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Gateway Inc

Tracey had just enough gas to make it to his interview. As he rolled up to the headquarters, passing under a large stone arch with the inscription "Vestibulum Aeternam", he squinted at his shaggy face in the rearview mirror. Slicking his fingers through his jet-black fur, he thought to himself; this place looks like the fucking entrance to Jurassic Park; these filthy corporations have way too much money. The middle-aged collie struck a match and held it steadily a few inches from his lips, and after some hesitation, put it out in his coffee. Probably bad form to wreak like weed before an interview, and he really needed this gig.

He held the crumply flyer in his paws. It was the strangest job ad he'd ever seen, and he'd seen some weird shit in his day too. An old collie friend named Kaizo had given it to him.

The job Ad:

Company: Gateway Inc

Duration: 6 Months

Salary: $20,000 USD

Qualifications:

• Gender: Male

• Must weigh exactly 160-175 lbs.

• Standing height: 5’10”

• Must be comfortable in cramped spaces

Note: Physical measurements will be verified at the time of interview.

Inside the foyer he was greeted by a female Fennec who introduced herself as Sherry in a Dixie drawl, or maybe it was more of a Hamilton County “howdy”, but either way, Tracey was pretty good at placing accents, and was convinced she hailed from the Conch Republic.

Sherry: "Did you see the portal out front?"

"The portal?"

Sherry handed him a blue pamphlet about the construction of their campus. "Portal: A grand, imposing entrance. Our portal was designed in 1998 by our founder Neil Bastion, who wanted to reflect the grandeur of his vision in the campuses’ architecture."

"Heh, how could I miss it. It's like one of those Redwoods you can drive under."

"So, I'm going to need you to sign here...and date here." As she watched him scribble, just below hundreds of other names, she added, "Perfection. You can follow me now. You'll be interviewing with Jeremy. He's one of our most Senior Managers: been with Gateway for over 8 years."

Blacked-out windows on the outside and inside; their headquarters felt more like a server-farm than an office, and there was this strange humming coming from all directions, like the walls were buzzing with electricity.

They walked down a narrow lobby, passing door after door of polished steel with oily panes that looked like labradorite, which reminded Tracey of a dog’s knot if he was being honest with himself.

Sherry: "Did you notice the sound machine?"

Tracey nodded suspiciously. "Yeah, I was wondering what that was."

"Gateway tested the effects of sound on productivity, and found that workers are twice as productive in environments with brown noise. That's why we play it during operating hours, from 6am-9pm, 7-days a week. It's actually the inside of a beehive, slowed down and passed through a 500 Hz band-pass."

Tracey replied, "Interesting," but he actually thought the whole thing was massively creepy, like it was right out of a horror movie. What an absolutely creepy fucking place! He felt a screaming case of the fantods coming on.

Peeking through the panes into an all-white room, so white it reminded him of the ending of A Space Odyssey, Tracey caught a glimpse of a badger sharpening a pencil against his sooty claws.

"Jerry is ready to see you. Right this way."

Black lab coat, squeaky boots, and a fat whiskered face with a streak of white down the center, Jerry was a seasoned manager and his name tag read, 'Head of Operations'. Looking at his clipboard through a pair of round-rimmed glasses, he muttered, "Stay standing. I have to measure you first."

"But, what's the job?"

"We can talk about that in a minute. Let's get this done first. Shoes off. It needs to be accurate." He started measuring the dog's torso, then his shoulders and waist, and after a few minutes, clapped his paws together, "Excellent, we're done with that. Now, take a seat."

Hiking his glasses up until they sat on the bridge of his nose, which looked a little crooked up-close, "You wouldn't believe how many dogs lie about their weight: especially Golden Retrievers. Everyone's so touchy these days."

"So what's the job? Cleaning out chimneys? Duct work?" Tracey scratched his chin, racking his brain for work that required a petite frame. "Oh, a horse jockey. Now we're talking."

Tap, tap, tap. The badger was touch-typing on his iPad, intermittently glancing at Tracey to glean information from his appearance.

Species: Canine

Breed: Border Collie

Sexual Preference: Probably Gay

"So there's some paper work you need to sign. Pretty standard stuff: Liability Waver, NDA, Indemnity Clause. "Here," he pushed a towering stack of papers across the table with both paws—a sign of respect he learned on a business trip to their Japanese branch. "Xs where you sign."

Pushing the papers back. "I'm done here. You haven't told me one fucking thing about this job. How 'bout at least you validate my parking?"

"Hold on Tracey. I was getting to it. So the role..." He shuffled through his papers, eventually plucking a single page from the stack, which he held at eye-level. "The subject agrees to participate in a six month government-funded experiment that seeks to measure the long-term effects of teleportation on corporeal matter."

"Corporeal?"

"I don't have all day Tracey. I have 15 other guys lined-up for this job, but I'm offering it to you, right now. Take it or leave it."

This fucking sucked. Tracey's own cunt-of-a-mother had embezzled his life-savings, maxed-out his credit cards, and at 36, he was living in a '92 Ford Ranger outside of a Target parking lot in South Florida. Getting this gig was the only thing separating him from the homeless tenements outside the Tuttle Causeway. He shuddered thinking of the concrete viaduct with its row of tents and trash-laden hoover-houses. There was something fishy about this interview; maybe it was the creepy facade with its Latin gibberish, or Jerry's pressure tactics, but regardless, Tracey didn't have many options so he ignored all of the glaring red flags.

"Fine. I'll take it." Tracey irately scribbled, slamming each page onto the side of the original stack: Indemnity Clause—signed, Forced Arbitration—signed, MSA—signed. "There! All signed. Now, what?"

Just as Tracey slammed the last page onto the marble top, the badger leaned in with mosquito precision and slid a hypodermic needle into the collie's jugular. Tracey saw it coming, but it was so unexpected and fluid that all he did was watch, not realizing what was happening until seconds later when he slapped his neck, suddenly aware of a stinging pulse. "What the fuck was that?" The collie bolted to the back of the room, bucking-up on pure adrenaline, rearing-up on his hind legs like it was an alien pose. "Tell me! What did you inject me with?" A fist tightened to the shape of brass knuckles, sharp nails digging into his own palms; Tracey waved his fists around drunkenly. "Tell me, or I'm gonna' kick your ass." Tracey was going to beat this badger's face in, even if it was the last thing he did!

A single styrofoam cup nonchalantly pinched between two claws; the badger held the cup to his lips and slurped the same way vampires suck blood—with an insatiable bloodlust. "Didn't you read the contract?" He looked down at the paperwork to remember who he was talking to. "Tracey, this is part of the experiment, you're already on the clock."

When Jerry stood-up, looking broader and more muscular than before, his biceps glistening with sweat under the garish lights, the collie wondered if he was even a badger; in the fluorescent glow he looked more like a wolverine or a Tasmanian Devil. "Don't any of you dumb dogs know how to read?"

If the room wasn't spinning Tracey might have had a fighting chance. He was nauseous and grabbed for the door, not to escape, but to sustain himself, to keep himself vertical in this land of bi-peds. He made one last-ditch effort and swung his entire limp body at Jerry.

Kerplunk. The collie hit the linoleum with a loud deadening thud like a bunch of books being dropped from a table. He wasn't entirely conscious or unconscious, but he still felt himself being dragged across the lobby by sharp talons, and a warm stream of piss seeping into his jeans.

"Sorry Trace, I'm gonna' have to take those earrings out too." He pointed at a sign that was nothing but blurry gibberish. "'No earrings, implants, etcetera, etcetera.' Normally, I think earrings are pretty faggy, but yours are kinda' neat." Tracey had three piercings on the tip of his floppy ear; each a steel ring, in green, yellow and red, that signified something, but he was stoned when he got them so he couldn't remember what.

Tracey tried to mumble a response—something about having a PA, while grabbing his wet crotch.

"We use these strong, rare earth magnets on the floor. They'd literally rip your piercings out and send them flying like bullets. Don't worry I'll strip ya' down in a minute and check if you got any freak-piercings...the usual suspects: nipple bars, tongue rings, etcetera, etcetera."

The distinct sound of kibble asynchronously hitting 20 gauge steel sounded like a storm over a tin-awning, and it jolted Tracey to life. The first thing he noticed: his wrists were fastened to the same trough the kibble went in, the second: that he had some sort of leather falconer's cap on his head. He wiggled his ankles but they were bolted to the floor too.

It was the badger's wet voice popping dental fricatives that occupied his blindspots. "They're called blinkers. I'm sure you've seen them on horses before. Now, can you see your kibble?"

"bleghshhhhiiii. blehp me!"

"You're gonna have to nod from now on. I corked your muzzle shut." Tracey's tongue darted to all ends of his mouth; it couldn't move fast enough, counting the number of corks in his mouth: 1, 2, 3, 4. He felt how the corks forced certain teeth together in perfect concordance. For example, his bottom and top canines were fused together with what felt like a wine cork, and the same with his back molars.

Slap! The badger brought a horse whip across the tip of the collie's sensitive nose as hard as he could. It felt like someone was breaking a branch across his face.

"weeeeeeellllp!!!"

"You're a 'Dog' from now on, like all the other mutts in here. Now I asked you a question. Can you see your kibble?"

Tracey nodded up and down as far as his restraints would allow, hearing the smooth sound of water pouring into the trough.

"Good. Now, I'm going to do you a kindness and wet your kibble so you can swallow it easier."

The badger placed the tip of the whip on Tracey's nose, which was still stinging, and said, "You have 20 minutes to drink your water and eat your kibble. When I come back, if that trough ain't totally empty..." He tapped the dog's muzzle three times to let the gravity of his threat sink in.

As promised, a low, resonant whistle slowly made its way up the hall. Tracey could tell that he wasn't alone either, that there were hundreds of other dogs in the room with him: some were fidgeting, others sobbing loudly, but since their teeth were all corked, it sounded more like sensual noises. The whistle drew nearer until it was on top of him. "Pity, looks like you missed a kibble." Tracey's head was swiftly shoved into the trough as far as his harness would allow. "Do you see it? You missed one!" The whip once again was placed gently on his nose. "One...two...actually...I'm going to let this one slide. You're new around here after-all.

The collie let out a sigh of relief. He was terrified of what was happening. What did he even sign? Why was he secured to a cold metal slab in child's pose? Please, won't anyone help him!

His blinkers were pulled off and Tracey looked around, catching a glimpse of the other dogs. Below each of their heads it read their number, along with the word dog, all locked up like he was.

Dog 312

Dog 311

Dog 310

"I want to build some trust with you." The whip was still firmly planted on his nose; he couldn't recall if it had ever moved. Tracey couldn't help it; he was pissing himself again, but this time, was aware of it because the funnel under his belly was making a gross gurgling sound like it was struggling to swallow his piss.

The badger continued unfazed, "You're gonna let me fuck that muzzle...." As he said it, Tracey felt the corks being twisted out from under his teeth. "No corks. No O-rings. You see, the thing about fucking a muzzle is it doesn't feel right when it's pried open. It has to be hungry and willing." The whip tapped his nose teasingly. "Of course, you could bite my dick off, but if that were to happen, your fate would be 1000% more horrifying than mine."

Tracey looked up into the badger's remorseless face, tears welling up in the corners of his eyes. How could this be part of the contract? There isn't a chance in hell this is legal. Tracey couldn't believe his eyes as the badger dropped his waders to the floor and took a step over them, his red cock gleaming under the industrial fluorescence.

"If you make this good for me, you'll make it home in one piece. Your instructions are simple: no teeth, no talking, and focus on being my perfect fleshlight. Now, bark for it!"

Fearing the whip, Tracey barked loudly.

"You can do better than that! Do you want the whip again?"

"Rrrrrrr. ruff, ruff rrrrrrrr. whinessss."

The badger was scratching behind Tracey's ear. "That's a good boy." Tracey felt a paw guide his muzzle onto the badger's length, pinching his cheeks into an O-shape. As he swallowed every inch of the Mustelid's salty member, it eventually pressed against his tonsils, which made Jerry's knot throb on Tracey's tongue.

"Go ahead. Give it a lick. Uhhh, just like that."

The badger looked down smugly and spit on the collie's face as casually as though he was opening a beer, his sputum landing right in Tracey's eye, making him blink erratically. "Oh, does it sting? Poor baby. Shut-up and whine for it dog!"

"mmmmmhmmm."

"Louder!"

"mhmmmmm!"

He then felt the sweaty stamp of the badger's hairless balls pressed against his chin, over and over, each time, the head of the Mustelid's cock stabbed the back of his throat. Tracey, out of fear of what might happen if he didn't follow orders, kept licking, running his tongue along the length of the bulb.

Humping harder and even rougher, it was clear that the Badger didn't regard Tracey as a person. Jerry was ravaging his muzzle like an inanimate object; he held Tracey's head until he gagged, not once, but multiple times, until his lips were coated in slime and quivering, and then the damn Badger would pull out long enough for a gasp of air, before slamming his hog back into the collie's throat.

"I love knocking up maws. Here it comes. Uhh, Uhhh." He paused for a moment and then instructed the collie to squeeze his knot as hard as he could. "Don't forget to swallow", teased the badger, knowing full well that wasn't an option. Tracey could feel the knot throbbing inside of his maw, making what he swore was a pumping sound, but he only tasted the slightest bit of cum because the cock was pushed against his throat like a faucet head.

"Ahhhh, now that's a good pup." The badger's whole body trembled as he leaned his weight into Tracey’s snout until his neck was about to snap under the pressure. He counted, 7, 8, and then 9 spurts, before the cock began to soften to the consistency of raw dough. "Goddamn, I keep telling 'um we should sell the muzzles too." Tracey was shocked. Did he just say they sell dogs? Was he being pimped out by this company? With that, Jerry tussled the dog's hair, pulling his limp cock out of his maw, a strand of cum his cock to Tracey's maw like a trapeze wire.

"So, gonna' cork that yapper back up." As Tracey registered the words, a sweaty hand pried his mouth open, expertly twisting the corks in place: 1, 2, 3 and 4, all back in place. "Close your mouth as tight as you can...there you go."

So many things were going through the collie's mind, but under no circumstances would he try to speak. He already learned that lesson, that disobedience meant pain. Instead he thought to himself how many times would he be raped Jerry? and was there even a plan to let him go?

"So, let's play a game before bed." The voice was chillingly low. It defied aural laws and sounded more like a frigid chill, and there was that goddamn whip kissing his nose again. "You have one minute to wag."

"..." Tracey almost said something: almost fell for the bastard's trap. The real question was could he consciously wag? I mean, he's a dog after-all, they wag all the time. Surely, he could make his tail go back and forth if he really tried.

"30 seconds" said the frosty voice.

Wag goddamn you! What are you broken or something? He concentrated intensely on his tail, trying to make it move, even an inch.

"Thwack". The whip careened down onto the tip of Tracey's nose like it was swung by a baseball player.

"Ohhhh god, please." Despite the corks, his scream was articulated in plain English.

"Thwack" again. "Dog's don't talk."

This time Tracey gritted his teeth in silence as much as possible, the corks preventing most of his teeth from making contact.

"By the end of your contract you'll wag on command. They all learn to wag eventually. That's what puppies do." He tussled the dog's hair again, and this time Tracey could feel the badger's hot breath on his face. "So, it's lights out for now. Your first shift starts tomorrow. Get some sleep: god knows you'll need it."

With that said, the squeaky boots trailed-off into the distance, and a new sound came rolling through the warehouse; it was fluorescent lights clicking off in sequence like dominoes, row after row, sounding like a deck of cards being shuffled. As each row flashed to black, hundreds of dogs just like Tracey disappeared into the darkness.

Tracey squirmed a little to test his bindings, but he quickly realized there was no escaping his restraint, so instead, he fixated on what he could do: how he would spend the money when the contract was over, how he's move into a real apartment, not some shit-hole truck. At least this was a productive thought.

In the pitch black warehouse, at maybe three or four in the morning, Tracey felt something scurry up his leg, hundreds of legs working in unison, and it slithered onto the tip of his nose, its damp antennas bobbing and touching the contours of his face. Was it a millepede, maybe a giant silver-fish? Whatever it was, it scurried up his snout like it was a cheap rug and in-between his eyes, eventually stopping just short of his ear canal, before squeezing its greasy head into his ear, and now it was inside his ear and Tracey could hear the soft tapping of legs as the damn thing tried to burrow into his ear drum.

"ahhhhhh ahhhhh"

Tracey panicked and shook the way he used to as a pup after a warm bath, desperately trying to shake-off the insect. Oh, my god. It's in my fucking ear. The bug squeezed even further into his ear and now he could feel its pincers pulling its bulbous body into his ear like a drain-plug. What if it was a fat tick? Those things have all kinds of diseases!

He shook even harder, this time throwing the bug to the ground with a wet plap. There was no way in hell he was going to get any sleep after that, so he just sat there in silence, counting to himself to pass the time.

Click, click, click. Rows of lights flickered to life and the low whirring hum started again as if it had never stopped.

The collie noticed a strange sensation for the first time; it felt like there was a small plug in his ass. What the hell could it be: the collie tried looking over his shoulder, but his restraints prevented him from looking. Chime, followed by a low resonant glow under his tail. Did the butt-plug just make a noise?

He heard the shuffling of hundreds of other dogs, waking up to the same hellish reality, the same friendly chime and aural glow under their tails.

Meanwhile, about three miles down the road in a dimly lit dorm-room full of Monster cans and pizza boxes, a chubby lion stared absently into his webcam, idly scratching his ginger beard.

"Hey chat. Today I'm reviewing the new Gatelight XLZ Fleshlight. It 'supposedly'." He made air quotes with his paws to bookend the adverb 'supposedly'. "Uses AI to adapt to your penis shape and size. Also, you can pick a persona that changes how it feels." He held the fleshlight to the webcam. "Not sure if you can see this."

April: the wolf slut.

Josh: the anal virgin.

Mikey: the muscle bottom.

There were pictures above each persona, along with their species, sexual preference, gender and age.

Tracey: The stoner collie

Species: Border Collie

Gender: Male

Age: 36

Life Story: Tracey was a high-school dropout who fell into a bad crowd; he coped with his trauma by habitually smoking weed and even worse, letting any mutt with a pulse knock him up.

A claw tapped the touch sensitive screen once, then twice, outlining Tracey's profile in a green aura. "Alright you little fag boi, let's see what you got." He brandished the fleshlight's tight lips to the camera and then aimed his spiney cock at the lips as he brought the fleshlight down, letting out a shudder as his spiney head slipped into the silicone ass. "Oh, fuck, that definitely feels like the real deal. But unlike a dog, no need for a warm-up!”

What in the hell was going on? At first, Tracey felt the slightest probe as if someone was sticking a finger in his ass. No one was behind him though. Was the plug somehow doing this? Was it battery powered?

Back in the messy room, the lion shoved his entire cock into the Gatelight without the slightest hesitation, holding it against his hips, heaving a little; his other paw fidgeted with the camera so it captured the scene. "Holy fuck. It feels so real...like, it's literally squeezing my cock."

Tracey felt the lion's cock impale him like a skewer. It definitely was a real cock but how? He felt the spiney length throb inside of him, doing what it instinctively was designed for. It was like a fishing hook and even if Tracey could pull away the cock would prevent it.

Suddenly his whole body was thrust forward as the lion humped into the fleshlight, calling it dirty names like "You little whore," and "take it faggot." Tracey clenched as hard as he could trying to prevent the feline from penetrating him again, but it was futile, and his ass gave way as the lion slid into the collie's hole. What was that smell; it smelled like pizza, and the sound was driving him mad. He could hear the clapping of balls against his taint, and hushed insults being hurled at him. "Not so tight anymore slut," and "It actually feels more like a pussy."

Tracey instinctively knew when a man was about to climax because of how they sped up and humped erratically like a wind-up toy, and it was no different now. "Oh god, I'm cumming."

The lion hilted into the fleshlight, moaning louder than usual to showboat for his followers. Tracey could feel the pressure of the lion's load forcing itself into his ass. "Now..." He took a second to catch his breath. "Now, that was worth $300. Most realistic fleshlight I've ever used."

When the lion was done, a mechanical burring came to life near the collie's rear, and after a few seconds, a warm solution was sprayed into his ass. A calm electronic voice instructed him to, "Rest up puppy. Your fifteen minute break starts now," and soothing music began to play over the constant hum of the warehouse.

It was over before he knew it and the chime and glow under his tail resumed.

This time it was a muscle-clad doberman who couldn't maintain a relationship due to his freakish endowment. Nine inches of hard dog meat, with a banana-like bend, and a knot the size of an Amaryllis bulb, the doberman guided the tip of his cock into the fleshlight. He had picked Tracey's profile because he had a thing for stupid stoner dogs. The dobbie used to feel bad about wrecking a good hole, but over the years, he started to view it as an accomplishment; he'd look down at their gaping hole, and think, 'I did that. I cunted that hole.'

Finally, something that felt like a real pussy, but could take his shaft without whining or telling him to slow down. He slid the Gatelight onto his penis and pressed it until the lips were kissing his knot. "Going to tie this collie." Getting knotted by Gary was like losing your virginity for the first time. It was a truly transformative experience.

Every inch of Tracey tensed up as he felt the enormous shaft stretching his insides, and when it finally hit bedrock, his anus began to clench erratically.

"Feels so real. Like it's actually clenching." Gary had experienced this sensation before; that familiar feeling of a slut's ass trying to deny its purpose. A real man's cock is a transformational tool—turns weaker dogs into fags.

It was a vicious cycle. Every time the Doberman thrust, Tracey's anus would clench. After a few minutes, to his surprise he was having an anal orgasm. His ass rhythmically squeezed the massive cock, which was another sensation Gary was used to. It was uncanny how similar to the real thing this fleshlight was, and like with past partners, a clenching hole was Gary's cue to drive his knot home. He pressed the fleshlight as hard as he could until his knot popped into those ruined lips. "Ahhhh." He could feel the fleshlight throbbing as his cock shot a fat load. If it weren't for the flared knot, Tracey would have guessed it was a horse or maybe a pony; it was that painful.

It went on like this for what seemed like hours, with a break in-between each suitor, soothing music, and the warm saline solution. Eventually, the sound of kibble clanking on 20 gauge steel, and the synchronized clicking of lights.

This went on for days, which blurred into months. Time no longer meant anything to Tracey. Instead, he counted the number of men that used him: the number of knots that swelled up in his well-used ass. He could tell when it was a return customer, remembering their size and shape, and some were vocal enough that he even knew their voice. Some guys made love to him, while others raped him without mercy. There was this one customer that had a familiar voice. It evoked a fuzzy memory from his childhood, and the voice would say things like, "Take Daddy's cock," and "You're such a naughty boy."

Knot, music, saline spray, next knot, and the pattern went on like a machine.

Every couple of days the badger would pay him a visit, take off his blinkers and fuck his throat. The badger's insults were growing darker each night, saying things like, "Not sure I wanna' fuck you anymore. You probably have a dozen VDs”, and “Matter of time before you catch the dog-flu.”

And there was that awful whip; it would tease Tracey's nose, with the chilling demand, "You have 60 seconds to wag”, or “Time for stupid pet tricks,” and eventually, the badger didn't say anything at all; he just placed the whip on Tracey's nose and counted in silence.

"Thwack!"

"Thwack!"

And there was this one time when the badger smashed the collie's face in with the butt-end of the whip so bad that he strapped an ice-pack to his face afterwards. "Sorry I got a little carried away, but you aughta' be a puppy by now. What's wrong with you Trace?"

"Thwack!"

"Thwack!"

"Thwack!"

It had been 80 days since he first arrived, not that he was counting in days, and Tracey was starting to doubt there was a plan to honor the job ad. Could he do this for the rest of his life? Was there even a way to make it stop: to end the constant rape. Maybe he would hold his breath until he suffocated, but all that would accomplish was passing out, not release from this hell.

The tip of the whip sat on his nose, and as Tracey braced himself for the inevitable hot sting of leather across his face, something was different this time. He was wagging! He was really doing it. He smiled from ear-to-ear, his ugly maw stuffed with corks. He was wagging on command. He could even control how slow or fast he wagged. He thought this must have been how Peter Pan felt when he learned to fly.

He wagged to the left, and then to the right, slowed down and sped up, wagging like a full-grown puppy.

"Bark, bark! Rrrrrrr."

"Good boy. I knew you could do it. I'm proud of you." The badger scratched behind Tracey's ear. He was beginning to like this stoner dog, and even felt a little bad for all the shit he put him through, but rules are rules. Don't sign papers you don't understand! "Leadership is expanding the business. Be a good boy and say ahhhhh."

Like reflexology. No asking. No further instructions. The stupid puppy opened his mouth with a big “Ahhhhhhh.”

The corks were swiftly removed and in their place a peculiar ring was strapped to his muzzle; it looked a lot like a ball gag when he crossed his eyes to see it. "Five minutes until your shift starts. Enjoy the enhancement." One final scritch behind his ear wore off like a warm narcotic, and he was suddenly back in this hellish reality.

Two, asynchronous chimes emitted: one from his rear and the other inside his mouth, followed by green auras.

He suddenly felt a cock pressing against his tongue, and for the first time, saw that the ring was some kind of portal, with a papery-thin surface that flickered ethereally. It looked just like the labradorite door panes from the lobby. He even saw a cock slipping through the shimmering surface and into his mouth, which would have been agape if it weren't for the gag.

Fuckkkk, it's the Doberman going at his rear again. He braced for the pain of having his organs rearranged by the massive dog.

It was like a game of ping-pong. One dog would thrust him forward and the other would push him back. Sometimes it was synchronized where one cock would thrust him into the other, and at other-times it was asynchronous; sometimes they finished in unison like they had planned it, his mouth and ass being flooded at once, and other times one would cum first followed by the other. Like before, he kept a mental log of his suitors and even noticed when a suitor's preference shifted from his tail to his muzzle. There were days when he was bored of being passive, sick of being an overeducated fleshlight, and played into the damn system, using his tongue to edge a cock to orgasm, or clenching against an invading knot. Sometimes he played games with his suitors, seeing how fast he could make them cum or even ruin their orgasms, but that was a rare occurrence; most guys would thrust faster when he teased for too long. He swore some of them would shout his name. Tracey didn't know where or how the dicks were making it into him, but due to a serious case of Stockholm Syndrome, he was beginning to like it.

Things went on like this for what felt like months until one day the badger stood over Tracey, and yanked his blinkers off. "Already wagging I see. What a good pup. I didn't even have to ask."

He held a deadly looking syringe eye-level to show the collie. Clear liquid. Maybe it was colorless cyanide? "Your contract's up."

Was he being euthanized? He didn't think in a million years he'd be released: not at least alive or by this sadistic badger. He even thought about the twinkle in Kaizo’s eyes when he handed Tracey the job flyer. Was that old collie in on this too?

The syringe sprinkled a little fountain of death from the tip.

Was this how it ends: raped thousands of times by anonymous men and put down like a dog? Is this what he signed up for? Tracey winced as the needle was pressed into his neck: the gurgle of piss spinning down the drain for the hundredth and last time. He swore the drain was gagging at first and then sobbing in a muffled appeal.

"Flunitrazepam... Don't worry pup." He hushed him with a finger to his lips. "It's gonna' make you drowsy, that's all."

The effect of the drug was immediate. The collie repeated the name of the drug but nothing intelligible came out. "Fishhhhins”, and Tracey felt a sudden wave of intoxication, like he downed six shots at once, and the room was whirling. The last thing he saw was the badger's rubber boots squeaking on the concrete floor, and Jerry's maniacal voice, "Could've be worse Trace, look at Frank here." A blurry claw pointed to a spot under Tracey's belly out of the collie's sight. " Frank's been swallowing your piss for six months now." And everything faded to black after those nine disturbing words.

A door swung open and with a firm push Tracey was thrown onto the ground from a slow moving Cargo Van. As it drove off he winced at the license plate—no windows, a v-shaped antenna on the roof, and the license read "GATEWAY".

The thing about being used as a fleshlight for 12 hours a day, non-stop, for 6 months was even when you weren't being fucked, and you didn't have a plug in yor ass, you had these random sensations like you did. Amputees call it phantom limb syndrome—the sensation that you can still feel your missing appendages, but instead of his own limbs, he felt other dogs, the hung Doberman, the micro-penised bull, the nerdy lion, he had nicknames for most of his suitors, all spreading his anus, hilting until they cream-pied. Little did he know that they all had nick-names for him too, and even Gateway affectionately called him “The Stoner Collie.” It was a ferris wheel of rape, spinning in his head non-stop. Tracey was sobbing.

Where the fuck was he though? He looked around, little gullies of dust kicking-up into storms, and lots of black bags whipping around in the wind. It dawned on him when a gull descended in fractals, landing on a heap of trash; he was at the Pinellas County dump, just about a mile from his buddy's apartment. A cool breeze across his whole body reminded him of a certain insecurity.

His pants—missing, his underwear—missing.

No shirt, no shoes.

He was completely naked, except for a little bag taped to his arm, in it, shiny metal, and a Pikachu back-pack strapped to his shoulders. There was a note in the plastic bag. "I thought you might want these. Jerry." It was all his piercings. He peaked into the back-pack to see if they packed him clothes. Inside, neatly bound hundred dollar bills. All green with Franklin's smug face on them. There were three packets, each amounting to what Tracey would later learn was $10,000: more money than he'd seen at one time in his entire life. The third packet had a note on the band. "Your bonus for being a best-seller."

After scavenging through piles of trash for over 30 minutes, trying to find anything halfway respectable to wear, he finally dressed himself in a plaid skirt and a tank-top that showed his mid-drift. All of his piercings had healed shut, so he put the bag in his pocket, but first, he picked one blue earring and pierced his ear himself. He didn't feel like himself without at least one piercing. It was going to be a long walk.

Bang, bang, bang. He pounded his fist against his buddy's door, noting the sign on the door that read, "Buzzer's broke, hit this bitch."

"Mark, are you home?"

The door cracked open enough to show a coyote that had more piercings than fur. He held an odd cylindrical object in his hand that resembled a bank teller's tube, but it had flashing LEDs. "Hey, man. I'm a little busy." The yote’s eyes darted from the tube back to Tracey. "Do you wanna' come back in like 10 minutes? Uhhh, nice dress." The coyote snickered to himself.

"No dude, it's an emergency. Can I use your phone?"

"Uh, sure. One second." The coyote scanned behind the door and then back at his friend.

"What's in your hand."

"Oh, it's one of those gatelights."

"Gatelights?" Tracey contorted his face.

"Yeah, it's like an AI powered fleshlight. Dude, this shit feels so real." He held the power button for five seconds and a little LCD screen flickered to life with the Gateway Logo and their Latin maxim, which Tracey later Google-translated to "Eternal Entrance."

The coyote shifted his weight from one paw to the other, holding the Gatelight at eye-level so Tracey could see. "See, you pick your AI Persona. Each one feels different." As Mark toggled through several personas there was one that caught Tracey's eye.

Name: Tracey

Species: Border Collie

Gender: Male

Personality: Stoner Dog

"Hey, go back to that one. Yeah, that one!" He kept reading.

Tracey is your personal sex slave. Feel his ass resist as you fuck him. He may resist, but this dog wants to be ruined. Since he habitually smokes grass, it doesn't take much to pry open his doggy-door.

Options: Mouth or Ass

Number of Loads Taken: 38

Status: Out of Order

The coyote pulled the Gatelight back and looked at the screen. "Heh, yeah, I may have pretended that one was you. Same name and species! Isn't that freaky?"

"I've gotta' go." Tracey almost stumbled over himself, catching himself on the railing before the stairwell. He looked down at the Ford Ranger two stories below him.

"What's wrong. Hey, come back. You can use my phone. Sorry! Did I creep you out?”

Jingle, jingle, and Tracey realized there was more than just cock rings in the plastic bag; there at the bottom of the bag was the key to his pick-up. He tried the key on the Ranger and it fit perfectly.

After a 20 minute ride, Tracey pulled into his Dad's driveway, rang the doorbell half-a-dozen times, and after no response, lifted the Welcome mat. Some things never change—there on the concrete floor, under the mat was a hidden key.

If anyone could help him sort out this situation it was his Father. Yeah, his Dad had kicked him out of the house for doing whippets back in high school, and they didn't have the best relationship, but his Father would understand.

"Hello? Is anyone home?" Tracey projected his voice into the corners of the house and up into the loft. He eventually stepped into his Dad's bedroom: musty air and a graveyard-like stillness, like the room was a recording booth. Tracey let himself fall onto the bed, exhausted from the whole ordeal, his shadow distending across the room like it was cast by someone else: someone taller and skinnier like a tree branch. Finally, he was safe, and could get some shut-eye, but as soon as he felt at ease, there was a chime, followed by another chime. He looked in the direction of the audio haptic, and there on the bed-stand was one of those Gatelights, just like the one his buddy had. He picked it up with two fingers, disgusted that he was touching his Dad's fleshlight, turned it on and started browsing through the personas in his Dad's favorites, but there wasn't much to browse; there was only one favorite. "Tracey. Custom alias: Daddy's Pet. Loads Taken: 97." His whole world was spinning out of control. Tracey could feel an internal whirring like his brain was being sucked to the back of his skull, the centripetal force suppressing any cogent thought.

A chime followed by a familiar glow. Tracey hadn't noticed until now, but the Gatelight plug was still in his ass. They must have forgotten to remove it, or maybe it was a sick souvenir. He looked at his profile on the Gatelight and it switched from 'out of order' to 'local pairing', and then to 'ready for your pleasure'.

Every straight man's darkest secret, that given the chance they'd fuck themselves. Tracey looked into those gross lips, unable to shake the idea that his dad had used this thing, and by proxy, knotted his own son, but curiosity is a hell of a drug. He hiked his skirt up, his cock already stiff as a board. How was he hard for this? What was wrong with him? His heart was beating a million miles a minute; it felt like the first time he secretly downloaded porn. A second thought crossed his mind: a troubling one—how could his cock exist in the same reality twice at the same time? It was like the Grandfather complex: if you went back in time and killed your Grandfather would you cease to exist in all realities?

Fuck it! He had been through so much he didn’t give a flying-fuck about hypotheticals. There was no time for philosophical musings. The question was very simple; this was probably his only chance to fuck himself; was he going to take it?

He eased into the Gatelight in awe of what was happening, and it was the most uncanny feeling. He felt his own penis prodding and then slipping into his hole. It was unlike anything he had experienced before, and formed a perfect-circle of pleasure. His cock would throb, which made his ass clench, which made his cock throb again. He didn't even have to thrust; he just eased his knot past his anal ring, which thanks to the Doberman was super stretchy. The circle was unrelenting—throb, clench, throb, over and over. His ass felt so good. he now understood what the appeal was, why so many guys returned day after day to dump a load in the ‘ole stoner dog.

"Ohh god." Squeeze. Spasm. "Shit, I'm cumming." He felt the shapeless pleasure of an orgasm coming on like a flush: that convulsive muscle spasm and toe writhing pleasure. He also felt his cock pumping a litter of his own pups into his ass.

Paralyzed by waves of pleasure, he let the Gatelight fall errantly onto the bed, a gross load seeping out from its rubber lips (load #98, according to the display), and that's when he heard the door open downstairs and the sound of his Dad's voice.

"Hey, is someone there? Is that you Tracey?"