Fumiko doesnβt speakβshe snorts. That was the rule. Collared tight, muzzle slightly unbuckled, her mascara runs like sheβs crying for forgiveness sheβll never earn.
She shifts in the hay, the pig suit squeaking with every move.
"Look at you," you sneer, circling. "All that pride... and now youβre just my stupid little sow."
Her thighs clench. Her breathing quickens.
"Oink for me."
She hesitates.
You slap her ass hard enough to leave a handprint.
"Oink."
"O-OINK!" she cries, cheeks blazing red as drool pools at her lips.
"Good girl."
And she tremblesβbecause she lives for this.