They didn’t even give me a shirt, just a collar of black iron seared cold around my throat, humming faintly with binding runes.
It locked tight with the sound of finality, of doors closing forever. Twin cuffs at my wrists pulsed in sync with the collar like heartbeat monitors, engraved with glowing crimson script that danced with cruel elegance.
My rank: Guttermeat.
Lovely. I’ve always dreamed of being someone’s waste category.
I walked—or was more so dragged—between two guards who looked like they’d been forged from bad decisions and gym obsessions. Slab and Brick, I named them. Slab had a broken nose that never healed properly and a jaw that looked like it came with a warranty. Brick had shoulders so broad they probably needed zoning permits. Neither said a word. Not once.
Just the occasional clank of my leash as it tugged against the ring at my collar, like I was a dog being marched to a firing squad. Which, honestly, might’ve been preferable to this pit.
The prison wasn’t a single chamber. It was a kingdom. Cylindrical levels stacked in a downward spiral that disappeared into an abyss I didn’t want to meet. Each floor was wider than the last, made of obsidian brick and veined with glowing runes like arteries—throbbing red light seeping into everything. There were walkways suspended over pits of darkness, bridges held aloft by nothing visible, and voices... voices murmuring, screaming, moaning somewhere below. A fever dream dressed in bondage.
I shivered, half from the cold and half because... well, let’s just say I had complicated feelings about this kind of architecture.
"Prismillya welcomes you," I muttered under my breath, the collar tugging with each word. "The noble paradise where you can buy love, lose dignity, and get ranked like a cut of steak."
Slab stopped at a grimy black gate marked with sigils that burned bright red. "This one’s the restricted block," he said, voice like someone gargling gravel. "Special handling."
"Oh? Special handling?" I said sweetly, letting my voice dip into something suggestive. "You shouldn’t have. I didn’t even bring flowers."
Brick grunted. That might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been indigestion. Hard to tell.
The door screeched open on iron hinges, and without ceremony, I was thrown in—body hitting the floor hard enough to rattle my spine. The clang of the door behind me sealed more than the room. It sealed fate itself.
The cell was huge. Bigger than expected. It had the kind of space that implied privacy was still a joke, but now it was a joke with an echo.
One bed, barely large enough for a titan, sat against the far wall. Chains hung from the ceiling like morbid jewelry. A cracked mirror rested against the corner, smeared with dust and something darker. And sitting on the bed, leaning back like this whole thing was an afternoon nap, was a man built like war.
Muscle like stacked armor. Skin the color of sun-soaked sand. Long legs stretching out like he owned the whole goddamn floor. His hair ran wild on on the sides, thick on top, and his face wore a smile—not the friendly kind, but the kind you wear when you know you’re the smartest beast in the cage. His golden-flecked eyes found me instantly, and I felt seen in a way that wasn’t safe.
"You must be my new pillow pet," he said, voice low and smooth, laced with amusement. "They send me a lot of crazy. You might be the prettiest one yet."
His gaze traced me, slow and deliberate—over the swell of my hips, the smooth taper of my waist, the scandalous drape of my hair, still wet from the sterilizing mist they sprayed us with in processing. I stood bare and bound, collar gleaming, pretending I wasn’t flattered.
"And you must be Brutus," I said with a little mock bow, wrist chains rattling. "Is this your charm routine? Because I give it a six. You’re losing points for subtlety."
He chuckled, voice rumbling in his chest like a soft earthquake. "Name’s Brutus, yeah. You got it first try. Rare talent, for someone with the rank of Guttermeat."
That word again. It burned every time. Not because it was wrong. But because it was meant to be.
"Is that going to be my new nickname or the title of my obituary?" I asked, sauntering over toward his half of the cell. The mattress wheezed like it had opinions as I sank onto it, crossing one leg over the other in what I hoped passed as grace despite the bruises.
"Depends," Brutus said, watching me like a man watches a knife—curious, but expecting blood. "What did they put you in here for?"
I offered a shrug. "Being too cute, mostly. And maybe seducing the head jailer’s apprentice. Who knew he had a wife and a tracking enchantment? Honestly, very gauche of him."
Brutus threw his head back and laughed. It was rich, almost joyful—like he hadn’t laughed in a while and forgot how good it felt. "You’re insane."
"I’ve been told worse," I said, giving him a coy smile. "I used to be a sex worker, you know. In my past life."
That made him pause. His gaze sharpened.
"You remember your past life?"
"Mm-hm." I traced my finger along the edge of my collar. "And this one’s already worse. But it’s got potential."
He tilted his head, that smile softening into curiosity. "You think this hellhole has potential?"
"Absolutely," I said. "See, here’s the thing. I’ve got a plan. I’m going to climb my way out of this level. All the way to the top. Become a High Servant. Own a place on the surface. Maybe a vineyard. With... what do they call them? Sun windows."
"Sun windows," he echoed. "You mean windows?"
I grinned. "Details. The point is, I’m going to fuck my way to freedom. Politely, if possible. Aggressively, if necessary."
Brutus let out another long, slow laugh, shaking his head. "You’re either brilliant or suicidal."
I leaned back, stretched, let my hip bones peek just above the cuffs of the thin, low-slung cloth they called prison wear. "Why not both?"
Then I looked him dead in the eye. "Would you like a demonstration?"
That caught him.
He didn’t move at first. Just stared, smile twitching at the corners. I rose from the bed, slowly, like sin in motion, letting my hair fall over one shoulder, lips parted just slightly. My body was small, but it drew attention like a blade catching light. I knew what I looked like. I knew what I could do.
Brutus didn’t flinch. But his eyes followed me like heat.
When I reached him, I tilted my head, chin raised just enough to bare my throat. "Well?"
He moved fast.
One of his hands grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled—not hard, not cruel, but enough to make my breath catch and my knees loosen. My body lit up with something hot and reckless.
I gasped, a sound somewhere between a hiccup and a moan. Gods, it had been so long.
"Oh," I breathed. "We’re doing this."
His other hand came up, thumb brushing my lip, then slipping past. My mouth opened with zero hesitation, heat pooling between my thighs like an offering of sin.
"Mmmph~" I mumbled around his thumb, my tongue flicking against it instinctively, tasting salt and skin as my eyes fluttered with arousal.
He explored my mouth with all the clinical interest of someone inspecting merchandise. But the weight of his gaze? That was something else. Like he was measuring me—not my body, but my value.
"You’ve got a fang," he said, tone mild.
"Only on days ending in ’Y.’" I replied.
Then he rolled his thumb across the tip of my fang and I shivered, deep and full-bodied. My knees nearly gave out from the pulse that shot through me. I was breathing like I’d just run up ten flights of stairs naked.
"Cute," he said. "Weird, but cute."
I leaned into his hand. "Let me show you what else I can do."
For a second, the amusement in his eyes flickered into something more feral. And then it was gone.
"You’re serious about this whole climbing-up-the-ladder-through-sex thing?"
"Dead serious."
He pulled his hand away slowly, leaving my mouth wet and wanting.
"Well, damn," he said, still grinning. "Maybe you’re not as useless as you look. Alright then. Show me what you can do."
Brutus stood up with the slow gravity of a storm deciding where to fall. His broad frame loomed over me, his shadow swallowing the flickering lamplight like it was nothing. His hands went to the front of his prison trousers, unbuckling them with the casual menace of someone who knows you’re watching.
And oh, I was watching.
The fabric gave way—and what emerged made the air in my lungs hitch, sharp and needy. It slapped against my cheek like a hot accusation, heavy and impatient. My breath left me in a fluttering gasp that turned into a shaky inhale.
I let the scent of his cock hit me—earthy, raw, soaked in sweat and something darker. Gods, I’d forgotten how much of a high it could be. My mouth didn’t open, not yet, but my nostrils flared like an addict catching the first breath of a long-lost drug.
I leaned in, close enough for heat to shimmer off his skin, and let my nose do the work. One sniff. Then another. Then a third, slower this time—like I was trying to memorize him through scent alone.
"Mmm, fuck, you smell so good~" I moaned, my voice a needy whimper, nostrils flaring like a kitten discovering catnip for the first time, dizzy and enchanted.
Each inhale hit different—sweet and musky, thick with sweat and something deeper. Something primal.
By the third breath, I was already swaying, eyelids fluttering like I’d stepped into something far too delicious for a creature like me. I might’ve even let out a tiny whimper—just for effect.
He smelled like trouble. Like sin warmed over. Like everything I shouldn’t want yet couldn’t resist.
And somewhere in the middle of that heady cocktail of lust and shame, I felt the slick heat of precum beginning to soak into my prison linen. A little pulse of pleasure. My body betrayed me before I even touched him.
Brutus chuckled.
It wasn’t a cruel laugh. No, it was far worse. It was indulgent. Like I was his evening entertainment and he had all the time in the world to watch me fall apart.
"You like that, don’t you?" he said, looking down at me like I was his cursed plaything.
Then I smirked, just slightly, before letting my fingertip glide up the underside of his shaft. A single bead of moisture at the crown caught the light. I began playing with it like it was paint, letting it stretch between my fingers and smearing it across my lips before leaning in and placing a sloppy kiss—wet, exaggerated, and utterly obscene—right at the tip of his cock.
He grunted, hand twitching at his side. That tension—that coiled need—was mine now.
A string of spit clung between my mouth and his skin when I pulled away. Slow. Teasing. Filthy by implication alone.
I met his gaze as he shuttered back, hips twitching just a little, and smiled. "I thought you wanted a demonstration."
He exhaled sharply through his nose, his composure cracking ever so slightly.
"F-Fuck. Stop teasing me."
That was enough for me.
I opened my mouth slowly, dragging out the moment like a wicked little ritual. Heat pulsed between us—humid and sharp, the kind of closeness that made breath come shallow and skin feel too tight.
My lips hovered just above him, teasing the air with a ghost of touch, each exhale misting faintly in the dim glow. Then, inch by inch, I let myself sink into him, mouth parting with a breathy sound as my tongue began sliding over his cock, catching tiny dribbles of precum leaking into my mouth as he entered.
My hands gripped his thighs—not because I needed to, but because I wanted him to feel me there, anchoring myself as if this were a ritual. As if my tongue was the altar and his body the offering.
The taste hit me like memory—bitter, briny, real. Every twitch of him against my tongue sent heat spiraling lower, made me ache in ways that my own fingers wouldn’t fix.
He groaned, deep and animalistic, as his hand wrapped around the back of my head, needy for more, holding me there as he rocked himself, gently at first, then not so gently.
My eyes began watering and my throat burned as he thrust his cock deeper into my mouth, but gods, I was soaked now. Every inch of his cock slapping against the back of my throat made me feel more alive than anything since dying.
He whispered filth. Beautiful, depraved things. Things that made my cheeks flush and my back arch, every word dripping with tension, not because of what he said, but because of how much he meant it.
My body convulsed in rhythm. The wet heat between my thighs grew unbearable. I didn’t need to be touched to be unraveled. Just this
And when he finally cried out, shuddering, hips trembling against my lips, I swallowed around the moment like a sin I’d already confessed. I could feel his cum pouring into my throat like a lost lover, pooling in my stomach with the urgency of a secret finally revealed—hot, raw, and far too late to take back.
My own climax unfurled like a dragged thread — quiet at first, then snapping with a suddenness that left my thighs shaking. I bit down on a whimper, pressing my forehead to his stomach as a slow, sticky mess shot through my pants.
The wetness clung to my skin, humiliating and perfect, leaking warmth past fabric and onto the stone below. We stayed like that, caught in the aftershock, his fingers curled deeper into my hair, his cock still leaking down my throat like he was using my esophagus as his personal waste bin, my breath stuttering against his skin.
And then—blessed air.
I pulled back, a slick trail of cum and saliva tethered between us. My lips were puffy and raw. My chest was heaving uncontrollably, lungs fighting for breath, my jaw sore and satisfied.
All was silent save for the slow drip of something thick sliding off my chin and splattering faintly onto the stone below. Every tiny sound felt amplified in the hush—his groan tapering into a breathy sigh, the faint squelch of my soaked pants shifting as I moved to breathe.
Then he clutched the edge of the bed, sweat rolling down his chest before reaching down, grappling my hair and—gods help me—smacked the softening weight of himself gently against my face.
I blinked up at him, dazed but grinning, letting the moment hang before giving him one final kiss.
He couldn’t contain himself. I could feel the cum sputtering down his cock in a slow, lazy drip, lapping unto the bridge of my nose and down into the corner of my mouth.
My tongue flicked out like instinct. I tasted it, smirked, and then stood—swaying slightly as I wiped my face with the back of my hand.
"Well?" I asked, voice low, sultry with a bite of challenge. I let the moment breathe, drawing out the silence like silk over skin. Then, slow and deliberate, I peeled away my loincloth, letting it fall to the floor with the soft whisper of surrender. My hips swayed just enough to be intentional, the curve of my spine exaggerated as I turned my back to him.
The cold air kissed my bare skin, but I welcomed it. I tilted my head slightly, just enough to glance over my shoulder with a smirk that could curdle holy water.
I spread my stance with theatrical grace, hands sliding down my thighs before tugging gently—pulling myself open like an invitation scrawled in crimson ink. My skin was flushed, radiant with defiance and heat, and I knew exactly what he was seeing. What I wanted him to see.
"Still think I’m Guttermeat?" I purred, arching just enough to draw a low, involuntary sound from somewhere deep in his throat.
He didn’t answer.
Not with words.
He surged forward, hands gripping my waist. I bent forward, bare and inviting, my body a dare written in soft curves and shameless posture.
He crashed into me like thunder.
Our bodies moved against the cell bars, clanging with every thrust, echoing in rhythm with the moans and gasps of prisoners from across the chamber. I caught their eyes through the bars—men and women—all watching, some even pleasuring themselves at the sight, others whispering prayers. Or curses.
We were theater. We were prophecy.
"Ughh, shit, you’re so fucking tight," he groaned, his grip pressing harder around my hips as he drove us closer to the edge—each movement rougher, needier, like he was chasing the last thread of control slipping through his fingers.
My breath hitched, spine arching, a tremor blooming low in my belly as the tension between us wound tighter than it had any right to. The heat surrounding us was thick, clinging to our skin like honey, our motions wet and reckless under it’s oppressive rule.
He let out a low, broken groan—a sound that vibrated through my spine like a war drum.
Then it hit us—together.
He flooded into me, twitching around my waist with a shudder so deep it rocked my balance, and I followed.
I cried out in a voice I didn’t recognize as my own before my knees nearly buckled and I blew a hot, sticky load that splattered the floor in front of us in three heaping waves of relief.
When we finished—both of us breathless and undone—Brutus slumped against the wall, dragging a hand through his hair.
"That," he panted, "was beyond satisfying."
I collapsed beside him, body humming with overstimulation and triumph. "Told you," I said. "I’m not here to play. I’m here to ascend."
Brutus chuckled, a sound soft and sincere. "You’re trouble. The good kind of trouble. I could introduce you to the rest of my gang...if we ever get out of this cage."
My smirk was halfway formed when the cell door boomed open with unnatural force.
Three figures stood there.
Two hulking guards, even bigger than Slab and Brick—and between them, a man in black robes, face hidden behind a silver mask etched with a thousand shifting runes. His voice came low and distorted, like a curse being read backwards.
"Property 88-G. Designation: Loona. You have been summoned by the Sectional Warden."
He paused. Let it sink in.
"Failure to comply will result in immediate punishment of the highest tier."
Brutus shot me a look. A rare flicker of concern. I stood slowly, brushing sweat from my neck, face still a mess of slick and shine.
I turned back to face him, gave him a wink, then blew him a kiss with two fingers.
"Guess I made an impression."