Bonds of Silver, Bonds of Gold 04: Depreciation (Part 1)

Morning came with the speed of a flying wooden spoon and started with a sharp cry. To be sure, I was no stranger to rising the sun, or even before it. I doubted, however, that I would ever get used to waking to a sudden pain over one eye. I pushed past the shock and crawled out of the pile of old blankets that had become my bed, bunched in the corner of a linen closet that had become my room. The short chain connecting the shackles on my ankles rattled as I rolled onto my shins, then balanced my paws on my knees and bowed my head.

The broad shadow of Miss Aida stood in the doorway, blocking the flickering light from the witchlight in the hallway. In the shifting of shadows on the floor, she hooked her thumb behind her. “Help the cook break fast, draw a bath, then go roust the girls. Once they’re on their way downstairs, wash up and eat. There’s a trade caravan due today, so the Blue Moon should be packed and lively. I’ll have you in the parlor by second bell.”

I bent at the waist, ears back against my head. “Master,” I murmured, then hopped to my feet and did my best to hurry past the heavyset lynx. Despite the chain hobble, I still jumped when she swatted my rump, her heavy paw landing just below my tail.

I bit back a yelp, shuffling quickly down the hallway as ordered. The kitchen was a large crooked room at the back of the slaves’ area, away from the parlor and the private spaces. A long, uneven table and a pair of rough benches filled most of the first half, and around the corner at the end stood a wide counter that filled the other. A wheel of hard cheese sat atop the counter next to a small stack of plates and a pile of potatoes. A fireplace occupied the middle of the wall, in which sat the smoldering remains of last night’s supper fire. Bent at the waist and stoking the coals was a stocky wolf who’d clearly seen better days. Pink, hairless scars crossed his back, and the tip of his tail was missing, ending in a ragged stump. He was as nude as I was, though his shackles were iron to my polished steel. The collar around his neck looked as if it had rusted in place, the fur around it stained a dark red.

As I entered, he turned his head and pointed first to a rack of wooden place settings, then to the cheese wheel on the counter. I nodded in response, then took a stack of bowls to the counter. Beside the wheel, the cook had set a heavy metal knife, which reduced carving through the rind merely a chore instead of a struggle. Once six bowls had two thin rough wedges apiece, I took them to the table and fetched spoons to accompany them. Finally, I filled tankards with cloudy beer from the barrel by the delivery door, then took them to the table. Having finished preparing for Miss Aida and her girls to break fast, I knelt by the end of one bench, waiting for the cook to be done with me.

The cook took his time with the porridge; the great bell at the top of Jazinsk Manor that tolled the hours had already struck once in the time it took me to finish my chores. I did my best not to fidget, but I’d already felt Miss Aida’s fist once for being late. She was careful not to use claws, but that only meant that her anger left no marks. When the wolf approached, though, my heart tightened. Instead of his usual shuffle, he stepped hesitantly towards me, trying to keep the chain between his legs from scraping the stone floor. When his trembling, clawless fingers brushed my neck, I knew what was to follow.

My master had made it clear that “helping the cook” meant letting him do whatever he wished with me. That included not flinching or resisting when his paw cupped the back of my head. I inhaled his scent as he pressed my muzzle to his groin; soot and black pepper lingered in the heavy scent of his musk, along with the sour tang of fear. A whimper escaped him as I parted my lips, gently caressing the short fur that covered his sheath, coaxing his shaft free. The wolf stroked my ears as I lipped and licked at him, ignoring the sensitive bare flesh in favor of the delicate fuzz over his balls. The fear-scent thickened as I teased him, but so did his lust.

Suddenly, his fingers curled around the bases of my ears as he pressed his pawpads against my temples. He bent at the waist, pulled me to his cock, and then insistently tried to force it into my muzzle. I barely had time to open for him before he had pushed its tip into my throat and buried my nosepad into the tangled thatch of fur just above his groin. The wolf’s tail couldn’t decide if it wanted to curl or wag as he started to rock himself into me, thrusting unsteadily past my lips, whimpering with every movement. I tried at first to suck, to guide him, but his urgency and insistence overpowered me, and all I could do was ride out his arousal. I closed my eyes and did my best to relax against the unexpected onslaught of the cook’s shaft.

When his movements took on an unsteady urgency and his breath caught in his throat. The base of his shaft began to grow, his knot bulging against his sheath. A low whine escaped him, and I gently cupped the wolf’s swelling flesh in my fingers, gently urging back his sheath to free it. His precum spilled freely, salty and musky over my tongue. The bulge of his knot started to bump impatiently against my lips, and I worried that he might try to gag me with it. As he withdrew between thrusts, I wrapped one paw around his shaft to keep him from forcing it into my muzzle. Quickly my pads became slick with his arousal and my spit, and his bucking became demanding, unrelenting, until with a single bark he rammed himself as far into me as he could, his cum spattering the back of my throat and filling my muzzle.

As he came, the cook’s back when ramrod straight, his tail stiffly out behind him, and his cock twitched in my muzzle as a second flood of the wolf’s spunk spilled over my fur and down my arms and throat. Then, before he had even finished, he tugged on my ears, urging me to stand as he backed away from me. His eyes were wide, the corners wet, and they pleaded silently with me as he stepped backwards, until he bumped into the counter. Then he shook his head quickly, bowed, and scurried as quickly as his rusted shackles would carry him, back to the safety of his fire and his porridge.

I turned away from the fire and quickly shuffled out of the kitchen as I wiped my muzzle with the back of one paw. I didn’t have permission to stop to take a towel from the linen closet or time to stop even if I did. I had less than an hour to draw a bath, waken Miss Aida’s girls, and make myself presentable for the customers of the Blue Moon. Thanks to the cook’s interference, that last would have to wait.