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lord of the ring gag by adrian hunter
Lord of the Ring Gag (bd, fetish, furry, parody)
By Adrian Hunter
(with deepest apologies to J.R.R. Tolkien)
"Stop it, Marie-Noëlle. That tickles!"
Spirella cantered ahead of her slender companion, who giggled as she
bent forward and pretended to initiate another attack with the long
feathers that adorned the harness of smooth white leather daintily
padlocked around her head.
"Seriously! We have many miles yet to journey ere we take our rest."
"Yeah, enough with the pillow fights already," muttered Buttplug,
still annoyed by the morning's revelation that he was down to a
frightfully tiny portion of catnip at the bottom of his pouch.
Accompanying two jejune ponygirls on a doomed quest across barren
lands called for acres of potent snuff at his immediate disposal, and
he was forever darting off the trail in search of fertile fields of
unwanted male chronics to illicitly harvest.
Spirella snorted as she tried to stifle a laugh. Oh, she just loved
Buttplug to pieces, she did! Of all the fabulous Furries they had met
in Rivenmyst, she had immediately taken a shine to this morose male
cat who appeared to be in perpetual need of a hug. Such kindred
spirits, the Furries were…willfully adopting the ways and means of a
favorite was certainly a higher calling to which frilly
fillies could relate. And poor Buttplug certainly didn't make things
easy for himself, given his name and species.
"Couldn't be helped," he had explained after rescuing Spirella and
Marie-Noëlle from a particularly treacherous patch of muddy muck that
were common to the province. "Some Furries choose brave and fearsome
animals they imagine themselves to be, like lions and wolves and
sports mascots. But true Furries know that one's self is
discovered, not selected off the rack like a freakin' prom dress. And
I'm a purple cat. Coulda been worse. Coulda been a poodle. Or a
ladybug."
As for his name, he explained it as the whim of a previous owner who
fancied herself a comedienne. "Beats Mittens, Fluffy or, ugh, Pussy,"
he had added thoughtfully, and not a little thankfully, Spirella had
observed.
And thankful definitely described Spirella's mood as she pranced
ahead of her attendants. Thankful she had been born a ponygirl.
Thankful for her warm stall, her shiny tack, her comfortable bridle,
her flexible harness, her adjustable clamps, her endless meadows and
her dozens of dear friends like Marie-Noëlle.
But most of all, Spirella was thankful that she, among all the
ponygirls in Snobbiton, had been selected for the undertaking upon
which she and Marie-Noëlle had recently embarked.
Granted, epic adventure did not come naturally to her, nor her
fellow former foals. Ponygirls much preferred to keep among
themselves, having been the subject of much calumny over the years
when strangers to Snobbiton had paused to scoff at their exquisite
equestrian ways. Worst of all were those who would take advantage of
the ponygirls' kind and trusting natures with uncouth manly efforts
to defile, if not pillage, their hay-strewn sanctuaries. Spirella
felt it was much better to steer clear of such unpleasantness and
focus on more pressing concerns, like how to keep the brass rivets
that adorned her beloved chastity strap from rusting.
But that was before the day when the elder mare known as Fanfic, a
pony of much wisdom, poise, grace and a shimmering tail reportedly
hewn from the hairs of a real-life princess who adopted a seriously
short coiffure when she ran off with a member of a raucous troupe of
ill-tempered and frightfully pierced musicians, had taken her aside
with an urgent request.
"The ring," she had whispered as she nibbled Spirella's ear
suggestively. "The dreaded ring must be returned to its place of
origin and destroyed ere more harm befalls our happy corrals."
Hidden under Fanfic's rhinestone-peppered saddle was a strap of
ancient leather with buckles on either end, and a large circle of
tarnished silver in its center. When Spirella first took the device
in her teeth, she felt a sensation of unfamiliar terrible warmth
course through her silken loins. Suddenly, the malicious foreigners
who visited Snobbiton did not seem so dangerous anymore. In fact, she
quite fancied the idea of getting to know them better, preferably in
a dark stall with the doors bolted shut, their cunning eyes blazing
with unmistakable intent, their powerful fingers clutching raw flesh
beneath her fetters, their sweat-crusty jerkins slithering off meaty
shoulders, no possibility of escape…
"Enough!" the mare had whinnied as she knocked the device from the
grip of Spirella's teeth. "You must never replace your bit with the
ring, no matter how tempted you find yourself."
Fanfic explained the origins of the strange device in greater
detail. How it had been forged by a tribe of evil spirits who lived
many leagues beyond Snobbiton, in a land where males treated other
living creatures with the same lack of respect a pays to an
insect under his magnifying lens. How it could cause even the most
chaste ponygirl to fall under its spell, leading her to commit wild
and wanton acts of such dire perversity that Fanfic was loath to
discuss their particulars beyond a telling nudge with her well-etched
hoof against Spirella's chastity belt. And especially how the ring
worked, a description which made Spirella's nicely-toned tummy a
little queasy, although she didn't necessarily feel sick.
"Very well, Fanfic," Spirella had said bravely as she placed the
ring under her own saddle. "With the help of my bestest bud, Marie-
Noëlle, I shall dispose of this artifact. Besides, I need a new
bridle, and everybody's already seen this year's collection offered
by the mange-riddled merchants of Snobbiton."
To date, their voyage had been fairly uneventful, with the exception
of meeting Buttplug in the muddy muck, who afterwards insisted on
accompanying them, mostly to avoid having to attend the Furries'
annual gathering, an event which he described in grisly terms that
made Spirella and Marie-Noëlle thankful that ponygirls didn't much
care to parade their pride in public.
But Spirella knew that every puff of dust kicked up by the cloven
heels of their crotch-high leather boots took them a step closer to
their unknown fate. While Fanfic had been reticent to provide a
detailed description of the nasty beasts who had forged the ring,
Spirella entertained herself and Marie-Noëlle for hours in the
evenings with fanciful thoughts that left both of them more than a
little flushed and primed for the privacy of their sleeping rugs.
As they rambled down the road at a cheery pace promiscuously close
to "skipping," Spirella allowed her mind to ponder the shape and size
of her eventual foes, not to mention other fearsome and muscular
creatures they might encounter in their travels.
"What the fuck is that?" cried Buttplug suddenly, his verging-on-
violet fur standing on end. "Did you hear something?"
"Help! Oh please, won't someone help me?" called a pretty voice from
somewhere along the side of the path.
"Come, Marie-Noëlle, we must investigate!" Spirella cried as she
galloped down the embankment and into the woods.
It didn't take long before the threesome found a clearing between
the trees where railroad tracks had been laid. Off in the distance,
Spirella thought she heard the high, lonesome whistle of a southbound
freighter coming their way.
"Look! Over there, on the tracks!" Buttplug exclaimed as his plastic
claws clicked excitedly against the smooth steel of the rails.
"Someone's in trouble!"
A few yards away, a woman in a long flowing dress that was
hiked up her legs, exposing multiple petticoats and a pair of
adorably retro button boots, lay across the tracks, her body bound
securely in vast quantities of thickly-braided rope.
"A damsel!" cried Spirella.
"In distress!" echoed Marie-Noëlle.
"What, no ripped bodice?" moaned Buttplug.
"Hurry, Buttplug, untie her," Spirella said, her ears twitching as
they discerned the rumble of the fast-approaching express.
The woman gave them a sheepish look and batted her eyelashes demurely.
"Uh, that's okay," she said, suddenly calm. "I'm fine, really. Don't
mind me."
"What? But there's a train approaching," exclaimed Spirella. "You'll
surely be crushed, and your attractive dress shall be permanently
soiled."
"Please, leave me be," the woman insisted. "Worry ye not about my
apparent predicament."
"It's clear you are in need of immediate rescuing," Spirella
asserted as she studied the layered coils and intricate knots
surrounding the damsel's limbs with no small degree of admiration.
"Yes, but…well, it's a long story. Best you be on your way. Thanks
for asking though. Good afternoon."
With that, the woman resumed her plaintive calls for aid, oblivious
to the presence of the two ponygirls and their feline friend.
"Well, I never," huffed Spirella as they made their way back to the
path. "She's going to be lunchmeat any minute now. Oh, we can't just
leave her there. Buttplug, you must…wait, what's that I hear?"
Ahead of them, the unmistakable sound of another woman calling for
help reverberated through the trees.
"Ohmigod, someone else is in trouble! Quickly!"
The trio rushed back into the woods to a second clearing where an
equally-attractive woman, dressed in a parallel manner to the one
they had previously encountered, was likewise trussed and squirming
most appealingly on what looked like a continuation of the same set
of train tracks.
"Help, please won't someone…oh, hello," she said as Spirella, Marie-
Noëlle and Buttplug burst noisily into the clearing. "Lovely day,
isn't it? And I'm quite keen on the way the leaves change around
here."
"We have no time to waste with idle chit-chat," Spirella said
brusquely. "We must get you untied before…"
"That really won't be required, love," the woman said with a smile.
"And pray tell, why not?" asked Spirella with just the tiniest hint
of exasperation.
"Be quiet for a moment, and listen carefully," the woman instructed.
Cocking an ear to the sky, Spirella still heard the oncoming train,
but surprisingly, it didn't sound like it had gotten any closer in
the minutes since they had left the first woman. More importantly,
she could make out the distant calls of several other women, all
crying for help with varying degrees of anguish.
"Why, there must be dozens of distressed damsels in these woods!"
Spirella deduced.
"Hundreds, actually," the lassoed lass replied demurely. "Tis a
common practice on the frontier where you find yourselves. Following
a merry chase and a stirring struggle, our bind us firmly and
leave us to our fate on the tracks, whatever that might be."
"But aren't you in mortal danger?" Spirella worried.
"Hardly. In fact, the process is quite pleasurable when done
correctly and without extraneous interruption. Speaking of which, if
you will excuse me…"
"An entire village of damsels in distress," Buttplug marveled as
they made their way once again back to the path. "Well, I suppose
it's better than being mangled by dragons. Unless they're Furry
dragons, of course, in which case they're about as scary as a certain
Rasta-spouting anthropoid from the aptly-named Plateau of Phantom
Menaces."
"I should quite fancy a go at this distress business myself," said
Marie-Noëlle unexpectedly. "Do you think I could try, Spirella? I
shan't be long, I promise."
"Of course not!" Spirella said, desperate to shake the idea of all
those complicated windings around her own body. "We have much more
important things to accomplish than indulging in fantasies."
Buttplug couldn't help snickering.
"Oh, you know what I mean," Spirella snapped impatiently, her
padlocks jingling as she wagged a forelock in his face. "We're on a
mission. A quest. A journey into the depths of our greatest..."
"And don't forget shopping," Marie-Noëlle added, her heart set on a
pair of shoulder-length gloves in white leather to match the rest of
her ensemble.
"Quite right. We mustn't dally and delay our expedition any longer.
Look, the sun has already passed its zenith, and soon it will be time
to mount our feedbags. We must press on. Come!"
"With pleasure," Buttplug meowed, expertly avoiding the airborne
hoof that Spirella had targeted for his crotch.
An hour later, the three adventurers noticed a strange set of
footprints in the path.
"Look at these markings in the dirt," Spirella said. "They appear to
be holes of exceptional depth, preceded by triangular impressions of
some sort."
"Most irregular, yet quite consistent in their spacing and
direction," noted Marie-Noëlle helpfully. "Almost as if each step had
been carefully considered prior to its placement in the path."
"Uh huh," Spirella agreed distractedly as she pondered what sort of
walking device would have such an abnormal effect on such a well-
traversed road. "Well, not to worry, as they seem to be heading the
same way we are. Unless we significantly increase our pace, I doubt
we shall overtake them."
They followed the oddly-shaped footprints for another mile, somewhat
disturbed by the increasing number of unique tracks that joined the
original pair.
"Their ranks are growing," said Buttplug as he idly swiped a paw at
a passing butterfly. "Whatever they are, there's more of them than
us."
"Thank you for your brilliant observation," Spirella replied icily,
her mood soured by a growing sense of regret over taking their leave
of the damsels in distress so quickly. Perhaps if they had tarried,
they might have encountered the dastardly for themselves, leading
to a skirmish in which her band would have doubtlessly fallen prey to
their immoral…
"Sorry for paying attention, your horsiness. In the future, I shall
prohibit myself from pretending to give a flying…whoa, bandits at 12
o'clock high!"
Indeed, there appeared several shadowy figures on the path ahead of
them, all of whom appeared to be walking rather unsteadily.
"Hallo!" Spirella cried out with as much friendly inflection as she
could manage. "Who precedes us in our journey that takes us far from
the well-maintained dressage arenas of Snobbiton?"
"Oh, thank God," one of the strangers exclaimed.
"Maybe they've got bunion pads!" said another excitedly.
"Dr. Scholl's, even!" added a third.
"I'll settle for comfy slippers and a soak in the creek," sighed a
fourth.
Spirella, Marie-Noëlle and Buttplug quickly overtook the curious
band of fellow wanderers and introduced themselves with practiced
curtseys, with the exception of Buttplug, who began mewling in a most
unattractive fashion as their eyes took in the spectacle before them.
At least a dozen women sat dispiritedly on the side of the
path, all dressed in short black dresses decorated with much lace
around their slender waists and atop their curly-haired heads, their
legs ensconced in of sheer black silk and their wrists
entwined with matching gauntlets.
But it wasn't their splendid garb that led to Buttplug's outburst.
It was their feet, or rather, the unusual walking apparatuses that
were strapped and locked around their ankles. Each one sported an
elaborate heel of considerable length that forced their wearers to
walk on the very tips of their doubtlessly delicate toes in a manner
not unlike a nimble dancer of dervishes.
"Greetings, fair maidens," said Spirella. "My name is…"
"We ain't maidens, we're bleedin' maids," spat one. "And unless you
brung an ice bag for my achin' tootsies in one of yer saddlebags, you
can thyself off."
"You try walkin' down this ruddy alleyway with an unabridged
dictionary on top of yer noggin," screeched another. "Practicin' your
balance in these contraptions is worse than listenin' to the prime
minister babble about his poxy baby, like squirtin' useful sperm in
middle age is some great accomplishment."
"Ahem," Spirella continued, motioning to her own fabulous footwear
which arched her calves in a delightfully alluring fashion. "Well, we
are on a quest to return the ring…"
"Ooooh, you got yerself a ring, didja?" piped up another maid.
"Bloody typical that a decent would want himself a horsy for a
bride."
"No, no, it's not that kind of ring," Spirella replied, a bit more
wistfully than she intended. "Anyway, where are you headed?"
"Back to the scullery, if you must know. And you can call me Giselle."
"Me, too!"
"Ditto."
"And me as well!"
"Well, my name is Claudia."
"Same here."
"Likewise, I'm sure."
"Except me. I'm Gwen."
Spirella could not help notice Marie-Noëlle's unnatural fascination
with the cruel shoes, their stiletto-like spikes sinking deeply into
the unpaved dirt of the path. But she knew they had little time to
tarry, especially with such crass and uncouth strangers.
"From where do you hail, kind servants of extended soles?" Spirella
inquired with a supercilious twitch of her tail.
"We come from the land of Flagrantly Fastidious Fetishes," the first
Giselle replied. "Our masters have sent us on an exercise run in
which we are to traverse this accursed locals-only lane for a period
of not less than eight hours balancing these heavy tomes atop our
heads. If any of them should discover us in our current seated
condition, we shall be collectively punished in a manner that will
prohibit us from sitting again for an extended period."
That pronouncement caused Marie-Noëlle to swoon in a manner
precipitously close to the vapors.
"You mean…they might actually…raise a hand to…"
"Whip us. Beat us. Strop us. Thrash our bottoms until they glow
brighter than your cheeks right now."
"Oooooohhhhh…"
Buttplug crumpled like an abandoned marionette into the grassy
meadow abutting the path.
"Yes, well, that's all very fine and dandy for you gentlewomen, I
suppose," Spirella said as she felt her haunches glow with unnatural
fire at the thought of the illicit riding crops some ponygirls kept
hidden at the bottom of their tack boxes. "And there is much to be
said for poise, as any livery lass worth her saddlehorn could tell
you. Come, Marie-Noëlle and Buttplug. Let's take our leave of this
situation ere we are inadvertently introduced to the lords of these
maids' households."
"Yeah, best to trot along, ya fuckwits," one of the Claudias
sneered. "Wouldn't wanna soil those lovely leggings o' yours with an
honest day's labor."
"Since when was Labour honest?" Giselle Number Three inquired,
sparking a vicious political debate between the maids that sounded
well-rehearsed to the point of ennui.
"Well, happy scrubbing," Spirella said over her shoulder as the trio
scurried down the path as fast as their hooves would carry them.
"Good thing we ponygirls don't have to suffer such injustices to our
delicate carriages."
"Like running around in spurs and halters isn't a flagrantly
fastidious fetish?" asked Buttplug with genuine curiosity, himself
unsure of why he subjected himself to the daily distresses of his
feline persona.
"Of course not!" Spirella retorted. "As a Furry, you should be well
aware of the difference between a and a true calling. One's a
voluntary perversity, the other is nature's way of amending God's
occasional errors."
The three of them continued chatting until Spirella finally
announced that the time had come to end the day's journey. After
finding a comfortable clearing just off the path, they settled down
for an evening of much munching, grooming and storytelling about the
ring still safely stashed under Spirella's saddle.
"What do you call these wicked dudes anyway?" Buttplug wondered as
darkness overwhelmed the remains of their tidy campfire.
"Fanfic didn't tell us, but she assured me we would know them as
soon as we met them," Spirella replied sleepily. "And with that, a
very good night to you, and Marie-Noëlle, too."
Several hours later, the threesome awoke with a start to the sound
of shouts and a great many crashing in an orderly manner through
the trees.
"Ohmigod, who goes there?" Spirella demanded as she hurried to
straighten her mane and apply just a bit of mascara before they met
whatever fate was about to befall them.
"Oh, Spirella, I'm frightened," squeaked Marie-Noëlle as she tore
apart her rucksack in search of her curry comb.
"Oh, shit," sighed Buttplug, realizing he was going to have to be
heroic without the benefit of stuffing his snout with snuff.
But the valiant vacationers proved to be no match for the dozens of
short, hairless wearing long white robes and matching headbands
who descended on their clearing. Within minutes, Spirella and Marie-
Noëlle found themselves stripped of their pony gear, gagged with
large balls, tightly bound in coils of rough brown hemp, and hung
like fresh meat from long sticks carried on the shoulders of the men.
As for Buttplug, the invaders had simply laughed at his synthetic
claws and electric-blue fur, but when they discovered he was male,
they slapped him on the back, gave him a headband to match theirs,
and beckoned for him to march alongside them as they advanced down
the path to their village.
Buttplug couldn't understand their language, but as dawn broke over
the horizon, he thought he recognized their thin eyes, clever fingers
and great love for electronic gadgets.
"The Shibari," he whispered into Spirella's delectable ear as they
approached a cluster of strangely-shaped wooden structures surrounded
by elegant gardens filled with artfully-arranged stones of pleasing
shapes and colors. "A politely barbaric tribe from the far east. I
have heard they aren't really dangerous, but they have many rituals
and very specific tribulations that they like to practice on their
females and, er, esteemed visitors."
Spirella twisted and thrashed excitedly, and not just because of the
coarse cords digging geometrically-symmetrical trenches in her limbs.
"Mmm mingggg!" she mumbled urgently through her gag.
"Don't worry, ma equestrianette. I snatched your precious
cargo, not to mention the rest of your stuff, while the Shibari were
busy with your bitchin' bindings. Besides, I don't think these are
the chaps you're looking for. Shhhh, best to play nice until we get
to wherever we're going."
The captors and their trussed prey entered the largest of the
buildings, which was filled with painted screens, rough-hewn
furniture, odd-looking scaffolding, and a preponderance of pulleys
hanging from the ceiling. Spirella and Marie-Noëlle were freed from
their poles, only to be tied again in an extremely elaborate fashion,
including multiple windings around their and hair, and
hoisted high into the air, their refined orifices exposed for the
pleasure and amusement of the men.
The shortest and most portly of the Shibari gestured excitedly at
Buttplug and began babbling in his strange tongue at a very rapid
pace while his cohorts busied themselves with various tasks, many
which seemed to involve large rubber bags festooned with clear
plastic hoses.
"He's the leader," Buttplug translated. "He seems to be saying that
you are the Shibari's honored guests, and he wants to share his
tribe's special form of hospitality with you. Apparently, it involves
some kind of…cleansing."
A few moments later, the purpose and intent of the rubber bags
became painfully apparent as Spirella and Marie-Noëlle found their
most private passages filled to the point of bursting with warm,
soapy water.
"Don't worry," Buttplug assured them, trying his very hardest not to
enjoy his companions' dire and somewhat disgusting predicament. "It's
very healthy and beneficial, or so I've been told."
After being instructed to release the contents of their bountiful
bottoms into chipped white pans held beneath them, the Shibari
lowered them to the ground and proceeded to take turns tying them up
in some of the most fiendishly convoluted positions Buttplug had ever
witnessed. Limbs bent backwards at impossible angles, scratchy ropes
snaking around and across every inch of their elegant epidermis,
dangling from the scaffolding in positions best described as
"oblique," Spirella and Marie-Noëlle were treated like beloved dolls
in the hands of brothers.
After many hours of knotty diversions, the invited Buttplug to
join them in another building where their regular women served them
bowls of steaming rice and plates piled high with strange delicacies
from the sea, as well as copious quantities of a clear liquid which
made Buttplug's head feel like he had inhaled a silo of snuff in one
snort.
When they finished eating, one of the Shibari produced a wireless
microphone and began crooning a popular song about a far-off
metropolis so great, its name had to be repeated repeatedly in an off-
key but heartfelt manner. Following much applause, the rest of the
men clamored for a turn, and Buttplug slinked away unnoticed, his
spirits much lightened by the day's unexpected turn of events.
"What took you so long?" shouted Spirella once Buttplug had untied
and lowered her.
"Ooooh, why did you hurry?" Marie-Noëlle slurred, a contented smile
replacing the gag across her mouth.
"Snap out of it, Marie-Noëlle!" Spirella growled at her
semiconscious compadre. "We must effect our escape forthwith!
Buttplug, where is our pony gear! And the ring! We must get away from
this accursed village as fast as our hooves can carry us!"
"Stop sweating. Like I told you, I stashed everything safely in a
tree by the path. And geez, what's your rush? I think Marie-Noëlle
wants to, er, hang around a little longer."
"Not funny," Spirella hissed at Buttplug. "How would you like to
spend the entire day suspended from the ceiling by your…manhood?"
"Are you sure we can't stay the night?" Marie-Noëlle inquired
wistfully. "Or maybe Buttplug should alert them to our escape so the
Shibari can capture us again…"
"Get real, Marie-Noëlle! The Shibari are obviously a cruel, cunning
and dangerous clan. Their skillful masculine tricks have warped your
fragile mind. And you're not helping matters here, Buttplug. Now,
let's get properly accessorized and be on our way."
They tiptoed past the building where the sound of a Shibari warrior
warbling about his feelings more than compensated for the sound of
their bare feet on the well-manicured garden walkways.
"One hell of a hero you are," Spirella said to Buttplug once she had
regained her composure, as well as her harness, boots, saddle and
much-missed chastity belt. "How could you let the Shibari commit such
heinous acts of affliction and encumbrance to Marie-Noëlle and me?"
"Oh sure, like I was going to take on an army of fierce warriors
armed only with claws that barely cut paper? And might I mention that
I did come back to rescue you as soon as I could?"
"Right, after you were properly fed and watered and tended by
giggling geishas."
"Well, I'm sorry to hear it so hard for you. Seemed to work
okay for Marie-Noëlle, though."
Indeed, Marie-Noëlle was greatly distracted in her reappointment of
her accoutrements, arranging her harness both upside down and
backwards, and even going so far as to stick one of her hands into a
long white boot.
"Shinju…nawa…ryo-tekubi…ushiro takate kote…chokushin fudo ippon…no,
please, not the nose hooks…"
"Marie-Noëlle, whatever are you talking about?" Spirella asked as
she cinched her stirrup straps and replaced the ring to its secure
spot under her saddle. "If I didn't know you better, I'd say you got
dosed with a bad case of brainwashing from the Shibaris."
"It wasn't just her brain that got washed back there," leered
Buttplug.
"Oh, do cram it," Spirella sniffed. "Come, let us continue our
trekking without delay."
The ménage a trois stomped onwards for many miles, their stony
silence punctuated only by Marie-Noëlle's continued outbursts in the
indecipherable tongue of the Shibaris.
"Dojo…uke…kinbaku…sukaranbo…karada…must you bind my tongue as well,
sensei?"
"I fear my best friend may have a few eyelets missing in her corset,
if you catch my drift," observed Spirella to Buttplug.
"Well, nothing that a mind-shattering orgasm, or two, or ten, won't
set to right. Perhaps I could be of some assistance in that
department…"
"Hush, crazy cat. What's that shimmering yonder in the distance?"
"Dunno. Looks like a lake or something. Awfully dark for water,
though."
As the intrepid voyagers made their way closer, a pungent odor
permeated their nostrils.
"Hmmm, smells vaguely familiar," said Spirella. "Sort of like…"
"The Shibari's magic bags!" Marie-Noëlle squealed as her flanks
clenched visibly.
"No, not that," Spirella gently reprimanded her clinically-addled
associate. "But in the same barn, that's for sure."
"It reminds me of something I once smelled in a hotel room at the
annual gathering," said Buttplug. "I was intrigued by the promise of
many Furries in cunning catsuits, and when I opened the door, my nose
practically blew off my face. Everybody was dressed from head to toe
in…"
They arrived at the edge of the lake. Spirella cautiously dipped a
hoof into the gently undulating fluid, then quickly retracted it when
she realized her beautifully-polished boot had been covered with a
shiny black substance that resembled a mirror, only in reverse.
"Ye gods, it's a…" Spirella sputtered.
"Lake of Liquid Latex!" finished Buttplug. "Last one in's a rotten
ovary!"
With that, Buttplug dove headfirst into the gleaming water, only to
resurface a second later desperately wiping the glossy substance away
from his eyes and mouth.
"Whoops, maybe it's best to wade in slowly. Who's next?"
"Me me me!" yelped Marie-Noëlle as she splashed happily into the
dark liquid, coating her pristine white leather in slime noir.
"Oh, Marie-Noëlle," admonished Spirella as she tried to grab her
errant friend's tail, "you've gone and…uh…uh…help!"
Spirella lost her footing on the bank of the lake and fell sideways
into the murky depths.
"Wheeee!" Marie-Noëlle paddled over to her unhappy pal and began
splashing latex on the few spots on Spirella's body that weren't
covered in black goo.
"Stop that this instant, Marie-Noëlle! You'll ruin the lining on
my…ohmigod! The ring! Where did it go?"
Spirella wrenched herself around and desperately searched under her
saddle, only to find nothing more than another layer of runny rubber
between the leather and her skin.
"Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck!" Spirella screamed at the top of her lungs.
"At your cervix, darling," Buttplug snarked as he swam lazily past
the perturbed ponygirl.
"Help me find the ring, Buttplug! It's got to be around here
somewhere!"
"Oh great, like it's going to be real easy to see something that's
sunk to the bottom of this particular puddle."
"Well, don't just stand there," Spirella wailed. "Start diving!"
"What, stick my face in this gunk? I might be kinky, but I'm really
not into serious sensory deprivation."
"Marie-Noëlle!" Spirella cried as she began wrestling with the laces
running up her thighs. "Take off your boots like me and feel around
with your toes!"
"Ewww, do you have any idea what might be down there?"
"No, but we're all going to find out right this instant!"
Spirella took a deep breath and plunged downwards into the murk.
"Aw, geez…the things we do for higher species," Buttplug sighed as
he followed suit.
Much thrashing and gasping ensued as the two brave aquanauts
explored the bottom of the Lake of Liquid Latex while Marie-Noëlle
cheered on her friends, secretly luxuriating in the unmentionably
greasy sensations against her skin.
Many moments later, Buttplug popped to the surface holding the gag
between his teeth, since his claws were much too slippery to gain a
secure grasp.
"Got it!" he choked. "Although I feel a bit funny all of a sudden…"
"That's great...oh, no! Buttplug, spit out the ring!" Spirella
shouted.
"Wow, this is truly weird," Buttplug gulped. "Here I always figured
I was 100 percent hetero, but man, I could really get into a nice,
big, juicy, thick, throbbing…"
Spirella stumbled over to Buttplug and yanked the silver circle out
of his mouth.
"Hey, watch it, bitch! I swear, you pushy breeders are all the
same...thilly thavages, the lot of you. Christ, did I just say what I
think I said?"
"Take a deep breath, Buttplug," Spirella counseled from practical
experience. "The dire effects of the ring should wear off in a moment
or two."
"I like girls, I like girls, I like girls," Buttplug chanted as he
sat down on the banks of the Lake of Liquid Latex and began wringing
out his tail.
"How will we ever remove this icky coating from our skin, much less
our leather apparel?" Spirella wondered aloud.
"Oh, must we bother?" inquired Marie-Noëlle hopefully. "I quite
enjoy the effect myself, alternating between great heat and clammy
cold. And it shows off our graceful limbs to marvelous effect."
"Oh, behave," Spirella said as she tried to peel off a layer from
her forearm. "Rubber is best deployed on the walls of cells for
lunatics and readers of hyphenated newsgroups."
"But what if it rains?" Marie-Noëlle pleaded. "What if we want to go
surfing? Or snorkeling? Latex is so practical as protection against
the elements..."
"Nice try, but as they say around the water trough on a blistering
afternoon, enough!"
The two ponygirls bickered for the rest of the day as they
methodically removed the residue from their maritime escapades, while
Buttplug continued to fret about the aftermath of his taking the ring
in his mouth.
"Well, sure, I'm often happy," he muttered to himself, "not to
mention spirited, fun-loving, glad, joyful and cheerful on occasion,
but I am most definitely not g-g-g..."
They made their camp on the shores of the Lake of Liquid Latex,
vowing to press forward at double their current rate to compensate
for the day's distractions.
"Given the events of last night, I think we'd better set a watch,"
Spirella observed as the last embers in their fire lost their golden
glow. "Who will go first?"
"What the heck, I can't sleep anyway," replied Buttplug. "You
appaloosas vamoose to the land of nod, capiche?"
"What did he just say?" Marie-Noëlle yawned extravagantly, trying
hard not to reveal to Spirella that she had not yet removed the
leftover black goop from her nether regions.
"Hit the hay, girl," Buttplug translated. "I'll wake one of you up
if I need relief."
Of course, Buttplug fell asleep mere minutes after he made this
pronouncement, only to awaken several hours later by the noise of
great wings flapping overhead.
"Fuck me," Buttplug scowled as he squinted into the darkness.
"Smells like tarns."
Within the space of seconds, he was proven correct as he, Spirella
and Marie-Noëlle were quickly subdued by a party of swarthy raiders
riding huge taloned birds, and rendered unconscious via a virulent
potion administered in a fashion not often recommended for anyone
past the age of consent.
When the tormented tourists finally awoke, the ponygirls found
themselves in a dark, smoky and smelly room stripped of their rawhide
accoutrements, their bodies bound severely in chains, bracelets and
heavy leather collars, while Buttplug reclined opulently on a pile of
furs.
"They think I'm something called a 'larl,'" he explained as he
stretched his limbs and tried not to purr. "And they've never seen a
purple one before, so they're being extra careful with me."
"What has happened to us?" Spirella inquired as she shimmied with
much futility while Marie-Noëlle adopted the smug look of someone
unexpectedly upgraded to first class.
"I have heard rumors about the existence of the legendary Gorcs,"
Buttplug began explaining, "but Furries always dismissed the
as fantasy of the lowest order, science friction for knuckle-dragging
heathens too dim for Hogwarts."
"As usual, you make no sense," Spirella interrupted. "All I know is
that we're being held prisoner in what looks like a dinosaur's rec
room, Marie-Noëlle and I are heartlessly constrained while you're
lounging around, I've lost the ring, I need to wicked bad, and
our grand outing will be a total wash if we don't..."
"Surely now," boomed a who entered the room suddenly, "you do
not allow your slaves, stinking, meaningless, lascivious little
beasts whose sexuality, shamelessness, needs and helplessness make
them worthy of nothing more than excessive whipping, to speak to you
thusly?"
The stranger strode into the room with the seething confidence of a
dragon facing a knight armed with a bucket of water as Buttplug
scrambled upright hastily. Dressed in a tunic and long boots of soft
leather, he ignored the shocked stares of Spirella and Marie-Noëlle
and addressed Buttplug directly.
"You stand on two feet. Curious. Are you or larl? The initiates
are much confused by your appearance, and seek immediate
clarification."
"Uh, let's go with larl for now," Buttplug replied cautiously. "New
breed, very top secret. And these two are my trusted, er...what do
you call your weirdo horses again?"
"Kaiila, terrifying but beautiful, lofty, stately, fanged and
silken, they can cover as much as six hundred pasangs in a single
day's riding," the Gorc responded with what he believed to be
eloquence. "But my fellow freemen are familiar with the pathetic
genus of overdressed quadrupeds which you call 'ponygirl.'"
"Pathetic?" Spirella shrieked. "Overdressed? Hey, look who's
talking, Fringeboy."
"Quiet, slave! Man-larl, I must insist that you gag these insolent
wenches before my ears convince my hand to plunge my sacramasax, with
wine-tempered blade of fine, double-edged steel, carried even at the
siege of Argh, so long ago, directly into their hearts."
"Your whatsis? Hey, speaking of gags, we seemed to have misplaced
one. A silver circle and some straps, goes by the name 'ring,'
last seen stuffed under the big gal's saddle..."
"Big?" Spirella exclaimed. "Why, I've lost five pounds at least on
this trip alone, and my instructor in pointless perpetual motion says
I can probably slim down to a size four after a few more..."
"Enough, kajira!" the bellowed. "Is this what you were looking
for?"
He produced a ring gag from beneath his tunic and proceeded to strap
it around Spirella's head.
"Uh, yeah, that's the one, I think," Buttplug answered. "Except hers
was more decrepit, as I recall. She said it was pretty and
probably very valuable. Definitely cursed, too," he added with a
shudder.
"Valuable?" the scoffed as he reached under his tunic again.
"These gags are as common as rennels in the sands of the Southern
Plains," he laughed as he produced another one and inserted it into
Marie-Noëlle's fairly receptive mouth.
"Uh, yeah, I can see that," Buttplug said warily as he observed the
power of the rings taking effect on his former friends. "So how come
Spirella and Marie-Noëlle, um, these incoherent, worthless, er,
bargain-basement, ah, Swatch dogs and Diet Cokeheads thought it was
something important?"
"I can answer that," neighed a feminine voice outside the door.
"Tal, Fanfic," said the man, nodding curtly to the ponywoman
as she clip-clopped slowly into the room.
"Tal to you, too, Tarl Gruntwig," Fanfic replied, raising a hoof in
salute. "I see our latest acquisition expedition was eminently
successful."
"Yes, you have done well once again," the said, nodding at the
thoroughly confused captives in the corner. "The willowy one, she is
white silk?"
"Alas, I fear that the Shibari opened her during an unplanned
encounter en route to Port Kar," Fanfic replied.
"The careless fools!" the grumbled. "We shall send an army
forthwith to smite them for their audacity in defiling the rightful
property of Gorcs."
"Aw, the little didn't know any better," injected Buttplug.
"Besides, she's still a peach. Show 'em your teeth, Marie-Noëlle. And
hey, if you don't want her, I'd be happy to take her off..."
"Silence, man-larl," the commanded. "Fanfic, this soiling of the
goods is unacceptable, and shall result in a drastic reduction in
your fee."
"Not so fast, Tarl Gruntwig," the mare countered testily. "Our
agreement was for two fresh ponygirls, period. Nobody mentioned the
state of their silkiness, or any other conditions. I will be paid 20
silver tarsks apiece, or you can find another purveyor of pulchritude
for your slave stables."
"Very well, Fanfic," the concluded as he withdrew the coins from
a leather pouch on his waist. "Same time next month?"
"Absolutely," she smiled. "Lots more where these two lovelies come
from. Well, I need to do some shopping before I head back to
Snobbiton. Ta tal, all."
With that, Fanfic spun on her hooves and cantered out of the room as
the Gorc turned his full attention to Spirella and Marie-Noëlle's
quivering, glistening bodies.
"The time has come for your training to begin," he intoned. "We
shall start with nadu. On your knees, back straight, with your palms
on your thighs...you dare to delay, she-sleen?"
"Hmm, I can see you've got a big day ahead of you here, so I'll just
be moseying along," Buttplug said as he began backing slowly out of
the room while Spirella and Marie-Noëlle scrambled to the floor.
"Don't worry, I can show myself out. Ciao, er, tal, um, whatever,
dude..."
"Wait, man-larl of excessively unique coloration," the Gorc barked.
"We have unfinished business between us."
Buttplug gulped as a glimmering of the ring's ghastly sway fluttered
through his paralyzed psyche.
"You have done your species proud in the transport of the new slaves
to me," the solemnly intoned. "For your efforts, you shall be
amply rewarded."
He pulled five silver coins from his purse and pressed them into
Buttplug's Day-Glo paw.
"Wow, cool!" Buttplug said with obvious relief. "You're good people,
even if you haven't taken a bath for the last three hundred pages."
"Tell me, man-larl, what is your given name?" the queried.
"Uh, Butt...er, John," Buttplug stuttered. "John Holmes."
"Well, Tarl Holmes of the John, are there others of your species
from the land of your Home Stone?"
"Sure!" Buttplug replied cheerfully. "Not as authentic as me, of
course, but yeah, there are of Furries, not just cats, but dogs
too, and foxes, and mice, and tigers, and bunnies, lots of bunnies,
and just about any creature you can imagine, and more than a few you
can't, or really don't want to."
"I would be most interested in meeting some of the females of your
tribe," the Gorc smiled. "Perhaps you could arrange to deliver a few
specimens for my inspection in a manner similar to the arrival of
these knee walkers."
"Very do-able," Buttplug said, his tongue inadvertently massaging
his whiskers. "But I might need one of those magic mouth thingies as
bait."
"You can purchase a huda of rings for a copper tarn from the
merchants of Port Kar," the said with a wink.
"Huh?" Buttplug shrugged. "Suit yourself, I'm easy. Well, nice doing
business with you."
"I shall anticipate your return to Gorc in not less than five
hands," the said as he returned his gaze to the two ponygirls
bowing on the floor. "Did I not command you to maintain a straight
back? Look up! your knees! More widely, slut! That's better. We
shall now test the properties of the rings, starting with the larger
one. Yes, you! Stop scowling at me like that! Har-ta!"
Buttplug grinned as he left the room, his mind filled with
extravagant tales of enchanted jewelry, inescapable destiny and bard-
worthy bravery with which he would ply many female Furries in the
days, weeks and months to come.
"Peace on you, Tarl Holmes of the John!" the Gorc called out behind
him.
"Goddamned watersport freaks," Buttplug muttered as he groped for
his pouch of catnip.
***
Copyright © 2002 by Adrian Hunter. All rights reserved. Please do
not repost nor repurpose without permission.
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