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He remembers.
But oh, how he wishes he could forget.
He remembers how it felt to have a tight, furled hole, the ability to clench, to hold things inside him.
He remembers it vividly.
He and his comrades, their optimism, sharing beers in a dirty little tavern, egging each others' rebellion on until they made the worst mistake of their lives.
Someone had turned traitor and told the King they were coming. Who it was matters little now, and in a way he's glad not to know, not to have those memories tainted.
The guards had laid a trap, sprung as the crowds swept up to the castle gates, and he'd watched in horror as the boiling oil had wiped out the majority of their numbers in an instant. People around him aflame, screaming, burning, sinking.
Him, and the other leaders of the uprising? They'd kept them alive. For this.
If only he couldn't remember. If only he could forget what he'd had before, how his own foolish mistakes had led him here. Maybe that would make the whole thing easier to bear.
He hears footsteps outside his cell, then the heavy clunk of the door being unlocked. He doesn't look up - he can't, weak from months of being strung up with chains, his toes barely scraping the ground. But he opens his eyes, dry as they are, and he squints down past his malnourished body to watch the hobnailed boots walk past him.
Hands grab him from behind, unlock his shackles and hold him upright as he slumps, too weak to stand on his own two feet. They drag him out; his bony knees hit the doorframe on the way.
He's used to this now, and he doesn't even flinch at the searing sunlight as he emerges from the cool darkness into the King's personal arena. High above, in a sheltered box, he can just about see the Royal figures looking down at him. The guards throw him down onto the hard flattened ground.
They reach down to the straps around his waist and unlock them, pulling them off him with quick, practised ease. Without the straps to hold it in, the huge round plug nestled in his asshole slides instantly out, its diameter as wide across as his own forearm. He cries out as it falls out onto the ground, followed by the shameful splatter of the contents of his bowels.
For an instant he can feel the light breeze blowing into his hole, tickling his internal walls, the stretched out broken entrance into his guts open to the world. Then a moment later, without the plug to support it, his gaping hole collapses to a puffy vertical slit, oozing. Another guard steps up beside him and then he's gasping as a bucket of warm water is thrown over him and the mess on the ground. A pair of gloved hands reaches around his rim and pulls the hole wide so that a second bucket can be sloshed into his guts and clean him out: the only cleansing he'll receive.
When they're done, they leave him alone. He can't help it; he reaches back weakly to explore his hole. Tracing its puffy rim that extends the full height of his asscheeks, from a point nearly reaching his balls to just below his tailbone. He slips two fingers into its cavern, and tries desperately, as he does every time, to clench down on them. He feels nothing; not even a twitch from the internal muscles. He lost control of those months ago.
He pulls his hand away as the guards move towards a pair of double doors on the opposite end of the arena, each door four times the size of the one he came through. It takes two of them on each side just to pull on the heavy metal rings and huff and puff them open. Nearly a full minute of dragging them against the dusty ground before the doors yawn widely into the dark interior beyond.
He knows what's coming. What comes every day.
The thing that broke his ass.
He isn't sure how long the King searched for it, but he must have gone far and wide to find this creature and bring it back home. Before his captivity, he had never seen such a beast. In another context, he might have admired it.
The low growl from the darkness beyond the doors is enough make the ground tremble. He quickly moves into position, his ass facing the door, both hands squishing into his wrecked hole to hold it open, his whole body trembling. He learned quickly to cooperate, to reduce the chances of attracting the beast's ire.
From behind him, he feels it advance. The creature's paws shake the ground with each thud, and if he weren't already prone it would knock his weak legs out from under him. He feels its hot breath on his back before he sees its huge black form blot out the sun above him. Its many eyes blink down at him, disorienting him like it does every day, and he feels the familiar massive cockhead nudging between his asscheeks.
This is what destroyed him. Now it destroys him anew every morning. When it first took him, he blacked out from the pain; it was only after, when he woke up to see it retreating back to its cell, that he even knew what had happened to him. He had reached back and he had felt the bloodied mess where his hole once was, the cum oozing from its gape, and he had sobbed when he had tried to clench it shut and felt his hole no longer responding. It had torn his muscles.
Now it's routine. He shakes - he can't stop the fear, no matter how many times he goes through this - but he lies quietly and obediently, his hands holding his hole open for his master.
The creature places a heavy paw on his back, pinning him in place and knocking the air from his lungs in one strangled gasp. It growls again, bringing its many eyes to focus on him as it slowly slides home, and he moans in drawn-out pain. Its cock is just a hint larger than the plug he wears continuously, a deliberate choice by the King to ensure each penetration hurts just a little. Even with his hole wrecked, he feels the pain of the stretch, moaning and sobbing into the dirt.
It keeps on sliding in, its huge member rearranging the organs inside him, and then it keeps going. Were it not for the paw on his back, the sheer force of it would slide him across the ground. Instead, it feeds inch after inch into his now taut hole, the rising nausea in his throat matching the overwhelming feeling of fullness. He doesn't need to look to know it's bulging obscenely through his abdomen, almost comfortable there, slotting into the space in his body that its made for itself.
His pelvis never healed from the first time it was broken apart, but he thanks the gods every day that its cock stops short of his ribs.
When it bottoms out, it lets out a triumphant bellow, and he hears the distant sound of the Royal Box participants clapping enthusiastically. Deliriously, he wonders how they can see anything at all, when the creature dwarfs him from view. Is it simply the knowledge that he's being used as the creature's cocksleeve that makes them clap?
Then, the beast begins to fuck him.
Each thrust pushes him across the ground like a ragged puppet, filling his mouth with dust. He splutters and coughs and dribbles, and there's no dignity left inside him to care. Each thrust stirs his insides over and over again, and even despite everything, it still hurts, and he still cries out.
The Royals are cheering and whooping as the beast's cock grinds him into the dirt, the noise of it obscene, like squelching through mud. Internal wounds never given the chance to fully heal tear anew in an instant, and the blood mingles with the creature's precome and makes everything even sloppier. He's sobbing as he feels it dripping down his legs, the sharp pain coursing through his body with every thrust.
The beast watches him with its many eyes as it dominates him. He has no way of knowing, but he thinks it takes pleasure in seeing the pain on his face, on hearing the stream of slurred pleas for mercy that spill unbidden from his lips. Perhaps it's just his imagination, but the creature's hips seem to snap forward with extra brutal force the more he cries out for it all to stop.
He can tell when the beast is about to come; its cock begins to pulse inside him, subtle at first then the movements quickly grow stronger. It's the moment he dreads the most, and uncontrollably he hears his mouth chatter "nonononono" as if he could hope to stop it. The creature sheathes itself one last time, lets out a low unearthly noise that rings in his very bones, and lets loose.
It spurts out inside him, flooding his guts and quickly making its way up and into his throat, like a tidal wave it pours unstoppable from his mouth and he's gagging for air. The black slick splatters onto the ground, making him heave with nausea as it continues to pour free from his lips and nose. His lungs start to scream for air, his head starts to spin, and then- it's over. He spits one last globful of come onto the ground and inhales desperately.
The beast steps back, pulling its cock free from his ass. A torrent of come follows it, gushing and pooling warm around his knees. He lays there, wheezing, and listens to the beast walk away, each step shaking another few dribbles loose from his gaping hole, until it disappears again into its den.
He can hear distant cheers, then he shuts his eyes against another few buckets of water thrown over him, washing away the worst of the blood and come. One guard crouches by him, curls their fingers into his hole and wrenches it open mercilessly, pulling another cry from him. Another brings the plug, bends down and slides it home, nestled between his spread cheeks.
After the straps are resecured, they lift him by his arms and drag him out of the sunlight and back into the cool warren of the gaol. In the familiar four walls of his cell, they lift him up and chain him in place.
A guard pauses, looks at the tear streaks on his face and laughs. "Look- it's still got enough dignity to be ashamed." The guard slaps a hand onto the base of his huge, round plug, jolting it inside him and bringing a shameful moan from him. The guard leers at him. "I'll see you tomorrow, cocksleeve."
As they leave, he lets himself weep, trying desperately to clench down on the plug inside him, and licking the last drops of come from around his mouth.