They called him the Warden's Pet. Said he was what happened when punishment needed teeth. Not pain. Not isolation. Realignment.
I sat up slowly, spine arching like a wary cat, my skin still tacky with sweat and shame from earlier "encounters." Dried streaks of someone else's sin clung to my belly, my thighs, my cheeks—faint reminders of earlier indulgence. I reeked of sex, power, and rebellion. And the beastman?
He noticed.
He began sniffing the air. Loudly. A growl low in his chest, almost thoughtful. Like a sommelier trying to place notes in a vintage of filth. His head turned, one ear twitching. Then he took another deep breath. It was then that I saw it — the shudder down his spine, the way his cock stirred beneath his loincloth, a wet patch already blooming across the front like a perverse flower.
"Oh, lovely," I muttered. "Warden sends me a dog, and it's already in heat."
I pushed to my feet slowly, naked, collar tight around my throat, and tried to ignore the ache between my legs that had no business being there. He wasn't even touching me. He wasn't even speaking. But the attention — primal, raw, devouring — slithered across my skin like lightning.
Focus, Loona.
He circled the cage once, then twice, pacing like an animal testing the limits of his enclosure. And I paced with him, graceful and provocative.
I matched his rhythm step for step, the soft slap of my bare feet on stone almost drowned beneath the low hum of tension filling the air. My hips rolled with purpose—too smooth, too deliberate to be anything but invitation. I let him watch. Let him hunger.
The beastman's eyes roamed—slow, devouring—flicking up and down my frame like he was memorizing every sinful detail. He drank in the flat plane of my chest, the soft slope of my stomach, the subtle dip of my waist, and the shameless curve of my hips—a femboy's body sculpted by sin and irony, built not for war, but for worship.
Then he made a noise.
A deep, vibrating snort rumbled from his chest, thick with animalistic heat. His cock twitched under the worn linen of his loincloth, straining against the fabric like it was ready to tear free. I couldn't help it—my eyes dropped.
Oh, gross. And also…gods help me…hot.
A wet trail began smearing its way down the linen like a slug made of lust, dark and glistening. He was hard now, the outline obscene—drooling through the cloth with a need that felt feral.
I bit my lip. Not because I wanted to. Because my body did it for me.
"You're disgusting," I said, voice too breathy to sound convincing. "Just so you know."
But he didn't speak. Didn't slow. Instead he lunged—sudden, savage, a blur of muscle and intent.
I moved on instinct, slipping just out of reach, the rush of his momentum brushing heat against my skin as he missed me by inches. I dodged, barefoot on stone, slick with sweat and danger, my breath hitching in my throat like a laugh that hadn't decided if it was terrified or thrilled.
He slammed into the bars with enough force to rattle the observation deck above. Cheers and whistles broke out. The bastards above were watching. Of course they were. The cage was a show after all.
I grinned, all teeth. "Aw. You didn't even buy me dinner."
He snarled and came at me again, this time slower, more controlled. His movements were deliberate now, tracking. Hunting.
So I gave him a dance.
I weaved around his bulk, slipped past those tree-trunk arms, darted under a grab and slapped his ass — just to see if I could. That earned me a growl that made my inner thighs tighten in a way I'd very much like to deny.
He swung. I ducked. Rolled. Kicked off the bars and landed a sharp heel into his ribs. He barely flinched — but he stumbled. That was enough.
"Not bad," I panted, heart hammering.
He was on me before the breath finished leaving my mouth. Faster than something that big should move. He grabbed for me — but I slipped through again. His claws tore linen off the floor where I'd been just seconds ago. I heard it rip like flesh. Close. Too close.
Another swing. I ducked, slid under his legs — got a fleeting glimpse of something massive and twitching beneath his loincloth. I nearly lost my balance, and not from the motion.
Oh gods.
He was dripping.
Like a leaky pipe of pure testosterone. I could smell it now, thick and pungent. Sweat, musk, and something darker. My knees wobbled.
Focus, dammit. Focus.
He turned—eyes locked on mine, wild and gleaming like twin embers—and I shifted to leap back, a slow, wicked smile already curling across my lips.
It was time.
Time to enact my plan.
My heel slid. Just a little. Just enough. A slick patch of someone else's shame smeared across the stone caught me mid-step, and I let myself fall with a sharp gasp, body folding down in a graceful collapse.
I hit the floor hard—flat on my stomach, ass to the air, arms sprawled forward like a gift half-wrapped and waiting, my legs parted just enough to tempt, vulnerable and Inviting.
I gasped—sharp, breathy, just loud enough to echo in the cage. Not in shock. Not in pain.
But bait.
The beastman didn't hesitate.
He pounced.
All the breath rushed from my lungs as he landed on my lower back, straddling me with a weight that felt inescapable. A mountain crushing down on a daisy. My cheek slammed against the stone, rough and cold, slick with the sweat and filth of a dozen other bodies. I gasped, the taste of old salt and copper lingering on my tongue.
His thighs locked around my hips like iron vices, hot and trembling. I could feel the weight of his cock grinding against the cleft of my ass with slow, maddening friction. Every inch of him radiated heat, his breath falling in short, ragged bursts as he towered above me like a storm about to break.
Then, without a word, his hands grabbed the front of his loincloth—or rather what was left of it—and peeled it away with a grunt. The fabric clung wetly to his skin before slapping to the floor with a sound that felt obscene.
Then the stench hit.
Hot, thick, and violent.
It slammed into my nose like a wall. His cock, now bare and throbbing, hovered inches from my skin. He was panting now, wild and rapid, his breath hitting the nape of my neck like steam. The crowd above howled.
"Oh gods," I wheezed, cupping my nose with one hand. "You smell like a dirty brothel."
His hand pressed my forehead to the floor, holding me there. Not hard enough to hurt. Just hard enough to remind me who was stronger.
And still, he didn't speak. He just breathed.
Heavy, wild, and perverse.
I should've hated it. I should've twisted away, snarled something biting, clawed at the floor and cursed him out of existence.
But I didn't. Because gods, I wanted this.
I was trembling now, but not with fear.
With arousal.
My thighs squeezed together in a vain attempt to manage the aching pool inside me. Just then, a single drop of wetness slipped free from the his cock, landing against the sensitive skin of my back. I arched into the sensation without hesitation, shameless and hungry for every heated touch.
"Don't," I breathed. But the word cracked in my throat, torn between defiance and need. "Don't you dare tease me."
I was already lifting my hips. Already offering.
And he knew it.
He shifted behind me — deliberate, slow, maddening. The blunt tip of him grazed where I ached the worst, not entering, just tracing, just promising. My body begged before my pride could catch up. My breath hitched. My hands curled into fists. I was pulsing. Hungry.
He leaned in close, lips brushing my ear with the barest touch.
Then he groaned.
Not a word. Not a command. Just a broken, throaty noise that melted straight into my bones. My fingers clawed at the floor, heart pounding in my ears as I felt the deliberate press of his cock, hot and unyielding, nudging against me with the weight of something inevitable.
Then I felt it — the slow, merciless push. A thick, aching stretch, inch by shuddering inch, until my mouth fell open around a fractured whimper I couldn't stop. Another inch. Another sound. Something between a moan and a prayer. Every part of me lit up like fireflies in a jar, blinking erratically under the weight of him.
And then—
He pulled back. Just halfway. Just enough for my lungs to fill again, and for my brain to start thinking he'd stop.
He didn't.
He slammed forward like he meant to split me in two, punching the air out of my lungs with a breathless cry. Then again, and again. His pace turned brutal, reckless — a storm of motion, muscle, and hot, punishing rhythm.
My nails scraped lines into the stone now. My moans tore ragged from my throat. I was unraveling, and he was pulling every thread like he owned them.
Then—suddenly—he stopped.
He pulled back and I felt air rushing in as the weight of him left my back.
I blinked, breath ragged. What?
He moved around me, circling again. This time slower, more deliberate, like a predator giving his prey time to realize there was no escape. His steps echoed faintly off the stone, but his presence was thunder in my chest.
Then he stopped — right in front of me.
I lifted my head just slightly, dazed, breath caught halfway between a moan I couldn't justify.
His cock hung low between his thighs, thick and heavy, glossy with slick. It twitched with a pulse that made the veins running along it stand out like roots straining through the earth. The tip glistened in the lamplight, a bead forming and dripping, slow and obscene, down the curve of his inner thigh.
I simply couldn't help staring at it. I felt my mouth run dry.
He just stood there. Watching me. Not moving. Just breathing — slow, deep, each inhale deliberate enough to make his chest rise like he was restraining himself.
My body trembled but I didn't beg.
Not yet.
The crowd above had gone quiet. Not silent — but hushed. Like they, too, were holding their breath, waiting for the moment to snap. And gods, I wanted it to snap.
I looked up at him again — up those endless legs, past his glistening shaft, across the wall of muscle and heat, and straight into his eyes, those soft red coals behind the mask.
And then I smiled.
Slow and dangerous. Dripping with filth and challenge.
"Well?" I rasped, voice raw but steady. "What are you waiting for?"
The beastman let out a guttural, shaking growl, one that rippled down my spine and licked every nerve like fire. I heard it before I saw it — the slick, obscene rhythm of flesh on flesh. Wet, fast, and brutal.
I didn't dare look up this time. I didn't have to. I heard the splat. A thick, wet slap of liquid on stone, right in front of my face. My breath hitched.
Oh, gods. He came.
The air curdled. The smell was overwhelming — a heavy, steaming musk that felt like it could rip the paint off walls. My lashes fluttered involuntarily as I tried to keep breathing through my mouth, but the scent still slithered in, oily and dominant, setting off alarm bells in my brain that rang dangerously close to arousal.
My body was responding. I could feel it. Slickness leaking from me in slow strands, like my own shame had gone and grown a personality. I cursed, trying to push myself up, fingers trembling. I barely made it to my knees before—
THUD.
His bare foot crashed onto the back of my head, slamming my face down toward the steaming pool of filth. I grunted, cheek pressed to the floor, heart hammering.
"You're joking," I hissed.
And yet. I could feel my own hips twitching. My throat tightened. My mouth opened slightly as my tongue tasted the air, the thick, humid atmosphere like the aftermath of a thunderstorm in hell. My eyes flicked to the steaming pool.
"What the fuck are you even made of?" I whispered.
He didn't answer. He didn't need to. Something inside me clicked—an instinct older than reason, deeper than any whispered doubt or hesitant calculation. It wasn't thought; it was raw, primal understanding. The kind that sank into your bones and set your blood blazing.
I understood the assignment.
This wasn't punishment. It wasn't defeat. It was surrender wrapped in fire. The humiliation—the exposure—that sharp, delicious edge of losing control and owning it.
So I leaned forward, slow and deliberate, every movement heavy with intent. My tongue flicked out, tasting the cold stone first—rough, gritty—but then seeking, tracing, daring. Each stroke was a wordless challenge, a promise laced with hunger and defiance.
The crowd above gasped as I rolled my tongue across the edge of the pool. The taste was acrid and briny, bitter heat crawling down my throat like bad liquor and sin. My body seized with a shudder, hips twitching, breath caught halfway between a sob and a sigh.
And gods help me…I moaned. loud. Shameful. A sound torn from somewhere deep and instinctive, vibrating through the hush like a confession too raw to take back.
I could hear moaning from the audience now too. The voyeurs of Prismillya. Watching. Getting off on this display of degradation and domination. Every inch of my skin was red-hot. My arousal threatened to burn me alive from the inside.
I felt like I might break.
But then, he moved again.
He slid his arms beneath my hips, lifting me off the cold floor like a lost kitten. I felt my chest press against his—warm, solid, and relentless—while his cock throbbed insistently against the tender skin between my thighs.
I couldn't help it—I giggled.
A short, breathless sound, utterly broken and unexpected. Then, impossibly, I burped. Just a little. It was obscene. Ridiculous. Like some twisted fairy tale written by perverts and madmen, starring a demon princess who lost all her grace in one moment of weakness.
"Oops," I muttered, cheeks flushing.
He twitched in response. Gods, did he twitch.
His cock jerked beneath me, heavy and alive, pulsing with raw, aching need. My legs wrapped around his waist without thought—instinctive, hungry. I was slick with sweat now, heat pooling and burning between my thighs. Every breath I took felt like a razor's edge, a cruel tease I couldn't hope to resist.
He lifted me higher, shifting his grip beneath my thighs, muscles taut and commanding. I knew what was coming—the collision of violence and pleasure, the moment when control would shatter and submission would burn.
Suddenly, he pressed into me, and—
"Ah~!" I gasped, caught between pain and something far sweeter.
Heat flared through my body, rising fast—too fast—like fire racing through oil. Every nerve was lit, every breath shallow and shaking, as the beastman pushed inside me slowly… deliberately… like he wanted me to feel every inch of him, every stretch, every searing second.
When he passed that hidden place inside me—that perfect, pulsing core that sent stars exploding behind my eyes—I slapped a hand over my mouth, teeth sinking into my palm to stifle the cry building in my throat. The sensation was blinding, electric, the kind of pleasure that felt like it shouldn't be legal.
"O-Oh fuck. I'm gonna cum!" I gasped.
And then—without warning—my release ripped through me.
Fierce and uncontrollable. My body locked tight around him as I came in thick, pulsing waves, hot ropes of my semen spilling messily between us, coating his stomach, my thighs, everything. I trembled violently, gasping through clenched teeth, every muscle tight and singing.
Then suddenly, my lips found his beneath the mask in a wet, frantic kiss—sloppy and desperate, all tongue, heat, and shaking hunger.
He couldn't hold himself back anymore.
He growled—a deep, ragged sound that bellowed from his gut before slamming forward with one final thrust, his body shuddering as he reached his limit. I felt it hit deep inside, his cum flooding into me with hot, jolting pulses, primal and unrelenting.
I cried out—not from pain, not even from surprise, but from sheer, visceral overwhelm.
The heat of it all lit something wild inside me. I threw my head back with a gasp, spine arching as if pulled by invisible strings. My body clenched around him, greedy and shaking, unable to stop itself from reacting.
"F-Fuck—" I whispered, broken and breathless, dizzy with the sensation. My fingertips dug into his shoulders. I could feel every throb, every twitch, as if his pleasure were echoing through my bones.
And gods…I loved it.
Every filthy, fevered second.
He held me there, bodies locked, the air thick with sweat, heat, and something close to reverence. Then, with a low, spent groan, he slowly pulled out, arms still wrapped around me like I might disappear. He lowered me gently to the floor, guiding me back onto my knees — as if he were setting me down on a throne.
I trembled. Every part of me buzzed, overheated and undone. I could barely move. He circled me once more, deliberate and slow, and then—
I felt it, the wet slap of his cock against the back of my head.
Slap. Slap. Slap.
I blinked, startled. What the hell?
He tilted his hips, pressing the length of himself into my curls—my long, soft, silken black hair—using it like his own personal rag, dragging and rubbing with possessive intent.
"Oh, you absolute dog," I whispered, breath catching. "You're lucky I'm into this."
The crowd erupted in cheers and whistles. Heat rushed to my face, burning my cheeks a fierce red. My thighs twitched uncontrollably. My fingers clenched the cold stone beneath me, nails digging in as I bit my lip hard enough to taste iron.
I exhaled slowly, shuddering as I let him smear his filth through my hair, soaking my scalp with the scent and heat of him.
Then—finally—he stopped.
And just like that, he stepped away. His movement was casual, effortless, as if he hadn't just unraveled me completely—turned me into nothing more than a trembling, slickened mess of hunger and heat.
Perfect.
I didn't hesitate.
Shaky legs carrying me forward, I lunged toward him and wrapped my arms tight around his waist, catching him off guard. He jolted—really jolted—and I squeezed, my fingers curling possessively.
Still wet, still pulsing beneath my hand, I wrapped my fingers around the base of his cock, milking the last trembling drops of his cum with slow, teasing strokes. Every slick glide sent a shiver racing through me.
"Good boy," I whispered, voice thick and sultry. "You did so good. Such a strong pup."
He whimpered. Actually whimpered—a low, desperate sound that I could've sworn was the most beautiful thing I'd ever heard. One hand kept stroking, steady and unyielding. The other reached behind me, blindly searching until it found his discarded clothing crumpled on the floor.
I seized it, fingers tightening around the fabric.
With a fluid, confident motion, I looped the cloth around his neck and pulled it taut. His body jerked sharply. He struggled—just for a moment. Then the beastman slumped forward, eyes fluttering closed, surrendering to a deep, peaceful unconsciousness.
Not dead. Just sleeping.
I let the loincloth slide from my fingers, catching his weight before he fell completely.
"Sweet dreams, puppy," I cooed.
Then I dug into the pocket of his loincloth and — jackpot — I found a key. Small, simple, glowing faintly in the lamplight.
I sprinted to the cage door. Slotted it in before turning it slowly.
Click.
The gate creaked open.
I took one breath, then said, "Fuck it."
And ran.
Bare feet slapped against stone as I bolted, adrenaline howling through my veins, my head still spinning with heat and shame and triumph. I had no plan. No path. Just one singular, blinding thought:
Get out.
I made it five steps before the guards descended upon me like nightmares from the ceiling. Three. Four. Maybe more. I was tackled, pinned, arms yanked behind me so tight I screamed.
"No no no—!"
But then…a voice.
Calm. Commanding. Charismatic.
"Well, well," it drawled. "That was the most delightful chaos I've seen in weeks."
The guards paused. I froze. The voice came from above. From the viewing platform. One figure stood alone in the spotlight, wrapped in purple and gold, a wine glass dangling from his fingers.
He leaned forward, smiling. "You have quite the fighting spirit, little thing," he said. "Tell me."
He raised the glass.
"Would you like to join me for a drink?"