Evil MC's NTR Harem

Steve's eyes fluttered open to a dimly lit room—his room—but something felt wrong.

He tried to sit up and realized, with rising panic, that he couldn't.

Thick ropes bound his wrists and ankles to the bedposts, digging into his skin.

"What the hell…?" he rasped, twisting against the restraints.

Then he saw it.

Standing at the foot of the bed was a massive figure—broad-shouldered, built like a tank—and wearing a grotesque demon mask with horns and a permanent, carved grin.

The figure just stood there, breathing slowly, watching him in silence.

Steve's blood ran cold.

"Release me! Who the fuck are you?!" he shouted, his voice raw with panic.

And then, from somewhere behind the mask, a voice rang out—deep, familiar, and laced with cruel amusement.

"Well, well… finally awake, are we?"

Steve's eyes widened.

That voice… he knew it.

He knew it.

But it couldn't be.

"No… No way…" he whispered, straining against the ropes even harder now, heart pounding in his chest.

The masked man took a slow step forward, tilting his head like a predator toying with its prey.

"Oh, I told you," the voice continued, chuckling. "You don't get to walk away that easily, Steve. Not after what you planned to do to Heaven."

Steve's breath caught in his throat.

It was him.

It was Ross.

"Big D! Fuck you! Go to hell!" Steve shouted, thrashing against the ropes as rage boiled inside him the moment he heard Ross's voice.

He jerked his head around, eyes scanning the room, searching for him—but Ross was nowhere to be seen.

That's when it hit him.

The voice wasn't coming from someone in the room—it was coming from a speaker, hidden somewhere nearby.

Of course. Cameras. A sound system.

Ross was watching. Listening. Toying with him from a distance.

Steve's eyes darted to the corner of the room where the hulking man in the demon mask stood silently, unmoving, arms folded over his chest like a statue.

He was a mountain of muscle, a living shadow—and he hadn't said a word.

"You and your damn masks!" Steve barked, laughing hysterically.

"Bunch of fucking jokers playing dress-up! Let me go, you freaks, or I swear to God I'll have every one of you behind bars by morning!"

He spat on the floor and snarled. "Don't you know who I am? Don't you know who my father is?!"

There was a pause.

Then Ross's voice crackled back through the speaker, colder than before.

"Oh, we know exactly who you are. And we don't give a damn."

Steve froze.

Ross continued, tone cruel and mocking.

"You like fucking, don't you, Steve? Cry like a baby when you don't get what you want. Threaten people. Plot revenge. You even wanted to make Heaven pay… for choosing someone better."

The voice paused, then dropped into something darker.

"So I figured… why not give you a taste of your own medicine?"

The door creaked open behind the masked man.

Heavy footsteps echoed into the room.

One by one, towering figures stepped inside—each wearing identical demon masks, each built like a soldier or a bouncer pulled straight out of a nightmare.

Two. Four. Eight. A dozen. And still more came.

Steve's breath hitched.

"No… no, no, no—what the hell is this?!"

"There are more than two dozen of them now," Ross said calmly.

"And more on the way. You wanted someone to break, didn't you? Someone to cry and beg? Congratulations."

Steve shook his head violently, yanking at the ropes with wild desperation.

"Stop this! STOP! You sick bastard!"

But the masked men didn't speak.

They just closed in.

And Ross's voice, still distant, still amused, echoed one final time:

"Enjoy your lesson, Steve."

"No! Stop! AHHHHH!"

Steve's agonized screams tore through the stillness of the room, raw and desperate.

His voice cracked under the weight of relentless pain, echoing off the cold walls and mixing with the heavy breathing of the masked men who surrounded him.

Bound tightly to the bed, he was utterly helpless—his body a captive to the merciless hands of those towering figures.

Each one moved with mechanical precision, their grip unyielding as they took turns asserting their dominance.

Steve was no longer a man with threats and fury; he had become nothing more than a broken plaything, tossed between shadowed giants.

His protests and curses turned into ragged gasps as every part of him was invaded—his pride shattered alongside his physical defenses.

What had once been a man filled with arrogance and control was now reduced to trembling sobs and choked cries.

The humiliation burned deeper than any wound, stripping him bare not just physically, but spiritually.

Hours dragged on like an endless nightmare. There was no mercy, no respite.

The masked men came and went like dark phantoms, their heavy footsteps fading only to return again and again.

Steve lost track of time, lost track of himself.

All that remained was a fading whisper of resistance buried beneath the waves of pain and degradation.

Between agonizing moments, his mind reeled with disbelief and horror.

How had he fallen so far? The man who once ruled with threats and cold calculation was now at the mercy of the very cruelty he'd planned for others.

The room was thick with tension and shadows, the air heavy with silence broken only by Steve's broken cries.

Outside, the world went on oblivious. Inside, a slow unraveling had begun—a reckoning forged in pain and humiliation.

And even as exhaustion threatened to drag him into unconsciousness, he knew the torment was far from over.

There was more to come. The parade of masked figures showed no sign of ending.

The nightmare was just beginning.

This arena of doom stretched on without mercy for a full month—day after endless day of torment and degradation.

Each hour chipped away at Steve's sanity, each moment eroding the fragile walls he had built around his mind.

The relentless abuse broke him down piece by piece until there was nothing left of the proud, angry man who had walked into that room.

His thoughts grew scattered and hollow; memories blurred and faded into a distant haze.

The sharp edge of his fury dulled into numbness. Slowly, he ceased to be himself.

By the time the month ended, Steve was no longer a man—he was a husk, an empty shell haunted by shadows.

His spirit, once fiery and fierce, had been reduced to a twisted, ugly reflection of what he used to be, barely recognizable even to himself.