FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Thick in the air is the scent of a stag. Ember follows the vaguely nutty scent of musk, clutching his spear tight. The dry, cracked leather wrapped around the shaft softly creaks.

The slightest rustle will startle a deer, but Ember has trained with the foxes, watched the otters, learned the ways of silence and stealth. Small though he is, Ember has an eye like a hawk and his speed with the spear is the greatest in his tribe. His spot as the top warrior is well-earned, his reputation soaked in the blood of prey.

After stepping over a crooked, dead branch, Ember finds the trail of blood again. He sniffs it indulgently, nearly putting his nose to the leaves to do so, and finds that it matches the blood gleaming dully on the sharpened bone point of his spear. A tiny smile creases the wolf's snout, playing tricks with the war paint smeared through his fur.

The prey's trail of blood staggers into a forked path. The path which the blood follows goes lower into what the prey seems to think is safer. It is noticeably thick with briar and branches. Ember takes the high path, creeping low along the modest bluff of dirt and moss until he spots his mark. The delight he feels is so genuine, so primal, that his heart skips a beat.

The stag rests, wheezing, against the trunk of a tree. The air he sucks in through the ragged rip in his breast makes a peculiar, somehow damp whistling sound. Ember observes him with great care, for even when wounded (perhaps then more so), the stags of the herbivore tribe are fierce combatants. Ember's first jab had been earned by faster reflexes than the elk possessed, but in blow to blow combat, a stag will win every time.

Ember straightens his posture and holds the staff aloft, wielding it like a throwing spear. With no self-indulgent cries of war, not even a howl, he throws, and he watches the point embed itself in--

"Work! Work!" the mare barked, her usage of Ember's tongue apparently restricted to that one word. She swatted the wolf's shoulder with her calloused hand and broke him out of his slack-jawed daydream.

For only a moment, Ember looked stupidly at the horse, and then he turned and started to follow the row of mounds in the field. He had dug each one out with his paws, then rolled the dirt back over it after the mare following behind him dropped in seeds. Hundreds of these little mounds pocked the field, and room for hundreds more awaited his laboring paws.

In the weeks following his failed attempt at an escape, Ember found himself facing yet more strict treatment by the herbivores. To himself - for he had nobody to talk to - he wondered if the slave labor had been their plan all along or if it was another facet of his degradation. Did it even matter?

"Work, work, work," the mare clucked, nudging him with her hoof when he began to slack off. The sun's angry glare baked Ember in his fur, but to her credit, the mare shared water with him from her canteen.

Soon a small cadre of does joined the farming effort. Ember was still the one to kneel and dig the furrows, but the young does planted the seeds and shoved the dirt back into place. Ember was grateful for the help, not that he expressed as much.

In the weeks since his capture, sex of a consensual nature had been the last thing on Ember's mind. A lack of compatible females was what stifled him for the most part, and the gigantic proportions of the mares with their large breasts and child-rearing hips were of little interest to the wolf. The does were a different story. They dressed in loincloths like the mares, wore simple wraps to hold their small breasts in place, and their simple beauty caught Ember's eye. Their long legs and slim hips reminded him of the wolves he'd sought in his own village, and for the first time in a long time, Ember was distracted by the thought of sex.

It was the male conceit to assume a lady bending and twisting her taut, young body could be doing anything but offering herself. Stuck with a tribe full of physically flawless males, all compatible and all worthy protectors, Ember harbored the thought that just maybe these does wanted him. Ember, with his sun-baked dog stink and his fleas. Ember, whose breath was said to stink of stag semen.

"Work! Work," the mare huffed, booting Ember's rear with her hoof. The wolf flinched up to the next plot of land and started to dig in. The does walked ahead of him, each clutching a small basket of seeds to their taut bellies. He watched their legs and shivered.

Instead of work, work, the mare uttered something in her native tongue. Whatever those harsh, alien words conveyed, Ember guessed correctly from the tone that they were said in revulsion. The deer all turned to stare at Ember, and their almond eyes leered at his small, kneeling body. The beginnings of abject disgust twisted their pretty snouts.

The youngest of the three does, on orders from the mare, set down her basket and ran for the village. She uttered more orders to the other deer whom reluctantly pried their eyes off of Ember and labored in his stead. The wolf blinked and uttered a baffled apology to the mare then started after the does, but the displeased mare gripped his tail and then his shoulder.

"No work, no," she gravely uttered. Ember didn't feel relieved by this.

The youngest doe presently returned, walking in the middle of a small group of hooved warriors. The two stags at the fore of the group took Ember from the mare, hoisting him between their bodies by the armpits. His feet lost contact with the ground, and his toes dangled like the roots of a plucked weed.

In the tongue of the herbivores and thus outside Ember's comprehension, the stallion of the group asked what exactly was the issue with the slave. He asked in a weirdly ambivalent manner, as though he were annoyed to answer the mare's call but delighted to punish the slave.

"Leering at our girls," said the mare in the same tongue, gesturing with her long, pretty snout at the does working the field. "I know that look. I've seen it in stallions and stags alike. I would not leave him unattended with any of them."

"Then we shall not," the stallion stolidly answered, leering aside at Ember. He gestured toward the huts of the village and said firmly: "Take him to the square. Restrain him there."

Ember knew better by then than to struggle against the warriors. Scar tissue on his knees from a failed escape attempt kept his legs stiff; welts from a pinch here and a strike there given as adjustments as needed made him hateful of his captors, but fearful too. He was but one wolf in a village of dozens of foes, and even the small does he had so unabashedly lusted after could have kicked his teeth in. All this Ember knew, and it made him passably docile. He was therefore trying to figure out what exactly he'd done to get himself into this stupid situation, finding himself mostly carried and sometimes dragged over the freshly-sown field.

Over the wolf's head, the stags chattered to one another in their harsh, heavy tongue. At some point one of them queried Ember, speaking first in his own tongue, then in a borderline-intolerable mangling of the wolf's language: "Good view, wolf? Enjoy? Enjoyed?"

Ember blinked his yellow eyes, stared straight ahead, tried to parse the deer's questionable use of his language. Together they shook him, and the stag asked again, this time offended, "Enjoyed? No!?"

The does! Ember thought triumphantly, and then he realized with mounting horror that there wasn't possibly a right answer. He bit his lip and splayed down his ears. He wondered if one of the does had been this warrior's mate, or perhaps his sister? Ember shivered at the notion. From behind, following with heavy hooves which shook the earth, the stallion uttered something sharp to the stags. Whatever that stag warrior's interest had been in Ember's lascivious peeping, he stowed it with a grumble.

They went over stone paths with dirt grout, past finely-engineered huts raised off the ground with short stilts, through the lazily sagging canopy of willow switches (the power of which Ember's hide was intimately familiar). They took him into a small plaza set in the clearing in the middle of the village where the trees offered no shade, putting the area in sharp contrast to the rest of the village which writhed with the dark stencils of tree shadows. In the middle of the small plaza was a contraption the likes of which Ember had never seen before, but he understood from its design that it was made to hurt him. The device's hard wooden body was dug into the earth, surrounded with stones chiseled and scraped to notch flush against it. Only the stags and stallions could have moved the stones, and even then only in tug-o-war teams with vine ropes; Ember couldn't have wiggled it loose from its dirt and rock moorings in a hundred years.

The top of the object was four-pronged with smooth crescents carved in the wood. The warriors set Ember before the object, bending him to press his neck into the middle curve. One of the stags took his paws, dwarfing them in his meaty hands but holding them in a curiously gentle way. He put the wolf's wrists in the crescents on the sides mere inches from where his neck lie, and the stallion bringing up the rear picked up the upper half of the fixture which sat propped against it. This he set on top of the wooden base like a crown, and Ember shrieked in fear as the tight, splintering wood closed in on him.

Ember had been a fairly good slave following his attitude adjustments, but the thought that he was being executed then and there made him buck and cry. The stallion held down the top piece of the stockade with his hands, leaning on it with his muscular weight. Ember bucked and thrashed; he cried out and tugged his head and paws back. Splinters dug into his skin and the rough-cut wood rubbed his flesh raw. Every time he swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbed against the wood and only enhanced the sensation of doom.

As Ember struggled, the stags lashed the stockade together with dense vine cords. Much like how the base was weighted down and immobile, the top simply wasn't going to come off unless someone cut the vines.

The stallion let off the stockade, stood back, and watched Ember with a sneer on his face and his hands on his hips. The two stags joined him, and gradually those who were unoccupied came to see the stupid carnivore struggle and sob. "If you're going to kill me, do it quickly! Kill me with dignity!" Ember cried, the words choked and warbled by panicked sobs.

The herbivores (including one of the does whose nubile form had gotten Ember into his current plight) watched in morbid interest as he tuckered himself out. The show was free, and it went on for the best part of ten minutes before Ember came to the slow and sheepish realization that he wasn't dying. It was then that the herbivores dispersed, some snickering to themselves, others to their friends. The doe was one of the last to leave, and she went with the very stag whom had so righteously questioned Ember during his trip back to the village. Her walk was punctuated by his coquettish rubs and touches on her young body. They were off to practice for the coming time of conceptions, no doubt.

"You can stay there for the day," the stallion said, fluent enough in Ember's tongue to earn a startled look from the wolf. "I shall see you tonight, under the stars."

When the horse started off, Ember tugged stupidly with his head and wrists and shrieked, "No, wait! Please don't leave me like this!"

Briefly, showing a glimmer of a snide smile, the stallion looked back at Ember. "I will see to it that you're given something to drink soon. If you're quiet. Either way, I shall see you tonight, slave."

Ember made an uneasy whine, a hint that he wasn't done pleading, but he let it drop. Over the coming hours, as the sun glared down on him, he gradually became disenchanted with the notion of struggling. Fighting against the stockade, although he had no idea that that was what it was called, felt like trying to wrestle a tree to the ground. It was so stubbornly set in the earth that he couldn't even make it wiggle. The constant slope of his spine was making his muscles weaken and tremble like he'd spent too long crouching in the shadows.

From his place of bondage, Ember could see the village buzzing with life and work. He watched squads of stags haul felled trees to a lumber pile, cicadas indignantly fluttering out of the foliage. Teams of does and mares came and went from the fruit and berry clearing up the path, leaving with baskets, coming back with bounties of fruits. For a terribly short time, he found the industry of the village peaceful. As the hours dragged on, this simple pleasure waned.

Itches all over Ember's body plagued him. He kicked at one on his right calf, but the more worrisome itch crawling up his buttock and the small of his back was a nightmare. He had always had fleas, of course, but in his own village he could find someone to mutually groom with - an entirely platonic act which he often conducted with the other scouts and explorers. On his own he could at least pick them off or scratch his ass; but there was no such luck with his wrists stuck and going numb. He shifted on his sore feet and grumbled.

Four hours had passed since Ember's introduction to bondage. The village took on an orange luster as the sun started its droop on the horizon, but it still glared down on the wolf's toasty back. The sweat and grime bedraggling his fur felt thicker than ever before, and his tongue was like a chunk of raw meat grinding on his teeth, its surface beginning to blister.

Five hours. Ember wanted to sleep; he was exhausted. At the same time as he was thankful for his numb wrists, he had also a creepy thought, like his paws would never have feeling in them again. He could flex his fingers but he couldn't feel them move, and his distress began to near the peak it had when he'd first been bound like so.

Ember's commotion caught the eye of a brownish stallion and his stag companion. Their bodies were ripened from labor, reeking of musk and stale sweat caught in crevices. They murmured something to each other in the herbivore tongue. The wolf was too busy whining and squirming to care when they chuckled at him.

The stag squatted, catching Ember's wide-eyed attention. He leaned nearer, putting himself almost nose to nose with the slave, and he smiled. It was toothy and unsavory, offering a little whiff of his foul breath. "Thirsty? Drink?" he asked with his narrow grasp on Ember's language.

Ember salivated. He tried to nod but merely garroted himself against the stockade, much to the amusement of the stag and stallion. Humiliated, he said, "Yes. Please. I'm so thirsty."

Now the deer turned to the stallion. Still on his knees, he pointed at the horse's canteen and said something in those sharp herbivore words. The horse replied in kind, sounding irate, but he unlaced the leathery canteen and handed it to his friend.

"Water? Thirsty?" asked the stag, holding up the bag. He shook it softly before Ember, making its contents tantalizingly slosh.

Ember lusted more after the lukewarm water in the canteen than he had for the taut thighs and sweet musk of the does. "Please," he whined, matted tail wagging.

The smile on the stag's face widened. He tilted the mouth of the canteen forward, bringing it close to Ember's maw. The wolf opened up wide like a pup waiting for mother's teat. Chuckling, the stag splashed the tiniest bit of water on the wolf's protruding tongue and jowl, and then he poured it out right before the slave's suddenly wide and plaintive eyes.

"No--, no!" Ember cried. The stallion snapped something similar, but in a much grumpier tone. "Please!"

When the canteen was emptied to a mere irregular drip, the stag stood up straight and made a dramatic show of pulling his loincloth aside. The horse grunted in disgust and skulked away, but stayed in the plaza. "Drink," said the deer in a soft, demonstrative voice as he gripped the fat, uncircumcised length of his penis in his free hand. He took his sleazy blue eyes off of Ember and put the head of his cock to the mouth of the canteen. Before the scout's hopeless stare, the stag pissed, indulging in a pleasurable shiver.

Ember watched the stag with a long face, getting even longer when he looked down and saw the dampened stones of the plaza; except they were just barely damp, having already lost what little darkening the water had caused. There wasn't even enough moisture to lick off of them. Ember quietly whined.

The muted splashing of urine came to a slow stop and the great deer sighed, taking a moment then to shake off. He let his loincloth fall back into place and stepped near Ember again. "Full," he said with his toothy smirk on display. He thrust the canteen at Ember, making it slosh again. Foaming piss regurgitated from its mouth, splashing down the tanned leather and splattering on Ember's snout, causing him to wrinkle his nose and grimace.

"Thirsty," the stag accused, jabbing a finger into Ember's nose. "Drink!"

It occurred to Ember to refuse - but he knew that answer wouldn't be accepted. He closed his eyes, splayed his ears, opened his mouth wide again. In a lame attempt to reassure himself, he thought it's just water that's been through him once already. It's just water.

What hit Ember's tongue was not, sadly, just water. It was like a foul parody of water. The urine was so freshly hot, so sharp in its bitterness, so heady with foam that even without having swallowed it, Ember coughed. His eyes teared up. "No, n'oh--!" he started to cry before the stag thrust the mouth of the canteen into his maw and clutched him by the chin.

The piss slopped into Ember's maw in regular chugs as the canteen breathed. So much of it leaked out to streak the stockade and splatter on the stones but he swallowed more then he lost. He thought an insane mantra - it's just water it's just water it's just water - and the mental chant kept him just composed enough not to vomit. It was unbelievably tempting to cough it all back up, but he was so thirsty. His tongue felt like a strip of desiccated meat, stirring up memories of the worst drought his village had ever seen; all too vivid recollections of pushing his snout into the sandy silt of the dried-up creek so he could survive another day. So he gulped and chugged the rank fluid gushing from the leathery canteen's mouth, and he counted himself queerly lucky.

"Drink! Drink!" the deer cackled, sadistically delighted. "Drink!" With what was nearly sarcasm, he bellowed, "Water!" He tilted back Ember's head, grinding the nape of his neck on the top of the crescent. There was still more to drink. Ember guzzled it. His chin and neck and breast were stained a sickly greenish-yellow and the wood of the stockade would certainly retain the stench at least as long as he did, but it was just water and he was thankful that the stag was giving him a drink.

The piss ran out but the stag kept the canteen jabbed into his maw like a tit a moment longer before he pulled it back. His grin was enormous and cruel, his erection tenting his loincloth. "Thirsty?"

"Nuh--, no," Ember bleated, neck aching and senses beset by the taste and stink of stag urine. "Not thirsty..."