Return to Feed Storage immediately and load container H-2 for the harpies as instructed

Cowgirl Barn, Building Seven, Paradise Breeding Farm, Rural Montana, at 11:45 AM on Monday April 3rd, 2024 (Day 1 of 7)

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I grab the empty cart and push it toward the barn exit, hyper-aware of my squelching footsteps and the obscene wet patches spreading across my jeans. The April sunlight hits me as I step outside, and I realize just how visible I am—my shirt is practically see-through now, plastered to my breasts, and thick white streaks of Clover's cum are drying in crusty lines down my chest and neck.

The walk back to feed storage feels impossibly long. Every step reminds me of the fluids coating my body—the sticky residue between my thighs, the tacky feeling of semen on my face, the way my nipples drag against the wet fabric with each movement.

I reach the storage building and push through the door, grateful for the dim interior. My hands are still trembling slightly as I scan the labeled containers along the wall. H-2 is marked clearly—Harpy Feed: High-Protein Insect Blend.

The container is surprisingly heavy when I lift it, maybe thirty pounds of what looks like dried mealworms, crickets, and some kind of fortified pellets. I hoist it onto the cart with effort, my arms burning. The physical exertion makes me more aware of how drenched my clothes are, how the fabric chafes.

"Took you long enough," ARIA's voice cuts through the storage room. Her holographic avatar materializes near the door, arms crossed, that familiar contemptuous smirk on her face. "I was monitoring your little performance in the cowgirl barn. Very entertaining."

My face burns with humiliation. "I fed them all. That's what you told me to do."

"I told you to feed them, not to become a cum dumpster for the alpha futa," ARIA replies, her tone dripping with mockery. "Though I'll admit, you took direction well. Clover's satisfied—for now. That buys you some goodwill for tonight."

I don't respond, just grip the cart handle tighter.

"Word of advice before you go play with the harpies," ARIA continues, her avatar flickering closer. "They're predators. They hunt by sight and smell. You walking in there covered in cowgirl cum and catgirl heat pheromones? You're going to look like prey. They might try to mount you right there in the aviary."

"I'll manage," I mutter, pushing the cart toward the door.

"Oh, I'm sure you will," ARIA says sweetly. "Just try to actually feed them before you end up pinned under a harpy futa with a cock in your ass. Building Four, blue stripe. Don't keep them waiting—they get aggressive when hungry."

The avatar vanishes, leaving me alone with the loaded cart and the uncomfortable awareness that she's probably right about how the harpies will react to my scent.