The attack on your caravan falls shortly after dusk, the sky smoldering a low blue-purple with a smear of light on the horizon the only sign of the sun. You’d heard the stories before about this stretch of highway, everyone had—the gnolls who raided passing caravans, carrying off goods and people. But the tales also say that the raids are small, light, targeting those who travel in small numbers, who can’t defend themselves. So you and your entourage knew that the bandits wouldn’t dare test themselves against a noble’s well-trained guards.

But the raid was big, far bigger than you could have hoped for, indeed outnumbering your whole caravan by a great deal. You don’t watch the fighting—you have never had the stomach for violence. You’re well-bred, an aristocrat with a promising future ahead of her, traveling her way to her betrothed’s palace. Someone like you just isn’t cut out for this sort of thing. So you hide in your palanquin behind the silken curtains, grimacing, hoping that the sounds stop soon (because of course they will, it’s not as if these ruffians have any chance against your men) and blanching with fear and terror as the sounds don’t stop, as the sound of your men falling one by one reaches your ears.

When the violence stops the voices that rise over the highway are harsh and guttural, not pandafolk like yourself, and you can hear the scraping of metal as armor and weapons are stripped off of fallen guards and the dull thud of treasure chests being whacked open.

It can’t be, you think. There’s no way. It can’t have been.

You know you should escape, should flee before the gnolls realize you’re there, but fleeing would be admitting that you misjudged, and poking your head out from behind those curtains would show you the carnage; so you sit tight behind the curtains like a child hiding under the covers, terrified and sweating, hoping that the noises go away, until the curtain is pulled back and you fight yourself face-to-face with a pair of rangy interlopers.

The shock on the bandits’ face morphs into delight. “Got a live one, we do,” one of them croons, his voice strangely high for one so harsh and scruffy. With a wordless shout you try to push past them, but the gnolls effortlessly manhandle you onto the palanquin. One of them, his neck draped with a line of pearls that was to be a gift to your betrothed, yanks off everything of value he can find on you—brooches, jewelry, rings. The other ignores the finery entirely.

All he has eyes for is you.

“What are you then?” he murmurs. One massive paw is keeping your wrists pinned; the other reaches down to trace along your side. You gasp at the touch, suddenly fearful. “The noble what thinks she’s worthy of passing through our land?”

“This is… the king’s highway…” you manage to force out, and the gnoll laughs.

“Then let the king stop us, then. Oh yes, you’ve got a pedigree, ain’t you… Quite a special one. So pretty.”

By now his free hand is coursing all over you. He’s conjured a tiny knife from somewhere, the blade small and fine, and with it he peels you out of your silken clothes.

When the cool air bites your fur and skin, you shiver—and his eyes alight at that. “Got some meat on you, don’t you?” he says with a laugh. Pandafolk have always been considered ‘chubby’ by the other races, and right now, you find yourself desperately hoping that he dislikes fat women, that your modest rolls will be enough to dissuade him.

But it is not to be. His eyes alight deliciously on you. “Like me a woman like that,” he croons. Stowing the knife away, he trades places with his greedy compatriot, the ring-taker holding your hands down as he reaches down to pry your legs apart.

“W-wait,” you say, voice stuttering with fear. You try to keep your legs shut but it’s worthless, completely worthless, his strength is inexorable. “I have… treasures, to ransom for my… my s-safety…”

Both gnolls laugh at that. “Treasures?” says the one holding your wrists. “Like these, luv?” He jangles the pearls in emphasis.

“Already got me some treasures,” the other one says. He’s positioning himself near your entrance, now; fearfully, you can see his cock, thick and tapered at the end, pink like a berry.

This is happening, you realize. This is it.

“Want me another, I thinks,” he says, and then he pushes in.

Your initial reaction is to arch your back, push up your wrists, cry out, something—but the gnolls have too solid a handle on you, and so you’re left writhing and sobbing, pinned under their weight, as they take you.

You’re saying things. Pleads, probably, for them to stop, or promises to pay them off, or even just wordless protestations. It doesn’t matter. Whatever little bit of pleasure you could have squeezed out of this is overridden by the savagery of his thrusts, the ferocity of his hugeness inside of you, the wash of his rancid breath.

“Wuz wrong, luv,” he croons, panting with delight at one particularly deep buck that makes your head spin. “Can’t recognize good cock when you sees it? Or maybe—maybe a prissy, fancypants pandafolk noble’s too good to get some dick from the common man?”

The words come out almost before you realize you’re saying them. “You’re… no man…” you say, your voice almost incoherent from the strain of him forcing himself on you. “You’re… brutes…”

They both laugh. “That we are, sweetheart,” the one with the jewels says, leaning over to nip at your ear. The sharp bite somehow reaches you amidst the cavalcade of sensations from his compatriot fucking you, making you whimper. “Get used to it. I think there’s gonna be a lot of brutes in your life from here on out.”

The bandit cums in you soon after, voice hitched in a pleasurable growl. He reaches up and roughly kneads your fat tit, not for your sake but for his, and shudders and smiles when he hears your miserable moan.

Afterwards, he and his partner swap places, and you get fucked a second time.

The second assault leaves you reeling and confused, and you barely notice when they wrap a cord around your neck until they’re hauling you up. “Come on, slut,” one of them mocks. “Up and at ‘em.”

You’re yanked out of the confines of your palanquin, your cunt abused and sore and sopping, and all you can do is stare wide-eyed at the remnants of your caravan. The wagons have been splintered, anything remotely valuable pilfered from their remains. The gnolls had little use for your guards, it seems, and you avoid looking at them. But the servants are another story. Mostly pandafolk like you, they’re quivering in cords and ropes and chains, wide-eyed and fearful. Some are gagged, and two of your ladies-in-waiting are being treated to the same debasement which the gnolls had visited upon you just recently.

One of the servants meets your face, eyes wide. “Mistress!” she cries. “Mistress, we—”

Whatever she has to say, it’s roughly cut off as she is shoved to the earth. As she struggles to stand, one of the gnolls, chuckling, steps up to her and stuffs her mouth full of cock.

“That oughtta shut her up, eh?” he chortles, and his compatriots hoot and holler in agreement as he bucks into her throat.

Cheeks burning with fear and degradation, you avoid looking at the servant, who is sobbing and whimpering around the member filling her mouth and take your place alongside the rest of the captives.

And once the gnolls are finished with their fun, the long march begins.

---

You’ve never been good with directions—north, east, west, south; unless you have a sunrise to stare at and orient yourself with, it might as well have been gibberish. All you know is that by the time you’re done, brought to a warren of tunnels in volcanic rock hidden several miles from the king’s highway, your paws are sore and bleeding and you’re about ready to pass out.

The gnolls bind and gag you and shove you onto a filthy straw pallet, but even this paltry comfort seems like a heavenly boon after what you underwent today. You fall asleep almost immediately, praying that when you wake up you’ll be back in the palanquin journeying to meet your betrothed, all of this just a worrisome dream.

How fruitless such hopes inevitably are. You awaken to the scent of sweat and dirt and despair, and echoing from further down the chamber is the plaintive moan of some poor woman being used for the only thing that bandits like these gnolls use them for.

You rise shakily, still aware how your cunt throbs even today, aware of the crusted juices around your loins, and take stock of the other captives.