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Warning: 18+ Naughty Stuff

The warm air blowing through the barracks of Ansthoss caused a line of irritated, but very quiet groans throughout the fort. There were rows after rows of young equine studs standing there, trying to remain absolutely still and at attention. It was a ritual that the soldiers of their people had to endure for a very long time. The one soldier named Jon had to refrain from scratching his thighs, his body still new, not a scar on him. Amongst his people, there was a difference between farm muscle...and soldier muscle. He had farm muscle. The officer walking among the lines...he had soldier muscles, lots of them.

The officer stopped, tilting his head at the seven month recruit two rows ahead of Jon. Jon could see the recruit flicking his tail. Immediately he thought, "Don't flick your tail!" It was a cruel humiliation as the officer held out his dark hand, pointing at the recruit, "You!" Jon saw the recruit's knee buckle with shame, but very slowly; he hobbled to the gates that lead to the female's quarters.

Stroking over the brown fur on his thigh, Jon took in a deep breath as one of the officer's passed behind him. His hands became solid, his hoof tips digging into his sides. He used the pain to restrain himself. "No movements! None whatsoever!" he thought to himself. When the officer was well past him, he sighed, lowering his ear from their standing point.

Then there was another warm breeze, just as the officer further towards the front stopped in front of a very wily looking male who probably should have been a scout rather than a grunt. As the officer's gaze fell upon him, he immediately lost all focus. As if the gods were breaking him themselves, he started to flap his lips and he gripped his thighs as his pride started to swell in its sheath. Snorting a warm gust with a look of agitation and disappointment, the officer pointed towards the female quarters, "You! Go!" The male gasped and shook his head, a look of fear in his eyes. "GO!" Again, the grunt refused. Stepping back and pointing at the male, "Take him and throw him out! Soldier, you are no longer a man of the royal army! You have disgraced yourself and you will be cast out!"

Two well developed studs bound in casual light armor approached the male and pulled him out of line like an undisciplined child. His hooves dug into the mud in front of him as he struggled, realizing too late that he should have performed the tasks ordered of him. To be tossed out of the military was a disgrace not only on one's self, but one's entire family. As he was dragged past the wooden gate of the fort, he was cast into the mud outside. Before he could stand, they immediately began to kick and beat him. He yelped and whimpered, desperately trying to block their repeated attempts to bruise him. When they were done and he was covered in hoof slashes and bruises, they lifted him to his hooves and shoved him towards the nearest road. Bruised, disgraced, and naked, he wandered off, dragging himself. He had a long walk to think about what had happened to him because the nearest town was a great deal ways away.

Jon suddenly jumped when he felt a gasp of warm breath hit his shoulder. The whole time he was watching the disgrace of the other male, the grunt was caught off guard by the officer that had snuck up on him. The sweat was building up on Jon's forehead; he didn't have time to restrain himself. He could feel the mighty stud's girth grinding against his arse through the male's leather codpiece.

His heart pounded in his chest, the knot tied in his throat. Hands shaking, Jon desperately tried not to look. But after endless moments of the officer gazing over his shoulder, he couldn't help but cock his head, his ear twitching, and his tail flicked. His grunt was caught in his throat and he gagged on his own tongue as he was pushed out of line and directed towards the female's quarters. Knowing his duties, Jon stood up tall, his shoulders back, chest out as he trudged through the mud. He would not disrespect himself or his family by being sluggish. Placing his big hand on the wet, wooden door, he would go to his destiny with pride.

As he pushed through the door, Jon was instantly welcomed by a female officer, her hands crossed behind her back. Jon brought his right hand to his left shoulder, saluting the solid, busty figure. She had an odd gaze of both authority, yet joy, like she was hiding some family pride she had for the stallion. "Welcome soldier, I suppose you know what is expected of and what you are to sacrifice in the upcoming days?"

Standing as to show his pride once more, he nodded, "Yes, M'am."

She smiled, impressed by his demeanor, "Very well. Stand at ease, Jon. You will now choose your barer." As she swayed her arm towards the last door at the end of a long row of wooden doors, a row of strong looking, trained women showed themselves. There were a total of five in all, but only one caught his eye immediately. There, standing second from the right was Baerta the blacksmith!

"Oh gods...Baerta the blacksmith!" Jon thought to himself. He had to restrain himself, even far better than outside in the yard as he gazed upon the strong beauty without humiliating himself. Baerta had mostly chocolate brown body fur covering every feminine muscle except for that which covered her snout and eyes. She kept her brown mane short so that it did not singe in the fires. It was said that the very fires of her forge burned the ash into her fur, turning it a grayish white. It was also said that it was very rare for Baerta to look at a male without a distasteful gaze. Of course, the chance that she even appeared in the line was rare, for it was a female's choice whether to become a barer. This was most certainly a gift from the gods to Jon. When he was sure he was calm, the grunt moved forward, standing only a few feet from the smith mare and respectfully bowed his head and kept it low as he said as manly as possible, "I choose Baerta the blacksmith to be my barer."