Late afternoon sunlight cascaded through the high windows of Cerise's studio, catching dust motes that floated like suspended thought. The strange sculptures stood in contorted silence: men with boar's heads, wings for arms, and a vast unfinished piece-- half stallion, half supplicant -- rearing up with hooves bared.

Lucy perched on a tall stool, sketchpad on her lap, though her pencil was still. She stared at the statue nearest her--a male torso with a wolf's head yelping with jagged teeth and a curling tongue.
"Why do you make them like this?" she asked, voice hushed as though afraid to wake the beasts.

Cerise--dark red curls coiled atop her head like a crown of serpents -- turned from her easel. Her bare arms smudged with charcoal, and her apron streaked in paint. She studied Lucy for a long moment before answering.
"Because they are real," Cerise said simply. "Or at least, real enough to us. Men who act like beasts, and beasts who dream of being men. Every woman meets them."

Lucy smiled faintly, then frowned. "And do they ever change?" she asked, as casually as she could. "Do they become better?" Cerise set down her brush. "Change is not an impossibility," she said, approaching slowly. "But redemption is not the act of a moment. It is rather a pilgrimage." She lifted a finger, tracing gently over the curve of the satyr beside Lucy, the marble cold. "You must remember: these creatures -- like this one -- have hooves on their hearts. They run before they think, and they think long after they've caused harm. But some some learn to walk upright again."

Lucy stared down at her pad. Her fingers tightened around the pencil, but she did not draw.
There was silence for a beat, then Lucy whispered, "But how can you know if it's real? If he means it?"
Cerise tilted her head. "You don't. Not at first. Which is why you must never need it to be true. If you rely on his change to free you, you are still chained. Redemption must be his path. Your task is to remain standing while he walks it -- or not."

She glanced again at the beast-statues ringing the room. "They may kneel. They may rise. Or they may bite. You must learn to see which is which before they're at your throat." Lucy finally moved her pencil -- shading gently around a wing she had barely begun to sketch earlier. Her jaw was set, but her eyes were distant. "And if I do believe if I try to believe, and he fails?"

Cerise came to stand beside her. Her voice softened. "Then you forgive yourself for hoping. And you keep walking."
She turned back to her easel. "Besides, even beasts may follow beauty. But only men can choose truth."
Lucy drew in a slow breath. Her pencil moved with greater purpose now. She was sketching a new figure -- still rough, still uncertain. It had the shoulders of a man. But she hadn't yet decided on the face.

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Across the other side of the village, Kathy was feeling very pleased with herself. Crispin would soon be paying dearly for the liberties he had taken with her. Truth be told, there were a number of other philanders she had encountered in her young life. Kathy felt sure that none of them would ever come knocking on her door craving forgiveness. Well then, let him pay their debts as well.

Pievale Village Hall was the setting -- cleared of tables for this singular event. At the centre, Crispin stood naked save for an absurdly large adult diaper, its white padding thick about his loins, crinkling with every tremor of his knees. Once-proud manhood now imprisoned in pillowy shame.

Kathy sat on a cushioned chair before him-- sweet Kathy, whose heart melting gentle smile now the patient grin of a woman ready to refashion mankind's finest. A tray rested at her feet: jugs of raw eggs, condensed milk, chocolate pudding, melted ice cream, thick malt extract -- and one limp, glistening fish, laid on a bed of ice.

She gestured to Crispin to kneel. Her fingertips lifted his chin.
"One rule, love," she cooed, her voice soft as a lullaby. "Eyes on me. Just me. Not a single glance at the pretty trollops you adored so much. Not one." Rosie stood at his shoulder, freshly made custard pies stacked high on shelving. Music bellowed from the PA system announcing the parade's commencement.

First up: Polly and Fiona. Sisters. Polly barely eighteen, Fiona a touch older -- both clad in matching red silk robes that swayed open just enough to reveal garters and black stockings. They sashayed past, giggling, breasts half-bared, Fiona's robe slipping from one shoulder.
Crispin's eyes twitched -- just a flicker -- from Kathy's warm gaze to Fiona's pale swell of cleavage. Kathy sighed sweetly, tipping a jug of raw eggs into the diaper's back. Cool slime dribbled down his rear, sliding over his crack in clumps of yolk. Rosie stepped forward -- smack! -- a custard pie to the face for good measure.

Next: Rachel and Daisy, best mates since school. Rachel, tiny and flat-chested, sporting only a cropped white t-shirt riding above her hips. Daisy, all curves and dark curls, wearing a corset but no knickers -- flashing flesh and a glimpse of quim as she span round. Male eyes widened, darting at Daisy's exposed hip. Kathy clucked her tongue, upending a jug of chocolate pudding into the diaper's front. The thick sweetness oozed around his firm penis, swaddling it in warm fudge. Smack! -- another custard pie from Rosie, this time lemon zest.

Then April: the farmer's daughter. She stepped forward in nothing but muddy wellingtons and a smock. She twirled, lifting her dress to reveal every curve of her sun-kissed backside.
Crispin's gaze helplessly dropped from Kathy's steady eyes to April's bouncing behind. With exaggerated patience, Kathy poured the jug of melted vanilla ice cream slowly down the front of the diaper. Cold rivulets slid down thighs. Rosie's next pie -- raspberry -- landed flat on his scalp, depositing sticky seeds through his hair.

Next: Rosie herself. She discarded her bakery apron and beneath it only a delicate thong. She turned, slowly peeling the thong off and letting it fall to her ankles, giving an obscene, lingering glimpse of her fully shaven cunt.
Before he could hope to stop them, Crispin's eyes honed in to her pussy. Kathy's smile never wavered. A jug of condensed milk joined the mix -- thick and syrupy, poured straight into the back of the diaper until the padding sagged under the sugary weight. Reaching over to the middle shelf, smack! -- a chocolate custard pie landed squarely in his face.

And then entering the Hall came Lucy. Oh, Lucy. Short skirt, black brassiere, Italian bob glistening under the warm lights. She didn't bother to tease -- strutting forward, she lifted her skirt, parting lean thighs just enough to show the lace edge of her bra's matching pair of panties -- and Crispin crumbled. His eyes drank her in like a parched beast crawling to an oasis.
Kathy clicked her tongue. A jug of thick malt extract slewed slowly into the front of the diaper. It seeped through every fold, binding raw egg, chocolate, and condensed milk into a slapstick stew that sloshed around Crispin's stiff yet helpless parts. Rosie crowned him with another pie, this one butterscotch, pressed down hard until it dripped down the shoulders.

Finally: the grand finale. Jenny and Mary the Lady Mayoress -- only nipple tassels spinning lazily on their bare breasts, tiny thongs the only concession to modesty. A mayoral chain glinting around Mary's white neck. They swayed side by side, laughing, twirling the tassels until his eyes rolled helplessly from Kathy's face. Then, with a wink to the gathered girls, Kathy lifted the limp wet fish and slid it between his thighs, leaving the tail poking out over the waistband. Its cold scales brushed against his scrotum -- tickling, prodding, and adding insult to sticky injury.
One final pie -- a special peanut butter one -- slammed straight into the diaper's front by Jenny's strong palm, sealing the cocktail of shame inside.

Crispin fell once more to his knees -- diaper grotesquely bloated and seeping goo, face smeared with pie crust and cream, manhood lost somewhere in the swamp of sweetness and egg yolk. Kathy tilted his chin up once more.
"Eyes on me now, darling?" she asked softly. "Good. Maybe next time you'll keep them there."

And behind her, somewhere in the flickering shadows of the entrance, Circe watched it all -- her soft laughter like the whisper of a spell.