Work Text:
General Fergus was just getting his travel armor harnessed on when his squire dragged in his travel sheath. “Bring him here,” he said. With a wide sweep, the general swept the loose maps, candlesticks, paperweights, and daggers off the table as high as his withers.
There was a good two feet between the prisoner’s feet and the ground when Ronan carried over Sheath screaming and kicking, powerful arms cinching the biped’s waist, hooves stirring up powdery dirt.
Ronan lifted Sheath high in the air—one hand clutching the bend in the prisoner’s legs, the other supporting the back—and rose off on his hocks. He all but slapped the biped down onto the table; they were such small, useless things.
Sheath screamed around the dirty rag tied between his teeth. He arched his chest, attempting to roll over, his bound arms clumsily grasping behind him. General Fergus pressed a hand over the prisoner’s chest, pinning him to the table.
Fergus didn’t mind it when cocksleeves were uncooperative; it was great sport to tame misbehaving beasts like this.
Fergus pinched one ankle with his thick thumb and forefinger, lifting it off the table. He pulled the biped’s short, meaty leg to one side so that it was at a nearly right angle to the hip. Sheath screamed harder, this time in pain.
Fergus inspected him: checking out the sizes and flexibility of the limbs, the torso so fragile compared to the taurs, and the slit between his legs.
As all taurs knew, travel sheaths were necessary for lengthy trips, as these trots were energy-consuming, and one required a sleeve: something warm around one’s dick and could hold a lot of volume in its belly, so that the traveler would make fewer stops to do his business.
This one was a young male, well-built and tanned. He had brownish hair and big, curiously light-colored eyes with visible whites around the irises that made him look so different from his taur masters. As with the other prisoners, Sheath was unclothed, as the bipeds usually were while they were kept in cages and small enclosures. There was no point wasting resources on clothing for one’s appliances.
General Fergus hooked a finger behind the dirty cloth gag and ripped it off.
“Damn you!” the biped cried. “You’ll get your comeuppance, monster!”
General Fergus nearly rolled his eyes.
They were always such noisy things. Such small, fleshy things; such big lungs.
The biped would only come up to Fergus’s stomach, perhaps, if allowed to stand upright. Compared to him, General Fergus was a massive wall of sinew and muscle—a magnificent stallion with the most powerful thighs and widest expanse of a barrel. To him, something as puny as this biped was good for virtually nothing other than the purpose they were kept for; not hard labor, not domestic work. And yet, his kind—him and all his fellow prisoners—loved to act like they meant something. That they ought to be treated with some form of respect, rather than as the useless meat-sheaths they were.
Still holding the biped’s ankle, jerking it outward and up, Fergus prodded the structure at Sheath’s crotch.
Bipeds had peculiar anatomies down here. Without the third set of limbs that the great taurs had, the reproductive structures lay in plain, salacious sight. This one had a little knot of meat that hung between folds of flesh that flanked it. Fergus wondered if it counted as the biped’s cock. He dragged Sheath over the table, so that the ass was hanging half off the edge. Fergus poked at the cocklet, amused by the howl coming out of the captive’s mouth, and pressed two fingers underneath it. He felt for a hole to put his cock in and found it between layers of wet, fleshy folds.
“What are you…? Oh… shit…”
Sheath gritted his teeth and growled like the pathetic little meat bag he was, trying to lift his back off the table, but with his arms tied behind him, the attempt just looked ridiculous. With a sneer, Fergus stabbed his fingers forward and into a tight, silky, warm hole.
Sheath collapsed then, much like a meaty sack. His hips jerked as his hole clenched and spasmed around Fergus’s fingers.
“Shit,” repeated the biped through a faceful of tears and snot, “shit, shit, shit…”
The general’s fingers dug forward. He didn’t much care for the preliminaries, caring only about the width and length of his future sleeve. He jabbed and twisted his fingers to get the most volume out of the captive’s hole until he was knuckles-deep, then deeper. Ronan had to hold Sheath down when Fergus forced his knuckles inward. He shoved, breaching some invisible barrier and jolting the biped’s hips.
“Please, no,” cried Sheath, tears washing down his face. “It hurts… Oh fuck I submit… I submit!”
The sheaths always did that.
They always begged.
Fergus jerked his hand forward with a hard thrust, sinking to his wrist. Sheath wailed, lifting his middle off the table, the hips misshapen by how far and thick the hand had gone inside him.
“Oh, fuck! Fuck!” He thrashed. “Please… Shit… Please! No! Have mercy!”
“Oh, shut up,” Fergus said gruffly. “Do you know what we do to bipeds who don’t know how to hold their tongues?”
“It hurts,” said the prisoner, sputtering through a face full of tears and snot. “It hurt, it hurts…”
“You’ve got to try harder. Either all my cock fits… or I will make it fit.”
The biped strained to look down at the thing between Fergus’s hind legs and made a sound that was nearly hysterical.
Deep inside, Fergus felt the pressure of something against the tips of his fingers. The soft walls ending in a puckering of flesh. Bipeds… with their smaller-sized everything; even the holes between their legs were too short to do any good. He jabbed the new gate with his fingers, feeling that hot flesh pulsing around the tip, Sheath screaming and crying. The cry was deafening when Fergus stabbed two fingers into the center of that pucker.
Sheath convulsed, weeping nonsensically.
Fergus didn’t care. He began widening the entrance by spreading his fingers, doing so harshly, fighting against the tightness of that inner ring of muscle, like pulling leather harnesses apart by their stitches.
Sheath collapsed again. He kept muttering, “No… no… nonono…” but had no strength left in his bones.
His body spasmed as the general roughly opened up that annoying obstruction to lengthen what would become the long-voyage sleeve for his cock. The muscle ring was elastic and would close down with a vengeance if Fergus didn’t force it open, and once it did, it only added a negligible amount of length. He hit the end of the new pocket that had opened up disappointingly quick, the warm flesh contracting and pressing inward around his fingers.
Sheath cried out like the little pathetic cocksleeve he was.
“Oh, get a hold of yourself, biped,” Fergus said with a snort, low voice rumbling off his chest. “Useless. So soft and breakable.”
He felt around blindly inside that pocket. Tender, pulsing inner surface all around, a secret chamber deep within the biped’s belly. With a rush of impatience, he stabbed inward, forcing all five of his knuckles through the muscle ring. He pumped his fist, forcing his forearm into the biped’s body, fucking into his belly with the fist.
Sheath’s piercing wail was enough to make Fergus grimace.
Ronan trod around the table. The squire was still growing compared to his general, still half a foal and just braiding his first beard.
“Is it ready, sir?”
Fergus pulled his hairy forearm fully out of the prisoner’s hole, jerking knuckles and fingers out of the tight muscle ring. He swung his arm to get rid of the juice stuck to it.
“Yes,” he said. “Harness it.”
Ronan lifted Sheath off the table. The biped was a bundle of grotesque, badly designed limbs barely connected by strings at the joints. He only cried softly when the squire untied his hands and put the travel harness around him—leather belts around his back, around his upper bottom limbs, supporting the plump volumes making up his behind. He was gagged again with the same dirty, soggy strip of cloth before being strapped to the underside of Fergus’s barrel—belly and chest to his underbelly, limbs thrown around his flank. The hands came up around the general’s flank and were strapped in place, where the fingers touched the line of black mane running all the way down from the base of Fergus’s skull to his spine to his withers.
Fergus shook his shoulders and straightened his back, extending his legs, as Ronan then took the cock between his general’s hindquarters, pulling it out of its natural sheath. It was a long thing, the biggest of all the studs Fergus knew, and he was quite proud of it. Flat at the tip, it was already swollen and heated, dripping with pre-cum. Ronan’s fingers couldn’t close around the girth, and the whole thing was as long as the squire’s forearm.
Ronan pumped the cock a few times before spreading Sheath’s hole to get it inside.
Fergus grunted and shook himself. This part was usually the best but trickiest, as most bipeds usually had a hard time taking something this big.
The sheath started crying—a wet, throaty sound coming from behind his gag that swelled and undulated. He shook violently, limbs tightening and jerking around the barrel he was tied to, torso twisting up, knees bent and working to get far away from the intrusion. His head was shaking, muffling out something that sounded like pleads. His wet cheeks were annoyingly damp against Fergus’s underbelly. The pressure at the tip of Fergus’s cock heightened as Ronan finally got him inside the biped, the smooth tunnel cinching all around him. When Fergus felt the pressure of the circular gate deep inside his sleeve, he groaned out in pleasure.
The feeling was simply divine when that gate was breached.
Sheath wailed, and then started moaning and sobbing. Fergus’s cock was fully sheathed. The biped hung there, underneath Fergus, this negligible weight strapped to Fergus’s underbelly but felt so good and warm around Fergus’s cock. Sheath was fulfilling his true purpose. Fergus could trot around with this thing all day, the hole and its inner gate straining around him, taking care of all his needs.
He let out another groan and released his bladder. The gates down, and hot piss spurted forth and into the deepest pocket of his cocksleeve. It went on and on, flowing through the congested member to expand Sheath’s insides, making them strain. When he finished, Fergus could feel the hardness of the biped’s belly pressed against his, and he let out a sigh of relief.
Ronan stood at the tent entrance.
“Are we ready, sir?”
“Yes.” Fergus straightened his back and whinnied. “Let us ride.”