Take a moment to observe the two fighting catgirls (Misty and Dahlia) to assess if they need immediate intervention

Catgirl Enclosure, Building Three, Paradise Breeding Farm, Rural Montana, at 10:27 AM on Monday April 3rd, 2024 (Day 1 of 7)

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I finish filling the last feeding station and allow myself to actually look at the two fighting catgirls in the corner. My veterinary experience kicks in—I need to assess whether this is serious aggression or just heat-driven territoriality.

The blonde one—Misty, based on ARIA's briefing—has her ears pinned back, pupils dilated to full circles. She's smaller, maybe five-three, with a lithe dancer's body and perky breasts. Her tail lashes violently as she circles the redhead. The other one—Dahlia—is taller, curvier, with fuller breasts and wider hips. Both are completely naked, their skin flushed and glistening with sweat.

They're not using claws. That's good. Just swatting, hissing, the occasional shove. Classic territorial posturing during heat cycles. In my clinic, I'd separate them into individual spaces until their hormones settled.

But they're pushing against each other now, bodies pressed together as they grapple. One wrong move and someone could get hurt.

"You need to back off," Misty snarls, her voice high and desperate. "This is my nesting spot."

"The fuck it is," Dahlia shoots back, shoving harder. "I was here first."

I should just leave. Let them work it out. But my training won't let me—if one of them gets injured, that's lost productivity, potential medical costs, and a failure on my first day.

I set down the dispenser and move toward them, hands raised in a calming gesture.

"Hey, let's just—"

Misty breaks away from Dahlia and turns on me instead, her golden eyes wild with heat-driven aggression. She closes the distance between us in three quick steps and slams into me chest-first, knocking me back against the wall. Her hands grip my shoulders, claws pricking through my shirt.

"You," she breathes, her face inches from mine. "You smell like... oh fuck, you smell so good."

Before I can respond, Dahlia is there too, pressing against my other side, her nose buried in my neck. "She's fertile," Dahlia moans. "Can you smell it? She's so fucking fertile."

"No, I'm not—" I start, but Misty is rubbing her cheek against mine, scent-marking me, her lithe body grinding against my front. Dahlia does the same from behind, sandwiching me between them.

"Smells like submission," Misty purrs, one hand sliding down to grip my hip. "Smells like breeding stock."

"Girls, please—" My voice comes out weak, breathless. They're both in heat, their bodies radiating warmth, and everywhere they touch me leaves traces of their scent—sweet, musky, overwhelming.

Dahlia's hand slides under my shirt from behind, fingers splaying across my stomach. "So soft," she murmurs. "Would look so good swollen with kittens."

My pussy clenches traitorously. I can feel wetness soaking through my panties as both catgirls rub against me, marking me with their scent, their heat, their desperate need to breed.

"Let her go." Raven's voice cuts through the haze like a whip crack.

Both catgirls freeze, then slowly pull back. I slump against the wall, my entire body trembling, my clothes now absolutely saturated with their fertile scent.

Raven stalks over, her golden eyes narrowed. Her cock is fully erect now, bobbing with each step. She leans in close, inhaling deeply at my neck, and a low growl rumbles in her chest.

"Well, well," she says slowly. "Now you reek of catgirls in heat. Every futa on this farm is going to smell you coming from a hundred yards away. That was spectacularly stupid."