Push the cart to Building Four (Harpy Aviary) immediately and begin feeding

Feed Storage Building, Paradise Breeding Farm, Rural Montana, at 11:53 AM on Monday April 3rd, 2024 (Day 1 of 7)

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I push the cart loaded with container H-2 out of the storage building and into the bright Montana sunlight. The path to Building Four is mercifully short—maybe fifty yards across the central courtyard area. I can see the structure ahead, distinctive with its blue stripe running horizontally around the middle. Unlike the enclosed barns, the harpy aviary has large mesh windows along the upper walls, presumably for ventilation and light.

The cart wheels crunch over gravel as I approach. My shirt has dried slightly in the sun but remains transparent enough that my nipples are clearly visible through the fabric, and the crusty streaks of Clover's cum form white lines down my chest and neck. I can feel it flaking slightly when I move. The smell rising from my clothes is potent—fertile arousal, fresh semen, heat pheromones layered thick.

I reach the aviary entrance and grip the handle, taking a steadying breath before pulling the door open.

The interior hits me immediately—it's much taller than the other buildings, maybe twenty feet high, with perches and platforms at various levels. Rope ladders and wooden beams crisscross the space. Natural light streams through the mesh windows, creating dappled shadows.

And the harpies notice me instantly.

"Fresh meat!" someone calls from above, followed by the distinctive sound of wings flapping.

I look up and see movement on the upper perches—feathered bodies shifting position, heads turning to focus on me with predatory intensity. Eight harpies total, I count quickly. Their wing patterns vary—some with brown and white feathers, others with striking blue or grey plumage.

Two figures drop from their perches with practiced ease, landing in front of me with barely a sound despite the ten-foot drop. Both are harpy futas, and I can immediately tell they're aroused—their cocks are already hardening, pushing out from between their legs.

The first one is lean and athletic, her wings a striking pattern of grey and white. Sharp amber eyes study me with obvious hunger. "Well, well. Look what wandered into our aviary." Her nostrils flare as she steps closer. "You smell like you've been fucked six ways from Sunday."

The second harpy futa has darker plumage—deep browns and blacks. She circles around behind me, cutting off the exit. "Cowgirl cum," she observes, her voice low and dangerous. "And catgirl heat pheromones. This one's been busy."

"I'm here to feed you," I manage, my voice steadier than I feel. "Container H-2, high-protein blend."

The grey-winged one laughs, a sharp sound. "Oh, you'll feed us alright. Question is—are you going to do it fast enough to avoid getting pinned to the floor?"

From the perches above, the other harpies are watching intently, several openly touching themselves. The sexual tension in the aviary is palpable.

"I'm Skye," the grey-winged futa says, her cock now fully erect—maybe eight inches, thinner than the cowgirl futas but with a distinctive upward curve. "My friend behind you is Zephyr. We've been waiting three days for satisfaction time. You walk in here smelling like fresh breeding stock..." She steps closer, her taloned feet clicking on the concrete floor. "Makes it real hard to be patient."

Zephyr moves in from behind, close enough that I can feel her body heat. "Start feeding," she says quietly near my ear. "Fast. Before we decide you're more interesting than the meal you brought."