Brothel Theatre

Erotic short. A young elf witnesses a play at the local brothel — a very different sort of play to any he’s seen before.

2k, cis M/trans M, trans M voyeur, rated E. Yvis has never been to a brothel before, but he’s excited to see one of his heroes, the adventurer Amaethon, play a part in a local theatre production: a debauched one, at that.

Consensual non-consent here — the perspective is that of a man watching a play about a prisoner of war being fucked by the warriors who’ve caught him. Featuring voyeurism, huge size difference, public sex, come inflation, CNC, spitroasting, stomach and throat bulging.

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It was a performance of sorts, like a sort of mini play, and Yvis felt shy as he moved in through the bustling crowd of the brothel around him, all the people crammed into the room and seated around tables or on long benches, or just standing up and leaning against walls or bars.

He didn’t know that he’d ever been in a room so full up with people in his life, let alone one so —

Yvis had never been in a brothel before. In the village he’d grown up in, there simply hadn’t been one for miles upon miles, and in his time in moving to the city, he hadn’t had the confidence to do so. He’d had sex before, of course he had, but they’d been hurried fumbles mostly with girls when he was growing up, but this, this —

There were men everywhere, there were women everywhere. People were stripped naked, many of them, were fucking each other, playing with each other — he could see a woman sprawled back on a table with those around her eating pieces of fruit from her body; a large man was bent in a set of stocks and a queue of others were fucking him from behind, taking turns; a beautiful woman was sitting back on the bar, her legs spread as another woman pushed a toy cock into her and then pulled it out, a man tilting her breast toward his glass that he should milk it.

Yvis’ cunt felt hot and wet between his legs, and he sat down on one of the singular stools he could find that wasn’t settled right next to a table, on the end of one of the booths, his drink in his lap.

He was just in time — up on the stage, the show was starting, the lights turning on to illuminate the raised platform. He’d seen plays of course, in the city — he’d seen mummers do their work, had seen concerts, had even gone to one or two dramas at the big theatre.

This was —

Different.

The men on stage acted out a war camp, the orcs having led a successful war party into elven territory, and Yvis meant to try to follow the thin, pornographic plot, to try to listen to the dialogue, but he was distracted by the men on stage — the vast majority of them were orcs and humans, each and every one of them huge, many of them hairy, rippling with stacked fat and muscle, and in the most revealing sets of stage armour he’d ever seen, their chests, their bellies, their thighs on display, their arses almost visible under their skirts.

Occasionally, he could see the tips of their cocks show flaccid from beneath their skirts, and even soft, each one of them was so big his mouth watered.

Yvis’ breath arrested in his throat when the star of the show arrived, however — Amaethon was one of the most beautiful men Yvis had ever seen, slim and brown-skinned with a thick curl of white hair about his head, his eyes a pale brown that caught the light. He had a long, graceful neck, and he was dressed in a carefully-made costume made to resemble rags — as he was brought up to the stage with his arms manacled behind his back, the orc commander laughed and gleefully tore away what threads were clinging to him, showing only the paint on his body.

They were handsome, painted gold swirls — a spiral circled outward from his navel, similar ones spiralling out from his nipples on his small, bouncing tits, and straight lines were drawn in gleaming paint on his thighs and his arms, arrows pointing up toward his cunt on the former and down toward it on the latter.

Bands were painted across his throat, making his graceful neck seem even longer as it reflected the candlelight.

“Do you surrender, elf?” demanded the war commander.

“Never,” said Amaethon.

“You are already shackled,” said one of the human warriors on the stage. “Your lands have been taken over by our armies, and your leader will soon be as dead as the rest of your comrades.”

“I will not betray her.”

“Your whore princess may as well already be dead,” said the commander, his voice a powerful rumble. He was a better actor than the human — Amaethon, of course, was spellbinding. Yvis could scarcely understand why he should be an adventurer when he was so plainly made for the stage. “It doesn’t matter now whether you betray her or not.”

“Not to you, perhaps,” said Amaethon, and hissed in pain as another warrior smacked him.

A cheer went up from the watching crowd as men holding him captive turned him toward the back of the stage and bent him over so that the audience could see the pink blossom of his wet cunt, the white hair dusted over his cock, its colour contrasting with the golden paint.

Amaethon was wrestled toward the orc commander, turned around so that he faced the audience again, and Yvis stared up at him and his wide, angry eyes, the hypnotising beauty of the snarl on his face as he insulted and snapped at the men holding him captive.

He was dropped down to his knees, made to settle on the floor before the elf commander, and Yvis’ heart skipped a beat as the commander gripped him by the beautiful white hair and tipped his head back, a knife held to his throat.

“Do you yield?” he demanded.

“Never,” said Amaethon. “No violence you do me could compel me to weaken.”

“No violence, eh?” asked the orc commander, and he exchanged a look with his compatriots, all of them laughing. Even knowing the conceit of the play, knowing what was about to happen, Yvis’ cunt clenched around air between his legs.

Amaethon, playing the captive hero, took a moment before he understood, and his eyes widened as he looked about at all the men around him — each and every one of them was huge in comparison to Amaethon, even before he was down on his knees on the wood board floor.

“No,” he protested, shifting on his knees and trying to struggle even though his hands were manacled behind his back, “no, no — ”

The orc commander dragged his head back further by the hair, and fed his cock down Amaethon’s throat.

There was a low “oooh” from the crowd at how easily it slid into place, as thick and long as Amaethon’s forearm, and two of the other orcs unbuckled the belt of the war commander’s skirt as he sank back in a throne with his knees spread wide apart.

Amaethon was positioned on his knees with his head bent backward for the orc commander to fuck his throat, and Yvis felt light-headed with arousal at the sight of it, at how his golden-banded throat bulged with the huge prick invading it, filling it, turning it into nothing more than a sleeve for him to bury himself in.

The elf captive was whining and gasping in his place, the sound muffled by the thighs either side of him, his nose buried against the commander’s heavy balls, and instead of moving his own hips, the commander was gripping Amaethon by the shoulders to move his throat up and down his cock.

“See the purpose an elf like this should be put to,” the war commander said to his comrades, all of them laughing amongst themselves. “Not so haughty anymore, is he?”

Yvis stared at the shift of the bands of Amaethon’s throat, the way they gleamed as they caught the light, bulging horribly with the amount of cock stuffed beneath them. He imagined it, being so full with so much cock — he’d never even sucked a cock before, let alone touched one so obscenely large. He was sure he’d tear.

With a roar, the war commander came, and while distantly it occurred to Yvis that he should be impressed — it was no mean feat for such a performer as this to be able to come in line with a theatre cue, and before a rapt audience, no less — he was somewhat distracted by the effect the commander’s orgasm had on Amaethon.

Orcs came prodigiously, and as his huge cock pulsed, Yvis could see the twitch and jump of it under the taut skin of Amaethon’s stuffed throat, see his neck shifting as spurt after spurt of thick, heavy come was pumped into his belly. The spiral on the flesh that had once been flat was forced to expand, and it was hypnotising, seeing it almost seem to swirl as his belly grew.

Yvis settled his hands in front of his crotch, wishing he could fuck himself on his fingers as he saw Amaethon’s belly bulge out with the come being piped into his stomach. He must have taken a potion beforehand, the better for the performance, because first there was only a slight bulge, as though Amaethon had eaten too much, and then it was a bulge as though he were pregnant, an overhanging paunch over his thighs.

When his belly was so swollen with come it touched the floor between his spread thighs, Yvis let out a breathless, mostly bitten-back whimper.

“Let’s see how much we can ripen this berry before it bursts,” said the commander and released Amaethon, who fell forward, coughing and spluttering, his eyes wet with tears and his cheeks red.

He couldn’t even crawl forward, what with his arms behind his back — he tried to shuffle forward on his knees, and the commander laughed.

“Should we give the elf a fair try at escape, my friends?” he asked, his spent cock lying soft against his thigh, and he tapped the centre of Amaethon’s manacles so that the enchantment deactivated, and they fell with a clunk to the floor behind him.

Amaethon tipped forward, and with his hands on the floor, his swollen belly hung down from his body, dragging against the wood. Yvis was so horny he could scarce even breathe, imagined himself in that position, the helpless victim of the laughing soldiers on his every side, already stuffed with more come than he’d ever taken into himself, let alone all at once.

“Never,” Amaethon whispered — the only reason Yvis could hear him say the word was because they had magic amplifying the players so that they could be heard over the roar and engaged noises of the crowd. He was crawling slowly, obviously struggling with the weight of his belly. “I won’t let you, I won’t betray her, I won’t, I won’t — ”

“We’ve been unfair to our lovely friend,” said the commander as two warriors threw aside their own skirts, each of their cocks standing tall and thick and wet at their heads, each erect and bobbing as they moved. “Let’s fuck him in a place he’ll better enjoy, hm?”

“No, no — !”

Amaethon yelled as both of the warriors grabbed him at once — a human had him by the shoulders while another orc gripped him by the hips, and together they lifted him clean off the ground and held him sideways, the better for the crowd to see. At this angle, it was almost impossible to comprehend, that he could be just a slim elf with so huge a hanging, sloshing belly, a balloon that made up a good third of his being.

“Please,” he whimpered, “please — ”

“You heard him,” said the commander, and as one, the two warriors holding Amaethon threaded him on their cocks, the orc sliding into his cunt or his arse and the other filling his throat again, and Yvis marvelled at the perfect spitroast as he witnessed it, his head spinning.

When they started to fuck him in a perfect rhythm that must have taken a fair bit of practice, Amaethon’s ruined, come-stuffed belly bobbed hypnotizingly, and Yvis couldn’t help but grind himself against his hand through his trousers, wishing he could take his place.

If only every play could be so debauched as this one.