I read a story about a lamb that was seduced by a woman.

She offered to cut the lamb's forest down for him so that he could sell it to the architects of the nearest arc. Everyday she came to him and worked tirelessly. He fed her pieces of his body in exchange. This hurt him, but he knew that if they kept it up, he'd be the prime wood contractor within 100 miles for any new construction project.

But everyday, the lamb's body became more meager. His muscles started to peer through his matted wool. He smelled like mouldy laundry capping an orangey bacterial hot-spring well. His fur began to feel like thin extruded sandpaper and his eyes developed sperm-yellow cataracts. The woman ignored his condition and continued to accept payments. She never spoke a word to him other than what was necessary. The arc-men were pretty happy with him but were upset that he scared their children whenever he arrived, dripping and hobbling, with their shipments.

A year later, the arc was completed. It held the essence of lamb-grease and the lacquer of leechy assistance. The sheep bled a few more drops of sugar onto the paint-bronzed pallet of grass beneath the arc, and keeled over, dead from sheepishness.

The arc-team stopped working for a moment. A surly supervisor dripped some poison into a sturdy worker's communication notebook. The man heaved the lamb's corpse into the mixing truck. THUANG. The lamb lived forever beneath the honorary arc-celebration brick on the front of the hull. The bitch contractor inherited his woodland empire and never remembered her guilty dreams.