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--1

Ember tugged back a swatch of vines and wriggled through, thorny feelers brushing harmlessly against his smooth fur. Going with the grain, they didn't dig in. He emerged onto a well-worn path and peered down one way, then the other, but what signs of life he saw were of little concern. Maybe food for the hunters, but to a scout, they were of no importance.

In a low, crouching posture, he snuffled the downtrodden weeds of the path, and what scents he perused made his ears splay flat - mark of elk bull, a blatant sign of the domineering clan violating the boundaries of Ember's tribe.

Standing, Ember started up the path, walking not home, but towards enemy territory. This kind of reconnaissance was fit more for a stout warrior than an explorer, but the tribe chief insisted it was a task that required a delicate touch. Ember's choice had been made for him.

The path led the gray wolf in a clearing, a small paradise amongst the dense, humid forest. In it, swatches of edible berries flourished and tree branches bearing swollen, ripe fruits hung low.

Ember eyed ripe pears, feeling pangs of hunger for a moment, but anxiety quelled the urge, for better or worse.

He checked the most likely entrances and exits to the clearing and saw exactly what he expected: hoof marks in the dirt, many of them. Most were small, he noted, and thus almost certainly made by doe.

Further investigation turned up the fact that most of the trees and berry bushes had been picked clean. Ember already knew that the herbivores encroached on his tribe's land like this often, but seeing their work again dredged up bitter feelings.

Ember stared down the path from which the hoof prints and came and went. He was pressed up close to a fruit-bearing tree, for it was in his nature to stay in camouflage. He watched it for a moment longer, waiting to see if another scavenger party might be coming for the last of the fruit and berries, but he saw nothing. Mustering up his nerve, he took to the path with a quick, light step, heading closer to herbivore territory.

Amidst the twists and turns of the path, he heard the rustling of leaves and brush crunching. At any other time, he might not have thought anything of it - in the forest, there were certainly a number of creatures who could make such noises - but anxiety was running high in him, so he crept in the thickets and stayed in the shadows.

After getting a few dozen yards away without sight of another creature, Ember squirmed out of the undergrowth and onto the path. He heard no more warning sounds, but he stayed anxious. It was the anticlimax, in itself, that was most upsetting.

Much further down the winding path, Ember heard the trudging of hooves beyond the twists and the thickets. Not foolish by any means, he scurried under the canopy of trees and grasses. Thorns brushed over his coat but none dug in and weeds tickled him but spurred no reaction; the advantage of a fair coat of fur, he thought.

On his belly, he waited many minutes in silence, finally spying the sources of the noise: gatherers of the herbivore tribe. It was no warrior party, however. Three does walked in a tight formation, empty makeshift baskets clutched in their hands. At their front, a muscular stag wielded a spear with a tip made of sharpened bone. Bringing up the rear was an immense stallion of brown coloration, lugging a club as thick as Ember's torso over his shoulder.

Ember knew they were headed back to the clearing. He also knew that the warriors would kill him in seconds if they found him, so he receded quickly into the foliage before the group stepped too close. As he squirmed, a big thorn dug against the grain of his fur and sunk into his hip. It would have liked to coax a yowl out of him, but he clapped his jaws shut and clenched his eyes tightly, shedding tears from the corners.

When the group was out of earshot and eyesight, Ember whimpered to himself as he shimmied out of his cover. Thorns had made tatters of the animal-hide loincloth he'd been wearing and he thought it lucky that only his bare hip, not more tender skin, had suffered the thorns. Not wanting to lose time on the gatherer party, he gingerly dug the barb out of his skin as he walked.

The slender wolf wasn't as stealthy as he thought himself, and he didn't make it much further. Surreally, he heard the air part to the sound of a weapon being slung, but before he could do a single thing with the information, his felt an explosion of pain. As the bolas lashed around his leg, Ember went from bewilderment, to shock, to fear, and then anger, all in the time it took for him to flop to the dirt.

Ember's first thought was one he tried to heed: escape. Thinking almost too fast for his paws to keep up, he grabbed at the knife tied to his thigh, freeing it of its wooden sheath. He hadn't even looked around to see where his foe was, he just twisted and tried to slash the cord that bound his legs.

Ember's foe wasn't having that, being most obvious when the wolf felt a heavy hand on his scruff to drag him up from the dirt. The wolf snarled, flailed, and tried to slash behind himself with the sharpened bone knife but the warrior snapped his other hand around Ember's wrist. With a tight squeeze, he forced the scout to disarm, and when the knife hit the dirt, he stomped it, crunching the bone blade under his hoof.

Still, Ember struggled, driven by fear, even as the bolas dangled from his legs like manacles. His helplessness was punctuated by the way he hung from his scruff like a naughty pup. A moment later, the stag dropped him into the dirt, where he landed in a small plume but he still tried to reach back and fumble with the bolas.

Rather calmly, the stag put his hoof down between the wolf's shoulder blades but resting nowhere in particular on the spine. "Stay put," the elk warned flawlessly in Ember's tongue, "unless you want your back broken."

Although he voiced his displeasure with a low growl, Ember at last did as he was told. There had been many a time when he'd crossed paths with the stag warriors, and he knew that he was no match for even their greenest fighter. Running was all he could ever do, and with that having failed, he feared what might come next.

The stag bent down to unwrap his bolas, and in doing so, he put enough pressure on Ember to make him wince. Finally, with his weapon curled up and lashed to his hip, the elk stepped off of Ember and then sharply rolled the wolf over with his hoof. This time, he didn't stand on the scout, but loomed over him all the same; the stag's imposing presence made an escape attempt seem unwise.

Seeing the stag at such a low angle let Ember see the great relief of his foe's thick genitals through his loincloth. A plump sheath and great, swollen balls made for an outline that dwarfed Ember's own endowment, but envy never occurred to the scout.

"You'd be wise to stay out of my peoples' land," the elk said curtly. His hands were on his hips, but not in any posture of complacency; the pose merely offering quick access to his bolas.

Ember sat up with hackles bristling and teeth bared, but the elk nudged his ribs with a hoof. Making a wiser choice, Ember dropped to his back again, letting out a huff. There was new rigidity in his body, tension of the muscles that suggested anything but total submission.

"Nothing about this land belongs to you or your tribe," Ember warned in a low tone. At the same time, he wondered just how the stag knew his tongue at all, even as clumsy as he was in it.

A tiny smirk split the elk's hard face. "Land belongs to the strongest power that wants it," he said patiently. His smirk grew to show a hint of his teeth. "Do you want to die for your land, or will you survive as a coward?"

Ember propped himself up with his elbows. To the combat-hungry stag, the showed promise as he chewed at his lip and balled his paws into fists, but fighting had never been in Ember's blood. He knew this well and it was the reason he was just a scout. Tempering himself with that fact, he settled silently back into the dirt.

"Just as I thought." The elk huffed and spat a particularly ugly, foreign word at the wolf. Ember guessed, from the sharp consonants, that it was some swear in the stag's own tongue.

Bristled and scowling, Ember growled to the deer in blunt contempt. With passive-aggression befitting a sneaky scout, he hissed, "Then if you're done with your false claims..."

This made the stag quirk an eyebrow and put on a sneer. It was an ugly, evil expression. "Snide thing. How will you use that sharp tongue when your jaws are broken?" he uttered.

Reaffirming that he was no fighter, Ember splayed back his ears, his expression wilting into great unease. He had no reason to believe the buck wouldn't make good on his threat and the dull ache from the bolas served as a reminder not to question these proud warriors.

Swiftly, the elk bent and clutched a handful of Ember's scruff. The wolf did yelp and thrash, but his flailing legs and snapping jaws were of little use when he dangled two feet off the ground. Baring his own teeth in an angry grimace, the warrior gave Ember a quick shake, and another when the wolf didn't immediately cease.

Bringing Ember in face-to-face, the stag menaced the scout with a nip on the nose. His flat teeth were better made for grazing than breaking skin, but the pinch was enough to make the scout squeak. "Do you know why I'm not going to kill and skin you, wolf?"

Though he wasn't particularly handy in Ember's language, the buck's words had a cold, deliberate edge that kept the scout wary. Slowly, Ember shook his head, his eyes never once leaving those of the stag. Neither creature blinked in that moment.

Scanning the treeline for a moment, the buck turned his eyes back on Ember and growled, "Because you'll make a better example than you would a pelt."

Whatever example the stag had in mind, Ember wasn't left to ponder it for long.

--4

Ember writhed, kneeling in bondage, lamenting his capture. His arms were tied around a suitable tree perhaps a foot in diameter, small enough that the wolf easily hugged it with a small amount of slack in his arms, but sturdy enough that his bones would break long before the tree would. Binding his wrists tightly was the thick cord of the bolas.

Behind the scout's back, the stag sneered, his actions unseen by the helpless gray wolf. Threats and lewd remarks crossed his mind, but silence seemed to be most intimidating of all. Reaching beneath the tanned hide of his loincloth, he palmed his sheath and then gave his swollen balls a squeeze. His musk was heavy; it was rutting season, and that alone may have saved the hapless wolf's life.

Though he couldn't see the buck, and dared not to tilt or twist to gaze upon him and show fear, Ember warily asked, "What are you going to do with me?"

But the stag said nothing. He let Ember's unease fester, and a few moments, the lupine began to squirm and grumble, his tail lashing with stress.

Unabashedly aroused by the sight of a helpless mongrel all to himself, the buck molested his sheath harder, groping the blunt flesh within. Softly he rumbled, a sound of pleasure, but sinister to Ember's twitching ears.

"Let me go," Ember groaned, tugging at the bonds, trying to drag the bolas' cord against the tree. No use there as his wrists were too tightly bound and all he did was scrape his own fur and skin. The pain and fear frenzied him, leaving him grunting and thrashing, further aggravating scraped flesh and tiring himself.

Enjoying Ember's thrashing with crude, cruel humor, the buck smiled. More than just rotten amusement, however, it seemed like the despair before the rape was foreplay to him, but that time had come and gone. He pulled his loincloth off, dropped the dusty, musk-scented thing into the path, and took hold of his shaft, by then bared to the humid air.

He thought it to be a shame that Ember couldn't see his manhood. Fourteen, maybe fifteen inches of dark, pink cock, so wide as to utterly ream a small thing like Ember in one hole or another. Palming it, stroking up from the base to the tip, the blunt glans briefly disappeared under the hood of his foreskin as it scrunched upwards. When he stroked down again and let that extra flesh relax, the thick tip was saturated in musky pre.

Stepping just behind the wolf, he wasted no time in taking what he wanted. One heavy hand clapped down on the panicking scout's jaw, gripping it tightly. With the other, he wielded his drooling cock. Grinning sadistically, he bent Ember's head back to a sheer angle, the pain and surprise enough that the wolf cried out.

Teeth grit, desires about to be met, the elk simply stuffed his cock into the wolf's yelping maw. The points of those carnivorous teeth pricked but dared not to bite. He found the teeth offset by a velvet tongue and a hot, humid maw, but that wasn't enough. Craving nothing short of utter domination, he rammed it home, blunt tip punching through the threshold of Ember's throat.

In the midst of this savage penetration, Ember made a weird, strangled cry between a whimper and a squeal. Mouth completely full, he huffed in sharp snatches through his nostrils yet even then, his air was dangerously throttled. Besides his nose being buried in the deer's coarsely-furred balls, the cervine meat filled out his throat and it made whatever breaths he managed to draw quite shallow.

Not a stupid creature but merely a cruel one, the stag knew that Ember couldn't breathe. Enthralled by this control, he stroked fondly over the massive bulge that his cock made in Ember's neck as he drip-fed the wolf a steady trickle of his musk-laden pre. Whatever affection he showed on Ember's taut neck was merely admiration for own penis.

Fidgeting and snuffling was of no use to the wolf but he did so instinctively. His vision was growing fuzzy, his inverted view of the buck's heavy scrotum losing definition, then color as the seconds went by. His throat was raw after being bullied open and his lungs were on fire, but all his pain was at the wayside for the buck's pleasure.

Playing Ember by intuition, the buck guessed when the wolf was about to pass out and slowly pulled back. In the course of a few seconds he felt a subtle rush of cool air across his balls as Ember finally inhaled. Not done tormenting the wolf by any means, he pushed his cock back down and cut off Ember's air again and he heard that odd squealing, the sound of total fear and desperation.

You won't die, little meat-eater, the stag thought to say but thought better of it. He ground into Ember's maw with a slow rhythm and held his captive's head back so far that it was quite a surprise the wolf's neck hadn't broken. At the apex of every grind the wolf was given a precious second or less to suck in air, but when the buck ground downward, he lingered and forced Ember to go ten or fifteen seconds at a time without a single gasp.

All this time, heady musk filled the wolf's lungs, dulling what remained of his senses. He wasn't aroused by the musk of a stag in rut, but the sharp smell stung his sinuses, making his eyes water and his stomach turn. Not helping matters was the constant dribble of elk pre, the semi-viscous fluid tickling his throat making him gulp at odd intervals with each one of these swallows a cause of great pleasure for the buck.

Agonizing moments came and went for Ember as the stag slowly ground in, eased back, and drove it home again to continue the cycle. As minutes went by, the buck's thrusts going in took on a more ponderous quality and his uncut flesh ground at alternately steeper and lower angles into the scout's throat. New sensations brought new pain to the wolf and he squandered his breath accordingly, every twinge making him flinch, making his heart race, and his body demanding air he couldn't provide.

Ember felt something hot and wet - he wondered if he was bloody before he realized he was crying. Tears streaked his inverted head, leaving his fur briny. Had the stag seen the tears, they would only have amused him.

No longer caring about the flesh wounds, the wolf tugged as harshly as he could against the tree, bloodying his wrists on the inside and rubbing them raw against the bolas on the outside. He tried to leverage the strength to bite now, but the warrior's fat, grinding cock kept his jaws open too wide for that and neither did he have the sheer energy he needed to chomp.

The wolf's pains and fears no longer took precedence for the buck. What had begun as rape driven partly by lust, partly by dominance had since skewed almost totally toward pure pleasure. It was so very obvious when he bared his flat teeth in a lewd grimace and narrowed his chocolate-hued eyes to slits. Snorting through his nostrils, feeling his balls growing taut and his cock throbbing so much more fully against the scout's throat, he knew release was close at hand.

Grinding in and yanking back was a much faster affair now. Driven to cum rather than torture, he fucked the wolf's snout purely as a matter of function and a means to get off. Casting his gaze downward, he saw Ember's slim neck bulging massively, tensing under its' own power whenever it was pulled so taut. When he eased back, that supple flesh relaxed only to painfully fill out again a second later. Seeing his influence over Ember's poor throat in action was enthralling to the domineering buck and it made him grin pridefully.

The wolf still cried, his tears not only of nasal agitation, but fear and humiliation. His injured wrists throbbed and stung against the tree and the heavy cord, his neck was bent so far back that he thought it might snap, and his throat - his poor, reamed throat - hurt the worst. As rapidly as the warrior thrusted, Ember had even fewer opportunities to breathe, and when he did, they were shallower than ever.

Clasping a hand onto the tree for support, the buck simply fucked Ember's maw, so frenzied as to lose all finesse, raping that sniveling scout like the brute he was. Every thrust of his hips pressed his balls - by then drawn up with little slack - against the wolf's nose. Finally, all of the senseless rape came to a head when the stag rammed it home one last time, loins pressing flush to Ember's snout.

Dense elk seed splattered down the scout's clenching, panicking throat in heavy ropes. One rope after another came, and the barrage seemed like it would never end, his heavy balls dumping everything they had down Ember's gullet.

Feeling that colossal release spurred both humility and hope in Ember, but now the stag was truly pushing the limits of his consciousness. Twenty seconds and soon, twenty five. Ember couldn't focus his eyes. Thirty seconds and light was fading. He felt a dense hand on his throat, by then wrapped so taut about the buck's member as to be a second skin. The stag kneaded Ember's throat selfishly and massaged his pulsing meat through it. Ember felt the pain of it, but it was dulling, fading, the sweet embrace of unconsciousness just taking hold.

Keeping Ember on the edge of consciousness where sensations were their most potent was the tiny amount of air he was managing to cull around the buck's idle penis. It was down to the fact that the stag's shaft was going flaccid, as it was apt to after climax. Ember knew only that he could suck air around that softening flesh and he attempted so eagerly, but in the process making his throat, so unaccustomed to being obstructed, squeeze down tightly.

Ember's reflexes provoked a vicious cycle, for the in-rut buck's cock grew stiffer at the pleasurable writhing of throat muscles. Several times, the hapless wolf found himself only spurring that colossal cock to stay where it was, maybe to even go another round, but he managed to control himself only after many minutes of such suffering until the stag finally went soft and his saliva-soaked cock slipped out of the wolf's mouth.

Perhaps fearing Ember's jaws with slack in them, the stag reaffirmed a grip on the wolf's lower jaw when his bulk no longer prevented biting. Despite Ember pulling and twitching, merely wanting freedom, he didn't let go of the scout until a second after he was out of that toothy maw.

At once, the wolf sat up straight and pressed flush to the tree, trembling and weeping. Not bent to such a painful angle, he breathed more easily, but he caught an errant strand of the stag's semen and choked on it, spurring a coughing fit that wracked his raw, pained throat and left him sobbing against the strong tree. By then, he didn't think that he could speak, and that was just as well; he didn't want to say anything to the stag. All he wanted was to wander back to his tribe, shame be damned.

The stag had other ideas. Whether he'd harbored them all this time or if Ember's velvet throat had installed them there in the throes of the rape, he would never tell the little wolf. Keeping a heavy hand on the wolf's scruff merely as a formality, he untied his bolas with the other. The ease with which he did so was insulting to Ember's bloody wrists.

Flush to the tree, Ember made no attempt to move, merely clasped his freed paws before his belly. It was his intention not to move until his rapist said otherwise. Instead, he felt the bolas crack against his skull, the blow none too hard, but enough that it made him flinch and reach for his head. The stag swung again, a little bit harder, and the bolas crashed into the back of Ember's head with a wet thump, not unlike a melon being dropped.

The wolf was unconscious before he hit the dirt. It was the last peaceful oblivion he'd know for a long time.