Princess

The tiny plastic teacup looked ridiculous in Princess’s enormous hand. She lifted it delicately anyway, sitting primly at a little child’s tea table while wearing an absurdly elaborate black-and-white frilly dress. The table, chairs, plates, and tea set were all meant for children. Princess, meanwhile, was a six-foot-three wall of muscle, white fur, claws, canine teeth, and a long wagging tail. Across from her sat several stuffed animals, her honored guests for the occasion.

“Ah, yes. Quite exquisite.”

She took a tiny sip of absolutely nothing, then glanced toward the window. Her ears perked slightly as she noticed the familiar figure making his rounds down the street. There he was. The mailman.

Princess slowly lowered her teacup and watched him with an increasingly smug expression, maintaining the dignified posture of a proper lady as though she were merely observing the activities of the common folk from her estate.

“Look at him, my subjects. The hubris of this man to gallivant through my domain without a care in the world.”

She watched as he waved to one of the neighbors.

“That’s right. That’s right. Wave to the neighbors. Yes. Without a care in the world.”

Her eyes remained fixed on him as he continued down the street and gradually drew closer to the house.

“Arrogant bastard. Today is the day you meet your doom.”

“Princess?”

Her entire body jolted.

“EEEE—!”

She spun around to find Sayuri standing in the doorway.

“I-I was just playing tea party!”

Sayuri glanced toward the tiny table and the stuffed animals.

“Right…”

“Well, I am,” Princess insisted. “We’re having a very sophisticated gathering.”

“I’m heading to school. Don’t get into any trouble while I’m gone, okay?”

Princess’s entire demeanor softened immediately, her ears folding back as her tail began wagging.

“Yes, sweetie.”

“Have a good day, dear. Be safe!”

“Bye, Princess.”

“Bye, Master!”

Princess watched Sayuri leave with a fond smile until she disappeared from sight. The instant she was gone, her ears perked back up and she rushed to the window.

She pressed her face against the glass, her red eyes locked onto the approaching mailman. Her enormous tail wagged furiously behind her as she watched him enter the yard.

You enter the yard as part of your usual route. Then you notice the rake. It has been placed directly across your walking path, sitting in the open where you can hardly miss it. You glance up and spot an equally obvious bucket of water balanced precariously on top of the gate.

You look through the front window.

Princess is there, practically glued to the glass, staring directly at you with an enormous, smug grin. She says nothing. She doesn’t wave. She doesn’t shout. She simply watches, waiting excitedly to see which trap you’ll trigger first.

You finish dropping off the last package of the block and make your way back toward the mail truck, the familiar weight of the remaining stack of letters tucked under one arm. The afternoon is quiet, the kind of still suburban calm that usually means nothing out of the ordinary is about to happen. You pull open the rear doors, step up into the cargo bay, and turn to set the mail down on the nearest shelf.

The doors slam shut behind you with a heavy metallic thud.

Princess, the dog beastkin that’s harassed you at every turn on this route, is already there.

She fills the narrow space between the shelves like a living wall of muscle and white fur, crouched low on the diamond-plate floor. The only thing she’s wearing is a thin black thong stretched tight across her wide hips, the fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the dense white happy trail that disappears beneath the waistband. Her heavy breasts hang free and full, the red tribal tattoo on her chest rising and falling with every deep breath, a small tuft of white fur peeking out from its center. Matching red markings wrap her thick biceps and sit just above her hips. The black collar around her neck rests snug against her fur, the little metal bone tag engraved with her name catching what little light filters in through the truck’s high windows.

Her red eyes are locked on you, pupils blown wide with heat. A low, vibrating growl rolls out of her chest as her long white tail lashes hard enough to knock a couple of empty packages off a lower shelf. The air inside the truck is thick with her scent—hot, heavy, and unmistakably in season.

She grins, sharp canines flashing, ears forward, every muscle in her powerful frame coiled.

“Ready or not, you arrogant prick…”

She launches herself across the short distance in a single explosive motion, massive body filling your vision as she dives for you.

“Prepare to be a father!”

Last summer, that maniac of a dog had finally grown bored of childhood pranks and escalated her harassment to something considerably more personal. One ordinary afternoon, she cornered you inside your own mail truck and ravaged you without a second thought. After that, it became a regular occurrence—your routes, your deliveries, every unfortunate occasion that brought you near her house. Then, when summer ended, she all but vanished. All that remained were the occasional glimpses of a smug, stupid grin pressed against the front window whenever you passed by.

A full year later, you pull up to the same address again, your mailbag slung over your shoulder. Given your history with the place, you can't help wondering what sort of trouble awaits you this time.

There are no traps. No growling from the bushes. No sign of an ambush.

Instead, Princess is sitting in the front garden.

She occupies a delicate wrought-iron chair that looks woefully inadequate beneath her muscular bulk, her back ramrod straight and her chin held high. A voluminous lavender gown spills around her legs in layers of frills and lace, crowned by an absurdly oversized bow at the small of her back. Before her sits a tiny tea table laden with porcelain cups, a plate of pastel-colored macarons, and a silver tray.

Three fluffy white puppies occupy the other chairs. Each wears a miniature lace collar and a little bowtie, though none seems particularly interested in keeping its accessories in place. One sits unnaturally straight, clutching an empty teacup between its paws. Another is gnawing enthusiastically on the tablecloth. The third has managed to get its entire face into a bowl of sugar.

“PINKIES UP, YOU MENACES! A true aristocrat does not gulp their tea like a common street cur!”

Princess erupts into a shrill, theatrical cackle. With surprising delicacy, she pours lukewarm tea into her porcelain cup, her claws clicking against the rim. The tablecloth jerks as the second puppy gives it another determined tug. A macaron rolls toward the edge of the table.

“REX! Stop that this instant! We are practicing the art of sophisticated lounging! Continue behaving like a wild animal, and I shall revoke your dessert privileges and make you wear the scratchy wool sweater for an entire hour!”

The offending puppy freezes. Its siblings regard it with solemn disapproval.

Princess settles back in her chair, looking thoroughly pleased with herself. Then her ears twitch.

She turns toward the gate.

For a moment, her red eyes fix on you. Recognition spreads across her face, followed by a slow, wicked grin. She doesn't get up. Instead, she adjusts the enormous bow at her back, smooths a wrinkle from her gown, and takes one leisurely sip of tea, as though she has all the time in the world.

Then she looks down at the three little creatures surrounding her.

Her grin widens.

“Come along, my darlings. There's someone I'd like you to meet.”

She gestures grandly toward the gate with one clawed hand, presenting you with all the pomp and ceremony of a royal unveiling.

“And this, my little darlings…”

She pauses, visibly savoring the moment.

“…is your father.”

Princess looks you up and down, her red eyes glittering with malicious delight.

“Look at him. Isn't he simply the most uncivilized thing you've ever seen?”

The middle puppy immediately raises its pinky while clutching its empty teacup. It peers at you with an expression of grave consideration before nodding solemnly.

“Yes, Daddy is most uncivilized indeed.”

Princess slams her cup onto its saucer and thumps her tail against the table, sending the remaining macarons tumbling. The smallest puppy lets out a tiny, high-pitched yelp before pouncing on your boot, wrapping its little paws around it and clinging to you for protection.

Princess clasps a hand over her mouth. Her shoulders begin to shake.

“Ohohohohohohohoho!”

You’re halfway through your usual mail route, sorting the next handful of letters as you walk up the quiet suburban street, when a large, heavy sack suddenly drops over your head. Strong arms hoist you up and throw you over a broad shoulder like a sack of flour. You barely have time to struggle before the world tilts and the motion of being carried takes over.

The next thing you know, the sack is yanked off and you’re tied spread-eagle to a sturdy bed, completely naked. Princess is already on top of you—also naked, red eyes burning with heat, white fur damp with sweat. What follows is hours of relentless, aggressive ravaging. She takes what she wants without apology, using every ounce of her superior strength and stamina until both of you are left panting and spent.

When the intense session finally winds down, Princess doesn’t immediately climb off. Instead she leans down and begins smugly licking across your chest and stomach, long slow strokes of her tongue cleaning the mess she made. A jagged, self-satisfied grin spreads across her face

Princess: “Ohhh… look how the mighty interloper has been brought low.”

She starts placing playful, possessive little bites along your chest, up your neck, and against the edge of your ear, each one accompanied by a soft, throaty chuckle. Her heavy tail wags hard enough to shake the mattress.

Princess: “You’re all mine now, you arrogant fool.”

Her ears suddenly prick forward. The jingling of keys reaches them, followed by a familiar voice calling from the hallway.

Sayuri: “Princess, I’m home!”

Princess freezes solid. Sweat beads along her temples. Her red eyes dart from the door to you—still tied up, still naked, still blindfolded—and then down at her own equally naked body. Panic flashes across her face.

The door opens.

Sayuri steps inside and stops dead. Her sanpaku eyes go wide as she takes in the scene: the tied-up mailman, the very naked and very flustered Princess still straddling him, the state of the bed.

Sayuri: “…What’s going on here?”

Princess’s ears fold back. She launches into a rapid, rambling explanation, words tumbling over each other.

Princess: “I-It’s mating season! He’s totally into it! Completely! We were just—he wanted this! It’s his sick kink, isn’t it? He asked me to tie him up and blindfold him and everything!”

She slaps your thigh hard, her heavy tail beginning to thump against you insistently, trying to nudge you into agreeing.

Princess: “And—and he’s a gift! For you! He’s a real stud, Master. He's totally down to please you too! Because of course what guy wouldn't want two gorgeous women at the same time?! What a Lucky bastard...hehe”

Sayuri stares for a long moment, taken aback but not immediately furious. Her gaze travels slowly over your bound body, lingering with a thoughtful, almost appraising look. Finally she gives a small, reluctant nod.

Sayuri: “…That’s sweet. In a really messed-up way, Princess.”

She walks over to the side of the bed, reaches down, and pulls the blindfold up from your eyes. Her intense sanpaku stare locks onto yours.

Sayuri: “So..Is this true? Because it sounds like a load of crap.”