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Breaking the Brat

Part 2

for Damiekinz

by Draconicon

A thief, once captured, was not yet dispossessed of a future. A clever rogue could yet free themselves, and in truth, they had many options.

A charming man could bring his wiles to bear, seducing his captors and putting them to his purpose. Such a plan had been used by the great Shadow Panther, who had bowed his willowy body to the guards and gained their trust to a point where they walked him straight to the front gates of the palace to bid him farewell.

A stealthy criminal could use the shadows to their will, escaping the dungeon and keeping out of sight, for what chains could hold that which could not be put in them? Such an escape was said to be done by the Willowy One, a thief of such great dexterity that only their deeds were known.

Even if all else was lost, a swift bandit could yet outrun his captors, putting his feet to work and running as far and fast as they could carry him. Such was the way of escape for most of those that broke the law, to run and keep running.

Branlin failed on all points. He could not bring himself to seduce his guards, nor could he find the chance to avoid their eyes, and without either, the opportunity to flee could not be summoned. The fear of Lord Tyvo had been burned into them once more, and despite the peace of mind it granted him, it meant that they were not his to play with. They refused his banter and his flirtation - though his methods were clumsier than he knew - and they kept their eyes on his locks and keys rather than on the meager offers that he made.

How could they deny him, he wondered? Was he not prime material for their fantasies and desires? Did not his body stir them to the point of frenzy? He had seen the way that the lion lord had looked upon him. Should not an offered leg or a sway of the hips hold their eyes?

As in many ways, Branlin had deluded himself. There was little to recommend him to the guards, and less when he attempted to flirt. He was small, slighter than their partners of choice, and the mere idea of trying to put hands on him was enough to send shivers down their spine. Perhaps, just perhaps, he might allow them some pleasure, but the chance of breaking him and sending him before the lord again with an injury were too high. They would not risk their lives on something so doubtlessly inferior to the whores just outside the castle walls.

But in the mind of the pygmy goat, he was a prize that was waiting to be claimed, yet lacked any claimants willing to make the attempt. He ranged from annoyed to relieved and back to annoyed once more, for his ego could not stand the concept that he might not be desired, that his reputation might be less than his imaginings. Even the spanking, the painful punishment of the Lord Tyvo, was not sufficient to bruise that as of yet.

Yet, for all his failures to recruit the guards to his cause and his many futile attempts to break the locks with his 'skills', he knew that he would not stay here. He could not. So he would not.

He waited for the day that the opportunity would come...and waited...and waited...and waited for some days more. The sunlit hours consisted of the butler of the Lord Tyvo droning at him, instructing him as to his proper place, and amounted to so much noise that mattered not at all to one tied up by his arms. His night hours, before he was allowed to sleep, consisted of the lion's touch, and the lion's sac.

The taste had become a familiar thing, one that he wished was not so, and he regularly went to sleep with a mouthful of something more. He would have spat it out, were it not for the fact that the one time that he had done so in the lion's presence had resulted in a slap.

Nothing more than a slap, but it had made a mark, and the pygmy goat had learned: one did not spurn the 'gift' of a nobleman.

A week passed in such ways, but on the night of the seventh day, something miraculous happened. A simple mouse, drawn to the crumbs of uneaten food in his dungeon cell, carried on its back a few simple strands of metal. Little more than sewing needles, of course, likely stabbed into it as it fled from the serving women elsewhere in the castle, but they were a godsend to a thief.

The pygmy goat picked his locks after snatching the mouse to his side - though not without jabbing his hand on the blunt end of the needle in the process - and was quick to flee. The guards had not yet come to take him to the lion, and the goat's hooves carried him at speed to the nearest window. He was up, he was out -

#

"What in the world possessed you to think that you had a chance of escape through the lower dungeons?" Lord Tyvo asked.

"...I assumed it was the window to the courtyard," the goat muttered.

"A window to the courtyard. From an underground chamber. That has no windows to the surface."

Of course, when one said it in such a fashion, all ideas verged from the moronic to the imbecilic, but Branlin's cheeks burned regardless. He lowered his head further into the lord's bed, grumbling as Lord Tyvo washed away the worst of the muck that had attached itself to his fur from the lower regions of the castle.

It had seemed like such a simple plan, at the time. He would leap for the high window and crawl through, making his way to the courtyard. None would expect such a daring escape, and he would rush for the walls while all and sundry were stunned at his brilliance. From there, a simple ascent and descent, and he would be home free. Prize-less, yes, but free to try again in a few weeks or months when the furor of his passing had died down.

What had happened was a far more dangerous descent, falling from the high window on the opposite wall of his cell into a deeper room, one where the ravaging beasts and those accused of murder and worse were kept. He had managed to find his footing on an outcrop out of their reach, but escape had been impossible until the guards had come to find him. The humiliation of having to be lifted from his perch by the very people that had imprisoned him knew no bounds.

He had been stripped and brought to the master, then. The lord of the keep had demanded his presence, and dirt and wall slime meant nothing to his desires. However, the white lion had called for water, and had been bathing him as Branlin told the story.

"You...are truly the lowest of thieves," Lord Tyvo said.

"Take that back."

"Hardly a demand to be made in your position."

"Take it back. I could have escaped."

"Entirely doubtful. You went the wrong way, and even if you had gone the right way, you would have run right into my guards."

"I could handle myself."

"Like you did the last time?"

Branlin grumbled, his fingers clenching into tight fists before slowly relaxing again. The relaxation was, admittedly, rather forced. The bindings that Lord Tyvo had demanded he be placed in ensured that.

He was tied up quite extensively, his legs bound in leather cuffs just above his hooves with a metal bar between them, forcing his legs apart and keeping him from dragging his knees together. His hands were bound tightly at the wrists, pulled together, and a chain ran from them to the collar around his neck. The leather that had covered his shaft and his rump had been removed, taken for cleaning, leaving him fully exposed before his captor in the most humiliating of ways. He could feel every breath of wind across his cheeks, and his shaft hung limp and pulled tight in the cool evening air.

The cold water running along his rump and thighs as the lion washed him did not make it better. If anything, it felt like it made his parts shrink even further.

"I suppose you will have to be punished further, little 'thief.'"

"I am a thief. Do not mock the great Branlin."

"..."

SMACK!

The pygmy goat yelped as he slid forward, the sudden spank reminding him with a quick burst of heat just how warm his rump could get. The sheer humiliation of the last session was not lost on him, nor was the reminder welcome...and yet, the heat spread under his tail alarmingly quickly, aided by the memory as much as the physical sensation.

"You clearly have much to learn, little brat."

"You...nngh..."

"But first, you will apologize for wasting my time, and that of my guards."

"Hmmph. As if a great thief would ever apologize to his victims."

"...Now, that would be a boast, if you were either a great thief, or had anything in the way of victims that have lost anything but time. But...it seems that you need a greater education than my hand can provide."

Greater than - what was that supposed to mean? He tried to lift his head, to turn, to peer around his shoulders, but the bed and bindings were more than sufficient to keep the pygmy goat precisely where he was. The sound of footsteps rapidly faded, the lion's footfalls too soft to track on the rugs spread throughout the bedroom, and too light to guess where he might have gone.

Too great an education for the lord's hands to provide? Then what was he fetching? Some tool of torture, no doubt. Branlin braced himself, lifting his head with as much pride as the chain attached to his neck would allow. Like any good criminal before authority, he would stand it with grace and posture, and not allow it to break him.

The footsteps returned, the lion coming back. The goat's mind raced, even as the measured steps told him that Lord Tyvo was in no hurry. There was all the time in the world for this, and time seemed to slow as his fears, unwanted and unasked for, came to the fore.

What would happen to him? What tool had the lord brought out for himself? The spanks had been humiliating, yes, but the lingering sting of their heat and the pain of the lord's palm on his rump had been sufficient to leave him thinking of it for the rest of the night. If this was worse, could he truly take it? Could he endure it? Or would it be more than someone so new to -

Whistle.

Whistle.

The sound of something flitting through the air caught his ears. It was not something heavy, then, not something like a whip. That meant that he had a chance of coming through unbloodied and unbruised. Just like that, his confidence surged to the fore once more, and the pygmy goat lifted his head as much as his bound wrists would allow.

"Do your worst. I can take it."

"You could not take a hand a week ago."

"I have grown stronger! Prison has changed me!"

"...You have been in a cell with a padded bed in the upper part of the dungeons. You have hardly been in prison."

"Try me, then! I will -"

Thw-SMACK!

While the spank had been heated force spread out along his cheeks, this was a tightly-packed collection of stinging heat. He gasped, his eyes going wide at the sudden fire that blossomed in the center of his right rump cheek, his legs tensing, his hooves lifting up slightly before the weights on his ankles forced them down again.

"Nnngh..."

"That is the first. Let us begin your punishment."

"W-wait - NNNGH!"

Thw-SMACK!

Thw-SMACK!

Thw-SMACK!

Each blow came down slightly faster than the last, until they were raining down without pause across his cheeks. They rippled, they bounced, they rolled. He tensed, but every time that he did, the tightness of his muscles made the blows come through with that much more intensity. Every impact was a tightly-localized flare of heat and stinging pain, so like and yet unlike the spanking, but no less humiliating.

"NNNGH! Ah! STOP!"

His begging didn't do anything to slow it down. The blows merely varied, shifting. Where at first they had all come from above, they came from below, almost lifting his rump cheeks with the impacts. He could feel the bouncing, the rippling, and he screamed as if he was being tortured.

Of course, he was not. Branlin, like many thieves new to the professional side of the business, did not have the stamina and the endurance that their ego convinced them that they had. The ability to run did not equate to the ability to take a hit, nor did the ability to take a hit translate to the ability to take torture.

But of course, one did not need to take torture to be able to endure what was a relatively mild punishment. To an outsider looking in, the pygmy goat wailed at the treatment that a riding horse would have been merely bemused by. The blows of the riding crop coming down were little more than the encouraging taps that a horse would have been able to shrug off as easily as a fly, yet to that rounded rump, it was torment, a masterclass of humiliation and 'agony.'

Branlin gasped, whimpered, and heaved as the blows continued, feeling nothing more than tightness and fire in his cheeks. The punishment continued, and would continue, he remembered, until he apologized. His pride, such as it was, could not stand up to the need to ease the pain.

"I'm sorry!" he shouted at the top of his lungs.

"For what?"

"I - nnnngh!"

Another impact, another smack, another rippling shake. He could feel the heat spreading further and further inwards, the blows of the crop coming closer and closer to the center of his cheeks. He could feel the passage of the wind moving closer and closer to the base of his tail, a place of great sensitivity and one that he feared would be touched. If it was, he did not know if he could take it.

"What are you sorry for?" Lord Tyvo asked .

"I - nnnngh!"

Another hit, another move closer. The pygmy goat slumped forward, his wide ass rising as his face lowered into the soft mattress. He could all but feel the cheeks spreading, as if his body was trying to avoid the stinging echoes and rippling heat from the crop, but the next blow came down close, too close to his rim. He yelped, throwing his head back and making the chain pull him back down.

"I'm sorry for wasting your time!" he cried out.

"And?"

"And wasting the time of the guards!"

"And?"

"And for being stupid!"

"And?"

"And...and...trying to steal from you..."

"And?"

The list of apologies went on and on, seemingly without an end in sight. Branlin found himself confessing to and apologizing for things that he had done years ago, sins that only a child would feel the need to apologize for. The longer that the list went on, the more apologies that he said, the longer that the punishment would be kept at bay.

It was not as if the pain was so horrible, but rather that the goat's constitution would not allow him to suffer it. Could he have taken the pain, were the choice something less pleasant? Perhaps. Indeed, he likely could have, given that the Lord Tyvo was not so sadistic as to wield it with the intent of causing injury. But Branlin's mind was a fragile one, unable to focus through pain, or humiliation, and certainly not through a mix of the two. He gave in, apologizing so far back as to apologize for the time that he had stolen a crumb of a pie from a plate in an inn.

The riding crop was finally set aside, and a low whimper and wheeze escaped the prisoner. He slumped to the bed, heaving breath after breath into the pillows as the Lord Tyvo sat at his side, rubbing one hand over his burning, inflamed rump. It felt as if a fire had been lit within the cheeks, a fire that burned unceasingly, one that could have cooked eggs had they been laid over his flesh.

"You have not earned absolution, but your apologies are accepted."

"Nnngh...ah..."

"But you will learn your place. And if you will not learn it on your knees, you will learn it on all fours."

"What...what does that..."

"You will learn what it means to serve your master."

The lion leaned out of sight again, the bed shaking and leaning ever so slightly. He sat up once more, holding something out of Branlin's sight, something that popped as the lion pulled his hand back. A vial, then, one that had been tightly corked from the sound of it.

It was cool as Lord Tyvo poured it over his rump, cool enough to send a shiver down his spine and a sigh of relief into the air. It soothed the burning, somewhat, though he wished that it had been poured across the expanse of his rear rather than right down the center. The lion's fingers rubbed across one cheek, dug in for a moment, then -

"AH!"

They found their way to Branlin's rim, rubbing over it, circling it like wolves before their prey. He hissed, trying to pull his legs back up, only for the lion to shove him down and pin him further.

"Do not ruin what little good will you've managed to restore, prisoner."

Branlin wanted to toss some sarcastic or biting remark over his shoulder for such an asinine order, only for one of those fingers to find its way to the center of his pucker. He felt the flesh bending, felt the pressure of the lion's finger pressing just a bit more firmly, and his breath hissed between his teeth as he looked straight ahead once more.

It had been humiliating enough to be forced to suck upon the lion's sac, and yet more to be sent away with the taste of lion seed in his mouth. This was something far more intimate forced upon him, something that he would have to submit to to avoid further pain and humiliation.

He resolved to do so, even with the pain. He would suffer, he decided, and if he did, he would ensure that the lion knew every moment of his -

Another shivering waterfall of the cool liquid rolled down from his tail to his hole, and then further down to drip from his own sac to the bed below. His breath came out in a shaking wheeze, his eyes rolling back as he felt that deceptively gentle digit rolling side to side, forward and back, and then -

Squelch.

The soft wet sound of it pushing past his rim left him tensing up again, his shaft unwillingly beginning to rise against his belly. The disobedience of his body, its exceptional willingness to show pleasure, was not something that he had agreed to, yet it was already beginning to act as if this was wanted, as if he desired something so base as to be penetrated like this. He ground his face against his wrists, his cheeks burning as his other cheeks were parted further by the lion's free hand.

"For such a pathetic thief, I expected to find this already stolen from you."

"Mmmph...ha...ha..."

"Or were you so quick on your feet that you outran all suitors?"

"It's...not...yours," he whispered, cursing his own rising excitement for his lack of vocabulary.

"Oh, but it will be."

"You - nnngh!"

A second finger, gently running along his rim before pushing in. They formed a channel of sorts, and the vial followed, pouring over them and into him. If he'd had toes, they would have been curling at that moment, and his hooves tried their hardest to imitate the movement as his legs tensed and spasmed from the cold liquid running into him. He could feel the chill spreading through his inner walls, running into his gut from the sheer amount of it, and the slight discomfort of the spreading fingers rapidly began to fade.

He did not know if it was the slippery nature of the ooze, some hidden skill of the lion lord, or the fact that his body was rapidly growing used to being spread. Whatever the reason was, he could not feel pain from the two fingers inside him, and the only distraction to the pleasure that they offered was the humiliation of his own situation. Branlin did his best to remind himself that this was unwanted, a torment, a punishment for what he had failed to do, but it was hard to keep such grievances uppermost in one's mind when the torment and punishment was more pleasure than pain.

They moved slowly, at first, merely scissoring back and forth along each other as they pushed in and out of him. The soft bubbling sound of the slimy stuff poured inside him didn't make it better. If anything, the reminder of how much had been poured into him made it worse, reminding him of the sheer slickness and the slimy feeling that would come later when it was all forced to come loose.

But for the moment, in that moment, the sound became its own kind of stimulation. It made him feel wet, open...even slightly...slutty, as if he had the wiles of a street woman that had attracted a lover for the night. Such a sense of wetness and openness back there felt unnatural, wrong, but at the same time, it was enough to encourage his shaft to keep rising until it pinned itself to his stomach with its own need and rigidity.

A third finger followed, riding the wet curve of his hole right into his depths, the lion's thumb and pinky finger following the curve of his ass. In, squirm, wiggle, and then a slow slid backwards, the fingers curled down and rubbing -

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh..."

Rubbing right over a pleasurable bump that sent far too many tingling feelings right through his body. He couldn't think, couldn't focus through the sheer intensity of the stimulation. It was magical, defying all common sense of what he should be feeling right then.

The wet fluids around his hole made him feel sloppy, open, and in truth, he was. From behind, it was clear that his hole was stretching quickly, adapting to the lion's fingers, opening up and showing the pygmy goat for what he was, what he refused to admit that he actually was deep down inside. The body's truth was on display, and it was merely a matter of making the mind acknowledge that which it abhorred.

Lord Tyvo pulled his fingers back, and the goat's hole stayed open. Not vastly so, for such a feat would have been beyond even the alchemical mixture that they used, but wide enough to pucker, to wink, to open and close and yet show the soft pink-red of the inner walls. The goat's panting breath and the soft clenching matched the pounding of his heart.

"There...that will do."

Branlin could not argue with the lion. He could not imagine anything less, or anything more. He could imagine precious little at that moment, too lost in the sensation overload that came from behind, from under his tail. No-one had touched him like that, nor opened him up, and he wondered if he could have withstood the offers of the guards if they had accepted his flirtations. Could he have escaped after a rut, if mere fingers had done so much to him?

His captor moved to kneel between his legs, and he felt the warmth of the lion's shaft sliding into place between his cheeks. It was warmer than the fingers, slick already with either the same ooze that flooded through his core or something that it had produced for itself. Either way, it was ready, and so was he.

He could not flee. In that moment, he almost didn't want to.

The goat submitted to the clawed fingers at his hips, refusing to pull away, refusing to fight. What little defiance was on his mind at that moment acknowledged the impossibility of escape, knew that to fight would only bring greater punishment, but even if it had the will, the rest of him did not. It wished to learn.

It wished to experience what it meant to be a bitch for someone else.

Branlin shivered as he felt the tip of that throbbing rod press against his hole, feeling the open pucker clench down and feel tight for a moment, only to open up as Lord Tyvo edged inward. The feeling of his inner walls being forced to open up, to be denied the chance to close, only made it that much more intense, that much more powerful to be conquered like this. It was more than the feeling of being prisoner and captor; it was the feeling of being conquered, taken in, and some part deep down inside of him loved that.

He hated it. He hated himself. But at the same time, he loved the feeling, and the sensation just would not stop. The further the lion moved, the deeper he went, the more that the pressure on his sensitive little pleasure button grew. He wanted to feel more of it, needed more of the little tingles that it forced down his own shaft, and he whimpered as his hands curled tight into fists over his head.

"Nnngh...ah...mmm..."

"At my pace, prisoner."

"Nnngh..."

"Mine."

The lion's next thrust was faster, and it was what Branlin had dreaded. He felt that stretch, felt the way that it pushed deeper than the fingers had gone, and the little 'pap' sound of the lion's hips hitting his thighs was not making it better. It reminded him what they were doing, that this was supposed to hurt, that this was supposed to be an agonizing torture for a prisoner without a choice.

Instead, it had become bliss. Just one thrust, that first thrust, and he was already dribbling pre-cum onto the bed below, marking it, oozing from the treatment that should have been completely against anything he would have allowed.

He was robbed of his speech as the lion pulled back, the long shaft dragging its way out, the slippery slime that filled him dribbling out along his taint and running down to his sac. The shiver-inducing chills that followed were nothing compared to the feeling of being emptied out, of having that shaft leave him, and the goat whimpered in a way that was most unbecoming of someone of his supposed stature.

Then, it was in again.

Schlick-squelch.

It bottomed out inside him, and he saw stars at the hard, fast thrust, his mouth hanging open and his tongue doing the same. He all but drooled at the intense feeling of that thrust, only for it to go out and in, out and in, again and again as the Lord Tyvo used him, rutted him, all but breeding him in that moment.

Any thought of rape and torture fled his mind, unable to stay rooted with the raw pleasure that rose through him and left his shaft trembling. He felt it bobbing, bouncing, slapping against his belly, staining his fur and leaving him marked with his own unwanted pleasure. It would not stop. It could not stop.

"Ah, ah, ah!"

He moaned as the 'pap-pap' sound of the rapid thrusting kept getting louder, speeding up as the lion took him and used him properly. Properly. A thought so wrong for a thief, so out of sorts that it almost snapped him from his trance of utter pleasure, but there it was. He was getting used 'properly.'

In, out, in, out, each thrust making its own noise, louder, softer, more obscene than the last. The feeling of that slippery thing sliding so far inside him was making his eyes roll back in their own sockets, his head grinding along the bed, his hips moving of their own accord. It was as if control of his own body had been stolen from him more effectively than anything that he had stolen from anyone before, and at that moment, in the hands of the white lion, he had no regrets.

His hole no longer burned, if it ever had. If anything, it throbbed, clenched, pulsed with as much urgency as his shaft. It shouldn't. He should be -

"Ah...mmmph..."

"Are you learning your place yet, prisoner?"

He was. As much as Branlin hated to admit it, he was learning something that he had never known about himself before. Deep down inside, just about as deep as the lion's shaft could reach, was a little whore that was just waiting for someone else to come around and take hold of. Deep down inside, there was that little piece of him that had been waiting for someone to take control, to use him, to make use of him, rather than running around.

It was humiliating.

It was debasing.

It was imprisoning.

And it was nonetheless there, just as much as he was there, panting unintelligible gibberish as he was taken from behind and broken in, his virginity taken from him in a scene that should have been so much more unwilling than it actually was.

In, out, in, out, and he could take it no longer. With a deep moan, he came, his hips tensing, his thighs trying to close even as the spreader bar at his ankles kept his legs spread, and his shaft sprayed his seed all along his chest and stomach. It would have hit his head, but he was too busy grinding that against the sheets.

Some lords, in such a moment, would have punished their prisoners for daring to show any kind of pleasure from what they were receiving. Some would have gloried in it, gloated at what they were able to make their underling do, luxuriating in the raw power of their masculinity. Still others would have pulled out and stopped it there, their point made and their time more valuable than the breaking.

Lord Tyvo did none of those. He slowed, pulling back, letting it feel like he was on the verge of pulling out. He reached around, grasped the throbbing, not-yet-spent shaft of the pygmy goat beneath him, and whispered - in a voice that was altogether horrifying and arousing all at once - something that Branlin could only barely understand.

"This already knows what you are," the white lion whispered, squeezing tightly around the goat's shaft. "The rest of you will understand, soon enough."

The pygmy goat was floating on his own bliss at that moment, so the threat barely landed. He did not know what it was meant to mean, but some part, deep down inside, felt the dread through the pleasure, and the pleasure through the dread at the same time.

Perhaps that was the beginning of understanding, but quite likely, that would come later, when he was once more taken to his cell to await the pleasures of the lord. In the hours where he was left to ooze the remnants of their pleasure onto the stone floor, before he was bathed and after when he was allowed to dry, he might have time to reflect and think of what the lion meant when he said that the rest of him would learn, that his shaft already had.

But in that moment, all that mattered was the fucking, the thrusting, the rutting, and that was where Branlin directed his attention, even as he was rocked forward, face-down once more as the white lion slammed his shaft deeper, deeper, and deeper still, claiming that which he called his property.

The End

Summary: Branlin makes a poor effort at an escape attempt, and is punished by his captor once more.

Tags: M/M, Virginity, Anal Virginity, Loss of Virginity, Pygmy Goat, Goat, Lion, White Lion, Anal, Bondage, Fingering, Lube, Lots of Lube, Copious Amounts of Lube, Orgasm, Cum, Domination, Series,