The jingle of golden bells sounded softly through the darkened halls. Vast, vaulted chambers wrought of grey stone surrounded him, reminding him of his place, of the power of the creature who waited for him. Tycho fingered the collar of purest platinum which surrounded his slender neck, the collar of a slave. His body, adorned in the mottled spots of the snow leopard, was wound in flowing red silk. Doing precious little to conceal the luscious figure of his shapely form, the smoothness of the fabric swished behind him in a long train that trailed across the dusty flags. On his ankles were the golden bells of the passion slave, their hated chime singing his arrival as his fingers played at the swell of his gravid belly. Within that swollen womb kicked the offspring of the king, the next heir to a kingdom of dominance and war. His navel was a hump that pushed forth from his stomach, a golden ring set within that fleshy bump, twinkling in the scant light of the guttering torches which hissed and spit bright globules of burning pitch to sputter upon the floor like enraged cobras at his passing. His breasts sagged atop his belly, heavy with the sweet milk which made his tender nipples erect, their bumpy flesh rubbing so deliciously against the silk which covered them. Tycho waddled slowly, his steps ponderous from the weight of his gravid form. His wide hips, curving with their maternal growth, creaked in agony, demanding that he return to the comfort of his divan. Yet, he could no sooner return to the perfumed quarters of the pleasure den than to steal the sun from the sky. Instead, the slave would trudge onward with head bent and heaviness in his heart. The song of the bells at his feet chimed in the gloom and the snow leopard sighed beneath the crimson veil which covered a mouth ripe and glistening. How he hated what he was, to be a slave, to be the property of another. Devoid of anything, even his own name, should his master so choose. His fingers groped again at the collar of platinum which surrounded his throat. His fingers gleamed with rings of gold and silver, sparkling with gems to make a baron envious. He was clad in the wealth of a kingdom, yet none was his own. The feline smiled ruefully, knowing that he was the wealth, the treasure of this barbaric monarch who clutched him nightly with rough, cruel hands. Hands that tore the silk from his quivering form and who would so brazenly take him upon the slave rug before the fire. His flower grew wet as he felt the thrusting lance of his master, penetrating so deeply, so surely. How his body responded, whorishly delighting in his humiliation. Tycho stopped, his knees beginning to quake. Slender arms wound around his swallowed middle, rising beneath his milk heavy breasts as he began to moan with the ecstasy of the slave. To be taken, to be made weak and vulnerable. Such was the thrill which grew hot in his belly. The fires of love burning brightly, threatening to reduce the quivering snow leopard to ash should he not throw himself upon the wicked creature who so delighted in his tortures. Tycho groaned, his hand falling down the swell of his bloated belly, feeling within him the kicking of his unborn. Life stirred within his gravid womb, pressing against his palm to make his middle bubble in a flurry of furious feet and claws. “Oh, such a strong one you are,” he said in a musical voice. “So it is,” came the gruff reply. Tycho let out a gasp, whirling to find before him two guards of the palace. Clad in cuirasses of bronze, their muscles swelled from powerful arms, each gripping the haft of a spear. Tycho fell to his knees before the powerful males, bowing his head in the supplication of a slave before his master. All were masters to a slave. With a strained moan, he prostrated himself before the guards, his silken costume tracking on the dusty floor as he laid his head at the feet of the one who had spoken. “Master,” he whispered. “Forgive this one his moment of lapse. I was just proceeding to the chambers of our king.” “You were?” asked the guard. “Hmm, I see.” He ran his fingers along the scruff of his chin, eyes turned down to the supplicating Tycho. “Lift your face, slave.” “Master,” Tycho protested. “Please, I must not delay. I will be whipped, should I not appear before my king at the appointed hour.” “I said lift your head,” commanded the guard. Tycho raised his face to see the imperious glare of the greater feline. His fur was tawny beneath his armor, his muzzle snowy white. His eyes were the green of the sea and drank Tycho into them, drawing his very soul into those emerald depths. The slave knelt, his slim hands curled into fists which shook upon his knees. Tears glimmered in the corners of his eyes, yet he could not hope to disobey the commands of a free male. The guard took a step closer, the scent of his body wafting gently into Tycho’s nose. Sweat and musk mingled in his nostrils with the ripe, pungent aroma of masculine beauty which radiated from the body of the guard. His hand rose, grasping the hard thighs of his master. Tycho drew himself to the guard, his cheek resting on a thigh. “Please, master,” he said. “I must not delay.” The scent of the guard, the strength of his iron-hard muscles would make the snow leopard’s body come alive with a desire to claim the prize before him. How yearned to seize the throbbing rod which lay concealed beneath the guard’s tunic, to give his maiden flower to this cruel barbarian. His womb quivered, urging him to submit, to be filled once more with squirming life. Above him, the guard’s lips parted in a vicious, lopsided grin. “I hear that the slaves of the pleasure den are conditioned to their roles,” said the big cat to his companion. “That they bathe themselves in the milk and fragrant oils which make their skin so soft and tender.” He brought a hand to Tycho’s cheek, caressing the soft, grey pelt of the smaller cat. Such a touch inflamed the snow leopard’s senses, his body quivering in rapturous glee so that he cried out. “Ah, see that,” the guard laughed. “Look at how he responds. What are you?” “Master?” said Tycho. “I asked you,” the guard snarled, his hand seizing the snow leopard by the throat. “What are you?” “A-A slave,” wept Tycho. “I am but a slave. Please, master, do not.” He was hurled back, tumbling to the floor in a riot of billowing crimson silk. His swollen belly loomed above him, the golden ring twinkling in the torchlight, a beacon atop that gravid hill. The guard’s rough hand on his stomach, his fingers gliding through the softness of his fur. Despite the repulsion of the other cat’s touch, Tycho could not repress the whimper of elation which arched his back and thrust his milky breasts to the heavens. His nipples ached beneath the gossamer folds of crimson silk, their stems begging to be plucked and twisted. “Have you ever had one, Bartus?” asked the guard to his companion. “A royal passion slave?” “No, Regius,” replied the other guard. “For only the king can partake in such beauties. Best to let the little go. We’ve had our fun.” “Nonsense.” Regius leaned his spear against the wall, the point bright glowing with the torchlight, becoming a living flame as the cat knelt above Tycho. “Now is our time. Besides, the slave will not tell, will you?” Tycho wept, for as a slave, he was not a fellow cat, like they, but the property of the king, of those stronger and crueler than he. How could he confess to the taking of their pleasures, when such was their right? He clawed at the flags, cursing his fate, of being a slave to these powerful, hateful, beautiful creatures. His blossom parted, wet and ready, desiring the touch of those callused hands which so ruthlessly parted his fleshy thighs. His manhood was a pathetic acorn of crimson flesh which poked from the fur of his sheath, while his testicles were but the tiny bulge between his legs. His rump jiggled, fattened with its maternal padding, parting to reveal the puckered ring of his gaping anus. The pungent fragrance of his sex radiated from his split cheeks, stirring the lust of the guard, Regius, who was lifting his tunic to reveal the throbbing rod of his male sex. Unlike Tycho, Regius’s cock was a rod of masculine perfection. A pillar of bright scarlet, veined in blue and black, threading along that slick, red flesh like old ivy. His balls swelled with fresh seed, churning with that virile potion that made Tycho’s mouth water in spite of his horror. His body demanded that he submit, his strength flagging in the grip of the brutal guard. Regius’s hand came to that pregnant orb, caressing the swell of maternal flesh, finding the ripeness of a breast. His fingers slipped beneath the red silk, flicking the erect nipple to make Tycho wince in strangled ecstasy. “Ngh, please no,” the slave sobbed. “I cannot. I must go to the king.” “You will go where you are commanded,” snapped Regius. “And I demand you here and now.” His muzzle dipped to Tycho’s lips, the slave’s breath billowing his veil, making the flimsy material flutter above his mouth. Regius lifted the fragile garment, laying bare the hungry mouth of the snow leopard. As full as the blossoms which grew alongside the great river, wet with the morning’s dew, such lips parted, revealing the straight, white teeth. Tycho’s breath was wet and warm, carrying the scents of honey and clove. Regius claimed that succulent mouth, his lips tasting of dripping meat, of blood and strength. His nostrils flaring, Tycho’s arms wrapped around the guard’s neck, drawing him into his gravid form. He could not suppress the desires of what he was, for Tycho was truly a slave in his heart. Prisoner to the lusts of his body, of the needs of an ever hungry womb to be filled over and over again. He could not push away the bigger cat, but instead brought him closer. His swollen belly, ripe with maternal growth, pressed against the hardness of the guard’s bronze cuirass. The cold metal made him shiver, his pathetic male sex leaking its shimmering precum to seep into the wiry pubic fur as his legs parted, his thighs closing around Regius’s waist. The guard’s tongue was rough, swirling within his mouth, claiming him utterly. Regius pushed his advance, plunging down Tycho’s throat, forcing the slave to gag as his cruel hand would cup a breast. His cock throbbed, desiring to pierce the puckered ring which hid between the shuddering mounds of Tycho’s flabby rump. Tycho tore his lips free, his tongue swirling, twining around the pink member of his assailant as he moaned in jubilant glee. “Master,” he groaned. “Ngh, please, I must--” “You will open your legs, slave,” said Regius. “Give me your precious petals, so that I may place my spear deep.” His smile, so haughty and vicious, would ignite the fires of lust within Tycho’s belly. His womb yearned for the potent seed of this greater male, his anus opening, gushing the odiferous honey of his love. Tycho turned his wide hips, his thighs parting in preparation to give himself to the guard. “Yes,” groaned Regius. “Do you see, Bartus? These slaves are primed for love. Such a greedy king we have to hoard them all for himself.” His cock sprang from beneath his tunic, a bead of shimmering precum glimmering opalescent in the flicker of the torchlight as he seized Tycho’s rump. “I shall tear away the silk from his treasure and claim him for myself.” Above him, Bartus said, “The king will know. He will not be pleased.” “To the hells with the king,” rasped Regius. “I care only for this morsel in my claws.” Tycho brought his hands to his face and wept, for he could not repel the rapacious guard. He was but a slave and could not refuse the desires of the free males, nor did his body wish to. He yearned for the cruel touch, to dance at the end of the cracking whip, to be brought to bright faced humiliation by one more powerful than he. Such was his fate. “Please,” he begged. “Do not. Not tonight.” Regius leaned down, pressing his great weight on Tycho. The unborn within the slave kicked out in protest as the guard’s manhood began to circle the puffy ring of Tycho’s blossoming anus. “Oh, I will savor this moment,” sighed Regius. “You will do no such thing,” barked a voice. Regius turned, his face paling beneath his fur. From the gloom came another, clad in the iron armor of a captain. Upon his broad head was the crested helm of his rank, a wide sword hanging from his hip, which the cat laid a menacing hand upon as he approached. “Regius,” said the captain. “I thought that you and Bartus would be making the rounds at the turret by now.” “Captain Atrimos,” said Regius. The guard stumbled to his feet, his clawed fingers tugging clumsily at his tunic in an attempt to hide his throbbing erection. “I was only--” “Only about to commit a grave offense?” the captain said. “You should know what happens to those who violate the king’s property.” “Yes, captain,” said Regius. The older cat looked at the younger guard, his eyes twinkling beneath the shadows of his helm. “If your blood runs so hot, Regius, perhaps we can make you a slave to the pleasure den as well? A time carrying the king’s brood may break you of such habits.” “N-No, captain,” squeaked the guard. “We were just leaving, to make the rounds. Right, Bartus?” “Yes, sir,” replied Bartus. “Good,” said Captain Atrimos. Turning his attention to Tycho, the captain extended a hand. “And you, little slave. You must be making haste to the king’s chambers.” Tycho took the offered hand, allowing the captain to lift him to his feet. The bells around his ankles tinkled softly as he bowed. “Thank you, master,” he said. The slave turned and began again his fateful march. His face buried in his slim hands, Tycho wept, his sobs making his shoulders shake as he tread the grim stone flags of the empty hall. He cared not if he was seen, for none would care if a slave wept. The chimes of the bells at his feet brought him to the large wooden door of his king’s chamber. The massive slab was banded in black iron and carved with the ancient murals of the kingdom’s history. Tycho let his eyes wander across the elegant sculptors of felines long dead, of battles which none could remember. His eyes were puffy and swollen, painful as he blinked back the tears and fell before the door. Delicate fingers traced the snarling mouths of those departed monarchs, scratching at the hard wood as he began to call out in a singsong voice. “Master,” he called. “O’ master, your slave waits by your door. Will you not open this portal for your love?” The slam of the bolt being driven back was like a thunderclap in the empty hall, causing Tycho to give a start. The door fell back and the snow leopard gasped, dropping his head to the floor, not daring to lift his eyes to one whose very countenance could strike him down with a mere glance. In the corner of his eye, he caught the glimpse of tawny feet, their claws like curved daggers which clacked on the bare stone. The scents of musk and sweat, of the spice of manhood wafted thick from that chamber, filling his lungs, surrounding him with the smells of the beast who stood above him. “My little one,” came a stentorian voice. The unborn within Tycho’s bloated womb lashed out, slamming into his kidney. Tycho winced, drawing in a sharp breath. “M-Master,” he stammered. “I have come to your chamber.” “Rise,” commanded the king. “Look at me, my little one.” Slowly and great trepidation, Tycho turned his gaze up to the king. The lion towered over him, a creature of heroic proportions. His brow was heavy with the shaggy mane of gold which hung down his shoulders and sloped over a chest of hard muscle. His stomach rippled with the powerful abdominals which set Tycho’s belly to quiver in desire as he let his eyes fall to the rod of crimson flesh which hung between those sculpted thighs. The king was a creature of masculine beauty, more than any other feline. “My little one,” said the king. “You were crying?” Tycho’s ears swiveled, realizing that his eyes must still be red from his weeping. “My king, I was merely distraught to be away from your arms.” The lion rumbled a deep laugh. “My little one, you shall not weep any longer. Come, for I have laid the rug before the fire. There, we shall embrace once more.” “Yes, master,” said the snow leopard. “I am yours to do with as you please.” The king brought his hand to rest upon the snow leopard’s cheek and Tycho could not stifle the gasp which billowed his filmy veil. That hand, so hard, so strong. The way the fingers caressed his fur, their claws traveling the curve of his delicate chin. He cursed the great cat for his brutish strength, for the way he so brazenly touched the slope of Tycho’s neck. How dare the creature fondle him so? Yet, his body would tremble like the leaf before the breeze, his flower blooming, eager for the thrusting of the king’s rod. Such power which made that arm rise, tracing the plush lips beneath that veil. The snow leopard averted his eyes, wishing that awful hand should caress him just a bit longer. The king then tucked his claws beneath that filmy garment, lifting Tycho’s veil aside, snatching it from his face to cast upon the dusty floor. The snow leopard gave another gasp, his face bare to the monarch. “Master,” he whispered. Tycho took the king’s hand, pressing his lips to the offered fingers, feeling the bumps of calluses, the etchings of a hundred battles carved into those powerful digits. His mouth glided along each finger, kissing each in turn, his lips closing around the king’s thumb. Nostrils puffing, he suckled that rigid digit, his gaze wandering up to meet the eyes of his master. Gold as the sands of the great desert, those orbs glimmered in the low light, casting an illumination all their own. Tycho felt small, weak, before the presence of his king. His swollen belly sagged on the chill stones of the keep, his unborn shifting in protest to pummel at his bladder so that the snow leopard winced. His tongue curled around the king’s thumb, tasting the tang of sweat, the pungent flavor of iron on that claw. Slowly, Tycho’s tongue did slide along the thumb of his master, his lips slipping along that hard digit, leaving the fur slick and shiny with his saliva. “My little one is ever greedy,” chuckled the lion. “Come, my dearest. Rise, join me upon the rug.” Tycho allowed the king to pluck his thumb from his lips, that same hand now offered to the slave. Heat bloomed on Tycho’s cheeks, his slender paw sliding effortlessly into the massive hand of his master. With no resistance, he was lifted, plucked from the floor to be swept into the arms of his king. The broad chest, the powerful muscles which bulged against his cheek as he laid his head upon the king’s breast thrilled him. Here was one who could tame him, who could claim him truly, body and soul, as a slave. His master carried him to the large, brown rug made from the skin of the iyak. The shaggy beasts of the field, known for their meat and milk, also served to make fine leather and hide. Before the rug, the great hearth blazed, its cheery light spilling orange and red upon the stone. The room was a vast chamber wrought of grey stone. The great bed, clad in its silk and satin, squatted, a monarch in its own right, in the middle of the room, steeped in the liquid silver of the moonlight which streamed through the open window, itself adorned with curtains of flowing velvet. The elegantly carved shelves set along the walls sagged with their yellowed tomes, while the great sword of the king, its blade easily the width of both of Tycho’s hands put together, sat within its scabbard, poised upon a low table. The heart of the snow leopard would quail before the sight of such an instrument, for as a slave, he could not fail to please his master. The king knelt, lowering his love to the rug, laying Tycho upon the shaggy pelt. Rolling onto his side, Tycho displayed a round, wide hip, the fur glimmering softly with the flickering glow of the firelight. His silk skirt poured like red wine down his thigh to spill upon the rug in a glimmering pool. He moved a shapely leg, the tinkle of the bells on his ankle chiming softly as he propped himself on an elbow. “Master,” he said. “Shall I dance for you?” The king only laughed, his voice a rich melody which poured into the ears of the snow leopard. “My little one,” he said. “I fear that you are in no condition to dance.” Tycho struggled into a sitting position, his knees tucked beneath him. His fingers splaying on the rug, he arched his back, his belly sagging to rub against the pelt. The hairs of the iyak rug tickled his pregnant belly, stirring his nipples to grow harder, thrusting against his silk covering as he licked his full, black lips, his eyes only for the rod of glimmering crimson which hung slack between the hard thighs of his king. The desires of the passion slave burned hot within his belly, demanding that he submit, that he take his king’s scepter and to caress that crimson lance until it grew hard and long. His trembling fingers, glittering resplendent in the light of the fire reached up, daring to curl themselves around that scarlet shaft. The king’s great body shivered, a moan escaping from the lips of his master as Tycho began to stroke. How he relished the twitching, throbbing might of his master’s growing cock. How that fleshy spear swelled in his hands, growing hot as flame as veins bulged and pumped, pulsing in their masculine fury. The king’s cock rose, growing longer, harder, swelling into full erection before the eyes of the slave. A bead of glimmering precum shimmered like a jewel upon the lion’s tip, begging Tycho lick and savor. Between his thighs, the king’s balls churred, fat with fresh seed. Like twin fruits, they hung, bursting with the sweet, virile juices which had made gravid the snow leopard’s pregnant belly. His unborn shifted within him, reminding him of the precious treasure of his swollen womb. His hips creaked with the strain as Tycho leaned forward, his navel rubbing into the rug, his lips questing for that leaking tip. Suddenly, the king moved, slipping from his grasp. The slave collapsed to the rug with a mewl. His bloated belly rumbled, bubbling with the rage of his unborn, lashing out as he fell atop his stomach. “Such an eager one you are,” the king said. He had strode from the rug, his tail swishing behind him as he came to a low table. “Master, do not leave me,” wailed Tycho. On his hands and knees, he sobbed. “For to merely cross the room is as if to stand across the very sea itself. Please, return to me. Return to your Tycho. He feels that he shall die without your touch.” “My precious dear,” said the king. “I shall never allow you to be alone.” He returned, laying down beside the snow leopard. In his great paw was a golden goblet, studded in gems. Within that cup was a yellowish concoction, like that of syrup. Tycho’s eyes widened, knowing that this was the holy nectar. The elixir which made fertile his womb, swelled his milk heavy breasts and shriveled his manhood into the pathetic bump that withered between his full thighs. For years, he had drank of the potion, growing less of a male by the day, becoming something else in return. The scent was of honey and vanilla, carrying with it the bite of alcohol. The king raised the proffered cup to Tycho’s lips, tiling back the goblet so that the thick sludge would flow into the snow leopard’s mouth. Tycho took his master’s hand, drinking deeply of such a potion, if only so that he may reach out and touch that powerful hand. The thick brew played across his tongue, its consistency that of his master’s virile seed. He looked up into those golden orbs, swallowing the sweet elixir as he felt himself drawn into the swirling depths. More, he drank, letting it pool in his belly, filling his stomach so that his gravid middle did distend with fresh expansion. His belly sagged upon the rug, bloating ripe and taut, yet Tycho would not stop as he down the magical potion. “My little one,” said the king. “You have drank so much. I fear that you may burst.” But Tycho would not stop. He seized the king’s wrist, refusing to let go as he continued to swallow the sweet mixture. A line of yellow ran down his chin from the corner of his mouth, his belly growing so full that he could no longer hope to drink any more. Sputtering, Tycho let the king take the cup away from his lips. Droplets of yellow spattered his crimson silk as he laid down on his side, one hand draped over his round belly. Setting the cup aside, the king turned now to his precious love. With his thumb, he wiped the remains of that wondrous potion from Tycho’s jaw. The little snow leopard, so delicate, so fragile, knelt before him, his eyes glistening, reflecting the orange of the firelight within them as his hand traversed the slender throat. His fingers caressed the platinum slave collar, traveling still lower to come to the pendulous sway of the snow leopard’s breasts. He reached for Tycho’s silken covering and with a deft motion, slipped the garment from those heaving mounds. The milk heavy orbs swayed softly, their nipples black as night, glistening with a hint of sweat. Hardened buds raised themselves to their master, calling out to be plucked and teased. The lion’s fingers came to cup such a breast, feeling the soft flesh grow warm in his palm. His finger circled the ebon areola, savoring the bumpy flesh before he flicked the rigid nub which rose up from that sea of blackness. Tycho moaned, full lips parting, wetly shimmering as he arched his back to his master. How he relished the hardness of that hand, the way those practiced fingers so casually stirred his arousal. A slave he was in more ways than one. The king knelt down, his muzzle finding the soft fur of Tycho’s breast. The hot breath of the lion was on his flesh, the lips spreading over his swollen breast, the rough tongue sliding along the bumpy areola. Gently, that pink, squirming member would flick and rub at Tycho’s nipple. The snow leopard shivered, moaning softly, his feet kicking out against the shaggy rug. The golden bells on his ankles chimed, singing the song of love as he wrapped his arms around the king’s broad neck. His fingers became entwined in the golden mane, hopelessly tangled as he let his head fall back to expose the slenderness of his throat. “My king,” he sighed. “Oh, but I fear that you shall cause my milk to flow if you should continue to torture me so.” The king plucked his lips from the snow leopard’s breast and with his finger and thumb, would twist and pinch. Tycho’s mouth fell open in a silent scream of such jubilation, his entire body trembling, lost in the primal ecstasy as the king rubbed his nipple between his fingers. A bead of white spilled from the ebon tip and Tycho felt the tickle within his breast as his milk soon came to trickle from that black stem. Threads of white flowed down the king’s hand, seeping to the fur of his wrist as the lion would bring his lips to that flowing fountain. Gently, he took Tycho into his arms, crushing the snow leopard’s pregnant belly to his rippling stomach as he gorged himself upon Tycho’s rich milk. “A-Ah, master,” wept the snow leopard. “Mmm, yes. Feast upon me, my master.” His milk soon grew into a flood, filling the cavernous mouth of his king. The lion swallowed, letting the richness of Tycho’s love fill his belly. His cheeks puffed, bloating as he drank deeply of his lover’s chalice. Soon, the king would tear his stained lips from Tycho’s leaking breast. Milk spilled down the hump of the snow leopard’s breast, pooling onto the rug to make the shaggy pelt damp as the lion then brought a hand to Tycho’s throat. There, the platinum band glowed orange and bright, as a star in the sea of steel grey. Gently, he traced the runes etched upon the metal, his golden eyes following the flowing script. “Tell me, do you know how to read?” he asked. “I am lettered, master,” replied Tycho. The king smiled. “Then, can you tell me what this means on your collar?” The snow leopard paused and then said, “I belong to King Omirom.” The lion laughed, a gusty, vibrant sound. “So you do,” he said. “But, little one,” his lips came to meet the coolness of the platinum. “Do you know how it is that a slave may own a king?” Tycho’s ears drooped. “Master, you jest. A slave could not hope to own anything, much less a king.” King Omirom raised his shaggy head, his lips coming to the supple throat of the snow leopard. His kisses were as the lightning, each a spark which set Tycho’s hair on end, his body rippling with the primitive delight that made his breasts ache and his anus to gape with gushing anticipation. “If you do not know,” said King Omirom. “Then I shall be the one to teach you.” Those lips, so noble in their bearing, regally crested the curve of Tycho’s chin, seeking the plush pillows of the snow leopard’s honeyed mouth. Tycho’s belly roiled, his body shivering so that the bells around his ankles jingled wildly their hymn of desire. His fingers entangled in the mane of the lion, closed tighter, knuckles becoming white as the king’s lips closed around his own. “Master, master,” whimpered the snow leopard. “Mas-- Mmm…” King Omirom claimed the hot mouth of his love, his lips closing around the plump black pillows. His tongue, broad and pink, leapt for the white fangs, sliding effortlessly between Tycho’s parted lips to explore the redness of his gums, the smoothness of his teeth. Tycho’s tongue too, would leap, slipping under the king’s tongue to slither along the pink member. The king curled his tongue back, caressing the palate of the snow leopard, as Tycho would twist his tongue around that broad serpent. His fingers slid from the shaggy mane, finding the broad, hard shoulders, the swell of muscle which covered the furry chest like armor. Slender fingers spread over the pectorals of the lion, seeking the ripples of those hard abdominals. Meanwhile, the king’s hand would slide down Tycho’s hip, finding the silk skirt which did little to conceal the snow leopard’s charms. Deftly, he slipped his fingers beneath the flowing garment, his hand cupping a fat cheek. Tycho offered a moan through flaring nostrils, his breath puffing hot and wet upon the muzzle of his king, his love. Bloated breasts ached to once more feel the touch of the lion’s fingers, to be plucked and made to flow with their rich milk. Threads of white trickled from his breast, seeping into his fur as the king tore away the final garment. Naked before his master, Tycho’s shriveled manhood wept its shimmering precum, as if it still remembered being male. King Omirom plucked his lips from the swollen mouth, tracing the curve of Tycho’s throat as he ran his hand along the fur of the snow leopard’s inner thigh. Grey as steel and spotted with black, he would circle each ebon blemish, bringing his clawed fingers ever closer to that precious acorn of crimson flesh. The remains of Tycho’s weeping manhood poked up from the furry sheath, the testicals but mere marbles when compared to his swelling plums. Tycho could never truly be a male again, but he would be so much more. The king’s finger came to that scruffy sheath, nestled in the wiry pubic fur. His claw curled, slipping into that fleshy pocket, to graze the twitching member. “Oh, master,” sobbed Tycho. “Please, do not. It is unseemly to touch a slave in such a place.” “And who are you to tell me otherwise?” growled the king. “Am I the slave and you the master?” Tycho suddenly gave a start. “Master, no, I did not mean to be so impertinent. Forgive your slave. He does not know what he says.” The king would only chuckle, dropping his head between the milky breasts of Tycho. The warm scent of fresh milk and the musky odor of his love filled his lungs, spurring his desires. His thumb would circle Tycho’s leaking tip, precum shimmering on his fur as he then slid down the snow leopard’s thigh to lift a shapely leg. “Master,” whispered Tycho as the king’s muzzle slid below his breasts. His swollen belly rose like a grey mountain, topped with a glittering ring of gold. The king’s lips spread across his fur, suckling his gravid flesh as the lion would mount that quivering hump. Teeth and tongue came to play with the golden piercing, tugging at Tycho’s distended navel to make the snow leopard cry out in ecstatic glee. “A-Ah, yes,” he wept as pain and pleasure would vie within his brain. “Master, please, more.” The claws of the lion came to run themselves through Tycho’s fur. The glint of the firelight caught them, making each glimmer in scintillating orange and red as they glided through the steel grey pelt to circle the snow leopard’s belly with a sinuous grace. Those imperious lips, that callous mouth, would surmount the swell of Tycho’s gravid belly, climbing to the shuddering summit. The snow leopard let his head fall back upon the rug, his brow damp with the sweat of his desire, surrendering himself as the king would encircle his distended navel to take the golden piercing between his teeth. His fangs clicking on the golden ring, King Omirom gave a sharp tug, earning a mewling whimper from his love. The scent of warm spice and the tang of bitter sweat played in his nostrils, compelling the great beast to release his hold on the glittering piercing, to drop his proud muzzle to the scruff of Tycho’s lower belly. He was entranced, brought to follow the wiry fur to the tangled weave of the snow leopard’s pubic area. The intoxicating aroma was like that of a heady wine, the sweet scents of Tycho making his head swim. His great claws came to seize the snow leopard by the hips, gripping the slave fiercely so that Tycho did cry out. “Master, no” wailed Tycho. “You must not put your face there.” “I may do as I wish,” said the king. His breath blew hot and wet on the red nub that was Tycho’s withered nethers. The puny cock shivered, trickling its shimmering precum as King Omirom brought his lips to that crimson bud. His lips spread, engulfing utterly the pathetic member, taking into his mouth those tiny marbles which were once Tycho’s balls. Clapping a hand to his mouth, Tycho would stifle the shriek which bubbled in his chest. The urge to scream grew so that the slave clawed at the shaggy rug, his fingers digging into the brown pelt as tears began to sting the corners of his eyes. The pop of saliva met with the smack of those royal lips, the king pulling back, his broad tongue slithering along the red tip, lapping the bitter dew from Tycho’s cock. “O-Oh,” Tycho managed to moan. “Oh, my…” “I will show you how a slave can claim a king,” said the lion. His lips met that weeping tip, grazing the red flesh. His tongue slid along what remained, circling the furry sheath to meet the bump between Tycho’s trembling legs that were his balls. The jingle of the bells at his ankles rang in the gloom, a hymn of ecstasy as the king would sup upon his weeping manhood. The bitter elixir that was Tycho’s flowing precum splashed upon the king’s tongue, the heat rising in the golden cheeks of the lion as he sipped the heady wine from the holy chalice that was the furred sheath. His tongue circled the red tip, licking clean the pliant bud, his teeth closing carefully to nibble the crimson flesh. Tycho wrapped an arm around his heaving breasts, whimpering as tears flowed down his cheeks. Never had he felt so alive as in the hands of this great brute of a creature. His body came alive, responding to every touch and caress, shuddering with the rasp of King Omirom’s claws as they slid through this steely fur. “M-Master,” sniffed Tycho. Tears flowed down his furry cheeks. “No one has ever given me pleasure in this way before.” “None were the king,” answered the lion. He took hold of Tycho’s leg, his fingers digging into that shapely thigh. His mouth came to meet the soft fur, to press to the jiggling flesh. His lips spread, his teeth coming to close on Tycho’s leg. The snow leopard’s claws grasped the rug, glimmering in the firelight as he fought back the scream which would overtake him. His delicate mouth stretched wide howling his jubilation as the king would savor his flesh, his mouth seeking the ripe cheeks, the bloom which gushed fragrantly between them. “My little one. Delicate flower, your time has come to be pruned,” said King Omirom, and his hand cupped a fat cheek.