Ghost woke to the sound of muffled protestations. They blinked and squirmed, but they were bound tightly between two poles, spread-eagled and helpless. Even summoning the power of the void that filled them did nothing to help; they were firmly, decidedly trapped.

The vessel tried to recollect how they had found themselves in this situation. The last thing they remembered, they had tried themself against the Colosseum of Fools, fighting their way through the onslaught of bugs only to succumb to a great beast and its relentless rider…

Slowly, Ghost’s vision accustomed to the darkness. They were in the colosseum’s waiting chamber, and they weren’t alone. No less than Zote, self-proclaimed mighty knight, was bound and helpless, thrashing and complaining amidst the gag in his mouth; it was his noise that had stirred Ghost to wakefulness. Another of the vessel’s acquaintances were in the chamber; Tiso was strapped tight, though he was not gagged. It seemed the fools were more liable to tolerate him than Zote.

“So you’re up,” Tiso said, his voice bitter. There had never been any real love lost between Ghost and Tiso, but Ghost respected him nonetheless. “We all succumbed to the colosseum’s inhabitants, and now it seems they have something in mind for us…”

“Mmmmnggggll!” Zote protested, squirming helplessly in his bindings. Tiso just chuffed out a mirthless laugh.

“Don’t bother, Zote the ‘mighty’. They made sure that none of us can escape. We have no choice but to accept our fates…”

And as if to reinforce Tiso’s judgment, the grinding of gears filled the chamber, drowning out Zote’s protestations. The floor was rising, dragging them up with it.

The higher the captives were raised, the louder it got—even the grinding of gears was subsumed by the thunderous noise of a hollering, excited throng. Light crowded the space and the captives each saw that they were in the center of the arena, the spectators and fighters jeering and hooting down at them.

“My beloved fellow fools!” came a booming voice. “Here we see three vanquished fighters. Look at them in their pointless, scornful pride!”

The fools jeered and booed, and Ghost reflected that they didn’t feel especially prideful—though for Tiso and Zote, perhaps, it was an accurate judgment.

“Normally, such failures are to be tossed into the depths below. But we have a different sort of punishment in mind for them. After all, even fools like us have urges, urges which we have not been able to sate… these three cretins will be given to the colosseum in order to slake our lusts!”

Tiso’s eyes widened and even Zote quieted as the implication settled. Ghost felt the beginning of panic starting to kindle inside of them. Surely the announcer didn’t mean…?

As if to immediately confirm their fears, a sign was unfurled. The runic writing on it was plain for all to see: VANQUISHED FOOLS – FREE TO USE AS YOU WILL.

The fear within them budded and Ghost swung their eyes about the colosseum. They couldn’t actually mean this, could they? But in the faces of the spectators and fighters they saw only the sickly orange of the infection atop sneering, hungry faces. Whatever reservations these bugs might have had, the sickness had stripped it away, leaving only spite and lust. As horns blared out in triumph and the arena’s drums beat a blistering tattoo, Ghost realized that this was to be the accompaniment to their violation—

And it was beginning now.

Zote was the first of them to be assaulted. The fools seemed to take special delight in watching him squirm and squeal in impotent rage. Suspended from a cable, he was hoisted high over the arena as Tiso and Ghost were dragged aside, put in a position to watch. Ghost met Tiso’s eyes and saw the same grim fascination they themself felt. What would become of Zote…?

A cage used for transporting combatants plunked down into the colosseum and as it opened, a piercing screech cracked over the arena. Ghost knew the sound well: it was a Vengefly King.

The massive hunter rocketed out of the cage, making straight for Zote. The arrogant warrior exploded in muffled protest and fear, and his attempts to free himself just sent him swaying on the cable, making him an even more enticing treat for the Vengefly. The creature fixed on him and hooked its scissored jaws around his body, and Ghost was reminded of their first encounter with Zote, which seemed so long ago… they had saved him then. Would they watch his end now?

Zote was now sobbing in naked fear, quivering in his bindings; he clearly thought the fools intended to have him eaten. But the Vengefly King had something else in mind. After swinging him back and forth a few times, its many limbs scuttling over him and prying apart some of his bindings, it revealed the tiny hole between his legs. Then screeching, it revealed something of its own:

An ovipositor.

Zote unleashed a series of desperate, muffled protestations as the Vengefly King swung the appendage low, seeking out his ass. Ghost could only watch, horrified. Now that they looked closer, the Vengefly did seem a bit larger than usual… more swollen, more plump. Egg-laden.

Despite Zote’s attempts otherwise, the Vengefly King’s ovipositor easily found his ass; with a heavy cry, the creature swung its torso forward. Zote’s muffled voice broke and he slumped defeated in his bindings as the beast ravaged him. The long, slick ovipositor plunged in and out of him with a series of wet, lewd shlicks, every thrust sending it deeper and deeper inside the captive bug. Zote’s body was quickly growing distended around the slender object; the Vengefly King was nearly three times his size, and even its equipment was too formidable for him to match.

Whatever bugs were on the colosseum’s instruments had a wicked sense of humor. The brass had erupted into a series of wild, metal squeals, reminiscent of someone being taken against their will; they blasted out as a blistering pace, the drums playing a punishing tempo in counterpoint underneath.

The music perfectly, grotesquely accentuating the scene, Ghost could only watch as the Vengefly had its way with the captive bug, its ovipositor making him swing back and forth in tune with its owner’s activity. Before long, the Vengefly King was hilting inside of him. At first Ghost thought Zote had passed out from the onslaught, but then they got a look at his face; Zote’s face was awake but utterly defeated, nearly blank and surrendering to whatever happened to him. The braggartly, boastful wanderer was gone, replaced with a quiet, shattered fuckmate. The fools of the colosseum pointed and jeered and hooted at him, some of them mocking him and asking him if he was going to show them how ‘mighty’ he truly was. The infection burned hatefully in their eyes, orange dots speckling the stands like drifting embers.

Eventually the Vengefly King bucked as much of its length into Zote as the smaller bug could feasibly handle; then, screeching, it tightened its grip on him and a series of round bulges traveled down the ovipositor. Tiso hissed and looked away but Ghost couldn’t bring themself to do it. The first of the bulges hit Zote’s ass and after a moment’s hesitation it squeeeezed inside; from his place bound high above, a muted, desperate sob rang out from behind Zote’s gag. The first of the eggs settled inside of him and though Ghost couldn’t make out any change in Zote, they could imagine what it felt like, being forced to incubate something foreign against their wishes…

But then, the Vengefly had more than just one egg.

More of the lumps traversed the length of the ovipositor and they squeezed into the captive bug. Zote’s protestations grew weaker and quieter until he didn’t bother at all; he hung there, miserable and quivering, as the beast straddling him filled him with young. As Ghost watched, Zote’s body began to plump out, looking grotesquely swollen and lumpy. It was a misshapen, forced parody of a pregnancy, one in which the receiving bug was clearly little more than a glorified incubator being forced to cradle things never meant for him. As the last of the eggs slipped inside, Zote heaved out a ragged moan and then tensed, and a collection of glistening fluid collected amidst his bindings, dripping out to spatter against the dust below.

The fools pointed and mocked. “Look at him! He likes it!” “What you were made for, eh?” “Maybe you’ll be better as an incubator than you were as a warrior!” Zote took their abuse with a far-off, distant look to his face, not responding. He simply hung, suspended, his will broken as he was made to incubate foreign offspring.

Eventually the jeers of the fools turned to another recipient. At their command, the cable attached to Tiso’s bindings lifted, hoisting him up. He was bound only about his arms and upper body, the rest free to dangle, and he winced and kicked in an attempt to free himself. The bound warrior was moved to the center of the arena and then lowered—and then his own torment began.

The fools in the stands began mocking him more and more, piling on abuse and hurling refuse at him. Tiso closed his eyes and ducked his head, the only way he could escape their attention, but they didn’t like his attempts to ignore them, not at all.

One of the winged fools rose from the stand, the hum of her wings filling the air. The music had calmed a bit, and an aggressive horn played a solo as she darted through the air. She darted over to Tiso and shucked off her lower armor, revealing a glistening pussy. Gripping his head in her hands, she forced him to look up as she lowered her pussy down on his face. Tiso’s protests grew muffled and he squirmed and kicked, but she was inexorable. Ghost realized that Tiso needed air, air which he wasn’t receiving; it seemed she wouldn’t let up until…

The soft shlk-shlk-shlk of desperate licks filled the colosseum and the assembled fools laughed. Tiso was eating out the winged fool in an attempt to sate her. She sighed and wriggled her hips lower and his oral grew more desperate as he fought to please her before running out of air. Finally, she trembled, tensed, and sighed; she rose up from him, wings beating a lazy tempo, as Tiso gulped down air, his voice hoarse. His face was covered in glistening juices.

And she wasn’t the only one with her eyes on him. More fools spilled from the stands, making their way towards their captive. “W-wait,” Tiso protested, his voice raspy. “Please wait…”

But they had no heed for his desires. One of them, a bulky sluglike thing, roughly grabbed his hips and then bent him over. Like Zote, his ass was on display, and Tiso bucked and whined as the sluggy fool’s slimy appendage teased it.

“Not there—wait, don’ t—wwwwwaaaaaauuuughhh, no no no!” Tiso screamed as the fool penetrated him, his ass having no choice but to yield to the intrusion. His voice was high and screechy and his cold arrogance replaced with a white-hot desperation. He wriggled in his bonds but his attempts at escape were fruitless; the slug ravaged his asshole, making him buck and quake as it spread its slime all around him.

Another winged fool, a male this time, drifted over to him. His cock was firmly on display. With tearful eyes, Tiso glanced up to plead for mercy only for his words to be cut off as his winged captor’s cock plunged into his mouth. “Mmmmmmnnnrrrrrmmmmph!” he protested. “Mmmrph-mmmph!”

The sluglike fool and the winged one glanced at each other and it didn’t take much for Ghost to imagine them trading wicked grins behind their helmets. Then they began fucking Tiso relentlessly, spitroasting him with such fervor that his body was knocked back and forth between them, the cable swaying. His arms struggled in their bondage and his tearful eyes looked absolutely miserable.

A small fool scuttled beneath him and yanked off the rest of his garments, revealing a slender, throbbing cock. As the assorted viewers hollered and laughed, the little one keened out a high screed and slid its faceplate up. A long, wet tongue emerged to toy with Tiso’s erect cock and he whimpered despite himself. He hitched his hips up in an attempt to take it away from the small fool, but the slug rammed him so hard from behind that he was inadvertently pressed back down; the fool took his member in its mouth, gulping lewdly to the sound of mocking laughter. By now the winged fool was effortlessly making Tiso deepthroat him and the wandering bug’s eyes rolled up into his head as he was made into the colosseum’s plaything.

Ghost watched Tiso’s defilement with dismay, wanting for all the world to break free and help him, but their own bindings were secure. As Tiso’s assault continued, they felt their own platform being raised. It seemed it was their turn.

They were brought up to the level of Zote, who was still hanging, limp and broken, and then cages at the colosseum’s edge snapped open. Armored squits and obbles emerged, rushing them down. Ghost was voiceless, but they still squirmed vainly against their bondage.

The colosseum’s pet monsters scuttled across them, their claws like pinpricks on Ghost’s form. They were clearly searching for something—some hole to enter and violate. But Ghost was void incarnate. They didn’t have such a thing, except…

Well, from a certain point of view, their body itself was all the hole any creature would need.

One of the squits, seemingly angry at not having anything to fuck, jabbed its stinger down. The appendage sunk into Ghost, parting their shadowy form like sudden ripples on a lake pond. And the sensation… it didn’t hurt Ghost, per se, but it was unanticipated and not anything they would like to have forced on them. They quivered and tried to expel the squit.

The other creatures followed their compatriot’s lead and before long, Ghost found themself suddenly, repeatedly having stingers and cocks and ovipositors put inside of them, again and again and again; the beasts fucked their body relentlessly.

And even void could be violated. The repeated intrusions came in faster than Ghost could expel them and the uncertain, foreign feeling began to pile up. It was… more than just the physicality of it. Ghost was void and the assaults weren’t just on their body, they were on the vessel’s very sense of being… before long, Ghost found themself wishing more desperately than any time in their life that they had a voice, because they’d be screeching, begging:

Please, please stop!

Zote was being lowered back down to the colosseum floor, the egg-laden bug doing nothing to fight back. When he touched ground, he slumped over, his breath a strained wheeze. Pale forms manifested around him: Follies and Mistakes from the Soul Sanctum. Their plasma-like forms swarmed him, covering him in goop and forcing themselves into any hole they could find. Their scratchy, broken voices whispered to him that though they were mistakes, he was the real failure, and that this was all he was good for. The brass had quieted, the drumbeat stilled to a quiet, almost hypnotic tempo—the perfect counterpoint to their cruel whisperings. It spurred them on like the pulsating of a diseased heart.

The fools finally seemed to have enough of Tiso and they stepped away from him, leaving his body quivering and trembling. Pearlescent fluid dripped from his ass and mouth and from the end of his still-erect cock. His face was plastered with cum and he looked scared. More Vengeflies—not gravid as their sire had been, but still ferocious—broke from more cages and swarmed him. Tiso had only a moment to protest weakly before they mobbed him, tiny cocks jabbing everywhere. They made up for their lack of size with numbers and ferocity, forcing a good half-dozen of their cocks into his mouth and even more into his ass. Tiso’s muffled voice rose in a panic; the swarm had no idea of coordination. They were simply fucking him willy-nilly, using his body like a toy.

Some of the Follies and Mistakes broke from their torment of Zote, who was still simply lying there and taking it, and made for Ghost, crawling up the poles and sliding along the ropes that bound their limbs. They chased away the more animalistic bugs, who screeched hate at them, and then they coiled their oily forms about Ghost’s body.

“Thing of void,” one said to them in a voice like broken glass, “legacy of a failed king… failure yourself, just like us.” Quivering in time with the dreamlike beat of the drum, the Folly pushed its wraithlike form, goopy and pale, at Ghost and then seeped it into their form.

Ghost wanted to scream; the Follies and Mistakes were made of Soul, which meant that the creature was pouring its very being into Ghost’s own. The foreignness of it all, the alienness, was indecipherable, an assault upon Ghost’s very sense of self, and the vessel found themself wishing they had a pussy or cock or some sort of hole for the bugs to plunder, because even that sort of violation would be better than this.

Others joined in, pouring in their very soul to invade and attack Ghost’s voidlike self, and Ghost was filled with the sense of malicious will as they were forced to accommodate the being of others. Their hate, their contempt, their loathing filled Ghost’s sense of self, fucking their very psyche as well as their body, and the whole time, they were haunted by the echo:

Failure, failure, failure.

They were the progeny of a wicked, hateful king; the king had failed, their siblings had failed, and now it was Ghost’s turn, to fail just like the rest. The eyes of their tormentors glowed orange and Ghost felt it seeping into them, the infection… A malevolence, ancient and hateful, seeped inside of them, glad to condemn its ancient enemy. The infection wanted to corrupt the void itself…

Rocking from the invasion, trying desperately to fight off the infection, Ghost was scarcely cogent of when the Follies and Mistakes had withdrawn. They were still tied spread-eagled, still quivering; they scarcely even noticed that Tiso and Zote had been taken away, that their platform had been lowered to the floor of the Colosseum, or that the fools had grown quiet. Finally, though, the ground shook with the approach of a coming behemoth, and they were well aware of that.

It was the beast that had bested them and left them here, the captive ‘god’. The enormous, corrupted titan lumbered at them, a bloated body wearing a mask from which multitudinous tentacles emerged in a grotesque parody of a mouth. The monster reeked of infection. The crowd, momentarily cowed, picked up—first a low rumble, then a roar of feverish excitement. The drums and horns locked horns with one other, each seemingly trying to one-up the other in a crescendo that seemed to have no end.

The godbeast straddled Ghost, who could only stare fearfully up at it. It dipped its head low and the tentacles wrapped around their mask, coiling about their horn and dipping into the eyehole. The tentacles easily plunged into the void and continued the work.

Ghost had no choice but to accept the assault. Already weakened from the squits and obbles, the Follies and Mistakes, they had no chance against such a beast as this. The corrupted god’s tentacles pushed into their form with a fire and fierceness that were unimaginable. With every undulating coil, Ghost’s identity rocked from the assault. They were fighting for… for what? More than just their life. Fighting to stay themself. To stay Ghost.

The aggressive slurping of the creature’s tentacles were all that Ghost could hear and they rolled in their bonds, trying to escape. Eventually, however, the creature seemed to decide this was not enough. It reared back and at the base of its carapace, a genital slit unfolded. From within came a bloated, grotesque, and utterly massive member, withing and malleable, dripping orange with infection. Perhaps it was good they had no pussy after all; Ghost couldn’t even begin to imagine the young that would spawn from such a union.

The behemoth scuttled forward, rubbing its corrupted cock against Ghost’s body, and then it pressed into the void and began to rut. Ghost rocked from the invasion, each push spreading more and more of the infection inside. Weakened as they were, they had no chance of chasing the infection out. It was pooling faster than they could marshal their defenses.

And as their very body was made to part and accommodate the godbeast’s genitals, they could feel the infection and its cruel will coalescing. The infection began an assault of its own, pressing itself against the void in time with the godbeast’s thrusts. Weary and desperate and under assault, Ghost realized that their very sense of self was being fucked right out of them. And there was nothing they could do about it.

They couldn’t even scream.

The fools watched their captive god have its way with the vessel underneath, the small dark form taking the impossibly large equipment. The music gnawed obsessively at them, a wicked accompaniment to the scene unfolding below. The drums had overcome the brass and were slamming home a formidable tempo, seeming as if their players had taken the godbeast’s feral libido and turned it into music itself. The fools’ infection spurred them on, demanded they delight in it, and delight they did. They held as one with bated breath.

Eventually, the beast’s rut concluded with a howling climax, covering the ground around it with diseased cum. When the godbeast finally withdrew, the fools erupted into a cacophony of cheers. There, still captive and spreadeagled below them, the form of the little knight was pure black no longer. Within burned a kindling ember of orange.

The onslaught had worked. ‘Ghost,’ whomever that was, had been reduced to something else—just as Tiso had become their broken fuckpet, as Zote was little more than a swollen living incubator.

Fools, all of them—fools who had been utterly vanquished.