Fight the Beast

Thrown into the arena, a young lion grows into a tough, brutish gladiator. Explicit.

A blade flowed down with a flourish along the way, aimed directly at him. Milon stumbled back. Cheers clapped his ears, sand twisted his feet, and sun shot through his eyes.

The next stroke was hidden in the glare of the sun. Up, across, stinging, bringing him to his knees. He clutched at his chest. His hands were red. His fur was red. The gash running from his breast to his stomach ached with every motion he made, ached with a pain that was dull and deep, hot and stinging, sticky and trembling and too imperfect to be a dream.

The tip of a sword pointed at his face. The cheers subsided, then roared even more fiercely. Milon's eyes were rooted to the blade. A drop of blood wobbled on the end. He stood still, staring into his life cut into two by the sword.

Now more than anything else he wanted to be squinting at a scroll in the poor light, rasping his throat out with another recitation, sitting at one of his father's interminable dinner parties, or walking a pace behind his sister through an emporium.

'Oh, they couldn't send someone like you to the games,' he thought, hopefully then, but with bitter sarcasm now.

Milon's entire world existed between himself and the point of the sword now, and whatever the crowd was crying to be done for him was beyond comprehension.

The rough-hewn hilt of the blade swung to face him, then cracked against his cheek and his snout. He saw white and smelt iron and his knees crumbled away. His face felt like it was peeling back, and then his body mercifully blotted everything else out with a sweet darkness.

The wolf bellowed out victory, a foot on top of the unconscious lion's chest.

Milon stirred, shifted his shoulders, and winced. Then he winced again and clenched his paws when his face rippled with hot pain. His lip was swollen, his right eye could barely open, and apart from his sore gums, he could taste blood and feel where a tooth was missing. Breathing hurt, whether he tried to breathe through his nose or through his mouth.

He was on a cot, at least. His body felt heavy enough to fallstraight through to the ground. Keeping the swollen eye closed, he opened his other eye, looking around the bare cell with the painful sun shining in a sliver through the open doorway.

The scraps of armor he had gotten before the fight were gone. It was just his slender body, stretched out on the cot. He looked barely older than a cub. Wisps of a mane clung to his chin and the sides of his face, but little more than hints of what might never come. The effete was in the lion's blood, generations of nobles known for their minds and personalities, not the strength of their sword arms.

Milon squinted down at the bandages wrapped around his torso, streaked with a darkish brown-red across them, marking where the pain was the worst.

A noise from the doorway drew Milon's attention. He craned his head and saw, clearly for the first time, the wolf who had been his first-ever opponent. His fur was brown and blackened, spattered with scars and with a savage snarl on his face. His broad shoulders and heavy arms looked as if they could tear the door frame right out of the wall.

"Good match," Milon lisped against his tender lip. He had to break the silence.

"Wasn't good. You went down like a wet fag," the wolf said. "If I didn't know you were new, I'd say you threw the fight cause you're a bitch who likes it."

"What, thith?" Milon asked, gesturing toward his battered face.

The wolf came closer. He stood beside the bed now with a mixture of contempt and excitement on his face.

"No, this," the wolf said.

The wolf flipped Milon onto his chest, and the combination of his gash twisting and his jaw clattering against his teeth made pain bloom throughout his body. In short, uncomfortable breaths, he laid the uninjured side of his face against the cot, saving him from pain but blocking his sight.

He could only feel where the wolf was. His calloused paws had grabbed his waist to turn him over. Now his knees straddled Milon's. He pulled at the lion's waist, tugging it into the air until he was propped up on his knees. Milon had little spirit left in him to fight back.

And then came the pain, harsh and burning and protruding into him. His muscles clenched in distress but judging by the wolf's growls, it was only making him more excited.

Milon's head throbbed painfully. Each rude thrust sent new surges of pain down the swollen half of his face. The pain was too great to stay articulate, but his cries had the sharply falling notes of distress. Nothing that big was meant to go in your ass, Milon thought. Tears stung as they trickled from his swollen-shut eye.

Faster and harder came the wolf's cock now, like a dagger hammed into the same wound again and again. Milon clutched the cot, grit his teeth, and tried to blink away his tears. The wolf howled behind him and Milon tensed and the uncomfortable heat surged into him, forcing its way deep into his body where it didn't belong, where it lingered and ached and made him feel sick to his stomach.

"Shit fighter, but not a bad fuck," the wolf muttered, lifting himself from the bed. He stalked out of Milon's room and the lion let his faint sobs slip beyond his swollen lip. He hated the wolf and he hated himself for letting it happen and the hate poured into the shape of words.

"It's your fault, you know that."

Milon sniffled roughly and tried to lie down and ignore the feeling of cum shifting inside of his body.

"You're a pussy. You had years to learn to fight back home. No one to blame for this but you."

Milon squinted, closed his eyes, and tried to lay his head down in a comfortable way.

"It's just how things work here. Losers get fucked. Don't want that? Then don't be a fucking loser, how about that?"

Milon didn't want to hear it. He closed his eyes, laid his arms flat, and tried not to move, lest he bother his face or his chest or his ass.

"Are you going to let him fuck you again?"

He cringed and his ass tightened and he shuddered.

"Then get to work, pussy!"

His legs and arms ached too, though those aches were nothing compared to his actual injuries. His paws met the ground as he rolled off of the cot, then, remembering watching his father's guards, spread his hands and rested his weight on his toes. He pushed, as hard as he could, rising up until his arms were straight, then lowering himself back to the floor.

"Keep it up, fag."

Milon grunted weakly as he pushed himself up a second time.

"Know why you lost this time?"

Milon didn't answer.

"Because you liked having a man's cock up your ass."

His face grew red. To anyone watching, it looked like exertion. He'd spent nearly two hours at the practice dummies by now. His arms and legs were sore with the constant motions but he didn't want to stop.

"No I didn't," Milon muttered under his breath.

"Yes you did. That's why you didn't train hard enough. You want a big, hairy cock plowing your ass open, and you're willing to lose to get it. You're going to get yourself killed because you want a dick in your ass."

"No!" Milon grunted, the word lost in the swing of his practice sword.

"You sure? Cause you look like the sort of guy who wants a dick in his ass."

Milon caught the swell of anger that rose up, licking the rungs of his ribs, tightening his cheeks, and bursting out into a cry. The wooden sword hit the wooden pole and not the straw padding. The hard, hollow thud echoed back into his joints. Wincing and holding his wrists, Milon walked into the shade to sit.

He looked better now than when he had arrived, at least. Two weeks ago, he'd looked scrawny, almost effeminate with his smooth hips and his rounded torso and the juvenile plumpness that stuck insistently around his cheeks and rear. If ever he'd looked like the sort of person to take it up the ass, that was when he'd looked like it.

His hard work, spurred on by the voice of his own straining self-hatred, had scoured away his boyish pudginess. His cheekbones were firm. When he spread his arms, his shoulders and their taut muscles spread outward. This gentle swell in his arm—that was a bicep. And the little ripples down along the front of his stomach? Abs. He had actual muscles. They were subtle and soft but he had them.

He had feared his nose might heal up broken, but his whole face had recovered from that harsh blow in his first match. The gash across his chest, though, didn't heal without leaving a mark, a long, pale scar running across his front. Milon still thought that it marred his looks.

Milon's concern, the new attention he paid to how he looked, had begun a few days ago. He had gone to the baths when they were least busy, to remove the sweat and grime of another day of training. He had crept in and slid off his clothes, then dunked himself down into the heated water. He had bobbed up and down, scrubbing until he was satisfied with the cleanliness of his fur.

On climbing back out, he had begun to dry himself off. He paused, eyes downward, looking at his chest—in the dampness, the color of his fur was darkened, but he could clearly see a cleft of darker brown atop the wet golden fur. After drying off, he had grasped at his chest fur and pulled at the thicker, darker strands of hair that made a tiny, v-shaped suggestion of a tuft of fur that might grow there some day.

From there, he had felt around his jaw, tugging at the little sprigs of fur that he was sure were new. It was practically invisible if you weren't looking for it, but the beginnings of a mane were there.

And knowing that had sparked a further self-consciousness in his mind. He had convinced himself that the adolescent look was fine for an eighteen-year-old, but realizing that he had the start of his mane growing in now made him long for a more adult look. It was the transition that was difficult. He wasn't quite a cub and wasn't yet a man.

"You gonna sit around all day? Looking for a nice hard man to fuck your faggot ass?"

A scowl which was becoming more and more familiar to his lips curled his features into a look of disgust. He pushed himself to his feet, picked up his practice sword, and strode back toward the dummies.

The wolf sneered. Milon caught the look in the corner of his eye, and snarled back over his shoulder. Three months since his first fight, and the wolf still swept the floor with him.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "You aren't going to cry, are you?" He snickered. His hips rolled forward and Milon's brow tightened and his broad shoulders tensed.

"I'm going to fucking kill you," Milon growled back. Not only had his training infused him with burgeoning confidence, but he was letting his refined shell slip away, adopting more of the idiom of the fighters as the weeks wore on. The voice, louder and clearer in his thoughts, helped too.

The wolf twisted a paw against a tender joint in Milon's spine and his back caved and his body loosened.

"That's some precious shit, coming from you. You can pack on as much muscle as you want. You're still my little bitch boy," the wolf said.

If nothing else, Milon put up more of a fight this time, both in the ring and back in the quarters. He had struck with a wildness rising from sheer hatred, but his opponent had known how to goad him into swinging without thinking. The next thing he knew, he was bleeding on the ground, feeling like a helpless cub again.

He forced the wolf to fight for his prize. He twisted and thrashed, bringing the warm, fresh swells of his tautly-muscled arms against the cot, pushing the rainwater-ripples of his back against the wolf. They crashed together not in passion, but in anger. The lion tried to force the wolf away, the wolf tried to punish the lion for his struggles.

Milon's untrimmed hair bounced at the corners of his vision. Maybe it would be less distracting if it was shorter, but he had earlier decided he liked the longer look. It fit with his light mane, fluffy and hazy but all there from the sides of his cheeks, around his chin, and down to his chest.

The wolf snorted in his throat, a guttural creaking. Milon jerked suddenly, slamming back against his hips and shoving him backwards off the cot. The wolf's cum made an arc in the air, then splattered onto the dusty floor and against his legs.

"You fucker," the wolf growled, rising to his feet. His cock twitched and a glob of his seed rolled off the tip.

Milon whipped himself off the bed, a snarl on his lips and hands clenching into fists.

The wolf grunted, shoving him in the shoulder as he stomped past. Milon watched him go, then eased back down into his cot, his chest heaving gently, pushing that wispy tuft of dark fur out between the gently chiseled shapes of his pecs.

"Not bad, but you still spent the whole time getting fucked."

Milon closed his eyes, pushed his shoulders against the wall, and stretched his sides. "Had to wait until he came, or he wouldn't have gone limp."

"Don't start gloating. You still got most-of-the-way fucked."

Milon snorted, wrapping his paw around his shaft and stroking it. On the backs of his eyelids, he pictured the wolf, pinned beneath him, bloody and bandaged and screaming out while he tore the bastard apart with his cock.

His toes curled, his claws grasped at the air, and his cum splattered across the floor next to the wolf's.

Around the sixth month mark, Milon's fortunes had shifted. His constant losses were speckled with a few wins, then more, and by now, with a year of fighting under his belt, he tasted victory more often than defeat.

Milon ducked into the shade outside the baths, loosening his training tunic. Stepping through the open doors, his nose brought him the smell of warm water, wet stone, and damp fur. That there were others there didn't bother him as much as it had at the beginning. He folded his tunic over an arm, draped it over a bench, and climbed down into the water.

The conversation going on between the others drew quiet, as if the sound of Milon entering the water had hushed them. He didn't look up, but he could tell they glanced him over, then returned to their conversation about endorsement deals.

Milon's eyes were on the water at his chest, looking into his reflected face. He brought a wet paw up to run over his chin, feeling its contour beneath his mane. The mane was darker, thicker, more like the hair on his head, but it wasn't the only thing that had grown. He liked the new shape of his jaw, lower and heavier, emphasized by his mane. Maybe his nose was broader. His brow looked wrinkled—but maybe that was the angle..

He dunked his head beneath the water, shook from side to side, then came back up. He wiped the water away from his face with a paw and blinked it from his eyes. He tugged at the thick fur on his chin where it slipped down onto his chest, considering whether a braid would look good.

The downside to his increasing skill had been that with fights lasting longer, there was more opportunity to get hurt. A couple of scars traced over the rippling contours of his forearms, while another few had joined the large one that now wrapped around his pecs and over the top of his abs.

It was a combination of the scars and the thickening hair that had led him to the decision. Hair not just on his mane but other places too—under his arms, around his package. (The growth in size there was pleasant, too.) He felt like he was looking more and more like a hairy beast as he grew up. Now that he wasn't the new guy, the young guy, the 'kid' any more, he had decided to make a new name for himself.

"You're a fucking lion. Lions are terrifying. Are you terrifying? No, you're a pussy."

Hearing the voice in his head tell him that had been the inspiration. It would keep the others from messing with him—it would keep them from wanting to risk a victory fuck or trying to start a fight outside the ring if he was the intimidating, anti-social type. He had the latter down already. With the way he was growing, seeming almost bigger every week, he had a shot at the former, too.

It was decided, then. He was going to be a terrifying fucking beast.

The others who had been bathing waded past him. One of them said some small greeting, some 'hey,' under his breath. Milon lifted his eyes, a fierce gaze and a disapproving curl on his dark lip. The horse just made a 'hunh' noise and left, but Milon caught as they were walking out the door, "That guy mute or something?"

It was a start. He looked at his reflection again, rolling that lip underneath a finger. It was definitely bigger. He needed to stop chewing at it. He didn't like the faintly brutish pout it made.

He climbed out of the water. The fur clung to his body and dripped down like golden seaweed hanging from his limbs. He looked athletic, muscular but in a lithe way, strong but mobile. He rubbed his fur dry before tugging his tunic back on. A bulge flopped between his legs on the way back to his room. He planned to get another bit of pleasure out of the thought of dominating that wolf.

Milon almost felt bad. The poor guy was going to be hurting for the next week. He could almost see in his eyes that he knew it, too. What could he expect? One scrawny new jackal tossed in against a ripplingly-muscled lion. His torso was bared—made it more exciting, made him look more dangerous. It had been the voice's idea. The guy had plenty of good ideas.

In addition to his muscles, still in the midst of steady growth, his lack of armor showed off the growing hair. An odd thing to be proud of, maybe, but his mane, big and lush as any warrior's, now ran in a line of dark, shaggy fur down along his chest and all the way down to his crotch.

With nearly two and a half years spent as a gladiator, he had quite a series of scars, too. All together, they made his body look as if he shouldn't still be in one piece. When you saw a big lion, chest bared, roaring, looking as if he should be dead, you got scared, and that was the point.

Now the new guy only needed a little extra scare. Milon did it with just about everyone the first time he beat them.

The jackal was laying out on his cot, a cloth dressing wrapped around his wounded shoulder. He flinched when he saw Milon coming through the door.

A deep growl rose up inside of Milon's throat. All of his growing and thickening had thickened his vocal cords too, turning his voice into an appropriately rumbling tone. "Know what I could do to you right now?" he asked, looking down the wrinkles of his muzzle at the new fighter.

The jackal stared up at him. "Kill me?" he asked, with a wobbling desperation in his voice.

"Heh. Pretty bright, huh?" Milon grunted. He reached down, grabbing the jackal by the shoulder, and lifting him up against the wall, held up only by one powerful paw clenched down on his good shoulder.

"I could fuck you. No one's going to do a damn thing. That's just how this goes," he growled. The jackal's nose wrinkled at the thick smell of sweat and exertion coming off of Milon. He just smirked, watching the jackal grow disgusted by his musk.

"Wanna see?" Milon didn't wait for an answer; he unfastened his armor, letting it slide down. He rolled his cock into his paw, stroking lightly, his balls the size of the jackal's fists hanging beneath.

The jackal squirmed, struck by sudden terror. "Get off me, you faggot!" he snapped. His fist snapped out and caught Milon in the eye.

Milon roared into the jackal's face, then threw him down onto the cot.

"Fuck him, he deserves it!"

Milon didn't want to, he—

"He called you a fag. Show him who's the fag!"

He wasn't going to stoop to the wolf's—

"Fuck him right now!"

A fury burned in Milon's snarl. He suddenly looked years older with his face twisted up in real, active anger. The jackal was flailing and clawing, but Milon was on top of him, holding him down, pulling the squirming little guy against his broad, unforgiving chest.

The jackal screamed. Milon's claws sunk into his skin as he split the rookie open. Heavy snorting and snarling and blasts of hot, beastly breath blew against the jackal's head. The coarse hair all along Milon's front scratched at his back, making his skin sore and tender.

In the small gaps between the cot and the lion on top of him, the jackal tried to tug away, but every moment, Milon was on top of him, crushing him down, jostling his bones, squeezing out any attempt at escape while filling him to the absolute brim with his cock.

Milon roared again and his claws cut tracks into the jackal's skin. Cum came rushing up and swelling out of him, blasting into the crying jackal, stuffing him until he felt like he was going to burst, then leaving him with pungent cum trickling down between his thighs, staining and matting his fur.

The room was too stifling for him all of a sudden. He backed away, then slipped out, unconsciously jogging back to his room. What had he just done?

"You proved you weren't a fag."

He'd just done what had happened to him, what he hadn't wanted to see happen to anyone else.

"Tough shit for him, then. Why do you give a fuck? It's not your ass."

He couldn't let that happen again. That savage mind inside of his own was growing more powerful day by day. He had to fight it.

"Don't lie, you loved it and you want more."

The worst part was that he did.

"Quit fighting it. You're a fucking beast."

Milon left another whimpering, fresh, freshly-fucked fighter behind him. His cock was still dripping wet and he had stopped bothering to cover it ages ago.

He didn't need to make a conscious effort to glare any more. His face was set into a scowl by his wrinkled brow and protruding black lip. Beneath the slightly sagging fur of his broad and blocky face, tight, thick muscles ensured that his scowl remained permanently fixed.

A pair of gladiators heading to the baths left the shaded walkway and gave him a wide berth as they passed.

"Good. They should be scared of you."

Milon grunted in assent at the voice in his head. He scratched at the thick tangle of dark, protruding hair that ran down the midline of his stomach. His muscles hung and swelled and shifted beneath his scar-crossed fur. Once he had looked lithe and strong and mobile, like some sort of hunter, but his constant training was pushing him beyond that. His neck was slowly sinking into the thickness of his shoulders. Sinewy thickness was swallowing up his body. He was built like a fortress: sturdy, unassailable, but thick and slow.

His cot creaked under him. He patted his belly, gauging the give that it had underneath his paws. If his face wasn't evidence enough, with the heavy cheeks and wrinkles and dark lip hanging down, he was getting older, and with that, he was putting on weight. As long as he didn't let his muscles go, it didn't matter much.

Milon slipped off of the cot and onto the floor. Crouched down on his knees, he stared at the sandy floor, then pushed his finger through it. A nostalgic mood had caught his calloused, hate-inflamed mind. He tried to write out, as best he could, a geometric proof. It was what he had been studying those...what, six years now?...those six years ago.

He made a circle, then pushed a triangle out of it, made a few arcs among the angles, and then stopped. He stared at the picture, trying to remember what it meant. The lines had remained in his mind. He was able to bring back the picture, supposed to represent some simple fundament.

It had to do with the arcs, he remembered. There was something...you could find one, if... He closed his eyes.

He couldn't remember his tutor's face, or his words. He did remember sitting, drawing out the diagram with a piece of chalk. That was it. Everything else was gone.

He opened his eyes and wiped his hand over the drawing.

Laying back in his cot, head at the top and knees hanging over the end, Milon tried to recite some of the oratory he had been taught, but he got a few sentences in before filling it with 'um' and 'fuck'. He tried to think about philosophy, but that was even less fruitful.

In the end, he stared at the ceiling, as the callouses in his mind became thicker and he retreated further. That savage thing, not just a voice but an urge, a motion, a desire, had the reins.

A haze over his eyes, Milon licked his lips and pushed his hand around his cock.

Aulus was scared.

The lion had been a sniveling little cub that first time. It was just fun, just something he deserved for losing. If he went easy on someone, he'd have to go easy on everyone.

He hadn't thought there was a huge warrior inside of the lion, waiting to get out. He'd thought the lion would be killed in the first few weeks. The cat had a habit of pushing himself right out into a coming attack. He should have been run through with a spear ten years ago.

In those ten years, Aulus hadn't gone much of anywhere. He was in his prime back then; now his joints were starting to hurt and the leg he'd broken once was starting to ache when he got excited. He was about as big, not quite as intimidating as he had been.

But the lion... They had to make special practice dummies because he could twist them in half. He had to duck under the doors just to get through. His voice sounded like Pluto was coming for you. He was something out of a damn myth, and he'd made it clear that his target was Aulus.

Every single favor he could pull to get himself out of fighting the lion, he'd used. There was nothing left. Now he was standing before the gate, in shadow, looking out onto the pit, and on the other side, another gate, and the lion hidden in the darkness behind that.

He had to move. That would be his only chance. The lion was slow. So was he, but he was still faster than the lion.

The gate pulled up. Aulus walked out as if this was a dream. It couldn't be real, after all.

There was no way that thing coming toward him was real. Scars crossed along the thundering biceps, trailed across his abs and curled up over his lats, and in the middle, dominating them all, the violent gash that his sword had left, running from barrel-thick chest to bunched, thick thigh.

It would have been better if he had the eyes of a beast, but though they were narrow and cold, they had the hatred that could only be inspired by conscious thought.

A roar split the pit. The lion clutched his sword and thundered forward. Blocking was useless against someone that strong. Aulus's nerves left him and he turned and ran

His leg suddenly ached intensely and his ankle went limp. No, this was the worst time! He dropped sideways into the sand, still clutching his sword, scrambling backward with his tail between his legs.

The lion was chuckling, a deep, infuriating rumble. He walked toward the prone Aulus. With a flurry of every survival instinct he had, Aulus gathered himself, climbed to his feet, and sprung into the air. The head was his only hope. He had one stroke, and then the lion would have him. If he could get him in the neck—

Blood flowed onto his blade and the lion reeled, but Aulus had missed the neck by quite a bit. A slice of dark red ran across the lion's brow and over the bridge of his nose. It dripped down his nose, onto his thick mane, onto the sand. The lion's claws reached for Aulus.

Aulus felt the world whirling around him. A hand was on his neck, and the ground crashed into him. Shock waves of pain gathered in his forehead, exploded through his limbs, and burned in his chest. Everything was over in seconds as long as hours, and he lay on the sand, staring at the sky through one good eye. He could smell and taste blood, stinging, all the way up into his head, soaking his brain in suffering.

The cheering surrounded Milon and his heart was thundering and the pain rung in his ears and the voice screamed in his thoughts.

"Kill him!"

Was that the crowd or the voice? It didn't matter. He was going to do it.

"Look at me," he snarled. The wolf's eyes gazed distantly at him.

He reached down, digging his claws against the wolf's lips, forcing his mouth open. The wolf's tongue lay there limply, stained with the blood flowing from his nose.

The cheering grew with whoops and whistles as Milon pushed his thick cock free, hanging forward, stiffening quickly. Like he was threading a needle, he pushed the tip into the wolf's mouth and fed the length into his mouth. The wolf's throat hitched, but he pushed on anyway.

He cradled the wolf's head in his paws. With a snarl, he pulled back, then drove his cock down hard into the wolf's throat.

Aulus shuddered and gagged but the shaft was immovable. Again and again, harder, more painful, making his chest ache and his cheeks sore and his jaw rattle against his skull.

Then came the flood. It started with a roar, then it filled the wolf's mouth and his throat, and kept going and he tried to breathe but all that came was more seed, no matter how hard he gasped, until there was no energy left to gasp. Cum gurgled out around his lips, splashing onto the sand.

A spike of clarity rammed into Milon's mind. He was lucid entirely for this moment, seeing his enemy laying still beneath him, hearing the roar of the crowd in delight at the spectacle, and aware now, fully aware, of everything he had given up to see this happen. He had given up his self. Horror and disgust swelled up on all sides and he sunk down, retreating into his shell, never to return.

What had been Milon stood and bared his chest with a loud roar to the crowd. His shaft hung free between his legs, muscles bristling in proud, swaggering triumph.

The announcer's voice echoed over the noise of the crowd.

"If you don't believe in myths, ladies and gentlemen, you will soon. The only fighter who ever defeated him is Hercules himself. Does Brutus have what it takes to bring him down? Can he hurt the beast whose hide has crushed spears and broken swords? Let's see how he fares against...the Nemean Lion!"

A dull smirk tracked across Lion's face. That was his cue. He stomped his paws on the ground as he strode out of the tunnel and into the light, with the chain wrapped around his neck trailing behind him.

"It took a whole legion just to tie him up, but folks, I'll be honest—that chain might not be able to hold him. Make sure you know where the closest exit is!"

Lion's roar drowned out the announcer, as did the eruption of cheering that followed. His chest heaved, the thick forest of hair waving in the breeze while the boulders that were his pecs rose and fell. His shoulders spread, muscles tensed, biceps stretching his hide tight, neck flexing until the chain links shifted under the pressure.

Drool trailed from the corners of his lips as he focused on the large horse, clad in armor, with a spear and a shield. Lion had nothing but his claws, but they were all he needed.

"Let the battle begin!" the announcer called.

Lion's cock was already stiff. He would tear that faggot horse apart by the time he was done.