Chapter 14: 1.4.1 x
The roar of the crowd was a dull, receding thunder in the stone corridors beneath the arena. The coppery stench of blood—some his, most not—clung to Koen’s skin, mixing with sweat and cordite. His knuckles were split, the flesh already knitting itself back together in a faint, visible ripple of demonic regeneration. He just wanted the goddamn shower. To wash the night’s violence down the drain.
He rounded a corner, the solitary bulb overhead flickering. The dank, mildew-scented hallway to the locker room stretched ahead.
A hand shot out from a recessed doorway, clamping onto his bicep with surprising strength. Before he could twist free, he was yanked off his feet and pulled backward into a small, smoke-filled office.
The door slammed shut, cutting off the distant noise.
Koen stumbled, catching himself on the edge of a heavy oak desk. The office was opulent, a stark contrast to the grime outside. Plush crimson carpet, mahogany paneling, the rich scent of fine cigar and old whiskey. Two men sat in high-backed leather chairs. They wore the same ornate, featureless silver masks as the proprietors who’d visited him after his last fight. The memory was a hot, shameful coil in his gut.
“Told you he’d come this way,” the one behind the desk said, his voice a cultured baritone distorted slightly by the mask. He took a slow pull from his cigar, the ember glowing.
“Tough fuckin’ fight tonight, Delano,” the other said, leaning forward. This one’s voice was rougher, gravelly. “That last ogre nearly had you. Took his head clean off with your bare hands, though. The punters loved it. Bloody spectacular.”
Koen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, feeling a fresh trickle of blood from a reopened cut on his lip. “I won. I get paid. That’s the deal.” He tried to sound tough, but the exhaustion was a lead weight in his bones.
“The deal,” the cultured one echoed, steepling his fingers. “Yes. But deals can be… amended. Your purse tonight is double the agreed amount.”
Koen’s orange eyes narrowed. “Why?”
The gravel-voiced man stood, moving around the desk. He was big, broad-shouldered under his tailored suit. “Because we have a special client. A very wealthy, very discreet individual. He saw you fight. He doesn’t just want to watch.”
A cold trickle, unrelated to the sweat, traced Koen’s spine. “I don’t do private matches.”
“It’s not a match he wants,” the man behind the desk purred. He nodded to his companion.
The larger man was on Koen in an instant. Not with a fighter’s grace, but with the brute efficiency of a hunter. A thick arm hooked around Koen’s throat from behind, squeezing. Koen threw an elbow back, connecting with ribs, but the grip only tightened. He was strong, but he was drained, and this man was fresh, armed with something more than muscle—authority.
“What the fuck—” Koen choked out, clawing at the arm.
The cultured man stood calmly, coming around the desk. He undid his cufflinks, placing them neatly on the polished wood. “Our client admires resilience. The ability to take punishment and keep standing. He paid a premium to… test that quality firsthand. Consider it a performance bonus.”
The arm around Koen’s throat shifted, a knee driving into the small of his back, forcing him to bend over the desk. His face pressed against the cool wood. He struggled, but a heavy hand planted between his shoulder blades, pinning him. He felt hands at his waist, yanking his battered leather trousers and shorts down to his thighs in one rough motion. The cold air of the room hit his exposed skin.
“Don’t fucking do this,” Koen snarled, his voice muffled against the desk.
“Or what?” the gravel voice whispered hotly in his ear. “You’ll kill us? Then you’d have no work, half-breed. No coin. You’d be back in the gutters where your kind belongs. Take the money. Take the pain. It’s what you’re built for.”
Koen heard the telltale sound of a belt buckle clinking, a zipper lowering. His heart hammered against the oak desktop. Shame and a sick, traitorous arousal warred in him—a dark legacy he always fought to suppress.
A spit-wet thumb pressed brutally against his hole, not asking, just testing. Koen flinched, a sharp gasp escaping him.
“Tight,” the rough voice grunted. “Even after last week’s fun. Good.”
There was no more preamble. The man behind him shoved forward.
Koen cried out, a sharp, strangled sound as the thick, unforgiving cock breached him. It was a dry, brutal invasion, tearing through clenched muscle. He saw stars, his fists pounding uselessly on the desk. The man didn’t stop, didn’t slow. He set a punishing rhythm, driving into Koen with deep, grinding thrusts that shook the desk.
“Fuck, yeah,” the man groaned, his hands digging into Koen’s hips hard enough to bruise—bruises that would fade in minutes, a curse of his blood. “Even better than I paid for. Takes it like a champ.”
The cultured one watched, his hand now stroking his own erection over his fine trousers. He moved closer, the tip of his cock brushing Koen’s lips. “Open.”
Tears of fury and humiliation stung Koen’s eyes. He clenched his jaw shut.
A fist tangled in his ashen black hair and yanked his head back. “I said open, you infernal whore.”
The pain was sharp. Koen’s mouth fell open in a gasp, and the man immediately fed his cock into it, sliding deep until it hit the back of Koen’s throat. Koen gagged, his body now a bridge of torment between them. He was fucked from both ends, ruthlessly used, the sounds wet and obscene in the quiet room.
The man in his mouth thrust with a measured, controlled cruelty, each push making Koen choke. The one behind him was an animal, slamming into his ass with raw, slap of flesh on flesh. The desk creaked in protest. Koen’s world narrowed to the assault, to the overwhelming fullness, the degradation that was as much a part of him as his freckles or his canines.
The cultured one groaned, his composure cracking. “Going to come down that pretty throat,” he panted. His thrusts became erratic, deeper. “Swallow it. Swallow every drop.”
Koen couldn’t breathe. His body convulsed as the man behind him found a ruthless angle that lit a fire in his core despite everything. A ragged, shameful moan vibrated around the cock in his mouth.
The man above him cursed, his hips stuttering. Hot, bitter spurts flooded Koen’s mouth, coating his tongue, his throat. He gagged, but a hand clamped over his nose, forcing him to swallow or suffocate. He swallowed, the act a final surrender.
As he did, the man behind him let out a guttural roar, his thrusts becoming vicious, uncontrolled jerks. Koen felt the hot flood of release fill him, messy and overwhelming.
They held him there for a long moment, both spent, panting. Then they withdrew.
Koen slumped forward over the desk, coughing, cum and saliva dripping from his chin. He felt filthy, used, hollow. The rough-voiced man tucked himself away, slapping Koen’s ass with a laugh that wasn’t kind. “See? Built for it.”
The cultured one adjusted his mask, straightening his clothes with fastidious care. He placed a heavy leather purse next to Koen’s head on the desk. It clinked with the promise of double payment.
“A pleasure as always, Delano,” he said, his voice smooth and detached once more. “We’ll see you next week.”
They left him there, bent over the desk, trousers around his thighs, cooling semen trickling down his legs. The door clicked shut.
Koen didn’t move for a long time. He stared at the grain of the wood, his breath fogging the polished surface. Slowly, he pushed himself upright. His body healed, the physical discomfort already fading. The other feeling, the deep, familiar shame, would take longer. If it ever left.
He pulled his clothes up, fastened them with trembling hands. He picked up the purse. It was heavy. He hefted it once, then shoved it into his coat pocket.
He opened the office door and stepped back into the dim, empty corridor. The path to the locker room still waited. The shower still called. He started walking, his boots echoing on the stone, each step a little steadier than the last. He walked until the echo was the only sound left.
The shower did little to cleanse the feeling of their hands on him, the memory of the desk against his cheek. A week passed in a blur of training, cheap flophouse beds, and the violent, screaming catharsis of the ring. He fought a trio of spell-slinging thugs from the Murkwater district on Tuesday, their magic fizzling against his fire-proof skin before he broke their bones with his fists. The crowd ate it up. The purse was good. He almost let himself forget.
Almost.
The following Friday, his knuckles were still raw from tonight’s brawl—a hulking minotaur who’d finally gone down after three point-blank hits. The arena medic had grumbled, stitching a gash on his shoulder that was already trying to knit itself closed. Koen waved him off, heading for the corridor. He just wanted to get his money and get the hell out. A deep, uncharacteristic dread was a cold stone in his gut as he neared the office door.
It opened before he could pass.
The same broad-shouldered man with the gravel voice leaned in the frame, his silver mask glinting. “Victory lap, Delano. Get in here.”
Koen’s orange eyes narrowed. “I’ll take my payment out here.”
The cultured voice floated from inside. “The purse is on the desk. Along with a celebratory drink. Come in, or forfeit it.”
Koen’s jaw tightened. His rent was due. He shouldered past the man in the doorway, stepping into the opulent room. The heavier purse sat next to two crystal glasses filled with an amber liquid. The cultured one gestured to it. “A toast. To your continued… endurance.”
“I don’t drink with clients,” Koen said, his voice flat. He reached for the purse.
A hand closed over his wrist. The gravel-voiced man was behind him again, fast. “It’s not a request.” He twisted Koen’s arm, not enough to break it, but enough to make him gasp and turn. The cultured one stood, picking up a glass.
“Hold him.”
The bigger man’s other arm locked around Koen’s neck in that familiar, choking hold. Koen thrashed, demonic strength flaring, but the angle was bad and the man knew his business. The cultured one stepped close, the crystal glass in his hand.
“Open his mouth.”
The arm around Koen’s throat squeezed, cutting his air. His lips parted in a ragged gasp. The man shoved the rim of the glass between his teeth and tipped it up.
The liquid wasn’t whiskey. It was sickly sweet, thick like syrup, with an undertaste of bitter herbs and something chemical. Koen gagged, but a hand clamped over his mouth and nose, forcing him to swallow. He had no choice. He gulped it down, the vile stuff burning a path to his stomach.
They released him. Koen stumbled back, coughing, wiping his mouth. “What the hell was that?”
“Something to take the edge off,” the cultured one said, watching him like a scientist observing a specimen. “For all of us.”
Koen felt it almost immediately. A warmth started in his belly, spreading outwards, softening the sharp edges of the room. The harsh electric light seemed to blur, replaced by a gentle, pulsing glow. The heavy dread in his gut dissolved into… nothing. A pleasant, buzzing nothing. He giggled. The sound was loose and strange in his own ears.
“Whoa,” he mumbled, his tongue feeling thick. He took a step and the floor seemed to cushion his boot. “Tha’s… strong stuff.”
His thoughts swam in thick honey. Resistance seemed like a silly, distant concept. Why would he resist? These were nice men. They had given him a drink. And money. So much money. He grinned dopily at the silver masks, his sharp canines exposed.
“See?” the gravel voice said, a smile in his tone. “Much more agreeable.”
Fingers, strangely distant, began to unbuckle his belt. It clattered to the floor. Koen watched it fall, fascinated by the slow arc it made. Hands worked at the buttons of his trousers. He should probably care. But the warmth was everywhere now, a cozy blanket wrapped around his mind. He was floating.
His clothes pooled at his feet. The cool air on his skin felt amazing. He sighed, leaning back into a solid body that had appeared behind him. Strong arms held him up. That was good. Standing was hard.
“Such a good fighter,” a voice murmured in his ear. It sounded kind. “Such a good, strong thing. Let’s see how strong.”
Koen was guided forward, his body pliant and boneless, until his bare chest met the cool, polished wood of the desk. He nuzzled against it, the smooth surface feeling divine on his cheek. Something hard and hot pressed against the cleft of his ass. He giggled again, a breathy, stupid sound.
“Yeah, there,” he slurred, pushing back slightly into the pressure. His own cock, trapped beneath him, was stiff and leaking. It felt good. Everything felt good.
There was no brutal tearing this time. With the drug melting his tension, the thick cock slid into him with a shocking, smooth ease. A moan tumbled from Koen’s lips, long and unguarded. “Fuuuck…”
“Like that, do you?” the voice behind him grunted, already thrusting with a deep, practiced rhythm. Each movement sparked a firework of sensation in Koen’s addled brain. He was being fucked, and it was incredible. He writhed on the desk, mewling, his own hands scrambling for purchase on the wood.
The cultured one appeared in his bleary vision. He’d freed his cock, stroking it slowly. “Open.”
Koen obeyed without a thought, his mouth falling open in a slack, willing ‘O’. The man fed himself inside, his length sliding over Koen’s tongue. Koen suckled lazily, the bitter-salt taste of pre-cum mingling with the syrupy drug on his tongue. He couldn’t coordinate to deepthroat, but he licked and swirled his tongue, a dumb, happy noise vibrating in his throat.
He was a vessel, being used, and his drugged mind sang with pleasure. The cock in his ass pistoned into him, hitting a spot that made his toes curl. The one in his mouth grew harder, fucking his face with shallow, demanding jabs. Spit dripped down his chin. He didn’t care.
“Gonna come,” the man behind him growled, his thrusts turning erratic, sloppy. “Gonna fill this sweet demon cunt up.”
Koen just babbled around the cock in his mouth, a slurry of “yes” and “please” and meaningless sounds. The climax ripped through him, a tidal wave of unthinking ecstasy. His back arched as his own release splattered against the underside of the desk, wave after wave of it, drawn out by the relentless pounding in his ass.
The man above him cursed, his hips stuttering, and Koen dutifully swallowed each hot, pulsing spurt as it flooded his mouth. He sucked gently, greedily, as the man pulled out.
The thrusts behind him became frantic, then stopped. Koen felt the hot flood inside him, a deep, claiming warmth that pooled in his gut. He clenched weakly around it, milking the last drops, a sigh of pure contentment escaping him.
They withdrew. Koen slumped onto the desk, a puddle of limp, satiated flesh. He was coated in sweat and spit and cum, inside and out. His mind was a vacant, blissful meadow. A heavy purse landed on the desk beside his head.
“Until next week,” the cultured voice said, zipping his trousers.
Koen managed a slow, sloppy smile. “Okay,” he mumbled into the wood. Footsteps receded. The door closed.
Time became a syrup-thick smear, minutes or maybe hours pooling around Koen’s naked hips where they pressed against the cool wood. The drug was a warm blanket smothering every sharp corner of thought. He drifted, occasionally mumbling into the desktop, his fingers twitching near the heavy purse they’d left. Someone would probably steal it. That seemed important, but his limbs were made of sand.
A fly buzzed near his ear, the sound enormous in the thick silence. He blinked, his vision swimming between the wood grain and a blurry middle distance.
The door crashed open, slamming against the wall with a bang that shuddered through the desk under his cheek.
“Alright, Delano, you flashy bastard, we gotta—” The voice, a familiar rasp belonging to a brawler named Corso, cut off abruptly.
Koen managed to tilt his head. Three figures filled the doorway, backlit by the corridor’s foul light. He recognized their outlines: Corso with his broken nose, the hulking silhouette of the ogre-blooded Grenn, and the sleek, dangerous form of Vespa, who fought with poisoned knives. They were all glowering, fists clenched, fresh from their own matches.
“The hell?” Grenn grunted, his voice like stones grinding together.
Vespa stepped in first, her nose wrinkling. The room reeked of sex, sweat, and that cloying, medicinal sweetnes. She took in the scene: Koen, naked and utterly limp, smeared and glistening in the lamplight, the empty crystal glass, the heavy purse untouched. Her hardened fighter’s eyes missed nothing.
“Looks like the management collected their extra pound of flesh,” she said, her tone flat. She nudged the glass with her boot. “Dosed him good, too. Smell that? Siren’s Syrup. Liquid compliance.”
Corso’s angry posture slumped into something else. “Damn it.” He’d come here itching to finally knock the half-demon pretty boy down a peg, to shout about unfair purses and favoritism. Seeing Koen like this, though… it wasn’t a victory. It was just sad. “Fighting him now’d be like kicking a doped-up stray.”
Genn shuffled his massive feet, uncomfortable. “He always fights clean. Even when he’s ripping your arm off.” He remembered the minotaur fight, the three precise hits to disable, not to gratuitously maim. There was a brutal efficiency to Koen he respected. This was something else. This was weakness, and it left a bad taste.
Koen giggled softly, his orange eyes unfocused as he looked at them. “Hey, guys. You see… the floor? It’s wobbly.”
Vespa let out a short, sharp breath. “Yeah, we see.” She looked at the others. “We can’t leave him here. The vultures’ll pick him clean, purse and all. Probably slice his throat for the fun of it if he babbles at them.”
“Why’s it our problem?” Corso muttered, but he was already moving into the room, grabbing Koen’s discarded trousers. “Stupid infernal idiot. Can’t even get robbed with dignity.”
“He’d do it for you,” Grenn stated simply, looming over Koen. The half-demon was still smiling vacantly. “Remember after my bout with the skin-changer? Delano kept those loan sharks off me while I was puking up my guts. Didn’t even ask for a cut.”
Corso sighed, the fight draining out of him. He roughly bundled Koen’s legs into his trousers, working with the practiced, ungentle efficiency of a corner man patching up a fighter. “Yeah, fine. Help me get him up. He’s heavier than he looks.”
Together, Corso and Grenn hauled Koen off the desk. Koen stumbled between them, his arms slung over their shoulders, his head lolling. “We goin’ for a walk? I like walks.”
“We’re going to get some water into you, you dumb ox,” Corso grumbled, but his grip was firm, supportive.
Vespa snatched the purse from the desk, weighing it in her hand. “He earned this, at least.” She tucked it into Koen’s coat, which she gathered from the floor. She looked around the opulent room one last time, her lip curled in disgust. “Place is a fucking brothel.”
They moved into the corridor, a clumsy, four-legged beast. Koen tried to walk but mostly dragged his boots. Grenn took most of the weight, Corso steering.
“Think he’ll remember any of this?” Grenn asked as they turned toward the fighters’ common washroom, a grim concrete cave with rusted pipes.
“Hope not, for his sake,” Vespa said, walking ahead to clear the path. “But he’ll know we dragged his ass out of there. That’s enough.”
They pushed through the swinging door into the washroom. The air was thick with steam and the smell of cheap soap and blood. Corso guided Koen to a long, grimy bench and sat him down. Koen swayed, blinking slowly at the dripping faucet across the room like it was the most fascinating thing he’d ever seen.
Vespa ran the cold tap until it was icy, filling a battered metal bucket. Without ceremony, she hurled the contents into Koen’s face.
He sputtered, gasping, a shock of clarity hitting his drugged system. His orange eyes widened, focusing for a second on Vespa’s grim face. “Wha—?”
“Welcome back,” she said, tossing the bucket aside. “Now drink.” She shoved a canteen into his hands.
Koen fumbled with the cap, his fingers numb and clumsy. He drank in deep, desperate gulps, water spilling down his chin and chest, washing some of the grime away. The dreadful, sugary taste in his mouth began to recede, replaced by the flat tang of iron from the pipes. Shame started to seep in through the chemical haze, cold and heavy.
He looked at the three of them, gathered around him not with pity, but with a rough, practical solidarity. He saw no mockery in their eyes, just a shared understanding of the ring’s darker economy. He wiped his mouth, his voice a raw whisper. “My purse?”
Corso jerked a thumb at the coat Vespa held. “It’s there. We’re not animals.”
Koen nodded, the motion making his head pound. The fight was gone from him, leaving only a hollow, aching exhaustion. He was shivering now, the cold water and the aftershock of the drug taking hold.
Grenn tossed a cleanish, threadbare towel at him. “Get decent. We’ll walk you out. Can’t have you staggering into an alley and getting shanked. Bad for business if the champion ends up dead in the gutter.”
A weak, almost laugh coughed its way out of Koen’s throat. It sounded like breaking glass. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” Corso said, looking away, suddenly examining a crack in the wall. “Ever. To anyone.”
They stood in the dripping quiet, three battered warriors guarding a fourth, waiting for the strength to return to his legs so they could all go home.