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Broken to Slavery

Part One of Three

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A continuation of Captured, Transformed and Forced to Breed

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Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)

Commissioned by adagiodajiang

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Greyin stood tall with his comrade hunched beside him, a low snarl rumbling in the white lion's maw. Being that they were both white lions, mildly rare in such times, one could have been forgiven for thinking the two of them brothers, although they were not related. Not that that would have saved them, of course, but it would have brought things to their peak, for them, in a different manner.

“Move along there, cur."

Greyin, however, refused to hang his head. He was a member of the rebellion and, although their leader had been captured a few months back, disappearing without a trace after a failed raid, he knew that they had to keep going. He just had not expected their underground bunker to be stormed, the steel doors melted with acid that near enough killed him and his comrades where they had laid, slumbering, thinking that they were safe.

His paw tightened into a fist, handcuffs digging into his wrists where they were too tight. That had been his mistake, assuming that they were safe. He'd never make that mistake again. Hika would never forgive him.

He'd been an assassin and yet he was useless in cuffs, bound and paraded down to a racetrack, though that did not make sense to him. He exchanged a look with his comrade who had been captured at the same time, Jules who had been an advisor, not often on the front lines at all, though he had no answers for him. With guns shoved into the smalls of their backs, they were forced along with grunts and curt words, the guards seeming to relish in the power they held over them.

“You should never have gone up against the king."

Maybe that was true. But Greyin had known that they had had to try anyway. It was all that they could have done, all they had to do, something, anything, to push back against the tyranny of his reign and rule. He was a false king, no true leader, a man who had hurled them into a dystopia. Greyin hardly even knew what was going on in the rest of the country, wrapped up in torment of his own, trying to make his own little corner of the world at least a little brighter again.

“You'll never fucking get away with this…"

He may not have been an outspoken sort but anyone with half a brain should have taken a lion's snarl with due caution. The guards, rugged, ruffled dogs that stank so badly that he wondered how long they had been on guard duty for, sneered though, not caring for such things. Greyin filed that information away for later. They would slip up at some point. It would be then and only then that he would make his escape.

Their white fur was dirtied too so he could not exactly say that he was a fine specimen in comparison to the dogs that were doing what they thought was the right job, entrapped by the tyrant's rule. It was not something that he could understand, not fully, but he had barely any time to consider that as he was shoved up against a painted white wooden fence, something that seemed to be more decorative than anything else.

“What am I doing here?" He grunted with a roll of his shoulder, his voice thick and gruff, heavy with withheld emotion that he needed to push down if he was to stand any chance at escape. “Are you lining us up before a crowd to shoot us? Is that what your kind do, mere mutts? You aren't worthy to clean by boot, scum and useless and – "

He was struck across the muzzle but the lion swallowed the curse that leapt from his lips. Goading them on revealed their weaknesses but he could not do that for long, not while his stomach was hot with the air of rebellion, wanting to fight, to push back and show them all that he was capable of. He had been strong – was still strong. He could take them. He just wasn't sure about the lion that had come with him.

Regarding what he'd asked them before prodding their weak nerves, it was not a question that he honestly wanted answered but Greyin was still of the mind that it was better to know his fate than not. Oh, how wrong he was there, however, for though the dogs laughed and mocked him, mimicking his voice and falling about as if they thought that was at all a manner in how he would act.

“Are you going to kill meee?" One simpering dog wailed, clutching his muzzle, gun swinging wildly, inconsiderately at his side. “Oh, no, please don't kill meee, please, mister hound!"

Greyin ignored them. The anger seethed in his stomach, tightening a line in his jaw, but that was only for him. He would not show them that he was affected, not even as he plotted their deaths. It was not the way of an assassin to be loud and brash and reckless and he held it all back inside, biding his time. It would all come out, in time.

No, it did not serve him to respond and he sank into himself as two horses were led out into the small sand arena before him. If he had followed the races at all in his prior life, he would have known that it was the collecting ring, though they had turned to making different uses of it in recent times. Putting on a show of humiliation, of course, was the least of it.

Greyin blinked. The mare… Well, he could see it was a mare from how she turned her hindquarters to what was clearly a stallion, resplendent with a black coat that shone with good health. His mane was long and flowing whereas hers was trimmed and pulled to a short, neat length, everything about him wild – and yet he was still tamed, controlled, on the end of a bridle with a savage bit heavy on his tongue. His handler swore and slapped his backside as the stallion squealed and, cock jerking and throbbing, rose onto his hind end to mount the mare, jabbing and thrusting crudely – just like an animal.

And yet there was something more there, something that would only be revealed when his eyes travelled to the horse's backside, taking note of the word there. It was hard to think of something like that, however, when the horse commanded his attention, squealing and thrusting, so caught up in the moment with the flag of his tail, falling in a shine of luxury, that he barely even realized that he was not alone there, that he, indeed, had an audience watching him. But it could not be ignored forever as the horse rippled with muscle and power and energy, the mare braced to take him while her hocks flexed, offering herself to him even as her own handler barely needed to hold onto the end of her lead rope.

Blood roared in Greyin's ears, his lower jaw falling slack. No… No. It could not be. And yet it was, indisputably so, the word blazing across the rump of the horse, seeming to brighten even then as if it wanted to draw his attention into it even more than before.

The name of his leader.

Greyin would have stumbled back if there was not a gun between his shoulder blades and in the small of his back, the tiniest of breaths escaping him, whiskers quivering. Hika, it was Hika, the leader that they had all looked up to. He didn't know how it was possible but it was definitely him, the look in his eyes helpless and hopeless, as if the man inside could not help but give in to the baser instincts of an animal. His cock sank into the mare again and again as he was forced to put on a show for them all, ramming and thrusting, driving in even past the medial ring as he hastily scooted his hooves in closer. It did not take one experienced in equines to see just how much Hika wanted it too, his nostrils flared, cock obviously throbbing, thrusts coming harder and faster as his lips quivered in a whinny.

Greyin's stomach rolled, horrified to see it all happening, all out of his control, disgust rising in the bile at the back of his throat. And yet he was forced, furiously, to watch, his paws balling up into fists, claws biting into the palms of his paws. The guards did not stop him but merely laughed raucously, confident in their ability to overpower him even while he was driven to watch the horse thrusting, his esteemed leader transformed into nothing more than a crude beast, snorting and heaving, sweating profusely.

Things had changed.

And they could never be the same again.

Not for Greyin. Not for Hika.

Not for anyone.

The horse could not stop, on show for all to see, humiliated. He thrust and he thrust and he would not stop until he was done, feral need rising in him. Greyin watched hopelessly, the light of rebellion fading from his eyes, a train wreck that he simply could not drag his attention from. It was wrong to watch, he knew that much, but he just couldn't ignore it, not when the stallion's cock was throbbing like that, his head thrown back in a triumphant whinny as he, finally, spent himself. The mare took it all too, another rebel transformed just like Hika was, though there would never be any way to confirm that, only the tyrant's apparent penchant for humiliation coming to the forefront of Greyin's mind.

He never saw Hika again after that moment but it was clear why they had allowed him to see what had become of his beloved leader, having fallen so low. Jules was led away from him into another room and Greyin exchanged one final look with his fearless yet broken leader, the one that he had thought would lead them out of the depths of despair. Alas, that was not to be as the stallion snorted and discounted, his cock slick and shiny with their combined sexual fluids, twitching and throbbing as if Hika would soon again be ready for another round.

Greyin was forced into his reality as he was paraded through the streets, crowds hollering and jeering, crying out for his punishment. Up on a stage, his homemade armour and clothes were removed, piece by piece, revealing first his chest and then lower, exposing his legs, his crotch, everything that he may have considered private and personal. Yet there was no longer to be any kind of privacy for him when he was paraded out on display, his small sheath tucked in as if even his body did not want to further his exposure in any way. Not that he had any choice in it, of course.

Yet what came was a suit – not just any suit. He was not to remain bare but he was forced down onto all fours, his legs bent so that he had to walk on his paws and knees, his form shifted so that he felt more like a quadruped than a biped in how they had forced him to be. Greyin's ears tried to flatten but any resistance was swiftly quashed as he was shoved down to the ground so that they could zip and lock him into it, a crude paw wrenching his tail out of the way.

“I'll make this hurt... Don't worry..."

Still, Greyin did not make a sound as his anal passage was stretched with a butt plug, something hard and cold that still swiftly warmed to the heat of his body. It tucked in deep and he swallowed a groan, trying to keep his muzzle as expressionless as possible, not wanting to give them the satisfaction of seeing him break. The suit reduced his ability to move, so that he only had limited range of motion in his shoulders too, but allowed easy access to his crotch and genitals too, the latex cut out there while the black sheen of it set off the hue of his white fur, his back left bare.

He shuddered as a needle jabbed into his spine, though resistance was futile, a strip of something mechanic attached to his back, down the length of his spine to the base of his tail. It attached to him as if it was part of him, sinking in, though he did not yet know what it was for. He didn't want to know – not until it was too late. He glanced about, knowing it was useless, his fight gone, expecting nothing more than futile endeavours to come.

The most humiliating of all was a chastity device that fit over his sheath and balls, fastened around his waist. He did not know what it was for but he could feel it the moment it was switched on, everything about his member and genitals suddenly feeling dull and...nothing. It was just nothing, there was nothing there, so that he could not be “turned on" anymore, so to speak. Even slipping his shaft out to urinate seemed to be beyond him as the first true trickles of fear crept down his spine, chilling him to his core.

“Turn it on. I don't waste time."

That was the tyrant but Greyin was not allowed a moment to look up, something shooting into his spine, his nervous system activated, the needle dosing him with what he would never find out was philtre potion. A potent aphrodisiac, it made him instantly rock and thrust his hips as if he could do anything about it right then and there, the light fading from his eyes, the drugs stripping his intelligence from him, bit by bit. The intelligence of the machine would take over for him as he was brought down lower and lower, his head setting itself on his neck in a different manner, as if he was more comfortable looking forward and straight ahead, on all fours, than he ever would have felt comfortable doing before.

“Animal."

He tried to shake his head but that didn't feel right either. It felt more like he needed to shake his whole body but he didn't know how to – not yet.

“You'll sit at my feet."

Would he? It felt good... Good in a way, but he did not understand, his tongue wanting to loll out, to pant, his tail lifting as if to wag. What was he? He didn't feel as he was anymore and, truth be told, Greyin did not remember who he was even meant to be. What form did he take? What was his body? Thoughts slipped away more and more, teasing away from him without his willingness, whimpering and whining in the wake of them, paws batting the air hopelessly.

No...

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“A beast, that's all you are."

Was that the tyrant? He could not tell.

“You have fallen and now everyone sees how useless resisting me was. You were entertaining, I will give you that, but more of a nuisance, something to be squashed and snuffed out. You should count yourself grateful that I am even allowing you to live."

Did he? Would he? More and more, he came down and down as he was led away on all fours, a collar fixed around his neck a little too tightly as he could not even make the sounds that a lion should have been able to make. He tried to yowl and tried to chuff but all that came out was a ragged bark, something that was still yet to be refined by the strip and was constantly working away, fine-tuning his behaviour, his mind and even his motions into nothing more than that of a dumb canine.

“Imbecile!"

“Rebel!"

“Dog!"

Yes, he was a dog, just a dog, the leash securing him to his master even as part of him recoiled in horror. The injection reached his brain and twisted around him, dragging him down and down and down as he barked and whined, tugging at the leash and resisting, however helpless and futile it was. He may as well have been playing with his master for all the effect it had on the man who dragged him off to his car, a long limousine that would have been the height of luxury for anyone that actually cared for such things. Greyin did not know what luxury was for an anthro or a human anymore, only for a dog, and there was a new part of his mind that longed for a warm bed by a fireplace, crackling and leaping with flames where he could curl up near his master.

What? No!

His mind rebelled. He had to fight it, not sink so quickly, fighting and fighting not to lose himself. Greyin, he was Greyin, even if he could not remember what his anthro form had been. He most certainly was not a dog and a dog was something that he would forever have to live with being...

Wait.

Those thoughts didn't make sense. They didn't make one bit of sense when placed up against one another for introspection, his head tilting from side to side as he tried to work out just how he was to lie down with his limbs in a new configuration, but something in his mind insisted that it was right. He tried to pull back from it, to drag himself up on the seat next to his master... That wasn't right either, not the word and not the action as a rough growl met his ears as he was forced back down to the floor.

“Dogs do not sit here! Down!"

It was a command that he had to obey, his body bound to the master as his mind slowly was becoming. The tyrant king wrapped his leash around his hand and something in Greyin pulled towards him. He liked that, he liked feeling warm and protected, as if no harm could come to him when the tyrant was there, looking after him, ensuring that no harm could ever come to him.

Greyin shook his head. Oh, it was confusing, all too confusing, and not made any better by the rampant horniness that coursed through him, even though his member would not and could not protrude from its sheath at all. His balls were still there, thankfully, but they may as well not have been for all that he could actually feel of them. He just wanted to fuck, to hump, to do anything at all that could possibly relieve his need, as humiliating as all of it was. Greyin growled and twisted his head back and forth but was not reprimanded by his master. Maybe the tyrant recognised that he was struggling and was waiting to see what he would come to on his own.

Little did Greyin know that all that was in store for him was already written in stone, set up for him to fail and fall, to become the obedient pet mutt that was all the tyrant wanted of him. He was an anthro but, ultimately, would only think of himself as a dog, nothing more than that, a broken and beaten beast that knew only loyalty to his master. He could feel it even then, lurking in the back of his mind as the drugs changed his mind, his way of thinking, everything that he thought, even then, made him who he was. Yet some things could never be come back from.

Thoughts faded and he could not think in words, only feelings and sensations, his tongue tied even though he knew that he could not talk like his master did. A part of him found that humorous, in a way, when he was sitting uncertainly in his master's kitchen, waiting to be fed breakfast in a metal bowl on the floor. Why would he ever need to talk like his master? His master understood him well enough as it was. Yet there was something remaining of the anthro side, the side of him that sat in front of the huge, hallway mirror of the tyrant king's mansion and tried to work his jaw, even though he recognised his own reflection as himself less and less.

“You look good in your bitch suit, lad."

The king smiled down at him as he sat at the end of one of the large kitchen counters. He had had the latex one swapped for a more permanent, durable leather one with reinforced pads around the heels of his hand-paws and his knees so that it did not wear so quickly, but that was solely so that the tyrant did not have to keep replacing it: that would have been tiresome. Greyin pushed up onto his knees, struck by the sudden instinct to stand on his hind legs, but his body simply no longer seemed to know or understand how to perform the movement anymore.

He'd once walked on his hind paws, he remembered, not his fore ones. It was strange, another time, a time when things had been better. Those times seemed so very far away after all that had come to pass, however, and he could not recall how many days or weeks or months had passed since he had first been locked into the bitch suit and forced to serve. It was his only purpose in life there, something dark and lonesome seething inside him, forgetting anthro values in lieu of dog-like ones.

His master held the food bowl out to him, suddenly more human to Greyin than he had ever been, yet still taunting him by holding the metal bowl just out of reach.

“Come on, boy – jump, jump! Jump for it! Jump for it, you filthy mutt!"

The king may not have ever called any of his real pet dogs by such names but Greyin was an anthro and the humiliation of him was part and parcel of having him in his own home. Still, the tyrant noted that Greyin needed training, hopping and wiggling haplessly, trying to obey as he became more and more amenable to all that the king wanted him to do. Yet he could not perform some actions while he was still learning to be a dog and, for that, he would require the best of the best doctors and trainers, all wrapped up in one package.

Greyin resisted as he was taken away from the mansion and expansive grounds, fear curling around his heart, though he could not tell from where it had arisen. All he knew was that it was wrong, that he needed to go back, that he needed to be with his master. Despite his mind battling with a feral and an anthro nature, coming up against one another, he knew where he was safe, where he could bide his time, even if his mind was no longer even capable of stringing two words together. He'd learned some words, however, from his master, like “sit" and “stay", though he had resisted performing the acts. He growled, snapping his jaws at a white, pale, unfamiliar hand. He was not a dog! They would have to see that, wouldn't they?

But the doctor did not, his new trainer. He took him off-site to a facility where there were lots of other dogs, though some of them moved in a funny way, just like Greyin. Greyin could not understand that they too were anthros that had been mind-controlled and broken into becoming canines just like him, the drugs working away at him constantly, injecting him day in and day out, breaking down his grip on an old reality. It would not be needed for him anymore.

“Heel!"

The doctor was relentless, having learned that the only way to train an anthro like Greyin was through brute force and, above all else, rigid discipline. There could be reward and pleasure but that was at the end of it all, what they should yearn for above all else, the lion evidently horny out of his mind and body with how he walked on all fours with a tucked-in, hunched over posture.

Greyin was hardly aware of any specific horny instances that rose to the forefront of his mind anymore: all he knew was that it was always there. Worse than hunger, it commanded his days and his nights, squirming in his bed – a dog bed, of course. He'd tried just the once to climb up onto his master's bed and received a swift kick to his muzzle for his trouble. He should have known better than to try to be someone like his master though and had slunk back to his own bed with his tail between his legs, out in the cold of one of the many hallways, always alone.

Yet there... There, no one saw him twist and writhe, humping the air, jaws moving as he tried to gulp down air that did not settle in his lungs. He needed to move and twisted back and forth, yet his mind could not even grasp what he could have needed to do, potentially, to relieve his horniness. He needed to breed, to mate, but he could not even thrust anymore, for that part of him had been shut off, hunkering down and retreating back into himself just so that he could feel as if he was somewhat in control, every nerve-ending in his body constantly on fire with barely hidden need.

The doctor and dog trainer, however, could use that to his advantage as he showed him how to be a dog, though the need to fuck and breed remained in the back of his mind, wanting to spill...something. He could not even remember what could happen but the driving need remained, all the same, making him want something that his mind could not even catch up to. It was wrong and it was right and, ultimately, it was everything in-between too, confusing the matter further as he was forced and driven on to try his very best to be a good dog, a good boy, the very best of the good boys.

He knew that he hated when he sat and the rush of pleasure that coursed through him made him want to sit on command all over again, the doctor's eerie smile staring down at him the whole while, always watching, always waiting. “Sit" was an easy one and he locked the word into his memory, only later uncovering that the rush of pleasure came from the butt plug. That was only ever removed for him to relieve himself, an easily trainable cue considering that those bodily functions were otherwise mechanically denied to him. But it could vibrate and pulse and send electric shocks of ultimate pleasure through him, the degree varying depending on whether his trainer thought that he had done a good enough job, of course.

“Good boy! Now, stay!"

He knew that and panted heavily, eyes wide and plaintive, every muscle in his body quivering, waiting for the command that would release him to fly forth like an arrow. He wanted to go, wanted to run, for it seemed that things like that were all that were left to him. He had to be strong, had to run, had to show them that he was still who he was, even as Greyin lost himself more and more.

He had to obey.

The drugs were strong, coursing through him, powerfully turning his mind to other ways of being that were not so good for him but perfect for their purposes. He learned how to run easily on all fours, even though it was more of a lollop, just like some of the other dogs at the facility, even though he was fortunate enough to return to his master every night. Sometimes his master had a kind word and a pat for him and he could tell whether it was a kind word or not from the tone of his voice. Sometimes Greyin reeled from his captivity, his slavery, knowing who he was as his mind reeled and rebelled.

Yet he was no longer a rebel and his life as a dog became more and more normal to him, even comforting in a way. It took away all other worries, even though his rampant need pulsed at all times, and made him focus on the moment, living in the moment without thinking about what lay ahead. Dimly, he was aware of the past but it was a human feature to worry about that and there was nothing in his past to set off self-preservation and safety defences, so why dwell? He could not think ahead, seeing no more days than the one he was living, which would have, sadly, been an ideal way to look at things when he had been allowed to live his life as an anthro too.

“Sit!"

“Stay!"

“Beg!"

“Roll over!"

Even to a lion turned dog, exposing his belly felt wrong but it also felt as if he might be able to show something off “down there" to a potential partner, even if he was not entirely sure if the doctor and trainer could be that for him. He wiggled and whined plaintively on his back, his tail wagging for treats, slipping more and more into the persona of a dog, for that was how he lived every day. It was good to forget what had caused him such pain in days gone by, how hard life had been, snarling and working, the blood that had made his lips curl and his nostrils flare.

He didn't like the smell of blood anymore. Blood meant danger. Danger was bad.

“Good boy!"

He jumped up to meet his trainer and wiggled in place, begging with soft whimpers, deferring to his master of the moment with soft whines. The trainer patted him once and pointed to a nearby tree.

“Go on then, boy, you do what you need to do."

His need to stand on two legs, of course, was long gone. He had also been trained out of refusing to pee until he wet himself, wanting to use a toilet suitable for humans and anthros but, of course, having that right denied to him. There was still something inside him that pulled for privacy and anthro needs but the dog part of him shook it off like water spraying from his coat. It was no matter to him who saw him relieve himself as his body was allowed to pee, the very tip of his shaft only slipping from his sheath and no more than that.

A hot stream of piss splattered onto the roots of the tree and Greyin panted happily even as something deeper howled, resisting, pushing back. But that part of him could not reach up so far as to overrule what the drugs and his training had done already to his broken mind, bringing him to such a way of being that resistance...well...it felt worse than going along with things. Going along with what they wanted him to do brought him great rewards – like the plug in his arse that sent a luxurious jolt through him, panting heavily, eyes rolling. Yes, oh, yes, he needed more of that, so much more, even if he could not vocalise it, the chastity device ensuring that his cock retracted from the fine mesh instantly. He didn't need to remember sexual pleasure as yet, oh no. He hadn't yet earned that right and rights indeed were fickle things that could be traded back and forth.

Once, he tried to resist playing fetch with an old, battered, green Frisbee, shaking his head and barking. He bounced on his forepaws and the doctor frowned at him, a little sweaty and glowing across his brow, clearly as tired with the game as Greyin was. Yet the more he resisted, the more his trainer persisted, the man unrelenting.

“You will give in."

Eventually, however, the doctor pinned him down with an elbow on his back, Greyin obediently dropping to the grass, for that was a command that was already well ingrained in him. He didn't have to think about what “down" meant, only do it, his stomach already flat to the soft, green grass before his mind had a chance to catch up to what he was doing. He was a dog, a good dog, and he knew that he would get a reward if only he obeyed!

His eyes rolled, lips quivering, whiskers twitching, though he no longer saw them as feline whiskers but something softer, gentler, something more canine. They were not meant to be long and delicate as a dog but purely functional, only conveying the smallest touches of emotion along with their practicality. The butt plug shot wave after wave of pleasure through him without allowing him to orgasm, his body striving to respond before the AI of the machine attached to him shut it off. Of course, he didn't know that that was happening to him, only that it felt good, so very good, and that he wanted to get that all over again for himself, all for himself.

He needed it more than he could put into any kind of words. Not that he had words anymore, ultimately, but he had the sways of emotion and feeling that mattered as his thoughts after the great changes.

“No more primitive instinct for you, mutt. Up!"

He jumped, settling back onto his haunches, tongue lolling out happily. Even that motion was difficult for him, jumping and taking more of a vertical position. He couldn't even recall the time when he had walked on two legs and even that thought would have been laughable, though someone observing would have noted that that was one of the tricks that he was not taught: how to walk on his hind legs. That was very deliberate.

They didn't want him remembering all that he could be.

The absence of pleasure as his body was forced to remain persistently, consistently, horny was as much torture as any pain that they could have delivered unto him, if they had so chosen. Yet Greyin was not beaten or tortured and looked to his master in the morning with a bark, even waggling his buttocks in an appeasing fashion for him to be let out the door to urinate.

It was then that his master knew that he was ready for the next stage of his training, his master taking the leash in a firming manner, taught to seek and hunt, to sniff out targets and show his master where they were. Greyin, after all, was not merely to remain as a pet by the tyrant's side but a trophy of the highest order, showing the world what his technology could do, the extremes of training that could be placed on anyone – even an anthro. Oh, they had thought that they were more resilient than humans, the predators especially with cocked heads and sharp, snarling teeth, but they were not. Like human beings in a world where anything was possible it was possible too for them to be broken down into whimpering shadows of the beings that they had once been.

And that suited their king and overlord just fine.

“Find!"

Greyin raced off, still on all fours, morning dew clinging to his fur and shining on the bitch-suit that he was still made to wear, although it was just his way of going by that time. It felt more natural to him to hunt, some faded, dim part of his mind recalling how things had been, how he had been as silent as the night, stealing up on his victims. There was something in his memories too about latching on to targets from a distance too but, as a dog, Greyin did not understand how that could have happened. He just knew, with a twist of shame in the pit of his stomach, that he could get a reward if he pleased his master and that was all that he needed to do.

Therefore, he needed to seek and return what his master wanted to him.

The trees stretched dark arms of boughs overhead as he ran with his nose brushing through the grass, delicate scents clinging to him. He licked his lips to better place himself to sift through the scents but there was no sorting through what was new to him, which was all very much part of his training too. He could not do what he did not know and the lion growled softly in the back of his throat, frustrated with himself at not knowing what it was that his master wanted even then.

“Go on, boy! Seek! Find!"

Yes, seek, find. He knew those and, at the very least, he could keep looking, snuffling through the long grass under the trees where the vegetation had been sheltered. Greyin had never before been in that part of the training facility before and it was harder and harder to concentrate as his loins ached, wanting something, rounding and humping, his body remembering...freedom?

Greyin blinked, pausing for a moment. Had he once been free? Had that been a thing? What was, even, freedom to a dog like him? He pulled back, resisting, shaking his head against the tingling need that was always present. It was a miracle that he could even sleep with such desire coursing through him with the pump of blood around his body, though it was slowly starting to affect his concentration, offering him clarity and cloudiness both at the same time.

He needed something, back to himself... His mind pushed back, rebelling against the drugs even while the tyrant was calling for him. The assassin that he had once been snarled and pulled back his teeth, rumbling and seething at the indignity of all that had come to pass, the lion but a passive player in his own life. Look at how far he had fallen!

Greyin whimpered, breaking through his snarls, pawing and scraping at his muzzle much like a dog would do, though he could not get his arms up in a way that felt natural to him. There were blocks in his mind, dark walls that hammered off parts of his consciousness, the drugs breaking him down bit by bit. Moments of clarity were short-lived and yet the rampant desire to cum and feel more rolled through him. He didn't even feel anything when he urinated, never sure if his cock was dry and clean or not but that was not something that mattered to anyone there, not when they treated him as a dog.

But he wasn't a dog, not even as he felt as if his body was in a permanent, if female, heat, rounding his back as he pressed his forehead to the ground, snuffling faintly. He couldn't whip around and race back, jaws agape, to snatch up his master's wrist – or better, his neck, in his maw, as much as he wanted to. The thought brought him fear and he cowered, tucking his tail between his lips and whining, eyes wide and plaintive. No, no, no, he could not do that to his master, bad things would happen if he did that to his master, if his master was gone. Gone, gone, gone. He could not bear it if his master was gone, oh, no, even though that was the very thing too that, ultimately, he wanted.

What did he want? His head swirled, odd words coming to the forefront, though it was the worldwide of needy, lusty, confused emotion that was at the head of it all. Want, desire, assassin, rebel... There were words there, but they meant nothing to him anymore even if he understood a little of what was behind them, rolling his shoulders, fighting and pushing back even if all hope was already lost. They could not make a mockery of him any longer!

Greyin growled and hurled himself forth, delving deeper and deeper into the thicket of trees, twigs whipping his white coat. He did not care how much he dirtied himself, his aching, needy body throwing itself into the only thing that it had left: flight. For an animal, that was a very primal thing and something that anthros and humans, of course, sought to suppress as much as possible in their daily lives. It was not for them but it was for Greyin, a dog who didn't know where to turn, what to do, tail tucked down as if to protect something that he could no longer put a name to.

Further and further... He had to go, his training wavering, instinct taking over. The drugs tried to pull him back, his loyalty to those that owned and trained him looming, and yet even they could not turn him from a path he had not chosen. His coat soaked through with the dampness of the grass, bark scraping his sides, and he snarled, turning and arching up, trying to rub the machinery off his back, the strip that still lay down his spine, fastened into his body with more than a single need.

That wasn't him! That had never belonged to him!

He tried to scrape it off but pain shot through him, nerve-endings sparking off with searing, blistering electric heat. Greyin could not even howl, it was that painful, his vision greying out to nothingness as he collapsed.

When he came around, his master was standing over him, his hand on the lion's head. Panting, Greyin whimpered and tried to push his head into the man's hand, though the tyrant stood and walked away, speaking to the doctor.

“See to it that this does not happen again."

It never would. The drugs injected into him on an hourly basis were changed, taking the light of his past life from his eyes, stripping his memories entirely. That meant that he could not be as counted on to learn quickly, of course, but some things had to be sacrificed when going through such stringent training. Pushing back and turning from the path that they had laid down for him were simply not options. Especially not when they had such good uses for him in mind going forward.

He was left at the training facility for a full week that time, locked in a dark room just like a, well, dog. He was comfortable, of course, with a large bed, but even the bed did not smell like him and there was nowhere for him to urinate – not that he even could without the chastity device allowing him to feel the muscles needed to perform such an action. The bars of his indoor kennel looked out on other dogs, some that sat more comfortably on their hind ends than others, and he blinked out at them, barking while they did not understand his language.

To be continued in part two…