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Trapped Like a Rat By Limewah Subscriber Reward for Moxas (May 2024) Featuring characters from Final Fantasy IX 18+

Fratley, the Burmecian Hero, was walking along the dirt path. There was a stone overpass in front of him; a perfect place for an ambush. But he’d walked this way many a time, and had never been surprised yet. Times were peaceful for the rat-folk, and he was happy to have a place to walk and reflect away from the eyes of the rest of the world. Though he never traveled without his spear and a chainmail shirt beneath his wandering clothes, nor did he completely slip into a reverie. He knew better than that. Enemies always abounded.

If the trap had an obvious tell, Fratley would have spotted it.

But the Burmecian’s well-trained eyes could not do much to a trap made of pure creation magic, particularly one hidden in the shadows of the dark tunnel.

A canopy of darkness dove from above. He had enough time to brace himself to parry, but realised, too late, that another canopy was coming from behind… and above, and the sides.

Each dark facet crashed into him with a wet squelch, and all at once his senses were stymied. His eyes were forced shut, and the darkness of the thick substance kept any light from even reaching his closed lids. His nose was assailed with a thick chemical scent, like burnt treacle and crude oil mixed together. His stopped-up ears could only pick up the constant roar of his blood coursing through his veins. The thick sludge formed a tight film around his hands, and seemed to have a life of its own, yanking and wrenching the Burmecian’s spear from his hand. The weapon was expelled from the centre of the mass with such force that it embedded itself in a rock-face close by.

Pieces of the magical construct pulled away from the central mass and stiffened to a metallic sheen. They created a cuboid scaffold around the rat, the top coming up to about the height of Fratley’s chest. He was still standing, struggling against the mass even as his yells and screams were muffled. The substance moved with a mind of its own, pulling Fratley’s legs in tight and yanking downwards. Even with his strength, Fratley could not resist. He was pulled to his knees and made to kneel, his head now beneath the top of the scaffold.

From there, the effluent began to congeal. The edges of it pushed out to the corners of the assembled scaffold, attaching to it like a sort of cuboid tent.

The canopy descended, then, pushing back inwards towards the lithe, muscular form of the hero. His arms had been forced behind his back, and his back was bowed. The effluent pushed in tightly around him, forcing all the air between him and the magical prison out. The seemingly sentient substance squeezed tight around his wrists, ankles, and neck, growing firm and heavy like manacles.

“Nnnnghh…” his moans were muffled, he could scarcely even move his jaw as the second-skin tightened around him, each and every inch.

In sharp, strange contrast, the substance pushing between his legs remained soft, wet, more pliant. It almost felt like the touch of a lover. And it made his cock throb and pulse, jumping to attention in spite of his warrior’s instincts. It was a sign of weakness, one he did not want to show. But he could not will it down, not when the sludge was cradling his balls and jerking his cock with relentless force. He could feel an orgasm approaching, and somehow, stopping that became the most important thing in his mind. All his awareness was focused on his shaft, on the building pleasure, the constant shlicklshlickshlick of the wet effluent, and every effort he could make to resist it.

Fratley’s physical struggles did not relent, but the evidence was growing less and less obvious with each passing moment. The rest of the sludge tightened around him more firmly, revealing the definition of his hard nipples, his tight abs, his shapely thighs, his pert rump.

As the edges of the cube held firm, and the rest of it pushed in, Fratley’s body became more and more defined and noticeable to an outside observer. Of which there were several.

Fratley couldn’t hear the approach, until the voices were close enough to penetrate the thick skin.

He could hear the faintest hint of voices over the rush of his blood and the squelching compression against his ears. Too muffled to discern the words spoken, or even the size, shape, and species of his attackers. It would remain a mystery to him.

The trap cube tightened further, further still, until at last it was completed. Strands of black were connected to every facet of the scaffolding poles, connected to a tight film that was wrapped around the Burmecian’s body. The squirming was still there, but barely noticeable. A slight whistle through tiny holes in the nullified, smooth snout was the only evidence that he was still breathing.

The roar of his blood and the thick scent of the second-skin was overwhelming. It pushed every other thought out of his mind, the sensory roar overloading his train of thought.

He was approaching the edge of climax, too… the unrelenting soft squishing was making his cock jump even through the thick bulge.

He was going to cum… any second…

Something cold and wet touched against his crotch, and he was somehow able to feel it through that thick effluent. It felt like a wet paintbrush, and it moved with a calligrapher’s gentle grace.

It brushed lines and spirals along Fratley’s bulge, slow, deliberate, and considered. His cock felt oppressively hard, quivering and twitching, so very close to climax, and each pause before the next brushstroke felt even more torturously pleasurable than the last.

Fratley couldn’t see when the sigil was completed. But he felt it. All at once, he felt as though his cock was frozen in place, suddenly numb, nullified and insensate. His whimpers and grunts didn’t escape through the thick second-skin.

? Nullified

Next, his cock deflated, shrinking down and manipulated by the surrounding softness. His cock was pushed inwards and tucked between his balls, creating a round, orderly bulge.

Then, and only then, did that section of the physics-defying slime harden. He was held in place.

Fratley expected to feel some relief, no longer having to focus on that throbbing, intense arousal any longer. Instead, he felt a sense of longing and disappointment. Frustration that he was not able to continue, that he was so close to the edge but was left unsatisfied.

Not that that would last for long, when the next sigil was painted on his abdomen, just below his navel. Tantalisingly, torturously close to the bulging package. The second-skin squeezed even tighter, to ensure he remained perfectly still for the dainty brush-strokes on the next part of his body.

As each line was painted and quickly dried, he felt an intense warmth in the pit of his stomach, and with it the arousing tension that came just before climax.

? Lewd

The heat and arousal that used to wind between Fratley’s legs suddenly spread through him. His entire body turned into one big sexual organ that pulsed and burned with intense lustful need. Every inch of him on the edge of climax, horny, so horny that he couldn’t think of anything but the feral desire to cum. His resistance was broken in that moment, as much as he tried to resist. He was in danger. He was at the mercy of who-knew-what. But he needed to cum, he needed to cum…

The bulge throbbed and the lower body thrust, over and over. This left the forehead nice and still. One paw grasped the underside of the smooth nullified snout, while the paintbrush worked one final symbol onto the top of his head.

The arousal was quelled by each new completed line. But the empty-headedness remained. It was a relief. And with that relief came tranquillity. Bliss.

A familiar feeling of comfort spread through him next. The sort of pleasure brought on by soft grass beneath his back, warm sun on his face. Sleepy, cosy, soothing.

It made him feel like a beast of burden taking a well deserved break, with all the thoughtlessness and relaxation that implied.

? Domesticate

With that, his thoughts were completely quietened. Fratley, or what once had been him, went quiet and complacent.

He leaned forward. The scaffold held him in place; his upper body, his bulge, and his knees were visible but the rest of him was still encased in the canopy of darkness. His tail had been lifted and wrapped around a scaffolding pole, allowing his spread rump to just barely emerge from the tight wrappings.

He resembled a piece of art, something stored in a boudoir or a private study.

That was, indeed, where he would be headed, once he was loaded up and carted away to a secret auction.

The kidnappers didn’t know the stature or reputation of the rat they captured. As far as they were concerned, he was just another capture for the sale.

If they knew they’d taken Sir Fratley himself, they might have gotten a higher price for him.