For Haevyn Breina, excitement didn’t just send her heart pounding, every sense on high alert; it also possessed an extraordinarily arousing scent. The anticipation brought to mind an impending sea storm, the taste of salt spatter clinging to her lips, the bruising sting of hail beating ice-sharp upon her skin. Danger always magnified the experience.

In Quentopolis, to be identified at Cockrage could lead to internment at the despised government-funded incarceration and experimental research facility, the Factorium. For females, the danger was greater since Cockrages were man games.

Officially, the regulatory Compliance Subministry of the Politico did not acknowledge the existence of the Rage tournaments. Unofficially, on the nights the games ran, the docks were the only place to be. Especially for someone diagnosed with manic risqexcerinia. Haevyn could feel it—the blood roaring through her veins, sexual excitement flooding her loins, a craving for the taboo, the thing she hated most, desired best, mounting like the most dangerous delirium intoxicant. Her fear of the humanotic condition, a love-hate polarity, fueled her actions—that and the challenge thrown to her by her lover.

Haevyn risked a great deal to attend the games, and if she were exposed, things could go badly for her—very badly. The mingled aromas of fish scraps, dying seaweed, salt water, human sweat, and stale sex saturated the dock-down district’s illicit atmosphere. She tried not to inhale too deeply of the close, cloying air. And yet…it titillated her passions in a decidedly earthy fashion.

“Keep your mask on and your hood pulled low, Wildcat,” Grisha, her companion, murmured in her ear. “Match your stride to mine. Nobody’ll even look at you twice. Not uncommon for Ellies from the Elite District to slumdown on a night like tonight. Especially when they get wind that Ballador is caging up.”

She glanced at him, rather envious of his ability to fit in with this crowd. Wearing a fisherman’s knitted gray cap pulled down over his longish brown hair and walking with the easy confidence of a man who’d grown up on these docks, he blended seamlessly with the boardwalk environment.

Haevyn drew the voluminous, thick, dark blue wool cloak closer around her shoulders and tugged the hood farther forward to shield her face, further disguising her true sex. The mask itched. It was something Grisha had dug up, goddess knew where, in order for Haevyn to attend the festivities tonight. Poor Grisha. He was so unlucky at cards. He’d lost a bet with her, and now he’d offered her the chance to settle it by getting her into one of the Cockrage events. It was an intriguing offer she couldn’t turn down.

In truth, at a very basic level, these events terrified her. The combatants were humanotic, and her meetings with them thus far had not proven pleasant. She’d actually had to force herself to follow through and come here tonight. And yet her very terror, her aberrant fascination with all things humanotic, had her heart hammering with a certain level of triumphant excitement, not dread. She hated being afraid and so was determined to face her terrors, again and again. She’d been labeled manic risqexcerinia by the Regulate psychiatrist. Risk-taker extreme.

Surprisingly, once identified, she had embraced her twisted fascination, her challenge, her personal power that seemed to increase with every dangerous encounter. She almost reveled in it. Hence, Grisha’s nickname for her—Wildcat. He still bore some of the scars that had earned her that nickname.

Haevyn glanced sideways and determined the information she’d been given about females not attending the pre-games needed qualification. Ladies did not attend these bouts. Females of good name did not even consider breaking the boundaries of earthy, illegal encounters such as this. But there were some. Mostly those who made their living off the dockers and manufactors. Some, she knew, had grown up as wharf rats—orphans who refused to enter the workhouses and jumped the orphans’ house as quickly as a feral studcat atop a steam ventilation quit its crouch. And here, in the tunnels just beneath Canal Lane, was a prime location for doxies to bring their johnimen. But for other choices she’d made, Haevyn might have become one of them. Fortunately, that very label of risk-taker extreme had made her journey different from most, and she’d made decisions others of her sex would have quaked to even consider.

The pungent odoriferousness of bawdy sex and body stench threatened to overwhelm her. The strike of her scarred leather boots against the decaying, wet, cobbled street echoed loudly to her ears, especially at this late hour. Midnight didn’t bring the best sorts down to the wharves.

Haevyn narrowed her gaze as she and Grisha advanced, closing in on a couple on a wooden bench. The woman’s tangled cloud of black hair blended with the night, shadowing her naked, paste-white shoulders. Her red satin dress hung limply about her generous hips as she rode the scruffy-whiskered dockman sprawled beneath her. Their low moans split the silence of the pale-moon night. The dim-toned light of a flickering, dirt-encrusted street lamp glimmered dully over their undulating bodies, casting long shadows that twisted diabolically.

The woman arched back, her voluptuous breasts bobbing with the cadence of her swaying as she bounced faster and faster over the man. He grunted, eyes wide and unfocused; then he cried out as he climaxed.

“Come on, Wildcat,” Grisha whispered urgently, “or we’ll miss the match. And I want to check out the auctions beforehand. Might find something useful for the pub or my fishing boat.”

Haevyn turned away from the post-coital, loose-limbed liquidity of the tableau, just catching a glimpse of the woman as she awkwardly dismounted the docker and turned to straighten her wrinkled dress. As Haevyn and Grisha passed by, Haevyn caught a closer look at the woman, whom she had at first thought quite young. But, no, the woman was far past her prime, by the look of lines etched deeply into her face. The doxy scooped up a bottle and gulped long and deep before offering it to the man on the bench.

Haevyn shuddered inwardly at the thought of how thin the veil was between the doxy and her. It could have been Haevyn trying to make ends meet as a common streetwalker. And there were some days when she didn’t feel much better than that. She shoved the thought away and straightened her shoulders. No regrets. The knowledge that her fate could have been that of the doxy rode her harder on some days than others. She made no apologies for her choices, even if they had been more difficult than she could ever have imagined. She was a survivor. Her brother, Bhrett, counted on her to be strong. She’d promised her parents at their grave she would take care of everything, just as they would have.

She and Grisha rounded a turn, taking the steps up to the main thoroughfare and moving toward the noisy hub of activity. Not much reason for her tromping this far down the docks in the regular course of conducting business. Neither had it been a regular destination when, as a child, she’d accompanied her father before his death.

Gamebrokers, arms waving furiously, bet-bits fluttering, urged higher odds. Fortunes turned on the outcome of the humanotic games. Especially for the Elite, who masked themselves in order to attend the games right alongside the dockers and factory workers who lived and breathed for cage matches—particularly the illegal ones. A fine night for “downing it”, as those from the Elite District called a night partying in the Moondown Water District. Bastard pirate liquor from Zamboza would flow like water. Cheap and easy, just like the women who offered their services at the pre-game midnight market.

Here and there along the boardwalk and inside the warehouse, the wily tebitcheckers operated their nasty little contulaters. Green metal mechanisms with pearl-numbered buttons that went ka-ching, ka-ching in a steady rhythm through the night, tallying up the intake for the Green’s split of profits. They spit out cheap green punch cards, already stacked high, marking a profitable take for the game-governing gang. The tebitchecker’s apprentice, wearing a brass magnifying monocle, inspected each tiny punch hole before transferring the card to the brass strongbox to be delivered to the Green’s headquarters at the end of the games.

The Greens owned the night, as they controlled most everything else that was illegal in the Downers. Under the boards, they split the lucrative cream with the shifty Regulates who patrolled the area. Greased palms, secret agreements and ruthless enforcement kept everyone involved obscenely bloated with their greedy gains.

Grisha dragged her forward.

“You wanted this,” he hissed.

“Yes, but I never thought you’d actually let me come with you. You never have before.” He grinned. “You know me better than that. How long have we been…friends? Since the lower forms. When have I ever filched on a bet?”

“Point made. Can’t say you’ve ever done less than rise to all expectations in our friendship.”

“You’ve never been able to say no to me, have you, Wildcat? Now, come on.” The leer he turned on her, the slanted gaze, the intensity of the look, only made her heartbeat quicken. Damn the man!

The door on her memories slipped open—slices of the past always reared up at the worst moments. Unpleasant thoughts filled her mind. They often did concerning certain choices she’d made. Grisha should have been her first lover. That he hadn’t would always be a thorn in her sporiti. With him, losing her virginity might have been easier, better, meant more. But the man who had taken her sexual innocence hadn’t been him. By the time she and Grisha finally did share intimacy, the wounds of the brutal deflowering were etched deep and everlasting. She’d learned a hard lesson, but the ugly liaison had kept a roof over her and Bhrett’s heads. So maybe that was just the way life was meant to be. Maybe the experience had helped to make her the risk-taker who could survive anything. Bhrett and Grisha were the two most important people in her life. She’d give her life for either of them.

Torches burned brightly along the boardwalk that led them to the otherwise deserted warehouse at the end of Coal Lane. The Greens had seen to the construction of a bigger and better warehouse some years back. Rumor had it that this end of the wharf was now used strictly for illegal games like the event they attended tonight.

The atmosphere felt more like a street fair, except ninety-nine percent of the attendees were men, with the odd streetwalker thrown in. Fucking in this corner, gambling in that. A fiddler here, a singer there. She heard a guffawed eruption from one corner and turned, her curiosity piqued. Three men stripped a woman of her stained, canary-yellow dress. She seemed to be enjoying the attention. When she was finally bare, one of the men tossed her onto a spice barrel, where she commenced a slow, grinding dance to the spritely tune of a lone fiddle player, twisting and turning, her tattooed breasts bouncing. It wasn’t long before one of the burly men in the audience, a crusty sailor by the look of him, launched himself forward, threw her across his shoulder and strode away toward a shadowy, unoccupied nook in the yawning warehouse. The remaining men turned to one of the other women and began the bawdy ritual again.

Grisha dragged Haevyn deeper into the warehouse, where auctioneers offered up sea chests that had once belonged to sailors now dead. Another niche took them to the sad sight of profiteers auctioning off the contracts of servitude of people desperate for food and willing to bargain years of their lives in exchange for a roof over their heads, a warm bed and full belly.

In the legitimate business world of Quentopolis, contracts like this had been outlawed, but little stopped the desperate from negotiating on the black market. The insensitive Politico ever turned a blind eye to such negotiations.

Grisha pulled her toward a wooden ladder, and they climbed upward, away from the noise on the first floor. On the second floor, a large group of men mingled, engaged in lower-toned conversations; gamebrokers took bets, no females to be seen. The nasty atmosphere stank of sweat and beer and cheap tobacco, lit only by several small dirty tin lanterns that stood in a broad, arcing circle. Dented brass spittoons dotted the corners. By the look of the stains on the planks, few had the talent to hit their mark.

And then she saw them. Six men—no, not men. Humanotics, surgically modified humans. Naked, with the beefiest bodies she’d ever seen in her life. So huge—and she couldn’t help noticing cocks of a proportion to match.

“That’s them?”

“Fighters. That’s what we’re here for—to watch them.”

“Yes, I know. You told me that. But I thought—I don’t know what I thought.” The war of emotions had begun to build inside her. Love-hate. The twisted curiosity for the thing she despised most. Her instant arousal, tinged with that sharp sting of fear, sickened her—drew her—as it always did.

“They aren’t all like Trader,” Grisha said. “Just like us. You should know that. Bhrett’s more humanotic than not, and you don’t fear him.”

“Don’t say that. He’s my little brother.” Haevyn still kept some things from Grisha, including her polaric emotions regarding humanotics. Sometimes she didn’t understand her own feelings. She loved her brother dearly and would do anything for him. She also had a horrific fascination for his metamorphosis from her sweet, fully human younger brother to glamorous and seductive humanotic. Yet doom hovered dangerously close when she considered the consequences if he went too far.

“That’s my point. You can’t tar them all with the same brush, dammit. Some are actually pretty nice people. A lot of them had no choice in what they are—you know that too.”

On one level, he was right. Routinely, the Regulates seized citizens off the street to be used for Factorium experimentation, and then, when the doctors finished with them, they were tossed back out on the street to make their own way, forever changed. The Politico had little concern for their welfare. On the other hand, her feelings on the subject of humanotics came from personal experience. Very personal. She’d lost her virginity to a humanotic—the brutal supervisor at the mill where she’d worked. She refused to dwell on that at the moment. The memory of that first, savage, humanotic sexual encounter still filled her with loathing and fear, but as for her feelings about other humanotics, she wasn’t quite sure.

She adjusted her green mask. The color of the mask marked her as affiliated with the Green Gang—not the Blue. The two gangs ran the Moondown Water District, and everything that happened on the wharves fell within their purview. They got a cut of all activity that went down here and paid their tribute to the Politicos that governed Quentopolis, which left little for anyone else, especially the hungry citizens of the Moondowns.

Her gaze widened when she spotted one of the fighters. A coppery half-mask hid his face to some extent. Good goddess, what a specimen he was.

“Who is he?” she asked as she found herself drawn toward his corner.

Grisha chuckled. “Not all humanotics are quite so revolting, eh, Haevyn?”

“Shut up, Grisha. Who is he?”

“That, my darling, is the fighter known as Ballador.”

“But who is he? He’s not Quentopian. He can’t be.” Fire twisted her gut as she studied the masked fighter. The heat in her stomach simmered and then slowly began to spread. She felt the sharp barb of lust hook into her and twist.

Grisha shrugged. “No one knows his real identity. He always fights masked.”

“I can’t believe the Factorium produced something like him and then set him free.”

“As I said, no one knows his story.”

Haevyn pushed through the crowd of men and took a position at the outer fringes of the circle around the fighter. She couldn’t take her eyes off him. Something about him struck a chord in her. At that moment, he turned and seemed to pick her out from the crowd surrounding him. He fused her to him with a steady, molten stare that took her breath away. She needed to know more about him. He was similar in build to the other naked fighters, but there was something more, something different about this one.

Other than the copper mask, that was. Her palms itched, and she curled her fingers into fists. It was the only thing that stopped her from breaking from the pack and propositioning him right there and then—from running her hands over all that tantalizing skinmetal gleaming beneath the flickering lamplight.

She’d never seen such a chest. Fashioned by and for battle. Yes, this man was a warrior. No dock worker here. Heavy and muscled, gleaming abs like mountainous rock. A physique that reminded her of a deeply textured landscape of rugged terrain and dark crevices of unyielding muscle, thoroughly enticing to an adventurer such as herself.

As he stood silently, his demeanor exuded mixed messages—one of a barbarian warrior ready to fight, yet also an intelligent, noble statesman who always weighed his options before engaging in battle. And that cock. Human, not humanotic, rising powerfully from between those thickly toned thighs to bob against his tight, flat abdomen. Reddened and stiff, knob bulbous, almost twinned by the deeply creviced slit. He’d been shaved to expose every facet of his marvelous body. Yes, that was it. He spoke to her most primal nature.

She spotted the scars at his temples, almost lifted a hand to her own jewel-covered temple. Who was he? What position had he once held that had led to those scars?

“Turn,” she whispered beneath her breath. “Let me see all of you.” Her attention traveled back to his face, to those dark, penetrating eyes that peered out from behind the mask. He nodded, almost as though he read her mind, and slowly began to turn. Arms bowed, hands clenched, he broke that gaze and pivoted away. Light glanced off gold-colored metal plates just behind his ears. He intrigued her. Oh, yes, he intrigued her very much.

Ahhh. A perfect ass, bronzed mountains with a deep valley notched between. Broad shoulders that could easily bear the weight of several heavy crates. A god among men. A humanotic who could easily break her in two if he so desired. Her thighs quivered with need. Desire and anxiety intertwined seamlessly. Her breaths turned shallow as she fought not to press the heel of her palm against her pussy. How would it feel to have those big hands on her body? Possessing her, molding her, his cock filling her.

No wonder he had such a reputation. Suddenly, Haevyn couldn’t wait to watch him in the arena. Her blood warmed, hot now and almost singeing her from inside. Need creamed her pussy. Desire to feel his hands on her breasts tightened her nipples painfully beneath the bindings she wore to mask her sex. She needed to fuck, and she needed it now. Goddess, how she needed it, in a way she’d never wanted it before. Not even with Grisha.

“I want to meet him,” she said.

“Not your type, I thought.”

“Fuck you,” she snapped back.

“I’m thinking I’m not who you want between your thighs right now. Could it be you actually want to fuck a humanotic? My, my, how times have changed.”

She jabbed him in the ribs.

“Umph!” He wrapped his arms around his midriff. “That hurt. Been working out, huh? I should get you to come down to the docks and spar some. It’ll help to keep you fit and toned for that other job you do.”

She didn’t bother to answer him. She ignored his dig about her job. He was her closest friend. He understood her best, but there were still things Grisha would never know about her. Things she kept secret.

“Fine. After the fight, I’ll introduce you,” he finally muttered.

“You know him that well?”

He shrugged, and immediately Haevyn became suspicious. “He comes to the pub now and then.”

“So you’ve seen his face?” Instinct told her Grisha knew the fighter more than strictly as an acquaintance.

“Maybe. But I’m not telling you who he is. I made a promise, and I always keep my word. You should know that better than anyone.” Yes, Grisha had his own secrets to keep. And he could be trusted.

“Fine. I’ll find out for myself.” They’d been friends a long time, and they’d shared a great many secrets. It was Grisha who’d held her when she’d cried after that first time with Trader. It was Grisha who had kissed each bruise left by that encounter and taught her there was more to sex than the savageness of forced penetration, or the whipping she’d received when she’d vomited after performing fellatio for the first time on a man she despised. It was Grisha who had listened as she’d worked out the pros and cons of joining the newly formed Compsociate branch of the military.

Grisha grinned, and her heart twisted. “You do that, sweetheart.” She loved Grisha as much as she was able to love any man besides her brother.

“Fuck you,” she said and then couldn’t help cracking a smile. He always was one to double-dare her, and there were few times when she didn’t take up the challenge.

So, that was her. Haevyn Breina. His interest was piqued.

By the time sixth night came around, Entreus tended to be wound far tighter than was safe for an Orictan warrior. The games were illegal; to engage in them was dangerous but offered as much satisfaction as an Orictan warrior might find in a city like Quentopolis, so far from his own kind. Each day, his restlessness seemed to increase, and up until recently, there’d been no way for him to assuage his thirst for battle. A battle—some battle—any battle. It served no purpose to try to engage Jericah Ledavian, his sorcerer lover, in physical combat. Malefici carnaliad did not resort to that sort of physical confrontation. Besides, Jericah was no match for Entreus’s warrior training. But this sort of confrontation—this Cockrage—had nothing to do with personal honor or serving his Primatur Absolute in Oricta. This was about Entreus keeping his sanity. Warrior honor had no place in a Cockrage event.

A solution to his dilemma had finally presented itself on a day when he’d been on the docks helping load crates onto a ship, needing the physical activity. Grisha Lukamon had told him about the outlawed Cockrage games.

And so here he was, in his third fight. In each one before, he’d been victorious. He looked around at the testosterone-packed warehouse located at the edge of the Moondown Water District, an obviously forsaken area of town. He fought under the name Ballador, given to him by his mother when he was born. He hadn’t used the name in Quentopolis. But then, no one in this dimension knew his full and complete name. They’d known him as Ambassador-General Entreus of the Orictan Dimension, and, more recently, just as Entreus. They didn’t know his heritage. They knew nothing of battle honor, blood courage, or the relationship of brothers in arms.

He’d been well oiled for this match, his body honed and prepared for tonight’s confrontation. His cock was already fully erect in anticipation of the outcome of this crude conflict. Bare and primed, he was now ready for inspection so these men could choose and place their bets on which humanotic would dominate the other. The combatants were dubbed cockbeasts because, once inside the cage, that was all they were—primitive animals, where only one would prevail—as in any confrontation between two male alpha creatures.

Entreus would fight last, as he had been the victor of the previous two engagements. The smell of smoke—cigars and pipes—assaulted his senses. The stench permeated the air. Smoking oil lanterns didn’t help.

“Make yer last bets, boys. Five minutes until the games begin, so make it good,” the announcer said through the amplivocerator—a collar-like contraption with a special disk placed at the front of the throat. Attached to it by a coiled wire was a black metal horn. It allowed a man to be heard above an unruly crowd such as this. “Ante up and git yerselves to the cage. You don’t want to miss a minute of these fights.”

The all-male, unruly crowd closed in on the cage—ravaging spectators who thrived on the animal battles. They lusted for blood and broken bones and death. This arena provided an outlet for their own anger at whatever life had thrown them.

For the anonymous Ellies, the Elites slumming in the Downs for a night’s entertainment, it could prove lucrative. Entreus knew that some of the fighters were trained chattel owned by the Elite. Some were modified solely for the purpose of engaging in the illegal games.

Yes, it had become quite a profitable underworld business. Some said the speculation on these fighters could make or break a wealthy Elite. One or two had tried to buy Entreus, to get him to join their stables. He had laughed. How little they knew of his nature. Tonight he expected some of the Dominatae class in attendance were there to inspect and document the engagements—both in the cage as well as among the spectators. It was part of the Dominatae mission to document and study all sexual encounters.

There were several ways to dominate in this particular kind of fight. The final act of penetration reigned supreme as the crowd favorite.

As the crowd slowly began to disperse and head for the fight cage, Entreus turned to meditation, as defined by his typical pre-game routine. Jericah had taught him several new techniques which seemed to work better than those he’d learned in Oricta. Entreus had little interest in watching the other bouts before his own engagement. He had no interest in spectator titillation. Some of the fighters involved themselves in the games not for the sport of one-on-one combat. More than a few eagerly sought the sexual side of the games, the domination and submission displayed in a public arena.

He’d already sized up each of his possible opponents for tonight. Likely, from the looks of them, sex players. Calling “yield” would end a match without penetration. Few of those he conquered tended to call “yield,” most preferring that ultimate act of forced sexual submission. In truth, the only reason they fought was to be compelled to surrender. That was why the combatants were oiled so very well. Entreus’s body was slick and well prepared both outside and in, even though thus far he’d not been bested in the cage.

He inhaled, then released a breath slowly. Took more air in and exhaled. Just as he was about to begin his limbering routine to warm his muscles, he spotted the woman once again. Rather than following the crowd toward the cage area, she stood watching him. He knew she had accompanied Grisha. She might try to disguise herself as a male Ellie, but he could smell her. She was wholly female. And he scented her interest. She’d watched him and no other through the inspection phase. And now she moved toward him. He straightened.

She didn’t carry herself like most females. There was a regimented cadence to her strut. She thrust back her shoulders; her movements were controlled. Even with her body fully enveloped by the long cloak, her bearing suggested military training. The seductive rhythm of her gait provided an intriguing meld of structure and liquidity. Her eyes, her long, pale lashes, the fullness of her lips beneath the green demi-mask she wore, identified her true sex.

She might live in the Moondown Water District, her allegiances obviously to the Green Gang, but her carriage did not speak of factory or workhouse. She was a station above, but he’d not have mistaken her for an Ellie.

Damn Grisha. Entreus might be interested in the woman, but now was not the time. Now he must prepare for the engagement he’d come to fight. He turned his back on her and began his preparations, though he could still feel her eyes upon him. He forced her from his thoughts.

It wasn’t long before the organizer came for him. Primed, oiled and scenting the hot, pungent aroma of men, Entreus headed toward the cage, masculine excitement coiling tightly inside his stomach. This wasn’t just a match of male power—this was a game of dominant sex. Who would fuck, and who would submit. His nostrils flared as he took in the smell of man-sex, the heat of sweating bodies, the pungency of spilled seed. His gut twisted tighter.

The cheering, the grunts, the roars reminded him of the Cerexian Festival games on Oricta. Maybe that was why he always returned to the arena. And yet Orictan breeding games were a celebration of procreation. These…exhibitions had nothing to do with the celebration of any goddess. These were purely might matching might, humanotic to humanotic, money changing hands. Base, primitive, lusty. A pale imitation of everything Entreus had lost. And he funneled all his rage and frustration into each and every confrontation in the cage.

He needed this like addicts needed opiates. It was all that kept him sane in this alien world in which he’d been forced to remain.

The squeal of the gate being lifted caught his attention, and Entreus stepped into the arena. He blotted out the shouts of the crowds; his focus turned to the man who entered from the other side. He had only seconds to size him up.

A match in build to Entreus, the man had more height, maybe six foot seven to Entreus’s more compact six foot four. Mountainous chest, stone-rippled abs, with a squared-up, blocked run of chest and torso down to solid, lean hips. Enhanced humanotic strength translated into reinforced forearms, thighs, and a thick-muscled neck sheathed in copper skinmetal. His twin-pronged cock swayed thick and semi-hard between his thighs. Entreus figured he was newly fashioned, newly released from the Factorium. The twinheadeds seemed to be the latest craze from the Factorium doctors. Who knew what they were doing to the females? He didn’t want to find out.

Entreus stood at ease, waiting and watching as the cocky young fighter quickly moved to the center of the arena, eager to gain favor with the crowd. Thick fingers balled into fists, he raised his arms above his head and turned to the bloodthirsty spectators, his answering roar well-met by the men eager for the engagement to begin. Tight ass cheeks clenched, glossed with oil, high and muscled, cleft dark and inviting. Globes that gleamed with the film of oil massaged into his skinmetal. The muscles of his ass flexed each time he gestured to the crowd. His back lengthened, spine sharply defined. He appeared to possess reinforced trinespine, giving added dimension and strength to his back. Interesting.

Finally, he spun around to face Entreus. He gripped the root of his cock even as he grinned at Entreus, showing a full mouth of brass, metal-guarded teeth.

“Come on, bitch. Let’s get this started.” He stroked his cock, bringing it to full attention. “I can’t wait to shove this prick up your ass. Then you’re gonna know who’s the biggest and the best around here.”

Young and scared and totally full of himself. Entreus’s blood stirred. Oh, yes, the young braggart had his attention. He liked the look of this wild young stud, and he was more than ready to be the first to put the bit between his teeth and bring the young fighter to heel.

But Entreus waited, biding his time, knowing it wouldn’t be long. Slow to start, he never failed to give this crowd what they wanted—eventually. And he was right. Too eager to strut his stuff, the fighter launched himself at Entreus. Entreus neatly sidestepped and whirled around almost delicately. Even as his opponent lunged forward, Entreus caught the young buck’s legs, spun him, dropped him facedown. When he hit the tarp, connecting headfirst with the ground, Entreus heard the grunt of pain.

But he was fast, spinning in midair before he fully landed, back on his feet, in Entreus’s space. The twist of rage on his face kept Entreus alert to every move, even as he admired the grace of his opponent’s recovery.

They danced around the cage, fist to face, foot to chest, grunts of acknowledgment, spins and lunges, a blur of motion providing wonder and entertainment to the spectators, but enhanced humanotic vision made tracking the action simply another maneuver for the men in the cage. Skin and sweat, the aroma of spicy oil and musk-laden lust permeated the atmosphere of the room as the fight moved closer and closer to its ultimate conclusion.

The heightened odor of blood, the crimson splash of a nosebleed. Entreus’s blood burned for completion. He caught the young fighter up, lifting him, scenting his sex, almost tasting the twin-pronged cock as it brushed against his face. Then he slammed him down to the mat, winding his opponent. The young fighter struggled to come back this time, already tiring. He pushed too fast, too hard, and he lost the opportunity to gain the dominant position.

Entreus saw in his eyes that he understood his predicament. Staring back at the young warrior, Entreus yanked open the fighter’s thighs and slid up between them. Their cocks brushed together, only making Entreus eager to end this foreplay faster, wanting to feel this man’s ass sheathed snug around his prick. He’d be tight and slick with oil and sweat.

Young, new to the games.

The man still fought, refused to submit, would fight Entreus to the end.

“Yield,” Entreus said, offering reprieve. If the vanquished fighter said the word, gave over to Entreus as victor, he could walk out of this cage uncoupled.

“Fuck you,” he growled back.

All the better. Entreus saw the response in his eyes. Make me. Make me submit. He wanted it. And would have it. Anyone who had watched Entreus fight before understood there would be no half measures. Cockrage didn’t promise mediocre entertainment. The victor always claimed his prize.

The fighter suddenly got his second wind and shot up from the mat, unseating Entreus, actually taking him by surprise. He rose over Entreus, but Entreus was far from finished. He hooked a leg around one of his opponent’s, yanked and brought him down. The man lifted his legs against his chest. Perfect. Entreus shoved him over onto his knees into a turtled position. Exactly where he wanted him.

He surged over the young humanotic, fastening him to the mat. Entreus positioned the head of his cock at his opponent’s now unguarded and well-lubed hole.

“Yield,” he offered one last time.

“Never.” There was no question the humanotic didn’t know what came next.

“Then submit,” Entreus said, even as he thrust forward and buried his cock inside the vanquished fighter’s rectum. The fighter clamped his muscles tight, attempting to vise-grip Entreus’s cock. Entreus was no pale-faced youngling to be played, and pain was his friend, not his enemy. A good ride required an experienced hand. He slapped the fighter first on one hard cheek and then the other, fast hits, strong and open-handed. He drummed against the defeated fighter’s ass and kept it up until the flesh flamed red and the vise-grip diminished. Entreus clamped on to the man’s hips and rode him, then spent his seed. Lifting up, still deeply entrenched in the fighter, he slowly rode him again. Long, deep thrusts, dragging it out, playing to the crowd, making certain the man beneath him understood exactly what it meant to be vanquished by the champion Ballador.

Entreus rolled his hips, ground against the routed fighter. Pulled back and then buried deep again and again. He felt the strength go out of his fallen opponent, felt his acquiescence, his acknowledgment of Ballador’s supremacy, giving over to an Orictan’s vanquishment. And then the ultimate victory as the young warrior began to move against him, groaning not from pain but from pleasure, even in the throes of his ultimate defeat.

Entreus looked to the faces of the crowd, who chanted “claim him” with each of his thrusts. He rubbed his hands over the reddened cheeks, playfully slapped him again. He knew the man was now caught up in his own answering lust as he pushed back against Entreus.

“Another tamed!” he shouted to the crowd as he buried his cock and shot his seed into the defeated fighter once more. The spectators roared. It was then, at his moment of ultimate victory, that he saw her, standing there, watching. He couldn’t see her eyes, but he saw her mouth, those voluptuous lips, full and reddened, a drop of blood at the corner from where she’d apparently bitten through the skin. Grisha stood just slightly behind her.

And then they were lost in the frenzied cheering of the crowd. Cockrage was no place for women. He pulled his now softening prick from inside his submissive opponent. Cockrage was a game for men.