Myshel: Alert (Part II)
Myshel
Part II: Alert
Some sort of bug was crawling around in the corner of Myshel's cage. He regarded it dispassionately. It almost certainly had a name other than 'bug', but it was a strange attenuated thing the likes of which he'd never seen before this cursed planet. Judging by its strange configuration of appendages, it was certainly some sort of native. Bug would do.
For the thousandth time, he considered flicking it away, but it was the closest thing he had to any sort of entertainment. It might even bite.
"Whatever," he muttered to himself. Again. He didn't do well with boredom, though various aches and pains hinted of the alternative, and he reminded himself again that any change was likely to be for the worse. He rolled back over, wincing as the bars dug into his back. The chains that held his legs apart rattled quietly, and he sighed, closing his eyes and trying to will himself back into the bored delirium of semi-sleep.
This time it escaped him. Listless eyes scanned the dark closet, but he knew every detail. Except for brief interludes to change his diaper and feed him some nutritious, tasteless liquid supplement that left him perpetually hungry and weak, he'd been alone and immobile in this cage for well over a week. Maybe two. Maybe three. He hadn't kept track, and all he had to go by was blind guesses. Nothing had broken up the monotony, not even a change of light or shadow.
The outer door rattled, and he raised his head in surprise. Even that little motion made him pant softly, out of breath. His eyes squinted against the bright light of the outside in attempt to make out the silhouetted forms there. Casual, almost amused beatings had been his reward for his acerb greetings the two times prior, so this time he simply kept his mouth shut. He didn't think it was time to be fed, and he'd been changed only hours ago, and was merely wet. Well, it hardly mattered; his participation wasn't required in any event.
One of the shadowed forms bent, unlocking the cage. The ankle chains were released. Large paws reached in and lifted him out, not inviting his participation, but it was probably for the best, given how enervated he felt. He blinked. There were three this time--The doberman, still in some sort of rubber suit, and the two huskies, each wearing only a harness. He hadn't seen them since the day he'd awoken here.
This change surely is for the worse.
He was carried into an adjacent room by the doberman, who dropped him softly onto the cold, flat surface of a shop table. His diaper was removed and checked, but he'd only wet himself; Lack of solid meals had resulted in a gradual cessation of other functions days before, though that had been somewhat of a relief. One of the huskies filled a tub of lukewarm water, and the pair of them began to sponge-bathe him, while the doberman cleaned his teeth and brushed out his hair. After, he was thoroughly dried, and scented with some sort of lavender scent. He was treated like a piece of meat, but he didn't struggle. Far too weak from the immobile confinement, he doubted he could even run for more than a few feet without falling over in exhaustion. They certainly didn't seem to think he could, for they made little effort to even close the door behind him.
But where, anyway, would I go?
His claws were clipped, and the thick, wide collar around his neck was removed. After, he was carried through a long series of corridors, up a staircase, into an elevator.. he closed his eyes, not even paying attention anymore. At length he felt himself dropped onto something much softer than he'd been on in a long time. He opened his eyes, unable to conceal his curiosity. A bed. A very nice bed, in a very nice room. Darkened, but incredibly well appointed. He blinked softly. Before he could sit up and look around, however, his paws were raised behind his head and secured to a much finer (But still quite strong looking) set of chained cuffs.
"You, stay there and don't move," the Doberman growled at Myshel; that was the first time he'd been directly addressed in too long to remember. He wasn't inclined to argue, and he lay back, drawing a deep breath. Fear, which had been traded for despair, suddenly returned, and he tried to quiet his mind, heart racing in terror as the trio left.
They had been gone only moments when he felt the bed deflect beside him. He opened his eyes to find Knoskali regarding him, the black coyote laying beside him, his muscular form clad in a thick robe.
"Well hello again, little fox," he purred. "You'll be happy to know that your lover and I came to an understanding. He will be allowed to live."
Myshel's heart seemed to skip a beat. "You... why?"
"Ah, such a pretty voice, merely disused. I had forgotten," the coyote murmured, almost to himself. "Light and soft, and asking a simple question. Very well. The deal was that both of you would die, or both of you would live. If you were both to live, he would be released, on a planet far away. You," he smiled darkly, "would be mine."
Myshel couldn't breathe. His mouth formed half-words, but his throat made no sound. "Yeh.. whah.." He tried to sit up, but felt dizzy. What did he mean? What could he possibly mean?
Denial. He knew what it meant.
Please, not that.
Knoskali regarded him with icy calm. "He agreed to never attempt to come back to you. The penalty, should he try, would be death for both of you in quite a long, drawn-out, painful way. I think he made the right choice," the coyote smiled--Smiled! amiably at this, shrugging. "But the same applies to you if you ever attempt to escape. Death, for both of you. Never forget that. We won't lose track of him."
Myshel closed his eyes, shuddering softly. Truth be told, he wasn't shocked or horrified--He'd resigned himself to never seeing Carson again. Nightmares of his love dumped in a gutter had filled his thoughts for days. Alive, but unreachable.
Knoskali's paw found his chest. "How do you feel after your long rest? Better, mmn? Not very talkative tonight," he murmured into Myshel's ear, sliding close. Myshel caught a whiff of the exotic fragrance he was wearing and shivered from nose to tail. It had a strange overtone that made his eyes water. It wasn't nearly as bad on the second whiff, however, and by his third breath, Myshel found it somewhat enticing.
"Breathe deep, little fox," the dark voice whispered, strong paws easily turning him to his side, a large form pressing up close behind. "Breathe deep of your new life. Accept it and learn to live within it." Big paws roamed slowly across his form, and he closed his eyes. Moments later, he felt something cool and moist pressed against his nose and muzzle. A little gasp was met by an overwhelming pungency, filling his nose and lungs, its strange nature entirely alien to Myshel's kin. He quivered helplessly, struggles met only with firm pressure against his muzzle.
"That's right, my dear fox," the coyote purred into his ear. "Just breathe. Good boy."
Myshel exhaled completely, trying to expel the tainted air. He had expected unconsciousness, but instead felt merely a strange warmth spreading through his limbs. No sooner had he emptied his lungs, however, than the big paw on his muzzle tightened firmly, pulling the back of his head against a broad, black-furred chest and cutting off his air completely. The desperation of the sudden lack of breath drove him to writhe feebly against the abyss-black form that warmed his back and held him tight.
His head was spinning and his lungs were burning by the time his muzzle was released, legs and paws kicking feebly. The rag was still pressed to his nose and mouth, however, and he gasped breath after breath of the poison, whatever it might be, helpless to effect any change regardless of will. Each breath brought only slight relief, and the feeling of suffocation worsened even as his vision cleared; tears flowed freely as he struggled.
"You breathe at my whim. You live and die with each breath, and each is a gift from me." Centimeter by centimeter, the coyote's muzzle approached the snowfox's ear, whispering in a velvety sweet whisper. "Your life and your body, gifts from me. The you that was died beneath your lover; the you that is now is mine to do with as I please. I suggest you fully accept that, for your sake. For mine," he growled warmly, "I truly don't care."
Myshel sobbed his desperation unrestrainedly into the cloth as true oxygen deprivation began to set in. His vision began to grey, though his eyes were open, and he felt unanchored in time, floating free in a torturous haze. Abruptly, the thing was removed.
Desperate breath filled his lungs, and again, and again, the fox moaning and gasping as he struggled to fill his lungs. The traces of hypoxia slow to fade, and a gentle tremula shook him all over
"Pleasure for the fox." Silky paws, divested now of the poisoned cloth, stroked gently through his fur and left little trails of warmth. Despite his mental state, he found himself arching to meet a lone, soft caress to his belly, and was disturbed to no end when he realized that he was stiffening in response. Black eyelids parted slightly as the fox glanced down to discover that he had indeed become erect, and a soft black paw-pad cupped his cheek; another found his short black length and began to work slowly along it, touch ephemerally light.
Pleasure rolled un-checked through his small form, and he found his hips pressing urgently forward to grind firmly against a black paw.
"What..." he murmured in astonishment, but was cut off by an unintended desperate moan and another wave of pleasure, leaving his head spinning. "... ohhh."
"Mm... that's a good boy." Knoskali pressed close, grinding softly against white fur. "Your body longs for release. Let your mind go. Let it all go. Savor the moment," he breathed, lowering his nose to nuzzle the fox between the ears. "My pretty little toy."
No response formed in Myshel's mind, his restrained paws clenching and unclenching above his head as the coyote released his erect shaft and worked over every inch of him with his soft, electrical touch. Silvery pre drooled unrestrainedly down along his length as he was teased to heights of arousal he didn't know himself capable of, eyes misty with lust and desire. Occasional brushes of black paws found his length, sending him into melted little gyrations each time, quickly receding away.
Time, fear, uncertainty, thought... all ceased to exist for the little fox, trapped within a miasma of arousal and desperate lust. At the peak of his desire, firm paws descended to his length, tugging him quickly into an orgasm that rocked his frame hard, every muscle contracting at once, a scream of release trapped within his lungs. Only a little squeal escaped as the fox pumped and spurted his seed into the coyote's cupped paw.
Nothingness, a swirling blackness, consumed him; seconds became moments, moments became minutes before he finally slumped back against the coyote, dragging in a deep breath. The sensitivity of his body remained high even as his pleasure dwindled, touches and brushes causing him to whine in discomfort as the coyote held him still.
"You're welcome. Cherish that memory," Knoskali said, chuckling darkly; the coyote slid both wet paws between Myshel's legs, smearing his foxycum across the furless black flesh before going back to gather more. Pawdigits pressed in slightly against his tight hole, and the fox growled and writhed, tail tucking.
"Yes, and I've heard enough from you for now, pet. Now it's quiet time..." and with that, he slid a muzzle onto Myshel's snout, buckling it firmly in place. The fox had no time to consider what might happen next, nor the capability to resist as he was rolled over flat on his back. Taking an ankle in each paw, Knoskali rolled to his knees, pressing up between white thighs. Myshel's eyes opened wide as he saw Knoskali's thick red shaft, slickened with his own cum, dangled over his spent, wet crotch. Looking nearly as big as his forearm, it hung almost obscenely, its taut firmness nudging across the fox's scrotum.
Knoskali grabbed Myshel's muzzle, locking eyes with the fox's. Never breaking that gaze, he slowly drew back, dragging the wet tip of his length down, across white-furred perineum, to press against the firm, taut flesh below.
"Mine."
With that single word, Knoskali drove forward, paws anchoring the fox in place as his muscles flexed to force his way in. Once. Twice. Three times, four times and he was hilted within the fox, whose eyes were screwed shut as he screamed into the padded muzzle, heavily muted. Giving him no time to adjust, the coyote immediately picked up a vicious pace, hard impaling thrusts designed to hurt, not pleasure; to claim.
To own.
Knoskali's eyes slipped shut as he began to rape Myshel in earnest, stretching the fox to his limit and beyond, the chemical cocktail that had brought the fox pleasure now bringing him only agony and feelings of despair and submission as his insides were viciously pummeled. The coyote never slowed down, never became more gentle, even as he took his time with the fox half his size.
Myshel's world, once intellectual and happy, had been reduced to a domain purely animal in nature. Pain filled him. Every touch hurt, but the thick shaft filling his insides hurt worse than anything; it was a pain at the core of his being, a vicious portent of all that was to come, a hard, methodical torture that had no hurry in its nature. He closed his eyes and tried once more to escape by letting go of everything.
Knoskali slapped him, hard, growling. "None of that. I know that little trick," he snarled, and changed his rhythm. Myshel writhed and sobbed, ears flattened, as the coyote began to coldly beat him, in time with his thrusts. He tasted blood, but Knoskali's blows were almost casual, designed to hurt but not to break. After a short while, the blows stopped and both big black paws slid to his hips, squeezing painfully tight as the violent fucking began to build to a fever pitch.
"Mine," the coyote whispered, and then hilted himself within, at the peak of hardness and depth, thrust after thrust until he began to move erratically and slow, panting. Slowly, gracefully, Knoskali sank down against Myshel, still within him, hips still thrusting forward now and again.
Minutes passed before the coyote reopened his eyes and sat up, beginning to pull out. He looked down at Myshel, and for just the briefest moment, his countenance was warm and gentle as he withdrew from the abused form beneath him. Moments thereafter, it regained its hauteur, and Knoskali delivered a light, almost playful slap to Myshel's muzzle, smirking.
"Good boy. Mine. Boys?"
The three who had brought him in stepped out of the shadows, and Myshel felt himself wilt slightly as he realized they had been watching. Why it should bother him, he couldn't say, but it did.
"Go ahead, boys. The whole package, but don't touch. Just carry him for now, he's very weak."
"Yessir," the doberman said, stepping forward to undo Myshel's chains. The two huskies moved in on each side of him; when he was free, he was lifted into soft husky arms. The other leaned in to sniff him, and smirked.
He lolled his head around to see where they were going as he was carried back out of the room. The coyote had merely stretched out in his bed, closing his eyes in apparent contentment, and he found himself carried back into the same set of corridors as before.
The chair he was set in was an odd design, more of a frame to which he was strapped at all points, bolted to the tile floor of a plain white room with a drain in the middle of its tile floor. He didn't even begin to resist as he was cleaned once again, but even if he had wanted to, he had no way to move.
Some sort of sandy brown canid entered, in what looked like a cross between a lab coat and a painter's smock marred with occasional dark stains. He carried a toolbox.
Myshel did not find this reassuring.
Rubber gloves went on, and the chair was tilted forward. A warm stream of liquid began to coat his perineum and scrotum, running down to drip from the tip of his short, limp penis. It was clear and had a slightly minty smell.
A firm hand grabbed his balls and squeezed; nausea ran through him and he coughed helplessly, unable even to writhe against the motion.
More torture?
Cold steel pressed up against the underside of his sex, then was adjusted downward to clamp around the top of his sac; he whimpered uncertainly. The whimper was cut off by a mind-blanking pain, accompanied by a sickening crunch; he shrieked helplessly into his muzzle. He shrieked, and shrieked, and sobbed, and shrieked until his face was hot and his throat ached, muffled though he was. He shrieked as the cords and blood vessels that supplied his testes were crushed; he shrieked as the scalpel ran across the backside of his sac and opened it up, sending blood to replace the runnel of clear liquid and stain his soft white fur. He shrieked for dear life, muscles standing out like cords as the outer case was sliced open, and as one at a time, his testicles were pulled free. He shrieked and he sobbed, and he bawled and choked as he was cauterized and stitched back together and his fate was sealed. Even as the extreme, acute pain gave way to a throbbing, sickening ache he subsided into a broken, gurgling sobbing, gulping for breath.
He felt a paw under his chin, and he raised his head. His chair had been rotated back into a vertical orientation. A rag blotted the tears from his eyes, and the amused gaze of the canid met his own fearful, agony-filled eyes.
"That's a good fox. You're all patched up now, and everything's in good shape. You'll probably never be allowed to have an erection again, though, so I certainly hope you had lots of boyfun while it lasted," he said, smirking. "Everything's as good as new down there, so you don't have to worry about after-care. You may walk funny for a while, though. Now for the more ... mm, mundane stuff," he smirked. "I'm going to remove your muzzle now. If you start squealing again, I'm going to do some very evil things to your vocal cords, so try to stay quiet, ok?"
Myshel's head lolled as his muzzle was removed. The fox was partially in shock, but even that little solace was slipping from him. His mouth was forced open, and a metal wedge fitted between his molars. A single strap was wrapped around his muzzle and pulled painfully tight, rendering his jaw immobile. A brown paw forced his head back against a rest of some sort, and straps were tightened around his head and neck. There was no motion.
He stared at the far wall. Any chance for the recovery to a normal life was gone,
With efficiency and alacrity, his tongue was pierced and a black stud inset. Three more silver ones followed, in the outer edge of his left ear, and one above his left eye; the pain was dull and mild, and the fox reacted little. When his nipples were pierced, however, it was all he could do to restrain himself to a hiss and a spasm, rocking against unyielding straps and metal as the two silver barbels were threaded through, vanishing beneath his thick chestfur.
He was sponged clean, then given shots in the end of each pawdigit. His stomach roiled and gurgled, but he restrained his nausea once more as his claws were ripped out, one by one, and the sockets packed with some sort of gel after the blood had been dabbed free.
"That's a good girl! We're on the home stretch now. All that's left is to pluck out your eyeballs and cut your ears off."
Myshel's eyes flew wide and he writhed, screaming in incoherent panic, pressing his aching and abused body against the straps once more. The canid threw back his head and laughed; he patted Myshel's muzzle, then stroked calmingly.
"Ssh, ssh. I'm just kidding, stupid thing. Do you have the collar, Drell?"
One of the huskies stepped forward, a rosewood box in his hand, as Myshel panted softly in a mix of relief and annoyance. Drell lifted the box's lid, presenting it to the canid, who withdrew an inch-wide black silver band, its edges rounded, inset with simple but elegant silver filigree. "Very nice, Drell. I'm sure the boss will love it. You must be quite the prize, fox, for this sort of expense."
Myshel gazed at it dully.
It was very pretty.
Moments later, it was around his neck, and a micro-welder was setting it permanently in place.
He closed his eyes, breathing out against the slight scent of singed fur.
Dreams.
In this hell, dreams cannot live.
A leash with a special end was clipped to his collar, and he was lead, stumbling--crawling, on occasion--back to his cell, where he was locked within to sleep after another forced meal of goo.
As he lay, gazing at the darkened ceiling, he felt more alone than he'd ever felt in his life. Devoid of self, future or past.
Carson?
Can you hear me where you've gone?
Damn you forever, Carson, for bringing me here.
Damn you for leaving me here, in your little deal with a devil.
Selfish.
Damn you.
Tears dripped from his nose, alone in the dark.