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The bastard loved wearing white. Syona prefers him in yellow.

He was a smug bastard of a dog; grey canine with a carnivorous grin. A relentless tyrant with iron fists, iron militia, and iron set in his ways. Lands fell under his conquering grip. His thirst for power and control swept through the once-peaceful land in a horrendous game of dominoes, each clan and kingdom falling under his oppressive control.

His mistake was coming here. The kingdom wasn't some gathered village or enthusiastic town, nor was it short-handed of capable persons. While the military itself may be only a speck of his, the true strength lied in the specialized combatants. Saboteurs, spies, and professional backstabbers.

It was only a matter of time before the wolf bastard was tossed before the throne, knees down and arms bound in wooden stockades. He still wore his refined, white coat, his white dress-pants, his golden buttons and his white dress-shirt. White for purity, white for vanity, a blinding white of oppressive light. His grey fur burst out of his tight shirt-collar, seemingly wanting to escape its own cloth confinements. Forced to kneel, snarling, he bared his wolf teeth at the white hare princess. "You." And a wild grin pulls up his face, "I should've known it was you. Cowards, the lot of you, stealing me behind closed doors..."

Syona pressed one pawed foot to the red carpet, then the other, stepping down from her throne to stride before him. Her red-eyes remained half-lidded, dull and unimpressed, her red-painted lips set in a small pouted frown. Her sleek dress gripped around her throat, spilling skin-tight down her flat chest, to her slim hips, to pool behind her in yet another bold spill of red. Gazing upon the grey wolf in white, she frowned.

"Aren't you going to say anything?" The wolf snarled, "You have me! Order my death, order my destruction, and then what!?"

The hare-woman held out her hand, palm open in silent request. A single crop-whip is placed upon her palm, her pointed digits curling around the tool one by one.

KRACK! An instant, and the whip is struck against the wolf's face, bringing his body to twist aside, and for the stockade to clunk against the floor. He could taste blood, but he grinned. Back upright he swung himself on his knees, gold eyes staring up at her in expectation. "Satisfied?"

"Hardly." Syona uttered, whip toyed against her finger. "Guard, take him to the display."

"The what--" before he could even finish his sentence, the guards fell upon him to drag him up to his feet. Dragged further, he was brought back to a raised, circular stage in the center of the room. Chains were brought in, and clasped against each corner of his wooden binds. Forced once more to kneel, the wolf growled, thrashing against the iron binds with jerked force. "This would all go more quickly if we went along with execution, you know."

"I've got other plans. I don't know if you've noticed by now, but here, we operate much more differently than with rampant death." The whip twists once more within her palm in idle motion. "You've always been a very proud man." An idle observation.

And the hare spoke up, "Open the gates. Let the court in."

And the people poured in. From nobles to commoners, the hall filled with a curious crowd. Many took to watching the bound warlord with open amusement, excited jeering, and judgemental study. Crowds came and went, wine passed about, and sadistic merriment became the people. For all of the hateful stares, none came to the stage where he was bound.

And this was starting to get to him. Gold, feral eyes darted from person to person, his breath growing huffed. What was her game here? Did she just want to show him off bound and captured as a trophy? Fine. He could live with that, there's always the political strife to come once his death reaches the news...

But for how long is he going to get stuck here? He finds himself fidgeting, hips rocking back and forth for lack of being able to adjust himself. He tried not to make the shifting obvious; he just had to adjust the position of his knees. But there was soft muttering among the people, and a growing air of anticipation. What more, that red stare of the white rabbit woman remained glued to him like a gun to his head.

He stared at her, she stared at him. Her eyes half-lidded, red lips sipping dark wine, watching. Waiting.

He was starting to become sharply aware of just how much liquid was being passed around or displayed in this hall. Wine and cider, poured liberally in dripping displays. It's been hours since he had been captured, kept in lock or bound in various restraints. Always under watch. And always in his clean white suit, marred only by the dirt of previous scuffles.

And now, the very real risk of being stained with something else. His breathing grew shallow, careful, as he felt the tingling pressure at his bladder. It's been hours. For all the restraints, his keepers were never against giving him water. He had found that odd, but now ...

Arms trapped in wood, chains clicked and clacked under tugs and shifts. His jaw set in an iron grip, voice muffling back a groan that threatened to escape him. He was forced to bow forward, but even then, there was only so far he could go before the chains pulled him tight. He clenched his hips, his crotch, shaft bouncing and sack twitching under restraint. Maybe this whole sick 'party' would only last a few hours. Maybe he'll be let out. Maybe.

This was not the case.

Small shifts and fidgets soon grew to restless rocking, parted jaws and panting breath. Nervous sweat filtered through his fur, his scent seeping through his clothes. His eyes squinted under the full pressure of his bladder, the needy press of pressure down his dick, and the fidgeting shudders that took him.

And Syona still sat by, watching, finally smiling as she lounged on her chair. "You look uncomfortable."

"Let... let me go." He panted.

"No."

"Let me go back to the prisons."

He wasn't met with a reply. Syona instead motioned out with a finger, a mute request of one of her servants. A pitcher of water is brought to her, and with flowing movement, she stood to accept it.

And so she moved to the wolf, smiling. She stood before him, pitcher sloshing audibly with each sway of her step. She stared down on him, and she could read the fear in his eyes.

That felt good. It wasn't war the man was afraid of.

It was staining his image. His self-control. She lifts the pitcher of water.

And she let it pour over his head, drip by trinkling drip. Teased and tipped, sloshed and splashed over his face to flatten patches of his fur. He snarled, jaws parted into a sea of swears, of cussing and curses and, a sudden much louder, sharper swear.

She stood back and looked down, smiling. And there it was, the first few coin-sized yellow patches against his pant-leg. Little small drips, met with his endless swearing. He clenched his body once again; a few drips weren't going to get the best of him.

So of course, she tilts the rest of the pitcher in front of him, letting the water rain down in a single satisfying stream. "Oohhh..." Syona even moaned, "Wouldn't that be nice...?"

"This is insane punishment," he hissed, "You're wasting your time! You're--"

He had not expected the sudden kick to his crotch, but his splayed, kneeling position gave nothing to defend him with. A yelp left him, eyes bulging, and he felt his whole stomach lurch up with the strike. Back down he fell, and with it, his bladder of piss.

An explosion of yellow burst out against his pant-leg, and he flooded himself with hours worth of stinking urine. Hot, hot fluid poured out of him, the yellow failure climbing up along his pant-leg to seep into the edges of his coat. Sick and groaning in pain, all he could do was sit there as he succumbed to his own relief. He felt the hot piss flood against the floor, seeping into fur and clawing up against his own ass. It just wasn't stopping, as soon a puddle the size of the stage itself was threatening to form.

And the crowd jeered, laughing, as excited hollers call out in the open air. Syona smiled.

She stepped back and simply watched. Hot steam seen ghosting up from the broken warlord, his dick pulsing and twitching against the skin-tight, piss-soaked cloth against his crotch. Drips of his release beaded off of the edge of the stage to hit the floor in audible, trinkling taps. And he stared at Syona, dazed. "...what have you done to me."

Syona smiled. "The beginning."

But for now, she finally turned away, and set to walk.

Let the people decide his fate.