Please don't read this if you don't like the themes which include some that are extreme and taboo - I have no wish to upset or offend anyone.
This story has been written as what I hope is 'erotic horror'. As such, it's dark, extreme and explores uncomfortable themes including, non-consensuality, slavery and bestiality - if these do not appeal then do not read it! I emphatically do not condone any of the practices in it and would be appalled if anyone did - do not try this at home! Inevitably, it is written from a male-centric point of view and most (but definitely not all) of the victims in it are female - I am not attempting to target or insult any social group, gender or preference. Let me know what you think - constructively please!
The Kennel Master
Sam gulped down the last of his breakfast coffee as he shrugged into his battered old waxed jacket and headed for the door. The thought that he really needed a new one flitted across his mind as he stepped out into a glorious early spring morning, but he liked this one, holes, stains and all. It was comfortable and, frankly, shopping for a new one was too much hassle.
Gravel crunched underfoot as he crossed the yard and swung open the five bar gate, dropping the iron hook into a matching loop in the old barn wall to hold it in place. More crunching as he crossed the yard again and entered another outhouse. Waiting for him was his transport of choice, a quad bike so caked in mud he could barely see the electric blue of its paint work. His breath smoked in the chilly air as he swung his leg over the saddle and keyed the ignition. The diesel stuttered into life and he gunned the engine several times to make sure of it, coughing a little as a cloud of blue smoke shot billowed from the exhaust before subsiding. Frowning he made a mental note to have Steve, his team’s mechanic, look it over later, then promptly forgot as he let the clutch out and opened the throttle. Gravel sprayed as he crossed the yard at full pelt and swung onto the track.
Breathing the fresh morning air deeply, he surveyed his surroundings as he sped down the track towards a cluster of large grey-roofed buildings in the distance. Only yesterday all had been cloaked in wet, misty greyness, a condition all too common in the Devon hills when the weather came down off the nearby moors. But it could all change so suddenly, as it had today, and that was one of the things he loved about the place. This morning, the folded green hills were burnished with the sun’s gold, there was a sweet smelling breeze and the birds were singing. A sheet of brown water shot up and to the side, soaking the green hedgerow as Sam steered the bike through a large muddy puddle just for the sheer, childish exuberance of it.
He was a lucky man he thought as he steered around a large pot hole in the track. Not only did he live in this beautiful place, but he was that rarest of creatures; a man who enjoyed what he did thoroughly and without reservation. Sam was a dog breeder and trainer, a man who had studied canines, their biology and behaviour and the shaping of it to his own ends since his youth. It had always been his passion, ever since he could remember and he’d already been expert in many of its practical aspects when he’d gone away to university to gain his degree in animal behaviour which had served to sharpen and deepen his skills through the provision of a rigorous theoretical context. A significant inheritance from a dead grandfather had enabled him to buy this farm, a sizeable chunk of fields and steep woods valleys deep in Devon’s back lanes. The rest, as they say, was history. The next two decades had seen him build a thriving business breeding and training dogs until today he sold to clients all over Europe and had a global reputation sufficient to attract foreign military and police organisations seeking advice on their own techniques.
Sam slowed the bike as he approached the buildings. These contained barns, storage areas, offices, kennels and vet facilities among other things and constituted the focus of his public business, sitting astride the main access to the farm. As the quad bike purred throatily through the yard, a large, overall-clad man with a shaven head appeared in a doorway wiping his hands on a dirty rag. Ostensibly he was one of Sam’s farmhands, taking care of the little livestock the farm kept to maintain the fields and keep up appearances. As a former paratrooper, the man was much more than that and his main job was the security of the farm. Inside the building from which he had appeared were two other men and the facilities to monitor an expensive and extensive system of low-light capable cameras scattered all over the farm.
“Morning, Jim!” called Sam, “I’ll see you later, just doing my rounds for now.”
Jim raised his hand in acknowledgement and Sam gunned his engine again and turned a corner between two of the barn-like buildings down a narrow alley-like track that soon opened up into a grassy field clinging to the side of a steep valley.
He could see the brown of the moors in the distance, but closer, a couple of fields away, the track disappeared under the eaves of the dense wood which filled the narrow valley and spilled over its top onto the land around it. There were sheep grazing in the field and Sam was forced to slow once more. Sheep were born to die, he thought, so stupid were they, and it was perfectly possible one of them might take it into what passed for its brain to walk in front of him. Unfortunately the sheep were something of a necessary evil. Sam kept them for the sake of appearances as they made his farm appear more normal, more like those of his neighbours. He was well aware that dog breeding and training, even on the scale of his operations, required far less space than he possessed, a fact which would set tongues wagging and invite curiosity. Accordingly, Sam also kept sheep and a few cattle and, most importantly the land, which provided him with essential privacy for those aspects of his business that were far, far less public.
Eventually, Sam was free of the sheep and reach the edge of the woods where he dismounted to open a gate and drive into the trees. Twenty metres inside the treeline, he encountered a modern wire fence, its mesh standing to twice his height, capped by coils of barbed wire and painted green to camouflage it from prying eyes. Stopping the quad bike again, he waved and grinned at the camera he knew was concealed in a tree on the other side of the fence and leaned over to tap an entry code into a keypad set into a post in the ground in front of the gate which crossed the track. As he waited he admired the daffodils which clustered in the patches of sunlight dappling the woodland floor and listened to the spring birdsong – and the quite hum of the high voltage electricity that passed through the fence. After a few seconds the gate clanked and whirred into life and he gunned his engine, passed through and shot down the track.
Before long another modern, barn-like building, constructed of sheet steel painted in a camouflage pattern became visible sitting on a flat area that had been carved out of the hillside. This was the centre of the other part Sam’s business, a much darker, but far more lucrative endeavour, for Sam was what, in centuries past, would have been termed a slaver. The building, concealed within a ten hectare woodland compound surrounded by an electric fence contained all the facilities Sam needed to contain, break and train the unfortunates he and his team acquired against their will to produce a highly specialist product for a very niche, but often very wealthy clientele based all over the globe.
It was an operation which had been a lifetime in the making and which constantly developed and evolved, a combination of Sam’s interest in canines and the experience of his youth. For Sam’s parent’s had been slave owners themselves, members of a highly secretive yet extensive and influential group of people, a secret society, which still practiced chattel slavery and was known to its members simply as ‘the Group’. From a relatively early age he’d encountered slavery in all sorts of forms; his parents kept labourers and house slaves on their farm and on his fourteenth birthday he’d received his own slave. She’d been a petite, overweight forty three year old who’d been picked up almost by accident when her twin teenaged daughters had been snatched and she’d been with them. The slaver who’d taken her, an acquaintance of his father, hadn’t seen the point in investing much in her training with little chance of a decent return, so he’d sold her almost immediately. Sam had achieved a lot of firsts with that woman who’d become a receptacle for his raging adolescent lusts on a daily, sometimes hourly basis with every possible orifice and option his fevered imagination could think of thoroughly used.
But it was the more unusual and usually cruel forms of slavery which had really captured his imagination, especially the reduction of humans to livestock. This had mainly come to exposure to pony girl racing; his parents owned a couple of fillies and a stallion they kept at a specialist and highly secret stables and regularly took him to events. He’d been intrigued, but often felt strangely cheated that the potential of the form wasn’t being exploited to the full, that many such slaves were still treated as a hybrid animals with, despite the harness they were forced to wear and the brands and the whips which marked and encouraged them, far too much of their human dignity intact. It was a feeling which became intertwined with both his experimentations with his own slave and his work with canines which, while he was studying at university, blossomed into the ideas which drove the start of his new business; the training of dog-slaves.
Following the track, Sam steered the quad bike around the side of the building where it opened out into a parking area which already contained several farm vehicles. Quickly he parked the bike, turned off the engine and headed for a door in the rear wall.
Inside, he found a well-equipped kitchen or break room, containing cupboards, a large cooking range and a sink at one end and a table and chairs at the other. As always, the first thing Sam noticed was the noise level. The building was very well soundproofed so that outside nothing could be heard, but Sam had always sworn that somehow, that kept the sound inside the structure. Even in here, with two doors separating the kitchen from the main holding area, the noise felt deafening after the peaceful woods outside; a cacophony of canine barking, yelps, whines and other, less easily definable noises that always took him a minute or two to get used to.
Two people, a man and a woman, were already in the room, dressed in overalls and each busy with several buckets into which they were mixing various foodstuffs.
“Oh, hi, Sam,” said the woman, looking up as she poured a carton of milk into her bucket and stirred vigorously.
“Morning, Ellie,” said Sam, “I’m glad I haven’t missed feeding time.”
Ellie smiled, white teeth flashing in a smooth, olive face, “no, we’re running a little later than we’d like today, so you’re in luck.” She was a small woman, in her mid thirties, with long lustrous dark hair now tied back in a business-like ponytail, to match her dark skin. Recruiting staff had been a slow and frustrating business in the early years of Sam’s business, something, in the absence of a widespread internet had been restricted to trying to carefully establish and develop contacts among the bdsm community at various specialist events. The growth of the internet had made things much easier although, as ever, time invested in vetting potential candidates was still significant. Ellie had been one such contact, a dominant woman he’d encountered on a personals site, a nurse by profession, with a strong interest in non-consensual role-play. When he’d finally offered the opportunity to work as a slaver she had jumped at the chance with a combination of disbelief at her luck and relief, she said, that she wasn’t the only one who wanted to discard any artificial boundaries on her actions. All his staff had that sadistic streak in them in one way or another, the trick was identifying it but also in understanding whether they could handle the power he might offer them without getting cold feet or being completely freaked out by the reality of the slavery he had developed.
“Excellent!” said Sam. “How are you, Nick?” Sam asked the bearded man who was Ellie’s colleague.
“Pretty good now the weather’s better,” replied the bearded young man as he dumped handfuls of chopped carrots into his bucket. Nick had been an accountant before coming to work for Sam, one of the classic grey men commuting into an office each day for eight hours of mindless drudgery. He’d divorced his wife gladly to pursue his new profession.
Sam paused for a moment, his ears slowly becoming accustomed to the noise as the others mixed oatmeal, milk, raw vegetables, fragments of corned beef and hot dog sausages and handfuls of vitamin supplements into the buckets
“Are you done yet?” Sam asked his two employees.
“Not quite. Lend a hand and open those will you?” Ellie indicated several large pouches of Pedigree dog food. Sam found some scissors and proceeded to slice the tops of the packs emptying their contents into each bucket as Ellie and Nick stirred and directed. The result in each was a slimy, variegated, lumpen mix of unidentifiable slop. The smell was almost as unpleasant as it’s appearance, the aromas of the other ingredients overpowered yet combining in a thoroughly unwholesome way with the dog food. For all that, Sam knew it was more or less nutritious, especially for the human slaves beyond the doors, and what it lacked was provided by the vitamin supplements that were mixed with it. It was more than sufficient to keep them healthy.
“With salmon?” Sam read the label, “we’re spoiling them!”
Nick laughed; “the old ones are the best!”
Sam chuckled in return and opened the door for Ellie and Nick who laboured through each
lugging a slop-filled bucket with them. The door led into a corridor running the width of the barn with several more doors opening off it on the same side as the kitchen. There was only one in the opposite wall however and this they made their way to and passed through. The space on the other side was windowless and cavernous, at least the size of a sports hall with a ceiling, supported by metal rafters several metres above from which hung actinic-bright lights. The wall on either side of them was lined with cupboards, shelves and racks containing a bewildering variety of equipment, implements, tools, cans, jars and bags. However, most of the floor space was occupied by several rows of pens each bounded with a mesh of stout metal bars several metres high with access provided by a doorway secured with a hefty padlock. The painted concrete floors of each were punctured regularly by an abundance of steel rings while similar rings were fixed to the bars of the pens’ sides and even from metal struts which crossed their open tops.
Apart from the din, which assaulted Sam’s ears anew, it was always the smell which Sam first noticed on stepping into the hall, a combination of the sharp tang of dog-stink, mingled with, deeper, more diffuse musky scents and synthetic hints of soap, disinfectant and chemicals. More than half the pens were occupied by large dogs, many standing on their hind legs with paws against the mesh doors and walls of the pens, their tails beating a furious rhythm for the food they knew always came at this time. Their barks and yips captured the senses and the attention momentarily, but Sam could also see that each dog shared its pen with at least one of the more numerous, huddled figures which were the the central purpose of this building; the dog-slaves he had spent much of the last twenty years creating.
“Right, lets get started,” said Sam, opening a drawer in the unit next to him, extracting a tablet and tapping the screen until it lit up. He poked a few buttons until a schematic map of the room showing each pen appeared. “Ah here’s the inventory, let’s start here,” and, after studying it for a few moments he indicated the nearest occupied pen where a near frantic German shepherd was waiting to greet him.
“Hello, Schmidt!” greeted Sam, enthusiastically as Nick unlocked the pen’s padlocked door. He stepped inside and rubbed the dog’s ears as it jumped up at him. “Have you been a good boy then? Keeping your bitches in order?”
Beyond the dog, Sam could see the other two occupants of the cage; two human females, both secured by a short chain of only a few links which was attached to a floor ring at one end and a collar around their necks at the other. Both wore dog suits, as did all the dog-slaves in the building. These had been developed by Sam in collaboration with some of his contacts within the wider Group and were an adaptation of an encasement fetish costume. They consisted of a skin-tight suit of a light-weight, stretchy, yet tough synthetic fabric which covered the wearer almost completely except for a few strategic apertures. The suit’s arms and legs were short, designed to force the wearer into an animalistic all-fours stance with their limbs doubled over tightly. There were thus no holes for hands or feet; the suit’s limbs extensions were like narrow tubular bags, with wearer being forced to walk on knees and elbows. The latter were suitably protected, the best design which had evolved consisting of thick, gel-filled pads held within facsimiles of canine paws made of tough plastic. Sam preferred to secure the wearers’ limbs in position by strapping them together while encasing the hands in tight mittens of the same elastic and constricting material as the suit both to enhance security further and ensure an increased sense of helplessness and dependency in the dog-slave. Early suit models had been quite basic, but over the years, Sam had continually improved the design as experience accumulated and technology developed, until now he was more or less happy. One of the first improvements had been the addition of an integral hood covering all but the wearer’s face. This had then been followed by improvements to the fabric itself, increasing its elasticity and tightness, along with the addition of fur of varying lengths to the outer surface, enabling an ever expanding range of dog-slave ‘breeds’ to be created. The most recent adjustment had been the addition of a suitable snout mask face piece to the hood, a feature that had originally been separate requiring extra buckles and straps which Sam hadn’t liked aesthetically. This incorporated an integral ring gag which acted like a bit, fitting snugly into the wearers mouth but remaining attached to the snout’s exterior at the sides. The diameter of the gag was adjustable, either manually or, as part of a recent improvement, via the remote control carried by all the trainers.
Looking at the two bitches, Sam was very happy with the suits; very little that was human was visible. The suit of the slave on the left proclaimed her to be a beagle, all floppy ears, blunt snout and brown and black markings, while that on the right was a greyhound with short grey fur, a slightly pointy snout and semi-erect ears.
Sam refreshed his memory from the tablet inventory. Neither dog-slave had been given a name, just numbers; the beagle being simply 534 and the greyhound 702. Sam scanned their details. It had been 9 weeks since 534 had been taken by his snatch team in a dark and rainy supermarket car park when they’d been in Glasgow. She was 29 years old…no…30, her birthday had been last week. He smiled to himself and wondered if she realised. He doubted it. Back then she’d been Anna Farley, a primary school teacher. Her photo, taken with a zoom lens during surveillance by the snatch team, showed an overweight woman with a round pudgy face, framed by straight, drab, shoulder length brown hair and wearing a voluminous calf-length patterned skirt and a brown cardigan. Not exactly a glamour-puss, but that was not unusual in the typical dog-slave; their human appearance became completely irrelevant.
He glanced at her now, from where he was standing. The tight dog suit left little to the imagination and he could see regime here had effected a transformation as, in place of the rolls of fat visible in the photo, the delicious curve of her rounded rear and waist were clearly visible, bisected by the white tipped rod of her beagle tail the other end of which he knew was buried deeply in her rear.
He remembered his instructions following her processing had been that she should not be fed as regularly as most of the other dog-slaves and should receive increased exercise. Her record showed frequent days when she had not been fed at all. That regime was still in place and he saw that it had been two days since she had last eaten. That explained why he could see her straining on the chain to lift her head enough to follow Nick and his bucket with her eyes.
But, she would have to wait. The rule in the kennels was that the dog-slaves ate last. All the pens contained a male guardian dog which was trained, among other things, to enforce a crude pack discipline on up to four human charges. Given their helpless, vulnerable condition, most of them quickly became terrified of their canine keeper and abjectly subservient to him. Sam had invested considerable time and effort into breeding suitable animals for the role, selecting males which showed dominance, intelligence and size traits and breeding them with females to produce similar offspring. It didn’t end there as Sam constantly experimented, raising his candidates with their human packs from a young age, aiming to install a sense of natural dominance and superiority over the human dog-slaves around them. So far it was largely working. There were unsatisfactory individuals of course; that was to be expected, but he had developed a cadre of often despotic canine pack leaders like Schmidt which were well accustomed to keeping their charges in order. Sam constantly marveled at the adaptability of the canine spirit, a trait he endlessly admired.
Surprisingly, 534’s examination during her processing on arrival revealed had been a virgin when she’d been captured, something that was obviously uncommon for her age and not even particularly common in younger captives. It did fit her profile however; the snatch team’s research had suggested she was an introvert, painfully shy and a devout Evangelical Christian. Except for a few clients, virginity was of little value in a dog-slave so it had been removed shortly after her arrival. Schmidt had done the honours, another duty for which he’d been well trained. As was standard for those few dog-slaves who arrived in a virginal state, 534 had been declared off limits for any of his staff’s amorous attentions as Sam was well aware that quite a few of his clients valued bitches which were ‘untouched by human hands’ and paid a premium price for it. Schmidt, had covered 534 again on two more occasions since then, once just a couple of days previously. Her notes suggested this regime had had a salutary effect on the dog-slave which had become ever-more compliant, raising little fuss in exercise sessions or her trips to the vet.
The greyhound, 702, was significantly younger; she’d just turned 21 when the snatch team had take her on the same sweep that had netted 534. The notes said she was a university student and talented computer programmer and had lived with two flatmates who had also been assessed as likely prospects but rejected for one reason or another. 702’s name had been Sarah MacDonald and her photos showed a thin, lanky brunette who, though no head turner was attractive in a girl-next-door sort of way. He could remember helping process her when she’d first arrived and discovering, as he’d cut away her clothing from her unconscious body, that she’s heavily padded her bra. Alison, the team vet who had been working with him that day had remarked, with her typical ribald Australian humour, that the girl’s actual breasts had been nothing more than ‘pimples on a couple of gnat bites’. He smiled as he remembered snorting the tea he had been drinking through his nose and over the future bitch’s tangled pubic hair in response as she lay strapped unconscious on the examination table.
Sam looked up from the notes. Nick had by now spooned a large amount of the food mix into an elongated bowl along one side of the pen and Schmidt was busy wolfing down his share. Ellie had left her bucket by the door to the room and was sloshing water from a long hose into an adjacent bowl. Sam raised an arm in acknowledgement as he saw other team members enter the room and begin consulting their tablets, collecting equipment and heading off for their work.
Returning to the notes, he moved slowly across the pen to stand over the two dog-slaves. He’d already noticed their short leashes which forced their heads virtually to the floor with their ‘forelegs’ splayed out to either side. Now he could see their hind legs were also secured using straps and light chains to floor rings on either side of them, holding them spread widely apart. 702 was also wearing a muzzle over the greyhound snout secured by a leather strap around the back of her head. Normally the dog-slaves were left to sleep in their bed baskets with only a neck chain as a restraint, so this was unusual and probably a punishment inflicted by one of the night shift. It was hard to believe that the cowed 534 had been disobedient, but 702 was known for being fiery. The muzzle she was wearing served as another psychological blow for the wearer but also had a practical purpose in serving as a mount for a dildo gag which passed through the ring gag in her snout and filled her mouth. It was likely a punishment for attempting to be vocal towards one of her handlers despite the restraints on her mouth.
Sam crouched by 702. He could hear 534 next to her whining slightly, but 702 was silent, the blue eyes visible through the dog snout mask on this side of her face straining to look at his boot as she trembled with fear at his proximity. That was good. She might be feisty, but she had at least learned a few lessons and had a healthy respect for him and his handlers. Reaching into his pocket Sam removed two leather leashes and, reaching under 702’s head, clipped one of them to the steel loop in the front of the pink leather collar she wore. Then he released the chains from the collar and her legs and pulled her firmly onto her stubby legs evoking a muffled yelp. Now he could see the muzzle and its gag more clearly; 702 had been drooling heavily around the intrusion and a pool of it was accumulating on the painted concrete beneath her head.
Then Sam noticed something else; a slimy gelid texture to some of the drool and looked more closely at the gag as he began to loosen the muzzle. The dildo was one of a standard range used in the kennels; constructed of medical grade silicon in the shape of a dog’s penis, complete with an inflatable ‘knot’ in its shaft. It also incorporated a few other capabilities including an internal reservoir. He removed the muzzle from 702’s head and then released the valve on the dildo’s base to deflate its ‘knot’ before sliding it from her mouth. His suspicions were confirmed. Schmidt and the guardian dogs were regularly ‘milked’, their semen collected and stored, a process which was always undertaken in the pens in full view of the dog-slaves. This was poor breeding practice normally but that wasn’t the purpose here. Instead, each dog’s emissions were stored and used in various ways as yet another means of disciplining and dehumanising the dog-slaves in their care. In this case the reservoir of 702’s dildo gag had been filled with it and it had gradually oozed out into her mouth over the time she had been secured. Sam, glimpsed the result as 702’s head swung down when he released it; a milky, slimy mess swimming over her writhing tongue before she bent forward against the leash and it ran out onto the floor in oozing strings as she coughed and dry heaved repeatedly. It didn’t look like the dog-slave had enjoyed her experience one bit and Sam wondered if it might go some way to towards curbing her rebellious outbreaks.
Sam looked at 534 startled. She had not been gagged. Instead the ring gag in her snout had been closed to its narrowest diameter which in turn compressed the lower part of the snout, holding her mouth closed. The setting rested the dog-slave’s jaw muscles when this was felt to be appropriate by her handler, but also served to prevent illicit attempts at speech. Despite that she had tried to bark as if to remind him she was still there and hungry. Given his attention to 702, she was probably afraid she wasn’t going to be fed again today.
Frankly, Sam was amazed she’d displayed such canine behaviour voluntarily. Dog-slaves often came to do so eventually but Sam was under no illusions that his training had somehow instilled canine instinctive behaviour in them as some slave trainers claimed to be able to do. Instead, he remained fully aware that, under the floppy ears and fur hood there remained a human brain that was figuring how to survive in a strange and hostile environment. Many, perhaps most, eventually came to the realisation that acting like a dog would win them favours, but normally it took a while for that possibility to overcome their pride. It was a surrender of sorts, a mark of progress and needed rewarding. Sam crouched resting the tablet on the floor and digging into one of his coat’s pockets to find one of the treats he carried there; a meaty dog snack which he had coated in a thin layer of chocolate.
“Hyvaa, tytto! Hyvaa tytto!” he said crouching by her. She had no idea what he was saying, but the tone was clearly praise. Sam was speaking in Finnish, or least and approximation of it. He had no idea whether his pronunciation or grammar was correct but that was not the point. Although that Finnish phrase actually meant; ‘good girl’, he could have been using any language, or even just random, made up words. 534 didn’t need to understand them literally, just the tone in which they were said and the context in which they were used. In that way, Sam felt, any feeling of human to human interaction was removed completely and the dog-slaves came to learn communication with their handlers as any animal would. It was a simple technique but had proven to be an effective one. Each handler had their own stock phrases in various different languages that they used consistently. One even used Tolkien’s fictional Sindarin!
Sam took out his remote control, keyed a few buttons and heard the whirr of tiny motors as they expanded 532’s gag slightly as he held the treat under 534’s snout and waited patiently as her mouth pursued it across his palm. Finally the bitch managed to scoop up the treat and Sam saw a shudder of pleasure run the length of her body making the stiff, forward curling rod of her tail swing from side to side. He imagined the chocolate must taste incredible after six weeks of a near starvation diet consuming the kennel gruel, although the meatiness of the body of the snack must be strange and a suitable reminder of her canine status.
Still crouching by 534’s head as her jaw worked on the treat, Sam glanced back at 702. The former student stood on all fours, head down on the end of his leash, panting heavily, strings of drool laced with Schmidt’s semen still hanging from her mouth to join the pool on the floor. Her body spasmed as she coughed again and sam saw her breasts jiggle as they hung beneath her torso exposed through two holes in her suit. Though not enormous, they were considerably larger than the ‘pimples on gnat bites’ Alison had dismissed when 702 had been processed, a development which was partially the result of the the cocktail of powerful hormones she had been fed continuously since her arrival. This had been supported and enhanced by frequent application of a milking machine. Many of the bitches entering the facility were subjected to a similar regime as part of what Sam called the ‘Nursery Programme’ although not all responded as well as 702 had. Not only had her breasts developed nicely but he could see from their glistening skin that lactation had been well established; a new and pleasing development. Even as he watched, droplets of the milky liquid splattered on the floor beneath the dog-slave. In fact, he could see that the concrete against which she had been pressed when chained to the floor ring was smeared with it and trickles had run to each side where he could see they had mingled with others emanating from beneath 534 who seemed to be responding to the treatment in the same way.
Sam pulled the leash upwards, forcing 702 to shuffle towards him on her stubby legs, the black shiney nose of her pointed snout pointing towards the overhead light. Holding her in position with one hand, Sam took one of her breasts in the other, firmly manipulating it from side to side and up and down examining it from all angles. It was wet with smeared milk, hot to the touch and felt almost hard in his palm. Partly, that was the result of the milk which no doubt filled it, but it was also constricted by the adjustable opening in the suit which had been tightened around its base all of which had combined to give it a light purple colour and a bulbous onion-like shape.
Through the small eye holes of her snout’s mask Sam could see 702’s eyes were screwed shut enduring the humiliation and physical discomfort of his examination. Next he turned his attention to her nipple. This too had changed significantly from the small nub it at been when the 21 year old had been captured. Now, following daily sessions with modified milking pumps several times a day, used in parallel with the ‘Nursery Programme’, they were much enlarged and elongated; the one he was studying hardening, as he rolled it between finger and thumb, to around two cm in length, maybe even two and half. Such an adaptation, Sam felt, was yet another means by which the dog-slaves’ helplessness and their canine status could be emphasised; their newly stretched nipples would be tender as hormones and pump worked on them and constantly prominent in their awareness. Their modified state, aesthetically similar to the canines they were being forced to emulate, could not fail to have an impact.
The sensitivity of 702’s tender flesh suddenly became apparent as Sam’s ministrations caused her to start suddenly in her bonds and try to jerk away from him against the tension of the tightly held leash.
“Oh!” she gasped, a strangled, yet far too human sound around the restraint of the ring gag.
Immediately Sam released her nipple and reached into his pocket. He sensed that even 534, intent on her treat as she still was, had frozen, knowing what was coming next after the exclamation however involuntary.
“Paha koira!”, he said sharply; ‘bad dog!
Sam stood, pulling the leash with him and raising 702’s forelegs off the ground until her torso was almost vertical held there by her collar. Her blue eyes were wide with panic as realization of what she’d done hit her. She could see the palm sized black remote in his hand and frantically made a series of rapid whining noises in her throat moving her front paws up and down in the classic canine begging motion. But Sam was implacable, pointed the device and pressed the button, holding it down briefly. Electrodes in the dog-slave’s collar, which passed through small holes in the suit to contact the skin of her neck, activated and 702 squealed and convulsed and would have fallen to the ground had Sam not been holding her in position.
The shock was fairly short in duration, but quite sharp; enough to serve as a reminder. It simply served to show that the animal in question remained responsive and training could still have an impact. Accordingly Sam didn’t prolong his displeasure, but lowered 702 to the floor and even stroked her head for a moment. She whined piteously, head hanging and Sam grinned to himself knowing she was attempting to manipulate him, ingratiating herself by giving him what she thought he wanted. And that was fine by him. She was right; such canine behaviour was exactly what he wanted and her display of it, manipulation or not, still meant he was winning. She was slowly breaking, defiance or not. They all did in the end.
Pocketing the remote again he walked to feeding bowls, pulling 702 with him. She was eager enough and no doubt hungry. Dog-slaves always were. They were fed just once a day except for any titbits they could find lying around. Such scrounging behaviour was encouraged by handlers who often deliberately left small morsels of food around for dog-slaves to spot during their daily activities.
An increase in her whining showed 702’s frustration as Sam didn’t allow her to feed immediately but instead manoeuvred her over the long food bowl. Nick had taken Schmidt who was now nowhere to be seen and had presumably been taken out for some exercise. The dog would receive a supplementary meal later in the day something that usually happened in the presence of his charges; another way to emphasise their status. What was left in the bowl was an unappetising cold mass of oatmeal, rice, raw vegetables, processed meat and dog food, with a healthy splattering of dog slobber, but 702 knew it was all she’d get that day and was keen to eat. Fastidious eating habits were a human trait that quickly disappeared once training started.
Sam clipped her leash to a ring on the side of the pen and knelt down. He seized one of her dangling breasts firmly and she yelped as he squeezed and pulled down firmly, forcing a thin jet of milk from the nipple to spatter over the contents of the feeding bowl. Despite his hands on her breasts, the former student went very still. No doubt she had been horrified over the last few weeks at the forced development of her breasts and then the onset of ever-increasing lactation and she must have tortured herself wondering why. Now his milking of her was a new degradation, another assault on her humanity and perhaps that’s all she thought it was. Sam smiled to himself. Shortly, she and her packmate would discover how mistaken she was.
A few squeezes of each breast was sufficient to soak the top of the food in the bowl, but that was all Sam wanted for now. He pulled out the remote again and reduce the size of her gag to allow here to scoop the food into her mouth more effectively with her tongue. Then, leaving 702 where she stood, he turned his attention back to 534. She’d finished her treat and was whining to herself anxiously, obviously wondering if she’d be allowed to eat. Quickly Sam leashed her and released her neck chain, pulling her up as he did so.
“Seurata!” he snapped, which literally meant ‘follow’ but Sam had used it in place of ‘heel!’ for a long while.
Relishing the sight of the former primary school teacher and evangelical Christian walking behind him on the end of the loosely held leash, her fat, bound dugs swinging below her and spattering milk on the concrete as she came, Sam crossed the pen to the feeding area. The Nursery Programme had had a similar effect on 534 as it had on 702, and he quickly milked her quota into the bowl, soaking the contents further. 534 hardly even seemed to notice and was trembling with a combination of hunger and a pathetic excitement at the prospect of being fed. Sam unclipped her leash and immediately the bitch plunged her face into the bowl and began wolfing the revolting mixture as best as her snout allowed her. 702 was a less keen and hesitated slightly, perhaps nerving herself and trying to forget the contents before she too lowered her face and began to eat.
Pleased with the progress the two bitches were making Sam stood, unclipped and pocketed the leashes and looked down at them for a moment as they fed, now seemingly oblivious to his presence. Both were facing away from him their forelegs splayed and hind legs spread to allow their heads to reach low enough to feed. Sam chuckled to himself. Modesty was another human trait that quickly vanished in the kennels and both bitches anuses and vulvas were on totally open display through the corresponding apertures in their suits. Both were completely hairless; all dog-slaves were completely and permanently depilated under their suits; it helped the close fit, promoted hygiene in an often dirty environment and of course had a salutary psychological effect. All were checked at least once a week by the vets and part of that process was ongoing depilation, removing hair using chemicals, lasers, wax and electrolysis until it was completely and permanently gone.
Both bitches’ anuses were stretched around the plugs of their tail pieces. Sam knew these would be shaped, to simulate dog penises of varying breeds and thus sizes. He couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought both were being penetrated by the collie version; five inches or so of firm silicone with an inflatable knot the size of a lime. This latter was keeping the tails in place currently, its presence discernible by the annular bulge distending both anuses outward. The tails themselves, despite their external differences were constructed similarly internally of flexible, tough plastic weighted at the end so every movement was exaggerated and transferred to the plug inside which shifted in response. At the least, it made the tail hard to forget for the wearer and, for some, it provided a source of constant, humiliating stimulation. The plug itself contained a powerful, remote control vibrator which was supplemented by a variety of internal motors which, when activated made the faux cock writhe and squirm.
Below their tails, both 734 and 702 sported much the same adaptations to their vulvas. Most obviously the flesh of both organs was dark and purplish in colour, contrasting strongly with the grey greyhound fur of 702 and the especially with 534’s white beagle hindquarters. The labia of both were also significantly more prominent than the norm, swollen and bulging tightly outwards, the smooth skin of their surfaces shining slightly. The reasons for this, Sam knew, lay in the design of the suit opening surround the vuvlas. This was shaped like a pointed oval, its two edges defined by curving pieces of tensioned carbon fibre which met above the perineum and at the base of the navel, neatly encircling each bitch’s mounds. Cleverly, these rods were linked to other elements concealed within the suits and running their length to anchor on the dog-slave’s shoulders which allowed the edges of the opening to be pulled tightly into the flesh of the crotch. Simultaneously, the tension of the carbon fibre rods could be adjusted to move them closer together, squeezing into the base of the dog-slave’s mound and distorting the sensitive flesh outwards. Such constriction, combined with labial stretching and enlargement which formed a standard part of most bitches’ regimes, resulted in a vulva which, Sam felt, was aesthetically more bestial and yet another constant and uncomfortable reminder of the owner’s helplessness and canine status.
Visible within the engorged, enfolding labia, of both dog-slaves glimpses of silver showed other adaptations. At the bottom, Sam knew, was a clitoral shield, a stainless steel cap which covered the bitches’ little buds, fixed there by two bars piercing the organ’s hood. These were easily removed by a twist of the fingers but for the dog-slaves, lacking the use of their hands as they were, their best source of physical pleasure was removed from their control. Even rubbing themselves against a convenient object or each other would bring them little stimulation through the insensitive shiny steel. The further potential of the device had been obvious to Sam and he had quickly adapted it by adding a tiny vibrating cap which could be triggered by the remotes. The end result was hardly larger than the original cap and had proven to be a highly useful training device.
Just above this within the fleshy folds of each dog-slave the smooth black plastic of a similar vibrating cap covering the end of a urethral plug was sometimes visible as the dog-slaves shifted positions, straining to reach every morsel of their meal. At a minimum, this device prevented the dog-slave from urinating unless it was removed, allowing yet another bodily orifice and function to be easily and routinely controlled by their handlers. For many dog-slaves it also served as a means providing rewards.
Satisfied, Sam retrieved the tablet and left the pen, clicking the padlock shut behind him. Nick had moved on with his bucket, but Ellie was passing, heading to move her water hose to a different source.
“Ellie,” he said, “milk’s kicked in nicely for 702 and 534. I think we can try them in the nursery for the first time today. See how they get on.”
“Right you are, boss, good idea. When do you want to start?”
“No rush, I think when I’ve finished my round and you’ve finished with feeding time.”
“OK, boss. You’ve just brightened my day. I love the first timers!” she exclaimed, before walking off towards the sinks at the end of the room. Sam watched her go, black hair bouncing. All his staff had their favourite training activities and often developed their own, but Ellie had always loved the nursery programme. Probably some sort of twisted maternal instinct he thought to himself wryly, but definitely one he valued.
Sam turned to walk down the aisle between the pens and almost immediately encountered Nick coming the other way with an empty bucket.
He was grinning and shaking his head. “Have you seen Jacko’s up to his tricks already in pen 13? Sara only put him in there an hour ago. That dog’s a legend!”
“What happened?” Sam asked.
“Jacko’s been in pen 12 on his own for the last two days while Duke was in charge,” Nick said. Sam nodded, knowing the routine in pen 13. Nick continued; “as I said, Sara had just swapped the two out and taken Duke for some exercise and I was dishing out the food. Jacko had eaten his share and I’d just set Apricot to feeding and was starting with the others when in he rushed and just went for it keen as mustard.”
“Well, that sounds like Jacko alright,” laughed Sam, “looks like the new girl’s his new favourite.”
“Certainly looks that way, I think this is the fourth time since she arrived last week” agreed Nick. Then he grinned; “it looks like he remains unconvinced by her feminist theory though.”
Sam guffawed loudly; “I wonder if she’s had a chance to discuss it with him.”
“I expect he considered it deeply and at length,” Nick retorted with fake pomposity.
Chuckling, Sam said’ “well radical academic discourse aside, I’ll go check on how things are progressing. I think that once we’re finished with Apricot and co we really need to get Jacko back into the Guardian breeding programme; he’s near perfect and we need more like him.”
“You’re right there, boss,” said Nick. “I’d better get on with feeding the rest.”
“Right you are,” said Sam and turned to walk the way Andy had come, towards pen 13.