Just one whiff of the bullman's itchy nethers tells you how this journey will go.
Not good. No, not at all.
However, it is a way to avoid his probing fingers, that destructive claw that will no doubt return to dig once more into his bulge. You take one step beneath the raised section of the loincloth and almost gag at the sickeningly masculine stench. It's safer, sure, but a whole lot more revolting. Why'd you have to land between his legs? You never wanted to even imagine what equipment dangles here, why are you even considering climbing the unimaginable?!
You'd welcome the genital slit that Hur (probably) has to live with over this! You don't want to think about what he wields either, but at least he'd be sympathetic toward you, the little yapper, he knows how tough it is to be small! Though he wouldn't be so small anymore, that's kinda the problem... Gods above, you'd take the warhorse's clankers over the unwashed junk of this savage Bullhead!
...But you can't change your situation with just a wish, much as you wish you could wish this all away, to wake up from this horrible nightmare, you can't. You've got to get this beefy barbarian's attention somehow. You summon your courage and wiggle under the filthy red loincloth.
You can feel every little shift the mountain of muscle makes miles above you. Hooves clack in the distance, patting down the well trotten ground as the bullman readjusts himself. How many times has that accursed axe been sharpened? How many swipes have produced that deathly shiver of sharpened metal? How many times have his grubby fingers dug into his itchy knockers? You can't say. Time seems to blur together under this red veil, the thin barrier between the outside world and this unwashed oxen's reproductive organs. The spire of manly meat radiates its almost eyewatering presence, growing stronger as you slowly shuffle under it, stopping occasionally to hack and cough out a curse upon this filthy barbarian. This red curtain seems to go on forever...
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