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Hi everyone.

This chapter gets pretty brutal. I don't condone the things Royval Casso or his brother Toryen do. That's why they're villains.

If you're faint of heart, please skip this chapter. There's some pretty violent sex here, and not the nice kind. Also, torture, mutilation, and so on.

Trust me, its necessary for the story or I wouldn't write it.

Medieval times weren't very nice in a lot of ways. Consider it a theme of the story?

Thanks for reading. Critique/Comment extremely welcome!

Chapter III - The Slaughtered Knight

"For King Callian! Fight on, my brothers!"

The armored knight was resplendent in his armor, posting up from the saddle to thrust his lance into the air. Its pennants, scarlet and gold, whipped in the storm that whirled around them, driving rain turning the rocky field to a treacherous slurry of mud and broken bodies.

Despite it all, the sudden appearance of Sir Cel, the recently murdered King Caillan's personal champion, was enough to rally the exhausted, striving soldiers, who screamed out cheers of triumph and hope as the argent-armored hero rode through them on his great ebon stallion.

His voice carried far, and sweetly, the smooth high tone keening through the men's hearts and driving exhausted limbs to raise shields and swords and spears again, struggling to prepare themselves for the next advance of the Usurper's forces. They knew that, should they fail, King Callian's memory would be lost to the very man who had murdered him in cold blood, for his armies would sweep into the capital and sack it if they could not hold the pass until reinforcements arrived.

Someone shouted praise to the young, beloved knight.

"Sir Cel! Thank the gods, man!"

The knight, ever chivalrous, tilted his visor back with a paw and smiled down at the commoner footman who'd called out to him, saluting with the paw on his helm.

"Thank you, good yeoman, for standing so long without me. You've saved plenty for me to kill and I appreciate the courtesy!"

That got laughter from the assembled army, fatigue seeming to run from them like dust off a rain-soaked wall.

A roar rose up beneath the ragged yet determined host, on the floor of the pass, and Sir Cel rode to the edge. In his clear, high-toned youthful voice, he called out to the men yet again as he lowered lance into the proper resting spot along his horse's side.

"They come again, gentlefurs! We will drive them back forever if we must!"

Beside him, knelt down on the ground, he heard a blessedly-quiet yet desolate voice speak what he already knew.

"We're doomed...Ten to one odds, at least..."

Cel ignored the man and wheeled his destrier, trotting to the old, bloody, corpse-heaped road they guarded, noting many bodies still twitched in what he assumed were death throes.

"Medics! Clear these injured men back! Enemy and friend both, and treat them! I'll not see us leave them to die like this!"

He didn't feel a need to voice the second reason; that they were making a downhill charge unnecessarily treacherous, blocking in the soldiery defending the slope and getting rid of one of their few remaining tactical ploys.

Thunder crackled overhead, the rumbling sky strobing, reflecting off the gathered arms and armor of the enemy as their shield wall began to advance again from some mile or so off. Medics and clerics so exhausted they looked nearly delirious rushed past the knight's horse, grabbing at the grievously wounded furs there.

A trick of the light, Cel thought, as a fur with its head barely still attached grabbed onto a bloody-robed cleric and bit into its leg, for surely no such creature could actually be alive. The yell of pain quickly vanished as he lowered the visor of his helm. Armored, tired furs gathered around him, perhaps a dozen of them mounted and the other hundreds straggling into weak, exhaustion-damaged formations behind.

Another knight, the field marshal who had guided this section of the King's Army until now, leaned over stiffly in his saddle to speak in hushed tones as the thunderous rain began to drown them out from anyone overhearing.

"Sir Cel, you should withdraw. The revolt is over, we cannot hold against King Verenax any longer."

Cel turned in his saddle, gripping the saddle horn with one paw, and fixed the much older knight with a blue-eyed gaze so boyishly pretty and full of mourning that the marshal couldn't keep his gaze level.

"Marshal, I will not hold it against you if you decide to withdraw, but I cannot. Honor demands I put paid to the traitor. Sense demands we cannot allow the despicable fellow to rule. We agreed on this before."

The Marshal sighed and raised his gauntleted paw, lifting his visor to lock eyes with the earnest young warrior. Sir Cel had come from nowhere and nothing, some five years ago, and risen to prominence through sheer skill and unflagging, unflinching chivalry. Knights, nobles, and commoners alike had come to love him for his unfailing decency and fearlessness, though some whispered salacious lascivious rumors about his closeness with the king and his lack of female conquests.

The Marshal's voice went softer, big brown ursine eyes looking away towards the enemy host again, to make his next statement easier to bear.

"You must be grieving for him. I know you and the king were lovers, and I judge it not. But you must see that we have done all we can...To fight further is to throw away the lives he gave us."

Next to him, the peerless knight's lips shifted in a sad smile.

"We were never lovers, Marshal, not in the physical sense. Take your men. I will do what I can to end this here and now."

Before he could be talked to further, or reasoned with at all, Sir Cel tapped his destrier's sides and was off into the rain, the Marshal's paw trailing off behind him before lowering to his side.

"Damnit, boy..."

All the bear could do was watch, as Cel rode forward alone. He signaled back, a paw-sign to tell the heralds that they were signaling a withdrawal. Groans of sorrow met the order, and the old bear felt a lurching in his heart, the cold squeeze he associated with defeat and dishonor.

Before him, down the road, he saw the banners of the Usurper King, Verenax, brother of his own murdered lord. He saw as well the banners of hundreds of other noblemen, brought to Verenax's camp over the last six months of bloody civil conflict by promises of marriage alliances to Verenax's young daughters, by threat of the death of their own families, or through the sneer-inducing weakness of corruption via bribes.

Most infuriating of all, he saw the red dragon banner of Duke Casso's men, and the personal banner of the duke himself whipping proudly in the wind among the pennants riding guard for the black-clad armored King, as the front ranks of the enemy army parted to allow their king and his thirty shining knight-bodyguards to ride forward.

They think this is parlay...Cel's not flying a white flag, you idiots...

His old heart began to thud with dread, mirroring the thunder that rippled off the rock faces next to him, lightning flashes freezing the scene in his mind in an unnaturally slow moment-by moment, as Cel seated his lance, raised his shield, and charged straight at the heart of the enemy's massed knights.

Cel's lance struck somewhere down below, and the report was so loud it drowned out the thunder. He saw the spray of wood and metal as the thing shivered apart, and a confusion of motion erupted below.

The old Marshal's heart thudded in his chest with excitement, and all that prevented him from riding down to join the fray was the note he bore in his pouch, promising him clemency if he let the new King through the pass. He'd struggled with it, the dishonor accepting it would give him, however private. His logic with Cel had been honest, as had his wishes. But, simply, he could not allow the slaughter of everyone they held dear over knightly virtues half their men didn't actually quite believe in.

Before the chaos down below could resolve to show him the expected death of the dearly-beloved young knight, he turned his horse and rode with the army, away in shamed defeat.

Cel's world narrowed, a black tunnel with gleaming light at the end, a light reflected off the tip of his lance as he roared, echoes bouncing around the inside of his armor. He posted up in his saddle as he flew down the road, mud and blood and bone flying to all sides from the pounding, churning fury of the destrier's passage.

He laughed in exultation, thrilling to the beat of his own heart and the harmony it had with his massive steed's gait, and shrieked out the war cry of his once-great order as he slammed the lance through the chest of the first who had ridden forward.

"For the King and Saint Tinia!"

In his blind battle lust, he wouldn't realize until later that his very first blow had slain the tyrannical traitor Verenax. The lance exploded out the black-armored fur's back, shattering into a million bits as Cel's momentum threw the other fur off his horse, and carried the good knight past.

He raised his shield in time to parry a glancing blow from his left, and flicked his heels, signaling the horse to dash the brains of the knight riding up behind them. With his right paw, he drew the shining steel of his sword, a long, slender blade most would call a two-hander, and brought the crosspiece up to his helmet to salute the next foe to ride at him straight-on.

Their blades clashed, sparks and bell-sounds ringing off as they traded blows. The destrier snapped another kick, felling another foe as its horse's leg was shattered. Cel wheeled to one side, parrying a cowardly blow from behind and driving his blade's tapered tip up under the chin of the dastard's helm.

As that foe was spitting blood and falling, he raised his shield on instinct and parried a potent over-head blow from a warhammer that would otherwise have struck him dead instantly. Yanking with all his great and deceptive might, he pulled the other knight from the saddle by the very shank buried in his own shield, though he lost the thing in the process, yanked off his arm with a wrench that left his shoulder numb.

Uncaring, laughing in the face of his enemies' fear and fury, he wheeled the horse again, slashing another foe from the saddle.

"Is this all you have, knights of Verenax?! Hahahaaa!"

The king's guard did something Cel hadn't expected then. They suddenly withdrew, wheeling their steeds away and fleeing in a cloud of hoof-flung muck. The young knight laughed, and held his sword in salute to their retreat, until a burst of lightning strobe-lit the enemy archers just as they loosed their black-feathered cutting fog of missiles at him.

His destrier screamed and reared, lashing its hooves in the air as it jolted over and over again, feathered up and down its chest and sides with dozens of bolts and arrows. At the apex of its rear, Cel struggled to stay horsed, sitting forward to remain upright, only to feel hammer-blows land twice on his chest with a sickening force that blew the air from his lungs in a gasp, and stole the balance that could have helped him leap clear.

The twisting steed fell like a collapsing mountain, sagging to one side and then falling with a thunderous crash. Sir Cel felt a tearing sensation from his leg, but no immediate pain as his helmeted head impacted a stone, sending exploding lights flashing through his vision as his whole body went momentarily numb.

Everything seemed to move sluggishly then, as if the world around him had gone from lightning-speed in his glorious victory to being crystallized in molasses. He held back tears for his slain steed, the destrier that had seen him through so much, and he put a paw to the back of its head, feeling the bristly, lathered hair there pricking through the seams in his gauntlet.

A rushing sound filled his skull, drowning out the clamoring of soldiers as they stood and stared in shock. Before them, the field was once again running red with fresh blood, from a dozen of the king's guardians. A marmot pointed, wordless with horror, at Verenax's black banner, where it leaned precariously on a broken pole, over the sagged corpse of their so-called king.

Drizzling rain pooled, cooling the burning ache that was starting to spread from his temple where he'd struck the stone. Sir Cel tried to stir, reaching for his long blade where it lay, silvery and shining with the reflected flashes of lightning strokes. His movement alerted Duke Casso himself.

The statuesquely tall tiger stood in his stirrups and pointed down at the feebly moving form, the only thing still alive in the field of slaughter next to their dead king. In that moment, he seized a chance that left his heart thrilling...If he could just take command now, maybe the army would simply fall into following him!

"He's still alive! Capture him! Bring him to me! He'll be made to pay for the death of the king!"

As soldiers began to move, the duke gave a predatory smirk under his armored helm, and drew his sword, pointing it towards the retreating royal army.

"They will pay for this slight! All men, forward! Destroy the cowards!"

Cel felt the destrier being moved. It ground something in his knee, and the scouring pain lancing through his body was enough to make him arch so hard his back popped, twist and flop like a dying fish, and hold back a most un-chivalrous shriek of agony as the pressure lifted off and blood rushed in.

Hard, armored paws grabbed at him, wrapping under his arms as he tried to swing the blade his paw couldn't reach earlier, and finding it empty as it struck the helmeted jaw of a hulking bull. Cel saw his glare, and then the bottom of his hobnail boot, and then for a while nothing.

A time later, he managed to swim up from the void long enough to feel the dry heat of a smithy around him, the hardness of an anvil at his back, and the jarring of a smith pounding away at his armor, trying to open rivets damaged in the fight and the fall.

No! They'll know the truth!

Sir Cel tried to swing his paw, tried to shove the smith away, eyes rolling wildly as his world swirled and eddied sickeningly, but found his arm was restrained, held down by a wide-eyed, frightened young otter.

Behind the otter, through the open visor of her helm, she saw the Duke, Casso, leaning against the wall and watching the goings-on with a strange glinting interest in his eye. To either side of him, the hulking forms of his two vicious sons stood, still armored, their plate mail painted with the black stripes that ran along their fur beneath.

Bastard...

With a screeching, tearing sound, the smith's heavy paw jerked, and he felt a crushing pressure on his gut. Clenching his teeth, Cel squeezed his eyes shut, and then blew out a gasp as the breastplate broke away from its bolting with a crinkling of steel.

Cel groaned softly, trying to speak but finding his lungs unable after the savage beating they'd gotten from arrow strikes, the forge's heat, and the smith's hammer. He felt a chill, then, as the smith straightened up, holding shears he'd just used to cut away the padded gambeson beneath. The widening of the badger's eyes told Cel that he'd just been discovered.

The duke's self-assured smirk faded a moment, cold, cunning, calculating predator's eyes tracing over the creature strapped to the anvil.

"Sir Cel...The hero of Callian...Is a WOMAN?!"

Cel kept her eyes shut, as the smith paused, looking back at his lord and master with a fearful glance hidden poorly behind a clenched jaw.

Without looking at the old smith, Duke Casso strode to the concussed, prone woman, grabbing a small yet still noticeable breast hard in a calloused paw, squeezing it incredulously as if to be certain.

"Smith, get this wretch out of its armor."

Cel could smell the Duke's sour breath as he leaned over her, and was still wincing from the brutal squeeze on her breast when he spoke in a furious, labored tone.

"No wonder Callian wouldn't take my daughter as queen. He was too busy fucking you, you whore."

His voice dipped, low and quiet and full of menace, though she knew what he was saying would be no secret from his sons. He gripped her throat before speaking, causing her to struggle weakly against her bonds as his fingers nearly cut off her air entirely, and sent more colorful bursts of color skittering across her concussed vision.

"You wrecked my chances of marrying my daughter to a king...Then killed the one I swore to in his place. You will die, girl, but your death won't be quick. I swear it."

Cel finally found her voice, though it rasped through her throat. Her eyes opened, and the force behind them was evident in the way the tiger straightened and widened his own eyes slightly in response.

"You...Betrayed King Callian...For ambition? I will be the death of you, Casso. I swear it!"

She heard the whistle of air being cut, and was hurled back into blackness by the impact on her already wounded skull as his gauntlet crashed into her temple.

Cel woke to feel her tail being roughly yanked so hard she thought it might pull right off. She bunched her muscles, and twisted, attempting to throw her elbow into whatever fur was foolish enough to try such a thing, only to find her movement entirely halted by a chain that ran through a rough iron collar around her neck and attached to her other wrist, with some manner of bar between them. All she managed to do was choke herself as the collar dug into her neck.

Her chest suddenly tightened, and she gasped to hold down panic as she realized she couldn't see. The knight tried to paw at her face, struggling to see if she had been blinded while unconscious, but the bindings wouldn't allow for the motion, instead digging cruelly into the too-thin fur of her wrists and the raw flesh beneath.

Behind her, she heard coarse, gravelly laughter, before words laced with the purring rumble she knew meant it was the duke's elder son. He was a nasty, smarmy sort, and a poor sport when she'd thumped him in the joust.

"Some fight still in you, little kitty?"

The laughter in his voice bubbled under the surface, a cauldron of acidic vitriol as lethal as a snakebite. Cel tried to speak then, only to find her muzzle had been packed with something foul and bitter-tasting, and when she tried to force it out with her tongue, she found it had been bound in.

Rage bubbled within her, at the cowardice of it. The Duke and his sons had never been her favorites, but to think they could fall so far. Too cowardly even to hear her words, or let her fight for her freedom. She felt as if there were a fire in her gut, eating at her, screaming for her to tear free somehow and slash the dastard apart.

All thought briefly stopped when a soft, smooth leather glove grabbed her silvery headfur and yanked her head back, causing the chain and bar assembly to yank taut, grinding the rough-finished iron against her flesh...She was manacled to a wall, and now could tell that at least one of her ankles was manacled as well.

The other leather glove dipped down and placed its palm against her groin then, and with a shock of horror and embarrassment, she realized she'd been stripped to the fur. Outrage and fury swiftly burned through the horror's place, and she struggled to roar, to call out challenge, to strike him...To find there was nothing she could do but stay there, knelt with her rear hanging off what she could only assume was a bed by its rough cushioning, as the handsome viper of a tiger ran deceptively delicate touches over her exposed nethers.

She grit her teeth against the gag, biting into the harsh taste with a viciousness she could do nothing with but focus on the inanimate object. The tiger's paw massaged, rolling against her loins, the smooth leather compressing one of the few soft places of her war-hardened body.

Cel managed a growl, rumbling her chest and throat in a fashion that seemed not to menace the Duke's son. Instead, amused, he continued his groping, roughly squeezing which caused her to arch against her bonds in anger, attempting to escape him.

"Dry as the desert here. Guard, bring me oil. I'll teach this bitch not to deny me."

She heard the squealing creak of a door, and immediately knew she was somewhere underground. The lack of draftiness, the moisture needed to make a door squeal that particular way, it all led to one conclusion; the Duke had her in his prison tower, some ten leagues from his home fief city.

For a blessed moment, his paw went away, only to be replaced by a hot breath, blown across her nethers in a way that forced another growl through her, unbidden, as the tiger's gloved paw wrapped around the base of her tail, yanking it until the bones at the base of her spine crackled, sending a sharp pinching wave up her spine and forcing the knight to arch herself or be broken.

The calf-skin glove returned then, two fingers pressing up between her legs against a spot not touched except to wash since she was barely in her teens. She found the flesh there altogether too sensitive, surging with sensation she was uncertain how to interpret, and tried to blot it from her mind, turn her thoughts to something, anything else. The two fingers spread apart, letting damp air in to touch deeper than she'd felt before, and it made her bite into the foul gag harder, as she tried flexing muscles to find one that might clench and keep him out, but to no avail.

"Light pink. You've never had children."

Cel fought down a chill shudder and the heat of an unwanted blush, her fur bristling at the statement. She tried to turn her head, only to find the rough of the iron collar digging into her flesh, tight enough to nearly choke her without movement, and certainly choking her if she moved her head too far.

The tiger's voice rolled out with a purr in it now, a purr that sent a shiver of dread into her heart, meeting and mingling with rage and fury and a glimmering sickly spark of an emotion she thought she'd abandoned long ago, when she threw away her old life and identity. She felt helplessness, and it disgusted her, making her feel as if raw sewage were pumping through her body, dirtying everything she'd worked so hard to achieve.

"Good. Father, little brother and I like the tight ones."

She arched again, a muffled squeaking sound bursting from her gagged muzzle as he roughly stuffed a finger into her, causing her hips to hunch forward in attempt to escape the unwelcome invasion, only to be trapped by the pressure such a move forced her into thanks to the harsh iron bindings and the damp stone wall her face shoved against.

"Hm. No virgin, or perhaps just rode too many horses. Tight like a vice, though."

The clinical, chilly, uninflected voice worried her far more than his smarmy, vicious, half-flirty tone of earlier. When it shifted back to that again, with his next purred statement, she curled the toes of her good footpaw against the stone floor beneath her, clawtips slipping out to scrape and wear themselves against the rough clamminess.

"Haha. I get to rape the virtuous Sir Cel." His mockery was clear, cold, tinged with the laughter of a vicious serpent's tongue. "Father has a little plan for you, you see."

A plan?

The warm tinge of hope that flared in her chest was rapidly deadened, her will and mind knowing well that no plan of Casso's could end well for her.

"He'll reveal your true nature when he puts your and Callian's illegitimate son on the throne. Of course, it won't be his, but that's why we're going to kill you. No one will be the wiser, eh?"

Her spine felt as if she'd been hurled suddenly from warmth and into freezing water, a ridge of snowy white fur pricking up from her tail tip to just behind her ears, as she tried anything, twisting her head against the choking collar, clawing with her front paws against the wall, anything to find a way to stop him. The very idea of Casso controlling the throne pushed horrified bile into her gagged muzzle, the growl fading from her chest as her gut heaved in response to the taste.

She couldn't breathe, as the vomit filled her muzzle, sucking against the gag, and Cel thrashed, jerking against her bonds trying to get the thing out of her mouth, then froze, as the movement tilted her weight to one side. Her knee exploded in agony so harsh that her black, blinded vision went white and then filled with streamers of color, and she gurgled on the spume as the paw left her crotch and grabbed her shoulders.

In a flurry of motion and yelling, in which she lay half-conscious in searing, blinding pain, inhaling wretch trying to get air, she found the gag yanked from her mouth and stale-tasting filthy fingers shoved in its place, shoveling the chunked remains of whatever they'd last fed her away to prevent her choking to death.

"Stupid bitch!"

A blow to her whirling head seemed, she managed to muse hazily, counterproductive. Nonetheless, it snapped her head to the side all the same, enough so that she realized the neck collar was gone.

Too insensate, she tried to move her paws, to find them momentarily unwilling to respond, as fingers held her muzzle open and water was poured in, forcing wet coughs from her as they washed her mouth out.

As she was coming back to herself, slowly swimming back from the fog of near-unconsciousness from pain and lack of air, bright light stabbed into her eyes as the hood was yanked roughly over her ears, hard enough to take fur with it that had poked through the weave.

Cel struggled to process what she saw, through the concussed and wobbling lens of her vision. A half-dozen guards, perhaps more, their eyes wide and nervous, staring, many of their paws gripping a weapon as they looked down at her. She tilted her head side to side, stretching her neck and trying to see something other than the wall she was chained facing.

Chained and beaten, they still fear me?

She jerked back against her chains as a polished fine silver mirror was slid in front of her by a chain-mailed paw. Then, a paw wrapped into her fine silvery headfur and yanked her head back till her neck popped. Staring down at her were the furious dead-brown eyes of Casso's eldest son, so close she could see the veins there standing out in stark relief against the just barely off-white background.

"You'll pay for that! You get no escape, not even death!"

Cel managed a smirk, finally un-gagged, and summoned up the most cutting response she felt possible. She jolted her head forward, ripping out a tuft of her own fur with a twinge of pain as her forehead met his snout, a thunderclap resounding in her bruised head, met with the hurricane-howl of the prissy, arrogant noble stumbling back clutching his bleeding face.

Dizzied again by the hit, her head lolled, as she panted for breath to replace the puke she'd inhaled. Dizzied by the whirling room, she nonetheless felt it as Casso's boy grabbed her long, glorious tail, spotted with perfect black rosettes, the tail that long had been her only real vanity. His gloved paw yanked it hard, taut, and twisted, ripping a yell from her throat as she felt the sickening sensation of tail vertebrae dislocating.

A chill wind touched her oddly, in a place she'd not felt wind before. Dully, she looked in the mirror, and saw Casso's son step away laughing, bleeding from his snout, one paw holding a short sword dripped with blood. The other paw was holding her tail, as he walked away from her. She braced for the yank that would dislocate the tail further. When it didn't come, she swallowed once, then twice.

A scream began as a boiling, awful, explosive pressure in her gut, shredding its way into her lungs, her throat, and then her lips to bounce off the walls, frightening jittering guards as they took half-paces back from the mutilated knight.

"My tail! You fucking bastards! I'll kill you!"

Shrieks hurtled from her throat, wrath given hoarse, vociferous tone, as she hurled herself against her bindings over and over again, struggling, thrashing, as Casso's eldest walked back in, smirking and licking blood from his swelling snout. He threw her tail, striking her in the cheek with the dead weight with a sick thud that silenced her yells for but a moment before she began again, roaring her rage for all to hear.

Next to her, a soldier turned to his lord and, white-faced, said something she didn't register. He received a nod, and in moments the guards were grabbing her, wrapping arms around her, bearing her down to prevent more thrashing as the guard drew off his thick belt and slid the bitter, tannin-tasting material between her teeth.

Snarling, staring with wide eyes, she glared death at the guardsman, as he kept his eyes studiously from hers and hurriedly, sweaty-pawed, secured the belt around the back of her skull, then down around her lower jaw.

Effectively muzzled, she let her roars of rage die off, as much to save her breath as to give them recess from her hatred.

Each explosion of pain seemed somehow smaller, more dulled, as if her body were just running out of suffering. Casso's boy - Royval, she recalled was his first name, grabbed her by the bleeding stump of her tail. In the mirror, as she strained, making choking sounds of pain, he held her tail as one guard tied thread tightly around her tail stub to choke the bleeding, and as another undid his lord's trouser strings and belt.

When the trousers dropped, she saw, pointed downward between her legs, a long black and veiny cock, ridged around the tip with fleshy spines beneath its pointed cap. It was throbbingly hard, and far larger than the only other cocks she'd ever seen. Cel swallowed against the gag, and let her head hang, unwilling to watch what was about to happen as her battered mind struggled to come up with some escape, some way to get free and begin the slaughter, the only way she could wash away the shame of this.

She grunted, closing dry eyes hard as an unfamiliar, bared paw spread her thighs ever so slightly, and began to rub a cold oil into her tender, pink, unused flesh. She tried to bite her tongue, just to have pain on which to focus, but the belt and muzzle had been done properly, leaving her no way to get it between any two spots on her teeth she could bring together.

"Oil her well, I want this little slut to enjoy me and not skin my damn cock."

"Aye, sire."

Cel's sharp teeth bit into the heavy leather, hard enough she could taste the un-tanned inside as she ground with her jaw. The guard was rubbing something down there, something that was forcing an unfamiliar warmth to join the oily wetness, spreading from her pink lips to just under her ruined tail, then into her lower gut, the pain of her amputated appendage fading as her body acknowledged a more pleasant and infinitely more torturous stimulus.

She flushed, her ears and cheeks feeling hot, as she realized the touch was making her feel as if she had to piss. Having spent so long pretending to be a man, it would be all the worse if she lost her bladder now, naked, chained down like a slave in front of these soldiers who, not long ago, had feared and revered her as the deadly champion of their enemy.

Then, a finger slid across something, and Cel knew it wasn't pissing she had to do. What it was, precisely, her half-conscious mind couldn't tell her, but she wriggled her hips, trying to get away from the delectable warmth spreading through her.

"Good work, guardsman. Now get away from her before I cut you for fingering her cunt."

The amused sound of his voice was hardly a mask for his intent, and the guardsman moved back without question, as Royval's body servant finished oiling the tiger's impressive ebon spike. Cel opened her eyes halfway, enough to see the young boy give Royval an adoring, worshipful look that nearly made her ill again, before the young teen lapped his smooth canine tongue against the oiled shaft.

Royval put his paw to the boy's head, and with a gentleness she found rather at odds with his usual sneering cruelty, pushed him away. Then, the black staff vanished from her sight, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the sudden burning tears were beginning to make on her dry orbs. Cel refused to let them fall, not when these bastards could see.

Heavy gloved paws that she could sickly identify as Royval's now, took the two halves of her rear, and held them apart slightly. The motion tugged her skin, sending sparks of muted pain from her tail, though far less than she had expected. Cel felt a sinking sensation; she'd been hoping to pass out from the pain and sleep through this inescapable indignity.

A second set of fingers spread her feminine lips, though for but a moment, as something hot, hard, and yet silk-soft pushed between them. For a moment, the virginal knight thought this might be some other game of theirs, or some other preparation. When she felt the fleshy mass spreading her cramp-tight muscles with the help of the oil, though, she knew the rape had begun in earnest.

"If it's any comfort to you," the tiger whispered into her ear as he leaned over her, resting with his cock head just barely pushed inside her well-oiled hole, "I prefer boys. I'm only fucking you because father needs a son from you to sit the throne." His tongue found the tip of her tufted, delicate ear, sliding along the inside of its shell before she flicked it away and back. The tiger laughed, rumbling, and twitched his hips towards her, hard and yet controlled, stuffing another inch of himself into the gasping, jerking woman.

She felt as if her insides were being torn open, despite the oil slicking them both. He was massive, far larger than anything she had ever even considered putting in there, even as a curious adolescent, and already deeper than the few times she'd ever penetrated herself.

Cel flushed scarlet, panting into the muzzle, sucking in breath to prevent sobbing. She was sure the violation that had conceived her, some twenty winters ago, had been no less traumatizing to her mother. Yet her mother had never rejected her own femininity, run from the life of servility the gentle gender would force on her. Sir Cel felt as if all that effort, all that struggle, all the hard fighting to become such a powerful knight and well-respected was being stolen, ripped out of her by the spined dick Duke Casso had ordered to get her with child.

All she could do was grit her jaw and be patient, she told herself. Soon enough it would be over. Soon enough the guards would leave and she could begin to find some way to escape. If they got her with child, she promised herself, it would never be part of Casso's scheme. Even if she had to slay her own unborn child somehow.

The tiger gripped her hips bruising-hard, holding her still despite the lack of need - her bonds prevented much motion in any case, especially given the damaged knee she would need to let heal if she was to escape. The hard pressure of his forward motion had pressed her face against the chill of the silver mirror now, and without anyplace further to go, her clenched tunnel was yielding slowly to the inexorable assault on her insides.

Against her crotch, just about against the soft padded spot on her groin where the saddle horn would sometimes hit her if she was incautious riding, soft fur pressed, a strange texture of silkiness over throbbing, harder fleshiness. Cel turned her face against the mirror, lowering it so her forehead could rest against the coolness of its metal as she felt as if she'd gorged herself at a feast, only the sensation was lower, somehow coming across as sweet rather than painful as she'd expected.

Her eyes slid half-open without her command to do so, and she saw a heavy pair of black balls pressed to her crotch, hanging down below her as if they were her own, and for a moment she started to laugh at the semi-delirious idea that any moment now she'd cease to be a woman entirely.

Then the tiger jerked backwards roughly, jolting her from the brief hallucination by the tug and catching of his barbs, before his paws held her still and he pistoned back into her, every vein of his massive pole plucking at her deep inside, his pointed tip banging into something inside that made her gasp out, some instinct forcing her shoulders down as far as the bonds would let her take them, her rump feeling paralyzed as a strange sense of building pressure and energy radiated from where the guard with the oil had caressed her earlier.

What in the hell is wrong with my body...I'm going to piss?

The tiger was leaning over her again, Royval's mocking voice whispering in a terrible tenderness that made her shudder, as one paw left her ass and grabbed at a small, firm breast, tweaking the nipple just hard enough to make her wince, yet sending a bolt of quickening energy from her teat to her crotch.

"Disobey me again, and I'll take pieces off you till you don't. Remember that, my darling dick wallet."

He took her ear in his jaw again, this time applying teeth to keep her from flicking it away. The familiarity of it sickened her, and yet something deep in her throbbing, clutching womb confused her, instinct telling her to let the words go, to lean into the nip, present her throat.

She didn't. Cel refused, though her nerves were jangling, building to a conclusion she'd heard of only in bawdy stories from other knights.

Royval's teeth left her ear, then clamped hard into the side of her neck, as another of his thrusts slammed his tip into that barrier at the top of her tunnel.

Cel's muzzled tried to open, her paws tried to jerk, balled into fists, but all she could do was make hoarse grunting moans as some dam of sensation, deep inside her loins, suddenly burst. Her hips rolled, entirely unwillingly, back onto the massive invader, her pink inner walls squeezing down, throbbing with an ancient rhythm whose dance she'd never learned till now.

Her mind screamed out, a lost voice treading water in a vast, hurricane-whipped sea, floating away into darkness as her mind was taken by bone-blasting pleasure that wiped away the pain in her aching skull and throbbing tail, turning the pinch on her nipple to a pleasantness she couldn't come close to understanding.

A hotness, wetness, was surging in her deepest depth then, painting her womb with potent slimy seed, the tiger growling into his blood-letting mating bite as Cel's first release surprised her so much she let loose her bladder on him as well, giving back hot fluid in answer to his own.

As she lay there, face against the mirror, panting, barely conscious of anything but the throbbing fullness in her sore, battered hole, Royval began to pull his spined shaft out of her, making amused if sensitive gasps as the plucking barbs overstimulated him, causing more of the thick wet warmth to seep into her spasming depths.

"Mm, very good. You loved that, I knew it, you little slut. I'm going to enjoy your tight little cunt."

His fingers were on her, in her then, stroking her sensitive fleshes, which seemed to have taken to this new sensation, learned it, were seeking more of it, and she heard his soft footfalls as he stood and walked, fingers slowly pulling out of her leaking depths with a soft slurping sound.

A sharp, bitter, salty taste assaulted her bound muzzle a moment, and then the pressure of the belt ties loosened. The salty taste became stronger, as fingers were jammed between her lips, over her slack-jawed teeth and onto her tongue. Royval's paw grabbed her hair, and lifted her head, turning it to the side as she opened her eyes.

Blurry, she still recognized the black cock that had brutalized her, taken her dignity. If not for that muzzle, she realized, she'd have moaned out in lust, and she vowed blearily to never do so again.

"Clean it with your tongue, bitch."

She opened her muzzle, tongue hanging out, limp as the rest of her exploded-nerved body, and he pressed the pointed tip against her lips.

Cel smirked, as the cum smeared against her lips, opened her muzzle wide as she could, and when he slid his cock inside her, bit down as hard as she could.

A squirt in her mouth told her she'd gotten what she wanted, and not what he'd meant to give. She jerked her head back, grinding her teeth, as the tiger made a most satisfying squealing scream, rolling in the way of a horrified man wounded on the field of battle.

The beating was swift after that, as guards clubbed her, grabbing at her jaws, trying to force her to release as they belabored her with clubs and spear butts and fists, hitting her lower back, her legs, her face and neck, puffing her right eye with a particular potent gauntleted blow as she finally released, swallowing down the hunk of dick she'd taken clean off.

As consciousness began to fade from the ongoing rain of fists and blunts, she grinned, bloody-toothed, as Royval fell away clutching his blood-spurting cock, now missing a half inch of its impressive length.

"Skin her! Skin the fucking bitch! I want her dead!"

And your father won't let you kill me...Not yet.

Cel sat in the rain, wrapped in bandages that covered her ruined flesh, paw on the pommel of her sword.

The tears had flowed, hot and salty on the cuts over her muzzle and face. The rain felt cleansing somehow, carrying the tears and pain away for a time, soaking her with cold water that left her shivering but insensate to the burning, skinned, bared-nerve pain through much of her body.

When she'd bitten off Royval's tip, she hadn't realized his younger brother, Toryen, would have a taste for mutilated women. He'd cut her, skinned her head, sliced off bits of flesh and eaten them.

For all his genteel manners, Toryen was far more the monster of the two. She planned to kill him first, just as soon as she could find a way to make the shivering stop and get up out of the mud.

Her exhausted body could do little more than twitch, slowly freezing in the driving rain, her eyes lidding shut as she felt phantom touches, paws spreading her legs open while she laid manacled and bonded, of cocks driving into her two nether holes, of the gift of new life being forcibly stuffed into her womb over and over again, to no apparent avail.

Somehow, she found the strength to smile, as the rain washed pain and horror and finally consciousness from her.

Timid's sandals hadn't lasted long, and by the time Tomasj doubled back to the trudging cleric, they were covered in bloody bruises and painful blisters.

Timid leaned heavily on his crosier, mindful of his bandaged right paw, as the leather-clad wolf with his damnable dry fur under that damnable silly hat trotted back to him, spraying mud off hard boots.

"Tower ahead. We will stay the night there. You say we near Casso's lands, yes?"

The cleric let his head sag forward, tears filling his eyes in relief. Finally, the whole day's forced march after an entire night of fighting was near over.

"The tower is his prison...He uses it to mark his lands' edge. Garrison too. Any sign of soldiers?"

Tomasj shook his head, the crazed wolf smirking.

"Just a few corpses outside. Didn't go that close. We'll clear it out when we get there yes?"

Damnit...