Chapter 11: All is lost
Telemachus and Karl made it to a small cottage. Telemachus was then pulled into an embrace by Karl, who was in heat.
The cottage door slammed open, rebounding off a crumbling stone wall. Karl half-shoved, half-dragged Telemachus inside the single, cramped room. Dust motes exploded in the weak light filtering through grimy windows. The air hung thick with the smell of damp earth, rotting wood, and something feral radiating from Karl. "Fucking hole," Karl rasped, kicking the door shut with a boot heel. He stumbled, swaying, his grip on Telemachus tightening like a vise. Sweat plastered dark strands of hair to Karl’s temples, his pupils blown wide, breaths ragged and hot against Telemachus’s masked cheek. The Cadou’s heat pulsed off him in waves, a feverish, animal stink.
Telemachus flinched violently, trying to pull away. His back screamed where Karl’s earlier ministrations had torn him open, the ghost-weight of the bearing making his guts clench. "P-please..." The muffled plea behind the cracked kitsune mask was barely audible, drowned by Karl’s harsh gasps. He pushed weakly against Karl’s chest, claws snagging on the heavy coat. The move only seemed to ignite the fire in Karl further. "Shut it, mutt," Karl growled, a low, guttural sound vibrating through his chest. His free hand, trembling with suppressed energy, tore at the hem of Telemachus’s ruined white hoodie, ripping fabric upwards. "Smell you... fuck..." he muttered, inhaling sharply near Telemachus’s neck. "Blood... sweat... mine."
Karl’s magnetism hummed, uncontrolled. Rusty tools clattered against the far wall, a metal bucket skittered across the dirt floor. He slammed Telemachus backwards onto a crude wooden table, the impact jarring every aching bone. Dust billowed around them. Before Telemachus could even gasp, Karl was on him, pinning his wrists above his head with terrifying ease. The kitsune mask cracked further under the pressure of Karl’s forehead. "Need it," Karl snarled, his voice thick with a need beyond reason. "Need that tight little hole you ruined." He tore at Telemachus’s torn black jeans, shoving them down his hips along with his underwear, exposing the pale skin of his ass, the swollen, reddened pucker still wet with blood from the earlier violation. Karl spat roughly onto his fingers, not bothering to remove his gloves. "Should've kept you plugged," he grunted, pushing two thick fingers brutally inside.
Telemachus arched off the table, a silent scream tearing through his throat. The intrusion burned, reopening barely closed tears. He kicked out with his clawed feet, scraping uselessly against Karl’s heavy boots. Karl just grunted, twisting his fingers deeper, scissoring them callously. "Fucking greedy... always so greedy for it," he panted, watching Telemachus writhe. He withdrew his fingers, slick with blood and spit. The rasp of his own zipper was loud in the dusty silence. His cock sprang out, hard and thick and already leaking.
He didn’t wait, didn’t hesitate. Karl lined up and slammed forward in one brutal thrust, sheathing himself to the hilt in the tight, bloody channel. Telemachus’s body seized, rigid with agony. Karl groaned, a deep, shuddering sound of relief mingled with violence. "Fuck! Yes! Still fucking ruined, still so fucking tight!" He pulled back almost completely, then drove in again, harder. The table legs scraped across the dirt floor. Karl set a punishing rhythm immediately, hips pistoning, each savage thrust hammering Telemachus deeper into the unyielding wood.
He leaned down, teeth bared, biting roughly at the exposed skin of Telemachus’s neck above the hoodie collar. "Take it, you fucking knot-slut!" Karl snarled against him. "Take every fucking inch!" He gripped Telemachus's hips hard enough to bruise, fingers digging into the bony ridge, using him like a fleshlight. The raw slap of skin on skin, Karl’s harsh grunts, the faint creak of the table under the assault – the cottage was filled with the sounds of violence masquerading as sex. Karl fucked with single-minded ferocity, chasing the release the Cadou demanded, uncaring of the choked, voiceless sobs coming from beneath the mask, uncaring of the fresh blood slicking his cock with every brutal plunge.
"Gonna breed you full," Karl gasped, his rhythm faltering, becoming erratic and desperate. He slammed deep, grinding his hips hard against Telemachus’s ass, burying himself impossibly deep. "Fill this worthless cunt!" A guttural roar tore from his throat as he came, thick spurts of cum pulsing hot into the torn channel, mixing with the blood. He held himself there, shuddering, buried to the root, panting harshly against Telemachus’s shoulder. Telemachus lay utterly still beneath him, trembling, tears soaking the inside of the wooden mask, the cold wood of the table pressing into his cheek.
Karl slowly pulled out, his spent cock glistening obscenely. The overwhelming heat radiating from him began to recede, replaced by a cold clarity. He looked down at Telemachus’s ravaged body crumpled on the table, the torn clothes, the fresh blood trickling down pale thighs. His own sweat cooled on his skin. A flicker of something – disgust, perhaps, or just exhaustion – crossed his face. He didn’t look at the mask. Roughly, wordlessly, he tugged Telemachus’s ruined jeans back up over his hips, ignoring the flinch. He stepped back, zipping himself up with sharp, efficient movements. The magnetic hum had faded completely, leaving only the thick, coppery stink of sex and blood in the silent, dusty cottage. Telemachus didn’t move. Karl lit a cigarillo, the flare of the match harsh in the gloom, his gaze fixed on the grimy window and the encroaching dark outside.
He purred, wrapped his arms around Telemachus. "My sweet boy... my precious pet, mine, all mine."
The possessive murmur hung thick and cloying in the dusty air, Karl’s arms a steel trap around Telemachus’s trembling frame. The kitsune mask pressed awkwardly against Karl’s sweat-stained coat, a barrier of cracked wood separating the violated bioweapon from his captor’s sudden, unsettling tenderness. Telemachus remained utterly still, a frozen doll, every nerve screaming from the brutal reaming Karl had just inflicted, the fresh ache deep inside pulsing like a second heartbeat. Karl nuzzled the top of the mask, the gesture grotesque after the violence. "My good little fox," he rasped, fingers tracing the dragon design on the ruined hoodie’s back, snagging on torn fabric. "Didn't mean to rip it... much." His chuckle was a low rumble against Telemachus’s skull.
He pulled back slightly, his gaze lingering on the mask. One gloved finger hooked under the cracked edge near the temple. "This fuckin’ thing," Karl muttered, his voice losing its brief softness, turning contemplative, dangerous. "Always hidin'." He applied pressure. The crack widened with a sickening splinter. Telemachus flinched violently, a choked gasp escaping him. "Bet you’re pretty under here," Karl mused, his other hand sliding down to grip Telemachus’s hip possessively. "My pretty little whore."
"P-please... n-no..." Telemachus's muffled plea was barely a whisper, drowned by the frantic thudding of his own heart against his ribs. He tried to shrink away, but Karl’s grip on his hip tightened, pinning him. The finger under the mask dug in, prying. With brutal indifference, Karl ripped the kitsune mask sideways. The weathered wood tore completely, half of it clattering to the dirt floor, the other half still clinging by a leather thong around Telemachus’s neck. Dust motes danced in the weak light.
Telemachus squeezed his eyes shut instantly, turning his head away, pressing his exposed face against Karl’s coat as if seeking refuge in the very fabric that smelled of blood, ozone, and sweat. His face was pale, delicate, streaked with tears and grime, framed by messy dark hair. A faint scar traced his jawline. He looked heartbreakingly young and utterly broken. Karl stared, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. "Well, fuck me," he breathed, his voice thick with renewed heat that had nothing to do with the Cadou’s recent frenzy. "Look at you."
He grabbed Telemachus’s chin, forcing his head up and around. Telemachus kept his eyes squeezed shut, trembling violently. "Open," Karl commanded, thumb pressing hard against his lips. "Look at me." When Telemachus didn't comply, Karl slapped him. Hard. The crack echoed in the small space. Telemachus’s eyes flew open wide, shocked, wet with fresh tears. They were a startlingly clear green, filled with pure terror. Karl traced the red mark blooming on his cheekbone. "Better. Mine to look at now. No more fuckin' mask." His gaze dropped hungrily to Telemachus’s mouth.
Karl’s other hand moved down, fumbling with his own fly again with impatient fingers. The zipper rasped harshly. His cock, already half-hard again from looking at the exposed face, sprang free. It glistened slightly, still damp from his earlier release inside Telemachus. "Suck," he ordered, shoving Telemachus’s head down towards his crotch. "Clean it off. Show me how grateful you are I saved your scrawny ass back there."
Telemachus resisted, trying to pull back, a strangled sound escaping his throat. Karl’s grip on his chin became punishing, fingers digging into his jaw. "Don't make me force you, mutt," he growled, the magnetic hum starting to vibrate the air faintly. Rusty nails trembled in the wall. "Put that pretty fuckin' mouth to work." He pushed harder, forcing the weeping head of his cock against Telemachus’s tightly closed lips. "Open wide, bitch. Take it deep."
Overwhelmed, broken, Telemachus parted his lips slightly. Karl didn't wait. He shoved forward, forcing his thick cockhead past the resistance, stretching Telemachus’s mouth wide. Telemachus gagged immediately, saliva slicking Karl’s shaft. "Yeah, that's it," Karl groaned, tilting his head back slightly, shoving deeper. The blunt head hit the back of Telemachus’s throat. He choked, tears streaming freely down his exposed cheeks. "Fuck, that tight throat... better than your ass sometimes," Karl grunted, grabbing a fistful of dark hair, holding Telemachus’s head in place. He began to thrust shallowly, fucking his mouth with short, brutal jabs.
"Get it wet, slut," Karl rasped, watching his cock disappear between the bioweapon’s lips, glistening with spit and tears. "Suck it like you mean it." He pushed deeper, forcing himself into the tight resistance of Telemachus’s throat. Telemachus gagged violently, struggling for air, his hands scrabbling weakly at Karl’s thighs. Karl held him down relentlessly. "Swallow it, you fucking cocksucker! Take it all!" His hips pistoned faster, driving his cock ruthlessly into the constricting heat, each thrust eliciting a wet choke. Pre-cum mixed with saliva dripped down Telemachus’s chin onto the dirty hoodie.
Karl’s breath hitched, his thrusts turning erratic, brutal. "Gonna cum down your fuckin' throat!" he snarled. He shoved in balls-deep, grinding against Telemachus’s face, holding him there as his cock pulsed violently. Hot jets of cum flooded Telemachus’s mouth, triggering frantic, desperate swallows and gags as he tried not to drown. Karl groaned, low and satisfied, holding Telemachus impaled until the last spurt. He finally pulled out with a slick pop.
Telemachus collapsed backwards onto the dirt floor, retching, thick strands of Karl’s come mixing with spit and bile on his chin. His bare face, pale and tear-streaked, felt horrifyingly exposed to the cottage’s damp chill. Karl loomed above him, tucking himself away with a satisfied grunt, the sharp tang of his cigarillo igniting moments later, cutting through the stink of sex and vomit. "Fuckin' mess," he muttered, taking a deep drag, his eyes roaming possessively over Telemachus’s trembling form, lingering on the exposed vulnerability.
The raw ache in Telemachus’s ass throbbed anew, a brutal counterpoint to the sting in his throat. He wiped his mouth on the shredded sleeve of his once-white hoodie, the dragon on the back smeared with grime and fluids. The torn remnants of the kitsune mask hung pathetically around his neck, a useless talisman. Karl exhaled smoke, studying him with unnerving intensity. "Heard that," he said abruptly, gesturing with his cigarillo towards Telemachus’s hip where dark blood still seeped through the ripped jeans from the Lycan’s earlier rake. "Fuckin’ leaky. Can’t have you bleeding out before you fix this." He tapped his own ribs where a deep, angry gash from their escape was sluggishly oozing dark blood onto his coat.
Telemachus flinched. The demand was clear: heal the man who’d just raped his mouth and savaged his ass. Resignation warred with a spark of defiance in his green eyes. He shook his head weakly, a small, desperate motion. No. Not after that. Not again. Karl’s expression hardened. He dropped the cigarillo, grinding it under his boot heel in the dirt. "Don't fuck with me, fox," he warned, the magnetic hum starting to vibrate the air. An old, rusted shovel blade trembled against the wall. "You got pretty lips. Use 'em. Fix. Me. Now." He stepped closer, his shadow swallowing Telemachus. "Or I’ll make that asshole bleed again."
The implicit threat against his already brutalized body extinguished the defiance. Shuddering, Telemachus pushed himself up onto his knees. Karl stood over him, unbuckling his coat, peeling back the blood-soaked fabric near his ribs to expose the gash. It wasn't Lycan-inflicted; it was shrapnel from a grenade blast during their chaotic retreat. The flesh was mangled, edges blackened. Telemachus hesitated, staring at the wound, then at Karl’s impatient glare. He lowered his head slowly, the scent of Karl’s blood, sweat, and the lingering musk of sex filling his nose as he pressed his lips to the torn flesh.
He focused, pushing the warm, healing energy outward. He felt it flare weakly at first, a pale echo of its usual strength. It flowed, knitting torn muscle fibers, smoothing the charred edges. The effort drained him instantly; he swayed on his knees, the healing drawing directly from his own depleted reserves. Karl hissed, not in pain, but in relief as the deep ache subsided, the wound sealing rapidly under the bioweapon’s touch. "Yeah..." he breathed, watching the impossible repair. "That’s it... work that fuckin' mouth..." His hand dropped to the back of Telemachus’s head, not forcing, but resting possessively on the dark hair.
As the wound closed completely, leaving only a faint pink scar, Karl didn’t let him pull back. His hand tightened, keeping Telemachus’s face pressed against his newly healed side, near his hip. His free hand snaked down, fingers hooking into the torn waistband of Telemachus’s jeans. "Good mutt," he rumbled, his voice thick again. "But you ain't done earnin' your keep." He yanked the ruined jeans and underwear down past Telemachus's ass in one rough motion. "Need that hole. Properly."
Telemachus whimpered, trying to twist away, but Karl’s grip on his head held him firm against his hip. Karl’s other hand groped brutally between his cheeks, calloused fingers finding the swollen, blood-slicked pucker. He rubbed hard, pressing inward, making Telemachus cry out, the sound raw and hoarse. "Still loose," Karl grunted, almost to himself. "Still fuckin' wet from my last load. You stored it good?" He shoved two fingers in knuckle-deep, twisting them cruelly. Telemachus screamed into Karl's coat, his body arching in agony. "Yeah, you remember," Karl growled, pulling his fingers free with a lewd squelch. "Gonna top you off."
Karl stepped back, releasing Telemachus’s head, a dark smirk playing on his lips. He shoved his own trousers down his hips, his cock springing out, fully hard again. He spat into his palm, slicking himself roughly, his gaze fixed on Telemachus’s vulnerable position on his knees, ass exposed. "Get on the table," he ordered, voice low and dangerous. "Ass up. Now."
Trembling uncontrollably, every movement agony, Telemachus dragged himself towards the crude wooden table. He braced his clawed shoes against the dirt floor, the front talons digging in as he leaned forward, resting his chest on the rough wood, presenting his ravaged ass. The position pulled at his wounds, internal and external, fresh blood trickling down his thigh. Karl was behind him instantly, one broad hand splaying possessively over the small of his back, pinning him down. The other guided the thick, bulbous head of his cock to Telemachus’s abused entrance. "Open wide for daddy," Karl hissed.
He didn’t ease in. He surged forward, impaling Telemachus in one brutal, unforgiving thrust, burying himself to the hilt in the tight, torn channel. Telemachus’s scream was choked off as his body slammed into the table, the air driven from his lungs. Karl groaned, a sound of deep, animal satisfaction. "Fuck! Still so fuckin' tight! Grippin' my cock like a greedy little fist!" He pulled back almost entirely, then slammed home again, harder, the table legs screeching on the dirt. He set a savage, pounding rhythm immediately, each powerful thrust hammering Telemachus into the unyielding wood, forcing grunts and ragged sobs from the broken figure.
"You take it," Karl snarled, his hand fisting in the torn hoodie, the dragon motif crumpled under his grip. "Take it deep, you broken bitch!" He leaned forward, his weight crushing Telemachus against the table, his breath hot on the back of his exposed neck. "Shoulda left you for the Lycans! Shoulda let 'em rip you apart! But you're mine to ruin!" His thrusts became shorter, harder, brutal jabs aimed deep. He slammed against Telemachus’s prostate relentlessly. "Feel that? Gonna make you scream!"
The assault was overwhelming, a violation that tore through pain into a terrifying, unwanted sensitivity. A broken, involuntary moan escaped Telemachus, muffled by the wood. Karl laughed, a harsh, triumphant bark. "Yeah! Knew you liked it deep, you filthy whore!" He pistoned harder, faster, the sounds of wet, brutal fucking echoing off the cottage walls – skin slapping skin, Karl’s harsh grunts, Telemachus’s choked cries. The magnetic hum surged unconsciously; metal objects rattled violently around the room.
"Gonna cum!" Karl roared, driving in one final, agonizingly deep thrust, grinding his pelvis hard against Telemachus’s ass. He buried himself to the root and held it, shuddering violently as hot spurts of cum pulsed deep into the already stuffed passage, adding to the mess inside. He groaned, low and guttural, his weight fully pressing Telemachus into the table. For a long moment, there was only the sound of their harsh breathing and the settling metal. Karl slowly pulled out with a slow, wet drag, leaving Telemachus clenched around emptiness, trembling violently, come and blood leaking down his thighs. Karl stepped back, zipping himself up. He looked down at the destroyed figure on the table, then out the grimy window at the darkening sky. "Get dressed, mutt," he muttered, lighting another cigarillo. "We move at dusk."