FWF: Fur Will Fly!

Connor_Bright: In his corner, Connor loosened up before the match, throwing a few combinations of punches and a few long, swinging kicks through the air. It was an artful exhibition of technique, and each time his feet left the canvas, he felt like he was lighter on them. He didn’t know much about his opponent. A newcomer… A little loud in the mouth… A reputation for taking down larger fighters. While most got steamrolled with the difference in weight class, this one definitely seem to be something special… He turned, moving towards the center of the ring, waiting for them to join him for the start of the match.

Feta_the_Goat: When it's time for my walkdown, I'm practically bouncing down the aisle toward the ring, some unidentifiable banjo and fiddle mess on the speakers. I'm a new face around here, but that didn't stop the management sending me in against a literal dragon. Not exactly the biggest one around, but he didn't have to be that big to be significantly bigger than me! Still, the vast majority of my training, not to mention my unofficial record, was built on stomping bigger challengers into the dirt. My first mark around here being 'dragon-slayer' doesn't sound too bad. Coming down to the ring, one high leap takes me up onto the side, and another all the way over the ropes, landing lightly on my feet on the other side before trotting right over to you, in the center. My slit-pupil eyes give you a steady look as I pop one yellow glove upwards toward you, to bat in a sportsmanlike manner. "So where'sa princess I get for beatin' you?"

Connor_Bright: He ignored the glove, taking in all 4 feet of his challenger. There was a strange twang to their voice… he couldn’t quite place it. Maybe from the south? Still, that leap was impressive, as was their confidence. Nevertheless, the shot at Connors lineage caused him to arch an eyebrow. “ It’s a fight, not a dating service. You beat me, you’re gonna have to go looking for your own princess.” For a moment, he considered not returning the sporting gesture… But Connor wasn’t a heel at heart. The fights were supposed to be fun, and no matter how far they went, he just couldn’t bring himself to be a merciless bastard. Not unless circumstances forced him to. Lifting one glove, he gave theirs a quick tap as the bell rang. “ These too fast, though… I might make you my princess.” he smirked as he put his fists up and began to bounce in place, finding his rhythm again.

Feta_the_Goat: I stand confident opposite him, claiming space in the ring as I stare. I let him talk, glove held in place, giving him the opportunity to decide just how he wants to be treated tonight. Wise decision, there's a happy little tap of leather, and my lips curl either side in a more-or-less friendly grin. "You can start with buying me dinner. Getting put'n your tower c'n come later!" It's unclear through my accent whether I actually said 'in your tower', or 'on your tower'. I don't clarify the sultry ambiguity though. The very instant the bell rings, the distance between us evaporates unless the dragon takes the unlikely move of surrendering ground! Weaving side to side and cutting through the air, presenting a fast-moving target, my first move is a leap off my foot as my right fist cuts out *fast*, a gazelle punch more like a rifle shot for your solar plexus, an immediate followup left as my hips twist to flick out the glove in a liver-shot left hook!

Connor_Bright: Connor had to admit, the direct attitude had him a little bit flustered. The odd sexual threat was about as far as he normally went, but getting taken up on the offer? That was new. Maybe he would have to go light on… The thought froze in place as the goat seemed to evaporate from in front of him, presenting a strange pattern. Distracted, he had forgotten momentarily that the fight had even begun before they were right in front of him. He had been planning to keep them at a distance and use his range advantage, and he shifted 1 foot back for a sweeping kick that would reap across the distance in front of him, rendering any ducking and weaving useless. Too slow. A small cannon ball of a fist wrapped in 5 pounds of leather, slapped just below his ribs, slipping between his elbows to hammer the breath out of his lungs. His eyes went wide with surprise, and he folded forward around the point of impact. A moment later, something slipped between his ribs and hip, and a wave of pain and weakness swept out through his body. He went down on one knee instantly, tongue out, and a thin spray of drool, leaving his gasping mouth. He tried to pull in air, but his body was too stunned. Even so, he had to act. This fight wasn’t going to be over before it even started, and he launched himself forward, arms, looking to wrap around the goat in a clinch. From there, he sent a knee thundering up toward their abs, looking to hang on them and sap their energy as he recovered his own.

Feta_the_Goat: The cute dragon is glued to the spot for a moment even after the bell rings, too slow on the uptake to prevent me from darting straight into the position I want. Up close and personal, and right under his guard. One, two, heavy-sounding WHUMPs into his abdomen, at calculated points like starting a demolition project. Noting for future reference the liver shot seemed dead on target, I keep right on moving as he drops to a knee. Lunging for a clinch, he'll have a nasty surprise waiting for his face half-way through the motion, a glove already swinging for his mouth the moment it dropped low enough! Still, probably not enough to stop the dragon's motion in his tracks, the arms still get on my shoulders and pull me in. I've done a bit of muay thai in my off seasons and I'm familiar enough with the most sensible followup to locking in the clinch, my arms dropping down to cross over my midsection and guard the knee! It still crashes heavy, knocking my arms into my gut, but spread over a wider area and not the impaling impact it could have been. Grunting in acknowledgement of the hit, I drop my lowered arms to tuck below his raised knee, and keep it elevated! I'm a pugilist at heart, but we're not just boxing, today... as my arms are working on securing that kneeing leg raised up, my feet are shuffling, too. One plants next to his own grounded foot, outside it... only for my hips to twist as my other leg whips across the air, aimed to crash into his standing leg at just about knee height from the side - my other leg to brace against his shin so it can't just sweep out, leaving all the force to resolve at the joint!

Connor_Bright: As he came in for the clinch, another whistling punch caught him a glancing blow along the face, the angle of his snout deflecting it into a cheekbone when it didn’t catch him square. He ignored the pain and wrapped his arms around them, knee flashing upward as intended, only to meet a barrier. Some give, but not enough. Then, movement sliding around his leg, grabbing it close. He still had his arms around their shoulders and could use them to maintain his balance, but a moment later he felt something pressed against the outside of his calf… A sweep? Were they going to try and go for a modified grapple technique? Then, suddenly, something that felt like a baseball bat crashed into the inside of his leg, and he felt the joint shift, threatening to hyperextend. His entire weight on it, he had no choice… He drew his leg up, bending the knee to keep it from sliding out of joint and folding sideways, ending the match there and then. The unexpected shift in tactics meant two things… First, his original intention, a modified “reaping throw“ that would’ve put them on the mat was out of the question. Second, his entire body weight was now resting on their shoulders, dragging them down and toward him. Keeping the whole secure, he shoved his hips forward as they fell, pushing her head down toward his chest and sliding his arms to secure a grip around their neck as they fell. The result was a sloppy, incomplete suplex meant to slam them to their back, leaving their head next to his on the mat. He barely had time to register how effective the technique was. Sitting forward, he reached for his throbbing leg, trying to roll back to his feet. Although he had supplemented with some throws and other grappling arts, he was a striker by nature, and this fight was one he intended to win on his feet.

Feta_the_Goat: The dragon's clinch getting locked in, I get one knee up and then threaten to take the other out of the picture entirely! He manages to avoid giving up a snap just so early, surrendering his footing entirely! The weight down and forward on my shoulders tips us, and he leverages as best he can to turn it into a slam for me. Not perfect form, but my back does hit the ground pretty hard, knocking some air out of my chest with a "Whuff"! It's enough to slow me, but not enough to stun me, and laid head to head on the mat, when he sits forward first and spends a precious moment attending to his leg... that presents his back to my torso! He's not the only striker by nature in this ring, but I'm no slouch on the ground, and I'm more than happy to drag him into uncomfortable territory... especially when he gives that chance! I spring up, reaching to curl an arm around his neck, at the same time trying to get legs either side of his waist so he can't just pull me right over him!

Connor_Bright: The knee is shaky. It feels swollen, and he knows that he’s going to have a limp after this fight. It’ll be a liability for the remainder of the match, but if he can defend it. He feels small arms with muscle like steel cable reach around him, one looping around his throat as a warm body presses into his back. His arm shoots up, managing to slip a wrist through the loop of their arm before it closes, preventing an easy choke. Is attempt to get back to his feet foiled, it looks like he’s going to have to do the best he can on the ground. The hand not guarding his throat, reaches back over his shoulder, trying to grab a fistful of hair or a horn. Simultaneously, he jerks his head back, hoping to make contact with a nose. He’s panting, a sense of fear, filling him for the first time. They may be small, but they are relentless. Since this fight started, they’ve been keeping him on the back foot. Now, it’s his determination to survive against their determination to put him on the mat and keep him there.

Feta_the_Goat: As the dragon sits up, I respond quickly and join him, only sliding behind! As my arm loops around, he's quick enough and well trained enough to prevent the next ten seconds being the last ones he remembers in the ring with me, getting a hand hugged to his face as I tighten my arm around his wrist and throat! His other hand loops back over himself, and I start to move but he gets a loose grip on my hair, long enough to wind back and crash into my nose! "Nghuh!" My head bounces back on my neck, blood quickly trickling down onto my lip. My thick skull is one of my best qualities, but even if I'm not knocked loopy that still hurts like a sonofabitch! He gets a few seconds reprieve from me trying to choke his arm right into his throat, before I give him a glare from behind. Really wanna get in a headbutting match with a goat? I wind my head back, before RAMMING my hard forehead straight forward while tugging him backward by the throat, to crash right into the back of his skull near the base of the neck!

Connor_Bright: He brought his head forward again when he felt the react and heard the small sound of pain that they let slip. Maybe if he could just give their nose a few more cracks, they’d give up the choke and let him reset. Just as he was about to slam his skull into their face again, he felt something crack into him, and everything went white. He felt his limbs stiffen and shoot out into every direction, the arm around his throat the only exception because of how trapped it was. Everything was a little gray tunnel, and he felt like he was looking out at the world from someplace deep inside of his own head. Sounds seemed muffled. Was vaguely aware that he was twitching in their grasp, and his vision tilted towards the ceiling as his eyes rolled back. A little dribble of drool slipped from his lips, painting her forearm. After a few moments, one hand raised halfway, bent at the elbow, fingers, numb. He tried to reach back again to get his grip on their hair back, but it was slow… Confused…

Feta_the_Goat: The dragon opens the floodgates... the dragon drowns. He's not out-heatbutting me, sure as hell not from behind him! A single heavy ram, and I feel his body stiffen in a chaotic jolt in my hold. I feel drool wet my arm, note the way his body tightens and loosens up. His free hand seems to start going back again for my head, maybe not remembering so good where it is exactly. My eyebrow cocks. Any ref would break this up, but I don't see how fucked his expression is from behind him, and there's no ref in sight. I take the arm reaching back plainly - a sign he's still in the fight. My legs around his waist finish the job wrapping around, ankles locking in his lap, but I suddenly drop the chokehold, batting his reaching arm aside, and starting to twist my torso on my hips to batter a chain of *wicked* hooks into the sides of his skull, boxing his head from behind him while keeping his torso upright with the pressure of my legs!

Connor_Bright: His other arm drops free… Connor is loose? He can get up? Is the fight over? Part of him wants to stand, but now there’s something wrapping around him. It feels almost… Nice? Warm, soft. He begins to sag forward, but something is shaving his arms away. White. His head is tilted to the side, one ear ringing. White. His cheek is on fire, his eye watering. White. The other side. Back-and-forth. Endless. His abused brain bouncing around the bone cage of his skull as his resisting body takes every punch. Each blow pushes him deeper into his own head until there’s just a tiny people of light. He spasms, toes, curling, and ankles, twisting as his legs failed too, propel him away from the situation. Finally, his face, bruised and swollen, takes a blow that sends it backwards, his upper body falling back into their chest, his head on their shoulder. He’s panting, dazed. ‘Nnn… ngggh…’ Palsied, his hands reach for their knees and push weakly, trying to open the trap. There’s no strength there. With a few precious minutes, he might be back on his feet. But that isn’t up to him. Not anymore. Whatever happens next rest entirely on the mercies of his opponent. A knockout that ends things quickly? More torture? Or letting the dragon get back to his feet, facing a fighter that is clearly already only able to offer token resistance?

Feta_the_Goat: My thighs press deep into the sides of his abdomen, feet resting in his lap and preventing him from even simply crumpling limp to the ground before me, as I continue to liquify his brain. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. I feel his spasming in my legs, before his torso slumps back against mine with his head on my shoulder, nearly grazing my cheek. I tilt as I hear his dazed, wordless panting, seeing the drool running down off his muzzle and the white showing in his eye. Looking about finished. Then my brow furrows as I feel his hands still pushing against my knees. "Tch, still fighting." I bend to one side, tucking my upper arm under his right armpit, and forcing his torso to bend leftwards near 90 degrees when I straighten out pressuring his armpit. Stretching out that side of his midsection, I start digging punches with my right fist right under the bottom of his ribcage, aimed to tuck into his liver again and again, like I'm trying to fucking dislodge it. When he seems like he finally gets the point, I slow down. Huffing, getting a workout on him. "Okay..." I tap his skull twice quickly, a little lighter, like ringing a bell. "That's round one." Unlocking my ankles, I slide my legs back around. Securing him by the throat again, I use that to drag him into a corner and set him sitting against it. I find a bottle of water and squirt some over him, maybe a little getting in his mouth, before starting to chug it down as I trot away from him across the ring, sitting down on a turnbuckle in the opposite corner and enjoying an opportunity to freshen up!

Connor_Bright: As silly as her statement might sound to any observer, it was true. Some part of Connor was still fighting. It was an impossible battle at this point, but the only thing he had left was fighting spirit. No gas left in the tank. No strength. His left hand slid from her thigh as he was pushed in that direction, his right side exposed, lats flexing and contracting with each shuddering breath. “GaHAKKKK”. If there was any air in his lungs, it would’ve been a scream. Instead, it was a strangled, burbling cry as the goat brought their fist down into the perfect, exposed target. The pain was immense and impossible. Like a bomb going off in that side. Every time they slammed their fist home, he could hear them grunt with effort. Around the fourth shot, he blacked out. The fifth brought him back. The sixth sent a thin, clear liquid spilling out out of his lips as the water he had drank before the match was forced back up his esophagus. He wretched and shook, going limp. Tears poured down his cheeks as the torture finally stopped. Breathing heavy, he could feel them lean down, their breath on his cheek as she gave him a quick tap and whispered in his ear. Their breath was warm. Their body felt strangely comforting. He wasn’t processing information properly as they hauled him across the ring, dumping him like trash. Back against the post, he jerked in voluntarily as the water splashed onto his bruised and swelling face, moaning. Arms and legs by his sides, he lay there for long moments before one hand clumsily reached out and grab a rope to one side. Then the other. It took him a full minute to get to his knees. Another to push himself up to the next rope. He turned to face them, where they sat watching him, fresh as a daisy. He was on auto pilot now, his hands coming up in a sloppy guard. He staggered towards the center of the ring, his damaged knee, buckling, and nearly dumping him back to the canvas. ‘Rnnnnd… two…’.

Feta_the_Goat: Hitting repeated heavy WHUMPs into his body, eventually I hear a sick, wet sound come out of his throat, and a splat of thin liquid onto the canvas. My eyebrow raises, realizing what just happened. I bleat out a chuckle. "Bleheheh, that's fuckin' embarrassing..." After getting him generously set up in the corner, I have multiple minutes time to get a breather, get hydrated, address my bleeding nose, and so on. By the time he's agonized all the way back onto his feet, I'm looking almost good as new, a light sheen of sweat coating my fuzz but otherwise peachy, shooting him a smile. By contrast, he looks about ready for medical attention. My eyebrows lift a little when I see him stagger out of the corner with a vague impression of a guard up, trying to start another round. It looks about ready to be the least even round in history. "You sure..?" Shrugging, I drop off the corner onto my feet, and start bouncing out towards him. "Heh, you got spirit!" The unspoken part - you don't have anything else, now. In comparison to him nearly falling over all on his own, I'm moving about as fast and dextrous as the start of round one, coming in hot and weaving, circling, forcing him to painfully struggle to keep up with the footwork. After a few moments, I feint a left hook at his liver, anticipating he'll want to avoid that right about now, only to twist my hips and leap into a fast and hard upswinging hook straight for his jaw!

Connor_Bright: His side was swollen and bruised, and his stomach felt hard to the touch. All those hard blows may have done some real damage, and Connor didn’t need a second round… he needed a hospital. But if there was one thing that defined dragons, it was their stubbornness and a single-mindedness of purpose. If there was a chance at all, or even no chance, he wouldn’t back down from this fight. To do so would be to throw away everything that he was. And so, he lived in a painful circle, half dazed as they toured with him, taking his measure. The faint brought a flinch. Intentionally or not, the goat had already damaged more than his body. They had taken some of his courage. And with the blow that landed under his jaw, they took what remained of his balance. Staggering backward into the ropes, he brought his hands up in defense, trying to measure the distance. Their approach. Everything was doubled… Tripled… His face ache. His skull throbbed like his brain wanted to tear itself free of its prison. You could barely see as he placed his weight on his good leg and launched a sweeping round house in front of him where the little blur of motion was. Head height.

Feta_the_Goat: He takes the bait of my left fist's twitch, reacting hard and opening right up to get his jawline adjusted by my fist! Watching with the same intensity as any other fighter, I follow after his staggering steps, chasing him to the ropes as he turtles up and guards his head. His foot plants and his arm starts to sweep out, telegraphed to hell, high. The only sound I make is a "Tsk." while dropping right under the swing and pouncing in going to his right side, putting my full goat leap force behind a right hook straight back to his brutalized liver, only to instantly follow up with a whip of the hips into a bloodcurdling second hook curling between his back ribs and hips - going for a kidney shot!

Connor_Bright: He had known, with what was left of his awareness, that every sloppy blow was going to be punished brutally and efficiently. He had counted on the pain. He had already endured serving to inoculate him against the next beating. He had been wrong. The liver shot was every bit as devastating as the earlier ones. More so, even with all the damage that it already been done. The absolute focus on that one spot, a solid purple bruise beneath his scales, was nothing short of cruel. As he prepared to fall again, a new pain was inflicted on him. His lower back exploded, and he turned to the ropes, ripping them as his legs went out from under him, shaking. Back turned, he could only gasp. He felt something throbbing inside of him there, hot, and knew that he would be lucky if it was only bruised. “GOD! Oh… oh god…” his breathing was heavy. He tried to make himself turn back around and face his opponent, but pain was slowly robbing him of his ability to turn. And not only that, but on some level the goat was… conditioning him. Teaching him that resistance meant pain. “I… I need a minute… please gimme a minute…” he hated himself for the sobbing, broken quality to his voice.

Feta_the_Goat: Sliding under his sloppy swing, I punish him brutally for his poor form. First, continuing my delight at torturing his liver. Then, teaching him a new pain that gets him gasping and turning and struggling against the ropes... sounding like tears are welling up, as he immediately begs for relief. I grin, and chuckle that bleat again. For all my wild tendencies, I can switch to a softie (and back) at the drop of a hat. And his sobbing beg, not even putting up a fight... "Heh, sure thing!" I beam cheerfully. "That's round two over quick, in my favor." I turn him around and settle him into the ropes, tippie-toes to smooch his forehead comfortingly. "One. Minute." Then I happily trot on over to my corner and hum the count away, staring at him the whole time. Seconds melting fast.

Connor_Bright: He had been expecting a flurry of blows in answer. The small laugh and cheerful voice still makes him flinch. But then, their arms are around him, and he’s confused. They’re being almost gentle as he’s slowly rotated to the corner. That’s only a few feet away. Please almost gently in it. His eyes are almost too swollen up to see them, lean forward, pulling him down for… A kiss? He feels so hot that it’s like he has a fever… Is he dying? Is that what this is? His vision is fading in and out. And then, they almost cold utterance of the time limit. Another round. it takes him a few moments to process it. At 55 seconds, he calls out after her. “I… I can’t do it.” The count continues. At 45 seconds, “I… I said I can’t!” 30 seconds. “I GIVE!” When she reaches 15 seconds, he realizes the truth. This is going to go on for as long as she wants. Until she gets… Something. Something she wants from him. Something he hasn’t given yet. His mind can barely grasp, but that might be. Whatever it is, it’s beyond simply pain. Beyond simply being a play thing. Further, even than making him understand that he can’t even last around beyond a couple of punches without needing a breather. Past even his attempt to quit the match. Whatever it is, as they reach zero, he stays in the corner, putting his fist up, leaning because he can no longer stand with that pulsing agony in his back. In his liver. In his head. Everywhere. Eating him alive.

Feta_the_Goat: He gets exactly what he asked for. A minute. It's faster than you think, sometimes. I don't give any indication at all of hearing his hollers and cries across the ring at me, just counting seconds.... "One... ZERO!" I hop out of my corner again, looking fresh and eager, with a grin. "Round three..." My arms pop up and I start bounding towards him as he just huddles in the corner, unable to stand properly. As I close the distance over to him, I don't go straight for more punches. With how fucked up he is, as I run full speed toward him I spring into the air and pump out a foot, coming like a fucking sledgehammer... right for his fucking liver. Again. My first port of call, looking to feel my heel get so deep I'm making renovations in his midsection.

Connor_Bright: It’s like a nightmare. When were your heart over and over again, and can’t stop it. One where you throw a punch at your bully, and they just laugh in your face before the punishment continues. And that’s what this was. Punishment. For daring to step into the ring. For thinking that he could fight someone who was obviously his superior. He was not expecting a kick. He brought his elbow down, clipping the toes and nothing else. Pain. Agony. If someone were to capture the moment in slow motion on a camera, they would see the heel sinking past damaged muscle. Deep into the tissue beneath. Nearly reaching Connor‘s spine. He folded. Instantly. Bent forward over their leg, eyes rolling back and the last of his stomach contents dribbling from his lips. They let few clear spots on their shorts as he lay pinned like a butterfly to the corner post. His arms angled limply to either side of their thigh. “Hgggkkk…” there was nothing else keeping him up. He dry heaved once. Twice. He was even spent on the inside now. Tears rolled down his cheeks. “please… please feta…” his voice was thin. Weak. Like the rest of him. Tears swelled in his eyes. “please… please just knock me out…” He reached forward, weak hands tugging at her shirt. Almost childlike. “I’m sorry… I… I’ll do anything… I don’t wanna… be a fighter anymore…” he began to openly sob, and in that moment he wanted nothing more than what he had just expressed. For an end. For the beating to stop. For a little compassion beyond this sea of pain.

Feta_the_Goat: Sixty seconds count. Two and a half seconds across the ring, and half a second more with my foot more than halfway into his body, the insides forced flat or shifted. Another sick trickle past his mouth, splatting onto the floor as I make a face of morbid curiosity while watching. I keep him held up lying over my leg with my foot pinning his liver to the corner post, watching him heave repeatedly needing to puke but unable to. When he gets his words back, he actually pleads to be knocked out, and my heart flutters happily. I consider obliging. I don't. "C'mon, don't say that! Of course you wanna be a fighter!" I push my heel in further. "You got that indomitable dragon spirit, remember?" Deeper. "You can't just quit after any old loss!" I grab his hair in one hand and bend him further over my leg. "Maybe you're just missing some endurance training..." I beat my other fist right over his back into his other kidney. Then the first, then the second again. But I leave his head alone.

Connor_Bright: The encouragement is so gentle… So kind. At first, he thinks that she’ll be merciful. That she will allow his suffering to end. Then, the heel digs in further. He didn’t think it was possible. He feels like something‘s going to pop. Like he’s being sawn in half. Grip on his hair forces, his head down so that they have a clear shot, with their difference in height, his head tucked neatly under their breasts, and then it begins again. Left. Right. Left. Right. No merciful knockout for him. His hands drop from their shirt and he clutches at the leg torturing him. She’s destroying him methodically. Each vital point made to suffer right up to the failing point. He isn’t sure, by the third or fourth punch, but he thinks he feels something damp. Did he piss himself? Does it even matter anymore? “I’ll do anything! Anything! It is probably the most honest and true thing that he’s ever said in his life. If he could revoke his species, he could. He would sign anything. Probably accept death.

Feta_the_Goat: I start talking him through his crisis encouragingly, while flattening his liver and then starting to make minced meat with his kidneys. Back and forth and back and forth. Absolutely right, finding the vital points and taking them right up the the level of failure. But he has more vital points. "You'll do anything?" Another kidney punch. "But... this, counts as anything, right?" I finally step off his liver, only to plant a knee into his solar plexus trying to crush his whole diapgragm. "So I can keep going?" Setting him back against the corner post by the hair, I coil back my body and then arc an absolutely VICIOUS overhand punch showing off my full unhindered strength potential, angled downward just above his pelvic bone, to crush his bladder flat as part of the mix of organs! Then on to a straight punch right over the heart, waiting for his answer.

Connor_Bright: His mind is dazed now. Focused completely on survival. Shedding everything that isn’t essential like his dignity and pride. The question bounces around in his head. Yes, he would do anything to stop… Even… Letting them continue? Some positive doesn’t make sense to him, but he desperation hammers at his reason, even as their knee drives the air back out of his lungs. A ring of bruising in circles his entire midsection now. He looks crushed. Feels crushed. As they tell his head back, there’s a moment where their bodies close, and their breath is warm on him. Intimate. Everything seems to be moving in slow motion, and he watches the punch approach with helpless fascination. When it lands, it feels like it’s going to go through him. Split his hips. Something finally does let go, and a dark pinkish tide spreads across the front of his pants, trickling down his thighs as he screams wordlessly. Some part of Connor is humiliated. The rest is simply pain. A thundering punch to his breast bone, and he’s silenced. He can’t breathe. He certain that his heart has stopped. Their question. He has to answer their question. If he doesn’t, they’ll kill him. He doesn’t know if it’s the right or the wrong answer, only that the only thing that matters is what they say. “Yhesss…” he his is the word like a lowly snake, the sound of the only thing he can make out as his heart gives a shuttering, single thump in his chest. “‘Nee…thing…” he wants to fall to his knees. She won’t let him.

Feta_the_Goat: He's completely fallen apart. The thing in front of me isn't Connor anymore. Just meat, tenderized and tenderized to the point of looking ready to slide right off the bone. As my fist plunges deep into his pelvis, I watch him humiliate himself even worse, unable to control that reaction. He caves completely, unable to even beg, appeasing me so far as to even agree. He is completely slack, ragdoll, chewtoy, needing to drop at my feet. I'm still holding him up in the corner though! "Really?" I grin, as though I needed his permission for anything! "Okie dokie!" I bat him in the throat to force him back harder, then dig shots into his central navel, then his stomache, then his liver, then his liver, then his liver, then his liver, then his- you get the idea. Eventually, externally seeming almost at random, I blink, and smile. "All done! Not so bad, huh?" Even after telling him that, I give him one more uppercut to the solar plexus for the road. Then... absentmindedly forgetting to even put him out of his agonizing torment, I scoop up his still conscious body and carry him out of the ring, trotting happily off towards the showers. "Let's getcha cleaned up! You're a fucking mess."

Connor_Bright: It turns into a Kaleidoscope for Connor. Sometimes he’s aware. Sometimes he isn’t. There are moments when he blacks out and thinks he feels a kiss on his battered body to wake him up. Others, it’s a fist that hammers the air out of his lungs, or more toxins from his liver into his system. There are questions in there. Encouragements. Promises that he is doing so good and that he can still make it, and then he’s still a fighter. That last one makes him cry sometimes, and he’s not sure if it’s because it’s true, or if it’s because it’s a lie. Finally, he’s allowed to mercifully fall to the canvas. He wonders if he’s going to die there. He thinks that might be best. A few moments later, they prove him wrong, taking even that simple choice from him as they slip his upper body over one shoulder, and his hips over the other. Low, sick waves roll through him as they adjust him, the back of their neck pressed into the place where his liver hangs on by a thread, ready to shut down with a little more abuse. The world shifts around him. A little hallway. A tiled room that smells like soap. “Jess’ kill me..” there’s no real thought behind the phrase. His filter is gone. Any random thought spills from his mouth.

Feta_the_Goat: When he finally comes out of the corner his body practically peels off it, splattering to the ground more like jelly than flesh. I scoop him up and carry him, taking excited bouncy steps that rock him violently against me. Eventually, dropping him against a hard floor a little too rough on his lower back. He says that next line, and I raise an eyebrow. "Huh?" I lean in close, cup his cheek, and smooch his nose. "You don't want that." There's a hiss and a rush of warm water over his body. I strip him, straddle him, start washing him down. "Such a mess..." I tut, having to get rough and firm as my hands press deep along his guts to clean his midsection, then flipping him and massaging hands even deeper on his back, getting sudsy. Flipped back over, my hands start wiping his inner thighs, his pelvis, all the way around his junk. Then, I give him a glance, for a moment. Analytical, reading. Seemingly satisfied with something I read on his face, my hands slide that last inch, fingers rubbing soap onto his balls, his shaft, directly cleaning them with my hands along with everything else...

Connor_Bright: Everything is confusing. One moment, gentle words and soft touches. The next, burst of pain and suffering. Some moments, she treats him tenderly, and the next he is just meat to her. Damaged as he is, his mind still clings to any input she gives.“You don’t want that.“ And just like that, he didn’t. Wanting that might mean another round. Another round meant her expert, loving intentions would keep him conscious as he was systematically beaten to a pulp. A kiss on his nose, he chased, wanting to be agreeable. Wanting to be “good“. But his lips missed hers, and then she was taking that his clothing… His hand twitched. Young and inexperienced, he’d never been naked before anybody else, and if not for the bruising, it would be easy to see that he was flushing an even deeper crimson than his normal tone. No. No fighting back anymore. He was done. Broken. No more rounds. Warm water cascade over him, and he let out a moan. It rose in pitch when they mounted him, their small hips coming down on his bruised bladder. “Hurts… Hurts…“ He began panting from the pain. They ignored him, and he thought he heard them humming as their hands slid on his chest, then lower. His body was tender to the touch. His belly was hard with what he was sure was internal hemorrhaging, but still soft like meat that had been tenderized. He was nearly sick again, but fought it back. Something began to happen between his legs as she worked him… “mmm…” his moans of pain developed a different quality. Almost… pleasurable? Flip. The growing hardness of his cock was hidden as she turned him onto his stomach and began his back. When her hands reached his kidneys, his legs kicked and jerked as her fingers probed deeply into his pulverized lower back. He could feel it now. He was stiff, pinned beneath his own body, her hips pushing down just above his tail. Any relief he might have had at this new shame being hidden disappeared as he was once again turned onto his back, revealing his fully engorged cock. He was uncut, and around 6 1/2” at full mast. The upper end of average, but his untouched manhood somehow seemed more impressive when contrasted with the state of the rest of his body. He looked at her, her expression blank. He blushed further, and she seemed to give a little nod. Then… he groaned long and loud as she began cleaning him. Her hands were surprising soft as she slid along his length, cupping his balls doing as thorough a job as the rest of him. He turned his head away, embarrassed at his body’s reaction to his torturer. ‘Mhnnn’. His hand clenched into a fist as he lost himself in pleasure, unaware he was doing it, the implications of such a potential provocation when her hands were close to one of the last damaged parts of his body lost in his daze.

Feta_the_Goat: I don't acknowledge his complaining groans of pain as he experiences utter agony, not considering or worrying about medical concerns, treating it like any other post-match... yeah, of course it hurts, silly. Rubbing the most conflicting deep tissue massage in history into his guts while cleaning him, when he's flipped back to face up I'm staring at the tower that was promised when we first exchanged words. For someone my size, he certainly raises no complaints! I start washing there as well as everywhere else, thorough and clean, getting groans and moans out of him while humming away at working tunes like he's the night's dishes. Glancing up, I notice his fist balled up. Tutting, I ball my own fist up - with his balls inside my palm. Not tight enough to seriously hurt, but enough to get his attention. "Fists for fighting, handsome." He gets one chance to parse my advice as I continue stroking and rubbing while 'cleaning' him thoroughly. If he unclenches, the 'cleaning' continues and in fact even picks up in pace slightly. If he doesn't... time to go face down again, to see if he understands better through his kidneys - repetitively.

Connor_Bright: Instantly, his handspring open, palms staying flat on the ground as he bites his lip. No. He’s going to be good. He’s going to do as he’s told, and get out of this. He’s going to be a “good boy“ and go back to being treated nicely. The pressure on his balls makes his legs jerk a little, but he does his best to relax and settle. “I’m… I’m sorry. No more fists.“ He isn’t sure if that last sentence means that he won’t make a fist around her again, or if he’s begging her not to use hers. Both, probably.

Feta_the_Goat: He listens, to his credit, and I smile with a nod. Then he says those words, and I tilt my head. "Well no, that ain't what I said. Fists for fighting! You still a fighter, just lost a bout. Those big guns can come back out next time you inna ring, or training. Okay?" My hands continue their ministrations over his crotch, the cleanup becoming more and more a facade and then just fading out. It's clean. I keep going. I show him that there's a carrot and a stick to all this. He's met the stick over and over for four 'rounds'. Now he's learning the carrot is real too, as my hands pump up and down rhythmically.

Connor_Bright: He nods enthusiastically, lower lip still trapped between his teeth. Then, her attentions begin again. It’s the first time any hands other than his own have been there, and it feels so much better. Hesitantly, he raises his hands and lays one on her thigh, the other hovering indecisively over his chest, unwilling to approach without permission. His breathing is heavy, coming in time with the motion of her wrist as she works him. It feels so good. He can feel something getting close already, and tries to manage it. What is WRONG with him? He shouldn’t want this… shouldn’t be so excited… ‘Can I… touch you?”

Feta_the_Goat: He nods in understanding, and my smile returns again as I work him through. Pumping and stroking controlling the very rhythm of his breathing, I turn and glance as I see his hand tentatively touch my thigh, hovering the other one. He asks, politely. I giggle in a gentle bleat, and just wordlessly nod, letting his hands go wherever they'd like. MY hands know where to be. One stroking, the other massaging the balls gently, handling one of the few relatively untouched areas with attentiveness and a different kind of talent. Two fingers go behind his balls and press his perineum, massaging from the outside, as the twists of my pumping arm flick faster. If he wants to cop a feel, he better be quick~

Connor_Bright: Groaning from pleasure, as well as the ache of his battered body, you move closer, crying and sitting up slightly so that he is pressed against her on one side. The hand that had been touching her thigh, slides around her lower back, cupping one hip. The other slides up her small, perfect abs to her breasts. They’re firm, and compact, but they feel soft and amazing against has Palm, the erect nipple slipping between two fingers. In all of the times he’s imagined being with a woman, he never thought it would be like this. Somehow, it’s better and worse than anything you could’ve hoped for. His breathing shutters, and he presses his head against her shoulder, the two fingers so close to his rear entrance, both alarming and a source of pleasure as they press against something inside of him. Something else that hasn’t been beaten into a pulp. The motion of their wrist is bringing him right up to the edge.”please… close… close…” he isn’t sure what he’s asking for. For them to continue. For them to stop. For them to let him be inside of her. To shut himself up, he kisses her neck, then bites softly, trying to lessen the sounds, he’s making.

Feta_the_Goat: The dragon boy writhes and groans, but so very differently to how he did before. Both ways had their own appeal. His hands go on an adventure and I giggle again, leaning in and letting him feel across my body easier, as he slides and repositions against me. My hands keep working, my touch somehow firm but soft at the same time, stimulating his whole pelvis, as he starts muttering before nibbling on my neck. I let out a hot breath of my own as he does, my pace just staying steady, familiar, and completely inexorably building upward. I tilt my head, licking his ear and whispering into it. "Sshh... I know. I know. It's okay... good boy~" I kiss down his own neck with bites to let him know what what he's doing feels like, pumping and massaging all the way to the finish line and beyond while whispering sweet nothings and encouragements...

Connor_Bright: At the end, it’s those last two words that do it. Something about the acknowledgment of how he’s settled down and is behaving… No longer fighting back… Being a good boy… It flips a switching him, and his hips begin bucking harder into their grip. His arms wrapped around them tightly, and grasping anywhere everywhere. It’s like he’s holding on for dear life as he begins to shudder, pleasure spilling over everywhere. He curls up a little when he finally cums, making a strangled cry of pleasure. He wants to kiss them, but settles for burying his fade in their neck as he feels himself pulsing out, toes curling. His defenses are down, and there’s nothing to detract from what he’s feeling. For a moment, even the pain seems to disappear. When he’s spent, panting, holding onto her, he feels curiously… Ashamed. “S… sorry. Too fast… I didn’t mean… you didn’t get to… if you wanted us to… you know.”

Feta_the_Goat: Sure enough, those words work like magic and cross wires in his brain, leaving him rolling his hips into my hands while hugging me for dear life. I coo and continue repeating those words over and over throughout his explosive little orgasm, crying into my neck and curling up as he spills himself all over my hands. I keep pumping through the aftershocks, finally slowing to a stop and licking my hands clean before hugging him right back. "Ssh. You did good." Silly boy doesn't even know it wasn't his choice that he burst that fast. I bring him into a smooch, then looking at him intently, but not unkindly, with those goat eyes. "We can talk about the process of you paying me back over dinner. You're buying." I pick him up, carried in front of me in my arms, and trot away with him. And there it is - dragon slain, tower burst... and I found my princess.