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Reckless, Pt 1 by H. A. Kirsch

Copyright 2011 - http://www.hakirsch.com

Shane had a city job and a suburban home, the epitome of American life. It meant a train ride of over an hour each way, plenty of time to sit and regard the world through green-washed solar glass. A little yellow-green reduced the outside world to a sickly patina of smog and indistinct bland foliage.

Next to him on the train, oblivious to the outside world thanks to headphones and a smartphone, was a human. Shane kept looking every so often, to see if he was being looked at in return, but the human never noticed. Instead, he just stared lazily at his phone, head back and tilted to the side, hand cradling the device against a thigh.

The dalmatian looked at his seating partner out of the corner of his eye. The human was attractive, almost intentionally so, but the guy's choker kept drawing the most attention. A gold chain around the neck, snug, with a few colored rings at the front forming a rainbow in order. Shane knew what it meant, which explained why the guy was so well-groomed, but that wasn't the important part. The important part was the mere existence of the choker. Shane imagined unseen leather-gloved hands coming around the guy's neck, stroking flesh, stroking the chain, sweat breaking out, adam's apple bobbing, hands rushing up to pry at the chain as the gloved fingers hook in at the back and twist-

Shane shook his head and spun his gaze back out the window. By chance, the train was pulling to a stop where there was an intersection crossing the tracks. A motorcycle idled at the intersection, its rider clad in leather and denim, boots on the ground, gloved hands free of the handlebars. A wolf. Shane put wolf and human together, in a dark alley behind a biker bar, wolf violating the human while wringing his neck like a wet shirt. Then he shook the idea out of his head again and squeezed his legs together.

The ride was half over. The dog had plenty of time to think about what just crossed his mind. All his life, a curious interest, a nervous shame, any time someone in a movie or television show or book was strangled, lynched, hung, smothered, chloroformed, suffocated, drowned. It took years and years to manifest as anything more than a mild internal obsession. It was going to manifest when he got home, and he had been thinking about it all day, wetting his underwear, feeling tight under his shirt collar.

---

Shane entered the empty house and went about setting his work things down. As he passed his bedroom, he stripped his polo shirt and khakis off, tossed his dress shoes next to the bed. After stripping to his stretch briefs, he padded around the house, checking for signs of Kyros. The tiger was not home, would not be home, was even regulated by the schedule written on the whiteboard in the kitchen. The tiger was on second shift that night, not due until close to ten o'clock.

Every step he took was closer and closer to a fantasy that had been stirring around in his head all day. He swung by the kitchen and dug through the collection of saved grocery bags, finally locating a heavy clear one from some sort of electronic device Kyros had bought weeks earlier. Shane stashed it in the very back of the bag holder, so the tiger would never find it. He nearly dropped it several times, hands starting to shake.

Kyros would have no idea anything happened. The dog would have to cook dinner, and that meant rummaging around in the kitchen. The tiger rarely spied on anything in there, as food was entirely Shane's responsibility. Food, housekeeping, and satisfaction, although the latter had been increasingly absent as the big feline had taken to using it as a rare reward for servitude only.

Shane took the bag into his bedroom, then froze in front of his posing mirror. Nude, white with endless black spots, flop eared, tight black briefs with a heavy curve into the stretchy spandex. He had briefly considered modeling, but it turned out that the signature spots were a problem. "Too busy," someone told him. It was only weeks later that he found out a cheetah had come in after him, and been accepted for an underwear shoot.

He pulled the bag over his head and gathered it around the throat, trying to seal it up by clutching the plastic into a knob and twisting it. It worked, mostly, and his first exhale made the bag blow up like a plastic balloon around his head. He adjusted the neck and inhaled, and it collapsed in a plasticy crinkle. Another couple of breaths and the bag was fogging up, making it hard for Shane to see himself.

The feeling made him insane. The mere thought that he was suffocating himself made his cock throb in his briefs, and it drove him to feel up over the collapsing and expanding bag as it sucked onto his face. Then he felt down his slim chest, the tight little bumps of his abs, the bony curve of his hip, that prodigious bulge in his briefs.

He yanked the bag off, chest heaving as he took in fresh, clean air. Delirious, he sat down on the edge of the bed, then scooted himself back. He lay back and stuck his feet under the sheet, blanket, and comforter, feeling the weight of the fabric on him as a faint kind of restraint. Everything was so wrong. He was alone, not with Kyros. He was smothering himself, something that every internet advice column chided: "there is no safe way to engage in sexual breath play." The bag itself had small white print repeating all over it, reading, "WARNING: SUFFOCATION HAZARD".

Shane took the bag over his head again and clutched it around his neck. No, that wasn't working well enough. He took it off and scrambled around, feeling for his pants, sliding his leather belt out from the loops and taking it up. He formed it into a choke loop, tail through the buckle, then slid the bag over his head. He took the belt and fit it over, tightened it slightly, hot breath already reflecting back to his face from the plastic bag.

The dog groaned and squirmed, then finally gave in and pulled the belt loose and freed up his jaw, gasping fresh air, panic giving way to delirium. He writhed around on the bed until he could reach into a drawer and took out a condom, then scooted his briefs down. He tore the packet open and unrolled it down his length, latex clinging tight onto his dick. Shane slid his stretchy briefs back up, cock tingling and throbbing inside its extra layer of latex chastity.

Back went the bag, then back went the belt, hand milking at his groin as the other pulled on the leather strap. Actually choking didn't feel nearly as erotic he always imagined it would - it made his head feel stuffy, his blood rush in his ears - but the mere grasp around his neck, the thought of strangling as well as suffocating, took up the slack in his pleasure. As he milked and stroked himself through stretchy fabric and barely-there rubber, he started to feel a little burn in his chest. He dug his fingers under the belt and exhaled hard, then tightened it back up. Now when he inhaled, the bag instantly shrinkwrapped to his face and left no air at all. He whimpered and barked, cock exploding into the condom as he felt his plastic-wrapped, gasping face with his free hand. Then, so desperate for fresh air that he forgot he could simply loosen the belt, he tore the plastic away from his face and heaved in coughing lungfuls of oxygen.

The scream in his head burned down to a roar, then down to just the rush of blood in his ears, the throbbing tingle as normal functioning crept back into his brain. Sexually empty, his paranoia set in and he yanked the rest of the plastic bag from his head, hands scrambling it together into his trash. Fingers shaking, he straightened the belt out, then hurried the condom off and tossed it into the trash. Still paranoid, he took the trash out, then went around the entire house getting things ready even though trash day wasn't for another 48 hours.

Kyros looked across the dinner table at Shane, the tiger frozen in pensive thought. Shane just kept eating, hungry and oblivious, mouth tingled by the tiger's extreme use of garlic in his chicken shwarma. "I was going to fuck you tonight, Shane," the tiger finally said, as he put his fork on his plate and moved both off to the side, then folded his hands.

Shane looked up.

"That's right. But, you came already. What's the point of fucking you if you aren't going to enjoy it? That's why you want it, right?" The tiger's voice descended from matter of fact to dark and raspy, then escalated to a room filling roar. He stood up and grabbed Shane by the scruff. "At attention. You're going to spend the night in the cage, for spoiling yourself."

Shane stood up, gagged on a piece of chicken for a second, then gulped it down and gasped as soon as the tiger pinched at his scruff. Inside, he wanted to desperately beg for forgiveness, then he angrily wanted to ask why he hadn't been told he should be keeping himself chaste. Outside, he lurched himself along as Kyros ran him downstairs into the basement. Kyros all but threw Shane into the metal barred cage, then crouched in the opening and picked up a few tools next to him. Arm hobblers, meant to make a humanoid's forearms into a perpetual begging position or to force puppy-walk. A humbler bar, like a long pair of massive chopsticks that pinched the balls back and forced the wearer to kneel or crouch. He applied both of them to Shane without any more words than the requisite profanity when he accidentally pinched his finger in the humbler. "You stay. You want your food? You eat it like a dog." The tiger got up, stormed upstairs.

The first few times Kyros put him in the cage, he had been beside himself with ecstasy, demeaned as the dog he was, treated like a common household pet. That wore off quickly when Kyros stopped any kind of foreplay, and started using the human-sized puppy cage for an actual punishment. When Kyros left, Shane gurgled and heated up, face burning, tears overflowing and running down his muzzle, keening whimper muffled by his clenched jaw. He didn't even know what he'd done wrong - Kyros had never made him save himself before.

A good fifteen minutes later, the tiger returned with a plate of now-cold food. He locked the cage door first, then slid it in through the dish slot. "If I remember, I'll give you some water before bed."

By the time Shane realized that he absolutely had to stay on all fours or lie down extremely carefully, Kyros was gone again and the dalmatian had a few scraps of chicken shwarma to look at. He sighed, leaned down, and started eating them like a dog.

In the middle of the night, Kyros gave him water, which he guzzled as soon as he awoke in the morning. It was a nice touch.

---

The next day, on the way home, Shane let his mind wander. The train was half empty for some reason, a strange fluke in the unpredictable world of mass transit. One time, someone spent the entire trip very pleasantly playing a mandolin, to the eventual smiles and applause when he stood to get off. Another time, a woman beat her children and was removed by the conductor at one of the stops, to a gaggle of policemen outside. The atmosphere inside varied by random probability.

Outside the train, it rarely varied at all, every day the same gradual shift from dense core urban concrete to graffitied tunnels and highway, to the elevated gaze out over trees and suburb after suburb after suburb. Shane happened to settle on just that realization the moment he spotted something out of the ordinary.

The wolf. The motorcycle wolf, at the same intersection as the day before, in a slightly different outfit. Cowboy boots, black leather jeans, straight-zip street jacket, black fingerless gloves. Shane had no swelter-necked human companion to include in his fantasies, so the dog inserted himself.

Bared wolf fingertips and clawnails stroked around his neck, then let go and fumbled with their owner's belt. Shane pissed in his jeans as he knelt next to the wolf's hot, pinging bike, face wet as he sobbed for forgiveness. (For what? That didn't get the dog hard, so he didn't think about it.) The wolf took the belt, choke-looped it around the kneeling dog's neck, and yanked upwards. Shane scrabbled at his neck, gagging and gurgling, scratching welts into his skin, cock eventually swelling and exploding in his pants from the neck-crushing trauma-

Oh shit. Shane sat straight up and looked around the train car. A little less full than before, not his stop, no one sitting next to him or even behind him.

He looked down and spotted a big stain in his khakis, wet and with slimy froth on it, the remains of the clotted part of a load of semen.

---

When Shane got home, he hoped to scurry himself into the bathroom to dispose of the mess in the shower and the laundry hamper. Instead, he found Kyros waiting for him, wearing chaps and a harness, military boots and black leather gloves. The tiger had no words for his 'slave', only a curt growl and the nerve-numbing pull of gloved fingers at neckscruff.

Kyros dragged Shane down into the basement once more, then tackled the stunned dalmatian to the floor. Yelping and trying to guard his ears, Shane buckled his head up against his chest and swatted at the violent large cat. The pair slowly inched along the floor, from along the puppy cage over to the wall, Shane losing pieces of clothing every couple of feet. He finally hunkered up to the wall, one of his ears flipped, howling out as Kyros wound back to clock him. Instead of punching, the tiger's huge hand just jogged upwards and snagged something off one of the shelves. They often held random sex toys, whatever the tiger needed to put away after one of his moods. This time, it was cloverleaf nipple clamps.

"No no no, Kyros, please, please, look, I'm really horny for you, I'm so horny I came, that's why I came, I was thinking about you using me like a d-d-d-dirrrr-rty puppy, okay? Okay?" Shane quivered so thoroughly that his hands hung one minute like begging dog paws and then finger-squirmed with the dopaminergic hyperspeed fluid spazz of a crackhead.

Kyros did not stop his advances. The tiger just stared Shane in the eye and got each of the clamps ready. "Master? Master! Master I'm ss-s-ss-sssss-sssorry I called you the wrong name master, please master? Please?" Kyros pinched the clamps. The moment's melodrama was completely lost on Shane, who was out in enough of a cold sweat that it started to wet his fur around his neck.

The dog devolved into whimpering and petting at Kyros's glove leather as the glaring tiger slowly pushed the clamps towards their twin targets. He suddenly fitted them on with a near snap-off from his fingers, then mashed Shane's arms to the walls. The dog howled in pain as the clamps crushed his sensitive nipples, muscles rippling and flexing underneath his spotted pelt as he unsuccessfully tried to get free. Tears ran down from his eyes, actual coughing sobs blubbering out of his short muzzle, the entirety of his day erased by that explosion of almost-erotic pain. Now, the only thing in the room besides him was the white-hot needle bite of the textured grip pads.

Shane opened his eyes and found a low 'fuck horse' just a couple feet from his face. Kyros was doing something behind him, but it didn't matter what it was: every time he breathed, the nipple clamp chain wobbled and altered that sensation until it felt like someone was slowly threading a machine bolt through each nipple piercing hole. Shane had gotten the piercings thinking that they'd make his nipples more sensitive, and while that outcome was desired, the lowered pain threshold wasn't.

Cuffs. The tiger was cuffing him. Whatever. Cold, though. Cold and wet? He finally braved his pain zen to look and see what was happening, subtle shift of his slender spotted chest causing fire to squirt from each tit. Kyros fixed heavily padded leather cuffs around the dog's wrists, then up around the elbows, fixing both together with strange metal cylinders that appeared to be dripping wet. Dripping wet with ice water. Shane found this remarkable enough to pay attention to, an easy feat when the alternative was nipple torture that was quite possibly injuring his tender pierced nubs.

Ice locks. Each had been in the freezer and now contained a slug of ice. Once the ice melts all the way, the lock mechanism operates and allows its prisoner to escape.

"I keep them in the deep freeze, so that the ice is very hard," Kyros said, finishing up and stroking his fingers up and around to one of the dog's nipples. He let the black leather, cool and wet from the dribbling sands of time, slide along the nipple chain, lifting slowly as he went. The tension first bit at Shane's left nipple, then spread to both as the chain rose up in a hump over a few gloved fingers. "I'll fuck you, and I won't stop until the ice is gone." He let the chain drop.

The weight of the metal chain, quite solidly made of stainless steel, dropped and yanked on each cloverleaf clamp, pulling it tighter. Shane screamed and tensed, legs twisting and kneeling to the side, chest smacking down on top of the fuck bench. That gave a split second of even worse pain, before the dalmatian writhed just the right way to compress the clamp springs. He freed himself and sobbed at the tickling euphoria as his body tried to quell the pain, rising up to see two smears on top of the black padded leather, each where his chest hit.

Kyros didn't stroke him or harass him further; the tiger stood up and wandered halfway across the room while Shane howled and whined like a puppy. When the delirious canine rolled back down onto the padding with a groan, he looked over his shoulder to see Kyros standing with cock at full mast, glistening with lubricant. The hulking feline had removed his leather gloves and substituted with long-wrist latex fetish gloves, equally shined up.

The tiger knelt down and smeared one of his slippery hands around the spotty dog's rump and balls, stroking and massaging rump muscle, taint, asshole, a few pulls to the balls. He curved two fingers and plowed them inside, bringing a wistful gasp from the dog. The ensuing prostate massage turned painful enough that Shane gagged and then yelped, creamy ooze pouring out of his pisshole and running off the side of the fuckbench seat as he suffered through a pleasureless reflexive ejaculation.

After the medically-powerful prostate milking, Kyros withdrew his hand and plowed his slippery, bare dick through the dog's hole. Shane yelped again, asshole immediately overwhelmed to red-hot pain. Shane focused on the sensation until he realized that reality had set in and his muscles had grown frictionally weak. Kyros sawwed back and forth while his hands grabbed and groped at everything they could reach on Shane, whether it was the mind-melting feral tingle up from navel to between pecs, or the tired burn of his nipples.

The heavy duty fucking quickly grew boring for Shane, and then painful. Kyros was clearly working himself up to the plateau, glans increasingly swollen until its relentless pop back and forth through the outer ring every few thrusts had Shane trying to avoid it by rocking forward, even as the very motion ensured more pain.

Pain gave way to an increasingly urgent sense of being broken, to being reduced to one thing, to being fucked as an object, to being raped. Shane decided to see if he really had to wait until the ice melted, and whimpered out, "Please stop, I'm s-s-serious." Kyros did not stop.

Shane grew dizzy and hunkered forward, slobbering onto the top of the fuck bench. Kyros had changed angle just enough to send a good portion of his thrusting down into the dog's bladder and prostate. Bladder first, as he let loose about a quarter cup of urine in a soft hiss that sprinkled the floor to the left of the bench. Prostate next, as the last finishing spurts of piss turned into creamy jets from a second round of prostate hammering. The dog accidentally bucked his arms apart; the ice locks had melted inside and came apart with a click and a faint metal clatter as the parts jangled against wristcuffs. Kyros ground to a halt, cock delivering just one final torment in the form of a hot splash of semen across the dog's hole. Thankfully for Shane, Kyros had inherited paltry loads of semen from his big-cat lineage.

The tiger stormed off without any further words, heading upstairs and apparently taking up in the den. Shane slowly sat up, free but tortured, anus sore and unpleasantly loosened, nipples now sporting a double dose of black from dried blood. He did have one unexpected high note: Kyros had forgotten about the ice locks. Shane snuck them up to his bedroom and hid them in the very back of his closet.