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.
*****
The Beauty in His Breaking
She had to have him.
Thema knew that as soon as she saw the dragon. A biped, the slave was bound with manacles around his ankles, a short chain to hobble and wrists similarly chained behind his back, leaving no room to squirm. The slaver had been kind enough to allow him exactly four inches of chain between the wrist irons so that his muscled arms and shoulders were not strained too badly. It was the highest blessing he could hope for. He must have given the slaver some trouble, the gazelle mused to herself, fingering the fine, sheer cloth that fell in a waterfall over her body. While Thema was used to the fineries in life, the blue dragon stood entirely naked, head lowered and blinking slowly.
The gazelle paced through the slave market, blatantly ignoring the slavers calling out their wares. She had her eyes fixed on her prize. The market was set in one of the many city squares and, although she did not live in the city itself, Thema adored the bustle of life, so many hearts beating and pounding, breathing a tale untold for every fur. Glass buildings towered overhead and there was little to no greenery to be seen, only a few manicured bushes pruned into perfect globes with no a leaf out of place. Furs dressed as they pleased - why should they not? Their climate was temperate and it had been many, many years since a winter had made any fur grumble, bar the ones that were set to moan whether it was warm or cold or somewhere in between. Thema was comfortable in a pair of sheer, pink harem pants and a loose, matching shirt that wafted over her small breasts. The gazelle, true to her species, was petite but modest in public for, despite the translucent fabric, her breasts and crotch were wrapped in darker, pink fabric, neatly tucked and fastened at the back and side respectively.
Modesty was a different question entirely in the confines of her own home, however.
The slave dragon, caged within a glass cube, shifted from hind paw to paw, manacles clinking musically. Outside his pen, a slaver - a moderately built black wolf - stood quietly, allowing customers to view his wares without interruption. He had been in the game for too long to interrupt without need. If they wanted assistance, they would ask, but the wolf never pestered. Yet he never left the market at the end of the day with slaves in tow. He had the best on offer in the district and he was well aware of this fact.
Observing the dragon through the glass, the tan gazelle observed his movements, how he stood and held himself. Weariness threaded the lines of his body but his size and figure were as impressive as she had come to expect from this particular slaver. Thema had to look up at him, so great was their height difference, the tips of her horns barely reaching his broad chest. Two black horns, straight, protruded from the back of his skull, tapering to a dull point and his front was covered from the underside of his muzzle down in dirty, white plate scales, the colour of which set off the hue of his blue scales. Thus watched, the dragon raised his head, cocked it to the right and narrowed his eyes in challenge.
Thema inhaled. She had not expected slits for pupils and such a sapphire shade to his eyes. Breath came again after a moment, a sigh of appreciation. He was a specimen indeed. His unique appearance cemented her decision, yet the unspoken rebellion made her wonder how swiftly he would bow to her will. The gazelle smiled, folding her paws together in front of her stomach. She hoped he was a fighter.
They were so much more fun to break.
"New stock, Darian?"
She addressed the wolf for the first time, eyes warming with her smile.
"As always, m'dear." He leaned back against the pen, chewing something - a stick of gum? "Like the look of him?"
"Undoubtedly." Her eyes roamed. "Tell me of his training. Any issues?"
"Naught wrong with him physically, as you can see," he said, reeling off the facts with knowledge only gained from years of experience. "Twenty and three years and going strong. Acquired him a month back and have completed his level one basic training. He has exhibited no bad habits to be unlearned, so you have a fresh slate to work with, moulding him however you wish. Wasn't born a slave though, so has a bit of a bite to him. I know you like that." The slaver chanced a grin and winked conspiringly. "Have you taken stock of his wings yet?"
Thema shook her head, curious. The dragon's wings folded in tightly to his back and, with the way he was standing, facing out of the pen into the square, there was no way to discern further information about them.
"Of course, I see them," she said after brief contemplation. "But what is to note? They're normal wings, are they not? I see nothing special there."
Darian rapped his knuckles upon the glass, startling the dragon. He jumped and stumbled, almost falling flat on his muzzle as the chain between his ankles pulled taut, catching himself in the nick of time.
"Open," Darian instructed, his tone cool.
The slaver was not to be argued with and, though he scowled darkly, the dragon stood tall, slowly extending his wings out on either side of his body. Thema caught her breath and gave a little 'oh' of appreciation. With blue 'spines' ribbing the wings, the brilliant blue membranes allowed light to stream through, colouring the ground around his hind paws a striking sapphire to match his eyes. The membrane was clearly of the consistency of leather, strong and tough enough to stand up to all manner of treatment with no tears while the muscled mainstays locked in between his shoulder blades. Much larger than the wings of any other dragon that she had had the pleasure to encounter, she had no doubt that wings of that size could carry this slave through the air with ease.
There was no other option. She turned to Darian as other furs drifted closer, caught by the display.
"I'll take him."
*
The dragon was unimpressed.
It was bad enough that the slaver had bought him - the story of his capture, many years ago, was another tale entirely - stripped him of his clothes and 'retrained' him. He bristled, standing in the communal slave bathing chamber by the edge of one of the pools - hot, if the steam rising from the surface of the water was anything to judge by. And, after that excruciatingly humiliating training, he had been bought by a prey species and carted off god knows how many miles to a castle on the side of the cliff? The dragon snorted, earning himself a glance from a female husky making use of the pools, scrubbing down methodically. What did he care? They flew him in to the castle, or mansion, to be more appropriate, via private aircraft, caged like a wild animal. He loathed the glass pens, the lack of privacy, even the lack of seating within them. He'd had to sit cross-legged on the floor while the gazelle drank champagne and laughed with an Oryx fur that he could only assume was just as vain and vapid as she was, devoid of compassion. The exterior of her castle, evidencing her wealth, was a combination of crystal and glass; as the light helicopter (soundproofed) approached, it sparkled in the sun and sea spray like something out of a fairy tale, old-fashioned towers rising majestically. To him, it was simply another cage.
Flapping his wings hard enough to gust several rolled towels across the stone floor, the dragon heaved a sigh. He had been told to bathe, yet he could not find the will to do so. What was he, some kind of pet to the gazelle? A dog being sent to have a bath? She had wrinkled her pretty little nose and told him, in no uncertain terms, to make himself fresh with water and oils. The fact that he was akin to a pet was likely true, now that he considered it, though one snap of his jaws could crush her spine. He smirked. He was far more powerful than she. Just how long would it take to bend her to his will? Even as a slave, he envisioned having her eating out of the palm of his paw - figuratively, of course.
He shrugged. He would not bathe. Let her see him dirty and stinking. He was her problem now, if she chose to see it that way. He wasn't about to take blind orders from some jumping stick, regardless of what title she chose to give herself. 'Mistress', indeed.
The husky cast a curious look as he so quickly left the slave bathing chambers, bubbling pools musical in his wake. Heated by natural hot springs, the other slaves seemed to covet them - from what he could see in his scant experience there - clustering in together for a communal chat as they rubbed and scrubbed and got back to work. The dragon stretched out his wings, almost touching the perfectly perpendicular sides of the corridor he strode through, each wall perfectly white. He wondered what subtle marks his dirty hind paws, claws unfiled, were leaving and smirked.
The gazelle, for he could not see her as a mistress, awaited him in the reception rooms. Unlike the single, comfortable reception room his home, years prior, had boasted, this chain of rooms was designed to welcome and receive visitors without permitting entry into the deeper parts of the abode. The mansion stretched back so far that he could only suspect what secrets lay within, skeletons the African spent time and riches concealing: he could not wait to uncover them.
Set near the main entrance to the mansion, which was in the form of a lit tunnel dipping down into the earth, taking one into the labyrinth, the reception sprawled. Though he had ordered he meet her there, he took his time arriving, eventually stomping into the correct room to observe her reclining on a plush, crimson sofa with a high back. A bowl of exotic fruits that he could not name sat on a small, round, glass table to her right and she lay on her back, propped up with cushions but with one leg bent at the knee. Chewing slowly on a small piece of green fruit, the gazelle looked him over critically.
Silence hung in the air between them like a cloud, thunder crackling beneath the surface. Despite adequate lighting throughout the room in the form of floating globes, softly illuminated to reach every corner, several torches were set into the walls, burning with brilliant blue flame. Fireglass. Top quality. Rare strain. Expensive.
The gazelle exhaled quietly.
"You were instructed to bathe," she said at last, breaking the silence.
He shuffled his wings, but did not speak. It had not been a question, after all, so how was he to know that she desired an answer, if she wanted any answer at all, he justified. The dragon clenched his teeth, a hard line showing in his jaw, as he suppressed the urge to grin, tail undulating gently to his rear. The gazelle sprung from the sofa with more agility than he could have imagined and paced around him three times, tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth. As she disappeared behind him for a second time, he stiffened; Thema's paw slid over his scales with a murmur that could have been approval, caressing him and stepping away with no more concern than she would give her pet dogs.
"You will bathe," she said, placing herself in front of him, one paw raised to stave off words, questions or further communication.
The dragon's wings trembled. Thema paid him no mind.
"Selly!" She called.
Though she did not project her voice in any particular direction, a spritely doe appeared from nowhere. Short tail twitching, she dropped to her knees and looked up at the gazelle, brown eyes wide and eager to please. As she waited, the dragon could not fail to notice that she was bare of any clothing, excepting the iron collar encircling her slim neck.
