FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Well, it's typed now, so all I need to do is add my notes to it. I have to say right off the bat that I'm nervous about posting this chapter. You'll notice pretty soon that I'm trying to write something unlike anything I've done so far, so I hope I haven't butchered it too badly. I considered making certain things implicit rather than explicit, but it's there. Anyway, I hope you enjoy Chapter 2!

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Chapter II: A Day at Work

It's a new dawn, It's a new day, It's a new life for me, and I'm feeling...

Awful! shouted the wolf silently, drowning out the music from the radio. Then again, this isn't too bad. I've had worse.

The wolf was housecleaning. An unenviable task, to be sure, but infinitely preferable to being locked up somewhere, waiting for the next round of abuse. He was still waiting on the next round of abuse, but at least he had something to distract him from the prospect. Besides, he didn't mind housecleaning. He certainly wouldn't choose to be a maid if he was free, but it was a useful task that didn't involve pain--as long as he didn't miss anything. He got satisfaction from doing it well in the same way that a potter derives satisfaction from making a superior urn. The wolf was never asked to do anything overly challenging or unique, so he had to take pleasure in simpler things, like a spotless kitchen.

Of course, he would still be beaten no matter how pristine the place was. His owner delighted in imagining dust or grime so that he had an excuse to beat him. The wolf was tempted to do a half-assed job--after all, he would be thrashed either way--but there were additional punishments if he actually did miss something. He wasn't scared of punishment. It was more or less a fact of life for him now, and he resisted sometimes knowing he would be disciplined. He wasn't a masochist, though, so it would be foolish of him to provoke punishment over something so inconsequential. He had been with his current master for less than a week and had already started on a new collection of scars. Indeed, part of the challenge of housecleaning was keeping his blood off of the floors and furniture.

The wolf wouldn't call this the most sadistic master he's seen, however. He ranked the last three as equal in the quantity of maltreatment they gave him. The difference was how they exercised their darker urges. For example--

Slam.

The wolf froze in place. Shit. The bastard was home early. Not a good sign.

It had only been six days since he had been sold, but a routine had been quickly established. Wake up at six and make breakfast. Get beaten for some problem with the food. Iron the master's clothes while the buffalo ate. Get beaten for a wrinkle he had missed. Clean the house while his owner was at work. Eat the pitiful meal set aside for his lunch. Try to complete the list of chores his master recited to him and prepare supper while being picked on by the other slave. Get beaten when his owner came home for not finishing the list. Serve the brute and his slave supper. Get beaten for a problem with the food. Then, it was some combination of physical and sexual abuse from the bison and/or his friends followed by being locked in a cage for the night while the buffalo went out to who knows where. Rinse, lather, repeat.

The timing of this routine hadn't varied by more than two minutes in six days, and the buffalo--Bill? Bob?--had told him that everyday would follow the pattern regardless of weekends. One thing the wolf had learned over his years as a slave was that a change in schedule usually meant something had gone wrong for his owner. This problem was then taken out tenfold on the most convenient target: him.

He was already in the kitchen, so he hurriedly scarfed down his meagre meal. It was a little earlier than he usually ate, as he preferred to take it close to supper so he would have strength for the evening 'fun,' but he didn't want to risk not getting any if his owner was in a bad mood. The bit of bread and half an orange disappeared in three bites. Not nearly enough to sustain him, but the orange was nice and unexpected. What he really longed for, though, was meat. He couldn't remember the last time he had had so much as a bite of spam.

"BITCH! COME HERE RIGHT NOW!"

No, not a good sign at all, the wolf thought dejectedly. There was no doubt as to who the buffalo--Broderick? Ben? What was his name?--was referring to. He called his other slave "Pet" or "Kid." The bear was the favoured slave while the wolf fulfilled the rolls of punching bag and fuck toy.

He didn't run to the front door, but he didn't amble either. He went to kneel in front of the bison as decorum prescribed but was preempted by the buffalo's backhand viciously slapping his muzzle. The hit was hard enough for the wolf to see stars, and he collapsed to the floor, arms braced to keep his torso and face from hitting the floor. That kind of unprovoked attack was new even to the much-abused slave. He could taste blood in his mouth and could see it dripping from his nose onto the white, tiled floor. He kept himself from crying out only with great effort. The buffalo didn't like screamers.

"Well, you little shit," the bovine said eloquently, "I only got one more night with you, so I'm going to make the most of it."

The wolf's bloodied muzzle turned upwards, a question in his eyes. The buffalo clipped his unshoed hoof into the side of the wolf's head, causing him to black out for a couple of seconds. The bison waited for the slave's chin to lift off the ground before he said, "Don't look me in the eye, slave. That's reserved for equals."

The wolf was sick of the years of abuse and felt fatalistic in the face of this unwarranted attack. "Forgive me," he said. "I didn't mean to imply we're equal. I would hate for anyone to think I'd sunk as low as you."

The buffalo was deadly silent for a moment. "What did you say?" he asked threateningly.

"Sorry, I didn't realize you were deaf as well as stupid. Let me try again." He looked straight up at the buffalo and enunciated clearly, "Fuck. You." He glared at his latest, and possibly last, tormentor. After what he had said, he wasn't sure he would survive the night.

The bison gripped him by the scruff of his neck and lifted him up. "You'll regret that before the night is out," he said darkly.

The wolf had no doubt that he would be treated worse, if possible, for his defiance, but he could not regret it. One way or another, this was his last night in the buffalo's care. He might as well take that last opportunity to tell his owner just what he thought of him. After all, what more could be done? Life could hardly get worse.

The bovine slapped him again, dazing the wolf. By the time he recovered from the blow, the bison had carried him to the lone bedroom in the house. Secure in the knowledge that the buffalo would do its worse regardless, the canine struggled, hoping to give the bastard a scar of his own. His owner quickly held him out of reach and, before he could aim a blow at the arm restraining him, threw him to the floor.

Momentarily deprived of breath, the bloodied fur could only watch helplessly as his wrists were manacled to a winch on the ceiling. The winch was already set to a height that kept his hands slightly above and in front of his head when he was kneeling. He felt the shackle of a spreader bar clip around his right leg, so he swung up his left with all the strength he could muster. It wasn't much--malnutrition had taken its toll on the battered canine--but the blow to the buffalo's chin snapped the bovine's head back. The buffalo forced his leg into the remaining shackle, and the wolf was immobilized. A glob of liquid landed on his back, but it felt thinner than spit. The wolf smiled grimly. His kick must have caused his owner to bite his tongue.

The bison muzzled the wolf with duct tape, and the canine's eyes widened. This was new, even to him. Even the most restrictive muzzles let him breath and pant a little through the mouth. Breathing through only his nose, which had been filled with blood recently, was difficult at rest. During... vigorous... activity, he could black out from the lack of air, and without the ability to pant, he could overheat. Even if he got through those problems, it would hurt like hell coming off.

"I just lost my job, so I'm not in the mood to listen to your shit," the buffalo growled at him as he stripped. The wolf was mildly surprised that a bovine could make such a noise, but he wasn't given time to consider it. Before he had a chance to relax, the buffalo gripped his hips roughly and rammed in his entire, hard length all the way into the wolf without the aid of a lubricant. Stars exploded across the wolf's vision, and he got tunnel vision. He was vaguely aware of the buffalo thrusting, but his mind was engulfed by agony. He knew from past experience that his owner was well-endowed, and he had always used at least some lube before. He tried to scream from the pain, but he could only manage a muffled moan through his nose.

His respiration rate naturally increased as he was raped, and the narrow nasal canal was hard-pressed to keep up. He started to feel unpleasantly light-headed as the buffalo increased his pace, slamming his engorged member into the abused wolf's rectum. Each thrust went to the hilt and came almost all the way out. Dark spots clouded his vision, and he tried to embrace the darkness. Unconsciousness would be a welcome relief. Evidently, the bison noticed him slipping away and bit viciously down on his ear. It felt like he was going to tear it off his head. The sharp pain chased the darkness away and caused blood to join the tears running down his face. He noticed the buffalo was sliding in and out of his asshole more easily and prayed that the bovine's precum had slickened his passage rather than his own blood. A pool of bloody tears collected on the floor as blood also rushed to his member, the stimulation of his prostrate, however painful, being impossible to ignore. This combined with the oxygen deprivation made the wolf's head swim. All he could think was, Let it end. Let me die.

After an eternity, the bovine rammed himself all the way into the wolf and came, coating the wolf's insides with cum. The volume of semen quickly exceeded that of the wolf's rectum, and it dribbled out around the bison's cock. The bison pulled out and sprayed the remainder of his orgasm over the exhausted, bloodied fur in front of him. The wolf jerked in his restraints as one blast hit his injured ear. His posture was one of defeat. His head was hung, muzzle to his chest, and his body was limp, knees resting on the floor and hands suspended in front of him.

His breathing slowly returned to normal and the blackness that had remained on the edges of his vision went away. He could see his owner come in front of him and grip his muzzle roughly.

"You're lucky I want to make some money off you," he said, "or I'd make you wish you'd never been born."

Too late, the wolf thought dismally. There was a mirror to his right, and he caught a glimpse of himself. Despite the dimness of the room--the buffalo hadn't turned on the lights--he could see himself well enough. He wanted to look away but found his eye were locked in place, staring in horrified fascination at his Quasimodo-esque appearance. The shiny silver of the duct tape caught the sparse light and reflected it, emphasizing the dark lines of blood dripping across it. His face appeared red with white strips where the blood from his earlier beating and more recent ear wound hadn't touched. His white belly was mostly untouched, but his back was like a cow in reverse: black with white spots formed by buffalo cum. He watched, repulsed, as a few more drops of cum dripped out of his aching asshole.

The bison--Bart? Brent? Bastard would do--noticed the wolf's stare. "Yeah, you're a sorry sight, aren't you, you little son of a bitch? I've taken dumps that look more attractive than you."

The wolf felt a brief flare of anger followed by a wave of despair. Both his appearance and his future looked dismal, and there was no reason for him to expect either of them to get any better. After all, this master was much like the last three.

A shark CRACK! rent the air, and the wolf flinched reflexively. There had been a time when he had kept a cumulative count of the lashes he had received, but he had lost track after 512, and that had been a long time ago. Nowadays, he didn't even count how many he got in one session. There was no point anymore. They all blended together in an ever-crescendoing symphony of pain. Another CRACK!, another flinch. On the whole, however, the wolf didn't react. He was well used to the whip.

Unfortunately, this calm acceptance angered the fur on the other end of the whip. He walked closer to the wolf, lined himself up, and quickly slammed his hoof into the wolf's crotch.

This time, the wolf actually did black out for a few seconds. When he regained his senses, he immediately wished he hadn't. The pain was worse, far worse, then it had been when being taken by the buffalo. The pain was so intense that every nerve in his body seemed to be on fire, not just the ones in his sensitive balls. He couldn't so much as moan through the blinding intensity of the pain.

"That was for mouthing off, you little bitch. Now," the bison said with a cruel smile, stroking himself back to full length, "time for round two."

The rest of the night passed in the same way. Round two gave way to round three and so on. He remembered the bear slave joining in the 'fun' at some point, but everything was hazy and blurred together. All the wolf had were disjointed snippets connected by a web of pain and degradation. He recalled the duct tape being torn off his muzzle with obvious relish by his owner so the buffalo and the bear could enjoy both his holes at the same time. He remembered throwing up after swallowing cum for the umpteenth time. It hadn't been too long after he hurled that he had been thrown into his cage with the blood, sweat, cum, and tears still matted in his fur. He had been told he would be sold first thing in the morning, and he couldn't wait. He never wanted to see the buffalo or his slave again.

Thank God there's little chance of that, the canine thought. He hadn't seen any of his previous owners after being sold, and there was no reason to expect this time to be any different, for which he was grateful. He had had only one master whom he would like to see again, but he would have to travel a long way to see that fur, and he didn't much like the form of transportation he would have to take. All he had left were bittersweet memories: sweet because they had been good times, and bitter because they served as a reminder of what he'd lost and would probably never have again.

In the meantime, the best he could hope for was that his next owner would be negligent. Being ignored wasn't fun, but it was preferable to constant whoring. The wolf had used to hope for a master that genuinely cared, but experience had proven that those kind of people were very much the exception rather than the rule. His owners had been so bad that if he had a weaker will, he would have wished for death long ago. As it was, his will was slowly cracking under the stress. Now, he just stayed alive to spite his abusers, to show them he wouldn't break. Nevertheless, much as he would like to deny it, deep down he knew that another owner or two like the others would push him over the edge. Whether he would fall into death or insanity, he didn't know, but he didn't want to find out.

What he truly wanted was freedom, but every attempt had ended in failure. Even the last, which he thought had been going so well, had been a disaster. He had stolen dye to turn his black hair blonde and disguised himself as a girl, for heaven's sake. Still, on his first night as a free wolf, he had been recognized by the two police officers who had captured him during his escape the time before. Someone up there hates me, he thought sullenly. Otherwise, how would I have such terrible luck? Still, he chuckled to himself, _I dropped the weasel good. _ After that, things had gone downhill. His energy had been seriously depleted by his fight and flight in the bar. His years of too little had taken a large toll on the wolf, and the Shepherd had found him when he tried to hide three blocks from the bar. The cop had taken especial pleasure in avenging his unconscious comrade. Fortunately, he hadn't been as skilled in the "art" of slave beating as the buffalo, and one particularly powerful blow to the base of the skull had knocked the wolf out. When he had woken, he had already been locked up in the hands of the slave trainers.

_At least I won't go through '"training" again. _ He wasn't being sold for misbehaviour, so he would just go through processing, possibly get shipped somewhere, and hit the auction block once again. _That'll be fun. I can play the What-kind-of-master-are-you? game. _ He had gotten pretty good at it and found his predictions as to how bad the furs that bought him would be were decently accurate, albeit depressingly so. He had been surprised with his soon-to-be former owner. He had expected worse than he had received, but this past night proved his original guess right. Not that that made him feel any better.

He licked a drop of blood off his nose and lowered his head onto the backs of his hands, looking for all the world like a caged feral, curled up as he was. He stared into nothingness for a long time before his eyes closed and consciousness left his broken body.

There was no pain. He was whole, unblemished. His mind rebelled even as his dream-self smiled. _ Not this, _he thought. _ Not this dream. Don't remind me. _His subconscious ignored his pleas, and he watched, helpless to stop the feeling of joy he got from the natural beauty surrounding him. His gaze caught on one tree with a hollow in it, and he braced himself, wishing he could plug his ears but unable to do so. He knew what was coming.

Sure enough, a voice called. The soft smile on his face grew to a broader grin. He turned and followed a familiar game trail. It was spring, and everything was starting to blossom. He inhaled deeply to enjoy the scent of new growth. He saw a dandelion going to seed and wondered why anyone would think they were a nuisance. He came to a bend in the path, and his heart leapt in anticipation.

Daniel tiredly ran his hand through his short-cropped head fur. Since it was as black as the rest of his fur, his head resembled his feral counterpart. It had been a long day at work, and there were still two hours left before quitting time. He hadn't taken a break since lunch, so he forced himself to get away from his desk and head to the break room. About halfway there, he turned back to grab his coffee cup, a black mug with "The Daily" emblazoned on the side in gold lettering.

He entered the empty break room and went straight for the coffee. The jaguar needed the caffeine boost and didn't dilute the thankfully strong coffee with cream or sugar. He took his cup to the table and helped himself to one of the muffins that some kind soul had brought that morning. He nursed his coffee, narrowly avoiding burning his tongue on the hot beverage, and enjoyed the muffin with a copious amount of butter. Man, I need to eat healthier, he thought, knowing he would do no such thing. My cholesteral must be through the roof.

Daniel had just taken another large bite of his muffin when a rather attractive Siberian tigress entered the break room, muttering something that sounded like "Idiots, all of them. God, I need caffeine."

Daniel smiled while trying to swallow the better part of the baking in his mouth--a difficult task. Having sufficiently cleared his throat, he asked, "Problems, Catherine?"

The tigress started so badly that her hand actually flew to her heart. "Jesus, Daniel. Don't scare me like that."

"I thought you noticed me," Daniel chuckled. "I didn't realize you were off in your own world. A world full of idiots?"

"Ugh, you have no idea. No one in this building knows how to write."

"Except you, of course."

"Of course. And wipe that smug grin off your face, Daniel. It's not very becoming."

"Odd," the black panther frowned. "I thought everything about me was becoming."

"Oh, you're incorrigible," Catherine said, equally amused and exasperated. "I can't wait to edit the article about how the IT department had to move to a separate building to make room for Daniel Jackson's ego."

"No," Daniel said sourly, watching the monochrome feline pour herself some coffee, "all I need to worry about is the head office outsourcing us to India."

"Ha! You've always been a funny one." Then Catherine noticed the jaguar's sullen look. "My God, you're not serious?"

"Not about India, no. But the word on the grapevine is that they're considering outsourcing."

"Bologna. We're a newspaper, for heaven's sake, not Slave Co. Why would we need to outsource?"

"Well, Slave Co. didn't need to either. It just saves a few dollars for the big wigs."

"The writers would throw a fit. Editors, too. We like having people on-hand."

"Editors, too, eh? Just can't stand the thought of me leaving, can you, Catherine?"

"You? No, it's Dustin I'm thinking of."

Daniel assumed a pained expression. "That hurt, even though I know you didn't mean it. You're just in denial."

Catherine snorted. "I'm not the only one. Seriously, though, I wouldn't worry about it. I haven't heard anything, and that means Melissa hasn't either. Someone's probably just wool-gathering."

"Careful what you say. Ernie might be around."

"Please. I could call that sheep a manure factory, and he would still worship the ground I walk on."

"The prospect displeases you?" Daniel grinned.

"Hell, yes. He can be so annoying."

Daniel abruptly switched topics. "I hope you're right."

"Of course I'm right. Have you ever listened to him--"

"No, I mean about the outsourcing."

"Well, I'm right about that, too. Besides, you could probably get a job with whoever we outsource to."

"Gee, thanks," Daniel responded sardonically.

"Well, this has been charming, as always, but I need to get back to work."

"Make young writers cry and crush their dreams?"

"Business as usual."

"Try not to daydream about me too much. I would hate for you to lose your job because you're too busy thinking of my devilish good looks and exquisite personality."

"Keep this up, Daniel, and the next time I slap you, it will be with claws out," Catherine rejoined casually as she strode out of the room.

Daniel laughed quietly to himself, his spirits lifted by their playful repartee. He threw out his muffin paper and topped off his coffee before heading back to his own desk. He still had a lot to do. The Daily had switched one major program for a newer one and had "upgraded" the network, and the transitional period was hell for everyone, especially IT and tech support. He sat down in his chair, rolled his shoulders, and embroiled himself in work once again.

While the quantity was excessive, the difficulty of his work was low enough that he found his mind wandering. The jaguar found himself thinking about his conversation with Catherine. Her assurance that Melissa hadn't mentioned anything was comforting. Melissa, a mare with the balls of a stallion, figuratively speaking, was Catherine's boss and pretty high up in The Daily. While she wasn't directly connected with IT, she was high enough up that outsourcing would pass to her ears, and whatever came to her ears went straight out the mouth to Catherine. The two were fast friends.

Having exhausted his speculations about their conversation, Daniel turned his thoughts into its other participant. The tigress spoke English with the faintest hint of a Russian accent. The jaguar thought the effect was pleasing on the ears, lending her speech a slightly exotic flavour. For all his playful banter, his intent was sincere and serious. They chatted often at work and at office parties, but Daniel wanted their relationship to move beyond the corporate atmosphere. He found her witty and intelligent, and she was certainly no eyesore. Her piercing blue eyes, the stark contrast of her fur, and her white hair that she styled differently almost every day made a dazzling combination. He was a little shy, though, and had had bad experiences with romances in the past, so he hid his feelings behind his jokes and double entendres.

His eyes drifted across the email he was drafting. He cursed and hurriedly deleted the word "Catherine" from the middle of a sentence, then glanced around to make sure his slightly nosy boss wasn't looking in on him. Get a grip, he told himself. You're not a love-struck kit anymore.

Finally, five o'clock rolled around. He quickly shut everything down and headed for the elevator. He exchanged some pleasantries with his coworkers on the way down, then walked out the doors and headed for home. Buying a car was well within his means, but he preferred to walk where possible, even in moderately bad weather. Otherwise, he took a taxi everywhere. It wasn't too far of a walk to his house, and the clouds threatening rain earlier in the day had cleared out, so he decided to forgo the cab this time. David could survive the forty-five minutes or so without him.

The jaguar revelled in his stroll. Summer had begun, but the heat wasn't oppressive yet. He cut through a park where some families were enjoying the nice day and soon found himself trodding through his own neighbourhood. He came to his house and fumbled to get his key in the lock. After a moment of clumsiness, he got his key in the door and opened it.

"David, I'm--Oh my god."