In way, it's a lot like an art exhibit. They're rich people, fortunes watered with various amounts of blood, and with wealth comes the desire to appear cultured. They're all too familiar with the prattle of artists and half-assed coordinators. There's less of that here, less interest in hiding.
And there's music playing, warm lights, food along the walls. They've been invited to a chamber in the host's complex, just large enough to comfortable seat an exclusive group like their own, while still giving them a good look at the pieces. Or piece.
The sole exhibit is strung up in the center of the room, exposed under bright lights and the glint of a steel frame. Restraints wrap around its limbs, waist, and neck, giving it next to no room to move. They chains glitter in the light, winking like jewels or fallen stars or coals in the ash.
From a distance one might mistake it for a particularly bizarre sculpture, and a few of the guests do make that mistake. Then they come close enough to see its darting eyes, its heaving chest, the muscles trembling with useless effort, the darling flush that pulses rhythmically, endlessly in its cheeks.
Unlike more traditional shows, they're allowed to touch--encouraged, even. The host wants them all to know what it feels like. 
"So soft," a woman says, grabbing her companion's hand and lifting it to the creature's shoulder, scaly green like the rest of it. "Marvin, feel this."
The creature winces at Marvin's touch, trying and failing to cringe away. It's been strung up nice and tight for display, arms over its head and legs spread wide. Even it could move, it would only be into somebody's hand--they all want to touch, to fondle, to caress.
It's a turtle, or at least it resembles one just enough not to be called anything else. Scars decorate its green body, rippling over its muscles and the battered surface of its shell. It keeps closing its jewel-bright eyes, but it will always open them again, as if the only thing worse than having to face them is not being able to see them coming.
The creature's naked form twitches with the discomfort of something that's meant to live in the shadows, that's spent its whole life there, and can hardly stand the weight of exposure. Occasionally it'll twist its head as if trying to shake off the gag stuffed in its mouth. There are growls and snarls coming from behind it, sounds that could almost sound like human words if anyone cared to listen.
Repulsive, they all agree. Monstrous. They nod at each other, smirking as the creature flinches in a mockery of human feeling. But they can't help it anyway, reaching out to pinch and poke at its flesh. It's dotted with fresh bruises and they add more, fascinating the way to see welts and blood spills across its surface.
For people like them, it's hard to find something that's truly new. They've heard the stories of mutants, of course, but this is the first time most have seen it in the flesh. And not only in the flesh, but tamed and bound, ready for inspection. It's like the beginning of a new age of wonders.
Besides, the creature is so damn cute. It charms the audience as it squirms in its restraints, unable to meet their eyes, blushing fiery red until it looks like a Christmas tree. Poor thing's trying to be angry, they can tell, but the shame and fear drown that out so prettily.
True shame, true fear, nothing like what you could find in an underground dungeon, at least not without a bit of work. This is something raw and real, something hanging heavy on the tongue. It's intoxicating, far more so than the very fine wine being passed around.
For the most part, the host likes to watch them, eyes bright in his scarred face, a bit of a bulge in his elegantly tailored suit. He likes to see the creature writhing, humiliated, choking on its own misery. And who are they to not honor the wishes of such a generous individual?
Their hands sweep over muscled limbs, the heaving chest, the blazing face. They take turns tracing the curves of its shell, trying to find patterns in the strange swirls. A particularly drunk man grabs its hips and makes a humping motion, triggering a wave of laughter--pity they can't take pictures, because that would be a great shot.
Its bottom is a particular favorite. It just reacts so well when it's touched, writhing like a beached fist whether they squeeze, pinch, slap, stroke, or simply pat. The crowd watches its movements the way they would a ballet performance, with wondering eyes and a few dry mouths.
Touching its rear inevitably leads to the tail, the one that tries and fails to curl safely between its legs. The guests like to tug and stroke it, amazed at the way the beast will sometimes let out an unmistakable whimper of pleasure as they touch that part.
If they really want a loud sound, all they have to do is yank. Someone compares its shrieking and yelping to a train whistle, and of course they all want to "pull the cord." They giggle like children, while tears flutter down the creature's cheeks no matter how hard it tries to bate them away.
The most daring ones try to poke at its tight little hole. It becomes another game, seeing who can jab before it yanks its tail free and jabs it back into place. They cheer each other as that tails wags, frantically trying to cover itself, a sight so amusing it's hard not fall down laughing.
Even when the novelty wears off a little, when conversations to wave and pulse around it, someone always has a hand on its splendid body. It never seems to grow les frightened or embarrassed, never fails to offer up a tantalizing twitch.
"Where did you get it from?" they ask the beast's owner, a tall, imposing man who wears his business suit like armor. Most of them have dealt with Mr. Oroku before in some respects, have heard the rumors that he employs things like this regularly. This creature, though, seems a different matter all together.
He shrugs. "It got in my way." He shoots a look of vicious triumph at the creature and it glares, defiant.
"Can it talk?" someone wonders. In answer, Mr. Oroku carefully tugs out the gag. They all watch with bated breath, letting go of the creature so they can focus on its mouth.
It sucks in a breath, but instead of words graces them with a burst of spit. It doesn't have much to offer, but its aim is still impressive, the ball flying across the room so it can strike M.r Oroku's cheek with a smack.
"Go to hell," the creature says, its voice dry and cracked. Its voice sounds vaguely male, the words trembling with fear and brokenness. The accent sounds almost American, which surprises some of the listeners.
The beast looks like it's about to spit again, but then Mr. Oroku is blurring across the room. He punches it in the face once, twice, three times, head snapping back and forth, bouncing off the bars. When he stops, it's only to reach back to the creature's bound hands and dislocate a finger with a pop.
It opens its mouth to scream, but Mr. Oroku shoves the gag back into its mouth midwail, pushing with enough force he seems at risk of breaking teeth. The creature slumps back, shaking.
"It's learning his place," he says, calmly.
They all start at it for a few seconds, and a man says, "It sounds like a kid." He laughs nervously. "Weird, huh?"
Mr. Oroku shrugs. "They are good mimics." And the audience nods along. A thing like that can't be a child, and even it was, well...a few of them have broken the rules with children before. Others know of such things and quietly let them pass. It's not a big deal.
Their host gives them permission to remove the gag, if only for a few seconds at a time. They gather some water, a few leftover snacks, and take turns holding the creature's jaws open, laughing as it does its best to bite. It's too weak to hold out for long, too battered and light-dazed and exhausted from fruitless struggling.
"Fuck you," it rasps, but they'll just deliver it punishing smacks on the thighs, bottom, and tail until it learns to hold its tongue. They really don't mind what it says, after all. The idea of something like this judging them is downright foolish. Besides, they have more important things to worry about.
"Drink up, darling," the guests croon, tossing their drinks into its face or pitching grapes into its gaping mouth. "Poor dear, aren't you hungry? Aren't you thirsty?" It chokes and gags, face screwed up, nostrils frantically heaving for air. A few times Mr. Oroku has to make them step back so it won't die too soon.
At one point it just keeps coughing, cheeks shifting from that charming red to an alarming shade of blue. Finally, Mr. Oroku steps forward and gives it good thwack in the stomach, causing it to spit out a bit of food.
"Aren't you grateful, pet?" he asks. It stares at him dazedly, like it's forgotten where it is.
Mr. Oroku laughs, and some of the guests join in. "Look at that, how quickly it breaks." He reaches out and pats the creature on the head. It makes a sad little attempt to flinch away, groaning when Saki slips the gag back into its sweat-slicked bruised mouth.
"You should have seen how proud it was, just a few days ago," he muses, "Strutting alongside the others, pretending it was a person, a warrior." He growls low in his throat, bitter at the very idea. "Madness. An insult to me and everything I stand for."
"Others?" someone asks, surprised.
"A whole set of them." Mr. Oroku pauses, a thoughtful expression creeping across his face. "Perhaps..." He glances at the creature, smiling thoughtfully. "The one I have here is so nice, I might not need to keep the rest around. Perhaps I might find some fine people to sell them off to, instead. Let them be spread out, all over the wide world"
Well, that wakes the beastie right back up. It lunges with a muffled shriek, head jerking until it seems on the verge of breaking its own neck. Some of the guests step back, anxious, but Saki just chuckles.
"Do we have still have a bit of feistiness left, then?" he teases, darting his finger between its legs. He jabs a finger and it jumps, face going red. "Perhaps you'll last long enough for your brothers to see you crumble, instead."
It's the sight of Mr. Oroku touching the creature this way that clinches it. The question has been drifting around all night, but no one has dared to pose it yet. Fondling and poking it one thing, par for the course when playing with a new toy
This, though...this verges on the bestial in their minds, and at the end of the day they're normal, at least compared to the thing in front of them. But now the haze haze of wine, the sense of total unrestraint, and their benefactor's latest sign of carte blanche gives one of them the courage to pass the question.
"Mr. Oroku," a blond woman with an endless smile and razor-sharp eyes asks, "Does your pet," she coughs delicately, "Does it have a cock? Or a cunt?"
And Mr. Oroku gives her a slow smile, as the blood slowly drains from the creature's face. The guests can all predict his answer--it's what they would do in his place, after all.
"Well," he says thoughtfully, reaching up to chuck his turtle under the chin. "I suppose we'll have to check."
The look in its eyes is priceless. As a group, decide that they want to see more of it.
So they reach out as a group and pry its legs apart, giving everybody an even better look. A few of the ones with better backs lean down to get a better look at the situation there. Mr. Oroku remains straight-backed, refusing to break eye contact with his beast. It stares back, looking as if it's trying its hardest to keep a plea out of its eyes.
"I think...." another woman says, carefully reaching to stroke the turtle's trembling flesh. "It's got a slit of some kind." She starts rubbing, narrowing her eyes in concentration, and a shudder ripples through its body. "Oh, you like that, don't you? You dirty boy."
It tries to shake its head, but no one cares. More hands slip between his legs, rubbing, grinding, pulling. Big hands, small hands, hands with sharp nails and wedding rings, pushing for space like children bobbing for apples. Some of them who can't reach its crotch dare each other to nibble at its neck, leaving little bites all over its skin.
The creature twists and jitters like it's being electrocuted. Pants and odd purring sounds force their way out through the gag, mixed with occasional shrieks when someone gets a little too rough. But despite the pain--or perhaps because of it--its slit starts to bulge open. Eager at the sight of approaching success, the hands move faster.
Soon enough, something large and purple drops down between the creature's legs, greeted by gasps and a few whoops. Then it starts to unfold, soft purple layers opening up like a flower. They flutter every so gently, accompanied by sweetly throbbing veins.
"So pretty," someone breaths.
"A bad fit for something so ugly," a wit adds, and they laugh. The creature is sobbing quietly right now, face slack with defeat.
Something so pretty has to be touched, of course. Fingers delicately prod the petals or wrap along the shaft, making sure to treat something as priceless as this with the outmost care. Their prize jerks about in their grip as the turtle squeals, wriggling frantically.
"Don't be shy," the guests croon, eyes bright with barely suppressed laughter. "Give us a show."
It tries to disobey, it really does, tears and droplets of sweat running down its straining face. Still, they can all tell that it hasn't been touched before, doesn't know the first thing about self-control. Its eyes roll wildly in its head, hips thrusting into their eager hands.
"Come, little freaks," Mr. Oroku growls. "Show us what you are."
It does. The guests shatter back, yelping, just in time to avoid the white splatter dropping onto the tiles. The creature lets out a sound of purest pleasure and deepest fury, its eyes flashing white as it shudders, again and again.
The spray just keeps falling, until someone grabs an empty wine glass and sticks it underneath. By the time the turtles slumps in on itself, trembling, the cup is full, and the gathering has one last wicked idea. Mr. Oroku strides forward, unbuckling the gag one last time.
"No," the creature whimpers, seeing the cup draw near. "No, please, please."
"You beg very nicely," Mr. Oroku muses, taking the cup. "But it would be rude to deny your guest." He pinches the cup's mouth open with one hand and pours the contents of the cup down its throat.
It tries to gag it back up, but the guests help Mr. Oroku holds its mouth close and keep pressure on its stomach, holding it still as it writhes and sputters. Finally, it finishes swallowing with a groan, leaving only a few white droplets around its mouth to mark its shame. The room erupts into clapping, cheers, and mocking laughter.
After that, there's not much to do. It's snuffling now, face a mass of snot and tears, and it's not so cute with its innocence so visibly stripped away. The guests go back to their conversations, although a few pause to give that lovely cock a fond pat as it dangles limply between the creature's legs.
Everyone thanks Mr. Oroku for his wonderful entertainment, for being so generous with his things. "You must invite us back when you get the others," they say. "It will be so much fun." The creature doesn't have much more energy to do anything about that except sob slightly louder.
All in all, the guests decide, Mr. Oroku can throw a lovely party.

(They're still talking, laughing, some of them even consider another round, when the windows shatter. They turn, missing the sight of their host slipping back into his claws, missing the blend of desperate hope and the terror of discovery on their beastie's face.
They see blurs of green, and for a heartbeat they wonder if it's another part of the entertainment. Then their criminal instincts kick in and they're reaching for their guns, but the bloody hunger has already engulfed them like a storm.
The wine glass shatters on the floor).