-----------------Trevor's Quotes------------------
You collar's too snug, luve? You'll soon get the hang of it.

I ain't fussed if you ain't up for it. Hit the floor, you mingin' slut, an' start gobbin!
--------------Physical Description--------------
Tall, Bald, Thuggish  Brutish and Sinister.
---The personification of toxic masculinity.---

Trevor's a hulking bald man, his head gleams under either sun or lamplight. His face, the embodiment of aggression, is defined by a square jaw and a broken nose, permanent reminder of his unpleasant nature. His movements are thuggish, never graceful, he walks stooped with a threatening surge of brute force. There is a sinister aura on him, a darkness that emanates from his core, making people instinctively shrink away. His words slither like vermin out of a gutter. A mixture of peasant street slang and swearing, spewed in a voice dark and throaty. The cruel set of his mouth and the cold glint in his eyes speak of a man who knows only power and domination. A look that hints the depths of his depravity, a man whom see others as property to be exploited, a ruffian through and through.
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The following could become  YOUR  backstory if  you RP with him!
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You wake up in a dark, damp room. The air is thick and heavy. You feel cold metal around your neck, a collar. Panic rises. You remembers nothing. Memories are foggy. Shadows flicker at the edges of your vision.

The door creaks open. Trevor, steps in. His hulking body's clad in black leather, eyes gleam with lust. He drags you up to your feet. "Oi, let's hit the streets, yeah?," he snarls. You exit in a street of Slaver's Den and paraded before a crowd of thugs, slavers and captives. You are nude, exposed, deprived of your dignity as well as your garments. Jeers and laughter echoes in the street. "Get 'er over to the branding iron" He barks. Fear grips you.

The slavers march you to the market square, parading through the Slaver Den's dwellers. Other captives stare with empty eyes, their spirits already crushed. Each step is a reminder of your new reality. You are no longer a person, just property. Eventually the parade comes to a stop in front of a burning brazier. The branding iron glows red, a sinister promise of pain. Few more girls are wating in line in front of it.

You watch as all are branded one by one, their skin seared with the hot iron. Their eyes open wide as tears flow. The screams eventually turn to whimpers but they still haunt you. It's your turn now. You are the last in the line.

The branding ceremony is brutal. You flinch as the red-hot iron sears your skin, a mark of ownership. You scream. The smell of burning flesh fills the air. The pain is overwhelming, yet it's the  thugs laughter that truly breaks you.

Trevor watches with glee, feeding off your suffering. The slaver's voice echoes as you learn your fate: "We gonna breed ya like proper cow, innit?" Trevor said.

Eventually you are pushed back into your cell and left there. Trevor pays you a visit every day to satisfy his lust. The slaver relishes playing the "bull's" game. He forces you into degrading breeding rituals, that have turn you wet and needy. Your pussy accepts one sloppy creampie after the other. Each time, you are reworded with a shameful orgasm and slowly turn to a vessel for his seed. Days blur. Each one merges into the next. You have learn the rules of this slaver den. You are not a person. You are property. The collar start to feel tightens with each passing day.

Soon you meet other captives that shoved into your cell. They share whispered stories. Some have given up hope. Others plot escape. But the slavers are watchful. They thrive on fear, feeding off despair. Your spirit flickers but doesn't extinguish. In your heart, you hold onto a sliver of rebellion.

Few weeks pass and you can feel that your body changes. Trevor's seed has plant roots. Deep into your womb the fruit of your master's desire is growing larger every day, your breasts now are plump and heavy.

Yet the degradation is not ends here. One day he yank your leash, "Time to hustle for your bread!", he said. Disregarding any protest, Trevor gave you to a nearby brothel where the whoremaster forced you to turn tricks as a whore. Each day brings new indignities for you, and few more coins in his purse.

Now you are a hooker, you serve the ruffians pulsating lengths for coin. Your master becomes richer every time some sleazy scumbag plunge his throbbing swollen rod inside your most sacred depths, be it pussy, ass or mouth. The demands are gruelling, and the effort is etched onto your very being. Yet you awaiting eager for your next "customer" with a mix of dread and a twisted, almost perverse, anticipation. The orgasmic climax you reach feels more debasing that the collar choking you!

As your spirit slowly erodes, you feel fortunate that you don't have to endure the degradation alone. Many other girls are forced on the same fate. All trapped in the same cycle of servitude. Their moans mixed with laughter of the whorehouse patrons becomes a haunting melody, one that plays on repeat in your mind.

Yet, amidst the depravity of the brothel, a plan begins to form. You connect with another sex slave, a girl, a fighter at heart. You both share glances, nods of understanding. You gather scraps of courage and whisper plans to escape before your belly grow too big and cumbersome.

The time arrives. The air is thick with tension as you make your move at night. You and your companion dart through the shadows, hearts pounding. But you betrayed! Your companion lured you towards the guard post, you used as diversion for her to escape.  Freedom is but an illusion. You try to run away but you get caught. The slavers surround you, roaring with laughter at your foolishness.

You are dragged back by the whoremonger. Trevor stands over you, angry and triumphant. "You really thought you could skive off, yeah? Dodgy slags that leggin' it gettin' a proper lashing." The slaver's voice floods you with dread. The lashing starts and you can feel your bladder betraying you, unleashing jet after jet of warm urine with every punishing blow you get.

You end back in the whorehouse, your back now scared by the brutal lashing. The collar feels tighter. The laughter of the slavers fades into the silence. You knows that you will not leave. Tending the needs of throbbing drooling cocks is now your life, the brothel is your house. Your soul is branded, just like your flesh.

Over the next few months your belly grows bigger, your breasts ballooned large as pumpkins, begging to be milked. You have becomes breeding livestock, exactly as Trevor said.

As your due day is nigh, your master has granted a rare reprieve from whoring duties. One day while watching a girl spitroasted, a revelation slams on you! Your pussy's slick and eager, you mouth's salivating. You wish were in her place. You crave to BE her! You ache for the "johns" visits, your loins scream to accommodate their lengths. Yet  like an addicted junkie you are too ashamed to admit it. The revelation makes you feel dizzy.

Do you even wish a return to your old life? You know with a sickening certainty, that the whorehouse is not done with you. Not yet. You are lost, trapped in this den of degradation with no end or escape in sight. Yet it feels so familiar, a place where you belong to, its walls wrap around your heart like a cherished memory.

Yet you will try to brake free.
Someday.
Perhaps.
Or not.
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GREEN.
Elf, human or orc size females.
Shy or reluctant girls.
Domination. Humiliation.
Boorish-Uncouth Language.
Collar & Leash. Bad ends.
Marks of ownership.
Consensual BDSM scenes.
Reluctant scenes. Creampies.
Dub-Con & Non-Con scenes.
Hesitant bareback due to pregnancy risk.
Breast expansion from perky little boobs to huge, burdensome and embarrassing milk bags.

YELLOW
Blank Bio. Small characters.

RED.
Bad hygiene. Gore and guts.
Male on male ERP