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LUPETTE & THE THREE PORCELINAS
By C (comnena@yahoo.com)
Synopsis: Lupette pursues some very pretty porcelinas. Who will outsmart whom? Who will have a happy ending?
F/f+, snuff, forced, humiliation, fantasy
Once upon a time, there were three very pretty porcelina sisters: Sondra, Cindy, and St. Cloud.
Upon the death of their mother, they divided up their inheritance and set out into the Great Big World to seek their fortune.
One may imagine them together, strolling hand-in-hand along the Royal Road: tall, bosomy, leggy blondes, their hair cascading in waves down past their shoulders, and with the clearest and pinkest of complexions. Each of course had the features of a porcelina: snub noses, angular ears, and a charming little corkscrew of a tail. Each was dressed in a diaphanous, sleeveless nightie (showing off, among other things, their permanently erect nipples and pink areolae); each wore panties of the purest white, with matching high heels.
They had been enjoying the sights and sounds of the open road for some time when they met a straw salesman. He struck up a conversation with them and let them know that, for the right price, he could build them each a palatial mansion built entirely of straw. This, he assured them, was the most economical method of creating such a structure.
Sondra was immediately interested, and agreed to accompany the salesman back to his place of business. “Won’t you come with?” she asked her sisters.
“Well . . .” said Cindy, only to be interrupted by St. Cloud with a loud and emphatic “Absolutely not! You’re a fool, Sondra, if you think material this shoddy will protect you when a lupine or a vulpine comes to call!
“Humph,” said the salesman.
“Oh don’t be silly!” said Sondra. “What can they do if I lock my doors tight?”
“You’ll be disillusioned, de-pantied, and despoiled,” said St. Cloud.
“There’s a last panty-down-time for every fay,” Sondra replied; “Till then, I want as much fun as I can get.” So she went off with the salesman.
At his establishment, he spelled out just how sumptuous her new digs would be, and he told her he’d build them himself within a matter of days. So Sondra gladly paid him the bulk of her inheritance.
Meanwhile, Cindy and St. Cloud had gone farther along the road, when they met another salesman, a purveyor of sticks. He let them know that, for the right price, he could build them each a sprawling stick-mansion. This, he assured them, was the most economical method of crafting such a structure.
Cindy loved his brochures and wanted to hear more.
“Absolutely not!” said St. Cloud. “You’re daft, Cindy, if you think stuff this flimsy will save you and your panties from some dreadful lupine, vulpine, or cattiform!”
“Humph,” said the salesman.
“Oh don’t be silly!” said Cindy. “What can they do if I lock my doors tight?”
“You’ll be taken, trussed, and tasted,” said St. Cloud.
“There’s a last kicky-crying-time for every fay,” Cindy retorted; “till then, I want all the fun I can have.” So she went off with the salesman.
At his establishment, he let her know just what a bargain she was getting, and that he’d build it himself within a matter of days. So Cindy gladly paid him all of her inheritance.
St. Cloud, in the meantime, had continued down the Royal Road. After a few more hours, she met a bricklayer, who offered to build her a sturdy bungalow for just a fraction of her inheritance. St. Cloud wisely chose him to create her home.
A few weeks later, a very accomplished huntress named Lupette was out scouting the countryside for her next meal. She was silvery-shaggy, clothed only in her fur, and mostly wolf, though she did stand and walk on two legs. She had gone some distance into the Forest of Ardor, when, in a familiar clearing, she saw something new: a vast, Italianate mansion, built (it would seem) entirely of straw. She heard, coming from the mansion, the unmistakable, melodious tones of a porcelina singing in a transport of joy.
It was Sondra, of course, who just then saw the hungry lupine loping down her path and making for the front door. The porcelina shrieked and ran to the door—which she locked just in time. Then, in a mad rush, she secured every other door—and locked in place the straw bars with which her windows were equipped.
Seeing her immediate access blocked, Lupette called out:
“Porcelina, porcelina,
I’ll soon be tasting your vagina!”
Sondra shouted back:
“Not by the hair of my pussy puss puss!
Now go eat someone else, you wuss!”
“Grrrrr,” said Lupette, “make me work for my meal, will you? Well then, I’ll huff and I’ll puff, and I’ll blow your house down!” And true to her word, she began drawing an enormous volume of air into the vast bellows that were her lungs. Sondra could only look on in wide-eyed fright as the lupine expanded and further expanded, like a big furry balloon.
Finally, when she felt she’d inhaled enough, Lupette let loose, sending a column of compressed air at more than hurricane speed towards the flimsy though opulent mansion. On impact it simply exploded, its constituent straws flying in every direction. Sondra screamed as she was blown into the air. But then, as undeserved luck would have it, the great wind dropped her at the edge of the surrounding trees. Into their shelter she ran, as fast as her magic heels would take her.
Sadly for Lupette, she needed several ordinary breaths before she could dash off after the fleeing porcelina. By then, Sondra was out of sight. Out of sight, but still detectable: as snug as Sondra’s panties were, they could not entirely mask her girl-scent, sweet, tangy, and musky all at once. Lupette could run all day and night, whereas the fay she tracked would tire and fairly soon be brought to bay—that is, if the lupine could just stay on top of that faint whiff of pussy. Nose down, she continued in pursuit.
Sondra ran and ran, until she reached another clearing. There, in its midst, was Cindy’s huge, Art Deco house of sticks! Sondra hastened up to the door, and pounded on it with her fists as she sobbed out these words:
“Oh help me, sister, help me! Oh my panties! Oh my pussy! Help me, or it’s my time
. . . my . . . panty-down time . . . . Help! Heeeeelp!”
Cindy opened the door, and Sondra half-rushed, half-fell into the foyer and cried out: “Lock the doors; bar the windows! She’s coming! She’s coming!” Cindy quickly complied. That done, Cindy put Sondra in a big comfy chair and got the whole story out of her.
“Don’t worry, sis,” said Cindy, “sticks are a lot sturdier than straw. Our panties aren’t down yet!”
Just then came a voice from outside:
“Porcelina, porcelina,
I’ll soon be tasting your vagina!”
Cindy shouted back:
“Not by the hair of my pussy puss puss!
Now go eat someone else, you wuss!”
Sondra shouted, too:
“And not by the hair of my pussy puss puss!
Now go eat someone else, you . . . even bigger wuss!”
“Mmmm,” said Lupette, “two for the price of one! I’ll huff and I’ll puff, and . . . you know the rest!” So she did, and the ensuing gale-force wind obliterated that house of sticks. Sondra and Cindy both screamed as they sailed into the air. But once again, when they hit ground they were off and running, while Lupette had to recover from drawing that enormous breath.
“Fuck,” she gasped. “Fuck fuck fucky-fuck!” And so she once more took up the pursuit—this time with two enticing scents as her guides.
Sondra and Cindy ran and ran, then stumbled on yet a third clearing, this time with a very small, but very sturdy-looking, house of brick in its midst. It was, of course, St. Cloud’s abode.
When they reached it, they both pounded frantically on the door (made of solid oak, by the way). “Oh help us, sister, help us! Oh our panties! Oh our pussies! Help us, or it’s . . . kicky-panty-down time . . . for both of us! Help! Oh, help!”
St. Cloud let them in and quickly ascertained the cause of their terror. She locked both thick, oaken doors, and then secured the iron bars that protected each window. “Don’t worry, girls,” she said, “bricks and mortar and iron and heavy wood are all a lot sturdier than straw or sticks. Buck up; our panties aren’t down yet!”
Just then came a voice from outside:
“Porcelinas, porcelinas,
I’ll soon be tasting your vaginas!”
The three sisters came to one of the barred windows and shouted:
“Not by the hair of my pussy puss puss!
“And not by the hair of my pussy puss puss!
“And not by the hair of my pussy puss puss, either!”
“Three porcelinas? I’ve hit the mother lode!” said Lupette. “Well, you know the script by now.” So she huffed and she puffed, and once more emitted the king and queen of all windstorms. The three porcelinas yelped and dropped to the floor. The monstrous wave of air hit the little bungalow . . . and exactly one brick was dislodged.
“What the fuck?” said Lupette between gasps. As soon as she’d recovered, she did a few warm-up exercises, and this time sucked in more air than she ever had before—till her lungs ached and her body threatened to come apart at the seams. Surely this would do the trick! The mighty blast of air struck the house—-and loosened another brick.
The sisters got back on their feet and began laughing and cheering:
“You thought you had us!”
“But you didn’t!”
“Bet you feel foolish now!”
Then each did a high kick, which exposed that delightful band of panty every Mythican hunter hopes to corner.
“Arrggghhhh!” said the lupine in her rage and frustration and ran straight for the door. She struck it with her head and collapsed in a stunned heap. More cheers, jeers, and high kicks from the three porcelinas.
Lupette pulled herself up and staggered off, utterly defeated it would seem. The sisters laughed--and high-kicked again.
With some of the money she’d saved by purchasing her modest home, St. Cloud had bought ample provisions--so now she threw a big party for herself and her sisters. They had plenty to eat, and choice wines and beers to wash it all down.
Some hours into the festivities, they heard what sounded like footfalls on the roof.
“What’s that?” asked Cindy.
“It’s the lupine!” St. Cloud replied in a harsh whisper. “Be very quiet. . . . Now, quickly, stoke the fire!” So they all ran to the fireplace, where a huge cookpot was already simmering with several gallons of vegetarian stew. They piled more wood around the pot, and the modest flames became quite the conflagration.
Just as St. Cloud suspected they would, they now heard something working its way down inside the chimney. “Get ready to boil, bitch,” said Sondra under her breath.
The sound got closer—-and then stopped. The porcelinas waited in suspense. Then came a plunking noise, as something, quite a bit smaller than Lupette, fell into the cookpot.
“What--” Sondra began to say, when the contents of the pot suddenly boiled up, and thick purple fumes spread in seconds through the house. “Down on the floor!” St. Cloud cried, but it did no good: the lavender-scented smoke settled there as well. It didn’t choke the three porcelinas; it enervated them. Feeling their strength and consciousness slipping away, the fays all cried out in bitter despair, and then could only whimper and sob until they fell into the deepest of deep sleeps.
Injured and dejected, Lupette had slowly made her way to the Royal Road. There she came quite by chance upon a branch of the Acme Company. She entered, looked at some of their products, and a plan quickly formed in her head. She remembered that a male cousin had suffered a fatal mishap in circumstances similar to hers. At least one of her quarry might be familiar with that story, and with the trick that had doomed her careless relative. And if not, well, she’d come down the chimney herself and bag them all anyway.
So she purchased from Acme its patented Lavender Faybomb—guaranteed to produce an incapacitating smoke on contact with water. And what happened next you already know, faithful reader.
By the following morning the lavender fumes had dissipated—-and Lupette safely entered the brick house to find three porcelinas unconscious on the floor. To make her catch absolutely secure, she bound the wrists of each girl behind her with soft but unbreakable fay-twine. Then she brought them all out of the house and lined them up side by side on their backs. Lupette had always favored this kind of trophy line when she’d bagged more than one in a day.
Now she paused to take it all in: identically beautiful triplets, their blonde hair positively fiery in the morning sun; their smooth, pink, unblemished skin; their full breasts and curvilinear bodies; their oh-so shapely legs—-which would soon be kick-kick-kicking (ooooo, so hard!) when their pants came down for good. For a while it was enough just to stare at them all, in a kind of happy wonder.
Still, one must feed, so Lupette clapped her forepaws sharply together, and the sound brought her catch to sobbing, tearful wakefulness.
”Ooooooo!” Sondra groaned, “you got my . . . pussy puss puss!”
“Aaaaahhh!” Cindy wailed, “you got my pussy puss puss, too!”
“And mine (choke) . . . too!” St. Cloud sobbed. “I built as strong as any . . . p-porcelina ever did . . . and you got us anyway! Ohhh . . . we’re caught! Bagged! Done for! Finished! Vanquished! Dispatched! Ohohhhh!”
“Well, yes,” said Lupette, and quickly tugged their panties to their knees. Thus were brought to light three pink and pretty sexes, each surmounted by a tidy, blonde muff.
Now was the time when fays seek in full the comfort of tears and kickiness—and these porcelinas were no exception: each tore the grass with her heels now, and cried her eyes and heart out. And once more Lupette was reminded that a fay is (strangely) never more beautiful than when her face is red and suffused with tears.
St. Cloud: “Ohhhhh, so . . . kicky! So very kicky!”
Sondra: “P-panties down (choke!)-- panties down for good!”
Cindy: “Oh god, god, god . . . . My pussy! My p-pretty pussy!”
Lupette waited for the storm to subside. Then she clapped her paws again and said: “It’s time, my beauties, for your last high kicks.”
“No.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh please god no.”
“Oh yes,” said their captor and raised her paws. And slowly, unwillingly, but unable to disobey, each girl raised those lovely legs: back, back, back, until they pointed tremblingly skyward.
Lupette started with St. Cloud, who kicked hard and utterly in vain as her captor massaged her pussy with a rough, venom-coated tongue.
“Ow! Ow! Ow!” the captured girl cried. But with the sting of the poison also came a pleasure like nothing St. Cloud had felt before. She shuddered and groaned with the first spurt of her fay-honey. Lupette gulped it all down.
For many minutes after this, the huntress just licked and nuzzled her victim’s twat—and brought on climax after climax. But at last it was time for the fatal tongue-fuck. Lupette’s appendage stiffened and lengthened, and secreted more venom--and when it was ready, she plunged it into her victim as far as it would go. St. Cloud half-screamed, half-groaned, and kicked even more frantically than before. She spurted again—-this time equal parts blood and honey. And she kept spurting, for the better part of an hour, before she kicked her last.
And then it was the same for her two foolish sisters.
Lupette looked down at the dead fays, and was astounded anew at how their beauty persisted, even now. But only for a time. As they came again and again, her victims had given up their life force to their captor. Now completely drained, their bodies lasted only another minute or so, and then—-poof!-—they were gone, replaced by a fine white dust.
“I love a story with a happy ending,” said Lupette.
THE END
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