Mortal Cum Bat by Nathan

This is a sample

Prologue: The Tournament of Sin

They used to say wars were fought with swords, sorcery, and blood, but anyone who’s lasted longer than ten minutes in Outworld’s dungeons knows that’s bullshit. History—real history—is written in sweat, sex, spit, and the kinds of screams that don’t fade when the sun comes up. Power was always about the hunger, the fuck, the ability to outlast, outwit, out-fuck anyone else stupid enough to cross you. The Elder Gods themselves, those twisted voyeurs, figured it out centuries ago. Violence is flashy, sure. Lust is eternal.

So the rules of war changed. Quietly at first—just a handful of champions, some unlucky bastards with the wrong mark in the right place, dragged into tournaments they thought were about death. The first few matches looked like any other. There was blood, broken bones, a little showmanship for the crowd. But then it happened. One fight—nobody even remembers who threw the first punch—turned sideways in a way no one expected. The fighters fell, tangled and wrestling, and somewhere in that snarl of sweat and agony, pain turned to pleasure. Someone moaned. Someone screamed. Someone finished so hard the floor cracked and the crowd went silent. That was the real fatality. That was the night Mortal Kombat became Mortal Cum-bat.

It didn’t stop there. The gods loved it. The crowd went from howling for blood to howling for more—more flesh, more filth, more impossible displays of depravity and skill. And so the tournament changed. The dragon mark began appearing not just on warriors and sorcerers, but on sluts, exhibitionists, brothel madams, monks who’d spent a little too much time in isolation, anyone whose appetites ran wild enough to draw the gods’ gaze. Every realm sent their best, or at least their dirtiest. Every decade, the line between fighting and fucking blurred a little more.

The arenas adapted. Some were purpose-built: giant pits lined with spikes and oil, stone floors stained with generations of spilled cum and blood. Others were more improvised: back alleys, ancient temples, cloud-palaces, nightmare dungeons, a nightclub bathroom if you were unlucky. But it didn’t matter where you fought. The rules were always the same—there weren’t any.

People tell stories about the old days, when a punch to the jaw could win you glory. Now, you want to win a round? You make your opponent scream. You break them—not just their body, but their will, their pride, their orgasm threshold. Some champions are legends not for their strength, but for their ability to keep going, to outlast waves of opponents, to turn the filthiest humiliation into a weapon. They come, they crawl, they beg, they get back up, and sometimes they crawl again just to get another taste. And the gods watch, and the crowd howls, and somewhere, the fate of a realm shifts because someone just couldn’t stop fucking.

People started calling it the “Tournament of Sin,” but it’s more than that. It’s religion. It’s politics. It’s survival. Each realm stakes everything on the hips and tongues and stamina of its chosen few. Lose, and your world is fair game—your people become prizes, your champions become concubines, slaves, sex toys for the winner’s endless orgies. Win, and you get a few years of peace—if you can call it peace with all the scheming, the training, the back-alley fuck-offs as everyone tries to breed the next champion before the next tournament. Some champions retire rich, owning harems and palaces. Others end up chained in Outworld’s dungeons, broken but still writhing, forever on the edge of orgasm and defeat.

The mark is everything. You don’t choose it. It chooses you. Sometimes it appears at birth—kids born with a glowing dragon curled around their thigh or etched into their breast, their parents too scared to ever let them undress in public. Sometimes it shows up the morning after the filthiest night of your life, a burning sting in the flesh that lets you know the gods were watching. It’s a blessing, a curse, a ticket to the nastiest ride in the cosmos. Once you’ve got the mark, you don’t get to say no. The realms need you, the gods want you, the crowd expects a show.

Champions come from everywhere. The obvious ones—musclebound killers, seductive assassins, ancient sorcerers with a taste for flesh. But then there’s the rest: the failed actors, the club dancers, the freaks who figured out how to turn a blowjob into an artform, the monks who could meditate their way to a hands-free orgasm. Some train for years, mastering every martial art, every trick of the tongue, every technique passed down from whore to whore in the dark alleys of the world. Others just have that spark—raw, animal, uncontrollable.

And then there’s the powers. See, the mark doesn’t just give you an invite—it gives you an upgrade. Whatever you were good at before, now you’re a fucking legend. A girl who could squirt before? Now she can flood an arena, drown a man, leave Outworld’s finest gasping and begging for mercy. A guy who always shot his load too soon? Now he can reload in seconds, fire off round after round until his opponents collapse in a sticky pile of defeat. A dominatrix with a whip? Now her strikes leave marks that glow for days, burning through armor, pride, even the flesh of gods. Some develop powers nobody even understands: the ability to mind-fuck, to force orgasms with a word, to drain willpower with a glance, to make a simple touch into a weapon.

Fatalities, they still exist—but nobody really dies. Not in the old sense. No, the real finishers now are filthier, more devastating, and infinitely more humiliating. The crowd doesn’t want to see blood anymore; they want to see pride shattered, legs shaking, eyes rolled back in mindless, howling pleasure. There’s nothing clean about it. Some finishers break your mind, leave you drooling for hours, addicted to the taste of defeat. Some champions are remembered not because they won, but because they lost in such spectacular fashion, their name became a fetish whispered for generations. The “Soul Suck.” The “Cum Death.” The “Infinite Orgasm.” And always, the threat: Lose, and you might never cum again without someone else’s say-so.

The crowd is everything. The crowd decides who gets remembered, who gets dragged off for a night with Shao Kahn or locked in a cage with Mileena. Spectators from every realm, spirits and mortals and things that should never have been born, all gathered to watch the world’s dirtiest tournament play out in sweat and screams. The stands are a sea of bodies, fucking as they watch, every orgasm echoing back down to the arena. The crowd is insatiable, demanding, cruel. If you bore them, you’re finished before the round even begins. If you excite them, you can ride the wave to immortality—if your stamina holds out.

There’s a twisted sense of honor in it all. The best champions respect their opponents, at least until the match starts. Some develop rivalries that burn across lifetimes—two fighters who can’t stop trying to break each other, lovers and enemies at the same time. Others just want the glory, the power, the endless parade of willing flesh that comes with being a victor. Some want peace for their world, knowing that a win buys safety, even if only for a while. And some just want the fucking—pure, simple, animal lust on the grandest stage in the realms.

Earthrealm is the punchline of the cosmos. Mortals—so fragile, so weak, so desperate to prove themselves. And yet, time after time, Earth’s champions surprise everyone. Maybe it’s because mortals have something to fight for. Maybe it’s because their filth is raw, unfiltered, desperate in a way the gods can never be. Or maybe it’s just luck. Every time the tournament rolls around, Earthrealm scrounges up a new batch of champions—freaks and heroes and outcasts, each one hungrier, hornier, filthier than the last.

Every champion remembers their first time—the moment they felt the mark burn, the moment they realized they were being watched, the moment they got dragged, half-naked and half-crazy, into the biggest fuck-fight of their life. Some laugh. Some cry. Some cum on the spot. All of them know what’s at stake.

Lose, and you’re not just shamed. You’re used. The winner can claim you right there in the arena, in front of gods and mortals and every filthy thing with a pulse. There are stories—champions who lost and never made it out, champions who won and never stopped coming. The crowd remembers everything. The gods take notes. The cycle repeats, round after round, era after era.

Training never stops. Some champions fuck their way across continents, gathering techniques like treasures, building up stamina, inventing new perversions. Some go mad, chasing the next high, the next humiliation, the next mind-shattering finish. Some just want to survive. The greatest know that victory isn’t just about fucking harder, but smarter. Some can turn a single touch into a weapon, a word into a curse, a kiss into a hypnotic spell that leaves their opponent drooling and helpless.

Legends are born and broken here. The greatest finishers become myths—moves so devastating they echo through the centuries. The “Dragon’s Milk,” the “Fist of Fury,” the “Endless Night.” Some say there are finishers so filthy, so powerful, that even the gods avert their eyes. Nobody knows if those stories are true. Everybody hopes they are.

Now, as the tournament looms again, the marks burn across Earthrealm. The gods are restless. The crowd is hungry. The realms wait for new champions to step into the arena, to risk everything for a shot at glory, a moment of ecstasy, or just the chance to survive. The next generation is already being chosen—freaks, fighters, lovers, monsters, all marked and ready for the dirtiest war the worlds have ever known.

Welcome to Mortal Cum-bat. The only tournament where everyone comes, but only the strongest get to come again.

Welcome to Mortal Cum-bat.

Here, Finish Him has a whole different meaning.