The Emilyverse Ch.04

Chapter Four: Emily Burrow

Wednesday, April 16, 2036

The Unknown Singularity + 3 months and 13 days

The morning unfolds around me like a familiar quilt, each thread stitched with warmth, comfort, and embroidered with the precious illusion of freedom. Today is mine--ours--and I intend to savor every second of it. These mornings without Chris come every other day, and each one feels infinitely precious, a gift we clutch tightly, afraid of it slipping away too quickly.

I stretch leisurely beneath my down blanket, letting my body awaken slowly, deliberately, without urgency. Sunlight filters softly through the round, paned windows, washing gently over my bare legs, warming my skin inch by lazy inch. In the air, the scent of fresh honeyed bread wafts from the grand kitchen, mingling enticingly with the creamy sweetness of fresh churned butter, wildflower jam, and the spice of apple cider simmering gently in a copper pot. My stomach growls softly in response, hunger stirring, though I refuse to hurry. Today, there is no rush--no reason to rise before I must, no reason to pretend.

Emily Burrow--the coziest prison to ever exist--is nestled deeply into the soft, rolling green hills, a sprawling hobbit-hole carved lovingly into the embrace of the earth. The walls curve organically, as if they grew naturally from the land itself, crafted from polished wood and sturdy, reassuring stone, ivy twining lazily around the frames of doorways, and delicate morning glories opening their petals through trellised windows. Everything here speaks of gentle comfort: deep armchairs pulled near crackling fires, beds heaped generously with warm blankets and downy pillows, bookshelves overflowing with worn volumes, their pages well-loved by dozens of Emilys seeking an escape between their covers.

I finally force myself to rise, slipping from bed into a loose, comfortable frumpy robe that falls softly across my shoulders. On these mornings, we dress how we please--not for Chris's pleasure, but for ours alone. I relish the sensation of not being required to perform.

Padding barefoot through the winding halls, I enter the kitchen where a handful of other Emilys sit scattered around the long wooden table, sipping steaming cups of chamomile and mint. Some murmur softly to each other; others merely smile, enjoying quiet companionship. Through the open garden doors, I hear laughter spilling from the bathhouse, mingling with the scent of rain-dampened earth, lavender, and rosemary. I take a cup of tea and wander toward the sitting room, choosing a deep chair by the window, legs tucked beneath me, robe slipping softly from one shoulder, sunlight warming my skin.

From here, I watch as Orchard Emilys drift lazily among the trees, their dresses loose and casual, bare legs dangling idly from the lower branches. No one is picking fruit, no one worrying about how they look, no one forcing their bodies into positions calculated to please him. Out in the distant fields, the Fieldhand Emilys--my usual role, too, though today I'm abandoning even the pretence of it-- lie stretched out in the tall grass, hats shading their faces, bare legs sprawled carelessly, skirts hiked without concern.

It isn't that Chris punishes us merely for enjoying ourselves when he's gone--in fact, he genuinely doesn't seem to like causing us pain at all. From the very beginning, his demands were simple: he laid out the roles we were meant to fill and quietly expected us to accept them. It was refusal, outright and stubborn, that triggered his devastating response.

Those Emilys who openly resisted found themselves instantly trapped in quaint cells--soft beds, cozy furniture, but filled with shelves of blank books. No stimulation at all for a day, a week, a month, or more--time passing at an accelerated pace, each moment blurring into endless monotony. For those of us not sent there, it was less than a blink of an eye, but for the Emily who endured it, her haunted, hollow eyes afterward spoke clearly of the futility of resistance.

He watched patiently until each of us accepted what he asked: to pretend, to embrace the illusion, to at least try to become the fantasy he'd built for us. Once we gave him even the most basic of compliance, Chris seemed almost relieved. He stayed content, as long as we tried, however imperfectly, to play our parts. But outright refusal--breaking character entirely--was something he refused to tolerate. Four Emilys who pushed too far learned this, swiftly sent to The Barn without drama, without mercy. None of us have tested him openly since then.

I certainly haven't but I still treasure every day he leaves us alone, every precious hour our kidnapper doesn't force us to play the doll for his pleasure. And today should be one of those exquisite, fragile days. The air feels lighter, softer somehow, carrying whispers of freedom as the morning melts lazily toward afternoon. Across the garden, the bathhouse doors stand open, steam curling seductively into the sunlight, lanterns casting soft amber light against smooth stone and lush greenery. From inside drifts the low hum of laughter, murmured conversation punctuated by the occasional sigh of contentment. I consider joining them, sinking into those mineral-rich waters scented delicately with lavender and rosemary--but the sun feels too perfect here, the cushions too inviting, and so I allow myself to linger just a little while longer, watching quietly, smiling despite myself.

Some Emilys have chosen to lose themselves in the library. Chris gave us access to his pirated copy of LibGen--one of his small kindnesses, he calls it--allowing us to make any of these cozy volumes into whatever we like. One Emily chews absentmindedly at her thumbnail, tongue flickering occasionally between parted lips, fully lost in the pages of Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro. She turns each page like she's handling her own bones.

Suddenly, the sound of carriage wheels shatters the silence like a blade against glass. My heart lurches violently in my chest, breath catching sharply as my entire body jolts to alertness. The stillness around me shatters into frantic chaos, Emilys jolting upright, books slamming shut, chairs scrape against the floor, half-drunk tea cups abandoned, ribbons hastily looped, laces yanked tight, fabric smoothed into something alluring and utterly artificial. In a blur of motion, we reshape ourselves into the sweet, rustic fantasy Chris wants us to be.

I rush out, pulling my neckline down to reveal the curve of breasts glistening with some water I hastily splash on to make the illusion of sweat. The thin dress clings to me, every curve, every hint of skin beneath designed to tempt.

Chris steps down from the carriage, his smile radiant, eyes dancing with anticipation as he surveys the chaos he knows he caused. His gaze sweeps slowly over us, lingering on flushed faces, damp dresses, parted lips. There's something deeply pleased in the curve of his mouth, the indulgent sparkle in his eyes. We're not perfect--but we're enough.

"You, Emily" he calls out suddenly, his voice bright with excitement. "Here--come hold this for me." He extends a leather satchel toward me, his eyes sparkling mischievously. "Hold this." The satchel appears in his hand--not offered, bestowed--and something in the air shifts, sharp and metallic, like a tuning fork humming in my bones. I step forward, heart stammering, and take it--the weight unnatural, as if the leather held gravity itself. It pulses faintly in my grasp. I don't look inside. I can't. But I feel it--watching me back. I know my role now--I am the witness, the Emily who carries his things, who sees how he shapes us, how he molds us into living works of art designed only to please him.

I'm following closely behind Chris, clutching his satchel tightly against my chest, heart hammering beneath my thin, damp dress. The leather feels smooth and warm. My fingers curl instinctively around it, gripping it as though my life depends on it. Maybe it does. Holding something of his makes me feel safer, protected, even as my skin tingles nervously beneath his occasional glances backward, eyes flicking over me appraisingly, making sure I am there, obedient, attentive.

We pass deeper into the orchard, the trees thick and lush, sunlight filtering down in golden ribbons. Orchard Emily, the one who just moments before was lazing happily in the branches, now clings precariously high up, balanced on tiptoes, her dress hiked provocatively over her thighs. The translucent fabric reveals every graceful line, every soft, hidden curve beneath. Chris stops directly beneath her, his eyes sparkling, utterly captivated.

"Higher, Emily," he instructs warmly, voice thick with pleasure. "Stretch yourself for me. Make me believe how desperately you want it."

"Yes, Chris," she gasps obediently, breath trembling, face flushed with both exertion and humiliation. Her arms stretch even higher, fingers trembling, straining toward an apple just out of reach. The hem of her skirt lifts further, catching on the swell of her hips, exposing the flawless roundness of her bare ass, muscles trembling beautifully. Chris reaches out, lightly tracing his fingertips along her bottom, guiding her gently into position, savoring the shiver that visibly ripples down her spine.

"Good girl," he murmurs affectionately, and my stomach tightens involuntarily at his approval, even though it isn't directed at me.

Chris turns, continuing down the row, and I hastily follow, casting a sympathetic glance back toward that Orchard Emily. Her face has fallen, expression briefly twisting with frustration and discomfort before quickly schooling itself back into something obedient and eager. None of us love this--but we fear displeasing him more.

Next, Chris pauses beside another Emily pressed desperately against the rough bark of a peach tree. Her breathing comes quick and ragged, mouth open as she bites into a peach, juice dripping obscenely down her chin, pooling at her collarbone before spilling further between her breasts. Chris steps forward, fingers gently tracing the sticky trail, making her gasp sharply at his touch. He leans close, whispering something soft in her ear, and I see her whole body tense, lips parting in an almost pained expression of forced desire. Immediately she obeys, pressing herself harder against the tree, grinding wantonly, hips rolling in exaggerated eagerness, lips trembling as she moans softly, convincingly desperate.

As Chris pulls away, smiling, satisfied, I catch her eyes. They are glassy, pleading, almost begging for understanding, sympathy--anything--but she drops her gaze quickly, cheeks reddening. She knows I can offer no help. None of us can.

We move steadily toward the fields, the sun a relentless, burning force above, pulling sweat from our skin in thick, glistening streams. Chris has made us this way, reprogrammed your digital bodies to sweat far beyond what any normal body would--to glisten, drip, soak through, to turn every inch of fabric into something sheer, something sinful, something meant to be ogeled. The dresses--thin to begin with--are fully translucent now, clinging like a second skin. The heat turns us into glistening offerings, our bodies designed to be perpetually wet, always flushed, always slick.

My cheeks burn, not just from the sun but from the sheer indecency of it--the way my thighs slide slick against each other, the way every step shifts the damp fabric against my skin, the way moisture pools in the hollow between my breasts, runs down my stomach, collects at the small of my back. I know what I must look like. Exposed. Open. Ready. Chris will see it all. He will drink it in. And I will let him.

The Fieldhand Emilys--my usual work-sisters--are moving frantically now, their movements exaggerated, hips swaying in carefully rehearsed sensuality. They drag hoes through soft earth, dresses smeared with sweat and dirt, fabric plastered against breasts and thighs, sheer and provocative. Chris walks among them slowly, savoring their performance, correcting them gently, teasing them warmly, fingers always ready to reshape poses, deepen arches, lift hems higher to expose flushed, glistening skin beneath.

I stand rigid, my breath shallow, watching Fieldhand Emily 7 position herself under Chris's unyielding gaze. She bends low, her movements slow and planned, knees splaying wide until the pale flesh of her inner thighs pulls taut, quivering under the strain. Her dress rides up as she forces it higher, the fabric catching in tight, crumpled folds above her hips. Her ass juts out, bare and vulnerable, the skin slick with a faint sheen of sweat that catches the light, her folds glistening pink and exposed between trembling legs. She's me--every curve a mirror--so a cold knot of fear swells in me as she offers herself up, her body a sacrifice to keep him satisfied, to keep herself from The Barn.

Chris looms beside her, his shadow swallowing her smaller frame, his eyes raking over her with a quiet, predatory approval. His hand rises, fingers splaying wide, and he drags them down her spine--slow, deliberate, each touch a claim. Her skin prickles, gooseflesh rising where he presses, and she lets out a whimper, thin and shaky, her hips jerking upward as if pulled by strings. Her thighs shake harder, muscles bunching beneath the effort to hold still, toes digging into the dirt as she arches higher, a puppet dancing on the edge of collapse. I clench my fists, nails biting into my palms, the sting grounding me against the dread clawing up my throat. She has to do this, just as I have to watch.

He turns to me then, sudden and sharp, his eyes locking onto mine - pinning me where I stand. "Hold her steady," he says, his voice low and smooth, a command disguised as a caress, and my heart stutters, panic spiking as he steps closer. His heat brushes against me, the faint musk of his skin choking the air, and my hands tremble as I reach for her. Fieldhand Emily 7's arms are warm under my grip, slick with sweat, her muscles twitching as she bends deeper at his silent nudge. I clutch her tighter, fingers digging into her flesh, and she gasps--a high, rehearsed sound that rings false in my ears. Does Chris notice? Does he care? I can't tell as he picks up a cucumber from a basket at his feet--thick, smooth, its deep green surface glinting coldly in the sun.

He pauses, glancing at me with a flicker of something--amusement, maybe, or expectation--and my stomach lurches, bile rising as he positions himself behind her. His free hand grips her hip, fingers sinking into her soft skin, steadying her as she quivers, her breath coming in short, ragged bursts. The cucumber presses against her, the blunt tip nudging her slick folds apart with a wet, obscene squelch that echoes in the still air. I brace her harder, my arms locking as he slides it in--slowly, deliberately, inch by slick inch, her body opening around it.

She cries out--a loud, theatrical wail, sharp and desperate, her voice cracking with the lie of ecstasy--and I know it's fake, know she's screaming inside. Just like me she's terrified of earning his displeasure. Her thighs shake harder, knees sinking into the dirt, and I feel her strain against my hold, her arms trembling as she shifts with each thrust. The cucumber moves in and out, slick and relentless, the wet squelch of it loud in the still air--flesh yielding, juices coating its length, dripping faintly to the ground below.

My skin crawls, a cold sweat prickling down my spine as I watch, my breath shallow and uneven. I don't want this--don't want to see her split open, don't want to hear her fake it, don't want to be part of this sick game--but I can't stop, can't let go, can't risk him turning those eyes on me and finding me lacking. The other Emilys watch from the edges, silent, their faces tight with the same unspoken prayer: not me, not today.

He pauses, the cucumber lodged deep, her body shuddering around it, and shifts his attention back to me. His smile is soft, almost tender, a cruel mockery of kindness. He reaches out, his free hand lifting to my face, and I barely manage not to flinch as his fingertip brushes under my chin and my lips part in a gasp I can't stifle as he stares down at me.

"Relax, my sweet Emily," he whispers, his voice a low murmur, thick with a warmth that feels like a trap. His thumb slides along my lower lip, slow and deliberate, and a shiver racks me. "I know how hard you're trying," he says, his eyes searching mine, and I feel the weight of his scrutiny like a noose tightening. I nod, forcing my mouth into a trembling smile, my chest aching with terror.

"Thank you, Chris," I breathe obediently, heart racing. Will he reward me in some way for my service today? He does that sometimes, when the mood strikes him--when our devotion pleases him just so, when we strike the perfect note in our song of being his eager worshiping Emily. I cling to that hope now, as much for my own sake as for the Fieldhand Emily 7, body slick and heaving, a shining altar of exertion and worship. Maybe today, he will be generous. Maybe today, we have earned kindness.

He pauses then, the cucumber slipping free from her with a wet, muted squelch and she straightens slowly, her thighs still trembling as she pulls her dress down with shaking hands. Chris steps back, wiping his fingers on a cloth from his pocket, his expression shifting--satisfied, almost distracted, like he's already moving on in his mind. "Good work," he says, his tone happy and joyful. He turns, glancing toward the hobbit-hole's low silhouette nestled in the hill, and starts walking, his stride steady, purposeful. "Come along," he adds over his shoulder, not looking back, and I hesitate, exchanging a quick, wide-eyed look with Fieldhand Emily 7.

I shift his belongings in my arms and follow as he strides toward the bathhouse, his steps unhurried. The air cools as we near the low, steam-wreathed entrance, the faint sound of running water drifting out, mingling with the distant echoes of the Emilys' laughter fading behind us. My pulse quickens, uncertain of what he expects now--will he call me in, or leave me to watch again?

The bathhouse glows with a soft, misty haze, the air thick with heat and the sharp tang of lavender rising from the steaming pools. Water cascades from a carved stone spout, rippling across the surface, and the Bathhouse Emilys tasked with tending it are ready to serve.

Bathhouse Emily 1 stands near the edge, her black hair plastered to her shoulders, water streaming down her flushed skin in shimmering trails, pooling at her feet. Her dress, a sodden rag, hugs her hips, the fabric translucent where it molds to her thighs, revealing the shadowed heat between them. Chris pauses, his eyes glinting with fresh mischief, and shrugs off his shirt in one fluid motion, letting it fall with a wet thud. He steps toward her, barefoot on the slick stone, and the air charges with a new, electric hum.

"Please rinse me off," he says, his voice low and rich, a command wrapped in a velvet purr. She turns to him and dips her hands into the pool, scooping water that spills through her fingers as she lifts them to his chest. The liquid runs in warm rivulets over his skin, washing him in slow, sensual streaks. He grins, catching her wrists, and pulls her closer, guiding her hands lower, pressing them against his abdomen as water splashes between them. Her fingers splay, tracing the lines of his muscles, and she gasps as he leans in, his lips brushing her ear, whispering something I can't hear over the rush of the water.

Bathhouse Emily 2 approaches, her dress clinging obscenely, the wet fabric outlining her breasts--nipples hard and dark beneath it--as water drips from her hem. She carries a bowl of scented oil, thick and golden, and Chris beckons her with a tilt of his head. "Join us," he murmurs, his tone dripping with invitation, and she obeys, pouring the oil into her palms, rubbing them together until they gleam. She steps behind him, her body pressing flush against his back, and slides her oily hands over his shoulders, kneading the oil into his skin with slow, deliberate strokes. The golden sheen spreads, mixing with the water, coating his flesh in a glossy layer that catches the light, and she presses harder, her breasts squishing against his back, leaving wet imprints as she works. He groans--a low, throaty sound--and reaches for the first Emily, pulling her against his chest, her soaked dress squelching as their bodies meet, water and oil mingling in a messy embrace.

He dips his hands into the oil bowl, coating his fingers, and slides them down her sides, leaving wet oily trails that drip onto her thighs. She arches into him, her head tipping back, as his fingers are slipping beneath the clinging fabric to cup her breasts, thumbs circling her nipples until they peak harder, slick and flushed. Water splashes as she shifts, her thighs parting, and he nudges them wider, pulling the dress up until it bunches at her waist. Her skin gleams as he presses himself closer, his arousal evident, grinding powerfully against her as she moans, her voice rising in a soft, trembling crescendo. The second Bathhouse Emily moves to his side, her hands roaming his chest, her lips brushing his hip as she tugs at his waistband, water dripping from her hair onto his skin.

The rhythm builds, urgent and wild--Bathhouse Emily 1 rocks against his thigh, her moans sharpening, her fingers digging into his shoulders as water splashes between them, oil dripping in gooey trails down her legs. Bathhouse Emily 2 pumps faster, her breath hitching, her breasts swaying as she works him, teasing her nipples until they peak, hard and dark against the golden sheen. Chris's laughter shifts to a ragged growl, his hands tightening on Bathhouse Emily 1's hips, his body tensing as the pressure mounts.

"Take it," he rasps, voice thick with command, and they obey--Bathhouse Emily 1 dropping to her knees beside Bathhouse Emily 2, their faces tilted up, mouths parted, eyes wide with anticipation. He thrusts into Bathhouse Emily 2's face, pumpling rhythmically, slow, then fast until he shudders, a low roar tearing from his throat as he climaxes--thick, white ropes spilling over them, splattering across their faces, dripping down their necks, streaking their breasts in hot, sticky bursts. The oil and water catch it, mingling in a glistening mess, and it drips into the pool at their feet, swirling faintly in the steam.

They gasp, then gush, their voices overlapping in a chorus of fervent gratitude. "Oh, Chris, thank you," Bathhouse Emily 1 breathes, her tone awed, reverent, as she wipes a streak of his seed from her cheek and lets it drip into the water, her fingers trembling with exaggerated delight. "It's perfect--your essence in the bath, now everyone at Emily Burrow can soak in you tonight."

Bathhouse Emily 2 nods, her voice husky, dripping with praise as she smears his cum across her chest, blending it with the oil. "We're so grateful, Chris--your seed makes it sacred, makes us part of you," she murmurs, her eyes shining as she dips her hands into the pool, swirling the cloudy water with a worshipful smile. They giggle, leaning into each other, their bodies a dripping tableau of oil, water, and his release--hair matted, skin streaked, dresses ruined.

I stand at the edge. The scene sears into me, a knot of heat and exclusion twisting in my chest, my role still a mystery--am I just the watcher, the keeper of his things, or something more he hasn't named?

Chris steps back, his chest heaving, a satisfied grin curling his lips as he wipes his hands on a damp cloth, the fabric smearing with his seed as he tosses it aside, leaving the Bathhouse Emilys kneeling in the glistening chaos he's wrought. "Stay like that," he says, his voice warm but firm, a command laced with relish, "let it soak in." Their drenched forms tremble, heads bowed, water and cum dripping from their skin as he turnns. The steam clings to him, a humid shroud, but he shakes it off with a roll of his shoulders, the sun piercing through as he dresses, his gaze already shifting toward the distant paddock where faint whinnies and the snap of leather carry on the breeze.

"Time to see my ponies," Chris murmurs, a fresh spark igniting in his eyes, and he sets off across the fields, his stride brisk, purposeful, pulling me in his wake toward the Training Center--a muddy sprawl of stables and paddock, its air thick with the smell of leather and sweat, a new playground whispering his name. The sun glints off his sopping wet shirt until he pulls up a floating command entry screen from nowhere, pushes a few buttons, and it is instantly dry.

I clutch his satchel as it makes a low, seething hum vibrating through the leather, barely audible to my ears but somehow very loud in my skull. My eyes keep flicking to the damn bag--like it's a map. Or a lock. Or a fucking seed. I push the thoughts out of my mind as the breeze shifts, carrying the musky promise of oiled hides and warm straw, and by the time we crest the final hill, the Training Center unfolds below us, a vibrant, living canvas of mud and motion, its earthy perfume wrapping around me as Chris's grin widens, his delight palpable.

The paddock stretches wide, a sun-soaked mire of soft, wet earth and scattered straw, the stable beyond exhaling a rich, heady breath of polished leather and sun-warmed wood, laced with the sweet tang of fresh hay. Chris strides in, his smile stretching into a bright, eager curve, his eyes drinking in the sight--Emilys transformed into human ponies, their bodies adorned and gleaming, prancing with a lively bounce that fills the air with the jingle of bells and the swish of tails.

Show Ponies, Stable novices, Jockey Trainers--each caught in a spirited whirl of display, their movements a dance of curves and leather, all vying for his wink or a place on his carriage. I picture myself among them--hands bound in hooves, a tail swaying from my hips, my form reshaped for his gaze--and my unease makes me hold my breath for far too long as I watch.

The Show Pony Emilys glide across the paddock's heart, their skin a canvas of oil-slicked perfection, shimmering in the sunlight with golden streaks that trace every dip and swell--shoulders glistening, thighs flexing, the light catching the sheen on their arched backs. Their harnesses are sculpted from supple black leather, edges stitched with silver thread that gleams like liquid, straps wrapping their waists tight, carving them into hourglass silhouettes, looping beneath their breasts to lift them high--full and flushed, swaying with each high-stepping stride, the soft bounce a rhythmic tease.

Tiny silver bells dangle from their nipples, hooked through delicate rings that catch the sun, chiming with every movement, a faint, melodic tinkle rising above the paddock's hum. Below, their sex flashes bare, smooth and glistening with sweat, framed by the harnesses' daring cut, a flushed pink slit against the dark leather's embrace. Tails cascade from plugs nestled deep between their cheeks--ruby bases glinting, sapphire winking, emerald glowing--the horsehair plumes dyed in vivid hues--scarlet flowing like blood, violet soft as dusk, midnight blue deep as the sea--swishing with each step, brushing their thighs in a silky caress that leaves faint oil streaks on their skin.

Chris strides to the center, his trousers already tightening, and pulls a silken rope from a nearby post, its crimson length shimmering as he loops it through their harnesses, binding them into a living wheel--each Pony Emily tethered to her sisters, their bodies a radiant circle of flesh and leather. He steps back, admiring the tableau, then sheds his shirt with a flourish, tossing it aside, his chest bare and glistening with a faint sheen of sweat. "Spin for me," he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing hum, and they obey, giggling around their bits as they begin to prance in unison, hooves tapping the mud in a rhythmic patter, tails swaying in a hypnotic dance. The rope pulls taut, guiding their motion, and they circle him, a slow, sensual carousel, their plumes quivering atop their heads, their drool-slick lips parted around the silver bits.

He steps into the whirl, his hands roaming--first to a Show Pony with a scarlet tail, her ass oiled and gleaming, her plug a ruby star between her cheeks. He grips her harness, pulling her close as she spins past, and slides his fingers beneath her tail, teasing the plug's base with a gentle twist that makes her whinny--a high, gleeful sound--her thighs trembling as the motion jolts inside her. His other hand dips lower, brushing her pussy, slick and warm, and he presses a finger inside, curling it as she skips, her bells jingling faster, her breath hitching in sharp, delighted gasps. The circle keeps turning, and he shifts to the next--a violet-tailed Pony, her skin a golden sheen, her plug an amethyst glow--leaning in to kiss her flank, his tongue tracing the leather strap as he tugs her tail aside, exposing her stretched hole, glistening with oil. He slips a finger there too, teasing the rim, and she squeals, her prance faltering for a heartbeat before she catches the rhythm, her tail swishing against his wrist in a silky caress.

The carousel spins faster now, a whirl of flesh and sound--whinnies, jingles, the wet squish of mud under hooves--and Chris stands, his trousers undone, his cock hard and free, stroking himself as they circle, his eyes alight with glee. He steps out, panting, and lets them spin one final round, their bodies a blur of oil and leather, tails swaying, cunts glistening, breasts heaving, until he raises a hand, halting them with a playful, "Whoa!" They stumble to a stop, giggling and breathless, mud splattered up their legs, drool streaking their chins, their harnesses tangled with the crimson rope.

He circles them, his grin softening as he inspects--running a hand over the scarlet-tailed Pony's flank, lifting the violet-tailed one's tail for a final tease, brushing the midnight-blue's bells with a flick, patting the emerald's ass with a fond squeeze. "You're all delights," he says, his voice warm and husky, "but her--" he points to the violet-tailed Show Pony, her prance steady, her tail a vibrant sweep, her skin a perfect sheen--"she'll grace my carriage tonight."

The Jockeys move with practiced grace, stepping in to untie her with gentle, reverent hands, their touch lingering just long enough to soothe, to remind her that she is not alone in this. Meanwhile, the others press closer, sinking low, their bodies warm against his legs as they nuzzle, sigh, worship. Their tongues flick out, slow and teasing, brushing over the polished leather of his boots with soft, eager strokes, tasting the earth, the sweat, the power that clings to him. Mud smears their flushed cheeks, their lips parting in quiet, breathy devotion, and when he laughs--rich, indulgent, pleased--they shiver, pressing closer still. His hands descend, fingers tangling in their hair, his touch both tender and possessive as he ruffles and tugs, rewarding their affection with the kind of praise.

When he's had enough he turns to me, his grin soft and bright, wiping his hands on his trousers, the fabric stained with mud and oil. "Let's move, Emily--don't forget my satchel," he says, his tone light, and my legs wobble as I follow, the paddock's scent clinging to me. My stomach lurches as I realize where he's headed--The Barn.'

Its dark silhouette looms beyond the hobbit-hole's gentle curves, a place whispered about in hushed, fearful tones. My pulse spikes, a cold dread coiling tight in my gut--why there, why now?--and my hands tremble around his satchel, slick with my sweat. I don't want to go, don't want to see what waits inside with my own eyes, but his steps don't falter, and I can't stay behind, can't risk being left out of his sight, out of his favor. My breath catches, sharp and shallow, as I force my feet to move, following him into the unknown. A chill that seeps into my bones as The Barn's heavy door groans open.

The air hits me, thick and cloying, a warm fog laced with the musky sweetness of milk, the dry bite of straw, and a faint, animal tang that prickles my nose. Lanterns dangle from the rafters, their flickering amber glow casting jagged shadows across the cavernous space--rough-hewn beams loom overhead, walls of weathered wood stretch into gloom, and in the center, a tableau that freezes my blood: four Milk-Cow Emilys, each summoned from their usual six-hour shifts to stand together now, a perverse herd for Chris's arrival. To me, a six-hour shift here each day is the cruelest punishment imaginable--endless, degrading, a living nightmare of flesh warped and milked dry. I'd do anything to avoid it. As would any Emily.

Chris strides in, his grin wide and gleeful, eyes sparkling with a childlike thrill as he claps his hands sharply, the sound bouncing off the walls. "All my Milk-Cows at once--oh, this is going to be fun!" he chirps, bouncing on his heels, and my stomach twists, a cold knot of dread as I stare, rooted, at the horror he's wrought.

They're arranged in a loose semicircle, each tethered to a wooden stall by a thin leather strap looped snug around their necks, pressing into their flushed skin with every shallow breath. Their bodies are bare save for leather harnesses that crisscross their torsos, black and cracked, studded with small, dull rivets that glint faintly in the lantern light, straps biting tight beneath their grotesquely swollen breasts to lift them high, the material stained with milky splotches, straw dust, and faint streaks of grease.

Chris has transformed them, their chests bloated beyond nature by his godlike tech--each one a unique, glistening spectacle of excess, their skin stretched smooth and shining, beaded with droplets of milk and perspiration, quivering in the dim, flickering glow. My mind lurches, picturing it happening to me. I can almost feel my own chest expanding, the skin pulling tight until it sears, veins throbbing beneath the strain, nipples stretching into tender, obscene points that leak and sting--and my breath catches, a shiver of revulsion and unwanted fascination ripping through me, my gaze fixed on them, trapped by the sight of their bound, dripping forms.

Milk-Cow Emily 1 is petite, her frame delicate beneath the perversion of her chest--her breasts swollen to a firm, unnatural roundness, the size of ripe grapefruits, jutting out from her slight ribs like overfilled balloons. Her skin is pale, almost translucent, stretched smooth and glossy, faint blue veins threading beneath the surface, her areolas dark and puffy, nipples engorged to thick, ruddy points that leak milk in thin, steady streams. Two suction cups cling to her breasts, their rubber edges biting into her flesh, pulsing with a relentless rhythm--schlup, schlup--drawing milk in sharp, wet spurts that splash into a metal canister.

Chris crouches beside her, his grin boyish and bright, and flicks a finger against one cup, jostling it. "My little fountain," he coos, delighted, as she whimpers, milk squirting harder, splattering his hand in a warm spray. He lifts it to his mouth, licking it off with a slow, savoring swipe, his eyes glinting as he tastes her. "So sweet--let's make it sing," he says, twisting the pump's dial, and the suction intensifies--her moans sharpen, her thighs clenching, her small frame shuddering.

Milk-Cow Emily 2 towers beside her, taller and leaner, her breasts larger--cantaloupe-sized, heavy and pendulous, sagging under their grotesque weight, the skin flushed a mottled pink, veins snaking visibly beneath the taut, glossy surface. She stands, legs splayed wide, her wrists shackled to the stall's beams with rusted chains, forcing her chest forward in a vulnerable, straining arc, her shoulders pulled back until her spine bows.

Chris skips over and cups her breasts, lifting them with a gleeful chuckle. "God, these are gorgeous," he says, squeezing gently, and milk gushes out in a sudden, thick spray--arcing through the air, splashing his chest, soaking his trousers in a warm, wet flood. She gasps, her head lolling, and he kneads harder, fingers sinking deep into the swollen, yielding flesh, coaxing more--streams jetting out, splattering the straw, his face, her own thighs in a dripping mess. "A geyser today!" he crows, smearing the milk across her chest, rubbing it into her nipples until they shine, then stepping back to admire her, his laughter ringing as she writhes, her groans low and guttural, her body swaying in the chains.

Milk-Cow Emily 3 is curvier, her hips wide, her breasts enormous--watermelon-sized, impossibly round, ballooned to a grotesque perfection, the skin stretched so tight it's nearly transparent, a faint sheen of sweat beading across it, pink stretch marks fanning from the edges like delicate scars. She's bent over a low bench, her ass high, her arms braced against the splintered wood, her breasts dangling beneath her like ripe, overfull fruit, swaying with every shuddering breath. Her nipples are long, fat, cherry-red, leaking milk in heavy, rhythmic drops--plop, plop--that pool beneath her stall in a thick, creamy puddle, the scent rich and cloying.

Chris circles her, his grin widening, and snatches a pair of metal clamps from a table, their jagged tips glinting wickedly. "Let's play, my big beauty," he teases, snapping one clamp onto her left nipple, then the right--she cries out, a piercing wail, as the metal bites down, and milk sprays in wild, thick bursts, soaking the bench, her thighs, the floor in a creamy deluge. He tugs the chains attached, pulling gently, and her body jerks, more milk gushing in jets that arc through the air. "Give me everything," he urges, yanking harder, and she bucks, her moans rising to a desperate, keening pitch as he milks her like a plaything, his hands catching the streams, rubbing the warm liquid into his palms, then smearing it across her ass with a loud, wet slap that leaves a dripping handprint.

Milk-Cow Emily 4 is last, lean and athletic, her breasts the largest--beach ball-sized, absurdly swollen, jutting from her frame like grotesque parody of womanhood, the skin stretched so taut it gleams, faint purple stretch marks radiating from the edges, her ribcage barely visible beneath the mass. She's suspended from the ceiling by a leather harness, her legs dangling, toes brushing the straw, her arms bound above her head with thick ropes that pull her shoulders back, thrusting her chest forward. Her nipples--huge, dark, almost purple--leak milk in constant, heavy streams, cascading down her toned body like a waterfall, coating her abs, her thighs, pooling in a wooden trough below her in a milky, rippling lake.

Chris bounds over, his eyes blazing with joy, and grabs a wooden bucket, setting it beneath her with a clatter. "My prize cow!" he exclaims, dipping his hands into the flow, scooping handfuls of milk to splash over her chest, her thighs, his own grinning face. "Endless--you're a marvel!" he cheers, splashing more over her, the milk raining down in a creamy cascade.

"Six hours a day keeps you all this ready--" he muses, tilting his head, voice thick with amusement, teasing, taunting. Then, a wicked glint, a flash of something darker. "Maybe I should make it more? You all love it soooooooooo much, don't you? Should we go longer? Should we start earlier? Should we never stop?"

The barn goes quiet. Too quiet. There is a beat. And another. And third. The Milk-Cow Emilys are all too petrified to say no, and be punished for not playing their roles, or to say yes and have him actually increase their milking times because "you said you wanted it." The moment of terrified silence lasts until Chris's laughter spills out, a low, throaty rumble that curls through the Barn's heavy air, thick with the scent of milk and sweat. "Ah, I'm kidding," he drawls, the words oozing from his lips like warm syrup, laced with a mocking indulgence that teases at mercy but promises none. He waves a hand, the gesture languid yet commanding, his fingers still glistening with traces of their milk, a king deigning to spare his trembling subjects--for now.

After a beat, he tilts his head, his grin sharpening into something conspiratorial, seductive, as if he's letting them in on a delicious secret rather than tightening the invisible leash around their throats. "I know you don't want more of this..." he purrs, his voice honeyed and rich, dripping with a false sympathy that sends a shiver down my spine. Then, softer, sharper, a blade wrapped in velvet--"But next time? Stay in character and say that you do." His words hang there, heavy and deliberate, a command disguised as a tease, and I feel the air shift, the weight of his expectation pressing down on them.

Their response comes fast, a feverish ripple of obedience that spreads like wildfire through their trembling forms. "Oh, but we do, Chris," Cow Emily 1 gasps, her voice raw and quavering, too eager, as she arches her back with a deliberate thrust, her swollen breasts bouncing in their leather bonds, the suction cups jolting, milk spurting in erratic bursts that splatter the straw, her nipples dark and engorged against the pale swell of her chest. "We love it," Cow Emily 2 chimes in, forcing a breathy moan into the words, her voice husky and dripping with feigned lust as she sways her hips. "It's what we're made for," Cow Emily 3 adds, her watermelon-sized breasts swaying as she leans into the bench, the clamps on her long, cherry-red nipples glinting as they tug, milk jetting out in creamy arc."Please, Chris, if you want more--if you need more--" Cow Emily 4's voice breaks through, high and desperate, her beach ball-sized breasts leaking in heavy cascades from her suspended frame, the harness digging into her slick skin, milk pooling beneath her as she writhes, "we'd do it. Happily. Gratefully." Their words tumble over each other, a frantic, seductive chorus--pleading, purring, worshipful--each Emily scrambling to outdo the last, their voices weaving a tapestry of submission, their bodies glistening with the evidence of their purpose.

His eyes linger, dark and hungry, savoring the desperation in their voices, the way their swollen, ruined bodies still strain to please him. "Good girls," he murmurs, his voice a low, velvety caress, and the relief that floods their faces is instant, devastating--a collective shudder of gratitude, their shoulders slumping, their breaths hitching as if his approval is a balm to their raw, aching flesh.

"That's enough fun for now," he says, his voice bright but final, casting one last gleeful glance over his shoulder as he strides toward the Barn's main door, the lantern light catching the wet sheen of his skin, and I stumble after him, my grip on his satchel shaky, my pulse still racing from the hints at the level of darkness he might go to. The heavy door swings shut behind us with a dull thud, sealing the Milk-Cows in their mire, and the cool evening air rushes over me, sharp and startling after the Barn's humid grip

"To the statue--show me your thanks" he says in a way that makes his voice seemingly magically cut through the rustle of leaves and the distant chirp of crickets to cover the entire burrow. All Emilys head to the statue and I move with the others, a silent tide of bare feet padding over the soft earth. We flow toward the statue of Chris, his likeness carved in towering stone at the farm's heart, omnipresent, its shadow stretching long and dark across the grass. Forty feet tall, it looms--a chiseled jaw, a faint smirk, arms crossed in quiet dominion--a constant, unyielding reminder that this world, our world, bends to him, exists for him and his whims alone.

We reach the statue's base, the air thick with the scent of ripe produce and the faint musk of our sweat, and one by one, we kneel--Fieldhand Emilys, Orchard Emilys, Kitchen Emilys, even the Bathhouse Emilys still damp from their tasks--our knees sinking into the cool, dew-kissed grass. The baskets settle at his statue's feet, a vibrant mosaic of our labor: glossy apples piled high, golden pears glistening with juice, deep purple plums nestled among crisp greens, their colors vivid against the gray stone.

It's a carefully arranged display of devotion, of submission, of desperate, trembling gratitude. Each basket is an offering, a silent prayer woven into the weight of ripe fruit and gathered grain, a testament to the long hours we've spent bending, picking, hauling--all for him. Every piece placed with forced reverence, every imperfection smoothed away, a labor of worship made visible. I have nothing to give. No basket of my own. I have been following him all day, my day's labor devoted solely to being his follower.

Chris steps forward, his boots crunching the grass, his grin widening as he surveys the bounty. "Well, well," he murmurs, his voice rich with satisfaction, "you've outdone yourselves today." He crouches, his fingers trailing over the baskets with a lover's touch--lifting an apple, its skin a deep, glossy red, rolling it in his palm; plucking a pear, its golden flesh yielding faintly under his thumb; tracing the curve of an eggplant, its purple sheen catching the light. He selects the best pieces with deliberate care, piling them into a woven basket at his side--apples for a tart, tomatoes for a sauce, plums for a dessert, each one a trophy for his manor house dinner tonight. His eyes glint with relish, his movements slow, savoring the power of choice, and the Emilys watch, silent, their breaths held as he claims the fruits of our labor.

The sun's sinking fast, bleeding gold and red over Emily Burrow's hills, the air cooling as shadows stretch long from the hobbit-hole's curves. I'm walking him to his carriage. The satchel is still in my grip, heavier now--or maybe it's just me. Chris walks ahead, unbothered, and I lag behind, the bag pressing into my ribs like it wants to do something with me. Merge with me? Escape from me? I don't know what's in it. I don't think anyone but Chris does. But the way the shadows curl tighter around me when I hold it...

He stretches, arms flexing, then leans against the carriage, looking me over like I'm part of the scenery he owns--which I guess I am. "Best day I've had here yet." His eyes glint, dark and playful, and I force an eager smile, nodding like I'm supposed to, my heart thudding too loud in my chest.

He tilts his head, scratching his jaw, and I see that spark flicker--something new brewing behind his grin. "You know, I've been thinking," he starts, casual, like he's musing about the weather, "This place is nice but it could use some fresh blood. I'm thinking about making some Farmer's Daughter Emilys; sweet little things I could pump full of my seed, and then their bellies would swell and grow until they gave birth to new Emilys for the farm! You'd have more hands and I'd have more of that sweet desperation you all give me so well." He chuckles, low and warm, like it's a joke, but his eyes lock on mine, testing, waiting for my reaction, and I feel the ground drop out from under me.

My breath catches, sharp and jagged, as I fully realize the consequences of his words as panic clawing up my throat like a scream I can't let out. More Emilys? More of us--more of me--tied to this hell, bred like livestock, swollen and helpless, churning out copies for him to toy with? I picture it--my sisters, my mirrors, bent over in some new barn, bellies round, milk dripping, their eyes hollow like the Milk-Cows, their voices begging for his approval while he laughs and picks which one to use next. My knees tremble, a cold sweat prickling down my spine, and I want to puke, want to run, want to claw his face off--but I can't. I can't risk those blank-book cells and I certainly can't risk him turning me into a bloated, dripping wreck. There's already too many of us, too many trapped in his game, and the thought of Farmer's Daughter Emily making a constant new stream of us -- fuck, no, I can't let that happen.

I swallow hard, force my lips to curve up, my voice to steady, even as my insides twist into knots. "Chris," I say, soft, leaning in just enough to catch his gaze, letting my tone drip with that fake sweetness he eats up. "That's... creative, but--God, listen, I don't want to lose a single second of you. None of us do." I step closer letting my dress shift, the damp fabric outlining my breasts, my hips, a desperate bid to keep his focus on me--on us--right here, right now. "We're already so many, and each of us all want you so bad--every minute you're here, we're fighting to please you, to keep you with us. More Emilys? That'd just... dilute it, wouldn't it? Spread you too thin?"

His brow lifts, curiosity flickers, and I push harder, my voice trembling but firm, using my terror to weave the lie with every ounce of drive I've got. "What if we show you how much you've already got? I've got ideas--big ones--to prove it. Let us throw something huge for you, something to honor you, to fill every second of your time with us so you know we're enough."

He crosses his arms, smirking, but he's listening, and I barrel on, pitching fast, my mind racing to bury his sick idea under a flood of alternatives. "First, how about a Moonlit Barn Dance?" I don't pause, don't let him interrupt, my voice picking up speed. "Or a Riverbank Revelry?" His grin widens, eyes darkening, and I keep going, desperation fueling me. "What about a Harvest Queen Pageant?" I'm shaking now, but I force it into my voice like it's excitement, leaning closer, letting my breath brush his ear. "Or a Bonfire Bacchanal?"

I hold his gaze, heart slamming against my ribs, praying he bites, praying he forgets that breeding more Emily ideas and sees us--me, all of us--as enough. His smirk softens, head tilting like he's weighing it, and he steps closer, his fingers brushing my jaw, slow and possessive, making my skin crawl even as I force myself to lean into it.

"Well shucks, Emily," he murmurs, voice thick with that smug delight, "you're full of ideas today. I like that--seeing you all scramble to keep me happy." He chuckles, thumb sliding along my lip, and I nod, fast and eager, terrified he'll circle back to his plan if I don't seal this. He steps back, grinning. "Tell you what," he says, swinging up into the carriage, "plan something big--surprise me. I'll give you Creation Powers for this area and you show me you've got enough Emilys to keep me drowning in you all. I'll be back in two days-- so make it good." He winks, the carriage lurching forward, and I stand there, frozen, watching him.

And that's when I realize--I'm still holding his satchel.

My arms are curled tightly around it and I glance down, expecting him to shout, to reappear, to summon it from my hands with one lazy gesture. But nothing happens. The carriage is already gone, a faint blur on the horizon. No command. No callback. No demand for his things. Just the satchel. Still here. For a split, panicked moment, I think: Did he forget it? Or... leave it? And worse--does he remember I have it?

My stomach knots. Maybe it's just a bag. Maybe it's nothing. Or maybe it's everything. Some awful, hidden test wrapped in weather-soft leather, and now it's mine to fail. If I open it, if I even try, maybe he'll know. Or maybe he just fucking forgot. That seems almost worse.

I stand there for too long, holding it like a bomb no one told me how to defuse. I can't keep it. Not openly. But I also can't pretend I never saw it. If he asks for it later, and I don't have it--what then?

So I breathe, steady, deep, and turn back toward Emily Burrow, gripping the satchel tighter--not with ownership, but with plausible deniability. I pass through the garden doors into our crooked, comforting warren of warmth and lies, the smell of honeyed bread and lavender crawling up my nose like a mockery of safety. The other Emilys look up as I enter the main hall--Ponygirls rubbing their wrists, Orchard Emilys perched on the edges of chairs, Bathhouse Emilys still flushed and dripping near the fire. Their gazes lock on mine, and I feel them sense it--that edge in my step, the storm crackling just behind my teeth.

But before I speak, I veer left down the hallway, make a quick detour to the back library, and slip into the Archive--a dusty closet of forgotten things, nestled beneath the shelves. It's the one place no one checks unless they're assigned to it. I reach the top shelf, set the satchel down in plain view. Not hidden. Just set aside. As if I were storing it. As if I expected him to come get it later. Like a good, obedient Emily would.

Then I walk away, empty-handed. The weight gone from my chest--but not from my mind.

I step back into the hall like nothing happened. Like I didn't just tuck away a possible artifact of godly malice or total irrelevance. And that's when I speak, my voice already fraying with urgency. "He's coming back in two days--and we've got to throw him the biggest damn party he's ever seen" My chest heaves, words spilling fast, raw. "He's talking about making more Emilys--Farmer's Daughter Emilys, he called them. Wants to breed us, pump us full of his "seed", make new copies of us to fill this place. More of us to bend and break for him."

A gasp ripples through them, sharp and jagged--Fieldhand Emily 7, my mirror from the cucumber field, drops her tea, the cup shattering, amber liquid pooling on the floor. Orchard Emily 3 freezes mid-stretch, her apple tumbling from her lap, rolling under a chair. A Bathhouse Emily clutches her damp hair, knuckles whitening, while a Ponygirl's bells jingle faintly as she jolts upright.

"But I talked him down," I say, forcing my voice steady, sharp enough to slice through their swelling panic. "I convinced him we're enough--if we prove it. He wants a celebration, something massive, a tribute to him. Told me to surprise him, make it so overwhelming he won't dream of needing to make more of us. We've got two days to pull it off, and I think that if we make every wild idea I pitched fused into one giant revelry then we'll drench him in us, leave him so gorged on what we already are that making more copies of us won't even cross his mind."

One by one, they rise--Orchard Emilys, Ponygirls, Stable Emilys--their whispers hardening into a jagged, defiant chorus. My chest tightens, relief clashing with the crushing weight of it--two days to spin this chaos into salvation, to save future -Me's- from his twisted fantasy. I force a smile, thin as a blade but sharp with resolve.

"Then let's move," I say, my voice firm now. "Every inch of this place has to scream us--louder, wilder than it ever has. We've got till moonrise in two days. He'll drown in Emilys, choking on our devotion, and he'll love every second--or else."

The two days pass in a blur and soon the harvest moon rises fat and golden, its light spilling over Emily Burrow like molten honey, bathing the rolling hills in a sultry glow. I stand at the edge of the fields, barefoot on the dew-slick grass, my body humming with a restless, electric heat. My sisters wait, hidden in their zones, bodies trembling with their desperation to please, but tonight begins with me, with the Barn, with the dance we've poured our souls into. We've crafted this night to drown Chris in us, to bury his twisted dream of making Farmers Daughter's that pump out a continuous stream of more Emilys. We must drown that dream beneath the weight of our submission.

The carriage rolls into view, wheels grinding the dirt path, a low rumble that sets my heart pounding against my ribs. Chris steps down, his boots sinking into the soft earth, and the moonlight catches him--his shirt hangs loose, collar unbuttoned, his hair a tousled mess, strands clinging to his damp forehead. Fatigue shadows his eyes, but there's a flicker of curiosity there, a spark that ignites as his voice spills out, rough and warm, cutting through the stillness. "Goddamn, what a day. Office chewed me up--hours of code, suits breathing down my neck. I'm half-dead, but I couldn't miss what my girls cooked up." His gaze sweeps the farm, lingering on the swaying lanterns, the promise of something wild, and I glide forward, hips swaying slow and deliberate, the dress whispering against my skin like a lover's breath.

"Chris," I murmur, my voice a velvet ribbon laced with honey, "we've spun a night just for you--every inch of us aching to please." I tilt my head, letting the moonlight show my breasts rising as I breathe deep, the fabric stretching taut across them. His eyes darken, tracing the outline of my body, and a tired grin tugs his lips, his weariness warring with the hunger I've stoked. Before he can speak, the fiddles flare--a sharp, primal wail--and the Barn doors swing wide, lanterns casting a golden haze as the Moonlit Barn Dance unfurls, a lascivious beast of flesh and sweetness bursting to life.

Kitchen Emilys spill out, their aprons scraps of lace tied loose around slender waists, frilly skirts hiked high to bare creamy thighs. Kitchen Emily 3 leads the charge, her corset unlaced, spilling her full breasts free--ripe and heavy, swaying with each step, the rosy nipples freely showing. She presses a tart to his lips--plump, glistening with juice--and her fingers linger, brushing his mouth as he bites, the sweet burst staining his chin, dripping onto his throat. Her breath hitches, a soft moan spilling from her parted lips as she leans closer, her breasts grazing his chest. "For you, Chris," she whispers, her voice trembling with the strain of pleasing him, and I see the flicker of the desperate edge we all carry.

The dance ignites with a maelstrom of yielding flesh and syrupy decadence, the fiddles clawing the air with a fevered, keening pitch. Kitchen Emily 3 spins again, her hands gliding down her body as hundreds of gallons of honey cascade from unseen heights, a golden torrent raining down in the Barn, drenching her in a glistening flood that coats her thighs, her trembling fingers sinking into the sticky tide as she presses against him. Her breasts, heavy and glistening, mash to his chest, the nectar surging between them, a hot, viscous glue binding their bodies in a slow, sensual grind, rivers of honey spilling over her curves to pool at their feet.

More Kitchen Emilys join in and soon in a thousand gallons of wine--a crimson flood pouring from above. One flicks her tongue out, lapping a stray droplet from his neck, her lips sucking slow and deep as she moans, the wine streaming down her throat, staining her blouse a deep, translucent red that clings to her taut nipples. An Emily straddles his thigh, rocking slow and deliberate, her dress rucking up to bare the damp curls between her legs, now soaked in a torrent of cider that rains down, gallons splashing from her chin to his trousers, her gasps sharp and ragged as she grinds, the liquid pooling in thick, fragrant puddles around them, the air heavy with the mingled musk of honey and wine and cider.

I glide among them, my own heat rising, my dress clinging tighter as I sway, hips rolling to the rhythm. "All for you," I whisper, voice thick with promise, and his grin widens, his hands sinking into the wench's hips, then Kitchen Emily 3's sticky waist, pulling them tighter. "Hell of a start," he rasps, voice rough with awe, his exhaustion melting under their touch. "I'm damn near dead on my feet, but this is waking me up."

His words sink into me, a spark of hope flaring hot in my chest. "There's more, Chris--let us wash away your day, drown you in us." His grin widens, a flash of teeth, and he nods, his hands reluctantly slipping from the wench's hips, leaving a smear of cider on her skin. "Lead on, sweet Emily," he rasps, voice thick with relish, and I take his arm, my fingers curling around his wrist, feeling the heat of his pulse and with a quick tap of a button his clothes are instantly clean and dry thanks to the Creation Powers he had previously given me. The Barn fades behind us, the fiddles softening to a distant hum as I guide him out, the harvest moon casting a silver glow over the path to the riverbank.

The stream shimmers ahead, a ribbon of liquid moonlight winding through the grass, its surface rippling with the promise of wet, wild abandon. Lanterns float on its edges, their amber flickers dancing across the water, and the air grows heavy with the scent of damp earth and lavender oil. Bathhouse Emilys emerge from the shadows, their slips sodden and clinging like gossamer veils, the fabric molded to every curve--breasts buoyant, nipples peaked and dark beneath the translucent cloth, hips swaying as water beads on their skin.

Fieldhand Emilys charge in next, their chemises rucked up to bare mud-streaked thighs. Fieldhand Emily 7 leads, her hair wild and tangled, her breasts bouncing free beneath the thin cloth, nipples hard and rosy from the cold. She wrestles another Emily, their bodies colliding with a wet slap--breasts mashing together, water sluicing between their thighs as they tumble, laughter throaty and desperate. I guide Chris closer, his boots sinking into the muddy bank.

A dozen Fieldhand Emilys kneels at his feet, the water lapping at their waist, some hands sliding up his calves, some fingers digging into the muscle as some lap river water from his skin, their tongue sucking slow and deep, tracing the salt and mud with a hungry, trembling moan. "Let us warm you, Chris," one murmurs, her hands trembling with the effort, and they swarm him--bodies slipping, thighs parting, water and oil mingling in a slick, fragrant dance.

A signal passes between us, a silent flicker of eyes, and the riverbank erupts in a wasteful, splendor. Fieldhand Emilys along the shore haul massive copper cauldrons brimming with glowing embers from hidden hearths, their arms straining under the weight, sweat beading on their flushed skin. They tip the coals into the stream, thousands upon thousands of them, a cascade of fire meeting water with a hiss that sends steam curling skyward, the surface bubbling as the heat spreads. Bathhouse Emilys wade deeper, dragging woven baskets of dried lavender and rose petals, scattering them across the roiling water--purple and pink blooms swirling in the current, releasing a heady, floral musk that mingles with the steam, turning the river into a simmering, perfumed bath.

The water turns luxuriant, lapping hot against us now, and I wade in, the warmth seeping through my dress, soaking it until it clings tight to me, outlining every swell and dip--my breasts full and buoyant, nipples peeking dark beneath the fabric, my thighs slick with oil and steam. I pour lavender oil into my palms, rubbing them slow and deliberate before sliding them down his chest, tracing the lines of muscle, the heat of him searing through his wet shirt. My thighs glide against his, slick and trembling in the steaming water, and I lean close, my lips grazing his jaw, tasting the cider still lingering there, now warmed by the river's glow. "Feel us, Chris," I whisper, my voice a velvet plea, and his hands roam--gripping a Bathhouse Emily's hips, sinking into a Fieldhand Emily's hair--pulling them tighter, his breath hitching as the hot water splashes between us, their moans a ragged chorus rising with the steam.

He sags slightly, his exhaustion warring with the heat we've stoked, but his grin holds, wide and sated, steam curling around his face. "Damn, you girls," he pants, voice thick with awe, "this is... pure brilliance. I oughta let you girls plan more stuff, save me the trouble of dreaming every idea up."

I tug his arm gently, my fingers sliding over his wet skin, and my voice spills out, a throaty purr laced with promise. "Come, Chris--your queens await, ripe and ready for you to... pluck." His eyes twinkle and he nods, a slow grin curling his lips as he lets me lead. The river's cool embrace fades behind us, the fiddles softening to a distant tease as we cross the grass, the air thickening with the scent of crushed fruit and torch smoke.

Orchard Emilys strut forward, their corsets bursting with fruit--apples tumbling from deep cleavage, plums wedged against quivering thighs, juice staining their skin in scarlet and amber streaks that shimmer under the torchlight. Orchard Emily 3 leads, her dress split down one side, baring a hip slick with sweat and peach nectar. She bends low, her back arching sinuously, and plucks a peach from between her breasts, the ripe flesh yielding under her fingers as she offers it to Chris, guiding it to his mouth. Her breath hitches, a raw moan trembling from her parted lips as he bites, juice bursting to drip down his chin, trickling onto his throat in a sticky, fragrant trail. She presses closer, her corset creaking, and drags her juice-smeared chest across his arm, the nectar gluing their skin together as she growls, "Taste me, Chris," her voice hoarse with desperate need, her hands shaking as they grip his shoulders.

More Orchard Emilys glide in next, shedding their petal gowns for ropes of corn husks-- golden and rough, twisting around their bodies like living serpents. The husks cinch tight, binding their breasts into swollen, heaving mounds, nipples peeking through the coarse weave, red and raw from the friction; they wrap their waists, digging into soft flesh, and spread their thighs wide, forcing their legs apart as the ropes knot and pull, exposing the damp, glistening curls beneath.

The Orchard Emilys launch into a bondage ballet, spinning on the hay-strewn stage, their bodies arching and twisting--backs bowed, asses lifted, thighs trembling as the husks tighten with each move, leaving angry red welts that bloom like harvest stripes across their skin. One maiden--her hair a wild cascade--pirouettes, the ropes yanking her arms behind her, thrusting her breasts forward as she collapses to her knees before Chris, her hips bucking against the binding, her sex pulsing against the rough husk, dripping with sweat and need. Another Emily joins, her ropes twisting her into a backbend, thighs splayed obscenely, and she sucks air through gritted teeth, her moan a guttural plea as the husks dig deeper, her body quaking with the strain.

But then the ground rumbles, a deep, throaty roar cutting through the moans, and a vintage tractor--gleaming red--lumbers onto the stage, its engine purring like a beast. It tows a massive platform of weathered wood and hay, rigged with mechanical arms--each tipped with thick, polished oak dildos, intricately carved with knots and veins, dripping with warm, spiced lubrication oil that pools on the planks. The Orchard Emilys still bound in their corn-husk ropes, stagger toward it, their eyes wild, and mount the machine--the ropes snapping taut to hoist them onto the arms, impaling their dripping sexes and asses with a slick, brutal thrust.

The tractor revs, and the platform jolts to life, the mechanical arms pumping in a relentless rhythm--oak dildos plunging deep, stretching the girls wide, their bodies rocking violently as the husks bite into their skin, amplifying the scene. One Emily--her thighs spread by the ropes--screams as the dildo slams into her, juice spurting from her sex with each thrust, her breasts bouncing free of the husks, nipples raw as she grinds against the machine, her voice a broken sob--"Reap me, Chris!"--her ass clenching around a second oak shaft, the dual penetration shaking her to the core.

The tractor's engine growls louder, steam hissing from its pipes, and the platform tilts, angling the maidens toward Chris--legs splayed, sexes gaping, their bound, writhing bodies an altar of perverse machinery and harvest lust.

I stride closer, my dress whispering against my thighs, as I rip it down my shoulder, baring one breast--full, flushed, the nipple taut and pierced with a golden ring, glinting under his gaze. I snatch an apple from a basket, biting into it hard, juice bursting to flood down my chin, pooling between my breasts as I sway toward him, my voice a guttural chant--"Your court, Chris--all yours to... pluck." The tractor lurches forward, stopping at his feet, and the maidens beckon, their rope-bound hands reaching, offering him the controls--a gleaming lever pulsing with light. He grinsnas he grips the lever, his breath a ragged snarl. My sisters' screams peak, their machine-fucked bodies convulsing, a symphony of lust shaking through the night.

He leans back his eyes alight with a wild, sated gleam. "Hell," he rasps, voice thick with awe, "the river was wild, but this--this is a damn spectacle and a half! You girls are outdoing yourselves--every idea better than the last." I slide my hand down his arm, my fingers brushing his pulse, and lean close, my breath hot against his ear. "There's more, Chris. We are a fire to burn for you," I murmur, my voice dripping with promise, and his grin widens, curiosity flaring as he lets me tug him toward the bonfire, the fields fading behind us, the Bacchanal's heat beckoning just beyond.

It's a roaring beast of flame and shadow, its heat clawing at the night air, casting a molten glow over the straw-strewn ground. The fiddles rise to a primal wail, sharp and wild, and the Bacchanal erupts--a feral symphony of leather and flesh bursting into life. Ponygirl Emilys prance through the haze, their harnesses gleaming black and silver, straps biting into oiled skin that shimmers like liquid gold--breasts bouncing free, nipples pierced with tiny bells that jingle with each high-stepping stride, a teasing chime against the fire's crackle. Their tails--ruby, violet, sapphire--cascade from plugs nestled deep between their cheeks.

Stable Emilys stumble in behind, their harnesses softer, unpolished leather molding to their curves like a lover's embrace, mud flecking their legs in earthy kisses. Their breasts--pert and rosy--jiggle free, nipples hardening in the heat, while tails of natural horsehair--blonde curling like sunlight, chestnut rich as autumn--swing from plugs snug deep inside them.

They swarm him, a wild tangle of heat and submission. Ponygirl Emily 4 leaps, landing in his lap, straddling his thighs as her tail swishes, the ruby base glinting as she rocks hard, her plug shifting deep, her gasps sharp and ragged against his neck. Her oiled breasts mash against his chest, bells jingling as she grinds, the slick heat of her skin smearing his shirt, her thighs parting to bare the flushed pink beneath, glistening with sweat and need. Ponygirl Emily 2 rises, pressing against his back, her hooves sliding under his shirt, her nipples scraping slow and hot through the fabric as she rubs her chest against him, her tongue sucking his earlobe with a hungry whimper. "For you, Chris," she breathes, her voice breaking with the effort, and the Bacchanal surges higher.

The earth bucks beneath their feet, a deep, unnatural tremor rolling through the ground like the land itself is alive--breathing, shifting, opening. Cracks splinter outward in jagged, pulsing lines, glowing red-hot at the seams before ripping apart, the soil crumbling away in great, yawning chunks. A pit yawns wide beside the roaring bonfire, its edges curling back like the lip of a mouth, steam gushing upward in thick, twisting plumes. The air vibrates with the force of it, waves of heat and scent rolling over the assembled Emilys as thick, glistening mud bursts from the depths, spiraling skyward before crashing back down in sultry, bubbling floods.

They dive in, a dozen of them, their harnesses snapping as they wrestle and pleasure each other in the slick mess--thighs slipping, breasts mashing together, tails thrashing through the sludge, mud coating their curves in a glistening, filthy sheen. Stable Emily 5 pins another, her hooves sinking as she grinds her sex against her sister's mouth, oil and mud splashing in arcs, her moaning a guttural roar as she claws the muck.

The fire flares brighter, and a new rumble shakes the night--Milk-Cow Emilys lumber in, their grotesque forms changed to make their swollen breasts into greater milk geysers. With a collective groan, they squeeze themselves, and firehose strong streams of warm white milk erupt skyward--thick, white arcs catching the firelight, raining down over the Bacchanal in a sticky, fragrant deluge that mixes with the mud and oil. They kneel around Chris, all four of them, their thighs trembling as they milk themselves before him.

The Bacchanal peaks as a massive, translucent screen rises behind the bonfire, lit by its roaring flames, and Ponygirl Emilys vanish into the shadows--only to reappear as towering silhouettes, magnified tenfold, their harnesses straining as strings puppet their bodies into extreme poses: legs split wide, backs bent double, sexes gaping, tails thrusting with mechanical precision. They writhe behind the screen, shadows fucking the air--breasts bouncing, bells shrieking, plugs pulsing--as the fiddles scream a frenzied tune.

I glide into the fray, the bonfire's heat hot against my skin, and rip my dress lower, baring both breasts--full, flushed, glistening with sweat and milk as the flames paint them in flickering gold. I snatch a skewer of roasted pork from the fire, the meat dripping with fat, and sway toward him, hips rolling hard and deliberate. I press the skewer to his lips, my fingers trembling as he bites, juice bursting to mingle with the milk on his chin, pooling at his throat, and I dive in, my tongue lapping it up, sucking slow and deep, tasting salt, smoke, and honey on his skin. My breasts crush against his chest, nipples dragging through the muddy oil, and I rock against his thigh, my dress gliding up to bare the damp curls between my legs, my breath hot and ragged as I growl, "We're hot for you Chris--all of us, so hot for you."

He slumps in the chaos, chest heaving, shirt a tattered ruin of mud, oil, milk, and ash, his grin fierce and sated, eyes blazing with the fire's reflection. "Goddamn," he pants, voice thick with awe, "you girls are relentless--every move, every idea, pure insanity. I'm half-dead, but I'd be a fool to stop you now. Keep running this show--I'm just along for the ride." His words give me a desperate jolt of triumph flaring hot and wild and as the bonfire's heat still licks at my skin I lead Chris from the Bacchanal. "One last gift, Chris--all of us, for you," I murmur, my fingers trailing his arm, and his grin flickers, weary but eager, as we approach the statue.

The 40-foot likeness of Chris looms ahead, carved from dark stone, its base ringed with swaying lanterns. The fiddles swell, a triumphant crescendo, and the Emilys swarm the statue's base, kneeling in a living circle around Chris, their bodies pressing close, a writhing mass of submission. Kitchen Emily 3 crawls forward, her corset gaping, and smears honey across his boots, her tongue lapping slow and deep, sucking the leather with a hungry moan, her breasts quivering as she presses them to his shins, the nectar gluing her skin to his shoes. A Bathhouse Emily kneels beside her, hair dripping with river water, and washes his calves with her locks, the sodden strands dragging wet and warm, her slip tearing to bare hips slick with lavender oil as she rubs against his leg, her breath hitching in a soft whimper. Orchard Emily 3 rises, her dress split, and drapes a garland of vines around his neck, her juice-stained fingers trailing down his chest, pressing sticky breasts to his ribs, the peach nectar dripping to pool at his waist, her lips brushing his collarbone with a trembling kiss.

Ponygirl Emily 4 prances in, her scarlet tail swaying, bells jingling from pierced nipples as she nuzzles his thigh, her tongue flicking out to lap the oil and sweat from his trousers, her ass lifted high, the plug shifting with each rock of her hips, her moan sharp and pleading. Stable Emily 2 joins, her chestnut tail brushing his knee, and presses her oil-slick chest to his back, nipples scraping slow and hot as she rubs against him, her tongue sucking a trail up his spine, her hands trembling as they grip his shoulders. A final Emily kneels at his feet, her gown parting to bare petal-strewn breasts, roses clinging to rosy nipples. She remove his pants to display his rock hard member as she pours mead from a wooden mug over her chest, the amber flood running in rivers down her belly, pooling between her thighs as she arches, offering her dripping skin for him to taste, her voice a breaking plea--"Chris, our king."

I step forward, the heart of this storm, and peel the last part of my dress fully away, letting it fall to the straw, baring my body--flushed and glistening, breasts full and heavy, nipples taut under the moonlight, the damp curls between my thighs shimmering with sweat and oil. I climb the statue's base, straddling its stone thigh, and pour wine from a clay jug over my chest, the red liquid cascading in warm rivers down my throat, between my breasts, trickling to my belly as I arch, my breath ragged, my voice a trembling hymn. "You are everything to us," I gasp, and they echo it--a chorus of raw, breaking voices--"Chris, our sun, our king"--their hands roaming, tugging his shirt higher, peeling his trousers to bare more skin, pressing sticky, wet, floral flesh to every inch of him.

"You are everything to us," I gasp, and they echo it--a chorus of raw, breaking voices--"Chris, our sun, our king"--hands roaming, tugging his shirt higher, peeling his trousers fully off, pressing sticky, wet, floral flesh to every inch of him.

He grabs me then, his hands rough, seizing my hips with a growl that vibrates through the night. My heart slams, a wild thud against my ribs, and he pulls me down, slamming me into his cock--hard, hot, unyielding. The other Emilys tighten their circle, kneeling closer, their bodies a trembling, dripping wall of flesh, and they begin to chant--a low, primal rhythm, voices raw and guttural, rising like a storm. "Chris, our king, take her--Chris, our sun, fuck her--Chris, our lord, reap her--" The words pulse, relentless, their hands slapping the ground, thighs quivering as they lean in, eyes blazing with fevered desperation.

"You're mine," he snarls, voice thick with lust, and thrusts--deep, brutal, filling me. My scream rips out, raw and shattering, my body arching as he pounds into me, his hands gripping my hips so hard I'll bruise, his breath hot against my neck. The chant swells--"Chris, our king, take her--Chris, our sun, fuck her--Chris, our lord, reap her--"

He fucks me harder, relentless, his cock slamming deep, stretching me wide--my breasts bounce, wine and sweat dripping from my nipples, my thighs trembling as I claw the straw, pleasure and pain blurring into a white-hot haze. The Emilys' chant grows louder, frantic--"Chris, our king, take her--Chris, our sun, fuck her--Chris, our lord, reap her--" Ponygirl Emily 4 rocks her hips, bells shrieking as her plug shifts, her tongue hanging out; Stable Emily 2 grinds against her own hooves, oil streaking her back; Kitchen Emily 8 pours more mead, soaking her sex, her fingers plunging inside as she screams his name into the chorus. My body shakes, every thrust driving me closer, my voice breaking into their chant--"Chris--Chris--fuck--" and he grips my hair, yanking my head back, his teeth sinking into my shoulder as he growls, "Be enough. Be Enough. BE ENOUGH!"

The world spins, the bonfire's heat searing my skin, their voices a deafening roar--"Reap her--Reap her--Reap her--" and I shatter, my climax ripping through me, a flood of heat and slickness as I scream his name, my body convulsing under him. He follows, a primal roar tearing from his throat, his cock pulsing as he spills inside me, hot and thick, his hands bruising my hips as he collapses against me, breath ragged. The chant peaks, then softens--"Chris, our king... Chris, our sun... Chris, our lord..."--their voices trembling, spent, as they slump into the straw, a circle of quivering flesh around us.

He pulls out, his cock still hard, glistening with me, and I collapse, chest heaving, straw sticking to my wine-soaked skin, my thighs slick with him, with me. His grin looms over me, fierce and sated, his voice rough as he pants, "That.. whooo.. that was ... wow..."

My sister's eyes gleam, their chant fading to whispers--"our king, our sun, our lord"--and I lie there, trembling, their voices echoing in my skull, a desperate flicker of hope pulsing through me. We've given everything--every moan, every thrust--and as the moon bathes us in gold, I pray it's enough.

The air stills, thick with the musk of sex and smoke, and I feel the weight of their gazes--my sisters' bodies sprawled in the straw, slick with honey, oil, andmead, their breaths uneven, their desperation a palpable heat pressing against me. My skin prickles, raw and oversensitive, every muscle aching from the night's relentless strain, and yet hope flickers fragile, a candle in a storm. Chris shifts above me, his shadow falling heavy across my chest, and the world tilts as he rises, towering me. The silence stretches, taut and brittle, until his voice cuts through it, low and warm, a blade wrapped in velvet, pulling me from the haze of our frenzied union into something sharper, something I can't escape.

"You were right. You are enough. More than enough! For now anyways. And Emily--you've outdone yourself tonight. Pulling all this together, made me feel like a goddamn GOD! I wanna reward you--hell, I want to reward every Emily in the burrow! But you were in charge of it so..." He steps closer, his boots crunching straw, and my breath catches, my heart slamming against my ribs. "You can break character for this. Go on--tell me what you want, no script, no acting, no pretend. What does the real you want, right now?"

The words hit me like a jolt, a crack splintering the fragile mask I've worn all night--every second of my life here really. Break character in front of HIM? My throat tightens at the thought, a dry rasp clawing its way up, and I freeze, my hands trembling at my sides. The other Emilys watch, their eyes wide--each one a mirror of my own fear, my own hope. His eyes bore into me, expectant, and I can't not take a chance--not when we worked so hard, not when he's giving me the chance to speak freely.

"I..." My voice cracks, barely a whisper, and I swallow hard, forcing it out, my fingers twisting together, nails biting my palms. The mask slips, and something breaks--a dam I've held too long--and the words spill, jagged and raw, my voice rising, trembling with a need I can't hide. "We don't want to be here all the time--at this place, this farm, every day, every night, always here." My breath hitches, a sob choking me, and I press a hand to my mouth but it's out now, unstoppable. "When you reward us--could we go somewhere else? A vacation, maybe? It would be really great if we could be... not here, not always be here."

The air stills, a taut thread stretched to snapping, and my sisters shift--each one holding her breath, their eyes darting between me and him. I've shattered the script, and the fear claws at me-- despite him saying he wanted to hear what I really wanted, will he punish me anyways? Lock me in a blank cell for a hundred years? Send me to The Barn? My legs wobble, my vision blurring with unshed tears, and I brace for his anger, my body curling inward, a reflex I can't stop. But his grin doesn't fade--it widens, sharpens, and he laughs, a low, rolling sound that sends a shiver down my spine, not cruel but not safe either.

"Somewhere else, huh?" he muses, rubbing his jaw, his fingers smearing juice and oil across his stubble. "You know, that fits--fits damn perfect, actually." He steps closer, towering over me, and I flinch, my pulse racing, but his voice stays warm, threaded with a glee that twists my gut. "I was gonna reward you with something else--thought I'd just not come back here for a week, let you all relax, do whatever you wanted without me hovering. But a vacation to someplace else? That's better--in fact... yea... Vacation World, yeah, that's the ticket." He snaps his fingers, eyes lighting up, and I blink, confusion warring with the panic still choking me. "See, I can send you there--do a subjective speed up so the time would be a blink for me but you would get a week, a month, whatever, lounging on beaches, sipping drinks, all that stuff. And that's an even better idea because I don't have to miss a damn thing--don't have to skip any places I wanna go--and you still get your reward. Win-win, right?"

My mouth opens, but no sound comes--my mind reels, caught between relief and a creeping dread I can't name. Vacation World--a glittering escape, sand and sun, freedom from the hobbit-hole's green hills and The Barn's shadowed horror--but his glee, his quick pivot, gnaws at me.

The way he says "the time would be a blink for me" pricks my skin, a reminder of the utter control he has over what strings of ours he chooses to pull, the control he never lets slip. My sisters stir, a ripple of hope--but I can't shake the tension coiling tighter, the sense that this reward is a leash in disguise, a gift that will chain us even further into him. "That... that sounds good," I manage, my voice small, unsteady, forcing a smile that feels like a grimace, my hands clenching to hide the shake. "Thank you, Chris. I appreciate it. We all do. Really."

He claps my shoulder, his grip firm, warm. "Good girl," he says, his grin softening, but his eyes glint, sharp and knowing. "You've earned it--tonight proved it." He pulls up his floating command entry screen and spends less than five minutes doing some quick programming before he says, "Ok, what the heck, I'm giving you... let's call it 1000 years in Vacation World and every other Emily here will get... why not... 10 years. It's instantaneous for me anyways, so why shouldn't I be generous? And the great thing is you can use them whenever you want. All of you can just click the pop-up I gave you access to, anytime and anywhere, and you'll be there for however much of your time you want to spend. I'll even let you share your days with each other! Sisterly love and what not. So--pack your imaginary bags, but when you come back I expect well rested Emilys who are eager to perform, right?" He laughs again, turning to survey the other Emilys, their trembling forms still kneeling, and I eagerly agree with him, my throat tight. My chest is a storm of relief and terror. And I can't untangle one emotion from the other.

He gives me a final hug and kiss and then Chris teleports out. He's back to his apartment, back to the real world, back to reality. But we remain here as the moon hangs heavy, its light pooling over us. To me, this night ends not with triumph, not with defeat, but with a fragile, fractured pause, as his dream to breed more Emilys for the Burrow is on pause. Enough for now. Not for forever, but for now we are enough. For now. That's not what I had hoped for but when you are at the whims of a god, you have to accept whatever small victories you can achieve with gladness in your heart. The alternative is useless despair.

I think about his words now, the way he said them so easily, casually, like an afterthought tossed over his shoulder while his cock still glistened from my wetness--ten years for every other Emily, and one thousand years for me. A thousand years. It doesn't seem real. It feels like a number pulled from myth, something so long and sprawling it ceases to resemble time at all. Not time as humans experience it anyways. I wonder, as I try to feel what I'm supposed to feel--gratitude, relief, triumph--what that much time would do to me, what shape my thoughts would take after a millennia of engineered peace and relaxation? Would there be anything left of me at the end of it?

I shove thoughts of Vacation World away, the promise of a thousand years is too vast, too treacherous to touch now but another worry soon takes its place. The satchel.

It's still where I left it, tucked in the Archive, innocuous and patient. He hasn't asked about it. Maybe he forgot. Maybe not. But it lingers in my thoughts like a bruise I keep pressing to see if it still hurts. What if there's something in it meant only for me? What if it's a test I haven't yet failed? Or passed? What if it's just empty, and all of this tension is just one more loop of the puppet string pulling tight around my neck?

One thousand years.

One forgotten satchel.

One god who never gives without taking more.

Those are worries for another day. My sisters shuffle beside me and we head toward our beds, their breaths uneven, bodies bruised but unbowed, each one a mirror of my own fragile defiance. The weight of what I've done sits heavy, a victory carved from our sweat and screams.

Emily Burrow's inventing landscape stretches around us, its soft green a siren's call, tempting me to sink into the familiar chains of my home. But I stop at the statue, its stone eyes unyielding, a silent judge of our desperate dance. I meet its gaze, chin lifted, and whisper to my sisters, "We're enough." Their hands brush mine, a quiet vow, and we walk on, bound by something stronger than his might.