Goblin's Note:
This is the start of a much longer story I'm working on—and it marks one of the few times I've really felt like a prologue was really necessary. As such, this first mini-chapter is short and non-erotic. The overall story, however, will be much closer to my ordinary blend of sex and plot, so if you like weresheep, holstaurs, mermaids, alraune, and other monster girls, bear with me for a little bit!
As always, these stories will involve mind control, nonconsent, the sexualized degradation of men and women as sex objects, and annoying character development that gets in the way of the sex scenes. Reader discretion is advised. ;D
This story was inspired by the excellent ideas of VoidGolem.
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To my dear sister,
I'm beginning to think you were right about Great-Uncle Yvun, you know. What a strange, strange day. I don't even know where to begin, but I guess I'll start with the most unpleasant sentence I can think of: I woke up early this morning to meet with a lawyer.
You remember how in the last letter I talked about some sort of mention in the will? Get this: I actually inherited one of our uncle's three ranches. Yeah, that's right, Great-Uncle Yvun, the creepy old racist who never showed up to family parties without a barely-dressed girl on either arm, owned
three
ranches. And he didn't even leave his own granddaughter a penny! Just that old book of his. The will explicitly underlines how only a "properly penised" (?!) man, "unrestricted from natural attraction to a female breast", can be trusted to run one of his ranches.
I know you probably want to go strangle a corpse right now. Same here. Thing is, there are a lot of other weird conditions on here. I have to go alone, though there will be employees at the ranch (I wonder if they get paid for the hours they wait there while the boss is dead). I also can't bring any silver with me, nor any "instruments of masculine masturbation".
Getting weird yet? Well, just wait, because it gets better. See, I met the stockman today ...
There was sort of a gradient regarding table wood quality. Some tables gave good knocks, good, strong sounds that spoke of properly treated hardwood. Some tables gave nice, ringing hollow knocks that spoke of thin boards, cheap but solid, ideal investments for the frugal furnisher. Some tables gave creaking sounds every time Senya so much as looked at them.
This table was of the creaks-at-a-look variety.
Bad wood,
he thought.
Rotten for carving. Rotten, period, probably.
"Somethin' wrong, boss?" Jerrod asked.
"No," Senya said, biting his lip. He gave the stockman a smile he hoped seemed genuine, despite his nerves. "Just... checking the wood."
"Ah." Jerrod glanced at the table. "Food should be here soon. Sorry, the service ain't normally this bad."
"Don't worry about it." Senya shrugged. "It's not the worst place a guy's taken me."
Jerrod looked up sharply. He was a funny-looking fellow, alright. He probably stood six feet, at least, and perhaps half as wide—a real brute. Straw blond hair complimented ruddy cheeks and pale blue eyes. He would be handsome, Senya thought, but he had the face of a man who'd been in a fair few scrapes and lost at least a couple. His nose was crooked, and there were a few scars on his cheek. He wasn't ugly, but he wasn't exactly a great beauty, anyways, save perhaps in a very rugged way. "I think the will was clear," he said, clearing his throat nervously. "Strictly stated—it's no concern of mine, mind—"
"I know." Senya remembered just in time and held up a hand. "Don't worry. I'm 'unrestricted'." He winked. "Great admirer of the female breast."
"Ah. Good." Jerrod seemed to relax. "Yeah, the boss was real firm on that point. Maybe for the wrong reasons, but..."
Senya wondered what the 'right reasons' were. He probably didn't want to know. "So," he said, "just how far is this ranch of mine?"
"Ambrosia Ranch is just a week's ride," Jerrod said. "A day's mage ferry, if you're up for payin' for it."
"I'm definitely not." Senya laughed. "When I got the news about the will, I was almost dead broke. Anya handles most of my expenses."
"Right. Your sister, she's that mage artist, ain't she? Good to have someone to fall back on."
"Including dead great-uncles." Senya raised his cup. The bar was too cheap to provide proper glass, so the cup was just ceramic bleached of color by some nickle-dime mage. The opaque white color was returning around the edges, showing its age.
Jerrod accepted the toast. The stockman of the Ambrosia Ranch didn't seem the type to really stick on respect for the dead, Senya thought.
They waited in silence for about a minute. A harried barmaid finally showed up with a tray bearing two plates of flapjacks. No syrup, but Senya supposed that wasn't covered in 'travel expenses'. He gratefully accepted the plate. "Thanks!" he said uncomfortably, knowing she was waiting for a tip.
He glanced at Jerrod, who shrugged and dropped a few coppers on the tray and flashed the waitress a wide leering grin. "Why don't you shake those buns away an' give us something to watch, eh?"
The waitress smiled thinly and walked away, ignoring Jerrod's lingering stare. Senya coughed to disrupt it. "So what can you tell me about the ranch? What are the, um, livestock?"
"Sheep." Jerrod shrugged. "Cattle. Bees. We also run a vineyard, a cranberry bog, and a, uh, puppy kennel of sorts."
"Hm." Senya considered this. "That's sort of eclectic."
"
Iiiit
..." Jerrod had the look in his eye of someone who'd just heard a word he didn't know and didn't want to admit it. "Yes, it is. But we turn a real profit, and it's good work. I only just dropped by a week or so ago, though, to talk to the straw boss."
"Straw boss?"
"Uh." Jerrod coughed. "It's a farm term. Sorta like a manager on a ranch. Doesn't own the place, but directs most affairs when the owner's out. You'll be getting a lot of direction from the straw boss at first, but they'll ease up when you've got the ropes."
