CW: Blood 

It was the birthday after the special birthday. Victoria had gathered together all her favourite people for a party. The birthday girl was excited. She laughed and giggled and squealed. Sometimes from love and amusement and other times because her human Kitty pressed a particular spot on the side of her ribcage. That made her pout too.

She enthusiastically opened her present and squealed the loudest when she pulled out a cute, fluffy and soft owl with big, sparkly eyes.

Victoria sat with the owl in her lap, stroking the lilac feathers of the fluffy owl and cooing at his cuteness. She fell completely in love. She didn’t want to stop cuddling him. She imagined later in the evening after the, erm, activities, that she would snuggle down with her new owl and a blanket and happily rest.

At this point, I think it’s fair to warn you, dear reader, that this wasn’t your average party. Sure there was cake and there were presents. There was even Christian rock and pop as a soundtrack. Yeah, that was a bit of a mystery. But this party was held in a dungeon.

Not the cold stone, beneath a castle kind either, the kind that encourages depraved behaviour and revels in pleasures of the flesh.  It’s the kind of place where someone taking a metal meat tenderiser out of their bag doesn’t raise any questions at all.

The kind of place where the said tenderiser being used on the pure, unsullied white flesh of the birthday girl’s thigh didn’t raise an eyebrow. In fact it drew a bit of a crowd as well as drawing a bit of blood.  It was the human kitty who inflicted the damage. Everyone saw them hitting the same leg over and over. It wasn’t in question who’d done it.

But the poor owl, somehow got the blame for it. He found himself with his little wing wrapped around the mallet and being manipulated into hitting the yelping and moaning birthday girl over and over again.

Something changed in the little owl, who was given a new name by the brilliant and cruel Kitty. His name was Hoolio. And Hoolio was no longer cute and fluffy. Hoolio had the taste for blood.

His wide-eyed innocence was now staring malevolence. His curious head tilt now creepily intense. He wanted pain and he wanted someone else to feel it at his wing.  Unfortunately, that wasn’t to be. The Kitty trapped Hoolio behind bars and boobs. Sitting Hoolio in the cage between Victoria’s breasts. Keeping him tied down but also giving him the blood splattered meat tenderiser to hold.

Hoolio knew he just had to bide his time. He had his weapon, his time would come. He was left on a table in the social room whilst everyone headed into the dungeon for birthday beatings! Hoolio pouted. Which isn’t easy with a beak. He very múch felt left out.

Everyone else was having fun. He saw many implements pulled from bags, a skein of rope that looked like twisted wheat, a cute looking whale, an innocent looking cane, a club that looked like it belonged in a museum display on prehistoric brutality. Many fun things. Hoolio worked out that every human (including the kitty) were getting 41 hits to celebrate Victoria’s birthday.

She made some delightful noises, they’d have made old Hoolio, cute sweet, adorable Hoolio cower in fear. But the blood had changed the little fluffy owl and he wanted to make her scream and yelp and whine with pain and pleasure. Hoolio had tasted blood and wanted more.

When the birthday girl finally walked back into the social room, she walked slowly, purposefully. Her breasts were blooming with reds and blacks and her thighs were stripped with bloody welts and colourful bruises. She stood for a while, talking then Hoolio saw her face change and she made her way to a sofa, hesitated as she worked out how to get down onto the sofa causing the least pain, then delicately lowered herself down.

One human stroked her hair, her Kitty curled up with her feet in their lap and after a while she shouted out for cake, which was supplied for her. She looked content. Hoolio pouted. He felt left out. Especially as Kitty kept stroking and poking at Victoria’s sore bits, making her moan and yelp so prettily. He wanted to poke too!

Then he heard his name mentioned.

“Hoolio hasn’t had his 41 yet.” Victoria said. One of her friends eagerly came to collect him. Hoolio grinned. His turn had come! He was taken over to Victoria and given back the meat tenderiser.

He was thrilled. Nothing felt so right as that evil hammer of sadism sat comfortably in his tiny little wing.

Hoolio hit. He took every single one of his birthday beats with careful, focused precision. He hit hard, Victoria’s left thigh first spring up with red interlocking scratches, that changed into red blotches and further onto darkening purple bruises. At the end of his 41, the birthday girl had a very neat square bruise on the front of her thigh.

And she was pleased with it indeed. She hugged Hoolio, thanking him for his meanness.

From that day on Hoolio was a changed owl. He had unlocked his inner sadist.  What a hoot!