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\n\t\t\t\t\t| " | \n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t"Damn, that's a shitload of hay!" Max exclaimed, honestly amazed. Sydney chuckled and shrugged her shoulders, like it wasn't too big a deal. "Oh, pardon my language, young miss." "No problem! I've heard way worse before." Sydney replied. Max scoffed and reached his arms up over his head, stretching wide, groaning. Lil' Sootface heard a few joints snap and pop as the one-eyed shep-coon leaned back, amazed to see him still standing upright. Man, you see one barn filled with hay, you've seen 'em all. Sydney thought to herself as she trotted to a large ladder that rose up to the edge of the loft's surface, roughly thirty rungs high. She climbed up fast, reaching the top with impressive speed to knock down a few large bundled bales with a sickle-hook, suspended off the edge of the second floor, hung like a Christmas tree ornament. Max was impressed with her ninja-like agility and climbing speed. He had a certain aversion to heights, so it always thrilled him to see younger anthros handle high-rise areas with ease. At least these younger anthro-kids weren't gigantic pussies about something as mundane as heights. Sydney's choice of fashion didn't exactly vibe with the work at hand, but Max figured she most likely knew she was doing. Hell, she'd lived on this ranch for most of her life anyways, this much he knew without even asking. Or did he really know this? Maybe she too was brought here for the week to work off a debt of some sort, much like he was doing, no thanks to his drunken stupidity. There was a time and a place for such questions to be asked and answered - this was neither. Especially when the first bale of hay came crashing down in front of his foot-paws. Max jumped back, snapped free from his involved thoughts. Sydney gasped, stifling a flurry of hysterical laughter. "Whoops! Sorry 'bout that, buddy! I almost gave you a hay-shower, huh?" Max just glared up at her silently. "Yeah, that would've been messy. Heh." The young vixen-raccoon anthro-girl wore a very revealing pair of denim jean-shorts, causing Max to see a hint of yellow striped panties as she climbed up the ladder. Or maybe that was just her natural fur-tones? Perhaps he didn't see her underwear as much as he actually saw the surface of her taint in such a brief glimpse that lasted roughly half a second. Max stifled a blush and suddenly sported a stealth erection. Was this from her nudging herself up against his groin earlier? Or maybe her youthful figure? Had he really been that damn hosed up that he felt a strangely sexual attraction to this... kid? This young girl? Moron! It's not like you haven't engaged in intercourse with cubs before. Remember Milly... He insisted that the stiffy just pass on and leave him be, since there was work to be done. Pleasure could be had later, after-hours - when all of today's business was situated. Then he'd have six more days to go. Six more days to lend a hand at the fame-acclaimed peacock fashionista Penelope Peahen's renowned working ranch. Some disputed the place to be a child orphanage, others considered it a living breathing wreck. Max saw plenty of charm and elegance in the place though, nestled on a scenic patch of numerous acres on the outskirts of Denver, Colorado. The air was crisp and clean, the scenery was thriving with beauty and pure nature - what more could any shep-coon possibly ask for? He'd brought a few girlie mags for the very occasion of self-pleasure, figuring he'd be able to get away with a quick fapping before sleep overpowered his senses. He thought of the magazines and the scantly-clad beauties from within who adorned those many pages and fold-outs as he watched Sydney, wondering if she were aware of what pornography was exactly, if she'd ever accidentally caught some nudie mags lying around or grew curious enough to search "Sex" or "Vagina" or what-the-hell-ever on the internet. Realization dawned on Maxwell: what if there is no internet service here? Also was the peacock-woman in charge of things really the "Furry Fever" or "Masculine Murriness" type? Like hell. Fat chance. No way, amigo. Forget it. Sydney, oblivious to Max's overworking imaginative and dutifully perverted mind, continued to yank and throw down hay bales. She wore a white spaghetti-strap shirt underneath a loose-fitting tank-top with spiral designs adorning its surface; something her foster mother definitely put her up to wearing, no doubt. That, or Sydney had the most eccentric fashion sense Max had ever seen in a cub-girl her age… probably about fourteen or so, give or take. Then again, Max had never been precisely accurate at guessing ages, so that could've been a rough estimate. When she dropped the second bale of hay, her shirt stretched out just enough for Max to catch an impromptu glimpse of her chest and underdeveloped breasts. He was reminded of mosquito-bites on a human child's arm.\n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t\t | \n\t\t\t\t\t\t\t
Pages 6 and 7! The inside of the barn!
This comic is a visual recreation of this story:
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