[18+] The Kingdom of Taros sends tribute to appease a beast on the border, but when the caravan is robbed, an unorthodox offering must be given.

Today’s story is the first of two parts of “A Minotaur’s Tribute” by Stinkdog, who has been writing gay, anthropomorphic smut for nearly fourteen years, and you can find more of his stories on So Furry.

Read for you by Khaki, your faithful fireside companion.

This week's two-parter is an adult story for mature listeners.

If that's not your cup of tea,

or there are youngsters listening,

you can skip these

and there'll be new stories for you next week.

You’re listening to The Voice of Dog. I’m Khaki, your faithful fireside companion,

and Today’s story is the first of two parts of

“A Minotaur’s Tribute”

by Stinkdog, who has been writing gay,

anthropomorphic smut for nearly fourteen years,

and you can find more of his stories on So Furry. [if this is the second or third entry] Last time, [characters and events took place, and we ended on a cliffhanger where things and stuff…]

“A Minotaur’s Tribute”

by Stinkdog, Part 1

of 2 A bright sky dotted with clouds hung above Kaldar Pass,

a dirt road used by merchants and religious folk

to travel between cities in the kingdom of Taros.

On this day, two brown horses pulled two canvas-covered wooden carts,

slow and steady as tortoises,

down the well-used path.

Four guards flanked the caravan,

two to a side, each on a horse of their own.

Sigmund, one such guard,

sat idly on his horse as the drivers kept their leisurely pace.

It was seen as a great honor to guard the caravan

and Sigmund had been

“lucky” enough to have been chosen the past three years in a row for the duty-

this would be his fourth.

The supposed “honor”

didn’t make the job any less tedious and dull.

The round trip could have been completed in just half a day,

but scripture dictated

that the pilgrimage be a much

longer affair. Sigmund’s mail armor rattled

as he lifted his leather water pouch to his lips.

He had been a member of the guard

for almost ten years,

and being nearly forty made him one of the oldest footsoldiers in the company.

Under normal circumstances,

he would have been offered an officer’s position long ago;

however, being born without a father made him

“unfit for a position of leadership” according to a royal decree.

By all rights, Sigmund was lucky to be a soldier at all.

Be that as it may,

his comrades had never looked down on him for it, and truth be told,

Sigmund wasn’t the least bit interested in a promotion.

It would have been nice

to not be assigned to this pilgrimage every blasted year, though.

He looked to his right,

at the elderly man driving the cart.

Next to him sat a young woman,

and they were both clad in white religious robes for the event.

Sigmund didn’t know them,

as the guards did not often fraternize with members of the church.

The carts they were driving

carried food, mostly fruit,

and vegetables, but there were also the skinned and dressed carcasses of small game animals such as rabbits and chickens.

The young woman beside the driver

turned and smiled at him.

Sigmund gave her a polite nod in return

before turning his attention forward.

The hours dragged on as the caravan moved ponderously down the road.

Sigmund stifled a yawn.

He knew that there was still a fair bit of distance to travel,

and it was proving difficult to remain alert.

He thought about

how happy the kingdom would be upon their return and how

delicious the feast would taste.

His fellow soldiers

would salute him for a job well done,

and they would all drink until the dead of night.

Perhaps he would be able to convince his fellow guard Nathaniel to spend some time alone with him.

The younger guard had been on Sigmund’s mind for quite some time,

and he often found it difficult to concentrate when Nathaniel was nearby.

His thoughts would turn to lewd fantasies

of the younger guard’s toned,

hairy body pressed against his own

as their tongues rolled around each other.

He adjusted himself on his horse as the crotch of his pants became uncomfortably tight,

making him grit his teeth.

It had been too long since he had been able to relieve the tension in his loins

and this pilgrimage duty was just another thing preventing him from doing so.

Still, he couldn’t help but think of Nathaniel’s round ass cheeks grinding against his throbbing bulge-

A loud whooping noise erupted from the woods to the left,

a short distance from the road,

and Sigmund looked up to see the guard ahead of him

turn her horse to face the sound as she drew her blade.

He looked towards the woods

in time to see a group of brigands burst from the foliage,

bearing down on the caravan with frightening speed.

An arrow flew past Sigmund’s face

and buried itself in the caravan driver’s head.

Sigmund gripped the hilt of his sword,

but only had time to yank it halfway out of his scabbard

before a stone struck the side of his helmet

and sent his senses reeling.

His steed bolted, forcing his boots to slip from the stirrups,

and the world turned sideways

as he fell from the horse.

Sigmund’s eyes barely had time to register the wooden corner of the cart

swiftly approaching his head

before he collided with it

and was thrust into a sea of blackness. ***

Sigmund was slapped awake.

He grunted and reluctantly opened his eyes,

expecting the worst,

which was very nearly the case.

He had been stripped of his armor,

and most of his clothes for that matter,

and was leaning up against one of the wheels of the cart he had been guarding.

His wrists were tied behind his back,

and the coarse rope

dug into his flesh when he tried to move.

The bandit who had slapped him

was wearing Sigmund’s mail

and pointing the guard’s own sword at his neck.

The man’s face had rough features,

scarred and unshaven.

One of his eyes was grey and glassy, probably from a prior injury,

while the other was brilliant blue,

and his expression was a mixture of pride

and frustration. Sigmund could

tell the other brigands were rooting through the carts nearby

even though his back was to them.

The bandit leader-

he assumed he was the leader anyway-

gently dragged the blade of Sigmund’s own sword down his chest,

through his rough body hair until it was pressing

firmly into his pudgy belly,

just above the waistband of his pants.

While it wasn’t enough to draw blood,

it wouldn’t have taken much effort to spill Sigmund’s guts all over his lap.

“Two of my boys are dead,”

the bandit leader said.

“And all we’ve got to show for it so far is a handful of jewelry

and a cart full of food.”

“Bad luck,” Sigmund replied,

gritting his teeth when he felt the pressure of the sword point

increase slightly against his skin.

“Do you value your life?

Give me one good reason

why I shouldn’t cut your belly open right now.”

However holy, the sanctity of the pilgrimage

wasn’t worth Sigmund’s life.

“Our destination is your answer,”

he said. “There is only one place we could have been going this time of year.”

The brigand glared down at him,

his face a mask of confusion.

“Don’t try my patience, bootlicker.

What are you talking about?”

A glimmer of hope.

If he told the bandits about the cave and the riches within,

maybe they would let him go.

“You must not be from these parts.

There is a cave several miles from here, a temple really.

We were on our way to deliver these offerings,

but there are many more treasures within.”

The brigand’s lips turned upward in a grin.

“Good answer,” he said

as he lifted the sword from Sigmund’s skin

and sheathed it in its scabbard. “A

-am I free to go?” The criminal laughed harshly.

“Do you take me for a fool?

Absolutely not. You are going to lead us to this temple.

If you don’t, I’m sure one of my boys would take very great pleasure in separating your head from your shoulders.”

Sigmund gulped as one of the “boys” in question

yanked him upward onto his bare feet

and pushed him toward the front of the carts.

“Alright, gents, we’re going to get the real haul now!”

The leader barked.

Sigmund noticed that the seven other bandits were actually fairly young,

and typically clothed in what looked like scavenged

and looted clothing.

Very few of them had any actual armor to speak of.

The element of surprise was probably the only reason they had been able to take the caravan at all.

Sigmund grimaced

at the bodies that lay strewn about the carts

and shook his head.

The religious clergy had been slaughtered,

the robe of the young girl in the second cart was ripped open,

leaving her topless,

but that hadn’t stopped the felons from gutting her like a fish.

Two of the three dead guards had only been fresh recruits.

If Sigmund survived this,

he would have to return

and give his traveling companions a proper burial,

as well as warn the king

that the tribute never arrived.

The bandit threat was a mere trifle considering what actually lurked in the temple.

The leader fell in line behind Sigmund

and pushed him down the road.

“No funny business now,”

the criminal sneered.

Sigmund knew that he would be dead before he took two steps if he tried to run,

so he obediently took the lead

as the brigands marched in a clustered gaggle behind him.

Some of them had gathered

what little riches had been in the first cart

and others had stuffed their packs full of food and game from the second.

Even bandits had to eat, after all,

but for all the leader’s boasting about his intelligence,

they hadn’t left a single horse alive.

Idiots. *** It was several hours before they arrived at the temple entrance.

As Sigmund had said,

it was a cave, but the opening was adorned with ornamental wreaths,

and bronze basins filled with scented oil.

Two stone statues

of bulls sat on either side,

covered with religious candles

that had dripped wax over the sides of each bovine.

The horns were tipped in gold,

and some of the bandits rushed over to try to pry them off.

Normally, the offerings would be blessed at the basins before being taken into the temple’s ritual annex

and left for the beast to claim whenever it saw fit.

The pilgrims never stayed to witness it, of course.

Only once had a group been so late with the tribute

that they had actually

glimpsed the creature,

and they had fled too swiftly to remember an accurate picture of it.

Sigmund knew that this time,

they were already late

by more than an hour. “There’s your temple,”

he said. “Now let me go, please.”

The leader of the bandits took the knapsack off of his back

and pulled out some vegetables and two rabbit carcasses.

He chuckled softly to himself

as he began tying the food to Sigmund’s arms and legs.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m not as stupid as you seem to think,”

he said. “All manner of beasts live in caves.

So you’re going to be some bait for us while we steal the treasure.

If there is no treasure,

then whatever lives in there can kill you while we look for all I care.”

Sigmund gritted his teeth

as he was shoved toward the gaping, black maw of the cave.

The cool, damp air from inside

drifted outward, kissing his bare flesh

as the leader marched him inside.

Two bandits behind them had lit torches to illuminate the dirt floor and stone walls of the cavern,

something that Sigmund was thankful for at least.

The air had a musty smell,

and it only became cooler the further into the cave they went.

Eventually, the dirt floor gave way to stone steps

and then to a moderately sized room carved out of the stone.

Sigmund had been here before-

this was the ritual annex.

An empty altar sat in the center of the room on a circular dais,

flanked by two stone braziers

that burned brightly.

The only other exit to the room

lay on the opposite side of the altar:

a large, wide-open hallway that disappeared into darkness.

The group passed the altar

and continued into the depths of the temple.

After a while, the flat,

carved passage split into two,

one heading to the right

and the other going straight.

The bandit leader pushed Sigmund forward

into the straight path.

“Keep going that way, bait.

We’ll take this other route.

And don’t think of turning back because two of my boys will be waiting here to kill you if you do.”

“How can I keep going if I can’t see anything?” Sigmund asked.

The bandit leader cut the rope

that secured Sigmund’s wrists.

“Feel your way forward then.

I don’t care.” Sigmund grumbled to himself

as he trudged forward,

keeping one hand on the left wall.

He glanced behind him and sure enough,

two of the bandits were waiting at the intersection,

one of them holding a torch.

Sigmund crept forward

until he was certain that he was out of range of the light

before he started to untie the rope holding the food to his arms and legs.

He tossed the food down the dark passage ahead of him

before he turned around

to wait. His skin probably still smelled like a dead rabbit,

but at least he wouldn’t have the bait flopping against him if he had to move.

He crouched in the darkness

and watched the two brigands

as they guarded the intersection.

His only hope was that the beast wouldn’t come from behind him.

He needed it to distract the bandits

so he could make his escape.

He waited there for what seemed

like ages as the bandits

paced back and forth.

Then he heard the first scream,

echoing from deeper in the temple.

The sound of distant fighting

followed for a brief moment before several more gurgling cries drifted from the blackness

and then silence resumed.

Sigmund’s heart raced in his chest,

pounding against his ribcage

as if it was trying to break free.

It was impossible to tell where the sounds had come from,

and the two brigands were shifting on their feet as if trying to decide whether they were more afraid of their leader’s wrath,

or whatever lurked in the darkness.

“Come on, flee, you cowards,”

Sigmund whispered to himself.

They didn’t get a chance to decide.

A massive, man-shaped,

hoofed beast charged into the intersection, too fast for either bandit to react.

There was no way Sigmund was going to get around the monster now.

It was silhouetted in the torchlight,

but Sigmund saw the horns protruding from its head

as it snapped one bandit’s neck with ease

and grabbed the other before he could flee.

Sigmund didn’t stick around to watch what became of the final criminal.

Against his better judgment,

he turned and ran as fast as he dared to

toward the blackness of the temple.

He had no other choice.

Distant, clopping hoofbeats

reached his ears

and Sigmund pushed himself to run faster into the inky blackness around him.

Maybe he would be able to outmaneuver the monster in its own den.

As he ran through the darkness,

Sigmund hoped he wouldn’t run face-first into a stone wall before his eyes adjusted,

but he couldn’t stop with the horned beast chasing him.

Luckily, his eyes adjusted to the dim light after a few moments of blindness.

At a four-way intersection,

he turned left, and at the next choice,

he went right. The slapping sound

of his bare feet against the stone echoed through the halls

as he made another right

and found himself

at another four-way intersection.

He had completely lost track of where he was in relation to the entrance

and the heavy hoof-steps in the distance

were slowly getting closer.

“Damn, damn, damn!” he said

as he ran down the left path.

The hoofbeats of the beast

were still quite a ways behind him,

though they were getting louder by the moment. Sigmund’s foot caught on a broken piece of the stone floor

and he fell forward,

barely managing to shield his face from the painful landing.

His toes stung, but he tried to stand anyway

and keep going. The clopping hooves had all but stopped

and now slowed to a walking pace that was

very nearby. Sigmund

hobbled forward on his wounded foot

and screwed his eyes shut in preparation for the monster’s killing blow.

Sigmund’s heart leaped up into his throat

when a large, rough,

human-like hand grabbed his shoulder

and pushed his back

firmly against the wall.

This was the first of two parts of

“A Minotaur’s Tribute”

by Stinkdog, read for you by Khaki,

your faithful fireside companion.

Tune in next time

to find out if Sigmund survives his encounter with the minotaur.

As always, you can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog, or find the show

wherever you get your podcasts.

Thank you for listening

to The Voice of Dog.