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Xisuma doesn’t remember how he came to be tied to the table; he barely remembers anything before he had woken up flat on the bench, straps holding him immobile and helpless. Shouting, big hands roughly grabbing him, a pen being forced into his hand, darkness. He doesn’t know how he arrived here, but he knew why they had taken him.
They were going to turn him into a pet.
There had been whispers, murmurs in backrooms and bars, that pets weren’t always the voluntary acquisitions Concorp pretended they were. Look too close, they said, and you might end up kneeling next to some rich idiot with all the sense fucked out of you. Xisuma and Evil X, well, they were always the curious type. They thought they had been careful, covered their tracks. Obviously they had not.
What are his priorities? Stay silent, stay present. If he doesn’t talk then they couldn’t link him to any others, and there was a better chance Evil X wouldn’t face the same fate. If he keeps his mind present he could resist whatever sick process they did for longer. Maybe he could get out.
His first rule is almost broken immediately when he feels fingers on a pussy he *shouldn't* have. He bites down an embarassing, mortified squeak. They did this to pets, customised them to their new “owner’s” desires. Thank whatever gods were out there he didn’t feel a rush of dysphoria at this violation.
The fingers are perfunctory, clinical, and through whatever cocktail of drugs he is still on he can hear vague, disinterested conversation. Were they talking about him? The tone made sense. As soon as he passed through the threshold he stopped being a person as far as his captors were concerned, and he never will be again. He shrinks and struggles away from them, howling as a hand smacks his new anatomy for his efforts.
~~~P~E~T~~~
Gregory sighs. This one is a fighter, and he hates the fighters most of all. It made it harder to think of them as not human, like after the process is done.
He removes his finger from the pet’s hole, wiping it off on his apron. The transformation seems to have taken well. Time for the enhancements. The pet’s main asset, as far as his colleagues are concerned, is his beauty. A little jewellery can only enhance that.
His nipples get the treatment first, with a broad hand pushing down on his chest to keep him still and knocking the air out of him as a bonus. After a little debate, they settle on rings. Nice to tie things to, more versatility than a bar, and they can still fit them with small amethysts to denote the pet’s former status as an admin, as someone with power brought low with nothing more than a few spells and some training.
A clit piercing next, a ring to match. Brings the benefit of being able to attach a delicate leash for his owner to lead him about with. Gregory rubs him to involuntary hardness in order to get a clean piercing.
Ears, multiple in each, his right eyebrow, and a delicate tongue piercing. By the time they are done he is shaking with pain, rage, and distress. Gregory sighs. At least by the end of this the pet won’t remember, it’s easier if he reminds himself of that fact.
He always said a job is a job, but Gregory might have to start looking for a new one if he keeps getting cases like this. They used to be fun! Willing participants moaning their way through the procedures, or at least consenting if anxious participants that he could talk to. The angry ones are coming more often these days though, and he may be a petmaker, but he’s not a monster.
~~~P~E~T~~~
…Ow.
That is all Xisuma could think as he lay limply twitching in the aftermath of eleven piercings in a row. He doesn’t even see the worker coming towards him with a band of gold at first.
The collar is deceptively delicate, a strong band hidden by ruddy gold filigree selected to bring out the warm tones in his skin. He bucks and struggles as they fit it around his neck, but they're stronger than him, in a better position. His mind flashes with desperate, half-constructed plans, but there's no use. It snaps around his neck with a solid clack. He sags, defeated and saving his energy.
They feed an odd material between his neck and the collar, a rough papery fabric. It covers his eyes partially, and he tries to raise his head to figure out what is going on. A hand firmly pressed to either side of his forehead ends that possibility. More hands push down his shoulders, forcing him into stillness. Two clicks, a hiss, a soft crackle, and he feels hands on the collar.
Oh god.
They're welding it shut.
His renewed struggles do him no good. When they withdraw he comes to the grim conclusion that this collar will never come off. Too close to this skin for an angle grinder, too thick for bolt cutters.
They hang a tiny, heart-shaped lock from the loop at the front of the collar. A mockery.
He lies there, chest heaving in exertion, as the workers bustle around him cleaning away the detritus of his pain. Tables are swept away, sterile wrappers rustled into the bins. The guard is pulled from his neck, the metal cold against his skin for the last time. They are brusque, focused on their work and uncaring of the shaking, panting figure picked out under harsh lights.
A shorter woman breaks this pattern, bustling over to a small box at the periphery of his vision. She selects something, and approaches him with a small smile. Her hand scratches through his hair and he pushes up into it, hating himself for the motion. Her expression sharpens a little bit, and she moves down further towards his pelvis.
Short, soft fingers play with his newly developed folds for a moment, and a flush of shame runs through him as he feels his body responding without his permission. She lifts the object in her hand - a thin rod - and pushes it forward into the hole he was trying so hard to ignore. It is slim, not even the width of a finger, but feels too big inside of him. Slim, fabric loops are wrapped around his legs to keep the horrid thing in place.
She gives him a final condescending pat to the inner thigh, and pulls away. They leave him alone, then, in the tepid air. The lights remain harsh against his skin, his ragged breathing accenting the hum of the fluorescent bulbs overhead. As he regulates and calms his breathing, the buzz becomes more prominent. Better than true silence.
With nothing else to do, he lets himself feel what has been done to his body. His nipples sting harshly with their new additions, his new and oh so sensitive clit even worse. His ears seem dull in comparison, unimportant. The rod inside of him is exerting undeniable pressure, splitting him open in a way he had never experienced. It feels like the ultimate violation, holes made where holes should not be.
After what feels like hours or minutes, indignance and fear fade into a low background hum. He starts to experiment with those new sensations. Why not, some part of him whispers. You might as well be prepared for whatever they have planned for you, it will be easier to deal with if you know what it is you are dealing with.
He clenches around the rod experimentally and notes the points where it presses against his walls. It feels overwhelmingly large, even though it looked so small in the little woman's hand. It was warm, more so than he expected. More than he liked.
It felt. Not unpleasant.
Well, no harm in a little experimentation.
Rolling his hips, he flinches as his piercings jostle, sending sparks of pain downwards. The rod twists pleasantly inside him, and he chases that sensation, cataloguing the way his body reacts. I wonder if I can hit that spot again…
His distracted explorations shift into a mindless rutting, flexing around the slim and unyielding rod. What had once felt like too much had shifted into not enough, and he drove himself forward into the feeling with increasing abandon, mind flitting from lazily cataloguing his experience to abandoning his thoughts to press into the feelings. His piercings spark with something that he could no longer honestly call pain, and he clenches around the fingerlength toy. More. More. Need More. You want more.
He lets out a desperate cry of frustration, rutting against his bonds in a futile chase for release. The sound, his first true noise, shattered the silence, and once it was broken his thoughts pour out of him and into the air. His emotions, his fears, his desperation, screamed out in a battered litany of pleases. Want. WANT. NEED. WE WANT.
His cries summon a group of workers, standing over him in dispassionate obligation. He pleads at them, a garbled barrage of promises and begging, too exhausted and desperate for threats. He ruts down and rolls his hips, offering something, anything for just the suggestion of release in return. One of the workers surveys the others and nods, decisively.
They begin to untie Xisuma, who takes advantage of his sudden freedom to grip at the side rail of the table weakly. He doesn't notice the table moving until the light is no longer on him, the squeak of wheels heralding them to another room in the vast, labyrinthine complex. He has more important things on his mind. Want.
Hands grasp his shoulders and he finds himself hoisted off his table in many sets of arms. They support and cradle his weak and kittenlike form as he is carried bodily back into another set of lights. Soft fingers find the ties at his inner thigh, and he cries out. No!
Still, the hands unpick the knots and pull out the rod that was keeping him on the better side of a complete loss of sanity. He clenched at nothing, and cried out at his loss, his body pleading for its return without the permission of his compromised mind. Need to be full.
There is a shuffling of bodies, and he is raised into a fully upright position. The same short fingers are back at his folds, spreading him open, and then there is a nudge of alarming, delicious girth at his fuckhole. Without pause for thought that wouldn't come he pushes himself down on it, and cries out louder at the burst of pleasure pain that flows through him. His thighs shake as they make a connection with a firm surface beneath them, and he settles in a hunched over sitting position.
Ridges and bumps, there were ridges and bumps filling him and it is overwhelming and amazing and awful and perfect. It feels right and he wants to drive himself to completion and sink into the oblivion that is being promised to him on the other side. Not yet though. Not yet. He doesn't have permission and his master would be so disappointed if he-
There are fingers on the heart shaped lock on his collar. A broad flat thumb pressed over the purple gem in the centre. A voice inside and outside of his head.
This is what you are good for. This is your place. Give in to it, and let go.
Yes yes yesyesyesyes yes yes this was him. This is what he was for, and he was in the right place. It made so much sense. Let go. Let go.
He lets go. And he was gone.
He could have been whited out for any amount of time. Minutes, hours. When he comes to, he’s still mounted on the swollen thickness of the training rod, locked inside of him and mounted firmly to the seat. An experimental tug tells him that he wasn't moving any time soon.
He takes a broad look at his surroundings. He is surrounded by glass. There are others around him, mounted in display cases much like the one he must be encased in. Some are asleep, some in the throes of pleasure. Some have a more vacant look. He vaguely wondered if this should be scaring him, engaging him, but more than anything he felt a vague sense of peace. Hmm.
There’s movement to his right, and he lazily swings his head to watch. Several workers are wheeling a table into the sales hall, and on the table is a shivering, twitching form, wailing and pleading. He watches, vaguely interested, as the man is mounted up in the case across from his own and falls into a painful, relieving oblivion much as he had. Good. Xisuma hopes that Evil X will be able to find his own peace soon.