Serge's by Varg Stigandr

Serge's

Varg Stigandr, Bound, Canine, Clean, Dog, Horse, Human, No-Yiff, Slave, Slavery

He bought gas in the morning. She knew this because she woke up as he was putting the nozzle of the pump into the fill port on the side of the truck. She wiggled in an attempt to sit up only to find that she had both blankets wrapped around her, restricting her movement further. Serge laughed at her puzzled expression as he opened the back hatch and dropped the tailgate. "You started to shiver after I got up this morning, so I wrapped you up a little to keep you warm. I didn't know how long it's been since you've had a decent night's sleep, but I'm betting you can't remember since I didn't wake you." She stared at him, bewildered as her mind scrambled to remember last night's events and tried to figure out how she was supposed to treat this man. Seconds ticked by. "Uh..." The pump kicked off, and he went to attend to it. When he returned he dropped the tailgate, unwrapping and taking her to use the facilities with him. Her stomach rumbled as he put her back into the passenger seat. "Ready to eat?" he said, cheerfully. Anger and practiced resistance had the answer ready. "No." She wasn't ready to accept anything, especially kindness. Not when it was eroding her will. Going hungry hardened the mind, so she was going to use the opportunity. "Too bad," he replied, climbing into the driver's seat. "Because we're getting food and I know you're hungry." "I'm not-" Her stomach snarled. "I don't want anything," she finished. "Tough shit. You haven't eaten anything since at least yesterday afternoon, and I'm guessing more likely some nasty, pitiful excuse for 'breakfast' yesterday morning. A kiman is not supposed to look like a skeleton draped in wispy hair. For fuck's sake, would your parent's be ok with you doing more of that to yourself? You're only furthering what those fucksticks did to you. You will eat something. I will not have you destroying yourself while I try to put you back together from that ordeal. Now, will you eat or do I need to get a funnel and some duct tape?" She couldn't allow herself to say yes, but she wasn't sure how serious he was about the funnel. She settled on glaring at him in silence. "Good." He pulled a receipt out of the center console and dialed the number on it using his cellphone. Her acute ears picked up the stereotypical business answer. "Morning!" He said. "Do you guys do carry out? Great! I'd like to order two omelets, one with peppers and cheese, and on the other..." She tuned him out, staring at her hands instead. Thick, brown leather cuffs encircled her wrists. A single lump in the center of each reminding her that they were merely a buffer of the real, steel restraint. She felt the martingale and slave collars press on each other- and as a result her throat- as she tilted her head forward. What would her parents think of her desperate attempts to both regain strength and cling to her free will? What would they think if they could see her, bound in chains, a slave collar locked around her neck? Would they tell her to keep holding on as she was dragged ever deeper into the bottomless abyss of bondage, or would they encourage her to foil her enslavement by suicide? She thought of them there, looking at her, and was instantly overwhelmed with shame. She groaned, leaning forward as far as she could and fought the urge to cry. "Gunda?" Said Serge. "Gunda, what's wrong?" "What the hell is not wrong?!" She bit back. "I'm god knows how many thousand miles away from home. I've been kidnapped, beaten, tortured, humiliated, tattooed with a number, chipped, and chained. I've been brainwashed to the point where I have to fight it every second I breath to keep it from overtaking me. I've lost any resemblance of being a person. I've been stripped of my strength, my fur, and my decency. I've been turned in to a pitiful piece of property, and then denied the grave, my only escape from this hell, by some prick who thinks he's doing good! Oh no, everything is fine! Just fucking peachy" A hand gripped the martingale and hauled her upright again. She closed her eyes, waiting for the beating from him she had more than earned. Her waist chain was roughly gripped, which surprised her, but there were cruel, sadistic ways of punishment that were dealt from there, too. A wrist cuff fell off. Her eyes flashed open in time to feel the other cuff fall off too. He relaxed back into his seat as she stared at her hands in her lap. They hadn't been this way outside of a cage since her capture. They were free. "Don't fuck it up," he said. She took her eyes off her hands as he started the engine. Her look of shock followed from her hands up to him. "What the fuck is wrong with you?" She said. He shot her a sly smile as they pulled back onto the highway. "People have been asking me that for over a decade." "I wanted to kill you yesterday. I've wanted to murder you and run to my own death for the past day simply because of what I am forced to be. I haven't shown any sign of willful obedience or respect since you bought me. I just went off at you like that and your response is to free my hands instead of beating the shit out of me. Are you out of your god damn mind?!" "Some would argue that." "What's stopping me from reaching over and killing you? What's keeping me from driving us off the road and finishing the both of us off?" He grinned. "Good questions! What is stopping you? Why am I not fighting for my life?" She looked back at her hands, enjoying being able to move them without being surrounded by bars, even if the windows and body of the truck served the same purpose. There was still only one way out of slavery, and the desire was still there, and yet now that she could move her arms as she pleased her brain had set suicide to be done "later". "I... I don't know." "Then nether do I," he said. "If you figure it out, and decide to change your mind, I ask that you wait until after breakfast. I don't know about you, but I'd much rather die with a full stomach given the choice. That and I already paid, so we might as well enjoy it." She shook her head. This man was really something else. She really had no idea what to expect. What next, was he going to let her drive? She stretched her arms out in front of her, then rolled her shoulders back, then stretched her elbows towards the cab ceiling, then leaned to the side and stretched her arms to either side as far at they could go. The back of her hand smacked into his face. She quickly withdrew it, and poised for a fight. If he though that she was going to just let him put her back in those cuffs now that she was free... Only he was laughing. "Changed your mind about crashing us, eh?" "I... Sorry." She felt embarrassed. He was throwing the thinking and reactions that life in captivity had taught her for moot by treating her like... something more? She wouldn't call it a friend, since he was clearly in control over her, but more like a close subordinate. She had a feeling he might even take a joke, if they hadn't beaten her sense of humor out of her. Her stomach sounded like a monster by the time he pulled off the highway again and stopped behind a diner. A woman came out of the restaurant carrying a couple of styrofoam containers and a couple of large paper cups. Her window, the closest to the woman, began to lower. "Please be polite to her," said Serge. "She had nothing to do with your captivity and doesn't deserve your wrath." She nodded. The woman looked surprised at the malnourished, filthy kiman wearing two collars that glanced up at her. "Er, for Mr. Warmund?" "He's here, ma'am," said Gunda, holding her hands out to take the food. The smell had wafted into the truck and she was salivating. She hadn't eaten real food in... since she was taken. It took everything she had to pass the cartons to Serge instead of opening them. The two large cups smelt like orange juice, and she put them in the cupholders between the seats. He opened a carton and the smell of egg, cheese, and peppers exploded into the cabin. "Yum!" He said, handing the other to Gunda. She opened it and her eyes nearly popped out of her head. In the box was a mountain of ham, bacon, peppers, and cheese all bound together with egg. "Holy shit!" She exclaimed, fumbling for the plastic fork. "Don't eat it too fast," warned Serge, "It won't do you any good if it doesn't stay down." She did her best. She made it about a third of the way through it before her shrunken stomach felt full, washing it down with what might have been cheap orange juice. It didn't matter. After drinking nothing but nasty water it tasted like it was straight from the fruit. She stopped eating and was glad she did so, as fifteen minutes later she felt completely stuffed. She closed the lid and leaned back. Serge reached over, and she fought the urge to guard her prize. Instead he pointed to a pile of napkins that had landed on the floor between her feet. "Hand me one, will you? And you've got cheese on your whiskers." She stared at him for a second, realizing and becoming horrified at what her initial reaction implied about the state of her mind. She shook herself back to the present and handed him a napkin before wiping her snout with one. The napkin looked like she had been working in a coal mine and then sprayed melted cheese on her face. The dirt was disturbing, but not surprising. He pointed to his empty carton and she tucked it in. They rode on for a few minutes until a question began to nag her mind. Maybe she could learn something about this man without relying on him being honest with his self evaluation. "Do you own any other slaves, sir?" She immediately and harshly kicked herself. God damn them for doing this to her mind. She had always been mindful to never use it while in training, but now that she was letting her guard down it was becoming apparent that the brainwashing had taken effect nonetheless. When she looked at him he was glaring at her and she cringed inside again. She had provoked his real nature through this question, that he was putting on a face and still held expectations other slave owners did. She knew she had crossed the line and now she was going to get it for prodding where she wasn't supposed to. "You will NEVER refer to me as 'sir' unless we are in public. Do you understand me?" This was definitely NOT what she had expected. "Yes, S-" She caught herself. "Serge," she finished. "Good," he growled. "I will undo that brainwashing. They beat it into you, and if that's what it takes I will beat it back out of you." Part of her feared more months(?) (How long had it been? It had seemed like eternity at the time.) of beatings, torture, and harshness, but the other part of her leapt in joy at the prospect of being freed from that conditioning. She had been willing to freeze to death to restore herself; if beating was what it took to ride herself of those mental scars then she would gladly accept it. Serge took a deep breath and sighed. "And I own two slaves besides you," he added. "I bought Jeff two years ago from a man who was moving out of the area. He does a lot of the heavy moving around my place and seems to enjoy it. I don't know what I'd do without him. Sonar is my other. He showed up shortly after I bought Jeff. I couldn't find his owner and he wouldn't go away, so I took him in. He keeps an eye on the place and lets me know if anything is out of place. I'll have to introduce you so he knows you belong- he's the best security I could ask for, but he can be, well, proactive." "He sounds... dedicated." Serge scoffed. "Yeah. He can be rather manic if he has nothing to do. Giving him security detail keeps him busy. He's happy, I'm happy, and everything is protected. It's win-win." He had taken the first question well, so she decided to prod further. "Yet you hate slavery." "I do. I have given both ample opportunity to leave. Sonar can literally quit and walk away any time he chooses. There is nothing that contains him. He enjoys me being his master and is happy with his place in my home. Both he and Jeff are content with their dependance on me." Anger flickered in her. "And that is what you want me to become." "No. I want you to never cease wanting to go home. I want you to see me as a person you like, but holding an office you despise. I want you to hate me for what I am, not who I am, and I want you to stay with me unrestrained because you realize that you cannot make it home on your own, not because you enjoy your position. And I swear that as soon as I can afford it I will make sure you make it back home." "Me? Home? Bullshit," she accused. "If you wanted to do that then why didn't we go there after you bought me?" He reached behind the seat and pulled out the atlas, dropping it in Gunda's lap. "I bought you in the city of Antiga. I live outside of Omro- the one that's north of there. I'll let you figure distances." She found Antiga on the large map on the cover, then turned to the appropriate page to find Omro. It was about sixteen hours away from Antiga... which was about a two weeks drive from the ferry that took her to Burguth, the human region that bordered the buffer parks where she had been taken. She stared at the map in shock. She didn't remember traveling that far, and she sure as shit didn't remember a boat ride or flying. Serge must have noticed her expression. "They drug the hell out of people during transport. It makes it harder for them to escape and even more difficult to rescue," he explained. "Even so..." she said. She knew she hadn't been cheap. Even human currency had a significant value when you filled a big paper bag with it. "I know I wasn't cheap. You couldn't afford the trip but you could buy me?" "I could make the trip before I bought you." He fished in his pocket, then threw a wad of bills at her. "That's all the cash I have. I was taking a big risk in bartering with scuzzball back there. I couldn't even afford half of your asking price. Christ, I could have bought a new truck for what I paid for you. They were asking three times what they were for the others, and I have to think it was just to make people think you were worth a lot more than your attitude let on in order to entice a buyer." She pawed through the money. Two thousand. Enough for one to make the trip two-thirds of the way if you slept in the truck bed and nothing on the vehicle broke, but she would likely need an escort or risk recapture or reclaiming if stopped in public. Two taking that trip on that much would be laughable, and that wasn't counting the return trip for the other person. Ferry tickets were expensive, especially when bringing a vehicle. Still, with this much she might be able to walk through the less populated areas, hiding in wooded areas and traveling at night. She might even be able to forage for food... except she was unfamiliar with the climate here and the only areas remote enough for her to safely pass undetected were subarctic, where food was scarce and her pathetic coat would offer nothing against the brutal winter that was not far away. She fingered the cash, her mind scrambling to find a way to bail. Two thousand can go a long way if used appropriately... except she couldn't spend it with a slave collar around her neck. But if she found a way to get it off she would likely be captured rather than bartered with; her money taken from her as they attempted to sell her as a slave... until they found her registration and learned she already was one. Then they would either return her to Serge for a hefty fee or dig out the chip and still resell her. Still, if she avoided capture she might be able to bribe- She looked out the window. The door wouldn't open from the inside. Serge was much stronger than she was now, and she had no doubts she was severely weakened from her ordeal. Without a collar she had a greater chance of being resold into slavery than she did of making it home, and with it she had an even slimmer chance of making it twenty miles before someone dragged her back to Serge for a ransom. If she had to be a slave so far she would take Serge over anything else. She knew slaves here couldn't be treated much different here than the humans Kiman owned back home, and what she had so far was a night and day difference to that. She handed the cash back to her owner. He took it and stuffed it away one handed. "I still think you're full of shit about letting me go." "I don't expect you to believe me until you stand outside of the buffer park on your side, collar off and free." She let out a sarcastic laugh. "At least we're on the same page then." Relaxing back into her seat, the warm sun on her face, the rocking of the road, and her full belly soon found her comfortably asleep.

It was hours later that she awoke to them pulling into a dirt drive that dove through a short wooded ravine before popping out next to a house that adorn the top of a hill overlooking several grassy fields and another that might have had rows of grapes or something. A large dog, lanky, black and with a fluffy coat bounced up, a long tongue flopping out of the side of a narrow muzzle. "and there is Sonar." She stared at the dog who had started leading the way down the driveway in front of the vehicle. "Sonar is a dog?" "Yep. Damn good one too." "And the slave?" "That's him." She gave him a flat look. "A dog is not a slave, jackwagon." "I do not pay him for his work, I feed, shelter, and see to his needs, and I expect him to obey me. How is that different from you?" "Fuck you: I am not a dog." "Good. Because if you were we'd have problems." He stopped in front of a garage door adorn with small dents down one side. He killed the engine and looked at her. "Can you please put your cuffs back on?" She looked at him like he was crazy. Maybe he was. It would explain everything so far. "Are you nuts? You think I'm actually going to restrain myself again? Hah!" He locked the leash to the steering wheel and threw the keys out of the window as hard as he could. They landed well out of leash range. "Put your cuffs back on. Don't make me regret letting you out." She glared at him. She couldn't get loose now and she couldn't win. It reminded her all the more of her position, and so she set her jaw. He was going to have to fight her if he wanted her wrists again. She raised her lips, showing her fangs. "Fuck you." "I was kind, and I'll be kind again, but I need to protect you and myself from stupid decisions you'll make until you learn better. You're about to ruin your future opportunities to be out of those cuffs, which means your time with me is going to be very long and difficult in deed." He threw the muzzle at her. "If I have to come over there it's going to hurt, AND you'll be wearing the muzzle for a long time. I hope you can learn to eat in it." She quickly began wrapping the cuffs snugly around her wrists. She was going to loose this battle either way, and temporary resistance wasn't worth ruining future freedoms, even if they were trivial. Only her fear of what would happen if she stopped fighting kept her defiance up. Add the muzzle on top of returning to living in restraints 24/7 though... fuck that thing. "Please," she said, her demeanor suddenly changing. She had forgotten his extraction of her and begun mistaking kindness for weakness. This man knew how to play his cards, and she began wrapping the first cuff around her wrist. "-don't muzzle me." "I don't want to. I hope soon you'll understand our situation here and then I won't care if you tell me to fuck off on stuff like this when we're not in public, but until then you need to obey me; like Sonar needs to obey me when we are in traffic- because he doesn't understand." She thought he was full of shit, but finished locking the second cuff in place. They were in the country. She was a slave. What more was there to understand?

Sonar took a liking to her off the bat. He growled at first, but Serge put a small of piece of egg in her hand and had her crouch and give it to the dog. Sonar happily took it after giving her a sniff and then licked, well, more like slapped her face repeatedly with his tongue. She couldn't help but laugh. Serge helped her up and lead her into the house. If it didn't smell like human the place would have looked indifferent from a thrifty farmhouse in her own country. She was surprised, though she wasn't sure why. Maybe she imagined humans must be different in their living arrangements to keep her own people enslaved rather than live as one themselves as they did in her country? She pushed the thought aside. Nothing was extravagant, though nothing looked terribly old either. The place was far from musty, giving her the distinct feeling of someone's home and not a strange house; not a dim depressing hole of someone avoiding reality nor the impeccable, spotless abode of someone disconnected from it. They entered through the kitchen and there was a small pile of dishes in the sink. A pot and two pans, dirty, lay on the counter. All looked well used but far from old or worn out. The dishes could have been from the thrift store (only three matched of the five) but were in good shape minus a chip or two. The floor was clean. The air was a few degrees warmer than outside, but not stuffy. It smelt of Serge, Sonar, firewood, and... whatever the hell was burned onto the pots and pans. It wasn't a bad odor by any means; her parent's place often smelt worse. He lead her through the house to the bathroom. It had a simple sink, toilet, and bathtub with a shower head that had been replaced not too long ago. It wasn't fancy, but it wasn't barebones. It wasn't clean by any means but it was far from being scuzzy. Compared to the slave compounds it was a palace. Her eyes fell on the long cable snugly mounted around the base of the toilet. She didn't like where this was going. "Umm.." "You're filthy. You smell like a slave pen. You need to clean up before you get sick. I still don't know how you aren't already." Those painful shots in the ass were probably antibiotics, now that she thought about it. He locked the end of the cable to her slave collar, then removed the martingale and leash. He left and returned shortly with two large bottles with a familiar label. She knew for a fact they didn't sell that kind of thing on this side of the buffer parks. That was the grade for people, not intelligent property. "Holy..." she exclaimed, forgetting her poker face. "How did you get those?!" He smiled proudly. "I ordered them from across the border. Shipping was a bitch, not to mention expensive, but I wanted to make sure I got something that worked. I knew whomever I got - if I was able to get someone - would need a lot of cleaning up and a coat that needed some serious TLC." He set the bottles down on the edge of the tub. She was growing increasingly uncomfortable with the prospect of being washed. She had heard of some owners doing that as some sort of perverted fantasy that always involved a fair amount of molestation; or at least it did on her side of the parks. Instead she found her ankles free, then her wrists, and finally her waist. "I'm sorry," he said, "But you'll have to wash your neck as best you can. Keep soaping and scrubbing until the shampoo foams and the water isn't dirty when you rinse it off. Then I suggest you use the other stuff... conditioning or what'sitcalled since you'll likely have to pulled every last bit of oil off your pelt just getting clean." The door closed, leaving her staring mouth agape for the second time that day. Then it hit her. She was alone. For the first time in god knows how long (if the seasons told her anything it had been at least four months) she had privacy. It was strange. Creepy. She was almost afraid of it. She stripped off the (now grungy) swimwear and sat on the toilet. A toilet. A real one; not a hole. Not a trough. Not a pot she would have to clean out with her bare hands. No, a real toilet just like she used to use at home, just like she had taken for granted all those times before... There was paper. Again, how long since she had even seen it, not counting the trip up? How long had it been since she had been able to clean herself with it after going? She finished and flushed, her attention turning to the shower. Yet again, at least four months since she had been able to clean herself. The few times she had been "washed" involved being chained to a rack with the others and soaked down with an ice cold garden hose, usually as a punishment. She was going to savor this. She was going to take a shower so hot it burned away every last fleck of that hell that clung to her skin. She would wash it away with soap and scalding water and damn it to the past. This was a new chapter. She was still in bondage, but she was no longer there. Then a realization hit her as she turned on the hot water tap. She was shocked she hadn't thought of it before. All of her added pain brought on by refusing to give in. All of the punishment she had endured for fighting every step of the way. All of the anger and rage she had clung to to carry her. All of that suffering from fighting her enslavement: This was the payoff. No slave used their master's bathroom. A chamber pot or a solitary toilet in the corner of the slave's quarters was used rather than disgrace or inconvenience their owner by occupying what was meant for "real people". They used the single sink with only cold water that they were given to wash themselves in and the hose outside if it was warm enough. Yet here she was in a real bathroom, about to take a hot shower after eating real food and being free of her restraints on the first day out. Her owner was even promising to release her, though she was dubious of that. Compared to the life of the slaves that had been sold before her though, even the ones who landed the cushiest seat in their master's house, she was living a complete fantasy. There was a knock on the door. She didn't know what to do until memories of her old life came back. Who knocks on the door of a slave? "Uh, y-yes?" The door cracked. "Hot water is on demand, and there is plenty of propane in the tank, so don't worry about running us out." "Oh. Er, thank you si- Serge." "You are welcome. Relax. Enjoy. You've more than earned it from your ordeal." His hand snaked in and snagged her swimwear. She didn't worry about it. If he wanted her to be naked she would have been a long time ago.

The water was HOT. For the first few seconds she gritted her teeth as the burning liquid cut easily through her thin, greasy fur. She didn't care if her whole hide blistered and fell off, that god damned prison needed to be forcefully removed from her here and now. She wanted everything from there to be gone, and if it didn't take so long to recover from it she would shave her entire body simply because the remaining fur might contain an iota of the poison they had inflicted on her. She wanted to divorce every bit of her slavery she could, and right now that meant everything but the steel collar around her neck and the ink and chip embedded in her back. She soaped and rinsed. Black slime washed into dark grey water. Repeating made dark grey slime wash into grey water. Third and fourth attempts still washed grey filth from her. She was beginning to wonder if she was washing the pigment from her fur when the soap finally formed a pathetic foam. She tried again and was rewarded with joy a thick foam that washed with nearly clear water. Her broken and tortured claws were angry from the soap, but she enjoyed the burn. The soap could kill off every nasty bacterium and virus that had crawled in there, bond and rip out every atom of that horrible place, and if the nail never regrew she would chop that finger off every human associated with the slave trade she could; punishments be damned. She picked up the shampoo jug again by mistake and was nearly appalled by how close to empty it was. It used to take her a month or more to go through that much, and she had burned through nearly the whole thing in one go. She spent some time in the fog, leaning under the hot water for a good while after the conditioner had rinsed off of her. She would never take hot water for granted again. It was wonderful. No sooner had she turned it off than there was another knock on the door. "Ye-" The door popped open a crack and a large towel hit her in the face. "Cover. Let me know when you are." "Uh.." She unfolded the towel and held it in front of her. "Covered." The door opened further. She couldn't see him through the fog, just a hand reach out and set her bikini back on the toilet lid. The door closed and she stood there for a moment before she decided to dry off. It wasn't until she had turned around that she saw how much fur had fallen off of her, washed free from the filth it had been trapped in. It clogged the drain in what amounted to be a small furry animal. She pulled it free, appalled and threw it in the trashcan. Did she have anything left? More fell to the bathroom floor as she ran the towel over her, but to her relief it wasn't much more than usually did. How much did that used to be that again? There was another knock at the door as she put her (Clean! Yay!) meager clothing back on. "Open." The door opened wide this time, allowing much of the fog to spill out as a cold draft swept around her. Serge looked over her and smiled. "You have a beautiful coat. It must have been stunning before you went through hell." She didn't know how to respond to that. She had mixed feelings of appreciation at the compliment and anger at her imprisonment. Serge only smiled wider. "It'll look that way again soon, don't worry. We'll get you back there." She smiled weakly at that statement. "Thanks." "Yep. Here's a sweatshirt and sweatpants. I figured you'll likely want them, since you have thin fur to start with and now you're, well, wet. I cut a tail hole in the pants for you, but I had to guess a little where to go. If it's off let me know and I'll try to fix it." He set them on the toilet. "Call out when you're dressed and we'll do the unpleasant part of putting your restraints back on. I cleaned and disinfected them while you were in there. Then we can... " He stopped regarded her for a moment as if he were about to change his mind, then sighed, shaking his head. "No. If you hadn't put up a stink in the car then I could leave them off, but now... After your restraints are back on I've made lunch for us to eat, then I'll take you on a tour of the place." She nodded and looked at the floor. This was a different game here. Obedience lead to liberties, not simply avoiding pain. Old tactics didn't work here, and she wasn't sure what to do. She didn't want to give in, but freedom was what she wanted, and obedience was the only thing that lead to it. The past months in slave training had told her she wasn't going to get anything even close to liberty on her own other than by sheer and extreme luck. Shackles, cages and chains did their jobs well. Just how much freedom was it possible to earn? The only way to know was to play the game and hope she didn't become a spineless bitch girl in the process. He said he didn't want that, and he seemed genuine in his dislike of restricting her, but that meant she would need to keep her guard up even more so. Regardless, her insubordination had evidently cost her the freedom from those cuffs. She needed his trust, she realized, and she had set herself back. "I'm sorry." She had intended the words to try and patch things back to where they were when they pulled into the driveway and tried to put a genuine sound on a hollow facade, but they felt genuine, too. She was suddenly terrified she was starting to see him as master. "Good. Maybe we can try it again soon." He watched her pull the clothes on. When she was done he handed her the restraints. She took them, looked at them for a moment when she decided to swallow her pride and see where transparency took her. She looked up at her owner. "Can you..." She held out the mess of cuffs and cable. "It's just... it's so humiliating having to lock yourself up." His expression changed, looking thoughtful. "Understandable." He took the mess and dumped half of it on the floor. She meekly held out her wrists as he locked the leather around them. "Is this any better?" He asked. "Only slightly." "There's a lot less shame when you fight every inch of the way, isn't there?" She nodded. "I'll agree with that. And I know it only hurts more knowing I appreciate not having to fight you." She nodded again. "But it should hurt less if you earn and keep my trust, because then I can leave these in the back of my closet where we'll both forget we even have them." He wrapped a plastic coated cable around her waist. It fit perfectly. There would be no more pulling of fur, noise of the extra links, or pinching of the chain. It was a small victory. "Cable?" "Yep. I made it while you were in the shower. I counted the extra links from the chain and measured. You've lost enough fur as it is, and this has to be more comfortable. I'll try to cover it in leather like the cuffs later." She felt her tail wag. "Thank you." "No problem. Let's see that it gets only a little use." He finished her ankles, then pulled out the martingale, leash still attached. "Do I need this?" "No sir-" She cringed. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" She chanced a glance at him. He was fuming. "Every time you say it," he growled. "Every time to utter that word or yield to that training you keep yourself a slave to them. Kick yourself mentally beat your own brain for your infractions. Make your mind feel pain each and every time, for the moment I see you fail to punish yourself for giving in to them I will punish you instead. I. Will. Not. Have. You. Under. Their. Control. No exceptions. Understood?" "Understood s-Serge." "Good." He unlocked the leash and put the martingale back on the toilet. He traded the leash for the tether, and lead her back to the kitchen. It smelt like mayonnaise, cheese, turkey, bread, tomato and... lettuce? All were known in her country, with the last two being fairly unpopular outside of strange diet circles. She didn't care at this point though; she would take eating heads of lettuce over the nasty goop she had been eating for breakfast and dinner everyday for the past eternity. At least lettuce was real food. He lead her to a heavy wooden chair and she sat down. He attached her collar to the back with only a foot or so of slack before moving to her ankles under the table, attaching them to the base of the chair. After a few minutes he looked up at her from the floor. "Can you do me a favor?" She cast an irritated look down at him. Every time she went back into her restraints it was like being dunked into a tank of ice water. It was a big tease to taste freedom only to be plunged back into the frigid depths of captivity. A favor? For him? Really? He didn't wait for an answer. "Can you be really, really good we can cut this out? I mean really try. Even if it's just an act so you can get a good opportunity to carry out your plan to kill me and try to walk home. This is such a pain in the ass." He groaned and got back to his feet. It felt like her hobble had been attached to the bottom of the chair. "You don't like it, I don't like it. Please just play the game enough so after you gut me and run I'll die easy knowing I tried my best." She gave him a surprised look. Her previous captors, trainers, and others had been only too keen on restraining her in any way they could at every opportunity they had. Sometimes she was left restrained even in her cage. Here, though, it was an unpleasantry he thought was necessary. If she were in his shoes, she would likely think it was necessary too. He wasn't disillusioned about her possibly putting up a front, either. "Sure," she said. "I can do that." "Fantastic. Here." He slid a plate with an enormous turkey sandwich in front of her. It appeared to be mostly turkey and cheese with a thin slice of tomato and a pathetic leaf of lettuce. His was somewhat opposite in proportion. He released her wrists and sat down. She picked up the enormous thing and her eyes went back and forth between her sandwich and his. "Uh..." "You need it, sister. Dig in." She took a bite. He slurped on tomato juice. "You'll have to help me plan some meals," he added. "I can read about kiman diet all day long, but in the end all it does is tell me when you're trying to get me to feed you nothing but the kiman equivalent of cake and ice cream." She gave a short laugh. The turkey was lifting her spirits. It must have been longer since breakfast than she thought. "Oh," he added. "Is there anything I should know about? Allergies? I'll assume you don't have heart or breathing problems or training would have killed you." She shook her head. "Good." They finished eating. She leaned back in her chair, licked her lips, and slouched. "Good, huh?" She nodded. "Thank you." "No problem." He stood and went to the counter, returning to drop a number of pills, big and small, onto her plate. She gave him a very wary look. "Oh no. I'll play your game, but if you think drugging-" He waved her off, then started pointing to each pill independently, naming them. "Vitamin C, Vitamin D; your liver is probably damn near out and both of those are needed for your immune system. This is a supplement for you joints, since they're probably damaged from the abuse and limited movement. This is for your nervous system; same reason. These three are for your coat and your claws. And this horse pill here is a general vitamin and mineral supplement. I figure you didn't look like a furry tree when they captured you, so you've got a long was to climb back from." "Oh." She looked at her broken and damaged claws, or what was left of them. If it weren't for that... She shook the memory away. Not here. Not now. He set a glass of water down in front of her. She picked it up along with the handful of pills. Even if some of them were more tranquilizers like the slavers had mixed into her food (which she often refused for that reason), they couldn't all be that, and like he had said: She needed all the help she could get. "Thanks." She tossed them back with the water. While he added the dishes to the pile next to the sink she worked herself up to putting her cuffs back on. When he came back he was stunned, looking at her wrists and then at her face. "Thank you." She smiled weakly. He didn't waste any time climbing down to remove her hobble from- Her ankle cuffs fell away. Her feet weren't just free from the chair, but she could move them in any direction she wanted, as far as her legs would let her. He vanished for a second, then returned wearing her waist chain over his belt and through the loops on his pants. It was locked to a leash about ten feet long, which he traded for the short tether on her collar. She stood, and they walked out the door. The place wasn't as big as she had first thought. The blueberry field, as she learned, belonged to a neighbor and the hay fields weren't much larger than what she had seen coming in, though they portrayed otherwise. However, the front 500 yards of wooded area surrounding the ravine, which she had assumed belonged to someone else and Serge simply had an easement, were indeed his. The ravine ran down some ways into a basin with a small pond at the bottom of it, and Serge was in the middle of a project to put a path to the pond that was wide enough for a small cart to fit down. He had made some progress so far: The trail wound through the woods, only cutting (as far as she could tell) the dead large trees. It made the trail very twisty indeed, and he still had a good ways to go down the ravine. He turned and lead her back up towards the barn, closing the loop around the property. Finally downwind of the building, she could smell a horse. Even if she couldn't smell the creature its self, the scents of manure, hay, sawdust and feed all said the same thing. And she could guess that this horse's name was- "Jeff," said Serge, holding out a hand. A dark thoroughbred had poked a head out of the window. The horse nickered and vanished, only to reappear out the big doors into the barn yard. "We're pretty sure Jeff used to be a race horse," explained Serge, grabbing some grass of the ground. "-but someone also trained him in harness, so he's been helping me move logs up from the trail, get my truck unstuck when I drive it places I shouldn't, and he pulls the hay wagon when I bring it in to put in the bailer, among other things." Jeff looked at Gunda warily before coming closer at Serge's beckoning. He gave him a handful of fresh grass close to her head which, after he had taken the grass, sniffed intently before lipping at her ears and ignoring her. "The yard needs to be scooped, and we'll pick his stall, too. I can show you how to feed and water him while we're at it, though Mungo might'v taken care of that this morning." "Mungo?" She almost laughed at the name. "Yeah, he lives across the road just over the hill. I take care of his goats when he needs to leave and he checks in on Sonar and Jeff if I'm ever away. It works out well. He's a good guy." He opened the side door to the barn and they stepped in. A few cob-web covered lightbulbs that were mounted every few rafters came on with the flick of a dirty switch. She felt the rough-cut boards under her feet and the dirt-sawdust-hay smell that made this dirty building somehow feel so clean in its filth compared to the sprayed down concrete of the slave facilities. As her eyes adjusted to the gloom she could make out about three stalls, with two being used for storage of hay and equipment. The third was open and empty, with all three stalls being separated from the rest of the barn by a gate. Jeff was standing in the doorway on the other side, watching. She noticed a cable hanging down from the center of the ceiling, attached to a hefty beam that ran the width of the building at that point. It was very long; coiled a good number of times where it fell to the floor and she had a pretty good idea what it was used for, too. It was confirmed when he traded the tether on his belt for the one on the beam. He put the key out of reach before releasing her wrists. He beckoned her to follow him through the gate, closing it behind them. Was it bad that this next part was what she dreaded the least about her captivity? After all that time spent as a prisoner, locked in cages and restrained, she actually looked forward to doing something. Oh sure, they forced her to do meaningless tasks as a part of "training", but work, real work, had meaning. She never realized how much she enjoyed accomplishment until it had been removed from her. Serge handed her a stable fork and a muck bucket. "Ever picked a stall before?" She shook her head. "It's easy," Serge explained. "Scoop up the poop, sift out the saw dust and dump it in the pail. The wet stuff you just dump in the pail. Don't be picky." She nodded, taking the implements. A shitty job but she was a slave; she shouldn't expect anything different. Serge was pulling on a pair of tall rubber boots before grabbing another bucket and coal shovel. He smiled. "I'll get the nasty stuff outside. I swear he enjoys churning everything together so it ferments in the mud." Then he ambled out the big doors, leaving her standing in the isle, bucket and fork in hand, unsupervised. She wasn't sure what she had expected, but it was something along the lines of working her ass off while her owner watched, or at least did an easy job near by. It certainly didn't involve being left alone, and it definitely didn't involve her owner taking a worse job than her own. Maybe it was because he thought she was too weak. She shrugged and walked into the stall. It was clean. There wasn't even a wet spot. She walked to the big doors, her cable letting her reach it easily. "Uh, Serge?" He was shin deep it muck. The wind shifted and she scrunched her nose. That goop smelt nasty. "Yes?" "The stall is clean." "Oh. Mungo must have picked it this morning." He stabbed the shovel into the mess and began carefully squishing his way towards her. The shovel remained upright. She followed him into the barn, where he opened one of the storage stalls. A shadow fell over her, and she turned to see Jeff standing right behind her. He gave her a couple of huffs through his nose before lipping the fur between her ears. It tickled. It was cute, the first thing she had seen as such in a long, long time. "Heehee, knock it off." She waved her hand above her head and he jerked his head back. Serge ignored it. "This is his feed, he explained, showing her a steel trashcan with red duct tape on the handle. There was another with a blue wrapped handle, and a bales of hay stacked in the remaining space. One behind the cans was splayed open, the flakes displayed like slices of bread. He pulled a scoop out of the trashcan and showed her. "He gets one of these, and there's a scoop in the supplement," he added, pointing to the blue can. "He gets one of those as well, and a flake of hay. You can dump another flake out there," he pointed out the doors. "I usually do that first so he leaves me alone while I do his stall." She nodded. He closed the stall door and motioned for her to follow to Jeff's stall. "You can pull the bucket out of the holder, it's easier than walking back and forth. This metal cage-looking thing holds the hay. You can put your fork and bucket over by the third stall over there. Easy, no?" She nodded. "Yes." The side door opened, and a middle age man stepped through. His salt and pepper hair was balding on top and his shirt was filthy with God knows what (it wasn't food, that's for sure), most of it concentrated at the top of his bulging belly. "Serge!" he called. "You're back early! You must have found one in the first batch- oh! And they're out here! Who is this?" He smiled at her. Friendliness wasn't what she expected. People didn't smile at slaves back home. She felt uncomfortable. "Mungo!" called Serge. "I did! Gunda, this is Mungo, the guy I was telling you about. He's a very good friend of mine... well, more like the only friend of mine. Mungo, this is Gunda. She is still adjusting from the hell environment of the training center and the market." Mungo held out his hand. "It's good to meet you Gunda. Rest assured you have nothing to fear from me. Serge and I are both part of the local abolitionist party." She timidly shook his hand. "Are you sure it's a good idea to name her Gunda," Mungo said to Serge. "Warrior might get in the way of trying to rehabilitate her." Serge grinned. "You'll have to talk to her parents about that," he said. "They named her. It fits her well." Mundo grinned. "You did keep it! Good! I'm glad to see you haven't gone completely to the dark side. There's a lot of folks in the group who are pretty upset about this plan of his," he added to Gunda. "I don't like the idea of him buying another person, but if he can fix what they broke of you then I can see the merit of the idea." She only nodded. She didn't like the idea of being bought herself, yet here she was in a barn with two rather strange men, the property of one of them, and both acting as if they were superior to those around them. Hot air was hot air. Serge was the only one who had shown anything, and if it was 'rehabilitation' he was aiming for he had shown her very little. Locked on a leash was a very far cry from the "real" person she had been before. Merits she couldn't care less about. She decided she had enough conversation for the time being and went to put the bucket and fork by the third stall. "Did you feed him yet?" asked Serge. "Sonar yes, but not Jeff. I had to go back right away, but it's why I'm here now," said Mungo "By the way, Mr. Mischie came by yesterday while I was putting Jeff to bed. He said he couldn't get ahold of your phone, but he was wondering if you could get a head start on his addition tomorrow. Apparently the flooring guys are coming a week early. I told him I didn't know when you were coming back, but I would try to get ahold of you today and pass it on." Serge sighed. Gunda grabbed a flake of hay which Jeff took immediate interest in, following her out into the barnyard where she dropped it on a dry patch of ground. "I can't," said Serge. "I don't have any of the materials and I haven't gotten a call from-" His phone started ringing. Gunda had grabbed another generous flake of hay and was depositing it in the rack in Jeff's stall. Serge spoke for just a few seconds, the conversation ending with: "Yes. I'll stop by this afternoon, actually. Thanks. Bye." He hung up. "Hah. Apparently the stuff came in today. I guess we'll be starting tomorrow." "We'll?" said Mungo. "Gunda and I." "You're going to bring a slave to work with you, and an unfinished one at that. What the hell are you trying to do?" "Train a partner. Oh," he grinned, "and she completed training without being broken." "Are you fucking insane?!" He shouted. "Nobody trains a slave in something technical unless they want it to bite them in the ass. AND she's unbroken? How the fuck did she do that? How the hell did they ever let her make it to market?!" "Beats me. I'm glad she made it, but you'll have to ask her how." She was walking back to the storage stall with Jeff's food bucket when Mungo looked at her with a bewildered expressed on his face. She smirked. "You pretend to obey only enough that they think you're good to send to market, but you have to be careful not to actually break." "And you're not killing us and running because..." She winked at him. As she dumped feed into Jeff's bucket Mungo stood dumbstruck... and somewhat terrorized. "Serge! What they hell has gotten into you? You can't help abolish this shit if you're dead!" "Gunda, how exactly did you dupe me into purchasing you? What were those sweet words of endearment you said when I asked you your name?" She grinned a nasty grin at him, bared her fangs, and said "Fuck you." "Just like that," said Serge. "That's how. I picked her because she was the only one with a spine. And she hates me for not letting her be disposed like she wanted to be. As for technical training, Mungo: Everyone who was kidnapped and sold had a life before he or she was sent through training and most of their personality was crushed and broken. So why not teach someone? Why not use any skills they might have?" Mungo shrugged. "I guess you're right. It's always been preached to never teach them anything they might find useful to use against you. You're job has a lot of that." "That's true, but those people also dominate and control with fear. If fear is lost, then control is as well." "And you know a different way?" Serge grinned. "Lead from the front. If you inspire someone to follow you, you will never have to fear them turning on you. You will always be able to depend on them, and they will forgive your mistakes instead of being tempted to take advantage of them." "Hah. A slave is not one of the troops, Serge." Serge motion for Gunda, who had just returned Jeff's full bucket to his stall, to come over. She complied. She had been planning on doing that anyway. "Gunda," he said to her, "did I tell you to do any of that?" Her heart skipped. Uh-oh. Was she loosing her will, or did she simply assume that this was her task while she shoveled heavy mud outside? "No," she said. Serge Smiled. "And she hasn't tried to kill me since the day before yesterday. We are all people, Mungo, slave or free. If you treat people like people then they will act like it. You've done your chores Gunda, but I still have mine and it needs to get done before we go pickup the stuff for the Mischie project. Mungo, if you want to keep flapping gums we'll have to do it outside." Gunda picked up the bucket again and poked around for a shovel. She wasn't looking forward to wading through mud that was a mix of manure, urine, and dirt, but mostly manure. There was a hand on her collar. "What are you doing?" Asked Serge. "I, uh, er, shovel." She wasn't as afraid of getting into trouble as she was of being proactive. Her foot kept sliding, she realized, and it wasn't good. Yeshua, were such simple acts really pushing her this hard to yield? Serge's hand released her collar, and she saw that she was now connected to his waist again. "Forget the shovel. Maybe when you're stronger you can help, but for now just follow me with the muck bucket." It wasn't like she had much choice. She followed him outside where Serge began scooping and hefting the heavy, disgusting goop into the first bucket. She set her bucket down and watched. Mungo had let himself through the barn gate and had followed them. "So Gunda," he said, "what did you do before they took you?" "My past is mine," she said in a practiced voice. "Everything else has been sold, but my past is mine alone." "You bitch! I asked a simple question and this is how you-" "Mungo! Cut it!" Said Serge. "You want your privacy respected, and I'm sure she wants that respect much more than you do." "Is that why she's wearing clothes?" said Mungo. "Is that your idea of privacy?" "They pulled out her fur around those places in training. I haven't asked her to relive the experience to tell me why." He was silent for a few moments. "Oh." Serge was quickly working up a sweat, and it wasn't too long before the bucket was close to full. He stuck the shovel into the remaining filth and wiped his face on his shirt. She placed her empty bucket next to the first and grabbed the full tub. It wouldn't budge. She should be able to move this. She knew how heavy it should have been full of water, and she could lift that, but she couldn't even budge this. She tried scooting it to the side. Nothing. She couldn't even budge it. Oh fuck no. She wasn't that weak. She couldn't be. A child could slide this thing and so should she. She snarled and shoved it as hard as she could. Nothing. She collapsed to her knees in front of the bucket, panting. She looked over at Serge, who wore a sad expression across his face. "We'll get it back," he said. "I promise. Everything they took." "You used to be strong?" asked Mungo. "Fuck you." "Hey now, all I did was ask." "He has nothing to do with your enslavement," scolded Serge. "You don't have to be friendly, but you should be polite." "I won't answer him. It's my past, not any of yours." "Then say so. 'Fuck you' is good for someone trying to buy you in a cage, but not to a bystander asking a curious question." Mungo moved the filled bucket out of the way. Serge removed most of the rest of the muck into the second bucket, but saved the last few scoops for Gunda. She struggled to heave the filth up and into the buckets, and was exhausted by the time they were finished. "Thanks," he said, lifting the bucket. She grabbed the shovel and wearily walked behind him to a small trailer that he and Mungo together lifted each bucket in turn and poured them into the back. Serge turned them upside down against the side of the barn and they walked through, pausing for Gunda to deposit the shovel back in it's place. Mungo excused himself and left, but not before Serge thanked him for his work and the man shook Gunda's hand again. After the door had closed he stood there for a moment, apparently in thought. She sighed and decided that leaving to go into town meant she wouldn't be doing anything, either confined here or stuck in the truck again. She might as well bite the bullet and put her restraints back on. She had the first one nearly locked around her wrist when to her shock he batted her hand away in time to prevent it from clicking. "Don't worry about those for now. I've got to change shoes, we need to wash hands, and then get a move on for town."