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The shackles dug into his skin as they dragged him bodily across the ground, hoisted up so high his feet only scraped along. All around him his captors laughed and jeered, cackling madly with torturous glee at the sight of him, their hated enemy, a proud cheetah, fallen so low and debased. He raised his head as much as he was able, even past the pain and exhaustion, and refused to show them even an inch of weakness. He was Prince Kwame of the Savannah, and although the marauders had bested him, he would not be broken.

They reached the end of the procession, and the two hulking guards who held him threw him against the ground as though he were nothing more than another sack of spoils. He tried not to let the pain show on his face as he staggered onto his sore, bruised legs only to for the butt of a spear to jab him in the back of one and force him to his knees, those same rough clawed paws slamming on his shoulders to keep him there.

In front of him, mere feet away, sitting on a wicker throne, was the Chief of the marauders - a towering figure of savage strength, his shaggy spotted fur and slavering jaw like something out of the stories his cousins used to tell him. He was dressed in the same attire as many of the warriors around them - a simple leather apron, but with more bone and ivory jewelry, as well as a 'crown' of feathers in a headband. He'd seen many of the hyena tribes in his time, but he'd never seen a specimen so powerful as him.

"Prince Kwame," he called, and his voice was at once softer than he expected but with the undeniable vicious edge of a man who held his power by right of conquest, a rich woody baritone that would've been soothing to Kwame if it belonged to anyone else, "do you know who I am?"

He bared his teeth. "You are the one who holds my fate in his paws."

There was fresh sniggering from the numerous warriors around them, and after a moment, the Chief raised a paw and they all fell silent at once. "You are not wrong," he declared simply, a cruel glint of amusement in his voice, "It pleases me to see that you understand your position but there is no need for such hostility, my Prince. You are our treasured guest - we will not harm a single strand of fur upon your body."

"And my men?" he snarled, glaring heatedly at the Chief. "What of them?"

The Chief glanced over to his side, where an attendant was standing, dressed in looser, more covering strips of cloth. "We have captured over a hundred of the Savannah warriors."

A hundred... he wasn't sure if he was reassured to know that so many of the men under his command had survived, or afraid of what would happen to them now.

"There you have it, 'Prince'," the Chief said, waving a hand dismissively with that same cruel smile, "Over a hundred of your warriors are in our hands. Who knows how long that can be said..."

His heart clenched. "If you had any honour, you'd-"

The guards jabbed him with spear butts once again, right in his bruised ribs and he couldn't stop the wince.

"You are in no position to make demands of me, Prince Kwame," the Chief snarled, and his voice was so darkly threatening that he flinched back. He started to relax a moment afterwards though, his gaze more considering. "... but if you are so concerned with your men, then a trade. I am a generous man, Prince, I am sure you will agree."

He swallowed, daring to meet the Chief's gaze. There was a hunger in those eyes, that made the Prince nearly shiver, but when he thought of all of his men... "What... what are your terms?"

The Chief's lips curled back into a smile that was all teeth and entirely too predatory for Kwame's liking. "You," he declared simply, "I will let them go - all of them, down to the last man - but in return, you will submit to me."

"... Submit...?" he echoed warily, not liking the glint in the Chief's eyes at all.

"Submit," the Chief repeated, grinning so widely it was a wonder his face didn't tear, "If you do so, I will let them go. You have my word."

The Prince swallowed again. If he refused... the Chief had already made it clear what might happen if he said no. The only question he had was whether he could trust him. In the end, it was never a question of trust to begin with however. If he didn't trust the Chief to keep his word, then there was no point in fighting any of this. "... I... I submit," he murmured, lowering his face to hide the shame that burned at him.

There was sniggering and jeering all around, and this time the Chief didn't bother to silence them for a good few minutes. Eventually, it died down. "Then crawl over here, and prove it, Prince."

He glanced up, unsure of what the Chief meant by his words and nearly choked on his spit at what he saw.

The Chief had pulled his apron to the side to reveal a hefty cock resting on top of an equally sizable, heavy sack covered in dark fuzz. Despite it's soft, flaccid state it was still far larger than anything Kwame had seen in his life... and worse, the meaning of the Chief's intent was plain for all of them to see now. "Well, Prince?" he drawled, reaching down to gently grope at himself, "I'm waiting."

He ran his tongue over his suddenly too dry and cracked lips, and for a moment, he debated running. But there was nowhere to run to... and even though he could feel every eye in the tent on him, he began to slowly meander forward. Some part of him couldn't believe he was doing this, really doing this. In front of all these leering faces? In front of the enemy? But there wasn't a choice. There was never really a choice. If it could save even a single one of his warriors... he owed it to them to do what he had to.

"Good boy," the Chief crooned, mocking in his praise, and the shame of it all burned at Kwame.

Kwame wasn't a stranger to this kind of act, and he'd had many bedwarmers over the years, but none of them had ever been like the Chief, a fact made all the clearer now that he was close enough to taste him on the air. It was somewhere between sweet and salty, carrying with it the undeniable scent of sweat but it was almost an undertone compared to the overwhelming masculinity of it. It was enough to make him shiver, although he could not put a claw on why exactly.

He chanced a glance up at the Chief only to see his silent, expectant face looking down at him with a leer. Heat burned at the tips of his ears, and he knew that if he took the time to glance around them, the Chief's expression would be mirrored across countless faces, and the thought burned at him even more. But however patient the Chief was, Kwame knew it might not last.

He tasted, perhaps unsurprisingly, of salty sweat more than anything. He had expected... many things, but it was sweat that was the primary flavour on his tongue, even more than the musk that overpowered his sense of smell. He tasted clean, though, besides the sweat, and the Prince was glad of that small mercy even as he continued licking, dragging his tongue along the thick shaft in broad strokes that left long glistening lines of saliva behind.

A heavy, clawed hand came to rest on the top of his head, and he could feel the shame burning bright on his face as the Chief urged him on. "There's a good boy," he rumbled, "go on. Make sure to clean every last inch. Show your dedication to your new master."

The Prince had never been much for obedience, even as a child, but he was a Prince after all, and it had rarely been his place to take orders from others outside of his father, the King. But it was easier than he expected to just... focus on his task, on his duty. The Chief's voice was like the rumble of thunder, and the more he spoke (the more he urged him on, the more he ordered him) the easier it was to listen and accept the words. The easier it was to obey.

And he did obey, although it shamed him a thousand times to admit. He lapped at every inch of the powerful cock presented before him until it shined, polished by his tongue. He washed the hefty sack that hung beneath him, swallowing each orb into his mouth to gently suck on its entirety before releasing it to repeat with its brother for what seemed like an eternity unto itself. At some point, although Kwame himself couldn't say when, the Chief had urged him up and along, and then he had taken him into his mouth properly, and the taste of his musk was all the stronger.

Inch by inch, he gulped it down, gagging as it pressed against his throat but the urging hand on his head and the soft, crooning voice that lauded his efforts with filthy praise, commending him on his talent and ability as a cocksucker. He only realised he had managed to swallow all of the Chief when he felt his nose press against the furry mound at the base, suddenly aware that at some point, he had closed his eyes. Against the better judgement of some lingering part of his pride, he opened them and gazed upwards and was greeted immediately with the leering face of the Chief, whose expression was at once one of hungry lust and almost affectionate pride.

Some treasonous part of his mind was reminded of his father's own praise whenever he had done well in his studies or training, a reminder only reaffirmed when the Chief rubbed at the base of his ear with a clawed thumb and murmured "Good boy," once again... and he nearly choked when he realised the warmth wasn't entirely shame anymore. It had been happiness at being praised, but that had only made the feeling of shame triple.

Had he - was he really drawing pleasure from-from this?! From the Chief's words, his humiliating praise - praise directed at his debasement! But he pushed the thoughts away, buried them back in the recesses of his mind - to focus on his task, he told himself, and not because he did not want to wonder what it meant. He redoubled his efforts and redoubled his focus on his duty, and most of all redoubled his efforts to avoid thinking about the taste and feel of the cock that even now was sliding across his broad tongue and leaving trails of salty precum throughout his mouth.

The Chief was in no rush, it seemed, and whenever he tried to pick up his pace in the hope of ending this humiliation faster, the hand on his head would grip him gently to slow him back down. It was all the force the Chief needed, and Kwame told himself that he obeyed because further resistance might be taken as a refusal to submit, and not all due to the way his body wanted to shiver every time the Chief murmured another little drop of crooning praise.

"Good boy," the Chief would croon, "there's a good little slut. Mmm, right there - go on, suckle a little more, don't be shy," and every time he did, the Prince's eyes closed against his will and it took everything he had not to moan around the cock.

The Chief tensed up silently, the hand on his head gripping him tighter than it had before, and it was all the warning the Prince received before his cock began to twitch and throb inside of his throat. His eyes widened in alarm as he realised what was about to happen, but even if he had the mind to try and stop it, it would've been too late as he felt him pulse against his tongue, throat bulging softly as the first wave of what seemed to be an endless tide began to flood his stomach.

The Chief slowly eased him back even as he continued to fill his throat, letting the latter splatter across his tongue as he slipped out of his throat proper, forcing him to gulp each spurt down as it came lest it spill (spilling, of course, would've been rude and that was why he kept swallowing). The greatest humiliation of his submission though, had yet to come. The Chief pulled him off his cock entirely with a wet slurping noise, and the Prince made a soft whine of disappointment before he even realised what was happening. That might've been shameful enough were it not followed by the last few, weaker jets of cum shooting out across his face in thick, sticky ropes, marking him before the entire gathering as the Chief's property.

"There," the Chief rumbled, leering down at him as his thumb brushed against his cheek, smearing his seed deeper into his fur and against his skin, "now you are mine, little Prince."

Kwame shivered. He told himself his men were safe, that this was the best thing he could do for them... but his future now was far from certain, and he didn't know what was worse.

The thought that he'd be 'serving' the Chief again, or that he might be looking forward to it.