FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

--1

Zenark stepped out of his cabin and into the myriad, flitting lights of the torches lining the main deck. As far as the eye could see, the night was black, and the pale light of the moon did little to pierce the ceiling of clouds.

With a gait reminiscent of regal authority, the half-dragon, half-wolf captain walked along the smooth boards of the deck until he came upon the railing. At the edge of one of the torches' glow, his black hide appeared as a silhouette against the backdrop of the night, and the almost solidly black shade of the riding coat he wore - chosen just for the air of dramatic tension it gave him - blended well with his colors.

With his multicolored, cat-like eyes moodily peering over the edge of the vessel, studying the dark lands beneath, Zenark appeared as a pensive soul. He appeared as such right up to the moment that he reached downward, unbuttoned the crotch of his trousers, and withdrew his plump, canine sheath. Even with his crew milling about, the drake leaned against the railing, and he pissed overboard with a casualness that said this was anything but a strange occurrence With a contented and satisfied grin spreading across his muzzle, the dragon shook off, made himself decent again, and then followed the railing upship.

Following the guard rail like so took the dragon in and out of the fickle glows of the torches, staggered along the railing to mark it; each time he reentered the darkness, it was as though he disappeared, only to phase back into existence upon nearing the next torch.

It was natural camouflage, the colors of a creature of the night; black hide, with royal purple coloration for his mane, the odd patch of fur, his markings, and his erotic flesh. Standing out from these dark tones were his claws, both fore and hind, which were in a bony shade that didn't gleam. He could vanish if need be, and strike from nowhere - and though he preferred up-front brutality, for his victims to see their angel of death, he wasn't above being covert.

And that was why being a pirate suited him well. It wasn't a title he necessarily embraced; he preferred to consider himself just the lawless captain of a fine vessel, unencumbered by scruples, but he was a pirate of the skies either way.

The night's plunder was a royal transport, a lumbering vessel which, according to Zenark's information traders, was carrying the life savings of his favorite kinds of victims: an aristocratic family.

Rarely did the drake get faulty info - mainly because he had a commission deal with his informants. After a successful plunder, he would return to them with some of the loot; it was, thusly, in their best interest to provide good information, especially considering that Zenark had a notorious reputation from skinning alive and making a squirming figurehead out of figurative rat who lured him into an ambush and near-death. Ever since that legendary debacle, nobody dared cross the dragon.

Zenark lay his clawed hand upon the barrel of one of the emplaced guns; a gatling cannon, one of three on that side of the ship, with a matching set opposite.

Kneeling beside it with an arm buried in its' gearwork innards was one of the drake's crewman, a bespectacled and engine grease-smeared weasel. He took notice of Zenark immediately, looked up up to the dragon, and he nodded sharply. "Sir!"

The dragon nodded back and, once more, he peered out across the blackness of the night. "We're due to intercept soon," he said sternly, "these guns had better not jam."

"Aye," the weasel simply said, pulling his arm back, ignoring a nasty, weeping gash on his paw; he smeared grease over it to close it off. "This is the last one, the guns are greased and tweaked. There should be no problems - like usual."

Zenark clasped his hands behind his back, and he gave the long, bony mace of his tail and harmless thump against the deck. "Very good," he said, and he was about to say more when, from the front of the vessel, the captain heard one of his spotters.

"I see the transport! Off the port bow! They're nearly in range!"

The crew scrambled into action just like that; the weasel quickly snapped the plating back onto the gatling gun he'd just greased, and he fed a chain of bullets into the receiver. Gunners took to the three port gatling guns, and others staggered in between them (and found other opportune spots) with muskets and rifles shouldered and aimed.

A boarding party fast assembled, a collection of ruthless souls Zenark had hand-picked - and he joined them, wielding no guns or weapons, content to rely on his claws and teeth.

For a time, there was deadly silence. Only the constant rush of air as the ship cut through the night could be heard. Suddenly, in a loud and almost giddy tone, the spotter cried, "They're in range!"

"All gunners, FIRE!" Zenark roared, and the sky exploded.

--2

In the warm glow of a candle, Desmond put the last touches on his latest masterpiece, a painting of the ancestral treasures he was escorting. Most prominently, he portrayed the golden ceremonial armor, a gaudily-embellished replica of what his great-grandfather had worn into battle years prior, seen on his canvas minus the rack it sat on, and with the accompanying, bejeweled saber (also a replica of ancient, legendary equipment) wielded by an invisible hand.

Pushed about the meaning of the imagery, Desmond would have said it was commentary on how empty the armor was - how his long-dead ancestor wasn't around to wear it. The truth was that he simply enjoyed painting, but nobody ever accepted such a banal answer.

The young fox was pondering this frequent inconvenience as he rinsed his brush and set aside his palette. Interrupting his premature annoyance, he heard a staccato rip, and another, and another still. His first instinct was to assume that he had heard thunder (oh, wonderful, a storm - and now I have to tie all of these pesky baubles down), but his blissful ignorance lasted mere seconds.

Shouting and rallying cries came from above-deck, but before the young, noble foxcoon could peek his head out to see what was happening, another rumble came, this one rolling and steady. He heard heavy, thudding impacts along the wooden hull, and dumbly, he froze in place.

Hot lead tore through the hull in waves. Desmond watched incredulously, too shocked yet to be properly afraid, as the bullets made lattice of the sturdy wood, and though they lost enough velocity during their entries that they didn't ram through the other side, they were still deadly projectiles.

A volley tore through the canvas of Desmond's still-wet painting, leaving it in tatters. Before the prissy fox could even register this, another round from the same barrage struck that vulgar armor by chance - the searing lead drilled into the side of Desmond's head after its' ricochet.

A burst of sudden and sharp pain greeted Desmond when the bullet shattered against his skull, and the impact took the fox off of his feet. It all proved to be more pain than he, a well-bred and prissy noble, had ever experienced, and he passed out, appearing like another unfortunate casualty thanks to the blood dripping from his head.

--3

Zenark's men wiped clean the main deck of the transport. A few stragglers were unharmed and they fought admirably, all the way to their inevitable deaths. There were some with only minor wounds, and they, too, put up a fight, but all were helpless to stop the boarding party.

Left to their own devices, the drake's men mopped up with great prejudice, spilling blood every which way and hurling men overboard just to shake things up. In time (as Zenark made his way below decks, slaughtering soldiers and civilians alike with his claws), the boarding party steamrolled across the ship, and they took control of the engine room and the helm.

Around the same time the dragon's marauders took full control of the ship (which they telegraphed to the rest of the crew with three sharp blasts of the horns), Zenark stumbled across the treasure hoard. To a dragon, it was mouth-watering. Golden armor, bejeweled swords, sacks of baubles and coins disgorging their contents from the quaking of the ship - it was almost sexually arousing to him. After a moment to peruse the loot, he turned on his heel and made to leave; even as strong as he was, he needed his men to help haul up these goodies.

On the way, he gleefully kicked the carcass-looking foxcoon on the floor, booting the young thing in the ribs mid-stride; the blunt, downward-facing curves of his talons carried a great deal of force behind them, but they didn't open wounds.

That much was fortunate for the foxcoon, who rolled over with the kick and lay upon his back. His writhing, groaning, infantile reaction was easily pinned to the fact that he was not yet fully conscious, and in all likelihood, he had a concussion from the bullet.

"Well, well, aren't you a little survivor," Zenark sneered, dropping to one knee, putting said knee on the noble tod's chest. When the young thing popped his eyes open (they were pretty little gems, Zenark thought, with a brief but vivid fantasy of plucking them out) and he began to gasp for air, the pirate captain chuckled darkly. "Maybe I should slaughter you like the rest of your pitiful shipmates," he mused, snatching up the foxcoon's long and slender snout. He jerked the vulpine's head every which way as he examined and appraised the youth, and callously, he thumbed at the bloody wound on the side of the fox's head with his other hand, ignoring the sudden, muffled screams this invoked.

Unhanding the foxcoon's muzzle, Zenark shoved the boy down (thumping the back of his skull against the deck, exacerbating a killer migraine), and then he eased some of his weight off of the tod's chest.

"My god," Desmond wheezed, his eyes closed tightly, his breathing fast with shock and terror, "please don't kill me, I-I've done nothing to you..."

Zenark could have argued that while the boy had personally done nothing, his kind had done plenty of punishable crimes to him, but the feeble thing hardly seemed like a decent sparring partner. "Silence," he snorted, and to enforce this command, he pounded the foxcoon's head into the deck a second time. When the fox continued to writhe, Zenark gave a third, fourth, and then a fifth introduction of his skull to the floor. By then, the sissy fox was very much unconscious.

The drake contemplated slitting the boy's throat, or, maybe for a more personal touch, ripping it out with his teeth, but after considering it further, he decided the young thing would make a finer prisoner than a corpse. After standing up straight, he lifted the fox effortlessly, and he slung the boy over his shoulder.

On his way to the stairs, he glanced at the tattered remains of a canvas painting, flopped against the wall. Snorting derisively, he plunged his claws into an untouched portion of the canvas and raked them downward, raggedly shredding the picture. Back on track, he turned, and he went above-deck.

Zenark's marauders stood idly around the deck, laughing as they shared offbeat remarks and compared the raid to others. When their captain emerged, none of them saluted beyond idle nods; Zenark had no interest in the overstated formalities of being captain. In his eyes, they likened him far too much to imperialistic trash.

"Didn't know we were takin' corpses with us, captain," said one of the drake's marauders, a stallion who was every bit of seven feet, standing above even his captain.

"He's not a corpse," Zenark calmly answered, and with a coy smirk. "Kill any other survivors you may find. But this one," he snickered, and patted the boy's hip, "he'll be a decent cabin boy, at least for a little while. Gather up the rest of the loot, now." He pointed to the entrance leading below-decks, extending a long, bloody claw. "Go!"

As his men filed below-decks, Zenark called out, "Every last coin and jewel! Leave the dogs nothing to scavenge from the wreckage!"

Though the loot he'd seen down in the hold was no-doubt priceless and would certainly pay for more implements of mayhem (and less interesting things like food and fuel), Zenark's mind was on the fox. It had been far too long since he had taken any prisoners, something that was almost emphatically against his code of piracy. But for something so tough to survive a bullet to the head, and so pretty as to rival the most lovely of ladies he had dazzled in brothels, Zenark was fine with making an exception.

--4

Desmond found the peace of unconsciousness welcome in its' neutral way. The void kept the pain and the shock away and made the recent ordeal of death, destruction, and piracy fade like an old nightmare. The young fox had all but fooled himself that was all it had been - a mere nightmare - when his brain decided it was time to wake up. In the interest of pure survival and instinct, it brought him consciousness, and all the painful sensations and stimuli that that entailed. Though still engulfed in blackness, Desmond groaned and mumbled, "Oogh, I feel my head might split in two..."

"That can be arranged," came a sinister and slightly familiar voice.

Made aware that he wasn't alone, Desmond went rigid, and that was when he found that he was tied up. It was a simple but sturdy rope that had his wrists tied together, behind the back of a wooden chair. His ankles were tied to the respective front legs of the chair, and around his head was a blindfold. Being blindfolded was something the fox was actually somewhat grateful for; the scream of the bullet wound had receded to a dull throb, but thanks to all of the cranial trauma he'd just been through, he was left with a powerful migraine. The darkness the blindfold provided was a small mercy.

That little fortune was balanced, however, when Desmond realized he was utterly naked in his bondage. Gone were the fine silk clothes he always wore, replaced with chilly air, and a roughly-sanded wooden chair beneath his soft bottom. Wriggling in his bonds (at which he heard a low, dark chuckle), Desmond whined, "Where are my clothes?"

"Dogs don't get clothes," coolly said that voice.

"I'm not a dog," Desmond shakily said, wary of his own indignity.

Then came another low chuckle, but this didn't bother the sissy fox so much as the new sensation he felt; a warm, clawed hand upon his inner thigh. With his legs helplessly parted, he had no choice but to take this molestation.

Groping along its' way, the strong hand caressed the tod's thigh with reverence, and its' thumb (or rather, the tip of the thumb's claw) brushed against his furry scrotum.

Stifling the urge to fuss and scream at the lewd touching, things that would ordinarily get him his way with mother and father, Desmond instead pleaded with the lewd stranger. "Don't! Please, don't touch me that way!" he whined.

That hand wrapped itself slowly around his balls; Desmond trembled at the feeling of the claws meeting behind them, near his taint. But where he expected pain, he found himself simply groped and rubbed. The other hand joined in, clutching his sheath, and the stranger emitted a low, aroused murr.

Amidst this soft groping and idle molestation, Desmond felt a nose bump into his own. The most logical expectation would've been for a kiss to follow, but instead, the stranger nipped sharply upon his nose and growled at the resultant squeak.

"I will touch you any way I want," said the stranger, and in warning, his formerly benign, even loving hand began to clamp down on the foxcoon's balls. Booming over the boy's rising cry, he warned, "Rich blood won't help you here! I will will teach you how real men suffer and play!" Then, unhanding the foxcoon's modest genitals, the stranger took hold of the blindfold and yanked it up and off, at once exposing Desmond to the candlelight of the hold. Though a dim glow, even this low light was agony to the tod's dilated eyes and his pulsating migraine.

Through the excruciating pain, Desmond recognized the features of his kidnapper, the unmistakable purple-and-black dragon from before. Weeping and sniffling in fear, the young fox tried to scoot the chair back, but it was nailed to the floor, and so his helpless thrashes and jerks only raised his blood pressure and helped the migraine reach a new plateau of discomfort.

Darkly enthralled by his prisoner's struggling, Zenark stood up straight and made no effort to conceal the sadistic bulge in his trousers. "That's it, dog. Struggle. Chew on your cage and resist your master. It makes it sweeter for both of us when you break," he sneered. But, contradictory to his urges to watch the fox thrash in frustration, Zenark backhanded his young prey with skull-rattling force; it was a wonder, as sharply as Desmond's head jerked, that his neck didn't snap - but the cry was as rewarding.

Sapped of his will to physically struggle just that easily, Desmond slumped forward in the chair. Hot tears spattered onto the floorboards, and he trembled with an impotent indignity only a noble could muster under such circumstances; anybody else would have been smart enough to submit easily. "Whatever it is you want or expect from me," he shuddered, "don't expect to get it. My father told me when I first chose to ship out--"

As the young fox spoke, Zenark casually unbuttoned his fly and withdrew his swollen and throbbing member. It was a mighty phallus of eleven inches, a dark and moody purple in hue, and knotted at the base.

Desmond flinched. Not so much at the sight, but the implication of what was coming. After watching a runner of sticky pre drip from the pointed tip, he clenched his eyes shut, and he forced himself to continue. "Ah, um - m-my father," he mumbled.

"Yeah, yeah," Zenark dismissed, giving his knot a squeeze, a gesture that made him sigh. "Your over-financed old man told you some cheap crap when you started stowing away on ships because you like blowing skysailors."

The tod made some indignant hmph! noise, but nevertheless, he remembered his place in the spiel. "He told me if I were ever to find myself captured, that he would never bargain with pirates like you! So you'd might as well release me!"

His young prisoner's absurd logic spurred Zenark to grin queerly. "You're worthless to me, so I should just let you go, because your father's purse strings are too tightly-laced for him to pay his child's random?" A pause, and then he laughed, "Have I got that right?" He laughed again, in clear mockery of little Desmond's delusions, and afterward he snatched the foxcoon's muzzle.

Caring not that he aggravated the tod's pains, Zenark lifted the fox's head to give himself a look at the boy's face; Desmond, startled, opened his eyes and glared at the drake. "How often were you dropped on your head when you suckled at your mother's tits, coonfox?" he said with a derisive flair and a cackle to match. "That all but makes you mine, you little maggot! Mine to torture, mine to rape, mine to do whatever I please with - to your father, to anybody who may have loved you, you're dead anyway!"

One could see the color draining from Desmond's features, even through his fur. When Zenark unhanded his muzzle, he said nothing; there was no feisty defiance, just a broken sob, lonesome in its' singularity. His head drooped, and his tears quietly pitter-pattered onto the floorboards.

Zenark savored Desmond's reserved weeping for exactly five seconds, and then he again lifted the fox's chin. His gentle touch was disarming, but it didn't last, for he forced open the boy's maw, and he shoved his cock into that humid warmth. The dragon's entry was so sudden and complete that even the knot wound up wedged in the foxcoon's mouth (Zenark seemed insensitive to the feeling of the twink's teeth on his cock), and the tip was well beyond the entrance of his throat.

Young Desmond emitted a squeal fit to curdle a more sensitive creature's blood, but not Zenark's; noises like that were all part of the experience. Rape, in his eyes, was the sport of kings. "Drink deeply of me, dog," Zenark sneered, threading his fingers through the bloodied locks of Desmond's hair, in that same instant relieving himself.

Down the foxcoon's throat went the drake's hot, musky piss, sparing the boy of the flavor, but the fumes of ammonia had a way of wafting back up his throat and into his sinuses. This began a coughing and sobbing fit for the boy, but one Zenark didn't interrupt, even as he felt the boy's teeth nicking his masculine flesh (though with his member pressed so flush to those teeth, Desmond didn't have enough leverage to actually bite down or open wounds).

When his bladder was nearly empty, Zenark grabbed Desmond's jaws and pulled back, still urinating as he did. In doing so, he splashed the back of the tod's mouth, and his hot piss stained that sensitive, vulpine tongue.

The moment the dragon released that pretty muzzle (which was the same instant his cock was free of the boy's jaws), Desmond slapped his mouth shut, and instinctively, he gulped down the piss pooling in the back of his throat. This spurred on a new coughing fit, one which eventually abated and gave over to steady, broken crying.

Grinning tightly, showing no teeth, Zenark - still with his erection out and throbbing proudly - chose to lean down to get eye contact, rather than manipulate the twink. "I never cared whether your father would pay up for you or not, you little half-bred faggot. My ship's hold is stuffed with what I assume to be your family's valuables - wealth is no concern to me."

With the suddenness and strength of a bolt of lightning, Zenark plunged his fist into Desmond's stomach and hurled his weight into the bound fox, breaking the chair loose of its' moorings and slamming the boy down on his back. In a recurring theme, his head absorbed most of the impact when it crashed into the deck, and with a strangled, but surprisingly quiet cry, Desmond found himself freshly concussed and grappling instinctively for consciousness.

"From the moment I decided not to kill you," Zenark grinned, "I saw nothing but a living, breathing, writhing sex toy. Your asshole will make a supple cockring around my knot." Then butting his blunt muzzle against the foxcoon's, snarling in a way reminiscent of a feral drake, Zenark saw Desmond into his unconsciousness with the menacing words: "I am Zenark Æro - you will know me only as your master, dog!"

Trembling violently, nearly convulsing, Desmond fell into sweet unconsciousness again.

--5

"Ah, captain," said one of Zenark's first-platoon marauders, "what is the word on this so-called piece-of-ass you took in?"

Zenark, his gut full and his head swimming in rum, smiled tightly and bumped his half-emptied mug into that of his crewman, sloshing what little remained of their drinks onto the table. (Zenark tended to keep his own ship clean, for while he was a pirate, he was no slob - this, however, was the dining room of a hovering port town, and with the massive bill that he knew awaited him, he felt no guilt in making a mess of the place.) "Way I see it," he belched, "there's not a damn thing wrong with wanting something to fuck besides my own two hands."

The dragon drank up the raucous laugh from his crew, and then he called for the wench that served them to bring more drinks. Already, however, Zenark was absolutely tanked, and when the girl finally came, he had forgotten what it was he wanted, but complimented her on her cleavage, all the same.

"My my," said another one of the dragon's marauders, "has my captain gone soft, sheltering prissy-sissy boys?"

Meeting the pirate thug's grin with one of his own (albeit undermined by the blush on his cheeks, purely booze-induced), Zenark made an inappropriate gesture and said, "I'm not sheltering him from a single thing - by god, the way he speaks about his father, my cock must remind him of home..."

There was another sharp round of rowdy laughter; it was sincere, for Zenark's crew wasn't a pack of yes-men. They were crude, salty pirates like him, and their black senses of humor aligned neatly.

Finishing off a mug of rum that wasn't his, Zenark rose to his surprisingly stable legs (dragons always tended to hold their liquor well), and he brushed his dress coat free of imaginary crumbs. "I'm heading back to the ship," he said. "None of you are to enter the brig - no matter what noises you might hear."

Amidst a soft, rolling chuckle from his crew, Zenark stepped out of the port's restaurant and made his way across the breezy, chilly main deck, over toward the moorings. It didn't occur to him even once that a single, drunken slip would be a long, fatal dive. Like any number of other air-sailors, the sheer height involved didn't even occur to him, and it was with ease that he boarded his vessel, tethered sturdily to the colossal, flying port with chains.

--6

Desmond had been conscious and attempting to scheme his way out of the brig for the better part of an hour. It was a rather lame attempt, given that he had spent ten minutes trying to squeeze through the bars; not only was this unsuccessful, but it left him even more bruised and sore. He had devoted a similar amount of time to tinkering with the lock, but with no hairpins or even a needle to work with (not to mention a wholly lacking sum of knowledge regarding lock-picking), this, too, was met with frustration and failure. He devoted the rest of the hour alternately to frantically pawing at and pulling on the bars and crying.

Zenark bumbled his way into the brig during a fit of the latter. He heard the boy's sniffling and weeping long before the twink knew he was there - but the moment the dragon came into sight, that pitiful noise tapered off, and the boy scooted himself back into a corner. With his knees hugged up to his chest and his eyes bloodshot and wet, Desmond clearly looked as though he had been having a rough time; Zenark liked that haggard look, more so while drunk.

Grinning toothily, not unlike a hyena, the drake leaned against the bars and sniggered. "My god, little faggot boy," grinned Zenark, "don't you look horrible."

Glaring at his captor, unfavorably recalling the rank stench and flavor of the drake's piss, Desmond scoffed, "You're drunk, how surprising."

Zenark shrugged and pooched out his lower lip, as if to say, what can you do? After the fact, he stepped aside to dig through a chest far opposite the prisoner cages, coming back out of it with a ring of skeleton keys. There must have been a dozen of them, all unmarked. As he tried the first few keys, he whistled a hideously off-key tune.

After the fourth unsuccessful key, Zenark interrupted his tune to ask the fox, quite bluntly, "When's the last time you been fucked in the ass, boy?"

Bristling and blushing, Desmond sputtered, "Wh-what kind of question--", but he didn't get to finish.

"Trick question!" Zenark said with an obnoxious laugh, and in that moment, the lock released with a heavy, satisfying clunk. "The answer is - a minute from now!" Unglamorously, Zenark dropped the keyring on the floor and kicked the cage door shut. Desmond was given no time to contemplate diving on the keys; the dragon was on top of him in mere seconds.

While the boy screamed and plead for his anal virginity, Zenark tossed him to the floor without care. The dragon was a fine-tuned hate machine when sober, and though he jovially lost some of that edge when drunk, it was compensated with unpredictability and sloppiness. Desmond had no way of knowing just what was coming, since Zenark didn't know, either. All he knew for sure was that he was about to screw the little fox in one way or another.

When Desmond hit the floor, Zenark hastily disrobed - pants first, of course. The twink fox didn't stick around to watch, and he skittered to the keys. Muttering frantically under his breath, he tried one key after another. Had he gotten the right key on the first or second try, he might have been able to escape and lock the drunk pirate in, but luck wasn't on his side - instead, he had misfortune in spades.

Zenark clapped a heavy hand down on Desmond's shoulder and squeezed it - hard. His claws broke the skin and drew beads of blood, but it was the sheer pressure of the drunk dragon's grip that caused the most pain.

When he felt the ball of his shoulder grind and crunch, Desmond screamed out and dropped the keys. With no plans, just a spur-of-the-moment reaction to the pain, the twink fox snatched at the bars of the cell door, squeezed them so tightly as to bruise his paw pads, and he screamed shrilly.

Enraged at the tod's brazen attempt to escape, Zenark pressed him tightly against the bars, initially with so much force that he winded the boy. Unhanding that bruised shoulder, letting both of his mitts find purchase elsewhere (as it came to be, the tod's hips), Zenark venomously snarled into an ear. With breath reeking of trashy rum wafting around the boy's head, he rumbled, "There's no escape, dog."

Keeping his acquisition pressed painfully to the bars, the drake slid his powerful endowment up in between the youth's ass cheeks. Desmond was given but one taste of the feelings to come, a single prod of the drake's canid tip against his asshole, before the main course arrived.

Grinning from ear to ear, belying his trashed rage at the foxcoon's behavior, Zenark plunged his cock in to the bulb of its' knot; by then, his grin became a grimace, for Desmond's cry was sharp and shrill, cutting through the musty air of the brig like a siren. He didn't stifle the boy, though. Better to let him scream until his throat was raw - all the more tender a surface for another splash of piss.

"You love it!" Zenark announced out in a bombastic, drunken way. His strong hips began to pump that writhing twink with all the ruthless efficiency of a steam-driven piston. His rhythm was sloppy, but no less powerful for the rum. With each entry, the bulbous knot slammed into that unyielding tail hole with the approximation of a punching fist, and it was these impacts that made Desmond cry out the most.

So painful were those knot-bumps that Desmond reneged on his outward hatred of the pirate and his ways, for he begged for mercy in the most creative and base of ways.

"Ooh," Zenark shuddered, reaching up with a meaty hand, taking hold of a fistful of blonde locks. "Learning our place, are we?"

Gasping in a sharp, easily misconstrued way at the jerk to his hair, Desmond shook as he pitifully concurred.

"Then talk dirty to me!" the dragon drunkenly howled and laughed, no longer keeping the boy pinned to the bars with his hands, but every buck of his hips pounded the youth against them.

Each time he hit the steel bars, Desmond shuddered and winced. Bruises that were once black-and-blue were becoming more and more tender, morphing into shades that even he, as a painter, had never encountered before. Fumbling for "dirty" things to say, he stammered, "I-I don't know what to say...!"

Rolling his eyes but never losing his toothy sneer, Zenark leaned over the fox. Unhanding those silky locks, he grasped the sturdy bars with both hands instead, and he continued to ravage that accommodating behind. Every thrust startled a yelp from Desmond, every hilt of his member wedging the knot forward a little bit more each time, forcing that stubborn asshole to admit the swollen gland. "Say that you love my knot," he rumbled.

Shakily, and with a conscious effort to press himself against the bars of his own accord, lessening the pain of being thrust into them, the boy grunted, "I love your knot..."

"Good boy," said Zenark, sniggering impishly. "And you want my jizz."

"Huh?" Desmond muttered, blushing.

Zenark's answer was nonverbal. It wasn't even guttural. He smashed his hips into the twink's ass with astonishing force, popping his knot in, only to swiftly yank it right back out.

Clamping his own muzzle, Desmond muffled his shrill cry at the dragon's sudden and unannounced knotting. His weeping resumed, for the discomfort back and worse than ever. Uneasily, he gasped, "I want your jizz!"

"Yeah, I know," Zenark chuckled, grinding his knot slowly and teasingly up into that tenderized pucker without entering it. Ignoring the whine and the shudder from his prisoner, he said, with his most malicious of grins, "Now tell me my dick feels better than your dad's."

"You disgusting pig!" Desmond suddenly and sharply howled, thrashing between the bars and his captor. Only adding to his unlucky streak, he actually managed to clip the dragon in the jaw with an elbow.

It was purely a lucky shot, fueled by rage and indignity and thrown blindly, but it was a solid hit. Desmond knew how much of a mistake it was, given that he cowered between Zenark and the bars; he knew he was going to pay, but even that paranoid little noble couldn't fathom just how badly he had fucked up.

"Oh, you little prissy faggot!" Zenark roared, blood flying from his lips; Desmond had busted his gum. Very quickly, he did two things; he pounded the side of Desmond's skull into the bars, and he hammered his hips forward, plunging his knot in at once. Ignoring the strained cries of his prisoner, Zenark yanked his knot out, plunged it back in again, and then he viciously smashed the side of the twink's head into the bars again, and again, and yet again.

Gone was the drunken playfulness, and gone long before that was the cold calculation. Zenark was out for blood, a disproportionate amount of it, and busting the twink's head open like a ripe melon would suffice. However, before he could actually accomplish that, he found himself lost in his animalistic mating, and in favor of caving the sissy's head in, he merely ground the bloodied spot he just made into the bars.

Knotfucking the young bitch with sharp, shallow thrusts, Zenark roared and howled like a true beast; hot, congealing blood dripped down his chin, and any intelligence in his eyes was lost in a haze of lust (for both blood and release) and inebriation. Around his swollen knot, he felt warm, fresh blood, rips in the boy's unlubricated asshole; it was a small wonder he hadn't torn sooner, but all the same, it was inconsequential.

Over the steady, but dazed wailing of the noble fox, Zenark roared like thunder and snarled like the wildest of four-legged wolves from centuries past in his bloodline. Throwing his strong hips into the boy's ass, he wedged his knotted member in to the hilt and tightly pinned his half-dead fuckthing to the bars. Only then did he stop grinding the tod's wounded head directly into them.

After an uncomfortable silence, the dragon's orgasm struck, accompanied by a long, quaking groan from the drake - less noticeable was a shuddering cry from Desmond as the salty release burned his fresh anal wounds.

"Dying is too good for you, dog," Zenark grunted, obviously restraining his tone.

"I'm sorry," Desmond gasped, his voice a hair above a whisper.

Still dangerously drunk and not at all satisfied with the boy's suffering, Zenark yanked his knot free of what was by then a gaped, ruined asshole, and he reveled privately in the twink's cry. "Not yet, you aren't!" snarled the drake.

Tossing the boy aside, gathering his clothes and snatching up the keys, Zenark exited with a startling, dark efficiency. "I'll be seeing you bright and early tomorrow, boy," he hissed, and then he spat on the foxcoon's face from between the bars; his aim was perfect.

As Desmond swatted at the glob of bloody saliva, Zenark hissed, "Sleep tight, dog."

--7

Young Desmond hadn't been lied to. Zenark, despite the dull throb of a hangover that he buried well, showed up to the boy's cage early the following morning.

Desmond had been so worn-out by the terror, his ordeal, and his injuries that he slept like a boulder. He had woken up briefly for the noisy and turbulent departure from the port, but fell back asleep in a haze of fear and exhaustion.

Sleep time was completely over when he heard the release of the cage's lock. At once, he sat bolt-upright, and he faced the door with bloodshot eyes and a persistent, throbbing migraine.

"Morning, fuckthing," said Zenark, shooting Desmond a leery gaze that told the fox nothing has changed. As he stepped into the cage this time, he left the door open, the key still in its' hole. When he stepped up to Desmond, the boy emitted a pitiful whimper and scooted back; with a grunt of annoyance, the drake calmly walked the foxcoon back to the wall, and then he hoisted the bloodied thing by the scruff.

Writhing in Zenark's grip got Desmond's head "accidentally" smacked into the bars as they passed them - and, perhaps as accidentally, the twink fox ceased his wiggling and seemed to resign himself to his fate.

--8

Having slept and woken up in it, Desmond thought the torchlight glow of the brig had been fairly bright - certainly, there was enough light that he could have read a book by it. But above-deck, thrust into the morning sun of a cloudless sky, he was blinded, and his headache flourished. With a very small and pitiful noise, fully drowned-out by the rush of the wind and the chatter of the crew (who all gathered around, some with pointing fingers and derisive sniggers), he lowered his head and closed his eyes.

Zenark similarly felt the painful bite of his hangover, but unlike the cute priss he manhandled, he had a high tolerance for pain. He could deal with it - and furthermore, it would just be kindling to his rage.

After carting his prisoner a few meters up from the mast, Zenark said, "Look at your fate, dog."

And Desmond did look. Standing like a monolith, about eight feet tall, was a square, wooden post. Decisively separating it from pure decoration or another utility were manacles on its' sides, cast of wrought iron and fastened inseparably to the wood. He had seen such barbaric constructions before. It was a whipping post, and the sight of it made his heart sink. "You can't do this to me!" he sharply and suddenly cried, thrashing in Zenark's inescapable grip.

Wearing a smirk that said he most certainly could and would do what he pleased to the young noble, Zenark shook the boy his scruff (opening small, but healthily-weeping gashes in the process) and then tossed him against the post.

The inertia of Desmond's body wrapped him around it, and in that instant, two nondescript crewmen closed in. With practiced efficiency, they bound the twink's wrists into the manacles; with a length of rope, they tied his ankles together around the post.

Left bound tightly, squealing and struggling, Desmond's naked, abused form was showcased to all - and it was, indeed, all of Zenark's crew, aside from a few stations that couldn't be unmanned. Dozens of swarthy, grinning faces watched with clear interest at the transpiring events.

Producing a tightly-coiled whip from within the breast of his coat, Zenark unfurled the hard leather and gave it a testing gunshot crack. From the way his young prisoner flinched (which was, to say, very sharply), he guessed that the faggot fox was familiar with the sound and function of a whip. Perhaps he wasn't as sheltered as the dragon had thought, but it was no matter.

"I'm going to give you a choice today, dog," Zenark said, stepping up behind the fox - much too close to strike with the whip. Rather, he stroked slowly down the youth's flank, not insecure about admiring his acquisition's body before his crew. In time, they too would have their ways with him, if they wanted.

Trembling badly, crying involuntarily, Desmond rallied his indignity. "I have a name...!"

"You certainly do," the dragon grinned, "dog."

"I hate you!" snapped Desmond, tugging at the manacles, only bruising his already well-bruised flesh.

"Oh, clearly you do. I'm sorry that my cock doesn't taste anything like your father's does," he cooed, and Desmond's resultant, inarticulate snarling and snapping made him laugh. He padded back several paces, wound up with the whip, and then viciously struck his fuckthing across the back. From the top of his shoulderblade to the middle of his back in a lazily diagonal line, a weeping gash materialized, and the fur around it was fast saturated with blood.

So shrill and gruesome was the tod's cry that some of the crew (but certainly not Zenark) cringed - though they never quit grinning. "God_damn,_" chuckled one, and another concurred.

After Desmond's screaming, but before the gasping and whelping tapered off fully, Zenark struck him again. With it, he made no attempt to hit the boy's back - instead, he lashed the whip against the foxcoon's hip, by a lucky strike on the protrusion of his pelvis. The flesh tore with a fine, brief, and thusly imperceptible mist of blood, but the agonized screams and the dribble of blood down his outer leg were the true fruits of the strike anyway.

"Tell me," called Zenark, "that my cock tastes better than your father's!" Just to put an extra exclamation point on this, Zenark snapped the whip near, but not on the boy's body.

"Y-you rapist pig," Desmond said, his words made ragged by a gasp, one wrenched out of him as the chilled air of the sky bit at his raw wounds.

The price for disobedience was another smack, but Zenark was creative with it. Bending the whip in two, holding the tip and the handle, he wielded the shortened, blunted mass like an alcoholic father might swing a belt. With the lessened finesse the doubled-over whip required, Zenark tore into the foxcoon's back with all of his strength.

The heavy leather pounded into poor Desmond, whose body - pressed flush to the post - was made to absorb all of that energy. His cry wasn't shrill as before, but winded and ragged. Wielded like so, the whip opened no wounds, but it left a horrendous bruise on the small of the vulpine's back. The pain modified his attitude nicely, and he relented. "Your cock," he groaned, to which all of the pirates grinned a little wider, except for Zenark, whose face was hard and discerning.

"Louder, boy," rumbled the dragon, putting a hand gently on the festering bruise he had just made.

Desmond didn't cry or squeal, but just as well, he convulsed in pain. "Your cock!" he screamed, and Zenark removed his hand. After a pause, a moment to steel himself, he concluded, "It tastes better than my father's does!"

"Say it one more time for me, dog," cooed Zenark. He was grinning like the rest of his crew now.

"Your cock tastes better than my father's," Desmond answered, his tone completely broken.

"And you're a sissy, piss-guzzling faggot boy," Zenark calmly added.

"Please," Desmond sobbed.

Zenark swung the whip like a belt again - he smacked it heavily into the youth's back, in the very same spot, helping along the rapidly-appearing hues of black, blue, and purple beneath his delicate coat.

Unlike his first smack with the whip like so, Desmond wasn't so much winded; he screamed more traditionally like someone at the post, but he wasn't so stupid or naive as to keep pleading for mercy. "I'm a sissy, I'm a piss-guzzling faggot," he grunted through his teeth, but loudly all the same. Hot tears rolled heavily down his cheeks, chilled and dried fast by the morning air, leaving the fur beneath his eyes encrusted.

"Mrrr, yes you are," Zenark grinned, unconsciously smacking the bone-spiked mace of his tail on the deck. "Get him down from there," the captain then called to his men, and the same two crewmen who bound Desmond let him loose just as quickly.

The young fox slumped to the deck, and he leaned against the post, feeling as though he might fall flat on his face if not for it. Still weeping from his eyes and his wounds, he dared not to look at the crew's leering faces.

Zenark stepped up behind his prisoner, and he let the whip flop down beside the trembling boy. "As I said before you made things difficult," he warningly growled, "I offer you a choice. But let's not be coy; it's only the illusion of a choice." In pause, he admired Desmond's wounds and the festering bruises. To inflict so much carnage and pain on something as pretty and exalted as that foxcoon was delightful. "Give yourself up willingly. Surrender that broken little body, take the gifts," he smirked to himself, "I offer you from my body, and you can live."

Dying was not something Desmond had much interest in, but nor was being the dragon's punching bag. In a moment of suicidal defiance, he thought of bum-rushing the other pirates and hurling himself over the edge, but his nerve was lost when he considered that being caught would have most certainly resulted in a beating that would resonate in his bones for weeks. No, he stayed hunkered down by the whipping post, while his tears spattered onto the deck - his bloody wounds had since congealed.

"I don't want to spend my life like this," he shuddered, his defiance neutered by pain, and the fear of more of it.

With a single chuckle, a humorless syllable of a laugh, Zenark squatted behind his battered prey and leaned in close, speaking directly into a flitting ear. "As I said, boy," he growled, "this is only the illusion of choice. If you refuse, I'll beat you until your bones snap and you shit blood - and you won't die even then. Me, I can torture pups like you for weeks - months, even..." Zenark's tone was unsavory in its' genuine lust; it made Desmond tremble. "Just be my slave," he calmly said, his snout now down in the cup of boy's ear, his chest to that beaten back. In a mockery of affection, he snaked an arm around the fox and held him tightly, well aware (and uncaring) of the bruises and wounds.

Desmond sobbed, but not exclusively from the pain. Weary and defeated, he allowed himself to recede into Zenark's warmth, and the drake dropped the whip.

--9

Despite the manipulation, Desmond felt more and more, as the days went by, that he had made the better of the two decisions. At Zenark's side and in his bed, he proved himself a loyal slave and well-loved pet, and - though it took many months - the drake at last allowed the foxcoon to use his given name. But, by that time, Desmond had grown rather fond of the title of "dog," and it was that moniker he would from then on use.

Years later, when he saw a weathered missing ad with his youthful face on it, he didn't feel a single pang of regret or homesickness. Those feelings were dead and buried; he and Zenark would laugh about the poster that night as he gave himself to the dragon, as he did every night of his life.