Chapter One
Chapter One
Kade
T hey call me Monster Fucker, but that wasn’t always the case.
Before I was forced to serve in this hellhole for eternity, I would have rather cut off my shape-shifting cock than ever stick it in a monster.
Now, it’s my job.
My reputation.
My punishment.
That’s what an over-inflated ego and a bad deal get you. Your worst nightmare becomes your everyday reality, and there’s nothing you can do but accept your fate and submit to the torture.
Dying isn’t an option when you’re immortal.
“Get up, Monster Fucker,” a three-legged beast with barbed horns snarls from the other side of the cell door. “Your services are required this evening.”
Of course they are.
They’re required every evening.
Whether it’s the monster mistress who runs the elaborate brothel or one of the clients who frequents the place, they always request my company.
In a different situation, I might be impressed. Flattered, even. But it’s hard to find pleasure in something that makes your skin crawl.
“Now,” the monster growls, making the hair on my arms stand up.
“I’m coming.” I roll out of bed with a huff, my feet meeting the cool cement floor, and stretch my arms above my head. “Calm down, Sparky.”
He glares at me through the metal bars, his red eyes flickering with a hint of his flame power. When he replaced the last guard, who I’d affectionately nicknamed Asshole, he singed my eyebrow off over a joke about his third leg. He didn’t find it as funny as someone in the mortal realm might.
Sparky’s a real fuckstick.
“I’ll be back shortly to collect you,” he growls before turning and disappearing down the hall.
I groan and do my best to mentally prepare myself for tonight’s session.
The room I live in doesn’t look like a prison cell, but the barred door is a constant reminder of that exact truth. It’s a cage, where I’m meant to spend the rest of forever unless I’m with a client.
There’s a queen-sized bed, dressed in blue linens with two overly-stuffed pillows that’s comfortable enough. A wardrobe that houses a menagerie of kink outfits stands against the far wall, and a small television sits on a table in the corner. In the wall opposite of the barred entryway, there is a wooden door with a heavy gold doorknob that leads to a bathroom.
Knowing I haven’t bathed today, I head straight for the shower.
The bathroom is about as decent as my bedroom. Everything is tiled, including the ceiling, and there is no shower stall or curtain. A shower head protrudes from one of the walls, drenching most of the surfaces in the bathroom when in use, and a toilet sits in the corner. There is no sink.
After I shower and scrub my skin with a bar of lumpy green soap, I snatch a slightly damp towel off a hook on the wall and run it over the wettest parts of me. The rest can air dry. I hang the cloth back up and head for my room butt naked to decide on tonight’s attire.
When I first arrived at the brothel, I was modest and afraid of the beasts lurking in the corridors who could easily peer through the barred door into my room. Now, nearly everyone in this place has seen me naked, and I couldn’t care less if some passerby catches sight of my butt cheek or ball sack.
I tug open the door to the lightly-stained wardrobe and scan over the clothes hanging there. Aside from a few pairs of pants and shirts that the mistress graciously let me have, everything else is made of chains, leather, and very little cloth. There are some masks and props that I occasionally pull out based on the client’s preferences, but most of the time they’re more enticed by my shape-shifting abilities.
I’m the human who’s also not a human. At the drop of a hat, I can transform into anyone’s ideal partner. Anyone’s ultimate desire. Extra hands, extra dicks. There’s no limit to the fantasy scenes I can create, and monsters flock from all over for the opportunity to sleep with me.
Definitely not where I saw myself ending up, but it could be worse.
I’m not sure how, exactly, but the thought makes me feel better.
“You’ve got five minutes,” Sparky snaps behind me, and I roll my eyes.
“Do they have an outfit request?” I don’t even bother turning around. He can stare at my bare ass while he talks to me. Serves him right for being such a prick.
“No.”
I tilt my head to the side in thought, still staring at the black and silver items hanging there. Nothing specific means that I can choose anything, and they can’t complain. Chances are it won’t stay on long anyway—it’s hard to transform when I’m constricted in leather.
Today, I’m feeling unusually carefree. It might be the nerve Sparky got on earlier, or I might just be growing numb to it all after doing the same thing for so many years, but I don’t care about the client’s opinion like I normally do. They should have been more specific if they didn’t want the most boring outfit I could conjure.
“Jeans it is,” I say with a smirk and dive for the bottom drawer of the wardrobe, bearing Sparky my entire asshole without regret.
I pull on a T-shirt with my most worn pair of jeans, and slip on my only pair of shoes before glancing at the mirror on the wall. Eyeing my reflection, I run my fingers through my short hair to make it lay somewhat flat.
My human clothes are familiar enough. When I’m in my room—which is most of the time—I lounge in them, but I’ve never worn them to meet with a client. Maybe they’ll approve. Or maybe they’ll complain to the mistress.
I guess we’ll find out shortly.
Sparky grunts from the doorway.
“That’s enough, Fucker.” He clearly enjoys using my name as an insult because he hisses a laugh when he speaks. “You know our clients don’t like to be kept waiting.”
I groan and drag my feet across the cement, pausing at the barred door. “Yeah, yeah. We must uphold the professional nature of the business. Blah blah blah.”
Sparky’s eyes zero in on me and narrow. His rage is almost palpable, and there are only a few metal bars separating us, but I’m not too worried. He can’t kill me—one of the benefits to being immortal—and if he injures me, the mistress will handle him.
Quite frankly, I’m more afraid of her anyway.
“Hands,” he says through gritted teeth.
Just like every other time I’m allowed to leave my room, I shove my fists through a gap in the bars and roll my eyes while Sparky slips silver shackles onto my wrists, locking them in place with one of his monster claws. Once secured, the shackles shrink and conform to the exact shape of my wrists. A soft, humming magic kicks on inside them, preventing me from utilizing my shapeshifter abilities. Even after years of being trapped here, I still don’t understand the tomfuckery behind them, nor how the same magic extends to my room.
They take no chances when it comes to keeping me locked up, even though it would be impossible for me to escape even if I managed to slip one of the guards. The entire mansion is crawling with hulking monsters, all waiting for an opportunity to skin me alive. Unfortunately for them, the mistress forbids it. She has to keep me healthy and safe for her clients, after all. If I made it out of the mansion by some miracle, there are a myriad of other dangers lurking outside the mansion doors, and my human scent is a death sentence here.
Not to mention, I can’t create a portal back to the mortal realm.
I’ve had plenty of time to ponder it all, and I’ve yet to come up with a viable plan to escape. Until then, I have to keep my head down and do what and who I’m told.
With a flip of a lever in the hall, Sparky releases the metal door and pulls it open to let me out.
There are four other rooms in this hallway, all with identical barred doors and similar interiors, but none of them are occupied. A few years ago, an old warlock occupied the room at the end, but from what I heard, he challenged a guard and got himself killed.
That’s another reason why I’m content to keep plotting my escape, rather than doing something rash. At least one person has tried and failed to reclaim his freedom.
Sparky locks the door to my room again and gestures for me to walk ahead, which I do so obediently. I’ve stalled long enough.
It’s time to meet the client.