FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

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Heads turned one after the other as the snow leopard stalked to the parapet, muzzle slightly upturned to the bright sunlight, which cast a warm glow over her patterned coat. Her lengthy, blonde hair fell to the centre of her back, shining with good health and nary a knot to sully its beauty. Of course, she had slaves to brush it for her - she never needed to lift a paw to its upkeep and took pride in her wealth, or her husband's wealth. It was her that spent the majority, regardless, as was her right. Callula was one feline that had landed on her paws in this world, as displayed by her finery; her lithe form was draped in rich, purple fabric and laced with such intricate detail that it could only be afforded by those with more wealth than means to spend it.

The gentle clinking of her gold jewellery drew the attention of onlookers who had come to observe the slaves fight in the arena, perhaps gambling from time to time, though each and every one of them allowed her to pass without obstruction. Instead, they cast their eyes over her with what could have been longing or envy equally - it was not as if she had the time, patience or inclination to enquire, so she never truly knew. Callula smiled. It was too easy to command their attention, so much so that it was near losing its entertainment. But she did so enjoy a good view of the arena.

Resting her paws on the parapet, the snow leopard felt the warmth of the carved stone - a private balcony reserved only for the most well known furs. Or those who could pay the most, but that was beyond the point. She narrowed her eyes, shivering lightly as a stray breeze played a strand of pale hair across her muzzle, drinking in the battles and bloodlust below, weapons clashing in bright flashes of sun. Already some slaves lay dead or dying in the dust, bleeding out their life blood from deadly gashes; the intestines of one created such a foul reek that nearby slaves retched obscenely even as they continued fighting, too well trained to do otherwise. Callula inhaled, breathing deeply of the blood, sweat and battle cries resounding about the enclosed space, walls curved inward to keep all contained.

She had brought some of her personal slaves to the arena to attend to her needs; they kept respectfully back, awaiting her desires. A small cat, more of a handmaid than anything else, turned her muzzle away, eyes welling up with tears. Had she family in the arena? Callula had not long purchased the cat and the snow leopard looked back over her bare shoulder, observing the smaller feline without any sense of subtlety. For a moment, Callula considered comforting her, taking her away from the pits, and decided against it. It was not her position to do so. The feline could soothe herself. Her brother was likely holding his own in the arena, after all. Cats were swifter than dogs and dogs were in the majority.

She was not only at the arena to observe. There was one gladiator that she was particularly interested in and, though canine in appearance, his snarl was far from that of a common mutt. The coyote of her attention reared back like a snake, his throwing arm clutching a spear that sailed forth as if under its own volition. One more down, one more kill for the mental tally Callula had kept since the first day she had laid eyes upon him. Smiling secretively, she turned her back on the area, pacing down the parapet to where the slave owners watched in a cluster of grunting, shouting bodies. She did not need to see any more and her patience was wearing thin: she had waited long enough for her coyote.

The coyote's owner had dressed in all his finery, the jackal's robes falling to his ankle and trimmed with excessive, dyed detail. Callula resisted the inclination to wrinkle her muzzle, finding his attire garish, and sized up the older male, drawing herself up tall and setting her shoulders back. Turning from his companions, the black and brown jackal raised an eyebrow in a silent question, spreading his arms wide with palms facing skyward. Callula sighed: it was an inexplicable farce, a show all for the spectators.

"Your slave," she addressed the jackal with a calculating eye. "He fights well."

The master's ears perked in surprise at being so addressed and he glowed, chest swelling as he straightened his back consciously.

"Thank you, Lady Callula," he said, voice rising as he said her name. "Every one of my gladiators is trained to the highest of standards. I do hope you were entertained by the performance today."

"It was quite a spectacle." The leopard graced him with a smile, breaking down the slaver's guard, fragment by fragment. "What do you call him?"

"That slave?" The jackal jerked his head as if it was beneath him to look at his property when it was not bloody in the arena. "He came to me with the name 'Yoticus'. I found no reason to grant him a new one." His lips curved in a cruel smile. "Names are not important in the arena."

"Certainly," Lady Callula inclined her muzzle. "Names bear little meaning in the arena, but outside...they can hold power."

The slaver laughed, throwing his head back so that his ruffled russet hair flew away from his muzzle.

"What power could a slave hold?" He asked scornfully, not requiring an answer. "That is the beauty of them, is it not?"

"Perhaps." It was of no concern to Callula. "There is a beauty in the gladiators and raw power in their bodies alone. This is why I am purchasing Yoticus."

The jackal's head jerked and he looked down at the smaller snow leopard, one eyebrow cockily raised. Calmly, Callula met his gaze, waiting with her tail lazily swishing like the swaying frond of a palm.

"What has brought this sudden interest in owning a slave to fight in the arena, my lady?" The jackal enquired loftily, looking her over. "Does her husband wish for the high honour? The status? I had thought it was only yourself that attended the fights with any semblance of regularity."

Callula bristled at the mention of her husband, a mere pawn in her life. Had this jackal not seen her? Truly looked with his mind and not his dull, grey eyes? She held the power - power that had once been denied to her as a slave. Knowing both sides of the medallion, she played with more power than the slaver could ever dare to covet. And he challenged her, suggesting that her husband had sent her to the arena like a good little handmaiden on an errand?

"You must have misheard me," she said shortly. "It is I that wishes to purchase this 'Yoticus', yet you have not been so gracious as to accept the changing of paws. Should I query as to why that is, slave master?"

He quailed under her fierce glare, seeming to shrink into himself and stumble over his own words, regretting his initial words as she lavished her fury upon him.

"N-no."

He even stuttered, twisting his paws together before a swollen belly. Callula imagined herself taller, physically stronger, staring down on him with the pitying eye that he had briefly laid upon her. He would learn or be crushed beneath her heel.

"My lady, I intended no offence, only that this slave may not be ideally suited to your needs. He is one of my best and you must understand that one such as I would be loathe to sell on a prize."

"What is your price?" She suppressed a yawn. "I do not have the suns to spend bargaining and negotiating like a common street vendor. Name your price."

"He is a fighter, my lady..." The jackal shook his head. "Think of me - slaves are my livelihood. I could not possibly lose such a skilled fighter. He is a warrior. He knows the taste of blood. One day he will die in the arena and send many, many more Denarii my way."

Ah. Callula's lips twitched in an unforeseen smile. So, that was what it came down to. Coin.

"Your love of Denarii amuses me, slaver," she tilted her muzzle to the left, one slender finger tapping the underside of her chin. "Coin is of no concern to me, though you appear to lust after it like a male ravaging a female."

The jackal looked from left to right, avoiding her gaze and tucking his tail between his legs like a lost puppy. If the situation had not been so tense and her patience worn thin, Callula would have mocked him openly, degrading him until he pledged himself to her. He should have been obedient from the beginning. She raised a paw, staying his words as his lips parted: he would not speak over her if he had a grain of sense remaining between his ears.

"I shall keep this brief. If you do not desire the Senator to know of the conditions that your slaves are kept in," she paused to allow realisation to spark in the jackal's eyes, "you will sell me the coyote. Or the Senator shall know. Is this Denarii enough for you?"

He wilted before her whim, scrawny vegetation left too long under the harsh sun, and she folded her arms loosely across her chest, permitting herself one tight-lipped smile of victory. It was fascinating how males reacted when bested and he was proving an entertaining subject to subdue. The jackal's ears drooped and he fiddled with his collar, picking at a loose thread as if for something to occupy himself with. Ah, did he understand her power now?

"Yes, my lady," he said at last, grinding his teeth together as if every word cost him a year of your life. "I will sell the slave to you. Three times his listed value and the coyote is yours."

The jackal was greedy in addition to idiotic. If she had not wasted enough time on him already, the leopard would have scoffed at his offer, beating him down with threats and promises, alike in persuasion. However, it was more important that she had the coyote in her villa that very evening. Her tail lashed the air, anticipating how beautifully her coyote would...no. That would come in time. She nodded once, sealing the deal.

"Good." Her tone carried an air of finality. "I will have him collected shortly and payment shall be delivered by my courier. I trust that you will have him bathed and groomed beforehand?"

"Yes...my lady," the slaver hesitated. "It concerns me though, what a lady of such grace wants of a ruffian like this coyote. He is obedient and trained to a fault, do not doubt me, yet he is no handmaid or labourer."

"That is none of your concern." Callula shrugged off the jackal's words, a spring in her step as she lost interest, walking away. "Expect my courier. He will not wait upon your convenience."

Flicking her hair back over her shoulder, Callula tapped the toe of one sandal on the floor and strode away with purpose, leaving her slaves to trot upon her heels, struggling to match her languid stride. The snow leopard faced the baking sun, letting the heat wash over her, as delicious as it was uncomfortable. There was a beauty in the edge of warmth toying with the line of pain, sweat very lightly matting her fur. It was hardly becoming of a lady, but raw in its taste, a bead of sweat upon her lips. It was raw life that she craved and would not be denied - that was why she had to have the coyote. Oh, he was in for a big surprise, he surely was. Callula narrowed her eyes, tongue snaking out to trace across her upper lip. The coyote was a specimen beyond compare.

"And now he is mine."

*

Yoticus squatted, rocking back on his heels as he surveyed the villa, lips turning down at the corners. It was pretty enough, he supposed, being far from a connoisseur of the finer details in life. The Arabian stallion standing above him folded his arms across his broad, bay chest, sun gleaming on his brown coat as if he was crafted from a precious metal. He wore only a simple, hanging loincloth and, in his current position, the coyote could catch sight of his sheath and balls if he turned his head just right. Not that he was into males, of course, but it was difficult not to look when one was so obvious concerning their most personal of assets. Yoticus huffed, rolled his eyes and stared through the ornate pillars, leading up to the main entrance of the villa. He had been at the gates, with the courier for so long that the light was fading. The night chill stole across his fur and he shivered bodily.

"How long?" He asked bluntly, voice gruff from underuse.

"Be quiet." The stallion frowned, lifting and lowering one hoof, considering the depth of his irritation. "We must wait."

Waiting was all that he had been doing, the coyote thought. Being bought and sold was a part of a slave's life but he had not expected to be pulled away from the arena so swiftly without even knowing who he had been passed on to. The coyote's ears twitched. He hated changing paws. Then again, it was life and life was not bad. Only change was uncomfortable and set his skin prickling.

There was some commotion at the main entrance of the villa - or what he assumed was the main entrance - and a pair of heavy doors swung open in tangent, allowing a tall snow leopard to stride between before they had halted in motion. He had half expected to recognise his new owner as someone who skulked around the slave pens, but the leopard was too finely dressed in bright thread to have ever subjected herself to such squalor. He was not familiar with her type, though sometimes he caught a glimpse of similar furs in the audience, watching him bloody his weapons as they drank and occasionally watched the happenings with an eye that had so said and seen it all. The snow leopard padded, without a sound, right up to him in a pair of leather sandals, set with small, shiny stones. She stood above him, gestured to the horse courier to leave and promptly forgot him as he bowed deeply, his respect taken for granted. As the entourage of servants and slaves kept their distance, the coyote blinked slowly, remaining in his squat and staring at pebbles between his hind paws, muzzle marginally lowered in grudging acknowledgement.

"In better form than expected," the leopard commented as if she was surveying a slab of meat. "Strong. Rested. Clean. Did they bathe and groom you adequately?"

"Yes," he grimaced, surprised to be directly addressed. "I bathed before your courier fetched me from the pens."

"That pleases me." She wrinkled her nose. "It will likely take some time to really get the stench off you. I will have oils sent to your chambers. I expect you to use them, coyote."

"As you wish."

He resisted the impulse to sigh. Oils? What use could he possibly have for those? And he did not smell.

"Why am I here?"

His frank question did not have the intended effect of catching the leopard off guard. Rather, she merely raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, fingers curling and uncurling loosely at her sides.

"Have you not been properly schooled in how to address your superiors?" Callula's tone vibrated with the suggestion of a growl.

"What would you prefer...ma'am?"

Yoticus struggled to find words, ducking his head instinctively as he anticipated a cuff to the side of his muzzle. It was easier to address males. Females, for all their charms, could be...finicky. Finicky, yes: that was the word indeed.

Stepping forward, the leopard bent down in a sinuous motion, closing her small paw around the coyote's throat. Eyes straining wide, he made as if to cough, the only sound coming from his lips a strangled hacking, something that a fur may usually release with a spear through their throat - a death gargle. Regardless of his struggle for breath, Yoticus did not raise a paw against his new owner, holding himself rigidly in check. Every nerve screamed at him to fight to defend and to triumph over his oppressor. He could so easily rise to his hind paws and overpower her, he did not have to think about the dynamics of it: he could. Callula smirked wickedly, tracing one finger beneath his chin, a sharp claw pricking the skin.

"I am 'Mistress' to you." She released his throat with a cruel glint in her eye. "Mistress Callula. And you would do well to not forget it.

Paws slamming heavily into the hard packed ground, Yoticus dropped to all fours, coughing and gasping as he fought for breath previously denied. His whole body shuddered and he looked up at his Mistress with newfound wariness.

"Will I fight for you in the arena...Mistress?" He queried, the title tasting bitter in his muzzle, making him want to spit.

Callula raised an eyebrow.

"Oh no," she scoffed, waving her paw dismissively. "I would not have you go back into one of those pits."

Yoticus blinked, caught off guard and half expecting his head to part with his shoulders - an instinctive trait of any fighter finding himself all of a sudden off balance. In the arena, it was death. His lips parted and closed several times, tail tucked between bent legs as he searched for words both appropriate for the situation and enough to convey the conflict of his feelings.

"What is my role to be here then, Mistress?" He said at last.

"Personal slave," she answered, a smile relaxing her muzzle. "To me. Your quarters will be based close to mine so that I may call on you whenever needed. I expect you to be ready for service at all times. I shall ensure you are kept busy when I do not have need of you."

His gut twisted strangely at the thought of never facing another in battle again.

"Your personal slave? But I will be a guard?" He questioned, torn between growling and flinching when she turned an icy stare on him and added a reluctant, "Mistress."

"Your position is already decided," Callula turned, presenting her back to the coyote as if he had taken up enough of her attention for the time being. "I have enough guards."

With her back to him, Yoticus stole a look up, ears slanting back aggressively rather than submissively. What was he to her - a lap dog? He was no pet. He was a fighter. Did this stuck up leopard think to tame him into an oddity, something to be flaunted around the villa, doing no more than any other, normal slave? The coyote thought more of his ability that that. Though, as he raised his muzzle to tell her exactly what he thought, he remembered the feel of her paw closing around his throat, the panic of fighting and not fighting, obeying her and snarling at his own body to be still. Closing his jaws, he sat back on his heels and observed, unconsciously rubbing a spot on his neck that throbbed in memory.

Callula's attention moved on.

"Show him to his quarters," she ordered her servants who rushed to obey, surrounding the coyote with helping paws. "He will soon become adjusted. And make sure he is better bathed. I will not have him around me with that stench lingering."

And so the coyote's retraining began.

*

He hated every second of it.

No, that was an exaggeration. The sleeping chambers were far more pleasant than the pens, but he missed the companionship of his fellow slaves, sleeping in close quarters so that one was never truly alone. It was other furs on the same level that he missed and the ridiculous chores - physical labour, of course - that his 'mistress' had him do around the villa, while enough to keep him busy and occupied, did nothing to soothe his restless him. He was more than a house slave, surely? Everything she instructed of him was too easy to complete and he spent greater and greater periods of time exercising around the villa, taking advantage of the space and equipment supplied to strengthen his body as if he was training for the fight of his life. When he saw Callula, he made special note to refuse to address her as previously ordered, finding a sly thrill in going against her explicit instructions. Who was she, after all, to order him around? He could overthrow the slim leopard in seconds.

A call broke the monotony of his day and, even though it seemed contradictory, he leapt at the chance to do something outside of his normal routine of exercise, self-care and villa chores. The leopardess bid him come to the exterior of the villa walls where two vertical posts stood, out of the way but easy to reach if one knew where they were. Despite taking note of the posts before and understanding the faint aroma of sweat around them, he was yet to see a fight happening there, assuming that slaves were pitted against one another for Callula's entertainment upon occasion on the bare, unkempt dirt. Excitement blossomed in his chest as Callula emerged from the villa with her usual crowd of slaves and servants and his nose twitched. Would she have him face off another slave?

Without a word, she approached and walked around the coyote several times, betraying no emotion as she did so. Assuming it was for another inspection of his health and physical prowess, Yoticus stood patiently as the leopardess finally stalked up to chest, eyes narrowed.

"You think you are above your station here?" Callula said flatly.

What does she think?

Yoticus had no reply to that that would not bring an undue reaction, so he merely folded his paws over his stomach and bowed his head silently, though he ground his teeth together. Was she so blind that she had to question what was so obviously the truth? He was no domesticated dog to be shown off at the feline's paws.

"I think," she began, pacing around the coyote in a wide, slow circle. "I think it's time you learned your place. You are mine."

She paused, shoulder dipped as she looked back to her loyal servants, eyes bright as they awaited her command with bated breath.

"Chain him."

The largest of those assembled moved as one, confidently closing their paws around Yoticus' upper arms. His muscles tightened, body coiling instinctively to defend himself, but he forced himself to relax, allowing his arms to be pulled above his head and chained to the horizontal post. More curious than genuinely threatened - how could he come under threat in a villa of all places? - the coyote flicked his ears and watched as two of the canine servants squatted to chain his legs similarly. They fastened manacles around his ankles and Yoticus shifted his weight as they settled, drawing his legs wider than was naturally comfortable so that he was left liable to tip off-balance. A shiver ran through his body, raising the hairs on the back of his neck. Perhaps he recalled the nightly chill as he slipped into a calm state of mind, patiently awaiting instruction and the leopardess' whim.

With their task complete, the servants stepped away to a respectful distance, paws clasped before their stomachs and eyes lowered. Yoticus half-snorted before he caught himself, torn between a chuckle and a guilty whine. It was all well and good knowing how one should behave: it was quite another to play by the rules when the book had been overwritten by her hand. With her piercing gaze boring into his body, calculating every contour of muscle, he felt very exposed, wishing for the first time in many years that he had something to cover himself with: a measurement of protection.

Relax, he had to relax, the coyote told himself firmly, sinking deeper as Callula murmured in the ear of a tan feline slave that had to stoop to bring himself to an easy speaking level. Just like preparing to go into the arena, noise faded into a dull roar, as minimal as it was. His heartbeat pounded in his ears, making his eardrums ache, and his tongue felt like sandpaper, dry and begging for a drop of anything to sate a desire he did not know existed. He shook himself, a low growl tickling the back of his throat. His mistress looked at him with a smile, gesturing, and, though her lips moved, he heard no sound. Shaking his head, he forced himself to return to his senses, hoping against hope that she was going to test him at long last, give him what he craved. She held out her paw.

Affecting a wary but unbothered air, he pricked his ears and slid his gaze across as if half expecting an opponent to emerge from the shadows, weapons glinting in the morning sun. Callula's paw remained extended, impatiently waiting as another servant or slave - he could hardly discern the difference in how they behaved around Callula - dived for some tool or another, rummaging about in a bag crafted from bovine hide. It had to be a fight, it had to be a test, he did not dare think otherwise. He panted, muscles tightening and loosening reflexively as he awaited the pleasure of his mistress: things were finally becoming interesting.

The slave or servant darted back with a mumbled apology for the delay in returning the requested item to Callula's paw, though the leopard only swished her tail in, waving him off with a low 'tsk'. She would deal with him later for his incompetence, he would learn too. She had waited long enough already to teach her coyote and her paw trembled faintly as she anticipated how beautiful his breaking would be, his bended knee.

Turning to the coyote in question, she smiled and held up the sinuous bullwhip for his inspection, the heady aroma of leather assaulting his senses. Yoticus tilted his muzzle at a ridiculous angle, trying to make sense of what he had been presented with until it struck him with the force of a boulder crashing down upon an unsuspecting victim. He reeled back as if he had been slapped across the muzzle, tilting back so that he strained against the chains restraining his arms and resting his full weight on them until pain registered. With a yelp, he shot up again, shifting from hind paw to hind paw as every iota of his being screamed like a caged beast to escape. Yet he was too well bound, rendered utterly helpless even though he had originally suspected that the chains would be designed to break, to allow him to fight and put on a show.

Holding back a private smirk, the leopard stroked her fingertips over the black leather tail, handle resting securely across the palm of one paw. Oh, it had been worth the secrecy for his reaction, truly.

"What are you doing?" Yoticus found his voice and something of a solid stance, for the first time afraid of the answer: this was not what he wanted.

"Teaching you," she said simply, trailing the well conditioned leather between her fingers. "You deny me at every turn. Do not think I have taken note of how you address me, or lack thereof of any respectful address? Is it so difficult to tame stubborn pride and address your mistress for exactly what she is?"

"It is not natural," Yoticus said, stiffening. "This is not what I was bred and born to do."

"It is not your decision what I use you for. Time for you drop that proud muzzle, become the one that I glimpsed before."

She paused.

"Do not disappoint me."

Shaking his head, Yoticus held down a growl, clenching his teeth together until his jaw ached, pain throbbing in sharp protest. After all the times he had proven himself with tooth and claw, steel and shaft, he was expected to lose everything he had gained. Knowing her goal made him stronger and the coyote stood up tall, rocking back on his heels. He had been treated to whips many times in the pits and numerous injuries: some well healed, some not so much. He could take anything the cat dared dish out. Rolling his eyes, the coyote looked down on the shorter female, huffing shortly through his nostrils. Her arm was far weaker than his.

"You do not have to do this." The leopard took the whip in one paw, holding it with a practiced grip. "Submit to me and you do not need to feel the lick of pain stinging your hide. There will be no place to run."

Pinning his ears flat, Yoticus snarled.

"Never."

"As you please." Her eyes glinted. "I will take my pleasure from you whether you are willing in this instant or decidedly unwilling, little coyote. You brought this on yourself."

Callula drew her paw back slowly, holding the whip so that the handle curved upwards and the long tail trailed upon the ground. It gathered dust but its upkeep was not her concern, though the sullying made her ears twitch in subtle aggravation. Walking slow enough to ensure the coyote's heart had enough time to race like a pounding drum, she paced around to the coyote's back. Yoticus' tail hung over his rear and she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth in vocal displeasure that made her servants straighten. With a flick of the whip, she indicated to the nearest servant and the coyote's tail was deftly and swiftly cuffed and chained to the posts also, bound above his rear and to the side.

In all his anticipation and fear, Yoticus did not predict the first lick of the whip. He heard a rustle that, in hindsight, could have been the leather brushing over the ground, but the sound was lost in the whistle of movement and crack across his exposed fur. It took a breath for the pain to register but, when it did, it set the canine convulsing, eyes screwed tightly shut in an effort to not make a sound. He had had worse! As the bitter, deep sting faded into a dull throbbing, he wondered just how hard that small leopard was able to hit: it took hardly any muscle to swing a bullwhip, yet a great deal of finesse and skill. Shaking his head, ears ringing, he spat on the ground, starting at the red globule that splattered in the dirt. A thickly metallic taste flooded his muzzle and he realised with a shudder of revulsion that he had bitten his tongue.

She did not pause to allow him respite. The second time, he heard the snake of the whip flying back, building up momentum with the long tail and cracker that made that oh so distinctive sound. Bracing himself a heartbeat before it struck, Yoticus' head snapped back as the whip sliced into his fur, drawing a line of searing hot pain down the opposite side of his back. The strikes came in quick succession, Callula drawing her whip arm back and laying an even set of strokes with bone-chilling precision. Treated to her infallible skill in whip handling, Yoticus jerked and twisted, striving and failing miserably to escape the blows as each brought a fresh, gut-churning wave of pain. Grit and dirt dug into his hind paws and he clung desperately to the sensation, using the distraction to chase his mind to another place where there was no whip and mad leopardess mistress.

His resoluteness was displeasing and Callula pursed her lips, tongue flicking against the inside of her teeth. At her side and rear, the servants shrank back. It was not that they were afraid of her personally - it had been a long time since anyone who did not enjoy discipline had tasted a dose - but they understood the song the whip sung. Yoticus was yet to learn. Suppressing a growl reminiscent of the days when she had been on the receiving end of discipline (it would not do to break form after coming so far), Callula cracked the whip a hair's breadth from Yoticus' ear, making his ears ring and brought the next stroke down to cover the entirety of his upper back.

Claiming his body with the burning caress, the snow leopard's lips curved upwards as the coyote twisted violently, using every scrap of willpower he possessed not to whimper, to cry, to beg. So she did it again, wickedly and deliberately wrapping the tip of the whip around his side to snap over an exposed nipple. Everything dissolved into pain and he broke, letting loose a howl that set the slaves and servants gathered quivering. He was too far gone to notice their discomfort with his vocal display and collapsed, giving up on the balancing act and letting his body drop limply from the post. Callula smiled.

"Say it."

Hanging from the chains, Yoticus' ears twitched, ending as the only indication that he had heard his mistress speak. Muzzle dropping, his lips parted, blood dripping from his tongue to pool on the ground. Faintly, he listened to it drip, slipping into a space far away where pain and heat blurred into one under the salty taste of sweat. When he gave no response, the leopard clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, taking a step to the side for a different angle. She stroked the whip like she would caress a lover, the tail weaving between her fingers as she brushed the treated leather with a murmur of barely attuned pleasure. Through running the rip across her paw the whip, she left a dirty crimson smear on her palm, which she stared down at curiously.

"How much must you bleed before the last drop of your pride disappears?" She demanded, tail lashing. "All you have to do is say it. Submit to me, your mistress."

Fur matted with sticky sweat, the coyote gasped for great, heaving breaths, knowing that the torment was far from over. Of course he could not say it, it went against every part of his training and, yes, his pride. It was all he had left. Lowering his eyes, he stared at the ground, the sun hotter now and warming his fur. A fly buzzed around his left eye but he made no move to flick it away or acknowledge it. The hurt took on a nauseating throbbing, penetrating deep into his body as if he had been beaten in the arena for weeks on end, losses blurring into one another without his life ever ending. For a second, he could not help but wonder. How much would it hurt..?

He could not complete the thought. The whip cracked down across his exposed rump - an easier target than his back, which had been mildly protected by his raised tail. It did not matter that he had expected the whip to trail down to that region, considering how he was bound. It did nothing to lessen the impact. Leaping in the chains the little that they allowed, Yoticus' arms screamed, manacles slippery with sweat as he gave a strangled yelp, choked off halfway. The whip sang and cracked off the opposite buttock, recalling sharper hurt and setting him hopping from hind paw to hind paw as the third stroke cut across both cheeks at once. Alongside the irrevocable ache, the sensation brought a flush of equally unprecedented warmth to his crotch and, to the coyote's horror, the tip of his cock protruded from its protective, brown sheath. What in seven hells was wrong with him? He could not be enjoying it, he could not be aroused. It had to be a bodily reaction, something involuntary like the jerking in the chains, dancing away from further strikes in a simple act of self-preservation. Again the bullwhip snapped, building up a steady beat as his cock teased out more. Perhaps she would not notice?

It was a futile hope.

Stepping close to her prize, Callula closed her paw around the coyote's vulnerable balls, pulling them down and away from his body. He groaned, falling still even as his arse burned, fear igniting in his breast. Time seemed to slow down in the pumping of sweet adrenaline as his mistress purred in his ear, lips brushing between his shoulder blades, dampening her muzzle with beads of his sweat. He dared not vocalise a question as the leopardess leaned in very close, pressing against his abused back and wrapping a paw around his hardened cock.

"You think I will stop." Her voice was as sweet as honey, the touch of her paw like the finest silk. "Yet I am unsatisfied. Why do you hold out so, my dearest slave?"

Yoticus shook his head, refusing to give an answer. It was more than enough to concentrate on regaining his breath with the distraction of her paw on his dick and her hips grinding into his rump, calling forth a stronger burn. She laughed, her tone light for the first time since Yoticus had had the grace or misfortune to enter her presence. His heart sank: she knew more than he, something greater that he was only just stealing a glimpse of. And he desperately wanted it not to be true, not to be something for his future and, from what Callula implied, the remainder of his life.

Please, no...not to me.

"Do you not want it, puppy?" She murmured, quietly that only he could catch her words. "To feel one holding power over you, giving up your own power so you may possess this delight? Do you not want to slip into your true place in life? You look so much more beautiful on your knees."

Pumping his cock, Callula coaxed pleasure from Yoticus' abused body, pre cum dripping liberally on to her paw. She raked the claws of her free paw over his arse, delighting in his squeal and shock. As if remembering that questions had been asked of him, the coyote shot her a look, ears slanted miserably to the sides.

"Never," he panted, squirming away from her paw. "I will never say it, I will never be...this thing you want me to be. Just stop. Please stop. Stop."

"Now that was almost begging," she giggled, a paw shooting up to cover her lips. "But you shall have to do better than that, my coyote. You are so very close."

It was nearer to the truth than he cared to admit. All of a sudden, the leopardess' body arched away from his and he fought to regain his footing, his back and buttocks one great mass of pain. Callula's attack took on a sensual air of brutality and she snarled like a feral as she cracked the whip, reminding her slave of what was to come in the heartbeat before it snapped across both buttocks and thighs. Yelping hoarsely, Yoticus ground his teeth together, hoping against hope that the attack would fail, that his mistress would tire. Yet it was relentless in its ferocity as she covered his back and rump in a stinging series of welts, hitting harder and cutting deeper. Blood soaked into his fur and he each breath was more difficult to take, but he could not - would not - say it, he would not submit.

Desperately, he threw himself into the chains, weakly straining to drag them from the posts as his mind circled over the same words and phrases, mind fogged over and body pure agony. He was losing and he knew it, it just had to stop! In a sly move, Callula snaked the whip at the coyote's swinging balls, catching one snap right across the fleshy orbs so that the cracker wrapped around them entirely. Yoticus screamed at an ear-splitting volume. She laughed, hair tumbling wildly about her muzzle.

And his armour shattered.

"Please!" He screamed, kicking and scrambling to not put more weight on his arms, even as Callula laughed and snapped the whip at both of his hind paws, solely to make him jump. "I submit! I -"

His words cut off in a shriek upon the next lick of the whip and he choked, breaking down into tears, the pain and humiliation too much. Anything, anything - he would do anything simply to make it all stop.

Callula cupped a paw to her ear, eyes bright.

"I did not quite catch that, puppy. What did you say to me?"

Yoticus' tongue lolled from his muzzle and he panted as if he had been running at full pelt for miles upon end.

"I...I...mis..."

The words would not come, not because he did not want to say them but because the breath to speak was simply was not there. But that was not good enough for his mistress.

"What was that?" She tapped her hind paw against the ground, arms crossed across her chest, whip tipped away from her body.

Taking a deep breath, Yoticus closed his eyes, reminding himself that it would all be over soon, he did not have to take it any longer.

"I submit to you...mistress. My mistress. I submit to you."

Lowering his muzzle down to his chest, the coyote screwed up his eyes and pinned his ears back flat to his skull. He could not look up and was abruptly aware of the servants and slaves, all staring at him, onlookers to his humiliation. What would they think of him? The once proud arena fighter, beaten by a female? Quite literally whipped into submission? Every muscle and fibre of his being ached and the coyote tossed aside the notion that others would think and comment. Let them. They would have done the same. He would not forget who his mistress was again.

Callula stalked to his front, blonde hair tangled and a triumphant grin upon her muzzle. She cupped his chin, forcing him to look up at her and meet her eyes, revelling in the erotic thrill that she had won another to her heel and leash.

"That's my good pup," she murmured, dropping a surprisingly tender kiss upon his nose. "You have learned. Now we must ensure that the lesson holds, do you not agree?"

"I have..." Yoticus groaned, exhausting lacing every line of his body. "I have learned, mistress. Please, no more. You are my mistress. I understand. I submit."

Ignoring his exhausted pleas, Callula turned on a heel, beckoning over one that he could not see. Faintly, he was glad she was not going to use the whip on him further. Whatever happened, Yoticus could only feel relieved that the pain had ended.

"Do not worry, my coyote," she called, handing her whip off to a servant. "You will enjoy this."

"E-enjoy?" He hated himself for stammering, even as her eyes glinted.

A large paw thumped on to his arse, not hard enough to count as a slap but with enough force behind it to make him yelp, re-visiting the sting. Afraid to look back, he very slowly turned his head to see a massive black wolf of indiscriminate breed standing over him. The fur was covered from head to toe in scars and wore not a scrap of clothing, appearing quite comfortable to be under the eyes of the servants and slaves with so little to protect. Licking his lips, the wolf looked over the coyote, bulging with more muscle than Yoticus had ever boasted in his prime. He wore an iron collar, embossed with rare stones, but it was only viewed in a passing fancy as the beast rolled his hips, thrusting a swollen cock between Yoticus' rump cheeks. The coyote's eyes shot wide in harsh realisation and he shook his head so rapidly that dizziness made his head swim.

"Relax and we will both enjoy it, 'puppy'," the larger wolf said with grin that bared his canines.

"I don't...please don't..."

Yoticus' voice was too hoarse, though he knew the wolf understood him.

"You would not wish to disappoint your mistress now, would you?"

Hanging his muzzle in submission, Yoticus closed his eyes, the words hitting a chord within him that the whip had teased loose. No, he did not want to disappoint his mistress. He had submitted to her and that was his position. Cock hard, he moaned as the wolf pressed to his sore body, seemingly uncaring for his prior hurt. The slick, pointed tip of the wolf's cock dug between Yoticus' rear cheeks, seeking out the tight ring that permitted entry to a bottom-slave's most intimate passage. Crying out hoarsely with jaws parted as far as he could strain them, tears of humiliation squeezed themselves out on to his cheeks as he was violated, the wolf's cock driving deep into his tight rump. He ashamed to admit that it did not hurt that badly after the whip until the wolf's knot slammed into his anal ring, eliciting a shrill scream from a throat that would remain sore for days.

He locked eyes with Callula and kept the leopardess at the forefront of his mind as the wolf bucked and rolled his hips, drops of sweat falling on to his bound offering. The leopardess flicked her tail and blew him a kiss that held on to, using her presence to draw him through the degradation, forgetting that it was caused by her paw. It did not matter. He would not forget that she was his mistress ever again, now and always.

He was hers forever.