Interchangeable Parts (Teaser)
Interchangeable PartsTeaser for WoTA2 The monolithic stadium curled under the city skyline, pale-stoned with colosseum arches. Instead of natural light shining through the gaps, advert upon advert for chips and drinks and cellular phones blinked hotter than the stars above, drowning them out in the deluge of light pollution. The rat stood huddled in a middle section of the colosseum without seats that had cold, blue-brown hand railing. There were too many bodies and tails and talkative twits to keep track of in the muddled mess of an audience, even with all the cameras everywhere, scuttling across the rails like tripod viruses with bulging lenses for capsids. For once the cameras were focused on the field, more interested in the football game than surveilling the citizens. He didn't want to wait for the field goal kicks. Dent just wanted the results of the game and get out of here. Dent chuckled to himself, shivering, wondering whether or not he could flip off the camera without anybody taking notice. This city had to have more cameras than eyes. Could they really be watching at all when there was too much to see? The thought was fun but thoroughly stupid. Dent liked crowds because they were one of the few places he didn't stand out. It didn't matter that the rat didn't particularly like watching the football game starting on the field below. Icy wind bit at the rat's disk-shaped ears like angry gnats, and the chill snaked past the holes of the piebald patches sewn onto his old hoodie. The temperature read 20 degrees Fahrenheit on Dent's phone. His digits were warmly cupped together. Even if some folks got a laugh out of public spectacle, he didn't want to be a prick to some poor wage-slave on security. He was more considerate than that, really. Regardless, the fantasy was a more amusing bet than the one he had taken from the bookie. The rat clutched a ticket in his paw, which he ought to be holding tighter, considering the entirety of his rent money wound up in the coarse construction paper, but the numbness that started from the tip of his twitchy fingers ran through his arm into the socket of his shoulder. He peeped at the field below, squinting. The crowded rumble of spectators carried through the cold air, cacophonous and indiscernible, but high in spirit. Light refracted off of the sides of skyscrapers, steel-blue, looking like icebergs or the ships they had sunk, nose-up. Dent turned up his collar, enveloping his neck in the soft cotton, and he hid his oblong nose in the cloth of his shirt. Wracked with cold, his body gave an involuntary shiver, nearly shaking free the knitted cozy keeping his naked tail warm. The exposed slip of his pink tail set him shivering, and it reflexively hit the arm of a dog whose drink was almost knocked out of his hand. "Watch it, sewer sucker," said a grizzled beagle in black who glared down at him. The dog's free fist clenched. "Sorry," he stammered, not particularly sorry, but he resolved to curl his tail around himself, holding it tight as it shook. He had been called worse things by dogs before. Once, Dent had applied to an accounting position at a local firm. The Pomeranian conducting the interview had told him they didn't need any janitors. When Dent had reminded her that he was qualified, and had a degree in accounting, he was met with an icy "I know." That felt meaner than any insult could feel. "Dent!" He heard the reedy voice of Bircham, another rat, call out from behind. "Goddamn it Dent, is that you?" He had been unlucky plenty enough, but had never been so unlucky as to run into his landlord a few hours before he could pay off his ticket. The money was technically already overdue, but he could pay it in full if he just had more time-- he was certain the new kicker would make two field goals. A man on an intercom stifled the noise of the stadium with a bold and choppy voice. Dent retreated further into the crowd, his heart struggling to keep a steady beat. Panic's first kick of adrenaline had set in. His thin lips pulled into a grimace while he scampered through the rows of standing people. Maybe his situation was shit, sure, but at least his life was interesting. If a rat was good at anything, it was making money. Bircham's cries followed him as Dent escaped, happy for once that he was small. "Get back here! Un-fucking believable, you're doing it again!" Rent would put him back 700, but a game would put him 1400 ahead. He'd won plenty before, so he was sure this week would pay out. The flight fired him up, warming Dent with his own body heat. God, he felt fresh.
The fanfare roared like a cresting wave, breaking into a discordant rumble as Dent squeezed the metal hand railing and hurdled feet-first past another row of people. Looking back for the other rat's befuddled face, Dent saw he wasn't followed. His bated breaths formed smoke signals, causing him to cover his mouth with his cold paws. They smelled like loose change. Dent rounded on the field, scuttling between a wolf and a tiger, face smushing against a fuzzy arm that peppered his nose when he tried to get a better look. The tiger looked down, scoffing; it prompted an embarrassed apology from the rat. The players appeared on the field, flickering into position. Dent thought he had read somewhere a long time ago that the football players used to be real, living people before the sport was banned due to too many players developing brain trauma in their fifties. The star players were now the opposing coaches, who were real, and who still designed their own stratagems to pit against one another. A player's main stats were set from the beginning of a season, and players lasted two seasons before they were deleted. Popular players could return as mascots in the hall of fame to interact with children, immortalized and beloved. Physical health, field conditions and developing skill were still factors-- random stats put into the machine's algorithm. This close, Dent could see sweat rolled off the player's noses, as if they were expending energy, which looked real until you noticed all the players had the same sweat patterns in identical locations on their faces. The golden eye of the rat punter Dent had placed his bet on even blinked. A group of three husky puppies wagged their tails, chattering and pointing at the players. They ate popcorn from colorful cardboard boxes. One snapped pictures of the characters, his finger pushing down madly on a camera phone. "Think I can turn these into football cards, mommy? We don't even need to buy the stupid things. They're just pictures on paper and I took these myself!" Dent liked that child the best, and he caught himself smiling. Impatiently, dent hopped from foot to foot, mulling over his wager's odds in his head again. After performing two seasons, the home team's punter was replaced. The new character, the rat, had the name James Feldspar. He had white fur, broad shoulders and a daring expression. Dent thought the character was very handsome for a rat, something a few had said about himself, too, which he supposed was a compliment. All this punter would have to do was make two field goals and Dent would be paid back, two-fold. In the first quarter, the first kick had been made by the home team. James didn't seem bad (his accuracy rating, at least) although it was still too early to tell. He made his first goal from twenty-five yards, which seemed very good. By the third quarter, James had another attempt from thirty yards. It missed, leaving Dent with a dull, uncomfortable sensation in the pit of his stomach. Could have been that the wind factor had a bizarre calculation. Could have been an unlucky roll from the punter's random number generator. He had another chance in the final quarter. James made it from 49 yards. It wasn't a record, but it likely affirmed this player was good considering the probability of him making the goal. Dent smoothed down the fluff on his neck, peeling away from the noise of the crowd and the cold, a grin screwing up his exasperated face.
The Doberman bookie took a hard look at him. "Sorry kid. Two kicks from at least thirty-five yards." "That's not right," he repeated, irritation edging into his tone. "There's no yard limit on the ticket. Two field goals. Double the input. I won my bet, and I'm due 1400. The bet's on my ticket, too." The Doberman took the ticket from his hands, held it up, and nodded. "It's legitimate, sure, but the yard limit's stated on the board before you buy the ticket. Always has been. Haven't you gambled here before?" "Listen buddy. I know for a fact that an implicit limit has never been the case--" "--sorry, boy, but there's not much I can do for you but give you a good sulk. I've about thirty sob stories to run through before the day's over." The Doberman looked over his shoulder, the same nervous expression reflected in his own as his eyes met what had to be an impatient line of people behind him. Dent slammed his paw on the counter. "Hey-- I'm fine with losing. Hell, I wouldn't have put this kind of money down if I didn't think the terms were so ambiguous. Two thirty-five yarders is hard probability for a new kicker with unseen stats. But this just isn't an honest loss." "Sorry," repeated the bookie, a bit irate. "But you did lose. Ain't my fault if you're unfamiliar with procedures and fine print and all--" "I have the fine print," he spat, taking the ticket back with trembling paws and placing it on the counter. "That was rent money and I'm out 500 because you're a bunch of damned crooks." "Nothing illegal about reading comprehension," sneered the Doberman. He turned the ticket over and pointed out a thin line of text at the bottom. Dent sounded it out slowly in his head, and then his ears burned bright red, feeling equal parts a victim and an asshole. "I'm sorry," squeaked Dent. "Look." The Doberman's voice softened. "If you're that strapped for cash, you could make 500 easy with a walk down to Hard Street." Dent stammered a bit. "I need seven hundred." "You can make that too! It's just... going to be a little bit crazier than the usual." "The usual, huh?" He had performed before. Prostitution wasn't the right word, because prostitution was illegal in this country. But Hard Street was the sex-industry's response. Performers had to sign a waiver for onlookers to give them commands. They were paid by the hour, and could be granted a tip, too. There was no actual sex, supposedly implemented for safety regulations, but the workers knew that the rules could be bent. Sometimes the injuries were permanent. "Well, you just look the type. You are a rat, after all." The Doberman sized him up, tipping his nose and scanning him over with his eyes. He lowered his voice to a rumble. "Rats are dirty. You can play that up and probably make a lot extra." Feeling both embarrassed and harassed, he gave the dog the middle finger and ran away from the line before any strangers could laugh or yell at him today. The Doberman just shook his head, saying "next."
Dent sat in his apartment alone, grumbling as he looked through temp job listings on his phone. The rumbling bass of electronica vibrated against his thin walls often, so he had to wear headphones to drown out the noise. They were the nicest birthday gift he'd received. His phone was good too. It had lasted four years, and he could still use it as a hand-held computer. There wasn't much space for a computer, considering he had only two rooms, and much of the area was taken up by a wardrobe and a sink. He shared a bathroom and a kitchen with the other floor tenants, who weren't always considerate or tidy. Would things have been the same if he stayed somewhere more rural? Could he grow his own food and pay for his own home, or was he merely kidding himself? He didn't need for his life to be easy, but he didn't see the point in making it difficult for no reason. He sighed, and looked out of his apartment's one square window and wondered if the city was worth it, or making him another part of its inefficient machine. Nobody had hired him as an accountant after all of the humiliating interviews, but he felt an accountant's work wasn't a titillating goal, either. His brain needed some kind of challenge. He lived in a society progressive enough to mass produce its own food, yet still paid workers next-to-nothing to move thousands of boxes of car parts. It was something an assembly line robot could do faster, probably even cheaper over a longer period of time. Were the useless jobs just there to make them feel useful? The perception of rats was already poor. He was already familiar with the surprise expressed when he told people he went to a university. Dogs were usually given the best jobs, or played the heroic roles in action movies. Sometimes rats were side-kicks. Usually villains. He didn't think he was one of those. He didn't steal, and gambling was legal. He had a job, and he rented an apartment, after all. A rap sounded on his door. No slamming. No yelling. Just a little pitter-patter on the aluminum, familiar to the ears. Rising, Dent plucked the headphones from the sides of his ears and plodded to the door. He opened and Bircham moseyed his way in, looking about the apartment, nodding fondly at nothing in particular. Most of the other tenants were rats too. There happened to be a few mice. A weasel or two. Rumor had it that there was a badger somewhere, but Dent had never seen him. There wasn't a single dog renting here, not even a mutt. Bircham was the kind of rat Dent didn't want to ever be. He had a dumpy, sad little face and a reedy, high-pitched voice that quavered and sounded nothing like Dent's, which he had been been told was deep and confident. Bircham's posture was ruined, bent over by the gravity of his shortcomings. Bircham plucked an electronic cigarette from his pocket and sucked on it, inhaling and letting out some vapors. "Glad to see the extra time I gave you to pay off rent was spent on a good day at the game." Dent's neck jerked, head tilting out of the way of the vapors and he reached behind himself, rubbing his shoulder. "I don't usually lose. I've never been late on a payment before this." Bircham put the electronic cigarette in the pocket of his cheap shirt and placed his arms akimbo, letting out a sigh. "Usually? Damn it Dent, did you toss my money in the pisser?" Dent narrowed his eyes. "I get that it's gonna be your money--" "Shit-- I mean, you only just make the payments at last minute's notice and I was expecting the rent tonight. I can't account for unexpected things like this when I have to pay for everybody's bills and feed myself too. I can't afford to cover for some kinda bum." "So the difference between a bum and a businessman is one exchange? I gotcha." Dent crossed his arms. "Really, 'cos gambling away things you can't afford sounds like something a bum does. Take care of your basics first, then spend your extras on whatever you want." "I'm not reckless with my bets," Dent snapped, making Birchim flinch and his nose tremble. "And I couldn't afford to bet at all if I put the money towards rent first. Hell, I've been paying off the last three months with bet money and I get to buy food that doesn't make me feel sick. You telling me there's something wrong with that, all the while you smoke that crap?" Bircham's eyes watered, his voice sounding wounded. He walked past Dent, big belly brushing him out of the way when he took a turn, standing near the stone slab with high shelves that sandwiched the sink and the cinder block walls near the door. "I didn't say I was perfect. I didn't say I was the healthiest rat either. But I have to make ends meet or else thirty families have to find new homes." He pulled out a chair at the counter and took a seat. "You're not the only person who scares me with possibility that you might not pay rent, sometimes. Yeah, I use a few luxury products that get me through the day. But I can afford these things when my system works, and it works with the bare minimum of monthly rent. I can try to accommodate as best as I can but I have to know ahead of time so the payments work out. Last month I almost thought you wouldn't pay at all, considering your car broke down." Dent wasn't interested in having a one-to-one chat with his landlord when he knew it was eventually going to come down to the same scummy thing. "Something bad just happened to me. Has something bad ever happened to you?" "Yeah, lots of things. I'm probably looking at another," he said shortly. "If you don't have that money in one day I'm going to have to put up an eviction notice. I'm at my wit's end, and you don't want to listen to me when I try to work things through. I don't give a damn what you do with your money if you just give the minimum that you owe to me for bills. But that doesn't seem to deter you." "One day," Dent echoed, and then nodded. "Okay. I'll have the money by then." "Don't fuck me," said Bircham calmly. He stood up, quietly pushed the stool under the counter, and stepped out the door with his tail dragging. The door snapped shut, and Dent smacked the counter. He kicked over the trash can, let out a snarl and slumped, trying to think. He looked forward, seeing himself reflected from a mirror hanging on the bedroom door. He supposed he wasn't bad to look at even when he did feel screwed. The Doberman's advice played through his head. Thinking back to his time at Hard Street, he'd get 100 from a thirty minute strip tease. He'd take off his pants, touch himself. Trace the outline of his dick in his boxers until it it swelled. Dent knew he was a bit of the grower, so the audience members in the camera room always got happy about that. But he didn't have the time for that. There were rooms that paid more. Rooms with conditions. With waivers. Rooms where bad stuff could happen, and it was all legal. Twisting his whiskers with his back paw, he winked at himself, getting butterflies. He really did have a handsome face. He wouldn't let them ruin it, but he'd have to earn more than 100 per show.
Despite its name, Hard Street looked more like a row of warehouses or a chain of electronic stores than a seedy brothel district. Even the sex industry had been streamlined. Dent remembered a time when he was younger and hornier, and he had wanted to see another male naked for the first time. He had stared at a screen from an undisclosed location while a stark naked otter with broad shoulders stared back into the camera, and a menu similar to a fast food diner blinked up for him on the screen. He had options like stretching, squats, sit ups, jogging in place. To get more options, two things had to happen: you had to pay more, and the performer would have to consent to the pay bracket before he or she was subjected to whatever the user might choose. There was an option that said jizz or no jizz (he picked jizz every time) and the performer was paid for his performance. In later years, when Dent found himself on the opposite side of the screen, Hard Street felt less exciting. Less taboo. Just another service to earn a paycheck. He would stand in the performance line with his clothes in his paws, waiting to be inspected by young women who assigned him a waiting booth until his order was taken. The steel walls of the industry line were made of the same material and bolt pattern of the clothing warehouse he worked in. It was just another factory. He had always consented to the easiest work. He'd get a free workout, strip off his clothes, and jerk off without even seeing who was watching him. Easy. But this time, he wasn't consenting to easy. His performance tonight was called Blue. There were higher settings that gave exorbitant amounts of money. One was called Red. Another was called Black. Both of those options required a death waiver so the company couldn't be sued if things went wrong. Lawyers made it too good in this city for that not to be a risk.
When Dent entered his assigned room, he noticed the walls were an immaculate black chrome. Something like a dentist's chair sat in the center. He slid his smooth tail through the loop at the back, and settled in, waiting for whoever watched from the outside. The metal arm rests were cold to the touch, and had straps for the place where his paws would go. When he sat back against the seat's curvature, the sound of somebody's voice came from the other side of the intercom. "Bit battle-scarred, but it looks like I made a good choice," said a honeyed male voice. It carried a confident kind of lilt to it. Husky, certainly sonorous to the ear. "You're something nice to look at, I think. Handsome devil." Dent looked around the empty room, no sight of any camera in view. He stroked his groin, groping his pants a little compulsively, pressing his paw to his package when the voice interrupted him. "There's no need for that now. Not right now, anyway." Dent imagined he could hear a grin exposing perfect teeth, and he stopped touching himself. So maybe whoever was watching didn't want a show of his privates after all. Maybe he just wanted something weird and goofy. "Just testing the waters, ratty." Dent nodded in no particular direction, biting the inside of his lip softly. A cutesy pet name felt a little too forward. "You don't need to pet your cock unless I tell you to. I know it feels nice, though," he cooed, sounding more interested and a little more gruff. "This isn't just a peep show you know. I didn't pay just to watch a cam whore play with himself." Not just to play with himself. Dent smirked. Clearly, whoever was behind the intercom wasn't impressed. "No, I have some things I'd like to do to you. And I have a short time to do it, so I feel we should get started." "Augh!" Dent covered his eyes with his paws, blinded by a bright light that shone from the ceiling. The sides of room were built from many panels, or segments with interchangeable parts, looking like the shards of an obsidian disco ball when they shifted, made from much more expensive and elaborate robotics than the easy rooms. "Sit back," the voice commanded. Dent nodded, slowly, and wrist clamps from the mechanical chair clasped into place and tightened mechanically. They weren't too tight but they strapped in good. He couldn't much move his paws. Below him, a mechanical whirring sounded, and he felt a part of the seat cover vanish when cold air hit his rear. The chair was more like an amusement park ride, and used robotics to transform different parts of itself into appendages that he could not see, but rather feel. Something soft that felt like warm rubber rolled over him with a textured, bumpy sensation against the bottom of his nethers, getting a bit of blood flowing to his groin, making him swell. "God damn," said the voice behind the intercom, a little satisfied. "That didn't take long, did it? You should see your face. Is this for me, or is this for you?" Dent shivered. That wasn't the most complicated question. "It's for you--" "Damn right," replied the male. "I don't mind you enjoying this a bit. You aren't going to enjoy everything." Yeah, your attitude is a little grating. "Your clothes are just awful.""Oh," said Dent. "I forgot to take them off before the chair tied me down." He tried to pull his arms free to unbutton himself, but the straps were too tight. "Just awful. You're better off without clothes." "Wait, no, this is the only shirt I came with--."Rip. Graspers had extended from the side of the wall, ripping the white sleeves right off Dent's arms. "Oh, come on!" They dropped the tattered cotton on the floor and gripped again. Dent's eye's widened when they pulled, ruthless, and he could hear the clicking sounds of buttons falling to the floor. "Now let's wreck those shitty pants." "Stop!" Dent tried to kick the appendages away. He got a good kick in, but a second set of straps clamped down on his legs, holding them to the foot rest. The mechanical graspers deftly undid the belt clasp with dexterous plucks and grabbed at the sides of Dent's jeans. The pull was slower this time. Stronger. Dent groaned when he heard the tearing denim. His legs were still covered , but his groin area was completely exposed. "Now let's get that underwear." "What the hell is your problem!" Dent shrieked. This tool had no respect for his things, even if it was a performance. "Don't worry about your clothes, ratty. You look better without them." Dent squirmed his hips when the apparatus snagged his boxers, tearing them too and giving him a horrible wedgie. When his underwear finally tore, it was dropped to the floor, now a useless rag. His dick and balls hung out in the cold air, limp while he heard the voice over the intercom laugh. "Much cuter." The bumpiness that rolled beneath him touched his naked taint now, and rolled across it like a plastic, fleshy paint roller slathering the bottom of his groin with warm wetness. Dent shivered, feeling his cock get hard even though he was too upset about his clothes to speak. "You know, I picked a rat because I know they have a pretty foul reputation. Turns out you're no exception, huh?" Dent resented that, growling. He would have pegged the man over the intercom as the bookie, but his voice was lighter. There were plenty of ways to get dirty. Paying to shoot a sitting duck in a barrel didn't seem like the most ethical thing to him, anyway. Maybe that's why the payoff for these things was so damn good. Put up with enough losers and sociopaths so they can get their paws off of their cocks and back to their keyboards. The cogs are put into place, and the machine keeps working. Dent's throat rumbled as he felt the first surge of pre dribble out of his cock. For now, an entirely different machine was working on Dent . A lovely machine that was warm to the touch and pressed into him with the same calculated firmness over and over again. "You seem ready to be fucked now," said the voice again, still a little bored. Dent jerked up. "That's... a bit dicey for me. I thought penetration isn't allowed on this setting." "Are you hamming this up?" said the voice dismissively, surprised, and a little joy even crept into his tone. "You're telling me you've never done this before? You read over the setting description, surely? You're in a fuck machine." "I mean..." Dent's voice trailed off as the machine still rolled his taint. He felt a little tense. He knew these places were risky. Dangerous, even, but he didn't expect the machine parts would go into him. Blue setting mentioned some pain. That's all he remembered. "I'm sorry, I just..." "You're okay? I'll leave you new clothes after." said the voice again. For a moment, the machismo was gone, and there was a warble of concern. Even if Dent did feel dirty, and even if he did feel like a deviant, he did sign up for this, and there was a person on the other side of the computer who seemed concerned. Dent didn't have to like this guy... but maybe he could like the experience. Or try to. "Yeah," Dent decided. "I'm alright." There was a whirring sound, like the groan of a motor and a slick, warm piece of what seemed to be metal pressed underneath him. It vibrated, burning the inside of the rat's ears bright red as he moaned. "I... haven't had one of these things up me," he confessed, tugging on his bonds, ropy tail trying to thrash but held in place by the mold of the chair. "It's just a douche." There was a fatherly softness to it that bothered Dent. It didn't fit the youthfulness of that timbre. "Time to get clean." His chest heaved as something spread him, and he felt a sharp pinch when something tapered and smooth worked its way inside of his tail hole. A whistling sound went off, and warm water shot up his bowels, making him shout. The runoff splashed underneath him, dripping off of his fur and down a drain anchored at the room's concave center. "There. Now the prostate stimulator will go in easier. I'll get a nice video shot of it sliding around inside you." Dent cursed as warm metal pushed against his bum, feeling this edge was round and thick. Gel with a silky texture squirted into him, and the massager rubbed against him in a circular fashion, working him gently. He felt some new sensation when it pressed against him. His legs shook, and the fur on his arm stood on its end as he felt his pucker spread. The round head pushed inside, slowly with what seemed a good minute worth of testing. The spread came with a pinch, causing him to screw up his face. More gel pumped into him, warming from the center out. The round piece curved, pressing inside toward the direction of his cock, and the rat looked up, sucking in air. Dent thought the touch was much similar to two previous sensations he knew: the first was like touching a pressure point on his thumb to relieve a bad headache. The second was like when he lost control while he stroked himself off, and he couldn't stop the milky jizz from welling up all over his black paw. "You don't have to stay quiet," said the man on the intercom, panting like a dog. "That's probably the closest thing to a cock you've felt inside of your virgin asshole, isn't it? The vents let me smell you. You're working up a nice stink." "Shut the hell up," Dent stammered. He'd had enough of this guy. "I don't smell." "Then why's my cock is so hard," said the voice again, tongue audibly lolling. Dent was certain it was some sort of canid when he heard him lick his chops. "But speaking of smells, here's the part you're not gonna like. Hint-- it's not the dildo going up your ass." The lights in the room went out, leaving Dent only with the squelching sounds of the smooth, warm metal now churning into his rear, forcing liquid from the tip of his cock and groans from his mouth. Something whirred on the ceiling, and Dent's ear's jerked. Before he knew it, his snout was entrapped in a soft, padded cage, forcing his jaw open with a rounded shape. The cage was similar to an eye doctor's oculus, the sides of him strapped in. To top it off, a pungent cloth covered his long nose.It smelled like the subway, full of dogs on a rainy day. He squirmed, stuck in place. What the hell was this thing? He tried to speak, but all he could do was gag and sputter. "Told you wouldn't like it," lilted the voice. "Those are the underpants I've been sweating in for the last few hours. Did a little work out, so they're fresh as opposed to foul." He punctuated the last word. "You're gonna be sniffing these until you come." "The hell would you make me smell your underwear?" he tried to say, speech garbled. The scent was sharp and damp, and very male. Definitely doggy, but a little sharper... and a little cleaner than most he smelled. "You really should get familiar with the smell of my groin before you drink my jizz." Dent shivered. "What did you say?" The lights turned on again. He could see that whatever had his mouth propped open had a narrow tube slipped inside of it and disappeared into the ceiling. Sticky pads adhered to his abs and groin by mechanical rods, seeping into his fur and cooling his sensitive flesh. "Just take a deep breath." "Wait." His heart skipped a beat. He shouted out of the side of his mouth. Shocks went through his body, lighting his neurons on fire, bathing him in both pain and pleasure simultaneously as the shaft inside of him stopped pumping, pressed firmly against him and buzzed. The heavy sounds of the dog's pant covered his own. His dick was jerking, covered in its own slick while it dripped down to the base of his balls. "Almost," said the voice. This turned into a mantra, echoes of 'almost' drowning out the sound of Dent's pulse. The dog barked out a trail of long, low groans, and another momentary shock went to Dent's abs. His whole body shook in the chair. He was wet from every end now, electricity still running through his muscles The scent and sound of the dog clouded his mind as he looked above, startled. The tube connected to his mouth filled with a cloudy, opaque white liquid, which he knew could only be the dog's jizz. He closed his eyes, feeling the tube in his mouth, pretending the mouth piece was just his water bottle. He had no idea how it would taste, only knowing the flow would inevitably get to him. When it seeped out the opposite end, too much of it filled him, cramming the pockets of his cheeks, warm and murky with a thick texture. When another electric shock was applied, he gurgled through the scream. The smell, the taste, the sound and the feel of sex washed over him, forcing the pressure in his balls to build up, push out the end of his cock and splatter thickly on his black belly. He sat in silence, damp and sweating. The apparatus holding his head in place disassembled, freeing him from its clamps and his wrist and leg straps opened. The rod sticking into him pulled out with a gentle retraction, making him gasp. 850 credits for 45 minutes read the blinking screen on the wall in neon green letters. Warm mist filled the room, tingling his fur and his bum until they suddenly stopped. His sticky pads melted away, running off the sides. He was grateful that he wouldn't be ripping them off with large clumps of his chest fur. The exit sign on the opposite side of the room directed him back to a bunk, where he whimpered, unsure how to get home without any clothes. Within minutes, a young rabbit knocked on his door, providing a white shirt and black sweatpants in a clear bag. She also pressed a note into his paw and left him quickly without a word. The clothes were simple but soft, and slowly, sorely, he dressed himself, then put his credit card into a slot to collect his pay. He pulled the note from its envelope, reading over the words as a card fell from the folded paper and clattered to the ground. Now that you're clean, you ought to dress like it. Buy something better for next time. There was a tip: 500.