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He could hear the roaring of the crowd on the other side of the rusted steel door. He could feel the vibrations in his spine through the cold concrete bricks against his back. He could taste the electricity in the air, thrumming on his tongue and spurring on the beating of his heart. This was what Logan lived for; the thrill of the fight, knocking down every opponent set up before him while the audience showered him with praise and adulation.

He'd missed it while he was in prison. The bastard wardens would always jump him and stick him in solitary when he'd try to start up a 'friendly competition' with his fellow inmates. But at last he was out of that hellhole; 'getting clean' and 'turning over a new leaf' did wonders for getting on the parole board's good side. And while his career in pro kickboxing was shot, there were always alternatives.

The iguana shook those thoughts away. He could reminisce about the past all he wanted when the night was over. The light set above the doorway at the end of that concrete-brick hallway flashed, signaling that it was time for Logan to make his debut in the underground MMA scene.

He pushed through the steel door, and a maelstrom of light and noise and heat--the body heat of many furs packed into the large basement room--washed over him. He grinned, wide and toothy. He moved to make his way through the crowd, lifting an arm high into the air. He enjoyed the anticipation running through his body as he set his sights on the cage at the center of the room.

"And there he is!" The otter announcer--lean and bespectacled, wearing an old-fashioned button-down shirt with slacks and suspenders--was standing in the middle of the ring, his voice amplified into a booming roar by the microphone in his hand and the speakers on the walls. Henry--or so he'd told Logan his name was when the iguana had finally been able to meet with the bookie--pointed toward the entrance, drawing the crowd's attention to the newcomer. The nerdy little guy plastered a grin on his face that belied the nervous anxiety with which he'd told the iguana about that night's fight. "The newest challenger to join The Stallion's league, The Thrasher!" He allowed a moment for the mingled cheering and jeering to die down before he continued. "I hope you've placed your bets, folks, cuz we've got an ex-pro here with us tonight!"

'Ex'-pro. That shouldn't have gotten under his scales as much as it did. However, Logan felt the muscles of his cheeks straining to keep his own grin from turning into a snarl as he made his way through the crowd. He could've made a name for himself. He could've had fame, fortune, and all the bitches he could ever want throwing themselves at him. But that binge he'd been on during his final match--what would become his last match as a professional kickboxer--had put a stop to that. The rage and mad energy which had burned in his veins as his heartbeat had pounded in his throbbing head had kept his limbs lashing out in heavy blows long after the ref had called the match, and it was only the strength of five other men which had been able to pull the iguana off his bloodied, battered, and broken opponent. He hadn't ended the other man's life, sure, but his own had come crashing down around him.

Again, he shook those thoughts away like buzzing flies and placed all his focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Making his way to the stage. Flexing and showing off for the raucous crowd. Ignoring the hunger in the eyes of the men surrounding him as they whooped and catcalled.

Indeed, Logan would have been enjoying his debut more if he wasn't almost naked, save for a pair of tight red micro briefs which left almost nothing to the imagination. The cotton cupped the firm globes of his ass. The waistband dipped down low enough to hint at the virile bush of his pubes. And of course, the pouch between his thighs bobbed and bounced with every movement. Girls had always loved it when he showed off for them wearing that skimpy little garment and the smile on his face, but never had he imagined letting--or wanted to let--any guys get off to him like the throng of horny males was.

The iguana wasn't stupid, nor was he naïve. When he'd gone skulking around in the shadier parts of town, seeking out venues exactly like the one in which he found himself, he knew full well that some of the 'alternative' fighting places were into some weird shit. Logan had tried to avoid the worst options, but the iguana didn't have the luxury of being picky. So when 'Henry' had told him the terms of fighting in his employer's ring, Logan had no choice but to smile and nod.

'Show some skin', the otter had said while redness seeped into his ears and his eyes had wandered over the iguana's muscular form. Logan had grimaced at the implications, and had struggled not to show the little faggot just how much of a pro he still was at beating someone's face in even after doing time. It wasn't like he had a problem with gay people--at least, as long as they kept their hands and eyes to themselves--but the thought of getting ogled by a hoard of male patrons while he fought churned his stomach. On the other hand, he needed money. He needed money bad, and he was quickly burning through his prospective options to get it in a single night.

And so, he'd stripped down to his skivvies and left his pants and shirt, his shoes and socks, and his dignity piled in the corner of the otter's office. And just as he had when he'd shaken Henry's hand and agreed to do whatever he needed to join that evening's bout, Logan swallowed down both his pride and disgust and ignored the horny stares he received while 'showing some skin' for the audience.

He kept his eyes locked on the cage around the ring so he wouldn't have to see the obvious tents in everyone else's pants. He kept his arms at his sides, and resisted the urge to lash out when a few adventurous hands touched his shoulders and back; and when he received a full-palmed smack on the ass, the iguana hissed and picked up the pace to get away from the drunken laughter behind him. Logan huffed out through his nostrils and ground his tongue against his teeth to keep the funk trapped within that basement room--sweat and BO and the sour reek of masculine arousal--out of his lungs.

Finally, he passed through the gate into that cage, and joined both Henry and the panting, heaving, burly roebuck in the ring.

"Go on, Thrasher, show us what you got!"

While Logan prowled around the edge of the ring, still flexing for the crowd and letting them take in every scale and muscle on his nearly-nude body, he in turn took in his opponent for the night. The red fur coating the roebuck's impressive--however reluctant Logan was to admit it--form; hidden only by a tight, white, almost see-through thong which left even less to the imagination than the reptile's own underwear. The smirk on his muzzle, and the glint in his dark eyes as he looked the iguana up and down in turn. The bun crowning the top of his head between his curved antlers. Formidable, yes, but the iguana could also see the evidence of fatigue starting to set in; Logan was the final opponent for 'The Stallion's' little cash-cow, after all, and Skullcracker had already been cracking skulls for almost two hours.

A smirk of his own spread on the reptile's lips as he turned to face the otter and roebuck. Logan cracked his neck and knuckles, stretched with a huffed-out grunt, and dropped into a ready stance. This would be good.

"Oh-ho! Looks like Thrasher's already raring to go, folks!" Henry turned to the crowd, making his way to the edge of the ring as he continued. "Will this rising star finally unseat the king of the ring, the undefeated champ, the Skullcracker himself? Or will he find his time in our ring mercilessly cut short?" One last pause for the cheering and jeering to reach its crescendo; and a bit of urgency as he passed through the cage's gate and latched it shut tight behind him. "Either way, the climax of tonight's show is something you're gonna wanna watch close! Gentlemen... get ready... and fight!"

High above, in a glass-walled room overlooking the basement-turned-arena, a pair of keen eyes were watching the show very close indeed. As the two fighters in the ring charged at one another, Skullcracker pulling his fist back for a punishing blow while Thrasher ducked down low and tensed the muscles of his thighs for a kick to the roebuck's side, the figure sitting in the plush armchair let out a breathless nicker of arousal. Thick and sturdy fingers traced over a broad barrel chest, down over the ridges of sculpted abdominals, and teased along the throbbing length which tented a pair of tailored slacks.

Dean Kerrickson--'The Stallion', proprietor of that night's little underground tournament--loved the thrill of the fight as much as any of the men who fought tooth and nail for the kind of prize money he could offer; though his interest, much like that of the crowds his tourneys would draw, differed in the most subtle but important ways. A pair of men, sweat soaking their bodies and expressions twisted with exertion, grappling and struggling against each other. Those expressions becoming gaping and sightless for the briefest of moments when their opponents landed crushing blows which racked their bodies with pain. Bruises blooming like delicate flowers on skin and scales and under fur as saliva and blood dribbled down from slackened lips. It excited him, invigorated him, got his blood pumping and his balls--heavy and pent-up in anticipation of the evening's events--roiling with the need to empty themselves.

As he popped the button of his fly, pulled the zipper down, and freed his erection from the briefs it had been soaking with sweat and precum for about an hour-and-a-half at that point, Dean watched the intimate dance of Skullcracker's and Thrasher's bodies with rapt attention. Every blow they gave each other. Every snarl and glower and wince of agony. Every twitch of their muscles and bounce of the barely-contained bulges in their skimpy little 'outfits'. And as he grasped his firm and pulsing length, pumping it in time to the rhythm of that dance--faster every time they crashed together and struggled for supremacy, and then slower when they pulled back to circle each other like a pair of prowling beasts--the horse allowed his mind to wander.

For the hour-and-a-half he'd been edging himself to the sight of Skullcracker's opponents being bludgeoned and beaten down in turn, his thoughts and fantasies had been of the roebuck; as they had been every night he held one of these bouts, ever since the deer and his little otter boyfriend had first entered his service. Of watching the champion fighter meet his adoring fans--his heaving, sweaty body caressed and explored with both adventurous hands and curious noses--before welcoming the handsome male into his private room. Taking those powerful hands into his own, and lapping the blood off of each knuckle in turn. His tongue exploring every inch of that bruised and exhausted form, sampling the sweat and rich stink from Skullcracker's armpits, then tearing that slutty little thong off of him and doing the same to the roebuck's more intimate areas. Perhaps he'd let Henry watch, the slim otter only allowed the pleasure of sniffing their discarded underwear, or perhaps he'd give the slimmer male the honor of worshipping his sweaty and unwashed body in turn; he wasn't picky.

However, as the bout drew to a crescendo--Skullcracker sent gasping and reeling by the iguana's heel slamming into his gut--the stallion's thoughts and attention became captivated by Thrasher.

That handsome face, square-jawed and overtly masculine. The backward-swept spikes crowning his head, and the dense forests of curly hair peeking from his armpits and below the waistband of those tight micro briefs he wore. The musculature bulging under his dull blue scales, with just enough pillowy fat to provide a pleasant bit of bulk; his boulder-like biceps and supple thighs and the squeezable mounds of his pectorals, which were highlighted by the lighter scales of his underbelly and crowned with large, dark, plump and succulent nipples. The iguana was a stud, and Dean was infatuated.

How would those scales feel under his hands and fists, his lips and tongue? What sounds could he draw from the iguana's throat as that expression--glaring and snarling and twisting in agony--was directed at him? How long would the fire remain in those flashing eyes of his; how long until the spunky newcomer broke beneath his tender affections?

Dean panted. He gasped. He threw his head back, pointed his erection towards the ring--towards that heaving, handsome, woefully-attractive ex-pro--and splattered the glass wall with his cum. And when the horse fell back into his chair, watching with hazy and lustful eyes as his thick and creamy semen dribbled down the glass separating him from the object of his new obsession, a plan began to form in Dean's afterglow-warmed mind.

The horse grunted, lifted an arm, and snapped his fingers. Almost before he completed the gesture, one of the suited rhinos standing at the door stepped forward to lean towards him. And when he told his bodyguard what to do, the large male--quite attractive in his own right, though Dean had no reason to add the rhino to his collection; not yet, anyway--rushed off to do as his employer demanded.

Dean Kerrickson always got what he desired. And that night, more than anything else, he desired this 'Thrasher' to be his.

---

He gasped, trying not to wince as every heavy breath strained his sore ribs. He could feel the trembling in his limbs, exhaustion locking his knees so he wouldn't collapse to the ring's floor along with his groaning opponent. He looked up and around at the crowd, who stared wide-eyed and gaping at him in stunned silence.

Logan had won.

"I-I don't believe it..." The otter flinched, and then forced an almost-manic grin onto his face as he turned to the crowd, bringing the mic up and gesturing with wild enthusiasm to the victor of the fight. "I don't believe it, folks! Skullcracker's finally got his skull cracked by the one, the only, The Thrasher!" The crowd broke into wild cheering as Henry moved to open the cage door. "Come on out and meet your adoring fans, new champ!"

Logan blinked, then his expression hardened into an almost-glare as he looked at the otter. Without sparing a glance towards Skullcracker as the roebuck groaned and tried to force himself to his hands and knees, the iguana made his way out to stand next to Henry. As he waved to the throng, a wide and toothy rictus on his own snout, he leaned in close and hissed to the smaller, slimmer male. "This wasn't part of the deal. Where's my money?"

"Patience is a virtue." The otter's own voice was a quiet murmur. He glanced upward, his gaze hard and cold when it met that of the newcomer who'd unseated The Stallion's previous champion. "Just play nice for a bit while we get it ready. The attendants will signal you." He flicked his eyes over towards the hulking, suited rhinos standing around the edge of the crowded basement arena, and then gave Logan a pat on the back before slipping into the sea of men surrounding them.

As it turned out, 'meeting the fans' was a lot more involved in the Stallion's league than it ever had been when he was pro; and involved a lot more touching from wide-eyed, panting, flushed males.

A wolf huffed in awe as he squeezed Logan's bicep, the others around them sharing wide grins with each other; the iguana allowed the canine to gradually pull his arm up higher and higher, but finally yanked his limb free and stepped away when the freak leaned in to get a whiff of the sweat-soaked bush which filled his armpit. He felt a few hands on his spine, running up and down from his shoulder blades to the base of his tail; when they started to tug at the waistband of his micro briefs, attempting to slide the sweat-soaked cotton down off his ass, Logan gritted his teeth and turned his body away from them. A pair of drunken foxes--why was it always foxes?--stopped him with a request to get a closer look at his 'awwwshome' legs; the squeezing and kneading of his calves and thighs wasn't too invasive, but when one started to rub way too close to his package while the other started grinding his nose on the iguana's foot, Logan had to swallow down both a grimace and the urge to show everyone there what his 'awwwshome' legs could really do to a pair of faggots like them.

Grin and bear it. The mantra repeated itself over and over through his mind, tamping down the disgust and outrage. Just grin and bear it, let the sickos get their jollies, and wait to be paid. There was way too much money on the line, just barely out of his grasp and growing closer with every second. And so the iguana kept up a friendly mask, dodged out of reach of the more handsy patrons, and kept on the lookout for that 'signal' Henry had mentioned.

Finally, he saw one of the rhino bouncers peering at him through a pair of dark sunglasses. The suit which the massive--burly in his own right--male was wearing strained around his brick-shithouse frame when he lifted an arm to beckon the iguana over. Logan sighed in relief, and began pushing through the crowd; and since he didn't have to 'play nice' anymore, he was more open in shoving away the adventurous hands that tried to sneak in a few last gropes.

He brushed himself off. He made sure his micro briefs were still covering up everything they could. He looked up at the rhino with an impatient grunt. "About damn time."

"The Stallion would like to extend his personal apologies for the wait, Thrasher." Low and rumbling. Vague and unaffected. Probably keeping his gaze on the crowd as they began settling down and milling towards the side desks for that night's winnings; behind those pitch-black shades, Logan couldn't tell. "Your prize money has been prepared for you, along with any first aid you might require."

"Nah." The adrenaline from the fight was wearing off, and so Logan scrubbed the back of his hand across his nose and lips before glancing down to check the scales for any blood. He ran his tongue along his gums, checking that all his teeth were still in place. He brushed his fingers over a few of the worse bruises on his torso; nothing too bad. "I just wanna take my money and go, if the Stallion doesn't mind."

A nod. A grunt of the rhino's own. A jerk of his head as he stepped aside and turned toward the door out of the basement. "Follow me." Then he turned, and led Logan back into the concrete-brick hallway in which the iguana had waited for his fight.

While following the rhino bouncer down that hallway--probably towards a safe room where Logan could pick up his winnings without the danger of any prying eyes--the reptile let out a heavy sigh of relief. The tension left his shoulders and limbs, leaving only the dull ache of exertion to pulse and throb in his muscles. He made sure his guide wasn't looking, and then gritted his teeth while massaging a particularly nasty bruise on his inner thigh; Skullcracker had been quick to punish a too-wide roundhouse with the heel of the roebuck's hand smashing into him way too close to his family jewels for comfort. He probably wouldn't be fighting for a while, and it'd probably hurt like a bitch--along with the rest of him--in the morning.

But that didn't matter. Once he had the money Henry had promised him on the Stallion's behalf, he'd be sitting pretty for a good while. He could take care of those debts that had piled up during his time in the clink, find a nice place to set himself up, and take it easy. Maybe he could even get a few records cleaned up so he could start working his way back up the pro kickboxing leagues, and not have to deal with the Stallion or any 'alternative' options ever again.

He blinked, pulling himself free of those thoughts; they'd been walking for a pretty long-ass time, hadn't they?

Logan glanced from side to side when the rhino led him around yet another corner, and scratched at the back of his head when he felt prickling start up under his scales. He cleared his throat, and got a grunt of acknowledgement in return. "We there yet?"

"Almost." The rhino nodded towards a heavy steel door ahead. "Through there."

The iguana was tired. The fatigue and soreness in his limbs made it hard to grasp any one thought too tightly. And there was even a faint ringing in his one ear from where Skullcracker had cuffed him during their bout. Logan just wanted to get his money and go; and so, like a lamb to the slaughter, the iguana followed the rhino through the heavy door and into the dark and shadowy room.

He wasn't aware of even the possibility that something might be wrong until the bouncer whirled around and darted in close. Logan froze; the world froze. He couldn't breathe; every gasp was choked back out of him. Pain bloomed in his gut; the rhino had slammed a fist into the iguana's stomach, knocking the breath out of him.

"Wuh... wha..." Fog, black as pitch, started to drift through his reeling mind and creep into the corners of his vision. He coughed, and the dull pain in his abdomen sharped into a red-hot blade of agony pushing deep into him. The iguana's shaking knees finally collapsed, sending Logan crashing down onto the concrete floor to moan and gasp and splay out in a shuddering heap. And then hands--more hands than just the one rhino should've had--pressed down onto him to pin him in place. On his torso and hips. On his shoulders. Grasping his ankles and gripping his forearms in crushing vices.

"Alright, got him secured."

"Didn't put up much of a fight this time, did he?"

"Poor little bitch got tuckered out from his fight."

"You got the juice ready?"

"Yeah, right here. Keep him still while I get it in him."

"Should we get those undies of his off?"

"Nah, boss's orders. He wants them to stay on."

The words barely made sense to Logan; they slithered into his head through his ears, burrowed with difficulty into his brain, and then dropped like stones into the misty, cavernous emptiness which had replaced his thoughts. What had happened? Why were they doing this?

They'd tricked him; it had probably been a trick from the start.

The thought sent a spark into the depths of the iguana's mind. That spark flared with every heaving and panicked breath in his aching lungs. It rose up into an inferno, spreading and growing quick and fast and merciless. It was possible that there was no money. They'd wanted him to fight, maybe they wanted him to lose. But he'd won--beaten their 'champ' to a bloody pulp--and now they were trying to get rid of him.

The inferno roiling and raging within him filled his emptied chest and sore gut. It spread into his limbs. It roared, the sound of it pounding in his head like a splitting migraine and screaming at him along with the ringing in his ears. Escape. He had to escape. He had to struggle, squirm away from the men holding him down, and escape.

Logan bucked in the grip of the bouncers--yet more large, burly, musclebound rhinos--as they tried to hold him still. He snarled like a rabid beast, and even tried to turn his head to bite at them. The muscles of his legs and arms worked, flexed, bunched and released with more desperation than he'd ever exerted them in his life. But, unfortunately for the iguana, it was all in vain; he was already worn down from the fight, and still dazed and reeling from his 'guide's' sucker punch.

"Shit, got a live one!"

A heavy palm pressing into the side of his head, grinding his cheek against the cold concrete.

"Hurry up! Stick him!"

A pinch in the side of his neck, and warmth spreading with every heartbeat from his throat down into the rest of him.

"There. Should be out like a light in a sec."

His limbs going slack and numb, loose and flailing and then too heavy for him to move. Once more that black fog began to creep through his brain and linger at the corners of his vision. Logan swallowed and tried to speak--to curse the rhinos and their employer, to beg for his life, to demand they let him go--but his tongue was suffering from the same affliction which had struck his arms and legs; all that managed to leak from between his slack lips was a weakened whine.

"Come on, grab his legs and help me carry him to the..."

"Think the Stallion'll let us...?"

"Mm... can't wait to..."

The voices around him blurred together, becoming a muddy and incomprehensible drone while darkness finally overtook his vision. He reeled, dazed and groggy. He raged against the dying of the light in vain. As he was hefted upward and carried towards whatever fate awaited him, Logan sank into the blissful and blessed mercy of unconsciousness.