First off, thank you for reading my story. I have over 500. Around 400 which will be published on various sites in a quick and whirlwind fashion. Please like, comment, or share my stories wherever you want. Anything is better than nothing. But do follow if you like my writing. There is so much more to come! Second, I do commissions and this is like 4 years of backlog. They are not edited, they have shit for blurb, no book cover, no REAL title, and the tags are shit. If you are interested in doing any of these things so that I can put it into a main file and distribute the blurb, better tags, or book covers and stuff, please reach out, or put it into the comments section. If I present better, I will have more clients in a segregated category and thus will be able to write more of these unique individualized kinks. Equally so, editor needed. Now, I know what your thinking--- WHY am I not doing this myself? Well, good dear reader, Rough guestimation, I have over 5k pages to tinker around with. I've not shared my backlog because of want for perfection. Would you rather my words not perfect, or not have my work at all period? Backlog of 4 years. And if I don't push it out, I never will. I also run two businesses to keep me afloat. Unlike that one song, time, my friend, is not on my side. Thank you again for being amazing! PLEASE like, rate, or whatever. Trying to build a community instead of being an invisible thumbprint on the far reaches of the vast internet. A final note. If you know anyone, or community, or website that might be of use to me? Never, ever, ever hesitate to contact me. This job is a HARD job, it is fulltime, but I love it so much. Help me continue living this dream of learning about unique kinks and desires. And if you have a complaint on my tense shifting or my comma splices. Take a number! I know my severe weaknesses. I know I am not the best writer, I also know that I am not the greatest, but I feel my gift is UNDERSTANDING a persons wants. That, alone, is my skill set, not writing. CHECK BIO FOR LINKS. Also, newsletter everyone. Sign it, please. The world was different than what it once was. Hedonism, moral degradation, and corruption overwhelmed the malleable and impressionable minds of the generation. This resulted in the federal government to be unfit to wield the power they wielded. The military began a long and intensive shadow war to oust the governmental body, seeing them unfit. Truly, both institutions were corrupt but the military was, indeed, the military. It was at least structured corruption, which was better than, say, chaotic directionless corruption. The reason for this corruption was the invention of Personal Life Assistants (PLA). These were genetically modified humans, sometimes spliced with animals according to the designers whims, and the original concept was that these 'soulless' 'right-less' creatures would help educate, groom, and encourage central figures in the political realm. It was, however, legalized slavery. It wasn't a surprise when Corporations crafting these PLA's eventually used them to gain political control, more control than ever before. Controlling money is one thing, controlling people and sex, that is a horse of a different color. As the government project ramped up, PLA's became commonplace and no longer exclusively for politics, but anyone rich enough to afford them. Now, the government still encouraged freedom, but PLA's weren't human, they were in that murky grey domain where laws and morals didn't quite exist. The process of PLA'S were streamlined, so much so that genetic enhancement was now normal for military application. The very force meant to protect freedom and the government splintered and these heavily trained, durable bad-asses were given no rights as such from the very body of people they were meant to defend. This is what I have learned. This is not what I know. I do not know anything; not much at any rate. The only thing I truly, without a doubt, unequivocally know is this basement. I know it intimately, inside and out. I know the texture of the ground, solid, cold, grainy, I know the biting cold of the steel that imprisons my wrists above my head. I know the taste of dank air and moisture, the distinct quality of a basement underground - at least that is what I am told. It is the norm for me, though, nothing unruly about it. I am treated to the luxurious smell of fresh air whenever my captor comes to pay me a visit, I do not like the 'fresh' smell, it smells empty with a dash of offal. But never is there a change in my circumstances other than when he arrives and leaves. My life is predicated on him. He is my alpha and omega. He is not a just man, he is not a good man, he is cruel, sadistic and psychotic. My life, my entire life, is this, here now, and only this here and now. I know nothing else. All I know comes from behind his hood, his voice muffled by the thick material that shields his identity from me. But as the shadow war intensified, his stories of the outside world seemed to correspond to my little dank meager and miserable existence. When things were particularly iffy, as society collapsed, the lights would flicker in and out. Sometimes I would be left alone, in the terrifying darkness for hours, even a day. I wouldn't know, I had no idea of what a day was. No windows. There could be something, or nothing out there. But when he did mention about times becoming tougher, the lights indeed flickered, power outage was a norm. As society was divided up and borders re-drawn, these temporary problems like lack of food, water, electricity, they would ease up. But the picture of the world painted corresponded to my immediate circumstances - it was chaos and stability today was not assured stability tomorrow. When I was young, very young, I had thought that the hood was actually his face, his physical being, but no? in one of our intense sessions the hood winked and peeled upward to reveal the flesh, actual honest to god flesh that rested there. It was white. White as my flesh, whiter even still. It was such a shock to me. It shook me to the core. That a fundamental belief, a truth, that I possessed was actually nothing at all but misled perception. I questioned everything from then on. I didn't know anything except what was told of me, and who knew what of that was actual truth. I grew up terribly. I had nothing to base this off of, though. But in my heart, I didn't need to know that there was something more, something better. It was a fundamental and undeniable belief, belief that occupied a domain that wasn't held in the mind, or the heart, but in the soul. Unshakable, absolute, unrelenting. I believed that life could be better, should be better, that what was happening to me, it was the worst of all fates that any had ever had, perhaps even worse. My captor had left me alone for days on end - this was a good thing except for the accompanied starvation and dehydration that came with it. I was never really completely myself. Again, I didn't know what the norm would look like or feel like for someone such as me, but I knew that what I was was a hollow and diminished version of what could be. My body withered like some of the fresh food rations that were given to me for a job well done, food I rationed and made stretched for days. A shadow of what could be. This ebb and flow of company, communication, food, drink, all had very serious ramifications for me. The lack of food, and more seriously, the absence of nutrients, had some very serious consequences for my body. My body was shriveled, deplete of any real substance, my stomach was distended, caving in like the wooden steps that lead to the outside world- where the air was harsh and bitter. I endured all of this with the hope that someone somewhere could imagine these tortures, could find them reprehensible, could find it in them to try and put a stop to it, could even succeed. But that was a lot of "could." I knew only that this was not all there was, because my torturer did not look as emaciated as me. I was not a true biped, though like my captor I could walk upright - well, I believed I could. Eventually. In that moment, if you'd asked me to walk, I would have struggled even to scoff at the possibility. I'd long since stopped trying to move my legs - they felt like they'd snap like toothpicks if I did - and they were now perpetually bowed. I couldn't lie down because my arms (or legs, depending on how you saw me) were chained over my head, but there was no standing up in my weakened state. I had to crouch like an insect at all hours. Maybe I was an insect. I had hope, hope allowed me to live. But hope did nothing for my inner self-loathing and hatred. They were instilling in me an insect's perception of time, at any rate. My captor never came at the same time each day (A day being a subjective word of time only educated to me by my capture, it was a foreign concept even now), never even at the same time each week. I fancied that I could at least predict him one day in every four, because sometimes he brought water and otherwise I would have died of thirst by now. There had to be food of some kind as well, or at least some sort of subsistence supplement administered exclusively while I'd passed out. How else could I endure this for as long as I had? Assuming the times I spent unconscious didn't skew the data too much, I had to have been in here for years. There was always the possibility that I'd died and gone to hell, of course. Hell didn't have to be hot, nor did it have to make sense. If your sins and their punishments made sense to you, you might not be in hell in the first place. But this was too stuffy to be purgatory. My punishment, my hell, wasn't just bitter and unmitigated agony and pain, it was the time after the suffering? the lingering, the doubts, the fears, the loneliness. It was agony and pain on a different plane. My days were marked only by the shifting methods of torture. There wasn't any discernible pattern to those, either - the how and the what of one or another excruciating hour, or stretch of hours, depended solely on the fancy of my jailer. I suspect that he himself would be hard pressed to make sense of it. Screams and convulsions are their own explanations for such people. He was twisted. He didn't just settle for some boring torture - he was creative. A notable few would be when he ate food, fresh food, an entire plate (something he had to explain to me, as you can imagine? such tools of civilization were not meant for me), he would sit out of reach? and just eat. Silently. Eat. Eat and leave. And he would leave his scraps just out of reach. I had the last laugh though? Desperation provoked me for that nutrience. I lunged at the food, but it was out of reach, my hands tethered up by shackles, but desperate times call for desperate measures. The first few days as the fresh fruit decayed, I was starving, then I accepted my fate, but after who knows how long, I absolutely required the food. Enough to snap my arms, my brittle hollow bones making just a wet little crack, nothing powerful or solid like that. As I whimpered and screamed in pain? I feasted. Other times, he would make me memorize things, horrible things. The words were alien to me, but he made sure I understood what words I had to memorize, so I knew just so low I was. I was rewarded moldy bread for hours of intensive memorization. To this day, I know what he told me to say? Of course, ordinary suffering also was in the mix. Lucky me. Whips, spiked whips, the ones that laserated and flayed flesh and fur with ease. I was eventually subjected to sleep depredation. Every time I finally passed out, handing like a sack of meat, worthless and forgotten, suffering for sins of my genetic make up, I would be zapped. Took me a few days, but the singed around my wrists, where I was constained, revealed the truth. Whatever I was imprisoned with, wasn't just simple metal, it was something technologically infused. This life was one I wanted to escape so much, but just? I had to hold out hope. For salvation. Rescue. Mercy. Anything. There were physical markers that could help me see certain things coming. I noticed that my fur had largely grown back from the last time it had been torn out. There were favored techniques for every part and inch of me, and my captor really liked to rip my fur out by the roots. From very precious parts of my anatomy as well. My balls, around my cock? Those were his favorite. Those were the worst. I developed a perverse appreciation for the sensation of the hot wax he used for that purpose - too hot, hot enough to blister the skin, but he'd slap me if I screamed. He'd spread it on skin barely recovered from the last treatment, when the fur was just some white fuzz struggling to warm the body that grew it. You had to get it when it was still that short, or you'd just be clumsily pulling chunks that were as likely as not to snap as to rip. That was why he'd sheared me the first time, like I was some sort of sheep. That or because it was a long winter. It was freezing down here. He assured me that I wasn't a genetic monstrosity, I'd have died many, many years ago because of the wild mood swings of temperature. Something about power, energy, and a decaying atmosphere. Apparently, to him, war was hell. Natural resources were often targeted. Fresh air, apparently, being on the chopping block. None of that from then on. He couldn't put the short hairs he pulled out to any use other than torment. The door opened with that creak I'd been trained to tense up at. There were grooves in the floor where I'd managed to wear away at the concrete with my claws. At least I'd accomplished something in that time, but that was another reminder of a particularly hated torture. Whenever they noticed, they'd pull out my claws one by one. But sure enough, he came in with that bucket of wax swinging by its handle. It was thick and soapy in my snout, the scent crawling down my throat and curdling in what remained of my gut. I practically felt bloated just inhaling, to the degree that I could even inhale. I couldn't remember the last time my lungs had filled completely. Maybe they never had. I was pretty good at identifying my impending tortures. If I really applied myself, I could do my torturer's job pretty competently. Better, even, for the firsthand experience. Flipping the script had crossed my mind. It crosses everyone's. But you wouldn't mistake it for imagination, that desire to do what had been done to me. I could tear off his arms and learn how to pull the tendons just right, reproducing my suffering with a grotesque marionette show. But what was that except running in circles in the hole he'd dug for me? Even at the bottom of a grave I couldn't sleep in, I knew there was no progress in digging it deeper. Pain rattled in my throat as he slathered the first dollop of wax across my skin. It was hot enough to burn, but not hot enough to sear. There wasn't any use in barbecuing my nerves senseless right out of the gate. The point was to excite my skin, irritate it, wake it up for the real walloping. This was foreplay for him, and looking back I'm more sure of it every day. So it was that my right flank lit up with the bubbling of the wax, a course of liquid fire drawn over my fur, line by line, marking out the border of today's harvest of pain. It cooled quickly on contact with the dank air, contracting and tightening the fur just out of my skin. I still remember it every time I light a candle these days, when I can bring myself to light one. It's why I'm careful not to let any wax drip on me, because I can also remember what it feels like when it's ripped off in great strips. My skin itself became scarred and tough as leather from all the multitudes of creative tortures I suffered. Part of my coat didn't even grow anymore, but luckily the scars were hidden by the rest of my patchy hair growth? It could be covered, sure, but I knew they were there. Years earlier in my imprisonment I'd had the strength to scream at this treatment. By this time I couldn't muster more than a low whimper, spiking in pitch and volume every time he tore away a strip of wax. I had less and less energy even for those. My torment was a perverse roller coaster for him; that first anguished cry was always the loudest, bearing him onward over ever smaller crests of tears and moans until he'd finally spent himself. Please understand, constant torture didn't make me immune to torture. There was always some more terrible in his mind, he sought to step up the game. I feel I have been brought to the brink of death so many times now, and each time it was just that much worse. Chill air penetrated to layers of skin not yet ready to meet the outside. The protective womb of my epidermis was ripped away, and what lay within was pulled into a world that hated it, forced to grow up too fast. The faster you grow up, the sooner you die. In a matter of minutes he'd laid my rear quarters raw and smoldering. I imagined steam rising from my flanks, and once upon a time that might have been more true. The fact was that the heat was skin deep, the fire only a fleeting reminder that I was even alive. Inside was cold and wet, my reserves of warmth and resilience long since burned off. I had been living residue for some years now, and my jailer had taken to chewing off smaller and smaller bits of me as he saw how little of me remained. Perhaps literally. He could have done anything while I was passed out. I was a thing to be savored. No, that couldn't be right. Metaphor was all I had, turning over in my head every possible way that this could be other than what it was, and just because something bled into reality didn't make it real. Sometimes I felt like I was the crazy one, not him, not the potentially fantasy world out there; me. I could see it in the subtle shift of his burlap hood. I scarcely needed the memory of that pale half-face he'd once showed me by accident. Enough studying the contours of the thing that carried out its hideous impulses on me had allowed me to sketch a guess from the moments of perception I was able to snatch in passing. My captor only ever showed me that single eye through a hole in the hood. I'd taken to measuring time by the blinking of that eye, when I could see it. He'd frequently dip out of sight to work on some out-of-sight part of my body, but I'd cling to those blinks like a crumbling cliffside. However many I counted, that became my target every time he visited. More of a prayer than a goal, but it was something. It was only ever accessible when he wasn't ripping off various pieces of me, but something was keeping time for me, despite its best efforts to keep me insensate save for pain. Not that I knew what anyone else looked like. Not that I even knew what I looked like. Tears and sweat and sterilized cum, a proper reflective surface did not make. But I could guess at the way his face was drawn beneath the sack, once I'd learned that the sack itself wasn't his face. I saw beneath the fabric a lump of cruel flesh, somehow still vile in my estimation even without any concept of asymmetry, any development of tastes. There was nothing and no one I looked forward to; only things and people that I dreaded less. And whatever arrangement of features lay beneath that one-holed pit of despair had to be the worst thing of all. My conception of how the world worked had already been ripped away once before, incinerated with one of my many waxy strips of fur. I knew that whatever he really looked like, it was worse than anything I could imagine. I was constructing a nightmare that I knew deep down would be supplanted by one even bigger and murkier, but it was something to do. I could barely bring myself to writhe, to twitch, to cringe away from his preliminary flaying. It demanded strength I didn't have from food I hadn't eaten. The watery gruel that he occasionally dripped into my mouth seemed to have been painstakingly measured to keep me barely conscious at all times. There was no sleeping in this hell - only periodically passing out. Passing out associated with my mind just simple shutting down from trauma and adheneline. So my hind legs lay shorn and torn, practically a rendered canvas for him to draw across in blooming fire. I mentioned before that the heat was skin deep. This was his way of driving it inside me: he'd hold a fist over my skin, a presence I'd somehow learned to detect, and squeeze something that dripped liquid flame on my raw and bleeding flesh. I'd learn later that it was the juice of some citrus fruit, something that bubbled too clean in the nostrils for the purpose it was put to. Even today I can't taste it without retching. I couldn't look back. My neck muscles had turned to concrete, and he'd drip that shit in my eyes if I tried. But whenever he put me through this, I felt blood and juice oozing from my skin like flies escaping a corpse sinking in the ocean, describing crackling trails down my hindquarters and legs and belly, dripping and sliding to the floor. I could see it sometimes, if it happened to pool and crawl into my peripheral vision, shrunken to the barest of lines by eyes that would not open, a horizon that promised nothing beyond. When he was done squeezing, he pressed the half-fruit to my raw skin and slid it across, up, from my ass to my torso and up across my core, a cold and filthy knot dragged across my skin through fur marked out for the next session. It was like having a putty knife pushed through the top layer of my flesh, the prickle of its remaining juices searing itself into my skin like he was signing a work of art. As if to dot his Is, if indeed his name contained any, he came back around in front of me and looked me in the eye, held up his dripping fist. Streaks of red wrapped his wrist and forearm like ribbons. He ground that hideous thing into my eye. As he worked the lemon half with the heel of his rough, bloodstained hand, it occurred to me that I hadn't seen him blink once this time around. That drew a pathetic, disbelieving bark from me that he must have interpreted as a laugh, because he reared back with his free hand and clouted me below the chin. I was lucky I didn't bite off the tip of my tongue. Or maybe I wasn't, because thirst had turned it into a useless hunk of shrunken jerky. My throbbing chin lectured me about my insolence as my torturer walked away, as if I could have consciously shat myself at this point, let alone laughed. He'd be back later with the hooks, once my skin had blistered. I would later find out that his hood was made of burlap, after an unpredictable panic attack during a visit to a market. I still can't look at that kind of fabric without seeing his eye looking back. - He wasn't always about the skin. I considered myself fortunate if I had to endure a skin day. He liked to get into my inside, and no orifice was off limits. If he wasn't interested in any of mine, he'd make his own. It wasn't uncommon to have little nicks scratched and stretched into gaping holes in my skin, windows into muscle and fat that he filled with whatever tickled his fancy and gouged mine. But the worst of it was the shit that didn't leave any marks. I'd long since lost the ability to walk, thrash, slap anything away, my limbs like toothpicks with yarn wrapped loosely around them. It was a simple task for him to enter my cell and move my limbs as it suited him, a ball-joint doll for display and dismemberment. I don't know when I stopped wondering if he'd cut me to pieces. He never did. But I suppose he thought it was better to leave me whole. There was more of me to defile. More to bleed, more to shiver, more to seize up and drip and go cold and tense and limp as he pleased. Today he was spreading my legs, pawing my rear, slapping my flanks here and there where the fur he'd ripped out still had yet to grow back. Agony boiled my hips, pulled my thighs taut. There was barely any fat left on them to qualify them as thighs. They stuck straight out from my flank like toothpicks in a potato, not that I knew what a potato was at that point. I had never been in the presence of a different living creature that I could remember, but I still somehow knew to be embarrassed when he pawed at my genitals - first poking and circling my labia with his rough fingertips, then squeezing my withered cock. I couldn't even feel what he was doing to my balls, if anything - I think they'd retracted for sheer lack of use or nutrition. It was a sensitive area all the same, and as I'd grown older in this chamber I had become vaguely aware that I was supposed to do something with them. They stirred now and again when I was alone, pathetically attempting to harden and moisten despite the total absence of stimulation. There was no reason I should have been aroused down here, but I was growing after all. My body hadn't learned anything but pain, and my cock and pussy hadn't yet gotten the memo. But they were sure as shit getting a brick through the window now. My pain receptors were never so completely fried that my tormentor couldn't find a way to hurt me. I should have learned that by now. But the burning stretch of a metal rod being eased into my urethra elucidated that lesson like nothing else I'd felt in? well, at least a year. If I was counting correctly. A low whine echoed from the walls and banged around the room, lighting up my ears and drilling into my brain not unlike the rod being pushed into my cock. The way it started was like swallowing too much water too quickly, not that I had ever had that problem up to that point - a painless weight that quickly caught me up with lightning spikes from inside. It stretched my membranes, growing, never stopping, feeling like I was being drilled from the crotch up with a nail. I couldn't even shut my eyes and breathe deep because I'd be alone with the pain, with the whining sound of the drill. It wasn't a drill, of course - I realized that when it occurred to me that the mass invading my cock wasn't spinning. That sound was coming from my throat, crawling out of my lungs and dying in the air all around me, drowning me in a sealed coffin of my own suffering. Deeper it went, a cold mass shoving everything aside and forcing my cock straight, and when it poked something inside me that made my ass clench and my core convulse, I realized that it was still somehow going deeper, even though I seemed to have come to an end - the softer plug in the tip of my cock felt like it was the last of the horrible implement. It was. But the rod had reached my prostate, and now my manhood was reacting with involuntary arousal to the very thing that threatened to split it like a banana. It was hardening around the metal, the fire up and down my length flaring higher as it squeezed the invader against my will. Involuntary motion that should have been my greatest source of pleasure was eating me alive from inside. And that was just the first one. If I hadn't been dehydrated, my tongue a dead tree trunk in the trackless waste of my mouth, I would have cried. My other urethra was being prodded, the chill of metal piercing the smaller tunnel just below my clit. Where the first rod had been pushed into an external piece of me, this one was digging directly into my crotch, a ferrous finger pushing inside space that had never been intended to be filled. Both pathways to my bladder were being sealed, and with a pinch in my clit that set all four of my legs quaking, the rod in my female urethra was pushed up to its seal, with a spike on the end shaped to poke into my most sensitive spot directly. I knew writhing would do me no good and I didn't care. Even the dull spikes in my restraints didn't deter me. My body had to rebel against these violations, my muscles contracting and releasing and crying out the only way they knew how, as if some innate dignity was demanding recognition. The humiliation, of course, hadn't even begun yet. My torturer patted my ruined ass with mocking delicateness, rubbed my mulched skin, his calluses dragging across my scars like sandpaper. He let his fingertips slide over what remained of my fur - a pinch here, a pull there, a promise to finish the job he'd started on my hindquarters however long ago. I felt his hand settle around my jaw. I braced for him to jerk. He'd broken it once before, which I could still feel if I opened my mouth too wide to scream. It wasn't like I'd been using it to eat anyway. He did something worse, something I genuinely couldn't understand. He stroked my chin, patted and squeezed like I was a beloved pet. "Thirsty?" His voice was like pebbles being chewed, and I recoiled from thinking this lest he read my thoughts and get any ideas. I wasn't even sure whether I was hallucinating - such words as he spoke to me were few and far between. "Thirsty?" I wanted to cry at this, too. This could only be a prelude to something worse. He'd been at this for years. What was the point in showing mercy now? But if I didn't cooperate, he doubtless had some even worse punishment in store. I looked to my right as far as I could move my aching eyes, just barely caught a glimpse of him, and nodded. Just this movement set the rods in my urethras flaring, their presence having blessedly faded to a mere burning. There was no right thing to do, but this seemed less wrong. I heard him unclip something from his belt. The next thing I knew, he was holding something cool and hard up to my lips. I nearly found the strength to lunge. I could smell the water in there, the metallic wetness hovering just at the threshold of my parched mouth. He did it gently, not even pouring it over my face like when he'd waterboarded me in the past. There was just enough of a trickle of water into my mouth to cool my tongue, moisten my throat, give me my first water in days. I took it like a starving dog, not caring what this could mean. He had to keep me alive, after all. The fact that he was actually letting me drink and not merely half-drowning me didn't even register as I quenched my desperate thirst. His periodic chuckling should have clued me in. It was only minutes before I felt a heaviness between my hips. It grew and spread, creeping into my cock and just inside my pussy, the muscles tensing around the rods with the unsuspecting self-hatred of mindless gristle. All the while my torturer watched from behind his mask of burlap, his blink rate completely unaffected. If he found my predicament funny, he didn't indicate it. For by now I'd started writhing, shifting, wiggling, any movement I could coax from my wasted muscles. Anything to alleviate the increasing pressure in my core. I'd grown accustomed to little enough water as is. Even a few swallows more was enough to race through my body and pool in my bladder, my kidneys barely touching it. I wasn't even sure if I had kidneys anymore. The muscles in my hips had never felt so weak. All I was capable of doing was flexing useless scraps of meat here and there, searching vainly for the combination of movements that could possibly loosen my body's grip on those rods. They were sealed too tight. Not an inch of the urine building up in my body, dammed like an inevitable river, was leaking out. "What's wrong?" ground out the torturer. "Can't even piss yourself like the fucking piss boy you are?" I didn't even know what that meant. The delivery said it all. He spat every word at me like he was spitting shells at an insect. I was less than an insect, to him. An insect he would have smashed without a second thought. I could feel my abdomen distending from the swelling of my bladder as the minutes crawled on, the skin of the organ stretching tighter than I'd ever been stretched anywhere. The image came to me of my sack of piss being popped by a pin, putrid golden liquid spraying out of holes in my stomach and pooling in my torso to fester. My legs, my hips, my cock, my pussy, all had their futile turn trying to send a message to my urethras to do something, anything, to let off the pressure before my bladder burst in my emaciated torso. My burlap-faced torturer had never once let me die, and he was surely loath to grant me this mercy now. But there was always the possibility that he'd grow tired of me. I couldn't speak for his patience. My cock was concrete packed around the chill center of the rod inside it, my pussy aching, flexing but completely dry and cracked from lack of piss, lack of arousal. I didn't have enough moisture in my body to get wet. It was all going to my bladder, it seemed, the rest of me tingling with dehydration, my mind deliriously inventing pseudoscience to justify the supernatural pain coursing through me. My head was swimming in a haze of barely contained urine. I knew what it was to have to piss so bad your back teeth were floating, as I'd later hear people say. Any minute now I was going to burst and leak piss from my nose, weep it from my eyes, vomit it out my mouth. I swear he knew me better than I knew myself. The moment I thought I'd crossed the point of no return, my captor squeezed my cock, jammed two fingers into the slit with a definite ripping sensation that I could barely bring myself to care about, and pulled out the rod in one wrenching motion. Piss exploded from my cock, almost certainly mixed with blood from my dickhole. I gave myself over to another long, low moan, my urethra blazing with the liquid rushing through it, filling it too full, irritating the membrane that had formerly been stretched around what amounted to a dull iron pencil. It splashed on the concrete below me, splattering my sticklike legs with my own waste. The smell was stale, shameful, bubbling in my snout and marinating my fur in the stench of my own leavings. I was sure my paws and calves were stained with it at this point, having had nowhere to piss but the floor below me my whole life. "Piss boy," the torturer repeated. "Sucking and pissing until the day you die. Why do I shackle myself to you?" The question rattled around my head in the darkness of my barely open eyes. It was a fair one. Why would anyone do this? What was the point in spending years on end coming down and periodically beating the shit out of someone? Bringing tools for that purpose for specific grisly tasks? How could anyone sane live covered in my blood? No one could, of course. This guy wasn't in his right mind. Maybe he never had been. "You wanna know why?" I stopped breathing, and it took a conscious, monumental effort to start back up again. His words were coming to me as if from the top of a well, and I might as well have been imprisoned in one. A well full of piss. I didn't want to drown him out with my breathing. This was more than he'd talked to me in a lifetime of this treatment. It was more than anyone had. And even if it didn't get me out of these restraints, my legs alternately numb and screaming from being permanently bent, I might at least have the mercy of knowing why this had to be. Maybe he wasn't insane. Maybe I was just that grim a task. Maybe I really was as loathsome as all that, and it made a sick sort of sense to keep me down here lest I contaminate the world. He got so close to my ear that I could feel his hot breath, that feeling that you can sort of taste through your skin. Sour. "Because I hate you, Alyx," he hissed. "You're a fucking disgrace of a creature. Look at you. It is you and your kind that had paved way the ruination of mankind." I couldn't look at myself - there was no mirror in the cell - but I thought I had a pretty good idea of what I looked like. He'd sketched it out with every slice and blow, every burn and prick, the way one chips away at a block of marble until everything that doesn't look like a statue is gone. It didn't register right away that he was talking about me, either. It had been years - longer, probably, by my counting - since he'd used my name, to the point that I'd forgotten it even was my name. The hate festered in my heart, and yet somehow I didn't want to leap up and throttle him. I could barely even muster the strength to imagine doing it. I just wanted it to end. "From the moment I laid eyes on you I knew you were a disgusting piece of shit. I couldn't attribute it to just one thing." He grabbed the fur between my ears and pulled my head back, back, all the way back. My throat was closed up at this angle, and the water he'd fed me had gotten my salivary glands going just enough to moisten my mouth. But I didn't have the strength to swallow. My own spit was building up in my throat as he whispered bitter nothings. "So I started making shit up. I went piece by piece. Your ugly fur. Your grating voice. Your abominable fucking personality." I started gagging, and he pressed something cold and sharp up against my throat. "It's not that you were a child, either," he said, dragging the blade lengthwise up and down my neck like a toothless comb. "Some people are just born that way. I hated you for what you represented, but I learned, over time, that I hated your very existence, your soul. I don't want you dead, no, no, no. I could have done that so many times before, you pathetic little runt, I want you to beg for death. I want you broken first. It has been quite the challenge, and know what, you refusing me, it just pleases me. You please me with your blind devotion to some type of concept of hope. Hope for what? Someone to rescue you? Oh come on now, my little furball, the best you can hope for is my death, and you to slowly starve and dehydrate to death." At any moment he could draw the knife across my throat and spill my blood, not that I thought it would kill me right away. If it weren't for the water getting my mouth going again, I'd practically swear that there was nothing but dust in my body. "You'll die that way," he hissed. He took the knife away from my neck. "But not today." At last we agreed on something. He let go of my head and walked out of sight. Maybe he too recognized our common ground. His voice seemed to fade, and it wasn't obvious whether that was completely a good thing. Tuning him out was the first shred of agency I could remember ever exercising. But maybe that was beyond my control, too. My vision of the filthy, piss-and-blood-stained cell had narrowed to a couple of disjointed points. I might have finally been losing consciousness, maybe for the last time. I'd drifted in and out for years, and there was no way of knowing if this was any different. I tried to focus on something, anything, to keep me from falling asleep. My tormentor's voice was the obvious choice, the only choice. I'd long grown used to the cuffs, the chains, the tearing at my skin, agony though it was. Those were all things I was accustomed to. My torturer was giving me something new despite the venom, and his voice was wavering in and out like a fleeting wind. It was something I could let go of, and if I could let go of the one thing I had ever had the option to, I could let go of anything. He had broken me, but he'd have to keep breaking me. If there was one thing I was capable of, one thing maybe I was born for, it was to drag him down here in the pit with me, day after day, year after year, and make him hate me. Make him devote his life to hating me. Waste his life. Waste his body. Waste his soul. Which is why I was so shocked that he went for my cock again. I felt his craggy fingers close around the pitiful ruin of my shaft, stretched long and loose from the sounding piss torture. But instead of grabbing and pulling, instead of castrating me, he gently squeezed and started to run his hand up and down my length. It felt like a pinecone in my throat, but I was able to swallow and draw in the deepest breath I'd ever dared. My blood - thin and watery from years without nutrition or activity - nonetheless crawled into my cock and stirred it to an unwilling erection. The pressure nearly made me pass out, so drained was I for any kind of movement, voluntary or otherwise. "That's right, you little cunt," he breathed. "Get hard for me. Your slutty body's going to do what I want. Everything I do, your body wants." I'd certainly learned to expect everything - except this. He'd clothespinned my cock, hung weights from my balls, stuck pins through my labia, burned my clit, but never had he touched either set of genitals except to inflict pain. So yes, he was right. I couldn't help but inch my lower body back and forth against his hands, my needy cock and cunt aching for the attention I was never able to give them. Heat smoldered not far from where my bladder hung empty, making my hips prickle and my pussy tingle. There was barely enough moisture in my body to get wet, no precum even to stain this guy's hand, but my body was going through the motions nonetheless. And I loved every second of it. For one deprived of this sort of attention for his whole life, it was as good as water. Even better, in fact - water I at least got every few days. It kept me alive, and in this moment I still would have preferred my torturer's uncannily gentle hand on my cock. My lungs strained at my rib cage, visible against the thin fur covering the thinner skin on my chest. I was breathing deeper, burning inside like a heart attack victim as my lungs expanded more than they'd ever been allowed to, trying to suck in the chill, close, urine-poisoned air of my cell, my body yearning to open to anyone willing to treat it right for once. He palmed my empty sack, prodded with his fingers for my balls, rolled his fingertips around them when he found them drawn up into my pelvis. It sent little shocks through my shaft and made it stick out from my sheath, and it occurred to me that I didn't know what my own cock looked like. No different from the rest of my body out of my field of view, and yet this stung me particularly among the everyday indignities. I wouldn't know why until I was free. As if my body had done something wrong, he froze his hand on my shaft and moved his other hand down to my pussy, tracing his fingertips up and down my labia, ghosting them across first one inner thigh, then the other, then back to my labia. I writhed my hips like I wasn't running on zero food for the past decade-plus, a little whine in my throat demanding that he seal the deal with my clit. I didn't even know about my g-spot. Still he played with me outside, teased me, let my cock wilt back down halfway before he went back to it. This time he ran his free hand up my smarting flank and pulled his nails across my denuded tail, drawing a gasp from my ruined throat. My whole body pulsed with need and the burning of what passed for my first real workout in years. He dragged his nails up and down, up and down, in sync with his hand on my cock. Finally he drew two fingers down the underside of my tail and pressed them against the skin around my asshole, round and round as I whimpered and pushed back against him. He pulled back exactly in time with my movements, making clear that he'd be the one setting the pace. There was that breath again, desecrating the skin just above my tail. "You know what happens when you starve someone for years and make them cum?" Like I knew what that was. But I could guess. "Neither do I," he said. "But I can guess." He circled my asshole with his thumb and stroked my tail up and down with the other, raising goosebumps all the way up to where my torso met my lower trunk. There was a hacking sound from behind me. I felt something wet and warm drip on my asshole; it puckered, drawing my thin skin thinner. "At least I know you're clean," he said, and pushed his thumb into my ass. I was no longer in any danger of falling asleep, at least. My asshole surged around him like my cock had greedily gulped up the metal rod, my body yearning for someone to lavish attention on it, something to fill it. Having given up on food, my subconscious demanded pleasure, any kind of sensation. He twisted his thumb in my desolate ass, angling his hand so he could draw his fingertips back and forth across my slit. The bastard had me demanding more from my body than it was capable of, and we both knew it. I would have traded another decade in these restraints for him to keep going until I passed out, maybe even for the last time. I went totally limp as he pressed a spit-sticky finger in my cunt - to the first knuckle, then the second after some dry resistance. His callused skin and ragged fingernail dragged across mucus membranes without mucus, surely making me bleed, his spit mocking me, adding insult to injury with its inadequacy as lube. Maybe I'd bleed out and a couple of problems would solve themselves. I felt that strange heat rising in me again as he shoved his finger deeper into my pussy. It was kind of like a knot below my stomach, like he was reaching inside me to ball up my organs into a dense mass that he could do what he liked with. Why else would he do anything to me, if not to shape me into a more pleasing - less revolting - form? It was hardening my cock for lack of moisture, and I swayed from side to side in my restraints, infinitesimal movements in a vain quest to rut against something, anything, even slightly moving air. I twitched at long last in his hand, a tiny movement that nevertheless drained me of energy I didn't have. He squeezed my cock again, hard, too hard, his palm a stone that the thick ropes of his fingers crushed my length against. I groaned, more frustrated than in pain; what pain could he inflict on me that he hadn't already? I had tasted pleasure for the first time, however unwanted, and it was as good as seeing a glimpse of what I would later learn to call heaven. But he was holding me back from even that final reward. If I'd known that people believed in one, I would have assumed he had some way to deny me that if and when he killed me. He had every other kind of power. On and on it went like that, jerking me, pumping me, adding fingers, swirling fingertips, chancing a dive into my cockhole or a nail drawn across my forbidden regions as he stoked the flames in my belly higher and higher only to smother them before? before what? Before I combusted? Before I lost control and dripped what little moisture he'd granted me back out to soak the concrete? I didn't know. All I knew was that I wanted more. He'd stroke my cock hard, squeeze and pinch it, slap my balls until I was nauseated, my head spinning as my empty body rejected the very idea of vomiting. He'd slip one finger, two fingers inside my pussy, my hole warm with blood and throbbing as he poked something inside me that radiated as much pain as pleasure. Even his attention to my prostate sent spikes of lava down my thighs and into my starved stomach, demanding a response from me that my body simply couldn't fuel. That double assault on my senses went on and on, blood oozing down my thighs, dripping on the concrete, my cock finally letting go a stubborn drop of liquid that my useless balls refused to fill. I wanted to fuck something even if I didn't know what that was, wanted to be fucked if only to have something inside me that didn't hate me. It wasn't like I could ever get pregnant, no matter how I healed. But finally I crept closer to the point of no return. That rancid breath came back, made my ass smolder with its sick proximity. "You're gonna cum to death," my hated jailer said. "It's too much for you, isn't it? You can barely stay awake. You're like a fucking meat puppet I can break just by rubbing you the wrong way." I was delirious with this new form of torture, perhaps worst of all of them for making me want it. My heart was hammering in my chest the way it had refused to for years, and it was starting to send spikes of venom through my sternum, my veins clenching until they felt fit to burst. My breath was coming in harsh, ragged wheezes, and my head was pounding with the lack of oxygen from the hyperventilation of my impending first orgasm. I didn't know what would happen when I got there. It took me a few seconds to realize I even had. His hand loosened on my cock and let me spasm under my own power, my length feeling heavy and tingling like it had sucked up half the blood in my body. Nothing came out, so dehydrated was I - there was no notion of creating life from a creature as dead as I was. My pussy followed quickly, my clit throbbing as it pulsed icy streaks down my labia and into my thighs. The knot in my belly was unraveling and pulling moans from my blasted lungs, and I was hanging and convulsing in the restraints like all those times I'd been electrocuted. Even my claws had found a way to sing with the unstoppable tide of fatal pleasure, catching in the concrete divots I'd dug and scratching and spreading my paws. Somehow I survived my entire body being wrenched into pleasure I couldn't enjoy. My cock finally started to slacken, the splinter of skin below me hanging at a less blood-intensive angle. And still he wouldn't let up. He grasped my cock and jerked it all the harder, and I didn't even have it in me to whine in weak protest. "Come on," he growled, "give in. Cum your brains out. Cum your heart out. I'll fucking stop it. You'll die my shitty meat toy. And I'll get another one just like you." I didn't even know there were other people; my whole world was just me and this asshole. I want to believe it was things like that that kept me going - my torturer slipping up, admitting there was a world beyond me and his hatred for me. No matter what it was, it had to be better than here, and one way or another I would live to see it, even if only after crawling from my prison and breathing my last on its accursed threshold as the sun faded before my eyes. For now there was only pain. My cock was aching and refusing to cum again so soon after my first-ever orgasm, so it stung from the chafing of my captor's indelicate jerking. And my pussy was as raw as anything on me that had been flayed, the ruined flesh within curdling at his touch, the blood permanently tainted by his filthy fingers, carrying his corruption to the rest of my body if it decided to stay in me just a little longer. My clit felt like it would burst, as lanced at his touch as it had been with a spike in it during the bladder torture. And my asshole was flexing nonstop, a suppurating wound that tightened what passed for muscle again and again until it reminded my stomach of its duty and kickstarted long-abandoned hunger pangs. "I hate you, Alyx," he whispered. "Always did. Always will. I'll see you in my dreams and whip you and stab you and peel you and kill you again and again." Darkness was settling over what little of the room I could see. All I had to do was give in and maybe I'd go out on a different note than he'd played on the helpless scordatura he'd wrought of my body. My final act of defiance would be my unreadability, my mind and my desires warped beyond recognition even by the man who had sought to destroy them. There was a muted explosion from above. Some rattling noise from a floor I'd never seen, never suspected, grabbed me by the back of the neck and pulled me up. His breath stopped, and I realized I'd never heard him stop breathing. That sound was always there before, heavy and slow, speeding up when he tortured me but always filling the room with the miasma of his breath, the reminder that I was in his world, not mine. "No?" he said, a new note creeping into his voice. Disbelief. I was too exhausted to be confused. He'd lived in a world entirely of his own creation, as far as I was aware, and I certainly didn't see a reason to doubt him. How else could I explain the power he had to torment me day after day? Only God gets to do that, and I figured he made a pretty good double. But for once he wasn't in control. And the pause as he put this together in his head was a pause too long. The door exploded open. Metal crunched and screamed around the room, near to blowing out my abused ears. They rang with a shout. "Stand down, asshole!" My torturer paused at his work. A rising grunt ground out of his throat. It was snapped up by a gunshot that ended my misery forever. And that - thankfully - is another story. I felt something splatter across my back, my flanks, my head. He slumped over me. His whole weight fell on my back with the squish of a body becoming intimately acquainted with things that had once been inside it. I let out a short, explosive breath as he crushed my withered lungs, and I tried to breathe around it. There was no need to fear being crushed, as it happened. I felt my torturer's weight lift from my back as two newcomers moved the body off of me. Someone far away was tearing into someone else - I caught vague snatches of "force continuum" and "prisoner." I realized that my fur was sticky and warm. His blood, probably. I noted absently that it was the first blood I'd ever had on me that hadn't been mine. "Easy. You're gonna be okay." The voice was almost lost, buried beneath the smoldering waves of pleasure that were dying off in my hips, waves that would surely wash me away with them. But it was the first reassuring thing I'd ever heard. That novel benevolence gave me the strength to look up at the speaker. He was a brown cat with red markings on his face, and even though I was restrained in a crouching position he was easily taller than me. He looked me over, his feline brow furrowed, like he was trying to make sense of what he was seeing. And really, how many half-dead people had he seen? More than his fair share, I was later to find out, but I was more dead than half-dead. "This is Linden. We've secured a prisoner. Canine taur, severely malnourished, tortured, the works. I need three medics and a full lab. I want an IV in this one's arm in five." Linden knelt down and stroked my shoulders, then pressed his forehead to mine. "Don't worry," he whispered. "We'll get you out of here." I didn't know where "out of here" was. It didn't matter. It wasn't here. I kept waiting for him to attack me, to collar me, to cuff me, to punch or kick or stab or burn me, any of those things that followed an uncharacteristically gentle stroke or sentence. They never came. They never would come again. And just as dryly as I had cum for my dead keeper, I started to sob. "What's your name?" I'd never been asked that before. It hadn't mattered. I looked down at the ground, at the fading piss stain and the fur scattered about, the spreading blood from the corpse of my torturer. My cunt pulsed, a raw, agonized mass of meat, and my cock was numb from the repeated squeezing and jerking. It would be hours before I looked in a mirror for the first time. There was nothing in my torturer's blood but a dark smear that was and wasn't me. It could have been anyone. Maybe I could have been anyone. "Alyx."