I brushed my hands together with a smirk stretching across my face, staring down at the guard in his utterly disheveled state. He knelt there on all fours, his uniform torn in strategic places, his cock leaking steadily onto the dark cobblestone street below in thick, pearlescent drops that caught the dim light and glistened with obscene beauty.
His breathing came in ragged gasps that whistled through his throat, each exhale carrying a whimper that spoke volumes about exactly how thoroughly we’d dismantled his professional composure.
Willow stood beside me looking absolutely radiant in her victory, her tongue coming out to swipe away at a lingering streak of cum smearing her lip, her emerald eyes fluttering closed as she savored it with shameless delight.
"Well," I said, glancing at Willow, "that went better than expected. I was anticipating at least some resistance, maybe a moral objection or two, possibly a threat involving official channels. Honestly, I’m almost disappointed by how easy that was." I turned back to the guard, who was still struggling to catch his breath, his legs trembling with the aftermath of what had to be the most intense orgasm of his life. "You’re welcome, by the way. Consider that a complimentary lesson in humility."
The guard made a sound that might’ve been agreement or might’ve been the dying gasp of his dignity before gesturing weakly toward the entrance with one shaking hand. Permission granted. Access approved. All complaints formally withdrawn.
We were let in without question after that, the massive iron gates swinging open with a groan of metal that sounded almost disappointed we hadn’t needed to resort to more violence.
Our crew members dragged Oberen forward, the gambling lord having gone completely catatonic at some point during our negotiation tactics, his eyes glazed and staring at nothing while his mouth hung open in a silent scream that never quite materialized into sound.
I got my first proper view of the courtyard then, stepping through those gates into what could only be described as organized chaos wrapped in a thin veneer of institutional authority.
The space was enormous—easily the size of three city blocks laid end to end, enclosed by those towering dark iron walls. The ground was packed dirt mixed with something darker, tracked through with countless footprints that created patterns like some deranged archaeological record of misery.
Piles upon piles of prisoners moved throughout the space, each one wearing identical dark green jumpsuits that had faded to varying shades of institutional despair.
Some were so worn they’d gone nearly gray, the fabric thin enough to show the shapes of bodies beneath—bodies that ranged from emaciated and hollow to surprisingly muscular, depending on how long they’d been here and how well they’d adapted to the ecosystem of violence.
They were engaged in activities of all kinds, creating this bizarre tableau of humanity stripped down to its most basic urges. A cluster near the eastern wall had formed what appeared to be a fighting ring, two men circling each other with fists raised while a crowd shouted encouragement and passed around crude betting slips made from torn fabric.
Further in, another group had set up an elaborate gambling operation using rocks, bits of metal, and what looked suspiciously like finger bones as currency.
They hunched over a makeshift board scratched into the dirt, arguing in voices that carried across the courtyard with the kind of passion that made gambling down here seem like a matter of life and death—which, to be fair, it probably was.
One man lost whatever bet he’d made and promptly collapsed to his knees, sobbing so hard his entire frame shook, while the winner cackled and scooped up his winnings with trembling, greedy hands.
But the most striking activity was happening along the walls themselves. Entire groups of prisoners had crowded against the dark iron, their bodies pressed together in tight formations as they attempted to build human ladders, climbing on each other’s shoulders in desperate, doomed attempts to reach the top.
They stacked themselves three, four, five bodies high, swaying dangerously as the person on top stretched upward with fingers grasping at nothing, so close to the wall’s edge they could probably taste the possibility of freedom.
As soon as even one of them got close—fingertips maybe a meter from the top—a guard would rush over from their watch post, those strange brass weapons raised and ready. The trigger pulled with a sharp click, and a hot blast of steam erupted from the barrel in a focused jet that hit the prisoner’s outstretched hands with the force of scalding fury.
The scream that followed was immediate and visceral, skin blistering and peeling in real-time as the flesh cooked and the entire human tower collapsed in a catastrophic tumble of bodies and breaking bones.
They hit the ground with sickening thuds that echoed across the courtyard, limbs tangling, heads cracking against the dirt.
"Charming place," I said, watching another tower collapse in slow motion as steam turned ambition into third-degree burns. "Really captures that whole ’abandon all hope’ aesthetic. The interior decorating choices alone deserve some kind of award."
Willow let out a sharp bark of laughter that turned several prisoner heads in our direction, her shoulders shaking with mirth.
Directly ahead of us stretched the path leading to the main prison complex—a raised walkway of dark metal grating that cut straight through the courtyard chaos like a blade through flesh.
The building itself loomed at the far end, two distinct layers of architectural intimidation stacked on top of each other.
The lower level was broader, its walls studded with small barred windows that glowed faintly from within, while the upper level rose into those observation towers I’d spotted from outside, their peaks lost in the perpetual gloom of the cavern ceiling.
Two guards materialized at our flanks the moment we stepped onto the walkway, their movements synchronized with military precision.
They carried those same steam weapons, barrels pointed carefully at the ground but ready to raise at a moment’s notice. Their faces were hidden behind helmets fitted with dark visors that reflected our images back at us in warped distortions.
As soon as we stepped forward, a few prisoners began to take notice. Their heads turned, tracking our movement with the kind of laser focus predators reserved for potential prey. Eyes blew wide in their sockets—not with fear, but with something far more primal. Recognition sparked across their features as they processed what they were seeing, fresh arrivals. Warm bodies that hadn’t yet been broken by this place.
More took notice. Then more. The awareness spread through the courtyard like wildfire, each prisoner alerting the next through glances, nudges, and sharp intakes of breath. Within seconds the entire population was swarming toward us like angry bees whose hive had just been kicked, bodies pressing together in a seething mass that surged against the walkway’s edges.
The guards flanking us cleared the path with warning shots of steam, aiming just above the prisoners’ heads to create a scalding barrier that made them flinch back in terror. The jets hissed through the air with sounds like serpents striking, leaving trails of condensation that hung in the stale atmosphere like ghostly warnings.
It bought us space—barely—but didn’t stop the staring, the reaching, the desperate hunger radiating from hundreds of pairs of eyes that tracked our every move.
I could sense the absolute hunger in those gazes, could feel the weight of their attention like a physical pressure against my body. My enhanced senses picked up details I almost wished I couldn’t perceive—the way their pupils dilated when they looked at me, the slight parting of lips, the unconscious shifting of hips.
Their stares tracked across my frame with methodical thoroughness, cataloging curves and angles, lingering on the exposed skin of my legs, the shape of my chest beneath my top, the way my dress swayed with each step.
Willow received even more intense scrutiny, her wine-dark skin and obvious succubus nature marking her as something exotic and forbidden. Men pressed forward despite the steam warnings, reaching through the barriers with trembling hands that grasped at nothing, their faces twisted into expressions of desperate longing.
My eyes dropped lower, tracking across the sea of dark green jumpsuits. Every single one of them was hard—achingly, obviously, desperately hard—their cocks twitching and straining against cheap fabric like they’d been starved of any sexual stimulus for so long that just seeing attractive people was enough to break their composure entirely.
Some were leaking through the fabric, dark wet spots blooming across their crotches in maps of arousal they couldn’t control. They were pent up beyond repair, sexual frustration compressed into human form.
Willow, being exactly the person she was, decided to lean into it. She brushed her fingers along the edge of the crowd as we walked, letting her touch ghost across reaching hands with teasing lightness.
She trailed her palm along one prisoner’s outstretched arm, smiled directly into another’s desperate eyes, even went so far as to press her body close enough to the point where their grasping fingers could almost—almost—reach her curves.
The effect was instantaneous. Grown men whimpered, several collapsed to their knees, and at least three came on the spot without being touched, their bodies convulsing as they painted the insides of their jumpsuits.
I decided to join in. I spotted one prisoner who looked particularly desperate—young, maybe early twenties, with wide eyes that held a desperate kind of pleading. I met his gaze, held it for three seconds, then slowly brought my hand to my lips and blew him a kiss.
He let out a low groan that started somewhere deep in his chest and built into something approaching a sob, his hips jerking forward once, twice, before his entire body went rigid. His cock pulsed visibly through his jumpsuit, spurting again and again as he came completely untouched, his legs giving out beneath him.
A few others lost composure entirely at that display, dropping their trousers to stroke themselves openly, past caring about dignity or consequences. Hands moved frantically, breathing grew ragged, and the air filled with the sounds of skin against skin and helpless moaning.
I breathed in deeply, letting the heavy scent of their collective arousal fill my lungs—sweat, pre-cum, and pure desperation mixed into an intoxicating cocktail that spiked my own arousal in response. I let out a long sigh and turned to Willow with a small smile. "This place brings back memories. Different prison, same energy. Same hungry stares."
Willow glanced at me with curiosity dancing in her emerald eyes. "You’ve been in a place like this before?"
"Something similar. The prison below was more organized in its cruelty. But the energy? The desperation? That part’s familiar."
Movement caught my eye then—a shift in the crowd’s focus that pulled my attention toward something new. I noticed a few prisoners trying to push through the mass with an entirely different agenda written across their faces. Their expressions held no lust, no sexual hunger, just pure, undiluted rage that burned so hot I could practically feel it radiating from their skin. Their gazes landed on Oberen as recognition took hold.
"Oberen!" one roared, spittle flying from his lips. "You fucking batard! You stole everything from me!"
"I’ll kill you!" another shrieked, clawing at the people in front of him to reach our group. "I’ll rip your fucking throat out with my teeth!"
"My family starved because of you!" A third voice, breaking with emotion. "My children died because of you—!"
The curses continued, building into a symphony of absolute vulgar fury. Words I didn’t even know could be combined in those particular orders spilled from dozens of mouths, each one more creative and disturbing than the last.
They recognized their tormentor, the man who’d ruined their lives through predatory gambling practices, and now he was here—within reach, stripped of protection and power.
Oberen made a sound like a dying animal, his legs giving out completely. Our crew members had to physically drag him forward as his body went limp with terror.
Just then, a massive shadow loomed over us all, blocking out what little ambient light filtered down from above. I blinked up in surprise, my neck craning back to take in the sheer size of the figure approaching through the crowd.
He was a monstrosity. He stood at least seven feet tall, possibly taller, with shoulders so broad they looked like someone had attached barn doors to his torso.
Muscles bulged beneath skin that had been absolutely ravaged by burns, his entire face a landscape of scar tissue that twisted and puckered in patterns that told stories of repeated, agonizing exposure to superheated steam.
The burns had melted away any distinguishing features—no eyebrows, no hair, just smooth patches of damaged flesh stretched tight over bone. He was shirtless despite the chill, his massive chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths.
The prisoners stepped back in horror to allow him space, creating a circle of empty ground around his feet. Whispers began rippling through the crowd, building from scattered murmurs into a crescendo of fearful recognition.
"The Furnace," someone breathed.
"Saints preserve us, it’s The Furnace..."
"I heard he killed ten men with his bare hands—"
"—ripped someone’s arm off and beat them to death with it—"
"—immune to the steam now, they can’t even hurt him anymore—"
The crowd built up hype for the man like he was some kind of celebrity gladiator, their voices overlapping in tales of violence and survival that grew more elaborate with each retelling. The Furnace. A nickname born from his scars, from his resistance to the very weapon meant to keep the prisoners in line.
The guards flanking us began to move, raising their weapons with mechanical precision, fingers tightening on triggers as they prepared to fire. Steam built up in the chambers with audible hisses, pressure gathering before I raised my hand and waved them off with casual authority. "Stand down. Don’t shoot."
The guards hesitated, clearly torn between following my command and following their training. One of them turned his visored face toward me. "But protocol states—"
"Protocol can wait," I interrupted, still staring up at the man before me. "There’s something about this man."
And there was. Something in the way he moved, the slight tilt of his head, the particular quality of his breathing. Recognition sparked in the back of my mind, pieces clicking together in a pattern that seemed impossible but fit too perfectly to ignore.
All of a sudden it clicked—really, truly clicked—and my features lit up with blatant understanding.
I knew this man. Knew him despite the burns, despite the scars, despite everything that had been done to him in this hellhole.
The man stared down at me with eyes that had somehow survived the scarring. They were dark, nearly black as they widened with slow, dawning recognition that mirrored my own.
I let a small smile cross my face, one that held genuine surprise mixed with dark amusement at the absurdity of this particular reunion. "Well, I wasn’t expecting to find you here."