FSE

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Beast-folk. The enigmatic animal people of the wilds. I had been fascinated by their kind for as long as I can remember. Growing up I recall documentaries produced by the few fortunate souls to spend time with them. Schoolbooks riddled with drawings of stick men with funny ears. College did nothing to temper my enthusiasm — it only burned brighter than the brightest star as the years progressed. My first postgraduate work was conducted on the sociopolitical structures of their communities. My second: their speciation. My third did not yet have form, but its primordial ancestor swam the pathways of my grey matter, eager to evolve and shape itself to my long-standing desire. Was it an obsession? I suppose.

Is it still an obsession of mine?

Regrettably (or not)...yes, it is...

When I got the opportunity to make them my job, I leapt at the chance. A self-funded research trip into the remote wilderness, where no human had set foot in years...it was a dream come true.

I travelled far out into the corners of the world, tracking their migrations and hunting parties. I'd come across a tribe of cheetah-like beast-folk a few days ago. Preparation took over. I'd hid my means of transportation, covered my footprints, and doused my campfire — all to conceal myself from their acute senses. Things went smoothly. By day nine I had completed a nifty crow's nest hanging from a sturdy bush willow, wreathed in camouflage so that those who pry were found wanting. I only left the tree to resupply with water and relieve myself. Thought I was being smart, but it seems I had been noticed.

Heading to the watering hole on day eleven, I was captured.

* * *

The chief's son was the only one to visit me. He enters now, curiosity drawing him in, to see the strange being his tribesmen captured. His light build was either a sign of his age, or ability. From what scant information I'd been able to glean from tribal chatter he was young. I'd say barely a teen. Yet his fellows spoke of him with such...reverence. To be that age, and so respected. Such power and responsibility already in the hands of a mere teenager. That was their way, I suppose. His father ruled, and he would too one day.

He approaches.

“Namaxo."

Namaxo. If I remember correctly, that was a greeting. An informal one. I think I can piece together his words...

[Creature,] he speaks again, [father told me about you. The strange ape from the Far-Away.]

I avert my gaze. I know eye contact is a sign of equals among them, so best not to anger any of my captors.

[Look at me.]

Okay, seems he wants me to look.

I raise my head. My eyes follow the floor in front of me, travelling along the dusty matting. The cheetah's feet come into view. Sturdy foot-paws for a being adept at racing. I trace his humanoid figure. His legs hide powerful, bunched muscles. I've seen his kind dash. They are faster than any living thing I've seen — it was how they caught me, running me down after I was spotted. He wears an unassuming cloth wrap, in plain colours, around his waist (I don't know if their culture holds any significance for clothing). His torso is slim, but taut, making his build more svelte than skinny. Same for his arms, leaner than some of the other beast-folk in his tribe. I can tell this makes him fast, and he is proud of that fact. My eyes fix upon his grinning feline face. Unkempt tufts of hair marred his otherwise smooth head-fur, almost deliberately. Great, this kid had attitude...

[Strange,] he mutters, his own eyes darting about my form. Well, seems he is admiring me as I admire him.

He bites his lip. Concentrating. Thinking. His face scrunches up.

[You are smooth. No, bald!] he laughs, placing his hands on his hips and adopting a more rested pose.

I try not to say anything.

[Where is your fur? Are you diseased? Did you shave it off?]

He comes closer. His orange fur decorated with black spots dances before me, undulating with the ebb and flow of motion over his body's surface area; a sea of mesmerising colour. I lean back slightly, creating more distance between us.

Suddenly he grasps at me, claws hitching on my clothes. He snarls and tears them away. My shirt is destroyed. He returns to looking, not touching. The young cheetah paces the tent, always staring. My captor's mood swings with the same frequency as his tail, swaying with each and every turn.

[Apes are known for their primitive ways. Uncouth, uncultured animals.]

If I heard him correctly, he's now insulting me. What a trip this turned out to be!

He stops. [But they are easy to train.]

He moves even closer. His body is mere inches from mine — my vision obscured by his belly. The drafts of air escaping my lungs tickles the fine fur on his stomach. He seems oblivious to the breeze.

[Stand.]

I don't respond.

[Stand!] he growls, grabbing my hair with his paw and tugging harshly. I rise quickly to avoid the pain.

At full height, I appear to be a head taller than him. One-and-a-half heads more like. This cows him somewhat. I think he underestimated my size. I watch him for any change in mood. I've studied enough about them to know basic expressions (it's the positioning of the ears that gives the game away).

Yep...there we go...his face brightens. He sees me as a challenge. A toy to master.

He places his paws on my exposed chest. There are a couple of places where his claws nicked my skin. They bleed. His pads press against me. Rubbing his paws over me I see his eyes burn with...something. Something I'm not sure I like.

[You shall obey.]

He licks his lips. The cheetah turns to the flap of the tent and calls out. An attendant, of similar size and stature, enters. He takes one look at me and turns white. His master has no such compunctions. He talks the ear off the servant (Slave? Lesser tribesman? I'm not sure of the terms they would use). As promptly as he'd arrived the other cheetah leaves. Now it's back to me and the...kid.

My mind races. I could escape. Well, conceivably. I won't win in a chase scenario, but there may be other means of flight. I just have to bide my time. No use bolting when I have no bearings.

The attendant returns, and the attention of my admirer is again drawn away. This time, two brutish males follow. Very strong. Very muscular. It's kinda comical how different they look compared to the slender cheetah-folk I'd seen. These guys weren't built for speed. He needs their muscle — it seems — to help control me.

[Take him.] They grip my arms tightly, with crushing force. I let out a meek gasp. The chief's son turns to face me, then he glances at the guards. They loosen their hold on me. My sigh of relief is all the signal he requires to proceed.

* * *

The tribal settlement is nestled in a small valley, shielded from the heat by light brush. Beyond that, the vast savannah and scrubland stretching out for miles and miles lead to a sudden realisation: I've no idea where my Jeep or my camp is. As I'm escorted from the tent I seize the moment to scan my surroundings, gazing far into the distance. I cannot see anything that might tell me where I am. No Jeep — no hope of escape.

“Shit," I blurted out.

The young cheetah's head snaps around. A clawed hand slashes the side of my cheek. 'Speak when you are spoken to' was the unstated meaning behind the attack. Stings like hell but it's not bleeding. And my scratches from earlier are healing.

He leads us on. His brutes pull me forward, my legs scrabbling to keep up. I watch him walk ahead, his body swaying with elitist confidence. We pass a number of tents, their occupants watching with interest as the tribe's latest capture is dragged behind their prince.

As we walk we come upon the chief, flanked by two spear-armed guards. His son approaches to explain himself, and I am given the opportunity to eavesdrop.

[Father.] His sire is my height, and has a weightier build. I should know. He was the one who wrestled me to the ground after the hunting party pounced. His son didn't compare, least not right now, but that would obviously change as he grew. [Father,] the son repeats, [it is good to see you.]

He looks pissed. [What is this?]

[I am taking the ape—]

[Who said you could interfere?] he roars, loud enough for the whole tribe to hear. I'm close to exhausting the extent of my tribal vocabulary, but I can piece together context cues to know the gist of what's going down.

[I thought I would take him—]

[You had no right to even set foot inside that tent!]

[But father! No-one else would dare do anything. I want him.]

His father snarls. He steps forward, towering over his son. [That is not your call to make. I decide the fate of prisoners.]

The young cheetah becomes more timid, and speaks softly — trying to cool his father's mood. When that doesn't work, impatience arrives back onto the scene. His voice carries a prissy tone — one of a couple things that broke through our language barrier. [I want the ape. Now!] he says, arms crossed and pouting.

[No.]

[I am your only son. Do you want me to leave? To run away? To abandon this tribe with no future leader?] That caught his father off-guard. Looks like he hit a sore spot in their relationship. I feel like a therapist at this point, trapped in the middle of their family drama.

[I am disappointed, Khemris—]

Khemris. So that's the uppity prince's name.

[—disappointed that you would bargain with your own self.]

[Well you won't let me do what I want to do. So pfft—] He sticks out his tongue. His father growls, a deep, threatening sound, rumbling through the soil itself. Khemris stands defiant, not flinching. He must be used to this treatment.

[Fine,] his father relinquishes me, [you can have him. I must warn you, apes don't make good servants. They are too dumb to follow complex orders.]

[Oh, I think this bald one is special. See! He knows what we say.]

At this moment I realise they've realised I can understand their language. Must've given that fact away when I followed the kid's orders with little-to-no hesitation.

The old cheetah approaches. [Does he indeed?]

The chief is right up in my face now. My timid reserve is confronted by bestial confidence. He wears a broad frown on his muzzle, which transitions its sentiment from angry to concentrated as his son's impetuousness fades from the moment, slinking back into an aimless fog. He starts prodding me, feeling my arms and legs — gauging his preconceptions of me. I look down at his arm as he touches my body. Darker fur than his son, signs of aging present. His spots are less prevalent...most seem to fade into the brownish texture of the rest of his fur. I keep my eyes from his studious gaze. He wears a large and elegant loincloth with rich patterns aplenty (so they do display status via clothing...), behind which he appears to be very...um...well-equipped. Their society is clearly ruled by so-called alpha males and their descendants, if anything I've seen and learned so far is true.

He stops his manhandling, and starts to test his son's theory.

[Raise your left arm,] he barks.

I obey.

[Raise your right arm — but — do not lower your left.]

I obey. I stand in the clearing, topless, making a 'T' with my limbs. I for sure look stupid now.

The chief squints, and scratches his chest. I can hear a low purr, the beast hemming and hawing as the strange being in front of him strikes a pose.

[My son,] he smiles, [I misjudged you. You have better sense than I on this occasion.]

I drop my arms. Seeing no-one complain I relax.

[Thank you father, now may I PLEASE go!]

He grumbles, and waves us on. [You may borrow him for now. I have not yet decided his fate.]

* * *

I am brought to Khemris' tent. He beckons his goons to stay put, with me in hand. He enters, and time passes. The tribesmen restraining me do not utter a single word of complaint at the notion they're required to stand guard over me indefinitely. No hint of discordant envy arises, no lapse in judgement enables my flight. They are loyal. Infuriatingly so.

Eventually, their master's voice filters through the tent opening: [bring him.]

They toss me unceremoniously through the opening and leave. I tumble forward, coughing and groaning. My knees hurt.

I hear giggling.

Looking up, I spot Khemris taking a bath. He reclines in the crude wooden tub as the waters lap idly at his pecs. Two females stroke and rub his damp figure. They soak rags with water and wash him, all the while expressing themselves in a jovial mood. The spoiled prince shuts his eyes and lets his head roll back, purring. He's showing off — the rotten prick.

One of the female cheetahs comments: [my my little brother, how did you ever capture this creature?]

Khemris looks me dead in the eye, and grins. [It was a struggle. I outsmarted him in the end.] Well that's not exactly true, but after seeing how much he had his father wrapped around his finger it made sense he could take credit for others' accomplishments. There probably weren't any witnesses to discredit him either — if there were, they weren't going to die on that hill.

His sisters buy it hook, line, and sinker.

[I will tell you more later.] His arm emerges from the foaming water, motioning for them to stop. Figures, he'll need time to concoct a decent story.

He faces away from me and exits the bath, rising from the water with grace, his bare buttocks dripping wet in front of me. His sisters affix a loincloth, the small strap cups his cheeks as they tie it. His tail sways back-and-forth. Once dried, he turns around, ordering them to leave.

The young cheetah roughly grabs my wrist and leads me to a sitting area, blanketed in hides. Throwing me to the floor, he sits upon the only stool in sight.

[I feel like some pampering is needed.]

From where I kneel I am easy prey for his amusement. His leg extends, resulting in a four-toed foot mushing against my face. He rubs his paw on me, flexing the digits. His toes scrunch and spread, contract and expand, squeezing my face. I breathe against him, my nose smooshed beneath the dirty paw-pads. I can feel his contented rumblings through the contact made, fur-to-skin. Withdrawal leaves a faint cloud of dust falling, then settling on the animal-skin floor of the tent.

Quickly, and without warning, he thrusts his foot into my chest. “Oompf," I exclaim at the kick, the air deserting my lungs. Amidst my wheezing Khemris makes a disappointed sigh. He expects better. I don't want to humour him, but I lack any choice in the matter.

I lay my hands on his foot-paw, holding his leg straight. Khemris looks on expectantly, with a bored face, as if to say: 'while we're still young'. Not wanting to make this last longer than necessary, I press my thumbs into the centre of his foot. He purrs and slides in his seat, his back propped up with hides. I continue. My two thumbs roll up-and-down his feline foot-paw, relaxing the weary muscles within. My fingers wrap around the sides, pulling the rough surface closer to my wandering extremities. His claws dangle dangerously close to my face — the milky-grey talons slicing the air whenever he curls his toes.

I put into action all the skills I learned from a former girlfriend. Stacey, if you're hearing this (somehow), the foot massage technique you taught me is working out for once. God...that was a long time ago. Who from back then would believe what's happening now?

His tender pads are putty in my hands. Squishy. Malleable. Able to be poked and prodded and probed by my fingertips, eliciting pleasant sounds from the paw's owner. For five minutes I tend to his left foot-paw, observing his digits dance as I ply them.

I finish.

[Good, now the other.]

I take his right foot-paw, and give it the same thorough treatment, kneading the flesh. He leans back in his seat, enjoying his servant's treatment.

This is to be my fate then? A servant? House slave...err...tent slave? Ah, screw finding the right words! There has to be a way out of here. Got to lie low, keep the tribe happy, and find it.

Making him purr is not the sole reaction I've brought upon the young male. As my hands grip and press his other paw, I afford myself a chance to tear my eyes away from his feet and look around. My vision scans the room, then returns to Khemris. He fidgets 'neath my touch — his legs shift and stretch, but I maintain my hold on his paw. My sight lingers on his loincloth. Skimpy. And I see a bulge grow beneath the woven material.

[Mmmrrrrr...] He doesn't notice my exploratory gaze, too wrapped up in nice feelings.

The bulge gets bigger, straining against the simple fabric. I already thought his sense of dress to be revealing, but this piece takes the cake. It looks like a tiny patch of cloth (too small to begin with), fighting a losing battle with the cheetah's swelling. It lifts enough for me to catch glimpses of his nether regions — a soft, furry pair of balls dangle below a dark red shaft, slowly unsheathing. A package unassuming at first glance, yet when excited grows to match his father's impressive equipment. It presses against the loincloth, seeking escape.

Either Khemris doesn't notice at this point — or he doesn't care.

Pressure finally reaches breaking point. As the young cheetah lies back and squirms in his seat, the thin strap holding the loincloth in place snaps, freeing his member.

Thwack.

The sound pierces the otherwise quiet tent.

His phallus springs upright, flinging the loincloth up into the air. Khemris demonstrates his fast natural reflexes, leaping into action he catches the flying material. Snatching it from its flight path with incredible speed and precision.

I see him look at the mess I've caused, and his engorged member standing to attention. Seems he can't quite decide how he feels.

[This was a good loincloth,] he cooed, bunching the fabric and throwing it across the tent interior, [fine craftsmanship, expensive thread...]

The cheetah growls. I watch his expression shift, teeth bared.

[Grrr...father had it made specially for his son and heir. It will take time to repair it.]

I glance over at the discarded loincloth. It's just a broken strap...why be so angry?

Oh...wait...the same precocious teen who orders his father around like a brat, also has an unhealthy, obsessive fixation with his property.

Makes sense.

I risk a chuckle. Khemris doesn't approve.

[You do not want to anger me.]

His lithe body rises from the seat, standing tall before my kneeling form. Naked. Anger in his eyes. But behind that...another emotion...

[You caused this. You fix it.]

A growl and a purr mixed in resonant accordance reaches my ears. This sweet-timbre murring heralds his advancing ambition.

He moves closer, and presents his erect shaft to my face.

[What? You are no seamstress? You have no skills to repair my cloth? Well I deserve compensation another way!] he smirked.

A rough tug of my hair shatters the moment. Before, I could conceivably call this a dream, a peculiar delusion, brought on by the heat of the sun-roasted savannah. Now? It feels too real. Too sharp. I had been lying to myself, I can no longer escape facts. Khemris stands over me, lust in his mind. His intentions are crystal clear.

He drags me helplessly forward, my surprise failing to break through this sluggishness. I have to get myself away from here. I have to! But...what can I do right this minute?

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

I must obey.

The cheetah's throbbing length dangles mere centimetres away. Blushing red, full of life — the accompanying musk overpowers me. The rich, aromatic sensation of his raw, animal desire invades my sinuses. He eagerly awaits my next move.

I nudge forward. Tentatively.

My mouth opens. My lips part. It's beyond my control.

His...cock suits his slim figure. Not too big, not too small. Sizeable enough to compete with the most hot-blooded, dominant, and aggressive males of his tribe. I breathe heated air around his crotch, his scent pervading the cramped atmosphere of the tent. My lips almost touch his tip. Suddenly, it spasms, leaping in front of my face, much to Khemris' amusement. He enjoys seeing me approach, my caution a delicious appetiser for his arousal.

Pre leaks from the tip, coating his member in the slick libation. I notice irregular features: the small barbs dotting his length — before my eyes are drawn to its base. Unsheathed, his member pulses with feral spirit, settled snugly next to two round fur-coated eggs. His sac billows, the orbs rising and falling in tune with his muscles.

Fed up with the delay, he tightens his grip on my hair and presses at my lips. I mumble in protest but that is a mistake. I leave too wide an entrance, and he takes advantage of it, pushing his cock-head past my only line of defence. He is inside.

[Prrrrrrrrrrrrr...] his voice echoes his pleasure.

He is halfway in. I cannot take any more, the gagging would choke me. I work with what I have, massaging his pillar with my lips and tongue. Rolling my tongue underneath his warm meat I taste things I've never even dreamed of. I wasn't gay, or had much of a love life back in civilisation to speak of. Yet here? Here I find myself tasting something...new. Something I can't seem to shake from my mind. Something...intoxicating...

I close my eyes. Let my other senses guide me. Sound and taste. They enhance the dream I feel myself falling back into. Truth and fiction blend together. The edges of the world turn fuzzy, and ill-defined. The gravity of the situation I found myself in had seared away the skin of deception, giving me knowledge of what trouble I'm in. Alas, it was momentary. I have returned to fantasy. Sound and taste. I need more. Two is not enough. I must have...I must...touch.

My hands leave my sides, coming to my captor's sensitive balls. I place them in hand, the soft texture of his fur tickling my palms. I squeeze and roll them, Khemris gasping in acknowledgement. I keep my touch light, avoiding discomfort, the pressure I apply is the right amount to excite him further. I have to keep him happy, keep him sated...or else my chance of escape falls drastically. My own body responds against my will. I crave his taste. His bittersweet essence.

Khemris thrusts. His cock sliding aggressively into my mouth. With a yowl he draws himself out, his hard shaft dragging past my lips. He picks up speed. Rougher. And faster. “Grrllk," says my muffled voice, choking on cheetah. He withdraws entirely, leaving me to kiss his tip, dribble coursing from the corners of my mouth to my chin. Wet with pre-cum.

[I want more. MORE!]

He thrusts harder. The supple and graceful body of my wannabe master rolls in conjunction with his pumping. His movements remind me of a belly-dancer: the swirling, expanding and contracting abdomen, the toned body moving in a seductive manner. I am caught off-balance by another thrust. I gag. He forces himself past my expanded jaw, hitting the back of my throat. I struggle to contain him. There is a tightness brewing in my pants. Echoes of his pleasure are reaching me, causing me to react in kind.

[Yes!]

His paws tear at my hair, tugging the roots. Fortunately I'm not scalped by this over-eager activity. He pushes me away, and pulls me close. My head bobs violently. Khemris is losing himself in me.

[YES!]

The wet smack of saliva rings in my ears. The impact of his cock at the base of my throat becomes unbearable. If I am not careful, I will suffocate. Imagine that — a casualty of his rampaging lust. His balls bounce in their cosy pocket, jiggling a fraction of an inch from my face as I feel him drive deeper. I take another respite afforded to me by his exit to gurgle and sputter, ejecting his leaking juices.

[I am close, slave.]

Slave. Now he refers to me as his 'slave'. His interest in me increases. I am providing a valuable service to the young, virile male. An outlet for his adolescent desire. I attempt to suppress my own burgeoning bodily reaction, with some success. Tingling in my pants fades. I focus my mind elsewhere. On things not related to my current situation — the need to retreat back into fantasy a strong one. The destination is attractive to me. A place where I can dismiss my fate as nothing more than a bizarre dream...

[RRRRAAARRRRRR!] he roars. Ferocious and drained. His dick releases its payload into my captured orifice, my lips forming a tight seal on the wider portion of his manhood, stopping any wayward emission from emerging. I feel his gut clench; his toes crack, the claws scraping the floor, shredding the matting. He climaxes. For one last hurrah he slides his paws behind my head and pulls me close, swallowing his cock up to the hilt. His meat stretches far, almost into my gullet, globules of sticky seed erupting from the tip.

[HHRRRSSSHKK...MMMRRROOWWWW!!!]

I fight to stem the flow of hot cum. The thick liquid runs down my throat, pumped direct from its tingling source, surging. I try to drink it. As much as possible. Why? To avoid a mess. Yes, you heard that right. I am guessing he values his décor with the same possessive attitude as his clothing. I surmise it's wise to not ruin any more of his things. Best to ingratiate myself to my new master, however I can.

I swallow more and more. I start to drown.

The pressure builds...

I can't contain it.

Khemris issues a surprised yelp, his member facing a backup of cum. He's forced to pull out, made to by my failure to drink him down. His manhood shivers, spraying milk-white streaks of male cream over my unprepared face. It's sticky, and gums everything up. I shut my eyes and mouth and hold my breath as I'm treated to a warm facial.

It'll be over soon. He's blown his load. Each spurt grows weaker and less copious as his balls empty.

He and I stop. Breathless. Exhausted from the ordeal, and the days of captivity. I reach blindly, grabbing his ass and squeezing. Anything to prop myself up, keep myself from collapsing in my asphyxiated state. My other hand is placed, open-palmed, on the ground by his bare feet. Inhale. Exhale. His body is no longer smothering me. A handful of Khemris' rear, the cheetah's fatty rump bulging between my fingers...I somehow end up wanting his touch. He holds me close while I nuzzle his belly-fur, my stifled gasps for air blowing across his lower body. The salty aftertaste of the flower of the tribe's manhood lingers in my mouth.

[Slave,] he murrs, half-delirious.

I am still on my knees. Helpless. His cock twitches as his erection subsides.

[Slave...I like the sound of that. I will ask father to grant me ownership when I see him next. He won't refuse me. You shall be mine.]

My face is filled with fur, buried in the cheetah's thigh. His warm coat comforts me, in stark opposition to the drying cum on my skin. I can surrender to the softness. I can...I can...it's no problem...I can bide my time...I can find a way out...I can outlast them...

[My first slave,] he chuckles.

Stroking my head, purring, he continues: [and what a feisty slave...eager slave...]

[Father was fast, and caught you quick,] he said with a low tone, [the rest of our party lagged behind. I saw it all.] At the time my futile struggle was delightful to the tribal prince, a sign of my enthusiasm — for resistance. And (when I'm broken in) for compliance. I can tell he looks forward to that after the sample he's been given.

He runs his paw from the top of my head to my neck. I shiver. He talks more, about how fascinated he became of the tribe's new captive, staring at me as I dangled unconsciously from the shoulder of his sire. [We walked for four days and four nights.]

Four days and four nights...

Four days?

My worry returns. How remote this place could be was always a concern, deep down in the back of my mind. How far from civilisation I'd come. And I've discovered the truth. My camp, my transport, my hope of leaving this land — it's days away.

Khemris goes quiet. I feel him sigh, the vibrations flow through his whole body as I lean against him, eyes shut. He is pleased. The silence screams it.

Four days and four nights...

That means...

Four days of the wilds. No food, no water. Not without pursuit...

...that means...it means...

Four days of wandering, not knowing my way ...

...that...

I...

...

I'm stuck here.