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A prisoner slams his arms into iron walls. His cries are hoarse and thin, keening for the Father above, for the dragon god. He cries for the beat of his wings, begs for mercy to flow from his draconic lips in the way of rain, perhaps from water in a canteen. In this open air prison he and the others have been beleaguered by the arid heat and the blazing desert sands for nigh on months. He wonders if he too will join them in the afterlife upon the dragon's wings. They cry to their God, but who is there to answer?

There are some who have been here for years, some longer. The creature at the wall, who stole from a warchief's tent in the middle of a skirmish, has been here for five. Imprisoned for pilfering from the pockets of the military, a merchant sleeps on rags in what small shade the metal walls offer around noon. He has been here for seven. Digging at the bars with his claws, a gnoll-who abandoned his warband in the middle of battle last spring-has yet to be given his sentence. For the dishonor he has brought to his kin, and to his fear, the others gossip that his sentence will be far steeper. There is no room for cowardice and shame in a society militarized from birth.

When the guards have had enough of the wailers and their begging, an iron vent opens at the top of the wall, and out pours water. A torrent falls brisk and clear, and desperate beasts beat each other nearly to death for a share of its bounty.

The gates are wheeled open and a line of soldiers come for them, hands on their sabers, thumbs on the triggers of their rifles. Much like a starving animal, an inmate clambers to them but is knocked to the ground by the butt of a rifle and kicked in the head with a boot. It is an omen when the soldiers look for someone, they all know it, and today they approach a leonine curled to his knees at a corner of the perimeter, where iron separates him from the freedom of the desert despite enduring its cruelty.

Their boots stop at him. Their arches settle into the sand. The prisoner lifts his eyes. The gold of their plate armor seems to reflect all the light of the sun. The captain's voice is like a hammer upon the earth: "Arthur of Zendara. You have been summoned."

Arthur squints his eyes. His pain has calcified into resentment, all fear melted into cynicism.

"Do I have a choice in the matter?" He asks.

The butt of a spear pierces the sand near his foot.

*

They drag his arms to his back, wrap his wrists in chains. Drape a wool mask over his head, with one hole open for his mouth. He counts to three to try and steady his breathing as they escort him by the shoulder: One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three...

A guard pushes him into what feels like a carriage and is made to sit straight between soldiers. He hears the sound of a horse snorting, flaring its nostrils. A coachman whips its reins and the horse whinnies. His seat bounces as if a road were being trotted beneath them. They travel long enough for Arthur to think himself into a maze of anguish, long enough for something to squeeze tightly in his chest. When they stop he is pushed out and guided to climb what seems like a thousand steps.

A metal gate squeals open. More stairs. A chamber door opens. The first soldiers step inside, then the rest follow them. The air within is cool and fragrant. Their steps echo on marble, his chains rattle in rhythm along with them. When finally they arrive, he is thrown to the floor, the wool mask pulled from his head.

His bleary eyes struggle to take in the light. Amethyst flames burn on hanging braziers. Tapestries line the walls, one between each archway, in a room glittering with jewels in its brick, built for what seems like the home of a King. The cool desert air flows in from the west, where the sun has begun to set, sand dunes rolling in crimson silence.

An enormous throne sits at the center of the hall and upon that throne sits a titan, arm draped over a stone rest with a fist propped to its cheek. Gold rings rest at the tips of its tapping fingers. Tap, tap, tap, on the cold stone of its throne, the sound of patience worn thin. Its eyes, yellow and smoldering in the torchlight, fall upon Arthur and bore right through him. Arthur looks away.

Silence settles on them like a cloak. Arthur stares at the marble, studies the mosaic, imagines staring down a basket as his neck quivers beneath a guillotine. The silence creeps on, and under the threads of each minute, Arthur feels the sands of his hourglass slipping away, the last grains sinking to the bottom of the bulb.

Should he run? Leap through the windows? Barter for his life? Would the soldiers have delivered their quarry if there was still a use for him?

His thoughts are released by the weight of the monster's baritone: "Look at me." Arthur hesitates, but he knows better than to disobey power when he has so little, and reluctantly he raises his eyes.

Powerful feet press upon the marble when the beast rises. Legs so strong they could hold the weight of a thousand men. The floor quivers underneath each step as the beast saunters to Arthur. When only a few tiles separate them, it is easier to make out the beast's face: Thoughtful yellow eyes, a flat nose, licked with brown at its tip. A pair of tusks on each corner of his lips. A beard, mahogany, thick and handsomely cut. All the rest of his hide is the color of the dark desert sands, his paws tipped with black claws. He towers over Arthur. It was hard for him to crane his neck to see any higher than the waist.

Already he was mere inches from this creature's feet. He watches the furry toes drumming on the cool floor. And then the command came, like an arrow into his ears: "Kiss my feet."

Something in Arthur's chest compresses tighter. He freezes for too long, thinks about it too much. Once again the command comes: "Kiss. My. Feet."

Words like explosions in his ears, crashing into his back, his shoulders. An invisible force guides his head down, to where the beast treads the earth, lips nearing the toes, then pressing into them with a kiss. Arthur's throat chokes with surprise.

"Finally doing it are you?"

He finds that the harder he resists, the more his body disobeys. No, it was more than disobedience, it was as if his body contradicted his will. Where he struggles to turn his cheek, it motions to caress the foot at each side. When instead he thinks to lift his nose, it buries deeper between the clawed, furry toes. The digits splay to give it room.

"You may have forgotten what it was like to obey me. Allow me to remind you."

Arthur winces, dragging full lungs of the monster's natural scent against his will. Toe rings graze his cheeks as his snout glides past them. His face guides the foot closer, reverent, careful. He motions to lift it, and its enormous weight refuses to follow, until the beast shows mercy, and lets it lift just high enough for the toes to rest on his forehead.

And then the foot crashes upon him.

It takes him to the ground. Toe claws curling into his skin. Foot crushing his head against the marble as if he were under a boulder, its warmth stinging his skin. Arthur writhes, eclipsed completely by the leathery, angry soles in contempt. He whimpers, eyes searching frantically for a way out.

"They want you executed tomorrow. Beheaded, for crimes against our nation." His words are an avalanche on Arthur's mind, shocking him into near catatonia. "Even now hundreds of our people outside the palace gates cry for your death. The warlords refuse any and all pardons for your transgressions. How do you propose you'll make it out of this alive?"

His foot pulls away, and then there is air, sweet and clear. Arthur swallows it, turns to his side, coughs into the floor. The beast returns to his throne. Stands next to it.

Arthur knows now: His life hangs on the tapestry of a mottled weave, its threads fraying. He feels the cool floor with his cheeks, watches the flickering light of a brazier, its violet glare circling on his irises. He squeezes his eyes closed and prays. What has he done? By the gods, what has he done? His memories have holes in them, but there are glimmers: A desert. A sword. A kingdom. The memories are gone when he tries with all his might to remember them.

"I think I know the answer to that. Tonight you will be sent to the house of pleasures," the Imperator says. "My servants will prepare you for the role. Disappear for a time, and maybe their memory of this will fade."

"Why are you doing this?" Arthur begs, his voice cracking. "I don't know where I am. Please. I don't understand."

When he finishes, there is only silence. The Imperator's footsteps recede to the other end of the hall. Arthur listens for them--the farther they go, the more something in his chest yawns, widens, empties. A chamber door opens, and it seals shut with the sound of a hundred hammers falling on anvils.

*

Arthur is taken to the hairdresser's chamber. Stools line the walls in stacks. A sink tub hovers below a leaning chair. A dresser is dotted and strewn with the stylist's tools of his kit: scissors, combs, lotions, tonics. A spray bottle. Jars of gels pulled from the ooze of cacti. Rainbows of towels hanging on a mirror.

The hairdresser is a leonine male named Rubico. His mane is pulled into a thin braid, his chest exposed through the v-shaped collar of his vest. His fingers are gentle when they comb through Arthur's vibrant red mane, silver scissors cutting at his long locks, threads of crimson hair slinking to the floor.

"Such a shame," He murmurs, clicking his tongue. "Truly a shame."

Arthur sits with his hands balled into fists. He watches his mane shrink in the mirror. Each slice of the scissors cuts at something inside him, too. Cuts it into something little, something weak, something more afraid.

"If this gives you any measure of comfort," Rubico says with a sigh, "these locks will fetch a high price on the market. Sold off to someone who needs it. Strings for a bow, or woven into sashes for armor. You're helping your brothers, in some small way, hm?" Rubico's eyes come to the mirror and Arthur meets them. There is a moment as if he expects Arthur to speak, but when he is met with silence he returns to his work, cutting more strands, letting them fall where they may, later to be swept long after Arthur is gone.

*

The director of the house of pleasures is a kobold no bigger than a dwarf. Its voice whines from the top of its throat. "Hurry and change, idiot! Hired late in the month means you owe. Catch up!" A whip flows generously from its hands and burn's on Arthur's skin. He knows that the pace of his work dictates how much it's used, so he slips on a prestidigitation ring off a towel and slips into his new clothes-finding that the robes hide very little of his body-and steps through a curtain of beads.

In the room he enters there are ten of them, sitting on benches surrounding a hookah pit: two of them are orcs, blowing clouds from a pipe. A cadre of four bugbears, likely from the same warband, drink from tall glasses of ale at a table. A leonine already strokes his cock proudly. Two gnolls, clearly brothers, are quarreling with each other over who gets first pick. Lastly, a minotaur towers above all of them, covered in scars from his neck to his abdomen, sitting at the back with his elbows leaning on a table. Their eyes settle on Arthur when he enters, and are quick to congregate on him in a circle in the middle.

Arthur cowers beneath their circle of glares. "Do what you want. Free to use until midnight!" The kobold calls, and then leaves back through the beads.

They each have paid handsomely to share the new meat. Wherever Arthur looks, he is surprised to find there are cocks: Enormous, hanging, swaying. A paw at his shoulder forces him to drop to his knees. His muscles seemingly melt away. Glossy, flared heads bead with pre, bobbing near his cheeks, his pecs, their virile orbs jostling beneath worn loincloths. One breath and he drinks in their combined musk, it tickles his nostrils, his breast swelling with the scent. There is something familiar about this, too. Something he knows well, a skill ingrained, perhaps in a past life. It's this familiarity that gives him the courage to seal his fingers around the shafts closest to him, intimate with his slow strokes, surprised to find himself eager to hear their moans, finding that he too is aroused, aroused even more when one of them orders him to lift his tail.

Rods of pleasure push in and out of him for hours. They throb inside and leave ropes of seed as marks within. Another rod enters where the other leaves. He kisses them along their shafts when they draw close, at the base of their sacs too, and lets them dive into his throat before they feed him their love. The pit smells of sweat and sex and cum. The aroma dizzies Arthur, whisking him along in half-awake euphoria until the night grows old. He is left in a puddle of their semen on a rug, alone, moaning quietly long after they're gone.

In the morning, after he's allowed to sleep, he wakes realizing some of his memories have returned to him in dreams. An army, marching south of the wall. Rolling dunes whispering sand into silver armor. A sword, emerging from its sheath. A battle cry roaring into the night. A darkness, swallowing a knight and his army whole into its all-encompassing embrace.

*

The next day there is an orc who wants his skin cleaned. Arthur is sent as his servant. After several hours, all the leonine knows is the taste of orc sweat and the pain of a sore tongue.

A gnoll takes Arthur during the evening and leaves him with cramps after their sex. "Everyone's had that dung-lizard." Caliopa says, a leonine friend Arthur's made in his short time here. "He leaves you trembling after he's done rutting like a bull left out in the heat. Comes here almost everyday, the lonely fool."

That evening there is a request from a mercenary for a private escort that specifically asks for Arthur, and only him. He dreads it. Has word spread already? Do the men whisper of the shaved leonine at the whorehouse under their breaths? Do they gossip at taverns and alleyways? He imagines a hungry, brazen man with scars and armor half-broken over his shoulders and a chain mail splintering at its edges.

He waits for him in a room with rugs and throw pillows, a hookah pipe, a bed dressed with satin and silk. After a while a tall leonine man, wearing dark robes and jewels around his neck, fingers, and ears emerges through the beads. His smile is handsome, his mane gracefully styled, and his deep blue eyes glitter like sapphires in the torchlight.

Surprised, Arthur smiles. "I've never known a mercenary to dress." he says, taking a chalice of wine from the table before sensually walking to him. "Have I found myself lucky?"

The mercenary takes the chalice and sips it. A bead of wine drips at his lips and he licks it away, flashing his dagger-like teeth. His voice is like a prince's, melodious, measured, as if he were counting his words as he said them: "Where I am from, it is customary to cleanse yourself before taking your mate. Not every culture shares that same value, I expect."

Arthur opens his mouth but words do not come. His eyes have already wandered along with his hands, tracing through the mercenary's chest. His muscles bulge, rippling beneath fields of golden fur. And his cock--leaner than most--wields a nice curve that allows the head to greet him once it's erect. It bobs, wags. An animal ready to play.

The mercenary sets down the chalice and they kiss. Their passion is an inferno and neither of them can hide their eagerness. They take their kiss to the bed quickly. The mercenary is upon him like a predator to its prey, fangs grazing his neck, hands and claws gliding posessively over skin. Arthur braces himself on all fours, gripping the sheets, raising his tail. This cock will be easy to manage, he thinks. It will feel so good. He is ready.

The tip pushes in but instead of pleasure, pain blooms. Arthur yowls. It almost feels as if a tree trunk has split him wide. His eyes water. He squeezes them shut to bear it. The mercenary slows his pace and cups him by wrapping his arm around his chest. Arthur cranes his neck, wincing. "Have you-" he gasps. "--pushed in too quickly?"

A chuckle. "No."

"May I ask you to go-slower?"

Another chuckle.

There is an adjustment period but the pain slips away over time and morphs into pleasure. It still feels like there is a log stretching him wider than he's ever felt, but after growing accustomed to it, it feels pleasurable, feels right. It hilts in him perfectly. Pre-cum spills from his swaying cock. He bounces away from the mercenary's hips when they collide into him, the sound of wet skin slapping on wet skin. The sound of his balls plopping on his cheeks. The mercenary's legs buckling as they straddle him.

Their throats sing moans. A warrior's rod plunges into the warm walls of a slave. Arthur's rump squeezes with every stroke and clamps down when he hilts inside. His beaten ring flexes so wide that it does not close long after his client has finished leaving a mark of seed inside him. The load so copious that it still leaks out of Arthur long after he's fallen soundly asleep on the mercenary's chest.

*

He sits at a banquet table. There are silver plates at every chair and gold chalices next to every plate and he sits across from a King, drinking wine that tastes like sunlight and breaking bread as soft as clouds. The halls know hearty laughter and the floors enjoy the richness of silk rugs. Here, Arthur thinks, is the closest he'll find to paradise.

He is torn from the dream shivering and cold by the old rancorous laughter of jeering monsters in a room built of stone with thatched roofs. The other half of the bed is empty, its sheets tossed away.

Life at the house of pleasures becomes routine. At the end of each week, the mercenary returns. Their nights are long and passionate- and the absence that lasts after each encounter, Arthur thinks, is what allows it to be this way. The mercenary comes with all the confidence and bluster of a man who's in possession of his sexuality, and their time together is as fleeting as a shooting star; It burns hot and bright, only for it to wink and disappear into the night sky as quickly as it had come.

Every night he remembers a little more: The grassy fields of Zendara, the way it smells of mushrooms and earth. The sound of rain prattling on windows when a summer storm rolls in. A knight in silver armor on a hill, a sword the color of onyx and gold planted into the earth, overlooking a platoon of tribesmen who listen to him, obey him, and carry out his orders because they believe in him. He feels like he knows this man.

Arthur has become intimate with the mercenary's body. It writhes and twists in on itself when Arthur drags his claws along his inner thighs. He makes a sharp gasp whenever Arthur kisses along his nipples or flicks them with his tongue. Once, Arthur playfully kissed his feet, but this surprise aroused the mercenary instantly. And so he kisses his feet every night they meet, and every night he is greeted by the sight of his shaft swelling to full mast in seconds. He giggles every single time.

The opposite was also true. Once, the mercenary's thrusts were so deep, so powerful, so complete, that his thrusting coaxed an intense orgasm out of Arthur. His seed traveled all the way to the wall in ropes, leaving dripping smears on the chamber door. He was left to wash it in the morning before returning to his cot.

There are more dreams, and each dream offers another piece to his puzzle. There is a city. A nation. A crown. The flag of Zendara, white and blue with a winged sword pointing to the earth. There was a king. There was a campaign. A journey. It brought him to the desert. And in the desert he was captured by the desert tribes. Freed only when he was saved by...

The director's voice wakes Arthur with a loud whine. He calls to his cot, frustrated. "Get dressed, idiot! No off days! Plenty of time to sleep when you die."

*

When next the mercenary returns for Arthur, he spouts several ideas before he is through the door. "This time, I've brought a gift for you, I hope you'll like it. Perhaps we can put it on during some play with rope, maybe hang you from the ceiling like last time, only this time--"

Arthur is silent, held at his hip. When the mercenary's arm loosens, he walks over to the wine pitcher and pours a glass without a word.

"What troubles you?" The mercenary asks.

Arthur wonders if he pushes himself too close to a razor's edge by asking, but he knows that this reverie cannot last forever, he cannot continue staying here, remembering all that he remembers and knowing all that he knows, so finally he asks: "Who are you, really? And why do you do this?"

The mercenary cracks the faintest smile on his lips. "Have you finally remembered?"

Arthur places the wine pitcher back on the table. "Not everything. But bits and pieces, here and there. I had dreams."

"Dreams?" The mercenary takes the only chalice with wine and sits on a lounge chair.

"Yes."

"Hm."

The mercenary sips from his chalice as Arthur explains. "It didn't mean anything to me then, but it means something to me now. Zendara. This is where I'm from. I was a knight there. I served a king."

"Mhm..." The mercenary waves his chalice in the air as if it were dancing to the syllables of Arthur's words.

"I don't remember you in my dreams, but I came here for a reason. I was attacked. Saved by someone who wore a quartz necklace."

The mercenary smiles.

"The same one you wear around your neck."

The mercenary takes off the necklace, rubs it between his finger and thumb. On his chest it was inert, but now it glimmered, glinting in the twilight of torches like a beacon.

"How it all comes together." He looks pleased with himself. "Here." He holds out his hand with the quartz. "See for yourself."

Arthur watches the quartz glimmer. His eyes come to the mercenary before going back to the crystal, and slowly he takes it into his hands, hanging it by its collar until he takes the cool stone into his fingers and stares into it.

He cannot see it until he stares at it more, but there are faint translucent images rolling across the surface of the crystal. Playing in a loop, repeating when they arrive at the end. His eyes sink into the mesmerizing light, they are taken into it; he has raised the quartz to the tip of his nose. His irises are shining with its light. How beautiful.

Yes, he remembers now. He was the captain of the knights guard, Arthur the Red, crimson blade of Zendara. Kneeling at the foot of King Harrenthal's throne, he was tasked with an important mission: Fell the King of Beasts, Imperator of the desert tribes. Gaur.

His thoughts are flossed away on a stream of magic. The journey south was arduous, but no one else would do the job better. The kingdom of Zendara counted on him, his honor as a knight spurred him to rise to any challenge and emerge the victor for his people. They championed him, idolized him, and nearly worshiped the earth he tread. But he was unfamiliar with the desert, alone, and he was caught by the wild men, taken as their captive, and they would have sold him to the slave markets if Gaur had not saved him.

Yes, he was saved! By Gaur. His Master. Master Gaur saved him. Master Gaur took him to the palace and kept him there. As his slave. Arthur loved serving his Master. He loved to serve, loved to obey, love to get on his knees and worship and surrender and give in and obey and serve and worship surrender give in obey serve surrender worship give in obey serve worship surrender give in obey serve worship surrender give in--

*

The mercenary's body melts away, as if the color were draining from him. Brown furry hide reveals itself beneath golden fur. Broad shoulders and wide arms bloom above lean leonine muscle. Fangs and claws, stomach and thighs and great foot-paws. And an even bigger, though flaccid, shaft where the mercenary's should be.

Gaur sips generously from his chalice as he watches Arthur drool on the carpet. The leonine is rooted by the quartz. Stares intently at it with slack jaw and strobing eyes. It's always a delight to see them so focused, so empty and deferent, repeating their sacred mantra while waiting for further instructions their Master.

He stands and circles Arthur. His eyes are everywhere on his body- and his hands are too. He gropes his chest, flicks a nipple, rubs those firm slabs of meat. Next, he squeezes one cheek of his rump. He'd beaten this pair of mounds with his hips before, and It'd never get old. He squeezes the second cheek, parts the buttock to reveal that vulnerable pucker hidden between them, then moves on. He uses a single claw to jostle Arthur's erect cock and chuckles. The little shaft rarely sees use. Useless.

The bugbear has had his fill and plucks that quartz crystal from Arthur's fingers. The crystal's light goes cold, and consciousness returns to his eyes. He stumbles into the nightstand and the wine pitcher falls, crashing on the floor.

"Repeat to me what you've learned."

Arthur spits as he holds himself to the nightstand. "What did you do to me..." He struggles to keep his half-lidded eyes open as they focus on Gaur. "--Master." Arthur seems to recoil as if what he says inflicts a wound on him. "I serve, I worship, I obey-- No, no!" His knees cannot hold him any longer and they fall to the floor with his hands. "I serve. I worship. I obey. I give-" Arthur tries to choke the words out before they leave his throat. He stares at Gaur's feet with disgust and a strange desire to serve. Two emotions, one real, one fabricated, battling on the fields of his soul for dominance.

"The hero of Zendara. The greatest knight the Avalonian kingdoms have ever known. They say you cut a mountain in two with your sword, fell a demon the size of ten mammoths and even defeated a lich lord." Gaur's eyes are alive in the dim torchlight. The white of his tusks seem to pierce through the shadow.

"You came all this way for me and I couldn't ignore the chance to add another fine piece of meat to my collection. But the warlords were adamant that I rid myself of you. So we had to play this game in the meantime, until I was ready to bring you back home."

Arthur's body trembles. His head struggles as it cranes up.

"It was either this or death. The latter seemed like such a waste."

Arthur forces the words out of his lips. "Why..." "Why let me--remember--"

Gaur smiles. He bends his finger up and an amethyst banner of magic coalesces around it. Arthur levitates with it until he floats at eye-level with him.

"Though I prefer my slaves broken and deferent, that can get boring after long enough. It's best to let it fade, over time, before plunging you back into thralldom. It's about the assertion. The absence heightens the pleasure."

Arthur's eyes are squeezing back the beating drum of magic at the back of his mind. But that won't be enough. None of it will be enough.

"The way their eyes always collapse under the weight of it all, like an avalanche overtaking the mind. There's nothing like it. It's intoxicating."

Gaur puts the crystal back into his palm and smothers it and his hand on Arthur's face. It glows so brightly that the light leaks between his fingers. Arthur's gasps are muffled. Held in his paw, Gaur pushes the leonine to the bed and holds him there.

When it's done, the leonine's eyes are glazed over, watching something far into the horizon. The crystal shines on his cheek.

Gaur rolls the necklace over the slave's neck and spreads his legs over his shoulders. He strokes his cock with one hand as he holds the slave's hips with the other. "What do you say when Master drops you?"

"Thank you Master!" sings the slave.

He takes him like he did every night before, with reckless need and a possessiveness so feral that nothing could quench it save for the intense control of and utter absolution of will by his muscled, mane-shaved fucktrophy. The bed rocked against the walls hard enough for the rest of the house to hear. Gaur didn't care.

The rope could wait.

*

A cock barrels into the slave's ass as he tilts his tail. He raises his head proudly before the circle of monsters, drinking in their rich palette of musk. His trained hole welcomed that rod pushing into him. It offered little resistance and accepted it with the warmth and love and necessity that was demanded of his new role.

A whip lashes at his tough skin, leaving behind red stripes. It urges him to find the closest cock. Shiny helmets smeared in pre, shafts flaring angrily with veins. He found one and let it hilt into his maw to the crotch. He found two more cocks with his hands and stroked them fast. The first cock pulled out to let him breathe--he gagged--and then a paw shoved him down another, and he spent his hours trading his mouth between them, accepting their loads as payment for his work.

More whipping and more cocks to serve. They swapped for his ass, his hole flaring each time a new cock dived in. His chastity cage throbbed with several ruined orgasms, none of which he felt while in his mindlessly obedient fugue state, eyes strobing with Gaur's magic.

"Look at him, he's fucking stupid." A voice from the circle.

"He doesn't think anymore. Master melted his brain. He's just meat now." Another voice.

"Look at me bitch, good boy. Kiss my cock and tell me how much you love it."

Once this slave had a name. Long ago. It didn't matter what name that was now. All that mattered was that he served, that he worshiped, that he obeyed and serviced and submitted to Master and his cock and all the cocks Master told him to serve.

Master watches at the corner of the room, several slaves rubbing his feet and belly and chest as he reclines. Slave is trying so hard for Master. He wanted to make Master proud. He hoped Master was proud of him.

*

Reclining on a chaise lounge, Gaur gives his chalice to a servant and beckons to his guards with a finger. "Let them in."

An old leonine captain with a white-tipped mane and his retinue flagged by Gaur's soldiers emerge from behind the curtain. One look at the orgy and their faces grimace. One of them bares their teeth in anger. Another has to look away.

It is clear the captain has lived a long and experienced life from the way he speaks, but he cannot hide his own disgust. "You promised us the sword." He says.

"Yes, I did. And I've kept my word." Gaur beckons with his fingers, and two servants emerge carrying a chest by both ends. They set it down and open its latches, revealing the Caladbolg, a sword with an onyx blade, only touchable by the one ordained to use it. The servants step away.

"I have no use for a weapon I can't wield. And your king would wage a hundred more wars to have it returned. You can have it back."

The old leonine's eyebrows unfurl a little. But his eyes return to Gaur. "And what of Arthur? When do you plan to release him from this depravity?"

"That wasn't a part of the agreement." Gaur says. "I will keep him alive and give you back the sword. That's what we agreed on, no?"

The captain furrows his brow but one of his soldiers cannot contain his outrage: "How dare you-" The captain turns and stops him with a hand on his shoulder, then returns to Gaur. "What do you plan to do with him if not kill him?" He asks. "What use is he to you in this... in this state?"

The captain's retinue has heaved the chest holding Caladbolg out of the room, and Gaur smiles as his chalice returns to his hand. "I need an example. There's nothing more terrifying to a saint of honor than profound humiliation."

They all watch as a shaved leonine kneels in a circle of naked beasts and is ordered to serve with its hands and mouth and ass. Whipped, marked with paint, taunted, degraded, lessered. Sub-sentient meat waiting patiently for its next service to begin as it looks to Gaur with an emptiness in its eyes and a smile smeared with cum on its lips, where it will stay for years and years, until even the faintest muscle memory from its past life has been dusted away to make room for obedience everlasting.