#37 oc

Chapter 16 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

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CW: institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, implied dubcon, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so if you’ve made it this far you know what you’re in for

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37 isn’t sure what it’s being punished for. It thought that its service was good last night; it was booked quickly and performed well and behaved perfectly through the night. Despite this, instead of being taken to wait for prep after eating and getting clean it was taken to wait in the closet. For the first few hours it assumed (desperately) that the shifts had been moved around and it wasn’t being sent out until later- but 37 is certain that someone should have come for it by now…

Perhaps it had gotten a complaint. 37 has no idea what for (the guests it had stayed with seemed pleased) but it’s always a possibility. Even if that was the case, it’s never been punished before without being told first. Maybe it didn’t do anything. For a brief moment it wishes it had a mirror before decided that it would rather not see itself.

37 decides in that moment that it won’t panic. Good pets don’t panic and it cannot afford to be bad any more than it has.

Breathe steady. In, and out. Good pets don’t panic. Good pets don’t cry. Good pets don’t move or make noise unless asked.

It’s definitely been too long now. Was something bad happening? Nothing ever happened before that required its schedule to be delayed so far… No. This was definitely 37’s fault. It just hates thinking about the only idea it has left of how.

Good pets don’t panic. Good pets don’t move or make noise unless asked.

Knowing the rules is important. When 37 needs to calm down, it repeats the things it knows for sure in its head over and over and over… and what it knows are the rules.

Good pets do not cry. Good pets don’t feel ungrateful. Good pets aren’t ugly.

37 tries desperately to see the reflection of its face in the metallic doorknob of the closet door but the light from under the door only gives it a faint view of the distorted and blurry image. There is still light under the door. Somewhere, 37 hears talking. Maybe they forgot about it? That idea feels unlikely compared to the alternative. The people who work here don’t usually make those kinds of mistakes.

You make mistakes often.

It knows that it’s not a good pet but it’s sure that it hadn’t done anything wrong the previous night. It wishes it could think of something that it did, anything at all would be better than the uncertainty.

Good pets aren’t ugly.

37 doesn’t want to think about what it knows anymore. It isn’t helping. It strains its eyes to see the dark reflection of its face, stretched wide and grotesque on the spherical golden surface of the door knob. It tries to imagine it without what it knows is just distortion from the shape but even in a normal mirror it knows how disgusting it would look. How unattractive. How useless.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck

37 isn’t supposed to panic. Panicking is bad. It already decided it won’t panic and if it can’t even follow through on that decision then it certainly doesn’t deserve all that it has been given-

It’s crying now. It can’t stop. Why has nobody come for it? It’s been in here for hours! Is it really that bad?

————

The hours pass by. 37 can take the isolation; it’s gotten much better at it. The thing it can’t take is the uncertainty. When the door opens unexpectedly (part of it didn’t expect it ever to open again) 37 is lying on its side, completely out of position.

Fuck fuck no-

“I- I’m sorry, sir.” It scrambles to its knees and tries its best to stop shaking. Was its tone off? Or is its voice just unbearable and unattractive?

The supervisor, who wasn’t looking in the first place, awkwardly taps the top of its head in case it didn’t already have its attention.

“What? Yeah, whatever, c’mon. Up.”

The pet slowly rises halfway itself and is assisted by the supervisors’ hand in its hair for the rest.

What is happening? Was that the punishment? Is it over? Will they tell me? Is it the next day?

It focuses on its posture and keeping composure as it follows the man to the showers. This confuses 37; it had showered and been fed already. Maybe there really was a mistake?

“Go. In.” The supervisor says, slightly annoyed after a moment of 37 just standing silently.

“I- uh- I was already showered and fed before punishment, sir. Would you like me to again?” It asks, almost flinching immediately upon hearing its own tone. 37 has never been good at keeping its voice right when asking questions; it didn’t have to do it often.

“What? Just go in. Do I have to spell it out for you?” The supervisor (who was looking at his phone by the time 37 had even opened its mouth) says, clearly frustrated. He puts his hand on the pet’s back and walks toward the shower, pushing it in.

“W-wait, sorry, sir-“ 37 stammers, panicking at the thought of getting its clothes all wet. It quickly strips them off and turns on the shower, not wanting to make him any more upset. The supervisor waits at the other side of the room as it washes itself and dries off.

“Would you like me dressed, sir?” It asks (much more carefully this time) after finishing, standing dry before him. It focuses on keeping its face even and neutral. Good pets don’t show negative emotion while serving.

“Just boxers.” He says casually as he pushes off from the wall he was leaning on. “Come on.”

It follows him once again back out into the prep room. The room is empty aside from a prep worker and a couple of staff members talking on the other side. Maybe it had been reserved in advanced? That would explain much of the strangeness, but 37 doesn’t want to get its hopes up. This could be something much, much worse.

That’s when it sees the simple thin white t-shirt and boxers draped over the side of the seat it’s being led to.

Good pets do not panic.

————

“Please-“ it sobs, long since having abandoned the will to stop itself from begging. “Please, I- I- I- I can be useful, I- I- I can still be good, I j-just need-“ it pleads, stopping abruptly when it sees its reflection in the mirror. It puts its face in its hands to cry.

Don’t look. Dont look.

It doesn’t know why it shouldn’t look; it makes no difference. Part of it still hopes.

“Quiet now,” the prep staff member says carefully, trying to be soothing. She runs her fingers through its hair. “Do your breathing.”

It forces itself to breathe. In, out. It’s fucked up and it knows this. It fucked up bad. If it had any chance of convincing them before (which it didn’t), it’s lost it by now with this display of incompetence.

“I- I- I can’t g-go- I can’t!” It accidentally blurts out as the prep working grabs the shirt and boxers.

“Shhh. Stay quiet now, you’re not going,” she lies as she hands them to the pet to put on. 37 tries to stop thinking. It shouldn’t be doing that so much anyways.

“Have him ready in five for pictures,” a man with a clipboard says from the doorway. 37 hadn’t seen him enter. He looks the pet up and down. “We’ll just wait to walk him out.”

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Chapter 12 of JACKPOT! (Masterlist)

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CW: Institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, self hatred including regarding appearance, dubcon, starvation whump, shitty writing, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so be warned please yall know the drill

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37 has been thinking a lot lately, and that is not good. It shouldn’t have the time, it should be busy being useful; but it’s been left alone more and more often lately. Despite having an abundance of time to wonder, it still hasn’t figured out the exact reason. Knowing things isn’t what it’s good at.

37 knows that it isn’t good; It’s hardly attractive enough to be wanted by anyone, and its behavior only makes things worse. Even knowing this, some part of it had hopes that it could hold out indefinitely. It should know better.

The door to the room opens behind it and the guest who it was currently staying with enters. 37 doesn’t know where he had gone, but it’s been several hours of agonizing solitude and it immediately rises to its feet upon seeing him.

“Hello, sir, may I-“ it begins as it steps closer and into his way without thinking, earning it a quick shove to the side.

“Not now.” The man says, annoyed.

37 returns to its knees ashamed. It had gotten too excited. After a while of silently going about his business and a change of clothes, the guest leaves again without a word to 37. This is how it had been for the two days it’s been staying with the man (who it still hadn’t figured out the name of). The first day he had left it alone in the room all day while going out, and today has thus far been the same.

The pet’s stomach rumbles, causing it a brief moment of panic before remembering that there isn’t anyone around to hear it. The reminder of that somehow only makes the feeling worse. 37 had last eaten 3 days ago (it’s been keeping count), which is much longer than it is used to. The day prior to being booked it was being punished for something it could hardly remember (just another mistake to add to the mountain gradually piling on top of it). Usually during longer stays it would be fed by the housekeeping staff, but this guest didn’t seem to want them coming in. 37 could still feel the way it’s stomach has dropped as the man muttered something about them “going through his shit” while placing the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the doorknob.

37 catches itself almost dozing off. It quickly stands up (without permission) and makes its way to the sink in the bathroom. It cups some water in its hands and drinks it slowly in hopes of easing the constant nausea. It doesn’t help.

Its face is ugly. This information isn’t new, but 37 always feels the same sting when it sees itself in the mirror. It doesn’t understand what exactly it is about it that’s wrong, but it knows. There’s a reason that it’s being booked alongside rooms rather than separately out in the casino lately; 37’s performance is awful. The only way they can get anybody to want it is as a package deal. It runs its fingers lightly over the faint burn scar on its neck. 37 knows how lucky it is that this one is so small and hard to notice. It has other scars, of course, mostly from before its time at the hotel. More visible scars. Thankfully not enough to make it completely unsellable, as they’re easy to cover. It forces itself to return to the floor where it belongs, fighting the urge to torment itself further at the mirror. The water wasn’t helping much anyways.

It’s probably been hours since he left. It appears to still be light outside the window. It’ll probably be alone for hours more. 37 would cry if it wasn’t so focused on its hunger and exhaustion. Stay still, stay awake, breathe. Its objective is simple, although that never seemed to stop it from failing before.

————

Any relief it would feel is almost entirely drowned out by the immense guilt as the housekeeping lady pulls a plastic bowl from the cleaning cart and fills it with the bland kibble. It glances at the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, now moved from its place on the door knob and placed (not so) inconspicuously on the TV stand.

“Eat up, sweetie.” The lady says, drawing its attention back to the food that it doesn’t deserve. Permission is permission.

37 eats quickly, too quickly almost, finishing before the housekeeper even has the time to finish tidying up. This gave it more than enough time to feel the shame crushing it as she organized and cleaned up the guest’s things against his wishes.

Bad pet. Bad, disgusting, hideous-

“Oh, you must be hungry,” says the housekeeper, noticing the already empty bowl and adding a bit more. “Go ahead.” She says, probably noticing its (ungrateful) stare.

“Thank you, ma’am.” It manages to say quietly. The act of kindness somehow only amplifies its dread. 37’s nausea does not go away.

————

That night the guest returns late, and seems annoyed to find the room clean. He notices the small sign that was supposed to be on the door and grabs it, turning to 37.

“Did you move this?”

Every voice in its head screams at it to tell the truth, to admit it and accept whatever punishment it deserves.

“No, sir.”

“Mm.” He grumbles as he tosses it to the side, requiring no further convincing.

37 cries when he uses it that night, but it is quiet enough to go unnoticed by the guest. At least it’s good at that.

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Chapter 14 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

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CW: Excessive use of semicolons, institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, dubcon, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so be warned please

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It’s easy for 37 to remember the first few days it spent at the hotel. Remembering important things is the easiest, and important things don’t happen very much. The days it remembers between now and then are few and far between. It doesn’t like to remember things; it doesn’t have much to remember, and the feeling of realizing that is not good.

The first few days had been scary. First days are always scary. 37 remembers knowing that despite not remembering the specifics of how it learned. Even through the drip, important things are the easiest to remember.

The drip.

37 really doesn’t like to think about that either. It’s tried, once or twice, to remember it’s life before it. Trying to reach through that fog feels impossible, and more importantly it feels wrong. Even so, its presence is bothersome. It doesn’t know why the thought of not having access to the other side of that cloud is so upsetting, but thinking about it too hard is always a bad idea. Thinking too hard in general is a bad idea. 37 knows it isn’t supposed to think; those awful feelings are just built in punishments.

The pet curls up in the darkness of the storage closet. If it stops thinking then it can only feel, and this is not a good feeling. A rock and a hard place. It doesn’t know where it’s heard that saying before. It doesn’t know anything.

Bad pet.

Being alone is the worst feeling. Romantics aren’t made to be alone, they’re made to be used and to be touched and to be held and-

37 starts crying. Fuck. It can’t stop itself. It doesn’t know what it’s doing wrong; lately every decision it’s made has been the wrong one. It just feels so alone, even when it isn’t. It can’t figure out why.

Nobody loves you.

That thought makes it cry harder. If it ever deserved to be loved, its first master wouldn’t have gotten rid of it in the first place. It’s always been bad. And for the past few weeks (months?) it’s been even worse. It’s been unsatisfying in bed, responding slow to orders, and zoning out more and more. It’s been struggling to get booked more and more often each night. The hotel has recently brought in a few new pets. They’re all used, but they’re younger. Prettier. In better condition. 37 is not in good condition. Nothing lasts forever.

————

Today is hot. Every day is hot, this time of year. Angel is used to heat; it’s not the first time he’s been sent outside. Thank fuck for the shade, he could only imagine master’s reaction if he let himself get sunburnt. Even so, it wouldn’t be a very good punishment if the shade made things too much better. The Arizona sun makes the air feel like the inside of an oven.

Angel knows he deserves it; that doesn’t make the feeling any less crushing. He can go a day by himself, the loneliness is bad but he’s used to master going to work during the week. The heat is another story entirely; almost as bad as the guilt.

His eyes return to the small cut on his hand from cleaning up the glass. During sex in the morning master had pushed him against a wall, where he had accidentally knocked down a picture frame while trying to steady himself. The mistake was entirely avoidable, had he not been caught so off guard he would have moved more carefully.

Don’t make excuses.

Master was angry when he finished. If anything, Angel is lucky he wasn’t punished harder. Being sent to the yard in the heat is bad, but by far not the most painful punishment. More importantly, it won’t leave any ugly scars or marks.

What it does do is force Angel to make the difficult decision of whether to try to keep his mind off of the feeling of the heat by thinking, or vice versa. A rock and a hard place. Master likes those kind of punishments.

It isn’t long before he hears a voice from the door. Master can’t stay mad for more than a few hours; he loves him. Angel is relieved to finally have something comforting to think about.

Master still loves me.

After all, he wouldn’t keep him around if he didn’t.

————

The door opens, filling the closet with light. Is it already time? Maybe it dozed off…

“Up.” The voice of the supervisor cuts through its thoughts like a knife, almost as jarring as it is relieving. 37 stands shakily before the supervisor’s hand yanks it forward by the hair.

“C’mon, we don’t got all day,” he says, annoyed. The pet blinks as it fixes its posture and walk, adjusting to the light of the prep room. A few other pets are being prepared for the shift already. After some time of waiting it’s given a bowl of food and some water which it most certainly doesn’t deserve.

“Thank you, sir.” It says, injecting as much gratitude into its tone as it possibly can. It gets washed and changed as efficiently as it can. Today will be better.

Afterwards, it sits down in the only chair in the building that it has the privilege of sitting in as the prep lady immediately starts work on its hair and makeup. Being prepped is almost… relaxing. It’s easier to turn off its brain when it has a stream of commands and cues to follow, even if they’re short and simple.

37’s brain is abruptly turned back on when it hears a conversation behind it. Bad pet. It tries not to listen but it can’t stop itself.

“…with the new batch, probably gonna cut two or three in the next couple weeks. Some of the older ones are pulling in complaints.”

“Well we already have a good buyback deal on 2302, but I haven’t looked into any of the others. Some of them already got re-wiped before we got them so I doubt we’ll get something like that again,”

“I’ll talk to Donna about setting one or two up for the raffle, last time we got…” The conversation drifts out of earshot.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Breathe.

“Turn your head, sweetie,”

37 turns its head. It can hardly feel the prep lady’s hands on its face as it forces itself not to breathe too fast.

In, out.

They’re cutting back. 37 knows what happens to pets that aren’t useful; to pets that are ugly, disobedient, worthless, shaky and off balance, to pets who think too much-

The hand on its chin turns its head the other way. Do not cry. Do not panic.

The cacophony of the casino floor barely registers as the pet begins serving drinks to guests. It tries its hardest to be noticeable but non intrusive. Nobody wants it. Why would they? It’s defective.

There’s no reason to keep around something that nobody wants. 37 forces itself not to think about that anymore.

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Chapter 17 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

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CW: institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, implied dubcon, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so if you’ve made it this far you know what you’re in for

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The past several hours have been a blur of confusion and fear. 37 had been absolutely sure it was being sent back; there had been no doubt in its mind. Few things ever end up quite how it expects. Within an hour of being prepped for what it had assumed to be the trip back to the WRU, it had its fear replaced with an entirely new kind of fear.

37 doesn’t know how to behave with a new owner. Romantics are supposed to be perfect for their owners; 37 is not perfect. 37 is used. Nobody wants a second- no, thirdhand romantic. Especially such a damaged one. It had grown used to serving people it knows nothing about. People who know nothing about it. What if it isn’t equipped to properly serve one master anymore? It’s important that it can learn what its master wants, what works and what doesn’t for him. Will he get it retrained? That idea almost causes its composure to slip. The thought of going back there fills it with dread.

Those thoughts swirled in its head all through the night as it was told about the raffle and eventually signed off to a very drunk man. The thoughts were so loud that it could hardly pay attention to what was actually happening. Thankfully its new master was too inebriated to pay attention to it. After he brought it to the room and promptly passed out, the night stretched on forever and 37 didn’t sleep almost at all.

There was another man with its master who went to sleep too. 37 wondered if it would belong to both of them, or if they were just friends. At one point, it got up when everyone was sleeping to check itself in the mirror. It didn’t look for very long before deciding not to think about it anymore. Not to think at all anymore.

Some things can’t be fixed with training.

The morning was much more eventful, yet equally terrifying. Its master had woken along with his friend and talked extensively with him. It wasn’t long before two more men entered the room and joined them.

Good pets do not eavesdrop. Good pets do not think.

It does its best to stay as detached as possible until it is talked to directly. It’s a good way to stay safe from doing something wrong, and much easier. What it should be doing is paying attention to his mannerisms, trying to figure out how best to talk to him and make him feel good. But it isn’t against the rules to do nothing, and 37 does not want to think anymore.

Just breathe.

“…giving it back or something while we’re here. I doubt I’ll be able to get it on the plane tomorrow anyways, they need their own tickets.” Its new master says exasperatedly, the words immediately cutting through the fog in the pet’s head.

He doesn’t want you. He just wants to get rid of you. Nobody wants to fuck a damaged, used, hideous pet. Nobody wants you.

Its composure almost slips, but it stops itself from begging. Thankfully, nobody seems to notice it’s off-rhythm breathing. Any chance that it might have of changing his mind will go out the window the moment it begs or lets them see its perfect composure slip. It forces its breathing back into rhythm and fixes its posture.

Now that it’s started, it can’t force itself to stop paying attention to the conversation. The men go back and forth with master about names for a moment. Its master is looking at his phone, not paying attention.

That’s good.

Attention is bad right now, 37 knows this. Although part of it is growing more upset that he hasn’t shown any interest.

Good pets love their owners. He has no obligation to love you.

After a while its owner decides to leave with the others, while one of the men agrees to stay behind and look into returning the pet. 37 puts all of its focus into not moving as they talk. It gets a strange urge to cry as it watches its new master walk out the door without having addressed it directly once. It tries to love him anyway.

————

Alex isn’t really sure how to talk to the pet. What do they have to talk about? He supposes the point of talking in the first place is to find out. He slowly re-enters the room after allowing the others to leave. The pet still hasn’t moved, sitting on its knees in the same pose. As he enters the room, the pets eyes meet his.

Why hasn’t he moved? It takes a moment before he manages to come up with something to say.

“Uh, hello. I’m Alex.” He says after a moment. “Do you have a name?”

Was that a stupid question? Jackson had already told him that they ‘don’t have names’; but what if he does?

“No, sir.”

Well shit, I guess he really doesn’t. What the hell is he supposed to say to that? How is he even supposed to address him?

“Oh,” he says, trying not to sound too disappointed. “Is there like, something I can call you? What do they call you here?” The pet looks unsure what to say for a moment.

“My ID number is 3-7-2-3-6-1-0, sir.” He says, extending an arm to show a barcode on his wrist.

Holy shit. They fucking barcode them?? There’s no way he’s going to remember that number. The way he repeated it so flawlessly was unnerving. There’s no way they actually call him that.

“I have no preference for names, sir.” He adds after a brief pause.

“Well it’s nice to meet you.” Alex hopes to sound half as polite as the pet did, which was way too polite. This is all so strange. “You don’t have to sit there, y’know. You can sit on the bed or something.”

The pet responds almost immediately.

“My master hasn’t asked me to move, sir.”

“He won’t care,” Alex replies quickly, trying to sound confident. “He doesn’t mind that kind of thing.” In theory this is true.

“I’m fine here, sir.”

Right. He’s not supposed to listen to me. Alex hadn’t expected him to be this obedient, to the point of refusing to listen to him. The thought that this man, this human being, is Gage’s property makes him sick to his stomach.

“Are you okay?” He asks without thinking beforehand at all. He would think that’s a normal question to ask, but the behavior of everyone else today has started to make him feel like it isn’t. “I mean, do you like… want this?” He adds, to be more specific. The look on the pet’s face is indecipherable. He has no clue what to expect.

“Pets don’t have wants, sir.” He replies after a moment, more monotone than before.

What the fuck.

————

The conversation didn’t last very long after that. Alex had no clue how to respond, and to be honest being in the room was making him more uncomfortable by the second. After a quick “Oh, okay” he retreated to his room.

The WRU website is not making things much better. The information page for ‘Romantic’ pets is even worse. Why the fuck would anyone want this? He can’t seem to get that thought out of his head. Alex knows the lengths people can go to for a weird sex thing, but something about this just feels very different. That guy does not look happy.

He peaks through the door to the other room (which he had left open). The pet still hasn’t moved. Even if Gage doesn’t plan on keeping him, someone will.

And if they don’t, this is where he ends up? The website gives almost no information on the actual living spaces they have. It does mention, however, that returns will be ‘retrained’ and potentially be resold.

Potentially. What is that supposed to mean?

There has to be an alternative.

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Chapter 7 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

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CW: Institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, VERY EXPLICIT AND VIOLENT noncon, self deprecation/demeaning, concussion, this one’s pretty violent guys, shitty writing, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so once again be warned please

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37 is tired. It isn’t sure why; it’s not particularly late and it had gotten to sleep last night. It wonders if it’s even allowed to feel tired this early… isn’t that ungrateful? It stops itself from thinking too hard about that as it carries a tray of drinks to a table, breathing perfectly in rhythm.

It didn’t seem to catch the eye of anyone at the table (frustratingly), so it turns to continue making the rounds. As it walks, it feels a sudden pain as it’s grabbed by the hair by someone behind it. It shifts its weight, allowing itself to be tugged back easily.

“How can I help you, sir?” It asks, regaining its composure flawlessly. Perfect.

“Well aren’t you a pretty thing..” says the man who is now looking it in the eye, grabbing its chin. Finally, someone interested. He is relatively tall, and younger than a lot of the men that usually rent 37. He’s got a look in his eyes as he looks it over that is vaguely familiar to the pet, although it can’t place exactly where from.

It allows itself to be easily dragged along, handing the empty drink tray to another pet who went out of its way to pass the two. 37 is grateful for the touch- even if he’s rough, at least he’s helping it stay focused. Another easy night.

————

37 had been tired before, but now it was exhausted. The night had gone on longer than it expected- much longer. The guest, who had barely even spoken to it, had hardly been through the door when he began using it. 37 was used to this, and of course took it well even though he was much more rough with it than most guests. After finishing he had simply shoved it to the side, and not long later he was out the door again. 37 had been hoping for a chance to rest afterwards, but reminds itself to be grateful anyways as it cleans up in the room’s bathroom.

There are bruises forming on its hips where he had grabbed it… Don’t think about that. They’ll fade quickly, it’s sure of that. The guests know they aren’t supposed to leave permanent damage, it’ll be fine. 37 kneels quietly when it’s done, taking a moment to perfect its position. The man hadn’t said where he was going, but he could return at any moment. Please come back soon…

The room was one of the larger ones. 37 wonders if the man has a lot of money. His suit had seemed quite nice too, before he had removed it.

Suddenly, after an indeterminate amount of time (37 wouldn’t allow itself to sit facing the clock) the door unlocks and swings open. The guest strides in, looking more manic excited than before. He seems to ignore the pet, whose gaze follows him across the room as he approaches his bag next to a table. He spends a moment doing something over the table with his back to 37, before leaning down and snorting something. Did he just snort a line? 37 has no idea how it even knows what that is, but feels guilty for accusing the man of such a thing.

“…fuck!” exclaims the guest (who had undoubtedly just did a line of cocaine on the table) as he stands straight. He turns to the pet unexpectedly, almost causing it to flinch. He has a hungry look in his eyes. Again? It’s already so tired…

“C’mere,” he says, gesturing to it. It stands and quickly approaches, slipping back into the seductive routine. Before it could open its mouth he was undoing his zipper and roughly grabbing its hair to yank its head downward. It suppresses a yelp (not from pain; more so surprise) as it quickly fixes its position and gets to its knees.

He had hardly even begun with its mouth when he grabs it suddenly and pulls it upwards, slamming its back against the wall. Won’t that wake other guests? He grabs its neck as he begins to thrust. 37 isn’t used to this- won’t this leave more bruises? It tries not to think about that, instead focusing on repressing the urge to raise its hands to its neck. He pulls a hand away briefly to slap it in the face, groaning. 37 tries to gasp from the pain but can’t. It puts its hands on the man’s hips to give them something to do as it struggles to get air in.

It’s too much- it can’t breathe at all now. This is too much I can’t breathe I can’t breathe-

Its hands shoot up to its neck as its vision blurs, trying desperately to get the man to let go. He thrusts into it painfully; it’s much more difficult for it to ignore the pain than usual. It lifts a leg and tries to kick him away, now acting purely on instinct.

The man steps back as 37 kicks him and it collapses to the floor, losing balance. It gasps, struggling to pull in enough air. Fuck. Fuck- this is bad this is very very bad-

“The fuck are you doing?!” The man yells angrily. 37 flinches hard, whimpering. No no no please I didn’t mean to-

“..I-“

Its pathetic attempt at speech is cut off almost instantly by a kick to the ribs, which immediately knocks the wind out of it again. It cries out this time, struggling to pull it air and sobbing uncontrollably. Uncontrollably- no matter how desperately it tries to be good it can’t get a hold of itself. Not only had it tried to pull his hands off of it, but it had kicked him when it failed. The guilt causes it sob harder as he grabs it by the hair and painfully forces its head up.

“You what? Say it!”

“I- I-“ it gasps, unable to think as it struggles to hyperventilate, “I’m s-sorry-“

It feels its body being lifted again, pulled to the bed which he presses its face down into.

“Stand the fuck up!” He shouts, smacking its ass. It forces its weak legs to push its lower half upwards as he holds its face down. Please no more..

37 starts to beg. It can’t hold it in- it knows it’s wrong and that it shouldn’t but it can’t take this it just can’t

“S-sir please- please n-no more-“ it sputters, muffled by the mattress as he painfully fucks it. This is too much it’s all too much.

He pulls it back (had he even finished?), forcing it to stand on its now weak legs. 37 feels like it might shatter into a million pieces as the man shouts something that it can’t even discern amongst the cacophony of lights and sound that has become of the hotel room which had previously felt so quiet. It feels him shove it backwards, and its legs immediately give out from under it.

Everything goes dark as the back of 37’s head hits the edge of the table.

————

37 couldn’t stop crying. The supervisors had told it to already but it just couldn’t. Or won’t. Bad pet.

It manages to at least be quiet about it as it sits on the edge of the table. It is grateful to have not been taken to a hospital after such an already painful night; It isn’t sure that it could handle any more, especially knowing what will undoubtedly come later.

You kicked a guest. You pulled away. You begged him to stop. You’re a bad pet.

37 was going to be punished. Even without taking into account the fact that its damages might lower its value, it had acted unspeakably.

The sob it was holding in pushes its way out, thankfully not tooloudly. The two supervisors in front of it have been talking for several minutes, and the pet has tried its absolute best not to eavesdrop. It wouldn’t want to listen even if it was allowed; it had heard the words ‘value’ and ‘damages’ multiple times already, and it wants to do everything in its power not to vomit right then and there.

“…yeah, right on the back. Honestly we’re probably lucky he didn’t die right then and there.” One of them says with a frustrated sigh. The other turns and looks at 37’s pathetic form, shaking in place. He whistles to get its attention.

“Come here, boy.” he says, as if to a dog. 37 shakily drops from the table, ignoring the shooting pain in its legs and its head and everywhere else. It barely makes it 3 steps before the room spins violently and it trips on its own feet, falling painfully to the floor. Neither of the supervisors make a move to catch it.

Why had it fallen? Its legs are weak, but it can walk- it knows it can walk. There is never an excuse for imperfection. It slowly stands again, aided by the hand of one of the supervisors pulling on its collar.

“Come on, take it easy.” He says, pulling it along with them out of the small room and down the hall. They continue talking, and 37 focuses instead on the usually laborious task of keeping its balance.

“…I’ll talk to Jan about it tomorrow, but we’re definitely gonna have to lower his listing for good if he’s really badly concussed. He’s been pretty high for longer than they usually stay anyways, so I guess-“

37’s body is shoved into the dark closet that it hadn’t noticed it was being led to absentmindedly by the supervisor dragging it along. The door closes, leaving it in darkness and cutting off the conversation that it had caught itself listening to.

37 doesn’t bother begging. It doesn’t deserve anything else. It curls up in the dark closet, crying quietly and repeating training phrases in its head to distract itself.

Good pets do not beg. Good pets do not cry. Good pets do not want anything other than what is given. Good pets take it properly.

You are not a good pet.

————

Chapter 11 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

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CW: Institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, self deprecation/demeaning, referenced dubcon, shitty writing, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so be warned please yall know the drill

————

“Okay, now roll over.”

37 does its best to roll over on the floor with as much grace as is possible, unused to such requests. The boy (who 37 had learned is named ‘Jason’) seems slightly amused from his vantage point atop the bed. When he had decided to stay back at the hotel room with the pet while his parents went to the hot tub downstairs, 37 had hoped it would be much easier to please him on his own than all 3 at once. It was wrong.

“Do you know any other tricks?” He asks, apparently unable to think of any more himself. The pet is unsure how to respond; it isn’t trained to amuse teenagers, and for obvious reasons hadn’t interacted with any in as long as it can remember.

“…No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Well you’re not a very good dog then.” He says casually, leaning back onto the bed and looking at his phone. Despite not being a dog, 37 can’t help but shrink slightly at his words. Bad.

“I… I’m not a dog, sir.” It says, immediately regretting it. It had hoped that clarifying would help him understand why it was so incapable of behaving properly, but realized immediately that it shouldn’t be speaking at all. Bad pet. Its been slipping up more and more lately…

“Close enough,” Jason replies, not bothering to look up from his phone.

37 doesn’t know what to think or how to feel. The past day and a half has been torturously confusing and difficult to navigate. It felt useless most of the time, and when it was actually being given commands they were strange. 37 is reminded how easy it usually has it; all a romantic needs to do is make people feel good and take what it’s given. It knows how to do that. The pet reminds itself that this simply isn’t what it’s for, that it was never trained to serve families… but the guilt remains.

It can’t help but wonder why they haven’t sent it back yet. Clearly neither of the parents are interested in its (hideous) body, and what little service it has provided so far surely hasn’t been worth the trouble of suffering its presence. The boy’s mother did seem to like it though, and 37 almost got the impression that she was using this as an opportunity to sway her husband into buying the family a similar pet. That thought brings it a strange sort of pride before it reminds itself not to think so much about people’s business.

“So,” Jason randomly begins, interrupting 37’s never ending stream of anxiety. “Do you know any games?”

Games? It had never been asked anything like that before. Is it supposed to know games?

“No, sir.” It replies. Another disappointing answer. Jason pulls his bag up from the side of the bed, pulling out a small board. A chessboard. 37 doesn’t remember where it’s seen one before, but it recognizes it.

“Not even chess?” He asks. 37 isn’t sure. “I can show you how. Dad likes to play with me but I can never beat him.” He says as he sets the board up on the table in the corner of the room.

Is this allowed? Pets don’t play games, it isn’t what they’re for, but the boy seems to want it to. Maybe it’s something that domestics do? 37 knows better than to decline regardless.

“I… know how to play, sir.” It says, sensing an opportunity to please the boy. It can’t be wrong if it was asked to play.

It makes its way to the table where it stands, not allowed to sit. It stares at the now fully set up board, and to its continued surprise it remembers how the pieces move.

“Good. I’ll go first.”

————

Jason was not very good at chess, although 37 would never say that. The pet watches as he blunders a bishop without realizing it. It has no idea when it had played before, but the game comes naturally to it. It feels easy. There are right moves, and there are bad moves… it’s good at understanding which are which. It’s almost like a simple version of real life.

37s fingers hover over the knight that it could use to take the boy’s bishop, but quickly move to advance a pawn instead. Not the optimal move, but 37 wouldn’t dare actually beat him at the game.

Even though I could.

“Shit, you could’ve taken my bishop,” he says, noticing way too late as he stares at the board. He makes another move that the pet immediately clocks as a mistake (which it refuses once again to take advantage of).

The door to the room opens as the boy’s parents return, setting down their bags and towels.

“What are you two up to?” His father asks, looking over at the board.

“Chess. He sucks, we played three times and I won all of them.” Jason says as he makes another move towards the checkmate that 37 has been setting up for him.

“Well it’s not exactly fair, is it.” The father chuckles as he opens his laptop.

The game ends fairly quickly after that, with Jason growing bored and returning to his phone soon after. Part of 37 wishes he would play again, but pets don’t want things.

That night, it lays awake on the floor and feels relieved that the weekend was almost over. It feels guilty for feeling relieved.

————

Chapter 18 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

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CW: institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, implied dubcon, people who suck, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so if you’ve made it this far you know what you’re in for

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Gage seems taken aback for a moment.

“Why?”

“I just… want to buy him”. Alex isn’t sure how to best explain it without sounding ridiculous. It doesn’t sound ridiculous, does it? “I just- I just wanted to. Will you sell him to me?”

“I didn’t think you were into that sort of thing.” Gage says, his tone still genuinely surprised.

“It’s not about that!” Alex exclaims, already exasperated.

“Then what is it about?”

“I- look, can you sell him to me or not? I’ll pay whatever the WRU would.” He asks after a pause, clearly unwilling to explain further. I don’t think he’d get it. Gage clearly still doesn’t understand what this is all about.

“Ok, yeah, fine.” Part of Alex still isn’t thrilled at the thought of dropping so much money on this, but he knows this is more important than that.

“What’s happening?” Eric asks as he enters from the other room, followed by Jackson.

Fuck. They’ll understand if I explain it.

————

37 feels sick to its stomach. Part of it is due to the lack of food- it hasn’t been fed in a while, how long exactly it isn’t sure. The other part is due to the scene unfolding a few feet away, around the corner in the other room.

Good pets dont eavesdrop.

37 isn’t a very good pet, and it can no longer stop itself from thinking as it hears the man who had bombarded it with strange questions just an hour before offer to buy it from its new owner. The thought of changing hands again so soon is terrifying; he would be its fourth owner. Four is too many. Maybe if an owner doesn’t even use the pet it doesn’t count? 37 doesn’t know enough to be sure. Regardless, the thought of being sold before even really interacting with its master is disheartening in a new kind of way. Even damaged goods can get acknowledged; does it at least deserve that?

No.

The answer should be obvious. 37 doesn’t deserve anything. It reminds itself of this often. The two men talk for several minutes discussing prices. Its potential new owner- Alex- sounds very adamant. It doesn’t know what to make of that. He had offered to pay the same as the WRU, so there’s no way he just plans on sending it in… which means he must have some other reason. Something 37 doesn’t know.

Paying attention is becoming harder now as the panic slowly spreads throughout it. This is too much. It’s all too much. 37 diverts all of its effort to breathing, keeping its rhythm the way it’s supposed to. In, out. Don’t listen. Whatever happens, happens. Good pets don’t think.

37 hears the conversation becoming heated. The other two men had already joined in by now.

“…and I don’t want him to end up somewhere worse! Maybe I’m not the fucking weird one for wanting to help someone!” Alex’s voice is getting louder. The pet barely even registers what he’s actually talking about. He sounds frustrated and angry. That’s not good.

It wants to cry. It’s wanted that more in the past 48 hours than it has in a long time, but now especially. 37 doesn’t know how to behave properly anymore. Good pets Love their owners, and 37 hasn’t had to love anyone in a long time. Even if it was properly trained and prepared again, 37 is just bad. It knows that no matter who it ends who with, no matter what their intentions are it won’t be long before they realize what’s wrong with it and then it’ll all be over. That’s probably what happened last time.

“Hey,” Alex’s voice reminds it of where it is.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck

It’s crying. It didn’t even realize. It does its best to regain composure, but he definitely notices.

“Uh- I’ve gotta make a couple phone calls and get this all sorted out, but you’re gonna come with me. Is- is that okay?” He asks. He obviously saw the tears. For a brief moment 37 wishes it could die on the spot; but that would probably be incredibly inconvenient for its new owner anyways. It nods after a moment (too long).

“Of course, sir.” It manages to keep its voice level. Its first interaction with its second new master of the day and it’s already ruined it. Judging by his reaction, he likely has some other plans for 37 in mind. If he was buying it for himself this behavior wouldn’t be tolerated.

“Okay.” He responds, a bit awkwardly before returning to the other room to do whatever it is he needs to. Meanwhile, the world collapses in on itself with 37 in the middle. The room is swaying back and forth like it sometimes does when things go very bad. This is going to be the end- he’s going to get rid of it somehow. 37 is too stupid to figure out exactly how.

Bad pet. Stupid. Ugly. Useless.

It doesn’t want to try. It just wants to be far away. It turns its eyes to the window and to the beautiful sky that would stretch on forever and ever if it wasn’t abruptly cut off by the tops of buildings. 37 wishes it could be beautiful too.

————

Chapter 8 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

Previous - Next

CW: Institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, self deprecation/demeaning, vertigo, somebody said ‘dead dove do not eat’ LMAO, shitty writing, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so be warned please

————

Something is very wrong with 37. In a way this is something that it has known for a long time; it never would have been damaged so badly in the first place if it was the perfect pet that it’s supposed to be. 37 has always had bad thoughts- disobedient urges, ungrateful thoughts, wants. Tha fact eats away at it, causing it immense guilt. It knows that deep down it’s defective and bad. Regardless, it always does its best to conceal these defects and make sure that they don’t cause it to misstep, a task which it has obviously failed miserably.

But this is different. Now something is physically wrong with it- it’s broken.

Not broken. Damaged.

37 has to remind itself of that fact repeatedly to avoid panicking. Just damaged. It can and will be fixed. It has to be.

“Come.”

The pet takes a shaky step forward, towards the supervisor. It begins walking as confidently as it can manage, maintaining the perfect grace that had been trained into it so well. It breathes in and out perfectly on time as it walks, attractive and confident but not cocky. Perfect.

And then the floor tilts.

37’s arms shoot out ungracefully to shield itself from the rapidly approaching floor. The supervisor watches, annoyed, as it faceplants once again. Fuck. Why is this happening? It had been perfectly fine up until the incident two nights ago, and now it’s as if it doesn’t know how to walk? Has it somehow forgotten its training? That thought sends chills down its spine.

“I- I’m sorry, ma’am,” it says with it’s voice not at all steady (not perfect), the anxiety that has been growing in its gut over the course of the day leaking into it. Fuckup after fuckup. The supervisor sighs.

“Just get up.”

It pushes itself up carefully, immediately returning to the spot she had designated as the starting point earlier with (thankfully) little dizziness. It breathes. In, and out. Perfect.

“Walk.”

It begins slower than usual (not the proper speed, but better than nothing). One foot in front of the other. It focuses on the feeling of the not so soft carpet beneath its feet. Easy. Its mind flashes back to the hours of training it took to get it to walk correctly; how could it have forgotten that? The form still comes naturally to it, but whenever it least expects it…

The room spins once again, and 37 closes its eyes as it steps forward. Why does it feel like it’s balancing on a tightrope? Its legs wobble, unable to stay stable, and it stumbles slightly. Fuck.

“Again.”

“Yes ma’am.”

It decides that no matter what happens, it isn’t going to put its arms out. If that isn’t enough to motivate it not to fall, then at least it won’t break form even if only for a moment longer. It makes it about 3/4ths of the way across the room before breaking form again, even if just slightly. The supervisor puts a hand up to stop it immediately. Why is it so hard to walk the correct way?

“Eyes.” She says, and it immediately makes eye contact. She looks stern, and frustrated. Bad pet.

“How many people are going to want to stick their dick in a bruised up, wobbling mess?” She asks. It hesitates. “Tell me.”

“None, ma’am.” It responds, voice even. Keep your voice steady. Breathe.

She stares it down for a moment. “Start again. Forward and backwards this time.”

It repeats this process repeatedly for the next 15 minutes, practicing. A few times it actually manages to keep its form perfect (or good enough) the whole way across and back, but every so often that dizzying sensation returns and it becomes impossible to behave itself.

Not impossible; you’re just not good enough.

Not once does 37 show its desire to break down into tears on its face. Its face is something that the pet still feels it has full control over, and it will not allow itself to misbehave further. To be any more hideous and pathetic than it already is. Than it always was. 37 continues walking.

For a while it starts to feel like it’s overcome whatever it is that was broken about it. It manages to stay perfect back and forth 6 times in a row, becoming more and more confident. Each time it performs correctly, it’s rewarded with a “good job” from the supervisor and sometimes even a pat on the head. It savors those brief moments, as the lack of touch since the incident on the night before last had been driving it closer and closer to breaking down with every passing minute. After so many months of being booked nearly every night for the past few months, it had almost forgotten the torturous feeling of being denied contact that had been so strongly instilled in it since training.

“Walk.”

It makes its way across the room confidently, perfectly. Perhaps this was all it took to get over it- but then, almost as if caused by that arrogant thought, the room violently tilts and 37 trips over its own feet. It doesn’t move its arms to shield its face when it falls.

37’s head is pounding, the returning headache that has plagued it for the past two days reawakened by the smack against the hard carpeted floor. Its nose it bleeding.

“Do you know how to walk?” The supervisor asks angrily as she tugs its face upward by its hair. She stares into its eyes, demanding a response.

“Yes ma’am-“

“Do you know how to walk?” She asks again, cutting it off. “Answer.”

“Yes ma’am.” It says, voice wavering. It wants to cry. Pets do not want.

“So you’re just doing this to fuck with me then?” She asks, clearly frustrated.

“I-“ its answer is cut off by a sharp smack to the face. It lets out a small gasp involuntarily. Ungratefully.

“Do you want to go back to training? We can send you back to learn if you really have forgotten how to act.” She threatens.

No. It’s eye widen. “N-No ma’am, I- I can walk.”

“Then why the fuck aren’t you?” She snaps. 37 doesn’t know. Being asked a question you don’t know the answer to is dangerous.

“…I’ll do better.” It says, not sure whether it’s a good enough answer. “Please, h-punish me.”

She stands up fully, rolling her eyes. “Up. Now.”

37 stands, straightening its back and fixing its position. It wonders if it’s forgotten the other positions too, if its been doing them wrong…

“Arms up.” She says. It obeys immediately, extending them forward submissively. She immediately slaps it again, before bringing an elbow hard into the large bruise on its hip left by the man who had grabbed it and later banged it against the bed frame. 37 whimpers (disobediently). The supervisors were usually rather merciful with their punishments, preferring the simple and effective method of hitting the pets over more high-effort punishments.

“I’m sorry ma’am, thank you ma’am.” It says. Take it.

“Good. Now, go back and walk.”

————

After practicing, the supervisors had once again decided it wasn’t ready for service that night. 37 tried not to show its dismay at this fact, apologizing and obediently entering the small closet once again.

It lay curled up silently as it had done the last two nights hoping, praying that whatever is broken will fix itself and that it won’t be sent back. It remembers the times it was left alone during training, and its nights spent in the closet are just a taste of that oppressive and hopeless loneliness that suffocated it and made every touch (no matter how painful) feel like heaven in comparison… It cannot go back.

You don’t deserve retraining. They’re probably going to put you down.

37 doesn’t know if praying is allowed, but it desperately hopes that it is no matter how much it tells itself that it wants and hopes for nothing. It feels guilty for wanting mercy; it doesn’t deserve it.

————