Massages and insertions.

You make a move to resist these women but then remember the Minotaur’s words. Are these women not captives much as you are? Would it be right to resist when they would only be punished for failing in their duty? Your hesitation, right or wrong, gives the mares the chance they need to surround you and grasp you tightly. You instantly tense and try to struggle, but these women are hardy from serving the minotaurs and shockingly strong. Two take you by the arms and hold you tightly between them, your arms pressed between their breasts. Goosebumps arise across your skin at the cold and your nipples harden to tips. Such a reaction is common to all the women with you though they seem more accustomed to the water, or perhaps simply discomfort in general.

The old crone from before remains outside of the pool and barks orders in the harsh guttural language to those within. She paces and shuffles about the edge, hunched beneath her rags and years of ****, croaking harsh reprimands whenever a woman falters or an error made.

You gasp as small hands brush against the dip of your midriff. You look back to find the straw haired girl behind you, gently kneading her hands into your hypersensitive flesh. “Please don’t resist,” she says softly, her warm breath brushing tantalizingly against the nape of your neck. “If we don’t prepare you properly, you may not survive.” Remembering the size of what lay between the minotaur’s legs you cannot help but shudder and meekly acquiesce to their ministrations. Perhaps sensing this, the women set to work.

First the women scrub you vigorously. Bath oils make their hands greasy before they begin to massage it into your flesh. The feeling of these methodical touches makes you squirm in the grip of the pair holding you. Soon however the oil begins to warm you, a curious contrast developing between the heat of your upper body and the chill of your lower. Then they reach below the water, skilled fingers kneading the oils into your legs and between them. You begin to pant as this warmth suffuses you and whine when they next harshly scrub your skin turning it an abused red.

Next comes those with paintbrushes and pots of ink. The bristly horsehair drags against your skin, neither painful nor pleasurable, leaving you confused with the strange sensation as they paint several symbols upon your body.

“You must be marked as the property of the head Bull, Vargus,” the girl explains. “So that the others may know they may only breed you with his permission.” Your question hiccups as a paintbrush drags across the swell of your breasts, culminating with a teasing flick of your nipples to complete a spiral pattern. The water just reaches the joining of your legs to your hip, so there is no issue of the paint being removed when one of the girls bends down and, just above your slit, paints a symbol of a horned head then several rings around it. You groan at the sight, feeling the weight of the minotaur’s ownership of you with this, and when you look at the other girls notice similar symbols marking them, though few with a similar number of rings.

It is at this point that the woman with the cone approaches. You feel the grip the two mares have on your arms tighten in preparation and the blonde behind you whispers, “You must now be made ready for the master’s cock.” Only then do you realize its purpose and try to struggle, but the women’s hold is firm and you cannot resist as the mare – her black hair done up in a bun by several strands of gold and her stomach showing a swell of pregnancy - oils the small end of the cone before you. “You will be glad for it,” the girl again informs you.

The woman with the cone then kneels before you, the water causing her breasts to float before her giving the illusion of even greater firmness. Her fingers first prepare you, parting your slit and gently sliding up and down. The skill of those fingers soon has you panting and groaning despite yourself; your pussy, already warm, now heats uncomfortably, your legs beginning to rub together in some frantic desire for release. The raven haired woman then slides in a finger into your hungry cunny, feeding it in and out, then a second, gently scissoring your insides to help loosen your for what will come. Helpless, your knees buckle and you hang from the arms of the two other mares, panting wantonly and groaning as the pregnant woman continues to ease you open. Finally her fingers slide free. You whimper as she leans you backwards, and then pushes the end of the cone into your warm snatch.

Despite misgivings, the woman is gentle, but insistent that you take the entire cone as she continues to gradually press it inside of you. You tremble as it begins to put serious pressure on you, the forcefulness of it unmitigated. Then, cool hands begin to massage your breasts in slow, tender motions. “Don’t resist,” the straw-haired girl whispers into your ear. “Relax. You must learn to take it all.”

“It hurts,” you shudder.

“It must be done,” the girl replies solemnly and resumes her gentle ministrations. Between her words and her actions you gradually do relax, your body adapting to the stretching and allowing the black haired woman to continue her efforts. It takes no small amount of doing, but at last the cone bottoms out in your cunt, lips stretched wide about it and the water thickening with your girl cum. A slight dip near the bottom allows it to stay snugly within you even when the woman removes your hands and quietly withdraws.

The women lift you gently from the pool and carry you towards the water’s edge. You can do nothing to resist, still too awestruck that you managed to take the entirety of the cone and feeling unable to move with your cunt stretched so. Never have you felt so full, yet you know that it is merely the prelude for what is to come. Oddly, the thought arouses a feeling of excitement.

The mares carry you out of the bathing hut and back into the cage. The warmth of the sun slashing through the bars after so long in the cold makes you shiver; your legs are still rubbery at the feeling of the immense insertion, yet already you can feel your body adjust to the girth of the cone. Once returned to the cage you are set upon several mats and hides, propped up by the women amongst several cushions. There most of the women leave you, but three remain by your side: the crone, her hunched figure looming over your like some foul witch, the girl with the blonde hair who looks at you with something approaching compassion, and a third woman with large full breasts and a dignified bearing. An elf, you realize with some vague sense of surprise on seeing the ears. Odd considering the shapeliness of her child bearing hips and the large globes of her nude breasts, neither a common attribute of elves. She looks ahead, blankly, seeming unaware of what goes on around her, and each side of her pussy lips are pierced by several studs.

The crone slowly circles you, glancing at the markings of the tattoos and how you are adjusting to the cone. Helpless, you watch her warily, unsure what she intends. Now and then she leans forward and inspects the paint on your body more thoroughly, sometimes reaching out and poking at the designs thoughtfully. Finally she leans back and barks an order, then shuffles away.

The elf moves forward and reaches into the pot. Her hand when removed shines with slightly darker oil from before. This she proceeds to frugally apply to your tender flesh. You gasp and moan beneath these ministrations, the oil warming you beneath the sunlight, the feeling of fullness in your pussy making your shapely body respond needily to these pleasant touches. Soon enough the straw haired woman joins you both and adds her own hands to massaging the tension from your body. This scene of dusky delight, the warmth of the oil, the feather light touches of the two women and the sensation of fullness in your most intimate of regions fills you with a deep complacency and dim lethargy. You relax, sigh, the trouble of the world, the future and your fate ease from you like removing a heavy coat allowing you to bathe in the luxuriant glory of feeling the world against unprotected female flesh. Everything feels right, and beneath such an atmosphere, even knowing you have but hours before you are to be taken before the minotaur to be mounted, makes you feel drowsy and ****. You idly wonder if there may have been something in the oil they massaged into you. But such concerns are far from you right now.