After the Assault on Castle Vesh, Ravinical promised Rutt that her vagina could offer him an experience he had never known.

He bade her come to the Levers’ farm three nights hence.

This is still two nights hence.

The Milkmaid has therapeutically titfucked her father, failed to give her pussy-virginity to her Futa Catgirl sister, eaten the Minotaur's ass, and been locked in the cellar to rape a dryad with a strap-on until she learns to stop feeling guilty about it.

These nights have been eventful. And this night is young. 

So now imagine a Dollhouse. 

Imagine the Lever family’s farmhouse in front of you, cut away to expose its humble cottagecore living spaces and its megre comforts. 

A fortnight ago, three people lived here, all of them human.

Now six people live here, two of them human.

Life was changing in the little farmhouse. But, except for some emergency repairwork in the kitchen, the house itself had itself changed little. Its rustic chambers served new masters and sheltered new lifeforms but served and sheltered them with constancy. The flesh and sinew within warped and innovated, but thatch was thatch and stone was ever stone. 

This Dollhouse represented the same simple pastoral idyl that ever it did. But what strange new dollies it held! What sick new toys for what dark games!

We shall start at the top. We shall start at the top and work down until we are afeared. 

The attic.

No windows, no space. But yet light and airy simply because it was the dwelling place of Tatiana the Milkmaid, that Angel of Spring and Spirit of Summer. Hers was a full bright half of the whole world’s turning. The bright half that itself turned around the Queen of the May. She it was who left the lingering sensation of sunshine and fresh air wherever she passed. Her wholesomeness illuminated a room. Her goodness refreshed an atmosphere. The attic was her attic, so its dimensions and ventilation did not define it. She did. Her bonny nature made the space a happy room.

But look inside! Is that the milkmaid in there now?

No indeed. It is Nikki, her sister, a purple-furred futa catgirl with an expensive-looking haircut.

This attic had once belonged to Nikki, or rather belonged to a person who Nikki had once been. But then she had forsaken it in favour of a room with a window. A window with which to admit her vampire lover. 

Nikki did not want a window now. Nikki did not want to admit her vampire lover. She did not want her vampire lover to see her in her new form, her new body, her new being. For although the futa catgirl was hot as fuck and knew it, she also knew that her vampire lover would not find her so.

She knew she would now, for the first time, sexually revolt the man who had been grooming her since she was ten years old. She knew how devastatingly hard that rejection would hit. So she wanted no window, no lover, so visitors. Not tonight.

Her lover had wanted her since she was a child. Her lover would not want her now. This was not right but this was true.

So tonight Nikki wanted the attic. To sit there alone and breathe in the remnants of her sister’s light.

What strange dollies! What dark games!

What abides on the floor below?

On the floor below we find two bedrooms. The Milkmaid’s and her father’s.

The Milkmaid’s room is empty. Wherever can she be?

Her father’s room is occupied. He is there. The father. Laid sobbing on the marital bed. Sobbing on the bed where his wife shat herself to death. The bed where they conceived their children. The bed where he raped her boobs that one time. 

There he lies and there he weeps, but his story extends below. For directly below his bedroom is the lounge where last night he titfucked his eldest daughter. It was the second time in his life she’d made him cum and both times had brought him to tears. The handjob she’d given him after his wife had died had left him crying with confusion and shame. The tittyjob she’d given him last night had left him crying with happiness and joy.

He was healing.

There was healing and forgiveness in the Milkmaid’s loving breasts. The doubt and despair was passing. The father was moving past his self-indulgent grief over his wife’s death, moving past his useless sense of guilt over the one trivial little sexual assault he’d committed, and moving past his brief delusion that he was gay. Accepting the love and warmth offered by the Milkmaid’s beautiful milkers meant rejecting his delusions and foolish shame. Simply and happily allowing his daughter to place his meat between her melons had begun a transformation. He was becoming a better man and a better father. Maybe even a more efficient dairy farmer. Time would tell.

What other lives can we find on the ground floor of the farmhouse? What other toys lie scattered?

In the kitchen there is a Minotaur. He is looking for fish hooks. Whyever can that be? Does he plan to go fishing? At this time of night?

In the kitchen there is also a fairy. Suspended in a jam jar full of goosefat and rosewater. Her skin burned and blistered, coarsened and crackled. The bad heat got inside her. The heat that cooks like ovens unknown. The Milkmaid was sunshine, but not all sunshine was kind. An unkind sun had seen Joanna.

Yet she was healing.

Yet it was slow.

So Joanna the Sunburnt Fairy remained in a jar. On a shelf. In the kitchen.

And below the kitchen is the cellar.

Our last stop on our journey down the Dollhouse.

Look down into its darkness.

No! No! Look away. Look away. A terrible thing is happening there. In that darkness the kind sun shines cruel. Look away from the cellar. Look away from the darkness. Look away from the sun.

Look back up to… the kitchen, I guess. What’s happening in there?

The Minotaur is still looking for fishing equipment for some reason.

The fairy is still wallowing in her greasy jam jar.

Oh. The Minotaur has found the jam jar. He has found the tiny fairy in her jar, on her shelf.

They are talking now. They are having a conversation. I wonder what about?

We should think about that.

We should think about that.

We should try not to remember what we saw in the cellar.

And when we fail, when we do inevitably remember, we should remember this harder; We are imagining this Dollhouse. And we have filled it with toys.