Everything is a hazy, blurry thing, and Judal can't think.

He can't breathe, either, because the air is smoky and dirty, filling his nose with something fragrant and wretched all at once. He tries to cough, and his chest heaves as he struggles to sit up, only to find himself shoved down again by one rough, broad hand on his throat, with someone else fisting a hand into the long, thick braid of his hair, yanking his head down and back.

He can't think, and it's probably for the best.

Judal remembers, vaguely, somewhere in the fuzziness of his mind, that he's been warned about traveling as he pleases. Even as a Magi, a skilled, highly trained one, there are ways to manipulate him, for him to end up in these situations. He doesn't remember what happened, exactly—only that he's here, in the back of a covered cart, tossed into a pile of silks meant to be traded, with at least half a dozen men pawing at him, pulling his hair, spreading his legs, leaving him shuddering and gasping for a full breath of air when the smoke is so thick.

It's even harder to breath a moment later, when strong, calloused fingers pry open his jaw, and the blunt, slippery head of a cock presses to his lips. The taste makes him gag, makes him thrash and struggle as it slides over his tongue and stretches his lips, and there are more hands—grabbing his hair, his arms, holding him still so that all he can do is breath hot and fast and desperate through his nose, mouth too full and eyes watering from the strain.

If that were it, it might be tolerable, no matter how the man's hands fist into his hair and yank his head over into each thrust, shoving his cock deeper down his throat and making Judal swallow messily—gagging, choking when it's still too much and he can't breathe. But that's not it—there are hands yanking at fabric, baring his skin to the chilly, desert air, and he knows he would have yelped at the slap to his ass if his mouth hadn't been so stuffed full.

Something slick drips over his skin, sloppily pooling at his lower back before big hands massage it down the cleft of his ass. The sensation of those fingers—rough, insistent as they spread his cheeks—leaves him to raggedly inhale through his nose, no matter how his face is pressed down and that cock is shoved even harder between his lips, and he chokes on what little breath he manages when he feels the head of the man's cock pressing at his hole.

It aches, that initial stretch as he's filled, stuffed full to the point he couldn't close his legs if he tried, shoved forward until his nose nuzzles against the other man's belly and his eyes roll into the back of his head. Judal wants to sob, wants to plead, and he settles for thrashing instead, no matter how he's spitted between both men, shoved and pulled between them as he's fucked at both ends and left trembling, quivering from how he hurts.

The cock in his mouth pulls back suddenly, leaving him to gasp desperately for a full breath. It's a small blessing, what with how the man's thumb hooks into his mouth, keeps it open as he strokes his own cock only once, twice more before spilling over his face, being sure to drip over Judal's tongue, leaving him to cringe at the taste, to squeak and cough and hoarsely choke out protests as he's hauled back within the next second into the other man's chest.

Like this, it's a dozen times worse—every inch of that thick, long cock shoved up inside of him, with yet another hand's spreading his trembling thighs wide. He wants to protest, wants to plead for them to stop, no matter how he can'twhen hands are in his hair, yanking his head to the side again, using his face as little more than something else to rut against. Another grabs one of his hands, forcibly wrapping it about their cock, and Judal feels his fingers twitch, his entire body shiver in complaint as another man kneels between his spread legs, the head of his cock pressed against his already stretched-wide hole.

He can't think, can't struggle with the arms holding him and the way he's already so full, and so he tries to sob instead, tries for a protest before that, too, is cut off with another man's cock shoved between his lips. His entire body shudders in protest as that second cock slowly shoves its way inside, slick with whatever oil they're using, heady and fragrant as the smoke that makes it that much harder to breathe.

It hurts. They bruise him, yank him between them with too-rough hands, nails biting into his wrists and teeth against his neck and shoulders. They spill inside of him, both of them, and he's left shuddering, dripping when they pull out, left to bite his lip and try not to cry out when another man simply replaces them, shoving him flat onto his back this time, legs shoved back and splayed wide as he's used.

So help him if there isn't a part of him that thinks he deserves it, that maybe even enjoys it a little bit, and so the next morning, when he's left sore and aching and alone, it's nothing new and nothing different.