He's not handsome, but then that's sort of the point. Lots of the arena fighters aren't handsome. But all of them are brutish. Savage, even, some more than others.

But Vorinion is no fighter, no gladiator. Just one of the functionaries who keeps the Emperor's arena running like a well-oiled machine. There are the men who run the menagerie, the engineers who flood it from time to time for ship battles, the scowling guardsmen who keep the peace among drunk and unruly bettors ... and then there's Vorinion and his assistants, who help keep the fighters happy.

"Don't look so squeamish, my lady," he grins, leering at you through a face twisted with scars. He's build like a series of stone blocks piled untidily atop each other, and you have no doubt he can hold his own against the gladiators. Maybe he used to be one and finagled his way to a much cozier position. The smarter ones, or the less bloodthirsty ones, usually do, getting out of the sport while they still have their limbs, eyes, and brains intact. "You're not the first patrician woman to want a taste of this wine. You know that, I'm sure."

That may be true, but you didn't come down here so Vorinion could leer at you like you were a common whore. Even if, strictly speaking, that's exactly what you've decided to be, at least for tonight. The dress isn't all that awful -- you're no tavern dancer -- but the hemline barely covers your thighs, and the plunging back shows off the fine lines of your shoulders and spine. The gauzy material allows the light to show off your breasts and navel when it hits it the right way, and the flickering lanterns in Vorinion's rooms certainly do that.

"All right, my lady," he says, eyeing you like an especially tasty morsel on a banquet table. "Let's see the goods. No time to be modest now, and I need to know which of these fellows you'd be suited for."

There can't be too much hesitation, but you can't help some -- exposing yourself to a commoner like this! But you'll be doing far more than exposing, and to much rougher men, before the night is over. Bracing lightly against the battered wooden examination table, you gracefully lift up your skirts, glancing away and blushing as Voronion crouches to inspect you. One of his hands, thick and rough with calluses, glides ever so delicately along your inner thigh. "Tch. It won't do. They like their women bare. Lay back, my lady, and we'll take care of that."

A basin of hot water; a dish of foaming soap; a gleaming razor. Voronion works with a surgeon's care, his touch incredibly light as he lathers up the hair of your mons. When the razor descends, you barely feel it -- but his breath on your sex, the fingers on your thigh to hold you steady, the nearness of the razor, and most of all the thought of what you are being prepared for makes your heart race, your breath catch, your nipples pucker under their gauzy confinement.

Voronion notices, grinning a little as he towels your now-smooth pussy dry ... or at least clean of soap and water. The heat pulsing through you is almost unimaginable, and every skirl of air against your flesh is like a lover's kiss. "A little excited, my lady? Perhaps an old man might have a taste of you?"

Maybe it's the heat coursing through you, maybe it's the strangeness of the situation -- this was just a lark, after all -- but whatever the case, you assent with the tiniest noise in your throat, like a quivering, trapped animal. Why not? You'll be doing worse before the night is done. And it's not like you're whoring yourself, not yet -- Vorinion certainly won't be paying you for this. It's probably one of his side benefits.

And you're not doing this for the money anyway. You're a patrician woman.

He ministers with surprising skill and tenderness, tongue exploring, parting your folds, delving fiendishly deep into your heat. Your cries and moans echo against the stony ceiling, lost in the murmur of the roaring crowds in the seats many feet above your head. You wonder if you'll be fucking one of the gladiators competing right now, at this very moment. It's that thought, even more than Vorinion's greedy tongue, or the sight of your bare feet dangling in the air, his thick horned hands kneading your thighs, that pushes you over the edge, an orgasm rippling through you as you clutch Vorinion's scarred, bald head, grinding his weathered face against your cunt.

Vorinion arches up, grinning, licking his lips. "Like that, did you, my lady?" He grabs a flask of wine and washes down the taste of you, wiping his mouth on the back of one hand. "A neglected treasure, you are. No husband? Or does he just not pay you the proper respect? Well, our lads will do that and then some." Watching you, sprawled back, panting, his eyes glittering with lust. One hand grazes idly over something thick and hard jutting from his breaches. "I'd dearly love to fuck you, and I doubt you'd say no, but I can't spoil you for the fighters. Some of them like a woman who's been used, but you'll get to them later. First choice can't be dripping with spend, now can she?"

You shake your head, slowly getting to your feet. Vorinion turns away for a moment, returning with a trio of collars. Before you can say anything, he shakes his head. "No, these aren't the real thing. A pleasure slave has one welded onto her pretty neck. These are just an adornment for the night, telling our fighters who you're willing to please." He points to the choker stone dangling from each of them. "Silver means humans only. Black means beastmen only. Orcs too, if they like human women, which some of them do. And gold means any and all are welcome." He smirks. "You look like a gold to me. Which will it be?"

Whichever you pick, you're in for a long night at the arena. Savor it.