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Breaking the Brat

Part 1

for Damiekinz

by Draconicon

To make it as a thief, one required skill in stealth, a charming tongue, and a keen understanding of when to speak and when to shut the fuck up. Branlin...had one of those things, though the pygmy goat would have bragged that he had all three in spades, and that he was the greatest thief of his hometown. Perhaps he might have been right; certainly, there were no other thieves from the isolated village that anyone had heard about, while everyone had heard of the regular chases through the castle-town of Mollen after Branlin managed to piss someone or other off. Whether it was the theft of something as small as a pie or the snatching of a coin-purse from the wrong person, it seemed that the guards were called every other day to chase him down and get the stolen property back.

So far, Branlin hadn't faced any jail time, and perhaps that was what convinced him that he was a good thief rather than a poor one. Without anything but dropped goods as consequences for his action, it was easy to believe that he had the skill of the greats, such as the Shadow Panther or the Winged Wrights. The goat genuinely believed that he was playing a game with the guards, that he was giving them a chance to earn their pay rather than being too bad a thief to avoid them.

That arrogance contributed to his decision to rob the castle of Lord Tyvo, and that narcissistic ignorance of his own incompetence was what put the goat right on the castle walls as soon as the sun was down, for if there was one thing that he did have kill with, it was climbing.

All goats did. It was probably what they did best.

"Heh...hehehe...easy," Branlin muttered, dragging himself over the stone parapet, huffing as his hooves clicked onto the top of the wall behind them. "Easy as can be, and not a soul to be seen. God, I'm good."

Of course, that was to be expected. The castle was quiet, save for the lights that streamed from the keep in the center of the courtyard. The lower floors were lit with a brilliant light, as was to be expected as the lord held a party for those that were subservient to him. There was probably a king's ransom in jewels and treasure on the lower floors, and a more experienced thief or pickpocket would have mingled with the guests, taking their pick of the gems and jewels and coins that would be no more missed than a dropped nail on a farm. A thief that didn't get too greedy would be set for a month or more from a party like that.

Branlin was not one of those thieves. His eyes were set on glory, and that meant stealing something that would be noticed, namely from the lord himself. The pygmy goat stepped towards the inner edge of the wall, his hooves dangling on the edge as he studied the outside of the keep and its high floors.

There were edges along the keep's sides, rough places where the stone had never set properly, where the mortar had been pushed out and hardened. There would be plenty of places for his hooves and hands to find purchase, and many windows where he could leap from one foothold to another. If there was one thing that he could always rely on, it was the fact that builders were lazy, and never entirely got their work smoothed out.

Goats, in his opinion, were the premier thieves of the world. There was nothing that -

"Hey, did you see something?"

Thwip. As two guards stepped out of one of the guard towers, the panthers looking left and right, over the wall and down to the courtyard, Branlin hung from his fingers over the edge of the wall. They clenched tight, holding a flat curve that he dared not loosen.

The felines stood just overhead, missing him by a miracle. They looked just past where he'd been standing, their boots almost pressing against his fingers, and then moved on. Rather than breathing a sigh of relief, Branlin only smirked.

"I am that good."

He chuckled, then dropped. A cart of goods would surely break his fall, he was sure.

The resulting cacophony of the pygmy goat falling into a barrel of flour sacks drew the attention of a few dozen guards, and the chase was on.

#

Branlin panted for breath as he watched the panthers and leopards continue to run circles around the keep, chasing after the floury hoofprints that he had left all over the courtyard. None had bothered to look up just yet, and he was more than willing to keep it that way.

"All part of the plan," the goat muttered. Another lie, of course, as he had merely improvised that, but it was a good line, and he liked the sound of it. "Now...up and away. Hup."

His hooves clicked quietly against the little footholds and tiny gaps that could be found on the way up the side of the keep. Despite the many faults Branlin had, one thing that even his pursuers and detractors would admit to was that he had a near-supernatural way of climbing walls. Any surface that was not completely sheer was fair game for the goat to attempt to climb, and the walls of the keep were no different. Up, up, up he went, leaping from barely-extruding stone to windowsill, and then to another gap that one could have sworn a fly could find no purchase on.

Always, always up.

In the shadows of the night, no-one looked up, but if they had, they would have seen the ghostly shape of a flour-covered goat flitting from space to space. Here and there, he'd pause, but only for a moment before he found his next foothold or scouted his next path. The first, second, and third floors were soon left behind, and Branlin reached the top of the keep without issue or difficulty. He grinned, laying his hand on the wooden cover for the upper windows. Pushing gently, he looked inside.

He'd arrived at the private quarters of Lord Tyvo, and they were as richly appointed as rumor said. A great four-poster bed dominated the back-center of the room, with two braziers on either side burning soft coals that were sprinkled with bits of incense. The air was sweet, the roof and windows smoky with the heady scent of the flowery stuff, and the walls were lined with tapestries that reflected the 'glory' of the family through threads of gold twine and pressed gold leaf.

Branlin could not stop grinning as he hopped down from the window to the carpeted floor, walking to the middle of the room and slowly turning in place. It was like stepping into a treasure vault, for he was surrounded by ancestral heirlooms, from the tapestries to the useless but bejeweled weapons along the walls, from the portraits that were framed in polished wood and embedded gems to the maps of yore that declared the property rights of the family. He could take any of them, literally any of them, and he could ransom it for enough money to live on for the rest of his life.

Or, better yet, keep it and be known as the Thief of Tyvo, the greatest of his brethren in this generation. And only in his twenties, what more. It would be the story of the year.

Branlin smiled, the little pygmy goat rubbing his hands together, his tail wagging up a storm and dragging his rump along for the ride as he turned again and again, trying to pick just one of the many treasures that surrounded him. Oh, but the choices. They were all so perfect, all so valuable. Which should he choose? Which should he take?

"Perhaps you could make a choice sooner than later?"

His smirk dropped off his face as his hooves left the ground, the pygmy goat leaping from the floor to near the ceiling in one move. It was just barely enough, too; he felt pressure at the back of his neck just before he got away, and he knew that he had barely avoided being snatched by the speaker. Hanging from one of the support beams at the ceiling, he looked down.

Waiting beneath him, arms crossed beneath a fur cape dyed white and purple, was the lion lord of the keep. Lord Tyvo, the very man that should have been at the party down below in his honor. How and why he was here in his private quarters instead, Branlin did not know, but the thief's confidence did not desert him. He swung himself up onto the support beam, letting one leg and hoof dangle down as he smiled.

"Well, well, you must have heard that I was coming for your goods. Quiver in fear, for I have already taken that which you value most."

"..."

"...Aren't you going to see if it's still there?"

"All of my goods are here. I have been behind you since you walked into this room, little...thing."

Branlin's cheeks burned. That was impossible. He would have noticed if...

Then again, he supposed it was just barely possible that the lion had been standing behind him since he leaped from the window, and the window had been unlocked. Had that been planned? Was this a trap for the great Branlin?

Surely not, for he was that great. The lion was bluffing, merely a good opponent rather than someone that outclassed him by such a measure. Perhaps his trick to find out which was the most valuable item in the room had fallen flat, but that meant nothing in the long run. He was still free, and a thief that was free could always try again.

"Do not feel that you have bested me. I will return again! And the next time, I'll be ready."

"Will you stop the grandstanding and get down here? You're caught. You're not getting away."

"You think that you can stop the great Branlin?"

"Anyone 'great' wouldn't be here in the first place."

"..."

"Get down here. I won't tell you again."

"Ha. Make me."

In retrospect, perhaps he shouldn't have said that. He was, after all, a very small pygmy goat, shorter than the lion by a head if not more, and though he was dark of fur, there was still more than enough flour on his body to make him an easy target in the shadowed ceiling of the lion's private chambers. Moreover, everyone knew that Tyvo was a marvelous shot, the lion taking home the archery prizes every year for the last decade.

So, perhaps it was less of a surprise than it should have been when Lord Tyvo threw a goblet at him and managed to hit him right between the eyes. Branlin's last thoughts before toppling from his perch were of complete confusion, for this was not how his story was meant to end.

#

He woke with a splash, immediately shivering, gasping, and spluttering. All about him were servants that grabbed for his flailing arms, and one reached for his head. They found his horns and plunged him beneath the surface of the water, leaving him blubbering until he was pulled back to the surface, where he was reduced to merely gasping for breath.

Two dunks later, he was pacified, and he no longer fought nor flailed. Instead, he laid half-submerged in a large bucket, perhaps one used by the laundry maids during the less busy parts of the week. Two servants - both of the tabby-cat variety - used rough cloths to scrub at his limbs, while a third servant, a brindled feline with a puffy sort of tail and a stuffy air, looked down his nose at the goat.

"You are hardly the master's sort, but I suppose you can be made so."

"What is the meaning of this? Unhand me," Branlin said, though with markedly less gusto than he would have had outside a bathtub. And clothed. And not threatened with being dunked into the water again.

"You are a thief, and you are lucky not to be clapped in irons and left in the master's dungeons," the brindle-furred feline said. "The master is being kind."

"Hmmph. Kind would be releasing me. But I suppose I will have to affect my own release. As usual."

"You will do nothing of the sort, criminal."

"Hah. The great Branlin -"

"Is hardly a great anything. Save for a great mess."

"I - you - take that back! I will -"

Blub, apparently. He was shoved beneath the bathwater once more, his mouth wide open for a second and filled with the taste of soap and worse. By the time that he was allowed to surface, he gagged, coughing up water and bubbles alike. His little beard on his chin sagged down in sad, pathetic fashion as the besuited feline leaned down, nose a scant inch from the goat's face.

"Listen well, little thief. You were caught trying to steal from the master. He is well within his bounds to have your hands chopped off for the act. He could have ordered you locked in the dungeons for years, should it have suited him. Instead, he told us to prepare you for him, for his...tastes."

"..."

"You will serve him, but clearly, you do not have the skills to serve him as we would, nor the temperament. We cannot teach you such things in so short a time, but we can at least make you presentable, rather than leaving you running around with your street filth in the master's castle."

Branlin seethed inside, but he said nothing. Drowning was hardly going to get him out of the castle, and the ham-fisted laundry peasants were certainly more than willing to dunk him to the point of such an ignominious death. The story of Branlin the Great, Branlin the Fleet-Footed, Branlin the Thief, was not to end here in a bathtub. Ideally, it wouldn't end here at all, but he would have to be canny and quick to avoid such a fate at this point.

If he was to be of service, then perhaps this Lord Tyvo had more needs than were readily apparent. Yes, yes, Branlin thought, there might be a need for a court thief. Already, he began to spin himself the tale of what it would mean for him. Branlin the Thief, acquired by the Lord Tyvo, using the cloak of the lion as a shield against the law as he built his own horde, with a percentage given to the lord, of course, but with him doing the work. He would build himself up again, then leave in the dead of night, taking with him everything that he had stolen, and leaving the lord with nothing.

Let that be a lesson to Lord Tyvo. One did not merely imprison someone of Branlin's caliber. They did not -

"I see your mind, little thief; you will not escape the lord." The feline servant grabbed him by the chin, and he was made to look the stern male in the eye. "You are not as sneaky as you believe yourself to be."

"I think nothing of the sort! Unhand me."

"You think that you can escape. That you can yet steal from the master. You are no longer a thief, at least, not in practice. Should you serve the master well, perhaps you will no longer be a thief on paper, either."

"...Then what service does he demand of me?"

"You will see."

That was not an answer that he wished to hear, nor did he like the sound of it. Someone that wanted to be mysterious could only have some mischief planned. Certainly, that was the only reason that he would have done such a thing.

The bathing continued in silence on his part. In truth, it was a sulk, but he would remember it as a brave defiance against those that believed they could order him around, but the laundry maids would spread the tale of the pouting little pygmy, sitting like a child in the water as they scrubbed behind his ears and made him more acceptable for polite society.

Certainly, it wasn't as acceptable as he should have been, but no-one, not even the servants, could work miracles in less than an hour.

The guards, a pair of panthers, arrived later. They brought with them a pile of towels, several leather wraps...and a collar.

Branlin took one look at the collar and leaped from the tub, managing to get from the water to the chandelier hanging from the ceiling. Hopes of escape were immediately dashed, however, as one of the guards dropped the towels and leaped for him, grabbing his ankles before he could pull himself out of reach. They tumbled together to the ground, with the panther spinning them around and tackling him to the wooden floor.

"Let me go! I will not - EEP!"

It was the first time that a guard had gotten so close to him in his criminal years, and it was the first time that a blade had actually been leveled at him in a way that left him convinced that it might be used. The exposed steel, cool and hard against the side of his neck with the blade already pushed near his flesh, was a whole new experience.

For the first time, Branlin had an idea of what thievery might cost him. For the first time, he realized that he was not invincible.

The pygmy goat's eyes were wide, his mouth hanging open, his tongue still. He could not move. He could not speak. Fear had him in its frosty grip, and he trembled from head to toe as the panther held him pinned.

Of course, to those that watched him, it was not a surprise. They knew what an experienced thief looked like - no castle was free of them, and many had come and gone over the years - and this goat was not what he believed he was. He carried himself with unearned pride, with a belief in himself that had yet to be validated. He had faced no challenges, been given no obstacles to overcome.

As such, it was almost like looking at a child when the blade was bared, as peril reared its head. They shook their heads, getting back to work as the guards did their duty. Branlin was on his hooves again a moment later, shivering from head to hoof as he tried to collect himself, and he barely paid any attention to the drying and grooming going on. He stared straight ahead, trying to pull himself together.

It was a knife, he tried to reassure himself. Merely a knife, a threat. They could not harm him. He was faster than them, better than them...

Except that the panther had lunged for him faster than any guard in town had.

Except that the laundry maids had dunked him without him being able to fight back.

Except that they had no compunction against using force on him when he defied them.

For all his fantasies, for all his dreams, this was reality, and reality was cold, hard, and unforgiving. He trembled as he was dried properly, 'dressed' only so far as having his shaft pulled up and tucked beneath a single line of leather, which went back between his cheeks and around his tuft of a tail behind him. It barely covered the gap between his plump cheeks, running up along the small of his back to his neck. The leather around the front did the same, pressing between his pecs and resting against the hollow of his throat.

The panthers nodded to each other, one holding the leather straps in place while the other pulled out the collar. Branlin remembered what he was to be used for - to be in service - and he realized just what kind of service that actually was.

"No..."

His little whisper was hardly enough to stop the panthers. They stepped in, pressing the collar to his throat and pulling it tight. The leather band cut into his neck, slowing his breathing, making it hard to get the full lungfuls of air that he was used to. He gasped more as the leather was pulled tighter, grinding his shaft into his groin, pushing his sac into the space between his legs, almost like the performers at fairs that imitated the women around them. His cheeks felt spread around the leather, made to be shown off rather than being comfortably tucked up inside his trousers.

"Come. Lord Tyvo awaits," one of the panthers said. "Unless you think you're going to piss yourself?"

"...I...I would not...You...I..."

Proud words of banter refused to come. It was as if they had stolen his tongue as well as his dignity. The panthers, garbed in leather that outshone his in quality and towering over him by a head, smirked to one another.

"He speaks in gibberish."

"Fear of God will do that to a man."

"He must have realized the truth."

"A pathetic little thing."

"Little being the word."

Now, to be fair to Branlin, no goat approved of the word 'little' when applied to them, and pygmy goats least of all. There was a buried anger there, something that had been all but bred into the breed since time immemorial. To be reminded of their size in such a denigrating way was to activate a mechanism similar to the release lever of a trebuchet. Once pulled, there was no taking it back.

As such, nobody should have been surprised when Branlin kicked the offending panther in the balls, but at the time, everyone was, and none more so than Branlin himself. The retribution, of course, was swift.

#

"...Did you have to 'decorate' my newest possession before I had the chance to enjoy him?" Lord Tyvo asked.

The guards winced, the panthers hunching their shoulders from where they stood behind the bruised goat. It was a mild punishment, as such things went, particularly for assaulting a guard, but there was no hiding the red mark of a backhanded slap across the goat's cheek. It was not nearly the punishment that such an act would usually provoke, but it was obvious, something that the lion clearly disapproved of.

Lord Tyvo sighed, and Branlin felt a mix of vindictive pleasure and deep annoyance. The petty joy of having the guards in trouble for what they had done to him was balanced against the fact that he could not get back at them himself, and that it was only out of some noble's annoyance that his 'property' had been damaged. That was no relief. That was just one more sign of what he had fallen to.

"Leave. I will deal with the two of you later," the lion said.

As the panthers hustled out of the private quarters, the feline turned to him. Branlin didn't look away, but he could not fight the red rising in his cheeks as the lord's eyes flicked up and down his body. He knew that he presented a silhouette that was hardly intimidating, particularly as he was on his knees. He knew for a fact that his diminutive height, combined with the thickness of his hips and thighs, lent him a look that was far more feminine in his lower half than it should have been. The compressing nature of the leather strap around his groin didn't help with that, making him look quite flat without any of the endowments of manhood.

But that did not mean that he needed to be looked at like this. He stretched one leg forward, getting a hoof under him, only for the 'schwing' of a sword being drawn to catch his ears. He looked up to see the point of a rapier hovering right before his nose.

"One more move, little thief, and I will educate you in a far bloodier fashion than my guards."

"..."

"Kneel."

If the panthers had made the threat of harm clear to him, then the lord made the threat of death clearer still. His breath came shallow as he slowly sagged to his knees once more, putting his hoof behind him again. The rapier was sheathed with as much ease as it had been drawn, and the lion stood up. Lord Tyvo would have stood even taller over him than the panthers had, he realized, and the lion had a stronger physique. At least, it showed more through the silks he wore, with a powerful chest and arms that were broad enough to threaten him just with a minor flex.

The lord grabbed him by the collar, pulling him forward. He nearly fell against the lion's crotch, managing to stop himself from colliding with it by the barest of margins.

"Now...do you understand what you are to be?"

"...I have my guesses."

"And? What are they?"

"...You want a toy."

"Hmmm, you are close."

It was clear that Lord Tyvo was indulging himself. The lion smiled, showing every fang near the front of his mouth that he could, and he did not hold back from displaying and flaunting his own excitement. Indeed, those tight silk trousers did nothing to hide his urges from the goat's view, and being so close to it, it was hard to look away.

But he was not pulled forward. Not yet. Instead, he was dragged to his feet. Permission, it seemed, came from the lion when he chose to give it. He wasn't quite choked by the collar being pulled and dragged along, but he did wince as the leather attached to it dug into the space between his legs that much more, pushing right into his crotch and between the cheeks.

He had barely managed to get his footing before Lord Tyvo thrust him forward. He stumbled, grabbing the lion's chair as he fell against it -

CRACK!

Branlin's eyes went wide as he felt the hand on his cheek, and more, the burning sensation immediately under it. Such heat and such embarrassment had not been given to him since he was a little child, back in his village, when he had misbehaved. Was this -

CRACK!

Another slap, and he gasped out loud from the force of it, his rump jiggling ever so slightly from the impact. He looked over his shoulder -

CRACK!

"AH!"

The gasping exhalation escaped him before he could stop it, and he gritted his teeth as the lion loomed over him, Lord Tyvo leaning down to whisper in his ear.

"You will be disciplined. They should not have marked you, but you were wrong. You have yet to learn your place. Society has not taught it to you, so it seems that I will have to do so instead."

"Nnngh...This is...this is no -"

CRACK!

Another spank, another jiggle, another wave of heat through his rump cheeks. Spanking. Spanking, of all things. How was this a lesson? How was this meant to teach Branlin the Thief -

CRACK!

CRACK!

CRACK!

The spanks kept coming, sometimes to one cheek, sometimes to the other. Each impact was hard enough to rock him forward against the chair, leaving him breathless and gasping to catch another. It was not harsh, not so painful as a whip might have been, but there was a keen edge of humiliation, as if he was not good enough to deserve a whip or true, official punishment. That he was not good enough to be treated like an actual criminal, and would instead be relegated to this...this toy-like status.

Through it all, he wanted to protest, but Lord Tyvo seemed to know every moment that he had the air for words, and would come down particularly hard. He would gasp it out, yelping, even whimpering over time, and he would lose his chance to protest, to say that he deserved something more, or something better.

Inevitably, he ended up sagging against the chair, slumping over the seat, his rump reddened and burning by the end of his punishment. He trembled again, his cheeks burning when the lion's hand finally ceased its rain of burning blows.

"Do you understand, now?" Lord Tyvo asked.

"Nnngh...understand what?"

"Part of the penalty for your disobedience, of course."

"Nnngh..."

"Hmm...clearly not."

And indeed, he did not. Branlin knew that he was being punished, but even the pygmy goat knew that this was out of line compared to what he had actually accomplished. He would not give up his pride so easily, not to the panthers, and not to this lion.

But then...

Then he was pulled from the chair, made to kneel once more. He wobbled, hissing as his burning rump rested against his hooves, and not made more secure as the lion sat down in the chair once more.

"I want you to understand something, Branlin. Eventually, you will find peace with your new status. It may happen sooner, it may happen later, but eventually, you will find some measure of peace with what you are."

"Nnngh..."

"Or...you will find your way to the block. Auction, or execution. One way or another, it will be the end of your thieving days."

"..."

"Now...Let us see just what else you can do."

"This...this isn't how it was supposed to go..."

The lion's fingers paused at the tied knot of his trousers, and Branlin looked down at the floor, embarrassed at his own words. This wasn't how it was supposed to go, indeed, but that didn't mean that it was the right time or place to say something like that. He gritted his teeth, trying to look away, but those clawed fingers found his chin and lifted his head up. He half-expected to be made to look into the lion's eyes, bracing himself for that.

But such a story-book moment of tenderness was not Branlin's fate. He was not to be graced with a gentle lord that would look at him as if he were some soul to be saved, some young man to be pitied and brought back to a loving, servile relationship. He was in the grips of nobility, after all, and there was not a noble born that lived up to the once-good implications of their title.

No, he was graced not with gentle eyes, but the slow unveiling of a shaft and sac, the latter of which ended up being a cushion for his nose and lips. He was made to smell it, to breathe its perfumes and odors, to take in the scent of another male. The pressure on the back of his head pushed him further and further down, ensuring that there was no escape from the balls pressed against his lips.

"You will learn. One way or another, you will learn that the only way that things will go is how I will them to go. Now...show me that you know how to use your mouth."

"Mmmph..."

"No thief as pathetic as you can have survived without putting their body to use at least once. Show me what you know how to do."

It was, perhaps, the first thing that the lion had gotten wrong. Branlin might not have been a good thief. He was barely a poor thief, but he had lived on things beyond his body. He had never sold it, never given it to another for the sake of a night inside, nor for a meal, or something so cheap. The fantasy of a good thief would seldom survive such things, and the goat's fantasies had lived for a very, very long time.

So, perhaps there was some smugness as he finally opened his mouth, knowing that the lion was not omniscient, but such satisfaction was short-lived. The soft taste of fur and flesh and sex was quick to drive it from his mind, and he went back to what he imagined was a longsuffering face, but in reality was indistinguishable from the pouting that he had done in the bath.

It mattered not to the lion. He merely enjoyed the touch of a tongue to his sac, and Branlin, a thief mighty in his own mind, contemplated fantasies of escape that would never happen, all while sucking away at a sac that was bigger than his mouth could properly take. The goat twisted his head side to side, trying to accommodate the balls in his mouth, but they were just a trifle too big.

Or he was too small. That was, perhaps, the problem. It did not bode well for whatever else the lion would have in store for him if he did not escape.

The End

Summary: Branlin, a pygmy goat with an inflated sense of his own skills, attempts to steal from a great lord of the land. What do you really think would happen, Branlin?

Tags: M/M, Medieval, Fantasy, Goat, Pygmy Goat, Feline, Panther, Lion, Guards, Bathing, Leather, Oral, Spanking, Ball Worship, Nobility, Series,