The large Minotaur, easily eight feet tall, seated at his throne, stood up on his black, shiny hooves. "That is all," his large, dark gray furred hand waved off Risk as he walked toward the bag.
Turning away, Risk took his place near the oak double doors, nervously tugging at his ripped tan pants, the only clothes that he wore. He really had no use for anything else, after all.
The Minotaur, Devlin, stooped to the bag and untied the top before tugging it down. Like the several other cow-girls who were in his stables out back, this one would become broken and docile and perfect for the raping and once he was done with her he would give her to his hellhound guards to use until she died.