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The first is that I tend to use a lot of dialogue in my stories. Often my daily word counts get reached through a conversation. This I worried was a crutch, especially since my descriptive muscles are lacking (as someone with aphantasia, this is difficult). So I tried to see if I could make a story with as little dialogue as possible. \n\nThe second experiment was writing in the present tense. I normally write in the past tense and read in the past tense. It makes it a struggle whenever I pick up a new book and see it's in a different style (first person, present tense, etc). I try to avoid these when I can because I believe my writing style fluctuates depending on what I'm reading. Yes, I forget how to write prose regularly. Or I just don't have confidence in mine. Either way, I decided to write this in the present tense as a challenge. \n\nYou can find stories like this over on my [url=https://www.patreon.com/c/Ralanrwrites]Patreon[/url] and/or [url=https://subscribestar.adult/ralanr]Subscribestar[/url]. Members have access to stories in advance and discounts on commissions at certain tiers. \n\nEnjoy!", "description_bbcode_parsed": "Some gifts are better than others.

Two things inspired this piece as an experiment. The first is that I tend to use a lot of dialogue in my stories. Often my daily word counts get reached through a conversation. This I worried was a crutch, especially since my descriptive muscles are lacking (as someone with aphantasia, this is difficult). So I tried to see if I could make a story with as little dialogue as possible.

The second experiment was writing in the present tense. I normally write in the past tense and read in the past tense. It makes it a struggle whenever I pick up a new book and see it's in a different style (first person, present tense, etc). I try to avoid these when I can because I believe my writing style fluctuates depending on what I'm reading. Yes, I forget how to write prose regularly. Or I just don't have confidence in mine. Either way, I decided to write this in the present tense as a challenge.

You can find stories like this over on my Patreon and/or Subscribestar. Members have access to stories in advance and discounts on commissions at certain tiers.

Enjoy!", "writing": "A poodle nervously clamps her hands together as she waits at a bus stop under a flickering light. Her luxury open-toed high-heels bounce with every tepid flinch of her heel. Her breath is rhythmic in the night air. There are abandoned warehouses behind her, behemoths of a bygone era that now echo the smallest noises like ghosts on the wind. Whenever she hears a crack or a tweak the poodle huddles her designer handbag underneath her ratty leather jacket. \n\n\nShe tells herself it is just the wind, and it is, but that doesn’t stem her nerves. She fiddles with her golden hoop earrings as she is prone to do when anxious, excited, and both. Worried for the time, the poodle pulls out her phone to check, ignoring the encouraging texts from her girlfriend that everything will be great. She cannot help but be uncertain, having never experienced what is supposed to happen tonight. \n\n\nTwin lights blare in the distance, drawing closer and closer. She stands at attention for it, hoping it’s not another lost driver trying to make sense of old roads. A van, a former police van she guesses by its black and white color scheme with all other identifying symbols removed, halts at the bus stop. \n\n\nHer heartbeat speeds up, mirroring the thrum of the engine. Tinted windows obscure the passenger side window from the streetlight. For a minute nothing happens, leaving the poodle’s tail to fall between her legs in fear that something is wrong. The engine cuts out. The passenger side and driver’s doors open, and her tail begins to wag again.\n\n\nOne woman and one man stand before her. Each wears matching uniforms with black khaki pants, gray collared shirts with matching flap patch pockets on opposing sides, and a white undershirt. Each of them has two pairs of handcuffs hanging from their belts. No nightsticks, there is no need. \n\n\nThe man, a fox, is carrying a clipboard he meticulously looks over, eyeing the poodle throughout. She tries to speak up but the woman, a bear, holds her palm out to signal that she’s to remain silent. The poodle bites her lip, debating whether to nod in agreement or look away in embarrassment. By the time she decides the fox tells his partner she is the one.\n\n\nUpon request, the poodle puts her bag aside and holds her hands out. The fox takes it to the front, while the bear locks handcuffs around her wrists. The cold steel sends goosebumps across the poodle's skin, hidden by the thick layer of her natural coat. The fox returns with two more restraints, a muzzle, and a set of ankle cuffs, the latter of which he has his partner apply while he works the muzzle around the poodle’s maw. It is tight enough to keep her quiet without causing discomfort, as it should be. She does not have the right to speak.\n\n\nThe bear asks if she can walk in heels with the hobble chain. The poodle looks down and then nods, finding the length only prevents her from running. The bear’s thick paw leads her by the arm to the back of the van. Her heart skips with every metal clink the ankle chain makes against the concrete. The bear opens the back door, revealing that the back of the van has been made into a holding cell with leather padded benches lining the sides. Unable to step up, the poodle looks to the bear for help. The guard pulls out a ramp and guides her up it, then locks her cuffs to a long chain bolted to the floor.\n\n\nOnce she’s handed the clipboard the bear closes the door shut and sits across from the poodle. She begins to write something down as the van roars to life. The poodle braces herself by her feet as they begin to move. She’s never ridden without a seatbelt before.\n\n\nThe bear ignores her, too busy writing something across the clipboard. The poodle watches, curious to what it might be. Descriptions of her attire? Time of acquisition? Her behavior? She thinks about these and more over the ride, distracting herself from what’s to come. \n\n\nDuring the ride, she tests her restraints. The poodle has no illusions of breaking out. The feel of cold steel against her wrists is just comforting. It digs in like a sharp hug, reminding her she is limited in movement. Limited freedom. She stops whenever the bear eyes her only to continue a minute or so after the bear returns to her clipboard.\n\n\nThe van stops several times on their trip. Stop signs and lights, the poodle assumes, imagining the urban detail around the van. She thinks of all the night drivers passing by, unaware of her position. How many, the poodle wonders, are looking at the van with curiosity? Little to none seems a safe bet, but the poodle imagines enough eyes to shiver with heat.\n\n\nShe guesses it takes twenty minutes for them to arrive. There is no foundation for this guess, the poodle simply rounds to an even number and it seemed too short for thirty. The bear unlatches the floor chain and then opens the double doors, pulling out the ramp after stepping outside. Cautious, the poodle takes tentative steps to the ramp. In place of words, she waves to the bear for assistance, which the guard gives by holding her arm as she takes short steps down the ramp. Once down the bear lets go to put everything back, giving the poodle a moment to see her new surroundings.\n\n\nThey are in a parking garage of smooth pavement. Small enough to be completely indoors but big enough for a loading dock. There are more vans here, and empty spots for vans not here marked by the perpendicular white lines. The bear hooks her arm to lead her away as the van drives off to pick up another.\n\n\nThrough a thick black double door, the floor becomes white and tiled like an office building. The jingle of her chain, the click of her heels, and the footballs of the bear’s boots echo through the hall without fanfare. Her heart races to match the beat until she is stopped in front of a stationary camera and a white screen. Her guard leaves her standing between them, removing the muzzle before stepping behind the camera. The poodle says nothing beyond an audible gulp and a shaking breath as she waits. \n\n\nShe hears a command to look forward, eyes open. She does, hearing a click. It then says for her to look right, then left. Each time ends with a click. The bear grabs her arm when finished, leading her down the corridor to another room where she unlocks her restraints. She points to a document tapped to the wall before leaving, locking the poodle inside. \n\n\nThe room is small. The poodle guesses it is a ten by ten unit, similar to a garden shed in size. There is a plastic fold-out table opposite her entrance with an open lockbox on it. Above it, laminated and attached to the wall by layers of duct tape, are instructions on what she is to do next. She peers at each corner. There is a single black dome camera in the left corner of the wall where the table sits. \n\n\nThe poodle closes her eyes, straightens herself, and breaths. Centered, she reaches the table to read the instructions, absently massaging her wrists throughout. \n\n\nThey are clear. She is to strip naked and place all belongings in the lockbox. Anything she keeps on will be taken as freedom of use by staff. Once bare, she is to face the corner with her legs spread and hands behind her bed until told otherwise. \n\n\nShe plays with her thumbs while rereading the second part. Her next breath is shaky, excitable, and anxious. First, she detaches her earrings, dropping them in the box with a clang of metal against metal. Her ratty leather jacket comes next, followed by her designer top and bra, revealing nipple rings hanging from her tight nipples. She kicks off her heels before pulling down her skirt and panties, leaving her naked save for the thick fur she’d let grow out. Each article of clothing is folded carefully before being put inside. \n\n\nNaked, the poodle moves to the furthest corner of the room to face it, her hands behind her head, back straight, and legs shoulder-length apart. There she waits, with nothing to distract her from the concrete chill across her soles and the tepid air she breathes. In through her nose, out through her nose. \n\n\nPreparation does not stop her from twitching at the twist of the knob. She hears heavy footsteps but doesn’t look around to confirm if they belong to the bear or someone else. The box closes shut with a metal snap, then locks with a click. Strong hands pull the poodle’s arms behind her one at a time, locking them together with a single pair of handcuffs. She looks down at the floor as this happens, noticing a small wet spot on the pavement between her legs. After hobble chains and cuffs are locked in place, a thick rubber ball is stuffed into her maw. The guard lodges it behind the poodle’s teeth, strapping it tight with leather to keep her mouth full and quiet. With the lockbox in one hand and the poodle’s arm in another, the bear leads her out of the room and down the hallway. She is not acknowledged by any guard they pass. Other prisoners in different stages glance at her, but none speak. They are either gagged or muzzled.\n\n\nThe next room smells like a salon with a hint of burnt fur. A dalmatian waits for them, with long surgical latex gloves, a surgical mask, and scrubs. The poodle cannot tell if they are male or female, and the question sticks to her as the bear unlocks her hands to bind them with a hook over her head. She leaves them with the lockbox in hand. The poodle tries to watch her leave, but a latex-covered hand holds her attention.\n\n\nThe dalmatian does not speak. They turn her head left, then right, inspecting her. It feels impersonal, as though she were just another in a long line of meat. He tail wags despite herself. \n\n\nThey roll out a cart with a metal tray carrying scissors, razors, electric razors, shaving gel, and more. The poodle gulps behind her gag while the dalmatian grabs the electric razor. With a click, it whirs to life. Her breathing speeds up. Reflexively she backs away. The bindings make it fruitless. \n\n\nThe dalmatian is slow and methodical in shaving her. Being a poodle, she is used to the process. Years of beauty pageants as a child meant she’d often have her fur and hair cut into ridiculous patterns to highlight the poofy nature of her fur. Even as an adult, she’d fall into the habit of experimenting with styles, rarely letting her fur fully grow out. Now it all covers the floor. \n\n\nWhat the electric razor misses the dalmatian catches with scissors or the standard razor. The poodle gnaws into her gag. Drool seeps in thin lines that soak the discarded hair. Not even her head is spared, leaving her fur so thin she may as well be without. \n\n\nThe dalmatian sweeps the floor with the same impersonal focus they carried shaving her. The poodle watches her fur, her identity, bundled into dustpan after dustpan. Her skin crawls every time a sliding hatch is pulled open. The dalmatian dumps them in, and the scent of burning hair grows stronger. \n\n\nAnother cart is rolled out. This one carries a matching set of thick metal cuffs and a collar, along with a chastity belt. The belt is first. They free her leg chains and then spread them with a soft kick. The metal is cold as is the pressure over her cunt as the shield is latched over it. With but a twist of a key the belt is sealed.\n\n\nThe dalmatian questions her if the bindings are too tight. She shakes her head every time, nodding or shaking again when they ask if a binding is too loose. They need to be fitted just right, and any that don’t are replaced with a different set of cuffs. The collar is the last to be locked. The cold steel hangs heavy around her neck despite its meager weight. She tries to stifle her tail. She fails with every click of her bindings.\n\n\nWrists are locked to the waistband of the belt. Two more cuffs are locked to her biceps, then pulled behind her back to latch with the other by a short chain. It is tight enough to immobilize without pain, leaving her breasts exposed for anyone to tease and torment. The dalmatian, despite the poodle’s hopes, ignores them. They direct her to the nearest corner and state that she is ready for pickup through the intercom on the wall. It takes several minutes for the guard to return, leaving the poodle alone to ponder the next step in her internment. Her tail cannot stop wagging. \n\n\nThe guard takes her back to the photo stands for two more pictures of her front and her side. The poodle, growing more excited with each restraint, puffs her chest out for these pictures. She imagines how they will set up her profile, listing the four pictures taken as pairs for before and after processing.\n\n\nOnce the pictures are settled she is led down several hallways. Her soles are too soft to match the echo of the bear’s boots across the concrete. Her chains rattle with every scrap against the pavement. \n\n\nNow she sees others like her, men and women bound and paraded with their maws stuffed or muzzled. Their restraints vary. All are locked in chastity, but some of the women have special metal bros over their breasts. Some are covered head to toe in restraints with their faces hidden by glossy black hoods like the material covering their bodies. Some in heavy restraints are carted around on dollies, allowing them to writhe in what little freedom they have without hindering those in charge of them.\n\n\nHer unit sits next to a corner. The door is of steel gray with a barred eye slit. The door hinges squeak as it opens, and the inside reveals less of a room and more of a walk-in closet. There is no padding to cover the concrete floor and the walls are extensions of the material. Inside there are two hooks and one ring, the former to her side where a muzzle and a leather hood hang, the latter being planted in the ceiling.\n\n\nShe stretches her jaw reflexively upon the gag’s removal, speaking no more than an aching yawn. Her guard pulls the leather hood over her face, robbing the poodle of the last remnants of personhood. She ties it tight enough that the poodle cannot see the leather around her eyes if she stares straight. The muzzle comes next, as tight as her first to keep her mouth quiet without long-term damage a gag might provide. She thumbs the poodle’s nose ring while fishing through her pockets. A thin chain is latched to it, then locked to the ceiling hook above. The chain is long enough so the poodle does not need to stand on the tips of her toes, but her head is arched upward lest she tug at her piercing. Finally, a blindfold is clipped on, sealing her in darkness. \n\n\nThere are no remarks. No taunts or jests of her predicament, nor assurances of her stay. There need be none for the poodle, as those are for people and she is no longer a person. The bear closes the door behind her, locking it with a latch. She is stuck in her position until they return, bound to serve her sentence.\n\n\nShe thinks about the events leading up to this moment. How the cuffs are cold and weigh on her wrists like the current ones or the indignity of being carted away in a public space. She imagines the look of her profile from the photos taken and replays the feeling of the dalmatian’s hands across her bare skin whilst shaving her. She thinks about the subtle noises around her, from the footsteps passing her cell door, the screeching hinges for every prisoner new or leaving, and the muffled noises of each one like her. \n\n\nFor a time she focuses inward. Her legs slowly ach throughout her stay, and her bindings remain tight when she tests them. She never intends to break them, but the point of the bindings is moot if she does not test them. Her breathing is steady, enough to feel the leather strain across her face whenever she reflexively moves her maw. \n\n\nEventually, the poodle stops thinking. She stops recognizing the squeaks of latex or the muffled grunts of the cells next to her. She stops acknowledging the pain in her legs and stiffens to keep still so her nose ring does not tug. Everything has vanished to her, even her bindings feel as natural to her like they belonged there. \n\n\nThis was freedom. Freedom from responsibility. Freedom from thought. Freedom from identity. She stands there with a slow rhythmic breath through her nose. The chains clack when her muscles twitch on reflex, rare moments reminding her of the belt her hands were latched to. Somewhere in subspace, be it real or her imagination, the poodle hears a soft drip clattering against the concrete floor.\n\n\nDrip.\n\n\nDrip.\n\n\nDrip.\n\n\nShe does not recognize the heat of her arousal until the cell door is opened. A guard acknowledges her by a number. She’s unsure if it’s her cell number or some type of identification in her profile. By their voice it is a different guard, adding credence to their talk of hours having passed since her intake. \n\n\nReleasing her from the nose chain, the guard grabs the poodle by her collar and bicep bindings and guides the blind prisoner down to what they refer to as sleeping quarters. When next she stops, the poodle’s arms are freed. She is told to hold her arms out forward. As she does, a tight sleeve is slipped down each arm. She realizes it is a straitjacket by the compression against her chest as her arms are pulled into a forceful self-hug. \n\n\nShe becomes weightless for a second as a second pair of hands helps hoist her up. There’s some laughter between the guards once she’s on the cot. One clutches her head to keep the poodle from looking around and tells her to be still as the other locks safety straps over her body. The two carry her into a room that squeaks under their feet. All she smells is rubber as they lay her bed down. With one last check and a chastisement from one guard to another, her leg cuffs are locked to the two corners. She is assured they have cameras watching her and will make routine check-ins every hour. None if it needs to wake her, so they say.\n\n\nThey shut a heavy door behind them. She is alone again, bound tighter in pitch darkness. There is a moment of relief for her legs much-needed rest, but she dismisses it as a concern just as quickly. Her mind slips. She wonders if it's a dream or another trance.\n\n\nThen she stops thinking.\n\n\n***\n\n\n\n\nAngelica drummed her freshly manicured claws along her steering wheel. The tigress normally did not care to do more than sharpen them. Now they were decked in a shade of blue so deep it reminded her of the night. She smiled at seeing them, all the more thankful for her girlfriend’s birthday present.\n\n\n“I don’t have all day,” she said, slumping into her seat with a groan. She’d been out in the parking lot for an hour now, enough for the morning sun to break the horizon. They assured her on the phone Trisha would be out before then. Either her girlfriend was taking her sweet time, or they let her enjoy the moment. This would be fine if Angelica wasn’t missing half a day of work for this, having already told her boss the day prior that she needed to take care of something. \n\n\nThe tigress sighs. Given that this was her fault in the first place, she has no one but herself to blame. \n\n\nThree taps against a window spooked her up. A poodle shaved to her shortest hair stood outside, clad in designer fashion ruined by Angelica’s ragged leather jacket. She spent a moment staring bewildered at the figure before rolling down her window.\n\n\n“Wow…they weren’t kidding about the special treatment.”\n\n\nTrisha nodded with a smile. She circled and sat on the passenger side without a word. \n\n\n“Spill,” Angelica said, her curiosity fueled by having paid for all of it. “How was it? Best birthday ever?”\n\n\nA sultry smile spread over the poodle’s maw. She let go of her seatbelt midway buckling it. It clattered to the wall as she climbed over the armrest. Their lips braced, Trisha’s tongue slipped inside to wrestle her girlfriend’s with a determination she’d not felt in years. \n\n\n“Yeah,” Trisha said, breaking away. “Best birthday ever. By the way, can we turn the coat closet into an isolation chamber?”\n\n\n“Where are we going to put our coats? You don’t have room in the shoe closet.”\n\n\nTrisha shrugged. “We could get a coat rack.”\n\n\nAngelica scratched her chin, picturing the finished product. She smiled. “I’ll see what I can do.\"", "writing_bbcode_parsed": "A poodle nervously clamps her hands together as she waits at a bus stop under a flickering light. Her luxury open-toed high-heels bounce with every tepid flinch of her heel.  Her breath is rhythmic in the night air. There are abandoned warehouses behind her, behemoths of a bygone era that now echo the smallest noises like ghosts on the wind. Whenever she hears a crack or a tweak the poodle huddles her designer handbag underneath her ratty leather jacket.


She tells herself it is just the wind, and it is, but that doesn’t stem her nerves. She fiddles with her golden hoop earrings as she is prone to do when anxious, excited, and both. Worried for the time, the poodle pulls out her phone to check, ignoring the encouraging texts from her girlfriend that everything will be great. She cannot help but be uncertain, having never experienced what is supposed to happen tonight.


Twin lights blare in the distance, drawing closer and closer. She stands at attention for it, hoping it’s not another lost driver trying to make sense of old roads. A van, a former police van she guesses by its black and white color scheme with all other identifying symbols removed, halts at the bus stop.


Her heartbeat speeds up, mirroring the thrum of the engine. Tinted windows obscure the passenger side window from the streetlight. For a minute nothing happens, leaving the poodle’s tail to fall between her legs in fear that something is wrong. The engine cuts out. The passenger side and driver’s doors open, and her tail begins to wag again.


One woman and one man stand before her. Each wears matching uniforms with black khaki pants, gray collared shirts with matching flap patch pockets on opposing sides, and a white undershirt. Each of them has two pairs of handcuffs hanging from their belts. No nightsticks, there is no need.


The man, a fox, is carrying a clipboard he meticulously looks over, eyeing the poodle throughout. She tries to speak up but the woman, a bear, holds her palm out to signal that she’s to remain silent. The poodle bites her lip, debating whether to nod in agreement or look away in embarrassment. By the time she decides the fox tells his partner she is the one.


Upon request, the poodle puts her bag aside and holds her hands out. The fox takes it to the front, while the bear locks handcuffs around her wrists. The cold steel sends goosebumps across the poodle's skin, hidden by the thick layer of her natural coat. The fox returns with two more restraints, a muzzle, and a set of ankle cuffs, the latter of which he has his partner apply while he works the muzzle around the poodle’s maw. It is tight enough to keep her quiet without causing discomfort, as it should be. She does not have the right to speak.


The bear asks if she can walk in heels with the hobble chain. The poodle looks down and then nods, finding the length only prevents her from running. The bear’s thick paw leads her by the arm to the back of the van. Her heart skips with every metal clink the ankle chain makes against the concrete. The bear opens the back door, revealing that the back of the van has been made into a holding cell with leather padded benches lining the sides. Unable to step up, the poodle looks to the bear for help. The guard pulls out a ramp and guides her up it, then locks her cuffs to a long chain bolted to the floor.


Once she’s handed the clipboard the bear closes the door shut and sits across from the poodle. She begins to write something down as the van roars to life. The poodle braces herself by her feet as they begin to move. She’s never ridden without a seatbelt before.


The bear ignores her, too busy writing something across the clipboard. The poodle watches, curious to what it might be. Descriptions of her attire? Time of acquisition? Her behavior? She thinks about these and more over the ride, distracting herself from what’s to come.


During the ride, she tests her restraints. The poodle has no illusions of breaking out. The feel of cold steel against her wrists is just comforting. It digs in like a sharp hug, reminding her she is limited in movement. Limited freedom. She stops whenever the bear eyes her only to continue a minute or so after the bear returns to her clipboard.


The van stops several times on their trip. Stop signs and lights, the poodle assumes, imagining the urban detail around the van. She thinks of all the night drivers passing by, unaware of her position. How many, the poodle wonders, are looking at the van with curiosity? Little to none seems a safe bet, but the poodle imagines enough eyes to shiver with heat.


She guesses it takes twenty minutes for them to arrive. There is no foundation for this guess, the poodle simply rounds to an even number and it seemed too short for thirty. The bear unlatches the floor chain and then opens the double doors, pulling out the ramp after stepping outside. Cautious, the poodle takes tentative steps to the ramp. In place of words, she waves to the bear for assistance, which the guard gives by holding her arm as she takes short steps down the ramp. Once down the bear lets go to put everything back, giving the poodle a moment to see her new surroundings.


They are in a parking garage of smooth pavement. Small enough to be completely indoors but big enough for a loading dock. There are more vans here, and empty spots for vans not here marked by the perpendicular white lines. The bear hooks her arm to lead her away as the van drives off to pick up another.


Through a thick black double door, the floor becomes white and tiled like an office building. The jingle of her chain, the click of her heels, and the footballs of the bear’s boots echo through the hall without fanfare. Her heart races to match the beat until she is stopped in front of a stationary camera and a white screen. Her guard leaves her standing between them, removing the muzzle before stepping behind the camera. The poodle says nothing beyond an audible gulp and a shaking breath as she waits.


She hears a command to look forward, eyes open. She does, hearing a click. It then says for her to look right, then left. Each time ends with a click. The bear grabs her arm when finished, leading her down the corridor to another room where she unlocks her restraints. She points to a document tapped to the wall before leaving, locking the poodle inside.


The room is small. The poodle guesses it is a ten by ten unit, similar to a garden shed in size. There is a plastic fold-out table opposite her entrance with an open lockbox on it. Above it, laminated and attached to the wall by layers of duct tape, are instructions on what she is to do next. She peers at each corner. There is a single black dome camera in the left corner of the wall where the table sits.


The poodle closes her eyes, straightens herself, and breaths. Centered, she reaches the table to read the instructions, absently massaging her wrists throughout.


They are clear. She is to strip naked and place all belongings in the lockbox. Anything she keeps on will be taken as freedom of use by staff. Once bare, she is to face the corner with her legs spread and hands behind her bed until told otherwise.


She plays with her thumbs while rereading the second part. Her next breath is shaky, excitable, and anxious. First, she detaches her earrings, dropping them in the box with a clang of metal against metal. Her ratty leather jacket comes next, followed by her designer top and bra, revealing nipple rings hanging from her tight nipples. She kicks off her heels before pulling down her skirt and panties, leaving her naked save for the thick fur she’d let grow out. Each article of clothing is folded carefully before being put inside.


Naked, the poodle moves to the furthest corner of the room to face it, her hands behind her head, back straight, and legs shoulder-length apart. There she waits, with nothing to distract her from the concrete chill across her soles and the tepid air she breathes. In through her nose, out through her nose.


Preparation does not stop her from twitching at the twist of the knob. She hears heavy footsteps but doesn’t look around to confirm if they belong to the bear or someone else. The box closes shut with a metal snap, then locks with a click. Strong hands pull the poodle’s arms behind her one at a time, locking them together with a single pair of handcuffs. She looks down at the floor as this happens, noticing a small wet spot on the pavement between her legs. After hobble chains and cuffs are locked in place, a thick rubber ball is stuffed into her maw. The guard lodges it behind the poodle’s teeth, strapping it tight with leather to keep her mouth full and quiet. With the lockbox in one hand and the poodle’s arm in another, the bear leads her out of the room and down the hallway. She is not acknowledged by any guard they pass. Other prisoners in different stages glance at her, but none speak. They are either gagged or muzzled.


The next room smells like a salon with a hint of burnt fur. A dalmatian waits for them, with long surgical latex gloves, a surgical mask, and scrubs. The poodle cannot tell if they are male or female, and the question sticks to her as the bear unlocks her hands to bind them with a hook over her head. She leaves them with the lockbox in hand. The poodle tries to watch her leave, but a latex-covered hand holds her attention.


The dalmatian does not speak. They turn her head left, then right, inspecting her. It feels impersonal, as though she were just another in a long line of meat. He tail wags despite herself.


They roll out a cart with a metal tray carrying scissors, razors, electric razors, shaving gel, and more. The poodle gulps behind her gag while the dalmatian grabs the electric razor. With a click, it whirs to life. Her breathing speeds up. Reflexively she backs away. The bindings make it fruitless.


The dalmatian is slow and methodical in shaving her. Being a poodle, she is used to the process. Years of beauty pageants as a child meant she’d often have her fur and hair cut into ridiculous patterns to highlight the poofy nature of her fur. Even as an adult, she’d fall into the habit of experimenting with styles, rarely letting her fur fully grow out. Now it all covers the floor.


What the electric razor misses the dalmatian catches with scissors or the standard razor. The poodle gnaws into her gag. Drool seeps in thin lines that soak the discarded hair. Not even her head is spared, leaving her fur so thin she may as well be without.


The dalmatian sweeps the floor with the same impersonal focus they carried shaving her. The poodle watches her fur, her identity, bundled into dustpan after dustpan. Her skin crawls every time a sliding hatch is pulled open. The dalmatian dumps them in, and the scent of burning hair grows stronger.


Another cart is rolled out. This one carries a matching set of thick metal cuffs and a collar, along with a chastity belt. The belt is first. They free her leg chains and then spread them with a soft kick. The metal is cold as is the pressure over her cunt as the shield is latched over it. With but a twist of a key the belt is sealed.


The dalmatian questions her if the bindings are too tight. She shakes her head every time, nodding or shaking again when they ask if a binding is too loose. They need to be fitted just right, and any that don’t are replaced with a different set of cuffs. The collar is the last to be locked. The cold steel hangs heavy around her neck despite its meager weight. She tries to stifle her tail. She fails with every click of her bindings.


Wrists are locked to the waistband of the belt. Two more cuffs are locked to her biceps, then pulled behind her back to latch with the other by a short chain. It is tight enough to immobilize without pain, leaving her breasts exposed for anyone to tease and torment. The dalmatian, despite the poodle’s hopes, ignores them. They direct her to the nearest corner and state that she is ready for pickup through the intercom on the wall. It takes several minutes for the guard to return, leaving the poodle alone to ponder the next step in her internment. Her tail cannot stop wagging.


The guard takes her back to the photo stands for two more pictures of her front and her side. The poodle, growing more excited with each restraint, puffs her chest out for these pictures. She imagines how they will set up her profile, listing the four pictures taken as pairs for before and after processing.


Once the pictures are settled she is led down several hallways. Her soles are too soft to match the echo of the bear’s boots across the concrete. Her chains rattle with every scrap against the pavement.


Now she sees others like her, men and women bound and paraded with their maws stuffed or muzzled. Their restraints vary. All are locked in chastity, but some of the women have special metal bros over their breasts. Some are covered head to toe in restraints with their faces hidden by glossy black hoods like the material covering their bodies. Some in heavy restraints are carted around on dollies, allowing them to writhe in what little freedom they have without hindering those in charge of them.


Her unit sits next to a corner. The door is of steel gray with a barred eye slit. The door hinges squeak as it opens, and the inside reveals less of a room and more of a walk-in closet. There is no padding to cover the concrete floor and the walls are extensions of the material. Inside there are two hooks and one ring, the former to her side where a muzzle and a leather hood hang, the latter being planted in the ceiling.


She stretches her jaw reflexively upon the gag’s removal, speaking no more than an aching yawn. Her guard pulls the leather hood over her face, robbing the poodle of the last remnants of personhood. She ties it tight enough that the poodle cannot see the leather around her eyes if she stares straight. The muzzle comes next, as tight as her first to keep her mouth quiet without long-term damage a gag might provide. She thumbs the poodle’s nose ring while fishing through her pockets. A thin chain is latched to it, then locked to the ceiling hook above. The chain is long enough so the poodle does not need to stand on the tips of her toes, but her head is arched upward lest she tug at her piercing. Finally, a blindfold is clipped on, sealing her in darkness.


There are no remarks. No taunts or jests of her predicament, nor assurances of her stay. There need be none for the poodle, as those are for people and she is no longer a person. The bear closes the door behind her, locking it with a latch. She is stuck in her position until they return, bound to serve her sentence.


She thinks about the events leading up to this moment. How the cuffs are cold and weigh on her wrists like the current ones or the indignity of being carted away in a public space. She imagines the look of her profile from the photos taken and replays the feeling of the dalmatian’s hands across her bare skin whilst shaving her. She thinks about the subtle noises around her, from the footsteps passing her cell door, the screeching hinges for every prisoner new or leaving, and the muffled noises of each one like her.


For a time she focuses inward. Her legs slowly ach throughout her stay, and her bindings remain tight when she tests them. She never intends to break them, but the point of the bindings is moot if she does not test them. Her breathing is steady, enough to feel the leather strain across her face whenever she reflexively moves her maw.


Eventually, the poodle stops thinking. She stops recognizing the squeaks of latex or the muffled grunts of the cells next to her. She stops acknowledging the pain in her legs and stiffens to keep still so her nose ring does not tug. Everything has vanished to her, even her bindings feel as natural to her like they belonged there.


This was freedom. Freedom from responsibility. Freedom from thought. Freedom from identity. She stands there with a slow rhythmic breath through her nose. The chains clack when her muscles twitch on reflex, rare moments reminding her of the belt her hands were latched to. Somewhere in subspace, be it real or her imagination, the poodle hears a soft drip clattering against the concrete floor.


Drip.


Drip.


Drip.


She does not recognize the heat of her arousal until the cell door is opened. A guard acknowledges her by a number. She’s unsure if it’s her cell number or some type of identification in her profile. By their voice it is a different guard, adding credence to their talk of hours having passed since her intake.


Releasing her from the nose chain, the guard grabs the poodle by her collar and bicep bindings and guides the blind prisoner down to what they refer to as sleeping quarters. When next she stops, the poodle’s arms are freed. She is told to hold her arms out forward. As she does, a tight sleeve is slipped down each arm. She realizes it is a straitjacket by the compression against her chest as her arms are pulled into a forceful self-hug.


She becomes weightless for a second as a second pair of hands helps hoist her up. There’s some laughter between the guards once she’s on the cot. One clutches her head to keep the poodle from looking around and tells her to be still as the other locks safety straps over her body. The two carry her into a room that squeaks under their feet. All she smells is rubber as they lay her bed down. With one last check and a chastisement from one guard to another, her leg cuffs are locked to the two corners. She is assured they have cameras watching her and will make routine check-ins every hour. None if it needs to wake her, so they say.


They shut a heavy door behind them. She is alone again, bound tighter in pitch darkness. There is a moment of relief for her legs much-needed rest, but she dismisses it as a concern just as quickly. Her mind slips. She wonders if it's a dream or another trance.


Then she stops thinking.


***




Angelica drummed her freshly manicured claws along her steering wheel. The tigress normally did not care to do more than sharpen them. Now they were decked in a shade of blue so deep it reminded her of the night. She smiled at seeing them, all the more thankful for her girlfriend’s birthday present.


“I don’t have all day,” she said, slumping into her seat with a groan. She’d been out in the parking lot for an hour now, enough for the morning sun to break the horizon. They assured her on the phone Trisha would be out before then. Either her girlfriend was taking her sweet time, or they let her enjoy the moment. This would be fine if Angelica wasn’t missing half a day of work for this, having already told her boss the day prior that she needed to take care of something.


The tigress sighs. Given that this was her fault in the first place, she has no one but herself to blame.


Three taps against a window spooked her up. A poodle shaved to her shortest hair stood outside, clad in designer fashion ruined by Angelica’s ragged leather jacket. She spent a moment staring bewildered at the figure before rolling down her window.


“Wow…they weren’t kidding about the special treatment.”


Trisha nodded with a smile. She circled and sat on the passenger side without a word.


“Spill,” Angelica said, her curiosity fueled by having paid for all of it. “How was it? Best birthday ever?”


A sultry smile spread over the poodle’s maw. She let go of her seatbelt midway buckling it. It clattered to the wall as she climbed over the armrest. Their lips braced, Trisha’s tongue slipped inside to wrestle her girlfriend’s with a determination she’d not felt in years.


“Yeah,” Trisha said, breaking away. “Best birthday ever. By the way, can we turn the coat closet into an isolation chamber?”


“Where are we going to put our coats? You don’t have room in the shoe closet.”


Trisha shrugged. “We could get a coat rack.”


Angelica scratched her chin, picturing the finished product. She smiled. “I’ll see what I can do."", "pools_count": 0, "title": "Willful Confinement", "deleted": "f", "public": "t", "mimetype": "text/plain", "pagecount": "1", "rating_id": "2", "rating_name": "Adult", "ratings": [ { "content_tag_id": "4", "name": "Sexual Themes", "description": "Erotic imagery, sexual activity or arousal", "rating_id": "2" } ], "submission_type_id": "12", "type_name": "Writing - Document", "guest_block": "t", "friends_only": "f", "comments_count": "2", "views": "299" }