Chapter Two – The Kings Soldiers

During the night whilst the moon was hiding behind some clouds, Sarak circumvented the encampment and struck out on the route he expected the Masan to take in the morning. He travelled a reasonable distance before he found a suitable place for hiding, for he intended to watch as the caravan and the Masan passed, and learn from the sights and sounds, and hopefully recognise something that would give him the edge in his attempt to liberate the ponies and remove the Masan as a problem. Sarak had placed himself at the edge of a small stand of trees, burrowing under a small fallen tree trunk, into the leaves and detritus surrounding it, and completely covering him so that only his eyes could be seen, and thus he waited.

The day grew warmer, Sarak started to sweat and itch, as the insects started to work their way under his clothes and drink from his body. Just as he was about to give up due to his discomfort, he heard noises approaching from the direction that the caravan was intending to travel. He turned his head slowly, avoiding disturbing his camouflage, and swore under his breath as he saw three of the Kings soldiers approaching with a walk that can only be described as that of drunken men. As he watched, Sarak saw the goatskin being passed from one to the other, and each in turn was taking a hefty swig of what one could only surmise as being wine. The three soldiers came to a halt, joking with each other and walked up the slight rise towards the trees, near where Sarak was lying in wait. They reached the shade and all three whipped out their small and unimpressive pieces of manhood, for they were soldiers from Daroc, the town Sarak had just left and they too were small men like the townsfolk. They all urinated on the ground. Laughing as they played around trying to make the water go further than their associates did. Finally, they all finished, but to Sarak’s horror, they moved slightly further away under the trees, lay down and proceeded to go to sleep!

Lying there in his discomfort, with three soldiers less than 20 feet away from him, Sarak contemplated his next move - stay there or creep away? Before he could decide, he saw in the distance the caravan come around a bend in the trail, seven tired and bedraggled ponies, laden with backpacks driven by the Masan, who standing clearly a foot higher than his charges was easily visible. His whip cracked as he urged the ponies to continue, pain giving them the incentive to take yet another step, another pace towards whatever respite might be ahead this night. The whip cracked more fiercely against the buttocks of the lead pony, for she was the one that led the rest, and where she went the others had to follow, due to the reins leading through the mouthpieces from front to back of the caravan. Blood was flowing freely from the lead pony's buttocks now, and flies were attracted to the smell of the warm juice. More flies hovered around the other ponies, for each pony in some way was marked and scared and cut by the whip. The Masan had no care for the ponies, to him they were just pack animals and he treated them shamelessly. Fed them and watered them only just as required, brutally removing their girdles and butt plugs each morning to let them defecate before strapping them in tightly for the day, and if they wanted to urinate, well they just did it as they walked along.

All the ponygirls were in considerable pain from the chaffing of the leather strap between their legs, a couple were limping from the disrepair of their hoof boots, and all of them were red and raw from the tight bindings up and around their breasts. The ponygirls were lean however, tall women condemned to a life of servitude as ponygirls, fated to remain so for their working lives, and yet the constant work they performed kept these ponygirls in trim form. The thighs of all of them were thick with muscle and showed strength, the buttocks tight and firm, the waist narrow, the breasts high, pert and perfectly formed, a tapering neck that held the proud head confined within a harness and dressed with a plume. Although these ponygirls were undernourished and pushed to their limits, they still managed to perform their respective duties, albeit under the whip of the Masan. They continued in their staggering step along the pathway, the whip occasionally sneaking out and touching one of the ponies, making her start and lift her pace a bit, the noise from the action drifting across the grassy plain to Sarak’s place of hiding. He glanced at the soldiers; maybe they would sleep through the passing of the caravan, but no luck. As the caravan drew abreast of the trees one of the soldiers awoke, saw the caravan and nudged his sleeping comrades awake. The three of them sat still and watched the caravan as it drew closer, then with a whisper amongst themselves they stood, shaking off the effects of the wine, and straightening their uniforms they walked down the hill towards the Masan and the caravan.

As the soldiers closed with the caravan, Sarak saw them make gestures for the Masan to stop. Standing across the intended route, they started to demand something from the caravan leader, maybe some tithe to allow him to pass, Sarak thought. He could not hear the words being said by either of the parties, but by the waving of the arms and the crude gesticulations, he quickly came to the conclusion that whatever the soldiers were demanding the Masan was refusing to accept. The caravan was at a total standstill, the ponies hardly moving in their exhaustion, a small twitch as a fly annoyed some part of their body, a flick of a muscle as another bit into their tender skin, or a toss of their heads as the flies attempted to drink from the saliva running down their chins. The ponies continued their respite, as the argument proceeded, and now the soldiers and the Masan had seated themselves on the grass alongside the caravan. Their persistent argument drifting across the grass towards Sarak, and he lay there wishing he could hear the discussion and the outcome. Then with a laugh and a slapping of backs, they all rose and it became obvious that a decision had been reached.

The Masan took up his whip again, then grabbing the lead reign he started to lead the caravan straight up the hill towards the trees, and the shade, and almost to the very spot where Sarak lay. The soldiers moved over to where they had originally been sleeping, as the Masan set up a picket rope and separating each ponygirl from the reins tied them individually to the rope. He removed the backpack from each tired and weary pony, and as the Masan walked down the line, Sarak had a clear view of each girl's face, and their brief look of relief as the heavy weight was removed from their backs and shoulders, and their obvious reprieve as they enjoyed the coolness of the shade and the respite from the hot sun. The Masan went back to the second pony in line and unhitched her, removing her from the picket line and leading her towards the tree trunk under which Sarak lay. Sarak lowered his head a little, averting his eyes into the leaves he hoped his place of hiding would remain unfound. He listened to the set of boots that a week ago had kicked him unconscious, and to the tap of the hoof boots on the grass sward as they approached, he heard a grunt, a scuffle and then both heard and felt the trunk move as the pony was tied to it. He lay there, quivering as the steps retreated and returned twice more, the noises echoing the first set he had listened too, whilst he attempted to make himself so small and insignificant. Again he heard the boots retreat and listened as the Masan offered the soldiers some fresh red wine from his packs, and heard the cheering and laughter, as all four must be drinking from the skins.

Sarak slipped his head back and out from under the trunk, slowly edging back from the trunk, until he could raise it enough to look at what had happened above him. His mouth gaped open as he saw the three ponygirls had been forced to their knees, with their necks tied tight to the trunk by their lead reins, forcing their faces over and towards him. As he saw them, they saw him, and with a quick "Shuss", he tried to calm them, for they immediately tried to clamber to their feet, immediately tried to tear their heads away from the binding holding them to the trunk. Sarak watched, as the fright in their faces was apparent, the eyes rolling back, wide and terrified, the lips around the bits in their mouths curling back, guttural screams from within coming out as a whinny of alarm. The ponies were shocked by his visage, and as he rose to run, he realised that they did not see him as a male, but as the wolf, for he still wore the wolf skin over his head for added protection. He lifted his head further and the three pony girls saw into his face for the first time, and he watched as a mixed feeling of relief and astonishment passed quickly across each face, and looking over their heads he saw the Masan coming over to see what the ruckus was about. Sarak edged further back, managing to get a thicker tree trunk between him and the approaching Masan, and listened as the Masan scolded his ponies and smacked their raised hind quarters hard with his hand. The Masan returned to the soldiers and Sarak, hand over hand, went up the tree he was behind, until he was mainly hidden by the branches and the leaves, and yet he had a clear view below him of the three ponies.

Glancing to the soldiers, he saw then stand and follow the Masan back towards the three ponies tethered to the trunk below him. Sarak watched as the Masan undid the strap between each of the girls thighs, watched as he parted their knees with his boots and watched as he bent to each in turn, lifting their tails away, exposing their outer lips. He played with each one, rubbing and fingering, slightly patting, until he was pleased with the response from each pony, for each pony was now aroused and wet. This was another duty of these girls, to satisfy their master or in fact anyone their master wished, and whilst the ponygirl was bred as a slave and as an animal, the ponygirl was also used for sexual gratification. The ponies beneath him were now panting, they had no recourse but to accept their fate, and the rubbing and administrations from the Masan had taken them to the awareness of the needs of their own bodies, the need to act accordingly and to accept a man's penis into themselves. The soldiers knelt between the stretched legs of the ponies, each removing his manhood from their breaches, each rubbing away at their small penises in an attempt to harden them for penetration. Before each soldier was an upraised pair of buttocks, round and beautiful in shape, yet scarred with whip strokes and bloodstains, and between each buttock there was impaled in each anus a butt plug complete with hair forming a tail, hair in fact removed as it grew to length from their very own heads. The soldiers all looked down beneath the butt plug, looked as the lips of each pony quivered in anticipation of being taken, being mounted, looked as moisture leaked from between the lips forming lubrication for the imminent penetration.

The soldiers as one reached forward and grabbed a buttock in each hand, as one they touched the ends of their cocks to those lips, and as one they thrust forward, forcing themselves straight down the juicy wet and available vagina in front of them. The ponies made guttural noises as the thrusting continued, their movements restricted by the tightness of the binding to the tree trunk, but slight enough to allow their breasts to rock backwards and forwards under the increasing tempo of the soldiers. A jingle of bells was all that was heard for a while, as the breasts swung, then as the soldiers began to move towards climax, their thrusting rhythms increased, their own moans and grunting got louder, the ponies too were nearing climax, for being also bred for this purpose they were always ready to be mounted. Sarak watched on with a mixture of envy for the soldiers, of sadness towards the ponies, and of hate towards the Masan. The other ponies could not see what was happening, but from the noises coming from the tree trunk, they too were getting aroused, and they in turn became fidgety and in need of relief.

The Masan ignored them; he was more concerned with watching the scene unfold before him. Sarak watched on and then his heart leapt to his mouth as he saw the Masan draw a long stiletto blade from his sleeve, then stepping behind each soldier in turn, he grabbed them by the hair, pulling back their heads and exposing the neck, then with a quick slice completely severed the neck right through to the spine of each man. The Masan was so fast with his actions and his blade, that none of the soldiers realised their predicament, none felt their own death approach, so concerned were they with pleasuring themselves upon the backs of the ponygirls. Sarak watched as the Masan moved between the three, watched in horror as the blood spurted from the severed jugulars to splash upon the backs of the ponies, watched as the bodies slumped forwards and fell, sliding in their own blood to lie alongside the thigh of the pony they had just been riding. Three pairs of eyes stared up into the tree, dead eyes that looked into the eyes of Sarak, almost blaming him for not interceding on their part. Sarak turned his eyes back to the Masan. He watched as the Masan cleaned his knife on one of the soldiers' breaches and then turned and walked off to drink from the very wine he had just shared with the now dead soldiers.

The flies quickly came to the blood as it congealed and dried upon the backs of the ponies, but the flies have no consequence of thought when it comes to moisture, and they also congregated around the warm and wet lips of the ponies, driving them to intense discomfort as they drank and fed and bit into the tender and tormented flesh. The Masan ignored the plight of the ponygirls, the attacks of the flies, their discomfort at the iron smell of the drying blood, continuing with his wine, watching the day pass as the temperature dropped, and then in late afternoon he reformed his caravan, taking no care with the demoralised and filthy ponygirls that had been taken by the soldiers. Shortly thereafter the Masan left the tranquillity of the trees with the caravan walking out ahead of him, and still his whip hand drove the tip of the leather against the skin of his ponies. The hidden Sarak dropped from the trees, glad to stand again on the green grass, although his fright from almost being discovered kept his legs shaking for some time. The blood was now dry around the slit in the soldier’s throats, some flies still hovered, and Sarak in his own wisdom robbed the dead soldiers of their possessions, knowing that they no longer had any need of these small things. In total he claimed twelve small silver pieces, and a long thin knife, plus a small squat and fat blade from the boot of one soldier.

The rest of the clothes were too stained and there was nothing of any value he could take with him, for he now was even more determined to go after the Masan, and avenge these soldiers as well as try and take the backpacks and the ponygirls for himself. Sarak now recognised that the only way he would or could accomplish this was to kill the Masan himself, yet looking back at the speed and ferocity of the Masan’s deadliness in his killing attack, Sarak was now worried about the outcome of their future meeting. Gathering his spear from where he had hidden it, Sarak strode out after the caravan, determined to catch up, go around and lay a trap for the Masan. His determination saw him by nightfall, some few miles ahead of the caravan. But he continued on through the night, for what he thought would be a day's march for the caravan, coming upon a small stream forming a large pond amongst a stand of trees. Sarak washed and ate a small rabbit he speared, then settled down to sleep and rest for what was to come, knowing that the Masan was tired now, and that the days grace would see the Masan’s attention lowered, his alertness diminished, and the ability to rest in this cool and comforting place would put the Masan at ease and at his potential mercy. Sarak’s last though before sleep caught up with him, was of the sight of the three ponygirls being taken and their obvious delight at the incident, and as he dosed off there were no remembrances of the death and the bloodshed, just the joy of the occasion.