His bruises are coated in a fine makeup, one that by the time they caress his skin and rub it off, they'll have made their own mark on him. It won't matter.
The drugs in his system make it a semi-comfortable haze, the people distant and wavy.
He sways, slowly walking out. Pink tongue over pale lips.
Hope it's a nice one.
"Oh look at this fine specimen," the man says. "And for sale, too - for just a price you can have him all to yourself."
Oh. Wonderful. Master doesn't want him anymore. Well. Maybe it's not that.
He shouldn't take it so personal. Maybe Master - like all the rest. Wants to make money.
He does a small spin on his toes, staring at someplace despite the brightness of the lights.
He kneels and arches back, offering for the taking. Ignoring the discomfort. He is used to this isn't he? Likes it. Likes pain. Likes showing off.
At first he thinks it's nothing more than a horrifying coincidence. It's barely recognisable at first. Hair so much longer, past your shoulders now, matted with sweat and god knows what else
( ... )
He writhes, twisting, licking his lips, his fingers, sliding it up his half-hard length.
This is his only existence anymore. His only purpose.
He doesn't really see outside the glass. He just can feel the lustful eyes on him, and he plays to the crowd like an instrument, pretending it's musical, arching his neck back, bowing nearly flat to the ground, arse in the air - then snapping back up continuing to dance his way across the cage. Stage. Whatever it is.
Even though, deep down - it's the cacophony of Hell.
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The drugs in his system make it a semi-comfortable haze, the people distant and wavy.
He sways, slowly walking out.
Pink tongue over pale lips.
Hope it's a nice one.
"Oh look at this fine specimen," the man says. "And for sale, too - for just a price you can have him all to yourself."
Oh. Wonderful.
Master doesn't want him anymore. Well. Maybe it's not that.
He shouldn't take it so personal.
Maybe Master - like all the rest. Wants to make money.
He does a small spin on his toes, staring at someplace despite the brightness of the lights.
He kneels and arches back, offering for the taking. Ignoring the discomfort. He is used to this isn't he? Likes it. Likes pain. Likes showing off.
"Oh, look at this beauty, shall we start?"
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This is his only existence anymore. His only purpose.
He doesn't really see outside the glass. He just can feel the lustful eyes on him, and he plays to the crowd like an instrument, pretending it's musical, arching his neck back, bowing nearly flat to the ground, arse in the air - then snapping back up continuing to dance his way across the cage. Stage. Whatever it is.
Even though, deep down - it's the cacophony of Hell.
"One thousand," someone shouts across the cage.
Yes. Buy me.
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