This is a short work of erotic fiction containing furry, or anthropomorphic, characters, which are animals that either demonstrate human intelligence or walk on two legs, for the purposes of these tales. It is a thriving and growing fandom in which creators are prevalent in art and writing especially.
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Fate of the Little Ones
Snow suffocated the city, the worst winter any of its inhabitants had seen in their lifetimes. Icicles as large as a blacksmith's arm hung precariously from rooftops and ledges, threatening the lives of anyone that dared walk beneath. Few dared. The cloud cover showed no sign of dispersing and snowflakes, beautiful while solitary, stung the eyes of any fur brave enough to venture out in such weather, caught in vicious blusters. Life could not stop, however, and traders lined the streets, blowing into frozen paws and calling out their wares in shaky, wavering voices. If they did not sell, they did not eat. The majority were from outside the city and not under its protection, far from living the life of luxury of some and holding no high positions in the world.
The ladies of the city bundled up in furs and fine fabrics when forced to venture outdoors. Otherwise, they sent slaves out to do their bidding in whatever clothing they deemed appropriate. Some owners were kinder than others, treating their slaves to thicker, if inexpensive clothing; even blankets could be used if winter slave attire was scarce in their household and it was required for the wellbeing of the slave. The highborn aimed to provide where they could, for their own benefit, of course. If a slave had particular skills, useful skills, he was valuable to them. It should not be wasted. The everyday slaves were disposable and replaceable, however, and treated with less care. Some shivered under rags, others bearing finery intended to please the eye and not the wearer. Some were in physical chastity, if left intact. One shaggy brown ox had been sent out without a scrap of clothing, sensing only an edge of cold through this thick fur and hide. He was one of the luckier ones.
The largest temple in the city, dedicated to their goddess of fertility and breeding, had the courtyard cleared of snow. Where the breeding slaves, renowned for their temperament and virility, were too fragile for hard work in such weather, a plethora of labourers were kept in stock to ensure the temple itself was clear and well cared for. Some were called to be 'attending' - attending slaves.
They tucked the breeders away in the depths of the temple, which boasted an indoor stable perhaps more suitable for animals than slaves if viewed by an outsider. Yet it was all they knew and they were fortunate with their lot in life. They were some of the most highly valued, allowed to remain intact for their purpose in life. It was the best they could hope for. Each stable was furnished with a single bed (lifted off the ground), a water dispenser at chest height and a selection of bowls from which they may be fed, kept sparkling clean at all times. They had no personal belongings. If not for the beds, the stables could have been for horses.
In a corner stall, coveted by the males for marginally greater privacy, Salun sat cross-legged on a thin rug, meditating. The slaves murmured and chirped to one another, each one a different species. A temple strove for diversity wherever possible and it would take an exceptional breeder to prompt the temple overseer to consider adding another of the same species to her breeding pool. The blue jay furrowed his brow, looking to sink into a deep meditation that would stave off the chill nipping at his feathers, falling into another world. They would have warmer blankets that evening. Until then, he must endure.
The slaves chattered softly.
"Hush," Salun murmured, not breaking his pose. "We must be quiet."
"You think that matters?" A stallion, dun with a black dorsal strike and spiky mane, snorted.
The stallion - Fjord as far as his breeding stated - brushed a paw through his white mane, tipped with black, and leaned upon his half-door, fingers tapping a restless tune. The doors were not padlocked, only secured with a top bolt on the exterior. A slave had never escaped.
"I know it has been some time since you have been taken out, Nico." Salun referred to the horse by his nickname - he did not know his true name. "You must find peace. They will be displeased if they hear us chittering like hens."
Nico tossed his head and rolled his eyes. Why should he listen to a little bird? He was better than him. Better bred, better used, better placed.
"Then why do you speak?" He challenged, a cocky glint to his eye.
"Why do you not leave?"
Throughout the exchange, the avian never once shifted from his cross-legged position, hand-claws resting upon his thighs. He would hate to have to set himself up for meditation right from the beginning after all his preparation. And it took some preparation. He started with making his bed, ensuring every corner of the blanket was neatly tucked under the straw stuffed mattress. Next, he ordered his food bowls by size and colour along the back wall, checking each one for imperfections; those would be mentally catalogued. The drinking vessel was to be topped up at the dispenser, of course, and a drink taken to moisten his beak. He stretched then, maintaining the flexibility of his body for breeding and teasing out every muscle. That was the beginning of it, his daily show. Routine was solace.
Nico quieted down, finding his tongue tied with no suitable answer for Salun. Smiling, the blue jay sank into his private world, leaving the rest of his fellow slaves behind. He was not close to any of them, so it was easy to drift off. In his mind, he imagined a field of thick grass at the height of summer, warmth slipping off his feathers like water off a duck's back. He luxuriated in it, lay sprawled and stared up at the blue, blue sky for what must have been hours on end. Time had no meaning in meditation. It was an escape, at least in the beginning.
He came to an opening in the ground, a tunnel that went deeper than he could ever dream of while awake. To have a cave opening in the middle of a field was impossible, but life did not need to be probable in his mind. It was his to control exactly as he wished. He padded into the yawning cave mouth, claws tap-tapping against the pleasantly cool stone. Natural lights that he did not know the name of lined the walls and ceiling, illuminating the darkness so he could progress into a blue glow. Deeper, he travelled, searching for something that was yet to reveal itself. In the waking world, the avian parted his beak ever so slightly, concentration shimmering through.
Would he discover who awaited him this time? He knew someone waited, calling to him, their voice echoed mournfully. His feathers bristled, catching the attention of the ever-curious red fox in the next stable over. Just what was that silly blue jay up to this time?
"Attention."
The soft voice needed no additional volume to command their attention. Every slave in the sizeable stable scrambled to their doors: heads lowered, eyes down, paws crossed behind their backs. Salun took a second to snap out of meditation, leaping to the door and shuffling into position with less grace than he usually displayed. For a brief moment, his eye twitched, feathers ruffled. Did she have to disrupt him? He hung his head, laying his beak upon his chest in shame. The overseer had not meant to disturb him. He doubted she even knew of his frequent meditations.
The equine overseer of the temple paced each row of stables, bare hooves clip-clopping on the fine, worn stone. Amethyst cast her eyes over every slave in turn, taking in their current state and making notes on the scroll she held in one paw. They never knew what she wrote but she was always writing, quill scratching away at the parchment. While any fur could see into the stables, every slave could see out of the stables. Each row held seven stalls on each side, each stall backing on to another in the next row, open for viewing through wooden slats. It afforded maximum observance for the inhabitants and an incredible disregard to privacy.
Amethyst paused at the stall of a slave with his arm in a sling. The lumbering bull had a sad tilt to his head and bandages covered his wrist where his paw should have been. The mare unbolted the door and lifted his bandaged arm away from his dark brown coat, fingers brushing the covered stump. The bull tensed yet made no move to pull back, enduring the discomfort admirably. The muscles could have been stiff from lack of use - no one would ever know what went on in the secretive male's mind unless explicitly questioned. And no one truly bothered to do that out of mere curiosity, to enquire as to why a slave was stiff and slow or not. They had to be on top of their game at all times. The mare noted with a flicker of satisfaction that the remainder of the scars on his body were healing well. He would not be the most beautiful breeder but he had proven his strength and durability time and time again. Those genes would be passed on to the offspring of the lady who chose him to mate with.
"Is your forearm healing?" Amethyst asked.
She exerted light pressure to test his reaction. When he did not flinch - his ears only drooped - she nodded, satisfied that no pain was present from her clinical examination.
"It is sore, Overseer," the bull answered quietly, voice low and rasping. "The end...the stump...it itches, Overseer."
Muscles bulged awkwardly: he was not a standard fit for breeding stock but Overseer Amethyst found worth in him. A missing paw did not render him incapable of breeding, of course.
Amethyst nodded, brushing the feathered end of the quill against her cheek.
"We shall have the healers examine you in the morrow," she said, making a note on the scroll. "Likely a simple healing itch. Nothing to concern you, if distracting. We do not want that, however. You are scheduled to be used next week."
"Yes, Overseer," he replied, eyes on the horizontal slat of the stable door.
