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Do not reproduce without permission. I do not endorse snuff in real life. I do not endorse the thoughts or behaviors exhibited by the characters in this story in real life. Contents may be hot.\n\nThis is the result of my third “Audience Participation” journal that I posted a couple months ago. I had a hard time really getting into this one until I switched from third to first person. I know first person doesn’t quite fit with the established frame story, but you know what? Screw it. I like writing first person. Even still, I’m not sure this is my best work. I hope you enjoy it regardless.\n\nAlso included is an InkBunny-exclusive epilogue.\n\nLook for the voting for Round 4 to hopefully be up around the end of October. I have some other projects that I would like to devote a month or so to.\n\n", "description_bbcode_parsed": "Yadira the vixen has been groomed for a very important role in Sultan’s harem.

Contains death, sexual content, and a willing young female fox in peril.

This story and the characters herein are copyright to Kinto Mythostian. Do not reproduce without permission. I do not endorse snuff in real life. I do not endorse the thoughts or behaviors exhibited by the characters in this story in real life. Contents may be hot.

This is the result of my third “Audience Participation” journal that I posted a couple months ago. I had a hard time really getting into this one until I switched from third to first person. I know first person doesn’t quite fit with the established frame story, but you know what? Screw it. I like writing first person. Even still, I’m not sure this is my best work. I hope you enjoy it regardless.

Also included is an InkBunny-exclusive epilogue.

Look for the voting for Round 4 to hopefully be up around the end of October. I have some other projects that I would like to devote a month or so to.

", "writing": "Deserts\nby Kinto Mythostian\n\n\nThe burnt copper light of late afternoon filters through the silk curtains hanging over the ornately arched windows, casting a faint red tincture over the white marble walls and floor of the airy chamber. Intricately woven rugs are draped over nearly every flat surface, and piles of cushions are scattered around the room in aesthetically pleasing patterns. A carved stone fountain burbles in one corner; across from the fountain is a raised dais that is halfway between bed and throne. Between the fountain and the dais a fragrant charcoal fire burns low in an oblong fire pit, its warmth vanguard against the chill of the desert night; between the fire and the dais is a thin upright metal pole.\n\nSultan calls his seraglio Eden. We his harem slaves are inclined to agree with this paradisiacal moniker, though we prefer a slightly different spelling. \n\nMy pointed black ears perk to attention and I raise my head from my blissful nest amongst the cushions the moment the door opens. Sultan enters the room, his lupine claws clacking neatly against the marble, his thick fur as brilliant white as a salt pan under the desert sun, clad in royal purple and gold, numerous priceless gems glittering from the rings on his fingers. To us, he is god.\n\nThe Matron is to first to greet Sultan when he enters the seraglio. The black eland, draped horns-to-hooves in a concealing black abaya, descends to one knee and bows her imperious head in deferential respect to the regal white wolf.\n\nSultan rewards her attention with a nod and the eland rises once more to her full impressive height. He begins to cross the room and she falls in behind him, her cloven hooves clip-clopping rhythmically against the marble. As he crosses the room we half-dozen slaves of his harem are quick to rouse ourselves from where we had been languishing amongst the luxury, following him, fawning over him. As he mounts the dais and sinks down into the opulent cushions of his throne he greets us each individually with a tender pet, an affectionate kiss. His attention means the world to us. We nuzzle him lovingly, lavishing doting worship upon his paws, his hands, his crotch. \n\nWhen we have all had our turn to express our individual adoration, we half dozen young slave girls of Sultan's harem line up in a row before the dais, six eager faces gazing up at him attentively: a badger, a goat, a horse, a mink, and a tiger, and myself, a fox. Sultan looks at us approvingly, and we his chosen favorites bask in his approval, each of us skilled and special in our unique ways, all of us still young in years and yet well-trained and experienced in our beloved master's desires and proclivities. \n\nThe Matron's abaya is as concealing as we harem slaves' outfits are revealing. Though no two are identically tailored, the overall theme is the same. Each of us wears a different color; pastel hues of blue, pink, lilac, and green on myself, the tiger, the mink, and the goat respectively; dark red and blue on the horse and the badger; all of them patterned with threads of gold or silver. I myself have baggy long pants cuffed at the ankles, others short, and others nothing more than loincloth-like skirts; there is similar variety in the cuts of our sleeves. Translucent veils drape across our coyly smiling muzzles, and we wear bracelets and anklets of gold and silver, earrings, necklaces, and other specially wrought adornments, gifts and treasured favors from Sultan. Small ornaments hang from these and from our waists, and jingle pleasingly whenever we move. Above and below our bare midriffs gauzy translucent fabric covers but does not conceal the gentle developing mounds of our breasts nor the pubescent petals of our delicate sex. Finally, each of us wear simple black collars.\n\nAll of the others are perfectly-groomed paragons of girlish beauty, young and vivacious, flawlessly shaped and petite. I, however, am special. I have been groomed for an invaluable role in Sultan's harem. My pudgy belly proudly bulges out beneath my translucent sleeveless pale blue top and above my matching long pants. A sapphire winks from where it nestles nearly concealed in my navel.\n\nThe Matron, standing off to one side of the dais, invisible in the background, strikes up a tune on a flute. \n\nWe six harem slaves begin to dance, our motions flawless and erotic. Bare midriffs and long ornamented tails sway, limbs flow seamlessly with the rhythm. Some of the girls sinuously swirl long silk scarves; the badger and the mink, the two most physically developed, twirl tassels from their nipples. Gold bangles shimmy musically with the tune. \n\nI let the music wash over me, shutting out the rest of the world. My eyes are fixed on Sultan as I fall into my flawlessly practiced routine at center stage. I twine around the upright metal pole gracefully, sensuously grinding against it, I stretch out straight, standing on my toes with the cold metal against my warm furry back, my thick vulpine tail wrapped around the steel, my arms extended above my head and still not reaching the pointed top. My eyes never leaving Sultan I swing around to face the pole, hugging it to my flat breasts, to my chubby belly. I nuzzle the steel eagerly with my sharp black nose, smiling tranquilly all the while, my ornaments jingling brightly in time with the music. \n\nThe music fades to silence and Sultan applauds appreciatively as we six slave girls bow modestly, beaming in the warmth of his approval. When we rise from our bow, however, it is I alone whom his gaze is fixed upon.\n\nSultan extends a finger towards me and beckons me forward. I look briefly to my sister slaves on either side, confirming I am not mistaken, that Sultan desires me. I humbly approach the dais and make no resistance as Sultan reaches out to touch me. I purr in delight as his ringed fingers explore my lush vulpine fur, ecstatic at the sensation of his noble touch. He grasps my bare midriff and squeezes my paunch. He licks his lips, his tongue vividly red against his yellowed lupine fangs.\n\n\"You have grown fat, pet,\" Sultan remarks casually.\n\n\"Yes, my lord,\" I reply. Could tonight, at last, be the night?\n\n\"Why, pet?\"\n\n\"Because I love you, my lord,\" I says, fighting to keep the tremor out of my voice. \n\n\"How much do you love me, pet?\"\n\n\"For you, my lord, I have been fed on ripened fruits and honey, on rich cream and sugar, all to increase and sweeten my flesh.\" There is a faint whimper to my voice; I cannot completely hide my instinctual trepidation, but stronger yet is the excitement I strive to keep restrained. \"For you, my lord, I have ripened myself. I-I-\" I close my eyes for a moment and then open before I finish, \"I have fatted myself for slaughter.\"\n\nSultan smiles and leans forward from his reclined position. He cups my chin in his hand and kisses me gently on the forehead; I feel I could melt. \"Very good. Such love as yours deserves to be rewarded, pet.\"\n\nMy eyes drift automatically to my lord's pants, and the small silk tent pitched unmistakably there. Just the sight of it starts my mouth watering, like the well-conditioned pet I am.\n\nSultan sees my gaze, and chuckles. \"No, pet. That reward you will never enjoy again. It would leave you tasting of me. I desire you to taste of no one but yourself.\"\n\nI shrink at the mild chastisement, and meekly respond, \"As you wish, master.\"\n\n\"Pets, help your sister express her love.\" Sultan nods towards the other five slaves, still standing and waiting attentively behind me, perhaps watching our private communion enviously; I cannot see, for my gaze is still fixed upon my beloved master. \n\nI sense two of my sister slaves approach me from behind. They each take hold of me by an arm and guide me away from the dais, our ornaments jingling faintly as we walk. As we turn away from Sultan, I look to either side and see my guides are the oldest two slaves, the badger and the horse; they smile furtively at me beneath their veils and I return the gesture. They lead me to where the fountain spills into a wide marble basin. On the edge of the basin rest a tall golden ewer and a matching bowl filled with a white lather, and beside them a gold-handled razor.\n\nThe horse and the badger undress me like a mother might do to a cub, removing and carefully setting aside my sleeveless light blue top and long harem pants; they leave in place the jewelry on my wrists, ankles, and head, and my veil. We three step into the ankle deep water of the basin and my two older sister slaves begin to bathe me.\n\nThe piebald filly fills the ewer with water from the fountain and pours it across my shoulders. The badger brushes the lather onto the lush scarlet fur of my upper back. The suds smell of jasmine and lotus blossoms, cloyingly sweet and perfumed. The badger's clawed fingers diligently massage the warm soap deep into my pelt, deliberately brushing my treasured fur irritatingly against the grain.\n\nThe filly draws the whetted razor and with a careful motion brushes it against my back. I don't even feel the touch, but I can see the result, a tuft of my fur floating amongst the suds on the surface of the water. \n\nThis ritual is repeated many times over, first across my back, and then my chest. With each precision flick of the razor the horse cleanly shaves away the lathered fur, exposing my vulnerable pink flesh beneath. The blade is honed to a deadly edge but not once does it break my raw skin. I watch in curious fascination as my fur is stripped away.\n\nI move as my sister slaves direct me, lifting my arms and legs as required. When my bulging belly is stripped bare, they proceed to my arms and legs, down my supple hips and around my meaty thighs. They are dedicated to their task and admirably thorough, precisely working the blade even between my fingers and my toes.\n\nWhen they have rinsed the last of the suds from my body and deftly swiped away the last overlooked scraps of hair only my head and my tail remain still fully furred. The latter wraps around the front of my waist in an instinctive reflex to hide my furlessness. \n\nI look from my ugly pink flesh, wrinkled and naked, to the pitiful remains of my prized velvet coat bobbing on the surface of the water. For the first time, I feel a flicker of doubt, a shadow of remorse. All my life I have taken great pride in the care of my fur, shampooed and brushed it daily, kept it lustrous and healthy. Now, in only a matter of minutes, it has been stripped from me, carelessly cast aside like the worthless rind of an orange. I can feel the reality of what will become of me this night setting in.\n\nThe regret is fleeting. My attention is drawn back towards Sultan and I am reminded of what is important; my life is and always has been to serve, and the sacrifice of my beloved fur is necessary if I am to fulfill my greater purpose. \n\nWhile the badger and the filly were shaving me, my other sister slaves, the goat, the mink, and the tiger, were making further preparations. Two forked A-frames now stand at either end of the oblong fire pit, and the charcoal fire within has been stoked and built up. The pole around which I so gracefully danced for my master is leaning in a rack off to one side, and a low gilded table now stands between the fire and the dais where Sultan still patiently rests, watching the proceedings with absorbed interest.\n\nOnce more, the horse and the badger take me by the arms and guide me back towards the dais, our ornaments jingling as we leave a trail of wet paw and hoof prints across the marble floor. I stand with the table between myself and Sultan, his golden gaze looking down at me approvingly.\n\nA gentle push encourages me to bend forward at the waist, lying my pudgy stomach and undeveloped breasts flat against the tabletop. The badger and the horse continue to hold me by the arms; the goat and the tiger each take ahold of a leg, all but immobilizing me. \n\nI watch the Matron approach carrying a small set of metal shears; one more indignity yet awaits me. The mink grabs my bushy vulpine tail and hikes it up out of the way, pulling it painfully straight and exposing the tight pucker of my anus and the faintly swollen lips of my delicate sex. I brace myself but still cannot resist crying out loudly in pain as the blades close, drowning out the sharp snap that echoes through the chamber, and then crying out again as the matron presses a piece of red-hot metal, heated in the fire pit, against my denuded rump to quickly cauterize the wound. Through tear-filled eyes I watch the mink carry my limp severed tail to Sultan and lovingly drape it across his shoulders.\n\n\"You have served me well, pet.\"\n\n\"It-it has been my honor, my lord.\" My watering eyes wander to one side of the dais where the Matron is now purposefully applying a liberal coating of olive oil to the metal pole.\n\n\"Do you have any final words before you die?\"\n\n\"I have, my lord. I only wish to express how glad I am to give myself to you, my lord. My entirety belongs to you. Tonight--\" My voice falters slightly, my gaze following the Matron's clip-clop steps until she disappears behind me carrying the now-lubricated pole.\n\n\"Hurry up, pet.\"\n\nI swallow down the lump in her throat and continues, \"Tonight, I cease to be your pet, my lord. Tonight I become your meat. Your meat seeks no reward, expects no memorial. As I do not recall the fruit I ate last night, so shall I be consumed and forgotten. I-- I seek only to be satisfying to you this fleeting night, my beloved lord.\"\n\n\"Well spoken, meat. Matron, you may proceed.\"\n\nI whimper pitiably. At the first touch of the cold steel tip to my anus I squeeze my eyes shut. This is my purpose, I remind myself, desperately steeling myself for what is to come next. This is what I want. This is my sole reason for being. My whole, brief life has been in anticipation for this night.\n\nI whine as the eland begins to slowly force the oil lubricated pole into my rectum, stretching and tugging my sphincter, rubbing uncomfortably against my unprotected flesh. My body fights back reflexively, but the slickened steel is hardly slowed by my clenching muscles. When the sharpened tip first pierces my inner flesh, I cannot help crying out, nor can I hold back the shameful squirt of urine that escapes. Freely-flowing tears of pain blur my sight as the Matron drives the pole deeper through my abdomen, every centimeter causing even more pain, worse than I had ever expected, every second causing more irreversible damage. I tug and squirm, instinctively trying to escape, but my sister slaves hold fast, keeping me in place as I am impaled.\n\nThe Matron is skilled at her work, and very careful. Impaling a slave, even one so young as myself, requires strength and meticulousness. With extreme precision she threads the spit between vital organs without rupturing or damaging them, ensuring that I will be alive to properly endure my execution. As the tip pierces deeper my breath becomes wheezy and labored. The mink moves to my head, firmly grabbing my still-furry cheeks and stretching my neck out flat and straight.\n\nI hear a retching, gagging noise, and realize it is coming from my own throat. My esophagus spasms painfully as though trying to vomit, the full length of my tongue protruding grotesquely from my mouth, until abruptly the sound falls silent. My mouth is forced open from the inside and I watch cross-eyed as the sharpened point of the pole emerges from between my lips, gently brushing aside the pale blue veil that still hangs across my muzzle. The metal is no longer coated with oil but rather with my own blood; I can sense the repulsive metallic taste smeared across my tongue. I watch, simultaneously horrified and fascinated as the mink calmly wipes the blood and saliva from the spit as it continues to emerge from my mouth. Despite the pain the gory sight and the pressure in my rectum stir a perverse arousal from my loins\n\nOnly when nearly a meter of polished steel extends past my pointed black nose does the Matron stop; I am completely spitted, far past the point of no return. My death is inevitable now. I look up to Sultan and see him staring down predatorily at me, fangs bared, drool dripping from his lips. The sight should be terrifying and yet it only excites me more. Master wants me. \n\nMy sister slaves and the Matron make quick work of tying my wrists across my back. My paws are lifted from the floor and my ankles likewise tightly bound to the pole. There is the squeaking noise of metal on metal as a handle is threaded onto the blunt end of the spit just beyond my anxiously wriggling toes and locked in place. \n\nThe horse and the badger each take hold of one end of the spit and with a great heave hoist me off the table, my fatted belly hanging low though the stiff metal does not sag at all. The ornaments still hanging from my jewelry jangle pleasantly as I am helplessly paraded to the fire pit.\n\nI see the glowing coals approaching, my impending demise, the fate that has always been my destiny. I can do nothing to protect my naked flesh; I am only meat, after all. Still, I brace myself as best I can, my body still instinctively fighting a futile battle for self-preservation. As the first wave of intense heat washes over my unprotected breast I whine out in grotesque agony. The pain is abrupt, intense, far more so than I had expected. My jaw clenches, my teeth cracking against the hardened metal spit. Tears cascade from my eyes and run down my furry cheeks; they drip down only to sizzle into steam on the coals, the harsh sound echoing inside my folded-back ears.\n\nThe five slaves of master's harem set to work, of late my sisters but now my chefs and butcherers. The mare, the strongest, begins to turn the handle; the goat and the tiger, the two youngest, tend the coals, keeping the fire hot and strong; finally, the badger and the mink take two bowls from beside the fire pit and begin to brush a baste of oil and herbs across my raw pink backside.\n\nAt the first turn of the spit, I almost feel a moment of relief as my scalded front is moved away from the heat. Instead I only feel a fresh surge of agony as my backside is freshly exposed to the heat. My body squirms, bouncing the spit on the A-frames ever so slightly, but there is no escaping the heat, intense, oppressive, and omnipresent. As my backside turns away, my breast comes back into the heat. Blood, sweat, tears, and urine leak from my orifices to hiss and sizzle on the red-hot cinders below.\n\nThe next time my front side rotates up again, the badger wipes her basting brush across my swollen vulva, eliciting a new whine from my nostrils and a favorable reaction from the ultrasensitive flesh. As the next turn of the spit brings my genitals back into view, the badger does it again and I know the stimulation is deliberate.\n\nI will roast slowly, my demise staved off for as long as possible to ensure my own essence is baked completely into my living flesh. The greater my agony, the greater the flavor, and I owe it to my master to keep myself conscious of every sensation. To die in such a way, to serve and to be served, is an honor far greater than I deserve. Out of love I intend to strive to prove myself worthy of this honor my master has bestowed upon me.\n\nThe heat surrounds me, envelops me totally, pervading my flesh. The oily baste crackles and sizzles where it contacts my roasting skin, the herbs rasping against my raw hide, seeping into my pores. My jewelry heats red hot, scalding my skin where the metal makes contact. Every second is a new experience of exquisite agony. I revel in it. This is what my master desires of me, and because it is what he desires, it is what I myself desire. Death will come, but we are in no hurry.\n\nAfter a seeming eternity the pain mercifully abates to a dull persistent tingling as the nerves of my dermis are seared insensate. My body's reflexive struggles subside slowly and gradually cease, at last calmly resigned to my fate. Movement of any kind becomes progressively more difficult, my limbs becoming increasingly stiff as my muscles are slow roasted. The feeling is even somewhat pleasant as the mink and badger continue to penetrate and toy with my vagina at every opportunity. Perhaps, perhaps they may give me one final orgasmic sendoff, if Sultan will allow it.\n\nEven as this hopeful thought crosses my mind, our lupine master rises from his reclined position and descends from the dais to approach the fire pit where I, his pet-turned-meat, roast. I look up beseechingly at my lord, my watering eyes held open with difficulty, my vision blurred in the face of the all-consuming heat.\n\n\"You smell delicious, meat.\"\n\nI can only agree. The fragrant scent of my own roasted flesh, of the herbs being cooked right into my still-living flesh, the sound of meat sizzling and crackling, would make my mouth water if I only had any saliva left. I am a culinary masterpiece. A grandiose gustation. A vulpine victual. I only wish I could still be alive to taste myself when I am done. Is my stomach rumbling, or am I only imagining it? The heat slowly boiling my brain inside my skull may be making me a tad delirious.\n\nI sees my own tail draped across Sultan's shoulders; it seems so long ago that I surrendered it, a lifetime. It is but the smallest part of my gift to him. I have ripened herself for him, fatted myself for slaughter, fed myself a steady diet of honey and fruits to sweeten my own meat's flavor. My entirety belongs to him, and it makes me glad to give it to him. All I seek in return is the pleasure of his touch, the blessing of his approval.\n\nWith great effort, I force out an imploring whine as my vagina begins to rotate back into view.\n\n\"You desire release, meat.\" It is not a question. \"Here, pet, let me.\" Sultan holds out his hand to the badger and she obediently surrenders her brush.\n\nSultan buries the brush deep inside me, thrusting carefully in and out, masterfully stimulating the still sensate flesh sheltering within. My lungs, weakened and damaged beyond repair, baking and collapsed, feebly force out a moan of pleasure. My lord cares for me, wishes for me to die ecstatically. My last orgasm will be at his hands, and I could ask for nothing more from this life.\n\nAs my front side turns away, Sultan withdraws, but resumes immediately when my backside is once more to the flames. I am in agonized ecstasy, my eyes rolled back to stare at the sizzling coals beneath me, my lord pushing me right to the brink and holding me there with exquisitely excruciating perfection. \n\nI am positive that one more touch is all it will take to push me over the edge, when I once more find him withdrawing and a fresh wave of heat washing over my seared belly. That touch is my last wish, my truest desire for my final memory. I yearn for that touch, aching for climax as the slow turn of the spit brings my vagina back up again, but it does not come. \n\nI whine piteously and try to shake the spit, surely he must know, he must be aware that I await nothing more than his loving touch, that it is all I seek from the last seconds of my rapidly-fading life.\n\n\"You thought I would grant you release, meat? Have you forgotten? I told you I desire you to taste of no one but yourself. For me, meat, I order you to hold that flavor inside.\" \n\nHis words filter through the fog that clouds my head, barely heard above the crackling of the coals. I can scarcely believe them. No, no master, please, you cannot leave me like this. I beg of you, I need this release, don't let me die like this. You owe me this. \n\nI strain to make my petition known, clench my jaws against the heated metal spit, try to tug at my bonds and find my limbs unresponsive. But it is worthless; Sultan cannot hear my thoughts, nor does he owe me anything. I am-was his slave. My lord truly intends to let me die without the ecstasy of his touch, and his intent is my command.\n\nI have no tears left to cry as the burning heat, intense and yet nowhere nearly so intense as the unfulfilled burning in my loins, roasts away the last of my life.\n\n---\n\nThe roasted vixen lies chest-down on a golden platter, her arms still folded across her back, her tailless rump hiked up in the air. Surrounding her is a gluttonous array of all of her favorite foods, fruits and decadent candies, pineapples and passionfruit, sticky sweets and caramelized delights. A large pomegranate is clamped between her jaws, her fangs piercing the skin to leak out the blood-red juice.\n\nSultan, seated at the head of the table, goes immediately for her sweetest flesh, the cleft mound of pubescent flesh between her thighs, swollen with her last unreleased orgasm, stoppered inside like a genie in a bottle. The hot flesh squirts the pure distilled flavor of his beloved slave across his tongue, rich and creamy.\n\nAs the virile white wolf savors the roasted-to-perfection meat of his late devoted pet, he looks at the five remaining slaves of his harem. They stand obediently at attention, gazing longingly alternately at the magnificent main course spread before them and at the erect lupine penis that promises to provide dessert. They will not eat a bite until their master has had his fill.\n\nTomorrow, he will choose one of them to start a special new diet. \n\nThe vixen's eyes, dull and clouded, stare into eternity.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nFirst draft started August 28, 2015. First draft completed September 23, 2015. Editing completed September 30, 2015.\n\n\n\n", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "Deserts
by Kinto Mythostian


The burnt copper light of late afternoon filters through the silk curtains hanging over the ornately arched windows, casting a faint red tincture over the white marble walls and floor of the airy chamber. Intricately woven rugs are draped over nearly every flat surface, and piles of cushions are scattered around the room in aesthetically pleasing patterns. A carved stone fountain burbles in one corner; across from the fountain is a raised dais that is halfway between bed and throne. Between the fountain and the dais a fragrant charcoal fire burns low in an oblong fire pit, its warmth vanguard against the chill of the desert night; between the fire and the dais is a thin upright metal pole.

Sultan calls his seraglio Eden. We his harem slaves are inclined to agree with this paradisiacal moniker, though we prefer a slightly different spelling.

My pointed black ears perk to attention and I raise my head from my blissful nest amongst the cushions the moment the door opens. Sultan enters the room, his lupine claws clacking neatly against the marble, his thick fur as brilliant white as a salt pan under the desert sun, clad in royal purple and gold, numerous priceless gems glittering from the rings on his fingers. To us, he is god.

The Matron is to first to greet Sultan when he enters the seraglio. The black eland, draped horns-to-hooves in a concealing black abaya, descends to one knee and bows her imperious head in deferential respect to the regal white wolf.

Sultan rewards her attention with a nod and the eland rises once more to her full impressive height. He begins to cross the room and she falls in behind him, her cloven hooves clip-clopping rhythmically against the marble. As he crosses the room we half-dozen slaves of his harem are quick to rouse ourselves from where we had been languishing amongst the luxury, following him, fawning over him. As he mounts the dais and sinks down into the opulent cushions of his throne he greets us each individually with a tender pet, an affectionate kiss. His attention means the world to us. We nuzzle him lovingly, lavishing doting worship upon his paws, his hands, his crotch.

When we have all had our turn to express our individual adoration, we half dozen young slave girls of Sultan's harem line up in a row before the dais, six eager faces gazing up at him attentively: a badger, a goat, a horse, a mink, and a tiger, and myself, a fox. Sultan looks at us approvingly, and we his chosen favorites bask in his approval, each of us skilled and special in our unique ways, all of us still young in years and yet well-trained and experienced in our beloved master's desires and proclivities.

The Matron's abaya is as concealing as we harem slaves' outfits are revealing. Though no two are identically tailored, the overall theme is the same. Each of us wears a different color; pastel hues of blue, pink, lilac, and green on myself, the tiger, the mink, and the goat respectively; dark red and blue on the horse and the badger; all of them patterned with threads of gold or silver. I myself have baggy long pants cuffed at the ankles, others short, and others nothing more than loincloth-like skirts; there is similar variety in the cuts of our sleeves. Translucent veils drape across our coyly smiling muzzles, and we wear bracelets and anklets of gold and silver, earrings, necklaces, and other specially wrought adornments, gifts and treasured favors from Sultan. Small ornaments hang from these and from our waists, and jingle pleasingly whenever we move. Above and below our bare midriffs gauzy translucent fabric covers but does not conceal the gentle developing mounds of our breasts nor the pubescent petals of our delicate sex. Finally, each of us wear simple black collars.

All of the others are perfectly-groomed paragons of girlish beauty, young and vivacious, flawlessly shaped and petite. I, however, am special. I have been groomed for an invaluable role in Sultan's harem. My pudgy belly proudly bulges out beneath my translucent sleeveless pale blue top and above my matching long pants. A sapphire winks from where it nestles nearly concealed in my navel.

The Matron, standing off to one side of the dais, invisible in the background, strikes up a tune on a flute.

We six harem slaves begin to dance, our motions flawless and erotic. Bare midriffs and long ornamented tails sway, limbs flow seamlessly with the rhythm. Some of the girls sinuously swirl long silk scarves; the badger and the mink, the two most physically developed, twirl tassels from their nipples. Gold bangles shimmy musically with the tune.

I let the music wash over me, shutting out the rest of the world. My eyes are fixed on Sultan as I fall into my flawlessly practiced routine at center stage. I twine around the upright metal pole gracefully, sensuously grinding against it, I stretch out straight, standing on my toes with the cold metal against my warm furry back, my thick vulpine tail wrapped around the steel, my arms extended above my head and still not reaching the pointed top. My eyes never leaving Sultan I swing around to face the pole, hugging it to my flat breasts, to my chubby belly. I nuzzle the steel eagerly with my sharp black nose, smiling tranquilly all the while, my ornaments jingling brightly in time with the music.

The music fades to silence and Sultan applauds appreciatively as we six slave girls bow modestly, beaming in the warmth of his approval. When we rise from our bow, however, it is I alone whom his gaze is fixed upon.

Sultan extends a finger towards me and beckons me forward. I look briefly to my sister slaves on either side, confirming I am not mistaken, that Sultan desires me. I humbly approach the dais and make no resistance as Sultan reaches out to touch me. I purr in delight as his ringed fingers explore my lush vulpine fur, ecstatic at the sensation of his noble touch. He grasps my bare midriff and squeezes my paunch. He licks his lips, his tongue vividly red against his yellowed lupine fangs.

"You have grown fat, pet," Sultan remarks casually.

"Yes, my lord," I reply. Could tonight, at last, be the night?

"Why, pet?"

"Because I love you, my lord," I says, fighting to keep the tremor out of my voice.

"How much do you love me, pet?"

"For you, my lord, I have been fed on ripened fruits and honey, on rich cream and sugar, all to increase and sweeten my flesh." There is a faint whimper to my voice; I cannot completely hide my instinctual trepidation, but stronger yet is the excitement I strive to keep restrained. "For you, my lord, I have ripened myself. I-I-" I close my eyes for a moment and then open before I finish, "I have fatted myself for slaughter."

Sultan smiles and leans forward from his reclined position. He cups my chin in his hand and kisses me gently on the forehead; I feel I could melt. "Very good. Such love as yours deserves to be rewarded, pet."

My eyes drift automatically to my lord's pants, and the small silk tent pitched unmistakably there. Just the sight of it starts my mouth watering, like the well-conditioned pet I am.

Sultan sees my gaze, and chuckles. "No, pet. That reward you will never enjoy again. It would leave you tasting of me. I desire you to taste of no one but yourself."

I shrink at the mild chastisement, and meekly respond, "As you wish, master."

"Pets, help your sister express her love." Sultan nods towards the other five slaves, still standing and waiting attentively behind me, perhaps watching our private communion enviously; I cannot see, for my gaze is still fixed upon my beloved master.

I sense two of my sister slaves approach me from behind. They each take hold of me by an arm and guide me away from the dais, our ornaments jingling faintly as we walk. As we turn away from Sultan, I look to either side and see my guides are the oldest two slaves, the badger and the horse; they smile furtively at me beneath their veils and I return the gesture. They lead me to where the fountain spills into a wide marble basin. On the edge of the basin rest a tall golden ewer and a matching bowl filled with a white lather, and beside them a gold-handled razor.

The horse and the badger undress me like a mother might do to a cub, removing and carefully setting aside my sleeveless light blue top and long harem pants; they leave in place the jewelry on my wrists, ankles, and head, and my veil. We three step into the ankle deep water of the basin and my two older sister slaves begin to bathe me.

The piebald filly fills the ewer with water from the fountain and pours it across my shoulders. The badger brushes the lather onto the lush scarlet fur of my upper back. The suds smell of jasmine and lotus blossoms, cloyingly sweet and perfumed. The badger's clawed fingers diligently massage the warm soap deep into my pelt, deliberately brushing my treasured fur irritatingly against the grain.

The filly draws the whetted razor and with a careful motion brushes it against my back. I don't even feel the touch, but I can see the result, a tuft of my fur floating amongst the suds on the surface of the water.

This ritual is repeated many times over, first across my back, and then my chest. With each precision flick of the razor the horse cleanly shaves away the lathered fur, exposing my vulnerable pink flesh beneath. The blade is honed to a deadly edge but not once does it break my raw skin. I watch in curious fascination as my fur is stripped away.

I move as my sister slaves direct me, lifting my arms and legs as required. When my bulging belly is stripped bare, they proceed to my arms and legs, down my supple hips and around my meaty thighs. They are dedicated to their task and admirably thorough, precisely working the blade even between my fingers and my toes.

When they have rinsed the last of the suds from my body and deftly swiped away the last overlooked scraps of hair only my head and my tail remain still fully furred. The latter wraps around the front of my waist in an instinctive reflex to hide my furlessness.

I look from my ugly pink flesh, wrinkled and naked, to the pitiful remains of my prized velvet coat bobbing on the surface of the water. For the first time, I feel a flicker of doubt, a shadow of remorse. All my life I have taken great pride in the care of my fur, shampooed and brushed it daily, kept it lustrous and healthy. Now, in only a matter of minutes, it has been stripped from me, carelessly cast aside like the worthless rind of an orange. I can feel the reality of what will become of me this night setting in.

The regret is fleeting. My attention is drawn back towards Sultan and I am reminded of what is important; my life is and always has been to serve, and the sacrifice of my beloved fur is necessary if I am to fulfill my greater purpose.

While the badger and the filly were shaving me, my other sister slaves, the goat, the mink, and the tiger, were making further preparations. Two forked A-frames now stand at either end of the oblong fire pit, and the charcoal fire within has been stoked and built up. The pole around which I so gracefully danced for my master is leaning in a rack off to one side, and a low gilded table now stands between the fire and the dais where Sultan still patiently rests, watching the proceedings with absorbed interest.

Once more, the horse and the badger take me by the arms and guide me back towards the dais, our ornaments jingling as we leave a trail of wet paw and hoof prints across the marble floor. I stand with the table between myself and Sultan, his golden gaze looking down at me approvingly.

A gentle push encourages me to bend forward at the waist, lying my pudgy stomach and undeveloped breasts flat against the tabletop. The badger and the horse continue to hold me by the arms; the goat and the tiger each take ahold of a leg, all but immobilizing me.

I watch the Matron approach carrying a small set of metal shears; one more indignity yet awaits me. The mink grabs my bushy vulpine tail and hikes it up out of the way, pulling it painfully straight and exposing the tight pucker of my anus and the faintly swollen lips of my delicate sex. I brace myself but still cannot resist crying out loudly in pain as the blades close, drowning out the sharp snap that echoes through the chamber, and then crying out again as the matron presses a piece of red-hot metal, heated in the fire pit, against my denuded rump to quickly cauterize the wound. Through tear-filled eyes I watch the mink carry my limp severed tail to Sultan and lovingly drape it across his shoulders.

"You have served me well, pet."

"It-it has been my honor, my lord." My watering eyes wander to one side of the dais where the Matron is now purposefully applying a liberal coating of olive oil to the metal pole.

"Do you have any final words before you die?"

"I have, my lord. I only wish to express how glad I am to give myself to you, my lord. My entirety belongs to you. Tonight--" My voice falters slightly, my gaze following the Matron's clip-clop steps until she disappears behind me carrying the now-lubricated pole.

"Hurry up, pet."

I swallow down the lump in her throat and continues, "Tonight, I cease to be your pet, my lord. Tonight I become your meat. Your meat seeks no reward, expects no memorial. As I do not recall the fruit I ate last night, so shall I be consumed and forgotten. I-- I seek only to be satisfying to you this fleeting night, my beloved lord."

"Well spoken, meat. Matron, you may proceed."

I whimper pitiably. At the first touch of the cold steel tip to my anus I squeeze my eyes shut. This is my purpose, I remind myself, desperately steeling myself for what is to come next. This is what I want. This is my sole reason for being. My whole, brief life has been in anticipation for this night.

I whine as the eland begins to slowly force the oil lubricated pole into my rectum, stretching and tugging my sphincter, rubbing uncomfortably against my unprotected flesh. My body fights back reflexively, but the slickened steel is hardly slowed by my clenching muscles. When the sharpened tip first pierces my inner flesh, I cannot help crying out, nor can I hold back the shameful squirt of urine that escapes. Freely-flowing tears of pain blur my sight as the Matron drives the pole deeper through my abdomen, every centimeter causing even more pain, worse than I had ever expected, every second causing more irreversible damage. I tug and squirm, instinctively trying to escape, but my sister slaves hold fast, keeping me in place as I am impaled.

The Matron is skilled at her work, and very careful. Impaling a slave, even one so young as myself, requires strength and meticulousness. With extreme precision she threads the spit between vital organs without rupturing or damaging them, ensuring that I will be alive to properly endure my execution. As the tip pierces deeper my breath becomes wheezy and labored. The mink moves to my head, firmly grabbing my still-furry cheeks and stretching my neck out flat and straight.

I hear a retching, gagging noise, and realize it is coming from my own throat. My esophagus spasms painfully as though trying to vomit, the full length of my tongue protruding grotesquely from my mouth, until abruptly the sound falls silent. My mouth is forced open from the inside and I watch cross-eyed as the sharpened point of the pole emerges from between my lips, gently brushing aside the pale blue veil that still hangs across my muzzle. The metal is no longer coated with oil but rather with my own blood; I can sense the repulsive metallic taste smeared across my tongue. I watch, simultaneously horrified and fascinated as the mink calmly wipes the blood and saliva from the spit as it continues to emerge from my mouth. Despite the pain the gory sight and the pressure in my rectum stir a perverse arousal from my loins

Only when nearly a meter of polished steel extends past my pointed black nose does the Matron stop; I am completely spitted, far past the point of no return. My death is inevitable now. I look up to Sultan and see him staring down predatorily at me, fangs bared, drool dripping from his lips. The sight should be terrifying and yet it only excites me more. Master wants me.

My sister slaves and the Matron make quick work of tying my wrists across my back. My paws are lifted from the floor and my ankles likewise tightly bound to the pole. There is the squeaking noise of metal on metal as a handle is threaded onto the blunt end of the spit just beyond my anxiously wriggling toes and locked in place.

The horse and the badger each take hold of one end of the spit and with a great heave hoist me off the table, my fatted belly hanging low though the stiff metal does not sag at all. The ornaments still hanging from my jewelry jangle pleasantly as I am helplessly paraded to the fire pit.

I see the glowing coals approaching, my impending demise, the fate that has always been my destiny. I can do nothing to protect my naked flesh; I am only meat, after all. Still, I brace myself as best I can, my body still instinctively fighting a futile battle for self-preservation. As the first wave of intense heat washes over my unprotected breast I whine out in grotesque agony. The pain is abrupt, intense, far more so than I had expected. My jaw clenches, my teeth cracking against the hardened metal spit. Tears cascade from my eyes and run down my furry cheeks; they drip down only to sizzle into steam on the coals, the harsh sound echoing inside my folded-back ears.

The five slaves of master's harem set to work, of late my sisters but now my chefs and butcherers. The mare, the strongest, begins to turn the handle; the goat and the tiger, the two youngest, tend the coals, keeping the fire hot and strong; finally, the badger and the mink take two bowls from beside the fire pit and begin to brush a baste of oil and herbs across my raw pink backside.

At the first turn of the spit, I almost feel a moment of relief as my scalded front is moved away from the heat. Instead I only feel a fresh surge of agony as my backside is freshly exposed to the heat. My body squirms, bouncing the spit on the A-frames ever so slightly, but there is no escaping the heat, intense, oppressive, and omnipresent. As my backside turns away, my breast comes back into the heat. Blood, sweat, tears, and urine leak from my orifices to hiss and sizzle on the red-hot cinders below.

The next time my front side rotates up again, the badger wipes her basting brush across my swollen vulva, eliciting a new whine from my nostrils and a favorable reaction from the ultrasensitive flesh. As the next turn of the spit brings my genitals back into view, the badger does it again and I know the stimulation is deliberate.

I will roast slowly, my demise staved off for as long as possible to ensure my own essence is baked completely into my living flesh. The greater my agony, the greater the flavor, and I owe it to my master to keep myself conscious of every sensation. To die in such a way, to serve and to be served, is an honor far greater than I deserve. Out of love I intend to strive to prove myself worthy of this honor my master has bestowed upon me.

The heat surrounds me, envelops me totally, pervading my flesh. The oily baste crackles and sizzles where it contacts my roasting skin, the herbs rasping against my raw hide, seeping into my pores. My jewelry heats red hot, scalding my skin where the metal makes contact. Every second is a new experience of exquisite agony. I revel in it. This is what my master desires of me, and because it is what he desires, it is what I myself desire. Death will come, but we are in no hurry.

After a seeming eternity the pain mercifully abates to a dull persistent tingling as the nerves of my dermis are seared insensate. My body's reflexive struggles subside slowly and gradually cease, at last calmly resigned to my fate. Movement of any kind becomes progressively more difficult, my limbs becoming increasingly stiff as my muscles are slow roasted. The feeling is even somewhat pleasant as the mink and badger continue to penetrate and toy with my vagina at every opportunity. Perhaps, perhaps they may give me one final orgasmic sendoff, if Sultan will allow it.

Even as this hopeful thought crosses my mind, our lupine master rises from his reclined position and descends from the dais to approach the fire pit where I, his pet-turned-meat, roast. I look up beseechingly at my lord, my watering eyes held open with difficulty, my vision blurred in the face of the all-consuming heat.

"You smell delicious, meat."

I can only agree. The fragrant scent of my own roasted flesh, of the herbs being cooked right into my still-living flesh, the sound of meat sizzling and crackling, would make my mouth water if I only had any saliva left. I am a culinary masterpiece. A grandiose gustation. A vulpine victual. I only wish I could still be alive to taste myself when I am done. Is my stomach rumbling, or am I only imagining it? The heat slowly boiling my brain inside my skull may be making me a tad delirious.

I sees my own tail draped across Sultan's shoulders; it seems so long ago that I surrendered it, a lifetime. It is but the smallest part of my gift to him. I have ripened herself for him, fatted myself for slaughter, fed myself a steady diet of honey and fruits to sweeten my own meat's flavor. My entirety belongs to him, and it makes me glad to give it to him. All I seek in return is the pleasure of his touch, the blessing of his approval.

With great effort, I force out an imploring whine as my vagina begins to rotate back into view.

"You desire release, meat." It is not a question. "Here, pet, let me." Sultan holds out his hand to the badger and she obediently surrenders her brush.

Sultan buries the brush deep inside me, thrusting carefully in and out, masterfully stimulating the still sensate flesh sheltering within. My lungs, weakened and damaged beyond repair, baking and collapsed, feebly force out a moan of pleasure. My lord cares for me, wishes for me to die ecstatically. My last orgasm will be at his hands, and I could ask for nothing more from this life.

As my front side turns away, Sultan withdraws, but resumes immediately when my backside is once more to the flames. I am in agonized ecstasy, my eyes rolled back to stare at the sizzling coals beneath me, my lord pushing me right to the brink and holding me there with exquisitely excruciating perfection.

I am positive that one more touch is all it will take to push me over the edge, when I once more find him withdrawing and a fresh wave of heat washing over my seared belly. That touch is my last wish, my truest desire for my final memory. I yearn for that touch, aching for climax as the slow turn of the spit brings my vagina back up again, but it does not come.

I whine piteously and try to shake the spit, surely he must know, he must be aware that I await nothing more than his loving touch, that it is all I seek from the last seconds of my rapidly-fading life.

"You thought I would grant you release, meat? Have you forgotten? I told you I desire you to taste of no one but yourself. For me, meat, I order you to hold that flavor inside."

His words filter through the fog that clouds my head, barely heard above the crackling of the coals. I can scarcely believe them. No, no master, please, you cannot leave me like this. I beg of you, I need this release, don't let me die like this. You owe me this.

I strain to make my petition known, clench my jaws against the heated metal spit, try to tug at my bonds and find my limbs unresponsive. But it is worthless; Sultan cannot hear my thoughts, nor does he owe me anything. I am-was his slave. My lord truly intends to let me die without the ecstasy of his touch, and his intent is my command.

I have no tears left to cry as the burning heat, intense and yet nowhere nearly so intense as the unfulfilled burning in my loins, roasts away the last of my life.

---

The roasted vixen lies chest-down on a golden platter, her arms still folded across her back, her tailless rump hiked up in the air. Surrounding her is a gluttonous array of all of her favorite foods, fruits and decadent candies, pineapples and passionfruit, sticky sweets and caramelized delights. A large pomegranate is clamped between her jaws, her fangs piercing the skin to leak out the blood-red juice.

Sultan, seated at the head of the table, goes immediately for her sweetest flesh, the cleft mound of pubescent flesh between her thighs, swollen with her last unreleased orgasm, stoppered inside like a genie in a bottle. The hot flesh squirts the pure distilled flavor of his beloved slave across his tongue, rich and creamy.

As the virile white wolf savors the roasted-to-perfection meat of his late devoted pet, he looks at the five remaining slaves of his harem. They stand obediently at attention, gazing longingly alternately at the magnificent main course spread before them and at the erect lupine penis that promises to provide dessert. They will not eat a bite until their master has had his fill.

Tomorrow, he will choose one of them to start a special new diet.

The vixen's eyes, dull and clouded, stare into eternity.







First draft started August 28, 2015. First draft completed September 23, 2015. Editing completed September 30, 2015.



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