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Time passed in a muzzy haze. Minutes, hours, days, it all became meaningless nonsense in that dim, dingy, rank-smelling room. Instead, Logan had to count the times he slept and the meals he was given in his periods of wakefulness: once after being rudely awoken with a few smacks across the face with a raunchy cock, once after a long and thorough 'training session', and once a short while before exhaustion overtook him at last. Three square meals a day, much better than anything he'd eaten in a long while; not that he'd admit as such to his captors, much less give them an ounce of gratitude. They were all he could use to track of how long he'd spent in captivity.

Well, that and his worsening body odor.

He could smell it wafting from under his arms. From between his thighs. With every movement, every shift of his body, the sharp aroma of souring sweat and his own brand of bitter-spicy male musk would reach his nose. Not nearly as offensive as the stench he'd be forced to endure during every one of his 'training sessions' with Johnson, but still an ever-present miasma of man-funk that he had to put up with; along with the 'praise' he'd receive from the rhino and Dean for how potent his scent was becoming.

It happened every single 'day' without fail; usually, of course, right when he was awoken by his rhino 'caretaker'. Johnson's fat, heavy, filthy johnson would grind on Logan's cheeks. Along the length of his snout and over his brow, pressing the sweaty sack which hung underneath right onto his nostrils. Against his lips, a crushing grip forcing his jaw open so that it could slide onto his tongue and into his mouth. The iguana would be forced to lick, and suck, and let that dirty length use his maw until it choked him with its sticky load. And all the while he'd wish for the strength, the courage, the cajones to bite down and remove the problem permanently; what was the worst they could do, kill him for it? But as the days passed, and the flavor of Johnson's smut-smeared and unwashed cock became familiar--an unwelcome intrusion which was pointless to complain about--upon his numbed and irreparably-soiled tongue, Logan found the will draining out of him.

He didn't enjoy it. He didn't. He'd spit and cough and heave up the rhino's pungent spunk, writhing on his sweat-soaked cot or the cold concrete floor with his arms bound behind his back, while the bastard loomed over him. Grinned and laughed at him. Cooed about how he'd performed compared to 'yesterday'. And all the iguana could do was crane his neck upward and snarl at his 'caretaker' while awaiting what would come next.

The rhino would kneel by his side, thumb on the button of the remote which controlled Logan's shock collar, and warn the captive to keep still. The metal manacles on his wrists and the rope around his forearms would be pulled off, allowing him to stretch and ease the sore and aching limbs; and to lash out at Johnson, if he wanted to chance a punishing shock or brutal punch to the gut. He'd stagger to his feet, still feeling the bruises from his bout with Skullcracker--and many more besides which he'd gained in the interim--while Johnson would put up his dukes. And there, in Logan's cell, as another rhino or even Dean himself would come in to spectate and referee, the pair would bare-knuckle brawl with one another.

Logan was swift on his feet, and the legs upon which he would bob and weave had been trained into tight-coiled weapons with which he could dish out blow after punishing blow. But Johnson was stronger. Johnson was larger. Johnson had the advantage of being at full capacity, physically and mentally, while Logan's body and mind had been worn down by his ordeal. And so it was simple--child's play, really--for the rhino to block every kick and strike, and deal enough in return to leave the iguana panting with exertion and wheezing in pain after every one of their 'sparring' matches. Not too hard. Not in places that would debilitate. Not enough to leave any permanent damage; Dean had made it clear, in the times he'd show his smug face, exactly what would happen to Johnson were the rhino to break the Stallion's newest toy. And so Logan would be left beaten and humiliated, but not hurt too badly--nothing that wouldn't heal eventually--while Johnson took the spoils of his victory.

Stripping out of those stained, reeking, raunchy briefs of his. Looming over the groaning iguana, huffing and grunting and striking a few victory poses. Showing off every inch of his leathery, grey-skinned hide, and every rock-solid muscle which twitched and flexed underneath, before grabbing the iguana's head and guiding Logan's face into the crook of his crotch.

He would grind his entire fat package--heavy-swinging balls, girthy truncheon of a dick, and even the crusty foreskin and swampy expanse of his stinking taint--all over the loser's snout. Ordering him to 'breathe deep' while giving Logan no other choice but to fill his burning lungs with that pungent odor. Telling him to 'be a good boy' and put his tongue to work. Logan would scowl and sulk and glower up at his 'caretaker', of course, but a few shocks--eventually, even just the threat of the rhino's thumb edging towards the button on his collar's remote--would spur him to obey. Reluctant, hating every minute of it, Logan would lick the sweat and stench and lingering remnants of the rhino's gay debauchery off of that humid, hairy groin.

Sucking and lapping. Dragging his nose and tongue all along that twitching length, and pushing it into every stinky nook and cranny. Just wanting to be done with it as quick as possible. The bile would rise into his throat, sour and burning as hot as the shame which roiled in his gut, but it was always swallowed back down; along with the nuggets and smears of raunchy smut that would coat his tongue with every swipe. Then Johnson would shove that rank length down into his gullet, and Logan would struggle not to choke; the iguana didn't think he would ever--hoped with all his might that he would never--get used to having a cock in his throat.

When at last the rhino washed down Logan's 'meal' with a rush of bitter-salty, sticky, viscous cum, he'd grab hold of the captive's head and guide the iguana all over the rest of his unwashed body. His massive, rock-solid, flexing pectorals. The dank and stinking and hair-filled pits under his arms. Down his thighs and calves to his sweaty feet. And Logan would be expected to clean every inch of musky flesh which pressed against his curled lips and stinging nose.

One of only two things for which Logan could be grateful to his captor was that, no matter how far his nose was pushed into the stinking expanse behind the rhino's heavy ballsack, Johnson never forced the iguana too close to his no-doubt rank, swampy ass. Just a single whiff alone was enough to send the iguana reeling, and his tongue would grind against the roof of his mouth--ready to shrivel right up--at the mere thought of exploring into that crevice.

The other was that, when the inevitable time came for him to answer the call of nature, his captors gave him enough privacy to do so in peace. Of course, the toilet was in a bare, open, unhidden corner of his cell. And of course, Johnson would linger and loom and stand right next to him while he did his business; to make sure he didn't try anything, or so the rhino claimed, but Logan could see the way the sick freak would try to sneak a few peeks. But it was at least a few minutes' respite from the hell his life had become, where he could gather himself, close his eyes, and pretend that everything was alright.

He was back in prison. In solitary. Not ideal to be sure, but not nearly as bad as reality.

And so, time passed in a haze. He was forced to get acquainted with nearly every sweaty, stinking inch of Johnson's unwashed body, and those of the other rhinos, and on occasion Dean himself. And they in turn got acquainted with nearly every sweaty, stinking inch of his own form; everywhere save for what was hidden by his raunchy--and steadily growing raunchier--underwear. They'd touch him, and sniff him, and lick him, and he would have to stay still and bear it. Until they got off to him. On him, splashing their thick loads on his heaving chest and snarling snout. In him, filling his belly with their cum and his lungs with the stench of their dicks and balls.

He could see it in their eyes, and hear it in their husky voices: they were--Dean, his new owner, was--waiting with bated breath for the moment he would break.

---

"Nngf... fmgh..."

"Fuck..." Panting and gasping. "That's it. Suck it down..." Groaning and grunting. "Shit... you love it, don't you, faggot? Love choking on my dick, huh?" Looking down to him with a grin, and cupping his shame-scorched cheek.

More sounds. Nickering and huffing. Dean casually palming his pendulous bulge with one hand, the other arm slung around Johnson's broad shoulders as he watched the rhino face-fuck the squirming iguana. "Look at him, of course he does. Little faggot loves having a fat, dirty dick in his mouth. Don't you, Thrasher." Not a question. Not even an order. A statement of Logan's new reality, as simple and direct and unchangeable as 'water is wet' or 'the sky is blue'.

Logan glared up at his captor and caretaker, defiance and simmering hatred burning in his eyes. Even as he did his best to swallow around the pulsing shaft in his gullet. Even as he remained on his knees before the pair, his own hands clinging to the rhino's thick, firm thighs for support. Even as he was smothered and filled, body and soul, by the other man's masculinity. He didn't answer. He didn't need to. All he could do was gulp down what was forced into him and wait for the inevitable end of his torment.

Finally, Johnson pulled back, sliding that massive monolith of a dick out of Logan's mouth. Finally, the iguana was allowed a moment to breathe, blinking his stinging eyes and taking as much fresh air--as fresh as the air in the stuffy, smelly room could get--as he could. Finally, he felt the parting humiliation of Johnson's softening shaft smacking him in the face, splattering his snout with the rhino's juices and his own saliva.

"Still needs a bit more training, boss. But he's come a long way, don't you think?" Johnson looked to Dean, a self-satisfied grin stretching his slack lips.

"Mm, indeed. Though there's only one way to be sure." A chuckle. A pat on the rhino's broad back. That hand sliding down over the rock-solid curve of his bodyguard's ass, and giving one firm cheek a ringing, stinging, merciless smack. "Get dressed and leave us."

The slap made Johnson's breath catch in his throat, and his softening shaft jump and let out a few last, weak dribbles. "Yessir." Obedient, without complain, the rhino moved aside and began grabbing up his discarded clothes. "Should I stand by for...?" He glanced to Logan, and then looked to Dean once more.

"Yes. He should be coming soon." Dean nodded and, with a wave of his hand, dismissed the rhino. After the other male had bowed out of the room, the Stallion looked down to his captive with a grin. Petting Logan's head. Stroking through the iguana's backswept quills. Sliding that palm downward to press against the lizard's jaw. "Now that we're alone..."

Logan snarled, but remained silent. His body stiffened, but he remained in place. He watched the horse kneel down in front of him, getting eye-to-eye with him--bringing his snout in close to Logan's own, their every breath to mingle together--but didn't jerk away or make a move to attack his captor; no matter how much he desperately wanted to.

"Give me a kiss, Thrasher."

That again. Logan let out a low groan, but forced himself not to roll his eyes. It had been an order given every time Dean had watched the iguana's and rhino's 'training sessions'. Every time he'd joined in, groping and molesting his captive in every way possible. And every time, Logan had resisted. He wasn't gay. He hated his situation. Like hell was he going to give the sick fucking piece of shit what he wanted.

But every time he'd been asked--ordered--to give the Stallion a kiss, Logan had felt it: his resistance crumbling. His will ebbing. His mind smothered by the stench of a man's body and the dull, throbbing, near-constant ache from every bruise on his scales; as well as the occasional sharp surge of electric agony from the collar around his neck. And so with a whimper, a shudder, a cry of despair from the single shred of self-respect he had remaining, Logan leaned forward just enough to let his lips brush against Dean's own.

Those lips curved into a wicked smirk. A few humid puffs of breath washed over the tip of his snout. His captor's hands grasped his shoulders; neither letting the iguana pull back or drawing him further forward, but pinning Logan's shivering form in place. "Come on, pet, I told you to kiss me. You will give it your all."

Not a command, or even a threat. A statement of reality; Logan's new reality. The Stallion expected his pet to do the lion's share of the work.

Logan groaned and whimpered, and felt a sting of wet heat in his eyes as he screwed them shut. Don't think, just do it. Pretend it's someone else, a girl, one of the girls he'd get with after his matches. With mechanical motions, the iguana brought his arms up, setting his hands on the shoulders of the form before him. He pressed in closer, tilting his head to lock his lips with the other person. He pushed his tongue forward into a wet, humid cavern of a mouth until it brushed against the other's tongue.

He tried not to think. Tried to ignore the firm, masculine musculature flexing under his rubbing palms. Tried not to acknowledge the deep, low, very-male groans vibrating through his limbs and echoing in his mind. But every breath, every touch, every flick and swirl of his tongue reminded him: it was a guy he was kissing. It was a guy he was holding onto and pressing in close against; chest to heaving chest, belly to toned belly, and crotch--pendulous, firm, the bulge rubbing against his own large and virile--to aching crotch. It was a guy who was wrapping his toned arms around Logan, holding him in place as the kiss deepened into a tongue-lashing wrestling match in its own right.

It was a guy who was touching him in return. Stroking and groping up and down the iguana's sides and chest and hips. Rocking and grinding the tent in his filthy briefs on his captive's flaccid--but twitching and pulsing at the stimulation--package.

Another whimper leaked from Logan's burning throat as the kiss broke off, and then he felt the other's--the man's, the Stallion's, Dean's--broad snout nuzzling along his jawline and into the crook of his neck. "Fuck, that's it, pet..." Those wandering hands squeezed the firm mounds of Logan's pecs, and the iguana hissed as his captor stroked all around and over his nipples. "You love kissing me, don't you."

He wanted to say no, but he could already feel the shock his collar would give him if he did. "Yes, sir."

Those hands slid down to his belly, rubbing and petting with such tender care over every bruised scale. "You love being touched like this, don't you."

He wanted to say no, but he could already feel more bruises blooming on his vulnerable abdomen--blow after punishing blow raining down upon him--if he did. "Yes, sir. I love it. I... want more."

Down. Down. Fingers tracing over the waistband of his ruined micro briefs, then slipping underneath to tease the crooks of the iguana's thighs and through the thick forest of pubic hair hidden by the raunchy, stained material. A palm cupping and hefting his ballsack through the cotton. A thumbpad tracing the soft length of his dick from base to tip, pressing against the head. "You love being my dirty, gay pet, don't you."

The wet heat in his eyes spilled down over his cheeks as one last shudder rocked through him. "Yes, sir."

"Good boy." A suckling kiss on his throat. "Such a good boy." Another as those hands touched him, groped him, violated him; and all he could do was press in close against his captor and choke down his whimpering while he was molested. "You'll make a fine addition to the roster, Thrasher. The audience is going to love you." Another, and then he felt his captor's flushed cheek bat against his own. "You want me to take your dirty underwear off?"

Logan felt another surge from deep within him, and choked on his own bile with a shuddering moan. His underwear. The last shred of dignity he'd been allowed in his captivity. The only thing he could hide behind as Johnson and Dean used him for their disgusting games. But at last, it was about to be torn away from him; and as the tension in the air grew sharp as a blade, Dean growing impatient as he awaited his pet's answer, Logan could do nothing but give it up himself. "Yes, sir."

"Good boy." A tug on the iguana's micro briefs, sliding them off of his hips. Another in back, pulling it down and under the solid curve of his rump. Another--a final one--that brought the ruined garment to Logan's thighs, his knees, off his groin to bare his hairy package to Dean's gaze. He was exposed. He was exposed while being held by another man. And he couldn't ignore that stomach-churning fact as he was examined by his new owner.

Dean felt around the iguana's ass, giving the firm and supple cheeks a few squeezes while tracing his fingertips into the cleft under Logan's tail; and when they delved into that asscrack, brushing through the hair and sweat and accumulated swampy smut, Logan shuddered and did his best to stay still. Then the stallion moved around to the lizard's front side, feeling through Logan's pubes and over his balls and grasping the reptile's cock. Kneading it. Feeling it up to explore the length; fairly impressive, or so Logan liked to think, and--despite how sick it was--it seemed that Dean agreed.

The horse pulled back, and the iguana cracked a teary eye open to peek up at him. The Stallion stared down at the shaft in his grip, feeling and fondling it. Dean pinched and tugged on Logan's foreskin, and then slowly rolled it back to expose the reptile's raunchy glans.

A waft of fresh, fishy stench. Soft off-white nuggets clinging to the ridge underneath that broad, fat cockhead. Even more smut smearing against itself in the iguana's folds. The sight of his own greasy, filthy cock stirred the acid in Logan's stomach, and he couldn't stop another groan from leaking out as he was forced to feel how dirty he truly was; and forced to endure Dean's enjoyment of it.

"Beautiful." Another nicker of arousal. "I've been looking forward to seeing it since your match, Thrasher. And I must say, you continue not to disappoint."

A gulp to swallow down the bile in his throat. A choked-out gasp as he felt another squeeze on his shaft. A whimper as he closed his eyes once more. "Thank you, sir."

Dean pulled Logan into another kiss as he began to stroke the reptile's manhood. Pinching the base and along the shaft. Rolling that crusty, smutty foreskin back and forth as his fingers delved into its folds. Gripping the shaft, almost wringing it in his grasp as he pumped it. And with his eyes closed, the iguana could almost pretend it was a girl trying to get him hard. One of the girls he'd hook up with after a match. Their touch on his junk stirring the flesh to hardness, making his pulse quicken as his cock began to plump up.

At the same time, however, waves of disgust at the knowledge--the fact, made rock-solid and inescapable by the masculine stench which surrounded and stained him--that it was a man touching him in that way clenched the muscles of his belly and made his shaft wilt once more, leaving the seething tide in his groin nowhere to go.

"Mm... what's the matter?" That voice, deep and rumbling and male. "Don't want to get hard for me?" A chuckle, sneering at his every wince and whimper. "Not even a bit?" Shuffling, cloth being moved aside--Dean's own underwear being shucked down and off--and then the touch of something warm and firm and throbbing against the iguana's cock.

Dean's erection. Pulsing. Dribbling hot streams of slick precum. Grinding against his shaft, smearing the filthy and greasy and grimy length with its own filth and grease and grime. And with a shudder, a groan, a wash of ice over the hot and twisted knot in his gut, Logan felt his traitorous manhood trying to respond to the stimulation.

"Stop..." A whine. "Please..." A shiver. "Don't..." Another hard swallow, desperate to keep the bile in his throat from spilling out like his tears spilled over his cheeks.

The Stallion ignored his captive's plea, moving down to add more stimulation--his nose and lips and tongue tracing over and around the flexing, heaving mounds of Logan's pectorals--to the sensations which crashed through the iguana's shaking body and mind. Snuffling into the hair-filled trenches of the reptile's armpits, taking deep, lung-filling sniffs of their ripened odor. Pressing a kiss to one wide, dark nipple, and then the other, and then lashing his tongue against the pert, plump, sensitive nubs. Sucking and licking and lapping all over the rising and falling expanse. And all the while, his cock pulsed and throbbed and soaked his hand--and Logan's own manhood--with shots and spurts of slick pre-fluids.

Wetting Logan's shaft and the folds of his foreskin. Making it easier to pump, and stroke, and tease. Frotting it against that filthy monolith of an erection, leaving the iguana no choice but to allow coerced pleasure to join the swirling, raging tide in his gut.

A knock on the door, and then it opened. The clearing of a throat, quiet and yet insistent in seeking out Dean's attention. Johnson had returned. "Sir, your guest has arrived. He's currently waiting in the living room."

Dean grunted as he pulled his face free of Logan's chest, and the iguana had to lock his limbs and joints to keep himself from collapsing into a boneless heap of grateful relief. "Damn. I guess time flies when you're having fun." He rose to his feet, the length of his massive manhood swinging and barely missing Logan's cheek as the reptile flinched backwards. "I'll go greet him. You get Thrasher here looking presentable, and then bring him over." The horse's eyes flicked down to Logan, and a wide smirk stretched his lips. "Leave the briefs behind. Thrasher looks much better without them."

Logan lowered his gaze, keeping himself still--not flinching, not pulling away, and not lunging to snap at his captor's hand--as the Stallion caressed his jawline. Then, with hooves clopping on the concrete floor, Dean swept out of the room as Johnson bowed to him.

"I have a feeling he'll love the new addition to our roster as much as I do."

The captive was given no time to breathe. No time to think. No time to wonder who exactly 'he' was. Johnson moved forward, the remote control to Logan's collar already in hand, and ordered Logan to get to his feet; Logan obeyed. The rhino bent over--taking a moment to get a nice whiff of the reptile's sweaty ballsack and dank, swampy, stinking pubic bush--and pushed Logan's micro briefs the rest of the way down his legs, then ordered the iguana to step out of them; Logan obeyed. He made his way over to where Logan's muzzle, leash, and cuffs had been discarded that morning, and returned with them in his hand and another order to hold still; and as his arms were bound behind him, the muzzle was affixed and tightened to firm snugness over and around his head and snout, and the leash was secured in place, Logan obeyed.

It was, after all, all the iguana could do.

---

He was led down that same concrete-brick hallway from all that time ago, being tugged along by Johnson like a feral dog. Around corner after corner. Their footsteps the only sound between the pair. At last they reached a doorway--an elevator--and Logan was ushered inside. The iguana stood in the corner, naked and bound and doing all he could to ignore those facts, while Johnson pressed the button which would bring them to the next floor up. And then another trek--shorter this time--down another corridor--wood-paneled and furnished, with the occasional rug to warm Logan's bare feet--brought the rhino and his charge to a heavy, dark-wood door.

Johnson knocked. Waited for a voice from the other side to order him to enter. Gave Logan's leash a tug, and led the captive iguana through the doorway and into a large, well-furnished room, almost cliché in its opulence. A hi-def fire crackled merrily on the screen set into the massive stone fireplace on one wall, across from the big and comfy-looking couches arranged in a half-crescent on the other. The hardwood floor was covered with yet another rug, larger than any the iguana had ever seen; and almost disgustingly-soft on the soles of his feet after so long on cold, hard concrete. The entire space was lit by electric sconces on the walls, their light dim and intimate.

Far too rich for Logan's blood. The reptile couldn't hold back a snort as he glanced around, desperate to avoid the sight right in front of him.

Dean was lounging on one of those couches, arms slung around a green-skinned salamander as the pair shared a deep, tongue-wrangling kiss. The pair were very naked, and very erect, and had their hands all over each other, fingers caressing flexing pectorals and stroking along supple thighs and groping at thick, pulsing shafts. The sounds of their moaning and panting filled the air, along with the cloying, oppressive--very familiar to the iguana after so long stewing within it--stench of unbathed man. Sweat. The fishy odor of smegma. And underneath it all, the bitter-spicy-earthy raunch of masculine musk, ripened into a nostril-burning funk.

Even as his legs tensed, Logan was dragged by the leash over towards the distracted pair. Johnson cleared his throat to announce his presence, and gave the Stallion a short bow when the horse grunted and broke the kiss with his companion off to glance over. "Sir. Mr. Finney. May I present Thrasher, the newest addition to our line-up."

"Thank you, Johnson. You can go." Dean sighed and hefted himself up to his hooves to stretch, a fresh waft of swampy stench accompanying the movement. The rhino handed over Logan's leash and then bowed out, leaving the iguana alone with the two other naked men. The Stallion smirked, and gave that leash a slight tug to make sure the captive reptile was paying close attention. "Rick here is an esteemed guest, Thrasher. You will be a good boy for him."

Logan gritted his teeth and nodded.

"So, this is Thrasher, hm?" The salamander sat up, looking the iguana up and down with sharp, keen, glinting eyes. Logan forced himself to return that stare, giving the other man a once-over; above the waist, of course. Shorter than him or Dean. Not quite as bulky, though the musculature that he did have was still pretty impressive. Hairy all over, down his chest and abs and in the hollows of his armpits. He was pretty good-looking, Logan had to admit; if only he didn't smell like a dumpster full of filthy jockstraps.

"Yes. He's still a little ornery, but we're getting through to him." Dean's fingers stroked the iguana's jawline, and Logan suppressed a shudder. "Slowly but surely."

'Rick' stood as well, giving his own body a few stretches; and Logan blinked, nearly stumbled, and felt his mind start reeling at the wall of sheer odor coming from the salamander. The Stallion's guest took a step forward, another, another, and the iguana could feel the tingling of his nostrils spread down into his airways. He reached out, set a hand on Logan's chest, and began to rub in a slow, exploratory circle. "It's good to finally meet you. Dean here has been telling me so much..." The salamander's voice dropped into a husky murmur as his fingers played up and down through the cleft of the captive's pecs. "The name's Richard Finney. Rick, as our dear friend here just said. And I do hope we get to know each other very well..."

Finney. The name tickled the back of Logan's mind; and then his stomach dropped, and he let out a quiet whimper. Mr. Finney. The man his 'caretakers'--Johnson and the other bodyguards--whispered about in mingled fear, awe, and lust. The one whose ass apparently stank far worse than Johnson's after two months without washing. And according to them, the one thing he loved above all else was forcing someone to eat out that reeking ass of his.

The iguana grunted. He snorted. He began to squirm as Rick continued to grope him; the salamander's free hand grasped his thigh, thumb rubbing just short of the reptile's pubic patch.

"Fuck..." Groping the captive's pectoral, feeling the rock-solid mound under the smooth blue scales. Kneading down to the softer expanse of his belly, and then swirling a finger around and into Logan's navel. Moving back up to rub the iguana's broad shoulder, his tensing neck, his trembling jaw and burning, tear-streaked cheek. "What a stud..."

"Mmhm." Dean's grip on the captive's leash remained firm, keeping Logan in place. "And he's all yours for the afternoon."

The iguana could see the way Rick's brow perked up at that. The way the salamander's lips curled into a devious, near-demonic smile. The way his eyes flashed as they flicked downward, and then back up to stare deep into the captive reptile's own. Logan's own lips split into a muffled snarl, the length of his tail pressed itself against the curve of his rump and tucked itself between his spread legs, and his entire form began to tremble. It would be like with Dean, and with Johnson, and with all the other rhino bodyguards in the Stallion's employ. He'd be forced to pleasure another man, forced to degrade himself, forced into soul-shattering humiliation as his body was used. Violated. And there was nothing he could do about it.

He growled when Rick's fingertips played against the tip of his snout. He tried to jerk his head backward. He did his best to glare at his rapists through the wet heat which blurred his vision.

"Ooh, so feisty!" Just like Dean, and Johnson, and the other bodyguards, Logan's distress only seemed to spur Rick on in his 'affections'.

"Mmhm." Dean let out a laugh, his breath puffing right against the side of the iguana's muzzle-bound snout. "Just turn the collar on for a bit if he misbehaves. Works like a charm."

Another whimper, long and low and pleading, while Logan shook his head as much as the muzzle and leash would allow.

"Aww, I don't think that will be necessary. Thrasher's a good boy. Aren't you." Rick's eyes bored into the iguana's own. His hands rubbed, and fondled, and caressed every bit of the captive's bound body they could reach. His voice, quiet and purring, held the same undercurrent of steely malice with which the reptile had become familiar during his captivity.

Logan nodded, grunting and whining and snorting in desperation to avoid punishment.

Seemingly satisfied, the salamander stepped back; and then, as Logan watched with a growing knot of nauseous horror in his gut, Rick turned around and lifted one leg to set his foot up on the couch. His tail hiked up behind him, and his hips rocked backward. He put his ass--those solid mounds and that dank, raunchy, stench-wafting cleft which was so notorious in that place--on full display, looking over his shoulder with a grin. "And since you're such a good boy, you'll enjoy getting acquainted. Right?"

Logan groaned. He gagged. He stared down at Rick's presented rump, that knot in his belly twisting at the thought of what he was expected to do. "Nngh... nnh..."

"On your knees." Dean was looking at him, expectant. He was holding the remote to Logan's shock collar. His thumb was playing over the button.

Logan dropped to his knees, the shaking limbs collapsing underneath him. He could hear, feel, smell Dean kneeling down next to him, and the sheer stench and presence of unwashed man and masculine lust surrounded him. Bound him. Left him with nowhere to escape, not even inward. The reptile felt his muzzle being loosened--not enough to let him snap at either man, but freeing his jaw at least slightly--before the horse's hand settled upon the back of his head; both to hold him in place and to push him closer to Rick's backside.

It stank, there were no two ways about it. Months--perhaps many more than just Johnson's two--of sweat and body odor and pungent ass funk, ripened and soured and fermented into an earthy-bitter-spicy cologne which burned Logan's nostrils. Filled his lungs, staining them further and more irreparably than any other aroma he'd been forced to appreciate in his captivity. Rolled like a cloying fog through his brain, smothering and snuffing out every thought. As his snout was shoved closer to that dank trench, the smooth skin and wiry hair tickling his lips and the tip of his nose, he tried to squirm away. Tried to turn away. Tried to wrench his body and soul out of the grip the Stallion had upon it.

White flashing in his mind. Every muscle in his body seizing at once. A rush of numbness overtaking him, and then a tingling burn as every nerve ending was set alight at once; all of it centered on the angrily-buzzing collar at his throat. And when the shock came to an end, and he sagged forward against the salamander's cocked-back ass, his every panting breath brought more of Rick's musk into him.

"Lick!"

He choked. He sobbed. He licked, hating his captors for giving the command and himself for losing his grip on the will to resist. His tongue pushed out between his lips to flick against the inner curve of Rick's asscheek, tracing along the length of the other man's cleft, and the acrid flavor of it almost made the roiling in Logan's stomach surge upward into his throat. But he had no choice, no other option, but to hold his breath and let the bastards get their sick jollies. Use him. Violate him.

"Yeah, that's it." Rick hummed, slowly rocking his hips to grind his firm ass back onto the iguana's snout. "You like that, Thrasher? Like getting your tongue in a man's swampy cleft?"

"Gh..."

"Why don't you get a little deeper?" With a rumbling, husky chuckle, Rick reached back to grasp his asscheeks and spread his crack wide open. "Been a long time since my hole's had a proper wash, and I'll bet that tongue of yours would be perfect for it."

Wide-eyed, trembling, shuddering, Logan stared into the abyss before him. Rick's hole, that loose and greasy pucker surrounded by a dense, wiry forest of smut-slickened hair. A man's raunchy, unwashed ass, presented to him--shoved into his face--to surround and smother him with its scent and taste. Searing his nose. Tingling on his lips. Burning his tongue and bringing sourness up into his gullet.

The captive jerked. Gagged. Wrenched away, turning and hunching over as he felt it coming up. He did his best to swallow, to breathe in what fresh air he could; and another shock from his collar sent him convulsing and collapsing onto the floor.

"Poor, poor little pet." Logan felt a jerk on his leash, and firm hands on his shoulders dragging him back up. Another tug, and his face was pulled back into the rank prison of Rick's stinking ass. Another, and his lips pressed right against the hairy ring of the salamander's asshole in a sick parody of a kiss. "What's the matter, don't like the smell? Don't worry, you will get used to it."

Another order. Logan groaned and let out another sob.

"Come on, it's not that bad, is it?" Those rock-solid cheeks flexed around his snout as Rick's hips rocked back and forth. Back and forth. Back to grind the sweaty flesh on Logan's scales, and then forth to give him room to breathe in its odor. "Keep licking. Go on. Give it a nice, deep sniff."

His tongue moved out. His nostril flared. His lungs expanded and contracted. Acrid flavor and musky scent engulfed him.

Logan began to weep.

"Mph." An impatient grunt. A sigh. One last push backward, his rim flexing as the captive's tongue glided listlessly over it. "I don't think this is going to work." Rick looked over his shoulder to Dean.

The Stallion let out a sigh of his own. "I was afraid of this." His thumb moved back to the button of the remote control, ready to give Thrasher another shock; but then he paused. Watched the heaving, shivering, trembling iguana for a long moment. Smirked. "You know what? I have an idea."

Dazed and reeling, Logan barely registered when his face was pulled free from that rank cleft. Mindlessly, his tongue continued to flick and wriggle in the fresh--fresher, at least--air as he was laid down on his back. It was only when he felt a heavy hand patting his tear-streaked cheek that he blinked, and grunted, and allowed his blurry eyes to focus on the horse and salamander looming over him.

"Practice round, Thrasher." That hand--Dean's hand--traced along his jawline, cupped it, slipped a thick thumb between Logan's slackened lips to grind on his raunch-stained tongue. "You're going to smell my ass. Breathe in my stink. Give it a nice, thorough tongue bath, inside and out." Another choking heave spurred that probing digit deeper to pacify the iguana. "Shh... you're not going to argue. You're going to get this tongue of yours all the way up in me. And when I'm satisfied, you're going to satisfy Rick here in the same way." The briefest hint of teeth brought the Stallion's thumb to the inside hinge of his captive's jaw, pressing hard to send a pulse of agony through the fog which engulfed the lizard's thoughts. "Or, if you'd prefer, we can leave your collar on the highest setting for as long as it takes you to reconsider. Do you understand?"

Logan understood. He hated it, but he understood. He wanted to bite down on that thumb, wrench his head away, surge up in a blaze of fury to tear both stinking bastards limb from limb; but he understood. The iguana nodded, shutting his eyes tight and whimpering, and waited for what would be done to him.

Shifting above him; Dean moving to straddle the captive's shoulders. A heavy presence hanging over his face like a stone ready to crush the life out of him; the horse's firm, pert, sculpted ass. Rich, heady, cloying scent engulfing him as, once more, his face was forced into another man's unwashed cleft; the Stallion's odor, thick and swampy.

Not as bad as Rick's stench.

Almost bearable, so long as Logan didn't think about it.

The iguana felt those rock-solid asscheeks flex around his snout, as well as another tug on his leash. Pulling him upward. Forcing him deeper, until the puffy ring of Dean's hole was pressed against his lips. And with nowhere to go, nothing else to do, no way to escape the hell in which he'd been imprisoned, Logan began to lick.

Up and down the length of that dank trench, gagging at the spicy, almost acrid flavor even as he did so. Flicking against that winking pucker, drawing out a low, shuddering moan from the heavy form above him. Pressing against the center of that ring, hesitating for one last, near-infinite second before taking the plunge. And then his collar let out a buzz of warning, and the muscles of the iguana's neck tensed at the pulse of electric tingling which shot through them. Logan whined, and pushed, and finally forced his wriggling oral muscle into Dean's backside.

Tight, a lot tighter than any pussy he'd ever eaten out. Those almost cushy inner walls clamped around the length of his tongue, embracing it in their musky hold. Logan had always been proud of his oral skills, leaving every girl he'd taken to his bed after a match screaming with delight as he'd eaten her out; but this was a man. It was an ass. He couldn't do it, he was about to throw up, he wanted to--would rather--die than stick his tongue any deeper.

Another tug on his leash. Another shock--still not at full power, but more intense than before--from his collar. An impatient grunt. "I'd better feel you putting some enthusiasm into it soon, pet. I don't have all fucking day."

Logan breathed in deep--suppressed one more cough and shudder at the stench which filled his lungs--and got to work. Lapping. Licking. Delving in and out, his wriggling tongue caressing the horse's inner walls. It wasn't so different--aside from the obvious--from eating pussy. The iguana did his best to let his mind go silent as he pushed in deeper, hilting his tongue in that clinging passageway, and began to swirl it all around inside the looming form which hovered over him.

Then he jerked, and choked, and nearly bit his tongue off when a hand wrapped around his cock, and another--slightly smaller and not as calloused--cupped and fondled his balls.

"Such a nice dick on him, don't you agree?" Dean.

"Mmhm." Rick.

"Such a shame he doesn't want to get hard for us, isn't it?"

"Oh, he's probably just shy, poor thing." A husky chuckle, and that hand enclosing the iguana's sack gave his roiling orbs a squeeze. "Probably just needs a helping hand."

They were molesting him. Touching his manhood. Kneading and pumping and stroking it, keeping him from sinking into mindless dissociation as he forced his tongue into and out of his captor's reeking asshole. And as he squirmed, and kicked his legs a little, and bucked his hips, he realized with an ice-cold splash of disgust that it was starting to work. Again, his traitorous flesh was trying to respond to the stimulation, throbbing with the racing beat of his heart as deft fingers pinched his foreskin and delved into its smut-filled folds. And again, the reality of his situation wilted his erection even as it chubbed back up at the rubbing along its twitching length. Again, Logan could only allow the warring sensations within him to surge and seethe and tear away at his every thought.

Pressure lifting off of him. Another breath of air that wasn't totally filled with the musk of a man's unwashed ass. Respite; momentary, and over before he could even register the brief relief.

Dean stood, carefully stepping away from the prone iguana, and moved to take Rick's place between Logan's splayed legs. Took over rubbing and squeezing and kneading the reptile's overfull ballsack. Stroked his captive's belly and thighs and densely-forested pubic mound with almost tender affection, soft and soothing. Meanwhile, Rick took the Stallion's place straddling Logan's shoulders. Stroking the iguana's half-chub. Squatting down to force his swampy, stinking, unbearably-raunchy ass into the captive's face, and pulling Logan's leash taut to force him deep into that dank crack.

"Nnngh!" Whatever arousal they'd managed to stoke in the iguana's groin was lost. The reptile bucked and struggled, holding his breath against the assault. He gagged, and whimpered, and whined at both another insistent tug on his leash and another pulse of electricity at his working throat.

"Come on, pet." Squeezing his dick. "You heard Dean." Pumping and stroking. "Get that tongue deep in my hole, or else." Rubbing his fingers and palm against the length, pinching the base, and grinding the pad of his thumb against the glans.

Logan obeyed.

Up and down the length of that moist, humid, hair-filled trench, choking on the flavor of months-old sweat and grime and body odor. Flicking against that greasy pucker, making the man squatting above him huff and groan in delight. Pressing against the center of that smutty ring, swirling around the flexing opening, and then slipping into the salamander's clenching back passage. Deeper, and then deeper, then sliding out before pushing in deeper; until his writhing oral muscle was hilted inside of Rick. And all the while he breathed in the pungent stench of man-ass, until it stained him inside and out. Until it was all he knew, his nose and tongue forgetting the smell and taste of clean air. Until the ministrations of his tongue--lapping and licking all over the salamander's inner walls, prodding against them, and exploring every rank nook and cranny of Rick's depths--sent the man over the edge.

A tightened grip on Logan's manhood. A deep, masculine moan of completion from above. Thick, sticky, viscous heat splattering on his chest and stomach. Rick panted and gasped, crooned and groaned, and finally let out a breathless laugh. "Good boy. Good boy, Thrasher. Now..." Instead of pulling away--freeing Logan, granting the captive a single iota of mercy--that firm, muscular, stinking man-ass pressed more firmly upon his snout; and the pumping and squeezing and stroking of the iguana's own semi-soft manhood grew even more insistent. "Let's see how long it takes you to cum from the smell of my ass, hm...?"

---

Logan didn't know how long he spent trapped under Rick's swampy backside; hours, at the very least. By the end of it, however, both his nose and tongue had grown intimately familiar with the salamander's rump, both inside and out. He'd been forced to sniff the hole itself, and Rick's taint, and the surprisingly-fragrant pit right under the other man's perked-up tail. His tongue--the withered, defiled thing sitting in his mouth, which refused to go numb no matter how he wished it would--had licked and slurped up every bit of sour sweat and overripe musk, from the firm cheeks to the very depths of the salamander's back passage. He'd been led to Rick's prostate, the bulb of nerves buried within the other man's inner walls, and had learned to please his captor's guest to orgasm after orgasm.

He hadn't cum himself--he probably would have died of shame had the pair of sick freaks managed it--but had been dangerously close to being stimulated to full erection a few times.

At last, Rick had been satiated, lifting himself off of the iguana and leaving the panting, groaning, reeling lizard lying on the ground. He had business he needed to tend to, he claimed, and had--reluctantly--dressed himself while continuing to exchange gropes and kisses with the Stallion. Then, just before he left, he'd promised to return the next day 'to continue Thrasher's training'.

The iguana had known what that meant, even without the salamander and horse looking down at him with those smirks on their bastard faces. More time spent with his face in Richard Finney's smelly ass. More times sniffing, and licking, and tonguing the other man's hole. More molestation and defilement as he was trained into the 'pet' that would please his captors.

He'd watched Rick leave, already dreading the next day's encounter.

Once the salamander had been seen out, Dean had sat back on the couch. Had prodded Logan with a hoof, ordering the iguana back to his knees. Had loosened the captive's muzzle fully, tugged him forward by the leash, and presented his still-erect cock with an order to suck. And Logan, not able to muster even the weakest of defiant growls, had obeyed.

And so, there he was. Sucking his captor's dick. Swirling his tongue around the shaft, lapping up every pungent morsal of smegma from the ample foreskin, and bobbing up and down the Stallion's throbbing length. After the rank reeking, raunchy hell of Richard Finney's ass, the smell and flavor were almost pleasant in Logan's mouth and nose; he flinched away from that thought, shoving it into the darkest corner of his mind. Don't think. Don't breathe. Just get it over with.

Back and forth in mechanical motion. Back and forth from base to tip and back again. Back and forth until Dean hilted in his gullet, and he felt the pulsing of that dick shooting its load right into his roiling stomach. Don't think. Don't breathe. Don't throw up, just swallow and wait for it to be over.

"That's it. Good boy, Thrasher." A hand on his cheek, stroking and petting him. "You love it, don't you? You love sucking my dirty dick and ass." That softening erection pulling free from his throat, out from between his lips, laying along the length of his snout to dribble the last of Dean's cum onto his burning scales. "You're a fine little faggot, and I know you'll be a fine addition to my league." A smile, scythe-like and sharp under the Stallion's flashing, burning, lustful eyes.

Logan swallowed. Took a deep breath in and then out. Let out one final quiet, sobbing whimper.

And then Thrasher looked up to his manager, owner, and master, giving the Stallion an obedient nod. "T-thank you, sir..."