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Mortimer's nostrils flared as he trotted down the path to the cool stream. It was another sweltering day. Too hot to be pulling logs, but jobs were scarce for ferals in these parts, so Mort did what he always did: clamped down on his bit and finish his job. A stallion of considerable size, he always got tasked with the heaviest loads. Hauling goods to and from the town wearhouse wasn't so bad most days, but the felled trees Richard recently started importing were pushing his limits.

He slowed, veering off the path to a young sturdy tree. He snorted and thrust his shoulder into it. The tree, as thick as Mort's neck, shook. Leaves rained down on the the horse and he pushed harder. He wasn't trying to break the tree, but the wet cracking of its trunk echoed through the woods.

"Ahhh," he sighed. "That's better." He rocked into the tree a couple more times until the sharpe pain of a sore muscle was rubbed down to a dull ache. "Stupid Richard. I'd like to see him in a harness, pulling loads all day."

Just thinking of Richard, his boss, darkened the stallion's already cloudy mood. The constant prodding and insults... If only that stupid otter knew what I could do to him, Mort thought with a grin. There was a reason rats avoided his stable. Thoughts of his little games he'd play began to arouse him, waking the great equine cock. Mort swung his head, giving his shoulder muscles a final loosening before continuing his trip to the stream.

It wasn't the typical games that excited the stallion. No, Mort was firmly of the belief ferals of his size were meant to enjoy all that their bodies were capable of. Especially what they were capable of doing to those smaller beings.

His thoughts wandered back to a night last week. A feral rat, daring to sneak into his stall to pilfer his oats. He'd cornered the little thief, stamping about, his hoofs coming down like lightning mere inches from the rat until it was a quivering mess. Then, the stallion took his time.

Afterwards, he couldn't have said what drove him to walk past the Feral's stable that night. He had been out and about that day, playing a friendly game of soccer with his friends, and now, after the sun had set, he had spontaneously decided to take a little detour instead of walking straight back to his parent's house.

He had always been fascinated with the feral worker who was hauling logs for his father's business, but of course, Simon would have never admitted to that. Not with his father ranting endlessly about how the four-leggers, as he called them, were a throwback to the ancient times, and that it was high time the government would finally do something and reverse their rights as citizens which they had only received twenty-five years ago.

But, he was fascinated by the big guy, Mort, as he was called, and so when his webbed paws took him past the stable, he couldn't help but to peek through one of the gaps in the rough building's walls.

And there he was. Mort. A stallion of massive size, the rich, brown fur glistening with the sweat of the day's work, long tail swinging behind him in what only could be an excited manner.

He was staring down at something, again and again shaking his darker-couloured mane from his eyes, while walking on the ground, the impact of his white-socked legs and hooves sounding like distant thunder.

Simon squinted his eyes, and quickly moved to a different, wider gap to see better, Morts strange behaviour having piqued his curiosity.

Mortimer recalled vividly raising a hoof over the screeching pest. He taunted the feral, letting the rat know exactly what was coming. Then the slow lowering of that mighty hoof. The moment he could feel the soft resistance of the little body...

Mortimer shuddered. He could still feel the way the rat's body compressed until his exposed head, the only part not caught under hoof, stopped its screeching and began a moist gurgling. Blood spurted like from a squashed tomato. It was an orgasmic experience for the proud stallion, watching the rat's eyes bulge and bleed as his tiny body became one with the packed earth floor.

Simon blinked. He couldn't believe what he just had witnessed. He had been too fascinated to avert his eyes, and the details of the scene before him had burned themselves into his memory. Even with closed eyes, he could still see it, like in slow motion, that black, plate-sized hoof rising slowly, the massive muscles under Morts fur bunching and coiling like a handful of kittens under a thin blanket, and then... the gleam in the stallion's brown eyes as he deliberately and slowly placed his hoof on the body of the rat.

He had heard the shrill squeaks becoming louder and fainter at the same time, and then the soft, almost inaudible crackling of bones as Mort stepped down and shifted his weight over, followed by the wet pop that ended all other noises. He had seen the red smear and the bits of fur clinging to the iron Mort wore, spinning thin, red threads between ground and hoof, and, most disturbing of all, he had seen the stallion's malehood spilling from his sheath, long and heavy like a piece of hosepipe normally used for irrigation, swinging pendulously underneath Morts strong, heavy barrel.

Simon was very, very careful not to make a noise when he withdrew from the stable that night, repeatedly licking his try, rough lips... and trying to hide the fact that he had just... gotten hard.

Mortimer would have walked right past the stream, so lost in thought was he, if not for the barrage of curses that would have put a cobbler to shame. The angry voice was instantly recognizable. Richard! Or, Mr. Whitsworth, as he insisted his employees call him. Mort's jaw clenched. Richard was the town's richest citizen, a fact the otter made sure to mention at each opportunity. Mort was little more than a slave in the eyes of that otter, and considering his situation, there was some truth to it. Whitsworth owned the stable he called a home, and he provided the oats, the hay, and... he also paid his assistant, the elderly fox who came by three times a week for an hour to do everything for him that he couldn't. His.. hands.

Mort snorted, stomping his hooves harder than he had to, fully intending to trot right past his boss's curses. But then his ears twitched. He paused and listened. The shouts were just not like the same commanding bellows he'd heard all day at work. There was something different about it this time.

"I said, help me, gods damn it! Why isn't anyone helping me? Why isn't anyone here?"

Mort's eyes widened, and his tail gave a flick, excitement beginning to replace puzzlement. Was that a hint of... fear in the otter's yells?

He moved as cautiously as he could, his big frame being less flexible and nimble than the lighter body of a two legger, but the underbrush wasn't too dense here, and he could easily push through to see what Richard was screaming about.

"I swear," Mort muttered to himself, "If that idiot expects me to lug a fresh barrel of water back to... the..."

His eyes widened again. What was that otter doing?

On the muddy bank, Richard thrashed, straining to pull his leg free from a gap in the slick rocks that covered the partially dry bed of the river. He'd made the mistake of trying to keep his imported calfskin boots dry while refilling his silver pocket canteen. Richard, of course, would never stoop down to drink the stagnant water from the bottles left around the warehouse for his workers, oh no. Richard had to have the fresh, cool, water directly from the stream. On a normal day, he would have sent his son to fetch it for him - not a worker, never a worker, possibly because he feared that they would spit into it, but he hadn't seen Simon all day, which in itself was a little strange.

Simon had, in fact, taken great care of not being seen by Mort. Instead, he had taken every opportunity to watch the stallion from various places of hiding. The smaller otter hat watched while Mort had pulled the logs behind him, snorting and groaning, powerful legs digging up rock hard, dry earth with each and every step, and he had watched Mort coming back without his load, flakes of foamy sweat falling from his flanks. He had watched while the stallion had emptied a through of water, large enough for Simon to bathe in, and he had watched when Mort had stepped next to the road to relieve himself, creating a small, temporary creek of his own.

And he was watching now, hunkered down behind a bush on the other side of the road, when Mort bulldozed his way through the brushwork, down towards the river, where his father was shouting in a particularly nasty manner.

The stallion nearly bust out laughing. Richard was trapped, helpless and not a soul to witness what he was about to do... as far as he knew.

Mort broke cover, taking elegant strides out from the treeline.

"Mort!" Richard was quick to spot the hard to miss horse. "Mort, get over here! I think I've twisted my ankle on the damn rocks. You need to pull me out right- Hey! Are you listening?"

Mort kept his gaze on the stream, recalling the time Richard tried to put blinders on his ferals to keep their minds on their work. "Yeah, yeah. I hear you," he huffed.

Richard's mouth hung open. No one had dared to show him such disrespect before. "Listen to me you dumb feral! Bring your brainless ass over here and help me!"

It was a constant stream of abuse from the otter, all day, for Mort. He sighed and walked past the otter, dipping his head to the clear water. He drank his fill while Richard's demands grew louder and harsher.

"I will see to it that you're never going to be hired in these parts again!" Richard yelled. "If you don't get me out this instant, I will-"

"You know," Mort cut his boss off. "The water you gave us today was green. Green, Richard."

"That's Mr. Whitsworth, you waste of skin!"

"I can't understand why you don't get fresher drink for your workers." He shook his head, shaking off the water from his muzzle.

Richard growled. He jerked his leg once more, only to yelp. "Grah! If you worthless beasts deserved-"

"'Worthless beasts?'" Mort's steps dropped harder as he neared the trapped otter.

Simon winced. He had followed the big horse once he had vanished from view, staying close to the ground and snaking his way through the undergrowth, his lithe body easily moving through gaps and narrow spaces without even moving a branch. He came to rest underneath an elderberry bush, quite well hidden, but with a perfect view of the scene that unfolded before his eyes.

There was his father, stuck between the rocks, and, as usual, screaming his head off. Simon had to suppress a giggle seeing the older otter's bright-red ears, his dishevelled clothing and the squinting, beady eyes. He didn't like his father very much, to say the least, and he couldn't understand at all why he always had to be so mean to the people working for him.

He was very sure that Mort wouldn't help his father in this situation, but would rather go and enjoy having the upper hand for once. Simon, at that moment, promised himself to at least try and talk to his father later, to prevent him from kicking the stallion out and sending him on his way.

His ears twitched as he strained to listen to what was said over the murmur of the stream, but when he did, he winced. Yes, that war his father, pure and unfiltered, and Mort... Oh gods. Mort. Simon shivered. He had seen Mort behave like this before, the excitement, the sudden, deceptive calm... the position of the tail, the ears, the tension in his muscles...

Unconsciously, Simon stuffed two fingers into his maw and bit down, gnawing on his claws as the tension rose further and further, and his father... not noticing at all in what kind of danger he was in. And yet... he stayed, and watched.

Mort towered over Richard, silhouetted against the bright late afternoon sky. For the first time he was able to enjoy the glint of fear in the otter's eyes.

Richard shook. "N-never mind that. I- I need you to move this rock. It's pinning me."

Mort rolled his eyes. "I'm off the clock. There's nothing preventing me from just walking away."

"If you do," Richard's voice filled with rage again, "I will-"

"Calm down, otter. I won't leave you stuck. I just think you might want to think about your predicament..."

"And you need to think about yours, feral!" Richard spat. "Roll this damn rock. Now!"

"How about some manners?" Mort hummed. He started to circle the prone otter, taking in the extent of his helplessness. "Maybe, instead of a command, try asking me for help?"

Richard fumed. "The day I ask a beast for anything-"

Mort raised a foreleg and clopped it down on one of the rocks that held Richard's ankle. His metal sparked.

Richard gasped in pain. "Gods! What are you doing? Roll it off!"

Mort glared, balancing his hoof on it. He could easily push it away if he chose, but this was not the kind of abuse he could let slide. Instead, Mort rocked forward, squeezing Richard's ankle between the unyielding stones.

The otter screamed.

Simon couldn't really see what was happening, Mort was standing between him and his father, and the bulk of his body was blocking the view. He could, however, hear the dialogue between the two, and he began to shiver. It was clear that the stallion was enjoying his position of dominance over his much-hated boss, and he knew very well that Richard wasn't enjoying it one bit.

The smallish otter felt his ears fold back at the second mention of the word "beast". That slur.. It wasn't uncommon to call the four-leggers beasts, but it was never done to their face, and never in polite company... and his father had done it twice now.

He saw Mort move, the short, quick step of his foreleg, and then, there was the scream, not angry, not enraged, but pain - pure and simple agony.

"Oh gods..", Simon whispered to himself, "He's going to kill him.. "

He pressed himself closer to the ground, almost digging his nose into the loose dirt under the bush, unable to convince his vibrating muscles to move, to get up, to run and go for help, and he knew that if he'd scream, Mort would come to him, and ...

Simon clamped both hands around his muzzle to stifle the whimper that was escaping him, and stared forwards, to where Richard would either be learning fast, or fail.

Mort could feel the rocks grinding against bone. Richard's scream was so loud the stallion's ears angled back.

"What's the matter? Does it hurt?"

"Yes!" Richard's back arched. "Stop! Stop!"

Mort took his hoof off the rock and looked around. He saw no one. As far as he knew, he and Richard were completely alone.

"You brainless feral," Richard panted, "go for help. You're useless without hands."

Mort's nostrils flared. Richard did not understand the seriousness of his situation, but Mort would make it a point to teach him. He circled the otter.

Richard did not notice Mort lifting a hoof over his splayed hand on the soft muddy ground. Mort decided to change that.

"What are you-"

Mort's hoof pressed down, sinking the otter's hand into the soft ground. With a sadistic grin he pushed harder. The ground, where not covered with rocks, was soft, but not nearly soft enough. Otter knuckles popped before the first crunch of a breaking bone could be heard over Richard's screaming.

Mort laughed as Richard twisted his body as far as he could, every move sending waves of agony from his ankle and his hand. The stallion laughed harder when the otter used his free hand to push at his glistening brown leg.

"I'd ask you not to get mud on me, but by the time I'm done with you, I think we'll both be dirty."

"G-get off!" Richard shrieked and began to pound on the horse's hoof.

Mort narrowed his eyes and lifted his other front leg, leaving all his weight on the pulverized hand. He kicked out with his free hoof, slamming it into Richard's chest and knocking the otter flat before pinning him.

"Striking at me will only make it worse. Got it?"

Richard's face contorted under the stallion's weight. Even if Mort wasn't pressing his other hoof down with any effort, it was still too much for the small otter. He struggled to gather enough breath to speak.

"Got it?" Mort snapped, lifting and dropping his hoof on Richard's chest.

Richard wheezed in pain and frantically nodded his head.

With a satisfied nod Mort took his hook off his boss's chest and then stepped of his hand. It stuck to the bottom of his hoof, tugging it out of the muddy depression.

Richard pulled his broken hand to his chest, cradling it and moaning.

Even at a short glance, it was obvious that the hand was a lost cause. Across its back, like a branding, was the impression of the rim of a horseshoe, complete with three of the four nails that held it in place, and the fingers were bent back unnaturally, kinked a wire that had been caught in a door. Smears of blood were clotting the fur, and one of the claws was missing completely. Strangely, there was not that much bleeding, the immense pressure having sealed the wounds shut.

Mort turned around and shot out his back leg. The single kick dislodged the rock that had trapped Richard.

Now freed and frantic with fear, Richard crawled and clawed with his good limbs, worming his way up the bank, ever aware of Mort's towering shadow over him.

The otter's right leg was dragging, leaving a smear of blood from his ankle. Mort rolled his eyes. How could such a fragile, selfish creature ever think to command a glorious stallion like himself? He rolled his eyes and put his hoof on Richard's calf.

"No!" Richard shrieked. He knew what was about to happen but that did nothing to prepare him for the blinding pain of hard hoof crushing soft muscle.

It reminded Mort of the rats he loved to crush. Richard's calf muscles tore under his great weight, splitting skin as the otter's leg flattened. Ah, Mort thought. He felt the hardened stick of bone. And it offered no more trouble than a stick when he started to press down.

Richard's screams turned into a long howl. He could feel the moment his shin splintered like dry firewood.

Simon gaped. He had been afraid of this, and his worst fears had been proven right when he saw Mort going to work, getting himself into position, and then...

He saw the hoof coming down, and he saw the smirk on Morts face when Richard bowed his back, howling like a banshee. He knew exactly what must have happened, and when, a moment later, the stallion stepped back, and his father cradled his mangled hand to his chest, he once more had to suppress a scream. But.. a moment later, clarity pushed away the panic and fear that was clouding Simon's mind. It had begun, and he was absolutely certain that it wouldn't stop, not before Mort was satisfied.. and his father would be gone, having payed for years and years of abuse with his life.

Unable, and now unwilling to run away, Simon blinked twice, almost missing Richard getting free, only to be caught again by the horse.

There was some elegance in the stallions movement, the early evening sun casting a golden light on Mort's rich fur, accentuating the strength of his muscles, and the solidness of his frame. A ray of light reflected from his left horseshoe, proudly lifted, only to come down again. This time, the sounds of bones breaking were loud enough to reach Simon's ears, despite the truly beastial howls of the otter, and he could actually see the leather of Richards boot splitting at the seams, while the foot twisted and splayed. Mort was a force of nature, and here, it clearly chose to destroy, and wreak havoc on the weaker, less resilient materials that happened to be underneath.

Mort shuddered. It was so much more gratifying than he thought it would be. A twist of his hoof renewed the howl before it could fully fade. He could feel the crushed flesh and torn tendons slide.

Tears flowed from Richard and his face dropped to the mud.

Mort stepped off the broken leg and circled to Richard's head. A swift kick jolted the otter onto his back. He reared up, kicking out his front legs before stomping down on either side of the otter's head. He lowered his face until it was almost touching the whimpering otter's.

"I bet you're starting to regret the way you treated me, huh?"

Richard could hardly believe his ears. He treated Mort the way he'd always treated ferals. "P-please, Mort. Just let me go. I- I can give you whatever you want!"

Mort snickered. "Do you know what I really want?"

Richard shook his head.

Mort slowly lifted his back leg, just out of the otter's sight with their faces so close. "I want to hear you scream some more."

Richard's world exploded. The stallion's back hoof tramped down on his good leg. His knee bent backwards into the soft ground.

'Now he can say please', Simon thought, and almost shook his head. This was going exactly like he expected. Richard, the stone-headed, narrow-minded idiot that he was, was still not seeing what was happening, and now tried to avoid the consequences of what he had done before. Wich each second that passed, the otterling felt less and less compassion with his progenitor, instead, he started to feel sympathy for Mort. The way he was handling Richard, the brazen disregard for status and morals... it was intoxicating for the young otter, in a way, his rebellious self wanting to cheer the stallion on - while his rational mind shut down more and more, overwhelmed by the brutality of the events.

The second leg didn't break right away, instead, Simon watched it bend backwards in little increments, Mort's hoof sinking down millimeter by millimeter while underneath, ligaments tore one by one, freeing the knee to move in a direction nature never had intended. Only seconds later, when Richard was finally out of breath and his screams had become silent, the dry, double cracks of bones once more losing their battle against the horse's power came clear and sharp across the distance to Simon's ears.

Simon exhaled with a small sigh - he hadn't noticed that he actually had been holding his breath, and he looked up from the twitching foot of the older otter. Was that... yes, it was, no doubt. There was something dark appearing in front of Mort's sheath, it looked like the tip of his shaft had freed itself, and was now extending outwards. There wasn't a lot visible yet, but Simon licked his lips, he had seen this before, too, and... he knew there was a whole lot more hidden in that furry pouch, and maybe... just maybe... he would be able to see it in its full glory once again.

"Don't pass out on me, Richard," Mort snarled. He stomped his back hoof onto the broken leg. Each step made Richard spasm and jerk.

Richard's legs were left too broken for him to move. All he could do was wail with each stamp from the stallion. And through the tears and fog of pain was Mort's smug, sadistic face staring down at him.

"I'll tell you what," Mort's voice echoed in the otter's ears. "If you can make it to that tree over there, I'll let you go. Deal?"

Deep down Richard knew it was never going to happen. That it was only the horse's desire to watch him struggle. But delirious as he was, Richard latched on to that faint glimmer of hope. The moment the stallion took his hoof off his ruined leg, Richard put every ounce of strength into rolling over. He clawed at the earth, dragging himself forward only millimeters. Every motion brought fresh tears to his eyes.

Mort's breathing grew deeper. The sight of his boss, caked in mud and blood, crawling for all he was worth sent tingles down his spine. He kept pace with Richard, only needing to take a step every few minutes. It must have felt like an eternity for the otter, Mort thought with glee. And every step he made sure to take right next to Richard's head, clopping his metallic shoe where the otter could see it and appreciate how low he was.

It was obvious that the leg was done for. Even after the first crack, there had been little to no hope of Richard ever being able to use it again, if only as a solid, straight peg to hobble around on. Now, though, after the repeated stomping... it was a mess of fleshy paste and toothpick-sized splinters of bone, an almost homogenous mass of not resemblance to anything belonging to a body.

And yet...

Simon minutely shook his head. Why wasn't Richard giving up? Why wasn't he admitting defeat, and hope for mercy? Or at least, close his eyes and wait for the whole thing to be over? No, instead, he watched his father rolling onto his belly and pull himself across the ground, propelling himself by the only means of his intact hand, and the elbow of his broken arm, leaving behind a trail of bloody smears on the bank of the river. And above him towered Mort. The stallion didn't even have to spread his legs to plant his hooves astride the moaning and whimpering body beneath him, each of his steps missing only by centimeters, all the while grinning like a mad wolf.

He had a perfect view of both their faces, Richards and Morts, and he could also look straight at the dangling tip of Mort's shaft, which was still gradually dropping, but that meant...

'Shit, they're coming here...!'

The thought flashed through Simon's mind, and he realized that, when Mort had talked about "That tree over there", he had meant the proud bush he was hiding under. If he moved now, there would be no chance of either of the two not noticing, and if Mort became aware of his presence...

Simon shuddered. He had a very good idea what would happen then, and that his life would be very short after his detection... and excruciatingly painful. He stretched out as long as he could, hoping he could get his body flat enough to avoid it getting made much, much flatter by nearly a ton of sadistic, brutal stallion.

Mort glanced at the sun, gauging the time. He'd let Richard burn the last of his strength in hopes of escaping his fate. It was now time to crush that hope. The stallion took his next step, this time landing a hoof on Richard's thick tail.

"Come on, otter," Mort huffed. "I've got a meal of stale oats waiting for me back at the stables."

"M-Mort," Richard whimpered, "p-please-"

Mort rolled his eyes and twisted his hoof, grinding and shattering the small bones it that flexible appendage. Surprisingly, Richard was still digging his fingers into the damp ground, making tiny furrows but he would never be able to move with his tail pinned.

"Looks like this is the end of the line for you, eh?" He tilted his hoof forward, the metal edge of his shoe cutting into the otter's soft flesh.

Richard's throat was raw from screaming but the feeling of the dull edge of Mort's horse shoe cutting into him through sheer pressure was enough to renew his painful shouting.

Mort waited for the cries to die down before removing his hoof. It glistened with the fresh red blood. He stepped away to watch Richard. The otter was barely moving. And the weak movements were less of an attempt to get away and more of a painful twitching.

"You've got your blood on me," Mort smirked. "Such poor manners." He tisked and shook his head. A kick rolled Richard onto his back. The stallion scrapped his shoe down the otter's chest, shredding Richard's clothes and fur, while rubbing off some of the mud and gore.

Satisfied, Mort positioned his hoof over the otter's chest

Simon's lips were dry, and so was his throat. Watching Mort enjoy his power trip was mesmerizing, the stallion was a sight to behold. He held his head high, his tail was swishing behind him, and he looked as proud and majestic as he should... and not as meek and angry as he normally did.

It would have been very hard to not see the beauty in his pose, his agility, and his deliberate and precise use of his strength, and Simon failed miserably. He had almost cheered when Mort had stopped the slow progression of Richard up the bank of the river, and the soft spoken words had made him shiver once more... but not in fear, this time. There was something incredibly erotic watching Mort handle his toy, and to the impressionable mind of Simon, it was an overwhelming force. As Mort lifted his foreleg and hovered his hoof above Richard's chest, Simon swallowed dry, whispering an inaudible "Yesss..." to himself, and held his breath. His eyes were wide, riveted to that hoof, capturing every detail, every speck of mud and blood, every trace of fur clinging to the shiny, hard exterior, and every ding and scratch on the hard surface of his shoe. He couldn't wait for Mort to step down, to prove once and for all who was the stronger one, the one who could rule over the other, and he was praying in his mind for Mort to do it slowly, so he could watch and remember every little detail.

A slight step forward. Richard's chest compressed. Mort listened to the rush of air turning into a wet wheeze, and finally a soundless gasping. He looked into Richard's wide eyes, basking in the otter's terror. It never ceased to amuse the stallion, how fragile smaller creatures were... He was merely standing and it was more than Richard could bear.

Mort leaned back, taking just enough weight off the otter's chest for him to take in a desperately needed breath. But not too much! he thought wickedly. Down again. Richard groaned, froth and spit spilled from the corners of his mouth.

More weight. Mort watched with glee as the otter strained to breath. Blood vessels started to burst in the corners of his bulging eyes.

The stallion leaned forward until his hoof started to sink, flattening Richard's chest and bending ribs to their limit.

Again, Mort took back some of his weight. Richard coughed up blood, choking on it with each tortured breath he could steal.

This time Mort heard a squelching noise when he stepped down. He pressed further until he swore he could feel the hammering of Richard's heart as it struggled. It almost synced with the throbbing of Mort's engorged cock. More pressure.

Crack!

Like a sapling, Richard's rib cage crunched under Mort's hoof.

Simon's face displayed the perfect mix of horror and fascination. Ears almost painfully pricked, maw and eyes as widely open as they would go, hands clenched in front of his chest hard enough to make the claws pierce the palms... he didn't breath, he didn't even twitch, he was just too taken by the show. The way Mort played, the ruthlessness of his actions.. He could hear every wet wheeze that was forced out of Richard's throat, could see the muscles spasming under the fur, and he realized that Mort was now dictating the speed of Richard's breath, forcing the air from his lungs with almost gentle-looking pressure that wasn't gentle at all. And then, when he saw the stallion lean forward further, watched as the otter arched his back, feebly rising an arm and pushing against the tree trunk of Mort's legs, his eyes also caught the stallion's erection, fat and fully extended, seemingly larger than his own arm, even from the distance. The crackle of breaking ribs caught his attention once more, and he watched in awe as sharp protrusions began to appear at the side of Richard's chest while the hoof sank lower, followed by a sudden appearance of first pink, then red foam from his lips, thick and spongy like whipped cream, painting cruel, bright lines along the otter's dirty cheeks.

'Finally', he thought, 'no mercy, Mort, squeeze him dry....'

Mort stepped again. There was nothing resisting him anymore. It was like stepping on a sack of wet flour. Blood spurted from Richard's mouth with a gurgling groan. Mort's smile flickered as he watched the otter's eyes roll back. He lifted his hoof and swung it forward, dangling it above Richard's face.

"I think this is a more fitting last view for you. Don't you agree?" He laughed and stepped down.

The great hoof blotted out the sky, an all consuming darkness that descended on the otter's skull, bring with it a final unbearable pressure and a hell of pain as Richard's last sensations were the sound and feelings of his own head being crushed.

Mort watched the otter's skull finally give. A splatter of brain matter burst from under his hoof.

He wouldn't... would he? Would he really?

Simon blinked twice after the third step into Richard's chest, which wasn't hollow anymore, but now had a hard, flat circle in the middle, the perfect image of Mort's forehoof, seeing how the stallion lifted his leg and took fresh aim.

He would. Of course he would. Why not, after all?

The sound was indescribable, the delicate bones of jaw and muzzle crumpling like dry leaves under the overwhelming force, followed by the final, wet explosion of a skull imploding. Richard's head didn't so much crush under Mort's step, but it burst, like grape. Gore and brains exploded in a wide fan away from the point of impact, covering the bank of the river... and, ultimately, Simon's face.

Open-mawed as he stared, he got hit by several gobs of the juicy paste which not only clung to his fur, but also got into his eye... and his nose.

Like being hit by a whip, Simon pulled back his head, reflexively withdrawing from the projectiles. His head snapped up, crashing into a branch of the bush, and his legs scrabbled for support in the soft ground. Shocked by the noise and the sharp pain on the back of his head, Simon shrieked, short and sharp, before regaining control over himself, and freezing in place once more.

His heart was beating up in his throat, with rapid, hectic strokes, and he knew that he had blown it. There was no chance in hell that Mort would not have noticed the whole bush shivering, or not hearing his little scream... but what was there he could do? Run? He wasn't half as fast as the stallion. Threaten? That's what had gotten Richard's life stomped out of him. Beg? Maybe....

With a hard, dry gulp, Simon pushed himself forwards, just enough to clear the bush. Hands clasped behind his back, he stared down at the ground, his ears flat against his skull.

"Mort....," he mumbled, "please... It's okay.... You did good... I'm..... I'm not... angry... he...Deserved it... "

Mort's ears swiveled with his eyes. He scanned the woods behind the otter. This could be a problem.

"Are you alone..." he prompted.

"Simon. M-my name is Simon. I- I'm alone."

Mort stood still and as quiet as he could. The only sounds were Simon's ragged breathing. No signs of anyone else. He fixed his attention back to the otter.

"Do you often go creeping about the forest?" He walked forward.

Simon shook. "N-no, sir! I- I was just going to the stream. It's so hot out today."

Mort snorted, the hot blast of air ruffled Simon's whiskers. "You should feel what it's like after ten hours of dragging dead trees." He took one more look to confirm they were alone. He was rarely addressed as sir, in fact, this was the first time he could recall, but he knew what needed to be done. "Look, Simon, you seem like a nice otter, but-"

Simon dropped to his knees and clasped his hands together. "Please! Y-you don't have to kill me! I swear I won't breathe a word to anyone! I- I can even help! I'll do anything!" He winced as Mort's hoof rose.

The stallion paused. The sniveling otter might be fun, even if the end was already set in stone. "And just why would I need a pathetic creature like you to help me?"

Simon's mind raced. "Y-you have his blood on you. If anyone sees you..."

He was right. Frustratingly right.

Simon seized on the hesitation. "Sir, if, if you let me, I- I can wash it off." I pulled off his shirt and wadded it like a rag, motioning toward the stream. "Please, just don't trample me," his voice cracked.

It had gone better than expected. Simon had fully expected to join the other's fate within moments after being discovered. Mort... couldn't allow any witnesses, that was certain, and if he wanted to have a chance to get out of this, he needed the time and the confusion - and not an eyewitness. But maybe, just maybe, he needed an accomplice... so...

It was easy to demonstrate submissiveness, especially now that he was closer to the stallion than ever before. Not only was Mort even larger this close up, but Simon could smell him, too.. A strong, earthy scent, combined with what could only be described as pure and undistilled maleness emanated from the tall horse, and it touched Simon in places he had only begun to discover. Combined with enough fear to nearly wet his pants, it robbed Simon of all intentions to fight or flee.

He could almost hear the gears grind in Mort's head. If he could make more arguments, prove his usefulness, could show Mort that he was on his side...

"Let... Let me help, please? I can.. Clean you, and I can.... Hide that, there." He nodded in the direction of Richard's crushed remains.

"And..." His voice lowered to a whisper, "I can.. Be your hands, sir. I... I've been ... watching you, you're .. so strong and big and.... " Simon swallowed, and licked his lips. "I.. want to help you, Sir, with whatever you need me for. I'll do anything... really, I mean it, anything you want..."

The stallion tilted his head. Anything you want. It was an enticing offer. The lanky otter was not without his charm, especially shirtless, on his knees, and begging for his life.

"Move. To the stream. If you try anything, I'll make you wish your death was as pleasant as Richard's."

Simon's eyes were wide with fright. He swallowed hard and nodded. He started to rise.

"No," Mort grunted. "Your kind has always been so arrogant, I think I'd like to see you crawl. It'll let you appreciate us ferals better."

"Y-yes, sir," Simon whispered and looked at his shirt. He'd need his hands to get to the water. He glanced up at Mort. So big and commanding. Without hesitation, Simon bit down on his shirt and crawled down the bank.

Mort's suspicion began to subside. The way Simon degraded himself without protest was reassuring. He stopped at the water's edge while Simon dunked his shirt and looked up for the next command.

With a nod from the masculine force of nature before him, Simon reached out with shaking hands, pressing his shirt to the bloodstained calves. He rubbed gentilly at first, more interested in feeling the contours of the powerful legs before putting all his effort into getting the evidence of carnage out of Mort's fur.

He dipped his shirt again and wrung it out. The water turned an opaque red before the current swept it clear again. The otter bent lower, giving the deadly hooves his full attention. He scrubbed it all, paying specal attention to the edges of the rough metal shoes to make sure nothing was left. He leaned back to admire his work, and more importantly, to admire the stallion. He suddenly realized what he'd missed.

Simon tilted his head back, slowly and reverently. "Sir... would you lift you hoof so I can clean the bottoms?"

Mort had been watching in fascination. Never had he run across such a personality as Simon's. He lifted his hoof to the otter's face.

Instinctively Simon put his lips to the hard surface. He knew how easy it would be for Mort to end his life when under the stallion. He wanted to leave no doubt as he slowly laid down on his back.

It was grizzly work, getting the fur and bits of meat out of the nooks and crannies of Mort's hooves, but he did it gently, with patience and thoroughness. Using his shirt to wet the sticky mass down, he then switched to his fingers and his teeth, deftly removing any trace of what had happened before. Beginning the ritual with a kiss, he finished it with a thorough licking, the earthy, musky taste new and not exactly pleasant, but strangely fitting for the bizarre situation.

He spoke no more words as he repeated the process for each of the four legs, first washing down the fur, then prostrating himself on his back to treat the undersides, finally finishing with the right, hind leg.

His position down there had given him an excellent view of the stallions equipment. By now, his shaft had retreated somewhat, filling the sheath to it's full, fat volume, despite the tip still dangling free. Further behind, like ominous eggs in their dark, short-furred pouch, dangled Mort's balls, too large to fit next to each other, making them appear somewhat twisted and misaligned as they nestled behind each other in the fork of his massive, muscled thighs. Flecks of blood and brain, most likely thrown there from the explosion of Richard's head, clung to the fur there as well, and Simon bit his lip as he went to clean out his shirt once more. It had to be done, but.... He couldn't reach, not from down here.

"Sir..."

Simon spoke quietly, kneeling beside the stallion, hands folded in his lap. "May I please get up? Your... between your legs... there's... stuff, there. If you allow me to stand, I can clean it, too, but... you are too tall for me, to do it from here."

The reverence of Simon's touch was already almost too much too contain. He couldn't help but wonder what effect this intimate contact was having on hisself. And there was no reason not to command an answer.

"First, take off the rest of your clothes, otter."

"M-my clothes?" Simon's eyes darted down.

It was a funny time for him to feel embarrassed after all he'd done.

"Yes. I'm not wearing clothes. Why should you?"

Simon's lips quivered, but there was no choice for him. "Anything you wish, sir."

He climbed to his feet, his knees stiff from his debasement. He fumbled with the drawstrings, his hand trembled again. He could feel the stallion's eyes watching his every move. The otter too a deep breath and pulled his pants down. He clasped his hands behind his back, letting the stallion see everything. He burned with self consciousness and kept his eyes clenched shut.

Mort now had time to take a closer look at the little otter, before, he had been focussed on other things. Now, as he took a closer look, his first impression of Simon being not unpleasant to the eye, was confirmed.

The figure standing there before him with his hands behind his back had yet to develop the slightly wider hips that are typical for an adult otter, and instead, was lean as a whip. Soft, brown fur covered him from the rounded ears to the webbed toes, and where it was plastered to the skin by the river's water, it revealed the hints of sinewy muscles. It would be ironic to talk about a swimmer's body when it came to otters, but here, the description fit.... Even if Simon still had a lot of growing to do. The boy's privates were... cute, two small marbles sitting under a thickly furred sheath that snugged tightly to a good part of Simon's lower belly, He could spot a few drops near the tip that hardly could be water, considering that part of him had stayed dry, even in the river, and Mort's nostrils flared as he took in the otters scent. He was a youth, so there wasn't much there, but he could definitely make out the scent of lust... fresh and sweet, a tell-tale sign of previous excitement.

'He's just tall enough to lick there, too,' Mort thought, his lips curling back at the corners, and his loins giving a throb.

"Well, get on with it," Mort said. He knew if he stared too long he'd let his lusts take over. And watching the otter as he walked past gave him a nice view of Simon's backside.

Simon moved cautiously, daring to reach up and run his fingers along Mort's flank. He could feel the hard mounds of muscle and it made his mouth water. Then ducking under, he stared in awe of the stallion's malehood. It begged to be touched, but Simon's sense of self preservation restrained him. If he would be so forward as to indulge with Mort's orders, or better yet, his blessings, Simon would find himself crushed into a bloody rug.

"S-sir?"

"Go on," Mort said. His head was as craned as he could get without making it look to obvious. He felt the tentative fingers begin picking at his lower abdomen, it almost tickled. They worked lower, circling his hard shaft before one light caress of his massive orbs.

Simon swore he could hear Mort sigh. It gave the otter the confidence put his hand flat and cautiously stroked the stallion's bulging sack. He brought his damp and stained shirt up, slicking the short fur in a manner that was almost worshipful. The more he stroked, the closer his face drifted, until he was on his tiptoes. He blinked and drew in a deep breath.

"Oh gods," Simon moaned.

Mort's ears flicked. Had he heard that right, he wondered. The damp shirt was no longer moving. He bent his head forward and cleared his throat.

Simon jumped. "S-sorry, sir! Almost done."

The pleasant rubbing resumed. "You know, otter, you finished off my hooves with your tongue... can I expect the same level of service back there?"

Simon began stuttering, his mind pulled in opposite directions. "W-wh- whatever you wish. sir."

Whatever I wish, Mort smiled to himself. He knew exactly what he wished.

"Drop your rag. I can think of a few uses for your hands back at my stall."

Simon shook. He knew what Mort did to that rat, and what he could effortlessly do to him, but at a deeper level his heart hammered at the prospect of serving the stallion in the sanctity of his home.

"As you wish," Simon breathed. "D-do you want me to crawl all the way back?"

Mort laughed at the tremble in the otter's voice. "No. You're such a tiny creature, that would take forever. But walk behind me. And know that my ears are sharp enough to hear you if you even think about trying to run."

Simon swallowed hard. He glanced at his muddy pants, left in a pile. "C-can I wear my pants?"

"Put them on. The last thing I need is you attracting attention."

Simon was beyond grateful. He hurried to pull them back on, not bothering to brush the mud off them. He smiled softly and avoided looking the stallion in the eyes. "I'm ready, sir."

Mort snorted. The otter had no idea what was instore for him.

Simon walked behind Mort, his eyes shifting from the trail to the lushious tail and back. He couldn't understand what came over him. It was a pure lust that was stronger than a chain leash. He had to follow the stallion.

Mort didn't need to strain to hear the little otter. Not once did he hear Simon's feet deviate from his own steps. And the otter was breathing hard, excitedly. If only Simon could keep up, he would have demanded they move at a trot.

Simon had to almost jog to keep up with Mort. All he had eyes for were the hindquarters of the massive stallion, the powerful thighs, the thick legs, the swinging tail... and winking at him, every now and then, the balls. Gods, those balls. He had been touching them not minutes ago, had been close enough to feel the short hairs tickle his whiskers, and he had touched the sheath in front of them.....the housing that contained the cannon he had seen before. Still, his nose tingled with Mort's scent, and his hands almost burned from the feeling.

Hands... He had said that he had use for Simon's hands. It only dawned on him what kind of life a feral must lead, unable to perform task that he took for granted, washing himself, scratching an itch, touching ... oneself, there, and ... generally, taking care of things. Simon mused if the assistant Mort had would help him find release, when he was there, but as hard as he tried, he simply couldn't imagine the grey-muzzled fox, who was arthritic himself, performing such a task for the virile beast that was Mort.

Simon bit his tongue. He would not even think that word, not ever again. Mort was no beast, mort was... a magnificent, great creature, that he had sworn to serve, and come what may, that's was what he was going to do. Not because of the punishment that Mort could dole out, but because he deserved it, deserved every bit of attention and care he could give him... and if he would be allowed to touch not only the sheath, but the shaft... possibly even massage it... or, heaven above, kiss it...

Simon felt his pants grow tight with a sudden explosion of excitement in his own sheath. He shivered slightly, his gait becoming uneven for a moment as embarrassment flooded him, but he pushed it away. Why shouldn't Mort see how deep his devotion really was? It could only prove his loyalty even more, and that... would keep him from ending as a hoofmat for Mort.

He was shaken out of his reverie when the path took a bend to the left, and the wooden shack that was Morts stable became visible. Large enough to house three of his kind, it was unoccupied except for Mort, which gave him the probably only luxury, space, and privacy. The building was far away from the main house, surrounded by trees large and ancient enough to have gained some reprieve from being cut down, simply because of their beauty.

Cool dimness fell over Simon as he stepped inside, following the stallion, through the doors that had been equipped with large handles made of rope, designed to be operated by mouth and not by hand, and once inside, he let his gaze sweep over the bales of straw, the strong beams of oak, the rough wooden boards covering the walls and the steepled ceiling. He had peeked inside before, but never had dared to set foot into it.. And now, he was here.

The stable's floor creaked under Mort. It was something Simon couldn't help but notice as he followed the stallion in. Before his eyes could adjust to the dimmer light he could smell the tang of freshly turned straw mixed with Mort's own musk. He breathed deeply.

Mort stopped at the gate to his stall and pulled it open. Then he backed up to look at his young otter.

"Well. Here we are."

Simon shifted nervously. It was a final test. This was his last reasonable chance to escape, even if the odds were against it. He steeled his courage and shuffled forward a step. "M- may I enter, sir?" As rustic as the stable was, something about the situation reminded Simon of being in a temple, and he wanted to treat the occasion with the same dacorum.

Mort gave a nod and watched Simon creep by, head down. It was a gesture of submission rather than defeat, and knowing that caused a stirring in the stallion.

"It's not often I entertain, so you'll have to excuse the mess," Mort snorted sarcastically. There was an old lantern on a dusty high shelf in the corner of the otherwise sparse abode. Put in by the old fox that tended him to hold a few of the grooming implements.

"It's... better than I deserve," Simon answered diplomatically. He truly believed Mort was too worthy for this place. It was an insult, and more proof his father deserved Mort's judgement.

"W-would you like me to take off my pants again?"

Mort raised an eyebrow. "I didn't think you wanted to back on the bank."

"I'm sorry," Simon looked down. "I should have obeyed without hesitation. It was all so new... But this isn't about what I want. It's about serving you, sir."

Mort hesitated. "Light the lantern first."

Simon reached up but found he was too short. He had to balance on one of the hay bales to reach the high shelf. Once it was lit, he turned around. Mort's wide powerful body blocked the stall's door. An hour ago Simon would have been in a blind panic, but part of him had changed... It started when he first saw the stallion and it built up until something Simon didn't know he'd had broke. He was Mort's now.

The otter slid his fingers into his waistband, working his pants down slowly, letting Mort savor the slow reveal on his sheath, and his thighs. His selfconciouness was gone. He stepped forward, out of the pants pooled at his ankles, and sank to his knees.

Mort's hard dark tip poked out at the display of utter submission. "Stand up, otter. You can't reach what I need from down there.

Simon's eyes burned, sparkling in the pale yellow light. He moved under the towering horse. This would be the most important act of his life, he decided. It would be his whole reason for living. He rubbed his hands against his chest, making them as clean as he could before reaching up.

His hands started at the base of the equine sack, gentle caresses. His nose hovered just below the sheath. With wide eyes he watched the rod growing. Impulsively, he puckered his lips and kissed.

Mort moaned. It had been too long since his last time. And never had a partner been as sensual and attentive as this little otter... this otter who had to know he wouldn't be leaving this stall alive.

"Keep going," Mort breathed. "Use your mouth."

"Yes, sir," Simon felt a surge of pride. His tongue shot out, lapping along the column of hard veiny flesh. He had to express his feelings somehow. "Thank you... master."

Mort's mind was fogged with unmatched arousal. He wasn't sure what Simon had said, but he knew he liked it. "You like this, don't you?"

"Gods yes!" Simon whimpered without taking his lips from Mort's cock. The vibrations adding more stimulation.

Simon was dimly aware of Mort's size, but he was too close to know if it had reached its full length. And it wasn't his job to know. Mort would tell him when to stop. My master will tell me when to stop, he thought to himself.

Mort's body shivered, starting at his burning loins and spreading out. He couldn't take much more of that otter's mouth.

"G-get that bale of hay!" Mort panted. "Flip it over and get your tail up."

It had been easy, this time. All the hesitation, gone. All the self-doubt, the nagging questions of what to do next, answered. He simply had to do what he was told - and if he did well, he was being praised. The world, which had been complicated, enigmatic and free of logic for the otter, had collapsed into a very simple, very straightforward thing, and it was so liberating that he wanted to sing and dance.

But, there was another, straightforward thing, and it was growing out of the sheath between his master's legs, it was thick, heavy and hot, and it smelled like heaven to Simon. He had hoped, on the way here, that he would be allowed to see it again, to touch it even... and now he was licking it, kissing every fold of skin, tracing his tongue over the hard veins that pulsed under the leathery surface, and he was tasting his master, his sweat, his lust, and his strength. Again and again, he let his fingers roam over the ring, the place where the smooth, slick skin of the foreshaft transitioned into the much rougher, leathery cover of the base, the part where the tool became wider and stronger still, stroked all the way back to the stretched sheath, and the full, heavy balls. He licked the tip, collecting each and every drop of pre like a precious gift, savouring its taste and texture, delicately letting his tongue dance over the rim, while holding the twitching poie with both hands, his fingers barely able to touch each other, even directly behind the tip.

He could feel himself unsheath, and leak, and he didn't mind, didn't care, it was unimportant, negligible, compared to the so much greater and larger tool of his master.

Then, the command came, rough and without any chance of misunderstanding. There was a vague idea of what it meant, in Simons head, but if that was what his master wanted.. Then he wanted him, wanted him to serve him... and who was he to deny such an honour?

Simon scooted out from the space under Mort, and strode over to where the hay was stacked. Methodically, he flipped the bale, almost as tall as himself over to its side, then, slowly, deliberately, bent over its top, stretching his legs to their maximum. His toetips didn't touch the ground anymore when his chest sank onto the prickly bale and he grabbed with both hands into the material to steady himself.

Slowly, he raised his tail, exposing the perfect triangle of cream-coloured fur, described by his sleek thighs, the perfect globes of his buttocks, and the underside of his tail. At the tip, a tiny, pink star twinkled, the bullseye of the otter's target.

Of course, Simon knew about the mechanics of mating. He also knew that, lacking the equipment that females had, males did it the only way they could... and secretly, he had hoped that he would experience for himself, one day.

"Is... this good, sir?", he asked meekly, and tried to raise his tail just a little more.

Simon's fingers dug into the damp hay. It would hurt. He knew it.

Mort walked forward and put his front legs over the bale. He could feel the warmth of the otter's body below him.

Simon's breathing quickened. The stallion rocked forward and bent down. A slick line of precum and his own spit matted his fur as Mort dragged his cock down Simon's back.

"I-I'm so sorry," Simon moaned.

"Don't be," the horny horse whispered. "I like the smell of fear."

Simon shook his head, pressing his face to the hay. His words were a little muffled, but Mort could hear them.

"It's not that," he said. "I'm just sorry others don't see you as I do. It's not fair."

Mort's tip pressed against Simon's pucker. One thrust would be enough to loosen the small otter, probably beyond repair. "And how is it that you see me, otter?"

"I... I see you as a god. You're so powerful. You're so beautiful... I want to please you so bad, it hurts. I-"his voice cracked, "I know this will kill me. I just want you to know it's ok. Don't even think about me... I'm nothing compared to you. I just wish my brother saw that too."

Mort's eyes narrowed. Richard had two sons. The one that was feeling so nice and warm against his needy shaft was the younger one... the older one, Franklin, he had encountered a couple of times, always together with his father. He had to be one or two years older than the little wimp here, but he came more after his father. The same, haughty look on his face, the same sneer, and the same attitude when it came to feral types. Now that Richard was gone, the business would probably fall to him, and that would mean business as usual. On the other hand, if Simon were to inherit...

He looked down at the smallish otter, who just had told him that he didn't mind getting torn apart by a cock as long as his leg, and as thick as his thigh, because he, Mort, had become his god. That level of devotion ... was something else entirely.

Mort lifted himself, taking his shaft from between the otter's warm and willing cheeks.

"Listen to me, Simon."

Simon's eyes went wide. His full attention went to the Stallion as he twisted his head to see him.

"You were willing to sacrifice yourself for me, true?"

"Yes, master!"

Mort took a moment to phrase his next question. It would determine how the rest of both their lives played out.

"Would you give anything that I asked of you?"

"Anything," Simon's voice came out like a moan.

"What if I said I wanted to crush you?"

Simon rolled onto his back and slid off the hay bale. He reverently clutched one of Mort's back hooves, guiding it toward his stomach.

The power he had over Simon was giving the stallion a better buzz than any fermented drink he'd ever been given. There was no doubt now. He took his hoof off the sprawled otter.

"Then I want you to bring your brother to my stall."

"Anything for you," Simon repeated like it was a prayer. "Right away!"

Mort watched Simon struggling to pull his pants back on while hopping on one foot as fast as he could out into the dimming evening.

When Mort's bulk came over him, Simon bit his tongue. So he had been right, Mort had decided to mount him, and take him as his mate. He knew that he couldn't last - he was much too weak, much to frail, to withstand the power of the stallion, but.. He didn't care. Mort needed him to perform this task for him, to serve as a sacrifice to his lust and his malehood, and he would give that happily, with a smile on his lips, no matter how much it would hurt.

But then, Mort dismounted, and For a moment, Simon thought he had spoiled it, had somehow said the wrong thing when he told the stallion that he didn't mind being taken completely, and that now Mort was ... disappointed in him.

But.. here was a chance to prove himself again. It was easy. Do as he said, do not hesitate, just... Obey.

Franklin would probably still be at the office. The stupid git often stayed behind after Richard was gone, maybe to prove that he was eager to work his ass off for the company, to impress his father, or to point out how useless and unproductive his little brother was - only because he still had one year of school to do before he as well could be tasked with filling out forms and add endless columns of numbers. If Richard wasn't there, he would have gone home, but that wouldn't make a difference. Either way, he'd just tell him that there was a problem with the stable, that Mort needed to talk to him about something important, and that would get Franklin going, if only to bat aside any request the stallion might have.

Simon grinned when he saw the lamp in the office still lit. He doubted that Franklin would be able to bat aside that request. Mort's weapon had still been hard when he left, and if it had relaxed when he and Franklin arrived, well, he had gotten it hard twice in one day now, he could do it a third time... and then watch what happened when Mort went to work.

"But what does the stupid horse want?", Franklin asked for the fourth time. "If it's payment, he's already go everything he needs. He gets fed, he's got a comfy home, daddy even pays that stupid assistant to do whatever the oaf needs. I simply don't understand what he could wish for!"

"I don't know, Frankie..."

"Don't call me Frankie! I'm Franklin! I'm not a little boy anymore, not like you!

"Okay, sorry, Franklin.. Really, I don't know what he wants. I just went past there, and Mort asked me to get Dad, or you, because there was something important... and I couldn't find Dad, so I came to you. Look, we're there, why don't you just ask him yourself?"

Simon pointed at the outer door, which was ajar, the lamplight from inside casting a warm glow through the gap. Franklin harrumphed, straightened himself and marched towards the door, slipped through the gap, and then stood in the stable proper, arms resting on his hips while Simon slinked in behind him, closing the door as quietly as he could.

"Alright, I'm here. What's all this about? Where are you, feral? What could you possibly want?"

"I think he might be in his stall," Simon said softly.

"Lazy beast couldn't even bother to walk down to the office," Franklin snarled.

"Don't say that!" Simon raised his voice. He rarely stood up to his brother, and the few times he tried never ended well.

Franklin's hand shot out, striking Simon across the muzzle. "Never tell me what to do!"

Simon flinched as his brother raise his fist. "I'm sor-" he stopped. "I won't tell you what to do, but please, don't talk about Mort that way."

Franklin wondered whether to beat Simon, or laugh at him. He lowered his fist. "You're not worth it." He started walking toward the stall doors. "And you look disgusting," he spat over his shoulder. "Dirty, and not even wearing a shirt. If father saw you in the office like that, he'd be furious. In fat, I might have to tell him after I take care of the feral."

Simon shook, with anger rather than fear this time. He sprinted to be there when Franklin entered the stall. His master might have need of him.

"Mort, what the hell do-" Franklin was cut off, almost a ton of stallion forcefully shoving him out of the way with his flank.

Simon pulled the door shut. He watched with awe as Mort, his reason for living, herded Franklin further back towards the bales of hay.

Franklin was quick to recover from his shock. "What the hell are you trying to pull?" He pulled a dagger from his belt.

Simon gasped and shut his eyes. He couldn't bare the thought of anyone challenging Mort. Not after his mental rebirth. But it was over in seconds. Two sharp cracks and Simon opened his eyes to see Mort's hooves and Franklin's head hit the floor at the same time.

Mort's iron shoe connected with Franklin's muzzle, knocking the otter out cold before he'd even had time to bleed. Mort snorted triumphantly and looked to his devoted slave.

"You know how you bent over that bale? Let's let Franklin take your place. Grab some of the leather straps from the harnesses outside the stall. I don't want Frankie running off when he comes to."

For a moment, Simon had been worried that Franklin might actually hurt Mort, but he knew it was stupid the moment Mort had dispatched the other otter without any effort at all. Of course there would be no harm, and of course Mort would be able to deal with Franklin - he was an otter, after all, and Mort was something else entirely.

The silence after Franklin's fall was refreshing. No more nagging and niggling from that one anymore, that was certain, and Simon smiled widely as he looked down at his brother.

"Yes, sir!"

He shot a quick glance to the side, verifying that indeed, Mort hat not lost his equipment in the time he had needed to bring Franklin here, and he decided that a little work would be needed to bring Mort back up to full hardness, but not much. It seemed to him that the stallion was as keen on getting this done as he was, by now, if not more, and that he would be learning what he would get once Mort deemed him worthy of such a gift.

Getting the straps was easy enough, but hoisting Franklin onto the bale was not. Simon had to grit his teeth and use all of his strength to lift the limp body and push him up onto the bale, arranging arms and legs just like he had before.. With the small difference that it was so much easier if you were doing it yourself, instead of doing it to a limp, heavy sack of fur. But, with a little grunting and sweating, he made it, and then swiftly proceeded to take off his brother's clothes. He looked at Franklin's sac with only mild interest. The marbles he had were nothing in comparison to what Mort was sporting, and besides, he wouldn't be needing them anymore after this evening was through... nor any other parts of his body, to be frank.

Two straps would go there, over his back, with the tail tucked under the rear one, and the other two straps would go nicely between arms and legs, tying Franklin's wrists to his ankles, rendering him totally helpless and spreading his legs wide at the same time, making sure to present the little pink spot perfectly for the stallion.

He hesitated there, for a moment, regarding his brother's behind , and gently shook his head before stepping back, and addressing Mort.

"Sir, it's so... tiny... and you're so big... How are you going to fit inside there? Please, sir, I know you can do it, but, I was wondering, how? And, sir, would you like me to kiss you again untill you are all hard and straight again? He..." He nodded at the trussed-up victim, "he won't enjoy you like I would, sir, but I still hope you will enjoy him."

He made a pause, looked down and smiled shyly. "I'm going to watch very closely and learn everything I need to know when it's my turn, sir, so I can serve you better."

Mort nodded slowly. "Be sure that you do. You're worth nothing if you can't pleasure your master. Now get that mouth working."

Simon was already salivating with lust and he rushed to make himself useful. Giving sloppy, wet kisses to the stallion's blunt cock head until its salty pre dripped down his chin, the otter wanted to beg him to breed him instead. He wanted to be the one being used. It took every ounce of strength not to take his mind and mouth off his task.

Mort's eyes rolled back. The otter was ravenous with his tongue. It was so distracting he almost didn't realize the groaning was coming from the other otter, not Simon. Mort staggered forward, not bothering to shoo away his worshiper.

Simon stayed with his master, he would keep licking the long shaft forever if that was what Mort wanted.

Mort lifted a hoof and dropped it on Franklin's back. He wanted the arrogant otter to know what was about to befall him.

"You awake, Frankie?" he hummed.

Franklin groaned. "Wha-" He struggled to free his arms. "What the hell! If you don't untie me right now-"

Mort pressed down with his hoof. "You won't be doing anything."

Franklin thrashed. "Simon! Simon, are you there?"

Simon's mouth was fully occupied, so Mort answered for him. "Your brother is here. Were you going to ask him for help?" Mort laughed. "Go on, Simon, tell Frankie what's happening."

Simon wiped his mouth with the back of his arm. He was slightly out of breath. "Just submit, Franklin. It's alright."

Franklin hesitated. The gravity of his predicament started to sink in. "Mort... just tell him to untie me. I'll let you do whatever you want to him. B-but if you don't let me go, I'll start calling for help. Do you know what they'll do to you for this?"

"Such hollow threats," Mort scoffed. "Scream all you want. In fact, I'm looking forward to those. And as for Simon, he's an otter who's learned his place. I think he wants to stay."

"Yes, sir!" Simon hurried to say. "It's where I belong."

Mort smiled. "And now, Franklin, why don't I show you where you belong?"

Mort increased the pressure on Franklin's back, digging his iron into the soft pelt as he bent forwards, lowering his head to whisper into Franklin's ear.

"Now listen, because I am going to tell you exactly how this is going to work."

Franklin gasped. The stupid beast was hurting him, and somehow, he couldn't get rid of the bindings that kept him tied down to that stupid bale of scratchy hay.

"Simon! He's busy with me, run, get help! Go to foreman Barklay, and tell him to get the constable! I'll be fine here!"

Simon took another small break from his tongueplay, but he kept his hands on Mort's shaft, massaging gently. He could feel the instrument coming to full hardness.

"Sorry, Frankie. Master said he wants you, and I am going to serve master... " He smiled at his brother, presenting his fully naked frontside. He had shed his clothing the moment he had the time to do so, and he was, by now, sporting a full, pink hard-on.

"Frankieeee.....", Mort whispered, "Your little brother is doing in fantastic job, getting me all hard and ready. Once he is done... and it's me who decides when that has happened... I'm going to mount you. I'm going to force my cock into your little asshole, and I'm going to ruin it... tear you open, and shred you once and for all. You're going to scream your little lungs out, and you know what? I'm going to enjoy that, because it means I'm doing a good job. Once you're done screaming, I'm going to fuck you, and that means, I'm going to ram myself so deeply inside you that I'm going to breach your innards, and fuck your very core to shreds."

Mort chuckled. "It's gonna hurt worse than anything you can imagine, little otter, and I'm going to enjoy every little second of that, because you'll be the tightest thing I ever had underneath me. But, that's not all. Eventually, I'm going to lose it. You know, how your kind always likes to call my kind beasts? Well, I'm going to give you that one. I'm going to go all beast on you, and rail you till my fucking balls are crushing yours. And if I have to split you to do so? Tough luck, little cocksleeve, because you're going to howl in pain, while I scream with pleasure."

Franklin felt sick. His mouth gapped, searching for words but all that escaped was a shill squealing cry. Above him, Mort drew forward, he felt the heat from the stallion's arousal, then the contact.

"Gods, please!" Franklin screamed. "Don't do this to me! Please!"

Mort felt the otter's spread cheeks hugging his tip. He used a forehoof to keep the hay bale from moving as he started a slow push.

Franklin stretched. His begging turned to a high pitched siren. He could feel his hole opening. It would never be wide enough to accommodate the stallion and he knew Mort didn't care.

Mort was an unstoppable force, never relenting as he felt the tiny ring of muscle stop giving and start to tear.

Impossibly, Franklin's screams grew louder. He started to bleed, it felt like the stallion was pouring molten lead into him.

Finally Mort's wide cock head was enveloped in Franklin's silky intestine. A warmth unlike any he'd felt before. And Franklin had nothing to resist him with anymore. Mort gave a triumphant thrust, spreading the otter's velvet insides.

Franklin's voice gave out. He was choking on his own tears as the massive cock violated him on every level.

Deeper and deeper Mort went. The otter blood and Simon's saliva couldn't compete with Franklin's tightness. But Franklin's tightness couldn't compete with a stallion's girth. Mort felt something rip when he forced himself past the ring and let the otter feel the widening base.

Beneath it all Simon knelt in awe. He didn't fear being between Mort's back hooves, he knew his life wasn't important anymore. He was fully captivated watching that colossal rod sink into his brother's bleeding hole. It was the most amazing thing he'd ever seen.

Mort followed through on his promise. He was balls deep in Franklin. The otter was a mewling wreck, convulsing between each gasping breath.

All Franklin could feel was a hellish pain and the throbbing of Mort's pulse. The stallion's cock wasn't so much impaling the otter, as the otter was wrapped around the cock. He'd become Mort's literal cock sleeve.

Simon had the best view in the house. Kneeling between Mort's hind legs, he had the whole show spread out before him, the moment when Mort's tip touched his brother's tailstar, when the stallions muscles tensed under his fur, and then... there was the scream, pure, innocent, and truly beastial, as Mort's shaft bluntly turned Franklin's ring into a star of tears and rips.

He even could see the bulge that the massive horsecock imprinted on Franklin's belly as Mort pushed further, and he could feel his loins pulsing.

It could have been him there, on the bale, being processed into a horse condom, dying on the shaft of a superior being, serving him to achieve the highest form of pleasure possible. But... it wasn't. Because he was still needed... needed to do this. Deliver fresh meat for his god to take pleasure in, fresh sacrifices, to be slaughtered on the altar of lust.

There was a smile on Simon's lips as Mort grunted, thrust, and Franklin hiccupped in the middle of a scream, his diaphragm being punched through with the giant fist of a horsecock. Everything was turning out just like it meant to be.

For Franklin, however...

The perspective was a totally different one. The very moment Mort has made his entrance, he had felt that he was done for. Without any apparent effort, the stallion had ruined him for good, just by inserting the very tip. The feeling of getting torn apart that way was the most horrible, most painful experience Franklin ever had, at least until, with a satisfied grunt from above, Franklin felt his innards being rent asunder, and the cast iron rod of the stallion owning him up to the his chest, arrogantly punching through anything in its way. Already, he felt his his toes and fingers tingle, shock taking over and shutting down his peripherals to save his core, while there, a wild stallion was running out of control, thrust by thrust beating that very core to hamburger.

Deeper and deeper he felt Mort go, the ring went in, triggering another burst of pain, and then... the base. It opened him up like a book, up to the point where he felt his pelvis bite onto the equally bone-hard, equine flesh.

Mort listened to Franklin's ragged breaths. He gave the otter just enough time to feel what had become of his insides. And then he pulled out, and it felt like he was uncorking a bottle of wine, the otter's body clinging to his length. He left his tip in the quivering otter, taking a deep breath of his own before driving full force into the mushy mess of Franklin.

Franklin's tongue hung loose, he was too weak to even scream. Thrust afterr thrust tore into him. His numbing fingers lost their grip on the damp hay.

Mort could feel a tightness in his sac, his body tensing the closer he came to release. As much as Simon had found an awakening in submission, Mort was opening his eyes to what he really was.

Simon's pink cock began to throb along with the stallion above him. He watched the swinging orbs drawing tight, his hands fidgeting, wanting to pleasure himself, but he knew his master was first.

Mort let out the guttural call of his ancestors, a sound of triumph that signaled the first blast of thick, white seed that flooded into the bloody pulp of Franklin.

Franklin's eyes went wide. A pressure built as his lunges were drowning from within. The reckless thrusts from the stallion became even more damaging. The flesh and muscle spear drove against his skin, threatening to puncture his ruined abdomen.

Simon whimpered with lust. He watched Mort's thrusts piston out some of his cum, dripping heavily down the bale and pooling on the ground. He couldn't resist any longer, Simon flung himself forward and lapped at the puddle of seed, spiced with the copper tang of his own brother's blood.

Mort wasn't going to stop until he was drained, and it didn't matter if Franklin's body could hold anymore. Mort would keep pumping.

Franklin's abused hide finally split, spilling a pink ooze of cum and blood. As his life dimmed, at the very back of his mind, he could understand why his brother had called the stallion master.

When Simon looked up, it was done. Mort stood there, over him, sweat flocking from his fur, shaft still rock-hard and pulsing out the last waves of his essence, while Franklin... Franklin was nearly gone. Blood was everywhere, his split skin revealing the impossibly flared tip of the stallion, wide like a dinner plate, and still dripping with lust, blood and other juices.

It was too much for the otter, he rose up, pushed his nose against the draining balls of his master, inhaled, licked.... And shuddered under the power of a climax that rolled over him without him ever even so much as touch himself. It was simply there, like a flash of lightning, out of nowhere, his overstimulated brain unable to cope any other way.

Simon moaned, trying to stifle the sound by pressing his muzzle deeper into the leathery, sweaty sack, while his cock twitched and shot short and thin bullets of otter cream, hitting his brothers soaked, bloody fur.

It was over as fast as it had begun, and his release hadn't been enough to relax his aching cock, it remained hard as a nail and upright as a flagpole.

He looked at Franklin, who was taking his last, shuddering breath, meeting the other otters eyes with a smile that was part happy, and part lusty.

"See...", whispered Simon, "He is so good... so beautiful... so strong... "

He reached out and caressed Franklin's tail and back, surprised to feel the sharp edges of broken bones underneath the skin.

"He's going to do that to me, too... when he needs me, I will be there... I don't mind you bringing him pleasure, really... but when he wants me... I will be better than you, Franke... he'll love me more...."