Equipped with a small, wooden hairbrush, you gently stroke it through her fur. The brush slides through with a little effort, untangling the thick, yellow fur. It glides out of the coat and is repeatedly drawn through again and again. You watch this action for a while, stuck in a brushing trance. Enchanted by the frivolous item, you focus on the fine strands that shine in the sun.
Braixen, on the other hand holds a look of annoyance as you slowly brush her fur. When not bearing a bored expression, she winces from each pull through her hide. Reluctant to complain to her trainer, she tries to hold her position and tough it out.
One long hour later, Braixen’s skirt was thoroughly brushed and cleaned. Soft, soft is all that could describe Braixen at the moment. Well, metaphorically that is. You could describe her with dozens of adjectives. Beautiful, graceful and innocent, just to name a few. You back away from the dress, putting her entire body into view.
“All done,” you say to no one in particular. You stand there in place examining her form strong legs, feminine skirt, delicate hands, all of her you adored. And best of all, the cutest face in the world which was marveling her groomed attire. You find yourself compelled by a powerful urge. You stare blankly at Braixen, who seems more than concerned for your well-being. Still, she stands in place, her face contorting to a look of worry. Around four feet in front of you, Braixen barks in your direction. Oh yes, her wonderful voice kick starting your urge again. Your urge, it consumes you, it embodies you. Her cries, her beautiful lively cries; you can’t wait to hear what her scared screams sound like.