Disgraced Gladiator


                                            >You are Quick Fix.

                                            >You were found as an infant by a wealthy family, and have since been trained to fight as a gladiator since the day you were old enough to hold a sword.

                                            >But...

                                            >Over the years, you've come to recognise that you weren't made for fighting.

                                            >Your talents, both mental and magical, lie in the field of healing.

                                            >To be blunt, you are a runt, and your body should belong to a mare rather than to a stallion.

                                            >But the family that owns you needs a champion, and you're all they've got.

                                            >After years of near-fruitless training, the day comes when you are old enough to fight.

                                            >They can see that you will not improve any further and have become resigned to your defeat.

                                            >After many failed escape attempts, you too grimly await a deadly loss ahead.


                                            >You can hear the crowd roaring through the walls of the staging area before the arena.

                                            >Your personal tutor ties the last few straps on your lightweight leather armour and offers you a club with a sigh.

                                            >"You will not survive this battle, but you can at least remember what I have taught you. Do not disgrace this family. Fight well."

                                            >You offer an uneasy nod.

                                            "I-I'll try my best, sir."

                                            >He offers your weapon of choice - a club-like baton - and stands by the exit door.

                                            >The thought of knocking him out and fleeing at this point doesn't even cross your mind.

                                            >The old stallion has swept you off your hooves more times than you can count.

                                            >Finally, you trot up to the gate and wait, anxiously twirling your baton in your magic and trotting on the spot.

                                            >"...family, we have Tempered Blade, a truly deadly combatant."

                                            >Your baton shakes in your magic. Why you? Why did it have to come to this?

                                            >"And opposite him, from the Goldbriar Family: Quick Fix, a young buck who...

                                            >The announcer seems to double-take as you trot out into the arena.

                                            >...and then, the Colosseum begins to echo with his booming laughter.

                                            >"I hadn't realised we were allowing mares to fight!"


                                            >The crowd erupts with laughter as they too notice how lacking you are in strength - and more importantly, masculinity.

                                            >Your already withered spirit is further diminished and you flatten your ears in shame.

                                            >"Alright, that's enough! We can laugh at this excuse for a stallion for the entirety of our years, but we'll never get to see the spectacle ahead of us: that of violence and swift brutality!"

                                            >The cheering of the crowd is deafening.

                                            >They all want you dead.

                                            >As you ponder the thought, the horns sound, signalling the beginning of your first and last fight in the arena.

                                            >The pony opposite you - a lithe but muscled pegasus with their wings tied to their barrel - slowly approaches, walking at a leisurely place with their sword held just short of the ground.

                                            >It's almost as if they aren't on their way to slice you into bits.

                                            >You swallow back your tears with a gulp.

                                            >You wonder if you'll feel the blade end your life.

                                            >You wonder if it'll hurt.

                                            >The sound of a blade hitting dirt startles you out of your little pity-party, and you see your opponent standing at the ready some distance ahead of you.

                                            >It's time.

                                            >You begin a hasty trot towards the pegasus with your club raised.

                                            >The way he just *stands* there, seemingly unaware of your presence, sends shivers down your spine.

                                            >Just before you enter striking range he sends a savage swing at you - the force of which nearly disrupts your magic as you parry it with the baton.

                                            >Stunned, you're opened up to a sudden volley of swings, barely blocking each one with your trusty bludgeon.

                                            >If nothing else, the thing can at least take a beating...

                                            >You're pushed further and further back until you can sense your rump is about to hit the arena's wall.

                                            >You have to do something.

                                            >His sword just barely catches your side as you dodge to the side - and it hurts!

                                            >It's only a small patch of skin, but you have to struggle to hold yourself together as blood trickles down your side.


                                            >Blade's blade soon swings at you, but you're prepared this time, meeting it with a strong parry that forces him to give some ground.

                                            >Progress!

                                            >You follow up on this advantage, swinging at him - though, with not nearly the same ferocity - and eventually you have the larger stallion losing ground before your clumsy baton-flinging.

                                            >That is, until he breaks your rally with a lightning-fast cut.

                                            >Returned to the back hoof, it takes you just moments to feel your rump pressing up against the walls.

                                            >The crowd roars in anticipation.

                                            >You meet each other's eyes, and he readies his sword for one final blow down against you.

                                            >But just before he swings, you brace your baton against your head and your hooves, his metal striking yours-

                                            >CLANG!

                                            >A storm of metallic fragments showers you as the blade shatters against your baton!

                                            >You knew the dense, heavy clunker of a weapon would pull through for you.

                                            >The shock of having his offense literally shattered slows the pegasus' reflexes just enough for you to land a glancing blow against his snoot, forcing him to stumble to the side.

                                            >This is your chance.

                                            "E-Everypony thought I w-was going to die! Now look who's i-in charge!"

                                            >You were trying to sound cool and mighty, but in immediate retrospect the exclamation embarrasses you quite deeply.

                                            >Blushing despite the circumstances, you move forward and swing with the intention to put him to sleep for a few minutes...

                                            >...only for him to block the blow with a hoof (ouch!) and yank it out of your magic with his teeth.

                                            >The suddenness of it shocks you so much you barely notice your own baton connecting with the side of your head.

                                            >Everything goes black...


                                            >You knew things would probably end this way, but...

                                            >You were so close to winning!

                                            >Nopony had to die!

                                            >In the pained, hazy fog of your concussed mind, you can hear slow footsteps from far away, and a scary roaring from even further still.

                                            >And a smell... a strong, strange smell, closer than the other senses...


                                            >It's something you've only ever experienced once or twice, around the guards that keep you trapped within the confines of *their* castle.

                                            >The smell is distinctly... male.

                                            >You're slowly brought back by the strength of it, and discover the source is something - something warm - pressing forcefully at your muzzle.

                                            >...what..?

                                            >Alarmed, you open both your eyes and your mouth-

                                            >-which only lets the foreign object inside!

                                            >Your vision is filled with what appears to be the underside of a stallion's rear - and the heavy orbs hanging below what's lodged itself in your mouth are getting closer and closer to dropping on your eyes.

                                            >The stallion has your underside pinned under his forelegs, so you're powerless to do anything but let him slide his stallionhood deeper until it's making you gag.

                                            >Meanwhile, the crowd has seemingly recovered from both its bloodlust and ensuing stunned silence, cheering on Tempered; they wanted to see you emasculated just as much as killed, and clearly having your dazed form taken advantage of is humiliation enough.

                                            >Tears form in the corner of your eyes and blood rushes to your cheeks, while you gag around him... while he shoves that dick as deep as it can go.

                                            >Your vision is completely obscured by musky flesh and your lungs are soon burning.

                                            >He finally pulls back, allowing you a few moments to think and to breathe.

                                            >The reality of the situation crashes down upon you, then; you're facing absolute humiliation in front of a giant crowd; your name and face will be remembered as the girly colt who allowed himself to be subdued and mounted by another stallion mid-combat.

                                            >You can hardly manage a mortified squeak when suddenly he thrusts into your face once - then twice - three times - the throat-destroying pace in seconds becomes too much to bear, but his pleasured grunts show no sign of stopping.

                                            >...and despite all of this, your own sheath allows a little pathetic sect of its length to slide out, a dot of pre forming at the tip.


                                            >"Do not disgrace this family."

                                            >The words echo inside your head, the sound of fleshy slapping dulling as you internalise.

                                            >Hopefully Tempered will allow you to live, but after this, you can never return to the Goldbriars.

                                            >You'd be killed, or... worse.

                                            >...though what could be worse than having your face fucked in front of an entire arena?

                                            >That brings you back to the present, to the feeling of your throat bulging with every forceful intrusion.

                                            >Your gag reflex has yet to let up... but that only has you squeezing tighter around his shaft.

                                            >You're not sure how much more of it you can take.

                                            >The roaring of the crowd, the oral fullness, the feeling of hooves on your chest and flesh over your eyes is all you know.

                                            >You feel a conflicted dichotomy of emotion: you're about ready to burst into tears, but you feel as if you'd orgasm if somepony so much as *touched* your dick.

                                            >Why are you so aroused?

                                            >Why are you looking forward to his cumshot?

                                            >There's not much time left to ponder questions, though, as Blade's tip expands; it makes a 'crown' sort of shape visible through your throat as it plunges in and out again.

                                            >You sense he must be close, very close.

                                            >The next time he pulls out, you take a deep breath... and that's the one, the buck of his hips that slaps his balls against your eyes and hilts him deep inside your muzzle.

                                            >You shakily hold your breath as the first few jets of his seed paint your esophagus - the gagging actively milks him, and certainly doesn't help keep your air inside.

                                            >...you're going to have to dispel that reflex at some point, just in case this happens again...

                                            >He keeps pumping relentlessly; occasionally the stallion gives a short, strong buck, shocking you and sending a particularly strong pulse through his dick.

                                            >You swear you can feel a slight rounding in your belly by the time he's done - that's easily overshadowed by your need for oxygen, however, which has you gasping and coughing desperately once he pulls out.


                                            >"Not bad."

                                            >The voice comes very clearly from Tempered, who circles you menacingly.

                                            >The crowd, meanwhile, seems conflicted on whether they want him to finish you off or 'finish' you off.

                                            >The announcer very clearly has never seen something quite like this in all his years and is speechless.

                                            >"You know, you don't have to die here."

                                            >He drags the tip of your baton down from your neck to your lower belly - (eeek!!) - using his hoof.

                                            >"Your family won't take you, but I can. You'd serve me personally."

                                            "I-I..."

                                            >You're still panting, and extremely vulnerable.

                                            >...not to mention uncomfortably aroused.

                                            >"You'd better make a decision. The MC is probably going to have me kill you in a moment."

                                            >Even in your concussed, oxygen-deprived state, you can tell that you've no other reasonable choice.

                                            >But... would you be treated well?

                                            >At least with your family, you weren't used-

                                            >You squeak as Tempered suddenly hoists you onto his back!

                                            >"I know you don't want to die. Let's get out of here."

                                            >The strength has been quite thoroughly fucked out of your body, so you can only really blink, dazed, as he carries you towards his gate and out of the arena.


                                            >You can hear the chaos up in the arena stands as the pegasus dumps you onto a bench.

                                            >The blush on your cheeks doesn't seem to want to go away - you suppose after such an extreme embarrassment that you could have gained a permanent one.

                                            >(That's not how it works, but it's magic, you don't have to explain shit.)

                                            >As you're contemplating just how effectively you have managed to screw both yourself and your reputation (or, more accurately, get yourself screw*ed*) a sudden pain erupts in your flank!

                                            >You realise Tempered's trying to get your attention, and while tears form in the corner of your eyes your half-chub simultaneously throbs.

                                            >Gonna have to take care of that sometime.

                                            >"Here's how things are going to be: in exchange for food, clothing, shelter and protection, you will serve myself and this arena."


                                            >"That includes serving me as a personal assistant, taking care of gladiators before and after fights - and yes, that means exactly what you think it means - heck, they might just find more interesting uses for you out in the arena after that little stunt you pulled."

                                            "B-But that was you-"

                                            >THWACK!

                                            >Your lime-green rump cheek turns a bright red as Tempered once again strikes it... and you squeal like a little bitch.

                                            >"You wouldn't be alive if I hadn't stuck my ass - or, rather, my dick - out for you. Have some gratitude."

                                            >All you can manage in response to that is a whining stutter as your own member leaks onto the bench.

                                            >"You start tomorrow. I'll lead you back to your quarters - there's a spare room at my estate - and you can get some sleep. You'll need it."


                                            >Despite the rather forced nature of it all, you feel that somehow this will be a much more fitting role than the previous one.


                                            FIN