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Amethyst's Kinky Christmas

Impact Play

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Soldier's Humiliation

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Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)

Commissioned by Adagiodajiang

The cat grunted, forced down to his knees before the enemy lines, clustered in the barracks and yet still maintaining some kind of formation as if they were expecting to march out into battle once more. A scar lay over his left eye from earlier wars fought but a samurai like Miller knew that the real battle lay within.

The sky slashed through with blood red, though he could not remember whether it was the eve or the dawn of the day. Either was an ill-omen in his line of duty. Yet the ranks of his soldiers had fallen, one by one, scattering and retreating before an enemy that was too powerful for even them.

Miller breathed slowly and evenly, though that did not soften the tightness in his chest in the slightest. He tipped forward, imagining himself somewhere else, but before the enemy barracks and the tribes, the flashing swords, he knew when he didn't have a chance.

Some of his own that had been captured stood behind him, though they were bound, forced to their knees also. He knew he could do no more for them and his cheeks burned with shame, ears sliding back. To be a feline samurai reduced to nothing more than a prisoner was the greatest humiliation of all.

At least, that was what Miller thought.

"You thought you could outsmart us."

The bull sneered down at him, turning his head to spit, though Miller only counted himself fortunate that the bull had not spat on him. That would have been something crude and something demeaning that he would have expected from their enemy lines, though he did not know whether the bull was a sergeant or some other rank of soldier. In the grand scheme of things, paws roughly tied behind his back, the feline knew that it did not matter.

He didn't have to say anything, his green eyes downcast, though not out of respect. That seemed to frustrate the bull more than ever, his white horns pointing to the sky as he snorted and scraped a hoof through the dirt, eyes blazing with ill-intent.

"Small minded warrior... Where is your pride now? Where is your sword?"

He grabbed Miller by the scruff of his neck and hurled him down over a rock that could have been used for seating at some point, hauling and hefting him bodily while the cat yowled. Yet there was nothing that the cat could do to get out of such a position, blood roaring in his ears, fear rising, nothing that he did quelling it to an extent that even he could pretend that it did not exist.

The warriors roared, bellowing for his blood. He feared the end had come, a dull bellow rearing to a buzz of white noise in his head. Miller gasped, panting hotly, sweating so much that it was a wonder that it did not reek even through his armour.

His outer armour was stripped from him, the layered plates rippling over his shoulders, though the recognition of his strength would no longer be borne through them. The under layers were thick and yet moulded to his body, damp in places with sweat, Miller's chest heaving with the need to drag more air into his lungs. The bull shoved his head down, grinding him further over the rock, eyes glittering with evil intent.

"See how far he has fallen! This is your leader! Reduced - to this!"

He thought that was the end for him but Miller jolted as pain seared through him. He didn't know what had happened at first, preparing for the end and a flash of a sword, but the pain radiated out from his backside, pounding through his body. Again, the bull's paw descended, slapping his haplessly raised backside, his tied paws nowhere near enough to get the bull away. A knee pressed to the back of his neck, forcing his head down and in place, his arse on show to all - his own soldiers and those that had opposed him. Everyone was there to see his debasement, jeers rolling forth, though he didn't want to think about what those that had followed him, as their leader, were thinking as he was spanked publicly.

That was not something for even cubs anymore, treating them better than they had in older years, times long gone by. The cat clenched his jaw, trying not to scream, trying not to yowl out anything at all, a howl broken behind his lips. No, no! He shouldn't cry out, shouldn't break before them, had to maintain his composure, shaking in place, his tail clamping down. Of course, the bull, whose name he didn't even know, did not care for that, crudely shoving his tail up and out of the way, ensuring that there was nothing at all that he could do to protect himself.

"See how he falls? This is his fate, the fate of all of you! Our slaves, our prisoners! You shall never see the light of day in a fate that you will want ever again!"

Miller groaned, a cry breaking his lips ever so slightly, twisting his head back and forth, striving to contain his humiliation, the burning embarrassment coursing through him. His cheeks flared up with warmth, heat creeping down his neck, though he could not even imagine himself somewhere else, the pain keeping him there and present, where he needed to be.

At least, under the bull's paw. The burly, muscled bovine yanked his head up so that he was forced to look over all those jeering and shouting, lines and lines of soldiers flooding forth. They had fought him in battle, as one entity, and yet all that they wanted to see right there and then was the bull's paw raining down more and more pain over his backside, beating him within an inch of his life.

Lines of pain blossomed where the bull struck, though the beast seemed to be cruel enough to ensure that he layered his paw more or less evenly over the cat's buttocks. He laughed out loud as he brought his paw down again and again, Miller shaking his head, tension stiffening down his back, his spine trying to arch and then round.

Anything, something, anything at all. He had to hold on, had to not cry out, had to do something, do anything. It was all he was there for, the final quest in his heart and soul: he had to show his troops that he was a leader, still, that they could be proud of.

Yet that was harder than ever as his trousers were yanked down, his bare backside exposed, a yowl of humiliation breaking his lips. He could not hold it back for a single moment more as the jeers rose, curses pouring over him, mockery flowing as swiftly as the blows rained down and down. He had to take it all, trying to close his eyes against the moisture that prickled there, for none of it was fitting of a leader like him.

"Scum!"

"Weakling!"

"Oppressor!"

The oppressed were just who Miller had been fighting for, of course, though they didn't see it that way - no one that was not on his side would have seen it that way. But that was just why he'd had to stay true to his path, chest shuddering, raking in great, big gulps of breath where he could, though that only filled his lungs for a scream that he _had_to swallow.

The pain. Oh... Oh, he could not have said which was worse, the pain or the humiliation, the burn all the same either way. Miller ground his teeth together, nostrils streaming, his body too hot, moisture escaping him n any way possible as he sweated. The bull groped between spanks, his hoof-like fingertips digging cruelly into the cat's bare cheeks, raking and snatching up what power he could, for he had to have been taking it from one who had already had the power stripped from him because he could not be powerful on his own. That was all that Miller could cling onto as he gasped and tore at breath, his tail forced up, pain searing through, a lingering burn that spread and spread as if it could not be contained.

"Fallen..."

"Useless..."

"Prisoner."

Their words rained down, all in a blur of sensation, Miller's blood pounding, pulsing to his backside in roaring heat. He didn't want to think too deeply about what was happening to him but just how those cruel fingertips dragged over his backside did not help in the slightest, a whimper breaking his lips, dragging him down.

"You can't hold out."

The bull smirked, pinching his ear, forcing a shriek from his lips against Miller's will.

"Everyone breaks before me."

And, to him, Miller would be just the same as those broken and beaten prisoners of his before that had trodden all the same paths. There was no difference, to him, in any of them, everyone blurring into one and the same, but that did not stop him from taking a cruel, dark pleasure from humiliating Miller publicly. The cat's rear cheeks jiggled with every slap of his paw raining down pain on those rounds of flesh, so useless when the glutes were not allowed to tense, propelling the samurai leader across the battlefield. There was something satisfying, to him, to bring the pain, to see him crying, cheeks moist with tears, even if the cat's humiliation there was not one that everyone around would see.

That was fine. As long as it burned into Miller's heart and soul for the rest of his sorry life, he cared not in the slightest.

Miller screamed, the pain raking through him, sinking its claws deep into his slow. He tried to clench his teeth, tried to shake his head, but the fear of what came next locked into him, his tail thrust up, everything hurting. From the root of his tail to the burn in his rump, there was no escape from it, even bearing down more heavily into the rough scrape of the rock as his body became more and more like lead.

He'd thought he could be the strongest one of them all. He'd thought that he would not break before his troops. He never thought he'd be in that position before them.

Spanked and spanked, there was no evading it, forced to accept it, gasping and panting, his tongue fluttering with every breath that he dragged, fervently, into his lungs. His skin prickled with cold drips of sweat, head spinning, the bloody sky above burned into his mind forever. He'd never forget how low he'd fallen, muscles contracting, hind paws scrabbling and scraping even in his boots, fighting and writhing, all to no avail.

That was what it was to be captured. That was what it was to be humiliated. That was what it was to be brought down to the level of the enemy's boot while they could do whatever they liked to him for however long they liked. That was proven in the reactions of his body, how the blood rushed to the wrong places, confused, his shaft, as horrified as he was, rising against his will.

And everyone saw.

He closed his eyes against the world. That didn't stop the pain. The bull spat on his paw just for an added extra dose of humiliation, though the smear of moisture into the feline's backside was the least of it all. The jeers died off to whispers and hisses, the booing and snarls of the restless enemy rising around him like the cries of a wild beast that sought something more, seeking blood. He would not die, however, not when they had a far better use for him in making an example out of him, his backside burning, welts surely rising, though he would not see the true extent of his abuse until he next found himself alone. And that would take a while.

"Bow before us, cur."

But he would not. Pride was stubborn. The bull more so.

Even after the blows had stopped, the burning sting and lash remained.

It always would.