#box babe

Paul’s alarm goes off at 6am and he slams it off, rolling out of bed. He showers thoroughly and brushes his teeth, unwilling to risk getting toothpaste on his shirt. His suit is pressed and hanging neatly in his wardrobe, and he decides to forgo the jacket today, given the weather. It's already warm and sunny and the temperature’s only set to rise.

He eyes himself critically in the mirror, straightening his shirt lapels, combing back a stray strand of hair. He smiles to himself. Today's going to be a good day, he can just feel it.

He checks his watch. Twenty minutes until his train, as always. He slings his satchel across his body and leaves the house dead on 7am.

His satchel has very little in it, really. He leaves his work at work, which is nice. Gives him a strict home/work divide. It has his phone, travelcard, payment cards, work ID, and a book for the journey home, when it's not the middle of the rush hour and so he can actually get a seat.

And a pen, of course. You always have to have a pen.

He’s reading Never Let Me Go by Kazuo Ishiguro at the moment. Excellent book, although the themes are maybe a bit too much, a bit political. He’ll have to share that with the book club. Finlay’s book choices are often a bit too political.

The first tube he doesn't manage to get on. The second he does, but he almost wishes he hadn't. There's no air in here, and he's stuck under someone's armpit. When it's time to disembark he can barely manage it, pushing through the throng into a station that isn't really much quieter.

Sometimes he wishes he could train some of the commuters like he does his trainees. They'd soon stop barging on the tube before he's even started disembarking.

And if any of his trainees ever dared to be so inconsiderate as to play TikTok videos without headphones...

He rolls his head around on his shoulders, trying to work the crick out of them. God, that train. He needs a good workout before he starts today.

The ten minute walk is brisk in the sun. Pounding already, and it's only going to get worse. Thank god for the cover underground brings.

Paul's workplace is a nondescript building, painted frontage, small, pleasantly-decorated foyer. It's very professional, a very personal service with their best products right on display. A far better clientele, and product, than WRU. He glances up at the sign above his head as he enters the building.

Pet Haven: Your Perfect Pet.

It's a bit much, that logo. All swirls and calligraphy and the image of handwritten perfection, silver on black. But it must be doing something for the great and good of this world because they're raking it in. Or maybe the careful sculpting to meet every customer’s greatest desires in a pet is just better than WRU’s off-the-rack occasionally-tailored style. Who's to say?

He drops a fiver in the company's latest donation boxes in the entrance, collecting for Refuge at the moment. It makes him angry, the amount of domestic abusers around, the lengths they’ll go to just to hurt and terrorise other people. The statistics in this city alone...

He straightens his lapels and adjusts his nondescript grey lanyard before crossing the foyer to the staff entrance, waving at the receptionist as he goes. He presses his finger to the reader and the lock clicks open.

The locker room is the first room he comes to, but these are for aboveground staff. Not handlers, not him. He bypasses it and takes the stairs two at a time, clearing the advanced biometrics and heading straight for the gym changing room. No sense in wasting a perfectly good shirt on this.

There's a sparse variety of staff dotted around the gym, some spotting for each other, some using rowing machines or treadmills, but Paul heads straight to the back. He grabs a leather mask, cuffs, and a punching bag, before heading over to a corner. He doesn't want to be disturbed.

He fastens the cuff around the pet’s left wrist, wrenching it up towards the ceiling and chaining it to the metal bar there. Same with the right, and the ankles go against a metal bar just raised from the floor, until the pet’s spread-eagled. He tightens the mask around their head, ensuring the fit is tight enough that they can't see or hear or make a sound. That he can't see their face. He doesn't need to see their eyes, hear their cries, he doesn't want to, he just needs to take out his frustration on something before work. At least the lack of hair makes it easier to fit it.

He wraps his hands and then he just– goes. He doesn't have that long so he focuses, pummeling, letting the tension release from his body.

Once he's finished he lets his arms drop, letting out a long, slow breath. The pet is limp now but still alive. Paul lets them down, leaving them with the rest of the used equipment.

They'll be taken care of. They're fine.

He rolls out his neck, which feels significantly better now, and does his cool-down stretches as he exits, showers, changes. That's better. Maybe now he can deal with Babygirl with his head on straight. He needs to train her firmly, sensibly, calmly, not act out of rash anger that won't benefit either of them. Hence the need for a regular workout.

He can taste the full English already, chased down by a glass of orange juice, cooked and served by a pet in their last stages of training. He heads straight for the cafeteria, chucking his dirty gym clothes in the laundry on the way, and takes a wooden tray. Pet Haven takes its environmental commitments seriously. Nothing is ever wasted, not even useless pets.

The girl smiles politely when he reaches her station.

“What can I get you, sir?”

“Full English without the tomatoes and a glass of orange juice.”

The trainee plates the dish perfectly and sets it on his tray with a little curtsey. “Anything else, sir?”

“No, that’s it.”

“The cutlery and sauces are on the table to your right. Have a nice day, sir.”

He squirts ketchup into a small wax paper cup and sets it on his tray beside the plate. They should have a pet to do this, to teach them. Maybe he’ll suggest it in the next staff survey.

His usual table is free and he sits down, spearing a hash brown on his fork. Delicious.

He looks around. There’s the usual assortment of handlers and admin staff here, neatly-dressed pets dotted around, topping up coffees and cutlery boxes, taking away empty trays and water jugs. They’re doing a good job, he has to admit. It’s like a dance.

Well. Except for the girl who just dropped a glass. The woman sitting close to her (who he thinks works in marketing but he can never quite be sure – she just has that look about her) swats her about the head with an empty tray as she bends over to pick it up, placing the shards into a probably-now-bloody napkin.

She’s in for a well-deserved punishment tonight. They’ll probably have to delay her shipping-out date too. He’s glad she’s not one of his.

As he moves onto his fried egg a shadow falls over him. Oh great.

“Can I sit here?”

He begins to growl a refusal, then recognises the voice and looks up. Grey hair, grizzled, rainbow lanyard around his neck. Hot as ever.

“John! Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“I’ve been on night shifts. No rest for the wicked, right?” They both laugh.

“Maybe you should move to WRU if you hate night shifts so much.”

John makes a face and shakes his head. “I’d have to work my way up from the bottom and I don't fancy doing that. Supervising maintenance pets? Plus, the perks are way better here. The food alone… let's just say I rarely need to buy groceries anymore.”

“And the gym. Don't forget about the gym.”

“Of course, I forgot about your love for that. How are the punching bags?”

“As functional as ever.” He drinks his orange juice in one gulp and signals for a waiter to bring him another. “Commute was hell this morning. I'm not working on my trainee tense and angry, you know that.”

“Always the professional.” John takes a swig of his coffee. Skinny latte, extra large, if Paul remembers rightly, which he should. “You could always change your hours, y’know. Avoid the rush hour. They're flexible for a reason.”

“I know, but I work better in the morning. The trainees might not know the difference but I do.”

John sighs. “I envy you. My trainee’s at that point where they need a circadian rhythm trained back into them. I wouldn't be up at this hour otherwise. It's far too early for any sane person.”

Paul brushes aside the light-hearted insult.

“How is your trainee? You’ve been with her a while now.” And Paul’s really missed his company. Moreso than he’s realised until now. Maybe he’ll be able to work up the courage to ask him out for a date soon.

“Yeah, her training was a doozy. Nearly finished now though. Provided she passes her exams she’ll be shipped out in less than a month and then I’m going on holiday. I’m thinking Florida, nothing too crazy.” He glances across at Finlay, sitting alone at their table, and Paul nods. They went hiking in the Andes or something last year. Like John says, crazy.

“Nice.”

“Thanks. Go on then. Last time I saw you, you had a new trainee lined up. Did her prospectives ever end up naming her?”

“Finally. I’m working on her now. They called her Babygirl.” He winces. It’s a godawful name. But at least it’s not too twee.

“Yeesh.”

“Yeah.”

“What do her owners want out of her?”

“Outside of enhanced positions and basic restraint training? They want someone they can take out to fancy places, galas and premieres, stuff like that. They also need to be good in bed, and, and I quote here, ‘be able to take it at both ends.’”

“So an escort then? Or whatever the pet equivalent of one is.”

“Pretty much. If escorts were dumber.” John snorts. “She’s a challenge, but she’s breaking, slowly but surely.”

“And we all know you love a challenge.” Paul nods, grinning as he spears a sausage on his fork and chews the end slowly. Yes. He’s positively relishing this one. “Oh, that reminds me. We’re holding a dinner party tomorrow evening as part of some of our trainees’ final exams. Fancy coming? Just you, not your trainee.”

“Does the pope shit in the woods? Of course I want to come.” A dinner party at the company’s expense, paid as overtime? He’d have to be mad to refuse.

(Does it count as a date? Dare he ask?)

He eats the remainder of his breakfast and stands up. “Right. I’d better get going. It’s time to see if Babygirl feels like cooperating, now she's had some time to think. Plus my new Devonte needs his induction, so I don't have all day.”

“I almost forgot how full-on you are. Enjoy.”

“Oh, you know I will.” He clicks his fingers and one of the servers comes over, head bowed, to pick up his empty tray. He thinks about tripping him, testing him, but… not today. He has better places to be. He takes a second to rate his service on the little touchscreen device by the door (4/5, she was a bit impersonal) before heading out.

He scrutinises himself in the lift mirror, trying to block out the sounds of the theoretically-soothing intrumental drifting through the speakers. He looked okay for John today, right? Yeah. Yes. He looks fine.

Even the changing rooms are underground. No windows for the rest of the day. No windows for the trainees ever, until they’re shipped out. If they’re shipped out, if they’re ever good enough.

He wonders about the ones that aren’t, sometimes. The cleaners, the bait, the launderers. Do they remember what the sky looks like? Every trainee has their memory wiped. Do they even know?

If he told Babygirl the sky was green, would she believe him?

He changes quickly into the navy polo shirt, easy-clean trousers and black waterproof trainers that are the standard uniform for all handlers, pulling out his tablet. No badges down here.

There's a few handlers gathered around the water cooler and he joins them, gulping down a paper cup of water and moving to refill it. He grins at one man in particular who appears to be wearing a bright homemade paper Happy Birthday sash over his uniform.

“Happy birthday, Martin!”

“Cheers mate. Look what my daughters made me!” He does a twirl, making Paul laugh, and shows them all a section of paper with small handprints on.

“Nice.” He finishes his second cup. Anticipation is thirsty work. “Aren't you meant to be working with your trainee today though?”

“They messed up yesterday. Freaked at the cage and wouldn't do what they were told. So now they're locked in a stress position in the cage until they learn. I have hours.” Monique raises an eyebrow. “Give ‘em an inch, they take a mile.”

“A gentler approach can work wonders, you know,” says Irene dryly.

“Only with weak, sensitive minds.”

Paul groans. “Do we have to do this every day? You both get results, we all do, that's the point.”

“Well, except when my trainee won't do position 30. Not even full sensory deprivation is getting her to do it.”

“Butt on ankles, knees spread, head tilted up, mouth open?” he asks. Monique nods. “Tie her into it until she's past the point of endurance. That's what I always do when they can't or won't. In this case posture collar, ring gag, cuffs. By the time you let her down she won't be able to think of anything but position 30.”

Irene whistles. “Damn.”

“Thanks.” He looks around. “Speaking of results, anyone have any pointers for training blinkers? Babygirl's prospective wants head harness training, including blinkers, and that's not my strong point. I mean I can use them as punishment, but they explicitly don't want that.”

Martin shrugs. “I can sit down for a chat later in the month if you like, once you've got more of a handle on Babygirl. I still owe you for sorting out that mess with Betty Ann.”

“That wasn't entirely your fault, it was a bad match from the start,” says Monique. “Bad choice of volunteer really, they should never have accepted him.”

Martin inclines his head towards her gratefully. “Anyway. Basically, you want to treat the leash like reins. Make sure it's attached well, isn't going to hurt too much since that's not what the owners want. Get a bit gag and something specifically for punishment that isn't directly related to what the owners want her to be acclimatised to, right? You know how to make trainees feel safe in cages and blindfolds, you're good at it, it's the same principle. But I'll give you some proper examples and stuff later.”

“Cheers.”

Monique looks at the clock. “Well, I think we'd all better get going. Save some cake for those of use on the night shift!”

“Depends how tasty it is.”

Monique laughs and waves.

He chucks the cup in the recycling bin and goes through the standard metal detector and pat-down, then presses his thumb and shows his iris to the biometric door pads as he strides through the corridors. You can’t be too careful. The trainees might not be very bright but even the dumbest scared animal will run when given half a chance.

Which is why no trainee can ever be given one.

The corridors are white metal, the doors white metal, black biometric pads beside them, large white panels with the room identifications written on in black above them, a smaller one under the pads with braille. He reaches #15413. Babygirl’s room. He scans his biometrics for the final time, a click, and he enters, closing the door behind him. The audio he set last night hits him, firm, not blaring, as loud as a voice inside someone’s head.

‘I am a bad pet. My owner is the only person that matters. I need to obey him in all things, that’s what makes a good pet. I am not a good pet, so I deserve punishment. I deserve this. Discipline is a necessary and humane event ensuring the continued obedience and wellbeing of a pet. I am grateful for my punishment. I am a bad pet…’

Paul turns the tape off. Babygirl flinches, or tries to, held in place.

Her legs are bent, knees on the ground, a spreader bar between them. Her wrists are attached too, pulling her arms out straight, back arched with her butt in the air, trying to get a bit of a release. It’s not working, of course it’s not, he knew it wouldn’t, he’s not an amateur. No clothes of course, she hasn’t earned them yet. Her shock collar leash is just long enough to stretch over and attach to the spreader bar, straining her neck as it’s forced upwards. The spider gag pulls her lips apart, drool running down her chin. She looks up at him with pleading, terrified eyes, filled with tears that can't quite fall. Her long curly hair frames her face, settling on the floor.

She might not be his type, the company’s careful not to do that in case of mishandling, but she’s still… something laid out like this, looking like a cornered doe whose only chance is the hunter with her head in his sights.

He crouches down in front of her.

“How goes the day, Babygirl? Do you think you can learn your positions without resisting now or do I need to leave you here for another hour?” She gasps, lips twitching, pulling at the gag. “I’m sorry?” He removes it without ceremony and she works at her mouth, trying to close it, jaw clicking at the unsuccessful attempt. “I can’t hear you.”

“Please, sir. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, please, I’ll do anything you like, I’ll learn my positions, I promise, I’m sorry for being a bad pet. Please teach me my positions.”

Paul smiles at the slur in her voice. Using AI software to create training tapes using the trainee’s own voice was the best idea he’s ever had, even if he does say so himself. It works a treat.

“Well, if you insist.” He removes the spreader bar, somewhat regretfully. “Let your body learn to move again. Drink the bowl of water too, but not with your hands. Get on your knees once your body’s sorted itself out, but don’t take too long. Remember, I know what your body can take.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paul retreats, sitting in the black leather armchair in the corner.

He mentally runs through the basic training he needs to do before moving onto anything more advanced. Positions, recitations, leash and cage training. Once she’s managed her positions and recitations, she’ll have earned clothes for the latter. Unconditional obedience will come as they go along, he doesn’t need to train that separately. Basic punishments, though, he’ll need to check what her prospectives want for that.

And after she’s passed her exams for those… well, he’ll have to think of a suitable reward.

He flips through the position flashcards. 33 of them. It’s so much easier for the trainees to learn from these photos than spoken explanations. They may as well start simpler.

Babygirl gradually unfolds herself, groaning and hissing quietly. She’ll be so sore now, but it won’t last. The position exercises will warm her right back up.

She bends over, hands on the tiles, lapping at the water like a thirsty dog. Maybe he should put her in ears and a tail at some point, see what she does. An obedience test. Then she slides onto her knees stiffly, folds her hands behind her back, and looks up at him.

“Eyes down, Babygirl. Remember what we talked about. You don’t ever make eye contact unless your owner commands it.”

Babygirl flinches, staring at the floor tiles like her life depends on it. Well, they can work on the flinching later. He adds it to the list, right above gag reflex.

“Good girl. Now, I’m going to show you some flashcards of your positions. There’s 33 in total, plus your basic respect, but you don’t need to learn them all at once, don’t worry. We’ll start with respect, then I'll choose five at random and see how it goes. We won’t stop until you can get into those six from memory. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. On your feet.” Babygirl stands unsteadily. “Now, if someone says ‘respect’, you are to drop to your knees immediately, like you were just now. It doesn’t matter what you’re doing, you go there. So. I’m going to give you five seconds after I say ‘respect’. If you disobey, I’ll punish you. Then we move down until you’re doing it immediately. You get the gist of what’ll happen if you disobey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Respect.”

She flounders, clearly not expecting it so soon, but she does drop. He checks his stopwatch.

“Six seconds.”

She screams as the shock hits her body.

“Respect.”

She scrambles up. 5.1 seconds.

4.5. 3. 2.5. 2. 2. 1.9.

They’re onto immediate now and she’s still hesitating, still not quite getting it.

He stops, lets her breathe for a few seconds. Not too long, just enough to get her breath back. She is new to this, after all.

1. 1. 0.6. 0.5. Not quite 0 but fluid, fluid, she’s not hesitating, she just can’t go much faster. She bottoms out at a steady 0.2, 0.3.

“Good girl. And breathe. Have some more water.”

She crawls shakily over to her bowl. Casually, watching her drink over the top of the flashcards he’s flipping, he says, “Respect.”

She stops drinking and folds herself onto her knees immediately.

“Good girl.”

He smiles to himself. He knew she’d be a fast learner once she broke. It’s why he didn’t mind taking a little longer on that than usual. He has time. People choose this centre for quality, not speed. That’s WRU’s business.

“Drink the rest of that and get your breath back before we move on.”

He leans back against the wall, pulling out his tablet, making notes on Babygirl's progress and dragging surveillance clips into the relevant files. May as well start on some admin while he's here. He looks at Babygirl over his tablet after a while, seeing her back on her knees, chin free of drool and water droplets at last (they're always so messy when they drink like this), and smiles.

The skin either side of her mouth is still bright red from the pressure of the gag.

“Are you ready to continue?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.” He flips over the cards and holds one up. “We'll start easy. This is number one. Copy it, and then hold until I tell you to stop. Don't let anything interrupt that.”

She stands, spreading her legs carefully until her feet are shoulder-width apart, straightening her back. He's always thought that this position is a little too proud for a pet.

He lets her hold it. It's an easy one, she's just had a break, so he gives her a while, just to see what she'll do. Refills the water bowls, wraps the leash around his hand. She tracks his movements with her eyes but doesn't move. Good, good. A big improvement on yesterday – he knew she'd snap like a twig once she started. An all-or-nothing kind of girl.

“Respect.”

She drops to her knees.

“Perfect, though admittedly easy. Position five next.”

He shows her the card. She flinches, places her hands on the ground, then presses her face to the tiles between them.

Interesting.

He steps up to her, footsteps even and measured, and watches her tense. She flinches as his finger touches her head, travelling down her spine.

She's very reactive but she doesn't move easily. When he trains the flinchiness out of her she'll be extremely still. So that's good.

It's always interesting teasing out which of a trainee’s behaviours are learned behaviours and which are instinctive, because something always makes it past the amnesia. If you were clever and patient you could piece together some of their past through those pieces, although probably not much. It's behaviours, not memories, that make it through.

Fight, flight or freeze. The girl who signed up in exchange for an abortion and support for the woman who’d been sheltering her, she wouldn't have learned defiance at the feet of the husband who beat her and forced her into bed with him. But she might have learned to freeze and take it.

“Respect.”

She pushes herself back up to her knees, hands folded behind her back.

“Now, position 12 is similar, though slightly different. You might need to put your head down first this time.”

The flash of fear in her eyes matches the psych eval he hadn't thought about yesterday. The amnesia must've brought back her defiance.

Still. She presses her face to the tiles and brings her wrists up, crossed, behind her back, hands trembling slightly as her breathing picks up. As long as she obeys willingly, and she will by the time she's shipped out, the reason doesn't really matter.

He waits for a while, waits for the anticipation to build, waits, waits, waits, then takes both her wrists in one hand and hears her breath hitch.

He lifts her back up to her knees. “Respect. Go on, take a breath, you're doing well. Remember them, behave, and I'll let you sleep in the bed tonight.”

She looks at the pet bed in the corner, frowning, then turns back to Paul and hunches down, hugging herself, breathing slow and deliberate.

"Good girl." He gives her another thirty seconds. "Pull yourself together, it's time to move on."

She gathers herself up on her knees and looks up at him, eyes downcast.

"That. That's what I want to see when I say respect. You've been doing reasonably so far, respectful, but that's exactly what I want. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

“Right then.” He flips a card. “Position 24.”

She looks at the card, showing open and ready for the taking, then glares up at him with pure hatred. He catches her chin in a grip he knows will bruise.

“Don't you even think about it. Or I will tie your ankles to the rings and stretch your legs apart myself until you're stuck like that for anyone to use. You're not the only one being trained for that.”

She flinches and looks away. “Sorry, sir.”

“Go on, then. Do it.”

She stretches her legs. Despite the fact that it's going to happen later anyway and everyone knows it, his threat seems to have struck enough fear in her that she'll go along with it, despite the humiliation. Like he said. Snaps like a twig.

Maybe a little more spunk than he originally thought though. He'll have to stamp that one out.

He considers the position she's in. Maybe a good start, if she hadn't been so defiant, but now…

“Wider, come on, I know you're capable.”

She spreads herself wider, and when she clearly can't anymore, he helps, pushing her legs out with his trainers.

“There we are, that's better. Hold that.” She closes her eyes and grits her teeth. “Eyes open, don't grit them, just hold the position.”

She does, thighs trembling, fingertips pressed to the floor. She looks to his face then away, remembering herself, expression taking on a sort of desperate quality.

He nudges a foot between her legs, pressing lightly against her. She twitches, clearly desperately wanting to stop the intrusion but holding back.

Good. That'll make her later training easier.

He withdraws and just watches her. Watches until her legs twitch, until she's struggling to hold it and then just past the point where she's almost physically unable to keep it going.

“Respect.” She scrambles back onto her knees clumsily, legs not quite moving as fast as he'd usually like but just this once he'll allow it. “Good girl. You kept that going well, didn't you? Just as I told you to. That was position 24, remember. Take a minute to breathe, to drink if you like, and then we'll move on.”

He doesn't give her a full minute of course, just enough time to lap up a few drops, but she thinks it's a minute and that's what matters.

“Last one for now. Position 26.”

She studies the card carefully, then spreads her knees, locking her arms behind her back. Then she tilts her head up, swallowing hard, clearly scared now she can't see him.

And to think that only yesterday she wouldn't give him an inch. He's almost proud of how much progress she's made in the last day.

“Perfect. Now hold that.”

He walks behind her, slowly pace by pace. Her eyes are pleading, afraid of what he could do, might do, now she's exposed such a vital part of herself and isn't able to see it.

He won't, but. He could, might, someone has, anyone could and she knows it.

He waits until she's trembling with the strain of it before ducking below her eyeline and resting a hand around her neck. Gentle, ghosting, testing.

She jerks hard, dropping her neck, hands starting to come up on instinct.

“Hold it, Babygirl.”

She flinches, harder than before, and drops, hesitant, allowing him to hold her neck. Tears streak down her face.

He'll use this position to get the posture collar on her when they get to that stage in the training. Reasonably, she won't be able to get into those sort of poses thoughtlessly first time round, she didn't come from that sort of background, she'll need help.

He steps back, leaning against the wall, arms folded. She breathes. Holds.

Holds.

Holds.

“Respect.”

She drops back down, head bowed.

“Nearly there, but we need to work on that instinct of yours. Even if your owner was going to choke you, you let him. You're his property, he can do what he likes and it would be good for you. Pets don't flinch away like that, they don't refuse, implicitly or otherwise. But you got the position and you mostly held it, well done. That's five positions. Try them without the cards now. Make a mistake and we'll go back to the start of the sequence. One.”

She stands, pushing off her knees, straightening her back. He kicks her feet back into line a little.

“Five.”

She gets into the position, dropping to the floor, hands either side.

“Twelve. Twenty-four. Twenty-six. One. Five. One. Five. Twelve. Twenty-four. Come on Babygirl, you can do it again. One. Five. I said five, not twelve, get it together. One. Five. Twelve. Twenty-four. One. Five. Twelve. Twenty-four. Twenty-six. One. I didn’t say you could stop, position one Babygirl, on your feet.”

She gets up, trembling.

“One. Five. Twelve. Twenty-four. One. Five. One. F– one, Babygirl, hold it.”

She pulls herself up, legs trembling, sweat dripping into her eyes, before collapsing onto one leg. Her stamina is dreadful, they’ll have to work on that.

She pants for breath, hanging her head for a second before looking back up at him desperately.

“Please, sir! I can't take any more!”

Paul reaches out a hand, short, sharp, and she crumples to the ground, hitting the ground with a cry. He takes her wrists, binding the cuffs to the ring in the floor, just enough give in the leash to let her kneel. Then he fetches a bitted muzzle from the coffee table. He debates the harness but no, not yet, she doesn't need that yet. He has no use for any of the attachments.

He does fetch a bell though.

He crouches down in front of her and fits the muzzle carefully, not too tight, not too loose. The bell goes on the front of her collar.

Babygirl drags herself onto her knees, slowly, shakily, cheek red, blood dripping down her chin from the corner of her mouth. She bows her head, unable to wipe it away.

He pulls her head up by the hair, forcing eye contact. A whine escapes her muzzle, and he adjusts it.

“You don't talk to me like that. You never talk to me like that, not to any person. You never say no. If you refuse, say you can't do something, try to have any say in your life, I don't see why you should speak at all. Is that clear?” Babygirl nods, eyes looking wider when there's nothing else visible. “You're a pet. Now act like it. We'll run through the positions we've learnt until you can find them on instinct. No ifs, no buts. Any chance you had at another rest is gone.” He removes the leash and curls it around his wrist. “On your feet and we'll restart.”

She stands shakily, trembling, almost tripping over her own feet. They really are going to need to stop soon, before she passes out, but she needs to learn her lesson first.

“One. Five. Twenty-six. Twenty-six. Twenty-four. Five. One. Twelve. Five. Twelve. Twenty-four. Twenty-six. One. Twenty-six. Five. Twenty-four. Twelve. One. Five. One. Five. One. Twelve.”

He gets faster until she’s struggling to keep up, moving unevenly, legs and arms a little wild as she tries to remember, tries to keep up. She's trembling, sweating, about to collapse, but he keeps going anyway, keeps pushing, he needs to see if she's learned not to refuse yet.

Finally, when she's about to keel over, he lets her go.

"Respect."

She drops, boneless, to her knees.

"Good job on the obedience, not so much on the 'no saying no' part. I've had to remind you multiple times today."

She doesn't seem able to hear him, pushed right past her limits, eyes glazed, face pale as the tiles, and he realises what's about to happen, removing the muzzle milliseconds before she bends over, puking up bile all over his shoes and the floor. He runs a hand through her sweaty hair. Ew.

"Behave for me tomorrow and you'll get food and a shower. Tonight, though, you haven't been good enough for that."

When he's sure she has everything out of her system he fetches a fabric muzzle and fits it, ensuring the mesh is enough that she won't choke on anything further. This is to remind her of her place, not block anything.

He's not sure how long she'll need to wear this, but he makes a mental note to order in extras from supplies. It depends how fast she learns.

The leash is short, her neck held low, chin barely risen off the ground. She's going to have to lie on her front, breasts squashed against the cold tiles. Maybe he'll turn the heating down too.

“Start behaving and I might let you get comfortable, girl. I appreciate the effort into your positions though, you just need to learn to stop saying no. We’ll see what you remember in the morning.”

He turns the audio tape on and leaves without looking back. Lunch, then it’s time he had a chat with Devonte. Now he’s had his initial initiation, it’s up to Paul to do his bit.

This new trainee had better be good. He doesn't want to have to think of another excuse to foist one off.

He goes back to the cafeteria to pick up his complementary fish and chips. Training always makes him hungry. He doesn’t pay much attention to the servers this time, swallowing his lunch quickly so he can get to his Devonte without being late. As usual he’s lost track of time.

He changes back into a clean uniform and heads for the staff room where he’s to meet his new Devonte.

The guy looks smart. Very smart. Somehow smarter than a lot of his Johns, even in the same uniform from the same launderers. He’s nervous too, fidgeting slightly. Taking his job seriously. Paul approves.

He picks up a slice of birthday cake and sits down, beckoning Devonte to join him.

“I figured we'd do this somewhere comfortable. Also I'm hungry. Feel free to take anything, it's Martin's birthday and he's always generous.” Devonte picks up a mint humbug and sits down gingerly on the edge of a chair. “I won't bite.”

“Sorry, sir.”

“Don't apologise, it's fine. You're new, I remember being new. Been watching me and Babygirl on the big screen?”

It's not really very big, just a standard living room TV size, but it's bigger than their tablets and multiple people can watch it easily.

Devonte nods. “They were showing me how to call for security if you need it.”

“Ah, that button. I don't think I'll need it with Babygirl. She might still be defiant sometimes but she's never been very strong. I mean, does she look it to you?”

Devonte has seen her cry, scream, vomit, get down on all fours and drink like a dog. Probably pee herself too, he wasn't really watching. Any of that alone is enough to make her look pathetic, and that's without the heavy restraints.

He wonders what Devonte’s type is. Is it Babygirl?

“No. But people can become very different if pushed to desperation.”

“Good remark, well done. You’re completely right. That’s why you never let down your guard, and you don’t under any circumstances take shortcuts or break safety guidelines. You understand? They’re not Play-doh. They might feel like putty to mold but they can throw you curve-balls. The muzzles aren’t always just for show or reminders.”

“Yes, sir.”

Paul waves a hand dismissively. “No need for the sir. But that’s also why you don’t get to go into her room immediately. You need to learn properly what can happen first.”

Devonte nods.

“When are you going back in?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Eager, aren't we?”

“No sir, I just–”

“Don't fret, eager’s fine. And I'm not sure yet. Might loosen it a little before we clock out, but honestly, probably in the morning. She needs to remember her place, what she is, and a little discomfort should drill it into her brain. She's cute but she's not a natural at this. She signed up completely voluntarily as well. Funny how the mind works.”

Devonte scribbles down some notes.

“Everything you've done so far, isn't it a bit much? I mean, will she be okay?”

“Oh, don't fret. We want her broken. If she behaves better tomorrow we'll give her enough leeway to reach the bed. It's a simple enough lesson. If she behaves, she'll be comfortable. If not… well, there's plenty of ways to sort that.”

“Makes sense. The carrot and stick approach?”

“Yeah. Works well. There's a few tricks I use, I'll teach you them along the way. But not today. Today, I'll show you the health monitoring system, since that's the most important part of the process and what makes us leagues above WRU. We might want our pets broken, but we need to take care of their physical health too or their prospectives won't be pleased. Only the highest standard of pet here, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I told you to stop with the sirs, it's getting grating. Now, since you're my Devonte, and therefore my assistant, Babygirl will be your trainee too until she ships out. You've been how to work your company tablet I take it?” He nods. “Great. Open up the diagnostics app.”

He brings up the app on his own screen, too, and watches as Devonte’s eyes widen.

“Is this even legal?”

“Sure. Everything here is,” he says blithely. “Now look. The two green lines are normal range for your trainee. You want their measures to stay within it. Well, broadly speaking. It also helps you monitor their training. Adrenaline spiking, heart-rate increasing? They're probably scared, no matter what they try and tell you. We take blood tests every month, the results of those will come up on here too. So are their measurements, if you click that menu. Babygirl’s are still her initial ones, she's so new, but we'll update them over time. Given her prospective’s appearance preferences she's definitely got to get skinnier, for one.”

“You have measurements for pretty much everything,” Devonte says, sounding amazed.

“Sure. And you can read your trainee from it. Looking at these, I bet Babygirl’s asleep.” He switches to the camera app and whistles. “Well, what d’ya know. That's faster than I expected in a position like that. And I turned the temperature down even further. That's one piece of training that's going to be easier than I thought.”

He runs through some of the other basic tablet functions with Devonte, before kicking back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head. They can watch Babygirl on the big screen while they talk, because he is curious.

“So. What made you want to do an Devonteship here? I didn't think they were that popular.”

“I'm doing psychology and I just thought this was a good place to get some practical experience. All the marketing campaigns and stuff, and the training. It's clever, how you condition pets, and I wanted to experience it. The NDAs only made it more interesting.”

“Ahh, that’d be why you were assigned to me then. I'm good at the mental manipulation stuff. Try and see if you can shadow Irene next. She's good with our most vulnerable, sensitive trainees. Convinces them that this is what they wanted all along with barely more than a collar and leash. I think she uses positive reinforcement most of the time, which is unusual in this industry but it works for her so who am I to judge? I probably use it more than normal too, towards the end.” He smiles. It'll be good to have someone interested in the psychology side of things to talk to. Nobody's ever interested in pets’ brains beside ridiculous pop-sci and pet lib articles.

Maybe John is.

“Anyway. You put handling down as your main interest, then marketing?” Devonte nods. “You'll be working solely on that with me and Babygirl until she's shipped out, then you'll usually go on rotation around other parts of the company for a while. Client handling, intake, publishing. You can usually get some free books out of publishing. Shipping out is always interesting. No matter how well you train them there's always some pets who panic at the final step. That's why most of them are drugged up for shipping. And some of the special orders are… interesting. Had a customer once who requested her pet delivered with a vibrator inserted and on. And it wasn't a same day delivery either.” Devonte looks a bit worried and Paul claps him on the shoulder. “Don't worry about that. Most special orders are giftwrap and ribbons and so on, or extra accessories. I haven't looked at Babygirl’s yet but my money’s on a blindfold and harness at least. We have a pool if you're interested – everyone guesses the special orders for their trainees, and whoever gets the most right wins the jackpot. You interested?”

Devonte swallows. “Not yet. I need to earn some money first. And I don't think I know Babygirl well enough yet.”

“Ah well. Your loss. Anyway, after the general rotation you'll have a stint in marketing, maybe get to help with some of their big projects like their yearly Christmas push, putting our demonstration pets in hospital wards for patient therapy, things like that.” He checks the clock. “Doesn’t time just fly when you're having fun? I'd better take you to the medical suite now. The head doctor’s going to give you a tour of where we patch up trainees. Not much to see really, although we do have more restraints and less painkillers than a regular hospital. Bring your tablet with you, always bring your tablet with you, and I'll answer your questions on the way.”

Devonte follows along, nervously clutching his tablet. Paul waves a hand.

“Go on, ask away. I know you want to.”

Devonte gulps. “Um. Why's the security so tight? The pat-downs, biometrics, everything?”

“Biometrics are to stop trainees escaping. Sometimes they think they regret their choice, want to go back on their contract, but they can't once it passes the cut-off point. Pat-downs and metal detectors are because terrorists sometimes try to sneak in here, plant bugs, that kind of thing. We have thorough background checks but it doesn't always stop them completely. Doesn't stop a turncoat. You're not an agent, right?”

“N-no.”

Paul chuckles. “I'm only teasing.” Devonte joins in weakly. “Et voila! Medical suite. Remind admin to set up the map on your tablet if they haven't already, this place can get confusing. Only trainees should be getting confused.”

“I’ll remind them.”

“Good lad. Anything else?”

Devonte shakes his head. “Not right now.”

“In you go then. I’ll see you on… Monday, I think.” He gestures Devonte inside and watches him go. He has a good feeling about this one.

Time for him to leave now. He needs to be back bright and early in the morning. He hasn’t worked as many hours today, but that’s okay. He’ll be in at the weekend – furniture training isn’t an arduous one but it’s still necessary. It’s too early to leave Babygirl got her own for long yet, or with anyone else.

He flicks one last glance at his tablet screen before turning it off for the day. Babygirl’s torso is turned slightly to the side, legs curled up to her chest for warmth, hands under her chin to stop it hitting the cold tiles.

It's pretty clever for a pet, he has to admit. But she's going to ache like a bitch in the morning. Which, he supposes, was the point.

He packs his work gear into his locker and throws his soiled laundry into the chute, ready for the pets to clean and replace before tomorrow. Then he endures the pat-down and bag check once more before picking up a takeaway box from the cafeteria. Pet-cooked fresh chicken katsu curry and rice. He doesn't need to worry about anything now, this'll last until he gets home, and then all he'll have to wash up are a mug and a fork.

Unless he has a day off, he never cooks now. There's always so much washing up.

The tube is far less hellish this time, and he even gets through a couple of chapters of his book. Nobody blasts out music. Throttling his fellow commuters is less of a priority.

The weather is cooler as he exits the station, a gentle breeze caressing his face. He sighs contentedly. Weather like this makes him all the more thankful he wasn't dumb enough to sign up.

Or, well. You know.

Some of them, quite reasonably in his opinion, will never experience this again.

If they really wanted to keep this, they should've run faster.

They shouldn't have signed up if they were just going to act out and complain.

He thinks about Babygirl, in her cold, bright cell. She won't be complaining for long.

No. No, he shouldn't be thinking about work. He unlocks the front door and drops his keys in the key bowl, toeing off his shoes. Time for katsu curry, a mug of steaming hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows, and a quiet, curled up evening with his book while he daydreams about what to wear tomorrow night.

The idea behind a Box-Boy cartoon was inspired by: @ashintheairlikesnow Post here:

Swallowing hard, Ann turns the words over in her head, trying to be quick about it but not knowing what to say. It seems her mistress’s fear has come true, as it often does. Their boxgirl just isn’t very smart. Letting her eyes fall shut, Ann gives voice to her inadequacy. “I’m – I’m sorry, Mistress, I, I’m not sure I understand.”

An exasperated sigh behind her, and Ann feels the sting of the cane against her thigh. The angle is such that the wood only really contacts one of Ann’s legs, but the pain of it is no less significant for only happening on one side. It takes all of Ann’s focus, and much reliance on her training, not to yelp when that bruising impact cracks across her skin. “It’s simple, Ann.” Mistress Colette sounds irritated, and that doesn’t bode well. They’ve just started this inexplicable little exercise, and already Ann is proving insufficient, annoying. Above her, Mistress Colette raises her voice as if volume is the problem. “Does my husband like the front of you, or the back of you?”

“I-I-I…” Another crack, hard enough to bring tears to Ann’s eyes. When her voice comes, it’s a pitiful little squeak that makes Mistress Colette huff aloud. “I don’t know! I don’t know, Mistress. He doesn’t…doesn’t look at me, much.”

There’s a pause. Behind her, above her, Ann can hear level breathing. It’s hard to read emotion from just breathing, but at least it’s even, calm. Maybe that means something. Ann tries to cling to it.

“Hmph. What do you mean? My husband certainly looks at you enough when you’re around the house.”

Mistress Colette’s voice is dry and disinterested, but beneath her nonchalance there’s a dark turbulent current that Ann must be wary of. Swallowing, she tries to organize her thoughts. Ann hates thinking about the dark, oppressive, impossible nights when Master Gordon comes to her room, but her mistress is asking, and so she forces her mind back into that room with her Master looming over her and clears her throat to speak. “He doesn’t look at me, Mistress. It’s dark in the room, and he doesn’t turn the lights on.”

Mistress Colette snorts, a decidedly undignified sound. “My husband just walks in the door and gets on top of you?”

“Yes, Mistress.” Ann keeps her voice clear and neutral, though what she feels is shame, and distantly, disgust.

The tip of the cane traces over the backs of Ann’s legs, and then comes down again, the hardest blow yet, a brutal strike. Ann can’t help a broken teary gasp from escaping between her lips. Mistress Colette snorts at her again, and the way her breathing is audibly shaky now.

“If you had to guess.” Mistress Colette taps the cane against Ann’s thighs, first one, and then the other. “If you had to guess, which part of you do you think he likes best?”

Heat rushing to her face, Ann’s mouth shapes noiseless words into the floor. She doesn’t want to say it. She really doesn’t want to say it – but Mistress Colette is already angry, and Mistress Colette is holding the cane. “I believe that his favorite part would be…”

“Besides what’s between your legs.”

Squeezing her eyes shut, Ann takes a few quick breaths to try to steady herself. “He seems to like my breasts, Mistress.” It’s more than a minor triumph that she keeps her voice clear and calm, though she wants to shrivel up and cry into the floor.

“Good girl.” Mistress Colette taps the cane against her leg again, and Ann lets her eyelids flutter shut in anticipation of pain. None comes, but there’s the sound of high heels pacing a slow circle around Ann’s prone body. “I suppose I should have assumed,” Mistress Colette muses with an airy sigh. “Gordon’s a simple man. Predictable.”

As Mistress Colette walks her circuit around Ann, she traces the cane over her box girl’s still body. Some people call them Box Babes, but that’s not Ann. She’s no one’s babe, no one’s pretty girl, no one’s prized pet. She’s just a maid. Just a house cleaner. As functional and inoffensive as a vacuum cleaner. That’s what Ann longs for. To be as functional and inoffensive as a vacuum cleaner.

The round end of the cane trails up Ann’s leg, over her back, down one arm. When she reaches Ann’s neck, Mistress Colette raps the end of the cane against the back of Ann’s head, knocking her nose into the ground.

“There’s a vet I know that Janice uses.” Mistress Colette seems to be talking to herself. “He does double mastectomies for anyone willing to pay for them.” She pauses in her pacing, pokes Ann in the shoulder, a hard jab. “Do you know what that is, Ann?”

“No, Mistress Colette.”

When Mistress Colette speaks, there’s a certain vicious pleasure in her voice. “That means cutting someone’s breasts off, Ann.”

That’s not a question, so Ann doesn’t have to answer. Good. Good, because Ann has no breath at all in her lungs. Cut…cut her breasts off?

Ann grows dizzy.

Because Mistress Colette is talking about her. All this talk about Master Gordon, and what he does at night, the envy that runs through Mistress Colette’s voice, as though Ann’s position is one to be envied…now this, using the word vet, talking about cutting off someone’s breasts, changing the very outline of their body. It’s not Mistress Colette’s own body she’s talking about, but another body that just as surely belongs to her.

“Of course, if the vet did it, it would have to be preventative. He’d check you out to see if you were at risk for breast cancer, and if he decided that you were…”

The cane runs over Ann’s shirt, her slacks, her skin.

Ann lies flat on her stomach and shuts her eyes and tries to regulate her breathing. You. Mistress Colette said it, flat out said you. She’s thinking about…she’s thinking about cutting Ann’s breasts off.

Ann wonders if she’ll be able to feel it when it happens. She hopes not, and then she wonders if maybe it would be better to be able to remember something like that.

The cane tracing over her skin, over her body, stops at Ann’s right arm, lifts off, and comes down again with bruising force on Ann’s thigh. She hisses through her teeth as it imperfectly snaps across an earlier mark, the old stinging doubled, worsened. “I won’t do it,” Mistress Colette announces, not a moment later, and between the pain and the relief Ann wants to weep. As is, she bites her lip savagely and waits, heart still thumping irregularly in her chest. Salvation seems so close. She’s not going to make a sound and ruin it now.

“I’m not going to cut your breasts off, Ann.” Mistress Colette says it with a sigh, as if the whole thing is too exhausting for her to even think about. “Even if the vet checked you out, even if I had the piece of paper to say it was medically necessary…ugh.” A groan, another hard blow to make Ann yelp. “No one would believe it. No one would believe it.” Another sigh. “Everyone knows that Gordon’s a dog.”

Good. Good. Good. Ann is weak with relief and glad, so very glad, that Gordon is a dog. Her breath is coming in desperate, having gasps.

“But I could.” Still sick to her stomach, still tense all over, Ann goes right back to being afraid, because Mistress Colette’s voice sounds so very self-satisfied. So certain, so casually curious. Ann’s owner is playing with the idea the same way she’s playing with the cane in her hand – rolling it between her palms, holding it up to the light. “I could always change my mind and do it if I wanted, Ann.”

“Yes, Mistress.”

“Yes.” Mistress Colette seems to be talking to herself now, as if Ann isn’t there, spread out on the floor, utterly at her mercy. “Yes, if I wanted to, I could.”

After that, Mistress Colette releases her. She bids Ann get up off the floor and for god’s sake, stop crying, no one hit her that hard. With a disinterested wave of her hand, Mistress Colette orders her shaky boxgirl to go make herself useful in the kitchen. Ann bobs her head, murmurs her thank you, and goes right away because there’s no reason not to, after all – no blood to clean up, no significant damage at all. There will be welts on her thighs for a few days, a few of them, scattered, and then they will heal and be gone. There will be no evidence that anything happened at all.

Ann’s lucky. She’s really quite lucky.

*

Handler Parker was pretty much exactly as boyish as Alan had expected from someone called Tyler. Tall, broad shoulders, shaggy haircut and a stubble that definitely wouldn't have been allowed for a handler, when Alan had been his age 20 years ago.

"Handler Nguyen, Sir." Parker's back had straightened when Alan entered the observation room. Good start, at least, Alan supposed. "It's an honor, being assigned to you."

Alan nodded. "Thanks." He dropped the tablet on the desk and opened the training report. "She your first trainee?"

"Third. But first one in high security."

Alan tilted his head in acknowledgement. "You'll find out, it's the same work here, just more of it because there's less staff to help out." He pressed a button to fill the screen with the video image of the trainee in the neighboring training room. She was sitting still on her knees, hands open, oversized white tee loose around her body. Long blond hair fell around her shoulders, slightly unkempt. Her neck was a little reddened around the shock collar, yet apart from that she seemed physically unharmed, even fit.

Her brown eyes were boring into the camera, staring directly at them, from an otherwise calm face. Alan smirked. Probably alerted by the little red light turning on. He didn't particularly like the trainees to know when they were being watched. They should know they always were. But he did like what he saw in her gaze nonetheless. Determination, shrouded in obedience. When directed properly, that determination would be her undoing.

"What did you do with her so far?"

Parker's gaze flicked to the records in front of Alan and then back to his face. Alan smirked, but stayed silent.

"Um. According to the handbook, Sir. Stages 1.1 to 1.4. We went through the positions, all of them. And I... I went through some of the other basics, too. She... She took to it very eagerly. Quick to adapt."

"I take it by that you mean, you've fucked her?"

Parker nodded nervously, and Alan hid a smirk. That kid better dropped the shame about his job, or even his mind wiped trainees would be able to outsmart him.

"File says she's been sleeping around before. Any information on preferences?"

Parker shrugged. "Men. Past her was... very confident. Sex positive. Open to experiments, but mostly submissive."

"So, when you fucked her, how was it?"

The other handler blushed like a teenager, gaze flying to the girl on the screen. "What do you mean? Um. Soft. Pretty vanilla. PIV."

"PiV?" Alan chuckled. "Haven't heard that term said out loud in a while. But yeah. Guess I put that in the handbook. I didn't mean that, though. How was it?"

"Um, good, I guess? She, um. Knew what was expected."

Alan wouldn't get any more out of him. Good enough, then.

"Did you use violence?"

"No. She understood her situation. Little hesitant, but no fight."

"And… did she say no?"

"No. I've put her on shock collar treatment early on, though, for that 'no' request." He sounded almost a little proud. "She's learnt to avoid that word."

"Good. I'd expected her to be clever." Alan frowned. "What about the other word? Quantum, wasn't it?"

"Didn't come up yet." The rookie shrugged. "I thought I'd give it some time. Bringing it up artificially might have a negative impact on her training."

"Reasonable." Alan nodded in appreciation. "I concur. We'll look into that later."

Parker quickly scribbled some note down, before he looked up. Almost as eager as he'd described the trainee, Alan thought. Adorable.

"Um, so, Sir what would be your next step then?"

"Well." Alan smiled. "First, we'll test out the limits of her comfort zone. She ready?"

"Yes, Sir, she's all clean. Um. Stage 2.1. I knew you'd want to, um." He vaguely gestured at her rear and cleared his throat.

Alan waited.

"Um," Parker said again.

Alan rolled his eyes. "Fuck her ass. Breach her back door. Perform anal sex. PiA. I really don't care what words you use as long as you do use words. This is your job. You need to describe what we do. " He raised an eyebrow. "Well?"

"I... knew you'd fuck her ass," Parker said flatly.

"There. Not so hard." Alan unclipped the bottle of lube from his belt and tossed it over to the younger handler. "You're going lube her up, when I tell you to."

Parker looked from the bottle to the discreet container fixed to the wall of the training room. "Sir, WRU provides -"

"I've done this job for a while, kid. Trust me, the WRU stuff is shit."

"And while I do that you will-?"

Alan smirked and gestured for Parker to leave first. "Get to know her."

*

When the door slid open for them, announced by the faint beep of the key card reader, the trainee had already sunken into respect position. Alan felt a smile tug at his lips. Nobody learned that fast and actually meant it. Especially not an assisted walk in. They'd have forgotten their names, but they didn't forget they didn't want to be here. They'd feel a sting still, somewhere, of betrayal and defeat. It would pass eventually. But right now, she hated it here. And yet, she eagerly went through all the movements.

She was a faker. A liar, an actress, a manipulator - and Alan was here for it.

"Aren't you an obedient one?," he mumbled and reached out to tuck back a strand of her blond hair. She froze at his touch for the fraction of a second, before she leaned into it. Beautifully acted. "Identify yourself, trainee."

"002238," she said, gaze humbly cast down. "Designation romantic."

Some pets would mumble their number like robots, some spat it out like poison, some recited it reverently like the greatest poetry known to men.

This one plainly stated it, without much emotion or effort. A casual identifier, a string of numbers learned by heart, nothing more. As if she still was something else. As if those six digits didn't determine her entire existence.

It was alright.

They would, once Alan's work was done.

"That's right," he confirmed. "And that means you're going to be a good little slut for your owner."

She didn't even flinch, just paused the tiniest moment, before she replied. "Yes, Sir."

"I'm Senior Handler Nguyen. Handler Parker reports to me. From now on, I'm the one to oversee your training. It will be finished, when I'm convinced that you're ready." He looked her down with a fake frown, idly spinning the controller to her shock collar in his hands. "And I have high standards."

Her gaze flew up to his face. To his mild surprise, there was no fear in it. Just the hint of a challenge, smoothed over almost instantly by a carefully maintained neutrality.

"I will do my best, Sir," she said softly. There was an edge to her voice, a tiny rasp indicating that it wasn't used to softness. "I want to be good."

The pet meant what she'd said, even though from an entirely different motivation than what she wanted them to believe.

"Perfect." Fondly, Alan smiled.

He meant it, too.

"Get up. We'll go through positions. I want to see your best effort."

*

238 was a quick learner indeed, and Parker had done some good work with her. She went through most of the basic positions with a fluent grace that took other pets weeks to achieve.

"Position 35."

Instead of getting into position, she dropped to her knees and cast her eyes down in well-acted shyness. "I don't know this one, yet, Sir."

"All fours, hands and knees, legs slightly spread."

She complied without hesitation and looked up at him, gaze searching for approval. Alan smirked and spun his finger. "Ass towards me, trainee. That's a Romantic position. It's not your pretty face you need to be presenting."

He saw her shoulders tense the slightest bit, before she turned away. The line of her jaw had become harder.

"Parker?" Alan stepped aside and folded his arms.

In his stead, Parker stepped in between 238's legs and with one swift movement yanked down her short black sweatpants. She inhaled sharply, before letting out a controlled breath.

The pet hadn't been wearing anything underneath. Why should she? It was a matter of efficiency, really.

At some point, her owner might get her some lingerie, and by then, she'd accept it as a valued gift. But she was yet far from that point. Right now, what she had to learn was, that she didn't matter. Her preferences didn't matter. Her shame didn't matter.

"What's your purpose?", Alan asked. His thumb lightly rested on the remote to her shock collar.

"I serve," she replied. "I am made to serve my owner."

Behind her, silent and invisibly to her, Parker squeezed some of the lube on his hands and rolled his fingers in it.

"You're an active participant in fulfilling your owners desires," Alan prompted.

"I'm an act-" Parker's fingers slipped between her butt cheeks and she yelped.

Alan's thumb caressed the remote.

"No," 238 stuttered. "No, no, not this, no!"

Parker pulled back his fingers - quick thinking, or Alan would've taught him a lesson, too.

"Ah ah ah, pet. Wrong word," Alan chided. "You want to beg, the only word you say is 'please.'" He pushed the button.

With a garbled scream, 238 collapsed on the floor, twitching and writhing.

"Get back into position."

She obeyed, tears in her eyes.

"Go on, Handler Parker."

"Please," the pet whispered, looking at the ground. "Please, I can be good."

"You're good, when you don't object against what your betters want from you. And I want you to hold position. Take what you're given."

This time, when Parker touched her, 238 just sobbed. His index finger slipped into her, and her back arched, as if she was trying to fight him, but not just yet. Her breath came ragged and heavy. "Hnnghhhhh," she whimpered. Better than a no.

"You take whatever your owner gives you. Understood?"

Alan caught Parker's gaze and lifted two fingers. He followed.

238 yelped and shook her head. "Please," she whimpered. "Please."

"Understood?," Alan repeated sternly.

Her whole body was tense, muscles around her jaw working.

Alan lifted a third finger.

Parker pushed into her again and she bucked up against him.

"Qua...," she yelped. "Quantum!"

Alan all but laughed in delight. "Fingers out, handler." He waited for Parker to retreat, before he pressed the button again, longer this time.

He watched the pet thrash between them. "Quantum, huh? So our dear prospective did get into her pants, just not long enough for his taste." He clicked his tongue. "Those rich guys. Bunch of assholes, aren't they?"

Parker didn't reply.

Alan went to his knees in front of the pet, letting her have a good look at the remote in his hand. 238 stared up at him from wide, bloodshot eyes. "That word you just said, pet? You won't say it again."

She just sobbed in reply.

"Do you know why you said it?"

She shivered, and somewhere between it he spotted a tiny shake of her head.

"It was someone else's safe word. Someone you were before used it to say no. But you'll never say no again, 238, right? There's no use for a safe word, because you take what you owner chooses to give you."

She closed her eyes.

Alan's hand jerked forward as he slapped her across her face. "Say it."

"I..." Her voice was rough. "I will... I will take wha... what you give me."

"Yes, you will." He rose to a stand again and snapped his fingers. "Back up, pet. Position 35."

Her muscles were trembling as she pushed herself back onto her hands and knees, ass bare, shorts loose around her ankles.

Alan palmed himself through his uniform pants.

She was ready for stage 2.1.