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Breaking the Brat

Part 4

For Damiekinz

By Draconicon

With the death of his pride, Branlin the Thief became Branlin the Lover, or so the goat flattered himself to think. In reality, he was little more than a toy for the great lion that had captured and broken him, and while he was certainly one that held Lord Tyvo's attention, he was merely a thing to be enjoyed rather than one to share the lion's bed.

Yet, the new delusions had settled in, and there was no shaking them. Despite the fact that the pygmy goat was shifted from one cell to another rather than to the lord's bedroom, he considered himself a concubine, someone that would live beneath the lion and be his lover, his personal plaything. He told himself that he was valuable because of his body, because of his own skills in bed, and should he wish further advancement, he need only perfect his skills further.

Such thoughts certainly bound him closer to the lion, and as the months went by and his captor taught him further, shaping his tastes and his desires, his desires and his delusions gradually took on some semblance of reality. He never received the honor to sleep with his lord in bed, but he was called to the master regularly, brought before the throne to suck him, or taken to the main hall for dinner to dance for him, or any other task that struck the lion as something useful for the goat to do.

And for all that he had fought, for all that he had pushed himself to maintain his own sense of honor and strength and dignity, Branlin embraced his new position with a will.

The goat danced, his hips swaying slowly, just enough to allow the cheeks to bounce against one another as they rolled from one side to the other, but not enough to make them bounce like the females would do down in the clubs in the city below. He was not one of them. He was the possession of Lord Tyvo, and he would dance with dignity as well as desire.

He stood on the tips of his hooves, making his hips sway further, the pose enhancing the natural curve of his rump. As always, he had been spanked, warmed up with his master's hands before taking his place at the center of the dining table, and he felt the heat spreading through his cheeks with each slow sway. He could feel the warmth that his master wished him to endure and embrace, and so he did.

Did the ache get to him from time to time, make him wish for ease and relief? Of course. Branlin might have been a slave, but he was still quite mortal, and his flesh aching was hardly something that he would have sought out on his own.

But his master wished it, and so he endured the warmth, the friction, the pulsing flares of heat through his cheeks.

He turned in place, turning his ass towards the lion at the head of the table. He felt the stares, the eyes on his rump, the way that they were all keen to stare at him and eat him with their eyes. The plug was still there, deep inside of him, and each rolling sway of his hips reminded him of just how deep it was, how it was pressing on that sensitive little nub inside him, how it kept his shaft throbbing in the little cloth cover that he was still allowed. He moaned every time that he felt it rolling, how it felt pulling back against him from its own weight, for his dance made sure that it rolled with him, and he had taken his master's shaft enough times for his hole to loosen, to make the plug feel heavier than it once had.

But he had the discipline to keep it in place, and so it stayed where it was for the amusement of the crowd. He blushed as he looked around, jiggling his ass for all of them, but most of all for the lion at the head of the table.

He turned again, his arms over his head, his hips rolling and swaying, and he locked eyes with the white lion. Lord Tyvo smiled ever so slightly, lifting a goblet to him.

That was enough. It might have been anything, anything at all. A toast, a gesture, anything, but it was enough for the goat.

He bathed with the master, called to sit with him in the hot water. He was never the one to be pampered there, but he was allowed the same soothing oils in the water, the same company, the same soft towels at the end, and that was enough for him.

Did it demean him to move from one side of the tub to the other, massaging the lion's shoulders, his feet, his legs, his arms? Did it demean him to occasionally dive below the water to tend to the lord's cock rather than washing him? Did it feel humiliating from time to time to be made to do these things rather than simply relax?

Of course, but that did not mean that he didn't do them. He was bound and determined to be the best concubine that he could, and that meant that he would swallow his pride and do whatever it took to maintain the lord's attentions and appreciations.

Their times in the bath were no less shared than the times in the great hall, when he was put to use sucking and dancing. Other servants moved around them as they bathed and he served the great lord, either cleaning the chamber or gossiping with one another, bringing towels and materials for him to use to do his job and then hurrying out of the chamber again. He never knew just what they would say to other servants, but he made sure that they would not be able to carry gossip that he was failing in his responsibilities. He would ensure that the great lord was always content with him.

And so he worked himself hard, refusing to relax, always massaging, always oiling, always doing something that would bring the lion pleasure.

And as he brought himself up above the water's surface once more, gasping for air with the taste of pre-cum and the lion's dark shaft on his tongue, he received the gift of a smile. Slight, barely more than a toothy snarl, it was still enough to feed his determination for more. He smiled back and bobbed beneath the water once more, taking the dark shaft within his mouth.

#

He massaged the lion's feet while court continued all around him. The heels against his thighs were hard, heavy, but he did not slack in his duties. He gave all that he had, attending to the soft soles in a way that would have been obsessive in the eyes of others. The world faded from his sight, replaced only by the lion's soles, by his toes, by the muscular limbs that extended upwards.

As he worked, his awareness refused to expand past that ever so limited world. To think of the world beyond his master was to invite disappointment, distractions, things that would hurt him and make him less effective. He had to keep his focus in one place, and one place alone. Anything more would render him less than he needed to be.

His fingers slid between the gaps of the lion's toes, cleaning them with gentle cloths, and then he leaned in to follow up with his tongue. A few gentle licks were all that was needed to maintain the soft spaces, and he brought the soft cloths down to dry them. So he worked along the soles, cleaning them, licking them, drying them, and then massaging them, digging his fingers in to remove the stress of the day.

Did he receive praise for such actions? No, of course not. He was a slave, and the lion was a lord, and a lord did not thank a slave.

But he did receive a smile, and that was enough for his delusions to continue. He was a concubine, a thankless thing, one that served and took the wordless thanks for what they were in lieu of anything else.

Branlin the Thief had become Branlin the Devotee.

Months passed, and such small encounters became Branlin's entire life. Service, whatever he could find to offer, became the core of his existence. The harem attire that he had been offered on the Day of Last Defiance - as he had come to think of it - was all that he was allowed to wear, and there were days, in private, when the cloth that covered his shaft and sac were not allowed any longer. When the great lord wished to see him completely bare, he was more than willing to discard it, and he became ever more comfortable in the nude.

Time wound on, and they reached the anniversary of his capture. He expected it to pass by without comment, but he was wrong. The master had plans, and they were revealed as he was brought once more to the master's chambers at the top of the keep.

Branlin was asked to step inside alone. The panther remained at the door, holding it open for him, and the pygmy goat stepped through without a word. He expected to find his master in the nude, as had become custom between the two of them, and he did. The white lion sat at the edge of his bed, his legs spread, but leaning back further than he normally would. Lord Tyvo gestured at the door, and Branlin closed it before falling to his knees.

"How may I serve you, Master?" he asked.

"You will offer a very different service today."

"How may I serve you?"

"Come."

He all but crawled across the room, no longer able to bring himself to his hooves before the white lion. He wasn't sure when such a limitation had become an affliction to him, but he could no longer shed the idea that he belonged on all fours around his master.

He stopped at the edge of the bed, looking up. The lion moved forward, and for the first time, he had a chance to look down from the fat shaft that pointed at him to the flesh further down. White fur rolled out from the base of that dark cock, true, but he had never seen what lay further down.

Between the cheeks, right in the valley of slightly damp white fur, was a hole as dark as the shaft. Dark, and slightly puffy, too, the sort of look that meant that the flesh desired attention. His eyes widened slightly as he realized just what he had been called for.

"You will worship me in a very different way today, prisoner," Lord Tyvo said. "You have learned to please my shaft. Today, you will please this."

"Master..."

"Do you protest?"

"Only to the position, Master."

"...And what position would you say is better?"

"Master, I cannot say. Not without offending you."

"Say it, and we'll discuss punishment if you overstep."

In the past, Branlin would have been scared. He would have been outright terrified, as a matter of fact, to push himself further and speak out of turn. It would have been out of character for a concubine to question their master.

Yet, a year had passed between them, and the more important side of a concubine was to always obey. He was told to give his opinion, and he did.

"I would be able to worship you better if you were on all fours, Master, so that I might press myself to your hole properly."

"You would have your lord and master on all fours before you? Before a slave?"

"For my mouth and tongue, Master, so that I might worship you properly."

A moment of silence passed between slave and master, between prisoner and captor. Branlin lowered his eyes from that dark void between his master's cheeks, knowing that he had said something that was beyond allowance. For the last year, he had been trained again and again that he was less, that he was lower, that he was to take part in what the master allowed him and no more. He was not to ever think of himself as higher than the lion before him, never to imagine himself as someone that was allowed to use his cock. He could not remember the last time that he had been allowed to touch it; all of his pleasure came from his other end, now filled again and again at his master's pleasure.

Inside, he was afraid. Inside, he worried that he had taken that step too far, but he had been conditioned, now. He had learned, over and over and over again, that the only way to lessen his punishments was to obey...and more to the point, he wanted to.

Finally, Lord Tyvo chuckled. He looked up to see that the lion was smiling, shaking his head.

"A bold statement..."

"..."

"But one I must agree with."

"Master?"

"Come."

As his master slid further back on the sheets, Branlin followed him up, unable to believe what was happening. He wondered if he had stumbled into a dream, into some made-up moment between his hours of service where he could be allowed to do something that he wanted rather than something required of him. Surely, there was no chance that the lion lord would see him as worthy of this?

His master rolled onto all fours before his eyes, and his thoughts that this must be a dream grew stronger. No master would ever expose himself like this before a slave, surely, even one that had been pierced and marked and taught his place. His eyes widened as the lion reached back, pulling on cheeks that were as muscular as they were fulsome, parting them to expose that hole between.

What had looked puffy turned out to be merely pulsing, clenching. There was no lack of tightness there, no sign that his lord was somehow some secret slave that had been indulging himself with others. No, that dark hole was a tight little thing, something that instead demanded attention and focus on it rather than allowing it to go untended.

He crawled across the bed, laying his hands on either side of his master's calves, and he leaned in. No scent, no foul thing pushed him away, but rather the same soft smell of idle flesh and manhood. Further, further the goat pressed his muzzle, slowly grinding his cheeks off one large globe and then along the other. Each breath reminded him of where he was, that soft flesh smell and the faint hint of something else. Nothing foul, nothing unclean, but unmistakably under someone's rump.

It was impossible that he was trusted with this, and yet, he was. He panted softly, his breath coming faster, harder as he slowly pushed his tongue past his lips. At first, he did not dare lick between them, but rather over the cheeks themselves, taking his time to worship the rump of his master instead.

"Heh..."

Lord Tyvo's soft chuckle warmed his cheeks, but did nothing to slow him down. He worked his tongue along the curve where thigh and rump met, following that up and around before bringing his tongue back down to the space beneath. The 'weight' of the cheeks, the heft that they had when he pushed his tongue up, made him blush. The thought of them pressing down on his face, trapping his head between them rather than allowing him freedom of movement, was just enough to give his shaft life between his legs, pushing up against his stomach.

"Do not hold back..."

"Mmmph?"

"I want to feel your worship. Do not hold back."

"Yes...Yes, Master."

"Go on..."

With permission, he brought his hands up to the cheeks proper, feeling the softness beneath his fingers. They were quite full, alright, the lion's fluffy fur no mere covering for the cheeks, but rather a way of framing something larger than one would have thought. They had a layer of muscle beneath the fat of high living, though, and he could feel the strength as he tried to push them apart further. They pulled back together, almost as if taunting his weaker limbs, and he blushed as he had to wait for the master's permission to part them properly.

The lion's tail twitched just overhead as he leaned in, pushing them apart when he was finally given permission, and he breathed of the scent between. Nothing, nothing but the subtle scent of warm flesh. He leaned in further, dragging his nose from the back of his master's sac all the way along that soft, damp taint, and then up to the pucker between the cheeks.

It was so easy to get lost in that dark flesh, to feel it like a void pulling him in. It was not a loose, empty thing like the pleasure people on the streets, not like those that had lost themselves to debauchery with no chance of returning to themselves. This was something else. A simple desire, one that overwhelmed him, one that called to him to satisfy.

To see from outside, one would have no question of who was in charge and who was not. To see the lion and the goat now, one would never assume that the goat would have a chance to rut the lion on all fours. The smirk on the lord's face, the amazement on the goat's muzzle, the sheer confidence of the one on the bottom to dominate the one behind him, spoke volumes.

Of course, Branlin knew nothing of this, merely that he belonged where he was, and he wished nothing more than to serve his master. He panted, his breath puffing warm air over that twitching rim, and he watched as it clenched, relaxed, clenched, relaxed. The view of it, the slow pulsing, sent a shiver down his spine.

"Are you lost, prisoner?" Lord Tyvo asked.

"N-no, Master."

"Then do what you have been ordered to do. Worship."

"Yes, Master."

He lowered his head further, and as soon as he released the master's cheeks, they slapped back where they had been. He groaned as his head was swallowed between them, pinned in place, but did nothing to fight against it. The warmth, the pressure, it was glorious.

As he panted for breath, he wriggled himself further forward, dragging his tongue along the flesh around him. At first, he merely pressed against the fat-covered muscle, feeling it give before his tongue before channeling it deeper between the cheeks. They were thick enough that he could barely find his way forward, feeling like he was being pulled between them and trapped in place.

Then, he found it. The flavor, the odd taste of something different, the feeling of flesh not covered by fur. He moaned as he dug in, finding his master's rim, and gave it everything that he had.

Each lick was a full swipe across that dark ring, feeling it stretching ever so slightly before him, giving him a moment of true bliss as he dug in again and again. Each time that he pressed against it, he could feel it giving slightly, not opening, but bending. Lick, lap, lick went his tongue, circling it, dragging across it, only to circle it again in a slow swirl.

If he had been able to think, he might have reached around to tease his master's cock, to pull on it and tug it, to give him other pleasures that his tongue was not capable of sharing at that moment. If he had the presence of mind to think at all, he might have pulled back and spoken praise of that ass, to sing of what he enjoyed doing.

But as it was, all he could do was praise the hole with his tongue, and that was sufficient. He dragged his tongue forward and back, teasing it, licking it, loosening it with every swipe of his tongue. He felt that pucker slide along, pulled with each gentle lick, and he heard the occasional groan of pleasure from his lord and master.

Those were his rewards, he thought. Those were the moments that he lived for.

Lick, lap, lick, each time dragging his tongue from the center outwards, pulling at that pucker and giving it the chance to be worshiped further. Every time that he felt it expand, get a little looser, he imagined giving his master the same pleasure that he had been given, that same internal massage, only with his tongue instead of his fingers.

It was something that he was sure that his master would love, and he had been given permission, had he not? He was ordered to worship, so worship he shall.

Forward, prodding that hole, feeling the cheeks squeezing on either side of his head. He could barely breathe between them, his eyes rolling back slightly as he felt it harder to get what he needed. His nostrils were pinned against the lion's flesh, just over that hole, and he could not pull away. The tension in the cheeks, the tightness and strength of the muscles, the lowered tail just behind his head: they all contributed to keep him right where he was, not letting him have any chance of pulling out.

Lick, lap, lick.

Lick, lap, lick.

The constant worship was just enough to keep the lion moaning, now, and he could feel his breath coming shorter and shorter, his heart thumping harder and harder in his chest. It was difficult to keep his focus, more difficult to remember what he should be doing.

Worship, he told himself. Worship.

He licked over that hole once more, and finally felt it stretch that little bit more than before. That was enough. That would have to be enough.

With a moan, he jammed his tongue in, and he felt it pass through the rim's tight little center. He moaned at the difference, at the heat that he felt at the tip of his tongue as it went inside the other man. His own shaft throbbed in utter joy at being of such service.

And then, they changed positions.

He fell backwards as Lord Tyvo pushed back, feeling the lion sitting on his face. There was no getting away from that, no holding him at bay, and indeed, the pygmy goat didn't want to hold him at bay. All he wanted was the feeling of that rump on his face, the knowledge that he was allowed to serve in a way forbidden to all other slaves and servants.

None of them were allowed to serve the master's rump.

None of them were allowed to taste his hole.

Lick, lap, lick, thrust. He felt the lion spasm, felt the squirt of pre-cum across his chest, and knew that he was doing well.

"That's...it..."

Even Lord Tyvo sounded somewhat less than controlled as he pushed back, taking more of the goat's tongue past his rim, rolling his hips forward, back, forward, back, enough so that those thick-furred orbs bounced against his chin and the long shaft tapped against his chest. The hot slime of his master's pre-cum splattered against him, a reminder of the pleasure that he was bringing the lion from his low place.

He was doing well.

He was doing what he should.

He was a good concubine.

So he kept doing that. He continued thrusting his tongue forward, his hands obediently at his sides as his air diminished further by the second. Was he going to fall unconscious? Was he going to faint here, under the master's rump, and be kept there until the master went over the edge?

Did it matter if he did, so long as the master received that which was his due? In his opinion, the answer was 'no.' A slave did not matter. A concubine's pleasure, so far as it didn't come from serving their master, did not matter. All that mattered was that the master was pleased at the end of the day.

Branlin sucked, pulling on that hole with a gentle pull of his lips, all while pushing his tongue in as far as he could. It strained at the base, aching from how hard he was pushing, how little practice that he had for something like this, but nonetheless he forced himself to continue. Every little spasm around his tongue, every push back against his face, every moment of lightheaded air deprivation was worth it so long as his master felt the pleasure that was his due. Just a little longer, he was sure. Just a little longer, and he would be allowed to breathe again.

Thrust.

Thrust...

...Thrust.

...Thrust...

His vision was going black, and the sounds faded out from his ears. No more moans, no more pants, just a dull throbbing that continued into the distance. His tongue twitched, tried to pull back to thrust again. The plush smack-squish of those cheeks over him, grinding down into his face, reminding him where he belonged...

It was fading...

He was fading...

Just at the point where the darkness seemed ready to swallow him just as much as Lord Tyvo's rump had, the lion shifted. He gasped for breath, getting one new lung-full before the lion pushed forward, the dark shaft parting his lips and going right over his tongue. It went all the way down, popping into his throat for a moment.

The feeling of those furry balls right over his nose was intense, to say the least. He could smell them, breathing in their scent, so familiar and so powerful, and yet so odd after where his face had been buried. Suck, sniff, and then pull back, that shaft resting on his tongue and grinding in. His eyes went wide at the new, salty taste just before the flood came.

Spurt.

Spurt.

Spurt.

He shivered, his hands clenching down on the sheets below, his mind dragged back to that shaft as the center of his universe. His body went from limp to tense again, and one particular source of tension echoed the pulsing, squirting motions of his master's shaft. He felt his own seed spraying over his body, covering his chest and torso with a splatter of thick white against his dark fur. His master chuckled under his breath, and Branlin moaned as he tasted the lion's seed, swallowing it, running it through his mouth and throat as a reminder of the difference in flavor between cock and hole.

"You did...well," the lion said, and the reluctant compliment left him glowing. "To cum from worshiping...quite the sight..."

It seemed that he had passed some sort of test after that, for Branlin was seen with the master at all times after that. The official title of concubine had yet to fall to him, but there was something else to it, something that seemed almost possessive about the lion over the goat. Was it truly there, or was it something that the goat imagined in his private moments?

In truth, not even the guards seemed to know for sure. The lion had not informed them of any shift in the hierarchy of the keep, nor had he made any official proclamations of the goat's status, but there was something different in his attitude towards the little slut that he had taken as a lover. There was something more...official there, as if the goat had passed some test that nobody had known had been conducted.

At the very least, the goat was everywhere, following the lion throughout the day and offering all kinds of pleasures for the master of the keep and for those that wished to watch. Yet, at the same time, Lord Tyvo seemed more possessive than ever of the goat's body...something that some of the new guards were informed of quite violently.

A new panther backed away from the show on display in the throne room, his cheeks red and his eyes wide. The veteran officers pulled him back to their standing places at the edge of the throne room, patting the panther's back as the goat moaned his pleasure.

Up, down, up, down he went, his ass cheeks burning every time that he flattened them against the lion's thighs. Was it right? Was it normal that he was doing this? Did he care?

The last question was the only one that he could answer, and the answer was 'no'. He did not care if it was normal or right, but only if it brought the master pleasure. He arched his back as he was held pinned against the master's groin, feeling some of the rougher furs grinding against his reddened bottom, shivering at the heat that flushed through him and the way that it reminded him of how much he had changed.

"Take it, little goat...take it..."

No longer prisoner, just 'goat.' A lost name meant nothing to the concubine, so long as he had his master's attention and affections, even if they were merely physical. He latched onto them as tightly as he could, just as his slippery hole held that shaft as hard as he could.

He moaned as he bounced again, allowed to move, to ride, to take that shaft and please it. All eyes were on him, either watching that dark shaft that should not have fit in him but did, or watching as his own throbbing shaft, so much smaller but so much more visible, bounced up and down in time with him. Up, down, up, down, each time slapping against his stomach or falling down between his legs.

His place was here. His place was in service to his master, as his concubine, as his source of pleasure, as his utter worshiper and devotee. This was the place of the goat that had once been Branlin. This was the place of the Devotee that he had become.

Up, down, up, down, the squelching sounds of that over-lubed shaft sliding past his rim making him moan as much as the shaft itself did. He could not stop himself. He didn't want to stop himself. All he wanted was to feel that thing as deep inside of him as he could get it for as long as possible.

Up, squelch, down, splat. Every time that he felt it sliding in, he knew that some of the lube that his master had applied was oozing out of him. He loved it, loved the wet, slimy feeling that hit him every time that his master's dark shaft stirred it around inside him, loved the feeling of it like a slow river coming out of him every time that it wasn't completely plugged up. It was a constant reminder of his purpose, his pleasure, his role, his chosen place in life.

He was his master's concubine in all but name. The knowledge gave him pleasure, purpose, and drive to keep going, no matter how many people watched.

Or, perhaps, because there were people watching, he wanted to keep going...and going...and going. There were panthers aplenty, and nobles that were visiting, and other commoners that had better luck and class than he did that were welcome within the castle, and their eyes were fixed on him, fixed on his hole opening and closing, slurping and sliding along that thick shaft beneath him. So many eyes, so many people that could see what had once been humiliation, but was now an honor.

He wanted to cum, but he clamped down on that desire, holding it back, keeping it tamped down inside of him. There was so much that could come out, so much of a mess that he'd have to clean, but no. He could wait. He would wait.

Until then, he kept riding. Up and down, up and down, groaning and panting at the way that the thick black shaft filled him to the brim and then past it. There were times when he swore that there was some sort of bulge in his stomach, but he could never bring himself to look down and be sure. It was everything that he could do to keep riding, to keep sliding that cock between his cheeks.

"Ah...ah...ah..."

The chatter continued around him, almost as if their audience was trying to treat this as something normal. He knew that they were tempted to look at him, knew that they wanted him just as much as Lord Tyvo did, but they would never have him.

He belonged to the lion.

He was Lord Tyvo's property.

The Devotee moaned out loud as he felt his climax coming, knowing that it would be all but unstoppable. Through the whole ride, he had been keeping his panting gasps as quiet as he could, not wanting to interrupt the lord himself as he spoke, but it was almost impossible now. He lifted one hand to his mouth, covering it -

"Mmmph!"

And then, without warning, Lord Tyvo grabbed him around the middle, pulling him down. The Devotee gasped, his eyes wide as he realized that the lion lord had been pushed to the brink at the same time that he had. He moaned out loud as his guts were flooded with thick lion cum, feeling it spreading through him, adding to the slimy lube already within him. He panted for breath, his head rolling around on his shoulders, his eyes spinning like tops.

"Oh...oh..."

His own pleasure was secondary to that, little spluts that came free and landed at the foot of the throne. They were so little compared to what he felt shooting into him, so beneath his notice compared to his master's pleasure.

When it ended, he slid forward, taking his time to pop that shaft from his hole. When it slid free with an audible 'pop', he leaned forward, spreading his cheeks, and his master pushed the plug back in where it belonged. It was bigger, these days, much bigger, and he groaned as the weight settled just behind his anal ring.

"Thank you, master," he whispered.

"You're welcome."

He looked back, received his customary half-smile, and beamed, standing up and wiggling his ass for the court. As soon as the applause for his performance died down, court resumed session, and he knelt at the side of his master, waiting for when he would be needed again.

The End

Summary: Branlin is utterly broken, and is trained further in the arts of body-worship.

Tags: M/M, Lion, Pygmy Goat, Goat, Fantasy, Rimming, Ass Worship, Musk, Sweat, Oral, Blowjob, Balls, Nobility, Slavery, Breaking, Series, Orgasm, Cum, Anal, Face-Sitting, Exhibitionism,