Scatterbrained Ramblings

Just couldn’t stand it, so I started writing right away…

As fair warning, there’s a scene that would involve a bit of blood in this chapter. I don’t go into the blood, but without wanting to give anything away for those who want to read it anyway, just be advised that the thing Bulkun promised to give Vales to help him show his devotion…might hurt a bit.

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<Previous Chapter>

The ship erupts into commotion as the sailors all prepare to enter the harbor, but the cacophony of calls, shanties, and groaning ropes, wood, and sailors does nothing to distract you from your thoughts. You’re about to enter a foreign land and be surrounded by furs and customs you don’t know. You’re going to be paraded around, naked, and made to pleasure people you’ve never met. The thought makes you uneasy—sure, you just did that to all these sailors, but even over the course of just a few days, you feel as though you’ve found a sense of camaraderie with them. And at least you have the benefit that you’re all naked. You have to imagine that once in town, there will be people wearing clothes—at a minimum, the foreign diplomats you’re supposed to serve—and it has to be worse that way.

But no amount of worrying on your part does anything to speed or slow the ship’s progress. The land moves closer at a relentless pace, the ship closing the gap over the course of two agonizing hours. With the sailors all busy, there’s nobody for you to please, and so you sit kneeling at Bulkun’s feet and lost in thought.

There’s a sudden far-off sound of trumpets—a sound you’ve never heard before—and you look quickly over the gunwale towards the source of the noise. Hundreds—if not thousands—of people are flooding out of the city gates, streaming down the hill, and making their way to the docks.

You were right: almost all of them are wearing clothes.

“Suit up, lads,” the first mate says.

You look around behind you and gasp to see every last one of the sailors clad in a black uniform with a thick red band passing like a baldric down it. Above the red band is a thinner white one, and below the red band is a thinner green one. Turning your attention back to Bulkun, you’re shocked to see that he, too, has donned a suit of what looks like leather armor in the same colors as the crew. You gulp.

“Um, master?” you ask nervously. “I–I don’t have any clothes.”

“And none shall you wear, Vales,” Bulkun says, smiling and nodding. “It is fitting that the chieftain’s concubine should be dressed in a manner that makes it as effortless as possible for the chieftain to access what he wants.”

“But what you said about not wearing clothes to my tribe—?” you protest weakly.

“This is you resisting once again, Vales,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Put aside your humiliation and false sense of propriety. Search deep within yourself. Are you really afraid to be seen without clothes by those who wear them, or are you afraid of enjoying it?” He chuckles. “If it makes you feel better, I can have someone follow behind, giving you lashes every ten steps so that you can’t possibly enjoy yourself. Would you like that?”

You shake your head vigorously.

“Then say no more of it,” he says. “You serve the most use to me naked, I desire for the country to see you naked beside me, and that’s all that you need to know.”

At that moment, there’s a grinding noise, and several sailors leap overboard, landing smartly on the docks below. Other sailors toss heavy ropes to them, and those on dock moor the ship. A gangplank is fitted between the gunwale and the dock, and Bulkun straightens himself, checks to make sure that you are behind him, and strides down to a roar of thunderous applause. You do your best to hide as completely behind him as possible while on the gangplank, using his bulk to keep your nudity a secret as long as possible.

But as soon as he gets down to the dock, he reaches behind him and taps your hip, gesturing for you to move into position. Avoiding the eyes of the innumerable crowd, you follow him up onto a platform.

“Loyal subjects,” he booms, “I am pleased to say that our journey was a success!”

The applause starts up again. He waits for it to die down before continuing.

“I come bearing furs from the western tribes, clay vessels from the potters to the north, and breeding pairs of livestock from the gamekeepers to the south. This is indeed a prosperous day for our people!”

Another wave of applause.

“In addition, I have visited a great many new tribes, shown them the might of the Redelhorn, and made trade agreements and pacts with many. This time next year, you can expect to see great shipments of cereal grains and new spices—the likes of which you’ve never tasted before—all because I am your chieftain, you are my people, and we all deserve to have the very best this world has to offer!”

You look around and are amazed to see not only elk but many different species clapping, not in the polite way one might applaud a hunter who brought in a small kill, but in the frenzied, almost fanatical way of a people whose very way of life is reflected in the charisma and prowess of one great leader.

“And,” he says as he reaches down, grasps you by the balls, and gently pulls you over to his side, “I have brought a new concubine. I found him in one of the trapping tribes to the west. His submission is abject and his devotion is nigh-absolute; I am very pleased with him. And, I am delighted to say that he shall remain with us permanently. Through a series of events that took place at his village, he has pledged to serve me forever.”

He pushes down on your shoulder and whispers for you to pleasure him. You drop to your knees, painfully aware of how many complete strangers are watching you, and on his signal, part the flaps that conceal his malehood and take it into your mouth.

“His qualifications as a concubine are exemplary,”  he says as he begins to thrust into your mouth, balancing himself by holding onto your head, “Look: see how he shows his devotion to me!”

There’s another round of applause.

Really? Applause because I get hard when sucking his dick? What a weird culture.

“And, the good news does not stop there,” he says, grunting as his orgasm approaches.

He thrusts a few more times and then fires into your mouth, pulling your face firmly into his belly while his spurts paint your mouth. You don’t fight it; the last week of breeding has made your throat and ass pliable and hard to upset. But feeling the tenderness with which he holds you to him, you feel tears come to your eyes. You close them, and the tears stream down your face as his seed runs down your throat.

“You see,” he says quietly, “He is more than a concubine.” He raises his voice again. “I am deeply pleased and humbled to say that I have taken him as my special relation.”

There’s a stunned silence, and then hysterical applause. It’s as if the whole city has won a lottery.

“Master,” you mumble around his cock, “I–I don’t understand. Why are they so excited?”

“Later, Vales, later.”

He waits for the applause to subside once more, and then his voice takes a graver tone.

“But not all was well,” he says, gesturing for you to stop pleasuring him and kneel, facing the crowd.

You release his cock and do as he bids, presenting your half-erect penis to the veritable wall of strangers. Something moves behind you, and you glance out of the corner of your eye to see Fyrodir being led up. You gasp on seeing him; his back is almost indistinguishable from ground beef; he’s received so many lashes and had so much blood clot on him that the boundaries between his matted hair and rent skin, skin and muscle have blurred.

“We had, among us, one who does not believe that all roles share the same importance. He, in spite of warnings from his fellow sailors, deigned to repeatedly insult my new concubine. And, as is well known: a slap to the face of my special relationship is a slap to the face of me. Therefore, I sentenced him to three hundred lashes and locked him in the brig.”

He turns and faces Fyrodir directly. “You have spurned my special relationship and in so doing have spurned me. Will you repent of your transgression, here, publicly before your country, or will you continue to spurn me, sticking true to your words and receive punishment for it?”

Fyrodir lifts his head slightly. “I–I apologize—”

“Speak up,” Bulkun orders. “Your country cannot judge your words if they cannot hear you.”

Fyrodir coughs and clears his throat. Then, in a louder voice, he says, “I apologize, chieftain. It was wrong of me to treat your special relation with such disdain.”

Bulkun nods in satisfaction. “Actions speak louder than words, Fyrodir. Will you demonstrate your commitment to a changed heart?”

Fyrodir’s eyes dart to you. He sets his jaw and nods. “Yes.”

Bulkun nods. “Very well. Then present yourself.”

A stone slab is brought forward, carried by half a dozen stout elk. They place it to your right, close to the edge of the platform. The guards who hold Fyrodir release him but keep careful watch as he sits and then lies on the slab. At first, he keeps his legs squeezed tightly together, but after closing his eyes and gritting his teeth, he forces himself to spread them.

You look from him to Bulkun nervously. You’re not sure what’s about to happen, but since Fyrodir looked at you, you worry that you might be somehow involved without knowing it.

“Vales, as my special relation and the one whom Fyrodir’s words have harmed, do you accept his act of apology?” Bulkun asks.

You look from Fyrodir and back to Bulkun several times. “I–I don’t know what’s going on,” you say to your master. “Is something about to happen to him?”

“That’s not your concern, Velas,” Bulkun replies. “The question is whether you accept his act of apology.”

“But what is his act?” you protest.

“Do you forgive him for saying what he said to you?” Bulkun asked bluntly.

“Well, yes… I never intended for him to–to look like that!”

“The wronged has accepted the accused apology,” Bulkun proclaims. “Let the knife be brought.”

Your blood runs cold. Knife?

An elk approaches, bearing a sharp dagger. He presents it to Bulkun, who accepts it and turns to you.

“As the wronged party, you must make good on his act of apology,” he says. “Remove his testicles and free him of his aggression towards you.”

Your jaw drops. “N-no, Master, I”—your head whips towards Fryodir, lying there unbound, awaiting punishment. “Please, Master,” you say, turning back to Bulkun. “He has suffered enough. Please do not make me do this.”

Bulkun’s eyes narrow. “You resist me again, Vales,” he says thoughtfully. “What if I take him? Will that be better?”

You shake your head. “No. M–Master, please, can’t you see that the fire is gone from his eyes? Can’t you see how much he has bled? Please, for goodness’ sake, don’t hurt him anymore.”

Your master considers your words slowly and thoughtfully. “I believe you,” he says at last. “I thought that perhaps your fear of retaliation, of having to harm someone, of perhaps liking it might be driving your words, but in consideration of what you have said, I must believe that it is true compassion that drives what you say.” He nods slowly.

Turning to the crowd, he proclaims, “My special relation has begged clemency for the offender. This is testament to his worth as my special relation, whose role ought always to be to temper my righteous justice with mercy. Therefore, I will heed my special relation’s appeal.”

He turns to Fyrodir. “I hereby grant you clemency for your actions against Vales,” he says. “Go and resume your life as a free citizen. But as thanks for the sparing of your masculinity, give thanks with words and actions to my special relation, for he is your savior. Vales, stand up.”

You do as bidden. Dazed, Fyrodir sits up and turns to you. For a moment, he seems thunderstruck, and then in a rush of emotion, he moves forward, buries his muzzle in your crotch, and kisses, licks, and nuzzles at your half-erect penis and balls.

“Oh, thank you!” he says, desperately kissing your member over and over. “Thank you for sparing me!”

Your jaw opens and closes a few times, but you’re unsure of what to say or do. You look at Bulkun, who nods to the guards.

“All right, enough; your thanks have been made clear,” he says to Fyrodir, whom the guards have dragged away from you. “Now, go.”

Without hesitation, Fyrodir turns and runs off the platform, disappearing into the murmuring crowd.

Bulkun addresses his country once more. “I am glad to say that that was the only ill that befell us on the trip. With that out of the way, let us feast, my subjects, for today is a glorious day for the Redelhorn!”

Applause, cheers, and whistles deafen your ears as Bulkun concludes his speech and the rest of the sailors begin unloading the troves of precious cargo that you didn’t even know existed. Strange things like pottery and unfamiliar animals are pulled out of the hold with ropes and led or carried down the gangplank behind you while Bulkun turns to leave. You quickly get in step just behind him and to his right has he had bidden you to do while on the ship, and you make your way up the sun-bleached white-brick road into the city gates.

People throng about you on both sides. You try to ignore them as best you can, contenting yourself with the thought that they’re probably just wanting to get close to Bulkun, not you. But cries of “concubine”, “special relation”, and even the name Bulkun gave you keep filling your ears, and you can’t help turning this way and that as a new voice gets your attention. As you go, you feel people reaching out to take your hand or to pet your shoulder or your thigh. A bold few even get close enough as to reach forward and caress your penis as you walk by, shuddering at the way people so casually use your body.

The procession lasts at least an hour as everybody trudges up the paved hill. As you come to the city gates, you stare up in awe at walls so tall, you couldn’t throw a spear over them if you tried and so thick that you could lie across the top and not reach both sides. But if the gates were awesome, the city itself is stupefying. You’ve never seen buildings such as these, all packed tightly on top of each other and made of the same rocks that make up the road. There are people literally everywhere except under you: on every side and up above, there are people watching, conducting business, or just living out their lives. This is so vastly different from your village, whose total population might well be contained just in the people between you and the people to your right before the buildings start. You realize, just as you did on the ship, that you—and your village—are nothing by comparison, that if Bulkun wanted to, he could kill everyone in your village, raze the buildings to the ground, and make your whole tribe disappear without a trace.

It is a sinking feeling.

But as a flourish of trumpets announces your arrival at Bulkun’s palace, you forget everything else and just stare.

Twice as tall as the wall you thought was so tall, the front edifice of the palace seems purpose-built to make you feel small. Columns jut into the sky easily eight stories tall, gilded in gold and inset with rubies, emeralds, and sapphires that sparkle in the light, casting red, green, and blue reflections on the ground below. Atop the columns sit magnificent arches, gleaming white like pure knowledge sitting atop a foundation of opulence. The wooden doors that open as you arrive are two feet thick and span the full height of the columns by easily ten feet wide each. It must take a team of strong oxen to move each one.

You could march an army into here, you think. A thought crosses your mind, and you look back and gasp. That’s exactly what we’re doing.

Inside the palace gates, you had expected to see maybe a throne room or something like it, but it turns out you’ve only entered the palace courtyards. Majestic trees soar into the sky, and myriad birds of every color, most of which you’ve never even heard of, flit among the branches. Spring-fed waterfalls flow from opposite sides of the massive expanse, their waters joining in a lake in front of you before being split into twin rivers that flow along either side of the road you’re traveling.

Up ahead lies the palace itself. Obelisks of red and black sit to the left side, and of white and jade stand to the right, like four sentinels, each representing a pillars of virtue you have yet to discover. As for the palace, it glows with sunlight reflecting off its golden surface, dazzling and nearly blinding you. Its center is dome-shaped, and long halls extend on each side, terminating with rounded ends.

Crossing a massive stone bridge over the lake, you arrive at the mouth of the palace, for a mouth it seems. Cavernous and yawning, the opening into the palace seems to swallow Bulkun’s whole entourage into its smooth, marble interior.

A throne room? No, a massive foyer. A great, crimson carpet is spread before you with golden bands running parallel to your direction of travel. To the left and right open up vast expanses of space seemingly large enough to host half a continent. Candlesticks are everywhere: on chandeliers, on sconces, on floor-standing candelabra…there are more candle fixtures in this palace than there are people in your village.

Once again, you find yourself feeling very small and insignificant.

Twin staircases rise up from the floor in front of you, sweep outwards, and curve back inward to create a second floor catwalk that leads to who-knows-where. But you continue going forward, proceeding through the void between the staircases and into, at last, the throne room. The chieftain’s court stands at attention on either side of the room, bedecked in lavish garments that must consume half a mile of fabric to make. The colors used are bedazzling; in fact, in all your life, you have never seen some of the purples, teals, and oranges that greet your eyes now.

And before you sits the throne. For all the splendor of the palace, it is almost abject in its plainness, little more than a tall, stout, wooden chair with armrests. It is unadorned and looks shockingly out of place. But, with great pride, Bulkun ascends the stairs while the rest hang back. You hesitate, uncertain of what to do as he turns to face his subjects.

“Vales, come,” he says, beckoning.

You hasten to do as told, and he bids you to present yourself facing him at his feet to his right. This you do, turning your back to the crowd behind you. You’re glad for that, really; it’s easier not having to see how many are staring at you.

“Here you kneel before me now, Vales,” he says, “But soon, you shall join me at my side.”

You do a double-take as a round of applause reverberates through the echoing walls.

“For now, my subjects, let us feast!”

As everybody disperses to go about their business getting ready for the feast, Bulkun beckons, and you lean up so that you can hear him over the general hubbub.

“Before the feast, I want to give you something,” he says, “That way you can join me properly.”

You nod, and he beckons to a servant.

“Take Vales to get ready for the ceremony,” he says. “See to it that everything is arranged.”

The servant nods to him, nods to you to signal you to follow her, and then takes her leave of the chieftain. You bow awkwardly and follow her through a doorway to the immediate right of the chieftain. On the other side of it is an elegant hallway decked with rich tapestries and covered with a warm-feeling rug that tempers the sterile coldness of the marble. She leads you past several doors and then turns a key in one and opens it before ushering you inside.

Your jaw drops. The ceiling must be twenty feet high, and hanging down in billowing waves are tapestries and curtains of rich velvet. The floor is covered with a thick carpet. A great fireplace sits empty at one end of the room, unneeded this time of year. At the other end of the room is a large, four-poster bed with so many layers of mattresses and pillows and blankets that you think you could disappear into it and not find your way out for several days.

But the servant ignores both these things and leads you straight forward to a large basin.

“Will you please make yourself comfortable in the basin?” she asks politely.

You cock your head. “I–I’m sorry?”

“It’s for a bath, sir,” she replies.

You frown thoughtfully. You have never had a bath like this; for you, getting clean was always a matter of finding a stream and wading in. The concept of sitting in this… well… oversized bowl is very strange to you. But, not wanting to be rude, you do as she asks, climbing in and feeling awkward. Meanwhile, she goes to a table behind the basin, picks up a pitcher, and brings it to you.

“Is the temperature to your liking?” she asks.

You do a double-take. “The temperature?”

“Of the water, sir.”

You stare at her a moment, and then, not knowing anything better to do, dip your finger into the water. You smile reflexively.

“It’s perfect,” you reply.

“Very good, sir.”

With that, she inclines her head, and a half-dozen other servants join her in pouring pitchers of water onto your body. Where the water comes from, you have no idea, but the feeling of having a half-dozen showers of water cascading down you at once is exquisite.

Yet the servants have only begun. Now that your basin is about two-thirds full of water, they all reach in and begin scrubbing your fur, massaging your muscles, and rubbing your face and head. All of your fears melt away; it is impossible to remain uptight under such circumstances. A sweet but slightly astringent scent caresses your nose: it’s eucalyptus, and along with it, peppermint, tea tree oil, and lavender spices are mixed in with the water and kneaded into your fur by so many practiced hands. You close your eyes, feeling drowsy with relaxation.

A hand washing your thigh strays close to your groin, startling you awake. Before you can react, that same hand and its partner begin to scrub and stroke your sheath gently but just as thoroughly as the rest of you. You squirm at first, feeling uncomfortable having so many people—and especially females—in such contact with your private place, but they remain completely nonplussed, diligently moving from one place to the next.

By now, the water is a sordid shade of brown, and the servants, all wearing white caps and rolled-up sleeves, have turned bits of their attire brown, as well. Without any ado, one reaches between your legs to pull a stopper from the tub and then joins the rest in disrobing before you, discarding their soiled uniforms, and donning new ones from the cabinetry behind the basin. You watch all of this open-mouthed. Aren’t they worried about being in a male’s room with the doors closed? Aren’t they worried what people will think?

But with the same precision and diligence, they pour more water down your body, rinsing some of the sweet-smelling soap down the drain, and then they stopper the drain and proceed to wash you again, drawing water from a fresh set of basins delivered who-knows-how. Again they lull you into a light sleep with their full-body kneading, again they include your genitals in their attention, and again they drain the basin and change their uniforms. They repeat this process four times, until at last, the water is clear when they finish bathing you.

The one who led you into the room asks you to stand, which you do, and then the servants all proceed to use thick towels to pat you dry. One of them brings a brush and begins combing your coat out according to the direction it’s meant to go. When she’s finished, the first servant asks you to sit in a chair. As you sink against the luxurious fabric, you can’t help but marvel that anything could feel so comfortable. This is a far cry from your pallet onboard the ship!

But then the female elk take your hands and feet in theirs, and using files and strange clipping devices, proceed to trim your nails and your hooves and to massage your hands, forearms, and calves. When at last they finally finish with you, the one who brought you here holds up a mirror.

You gasp. The last time you saw your reflection, you were looking into a stream. Now, with countless years’ worth of grime removed, you look younger, visibly lighter, and almost…radiant. You look from the mirror to the servant, back and forth, speechless.

“Th–thank you!” you manage. “I—wow, thank you!”

The servants all smile, bow, and take their leave, leaving you alone in the room. The basin is gone, and wherever it drained has been covered up by carpet. Light comes into the room from behind the bed. Curious, you squeeze between the bed and the wall and move a thin veil.

Your jaw drops. Before you, glistening like a multicolored jewel on an ocean of white, is the whole city spread before you. The white sands seem to stretch out forever in one direction, and the deep blue of the sea spreads out the other way. There are no forests here, no little meandering streams into which you might gaze to see your reflection for lack of a better way. Below you are hundreds or thousands of furs of all types. Snatches of raised voices reach your ears, and you pick up on languages you’ve never heard of, let alone understand.

The door opens, and you quickly come out from behind the curtain.

“Vales, it is time,” says an aged elk with the bearing of a butler but the dress of a cleric or minister. “Come with me, please.”

He leads you out and further down the hall. You pass a great many rooms, some of whose doors are open while the staff cleans them. The views afforded by their great windows remind you constantly of the splendor of the city and of how small you are.

At last, the elk leads you to a door at the end of the long hallway. It leads immediately to an unadorned, winding staircase that seems to spiral downward forever. Following the elk’s lead, you begin descending into a cooler and darker part of the palace. The only light comes from sconces inset into the plain, white stones at about eye level. You reach the bottom of the stairs and follow another stone path through a stone corridor about ten feet wide and maybe ten feet tall. It opens into a large chamber, where Bulkun is already standing, awaiting your arrival. On hearing your hoofbeats, he turns, runs his hand through his hair—he has been bathed, too, it seems—and then clasps his hands behind his back. He is nervous, it seems, fidgety. You cock your head uncertainly, and he just smiles and sighs. You are standing on a round, raised, stone platform maybe twenty feet in diameter. All around the platform is a short fall into black water. The path you took to get to the platform bisects it, passing straight through. Aside from a small podium on which sits a wooden tray containing several disparate objects—a curved needle, some sort of thin, hollow tube, what looks like a smooth pair of pliers, and a white cloth—there is nothing here but you, Bulkun, and the elk who led you here.

Instinctively, you kneel before Bulkun, and both he and the minister take note, nodding satisfaction. Then, with a nod from Bulkun, the minister begins.

“Chieftain and concubine, at opposing ends of the ladder of power you stand, and yet here, in this place, will you be joined as one. The pleasure and pain of one become that of the other. To bear testament to this union, let the ring be produced.”

He turns to Bulkun, who nods solemnly and hands something to the minister. The minister holds it up, and you’re surprised to see that it is a ring, just as he said. Silver, unadorned, and oddly toroidal, it doesn’t look like any wedding band you’ve ever seen. You can’t tell for certain, but you think it might be a little big for your finger, too. But, that doesn’t seem to matter. The minister examines it minutely and nods his satisfaction.

“A fine ring, thick and heavy,” he says, looking at you and nodding as he says, “A fitting testimony to the heaviness of the burden this union places on you both. Do you,”—he turns back to Bulkun—”chieftain of the Redelhorn and admiral of the sea, take this concubine as your special relation, to command and protect him always?”

“I do,” Bulkun says, his voice choking with emotion.

“And do you, Vales of the Hvithale tribe, take this chieftain to be your master, to demonstrate to him your submission and devotion always?”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. You try again. “A–are we getting married?”

Bulkun smiles faintly. “No, Vales,” he says. “Marriage can be divorced or annulled. What we are doing, is permanent. You have sworn your fealty to me already,” he says. “This makes it official.”

You nod slowly. It all feels so…final. Yet as frightening as that sounds, there is also something comforting in it. Your penis slips from your sheath.

“I’m sorry,” you say—Bulkun starts—”But would you repeat the question, please?”

Bulkun sighs in relief.

Does he think I’m going to back out now? you wonder.

“Certainly,” the minister replies. “Do you, Vales of the Hvithale tribe, take this chieftain to be your master, and to demonstrate your submission and devotion to him always?”

You swallow hard. The minister is right; this is…heavy. You take a deep breath. Bulkun watches you anxiously.

“I do,” you say, nodding.

Bulkun sighs again, and the minister nods, satisfied. “Then, with this ring, I commit you to your humble life of servitude. May it provide you always with the means to show your devotion and to remind you eternally of the submission you have demonstrated.”

He nods to Bulkun, who kneels beside you, and the minister kneels on your other side. Uncertain of what is to come, you look to Bulkun for guidance. He responds by reaching down and stroking your partially erect penis. You gasp and let your hips spread a little wider, giving him better access. This is the strangest marriage ceremony you’ve ever experienced—the ring never even went on your finger, and you didn’t have to provide a ring at all—but if this means you might finally get to get off, well…it can’t be so bad, can it?

Bulkun continues to stroke you, and you feel yourself slide further out of your sheath. It’s strange, having him pleasuring you for a change. You can’t help but wonder what this will mean for the future. The idea of him taking you while also getting you off makes you fully erect, and precum drools liberally down your shaft and over his fingers.

“His submission is strong, but his devotion is unprecedented,” the minister murmurs. “That will suffice. You may hold him.”

You start. Hold me?

Bulkun positions himself, leaning over and into you, and grasps your penis firmly just above your sheath. Something suddenly feels very different.

“Uh, Bulkun? Wh–what’s happening?” you ask worriedly.

“I promised that I would give you a way to show your devotion more easily, Vales,” he says through gritted teeth. “This is that way.”

You don’t understand why he seems tense, but his being tense makes you feel tense, too.

“Cover your eyes, Vales,” he says. “It will all be over soon.”

“All be over? What do you mean?”

You look at the minister, who has taken down the tray. In one hand, he holds the tube. In the other, the needle.

“Look away, I say, Vales,” Bulkun says firmly. “I order you as your master; you would not disobey me, would you?”

The needle, the tube, Bulkun holding your dick in a vice-grip. Your pupils constrict.

“N–no, master, please! I–I’ll show you my devotion every day—every day, I promise!”

“It is too late, Vales,” Bulkun replies. “You have made the oath, and now you must complete the action that affirms it. I’m sorry, Vales, but not even your pleas can make me set aside tradition. Fates willing, may this be the worst day of your life.”

With that, he shoves his elbow hard into your chest, knocking you backwards and pinning you down. Your legs, still bent at the knees, complain at the unnatural position while thrusting your penis up into the hands of danger. You feel another hand grasp your cock.

“Wait,” Bulkun says.

The minister pauses. From your position, you can see his face but not what is going on.

“Vales,” Bulkun says, “There is no shame in screaming. If you feel the need, you have my permission.”

Then he nods, and the minister leans forward. You feel something long and slender push against your urethra and slide inside. You grit your teeth and let out a whimper as it pushes roughly down your sensitive piss-slit, your fists writhing and your hips coming off the ground in discomfort. It stops about a quarter of the way down your length.

“Will this be enough, my lord?” the minister asks.

Bulkun shakes his head. “No, let his devotion show more than that. It is fitting for him.”

The minister nods, and the awful tube pushes deeper into your dick.

“Like that, my lord?” the minister asks with the tube about a third of the way down your length.

“Yes. Yes, that will suffice,” Bulkun replies gravely.

“Yes, my lord.”

You feel yourself sweating all over, and whatever arousal you felt before, it’s completely gone now. Yet because of Bulkun’s death-grip on your penis, it is unable to retreat into the safety of your sheath. You don’t know what’s going to happen next, but you begin trembling on remembering that the minister held a needle in his other hand. You don’t even want to ask what purpose it will serve.

You don’t have to. A searing, pinching pain shoots through your penis, radiating outward impossibly fast. You let out a groan, which becomes a wail, which becomes a scream as the pain refuses to relent.

“Keep him still, my lord,” the minister says urgently.

Your eyes feel like they’re going to bug out of your head; your penis feels like it’s been cleaved with a hot sword. Your scream rises in pitch.

Abruptly, the intense pain stops, and you’re left with a dull ache. The minister sits back, panting, and wipes his brow with his forearm.

“That’s the first one,” he says. “And now the other.”

You scream again as the pain resumes, feeling as though it’s in the same place. Your voice goes hoarse, and tears stream from your eyes.

The pain stops.

“Don’t let go yet, my lord,” the minister says. “Three more steps.”

You feel the tube shoved up your dick being pulled out and wince, shivering all over. Then a sharp pain in your dick makes you yelp shrilly. You feel something cold against your dick, then a fleeting pain, then cold inside your dick, then another fleeting pain, and then, weight, as though someone added a lead weight to your penis.

“And now to make it permanent,” the minister says.

You feel a light tug on your penis. It’s uncomfortable but not quite painful. Then there’s a click. Then another. Then another. Then several more. The tug relaxes and then resumes, and you hear several more clicks.

“It is done, my lord,” the minister says. “You may let go.”

“Vales?” Bulkun says, “Are you all right?”

You nod, exhausted, panting, and sweating.

“Come, sit up and see.”

He helps you up, and you gasp. The ring that you thought was too big for your finger has now been hooped through your penis in the same orientation as a Prince Albert, but a third of the way down your shaft. Tears fall from your eyes again.

“Why, Master, why?” you sob, looking at your injured penis and the large, heavy burden it now carries.

“This is why, Vales,” Bulkun replies gravely.

He finally lets go of your dick, and without any arousal to keep it erect, it retreats swiftly back into your sheath. But as the ring encounters your sheath, it catches, making you scream once more as the momentum yanks against the ring and your tender flesh. You cannot breathe or speak. You can only feel that constant pull, that constant feeling of being torn. With jerking, anguished motions, you reach down to grasp your sheath. Bulkun lets you, and you gingerly pull it back, easing the tension on the ring and your penis.

“Now, your devotion will always be visible, Vales,” Bulkun says somberly, nodding with satisfaction. “You will be a fine concubine and a wonderful special relation.”

The only response you can give is a feeble moan.

“Take him to my chambers,” Bulkun says to the minister. “Get some servants to help you. I had hoped to have him present for the feast today, but I don’t think he will be ready.”

“My lord, it is tradition for the concubine to be presented at the feast,” the minister replies. “I’m sorry, but I cannot abide your order.”

Bulkun sighs, looking legitimately aggrieved at the pain he’s caused you. “Very well,” he says. “He shall be present, but give him something to ease the pain.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The minister disappears, leaving you resting in Bulkun’s arms, still grasping your sheath to keep it from pulling on your ring.

“I’m sorry, Vales. I would make this go away if I could, but even as chieftain, I am bound by tradition.”

“Why did you even suggest it?” you hiss. “Why bring it up and lead me to think it was something I should do if it was just going to leave me miserable?”

“You think too short-term, Vales. It is miserable now, yes, but once the minister returns, you will feel fine. After a few days, it will not hurt at all, and then you will never have to worry about showing your devotion again.”

He looks at you, pain etched on your face, your hand tense as it holds your sheath.

“Let go of your sheath, Vales,” he says.

You shake your head. “N-no, Master; it hurts too badly.”

“The pain will subside. Release your sheath. Endure the pain for a few moments before the minister gets back. It will help you in the long run, I promise.”

He rests his hand on yours and gently but firmly pulls your hand away. Your sheath slides up to the ring and begins pulling on it. You hiss and squeeze your eyes closed, but his fingers interlace with yours, and you feel him holding your hand.

“Breathe, Vales,” he says. “It will be all right. Just breathe.”

You take a breath, you chin quivering and your dick aching.

“That’s right. Embrace that pain, Vales. Think of how much it means to me, your master, to have you feel this way. Feel the weight of that ring I have gotten you. Know that that weight will always be yours to bear from now on—and yours alone. I do not wish for anyone else to be by my side, Vales, only you. And seeing you bear that weight, that burden, fills me with such unimaginable pride.”

And he says my tribe is backwards, you think bitterly.

The minister arrives at last and places a few drops of something bitter on your tongue. Within seconds, the pain has gone. The minister and Bulkun help you to your feet, and then the three of you proceed back up to the throne room.

The sound of applause welcomes you back to the throne room. The chieftain leaves you standing in front of everybody as he addresses the crowd.

“My subjects, today is better still! Vales has taken the oath and now bears his burden. You are all witness to this most historic day!”

There’s a wave of applause.

“And look at how devoted he is! See how even after such a painful ordeal, he can still demonstrate such fealty!”

Oh, come on! I can’t even retract my dick. This is cheating! I—

Looking down, you gasp to find that you’re fully erect. The weighted ring drags your penis downward, making it jut straight out, but it is fully erect nonetheless.

“To Vales!”

“To Vales!” the crowd echoes.

The feast begins, and you are put into a smaller version of the chieftain’s throne beside him. He insists that you keep your legs spread, showing off your devotion the whole time. The feast itself is extravagant, with more roasted boars, plucked pheasants, wild turkeys, and roasted chickens than you have ever seen in your life served just as the first course, followed by innumerable vegetables, pastries, pastas, fruits, and delicacies from all over the world. You eat very little, your hunger held at bay by the exhausting ordeal you just experienced. As the feast continues, a nearly endless stream of visitors to the chieftain proceeds before you. Each pays his or her respects to Bulkun, congratulates you both on your oath, and compliments your devotion. Some comment, too, on what a fine specimen you are or how the king has such good taste in concubines. While these might be genuinely intended to be compliments, they all just seem to rub in the helplessness of your situation. What a roller coaster this has been: groped in the street to bathed by a half-dozen servants to pierced against your will and now enduring the platitudes of the court! It seems as though the feast will never end, and you will have no end to the number of comments on how erect your limp dick looks since it can’t retreat properly.

But, around midnight, the feast does finally come to an end. The chieftain takes you with him to his room and shuts the door behind him.

“On your belly, Vales,” he says huskily, not waiting a moment. “I have wanted you so very badly today.”

“On–on my belly?” you ask weakly. “But, the ring—?”

“It is no matter, Vales. The pain will subside with time, but for now, you must do your conjugal duty and earn that ring you wear.”

I’d gladly give it up—if I could. The thought takes you aback. Is that how fickle I’ve become, how undependable? Does my word mean nothing if I’m already trying to break an everlasting oath I took only hours ago?

You sigh. You didn’t realize you’d be pierced, just like you didn’t realize you’d be serving the whole crew on the ship. It seems unfair to you to commit to something when new rules get added after you do. Still, you do want to do the right thing. You do want to please your master. You just…wish it didn’t have to be so painful.

Crawling up onto the bed, you cautiously lie down, careful not to slide your dick against the sheets.

Bulkun crawls up on top of you, and you feel his heat between your buttocks.

“Ah, Vales,” he says huskily, “I have wanted this so badly all day. Lift your ass up for me.”

You cautiously do as told, and he slides in gently and effortlessly.

“You’ve been practicing tightening up,” he says, the pleasure evident in his voice.

“Yes, sir.”

“This pleases me very much.”

He begins to slowly and methodically stroke, savoring the feel of your ass around him. While you’re able to anticipate most of his strokes, one occasionally catches you off-guard, and your dick slips against the sheets. Each time, you let out a soft whimper, and squeeze your ass closed the stimulation feeling painful on your over-exposed glans. This happens several times before Bulkun acknowledges it.

“Fear not, Vales,” he says as he strokes in once more while simultaneously mouthing and gently biting your neck, “In time, your penis will grow calloused, your sensitivity will diminish, and it won’t hurt anymore. Best of all, you will no longer be able to pleasure yourself. That distraction will go away, and you’ll be able to focus solely on the pleasure that I and others give to you. Won’t that be nice?”

You sigh miserably. “Honestly, Master, no,” you reply. Bulkun pauses a moment and then begins stroking again.

“Why is that?” he asks.

“Well, sir, I–I like being able to pleasure myself. It—it’s emasculating to be completely dependent on someone else for everything, especially when that even includes my own sexual gratification!”

Bulkun chuckles and presses the tip of his penis against your prostate. You moan in spite of yourself, whimpering with lust that you’re not allowed to satisfy.

“You feel helpless, do you, Vales?” he asks, drinking in the sounds of your frustration.

“Yes, sir.”

“You wish to cum?”

You hesitate.

“That feels like a loaded question, sir. Anytime I agree to what seems like a good idea, something terrible happens.”

“Oh?” Bulkun asks, intrigued as he thrusts into you again, again deliberately grazing over your prostate as long as he can without breaking stride. “Do tell.”

“I agreed to accept Fyrodir’s apology, and you made me castrate him! I agreed to do this…ritual, and you put a giant ring in my dick! That was just today; should I go on…sir?”

Bulkun laughs. “You’re completely wrong, Vales! I did not make you castrate him; you convinced me to give him clemency, which spoke well of you and of me to the entire country. So, that was a net positive. And I did not put a ring in your penis; the minister did. You complain about it now, Vales, but I assure you, you will come to appreciate it, just as you will come to appreciate your life here. Think larger picture, and things don’t seem so bleak.”

You sigh. “So, what’s the ‘big picture’ with me wanting to cum?” you ask pointedly.

“Ah, ha, now you’re beginning to ask the right questions, Vales. But I don’t desire to answer you. Whether you want to cum or not, I wish for you to cum. You will submit to my desires, won’t you?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No. Well, yes, but no.”

“Huh?”

“Well, you always have a choice, even if the choice is death, murder, or some other drastic, horrible thing. But, shall we say, comfortable and non-fatal choices…no, not really, no. If you refused me, I would make you cum by force.”

“Wait, what? How can you—never mind, I don’t want to know.”

“Oh, but now I wish for you to know.”

“Ugh.”

“Let’s have the pleasant one first.”

“If you say so.”

“I do say so; roll over and face me.”

He pulls out and kneels, giving you just enough space to roll over. The moment your back is once again on the bed, he slides up between your legs and pushes up into your ass, lifting your butt off the bed a little bit.

“I love how much devotion you naturally show,” he says, reaching down to dip his finger into the pool of precum on your chest.

He begins thrusting again, his eyes gazing down at you.

Oh, no…

“Look at me, Vales,” he says gently, but with quiet resolve.

You hesitate. You don’t want to disobey, but at the same time…

“I–I can’t, master,” you admit.

“Can’t look up? Why not?” His tone is amused.

You glance up at him but avoid eye contact. “The…the closeness. It’s just…” You huff, flustered. “Master, I already feel so vulnerable and helpless, and this, my inner thoughts—they’re all I have left. When I look into your eyes, I feel as though you’re looking into all of that, looking through me. I–I just can’t stand that feeling!”

“Try, Vales,” he says. “Even for just a second, try.”

You bite your lip. Why won’t he just let me have this—this one thing?

But he’s still watching you, still waiting for you to obey him. Reluctantly, you take a deep breath and let your eyes meet his. He looks back at you, his gaze piercing, yet… Tender. Non-judgmental. Even…loving? You shake your head and look away. He chuckles.

“Was that so bad?” he asks, thrusting up against your prostate and rubbing it a few times.

Your eyes roll back in your head, and you let out a plaintive moan, your cock drooling. He shifts his focus to your drooling, pierced member and smiles, running his fingers along the bottom of the shaft, avoiding the ring, and starting back up on the other side. You close your eyes, basking in the sensation. His fingers wrap around your girth, and he strokes slowly down as he thrusts in, then reverses. Your hips rise off his lap, your back arching with desire.

“Vales,” he says, pausing.

You start and open your eyes. “Hmm?”

“Was it so terrible to look in my eyes?” he asks.

You swallow. “I–in a way, Master. It’s hard to explain.”

“Try.”

“Well, it just…when I look into your eyes, I see so many different things, but some of them make me uncomfortable.”

He does a double-take. “You see something in my eyes?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“What are they, Vales?”

“It–it’s stupid.”

“I’ll decide that.”

“Master, when I look in your eyes, I think you love me,” you blurt, your face reddening.

He frowns. “And that makes you uncomfortable?” he asks.

“Yes,” you whisper.

“But why?”

“Because… Be–because, I…” You huff, feeling trapped.

“Take your time, Vales. We have all night.”

Easy for him to say; I can’t even begin to figure out how to say that I don’t believe he could love me. I–oh…

“I… Master, I don’t believe you can love me.”

“Oh?” he asks, intrigued. “And why is that, Vales? Am I some horrible person, incapable of love?”

You shake your head hesitantly. “N–no. It’s just…how can you go from being so kind and compassionate to running a ring through my dick? How can you make me feel safe and cared-for one moment and like I’m nothing but a concubine the next? I—Master, I don’t know how to feel. You—you’re always so sure of yourself. I want to be sure of myself, but ever since I met you, I feel like…nothing. I think about how insignificant I am in comparison to your ship, let alone to this palace, this city, your empire! I think about how effortlessly you could wipe my family—my whole tribe—off the face of the planet, and it—it scares me!

“I feel helpless on so many levels right now: for myself, I’m in a foreign country with a master who controls every aspect of my life, right down to when I masturbate, where I look when we have sex, and whether my genitals will remain intact. The culture here is so vastly different from home; I feel lost, like I’m drowning at sea, without even the slightest familiar custom to cling to.

“Yet I fear more for my tribe—they may have exiled me, but I love them anyway, and they are home, backwards or not. They—they don’t realize the danger they’re in. They don’t know about this place, about the…the impossible might you have. We—my tribe and I—have warred with other tribes, but it was always evenly matched. With you, it…it’s like a mouse taking on a horse. My people are defenseless by contrast.

“Master, I—before the day you came, I never felt helpless a day in my life. I have fought bears and won. I have conquered buffalo by myself. I have engaged in countless debates with schoolmates and elders alike, and never once have I felt like I couldn’t win. I haven’t won every debate, but at least it felt like I had a chance. But with you…”

You trail off and look away, tears running down your cheeks.

Bulkun frowns, lost in thought for some time. His penis rests inside you, neither thrusting nor pulling back.

“You are despairing, Vales,” he says at last, sighing. “You think there is no hope at all, that I will inevitably move to crush your tribe, that you will forever have your independence stifled and crushed beneath my foot.”

You swallow and nod.

“Well, Vales, I have good news, and I have bad news.”

You gasp and look at him, terrified of what he will say.

“The good news is, I have no desire to crush your tribe. They are safe. And, I will go one step further since even though you haven’t expressed it, I know you are thinking it: there is almost nothing you can do, Vales, that would change my mind about that. You being rebellious or frustrating will not make me take it out on your tribe. They are responsible for your upbringing, but you are responsible for your actions. The only thing that would cause me to attack your tribe would be if they declared war on me first.” He runs his finger down the side of your face. “And surely you must know that they are not so stupid as to do that.”

You nod, feeling somewhat relieved, but still dreading the bad news.

“The bad news is, Vales, that yes, I will crush your independence, bit by bit, until you are completely captive and bound to me. A special relationship, Vales, demands that I do. How else are you to become an extension of my arm? How else am I to become the rock upon which you stand? Yes, I will pierce you to symbolize our union and to give you a permanent, constant reminder that you have a duty to perform, just as I have. Yes, I will force you to be open with your feelings, as you are doing now, because while I desire to be your rock, I cannot do that if I don’t know that there is a layer of sand under you that must be washed away before you can attain solid ground. Yes, I will push you, take away your control until you are completely unable to do anything but present your ass or mouth to me or to anybody I choose, because only by taking away all of your control can I set you completely free. You don’t understand that, Vales; I know you don’t, so I’ll try to explain. You hesitate with every action you take. A mental monologue is always playing in your mind: should I? Shouldn’t I? Will Master approve? Will the Matriarch? Will my parents? What if I don’t want to? Should I do it anyway, even if it’s against my principles? On and on and on it goes, Vales! It’s a wonder you can even breathe without contemplating the morality of doing so! By taking away your ability to choose, by dictating little thing you do, I am working to silence that incessant monologue. I am striving to allow you to exist without fear of letting someone down. But to do that, I have to break you first. One day, Vales, I will tell you to present yourself for the use of some prime minister, president, or chieftain, and there won’t be a question in your mind as to whether that’s what you should do. You won’t feel any humiliation over being “used”. You’ll feel only satisfaction at being useful and pride at being good at  your job. That, Vales, is what I want for you: a world free of second-guessing and misplaced, overbearing shame.”

He pulls out abruptly and strides across the room.

“Come, Vales,” he says. “I want you to see this.”

You hesitate; he just threw so much at you all at once…

“Vales! Now!” he barks.

You jump, yelping as your dick slaps your leg, and go to him. He stands in front of a mirror, and as you come over, he points at your reflection.

“What do you see, Vales?” he asks. “Name the first thing.”

You glance at your reflection. Strange how you felt so good at seeing it earlier and how bad it feels now.

“A has-been,” you say.

“A has-been…what?” he asks.

“Warrior. Scholar. Upstanding member of the Hvithale tribe.”

“That’s all in the past now, Vales,” he replies. “Do you know what I see?”

You venture an inquisitive glance at him.

“I see a buck. Strong”—he puts his hand on your bicep—”loyal”—he moves to your chest—”with a beautiful coat”. He stands slightly behind you and lets his hands caress your sides from your shoulders to your hips. “I see a proud, strong penis that shows such exquisite devotion to me.” He leans over slightly to cup your balls and grasp your shaft affectionately. “I see my special relation—someone I care deeply enough about to claim”—his hand grasps your ring, holding you very still—”but who is struggling in his transition.” He lets go of your ring and returns his hands to your shoulders. “I want to help him, Vales. I want him to realize that when he doesn’t believe that I can love him, it’s not because he thinks I am incapable of love but because he doesn’t believe he deserves to be loved.”

You gasp. In saying what you thought you saw in his soul, you inadvertently gave away what was in yours.

And he noticed.

You shudder, a little at first, and then violently.

“No!” you cry, jerking backwards and yelping in pain as your dick once more slaps into you. “You cannot get into my head, too!”

He does a double-take. “Vales?”

“My name is not Vales! My name is—is…”

Your eyes widen, and you look at him wildly, panic-stricken.

“What is my name?”

He regards you a moment, then steps forward, wraps his arms around you, and pulls you into him.

“Your name is ‘Vales’,” he says, “And you have worth. You are my special relation. You are my concubine. I am proud of you for both of those things. You have a beautiful body, a kind heart, and a good head. But Vales, you have been hurt. Your head is good, but the things that are in it…are not. They hurt you, Vales, and when you hurt, I hurt. I don’t want to hurt. Do you?”

Tears run freely down your cheeks. You don’t remember being hurt, but his words feel painfully true. When did you come to feel so ashamed of everything you do? When did you come to feel humiliation for everything?

When did you come to believe you couldn’t be loved?

The feast. Your parents covering their faces as Bulkun fucks you. The Matriarch and the tribe turning their backs on you. You swallow. That’s it: that’s when you started feeling ashamed.

But…wait… No. When the Matriarch made you present yourself to her, that was when you started feeling ashamed. But…why? What about that moment made you feel ashamed when nobody else did? Or did they? It doesn’t matter whether they did or not. You did.

“Vales?”

You gasp and look at Bulkun, who has his head cocked curiously.

“There’s that internal monologue, Vales,” he says, hugging you close. “Give it a rest for tonight; you will have plenty of time to sort yourself out. In fact, I make it my priority to get you sorted out. But for tonight, I want you to cum of your own free will, and then I want to demonstrate how I can force you to do it. And Vales…”

You look at him curiously.

“I want you to look me in the eye as much as you can stand. If it gets uncomfortable, look away, but then I want you to look again. I want you to see the value I place in you, and as we work, I want you to eventually claim that worth for yourself. Now, go lie on the bed, face-up.”

You retake your old positions, and the first thing he does after pressing into you is tell you to look at him. The care, compassion, and love for you comes back. You cringe and look away. He continues to thrust into you and then tells you to look again. As you do, he thrusts into you once more. You shiver, withering under his gaze, but you can’t seem to pull your eyes away. Intense emotion wells up inside of you, and you feel tears come to your eyes again.

“That’s it, Vales,” he says, lifting your head with one hand, stroking your penis with the other, and thrusting into you.

His thrusts become more insistent, and his gaze becomes all the more caring, so kind that it makes your heart ache to see it.

Yet at that very moment, he thrusts one last time, and his hand grazes over your ring. Instead of wincing, you close your eyes, your lips part, and you feel your testes contract. Your first orgasm is painful: the intimacy and connection feel stifling despite their warmth, and the ring partially blocks your urethra, making your cum back up inside of you as it dribbles feebly out of your prick.

Only then do you realize that he is cumming with you, that every squeeze of your anus on him milks out another spurt. He lowers himself onto you, and the two of you bask in the afterglow.

“Well done, Vales,” he says after a while, rousing himself. “But you know that essence is precious.”

He runs his fingers over your fur, collecting what few congealed blobs he can.

“Open your mouth, Vales.”

He presses his finger to your lips, you part them, and he slides inside. His finger presses against your tongue, and you instinctively reach forward to caress his finger, to lap around both sides, to transfer your cum from him to you.

“Mm, well done, Vales,” he murmurs, smiling. “You really are a natural.”

You shrug and smile helplessly.

“But I want you to cum again.”

You gasp. “Now?!”

He nods.

“But—but I just—”

“Don’t protest, Vales. Just…for once, trust me, all right? I promise, I will neither give you more than you can handle nor demand more than you can give.”

You nod uncertainly, and he has you get into a strange position, leaning against him with your butt in the air and your head on a pillow. The awkward position has your dick dangling down towards your face; the weight of the ring tugs it downward and feels eerily pleasant.

“What a cute ass,” he says, making you do a double-take. “I have spent all my time with you right-side up, and it occurs to me that I’ve never actually seen your tailhole before. I think I’m going to enjoy this even more than I’d planned!”

He brings his nose down to you and mouths one of your testes. You shudder and gasp, not expecting him to touch there. He grins, his tongue trailing down your perineum, circling your anus, and then pressing against it. You cringe. It’s not unpleasant, but it’s an odd sensation having something so wet, firm but not hard, and dexterous pressing against your entrance. With a gasp, you feel him press inside and then shiver as his tongue slides inside, sending goosebumps up your back. Your hips buck involuntarily, making him chuckle.

“I thought you might enjoy that,” he says, pulling his tongue from you a moment before plunging back in.

You’re amazed how long his tongue is; he strokes it in a little bit, pulls out a little, strokes in deeper, pulls out a little bit, and he just seems to keep getting deeper and deeper, far deeper than you thought he should be able to go. His tongue rubs against the walls of your rectum, probing and fishing for something. As he slides up the side where your belly is, you feel him pass over your prostate; you let out a moan. He grins, and his tongue hones in on the spot, stroking, tapping, and circling your prostate, making your hands ball into fists and your back arch with confused pleasure. Having something up your ass isn’t supposed to feel this good, but it does! You begin to feel light-headed and antsy, unable to stop squirming around as his tongue constantly torments your sensitive spot over and over again.

“Cum, Vales,” he says without taking his tongue out of you.

You whimper, feeling a strange warmth that feels like getting off but not quite the same. Something wet drips onto your face. You open your eyes and do a double-take at seeing your dick drooling milky fluid. You’re stunned. Without even touching your dick, your master has made you cum!

“Don’t waste it!” he protests, and you quickly move to get underneath your dick just in time for it to drip another milky blob right into your mouth.

Suddenly it makes sense why he has you in this strange position.

Another drop of cum lands in your mouth. You whimper, your body going rigid from the prolonged sensation of intense orgasm as the drips from your cock become almost a slow, continuous stream of milky fluid that splatters into your mouth and tastes just like cum. Your eyes squeeze closed, and your hips begin grinding against his tongue, the sensation in your ass getting almost painful from overstimulation. Your whimper becomes a groan, intensifies into a moan, and then into a soft cry. Your body shakes and convulses, and the stream of prostatic fluid trickles, dribbles, and then stops. Only then does Bulkun pull his tongue from your ass and grin.

“I told you you would cum,” he says.

You nod, babbling incoherently as he lowers your body, moving you to one side of the bed to make room for himself.

“Sleep well, Vales,” he says, wrapping his arms around you and spooning. “And welcome to Redelhorn.”

<Next Chapter>

One of these days, I’ll sleep instead of staying up all hours writing these… Or I’ll spend hours reading about sailing and lose complete track of time. Sea shanties, anyone?

So, this took considerably longer than I expected. What was supposed to be another 3K or so words to round out the first part turned into a whopping 13K words. Holy crap! But, I have to admit, I enjoyed this part—even if I was really anxious to be done with it. I wanted to publish it days ago, but there were so many things I wanted to cover, and while I thought about breaking it up into another part, every time I started to do that, I ended up writing a little bit more and couldn’t seem to stop myself! So, enjoy. I’m hoping to publish the next installment soon—maybe today since for once I have a bit of free time on my hands (it’s a weekend). I’m thinking it’s probably gonna be much shorter…but then again, I said that about this installment, too…

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<Previous Chapter>

You grimace as a bubble shifts in your guts, moving up along your left side as you step out of the stateroom and close the door behind you. Stepping out onto the deck, all you see around you is water.

“Gain way!”

You leap back just in time to avoid being bowled over by an elk with a coil of rope slung over his shoulder. The rope itself must be three inches in diameter, and there’ve got to be a hundred feet of it or more. You momentarily forget the unpleasant feeling in your bowels as you marvel at the strength the sailor must have to move as briskly as he is while carrying so much weight.

“Starboard, all braces,” another sailor barks, and there’s a commotion as dozens of sailors all move to the sides of the ship and take hold of countless ropes.

“Brace up!” he calls.

A piercing voice rings out in a tenor’s pitch:

Oh, I’ve—
Gotta sweet thing down back on land,
But even if I’m dying, she won’t lend a hand.

At this, the whole crew starts heaving in time to the words and singing back a response:

Feed her to the sharks, lads, feed her to the whales.
Let’s all put her to good use while we tell our tales!

Your jaw drops at the audacity of such a song, but as it continues on, getting more raucous and irreverent by the verse and including such things as a king whose good use was being made into stew and a captain’s daughter doubling as a footstool, you can’t help but shake your head and grin. Looking up, you gasp to see the giant masts in front of you slowly turning a little bit each time the elks heave on the ropes. The sails billow and fill, and you see the sun start to move around in the sky as the ship turns into the wind.

If this were any other day, it would be exciting. Oh, who are you kidding? It is exciting! Being on your first ship, seeing the seemingly endless expanse of the sea for the first time, hearing and smelling new things on deck that you’d never experienced before, it all could make for such an adventure! But a grumble in your gut suddenly reminds you that you’re not here to sight-see. You look around and spy a door on the other end of the deck, past one of the huge masts. You make for it, careful to stay out of the way of the seemingly constant bustle of activity as sailors tighten ropes here, loosen them there, and continue singing their bawdy songs. You make it to the door and step through just as the shantyman sings:

We’ve—
Got a stout buck that we brought with us
But although he looked the part, he is quite a wuss.

To this, the crew answers:

Fuck him in the ass, lads, have him fetch some ales.
Let’s all put him to good use while we tell our tales!

You blush fiercely and close the door. How could that song possibly be about anything but you? For all the song’s irreverent charm, you can’t help but believe that this is gonna be your life: getting fucked and fetching beer for drunken sailors.

“Whozzat?”

You turn around to see a burly elk sitting beside a table that appears to have been made from a large reel of something—probably rope. He squints his eyes as he looks at you, and finally lifting his hand up to shield his face from the sunlight coming through the window before you, he makes out your features. A knowing look crosses his features.

“Finished with you, has he?” he says, putting his half-emptied tankard of ale down on the table and getting to his feet.

You swallow. You’re not sure exactly how this is supposed to work as he steps up to you, towering a good two feet taller and looking down at you.

“Hmm. Not bad,” he says.

Without warning, he reaches out and grabs your balls. Your eyes bulge, and you reflexively swing your arm down to knock his hand away.

His hand doesn’t budge, and your arm bounces off harmlessly.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he says, squeezing your balls just enough to be uncomfortable without actually hurting. “I’ve been around enough to be prepared for anything, but these young guys? They’d have laid you out on the floor for trying to attack them.”

He sniffs abruptly, his nostrils flaring several times in quick succession. He smiles faintly.

“It sounds like congratulations are in order,” he says.

You swallow and shift your weight uncomfortably. He releases you abruptly, turns on heel, and returns to his seat.

“I’m not going to be the one to break the seal the chieftain made,” he says with a wry smirk as he lifts his ale to his mouth. “We’ll let one of the young, eager bulls make that mistake.”

He drains the mug and holds it up expectantly. You fix him with an expressionless, disbelieving stare. He cocks an eyebrow.

“Everybody’s got a purpose, concubine,” he says. “If you’re not getting me off, then you’re getting me ale while I’m off duty.”

Your expressionless face melts into shocked indignation. “I am not a bar-wench!” you snap.

“No?” he asks, putting his mug down and standing chest-to-chest with you—or, rather, your face to his chest, given his height.

You stare straight ahead; he’s so close that your eyes would have to cross for you to see the fur on his chest. He smells like someone who hasn’t bathed in quite some time. You can feel his eyes boring into the top of your head. You’re tense, but, you notice, so is he; he’s not nearly as self-assured as Bulkun or the Matriarch.

In other words, if this is a battle of wills, you actually stand a chance.

You double down, ignoring the feeling of his breath on your ears. You force yourself to relax, to appear serene even though your heart is racing. What if he tries to hit you? Do you defend yourself? Bulkun didn’t say anything about this, and he definitely didn’t say anything about getting drinks for the crew.

A hint of doubt creeps into your mind. Then again, would it hurt anything for you to do it? Is it worth making enemies on your first day?

In your mind, you shake your head, and your fists ball up subconsciously. It’s not that it’s hurting anything or that it’s hard; I don’t take orders from this guy. It’s the principle of the thing. And if he thinks he’s going to make me do it by getting in my space, he’s got another think coming!

Choose your battles…

Back and forth, you argue with yourself. You might have continued all day, but the elk abruptly takes a step back, letting out a snort.

“You’ve got some spunk in you, I’ll give you that,” the elk says. “So be it; don’t get my drink. But I’m gonna enjoy taking it out of your ass.”

The door opens behind you, and a couple more sailors walk in. They do a double-take on seeing you, then stop and size you up.

“Alexei, who’s your friend?” one of them says.

“The new concubine,” Alexei replies. He smirks. “He’s not a bar wench. He said so himself.”

“Well, fuck that; I can get my own damn ale. But damn, when I heard the chieftain was bringing back some fresh tail? Mmm, yeah, I’ll take me some of that.”

He proceeds to all but rape you with the look he gives you. You clench your jaw, fighting the urge to cover yourself. The smell of testosterone in the cabin is suddenly very strong; you realize that with three bulls—all of them at least a foot taller than you are—you’d better tread cautiously.

“Well,” Alexei says, “Hopefully his ass will make up for the lack of ale-serving.”

“I’m about ready to find out.” The elk looks around. “Alexei, hold your mug; there’s not a damn place to do the dirty in here but that lousy table.”

Alexei shrugs, stands, and steps off a few feet to give the newcomer space.

“Come on, you little deer-slut. Let’s see what you’re made of.”

“Don’t let the chieftain catch you talking down on him like that,” Alexei warns. “You know how he feels about everybody’s role having worth.”

The elk shrugs. “Chieftain ain’t here, and I know you guys won’t tell. As for you,” he says, grabbing your wrist with shocking strength and dragging you up to him, “You don’t strike me as a snitch; just a slut. A slut who’s gonna give me some much-needed relief. On your back on the table,” he orders.

You glance at the other elk; how many times are you going to get publicly violated today? “You guys aren’t much for privacy, huh?” you ask, eliciting scoffs all around.

“Too slow, slut, and what do you need privacy for? Everybody knows why you’re here,” the elk says, shoving you and knocking you over backwards.

You land on the table, your arms flying out to catch your fall on your forearms. You recover quickly, but not fast enough; the elk has already kicked your legs out of the way and is squatting over you, his fur already brushing against yours. Your tail instinctively clamps down, barring entrance.

“Don’t—mmf—fight it—slut!” the elk grunts as he fumbles to find your hole and then does his best to shove your tail out of the way. “The sooner you let me in, the sooner we get this over with.”

He’s right; you know that as pent-up as he is, he’s not gonna last, but again, it’s the principle of the thing. You’re not just an inanimate tool to be picked up, thrown down, and used at the sailors’ whims!

“Aww, fuck this,” the elk grumbles, slipping his thumb under your tail, curling his fingers around it, and wrenching back on it painfully.

You let out a yelp, and his dick shoves up into you. It’s sharp, and he doesn’t hold anything back as he drives himself in balls-deep.

“Whoo!” he says, snorting sharply, “Fuck, that’s a tight ass.”

You can’t breathe; your lips are pulled back in an agonized grimace, and all you can think about at that moment is how bad your butt hurts. The abrupt shove made a muscle spasm, and now it feels as though you’ve got some kind of anal cramp, the kind you get on a rare occasion when you take a particularly large and hard crap.

The sailor pulls back and thrusts in again, a little more contemplatively and less roughly. He blinks and frowns. “Really wet inside, too.”

Alexei smirks, and the sailor frowns again. “What, did you use him already?”

Alexei shakes his head. “Nope. Can’t you smell it?”

The sailor pauses mid-thrust and sniffs the air, then shrugs. “No. What?”

Alexei’s smirk turns into a grin. “The chieftain; he’s got him marked.”

The sailor purses his lips and gives you a few thoughtful half-thrusts. You can feel Bulkun’s urine and semen trying to leak out every time the sailor pulls back. In spite of the pain you’re feeling—which has subsided a little bit with time—you do want to keep your word to hold your gut’s contents inside you as long as you can. So, you clench down as hard as you can, gritting your teeth and lifting your shoulders off the table from the exertion.

“Ah, well,” the sailor says presently. “I’ve already got my dick in it; too late to turn back now. Clamp down, deer-slut; it’s three days until my next bath, and I don’t want to go around smelling like the chieftain pissed all over me.”

While part of you wants to forcibly shoot all over him just to be contrary, the idea of losing control like that is frankly too appalling to consider seriously. So, as he begins to thrust in earnest, making deep, sharp strokes, you clench your fists and resolve to keep yourself from leaking out.

“Damn, that’s a nice ass,” he says. “Chieftain sure knows how to pick ’em.”

He begins to thrust faster. Your ass reflexively wants to tighten every time he pulls out and loosen every time he pushes in. You find yourself panting, not only from the exertion of fighting your body’s natural inclinations, but also from the intensifying sensations as the elk’s prick rubs up against something sensitive inside your ass that makes you feel light-headed every time he slides over it. Sweat beads on your forehead, and you grit your teeth and press your head against the table, fighting the increasing urge to just give up, to relax your ass and become a passive participant.

“Wow, this guy’s really holding it in!” says the sailor who walked in with the one currently fucking you, “I wonder if he’s had practice.”

Alexei scoffs. “I doubt it. Chieftain says his tribe’s a bunch of backwards fanatics; I’m sure if he’d had any ‘experience’, they’d have kicked him out a long time ago.”

“I can only imagine the look on their faces when the chieftain took him. I bet they just about crapped themselves!”

“Speaking of crapping yourself,” Alexei says thoughtfully, “I wonder how long he’ll last? Think Fyrodir here will get to finish first?”

“Well, I dunno; depends on how long Fyr takes to get off. Hey, Fyr, you almost done?”

“Shut up, you guys!” Fyrodir replies as his thrusts begin to take on a frenzied cadence.

He’s thrusting so hard and fast, you’ve given up trying to match his pace with your breathing. The constant sloshing and stimulation on your ass is making you feel desperate. While you might still be focused on how intense it feels to be thrust into so vigorously, your body has decided that it’s really time to expel the chieftain’s mark.

Must…fight…it…

Your whole body is now shaking from the exertion. Your bowels cramp, making you suck in a hiss and let out a groan.

“Fuck…” says the standing sailor. “Look, guy, don’t let Fyr wear you out; it’s just piss, after all. If you gotta go, hey, let it go.”

“Shut up, Liam!” Fyrodir snaps. “I’m almost off!”

He begins thrusting harder still, shaking the table. Your eyes bulge open, and your lips pull back tightly. You feel yourself getting dizzy. It would be so easy to give up, so easy to just let it all out.

Damn it, no! I can…I must…I have to hold it!

“You know what?” Alexei says presently, “Hold it back. Not because I’m telling you you have to, but because I want to see how long you can last.” He grins and says, “If you can hold it in until he gets off, I’ll serve you an ale.”

“Hey, yeah!” Liam says, “You get him an ale, and I’ll get him one, too. He’s already outdone the last guy by, sheesh, almost the whole time. Let’s see how far he can take it! In fact, you know what? I’ll go next. I’m so pent-up, I almost shot off while on the head earlier. Screw it. He’s got this!”

Alexei frowns. “What, after Fyr? Look at him! He’s about to pass out or have a stroke, one or the other—I bet he covers you!”

“Is that a real bet?” Liam asks, cracking a grin. “I tell you what: if he can’t do it, then you bring me an ale as a condolence. If he can, I’ll bring you an ale and a mugful of ‘I told you so’!”

“That’s a bet,” Alexei says, and they shake hands.

Great. Now they’re betting on me, you think as you let out several shallow, panting breaths, trying to get the cramping to stop and your quivering anus to firm up. You know that the moment you feel even a little stream out of your ass, it’s game over. You’ve got to hold firm!

“Hngh—gah—GAAH!” Fyrodir roars, jamming himself balls-deep into you.

The piss inside you sloshes around, but despite that, you still feel his cock throbbing as it spurts into you. Fyrodir pants a few times, resting one hand on the table beside your head as his twitching dick empties itself. At last, he stands upright. You grit your teeth and brace yourself. He takes a step back, and you hurriedly squeeze your ass closed as hard as you can and let your legs fall to the ground.

“Heh, heh, looks like I wasn’t the only one who enjoyed that,” Fyrodir says as he reaches up, grabs your rock-hard dick, and strokes once from base to tip.

Your eyes bulge, and you feel a squirt from your ass as you double over.

“Oh! That’s it! Wait, is that all?” Liam says.

“No,” you grunt, rolling over onto your side and then shakily onto your chest so you can get to your feet. “There’s more—a lot more.”

“Well, damn, here I thought Alexei owed me a beer.”

“No, but we owe him one,” Alexei chimes in.

“Deal’s a deal,” Liam says, nodding.

“But, uh, first…where do people, uh, relieve themselves around here? I don’t think I’m gonna make it, and I—I don’t want to do it on anyone.”

Liam and Alexei exchange glances.

“Oh, no,” Alexei says, giving Liam a wicked grin. “We’ve got a bet going, and I’m not about to be beaten that easily!”

“Psh, don’t be so modest, concubine! You’ve got an ass of steel! If you can take Fyr, you can take me easily!”

You shake your head. Your stomach growls loudly. “N–no, I—I really can’t. I—please, I don’t know if I’m even going to make it.”

“Buck-slut, shut up and let Liam fuck you,” snaps Fyrodir. “Fuck, all you gotta do is lay there and take it! Hell, I think you even enjoyed it!”

Something clicks in your mind, and in an instant, you whirl and give the elk a sharp uppercut, throwing your whole body into it. The motion unsettles your guts, and as your fist makes contact, you feel your ass give up. A stinging, hot sensation floods between your legs, and as a shocked Fyrodir falls over, you spray him in the chieftain’s piss and his own jizz.

The other two are on you in a flash, and before you can do anything else, they’ve each restrained one of your arms and are hauling you back towards the table.

“I warned you about that,” Alexei says, but you hardly even hear him.

“I’d like to see you just lie there and take it!” you yell at the elk as he gets back to his feet, a furious look on his face. “You try holding back all of that while some asshole fucks you senseless!”

“Oh, it’s gonna be a lot easier for you to lay there and take it after I’m done with you,” Fyrodir growls, advancing on you.

“Come on, Fyr,” Liam says, “He’s just new, and you have to admit, he lasted way longer than the last guy!”

“Fucking slut has no right to punch me!” Fyrodir bellows.

Your anger has subsided just enough for you to take stock of your situation. The elk holding onto you are plenty strong; there’s not much chance of getting free of them before the raging bull gets into punching range. With his height, even if you weren’t restrained, you’d be at a disadvantage.

Unless…

You time his movements, and just as he cocks back to hit you in the gut, you lift up both feet, leaving yourself suspended by the arms, and fire off a double-barrel kick at the elk. His face doesn’t even have time to register the action. By the time your feet touch the ground again, he’s flown back against the wall, the indentations of your hooves in his belly-fur showing for just an instant before he collapses, out cold.

There’s going to be hell to pay.

You’re not wrong. Within seconds, a dozen elk rush into the room to see what the commotion is. Everybody is yelling at once, and Alexei and Liam still haven’t let you go.

I’m gonna die like this. This is how I go. You snort. Better dying fighting than taking it up the ass for the rest of my life! An image of your parents’ expressions flashes into your mind. You fight it for a moment, but then a flood of shame washes over you. It’s been less than a day, and you’ve already broken your word. Your body goes limp, startling the elk carrying you as they readjust to carrying dead weight.

Better dead than living in shame.

As the newcomers all seem to get their bearings and decide you’re the one to blame, the biggest of them leads the rest in advancing on you.

Make it quick.

“Chieftain on deck!”

Abruptly, everybody stops mid-motion. Everybody turns towards the door, and everybody salutes. Alexei and Liam release you and stand at attention.

“What is the trouble here?” Bulkun asks. His voice is calm, but harsher than you’ve heard it before—it’s almost icy.

“Got to be the new concubine,” someone says.

“Were you a witness?” Bulkun asks him.

“No, sir.”

“Then get out. If you weren’t here, then get back to your posts.”

After a little jostling, the sailors all file out, leaving you and the three elk alone with the chieftain.

“Vales?” the chieftain asks. “Did you have something to do with this?”

You take a breath and set your jaw. “Yes, sir,” you reply.

“Elaborate.”

You swallow. You know no good can come of this, but having broken your word, you are determined to at least tell the truth.

“I attacked that elk, the one they call Fyrodir,” you reply.

“Unprovoked?”

You hesitate. While part of you wants to rat Fyrodir out, you know that’s not an honorable thing to do. You’re not here to get someone else in trouble; you’re here to answer for your actions. Still, to say you were unprovoked is a bit of a stretch of the truth.

“There was provocation,” you reply at last, “But I was the one who escalated.”

“I see. Alexei, Liam, is he telling the truth?”

Liam nods, but Alexei hesitates.

“Alexei, what’s on your mind?”

You can practically hear the gears turning in his head to your left and a little behind you. You hear his mouth open and then close.

“Well?”

“He is telling the truth; he has not told any lies,” he says at last, “But, I think he is not telling the whole truth.”

Bulkun raises an eyebrow. It’s both piercing and menacing at once. “Well?”

“The things that were said,” Alexei says carefully, “Speaking for myself, sir, I would not have permitted them to be said either.”

“By Vales? The concubine? Or by Fyrodir?”

“Fyrodir, sir.”

“What was said?”

“With respect, sir, it’s not my place to say. All I will say is that I told him I didn’t think you would like what he said to the concubine.”

“Enough games,” Bulkun growls. “Either one of you tells me what I want to know without hedging, or I’m going to give you each a hundred lashes to loosen your tongues!”

“Go on, conc—I mean, Vales,” Alexei says, nudging you from behind. “You’re just responding to a question from the chieftain; it’s not snitching. Right, Liam?”

“Yeah.”

You sigh and purse your lips. “Master, I—it’s not right to speak out against someone over a personal argument. Please, what was said doesn’t matter. I should not have reacted as I did, and I’m ready to accept whatever penance is appropriate.”

“It does matter, Vales,” Bulkun says, “Now answer the damn question!”

Startled and taken aback at his abrupt yelling, you shake your head. You tried to do the honorable thing—just like you tried to do the honorable thing by kneeling, naked, in front of your tribe—but doing the honorable thing just doesn’t seem to be working out for you today.

“He said I was a slut, repeatedly. Alexei told him you wouldn’t like him talking down on me like that, but he said we didn’t look like snitches. Honestly, Master, that part was annoying, but it didn’t bother me so much as when he told me that I was just lying there, taking it. I tried to do as you told me, Master, and tried to hold in your, uh—”

“Mark, and by the smell of things, it appears you failed.”

His words burn your face, but you press on. “Uh, yes. I was not just lying there, Master. I really was trying hard, and for him to say I was just taking it—it made me angry.”

“Took it like a champ,” Liam interjects. “Fyrodir managed to completely get off—and he was going really hard. It wasn’t until Vales punched him that he lost control.”

“I see. So, in other words, you being offended and retaliating was more important than doing what I told you to do?”

You hang your head, and he shakes his.

“Vales, Vales,” he says, “What am I going to do with you?” He sighs. “Well, you’ll learn.” To the others, he says, “Lash him down to the table. Tie his legs apart, and make sure his mouth is kept open. When you’re done, tell the first mate.”

“Yes, sir,” the others chorus.

“Uh, sir?” Liam asks as Bulkun turns to leave.

“Hmm?”

“What do we do with Fyrodir?”

“Lash him to the mainmast to await his punishment.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bulkun leaves, and Alexei and Liam bodily force you onto the table. With adeptness that only sailors could have, they bind your wrists and ankles to the underside of the table and then apply additional ropes to your knees, forcing them apart. You struggle, but as soon as your arms are bound, you give up; you don’t dare repeat the attack that got you into this mess in the first place. Still, as you feel your legs spread lewdly apart and feel the air brush up under your tail, you shudder and grimace, feeling disgustingly exposed.

Lastly, Alexei grabs your muzzle and drives his thumb and middle finger into your cheeks, forcing you to open your mouth. In a quick movement, Liam slips a rope into your mouth, ties it behind your head, and ratchets it tighter and tighter, wedging your mouth open. He ties it off, and without a word, the sailors leave.

You’re left alone in the room. You can feel the gentle rocking of the ship, the creak and groan of the boards. You shiver in spite of yourself, half from trepidation about what’s to become of you, and half from the clammy, stagnant air. You turn your head from side to side, but there’s really not much to see; a few tables like the one you’re strapped to, a few barrels for chairs, and that’s about it.

You hear a whistle and the first mate’s muffled voice. You can’t make out what he’s saying, but from the tone and cadence, it sounds like he’s giving orders, punctuated periodically by laughter from the crew. The voice continues, and then there’s a guttural acknowledgement by the men. The voice stops, and you hear the numerous, erratic sound of dozens of hooves going every which way. Some of them are coming towards you. You can hear them getting louder. It’s more than one or two pairs of hooves, too. Your stomach turns.

You crane your neck to see as several sailors enter the room. They’re all looking grimly at you but say nothing to you or to each other. Nevertheless, with a series of exchanged glances, they seem to communicate something among each other, and one of them takes the lead and approaches you.

You look up at him helplessly. He smirks faintly. You don’t get the idea he’s malicious, but that smirk makes you uneasy. You test your bonds, struggling in particular to close your legs as he steps up between them. You can feel the heat from his body on your thighs. It kind of makes your skin crawl.

Without warning, he steps forward, presses his groin into the space between your legs, and thrusts his cock into your ass. You bite down on the rope and clench your fists, but it has no effect; he fucks you brutally, as if he’s on a time limit to get off. You feel yourself hyperventilating, your breathing getting faster and faster as pleasure, pain, and uncomfortable intensity vie for your attention. You squeeze your eyes closed. Without needing to preserve Bulkun’s seed inside you anymore, you will yourself to just pass out.

Something pointed, firm, and musky pokes into your mouth. Your eyes spring open, and you see two upside-down legs on either side of your head. But there’s no time to contemplate them; the penis in your mouth slides against your tongue and jabs against the back of your throat. You cough, your whole body convulsing and jarring the penis in your ass into poking you savagely in the perineum. You feel like you’re going to gag as the dick in your mouth hits the back of your throat again.

“Damn it,” the elk in your mouth says.

You feel something pressing forward on your forehead, bending your head back further. The dick shoves down your throat, and you dry-heave around it. But before you can throw up, it pulls out and thrusts back in again, alternately suffocating you and letting you breathe between agonized lurches from your stomach. Then it goes in deeper and doesn’t pull all the way out. You can’t breathe. It’s rubbing your throat raw, and you desperately need air! You try to scream, but nothing comes out. Your arms and legs strain against their restraints, but the ropes hold fast. You bite down as hard as you can on the rope, desperate to convince the elk to get out of your mouth, but it holds fast, and the elk continues fucking your face hard and fast, slamming his hips against your cheekbones.

You feel a sudden, hot spurt in your ass, followed immediately by emptiness and the disgusting feeling of that hot spurt leaking out of you, trickling down your buttock, pooling on your tail, and falling to the floor below you. Even as this new, awful sensation momentarily distracts you, the elk in your mouth suddenly thrusts in so far that you can feel his balls pressing against your nostrils. You feel your throat expand as his cock throbs and pumps his seed down your throat.  Then, as abruptly as the one in your ass, he pulls out, finally letting you gasp in a breath as you drool saliva and cum down your nose.

You let out a groan and try to lift your head to see if it’s over, but before you can, you feel another set of thighs pressed against your buttocks. A split-second later, you feel yourself stuffed full of elk penis, and before you’ve even let out a yelp, another dick has shoved itself into your mouth and down your throat. Again you feel yourself doubly violated, again you feel yourself suffocating and nauseous, and again, the bulls thrust hard, dump their loads, pull out, and leave you dripping their fluids out both ends.

Your head swims; you just want to pass out. This time, you don’t even try to lift your head, a good thing, because this time you see the elk coming and manage to suck in a breath before he closes off your windpipe with his malehood. That makes the ordeal a little less terrible, but at the same time, it frees your mind to notice other things, like how loudly the elk is squish-squish-squishing into your ass, the fact that you can feel him drawing cum out of you each time he pulls out, or the fact that when he pulls out, your ass feels like it won’t close quite right.

This goes on for—you don’t know how long. It feels like eternity, but it might have been only an hour. At any rate, it stops as abruptly as it started. You cautiously dare to lift your head, coughing up and spitting out a glob of cum as you do, and see the last two elk filing out.

You breathe a sigh of relief. If this was your punishment, then you survived. Now you just have to wait for them to untie you. Your ears pick up on the sound of hoofbeats, and you swallow, regret it, spit, and try to breathe easily as you await your release. But once again, it’s not just one or two elk that are on their way.

Another group, even larger than the last, files in, and just as before, one of them takes the lead and begins to fuck your ass while another ravages your mouth. Tears stream down your face, snot drips from your nose, and cum trails unimpeded down the crack of your ass, hardening in your fur and irritating the tender skin under your tail.

Your punishment wasn’t over; it was just beginning.

For hours on end, your mouth and ass are stuffed full, rubbed raw, filled, and allowed to leak. By the time this group finishes, another has already replaced it, and your silent penance continues without pause.

A blood-curdling scream pierces the silence. The elk all exchange glances and begin talking amongst themselves.

“Whoo, one down, 299 to go,” one of them says.

“It’ll be a miracle if he survives. I heard the chieftain himself was delivering some of them.”

“I heard Alexei warned him not to talk down on the concubine, but he did it anyway.”

“Yeah, it was 50 lashes for ignoring the warning.”

“But what are the other 250 for?”

“Another 50 for what he said—”

“—and 200 more for deliberately disobeying the chieftain.”

“I knew the last one would be the lion’s share.”

The fuckings continue in spite of all this. In fact, if it’s possible, the elk fuck you even harder. As your body is violated over and over, past the point of you being able to process it anymore—or your mouth or anus to stop drooling out cum—you find your half-formed thoughts wondering if this will ever end or if this is how you’re going to die.

The hours continue on. The screaming stops at some point. You still feel the dicks as they go in, but your ass is so stretched that you don’t feel when they pull out, and your throat has been rubbed so raw that you’ve progressed from panic to discomfort to pain to agony to dull, defeated exhaustion. You become vaguely aware of a need to piss at some point, and then the urge passes. You’re too out of it to realize that you pissed all over yourself while two elk were fucking you; you didn’t notice the way the other elk jeered at you. You pass out at some point, you think, but you can’t really tell. You were getting fucked either way—be it reality or passed-out dreaming.

But at some point, the fucking stops. Your body keeps waiting for the next round to start, but it doesn’t. After a long while, you realize that you’re alone in the room and have been for some time.

There are footsteps approaching. It’s more than one or two pairs. You sag against the table and resign yourself to your fate.

“The chieftain will see you now,” says the first mate as he and several sailors stride in.

The sailors untie you while the first mate watches, hands on his hips. Once freed, you find it agonizing to move; your limbs have been in the same position for what you will eventually be told is 24 hours, and your muscles have locked up from the immobility and stress. But, desperate not to incur any more punishment on yourself, you grit your teeth—now that you can close your mouth—do your best not to swallow, cough, speak, and above all scream, and roll painfully over onto your side. Panting, you recover from the first round of agony and then slowly get into a sitting position. After another round of recovery, you try to slide off the table onto your feet, but your legs give out from under you. You fall onto your hands and knees, face burning with embarrassment and knowing that the first mate and the sailors are staring at you and silently judging. You shudder at seeing a large, flaky circle about the size of a large dinner plate and realizing that all of that dried cum used to be inside you.

But, at long last, you finally get to your feet and stumble forward, following the first mate. He escorts you to the chieftain’s stateroom, opens the door to usher you in, and closes it behind you.

The chieftain looks up from a map as you walk in. You’re barely standing, let alone at attention.

“Ah, Vales,” he says, shaking his head, “Are you ready to begin your usual duties, yet?”

You purse your lips. “You mean those weren’t my usual duties?” You wince; feeling your vocal chords move after so much trauma to your throat is excruciating. Still, you force yourself to continue. “I thought it was punishment at first, but then it kept going.”

“No. Your usual duties are 12 hours—three bells back-to-back—and then you are off for 12 hours.”

“Bells?”

“You didn’t hear the bells going off every four hours?”

You shake your head, and he shrugs. “You’ll hear them going forward,” he says. “If we stayed at sea, your body would eventually come to just know when it has been four hours, but we’ll only be at sea a few days more.”

“Am I supposed to serve ale?” you ask abruptly.

He frowns. “No. Why?”

“Alexei told me I had to serve him ale.”

A faint smile crosses Bulkun’s lips. “Alexei is a trickster. Don’t hold it against him. After all, if he hadn’t stood up for you, you might not be alive now, you probably wouldn’t be standing, and you certainly wouldn’t be intact.”

You blink and frown. “Intact?”

He rises, comes up to you, and grasps you by the balls. “Intact,” he says again.

You swallow, then wince and wish you hadn’t.

“Make no mistake, Vales: while we may share a special relationship, if you want to keep your testicles, you shall never attack anyone again. Is that clear?”

You nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Good. Because frankly, Vales, while you may have a role to play as a concubine, you don’t need your testicles to bottom, and I do not have a need for your testicles, either as part of our special relationship. Don’t prove to me that you’re too aggressive with them intact; they are easily expendable.”

He turns his back to you and clasps his hands behind his back, then turns back around.

“Vales,” he says, a hint of irritation in his voice.

“Sir?”

He sighs. “I know that you have just undergone quite an ordeal, but that does not excuse you from your duties to me.”

You rack your brain and then gasp, drop to your knees, and spread your legs.

“I’m sorry, Master,” you say hoarsely.

“It’s all right, Vales, but do not make that mistake again.” He steps up to you, caresses your chin, hesitates, and then turns his back again.

“Now that your punishment is over, it is time for you to join the crew. But, first, I want you to take the next three bells to rest and recover. After that, you are to report to me. You will perform your duties for me, and then you are to report to the same place where you served your punishment.” His voice turns menacing. “You will serve any sailor who asks. If a sailor wants to be serviced more than once, you are to finish servicing everyone else a first time and then service the second round, within your 12-hour watch. When that is over, you will take your rest and recovery, which may be interrupted from time to time if I have need of your services. During your rest time I expect you to focus on strengthening your anus. You are leaking on my floor.”

You gasp, look under yourself, and desperately try to tighten your anal muscles, but without success.

“Don’t worry about it now, Vales, but over the next few days, I expect substantial improvement.”

“Yes, master.”

“Good. Now go to sleep.”

You frown. “Um, sir? Where am I to sleep?”

The chieftain points to a pallet next to his bed. “There, Vales, where I can grab you if I need you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dismissed.”

With that, he returns his attention to his map, and you make your way achingly over to the pallet. It’s little more than straw, but it’s a big improvement over being tied face-up to a table. The second your head hits the straw, you’re out cold.

*************

“Vales, wake up. The bell will sound within the hour.”

Your eyes open one at a time, and you look up to see Bulkun standing over you.

“Before you go out to serve the men at the bell, Vales, you are to rouse yourself and come to me so that I may enjoy your service.”

You sit up, wincing; your throat feels a little better, but those protracted hours of tensing up and immobility have taken their toll. Crawling off your pallet, you kneel in front of Bulkun and spread your legs.

“Very good, Vales,” he says. “I expect that you are still very sore today; however, you brought that on yourself. So, while I am understanding of your predicament, I am not under obligation to aid you in it.”

You nod, downcast.

“I want you to lean over the bed, Vales,” the chieftain says. “I wish to fuck you standing today.”

You get to your feet, go over to the bed, put your hands on the footboard, and bend over, spreading your legs.

Without a word, Bulkun steps up behind you. You feel his hand cup your buttock and squeeze—almost lovingly. You feel the heat from his groin between your spread legs, and then you feel him push up into you. Unlike your punishment, though, he is in no hurry. He is gentle and gives you time to adjust to his girth, and he builds himself up slowly, as if savoring the feel of your ass around him. You can’t help but feel a little guilty as he seems to be sliding in and out with very little resistance. Nevertheless, he never hurries, never rushes, and yet just before the bell, he climaxes, painting your insides, and then pulls out smoothly, giving you time to clamp your anus down before his essence can leak out.

The bell chimes.

“That’ll do, Vales,” he says. “Report for duty.”

You nod. Squeezing your buttocks together, you leave the stateroom and make for the quarterdeck. As you walk in, a dozen elk look up from their ales, games of cards, dice, and conversations. You swallow hard, bite your lip, and slip in next to the wall, standing there uncomfortably while everybody watches your every move. They all seem to be expecting something of you, and while you know you’re supposed to serve them, you don’t have the first clue as to how to get started.

“Uh… Open for business?” you say weakly.

There’s an awkward silence, and then the elk burst out laughing. As the laughter dies down, they all go back to what they’re doing, ignoring you completely. You breathe a sigh of relief. Maybe you can just take a seat and wait out the twelve hours in peace.

No sooner does that thought cross your mind than an elk comes up to you.

“Kneel,” he says.

Please, you think to yourself, but after your punishment, you’re not going to argue. You do as told. He puts his hand on your head to steady himself and looks down at you expectantly.

“Well?” he demands.

You look up at him, perplexed. “Well, what?”

“You gonna start coaxing it out of my sheath, or am I gonna report you for insubordination?”

“I’m sorry; I—I don’t know what I’m doing,” you say.

“No shit. Get to it.”

His furry legs, sheath, and balls sit about a foot away from your face. You lean forward and nuzzle the sheath’s opening. It pulls back, revealing a hint of pink. You ignore it and keep nuzzling.

“It’s out, now suck it,” says the bull.

You fight the urge to tell him to learn some manners and reach forward to lap at the pink nub. HIs sheath retracts further, and you bring your lips up over the tapered tip.

“Ah, yeah…that’s it,” he says, hunching over you and pulling your head forward, impaling you on his prick.

As if by instinct, you stretch your neck out just in the nick of time, and rather than hitting you in the back of your mouth, his prick glides down your throat. While you ought to feel a gag reflex, this is easy by comparison with yesterday, and you feel remarkably at ease as his shaft goes down your throat so deeply that you feel his balls on your chin.

“Keep sucking and be still,” he says.

You continue to lap at and suck on his prick, and he grabs your head with both hands and proceeds to ram himself up and down your throat. But by now, your body has adapted: you took a deep breath without thinking the moment he grabbed your head. The slightest bit of gag reflex is easily overcome. Most importantly, though, the ability to position your head differently means you can accept his cock without the sharp prick of it scratching your throat. In short, by comparison with yesterday, this is…easy.

A movement out of the corner of your eye catches your attention, and you realize that everyone is looking at you again. You blush fiercely; you’re almost certain they’re all making disparaging comments under their breath.

At that moment, the bull decides to cum and yanks your head up against his body. His balls quiver under your chin as you feel his cock swell in your throat and your stomach fill with his load. He pulls out unceremoniously, and before his prick has even disappeared back into his sheath, he returns to the table where he was sitting, takes up his ale, and resumes the conversation he was having with some other sailors.

You watch him go, feeling a little…used. Physically, this was much easier than yesterday, but when you have your liberty—or at least the ability to move about freely—it feels worse when someone comes up, uses you, and then ignores you.

“All fours,” a voice beside you says.

You whirl to see Alexei standing there.

“Oh,” you say, your face clouding. “Yes, sir.”

“Hey, now, it’s not like it’s your death warrant or something!” the elk replies, cocking an eyebrow. “But I did tell you I was gonna have fun taking it out on your ass.”

“You also said you were gonna get me an ale,” you reply.

He shrugs. “Two things can be true at once.”

Feeling a little bit hopeful at that, you do as he tells you, turning your back to him and dropping to all fours.

Your legs abruptly go out from under you and then float up into the air.

“Waugh!” you cry as Alexei holds you by the ankles, spreads your legs, and positions his dick pointing at your ass.

“Awkward position for you, but amazing position for me,” he says, now grinning broadly.

Without overture, he thrusts in. As he thrusts, he pulls your legs apart, driving himself in balls-deep and giving himself unrestricted access to your darkest places. As he pulls back, he pulls your legs together, pushing you away and making you hold up your weight on your forearms. It takes him no time at all for him to reach his maximum speed, and his penis drives so deep into you that you can’t help but feel violated all over again in spite of yesterday. It seems impossible for him to be thrusting so hard and fast, especially while manhandling you in such a way. You begin panting, feeling light-headed and a little panicked; if you pass out, who knows what these guys will do to you? You fight the urge to groan, but as the intensity keeps notching up and up, you hear a whimper escape your lips.

“Told ya I was gonna take it out on your ass,” Alexei grunts behind you.

You silence yourself, resorting to just breathing hard. The feeling of being plunged into this way, of feeling the intimate contact between his balls and your ass, of being used like an oversized sex-toy—they all make you want to curl up into a ball and hide. You’re not sure what disturbs you most: the sense of helplessness, the feeling of emasculation, or worst of all, the notion that you might actually enjoy this. You quickly shake the last thought out of your mind, shuddering. Yet his balls slapping against yours and the surprisingly pleasant sense of fullness when he thrusts in make your dick poke out, and you quickly form a bead of precum that threads its way down until it touches the ground.

“Ahh, yeah,” Alexei grunts.

His thrusts get harder and more spaced out, and he starts making some pretty guttural sounds above you. Finally, his cock throbs, and you feel his cum pumping much deeper inside you than it did yesterday. He finishes quickly, pulls out, and has the decency to put you down gently rather than dropping you.

“When you get off watch, come find me,” he says, and with that, he walks out the door.

After that, you’re in constant demand. A sailor walks up to you, states his demands, and you get started. Some get off quickly, like the guy who poked into your ass one time and fired, but some take an agonizingly long time. One such guy takes a whole hour, during which time he puts you into eight different positions, fucks your mouth and ass with equal gusto, and while he’s fucking your ass, another sailor, growing impatient, begins fucking your mouth and finishes before the other guy does. Sometimes it feels good—the ones who can’t seem to help hitting your prostate make you feel mentally hazy and giddy—while others just hurt, like the ones who go to jab into you, miss, and hit your perineum instead.

And then there are the particularly conflicting ones: the ones who like to grab your balls and member while they fuck you. The first one is taking you doggy-style and reaches around to grab your dick. Your eyes flash open, and you freeze, uncertain of what to do. But he doesn’t even slacken his speed. As he thrusts, he grasps your dick like a handhold. It’s not exactly painful, but it’s incredibly sexually frustrating to have something grabbing you and occasionally incidentally stimulating you while not making any actual effort to get you off. Or, there’s the guy who insisted that you lie on the ground so that he could lie in 69 position with you, fucking your face while he reaches down to caress and squeeze your balls. Again, not painful, but frustrating and bewildering. You find yourself trying to grind against them, but you’re always corrected with sharp words reminding you to focus on getting them off. You desperately wish that they would either make the effort to get you off—as pent-up as you are, it wouldn’t take much—or to at least leave you alone.

What feels like a lifetime later, you hear the ship’s bell. You’ve heard it before; you’re pretty sure this is the third one. Yet there is still a line of guys waiting to be served.

Too bad, you think.

As the guy in your mouth finishes off, you say in a raspy, cum-choked voice, “That’s it, guys; my shift is over.”

There are groans, but nobody tries to force the issue. Groaning and sore once again, you get to your feet and stagger out the door. One thought consumes you: you need to get off, and you’re not going to stand in front of all of those elk and do it.

You make it into the chieftain’s stateroom. Not seeing him, you collapse on your pallet, flip over onto your back, and immediately begin stroking yourself. Images of sexy does pop into your head. Your tribe had its share of attractive ones, though you hadn’t quite been old enough to appreciate them. Now, in retrospect, you wish you would have made a move, would have gotten to feel what it was like to be on the other end of things. You realize that you don’t quite know what female anatomy even looks like; unlike this elk tribe that seems to have no concept of clothing whatsoever, your tribe has always worn clothes, and you’ve never had occasion to see a female without any on. But, not to be deterred, you imagine slipping your dick up under her tail, finding a nice, warm place to poke inside, and feeling yourself swallowed up by that warm hole.

You bite your lip and stroke a little harder. But as you’re getting close, you suddenly imagine Alexei grabbing you, taking you from the doe, and proceeding to pound you ruthlessly. Yet despite the change of circumstances, you’re troubled to find that you actually like it. Your dick begins to throb much harder than it did while you were fantasizing about the doe. You shake your head and force Alexei’s image out of your mind. You are not…that way. You might not be able to help it when sucking off Bulkun makes your dick hard, but you certainly don’t have to go around fantasizing about elk bulls!

You try to focus on the doe again, to get yourself back to where you were, with her bent over a bed and your dick rhythmically pounding into her. But in a flash, you imagine Bulkun standing in front of you, lifting you onto the bed, and then taking you missionary-style. Your face burns at the intimacy, but he orders you to gaze into his eyes as he takes you. You feel as though you could get lost in those eyes, and you can’t help but turn your head away, afraid that he will see your very soul. He reaches down and turns your head to face him, giving you that calm, confident smile and looking you in the eyes. You squirm, trying to escape, but then you feel him spurt inside you.

Your dick aches with desire, throbbing desperately as you stroke harder and faster. You’re so close. You don’t want to fantasize about Bulkun, but desperation is taking over, and you don’t care what it takes to get off. You imagine Bulkun tying you to the mainmast and fucking you in front of everybody. You feel humiliated but also, somehow, safe, as if this public spectacle locks in everybody’s mind that you are his and under his protection, like he did with Fyrodir.

Your balls contract. Just a few more strokes now. You can feel yourself about to get off. You can—

“Vales!” Bulkun barks in a voice so loud that it manages to rip your mind away from getting off, even if for just a second. “What are you doing?”

You blush. “I, uh—I was…”

“Crew members do not pleasure themselves, Vales,” he says sternly. “Let go of your penis right now.”

You let out a whimper. Just a couple more strokes; just get off, and then you can suffer whatever punishment he has for you. Just…get off!

“Vales, now.”

Groaning, you force yourself to take your hand away from your aching prick. It drools precum liberally down your shaft onto your balls, twitching furiously at him.

“There is no masturbation under my command, Vales,” he says firmly, stepping up to you. “It’s the concubine’s job to ensure that the men are well sated.”

“But,” you protest, feeling almost panicked with desperate concupiscence, “If I’m the concubine, how do I get off?”

“Learn to take pride in your role, Vales,” Bulkun responds. “Only when you are comfortable in your role will you be able to take pleasure from it. After that, the sheer joy of a job well done will provide you with all the climax you need. Strive for it, Vales, and show always your submission and devotion.”

Wincing and still a hair-trigger away from getting off, you uncomfortably sit up and prostrate yourself before him in your usual pose.

“Oh, I didn’t mean now, Vales,” Bulkun chuckles, “Though you are right to get into position; you should have done that the moment you saw me. But what I mean is, devote yourself entirely to your role, and it will eventually come to provide you with a sense of purpose and fulfillment.”

“You always tell me to show my submission and devotion,” you mutter, still frustrated. “But what does that even mean? How am I supposed to devote myself to something when the words themselves seem like little more than just a mantra?”

Bulkun does a double-take. “But, Vales,” he says, “You show your submission and devotion admirably! There you kneel with a strong, proud posture, but humbled by force of will and made to lower yourself before me. That is showing your submission.”

“But I don’t feel anything about it,” you reply. “I’m doing it because you told me to, not because I want to or because I actually feel submissive.”

The chieftain cocks his head. “Don’t you, Vales?” he asks. He steps up before you, his sheath mere inches from your face. “Are you saying,” he asks calmly, “That you don’t feel the slightest desire for me to unsheath myself and allow you to pleasure me?”

It’s as if he’s reading your mind. Your mouth waters as your nostrils flare, trying to be subtle as they inhale his musk. Your eyes dart to his face, and you realize that his question wasn’t rhetorical.

“Yes,” you whisper, your face burning at the admission, “I want that very much.”

“And there you have it,” he replies. “Your submission and devotion come so naturally to you that you’re not even aware of them!” He frowns. “But why do you blush? If I told you that I wanted very much to rise to power in my clan, to overthrow our foolish dictator, and to elevate my tribe from abject poverty to being the most powerful tribe for hundreds of miles, do you think I should blush?”

You shake your head.

“If I told you that Alexei desires very much to bring both levity and calmness to the tribe, do you think he should blush?”

You shake your head again.

“But these are the things that come naturally to us,” he says. “And we are good at them. I say without hesitation that I have done very well for my people. I am not perfect, but I am a far cry better than what we had before. And Alexei has both improved morale and introduced a certain serenity to the crew that they didn’t have before. We take joy in our roles, Vales, and if you will, too, then you will unlock so much more in yourself.”

“But I didn’t choose this role!” you protest. “You came into my village, demanded me as your concubine, and have proceeded to make my life living hell ever since! I own my actions, but if it weren’t for you, I could still be happy in my village; I had friends, a family who loved me, a role as a hunter-scholar. And one day, I would have had a wife, and we would have had fawns…” You trail off, sighing. “Now I’m forbidden to see any of those people again unless I’m there serving you.”

Bulkun shakes his head. “Vales, the wool still covers your eyes.”

He reaches forward and rubs his palm over your eyes as if wiping away whatever it is he thinks has you fooled. Then his hand slips behind your head, and he gently pulls you forward to bury your nose in his crotch. His other hand rests on your shoulder, embracing you lightly as he continues.

“When I first saw you, Vales, I knew you were the one,” he says, stroking the back of your head as the tip of his penis pokes out half an inch from your mouth.

Your eyes dart to it, and you feel your pulse quicken, but you resist the urge to wrap your lips around it.

Bulkun chuckles. “There. That right there is how I knew.”

You frown and look up at him curiously.

“You may not have known it, and I don’t know whether your Matriarch did or not, but I was watching from the tent-flap the whole time before I came in to claim you. I saw how you resisted the Matriarch’s demands, how you eventually relented. I saw how you resisted my orders, but how you have slowly been coming around. To be clear,  Vales, the only time someone has forced you to do anything was when I had you lashed to the table. You giving in to the Matriarch—conceding to let her fondle your balls, to jack you off—was completely your own doing, just as you agreeing to pose, nude, in front of your whole tribe, was your own decision. I did not rip your clothes off and force you up there, Vales, nor did the Matriarch bring you bound in chains. No, Vales, ultimately, your inherent submission and devotion drove you to do as you were told.”

You shake your head fiercely. “It was a matter of honor! In my tribe, you do not disobey the Matriarch; you do not embarrass the tribe in front of foreigners. Your tribe may not understand concepts like honor and decency, but we do!”

“And here, once again, you resist, Vales,” Bulkun says with a faint smirk. “But deep down—deep down—do you really believe that?” He shakes his head. “No, Vales. You’re not resisting me now, nor were you resisting your Matriarch.” He lifts your chin and looks into your eyes. “You’re resisting yourself.”

It’s like he is probing my soul… You look away, unable to bear the vulnerability.

“It doesn’t matter what the Matriarch says or what I say, Vales. More than your respect for her or your fear or whatever it is you feel towards me, it is your fear of giving into your base desires that drives you the most. The moment you saw me, your devotion was evident. You resisted because your former tribe frowns on such targets of devotion. The moment you stood naked before your Matriarch, your devotion was evident. You fought it down without even realizing it, but I saw it. And when your Matriarch began to pleasure you, you may have told yourself that it was out of respect for her that you resisted reaching orgasm, but if it were truly about respect, you would have done what she bade you without hesitation. What does it matter if you get off if you’re commanded to do so by your Matriarch? Her will should have trumped your embarrassment, and watching the others around you, I could tell that they would not have fought her. Not even Janus, the buck whom you see as your fiercest friend. I saw him, Vales: it was your fists that were clenched when she gave the order. His were completely relaxed. He was not fighting internal demons.”

Like a worm eating its way into an apple, his words gnaw at your psyche. You try to squirm away from him, but despite his apparently gentle embrace, he holds you firmly in place.

“And when you resisted Fyrodir, it was not—as I’m sure you convinced yourself—because he had ordered you to do something or demeaned you. You did not resort to violence when Alexei ordered you to bring him an ale, but you did when Fyrodir said that all you had to do was passively take your poundings. He struck a nerve, didn’t he, Vales?”

Your throat is pinched; you can’t talk. Meanwhile, Bulkun’s penis has grown slightly and is angled just such that if it keeps growing, it will glide right past your muzzle without even touching you.

“But it wasn’t even about being passive, was it, Vales?” he continues, either oblivious to his cock’s position or sadistically blithe. “It was far worse than that.” He lowers his voice to a whisper again. “You were afraid you would like it.”

Something snaps in you, and you shove away from him, scramble backwards, and watch him fearfully.

“See?” he says, chuckling and advancing.

You feel frozen to the spot. You want to run away, but if you do, you’ll be punished. If you don’t, then—”

What if he’s right?

“No!” You shake your head violently, holding up your hands defensively to keep him away.

“Ah, Vales,” he says, shaking his head and taking another step forward, “When will you learn?”

He sighs and shrugs his shoulders. “Well, a lesson for another day, perhaps. In the meantime, fake it if you must: go through the motions, and eventually they will feel natural. And, once we reach land once more, I will give you something to make showing your devotion a little easier. But I urge you, Vales: give in to those desires! Do as you were made to do. Throw the fear and humiliation pounded into you by your former tribe out the window and into the sea; they have no place here. Embrace your role, and you will discover all the joy and fulfillment you need.”

He reaches you and once again pulls your head gently to his crotch. Your mouth waters in spite of yourself.

“But for now, come, Vales,” he says. “I will spare you any more of this kind of talk for the time being. At this moment, I want you to get up on the bed once more and lie with your back to me.”

He lets go of you, and as if in a daze, you do as he bids you, crawling up onto the bed and lying on your side. He gets up behind you, lifts your leg, and presses inside. That familiar hot, stinging feeling floods into you again.

“I want you to hold this in while you sleep, Vales,” he says as he finishes, pulls out, and lowers your leg. “Practice tightening your anus, and do not let this out until you report to me when you awaken.”

With that, he orders you to your pallet. Now full and sloshing, horny, and conflicted, you lie awake for what feels like ages before sleep finally takes you.

*************

You awaken feeling bloated and desperate to piss. But the moment you get up, Bulkun speaks.

“Have you done as I bade you, Vales? Did you keep my mark inside all night?”

You wince. “Yes, sir,” you say. “I—master, I really need to, um…you know.”

He inclines his head towards a door on the opposite end of the stateroom from the door leading to the rest of the ship. “Let’s see how you’ve done,” he says.

Your bladder threatening to burst, you make your way to the door and open it to find a head—a ship’s toilet—behind it. Relieved, you stand and aim.

“No, Vales,” Bulkun says just as your flow starts; you stop it, gritting your teeth. “Sit down and face me.”

Is it possible to do anything in his presence without feeling humiliated by it?

You reluctantly do as told, but not too reluctantly: your bladder won’t allow for any hesitation. You sit on the pot and let your stream start again.

“Look at me while you void, Vales. I want to see whether you have done as you were told.”

At his insistence, you look him in the eye, your eyelids twitching as you fight the urge to look away, to not feel so vulnerable while in such a compromising position. Yet as the slosh of your water against the wooden walls that direct it into the sea reaches your ears and the smell of your urine and his reaches your nose, his expression goes from neutral to pleased.

“Well done, Vales,” he says as your stream finally subsides. “Now rise, turn, and bend over.”

You do as he bids, and he sniffs up under your tail.

“Very good,” he says. “It will stay with you now. Go serve the men.”

You take your leave of him and go across the ship to start your task. The moment you enter, the elk are on their feet, jostling for position.

“Whoo, the boss has marked you good!” the first one in line says, and then he proceeds to fuck you senseless.

“Ah, Vales, there you are,” Alexei says, stepping up and squatting next to you as the sailor fucks you.

“Hey, Alexei, back of the line’s over here!” someone says.

“Relax; I’m not cutting,” he replies and then returns his attention to you. “Missed you yesterday, concubine.”

“I–I’m s–sorry,” you manage through poundings. “I–I was e–exhaust–ted.”

“Well, show up today,” he replies, “Or I’ll take it as an insult.”

“Y–yes, sir.”

Twelve grueling hours later, all you want to do is crawl back onto your pallet. More than horny today, you’re just wiped out. Who knew that even passively getting fucked could be so exhausting? But, determined not to offend Alexei, you get to your feet and search the ship for him, exploring other decks and parts of the ship that you didn’t know existed. You finally find him in the cargo hold.

“Ah, there’s the concubine,” he says, wearing his trademark faint smirk. “I was getting ready to be put-out.”

“Long day,” you reply. “What is this about? I–I really want to sleep.”

“I owe you an ale,” he says. Gesturing towards the ladder, he leads and you follow him up to the steward’s room.

“Two ales, Marty,” he says to the steward.

You recognize him as he narrows his eyes at you. He was the one who the day before had gotten impatient with the sailor taking a long time and had used your mouth in the interim.

“Finally ready to wash down all that cum, eh?” he chuckles.

Your face burns, and you avert your eyes.

“Not at that point, yet, huh?” he asks, shrugging. “You’ll get there. If Bulkun is chieftain, you’ll definitely get there eventually.”

He opens the cock on a large barrel sitting next to him and precisely fills two tankards, getting the amount of ale and head exactly the same on both.

“Thanks, Marty,” Alexei says, grabbing the ales and leading you up a flight of stairs.

You look around, surprised to realize that you’re back in the quarterdeck, having come up a back way.

“You didn’t think you’d have to walk all the way across the ship to get an ale, did you?” Alexei chuckles. “With the ship rocking and rolling? Goodness, no; that would be a waste of ale, and if Bulkun hates anything, it’s waste.”

He puts the ales down on a table, and you both sit. You try your best to ignore the glances you get from the other elk in the room, chatting, playing cards, or just drinking their ales in silence.

“Here’s to you, Vales,” he says, picking up his mug.

You lift yours, and you tap your mugs together. Following his lead, you then tap your mug on the table and bring it to your lips. A slightly acrid taste hits your tongue, and you grimace and quickly remove the mug from your mouth, gagging as you force yourself to swallow the pale yellow liquid.

“First time drinking ale?” Alexei laughs. “It’s an acquired taste.”

You frown and then lean forward uncertainly. “Is this—is this piss?” you ask.

Alexei slams his mug down on the table, roaring with laughter. “Hey, mates!” he says, “Concubine here wants to know if we’re drinking piss!”

“It’s really to tell,” says a sailor.

“If it’s piss or it’s ale,” says another.

“But if it gets me drunk, oh well! Huh!” choruses everybody.

A fiddle and flute materialize out of nowhere and begin playing to the tune of seemingly innumerable hoof-beats on the wooden floor.

“What did I start?” you ask.

“It’s our new favorite tune!” Alexei replies, grinning. “Come on, lads!” he yells, holding up his mug, “Let’s teach the newbie the words!”

The shantyman, always up for a good song, started them off:

I know a pale drink—
Did it come from the sink?
The purser calls it ‘ale’ with a wink!

But—
Not a man to whine,
I figure it’ll be fine,
And down the hatch I pour my stein.

With this, the group chimes in with the chorus, followed by a brief musical interlude:

It’s really hard to tell
If it’s piss or it’s ale,
But if it gets me drunk, oh well! Huh!

The shantyman takes over:

That first drink was rough—
Gosh, it’s frightful stuff—
As if sea-life weren’t hard enough!

Though—

I have to admit,
When I was done with it,
I found I couldn’t even sit!

The chorus starts back up, and you can’t help grinning as you join in. The song goes on for many more verses, and as you feel yourself relaxing, you notice that not only is the song catchy, it’s also a drinking game. It starts out subtly, but every time the shantyman starts singing, the sailors all tap their mugs on the last word of the first and second lines and then drink as soon as the first stanza is over. For the second stanza, they tap their mugs but don’t drink until after the chorus, while the musicians are playing. As the song progresses, the tapping gets louder, and the chorus gets more boisterous. Picking up on this, you decide to try joining in the fun.

Tap, tap, drink!

You bring the mug to your lips and take a sip, grimacing but swallowing it in time to go tap, tap, chorus—huh!—drink! It’s a bit of a challenge to time everything right, but you realize it’s a lot of fun to try, even if you do botch it a few times. And, more importantly, trying to keep up takes your mind off the awful taste. Before you know it, you’re slurring your words and moving completely out of sync to the rest of the group. Alexei winks to someone, and before you realize what’s going on, the song has abruptly changed, with the shantyman singing:

We’ve got a stout buck that we brought with us,
But though he seemed that way, he is not a wuss!

Then, everybody looking at you, they all chorus:

Fuck him in the ass, then go get him an ale,
Let’s all put him to good use as he joins our tale!

When you hear the first line, your face burns, feeling mocked, but as the song finishes, you can’t help but grin ear-to-ear. At the end, everybody holds up his mug and toasts you, and then everybody—yourself included—finishes what’s left of his ale and slams his mug down on the nearest table.

The elk all go back to doing what they were doing before, and Alexei leans over.

“It’s not all misery and humiliation,” he says, nudging your arm. “If you can learn to enjoy what you do—or at least laugh at it—then it makes things go so much easier.”

You nod, thinking back to what Bulkun said about Alexei’s positive influence on the crew. But before you can say anything, you suddenly feel a wave of inebriation wash over you as that big swig of ale suddenly hits.

“Un–un-ah-nah-na,” you manage.

Alexei shakes his head and chuckles. “Come on, Vales,” he says, effortlessly sweeping your feet out from under you and carrying you out of the room.

You wrap your arms around his neck, your eyelids heavy as he takes you to the chieftain’s stateroom.

“Alexei? What’s this?” Bulkun asks, more surprised than anything.

“Vales here had an elk-sized ale—his first,” Alexei replies with a knowing smile.

“Mm. Well, put him down on his pallet, then.”

“Go easy on him, sir,” Alexei says gently. “You don’t want to break him.”

Bulkun shrugs. “I had no intention of punishing him,” he says. “He’s supposed to take some time to relax. Here we are a day out from land, and he’s finally getting his first taste of the freedom that comes with his liberation from that—that backwards place.”

You say nothing to all of this. As Alexei lays you on your pallet, you close your eyes immediately. There’s one more thing that can be said for the ale:

When you’re drunk on it, you are not horny.

The remaining day proceeds much like the last: Bulkun uses you again, taking his time, and when he finally gets off, he tells you to report to him before you go carousing. Then it’s getting fucked in every conceivable position, sometimes two-at-a-time, but now that the sailors are beginning to see you as more than just a piece of ass, some of them begin talking to you as they or others fuck you. While it’s still a little humiliating to be talking to someone while getting your ass plowed, you’re slowly beginning to get used to it. You report back to Bulkun, who admonishes you against getting too drunk tonight; while he confirms Alexei’s statement that he hates waste, he would rather see you waste half an ale than end up wasted and of no use to anybody. You do as he tells you, drink only half an ale, and make it back to your pallet on your own two legs.

When you awaken the next day, the chieftain is not in his room. You go looking for him, but when you make it out onto the deck, you stop abruptly and stare.

In the distance, you can see land, a sandy shore pushing steeply upwards into white bluffs sprinkled with bits of green vegetation. Sitting atop those bluffs, you see something you’ve never even heard of: a real city. The buildings are made of stone and are covered with some sort of hide or maybe tree fronds. Square windows overlook the ocean, and even from this distance, you can hear the shouts of the city’s denizens.

“Ah, Vales,” the chieftain says, startling you from your amazement.

You quickly prostrate yourself at his feet, but for whatever reason, your penis chooses not to show itself. You feel a little guilty for it; you know you’re supposed to “show your devotion”, but it’s not like you can force yourself to—can you?

“Rise, Vales, and be ready to accompany me. I want you right behind me and to my right the whole way,” Bulkun says. “Stand close enough that if I wish to fondle you idly, I can.”

You move into position, feeling awkward standing so close. As you watch, the land you saw before looms larger.

<Next Chapter>

As soon as I started trying to go to bed last night, ideas started popping into my head for this installment. So, rather than doing the responsible thing and going to bed early to make up for having had only 4 hours of sleep last night (the meeting with the architect went well, by the way), I’m going to write some more!

…and now that it’s 2:40 AM, I’m still not done with this installment, so we’ll call this part 1, and the rest can be part 2…to be written at a later date.

---

<Previous Chapter>

After a few steps, you regain your breath, take your arm from around Bulkun’s neck, and trudge along with him. As you walk along the well-worn path that joins yours and several other villages to the makeshift dock where the furs your tribe catches are traded for spices and tools made of metal—a resource the forest doesn’t provide. Were this any other day, you might well be on your way to represent your tribe at the docks, to haggle and try to secure the best bargains for your kinsmen. But today, well… Today isn’t any other day.

You sigh, your eyes picking up on subtle but familiar landmarks, like the way that root crosses the street just so; you tripped on it when you were young, and your friends all laughed at you. At least you didn’t drop your furs! And there’s the withered, old tree, burnt by lightning ages ago. You and Janus got in your first fight there, and you became best friends afterwards. And there’s the rock where your grandfather sat to rest so many years ago. As you pass by it, you’re almost certain you can feel him still sitting there, making wry remarks about how the furs have gotten heavier than when he was a boy.

“Hey! Are you deaf or something?”

You gasp, startled, and look up to see one of the Schwarzfuß warriors looking at you with a mixture of amusement and indignation played out over his ursine face. You can’t help but smile at seeing her; Mila found you after your fight with Janus and helped stop your nose from bleeding. While neither of you goes out of your way to see each other, you’re almost guaranteed to run into each other on trade-days.

“Helloooo,” she says, waving a large, black paw in front of your face and grinning. “Man, you were really out of it! It’s been ages since I’ve seen you!” She frowns thoughtfully. “The traders won’t be here for another sennight at least; what brings you to the docks?” She cracks a grin. “Did you just come here to see me?” she asks—hopefully, it seems to you.

“Vales,” Bulkun says over his shoulder, “Do not tarry.”

Your face clouds. You feel that tightness in your chest again. You shake your head violently and dart away from Mila before you lose your composure. Gritting your teeth, you blow out a few breaths to get yourself back under control; rough day or not, this is not the way you want her to remember you!

You spot movement out of the corner of your eye and sigh; Mila has caught up to you and is looking at you, perplexed.

“Hey, what gives?” she demands, matching your pace. “Who’s your friend?”

You lower your eyes and hang your head, your ears drooping. You move your lips, but nothing comes out. You sigh, frustrated, knowing that she’s not going to leave you alone until you tell her. The thought crosses your mind that Bulkun might not approve of you speaking out of turn. You give him a cautious glance.

“The she-warrior asked you a question, Vales; it may be permissible in the hvithale tribe to ignore questions one does not wish to answer, but as long as you serve me, you will reply promptly, succinctly, and truthfully.”

Mila does a double-take. “Serve? Vales? That’s not your name; your name is—”

Bulkun stops abruptly, and you nearly bump into him as he turns to face Mila head-on. “As long as he serves me, Miss, his name is Vales. And, given that is likely to be a very long time, whatever other name you think you know him by, you might as well forget.”

With that, he turns and continues walking, leaving Mila gaping and you rubbing your shoulder uncomfortably.

“Vales, do not tarry!”

“I’m sorry,” you manage, and then rush to catch back up.

“Sorry?” Mila asks, matching pace with you once again. “Sorry for what?”

You huff. Will this never end?

“I’m a concubine,” you say, your eyes firmly staring at the ground in front of you.

“And a fine one you shall be, Vales. You have much to learn, but your first service to me was quite pleasing, considering your lack of experience,” Bulkun interjects, making you redden and want to hide behind the nearest tree.

“No, no, Vales!” he says, stopping once again, whistling to stop the rest of the elk, and turning to face you and Mila.

“This is your friend, yes, Vales?” he asks.

You swallow and nod, still avoiding Mila’s gaze.

“Then you must proudly demonstrate your skills! You would show off a kill you had made, would you not? Or a clever deduction? Come, now, present yourself to me the way you did earlier, and show her what an excellent concubine you are!”

You balk, your eyes darting to Mila, who is staring, mouth open, at you.

“Come, Vales! I command it!” Bulkun says firmly.

You close your eyes, your face and ears burning, and as if moving through cool molasses, you move in front of him, your knees bend, and your mouth moves towards his crotch. His malehood pokes out, waiting for you to grant it the reverence you gave it earlier.

But you can feel Mila’s eyes burning into the back of your head. You’ve already lost your family, your friends, your tribe. You can’t lose her, too!

“Now, Vales!” Bulkun says, shoving your head down, driving his penis between your lips and teeth.

As much as you licked and swallowed around his member earlier, you would think that you’d have gotten used to his smell, that your ministrations might have washed away some of the ingredients that gave him that pungent, masculine scent. But it’s as if his body’s main task is to produce more musk. If it was strong before, it’s twice as strong now. The smell immediately makes your eyes glaze over and your mouth drool. Without thinking, you spread your teeth and cup his balls, welcoming his member as it extends fluidly into your mouth. Your mind goes hazy, and once again, all you can think about is surrendering to him, pleasuring him, fulfilling his every sexual need. Your tongue begins to loll around his shaft, and your head begins to bob in time. You wrap your lips around your teeth to let you squeeze the base of his shaft each time you bob backwards, and your hands reach up to cup and gently caress his large orbs, still just as heavy as they were before. You feel the pressure on the back of your head relax as he basks in the pleasure you’re giving him, and then you feel his fingers squeeze tightly.

Yes, you think. Please, yes…

He grants your request, but this time, you know what’s coming and close off your throat and sinuses with your tongue. A sharp burst of semen pierces into your tongue, covering your mouth with that same bitter, tingly taste from before. Before you can react, another burst just as strong as the first follows, and then a third, less intense burst, and then finally, a light pulse. He sighs in pleasure and withdraws his penis, leaving your cheeks puffed full of elk essences.

“Swallow, Vales,” he says. “You must consume my essence and let it nourish you.”

Still not quite adjusted to the strange taste and stranger feeling, you cock your head sideways, grimace, and gulp a few times, smacking in distaste.

That stuff tastes weird and feels icky—why did I want him to cum?

“You—”

Mila’s faltering voice interrupts you and drags you unpleasantly back into the present. You open your mouth and then close it, unable to say anything.

The bear takes a breath and lets it out. “I see, then,” she says. Her tone is sad, but also reproachful.

“Mila, I–I can explain,” you say desperately.

She holds up her paw. “Your body has said more than enough.”

You blink, taken aback, and look around yourself, not sure what made her say that. But as your eyes travel between your legs, you sigh, defeated: your legs are spread, and your penis is throbbing, making yet another damning pool on the ground between your thighs. You hang your head.

“I take it you’ve been exiled, then?” she asks, her eyes searching you for a modicum of good news.

“Not in as many words,” you reply, “But effectively, yes.”

“Your poor parents,” she says, shaking her head.

“They will retain their good name,” you answer. “The Matriarch has ensured that my punishment allows them to retain their honor, and me as well, but”—you swallow, choking down your feelings—”I must serve Bulkun, my master, until he sells me or releases me.”

Mila purses her lips and nods slowly. “I see. Well, best of luck to you…Vales…”

Without warning, she reaches forward and wraps you in a hug. But before you can react, let alone hug her back, she releases you, turns on heel, and stalks quickly down the path, not once looking back.

“Come, Vales,” Bulkun says. “We have tarried too long already.”

He turns to go, and you rise, cursing your still-erect prick as you follow behind him. Though you were torn up over leaving your village, now you want to run ahead, to get away from this place with so many memories of things that you will never experience in the same way again. You would have preferred not to see Mila. No, more accurately, you would rather that she hadn’t seen you…like this. You would rather to have disappeared, to have left without her knowing of your shameful position now.

“You must take pride, Vales, or you will not survive your concubinage long,” Bulkun says over his shoulder.

You say nothing; how can you take pride when your own body exposes and debases you so much? How can you take pride in serving another…another male?

That thought absorbs you for the rest of the journey to the docks, pricking your mind over and over with cruel taunts and replaying the crueler looks your former tribe gave you. Shoulders sagging, you gasp abruptly as Bulkun comes to a stop and you nearly bump into him.

“Come, Vales. Into the boat.”

You glance up at Bulkun, who inclines his head towards the little dinghy. You have to admit, you’ve never been in a boat before, and the moment you step into it and it rocks to the side, you yelp in surprise. The warriors laugh, but Bulkun quickly grabs you by the shoulders, steadies you, lets the boat quit rocking, and then slowly puts your weight back on your feet and lets you sit on the bench.

With that, he nods, and two of the warriors jump nimbly in on either side of you and take up oars. Bulkun steps in next, occupying the bench facing you, and two more rowers move in beside him. The remaining warriors—of which there are at least two dozen—remain standing on the shore.

Without a word, the rowers shove off the shallow beach and maneuver the dinghy into the middle of the river. Then with almost silent, precise movements, the oars dip into the water, and like a dog paddling, the two oars in front alternate with the two oars in back, moving the boat forward with a brisk, slightly shuddering gait.

For a moment, the feel of the breeze on the back of your neck and seeing the twin shores going by so quickly on either side of you makes you forget your predicament, and you can’t help but marvel at how fast and effortlessly you’re moving! Still, it’s a little unnerving moving backwards, and you crane your neck over your shoulder to see what lies ahead. A sharp bend in the river a little ways ahead obscures your view, but you look forward to it with anticipation; this could possibly be the furthest you’ve ever been away from your village, and certainly the furthest you’ve traveled by water.

“Vales,” Bulkun says, pulling you back into the moment.

Your head whips around to glance up at him, and then you avert your eyes.

“A point of decorum, Vales,” the elk chieftain says. “When we are traveling like this, take note. The rowers all have their tasks: theirs is to drive the boat forward, swiftly and silently like you see. Mine is to steer, or, if I have a helmsman with me, to direct him where to go. And you, Vales, have a task to perform, as well. What do you think it is?”

You hesitate; your gut twists, certain that it has something to do with being a concubine, but you desperately hope that you’re wrong, that there’s some other—any other—useful function you can perform.

“Uh, I can…relieve one of the rowers?” you ask hopefully. “I–I may not put up much of a fight, but I have plenty of strength.”

Bulkun shakes his head. “No, Vales. The rowers have rowed from the day they were able; they have had years of practice in the proper technique, the proper timing, the proper force. If you were to take the place of one of them, we would surely begin going in circles because you applied too much or too little force, give away our position because you slapped the water with your oar, or at the very best lose speed because your timing is not right. No, you must leave the rowing to those whose task it is to row. And before you think of suggesting that you can help with my job, let me assure you, Vales, I have been chieftain of this clan since before your father fertilized your mother. I know with absolute certainty that you know nothing of leading a clan; you know nothing of tactics beyond trapping the occasional dimwitted, frightened rabbit; you know nothing of seafaring, and you know nothing of my clan or its members, their strengths, their weaknesses, and their motivators.”

You open your mouth to protest, but he silences you, saying, “If you did, you would not have so rashly suggested replacing one of the rowers; you would have known that a rower is the best tribesman at rowing, and a rower is at his best when he is rowing.”

You close your mouth and wait for him to tell you what he thinks you should be doing, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits back and fixes you with a serene but expectant stare, somewhat reminiscent of the Matriarch’s, but with more patience and less severity. Nevertheless, as he rests his hands on the bench on either side of himself, his huge biceps and bulging chest convey quite clearly the degree of control he has. He doesn’t need to be aggressive or severe about it; when you’re both the strongest and smartest in the group, you don’t have to rely on threats.

In short, without him saying another word, you know that he’s already beaten you, that he can wait as long as it takes for you to accept it, and to acknowledge that he has asked a question of you that you must answer.

“I’m…to be a concubine, then?” you murmur.

Bulkun brightens. “Yes, Vales! Very good,” he says, leaning forward to clap you on the shoulder. “And as such, you must at all times make yourself appealing to me and to the others that would look on you.”

You swallow. “How—how do I do that?” you ask reluctantly.

“You must sit as I am sitting now, Vales,” he replies. “See? I am already demonstrating. Spread your legs wide apart, and show off your malehood. Just as you have done twice today already, let your pink emerge from your white and tan and show your devotion.”

“But I didn’t do it on purpose!” you blurt. “How can I make myself get erect on command?”

“Have no fear, Vales; there will be help for that once we reach the village. For now, I will be satisfied to see you try. Come, come: spread your legs and thrust your hips forward.”

Feeling the eyes of all the rowers on you, you close your eyes, force your legs apart, and shudder as you push your hips forward.

“No, no! Vales, just as you thrust your hips out, you must thrust your chin out, too! You must be proud of your role. See? Look at the rowers on either side of you: their chests swell, not only with exertion, but with pride in their tasks! You must show the same pride, if not because you take pride in yourself, then because I command you to be proud. And if you do not feel truly proud, pretend that you do; eventually, you will believe yourself.”

“But master—” you protest.

“Do not argue, Vales. Come: stick out your chin, stick out your chest. Look masculine!”

Damn it all…

“Yes! Just like that, Vales,” Bulkun says, apparently very pleased. “When you are not otherwise performing service, this is the posture you shall adopt. But keep your eyes open. If you cannot appear proud, then at least appear angry; confidence will come in time, but until then, glare at anyone who looks at you; dare them to speak ill of your body or of your role.”

Finally, something you can get behind! The glare you give him makes him laugh and slap his leg.

“Yes, Vales, that will do. But look—we have arrived already.”

You look over your shoulder and gasp; there is water all around you, and the shore is suddenly far away in all directions. And directly behind you is a large ship; its sides tower over you, and its mast juts dizzyingly into the sky.

As gently as a feather, the dinghy rotates and brushes broadside up against the ship. The rowers store their oars and take hold of ropes thrown down off the side of the ship, steadying the dinghy for disembarkation.

“Go on, Vales,” Bulkun says, gesturing to a rope ladder. “Climb up and then kneel as I have shown you, facing the ladder, and await my instructions.”

This is really real, isn’t it? There’s no escaping once I get on that…that ship. You sigh. Who am I kidding? There’s no escaping now. Even if I jumped overboard, I can’t swim.

Swallowing hard, you get unsteadily to your feet. The weight of the other crewmen helps steady the boat, and you reach over to the ladder and begin hauling yourself up it. The way it twists and heaves in response to your weight is unnerving, but at least it doesn’t feel like it’s going to throw you in the water the way the dinghy did when you were getting onto it. You feel a humid breeze blow against you as you climb steadily up. Though the sides seemed to tower over you before, the climb is easy, and within less than a minute, you climb over the side of the ship and scurry out of the way of the rower that follows right after you.

“Hands on deck!” he barks, and out of every door, cubby, and port on the ship, elk dressed as sailors, warriors, or merchants come out and line the edge of the deck, all standing at attention.

Your jaw drops a little, seeing so many elk there, and with such discipline. Your tribe’s—your former tribe’s—laws may be strict, but you’ve never stood on pomp and circumstance; people obey the laws, respect the Matriarch, and otherwise go about their business. This—this is completely new. And very impressive.

No wonder they were able to take over us so easily…

The rower clears his throat, looks directly at you, and growls, “Hands. On. Deck.”

Not sure what to do, you scurry to your feet and do your best to salute and stand at attention, mimicking the other sailors.

A blow to the stomach doubles you over, and a sweep under your legs drops you to your knees.

“Foolish buck! Did you forget the orders the chieftain gave you?” he barks. “Assume your position, concubine!”

You move your jaw, but nothing comes out. Suddenly you realize what he means, and wincing from the blow to the gut and the sharp rap of the deck on your knees, you hurry to spread your legs and thrust out your hips. But, embarrassed at having been scolded, you instinctively avert your eyes, mumbling that you’re sorry.

“Assume the position, you idiotic whore! Thrust out your chin; thrust out your chest! Glare! I said, glare!” the rower bellows, backhanding you.

“Enough, Hengthun,” the chieftain says as he comes over the side of the boat. His voice is firm but not harsh. “I am sure the concubine means no disrespect.”

Turning to you and kneeling, he reaches behind you to push forward on the space between your shoulder blades while pushing back on your shoulder with the other hand, forcing your chest outward, and then turning and lifting your chin to face him.

“Isn’t that right, Vales?”

You swallow and try to turn your head, but he firmly keeps your chin facing him.

“Yes, master,” you murmur, your eyes darting side-to-side, trying to avoid his gaze.

“Glare, Vales,” he says. “Your role is not to be sorry or to feel ashamed or embarrassed, whether because of modesty or because you were called out. Your shame and embarrassment serve me no purpose. Your role is to obey, to grant me and my tribe the sexual release to which we are entitled. I have been patient with you, but that patience has reached its end. If you cannot help feeling ashamed, then hide it; I never want to see it again. These men here”—he gestures with his head to the sailors all standing at attention—”all know of the punishment I will mete out if you disappoint me again. Now, glare.”

More from fear and desperation than from actually feeling any less embarrassed, you glare at him for all you’re worth.

“Good.”

Turning to the rest, he says, “We make for home. Dismissed.”

There’s immediately a flurry of activity on deck as the sailors lift and stow the dinghy that brought you here, fix the masts and rigging, and begin weighing anchor. Uncertain of what else to do, you remain kneeling where you are, your eyes darting from elk to elk, doing your best to glare if you happen to make eye contact.

“Come, Vales.”

You get to your feet and turn to follow the chieftain. The rower who berated you walks past you to address him.

“First Mate Hengthun,” Bulkun says, “What is it?”

“The men, sir; they have seen the concubine and wonder whether you will be sharing the spoils per the usual custom?”

“Indeed,” Bulkun replies. “But let it wait until we get underway. The concubine’s tribe—these Hvithale—have troubled me greatly with their backwards ways, and I am anxious to wipe clean the slate of his mind and to give him aid in properly showing his devotion until he is able to do it himself.”

“Yes, sir.”

The first mate walks off, and Bulkun leads you into his stateroom. The moment you enter, he closes the door behind you.

“Ah, that mouth of yours is quite luxurious, Vales,” he says, “But my loins crave a deeper draining. As a show of respect for your tribe, I did not take it while we were there, but now we have some time to ourselves, and I intend to feel myself completely and deeply sated.”

You gape. All these times he’s gotten off, and he’s still not done?!

“Go, Vales,” he says, gesturing to the bed. “I want you to get into position for me to breed you properly.”

Your stomach turns; is this really going to be your life from now on?

You must not dishonor your parents, your tribe, or yourself, you think. Think of the alternative. You have a point; at least there’s a chance of seeing your parents again if you do well. And, in time, maybe the sting of this humiliation will dissipate for everybody, and it might even be a pleasant encounter. But it all hinges on you being a good concubine.

Nodding to yourself and exhaling softly, you climb up onto the bed. It is much thicker and softer than the hay mattresses you sleep on at home; you’re amazed at how comfortable it is.

“No, Vales, I will not breed you like a wild animal,” Bulkun says, shaking his head at seeing you on all fours. “As you are my concubine, I wish to feel your submission completely. Lie on your stomach and spread your legs. Rock your hips forward to give me clear passage, and let your malehood mark upon the sheets the degree of your devotion to me.”

The last part doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to you—what is it with this “devotion” he keeps talking about, anyway?—but at least his instructions are clear enough, though you’re not sure how lying on your stomach will be any different from being up on all fours. Breeding is breeding, isn’t it?

But as you lie on your stomach and feel the soft covers against your sheath, as you rock your hips forward and feel the air brush over your ass and the sheets tug at your sheath, exposing the tip of your prick, you suddenly realize what he means. Your ass is exposed and so vulnerable that even the air is free to caress and violate you as it pleases. Your malehood—your most private part—is being forced out of its protective sheath and made to press against these foreign materials.

And as the realization of just how vulnerable you feel washes over you, you feel his weight on you. You feel his legs spread yours further apart. You feel his chest press against your back, pinning you down. You swallow and squeeze your eyes closed, your lip trembling as you realize how violated you feel without his malehood having even touched you. You feel worse than helpless; you feel exposed—even more exposed, naked, and vulnerable than you felt standing in front of your tribe and parents, you feel like you want to withdraw into yourself, to shut out his body, to snatch vainly at any scrap of dignity you have left.

His penis slips between your buttocks. It’s hot, slimy, wet, and unyielding. You shudder as it slips into such an intimate place and grazes over your anus. You try to flinch away, but his weight has you immobilized under him.

“Rock forward, Vales,” he says, his voice calm and commanding. “Submit to your master, and let him enter.”

You thought you already had rocked forward; you’ve felt the sheets tug your sheath back and expose your malehood, and you’ve felt the lascivious air groping your private places. You are afraid to do as he commands. You are afraid of the vulnerability. Your heart pounds in your chest and ears.

But Bulkun has spoken, and he will be heeded.

Your fear serves him no purpose; your role is to obey.

You bite your lip; it quivers between your teeth.

You rock forward.

Your penis slips completely out of its sheath and glides over the sheets, leaving a glistening trail under you. Your hips rotate, slipping past Bulkun’s throbbing member. Your anus slips past the tip of his prick, lightly catches it, and angles it into you. You can feel his tip lightly spreading your anus, effortlessly holding you open and making your vulnerability complete; your ass is his now, and he is free to push forward anytime, to bury himself balls-deep inside of you, to paint your insides with his essence.

You let out a sob in spite of yourself. The sheer intensity of the helpless feeling you’re experiencing and the anticipation—the knowing that he is going to exercise his right over you but being unable to hasten or delay it—is too much to bear. Your chest heaves, and another sob racks your body.

“That’s it, Vales,” Bulkun whispers in your ear. “Submit to me.”

With that, he slides balls-deep into you in one fluid motion, stretching your anus and instantly making you feel full and—strangely—complete?

You stop mid-sob, bewildered by this new emotion. How can you feel anything pleasant when you are in such a helpless position? How can knowing that you are being taken by another male—raped in the sense that the alternative to submitting is a fate worse than death—grant you peace?

You don’t have time to ponder it. As smoothly and easily as he went in, Bulkun pulls out completely, leaving a deep void in your gut, as if the best meal of your life was suddenly ripped from you. You let out a faltering gasp. How can you feel so empty now? Tears come to your eyes; the bewildering procession of emotions was bad enough, but now, when the aggressor that took your virginity has left, how can you possibly feel a sense of loss?

But once again, Bulkun does not leave you time to come to terms with your emotions. He slides in again, and again a delayed wave of satisfaction follows, hitting just after he begins to pull out. Before the wave of loss hits, he’s already begun pushing in again, getting faster and faster, until you can’t tell whether you should feel satisfied or deprived.

What you do feel, though, is an increasing sense of being overwhelmed. It starts as a dull concern at the edge of your consciousness, but as the waves of joy and sorrow crash into each other and the physical sensation of feeling him sliding against your tender anus build in intensity and chaos, panic grips your throat. You gasp and begin to hyperventilate, afraid of the intensity of this new feeling, afraid of how fast it grows, afraid of how desperately out of control you feel. You clutch the sheets, and when that doesn’t save you, you bite down on them, letting out a panicked scream as Bulkun thrust harder and faster into you.

“That’s right, Vales,” he says, his voice shaky but surprisingly steady for as much as he’s exerting himself. “Submit.”

He thrusts harder and faster still. Your heart is racing, and your breath is keeping pace with it. You feel as though your head will burst. Utter loss of control is imminent. You’ve never experienced loss of control like this! What lies on the other side? What if you pass out? What if—

The intensity reaches a fever pitch, and you scream again, your voice reaching a pitch it hasn’t reached since you were a fawn. Bulkun slams into you again and again, his penis a blur as it rubs your ass raw. You see a blinding flash of light.

Sudden darkness. Sudden, utter calm. Peace. Contentedness. An overwhelming sense of belonging.

Your mind goes blank. Those pleasant emotions fade into nothingness.

“Wake up, Vales…”

The sound is far away.

“I am very pleased with you.”

Your ears stir first, and then your eyebrows.

“You have shown great devotion to me, and I am deeply honored.”

Your eyes flutter open. You suck in a breath—how long has it been since you last breathed? Things begin to come back into focus. You’re in Bulkun’s stateroom.

Lying on his bed.

He’s lying on top of you.

Something wet is trickling down the crack of your ass.

You wince, all of your muscles aching from tensing so much, and try to move.

Something sticky and wet clings to your fur and to your penis.

You gasp. Did you…cum?

“I knew you were the one, Vales,” Bulkun says above you. “The moment I laid eyes on you, I knew you were the one.”

“What—what happened?”

“You submitted, Vales. You let go of your fear, and you allowed yourself to be pushed past the Great Terror. Oh, Vales, I know that someone coming from your backwards tribe could never understand what this means, but it means that you were destined to be mine, Vales.”

“I—I don’t understand. Did I…pass out?”

“Yes. And you might continue to do that for some time, Vales. But, I hope that one day you can submit without passing out. Only then can you truly experience the full splendor of your submission.”

“Did I…cum?”

“Spectacularly, Vales. You proclaimed your devotion loudly, all over the sheets.”

You let your head fall back onto the bed. You don’t understand a word of what he’s saying. But you remember how you felt, just as things went black.

You want to feel that way again.

A knock at the door startles you.

“We’ve made way, sir,” says Hengthun.

“Very good. He’ll be out in a moment.”

“Yes, sir. Uh—”

“What is it, Hengthun?”

“Congratulations, sir.”

“Thank you, Hengthun.”

The door closes.

“What do you mean, ‘he’ll be out’?” you ask.

“You’ve got to service the rest of the crew,” Bulkun replies. “That’s a concubine’s job.”

“But”—you hesitate—”I’m your concubine; that’s the punishment I was assigned.”

“A chieftain shares all of his spoils with his tribe,” Bulkun says. “That is the Reldehorn way.”

“But—what were you saying about how I was destined to be yours?”

“You will share a special relationship with me, Vales,” Bulkun answers, “But that does not excuse you from your duties as concubine, just as my special relationship with you does not excuse me from my duties as chieftain. Try not to conflate sex and relationships. I know that your tribe does things differently. You will learn, in time. For now, just do as you’re told, and it will make sense to you one day.”

You sigh. You don’t like the idea of having to please the whole crew.

And, if you’re being honest, you want to stay here with Bulkun. You may not understand this destiny stuff or the weird emphasis he has on “submitting” and “devotion”, but you do know that the feeling you had—that contentment—was unlike anything you’ve ever felt before, and somehow, you know you’ll only experience it with him; something tells you the others won’t stir that in you.

“Before you go, Vales, I want you to receive my mark. It will alert the others so that they will not seek a special relationship with you.”

You cringe. “Is this like…a brand?” you ask.

“No, Vales. It will not hurt. I want you to lie on your side.”

Nervous with uncertainty, you do as you’re told, and he moves in, spooning you from behind.

“Spread your legs, Vales.”

You lift up your free leg, and Bulkun slides his penis effortlessly and painlessly up into your ass.

“You may lower your leg.”

As you do, you suddenly feel a warmth spreading inside of you.

“I want you to hold this in as long as you can, Vales,” Bulkun instructs. “If it comes out while you are fulfilling your duty, so be it, but hold it in as long as you can.”

The warmth continues to fill you, and you grimace as you feel your stomach bloating a little bit.

“Remember: hold it in,” Bulkun says again, and with that, he pulls out.

You wince at feeling a bit of a sting right at your anus. A strong, acrid and musky smell hits your nostrils.

“They should know the moment you go down,” Bulkun says, satisfied. “When you are finished pleasing the men, return to me.”

You clench your buttocks closed and grit your teeth; the pressure inside of you wants to be let out, and the sloshing sound your stomach makes as you crawl off the bed is unnerving. You get to your feet, wobble a little, and then catch your balance.

“Go now, Vales. And well-done.”

<Next Chapter>

For the record, I never intended for this to go this long; my notes on this are literally only 300 words. But, I’ve been thinking about this story off and on for months now, and I really wanted to add to it. So, here goes. I hope you enjoy!

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<Previous Chapter>

You wake up to find yourself floating above the ground. You gasp in shock, your legs flailing, before you realize that you’re not so much floating as thrown over Bulkun’s shoulder like a sack of so many potatoes. Forgetting your position as his new concubine, you immediately begin pounding your fists against his back.

“Ah, haha! Vales, you needn’t begin the back massages so soon; wait until we get back to the village!” Bulkun says, laughing uproariously.

Back massage?! Me hitting him as hard as I can is nothing more than a back massage to him?!

“Come, spunky buck-whore; the demonstration is not over, yet!”

You feel your stomach sinking as he picks you up off his shoulder and puts you down as easily as you might put down the tiniest of fawns. You look up at him; he’s easily a neck-and-head taller than you, and his bulging chest ripples with what seems like impossible upper body strength. You swallow hard as you glance up at his face. How can someone so cruel have such a kind face?

Before you have long to ponder the question, he effortlessly grabs your head in one hand and spins you around like a top. You start to wonder whether Janus would allow himself to be handled so blithely. Surely not; he’s a lot tougher than you are.

But as soon as you turn around, you see him, about halfway back, with an elk holding a serrated blade against his throat. His mouth is drawn up into a sneer, but as you lock eyes with him, you catch a glimpse of something you’ve never seen in him before. It isn’t fear; it’s worse.

It’s pity.

The sinking feeling you had when Bulkun dropped you to your feet has nothing on the feeling you have now. Your own best friend is looking down on you. Your throat feels like you’ve swallowed a boulder. You instinctively take a step back and feel the immovable weight of Bulkun behind you. Before you can react, he puts his hands on your shoulders and bodily moves you forward.

Your breath catches. There, front and center, are your parents. Your eyes dart away as fast as they can, but not before making eye contact with both of them. Your mom is doing her best to put on a strong face, and your dad is holding her hands and comforting her. It’s as if you’re already dead, and they’re at your funeral. You turn your head away; you can’t bear to look at everybody in such a humiliating and compromised position, especially when they’re all looking at you like you’re less than a buck.

“I was serious about teaching you all to like yourselves,” Bulkun says, breaking the stifling silence. “Now that little Vales here has recovered from my clumsy hand, I shall show you. Sorry, little Vales,” he adds as an afterthought in a tone more patronizing than apologetic.

But what he says next makes you immediately forget his tone.

“I shall now pleasure little Vales right here in front of everybody.”

Your pupils constrict to pinpoints, and you instinctively squeeze your legs together and cover your crotch with your hands.

“Now, now, Vales,” he says, grabbing your hands and pulling them to your sides.

Not one to give up that easily and deliberately avoiding the Matriarch’s gaze, you deliberately put your hands back over your crotch.

“You cannot learn if you will not accept instruction,” Bulkun says impatiently, again moving your hands.

But no sooner does he withdraw his hands to try to spread your legs apart than you put your hands back on your crotch again.

“Enough, miserable slave!” Bulkun roars, grabbing you by the neck and lifting you off the ground in one quick motion.

Your eyes go wide, and you grasp his wrist with your hands, trying to peel apart his fingers. But you might as well be trying to pry solid stone apart; his grip doesn’t budge an inch. This is effortless to him; you are powerless to free yourself.

“Now, listen, Vales,” Bulkun growls in a voice soft enough that only you can hear but threatening nonetheless as he moves his face very close to yours, “You can continue to struggle and fight me, and I can slay your whole village in front of you. Your mother, father, friends, and precious Matriarch, all dead because of you. Is that what you want? All I have to do is give the order, and crrk!“—he made the sound of someone’s neck being broken.

Your eyes dart past him and get even wider; two large elk with bulging biceps are standing behind your parents, their expressions grim and determined.

“Think on it, Vales,” Bulkun says evenly, “One by one, I will kill them all, making sure to pace myself between them so that you feel the pain of each one individually, like a fresh lashing with each broken neck.” His voice grows even more menacing. “You’ll hear the sound of breaking necks in your dreams for years to come.”

He gives a faint smile. “I’m going to put you down now, Vales. Make your choice: stand and present your malehood for me to use as is my right, or fight me and watch someone in your tribe—someone you care about—die.”

You feel your feet touch the ground. His grasp on your neck relaxes, and his hand pulls away. You feel your legs instinctively pulling themselves together—no! You grit your teeth, ball both hands into fists, and pull them to your sides as you thrust your hips out. Squeezing your eyes closed, you turn your head away; there’s no way you can face everybody…not like this.

“Ah, ah, ah, Vales,” Bulkun says as he steps up behind you, putting his knee in the crack of your ass to prevent you from squeezing your legs closed again and reaching down to stroke your testes, “Open your eyes and look out there. Look at your parents. Look them in the eyes.”

You let out a soft whimper, your face burning with humiliation and your legs feeling like rubber.

“Come now, Vales. Hurry up; you know what is at stake. Crrrrrrrrrk,” he adds in a voice quiet enough that only you can hear.

The sound makes your eyes snap open. Your eyes dart to where your parents are. You don’t want to look. You don’t want to admit that you’re standing here, the concubine of this…beast. You want to hide somewhere—anywhere but here. But as soon as you look out, you know that there will be no hiding, that you will be made to bear your shame in front of your whole tribe. How can it be that only hours ago, the worst thing that had ever happened was the Matriarch jacking you off in front of a few peers, and now you were about to be brought to orgasm in front of your whole tribe?

Crrrrrrrrrk!

A cry comes up from the tribe, and your head instinctively turns toward the sound just in time to see a limp body slump to the ground.

“Linus!”

Your breath catches, and tears well up in your eyes. You try to start forward, but Bulkun pins you against him.

“I warned you,” he growls. “How many more will die?”

Linus’s parents are sobbing softly. His mom tries to rush to him, but a burly elk holds her back. The look in Janus’s eyes is now of infuriated defeat. The jagged knife is pricking his throat. You close your eyes and feel your tears roll down your face.

“Look at your parents, Vales,” Bulkun says quietly. “Don’t make me kill another.”

Helpless and defeated, you open your eyes to look on your parents. Your stomach turns as one and then both of them look back at you. As if it wasn’t bad enough that you’re about to be forcibly relieved of your seed in front of everyone, now your inaction has caused the death of one of your tribe—one of your friends! You desperately want to pull away; you can feel your eyelids desperately trying to close. You bite your lip hard and force your eyes to stay open.

That’s when you feel it: Bulkun’s hand on your sheath. You release your lip and begin grinding your teeth, feeling a new flush come over your face even as the burn of humiliation and regret stings your ears.

No, you won’t give him this. Let him stroke you until his arm falls off!

“Matriarch,” he says after giving your sheath only a few gentle strokes, “Come and relieve this buck of his seed. You seem to be very good at it.”

There’s an agonized gasp from the tribe. All eyes turn to the Matriarch. What will she do?

Please, you silently urge her, please refuse him; make him stop!

But to your dismay, she straightens her posture, radiating dignity, and steps forward with a slow, deliberate step. She comes up beside you and takes your sheath in her hand.

No, no, no… Not again! Not like this!

“No, Matriarch,” Bulkun says, “We Reldehorn do not believe in wasting a male’s essence.”

Your jaw drops. Surely he can’t mean for you to…breed the Matriarch?!

“You must consume his essence, use it for your nourishment,” he says.

A collective sigh of relief is heard throughout the tribe. Bulkun laughs. “Oh, you deer,” he says, “So caught up in what you think is proper. I’ll have you know that everyone breeds the Matriarch in my tribe, from the tenderest age, and I breed everyone as the Patriarch—from the tenderest age!” He shakes his head. “But, I shall spare you poor, close-minded fools…for now. Begin, Matriarch.”

Your eyes dart to the Matriarch, silently begging for guidance.

“Do your duty!” she hisses as she gets to her knees, her back turned to the tribe, and runs her soft, warm nose around the tip of your sheath.

An image of Linus’s body collapsing in a heap jars your thoughts. You gasp and look out at the tribe, where his parents are still consoling each other. Now there’s no way you can even think of getting hard. You want to push the Matriarch away, to leave you alone to your guilt. Now is not the time for sex; now is the time for mourning!

“What is taking so long, Matriarch?” Bulkun demands. “You had him firing off by now, yet he is not even peeking from his sheath!”

“My apologies, Bulkun,” the matriarch says. “He seems to be very tense and distraught. It might have something to do with the recent death of one of his friends,” she adds pointedly, her voice icy.

“Oh, that? Ugh!”

Bulkun gestures to someone, who picks up Linus’s body and begins to slap his face, telling him to wake up. The whole tribe is aghast, and several of the warriors try to break free to stop this outrageous defiling of his corpse, only to have the knives pushed into their throats a little deeper.

You can’t help but turn away; you can’t watch him being handled so, and it’s all your fault!

A surprised cry escapes Linus’s mother’s lips, yanking your attention back to her. Linus coughs and shakes his head, blinking as though he has a headache. His mother breaks past the guard and runs to hold him. Two more guards take up positions on either side of them, making sure they don’t go anywhere.

You feel Bulkun’s hand grasp your shoulder tightly. You swallow hard.

“Let that be a warning,” he growls. “Next time, it will be for real. Now, stop fighting me, stop fighting your matriarch, and do as you’re told.”

Now close enough to hear his words, the Matriarch’s eyes widen. As she looks from him to you, her expression changes to one of absolute resolution.

“Bulkun, your lordship, may I have a word with your Vales before we proceed?” she asks quietly, never taking her eyes off of you.

“I am no fool,” he growls. “If I let you go someplace private, you will try to conspire. Therefore, whatever you must say, say it there, Matriarch.”

“Very well; it can be said here as well as anywhere,” the Matriarch replies. To you, she says, “Do your duty, Vales. Your poor behavior could have killed your friend, or any of us!”

“Do you want me to take orders from this—this usurper?” you protest, not believing your ears.

A harsh punch to your stomach gives you her answer. Bulkun holds your arms, and you sag, hanging by your wrists, your face close to hers.

“This tribe has bested us, Vales,” the Matriarch says quietly, glancing over her shoulder. “The safety of our entire tribe rests in your hands. I will do whatever it takes to keep them safe. Do you understand? If Bulkun wants you to breed me right here and now, I will do it to ensure their safety, and you will do as he says! If Bulkun wants you to breed your own mother, you will do as he says! If Bulkun wants to slaughter you right here and now”—she reaches up and grasps the scruff of your neck, forcing you to look at her—”you will do as he says. Do I make myself clear?”

You swallow, feeling the urge to cry. This whole thing is so unfair! And she is kowtowing to this…this—

“Do I make myself clear?” she demands again, her voice a deafening hiss. “The sacrifice of one young buck is worth it to protect everyone else. Would you rather your parents died? Janus? Linus?”

You gasp and glance at him, still looking bewildered by what is going on.

“Are you that much of a coward, or will you do your duty?” the Matriarch presses.

You swallow and hang your head. “Yes, Matriarch. I will do as you say,” you say dully.

“Then get that dick hard and do as your master commands,” she replies, sitting back and once again nuzzling your crotch as if nothing had happened. “If you have to imagine young does or young bucks and not my wizened face, then so be it!”

Bulkun is silent for a moment and then chuckles. “Well said, Matriarch! I should take you with me to every tribe to ensure they behave! Very impressive!”

“As you wish, your lordship,” the Matriarch replies, giving you a significant look as her nose traces once more around the tip of your sheath.

How the hell can you get hard now? Your friend almost died—your fault—the Matriarch is now futilely trying to get you hard—also your fault—and she’s just chewed you out—also your fault! You’re standing here in front of everybody, and they all expect you to get off. The anticipation for the Matriarch must be infuriating, having to sit there on her knees, trying to get you hard! With all that pressure and regret, how can you possibly—

Her hands reach up to cup your balls, and you let out an involuntary sigh. You feel your prick emerge, and you feel hot, wet breath from her nose blow across it.

This is so humiliating; being fluffed by the Matriarch! And your parents are watching, and—

Her lips close over the tip of your prick, and your eyes half-close. You feel yourself emerge halfway, sliding effortlessly into her hot, wet mouth. Her tongue is so soft, so gentle as it caresses you and slides down your shaft. You emerge the rest of the way, and as effortlessly as licking a spoonful of ice cream, she moves her head slightly, caresses your length, and laps from base to tip.

Your eyes open again. The whole tribe is watching you. There are looks of disgust, humiliation, and dismay all around. If you ever survive this, the tribe will banish you. The thought twists your guts. Everyone you love will hate you. From now on, you are a pariah. Anyone who treats the Matriarch like this will—

The Matriarch’s hands cup your balls, sending thrills of electricity through them. You let out a hoarse gasp and feel as the Matriarch licks a large drop of precum from your tip. Ohh… Her tongue tickles as it plays over you. Then it presses up against your flesh, warm, wet, soft, and slippery. It pushes your malehood up against her soft palate. Her head begins to bob, slowly but persistently. Mmf… You feel your hips beginning to rock in rhythm to her bobbing. She cups and strokes your balls in time, making them quiver and fill with seed. They grow heavy in her hands; you can feel their weight tugging against your body. A warmth suddenly appears in the tip of your dick and in the depths of your testes. The warmth spreads rapidly, covering your whole crotch with a burning, yearning desire.

You sigh, your eyelids half-open, your head tilting back in bliss. Your focus is bleary, but as your head settles, things begin to resolve through the haze of your impending orgasm.

You see your parents. They’re both looking at you, at a sight too sordid to tear their eyes away. They look mortified. Oh, shit! What are you doing?! You’re going to get off right here in front of—

“Ohh!”

It’s as if the voice came from somewhere else; you don’t even recognize it as your own as you feel the Matriarch grasp your prick at the base and squeeze firmly. Your hips thrust in spite of yourself, and you feel your balls empty themselves. The Matriarch jerks a bit but recovers quickly, her tongue flitting dexterously to draw every drop from you until you are spent completely. Your legs wobble. You forget where you are, and you lean backwards, feeling something solid behind you to support you and prop you up. Your eyes glaze over, and your mind fogs.

The only thing that you know now is that that felt really good. You feel…happy. Relaxed. Giddy, even. A smile comes over your lips, and you let out an involuntary giggle.

“Ha! I knew he could do it!”

Bulkun’s voice shatters your bliss. In an instant, everything comes back to you, and things come into crystal focus. Your parents are still staring at you, but now shame has colored both of their faces.

“Applause, applause! He has done well; there must be applause!” Bulkun demands.

The Matriarch claps first, and then the rest of the tribe follows her lead. You hang your head and turn your face away; you cannot bear to be put on display like this!

I did what you wanted; why do you have to rub it in?

“What’s this?” Bulkun demands, grasping your face. “No, no, you must bask in your glory!  Look, see your parents! See how they applaud you!”

Applaud?!

Your curiosity gets the better of you, and you look at them, only to find that they’re both gritting their teeth and applauding only because the Matriarch did so. If anything, they look more mortified now than you have ever seen them in your life. You hide your face again, so quickly that Bulkun loses his grip.

“No!” he says forcefully, grasping and turning your face once more. “You must be proud of your achievement!”

For a moment, his body quivers with rage, and you’re certain he’s going to crush your skull with his massive hands. He sighs abruptly and relaxes his hold on you.

“Vales, Vales, Vales,” he says, shaking his head. “I shall have to lead by example, I see.”

He whistled, and two elk stepped forward, one male, one female, both as naked as Bulkun and the rest of his clan. The gray-white hairs that intermixed with the ruddy brown on their noses tells you they’re older, perhaps the same age as the Matriarch.

“Sire, Damme,” Bulkun says, bowing his head deferentially, “I have won a concubine for our great nation! What do you think of him?”

“He shall do you proud, my son,” the male says.

“He is a fine, handsome specimen, truly a credit to his tribe,” the female adds. “You have chosen well, my son.”

“But, our son, you must train him,” the male says, wrapping his arm around the female.

“His tribe is weak, and he is not used to serving our kind,” the female finishes. “You must show him how to be proud and bold before your family—before your tribe!”

“Mother, Father, I obey,” Bulkun says, bowing once more. “And will you be proud of me?”

“Of course, our son!” the elder elk chorused.

“Ah, Vales,” Bulkun says, the address making you turn your head to look at him, “You would do well to have parents such as mine. Your parents are afraid—ashamed even!—when their son stands before them, elevated as the cynosure of their tribe. What cowardice is this! What ingrates they are! Now, of all times, they should stand beside you, supporting you, proud of you, yet instead they wait until last—the very last of your tribe—to applaud your efforts, they avert their eyes, they blush. No! Damn thee, unsupportive, weak parents! I must”—he took a deep breath and recomposed himself—”I must show you what is to be proud of thyself, to triumph in they emissions, to bask in thy virility and the pride of thy parents. Vales, come,” he says, moving up beside you and turning his crotch to face you. “Kneel.”

His hands press down on your shoulders, and reeling from what he said and the wave of emotions his words elicited, you put up no fight. You kneel, and his pendulous testes hover in front of your face. His prick seems to have had no trouble finding its way out of its sheath; the tip is already visible and glistening. You swallow nervously. You know where this is going. It’s not that you’re necessarily opposed to trying something with a male—the thought has crossed your mind a few times, particularly with Janus—but of course, you would never even hint at it with him. But to do it here? In front of the whole tribe? What if you actually like it? You gasp. What if you show that you like it? You gulp and shake your head. No, even if you do like it, you won’t let on. How could your parents live with themselves if it was public knowledge that their son was…that way?

“Do you refuse me, Vales?” Bulkun asks, frowning down at you.

You gasp; you were so lost in your head, you forgot that he was waiting. With a glance at the Matriarch, who gives you her usual hard, expectant stare, you mutter, “No, Master” and haltingly bring your muzzle towards his crotch.

You take a breath, and a musky, masculine scent floods your nostrils. You feel reality wither, and your mind is awash with half-formed, incoherent thoughts that tease you without revealing what they are.

Abruptly, an image of Bulkun flashes into your head, quite clearly. Around him is pure blackness; he is all there is to see, lit as if by a radiance that shines from within himself. He beckons. His meat is at half-mast, and you go to him. He bids you to kneel and spread your legs, to demonstrate your subservience to him. You look down to see yourself at full mast, great volumes of precum trailing down your shaft and stringing their way to the ground.

“You have done well,” he says. “Now, demonstrate your devotion.”

You rise slightly, and your lips touch his prick. It is slimy with pre, too. It tastes musky and a hint salty, but your mouth waters for it. As if by some unseen will, you feel yourself compelled to lower your muzzle down over it, caressing it reverently as you do.

“It seems I may have less to teach you than I thought, Vales,” a voice says.

You snap out of it and suddenly realize that you’re not in a black void; you’re up in front of your whole tribe. And—you realize with a mortified gasp—your muzzle is wrapped around Bulkun’s prick.

A glance to your left shows the whole tribe spellbound, as if each face showed a different face of outrage. Your parents are actively shielding their eyes. A pang of frustration shoots through you unexpectedly as Bulkun’s words echo in your ear. What do they have to be ashamed of? You’re doing what the Matriarch and your master demanded, aren’t you? Why should that cause them embarrassment? A wave of indignation follows the frustration, and you feel your eyebrows furrowing as if they had a mind of their own. Why shouldn’t your parents be proud of you? Why—

A tickle on your exposed prick makes you gasp in pleasure. You glance down, and your face burns. That’s why. That’s why your parents are humiliated. Just like that passing image in your mind, your legs are spread, and the tickle you felt was another of what must have been many blobs of precum gliding down your shaft and painting the floor with your submission.

Damn.

The word is out; now your life in the tribe is over. You glance at Janus. He clenches his jaw and turns his head ever so slightly, averting his eyes in disgust. You look at Linus. He stares back at you in disbelief. His eye catches yours, and as if reading your soul, his disbelief melts into grim condemnation. He, too, turns his head, closing his eyes. One-by-one, you search the crowd for a friendly face, and one-by-one, they avert their eyes.

“Have you forgotten what you’re doing, Vales?” Bulkun asks quietly, somewhat amused.

Startled, you feel the dejection that threatens to suffocate you recedes a little. For once, you can turn away from your tribe, can focus on anything else to take your mind off of the damning rejection you’ve just experienced.

“Nothing left to do but to finish,” the elk says, glancing up and seeing the stoic faces. “Ignore them,” he says, putting his hand on your shoulder. “Go back to where you were a few seconds ago. Serve your master; show him your devotion.”

You gasp, almost letting his cock slip out of your mouth. Those words—they’re just the same as the ones you imagined!

Show me your devotion.

As if in a trance, you slip your mouth down over his drooling prick once more and taste his salty fluids and musky skin. Your vision darkens, and nothing is left but Bulkun’s muscular body in front of you, his large, virile balls hanging in front of you like ripe limes waiting to be picked. Your hands move with minds of their own, reach up, and cup those large orbs. Bulkun shudders, and a spurt of slippery, salty liquid coats your mouth.

“Vales,” a voice says softly. “Vales!”

You gasp and open your eyes, and Bulkun gently guides your head to see his parents watching you both. Their faces are beaming—radiant even—with pride. Before your eyes, Bulkun’s mother spreads her legs, and Bulkun’s father mounts her from behind. The idea strikes you first as repugnant. Why should two people mate in front of everybody else? Why shouldn’t they do it in private? But the look on their faces, the rapture they both feel, it…it seems to bathe you in its energy, and you’re almost certain you can feel warmth from them, even if they are twenty feet away. A feeling of happiness —no, of giddiness—for them wells up inside you, and you realize that you want Bulkun to feel that rapture; you want to feel that rapture!

You forget about your tribe and focus only on Bulkun’s body, the way his calves twitch when you cup his balls, the way his sheath pulls back with each thrust of his hips into your mouth, the taste of his pre and the scent of that overpowering, heady musk, the sound of his breathing growing ragged. You bury your nose in his groin, feeling his long, slender prick gliding against your tongue and the roof of your mouth. You can feel his orgasm drawing near. You desire it; you crave it! You lick and swallow around his cock for all you’re worth, desperate to share the pleasure of his orgasm; you don’t care who sees!

All at once, he grabs your head with both hands, holding you very still. You feel his cock swell in your mouth, and unable to hold back, you wrap your tongue around it and give it a good swirl.

He lets out a loud bugle, and his hips buck so hard that they shove your head backward. Bitter, tangy liquid spurts into your mouth, shooting down your throat. You cough and sputter as cum comes out your nose. Your eyes bulge, and you try to pull back, but his hands hold you firmly in place. Another spurt catches you off guard, and cum begins to drool out of your nose as badly as if you had a cold. More of the stuff shoots down your throat, coating your tongue and giving it a weird, tingly feeling. His cock swells abruptly, and you instinctively protect your throat with your tongue as a third, hard spurt plasters the inside of your mouth with so much cum that your cheeks puff out. Now that your mouth is covered in it, the taste is overbearing. You start to open your mouth to let it drool out, but he quickly pulls your muzzle off his cock and clamps it closed.

“You must consume my essence; use it for your nourishment,” he says fervently, as if uttering a prayer.

Unable to argue—to do anything else, really—you grimace and try several times before swallowing the thick, slimy glob in your mouth. It goes down, and you burp. It tastes just like the elk’s cum.

Bulkun has, meanwhile, thrown his head back and has his eyes half-closed, taking deep, triumphant breaths with a hint of a smile on his face. His parents, meanwhile, appear to have climaxed and are watching you both with expressions of post-coital bliss.

But your parents… You swallow hard, smacking in distaste at the powerful taste that you can’t seem to get off your tongue, and cautiously steal a glance at them. Their eyes are downcast; their postures sagging. A space has opened up around them and the other members of the tribe.

Glancing over your shoulder, you see the Matriarch silently mouthing words to herself. Part of you wonders what she’s saying, but most of you is afraid to ask. You get to your feet and slowly turn to face the tribe.

Bulkun opens his eyes and looks about the tribe, a broad smile coming over his face. “Father! Mother! Are you proud?”

“Ever so proud, son!” they chorus. “Your concubine has already shown his submission and devotion to you, and you have rewarded him generously with the fruit of your loins; for what more could we ask?”

“And you, Vales’s parents,” Bulkun says, his voice booming, “Are you also proud? Your son has shown great respect to me today; he has proven once more that he is the best among you!”

He stands, the silence deafening as he awaits your parents’ answer.

“Great Bulkun,” your father finally begins, his voice wavering.

Your heart sinks; you know that tone of voice.

“You have come to our village, demanded my son as your concubine.” He takes a shaky breath. “This is your privilege—one we grant to all our allies.”

Bulkun beams and nods; he doesn’t know where your father is going with this, but you do.

“But then you conquer our tribe, demand that my son bares himself in front of us all. I—” He takes another deep breath and lets it out. “We strive to understand our neighbors and allies, but I hope that you, too, if you call us your ally, will strive to understand us, too. This—this thing you have demanded, here in front of all of us—it is terrible to behold. To see my son’s body used as you have, to see our matriarch used the way you have used her, to witness one of our own killed in front of us only to find out it was a cruel trick—I cannot express in words the grief and pain I feel now. But”—here your heart plummets as his tone changes for the last time—this is where the real problem lies—”To witness my son spreading his legs and wetting the earth like a doe in heat while”—he let out a forceful snort—”taking your malehood as he did, I—” He trails off; his voice cracks, and he buries his face in his hands while your mother holds him close.

You hang your head. It’s true, then; of all the terrible things that have happened, none disappointed your father more than you. You are overcome with guilt and shame. How could you have prostrated yourself like that? How could you have humiliated your entire family like that? You’re so filled with remorse that you feel glued to the spot; you deserve to stand here, humiliated, in front of your tribe. You have brought terrible dishonor down upon your family. Your heart sinks, knowing what they must do to regain that honor. You would spare them the heartache, yet you know that it would do no good. There is only one thing you can do, but stripped of your clothes, let alone weapons, you are powerless to do it. And so you wait for your parents to do the only thing they can do to regain the honor of the tribe.

“You,” your mother says, her voice harsh and foreign. The word comes like a slap across your face, making you grit your teeth and turn your face to the side. Summoning any hint of pride you have left, you lift your head again, ready to receive your mother’s words like a buck.

“Wait.”

The tribe turns to look at the Matriarch. You turn to face her, as well, and everybody waits in silence, waiting for her to continue.

“It is true, this buck has brought shame upon himself and his family through his actions today; he has shown pride at his refusal to follow his master’s orders. His cowardice has nearly gotten one of our own killed. And, I will spare those with tender ears the harsh words I would use to declare his most heinous crime, one he has committed here in plain sight of everybody.”

You feel like you’re going to throw up; on top of all of the horrible things that have happened today, you are now being put on trial before everybody! You swallow profusely, fighting back that nauseous urge and desperately willing the Matriarch to continue, to get to the “but” in her condemnation.

“But,” she says.

She takes a deep breath, as if what she is about to say troubles her so much that she must find the words to carefully express it.

“But, his circumstances are unprecedented,” she says at last.

You hold your breath; surely there must be more to it than that; that in itself is certainly not enough to get you off the hook!

“Never before have we encountered a patriarchal clan,” she continues, her pace slowly quickening. “Never before have we had a chieftain make the demands he has made today. Our celebratory banquet has always been a pleasant affair, and the consummation of our alliance has always been done in privacy. Our laws and mores are harsh—and justly so—and unforgiving—just as they should be—and who among you can say with certainty that he—for I put the burden on the males, who have far more to lose in this arrangement than the females—could have done any better, put on the spot, made to choose between breaking our laws publicly or disobeying his master? Who among you could have allowed himself to be debased, abused, and made to commit a crime tantamount to treason with myself, all in the name of doing what was ordered by a most peculiar master from a most peculiar tribe?”

Bulkun moves to speak, but the Matriarch’s hand flashes up before he can utter a word.

“Just another moment, your lordship,” she says. She exhales sharply. “I am not advocating that the laws that were broken go unpunished,” she says.

Glancing around, you see grim nods of approval at this statement and sigh; you knew you weren’t going to get off for this.

“But, there is a caveat to our great laws that considers the unprecedented.”

This statement causes a general murmuring amongst the tribe, in spite of the intruders; if there’s anything your tribe takes more seriously than its own safety, it’s its laws.

“As you are all aware, the offenses this buck have committed bring unforgivable shame upon himself,” she continues, silencing the hubbub, “And on his family. He is a lost cause, and the only remedy for his family to regain its good name is to disown and banish him, to strip him of his ancestry, and to cast him out. To his mother’s credit, I believe that is what she was about to do when I interrupted her.”

To this, your mother nods sadly.

“I propose, given the circumstances, specifically because his transgressions were caused by a conflict of the laws of our society with the cardinal rules of concubinage—conflicts that had never come to pass before—that since his decision was to sacrifice the laws of the society in order to properly serve his master—a solemn duty that we all hold in high esteem—that we allow him and his family to keep their good name. On one condition.”

You gasp, realizing you haven’t breathed for some time, only to hold your breath again as you await the conditions of your pardon.

“He must make his concubinage permanent,” the Matriarch says grimly.

You bite your lip and do your best to maintain your posture. Permanent? To have to serve this…elk…forever? To never see my family again?

“It serves as banishment of a sort,” the Matriarch continues, “Acting as a deterrent against those who would violate our laws and removing the source of the violation, lest he try to corrupt others with his…detestable ways.”

Detestable? Why is it so bad?

“But, it also allows him to serve in the capacity that he was promised, and hopefully through his actions, he will bring honor and pride to our tribe through his service. Should the great Bulkun desire to bring him along on his travels, he would be welcome back—but only under those conditions.”

You venture a cautious sigh of relief. Well, at least you could see your family again, maybe, if Bulkun ever decides to bring you back with him…if he ever decides to come back…if your tribe will have him back after the things he did today. That’s an awful lot of ifs.

“However—and I repeat—this is to be permanent,” the Matriarch says, turning to look you straight in the eyes. “Should he displease his master, his master is within his rights to chastise him in whatever way necessary, including death, if the transgression warrants. Nor is he ever to run away, as doing so will bring immediate and tenfold shame upon himself and his family. Finally, as is the case for common concubines, he is to be henceforth chattel; if his master tires of him and wishes to trade him to another tribe for a different concubine, or for wares, or for food or other goods, then that is his master’s prerogative.”

Your heart sinks. You’re to be treated as livestock, then.

“It is a severe punishment, but in light of the myriad transgressions committed this day and in view of so many witnesses, I believe it is fair. He will keep his good name, and his family’s, but he will be made to pay the price for his actions.”

With this, she falls silent, and the general murmurings of the tribe strike up again. You cast a glance at Bulkun, who seems more intrigued by the goings-on than interested in interrupting.

“Having discussed the matter, what are the objections?” the Matriarch asks.

“Matriarch,” a voice says.

You turn to look, and one of the elders says, “With this punishment, are the accused’s parents to bear a substitute as would be the law should they banish him?”

The Matriarch shakes her head. “He is not banished; therefore, the onus is not on them to replace him.”

“But we will be shorted his hunting skills,” the elder points out.

“And his scholarship,” says another.

“And our society needs each of its families to produce enough offspring as to avoid making the parents a burden in later years,” the first continues. “Who will take care of them in their old age if not him?”

The Matriarch purses her lips. “You make a sound argument, Elder,” she says. “Yes, his parents shall procreate as they have no other get to care for them in retirement.”

“Matriarch,” another voice says, “What if his lordship Bulkun will not have him as his permanent concubine?”

The Matriarch turns to Bulkun. “What of it, your lordship?” she asks. “Will you take this buck as your permanent concubine, or shall we banish him?”

Bulkun does a double-take. “My gosh, are you serious?” he asks incredulously. “I have my warriors standing by to slit your throats, and all you can do is decide how you will punish the one I have chosen as my concubine for doing what you yourself have confessed to be the best he could do given your arcane and conflicting laws?” He scoffs and shakes his head.

“It is clear that you have no desire to execute my people,” replies the Matriarch, nonplussed, “And I would remind you that while you may hold us hostage now, if you seek to do trade with us in the future, you would do well not to insult our laws as you have already insulted members of our own.”

Bulkun shakes his head again. “Fine, fine, yes, I will take him,” he says dismissively. Muttering under his breath quietly enough that you can hear him but nobody else can, he adds, “I should think it more of a release than a punishment to get out from under such draconian rules.”

Your mind is spinning too much by all that’s happening to agree or disagree.

“Other objections?” says the Matriarch.

“What if his master frees him?” a voice asks.

“He is chattel; if his master wishes to free him, that’s his prerogative,” the Matriarch replies.

“But will he then be welcome back here, as a freeman?”

The air is heavy as the Matriarch thinks about it.

“No,” she says at last. “He comes as a concubine—as chattel—or not at all; he cannot be allowed to have the status of an equal as it could allow him to spread those deviant behaviors. If his master wishes to bring him along as he would an ass or a blanket, then so be it; we will not interfere. But on his own, he shall not return to this place.”

“Isn’t that the same as exile?” someone asks.

“Without the disgrace,” the Matriarch replies. “We cannot allow sowers of discord among our ranks.”

To this good advice, the elders and other members of the tribe all nodded.

“Any other objections? Speak now.”

After a period of silence, the Matriarch turns to you. “You, then, accused, what have you to say for yourself?”

You swallow and look at your feet, realize you’re still naked, and look away. Taking a breath, you say, “Matriarch, I—” You close your eyes, set your jaw, and recompose yourself. “I am truly regretful for my behavior today; all counts—even the unmentionable one—are true, and I was resigned to my exile. On behalf of my family, though, I thank you for granting them a way to keep their good names without having to suffer the pain of uttering the words. I thank you for myself for granting me a way to maintain your good graces—and the good graces of the rest of the tribe. I—words cannot express how truly sorry I am for my actions. I hope that as I work off my penance, I will restore honor to our tribe, to my family, and to myself. To my parents, I—” You look at them, but they cannot bear to look you in the eye. You swallow and sigh. “Never mind. I–I love you both, and I am sorry for the pain I have caused you.”

The Matriarch nods. “Very well. If there is nothing further, then elders, all in favor of committing this punishment upon the accused?”

“Aye.”

“All opposed?”

Oppressive silence.

“Very well. Accused, you are hereby sentenced to permanent concubinage, to serve master Bulkun as he sees fit, according to whatever rules he shall specify. You are to be his chattel, to trade, sell, or dispose of as he sees fit, in his sole discretion. Any attempt to overthrow or run away from him will be met with permanent dishonor and exile to you and to your family. Should your master grant you your freedom, you are not to return to these parts. You may keep your good name, and your family theirs, but you shall not be allowed to return to spread your unclean ways.” She turns to your parents. “You, the accused parents, you may keep your good name on the condition that you bear new offspring to replace the one who has been stripped. This condition is to be fulfilled within the next year, or you forfeit your good name. So judged, on this day.”

“So witnessed,” chorus the elders.

“It is done. My lord Bulkun, if you would spare us any further calamity, please dismiss your men, take your concubine, and go.”

Bulkun purses his lips thoughtfully. “I had far more to teach, but I can tell already that the deep-rooted bigotry and arbitrary laws here will take far more than one feast to cure. I am impressed by your parliamentary procedure, the speed with which you deliver justice, and the clarity with which you and your elders state your cases, Madam Matriarch, but I warn you that such backwardness shall not long forbear amongst your trade partners.” He gives a nod to his warriors, who release their prisoners and vanish into the forest just as suddenly as they appeared. “Come, Vales, permanent concubine”—he snickers, but you’re too numb to contemplate whether it’s at you or at the situation—”Let’s go in peace.”

On rubber legs, you follow him away from the overturned tables and spoilt feast, past your tribe—whose condemning looks you do your best to ignore but can’t help but see—past your parents, who seem torn between hugging you and fleeing from you but who end up doing neither, out of the feast-grounds, past the Matriarch’s tent, past the village center, and down the path that leads to the edge of the village.

On seeing the sharpened wooden spikes that form a simple palisade at the edge of the village, the thought races through your mind that this may be the last time you will see this side of it. A pain in your chest twists your mouth into a grimace. You can’t breathe, and you clutch your chest, which hurts so badly that you drop to a knee, one hand on your chest, the other on the splintered wood.

Bulkun, who was walking ahead of you, stops and turns, sighing.

“There, there, Vales,” he says, lifting you to your feet and draping your free arm over his shoulder. “Nothing here but pain and suffering. I promise, things will get better.”

With that, he takes a step forward, carrying you with him, and you leave the village of your birth behind.

<Next Chapter>