I quickly dressed myself backstage, tugging on a ragged tunic that looked as though it had survived three shipwrecks, two bar fights, and at least one deeply personal vendetta against a good washing.
The fabric was rough and stubborn against my skin, deliberately torn in all the right—by which I mean wrong—places. A slash across the stomach here, a lazy tear at the shoulder there, the upper curve of my thigh peeking out just enough to suggest scandal without fully committing to it—because nothing said "vulnerable stowaway" quite like clothing that was one strong breeze away from complete failure.
Satisfied that I looked suitably disheveled, distressed, and just a touch indecent, I approached Brutus who stood center stage like a general surveying his battlefield.
He loomed over the set with his usual gravitational presence, barking orders at attendants who scurried around him like nervous mice who’d recently been informed that failure was a punishable offense. And knowing Brutus, it absolutely was—if not by violence, then by a glare so intense it could curdle milk at twenty paces.
"No, the barrel goes there," he rumbled, pointing with his single arm at a spot three feet to the left. "And someone find me rope. Real rope, not that decorative shit we used last time that snapped the moment someone pulled on it."
Ever since our debut performance we’d been getting a steady stream of clients requesting private shows at the Moonlight Sonata. Word had spread through the city’s upper and middle classes with the speed of wildfire in a drought, carried by gossip, reputation, and the undeniable allure of telling your friends you’d discovered something outrageous in the slums.
We’d initially worried the novelty would wear off quickly, that audiences would grow bored once the shock value faded, but instead something interesting had happened, people started requesting variations.
They didn’t just want to watch violence—they wanted specific violence, tailored to their particular interests and fantasies, scenarios that played out their desires in carefully choreographed performances where they would be the ones involved in the roleplay.
Saints above, the scenes we’d acted out over the past few days. We’d done the classic "noble punishing their servant for theft," which, in practice, translated to elaborate public humiliation and an alarming amount of furniture being used in ways furniture was never designed for.
Chairs became instruments of moral correction. Tables became altars of regret. And the audience? They ate it up like starving dogs at a butcher’s doorstep, hanging on every gasp, every crack of implied consequence.
We’d performed "bandit raid on innocent travelers," where my crew and I would play the travelers while the "bandits" would circle us, jeering, posturing, making grand declarations about loot and lawlessness, only for the whole thing to spiral into something far more... scandalous.
There was the wildly popular "prison interrogation" scene, courtesy of Grisha, and I use the word courtesy with all the caution of a man handling a live grenade. Her idea of "acting" leaned a bit too close to actual menace, the kind that made even seasoned spectators shift uncomfortably in their seats, one of our clients actually pissing himself from fear before the erotic part even started.
My personal favorite had been "corrupt priest absolves sins through creative penance," which Julius had written and directed with the kind of manic enthusiasm that made me question his relationship with organized religion.
That one had involved me draped in robes so sheer they barely qualified as fabric, kneeling in solemn devotion before a line of "priests" who took their duties very seriously. Confessions were whispered, sins were catalogued, and absolution... well. Let’s just say their methods weren’t exactly endorsed by any known doctrine.
Today’s scenario was tame by our recent standards. A small merchant’s guild—five men, well-dressed, the kind who made their money through perfectly legal trade routes and spent it on perfectly illegal entertainment—had requested a scene taking place on a ship.
I was playing a stowaway thief caught red-handed stealing supplies while they would play the crew who discovered me and decided punishment was more fun than turning me over to the authorities.
The scenario had delicious potential for humiliation and power dynamics, which I suspected was the real appeal for our merchant clients who probably fantasized about having absolute authority over people who’d wronged them, and I was more than happy to provide that experience if they were willing to pay for it.
The props Llyod and our crew had constructed were genuinely impressive. Behind me rose an elaborate half-ship—a massive wooden structure that depicted the starboard side of a merchant vessel, complete with detailed railings, portholes that actually opened and closed, and intricate carvings along the hull that showed sea serpents and mermaids in various states of mythological mischief.
At the front of this ship-fragment stood a functioning ship’s wheel, positioned so that whoever stood at it would look properly captain-like and authoritative.
The edges of the stage had been lined with cutout waves—painted canvas shaped into curling whitecaps and deep troughs, creating the illusion that our ship was cutting through actual water rather than sitting on a wooden platform.
The waves had been painted in shades of deep blue and green with white foam details, and someone—probably Felix based on the meticulous attention to small details—had added tiny painted fish and seaweed to some of the wave bases.
I stood there taking it all in, genuinely impressed by how much work had gone into creating this nautical fantasy, when Brutus noticed my approach.
"Elvina’s on board with the plan," I said quietly, keeping my voice low enough that the merchants milling around the stage wouldn’t hear. "She’s... cooperative. Desperate to avoid going back to Seraphine, willing to do pretty much anything we ask if it means staying here where she’s at least fed and not actively being tortured."
He nodded, but before he could respond one of the merchants interrupted with barely contained impatience.
"Excuse me," he called out, his voice carrying that particular edge of entitlement that came from never being told no. "We’ve been waiting nearly ten minutes. Are we starting this performance or should we demand a refund?"
I rolled my eyes with enough theatrical exaggeration that Brutus snorted quietly, then plastered on my most charming smile and approached the impatient merchant with the kind of gracious energy that came from years of customer service experience in various unpleasant contexts.
"My sincerest apologies," I said with exaggerated formality, placing one hand over my heart in a gesture of contrition. "We wanted to ensure every detail was perfect for your experience. After all, you’re not just paying for a performance—you’re paying for a memory, something you’ll tell stories about for years to come. That kind of quality requires preparation."
The merchant—a portly man with a beard that had been waxed into elaborate curls and clothing that cost more than our monthly operating budget—huffed but seemed mollified by my explanation. "Well. Yes. I suppose quality does take time. But we are on a schedule, so if we could begin...?"
I turned away from him, clasping my hands together and addressing the assembled group of merchants. "Gentlemen! Thank you for your patience. The scene is set, the stage is yours, and I am at your mercy—quite literally, as you’ll be playing the crew members who discover my character’s identity as a stowaway on your ship." I paused, letting my voice drop into something more suggestive. "How you choose to punish my crime is entirely up to you, though I should mention that our establishment has a strict ’no permanent damage’ policy and Brutus over there gets very upset when clients break the talent."
Brutus grunted his agreement, several merchants taking a step back from him instinctively.
"Excellent!" I clapped once, the sound echoing across the stage. "Take your positions. Try to look salty and weathered, like you’ve spent weeks at sea dealing with scurvy and probably some deeply questionable protein sources. And remember—you’re discovering me, so act surprised, angry, maybe a little aroused if that’s where your character’s journey takes you. I won’t judge... much."
Moments later the stage was set, props positioned, merchants arranged in a loose semicircle. The lights began to dim, plunging the theater into shadows punctuated only by strategic spotlights that illuminated the ship and created dramatic pools of light and darkness across the stage.
We’d amassed a small audience in the actual theater seats—maybe twenty people, mix of regulars and curious newcomers who’d heard about our "interactive performances" and wanted to see what the fuss was about.
They settled into their seats with the eager anticipation of people who knew they were about to witness something deeply inappropriate and possibly illegal depending on how you interpreted certain city ordinances.
The scene opened with the merchants doing their surprisingly competent acting, moving across the deck with the rolling gait of experienced sailors, calling out to each other about checking inventory, securing ropes, and other nautical things that sounded authentic enough that I briefly wondered if any of them actually had any maritime experience.
"Another day on these cursed waters," one merchant declared, gripping the ship’s wheel with both hands and staring out at the painted horizon. "Three weeks now. Three weeks of shit winds, spoiled meat, and water that tastes like someone’s old boot. If we don’t make it to port soon I’m throwing myself overboard just for the variety."
"Aye," another spat, leaning against the railing with the aggressive posture of someone looking for an excuse to hit something. "And I heard noises below deck again last night. Scratching, scuttling, like rats the size of dogs tearing through what’s left of our supplies." He kicked at the railing, the thud echoing across the stage. "Swear to the gods, if we lose one more barrel to vermin I’m gutting whatever I find down there and serving it for dinner."
They continued building the scene with surprising competence, their exhaustion and barely-contained rage adding genuine weight to the performance, establishing themselves as a crew pushed to their absolute limits and looking for anything to take their frustrations out on.
One of them began inspecting cargo—empty crates we’d positioned around the stage—while others mimed checking ropes and adjusting sails that didn’t actually exist, their commitment to the roleplay making the illusion work despite the obvious theatrical limitations.
"Oi, you there!" one of them shouted, Marcus, the impatient merchant who’d interrupted earlier, now dressed in a captain’s costume complete with a tricorn hat that looked absolutely ridiculous on him. He gestured toward the barrel I was hiding in. "Check that rum barrel. Make sure the seal’s intact. Lost two casks last week to spoilage and I’ll not lose another."
One of the others approached my hiding spot with heavy footsteps that thudded against the wooden stage in rhythm with my racing heart. This was it. The discovery. I pressed further into shadow, making myself tiny, and watched through a crack in the barrel slats as his shadow fell across my position.
"This barrel," he announced to his fellow crew members, his voice carrying theatrical suspicion. "It wasn’t on the manifest when we loaded in port. Where did it come from?"
He bent down, reaching for the barrel lid, and that’s when I moved.
I burst from hiding like a startled cat, darting between his legs in a roll that made my ragged tunic ride up scandalously, scrambling to my feet and sprinting across the deck with panicked energy. The audience gasped while the merchants reacted with shock that seemed only half-performed.
"Stowaway!" Marcus bellowed, lunging after me with surprising speed for someone his size. "Grab him! Don’t let the little thief escape!"
Oh, this was fun. This was the kind of fun that made my instincts purr with satisfaction, the thrill of being chased, the game of predator and prey.
One merchant grabbed for my arm and I twisted away, my fingers dipping into his pocket in the same motion and emerging with a small coin purse that I tossed playfully in the air before tucking into my tunic.
"Oops!" I called out with manic glee. "Seems you’ve been robbed! Really should work on your security!"
Another lunged from the left and I vaulted over a coil of rope, landing in a crouch that definitely showed more than it should and earning a few appreciative murmurs from the audience.
The merchants were getting into it now, their initial surprise melting into genuine playful aggression, surrounding me in a tightening circle that I kept slipping through like water through fingers.
I was showing off
"Little brat!" one of them snarled. I could hear real frustration bleeding into his performance. "Hold still!"
"Why would I do that?" I laughed, breathless and wild. "You’ll just do terrible, terrible things to me if you catch me, and I’m very attached to my dignity! Well, moderately attached. It’s more of a casual relationship really, we see each other on weekends—"
I was mid-taunt when I noticed Marcus’s face, his expression cycling through amusement into something darker, his jaw clenched tight enough that I could see the muscles jumping beneath his skin. Oh. Right. Getting too carried away. Time to let them win before someone’s rage boiled over into actual violence.
I deliberately stumbled—made it look accidental, catching my foot on a rope coil—then went down in a sprawl of limbs and torn fabric. One of them was on me instantly, his hands gripping my wrists and yanking them behind my back with enough force to make me gasp. Got me. The thrill of it shot straight to my cock, the helplessness mixing with anticipation in ways that made my brain short-circuit pleasantly.
The other merchants rose from their various positions—some clearly out of breath from the chase, one actually kneeling on the floor and wheezing like he’d just run a marathon, another leaning heavily against the ship’s wheel.
They approached slowly, menacingly, forming that circle again except this time I couldn’t slip through because the man held me firm from behind, his grip iron and his breath hot against my ear as he pulled me back to my feet.
I made a show of struggling, eyes going wide with theatrical terror as they closed in. "Wait—wait, I can explain! I was just borrowing! Temporary borrowing! I had every intention of returning everything!" I tried to twist free but the man’s grip tightened, making me yelp. "Please, I’m just hungry! Starving! Haven’t eaten in days! Don’t—don’t hurt me!"
Marcus stepped up to me and leaned in close, his voice dropping to something low and dangerous. "You stole from us, little thief. Contaminated our supplies with your presence, put the entire crew at risk by consuming our limited resources." His hand came up to grip my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Such crimes demand punishment. Severe punishment."
I whimpered—gods, actually whimpered, because his tone was doing things to me that probably weren’t appropriate for someone genuinely terrified but were perfect for someone playing terrified while being deeply aroused. "What—what kind of punishment?"
"The kind that ensures you never forget this lesson." He released my chin, his fingers trailing down my throat in a touch that made me shiver. "The kind that leaves you marked. Broken. A warning to anyone else who thinks they can steal from honest sailors without consequence." His other hand moved to the front of my tunic, gripping the fabric. "Strip him. I want to see what we’re working with."
My eyes went wide and pleading, playing up the fear even as my cock strained against my shredded pants. "No—please—not that—I’ll do anything else, just—"
One of them strode up to me and pulled. One violent yank and the tunic tore, fabric giving way with a sound like a ripping canvas, and suddenly I was completely naked, exposed to their eyes and the watching audience.
I cried out—half genuine surprise because the violence of it caught me off guard, half performance—and tried instinctively to cover myself but the merchant’s grip still held my wrists trapped behind my back.
The others began to laugh, dark and appreciative, one of them whistling low. "Well, well. Look at that. Pretty thing, isn’t he? All smooth skin and curves. Almost seems a waste to throw him overboard."
"Oh, we’re not throwing him overboard," Marcus said, his voice thick with promise. "We’re going to use him. Make sure he earns his passage in the most thorough way possible."
I felt the thrill of it race down my spine, electric and intoxicating, the combination of genuine vulnerability and theatrical safety creating this perfect storm of arousal. This was the game, the dance, the reason people paid obscene amounts for our performances—because we made it feel real while keeping it just safe enough that nobody actually got hurt. Usually.
Then Marcus reached into his coat and pulled out a knife.
An actual knife. Long, wicked, the blade catching the stagelight and throwing it back in silver gleams.
I was genuinely surprised—this wasn’t part of the script, we hadn’t discussed weapons, Brutus was probably having a small heart attack from the wings—but I didn’t break character, couldn’t break character, because the audience was leaning forward and my body was responding in ways that suggested my survival instincts had been overridden by significantly less sensible impulses.
He brought the blade down slowly, the flat edge dragging up from my balls with a pressure just light enough to suggest threat without delivering it, then leaned in until his lips brushed my ear.
"Such a pretty little thief," he whispered, his voice pitched for me alone though I knew the audience could probably hear anyway. "I wonder how you’d look split open on my cock, crying and begging while I fuck the defiance right out of you. Would you scream? Would you bleed? Or would you take it like the desperate little whore you clearly are, spreading yourself wide and thanking me for the privilege?"
I went instantly, painfully hard. Like, embarrassingly so, my cock twitching visibly against my ruined pants as a soft whimper escaped my throat.
The combination of the knife, the filthy words, the genuine edge of danger—it flipped every switch in my brain labeled "terrible decisions" and set them all to maximum.
He dragged the knife up my body with excruciating slowness, the blade trailing across my stomach, between my ribs, up my sternum, until it came to rest against my throat. I could feel my pulse hammering against the metal, could see my chest heaving with each breath, and when he spoke again his voice carried across the entire theater.
"You’re going to learn what happens to thieves on my ship," Marcus said, his free hand moving to the absolutely throbbing bulge in his pants. "You’re going to service every man here until your jaw aches, your throat is raw, and you can’t remember what dignity felt like. And if you’re very, very good—" he pressed the blade just slightly harder, not cutting but promising, "—we might let you live when we reach port."
He pulled back, removing the knife from my throat, and gestured at the merchant still holding me. "Drop him. On his knees."
The man squeezed my shoulders hard before shoving me down. I hit the wooden stage on my knees with a thud that rattled my bones.
Marcus was already undoing his belt, the leather sliding through loops with a sound that seemed impossibly loud. I tried to play my role, tried to beg.
"Please—wait—I’m sorry—I won’t steal again, I swear, just—"
His hand fisted brutally in my hair, yanking my head back as he forced me to stare straight up into his eyes. My desperate words died in a strangled yelp.
His cock was already out—thick, heavy, and obscenely veined—jutting angrily from his open pants, the fat head flushed dark and glistening with a thick sheen of pre-cum. The heavy musk of him hit me like a slap: raw, masculine, and overpowering, a potent mix of salty skin, stale sweat, and that deep, animal scent of pure aroused male that made my eyes water and my stomach clench.
He didn’t give me a single second to breathe or prepare. With a low growl he slammed his hips forward, driving the entire thick length straight down my throat in one merciless thrust. The fat head battered past my tongue and punched into the tight ring of my throat, stretching it wide around his girth as the heavy, musky scent of his balls flooded my nose with every brutal inch he forced deeper.
I made a show of crying—real tears, actually, because the suddenness of it triggered my gag reflex and made my eyes water instantly—choking and sputtering around his length as he held my head in place and fucked my mouth with ruthless efficiency.
The other merchants watched, several already dropping their own pants, hands moving to stroke themselves to the sight of me being used. I could hear the audience’s reactions—gasps, moans, the rustle of clothing as people shifted in their seats and presumably dealt with their own arousal.
Marcus groaned above me, his grip tightening in my hair until my scalp burned, his hips pistoning faster until I could barely breathe, and then he flooded my mouth with cum.
Hot, thick, so much that I couldn’t swallow fast enough. It spilled from my lips in messy streams that ran down my chin.
He pulled out and I gagged violently, coughing and choking, tears falling steady now as I struggled to breathe through the mixture of saliva and cum coating my throat. Beautiful. Absolutely debauched. The audience was losing their collective minds based on the sounds filtering through my ringing ears.
Marcus looked down at me with satisfaction that bordered on something possessive. "He’s all yours, boys. Use him however you like. Make sure the little thief learns his lesson thoroughly."
I was trying to catch my breath, trying to prepare myself for whatever came next, when I felt it—a boot to my back, hard and sudden, from the merchant who’d been holding me earlier. The impact sent me crashing face-first into the stage floor, my cheek connecting with the wood hard enough to make stars explode behind my eyes.
Before I could recover, the big man was on me, his massive hand pressing my face into the boards while his weight settled across my back, pinning me completely.
I couldn’t move. Could barely breathe. Could only lie there and feel him positioning himself, feel the anticipation building, feel the audience holding their collective breath as they waited for—
Just then, the theater doors flew open with a bang that echoed like thunder, cutting through the tension like a blade.
Everything stopped. The merchant on top of me froze mid-motion. The others turned to stare. The audience gasped. Even the artificial moonlight seemed to dim slightly in surprise.
Julius strode in like he owned the place—which, technically, he did—his golden hair catching the light, his face split in a wide, manic smile that suggested he’d interrupted something spectacular and was absolutely delighted about the timing.
"Loona!" he called out cheerfully, completely unbothered by the scene of debauchery he’d just disrupted. "Sorry to interrupt what I’m sure is a very important artistic endeavor, but somebody’s here to see you!"
I lifted my head as much as the hand pinning me down would allow, spit a mouthful of stage dirt mixed with other fluids onto the floor, and managed to rasp out, "Julius, I swear to every god who’s ever ignored my prayers, your timing is catastrophically terrible."
His smile somehow widened further. "Oh, you’ll forgive me when you see who it is."
And despite everything—the interrupted scene, the merchants’ confused protests, the audience’s frustrated groans—I felt curiosity override my annoyance.
Because Julius wouldn’t interrupt a paying performance unless it was important.
Which meant whoever was here to see me was either going to make my day significantly better or significantly worse.
And knowing my luck, probably both.