Warning and Disclaimer: The following story is a Musical, in the vein of Fairy Tale animated movies but this one is for mature audiences only. Our busty heroine is the charge of a man, grooming her to be his wife on her impending 18th birthday. The story contains no accounts of sex or even nudity but it does contain semi-graphic violence. It is the second episode in a series that began with accidental incest but this story contains none.
Pairs of Pumpkins Chapter 02: The Seam-Straining Songstress
The Pale Lands were a natural fortress, an island Queendom built within the jagged-toothed, gaping maw of the world itself. Without a map to one of a handful of ports, any sailing ship that wished to disembark would need to be crewed by mountaineers. Past the teeth that engulfed the basin beyond were a second row of skyward-stabbing spears, towering, snow-dressed evergreens that covered the land like a thick coat of fur. Each one was tall and hearty enough to survive in both of The Pale Lands climate zones: miserably cold and even-colder-than-that.
On the foothills between the mountains and the basin where the trees reached the highest, a house hid far away from any village or town. It was a modest, frontier house and would be common enough were it not for where it sat, placed like an ornament, high in a treetop. It's chimney puffed with life, the smoke disappearing easily into the sky's perpetual grey and the windows glowed warm with life.
Behind the glass of one of them, another curiosity stood: a teenage vixen of uncommon appearance and suspicious heritage, looking out to her world, a thicket of treetops as far as the weather would let her see. There were a few other windows but the views they allowed were all worse: Trees. Clouds. Mountain face, too close to see the peak. This window was closest to the stove and only this one had ever suggested there was more to life. On the clearest of days, in the blur of the horizon, she swore she could see a whiteness that wasn't mountains or forest. Her master assured her that beyond it was little more than hostile, icy waste and people who would reject her very existence but for the girl who had never left the treehouse, it was a promise of a world bigger than her own.
Her name was Anya and her coat was unusual for a fox but she only knew this from stories as she had never met another. Her fur was not white or red, sandy or dusty grey but rather like the half-hidden trunks of those thousands of trees, a dense, mahogany color that promised to both keep her warm and blend in well at the floor of the forest among the dirt and bark, were she ever allowed to venture back down to them.
Anya was tall, over six feet and naturally thick and stout in proportions hugged by an ankle-length dress of deep green. Her muzzle was shorter than was common for a fox as were her ears, also more rounded at their tips. Her full, black, hair was neatly triple-braided and hadn't been cut in years, a mass of rope with girth enough to moor a ship, spilling down her back to bat against her tiny, un-foxlike tail when she moved. It was heavy but she long ago learned to not complain about it. "The weight will ensure you always hold your head high and proud," Master Wilhelm had said.
Her breath was far enough away to barely register on the cold glass. While the handful of other people she had met would fog up the window instantly, she was held some distance away from it and everything else by a bosom she knew was as uncommon as it was burdensome. Abundant breasts dominated her upper body, wider than her relaxed arms and lower than the bottom of her ribcage, half obscuring her stomach.
It was supported as well as could be in the dress, tailored to fit her, by her, demonstrating a skill in sewing beyond her age. Below her waist, it was loose enough to move freely, before cinching in at her broad hips, Above them, it was fitted to the curves of her form, up and in to her sturdy waist before blooming out like a wine glass to contain her breasts. The thick fabric hid an elaborate spiderweb of support she had sewn into it, shaping them to be high and proud on her chest, so much so that she could wrap her arms around them only enough to overlap her palms. It was as conservative a cut as her body would allow, the dress reaching just above the floor, all the way up to wrapping her shoulders and down to her wrists. A hole at the base of her spine allowed the fluff of a tail to poke out.
Form-fitting clothes like the upper half of her outfit were allowable in the Queendom's otherwise strict fashion regulations, rules she only knew about from patterns and different guests over the years. It was a matter of practicality in such a cold place, to not make anything that helped to stay warm illegal. Only the dress' neckline was in obvious violation, and plunged broad and low toward the apex of her bust. The cut emphasized not only the artificial curves of cleavage created by the support but also the golden brown fur of her chest that broke up the darkness of the rest of her, a two-tone belly that climbed up to her muzzle. Sparse, accent spots of white peppered that path, from the tops of her breasts up to her neck, cheeks and to her nose. The revealing alteration, which all her dresses and blouses bore had been at her Master and Keeper's request. He encouraged her to be proud of her body but she knew it was not her pride and self-confidence that were Wilhelm's primary motivation in dressing her this way.
She sighed, finally giving enough breath to fog up her view. She raised a lone digit of her sizable, clawed-tipped hand and drew one rounded ear, then another. An eye, another eye, a dot for a nose and below it all, a deep and dramatic frown before she looked over her shoulder, back to the house's interior.
The treehouse prison of the top-heavy teenager was small and modest, with adequate space for two residents to move about without getting in each other's way but also ensuring it could be continually warmed efficiently by a Ring of Pyromancy Wilhelm had acquired in his youth, that had been adapted through some elaborate engineering to function as an under-the-floor furnace without requiring a dangerous, open flame.
The round room was divided up like slices of pie, with each one serving a different purpose. The living area was the biggest of them, with a couch and chairs and a dining table for four but it was mostly clear, with room enough for Anya to dance when it was requested of her. In one of the chairs, behind a giant harp sat a scowling and impatient, grey hag of a mink, her glare focused on the fox. Behind the dining table were double doors to a small balcony. In one, particularly long summer, they stayed open for two whole weeks.
Off to one side of the room was the wooden car of a hand-operated elevator with a footprint nearly two yards square suspended from a thick rope and pulley from the roof's main support beam. Beside it, the rope was rolled up on a giant spool mechanism connected to a ratcheting, automatic hand brake and an elaborate set of gears so broadly leveraged that a child could use the hard crank to lift a boulder. Two bells of different sizes were mounted on the housing, one connecting to a smaller spool and to the elevator car and the other attached to a string that disappears down into the floor. A much simpler, backup version of the crank system existed in the car itself but would require significantly more strength to operate.
On the wall, a polished, great axe and a table-sized shield, boasted of the home of a retired adventurer of immense size and power. Beside the display were two headless, wooden tailor's mannequins: one of a massive, brute of a physique, over nine feet that wore and impressive suit of steel and leather armor. The other was of an impossibly bosomed woman of ambiguous species, with a small cutout for a tail. It was dressed in a half-made black dress. Next to them was a wall-to-ceiling vanity mirror.
"Anya, come back. We're not done with your lesson," the mink's grating voice ripped her back to the moment. With reluctance and despair, she finally acknowledged the decrepit mustelid seated at the harp. "You're supposed to be practicing. Wilhelm is going to want you to perform a song when he gets home."
"All I ever do is practice!" she spun around, giving her dress an angry twirl before she stomped away from the window, her long braid of heavy hair swinging behind her. She stepped into the torchlit center of the room towards the flinching woman, who could never get used to the girl's outbursts.
It was a lot for the frail, older woman to see so much vixen in motion at once, all that contained, soft flesh threatening to burst free of her dress if adequately provoked. "Practice, practice, practice. You want a song, Madam Muskov? Here's a song for you:"
"Every morning I wake up almost an hour before the sun
I make myself pretty for my master then I get chores done
I cook all our meals for the day
A laborer who gets no pay
With no time for stimulation, exploration, rest or fun.
"When he leaves, my tudors will resume my education
Cooking, cleaning, entertaining, singing with elation!
You've all made sure that my whole life
Was spent becoming a perfect wife
Seventeen years training for a submissive vocation."
Madam Muskov laughed and smiled at her song, clapping along. Anya sneered.
"I could weave and stitch a dress from scratch by the day I turned eight
I was a world class cook by age twelve for his hunger to sate
A trained masseuse, his nurse sometimes
I've painted this whole house five times
I'm the perfect prodigy homemaker, there's just no debate.
"After training then there's exercise to keep my tummy flat
He wants a wife strong like like a horse but as agile as a cat
While he lays like a sack on the couch
In my regiment I can't slouch
