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[url=https://ko-fi.com/gabrieldrake]Buy me a Ko-Fi[/url]", "description_bbcode_parsed": "Clover, a blacksmiths apprentice, finds comradery and more while training with the city guard.

If you liked this story, maybe...  Buy me a Ko-Fi", "writing": "[b][center]Submitting to Baston[/center][/b]\n\nThe clank of his hoof-shoes on the cobblestones echoed a bit too loudly for Clover's liking as he approached the North Gate barracks. The morning sun, already warming the coastal city, glinted off the polished points of the decorative spikes atop the gate, making him squint. His stomach, usually rock-solid, fluttered with a mix of nerves and… well, curiosity. Master Brynn had insisted this was the best way to truly understand the work – to see the wear and tear of weapons and armor in actual use, not just hammering them in the forge. \"Can't craft a good sword without knowing how it's swung, lad,\" he'd rumbled, polishing his own grizzled boar's tusks.\n\nEven among other equines, Clover was considered… large. His shoulders were broad enough to fill a door frame and his hooves left an impression. It was a bit of a disadvantage when he was prone to knocking things over and preferred a quiet life among bellows and anvils to shouting in a brawl. He’d seen enough violence as a foal to know it wasn’t for him, but Master Brynn’s wisdom was rarely wrong.\n\nInside the barracks yard, the air hung heavy with the scent of stale ale, sweat, and something vaguely metallic. Perhaps oil or rusty iron, or maybe the coppery taste of blood. It was difficult to pinpoint, so likely a mix of them all. Other guardsmen, a motley assortment of foxes, wolves, and a few stockier badgers, moved about on early morning errands. Some polished gear, others shared gruff jokes, but all were in a state of animation. A few glanced Clover's way, their expressions a mix of surprise and mild amusement at his sheer size. He tried to make himself smaller, a futile effort.\n\nA low growl, more a clearing of the throat than a threat, pulled his attention. \"You must be the blacksmith's boy. Clover, is it?\"\n\nHe turned to face Lieutenant Club. The bulldog was shorter than Clover's waist, but his presence was immense. His scarred muzzle, framed by white whiskers, gave him an air of seasoned authority, and his eyes missed nothing. The knot that had been forming in his gut, loosened as he was assessed by the bulldog. He wasn't looking at him like he was a joke.\n\n\"Yes, Lieutenant,” he managed, trying not to loom. \"Clover, sir. Reporting for training, as per Master Brynn's arrangement.\"\n\nClub grunted, a sound that seemed to encapsulate all his thoughts. \"Right then. Come on. Morning tour. Might as well see what you're volunteering to protect.\" He turned and ambled towards the main barracks building, his gait a rolling swagger that spoke of years on patrol. The movement seemed practiced as if to make the cudgel at his waist swing in languid arcs.\n\nThe barracks interior was dim, even in the morning light. Clover had to duck significantly to enter the main hall, his head brushing against the low wooden beams. Rows of bunks lined the walls, each with a footlocker containing personal effects. The air inside was thicker, a mingling of damp wool, oiled leather, and the unique, musty scent of a place perpetually lived-in by many bodies. Weapons racks stood in corners, holding an assortment of spears, axes, and swords. He noted the crude repairs on some of the hilt-wrappings, the way certain axe-heads had been blunted from heavy use, and the distinct patterns of rust blooming on neglected blades. It was all very different from the pristine, carefully balanced pieces that left Master Brynn’s forge. His hooves felt clumsy on the rough-hewn floorboards. A part of him wanted to reach out, to examine the materials, the imperfections.\n\n\"Sleeping quarters, “ Club pointed to various features with his chin, “mess hall through there, armory... well, you'll be spending plenty of time in the armory.\" He winked, a surprisingly non-gruff gesture, “Think you can fit?\n\n“I can certainly try, sir,\" Clover replied, feeling a small smile twitch at his own lips. It was good to know he had a sense of humor.\n\nFrom the barracks, Club led him back through the yard up to the gate itself. The climb involved several steep, narrow stairwells, and Clover had to turn sideways to avoid scraping his flanks. But the view from the top of the wall was breathtaking. Veloria spread out behind them, a patchwork of tile roofs and winding streets leading to the rocky coastline and sparkling sea beyond. To the north, stretching beyond the immediate warren of work huts, was the dark, brooding mass of the Thornwood, a place he’d heard many a cautionary tale about.\n\nThe gate mechanism itself fascinated him. Massive double doors, reinforced with iron bands forged generations ago, swung on hinges thick as his arm. The chains, tackle, and counterweights that raised and lowered the portcullis were ingenious constructions of brute force and simple mechanics.\n\n\"Most folks only see the fancy gates,\" Club said, leaning against a weathered stone parapet wall. \"But it's the men behind 'em, and the gear you make 'em, that truly holds the line.\" \n\nHe gestured towards the winding dirt road leading away from the city. \"That's the path to the Wayside. Lot of simple folk come in and out that way. But sometimes, trouble comes knocking.\" His gaze turned toward the Thornwood, his expression hardening. For a moment, Clover saw the weariness of a thousand weary patrols etched on the bulldog's face. The reality of guard duty, not just the mechanics of it, sank in. This wasn't just about steel and wood; it was about protecting lives. The thought made his big hooves feel heavier on the stone.\n\nAfter surveying the gate and the surrounding land, Club finally turned. \"Alright, Clover. Time to meet Master Kreg. He handles the weapons and armor. He’ll fill you in on maintenance, repair, and everything that makes the sharp bits sharp and the hard bits hard.\" He clapped a paw on Clover's shoulder, a surprisingly firm touch for such a small creature. \"Be warned, Kreg's a tough old badger. Stubborn as a stone and got a tongue like a rusty file. But he knows his trade.\"\n\nAs they descended the tight spiral staircase towards the armory, Clover's nervousness returned, but beneath it, a growing excitement simmered. This was it. His first real dive into the intricate world of guard weaponry, not through a blacksmith’s instruction, but through the eyes of those who used it, those who depended on it for their lives. He just hoped he wouldn't break anything. Or accidentally step on anyone.\n\nThe armory smelled even more strongly of oiled steel and old leather than the barracks hall, a scent Clover knew well from Master Brynn's workshop, but here, it was mixed with the tang of sweat and exertion. Dust motes danced in the sparse sunlight filtering through a high window.\n\n\"Kreg!\" Lieutenant Club's voice boomed, echoing slightly in the confined space. \"Got a new volunteer for you to outfit. Clover, meet Quartermaster Kreg.\"\n\nA grizzled badger emerged from behind a towering stack of armor plating. His fur was a patchy grey and white, his snout long and scarred, and one of his ears was notched. He squinted at Clover, his eyes, like flint chips, assessing the Clydesdale from his immense leather-clad chest to the powerful hindquarters where his shortly docked tail twitched nervously.\n\n\"Another one?\" Kreg grumbled, his voice like gravel. \"And a big one at that. What's the master smith think, he can just send any giant oaf my way and I'll conjure armor out of thin air?\"\n\nClover tried to offer a polite, deferential nod, but his mane, a rich chestnut flecked with lighter streaks, caught on a low-hanging chain. He usually kept it tightly braided, but today it was loose, adding to his awkwardness. \nHe struggled to free his mane without looking like a buffoon. A few strands, singed black in places from accidental encounters with the forge's roaring heat, were yanked out and floated down to the rush covered floor.\n\nHe instinctively smoothed his hand over the patched leather of his immense smock, which, along with his equally large leather trousers, served as his daily work attire for Master Brynn's forge. Both garments were testament to his size, stitched from multiple pieces of tough, patched hide. \"I... I apologize, Quartermaster,\" Clover rumbled, his voice deeper than he intended. \"Master Brynn thought it would be beneficial for me to understand the demands placed on the equipment.\"\n\nKreg snorted, a puff of dust escaping his nostrils. \"Demands? You are the demand! What do you expect me to have for a beast your size? Custom plate armor forged by giants? My inventory runs from standard-issue badger-sized to, perhaps, a very large wolf. Nothing for a Clydesdale.\" He rummaged through a bin, pulling out a standard guard's breastplate, holding it up almost comically against Clover's impossibly vast chest. It looked like a child's toy.\n\n\"See?\" Kreg threw the breastplate back with a clatter. \"You'd burst through anything I've got with a single deep breath.\"\n\nLieutenant Club stepped forward, his expression grimly amused. \"He'll be doing drills, Kreg, not frontline charges. Just something to identify him as official. A tabard, perhaps?\"\n\nThe badger grumbled, pulling a neatly folded tabard from a shelf. It was made of sturdy blue linen, embroidered with the city sigil—a golden sun rising over a cerulean sea. When Kreg handed it to Clover, the Clydesdale felt a pang of pride. This was it, the real symbol of a Veloria guard.\n\nHe slipped it over his massive head. It reached barely to his waist, stretching taut across his broad shoulders and chest. The armholes tugged uncomfortably, and the two ties meant to secure it at the side simply refused to meet. It looked less like a proper uniform and more like a brightly colored bib. His own patched leather smock and trousers completed the awkward ensemble.\n\n\"Right,\" Kreg concluded gruffly. \"You're... marked. Now get out of my armory before you break something.\"\n\n\"Thank you, Quartermaster,\" Clover said sincerely, despite the uncomfortable fit.\n\nClub led Clover back out into the bright morning light, heading towards the open training yard beyond the barracks. The air was filled with shouts and the rhythmic thud of wooden swords against shields. A motley collection of new recruits, mostly younger canids and felines, were being put through basic drills.\n\n\"Alright, Clover,\" Club announced, approaching the drill sergeant, a lean fox with one ear perpetually cocked. \"New recruit. Ensign Moreau, this is Clover. He's here to gain some insight into equipment. Treat him like any other greenhorn.\"\n\nEnsign Moreau raised an eyebrow at Clover's imposing stature, then gave a sharp nod. \"Understood, Lieutenant!\" He then turned to Clover with a surprisingly sharp voice. \"Alright, new blood! Fall in! Give me thirty jumping jacks to loosen you up, and don't make the ground crack!\"\n\nClover spent the next couple hours feeling like a clumsy ox trying to dance. He was used to the heavy, steady effort of hammering iron, the controlled power of shaping metal. But this—this was bursts of explosive energy, agile footwork, and constant physical corrections. His powerful Clydesdale legs, built for pulling heavy loads or long-distance marching, felt stiff and awkward during dodging drills. His shoulders, usually stooped over the anvil, burned with the unfamiliar strains of holding a shield in a defensive stance. He might be bigger and stronger than any of his fellow recruits, but they moved with a fluidity he lacked. His shortly docked tail, usually a steady rudder in the forge, flapped uselessly as he struggled to maintain balance during a spinning maneuver.\n\nBy the time Ensign Moreau called a halt for a short water break, Clover was more tired than he had been after a full day of striking hot steel. Sweat plastered his dappled chestnut coat to his skin, and his immense lungs heaved. He reached for his water skin, noticing his hand trembled slightly. Master Brynn had been right, it seemed. There was a lot more to armed combat than just the making of the tools. And a lot more physical exertion than just swinging a hammer.\n\nClover, exhausted from his training, made his way to the mess hall for a quick midday meal. The other recruits watched him curiously as he navigated through the crowd, his sheer size making it hard for some to ignore him. He loaded up on bland but filling stew and spent a few minutes trying to cool down, chatting with a hulking warrior wolf named Rufus, who was eager to share tales of his father's lifetime of service.\n\nRufus' father, it turned out, had been a guardsman – a sergeant. It was clear that his father’s rank and name had been earned through blood, sweat, and unyielding loyalty to the city. He was proud to carry on the legacy, though his own size was nothing compared to a young Clydesdale like Clover.\n\nAfter lunch, Clover was sent to do some equipment maintenance. He found himself enjoying the quiet precision of sharpening blades, oiling leathers, and mending mail—skills he had picked up from Master Brynn. As he worked on a particularly ornate helmet, he and Rufus fell into an easy conversation about combat tactics and strategy. Clover was grateful for the insights and advice from someone with actual experience.\n\nA small rabbit named Warren approached them, a child-sized backpack strapped to his back. He was a curious figure, slender and agile despite his sharp teeth and claws. His emerald coat was mottled with camouflage patterns, making him blend into the shadows when he wanted to. He introduced himself as a message runner and scout-in-training, eager to learn the ropes of the guards.\n\nThe clang of mess tins and the murmur of conversation filled the North Gate mess hall as Clover, Rufus, and Warren gathered for the evening meal. Clover, still feeling the unfamiliar ache in muscles that usually only saw action wielding a hammer, gratefully accepted a bowl of thick lentil stew. The tight-fitting guard tabard, despite its awkward fit, felt strangely comforting now, a mark of his day's efforts.\n\n\"Still can't believe how much you know about sharpening,\" Warren chirped, tearing off a piece of coarse bread. The rabbit's movements were quick and precise, even when buttering his meal. \"Ensign Moreau just shows us a grindstone and says 'don't be dull.' You were talking about angles and temper like it was...well, like it was simple.\"\n\nClover shrugged, slurping his stew. \"It's just part of the trade. If you sharpen a blade too fast, or at the wrong angle, you can draw the temper out of the steel. Makes it brittle, liable to snap when you need it most. Or you just grind away too much of the edge, and then it's useless after a few uses.\" He motioned with his spoon, illustrating. \"You want to find the sweet spot between sharpness and durability.\"\n\nRufus, the wolf, grunted, nodding slowly. His voice was lower, rougher than Clover's or Warren's. \"Never really thought about it that way. Just hand it to the armorer and hope for the best. My da always said a guardsman learns to trust his blade as much as his brothers. Guess knowing how it's made helps with that.\"\n\n\"My papa makes embroidered tapestries,\" Warren put in, a slight wistfulness in his tone. \"Beautiful work, full of intricate knots and vibrant dyes. Not much call for knowing how to sharpen a needle, though. He wanted me to take over the shop, but...\" He shrugged his slender shoulders. \"I just couldn't sit still all day, cooped up. Always loved the idea of being out, seeing everything, moving fast. That's why scout and runner sounded right for me.\"\n\nRufus chuckled. \"A tailor's boy out in the wilderness, eh? You'll be picking burrs out of your fur for a week. My da, he was a guardsman like I said. Old Man Grimjaw they called him. Served thirty years, saw action in the Borderlands skirmish, put down that rogue griffon that was snatching sheep on the outskirts. He insisted I follow in his paw-steps. A good, honest way to protect the city and earn a living, he always said. Better than sitting by a fire making pretty pictures, no offense.\" He flashed Warren a grin that showed a flash of fang, but without malice.\n\nWarren just smiled. \"None taken. Different paths for different beasts, I suppose. What about you, Clover? You said you were a farmer's son, but you clearly have a knack for the forge. Not many Clydesdales picking up hammers.\"\n\nClover pushed his empty bowl away. \"My older brother, Barley, he's the one who was meant for the farm. Stubborn as a mule, but good with the soil. I was... well, I was always more interested in what lay beyond the fields. And frankly, I broke more plows than I fixed with my enthusiastic plowing.\" He gave a rueful chuckle, his singed mane shifting. \"Master Brynn saw me at a roadside, mending a broken cart wheel for a merchant, and offered me an apprenticeship. He said my strength was an asset, not a hindrance, in the forge. And he was right. Been with him ever since.\"\n\n\"So you're like me,\" Warren observed, thoughtfully scratching his chin with a claw. \"Came from one thing, but drawn to another.\"\n\n\"And I'm like Da,\" Rufus added, thumping his chest lightly. \"Keeping the traditions. Good mix, wouldn't you say?\" He looked between the smaller rabbit and the hulking Clydesdale.\n\nClover nodded slowly. In the flickering lamplight of the mess hall, surrounded by men who had already accepted him, he felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the stew. He still wasn't sure if he was cut out for the guard life, or if his gentle nature could truly adapt to violence. But for the first time, he felt something akin to belonging, sharing simple stories with these new companions.\n\nThe three of them discovered they shared a common bond—they were all outsiders in their own way. Rufus was the born-and-bred Velorian living in his father’s shadow, Clover the farmboy turned blacksmith’s apprentice, and Warren the trying to make his own way in the big city. They spent the evening sharing stories over the simple rations, swapping advice about life within the city and marking the first day of what they hoped would be a longer friendship.\n\nBy the time they parted ways to find their respective bunks, Clover had begun to imagine himself in the lithe armor that the quartermaster had mocked him for earlier. Maybe the city would come to accept someone so different, a giant amongst small fry. Or maybe, just maybe, he could prove his worth on the battlefield.\n\nThe barracks fell quiet as the day's activities wound down. Clover's eyelids grew heavy with exhaustion as he was shown to a hastily assembled pallet in the communal dormitory. Despite the discomfort and missteps, he felt a sense of belonging he hadn't experienced since leaving his father’s farm. For now, that was enough to keep him asleep.\n\n[center]* * *[/center]\n\nThe first glimmer of pre-dawn light was still a promise on the horizon when Clover was roused by a gentle but insistent nudge to his flank. He blinked, groggy, to see Warren's bright, eager face close to his own.\n\n\"Rise and shine, big guy!\" the rabbit whispered, his ears twitching with suppressed excitement. \"Communal baths open now. If we go quick, the water'll still be pretty clean. No reason to stew in everyone else's muck, right?\"\n\nClover groaned, pushing himself up from his sleeping position. His muscles still protested from yesterday's unaccustomed exertions, reminding him of every awkward lunge and clumsy pivot. The thought of a warm bath was appealing, but the \"communal\" part sent a fresh wave of unease through him. He'd always preferred the quiet solitude of a quick, private scrub behind Master Brynn's forge, far from any prying eyes. He was a Clydesdale, all impressive bulk and strength, but for all his imposing size, he harbored a profound self-consciousness about his own body, a vulnerability he rarely indulged. Yet, here he was, being pulled to a public washing space by his new, incredibly confident, companions. There was no graceful way out of this.\n\nThey met Rufus just outside the dormitory, the wolf already stretching, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. \"Morning, lads! Ready for a proper wake-up call? Nothing like a cool morning to get the blood flowing!\"\n\n\"Cold?\" Clover swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.\n\n\"Only until you get in the water,\" Warren chirped, already darting ahead. \"Then it's glorious!\" The three hurried through the quiet barracks, their steps muffled by the early hour.\n\nThe bathhouse was a large, echoey chamber, filled with the pervasive smell of damp stone and a faint, lingering scent of soap. A large, stone-lined pool dominated the center, fed by a trickling spring. The morning air was a bit cold, but steam rose lazily, catching the faintest hints of light from the high windows and promising warmth.\n\n\"First ones!\" Rufus crowed, already tugging off his trousers with practiced ease. His broad wolf frame, honed by years of active training, was evident even in the dim light. He wasted no time, shucking his tunic and tossing it carelessly onto a nearby bench. Warren, too, stripped down with an almost alarming speed, his slim, agile body moving without a single flicker of hesitation. He stretched, long limbs reaching for the ceiling before dropping his clothes with a casual disregard that made Clover's cheeks burn.\n\nClover, by contrast, felt every piece of leather and linen clinging to him like a second skin. He fumbled with the wooden toggles on his massive smock, his large fingers clumsy. He tried a nonchalant hum, as if pondering the architectural merits of the bathhouse, anything to avoid eye contact or draw attention to his agonizingly slow undressing. He was used to the privacy of the forge and the heavy anonymity of his patched work clothes. Now, standing here, about to expose himself, he wished he could somehow shrink, or perhaps disappear entirely into the steam. \n\nHe tried to angle his body, hoping to obscure, to minimize, to make himself less... exposed. The playful banter between his new friends turned into a low hum in his ears, overshadowed by the sudden, overwhelming awareness of his own physical form. He decided to keep one scrap of cloth on and maybe a scrap of his dignity.\n\nClad only in his small loincloth, Clover stepped into the pool. The water was indeed warm, like a soft embrace for his heavy limbs. The water was surprisingly nearly transparent and barely up to his thighs. He tried not to wince as gentle waves lapped against his loincloth threatening to tug the thin linen aside as he settled on a stone bench, instead focusing on the soothing heat that reached his aching muscles. \n\nRufus grinned at his hesitation, settling into the hot water more like an otter than a wolf. \"This is the life, isn't it, Clover? Where else would a big guy like you fit so easily?\" He sank lower into the water, rippling his broad shoulders. His sheath was impressive, even against a backdrop of Rufus' equally impressive physique. It bulged prominently below his hard abdominals. His balls were heavy, straining against his scrotum, and Clover tried desperately not to stare.\n\n\"True!\" Warren squeaked, his tail swishing lazily behind him. \"Bathhouses are all about sharing, my friend. Nothing to be ashamed of, really.\" He smirked, a hint of challenge in his eyes. His lean body glistened in the watery light, faint scars marring the pale skin. A long, graceful cock swayed between his lean haunches, the foreskin pulled back to reveal a glistening head. He dipped beneath the surface, emerging with a satisfied sigh. \"Ah, perfect!\"\n\nClover tried not to let his discomfort show, awkwardly splashing water onto their faces just to break the silence. He couldn't help but notice the differences between them: Rufus' solid bulk, Warren's lithe musculature. Touching their soft-furred bodies as he wrestled playfully with them to silence their banter, he felt the difference in texture, the contours of their muscles. It was strange, intimate even, but he couldn't shake the feeling of being on display, somehow... flawed.\n\nConscious of Warren's steady gaze, he rinsed his hair quickly and ducked under the water, the steam thinning his thoughts. He washed himself meticulously, working the grime from a long day of training away, trying to pretend it was just another task, another duty. But the playful banter and the knowing smiles lingered, gnawing at his confidence. He was still unaccustomed to this new life of camaraderie, of openness, the acceptance from those who'd once mocked his size. He closed his eyes, feeling the water lap at his chest and the pressure of the current against his balls. He wasn't entirely comfortable with even this much nudity, but he knew it was a small price to pay for the friendships he'd found.\n\nWarren broke the silence. \"Hey, Clover?\" The rabbit's voice was soft, almost teasing. \"You know, there's nothing wrong with being different. We all bring something to the table, right?\"\n\nClover opened his eyes, meeting Warren's frank gaze. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw something deeper there, a glimpse of longing or curiosity. But then the rabbit dove back into the water, laughing. Embarrassment flooded him again, hot and suffocating. But he couldn't ignore the truth in those words, the reality of his new life. He might be a Clydesdale, small and awkward among giants of a sort, but he was here, he felt like he belonged, and maybe that was enough.\n\nThey spent the rest of their time splashing and teasing, sharing stories and playing rough, laughing and growling at each other in a way that felt almost like family. Even in the steamy water, the early morning chill lingered, reminding them of what lay ahead. Clover pushed the thoughts away for now, content to just soak up the warmth and the affection of this new friendship. \n\nThey were interrupted when Lieutenant Club entered the bathhouse, his scarred muzzle and tired eyes betraying little of his thoughts. He, too, sought the warmth after a long night, ignoring the few other patrons lingering near in the pool as he quickly undressed.\n\nThe bulldog revealed the other motive for his nickname when he removed his leather trousers – what seemed nearly a foot of soft humanoid cock sprang forth like it was under pressure from being trapped beneath the leather. \n\nAs he settled into the pool, his eyes met Clover's, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. The large horse was openly staring. He couldn’t believe what the dog was packing, it swayed down past his knees. And even longer if you counted the drooping foreskin.\n\nThe tension eased slightly as three young men continued their banter, but Clover wasn’t really paying much attention. Even Club couldn't resist the occasional smirk or splash. Clover tried not to stare, but it was hard not to appreciate the bulldog's impressive size, the jut of his heavy balls, the way his cock twitched when he laughed. The others teased him good-naturedly, but there was a hint of something more beneath the surface.\n\nWithout warning, Rufus snagged Clover's loincloth and yanked it upwards, sending it flying across the room. Clover's eyes went wide, his cheeks flushing hotter than the water. He tried to cover himself, but it was a bit late, and the horse's meager erection was clear even amidst all the laughter and playful slaps. His face turned scarlet as his hardness, barely half the size of the stout bulldog’s was soft, was on display.\n\n\"Well, well,\" Warren murmured, a smirk playing at his lips. \"Looks like our little Clydesdale has a few secrets of his own.\"\n\nClub chuckled, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. \"This is the Life, Clover. Nothing to be ashamed of.\" He leaned back against the side of the pool, the muscles rippling across his torso. His massive cock, growing half-hard, bobbed against his belly.\n\nClover froze, suddenly self-conscious. He knew they were just joking, but the exposed heat of his arousal added to his confusion. Why was he reacting like this? He was no maiden, he bedded a woman. Well, one woman, but definitely not innocent. But something about being surrounded by such raw masculinity, so much confidence and familiarity... it shook him\n\n\"Clover, I need to speak with you for a moment,\" Club said quietly, motioning for the young horse to follow him out of the pool. “It’s about your training.”\n\nAs the other two trainees shared a knowing look, Warren grinned. \"Go on, kid,\" he said, slapping Clover on the ass affectionately. \"Club seems to have taken a shine to you.\"\n\nRufus nodded. \"Just be careful,\" he added, nudging Clover in the ribs. \"Our lieutenant here isn't known for... subtlety.\"\n\nClover glanced back at them, heart pounding in his chest. He felt exposed, vulnerable, like the world could see right through him. But he had no choice but to trust his new comrades, to follow the older bulldog out of the pool. His short stocky member bobbed in front of him as he followed the lieutenant.\n\nOnce they were alone in a side room, Club turned to face him. \"I won't lie, Clover,\" he rumbled, his voice low and rough. \"I've noticed your eyes on my cock, and I must admit it's got my interest piqued.\"\n\nClover's cheeks flushed, his eyes darting away from the huge bulge still bobbing between the dog's legs. \"I...\" he stammered, unsure of how to respond.\n\n\"Some men are born to understand their place in the world,\" Club continued, his voice softening. \"And some have to find it for themselves. You're one of those, aren't you?\" Clover nodded weakly, unable to meet the older man's gaze.\n\n\"It's not a crime, kid,\" Club said reassuringly. \"But I can tell you, there's more to life than what you've known so far.\" He paused, leaning in close. \"I've had my fair share of strange cargo, if you know what I mean. And I'm willing to help you find your way if you're willing to take the chance.\"\n\n\"I don't know...\" Clover whispered, swaying where he stood. A part of him wanted to trust this rugged, experienced man who looked at him not with pity or disgust, but with understanding. But another part was terrified of the unknown.\n\nClub sighed and stepped onto a stool putting himself nearly at eye level, chest level at least, with the horse. \"Listen, kid,\" he said gruffly. \"I've got an opportunity here for you that might have some... shall we say, unique benefits.” He glanced down at his very erect footlong cock. “You interested?\" He paused, a glint in his eye. \"Besides, I've got a feeling you won't be satisfied with much else.\"\n\nClover swallowed hard, his heart racing. \"I...\" he whispered, taking a step closer to the towering dog. \"I need time to think.\" \n\nBut even as he said those words, the bulldog put a hand on his shoulder and the large horse sank down to his knees. It was nearly absurd that he should be kneeling before the small dog, but it felt right. And his cock twitched in excitement as he leaned forward and tentatively licked the dog’s large balls.\n\n“I had a feeling you’d be eager to submit to a bigger man.”\n\nClover’s mind swam. Why was he doing this? Did he really like men? It never occurred to him. But this bulldog, who was so much shorter than him, spoke to him in a way that made him want to submit.\n\n“That’s enough pussy-footing around.” Club placed his thick fingered hand at the back of the horse’s head and guided the young man’s mouth to the cock. Clover could have easily resisted, he was strong enough to easily push the older dog away and walk out. But he realized he didn’t want to. He opened his mouth and let the old guards thick cock in. “That’s it boy. Bet you've wanted this for a while now.” \n\nClover really wanted this. And as Club’s words urged him on, he finally gave into his desire.\n\n“That’s it. Get a taste of a real man’s cock. Not like that little pony nub you’ve got between your legs.”\n\nClover groaned. He did have a little pony cock and it was straining hard and leaking precum like it had never done before. \n\n“You can get my cock in deeper than that.” Club guided the horse’s head to take him in deeper, past the halfway point so the now uncovered glans was poking at the entrance to his throat. “I’ve never bred a little pony’s throat before. Bet you could swallow me down to the root.”\n\nClover suddenly felt up to the challenge. He needed to feel this daddy dog’s cock as deep inside as he could handle. He knew he would be begging for just that if his mouth wasn’t full. Instead he gripped the stout bulldog’s hips and forced himself onto his throbbing fuckstick. He felt it pop into his throat and he resisted the urge to gag. He needed to show Club he could handle it.\n\n“Fuck. You’re an eager little pony slut.” Clover moaned again. It was an uncontrolled reaction. His throat reacted by relaxing and letting more of the superior cock into its depths. He really was a pony slut. “Can’t wait to squirt my puppy batter directly into your stomach.” \n\nClover felt like he had been born for this, born to serve superior men. And despite the stiff meat blocking the air to his lungs, he took it deep enough to feel his nose pressed against the bulldog’s muscle gut.\n\n“That’s it, pony boy.” Club rocked his hips forward. “Keep nice and relaxed while I breed you good.” And then he started to really fuck the Clydesdale’s throat in earnest.\n\nClover felt his vision blur and his little cock throb with the anticipation of having his mouthhole filled with older dog’s spunk. And he didn’t need to wait long. \n\n“Fuck. Here it comes.” Club’s humping hips began to get a bit more erratic and the dog gripped the back of his head tightly as he shoved in as deep as he could go. “Cumming…,” the first spurt hit Clovers gullet hard and triggered his own little cock to fire off a squirt of his own. “... in your tight….” The next spurt seemed even stronger and Clover could feel the heat of it warming his insides as it snaked down to his belly. “...pony mouth.”\n\nClover pulled off the throbbing cock as he gasped for air. His own little cocklet spurting out streams of horse cum on the floor beneath him as he rode through his intense hands-free orgasm. But he didn’t pull off completely as his mouth alternated between gasping in breaths of much needed air and swallowing the spurt of dog cum.\n\nClub whispered, the command in his voice gone, as he stroked Clover's cheek gently. \"Just taking the first step, kid. There's more to this world than you know. Trust me and I'll show you how to be the mare you really are.\" As he spoke, another surge of cum erupted from his shaft, splashing against the horse's chin before dripping onto the floor.\n\nDespite the strange sensation of being \"taken\" so effortlessly, Clover found himself craving more. There was something undeniably thrilling about submitting to the dominant figure before him. He nodded shakily, rubbing his nose against Club's thick thigh. \"All right,\" he said hoarsely. \"Show me what else this life has to offer.\"\n\nThe moment is broken as sounds from the other room filter in. A gaggle of guardsmen could be heard entering the bathhouse and it reminded the two men of where they were. \n\n\"There will be time for that later, \" Club spoke again in his typical gruff tone. You've got your first day manning the gates ahead of you. And I've got my own duties to attend to.\" He dropped down to the floor and strode to the door. \"Be seeing you later, pony boy,\" he chuckled. Hoots and hollers could be heard as the other guardsman saw their superior enter the bathhouse with his cock half-hard and glistening. \n\nClover should have been embarrassed to enter the room naked to retrieve his clothing, but after what he had just experienced, nothing could taint his mood. Instead he was confident for once despite knowing that dozens of guardsmen could see his little horsey dick. He could hear them talking amongst themselves and it was obvious that he had come from the same sideroom as the lieutenant, but that just made him feel more proud. He didn't even notice the cum drying on his chin; he was so elated.\n\nAs Clover dressed, he couldn't help but feel a strange mix of excitement and nervousness about his newfound direction. He glanced back at the bulldog lieutenant as the older dog rinsed his body in the pool. Was this really what he wanted? He felt satisfied in ways he never had before. And yet, there was still a part of him that yearned for something more.\n\nWith a deep breath, he pushed open the bathhouse door and stepped out into the cool dawn air. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was embarking on a new journey. The thought of more encounters like the one he shared with Club—albeit without the danger of discovery—filled him with a confusing mix of anticipation and fear. But he knew one thing for certain: after what he had just experienced, his old life felt small and confined. He was ready to embrace whatever this new path held for him.\n\nClover strode back to the barracks, a lightfootedness in his massive frame that belied his lingering exhaustion. The cold air against the crusty cum on his chin was a subtle, almost sacred reminder of the intensity of the past moments. He knew he must look a sight – disheveled, perhaps a bit dazed – but for once, the knowledge didn't sink him into embarrassment. Instead, a strange, warm confidence settled deep in his chest. He passed returning guardsmen, some of whom eyed his flushed face and damp hair with curiosity, but Clover met their gazes, no longer shrinking from their scrutiny.\n\nInside the bustling barracks, the mess hall was full of the clatter of breakfast. Clover navigated his way to the duty roster, finding his name scrawled alongside Rufus, Warren, and several others he hadn't yet met. \"North Gate, Morning Watch. Watch for unusual persons,\" it read.\n\n\"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in,\" a familiar voice drawled. Rufus clapped him on the shoulder, a wide grin breaking across his wolfish face. Warren, leaning against a weapons rack, wagged his tail and caught Clover's eye, a mischievous sparkle in his own.\n\n\"Ready for your first shift, Clover?\" Warren asked, his tone laced with an almost imperceptible hint of a double meaning. His gaze flickered towards Clover's fresh face, then, for just a fraction of a second, down to where his leather pants again concealed his little member.\n\n\"Couldn't be more ready,\" Clover replied, surprised by the ease in his own voice. He felt a blush creep up his neck, but it was a warm blush, not the scorching heat of shame. He even managed a slight smirk, thinking of the true source of his readiness. The image of Club's monumental cock still swam in his mind's eye, and his own small horse cock twitched in an eager, yet meager, imitation.\n\nRufus chuckled. \"Looking a little... refreshed this morning, aren't we? Early bird gets the worm, or in some cases, the Lieutenant's undivided attention?\"\n\nThe other recruits in their patrol, a lean weasel and a stocky boar, exchanged glances, trying to piece together the veiled references. Clover felt his ears flutter slightly, but he didn't wilt. He simply met Rufus's gaze, a knowing glint in his own eyes. \"Always good to make a strong impression on your first day,\" he replied smoothly, deciding to lean into the ambiguity.\n\nWarren snickered. \"Oh, I'm sure you did. Wouldn't want anyone thinking you weren't fully... committed to your duties.\" He mimed a full-bodied stretch, his lean frame hinting at the supple strength beneath.\n\nClover ignored the weasel and the boar who were now openly staring between the three of them. The embarrassment was there, a familiar old friend, but it was different now. It no longer paralyzed him. He felt an undercurrent of exhilaration, bolstered by the memory of Club's rough hands, his gruff words of encouragement, and the sheer, overwhelming size of the bull dog's cock. He’d actually liked it. He’d liked it a lot.\n\nAs they gathered their gear – Clover awkwardly struggling with his ill-fitting tabard over his blacksmith's smock – he felt a strange sense of freedom. He was, to them, just a big, perhaps slightly naive, new recruit who'd caught the eye of the Lieutenant. They didn't know the full extent of the raw, primal intimacy that had just occurred, the way Club had laid bare his own hidden desires, and, in turn, opened up a whole new world of sensation for Clover. They didn't know how deep he'd taken him, or how eagerly he'd strained to swallow the truth of his own craving.\n\nAnd in that blissful ignorance, Clover found a surprising strength. He may have a small, almost insignificant horse prick, but he had just taken a massive bull dog’s load, and that was a secret, a power, that was purely his. He was no longer just the clumsy blacksmith’s apprentice. He was Club's \"pony boy,\" and the thought sent a delicious shiver down his spine.\n\n\"Alright, boys, let's move out!\" Lieutenant Club's voice boomed from the barracks entrance. He looked no different from usual, his grizzled face stern, his swagger undiminished. He gave Clover a fleeting, almost imperceptible wink as they began to march towards the North Gate.\n\nClover met the wink, a silent pact, a promise of things to come. The day was just beginning, and he felt more alive than ever before.\n\nThe group of 5 were led to the North gate proper and the bulldog relayed their orders and handed them off to the pair of guardsmen who were already stationed there for instruction. Then left them to it as he presumably had other duties to attend to.\n\nClover stood at his post, the ill-fitting tabard causing a now familiar stretch across his leather smock. His hooves, usually planted firmly at the forge, felt oddly light. Club's order to \"watch for unusual persons\" on entry was the only concrete instruction he'd received, yet his mind kept drifting, replaying the steamy intimacy of the bathhouse. Would tonight bring another lesson? Perhaps a more hands-on one? His little horse cock, tucked away, gave another faint twitch.\n\nThe flow of early morning traffic was steady but unremarkable: farmers bringing produce to market, merchants heading out to arrange deals, the occasional traveler with a laden pack mule. Clover scrutinized each face, trying to discern \"unusual\" from merely \"tired\" or \"unpleasant.\" He kept his expression stoic, trying to mimic the practiced boredom of the more seasoned guards.\n\n\"Anything interesting, pony boy?\" Rufus drawled, nudging him with an elbow. He and Warren were stationed near the gate arch, ostensibly checking passes, but mostly exchanging quiet jokes.\n\nClover shook his head. \"Just a lot of sleepy faces. No suspicious bulges or shifty eyes yet.\"\n\n\"Give it time,\" Warren chirped, scanning the road. \"Veloria never disappoints.\"\n\nJust then, a small procession approached the gate from inside the city. Three heavily built figures, clearly mercenaries from their mismatched armor and weathered faces, led a group of seven young boys. The mercs were gruff, their movements efficient, but the boys... the boys looked too young, too quiet. Their clothes were drab, their faces pale, and they walked with a slumped, almost defeated air, quite unlike the boisterous energy of typical recruits.\n\n\"Morning, sirs,\" Rufus greeted, stepping forward. \"Heading out early?\"\n\nOne of the mercs, a burly badger, grunted. \"Aye. New recruits. Taking them out for drills. Can you believe the soft state of these city brats?\" He gave a forced laugh, pushing one of the boys forward. The boy stumbled, almost falling.\n\nClover frowned. The boy looked too young. These weren't soldiers in training; they looked more like sheep being led to slaughter. He wanted to speak up, to question, but his orders only concerned entry. Leaving was different. His hands tightened on the butt of his assigned spear. Unusual persons. Was this unusual enough? They weren't entering.\n\n\"North into the Thornwood,\" the bear merc continued, oblivious to the growing unease emanating from the three guards. \"Long march ahead. Best get to it.\"\n\n\"Rough country out there,\" Rufus remarked casually, eyeing the boys more closely. \"Sure they're up to it?\"\n\nThe bear just waved a dismissive paw. \"They'll learn quick enough. Or they won't. Guard's honor, eh?\" He gave a quick, almost insolent nod to Rufus, then turned to his men. \"Move 'em out.\"\n\nThe mercs herded the boys through the gate, their departure hastened by the bear’s impatient gestures. Clover watched them go, a knot of disquiet forming in his gut. The boys' eyes, wide with fear, seemed to plead, but they made no sound. Their forms soon vanished down the winding road leading to the Thornwood, swallowed by the early morning mists.\n\nSilence fell between the three. Warren shifted his weight, his ears twitching. Rufus, usually quick with a quip, was uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze fixed on the empty road.\n\n\"Mercenary recruits?\" Clover finally mused, the words hollow. \"They looked like children. Scared children.\"\n\n\"They did,\" Rufus agreed, a grim set to his jaw. \"But they were leaving. No orders to stop them, just to check their papers.\"\n\n\"And they had papers,\" Warren added, his voice flat. \"All in order. Just looked... forged to the eye.\"\n\nClover felt a surge of frustration. \"We should have done something!\"\n\n\"And what, Clover?\" Rufus turned, his badger features hardened. \"Detained them on a 'hunch'? Started a fight with three armed mercs and no direct order from Club?\" He sighed. \"It's not how the guard works, lad. We follow orders. Report everything. Nothing more.\"\n\nThe words chafed, but Clover knew Rufus was right. Still, the image of those pale, terrified faces burned in his mind.\n\nLater, as their shift neared its first meal-break rotation, the three sought out Club. They found him in the barracks mess, nursing a tankard of what looked more like water than ale.\n\n\"Lieutenant,\" Rufus began, a serious tone to his voice. \"We had a strange group pass through the gate this morning, heading into the Thornwood.\"\n\nClub grunted, not looking up. \"Spit it out, dog.\"\n\n\"Three gruff-looking mercenaries,\" Rufus continued, \"leading about seven young boys. Claimed they were recruits. But the boys looked... too young, sir. And they seemed a bit too quiet to be willing volunteers.\"\n\nClub finally met his gaze, his eyes narrowing. He looked at Clover, then at Warren. \"And you both agree?\"\n\nClover nodded firmly. \"Definitely. It felt wrong, sir.\"\n\n\"Hm.\" Club took a long swig of his ale. \"Any names, details on the mercs?\"\n\n\"No, sir. Just said they were heading for 'drills' out there,\" Rufus replied. \"Papers looked official, but... felt off.\"\n\nClub put down his tankard, a thoughtful furrow on his brow. He ran a paw over his scarred muzzle. \"Seven boys, you say? And out towards the Thornwood?\" \n\nHe seemed to be mulling something over. Then, a slow, predatory gleam entered his eyes, a glint that Clover recognized from the bathhouse, though now devoid of any sexual connotation. \"Interesting. Very interesting indeed.\" \n\nHe rose, stretching. But was cut-off by a brown ferret in messenger’s garb before he could speak. “Lieutenant Baston…,” the pause was more for effect than awaiting confirmation. “The captain’s ready for your report.”\n\n\"You three, Dismissed. And Clover? See me after the shift. You and I have some... unusual business to discuss.\" His gaze lingered on the Clydesdale for an extra beat, a silent invitation that sent a shiver of anticipation down Clover's spine.\n\nHe turned back to the ferret, “Alright, let’s go.” \n\nAs Club left to presumably give his report to the guard captain, Clover had a new realization. The lieutenant’s name is actually Baston. \n", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "
Submitting to Baston


The clank of his hoof-shoes on the cobblestones echoed a bit too loudly for Clover's liking as he approached the North Gate barracks. The morning sun, already warming the coastal city, glinted off the polished points of the decorative spikes atop the gate, making him squint. His stomach, usually rock-solid, fluttered with a mix of nerves and… well, curiosity. Master Brynn had insisted this was the best way to truly understand the work – to see the wear and tear of weapons and armor in actual use, not just hammering them in the forge. "Can't craft a good sword without knowing how it's swung, lad," he'd rumbled, polishing his own grizzled boar's tusks.

Even among other equines, Clover was considered… large. His shoulders were broad enough to fill a door frame and his hooves left an impression. It was a bit of a disadvantage when he was prone to knocking things over and preferred a quiet life among bellows and anvils to shouting in a brawl. He’d seen enough violence as a foal to know it wasn’t for him, but Master Brynn’s wisdom was rarely wrong.

Inside the barracks yard, the air hung heavy with the scent of stale ale, sweat, and something vaguely metallic. Perhaps oil or rusty iron, or maybe the coppery taste of blood. It was difficult to pinpoint, so likely a mix of them all. Other guardsmen, a motley assortment of foxes, wolves, and a few stockier badgers, moved about on early morning errands. Some polished gear, others shared gruff jokes, but all were in a state of animation. A few glanced Clover's way, their expressions a mix of surprise and mild amusement at his sheer size. He tried to make himself smaller, a futile effort.

A low growl, more a clearing of the throat than a threat, pulled his attention. "You must be the blacksmith's boy. Clover, is it?"

He turned to face Lieutenant Club. The bulldog was shorter than Clover's waist, but his presence was immense. His scarred muzzle, framed by white whiskers, gave him an air of seasoned authority, and his eyes missed nothing. The knot that had been forming in his gut, loosened as he was assessed by the bulldog. He wasn't looking at him like he was a joke.

"Yes, Lieutenant,” he managed, trying not to loom. "Clover, sir. Reporting for training, as per Master Brynn's arrangement."

Club grunted, a sound that seemed to encapsulate all his thoughts. "Right then. Come on. Morning tour. Might as well see what you're volunteering to protect." He turned and ambled towards the main barracks building, his gait a rolling swagger that spoke of years on patrol. The movement seemed practiced as if to make the cudgel at his waist swing in languid arcs.

The barracks interior was dim, even in the morning light. Clover had to duck significantly to enter the main hall, his head brushing against the low wooden beams. Rows of bunks lined the walls, each with a footlocker containing personal effects. The air inside was thicker, a mingling of damp wool, oiled leather, and the unique, musty scent of a place perpetually lived-in by many bodies. Weapons racks stood in corners, holding an assortment of spears, axes, and swords. He noted the crude repairs on some of the hilt-wrappings, the way certain axe-heads had been blunted from heavy use, and the distinct patterns of rust blooming on neglected blades. It was all very different from the pristine, carefully balanced pieces that left Master Brynn’s forge. His hooves felt clumsy on the rough-hewn floorboards. A part of him wanted to reach out, to examine the materials, the imperfections.

"Sleeping quarters, “ Club pointed to various features with his chin, “mess hall through there, armory... well, you'll be spending plenty of time in the armory." He winked, a surprisingly non-gruff gesture, “Think you can fit?

“I can certainly try, sir," Clover replied, feeling a small smile twitch at his own lips. It was good to know he had a sense of humor.

From the barracks, Club led him back through the yard up to the gate itself. The climb involved several steep, narrow stairwells, and Clover had to turn sideways to avoid scraping his flanks. But the view from the top of the wall was breathtaking. Veloria spread out behind them, a patchwork of tile roofs and winding streets leading to the rocky coastline and sparkling sea beyond. To the north, stretching beyond the immediate warren of work huts, was the dark, brooding mass of the Thornwood, a place he’d heard many a cautionary tale about.

The gate mechanism itself fascinated him. Massive double doors, reinforced with iron bands forged generations ago, swung on hinges thick as his arm. The chains, tackle, and counterweights that raised and lowered the portcullis were ingenious constructions of brute force and simple mechanics.

"Most folks only see the fancy gates," Club said, leaning against a weathered stone parapet wall. "But it's the men behind 'em, and the gear you make 'em, that truly holds the line."

He gestured towards the winding dirt road leading away from the city. "That's the path to the Wayside. Lot of simple folk come in and out that way. But sometimes, trouble comes knocking." His gaze turned toward the Thornwood, his expression hardening. For a moment, Clover saw the weariness of a thousand weary patrols etched on the bulldog's face. The reality of guard duty, not just the mechanics of it, sank in. This wasn't just about steel and wood; it was about protecting lives. The thought made his big hooves feel heavier on the stone.

After surveying the gate and the surrounding land, Club finally turned. "Alright, Clover. Time to meet Master Kreg. He handles the weapons and armor. He’ll fill you in on maintenance, repair, and everything that makes the sharp bits sharp and the hard bits hard." He clapped a paw on Clover's shoulder, a surprisingly firm touch for such a small creature. "Be warned, Kreg's a tough old badger. Stubborn as a stone and got a tongue like a rusty file. But he knows his trade."

As they descended the tight spiral staircase towards the armory, Clover's nervousness returned, but beneath it, a growing excitement simmered. This was it. His first real dive into the intricate world of guard weaponry, not through a blacksmith’s instruction, but through the eyes of those who used it, those who depended on it for their lives. He just hoped he wouldn't break anything. Or accidentally step on anyone.

The armory smelled even more strongly of oiled steel and old leather than the barracks hall, a scent Clover knew well from Master Brynn's workshop, but here, it was mixed with the tang of sweat and exertion. Dust motes danced in the sparse sunlight filtering through a high window.

"Kreg!" Lieutenant Club's voice boomed, echoing slightly in the confined space. "Got a new volunteer for you to outfit. Clover, meet Quartermaster Kreg."

A grizzled badger emerged from behind a towering stack of armor plating. His fur was a patchy grey and white, his snout long and scarred, and one of his ears was notched. He squinted at Clover, his eyes, like flint chips, assessing the Clydesdale from his immense leather-clad chest to the powerful hindquarters where his shortly docked tail twitched nervously.

"Another one?" Kreg grumbled, his voice like gravel. "And a big one at that. What's the master smith think, he can just send any giant oaf my way and I'll conjure armor out of thin air?"

Clover tried to offer a polite, deferential nod, but his mane, a rich chestnut flecked with lighter streaks, caught on a low-hanging chain. He usually kept it tightly braided, but today it was loose, adding to his awkwardness.
He struggled to free his mane without looking like a buffoon. A few strands, singed black in places from accidental encounters with the forge's roaring heat, were yanked out and floated down to the rush covered floor.

He instinctively smoothed his hand over the patched leather of his immense smock, which, along with his equally large leather trousers, served as his daily work attire for Master Brynn's forge. Both garments were testament to his size, stitched from multiple pieces of tough, patched hide. "I... I apologize, Quartermaster," Clover rumbled, his voice deeper than he intended. "Master Brynn thought it would be beneficial for me to understand the demands placed on the equipment."

Kreg snorted, a puff of dust escaping his nostrils. "Demands? You are the demand! What do you expect me to have for a beast your size? Custom plate armor forged by giants? My inventory runs from standard-issue badger-sized to, perhaps, a very large wolf. Nothing for a Clydesdale." He rummaged through a bin, pulling out a standard guard's breastplate, holding it up almost comically against Clover's impossibly vast chest. It looked like a child's toy.

"See?" Kreg threw the breastplate back with a clatter. "You'd burst through anything I've got with a single deep breath."

Lieutenant Club stepped forward, his expression grimly amused. "He'll be doing drills, Kreg, not frontline charges. Just something to identify him as official. A tabard, perhaps?"

The badger grumbled, pulling a neatly folded tabard from a shelf. It was made of sturdy blue linen, embroidered with the city sigil—a golden sun rising over a cerulean sea. When Kreg handed it to Clover, the Clydesdale felt a pang of pride. This was it, the real symbol of a Veloria guard.

He slipped it over his massive head. It reached barely to his waist, stretching taut across his broad shoulders and chest. The armholes tugged uncomfortably, and the two ties meant to secure it at the side simply refused to meet. It looked less like a proper uniform and more like a brightly colored bib. His own patched leather smock and trousers completed the awkward ensemble.

"Right," Kreg concluded gruffly. "You're... marked. Now get out of my armory before you break something."

"Thank you, Quartermaster," Clover said sincerely, despite the uncomfortable fit.

Club led Clover back out into the bright morning light, heading towards the open training yard beyond the barracks. The air was filled with shouts and the rhythmic thud of wooden swords against shields. A motley collection of new recruits, mostly younger canids and felines, were being put through basic drills.

"Alright, Clover," Club announced, approaching the drill sergeant, a lean fox with one ear perpetually cocked. "New recruit. Ensign Moreau, this is Clover. He's here to gain some insight into equipment. Treat him like any other greenhorn."

Ensign Moreau raised an eyebrow at Clover's imposing stature, then gave a sharp nod. "Understood, Lieutenant!" He then turned to Clover with a surprisingly sharp voice. "Alright, new blood! Fall in! Give me thirty jumping jacks to loosen you up, and don't make the ground crack!"

Clover spent the next couple hours feeling like a clumsy ox trying to dance. He was used to the heavy, steady effort of hammering iron, the controlled power of shaping metal. But this—this was bursts of explosive energy, agile footwork, and constant physical corrections. His powerful Clydesdale legs, built for pulling heavy loads or long-distance marching, felt stiff and awkward during dodging drills. His shoulders, usually stooped over the anvil, burned with the unfamiliar strains of holding a shield in a defensive stance. He might be bigger and stronger than any of his fellow recruits, but they moved with a fluidity he lacked. His shortly docked tail, usually a steady rudder in the forge, flapped uselessly as he struggled to maintain balance during a spinning maneuver.

By the time Ensign Moreau called a halt for a short water break, Clover was more tired than he had been after a full day of striking hot steel. Sweat plastered his dappled chestnut coat to his skin, and his immense lungs heaved. He reached for his water skin, noticing his hand trembled slightly. Master Brynn had been right, it seemed. There was a lot more to armed combat than just the making of the tools. And a lot more physical exertion than just swinging a hammer.

Clover, exhausted from his training, made his way to the mess hall for a quick midday meal. The other recruits watched him curiously as he navigated through the crowd, his sheer size making it hard for some to ignore him. He loaded up on bland but filling stew and spent a few minutes trying to cool down, chatting with a hulking warrior wolf named Rufus, who was eager to share tales of his father's lifetime of service.

Rufus' father, it turned out, had been a guardsman – a sergeant. It was clear that his father’s rank and name had been earned through blood, sweat, and unyielding loyalty to the city. He was proud to carry on the legacy, though his own size was nothing compared to a young Clydesdale like Clover.

After lunch, Clover was sent to do some equipment maintenance. He found himself enjoying the quiet precision of sharpening blades, oiling leathers, and mending mail—skills he had picked up from Master Brynn. As he worked on a particularly ornate helmet, he and Rufus fell into an easy conversation about combat tactics and strategy. Clover was grateful for the insights and advice from someone with actual experience.

A small rabbit named Warren approached them, a child-sized backpack strapped to his back. He was a curious figure, slender and agile despite his sharp teeth and claws. His emerald coat was mottled with camouflage patterns, making him blend into the shadows when he wanted to. He introduced himself as a message runner and scout-in-training, eager to learn the ropes of the guards.

The clang of mess tins and the murmur of conversation filled the North Gate mess hall as Clover, Rufus, and Warren gathered for the evening meal. Clover, still feeling the unfamiliar ache in muscles that usually only saw action wielding a hammer, gratefully accepted a bowl of thick lentil stew. The tight-fitting guard tabard, despite its awkward fit, felt strangely comforting now, a mark of his day's efforts.

"Still can't believe how much you know about sharpening," Warren chirped, tearing off a piece of coarse bread. The rabbit's movements were quick and precise, even when buttering his meal. "Ensign Moreau just shows us a grindstone and says 'don't be dull.' You were talking about angles and temper like it was...well, like it was simple."

Clover shrugged, slurping his stew. "It's just part of the trade. If you sharpen a blade too fast, or at the wrong angle, you can draw the temper out of the steel. Makes it brittle, liable to snap when you need it most. Or you just grind away too much of the edge, and then it's useless after a few uses." He motioned with his spoon, illustrating. "You want to find the sweet spot between sharpness and durability."

Rufus, the wolf, grunted, nodding slowly. His voice was lower, rougher than Clover's or Warren's. "Never really thought about it that way. Just hand it to the armorer and hope for the best. My da always said a guardsman learns to trust his blade as much as his brothers. Guess knowing how it's made helps with that."

"My papa makes embroidered tapestries," Warren put in, a slight wistfulness in his tone. "Beautiful work, full of intricate knots and vibrant dyes. Not much call for knowing how to sharpen a needle, though. He wanted me to take over the shop, but..." He shrugged his slender shoulders. "I just couldn't sit still all day, cooped up. Always loved the idea of being out, seeing everything, moving fast. That's why scout and runner sounded right for me."

Rufus chuckled. "A tailor's boy out in the wilderness, eh? You'll be picking burrs out of your fur for a week. My da, he was a guardsman like I said. Old Man Grimjaw they called him. Served thirty years, saw action in the Borderlands skirmish, put down that rogue griffon that was snatching sheep on the outskirts. He insisted I follow in his paw-steps. A good, honest way to protect the city and earn a living, he always said. Better than sitting by a fire making pretty pictures, no offense." He flashed Warren a grin that showed a flash of fang, but without malice.

Warren just smiled. "None taken. Different paths for different beasts, I suppose. What about you, Clover? You said you were a farmer's son, but you clearly have a knack for the forge. Not many Clydesdales picking up hammers."

Clover pushed his empty bowl away. "My older brother, Barley, he's the one who was meant for the farm. Stubborn as a mule, but good with the soil. I was... well, I was always more interested in what lay beyond the fields. And frankly, I broke more plows than I fixed with my enthusiastic plowing." He gave a rueful chuckle, his singed mane shifting. "Master Brynn saw me at a roadside, mending a broken cart wheel for a merchant, and offered me an apprenticeship. He said my strength was an asset, not a hindrance, in the forge. And he was right. Been with him ever since."

"So you're like me," Warren observed, thoughtfully scratching his chin with a claw. "Came from one thing, but drawn to another."

"And I'm like Da," Rufus added, thumping his chest lightly. "Keeping the traditions. Good mix, wouldn't you say?" He looked between the smaller rabbit and the hulking Clydesdale.

Clover nodded slowly. In the flickering lamplight of the mess hall, surrounded by men who had already accepted him, he felt a warmth spread through him that had nothing to do with the stew. He still wasn't sure if he was cut out for the guard life, or if his gentle nature could truly adapt to violence. But for the first time, he felt something akin to belonging, sharing simple stories with these new companions.

The three of them discovered they shared a common bond—they were all outsiders in their own way. Rufus was the born-and-bred Velorian living in his father’s shadow, Clover the farmboy turned blacksmith’s apprentice, and Warren the trying to make his own way in the big city. They spent the evening sharing stories over the simple rations, swapping advice about life within the city and marking the first day of what they hoped would be a longer friendship.

By the time they parted ways to find their respective bunks, Clover had begun to imagine himself in the lithe armor that the quartermaster had mocked him for earlier. Maybe the city would come to accept someone so different, a giant amongst small fry. Or maybe, just maybe, he could prove his worth on the battlefield.

The barracks fell quiet as the day's activities wound down. Clover's eyelids grew heavy with exhaustion as he was shown to a hastily assembled pallet in the communal dormitory. Despite the discomfort and missteps, he felt a sense of belonging he hadn't experienced since leaving his father’s farm. For now, that was enough to keep him asleep.

* * *


The first glimmer of pre-dawn light was still a promise on the horizon when Clover was roused by a gentle but insistent nudge to his flank. He blinked, groggy, to see Warren's bright, eager face close to his own.

"Rise and shine, big guy!" the rabbit whispered, his ears twitching with suppressed excitement. "Communal baths open now. If we go quick, the water'll still be pretty clean. No reason to stew in everyone else's muck, right?"

Clover groaned, pushing himself up from his sleeping position. His muscles still protested from yesterday's unaccustomed exertions, reminding him of every awkward lunge and clumsy pivot. The thought of a warm bath was appealing, but the "communal" part sent a fresh wave of unease through him. He'd always preferred the quiet solitude of a quick, private scrub behind Master Brynn's forge, far from any prying eyes. He was a Clydesdale, all impressive bulk and strength, but for all his imposing size, he harbored a profound self-consciousness about his own body, a vulnerability he rarely indulged. Yet, here he was, being pulled to a public washing space by his new, incredibly confident, companions. There was no graceful way out of this.

They met Rufus just outside the dormitory, the wolf already stretching, a wolfish grin spreading across his face. "Morning, lads! Ready for a proper wake-up call? Nothing like a cool morning to get the blood flowing!"

"Cold?" Clover swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

"Only until you get in the water," Warren chirped, already darting ahead. "Then it's glorious!" The three hurried through the quiet barracks, their steps muffled by the early hour.

The bathhouse was a large, echoey chamber, filled with the pervasive smell of damp stone and a faint, lingering scent of soap. A large, stone-lined pool dominated the center, fed by a trickling spring. The morning air was a bit cold, but steam rose lazily, catching the faintest hints of light from the high windows and promising warmth.

"First ones!" Rufus crowed, already tugging off his trousers with practiced ease. His broad wolf frame, honed by years of active training, was evident even in the dim light. He wasted no time, shucking his tunic and tossing it carelessly onto a nearby bench. Warren, too, stripped down with an almost alarming speed, his slim, agile body moving without a single flicker of hesitation. He stretched, long limbs reaching for the ceiling before dropping his clothes with a casual disregard that made Clover's cheeks burn.

Clover, by contrast, felt every piece of leather and linen clinging to him like a second skin. He fumbled with the wooden toggles on his massive smock, his large fingers clumsy. He tried a nonchalant hum, as if pondering the architectural merits of the bathhouse, anything to avoid eye contact or draw attention to his agonizingly slow undressing. He was used to the privacy of the forge and the heavy anonymity of his patched work clothes. Now, standing here, about to expose himself, he wished he could somehow shrink, or perhaps disappear entirely into the steam.

He tried to angle his body, hoping to obscure, to minimize, to make himself less... exposed. The playful banter between his new friends turned into a low hum in his ears, overshadowed by the sudden, overwhelming awareness of his own physical form. He decided to keep one scrap of cloth on and maybe a scrap of his dignity.

Clad only in his small loincloth, Clover stepped into the pool. The water was indeed warm, like a soft embrace for his heavy limbs. The water was surprisingly nearly transparent and barely up to his thighs. He tried not to wince as gentle waves lapped against his loincloth threatening to tug the thin linen aside as he settled on a stone bench, instead focusing on the soothing heat that reached his aching muscles.

Rufus grinned at his hesitation, settling into the hot water more like an otter than a wolf. "This is the life, isn't it, Clover? Where else would a big guy like you fit so easily?" He sank lower into the water, rippling his broad shoulders. His sheath was impressive, even against a backdrop of Rufus' equally impressive physique. It bulged prominently below his hard abdominals. His balls were heavy, straining against his scrotum, and Clover tried desperately not to stare.

"True!" Warren squeaked, his tail swishing lazily behind him. "Bathhouses are all about sharing, my friend. Nothing to be ashamed of, really." He smirked, a hint of challenge in his eyes. His lean body glistened in the watery light, faint scars marring the pale skin. A long, graceful cock swayed between his lean haunches, the foreskin pulled back to reveal a glistening head. He dipped beneath the surface, emerging with a satisfied sigh. "Ah, perfect!"

Clover tried not to let his discomfort show, awkwardly splashing water onto their faces just to break the silence. He couldn't help but notice the differences between them: Rufus' solid bulk, Warren's lithe musculature. Touching their soft-furred bodies as he wrestled playfully with them to silence their banter, he felt the difference in texture, the contours of their muscles. It was strange, intimate even, but he couldn't shake the feeling of being on display, somehow... flawed.

Conscious of Warren's steady gaze, he rinsed his hair quickly and ducked under the water, the steam thinning his thoughts. He washed himself meticulously, working the grime from a long day of training away, trying to pretend it was just another task, another duty. But the playful banter and the knowing smiles lingered, gnawing at his confidence. He was still unaccustomed to this new life of camaraderie, of openness, the acceptance from those who'd once mocked his size. He closed his eyes, feeling the water lap at his chest and the pressure of the current against his balls. He wasn't entirely comfortable with even this much nudity, but he knew it was a small price to pay for the friendships he'd found.

Warren broke the silence. "Hey, Clover?" The rabbit's voice was soft, almost teasing. "You know, there's nothing wrong with being different. We all bring something to the table, right?"

Clover opened his eyes, meeting Warren's frank gaze. For a fleeting moment, he thought he saw something deeper there, a glimpse of longing or curiosity. But then the rabbit dove back into the water, laughing. Embarrassment flooded him again, hot and suffocating. But he couldn't ignore the truth in those words, the reality of his new life. He might be a Clydesdale, small and awkward among giants of a sort, but he was here, he felt like he belonged, and maybe that was enough.

They spent the rest of their time splashing and teasing, sharing stories and playing rough, laughing and growling at each other in a way that felt almost like family. Even in the steamy water, the early morning chill lingered, reminding them of what lay ahead. Clover pushed the thoughts away for now, content to just soak up the warmth and the affection of this new friendship.

They were interrupted when Lieutenant Club entered the bathhouse, his scarred muzzle and tired eyes betraying little of his thoughts. He, too, sought the warmth after a long night, ignoring the few other patrons lingering near in the pool as he quickly undressed.

The bulldog revealed the other motive for his nickname when he removed his leather trousers – what seemed nearly a foot of soft humanoid cock sprang forth like it was under  pressure from being trapped beneath the leather.  

As he settled into the pool, his eyes met Clover's, a hint of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. The large horse was openly staring. He couldn’t believe what the dog was packing, it swayed down past his knees. And even longer if you counted the drooping foreskin.

The tension eased slightly as three young men continued their banter, but Clover wasn’t really paying much attention. Even Club couldn't resist the occasional smirk or splash. Clover tried not to stare, but it was hard not to appreciate the bulldog's impressive size, the jut of his heavy balls, the way his cock twitched when he laughed. The others teased him good-naturedly, but there was a hint of something more beneath the surface.

Without warning, Rufus snagged Clover's loincloth and yanked it upwards, sending it flying across the room. Clover's eyes went wide, his cheeks flushing hotter than the water. He tried to cover himself, but it was a bit late, and the horse's meager erection was clear even amidst all the laughter and playful slaps. His face turned scarlet as his hardness, barely half the size of the stout bulldog’s was soft, was on display.

"Well, well," Warren murmured, a smirk playing at his lips. "Looks like our little Clydesdale has a few secrets of his own."

Club chuckled, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. "This is the Life, Clover. Nothing to be ashamed of." He leaned back against the side of the pool, the muscles rippling across his torso. His massive cock, growing half-hard, bobbed against his belly.

Clover froze, suddenly self-conscious. He knew they were just joking, but the exposed heat of his arousal added to his confusion. Why was he reacting like this? He was no maiden, he bedded a woman. Well, one woman, but definitely not innocent. But something about being surrounded by such raw masculinity, so much confidence and familiarity... it shook him

"Clover, I need to speak with you for a moment," Club said quietly, motioning for the young horse to follow him out of the pool. “It’s about your training.”

As the other two trainees shared a knowing look, Warren grinned. "Go on, kid," he said, slapping Clover on the ass affectionately. "Club seems to have taken a shine to you."

Rufus nodded. "Just be careful," he added, nudging Clover in the ribs. "Our lieutenant here isn't known for... subtlety."

Clover glanced back at them, heart pounding in his chest. He felt exposed, vulnerable, like the world could see right through him. But he had no choice but to trust his new comrades, to follow the older bulldog out of the pool. His short stocky member bobbed in front of him as he followed the lieutenant.

Once they were alone in a side room, Club turned to face him. "I won't lie, Clover," he rumbled, his voice low and rough. "I've noticed your eyes on my cock, and I must admit it's got my interest piqued."

Clover's cheeks flushed, his eyes darting away from the huge bulge still bobbing between the dog's legs. "I..." he stammered, unsure of how to respond.

"Some men are born to understand their place in the world," Club continued, his voice softening. "And some have to find it for themselves. You're one of those, aren't you?" Clover nodded weakly, unable to meet the older man's gaze.

"It's not a crime, kid," Club said reassuringly. "But I can tell you, there's more to life than what you've known so far." He paused, leaning in close. "I've had my fair share of strange cargo, if you know what I mean. And I'm willing to help you find your way if you're willing to take the chance."

"I don't know..." Clover whispered, swaying where he stood. A part of him wanted to trust this rugged, experienced man who looked at him not with pity or disgust, but with understanding. But another part was terrified of the unknown.

Club sighed and stepped onto a stool putting himself nearly at eye level, chest level at least, with the horse. "Listen, kid," he said gruffly. "I've got an opportunity here for you that might have some... shall we say, unique benefits.” He glanced down at his very erect footlong cock. “You interested?" He paused, a glint in his eye. "Besides, I've got a feeling you won't be satisfied with much else."

Clover swallowed hard, his heart racing. "I..." he whispered, taking a step closer to the towering dog. "I need time to think."

But even as he said those words, the bulldog put a hand on his shoulder and the large horse sank down to his knees. It was nearly absurd that he should be kneeling before the small dog, but it felt right. And his cock twitched in excitement as he leaned forward and tentatively licked the dog’s large balls.

“I had a feeling you’d be eager to submit to a bigger man.”

Clover’s mind swam. Why was he doing this? Did he really like men? It never occurred to him. But this bulldog, who was so much shorter than him, spoke to him in a way that made him want to submit.

“That’s enough pussy-footing around.” Club placed his thick fingered hand at the back of the horse’s head and guided the young man’s mouth to the cock. Clover could have easily resisted, he was strong enough to easily push the older dog away and walk out. But he realized he didn’t want to. He opened his mouth and let the old guards thick cock in. “That’s it boy. Bet you've wanted this for a while now.”

Clover really wanted this. And as Club’s words urged him on, he finally gave into his desire.

“That’s it. Get a taste of a real man’s cock. Not like that little pony nub you’ve got between your legs.”

Clover groaned. He did have a little pony cock and it was straining hard and leaking precum like it had never done before.

“You can get my cock in deeper than that.” Club guided the horse’s head to take him in deeper, past the halfway point so the now uncovered glans was poking at the entrance to his throat. “I’ve never bred a little pony’s throat before. Bet you could swallow me down to the root.”

Clover suddenly felt up to the challenge. He needed to feel this daddy dog’s cock as deep inside as he could handle. He knew he would be begging for just that if his mouth wasn’t full. Instead he gripped the stout bulldog’s hips and forced himself onto his throbbing fuckstick. He felt it pop into his throat and he resisted the urge to gag. He needed to show Club he could handle it.

“Fuck. You’re an eager little pony slut.” Clover moaned again. It was an uncontrolled reaction. His throat reacted by relaxing and letting more of the superior cock into its depths. He really was a pony slut. “Can’t wait to squirt my puppy batter directly into your stomach.”

Clover felt like he had been born for this, born to serve superior men. And despite the stiff meat blocking the air to his lungs, he took it deep enough to feel his nose pressed against the bulldog’s muscle gut.

“That’s it, pony boy.” Club rocked his hips forward. “Keep nice and relaxed while I breed you good.” And then he started to really fuck the Clydesdale’s throat in earnest.

Clover felt his vision blur and his little cock throb with the anticipation of having his mouthhole filled with older dog’s spunk. And he didn’t need to wait long.

“Fuck. Here it comes.” Club’s humping hips began to get a bit more erratic and the dog gripped the back of his head tightly as he shoved in as deep as he could go. “Cumming…,” the first spurt hit Clovers gullet hard and triggered his own little cock to fire off a squirt of his own. “... in your tight….” The next spurt seemed even stronger and Clover could feel the heat of it warming his insides as it snaked down to his belly.  “...pony mouth.”

Clover pulled off the throbbing cock as he gasped for air. His own little cocklet spurting out streams of horse cum on the floor beneath him as he rode through his intense hands-free orgasm. But he didn’t pull off completely as his mouth alternated between gasping in breaths of much needed air and swallowing the spurt of dog cum.

Club whispered, the command in his voice gone, as he stroked Clover's cheek gently. "Just taking the first step, kid. There's more to this world than you know. Trust me and I'll show you how to be the mare you really are." As he spoke, another surge of cum erupted from his shaft, splashing against the horse's chin before dripping onto the floor.

Despite the strange sensation of being "taken" so effortlessly, Clover found himself craving more. There was something undeniably thrilling about submitting to the dominant figure before him. He nodded shakily, rubbing his nose against Club's thick thigh. "All right," he said hoarsely. "Show me what else this life has to offer."

The moment is broken as sounds from the other room filter in. A gaggle of guardsmen could be heard entering the bathhouse and it reminded the two men of where they were.

"There will be time for that later, " Club spoke again in his typical gruff tone. You've got your first day manning the gates ahead of you. And I've got my own duties to attend to." He dropped down to the floor and strode to the door. "Be seeing you later, pony boy," he chuckled.  Hoots and hollers could be heard as the other guardsman saw their superior enter the bathhouse with his cock half-hard and glistening.  

Clover should have been embarrassed to enter the room naked to retrieve his clothing, but after what he had just experienced, nothing could taint his mood. Instead he was confident for once despite knowing that dozens of guardsmen could see his little horsey dick. He could hear them talking amongst themselves and it was obvious that he had come from the same sideroom as the lieutenant, but that just made him feel more proud.  He didn't even notice the cum drying on his chin; he was so elated.

As Clover dressed, he couldn't help but feel a strange mix of excitement and nervousness about his newfound direction. He glanced back at the bulldog lieutenant  as the older dog rinsed his body in the pool. Was this really what he wanted? He felt satisfied in ways he never had before. And yet, there was still a part of him that yearned for something more.

With a deep breath, he pushed open the bathhouse door and stepped out into the cool dawn air. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was embarking on a new journey. The thought of more encounters like the one he shared with Club—albeit without the danger of discovery—filled him with a confusing mix of anticipation and fear. But he knew one thing for certain: after what he had just experienced, his old life felt small and confined. He was ready to embrace whatever this new path held for him.

Clover strode back to the barracks, a lightfootedness in his massive frame that belied his lingering exhaustion. The cold air against the crusty cum on his chin was a subtle, almost sacred reminder of the intensity of the past moments. He knew he must look a sight – disheveled, perhaps a bit dazed – but for once, the knowledge didn't sink him into embarrassment. Instead, a strange, warm confidence settled deep in his chest. He passed returning guardsmen, some of whom eyed his flushed face and damp hair with curiosity, but Clover met their gazes, no longer shrinking from their scrutiny.

Inside the bustling barracks, the mess hall was full of the clatter of breakfast. Clover navigated his way to the duty roster, finding his name scrawled alongside Rufus, Warren, and several others he hadn't yet met. "North Gate, Morning Watch. Watch for unusual persons," it read.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in," a familiar voice drawled. Rufus clapped him on the shoulder, a wide grin breaking across his wolfish face. Warren, leaning against a weapons rack, wagged his tail and caught Clover's eye, a mischievous sparkle in his own.

"Ready for your first shift, Clover?" Warren asked, his tone laced with an almost imperceptible hint of a double meaning. His gaze flickered towards Clover's fresh face, then, for just a fraction of a second, down to where his leather pants again concealed his little member.

"Couldn't be more ready," Clover replied, surprised by the ease in his own voice. He felt a blush creep up his neck, but it was a warm blush, not the scorching heat of shame. He even managed a slight smirk, thinking of the true source of his readiness. The image of Club's monumental cock still swam in his mind's eye, and his own small horse cock twitched in an eager, yet meager, imitation.

Rufus chuckled. "Looking a little... refreshed this morning, aren't we? Early bird gets the worm, or in some cases, the Lieutenant's undivided attention?"

The other recruits in their patrol, a lean weasel and a stocky boar, exchanged glances, trying to piece together the veiled references. Clover felt his ears flutter slightly, but he didn't wilt. He simply met Rufus's gaze, a knowing glint in his own eyes. "Always good to make a strong impression on your first day," he replied smoothly, deciding to lean into the ambiguity.

Warren snickered. "Oh, I'm sure you did. Wouldn't want anyone thinking you weren't fully... committed to your duties." He mimed a full-bodied stretch, his lean frame hinting at the supple strength beneath.

Clover ignored the weasel and the boar who were now openly staring between the three of them. The embarrassment was there, a familiar old friend, but it was different now. It no longer paralyzed him. He felt an undercurrent of exhilaration, bolstered by the memory of Club's rough hands, his gruff words of encouragement, and the sheer, overwhelming size of the bull dog's cock. He’d actually liked it. He’d liked it a lot.

As they gathered their gear – Clover awkwardly struggling with his ill-fitting tabard over his blacksmith's smock – he felt a strange sense of freedom. He was, to them, just a big, perhaps slightly naive, new recruit who'd caught the eye of the Lieutenant. They didn't know the full extent of the raw, primal intimacy that had just occurred, the way Club had laid bare his own hidden desires, and, in turn, opened up a whole new world of sensation for Clover. They didn't know how deep he'd taken him, or how eagerly he'd strained to swallow the truth of his own craving.

And in that blissful ignorance, Clover found a surprising strength. He may have a small, almost insignificant horse prick, but he had just taken a massive bull dog’s load, and that was a secret, a power, that was purely his. He was no longer just the clumsy blacksmith’s apprentice. He was Club's "pony boy," and the thought sent a delicious shiver down his spine.

"Alright, boys, let's move out!" Lieutenant Club's voice boomed from the barracks entrance. He looked no different from usual, his grizzled face stern, his swagger undiminished. He gave Clover a fleeting, almost imperceptible wink as they began to march towards the North Gate.

Clover met the wink, a silent pact, a promise of things to come. The day was just beginning, and he felt more alive than ever before.

The group of 5 were led to the North gate proper and the bulldog relayed their orders and handed them off to the pair of guardsmen who were already stationed there for instruction. Then left them to it as he presumably had other duties to attend to.

Clover stood at his post, the ill-fitting tabard causing a now familiar stretch across his leather smock. His hooves, usually planted firmly at the forge, felt oddly light. Club's order to "watch for unusual persons" on entry was the only concrete instruction he'd received, yet his mind kept drifting, replaying the steamy intimacy of the bathhouse. Would tonight bring another lesson? Perhaps a more hands-on one? His little horse cock, tucked away, gave another faint twitch.

The flow of early morning traffic was steady but unremarkable: farmers bringing produce to market, merchants heading out to arrange deals, the occasional traveler with a laden pack mule. Clover scrutinized each face, trying to discern "unusual" from merely "tired" or "unpleasant." He kept his expression stoic, trying to mimic the practiced boredom of the more seasoned guards.

"Anything interesting, pony boy?" Rufus drawled, nudging him with an elbow. He and Warren were stationed near the gate arch, ostensibly checking passes, but mostly exchanging quiet jokes.

Clover shook his head. "Just a lot of sleepy faces. No suspicious bulges or shifty eyes yet."

"Give it time," Warren chirped, scanning the road. "Veloria never disappoints."

Just then, a small procession approached the gate from inside the city. Three heavily built figures, clearly mercenaries from their mismatched armor and weathered faces, led a group of seven young boys. The mercs were gruff, their movements efficient, but the boys... the boys looked too young, too quiet. Their clothes were drab, their faces pale, and they walked with a slumped, almost defeated air, quite unlike the boisterous energy of typical recruits.

"Morning, sirs," Rufus greeted, stepping forward. "Heading out early?"

One of the mercs, a burly badger, grunted. "Aye. New recruits. Taking them out for drills. Can you believe the soft state of these city brats?" He gave a forced laugh, pushing one of the boys forward. The boy stumbled, almost falling.

Clover frowned. The boy looked too young. These weren't soldiers in training; they looked more like sheep being led to slaughter. He wanted to speak up, to question, but his orders only concerned entry. Leaving was different. His hands tightened on the butt of his assigned spear. Unusual persons. Was this unusual enough? They weren't entering.

"North into the Thornwood," the bear merc continued, oblivious to the growing unease emanating from the three guards. "Long march ahead. Best get to it."

"Rough country out there," Rufus remarked casually, eyeing the boys more closely. "Sure they're up to it?"

The bear just waved a dismissive paw. "They'll learn quick enough. Or they won't. Guard's honor, eh?" He gave a quick, almost insolent nod to Rufus, then turned to his men. "Move 'em out."

The mercs herded the boys through the gate, their departure hastened by the bear’s impatient gestures. Clover watched them go, a knot of disquiet forming in his gut. The boys' eyes, wide with fear, seemed to plead, but they made no sound. Their forms soon vanished down the winding road leading to the Thornwood, swallowed by the early morning mists.

Silence fell between the three. Warren shifted his weight, his ears twitching. Rufus, usually quick with a quip, was uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze fixed on the empty road.

"Mercenary recruits?" Clover finally mused, the words hollow. "They looked like children. Scared children."

"They did," Rufus agreed, a grim set to his jaw. "But they were leaving. No orders to stop them, just to check their papers."

"And they had papers," Warren added, his voice flat. "All in order. Just looked... forged to the eye."

Clover felt a surge of frustration. "We should have done something!"

"And what, Clover?" Rufus turned, his badger features hardened. "Detained them on a 'hunch'? Started a fight with three armed mercs and no direct order from Club?" He sighed. "It's not how the guard works, lad. We follow orders. Report everything. Nothing more."

The words chafed, but Clover knew Rufus was right. Still, the image of those pale, terrified faces burned in his mind.

Later, as their shift neared its first meal-break rotation, the three sought out Club. They found him in the barracks mess, nursing a tankard of what looked more like water than ale.

"Lieutenant," Rufus began, a serious tone to his voice. "We had a strange group pass through the gate this morning, heading into the Thornwood."

Club grunted, not looking up. "Spit it out, dog."

"Three gruff-looking mercenaries," Rufus continued, "leading about seven young boys. Claimed they were recruits. But the boys looked... too young, sir. And they seemed a bit too quiet to be willing volunteers."

Club finally met his gaze, his eyes narrowing. He looked at Clover, then at Warren. "And you both agree?"

Clover nodded firmly. "Definitely. It felt wrong, sir."

"Hm." Club took a long swig of his ale. "Any names, details on the mercs?"

"No, sir. Just said they were heading for 'drills' out there," Rufus replied. "Papers looked official, but... felt off."

Club put down his tankard, a thoughtful furrow on his brow. He ran a paw over his scarred muzzle. "Seven boys, you say? And out towards the Thornwood?"

He seemed to be mulling something over. Then, a slow, predatory gleam entered his eyes, a glint that Clover recognized from the bathhouse, though now devoid of any sexual connotation. "Interesting. Very interesting indeed."

He rose, stretching. But was cut-off by a brown ferret in messenger’s garb before he could speak. “Lieutenant Baston…,” the pause was more for effect than awaiting confirmation. “The captain’s ready for your report.”

"You three, Dismissed. And Clover? See me after the shift. You and I have some... unusual business to discuss." His gaze lingered on the Clydesdale for an extra beat, a silent invitation that sent a shiver of anticipation down Clover's spine.

He turned back to the ferret, “Alright, let’s go.”

As Club left to presumably give his report to the guard captain, Clover had a new realization. The lieutenant’s name is actually Baston.
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