Mental Emasculation: Captain Morgan’s Spiced Revenge Part 6


Bickering, name-calling, malignant breast fondling and the aggressive brandishing of a dainty handbag heralded the tumultuous and rather public departure of a struggling Francesca from the dance floor. Dragged away from the riotous hen party by her beloved sparkly angel wings, miraculously surviving the Kobold’s antics throughout the evening. Now the flamboyant accessories were a twisted mess of silver and pink tinsel with the pretentious air of abstract art. 

  

“Help! Help! Rape! Murder!” Francesca desperately called for assistance while throwing a carefully constructed tantrum. Four-inch heels scrabbled uselessly across the wooden floor, desperate scuff marks marring the polished surface in a vain attempt to break free from the Minotaur’s implacable clutch as Francesca’s fluffy tail pummeled at the sturdy legs of her captor. She’d be as well trying to tame a Hellhound with a feather duster, which was only marginally less effective than a rolled newspaper. However, both possessed a tendency to spontaneously combust. 

  

It just wasn’t fair! She’d finally gotten her paws on a nice set of pert, plump titties; their owner more than happy to allow her a cheeky little nibble of pierced nipples, then boof! Dragged away like some common drunk embarrassing themselves in public. Francesca hated boof! 

  

The dejected Kobold had been torn away from her newfound friend’s embrace. Left with a tender kiss upon her lips and pink sash in her paws as a small memento. Faint traces of sweet perfume still lingered on the glossy material. Francesca had been far too enamoured by the seductive flesh on display to notice the woman’s predatory smile, or the hastily scrawled mobile number on the sash in a sultry shade of pink lipstick.  

  

Back at the bar, the conversation was tactfully steered away from mild accusations concerning a severe sense of humour failure and adorable scowling to where the small group were going to hit next. 

  

“I wanna go dancing.” 

  

“Tittybar!” 

  

“My place.” 

  

Francesca, Chasity and Chantelle all spoke at once in a tumble of words and intentions. Eyes narrowed amongst the ominous silence. Accusing glowers clashed, creating a pocket of negatively charged tension that vaporised an innocent dust mote in a brilliant spark of white light and puff of greasy smoke as each woman dared the other to make the first move in this farcical Mexican Standoff. Handbags at twenty paces.  

  

Danielle covered her face with a sigh before gently prodding at the welt on her lip. Adamant not to get embroiled in another petty scuffle yet the foreboding sense of inevitability lingered like Chantelle’s cheap perfume. Generations of small rodents had miraculously flourished under the ignorant neglect of children, reliant upon the charity offered by parents determined not to get involved. 

  

Despite her petite stature, Francesca had a mean right hook with the small Doggy Bag draped over her wrist. Not surprising, considering all the crap she managed to cram into the stylish leather pouch. Tissues, pens, plasters, painkillers, a lighter, antiseptic handwash, even butter, though nobody dared to ask why she carried around sachets of the lightly salted dairy product. Amidst emergency stores for an upcoming apocalypse, Francesca somehow found room for her purse as well.  

  

Having already caught the Minotaur off guard earlier, Francesca had cut Danielle’s lip with the little dangly zip in the shape of a paw, trademark symbol of the Bad Dog designer range. What idiot said names couldn’t hurt?  

  

The label had become surprisingly popular among the Kobold community; initially tailored with an excessively furry body in mind and set-up by a Kobold, no less. The clothing was generally seen as risque, with a generous use of studded leather, paw prints emblazoned upon suggestive areas of the female anatomy and slogans such as ‘doggy style’ and ‘bite the hand’. Most women of the canine persuasion would admit to owning a Bad Dog, though it certainly wasn’t exclusive. Sadly, the cute clothing was well out with Danielle’s size range with very few affordable labels catering for larger women and forced to buy most of her undergarments from Juggz. It’s as if the fashion industry expected such women to lumber around in loincloths while dragging dirty big clubs. Providing the blunt instruments were suitably fashionable with a few sparkly accessories, and maybe Bluetooth enabled. 

  

As an innocent bystander to the amateur re-enactment of The Good, The Bad and The (morally) Ugly, Danielle speculated the building aggravation could abruptly spark into a vindictive argument. Friends always knew which words would cut the deepest wounds with a little help from alcohol to smuggle the snide remarks through social customs. Animosity was imminent, no doubt repeatedly jabbed in the backside by alcohol, and a pointy stick named impulsive action.  

  

Or would have been, had Francesca not gotten distracted, looking down into her own cleavage and smooshing her breasts together with a playful giggle. Completely unaware of the accusing glares that fizzled over her head as two pairs of eyes slowly swivelled towards Chantelle. Slinking up beside the Kobold, Chantelle slid an arm around her slender shoulders as friendly, nimble fingers slowly crept through the dense undergrowth towards the furry valley. 

“Just me and Francesca though. You two can go fuck in an alley for all I care.” Chantelle said with an unfriendly smile. 

  

“Oh? Ony ye’d recommend?” Chasity glanced in Danielle’s direction and treated the Minotaur to a suggestive wink. 

  

Chantelle paused, tapping a finger against her lips. “Canal Street is a popular destination to spice-up adultery.”  

  

“Well in that case, there’s a clusterfuck of students outback that’d love a tour fae a titless tomboy like yersel.” Chasity’s lip curled into a sneer as she stepped towards Francesca, slapping away Chantelle’s hands and pulling the bemused Kobold towards her bosom.  

“Think ye’ll find Francesca’s m’wingman fan we go prowling round the titty bars.” Meanwhile, in the metaphysical realm that reflected the emotional backdrop of social interactions, the smouldering butt of a fag was flicked towards the alcohol-soaked rags of friendship. 

  

No good would come of this. Through the dizzying fog of dark rum, Francesca could just about sense the atmosphere had grown thick with emotions. And not the attention-seeking, angsty narcissism that wore liberal amounts of mascara and listened to My Chemical Romance, but the seething calculated rage that huddled in its room, listening to the Chicago soundtrack while piecing together a pipe bomb. Francesca’s tail wilted between her legs with a soft whine as her ears huddled deeper into her hair. 

  

A familiar, nostalgic sensation bubbled up from Francesca’s childhood. Her vision wibbled and wavered like oil slithering across water as she was cast back to the years spent in the shadow of her father’s overwhelming arrogance. Fostered by possessing insurmountable quantities of money and heritage, and perpetuated by a disparity between teeth and brain cells. Rum more than likely attributed to the flashback with its usual propensity towards dramatised exhibitionism, though it failed to explain the twinkle of a harp in C minor.  

  

As a young pup, Francesca and her sisters had quickly learnt that when Daddy said ‘Go play over there, I’m away to have a few words with this man,’ it usually translated into a tour of the local police station by an overly friendly female constable while drinking their weight in instant hot chocolate.  

  

Teachers often sat in horrified silence during some of Francesca’s Monday morning show-and-tell sessions in front of the class. Though nothing had rivalled the morning when an animated Francesca had lifted her skirt and dropped her panties while explaining the tickly warmth when sitting on the rickety tumble dryer. The incident had made for an unexpected prelude towards a rushed segment on sexual education. Many of the Unicorn’s in Francesca’s class had never seen such a magnificently misshapen horn, politely questioned why it was positioned in such a troublesome part of her body and marvelled at the grotesque beauty as it throbbed beneath their touch. 

  

Determined not to let her night end in an incident just yet; quietly reserved to the fact it was a foregone conclusion, salvation came in the form of wild, incessant ramblings of a re-energised Francesca and a jovial bottle sporting a tacky sombrero shaped cap. A truce was called, a moment was taken, and the time was efficiently spent drinking copious amounts of Tequila. An obvious solution to quell alcohol-induced animosity. Which presented a slight problem. 

  

At least for Francesca and Chasity, that was. Licking salt from one’s fur wasn’t the most ergonomic of practices. A fact Francesca had been quite vocal about, having not thoroughly imagined the minor details of her cunning plan. Disregarding the fact throwing more alcohol at a problem wasn’t particularly ingenious, akin to spraying a small amount of petrol onto a dwindling flame then wondering what happened to your eyebrows. Chasity, on the other paw, didn’t give a rats arse (or any other type of arse, for that matter) and tended to discard both the salt and lime in favour of more Tequila.  

  

With an exaggerated sigh and roll of deep brown eyes framed by a whoreish application of eye shadow, Chantelle had happily made the supreme sacrifice and offered her neck to the pouting Kobold as a substitute to a paw. It had nothing to do with the multitude of failed attempts at enticing the alluring bitch into bed (or even the toilets, Chantelle had willingly gotten on her knees in worse places) over the past five years or so. Not that Francesca minded in the least, having reached a level of inebriation where the sweet, gentle Kobold turned into a friendly yet persistent molester of anything with breasts. With enough alcohol drowning her senses, even some corpulent men weren’t safe from her inquisitive fingers. A fact that annoyed and mildly insulted Chantelle to no end. 

  

Lime juice trickling down her chin, Francesca laid a delicate paw on Chantelle’s shoulder, steadying herself as she leant into her flushed friend. Floral perfume and the raw, earthy tones of leather filled her senses like a bright summers day before a puff of alcohol and lime jostled for dominance, briefly transporting the Kobold to the remarkably exotic destination of carnal desire. Kissing the exposed collarbone, Francesca nibbled along Chantelle’s lightly tanned skin, delighting in the delicate flavour of her friend’s sweat before her tongue lolled out to scoop up a scattering of damp salt. Fingers tangling through the Kobold’s lustrous hair, Chantelle sighed a sensuous groan as Francesca lapped at her neck. Oh, how she longed for Francesca’s attentions elsewhere.  

  

“Gah! Tekeha, tekeha!” The Kobold recoiled, her long pink tongue hanging from her mouth with a grimace as she frantically sought to wash away the bitter taste of salt. Only Francesca could inadvertently spoil such an intimate moment and still look adorable while doing so. Like a puppy jumping up on the bed, cocking its head to the side then indiscriminately urinating while you and your partner were deep in the throes of passion.  

  

Two shots down the hatch, Francesca surprised Chantelle; and herself for that matter, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her into a deep, passionate kiss. After all these years, Chantelle’s patience and persistence had finally paid off, wrapping her arms around Francesca’s neck and tangled her fingers through the Kobold’s silky smooth hair. Warm Tequila washed past Francesca’s lips and sloshed around their wrestling tongues as Chantelle savoured the intimate touch upon shared breath.  

  

A muffled, sensuous moan from Chantelle captured Francesca’s attention, breaking the kiss and nuzzling into a strangely flushed Chantelle for support. Shouldn’t there be lemon or something? No matter, Chantelle was comfy and smelled divine, though severely lacking in the breast department. Heat radiated off the petite woman, bringing with it the enticingly sharp scent of her lust. Maybe it was the skintight leather trousers she insisted on wearing? It must be unbearably hot and stuffy under that figure-hugging attire. The Kobold’s fuzzy mind pondered whether Chantelle would maybe agree to accompany her to the bathroom so she could take her trousers off? 

  

From the corner of Francesca’s eye, something lithe and sinuous slithered past the cusp of her peripheral vision as she tried in vain to find some evidence of breasts, settling for twiddling Chantelle’s erect nipples while enjoying some much-appreciated head pats. At least her nipples were pert’n’perky, poking through the immodestly tight top like youthful buds of a sapling destined never to bloom. Thankfully, the invasive blob wasn’t those dastardly pink elephants, but a dark, misshapen mass like a glob of chewing gum wrestling with a hedgehog.  

  

The distorted lump of Chasity’s vulgar vagina made to tap Francesca on the shoulder, missed spectacularly, and twated itself against the counter. The slab of meat gave a loud, hollow thump as it smacked into the solid wood, hushing nearby conversation and forcing bar staff to choose between the immediate threat of confronting a Manticore or the prospect of continued employment. One wicked-looking spine had embedded itself into the bar, splinters of wood picketing the pale shard of ivory.  

  

“Oh my govies, Chasity!” Francesca gasped, paw on heart. The Kobold’s attention was well and truly grabbed. Ruefully pulling out of the loving embrace, she foofed her fringe from her eyes with mild annoyance, tickling her nose and going cross-eyed before shooting an accusingly adorable glower towards Chasity’s struggling tail. 

“What in Pandemonium are you doing with your floof anyway?” 

  

“Fucking arses!” Chasity’s tail writhed and fought for freedom, eventually wrenching itself loose, leaving behind a small puddle of pungent juices dripping off the edge of the counter and one vicious spine. It must have sunk into the wood a good inch. Just as well the tail had missed. Francesca would not only have suffered, at best, a dislocated shoulder, but poor Chantelle would’ve needed to bear the brunt of her rampant sexual desire.  

  

“…really?” Certainly not the response Francesca had been expecting, but you never could tell with Chasity. Wouldn’t be the first time Francesca had witnessed the Manticore sodomise herself with her tail and a thick double-ender. 

“I’ve got some butter if it helps,” and started to rummage through her handbag.” The Bitch always says it’s a conveniently edible lubricant.” 

  

“Ah, fuck! A’ve gone and lost another one.” Retrieving her wayward tail, Chasity clutched the dazed appendage to her chest protectively, soothing it with a gentle paw and the condescending tone of an exasperated yet caring mother. Francesca would often adopt a similar voice while confronting groups of young children, carefully explaining why pelting young Slimes with rocks to try and make them splatter was naughty. Even if the jiggly little blobs giggled as the rocks plopped into their bodies. Cute though they were, the Kobold grew weary of sweeping up small deposits of beautifully polished pebbles at the end of the day, never mind the parent’s pointed questions as to why their darling daughter resembled an ornamental aquarium.  

  

Damp patches slowly blossomed across Chasity’s T-Shirt as her own juices soaked into the faded fabric, clinging to the beguiling curve of her tits. Now, those marshmallows were just ripe for Francesca to sink her paws into. You could get quite a good nibble on those deliciously fat puffy nipples. Just thinking of Chasity’s sighs and moans gave the Kobold a bit of a chubby, which may be dangerous, neglecting to wear the specially designed underwear to conceal her bulge and prevent her walloper from frightening young children.  

  

It wouldn’t be the first time a lacy thong had been catapulted across a room, causing untold havoc and temporary loss of depth perception for one individual after a lewd thought had strayed into Francesca’s mind. Never mind the uncomfortable sensation of dental floss garotting her delicate bottom. Luck was open to interpretation, depending on whether a faceful of raunchy women’s underwear with a suspicious damp patch staining the crotch was worth misjudging the distance to the urinal along with wet shoes. 

  

To make matters worse, the snug undergarments cradling her burgeoning todger weren’t even Francesca’s, borrowing a pair of Joseph’s boxers for a little extra comfort this evening. They were meant to be a joke, a tacky little present expected to be tucked away in a drawer and forgotten about alongside those novelty ties that played creepily distorted jingles. Yet much to her surprise, Joseph had worn them on the odd occasion in the name of guilt-laden love. The mere thought of having such tasteless underwear propelled across the busy bar alongside the exposure of her shame was enough to make the Kobold cringe in embarrassment.  

  

“So, we decided far we’re goaaaahhnng…” Chasity stumbled forward, clutching her tail to her chest as her body convulsed. Knees buckling under the weight of her lustful outcry, the Manticore crumpled to the floor with a cute whimper.  

  

“Chasity! You ok?” Francesca was at her side in a flash. Regardless as to how unsteady she may appear, the Kobold could become almost gyroscopic while inebriated. Seemingly able to propel herself forwards in a riotous, rambunctious rollick that allowed her to manoeuvre at speeds and gymnastic dexterity that shouldn’t be possible in four-inch heels without going arse over tit. Should the perpetual kinetic energy stop, however, entropy would quickly diffuse the situation, and Francesca would no doubt crumble like a dry sandcastle.  

  

The Manticore looked up with a devilish grin spread across her face, closed her eyes and whimpered once again. A solitary tear ran down her flushed freckled cheek. 

  

“Tail… listen…” Her strained voice trailed off in a sultry groan, sending a shiver down Francesca’s spine only to tickle along the length of her arousal. 

  

As Francesca fussed over Chasity while trying to conceal her emerging serpent, Danielle and Chantelle quietly argued in harsh whispers as to who was supposed to make sure Chasity didn’t give herself another volatile cocktail of powdered Raging Mushroom, Mothman Dust and her own venom. Nobody wanted a reminder of the unfortunate incident involving the young Centaur Police Officer! Poor girl didn’t even get the courtesy of a ‘brace yourself!’ before the Manticore was on her, taking the term mounted police in a literal sense. Both women accusing each other with angry, overly exaggerated gestures while Chasity shivered and moaned on the floor. To an outsider, the diminutive woman and Minotaur acted like a married couple arguing over the actions of a wayward child, which may not be far from the truth in some respects. 

  

“Shut up!” They turned towards Francesca, taken back by the deep growl that echoed within her voice. A feral spirit reawakened from the Kobold’s distant ancestry, conjured from the murky past through a profound fear clawing at the pit of her stomach. Even the barmaid peering over the counter; curious what the commotion was about, recoiled with a yelp and clatter of empty glasses. 

  

This wasn’t right! Throughout the years Francesca had known Chasity, the Manticore very rarely admitted to her ailments and completely ignored her discomforts. Often believing a generous helping of alcohol, painkillers and strong coffee could cure anything. Usually, all three were mixed into one cup. Crouching on the tacky floor, mindful of lifting the hem of her dress and bunching the excess material around her burgeoning erection, Francesca pressed a floppy ear to the quivering bulb, spilling its juices across the already sticky floor as its lips trembled and frothed. Worry pierced through the oppressive cloud of drunkenness like a lance of sobriety, bringing with it a plethora of unwelcome realisations nipping at her heels like the shame of a Sunday morning. 

  

Although Francesca wasn’t a gynaecologist; and thanks to her somewhat unique physiology didn’t possess the most intimate knowledge of the female anatomy, she was a talented Nursery Nurse and Artistic Educator. Though such an accolade wouldn’t usually qualify a person to go poking around a woman’s organs of matrimonial necessity with an air of authority, it had fascinated the Kobold for some time just how similar Chasity’s tail was too a young child. It threw tantrums, seldom listened to its mother, ate random things off the ground, was prone to inserting foreign objects into any available orifice, pulled obnoxious faces (despite not having a face), indiscriminately hit people it didn’t like and seemed to leak incessantly. In fact, the only thing it didn’t do was cry and defecate itself, though it did have an infuriating tendency to throw up quite a bit. When its behaviour became too unruly, giving it a dummy to suck on often soothed its temper. Chasity and Francesca had found an aubergine worked wonders.  

  

It had taken almost a month, gradually working through fruits, vegetables and a variety of sexual implements until they stumbled upon the humble aubergine, having recently discovered a whole watermelon was just a bit too big but failed to stop Chasity’s tail in time. The nurses at A&E had a good laugh at that one. Even Francesca struggled to compose herself when they had to cart the Manticore’s tail around in a wheelbarrow. Yet another x-ray on Chasity’s personal board of foreign objects retrieved from a person’s body. 

  

Listening to the wet grumblings and gurgles of Chasity’s tail like a whisperer of smutty orifices, the furrow of Francesca’s brow deepened into a scowl of confusion.  

  

“Chasity… why’s your tail ringing?” 

 

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