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The iron bars of the death row block in Udebo’s central prison reeked of rust, piss, and the sour rot of stale bread. A thousand Anims left.
Seven-foot monsters rounded up like cattle after centuries of war. Humans had the guns. Anims had the muscle and the teeth. Most were already dead—skulls cracked open in the fields or throats slit in the holding penitentiaries. The last ones were chained here, forced to choke down live worms and moldy crusts once a day while they waited for the execution squads.
Louvre moved down the corridor every evening with her wooden tray, thin hips swaying under the grey servant dress that clung to her small tits and flat belly. Orphan bitch. No family, no choice.
Her father had been ripped apart by an Anim while climbing a palm tree for fruit. Her mother coughed blood until she stopped breathing. Now Louvre fed the beasts that killed her protector. And every single day her eyes kept dragging back to cell seventeen, where Uchita was bound.
Uchita; seven feet five inches of charcoal-black muscle. Two short, thick horns curving back from his skull like polished obsidian. Skin hard as crocodile hide but smooth where it counted, except for the thick, coarse hair that matted across his heavy chest and down the ridges of his abs. Yellow eyes that glowed low in the torchlight. Eighty-three years old and he still looked like a man in his prime—late thirties, early forties; veins popping along forearms that were as thick as her thighs.
The grey prison uniform they forced on him was two sizes too small; it stretched tight over his chest and shoulders, the seams screaming every time he moved. Below the waist the fabric tented obscenely over the heavy bulge between his legs.
He never spoke first. Just sat on the stone bench, back against the wall, watching her with those predator eyes.
First week she shoved the tray through the slot and tried not to look. Worms writhing in the tin bowl, bread hard as brick. He ate without blinking, jaws working like a machine. She felt sick for him. Then she felt pissed. These things had killed thousands, sure. But watching them break a seven-foot giant down to worm-slop and chains… something in her twisted.
By the tenth day she started talking.
“You understand me, don’t you?” she whispered, fingers grazing the bars.
Uchita’s yellow eyes flicked up. Deep voice, gravel-rough. “Yes.”
That was it. One word, but it opened the floodgates. She talked while he ate— about the guards, the executions, the way the humans laughed when they dragged another Anim out for the firing line. He listened, brooding, saying little. Sometimes he grunted. Sometimes he just stared at her mouth while she spoke, like he was imagining other uses for it.
Soon enough, Louvre started smuggling real food; a hunk of salted meat, a boiled egg, half a roasted yam. She usually slid it through the bars in her palm, heart hammering. He took it with his thick black fingers that brushed hers every time. The touch sent heat straight between her legs. An abominable feeling that a female human shouldn't be feeling for such aberration of nature.
One evening the tray was empty except for the usual slop. She stayed anyway. The corridor was quiet. No guards for another hour.
Uchita stood up. The prison uniform strained. The massive outline of his cock pushed against the grey cloth, thick and heavy, already half-hard just from her standing there.
“You want something, little human?” he rumbled.
Louvre’s mouth went dry. She stepped closer, pressed her body against the bars until her small tits squished between the iron rods. Her hand reached through, trembling, and cupped his fat bulge.
It jumped under her palm. Hot. Alive.
“Fuck…” she breathed, almost in a whisper.
She worked him through the fabric first; slow, greedy but exploratory strokes, feeling the veins pulse under her fingers. Then she tugged the waistband down.
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