Rahn's Journal - Meeting with Vegal.txt
This is my first post to the boards, a short story snippet from my longer works. I didn't want to write a full on yiff factory, nor did I want to put something up that was devoid of sexual content. Suffice to say, my yiff scenes will get longer and more detailed as appropriate. ==============================================+============================================ "My prince, you cannot deal with this slime."
I don't know how many times I've heard this same statement in the last hour. Even now, as frustrated as I'm growing with him, I realize Jorri means well; I pay the man to keep my image clean and my face off the front pages. He does a good job, despite my best efforts. I can feel my blood pressure rising, and it's not solely the fault of the middle aged grey fox with his folders and ledgers and misgivings. I don't want to deal with our contact, either.
The faint whisk-whisk of cotton slacks perks my ears. A red vixen in low slung khaki hip huggers strides mannishly across the room to us, her pointed, narrow face curiously absent of expression. I expect her to say something asinine, "His lordship will see you now," or perhaps, "The eminent lord Vegal has accepted your audience." Instead, she inclines her head respectfully to us, turns sharply, and walks back through the door she'd entered from. The rogue I am, I explicitly follow her round rump with my eyes, but her lack luster pace leaves much to be desired in the 'saucy' department.
"He'll want to see me alone, Jorri," I feel forced to admit. "While you've got the free time, run the numbers again. Bad enough dealing with the pig, but I just couldn't stomach it if we had to beg from him, as well."
"Prince Rahn, I'm begging you to reconsider! If we get in bed with Vegal Orens, I fear we'll never be free of him." Even agitated and clearly disgusted, my man servant's voice never lifts above a calm, soft tone. I make a note in the back of my mind to set him up with Vegal's assistant, if all should go well.
"I've heard as much as I'm going to hear, Jorri. I don't like it anymore than you do, but he has services we need. I'll be back as quickly as I can. Don't forget the numbers."
The room beyond the door turns out to be a sitting room. As if a lobby and a waiting room were not enough, it's clear that the man I'm going to see gets off on making his suitors wait. There's a mirror in this room. Tall and slender, it affords me a great chance to straighten myself out. I gaze into the reflection, watching a rueful grin spread beneath my wide, blunt muzzle. I catch a couple of smudges staining the frosty white fur at my collar, and one just under my unmarked eye. Feasibly I could leave them... The dirty smudges are almost of a color with the ink blots across my hide. Instead I lick a thumb, erase the marks, and smooth back the ruff atop my skull. Put together, I press down on the curving handle to the next room.
In a world where color isn't a dull and muted thing, a man must survive by his ears and a good sniffer. Both senses are assaulted at the same instant as I walk through the door. The fresh scents of must and ejaculate mix horribly with the old, stale scents of pig and rut. Directly ahead of me, no more than ten or fifteen yards, I can hear the unmistakable sound of suckling. Two steps in the door and I'm ready to leave, and my eyes haven't even adjusted yet. Snorting and grunting and suckling, sex and shit, and for the sake of a business deal I'm forced to seal it up inside and continue as if it were normal.
When I can finally see in the hazy, too dim gloom, I find my anxieties are more than accurate. Vegal Orens, master of trading in flesh in our little part of the world, is settled quite comfortably on a divan barely large enough to support his immense weight. Warthogs tend to pudgy, though most I've met carry plenty of muscle to balance it out. Vegal Orens, master of the flesh market in this part of the world, is and has been an obese, unpleasant man since the day the market mysteriously dropped into his waiting lap. Even his face is malformed, framed by tusks that grew to drastically different sizes. I find myself instantly wishing the pig had at least picked through his closet for this meeting; naked is not a good look for a beast of that physical opulence.
I locate the suckling sound quickly enough. From this angle, all I can see is soft grey fur, a rounded skull, and pointed ears. The feline's head bobs quickly up and down in miniscule strokes, tirelessly felating the warthog on his mesa. All around the divan young boys lounge and recline, often in nothing more than their fur. By now my feet are itching to get gone, business done or no. Instead, I begin to walk heavily across the room. Vegal deigns to notice me at the last second, inches from his steps. Up close, I can see just how young his concubines are.
"Prince Rahn Ickrek, lord of Ice Reach; What a pleasure that you've chosen this Vegal Orens for your business. Be welcome in my home, please to sit and enjoy yourself," the snuffling slaver intoned, his voice every bit as ugly as his face. As he spoke, he shifted around on his divan, forcing the boy suckling his flaccid member to bang his knees finding a new position. I keep watching the boy out of the corner of my eye; his never open. Vegal pats his thigh invitingly, as if offering me a seat beside him.
"If we could get to the matter at han-," I begin, but the slaver cuts me off immediately, gesturing me forward with his corpulent, dull red fingers. Other princes would immediately remind the pig of their enhanced position in the world, however, Ice Reach is a tiny place, left to itself precisely because of its weakness. Salt in my wound, Vegal Orens has far more power and money than I'll ever attain legally. He smacks his jaws together irritably, making his misshapen tusks clash, while shaking his head.
"The business will be dealt with, in the time," Vegal bellows in a false, cheery bass. "First we are to drink, Rahn, and be comfortable." As if the man was ever anything but. Muzzle lips drawn in a tight line, I press myself into the uncomfortable space between the warthog and the arm of the divan. By now the boy busily at work on his master's cock is driving me to distraction. I can feel my under shorts getting tighter despite my disgust. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the wine arriving; it comes complete with an underdressed collie pup, his underdeveloped sheath pierced with silver rings in three places. I've gone from being merely uncomfortable to wanting to climb out of my skin, but by now the combination of stimulants are causing a situation in my slacks. As if needing the fat bastard's services weren't bad enough.
"It is a good, wine, yes? I have only the best. It is the same with the flesh, yes. I sample all my wares personally, to assure the quality. It would never do, no never do, to send out less than the best." Vegal scratches the kitten head in his lap behind the ears, a gross mockery of affection. "See, how I sample this new one? I believe he shall be a great addition to my stables, yes I do. See how eager he is to earn his meal, yes?" The boy is definitely diligent, but I would expect nothing less from one of Vegal's. I've heard rumors the man gets his wares fresh from the boat, if the analogy follows.
"Yes, Mr. Orens, very dedicated," I force out, increasingly uncomfortable in my binding pants. You have a reputation for excellent stock, sir, which as you know I've an interest in. If we could just discu-"
"No, no, my prince, it is unmeet," the rolling hasher of bacon cuts me off again. Irritation and frustration war with arousal, the one I'm unable to express and the other expressing itself despite me. I have to cut off a groan as Vegal signals to one of his previously uninterested boys. The dead eyed mink obediently rises and settles himself between my thighs, tiny fingers working the bulge there. "You must sample the wares, yes, my prince. Then we can get to the price of such things."
"Uh.. I- Mr. Orens, these hires are not for me," I tell him, insistently pushing the muskalid away. "I trust the words of those that sent me to you." During my preoccupation, the warthog has shifted again. My hands turn to fists. Vegal sits in front of me, spread out again on his diva, his knees far apart and the pathetic man piece hanging between his legs hidden in the folds of his rotund belly. "I-uh... Ahem. Mr. Orens, I'll take your three best for the period of a weekend." Vegal's small, beady black eyes narrow at me from across his gross torso. With a snap of his fingers, the boys all disappear into the shadowy area behind the divan.
"You insult me, Rahn. You would come into my home and deny my hospitality, as if I were some common flesh monger."
"Mr.-"
"I am Vegal Orens, prince of Ice Reach," the man declares, huffing his chest. "I am the richest and most powerful man for leagues, I am, and I will have respect!"
"Vegal-," I begin again, lifting my hands in supplication, but the beast cuts me off yet again.
"No! You will accept my generosity, or you will leave!"
"I-... Very well, Mr. Orens. Bring your boys back in, and we can get on with it." Smiling smugly, the pig waves his grotesque hand forward and the boys return. The mink has gone missing, but taking his place is the young collie with the rings in alluring locations. My fingers clench into fists again, but I don't push him away. His long, delicate hands very casually begin stroking the inside of my thigh, running up the steadily throbbing bulge between them. My teeth grind together slowly, canine's sawing against each other, while I watch Orens out of the corner of my eye. His intense concentration unnerves me.
The boy's fingers find my fly and pop it open, unzipping me in one deft stroke. Shifting around had lined me up just perfectly, it seems; my pointy cock has poked its head up above the printed grey waist band. The collie watches with dead eyes as his talented fingers draw a bead of precum. The warthog to my left snorts and snuffles unexpectedly, forcing a lump up into my throat. Wonderful.
I suck air into my lungs like a bellows when the long, tiny muzzle descends, burying the head of my cock in its warm velvety pocket. All that air escapes in a long, low groan while the pup milks me with his cheeks and tongue. Vegal is still watching closely, but his presence is fast fading from my peripheral. My thumbs hook in my trouser band, sliding them down to my knees along with my soft cotton briefs. The collie makes no comment when the thickness between my legs flops against his chin. I lean back and close my eyes, one massive paw resting between the pup's peaked ears, while his tongue begins working on my furry ball sack. Explosions of pleasure rocket up my stiff shaft, leaving me immobilized. I think a groan slips between my teeth, but it's hard to be entirely certain over Vegal's grunting.
Receiving felatio is as timeless as giving it is onerous, I've always found. All cares and appointments forgotten, I lay back on the divan and give up. By the time I feel my knot pop free of its sheath, I've lost track of my goal. I can feel the warthog shifting around on the divan we're sharing, but it's a secondary concern, right up to the moment I feel his tusks brush my soft belly fur. Smoothly, the obscenely obese slaver had interposed himself between me and the mouth that had brought me to this state. Red rage tinged with lust and need bubble up, only to be forced down by instinct older than time. For a while, I find myself stuck like that, my cock in the mouth of a dirty, smelly pig.
His pause for breath is all I need. Fueled by more emotions than I care to record, I slip my palms down and under Vegal's chest, then force him off my leaking member. Reduced blood flow equals reduced strength, I ruefully remember, as the strained shove merely rolls the warthog on his round stomach. The crafty bastard tucks his knees in as tight as he can manage, propping his flabby ass up in the air. Vegal's pink star, the only attractive part of his body, winks at me tantalizingly.
Back in control, my muzzle lifts in a fierce snarl, but far from fearsome, the deep roar is mingled with need and desire. I know Vegal can smell my need to rut. He waggles his rotund rear at me invitingly, then glances back over his fatty shoulder to lock my gaze. It's enough to get me on my knees, positioned behind him. Determined to make him pay, I fiercely press by fat head against his hole then thrust inside. I hear the pig squeal and attempt to scrabble away, but he's mine now.
Fingers locked into the flesh folds of his hips, I drive mercilessly in, impaling the whining pork chop thoroughly. Thrust deep inside his warm bowels, my cock wouldn't know the difference between him and a porn star. It's warm and tight and curiously slick. I reposition myself on my knees, thrust deep again, and almost sigh audibly when that tight sphincter wraps around my swollen knot. Vegal thrusts himself back into me, obviously enjoying what I intended to be abuse. A few quick thrusts and I'm done, filling that piggy hole with warm dog spunk. The euphoria afterwards is tinged with regret and shame.
When my cock finally slips free, after too long a period trapped in that obscene fuck hole, I quietly step off the pedestal and grab my clothes. Another moment spent trapped in that room will undoubtedly cost me the boys I'd come for. Flaccid member still retreating into its sheath, I quick step across the floor, eagerly seeking an exit. At the door, I turn back to the gloating Vegal. "The boys will be delivered in two days, Vegal. My man Jorri has the address and contact information."
"Of course, prince Rahn. Three of my best. And prince Rahn... I hope my boys are as pleasing to you as I feel I myself must be." The man's gloating smile follows me out into the waiting room and beyond, Jorri trailing in my wake. As I reflect and make a mental note to send a man next time, my thoughts flicker back to all of Vegal's dead eyed servants. Somehow I can't help but feel that today I've made a decision that will haunt me the rest of my life.