The wagons were circled. The fire was lit. 

The merchant convoy had made camp. A hard day's travelling across the kingdom of Ligature felt like a week's slog over softer and more welcoming land. The travellers' bones ached and skin cracked and all were ready to sit around that campfire, quaff some spiced wine, and get their dicks sucked.

Night had fallen and the orange glow of the flames melted away the cares and complaints that, throughout the long day, had driven the traders to bicker and grumble and grouse over whatever petty grievances with each other they could use to distract themselves from the discomforts of the journey.

Petulant and short-tempered they had been for the hours they walked and rode under Ligature's angry sun. But now, gentle warmth in their cheeks from the wine and soft warmth on their skin from the fire, they relaxed into each other's company.

The traders, the merchants, the wandering peddlers, all formed a concentric circle between the wagons and the fire. Sat on their bedrolls or whatever heaps of soft items they had fetched from their stocks of wares.

The day's travelling was done. The day's supper was eaten. It was time to converse, drink, and ejaculate into the mouths of whores.

Of which there were no shortage. The caravan had left Oasis Ninety-Four with an ample supply of girls provided by the organisers. Many of the wealthier or more particular merchants had also brought their own, and about a dozen had been picked up along the way. There was enough pussy for all.

And earlier in the journey, those pussies had been put to use. The traders had, of an evening, taken the girls back to their tents or covered wagons and parted the lips of their minges with vigourous relish. Now though, at this late stage of the trek, not a one of them had the energy to fuck.      

Everyone just wanted to sit there quietly and pleasantly, conversing and joking with their brothers of the road, while whores knelt in front of them, sucking the cum out of their sweaty balls.

No balls were sweatier, or more heavy with cum, than those of Rutt the Minotaur.

Rutt was no trader, no merchant, no peddler. All he had to sell was his axe, offered in protection of those he travelled with. Rutt guarded the convoy and guarded it well. No monster or bandit had troubled them since Oasis Eight, and the brigands that had vexed them there were now bleached bones in the sand.

Rutt the Minotaur had done his job well and, when the convoy finally reached its destination of Forfeiture's capital, he could expect to be well paid and well recommended to his next employer.

In the meantime, he had all the best bitches on his dick.  

Three girls were working him that night. One lapping at the tip of his fuckstick and the other two each struggling to suck in a whole ball.

Sat to his left around the campfire was Atticus Revola, leader and organiser of the convoy, being given a nice slow titwank from a slave girl he'd purchased in Oasis Ninety-Four.

"Two more days until we cross the border into Forfeiture, Rutt," said Revola, "Then from there four days easy travel on good roads until the capital."

"Journey's nearly done. You've run it smooth."

"Aye, aye. That I have."

"Of course once we're over the other side of that border that wench you're titfucking there won't be legal," laughed the Minotaur.

This was true. Forfeiture had a very slightly higher age of consent than Ligature. 

The merchant leader roared.

"Slutbags as big as these, who's gonna notice!" he said, and gave the slave girl's right tit a firm slap.

She smiled up at him.

"You're not wrong," said Rutt, and he reached over and gave the slave's slapped titty a grope with his burly minotaur hand. He then brought it back to stroke the hair of the girl sucking his left nut.

Atticus Revola took a sip of his wine. Rutt took a swig of his ale. They sighed. It was a beautiful night and the stars shone like they had no secrets.

"What're your plans when we get there?" asked Revola. "What's next for Rutt the Minotaur?"

Rutt thought. What was next for him?

"Maybe enjoy the city for a few days before moving on. Take in the sights. Try and see a public appearance by those Princesses. I hear they're quite something."

"Oh, they are my friend," said Revola. "I'm going to be thinking about them when I nut on this bitch."

"My name is Statice," said the slave girl.

Rutt smiled over at her. Impressed by her courage

"Good for you, Statice" the minotaur told her approvingly. "I'm going to think about you when I nut on the bitch sucking me."

Everyone laughed except the bitch sucking Rutt.

"My name is Karamack," said the bitch sucking Rutt.

 "Who gives a fuck?" he asked her and shot a hot tidal wave of viscous minotaur semen all over her shocked face.

She was sent flying backwards by the force of his load. The two girlies who'd been sucking his balls retreated briskly to the sides.

Rutt stood up, walked over to the girl he'd jizzed on, and began slapping her face hard with his enormous cock.

"Does it frustrate you?" Atticus Revola the merchant leader asked him. "That you can't actually stick your dick up them?"

Although Minotaurs are half-man/half-bull, their cocks are more like horsecocks.

With one crucial difference.

Minotaur cocks are much bigger than horsecocks. 

Well, much fatter anyway. They're about the same in length.

"What do you mean?" Rutt asked his employer.

"Human girls. There's no way you could fit that monster dong up a human cunny!"

Rutt the Minotaur smiled. 

"Oh, I can fit it up one alright. There's just no way she'd survive it. So I don't. Not anymore."

Revola nutted on Statice's big teen slave titties. 

He'd intended to be thinking about the Royal Princesses of Forfeiture when he spunked up. But instead he'd been imagining his Minotaur employee ploughing that inhuman, impossibly huge cock into a screaming cunt.