Your master wants to see you, so you go to him. No one actually tells you that he wants to see you, but you know anyway. You make your way through the halls of his fortress, weaving between hulking mutants who whisper at your passage and robots that regard you with dead eyes.
You look back at the robots with a sense of familiarity. There is a cold, empty place inside you, one that feels more familiar than you think it should be. It pushes you on while the rest of you wonders and worries, chilling your thoughts until they're too slow and brittle to make much sense.
At the door to the master's chambers the guards move aside to let you knock, the reinforced metal echoing strangely under your knuckles. "Come in," a voice calls, and you obey before you really make the conscious decision to do so.
He's waiting for you, dressed in a kimono instead of his traditional armor, and an odd flicker of disquiet runs through at the sight. You close the door and bow, careful not to meet his eyes.
"Raphael," he says, almost offhand, more like he's checking off inventory than offering a greeting. But his eyes are fixed on you, something hungry in their glinting depths.
He beckons and something flares up in you at being summoned like a waiter, an emotion that you can't quite name. It disappears before you can think about it for too long and you obediently make your way towards him, feet silent on the luxurious rug.
Your master circles you, eyes dragging over your skin in a way that makes you squirm. "Stay still," he barks, and you do, even as he occasionally pauses to run a finger along the edge of your shell or gently prod at your muscles.
"You keep yourself fit," he says.
"Yes, Master." You have a blurry memory of weights in your hands, how their heft would sometimes stem your racing thoughts. You don't remember what those thoughts were.
He comes around in front of you and holds up a knife, light glinting off its prongs. Your breath catches at the sight. "Do you know what this is?" he asks.
You swallow, hands twitching at your sides. "Yes." You can practically feel the weight of it in your hands--it and its twin, although you can't see where that one is.
He nods thoughtfully. "Do you remember who gave it to you?"
You swallow hard, mind suddenly going blank. "Y-you, Master?" The words sound coarse and harsh in your accent, a far cry from his clipped tones, and you blush, embarrassed.
But he just chuckles, face merry with a joke you don't get. He doesn't laugh, a voice whispers in your head. He's not s'posed to laugh. You think suddenly, longingly, of the door, but you won't let yourself look away (Could you, if you wanted to?)
"I suppose that's as good an answer as any." He extends the blade (sai, it’s a sai) towards your face, and for a wild heartbeat you wonder if you're about to be blinded. But no, instead he slides up under your mask, making a small cut in the skin next to your eye as he goes. Blood trickles down your skin.
You swallow. You don’t know how you know, but you very suddenly know that he’s more than skilled enough to do such a thing without killing you.
Saki smiles, as if the two of you share a mutual understanding, while he lifts the mask away and flicks it onto the floor. Your face feels impossibly bare without it, and you fight the urge to go put it back on.
“Hands,” he says, and you watch your hands raise themselves into the air so he can cut off your wrist wrappings, twin beds of blood rolling down your arms.
He slices away your belt before moving on to your legs, forcing you to lift balance awkwardly on one foot and then the other as he slices away your knee pads and ankle wrappings. By the time he’s done, you’ve got stinging cuts all over, blood drying on your skin.
You shiver. You were feeling next to nothing when you came in here, and yet you somehow feel so exposed without it, stripped of your last defenses. You have a sudden urge to cover yourself, maybe even hide in your shell, but that is not how this works (whatever ‘this’ is).
He lifts your chin with the flat of the blade, pressing against you without quite breaking the skin. “Tell me, pet,” he says. “Do you want this?”
And that nameless thing burns in you again, but the cold nothingness swallows it. Your mouth moves, chin pressing into the blade enough for it to slice you open once again. “Yes, Master.”
He pulls the sai away, giving you a better look at the blood decorating the blade. Red that’s almost black, almost brown, almost the color of bloody knuckles and skinned knees and a bandage being tied as someone whispers everything’s gonna be okay, Ra--
“Open your mouth.” His words slice your thoughts apart.
You do not want to open your mouth. You do not want to be anywhere near him, do not want to see the sai in his hands or the blood-hungry in his amused eyes. But you cannot think of anything else in this world you know how to do, except stand here and obey orders.
The blade is flat and cool on your tongue, with traces of your own blood mixed in with steel. You must open your mouth very wide to keep it from cutting you, until your jaw begins to ache.
“I could cut out your tongue right now and you would let me,” your Master says to himself. It’s not a question, thank god, although the words still send fear creeping through your guts. “I could serve it to you in pieces and you would smile with every bite, if I so wished.” You know this is true.
He presses down ever so gently, sending a spurt of pain flaring through your mouth. Tears flare in your eyes, blurring your vision. Abruptly he yanks out the knife and you suck in a breath, wincing as blood runs down your throat.
You barely have time to collect yourself (you never have time to collect yourself) when he’s leaning down to kiss you.
His tongue slices into your mouth, poking the tender skin there, and you groan, nostrils flaring. You automatically loom away and he wraps around your head, pulling you so close you wonder if he’s going to swallow you whole.
Then he pulls away, leaving you gasping with pain and a lack of oxygen. He rubs his hand over his mouth and looks at you with an air of faint triumph. “That was your first kiss, was it not?”
“No, Master.” The words slip quickly and painfully off your tongue before you can catch them, leaving you both surprised.
“No?” He raises an eyebrow, and it stings, although he has a point. Who in their right minds would kiss something like you? Even your Master undoubtedly has an ulterior motive.
“I…” You can’t remember his name, but you can remember shaggy black hair tangled in his fingers, a mouth pressed to yours. “Don’t remember, Master..”
But you remember other things. You remember his hands around your shoulders, pulling you close. You remember his maniacal laughter. You remember him whispering words, fragments of his mother’s tongue, small gifts shared as he grew to trust with this part of himself.
The memories fill you with such longing you could choke, and then they’re gone in the next heartbeat. You sway, caught off guard, and your master smiles at your confusion.
“Tell me, what else did you do with this ‘friend?’” he asks.
“We, uhhh….” You remember hands on your scales, tracing the sharp edges of your scar. He rubs and you tremble at the touch, at how tenderly treats your most broken, vulnerable part. “We messed around some.” The words sting on your tongue, and it’s not just the cut.
“Hmm.” Your master looks you up and down again. “Did he ever teach you how to suck a cock?”
And even though you’ve known deep down what this was about since Master kissed you, maybe even before that, your breath still catches in your throat, cheeks flaring red. “Master?”
You glance between his legs and swallow at the soft bulge in his kimono. Your gullet twists--your tongue may be healing quickly, but it would still hurt like hell to put your mouth on that thing. And now that you think of it, you don’t know if you even remember how to suck cock.
But your master just laughs, shaking his head. “A purely academic question, at least for now. I have more...ambitious plans in mind for today.” He reaches out and takes your hand, tugging you away like a parent guiding a child. His thumb runs the mark on your wrist, triggering another sharp sting.
He leads you towards the back of the room, and your steps hitch ever so slightly when you see the bed waiting there. Although maybe you’ve been aware of this bed since you walked in, you just haven’t let yourself admit it.
“Go on,” he says, giving you a little push. You sink to your knees on the mat, cloth brushing against his fingers.
You remember being in that nameless boy’s bed, worn out from fighting and kisses. He ran his fingers through your mask tails and whispered that name he’d given you. Niño bonito. Pretty boy.
And it always made you want to giggle and blush when he said that, but life isn’t a fucking romance novel, so instead you rolled your eyes and said, the fuck you on, I ain’t pretty.
Really? ‘Cause I know plenty’a kids who’d kill for those big green eyes of yo--
Hands on your shoulder and you stiffen, dreams of green eyes and giggles flowing back into the dark. “Turn over,” Master says.
You do, and as he kneels over you you feel like nothing so much as a meal spread out for consumption, exposed and helpless before greedy eyes. It’s almost a surprise when he doesn’t lick his lips.
There’s a soft bulge under his kimono. It seems to swell before your eyes.
You cannot see the door from here, and the truth is that it does not matter. There is no way for you to plot a way from this bed to that one, even if the dark-haired boy exists. If anything exists, but this room and that sai and your master’s quiet hunger.
“Spread your legs,” he says, and you do, giving him room to settle between them. The sai shimmers in his hand, ugly and tainted with your own lifeblood.
He brushes it down your forehead, across your chest, taking sure to leave fresh little uts whenever he encounters a scar. He presses particularly hard at your shoulder, sending blood pooling into the crack of your plastron.
Then he’s moving over your belly, resting the blade delicately between your spread thighs. “Do you have a tail?” he asks.
“Y-yes, Master.” The words tremble in your mouth. Please don’t make me please don’t make please don’t make--
“Show it to me.”
There is no room for resistance in that icy command. You unfurl, your tail emerges from where it normally stays tucked up under your shell, keeping you safe. He lets out a low hum as he sees it, reaches out with his free hand to run a finger down its scaly length.
Your reaction is instantaneous, and humiliating. You groan, tail-tip fluttering as a fresh spark of pleasure flares in your belly, teasing your cock in its safe little pocket.
He chuckles. “Eager, aren’t you?” He rubs the tail between his fingers, and your hips wag like a fucking stripper’s. “This must be very sensitive.”
“Y-yes, Master.” You remember another hand touching you, a voice whispering this is so cool, dude. But you can’t remember anything else, except for the fact that this tail is sensitive, very much so, because it’s connected to the heat between your legs and oh no--
The sai hovers above your tail, glinting low and hungry. You fear it, and the idea of fearing this weapon makes you sick.
“Please,” you rasp, squirming frantically.. “Please, Master.”
“Hold still,” he barks, and you do. Your muscles lock into place, unable to so much as close your eyes and look away as the sharp drags every so gently across the tip of your tail.
You cannot move, but you can scream.
Master laughs and cuts you again, a little harder this time, fresh blood staining your thighs. You let a sob, trembling so hard you think you might shake yourself to pieces.
He kisses you, a tender mockery, his hand running up along your throbbing tail to stir fresh spikes of pain and pleasure. “You like this, don’t you?” he asks.
The truth spills from you before you can stop it. “No, Master, I don’t, please, please--”
He grabs you by the chin, holding your mouth closed as he pulls away. His fingers dig into your scales, opening up the wound in your chain so that it drips down to join the nightmare between your legs.
“Want this,” he commands.
There’s an answering buzz, deep inside your head, and then a wave of heat strikes you like lightning. You cry out in shock and confusion, bloody heels jittering painful against the floor.
Because you very suddenly do, want it so hard you’re gagging on it. Your hole clenches, your muscles straining against the command keep still in their desperate need to reach up and pull him close. You want his swollen cock in you, want anything inside of you to feel the emptiness..
You moan, the sound painfully loud and wanton. Your cheeks flare red and he smiles, tapping his blade against your tail again. The cool pressure of metal feels suddenly, terribly good, and you let out a desperate sob of confusion.
Every wicked little cut he’s given you has become a hot center of pleasure. They pulse as he drags his fingers over them, forcing you to writhe you’re still keenly aware of how much it hurts.
He rubs up between your legs and your aching crotch flares, your slit bulging. You can feel yourself wanting to unfold from your tail, even though you know how badly it’s going to hurt.
“Magnificent,” Shredder says, shaking his head. “I have to hand it to Stockman--he really knows how to turn the most impudent little brat into a proper painslut.”
Confusion and humiliation war in your head, only for your thoughts to fly apart when he keeps rubbing. Flesh that was sensitive before feels like it’s on fire now, and you can’t put up so much a flicker of resistance before your cock starts to emerge from your tail.
It hurts as badly as you feared it would, in your flesh and in your soul. But he rubs your trembling purple cock, cooing about what a pretty little freak you are, and you thrust eagerly into his hand.
Look at you go, niño bonito, the one whose name you can’t remember whispers in your ear. You try to pretend it’s him touching you, not your master, but that just makes the steady trickle of tears down your face--when did you start crying?--flow faster.
He puts the knife to your cock, of course. Only a little cut, along the side, but you shriek again anyway. And the pain somehow feels so, so good.
His fingers move back over your, dipping into every little cut, from the one on your face that’s mixing with your tears to the blazing marks on your poor hurt cock and tail. He pokes at your wounds until his hand is gloved in an ugly red.
“Relax,” he says, and you do, not that it keeps it from hurting when his finger shoves inside you. But your twisted, fucked-up brain loves it for no reason you can see, grinding down on his bloody hand as he laughs a booming laugh.
He preps you quickly and efficiently, humming to himself. “Did you ever do this with that friend of yours?”
You’re too overcome to speak anymore, but you shake your head anyway. You never did this with him, and that makes something twist inside you, because this is not how it’s supposed to happen.
It’s supposed to happen after coming home for a fight, with adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. With the sweet smell of bandages filling your noise and music blaring so his dad and Angel can’t hear (or so they can’t hear, the ones who you know look like you even though you have never felt farther from them you do know.
Something is being taken for you, and for all your strength you cannot even try to resist. All you can do is shake in his arms, blood-soaked and boneless. 
Help me, you beg. Someone, anyone. Show me the way out of here.
The only answer you get is a hand yanking your tail down, deliberately digging his fingers into your cuffs, and a cock thrusting up inside you. He lets out a slow groan of triumph, dragging the knife down your hip, carving a notch of victory into your flesh.
You haven’t been prepared enough, or maybe this is just a side effect of losing your virginity, but it hurts so fucking bad. He makes it worse by dragging his skin over your cuts as he fucks, occasionally bringing the sai down for another slice that you know will eventually cause serious damage if he keeps this up.
But fresh pleasure brings pain, and every pain brings pleasure, catching you in an endless loop. Your brain is made of swirling ice chips, your body is on fire, and you don’t even know whether you’re screaming in need, terror, or agony. You just know that you’re screaming, until you think you might be spitting up blood.
“I, I could fuck you with this blade, and you’d still love it,” he grits it out, slamming you into the mattress. The blade slashes awkwardly across your face, making another cut between your eyes. You weep, because you know he’s right.
“I could fuck you in front of your brothers and you’d moan just like you’re doing now. I could tell you to use this pretty sai on them and you’d do it, just for a chance to feel my cock again.”
He must be wrong, but only because you’re certain you have no brothers, no matter what you felt before. If you had brothers, they would come save you from this. If you had brothers, you would never have abandoned them by being captured, would never have betrayed them by being reduced to this.
As his pace picks up his hand swirls across your chest, adorning you in ugliness. “Like a painted whore,” he purrs. “What a pretty little bitch you’ve become.”
So pretty… And suddenly you can see the boy you’ve been thinking of, see his dark eyes and missing teeth and elegant cheekbones. You’re so damn pretty, Raph.
You realize, with a sudden sob of horror, that this boy is just another figment of imagination, and the tales you told your master are mere delusions. Because no one that beautiful could ever lower himself to the likes of you.
You’re still crying when your Master orders you to come. And you do, even though it hurts like hell in every sense of the word. You didn't know it was possible to feel this good and this bad all at once, like your brain is split in half.
Master fucks you through the climax before he finally reaches his own orgasm. He pumps you full of stinging seed, as if to replace all the liquid you’ve lost. You’ve expelled so much blood and tears and semen you feel worn out, emptied of anything that matters.
When he’s done he rolls off you and shoves you away, his face abruptly twisted with disgust. “Get out,” he mutters. “You’re filthy.” He’s as stained with red and white as you are, but you don’t say anything. You don’t have the strength to, even if it was allowed.
“Go to the infirmary, get yourself cleaned up,” he calls. “I’ll have your fresh equipment sent down soon.”
The thought of walking back through those halls, a filthy, ruined mess, makes fresh shame twist in your stomach. Although really, why should it? They probably knew you were the Master’s whore before you did.
“Yes, Master,” you say tonelessly. Blood is still dripping off of you, and you idly wonder if you’ll bleed to death before you get to the infirmary, but something tells you that was not Master’s design. And your life is all about his design, now.
You pick yourself up and make your way to the door, tucking yourself away. The pleasure dies away with every step, leaving only pain, and which is oddly comforting.
Your mask catches your eye as you pass your things and you automatically bend to pick it up, even though it triggers fresh waves of pain. You glance at your master, wondering if he will deny you this too, but he’s lying on his back now with hands behind his head, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling.
You put the mask back on, feeling a strange comfort as you slide it over your face. But that comfort is accompanied by fresh tears, the strange sense that you are no longer worthy to wear it. Still, you can’t summon enough energy to take it off.
“Raphael,” he calls, before you can leave. You pause, a fresh cloud of fear bursting into your gut. “Yes, Master?” No more, please.
But when you force yourself to glance back, he isn’t even looking at you. He’s still staring at the ceiling, as if he can see the future printed there. You don’t want to know what he sees.
“Be prepared. Our enemies will come for us soon.” And then, almost to himself, “They still think there’s something of value here for them to retrieve.”
You want to wonder what he's talking about, what enemies he means, but you’re too tired, and to be honest it doesn’t even matter. You will fight and kill whoever he wants you to fight and kill. That is how it works. Anything else is you kidding yourself.
“Yes, Master,” you say, bowing once again. The tears stop flowing as you leave the room, leaving you cold and barren inside once again.