Think Like A Horse

I thought I'd inherited a quiet little farm. What I found was three mysterious men, a land bound by ancient magic, and a destiny I can't escape. From the moment I set foot on Hucow Hollow, nothing feels normal. The air hums with energy. The mist seems alive, whispering secrets and pulling me deeper into its fold. Something inside me changes. Power stirs in my blood, molding me in ways I can't explain—and the Hollow responds to my every heartbeat. Then they appear: Darius, the Herd King—commanding, magnetic, bound to the land by ancient right Vastian, his protector—strong, unyielding, with eyes that see straight through me Khael, his shadow—quiet, watchful, a mystery wrapped in darkness They tell me I was chosen. That the Hollow called me here. That its curse—and its awakening—are somehow tied to me. I didn't ask for this power, or for the bond that grows between us. But the deeper I fall into the Hollow's enchantment, the harder it becomes to deny what pulls us together. The Hollow doesn't just want balance—it wants its queen. And it won't rest until I claim my throne. * Belle’s books contain: reverse harem, bulls and hucow (human / cow play), high heat, milking, breeding, transformation, HEA / HFN, no cheating, primal / pet play, possessive dominant MMCs, submissive FMCs, NO noncon / dubcon The term hucow is a cross between human and cow involving elements related to lactation, breeding, bull and cow-like behavior, and incorporates domination (bull) and submission (cow) dynamics.

I shivered in the darkness, the air stale, damp and cold making goosebumps appear on my bare skin. The low rumbles and huffs which were coming from behind made me a little scared, and I knew the beast was still there, watching me with interest. I knew screaming and calling for help was futile since my voice was already hoarse for trying to scream the past few hours, but the only thing to be heard was my echo, and the snarl that followed next. I heard it shift and felt it's soft fur brush against my body and skin. I swallowed hard and held in my voice. The more it leaned in, the more my heart beat wildly, and I tried to move away from it. It's warm breath brushed against my cold skin making me shiver in response. I couldn't see but I had an idea what it wanted. I kept resisting but it was much stronger than I was, easily able to pull my thin legs apart. It showed it's dominance as a way to make me submit. I knew I wasn't strong enough to fight or escape it, but that didn't mean I was going to willingly do what the beast said, at least at that minute. But everything changed when I felt it's big head dip between my legs, easily parting them to the extreme, and a rough, yet soft , in my opening. I couldn't help the moan that left my lips. The was long, rough, and filled me to the brim, and that's when I knew I was in . The beast wanted to breed with me.

I'm a half-baked forensic examiner whose only redeeming quality is the ability to understand animals. The crime scene is inside a lavish villa. The lady of the house lies dead on the floor with a blunt-force injury to the back of her head so deep that her bone is visible. The safe has been pried open, and a million dollars in cash has vanished without a trace. Clear shoe prints mark the backyard wall, evidence that someone has climbed over it. "This one's clear as day. This is a textbook robbery-homicide. The suspect is likely a young male, around six feet tall, has a prior theft record, and knows how to cover his tracks. Check the surveillance footage in the area and look into places where he might've moved the stolen cash." The director of the forensic science center, Egbert Woodward, has been in the profession for three decades and is a widely respected authority. The officers at the scene nod in unison and begin taking notes. I'm the only one who stares at the 30 flies circling the ceiling for a full 3 minutes before taking a step forward and piping up, "Dr. Woodward, this isn't a robbery-homicide. It's a crime of passion. The murderer is the victim's husband!"

During a viral family mediation livestream, the notoriously difficult Dolores Bishop appeared on camera clutching her beloved toy poodle, Buddy, who was foaming at the mouth and suffering violent seizures every night. Convinced her daughter-in-law cursed the dog to death, Dolores demanded half a million dollars in emotional damages. The chat erupted with criticism, calling her a shameless bully trying to extort her own family. But after reviewing Buddy's test results, renowned veterinarian Dr. Alex Warren delivered a devastating diagnosis: irreversible neurological damage. The only humane option was euthanasia before the seizures became even more agonizing. Just as everyone accepts there's no hope, I heard Buddy's desperate voice. "Don't kill me! Please, Grandma, save me! I'm not sick! Every night that chubby three-year-old grandson uses me like a mop, dragging me across the floor after spilling peppermint oil everywhere. It burns so badly I can't stop convulsing!" My hand jerked, nearly shattering the teacup I'd just poured. Taking a deep breath, I walked over to Dolores. "Mrs. Bishop, is your grandson carrying a full bottle of peppermint oil in his pocket?"

My best friend gave me an orange cat named Marmalade as a birthday gift. But one night, the cat suddenly shook its head and sighed at me. "You look pretty, so how can you be this clueless? Your best friend and your boyfriend have been betraying you, and you didn't even notice." I thought I was hearing things. I took my resignation letter out of the drawer, planning to quit my job and travel the world with my best friend. "While you're busy quitting, Vivian is already preparing to replace you and become the new general manager. Your boyfriend's move is cold, no doubt. What a shame. Word is, your company's about to land a billion‑dollar investment. The future's looking pretty damn bright." I heard the cat's thoughts again. I stopped writing immediately and tore my resignation letter into pieces.

My show-quality service beastkin doesn't like me. He only wags his tail for my sister. I then bring home a low-grade venting beastkin. But he's now so upset that he's nearly in tears. "Layla Manfred, there can only be one hound, and that's me!"