#kittyshane

Ilya's sexual appetite is insatiable. Shane's hole is a pulsing core of hurt. The only benefit to Ilya fucking his ass is that it gives him a break from his plug.

The plug, modeled after a catlike barbed penis, stays locked in his hole when not otherwise in use. The backward-facing hard silicone spines rub his walls raw with every minute shift, meant to trigger a constant instinctual feline submission response in his nervous system.

It pulls and scrapes agonizingly every time Ilya removes it, causing Shane's panic to flare. Ilya is always quick to replace it with his rigid cock, the massive but smooth intrusion only marginally more bearable. He fucks him hard and fast, punching past his inflamed rim to brutalize his insides in long, snapping thrusts. He comes buried deep in Shane's ass every time, then sticks a few fingers in to collect some of the come and use it to re-lubricate the barbed plug before haphazardly shoving it back into its home.

His stamina and recovery time is befitting of a professional athlete, so this process repeats several times throughout the day.

Ilya has so "graciously" extended the offer to do away with the pesky, dagger-like fangs protruding from Shane's gums. Perhaps if Ilya could safely fuck Shane's mouth, Ilya teases, his little kitty hole would get a break. Shane highly doubts that, but the risk of permanent pain—of permanent damage to his asshole has been making Shane consider it anyways.

The defanging procedure would remove the two teeth entirely, a back alley sort of dental surgery that would leave gaps where his canines once were. Somehow, it's not even what he's most scared of right now. Ilya has given him plenty to fear, but little feels as inhumane as the looming threat of being declawed.

He can't bear to even think about it for too long. Ilya has made him watch the example videos, of course. The films he's sponsored. He's filled Shane's head with the realities of a modification that extreme: a lifetime with the loss of fine motor function in his fingers and an inability to put pressure on his toes necessary to walk normally. A dangerous procedure that never fully heals, rendering his hands and feet into useless paws due to the chronic pain and swelling.

The thought keeps Shane awake at night, until the exhaustion finally catches up to his trauma wracked body and he manages to fall asleep on the cold floor of his unpadded cage.

Today, Ilya wants to focus on obedience.

Shane hasn't been fully broken in yet. "At least not completely," Ilya often mocks. Shane is pretty sure that Ilya secretly enjoys the fact that he's still yet to give up and roll over, if only because Ilya loves to punish him. He savors the breaking.

So, today is a challenge for Shane. Ilya has forgone his usual training tool; opting not to press the rag soaked in synthetic hybrid pheromones to Shane's nose that leaves him no choice but to huff the concentrated scent. A strain that sends his hindbrain into a horny tailspin and drugs him into a docile, near catatonic state.

Shane now has to force himself to obey without any chemical influence, driven only by the knowledge that defiance will have severe consequences.

He bites his cheeks with his blunt back teeth hard, reluctantly allowing Ilya to zip him into the black neoprene bitch suit. It covers him all the way up to the neck, concealing the majority of his undeniably human skin and exposing only Ilya's favorite toys: cock, balls, hole and tail. The gloves of the suit compress his hands into balled up fists, and the straps on the legs of the suit attach his calves to his thighs so he can't stand straight. He uses his litter box when Ilya drags him to it, face burning as he pisses on all fours into the scent neutralizing pellets. Holding his bladder to avoid this humiliation is a fruitless endeavor that has only ever ended in him soaking himself, later being hosed down with freezing cold water to get cleaned. These elements of his daily routine aren't the real obedience test, though.

They've only just begun, and already Shane's will to play nice is slipping. He's positioned kneeling with his legs spread wide, Ilya prowling around him in predatory circles and alternating stepping on his purpling cock and his twitching tail. Just barely careful enough to avoid breaking anything.

It's a non-speaking day. Ilya has been enforcing those more often these past few weeks, emphasizing that Shane isn't allowed to produce any vocalizations unbefitting of a cat. No talking, yelling, mumbling or groaning. Only meowing, screeching, whining and purring. Growling is a gray area—feline, but a little too aggressive for Ilya's taste.

It's incredibly difficult to keep himself in check and not shout or beg for mercy, especially when Ilya grinds the heel of his boot on the tip of Shane's tail. An appendage that, prior to Ilya, he had never allowed another person to touch.

Shane breaks position, scrambling for reprieve when the boot moves to the curve connecting the bottom of his tailbone and the base of his tail. The pressure there is so intense that it makes Shane feel like his tail could be fucking severed.

Ilya doesn't let him get far. He's yanked back by his thick metal collar, effectively choking him and halting his escape. He pants and trembles as Ilya scruffs him at the neck of the bitch suit and shoves his face into the kitchen tile.

"That is not good behavior, котёнок," Ilya drawls scornfully, squatting to his level. Shane grimaces at the familiar pet name. "I can't have you acting so poorly, especially when we start filming your videos soon."

"What?" Shane croaks. All training is expelled from his mind as he reels from the physical aches and the disorienting bombshell dropped on his head.

"You heard me, silly cat. You will be a pretty little movie star in no time."

"Y-you can't!"

Ilya grinds his cheek harder into the floor with a hand in his hair.

"Yes, I can't in the way I have shown you. Too many people will recognize Shane Hollander," Ilya explains, slow and cooing like he's talking to a particularly stupid animal, "The rising legend who retired early, because hybrids aren't made for professional hockey."

Tears burn in Shane's eyes, but he knows better than to talk back now. His lip quivers at the indignity.

"No, Shane Hollander cannot be seen on illegal hybrid snuff sites. Would raise too many questions. Instead, Shane Hollander has chosen a new career starring in ethical hybrid porn."

All the blood in Shane's body runs cold. He goes rigid. Ilya pinches one of his silky black ears, yanking hard to force Shane's head closer. His next words are a whisper.

"All of it is above board. Kink videos with 'consenting' hybrids, the kinds that appeal to the masses. They will love it. You will meow and purr and beg for the camera like a sweet little kitty eager to get his hole destroyed. I shouldn't have to tell you what will happen if you don't play along."

In the months since his domestication began, Shane still has yet to adjust to the utter terror Ilya is capable of invoking in him. The walls-closing-in levels of dread. This gut punch feels particularly devastating, though.

He needs to fight. Shane needs to rebel, try to stand, use the muscles he still has and shove Ilya away with his restrained paws. Scream and cuss him out. Anything.

Instead he shakes, fur bristled, mewing sadly and cowering from his owner as much as he can with his ear still held tight.