You stretch yourself up and stroll off in the direction of the cooking pits, in the vicinity of which gnolls always set up their POW camps. There’s not many good words to go around about the gnoll race, but “wasteful” certainly wouldn’t be one of them.
Despite the late hour the camp is more busy with life than usual. A visitor not knowing any better might think to have run into a wild bacchanal or possibly a circus gripped by a riot. The recent victory is only part to blame, for gnolls truly like to live up to the maxim “work hard, play hard” as you’ve found out during your time spent with them. Judging by the ear-piercing screaming some of the captives have been invited to the afterparty, which stirs some anxiety in you. Finding a female in a remotely usable condition will prove more challenging the further the night proceeds. Moreover, running into gnolls when they’re this worked up isn’t the most attractive of prospects for anyone who’s not a gnoll themselves.
Luckily the route to the pens involves no fuss. Several of the cages lay empty already, their occupants dragged for entertainment somewhere else. After some searching, however, you find that not one but two quality specimens have survived this far into the night.
The two human women huddle tighter together as they see you approaching. In the moonlight you notice the similarity of their features telltale of kinhood, most likely sorority. They’re fair creatures by most anthropomorphic standards, blond and slim as suits a court maid in the plains.
You stop to lean against the crude, rusted iron bars. “Can you speak?”
The younger-looking girl nods timidly. “You’re one of Kitah? The cats who dance?”
You’re impressed. Her accent is awful, but mostly the people of the plains wallow in ignorance when it comes to the old tongues.
You slosh your bottle at them. “Tonight I’m a cat who drinks. Care to have a drop?”
Both women lick their dry lips at the sight of the liquid. You guessed right that gnolls have pretty much neglected feeding them.
“You can have this, perhaps more too,” you say, putting the bottle down where they can’t quite reach it. “But first you’ll have to drink something else.” You rub your groin suggestively.
The younger one whispers something to her sister, whose eyes grow wide. They fall into a private, urgent exchange for a few seconds.
“Can we trust you?” the younger one asks.
“If I wanted to lie, I’d have said I’ll let you out afterwards. Is it a deal or not? Last chance.”
The young one looks at the other helplessly. She glances at you in a mixture of revolt, freight and doubt. You imagine she’d much rather drink your blood than your cum, but obligations to family can be a powerful motivation.
“Deal,” the little sister says with eyes on the ground.
“About time,” you growl, opening the strings of your breeches. A barbed, half-stiff feline cock comes out, shrivelling slightly in the cool air. You serve it past the bars and watch the females crawl cautiously closer in their torn, stained dresses like deers drawn to a bait. You rest one paw over your dagger, your only weapon at the moment, just to implicitly discourage any desperate measures.
The older one takes the initiative and your length into his soft hands after warming her palms against each other. Good, steady jerking ensues, coaxing you into full mast quickly. Perhaps this is how she won her place in the court to begin with.
The younger one follows shyly from the side as her elder gulps the tip of your dick and starts gently sucking off while continuing to pump the shaft. You’d love to see some attention to your balls, but focus for now to the feeling of a tight throat squeezing you all over, the moist tunnel-massage working marvels. You purr softly while smoothing her messy, long hair, then help her a couple of inches deeper.
“Oi! You there!”
The shout makes your head turn sharply. Two gnolls stomp towards you from behind, clearly drunk judging from their unsteady gait. Must be looking for the same thing you are, and more.
“Good evening, boys,” you say, grudgingly drawing out of that lovely mouth and hiding your erection back into your pants. “How can I help you?”
The pair, both head and shoulders taller than you, halt an arm’s length away. “Shut it, kitty. No messing with the meat.”
A lighting-speed calculation runs through your tipsy minds. You’re not about to give up your night’s fun for nothing, that is certain, so either you’ll have to outtalk these two or fight them off. Neither option shines as promising, for arguing with a gnoll is like arguing with a bull, and they’re still wearing their combat gear, chainmail and all.