Myshel: Oriented (part III)
Myshel Part III: Oriented
The old wolf in the grey robe had an itch that he scratched constantly; the young Penyian skunk switched between one restless leg and the other constantly. They were just guests, and their dress, while fashionable, lacked gilt or glamor. This was their lucky night. The faction heads, those lords who represented the inner circle of the Brynti elite, all sat at their end of the table; to a man they wore heavy, polished boots and heavy robes with filagree and lace of the rarest metals. Gravity itself seemed to bend heavier around them, and the commoners, no small men themselves in their daily lives, seemed skittish and servile. Privately, Myshel scorned their toadying. The host of the dinner was none but the most powerful of Brynton's ruling class. Chiseled from obsidian, not a tuft of fur out of place, he loomed over the assembled from the biggest chair and cast a warm darkness across the table with his occasional restrained remarks and jabs. One huge paw patrolled the surface of a jeweled plate with a black eating dagger, keeping its denizens in line and occasionally culling one out to devour; the other stroked through Myshel's glittered, perfect purple hair, occasionally offering him a morsel, occasionally pushing his head down in gentle reproof if his ears rose into view or he tried to peer over the top of the table. Tonight, Myshel had eaten of the galaxy's finest, passed to him as treats by the hand by his owner. The hand of Knoskoli. Head of the largest faction on Brynton, Knoskali was suave and brilliant. Decisive. Evil. Myshel admired him and hated him, and hated that he admired him. He feared him more than anything in the universe, and yet he loved his shadow. Even as he gazed up at the big black coyote, watching him politely laugh at a commoner's bawdy joke, he felt himself tremble softly in response. He clung to each little kindness afforded to him by Knoskali, and each made him desperate for more. "Mishy." Myshel perked his black ears attentively, raising his head. Big blue eyes sought Knoskali's command. "Jorl in chair four, and don't spill this time," Knoskali spoke softly, for his ear alone. Myshel's ears flattened and he whined reluctantly. It was instinct, but instinct did not serve him well. Knoskali's brief glance became a sharp glare, green eyes piercing. "Mishy," he growled softly, leaning down to murmur into Myshel's ear. "You were doing very well tonight, but this is a bad slip." The coyote's attention had already lingered on his recalcitrant arctic fox pet far longer than formality allowed him to neglect the table, and Myshel squirmed, knowing he would be punished for every second. "Allow no more, or you'll fare that much worse. Now go." Dread filled his belly. He would be in for it, later-Knoskali's tolerance had become very fine. He quickly nodded assent, flinching away and sliding under the table on all fours. Silently he padded under the table, avoiding legs, until he arrived at Jorl's chair. He announced his presence by nosing the heavy-set wolf's right paw, as he'd been taught; almost immediately, the paw reached up and grabbed his hair firmly. The first few he'd serviced had been gentle, but Jorl was not. He wrenched Myshel's head around, stuffing it between his legs and opening his robes. Myshel bit his lip, but managed to keep silent; he pushed in and raised little black paws to fumble with the buttons on the faction head's trousers. Eventually he gained access, and was rewarded by a facefull of limp wolf penis as it tumbled free; Myshel sat back, momentarily overwhelmed by the heavy muskiness of Jorl's scent. He blinked watering eyes, but he had paused too long; big, desperate paws urgently pressed wolfcock into his muzzle, then firmly held his head there. A salty, nasty stream of liquid immediately filled the fox's mouth and throat. He fought down his gag reflex and closed his eyes. In and down. Alixa had taught him the trick of opening his throat, swallowing without tasting. In and down. If only it were that easy. He gagged down the foul liquid, holding his breath and trying not to lose it. After half a minute of rapid swallowing, the stream tapered off, then calmed to a dribble, then ceased completely. Myshel slowly drew back, feeling, as always, slightly ill; the taste and scent of Jorl's piss was appalling and inescapable. Sometimes it tasted like just warm water, but not in the wolf's case. He licked him dry and buttoned him back up with trembling paws, before slinking back to Knoskali's side. Myshel reemerged quietly, turning back around and gazing up to his owner just in time to receive a casual-but-sharp backhand to the muzzle. Tears filled his eyes, and he sucked in his breath, immediately tasting blood. The customary mint wasn't forthcoming; Knoskali must be extremely displeased with him. He was really in for it later. No more tidbits came from Knoskali's plate. Myshel sat in silence, his eyes on the floor, through the rest of the dessert and the aftercourse. Twice more he was dispatched. Twice more, he was given nothing on his return. As the evening wore on, and the pipes were lit, Knoskali's big black paw occasionally returned to his head to stroke through his hair, granting him some little solace. Perhaps he could reap complete forgiveness before the night was out. Lost in his reflections, he missed the lull that fell, and the arrival of the slave musicians who spread around the room with their instruments. "Mishy," Knoskali purred, stealing his attention, "It's time. Do my house proud." Myshel closed his eyes and nodded, fighting down the anxiety that sank into his core. He stood, then slowly rolled over his shoulder onto the now-cleared table, drawing himself up. The fox who drew himself to his 1.4-meter height and swept a bow before the assembled aristocracy was a study of form entirely unlike the Myshel who had come to Brynton as the son of a farmer. Trim and lithe, his groomed and tapered fur gave him definition and filled out his thin and undernourished frame. A tight black chastity belt held him flat between the legs, its job made easier by his lack of balls, and a complex, curving interlace of thin black braid ran down his legs and between his toes, then back up his torso, spiraling around to his collar. Each black paw was adorned with two silver ringlets per digit, linked back to silver anklets and bracelets, themselves wrought in silver which faded to an elegant black at precisely the point the black fur of his forearms and legs gave way to white at his knees and elbows. His fur pattern had been genetically altered since his capture; New black fur widened the natural black around his eyelids and lent his glimmering blue eyes more definition, every bit like black eyeliner. Black symmetrical patterns followed the natural curve of his cheek and formed a long taper to his eyelines, and silver studs ran up the left side of his left ear. Shimmering purple hair hung across his face, select strands braided and gathered into little crystalline beads. A collective murmur of appreciation arose from around the table; This was high art, fitting Knoskali's wealth and station, but remaining tasteful; the latest trends among the haute had carried a slightly garish bent, to those with a refined palette. Myshel spun, exquisitely slowly, pivoting on his toes, then slowly began to walk along the table's length. A slow beat softly accompanied his steps, and he began to move with it, across, then down, then lift... Every step had been beaten into him, every motion was precise as he spun away from the pain of memory, and yet he still managed to slowly become lost in the throb and motion. A stringed instrument spoke up in counterpoint, a new partner with whom he danced in counterpoise; slowly the dance began to pick up speed. Step and step, and more instruments joined. Leap and spin, closing his eyes, opening his eyes, sliding to his knees to mime touching (But NEVER TOUCH); the music, the pace increased over ten minutes, twenty minutes, frenetic and driving, until his paws were pounding the table with every triplet, sweat flinging from his nose and paws, blood from the cut on his lip artistically spattering his muzzlefur. The flow of the music spun him and sped him, until at last with a chaotic, polyrhythmic crescendo he and the music and the beat and the air in the room and the feeling and drive.. .. Elegantly ... ... Collapsed, and left him bowed on the table, one paw across his chest, the other atop his muzzle. Perfect. "Assembled, friends, I present to you my Mishy. My dancer, and my special pet." Knoskali's voice fell perfectly into the ensuing, somewhat stunned, silence. He raised his paw and snapped his finger. Myshel slowly rolled to his feet and walked to the edge of the table, motions deliberately slow and graceful though he was sweating copiously and his heart was racing. Perfect. Four slaves joined paws to make a stair for him as he alighted to Knoskali's side, barely touching them. I have never before in my life been perfect. The coyote stood, resting his paw on Myshel's shoulder and squeezing gently. "I will claim my dancer for you to see, and open the evening's entertainment." The applause that Myshel had been expecting at the completion of his dance rose to the rafters; it took the fox a few moments to realize the import of Knoskali's words, but when he did he gasped softly. The coyote's paw slid from his shoulder to his collar. His jaw quivered. Black lips parted, warm breath still puffing between them in soft pants. He glanced about, seeing a sea of hungry eyes devouring him. His heart raced, and his stomach cramped. Flight wasn't an option. Fight ... less so. All that was left was surrender. He looked down at his feet, closing his eyes. Surrender had become easier as time had worn on. Knoskali's paws lifted him by the tail and collar and placed him back on the table. "On your back, my dear pet," the coyote whispered softly into Myshel's ear, then swung up after. Knoskali undid the belt on his own heavy robes, swinging them open to reveal his thick, black length, as hard as Myshel ever remembered seeing it. Myshel rolled to his back, paws in the air in instinctive submission, his chest still heaving from his exertion. He trembled with anticipation/terror/shame and something else that he couldn't quite name to himself. It is my destiny to be his. It is all I am to be, and all I have left. He didn't have long to ponder the existential. One strap crossed his undertail, and that was made to be removed. It quickly was, and blackness was above him. He drew his legs up as he felt large, warm paw slide between and stroke gently across his rump. Tender. Knoskali took something from the table beside him and slid it between his lips; the coyote's big paw paw closed on his muzzle, forcing him to breathe through a long tube. He took a deep breath, then coughed and choked on some sort of smoke, feeling immediately slightly dizzy. The paw remained, however, forcing him to take a third breath, and a fourth, and a fifth. By then, the room spun and the lights had taken on a strange glow; a warmth spread within him. "For you, dear fox. Enough to dull the pain. Pain and punishment will come later." Knoskali bent over him, whispering softly into his ear; he nibbled gently, then took a long drag from whatever he had poisoned Myshel with. Then he pressed his muzzle to the fox's, locking lips in a loving kiss before exhaling the poisonous smoke deep into the fox's lungs. Myshel's soft panting was forced to slow to match Knoskali's slow, methodical breaths. After a long kiss, Knoskali drew back, resting a big paw on Myshel's chest. A bowl of some sort of lubricant oil was passed up. Looking around the table, Myshel saw eager, naked lust on many of the faces. He turned away, shuddering. "Just look at me, Mishy." Knoskali's paw was stroking some of the warmed lubricant between his legs. It was slick and sticky, and he quivered to have Knoskali rub it there; he even felt his back arch almost as if on its own, though he was forced to close his eyes against the extraneous motion of the lights. "Look at me. I want to see your pretty eyes, dearest," Knoskali murmured, for Myshel's ears only. "I want to see... mmn," the coyote shivered, moving his hips up closer and grinding the tip of his slickened shaft against the fox's undertail in active arousal. Myshel moaned softly, more in fear than from any physical sensation; that quickly changed as the coyote began to press more firmly, attempting to force his way inside. His head lolled to the side, but Knoskali quickly grabbed his muzzle with a firm paw and turned it back towards him. Fox paws scrabbled softly at the hardwood tabletop, and a fox's eyes widened as the coyote began to force his way within. The pain was significant, as always, but this time he found that he cared less. He actually felt himself arching in response to being filled, and while tears of pain began to wet his cheeks, to his wonder he even felt himself stir against the inside of his chastity belt. "L-look at me, Mishy. I-I am your reward for p-perfection," Knoskali hissed, and then hilted himself within by force. Holding his legs so firmly that his claws threatened to draw blood, the coyote dug deep, hungrily fighting to plow deeper than anatomy would allow. Each deep, grinding thrust forced a little squeal from Myshel's throat. After a few moments, Knoskali drew back, all the way out. Leaning forward to smother his screams with a firm, deep kiss, locking teeth and lips once more, Knoskali slammed back into the fox with all his might. Firmly, authoritatively, with a table full of people looking on, the little snowfox was thoroughly raped. As his pace increased, Knoskali began to lose his rhythm, and eventually he broke the kiss, sliding Myshel across the table with the force of his thrusts as he pounded away through his orgasm. Myshel struggled to breathe as the coyote collapsed down atop him, panting into his ear, still throbbing and spurting within. "I'm s-sorry, dear Mishy." Eventually, Knoskali rolled off of Myshel, to another hearty round of applause. He quickly recovered his equilibrium while Myshel was still reeling. Sorry? Myshel closed his legs, tucking his tail against a little bit of blood and a lot of coyote cum that wanted to leak out. He would likely be beaten if it dripped on the table, but he wasn't sure how to stand up and make an exit without spilling. The question was answered for him when he tried to rise. A big black paw held his chest down. "Ah, no dear, not quite." Myshel's eyes widened, and he sucked in a deep breath as the dozen people around the table stood and began to move towards him. No. Knoskali smiled fatuously down at Myshel, then leaned forward, nuzzling an ear. "Good boy. My beautiful Mishy. I promise I'll take you again in bed tonight, so you don't forget whose you are... but I'm going to enjoy watching this." That was for the crowd. He knew the difference now. Knoskali tugged Myshel's collar, bringing him to his knees and paws; guiding Myshel's muzzle to his crotch, he forced his pet to lick him clean. This is for me, to show me my place. Myshel was becoming well trained, and didn't even flinch when the coyote slid his spent cock into his muzzle and throat, then slowly drew out, tapped his nose with the tip, and pulled his robes shut once more. "To show my appreciation for my guests, I loan one of my dearest possessions," Knoskali said, making a grandiose gesture. "Use him as you wish." More tears of fear and frustration dampened Myshel's cheek. He wanted to hide, but could not. The slavemaster, a slave himself, was marshaling people into position around the fox by rank; the fox in question noticed that the lords and commoners were separated, and a faint hope welled within him that he might only have the nine lords to service. Perhaps, perhaps. He fixed wide, pleading eyes on Knoskali, who barely glanced back at him. The coyote had quickly become involved in a conversation with a very old faction head named Harrol, about whom Myshel had heard nothing good. Unsurprisingly, the coyote seemed discontent. In fact, Myshel was surprised to notice that he seemed angry and unhappy. Suddenly a big paw blocked his view. A familiar paw. Jorl looped his fingers into Myshel's hair and reeled him in once more, and his musk once more filled Myshel's consciousness. Significantly smaller than Knoskali, Jorl nevertheless filled his muzzle and throat, this time erect and eager. One paw gripped his hair, the other held below his chin, and the wolf began to softly hump, grinding against his tongue and throat. Someone else pressed up close under Myshel's tail; while instinct would normally have driven him to tuck it, he fought back the temptation, and before long he felt someone press past his weakened defenses and slide deep within him on a trail of his master's cum. What have I become? He closed his eyes in shame and went limp within the grasp of his tormentors as they began to use his body. His participation was hardly required, anyway, and certainly was not encouraged. Even the newly regained sense of shame, however, didn't last. He was nothing. He had become nothing. It was nothing to fight; it just was. Eventually, the two switched ends and continued. Neither was as large as Knoskali, and neither hurt nearly as much as the coyote. The next set was little different, flipping him to his back but taking him in almost exactly the same fashion. Bt the time the third set finished, his muzzlefur was sticky, and his rump was very full. Though they had both made him give them rimjobs, they had been the easiest of the lot, both small and both quick to finish; one of the two, a fox, had pulled out of Myshel's muzzle and then sat astride, pawing himself all over the lithe snowfox's chest. The last two were a mismatched set, one a skunk who seemed only to want to squat over the fox's muzzle for a long rimjob and a small-framed horse who nonetheless proved to be the thickest and longest of the night. Deep pain shot through him from the moment of entry, and he was a sopping mess by the time they had both finished. Uncreative, uninventive, and uninteresting, the lords had none of the sort of evil Knoskali possessed in the arts of lovemaking; their own brand of evil was nothing by contrast, and at the end of the night, only the one Knoskali had been talking to remained. Everyone had returned to their seats, and a slightly confused murmuring had begun, with people glancing back and forth between Knoskali and Harrol, who seemed to be staring each other down across the table. Confusion reigned among the slaves, as well; the slavemaster, unsure what to do, had another round of drinks poured for the assembled. Clearly, Harrol was supposed to take his piece and the evening was supposed to continue, or conclude, or something. Myshel was afraid to move for fear of doing wrong, but he hurt badly, and his rear was full to bursting. People didn't seem in the least interested in or placated by the drinks passed around, and the mood became uncomfortable. At length, Knoskali stood. "In all the years of our charter, we have had rules about our hospitality. You, my guests, have witnessed the common ones filled tonight. A gathering of the faction heads has a certain protocol to it." Heads nodded. "Well, there are other rules. Old rules. Rules that are still in effect. One of those rules, Lord Harrol has invoked." There were murmurs about, but most attention remained fixed on Knoskali. Myshel shifted nervously. His master was pissed. "Harrol, I give you one last chance to redact your request. If you follow through with it, I promise that there will be consequences." Harrol stood and smirked, tossing his jeweled goblet onto the table. "Knoskali, your arrogance and insults come with consequences themselves," he mocked. "This is one. I request elechen." The black coyote closed his eyes and trembled; Myshel was shocked to notice moistness in the corners of his eyes. His trembling was not from fear. Knoskali weeps? The coyote opened his eyes, then bent and whispered something to the slavemaster, who looked stunned. He glanced at Myshel, then glanced around almost wildly for a moment before dashing off. "Elechen, then. Are you, my guests, familiar with it?" Knoskali's honeyed voice was strained, masking great tension. Only confused glances returned to the head of the table. Myshel curled, resting his nose in his tail. Whatever had happened, he wished he were somewhere less conspicuous. Harrol was staring at him. Slaves returned and set to work on something. Knoskali's paws slid to Myshel's sides, and lifted him from the table. Finally. Knoskali's paws did not release him. One slid to his muzzle and began stroking softly; he gently pulled Myshel to his chest, holding his head against. Confused, Myshel closed his eyes and gingerly snuggled in. The coyote's midnight blue robe was becoming stained from Myshel's contaminated fur. He wouldn't like that. "My guests, you get to witness the joys of Elechen. The assertion of equality between lords; the assertion that none outside the elite were equals, and that no one lord was more equal." Myshel swiveled his ears back at noises behind him, but Knoskali held him and kept him from turning. "Slavemaster," Knoskali's voice was flat, grim and angry. "Prepare my dear dancer, my Mishy." Myshel turned confused eyes up to him as the slavemaster's paws slid around him and began to drag him away. Green eyes met blue, full of pain. Myshel's lips parted in question, but Knoskali shook his head and turned away with a grim finality. The slavemaster took him to the corner, binding his paws behind him. Paws forced his legs apart and a diaper was slid between and taped up extensively. He could feel eyes on him, but they held as much confusion as his own inarticulable thoughts. Silence reigned, broken only by the sound of slaves working. Suddenly, gasps broke out behind him. "Harrol, what have you done?" "You miserable old dog." Myshel was brought back, his graceful stride replaced with an ungainly waddle around layers of padding, already moist with seed. Someone had hung a rope from a rafter, over the center of the table, upon which Myshel was placed once more. The expressions turned to him now were far more alarming than those before, and Knoskali would not meet his eye. "Lord Harrol, I will honor your request for Elechen. My dancer will die for custom." Myshel's eyes widened, and his breath stopped. He couldn't move his limbs, frozen in terror. "However, know that at this moment we are at war with house Elara. You are our prisoner. You and the assembled will watch the process of Elechen. Guards!" Harrol shook in rage as he was surrounded. "_War! You cannot declare war on house Elara! This is unacceptable!" "No, Harrol," Knoskali smiled mirthlessly. "It is customary. If you'd studied the charter you supposedly follow, or if you had read deeper into the old laws, or in fact if you'd done anything other than try to find a part of our custom with which you could hurt me, you would have realized that." Harrol's eyes widened. "I..." he swallowed nervously. "Fine, I redact! I redact! Damn you, Knoskali." Myshel trembled with relief, sucking in a little breath. A sigh echoed around the table. Knoskali leaned forward across the table, over Myshel, his paws planted flat. "_No, Harrol. Have the courage of your convictions. We have declared our mutual intent. I will see your house razed, your people annihilated, to a man. I will see your family raped and slaughtered, your children sold into slavery. I will devour your firstborn myself, and destroy everything your family has ever been. No, Harrol," Knoskali seethed, "You may not redact, for the damage is done. To go otherwise would go against custom." Silence gripped the room. "Knoskali," Lord Breth appealed, "We've endured a century of peace, and we have the greatest profits in the known systems." "I gave the chance to redact. I offered an opportunity to put aside spite, and I warned of the consequences. My offer was rejected. I do not offer again. Master at arms, Harrol will be seated." Harrol was forced into his seat, his own eyes wide. Jorl placed a trembling paw on the table in entreaty. "Lord Knoskali," he breathed. "May we retire while the execution takes place? My heart..." "... Jorl, do you feel for my dancer?" "Yes, Lord Knoskali," he bowed, closing his eyes. "It is a fraction of what I feel, if that. I will remain, as must you. Myshel," he barked, angry. Myshel's ears trembled and he stared up at the coyote. "Myshel, this is the end of us. I will not ask you to forgive me, for what I do is unforgivable." "M..master?" Myshel breathed. Have I failed you? He could not ask. Knoskali climbed onto the table once more, lord of war and death, with intent. He reached a paw down and guided Myshel to his feet, with surprising gentleness. The rope dangled overhead, and Myshel stared at it; it was thick and braided, and its end was fashioned into a loop. The coyote knelt before him. "Mishy," he murmured, loud enough for the assembled to hear. "I love you. I never thought I would fall in love with anyone, least of all a simple slave, but I did. A dancer was what I saw in you, and a dancer you will remain in my heart forever, and I'll never take another." Myshel opened his mouth, then closed it. There was nothing to say. Panic shot through him, and his knees wobbled. Knoskali kept him standing, and wouldn't let him fall. Drawing the rope down, he slid the loop around the fox's neck and drew it tight. Myshel rose to his tiptoes with a grimace as the rope tightened beneath his jaw. Please, a trick, please... "No other will kill my beloved dancer," Knoskali rumbled, and pulled up on the rope. Myshel's ears flattened and he tried to scream as he was drawn up to the level of Knoskali's chest, but all that came from his open rictus muzzle was a little grunt. His legs kicked and flailed against the coyote, who tossed the line to his slavemaster; it was tied off, and Myshel felt the last of his hope and will collapse. The hissing in his ears became a loud ringing, and his vision greyed around the edges. His tongue was so stiff it hurt, and his tail tucked down against his rump. He barely felt the warmth as he lost bladder control, filling his diaper as his legs kicked and flailed. Pain built within his face and lungs, saliva dripping from his graceful black lips as he struggled in autonomous desperation against the unimpeachable force of gravity. He felt Knoskali behind him, pulling him to his chest, but he did not lift him free, did not pull him down. Knoskali merely held his dancer as the life drained from him. Myshel could no longer see. His limbs still moved, kicked, writhed, and his body was afire, and his ears rang worse than ever, but he began to drift. Suddenly, there was a bright flash. He was a-wing, above fields of green; slate rose to the heavens in broad mountains as his wings beat against the rising air. He banked left, into the wind. There would be lift there. There was! He rose, circling to stay within the rising air. It had been so very long. Something was wrong. The hills began to melt, and the world began to slide into whirls of color, then carelessly descend to an oblivion of noise. Then silence. Knoskali held his dancer until his last motions ceased, then let him hang, gesturing for the line to be released. He lay Myshel's body on the table, and placed a soft kiss on the fox's mostly-shut eye, brushing away the tears there. "Would you like to examine the body to verify that your right of elechen has been fulfilled?" Knoskali's voice was harsh, as he stared across at Harrol. Several of the Lords wept openly. Some looked sick. The commoners were reduced to bystanders, frozen in terror. Harrol stared on in abject terror. "Knoskali, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-" "Your mouth lies. This was your show. Was it what you had in mind? Slavemaster Drell, take my dancer to Cheran." The husky lifted the light frame into his arms and hurried him away. Knoskali's gaze followed until he had turned the last corner. "Master at arms, take Harrol to the a cell and weld him in. He will never leave." Knoskali glared around the table as Harrol was hauled away under protest. "My guests, if anyone questions my exact legal right under our charter to do everything that's happened tonight, I will have my solicitors send you the exact laws and precedent. I recognize that you've all come a long way, but due to the current state of war, I'm afraid that you will need to find lodging away from my headquarters, if you choose not to return home." The abrupt shift from merriment to the horror of a cold, stark reality left the faction heads in a state of shock. Each stopped briefly to pay respects to Knoskali's fallen dancer, and declare support in the war against Harrol. Knoskali accepted their pledges silently as the rusty gears of his war machine began to turn. His eyes were dark and unreadable beneath his brow, and none stayed long. Patience.