oozing in thick rivulets down your knuckles, almost as productive as... well, *you,* actually. It almost seems like a waste, making such a stud so *pious*. Oh, well. He'll shake that attitude in good time. He's making good progress even *now*-- you swear you can hear him suckling back against that tongue, and a glance up reveals that your creation no longer needs to pry open his jaws: the brute's lips are wrapped pitifully around that tendril, nursing drool from the very thing he would once consider an abomination... ... until he's allowed to come up for air, anyway. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**Schlrk! SCHLRK! Slrrrrp...**]")[**Schlrk! SCHLRK! Slrrrrp...** (link:"(text-colour:orange)[***pop!~***]")[***pop!~*** Matthias gasps when that tongue comes slithering out past his lips, eyes fluttering, teary at the corners. Your golem's eyes betray nothing, metal as they are. (text-colour:#994b00)["If you want to c-cum... you need to be willing to tell us what we need to know, kitty."] (text-colour:#ffe066)[^^"Wh-Wha--"^^] Your golem dips in to *peck* the lion one last time, then dips his head down between his thighs, paws bracing by his knees. This proud, powerful witch hunter was already toeing the line between composure and a blush, but the terrible implication of what's to come sets wildfire to his cheeks. If he could be brought so low so easily in just a few minutes by a kiss, what would it be like to feel that tongue... *elsewhere*...? ^^He'd be lying, by this point, if he said he wasn't curious. Gods help him, he's *curious*, throbbing there between his thighs...^^ You draw your hand back, giving your golem an affectionate ruffle of the hair, before letting him drive this warrior to madness: in serpentine-fashion, the tongue winds a snug, firm loop around the other's shaft, spiraling from root to tip, just about *encasing* him in a cocoon of wet muscle, so hot that he can practically FEEL his inhibitions melt in its (link:"(text-colour:orange)[embrace.]")[embrace. (text-colour:#ffe066)["Nngh...! Gods...!"] (text-colour:#ffc078)["I dunno if those gods can hearrrrr youuuuu..."] Your voice is melodic and cruel; you slide in behind the man, fingers kneading affectionately at his shoulders, *milking* a slow purr from him as his cock is lavished. (text-colour:#ffc078)["*We* can, though... there's pleasures in the world you just aren't able to deny, Matthias. My golem is one of them. You might think he's a *monster*, but you still love him, don't you? You love him."] He doesn't have an answer for that. Or if he does, it's tangled up in the golem's tongue. When Matthias opens his mouth to speak, the only retort he can offer is a breathy, *whorish* moan, eyes hazy with bliss as that tongue begins to move, slithering up his shaft, swirling over his tip, and gliding right back down to his root, pumping him better than any cunt (link:"(text-colour:orange)[ever could.]")[ever could. (text-colour:#ffc078)["You love him,"] you repeat, one hand drifting up to rub at one of his ears. (text-colour:#ffc078)["You love *us*, despite yourself, despite all your learnings. If you didn't, why would you be getting such a thrill right now? You aren't even squirming anymore. You've given up **trying.**"] (text-colour:#ffe066)["C-Curse you, witch, I... ^^I...^^"] (text-colour:#ffc078)["*Shhhhh...*"] You stroke your claws through his mane, play with him like you might a beloved pet. Locke's affections are a little less gentle: loud, sloppy **sucks** that you can practically feel just from listening. Each one has the brute shuddering under your touch, his every defense dissolving under a torrent of slimy drool... it dribbles down his balls, drips off his sheath like dew, bathing his loins completely and utterly... you can tell he's already so close, now. His toes are curling, his purr has grown yet deeper, his mouth waters well without Locke keeping it occupied. But Locke can tell too. And Matthias still hasn't met his end of the (link:"(text-colour:orange)[bargain.]")[bargain. The construct ceases his tonguejob at once: it bundles up in heavy loops right around his head, tightening and nursing him of preseed, but never going further than that, not until he comes down from the imminence of release. It drives an awful *whine* from the poor cat. What intimacy he does indulge in likely doesn't put orgasm beyond his control. You help to calm him down, of course, working your knuckles into the tension of his neck and shoulders, teasing your claws just behind his ears. (text-colour:#ffc078)["You need to tell us about your brother, kitty."] (text-colour:#ffe066)["... f-ffhhh..."] He's resilient, you'll give him that. Or perhaps words are just entirely beyond him, by this point, stolen away by that snake of a tongue. Lesser men would have snapped and forfeited whatever information he needed *long* before Locke was down between their legs, teasing around his victim's cock head, polishing him to a fine, slippery point. Originally, the golem was built simply for the act of keeping your secrets and acting as a trustworthy confidant... but that's just what idle hands do, you know? That faux-fox is nearly as good at draining the balls of your toys as he is interrogating them, after all the little modifications you've made, until even witch hunters of the Foster family's repute would learn to bend to his whims... soon, you're sure. He might be powerful, but witchery is more natural and pure than any conviction he (link:"(text-colour:orange)[may have once maintained.]")[may have once maintained. The lion's head grows heavy, easing to one side, and you titter softly as you pet through his locks. Content with his edging, Locke redoubles his efforts before the brute gets too comfortable; the tongue unfurls to rebind his shaft, and once more takes him along for hard, *loving* strokes, spiraling in its every pump, kneading and squeezing him like a favorite candy, fast-tracking him back to where he was just before. The cusp of release, so that he can drag him away all over again. He hits it quicker, now, gasping and purring, mumbling senseless pleas for more, all falling on deaf ears as his (link:"(text-colour:orange)[back arches--]")[back arches-- and his (link:"(text-colour:orange)[tail twitches--!]")[tail twitches--! -- And Locke holds back, looping around his head to simply suckle down more pre, to the utter despair of your poor, purring kitten. It goes on like this for some time, a steady pattern that grows faster and more intense with every repetition, pushing him **so close** to the brink of draining his nuts, only to keep them woefully, heavily full. You really can't overstate how impressed you are by just how *drippy* your cat can be... but his body should grow as weary as his mind, before much longer, and his mind is already *so, so weak*. Each time he toes the line between trigger and release, you present him, as calmly as ever, with his ultimatum: (text-colour:#ffc078)["Tell us what you know about your brother."] And without fail, he disobeys, but it's not something that you punish with anything beyond a ruined orgasm. You pet him and purr in his ears, and treat him with so much kindness that it's almost enough to melt his heart. You can only imagine how he'll be when you've got him in the comforts of your home... poor thing might even develop a crush, some day, *without* his mind being dipped in your (link:"(text-colour:orange)[witchcraft.]")[witchcraft. You generally begin to lose track of the time. It's like a trance by its own merits, simply watching the man succumb to your tag-team efforts of forcing his hand. Hearing his purr, watching him buck into the golem's mouth, seeing how he reacts whenever there's a new variation in that tongue's ministrations: spiraling in the opposite direction, dipping down to lash at his balls, pumping and squeezing at the same time, digging into his sheath-- Until he (link:"(text-colour:orange)[just can't handle it.]")[just can't handle it. (text-colour:#ffe066)[***"I-I surrender!"***] *That* certainly grabs your attention. A wicked little grin pulls at the corners of your lips, and the golem, at once, stops. He looks up to you for permission, waiting patiently as you trail affectionate, doting kisses over the cheek of your captive hunter, even as he whines and humps into the construct's maw, desperate for release. (text-colour:#ffe066)["Pl-Please, I surrender, I'll-- I'll tell you everyhting I know!"] Locke's tongue reaffirms its grip, a single knead around his shaft that utterly *disarms* Matthias, making him swoon in your arms. By now, the man's so sensitive that simply a slurp is all it takes to twist the knife and keep him begging. (text-colour:#ffe066)["I-I'll tell you how to get into his room, I'll tell you whatever you want, just-- pl-please, *please*, allow me to finish...! ^^I can't take it anymore...^^"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[...]")[... ... You make him (link:"(text-colour:orange)[wait.]")[wait. You bubble up with (link:"(text-colour:orange)[laughter.]")[laughter. And with your knuckles still working in his shoulders, and your muzzle still peppering his dumb, *disloyal* head with chaste little pecks, you glance down to your fox. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Let 'im off early."] It almost seems to *surprise* the lion, that you'd simply take his word for his submission. But you reward behaviors you like, and mercy, for men like these, is a valuable kind of bargaining chip. Locke certainly doesn't question it. As he's always done, he does what you tell him, and helps Matthias careen over the edge with (link:"(text-colour:orange)[renewed vigor.]")[renewed vigor. That tongue has been unkind in how *good* it feels all night, but how it operates in the moments before the hunter crashes off his peak is nothing these years of experience and training could prepare him for. Sliding so fast that you can barely track it by eye, the warrior's milking comes with a piston-like staccato, thundering pleasure through his prick in *just such a way* to drain him as quickly... and efficiently... as possible. And it does. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*Gods above* it does.]")[*Gods above* it does. With an impassioned ***ROAR*** that sends the manor's foundations rattling, you can practically see both his climax drooling through the coils of Locke's tongue, and every heavy pulsing throb that gets it there. His toe claws dig trenches into the wooden floorboards. It's more glorious than any defeat the story books might have lead him to think would come by a witch's hands. Unlike some hex or lightning strike or *whatever* he thinks would have happened, this is not so sudden, not so simple, and scars that mind to the very *core*... And he's only had one session with the guy. Just imagine how he'll react when you tell him there's (link:"(text-colour:orange)[more.]")[more. --- What you learn from him is admittedly (link:"(text-colour:orange)[lackluster.]")[lackluster. Ramses and Matthias are close like little else, but the greater lion's always been a paranoid sort: they both kept access to their inner sanctums well-maintained secrets, just in the event of... well, something precisely like this. Cowing him into betraying his brother is easier said than done... but Locke is there to help him remember why he's obeying in the first place. His tongue tightens around the other's cock, and he's right back to **sucking him off** in brisk, swift succession, leaving the poor oversized kitty shuddering and babbling all over again, made humble and submissive under just a few licks. (text-colour:#ffc078)["If you wanna cum again... keep talking. Be honest. I'll take you home and you can feel this way for a nice, **long** while if you do good.~"] **That** does it. There's a spare key, supposedly, hidden somewhere in the estate. 'Behind a mask of his own face', is all he suggests to know. You push him to tell you more, but anything else you glean of his brother from him is admittedly of little consequence: his strengths, his intellect, his many successes in the field. He's the kind of catch you *drool* over getting for yourself-- but it's for that very reason why you tread such dangerous waters. You ask of weaknesses, and he can offer nothing. (text-colour:#ffc078)["**Little** bit disappointing,"] you admit, tracing your claws around the base of his ear... before shrugging helplessly, and nodding down Locke-wards. (text-colour:#ffc078)["But you earned yourself a *little* treat, at least. Go ahead. Enjoy.~"] You don't pay a great deal of attention, when that golem's tongue sets to **spiraling** and **sucking** and **pumping** along Matthias' length anew. You've run men like him through this gauntlet a hundred times before, and you'll do it hundreds more before any of them manages to get one up on you. He'll be dribbling into the golem's mouth and dreaming about it until they're back home, in **your** home, where he'll be tongue-bathed into an obedient, submissive plaything just like the rest of them. For now, though? You've got (text-colour:orange)[[[**other**->Matthias Clue]]] matters to attend to.]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]](set: $MatthiasBetrayal to 5)

The man sits on his knees in front of you, guarded by some of your finest hounds, arms bound tight behind his back. Matthias Foster, a hunter, a murderer, a scholar-- and above all else, another victim for you to do with as you so please. As much as you'd enjoy working him over from the comforts of your *own* home, you really should find his brother. Every moment Ramses spends holing up in his room is another opportunity for him to escape, or brace himself, or send a message to more discrete allies in the city. And even if all that should fail, the sooner you leave with your new playthings, the easier it'll be getting back to the treeline unnoticed. You roll your tongue over the sharp points of your fangs and weigh your options...(if:$Visor is 1)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[• Use the visor.->Matthias Visor]]]](if:$Pendulum is 1)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[• Convert him.->Matthias Pendulum]]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Call for Locke to break him in.->Matthias Locke]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Step back.->The Dining Room]]]

You've spent just about all your life in the woods. To say you have an appreciation for flora is the understatement of the century. You admire the care that's gone into them. They must be beautiful, when the weather agrees. (if:$Pendulum is 0)[(link:"(text-colour:orange)[Something glitters in the roots.]")[Something glitters in the roots. Leaning down... ah-- you pluck up a silver chain attached to some holy symbol, only ever-so-faintly tarnished. Somebody must have dropped it in all the chaos. You swing it once, twice, thrice on its length. On its own it's valuable, but you feel you could do something with this... (set: $Pendulum to 1)]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Step back.->The Garden]]]

With Matthias subdued, you play your claws through his mane one last time and leave him to his own devices, if only for now. *'Behind a mask of his own face...'* what could *that* mean? When you try to prod him for further details, he's too incoherent in *new* mantras of obedience and subservience that you can barely squeeze a word out edgewise, at least for now. And you are not getting any more patient. A hound rests a heavy hand on your shoulder, drawing your attention. (text-colour:grey)["We'll take 'im from here, Boss. Don't worry, not gonna fuck with 'im, he's all yours an' Felicity's. Just go grab Ramses. Y'got this."] You place your hand over the beast's, smiling wan, and step away. Time to take another (text-colour:orange)[[[look around->The Dining Room]]]. (set: $RamsesKey to 1)

(if:$FoxesFucked is 1)[One down-- two more to go. They're practically *drooling*, waiting for their turn, tails twitching anxiously behind them. Who to **fuck down** next?](if:$FoxesFucked is 2)[One fox left to go... the pretty little thing's flustered like all get-out-- cheeks burning a rosy hue, tail bristled and swish-swaying to a happy, excited beat... let's make this last one count.](if:$FoxesFucked is 3)[Therrrre we go... now there's just one thing left to do, really:](if:$SaraFucked is 0)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[• Your red fox huntress, Sara.->Sara]]]](if:$AelaFucked is 0)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[• Your arctic songbird, Aela.->Aela]]]](if:$ArieFucked is 0)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[• Your sweet *breeding fennec*, Arie.->Arie]]]] (if:$FoxesFucked is 3)[(text-colour:orange)[[[• Admire your handiwork.->The Trio, Bred]]]]

Oh, of course. It was never a question of *if* you were going to take them, so much as one of (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*when.*]")[*when.* The witch hunters are only witch hunters-- in front of you waits **prime, grade-A meat** desperate for the chance to serve you, each vixen molded, branded, trained, and damn near *custom-tailored* to submit better than most. Open in your *ownership* of them, you rest a paw at Sara's ass, play your claws through Arie's hair, dip in for a brisk, cool kiss with Aela. You tell them you that *want* them, and the excitement among them is *electric.* The only question is... who first? (text-colour:orange)[[[• Your red fox huntress, Sara.->Sara]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Your arctic songbird, Aela.->Aela]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Your sweet *breeding fennec*, Arie.->Arie]]]]

(link:"(text-colour:orange)[*Ring... ring... ring...*]")[*Ring... ring... ring...* A gentle, sharp, sonorous tone that sends pinpricks up the back of your neck, furs standing on edge. You keep each chime well-measured and methodical, at a rhythm that suits your own purr. His ear pivots towards each toll. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Thaaaat's it... there we go,"] you coo. Being able to *end* a trance is as important as instilling one, and you're intimately versed in both. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Feeling yourself coming up, now... feeling a little more awake, with every ring of the bell, with every soft, quiet chime... that's it, keep breathing nice and deep. With every breath, there's another chime... and with every chime, another second drips away. Let's count 'em, up to ten, and when we get there, you'll be bright, and alert, and ready to listen to what I have to tell you..."] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*Ring... ring... ring...*]")[*Ring... ring... ring...* (text-colour:#ffc078)["One... two... three, feeling your senses coming back to you now."] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*Ring... ring... ring...*]")[*Ring... ring... ring...* (text-colour:#ffc078)["Four... five... six, and your head's growing lighter, clearer, *quieter*..."] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[***Ring... ring... ring...***]")[***Ring... ring... ring...*** (text-colour:#ffc078)["Seven... eight... nine... nearly there, now, that voice in the back of your head almost completely silent, about to fade away completely, the moment we get to--"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**Ring.**]")[**Ring.** (text-colour:#ffc078)["Ten.~ Feeling perrrrfectly awake, now. Good boy. How's my kitten doi--"] You assume it worked, by how he ***SNAPS*** at you. Sharp - sharp fangs nearly catch your throat. You're quicker than him, though, and spring back on your heels. The hounds are quicker still, seizing the man by the shoulders, wrenching him back, **snarling** and bearing into him with lethal-cut claws. (text-colour:#ffe066)["Lascivious WRETCH,"] he shouts, (text-colour:#ffe066)["I'll have your **head**!"] (text-colour:#ffc078)["... doing,"] you (link:"(text-colour:orange)[finish.]")[finish. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Temper, temper. Dunno who raised you, kitten, but we will **have** to work on that."] The hounds **drool** over the prospect of tearing the lion apart, hackles still raised by the warrior's gambit. He's a massive sort of *brute*, but your pack has taken down things even greater than Matthias, and revels give them such **awful** appetites. But you won't allow them. And perhaps that's the only thing really keeping Matthias from making another go of ripping your throat out. He eyes the beasts from over his skewed glasses, and even **he** is given pause by their imposing stature. (text-colour:#ffe066)["... **rrgh.** Curse you. A *thousand* curses on you for this cowardly assault."] (text-colour:#ffc078)["Carrrrreful, Matthias-- I hear curses are *blasphemous* these days."] You tuck the bell into your pocket. You'll doubt you'll need it anymore, though: it's served its tour, and the man seems keen enough not to waste your time. (text-colour:#ffc078)["We'll wake you right back up, an' drag you **right** back to the beaten path, in case y'think about losin' yourself in your head again. Just so you don't give it a whirl."] (text-colour:#ffe066)["What is it you intend to do with us?"] He casts a glance to the other guests in the room, muzzle fit in a perpetual grimace. Tranced, drooling and obedient, you expect his friends seem entirely unfamiliar, with the state they're in. (text-colour:#ffe066)["Where's my brother?"] (text-colour:#ffc078)["Oh, hidin' in his room. Like a scaredy housecat hiding up in a tree branch.~"] You're not really sure you have the right to say that. In most circumstances, you're *still* a housecat hiding up in tree branches, comforted against greater quarry by your woods, your home, your friend. He doesn't have much of an excuse, though. You roll your wrist. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Glad you brought 'im up, actually! We need to get in and catch him before he tries somethin' stupid. Any way around?"] Matthias **laughs.** A dry, bitter belly laugh devoid of any real amusement. (text-colour:#ffe066)["You'd ask me to betray my brother."] (text-colour:#ffc078)["Well, not really. I'd *command* you to. An' you'd probably thank me after. Let's figure out what'd suit you *best*, though..."] He swallows hard. You (text-colour:orange)[[[chew it over->Matthias Decision]]].]]]]]](set: $MatthiasBetrayal to 2)

(set: $SaraFucked to 1)(set: $FoxesFucked to it + 1)When you first met Sara, she'd been hunting you like an animal through the (link:"(text-colour:orange)[upper country backwood.]")[upper country backwood. It was one of those uncommon encounters with a witch hunter that *didn't* end as easily as purring in their ears and letting them get lost in your eyes. She subverted every trap, made pin cushions of your hounds with her impeccable archery skill, and navigated the forest near as easily as you. Leaping from branch to branch only bought you precious breaths of time, bushes and foliage rare and ineffective shelter; like a bloodhound, she sniffed out each and every hiding place, her arrows only missing you by the slightest, most narrow of margins... Until (link:"(text-colour:orange)[she didn't miss.]")[she didn't miss. A shot took your shoulder and sent you spinning, and the soft earth rushed up to kiss you. You turned, on your back, only to find the cold cut of steel at your throat. You were certain that would have been it, that your life were to end with just a flick of the wrist and a gurgle of blood. But she faltered, for only the faintest moment, and that faintest moment was all the hounds needed to leap in en masse and (link:"(text-colour:orange)[take her down.]")[take her down. They had their fill of her for the weeks to come, and you allowed it as a token of gratitude for the wounds they suffered, the trouble she'd caused. She was made to live in the kennels as the beasts broke her of resolve, until your offered collar was accepted with gratitude, until her mind softened to accept your every command like seeds in the loam. She's grown a little more... comfortable, in the years that followed. Despite all first impressions, you gave her a fresh start free from the violence of hunting down your fellow witches, and a gentle life of subservience where her skills could be put to the protection of you and every innocent soul sworn to your whims. You brush your claws over her jawline, hand trailing behind her head, admiring her for just a moment, softly ruffling the fur. She blushes, (link:"(text-colour:orange)[eyes hooding...]")[eyes hooding... ... before you **push her cheek to the kitchen island** and grab her by the hip. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[\"Spread 'em, *foxmeat*.\"]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)["Spread 'em, *foxmeat*."] Her tail flags at once, already committed to obedience long before her lust-addled brain catches up with the sudden rush. Her legs part, her hands brace against the edge of the table, her ears fold flat against the top of her head in a show of pure submission. You can *smell* how much she needs this-- it's like the lucky bitch got flung into heat the moment you said you wanted to *fuck* them. A far cry from what she used to be, suffice to say. An **improvement.** And it excites you like precious little else. (text-colour:#e0621f)["Hhhhhah... th-thank you, Sir...~"] You waste precious little time-- there's more vixens to put through their paces, after all, and yet more heroes to knock from their pedestals all throughout the estate. Fingers curled in her hair, you keep her drooling over the counter while you grab your cock, the fat heft of your prick weighing heavy in your palm. It's treated like lipstick over the poor vixen's cunt; she's sopping wet, near as much as Aela, while you wipe your prespunk across her gates, just to really *revel* in the simple sinful warmth of her sex. She digs little trenches into the butcherboard as she's made to wait, panting softly under her breath... You lean in, breath hot against the sensitive furs of her ears. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[\"*Bark* for me.\"]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)["*Bark* for me."] All her time in the kennels, evidently, paid off: she does not hesitate for even a moment before letting out a happy little (text-colour:#e0621f)["WOOF!~"] under your command, tail wagging like a dog's more than a fox's, always held high above to keep it from obstructing you. **There** it is. Cowed into submission like just a dumb puppy looking for a treat... and *for* her treat, you roll your hips forward, sheathing your prick in her folds with one long... fluid... *toe-curling* motion. She barks again, and again, hoping it'll drive you to move faster, sink deeper, as if you'd let her have *any* control over the pace. (text-colour:#e0621f)["W-Woof! Woof, woof! M-Master, *nnh*, I--"] Oh, no. You shut that up at (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**once**.]")[**once**. You reposition your hand and park it over her snout, holding her muzzle closed, leaving her to make all those pretty little noises *muffled* when you're done sinking into her cunt. She's not quite as *snug* a fit as Arie, but she's a loyal little thing that suits you beautifully, and adjusts well to just how well you *stretch* her with little work at all. Letting her feel your every pulse and throb, you whisper into her ear, polite in your correction of her *manners.* (text-colour:#ffc078)["Ah - ah - ah,"] you chide. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Dogs don't talk, remember? They bark..."] (text-colour:#e0621f)["M-Mmph, but--"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASH.**] A spark from your claws, a (text-colour:#ffc078)[*glare*] from your gaze boring into her own. Her irises tint a pretty golden hue at once, and for a slave as well-trained as her, that lone pulse is all it takes to pull the legs from under her comprehension of language. It's a sensation that has her whole body shuddering, as though trying to milk your shaft of its prespunk, which drools and oozes towards her core at a steady and *considerable* beat. It's enough to make you wanna start *moving*, but you're waiting for-- (text-colour:#e0621f)["W... W-WOOF!~"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[That!]")[That! (text-colour:#ffc078)["*Good* girl!"] Maybe she needs fresh training, for how long that took to get out-- it's been long enough since she's been with the hounds. Later, maybe. You can work out any fleeting issues in her mind when you're not balls-deep in one of your favorite *breeding sleeves*. It's an uphill battle to maintain patience, with those wet folds utterly **clinging** around you, but you draw your cock back patiently all the same, just so she can really enjoy that first long drag... with your soft, pliant barbs plucking each petal in the backstroke, playing electric across her nerves. With just that one flash, you've turned her every moan into canid whines, every gasp a precious *YAP*, every ounce of praise and adoration she might have yelled out a happy and loving WOOF. And you only get to appreciate this more when you begin to actually *fuck her.* You DRIVE her down to your root in the next stroke, every movement a deliberate thing, each armored with the intent of pushing her buttons just so. You know her body well. It is, after all, *yours.* She's a woman hardwired on action and tactics; forcing her to **wait** only serves to leave her desperate, and a swift blast of *bliss* or two to her mind utterly scatters any of her hopes to try something clever with you. Helpless in your paws, you settle into a cruel rhythm of dicking her down, the state of your own temperance made painfully clear as you hitch up from slow, incessant movements to utterly **DRILLING** this bitch, pumping through her cunt, balls smacking her thighs with (link:"(text-colour:orange)[authority.]")[authority. *PLAP!~* (text-colour:#ffc078)[♥] *PLAP!~* (text-colour:#ffc078)[♥] ***PLAP!~*** (text-colour:#ffc078)[♥] The other girls *help*, of course. Arie dips in and drapes an arm around your hip, standing on her toes, whispering lurid praises into your ear. Aela reaches down, stroking your balls in the silky curve of a palm, feeling the sheer heat of that roiling, adventure-ending *seed* cooking up for your current mark... her grip's a silky thing, driving you to shorter, **deeper** thrusts just so you can enjoy her handiwork. The trio don't intend for you to last very long. They don't need you to. They don't WANT you to-- as much as they crave your touch, they know you have a whole estate of playthings at your disposal, and splitting so much of your attention three ways would be downright *greedy*. Arie hooks her fingers through the collar of your shirt and pulls you down, stealing you for a kiss, locking her sweet little muzzle with yours. Aela crouches down and *buries* her face against the warm heft of your nuts, stealing sweet, loving huffs as she laps and licks you clean of pre. Sara barks, hips shuddering, clearly falling short on all those promises to **last** longer. Not that it surprises you. This huntress won't be getting the upper hand on you ever, (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*ever* again.]")[*ever* again. With a few last brisk, sloppy THRUSTS, you mewl into Arie's maw and push yourself back to the **hilt** in that wet little sleeve, just so that when you start firing off those corpulent ropes of vixen-breaking **spunk**, each shot gets **directly deposited** exactly where it needs to go: pelting the vulnerable womb of your huntress-turned-*broodwife.* It's not often that you deign to pump a girl full of kittens. But these aren't your favorites for any small reason, and you believe rather avidly in rewarding the kind of behavior that makes your toes curl *just like this*. Let the trio have some cute kin of yours to weigh gravid with and dote over. Consider it a party favor, if they must. Even when your climax, you don't leave it at that: with your fingers curled in Arie's hair and your tail wound around Aela's soft, kneading palm, you rut and buck and and let Sara wring you of every dollop you can spare, grinding your very tip against the lucky vixen's cervix, as though ENSURING your seed's plugged up in her enough to fertilize each and every available egg. Which is all a lot of flowery prose to say... ... There's no way she's not **completely, unquestionably bred**(if:$ArieFucked is 1)[, just like the lucky fennec you're lip-locked with, who's drooling cum down her thighs in just another testament to your virility]. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[As any fox should be.]")[As any fox should be. When you're finally dry on energy, you're panting and slumped over her back, thoroughly spent in the aftermath of a beautiful fox's affections... for a few minutes, at least. (if:$FoxesFucked is 3)[**These** sluts might be broken in, but you've got a whole manor to sate your needs on, and the night is still young.](if:$FoxesFucked is not 3)[After all, there's still fresh holes among the trio, and you're rarely the sort to leave them wanting, least of all when they behave *so well.*] The fox might have a tougher time recovering, though... poor, poor Sara-- her tail still wagging, her tongue still hanging over her lower lip, her eyes still glazed in delight... she's probably still lost in memories of her time in the kennel. Maybe you ought to bring her back, one of these days. You pull yourself up to a stand, sparing that cute, plump ass a firm **^^swat!~^^**, leaving her to YAP like the puppy she is... before you're turning your gaze back to the others, all sharp teeth and smiles. (text-colour:orange)[[[Where were you...->The Trio: Who's Next?]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]

Arie is perhaps one of the more curious additions to your home. You didn't capture her, didn't brainwash her, didn't even invite her. She showed up one chilly night, dirty and half-starved with her clothes in tatters and brambles in her hair, all to knock at your door, all to ask if it was true-- that you took in foxes, kept them safe and comfortable and happy. And you did. So she set foot in your parlor, and you cleaned her up, and never once asked a question about where she might have come from: over a cup of tea she listened to what a life under you meant, over scones she surrendered herself completely, and over the quiet early hours of some Spring evening did you **claim** her, one among your most devoted, if mysterious, vixens. She obeys, and submits, and loves you. And what more could you ask of her, (link:"(text-colour:orange)[really?]")[really? Your history with her is not quite as nuanced or easily understood as yours with others, but you've grown a deep affection for the little fennec that is scarcely truly rivaled. Practically regal in all her poise, she plays like a crown jewel among the other foxes in your retinue, charismatic and well-spoken, polite in such a way that the *humiliation* of etiquette did not seem to phase her, but rather *highlight* her. It's alluring. *She's* alluring. Perhaps it's the enigmatic air circling who she might have been-- some criminal on the run? A scorned noble? An outcast, spurned and misunderstood, just like you? Or perhaps it's simply the way she flutters her eyes when she looks at you, or how her pretty voice sings when she needs your cock, like it does right now. You find you need her, too. You need her as much as any (link:"(text-colour:orange)[sin.]")[sin. She's shorter than you by just a bit, but gracious does she put the size difference to good use; her hands are all over you, playing with your tail, stroking down your thighs... wrapping around your prick, to pump you back to full hardness. (text-colour:#c39b77)["My Master,"] she mumbles, eyes fluttering, looking up at you with raw adoration. There it is. (text-colour:#c39b77)["My *wonderful, perfect* Owner... all these hunters, all these *cowards*-- you're so... you're so *wasted* on them."] Her palm is wickedly soft, the friction of your barbs prick - prick - pricking up her palm driving electricity up your spine. (text-colour:#c39b77)["How about a palette cleanser, mm?"] It's only a few more strokes you can endure before she's answered with (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*intensity*.]")[*intensity*. You act in a blur. Your hands on her hips, hefting her up in the air, leaving her clinging to your back, manicured claws scratching desperately for a grip. Your muzzle clamps on hers, stealing her in a sloppy kiss, with even the minty tang of her maw sparking your senses alight. One paw of hers dips beneath her skirt to tug sodden silk aside, making it easier when you **buck** and **grind**, hunting for her sex, eager to bury your cock to the **root.** She doesn't need foreplay: she is already stretched perfectly to fit your cock, as though even her loins were custom-tailored to your pleasure, and when you finally hit pre-drooling tip to your mark, you sink past her folds to the tune of her soft, sweet sighing, muffled only by your (link:"(text-colour:orange)[tongue.]")[tongue. That won't do, though. Aela may be the song bird, but just as with all of them, Arie brings with her a certain *nuance* to her croons and cries that melts your heart in alarming speeds. That charming but ultimately futile attempt to restrain herself, those delicate chords strained in **need** when you rock into her *just so*... it's too good to keep staunched. Your kiss breaks with drool latticing between your lips, your face stained with her makeup, your eyes hazy, foggy, no less mesmerizing. Both her hands join behind your back-- she knows what's next, and one does not last as long as Arie under your roof without understanding when to (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*brace themselves*.]")[*brace themselves*. Pinned tight to your front, she barely needs to do more but **sound precious** and **clamp down** as your hips do most of the work: you HAMMER up into that wet cunt with an almost unkind fervor, piston-pumping her quim to an impassioned beat, the sheer *sound* of her fucking enough to bring a blush to Aela's and Sara's cheeks as they watch you claim one of their own. She's taken without a shred of mercy, until etiquette abandons her, gushing and dripping down her thighs in sticky-sweet rivulets, wrenching a low whimper from her throat. But, ah, that's just *one* orgasm. Surely, for all the high regard she holds you in, you can wring out more than **that**. And you will. It's not exactly your priority, but you (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*will.*]")[*will.* (text-colour:#c39b77)["H-Hahhhh...!~ Hnn, *Citrine*-- Citrine *please*...!~"] Light, breathy, desperate. It spurs you along into every hard thrust. You tip back, square your feet, and utterly **abuse** that lucky cunt, barbs adding just another sensation to leave her *squirming and insensate* in your grip. You can't imagine she'll find much pleasure in other men, by this point, listening to her as she is now. Fennecs tend to mate for life, after all, and although you've been in her mind and trained her to a fine little point, no amount of hypnotism can quite convince the body as well as a fat, *virile* prick leaving its mark on her womb. Other vulpines will lose their luster on your doting little **slave.** Canines and their fat, obstructive *knots* will seem more like a sloppy inconvenience-- horses wouldn't have fit in her to start, and serve as a humbling reminder of just how much more you can do with much *less*. No other cat would come near her, with your scent clinging to her so *thoroughly* under the thin veil of perfume, and any competitor that's ever *tried* now enjoys a permanent stay in your home as a cute, effete servant. Arie, for all intents and purposes, is yours for **good.** And once again, you content yourself in cementing that fact with a fat load *deep* in her (link:"(text-colour:orange)[womb.]")[womb. Your tip plants smooch after drooly, dripping smooch against her cervix, heralding the *breeding* that's to come, and her body seizes up in anticipation as if it was the very first time. It's *not*, of course. You've had her for too long, through long Springtime ruts and her own damn *heat*, to resist putting a litter in her until now. But even now, instinct leads her to revere the moment of bearing your progeny as a religious thing. It's just a *whim* you're acting on, for you. She's cute when she's heavy with your wicked brood for a couple months, glowing with the delight of caring for your kittens. And it's all the more adorable to hear her **beg** for it. (text-colour:#c39b77)["M-Master...! Citrine, fuck, I... I-I need another litter-- please, **breed** me! Fill me *up*--!"] And who are *you*, to keep a girl waiting? Prim and proper to the very end, even saying *please* when you're about to have her seeded. You snort derisively, even as your purring grows low and the flow of your prespunk drools out, with nowhere left to go in the girl's utterly **flooded** sex, outpacing the full climaxes of lesser, *weaker* males. You can still go deeper, though. You can hold her down against you and thrust **harder**, ramming against the very gates of her core, head nestled into that vulnerable opening, priming it with a glaze of yet more pre, (link:"(text-colour:orange)[until...]")[until... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[until--]")[until-- Until **nothing**. You're already firing off; she's so tight around you that she can **feel** the underbelly of your shaft swell with the coming orgasm. You clamp your jaws around her shoulder, until it all comes rushing out to utterly RINSE the back of her womb, dousing her eggs in torrent after almost *unfairly* potent catseed, guaranteeing without debate, in just the first shots, that she'll be made to mother your progeny (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*all over again*.]")[*all over again*. It almost makes you feel bad, knowing how thoroughly you've denied the rest of the world such a pretty, *perfect* vixen. Almost. But you're too distracted in the simple bliss of hearing her breathless moans, purring deep against her neck as your payload backwashes down your thighs, making an utter *mess* of the Foster family's tiles, as seven bursts broach into (link:"(text-colour:orange)[eight,]")[eight, (link:"(text-colour:orange)[nine,]")[nine, (link:"(text-colour:orange)[ten...]")[ten... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[eleven...~]")[eleven...~ (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*twelve...~*]")[*twelve...~* You're not keeping track, but it has to be in the ballpark of a **full minute** before your orgasm peters into a mere trickle, then ebbs into the dreggs of release. Your grip on her remains as tense and possessive as it began until that point, and well beyond, until your jaws unclench from her raw nape and you let her down just enough to (link:"(text-colour:orange)[look into your eyes.]")[look into your eyes. (text-colour:#ffc078)["... Remind me. What's a *good fox* say when she gets *honored* with kittens?"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[...]")[... She leans in, resting her snout against yours. (text-colour:#c39b77)[^^"Th-Thank you... thank you, Sir...~"^^] (text-colour:#ffc078)["That's what I ](text-colour:orange)[[[thought->The Trio: Who's Next?]](text-colour:#ffc078)[."]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]](set: $ArieFucked to 1)(set: $FoxesFucked to it + 1)

(text-colour:#f1f3f5)[***Ramses' Bedroom*** ---] The room is larger than most houses. Tall windows flank the back wall, letting dim moonlight creep over the impromptu battle field. He's been waiting for you all night, and has hunkered down in preparation with Gods-only-know how many weapons. A (text-colour:orange)[[[bed->Ramses Bed]]] sits between you and Ramses for cover, (if:$Blankets is 0)[large enough to take a destrier to the sheets](if:$Blankets is 1)[its comforter and blankets bundled up in a heap by your side], with (text-colour:orange)[[[shelves->Ramses Shelves]]] decked in holy scripture or hallowed frippery up against the walls. On (text-colour:orange)[[[Ramses'->Ramses Talk]]] side of the room, you can see a door, a dresser, little decorations of little consequence. You cannot reach any of them, not without tearing up your paws something terrible; the man has scattered (text-colour:orange)[[[broken glass->Ramses Glass]]] over the floor like caltrops. If you could only reach him...

(set: $AelaFucked to 1)(set: $FoxesFucked to it + 1)Among the last to enter your care, though certainly not least of your favored trio... is (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Aela.]")[Aela. Where Arie is a beauty of a girl who arrived upon your door as if the world itself was gifting her to you, and Sara came as close as a halberd's tip to ending you before you subdued her... Aela came under your care alongside many others of her Northern ilk, barbarians brought down by one of their own and dragged to your woods to enter your service. Aela came, alongside them, the diamond at the top of an entire pile of sparkling jewels. Soft white fur of such a pure, untarnished shade that it almost seems to glow in the light. Long, braided hair flanking two flicking white ears, her bangs hanging before two eyes that share a vibrant pink shade. Her hips flare out, beautifully, framing once-strong, now soft, fertile, motherly thighs, contrasting against her thin waist, perfect for wrapping one's arm around... and complementing the pair of soft, kneadable teats that sit upon her chest, both the perfect size to hold in the palm of one's hand. She is a beauty. But more than that... he is your beauty. A star of the north, brought under your thrall, addicted to the scent of your presence, the tingling tease of your touch. Every part of her is yours, mind, body, and soul, devoted to the core to the tomcat that tamed her... But nothing makes that more clear than the way her voice mewls, needily, having been left for last while you enjoyed the two other vixens she's made her partners in (link:"(text-colour:orange)[servitude.]")[servitude. You've heard from those who speak her language, who came down with her, that Aela had a bit of a reputation up north as a songbird. A singer and performer, whose voice could quell the rage of even the harshest giants and could pierce the veil of the noisiest of blizzards. To listen to her beg, her words a slight, pleading bounce of soft, angelic entreaties in a tongue you don't entirely understand but whose intent you fully comprehend... that alone matches every other bit of her in value. You have so many pretty foxes to choose from, after all... but those who stand out, as she and the other two of their erstwhile trio do? They make searching for more to add worth it, just under the chance of finding another their (link:"(text-colour:orange)[quality.]")[quality. There's no hesitation, in answering her plea. Even after having your way with Arie and Sara, there's just something about these three that gives you the raw stamina needed to go all the way. Length still dripping with the excess of your previous indulgences, you step forward-- The thick, barbed breeding tool twitching back to life as you shove her down onto her knees, grab her by the back of the head... And give her one, simple command. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[\"Lick.\"]")["(text-colour:#ffc078)[Lick.]" Aela is not fluent in the common tongue. Despite her immersion in it, she speaks only the words of her original homeland... But there are some phrases she's divined the meaning of or had trained into her so hard she could never forget. This is one of them. Forward, the white-furred fox leans, unabashed and eager to serve as long, wet tongue lolls out from within her muzzle to lap away at your length. Barbs scrape along the breadth of her tongue as she runs it along the bottom, making a point to stare up at you with piercing, focused eyes as she shows off the smear of seed and her sisters' juices... Before pointedly, swallowing it all, just to show off. Devotion. That's all she feels. Unabashed and pure, held only for the cat who educated her on her place. Her hands' plant on your thighs, taking gentle grip of soft, grey fur as she leans to the left and wraps her tongue 'round your newly-throbbing rod from the side, making use of all of that length to ensure she licks every inch clean. Your heart beats, the familiar feeling of dominance, of ownership coursing through you as it always does when these three are at your call. Like paragons of vulpine subservience, the platonic ideal of what a fox should be as a slave to their felid betters... And it's all because of you. All of them for (link:"(text-colour:orange)[you.]")[you. It's by the time she's lovingly lavishing your thick, furred sack, planting kisses and licks along the thing that had seen so many of her kin left waddling broad-bellied and seeded, that you decide to make clear where she lies. Your fingers tighten around the back of her hair, tugging her away with a sudden, surprised yelp. She stares up at you, for just that little moment, and you meet her gaze in kind-- The fox's pink eyes flashing a vibrant orange for just a moment... before you slam her muzzle down onto your cock, spearing her maw and bulging her throat, and you start (link:"(text-colour:orange)[absolutely wrecking her mouth.]")[absolutely wrecking her mouth. That beautiful songstress's voice finds itself uttering considerably cruder sounds, as her lips smack into your groin with every forceful thrust deeper into her maw. The wet noises of her tongue being bullied into the bottom of her muzzle echo as you absolutely ruin her, every thrust dragging another lurid, throaty moan from that seductive, heart-throbbing tongue of hers. It's something you've heard before, when you've pulled the three aside and made sure they were rewarded for their subservience. It's something you hope to hear many, many times after this. Heavy balls slap against her chin with a pointed plap after every thrust, your barbs scraping down the length of her tongue to remind her of just how good a feline length is, to give her a quite-literal taste of your supremacy with every spurt of pre. And then, just to finish it off, just to ensure that she's going to spend the next few hours tasting nothing but you... You slam her down, forcing her to kiss your groin as your length twitches within her maw. Your breath hitches, body tensing for a moment, before you rinse down her palate with thick, creamy felid seed. Her cheeks swell, struggling to contain the sheer volume of your first spurt... Only to find itself overburdened as the second, third, fifth add on to the load. Desperately, she swallows, downing gulp after gulp of your spunk like a good fox. Her eyes roll back under the duress, hands gripping your thighs for support as she has her stomach pumped full of her Master's over-virile (link:"(text-colour:orange)[seed...]")[seed... ... Until eventually, your stamina peters off again. Your explosive finish slows to a trickle, a line of sticky love drooling from your tip as you tug her off of your fox-wrecking cock, letting your barbs drag against her tongue one more time... And release her. Jizz drools from her mouth, jaw hanging open as her eyes struggle to refocus, falling back to lean against a counter as she catches her breath. And as she sits, you lean down, taking her by the cheek and turning her to look at you, ensuring her eyes are right on your own as you say two simple words to her. (text-colour:orange)[[["Good girl."->The Trio: Who's Next?]]]]]]]]]]

(text-colour:#fff3bf)["... My brothers and sisters in arms will come for me,"] he hisses as you step forward, breath still ragged. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["They will hunt you and your dogs down to the ends of the earth to avenge me. Your minions will fall on the same sword; you will be made to watch as they convert or perish. Your vengeance is an *empty, petty* thing, witch."] His voice is much less certain than it was before. You toy with the loop of his collar absently, gently pulling his head back and forth. A hound's claws are curled in his hair, keeping him from making an effort to *bite* you, though you doubt he'll ever have the taste for it. Few do, once they've taken you quite like that. (text-colour:#ffc078)["I think you've got a bit of an *ego*, kitty. Like, you're just a witch hunter. A *well-known* one, sure, but there's millions of you. And even if there weren't..."] You lean in, the sharp cuts of your fangs a wicked, intimidating thing. They're not what broke him, though, are they? What has that singular honor is your eyes. They glow again, and the brute flinches, his own eyes shutting tight, leaning his head away from you as if that could save him any measure of your control. It won't. You have chipped out footholds in his head now; errant thoughts that linger unbidden, forcing him to stew over just how **good** it felt to be mollified by Master. By *you*. (text-colour:#ffc078)["... I still prefer it this way. I'm a cat. We're *known* for petty.~"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• Trance him.]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASH.**] Your gaze pulses once more, brilliant hues that rattles any sense of coherency. It is perhaps not as intense as it was when your life was on the line, but it tightens the pull it's got on his thoughts, dragging them deeper and deeper down... and his eyes flicker open, as expected, to reflect your glimmering glare. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["Nngh..."] (text-colour:#ffc078)["*Look me in the eyes when I'm speaking to you, slave.*"] Your voice's comfort is commanding, like a laudanum with too much honey. He only tries to pull away from your sight once or twice, before, inexorably, he obeys, and stares, like a (link:"(text-colour:orange)[good kitten should.]")[good kitten should. You titter coquettishly, your lilt like champagne: bubbly, delicious, chilled. You tug him back closer, to the disquiet of your hounds, so fussed with your protection as they are. Bless their hearts. But be it that you're still riding the high of your escape from death, or just a latent confidence in your skills, you do not fear the beast in your grasp: you have your claws in his mind now, and it's time you start to *tug.* (text-colour:#ffc078)["Are you going to *behave*?"] (text-colour:#fff3bf)["... n-never--"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASH.**] Another hit, one that has him shivering in bliss, his toes curling and his teeth grit in a cut between restraint and delight. You can tell he's a willful man despite all this... strong, powerful, worthy of his station among these craven pigs. Few hunters would have been able to last even this long: rare that they come so close as to *choke* you. Resolve like his would do well, if only his beliefs were better placed. Perhaps you can correct them, once nudge at a time, until his prayers are to other powers, grander designs... like you. But they all bend eventually. From their weakest to their finest, they all bend when the cat opens their door, and you begin to break down their defenses, blow after blow, dragging them impossibly low beneath your spell. A dumb smile threatens at the corners of his lips, but never quites get there, not like when he was riding you to climax. You can help, though. You'll free his heart of the inhibitions he's bound it in so tightly, layer by layer. The body and its instinct is already well on its way to accepting you. He needs only to take the (link:"(text-colour:orange)[plunge...]")[plunge... You repeat yourself. (text-colour:#ffc078)["**Slave.** You *lost*. It's cute when you wince and shudder and squirm, but you *know* what that means for you, don't you?" Your forehead rests against his own, bearing your grin so near to his neck like an executioner's scythe. "It means you're *getting off* to me. I don't think there's really any coming back from that, now is there...? So answer me *properly*. If you know what's good for you--"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASH.**] (text-colour:#ffc078)["*Tell me that you're going to behave.*"] Your tone does not broker argument. He opens his mouth, perhaps to try it, but your glare, despite how sweetly it glazes the mind, is firm and *decidedly* unbudging. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["... I will... I-I will behave..."] He doesn't sound terribly *into* it. You express your critique rather pointedly. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASH.**] He honest-to-goodness *mewls* with the next burst of pleasure, that tense show of teeth finally going slack in-- ^^*there* it is!^^-- a dumb, open-mouthed *smile.* (text-colour:#ffc078)["With feeeeeeling, please."] (text-colour:#fff3bf)["A-Agh--! I will behave!"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASH.**] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASH.**] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASHFLASHFLASHFLASH!~**]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASHFLASHFLASHFLASH!~**] (text-colour:#fff3bf)["I WILL BEHAVE! I'm sorry, Master, I'll behave! I'll obey you...!"] You cackle a good, properly witchy cackle and pat - pat his cheek, demeaning in even your praise. "Good kitty." A pause. A glance up to the other hounds, who struggle in proximity to your enchantments-- some drooling, others panting, most dizzy on their feet. (text-colour:#ffc078)["... Hey, pups? I've got some last minute business to sort out. Would you be a bunch of sweethearts and finish him up for me?"] They rest firm, heavy paws on the shoulders of your captive. Stare too long at their grins and they might just kill you by how *sharp* they are. They look down at Ramses. Ramses looks up. He knows better, at least in the moment, not to break his word and *misbehave*. It can get worse, after all. It always can. But he has never looked more timid than he did in those few moments... ... before your pack utterly **CONVERGED** on him, and rutted him like any bitch in heat. If they were heroes or hunters before you got your hands on these brutes, you'd never be able to tell with how *ravenously* they swarm your latest catch; prying his jaws open to fit them around the fat red bulbs of fat canid cocks, wiping his nose with heavy-hanging nuts, wrapping his hands around whatever shafts aren't busy SLAMMING into his ass, or humping onto his feet, or even using his tail as an impromptu *cum rag.* You watch, as if you haven't seen scenes just - like - this all your life... and turn, promptly, on your heel. The Foster family met its (text-colour:orange)[[[end->Ramses Aftermath]]], and that's sweeter than *any* moan he can make.]]]]]]]]](set: $RamsesConverted to 1)

Your red fox is still rattled by your impromptu trancing, but she's a resolute little huntress, isn't she? Resolute to withstand a month in the kennels, being knotted into a stupor by your hounds. Resolute enough to remember how to speak, and stand without a wobble just a week after release from her canid superiors. Resolute enough now, to maintain some modicum of manners as you call on her to lick you clean, even with your cum still drooling down her thighs and her head still fogged with the temptation to *bark*. (text-colour:#e0621f)["... May I sp-speak?"] You (link:"(text-colour:orange)[nod.]")[nod. With her cheeks burning as bright a red as the rest of her, the fox crawls forward on her hands and knees before you, her tail wagging like a dog's. She cradles your balls on the bridge of her snout, letting the furs steep in your spunk and the mess of every other toy you've taken tonight. Aela's spittle... Arie's arousal... she mops it all up with her countenance, breathing in deep, then dragging her face up, up, up along the side of your shaft, wiping you down on that silky veneer. (text-colour:#e0621f)["Th-Thank you for the honor, Master... we're all just *pups* for you in the end, but you treat us like princesses-- we don't deserve it at all..."] She drags herself down the other side of your shaft, eyes fluttering, lips parted in another brisk series of canine pants. (text-colour:#e0621f)["If I've pleased you, I owe it to Aela and Arie-- we've worked *so hard* practicing for you...~"] There is not much room for jealousy among the trio, it would seem... though even if there was, Arie's still glowing in the aftermath of her **balls-deep ruination**, and Aela's still drooling from the brutal **facefuck**, rubbing at her belly with a certain reverence that transcends *any* dialect. Sara's focus is centered wholly on licking you clean, lapping at you like a dog, feverish, sloppy, no doubt seeing you glazed in drool more than actually sucked to a polish... but that changes, too, when she wraps her lips around your head and slides down to your base, milking you of what's left of your previous climax like a (link:"(text-colour:orange)[good, *hungry* pup.]")[good, *hungry* pup. You let her take her fill, ruffling one of her ears, kicking her tail to wag all the faster for it. She swallows and cleans as she's been trained, fallen far from the fierce and pious girl she used to be, comfortable now to bathe you in the afterglow of her *breaking*. But it's less a treat than it is just another trick she's been taught, and you don't linger for long, drawing out from her throat and drying yourself in her hair. [(text-colour:#ffc078)["And hoooow does the puppy thank her owner?"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[\"**Woof!~**\"]")[(text-colour:#e0621f)["**Woof!~**"] "(text-colour:orange)[[[Gooooood girl.->The Trio, Satisfied]]]"]]]]

What a (link:"(text-colour:orange)[delightfully *ironic* idea.]")[delightfully *ironic* idea. Of course, this isn't some overzealous warrior or greenhorn squire: Ramses Foster is a seasoned veteran when it comes to cutting down those he deigns to persecute, and would just as happily rip out Felicity's throat regardless if it meant his death, as one final dig in the good life of an honest witch. Perhaps he'd even *welcome* martyrdom like that. But you won't give him the satisfaction, much less the opportunity. With your hounds gripping his arms, you snap your claws and order them to lay him down. The brute is wrestled to the floor, snarling, still attempting to wrench from their vice grips, but he is inexorably brought low for you to work your sordid magic. And you have every intention of (link:"(text-colour:orange)[taking your time.]")[taking your time. *SLASH.* His trousers are shorn by your claws, allowing you to leave just a few marks: for one, your nail takes on a glow as it traces a brilliant (text-colour:#ffc078)[**C**] on his hip, leaving in its wake your brand for all who look on him to appreciate: a permanent reminder of his complete and utter **defeat**, and that he'll always be just another piece of your property. The second is a tinge more elaborate, and calls for lifting up his coat, to delicately etch curling, flourishing runework across his lower back. For *Ramses*, your handiwork is more than just aesthetic: he hisses as he feels your witchery's long, soft threads seeping through fur and flesh, entwining itself with his nerves, tangling with his bones, rooting into very his core, further and deeper with every swipe of your claw. No amount of *fuss* he raises will slow the grind of your work, however. This is hardly the first time you've inscribed runework in a (link:"(text-colour:orange)[bothersome thrall.]")[bothersome thrall. Your claws are dotted with the bitter oils of the woods, your influence the ink with which you tattoo your latest catch: a direct line to his heart and soul, with submission being only a purr away for him, now. With a word, Felicity will tug those strings you weave through him, pulling him taut like a rabbit in a snare. With a word, this lion will be no more than a *housecat*, for your doting servant to cherish at his discretion. The perfect gift for one of your most devoted servants. You really are such a *wonderful* owner, like that. Standing tall, you order the hounds to yank the hunter up to his feet. He glares at you, as if hoping the sheer fury of his gaze will be enough to set you on fire. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["*Impious* ***mutant***,"] he spits. His mane is not quite so glorious as it was in his portrait, frayed and messy, framing an utterly *feral* anger. He looks like a battered stray, in your opinion. Poor dear. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["I'll have you **lynched** for this-- your home will be doomed to consignment in the flames of **HELL** the moment I'm dragged over its threshold. You might break lesser men, but not me."] (text-colour:#ffc078)["Well of *course* I'm not gonna break you, silly. *I'm* not the one you have to make amends with! -- Ah. Speakin' of, tilt his chin up, boys?"] The hounds seize his jawline and lift his head at your command, quicker than Ramses can bite. He gives them no small amount of *struggle*, but he's still so weak from your hexes that you have no trouble at all when you fix a collar around his throat, a thick black band of leather dotted with silver this-and-that. (text-colour:#ffc078)[*Click*] goes the leash once it's attached... Then you're leading him away, with the help of your hounds, towards a Master more (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*appropriate* for him.]")[*appropriate* for him. --- (link:"(text-colour:orange)[...]")[... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[...]")[... (text-colour:#fff3bf)["... You are **mocking** me."] Ramses is deadpan when you bring him to his knees, presenting him before the one this once-warrior's to submit for, gifted as casually as any other dowry. Felicity's reaction is, in an understatement, *much* more ecstatic. Which is to say he **squeals** when you pass him the lion's leash. He gets so adorable when he's like this, with sparkles in his eyes and his tail bouncing behind him like a fluffy snake on peyote. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Omigosh, REALLY?! You're giving me my very own kitten to tame and train myself? Oh, Meowster, you're the sweetest tom alive! What'd you say his command word was?"] You it into his ear, your purr is as soft and sweet as the kitten himself, who leans in close, his muzzle brushing against yours. He's trying very hard not to steal you up in a hug. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["... Mm, okay!~ I promise I'll take good care of him. I'll feed him and I'll play with him, and keep him from scratching up the furniture...~"] (text-colour:#fff3bf)["*Come closer* and see how well you can *keep* me, pathetic *whelp*."] The lion must be forgetting himself. His claws unsheath, sharp as daggers, as if he'd ever be allowed within *spitting distance* of your cat witho-- (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Why don't *you* come closer? Unless you're *scared*."] Felicity looks up to the hounds, rolling his hand in a little gesture. They are briefly uncertain... but comply at his order regardless. The warrior is released from their grips, with only the length of his leash between him and your housecat. Perhaps he expects a trap. It could be a certain trust in himself, as opposed to blind rage, that makes him take his shot. Muscles like coiled springs have him leaping faster and with more force than you'd rightly expect of someone as large as Ramses, and in that split second, your heart catches in your throat. Your abilities are not a thing to be doubted. What should perhaps be doubted is Felicity's (link:"(text-colour:orange)[reaction speed.]")[reaction speed. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["-- *Senescence!*~"] You find it to be an unfounded doubt, when he makes Ramses **collapse** to the floor. At once, the command word's mere utterance is enough to completely and utterly disarm him, leaving the warrior crumpling to his knees like a house of cards, shuddering hard, *snarling*... as a wave of toe-curling pleasure racks his body like electricity. His cheeks look pretty like that, flushed a deep burning red. His trousers tent, stained with a reeking *glob* of prespunk, coaxed out from just your servant's voice... Felicity gently slips out of his high heels, displaying the dainty lace ankle socks, the hem styled after cat ears. How can something so adorable subdue such an imposing force? Easily. By *kneading* and *rubbing* into the other's straining shaft, pushing it back against the hunter's belly with an authoritative kind of **firmness**. The pink cat's face is (link:"(text-colour:orange)[uncharacteristically stern.]")[uncharacteristically stern. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["... Master Citrine said that you belong to **me** now, kitten. *He* might be the sweetest tom alive, but I'm sure as hell *not.* We're gonna shape you up into such a cute *girlfriend* that not even your brother will recognize you. He might even try to *fuck* you, once I'm through.~"] You wonder if the cat's trying to impress you. He *always* is, bless his heart, though for all you know this could simply be a side of Felicity you've never seen before. With the underside of his sock made damp by the other's *considerable* flow of pre, Felicity lets up on his idle footjob and trails his sole up Ramses' heaving chest. The brute composes himself, just enough to speak. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["You **miserable cur**--"] But he didn't have permission! (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Silly cat.]")[Silly cat. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["*Senescence,*"] comes Felicity's hiss, sharp and sweet like rock candy, and a well-timed **push** of his foot sends Ramses sprawling onto his back with a caterwaul in the throes of his rune-instilled pleasure. It's a potent little hex you've left with him: it only takes those two utterances before this once-undefeated warrior is cumming there in his trousers, hips jerking, firing off rope after rope of thick feline spunk into the fabric of his pants! (if:$MatthiasBetrayal is 4)[Sort of like his brother, really. Funny how that worked out.] Felicity, unbothered, saunters over and *parks* his foot on the lion's face. A bold move even *you're* not certain you'd recommend. Your would-be girlfriend is quick on his feet and sharp as a tack, but he lacks the ability to enthrall anyone through conventional means. He'd like to *learn*, and perhaps he's even picked up on a thing or two for how often he's in your company... but Ramses is a masterful witch hunter that eats fledgling dominants for breakfast, with jaws like a bear trap for those that come too close, and you can't help but feel a tinge of concern. Felicity does more than *help it.* His cum-stained sock is ground into Ramses' face with a few brisk scrubs, until his toes curl around his nose and forces him to *huff* a cocktail of sweat, seed, perfume, and pure, unadulterated (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*submission.*]")[*submission.* (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Look at you-- all proud when you've got the upper hand, but causing a big old fuss like a *bratty little kitten* when you're on even playing field. Look at you, getting trampled by a **slave**. You can't protect yourself. You *definitely* can't protect anyone you invited here tonight. You've already seen how my Master reacts when you try to hurt me. Are you curious about what'll happen when you *disappoint* me, too? Or are you gonna sit down, *behave*, and lick my **fucking foot** like a *good* little piece of *cat meat*?"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[...]")[... His eyes have fallen half-mast, at some point during your slave's berrating. He seems oddly mollified-- him, a man driven by conviction, pushed to some semblance of complacency under the damp grip of Felicity's paw. Like little weeds choking the life from a rosebush, those toes curl and Ramses' head spins, and he does as he's told and he *licks*. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Goooooood kitten."] The cat twists his foot, a silent command for more. Ramses obeys this just as well. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Welcome to your new life, *slave*. And remember, when you're curled up at the foot of my bed and stewing in alllll your frustration, that you brought this upon *yourself* the moment you tried putting your hands on Master's property."] ... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*Gracious.*]")[*Gracious.* Felicity lets his new toy sniff, huff, wet the fabric of his sock in long drags of the tongue. The moments stretch into minutes that you don't care to track. Then, the kitten prances up to you a beat or so after, standing on his verrrry tippy toes to ^^kiss^^ you on the cheek. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Thaaaank youuuu...~ I'm gonna turn him into a **super** good girlfriend for you, Meowster. Give me some time and I'll show you *just* how well I can shake a hunter of his attitude...~"] You ask Felicity how he pulled that off half-way through his promises and platitudes, nearly catching him off guard. Incredulousness creeps into your voice, but if he notices, he doesn't care. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Huh? Oh! Oh, mweehee, wellllll... I've kept it a secret, but I guess I could share with *you*..."] He takes out a cherry red vial from his dress, the glass shaped like a heart, like a charicature of what a witch might brew. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["I treat my socks in a *verrrrry* special blend-- see, the other cats helped me make a *potion*!"] ... An honest-to-the-Gods *love potion*? You try to keep nervousness from creeping into your voice when you ask. In the company of someone who makes his need of you so very, very clear, this is (link:"(text-colour:orange)[hard to do.]")[hard to do. He nods, giggling softly, tucking the bottle back into his dress. Well aware of the implication, he rests his paws on your chest and leans in, smiling warmly. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Oh, but I'm never going to use it on *you*, Meowster. I love you to heck and back, but if you're going to fall for me, I want you to do it naaaaturally...~"] He nuzzles into your neck, content just to smother you in affection for a minute or two. Then he's skipping off, Ramses' leash in hand, no doubt with thoughts in his mind of how to break him in, second only to how it might impress you... And that's how the Foster family met its (text-colour:orange)[[[end->Ramses Aftermath]]].]]]]]]]]]]]]](set: $RamsesFelicity to 1)

The sweet little fennec is utterly **delighted** when you urge her closer. Beaming like a cat in cream, she bounces forward, curtsies graciously, and takes to a knee; with both hands rested neatly on your thighs, she dips her head low to let your balls weigh heavy on her snout, wiping them clean with that fine, thin layer of facial fur, before tonguing much of the sweat, spunk and vulpine juices from their surfaces. (text-colour:#c39b77)["... Thank you *so much*, Master... you're too good to me-- to *all* of us, really. But please, I owe *so much* to my sisters for pushing me to do my best... make sure they get a taste next time, okay?~"] There is not much room for jealousy among the trio, it would seem... though even if there was, Sara's still panting and lost in the dredges of her pup-trance, and Aela's still drooling from the brutal **facefuck**, rubbing at her belly with a certain reverence that transcends *any* dialect. Arie focuses chiefly on your worship, devoted entirely to sucking you clean, trailing her muzzle up from your balls to *wipe you off* on her cheeks, only to wrap her lips about your head, nurse what's left of prior orgasms, and take you down to your (link:"(text-colour:orange)[sheath.]")[sheath. This isn't an act of pleasure: it's one of burden, to serve and tongue and clean you reverently. Arie does her best not to indulge herself **too** deeply, but it's hard, tasting the afterglow of not just *your* climaxes, but of herself, her sisters, and gracious only knows how many other lucky playthings you've had tonight. Her breath hitches, ears resigned to pinning back atop her head. Her tongue curls under the barbs, dutiful, thorough in polishing your every (link:"(text-colour:orange)[nub...]")[nub... ... before you curl your fingers through her (link:"(text-colour:orange)[hair...]")[hair... ... and give her a firm little **yank back**, leaving her gasping and panting in front of you. "(text-colour:orange)[[[That's enough.~->The Trio, Satisfied]]]"]]]

Bless her heart, but the arctic's **still** sputtering. You expect her jaw's going to be aching like that for... gracious, the next few *weeks*. That's the thing about a voice as beautiful as hers-- it's part of what makes her such a breathtaking *thrill*, and you have to be *thoroughly* careful not to wear it out. So you save it for special occasions, like the nights that mark your enemy's downfall, and it leaves her with precious little insofar as *practice* is concerned. You gently rub at her head, scratch behind her ears, wipe away some drool with the end of your sleeve... ... then tell her to *get back to work* between your (link:"(text-colour:orange)[legs.]")[legs. "... Með ánægju..." You're trying to learn the tongue yourself, if only for the sake of her. You can understand her just as she understands *you*, though, even with the language barrier looming so large: nuances in the lilt of her voice, breathy and heavy with a deep need to *serve.* Not one to keep her wanting, you *snap* your fingers and point to the ground. Taking to her knees with a silent sort of grace, she rests her hands at your thighs and kisses your slung-low orbs, lavishing them in an almost chaste affection, her smeared and ruined lipstick leaving only the faintest of marks in her wake. Her kisses grow headier before long, naturally; lips press to the edge of your sheath, so that she can practically **french** that humid, virile pocket with all the reverence that's long (link:"(text-colour:orange)[overdue.]")[overdue. You're gentler with her, this time around. Your fingers toussle lightly through her hair as she runs her tongue between the lip of your sheath and your shaft, swirling softly, lapping any dredges of orgasm, be it from you or the girls you've *fucked*. It's not long before the arc of her service inexorably drags that tongue up, up, *up...* playing around the barbs, dutiful in exploring your every corner afresh now that she's not having her face utterly *plowed*, voice cracking with loving sweetness, notes that could drag you back to arousal entirely by their own merits. Your breath escapes in a low, pleasured susurrus, almost a hiss, and you have to make a conscious effort to *stay* gentle. Your fingers curl. Every urge seizes you to just grab her by the head (link:"(text-colour:orange)[and--]")[and-- (link:"(text-colour:orange)[...]")[... ... but you really shouldn't. Poor girl must be *so* worn out, despite herself. So you let her suck, you let her *lick*, and you practice restraint entirely unprecedented among felines like you the whole while long, until you *gently* wrench her hair back and leave her gasping in the musk-tinged heat of your scent. Her eyes sparkles like fresh snow. (text-colour:#ffc078)["... g-*good* girl,"] you breathe, grip loosening. Heavens. Who needs magic with a mouth like (text-colour:orange)[[[that?->The Trio, Satisfied]]]]]]]

... In rare form, (link-reveal:"(text-colour:orange)[you hesitate.]")[ You whistle for your hounds, who drop what they're doing and thunder down the hall to join you. You pass your coat off to one. Roll up your sleeves, thumb over the key, practice the somatics of prayers and spells and rotes that hold strength over far more than mere warriors of men. (text-colour:#ffc078)["... Let me work him down first,"] you murmur to your coterie of beasts. (text-colour:#ffc078)["You can join me once he's ready to **fall.**"] They do not need to be told twice. Then, the (link:"(text-colour:orange)[lock.]")[lock goes click, and the door, in all its grand embellishments and elegant preparations, opens as any (text-colour:orange)[[[door->Ramses Crossbow]]] should.]]

(link-reveal:"(text-colour:red)[**-- TWANG!**]")[ As sudden as lightning. A crossbow bolt goes soaring; you duck and it whistles sharp past your ears, punching into the thigh of a hound, sending the beast staggering back with a wrathful snarl. Their first instinct is to rush in and tear the source limb from limb, but he expects as much, he's prepared for as much, and you know your mark better. The beasts obey your command. He expects you, too. Of course he's expected you. He's expected you since the day he caught Felicity in the street and tried to lynch him for blasphemy. It dawns on you that perhaps this night was just another plan of his, too, a snare you would not be able to resist stepping into. But you are not the housecat you once were, so easily caught by the traps of men, and he will know the meaning of captivity when you have him in your claws. Incense wafts through the door like a rosemary mist, but you came to avenge a scorned servant, and no superstitious stink will hinder you; you keep low as another bolt looses, and (text-colour:orange)[[[roll into the room->Ramses Intro]]].]

Oil nearly douses you. There it is; a tripwire to dump the contents of a bucket over the door, lamp oil or somesuch to set some poor hound ablaze, your beasts too grand in stature to avoid it as easily as you. It splashes just nearby as you use one end of his bed for cover; he uses the opposite, the grand sprawl of king-sized sheets a battlefield between you and him. Ramses Foster. You'll have him *kneel.* ... Just one step at a time, though. (text-colour:orange)[[[What are you working with?->Ramses' Room]]]

The shelves are testaments to his past hunts, but offer sweet nothing to save you now: just a grim reminder of how many witches he's cut down before you came knocking. You shake your head. What else is there? (text-colour:orange)[[[What else?->Ramses' Room]]]

For a man like Ramses to spout rhetoric of discipline and dedication, his room is, admittedly, a mess.(if:$Blankets is 0)[ The bedspread is a tangle of plush velvets loosely stretched across the mattress; yanking them free would be a simple thing. (text-colour:orange)[[[• Tear off the blankets.->Ramses Blankets]]]](if:$Blankets is 1)[ You have the comforter bundled up by your side, for all the good it might do you. You think you have an idea. Which is good, because just jumping for the guy seems like one of the more embarrassing ways to die.] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Leap over the bed.->Ramses Leap]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Look elsewhere.->Ramses' Room]]]

(text-colour:#ffc078)["Y'know, I don't go to parties all that often-- do you *usually* shoot your guests? Or am I just special?"] You glance up to your hounds. They'll warn you, you expect, if the man tries anything. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["You weren't **invited**,"] Ramses hisses back, loading another bolt. (text-colour:#ffc078)["You hurt my cat. That was invitation *enough.*"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• Demand his surrender.]")[When you call out for him to give up, you're interrupted part-ways by a bitter, dry, *entirely* humorless laugh. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["And what, witch? Wind up like your *princess* of a kitten? Serve your drinks and suck your ***sheath*** for the rest of my life?"] (text-colour:#ffc078)["... You sound like you gave this a *really suspicious* amount of thought--"] (text-colour:#fff3bf)["**Forget it,**"] he seethes. Well, you tried.] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Come up with a plan.->Ramses' Room]]]

The atmosphere's hard to pin down, but it's undeniably different than when you first entered the manor. Servants seem anxious-- reasonably so, for how long you've all enjoyed the Foster family's hospitality, here in the heart of a city of heroes and hunters. But there's a nervous thrill in the air, for how *thoroughly* you've managed to get away with it all. An electric glow of invincibility that puts eager little grins on everyone's faces... Including those of your catches, bless them. Look at those lovely little things. There's Matthias, (if:$MatthiasBetrayal is 3)[still visored](if:$MatthiasBetrayal is 4)[thumbing over his pentacle like a worry stone](if:$MatthiasBetrayal is 5)[**still** out of breath from the treatment Locke gave him], collared and ready to be dragged off to his fate. And there's Ramses, (if:$RamsesConverted is 1)[shackled in similar fashion, reeking of **mutt** and silent in the aftermath of his introduction to your *control*](if:$RamsesFelicity is 1)[gagged with one of Felicity's socks just for good measure]. You take a moment just to appreciate them-- these men, who would have cut you down effortlessly mere years ago, bent and broken and ready to follow you out into a fresh new life of **servitude.** A hand rests at either man's back, and though they have so much more to go, they're *purring* from just your touch. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[...]")[... Absently, you wonder if your owner would have been (link:"(text-colour:orange)[proud.]")[proud. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[...]")[... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[You frown.]")[You frown. Before any melancholy thoughts put a weight in your step, though, Felicity sweeps by, ^^peck^^ing you on the head, having inevitably settled on a dress (the one with the cute frilly skirt). (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Just about eeeeeveryone else is ready to go! Eager for an afterparty, too-- gotta walk these new cuties through their paces, y'know?"] Sonata slips in by your side, passing Matthias' leash to you. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["Indeed. It wouldn't exactly be *polite*, keeping us all waiting... Master."] He really hasn't called you Master enough tonight. Things to train into him later, you suppose. Rolling your eyes, you take up Ramses' leash in hand, giving both lions a firm tug each. Time to go. Ahead of you are the (link:"(text-colour:orange)[doors.]")[doors, which open, like all doors do, for cats as good as (t8n-depart:"fade-down")+(text-colour:orange)[[[you.->Ending Screen]]]]]]]]

The other two dote over you affectionately, throughout it all: brushing your hair to something presentable, helping you into your clothes, showering you in a steady flow of praise... you expect they'll be riding the high of getting taken by their *owner* for the better part of the evening. That's fine, though, so long as they don't forget to *work.* ... And to (link:"(text-colour:orange)[say--]")[say-- (text-colour:#e0621f)["Thank] you, (text-colour:#c39b77)[Master."] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Therrrre it is.]")[Therrrre it is. Touseling their hair and helping them down to some modicum of composure, you (text-colour:orange)[[[leave->The Kitchen]]] them to calm down and resume their looting-- they're some of your best... but you have a **lot** of pretty faces to pick from, tonight, and the night's still (text-colour:orange)[[[so very young.->The Kitchen]]]]]

Oh, to not be barefoot. You can't deal with shoes-- they get in the way of your pads, and you stumble around like an idiot every time you've ever tried. The wraps you wear in their wake do precious little against *broken glass*. You look over the busted shards scattered around the floor, killing any immediate efforts of sneaking around to *get* the guy, unless you want to risk your poor, *precious* paws.(if:$Blankets is 1)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[• Throw the blankets down.->Ramses Blanket Toss]]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Try it anyway! Rush him!->Ramses Brute-Forced Glass]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Look elsewhere.->Ramses' Room]]]

Not an awful idea. But first: a (link:"(text-colour:orange)[distraction.]")[distraction. You reach down for a charm strung through a belt-loop, a little thing of soot-stained twigs and your own hair. It crunches in your fist, sparks flying off its ends like you're striking a flint. Ramses and his brother consigned enough of your kind to the flame that perhaps it is only appropriate it bends so easily with your touch. Your hypnosis is, after all, only your *favorite* boon among the many your practice provides. You close your eyes, suck in a breath, and embers from the charm singe the fur of your palm. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[***FWOOSH.***]")[(text-colour:red)[***FWOOSH!***] You don't get to see it yourself, when Ramses' mane catches light. You certainly hear it; a furious roar, the rattle of crossbow bolts being dropped, the frantic patting as he tries to put it out. It is pettier than it is practical, but it is all you have, and all you need to grab the blankets and toss them over the glass, just to give you enough cover for your poor, *adorable* paws. You roll up your sleeves, suck in a breath. Alright. Time to... just kind of... (text-colour:orange)[[[• Sneak around...->Ramses Hypno]]]]]

Your paws are sweet little things. Cute beans, dainty claws. You really should show more care for them. This occurs to you in the aftermath of trying to sprint across the glass, and it bites into your arches, sending you careening to the floor in a hissing fit. Ramses does not waste his opportunity. With the hounds howling and tearing into the room, it takes him only a moment to level the crossbow down on your chest, and (text-colour:red)[[[pull the trigger.->Death]]]

You settle in next to Felicity. He delights in doting on you: while Sonata goes through his usual pre-show rituals, your servant combs claws through your hair, strokes down your back, straightens out your jacket, murmurs lovestruck flattery under his honey-sweet breath. He's tipsy. Not *drunk*, just tipsy, and it shows the longer Sonata takes his time. Things threaten to get a little *less* playful, at some point or another. A certain confidence blooms in the wake of his liquor. His hands roam, hooking at your belt, lazily fiddling with the buckle... (text-colour:orange)[[[• Keep it wholesome.->Felicity Wholesome]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Fool around before the dance.->Felicity Sex]]]

You come around the corner of the bed, creeping softly over the comforter, glass crunching infinitesimally underfoot. You pray to your own Gods that it isn't heard, and your prayer is answered when you find he's only just finished patting out his mane. Perfect. You throw yourself onto his back like an angry housecat, and he roars like nothing you've ever quite heard from a man, springing up from hiding to contend with you. He tries to angle his crossbow around to shoot you at first, but your arms are around his neck and he just can't quite **manage** it, not in the moment. You send the weapon spiraling out of his hands with a swift **kick**, and the ready bolt looses into the headboard. You don't have time to choose the perfect method or pace him through the usual idle foreplay. You have to work *quick* for all the fuss he's stirring up, and subduing him doesn't need to be quite as graceful as proper training. You get both palms at either side of the lion's head, tilt him back to meet your gaze, and force the man to stare deep as your bright, glowing gaze (text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLARES**] through his mind. (text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASH.**] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Make him fall in love.->Ramses Love]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Force him to sleep.->Ramses Sleep]]]

The attic is a maze of dust and worthless things; paintings and mirrors and valuable things pilfered from the misunderstood souls he's burned at the stake. It burns you up, too, yet you maintain your breathing, keep your head, do your best to hunt the brute down.(if:$RamsesShelves is 0)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[• Search around the shelves.->Ramses Shelves Again]]]](if:$RamsesBoxes is 0)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[• Search behind the boxes.->Ramses Boxes]]]](if:$RamsesMirrors is 0)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[• Search between the mirrors.->Ramses Mirrors]]]](more:)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[• -- Behind you!->Ramses Attack]]]]

-- You shake your head. No, no, *no*. That won't work at all. (text-colour:orange)[[[Do better->Ramses' Room]]] this time, you alley cat, you.

Ornate sheets of silvered glass file down full rows here in the attic: round and stout, tall and rectangular, in queer shapes you don't fully recognize the practicality of. You ghost your fingers over a rim and discover weather-worn etchings that pull your lips in a fine and frustrated line. The looking glass of a witch. More trophies prised from your kin. Your eyes dart towards movement: you see a figure, large and bulking, standing just before onesuch mirror. **Him.** (text-colour:orange)[[[• Quickly! Trance him!->Trance!]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Just run.->Run!]]]

Grizzly-looking bear traps smithed of cold, consecrated iron. A heavy opaque jar full of nails. Fraying children's dolls that look like they'd crumble into fibers if you so much as stare at them too harshly. You try not to read into any of it; your mind only drifts to their worst applications, their heartwrenching origins. He comes from your blindspot: the shelves are shouldered into you hard, sending jars and bottles and boxes and inconsequential things sliding down in an avalanche of baubles. You tumble back under it all, protecting your face in your arms, hissing sharply. You hear the sharp sound of a blade being drawn. (text-colour:orange)[[[• Throw something at him!->Yeet!]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Try to squirm free!->Squirm!]]]

You don't know how this man keeps so silent in his pursuit of you. He's as heavy as one of your hounds, and the floorboards creak and groan so loudly here that they scream like all hell if you even **look** at them too hard. He must be waiting in hiding for you, somewhere among the crates. It's there you look next... ... and it's there that you *find* him. Springing up from behind one box, the man brandishes an axe, already swinging for your neck. (text-colour:orange)[[[• Fall back!->Fall!]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Roll away!->Roll!]]]

You pop open the utility closet and spare the contents a cursory once-over. Despite the manor's size, its servants have fairly limited means of keeping it all spick and span. A couple buckets, mops and brooms, volatile jars of pungent-smelling chemicals. A rack of basic tools, a hammer and a saw and a hand axe(if:$Prybar is 0)[ and a pry bar]. Simple things of little consequence.(if:$Prybar is 0)[ (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• Take the pry bar.]")[*Yoink.* You pat your palm with the end of it a few times, testing its weight. It won't break open any doors, but it'll crack open something small, at least.(set: $Prybar to 1)]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Step back.->The Servant's Quarters]]]

"-- Ah! Anngh!~ M-Masterrrrr...!" You sit on your knees, polite and obedient as you watch your former servant get broken in on the bed. Many of your ilk fled the estate when they first realized your capture, but Felicity was not quite so fortunate. He almost considered it a boon at first, perhaps hopeful that he can keep you strong enough to escape, but weeks later and these hopes have been dashed on the rocks, his plucky heart run through the rigors of Ramses' sordid *conversion tactics.* Kindness your kitten showed towards you would result in punishment for you both. When he joined in with your lurid *punishments*, he was treated almost sweetly, all to reinforce that nothing good would come from a love for you. His heart's true, and he endured it to some extent, but time is wearing him down, and the lion, it would seem, is just as talented as you when it comes to domesticating something *cute.* "Go on and *beg*, whelp," the lion grunts from above, slamming into Felicity's body with an unkind breed of authority. His fingers curl in the poor kitten's hair and tug his head back, drool trickling down the fuchsia cat's chin. His cock bobs between fluffy pink thighs, drooling on the bed, his arousal utterly *helpless* in the face of his wanton domination. "You won't find mercy in that pathetic *blasphemer* now. Cry for *me*. Cry for--" "M-Master!" Tears bud at the corners of his eyes as he bucks back into the other's hips, mewling in a weak, *enamored* voice once reserved purely for you. His lips curl in a despairing, weak smile. His eyes roll back. You swear... you swear you see *hearts* in the little cat's eyes. "*Master Ramses...!*" "-- Good kitten," he hisses, rewarding his fresh *capture* with a few brisk, rough **plunges**. "You were wasted on that miserable *ball-washer*-- such a pure soul, *corrupted* by his wicked ways. Rrgh-- *take it*, **slave.** Take it and **repent!**" The poor kitty's utterly ruined for you, by this point-- Ramses' heft is larger than yours by a considerable measure, leaving your once-loving kitten fit only for the hunter, now. You're not certain if the cat's simply saying what he says to make it all easier on himself. He almost sounds *heartbroken*, trading one Master for another, but it's so hard to tell by now... and with how rattled you've left your own mind, you're not certain you can care. *He doesn't belong to you anymore. Submit.* You really are much too **good** at what you do.

He's getting desperate. He has to be. Which really, when you think about it, makes it a good thing when he tackles you to the ground, head slamming against the hardwood, hissing and clawing at his chest. It puts some of the panic from your mind to think as much, anyway. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["***Godless WORM!***"] He shouts in your face, panting with exhaustion. His gaze locks with yours. It is a textbook opening for you to work your magic-- (text-colour:#fff3bf)["*I'll rip you limb from limb!*"] If not for the claws wrapping around your throat, driving your heartbeat faster, harder, *distractingly*. You have to focus. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• Trance him!]")[Hypnosis is a tricky sort of thing. It plays on desires that already lurk under the surface, latching onto those hooks and coaxing them to the surface. It's about teasing the mind into submission through cravings and addictions and **needs**, until they're so hopelessly lost in a spiral of loving you that they have no choice but to sink, and obey, and sink deeper still. To do this with a man as pious as Ramses is difficult enough. To do this as you're being strangled is another entirely. (text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASH.**] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• Trance him...]")[His fingers are tight around your neck. But you've been dancing on the knife since you started planning this *party crash*. You were prepared to toe the line of danger for the rest of your life, if it meant making a clear statement on what happens to those who cross your beloved kitten. This is all to say it's not fear that inhibits you, not really: only the discomfort of having the air squeezed from your lungs. You steel yourself. Your gaze glows a warm, comforting glow that under any other circumstances, with any other man, would be perilously easy to sink under. But even the strongest and most well-revered of warriors are only men, in the end. Ramses is no exception. Perhaps it's merely the tip of the iceberg, too little for how quickly you need to **work him down**... ... but you swear you feel his grip begin to slacken, by just an inch, and that alone fuels your confidence for another bright-- (text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASH**], your eyes growing brighter, the man's falling dim... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• Make his mind just melt...]")[(text-colour:#fff3bf)["... c-*curse you*, **witch**--"] (text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASH.**] Bright, golden pulses of yellow, orange, copper, yellow, orange, copper, and on and on and on it goes, each burst more intense than the last. It reflects off the mirrors and glasswork and broken things, illuminating the attic with every blow dealt to his resolve. You give him no opportunity to focus on anything else. You do not waste your breath to taunt him, you do not even squirm beneath his steely grip. Pinning you down is *easy*, leaving him with nothing more to *really* fret over than... just... how *nice* it feels, to stare deeply into your eyes... which is always a little like quicksand, really. The more you struggle and writhe against the grain of your magic, the deeper and deeper one sinks, until your scent sets the heart alight, until your fur plays sinfully soft to the touch, until the simple act of laying here with him outpaces any pleasure a Church could ever provide... until Ramses' eyes grow hazy, tinting a pretty golden hue, and resistance becomes more a backseat suggestion than ever an earnest effort. You hold your breath, your own heart thumping so hard you'd think it was trying to flee your chest. Through sheer will, you keep the fear from bleeding into your work, brace yourself under the pressure of this vicious hunter, and pull him deeper, deeper, *deeper*. As far as his *oh-so-occupied* brain should be concerned... This is a completely, and utterly, **losing battle.** (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• Leave his mouth watering...]")[(text-colour:#fff3bf)["I will not... nngh! I will not break like one of your *weak-willed thralls*--"] (text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASH.**] His eyes are pulsing just as yours do, now. Yellow, orange, copper, yellow, orange, copper, bright rings that match the rhythm of your own flawlessly. There's almost a second wind, where his hands tense around your throat again, but although the little trenches he's managed to dig in your neck *sting*, his grip on you has, for the most part, softened. You grip at his arms... And simply pry them away, as if they were marshmallow-light. He shuts his eyes, but oh, you're *so far past* needing them to stay open now-- your gaze is inescapable, unfurling simply *everywhere* in that rapidly cracking mind, like ivy and weeds choking the life from his pious resilience. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• And all that conviction failing him...]")[(text-colour:#fff3bf)["... Y-You won't... you-- y-you *ca*--"] (text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASH.**] You interrupt him with another pulse, another flare, sending him shuddering in unabashed *bliss*. He's aroused. You can feel it straining against your thigh, his fat prick drooling through the silks of his trousers, his scent heady with the kind of virility he really ought to be ashamed about keeping for himself. You giggle softly, and reach down to play with his shaft. (text-colour:#ffc078)["H-Hey, kitty,"] you manage, your voice sore in the aftermath of his gambit. Not that he seems to notice. When your whole world's glazed in that soft, deep glow, anything **Master** tells him would sound as creamy smooth as... well, the precum poor Ramses makes a **mess** of himself with, really. (text-colour:#ffc078)["Do you need me to help take care of you? You must've spent *all night* waiting for me... you've been so patient, so *resolute*-- it must be so stressful, yeah? Bein' without your *Owner.* Let me help you unwind to make up for it all..."] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• ... And take him for yourself.]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)["... lemme fuck you.~"] The notion takes him aback, tensing overtop your frame. For a moment, you fear that you've gotten to bold and snapped out of trance. You don't tear your gaze away to gauge the rest of his expression, much less to follow what his hands are doing. You sense movement, but you are in no position to further risk the tenuous sense of *ease* coursing through his mind... ... until you're confident that he's *done for*, at least. Like when his claws rip at the seam of his own trousers, exposing the brute's ass with one long, slow, thoughtless *tear*, tail flicking just above. Ramses would not be the first hunter you've ever captured. He's one of the *best*, but one does not survive like you survive without picking up your share of battle scars. The early years were the hardest, but it got less so as they continued to come, each and all seeking to avenge their brethren or simply cut you down. Tinctures and rituals and months later, and there would be some who arrived to fight you who would break just from *taking your cock*. Others, in rare and amusing regard, from just the sight of it hanging heavy between your thighs, dripping with more precum than some men could produce in full release. Ramses is *not* that kind of man... but you can't imagine it'll *help* much, when he's finally getting *dicked down.* Grinning, you reach down beneath him to yank down your shorts. (You're not exactly sure *when* you had the time to get aroused, admittedly, but there you have it, already at full mast and ready to **fuck this lion raw.** Your gaze never wavers from his own, still flickering with mind-drilling hues that correct him into obedience with every flash and flare. They do not waver when you order him to fingerfuck himself, which he obeys without perhaps even recognizing it, stretching himself out with a quiet grunt that nearly pulls a *cackle* out of you. Nor when you feel yourself trickling pre down your knuckles, as you give yourself a few smooth pumps, slicking yourself up with the preamble of a powerful orgasm. Would you be his first? You can't exactly be fussed with it either way, but you don't have any egregious concerns about being gentle on him, not really. The man's nearly as hulking as one of your hounds, and you drool enough prespunk regularly to make *any* captive's reaming a smooth, comfortable affair. You angle yourself with his tip, giving his ring a pearly *smooch*... and order him to sink. He hesitates, perhaps expectedly. And it's in that brief hesitation that you deliver the final blow to this warrior's efforts of purity: a final (text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASH**] that nearly has him arching his back, before, with a wordless *mewl*... ... he his hips down, to sink your first few inches through him and **seal his fate**. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• Ruin him.]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)["**Ride.~**"] He obeys. Of course he obeys-- in the heady glare of your influence, all he knows how to *do* is obey. He lacks experience, naturally, but that's okay. You can teach him, guide him, help him fall into a smooth and steady pace. Even with the dichotomy of size, he still clings around your cock with *incredible* tightness, and it gets no easier as he starts sinking you deeper into his clinging, humid, almost **puffy** depths. It feels better than it has any right to, this so-called *knight* you've come to conquer... you'd almost think that he was a **natural fit** for your dick-- plush and large enough only that you can really **sink** into his walls, and pumping you better than some of the soft, doughy *twinks* that you've custom-tailored into perfectly suitable cocksleeves. It's almost kind of ironic. At *this* rate, he'll even give poor Felicity a (link:"(text-colour:orange)[run for his money.]")[run for his money. When he finally manages to take you to the root, parking his heavy ass in your lap, you simply relish in the little details, like how... *pillowy* that ass feels around your shaft, or how much deeper you could sink in this huge, looming lion. The look he bears as he sits rooted on your dick, palms resting on your belly, staring at you as if asking, 'what do you want me to do?'... it's a look that *suits* these would-be warriors. It's a look you might very well have him adopt for the rest of his natural life, in fact. But one step at a time. You told him to *ride*, after all, not *sit*. And that sentiment seems to catch up with him when you nod for him to continue, fingers curling softly around your shirt, bracing his feet against the dusty hardwood so he can start dragging himself up... and oh, it is no easier on the upstroke than it was to take you **fully**. Barbs gently rake that snug, sultry hole with every inch he moves, sending the once-proud man into a gasping, sputtering fit that would sound cute in your usual slaves, and utterly **hilarious** from *him.* (text-colour:#fff3bf)["... Y-You--"] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[**FLASH.** Any effort he attempts to speak, you quickly snuff out under another mind-cracking flare of your eyes. If he's coherent, you're doing something wrong, and you make quick work of grinding any tries of *thinking* under the heel of your influence. He seems to take to it easier, now that your cock's in him, and it corrects him into riding you with more comfortable ease, drawing up until his ring sucks at your tip, rolling down patiently, *obediently*, to a shaky and uncertain rhythm, but with rhythm all the same. You won't last long. You know you won't. And why should you, really, after all the trouble it was just to catch him? Why WOULD you, with this broken man clinging so sweetly to your cock, pumping you in that awkward yet *devoted* way that reminds you you're his *first?* Taut, firm muscle radiates heat in your lap as he works, panting, sweating, gasping in tune with every **throb** that sends prespunk wicking into his ass and drooling out his ring and trickling down his thighs in a messy show of how potent you are and how much you want to just-- (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*just*--!]")[*just*--! Your claws sink into his hips and you **drag him down to your base.** It's his roar, weak and desperate and *heart-melting*, that finally sends you over your peak. Your climaxes line up that way-- his load utterly DRENCHES the inside of his trousers, each burst practically *dripping* through its fabric, stretching down in long strands to pool over your belly. Every other detail, like the stupid, *addicted* face he makes or the way he clamps down around your prick, only serves to fuel the *volume* of your own orgasm, leaving you to pump HARDER in your freshest slave not long behind him, staining his walls, drooling back down your legs when he simply can't *hold* much more, and ensuring the faintest, *slightest* paunch in his belly by the end, barbs flaring in every burst-- (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**thmp...**]")[**thmp...** (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**thmp...**]")[**thmp...** (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**thmp...**]")[**thmp...!~** He's like an oversized kitten, almost, a shadow of the man trying to kill you mere minutes ago. But shadows are cast away as easily as the flicker of a gaslamp, and you're not inclined to test your luck. Even as your climax runs its sordid course, pumping until it peters out into a steadier, more resigned kind of flow, you're calling for the hounds to pick up your catch, that the coast is clear. This seems to startle him, almost, even as he comes down from his pleasure-high. But that's okay. All you have to do is curl your fingers in his mane, and pull him down... ... and give him another (text-colour:orange)[[[**look.**->Ramses Defeated]]] (text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASHFLASHFLASHFLASHFLASHFLASHFLASH.~**]]]]]]]]]]]]]]

Unable to take much more than that, he collapses, purring on top of you, burying your snout in a thick forest of russet mane as his ass leaks with need. Your kitten's assailant, your persecutor, this brutish and *unforgivable* murderer... ... is almost comically (link:"(text-colour:orange)[warm.]")[warm. The hounds have filed into the attic, struggling up the narrow stairs one by one. Before you can indulge in your catch's comforts *too* deeply, they pull the subdued hunter up to his knees, strip him of his clothes and his tools, collar him with a thick iron band etched by your hand with runework. He's delirious, hazy, and perhaps even the slightest bit *in love*... but his lapse of focus has faded. You may have rattled his conviction something fierce, but he still clings to the fringes of focus, now that he's not being **directly assaulted** by your witchcraft. His teeth are bare. His claws are out. He glares at you with a righteous kind of fury... but never again will he act on it, you don't believe, not after all that. His zealotry ends *definitively* with you. Now it's just a matter... ... of figuring out what to **do** with the old fool. (text-colour:orange)[[[• Take matters into your own hands.->Ramses Conversion]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Give him to Felicity.->Ramses Felicity]]]]

"Think you've got this romance schtick backwards, kitten. You're supposed to wine an' dine me *first*, not *after*." (text-colour:#ffaec9)["I can't helllllp it, Meowster... I *never* have you all to myself like this,"] he *absolutely* lies. You rub at his shoulder and he giggles softly, but resigns himself to idle prattle instead of out-and-out *worshiping* you like he'd planned. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["... I haven't been out dancing like this in forever. It's kind of exciting, to tell you the truth!"] He drums his fingers over the side of his wine glass, lost in thought. Kitties like Felicity like to chatter and chatter and chat some more, so he does exactly that. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Back before you caught me, it was a big part of my life away from home. My family brought me to a few little events, just like this one, hoping I'd find a suitor-- I was always *into* romance, but when I was out on the floor like that, it wound up taking *way* more of my focus than anything else... and any*one* else."] He dips in, bumping his muzzle with yours, a soft gesture you return in kind. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["I'm so lucky getting to share the feeling with you... when your hands are in mine, it's like I could do *anything.* Just imagine how we'll move together, yeah?~"] His laugh spills free again. It's not much longer before Sonata's sweeping into the ball room, violin in tow. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["Apologies for the delay, darlings-- I didn't exactly come here anticipating a *venue*, to put it mildly. Are we all good and ready? I've got an *adorable* pooch waiting for me, and leaving him on his lonesome is utterly **breaking** my heart."] Felicity nods, tail swish-swaying behind him, and Sonata moves to where the musicians once played, a sequestered end of the ball room where broken instruments and broken men lay scattered at his feet. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["Very well, then..."] He takes in a breath, rests the violin at his shoulder... ... and proceeds to make it (text-colour:orange)[[[sing.->Felicity's Dance]] (text-colour:red)[^^Warning: audio!^^]]

You can't help yourselves. You don't *want* to help yourselves. Modesty might have been a notion at the *beginning* of the night, when Ramses ran the show, but Sonata's taking his sweet time and *you're* the only one left with half a mind to judge. Your hand slips up and under the back of the effete feline's dress, playing loops around his tail, before getting a firm, possessive **palmful** of his plump, pert ass. When you're as addicted to someone as Felicity is to you, the slightest touch can be livewire: he tenses under your grip, then croons a fluttery little noise that could melt the hearts of stronger men, leaning against your front as you knead, and grope, and **manhandle** him like your personal plaything. And when all these notions of romance are left behind... That's really (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*all he is.*]")[*all he is.* His hands fuss with your clothes in a drunken blur. Your jacket is tugged to the floor. The buttons of your shirt are clumsily undone, one by one, until his claws are running through bare fur with a pious sort of reverence. Your belt buckle's unfastened, then your shorts are gently tugged down to hug at your thighs, just enough so that his sinfully soft palm can curl at your sheath, coaxing your prick free from hiding in little gentle strokes. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["My Meowster... mmph... I don't know what I was doing, wasting my time on anyone else tonight... you've barely put your hands on me, and you're already outshining **all** of them...~"] He showers you with platitudes, even as he sinks down to his knees. He loves it when you treat him like a *pin cushion* for those claws, but he restrains himself enough to pay you the worship you're due. Perhaps that's what love is *really* like: knowing when to forego pleasure for the simple sake of **obedience.** (text-colour:#ffaec9)["We shouldn't waste our energy, before Sonata gets here... so you just stand there, my wonderful Owner-- I'll take verrrry good care of you...~"] You can trust him on *that* point. All your servants are experienced in how to service you, but some take to it better than others, and Felicity has flung himself into lessons on your pleasure unlike anything you've ever seen. There's some qualities you can't quite *hypnotize* out of someone, and although it's had no small part in your pretty pink servant's training, what he brings to the bedroom is utterly, wholly *sincere*. He pumps you softly in a wickedly plush palm, feeling your barbs plucking his paw on the upstroke, and smoothing them right back over on the (link:"(text-colour:orange)[down.]")[down. At first, he contents himself in simply getting to know your cock again, nestling his nose against your balls and sniffing deep. His tongue glides underneath, moist and bumpy, licking you clean of sweat and the evidence of other lucky flames. There's no rhythm to it; sometimes he's slow and loving, taking long drags from the very undersides of your balls up to the very opening of your sheath. Other times his focus shifts to the *inside* of that sheath, that wet little muscle digging into those hard-to-reach corners, making out with that pocket in a way that has you struggling not to just **fuck his face.** It's his hand that maintains any semblance of synchronization, stroking you softly and evenly amid his exploratory service, matching the smooth cadence of his purr as he licks, and laps, and lavishes... (text-colour:#ffaec9)["I wonder how many other girls you've taken just tonight,"] he coos, at some point or another. Your fingers curl through his hair, your breath leaving in a low susurrus of delight. *His* fingers curl too, one digit at a time around your shaft, starting with his forefinger and ending in his pinky, only to uncurl and repeat in a wave that practically milks free your next few globs of pre. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Surely I'm not your *very* first... a tomcat like you, why, I wager you'd breed **everything** that crosses your path.~ You just need *nice, wet holes* to claim for your own..."] He drags his muzzle up your length, whiskers twitching as they're brushed by your barbs. He cradles the base of your cock in the crook between his thumb and forefinger, holding it still as he plants a kiss on your tip. His eyes are hooded with a drunken affection, and focus wholly on you. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["... I have another for you, my Owner. If you'd be so generous..."] You are in (link:"(text-colour:orange)[no position at all to deny him.]")[no position at all to deny him. Your grip reaffirms in his hair, and you coax him down your length. He strains his jaw just to fit you, even after all his practice, but it's not an unwelcome sensation for either of you: you sheath yourself comfortably in his throat, and your flow of precum becomes a steadier dribble when his purr's muffled by your length. Meeting his rumble part-ways, you rest in his maw for some time, until his paw rests on his belly in admiration of just how much seed you've stuffed him with **already**... Not that you're *too* patient with him. Not when he starts swallowing around you, sucking at your cock in slow, hungry **slurps**. Not when his gaze lingers on yours, so full of love that your heart honest-to-goodness *flutters* in your chest. You yank back swiftly at first, causing him to gag, just to snap him out of his bubbly little reverie... then take him back to the root, lathering, rinsing and repeating like that, claiming his mouth in long strokes that leave no corner of your prick unadored, from your dribbling tip to the very lip of your (link:"(text-colour:orange)[sheath.]")[sheath. He still controls most of the pace for you, ultimately. Bobbing into your lap, nursing when he's at your tip, sucking you deep when he's at your root. But you've completely lost track of time-- it could have been minutes, a half hour, the whole sodom *night*. Beats are measured by the wet little noises he makes around you when he gulps down more of your prodigious output, and you stopped counting them early on. It's long enough to put you close to the edge, though... and Felicity, ever the expert on what makes you tick, catches on through the little details: how your purring threatens to break into a breathy *hiss*, or how your heel keeps digging into the tiles of the ball room, or how your ears have folded back and your *thrusts* have grown more shallow, enamored in the haste more than the *ride* of his mouth. But that's okay. He's pleasing you, and for him, that's (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*enough*.]")[*enough*. He doesn't *just* control the pace: in a single stroke, he **wrenches** the tempo from your hands. He loops his arms around your waist and yanks himself forward to BURY your tip against the back of his throat, where that soft purr can be felt the strongest, taking you along for the ride of slow, rhythmic *swallows* and *gulps* in one last lash-fluttering effort of pushing you off your peak. And he *succeeds.* You grab Felicity by the ears and grind him into your lap, as if he'd **dare** pull away when you're hosing his palate down in seed, BLASTING it, sending thick globs of cat spunk rolling down into his gullet one *ulp!~ - ulp!~ - ulp!~* at a time! You fire off too quick for his swallowing to keep pace-- he sputters and chokes around you, but not once does he seem inclined to let you go... not until, at least, your ropes peter into a gentle flow, and ebb into little more than a trickle as he (link:"(text-colour:orange)[nurses down what's left of your load.]")[nurses down what's left of your load. ^^*twang.*^^ (link:"(text-colour:orange)[...]")[... Felicity blinks, slowly, and pulls off your cock. From the entrance of the ball room, Sonata delicately plucks a string on the violin. It's a hollow little note that echoes out through the rest of the room, and stirs Felicity, at once, from the high of sucking off his Meowster. Er, Master. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["... O-Ooh. Um..."] (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["You *do* still need someone to perform for you, I'd hope?"] He sounds vaguely amused, under all the exasperation. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["If you wanted an audience, darlings, that's all well and good, but you could have simply *asked* without getting my bloody hopes up."] Felicity tucks away your cock, springs to his feet, fixes his dress, brushes down his hair with his claws. He cleans up remarkably quickly-- another trait he must find indicative of a good girlfriend. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["W-Well, *maybe* if you didn't take your sweet time, we wouldn't have needed the distraction...!"] Sonata rolls his wrist. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["I came to party, dear, not perform. But I take these things seriously, so you'd best expect me to make it worth your while. ... You *do* still have a need for me, yes...?"] Felicity nods, and Sonata moves to where the musicians once played, a sequestered end of the ball room where broken instruments and broken men sit scattered at his feet. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["Very well, then..."] He takes in a breath, rests the violin at his shoulder... ... and proceeds to make it (text-colour:orange)[[[sing.->Felicity's Dance]] (text-colour:red)[^^Warning: audio!^^]]]]]]]]]

... You take (link:"(text-colour:orange)[one last stroll through the estate.]")[one last stroll through the estate. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Windows?]")[Windows? Cracked, shattered, an utter eyesore for the neighborhood image. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Portraits?]")[Portraits? Desecrated. You make liberal usage of Matthias' inks and take creative liberties with the artwork. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[Buffet table?]")[Buffet table? Pilfered of dessert first, split in half second. Statues? Toppled. Curtains? Ripped to rags. The wardrobes hang empty, the picked-clean carcasses of your servantry's fashion sense. And there is not a single cute face in this whole house left reasonably (link:"(text-colour:orange)[unfucked.]")[unfucked. You consider it a successful soiree, all in all. Though something tells you many of the guests won't be coming back for the next, or at least not any time soon. They'll have more important things to do, and more important cats to entertain than Ramses. You wipe your hands off on your coat, and let out a long, tired, (text-colour:orange)[[[sigh.->Check Up]]]]]]]]

Before you arrived, you left the city's constabulary to celebrate their own little party; each and every one of them lurks in the thick of trance, drooling and obedient, but you doubt they'll linger in it forever... and it's a long, *long* hike back to the woods. So you elect to check on everyone only briefly, before you kiss this night goodbye.(if:$SonataChecked is 0)[ In the kitchen, (text-colour:orange)[[[Sonata->Sonata Aftermath]]] is eating a grilled cheese directly out of the pan.](if:$HoundsChecked is 0)[ The (text-colour:orange)[[[hounds->Hounds Aftermath]]] are carrying full casks of liquor over their shoulders from the bar.](if:$FelicityChecked is 0)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[Felicity->Felicity Aftermath]]]'s sorting through fancy dresses in an upstairs bedroom.](if:$LockeChecked is 0)[ (text-colour:orange)[[[Locke->Locke Aftermath]]] cradles a small wooden bird in his hands with some degree of remorse.](more:)[ Ramses and Matthias are waiting for you in the (text-colour:orange)[[[foyer->Foyer Finale]]].]

Sonata petitely wipes his mouth with a handkerchief. In a perpetual state of *blasè*, he sets aside his sandwich and sizes you up. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["I hope you have something in mind for the weeks to come, darling. I won't sugar coat it like the rest of your call boys-- as sweet a sentiment as it was, looking out for Felicity and all, this party was a *horrible* idea."] (text-colour:#ffc078)["It was fuuuun though, right?"] Your smile is sickle-sharp. *His* is decidedly wan. But it's still a smile, isn't it? (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["I suppose most horrible ideas are."] There's a beat of awkward silence. Then, brushing his hair aside with his claws, he assures, (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["stars rise and fall all the time, I come to find. Empires form and crash in a heartbeat, then fade like they were never there at all. Ramses and Matthias, they're smaller than that, really. So whatever umbrage comes, it too shall pass. But for all our sakes, darling, let's try and keep our noses *reasonably* clean until this all blows over, mm?"] You nod. (text-colour:orange)[[[Agreed.->Check Up]]] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• ... Ask if you can have a bite of his sandwich.]")[He interrupts what you're asking with a laugh. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["Oh! Oh, darling,"] he laughs. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["No."]](set: $SonataChecked to 1)

Felicity whirls around, holding up two pretty dresses side by side. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Which one do *you* like? The one with the cute frilly skirt, or the purple ball gown?~"] (text-colour:#ffc078)["Nobody's stoppin' you from taking both, y'know."] He wrinkles his nose, looking between the pair. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["... Hmmmmph. Yeah, I guess. You spoiled me an awful lot tonight, Meowster. Maybe I ought to get caught by witch hunters more often!~"] ... He wilts a little. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Bad joke. Um, I just wanted to say, that even if there's repercussions... I appreciate what you did here so, soooo much, Meowster. I don't think I've known *anyone* willing to do for me what you did here tonight. It... it makes me feel special-- like you really do care about me, and all the other pets here too. We might be, y'know, ~*under your controlllll*~ and everything... but a lot of us are still way better off, thanks to you. So, um..."] He dips in and pecks you on the cheek. (text-colour:#ffaec9)["Thank you for being here for us, Sir.~"] You brush muzzles affectionately, whiskers tousling whiskers, then Felicity's back to wrapping things up. (text-colour:orange)[[[You do the same.->Check Up]]](set: $FelicityChecked to 1)

Locke looks down at the small little trinket, frowning some, then back up to you. (text-colour:#994b00)["I think my bird companion is angry because I have forcibly removed it from its house and h-home, but now whatever I do it won't stay in there. I must f-find a way to a-atone for my bird crime, so I shall take him ^^(or her) (or them!)^^ with us!"] You reach up and pat at his back, offering some small assurance. (text-colour:orange)[[[Poor thing.->Check Up]]](set: $LockeChecked to 1)

(if:$HoundsFucked is 0)[The one that took an arrow for you seems largely unbothered. Better than that, even-- he hollers with the others about the new scar, honored, in a way, to have been there when he was needed most. They're all so hyped up that they don't even seem to notice you, not at first, but for one. (text-colour:grey)["Hey, boss... Cit. You okay? Wish I'd been there when the fucker put his hands on you-- would've ripped 'im a new asshole."] He gives your shoulder a little punch. 'Little' being relative-- it staggers you, and he's smart enough a mutt not to comment. (text-colour:grey)["You're tough, though, huh? Kinda makes you wonder who you ought'a go an' break **next.**"] He flashes a toothy, hungry grin. Who knows? Maybe at this rate, you'll make parties like this something of a (text-colour:orange)[[[habit.->Check Up]]]](if:$HoundsFucked is 1)[The one that took an arrow for you seems largely unbothered. Better than that, even-- he hollers with the others about the new scar, honored, in a way, to have been there when he was needed most. They're pretty hyped up about it all... but all eyes fall on you once you near. (text-colour:grey)["Yo, Cit-- you doin' good?" "Congrats on knockin' Ramses down a peg, boss. That ain't somethin' folk have the stones to try, not really." "Gonna **WRECK** 'im for tryin' to choke out *my* fuckin' cat..."] They seem a little more protective than usual-- which is saying something. Or perhaps that's not quite the right word for it. Perhaps it's... A firm hand **cups** your ass. Another rests at your head, scritch - scritching claws behind your ears. ... Perhaps it's *possessive.* You have the feeling you're going to have to curtail these habits, sooner or later, but you're too tired after the night you've had to complain. Not when it-- admittedly-- feels good to be petted like a kitten. Like... *their*, kitten. (text-colour:grey)["Hey... **boss.** Kitty. We were talkin' about it after you left." "Yeah. 'Bout what happened earlier, back in the bar."] A wolf leans in close, his breath heady with liquor and hot enough to make you wince. (text-colour:grey)["... Wanna make that a more *regular* deal?~"] Another beast dangles something before your eyes, from just behind. A bright... shiny... steel... Collar. (text-colour:grey)["Don't have to if y'don't want, 'course,"] one rumbles, affecting a casual air. A heavy hand slips under your belt, down under your shorts. Their digits are so *thick*... you can feel the pad of one circling your anal ring, and you can't help but bite your lower lip, coaxed into purring all the more by those claws at your ears. "We'd still obey you," another dog chimes. (text-colour:grey)["Just, y'know... you'd get to relax with us more. Get to play *bottom bitch* when y'need to, so your head's clear when you're takin' other sluts down a peg."] The 'other' in that statements is not lost on you. (text-colour:grey)["C'mon. Don't tell us you ain't thinkin' about it..." "That you ain't *droolin'* from your lil' fuckin' *clit* over the idea..."] You feel another dog palming between your legs, as if to check. And they find exactly what they're looking for, of course-- your arousal, tensing against their coarse pads. The mutt grins. You may or may not be in danger. (text-colour:orange)[[[• Put your foot down.->Hounds Denied]]] (text-colour:orange)[[[• Tilt your chin up...->Hounds Collaring]]]](set: $HoundsChecked to 1)

You crane your head up... and... **Click.** The collar snaps good and snug around your throat, a simple loop of heavy steel that's crisp and cold against your neck. You... trace the edge of it, with a pad. You're uncertain how long you're really going to keep it up there. But you really *do* love these dogs, and more than just as a term of endearment. They're your protection against some of the country's fiercest killers. You trust them with your life. You can trust them, then, to help you... Help you back into your place. Can't you? They grin, as if you've made the dumbest, *cutest* mistake in the world. (text-colour:grey)["That's what we fuckin' thought, *cat.*" "Gonna fuck you **so hard** when we're back home. Gonna leave you stumblin' bow-legged when you go to breed some bitch.~" "Kitty looks fuckin' *cute*... gaspin' and blushin' like that, and look--"] That finger at your ass pushes forward, just a little, and you **whine** from the touch. (text-colour:grey)["I'm barely messin' with 'im an' he's **squirming**!"] The beasts cackle, turning the rosy tint of your cheeks burning beyond all control. The one palming over your cock lets you hump, buck and rut against him for a beat or so, left needy and wanting from the powerful *heat* radiating off his fingers... ... but-- you can't. You have places to be. People to *break in.* They know that as well as anyone, even with their collar around your throat, even with your budding addiction to the sweat and domination of your very own wolves. That's why their teasing, all at once, draws to a halt; your shorts are pulled back up, and the collar of your jacket is adjusted to better hide your cute new accessory, at least for now. (text-colour:grey)["... Go do whatever it is slutty cats do. Fuck you tonight, though. Y'better believe it."] Your toes curl as you nod, and the beasts disperse, back to shepherding the rest of your thralls. (text-colour:orange)[[[Right, then...->Check Up]]]

Sonata's eyes go platter-wide when you unveil the violin. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["... Oh, **darling**-- this has to be worth an absolute *fortune*! And real sprucewood? Is this tor me? Oh, you *shouldn't* have, you gentleman you..."] He takes the instrument and cradles it like his own child, testing the strings with a delicate fingertip, scrutinizing its condition in finer detail. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["... Oh, you poor, *sweet* set of strings... someone neglected you, didn't they? Shhhh - shh - shh... don't fret, love. We'll take you out for a spin."] The cat looks up at you with less affection, if only by comparison. (text-colour:#dbe4ff)["Thank you, Master. Let me guess-- Felicity wants a dance? He's a precious little fool you've got, you know. Can read him like a *book*. I'll be down in the ball room after I've freshened up... though, ah, it may be a moment, darling."] With *that*, he turns to attend his latest treasure. You shouldn't keep Felicity waiting for too long-- Sonata is right when he said the guy's predictable. Poor cat must have been itching for this all *day*.(set: $FelicityQuest to 2) (text-colour:orange)[[[• Step back.->The Foyer]]]

A heavy thing of sprucewood and banded iron, more practical than aesthetic. It's secured nearly as carefully as the study itself: paper seals of meticulous penmanship have been liberally applied to its every side, and heavy chains of consecrated iron keep it tightly shut. A padlock keeps it all together.(if:$TrunkKey is 1)[ (link:"(text-colour:orange)[• Use Thistle's key.]")[*Clunk!* The chains go rattling off the sides of the box. You heft up the lid... revealing every grimoire, athame and more dangerous tool of the trade Matthias and his brother have *confiscated* since they began witch hunting in earnest. Your eyes flutter. They're the products of the works of half a hundred practitioners, carefully packed away-- you **have** to bring them back home... ... most distinct among the collection, though, is a familiar piece: something Ramses must have taken off Felicity when he caught the poor cat. The visor you had commissioned from here in the city. It's a sleek crystalline thing with silvery trim, *supposedly* capable of channeling your magic. And knowing **just** who to test it out on... you scoop it up, grinning wide.(set: $Visor to 1)]] You hum, and glance back to the rest of the (text-colour:orange)[[[room->Private Study]]].

Perhaps they *really were* expecting you to come here tonight. The desk is covered in books on protective wards, testimonies on hypnosis and how best to resist, prayers to keep the mind faithful and clear. *Most* of them you can tell are based off ridiculous misconceptions, but some of them seem to hold honest merit. That's frustrating.(if:$MatthiasBetrayal < 1)[ One in particular seems *pointedly* so: a mantra that lets you completely *block out* the rest of the world... shaken only by specific sounds, or scents, or tastes. In *this* one's case, it's the chiming of a bell. You pluck one up off the desk and give it a chime, just to test it, before tucking the little thing up your sleeve.(set: $MatthiasBetrayal to 1)] Other than that, nothing else seems especially noteworthy. Just the ramblings of a witch hunter. You roll your eyes and (text-colour:orange)[[[look elsewhere->Private Study]]].

You're not sure if you actually have a viable plan, or if instinctual housecat pettiness is driving you, but you YANK the messy bedspread down in a bundled heap by your side. You're not even sure if the lion noticed. You certainly don't look up to see for yourself. (text-colour:orange)[[[Now what?->Ramses' Room]]](set: $Blankets to 1)

If you were hunting down some stupid, easily startled animal, this might have been a viable move-- just **going for it** while they're still gathering their wits, and leaping over their cover to tackle them directly. But Ramses is not an easily startled animal. And he's certainly not *stupid.* When he hears your claws scratching up the feather down, he whips up, crossbow in hand, to let loose a fresh bolt-- and this one does not miss. (text-colour:red)[***THWNK***] goes the arrow, a wet and ugly sound that doesn't feel as loud as it ought to be, and down you go, sprawling down the side of the bed, ended as swiftly and easily as that. Your last thoughts are of the hounds, as a furious ***howl*** wishes you (text-colour:red)[[[good night->Death]]].

#The Cat Opened The Door (text-colour:grey)[^^An NSFW Text Adventure by @HypnoCatto on Twitter Made in Twine: Harlowe 3.2.1 SFX taken from freesound.org Aela scene written by @Tittyahna on Twitter All characters and art belong to the creator and cannot be used without their permission^^] **Author's Notes:** Thank you very much for playing my text adventure! It was my first trip into making a project like this. It took me about two and a half weeks of hard work, so if you enjoyed, please consider either following me on (link: "(text-colour:orange)[Twitter (@HypnoCatto)]")[(open-url: 'https://twitter.com/hypnocatto')], donating on itch.io, or both! Your continued support will allow me to pursue doing more of these on my own time, and will also give me just a nice warm fuzzy feeling! I also do custom story commissions, and am exploring the possibility of text adventure commissions, which would be interactive stories just like The Cat Opened The Door-- feel free to DM me 'bout it, if you're curious! <audio src="https://freesound.org/data/previews/519/519066_245685-lq.mp3" autoplay>

--- //Before we begin, please note that by clicking the button down below, you're confirming that you are 18 years of age and are prepared for material up to and including hypnotism/mind control, dub-con, paws, master/slave play, and more!// (text-colour:orange)[[[Got it!->The Street]]] ---

Good thinking! You think. Of course, it takes time to engender the same sense of love that, say, *Felicity* maintains for you... but you can at least give him enough affection for you that he'll second-guess it when he's trying to tear your head off, and sometimes a second is all you need. **FLASH.** You take him out of the moment, instead to the moment he first saw you, and swiftly rework the details of the affair. A flutter in the heart. Confliction. Longing. **FLASH.** You rework wants, needs, desires, preferences, even as he struggles to throw you off his back. If he was leaning harder towards women before, he's not anymore-- tomcats just *get him* in a way even something he can actually *breed* can't. **FLASH.** You practically see *hearts* in his eyes as you uproot memories of old flames, old crushes, just so that it's only *you* he remembers ever truly holding (link:"(text-colour:orange)[feelings for...]")[feelings for... ... until those eyes snap shut, he ROARS, and-- **THUMP**-- *rams* you back into a wall. Your grip loosens, and he shakes you free! Way to break your heart. And, possibly, your hip. He doesn't waste time grabbing the crossbow. Still dazed and reeling, he runs, flings open that door, and rushes up a set of stairs leading into the attic. Picking yourself up off the floor, you (text-colour:orange)[[[follow suit->Ramses Stairwell]]].]

You can invade his dreams easily enough-- if you can get him unconscious, that's most of the battle won, but every moment he keeps trying to throw you off his back is another undue *complication*. So you start inducting him good and quick, the glow of your gaze an *endlessly* soothing thing. Helping him *sink*... sink *deeper*... until his movements grow slower, less intense-- he can feel his head grow heavier under your grip, harder to thrash about in a frenzy... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[eyes lidding part-ways...]")[eyes lidding part-ways... ... until a **jolt** of awareness seizes him, and he SLAMS you back into a window, cracking the glass and loosening your grip, just enough for him to wrench free! Damn it, you were *close*...! He doesn't waste time grabbing the crossbow. Still dazed and reeling, he runs, flings open that door, and rushes up a set of stairs leading into the attic. Picking yourself up off the floor, you (text-colour:orange)[[[follow suit->Ramses Stairwell]]].]

There's no way you'll be able to lift this thing out of the way in time. You reach around desperately for something from the shelf-- and find an unbroken jar. Perfect. When he's bringing out a sword to plunge into your neck, you toss it with a satisfying **CRASH!** What was in it? Nails? Some chemical? You aren't paying close enough attention-- you only know that it does the job and sends him hissing and thrashing back, sword clattering from his hand. It's enough distraction that you're able to leverage the shelf off you with some work and wriggle free, slipping back out into the attic. (text-colour:orange)[[[Close call.->Ramses Attic]]](set: $RamsesShelves to 1)

The thing about snares is that they only really kill you faster the more you struggle. You should know. You hunt, yourself, in the woods-- just not quite the quarry Ramses goes after. When you attempt to wriggle out from the heap of clutter and shelving, the man looms over you, blade in hand, simply *watching* you with a cold, unrepentant glare. "I'd expected a more noble end," he grumbles, plunging steel into your chest with a decidedly unsatisfying (text-colour:red)[*squelch*.] "You disappoint to your final breath, *witch*." You do not have a witty reply to (text-colour:red)[[[send him off with.->Dead]]]

You realize only a moment too late, that it is not Ramses, but rather (link:"(text-colour:orange)[his reflection.]")[his reflection. You leap up and your eyes (text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLARE**]-- only for your soft, glowing gaze to be met with *yours* instead of any hunter's, caught in the silvery glare of the mirror. And you **want** to pull away, you **want** to get back to searching for the man so you can put tonight to rest, you don't *want* to feel this good... but your eyes are just... so *pretty*, now that you're getting to appreciate them properly. Soft, warm pools of brightly glowing gold that grab your mind and tug you under their surfaces. You bite your lower lip, feel the adrenaline you've felt during this chase start to die down. The sensation is beginning to fade... but only enough for you to remember that you can just-- (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] Sink yourself down a little bit deeper... just like that. That brute-force effort of trying to make Ramses obey is better than the lion deserves, admittedly. It feels better than it has any right to, one great rush of warmth that starts in your head and rolls down your body, dragging away thoughts of submission in the tide. You feel arousal stirring, tenting and staining your shorts, but you barely pay any attention as you march yourself forward, eyes glimmering, just so you can settle yourself down in front of your reflection proper. O-One more...? One more! You can take it, you're a tough little cat, you-- (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH!~**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH!~**] You deliver another prompt *blast* to your own mind, uprooting all those pesky, *troublesome* sentiments of dominance in the way of being a good, *obedient* kitten. Your toes curl, and your ears fold back. You're *not* a tough little cat... and that's perfectly fine, so long as you know how to behave. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] You make quick work in uprooting inhibitions, feeling so much more... relieved, relaxed, *comfortable* with everything you tear away, from pride to virtues and anything in between. You can't believe you spent so long acting like an *Owner* of pets, when you were really always designed to *be* owned. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] Your cock throbs with every blow you deal to yourself, drooling heavy dollops of pre with each flash of witchery, your muzzle curling up in a happy, *stupid* smile that you just can't help but enjoy. It's a good look for good kittens. And you're-- ^^nngh, no, you shouldn't--^^ (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] You're a good kitten! A good kitten for Master! You giggle, palming at your cock, idly spurred on by the gentle friction. Ah - ah - ah, though, *good* kitties reallllly shouldn't cum without permission! (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH!**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH!**] You don't even REMEMBER why you came here in the first place-- was it to... find someone? Uh oh, you're thinking. Time to fix that. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] You came here to find *Master*, obviously. You feel so silly for havin forgotten, and so proud of yourself for remembering. You reward yourself for that with more bursts of light, making that warm, fuzzy, glowing feeling get more intense-- (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH!**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH!**]-- more intense-- (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH!**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH!**]-- MORE! (text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASHFLASHFLASH*FLASHFLASH*--**] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[...]")[... Ramses finds you slumped with your cheek against a looking glass, brow furrowed. He'd only seen what you'd done to yourself briefly. It'd be the prime opportunity, simply cutting you down now. His fingers curl tight around the hilt of his dagger. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[...]")[... He grabs you by the back of your head, causing you to mewl weakly as he directs you up to look into the mirror. A-Ah...? The grip almost feels familiar. This isn't *Master*, is it? You're having such a hard time remembering who he is, much less how it feels when he grabs you, but with your head so empty, you suppose it doesn't really matte-- (text-colour:#fff3bf)["Again."] His breath is hot and heavy on your ears. ... Oh! Oh, it *has* to be your Master! He's commanding you, after all. So content with having made that connection, you almost completely forget to obey. Almost, anyway. [(text-colour:#ffa94d)["Right away, Sir!~"] You can't quite tell what's in your best interests, at least in the moment. You're too hooked on your own sense of obedience to do anything more than follow Master's command, and still *feel* like you're in control, at least in the sense that *you're* the one enthralling yourself. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] Another flash of that soft, soothing glow plunges your mind somehow deeper into complacency. The other's hand on your head practically *grinds* your cheek against the glass as you purr and drool merrily... before his touch grows softer, and his claws scritch - scritch - scritch through your head, only deepening the volume of your rumble. He's treating you like a kitten, as you wipe away any semblance of your former dominance-- memories of why you came here melting away under the pretty glow of your own witchcraft, sending you deep under someone else's control with every flare. The man above you, your Master, considers you heavily. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["... I am your Owner,"] he rumbles, perhaps uncertainly. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["Again."] (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH!~**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH!~**] He's your Owner! [(text-colour:#ffa94d)["Y-You're my Ownerrrrr,"] you purr, practically drooling. It seems like such a silly thing to bring up, really. He's *obviously* your Owner, for how easily he commands you, and how good it feels when he rubs at your head just so. You can grain that deeper if he likes, though. You'd do *anything* Owner likes, even if it... n-no, nevermind. Any budding concerns you might have, you wipe away with another little **burst** of your magic, pushing you to the very verge of climax. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["You will not finish unless you're told..."] He rolls his tongue over his fangs, as though he's testing the words out on his tongue. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["... slave."] Ah-- of course, of course. You thought you *taught* yourself that much earlier! When Master reminds you, you suck in a breath and restrain yourself, and reprimand yourself with another (text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] This does not help as much as you thought it would, but that's okay, because now you're not even sure you *could* cum without permission. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["Your pets-- your property-- they are now **mine.** *Again.*"] ... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[you...]")[you... (link:"(text-colour:orange)[pause.]")[pause. Your pets? It almost feels like too great an ask. Your servants hold such an important place in your heart, and the prospect of sharing them almost seems unjust. It nearly rattles you of the toe-curling bliss you're lingering in. Your gaze flickers. For a brief moment, there's hope that you can snap out altogether... [(text-colour:#ffa94d)[^^"B-But... Sonata, an'... a-an' the dogs, an' *Felicity*..."^^] But then Master's hands are on you, to remind you of your place. His hand drifts from your head to cup your chin, tilting you up to meet his gaze. Under other circumstances, it would be exactly the kind of window you'd need to drag his mind under your influence... but the thought doesn't even cross your mind, by this point, even when you're stirring to awareness-- something he quickly *snuffs out* as his free hand wrenches down your shorts. He takes your cock in a coarse palm, and pumps you once, twice, thrice, your size feeling so much more... *inferior*, given the sheer dichotomy in your height. His touch is cruel, and unkind, and *possessive*. And you (link:"(text-colour:orange)[love every second of it.]")[love every second of it. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["Felicity is *mine,*"] he practically hisses, the sound so sharp it spears that fact into your very core. The hand on your cock is made slick by the steady flow of your pre. He collects just a bit of it on his fingers, then his hand's slipping elsewhere, pinning your tail up, fingers toying with the rim of your asshole. You tighten on instinct. He doesn't care. He pushes rough pads into your hole, and sinks you down to his knuckles. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["You never owned these things. You brought them to your Master so he could take them away from you, and take them away from you he shall."] *Schlck, schlck, schlck...* you gasp and whine under his touches, interrupting your low, dulcet purr whenever he manages to punch against your prostate. You couldn't imagine he does this often... but goodness-- he's a *natural* when it comes to breaking in slaves. You're lucky, having a Master like him... it's an *honor* to bring him your servants. Your ex-servants. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[*His* servants.]")[*His* servants. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["Until they've forgotten you and serve obediently at his heels. You will *make* them, if you have to. And you will *certainly* not question me twice. Now..."] He lets your chin go, and you flop against the glass with a soft THUMP. Any discomfort from this is swiftly ignored, when his now-free hand dips below your legs, toying with your cock, jacking you off as you tame yourself on your own arcana. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["**Again**,"] he commands. (text-colour:#fff3bf)["***Break.***"] And this time... why, you don't even need to think about it. You'll never need to think again. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASHFLASHFLASH!~**]")[(text-colour:#ffc078)[**FLASHFLASHFLASH!~**] Your mind is made to withstand a volley of thought-obliterating pulses, any ties you once held for the others wrenched away by force, made easier as you give yourself fresh new glimpses to your fate under Owner. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] Your fantasies are vivid-- you see yourself tonguing lovingly at his balls as he slams into one of your former servants, claiming them in his honor, eradicating their misplaced loyalties one thrust at a time. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] Then you see yourself sitting happily on his cock as a *lap kitten* while he commands what was once your pack, now a fully converted army of *hounds* sworn into service at his hands. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] You see yourself on your hands and knees, spit-shining his boots, polishing his toe claws, getting yourself drunk as you nestle your snout up against his soles, before promptly curling up at his feet after a long day's work. (link:"(text-colour:orange)[**FLASH.**]")[(text-colour:#ffa94d)[**FLASH.**] You see yourself fulfilling domestic roles-- playing a happy maid in a cute short-cut dress and cooking for your lions, only to be interrupted as one comes up from behind to palm at your ass and fingerfuck you into submission... kind of like what Ramses is doing now, really, though submission will simply be your default, by then, with a cute bell hanging off your collar and your ears permanently folded back atop your head. You wonder if you'll get to serve with your former slaves. That sounds like *fun*... The proud, dominant cat that was once Citrine, not *slave*, might have taken a wicked kind of pride in getting a man like Ramses hooked on the thrill of taking servants, but that part is long gone. Now, you simply take delight in what you see of your future, retraining your hounds and vassals to obey your Master and his brother, your mind made loving and docile under the boots of your Sirs. You smile dumbly, and ask if he'd be willing to fuck you after he's done fixing your head. Ramses matches it with a grin. He could get some (text-colour:yellow)[[[*use*->Dead]]] out of you.]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]

You *would* go for it, but there's so many mirrors that you risk trancing *yourself* in here-- and after everything, making yourself a slave for this man isn't quite your scene. You turn heel and break for it, just as an axe is thrown and **CRACKS** into a pane of glass. Doesn't he know that's (text-colour:orange)[[[bad luck?->Ramses Attic]]](set: $RamsesMirrors to 1)

He misses the initial swing by a mile, chopping into the edge of a shelf. But it would take you moments to pull yourself up and run. It takes him so much less than that to wrench his axe free, and bring it (text-colour:red)[[[crashing down on your head.->Dead]]]

His swing whistles perilously close to you as you roll out of the way. Maintaining momentum, you get back up to your feet and dash around another set of boxes. He's larger than you by nature-- even if he's quiet, you can make enough distance when needed. When you whip around to face him, eyes flaring, ready to **blast his mind**... ... he's already gone. (text-colour:orange)[[[Damn it all.->Ramses Attic]]](set: $RamsesBoxes to 1)

You would die for these beasts of yours (and likely die without them), but you'd also die before you let them think this was a *permanent arrangement*. It's a downwards spiral from there, and though *fun*, wrangling these old hounds into order takes a *lot* of work. So instead, you simply reach out... ... and ^^flick^^ the snout of the wolf offering the collar. There's a pause. Then others are cackling and howling up a storm from just that little gesture, ruffling your hair and squeezing your shoulder. You were almost worried for a moment they'd keep trying to dig down and *break* you-- goodness knows they could. But you trust your beasts for a reason, and they underline that reason just fine here and now. (text-colour:grey)["Okay, okay, fiiiiine..."] They let you go, one by one-- even if they can't help but sneak in a prompt **SWAT** to your ass, pulling a MEWL for the road. (text-colour:grey)["We'll just have to go *harder* on you next time, really sell you on the idea."] You roll your eyes, pat one beast's chest, and let them disperse to shepherd the others. You give 'em an inch... right-- (text-colour:orange)[[[where were you?->Check Up]]]

-- You shake your head. No, no, that's a stupid idea. Do something else. (text-colour:orange)[[[Focus->Ramses Attic]]] and come up with something better.

Sonata leans in. You do the same. This close, you can appreciate his finer details. His perfume's like roses, light and refreshing and deceptively high-collar. His fur's so immaculately groomed that you doubt it's ever seen a stain in his life. He gently traces the tip of a high heel up your calf, knowing full well what his very presence *does* to you-- it's much of the reason why you put up with his insolence, as often as you do. Your pulse hitches. Your body knows when a promising **mate** is at hand, hard-wired into your visceral, carnal need to simply **dominate** lesser felines. And who would put up the effort to deny *instinct*? Who would deny you a prize as delicious as your pretty little songbird? "You could get me a drink," Sonata says, leaning back in his seat. "I'm utterly *parched*, sweetheart." ... Well-- besides your pretty little songbird, apparently. You furrow your brow, cheeks burning a faint rose-tint under the fur. He shrugs, unaffected, picking up on your budding frustration and deigning it of little consequence. "Don't give me *that* look, now. Not everyone at this party can be so mollified by your *cock* for goodness' sake. We can talk about scratching some itch of yours after, mm? ... But only after. *Utterly.* (text-colour:orange)[[[*Parched.*->The Foyer]]]"

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