whumpsy daisy

But it was so hard to read Whumper’s mind. How was Whumpee to know if he was supposed to wear the black collar or the red? How was he supposed to know if Whumper liked green tea or black tea? Raspberry or lime? Velvet or silk? Cold or hot? Too many questions, far too many for a creature with such a little brain.

Whumpee just wanted to know the answer.

Red.

Black tea.

Raspberry.

Silk.

Hot.

Those were all just one or two words. It was easy for a puppy to remember just a few words. But entire ideas? Whumper would never burden their pet with such crazy notions—after all, he knew that Whumpee could barely remember his own name half the time.

Whumper flicked his eyes over his pet, who cowered in response. “Go upstairs and grab me my phone. It’s on the dining table. Can you do that for me?”

Upstairs. Phone. Dining table.

Easy, so easy. Whumpee could do that—

Wait.

The trembling form shrunk back into the couch, a soft white sectional couch. Whumpee always liked to sit at the function, the bend, curled up, surrounded on both sides. Which was funny to Whumper, since Whumpee hated to be in small spaces, but loved to sit squished between two cushions.

His tongue flopped uselessly in his mouth, too limp and too swollen with confusion. “M-mas-master? Up–uhm… Upstairs?”

“Yes, darling. That’s what I said.” His master smiled, bright and cheerful, as if the request hadn’t sent Whumpee’s mind reeling.

He wasn’t allowed upstairs. Not without Whumper. Never. Never ever. He wasn’t even allowed to think about it. His place was down here, the finished basement, no windows, no pesky sunlight that could taunt him, no doors that might convince him to come out. After all, he’d never do something like that on his own. He didn’t want to leave. He’d never leave. He’d rip his own hair out if his thoughts even dared to venture into such treacherous territory.

His entire world consisted of four walls, a sectional couch, a large TV, a bathroom that had a sliding door, the laundry area, bookshelves. That’s all. It was luxury, comfortable, everything he needed. He didn’t need upstairs. What was upstairs that was not downstairs? Sunlight. Temptation. Punishment.

But if Whumper wanted him to… Then he could, couldn’t he?

Was that even a question? Of course. He’d do anything for Whumper. He’d bite off his own tongue if Whumper gave an inclination that that’s what he wanted. Easier to bite off than have it torn centimeter by agonizing centimeter anyway.

Whumper was not oblivious to the gears that spun both too slow and too fast in his pet’s head. Fear coiled around him, sleeking his flesh with sweat, but Whumper simply smiled, so soft, so kind, as if he could never hurt a fly. “Did you hear me, love? Do I have to repeat myself?”

Whumpee’s head whipped back and forth, hair messily falling over his face. “Mm… No–no, master– no, s-s-sir.”

To make Whumper repeat himself was to admit that Whumpee was not listening. And that was the first rule. Always listen. Always be listening. Those mistakes had been the ones that Whumpee was punished the most severely for, and held scars over his small body to show for it.

With all the patience of a god, Whumper tilted his head, innocently. “Then why are you still sitting there?”

“Sorry… sorry–sorry m’ sorry…” The fabric of the couch stuck to him, beckoning him back, warning him of the horrors of upstairs. But he had to go, had to, even if some of his skin was left behind in the process.

Similar to the tear of velcro, Whumpee managed to rip himself away and slink onto his feet. Head down, hands cupped close to his chest, entire body shaking. He hesitated, eyes cast up towards Whumper, his master, his god. Looking for just one last hint that this was a test.

“Go on.” The man sunk back into the cushions, head lulling back, not a muscle in his body tense. “You can do it, baby. I know you can. It’s not that hard.”

No, no. It wasn’t that hard.

Upstairs. Phone. Dining table. Upstairs. Phone. Dining table.

Just three things, that’s all. Three measly things. If Whumpee couldn’t do this, then what could he do? Lay and cower? Rest upon his hands and knees as Whumper used him like a footrest? No, Whumpee could do this. He could be useful. He could show Whumper that he knew how to do things. That he wasn’t entirely stupid.

Even dogs could remember three commands.

His nails, freshly clipped by Whumper, dug against the wood railing. The stairs were hidden behind a wall, easily accessible. There was no door, no secrets, no password to the stairs. That came at the top, where a harmless beige door taunted him. It was not made of solid titanium, it did not have a fingerprint scanner, nor any red blaring warning signs. It was simply a door with a knob—a bronze knob, to be exact.

A bronze knob that Whumpee had to grip with two hands after half crawling up the stairs. His palms were slippery and hot, sliding off the metal several times until he finally managed to push it open with no resistance.

Couldn’t– couldn’t– no. No. This was wrong. Bad. He was bad. He couldn’t be upstairs. He wasn’t allowed upstairs.

Bile boiled at the base of his throat, splashing and stinging the hind end of his tongue. Moisture dripped from his nose, chin, and eyelashes. Sweat or tears, he couldn’t tell. He didn’t care. Every molecule that made him up was screaming to go back down the stairs, to hide against the corner of the couch, to look small. This was a trick. It had to be.

But if it was, then Whumpee had already fallen for it. He had already lost. Standing there, both hands soaking the doorknob, staring out into the kitchen, wasn’t going to get him anywhere.

Upstairs. Phone. Dining table.

Phone. Dining table.

Two things. Come on, just two things.

Whumpee couldn’t reason with himself, couldn’t hear his own thoughts as something deep inside his bones gasped for air. Panic was a cruel mistress, sinking her claws into his shoulders, doubling him over, whispering into his ear, tearing at his hair, stuffing cotton into his mouth, raking her canines along every single nerve that lit up like fire.

Not allowed upstairs. Not allowed– not allowed. Can’t– can’t—

And yet, his feet stepped onto the white and blue tile. If he went back downstairs now, then that would prove he wasn’t listening. And he had been listening. He was always listening.

The kitchen was plucked straight out of a magazine cover—flawless marble countertops, adorable paintings of croissants and muffins, colorful backsplash, the works. The fridge was even decorated with adorable animal magnets that clamped down on grocery lists written in swirly, aesthetic handwriting. It was a kitchen that would be seen in a TV show, not real life.

Not a speck of dirt, not a hair out of place. There was a cookie jar on top of the fridge, matching labeled sets of spices, patterned towels and potholders that matched the backsplash. It was peaceful, so incredibly put together.

And yet it made Whumpee want to puke.

It was too delicate a place for a creature like him to be. One wrong step and he’d taint it, ruin it, smother it with his greed and filth. Not that Whumpee was physically dirty, no. It was simply how he was built. Someone who carried around destruction in their bones, someone who could not be trusted to hold a hummingbird lest it have a heart attack against his palms.

But that’s what Whumper was for. To make sure Whumpee didn’t ruin things, didn’t get others hurt because of how stupid he was. But Whumper wasn’t in the kitchen to painstakingly watch every twitch of the mutt’s muscles. So it was just him, horrified, walking upon eggshells carved from glass.

Without incident, by the grace of God, Whumpee made it into the dining room. It had a similar setup, matching colors, seemingly like a set instead of an actual house. There was a fish tank set up against the wall, vibrant colors, mock cliffs, plants stuffed into crevices, beautiful coral lighting up against the rocky stones.

Phone. Dining room.

Phone.

Get the phone, go back downstairs where you belong.

But the tank was so beautiful, especially with the sunlight casting through the sheer curtains. Tiny blue and glass shrimp speckled the bottom, looking for debris to feast on, a fish with a gorgeous orange tail swam straight by, quick as a shooting star.

He just… wanted to look for a second. That’s all. Just a second.

Just a second to see the fish swimming back and forth, one chasing another, small schools bundled up together, a striped fish ducking in and out of… oh, Whumpee couldn’t remember what it was called. The coral, but the… the uh…

What was it called? Damn it. Whumpee pressed his lips together, staring hard at the… plant? Or creature? Was coral a plant? He didn’t remember. But he wanted to. Just this one thing, he wanted to remember just this one thing. It had been in a movie, right? The… with the fish and… and the uh…

Movement caught the corner of his eye, like a hook had sunk down into his cheek and yanked him. He twisted hard, horrified, heart thundering up into his throat. He froze, imagining there was a loaded barrel pointed straight at his face, imagining that lava was pooling in around him, backing his sorry ass into the corner.

There was none of that. Just the double glass French doors, ornately carved, left as their original color, open wide. They gave a glimpse into the living room, one that Whumpee had seen only a handful of times when he was dragged back in after an escape attempt, eyes swollen shut, blood filling his vision, bones broken, pain worse than any drug.

Across the way, just a few feet from him, the front door was open. It was propped, letting in a cool breeze, situated beside a couch that had a book half-swung along the arm. Stood between him and the outside was nothing, not a thing, except the glass outer door.

Outside…

A concept that Whumpee had nearly forgotten existed.

A concept Whumpee should have forgotten about. Should have grabbed the phone. Should have gone back downstairs. That’s where he belonged. Surrounded. Safe. Not out in the open. Not a stupid doe grazing in the middle of a field waiting for a hunter to come along.

He nearly jumped out of his skin as something fluttered by the window, black with blue accents. Delicate paper-thin wings. The bug landed on the glass, stretching out its wings, then folding them back up in slow measured movements.

A butterfly.

Whumpee hadn’t even noticed that he had taken steps away from the dining table. If he had noticed he probably would have cowered back, knocking over chairs, hitting the fish tank, destroying things as he so often did. But instead, he only noticed when his hand was pressed up against the glass, a breath away from the beautiful being.

So free. Able to go wherever it wanted. Able to fly from rose to rose, drink succulent nectar, frolic in the open sun, perform intricate dances with others so similar to itself.

It wasn’t that Whumpee was going to go outside. No, of course not. That was such a horrifically stupid idea that even a stunted pup such as himself wouldn’t consider it. But really, he just wanted to look at the butterfly. Just for a moment, settle his palm against the cool glass, watch as it rested.

How long had it been since he’d seen a butterfly? Even a picture of one?

A grey blur sped past, several yards away, the rumble of rubber against pavement. Whumpee threw himself backwards, as if the glass had shattered right there and then. It was a car, speeding by on... on—on a road.

Right there—right there. It was right there. A road with people, with freedom, with hope, with help—It was so close. He just had to… just had to open the door. That’s all. Someone would see him. His stick-thin body, his sunken-in eyes, his trembling pathetic form. They’d save him.

Save him…

Whumpee didn’t need saving. Those were bad thoughts, rotten, disgusting, terrible thoughts. Whumpee wasn’t allowed to have those thoughts anymore. He was barely supposed to have any thoughts at all. Dogs didn’t dream of running into oncoming traffic. Dogs didn’t want to jump the fence and flee from their owners. Dogs stayed. Dogs obeyed.

Limbs heavy, weighed down with horror, the poor thing clambered back, hitting the couch, the one he wasn’t allowed to sit on. His ass hit the hardwood floor, the bone of his pelvis having no cushion to dampen the fall so instead of a thud, it was a loud crack of bone.

Vomit threatened to spill from the gaps in his teeth. Traitor. Disobedient. Bad. Bad dog. Bad puppy.

His knees scraped against the ground as he crawled back into the dining room, forcing himself up onto his feet as he skidded into the kitchen, then threw himself down the stairs. Back in the basement. In the comfort. In his doghouse. With his leash. And his master. That’s where he belonged. Not daydreaming about being a fucking unfaithful mutt.

It had been a test, one that he miserably failed. Whumper had gotten up after 30 seconds, which should have been all it took for Whumpee to grab his phone and start heading back down. After that grace period he waited, at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed, highly unamused.

If Whumpee couldn’t even do this simple thing, then what was he good for?

Oh, yes. Of course.

How could Whumper have forgotten?

Just how precious his little pet was when he was scared.

Whumpee crashed onto his knees, arms and legs liquidated to jelly. Fear chattered his teeth and pumped blood into his ears so loud it sounded like he was underwater. He could have convinced himself he was at the bottom of a lake with how hard he suddenly struggled to breathe. His fingers grappled with the fabric of his master’s pants, trembling and pitiful.

“Mm–m–master, sorry–sorry. M’ sorry, very-very sor-sorry.”

“Did you get my phone for me, baby?” Whumper asked with a saccharine tone. He already knew Whumpee hadn’t. He had expected such. Whumpee always seemed to be a disappointment.

Shaking his head, he curled his hands even deeper. Whumpee was scrunched up against Whumper, practically sitting on his shoes, face smothered by his pants, tears streaming out, sobs rattling his throat. “Sor–sorry– sorry. I–I’m sorry. Sorry– sorry- sorry–”

His master’s smile fell, though it had never been genuine to begin with. A palpable coldness settled in the space. “Then what were you doing up there, Whumpee?”

“Sorry– sorry–”

“My love,” Whumper straightened his spine, watching the shaking bundle of flesh melt into his feet, muttering apologies incoherently. “You weren’t perhaps going places you aren’t allowed to go, were you?”

Again, Whumpee shook his head, side to side, bashing his brain against his own skull before he remembered that his answer was a lie. A guttural wail broke up from the very core of his body. “M-m–... Didn’t– didn’t mean to– didn’t- didn’t–”

Whumper bent down slowly, like a priest descending to hear a confession, one hand brushing Whumpee’s tangled hair back from his blotchy red face. His touch was feather-soft, and that softness was always the most horrifying.

“Didn’t mean to?” He coaxed, as if talking to a child that had just spilled milk. “Oh, my poor baby. I asked you for one, simple thing. One. Fetch my phone. And instead, here you are trembling like a thief. Now why would that be?”

Whumpee gagged on his own words, throat too raw for anything other than another apology, another plea, another gasp for mercy. But Whumper wasn’t interested in such mundane things. His fingers tilted up his pet’s trembling, damp chin, demanding eye contact.

Those blue eyes shook in their sockets, so wide they might have popped straight off his face. His jaw quivered, opening and closing with no sound, like a fish gasping on the shore.

A thin, brittle, porcelain smile stretched back across Whumper’s lips. “You know, baby, I think I do remember leaving the door open, didn’t I?”

A cold nail traced down Whumpee’s cheek, slow, deliberate, sending a shudder through his whole body.

“Did you see outside? Did the sky whisper to you all her wicked little lies? That you deserve better than what I give you?”

Whumpee shook his head violently, words finally managing to climb their way up his throat, broken and ragged. “N-no, master. I di-did-didn’t– didn’t want– nothin’, promise, promise m’ good, m’ a good pup–”

A laugh cracked out of Whumper, sudden and sharp, so loud that Whumpee flinched as if struck. “Good? Good?” He leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper right against Whumpee’s ear. “If you were good, my darling, you wouldn’t have even looked.”

The air between them soured, thick with danger.

“Do you know how much of my time you wasted? Gallivanting up there like you’re some kind of person? Was it fun? Was it worth it? Playing pretend?” Whumpee’s chest spasmed at the questions, cries running down his lips, into the fabric that his tears had soaked. “I counted actually. It was three minutes. Three minutes when you forgot that you’re just a fucking dog.”

Whumpee finally sank all the way down, head against his master’s boots, doubled over, tiny and curled up. Terror was the only thing he could see, its sharp nails clicking against each one of his vertebrae, its icy breath against his ears, its mocking whispers, its cruel tongue lapping every inch of him.

Whumper drank in the sight, the beautifully refreshing renaissance-esque painting of his pet horrified and sobbing. He could look at this all day, all night, all week. He could drink Whumpee’s tears and feast off his delicate, broken little cries. Sustain himself on nothing but the misery of the poor creature.

“Did you touch anything?” Whumpee gasped for air, nodding his head. He had– he had. He touched the glass. He touched the door. “Mmm… And which hand was it? Which hand dared to force my puppy to disobey? I’ll rid you of it altogether, I think.”

Whumpee’s entire body convulsed, as if the words had carved themselves into his marrow. His hands—those shaking, traitorous hands—clutched tighter into Whumper’s pants as if trying to hide, to fold themselves away where they couldn’t be seen, couldn’t be punished.

“I–I d-don’t—” His breath hitched, head shaking frantically. He didn’t know which hand. He hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t marked the moment. But Whumper wanted an answer. Whumper always wanted an answer.

The silence dragged, taut as a noose.

Whumper’s thumb pressed under Whumpee’s chin again, cruelly firm now, forcing his pet’s watery eyes up. That smile—so sweet, so kind, a porcelain mask with cracks spidering through—loomed above him.

“You do know. Don’t make me think you’re lying.” The softness was gone from his voice now, replaced with something thin and sharp, something that sliced each word into Whumpee’s chest.

Whumpee’s hands twitched violently, one trying to cover the other, as if by shielding it he could erase the truth. “S-s-s-sorry! M’ sorry, master, I—this one, I think it—this one!” His right hand shot out, trembling so badly the fingers curled and uncurled without order. “Please, please, didn’t mean it, wasn’t trying to—”

“Ohhh…” Whumper breathed, dragging the sound out like a lover’s sigh. He took the hand delicately between his own, like he might cradle a rare jewel. His thumb ran slow circles over the knuckles, gentle, almost reverent. The contrast made Whumpee shudder violently, his sobs quieting to hiccups of terror.

“This one,” Whumper murmured. “The hand that reached for something it should never have touched.” He lifted it up as if displaying it to the room, to the world, his voice honey-sweet again. “My beautiful little thief’s guilty hand.”

Whumpee whined, desperate, trying to fold back into himself, but Whumper wouldn’t let him. His master leaned in close, lips brushing the boy’s temple, voice so low it vibrated through his skull.

“Should I cut it off? So that it does not tempt you again?” He paused, long enough for Whumpee’s chest to seize up. “Answer me, baby.”

The question wasn’t really for Whumpee. Whumper already knew what he’d choose. But watching his pet spiral in terror, forced to imagine every possibility—that was the real prize.

“Pl-please- please–! I-I… be good. Promse– promise, promise–”

Whumper listened, nodding as if he were considering other options. Then with a cruel grin he began to run his thumb along the back of Whumpee’s hand. “You’re right, love, you’d be even more useless with just one hand. So… how about we put a few nails in it, okay? How about three? I think that’s fair, don’t you?”

Whumpee’s whole body jolted, a strangled cry clawing its way out of his throat. His legs kicked uselessly against the floor, as if he could somehow scrabble away despite being tangled in Whumper’s grip.

“N-no, no, no, master, please— not nails, please, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good, promise, promise—” The words tumbled out broken, frantic, tripping over each other until they were little more than sob-wet gasps.

Whumper only chuckled, the sound warm and indulgent, as if he were soothing a frightened child. His thumb kept stroking idly over the knuckles, tender, intimate. “Shhh. Don’t fuss, darling. It’s not so terrible. A nail or two in your hand, and you’ll remember every time you try to reach for something that doesn’t belong to you. That’s what good training is, isn’t it? Lasting lessons.”

Whumpee shook his head so desperately it made his teeth clatter, his throat ripping on another plea. He clung to Whumper’s leg with his free hand, as if that desperate, pathetic grip might somehow anchor him, might sway mercy.

The grin widened, slow and deliberate, breaking the porcelain mask at last. “Three nails,” Whumper whispered, tightening his hold on the trembling hand. “One for each minute of mine you wasted.”

He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to Whumpee’s hairline, his voice marmalade and melon rind all at once.

“Now, shall we get the hammer, my love?”

Whumpee’s throat burned raw from the scream that tore out when Whumper brought the hammer down. The first nail punched through flesh and wood in one brutal motion, pinning the trembling hand flat against the coffee table. His back arched, his heels drumming the ground, every nerve in his body howling.

“Ohhh, there we go.” Whumper’s voice purred above the noise, soft and approving, like a father praising a child’s first steps. He steadied the hand with one palm, thumb stroking over the skin just above where the nail jutted through, slick with fresh blood. “See how it stays now? No snatching. No stealing. Right where I want it.”

Whumpee sobbed, trying to yank away, but the nail held. His other hand clawed at Whumper’s trousers again, a pathetic animal clutching for comfort from the same man who’d driven the steel through him.

The second nail came slower, deliberately cruel. Whumper positioned it neatly between the knuckles, smiling down as Whumpee begged and begged until words dissolved into hoarse, choking sounds. Then—crack. The hammer fell. Whumpee shrieked until his voice gave out, sagging against the floor, chest heaving with shallow gasps.

“There, there.” Whumper murmured, wiping blood delicately with his sleeve as if tidying a mess at the dinner table. He leaned close, lips brushing Whumpee’s ear, savoring the shivers that wracked his body. “Almost done, sweetheart. One more, and you’ll be perfect.”

The final nail drove home with a savage blow that rattled the floorboards. Whumpee’s mouth opened in a soundless cry, tears streaking his face as his body convulsed weakly, too wrung out to fight.

Whumper sat back on his heels to admire the work. The hand was splayed grotesquely, fixed to the table, blood seeping around each silver spike. He tilted his head, expression alight with something dangerously close to pride.

“Look at you,” he whispered, reaching out to cradle Whumpee’s tear-stained face in his free hand. “My obedient little pup. Stuck right where you belong.”

Whumper didn’t linger long after. He rose, brushing blood from his hands as if it were nothing more than dust. “Stay there for me, darling,” he said lightly, eyes flicking down to where Whumpee’s hand was nailed to the mahogany. “Don’t wander off.”

And then he was gone.

The silence he left behind was deafening. Whumpee sobbed until he had no voice, the sound breaking down into ragged whimpers, then quiet hiccups, then nothing but the wet, uneven rattle of his breath. He tried to move, but every shift tugged at the nails and sent white-hot fire lancing through his arm. He lay slumped, cheek pressed against the table's edge, bound in his own misery. Time stretched—minutes, hours, he couldn’t tell.

When the door creaked open again, Whumpee flinched so hard his pinned hand tore at the wounds, drawing another pitiful cry. Whumper returned with a roll of gauze and a cloth, his voice warm and sing-song. “There’s my good boy. Still right where I left you. So loyal.”

He set the gauze down and knelt beside him, stroking his hair back with fingers gentler than a lover’s. “You’ve been so brave. I think you deserve a reward.”

Whumpee whimpered, shaking his head, too broken to trust, but Whumper only hushed him. Then he wrapped his hand around the first nail.

The sudden yank wrenched another raw scream from Whumpee’s throat. Blood welled up, and he crumpled, clutching uselessly at the air. Whumper cooed softly, almost apologetic, pressing the cloth over the wound. “Shhh, shhh, I know. I know, sweetheart. It’s all right, it’s over now.”

One by one, he pulled the others free, each one followed by cries that dwindled into silence. By the end, Whumpee was limp against him, trembling, breath shuddering out in shallow gasps.

Whumper took Whumpee into his arms like a baby, cradling him against his chest. “What do you say, Whumpee?”

“Th-thank- thank you, mas-master. Sorry- so sorry- don’t-don’t want to be– to be bad…” Whumpee curled his pulsating, bloody hand against his own chest, trying to breathe but having forgotten how.

“Oh I know.” Whumper lifted his pet, gently combing his fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. “You just forget sometimes. It’s not your fault. You’re just a stupid puppy after all.”