FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Rich Thumian silk had been torn to tatters in his haste. Bolko's tunic caught another branch and tore away. His pantaloons carried thorns that bit into him with each push. The otter's lungs burned with the cold morning air. His feet splashed into muddy ground, the earth still fresh with the scent of rainfall. Hands bound to his front by rope, he ran without direction. Anywhere but behind him.

He stopped at a babbling brook. His chest heaved with every ragged breath and he braced a nearby tree for support. Just five minutes, five minutes and a quick dumb of his head into the stream. That's all he'd need to regain his strength, or so he told himself.

The howls of feral dogs racked his heart and pushed him on. His fine boots drenched themselves into the stream. Too shallow for him to swim in or be carried away by. His footwear made wet splotchy sounds with each step. He'd do anything to stop running. Anything for a soft cushion and a warm fire against this icy morning air. At least now he could see. Better to know more than two feet ahead of him.

Not that it saved Bolko from tripping over his own feet. The badger tumbled through the undergrowth, screaming and crying out more from terror than pain. The mud softened his landing as he hit against the morning dew covered forest floor.

He didn't move. Not for injury, Bolko was certain from the pain he felt that nothing was broken or sprained. The otter could not work up the motivation to bring himself forward. Perhaps the river would throw off his scent and he'd evade his captors by hiding? Yes, hiding sounded like a good plan. Hiding and staying completely still.

"Looks like he made a tumble." A voice echoed. Bolko's heart skipped. How close had they been this entire time?

"That really a surprise?" Said another, his accent thick from desert lands across the sea, "He's a fat lord who knows only luxury. It's amazing he still has stamina at all."

"You give him too much credit. Fear motivates beyond limit." The growl and bark of feral dogs grew closer. Bolko curled into a ball and forced himself to think small. The more he thought, the more the otter believed he could be hidden amongst his pursuers' senses, like in the stories he'd read as a child.

This was no such story.

Their laughter echoed from the top of a hill. Bolko rolled over to see two caracals sliding down, feral dogs at their sides. The fangs of the hounds shone in the slobbering saliva and morning light.

"Quite the tumble, eh?" One caracal grinned, giving way to the deep scar across his nostril.

"N-No..." Bolko held up his hands to back them off. Neither caracal cared and looped their arms underneath his. "S-Stop! Please. No more!"

"Quiet!" Shouted the other caracal. "Why did you not fashion a gag?" He asked his compatriot.

The scarred one laughed. "I feared he'd eat it!"

Their chainmail clinked through the forest, deafening his quiet begging. His boots had slipped away as they dragged his exhausted body through thick bushes and mud. His exhaustion was the only real resistance he could muster. If the feral hounds didn't nip at his heels, he'd do it all the way to the clearing.

They tossed him against the dirt, right at the bottom step of a mobile throne. "Ten minutes." He heard a feminine voice say. Each step she took down her throne mirrored against his back in terror. Bolko did not dare to look up until he felt her clawed finger pull at his chin and force him to gaze into her sandy brown eyes.

Queen Asimara looked down at him with a coldness reserved for disappointed parents. The caracal queen had wrapped herself in a purple silk rope that sparkled like stars in the morning light, with a tall and wide golden headdress that cast a shadow over him. "How did you find him this time?" She asked her guards without looking away from Bolko.

"In a ditch," said one, "He tripped."

"He does that a lot," said the other, "Still confused how he got stuck in that tree."

She held her other hand to silence them. "Bolko, be honest with me, did you trip once and huddle in the hole like a child? As if you could curl up and hide?" Her claw dug into his skin with his nod. Chains rustled to the side of him, captives of his former territory silently lamenting his weakness. Asimara sighed. "Pathetic." She let go and climbed back up to her throne, "How many times have I given you a chance to escape?"

Bolko threw out a number without thinking, "T-Three?" Her glare had him throw out another number, and another until she held her hand high to silence him. "Bring me his wardrobe, I wish to count."

"There is none left, your majesty." A female caracal said with a bow.

"Oh?" The queen smiled and sat back into her seat. Or rather, his seat with the family crest cut in twain. "I believe that was at least six outfits in total." Her voice rose so the rest of his former subjects could hear, "I have given you six chances to escape, and six times you have returned, all of your own failings. Is this really the best your people can offer?"

The contempt from the hostage crowd rolled up his spine. Bolko didn't push himself as the best. He had been told since birth that he was to be above everyone, yet deep down the otter knew it was a lie. A lie he played along with for fear of rebellion. The threat came from outside his borders, and now his people saw him for what he was.

"Just as well." The queen crossed her legs and inspected her claws, "I had grown bored of our catch and release game by the fourth garment. Guards, remove the rest and bring the jug."

One of the caracals dug their claws into his tunic and tore it to shreds. Another took a knife against his pantaloons waistline and sliced away, then ripped it and his undergarments off his kicking legs. Bolko whimpered and begged for mercy as they did so. His eyes fell flat on the wine jug carried over by an otter slave, one of his former servants. With his dignity in shreds, he tried to scamper away from whatever punishment was to come.

The guards pulled him back. His claws made trails in the dirt.

"P-Please!" He begged, weight on his knees and hands clamped together, "Please, have mercy! I'll do anything. N-Name it. I don't want to die."

Unamused, the queen pointed one claw to the jug. "Then drink."

This was it. Bolko had all those chances to escape, more than any member of his lands, and he'd wasted them being a fool. A shivering hand braced the jug, then another. Fear turned his arms to lead and he stood there, frozen amongst the crowd of slaves and their conquerors.

Queen Asimara grew impatient. "Grab the funnel."

Before he could protest, one guard grappled him so another could force a funnel past his lips. A third guard picked up the jug and poured wine down his gullet. He nearly drowned on the fruity concoction, gagging and sputtering once released.

The otter swore he put his arms out to catch himself, but his face hit the ground. Not that it hurt. His eyelids flapped slowly, the world around him began to spin. He'd drunk enough wine to know if he tasted poison, and instead he felt a more intense inebriation hit him. A command escaped the queen's lips. Prance? Lance? The otter tried to focus on her words, but everything felt too wrong, too loopy. At her third cry, he smiled in understanding. She wished for him to dance.

Dancing sounded good. Bolko loved to dance. He'd done it in privacy for so long. Struggling to stand, the wide otter sloppily threw his hips around like a courtesan. He had always admired the movements of those trained in lovemaking. They looked so free, unrestrained by the weight of titles and responsibilities.

Laughter echoed behind his ears. Fingers pointed from the caracales.

"How can he walk with that?" One shouted.

"More of a club than my own weapon." Cried another. The otter wondered where they pointed, as they seemed to aim down from his face.

Curiously, he looked. A solid and burning pulse came from his crotch. His cock stood in full erection. "He could beat someone to death with it!" Another caracal called.

"No wonder their women are so durable."

"It's a wonder why they can walk at all."

Some part of him knew he needed to feel shame. Yet, he didn't. Some part of him wanted to blame the alcohol, but he knew that wasn't why. The otter thrusted his cock out more with each rotation, letting all see the fat rod standing between his legs. A simpleton's cock, a barbarian's dick. Not one befitting a noble. Except, he wasn't a noble anymore. Bolko, perhaps for the first time in his life, felt free. Even in shackles.

Then he felt sick. The otter spun one, twice, then three times before he tripped over his feet and felt the hard dirt upon his back. The queen said something, it sounded like a command, but he couldn't quite parse it until two sets of hands looped around his armpits and dragged him up the stairs to face her enchanting eyes.

"Enjoying yourself?" Her words were dull echoes across his mind. He nodded with delay, hiccuping in place as her head kicked back with a laugh. "Pleasure yourself." She pointed to the crowd, "Let them see your joy."

His joy. Yes. Bolko faced the crowd from atop the queen's mobile throne, his rod painfully erect as pre dripped from the tip. Taking it in his hand, he slowly pumped the pink mass of meat.

They watched in horror. Brows furrowed in rage and disgust. His people, his subjects, the very beings he had been born responsible for and failed to protect. Had he ever been proud of them? Bolko couldn't remember a single choice of his own. No personal pleasures that were not swept aside by responsibilities to people he didn't know.

He pumped harder, the force enough to let the fleshy grinding ring in his ear. He was free. Free to give into his desires, free from the responsibility. The otter didn't need to think. It was too hard to think. Better to enjoy oneself, at the foot of his queen.

"This is the lord you swore fealty to!" Queen Asimara cried out to the masses. "A lord who had lost himself in fine clothes and is so easily inebriated. A lord who happily plays with himself while his very people are made slaves before his eye. If this is who led you, then you truly had no hope for the future. It is a mercy that I have come to take you under my claw."

Someone grabbed Bolko's headfur and kicked behind his legs. His drunken nerves didn't notice until he was on his knees and everyone stood taller than him. "Under us, you will find new meaning. New purpose. We will use you better than this failing lord ever could."

Bolko's ass was raised against his will as his snout met the ground. Bulbous and cold pressure pushed against his back door. Drunk as he was, his tight pucker strained against the foreign rod lodged into him. "Keep this inside, your lordship." One of the cats laughed, planting the toy inside his tight backdoor.

More wine sloshed his gullet. He wanted to keep playing with himself, but hands held his arms steady. The liquor softened his erection, followed with a cold steel ring looped around his balls. If he weren't so drunk, it'd have hurt, but the otter hiccuped and giggled as they latched something over his softened cock. Something tight. Oh, so very tight.

Queen Asimara's feet met his gaze. "You truly are a pathetic sort," She said with pity, pressing her foot against his head. "You aren't fit to be a lord. Never were. I can't find it in myself to give you a nobles' death. Hmm..." Her foot ground against his skull as she pondered, "Oh, I could always use a fool. Someone to entertain my important guests or court. Would you like that, slave?"

"Y-Yes...my queen." The moment she pushed her foot to his mouth, Bolko kissed it with fervor. His cage remained tight with every step he took following the procession. The plug lodged in his backdoor slowed his pace, but the guards behind made up for the difference with every prod from the butt of their spears. Still, he smiled. From a lord to a jester, Bolko found some form of happiness.