Pairs of Pumpkins #02: A Seam-Straining Songstress

Warning and Disclaimer: The following story is a Musical, in the vein of Fairy Tale animated movies but this one is for mature audiences only. Our busty heroine is the charge of a man, grooming her to be his wife on her impending 18th birthday. The story contains no accounts of sex or even nudity but it does contain semi-graphic violence. It is the second episode in a series that began with accidental incest but this story contains none.

Pairs of Pumpkins Chapter 02: The Seam-Straining Songstress

The Pale Lands were a natural fortress, an island Queendom built within the jagged-toothed, gaping maw of the world itself. Without a map to one of a handful of ports, any sailing ship that wished to disembark would need to be crewed by mountaineers. Past the teeth that engulfed the basin beyond were a second row of skyward-stabbing spears, towering, snow-dressed evergreens that covered the land like a thick coat of fur. Each one was tall and hearty enough to survive in both of The Pale Lands climate zones: miserably cold and even-colder-than-that.

On the foothills between the mountains and the basin where the trees reached the highest, a house hid far away from any village or town. It was a modest, frontier house and would be common enough were it not for where it sat, placed like an ornament, high in a treetop. It's chimney puffed with life, the smoke disappearing easily into the sky's perpetual grey and the windows glowed warm with life.

Behind the glass of one of them, another curiosity stood: a teenage vixen of uncommon appearance and suspicious heritage, looking out to her world, a thicket of treetops as far as the weather would let her see. There were a few other windows but the views they allowed were all worse: Trees. Clouds. Mountain face, too close to see the peak. This window was closest to the stove and only this one had ever suggested there was more to life. On the clearest of days, in the blur of the horizon, she swore she could see a whiteness that wasn't mountains or forest. Her master assured her that beyond it was little more than hostile, icy waste and people who would reject her very existence but for the girl who had never left the treehouse, it was a promise of a world bigger than her own.

Her name was Anya and her coat was unusual for a fox but she only knew this from stories as she had never met another. Her fur was not white or red, sandy or dusty grey but rather like the half-hidden trunks of those thousands of trees, a dense, mahogany color that promised to both keep her warm and blend in well at the floor of the forest among the dirt and bark, were she ever allowed to venture back down to them.

Anya was tall, over six feet and naturally thick and stout in proportions hugged by an ankle-length dress of deep green. Her muzzle was shorter than was common for a fox as were her ears, also more rounded at their tips. Her full, black, hair was neatly triple-braided and hadn't been cut in years, a mass of rope with girth enough to moor a ship, spilling down her back to bat against her tiny, un-foxlike tail when she moved. It was heavy but she long ago learned to not complain about it. "The weight will ensure you always hold your head high and proud," Master Wilhelm had said.

Her breath was far enough away to barely register on the cold glass. While the handful of other people she had met would fog up the window instantly, she was held some distance away from it and everything else by a bosom she knew was as uncommon as it was burdensome. Abundant breasts dominated her upper body, wider than her relaxed arms and lower than the bottom of her ribcage, half obscuring her stomach.

It was supported as well as could be in the dress, tailored to fit her, by her, demonstrating a skill in sewing beyond her age. Below her waist, it was loose enough to move freely, before cinching in at her broad hips, Above them, it was fitted to the curves of her form, up and in to her sturdy waist before blooming out like a wine glass to contain her breasts. The thick fabric hid an elaborate spiderweb of support she had sewn into it, shaping them to be high and proud on her chest, so much so that she could wrap her arms around them only enough to overlap her palms. It was as conservative a cut as her body would allow, the dress reaching just above the floor, all the way up to wrapping her shoulders and down to her wrists. A hole at the base of her spine allowed the fluff of a tail to poke out.

Form-fitting clothes like the upper half of her outfit were allowable in the Queendom's otherwise strict fashion regulations, rules she only knew about from patterns and different guests over the years. It was a matter of practicality in such a cold place, to not make anything that helped to stay warm illegal. Only the dress' neckline was in obvious violation, and plunged broad and low toward the apex of her bust. The cut emphasized not only the artificial curves of cleavage created by the support but also the golden brown fur of her chest that broke up the darkness of the rest of her, a two-tone belly that climbed up to her muzzle. Sparse, accent spots of white peppered that path, from the tops of her breasts up to her neck, cheeks and to her nose. The revealing alteration, which all her dresses and blouses bore had been at her Master and Keeper's request. He encouraged her to be proud of her body but she knew it was not her pride and self-confidence that were Wilhelm's primary motivation in dressing her this way.

She sighed, finally giving enough breath to fog up her view. She raised a lone digit of her sizable, clawed-tipped hand and drew one rounded ear, then another. An eye, another eye, a dot for a nose and below it all, a deep and dramatic frown before she looked over her shoulder, back to the house's interior.

The treehouse prison of the top-heavy teenager was small and modest, with adequate space for two residents to move about without getting in each other's way but also ensuring it could be continually warmed efficiently by a Ring of Pyromancy Wilhelm had acquired in his youth, that had been adapted through some elaborate engineering to function as an under-the-floor furnace without requiring a dangerous, open flame.

The round room was divided up like slices of pie, with each one serving a different purpose. The living area was the biggest of them, with a couch and chairs and a dining table for four but it was mostly clear, with room enough for Anya to dance when it was requested of her. In one of the chairs, behind a giant harp sat a scowling and impatient, grey hag of a mink, her glare focused on the fox. Behind the dining table were double doors to a small balcony. In one, particularly long summer, they stayed open for two whole weeks.

Off to one side of the room was the wooden car of a hand-operated elevator with a footprint nearly two yards square suspended from a thick rope and pulley from the roof's main support beam. Beside it, the rope was rolled up on a giant spool mechanism connected to a ratcheting, automatic hand brake and an elaborate set of gears so broadly leveraged that a child could use the hard crank to lift a boulder. Two bells of different sizes were mounted on the housing, one connecting to a smaller spool and to the elevator car and the other attached to a string that disappears down into the floor. A much simpler, backup version of the crank system existed in the car itself but would require significantly more strength to operate.

On the wall, a polished, great axe and a table-sized shield, boasted of the home of a retired adventurer of immense size and power. Beside the display were two headless, wooden tailor's mannequins: one of a massive, brute of a physique, over nine feet that wore and impressive suit of steel and leather armor. The other was of an impossibly bosomed woman of ambiguous species, with a small cutout for a tail. It was dressed in a half-made black dress. Next to them was a wall-to-ceiling vanity mirror.

"Anya, come back. We're not done with your lesson," the mink's grating voice ripped her back to the moment. With reluctance and despair, she finally acknowledged the decrepit mustelid seated at the harp. "You're supposed to be practicing. Wilhelm is going to want you to perform a song when he gets home."

"All I ever do is practice!" she spun around, giving her dress an angry twirl before she stomped away from the window, her long braid of heavy hair swinging behind her. She stepped into the torchlit center of the room towards the flinching woman, who could never get used to the girl's outbursts.

It was a lot for the frail, older woman to see so much vixen in motion at once, all that contained, soft flesh threatening to burst free of her dress if adequately provoked. "Practice, practice, practice. You want a song, Madam Muskov? Here's a song for you:"

"Every morning I wake up almost an hour before the sun

I make myself pretty for my master then I get chores done

I cook all our meals for the day

A laborer who gets no pay

With no time for stimulation, exploration, rest or fun.

"When he leaves, my tudors will resume my education

Cooking, cleaning, entertaining, singing with elation!

You've all made sure that my whole life

Was spent becoming a perfect wife

Seventeen years training for a submissive vocation."

Madam Muskov laughed and smiled at her song, clapping along. Anya sneered.

"I could weave and stitch a dress from scratch by the day I turned eight

I was a world class cook by age twelve for his hunger to sate

A trained masseuse, his nurse sometimes

I've painted this whole house five times

I'm the perfect prodigy homemaker, there's just no debate.

"After training then there's exercise to keep my tummy flat

He wants a wife strong like like a horse but as agile as a cat

While he lays like a sack on the couch

In my regiment I can't slouch

Because my big breasts are the only part of me he wants fat."

Anya paraded around the room, twirling and strutting before flopping down on the second, over-stuffed chair next to Madam Muskov, who gave a small and relieved smile. She was nervous. "Well Anya, you made quite a lovely song but I've told you before, improvisation is artform for peasants."

"Oh Madam Muskov, I know Wilhelm pays you to train me but can you really buy off a woman's sense for a creep?" she laughed in disbelief, then slapped her hands down on the armrests of the chair. She pulled herself out of it and launched herself to the nearby bedpost, everything cozy and quaint in their treehouse build for two, large residents and one rotating guest, currently this dour and ugly mink vocal couch and harpist. Anya hated the harp. Madam Muskov gave an absolving shrug.

"Sure he calls me his Princess and in not much time I'll be his Queen

but I'm the sap who mops the floors and has to keep his britches clean

I'm a bird locked up in a cage

Lucky for me, I'm still teenage

Because things will get worse for me as soon as I turn eighteen."

"Oh Anya, womanhood is nothing to fear! Every girl takes a husband and raises a family," Madam Muskov gave a dismissive wave in front of a phony smile. Anya stopped, looking at her in disbelief.

"Who said anything about fearing womanhood? I think I'm pretty damn womanly already!" she said, slapping her palms to the bottoms of her breasts, hefting them. "I'm talking about indentured servitude and arranged marriage to a man who disgusts me. I'm amazed he's managed to keep his hands off me as long as he has. He sure can't keep his eyes off me."

"You're a special girl, Anya. You were born to be a wife and mother. Just look at you!" Anya looked away in a pout gave whip of her dress as she spun away, stopping in front of the mirror.

"Why not? Everyone else does?"

With a deep sigh, she started again.

"It's true that Master Wilhelm has some strange obsession my chest!

He says they're the biggest in the world, like somehow that's the best

He says they're why I cant go outdoors

What in the world are they good for

If they're why I am stuck here then I'm clearly cursed not blessed."

Anya arched her back, stomping about on the wooden floor, bouncing about, as much as her dress would allow. She twirled over to the mannequin of herself and hugged it from behind, distorting her chest against it just to be able to reach around and grope her own, wooden likeness.

"Is the world outside this place so unaccepting of this rack

Would they ask how I walk with them, would they say 'my dear! Your back!'

Are people really so shunning

Of Nice girls not built for running

Or is he just afraid if I go out there, I won't come back?"

She looked back at Madam Muskov, with a huff of disdain.

"You talk like I have a destiny but all I have's enormous tits

Do they overrule my ambitions, my dreams, my brains and wits?

Just because I developed this way

I'm doomed by my unloved fiancé

To a lifetime of servitude, sloppy sex and suckling kits."

"Anya, don't be vulgar!" Madam Muskov scolded but Anya laughed, tossing herself into a dress-flipping cartwheel with joyful enthusiasm, landing near enough to the elder mink to startle her.

"Which part is vulgar of me, Madam Muskov? Breasts? Children? Or all the things Wilhelm is going to do to me once he consummates our marriage on my eighteenth birthday?" Anya leaned in, watching her squirm. The next verse burst out like a cannon shot.

"Oh he'll fuck me in this windowsill as we watch the winter pass

He'll bend me over the dinner table and stick it in my ass!

I'll be lucky if he uses lube

His gropey paws all over my boobs

We both know what he plans to do but I'm that you call crass?!"

The towering vixen pulled out two of the chairs from the dinner table, scraping them across the wooden floor and presented them to the now mortified Madam Muskov. She flopped down into one of them and patted the seat of the other.

"He'll be eating his breakfast here, while he makes me eat his cock

I'm sure he's going to fuck me until it's difficult to walk

It'll be no rush to put kits in me

I know that he prefers me skinny

How does making children work when he's a bear and I'm a fox?"

Madam Muskov cleared her throat and straightened herself out in her seat. "Well Anya, as you know, normally it doesn't but you have a special gift."

"Yes, of course," she said, presenting her big hands, palms up and claws out. "'I was born with the paws of a bear because I was destined to cradle cubs, not kits,' he says. I've heard it a million times. Can you dream of a bigger carriage-load of bullshit?! Do you even dream, Madam Muskov? Or did that part of you already age to atrophy like your heart, your face and your awful haircut?"

The mink gasped at her brashness and Anya smiled. She slapped her hands on her knees and pushed herself back up to her feet, singing with an increasing fervor.

"Oh what a gift indeed, to be biologically prepared

A vixen to bear the fruit of a one ton grizzly bear

What if pushing out his progeny

My hips snap in two or three

It seems unlikely I will survive the birthing of his heir."

She turned and paused in a moment of realization but as soon as Madam Muskov's mouth moved, she resumed her song.

"How could Wilhelm have known all this when he adopted me?

A vixen who can bare bear cubs, what a strange curiosity!

That he knew this of a crying kit

I'm not sure that I believe it

I'm starting to have my doubts about my Master's honesty."

Muskov tried to hide it but she squirmed. She knew something and Anya saw it. The tall fox grinned and stepped closer with a fire in her eyes and the fur of the back of her neck standing up.

"And even if he's told the truth, then what a truth it is indeed!

An old bear trawling orphanages to raise himself a wife to breed

To seek a innocent to adopt

For a wife, that bear must be stopped

Perhaps the time has come for this caged bird to be freed?"

Anya towered over the seated Madam Muskov now, her breath heavy and excited. She leaned down closer until their noses were just inches apart, her bosom occupying the mink's lap and more. The old woman had shrunk in her chair, speechless for the moment.

"You don't seem to like my song anymore. Perhaps we should adjourn today's music lesson, Madam Muskov," Anya's voice was deeper now and loaded with the bass of a growl, her ears flattened back against her hair.

CLANG!

Both of them jumped as the brass bell by the elevator crashed through the tension, rung from a ground-level rope. Wilhelm had returned.

"Oh, thank the Gods," Madam Muskov sighed with relief and sat herself back up, straightening her dress and resuming her practiced poise, smug down to the way she sat. Anya didn't move but the mink's newly returned confidence filled the space between them.

A crooked smile slowly formed at one edge of the fox's muzzle and she gave a sudden lick of her teacher's nose, coaxing a squirm from her before Anya pushed off the arms of the chair to stand again.

"Coming dear!" She rushed to the crank and released the handbrake, allowing the elevator car to fall, the spool that held it up rapidly unraveling. When the car fell through the floor, a separate door that had been sitting atop it, slightly larger than the hole, dropped into place and ensured the winter cold would stay out while the elevator was down. The spool spun quickly, dampened once it reached a certain speed so it wouldn't shatter when it reached the ground.

The elevator car stopped after a long descent, the forest floor over a hundred yards below them. The rope was spent with the car resting on the snowy, forest floor, the whole system built to this exact dimension. After another long moment, the second, smaller bell rang with a different pitch and Anya wound up with her whole body before pushing on the crank. She paused a moment after, not expecting the amount of resistance before she looked up to Madam Muskov with a chuckle. "I don't know why I should be surprised. He gets fatter every time he comes back." She gritted her teeth and put her whole body into getting the crank moving, slowly at first but with an increasing vigor until doubling over at the waist and sending her massive chest into battle against it's restraints, slapping against the crank handle and almost to her own face.

Madam Muskov smiled and folded her hands in her lap as she watched, letting them fall from her troubled heart. She was too old and wise to be disrespected by the impudent teenager.

The cranking went on and Anya was relentless, working up a sweat. "Feels like he went shopping for boulders!" she laughed to Madam Muskov and grinned herself. The gears started creaking and complaining from her vigor and speed. A stitch popped in the back of her dress, then another, leaving her chest that much less restrained in the violence of her motion. Never had the girl been so eager to see her Master. Madam Muskov froze and her smile softened like wax in the sun.

"What are you doing, Anya?" Madam Muskov's voice trembled before she stood, clenching her fists and watching.

Anya cackled. "Welcoming home my Master and future husband, of course!" Her braid was coming loose from the violence of her motion and long locks of black hair were falling in her face but she didn't bother to correct them. The lid of the elevator bumped up from the top of the car before Anya released the crank abruptly, letting it fall a few inches before the brake ratcheted into place, causing a violent shudder through the whole mechanism and floor surrounding it.