FSE

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Southstar knelt on the cool sandstone floor, head bowed, palms on his thighs. The scratch of quill on parchment, the crackle of fire, the slow and steady breath of the man at the desk filled his ears. He daren't look up--soft yellow gaze trained on the nearest foot of the occupied chair. His posture and demeanor did not betray his thunderous heartbeat, his dry mouth, or how he struggled to keep his own breaths quiet and even.

He was terrified.

But he was also perfectly trained. Not so much as a twitch of his fluffy tail nor raise of hackle.

When the chair scraped back, he knew the wolf was appraising him. He felt those cold, emotionless eyes taking note. Though Southstar knew better to look now, he'd seen the man before. And slaves talk. Well over six feet, with arms and legs that seemed almost too long for his wiry frame, Southstar's new Master was a perfect specimen of his species. Bristly black mane blended into dusky blonde locks which fell across his sloped forehead. Fur the color of rust or clay covered most of his body, hands and snout a sooty black. And his eyes were legendary. Those eyes which were judging him, right at that moment. Assessing him.

Southstar knew maned wolves were common in this part of the world, but his species was not. Snowcats, as they were named in common tongue, were a largely tribal race that lived in the far north. Their coats were thick and fluffy, all the better to protect them from the harsh climate, fur a light cream color with wide rosettes of white. Their hind paws were wide for ease of travel over snowy and icy grounds, legs traditionally strong, with long, densely-furred tails. Southstar could be confident that there were no other slaves of his species this far south, and if there were, they probably weren't as well-trained as he.

And Southstar was well-trained enough to know he was an ill fit for this Master. Horror stories of his sadism were whispered in the walls. There hadn't been a single slave to his liking--no one could withstand the amounts of physical pain and mental torture for which the wolf had grown infamous. Southstar hoped that, by being a perfect slave, he could avoid the worst of it.

The chair creaked as the wolf shifted, now sitting sideways in the seat, legs crossed. "Stand up, boy."

Southstar did so, smoothly changing positions. The cat was short--barely five-six--and was toned as a dancer. His heavy fur kept most of his frame hidden, but like most slaves, nothing else shielded him from view.

"Come closer."

Three steps brought him within inches of the wolf's crossed knees. Southstar could smell the wax on the man's riding boots, the smoky licorice scent of his preferred cigars, his natural musk, almost foxlike. Being nearer to his new Master had his skin tingling, his head light with excitement, anticipation, and yes, still a little fear.

"Your name."

"Southstar, if you please." His own voice was soft, a lazy cloud in the winter sky.

"You will call me Sir, or Master Søren when speaking of me."

"Yes, Sir."

"Look at me," the wolf directed.

Without hesitation, Southstar raised his gaze to meet the steel blue eyes of legend. The power, the dominance, was unmistakable. Søren could cow a man just by looking at him. The cat's heart continued to pound, but he controlled his breath, kept his face blank, passive.

"My father expected much of you," he said, not as a question. Southstar did not respond. It wouldn't be proper for a slave to critique his own service. "I will expect more."

"It is my pleasure to serve," came the automatic response. A crooked sneer twitched across Søren's features. Cold settled in Southstar's gut, sensing that something was about to happen. He didn't move; not even to look away, though the cold, unfeeling gaze of the other predator was very nearly overwhelming. It was his peaking fear--and the silent aggression building behind the calm wolf facade--that began to take effect on the snowcat's body.

And of course, Søren took notice. He scoffed. "Do I arouse you?"

"I am eager to serve you, Master," Southstar replied. He felt cool air touch the tip of his penis as it swelled from its furry confines.

Søren stood then, one long-fingered hand on the cat's shoulder, forcing him to step back to stay an arm's length away. "I have no use for that." Clipped words, impatient. "Do you want me to hurt you?"

Southstar was struggling to walk backwards as he was directed with this single hand, fingers squeezing now as the wolf forced him backwards, toward the fireplace. He reigned in his panic, breaths coming a little quicker now, and it was so tempting to pull his gaze away, but he did not. "I-If you want to hurt me, Master, I am here for you to hurt." Of course he didn't want it. Southstar was no masochist. Submissive, yes, but he found no pleasure in pain.

He grunted softly when his back met the intricately-carved sandstone wall which surrounded the great fireplace in the room. Rubies and emeralds sparkled from their placements along the design, reflecting the fire. Søren's eyes caught the licking flame and turned it cold. Southstar shivered, unable to help himself. He was fully erect, and Søren's fingers were digging into his shoulder enough now to leave a bruise later.

"That isn't what I asked," the wolf rumbled, his face looming closer as his body framed Southstar against the wall. "I asked if you want me to hurt you." His sooty snout dipped low and he pinned the submissive feline's eyes with his own. "Tell me."

"No, Master." The word sounded naughty on his tongue. No.

"Well, that is what pleases me. It will please me more if you don't enjoy it." He glanced down, and Southstar struggled not to grimace. He knew he was hard, probably leaking. Søren flicked the head of his penis and Southstar shuddered in pained silence, jerking forward involuntarily only to be slammed back against the stone. "I think you like it," the wolf whispered. He grabbed the cat's jaw hard and corrected his line of sight. "Look at me when I'm hurting you."

Southstar stared, jaw clenched.

"I will hurt you. You are my property and I will mark you as such. I will hurt you because you've misbehaved, and I will hurt you because I wish to. You are a vessel which I will fill with pain. You will crave it. You will ache for my touch as you ache for my approval." Søren paused, leaning ever closer. Southstar felt a moment of panic, as though an avalanche had curled around him on all sides, all crushing, icy death. But the wolf's words warmed him. I am His. His cock throbbed.

"I am Yours, Master," the cat whispered reverently. A crocodile grin wound its way up the monster's muzzle.

"You are, indeed."

Dull claws scratched the cat's shoulder as he finally released his fierce grip. Fear battered at Southstar's gates, but submission won, and the cat did not flee, or wince, or remove his eyes from his Master's.

Those same claws precluded a searching touch along the snowcat's groin and inner thigh, thick wolf fingerpads testing the length and density of his fur. The attention was suddenly strangely intimate, and Southstar blushed, his pale fur doing little to hide the fact.

"This will have to do," Søren muttered, more to himself than to his slave. He stepped back. Southstar felt immediately chilled. "Lie on the floor. Not on the rug. Lie in front of the fire."

He moved with haste to do as directed. Flat on his back, he stared up at the darkness above, the idle wonder at the height of the ceiling acknowledged and released. His sex had no intentions of deflating, which appeared to be no issue with his Master; the wolf knelt at his side and affixed a tight leather strap around the base of his sheath, behind his testicles. The pressure in his cock increased instantaneously. "You're not to climax without permission. If you make a mess in my room, you will clean it with your tongue."

"Yes, Master."

"Look at me."

Southstar turned his head slightly to do so, anticipation like a rabbit in his gut. Søren's eyes were different now, more intense, more hungry. He leaned over the prone slave and picked up the end of what Southstar had assumed was a poker until now. The business end of the brand warped the air around it with the bright red heat radiating from sitting in the fire all this time. The brand was a circle with a slash through it. He tensed.

Søren didn't speak, choosing instead to move Southstar's body on his own. With his free hand, Søren lifted the cat's right leg, positioning himself between his slave's thighs. Southstar's hips ached as the wolf pushed his leg back and out, holding it at the very edge of his flexibility, his one-handed hold unexpectedly secure. The snowcat was painfully aware of the way this opened him up to his Master, but he held the wolf's gaze, remembering, never looking away even as Søren's attention went momentarily to the spot on the inner thigh where he'd decided to place the brand. And then, without preamble, down it went.

The pain was blinding, specific. Southstar bit his lip to keep from crying out, but he was certain he'd embarrassed himself anyway with a whimper. His back arched, his head cracked against the flagstone, every muscle demanding he flee. Søren's grip on his folded knee combined with the snowcat's deeply ingrained discipline kept him there, steady where it was necessary, for the seconds that orange iron sizzled against his flesh.

His head was spinning. Mouth ajar now, panting. Dimly, he noted the scent of burnt fur, the sound of the iron being placed against the mantle. He realized he'd looked away from his Master's face, but he needed a moment, eyes squeezed shut, waiting for his mind to stop swimming.

That was when he felt an additional pressure on his groin, long fingers moving his other leg now, so that both of them were spread, oversized feet in the air, toes clenching. He opened his eyes then, curiosity rewarded with the sight of Søren hovering over him, ivory canines glimmering in the firelight. The wolf's roughspun trousers and copper buttons scratched along Southstar's tortured length as he pressed his groin down, a low and dangerous growl building in his chest. Tears sprung into Southstar's eyes as the same motion which brought a preferable sort of torture also scraped against his new brand. He bit his lip again, this time realizing he'd drawn blood previously.

Søren huffed above him, releasing the snowcat's legs to support himself with splayed hands on the floor to either side of Southstar's head. The wolf craned his neck to look down at his submissive, teeth bared. "Don't dare draw your own blood again. Cry out for me." He ground his trapped hard-on against Southstar's exposed, likewise scraping the rough fabric of his pants against the tender and blistering brand. Southstar moaned in mingled complaint and pain. "There's a good boy," crooned the monster.

"Master," Southstar said urgently.

"No."

Søren pulled away. As he panted and whimpered from the pain of hindered release and his brand, his Master stood, gazing down at him with an expression best described as boredom.

"You haven't earned a reward yet, boy."