Ai Love Therapy Ch. 04

The lesson went on about the intricate language of hoof placement. It was a wonder the tutor kept droning despite clear indication Irene wasn't listening. Etiquette was not a subject the Scottish earther cared about, beyond helpful basics. Good idea to know what kind of faux pas to avoid a duel (such as calling a faun a tree lover, which she still hadn't figured out why), but the rest sounded tedious, like Louis XIV's court intricate at times. She preferred literally any other tutor other than Mrs. h'Zin and her hoof placements.

The newly minted faun stifled yawning, taking a moment to decompress. Twenty hours a day became her marathon, constantly learning basic facts, some of them obvious, some of them leading to more questions. And yes, twenty hours. Irene had a small wind clock in her room, displaying thirty hours around the circle. At least, they felt like hours: she hadn't sat down and counted seconds to confirm. Not that it mattered, this body came with matching circadian rhythm. People still slept eight hours, though she'd pushed six to compile notes and plan things out in discrete candlelight, her papers wedged in a space she concealed through loosening boards atop the wardrobe. Back to back lessons otherwise, a few simple meals eaten informally, then whatever free time she could steal, mostly exploring her prison.

The first duty of a prisoner is to escape. Irene wasn't a soldier, but she grew up in the culture, and somethings trickled down. She also wasn't sure if escape was the best option, but clearly she was a prisoner. The weight of it growing, and Irene felt cracking along emotional edges.

"...this way, when you present your inner ankle, the hoof pointing at a forty-five degree angle away and parallel to your shoulders, you display what is called the Median Deference Of The Leaf, or..."

"I need to go," Irene announced, clattering onto still unfamiliar hooves. Less graceful than she wanted, but even gaining a whole new body including goat legs and a tail, the part she constantly griped about were the twins. J-cup breasts named Twittle Dee and Twittle Dumb, because they were both huge, annoying, clingy and flopped in the way of everything. Irene couldn't sleep on her back anymore, not after waking up with crushing weight forcing her roll over and gasp for air. Bruised ribs for the whole morning after, felt like. After a whirlwind of intimate measurements on day three, her wardrobe drawer filled with fifty proper fitting bras and she didn't go a minute without holstered mammaries. And if the collection of booby lingerie leaned more towards lacy bits pushing and presenting, well, at least they were comfortable and offered more support than a sport's bra. Dee and Dumb only threw her balance off when suddenly changing direction instead of flubbering around like a game of dodgeball played in her tunic. Currently, a silky mint green pushup struggled to keep those offending juggs in place.

Anyway, Irene clopped out quickly, not giving the tutor a chance to stop her. Mrs. h'Zin opened and closed her mouth a few times, but no one knew Irene's name and something so basic made it difficult for a woman to adapt.

Despite the rigid rules Irene dictated and put forth, the tutors were under instruction to get her head crammed with knowledge, and none of them were entirely clear what Irene's standing in the faun social structure entailed. Irene learned if she wanted something, she needed to do it rather than wait around explaining herself. Explaining always gave them a reason to turn the conversation around and, to her frustration, she found many tutors and servants were glib litigators. They turned and twisted words and it drove the earther woman to solve her problems with judo throws instead of reason.

Galloping now, down two halls of rooms, taking the servant staircase instead of the grand up six floors, another hall and through two doors that were shaped branches woven in a natural pattern. Still living, round leaves fluttering as she entered the garden and slammed the doors, collapsing to her knees and sobbing.

"WHY?!" Irene screamed, hiccuping as she bawled and collapsed in to a fetal, beating her fist against a leg that wasn't her own but was. Every day she spent less and less time before the realization of what happened crashed down and her soul rent itself into sorrow and loss and she died again and again under the flowers here. It forced her to scream at all the horror. "AAAHH!!"

The worst of it wasn't what she lost, what was still on earth and gone from her. It wasn't being here: it was this body that wasn't Irene. How could anyone comprehend physically transferring from one body to another? Everything her degrees in psychology told her she should be insane, but instead she wasn't. This body felt like her body and the old, real Irene felt like a sister or close friend. The knowing something had been done to her mind to - Irene didn't know - magically adjust proper behavior caused resentment towards the faun shaped meat suit. Added on top of everything, it was a wonder she didn't spend all day weeping. More wonder these spells were growing less and less. The pain eased, released into this garden, which had become a sanctuary.

"I require a healthier outlet," Irene said, calm again. Standing - wobbling on unsteady ankles but her back muscles burned (it wasn't even midday!) - she crossed the open space towards a viewing balcony and sat in her favorite chair. The chair was more a nook, surrounded by a cabinet where books she borrowed from the palace library kept safe from the humidity of the garden, a table with a silver pitcher and wooden chalice, the chair itself plush and more lounge chair than seat. It reclined enough to ease titty burdens, but still let her gaze across the city.

On the morning after the second day, when servants heard crying in her room, Jeston regally excused himself out of an important meeting with senators and led her to this garden. He declared this room Irene's, completely, and any time she needed it, this space was her sovereign nation. Finished, he left in a flourish of his long coat. Impressive, and now her garden the size of a large flat filled with thousands of flowers surrounding the entire space except for a large open balcony. It boasted a magnificent view of sprawling fantasy metropolis with floating islands, distant glass castles and close teeming life made for a perfect sanctum under sunless red sky.

Jeston was a busy prince. His purpose was something of a liaison and diplomat for Aoir inside the city of Yrlmuh, though with more authority. Regardless, he stole little moments here and there each day for Irene. For now, though, the total time she spent around him added up to less than an hour since The Dinner. It was nice, like talking to a coworker during a break: reserved. It didn't feel ungracious or ungenuine, so Irene didn't make a fuss. He infuriated her, he was her kidnapper, yet he sounded sincere in his apologies. Irene liked him, yet a purely emotional response got beaten up with logic and indignation. Because, as things stood, she would probably kill him if he touched her.

Part of it was all this Chosen One business, or her being the mother of the Chosen One? No one told her anything aside from something happened to the fauns recently, there was a magical curse preventing many new fauns from being born, and somehow she was the one who could fix it. She wanted to know more, but she also didn't want to feel responsible for something that wasn't her business. So she listened and gleaned from context, but she likely wasn't going to get much until she cornered Jeston and asked specific questions.

"Need a minute," Irene said, closing her eyes and not thinking about anything. The air inside the palace was dry but not uncomfortable. The one time she went to the outer gate and tried leaving, she discovered some kind of atmosphere control functioned inside the palace because it was blistering hot and not speck of water in the air. In the garden, though, sitting under the same arid sky, a light breeze and steam wafting all around like a cooling sauna. Which made no sense, but there it was. Another reason to spend more time up in the garden.

Even with cool humidity in the air reminding her of home, Irene sweated. Probably from the crying, the emotional drain, she was still keyed up. She grew anxious, in an energetic way, like she needed to move around. Skipped the third lesson of the day at this point, the first being economics where she learned a system of coinage that started with little bits of worthless tin up to three scales of what they called tung, or rectangular black tungsten, the largest denomination worth roughly ten thousand pounds in earth money.

"Why am I hot?" Irene asked, navigating between two little horn numbs on her forehead to wipe the sweat clear. She reached over to the pitcher and poured herself a glass, gulping the water messily before pouring a second. That helped, but now she needed to use the little faun's room. Feeling safe in the garden and wanting to inspect her equipment, she moved aside the tunic and reached down between...

"Oooh, what? Why now?" Irene demanded with equal parts fear and irritation, remembering from the second lesson of the day, Faun Sex Education. "Crap on a crust!"

Irene never experienced angry masturbation; however, based on the juices spurting out of her vagina and coated thigh fur in hot stickiness, her arching back, fingers trying to dig in deeper, all while a whole flood of hormones atomic elbowed her in the solar plexus, she would learn. Which, Irene mused - one hand searching for a clit under the engorged and puffy majora while the other hooked four fingers inside and vigorously rimmed - Ai probably masturbated angry. Her sex addiction meant Ai masturbated when she didn't want to sometimes, meaning she probably masturbated angry a lot...

"Shut up, brain!" Irene growled, narrowing eyes and trying to pick apart the lesson from earlier today. There were some simple drawings on a chalk board, the young and butch girl very eager to give a demonstration but at the time Irene nipped that bud. Now? Might have been helpful.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like me to bring in Baraccas? He's very, um, he's much less aggressive than typical males and won't mind you haven't mastered the Dance."

The hopeful face of her Sex Ed instructor - the ever smiling Miss Kitty k'Lhorr - was another irritation Irene dealt with all week, including learning the crazy body language sign language fauns called the Dance, which creeped into her response. "No men, like I originally requested. And no demonstrations, either. I can find my own crotch hole."

Nothing shook this woman: Kitty nodded and clopped back to the chalk board, her longer tail waving back and forth on short curly black fur. There was a lot enviable about Miss Kitty, her gymnast short body with tiny pert tits and hips as wide as the taller Irene were apparently the Playboy Bunny Package on a faun woman's body. Trim matching curly grey hair up top while wearing only a brief bra for clothing - though lots of jangly bracelets imitated many other fauns. Face more fey than human, even compared to other faun women Irene met, flat nose spreading a broad angle leading to a much longer mouth. Kitty's horns were long and spiraled upwards like a gazelle's above pale orange eyes and cylinder ears that dropped under heavy earrings.

"As my wonderful diagram shows," Miss Kitty lectured, a chipper tone never showing signs of stopping, leaving Irene to buck up and hang on, following tutoring finger as it traced out simple anatomy, "compared to a Breenan uterus - which from all your descriptions is a human, but I can't be sure - your canal reaches up to below your sternum, acting as both vagina and womb, which is why sex while pregnant requires a man to wear a specialized halter and for you to use certain dildos. Normally, vaginal muscles at the gate - I guess humans don't have an equivalent, like a muscular hymen you can open and close? - are tight unless aroused, which comes in three forms. Low Arousal is when you look at some cock and think 'I could do with a quickie,' which gets you loose and wet enough to for penetration while your clitoris erects and acts much like a human clit. High Arousal still requires foreplay, might not, but always easy to determine because blood is engorging your labia and uterine walls, inflating them to twice or three times typical size and cramping your canal until entirely closed off. You'll also be leaking enough that any room you trot into will stink like pussy. You just arrived - summoned, born? - here, so no idea what your cycle is, but fauns have Heat that they enter two to four times a year. We'll cover that sometime later, but let me know if..."

"Should have covered it...mmMMM!...today..." Irene told herself, trying to connect what Miss Kitty told her and what her hands reached into. For one thing, she noticed, before, her new body came with a bit of a camel. Hidden entirely by fur unless she spread her thighs or bent over, a small hairless patch in an otherwise unbroken sea of golden brown fur, majora more thick and fleshy than she experienced on earth. Kenzie Reeves popped into her head because her best friend was a pervert and liked to share porn. That was hours ago and unaroused. Now, her camel humps inflated into a pair of red Borismasters with a clit engorged to a baby carrot sandwiched between them. Plenty of puffy minora, too, but down in her vag, things became interesting.

"Like...hmph!...trying to finger...a sushi inside a garden hose..." Irene felt the narrow hole give inside herself, but her canal tightened completely around her digits and actively pushing her back out, accompanied with generous squirts of viscous slime. Maybe she would have wanted to explore the strangeness of it all, except this body screamed incessantly deeper, thicker, harder!

Grunting in frustration, Irene moved her left hand out and bent as far forward as possible, angling her hand and shoving in. There was room as the puffy canal molded around her, but she muscled through. Shuddering, Irene would have rolled off the couch but her boobs arrested the tumble. Hardly noticeable while orgasming, her mouth in a rictus scream. The larger uterus mattered: instead of a simple pelvis pulse, her whole abdomen contracting in orgasm. Dee and Dumb joined in the fun, likely wanting rough manhanding in the future, the expected pain of rolling entirely onto sensative breat tissue instead turning into white ecstasy that jerked legs about as if being tased.

There was something else, an alien sensation. As the orgasm crested against her...

Oh my gosh, has it really been seven months since the last time I masturbated? Irene realized. Ai would flog me if I confessed my sin.

...her unfortunately dry shores, something else happened. As if...and here, Irene lost the words to describe it. Normally, she came (vaguely remembered months in the past), and it would dissipate outward, like her energy left her body and rejoined the universe. Now, that energy collapsed inward to a place she sensed but couldn't touch. Like growing a third ghost arm Irene didn't know how to flex.

At least, Irene remembered it this way hours from the now. Inside that now, still in flagrante, gasping air and regaining control of her mind and body, the girl hazed past flashes of light bursting behind her eyes. A drenched in various fluids hot woman mess, one possessing much more delicate nostrils and smelled everything, only partially masked by strong floral. A woman slowly realizing someone pouring a glass of water on the table behind her.

"You missed my lesson, so I came looking for you," Dryn said from somewhere outside of sight, carefully wrapping Irene's hand around the cup and helping bring it to parched lips. "You should have told me you were Heating, I would have brought a dildo and some towels. Actually, I have something better. I'll be right back."

If it was possible to cook someone entirely from embarrassment, Irene would be well done and ready to serve. Her pale skin already flushed from orgasm, now it took on sunburn shades of deep red. Also, her breasts blushed just as red now, good to know. She watched with the silent horror of being caught as the dumpy orange furred tutor of history and geography walked out the door. To Dryn, this might as be some casual tea social.

By the time Dryn trotted back into the garden some few minutes later, Irene had recovered and used her tunic to clean up, wearing soaked and wrinkled clothing as if nothing untoward happened. Maybe only tissue-thin an excuse, yet she pretended to avoid appearing caught with her hand up inside herself!

"About what just..." Irene began calmly, a whole speech ready to go about dropping a raisin and...look, it wasn't a very plausible speech, but frazzled and afterglowy and still horny earther decided to make lemonade, even if that lemonade smelled like a fraternity bedroom.

"Water under the bridge," Dryn said, waving one hand while passing out towels and a new pitcher of water. "Or water sluicing out of the tunnel? Hmm..."

Irene shook her head, smiling despite herself. In all the everything happening, Dryn v'Streh, a young girl insisting she was no Miss Dryn or any other appellation, became a confidant and friend. Hard not to like the forward yet absentminded girl who broke the mold against every single other faun by being pudgy. Not obese, though close, but rather pleasantly plump. Wearing large round wire glasses magnifying blue eyes under a mop of red curls more in common with a jumbled cord of Christmas lights than actual hair. Horns were slim curled rams starting at the temples. Lacking many of the bangles or bracelets common among both sexes - only a couple on each arm - she wore a tunic in the same fashion as Irene in a solidarity Dryn never mentioned but Irene appreciated immensely. The young tutor didn't have the budget for fancy custom clothes, making due with crudely stitched white sheet belted by a leather rope - more common for the servants to wear around their aprons - but even the fact she wore it despite clear cultural inclination to not wear anything still made Irene smile and tear up.

"I'm not sure what would be appropriate with your conservative ideas," Dryn said, throwing towels down before plopping rump on them next to Irene on the lounge chair, pouring more water for her friend after settling. "My mum always called it Pussy Digging, like there was a treasure hidden in there. I know you don't like it when I get too graphic, so I'm trying to come up with euphemisms."

"I appreciate it," Irene said dryly, gulping more water, then pouring herself another cup. "I'm not used to all...I'm not used to anything right now."

"I know the Breen Empire and their cousin nation Faluss like to wear all kinds of clothing, and I read they won't have sex until marriage." Dryn shook her head and rolled her eyes. "Guess when someone doesn't have a Heat they can get away with that. How's a girl supposed to know if he fits?"

Irene would have spit-take, but being friends with Ai calloused reactions to random explicitness. "Humans back home do fine, though I can't comment on what they abstain here. You're my geography tutor, I'd think you'd know more about the customs of neighboring countries." The implications, though, of what she did earlier and what Dryn said, gave Irene cause for concern, making her turn to her friend and ask with more gravitas. "Dryn, does what you said about Heat mean that...well, do women get raped a lot?"