The boy launched himself at me like a demon hellbent on swallowing my soul.
The air tore before I even had a moment to blink—shredded by the brutal arc of his attack, raw and jagged like a blade swung by someone desperate enough to spill blood without precision.
He was a missile with limbs, a weapon fueled by rage and wild intent, the kind of fury that scorched hotter than skill, but lacked its finesse.
The breath caught in my throat as the wind whispered sharp against my cheek—close enough to feel the ghost of his fist, a storm crashing just past my skin.
He twisted mid-air, a savage spin-kick unleashing like a wildfire aimed at my ribs. I dropped low, hands touching the floor with the soft kiss of silk on stone before my legs snaked beneath him, scything his footing out like a guillotine blade severing chance.
He flipped with the grace of a caged beast, landing in a crouch—the marble tiles scraping beneath his heels.
Swift, yes—but still frantic and unrefined.
The next surge came with the relentless charge of a tidal wave—elbows tight, fists shaped like hammerheads poised to crush bone.
I met his onslaught with a parry so smooth it felt like water folding over rock, my knuckles brushing the edge of his jaw, barely a whisper of contact but enough to humiliate, to shake the pride from his bones.
His stagger was a crack in his armor, teeth clenched in a silent curse as fog seeped behind his eyes, each one of my movements pouring another layer of doubt into the haze.
He dove low—raw desperation meeting practiced agility. I vaulted over his shoulder, twisting in mid-air like a ribbon caught in a storm’s furious dance, landing behind him with the force of a whispered threat.
The side of my palm pressed between his shoulder blades—not hard, but precise—an unseen mark left on his back, a reminder I could shatter him with a touch.
The crowd roared, a wave of sound riding the momentum of my motion.
Eyes wild and unhinged, he spun on me again, but this time I could sense his rage being flayed open, giving way to panic—clawing at the edges of his control. His strike came next, a guttural grunt accompanying a wide, sloppy swing.
I caught his wrist mid-flight, yanked him forward like a puppet on unraveling strings, then slipped beneath his arm—our bodies colliding briefly, skin slick with sweat, hot and electric in ways that words failed to reach. I shoved him away with a hip check that sent him staggering like a fallen king losing his crown.
He was up again in a breath, desperate and fast, but his rhythm was unraveling now, a storm losing shape in the chaos. He unleashed a feint to the head, then a slide low—his kick aiming for my ankles with the last ounce of cunning he had left. Clever.
I flipped—knees tucked, spinning mid-air before landing behind him in the same spot I’d jumped from, my feet kissing the tile as if they owned the damn floor.
"Try again," I breathed low, amusement darkening my tone—not a whisper, but a challenge cast like a gauntlet. No sweetness, no teasing endearment. Just the sharp edge of command.
He practically roared in response.
As time went on I could sense his attacks beginning to slow, the heat behind his eyes flickering like a candle battling a storm. He was getting tired, that much was obvious—panting, muscles quivering beneath ragged skin, frustration boiling into raw desperation.
But me? I was fine.
My stolen stamina thrummed in my chest, a low, sinful drumbeat that only I could hear. Every borrowed edge — every guard I’d pushed to collapse, every noble I’d sapped through stolen breaths and secret touches — sang through my veins, weaving power into muscles that should have long since given out.
The crowd’s murmur rippled through the air like a live wire, buzzing with tension and something else—a delicious, electric thrill that curled through my chest and settled between my thighs. I caught the quiet whimper hidden behind the boy’s eyes, that broken little sound begging for more than just victory. The hunger to win clawed at him like a ghost, raw and desperate.
With a scream that shattered the silence, the boy lunged at me one final time. I followed suit, our hands interlocking as we met—flesh and sinew pressing tight, each pushing against the other like a storm meeting a dam.
The crowd leaned forward, breathing the moment in as if it were a sweet poison they couldn’t get enough of. I felt the pressure, the trembling strength trying to shove me back.
Then I smiled, a slow, wicked curve of lips that was more challenge than comfort.
Suddenly, with a slick twist, I slipped free from the grapple, my body bending like smoke as I spun around him. The boy stumbled, surprised, barely catching himself before crashing forward.
I glanced back at him, and that’s when the smirk hit—fat, sinful, and impossible to hide.
He blinked, confused, not yet realizing what I’d done. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure, his weight shifting like a marionette with half its strings cut. He looked down at me, then up—brows drawn, lips parted, as if searching my expression for answers he couldn’t name.
And then, with one lazy, deliberate hand, I lifted the tunic.
His tunic.
The stolen thing he hadn’t even realized was gone in the chaos of our clash.
It fluttered in my grip like a flag of conquest, a crude banner raised high above the battlefield—and the crowd, already teetering on the edge, erupted into gasps and shocked laughter.
The boy froze.
Only then did he realize the full extent of what I’d done. His bare form stood stark beneath the dim light of the room, stripped of cover and dignity alike. The soft, desperate curve of his hip, the subtle indent where his waist gave way to thigh, the dark hollows pooling between his legs like bruised secrets—it was all there. Every vulnerable, intimate inch now on display for a thousand hungry eyes.
The hush that followed was almost reverent.
He stared down at himself, horror blooming across his face like fire through dry leaves. Hands scrambled to cover what they could, fingers clutching at nothing, too slow to matter. His skin flushed deep, blooming with shame from throat to navel, a living canvas of exposed pride and unraveling composure.
I let the tunic dangle between my fingers a moment longer, savoring the sight of him—caught, humiliated, beautiful in the raw-boned kind of way that only someone stripped of everything can be.
Then I raised the tunic to my nose, slow and deliberate, and took a whiff.
The scent hit me like a blow—earthy and bitter, sharp with boyish sweat and the iron tang of fear. Beneath it, a thread of something sweeter curled—faint, intoxicating—like the ghost of a moan caught between cotton. The sensation slithered down my spine, coiling low in my belly before, without hesitation, my cock began to stir, stiffening beneath the thin cling of my own tunic, throbbing like a lost lover begging to be remembered. I didn’t even try to hide it.
The boy watched, slack-jawed, not understanding what I was doing with his shame bundled in my fingers and pressed to my lips like a lover’s whisper.
From then, I began weaving around him like a predator flaunting its prize, waving his tunic teasingly just out of reach—a bright, fluttering flag of his surrender.
The boy lunged to snatch it back with one hand, fingers brushing against my skin with a desperate hunger that only made my laughter roar louder.
The crowd was set ablaze now—howling, breathless, utterly devouring the scene.
The ridiculousness of it all, the show, the spectacle—was delicious. And the boy, not bearing to take it any longer, suddenly locked himself in place, eyes squeezing shut as if doing so could erase what had just happened to him.
I took slow, deliberate steps toward him, savoring the moment before grabbing his wrist with gentle but unyielding fingers, peeling his trembling hand away from his own shame like a prize flower in bloom. His breath hitched, a soft whimper breaking free despite the steel of his pride.
I leaned closer, letting my bulge press teasingly against his cock—gods, it was cute. Smaller, softer, shy like the rest of him, curled up as if trying to disappear beneath the weight of my attention. The reaction was immediate—a low whimper, shaky but raw, a tug at something buried deep within him. He wasn’t hard yet. No, he was still fighting, clinging to whatever scrape of pride kept him upright, every trembling fiber of his being screaming, Not now. Not here. Not like this.
I giggled—low and wicked, the kind of sound that curled under your skin and made you wonder if you were still the one in control.
"Aww," I purred. "Still trying to hold onto that last thread of dignity? How brave," I whispered, my voice dropping to a dangerous murmur as I leaned closer, letting my breath tickle the sensitive skin just behind his ear. "You’re such a filthy little thing, aren’t you? All tense and trembling, pretending you’re not craving this."
My fingers slid slowly along the length of his softened cock, tracing lazy circles that made his body jerk involuntarily. I pressed my lips into his ear, my words dripping like poison and honey. "I’m going to break you."
A soft coo escaped me, low and teasing, as my hand continued its slow, deliberate play. "And after I’m done, you’re going to thank me for it."
Just then, I let out a slow, deliberate drip of saliva, letting it fall from my lips like honey from a blade. It slid down in a perfect arc, landing squarely on the bare skin of his shaft with a quiet, obscene sound that might as well have been thunder. His eyes snapped open, wide and dark, pupils blown like a creature caught in headlights as he let out a wet gasp—stunned, shamed, and spellbound all at once. His cock responded instantly, stiffening with a helpless twitch, rising like a dark flag of surrender.
Before he could even register what was happening, I crashed into him with the kind of kiss that drowned thought—wet, unrestrained, and sinfully messy. Our mouths collided in a fevered clash of heat and hunger, tongues slipping, sliding, tangling with obscene desperation.
Breath burst in ragged gasps between us, slick and shared, every exhale tasting of panic, pride, and something darker. His lips were trembling and hot, parted just enough to let me devour him, and so I did—drinking him in like he was the only thing that could quench the ache burning through my skin.
He fought back hard, hands pushing me away with the frantic energy of a drowning man grabbing at straws. Tears began welling in his eyes—anger, humiliation, and confusion all warring in that single moment—yet still, the kiss pressed on. It was a battle, a dance, a twisted communion of power and desperation.
I sealed our lips tighter, devouring the sounds he made, pressing forward with my tongue until I felt his resistance crumble.
He practically melted in my arms, shuddering so hard I thought his knees would give way right then and there.
His hands began clutching the sides of my tunic as if I were the only thing keeping him upright.
Then I pulled back, the wet trail of our parting kiss clinging to my lips as I pressed my hand flat against the boy’s trembling stomach, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his skin—a fragile, frantic rhythm that set my blood boiling.
My fingers slid lower, tracing a deliberate path over his hip, the warmth of his body like molten silk beneath my touch. The crowd was utterly rapt, breaths held, eyes wide with a mix of shock and something deeper, a hunger that made the air heavy and thick.
When my hand curved around the swell of his ass, just barely brushing against that sensitive edge, his sharp cry was like music—half pain, half pleading—and I let my touch linger, teasing, coaxing, the power vibrating between us like a taut wire stretched to its limit.
And then—
"P-Please," he whispered—barely a breath, but it landed between us like a command, a confession, and a surrender all at once.
I curled my fingers into him just enough to press deeper, eliciting a startled sharp yelp as his cock begin twitching wildly, aching and alive beneath my hand. The crowd’s tension was snapping, the edges of restraint cracking as they collectively teetered on the edge of scandal and delight. I leaned close, my breath hot and sultry in his ear, my voice a velvet murmur soaked in mischief and dark promise. "You better not fall in love after I’m done with you."
His whimpers grew louder, fragile and desperate, and I sealed them with another kiss—this time deeper, wetter, a slow, teasing exploration that sent shivers racing down my spine.
I slid my fingers in further, rolling right over that sensitive spot of his, the one that made his whole body shudder like electricity. I began massaging it, fingers kneading with a ruthless tenderness that left him trembling, half-choked by the sudden flood of sensation.
"Ah—!" he gasped, breath hitching like the air itself had gone and betrayed him.
I could feel it then—his insides tightening, soft muscles clenching around my fingers like a secret locked too tight, desperate to burst free but held hostage by shame and fear.
"Shh, don’t fight it," I murmured, voice thick with dark promise. "You like this, don’t you? All tight and trembling, begging for more."
He yelped, ragged and wet, a broken sound that was half plea, half surrender. And just when I could feel the tension coiling in him like a spring ready to snap, his cock throbbing violently against my stomach, pulsating just on the edge of spilling itself across my belly with his hot, sticky mess—I pulled away with a wicked grin, leaving him breathless and furious all at once.
The boy collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud, gasping like a starved animal, eyes fluttering shut against the wild storm inside him, twitching helplessly beneath the weight of his denied release.
The audience erupted in thunderous approval, the roar echoing like a tidal wave of sin and satisfaction.
I dipped into a theatrical bow, savoring the moment, while the announcer’s voice boomed from above, declaring me the victor of the night’s savage ballet.
But my gaze didn’t linger on the crowd. It slid back to the boy sprawled on the floor, his trembling hand reaching out to me with an almost desperate plea, eyes wide and glistening with unspoken promises and fractured pride.
I felt the pull—sharp and electric—but I turned away, burying my desire behind a veil of mock indifference. I’d already claimed my victory. There was no need to linger on the ruins of it.
I turned on my heel, hips rolling with lazy satisfaction, and sauntered toward the officials at the edge of the pit—an entourage of tight-lipped accountants, slack-jawed nobles, and one particularly sour-faced bastard in silver trim: the Sectional Warden. He stood stiff as iron, arms folded over his chest, trying—and failing—not to let his eyes linger too long on the sway of my walk. His jaw was locked, his lip curled like he’d just sucked on something sour, but that twitch in his temple gave him away.
He hated me.
And gods, it looked delicious on him.
I reached out for the coin pouch he held, letting my fingers graze his gloved hand just long enough to make it personal. His mouth twitched like he wanted to say something, maybe scream, maybe beg, but all he managed was a curt nod and averted eyes.
I flashed him a wink that landed like a slap, then turned my back on him with the kind of flair that could start a war.
Following this was an afterparty that swirled around me like a decadent dream spun from honey and smoke.
Nobles pressed glasses of glittering wine into my hands, their voices thick with praise and greedy expectation. Julius practically purred beside me, rubbing his cheek against mine with an enthusiasm that was almost embarrassing in its sincerity. I let the warmth of the alcohol flood my veins, the intoxicating thrill of triumph settling like silk across my skin. Never had I felt so alive, so dangerously close to the edge of everything I craved—and everything I feared.
Hours slipped by in a haze of laughter, whispered promises, and the soft brush of fingertips on bare arms. The once-gleaming ballroom now seemed cloaked in shadows, the revelry turning slower, deeper—soft moans and quiet sighs threading through the air like a secret pulse.
I was stepping through the aftermath, toes aching, heart pounding from the rush, when a sudden sound caught me—a delicate, desperate sobbing that sliced through the haze like a blade. My breath hitched, just a little.
I followed the noise to a half-hidden side room, where the door stood slightly ajar. Inside, the boy from the fight huddled against the wall, tears carving silent paths down his cheeks. His body trembled with raw, exposed pain, and looming over him was a grotesque figure—a fat, ugly nobleman whose sneer was as foul as the stench of old wine and broken promises that clung to him. The man’s words were cruel, slicing through the dim light like poison.
"Why the hell did you lose to that... that filthy little whore?!" the noble spat, venom dripping from every word, his eyes blazing with bitter disappointment and raw contempt. "I expected more from you—stronger, smarter! But no, you’re nothing but a worthless cock-sleeve, a gutter rat who couldn’t even hold his own against a runt like that. Pathetic! An utter fucking disgrace!"
Every syllable made my chest tighten, my pulse speeding, breath catching in a way that was all sharp edges and burning embers. The boy flinched under the verbal onslaught, shrinking further into himself, but the nobleman wasn’t finished.
Just then, without warning, the nobleman’s hand shot forward—sharp, swift—a brutal smack landing across the boy’s cheek, the crack echoing through the charged silence like a judge’s final verdict.
"This," the nobleman hissed, voice dripping with cruel satisfaction, "is your punishment."
His fingers shifted to undo his belt with deliberate, torturous slowness, each movement punctuated by a low, ragged breath that sounded more like a growl. A filthy smirk curled at the corner of his lips, dragging them into a twisted line of hunger and cruelty, like a predator savoring the anticipation of its prey’s unraveling. His chest rose and fell unevenly, a soft pant slipping through clenched teeth, thick with unspoken, depraved intentions that hung heavy in the air—like a promise soaked in sin and sharp with menace.
I didn’t hesitate.
With a sudden crash, I kicked the door open wide, my foot slamming against the wall so hard the whole room seemed to shudder.
"Enough!" I roared, voice low but sharp, dripping with deadly promise. The nobleman froze, eyes flicking to me like a rat caught in the light, his ugly grin cracking just slightly. The boy looked up at me, relief flooding his tear-streaked face like a balm.
The room buzzed with tension, but this time, I was the storm—the unshakable eye at its center, calm and commanding, holding the chaos at bay with a smirk that promised I was far from finished.