FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Part one

(In which a wolf has a dog day.)

The repetitive squishy sound of his lupine butt getting pounded was difficult not to focus on while Sam's head was held firmly by the second client. A hand covered up to the fingers with green feathers gripped his shoulder from behind, and shoved him on the cock that labored his sensitive anus hard, stretching it and brutally prodding far up his white-furred rump. The arctic wolf squinted as he endured what they imposed onto him. The colorful birds were even younger than him, barely adults. Rich bratty kids of some high-ranking Party members, undoubtedly, but they were clients, so he'd bent and groveled at their talons.

-- How 'bout that freedom, eh slut? How's the revolution coming?

The green one dressed in business attire, the one mounting him, laughed at the words of the blue one, who wore fancy sportswear. Sam responded nothing. He couldn't have even if he'd wanted to, because the clients had chosen to muzzle him and tie his wrists, so he remained on his hands and spread-out knees, and watched as the blue bird lovingly stroked his yellowish erection into Sam's face. To underline his joke, he slapped the canine snout with his wet male limb a few times. The intense smell of sex overpowered the wolf's senses as the seminal drippy liquids ran along and covered his black nose. He wheezed, and the young clients burst in laughter again.

To the slave's great shame, the constant hits from the rough avian dick on his prostate were gradually conquering his body, and he had to endure the additional misery of feeling his own rosy sex stiffening from serving his new function. Again.

When he'd been arrested and brought in, a few months prior, he hadn't believed it for a second when Wicker had told him that when he'd be properly trained, he'd learn to feel whatever Wicker wanted him to feel. Was that it? Was he 'properly trained' already? Sam thought of the security camera in the corner. He had no doubt that from this angle, his growing erection was visible. His handler would have a field day if he watched the recording. He'd push the 'service' training faster and further... Again.

At least, those clients didn't seem to care about that in any way. They simply kept Sam low and his cheeks spread because they wanted to fuck a captured celebrity of the resistance in the ass, just like many, many others. Sam lived as a simple sex-toy, now.

The sharp hand on Sam's shoulder tightened as he heard a loud moan with a particular effortful quality that, by then, he could recognize anywhere. He was humped faster and harder, and he tensed a bit with the pain.

-- Aahh! Yeah! Clench, bitch!

Sam clenched even though it hurt him like hell, because the client commanded it. The business-like bird began to ejaculate, and Sam's abused bum milked him loyally. Numerous spurts filled the wolf's rectum with avian seed while the bird huffed and puffed with profound sexual gratification. The client pulled up the white tail and spanked Sam's buttocks as he plopped his leaky dick out.

"There. That's what you deserve, rebel scum. That's your place."

He turned to his friend.

"Your turn, man."

-- Alright. But I'll have him on his back. I wanna watch his face while he takes it all. Get up, whore.

Sam obeyed and stood humbly before the clients. He bowed his head and even stooped his shoulders a little, because otherwise his slender but fit wolf shape would've been taller than the young males, and they would've had to look up to him a bit. Standing made his erection impossible to ignore, however, and come from his splattered ass seeped slowly onto his balls as he awaited instructions.

"Look at this freak. He likes being a fucktoy."

-- He probably thinks he's being rewarded, added the green bird.

-- Let's see what we can do to correct that. On the bed, slave. Sit against the wall.

Sam knew what that meant, and his spirit sunk even lower. The small room they were in was called a service cell. It was where purchased items with a middling rating waited for their clients to come and use them. This service cell was equipped with a large bed with cream bed sheets and an elegant blue quilt, a small sink with towels for the visitors to wash up when they were done, and a crate full of various equipment and toys to be used on Sam. The wall against which a headboard might've been was instead covered with multiple rows of rings for conveniently tying up Sam into a wide variety of entertainingly degrading and unpleasant positions.

The wolf displayed a hint of hesitation. He glanced at his temporary masters pleadingly, one after the other. He'd been nothing but tame and enjoyable for them. There really was no need to chain him to the wall. Since Sam couldn't speak, there was only one way he could press his case. He moved softly toward the bed, climbed on his cuffed hands and his knees, and rolled over on his back, spreading and drawing his knees nicely to offer his hole for the more athletic blue bird, and even added a gentle, inviting wag with his fuzzy tail. Despite the fact that he was sticky, tired and sore, he was prepared to fully satisfy his second client, so that he could return to his handler for his weekly review, and once that'd be over with, barring any late night client, he'd finally be done for the night. Better yet, the following day would be a Monday, which was the one day Sam wasn't on roster. He'd sleep the morning away, eat well, do a little work and perhaps some training with his handler -- depending on Wicker -- but mostly, he'd hang with the other captives in the Section D common room, talk, play and rest, like a person. He really, really needed it.

But the bird wouldn't let him get away with it that easy.

"I said against the wall. I won't say it again. You want me to leave a complaint form when I go?"

Sam broke into a cold sweat. He twisted and pushed himself up and sat his back to the wall in a hurry while the clients laughed some more. He deeply fucking loathed clients who used complaints as a threat. They didn't comprehend the disastrous, permanent consequences that this could entail for a slave. Or perhaps they specifically did, which made them even worse. Regardless, Sam couldn't let them do this. He stretched his arms high above his head as he assumed they'd want to attach him, and he whined profusely and pitifully. He curved his head forward to exhibit his flattened ears. He also drew his knees and spread open again. Overall, he made a show of his unconditional submission.

"Better, but that's still too good for you, pup. Legs up. I wanna see your pads."

Sam lifted his paws high as he continued to eagerly beg that rigorous jerkwad of a client. The blue bird took additional shackles and chains from the crate while his buddy cleaned himself and watched with interest. He first locked Sam's hands in place. Then he grabbed both white legs and brought them high and wide over Sam, extracting a pained squeal out of him as the limits of his flexibility were tested. The bird had to use force, and Sam's eyes filled with tears as his ankles were brought at the same height as his wrists. It seriously hurt.

"Dude, help me out here."

The green bird ran, and the wolf stared in shock as he took the other shackles. No! They couldn't lock him like that! They couldn't!

But they could. Before long, the birds stepped back, and Sam shivered violently before them with the intense strain, curved all over himself, immobilized in this unsustainable stance, with only his vulnerable and abused privates protruding. Sam moaned urgently, but he couldn't say anything. The birds gaped as they witnessed him suffering this abominable position, apparently startled by what they'd just done. Sam was convinced they'd realize it was way too much, and that he'd done nothing to deserve that, but instead they simply took out their phones, and grinned as they immortalized the moment. To complete the picture, the green bird approached and he turned Sam's heavy slave collar, made of plastic and metal, until the engraved rectangular plaque screwed into the front of the collar faced forward. The top line read: "Wolf. Male. 34-D." The bottom line indicated his rating, and simply read: "In-training." Most appallingly evident of all, the center area was carved with a single huge uppercase word: "ANAL".

-- Now, that's an appropriate fate for Samuel Thorn.

They took a few more pictures. After that, the blue bird fucked him in the ass, slapped his balls, and had an orgasm all over his white face and chest. The avian washed up, and then Sam watched in dejected disbelief as the clients quite simply left. They left. It was against the rules of Temple to abandon him like that, too. They'd have to pay a heavy extra fee, for it was clearly stated that all items had to be fully released from any restraints or toys after use, but they didn't care. Sam remained bound, muzzled and fucked, mewing weakly, alone, under the watchful red glare of the security camera.

Sam controlled his breathing, trying to calm down in the immobile, dead room. The pain wasn't getting any worse, now. He knew, from experience, that it'd take forty minutes to an hour for someone to intervene, so when the service cell door inexplicably opened after only fifteen minutes, he almost cried in relief.

Luther walked in. He was also a wolf, utterly massive, brown-and-grey, nasty looking and unkempt. Luther permanently appeared to have just woken up from a night of heavy drinking, if he'd been out for a midnight swim right before heading to bed. Luther was so absurdly huge; Sam genuinely believed that if he made an effort, he would probably be able to eat most of Sam in one sitting. Back in Sam's home village, people would've called him a 'dire wolf', but they did that every time a lupine grew a bit above average, so the term was essentially meaningless. Luther's size was legitimately out of this world, though. He intimidated most everyone, and perhaps it was for this reason that he worked as the chief of security for Section D at Temple, which was Sam's assigned section. Over his dark-blue security shirt, Luther also wore the dark-blue security overcoat indoors, and was alone in doing so. It had the advantages of making him instantly recognizable -- as if that wasn't already guaranteed by his sheer volume -- and of hiding most of his disheveled fur.

Luther sighed, but it sounded like a growl.

-- You're a sad excuse for a wolf, you know that? You make me ashamed of our species.

The chief of security used the small key lying on the floor to untie Sam. He started by unbinding his paws, which immediately but slowly came down. The movement hurt so much that Sam shut his eyes and squealed, but at the same time, it felt divine. The burn in his lower limbs began to fade without delay as sweet respite filled them. Sam's wrists were also freed from both the wall and each other. Luther brought the arm and leg shackles back into the crate, and then he returned to remove the muzzle. He thunderously snapped his fingers, and pointed to the floor.

"Off the bed."

Sam's muscles felt numb, but he willed them to work with as little delay as he could, and forced himself down on the floor and sat in front of the monster lupine. He ensured his back was straight and his identifying collar in full display, even if Luther knew damn well who he was. All slaves quickly learned that it was imperative never to mess with the security personnel of Temple. Handlers were technically the highest authority over their assigned items, but in reality, as with all highly secure establishments, the guards had the true last say about pretty much everything. As chief of security, Luther therefore enjoyed being chief of never-getting-messed-with.

"I can't believe you've made me walk all the way here myself, you idiot. I was alone in the security office, but it didn't look like you could wait for a patrol to come back. The office is empty, right now. If something happens and no one's there to react, I could lose my job."

While he spoke, Luther went to the sink. He placed a towel under the faucet, and brought it back to Sam.

-- I'm sorry, sir, the white wolf sighed.

Sam held the warm, wet towel tightly, and began to clean himself, starting with his face and muzzle, removing as much of the thick lumpy bird sperm as he could.

-- Ya? You're sowwy? That's just great then. What about the irreparable damage to my wolf pride whenever I stare at your wretchedness? Are you sowwy about that too?

Sam wiped his chest. He paused, but in spite of the humiliation, he began to wipe his testicles and his tailhole. What could he say? Should he apologize for being born? It made no sense, but Sam did absolutely not want to end up on Luther's bad side... if the wolf guard even had a good side.

-- Yes, sir. I'm sorry for being a wolf. I don't deserve it.

Sam interrupted himself in order to adopt a 'down' position, emphasizing his preposterous apology. He folded his arms under his chest and drew his knees while attempting to stay as flat and low as possible, something at which Wicker said he was pretty good. Sam also placed his chin on the floor, and his nose met the guard's boot. Luther's expression went blank for an instant, but he soon returned to his usual moodiness.

-- You should be. I'm heading back, now, so take the towel and return to your cell.

-- I can't, sir. I'm supposed to meet my handler for my weekly review.

Luther turned around and left, annoyed and speaking loudly.

-- Do that, then! What do I care? Just leave!

Sam did as suggested and departed immediately, attempting to finish cleaning his dense white fur while he traversed the many corridors of Temple. Wicker wouldn't be happy about the delay, but if he ran a little, Sam was pretty sure he wouldn't be more than five minutes late. He went by the door to the Section D dormitory with a pinch of envy for the slaves who were already inside and relaxing for the evening. Sam scurried further, heading for the training room where he had to be. Hopefully Wicker wouldn't have anything too complicated planned, and they'd be done in under an hour, after a few obedience and service exercises. Every week was a struggle to get through, and Sam couldn't wait for this one to end already.

The wolf tested the handle, and the door wasn't locked, so he walked in. Training rooms were spacious, easy to clean and adaptable areas that handlers could reserve and prepare for training sessions with their items. This one was almost entirely empty, sporting only basic measuring equipment and a scale, which wasn't all that strange for a simple weekly review. However, Sam froze when he saw the cold feline eyes staring into him. Only a tawny puma occupied the room. He wore the same pale-blue handler shirt that Wicker usually wore, but instead of being floating and wrinkled, the puma wore it tucked into his pants, and his was faultlessly ironed. Sam briefly wondered if he'd gone into the wrong room, but the cat's lack of reaction to his arrival persuaded him that he hadn't messed up. The feline had been waiting for him. Sam's guts twisted.

-- Wind? What are you doing here? Where's Wicker?

Wind licked a finger, and smoothed his erect, rounded ear.

-- You're late, Thirty-four. You're dirty. And that's no way to speak to your handler. Although I guess the dirty part shouldn't come as a surprise. You're a filthy slutty canine, after all. It's your nature.

This was bad. This was very bad. Wolf didn't like puma. Puma didn't like wolf. Those were mutually agreed facts that made any interaction between Wind and Sam arduous at best. Sam always did absolutely everything he could to stay as far away out of Wind's claws as possible. What was going on?

-- You're not my handler.

Wind's face contorted, and his padded fingers slipped into his pocket. Sam minded himself in a panic, and slid forward onto his knees, shouting.

"Sir! Sir! I'm sorry, sir! I'm a lowly slave and you're a handler! I'll be respectful, sir!"

The tawny fingers stopped, and then slowly slid out of the pocket. Sam, like all items residing and being trained on Temple grounds, wore a shock collar in permanence. Handlers kept a convenient little remote in their pockets, for ease of discipline. Sam breathed heavily as he watched Wind's hand finish its movement and return to his side. He could barely believe that he'd dodged the punishment. He couldn't help but reflect that Wicker would've shocked him without a second thought, for this. Then again, Wicker used setting number two on the remote. Wind used fucking five.

The situation appeared to have calmed down, so Sam cautiously returned to what he was saying.

"But, sir, you're still not my handler."

-- I am, actually, corrected Wind. Wicker is unavailable for a few days. He asked me to fill in for him. I'll conduct your review.

The puma marched slowly to Sam's side, almost exactly as Wicker did before starting evaluations. The wolf's mind raced.

Unavailable? What in the world did that mean? Handlers temporarily taking over for each other wasn't a particularly rare occurrence, but Sam refused to believe that Wicker had willingly placed him under Wind's grasp. It was crazy! And yet... there was no other explanation for the feline's presence, or Wicker's absence. That was it. As horrifying as that thought was, this time, he would be reviewed by -- of all people -- Wind.

"Display!" abruptly yelled the handler.

In a blink, Sam had reflexively leapt to his paws and adopted the 'display' position. He stood straight, immobile, with seventy centimeters between his paws, arms nicely raised, and with his hands joined behind his head. The point of this pose was to show off the full body for quick and easy estimation by clients or other parties. Wind circled around him in observation.

"You're limp. Your shoulders are droopy. Your arms aren't on the same axis. Your whole body should be active and prepared for instant obedience. Lift your snout! Tighten your jaws! This isn't a relaxation pose, you useless mutt."

Sam writhed inside. He squared his shoulders, straightened his arms and tensed up his neck and face. Wind was completely right; his stance had been sloppy, but Sam was too afraid to focus. He'd messed up already, and now he was increasingly feverish, so he'd mess up again! And even if he didn't, Wind could still decide to give him a bad review, and he might end up with a poor rating, spending the rest of his hopeless existence locked in the basement, as nothing but a numbered ass in a line with the other doomed cheap products. There was no coming back from a bad rating. He had to try something, to explain that he could do better, that he was just a bit shaken by the unexpected change in handler.

-- Wind, sir, I-

The puma didn't allow it.

-- Shut up. I know what you're thinking. 'Oh, Wicker is crazy, how could he place my fate in the hands of a feline?' Hah! You know what happens when I see you, Thirty-four. My blood boils. There's a primal force inside of me that tells me you're a threat. I experience an overpowering urge to take your vulnerable canine body and break it down into something that can't act by itself, that can't rise up anymore. A feline penchant to play and kill, barely tempered by the last few thousand years of civilized life. I want to put you down, Thirty-four. I know it's an old instinct. In our day and age, Wicker is way more dangerous to me than you'll ever be. It's not rational, but I want it desperately. The want is real, and what could be more rational than following what I want? There's nothing that would grant me a more violent satisfaction than crushing you into a damaged, mindless shell. I want to reduce you into nothing, a toothless object with dead eyes that doesn't think, doesn't hope, and feels only pointless suffering for eternity. I hate you, Thirty-four. I hate your brainless, sickening kind, and I love it. Wicker isn't like us. He can't understand how it feels between mutually threatening predators. He just thinks we dislike each other out of some silly tradition. Now, go to all fours, wolf slave. Humiliate yourself.

Sam looked into Wind's icy blue eyes for a moment. They were the exact same color as his shirt. Then, he obeyed the puma, and went down on all fours before him. There was nothing else that he could do. He detailed Wind's boots from up close. In truth, Sam could relate to every word Wind had said, though from Sam's vulnerable position, he viewed Wind as an unthinkable threat that crucially had to be avoided, because he instinctively knew that it couldn't be defeated. Sam reviled being in Wind's presence. It freaked him out. He felt from the bottom of his heart that felines were evil and dangerous. Bowing to one grinded his gears in the most injurious way possible, but Sam was a slave. He didn't have any other recourse.

The puma crouched next to the slave, and his hands ran expertly along the noble lupine neck and back, the arms, the rump and legs. Wind palped Sam's torso with his warm fingers, feeling his stomach, his ribs and his pectorals. Sam contained his desire to move away when Wind slid a finger under the length of his tail, and took it in his hand for a few seconds. Then, he attacked even more intimate areas, touching and groping Sam's heavy balls lengthily and vigorously. He played with the fuzzy orbs between his soft pads, and then he plucked Sam's limp penis between index and thumb, and slid along its length. The wolf sensed his stare, but didn't return it. He couldn't. Not while getting evaluated like that by... by a feline.

"Tail and cheeks."

Sam's ears burned, but he lifted his tail high and spread his cheeks for Wind to dominate. The puma felt around Sam's tailhole. It was still tender from the thorough trashing he'd been given by the last clients, but Wind simply stroked the reddened dark ring. He checked for a reaction, for any sign of unbroken pride or refusal to be played with. Sam exhibited docility. He knew his fate rested in Wind's hands, but the dark looming intuition that his efforts would be futile in the end plagued his mind.

"Close your knees tight and lean backward."

Sam did as he was told while Wind moved behind him. The stance shaped his wolf butt into a pleasant sphere, and Sam brought it against the handler's belted pants.

"Invite me."

The canine began to falter. Anger built up. Was there even a point to this degradation? Or was his fate already sealed, and all he did was to provide Wind with a bit more of final amusement? The injustice clenched his teeth when he spoke.

-- Wind, sir. Are you going to give me a bad review?

-- Invite. Me. I'm noting that I have to repeat my orders.

Wind waited, and so Sam had to make up his mind. He considered jumping the feline and going out in a blaze of glory. He contemplated that vision, treasured it, but also found out that he couldn't. He wasn't certain that he could take Wind in a fight anyway, and even if he could, security would be on them in a flash, and an example would be made of Sam. Even in the face of this hopeless situation, he couldn't precipitate himself toward an atrocious end.

Thus, Sam rubbed his buttocks up and down, gently, against the handler's clothes. Wind's right hand appeared onto his hip, and the other pushed between his shoulder blades.

"You stink. You should've washed before your review."

There was little to gain from even trying to explain.

-- Yes, sir.

-- Down. I want to see you take your kind's place at a feline's boots.

Wind guided Sam's motion as the latter flattened like a loyal dog. Sam ended up lying between the legs of the crouched handler. He sensed the damned cat's presence all over him, all conquering, but then the puma rose, letting go of his hip and upper back.

"Stay."

He walked around Sam.

"That's what I like to see. You should be nailed like that, permanently. Silenced, immobilized. I'd decorate my quarters with you. Maybe I'd even feed you for a while. Then I'd have you stuffed. You'd be a monument to canine servility. If only it was up to me."

Suddenly, Wind seemed to run out of batteries. He ceased moving for a full minute, soaking in the moment, breathing it in. Sam tried his luck again, warily.

-- So... are you satisfied then, sir? All I want is for you to be fair in your review.

-- No one cares what you want, Thirty-four. You're an anal slave, and you will be for the rest of your life. Stick your tongue out.

Sam frowned. That was unexpected.

-- Um, is that part of the review, sir?

-- God, you really do want to end up in the basement as an anonymous butthole. Tongue out!

Sam's pink tongue appeared under his nose.

"Further."

Sam understood what Wind wanted. Filled with the despicable impression of being the most spiritless, most pathetically submissive wolf on the planet, he extended his tongue until it touched the floor of the training room. It was cold and disgusting, but before Sam had much time to understand what was going on, Wind stepped forward and the tip of his heavy boot neared the squishy pink organ. The wolf mechanically tried to move it away, but there was no beating the feline's reflexes. The sole landed squarely upon Sam's exposed tongue, and trapped it painfully. With an evil grin, Wind shifted his weight forward briefly, squeezing it, and Sam hollered helplessly. His body began to move.

"Stay!"

-- Ehllhlllh!

Wind mocked the sad sounds Sam was reduced to producing, and squeezed again. The wolf squealed and stopped trying to protest, returning to his 'down' position.

-- This will be a special new punishment stance, unique to you. We'll call it 'tongue'. You go down and extend your tongue for me to step on at my leisure. Stop wriggling!

Sam tried to obey. His poor tongue suffered, but not too much as long as Wind didn't put any weight on it.

"Calm down, mutt. There you go. You're in your place. Everything is as it should be."

Sam whined softly, but otherwise remained passive. He couldn't dislodge his tongue, and it hurt if he tried. He'd have to wait for Wind to release it. As far as punishments went, this one was weird and cruel. His tongue was getting numb.

"The day you were brought here, and we were asked to train you, Wicker and I met to decide who would get to do it."

To Sam's immense surprise, the boot lifted, and his abused thin strip of muscle instantly hid in the safety of his maw. Wind stared callously.

"Tongue."

Sam squirmed and cooked in his fur as he realized that he truly didn't have a choice, and had to offer up his aching sensitive tongue again. His ears had already been low, but they dropped lower. His eyes descended as well, and he pressed himself harder against the floor in a desperate wordless attempt to get Wind to change his mind. When it didn't happen, the pink organ reappeared. Sam dejectedly pushed it out, millimeter by millimeter, and laid it once more. Wind gleefully threatened it, brushing it with his boot.

"I wanted you, Thirty-four. I wanted the pleasure of making you miserable. I wanted to watch your light slowly extinguish. It was beyond exciting. I would shatter you, get you the worst possible rating, and regularly visit your tormented remains in the pens below to rejoice in your grotesque demise, and to drop a few loads up your bum for good measure. Then, when your body would finally break down, I'd buy it for a few dollars and have your skin as a new doormat to wipe my boots on. The perfect conclusion to your distasteful existence. Wicker wanted you too, but not nearly as much as I did."

Wind knelt. He picked up Sam's tongue and held it between his fingers. Sam sensed the fur and the harsh feline scent on the hand.

"Yet, we agreed that he should have you. I knew that I'd never be able to give you a chance. I couldn't act as a handler to you. If you had any value, I wouldn't see it."

Wind brutally stuffed Sam's delicate tongue back where it belonged, and pressed his hand wide over the white snout, possessively.

"But here you are. All mine. I want you to know, dog, how pleasurable it is for me to touch you, right now. To watch you await my decision in unreserved surrender, knowing what I can unleash on you with a flick of my fingers. It's nothing to me, but everything to you. Say it. Say that you understand what I'm talking about."

Sam understood. He wiggled his muzzle up and down. Wind clutched it near amorously.

"I may sink you in the review, but you'll still spend the next few hours in perfect submission to my every whim. You won't do it because it'll help your case; you'll do it because you're a wolf, and I'm your feline master. Kiss my boots immediately."

There was very little that Sam would've preferred over telling that obnoxious, evil cat to go and screw himself, but the wolf's frustration reached its peak as he realized that he still truly couldn't do that. His only hope was that the handler would change his mind, and even if he didn't, disobedience wouldn't improve Sam's situation. It'd only piss Wind off, make him crueler, and get Sam punished.

In a moment of apocalyptic shame, despite the puma's quasi promise to sink his review anyway, the wolf crawled forward and kissed Wind's rubbery black boots, proving the feline's point. He kissed both of them, and thought he was done, but Wind still had his hand over Sam's muzzle, and forced him down and kissing again. He kissed the tops of the boots, the tips, the sides.

"I do enjoy when a canine bitch knows his place."

The review continued. Wind tested Sam's stances, reprimanding him constantly with delight. He checked Sam's health, examining his eyes, teeth, nose and privates once more. He brought forward a scale, and Sam was weighed and measured. The wolf heard the hilarity hidden in Wind's voice when he ordered him to do jumping jacks in order to 'test his endurance'. Resigned, Sam began the demeaning exercise. Time went by. With every jump that sent his dick and nuts flying up and down, Sam hoped he wasn't putting himself through this for nothing. Wind kept him going on and on, jumping until Sam simply couldn't do it. Panting desperately, his throat as painfully dry and shriveled as Wind's black feline heart, Sam tried to slip words between his jumps.

-- Please... sir... may... I... stop?

-- Yes.

Sam stopped. His burning body trembled with his insane heartbeat. His lungs hurt. All he could do was gasp for air. Wind, who'd disappeared into a corner during the exercise, quietly joined him and stood in his face.

"Display."

Sam did what he could, and adopted the display pose for the second time, doing his absolute best not to let his uncontrollable panting mess up his stance.

"Better. You dogs really do need your exercise. I think we will do this daily for as long as you'll remain under my watch."

As Sam's breathing progressively went back closer to normal, he noticed that he undeniably felt less anxious. He thought about everything the puma has just said with a cooler head.

-- You won't do this to me, will you Wind, sir? You let Wicker have me. You were fair to me before.

-- I'll report every tiniest fault that I've seen so far, and pray that it'll suffice to rate you down into a soundless cock receptacle. I won't make shit up.

Wind sighed. He looked aggrieved.

"I'm not holding too much hope, so far."

Reassurance washed into Sam, as well as an unexpected sense of thankfulness. He wanted to express it.

-- Sir, I-

A strong vibrating noise emanated from the handler's pocket, and he silenced Sam with a gesture. He stepped away and stared at his phone for a moment, reading the message. His voice was blank.

-- It's Wicker. He wants me to look into...

The hard sole of his boot rasped against the floor as Wind spun. His expression had transformed. He was joyful and wrathful. A lethal beast about to pounce, all fangs bared in a hellish show of intent.

"He's just received a notification about you, Thirty-four. An official complaint has been lodged."

Sam stumbled upon a small hole in the universe. A bit of nothing. Then it hit him.

The birds.

Had he not been an arctic wolf already, Sam would've turned white. Wind was ecstatic. He appeared barely able to believe his luck.

"This is it! Oh, boy! You've done it now, Thirty-four. You're fucked! A complaint before you even got your first rating! I'll see it! I'll get to see it happen!"

Sam tried to keep his panic at bay.

-- No, wait! What is the complaint even about?

-- I don't know! Something about defiant behavior, and apparently you didn't follow protocol and thank the client after they were done with you! It's great! I hope they'll castrate you in public first, before they lock you downstairs. I bet you'll cry! I'll try to get your balls in a jar too, if they do!"

Wind got lost in a wonderful imaginary world. He turned sideways, and seemed to place objects with his hands in a mental representation of his living room.

"The jar will go there, on the shelf by my bedroom door. In time, I'll mount your head next to it on the main wall, and your fur will be way over there, of course, by the entrance, so that everyone can wipe their shoes and boots on it. Unless I can get your entire body and have it stuffed in a funny position. Hmmm."

-- But that's not true! squealed Sam. I wasn't defiant in the least, I was a quality product, I swear! And they left me tied up and muzzled! I couldn't thank them! Luther had to let me out!

Wind laughed merrily.

-- Life's a bitch, Thirty-four! And so are you!

This was insane. This was a nightmare.

-- But, but Wicker's my handler! Can't he do anything?

Wind threw his hands up.

-- Of course! If he wants to, he can contest the complaint and bring up evidence to defend you. If what you say is true, all he has to do is get the security recording and voilà! You're saved! But Wicker isn't here, is he? Wicker is away! And security only keeps recordings for three days. After that, the complaint will be registered for good.

Wind danced a little.

"Away, away, Wicker is away!"

-- When will he come back?

-- In three days! burst the puma with a grin of incalculable bliss. See how everything works out just fine sometimes?

Sam had the distinct impression of getting swallowed into an absurd vortex of bad luck and ill will. He frenziedly searched for something onto which he could hang.

-- Sir, Wind, sir, please, can't you do it then, please?

-- Damn straight, I can! You're a section D item, and I'm a section D handler! That's why Wicker wrote asking me to look into it.

-- So, so you'll fix it then?

Wind leaned back with a start. A potent smirk soon regrew.

-- Take a wild guess.

Sam crumbled to his knees.

-- Oh, please, sir, please! You know what they'll do to me! That's not fair! You have to help! It's part of your job as my temporary handler!

Wind switched to being offended on a dime.

-- No, it's not, he sturdily denied. Nowhere in my task description does it say that I have to follow my items around, doing fact checking whenever their dumb asses fuck up and earn complaints to see if they are legit. That's an extra, a bonus that some handlers do for the slaves that they actually care about.

The puma took a short pause. He couldn't contain his good mood for long, and beamed.

"We hate each other, Thirty-four. Remember? We talked about it."

-- But it wasn't my fault! I need your help! I'm a quality item!

Wind hissed in some kind of sadistic buzz.

-- Yeah. That's a fine look for you. Beg me, wolf. Show me how inferior you are.

Sam had never been so trapped. He hadn't done anything wrong! He'd tried to comply and submit at every turn! There had to be something he could do, some way he could convince the feline. At the same time, he suspected there wasn't. Sam threw himself at Wind's paws like a fuzzy wriggling worm. He clasped the puma's legs through the black pants, rubbing his lupine face and ears against the firm calves.

-- I'm inferior! I'm nothing! Please have mercy, sir! Have mercy!

Sam detected it, as he offered every last shred of his dignity away: a slight change in Wind. The puma spoke with guarded interest.

-- You admit it?

Sam rushed toward that suspicious glimmer of hope with no holds barred.

-- Yes! I'll do anything! I'll say anything! I'm worthless!

-- No! Not just you. Your entire kind! Admit the inferiority of canines.

-- I admit it! We're submissive pitiable species! Look at how spiritless I am! That's our true nature! We love to beg and squirm! All canines should be slaves to their feline masters, even wolves! No! Especially wolves! Especially me! You were right! You were always right! I should be your dog! That's what you want, right? You said it yourself. You want me broken, prideless and neutralized. I'll amuse you! Spare me, and I'll be yours. I'll owe you for the rest of my life! I'll worship you! Even if Wicker is my handler, we'll both know who I really belong to.

Wind took a while to respond.

-- But I don't want you. You're a filthy dog. I don't like dogs.

-- Maybe I can change your mind! You have three days to decide, right? I'm off roster tomorrow. Take me home, tonight. I'll be your pet! I'll be a great dog! You can treat me poorly if you like! You don't have to feed me, you can shock me or beat me, and I'll be tame anyway! That's how spineless we wolves are. You can walk me on a leash and show everyone how canines should behave toward felines. I'll do everything! I'll fetch your slippers!

Wind chuckled.

-- I don't wear slippers.

-- I'll fetch your newspapers, then!

-- I don't read the papers, either.

-- Fuck it, I'll fetch anything! Please, master Wind! Or I won't! I'll be a decoration if you prefer! I'll be silent! I'll stay in my proper place! You can tie me up! A display of rightful canine docility! You'll love making me miserable! You'll love my unconditional loyalty! You have nothing to lose! If you're not convinced in three days, you can still... let them take me downstairs...

Wind took even longer to respond. He was thinking about it. Sam wagged his tail.

-- So, you have only three days left before being reduced into a short-lived, mindless spunk bucket, and you want to offer them to me, so that I may gloat and rejoice, despite knowing that I'll undoubtedly let you fall in the end. Is this wondrous day ever going to stop getting better? Let go of my legs.

Sam released the handler as ordered, but Wind didn't move away, so the wolf kept gently swaying the side of his snout against the warm right leg.

"Okay, wolf slave. I'd say that you win, but in this case, you lose regardless of whether you get what you want or not, which makes all the beauty of it. I'll leash you and take you home to entertain me. I'll have my fun, and in three days, I'll watch the recording and decide whether or not I want the considerable additional pleasure of witnessing your descent."

Sam knew that was the best he would get.

-- Thank you, Wind! Thank you so much. I'll be good! You won't regret it!

Wind stepped on the canine's snout, forcing it shut.

-- I want you silent. Dogs don't get to speak. They listen and obey. Stay put.

On this, Wind left to fetch a leash. When Sam heard it being clipped onto his collar, he knew his fate had been tethered to the puma's will. To a feline. The first impatient tug came, and the defeated wolf crawled after his master.

Part Two

(In which we meet someone we heard about, and learn about the future of Temple.)

On a nearby tiny and uninhabited island, deep underground, a dark laboratory complex hosted a group of well-dressed figures. They didn't fit in with the room they occupied, flanked by eerie glowing cylinders linked with metallic tubes, and controlled by two massive supercomputers with a dozen screens each, displaying indecipherable figures and graphics. The screens offered information about 'link force', 'thickness stability' as well as power consumption, which got supplied by a small nuclear power plant above ground. The guests didn't understand a word of it, and didn't care to try. The scientists accompanying them were well aware of this fact, and knew better than to attempt explaining the details of their mind-bogglingly complex work. The Founder wanted results, and with some Party officials having been invited to witness this historical triumph of science, failure wasn't an option. The Founder wouldn't tolerate Temple Corporation being humiliated before the regime.

Among the visitors, a black-furred bunny, quite tall for his kind, put away his phone after having sent a message to his colleague. Wicker wore a beige waistcoat over a white shirt. Refined enough, but not intimidating. He stood with a slight forward slouch and his hands buried in his pockets, but he also kept his long ears attentive and showed a warm, welcoming face. Though he wasn't the most powerful person in the group by any means, the scientists addressed him when commenting and directing the tour, and none of the Party members seemed to mind it. Being comfortable around Wicker was easy, effortless. Scientists or politicians, everyone liked the star handler of Temple.

The rabbit worried, however. His mind wasn't on the tour anymore. He'd only trained Sam for a few months, but the wolf was receptive and easily controllable. The complaint for defiant behavior sounded like complete bullshit to him. Wind was there to take care of it, true, but Wicker had a nagging feeling that the puma might not be entirely reliable in this case. Perhaps Wicker should try to return a bit early. Just in case.

-- If you would all please follow me toward the center of the room.

Dr. More was a bright chubby-cheeked groundhog, and a focused, uncompromising mind. She wore a pink lab coat. A vivid pink lab coat. Wicker smiled every time it entered his field of view. The entire point of a lab coat was for it to be white, so that one would immediately notice if any dangerous product got spilled over it. A pink one was essentially useless, and she knew it, but there she was anyway. No one would take it away from her; she headed the Upsilon Project, and reported directly to the Founder.

The visitors followed her and lumped in the center of the room, as far from the strange pumps and sciency-looking apparatus as possible. Behind More, in the back of the room, sat a large circular glass platform with a metal ring around it, out of which hundreds of small jumbled wires ran and disappeared into the various other devices. In a shared curiosity-induced movement, the group leaned forward to observe the colorful and well-defined bolts of lightning constantly cutting across the diameter of the platform under the glass. At the moment, they were green and blue. Embedded into the ceiling above the platform, a plate of the exact same size and shape caught Wicker's attention. It was a plain copper plate, and the bunny didn't doubt that it had an extremely specific function, though at first glance it seemed perfectly useless to him. Wicker pointed to it.

-- What's that?

-- A copper plate, said Dr. More.

-- Is it important?

The groundhog blinked.

-- If we run the machine without it, it destroys our universe.

-- Ah.

The guests laughed at the joke, but not the scientists, which unsettled Wicker a little. He didn't dare ask her to confirm that it was a joke. More opened her short arms wide, and smiled. The visitors quieted down.

-- Parallel universes, she began. We've long suspected their existence, but all dominant theories pointed to them being out of our reach, completely disconnected. Hence the name. If two lines are truly parallels, then they don't touch, no matter how long. Ever. In a certain way, this proved to be correct. It wasn't until the advent of the field of Scriptal Physics that we began to realize the theoretical limits of this truth. A simple way to visualize it would be to imagine parallel lines with a certain thickness to them. If the lines have a thickness, and run close enough to each other, then they may overlap, though this overlapping might not usually affect the path of the lines. We are connected to certain neighboring realities, and we have always been. Here, we call this the Link. We don't understand the nature of this force, but it is there, and it can be influenced. For months, now, we have successfully breached into inhabited enemy universes, opening one-way windows to observe worlds that proved to be both different and strikingly similar to ours. Happily, so far, our observation operations have revealed that very few of them could represent a danger to us, and none have the technology to use or even be aware of the Link. The Unified Islands' domination is therefore not threatened, and these rival worlds should be considered as what they truly are...

Dr. More made a dramatic pose, and stared proudly at the Party Administrators and their entourage.

"Resources!" she almost yelled.

Her public loved it. They cheered and celebrated their uncontested might as More went on, escalating her emotion, and overall playing her audience masterfully. Wicker could only admire it.

"Last week, Project Upsilon has proudly reported our first success in moving physical objects to and from those competing worlds. Using this very machine, tomorrow evening, Temple Corporation will begin to extend our national influence, undermining the enemy by abducting and reducing their leaders and key figures into humiliating slavery, all the while stocking our rosters with unique and exotic merchandise for your enjoyment! The time has come for these outworlders to know and bend to the power of their true masters! Defeat and punishment to our enemies! Eternity for Orellius!"

Dr. More, filled with patriotic hysteria, performed the Party Salute before her audience, raising her right fist to the height of her eyes, forming a ninety degree angle with her elbow, and staring slightly upward.

-- Eternity for Orellius! they all echoed while saluting in turn.

Wicker did it as well. And just like the others, he stared toward the ceiling, where there was, of course, nothing particular to stare at. Save maybe for the copper plate.

In reality, Wicker knew, the Founder had funded Dr. More's research and created the Upsilon Project less out of a fear of other worlds eventually invading them, and more out of a need to acquire new premium items to offer to their clients. It was easy to take poor people off the streets, or petty criminals, but that wasn't what the wealthy clients of Temple desired. That wasn't profitable. They wanted beaten resistance leaders, like Samuel Thorn, or the royal sons and daughters of conquered enemy countries, or disgraced Party administrators who'd become a bit too ambitious for their own good. In short, good looks weren't enough. They wanted status. Problem was: the resistance had been all but eradicated with the arrest of Sam and the dismantling of their last and most critical cell. There were no more unbroken nations to conquer on the planet, and Temple couldn't exactly count on internal Party conflicts alone to fill their stables with fancy slave flesh. Temple needed prideful figures to strip and whip, and the Party required easily defeated enemies in order to continually prove their strength. Those were the reasons behind Upsilon.

An excited Dr. More continued to explain the basics: how they would use complex algorithms to analyze worlds and identify significant people in them; how the worlds would be categorized according to exoticness, and according to the level of danger their captured inhabitants might represent. There was more, but Wicker didn't listen. That didn't matter for his job. He was a handler, not a scientist or a security officer. How the new acquisitions would be trained was what mattered to him, and what he'd been brought to advise about.

The rabbit moved subtly away as the presentation continued, and he returned near the entrance. There, in a shadowy corner, he saw the form of his boss, leaning to a wall, with his arms crossed over his chest. Wicker joined the Founder. They whispered to avoid disturbing Dr. More's show.

-- What do you think? asked the dark outline.

-- There's no telling how the captives will react, sir. Imagine being plunged into a completely different world, the rules of which you may completely ignore. We'll need to keep the new arrivals on a short leash, and train them with extreme attention. We'll have to hire more handlers and trainers.

-- Perhaps.

-- They shouldn't be introduced in the general population, either. That'd be chaos. A special section must be created for them. Many will surely need time to be broken to the rules of Temple, so carefully selected, tame items should be transferred to that section to serve as examples for them, and to socialize them. Outworlders should also be brought in gradually. We should train them one at a time, at least until we have more experience with managing them.

The Founder seemed not to disagree.

-- Hmm hmm. Did you have any specific slave in mind for this shepherding role?

Wicker hesitated. Sam was the best candidate for this. He was young, relatively new -- and therefore adaptable -- and compliant... He was also devoted to Wicker, which would be an additional way for the handler to secure control over the new section he'd just proposed. The handlers of Temple had long waited for a Master Handler position to be created, and informally becoming a handler in two different sections at the same time would be an excellent step in securing this eventual promotion for the black rabbit. However, Sam was a risky bet. He hadn't been rated yet, and a complaint about him had already been lodged. If the complaint couldn't be removed for any reason, it would look horrible on Wicker for having proposed such a flawed slave to the Founder.

Meh, Wicker had always been a gambler.

-- Yes, sir. I would propose item Thirty-four D. I trained him myself and he's about to receive a high rating. I enjoy full dominance over him, so it'll be easy for us to shape every facet of his interaction with the new arrivals.

-- I see. I'll consider your suggestions.

Wicker nodded.

-- Before I go, I must ask if you'd mind if I left a bit early after the main event? There's some business I'd like to oversee personally on Temple grounds.

-- I forbid it. I want your experience with handling unruly subjects in case unexpected problems arise. You'll stay until dismissed.

-- Understood.

Wicker glumly returned to the presentation. He knew calling the security office would be useless; Luther would tell him to come in person if he wanted something. It was a basic security measure in this age of easily spoofed phone calls and reconstructed voices. Slightly anxious, Wicker whipped out his phone to type another more strongly worded message to Wind, insisting that the puma not goof around and resolve the situation with Sam. A minute later, the answer arrived.

It read: "Fuck off, fluffy tail."

It was a poor choice of insult, reflected the annoyed bunny. He knew from experience that the tip of Wind's tail wasn't any less fluffy than his.

Technically, Wicker had one last option, but he wanted to avoid resorting to it at all costs. He genuinely hoped that Wind wouldn't be a dickhead, and would deal with the complaint before it was too late.

Part three

(Which is about canine obedience.)

After Sam was proudly strutted around the facilities by the puma for a while, they made it to Wind's quarters. The handler's small but orderly apartment was provided free of charge by the corporation, who liked keeping their most important employees on Temple grounds. Sam found himself a bit surprised by the peaceful, unassuming home. Handlers earned a lot, and the wolf had expected the feline to live in flamboyant luxury. He'd seen Wicker's quarters, and the bunny certainly did.

Upon arrival, Wind poured a bucket of cold water over Sam as a pretend bath. As Sam dried in the washroom, Wind bound his wrists to his collar, so that the elegant white wolf would permanently have to look like a sorry pup begging forgiveness. He was subsequently dragged into the middle of the handler's bedroom. It was getting late, so Sam waited there for a while, as the feline prepared for bed, putting on some soft-looking red pajamas and -- astonishingly for Sam -- an adorable nightcap with a pom-pom. The canine had assumed felines slept in the sharp, broken bones of their victims, or something.

Sam naturally thought he'd rest there like a good pet, on the floor, until he would be required to lift tail, so he watched with some confusion when Wind placed a large toy before him. It was a black cock-shaped anal toy, one or two sizes larger than what the wolf was used to.

-- Lick it, dog.

Sam knew better than to protest. Bending over to pick it up, he introduced the monster toy to his mouth. It was too big to fit gracefully, and Sam struggled to cover it all. Wind appeared pleased, however, and Sam remembered that that was probably what the feline really wanted, having him looking vulgar and ridiculous.

"Now sit on it, and bounce. That must be what your subby ass really wants, anyway. Consider it the 'service' part of your evaluation."

It would be rough. Sam knew it, but it couldn't be avoided. He had to please Wind. He had to really please Wind, to the point where the handler would want to spare him. And thus, Sam carefully balanced himself, squatted over the upright toy. It was a delicate maneuver with his hands so humiliatingly tied. He sensed the cold tip of the toy against his rear. He wished he was elsewhere, and didn't have to be a compliant anal slave for Wind. He wished he'd never been captured and leased by the Party for Temple to exploit, and didn't earn them all so much money, every week. It was beyond frustrating.

The puma scoffed at Sam's view. Wind might've seemed oddly cute with the pajamas, but he was no less spiteful.

"You should see yourself. Go on, then. Stretch your tailhole."

Sam descended on the toy, and immediately realized his bum was still sensitive from servicing the birds. His ears burned, but he was damn glad that Wind was at least having him do this in private. The toy intruded deeper, but Sam soon halted his descent as the toy reamed his ass wider and wider. He felt full and invaded, but the unpleasantness of it all, the thought of how degradingly owned he was by a stupid cat awakened his dick with disquieting speed. Damnit! This was all Wicker's fault, with his odious training techniques! The rabbit had so often gently bent the wolf, patiently rubbing him and petting him during obedience training, making him feel safe and controlled while being forcefully aroused. Now, this just happened when Sam felt submissive. He'd never thought of himself as a bottom! He was a pack leader! An alpha mind, with so much to offer. A top! He was a top male wolf!

"Lower, slave," ordered Wind. "I want to see your anus taut and red. Sink it all in. That's what you're good for."

And yet Sam flushed and obeyed, squeaking sadly before Wind as the entire length of the toy entered him. The shame scorched so much that the wolf automatically pulled on his wrist chains. They clicked, but he remained secured in the pathetic begging position, squatted low on top of the toy, and quickly growing hard.

"Ha! I figured as much. Now, bounce, Thirty-four. I don't want to hear a single complaint, and don't you dare stop until I say so."

The defeated lupine toyed himself hard, and long. It chafed, and his erection throbbed quite perceptibly. He did it during the first few minutes while Wind viewed him with a smirk. He did it with a ripple of fear and anxiety when the handler walked around him and turned off the lights. He also did it while the feline slipped under his comfy blankets and went to sleep, kept warm by the sounds of Sam being his personal little bitch.

In the dark, Sam glumly understood that he'd have to keep going. What if he stopped and Wind woke up? The feline did say that this was part of his review. Sam would get a bad review, and a complaint. It would be the end of his existence as anything other than a slimy battered hole, without a single doubt. So Sam bounced, exactly as Wind had desired. Nightly hours went by. It was absurd. The squatting position was terribly exhausting, his abused rump hurt, and he became desperately pent up. His cock leaked mercilessly on the floor. It was the absolute worst night of his life, but he bounced. It was endless.

Sam didn't know how much time actually passed. He tried to guess as he continually shoved himself onto the plastic and rubber dildo, and his worsening discomfort increased with his arousal. He tried to convince himself that it wouldn't be too bad, and that the sun might rise soon, but every time he thought this, a cruel, practical voice in him said no, and that it'd only been about two hours, and then three hours, and then that he was only halfway through it...

When Wind woke up in the soft morning light, he was very impressed. The feline couldn't even summon the will to immediately insult or mock Sam. In fact, he sounded as solemn as Sam had ever heard him when he contemplated the miserable wolf, moving laboriously, panting with teary, desperate eyes, but still carrying on his command, somewhat. Wind took his nightcap off, because the pom-pom hung in his face, against the right side of his muzzle.

"Is this canine obedience? Hmm."

The puma got out of bed, and nonchalantly tipped Sam over with his paw. He fell onto his back, with the toy still stuffed far between his cheeks. His legs trembled.

"You can stop."

Sam was a mess. A fully-erect male mess. In front of him, on the floor, a large stain served as an appalling proof of his unseemly neediness. His dick still leaked into his fur as he lay on his back. He glanced with his soft brown eyes at the steely feline standing over him.

Wind liked it. Sam could tell. This made him, at the same time, intensely ashamed and a little bit reassured. If the damned cat enjoyed his unconditional canine surrender, he might do something about the complaint. On the other hand, this was all further proof of how much Wind enjoyed Sam's wretchedness. So the puma might also do nothing, content to bask into Sam's final dishonor as much as possible.

Wind's silky paw suddenly stepped onto the wolf's responsive pinkish cock, and pressed it into the warm belly. Sorely-yearned-for pleasure shot right to Sam's brain. He was aching, and worried, and tired; he felt weak and defeated; and yet when the agile padded toes squeezed him, Sam couldn't hold back his obsessive craving for more, and humped meekly into the paw with spiritless sexual submission. Wind grinned.

"Hahahaha! You're pathetic. Say it."

-- Y-yes sir. I'm, I'm pathetic.

The puma rubbed slightly harder. The sharp claws nudged the inflated tip of Sam's sex as the length was also stroked. A tiny high-pitched bark escaped Sam as the excruciating promise of searing satisfaction filled his aroused body.

-- You want your feline master to handle you.

The paw stopped, and it was horrible. Sam didn't exactly have a choice but to give Wind what he wanted anyway.

-- Yes! I want my feline master! I need it! Please, Wind, sir!

Sam despondently wondered how much that last thing he said was pretend, and how much was absolute truth. The paw resumed leisurely. Sam quivered and moaned from the depths of his sexually frustrated shame. Squirming under Wind's masterful paw, he'd never imagined it was even possible to feel so crucially, terminally humiliated. Especially by a kitty cat in cute red pajamas.

Sam's pleasure accumulated fast. It took more and more effort to think of anything else. In a way, it was liberating, as his fears and pain melted in comparison with the rapturous flares in his sex. Wind touched and pinched with his lowly feline paws, but soon Sam could only pant like a tamed sex pet as his furry fingers twisted helplessly under his collar.

-- Tch.

Wind moved his paw away. Sam's stiffened dick pulsed once in the air, desperately, as if it tried to follow the dominating feline limb. The paw nudged the toy still shoved up Sam's bum, and the subjugated dick throbbed again. Sam whined.

-- Sir, please...

-- No. You'll be silent and obedient. Wicker said that it's fun to be obeyed by a canine. I never understood what he meant. I never had one that was mine, before. Not like you are right now, anyway. I think I want to try that. Outside the job and the training. Just the purity of my command and your compliance, as it should be between a dirty bitch like you and a pureblooded puma like me. Roll over.

With a profound stab of regret for his diminishing arousal, and the violent return of his self-awareness, Sam rolled onto his belly. He was startled when the toy was roughly pulled out of his ass. Wind took his tail and harshly lifted his abused rear with it.

"Yeah. That's nice and red. That's how you ought to be."

While he hung, slightly elevated by the tail, Sam wondered if his anus truly was so raw and red. It did ache a lot. Sam's tail was released, and he dropped. His excited dick bumped against the floor, and the pain was nearly pleasant. He wanted to continue begging Wind to finish him, but he'd been directly ordered to be quiet. Or no. He didn't want that... he simply felt a strong sexual urge to do it. He wished he didn't, but it didn't help. He was so fully conquered when Wind stepped aside and grabbed him by the collar, and he'd been trained to react to these feelings so many times, that he couldn't fight it.

"Follow."

Sam meekly struggled to keep up on his knees as the handler dragged him into his living room. In the back of the room, beside a television set embedded into a wall, a seemingly very happy potted cactus throned near the many large windows that bathed it with morning light. Wind pressed his paw on Sam's head until he bent and waited, and then the puma attentively picked up the thorny plant from its decorative heavy stone stand, as if it was the most precious thing in the world, and guiltily placed it on a lower table in the middle of the room, where there wasn't quite as much light. Wind returned to Sam, made him kneel with his back to the stone, and locked his collar to one of the four black metallic loops that adorned each facet of the rectangular stand, so that Sam and his pitiful stance would be nicely visible from the couch.

Sam understood that his indignity would embellish the room for a while. His first thought was that, at least, he might get some rest. Wind stepped back to evaluate the end result, and to decide whether or not this new piece of wolfish furniture worked with the décor. Sam's cock throbbed harder with this additional step toward reducing him into a basic object, and he cursed Wicker's training again. At the same time, he wished the black bunny would suddenly burst into the apartment. He could visualize it cleanly: Wicker would chide Wind for his unfair treatment of a docile slave; Wind would retort something offensive, but would let the rabbit leave with Sam anyway; Wicker would bring Sam back to the common room with the other slaves, and care for and reward him more during the next few days to help him feel safer. Sadly, the door to Wind's quarters didn't budge, and Wicker didn't arrive.

Wind appeared satisfied with the display of canine submission, and left the room for half an hour. The wolf tested his binds. It was more of a reflex than anything, because Sam wouldn't gain anything from an escape attempt. The stone stand was solidly stuck into the floor, and the callous iron rattled dully. Sam couldn't go, and so he remained, arms still locked in a raised position, knees spread open to expose his dominated cock and balls, now feline property. As minutes passed, he finally began to calm down, and his erection faded slowly. He lost himself in the view overlooking the streets bordering Temple. Wind's quarters were quite high, on the sixth and top floor of the Section D residential tower, and the peaceful city activity was soothing, from up there. Everything appeared orderly and harmless. There were only two other apartments on this floor, and both belonged to handlers, of course. One was Wicker's -- Sam had been in there often -- and the other was Wisp's. Sam knew the mysterious handler even less than he did Wind. She trained the female slaves. Sam had seen her a few times. She had a bizarre relationship with Wicker. That was about it.

Wind returned with a black hood, and a nasty air about him. The wolf slave woefully understood that he wouldn't get to keep the nice view. His ears sunk right before they disappeared under the hood, and darkness was tightened over his head. The handler arranged it so that the holes would align with his nostrils, and Sam sensed a rope being looped around his maw to keep it shut. Wind did say that he wanted Sam neutralized, but that seemed extreme. The canine was immobilized, silenced, and deprived of most of his senses. Everything had been taken away from him, and he would remain displayed there, reduced to supreme passivity, in mortifying boredom, until Wind decided otherwise. That was how Wind truly wanted him.

And boring it was.

Sam tried to hang on to the sounds of the handler having breakfast, moving around the apartment, and simply living his ordinary day-to-day existence, until he left in the early afternoon after having dinner in front of the television. Alone, Sam found out that he was hungry and thirsty, and soon began to worry that Wind wouldn't return for many hours. He tried to sleep without success. The wolf slave could do nothing but simmer in his shame, in his inability to pose any action, in his condemnation to endure this cruel torture of sensing himself slowly unraveling and becoming a broken object, that would soon be mindless. That was the implicit threat. Wind was giving him a taste of what hellish fate would await him, once he'd be locked downstairs in a spreader, to spend the rest of his life as a nameless, erased fuckhole. Sam contemplated this primal horror long, and deep, for many hours, discovering new oppressive feelings he'd never even imagined.

When Wind finally returned, Sam found that he couldn't help but feel glad about his master's presence. Being the puma's personal, prideless little wolf-bitch may have been in perfect opposition to every value he used to have as a revolutionary, as an anti-slavery militant, and as a wolf male, but it was infinitely preferable to the unspeakable depths of the torment in which he was about to fall. Wicker had never trained him with such ruthless methods, but in a cold, calculating corner of his mind, Sam could understand why the puma did, for he didn't feel like opposing the handler in any way, anymore.

When the blue-eyed feline approached, removed the rope from the lupine snout and the hood covering his head, Sam, silent and subdued, pressed himself softly against his master, as much as he could. When Wind's hand approached, he licked its fingers like a loving pet. He was soundless and calm. This wasn't about avoiding punishments and securing rewards anymore, it was about finding safety from the crushing peril of his total vulnerability. Luckily, Wind was a feline; a lethal hunter. He'd understand the language of deathly submission. As Sam closed his eyes, and licked the finger pads and the sharp claws, he felt better. His ears rose just a bit. His tail wandered left and right, slowly, expressing not joy, but basic willingness to interact socially, to take up his role. To fall to his place.

"Well, well. That seems like a better, honest attitude for my canine slut. Did you finally understand the truth, Thirty-four?"

It was more reassuring for Sam to offer his devotion to Wind, rather than to focus on his own disempowerment. One way or the other, he had a connection to the oversized cat. They were significant to each other, as natural enemies. Sam's full commitment -- his obscene acceptance -- would undoubtedly please his conqueror. This knowledge, in a twisted way, soothed Sam. It didn't really matter that Sam hadn't the remotest guarantee that Wind would spare him, in the end. Believing that he might was sufficient, for in this moment, the fear alone was worse.

So, Sam nodded but kept tasting the slightly bitter fur of Wind's fingers, while the handler unhooked his collar from the stone stand with his other hand, and firmly grasped it. Sam sensed his feline control, his dominion, and wagged some more while the ultimate humiliation of worshipping a feline made his cock harden again.

"Yes, you did, didn't you? You submit because I own you, and your fate belongs to me. You'll be loyal because your irrational canine loyalty is all you have left. Dogs like you are born for slavery. You belong to me body and soul, understood?"

Sam squeaked in abject surrender.

"Good. I like this. Since you're an anal slave, I think I'll assfuck you. I'll be rough, and you'll thank me when I'm done using you, as you should. But before that, we'll make a few changes. Wicker was far too lenient with you, wolf. Down."

Wind quickly fondled the back of his pet's head while Sam docilely collapsed into a fluffy carpet, and then the puma disappeared in his bathroom. Sam's position squeezed his erection between his stomach and the floor, and it made him shiver in desire. He had to fight his instincts to avoid humping the goddamned floor. The damning perspective of getting sodomized again so soon -- this time by Wind's barbed dick -- as well as receiving his feline seed, drove Sam crazy with shameful arousal.

Wind entered the living room again. He carried a medium-sized cardboard box, which he placed next to the wolf slave. He took a plastic tarp out of it, and unfolded it in the middle of the living room. Then, he gripped Sam's nape and moved him over the tarp. When he did so, he noted Sam's hard male limb, and shook his head.

"Still enjoying yourself? You really are one of Wicker's boys, thriving on humiliation like that. Speaking of which..."

Wind's hands emerged from the box. One held a large electric hair clipper, and the other, a fifteen millimeter guard. The puma swiftly joined the two. Sam froze at the sight.

"Say, Thirty-four, you have a really nice white coat of fur."

The wolf's sex throbbed once, powerfully, as Sam recoiled slightly, unable to quit staring at the tool with disbelief. Wind switched the clipper on and off.

"It's so lengthy and thick. And that color! Pure and flashy as snow. You must be so pleased with it."

Sam gulped. His eyes opened larger. He didn't dare complain too overtly, but he did give Wind a humble little pleading whimper with an almost undetectable shake of his head. His tail stopped wagging, but his cock burned at the dreadful notion of getting shaved, right there on the floor. What would he look like? How would he be treated by the clients? Degraded-looking items attracted the meaner clients. Everyone knew that. And Sam already received more than his fair share of vicious clients due to his status as a defeated rebel.

"Heh. As I figured. Such pride, for a sex-toy. Let's see what we can do about that, then."

The clipper was turned on again, and the heavy buzz provoked a kind of trance in Sam. Thus far in his enslavement, most of the changes imposed onto him related to his rights, his behavior and his attitude. He couldn't quite wrap his mind around the fact that such an extreme modification of the image that he'd always considered to be his was also possible, or that it was about to take place. But it did.

Every part of Sam was shaved to Wind's extreme satisfaction.

The puma handled him harshly. He started with Sam's paws and legs, brutally pulling them up and pressing the buzzing blades into the white fur. Sam felt the cold tool as it gradually became hotter. His pristine fur fell in bundles around him, and he watched it happen in a daze. His legs were different when Wind laughingly dropped them; they were lighter, odd, and vulnerable. Sam shivered when Wind flipped him on his back and attacked his crotch with the clipper, and then his buttocks and his tail. The puma firmly moved the wolf from one side to the other, as he needed to quickly and efficiently shave every spot of the bound body. The handler pressed Sam down, sitting on top of him, and brought his back and chest fur down to the same appallingly short length as that of his lower body. Then, it was his arms, his neck, and his head. Wind didn't even bother with untying Sam's wrists from his collar until he reached his neck. The collar and shackles were briefly removed for the time it took Wind to cut the hair of the neck and wrists, but Sam remained immobilized by Wind's weight all the while. Then, he was swiftly collared and shackled once more. Wind finished the job, cutting around his head, his face, and along his ears. The buzz ceased ringing.

Wind stepped back to admire his work. Sam, quivering on the fuzzy white tarp, viewed himself as well. He felt... cold? It'd never really happened to the arctic wolf.

"Perfect."

It was awful. He looked like a beaten, submissive rat with overly-defined lupine features. His hair was so short that a faint hint of pink flesh emerged through it. He felt more naked than ever. As a result, naturally, his cock had grown even harder, and now dripped.

"This makes your ass beyond fuckable. I hadn't realized how round it was. I just want to spank it until you holler for mercy. Besides, you do deserve some punishment for that halfhearted performance during your review, not to mention the fact that you earned yourself a complaint. You'll be paddled twenty times."

Wind smirked cruelly and pointed to the stand where Sam had been displayed.

"Take position."

Torn between alarm and capitulation, Sam weakly attempted to speak.

-- But I didn't-

-- Thirty times. Take position, you brainless mutt. Your function is to obey, not think.

The unfairness brought Sam to the verge of angry, desperate tears, but then again, he was convinced that it was precisely what the handler enjoyed. When he'd witness how low and compliant Sam was for him, it'd overcome his instinct to crush the canine, right?

... Right?

Therefore, the wolf slave swallowed his feelings, and rolled to his knees. He dragged himself from the tarp to the small stone column, and bent over in front of it. Wind attached his collar to it, but from the front, this time, so that Sam would be curved horizontally, on his knees, with his vulnerable buttocks entirely exposed for Wind to punish.

"Flag," commanded the handler as he left to fetch a paddle.

'Flag' was a stance for sex or discipline, in which the tail was kept flagged to the side and the thighs and cheeks were stretched open to display the anus for humiliation and ease of access. Though Sam knew he'd done nothing wrong, he adopted the position and prepared to suffer the arbitrary punishment. The puma returned and stood behind Sam.

"Let's see how red we can make these."

It was so that Sam's sensitive butt was paddled. He'd been spanked for discipline by Wicker, or for sexual pleasure by clients multiple times, but it was different with his shortened fur. The blows landed one after the other onto the meat of his rump, and the sting settled in, accumulating, as he was harshly beaten because some young avian assholes had decided that it would be funny to mess with his already sorry life as a sex slave at the absolute worst moment. They were probably laughing, right then, imagining the severe repercussions that their prank had caused for Sam. And here he truly was indeed, eyes watering, his entire body taking in the shocks from every strike of the handler's heavy plastic paddle. Wind could barely contain his obvious excitement for Sam's muffled squeals, as the slave struggled to endure everything in dutiful silence.

The twentieth hit landed, and Wind paused. Sam's thighs trembled uncontrollably from the deep soreness in his cheeks. His dick pulsed relentlessly, leaking non-stop. It was so engorged that his erection was now painful. Just as he figured that he wouldn't be able to take much more of this, the punished slave heard the paddle drop. He heard the feline's short breath. Pants were undone. Hands grappled his silky, tamed reddened bum.

"Fuck it."

Clearly, Wind had reached the maximum of what he could endure as well, because Sam was unexpectedly penetrated by the heavy barbed cock. Wind went deep immediately, prodding around the canine rectum, shoving and taking his fill of his natural enemy, conquered and disciplined by his own hand. The callous barbs chafed Sam's most intimate hole with every pull, but Wind groaned with delight each time. Wind's hands moved around a bit, as if by their own volition. They touched and gripped, possessing the slutty buttocks and hips. One reached his side as the other ventured on Sam's silky and warm stomach, and then explored lower. Wind used the wolf's testicles and the base of his shaft as a handle for control, as he wildly reamed the prized tail hole. The unwanted, hurtful pleasure flooded through Sam like a river freed from a weakened dam. The anal slave boiled in embarrassment, but let it flow with relative acceptance as he simply leaned forward, letting the top of his head rest against the stone stand as he shook repeatedly from the thrusts. He did his best to relax, and moved softly along with his dominator, humping back onto Wind's puffy dick as it pushed aggressively. Sam couldn't help but think of Luther, and acknowledge that he wasn't much of a wolf anymore, as he physically implored his feline master to stuff his ass with puma cream. Sam was such a spineless, trained sex pet, he was about to complete his disgrace and squirt on the floor, right there, from being fucked in the rear by a cat. He prayed to be spared this ignominy, and yearned for it to happen as soon as possible at the same time. If Wind gave even one or two light strokes to his cock, it would occur without a single doubt. Just one or two strokes! But the hand remained maddeningly tight around his balls and the base of his sex.

Soon, Wind tensed up strongly, and squeezed Sam's helpless orbs as he reached a grand orgasm. He hissed rowdily, in a rare loss of self-control, and began to dump load after load of feline sperm deep into the wolf's ass. The slave instantly recognized the feeling of hot pressurized fluid, but Wind soon pulled out to make as much of a sticky mess as possible all over Sam's round cheeks and lower back.

There was a moment of quiet satisfaction -- for one of them, at least. The puma walked around his marked canine bitch. He stood next to the stone column, and presented his erection, covered in foul seed. Sam had been used often enough to know exactly what he wanted.

Sam moved his snout as close as he could, given that he was tied to the stone, and opened his mouth. He lapped the hardened dick on every side, tasting the vile salty puma liquid, and he swallowed. And then he thanked Wind for the opportunity to be pleasurable, and managed to almost completely mean it when he thought about what the handler could save him from. Wind grinned as Sam did all of this.

"Good."

Wind knelt next to Sam, and carefully teased his darkened, glistening sex with the tips of his claws. Sam whined with the unbearable sensation, on the absolute edge of attaining completion. But Wind didn't let that happen.

"Still eager. Let's see what else we can do with an eager canine," he ominously declared.

As Sam spent the two following days being made into the ideal dog for the feline handler, he hoped, he fucking hoped that, at least, his flawless and loyal obedience would inspire Wind to remove the complaint.

If it didn't, his life would suck.

Part four

(In which worlds begin to merge.)

The time had come. In the Upsilon room, Wicker stood a bit behind Dr. More. The scientists bravely toed the line with the armed security personnel, wishing to display their confidence in their work. The invited Party members remained grouped behind the rabbit, but the Founder watched safely from an observation bay, protected by thick reinforced glass. It was impossible to see through the high one-way window from the lab, but Wicker had heard that the Enlightened Party Leader Orellius was attending, as well as -- the handler shuddered at the thought -- the most dangerous person alive. Her, that even the other administrators, even the mighty Orellius feared. As the star handler and figurehead of Temple, Wicker had met her before, but he preferred not to think about it too much.

The bunny ceased focusing on the dark window of the observation bay that loomed over all of their heads, and brought his attention back to the machine, which was starting to whirr evenly. The scientists became increasingly agitated, shouting checks to each other as they obsessively went over every last little detail.

-- Thickness is stable between thirty-seven and thirty-nine points!

-- Link force is climbing steadily! Three minutes!

-- A target significant to this world has been locked in. Threat should be low. Coordinates are flowing.

More was calm, however. Her pink coat floated eerily around her as she stood with her arms open in a messianic pose, her short round snout raised as she defied the laws of nature. Unless... unless she was keeping her eye on the copper plate, Wicker realized with a chill. As the platform under it colored the room with yellow and orange, and then orange and red bolts of lightning, the copper plate began to smoke. More seemed to sense Wicker's anguish from behind.

-- It's fine, the groundhog scientist simply said.

She did appear to mean it, and so Wicker's tension eased up. Still, he couldn't wait to be out of there and back into his element. The unknown voice of yet another scientist keeping his eye on the computer screens shouted:

-- Link force is peaking! Here it-

The rest of the sentence was buried under deafening quiet, as if Wicker suddenly had his head plunged into water. He immediately felt sick and disoriented. There was a flash of nothing, during which reality opened up, and Wicker saw things that his brains weren't equipped to understand, and so they didn't register any of it. For a while, there was a hole in his senses, which enveloped the machine. It wasn't dark, or bright; nor loud or silent. It was simply an absence, a lack of data for his mind to handle that he couldn't reconcile with his usual reality. It frightened him utterly, but it didn't last long.

The room snapped back to normal, as if the bunny awakened from the incoherence of a dream. One detail had changed, however. Scientists, guards and guests alike gaped in complete astonishment at the bewildered cheetah that panted on all fours, in front of the machine. It was a young, fit, slender feline. A sharp spear had fallen at his side, clanging on the laboratory floor. He wore straw-colored tribal clothes of crude yet skillfully woven plant fibers, and he glanced around frantically in absolute, undiluted shock. He attempted to produce words a few times before his efforts met some limited success.

-- W-what.

The intimidated cheetah moved backward against the platform of the machine, reaching for his spear. Suddenly, the security officers remembered their job, and pointed their weapons, screaming orders to lie down, with no other effect than to further confuse and panic the captive. He pointed his spear, and Wicker hurriedly shoved through into the line of fire, before it was too late.

Path A.

Wind decides not to remove the complaint. Consequently, Sam gets into further trouble. This throws a major wrench into Wicker's plan, and he suffers a loss of status to the benefit of the other handlers. In the long term, the situation in Temple will be more chaotic. (And the story slightly darker in tone.)

Path B.

Wind finds it in his heart to remove the complaint. The relationship between Sam and Wind improves massively. Wicker's plan proceeds unimpeded, which will benefit him greatly. In the long term, Temple will be more stable. (And the story slightly lighter in tone.)