Chapter 1: Krogasm

He was a saucy little bitch.

The thing about Krogans is that machismo is so ingrained in their culture, that everyone knows what really goes on when one of their own goes to see the Asari consort – but nobody dares to say anything, because, you know, man stuff. Sheathed in glossy plastic like some kind of sexy blue popsicle, her heels clicked against the glassy floor shone to perfection by her eagerest Salarian sissy maid.

She approached him; taught, nubile. Her breasts…were awesome.

Quivering in anticipation most unmasculine, the Krogan, spread out like doughy soft bitch-like pizza dough on a Saint Andrew's Cross, shivered in delight as she sauntered up to him, cat of nine tails in one hand, a saliva and gin soaked Newport dangling from her lips.











Of his dick.

His tiny, chode-like dick.

"Oh Sha'ira, please don't hurt me." He crooned, while desperately trying to shake his bindings to free himself, but not really. She was expensive. Fuckin' waiting lists.

"Speak when spoken to, you saucy little bitch. What is your name?"


"Kargesh, what?" She snarled, snaking her head to the side, impetuously tapping the whip against her hand, wrought with massive fake acrylic corn-chip tip nails. Like some kind giant sexy bird…. Anyway.

"Kargesh, Mistress." He whimpered.

"Kargesh. That's a bitch name. What clan are you from, Kargesh?"

"Urdnot." He murmured, looking down to the floor, but with all the not so hidden anticipation of a young boy at Christmas.

"Urdnot's a bitch clan," She said, bored; pacing back and forth, making great theatrics of her stilettos rapping across the marble. Suddenly she turned, brandishing a tawdrily artificial talon and jabbing it into his flabby pectoral, "You belong to me, now."

A sound eeked out from deep within him, like really deep, like a pyjak caught in an airlock. On a freighter. A really big one. Turian, I think.

With absolute sadism, because that's hot if a chick doing it, not a dude, because dudes are gross in porn, everyone knows that, she smashed the lit cherry of the menthol on his derpy little tail, because why do they have those anyways? What purpose does that serve? They're not even cool. Krogans are supposed to be cool. Wrex is cool.

He howled in agony. Like a lot.



"My name is Clown Baby!"




His glittery little anime eyes grew wide, desperately searching the room for an answer, but there was none to be found strewn amidst the garish carnival of massive technicolor alien dildos and menacing intergalactic bondage gear.

"I-I don't know!"

Sha'ira backhanded him with the handle of the whip, sending stars across his eyes that scintillated with all the purple prose of a far too serious and overly pensive Shakarian romance.


"My clan is Sha'ira!"


He looked to her, pathetic, blubbering, "No Mistress! Don't make me say it!"

She lashed the nine tails across his quivering balls, immune to his bestial howls, "Say it or I'LL CUT ALL FOUR OF YOUR BALLS OFF AND SELL THEM TO ANOTHER KROGAN! One more worthy than you!"

He jeered, kitten-like, eyes snapping closed in literal terror. Literally. He was terrified.


"SAY IT!" She lashed the tails across his fatty chest again, with all the remorselessness of a thresher maw. But a sexy one. With awesome tits.


"And you what, Clown Baby!?"


"Now say it all together." She hissed, eyes narrowing, taking a drag from her Newport, sifting the alluring, extremely sexy vapors through her nostrils.

He shuddered, crying a like saucy little bitch; big, sloppy Krogan tears the size of gumdrops raining in a terribly overdramatic tempest on his lamentable little boner.

"My name…is…Clown…Baby. My clan….is Sha'ira…..And…..And….I have no krannt…."

"That is correct, Clown Baby." She sneered in a sexy low whisper. That was both low. And sexy.

"…And I have a surprise for you, you kranntless little faggot."

She snapped her fingers. And completely out of nowhere, because really, where was he hiding the whole time, the slenderest little twink of a Salarian – her favorite and prized sissy maid – pranced out in the cutest little maid costume and gave a delicate curtsy.

"Yes, Mistress Sha'ira!" He piped, chipper to please, as always.

Knowing to remain bowed low for her, she carelessly put her cigarette out in the dip between his silly lopsided little horns.

"Fetch the personal effects of this bitch, slave."

He clapped his waifish wee hands together in glee, scurrying off to gather the parcel of armor and belongings he had folded so neatly just moments before. Teetering back in his adorable little shoes, burdened by the weight of the Krogan's heavy armor, because really, he was a tiny twink, he knelt again in his place besides his mistress, who was so kind to scratch her pet behind the horns.

The Krogan watched, anxiety filling him like a jelly donut filled with a lot of jelly, as she took the longest, vampish drag of her smoke – but seriously, like where does she keep getting them from, because she's definitely put it out like four times already – as she kicked the pile of possessions over and rooted through it carelessly with the pointed toe of her stiletto. Something gleaming caught her eye, and she raised her brow as she snapped her fingers together, signaling for the maid to fetch it for her.

It was.

The fish.

The Krogan's heart sank into the darkest abyss imaginable, a place darker than the darkest dark times infinity. TIMES INFINITY. Bad things live there.

"What's this?" She asked impetuously, holding the little baggy – like one of those baggies you get at the carnival when you win at ski-ball, and you're just happy you actually won something, because really, you just wasted twenty bucks on the ring toss to look like a man and win one of those three foot Gumby's for your girlfriend, but you didn't, which is lame, so here's this stupid fish woman. Get off my back.

"B…b-but C-C-Commander Shepard gave me that fish! It came from the Presidium!"

Giving absolutely zero fucks, she coldly opened her thumb and index finger.

The bag smashed onto the floor.


With all the glacial slowness of a Mass Effect 1 elevator, she put her face to his, dangerously controlled and level, and whispered, the menthol and gin in a kaleidoscope of sensuous odors on her breath,

"Commander Shepard is dead. And there are no fish on the Presidium."

Never blinking or removing her flaming eyes from his, for even a single moment, like seriously, I feel like these people stare at each other a lot without blinking in this chick's stories, she smashed her heel onto the bag.




He cried and cried and also cried some more, like a stupid overly sensitive Drell. Jesus Christ, get over it already. We get it, you're dark and sensitive, and we're supposed to fall in love with you. We know you're fucking dying, can we get on with the pwning please? Like seriously, my gamerscore is way too low as of late. Borderlands 2 comes out soon, and I'm tired of your unmanly whining just to get those extra gamer points. Real men don't cry. Turn in your man card.

"Quit crying, or I'm going to fuck the bitch out of you."

He only wailed harder. Pretty much on purpose, because he's into this. Just don't tell the other guys. Because, you know.

Man stuff.

Out of the shadows slinked three of the hottest, like really hot, of Sha'ira's acolytes, dressed in whorish catsuits. Everybody knows Asari are all just really flagrant whores. Total whores.

The Krogan's eyes widened, "What are you going to do with me, Mistress?"

He had a pretty good idea, but he just liked asking.

"We're going to rape you. Until the room stinks."

"Oh please don't Mistress!" He cried with a desperately veiled smile of glee.

"Oh yes, Clown Baby. But first you must suffer."

Sha'ira clicked her fingers once again; the dainty little Salarian perked up like a Meer cat.

"Maid…Get rid of this mess."

With all the unbridled joy of a Volus winning the bid on a used, still sweaty Quarian envirosuit pilfered from a young girl on her first Pilgrimage, the sissy maid lapped up the spilled dirty fish water off the floor with his eager little tongue and began to devour the still flopping fish, bag and all.

Like a goat.

His eager eyes gleaming at the sight of the reward, which went down in one fell swoop. The Krogan's heart went with it, dissolved in agony – he was going to eat that fish. And he wasn't going to share it with his friend, because fuck him. He didn't believe him, anyway.

Meanwhile the acolytes had been preparing; helping each other adorn themselves with a litany of freakish Krogan strap-on dongs. Like… Really huge ones. Uncomfortably huge. There was getting to be a lot of tube sausage in the room. But it's ok, because it's Asari. And Asari are hot.

"No, please don't!" He cried, falling helplessly to the floor, but not really, as he was unbound, leashed, and dragged across the floor on all fours.

"Silence, slave. The harder you whimper, the harder we'll pound you."

He cried out again; "Please don't!"

She shook her head in a well orchestrated feign of anger as she forced a laughably large Krogan-sized ball gag into his eager mouth.

What happened next was really gross. I mean really gross. They raped him, but not really because he was willing, so none of you cry 'non-con', for 6,000 credits an hour. He got his money's worth. Somewhat. Terrible things happened in that room. Which stank.

Sha'ira, taking a long swig of her Beefeater, because she was classy as fuck, and she needed a drink anyways because Krogan's are always a veritable shit storm of repressed emotions beneath their alpha male facades, she kicked his clothes over him, collapsed upon her floor, before handing the bottle off to her maid, who wasn't really impressed, because he had seen far worse.


He looked at her longingly as she just sort of stared at him, checking her omnitool for messages and coupons.

"…I see you again?"

"Waiting list is six months."


"No 'buts'. Six months."

"But I can pay!"

"Don't care, Clown Baby. Make sure you shower before you leave. You smell like rubber and bitch."

"But Sha'ira, when will we meld?"

She clicked through her exmail blithely, while the Krogan, still unable to stand, basked on the floor; consummate in the afterglow of his rare feeling of vulnerability. Because Krogans are vulnerable too. Just don't tell the other guys.

Because, you know.

Man stuff.

"Yeah, I don't know. Six months. Make sure you tell your friends we had sex."


"I mean, really brag about it. Feel free to get ridiculous. Write in to Fornax. That'll keep the door spinning."

"Anything…you desire…I… love you…"

"Sure. Me too. Whatever. Six months, same time. Cash. Make sure you schedule it in with the receptionist. No rain checks.

And she walked out, completely bored; yet still somewhat amazed she had gotten him to respond to 'Clown Baby'.

Fucking Krogans.

Author's Note:

You're welcome.