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That which does not kill me...

...has made a grievous tactical error.


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TW: Slavery and rape.
tied up
werewolf_hacker
Ben thought it couldn't get any worse than the fighting pits. He was wrong.

After he accidentally killed Ian, his trainer noticed that he was damn near useless in the ring anymore and started looking for places to unload him. A husband-and-wife team who owned a brothel in the city answered the ad, money changed hands, and his trainer passed him off without so much as a "good luck." For someone like Ben, with modesty issues who mated for life, the brothel was a fresh Hell loaded with scents, sounds, and sights that filled his nightmares -- he couldn't even escape in sleep.

Mostly, they kept him drugged. They had to, because docility in a situation like this was out of the question even with the shock collar and cuffs. And because he was, as the husband called him, "a recalcitrant little shit," they also shot him up with aphrodisiacs when he had a client.

Many of his clients were on the brutal end. They liked him trussed up or tied down; they got off on floggers and paddles and vampire gloves. He was a werewolf and a slave, and he healed fast. His owners didn't particularly care what sort of marks were left on him because they were gone by the time the next client came around. They took a premium once or twice for people who liked to snap bones, but that was a fortunate rarity.

When someone asked for him, his Masters would aphro and sedate him, spreadeagled with wrists and ankles velcroed to the corners of the red sports sheets with black restraints on the king-sized bed. Sometimes on his back, sometimes on his front, sometimes posed artfully, depending on the client's preference and how much they paid. The madam tied a blindfold around his eyes, and strapped a red ball gag in place. Ben didn't get a pillow, or a blanket, although a blanket was folded on a chair off to one side with a couple of pillows on top if the client wanted them.

The shock controller for the collar and wrist cuffs lay on the bedside table, along with an assortment of other restraints and toys, some of which were silver. An overhead fan whirled above him, and his skin pebbled with goosebumps in the cool air of the room. He hated being cold. His many scars, old and new, along with the elaborate blue "tattoo" over his heart, stood out stark on his pale skin, which hadn't seen the sun since he was sold to this place.

All he could do was wait. And pray that somehow, sometime, a client would go too far and accidentally kill him.

They never did.
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