The city’s rulers prepared a whole delegation to receive the centaurs’ messenger at the main gate, donning fine robes and expensive cosmetics that their besieged citizens would have sooner eaten than worn, their bodies wasting away as the majority of the food was directed toward the soldiers manning the walls. Well-provisioned as they had been, the aristocrats were beginning to see the bottoms of their granaries, and it was only a matter of time before the people revolted and threw open the gates if only to die more quickly, crushed beneath the equine horde.
It was a waste. The centaurs only sent one of their number to deliver the message, a soldier; like all of his comrades, he wore no armor, but carried a spear in one hand and a teardrop shield in the other. A leather belt around his waist carried a great curling horn. His long hair was cinched into a low ponytail, allowing his dark locks to cascade down his back. He surveyed the aristocrats with an amber eye before he delivered his superiors’ simple terms.
“You will open the gates. We will enter your city, and all who live within will become our property. Their survival will be ours to decide. Those who fail to impress will be trampled or speared; we will run your weakest down in the streets, and take our time to pass judgment upon the rest. Those who live, will serve.”
As he spoke, the centaur’s cock slipped from its sheath. He smiled when he saw the way the delegation looked at it- fearful, beginning to understand exactly what submission looked like.
“You will serve us. Your children will grow to serve us. There will be no further generations; every womb in this city will be battered into ruin, every cock shrunken, caged or removed to prevent you from offending our gods with the further proliferation of your miserable kind. We will use you until you break, and then nothing will remain.”
There was silence.
Then the ruffling of fabric as, one by one, the delegation knelt before the open gate of their city.
The centaur smiled, dropped his shield, and pulled the horn from his belt. He signaled his brethren to advance, then dropped the horn as well. He scanned the delegation, making a selection. He chose a young man with curly blond hair; briefly, they made eye contact, only for the soon-to-be-victim to quickly look away.
The messenger approached; as he softly ambled forward, another member of the delegation caught his gaze, though he would not meet the same fate. Seeing the middle aged aristocrat tremble, the centaur knew he would not be worthy of serving him, nor any other of his kind. Even as the blond man averted his gaze, the centaur did not look away from him, even as he stuck his spear through the other man’s throat, driving the point through the other side of his neck and into the dirt.
He left the man pinned like that, like an insect, as he continued to advance toward his prize. His cock was fully hard now; try as he might the young man could not ignore that fact. He knew what was coming.
The centaur gave no orders; he simply continued walking forward until he was directly over his chosen trophy, forcing him to bend his neck so that his head did not scrape the messenger’s underside. The young man hesitated, but fear of death took over from shame when the centaur struck the earth with one of his heavy hooves, sending a clear message.
As the young man began to suckle at the centaur’s flared cockhead, the rest of the delegation quietly stared, either at the grotesque display before them which presaged the fate of the whole city, or at their own well-manicured hands-
The very hands that had just turned over the city to the approaching horde, their hoofbeats already thundering in the distance.
