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The Noble and the Beasts

Chapter 1: What An Elf Deserves

By Gideon Kalve Jarvis

Commissioned by Kalenidus

"What would our father think?"

The words stung more than the light flick of Valdaglerion's blade against his palm when the older elf sent Beinion's court blade flying from the young man's hands. They were words that Beinion had heard many times - too many times - as he struggled and studied with all his might to live up to the standards set by his legendary sire.

Standards he knew he could never meet.

Valdaglerion looked down at his younger brother as the silver-haired boy sank to his knees, fighting back the tears of humiliation and disappointment in himself. The elven man's expression on his perennially youthful face was cold, disdainful. The sort of expression he reserved for lesser creatures. Creatures like humans, or worse.

"Dinner is ready, sirs," came a voice, the voice of one of those lessers, so far beneath Valdaglerion that he didn't even glance in the towering dark figure's direction, but simply turned, thrusting his sword back into its scabbard, and strode gracefully back into their family's ancestral manse, golden hair flowing artfully around his shoulders like the halo of an especially aristocratic angel. Beinion, meanwhile, stayed where he was, shaking his head, trying to get control of his emotions, the way a proper elf should.

Control of body, control of mind, control of spirit. These were the hallmarks of the truly civilized. They were the guidelines for the society that had unified the land, and brought peace where there had once only been disorder and bloodshed.

But, Beinion couldn't help thinking, perhaps some bloodshed was deserved. In the world of nature, survival of the fittest was the rule. He, however, was not the fittest, as his older brother so often liked to remind him in their daily sparring practice. Truthfully, he was hardly fit for anything at all, certainly not to be a proper elf. If the rule of nature were strictly enforced, he'd certainly have been claimed by some more powerful predator...

The sound of laughter broke Beinion out of his funk, while the family servant, Heraclitus, stood patiently nearby, still waiting for his call to dinner to be acknowledged. Looking up, the silver-haired youth saw the beastmen coming in from where they'd been spending their day, working at their many and various tasks. Most of them carried on a more-or-less traditional lifestyle, hunting and gathering in the parts of the woods the elves allowed to them. Some, though, worked on the vast plantation lands surrounding Beinion's family's estate, putting in some time cultivating various crops as a way of paying off the debt they accrued by using the even more vast forestlands overseen by Beinion's family, the Earglardian clan.

Instantly, as at many times before, Beinion was fascinated by the strange creatures, the beastfolk, sometimes called simply "animals" by elves and humans and other civilized races. Able to watch them from the wide balcony overlooking the family estate without them paying him any heed, Beinion got slowly to his feet and approached the railing surrounding the sparring field marked out on the balcony, letting himself forget his own troubles in the joy of the creatures leaving their daily tasks, heading toward the pubs in the shantytown they'd built up on the outskirts of the city where the civilized folk lived. Am'akhret, the elves called it. An elvish word for gutter. To the city folk, it was a place for filth to gather. Yet, to those not allowed to live in or come and go from the city freely, the shantytowns were a halfway point. A place where they could trade their prizes from hunting, furs and meat and exotic handicrafts, for those luxuries only civilization could provide. Luxuries such as, for example, dwarven ale and elven wine.

There were ratmen among them, considered by most to be disgusting creatures who deserved to live in the sewers where they were typically confined. Beinion, though, found them strangely attractive, identifying something deeply fascinating about their racial ugliness. They were creatures made for survival, that much was obvious, rough and savage in a special, urban sort of way, the true wildlings of the streets and the gutters. Besides all that, of course, there were those long, naked tails, flicking back and forth behind firmly-muscled rumps, sometimes far too tightly covered by ragged trousers.

Of course, while the ratlings were fascinating, they didn't compare to the even larger, more savage races, the ones bred not just for survival, but also for the hunt and for war. Beinion's eyes simply couldn't pull away from the sight of the greenskinned orcs, or the shaggy wolfweres, or the spotty-furred gnolls that mingled freely as they entered the city outskirts, laughing and joking among themselves, not seeming to care that they were of such widely different species. Their cultures were similar enough that they could understand each other on an instinctive level, and Beinion felt a surge of deep longing as he saw a younger male of the wolfweres clap a pair of hyenamen on the back, the gnolls giggling as they were felt up by the wolf when his hands strayed lower, to the parts only barely covered by loincloths, none of them ashamed at such an open display of sexuality. After all, they were among friends, among people who understood them and their ways. Why should they hide what they felt?

Of course, Beinion's greatest attention was, as always, reserved for the biggest, most powerful, most dominant of the male beasts: the minotaurs and the tikbalang. The bullmen and horsemen towered over even the orcs, and that height and obvious physique meant that they got some respectful berth from the other beastmen. All the same, they seemed to blend with the others fairly smoothly, culturally if not in appearance, their size just meaning that they didn't have to constantly prove themselves, allowing them an ease of interaction denied to the smaller people of the world. Of all the beastmen, Beinion had to admit, he loved watching these powerful brutes best of all.

Turning at last, the silver-haired boy looked at Heraclitus, really looked at him, all the way up, and all the way down. Black was a common pelt coloration for minotaurs, but Heraclitus distinguished himself by keeping his immaculately groomed, trimmed nice and short, so that it seemed almost like a second skin on his powerfully-muscled body. Beinion had seen the minotaur stripped to the waist on more than one occasion, mostly when he was engaged in especially strenuous or dirty work, and knew that the body only barely contained by his formal servant's clothing was a fantastic piece of beef. It was a wonder his cummerbund didn't pop, the way he bulged out all over! To say nothing of his codpiece...

"Sir?"

Beinion's singularly naughty musings were interrupted by the question in that deep, low rumble, and his golden eyes immediately snapped up to meet Heraclitus' red ones.

"You don't have to call me sir, Clitus," Beinion answered, smiling up at the horned beast. "You know that."

"Your sisters are listening, sir," Heraclitus explained with a slightly arched eyebrow. "You were watching the beasts again, and I think they might be worried about your interest. Their friends, I think, are also hoping for something scandalous to use as gossip."

Ah, of course: Vanya was the nosy sort by nature, and though their older sister, Miluiel, wasn't really the sort to pry, she liked to keep tabs on her siblings, all the better to help them through the various trials of their lives. As for the visiting elfgirls, Eruanna, Nostariel, and Thandiel, well, Beinion just supposed it was elven nature to nose into the business of others, though of course they would each claim it was for a reason besides gossip. Eruanna was the scholarly sort, a red-haired maiden and recent initiate of the druidic mysteries (and, incidentally, twin sister to Miluiel's recent husband, Urúvion, whose hair color and light dusting of freckles matched his sister's almost perfectly), so it made sense that she'd be curious about everything going on around her. For purely academic reasons, of course. Nostariel was a member of the Golden Guard, so she could claim her interest in, well, anything was a matter of national security. As for Thandiel, the nut-brown wood elf was a forest guardian, and it was a part of their jobs to be more than a little voyeuristic, ensuring that the peace of the woods was constantly maintained.

"It seems that I have caused offense, Beinion," Heraclitus suddenly added, the very faintest of smirks on his stoic bull's muzzle as he shifted to using the elven boy's name. "The friends of your sisters are having some rather choice words about my conduct, I am afraid. All the same, I believe we are no longer being observed. Except perhaps by the angel, of course, but I doubt he will make much fuss."

Denariel was the name of the angel, an emissary from the Ascended Court, the divine beings who'd given elves the mandate to rule in wisdom over all the lesser races. What most people didn't talk about, however, was how the Ascended Court was far less concerned with matters of "good" as it was with maintaining order. That wasn't to say that the divine beings of that not-so-distant realm were tyrants, of course, but all the same, it was something important to know when trying to understand their motives.

Right then, the Eaglardian household was getting to be rather crowded, gearing up to receive diplomatic visitors from the other elven houses, and also from the human royal families of several nations. More precisely, since Beinion's mother, Adlanniel, had so many children (four, an almost unheard-of number among the elves!), she had been selected as the perfect host (more properly "babysitter") for the younger members of the diplomatic parties who would soon be descending upon the elven capital to discuss the future relations of their respective nations. To this end, she'd invited over her daughters' friends (and, incidentally, Urúvion as well, who did just happen to be someone Beinion considered a friend), all the better to have plenty of people available for pleasant company and conversation when the younger members of the diplomatic party arrived three days hence. That a representative of the Ascended Court would also be in attendance just made good sense: Denariel was a young angel, given an easy assignment to provide him with some experience dealing with mortals.

Taking a few steps toward the entryway that would lead him back into the vast manse, Beinion suddenly stopped, picturing the scene that awaited him. At the head of the table would be his mother, of course, gorgeous locks flowing like a picturesque golden waterfall down past her shoulders and almost to her waist, perfect in the way that all elves were naturally beautiful in every way without even trying. After all, the mere presence of the light dusting of freckles on the faces of the fair-skinned, redheaded twins, Urúvion and Eruanna, was often written off as the result of interbreeding with humans three or four generations past, for no full-blooded elf would have such a blemish.

Next to Mother would be the empty place set for their deceased father, and Beinion knew he would always feel the silent judgment coming from that place at the table, even without his father's actual presence. The elder Eaglardian had died before Beinion was even quite born, about eighteen years past, the youngest of his siblings, and so Beinion never knew him. All he knew was that his father was a hero of his people, the great general and stateself and diplomat who'd led the elven armies to victory over the lesser races, and finally established a golden age of peace and prosperity out of the savagery of the dark age that had preceded it. Only the highest royalty of the elves could claim equal or greater accolades (and deserve them), for elves didn't have the sort of rulers who only sat on their thrones and expected others to fight, pray, and speak for them; they were leaders in all senses, and their people were proud of them for it, and loved them all the more. So, too, did all the peoples of the world now, thanks in no small part to the efforts of Sire Eaglardian, hero of the realm.

Most of what Beinion knew about his father, he knew because of Valdaglerion, his eldest sibling. Val had been personally trained by their father in every military skill and diplomatic protocol. As the eldest, Val was naturally expected to be the equal of his father, to take up the family name and head the household, his mother by his side to add additional social weight to his efforts to keep his family name ever before the elven people in places of honor. Truthfully, Beinion wasn't convinced that his brother needed to push himself so hard, needed to make sure the honor of their house was forever remembered, needed to ensure that every member of the Eaglardians was the epitome of what it meant to be an Elf, but he kept his opinions to himself. After all, whatever an Elf was supposed to be, he wasn't it, and the failing left the young elfboy with a perpetual sense of shame that nothing seemed able to soothe.

Valdaglerion would be at the right of the head of the table, in his rightful place as the heir. He wasn't quite the head of the household, not while Mother was still alive (and elves lived for a _very_long time) and maintaining her public persona, but he might as well have been, as active as he always was in politics. Right by Val would be Denariel, as the honored guest (a natural enough position for an angel), and then would be Urúvion and Miluiel, positioned so that they could face each other across the table, appropriate for a young married couple. Fire-haired and feisty Urúvion had always seemed to Beinion to be a poor match for golden-haired Miluiel, his family's peacemaker, but somehow they made it work, even if the marriage had been arranged for political convenience.

Right by Miluiel would be Vanya, less than two years older than Beinion himself, with the same silver hair and golden eyes, and she was next on the list to be married by arrangement, to a human prince if Beinion's rumor senses were functioning properly. Somehow Beinion couldn't help but feel a bit sorry for whatever princeling ended up marrying Vanya: the silver-haired wildcat was well-known for her strong and outspoken opinions, and for her biting tongue. Truthfully, if Beinion didn't love his sister so, he'd have a hard time getting along with her, so harsh could her words be when she really got herself going. She'd often apologize afterward for some of the things she'd said, and Beinion always forgave her, but if she were paired with someone not so willing to let such matters go, Beinion did not foresee a very happy marriage.

Moving down the table, Beinion would be seated right at the foot, past the three friends of his sisters, past everyone, right in the spot where he could be most closely watched. He was, after all, the youngest, the least experienced, and therefore the member of the family that needed the most watching. All to ensure that he lived up to the great and noble family name that he carried. All so that he could become the true, superior being that he, as an elf, was always meant to be.

Suddenly heartsick, Beinion decided he wasn't that hungry after all.

"Clitus," the silver-haired boy said, looking up into the red eyes of his friend, the one who'd changed him when he was still in diapers, the one to whom he'd always been able to go when he had questions...and the one, of all the members of the Eaglardian household, who was considered somehow less than an animal. "Please tell mother that I will be having dinner in my room tonight. I feel slightly ill, and want to rest up."

A slight frown creased the edges of that broad bullish muzzle, but the black brute didn't comment. He only nodded and turned away to deliver the message, even though he knew that it was a lie: whatever Beinion planned, he wasn't going to his room to meekly await the arrival of his (likely lukewarm) supper.

Golden eyes going back to the scenes of life and excitement, Beinion caught sight of the gnolls and their brown-furred wolfish companion, a male that was easily spotted thanks to the bright red fur on his hands. It seemed strange how so many species of so many different backgrounds and cultures could ever blend together like that, could ever be so free and easy with their affection for each other - and so public! - without any sense of shame or restraint. Shame and restraint, it seemed, was all that Beinion knew among the civilized peoples of the world, along with a sense of false superiority that was supposed to make him better than the lesser races because of his birthright.

In an act that symbolically represented his sudden decision to cast aside all his dignity as the son of a great hero, Beinion lightly vaulted over the balcony, catching the thick vines that crept up the side of the manse, and swinging himself down to the ground. He'd done this many times as a small child whenever he'd decided that he wanted to be alone, away from the constant scrutiny of his older siblings, however well-meaning, and the habit was no less easy now than it was then. Once he was safely on the ground, Beinion took stock of himself. There was his court blade on his left side, a beautiful piece of work forged by the greatest smiths to be strong and light, the perfect weapon for someone of slender-yet-muscular build like himself. On his right side sat his beltpouch, containing all the bare necessities for short bursts of travel, from handkerchiefs to a signet ring to prove his identity to the majority of his weekly allowance in bright silver coins. As for his clothes, well, they were light and comfortable at least, a soft white blouse of the finest elfweave, with breeches of similar material that hugged his youthful body with artful snugness, without actually restricting his movement in the slightest.

He was as ready as he would ever be.

*

Never in all Beinion's scant few years had he ever realized that a place could be so alive!

The smell was the first thing to hit him as soon as the young man entered the shantytown of the beastfolk. While it wasn't necessarily unpleasant, it wasn't exactly sweet perfume either. What most distinguished the smell, however, was that it had character, deep and intricate. There was a hint of animal musk, of course, but that was only a part of a far greater whole. Mixed in were the scents of street meat and other dainties cooked at stalls along the rough dirt roadside, well before the point where the city builders had laid down pavement where the city proper began, the ground tramped flat by thousands of feet in a vast multitude of shapes, from broad orcish iron boots to the heavy paws of the wolfweres and gnolls, to the truly massive feet (or, sometimes, hooves) of the tikbalang, the minotaurs, and the river ogres. There was also the smell of a tanner's shop, rank and vile, that drifted in when the wind turned a certain direction, of fur warmed by the bright sun, of alcohol and strange spices on the exotic foods in the thrown-up eateries that could be seen here and there, and of soap and even more exotic oils from the bath houses that seemed quite popular, based on how many of the inhabitants of the shantytown seemed to be wandering in and out of them. What wasn't present, however, much to Beinion's surprise, considering what he'd heard about the cities of other races, like the humans, was the smell of bodily waste. Apparently the habits of the wildling races carried over to their lives in more urban environments, for no sensible wild animal left its spoor around where any predator could find it, not when they were in territory that didn't belong to them. Underneath all of it, though, Beinion could pick out something else, a scent he didn't immediately recognize. Whatever it was, though, it was interesting, and it drew him ever deeper into the shantytown with an irrepressible curiosity to find its source.

As for the sounds of the place, Beinion was left bewildered at first by the din on his delicately pointed ears. Of course there were the usual hawkers trying to sell their wares, but they were only a backdrop. What really stood out were all the voices in conversation, as though the whole of the shantytown were a single vast common house open for friendly society. Everywhere Beinion looked, there were strange and exotic creatures, far different from the smooth-skinned people with whom he was normally required to spend his days, jabbering with each other in snatches of a score of different languages. Laughter was common in these conversations, as was a closeness that would have made Beinion - or anyone he knew, actually - cringe at the violation of personal space, and yet which the inhabitants of the shantytown seemed to regard as perfectly normal. Closeness, something Beinion knew he'd never really experienced in his life, however much he'd wanted it.

Turning his head from a food stall, where he'd just been considering some meat of highly dubious origins (for despite what he'd told Heraclitus to say, Beinion was indeed starting to get hungry - the living atmosphere of shantytown helped to whet an appetite that had been dimmed by the stagnancy of his home life), Beinion noticed a central area up ahead, a place where the stalls had been spaced far apart, creating a sort of gathering point where people could meet without having to jostle elbows with vendors. A crowd had gathered around that central area, and several of the town residents had even set up benches for people to stand on, all the better to peer over the heads of the ones near the middle, and still others scrambled up onto the tops of the nearest stalls. In the air was a feeling of electric anticipation, and it drew Beinion forward, the shaggy bodies hesitating for a moment as he neared, before they parted as their owners noticed the smooth, pretty skin of the one pressed so close, and moved slightly to make room before closing back in, bodies pressing against Beinion's, soon almost pushing him forward, right to the middle of the ring of massed beastfolk.

Once he could see what event had drawn so much attention, Beinion's eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. Right in front of him was the red-pawed wolfwere he'd seen before, but this time stripped right down to his fur, his rippling musculature on full display for the crowd. Beinion hadn't noticed it yet, but the ones who'd been allowed to the fore of the crowd, unhindered by the burly males, were the females of the beastfolk. The females...and him. The ones who not only merited gentler treatment, but also deserved a front row view of the hunk of bare masculinity now showing his all without any hint of shame.

Opposite the young male, who was crouched in a combat-ready stance, tail slightly lifted in confidence, exposing the curve of his tight-muscled rump and the full weight of his heavy sac, was an even more heavily-muscled orc. The greenskinned male was burly, his body crisscrossed with a network of pale scars that stood out grey against the backdrop of his spinach green nudity. Just at a guess, Beinion supposed that the orc was old enough to have been an active warrior during the dark ages, before the elves had unified people in peace. In contrast to the younger wolf, who had a full sheath like a tube of soft-looking brown fur, the orc's penis was a free-hanging thing, bulbous and swollen even when unerect. Circumcised, too, Beinion noted with some shock, the practice not being terribly common among his own kind, the sight of that extra-naked fat green glans sending a strange and guilty thrill tingling through his whole body.

With a loud bellow, the orc came thundering forward across the circle at the center of the massed crowd. Snarling, baring his sharp white teeth, the red-pawed wolfwere rushed right at his opponent, the two meeting with a shockwave Beinion could feel from where he stood. Still giving voice to their war cries, the orc and the wolf grappled, struggling strength-on-strength, getting ever closer as they each sought for some purchase on the opposite opponent. In moments sheath was pressed against bared penis, balls-on-balls, their muzzles (for the orc did have a muzzle of sorts, albeit a short one, distinguished by its impressive set of tusks that looked almost as long as the organ dangling between his legs) close enough that they could have kissed. The orc's skin glistened with sweat, and Beinion leaned forward, eyes wide as he saw muscles and rigid veins standing out like steel cables beneath brown fur and green skin.

Right before the boy's eyes, the two males went down, continuing to grapple in the dust of the street. The orc twisted, swinging his legs around, trying to wrap them around the neck of his opponent, but the wolf twisted with him, going head-to-tail with his greenskinned adversary, muzzle squeezed right next to the other male's heavy hairless sac. For a moment Beinion was sure the wolfwere would bite, but no, this was a civilized contest, for all the savagery of its contestants, and instead the wolf wrapped his arms around the orc's ankles, pinning them together, while his own jacklegs snaked out, their unusual configuration something the orc hadn't expected, keeping him from effectively predicting their motions as they snagged his thick, bullish neck in the same way he'd just tried to grapple the younger male's.

Pressing closer together, tighter, the strain of effort from both males radiated outward into the watching crowd, who had stopped their cheers and jeers, and now simply watched in silence. Beinion didn't even realize that he was holding his breath until he found himself suddenly lightheaded, his eyes wide, his perfect white teeth sunk into his lower lip as he sucked in a sharp inhalation, tasting honest male sweat in the air, orcish sweat and the soft musk of the young wolf mingling together. The same way the bodies of the combatants mingled together, pressed so close, they looked like lovers in the midst of congress.

Suddenly, giving a short yelp, the wolfwere slapped one red-furred hand against the taut buttocks of the well-muscled orc. At first Beinion couldn't figure out why, considering that it was the wolf who had the orc's neck gripped between his thighs. In one of those slow-burning reflections that came to him as he considered the event later, however, he realized that the orc's grip on the other male's legs had to have been intensely painful, especially considering the delicate configuration of some of the bones in the wolf's digitigrade stance; it would be like putting pressure on the small bones of Beinion's foot. On the other hand, the orc's neck was ham-thick and beefy, and tensed up like he was, as long as his stamina held, he could keep from having his breath fully cut off for a long time. No wonder the wolfwere finally conceded defeat!

There was a cheer from one side of the circle of watchers, and sullen grumbles from the other, while the orc rolled to his feet, then reached down, grinning as he helped up the other male, then slapped him on his furry back.

"Good fight!" laughed the burly greenskin, throwing his arm over the wolf's shoulders. "Buy you drink, yah?"

"Yeah," agreed the younger male with a slightly sheepish grin to answer the tusk-mouthed smile of his former opponent. "I could use one, that's for sure."

And just like that, it was over, and the crowds started to disperse. All conflict ended once the immediate focus was withdrawn, and animosity was forgotten like a bad smell in a strong wind. For a moment this puzzled Beinion, who stood watching after the two males as they gathered up their discarded clothes before heading toward a collection of drinking establishments somewhere in the quickbuilt ramshackle of nearby shantytown. Then he realized the reason: holding a grudge wasn't to anyone's advantage, if there was no ongoing need for it, while making friends certainly was. From a purely pragmatic perspective, the sort he might expect from animals, the beastfolk simply forgave and moved on with their lives rather than clinging to hatred. Hatred was wasteful energy, and in the survival-oriented world of their kind, there wasn't any room for such luxuries. Friendship, by contrast, was the sort of exertion that gave back a great deal more than was spent, making it a very survival-oriented ideal.

At about this time, right when Beinion had just about worked his way out of his reflections on the complexities of beastfolk relationships, and was just about to start comparing and contrasting them to his own miserable home life, quite abruptly his navel-gazing was interrupted by the clink of silver coins against hardpacked dirt. This sound was followed almost immediately by a startled squeak! as he turned his head, just in time to see a slim, short brown ratling of nondescript appearance making off with money purse! The sound he'd heard was that of some of his own money tumbling from the purse due to the small ratling's over-eagerness, and if not for that clumsy act, he might never have even known he was being robbed, so quick and quiet had the thief been otherwise.

"Stop!" Beinion cried out, already beginning to run, much to the surprise of the rat, who apparently hadn't expected a smoothskin to be able to move that fast. "Thief!"

Fortunately for Beinion, the crowds didn't seem terribly inclined toward getting in his way, recognizing a well-heeled outsider with likely connections to higher places, and knowing better than to interfere with such a one's activities. They didn't help him either, though, for they got out of the way of the brown ratling just as readily as he darted his way right into the depths of shantytown. Beinion, losing his common sense in the midst of the chase, plunged right in after him, following as hot on that naked ratty tail as his long, slim legs could handle.

Of course the chase wasn't easy. If shantytown had possessed any roofs of significant height, it would have been even harder, for the brown rat (who Beinion judged to be not too terribly old, though of course he couldn't be really sure, considering how much ratlings could vary in height) was incredibly agile, and did at one point actually take to the rooftops. Fortunately for Beinion, he was able to hop up and haul himself onto the roofs of the mixed adobe and wood structures just as easily as the rat, and run just as well besides on their flat tops. Twice the rat tried to dump something in Beinion's way, a clothesline in one instance, and some stacked boards in another when he descended back to street level. In both instances, Beinion managed to evade the attempt at dissuading him from his purpose, dodging the erstwhile obstacles with grace he wished he'd been able to show earlier in his swordplay with Val.

Finally, just as he was starting to feel himself short of breath, Beinion turned a corner and spied that familiar naked ratty tail slipping into a doorway. Paying little attention to the shingle above the door declaring the purpose of the place of business, Beinion strode forward with all the confidence of one who has been raised to believe that there is justice in the world, and he is its present agent.

Shoving the swinging doors of the business open, Beinion surveyed the room before him with the steely-eyed gaze of youthful determination. He would find the one who'd stolen from him! He would have justice! He would...

He would, as it turned out, have the swinging doors slap him in the back, causing him to stumble several steps forward. Actually, due to the sheer force of the swing, he'd probably have fallen, if not for the strong, furry arm that caught him, then easily set him upright again.

"Careful, kid," growled a rough voice, which Beinion soon saw belonged to a dark smoke grey wolfwere, an eyepatch the same color as his fur covering one eye. "Don't wanna wreck yourself on your first visit to Kohaku's place."

"Kohaku?" Beinion asked despite himself, growing flustered at the mere presence of the strangely handsome, muscular male who so easily towered over him, and still managed to convey an aura of gentle interest, without hostility.

The wolfwere chuckled, then pointed. Beinion's golden eyes turned to follow the direction of the outstretched finger...and then grew wide indeed when they came to a full stop on the indicated figure.

Kohaku, as it turned out, was a kitsune. Supple, lithe, beautiful in a way that was strangely androgynous, and yet also strangely mesmerizing, the flame-furred fox danced on the top of the long bartop, black-furred paws light and nimble as the toetips flicked past mugs and glasses, never once disturbing the contents. Once, Beinion swore he saw those light feet actually balance right on the rim of one patron's mug, before hopping down with the same effortless motion, airy as a feather. Silks were all that the foxkin wore, silks as translucent as moonlight, and fur that looked as soft as sin. Bright amber eyes flashed from a face that shouldn't have held such fascination - it was the face of a fox! - and yet from which Beinion couldn't force himself to look away. Was this Kohako male? Female? He couldn't tell, for the figure beneath the silks shifted like the flicker of flame, in the way the djinn of the far southern deserts were said to shift their shapes, as was natural for creatures made of smoke and living starfire fallen to earth. Somehow it didn't seem to matter. All eyes were on Kohaku, and all desire as well from each and every patron, and that was the proper thing. This Beinion sensed instinctively, as deer know when the time of rut is nigh.

Except...except there was a reason he'd come into this bar, wasn't there? He'd been chasing someone...trying to get back his...

His money pouch!

Jerking away at the soft clink of silver, Beinion saw his quarry, the small brown rat giving a horrified squeak as he realized that he'd been seen, and had finally run out of places to run. So rather than run, he went with the second instinct of a rat: he hid. In this case, his chosen hiding place was behind a hulking, grizzled grey rat, dressed in a mail shirt (uncommon among beastfolk, who seldom wore armor in these peaceful times - there were laws against them being armed and armored, after all!), but, as it turned out, very little else, as Beinion soon saw as he began to approach the two rats, his eyes involuntarily flicking down between the big male's casually spread legs, and to the immense purselike sac dangling there like overripe fruit.

"You sure he's after you, Snatcher?" laughed the big rat, before taking a long swig of his mug of bitter-smelling beer, red ratty eyes flicking up and down Beinion's body with an appraising mien, much like someone looking over a horse to judge its mettle. "This one looks like he's after something all right, but I doubt it's common coin." Lifting a hand, his smile widening as he caught Beinion's golden eyes, the big rat slowly lowered the hand to his groin, almost tenderly caressing the weighty matters hanging there. Immediately the thick sheath just above began to fill out, and then to disgorge its contents, a process Beinion had never seen so up-close and personal before. The mere sight of that heavy, dark pink ratcock rising up before him was enough to freeze him in place, like a mouse before a hooded cobra. "Yeah, I think I've got just what this smoothskin really wants, all right."

"No!" gasped out Beinion, stepping back just as the ratman stepped forward, stumbling over another of the tavern's patrons in the process, a spotty-furred hyenaman wearing a pair of pince-nez pinched to the bridge of his muzzle. This involuntarily action, unfortunately, caused the gnoll (who, Beinion couldn't help but notice, was a bit more slight than the typical member of his kind) to splash his drink, a potent-smelling dwarven brew, all over the front of his simple tunic, while at the same time sending the boy flopping right into the arms of the well-muscled, smoke grey wolf who'd greeted him at the door.

"My drink," the gnoll snapped, turning to glare at Beinion, while another gnoll, this one with a pair of broad bat wings protruding from his shoulders, and goat legs besides (features Beinion supposed must come from the truth behind the rumors that gnolls sometimes mated with demons), stood up, moving to stand protectively in front of the glasses-wearing gnoll...and tower over poor, flustered Beinion.

"Looks like you're in trouble now, kid," chuckled the wolf behind him, who now, instead of holding Beinion up, was gripping him in a far more businesslike manner, keeping the boy from bolting away as gnolls and rat closed in on him from all sides. The smoke grey wolf leaned in close, and Beinion could feel his hot breath as the beastman took his scent, then growled softly in approval. "Guess I don't really mind too much if we make you disappear, either: you smell delicious."

"You...you're going to eat me?" Beinion squeaked, more like a mouse than the muscular, soldierlike ratman closing in on him from one side, while the demon gnoll closed in on the other.

"Mmmmaybe," the wolf chuckled again, almost tenderly nuzzling his muzzle against the boy's flawlessly smooth cheek. "Would you blame us? You come into our part of the city, all alone, barge into one of our places to drink and have fun, make a mess, and all the while you traipse around looking hotter than a Kaldasian death pepper in clothes that look like they ought to just slide right off...and then you expect us not to do anything?"

"I...I...it's not...I'm not..." Beinion whimpered, his lower lip trembling, tears starting to fill his wide eyes. "Please, I didn't..."

"Aw, don't do that," the smoke grey wolf suddenly growled, but not in an unfriendly way, meeting eyes with the gnolls and the rat and then shaking his head, before his grip on Beinion suddenly lessened. "I wouldn't really eat you. You'd taste delicious, all right...but we don't do things like that anymore. Not now that we're all civilized, just like you smoothskins wanted." His eyes flicked to the table where he'd been seated, where Beinion now saw the two wrestlers from the center of shantytown, the scarred-up orc of the pair observing the proceedings of the past few minutes with amusement, while the red-pawed wolf actually seemed concerned for Beinion's safety. With them was an immense, bronze-skinned minotaur, his broad, ugly face impassive. After a moment's consideration, Beinion realized that the minotaur was, in fact, coated with a layer of shining bronze, living metal, an enchantment he'd heard about in legends, but never thought he'd see. Of course, being covered in living metal meant that the big male didn't feel much need for any other sort of covering, and so he was quite naked, as Beinion saw clearly when the big bull stood up at a slight motion from the one-eyed wolf.

"Escort the kid out of our side of town, Vyrran," the lead wolfwere told the big bull, who nodded without comment, his massive hands closing on the boy's shoulders, their mere presence there making Beinion's ability to walk - even to move under his own power - simply quit; Beinion was simply unprepared for being in the grip of so much overpowering masculinity to be able to even consider resisting.

"Wait."

The voice that spoke wasn't a loud one, but it had the air of one used to being obeyed. All eyes turned, and Beinion's breath caught in his throat at the sight of the speaker: a jackalwere! Everybody had heard the stories about jackalweres, the crafty seducers and cunning betrayers of the southern deserts. It was said that merely looking into their eyes was enough to sap the will, to leave you bereft of your senses, unable to resist even as you were stripped of all your belongings, and then cruelly roasted alive over the campfire of the beasts (for they were said to never travel alone). But, as Beinion well knew, such stories only applied to humans and similarly weak-willed travelers. He was of far more potent blood, and so the gaze of a creature of darkness like this would...

Beinion's golden-eyed gaze met that of the sandy-furred, sharp-featured animal-man, and where before he'd been frozen by emotions, now he knew he was frozen by a will imparted from a culture perhaps older than his own. The jackal's robes rustled as he approached, his smile wicked in ways that Beinion had never considered before. Long-fingered, furry hands reached out, and the boy's whole body tensed, a gasp forced from his lungs as they caressed his firm chest through his clothes, then slid down...

"Hold up his arms, please," said the jackalwere, and as the minotaur behind Beinion did so (pressing that exquisitely grotesque bronzed penis against the small of Beinion's back in the process), the wicked beast easily slid Beinion's shirt over his head, folding it neatly before laying it on a nearby table.

"Beautiful," the jackal murmured, and Beinion shivered as those skilled, soft hands continued to explore his body, stroking down and over each little bump of his toned tummy. "It would be a waste to simply let such a fine piece of boyflesh go free. Certainly with such expensive clothes still donned," he added, unbuckling Beinion's belt and tossing his sword next to his shirt, before kneeling, shucking the boy's breeches down his body with a single, smooth motion. "Hmm," he added meditatively as he looked the now-naked young man up and down, idly folding the boy's pants as he did so before adding them to the pile. "I would say some part of this smooth-skinned beauty likes the idea of being forced into bondage," the jackal continued once his hands were free, one of those skilled appendages almost tenderly caressing Beinion's painfully erect penis. "Perhaps you would enjoy serving in the harem of one of the fell rakshasa lords of the Far East? I understand they are especially cruel to the best-looking of their slaves." His fingers wrapped around the shaft of Beinion's cock, squeezing it lightly, making the boy moan, his head tilting back slightly despite the magical paralysis gripping his body, resting against the broad chest of the mighty minotaur behind him. "Look into my eyes, little boy, and see the fate that lies before you."

No, don't look! All Beinion's reason and common sense told him it was the height of folly to obey the evil creature standing before him. All the same, he looked into those softly shining eyes...and saw a scene from his own personal Hell.

"Please master!" he cried out as strong, cruel hands lifted him, mighty, tigerlike beings easily lifting him onto a smooth table, a table he knew was used for the preparation of the meat of the demon things that now gripped him in their clutches. "Please, spare me!"

The plea was heartfelt, but without conviction, for Beinion knew that rakshasas didn't understand mercy. They understood pleasure well enough, though. Well enough to know the darkest fantasies of their sweet victims.

For eight long days and nine longer nights, Beinion had wailed in erotic torment. His whole body was sore, especially his cruelly-stretched bottom, from being claimed hundreds of times by the carnivorous, tigerlike demon-things, who took his suffering as encouragement to heap still more upon his delicate, sensitive pink body, his cries enflaming their immortal lust. The more he begged them to give him time to rest, to recover, the more savagely they rutted him, barbed shafts rasping his rectum, grinding against his prostate in the process. Each time he orgasmed, it was agony itself, like cumming liquid lead. Only very rarely did the tigerbeasts make use of his mouth, though: they enjoyed listening to his sweet, musical cries far too much to muffle them for long.

Now...now it was time for his end. Paying no heed to the whimpers and pitiful pleading of their meat, the rakshasas laughed and joked among themselves in their strangely beautiful language, easily binding his wrists square behind his back, then laying him, wriggling and trying desperately to kick, into a pan sized just for him, until more hands gripped his ankles, then bound them behind his head, splaying him out like a roasting fowl, and demonstrating his flexibility in the process.

Speaking of roasting...behind Beinion's head, he heard the roar of the flames of the great oven, could feel its heat upon his naked skin as he began to sweat, his flawlessly smooth skin glistening with a sheen. Soon that sheen was added to as the terrible beasts that were his masters began to rub him everywhere with oil, even - perhaps especially - his still-sore anal ring. This excited the masters, and soon Beinion was squealing like a piglet as they claimed him again, and again, and again, his own cum splashing against his belly while theirs coated his insides, until all his senses were reeling. When they began to season him, sprinkling his naked flesh with rare and exotic spices perfectly suited to preparing an elf for dinner, Beinion hardly noticed, hardly able to do more than moan. Even when one of them cruelly wrapped a short string around his genitals, then cinched it tight, all the better to ensure that they would sizzle separately, and be all the easier to tug off when he was carved up that night, when they served him as the main course at their grand banquet, and where the cock and balls of a succulent young elf would be a delicacy for the guest of honor to enjoy, Beinion's only reaction was to whimper piteously, lacking even the energy to struggle anymore.

Then he was being lifted, then turned. They wanted him to watch as he was slid into that terrible oven, with a door like the gaped jaws of some demonic beast from out of nightmares. Closer he came to that searing heat, feeling it on his exposed and raped raw rump, and at last he found the energy to begin begging once more for mercy. Despite it all, even as he was set upon the extended "tongue" of the hellish oven door, and slid slowly forward, his pleas for mercy growing ever more frantic, more desperate, as did his final struggles against the bonds biting into his flawless, smooth skin, Beinion couldn't help but realize a terrible truth: he was rock hard with arousal.

Just at the moment before the leaping flames of the rakshasa's oven could touch his delicate boyparts, however, the vision broke as another hand caressed his chest, even as the wicked jackal continued stroking his erection. It was Kohaku the kitsune, smiling with angelic sweetness as the fox leaned in close, kissing Beinion's neck.

"Morgrave," the foxkin chided teasingly, resting a furry cheek on Beinion's shoulder to use as a platform for watching the wicked beast that held the boy's manhood in his hand. "You know better than to do such things to a noble." The kitsune looked up at the bronze-skinned minotaur against whose chest Beinion was still leaning, still unable to move. "Vyrran, do you recognize the figure on that sword?"

"The house of Eaglardian," the minotaur intoned with a voice like the boom of a furnace flaring to life. "I forged it myself, as I forged all the blades used by that house. All, save the most legendary, carried by their now-fallen sire in the battles that subdued our kind, and brought us under the yoke of this new peace."

The sound of Beinion's family name made every creature in the tavern pause and take notice, all eyes fixed on his smooth-muscled, naked body. As one, everyone in the bar rose to their feet, even those who had been studiously ignoring the mental manipulations of Morgrave, and gathered around expectantly.

"You see?" Kohaku continued with a light titter. "He's untouchable. If he didn't come back to his mommy, he'd be missed, and a search would be made. And more than a search, with the guards of the city tearing up our homes and places of business - my place of business - and perhaps killing those of us they deemed most suspicious, those that aren't dragged off for questioning. I'm sure you'd find yourself in that number, Morgrave, knowing the reputation of werejackals."

"And you, Kohaku," Morgrave answered back with a sneer, but Beinion noticed that he did release his grip on the boy's penis as he took a step back. Immediately, Beinion felt the power of that magical gaze lessening, strength and movement slowly returning to his body.

"Oh, you're not off the hook yet, my boy," Kohaku suddenly continued, stepping in front of Beinion, and once more the boy found himself held in the grip of a power greater than himself, though this one was far more gentle in its insinuation into the delicate folds of his brain. Truthfully, yielding to the hypnotic enchantments of the kitsune was almost like yielding to the temptations of a lover he knew he should avoid, but who he wanted anyway, forbidden or not. "Morgrave took a look into your darkest soul, and pulled out a truly terrible fantasy, something you've used to masturbate when you were alone and able to indulge your most hidden desires without the judgment of others. Now you'll go crying back to mommy about how the mean beastfolk did terrible things to you, and then stole all your money besides." The kitsune's smile was ravishing, and Beinion couldn't help but smile dreamily back.

"Come here, little Snatcher," Kohaku commanded, motioning the small brown rat forward, still clutching the coin purse. "Put the purse on the bar. I believe I know what our dear little elfboy wants most, but is too afraid to ask for it...without a little gentle persuasion. Something that would be worth the contents of that pouch to buy. His deepest, most forbidden fantasies." Leaning in close, so Beinion could smell the foxkin's sweet breath, before his whole body shuddered as the kitsune kissed his cheek, then licked it, acts both civilized and bestial in short succession driving him wild. "Tell us, dear boy," Kohaku gently ordered the willing captive. "Tell us what you want most from us."

Looking around, Beinion felt his heart pounding in his chest, his throat constricting. What did he want most? Why had he come into Am'akhret, the shantytown of the beastfolk, knowing there were dangers, and knowing that his family would disapprove? What did he want from these people that he couldn't get anywhere else? More than that, why had his dark fantasies been filled with such terrible, graphic images? And why had he craved the cruelties that awaited him in their depths?

"I want," he gasped out, the words forced from a place deep within that Beinion hadn't even realized was there until Kohaku's powers drew it out, "I want you to rape me! To make me your slave! I'll...I'll pay everything in that pouch, and more, and everything I have, if only you'll take me, abuse me, make me suffer. I..." he caught Kohaku's eyes, and the kitsune nodded, giving just that little extra nudge to the boy's subconscious, "I deserve it. I was born into privileges, and I don't deserve any of them. I don't deserve my rank, or my title, or anything. All I deserve...is to be taken, abused, humiliated, and made to serve the people that my people have looked down on for so many generations." He looked around the room, feeling his body go weak in fear and arousal at the many beastmen now crowding in far too closely for his comfort, feeling the grip of Vyrran tighten on his shoulders, and then press him forward, into the middle of the savage, bestial crowd. "You can do whatever you want with me," he concluded, almost in a whisper, closing his eyes and waiting for the end.

Even with his eyes closed, Beinion could feel the presence of the one-eyed wolfwere as he stepped in front of him, facing the milling crowd. The older warrior had an air of command about him, as natural to his makeup as breathing air, and everyone there paid attention when he spoke.

"It's been a while since I've raped an elfboy," he declared to the group. "Made him squeal, made him squirt cum all over himself, then passed him off to the next warrior in line. A lot of you probably haven't had the chance at all. Trust me: elfboys are better than girl pussy, and they're _always_tight! So there's no need to crowd or fight: we'll all get a turn, and there's plenty of boy pussy for everybody. Form two lines, one for his sweet little mouth, the other for his smooth little boy butt; just decide which end you'd rather watch while you stuff your cock into it!"

Kohaku's powers were wearing off now, and Beinion's eyes snapped open in time to watch as, true to the alpha male's command, the males in the bar were indeed forming two lines. They were lining up to rape him! Turning to grin at the elfboy now squirming in the mighty bronze minotaur's unbreakable grip, the one-eyed wolfwere pulled the belt out from his breeches and tossed the length of leather to the bull-headed bronze beast.

"Tie his wrists, Vyrran," he ordered as he peeled open his breeches, making Beinion groan at the sight of a dark-furred sac that had to be at least the size of an orange, with a thick, dark red penis swiftly rising to full erection just above, now that it was freed from the confines of the wolf's pants. "Then we'll put him on that table," he motioned to a low table, which Beinion saw with dismay was indeed about crotch height for most of the brutish males in the place. "Drigizz," he looked toward the intellectual gnoll whose drink Beinion had spilled. "The boy actually wronged you, so you can have his rump first. Nine," he glanced at the big grey rat who seemed to think pants were an optional luxury, "you get his mouth first." The wolfish grin of the alpha male made Beinion whimper despite his efforts at steeling himself for the ordeal to come. "I understand elves hate the taste of ratcock; it'll be fun watching the kid's face while he chokes on that nasty piece of meat you're sporting."

Many of the males laughed, Nine among them, and he was slapped on the back several times as he moved to the front of the line, thick ratty member proudly thrust before him.

"No," Beinion half-sobbed, struggling in vain against the powerful hands of the minotaur, which easily held his wrists still before lashing that stout piece of leather around them, the entire set of actions done in a manner that made it clear to the silver-haired boy that he was far from the first victim the minotaur had so prepared for a gang-raping. "No!" he cried out again, this time with more force as the huge orc wrestler and the one-eyed wolfwere gripped his legs, while Vyrran held his shoulders, and the three of them easily hoisted the squirming, kicking elfboy up, and laid him out on the tabletop on his back, where he looked up in rising horror as he was swiftly surrounded by the host of males filling the bar, all of them either bared below the waist and dangling their massive erections over his beautiful boyish body, or well into the process of stripping down to that state. "NOOOOmmm..."

"Ngh!" grunted Nine as he roughly clasped the back of the boy's soft-haired head, forcing his throbbing shaft into that sweetly yielding mouth with its perfect cupid's bow stretching wide around his thickness. "Kid's a natural-born cocksucher, all right." He leered down at Beinion, the boy's head turned to the side as the ratman cruelly pumped his hips in time with his hardworking hand, which kept Beinion's head bobbing forward and back, teasing the boy's gag reflex on every inward thrust. "Look at that cute face, that precious little nose all scrunched up like that. Tastes awful, doesn't it?" Beinion looked up pleadingly at the ratman with his wide golden eyes, gifted with powers of expressiveness that exceeded those of humans. Despite his efforts to hide it, his face did indeed register disgust at the taste of the trail of precum left dribbled along his tastebuds with every in-out thrust of the ratcock forcing his lips to stretch until they made a tight seal. "You'll learn to like it, pussy boy, trust me. After all, you're gonna be drinking down a lot of it before we're anywhere close to through with you."

Feeling a furry finger prod his backside, Beinion's eyes widened as he realized what Drigizz, the pince-nez wearing gnoll, was doing, and he gave a loud-but-muffled protest, which grew louder still and much more high-pitched as that finger punched its way past his anal ring, his hands balling up into fists behind his back as he tried to kick against the strong hands of the other males in line who were now gripping him just behind his knees, pushing his legs wide apart, then pinning them to the rough wood of the table beneath him, once more demonstrating his incredible flexibility, the result as much from his youth as from his lithe elven nature. As the finger squeezed into his tense rear ring began to thrust, the other hand of the one abusing him palmed over his uncut glans, squeezing the plump cocktip and stroking around his corona until Beinion was leaking heavily onto the gnoll's black-padded palm.

"Help you out there, Drigizz?" came the voice of the one-eyed wolfwere. "That boy looks even tighter'n I thought he'd be."

"Your help wouldn't be amiss, Smoke," replied the gnoll with the pince-nez in the tones of one who knows himself to be the only bastion of education among the illiterate masses surrounding him. "While we prepare the boy for penetration, Kuk will provide some fellatio. I understand that a virgin's semen is a delicacy for demons, and Kuk has enough of that bloodline in him that I expect he'll enjoy himself quite immensely."

Unsure for a moment what Smoke and Drigizz were plotting, Beinion's whole body tensed up as he felt hot breath steaming across the crease between his spread legs, before his back arched, and he almost screamed around his mouthful of ratcock as the heart-shaped swelling of his boyish bottom was suddenly and cruelly caressed by not one, but two achingly smooth and incredibly talented tongues! They were licking him...and licking him everywhere! Thrashing his feet - about all he could manage with those strong hands gripping him below his knees - Beinion actually lost his vision for a moment when one of those tongues thrust into him, his whole world turning into spots and flashes of light.

Just as he was starting to be able to see again, looking up at the ratman, Nine, with a piteous, pleading expression even as the muscular rat continued to work his mouth, cradling the underside of that seeping ratcock with an eagerness to serve that Beinion's conscious mind hadn't even registered yet, he saw the tall, bat-winged gnoll with the goat legs descend on his erect, throbbing shaft. The spotty-furred beast easily wrapped his own lips around the very tip, sucking with astonishing skill, before he sank his muzzle all the way down Beinion's soapstone-smooth penis, until his chin rested right on the boy's perfectly hairless balls. Eyes rolling back in his head, even while Nine cursed in his guttural guttertalk and began to work his hips, fat balls slapping against Beinion's aristocratic chin with each stroke, Beinion's toes curled upward as he arched upward, most of his body leaving the table as he felt himself getting so close...so close...

"Kah!" Nine exclaimed, and suddenly Beinion was drowning in ratcum, Nine's belly tensed, abdominal muscles standing out clearly as his hips jerked spasmodically in the throes of his orgasm. All the poor elfboy could do was swallow as fast as he could just to keep breathing! Even so, Nine still jerked his cock free of Beinion's frantically-slurping mouth, just in time to paint two splashes of cum across the boy's cheek and forehead, making him close one golden eye to avoid getting any splashed in it. The brown-furred and red-pawed wolfwere he'd seen wrestling before soon stepped into Nine's place, bending to helpfully lick off the ratcum on Beinion's face.

"There, all clean," stated the wolf, and Beinion could see, now that he was close to the furry creature, that the wolfwere wasn't that old at all, despite his impressive musculature, his face strangely boyish despite its obvious lupine features. "C'mon, you'll wanna watch this," added the wolf, gently gripping Beinion's hair to tilt it forward. "Not every day you get your cherry popped, after all."

With a soft 'sluck" sound, the pair of tongues slid out of Beinion, leaving him feeling so empty, and he whimpered at the feeling, which only grew more intense as his aching cock was left bobbing and glistening as Kuk pulled off of it, giving the elfboy a chiding waggle of one finger. The scholarly gnoll, Drigizz, stepped forward, grinning toothily down at the smooth young man shivering on the table beneath him, shafting his rigid dark brown cock almost meditatively as he guided the plum-sized tip into place right below Beinion's smooth pink balls...

"No," Drigizz suddenly stated with a wicked smirk, glancing behind him to a male next in line: it was the hulking, scarred-up orc that had won the wrestling match earlier. "I'll have him second, after he's been loosened up a little. I think what this boy deserves is the ultimate humiliation for his kind: being deflowered by an orc." He stepped back and to the side slightly, giving the now-grinning, burly greenskin a nod. "His virginity is all yours, Throk."

"No!" wailed poor Beinion as the hands gripping his legs withdrew, only to be replaced by the massive mitts of the orcish warrior, who tilted the boy almost double, so that the heart-shaped curve of his bottom was thrust almost straight up as he was firmly pinned on his back. "Not an orc! Not an...oh!"

Despite himself, despite the shame (which only seemed to enhance his arousal all the more), Beinion's protests turned to almost girlish moans as the big male slapped his heavy green cock down hard on the boy's upturned perineum, the seeping tip of that circumcised orcmeat nudging Beinion's sac. Beinion had gone swimming with other elfboys his age, and knew he wasn't small by any means, but compared to the hulking orc now grunting over him, _grinding_the underside of his penis against the well-lubricated pucker of Beinion's bum and the raphe of his sac, he was puny. Looking up at the scarred veteran, tracing each and every pale mark on the orc's green skin (including one halfway up his penis!), Beinion felt himself in awe at this mighty specimen of masculinity thrusting against him, every movement forcing another spurt of precum out onto the boy's trimly-toned tummy.

"Heh, you a cute one," snorted the male, and Beinion finally looked up into the orc's face. "Aw, relax," he added, cupping Beinion's chin, letting the red-pawed wolf by Beinion's head take over holding the boy's knees pinned to the wood. "I done this plenty of times. You in good mitts, elfie."

Those thick-muscled hips drew back, and Beinion could clearly see the obscenely massive glans of that dark green penis stroke over his tense little ring, before the orc pressed down on the top of his cock with one hand, slotting the tip firmly into place. Once more his hands went to the backs of Beinion's knees, and as the boy watched every muscle in the orc's body start to tense up, making him appear like some of the marble statuary he'd seen in various noble gardens, Beinion was suddenly reminded of a common toy he'd once seen, something mostly among the humans and dwarves. It was a wooden board, often brightly-painted, with a set of differently-shaped pegs, each designed to be tapped with a mallet into a hole of the appropriate size and shape. Obviously such a toy would never have been popular among the orcs: they'd smash the board making the pegs fit into whatever hole they wanted!

The mental image would have been hilarious...except that, in this case, Beinion was the peg board!

"Ah!" he cried out, his mouth gaping open as he rested the back of his head on the red-pawed wolf's hands, the other male holding him up so he could clearly see half of the extra-dark green glans disappear into his virgin tight bottom, the bluntly conical shape already spreading him open wider than he'd ever thought possible. "Please, ah, please, ah, please, ah..." he gasped out breathlessly, mindlessly, eyes so wide he was sure they were the size of crown coins, even as the mighty warrior's glans sank into him right up to the nearly black corona. Then there was a final long streeeetch as Throk put all his weight behind his slow, steady initial thrust...

"AAAAAAIIIIIIEEEEE!" screamed poor Beinion, his whole body seizing up, cock spurting cum onto his exquisitely smooth chest and belly as he was held firmly in place by the wolfboy behind him, forcing him to watch as the entire orcish shaft sank into his frantically-clenching bottom.

"Grom, this elf is tight!" barked Throk as his heavy seedsac came to a rest against the small of the boy's back, his hips now flush with that smooth pink bottom. "Ain't, snort, never had boy pussy this good before!"

Not given a chance to lose his erection, Beinion felt his whole body rocking forward and back as the mighty, dominant male started up a slow, steady rhythm to his thrusting, not rushing things. Just as well, because Beinion wasn't at all sure he'd have survived a proper orcish pounding! He didn't get a chance to catch his breath, either, because the red-pawed wolfboy was pulling his head back then, pressing his muzzle against the boy's lips, kissing him in a way that was as strange as it was exquisitely erotic. That wasn't the only set of lips to press against his, nor the only tongue to violate his mouth, as the males all around him took turns ravishing his mouth with theirs. He was pretty sure Smoke savored a rougher sort of kiss, while Drigizz favored one that was soft, actually kind of sweet, but it was hard to tell, as euphoric as he was with the endorphins flooding his system at being stretched so far beyond his limits.

Then Beinion felt the orc's immense shaft starting to move more easily, and knew he'd finally begun to loosen up. That was all the encouragement the overpowering male needed, and immediately he was thrusting, making Beinion's cock slap against his stomach with every mighty pump of greencock in and out of the boy's bottom, his sphincter clinging to its impossibly huge intruder all the way in, and as far of the way out as it could manage before that rigid shaft was once more slammed back in right to the hilt. Did he cum again? Beinion honestly couldn't say. All he could really remember was the expression of ecstasy on the orc's face, childlike and jubilant, as he bellowed like a bear, thrusting his long tusks out even more while he flooded Beinion's insides with surprisingly hot orcspunk.

Flopping limply to the table, tension he hadn't even known was there draining out of him, Beinion lay panting, while the orc, Throk, stood doing the same, a half-smile on his tusk-mouthed face. Reaching down, he gave the boy a gentle pat on the chest, then caressed his belly, before blinking and lifting his now semen-stained hand. He seemed to not quite know what to do with the messy stuff, until the demon-blooded gnoll, Kuk, stepped in and curled a surprisingly dexterous tongue around the orc's fingers, and then over his palm, cleaning up every drop. Beinion couldn't resist a tired smirk himself, and then a giggle, as the gnoll bent to give the same treatment to his stomach and chest, and then lower, until he was squirming on the table as the bat-winged hyenaman worked his tongue into the boy's bottom, tilting his head this way and then that, finally pulling back when Beinion was both squeaky clean...and once more was sporting his boyish hard-on.

"Help me roll him over, Redpaw," directed Drigizz, parting his loose robes and tossing them casually onto a nearby table, revealing his dark gnollish erection once more. "That was fun to watch, but I'm sure we all feel we ought to hurry, so everyone can get a turn...and then start on their second in the other line."

Still dazed from his afterglow, Beinion didn't even think of trying to resist as the wolf and the hyena turned him over onto all-fours...or as close to all-fours as he could get with his wrists square-tied behind his back, that is. The pince-nez-wearing gnoll had a surprisingly strong grip, and he seized Beinion's upturned tush in both hands, squeezing and rolling the supple, bouncy buns, then spreading them wide apart as he growled in approval.

"You weren't exaggerating, Smoke," he added, the swollen head of his erection nudging against Beinion's tight button of well-lubed flesh. "A minute or two to recover, and he's almost as tight as he was before Throk got started on him."

There was a murmur of excitement from the milling crowd of lusty males all around him, and Beinion's pale cheeks flushed deeply in the mix of emotions that washed over him. He felt exposed, embarrassed, and hopelessly aroused, the feelings capped by a sense of...was it pride? He wasn't quite sure, actually, but he did feel a sort of satisfaction in knowing that he was wanted here, that every one of these savage, bestial creatures wanted him, in the most carnal of ways.

Those thoughts were interrupted as Drigizz's disproportionately thick shaft (disproportionate to his body, that is, which was somewhat more slim than the typical gnoll) bent for a moment, then popped inside. Not wasting time, the gnoll picked up to a steady but still swift pace, enough so that he'd be able to enjoy his fun without taking too long about it, his tawny-furred sac slapping Beinion's perfectly smooth (and comparatively much smaller) one from behind with each hasty thrust, his hands keeping a firm grip on the boy's alabaster bottom, strong fingers digging deep into supple flesh.

Knowing his orgasm would be a long time coming after being milked dry by Throk before, Beinion nevertheless found himself enjoying being claimed by this nerdy 'yena. Each thrust tickled something inside of him, setting off a host of tremors in his body, keeping his smooth muscles tense, his penis hard and dripping. He didn't have very long to savor the sensations, however, as the young wolfwere, Redpaw, seized Beinion's hair again and lifted his head from where it had been resting, cheek against the rough wood. Eyes wide, Beinion gulped as he came nose-to-tip with the young wolf's lupine-like penis. His mouth dropped wide, too, an involuntary act, but one that Redpaw immediately used to full advantage, popping his cock into the boy's mouth, and starting to thrust, groaning with pleasure as Beinion instinctively closed his lips into a tight seal, hollowing his cheeks as he looked up into Redpaw's face. He was eager to please, and didn't even need Redpaw to guide him with that big paw on the back of his head, immediately starting to bob forward and back, his eyes soon growing heavy-lidded as he felt himself growing drunk on the heady, clean-yet-musky scent of the exotic, wonderful beast making full use of his willing mouth.

Neither of the two males lasted long. Somehow, Beinion knew that this was deliberate, for this was a gang-bang, and there was a line. Still, Redpaw spared time to lick Beinion's cheek just after the elf finished swallowing the last drop of slightly watery wolfcum, a token of affection that made Beinion feel strangely warm inside. Of course, that could have been the cum...and there would be lots of it, he soon realized, stuffed into him from both ends, as Kuk leapt onto the table with a strange cry halfway between the giggle of an anxious hyena and the screech of a vulture, his goat hooves clattering on the rough wood. Not giving Beinion time to recover, he grabbed the boy's butt, and plunged his rigid demonic erection straight down and in, then started a rapidfire, vigorous humping, savage and bestial and merciless, that set Beinion's cock bouncing beneath him, even while his bottom bounced with each slapping impact of poorly-kept hyenafur against his swiftly-reddening rump.

Before he could quite adjust to the energy of the demon-blooded male, Beinion felt a soft touch on his head, and raised his face without resistance, taking Morgrave's proffered erection right to the roots in an instant. After all, if he could handle well-endowed males like Nine and Redpaw, Morgrave's more modest length wasn't a challenge at all.

"The ancients of many cultures decried oral sex," the jackal purred sensuously in Beinion's delicately-pointed ear as he rested one hand on the boy fellating him, the taste of cinnamon and other, more exotic spices strong in Beinion's nostrils. "They felt it was a sexual violation of the mind itself, something done only by the lowest, most degraded of creatures for the pleasure of their masters." He smiled toothily down at Beinion's upturned gaze, shame and guilt and the most intense arousal tingling through the boy all at the same time. "But I think you knew that already, didn't you? Instinctively, even if you didn't know the history behind your feeling. After all, you were born for this role; born to be a slave."

The jackal's cum was laced with the same taste as Beinion had smelled on him, exotic and strangely spiced, and as his head slumped to the boards, his whole body shaken back and forth with each of Kuk's vigorous strokes, he moaned softly, feeling his will breaking at last. He'd been holding onto a part of himself until that moment, still retaining one solitary part, deep inside, that was his property, the core of his identity as he'd known it up until then. Now, though, as the demon gnoll screamed his orgasm like a true demon erupting from the Abyss, Beinion's own orgasm came with far less sound, but far more shattering effect, and as he squirted his cum onto the table beneath him, he felt almost as though he were squirting out the last of his noble pride, the last vestiges of what his brother and mother kept pushing him to become, as he instead accepted what he felt, in his deepest heart of hearts, was where he truly belonged.

Cum splashed onto Beinion's back from an overeager male or two who couldn't wait to use him directly, and so contented themselves with soiling his flawless, alabaster skin instead. There was a moment's respite allowed to him as he lay there, head down, bottom up, feeling his body trying desperately to recover, his elven resilience not quite capable of regeneration, but certainly healing faster than most mortal creatures - elves, after all, were close cousins to angels, and their bodies would heal up all but the most grievous of injuries, given time, without a single scar. For something that didn't even tear the skin, but merely stretched him to his limits, Beinion's body did indeed prove itself resilient, and in minutes he'd tightened again. While his body had recovered, however, his mind and soul had not: he'd been broken, made into a willing rape toy for the beastmen, and the mere thought of his new place in life was enough to cause his whole body to tingle in returning arousal, his penis starting once again to stiffen.

Strange, Beinion thought to himself, the clarity of afterglow suffusing his soul. Strange indeed, for he'd always thought, and had read from the experts on his kind's biology, that elves were a "cool-blooded" race, not given to strong passions, especially carnal passions. Yet here he was, hard again, as though the rapid healing of his race applied to his sperm as much as to the rest of him, so turned-on that most of the time, outside of these brief moments of lucidity, all that occupied his mind was how hot the mighty males all around him were, and how he feared them, and hated what they were doing to him...and also loved it even more. Their passion, it seemed, had infused his own soul, empowering him, energizing his ancient elven spirit in ways that the greatest scholars of his people had never considered before.

Then all thoughts were suddenly washed away as a massive, rough hand seized Beinion's bottom suddenly, and the boy cried out in shock despite himself, despite his prior experiences, squirting another jet of precum onto the boards of the table. It was the bronze minotaur, Vyrran! His penis was a bulbous, uncircumcised, free-hanging thing, ugly, its size making it all the more grotesque as he guided the heavy, metallically-glistening tip to the elfboy's tense pucker. Beinion couldn't even begin to imagine how adorable he looked right then, his large golden eyes wide with equal parts fear and arousal as he looked over his shoulder, first down to the turgid member about to plow his bottom like tough soil, then up into the cruelly set expression of the minotaur's sharp-toothed, bovine face.

"Mercy." The word was almost a question, the very last of Beinion's ability to resist, to try and stand on his own, placed behind the whimpered plea.

Lifting his hand from where it had been wrapped around his heavy organ, to guide it into place, Vyrran rested it instead on Beinion's head, his palm on the cheek nearest to him. With a casual, effortless shove, he easily pressed the boy's other cheek against the rough wood of the table.

"A slave's purpose," rumbled the bull, his voice like the sound of tectonic plates in motion, "is to obey."

A single tear trickling out of the corner of each large, expressive eye, Beinion closed them, whimpering sweetly. The hand left on his cheek and went instead to his bottom, gripping the flawless, toned cheeks tightly, fingers digging deeply into supple boyflesh. Unconsciously he tried to jerk his tush to first one side and then the other, but the mighty minotaur just gave a derisive snort at such puny efforts, easily prying the boy's buns even further apart while holding them trapped between his mighty hands. Then, baring his teeth, his musclegut tensing along with his thick-thewed rump, Vyrran paused a moment at he built up his strength to perfectly match the incredible tension of the boy's tiny anal ring, miraculously recovered from his previous ruttings. Finally, once he had Beinion's measure...the bull thrust into the boy, his rigid organ punching _deep_into the elf's insides.

Eyes popping wide, Beinion's mouth dropped open as well, and he gasped desperately for breath. He might have screamed - in fact he was sure he would have - except that, suddenly, another huge hand gripped his soft silver hair, and before he knew quite what was happening, a mottled, grey-skinned penis was pressed against his wide open mouth, then shoved inside, muffling whatever sounds he'd been about to make, then silencing them completely as the brutish beast claiming his mouth also made sure to lay claim to Beinion's throat.

Feeling as though he were being literally spit-roasted (minus the fire, of course, unless one was metaphorical and counted the eager canid muzzle slurping greedily on his smooth, boyish erection), Beinion looked up into the sharp-toothed face of a well-muscled stallion. No, not just a stallion - a tikbalang! Giving a whinnying laugh of delight at the look of comingled horror and overwhelming lust on the boy's face, the dapple-grey stallion started to hump Beinion's face, his hands gripping the boy's shoulders, lifting him up. With Vyrran gripping his bottom and waist (for the bronze bull's hands were more than big enough for this feat), this suspended Beinion in midair over the table, letting not one but two other males have full access to his dangling bits, one giving his penis a first-rate blowjob, while the other slathered his balls all over with a fantastically skilled, smooth tongue.

No mortal could possibly endure such treatment! Caught hammer-and-tongs between bull and stallion, Beinion's muffled wails as his whole body bounced back and forth were loud enough to be heard even around the horsecock stuffing his throat. His hands balled up into fists where they were cinched behind his back, and he tried to run, as though to escape the overwhelming forces blasting his senses, his supple runner's legs kicking in midair beneath him, all in vain as they found no purchase. Instead of escape, Beinion's senses were pummeled with too much stimulation for them to endure: the solid, meaty slapping of Vyrran's bronze balls against his puny pink ones; the grunts and soft growls of two deceptively carnivorous males as they pounded him between them with vigor and force; the happy sounds of two contented canid creatures as their efforts were swiftly rewarded with a spurting load of fresh-squeezed elfcum. The very last thing Beinion remembered hearing, above all the rest, before it all became a blur, was the weird, whinnying laughter of the dapple-grey tikbalang, the sound triumphant and mocking as he filled up the boy's belly from one end with thick, hot horsecum, while Vyrran filled him up from the other end with an equal measure of bullsperm.

Everything started to get hazy after that point, for the beastmen filling the bar were through_with patiently waiting, with even giving Beinion the few minutes he needed between uses to recover, to tighten up once more. No, the beasts surrounding him were enflamed with primal lust, and they had decided Beinion's fate: they would leave his bottom _demolished!

And then there were the cocks. So many of them, and in such variety! Some with knots and pointed tips like a dog's. Others that were smooth pieces of meat, almost as smooth as Beinion's own. Still others were covered with bulges and throbbing veins, until they almost looked deformed. Many had knobs on the end, while some lacked a visible glans, and typically ended in a sudden point. There were those with piercings, and those without, and even a few that had elaborate, full-body tattoos that reached down even over the genitals (and Beinion had to wince at the very thought of someone touching _his_member with a needle!), or strange alterations, like embedded stone or metal beads, whose presence gave the cocks in question a bumpy texture, a texture Beinion soon got to feel for himself when, somewhere in the orgy-melee, somebody untied him from the belt holding his wrists behind his back, suddenly freeing up two more pleasure-providing appendages. There were many colors, and many textures, and so many flavors that Beinion's tastebuds were left first tingling, and then numb as they were simply overwhelmed.

Half of those cocks, of course, were plunged right to the hilt in Beinion's butt a good half the time. The males were astonishingly creative, too, twisting his body this way, then that, adjusting the angles of their thrusts accordingly. Lucky for Beinion he was so flexible, or some of the more acrobatic positions might have made him strain something! Occasionally he'd hear Kohaku murmuring something in that wonderfully soothing, almost hypnotic voice, coaching this or that male on some new position or sexual technique, and Beinion got the impression that the kitsune had quite an exotic background in order to have learned so much about the intricacies of sex in all its many shades and flavors.

Somewhere in the back of it all, Beinion was aware of Smoke's presence. The big, dark grey wolf didn't participate in the gangbang, surprisingly enough. Instead, Beinion got the impression that the alpha male was standing guard. Was he keeping Beinion safe, making sure the other males didn't injure him? Whatever his intentions, he was a silent sentinel, arms folded in the background of all Beinion's senses, watchful and aware.

Whether he was being protected or not, however, at the end, Beinion was left lying on the sawdust-strewn floor, eyes heavy-lidded, lips slightly parted, a trickle of drool escaping one corner of his mouth. Everywhere ached, and he did mean everywhere, including places he'd never known existed before. There was literally no strength left in his body, no ability to move, not even to the slightest degree. Of course, that meant that he was utterly helpless to resist when one of Vyrran's mighty hands gripped his ankles, only to roughly drag him along the floor, sawdust sticking to his semen-splattered skin.

"We have claimed you for our own, slave," intoned the minotaur with a voice like the Bell of Doom that will sound at the end of all things, even as he lifted Beinion as though he weighed no more than a feather, and bent him over the bar. "You are marked on your soul now, but only metaphorically." As Beinion lay there, gasping for breath like a landed fish, hands pressed against the smooth-polished bartop, he managed to watch as the bronze-skinned bull went to the bench where he'd stowed his gear, and retrieve what appeared to be a branding iron, like one typically used on cattle by the humans (being a race who had never learned how to manage their livestock without such crude, visible marks of ownership), but much smaller. Before Beinion's eyes, the bull plunged the iron into the hottest part of the hearth where the kitchen staff prepared the bar's meals. "Now you will be marked in a very literal sense," continued the bull, the words sounding ritualistic as he lifted the iron, glowing a bright cherry red. "Now, you will never be free again."

What...what was he...? No, he couldn't possibly mean to...!

SSSSSSSSSSS!

"AAAIIIIIEEEEE!"

The searing stamp came down, and the last thing Beinion remembered was the sound and smell of his own sizzling flesh.

He smelled delicious.

*

When next Beinion opened his eyes, he saw Heraclitus seated by the side of his bed, a candle's flickering flame the only light in the room - his room, back at the mansion, and his bed as well - as well as the only thing that made the midnight black bull visible in the inky night. The minotaur's calm red eyes grew to sharp attention as Beinion stirred, one large hand going out, gently pressing the boy back onto the down-soft sheets. Not that he had to bother! As sore as Beinion felt all over, everywhere, he'd immediately changed his mind about moving as soon as he'd attempted it.

"No," Heraclitus began, staving off the questions before they could start, "it was not a dream. Yes, your bottom has been branded, on the left cheek. Yes, it is magical, a binding brand, such as we minotaurs used to keep our slaves docile and controlled, and to let us know where they were at all times...among other effects. No, your mother and siblings do not know anything about what happened to you. No, there is no permanent damage, the brand excepted: I have applied salves, some of a most potent nature, to your various hurts. Now, even the branded part of you feels perfectly smooth to the touch, as is natural for a young and healthy elven boy."

Beinion's eyes widened slightly, his cheeks and ears coloring as he realized the full import of what Heraclitus had said about his 'various parts.' That meant that his body servant had touched him...

"Thanks, Clitus," Beinion said, discovering his voice to be quite hoarse, requiring him to clear his throat several times before he could manage to talk properly, though even then he didn't exert himself too much; he had, after all, been through quite an ordeal. "How...?"

"Smoke and Kohaku," Heraclitus answered, once again anticipating the questions. "With White Eye's pack of gnolls working alongside the wolfweres to provide...interference, I believe he called it. So as to ensure that nobody noticed you being returned to your proper place. I carried you from the fields, where they left you, to your bedroom, so as to treat you in relative privacy. You have been asleep for at least eight hours, and it is now in the very early hours of the pre-dawn morning. I expect that you will want to sleep for many more."

"Thanks, Clitus," Beinion whispered, leaning up with all his strength and placing a soft, sweet kiss on the tip of that broad, black nose. It was surprisingly soft, almost like velvet. "Did...?"

"Yes," Heraclitus confirmed. "Kohaku filled me in on all the details of your afternoon, and evening, and early night. Truly, if you'd wanted to meander among the dregs of shantytown, you should have at least worn a cloak to provide a token mask for your identity. Such is the folly of youth and inexperience. Now word will spread of today's...events." Then the big bull sighed, rolling his shoulders, which Beinion only now noticed were bare, as Heraclitus was stripped to the waist, all the better to keep his servant's clothes clean while he sponge-bathed Beinion's naked body with soap and water and the various healing salves he'd used, magical and mundane. "It shouldn't matter too much, I think; the denizens of shantytown know better than to spread such rumors where they can be heard by anyone who matters. Your family, at least, are unlikely to ever hear of the event. That, for the time being, is all that matters. As for the rest," he placed a wide, gentle hand on Beinion's chest, caressing the boy's bare skin tenderly before cupping his chin, just for a moment. Then his hand moved to the soft blanket Beinion had somehow pushed to his waist, and pulled it up right to the boy's chin. "The rest will wait until the daybreak."

Rising to his feet, Heraclitus walked to the door with the noiseless tread of one who has had long years experience in the fine art of stealth. Only now did Beinion start to consider how his beloved body servant had learned to be so quiet: in the dungeon depths of a labyrinth, before he was dragged out into the light as part of the peace accords.

"I will inform your brother that you were practicing hard all the time you were gone, and have exhausted yourself," Heraclitus added when he reached the door. "You may wake when your body allows, dear Beinion."

"Thanks, Clitus," Beinion said softly, his eyes already closing as sleep made its healing demands. "For calling me by my name."

"Very good, sir," replied the minotaur, before slipping from the room, closing the door behind him.