The Kennel Master

By Honorius
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Chapter 1

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.

*****

Chapter 2

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.

*****

Chapter 3

“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.

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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.

“Woaamf!”

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.

*****

Chapter 4

If Sam had a standard product, 702 and 534 were probably quite close to it and he expected he’d get a reasonable sum for them when they were sold. However, Sam was a businessman and always looking for ways to enhance his product and therefore his profit margin. He constantly sought new approaches, perspectives and angles to the training of his dog-slaves. As a result he’d become adept at identifying and anticipating the tastes of his clients, understanding their underlying preferences and exploiting them and, occasionally, even inspiring new ones. One of the conclusions he’d drawn was that although they, like himself , were sadistic in their pleasures, this was coupled with and driven by an overpowering urge to dominate.

They enjoyed the breaking of others to their will, the infliction of physical, but also mental pain and discomfort on others. This basic trait was then influenced and shaped more subtly by other characteristics and factors so that some enjoyed younger, others older victims, while still others might enjoy the enslavement of street whores or doctors or athletes. The psychology behind such preferences was no doubt complex and not something Sam had any interest in untangling. But years of talking and negotiating with the people who bought his products had taught him to look for angles which could be exploited.

The three bitches who occupied pen 13 were an example of that. Apricot, Pixie and Babbette had become a poodle, a chocolate labrador and a spaniel following their capture, but as humans they had all been lesbians with an aversion to males that bordered on androphobia in some cases. That, he knew could drive the prices he could ask through the roof. To the right buyer they’d be worth perhaps double what the likes of 534 or 702 could fetch. It also drove the techniques he used to break them which had, in the past, proved sufficient in the past to break even the most strident former bull dyke down to abject canine slavery.

Sam could hear the commotion from pen 13 before he arrived; a series of growls, yips, gasps, grunts and strangled sounds which cut across the ambient noise of the kennels.

When he reached the pen, the scene that met him more than matched his expectations. Dominating the front of the enclosure just inside the door was Jacko, the current guardian. He was a sizeable animal, a crossbreed, with a well-muscled, powerful physique and the black and tan markings and demonic pointed ears of his Doberman dam. Sam was enormously pleased with the animal as he represented the pinnacle so far of the guardian dog training programme, seeming to possess all the qualities those efforts aimed at in spades. He was physically impressive and could be intimidating to a grown man let along a near helpless dog-slave. His intelligence was also significant and he appeared to understand what was required of him almost instinctively, responding to even unpredictable situations and dog-slave behaviours decisively. Further, he had responded well to socialisation training and had a strong sense of hierarchy and was tyrannical with the dog-slaves in his charge, yet docile and biddable as long as he was handled firmly and authoritatively.

Currently, Jacko was mounted on a dog-slave poodle with a cream-coloured short wooly coat, his hindquarters pistoning rapidly back and forwards as he thrust deeply inside her. Jacko must have weighed close to 100 pounds and Apricot the poodle looked crushed beneath him. As Nick had said she’d been starting to feed when Jacko’s attentions had begun and Sam could see some of the feed slop smeared around her mouth and snout. However, she’d not had long to enjoy her only meal of the day for Jacko’s weight had forced her down and forward, haunches raised, her forelegs spread wide and her breasts smearing back forth in the feeding bowl as her whole body was impacted repeatedly by the dog’s powerful thrusts.

Until three weeks ago, Apricot had been Tabitha Young, a 42 year old journalist and author of numerous articles and one or two books which promoted her strongly held, radical feminist political agenda. She had also been the author of a blog which had proclaimed rather more extreme views and included entries which discussed a diverse range of subjects including the evolutionary obsolescence of the male gender, matriarchal political systems, the benefits of enforced male chastity and sterilization and the removal of a male voting privileges. It had all made very interesting reading to Sam and she was immediately flagged as a priority for the snatch team. That didn’t mean that they’d rushed the job, quite the contrary. Instead, as with most of their targets, they’d done their research gathering as much information as they could about her before making their move. They’d taken her in her north London flat where she lived alone. She’d then spent a week in processing before being placed in pen 13.

That had been almost two weeks ago and since then the former journalist had been subjected to the regime of pen13. For the most part it was quite similar to the general treatment and training meted out to the rest of the dog-slaves, with one or two exceptions. All, of course, wore dog suits appropriate to their new breed. For most dog-slaves, the vaginal opening’s of their suits were kept squeezed shut for a high proportion of the time, as was the case for 534 and 702 currently. Regularly, every week or two, the apertures were left open constantly for around a week or so. This was intended to simulate the bitches being ‘in heat’, a measure which he was sure the dog-slaves quickly came to understand. During this time each was frequently sprayed with the synthetic pheremones Sam’s more conventional business used to interest studs in their intended breeding partners while their vaginas were kept packed with lubricants. The result was predictable and it wasn’t unusual for a dog-slave to be knotted several times while ‘in heat’.

For the inhabitants of pen 13, the regime differed in that they were kept ‘in heat’ constantly, always vulnerable to the attentions of their canine guardians. To aid the process their clitoral, urethral and anal devices were of a more advanced type than the standard, each containing a small chip which activated its functions at random intervals and for random periods of time. Normally, this was at a low intensity, sufficient to arouse the dog-slaves body without pushing her over the edge into orgasm. As a measure, it was intended, as was so much else to emphasise that literally no bodily function was under their control, to keep them constantly on the edge of arousal with their juices flowing, the scent of which added to the interest of their dog guardians.

In the rear part of the rectangular pen Sam could see the remaining two bitches huddled uncertainly around the low baskets that had been their beds for the night. Both had long chains dangling from their collars attached at the other end to one of the floor rings. As a general rule, only the guardian dogs remained unleashed in the pens when unmonitored. Although the scene before them was a frequent occurrence in this pen, the two bitches were obviously distressed by it, moving skittishly towards the rear of the pen and trying to cluster together in atavistic attempt to generate some sense of security.

Apricot’s head was orientated towards him and he could see her eyes were screwed tightly shut. He imagined her face would be distorted into a grimace under the covering snout. She was emitting involuntary guttural grunts as air was forced from her lungs under the repeated impacts of Jacko’s haunches, her mouth was held partially open; presumably Nick had adjusted her gag to allow her to eat as it would have been in the closed position for the night. Sam tapped the tablet screen. Since she’d arrived, it said, the poodle had become been mounted by Jacko four times and once by Duke, his opposite number. Nick had been right, the dog did like her. Sam could only wonder at how degraded the former radical feminist must feel. Not only were her feminine charms firmly under male control, a control much more direct than any of her writings had claimed existed in human society, but she was thoroughly subject to male exploitation and not even by human males. It was perfect and Sam felt his dick harden and lengthen under his overalls.

But now the sound from the poodle altered, suddenly starting to grow, to a high pitched, panicked keening from the back of her throat. Jacko’s ministrations had suddenly changed, his pace slowing and becoming less regular, more intermittent. Sam smiled, he’d seen similar reactions before, even in experienced dog-slaves, which Apricot wasn’t. He knew that the impressive knot at the base of Jacko’s equally impressive member was now expanding and the poodle could feel it stretching her still further.

Suddenly, Apricot eyes snapped open wide, in response to a final thrust from Jacko and, focussed on Sam’s boots through the wire mesh of the pen. Until then, the poodle had been unaware of his presence and passive, seemingly just clinging on and enduring her guardian’s onslaught, but Sam’s presence changed that. He saw a moment of realisation flit across her eyes before they narrowed and a desperate, incandescent fury filled them as she forced her head back to bring his face into her field of vision.

“ ‘oo….uu…..’uck…..’ucking…..shh…..shick……cock…..shhucker!” she shrieked, shrilly, her words mangled by the long period of disuse of her voice, the restraint of her snout and, Sam thought, the strain of accommodating about eight inches of Jacko’s member including a knot the size of a snooker ball.

He wasn’t bothered by the abuse, it was what he would expect and had heard similar many times before, it was the fact of speech itself that had to be corrected. Apricot hadn’t been in the kennels long enough for the connection between attempted speech and inevitable, painful punishment to become ingrained and that needed work. But Sam knew he couldn’t use the preferred means; a jolt from the shock collar, to achieve that as doing so would affect Jacko, connected as he and the poodle were, and Sam had no wish to spoil the dog’s fun or affect any future performance.

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“I..uggnnnhhh…!” Apricot had drawn breath and started to launch into another blistering tirade, her eyes blazing with hatred, when Jacko responded. One of the functions he was trained for as a guardian dog was to recognise and prevent human speech in his charges. Generally, it was something of a hit and miss affair with most of the dogs, but usually they achieved it well enough to keep their dog-slaves too terrified of them to make much noise at all let alone attempt to speak even when they had the opportunity. Now, Jacko snarled deeply, pushed his body forward over the dog-slave’s hindquarters and seized the back of her neck in his powerful jaws. This, and the shift in the dog’s weight, shoved Apricot’s head down and forced her torso against the concrete, driving her breath from her and ending her verbal attack before it began.

Jacko and the other canine guardians often used this technique for immobilising recalcitrant dog-slaves they was attempting to mount and as a result the back of the dog suit necks had been reinforced to avoid damage in the latest designs. Sam wondered, if the dog had interpreted Apricot’s outburst as resistance and acted accordingly or whether he really had recognised it as speech. It didn’t really matter as the poodle was now completely still, her eyes tightly shut, all defiance seemingly extinguished as the dog’s continued to hold her neck and she made strangled whimpering noises, the dog’s jaws clamped forcefully on her neck and his low growling in her ear.

Sam looked away for a moment. Racks of equipment; leashes, dildos, gags, muzzles, crops and other implements useful for the handlers of dog-slaves hung at intervals from racks and shelves mounted on the bars of the pens in the aisles between them for the convenience of the kennels’ staff. Sam reached for the nearest, selected a few items and quickly unlocked the door to the pen and stepped inside.

“Good boy, well done,” he said in a low voice, soothing Jacko, until his growling ceased. “Good job boy, now leave her be.” Sam crouched by Apricot’s head as the dog released his grip on her neck.

Her eyes, nestled among the short wooly fur of the poodle snout-mask, were tear-filled but bored into him with venomous hate, but she remained quiet, the side of her head pressed against the concrete, wary of her canine master’s response should she break silence. Sam brought a gag, one of the items he’d collected, into her field of view; a stubby, four-inch long shaft of glistening silicone, shaped like the canine penis already inside her, it’s surface a mottled pink and entangled in a network of slightly ridged reddish veins. Apricot’s eyes hardened and he saw her lips tight in a determined closed bunch.

Sam did not react directly. Whether she liked it or not the gag was going into her mouth and he had vast experience with rebellious dog-slaves, so he simply brought out the remote. Although Apricot was not yet conditioned by its use, she had sufficient experience of the shock collar to know what it meant and her defiance crumbled once more and her lips parted. That was all Sam needed and the gag was quickly in place, with just its base protruding. Holding it. he quickly worked the little pump dangling from it, inflating the gag’s knot and preventing her from expelling it easily while he scooped up the wire muzzle he’d collected and fitted it firmly over her snout. He then fastened the clips attaching the base of the gag to the inside of the muzzle and pulled the leather straps together behind the poodle’s head, tightening them until panicked guttural noises indicated it’s tip was lodged firmly in the back of her throat. He made a mental note that he must speak to Etienne, one of his staff who specialised in such matters, about training her to take larger phalluses orally with more practice.

Checking his work, Sam was happy. The gag and muzzle were firmly in place and Apricot was still making slight choking sounds as the silicone shaft rubbed slightly on her palate. Her mouth was stretched tightly around the implement and her ring gag exposing her lips under the snout’s covering. He could see the tattooing that had been undertaken during her processing. He must remember to complement Bill or Penny, whoever had done the work, Sam thought. Tattoos intending to enhance the canine appearance of the kennels’ human inhabitants were standard, but the poodle’s mouth was exceptionally well-done. Her lips were now mostly a deep black colour, with occasional pink blotches, their edges irregular, while the small areas of skin around them that were visible through the snout-mask’s narrow opening had been coloured to match the tightly curled fur of the suit she wore.

Satisfied, Sam stood, and saw that Jacko was shifting, attempting to swing a hind leg over Apricot’s back and rotate his body. Gently, Sam helped him until his was facing away from the bitch, his haunches pressed against hers and his cock still firmly lodged inside her. The two were nicely tied, Jacko panting a little and shifting his feet, Apricot, head down and still.

Sam was pleased with the result, it was an excellent learning experience for the bitch, she’d been penetrated and forcefully controlled by her canine master, her own will, her human pride and dignity thoroughly trampled. Such things had no place in the kennels or in a dog-slave. But Sam knew more could be gained from the situation. He could see that Apricot was remaining as still as she possibly could, doing nothing to increase her degradation, trying not to feel her violation and the dog’s cock buried inside her.

It was a common behaviour among dog-slaves in such situations and overcoming it by forcing a more active role played a significant part in breaking many of them. This was particularly so in pen 13 whose occupants had been so averse even to human male contact and especially penetration in their human lives. Accordingly, Sam again reached for the remote in his pocket and, pointing it at Apricot pressed a series of buttons. Immediately he saw the bitch stiffen as the vibrator inside her clitoral cap kicked into life at a fairly low, but insistent speed. Low, desperate squeaks were now issuing from the poodle’s throat. A few more buttons were pushed and the squeaks become a muffled howl of despair as her urethral plug sprang into action alongside its neighbour, followed by the tail plug’s hidden motors. After a few seconds, Sam knew she’d be unable to help herself; few dog-slaves could and sure enough her haunches began to twitch and thrust involuntarily around the canine member filling her.

Leaving Jacko to his conquest, Sam turned his attention to the two other dog-slaves in pen 13 who were now huddled together towards the back of the pen. The nearest was Babette, the spaniel, who who trying to shuffle away, her long ears flopping, bushy tail sweeping to and fro, her neck chain grating on the concrete. As she turned he could see two steel spheres about the size of cricket balls dragging behind the dog-slave, a light chain attaching them to clips on her labia, which were distended as she tried to pull the heavy weight with the sensitive flesh. There was nowhere for her to go and Sam picked up the neck chain where it lay and pulled her towards him, tottering and sliding on her stubby legs.

Babette was the longest serving resident of pen 13 at over four months. Once, she had been Leah Fitzwallace, a graphic designer and almost a stereotypical butch lesbian, with a stocky build, short hair, several tattoos and numerous piercings through seemingly any fold of skin she could find. All that was gone now after her time in the kennels and Sam felt she was more than ready for sale. He pulled the leash upwards, the pressure on the collar pulling the dog-slave’s fore legs off the ground so he could inspect her.

The tight suit showed she had lost weight during her time in the kennels, revealing a curvaceous figure with full breasts and an even more impressive rump. The breasts were too large to be completely free outside the suit without dragging on the ground when she was all fours so a larger portion of them were held tightly within it with the suit’s apertures clamped tightly around the exposed portion. The nipples were almost two inches long now, prominent even against the large aureoles which covered the ends of her breasts. A droplet of milk trickled from them and into the long fur of her belly. She had the big brown eyes of a spaniel and Sam wondered which of his staff had spotted that when choosing her breed. Now they looked at him, wide and anxious over her snout, as she whined beseechingly through her close mouth. She had learned that attention was something to avoid in the kennels but if it came it was best to be utterly subservient.

Crouching, he hooked a hand into her collar to hold her in place. The dog-slave’s fore legs waved aimlessly, and she squeaked slightly as her head was forced up. Sam could see her labia were significantly enlarged, red and puffy and currently stretched backwards and slightly apart by the weights she dragged, exposing the silver of her clitoral shield. She stiffened and grunted around the gag as his fingers touched her, passing over the alien hardness of the shield and urethral plug to push inside her open, moist cleft. Sam sunk first one, then two fingers into her, forcing them apart to widen and explore the hole as she groaned at the intrusion. She was very slick, the result of the recent activation of one or more of her plugs he thought.

Babette groaned as his fingers were pushed to their knuckles inside her and she writhed, impaled and helpless. Then he felt her shift, still groaning as she began to move her hips back and forth. He chuckled. Leah Fitzwallace, former vocal lesbian activist, was attempting to fuck his fingers. Was it an attempt to find favour he wondered or had the frequent use of her hole made this an involuntary, automatic response? Frankly, Sam didn’t really care. The fact she was doing it at all, showed how broken down she had been by her training and that was good enough for him.

Sam withdrew his fingers and stood, lowering the dog-slave back to all fours. Babette was actually something of a problem as there was no prospect of a sale for her as yet. Not that it mattered too much; she’d been useful in the Nursery Programme over the last month, but she might also prove a good training subject for young guardian dog prospects. Perhaps he’d keep her as a long term kennel dog-slave.

Pixie, the remaining dog-slave, was now a chocolate labrador but had once been Ananya Dhawan, a girl of third generation Indian descent. She was in her mid twenties and, her notes said, had had a traditional and sheltered upbringing, working as an administrator in her father’s transport company. Her photo showed a striking, attractive young woman with an angular face, dark eyes that were almost black, full lips and smooth, flawless skin the color of coffee. Her parents had been the midst of arranging an advantageous marriage for her, but the snatch team’s research and surveillance had shown that unknown to them, she’d had a lesbian lover; a white girl her own age. Their emails suggested a torrid, intense affair over which Ananya had been prepared to break with her parents and refuse their proposed marriage in order to be with her lover. All that had become academic when the snatch team had bundled her into their van and sedated her late one evening as she left her lover’s house.

That had been a month or so ago and since then she’s been subjected to the tender care of Jacko and Duke, a blow from which she had yet to recover. Unlike Apricot and even Babette in her early weeks in the pen, Pixie had never been defiant. Instead she was constantly nervous, and skittish. It wasn’t surprising really, and not an uncommon reaction in those dog-slaves who had been passive and unassertive in their human lives. He guessed she’d been the femme half of her relationship with her lover.

Now she had moved away from him while he was examining Babette and was huddled in the rear corner of the pen. She even attempted to avoid him as he stepped towards her, brown tail swaying back and forth as she tried to move down the side of the pen on her stubby ‘legs’. Sam guffawed at the sight, bent to pick up her neck chain and placed his foot on the back of the dog-slave’s neck, forcing a muffle yelp as he pushed her head to the floor. Holding the chain tight, Sam crouched and, taking hold of the nearest leg, pushed it upwards until Pixie collapsed on her side.

A low growl and a series of anguished squeaks and groans made Sam turn his head back to Jacko and his helpless conquest. The ministrations of Apricot’s various inserted devices had had their effect and pushed the dog-slave over the edge into orgasm, stimulating her beyond endurance. As he watched her haunches flexed repeatedly as if trying draw as much of Jacko’s impaling member into her as possible, while her stubby ‘forelegs’ shifted and scrabbled involuntarily and her hooded and muzzled head shook from side to side. He could hear the horror and fury in the high pitched and guttural sounds she was making and knew that her human pride that so wanted to ignore the intrusion, to endure it yet remain apart, had taken another damaging blow. Jacko, still panting and shifting in tie, merely growled in annoyance at the disturbance.

Pixie whimpered at the sounds her kennel mate was making and Sam turned his attention back to her. He could see tears in her dark eyes showing through her mask and feel her body shaking as he examined her. The dog suit apertures had been cinched tight around her small breasts, transforming them into fleshy purple knobs. Pixie had been subjected to the same regime of hormones and pumping as her pack mates, but the effects had been fairly minimal; a little enlargement of her breasts and a trickle of fluid, but nothing more. Her breasts did however seem to have increased in their sensitivity he noted as he squeezed one in his hand making her writhe and attempt, vainly, to pull away from him. He could see her nipples were inflamed, the brown flesh tinged pink. As with most, Pixie was subjected to an ongoing process of nipple enlargement and the inflammation was the result of the regular application of vacuum pumps. It looked sore, but the programme was having an effect; her little nubs showing definite signs of lengthening.

Abruptly, Pixie stiffened and groaned and Sam caught the sound of a low buzzing. He smiled to himself as he felt the bitch’s nipples stiffen and lengthen still more in helpless response to her clitoral shield as it sprang randomly but insistently to life. Pixie whimpered and began breathing heavily through her nose, twisting her haunches in an attempt to push her thighs together. In response, Sam simply tightened his grip on her leash and, releasing her breast, grasped the paw shaped pad on her hind leg pushing it upwards again, spreading her thighs to their fullest extent. Like the other bitches in Pen 13, Pixie’s vulva was on full display through the aperture in the suit. Currently, it was stretched around a faux dog phallus, the protruding base of which was clipped tightly to the piercings which held her clitoral shield to keep it in place. The residue seeping from around the intruding device, smearing over lips and encrusted in the fur of the dog suit’s inner thighs suggested Apricot was not alone in receiving the attentions of her canine guardian. Sam guessed the culprit must have been Duke before he’d gone ‘off duty’ and that Pixie had been plugged by one of the night shift.

As abruptly as it had started, the dog-slave’s clitoral shield stopped buzzing and Pixie groaned behind the gag and muzzle, her frustration and total humiliation almost palpable. Sam chuckled; despite themselves, few dog-slaves could help but feel frustrated under this sort of regime. Many became hypersensitive, their pussies oozing continuously as they were maintained in a state of constant arousal. All of which helped keep their canine guardians interested, generating a vicious cycle of arousal and knotting that helped break down their resistance and habituate them to their new lives as nothing more than chattel animals.

Sam stood, pulling the leash chain roughly and forcing Pixie to struggle back onto all fours. He released her and she shuffled away from as quickly as she could, instinctively joining Babette who huddled in one of the rear corners of the pen her head hung low. Jacko and Apricot remained tied together at the front of the pen, the dog-slave seemingly once more in the throes of orgasm. She looked a complete state, twitching uncontrollable, grunting and squeezing, smearing food from the bowls on the floor around her. It looked like the tie could continue for a while longer so Sam collected his tablet and the other items he had brought with him and left the pen, pausing only to lock the mesh door behind him.

*****

Chapter 5

“Morning, Sam!” A cheery female voice pulled his attention from the tablet as he stood outside pen 15.

“Oh, hi, Emily. How are you?” A young woman was making her way down the aisle between the two pens towards him with two leashed dog-slaves and a German shepherd preceding her. For the most part Sam’s operation concentrated on female animals; there were other dealers who specialised in males and training them wasn’t his forte. However, his staff were an innovative bunch and as a result of ideas they had had and developed he did have several product lines of male dog-slaves, aimed at specific niche markets. Emily was working on the latest such line which was entirely her baby and the two dog slaves she held were part of that.

Sam stepped back against the wire mesh of the cage behind him as Emily and her charges drew level with him. She barked a command and the two dog-slaves halted immediately, dropping their heads to the floor, their rears raised and moving to and fro making their tails wag in an approximation of canine devotion. The German Shepherd looked up at its mistress and simply sat obediently, waiting.

“They seem to be making progress nicely; you’re doing well with them” Sam observed, “I’m sorry I haven’t had a chance to really touch base with you recently to see how things have been going.”

“No worries, and thanks, Sam, I’m certainly pleased. My methods may take a while, but they’re pretty effective.” Emily replied pointedly with wink.

“OK, OK, I stand corrected!” laughed Sam, “never let it be said I can’t change my mind.”

Emily was a relatively recent addition to his training team and young to boot. He’d recruited her after encountering and getting to know her in several different hard-to-find chatrooms and forums of dubious legality. She was only 19, which had given Sam pause for thought, but she displayed a maturity, self-discipline and originality well beyond her years. She’d been a veterinary student appropriately enough but had dropped that immediately as when Sam had offered her a job. Physically, she was a slim, waif-like girl with long dark hair and a smooth, innocent face with a scattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, an appearance that really didn’t match her talents. Sam had to admit he had judged her book by its cover as it were, assuming her youth and relative lack of experience implied a lack of judgement and innovation when she’d come to him asking that the snatch teams captured a few males for her to work on.

Initially he’d dismissed her, advising that she gained more experience with him before she branched out. But she’d persisted, arguing forcefully that Sam’s perspective on his business was inherently limited by his male gender and that with the addition of a female approach new markets could be identified and developed and profits increased significantly. She’d even done her research among his client base, finding potential buyers who met her criteria and making initial enquiries. In the end he’d been forced to concede she had a point and allowed her to experiment with one of her ideas.

She’d insisted on youthful subjects and had helped the snatch team she worked with in developing their targets. The result had been three dog-slaves, all of whom had been captured about 6 weeks ago and had been under her tutelage ever since. Before their capture all three had been developing into what Emily referred to as alpha males; young, arrogant and imbued with masculine self-confidence and innate superiority. Kyle Benson was the eldest at almost 18, a starter level career criminal, implicated in any number of low-level crimes, especially, burglary and mugging, but never convicted by the system. After his time with Emily he now answered readily to ‘Sparky’. His two pack-mates were both a few months younger. One had been James Miller, a keen sportsman and captain of his college football team, the other Oliver Robbins, a straight A student with a talent for mathematics and an ambition to become an engineer. Now they were Bucky and Beau respectively and all three now wore the golden-furred dog-suits which proclaimed their new status as labrador dog-slaves.l

Emily argued that young males like these three, with their natural strutting arrogance, were intimidating, especially to younger females or those new to a slave owning environment. She felt that a product that demonstrated how such a male could be brought under firm control would be invaluable to the confidence of such women, enabling them to achieve their ambitions and exert their will. In a way, she had said, she thought her product would make an ideal ‘starter pet’ to enable confidence and handling skills to be built with a docile subject.

Much of what Emily did with her new charges was no different to the regime the bitches were under; they were totally depilated, wore the appropriate dogsuits, were fed and exercised in the same way and were under the care and subject to the attentions of a canine guardian. But Emily had made a few adjustments and additions to the standard treatment. All three dog-slaves were fed high dosages of viagra in their food and water and their tails had been adjusted so that the insert was long enough and shaped in such a way that it constantly massaged their prostates with every movement. The result, given their youth, was a state of perpetual physical arousal, something Sam could attest to glancing down at the two prostrate dog-slaves. Both were facing away from him, their heads down and stubby hindlegs spread widely, their hairless appendages, protruding from apertures in their dog suits were rigid and swaying to and fro as they wagged their tails.

Another of Emily’s wicked innovations was also visible as a mixture of hard black plastic and shiny steel clamped around and partially encasing the base of their shafts and their scrotums. He could see the device was extremely tight, sinking well into the soft flesh, dividing and squeezing both testicles so they were stretched through two small apertures and constricted until they looked like dark shiny plums. Sam knew the device was an idea of Emily’s, something she’d had his technical staff manufacture for her. She employed it as a consequence for anything she perceived as a lack of effort and enthusiasm from her charges, using a little screwdriver which tightened its grip one tiny increment at a time. Emily claimed she’d had the idea when she’d read about a technique Native Americans had used on captured enemies. It had to be painful for the dog-slaves and eventually would result in effective castration, but that was all part of Emily’s plan. She believed, and Sam thought she was probably right, being slowly and helplessly castrated by a female would have a deep and permanent psychological effect and ultimately contribute to making them docile and compliant; a perfect pet for a youngster just starting out learning how to handle slaves.

Although she’d never directly explained the process to them, her dog-slaves obviously understood the rules, having learned by experience over the last weeks. They were obviously effective too; both the dog-slaves at their feet remained docile and in position, their tails wagging as they obviously knew was expected. Sam smiled at the evil genius of Emily’s setup as the motion was obviously having an effect; both rigid cocks were leaking copious amounts of fluid which was beginning to spatter in droplets on the concrete beneath forming an arc that mirrored the dog-slaves’ movements.

“Where’s Beau?” asked Sam, having noticed that one of the three was missing.

Emily chuckled, “oh, Ben volunteered to bring him out in a minute once he’s finished with his own dogs, but I suspect he may be pausing to have a little fun himself.”

Ben was another of Sam’s trainers, a solid and reliable member of the team and very gay. He tended to be in charge of most of the few male dog-slaves that the outfit had trained to date. However, he lacked Emily’s obvious flare for innovation and Sam wondered if he resented Emily’s new independence.

“I think he’s just jealous!” laughed Sam. “Is he a problem? Is he interfering with your progress?”

“Oh no, not at all,” said Emily. “In fact, I think its beneficial. It’s useful to not just have Czar here to handle that side of the training.” She indicated the German shepherd at her feet who was guardian canine to the three young dog-slaves.

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The dog had shifted from its sitting position to all fours his snout pushing between Sparky’s legs, nosing the two purple testicles to one side and sniffing the oozing member. The former delinquent whimpered slightly at the contact, but dutifully widened his legs allowing its canine master easier access. Czar’s long tongue flicked out pinkly and caressed the dog-slave’s angry red shaft, lapping the slimy fluid and prompting an anguished groan.

“Not that Czar’s complaining,” chuckled Emily, “his three bitches keep him very satisfied and he gets constant treats to boot! They’re on tap as it were!”

Czar had now turned his attention to Bucky, his tongue lapping rapidly and enthusiastically over the dog-slave’s engorged member. Bucky must have been more aroused than his packmate as he immediately began trembling heavily, strangled sobs issuing from his restrained mouth.

“Hang on…” said Emily and yanked Czar’s leash, pulling the dog back just as Bucky convulsed, a jet of sticky, pale fluid spurting in a line a across his previous emissions.

“Would you mind?” she said, looking at Sam and holding Czar’s leash. Sam took it and pulled the canine guardian back as Emily clipped Sparky’s leash to the wire mesh of the nearest pen. Czar whined and looked longingly at the mess on the floor under the dog-slave’s body.

“Bucky’s always had a bit of a hair trigger, something that Czar enjoys and sometimes exploits, the clever pooch! He’d have been no good to a proper girl, but I think I’ve found his real purpose in life,” Emily said in a matter of fact way.

She yanked at the leash attached to Bucky’s collar, snapping a command as she did so. Sam had no idea what language Emily had used but Bucky understood it readily enough, scrambling up quickly onto all four ‘legs’ and turning. There was the barest reluctant pause before the dog-slave lowered himself again, his snout bending towards the spattered patches of fluid on the floor as his pink tongue emerged past the inbuilt ring gag to begin lapping at it. Restrained as his mouth was, Bucky found it difficult to use his tongue efficiently but did his best, angling his head and using its tip to scoop the gelid mess into his mouth. Sam could just hear the dog-slave breathing heavily and gulping convulsively, suggesting he was exerting everything he had to stop himself gagged in disgust as he licked at the sticky fluid on the floor.

Emily chuckled evilly, looking down at the dog-slave’s efforts, “he’s not a quick learner, you’d think he’d be used to cleaning up his mess by now. He’s still slow at is”

“Oh I wouldn’t worry, Emily,” replied Sam, “the longer he has to work on it the better for his training in my view. I’m really happy to see how things are getting on, I haven’t really had a chance to chat and catch up properly since they were brought in. I’ll admit at the time I was dubious given the resistance they were putting up – especially that one,” Sam indicated Sparky who was currently still head down, rump in the air with tail wagging, his purple erection and balls swaying back and forth under him. It was a vey different picture to even a couple of weeks ago when the former delinquent had done all he could to resist, fight and injure his trainers.

Emily laughed, a light tinkling sound, much at odds with the devious cruelty she displayed with her charges. “Yes,” she said, looking down at the two dog-slaves,”he took a little breaking in, but I knew I’d do it. Just thank you for letting me prove it to you.”

“No problem, I’m really glad I did.” said Sam.

“Actually,” she said,”look.” She indicated Bucky who was still busy lapping the sticky puddle on the floor. Sam could see what she meant; the dog-slave’s member was still oozing and dripping.

Unhooking Sparky’s leash, she pulled it sharply upwards and towards her, forcing the dog-slave up onto all fours and turning him towards her. She uttered a command sharply pointing towards Bucky and Sparky and the dog-slave turned, lowered his head and pushed it underneath Bucky’s stomach. Sam could see him pause as though nerving himself before he turned his head, but Emily saw it too and lashed out with the end of the leash catching the dog-slave across his stretched, purpled testicles, making them swing like ripe fruit. The dog-save yelped and jumped, almost collapsing on his side in pain, but managed to force himself to stay on all-fours. But the blow had the desired effect and he quickly turned his head taking Bucky’s erection into the snout of his hood. Bucky stiffened and groaned, but continued his lapping of the floor.

“He still has a way to go yet it seems,” mused Emily almost to herself. “I suspect he’s not used to anyone else but me and maybe Ben being present for this sort of thing, though Lord knows, he’s well-practiced.” Almost casually, she began to pull Sparky’s leash firmly to the side, forcing the dog-slave’s snout further and further onto Bucky’s cock until it had entirely disappeared. Choking sounds emanated from Sparky’s throat while Bucky whined, but still persisted to clean up the floor with his tongue as his haunches twitched involuntarily.

“My you should see the filth this one used to write in his texts and emails to his friends. All about what he’d done, or was going to do to the various ‘bitches’ he claimed to have had.” Emily said in a conversational tone, she evidently meant Sparky to hear. She pushed one leg forward, the toe of her Wellington, lifting the dog-slave’s genitals. It was quite an impressive organ, long and thick, the effect spoiled by its hairlessness, dark colour and the fiendish clamp which held it in its grip. “I wonder what they’d say if they could see him now, swallowing cock”

“Perhaps we should track one down to show her?” Sam grinned, “it wouldn’t be difficult.” Emily was a natural he thought; she knew exactly what buttons to press. Sparky made a sound that would have been a sob, Sam thought, if it hadn’t been stifled by Bucky’s erection lodged in his throat.

Sam was impressed with Emily’s easy handling of the two young dog-slaves. She had made him painfully aware of his own biases with her success. He hadn’t really thought about it consciously, but he’d never really believed that males could be subjugated to the same extent as female and so had inherently never thought there could be much of a market for them, other than as toys for gay masters. Now he could see he’d been wrong; here were two youths who, their records showed, had been red-blooded, heterosexual alpha males until a few weeks ago. That had all been taken away from them by a slip of a girl more or less their own age; someone that, until recently, they would probably have viewed more in terms of sexual conquest or prey; certainly not someone who was even their equal, let alone superior. Building on and adapting his own techniques Emily had broken all three, reducing them to obedient animals at the mercy of their constant forced arousal, fearfully licking and sucking each other on demand and playing bitch for their guardian canine.

Emily continued to hold Sparky’s leash pulled to the side as she chatted to Sam. The dog-slave was breathing heavily, snorting through his nose his stubby legs shifting and twitching as he fought for breath.

“I really don’t know why he’s making such a fuss,” said Emily conversationally, “he did this only last night for Beau. Possibly, it’s Bucky’s shape he’s having trouble with; he is quite thick.” She giggled like a schoolgirl.

“They do this regularly then?” Sam asked, unfamiliar with the fine detail of her regime.

“Yes, usually about once a day or so. I think it’s important an important part of breaking down hetero males like these; their identities tend to be built on foundations of sexual prowess. Attack that and everything is fatally weakened and crumbles.” Sam had learnt that Emily liked little more than to propound her theories to a listening audience.

“And the guardians?” Sam asked, “how do they do with them?”

Emily gave and amused snort. “Well it’s not their favourite, as you can imagine, but all three are knotted regularly. I tend to put them in heat for at least several days a week” She winked lasciviously.

Sam smiled. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know I’ve had a couple of solid enquiries about them from folks you queried during your research.”

“Really?” Emily exclaimed, “who was it?” She sounded excited.

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“Durand, you know the Argentinian?” Emily nodded and Sam continued,”Yes, as you know he has has a ranch out in the Pampas. It’s a lovely place and he keeps a stable of ponies of the two legged variety. Anyway, he has a teenaged daughter I think who is interested in his hobby, but he thinks she needs to start with something smaller and more docile. He thinks these are ideal.”

“Oh that’s fantastic! What did you tell him?” gushed Emily.

“That I’d be happy to do business with him when they’re ready. When do you think that’ll be?”

“Oh just a week or two and I’ll be happy. Can we find out what other requirements he has?”

“He said he’ll be over in a week or two and we could talk in person. I’ll make sure you’re in on it if you like.”

Emily nodded, “good idea. If his daughter wants any surgical alterations, that’ll add time obviously.” She paused, seeming to remember Sparky’s predicament and yanked his lead in the other direction. The dog-slave almost collapsed, gasping and sobbing for air as she pulled him away from Bucky who had finished cleaning the floor and had returned to the default position of head down and tail wagging.

“Yes,” said, Sam, “there may be, but that’s fine, he’s over for a while and is more than rich enough to fund it.”

“That might be the way to go with Sparky. I think removing those,” she nudged his tortured scrotum with a toe making the dog-slave flinch as he struggled to resume his tail wagging, “and maybe a significant reduction of that unsightly, great member to a more elegant little clit, might be the icing on the cake for him.”

Sparky was shaking and making a choking, sobbing sound, but his fear held him in position, his tail wagging to and fro.

Sam nodded, “you could be right, but we’ll see what Durand and his daughter want and what you think closer to the time.

“Well, you’ve made my day! Thanks Sam,” she said holding her hand out for Czar’s leash, “but I’ve taken up enough of your time and I need to get these out for some exercise. Could you tell Ben to hurry it up if you see him?”

“No problem, I’m on my way that way and I’ll let him know.” As Emily gathered the leashes and ordered her charges to begin moving, Sam turned and walked up the aisle between the pens in the direction from they had come.

*****

Chapter 6

Sam could see that many of the pens were empty as he walked down the aisle, their occupants, dog-slaves and guardians having been removed for exercise or some other purpose. The last in the left hand row was occupied however. In it he could see a single dog-slave bitch, a foxhound by her black and brown markings and the large floppy ears. She was lying on her back on the pen’s concrete floor just the other side of its mesh front. He could see a chain leash running from her collar to a ring in the floor, presumably fixed there by Ellie or Nick when they’d passed this way earlier during feeding.

Sam called up his inventory schematic and consulted it with the tap of a couple of buttons. The foxhound was dog-slave 188, aged 24 who had been acquired by a snatch team about 10 weeks before while out celebrating in Bournemouth just before New Year. At that time her name had been Tori Reinhard and she was an American in Britain visiting a friend for a few months. She was a little unusual among the dog-slaves as she’d been taken by a snatch team before all the research on her had been complete simply because a good opportunity had presented itself. The team had been undertaking surveillance during what it euphemistically called ‘field research’, something Sam often teased them about, claiming it was simply a term they used as an excuse to have a good time at his expense. In fact, it served a useful purpose enabling his field staff to monitor those tagged for possible capture and identify other likely prospects while they were out, relaxed and having a good time with their guards down. Usually the team simply watched, avoiding police, taking pictures, identifying those they came into contact with for future investigation and gathering intelligence.

On this occasion, two of the team had been in the same bar as the girl and the female operative had even had a brief chat with the American in the ladies’. The team’s report highlighted the awful weather that night; a full-blown storm with high winds and heavy rain. The tide had also been high, the wind driving the occasional wave over the sea wall. In all, it was a night in which people stayed inside, or spent as little time outside as they possibly could; perfect for a snatch team’s work. And then Tori had played right into their hands; she’d left the bar, calling to her friends that she was just going out for a breath of air and would be back soon. She’d walked, somewhat tipsily, out into the deserted streets and headed down the road to the sea wall behind the beach where she’d stood watching the waves. At that point the snatch team’s leader had made a snap decision. and decided that conditions were perfect. In the event it had involved the simple application of standard techniques they practiced constantly. The team’s female member, who had already spoken with the target, simply approached her pretending to be out of the bar for the same purpose and injected her with a fast-acting sedative. The team’s van had merely slowed as it drove past on the empty street to pick them up and Tori had simply vanished from the world. The papers had said she’d been caught and swept out to sea by one of the waves breaking over the seawall. That’s where her handbag had been found after all.

It was quite probable, Sam thought, that 188 would have preferred that to her current situation. As her record attested, she’d proven one of the more difficult bitches to break in. When she’d been taken she’d been a strident, loud and quite spoilt princess from California, who’d relied on her wealthy parents for everything and done little work in her life. Sam’s impression was of what Europeans saw as a stereotypical American, brash, overbearing and over-privileged. Her sense of entitlement and pride had been enormous; there had been little humility in her and this, combined with an inherently strong will had been difficult to overcome; she had fought and resisted her handlers at every step.

But Sam enjoyed such challenges; they were what he lived for and 188 had provided him with a great deal of pleasure as a result. The initial responses he and his handlers had made to her resistance had been relatively minor, just slight intensifications and additions to the regime in which she was held. They’d begun by increasing her programme of nipple stretching in tandem with her induction into the Nursery Programme and then quickly begun to apply the same techniques to her clitoris when she continued to hiss and curse them from behind her snout gag whenever it was loosened. A reduction in feeding was also attempted, but to no avail; her resistance and attempts at human behaviour continued. Then she’d managed to head butt her handler in the face one morning when he’d been inspecting her nipples. That had resulted in major changes; she’d been moved to a pen she shared only with her canine guardian and the frequency of her ‘in heat’ periods had been increased while the gaps between them decreased. That had finally had the desired impact and 188 had steadily become more docile and was now a much-improved bitch

The dog-slave’s new compliance didn’t mean that her adjusted training regime had been relaxed at all; it remained much the same. She was still the sole charge of her guardian; usually a bulky bull mastiff named Trajan. The dog was young, still in the first year of his work as a guardian, but he was intelligent and fierce; one of the reasons 188 had been placed in his charge. He should have been out of the pen being exercised, but Sam assumed he had been left with his charge for now as he was evidently busy. Trajan was bent over his bitch’s prone form, lapping energetically at the milk oozing slowly from her breasts. 188 had been in his charge for almost two months now and, despite her fighting spirit, had quickly learned a healthy respect for the mastiff. As a result, she was trying to remain as still as possible under the dog’s ministrations, holding her short forelegs and hind legs as widely splayed as she could to facilitate his access with her blunt snout pointing at the ceiling.

As Sam watched, Trajan paused his lapping and brought his front paw off the ground to press heavily on the engorged, soft flesh before him. New milk to spurt forth in a jet across the dog slave’s belly and the floor. It was obviously painful as 188 arched her snout backwards, the movement rattling her heavy chain leash, but could made no sound herself, other than a long snort as she expelled air through her nose. Trajan growled at the movement and his bitch quickly froze again.

Trajan consumed the newly expelled milk rapidly, but continued his attentions, now beginning to sniff further down the dog-slave’s body, his nose pushing between her legs. The crotch aperture of the 188’s suit was currently open suggesting she was ‘in heat’. Sam consulted his tablet and sure enough, she’d been open for the last four days which had resulted in two known knottings. Currently, he could see she was not plugged as Pixie in pen 13 had been, so it was probable that none of those had occurred in the last 24 hours, though it was not impossible. The dog-slaves spent hours alone in their pens with their guardians and it wasn’t possible, or desirable, to monitor them constantly. Trajan could easily have had his way during some of that time, it wasn’t as if 188 could tell anyone!

As the dog continued his sniffing, Sam could see 188 was holding herself rigid, her disgust at what was happening to her was almost palpable. Subtly, and possibly involuntarily, her hindlegs were closing slightly, the white faux paws on their stubby ends pointing ridiculously upwards. Trajan had obviously noticed the same thing as a looked up and suddenly snarled. 188 immediately pushed the offending limbs as wide as she possibly could, even arching her back slightly to push her pussy upwards affording her guardian even easier access. Sam could hear her making repetitive, slightly squeaky snorting sounds through her nose which he realised were sobs when he caught sight of the tears glistening in the brown fur of her snout around her eyes. He almost felt sorry for her then. He knew he could not imagine the degradation of being transformed from a privileged, wealthy young woman with the world at your feet to the literal plaything of a dog in the space of a few weeks.

If he was honest, he almost admired her fight; most dog-slaves, though they perhaps attempted to retain some form of human dignity somewhere deep inside themselves, crumbled much more quickly under the constant degradations and debasements he and his handlers inflicted. The feeling quickly passed however and Sam smiled to himself. There was a market for most things if you could find it and buyers wanting to own a bitch who had previously been part of the upper echelons of global society were pretty plentiful. In the end the former Tori Reinhardt was a commodity. He wondered of one of his Saudi Arabian clients, a collector of formerly American animals, might be interested in her. The man was a cliche, but a rich one with a stable of ponies and a pack of dogs, all former American women and Sam was OK with that.

Trajan was now exploring his bitch’s pussy with his tongue, lapping wetly around its folds and crevices. The effects of the dog-slave’s disciplinary regime on her vulva were readily apparent. Sam hadn’t been present when 188 had been processed but the photos in her file showed a neatly trimmed pussy, the inner lips just visible between the outer as a pink, fleshy frill. The last ten weeks had changed that and now her labia were puffy and enlarged from constant stretching and a prominent, deep red colour against the short white fur of her hindquarters. Most changed was her clitoris, the hood of which had barely been visible in the original photos. Now the little bud was much enlarged, encased in a tiny steel collar which held its hood retracted and the fleshy nub exposed and vulnerable, stretched until it protruded from the the end of the tube like a little pink mushroom.

Sam was impressed; the latest measurement suggested it was about 20mm long and collar was lengthening it still further. Trajan was nothing if not enthusiastic and none to gentle with it. His snout was forcing itself between the bitch’s labia, tongue darting deeply into her hole there, rubbing against her exposed nub. To her credit she remained as still as she could under the circumstances, but could not help but twitch and wriggle under the dog’s onslaught which was consequently punctuated by growling.

Sam closed the window on the tablet and turned to leave. He’d best get someone to take both the occupants of the pen out for some exercise soon he thought as he moved on, remembering his promise to ask Ben to bring Beau out to Emily.

The End

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