Captured (Open)

He had been free, once. An age had passed since then – memories overlapped with dreams, but both things shared a nature; distance. All was bygone, and the horse was now familiarised with his new imprisonment. Faces of tormentors and pursuers riddled his mind in the long, sleepless nights, and this was of no difference. Restrained by means of a vine-rope, it looped around his neck and was secured at the stump of a fallen oak. They fed and watered him enough to live and survive well enough, but they allowed him not the freedom to thrive. There was no becoming one with the wilds, gliding as a hawk or a rogue tempest serenading the canopies awash with moonlight. The leaves chattered and whispered together, gossiping about his fate, mocking. He looked spectral, but was of the flesh. Not yet dead, but he could not be called alive, either.

For years he had defied them, and now… now it was time to face punishment. Images of those who had offered him a temporary, yet welcome refuge, revisited him, their names he could barely recall. He was ready. Yin was prepared to accept whatever would come. Whether it would be a return to his life as a captive, or execution for the years of disobedience. There would be no more running, no more escape.

What the Zabana did not realise was their cleansing of the encrusted dirt, mud, soil and debris from his silvered coat had not been an act of simple courtesy. It was a preparation and clue towards their plans for the reckless horse. Raised from birth as servile creature, they were now to cement and reinforce this aspect in the male's psyche via carnal means. His entire existence was the produce of a legacy wrapped in chains, and he had always belonged to them. They were going to remind him of this.

After several conflicting encounters with other equine in his time as outcast, there had been an unshakable desire planted in the stallion's mind. At the touch of another, imagined or real, its effects were literal, visibly so. A gleam of moisture remained on his skin from his recent bathing, strings of his dripping tail and mane mimicking the darkened skies with constellations of pseudo-stars, droplets of water like diamond jewels. They had said it was time for him to be bonded, and he knew what it meant. The virginity he had managed to preserve, though not for lack of curiosity, was to be gifted to his new master, the equivalent of signing his name on a dotted line. It would signify ownership and lifelong servitude, unless he was traded away. His master would decide the terms, and he would follow everything, unquestionably.

They had left him in solitude for a time now, the perfume of arousal heavy and vibrant in the cool, midnight air. His thick, dark length slapped at his underbelly as he shifted restlessly, milky liquid flowing from its tip and collecting on the emerald grasses beneath. The damp weight of his tail stirred at his hind, glittering wetness trickling from his smooth, velvet dock, tracing his plush orifice and reaching to shine his testicles. The idea of servitude made his body ache, desire and crave in a way he could not relieve.

Wordlessly, the moon watched him, and all was silent, yet he knew he was not alone in the forest…

Sometimes Yin wondered why he had decided to attempt leave of the herd. Perhaps he had wanted a taste of the forbidden, for a horse bred into bondage would never be relieved of it their entire lifespan. It was a permanent sentence, and only in the tales of fantasy were rogue slaves described, and they were painted as treacherous villains or deluded out of their minds. Fantasies which had fed his dreams as a young soul, growing in him over the years – he had wanted to break a trend etched into the history of their kind. To label all rogues as fiend was discouraging propaganda, he supposed, but the often harsh reality presented to those of the slave class was no bedtime story. It was fact. He had witnessed some of his kin bond with kindly masters, but others had been destined for purgatory and a devil's rule, often prompted by hate of their own role. Since he was but a yearling, the stallion had not wished for anything other than peace, a sense of belonging and acceptance. Viewing the ill treatment of his brothers and sisters had encouraged the actions very contrary to his own nature, a product of long-held foolish reverie; the temporary departure from their number into the unknown that was now over. The fancy itself had cost him an almost premature demise, assault and humiliation, and he could now find gratitude for the capture. Here it was familiar, and he knew mostly what to expect. It was a place of surrender.

“You can't fight what you are,” they would caution, and he wouldn't argue. He had to prove his worth to whoever would take him as their own. As a male, he could not bear foal, and his slight, mare-ish frame was not deemed as suited to the creation of lineages by common tastes. He had been insulted on his lack of fire which was famously attributed to stallion instinct, and it was suggested he might as well be a representative of the opposite gender, or that he was too alike a spiritless gelding. With a dismissive sigh, Yin pushed those opinions away. Just because his self was one of servitude and passivity, did not ask for any regard of his value. Studs were prized on their dominance, size, weight and power. He had none of the traits that befit such a title, and he guessed it was by such a stereotype some made their unfair judgements, but he was nothing of an oddity. Many of the Zabana bloodline were bred to represent the grace, agility and temperature of Arabian potential; Yin had physically taken after his gentle mother, inheriting only the pale hue of his sire's. The family connection was obvious by eye, and the Zabana slaves were regarded well for their dedication. He would be fortunate to receive the interest of a stallion with a varied harem, or who had more of a taste for the masculine. Whatever occurred, he could still revive his reputation if the master gave him a chance.

An ear flicked back at the sounds of the herd's activity, his pulse jumping at the realisation the solitude was about to be terminated. It was time. Something was brewing nearby and the atmosphere was charged with an electric tension, prickling along the horse's spine. A vaguely familiar, special scent he had been deprived of in his time away from the others wafted to his nares, helped by the idle breeze. In an instant, memories once forgotten or suppressed swarmed across his mind. At first there was a face, and then a name, its tune meeting his lips. “Animus?” He spoke quietly into the crisp night air, exhaling heavily, but not daring to look around. His gaze was fixed to the tree he was restricted to by the vine-rope, and his flexibility was limited. He didn't want to pose any challenge or give the impression of struggle – no, he had to prove he was receptive to anything that would happen and that he was respecting his position – that meant being careful. If it really was who he thought it was… it could either be a nightmare or a fantasy come to life. A fantasy he wouldn't have to risk death to achieve, if this was to be the forming of their bond. The idea throbbed through his already aroused flesh, and he groaned in a combination of anticipation and frustration. His body heated at the thoughts of the Clydesdale, the strength and majesty of the stallion extraordinarily appealing.

Whether an execution was the herd's decision or not, Yin's condition was not to be quieted, and the nearby presence of the others had only served to heighten so many unfulfilled desires. He tried to restrain and compose himself by a lash of his tail, but the fine hairs still clung to his burning skin, his sex rigid and weeping in the shadow of his undercarriage. It couldn't be hidden.

There was one mercy of being a slave; there was no shame in it. He had not devised the placement of himself, and though others may urge him to feel the supposed wrongness of his unpermitted departure, all of the dishonour could be erased through dutiful and honest service. It was in his blood, and it would be seen through. This was his glory. The alternative options were a gory end; either by the will of their leader, or at the fangs of some beast that would not falter to slay one such as himself, or any of his kind. They had a strength and protection in their impressive herd, but there could still be incidents of attack.

It was both welcomed and suspicious for their leader to assume Animus as Yin's... the word could not meet his thoughts. His hooves carved into the soil as his weight pressured upon the earth, indentations growing wide beneath his form. Their juvenile friendship must have been remembered by Ripple; it was a cunning pairing, a deliberate choice. They were not short of others who could have taken the role as their own, unless none had wished the potential task of retraining a fugitive. Runaways were few in total, and many were dealt with in sadistic punishment - if they had survived. Was the familiar to become his judge?

If his father could see him now, he may have laughed. His mother would be pleased for her son to be in the care of a high ranking, well trusted and respectable stallion. It was a merit. Inhaling deeply, Yin's curiosity risked expression as he felt the male's advancement, his figure stepping in reverse only just, so that he could twist his head to glance properly in the Clydesdale's direction. The vine-rope was fairer than he estimated, and he was able to view Animus in enough freedom to be satisfactory. An approving smile grew at his lips as the stallion's condition was noted, another thing they had in common. As he studied the other's dripping organ, Yin was made aware of exactly the size difference between them. It was great enough to be a mild concern, and the whisk of the male's tail brought shivers at the unexpected contact.

One thing he had experience in was appreciating cock, but... he had never expected for that to progress between them. With the distance broken, Yin continued to watch Animus, struck by how handsome he had become over time. Or had he always been that way, and only now was it obvious? Influenced by arousal, the Arabian swayed his hips in Animus' direction, “how may I serve?” It was his attempt to dissipate any nervous tension and display his willingness to make amends. “Animus... I must be blessed to have you sent to me. If it is my life you want, I gratefully give it. If it is my body, there is nothing I won't give. Everything is yours.” Surprised at his own words, even so, Yin regretted nothing.