FSE

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He drifted through a cold and dark forever, until oblivion gurgled an unwilling protest and turned itself sideways, carrying him to the shore in a murky, oozing wave to deposit him at the boundary of sleep.

The slightest movement seemed to make his head spin. His tongue felt dry, heavy; his nostrils and throat and chest still blazed with each rasp of air. His mouth was filled with the horrible taste of something far too heavy, far too sweet, and as each inhale made air chase the traces of something down his throat, unconsciousness beckoned again, reached smoky fingers around his snout and tugged backwards, trying to pull him headfirst back into forced slumber...

Headfirst.

He had a head.

He had a head, the Samurott realized, as sense and sensation and memory came back to him. And it felt

awful. Pounding, every constricted vein throbbing to admit a rush of blood. Still swimming in a sea of the noxious chemicals which had forced him to sleep, only that the poison had just started to wear off, and the first feeling it returned to him was

Pain.

His head hurt.

His everywhere hurt.

Vines from out of nowhere, everywhere at once. Lashing, swiping, not entangling only where they wanted to whip and bruise. Leaves closing into a funnel over his nose, a thick heavy awful scent filling his nostrils, and he had to stay awake he had to he couldn't...

The welts and cuts still throbbed. All over his back, his inner arms, one along his jawline. A few along his legs, front and back, and a few on his rump, where whatever was hunting him had taken a malicious pleasure in 'punishing' him for breathing a freezing ray over some of the vines.

The warm air stirred, caressing his bare thighs.

He remembered. The vines had taken his clothes too. All of them, some forcefully enough to rip them apart.

The insistent pull of gravity told him he was leaning slightly forward. His feet were on the ground, planted wide, and thick fibers were wrapped around his calves, most likely with the intent of keeping his legs spread.

The air stirred again, this time between his ears, telling him that his helmet was gone too. The breeze went lower down, over his face, tugged at his whiskers. It seemed to miss his eyes. There was pressure around his head, forming a thick band level with his eyes - a blindfold?

He shifted his arms - held up by vines and spread wide like his legs, trapping him upright, body forming an X -

Muscles, strained from bearing the weight of an unconscious body for too long, finally made their voices heard. His arms screamed. His chest screamed.

The eruption of pain spiked through his head, sharp white agony that cleared the fog for a moment. His stomach tightened, the eight lean slabs of his abdomen going flat as they pushed in, forcing the air out of his lungs -

Halfway past his chest, pain sapped away at the last shreds of his will, turning the agonized roar into a barely audible wheeze.

Something moved in the dark.

"You're awake."

He stiffened as the voice cut cleanly through the air - the accent crisp and sharp, every syllable cool, precise, almost uncaring.

"I know you're awake," the baritone voice went on when he remained still, half a breath caught in his throat. "You've been awake for a few minutes now. I've been watching you." A hand - thick fingers, and strong - caught him by the chin, held him up, exposing his jugular vein. He gasped then, and flinched away, too exhausted and hurting to fight down the shock. "I know you can hear me."

The pressure over his eyes began to ease up. Leaves slithered over leaves, until darkness receded and the last of the vine unwound from his head. A green blur floated in and out of focus, and he was certain it was smiling.

The grip abruptly left his chin, and gravity snatched at his head, pulled it forward to hang down. Just as sudden was the pain, bludgeoning and stinging his right cheek, the force of the backhanded slap making his head snap to the left.

He cried out then, as the sharp lance of pain forced his vision to crystallize, turning the green blur into a serpentine face, half-illuminated by a flickering light from somewhere above them. Strong features, a bold strip of green forming a beard that hugged his jawline. Bared arms thick with muscle, a tall-collared green robe dipping down in front, fabric forming a V that exposed a portion of his chest. The rest was obscured by the robe, but all signs were evident of a man well into his prime.

The other man wasn't smiling, as he'd thought. His expression was calm, clinical, terrifyingly cool. Looking at him, as he might himself look at an insect on a leaf.

Studying him, as if he was merely an it.

He glanced up, cast about, trying to get a good view of the world around him. Enclosed; a desk beyond the Serperior's shoulder; a candle flickering on the desk near an open book; to his left, a blank wall; to the right, a metal rack full of equipment he didn't recognize, and if he could just lean back, maybe there was a door -

The Serperior's hand darted out to seize his beard this time. Pulled him back from his attempts to explore, forced his gaze back to the snake's cold stare.

The Samurott growled. Defiance rushed back into his bound form, clenched his fists tight, bunched his muscles, filled his eyes and his lungs as he inhaled, reaching into his inner reserves where he could feel his own power waiting, preparing to fill the Grass-Dragon's face with a beam of freezing light -

The earlier vertigo returned with a vengeance. Freezing energy dispersed long before it could charge the ice-beam, and he almost doubled over, heaving and wheezing as the dizziness rushed down from his head to his stomach - fortunately already empty, leaving him nothing to throw up, though the taste of bile rose in his throat.

His captor stepped back and watched with folded arms, waiting for his thrashing to cease. Then the reptile stepped close as he lifted to take a breath, and drove a fist into his gut.

"There is no need - " another strike drove the last of the air from his chest, even as he was still bent over from the first impact - " - to be uncooperative." A third punch to the same spot, just a little harder than the second, delayed him a much-needed breath for a precious few more seconds. The Serperior grabbed the winded Samurott's chin and forced him upright once more. "Is there?"

The robed man waited patiently, continued holding the otter-wolf's head up while he gasped for air. The other green hand began to explore - palm pushing flat against the center of his chest, rubbing the blue fur in a tight circle, then groping the firm meat of the right pectoral, slowly moving down along the bumps of his abdomen, and out to his right flank.

"Let me go," the Samurott whispered at last.

"No." The response rang out like a slap, hard and flat as it cut through the silence. "I don't play catch-and-release with my specimens."

"Especially not..." The tone changed. The look in the Serperior's red eyes changed too - neither for the better. "Especially not with a specimen of this quality." The studying hand reached behind to give his right glute a firm squeeze, fingers digging into a bruise and making him groan.

The snake's scrutiny felt less like the cursory interest used to study an insect on a leaf - much closer, the more the hand roamed, to the more ominous attention reserved for prey in its coils. "But we will be playing. Make no mistake about it."

"Let me - mmmhhh... " The Samurott's protest was cut off as the hand at his chin shifted up. Fingers curled over his jaws, trapped them shut, pulled his head down so their eyes met.

"We will be playing," the Serperior repeated, as two vines extended from above them, dangling between their faces, the tips dripping with a thick, heavily scented liquid. "And you will enjoy it."

"Make this easier for yourself." The snake released his grip on the canine's snout and turned back, walking to the desk and leaving him alone with the vines. "Submit." The vines prodded insistently at his mouth, trying to enter even as he bucked and weaved to avert his head, grunting and snorting with the effort. "Or... don't." The Serperior returned, book and pencil in hand. "I enjoy watching them resist."

A much thinner vine, reaching out of the floor between his spread legs, slithered around his balls and coiled tight. And tugged. Once. Hard.

"AAAARGH-hnngh... unnngh... ouuwwfffh..." Two thick vines darted for the Samurott's wide open jaws, filled the space and choked off his howl as they slid back and forth, over his tongue, all the way to the back of his mouth. He gagged on the obstruction, on the streams of sickly-sweet liquid they were pouring down his throat, and continued to fight.

"You're not enjoying this?" the Serperior observed, almost starting to sound friendly. "Look on the bright side. I am."

"Or..." he paused in the middle of writing, reached up and pinched the Water-type's nose shut. "Maybe if we put this in perspective." He held on, taking more notes in his head as the Samurott's eyes widened and he began to thrash, unable to shake the hand off. "You're playing a vital role in a very important experiment. Your suffering, self-inflicted though it may be, will contribute greatly to science."

Another thick, slick vine came up from between his legs. It lined up with the thrashing figure's tailhole, following the back-and-forth swing of his body, before it simply rammed upward, its forced entry helped by the slippery coating of sap. As it located his prostate and began to rub the gland, the Samurott's eyes grew even rounder. Moisture shone bright at their edges as old pain mixed with new, unwanted pleasure, as his shaft stood thick and fully erect, as everything distilled into terror and humiliation, and... something worse...

He didn't want this. He didn't want this. He didn't want this.

A small, rebellious part of his mind did, and that part was beginning to sound louder.

"You are a statistic," the Serperior continued, only taking a moment to savor his discomfort. "But you are a very important statistic. And... who knows?" He let go of his nose and left him to snort for air. "If you do well enough on this test, maybe you'll get to be something more."

He gripped the Samurott's beard again, held his head still and leaned in to whisper in his ears. "How does 'pet' sound? No?" he said, when the Samurott shook his head, whimpering as the motion pulled at his beard. "Allow me to change your mind."

Two more vines from above, their ends curving into sharp, woody pincers, descended to chest level. "Now... tell me how this feels..." They snapped forward together, pinching his nipples tight.

"Or," the Serperior said, as the prisoner jerked back, yowling into the vines that kept him firmly gagged. "Never mind. Keep doing whatever you think you're doing..." The snake looked down, to where liquid was beginning to leak from the Samurott's shaft onto the floor, one white bead at a time. "I'll just write all this down. For science."