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It's the first rule a meta learns.

When a meta is born, they experience three things all in the first instant: the feeling of warm stabilizing liquids rushing past their fur, the soft blue light of the birthing room fill their new eyes, and the last memories of their parents. To make those memories, the parents spend an hour alone, quiet, as if meditating, but they fill that hour with wishes, hopes, dreams for their children, pushing as much happiness and hope into their memories as they can handle. Each meta comes into the world knowing that incredible, unconditional love, knowing it absolutely.

That is the only love a meta dares to have: the love of his parents, the love for his children. No meta dares to love any other. Not because it wouldn't last (three years to love is enough if it is truly love), but because of what that love, and the memory of that love, would do to their children.

It was trying to understand why anyone would break the first rule of the metas that made Duke do what he did.

Earlier that evening the woman had arrived. Early thirties, maybe mid-thirties, with a wide, straw gardener's hat on her head, tresses of brown hair falling ramshackle down her back, and at least four suitcases of questionable content and advancing wear in her arms. She panted in the wheezing, tongue-less way humans did, the heat of the summer day outside sticking to her form, radiating into the lobby of the Hotel at the End of the Road.

Duke had been working in the lobby on that day, showing off the goods of the establishment: himself. He wore no shirt, as most patron's who preferred strong-muscled metas like him liked to see them shirtless. So he only had on a plain pair of trousers. He took a noble posture in the middle of the room, high upon a raised platform, looking as noble as the Alsatian hunters whom he was modeled after.

Duke recognized her the moment she walked in, though he had never seen her in his life before. He broke his noble pose, hopped down, and took her bags from her.

"Thank you, thank you," the woman whispered, still panting. Her eyes looked over his, smiled, bit a lip. She was pleased.

"This way, ma'am," he said, carrying her bags towards the main desk. The hound at the front desk smiled to her, bowed a little bow, and took down her information: one room, small, simple gear required, with a male slave.

"I can serve you, ma'am," Duke said as soon as she had given the information. The German shepherd paused a moment before adding, subserviently, "If you'll have me." The hound glared at him for his impropriety, but could say nothing lest he be improper himself.

The woman lowered her sunglasses to look at him better. "My tastes are exotic," she challenged.

"I shall meet them, ma'am."

She hummed, a smile crossing her lips as if contemplating the possibilities that entailed. All the while her eyes bored into him as if testing him for weakness. He showed none. "I had a German shepherd last time I was here too," she said, as if she had already decided on him.

"Perhaps one of my brothers." Duke kept his tone light, informal. If she did not know the truth of metas' short lifespans, he would not reveal it, certainly not out in the lobby where anyone wandering by could hear. "I think you will find me an adequate replacement, ma'am."

She nodded and turned to the hound. "I shall take him. My room key, please."

The hound bowed and offered the key.

Her tastes truly were exotic. She wanted sex: rough, immediate, hard, but most of all she wanted him to work for it. As soon as they were in the room, she told him to strip (no difficulty there; his trousers were held up merely by a string). Then she searched the nooks and crannies of the room, pulling out every device it was stocked with. She took out rope and measured its length in increments measure from the distance from her shoulder to fingertip, then coiled it, satisfied. She picked out bars, cuffs, a muzzle and bit, while he observed dispassionately.

Less than a minute later he was bound: hands held firmly at the back of his neck, elbows pointing directly up and hung by the rope from an eye-bolt in the ceiling. His legs were forced far apart by a bar between his ankles, so that his weight mostly taken by the bindings holding him to the ceiling, his feet already aching as they worked to take some of the stress off his shoulders.

And then she wanted him to take her, still bound, with his body was straining just to stand upright. It took a concerted effort just to move his hips forward and back again. His shaft also ached, each throb of his heart made it jump, even as it moved inside her. He had to focus his breathing, use every muscle in his back, belly, and thighs to give her the thrusts she wanted. He was sore by the end of the first minute, but resolved to see it through to the end. He would not be out-done.

She came; he didn't. The rough, energetic sex seemed to take the wind from her. She barely undid his chains before collapsing into a deep sleep, naked, thighs still moist.

Duke shrugged off the remaining gear, swiveled the room's sole chair to face the bed, and sat, unwilling to sleep with her.

His thoughts and gaze stayed on her all night. He had never watched humans sleep before. Mostly because their sleeping did not interest him: their moans, their heat, the feeling of their smooth, fur-less bodies against his, yes, but not their sleeping. But this woman did interest him, because Duke was, for the first time, seeing someone he remembered from before his birth: almost six years ago, two full generations of metas, his grandfather had mated with her in the same way. Duke smiled to himself as he knew he had performed better of the two of them; his grandfather, Fritz, had barely been able to make her climax.

But Duke wanted to know why his grandfather had broken the first rule.

Back then, the woman was staying an entire month, and Fritz was her companion the whole while. Duke knew the chronology of events, had spent evenings pondering over the feelings, the emotions he remembered. He knew of each blissful climax they shared, the positions, the sensation of her hand and mouth on Fritz's shaft. He knew of each morning spent in silent enjoyment of each other. He knew that after she had left, his grandfather saved every penny he earned to buy a bottle of the same perfume she wore, to remind him of her. Duke knew every emotion, every feeling that his grandfather had had, and yet, it was like a puzzle that he had memorized every piece to, but had not the slightest idea how to fit together.

How had his grandfather fallen in love with this human?

There was nothing special about her physically. Her natural scent was uninspired and clogged by perfume; she still wore the same one his grandfather had idolized. It was the sort of perfume one wore to appear in line with the latest fashions, without spending a fraction of what the latest fashions would actually cost. Her body, otherwise, was normal. Breasts slightly smaller than average; he watched them sway slightly as she breathed. Her hair was somewhat unkempt, her tanned skin pulled taut over bones. She wasn't underweight, he felt, her body just had no room for excess. In a few places she had developed the folds that would one day turn into wrinkles (and this, Duke knew, was new).

While the sex had been intense, certainly the most exerting experience of Duke's short life, it was not the most intense or the most pleasurable he could remember. He was thrilled to have passed her test and beaten his grandfather in doing so, but the sex itself wasn't as special for him. Here it was a job, not a pleasure.

Unbidden, his shaft started to push forward. He grunted at the indignity of it, then swiveled his ears forward. The sound hadn't woken her. Yet the sight of her, tinged by the memories in his mind, kept his shaft out, warm in the cool air, twitching impatiently.

While every meta had the memories of all their ancestors inside them, they varied greatly in their intensities. Most memories were clear and precise. Sometimes certain memories would be weak and half-forgotten, little more than emotional connections triggered by a particular sensation, like feeling an age-old happiness upon hearing a Schubert sonata.

More rarely still, some memories, whole personalities, would intensify, resonating with the current meta. Duke knew he had that resonance with his grandfather. It had always been a mark of shame for him. Out of all the ancestors he had, why did he so resemble the one who had broken the rule?

Even the humans noticed, said he looked just like "Ol' Fritz." It disgusted him even as he knew it was the truth. They shared their competitiveness, their assertiveness, their unwavering belief in their alpha dog status, and the burning that filled their stomach to know their place as alpha was always second to their place as slave.

"What are you doing?"

Duke started. When had she woken up? It was as if one moment she was sleeping, the next awake. Her position hadn't changed; the only difference was that her eyes were open. He crossed his legs in an ineffective attempt to hide his erection, lips curled in a silent snarl. "Watching," he said.

Her eyes ran over his length. There was no way to position his leg to hide himself completely, not in that tiny chair. He was simply too big, and his legs were not that flexible. "I left you pent up," she said simply, and he didn't bother to correct her, to tell her that he had spent four days just prior with a customer who wanted a big dog to cuddle her, who had left him muzzled, mittened and with a piece of metal down his sheath, clamped in place behind his balls, to prevent an erection.

"Over here, boy," she said, tapping the bed in front of her.

His hackles lifted at the diminutive title. Though it went against all the training he could remember and was sure to earn him the curses of his descendants, he disobeyed. He could very well be whipped for this, but he didn't care.

"Over here," she repeated. She wasn't angry, but the tone was insistent.

He tried to grip the chair, claws biting into the wood to hold him in place. Instincts tugged him forward to obey, but revulsion at himself, at the woman who had seduced his grandfather and who might well seduce himself, held him back. It took only a few more seconds of her constant, unyielding stare for instincts to win out. He walked to the edge of her bed, his shaft pushing out to her across the air, his lips curled to show every fang in his mouth.

She ignored his warning, put a hand to his shaft. Each nerve in Duke's shaft leapt at the touch. Unlike so many of the customers here, she had neither the lotioned smoothness of the rich, nor the roughness of the destitute. She had the dexterity of a musician, playing his cock like a flute or piccolo. Down went the hand to give a little twist at the base right next to his knot; then up it went to the tip, where her thumb flitted once over his flared tip; then it started all over again.

The pleasure was intense. His shaft had lost most lubrication during the night and her hand tugged back and forth, the friction feeling divine. But he refused to give in, refused to climax. His paws clenched at his sides, wanting to slap her away but not daring to, held in place by mental bonds far stronger than any chains she could have placed on him.

He wanted to tell her to stop, but could only clench his teeth together and growl. She didn't stop. She actually lifted another hand, placed it along his empty sheath, with the palm grinding against his knot and her fingers expertly kneading his orbs.

He came then. He clenched tight, trying to stop, to deny himself the pleasure, but his body wouldn't be denied what it wanted and needed. He managed to hold most of himself back, spurting only twice, but those spurts were so energetic that they covered the woman's neck and one breast in his seed and scent.

"Clean me," she said.

He growled his refusal.

He expected a slap: his shaft and balls were in perfect position, and he knew a swat from her hand would leave him doubled over in pain; or she might order a trainer her, so he could be disciplined before her. He did not expect the slow, insistent tugging, pulling him down. Her hands gripped his jewels, yes, but they were cradled, not struck. It was still a tug down, the threat of pain if he didn't move with, but no actual pain was given. Duke found himself being drawn to kneel beside her on the bed. She knelt up in front of him, grip still firm on his treasure. "Why do you resist?"

"I don't like you, ma'am." He cursed himself for saying her title, but the draw was too strong.

"You volunteered."

"So I could understand you, ma'am, not because I like you."

"And do you understand better now?"

"No, ma'am."

She let go, but Duke couldn't lift himself. He didn't want to go. He still wanted to understand her. "What do you like?"

"Women," came the quick answer.

She laughed, a quick noise, like the sound of a tiny brook that had broken a dam made of twigs. "I had guessed that. What else?"

Duke considered. "I don't know." Not strictly true, but it was, in truth, an irrelevant question; the metas' preferences were often ignored. They could have things they liked and disliked, but their renter was allowed, by law, do what they pleased. Even the preference on gender was not a guarantee: Duke himself had been rented to gay males before, who got a kick from the straight meta's resistance.

"I'm curious: how many women pay to have you tie them up?" Duke gawked at her question. Any other human would have asked this question with a furious blush on their cheek; every submissive he knew would quail and shiver while asking him to take her. She spoke as if making small talk. "Please, with muscles like yours you must have them swooning."

He simply nodded. It was true, no reason to deny.

She moved in a little closer and gestured to the white liquid staining her chest, never leaving his gaze all the while. "Does having your scent on me excite you?"

He cursed silently. He cursed the makers of metas, cursed his pleasure slave training, and most of all cursed his love-sick grandfather - but he was so desperately hard again.

"Someone worked you over bad," she said, looking at his once again stiffening shaft. "You need a proper release. Use me as you want. All the toys here are at your disposal."

Duke, shocked, could not do anything but laugh, a laugh tinged with the hint of a growl. "You are a wild woman!"

"Yes, I was told that last time I was here too."

Duke's good feeling vanished in an instant. He hadn't meant to, but he'd slunk right back into the memories of his grandfather: not only had he said what Fritz had said, but he said it the same way, with the same laugh. Rage pumped in his ears, and he grabbed the nearest gag (a ball, big and black), and forced it into her mouth to quiet her. She didn't resist; in fact, she smiled.

Her gaze unsettled him, so he pulled out a blindfold, wrapped it around her head and quickly followed it with a pair of leather wrist cuffs, pulled behind her back and locked together, so she couldn't remove the blindfold. Yet still he saw her eyes in his mind, her gaze not frightened or eager, but knowing, wise, as if she understood him better than he - he with the culminated memories of decadeswith him! - knew himself. He wanted to prove her wrong. He would prove her wrong.

He worked, cruel and fast. A hook was briefly lubed then shoved deep into her ass, her long hair threaded through a ring, chained to the hook and tightened, forcing her head back and showing off her stained breasts all the better. He forced two bars against her body, both horizontal, one behind her back, one in the notch of her knees: her hands he reattached, looping them behind the bar at her back and crossing them in front of her, affixing them to opposite ends of the bar at her knees. As a last and final indignity before he took her, he took two tiny cuffs and slid one around each of her big toes and chained them together. Then he entered her.

She made no sound, not a whimper, or moan, as quiet as a forest while the wolf stalks. Her body accepted him, welcomed that shaft deep inside. She moved just a little, to rock him deeper.And under her blindfold, he knew, those eyes still gazed with wisdom.

He hated it, thrust deeper, harder, lost himself in the lust. He panted, hot and heavy, leaned in, bit her, tasted her sweat and his seed against her tight skin. Duke resisted the urge to enjoy himself. He wanted her in discomfort, not himself in pleasure, but it happened all the same. His shaft burned with need, each fraction of a second outside of her body was an eternity too long. He needed to slam himself back into her, to feel her own heat holding him close. He resisted, whimpering like a pup though his thrusts grow stronger and more mighty, and at last he could no longer hold back and climaxed.

He collapsed atop her, defeated. She had taken all he had to give, his submission, his dominance, his lust, and his resistance, and still she had not swayed, had not bent. She truly was a wild woman.

And in that instant, Duke understood what his grandfather did not: she was not a wild woman; she was Wild. Some distant memory, so far back it was nothing but intangible feeling (stretching maybe, he thought, to the very first metas, little more than extra-intelligent dogs) - it was a memory his grandfather didn't feel as strongly as Duke himself did: a memory of the Wild, of the instincts that had been mixed up and jumbled up as metas became less like dogs and more like humans.

As they were tamed.

And here she was, wild and unbroken, calling out the same wildness in Duke. He worked himself forward, grunting as he forced his knot into her, to tie with her. Then he lowered his head and did as she had bid him, cleaning the seed from her skin.

At last she gave a sound, a sigh of contentment, and with it, Duke felt his heart cry out in happiness. Duke knew the battle had been lost: he too had fallen in love. He no longer felt anger at Fritz. No, he felt pity now. Poor Fritz had fallen in love with a woman, not knowing what the woman had represented.

Duke had only this one night, and knew that soon he would be asleep, with barely more than an hour or two of time left in the waking world to be with this extraordinary woman. But he was happy, for he had not fallen in love with her, a woman who would leave and never return, whose memory would make him pine away.

He felt his shaft give one last twitch within her and smiled before succumbing to his own need for rest and the peace of slumber.

No, Duke had fallen in love with a dream. And he would go to sleep each night, dreaming again.