Lord of Chains Ch. 01

Editor's note: this story contains scenes of non-consensual or reluctant sex.

*****

When Shire finally retired from the army, he thought he'd end up back home in the countryside. He always wanted to be a baker. There were a lot of nights out on campaigns when he was wrapped in a blanket half-starved, and he could remember the feeling of relief that came with the rations. Even when you were miserable, a stale chunk of bread and some cold water reminded you of being alive. Shire wanted to give people that same feeling. He even read a few cookbooks at the end of his twenty-year career, smuggling them off some corpses after the Siege of Yawn.

What no one told you was how fucking boring the world was without war. Twenty years in the field and Shire hadn't risen above Sergeant. Sergeant Shire Billows of the Royal Yulin Army, the perfect example of how to simultaneously do nothing and everything while serving the King. Shire was convinced that most of life was ninety-percent waiting, but at least in war you had those flashes of being alive. Of living.

Only thing that came close was fucking, and at his age he was getting dangerously close to having to rely on those fancy Elven tonics just to get it up. He was quite the bull back in his day. Shire's great claim to fame was once bedding a Spiderling and not getting eaten afterward. Fastest legs in the regiment, they said. He proved them right that day.

Now, he barely had his prick and his appetite to keep him company. Piss on being old. They said that when you turned forty-one you were still young, but Shire remembered very clearly when he was twenty-nine and feeling like a grandpa. At least back then his knees didn't click. Who exactly was he taking life advice from anyway?

Shire certainly didn't expect to work for a slaver after the army. He'd been milling around and drinking the hours away in Bayreach when he'd come across that gaggle of Dwarves chattering about expansion. Something about building a slave Empire. Shire knew from experience that Dwarves were largely full of shit, but he was drunk enough to take the bait.

After a meeting with some scrawny, bearded bastard named Derry, Shire found himself one of the recent additions to the growing pool of employees of one Dvini za Krotka, Lord of Chains. Shire had no idea who the guy was, but he paid more than His Royal Dickhead Highness, so Shire had no problem with not asking about the specifics of his employer. After twenty years in the army, he got real good at not asking questions.

Only downside was all the time he had to spend in a saddle. His ass hurt. His thighs were chafed. Shire reached for his flask and took a harsh swig of Whitewash. It was advertised as the 'clearest liquor in the south,' but Shire knew that it was the unholy invention of leper Goblins and made in toilets. It was harsh, but damn it he had caught a drinking habit in the service.

"Cheers to you, your Royal Majesty! Fuckin' prick..." He grumbled and toasted.

The victor's camp sprawled in front of him.

Hunting for slaves meant going to all the unsavory parts of the land, including battlefields. That's what Derry told him at least. We want a man who knows the carnage of war and knows how to squeeze a bit more out of it. Well, Shire knew the carnage of trenchfoot and pissing blood wondering if your dick would fall off. That was most of war. Real fickle bitch it was, like a whore stiffed a couple coins.

It looked like any other victory camp. A miserable pitstain of humanity. All the feet and hooves had torn up the ground and turned it into a muddy morass. People slipped with each step, some falling flat on their asses or catching wet mouthfuls. Shire stopped his horse at the edge of the camp, looking down at the orange and yellow colors of the soldiers. These were Duke Brolin's boys. The Duke was like an itch on your back you couldn't reach. You never forgot it was there, but no matter how hard you tried you couldn't reach it. Shire had killed some of them before and was very glad he was in a plain tunic and not his purple and black uniform.

"Hail!" One of the guards waved at him.

"Hail," Shire slurred a little more than he intended. Yikes. The evening was still young. "Flying the victor's flags, eh? Another great victory for the Bloody Duke? How'd the minotaurs work out?" The guards looked at each other. The benefit of being in the service for so long meant that Shire knew all the lingo. The Duke's men called him the 'Bloody Duke' because the uniforms of his soldiers were bright, and when they charged it was like a 'wave of blood.' Whatever the fuck that meant. Who had ever seen a wave of blood? Shire and the rest of the Royal Army called him the Tick because he just wouldn't go away.

"You a mercenary?" A guard asked. He wasn't a pretty fellow, a scar running down his face. Well, none of them were pretty. Shire sure wasn't.

"Nope." Another swig of Whitewash.

"Come to join the Duke?"

"Nah, I'm sure the Bloody Duke has enough men. I mean, you two look like some strapping young soldiers. How can he lose? Plus, the minotaurs." Shire grumbled. Minotaurs. No idea where they came from, or what cockbrained god decided to create them, but Shire hated the things. They were living battering rams, and the key to the Duke's decades of success. He was the first man to come up with the insane idea to breed them for war. The first time a minotaur charged Shire, he'd shit his pants and pissed himself. No shame in that. Most men did it.

"Your business then."

"I'm here on behalf of uh..." He searched his pockets for the piece of paper Derry gave him. "Dvini za Krotka, the Lord of Chains of Bayreach."

"Bayreach? That's half the world away."

"The Lord of Chains has many fingers in...Many...Pies." Shire ad-libbed it.

"Never heard of him." One said.

"Nor I," said the other.

"Just...Take the paper, look at it." Shire couldn't be bothered to defend his mystery employer anymore and held the paper out for them. A guard took it and squinted before showing it to the other.

"Can you read?"

"Uh..."

Shire waited patiently for the two men to combine their collective knowledge of reading in an attempt to decipher the paper. While they muttered to each other, he looked out toward the billowing tents. Victory camps were a mixed bag. A quarter of them were screams from the casualties, another quarter were the moans of the whores or soldiers with their bunkmates, and the rest was one big drunken shouting match. He'd participated in all aspects of the victory camp - except getting buttfucked by his bunkmate. Shire Billows bottomed for no man.

"You're a slaver?" One of the guards asked once they finally figured it out.

"No, no, I work for a slaver. I just...Collect the slaves."

"Sounds like a slaver to me."

"There's a difference, I assure you."

"Is there though?"

Shire wasn't too sure himself, but he thought that being a real slaver involved more cushy paperwork and less being tipsy in the evening with a chafed ass on horseback. If that were the case, he'd certainly call himself a slaver.

"Yeah, there is," Shire reached down and grabbed the paper back. "So, can I take a look around?"

"Not a problem. There might be room with the whores." A guard said.

A man could dream.

He trotted into the stables where all the other horses were lassoed to anything that was stuck to the ground. These sorts of camps were hotbeds for the scum of the earth; tricksters, magicians, pimps, whores, 'seers,' medicine men, quacks, hacks, mercenaries, and...Well, slave collectors. Shire grabbed his shortsword off his saddle, tucked it in his belt, and made his way into the center of the filth.

"Where are the prisoners?" He asked one guard. The guy was clearly hammered and pointed slowly off in the distance. "Thanks." Shire said and went the opposite direction. He knew better. As he walked, he squeezed through rowdy crowds gathered around whores waving their salary just to touch a tit and slipped between groups hunched over a well-dressed salesman and his cluster of tonics. Shire didn't expect to be back in a victory camp so soon after leaving the army. Well, guess that was life. You do one thing for so long, it'll suck you back in somehow.

He had to admit, it was a hell of a lot more interesting than letting bread rise and he found himself grinning.

Shire passed the whore tents. They were always separate from the main camp, but the noise coming out of them fit in with the rest of the ambiance. He craned his neck as he walked, trying to get a small peek of the goods. A couple of pimps glared at him, fingering some knives on their belts. Shire gave them a little wave. Pimps. Annoying bastards. They were kind of like slavers themselves, though they reused their girls until there was nothing left. At least with slaves, you caught them and shipped them off. Not like Shire was concerning himself too much with the morality of his new job. He once split a man's head open with a blunt sword, and that gave you a lot of perspective.

Prisoners of war were the only downers of victory camps. Instead of groans of pleasure or gasps of drunkenness, it was all tears and sobs. Sad they probably wouldn't see their families again, or their farms, or dogs, or whatever kept men going in the face of the end. The Duke would probably use them as sport against his precious minotaurs. Shire had heard stories about those bloodsports.

Soldiers only past this point," A gruff old man stopped him. He was even older than Shire, which was alarming. "Can't let you through."

"Ah, sorry 'bout that, I'm a uh...Businessman," and Shire handed him the paper. The grizzled man peered at it from underneath grey eyebrows.

"Bah, slavers, you're the bloody worst, picking at the corpse of battle for any scraps," He tossed the paper back at Shire, who scrambled to keep it from hitting the ground. "And Dvini is the worst of 'em all."

"Ah, yes, he's...Quite terrifying. A mighty sight to behold." Shire hoped his guesses were close.

"Fucking Licani scum." The guard spit on the ground. Licani? Now, that was something shire hadn't expected. He'd never heard of a Licani slaver.

"Yes, well, I can't agree with you since I'm not in the business of badmouthing my illustrious employer, but I'd like to see your wares." Shire said. Half of this slave collecting business seemed to be lying and bullshitting, which as an army sergeant he had great confidence in his ability to do both.

"Normally you'd be able to pick at them all you want, but the Generals already got a use for these ones."

"Minotaurs?" Shire asked, hopes sinking.

"Aye, minotaurs."

"Haven't they had enough blood? Do the things ever get tired?" Shire asked.

"Blood? Tire?" The old guard barked with laughter. "You look like you could be my old man, and you don't know a thing about the Duke's beasts. They're not out for blood today, no. It's breeding day."

Shire opened his mouth, prepared to call into question the claim of his age, but was stopped short. "Breeding?"

"Yeah, how do you think the Duke gets 'em?"

"I know he breeds them," snapped Shire. "But with humans?"

"Any race. They're totally compatible, as long as its humanoid. What, you thought they fucked each other? They're half an animal. They've already got the animal part. If they bred with each other it'd be like all those royal incest lines, half retarded and useless. The Duke keeps them of the purest, meanest blood, by giving them any females rounded up."

"And the males?"

"Minotaurs don't give two shits as long as there's a hole. Though, the boys don't tend to make it." The old man laughed again, weird bastard seeming to enjoy the growing unease on Shire's face. He thought the worst way for a minotaur to kill you was by goring you and spilling all your guts out your stomach. Being buttfucked by one was much, much worse however. It had to be in the top three worst ways to go, next to burning alive and being eaten by a Spiderling.

"Right...And when's this taking place?"

"Right now. All the abled body ones are already being put to the test. The ones in here are just the ones too injured to be used. I'd say they're the lucky ones." He jerked his head toward the groans from the POW tent.

"Thanks for the information. Hey, think if any of them survive I'll be able to buy them?" Shire asked before departing.

"Buy them? I bet you'd get 'em for free."

"Right, thanks." Shire said. Free slaves were still slaves. They could be a profit margin. After all, Derry told him to squeeze the wars and skirmishes, and nothing was more squeezed than a gaping, buttfucked minotaur survivor. Shire took another sip of Whitewash just to prepare himself for what he might witness.

Just like everything in the victory camp, he heard it before he saw it. There was a snort and growl that caused his skin to crawl. A bellow rolled off from the distance like a boulder threatening to crush him, following by the banging of metal. Those were minotaur noises alright. Shire had a very sudden urge to piss.

There was a crowd gathered outside, which did no favors for the ground. Shire nearly did the splits after a chunk of mud caught his heel. Straightening himself, he fought against every subconscious urge to run in the opposite direction of the noises and shouldered his way forward. When he was a boy he used to hate big crowds. They made him feel small and squished. After a couple of messy melees, so close to the man trying to kill you that you could kiss him, Shire got over that hatred real fast. If the crowd didn't have swords in it, then it wasn't a problem. He pushed his way through, all the way to a dented metal fence. The arena had been filled full of sand, hardening the mud.

Shire arrived just in time to see a pair of men being carried out on a stretcher, leaving a suspicious white substance behind them. The Duke's men had long metal rods with hoops on the end latched around the minotaur's horns. There were three soldiers on each side, and they slid around while wrangling with the beast.

Minotaurs weren't as large as stories made them out to be. They were barely over six feet, but were twice as wide as any man, with massive tree trunks for arms and squat, powerful legs. Their chests were wide and there was enough muscle where even after a couple of arrows they could keep going. Atop its shoulders was the snarling, slobbering bull head. The horns were as long as swords and just as sharp.

Shire had never seen minotaur cock, and now wished he never had.

Even limp, the massive slab of meat hung damn near to the ground. Shire couldn't keep his eyes off it as it swung around while the soldiers wrestled the minotaur out of the arena. It had a flared head like a horses and nuts twice as large as any stallion's he'd ever seen. The cock looked a lot more like an arm, and even though Shire wasn't a religious man, he muttered a small prayer for the poor men who might have been on the receiving end of that while it was erect.

A man next to Shire whooped and hollered when another minotaur was led into the arena. Shire was used to seeing them in full armor, but even naked they were terrifying. Sand flew as it thundered into the arena and slammed into the far end of the metal fence with a jarring bang. Shire felt the vibrations of the blow, even on the other end.

It spun, snorting and spitting. Its dark, speckled cock dribbled precum while it paced around the arena, beady little eyes looking for something to fuck. Shire was really hoping that they'd throw something in with the beast before it reached out and took someone.

Lucky for them, a woman was tossed in. Her shrieks were barely audible above the noise of the crowds. She was pretty enough, with short black hair and a wiry frame. Bruises covered her arms and legs from being manhandled. The soldiers had stripped her beforehand and she stood naked in front of the hundreds. With each breath, her chest heaved and flushed her small tits. She wasn't well endowed, but Shire found his cock hardened. The woman had long legs and strong thighs.

Poor bitch.

The minotaur wheeled on her, snarling and letting out a great roar. With each hoof step the ground vibrated. The woman's cries of protest turned into screams of terror and she dodged out of the way the last second, letting the minotaur fly past her. That was a woman who knew how to fight. Most people froze up or dodged far too early which gave the minotaur enough time to turn itself. It took experience to wait.

There weren't female soldiers, so Shire had to guess she was a mercenary. She crouched low, ignoring the jeers and crows from men commenting on her ass. That said, she did have a nice, pert ass formed from running. Shire might have joined in with the chants if it wasn't for the minotaur turning itself back toward her.

And the damn thing was hard.

Now, Shire had always felt he was of adequate length and girth, enough to satisfy even the most experience of whores, but seeing an erect minotaur was a little emasculating. The massive bull dick must have been over a foot long and looked like it'd split the smaller woman in half. Precum poured out of its flared head in a steady, clear stream, and its swollen nuts looked like cannonballs. Shire was close enough to see the woman's shocked face.

"Well, lass, here's to you." He muttered and took another swig of Whitewash.

She dodged the second charge, but the minotaur stuck its hand out and clipped her. The crowd heaved with excitement as she rolled away from the blow, scrambling and kicking up sand. The fence rattled again from the minotaur running into it. Shire leaned forward, hands dangling over the edge.

Third time's the charm, they say, and on the third charge the minotaur snatched her up. She was small enough that one of its big, meaty hands could curl around her chest. She kicked and struggled in its grasp, beating on its snout with closed fists and kicking its torso. Wouldn't work. Shire had seen men try that same tactic.

It threw it head back and let out another long moo, which the crowd responded with their own roar. Shire thought it was funny, beast and man making the same sound. Guess there wasn't much of a difference when you got down to it. He almost joined the cheer himself, but instead choked down another glug of liquor. Why was he drinking this anyway?

The woman stopped hitting it and instead started begging, shaking her head back and forth and screaming for help that wouldn't come. The minotaur lifted her up and held her over the head of his cock and Shire was wondering how the hell it'd fit. Long legs kicked in vain as she was pushed down onto the equine cock like a fleshlight.

She shook violently as the first inch pushed into her, spreading her legs wide as her cunt had to stretch to accommodate the invader. People cheered. The woman gave up fighting and instead focused on holding on for as long as possible. Her head dropped back as the minotaur dragged her down.

Shire and her locked eyes for a moment. She opened her mouth, probably to beg for help.

The minotaur thrust, and she screamed instead.

Her stomach bulged obscenely around the cock. There was more dick than woman, and she flailed like a fish on a hook. The minotaur grabbed her arms and used them as handholds, dragging her up and then yanking her back down. How she didn't just pass out, or die, was information beyond Shire's understanding. Maybe it wasn't that surprising. After all, they lived in a world where magic was rampant, and this wasn't the craziest thing out there.

People hooted and shouted with each thrust. Her modest tits bounced as that huge bull dick stretched her out. The minotaur snorted with effort, widening its stance and flexing. Her legs dangled uselessly off to the sides. Shire never thought he'd see someone actually impaled on a dick, but here he was.