Chapter 6: Reversal of Fortune
The bass from the main chamber thumped through the obsidian walls like a second, erratic heartbeat. A few weeks had passed since Beezle’s private little “initiation,” and my social calendar had, paradoxically, become both packed and profoundly simple. I’d made friends. Well. I’d made several friends through the most straightforward networking strategy available in the lower circles: sex. It was efficient, if exhausting.
Kai, my beautiful, black-and-white gateway drug to this new lifestyle, had become something like a friend-conductor. “You’re a natural, Loon,” he’d slurred last week, clapping me on the back so hard I’d choked on my brimstone shot. “A bit shy on the small talk, but fuck, you make up for it.” I felt their emotions when we hooked up—the eager hunger, the competitive thrill, the fleeting warmth of camaraderie—and I mirrored it back, amplifying the connection. It was my party trick. My survival mechanism.
Now, in one of the many soundproofed sex rooms off Beezle’s main party hall, that mechanism was being stress-tested. The room was small, lit by a single pulsating crimson orb, the walls lined with slick, black leather padding. The air was thick with the scent of musk, infernal spice, and sweat.
Kai was behind me, his hands gripping my hips, his cock buried deep in my ass with a steady, punishing rhythm. “Fuck, he’s still so tight,” Kai grunted, his voice hot against the back of my neck. “Even after Zale took his turn.”
Zale, a brindle-furred hellhound with shoulders like a battering ram, was currently kneeling in front of me, his thick length sliding in and out of my mouth. I gagged slightly, tears pricking my eyes, as he gripped the base of my ears. “Suck it, puppy,” Zale rumbled, his thrusts shallow and controlling. “Gonna paint that pretty grey muzzle.”
The third, a sleek, grey-furred female named Morag, watched from a low couch, idly fingering herself, her tail flicking. “He’s taking you both so well,” she purred. “Maybe I want a turn in that ass next. Stretch it out properly.”
This was the raw arithmetic of my new social life. Kai was the anchor, his thrusts familiar, almost affectionate in their force. Zale was dominance, a challenge I felt compelled to meet. And Morag’s sharp anticipation was a cool thread of promise, or threat, weaving through the heat.
Kai’s pace increased, his claws pricking my skin. “You love this, don’t you?” he breathed, his emotional state a blur of boastful pride and genuine, lustful focus. “Our shy little climber, fucking his way to a better rolodex.”
I couldn’t speak with Zale fucking my mouth, but the feeling wasn’t wrong. There was a terrifying simplicity to it. No awkward silences. Just gasps, and grunts, and the slick, filthy sounds of bodies being used.
Zale’s thrusts grew jerky. “Gonna come,” he warned, his voice tight.
I tried to pull back, but his hands held my head firm. With a low growl, he shoved himself to the hilt, and I felt the hot, bitter pulse of his release flood the back of my throat. I swallowed convulsively, the act less sexual than instinctive, a messy necessity. He pulled out with a wet pop, smearing the rest across my lips and chin with a rough thumb. “Good pup.”
The momentary vacancy in front of me let me gasp for air. Saliva and cum dripped from my jaw. Behind me, Kai was losing his rhythm, his thrusts becoming frantic, chaotic.
“Yeah, yeah, fuck, Loon…” Kai’s voice broke. His emotions spiked—a bright, sunburst climax of victory and pleasure. He slammed into me one last time, his body locking, and I felt the hot rush of him filling me up. He stayed there, panting, his forehead between my shoulder blades.
For a second, there was just the sound of our ragged breathing and the muffled thump of the party. Then Kai slid out, and I shuddered, feeling empty and used in the most literal, undeniable way.
Morag uncurled herself from the couch. “My turn,” she said, her voice a silken promise. She walked over, her claws tracing a line down my spine. “On your back, sweet thing. Let me see that pretty, fucked-out face.”
I complied, collapsing onto the padded leather, my body aching and buzzing. Kai and Zale, already softening, moved to the side, lighting soul-cigars and watching with lazy, satiated interest. This was the afterparty.
Morag climbed over me, her sleek fur cool against my overheated skin. She didn’t kiss me. She positioned herself, guiding me into her with a slow, deliberate sink that made my breath hitch. She was tight, a different, clenching heat. She began to ride me, her movements fluid and expert, her eyes locked on mine.
“See?” she whispered, leaning down so her breath tickled my ear. “This is how you get ahead. You’re not just taking it. You’re providing a service. Everyone leaves happy. Everyone remembers the hellhound who could take a pounding and still get hard for more.”
Her words, laced with that cruel-practical truth, mixed with the sensations. The pleasure built again, a deep, coiling pressure. I was just a tool, a conduit for their gratification, and in that, there was a bizarre, shameful freedom. No performance beyond the physical. No mask. Just this.
Her pace quickened. She clenched around me, her own climax building. I felt it—a sharp, glittering shard of selfish joy. It triggered mine. My back arched off the leather as I came inside her, a raw, emptying surge that left me dizzy.
Morag collapsed atop me with a satisfied sigh, then rolled off. The three of them chatted lightly about the DJ, about a new soul-vintage, as they casually cleaned themselves up. I lay there, spent and sticky, staring at the pulsating red light.
Kai tossed a damp cloth onto my chest. “You okay, mate?”
I sat up slowly, wiping at the mess on my face and chest. Their collective emotional afterglow—sated, amused, vaguely fond—washed over me. I mirrored a tired smile back. “Yeah,” I said, my voice hoarse. “Great.”
And in a way, I was. I had friends. Three of them, right here. The method was unorthodox, but the result was tangible. I was building something. A reputation. A network.