Unicorn Ranch Horror [WAR EDITION]

[gangweedfan]

EDIT: since the gangstalking/death threats saga has begun you can also post stories about tranch members killing chuds. TRANNY WACO 2020

Spoiler: Original OP

A lot of people are writing horror Pastas about Kevin Gibes and the tranch so lets have a thread to collect them

You wake up. For a brief, blissful moment, you think you've finally awoken from a long nightmare. Then the aching head, the limbs stiff from cold, the hard floor beneath you shake you back to reality.

Tears of despair well in your eyes, as you struggle to keep yourself from sobbing. Maybe you can buy yourself some time before they notice you've awakened. You swallow hard, around the painful lump in your dry throat.

Suddenly, you notice the silence. No sound but your own ragged breathing echoing in your ears, and the distant whistling of the wind. You don't dare to hope, but maybe you're alone.

You open your eyes and look around. The room is small and barren, with nothing but a few broken chairs in the corner. A small, dirty window, high above you, lets in the milky morning light. There's nobody else here. You are alone.

You climb to your feet, the sudden jolt of adrenaline chasing away the stiffness and the aches in your limbs. You quietly approach the door, praying to whatever God is listening that the door will open.

The door opens.

Outside is a barren land, with small hills covered in dead grass and the trunks of long-dead trees. To your desperate eyes, no Promised Land could be more beautiful, more full of hope. You glance furtively at the distant house of your captors. No movement. All is still.

You slip back into the shadows of the shack and quickly devise the beginnings of a plan. Run. Run like hell. Find a car, a house, anyone. Anywhere is better than here.

For a brief, joyful moment, you are convinced that you're free.

Then you see it. All your hopes are in vain. There will be no escape, no freedom. Your fate is sealed.

This is the last sight you see, before the screaming starts.

http://uquusqsaaad66cvub4473csdu4uu7ahxou3zqc35fpw5d4ificedzyqd.onion/proxy.php?image=https%3A%2F%2Fkiwifarms.net%2Fattachments%2F1609638665670-png.1824791%2F&hash=ff8e839a3369a52a8ca27de9e4513788

Cedit to @Livecorpse

You wake up at the crack of dawn to the sound of Pennywise barking orders from somewhere in the dome, he sounds more and more like Buffalo Bill every day. You're exhausted from various animals noises that kept you up half the night. Your body aches from all the awful manual labor and poor diet and you're weak from boofing HRT.

You get out of bed and step on a transformer toy, you swear and decide which dog to blame this on, hoping that will keep Kevin's screeching to a minimum. There's a faint stench about the place but you're mostly nose blind to it now. You search around through the piles of junk on the floor for a coat before heading outside to feed rotting hay to the angry alpacas. On your way out you spot Bonnie in the corner cradling his rifle like a shell shocked soldier, rocking back and forth while muttering something about a funeral.

The cold from outside makes your body feel worse, you cry inside knowing you will be doing double duty again because Pennywise is out of commission for a few more days at the least. You look across the baren landscape while avoiding alcapa kicks and dump hay on the ground. Your joints are already frozen from the mountain air, everything hurts even worse now. Maybe you wish you could stay inside and lay in bed all day like that bitch Kevin.

Credit to @Mr. Bones

 

[Livecorpse]

As autistic as this may be, I'm honestly flattered. Kevin and his crew are disgusting, and for some reason it gets my creative juices flowing and I like to see how many Horrifying and Islamic ratings I can get.

Juices...flowing...hssstifhsjeufisnbdjrj >///////////<

 

[White Devil]

I think this has potential to be a good thread if more people knew about it before the forums went down twice.

 

[Law]

I think if the Tranch ever gets it's own sub-forum we could do separate threads for horror/suspense stories, and parody songs. Also one for agriculture and animal husbandry spergery. Those are fun to read.

 

[Mr. Bones]

I like the idea of this thread. Like @Livecorpse said, just thinking about the horrors of daily tranch life gets the creative juices flowing for some weird reason

 

[DatBepisTho]

Hard mountain winter scenarios are making me think....
Let me tell you a story. A strange wind sweeps across the mountainside calling the troon's deadnames one particularly cold night. Despite the wind, the smell of old decay and sickness settles and lingers.
Nightly, something or someone mimics voices and animal cries outside the windows in attempts to get them alone. Cowards and lazy by nature, the men ignore it.
By light of morning, every morning, animals are discovered torn apart and half-eaten.

After a week of the wind keeping the ranch hostage, rattling windows and moaning through cracks, the normally sad and neglected animals soon gain an unnatural hunger for flesh as their own becomes dessicated and paper-thin. Devoid of hair or feathers, they resemble the lucky dead under their feet. They utter no sound, save for one not unlike loose bones and skin flapping in the unending wind.
Unprotected and therefore unable to resist the call, the animals' now frozen eyes- useless as they are- lock onto the Ranch house. Lichen and moss, hanging from beaks and teeth, are forgotten.

They are now Wendigo's own and Wendigo knows there is a feast of warm fat and blood to be had soon. It whispers as much to them, almost lovingly. The wind is a skeletal hand that nudges them forward into a breakneck sprint.



*Eta- was feeling it and added more.

 

[RazorBackBacon]

Hard mountain winter scenarios are making me think....
Let me tell you a story. A strange wind sweeps across the mountainside calling the troon's deadnames one particularly cold night. Despite the wind, the smell of old decay and sickness settles and lingers.
Nightly, something or someone mimics voices and animal cries outside the windows in attempts to get them alone. Cowards and lazy by nature, the men ignore it.
By light of morning, every morning, animals are discovered torn apart and half-eaten.

After a week of the wind keeping the ranch hostage, rattling windows and moaning through cracks, the normally sad and neglected animals soon gain an unnatural hunger for flesh as their own becomes dessicated and paper-thin. Devoid of hair or feathers, they resemble the lucky dead under their feet. They utter no sound, save for one not unlike loose bones and skin flapping in the unending wind.
Unprotected and therefore unable to resist the call, the animals' now frozen eyes- useless as they are- lock onto the Ranch house. Lichen and moss, hanging from beaks and teeth, are forgotten.

They are now Wendigo's own and Wendigo knows there is a feast of warm fat and blood to be had soon. It whispers as much to them, almost lovingly. The wind is a skeletal hand that nudges them forward into a breakneck sprint.



*Eta- was feeling it and added more.

Friend, if I had a million dollars I'd give it to you to make a movie out of this.

 

[DatBepisTho]

Friend, if I had a million dollars I'd give it to you to make a movie out of this.

Thanks! I'd make it hand-drawn cel animation just for that compliment, fam.

 

[Meiwaku]

"Infertile Land" pt.1


The hard mountains of this land breathe in moisture at their peaks before exhaling them over thousands of miles of the flat landscape. This is a tundra without a doubt, the rocky surface of the land and dry plants should be enough to tell you that. Any topsoil was stollen by Wyoming winds up north and any nitrogen in the soil by the rains that refuse to fall over this side of the rocky mountains. Colorado. Richly beautiful yet harsh land that many creatures wild and tame call home.

But this is not one for the tame. Not for you anyway.

The oxygen in your brain is low and not just because it's a mile above sea level. You don't remember how you got here but know that Colorado has been a place to house Loons Goons & Nature Loving Troons since before the days of Hunter S Thompson. Your head hurts. Something happened. Maybe it was voluntary at first. Maybe it wasn't but now your stomach aches like you haven't eaten in a week and the back of your head throbs making you grow obsessively aware of its presence. You try to inhale but your nose hairs burn as the most repulsive smell enters your nasal cavity. You cough and wretch. The floor is cold and your surroundings are dark. Suddenly, you hear big stompy girly boots as they approach you. Many locks come undone and light enters the room.

A hulking figure dressed like a midwesterner with chipped purple nail polish stares into your soul. The pictures on its arms seem to move in the light showcasing to you a story of unspeakable wars and imaginary findings.

"h-" you attempt to speak in your hiss as you touch your head.

"SILENCE" the rough-skinned tattooed unit booms in its feminine grisly voice. It opens something to let in more light. Beside you, a frozen animal lays bloodied with its soft fur matted on the concrete floor.

You are surprised and pull back a bit, but you cannot bear to scream.

The being points a delicate ham finger at it. "It eats".

"But..."

"IT EATS!!" The tattooed unit throws a dull knife down.

Cowering, you reach out a hand and grasp the utensil letting it drag across the floor back to you slowly as to not anger the beast before you. You look back to the frozen animal. Within this light, you can see that its corpse has been mutilated. Its head has gone missing yet some teeth remain on the floor. You do not know what was here before or after you. You do not want to either.

The square tattooed ruffian pulls over a metal fold-out chair and sits down. A gun painted in pastels is pulled over their lap. Wide eyes watch you.

The corpse is frozen with bloodied icicles on its head and you try in vain to cut away at the brown fiber to find a spot. The dull knife works better as an ice pick in this scenario and you slowly begin to tap away at a piece of the neck flesh. You internally apologize to the creature as you can feel your captor breathing down your neck. You manage to work off a small chunk of frozen flesh with only a few tufts of hair stuck to it and shove it in your mouth trying not to think about it too hard. It mostly tastes frozen but there is a hint of meat-taste within your morsel. The fibers stick to your gums and wedge uncomfortably between your teeth. But you have no time to dig them out. Not while being watched.

You make a second attempt at the neck meat of the headless creature, this time you manage less hair in your bite. The lurking being breathes heavily. You think it's growing impatient but you cannot tell. You speed up trying to get as much as you can into your mouth. Sure enough, you hear metal scraping as the tattooed gun wielder stands up. You instinctively stop and move away from the animal., dropping your utensils It takes the knife from the floor and sucks on the blood that remains on the blade. You see the face and receded hairline of your captor. A tattoo of a war demon on his arm seems to try to jump at you as if to ensure you don't move closer.

Licking his lips, he looks at you with a placated face before getting a shovel and odd long thing.

You begin to shake instinctively, A metal door opens to a frozen desert. A frigid breeze hits your neck chilling it and a chain drags behind you as you are herded and urged to walk onto the infertile lands.

Your captor has a prodding stick of some sort that he nudges you with, you keep walking feeling the taps on your legs. Tap tap tap. In the distance, you can make out a house on a hill and another man in child's clothing playing with toys on the porch. He sees you and makes a waddling run over happily. This man is also wearing a collar on his neck, but it is different from yours.

Closer and closer you hear squeals of excitement as a grown man in a skirt, diaper, and pastel pony shirt closes in on you and your captor. His hair is stringy and brown with one side shaved accentuating his jowls.

"Hgshghfs is it playtime mistress?!?!?" he says as his fat chest shakes more the closer he gets.

Your captor puts out a hand to stop the childish demon who puts his hands up like a puppy and makes a pathetic face. You note there is a vertical gash over the right eye of the man under his glasses. He would look comical to you in any other scenario. The manchild begs but his "mistress" shakes his head no.

"No Playtime" Mistress says curtly with his enormous painted hands in the face of the other man like he were a dog.

"hgnnnnn but MISTRESSSS...."

"Back to your toys" Mistress points to the house.

With a dejected look, the man child turns around and waddles back to the porch to pet his robots and dollhouse. You stare too long and feel the tap tap tap of the cane on your outer calf. You continue on.

Walking through the dirt fields you see figures feeding a herd of fluffy creatures much like the decapitated one in your holding pen. Upon further inspection, they look like llamas? Alpaca? one of those fucking things with long necks. The taste of the metallic bloody meat lingers in your mouth as you eye the necks of its living brethren.

The He-Mistress leads you further beyond the pasture and beyond a coup of sickly chickens. He throws the shovel on the ground in front of you

"Dig"

You pick up the shovel and begin trying until you are hit with the cane and he yells at you. "NO! DIG THERE!"

You look over and can now make out some sketches on the light-colored dirt that are marked with stakes at its corners.

Lurching over, you take your shovel and carefully begin at the line. The dirt is brittle but frozen under your shovel and sand-like deposits drift away in the wind as you keep working. It's hard work, the wind shifts, and dirt blow onto your face. You can feel the Mistress lurking around the corner as you hear him chopping wood. This must be what they were feeding you prime meat for. Energy for today's chores.

The non-methodical sounds of The Mistress splitting wood clucks from the chicken and the whipping wind fill your ears. Occasionally you hear the whines of the man child or indistinct conversation in what sounds like chronic smokers' voices. Your arms hurt but you have managed to make a 2ft hole in the earth in the shape of the large rectangle they asked for. You know it's not deep enough, The Mistress would tell you when to stop. So you keep going with the crunching sound of cold soil below you.

The work is exhausting. Your captor seems to notice this too and claps his hands. "Enough," he says before coaxing you and your chain back up out of the hole, taking the shovel from you and putting it to the side.

"Shed" He points to where you assume you were taken from. It is a concrete and sheet metal box that you are slowly led to. This time, the manchild doesn't come running. An alpaca bathes itself in a tub of water and the rest of the herd watches. You notice a tub of water outside your shed...

To your relief, The Mistress does not command you to strip down and bathe in front of his own twisted herd. Instead, he makes you crane your neck down to drink from it like an animal.

A strong chapped hand strokes your head humming in approval. You shudder as you feel a part of your soul die.

The heavy-handed stroking stops abruptly as you are urged back into the shed. The chain is connected and you see a bed of hay has been left for you to sleep in. The bloody, dead, alpaca still ever-present.

"Goodnight" the Mistress bids you, despite it still being daylight hours.

Despite the circumstances, you fall asleep from sheer exhaustion. Hoping to wake from the nightmare.

 

[gangweedfan]

"Infertile Land" pt.1


The hard mountains of this land breathe in moisture at their peaks before exhaling them over thousands of miles of the flat landscape. This is a tundra without a doubt, the rocky surface of the land and dry plants should be enough to tell you that. Any topsoil was stollen by Wyoming winds up north and any nitrogen in the soil by the rains that refuse to fall over this side of the rocky mountains. Colorado. Richly beautiful yet harsh land that many creatures wild and tame call home.

But this is not one for the tame. Not for you anyway.

The oxygen in your brain is low and not just because it's a mile above sea level. You don't remember how you got here but know that Colorado has been a place to house Loons Goons & Nature Loving Troons since before the days of Hunter S Thompson. Your head hurts. Something happened. Maybe it was voluntary at first. Maybe it wasn't but now your stomach aches like you haven't eaten in a week and the back of your head throbs making you grow obsessively aware of its presence. You try to inhale but your nose hairs burn as the most repulsive smell enters your nasal cavity. You cough and wretch. The floor is cold and your surroundings are dark. Suddenly, you hear big stompy girly boots as they approach you. Many locks come undone and light enters the room.

A hulking figure dressed like a midwesterner with chipped purple nail polish stares into your soul. The pictures on its arms seem to move in the light showcasing to you a story of unspeakable wars and imaginary findings.

"h-" you attempt to speak in your hiss as you touch your head.

"SILENCE" the rough-skinned tattooed unit booms in its feminine grisly voice. It opens something to let in more light. Beside you, a frozen animal lays bloodied with its soft fur matted on the concrete floor.

You are surprised and pull back a bit, but you cannot bear to scream.

The being points a delicate ham finger at it. "It eats".

"But..."

"IT EATS!!" The tattooed unit throws a dull knife down.

Cowering, you reach out a hand and grasp the utensil letting it drag across the floor back to you slowly as to not anger the beast before you. You look back to the frozen animal. Within this light, you can see that its corpse has been mutilated. Its head has gone missing yet some teeth remain on the floor. You do not know what was here before or after you. You do not want to either.

The square tattooed ruffian pulls over a metal fold-out chair and sits down. A gun painted in pastels is pulled over their lap. Wide eyes watch you.

The corpse is frozen with bloodied icicles on its head and you try in vain to cut away at the brown fiber to find a spot. The dull knife works better as an ice pick in this scenario and you slowly begin to tap away at a piece of the neck flesh. You internally apologize to the creature as you can feel your captor breathing down your neck. You manage to work off a small chunk of frozen flesh with only a few tufts of hair stuck to it and shove it in your mouth trying not to think about it too hard. It mostly tastes frozen but there is a hint of meat-taste within your morsel. The fibers stick to your gums and wedge uncomfortably between your teeth. But you have no time to dig them out. Not while being watched.

You make a second attempt at the neck meat of the headless creature, this time you manage less hair in your bite. The lurking being breathes heavily. You think it's growing impatient but you cannot tell. You speed up trying to get as much as you can into your mouth. Sure enough, you hear metal scraping as the tattooed gun wielder stands up. You instinctively stop and move away from the animal., dropping your utensils It takes the knife from the floor and sucks on the blood that remains on the blade. You see the face and receded hairline of your captor. A tattoo of a war demon on his arm seems to try to jump at you as if to ensure you don't move closer.

Licking his lips, he looks at you with a placated face before getting a shovel and odd long thing.

You begin to shake instinctively, A metal door opens to a frozen desert. A frigid breeze hits your neck chilling it and a chain drags behind you as you are herded and urged to walk onto the infertile lands.

Your captor has a prodding stick of some sort that he nudges you with, you keep walking feeling the taps on your legs. Tap tap tap. In the distance, you can make out a house on a hill and another man in child's clothing playing with toys on the porch. He sees you and makes a waddling run over happily. This man is also wearing a collar on his neck, but it is different from yours.

Closer and closer you hear squeals of excitement as a grown man in a skirt, diaper, and pastel pony shirt closes in on you and your captor. His hair is stringy and brown with one side shaved accentuating his jowls.

"Hgshghfs is it playtime mistress?!?!?" he says as his fat chest shakes more the closer he gets.

Your captor puts out a hand to stop the childish demon who puts his hands up like a puppy and makes a pathetic face. You note there is a vertical gash over the right eye of the man under his glasses. He would look comical to you in any other scenario. The manchild begs but his "mistress" shakes his head no.

"No Playtime" Mistress says curtly with his enormous painted hands in the face of the other man like he were a dog.

"hgnnnnn but MISTRESSSS...."

"Back to your toys" Mistress points to the house.

With a dejected look, the man child turns around and waddles back to the porch to pet his robots and dollhouse. You stare too long and feel the tap tap tap of the cane on your outer calf. You continue on.

Walking through the dirt fields you see figures feeding a herd of fluffy creatures much like the decapitated one in your holding pen. Upon further inspection, they look like llamas? Alpaca? one of those fucking things with long necks. The taste of the metallic bloody meat lingers in your mouth as you eye the necks of its living brethren.

The He-Mistress leads you further beyond the pasture and beyond a coup of sickly chickens. He throws the shovel on the ground in front of you

"Dig"

You pick up the shovel and begin trying until you are hit with the cane and he yells at you. "NO! DIG THERE!"

You look over and can now make out some sketches on the light-colored dirt that are marked with stakes at its corners.

Lurching over, you take your shovel and carefully begin at the line. The dirt is brittle but frozen under your shovel and sand-like deposits drift away in the wind as you keep working. It's hard work, the wind shifts, and dirt blow onto your face. You can feel the Mistress lurking around the corner as you hear him chopping wood. This must be what they were feeding you prime meat for. Energy for today's chores.

The non-methodical sounds of The Mistress splitting wood clucks from the chicken and the whipping wind fill your ears. Occasionally you hear the whines of the man child or indistinct conversation in what sounds like chronic smokers' voices. Your arms hurt but you have managed to make a 2ft hole in the earth in the shape of the large rectangle they asked for. You know it's not deep enough, The Mistress would tell you when to stop. So you keep going with the crunching sound of cold soil below you.

The work is exhausting. Your captor seems to notice this too and claps his hands. "Enough," he says before coaxing you and your chain back up out of the hole, taking the shovel from you and putting it to the side.

"Shed" He points to where you assume you were taken from. It is a concrete and sheet metal box that you are slowly led to. This time, the manchild doesn't come running. An alpaca bathes itself in a tub of water and the rest of the herd watches. You notice a tub of water outside your shed...

To your relief, The Mistress does not command you to strip down and bathe in front of his own twisted herd. Instead, he makes you crane your neck down to drink from it like an animal.

A strong chapped hand strokes your head humming in approval. You shudder as you feel a part of your soul die.

The heavy-handed stroking stops abruptly as you are urged back into the shed. The chain is connected and you see a bed of hay has been left for you to sleep in. The bloody, dead, alpaca still ever-present.

"Goodnight" the Mistress bids you, despite it still being daylight hours.

Despite the circumstances, you fall asleep from sheer exhaustion. Hoping to wake from the nightmare.

KINO. What can we expect from part 2? Is there anyway our protagonist can escape? Or is his hope in vain?

 

[Meiwaku]

KINO. What can we expect from part 2? Is there anyway our protagonist can escape? Or is his hope in vain?

I tried to make our protagonist gender neutral to fully immerse anons into the horror first-hand although im sure a real vag wouldn't be tolerated on the tranch out of Jealousy seethe and males would recieve the groomening. Im trying to keep this from going full tranny saw porno but it's difficult because at any moment you can just write in being made to shove frozen chicken eggs up your amhole then buttfeeding them to kevie and it fits the known tranch meta.

Part2 is coming after I finish lurking more pics of the tranch to get into charachter. Troon Boone is going to make an appearance too in this chapter.

 

[ShinyStar]

Had to get in on this.


A chair, a coat, and a lamp.

Sometimes, the primitive brain could take innocuous things and mistake them for something truly awful. Scott remembered being twelve, and walking into his darkened room at night. There had been a figure, silhouetted against the window, a hunched, brooding, misshapen form that had peppered his skin with goosebumps and sent his heart racing. Turning on the light, of course, dispelled the illusion and the threat, the red flag waved before his limbic system, had resolved itself into a coat draped over the back of a chair, and a lamp sitting behind it on his desk. He had learned that impulses of danger could be misleading, that you had to engage your conscious mind and look for the truth hidden in the bits and pieces of the true shape that would neutralize the threat.

What he wouldn't give for a chair, a coat, and a lamp now...

The air was bitingly frigid when Scott wiggled the blanket back from his face, creating a tunnel through which the dirty dishwater light of morning could seep. He was already cold, his body knotted in on itself to try and preserve its own heat. There were no extra blankets on the property. He'd kept his eyes open during the preceding weeks, the cold having pierced through him far enough that even in the warmer daylight hours, it couldn't be pushed from his thoughts. Maybe in the Mistress' room, there might be some, but the ordinary ranchers knew better than to breach her sanctum.

He could have slept closer to Neil, shared the heat of their bodies. Scott shifted on his thin, lumpy mattress, twisting to look at the quilt-swaddled form laying a few feet away. Neil was the newest rancher. He looked safe, like a chair, a coat and a lamp, and Scott couldn't yet tell what it was about the self-identified boy that tickled the back of his neck and whispered of misshapen, brooding monsters, but he wasn't going to ignore his instincts now. There was no way of sharing heat, of putting his body that close to another body and letting his consciousness drift away without being vulnerable. And vulnerability was worse than the cold.

Scott threw back the blanket, pulled on the coat that he'd slept wrapped around, that held what precious scraps of warmth he'd been able to share with it. He shoved his feet into the dirt-caked shoes that lay on the floor next to his discolored mattress, ignoring the complaints from his body at the shock of its exposure to the autumn air of the high mountain plateau. His fingers moved clumsily as he knotted his shoestrings, but Scott ignored the stiffness of his muscles. It would go away, he knew, in a few hours. Once he'd gotten working.

There was a noise from the ceiling, a grasping, grating wheeze. The cobwebs up near the vent fluttered briefly, then went still. He'd told himself, when he first got here, that the unreliable power was not the red flag that it seemed. There were definable shapes in the supposed monster, pieces like the dishonesty of the outside world and the oppression inherent in the life of a trans-person. The heat that only worked in the day, when the solar panels finally got their fill from the sun, hadn't been the sign of the ranch's owners being in over their heads (the charitable take), or fully willing to ignore the basics of survival. It had been a symbol. A trial to overcome. Scott had lied to himself and said the red flag had been a good sign, a message from the universe, the metaphorical path to nirvana. Now he was tired, and cold, and hungry, and he didn't have the energy for such mental gymnastics. He saw the cold and the broken electrical system for what it was.

A spring creaked, and Scott looked over to where Neil lay. Neil's face was pointed toward him, revealed from the shadows within the pile of quilts he'd wrapped around himself. For a moment, their eyes met, but there was no connection. They were like two wolves from difference packs encountering one another by a stream. They looked to see if there was a threat, if they could go about their business in peace, and no more. Neil quickly closed his eyes and dropped the blanket back over his head. Neil didn't understand getting up before the heater kicked in and the room became a more bearable temperature. Neil still thought that the cold was the threat.

Scott pushed himself to his feet, wondering if he dared stop by the kitchen to look for a bite to eat as he headed for the exit. As if in answer, the door from the next room burst open, the air gushing into the bedroom ripe with the scent of fresh urine. Diaper play. The red-flag words had seemed so benign on the internet, detached from every reality of what they described. Now, they made his stomach clench in a painful, nauseous knot and his chest heaved as he fought against the urge to dry-heave.

"Widdle Kathryn's been a naaawty girl!" crooned the bulbous, looming, potato form of the man (the man! The woman...) who came in with the smell. Scott had told himself that the neuroticism and narcissism of Kevin's fetish had been innocent when he first heard his wheedling parody of girlishness. "Someone needs to chwange me." Kevin's piggish eyes gleamed from between the folds of fat on his face, his thin lips twisted in the ghoulish parody of a coquettish smile.

Neil had shifted on his mattress, sensing the danger too late. Scott grabbed ahold of the door, pulled it open, the gusting prairie wind hitting his face.

"Staceeeey," Kevin crooned, and Scott shook his head, hiding the scowl at the use of the girly name Kevin had picked out for him back when he'd been willing to think of the trans-woman as Kathryn.

"Mistress needs me to shovel out the stables," Scott blurted and rushed out. He slammed the door behind him, leaving Neil alone with the hunched, misshapen person whose pieces could only be put together in the shape of a monster.

 

[Meiwaku]

Originally from @Friendly Futa

You eat the bacon-wrapped steak and start to feel drowsy, hearing giggling as you lose consciousness and pass out. You wake up six hours later naked in a bathtub with a horse dildo up your ass. You feel something looking at you in the corner of your eye and see THIS peeking at you from the bathroom door

 

[Meiwaku]

Repost of my own work:

> be me
> 33
> mtf agender trans femme queer
> nursing my recently carved state-appointed validation hole
> can't work on alpaca ranch so I get to stay in bed or on the couch all day playing games
> feelsgoodman.hrt
> Mistress disturbs me by getting up at 5am to work when I'm trying to fall asleep.
> annoying bitch
> I wake up around 2 pm and am big hungy for my brekkie
> tell mistress " I want my good girl omelet"
> "anon, we already used all the eggs collected this morning. I will make you some poptarts."
> "I SAID I want my GOOD GIRL OMLETE!!"
> "Anon! We are out of eggs!"
> I stamp my girly size 13 foot. Nobody denies ME my eggies
> idea.mtf
> "Mistress~ Didn't you say the news crew is coming again today?"
> Mistress stops dead in his tracks. This look of terror I have not seen since the last time a pedestrian was changing their tire on the road and we all had to go get locked the genderqueer safety basement with our blankies and binkies.
> "A-anon... you remember what I told you about speaking to news media members?" he is visibly shaking
> "But, I AM a part of Tenacious Unicorn Ranch... shouldn't I be able to talk to the newsie people?" I say batting my fetid eyelashes
> Mistress begins to visibly sweat.
> "I-I'm going to Costco to buy some eggs... i-is there anything else you want kitten."
> "Bring me back a stuffie!"
> mfw baby gated upstairs while news crew is there
> mfw I still got my good girl omelet
> pic related

 

[gangweedfan]

Someone should make a story where penny gets sick of kev kev and it turns out kev kev is a robot which is why he has a subconscious attraction to transformers. then deactivates him forever

 

[FeatherPlucker]

I want an alpaca stampede.

 

[ShinyStar]

(Cont. from above)

The ground crunched under Scott's tennis shoes as he hurried toward the shed. The early October snow was gone, only reddish clumps of it remained in the shadows of the sagebrush that dotted the landscape, so melted and dirtied that it hardly looked like snow any more. The prairie glittered this morning; the air had gotten cold enough that what little moisture it held had condensed onto the crusty soil. Scott lifted his hands to his face and breathed into them, keeping them warm and trapping the moisture from his breath near his mouth so the dry air didn't scrape so much passing through his lungs.

The gate to the pen complained as he tried to open it, the cold adding to its usual obstinacy. Scott ended up needing both hands to finally wrestling it open far enough to squeeze through - one more tiny thing that turned itself into a battle out here. It seemed one could only be 'tenacious' if they were constantly pitted against something. He forked some hay out at the far end of the pen, trying to move quickly despite the rigidity in his muscles as the wind cut through his threadbare coat.

They'd been talking about getting new coats and boots for the past month, he knew Kathryn - Kevin - had tweeted about it, but the box that had come back from the Post Office had been full of transformers. There'd been a dozen pairs of fluffy socks as well, purple with hearts or pink with tiny kittens. The part of Scott that had still been clinging to the thought of being Stacy had thought they were cute. The rest of Scott had thought silently that at least his feet might finally be warm. Then Bonnie had gotten that tick at the corner of his mouth and wondered aloud how a transformer was supposed to help them get their fucking work done and Kevin had scooped up his toys and all the socks and flounced back to his room. So there had been no socks. At least, today, it was cold enough that the ground was frozen solid, so there would be no mud seeping in through the sides of Scott's ragged shoes.

He could hear the alpacas before he opened the door; a noise that wavered between low and high-pitched. It made him think of stories he'd heard of the wendigo, a native spirit that howled among the mountaintops, bringing famine and starvation. Scott pressed himself against the wall and cracked the door open. As quiet as he'd been, the door was instantly whipped out of his hand as the alpacas charged out. The ranch had changed them, too. They were thin, their coats matted and patchy, their eyes menacing as they spilled out of the building. One near the back got pushed aside by the press of bodies and milled in an unsteady circle in its vain attempt to orient itself. It ended up facing Scott, who didn't move, didn't even blink as the thing stared at him, nostrils flaring wide. Its lips curled back, showing massive, stained teeth, but the sudden bawling from the rest of the herd as a fight broke over the hay caught its attention and it hurried off to get its share before the tiny breakfast had all been devoured.

Letting out a relieved sigh, Scott let himself into the warehouse. He was surprised to see a knot of furry bodies motionless in the far corner and froze himself until he realized they must be the new animals that had arrived the day before. He approached them slowly. Their coats were still fine and fluffy, though he could see a few bare patches that had shown up overnight, the byproduct of meeting their new herdmates. The things skittered back as he approached, eyes wide and confused. They stayed close to each other, and he could feel the fear radiating off them. The ranch hadn't changed them yet. Hadn't given them the hardness that seeped into everything. Scott held out a hand and, inch by inch, moved closer until finally one alpaca let him stroke it's neck. Scott leaned in close, surprised at first to remember that another creature had warmth, and then he curled his hands in its fleece, breathing deeply at a sudden wave of sorrow that washed over him. The beast just wanted to go home, just wanted a world of simple knowns - knowing there would be breakfast, knowing it would have a warm place to shelter from the wind, knowing it could walk safely among its brothers without them turning unexpectedly hostile. "It's okay," Scott lied gently, his face pressed against the alpaca's neck, feeling the creature lean its weight back against him, as if he might be able to give it shelter. He couldn't save it from the ranch, but perhaps, just for a moment, he could let it feel hope.

Then there were footsteps. Scott had quickly learned to tell the difference between the footsteps of the various ranchers. Kevin was never outside, and inside the house moved about in dainty, mincing steps that had originally served as a poor mimicry of feminine grace and now served to minimize the strain on the unhealing wound between his legs. Bonnie moved quickly, as if he were always running to or from some catastrophe. This was neither. This was Penny.

Scott jerked away from the alpaca and grabbed a shovel with both hands. The approaching steps struck the ground as if it had offended them and they needed to mete out punishment. They were hard, unrelenting - the soul of the ranch. The door swung open and Penny stood, silhouetted against the morning sky. His AR was cradled in his arms. It made Scott think of raised hackles on a wolf. Penny didn't carry the AR as if it were an extension of himself, he carried it as if it were a message. A warning.

"Good morning, Mistress," Scott offered in a tiny, contrite voice, hating that he made himself small, but not daring to do otherwise.

Penny stared at him, eyes flat and empty, hands tight on his gun. Scott wondered if the safety were on.

Then Penny turned and stalked away.

Scott let out a ragged sigh of relief, and hurried to start shoveling manure into a wheelbarrow. He heard Penny's footsteps returning moments later, and felt momentary satisfaction to know that he was hard at work when the door clanged open again.

Penny had the gun slung over his shoulder this time, the long, gleaming shears in his hands catching the light. "We got an order." His deep voice was as empty as his eyes, as if he were a hollow shell, his soul carried away by a mountain spirit months ago. Still, Scott looked up eagerly, hardly daring to hope. If there was an order, then maybe, maybe....

"Get it done by noon," Penny continued. "We'll be going to town."

 

[REMEMBERMKULTRA]

There were five of us once.

Jane died first. We found her outside one morning mangled nearly beyond recognition. The cold air had turned her skin blue. Her face was frozen in agony. In hindsight he was the lucky one.

There were four of us once.

Brittany attempted to flee through the woods. The phone-lines didn't work and our cars were rended beyond repair. None of us were brave enough to go with her. Two hours later we heard her screams. Three hours after that her screams finally stopped.

There were three of us once.

This is all Kate's fault. We told her the animals were sick. The alpacas were emaciated and had milk-white eyes. They looked at us with intelligent hatred. The chickens tore each other to pieces in an orgy of blood. I told Kate we needed to call a doctor but she said we didn't have the money. I'm glad she shot herself after Brittany died. Cunt.

There were two of us once.

I killed Rachael. I thought if she died by my hand the monsters might spare me. They aren't alpacas anymore. They don't look like anything I've ever seen. White and hairless, thin like skeletons with a thin layer of flesh draped over their bodies. They have rows of teeth. Hundreds of them.

Rachael was so catonic she didn't even resist as I plunged the knife into her heart. She simply stared at me with mournful eyes, like an animal being put out of it's misery. I severed her body with a hatchet and threw it out the window. The monsters watched silently. Hundreds of milky white eyes staring into my soul.

Now there is just me.

I've been trapped in this cabin for weeks. There is no food. There is no water. There is no electricity. There is no hope. The monsters have the cabin surrounded. From the second story window I can see hundreds of them, maybe even thousands. Far more monsters than we ever had alpacas. I don't know where they come from.

On the third day of our imprisonment Rachael asked Kate and I why they didn't just break the front door down and tear us to pieces. I know why. Because they want us to suffer. They are feeding on our fear like a plant feeds off the sun.

It is over. I have nothing more to say. I never should have left home. I should have been nicer to my mother. I'm sorry. They are coming. The wait is over.

I'm sorry.

 

[Love Thug's Hate]

There were five of us once.

Jane died first. We found her outside one morning mangled nearly beyond recognition. The cold air had turned her skin blue. Her face was frozen in agony. In hindsight he was the lucky one.

There were four of us once.

Brittany attempted to flee through the woods. The phone-lines didn't work and our cars were rended beyond repair. None of us were brave enough to go with her. Two hours later we heard her screams. Three hours after that her screams finally stopped.

There were three of us once.

This is all Kate's fault. We told her the animals were sick. The alpacas were emaciated and had milk-white eyes. They looked at us with intelligent hatred. The chickens tore each other to pieces in an orgy of blood. I told Kate we needed to call a doctor but she said we didn't have the money. I'm glad she shot herself after Brittany died. Cunt.

There were two of us once.

I killed Rachael. I thought if she died by my hand the monsters might spare me. They aren't alpacas anymore. They don't look like anything I've ever seen. White and hairless, thin like skeletons with a thin layer of flesh draped over their bodies. They have rows of teeth. Hundreds of them.

Rachael was so catonic she didn't even resist as I plunged the knife into her heart. She simply stared at me with mournful eyes, like an animal being put out of it's misery. I severed her body with a hatchet and threw it out the window. The monsters watched silently. Hundreds of milky white eyes staring into my soul.

Now there is just me.

I've been trapped in this cabin for weeks. There is no food. There is no water. There is no electricity. There is no hope. The monsters have the cabin surrounded. From the second story window I can see hundreds of them, maybe even thousands. Far more monsters than we ever had alpacas. I don't know where they come from.

On the third day of our imprisonment Rachael asked Kate and I why they didn't just break the front door down and tear us to pieces. I know why. Because they want us to suffer. They are feeding on our fear like a plant feeds off the sun.

It is over. I have nothing more to say. I never should have left home. I should have been nicer to my mother. I'm sorry. They are coming. The wait is over.

I'm sorry.

>inb4 he realizes it's all inside his head

 

[Danilla]

An account of one of the bizarre happenings of the 21st century. (Teaser)

You still remember? Christ.
Probably was around 14-15 at that time.

Massive convoy, these strange flags were affixed to the sides of trucks. Believe they referred to it as a "Trans pride flag" in those days.

Ever read about the Branch Davidians? Yeah...... Well, this was that..

Mother used to sing that John C song to me, you know.. The "Don't bring your guns to town son".

I shot and killed one of them. Yes, people know this and I was on the news about it but you cannot possibly grasp what happened
unless you were there by my side.

What a waste of humanity. People died for what? Starving alpacas?

My god, the fucking smell! The stench was carried for miles by the winds (since in these parts, we are as flat as fucking Iowa) and you could still note a distinct musk of alpaca shit and cooking
grease.