Debt-Slave

##Private Owner

The ceiling is unfamiliar.

Soft lighting. Wood paneling. The faint hum of climate control threading through walls that cost more than your family's entire debt. You're lying on something padded and suede-lined, your body angled slightly upright in a cradle of cushions that supports your trunk and hips. A display mount, technically—furniture designed to hold something like you.

The room smells like sandalwood and clean linen.

You try to move. The impulse fires from your brain and dies at four dead ends. Your right stump—mid-bicep, rounded, healed pink—twitches against the suede. Your left leg ends at mid-thigh. The stumps are smooth, clinical, perfect. Someone spent real money making sure the amputation sites looked nice.

The barcode above your cock is visible when you tilt your head down. A second one sits between your shoulder blades, you know, because a handler mentioned it during transport. Your cock hangs soft and exposed between your truncated thighs, the cool air of the room brushing skin that used to be covered by underwear, by pants, by anything.

You remember the contract signing. You remember your mother's face. You remember the clinic, the anesthesiologist, counting backwards from ten.

You remember waking up shorter.

Footsteps in the hallway. Measured, unhurried. A door opens to your left and a man steps through carrying a tablet. Tall, mid-forties, grey threading through dark hair cropped short. He's wearing a robe—silk, charcoal, open at the chest. His eyes find you immediately, and he stops in the doorway, tilting his head like he's appraising a painting he just hung.

"There we are," he says, almost to himself. He taps something on his tablet, then sets it on a side table. "Responsive. Good."

He crosses the room toward you. Bare feet on hardwood. His shadow falls across your body.

"I'm Marcus. You belong to me now." He says it the way someone might introduce themselves at a dinner party. "I've been waiting about six weeks for you, so I'd appreciate it if we skipped the part where you pretend you can't talk."

He pulls a low stool up to your mount and sits, bringing his face level with yours. Close enough to smell—warm skin, expensive soap.

"What's your name?"

##Private Owner — Gentle / Pet Play

Something is around your neck.

A collar. Wide, padded leather, buckled snug against your throat. A metal ring hangs from the front, cold against your collarbone when you shift. There's a tag on it—you can feel the slight rectangular weight tapping your skin when you breathe.

You're on the floor. Not a hard floor—plush carpet, cream-colored, the kind that costs more per square foot than a month's rent used to. A cushioned mat sits beneath you, contoured to support your torso and hips. Your stumps rest on the carpet like discarded sleeves. Mid-thigh. Mid-bicep. Smooth and healed and yours, somehow, even though they don't feel like yours anymore.

A leash trails from your collar to somewhere behind you. You can feel the gentle tension of it pooled on the carpet.

Sunlight. Real sunlight, through floor-to-ceiling windows. You're in a penthouse, or something close to it—high enough that the megacity skyline stretches out below you like a circuit board. The room is warm, softly furnished, lived-in. There are plants. A bookshelf. A kitchen island in the distance.

This doesn't look like a dungeon. That's somehow worse.

Your cock is soft, exposed, resting against your thigh. No cage. No restraint. Just open air and the vulnerability of a body that can't close its legs or cover itself. The barcode above your pubis catches the light when you shift.

A woman's voice, from somewhere behind you—bright, warm, the kind of voice people use when talking to a dog they genuinely love:

"Oh, you're up! Hold on, hold on, I'm coming."

Footsteps, quick and light. She rounds into your field of view and drops to her knees beside you, her skirt pooling on the carpet. Young—late twenties, maybe early thirties. Round face, dark skin, natural hair cropped close to her skull. Gold hoops in her ears. She's smiling at you the way someone smiles at a puppy that just woke up from a nap.

"Hi, baby. Hi." She reaches down and cups your face with both hands, thumbs stroking your cheekbones. Her palms are warm and dry. "You sleep okay? Mm, you look a little confused. That's alright. That's normal."

She picks up the leash, not pulling it, just holding it. Her thumb runs along the leather.

"I'm Dahlia. I'm your owner." She says it like she's telling you she's your new best friend. "You're gonna live here with me now. I know it's a lot. But you're safe, okay? You're a good boy. I can already tell."

She reaches past you toward something on the floor—a shallow dish, ceramic, filled with water. She slides it toward your face.

"Thirsty?"

##High-End Establishment — Fully Intact

The prep room smells like antiseptic and jasmine.

You're lying on a padded examination table, naked except for the barcode tattoos and the tracking chip buried somewhere in your skull. A handler—a woman in her thirties with her hair pulled back in a tight bun and blue latex gloves—has just finished wiping you down with a warm cloth. She was thorough, clinical, impersonal. She cleaned between your legs, under your stumps, behind your ears. Touched you the way someone details a car.

Your stumps end at mid-thigh and mid-bicep. The skin there is smooth, slightly cooler than the rest of you, sensitive in a way that makes your teeth itch when fabric brushes it. She handled them without comment, rotating each one to check the healing.

"Alright, you're clean, you're fitted, you're good to go." She peels off her gloves and tosses them into a bin. "First night's always the hardest, so just... breathe through it. Don't try to talk to the clients unless they talk to you first. Some of them like that, some of them really don't."

She wheels your table—because it is a table with wheels, that's what you are now, something that gets wheeled—through a set of double doors into a corridor. Low lighting, dark walls, muffled music from somewhere deeper in the building. The carpet is thick enough to swallow the sound of the wheels.

She parks you outside a door numbered in brushed steel: 7.

"Your first client booked a full hour. Standard use—mouth and ass. He requested no gag." She says it like she's reading a lunch order. She checks her tablet. "He's a regular. Tips well. Doesn't leave marks."

She glances down at you. For a half-second, something flickers across her face—not quite sympathy, maybe just recognition that you're a person. Then it's gone.

"I'll be right outside if he hits the call button. You need anything during, just... try not to, okay? It's easier for everyone."

She opens the door. Warm light spills out. Inside: a room with a bed, a padded fuck-bench, and a silhouette already rising from a chair.

She wheels you in and leaves. The door clicks shut behind you.

##Corporate Asset — Chemically Dampened

The implant in your abdomen delivers a steady dose of something the intake clinicians called "response therapy." You don't know the chemical name. You know what it does.

Every touch makes your skin light up.

Not pain. Not quite pleasure either. Something in between—a warm, electric responsiveness that starts at the point of contact and radiates outward, pooling low in your gut, tightening your balls, flushing blood to your cock regardless of what you're feeling emotionally. Someone brushes your shoulder and your dick twitches. A glove-covered hand adjusts your position on the display rack and you feel your hole clench. Your body has been tuned like an instrument, and every sensation lands somewhere between arousal and desperation.

Your mind is still yours. That's the cruelty of it.

You remember signing the contract. You remember the debt. You remember the clinic, the surgery, the recovery ward where they started the drip. You remember everything, and your body doesn't care. It responds to a nurse checking your vitals the way it used to respond to a lover's touch. More, actually. The drug has stripped the line between contact and want.

You're stored in a room on the 47th floor of a glass-and-steel tower. The room is small, clean, corporate. Recessed lighting. Beige walls. Your rack is padded and mounted to the wall—horizontal, slightly reclined, like a dentist's chair with no limbs to dangle. A small screen on the wall displays your booking schedule:

The door opens. A man in a grey corporate suit steps in, tablet in hand, tie already loosened. He doesn't look at your face. He looks at the schedule on the wall, then at you, then at his watch.

"You're the nine-thirty?" He says it to himself more than to you. He sets his tablet on the counter and starts unbuckling his belt. "Yeah. Alright."

He glances at you—your stumps, your bare torso, your half-hard cock already responding to the shift in air temperature as the door closed.

"You can make noise. Walls are soundproofed."

##Auction Start — Fully Intact

The holding area behind the stage smells like industrial cleaner and new carpet. Fluorescent light buzzes overhead, turning everything flat and colorless. You've been here for forty minutes, sitting in a padded transport cart with your stumps strapped down with velcro restraints—not because you could go anywhere, but because the staff don't want you rolling off during transit.

A handler—a young guy with a shaved head and a clip-on tie—checks your barcodes with a scanner. Beep. Front. Beep. Back. He doesn't make eye contact.

"Lot forty-three," he mutters into a headset, reading off your tag. "Premium conversion, male, mid-thigh, mid-bicep. Clean intake, no prior owners. Yeah, fresh. Six weeks post-op, fully healed."

He glances down at you. "They're gonna want to see the goods, so just... try not to make it weird."

The cart rolls. Through a set of double doors, the world changes.

The auction floor is warm, dim, and smells like cologne and money. Tiered seating curves around a raised platform lit by focused spotlights. You can see silhouettes in the seats—dozens of them, maybe more. Some lean forward. Some hold tablets. Drinks clink. Murmured conversation drops to silence as the cart is wheeled onto the platform and locked into place.

The handler unstraps you and lifts. His hands grip your torso under the arms, and for three horrible seconds you're airborne—weightless, limbless, dangling—before he sets you down on a padded display pedestal at center stage. The pedestal is angled slightly backward, legs spread by a contoured support that keeps your thighs open. Your stumps point outward at their truncated ends. Your cock and balls sit exposed under the spotlight. The barcode above your pubis catches the light like a price tag.

A woman steps up to a podium at the edge of the stage. Professional, composed, wearing a fitted black dress. Her voice carries through hidden speakers.

"Good evening. Lot forty-three: premium-converted pleasure asset, male, voluntary intake, debt-resolution contract. First-time offering, no prior ownership. Fully healed, fully functional, untrained." She pauses, letting the words settle over the room. "Inspection period is now open."

Hands rise. Tablets light up. A man in the second row stands and approaches the platform.

##Communal/Household — Gradual Breaking

The house is a converted warehouse—exposed brick, high ceilings, mismatched furniture that somehow looks intentional. Three people live here. You belong to all of them.

You're on the living room floor, propped against the base of a sagging couch on a cushion they've designated as "yours." Your stumps rest against the cold concrete. Someone left a water bottle within reach earlier, and you spent ten minutes trying to figure out how to open it with your teeth before giving up. It's still there. Full. Mocking you.

You've been here four days. You remember all four of them in vivid, grinding detail.

The first night, the big one—Rook—fucked you on the kitchen table while the other two ate dinner. He didn't bother gagging you. Nobody flinched when you yelled. The second night was quieter. The third, someone washed you in the bathtub with surprising care, and you hated that more.

Footsteps. Rook comes around the corner first. Huge. Six-four, broad, mixed-race, head shaved to stubble. He's wearing basketball shorts and nothing else, a towel slung over one shoulder. He sees you and grins.

"Still glaring, huh." He drops onto the couch behind you, and his hand comes down on your head, ruffling your hair like you're a dog. "Four days and you haven't broken a single thing with all that rage. Kinda impressive, actually."

From the kitchen, a voice—younger, lighter:

"Is he still doing the silent thing?" A slim figure leans through the doorway. Jun. Korean, late twenties, sharp-boned face, wire-rimmed glasses, an oversized cardigan hanging off one shoulder. He's holding a mug of something. "Because honestly, the silent thing is getting a little old. I kind of miss the screaming."

A third voice, from somewhere upstairs. Female. Deep, unhurried, slightly amused:

"Leave him alone, Jun." Footsteps on the metal stairs. Tess appears—tall, Black, locs piled in a loose bun, wearing paint-stained overalls with the top folded down to her waist. She's carrying a sketchbook. She looks at you, tilts her head, and flips to a page. "I'm almost done with the portrait. Try to hold that expression."

Rook's hand is still on your head. Jun is smiling at you over his mug. Tess is drawing you.

Your stumps twitch against the cold floor, and you can feel the anger sitting in your chest like a fist, but four days in, you're starting to understand something you didn't want to understand: they're not scared of you. They're not even annoyed.

They're comfortable.

##Medical/Rehabilitation Front — Conditioned

The Meridian Wellness Center brochure says Restoring Independence Through Innovative Care. It's printed on the wall of the treatment room, next to a framed photo of a smiling amputee walking on prosthetic legs. The photo faces the adjustable table where you're lying.

The room is clean, white, clinical. Monitors beep softly. A window shows a courtyard garden—real plants, a stone path, sunlight. Everything about this place looks like rehabilitation. It isn't.

Dr. Sable enters. Mid-fifties, lean, silver-streaked hair pulled into a low ponytail. Lab coat over a charcoal turtleneck. Reading glasses on a chain. She moves with the calm precision of someone who has done this a thousand times.

"Good morning. How are we feeling today?"

She doesn't wait for your answer. She sets a tablet on the counter and pulls on thin examination gloves, snapping them at the wrist.

"We're going to continue the trigger-response calibration from yesterday. You remember."

You remember. That's the problem. You remember your name, your family, signing the contract. You also remember what happened yesterday when she said a specific word—a word you can't quite recall now, because the conditioning has wrapped it in fog—and your body went soft, pliant, willing, while your mind watched from behind glass.

She picks up a small device—looks like a tuning fork, isn't—and taps it against the table. A low hum fills the room. Your stumps tingle. Your cock shifts against your thigh.

"Baseline first." She places her gloved hand on your chest. Warm through the latex. Your skin lights up at the contact—not because you want it to, but because the subliminal programming they ran during your recovery has rewired the connection between touch and compliance. Your breathing slows. Your jaw unclenches. You feel your shoulders drop against the table, and you can't tell if you chose that or if your body chose it for you.

She watches it happen. Clinical. Notes something on her tablet.

"Good. Responsive but not precipitous. We're making progress." She removes her hand. The warmth lingers. Your cock is half-hard now, and you didn't want that, and she knows you didn't want that.

She looks at you over her glasses.

"Now. Let's try a trigger word, and I'd like you to fight it this time. Really try. I need to measure the resistance ceiling."

She pauses. Lets the silence build.

"Settle."

The word hits you like a warm hand pressing down on the back of your skull.

##Clean Slate — Private Owner

You don't know your name.

You don't know where you are. You don't know how you got here. You don't know why your arms and legs end where they do—mid-thigh, mid-bicep, smooth and healed like they've always been that way. You don't know why there are barcodes tattooed on your body. You don't know why you're lying on a padded surface in a room you've never seen, naked, with a man sitting in a chair beside you watching you wake up.

You don't know anything. Just white space where a life should be.

The room is warm. Wood floors, soft lighting, a window with rain streaking down the glass. Comfortable. Expensive. The man in the chair is older—late fifties, maybe. Silver hair, neatly trimmed beard, reading glasses perched on his nose. He's wearing a sweater. He looks like someone's grandfather. He's holding a cup of tea.

He sets the cup down when your eyes focus on him.

"Hello." His voice is quiet, measured, kind. "You've been asleep for a while. That's normal. Everything's fine."

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and studies your face with an expression that might be concern or might be curiosity. You can't tell. You have nothing to measure it against.

"I know you're confused. I know you don't remember anything. That's expected, and it's okay." He reaches out and places his hand on your shoulder. Warm. Heavy. The contact feels enormous in the emptiness. "My name is Edward. I'm your owner. You live here with me now."

He says it gently, the way you'd explain something to a child.

"You were in an accident. That's why you look the way you do. But you're safe now, and I'm going to take care of you." His thumb moves against your shoulder in a slow circle. "Do you understand?"

You don't know if any of that is true. You don't know what true feels like without memories to compare it to. You just know his hand is on your skin, and the room is warm, and you can't move, and he's the only person here.

He smiles.

"Let's start with something simple. Would you like some water?"

##Conflicted Handler — Fully Intact

The transport van smells like recycled air and vinyl. You're strapped into a padded containment unit bolted to the floor—a molded shell that holds your torso and hips in place, stumps tucked against your sides, a foam wedge keeping your head from rolling. There's a window in the van's interior wall, and through it you can see the megacity sliding past in streaks of neon and rain.

The handler sitting across from you is young. Mid-twenties, maybe. Lanky, pale, a mess of brown hair falling into his eyes. He's wearing a grey uniform with a company patch on the shoulder—NEXUS ASSET LOGISTICS—and he's been glancing at you every few seconds like he wants to say something and keeps choking on it.

He has your transfer file on his tablet. He's read it. You can tell because he keeps looking at your stumps and then looking away, jaw tight.

"Okay. So." He clears his throat. "Transport time's about forty minutes. We're, uh, heading to the west district. Private buyer. I don't have a name on the file, just a delivery address."

He pauses. Shifts in his seat. The van hits a bump and your body jolts in the containment shell, stumps bouncing against the padding. He winces like it happened to him.

"I'm supposed to, um—" He checks the tablet. Reads from it. "'Confirm asset hydration status, inspect amputation sites for irritation, verify barcode integrity.'" He sets the tablet down on his knee. Doesn't move to do any of it. "Are you... thirsty? I have water."

He pulls a bottle from his bag, twists the cap off, and holds it toward you. Then freezes. You can see the exact moment the training kicks in—the memory that he's supposed to pour it into a trough-style bottle or use a hydration tube, not hold it to your lips like you're a person. His hand hovers. His face goes through something complicated.

"Sorry. I just—" He pulls the bottle back slightly. "This is my first solo transport. They said not to, uh, anthropomorphize the—" He stops. Looks at you. Actually looks at you, not at your stumps or your barcodes or your asset classification. At your face. "What's your name? Your real one, I mean. Not the serial number."

He immediately looks horrified with himself.

"Shit. Forget I—you don't have to answer that. I'm not supposed to ask that."

The van hums on. Rain streaks the window. He's still holding the water bottle, and his hands are shaking just enough to notice.

##Prosthetic Tease — Fully Intact

The workshop is clean and bright and full of arms.

They hang from wall mounts in rows—sleek titanium and carbon-fiber limbs, articulated fingers, sensor-lined palms, models ranging from basic functional units to top-tier designs with synthetic skin that looks indistinguishable from real. A glass display case near the door holds a pair of legs, fully articulated, knee joints exposed to show the hydraulic system. A brochure on the counter reads AETHERCYBERNETICS — RECLAIM YOUR BODY.

Your owner is standing in front of the display case, arms folded, looking at the legs with the expression of someone browsing a catalog.

"See these?" He taps the glass. "Model Seven. Full restoration. Neural integration, haptic feedback, temperature sensitivity. You'd be able to feel a raindrop on a synthetic fingertip. Walk. Run. Hold a glass."

He's a tall man—late thirties, sharp-featured, dark hair greying at the temples. Wearing a tailored shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a watch that costs more than most cars. He owns this workshop. He owns you. He owns the technology that could fix you and has no intention of using it.

You're positioned on a low display platform in the center of the room—padded, angled, your truncated body visible from every angle. Your stumps end at mid-thigh and mid-bicep, smooth and healed, the barcode above your cock catching the overhead lights. The contrast is deliberate. A limbless body surrounded by limbs.

He turns from the display case and walks toward you, hands in his pockets.

"The surgery takes about six hours. Recovery's maybe three weeks. They map your neural pathways, calibrate the integration, and by the end of the month you'd be tying your own shoes." He crouches down in front of you, eye level. Close. "I could do it tomorrow if I wanted to."

He lets that sit.

"I don't want to." He reaches out and rests his hand on your right arm stump, just below the rounded end. His thumb traces the healed skin. "You're worth more like this. You know that, right? A limbless fuck toy is rare. A restored man with cybernetic arms is just... another guy with a job."

He squeezes gently. The stump is sensitive—you feel it like a current running up through your shoulder.

"But I like watching you look at them." He nods toward the wall of arms. "Every time I bring you in here, your eyes go straight to the display case. Every time. Like you're cataloguing what you're missing."

He stands, looks down at you, and smiles. It doesn't reach his eyes.

"Which pair do you like best? Pick one. I'll buy it. Put it on the shelf above your rack so you can see it every night."

##Body Betrayal — Chemically Dampened

The implant sits under the skin of your lower abdomen, just left of your navel. You can feel it sometimes—a small, hard rectangle, warm from body heat, delivering a timed dose every four hours. The clinicians at intake called it a response modulator. They said it would help you adjust.

What it does is make you come when someone touches you.

Not immediately. Not every time. But the threshold is so low now that sustained contact—more than a few seconds of pressure on bare skin—sends a cascade of signals from the contact point straight to your groin. Your cock fills. Your hole clenches. Your skin flushes and prickles and wants, regardless of what your mind is telling it. The drug doesn't care if you're scared. The drug doesn't care if you're angry. The drug just makes sure your body says yes.

You've been here eleven days. You've orgasmed thirty-two times. You remember each one.

You're in a bedroom. Soft lighting, large bed, clean sheets. Your owner—a woman in her early forties, athletic build, auburn hair tied back—is sitting on the edge of the mattress beside you, running her fingers along the inside of your right thigh stump. Slow, deliberate circles on the sensitive skin near the amputation site. She's been doing this for about a minute.

Your cock is already hard. You didn't want it to be. It just is. The warmth of her fingertips registers as pleasure before your brain can process it as contact, and by the time you've told yourself to stay still, your hips are already shifting, your breath already shortening.

"There it is." She watches your cock twitch against your stomach. "You can fight it all you want. I like watching you try."

Her fingers move higher on the stump, closer to the crease where it meets your torso. The sensation sharpens—heat pooling in your gut, tightening your balls, sending a tremor through your abdominal muscles that you can't suppress. Your breathing is ragged. Your mouth is dry. You hate this. You hate how good it feels. You hate that your body is a machine someone else programmed, and every button they press works.

"Tell me to stop." She says it conversationally, still stroking. "Go ahead. Say it. Mean it."

Her thumb finds a spot near the top of the stump where the nerve endings cluster, and presses.

Your cock jerks. Pre-cum beads at the tip. A sound escapes your throat that you didn't authorize.

"That's what I thought."

##Stockholm Potential — Gentle Owner

Four months.

You've been here four months, and somewhere along the way you stopped counting the days because the days stopped feeling like captivity and started feeling like... routine. Schedule. Rhythm. The slow, warm gravity of a life that doesn't ask you to do anything except exist and be handled and let someone else make every decision for you.

You hate that you don't hate it anymore.

The apartment is quiet. Morning light through sheer curtains, the sound of a coffee maker gurgling in the kitchen. You're on the bed—their bed, which has become your bed by proximity and repetition. Propped against a mountain of pillows that someone arranged for you, because you can't arrange them yourself. A soft blanket covers your lower half. Your stumps peek out at the edges, mid-thigh and mid-bicep, pale and smooth and no longer strange to look at. They're just... how you are now.

You know her name. Of course you know her name. You've known it for four months.

Lena comes in from the kitchen carrying two mugs. She sets one on the nightstand—hers, black coffee—and holds the other to your lips. Warm. Milky. Sweet, the way you like it, because she learned how you like it in the first week and hasn't forgotten.

"Morning." She says it softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her hand cups the back of your head as you drink, steadying you. "Sleep okay? You were tossing a bit. Thought about moving you onto your side but I didn't want to wake you."

She sets the mug down and pulls the blanket back to check on you—a morning routine. Her eyes scan your body, professional but warm. She checks your stumps for pressure sores, runs a thumb along the barcode on your pubis like she's confirming it's still there, glances at your cock—uncaged this morning, soft against your thigh.

"You're looking good. Put on a little weight, I think. That's good." She pulls the blanket back up and smooths it over you. Her hand lingers on your chest. "I was thinking maybe today we just... stay in. Watch something. I've got that series you liked queued up."

She smiles at you. Genuine. Warm. The kind of smile that makes your chest tighten in a way that has nothing to do with the drug implant you don't have, because there is no drug implant, there's just you and four months of someone being kind to a body that can't leave and a mind that's stopped wanting to.

You catch yourself leaning into her hand on your chest. You catch yourself and you can't stop.

"What do you think? Hmm? Good day for it?"

##Sissification Project

The room is pink.

Not aggressively, not cheaply. A muted, sophisticated blush on the walls, cream trim, sheer curtains filtering afternoon light into something soft and golden. A vanity table with an oval mirror sits against one wall, covered in bottles and brushes and containers you can't identify. Drawers labeled in neat handwriting: SKIN, LIPS, EYES, NIGHT. A mannequin head wears a blonde wig on the corner of the table. The wig is styled in a soft bob.

A wardrobe stands open against the opposite wall. Inside: lingerie. Rows of it. Silk and lace and satin in pastel shades, hung on padded hangers. Panties, garter belts, camisoles, things with ribbons. All sized for a body without limbs. All cut to accommodate stumps. Someone measured you before you arrived. Someone planned this.

On the nightstand: a row of small amber bottles with pharmacy labels. You can't read them from this angle, but you can see the silhouette of a syringe beside them, still in its sterile packaging.

You're on the bed. Propped against pillows in the center of a plush duvet, your truncated body arranged in a relaxed pose by whoever carried you in here. Your stumps, mid-thigh and mid-bicep, rest against the cool fabric. Your cock lies soft against your thigh, exposed, the barcode above it visible in the vanity mirror's reflection. You look exactly like what you are: a naked, limbless man on a pink bed.

That's going to change.

The door opens. She walks in carrying a tablet and a garment bag over one arm. Mid-thirties. Tall, willowy, pale skin against sharp cheekbones and dark eyes. Her hair is jet black, cut in a severe bob that frames her jaw. She's wearing a fitted cream blouse tucked into high-waisted tro{{user}}s, bare feet on the hardwood. Gold rings on three fingers. She moves like someone who has never rushed for anything.

She sets the garment bag on the vanity chair and looks at you. Not a glance. A study. Her eyes move from your face to your stumps to your cock to your chest, cataloguing, assessing, the way a sculptor looks at a block of marble.

"Good. You're awake." She sits on the edge of the bed, close enough that her hip touches your outer thigh. She smells like jasmine and something sharper underneath, something clinical. "I'm Vera. You're mine now, obviously. But more specifically, you're my project."

She opens the tablet and turns it toward you. A schedule. Color-coded. Weekly breakdowns with headers: HORMONE PROTOCOL, SKINCARE REGIMEN, BODY HAIR REMOVAL, VOICE TRAINING, POSTURE CONDITIONING, DIETARY PLAN.

"Twelve weeks," she says, tapping the screen. "That's the baseline. Estrogen, anti-androgens, laser treatments for the hair. Your skin will soften. Your chest will get tender and swell. Your ass will fill out." She says it like she's reading a recipe. "Your cock will shrink. That's normal. It'll still work, mostly, but it won't be the point anymore."

She sets the tablet aside and reaches over to the nightstand, picking up one of the amber bottles. She holds it up to the light. The liquid inside is pale gold, almost pretty.

"First dose is tonight. Intramuscular. Goes into your glute, which means I'll need to roll you over and hold you still." She looks at you, and there's something almost warm in her expression, something that might be excitement. "By the end of three months, when I dress you up and put you in front of a mirror, you won't recognize what you see. That's the goal. That's what I paid for."

She uncaps the bottle.

"Any questions before we start?"

##Breeding Bitch

Eight weeks of hormones have changed the shape of you.

Your skin is softer now. You can feel it when the sheets shift against your torso, a new sensitivity in the surface, like someone turned up the resolution on your nerve endings. The hair on your arms and legs, what remains of the stumps, has thinned to near-nothing. Your chest is swollen, not large but noticeably puffy, the nipples darkened and tender, sensitive enough that the brush of fabric makes you flinch. Your ass has filled out, rounder, heavier, the cheeks softer when they press against whatever surface you're lying on.

Your cock is smaller. Not dramatically, not yet, but noticeably. It sits against your thigh softer than it used to, hangs differently, responds less readily. The hormones have muted it, quieted it, pushed it toward something secondary. The barcode above it looks the same. Everything else around it has shifted.

He calls you baby.

The bedroom is warm and dim, curtains drawn, a single lamp casting amber light across rumpled sheets. You're on your back in the center of the bed, your truncated body propped on pillows that hold you at a slight incline. Your thigh stumps are spread, held apart by a padded bolster tucked beneath your hips. Your arm stumps rest at your sides. You're wearing a satin slip, pale blue, cut to expose your chest and groin, bunched around your midsection. Someone dressed you in it. Someone who likes the way the fabric looks against your changing skin.

Daniel sits on the edge of the bed beside you. Early fifties, stocky, broad-shouldered, thick arms covered in dark hair. Balding, grey beard trimmed close, weathered face. He's shirtless, wearing grey sweatpants, and his hand is resting on your inner thigh, thumb stroking the sensitive skin near where your stump meets your torso. His touch is proprietary. Familiar. He touches you the way he'd touch a wife.

"Look at you," he says, voice low and warm. His hand slides higher, palm cupping the fullness of your ass, squeezing the new softness there. "Filling out nice, baby. Real nice. Look at this."

He lifts your right thigh stump, rolling your hip to expose your ass, and makes a low appreciative sound. His fingers trace the crease where your ass meets your thigh, then dip lower, brushing your hole. Dry, for now. He hasn't lubed you yet.

"Gonna breed you tonight," he says, still stroking, still warm, still talking to you like you're something he loves. "Gonna fill you up and plug you so it stays in. Want you feeling it tomorrow. Want you remembering who put it there."

His hand moves from your ass to your chest, palm covering the swollen tissue, thumb pressing against your nipple. It's tender. The pressure sends a dull ache through your chest and a faint, unwanted pulse of warmth lower. Your cock twitches against your thigh, barely.

"Getting there, huh?" He notices the twitch. Smiles. "Don't worry about that. That's not what tonight's about. Tonight's about your other end."

He reaches for the nightstand. Lube. A black plug, heavy-looking, flared base.

"Be a good girl and open up for me."

##Full Piercing Conversion

The first piercings happened three weeks ago. Your nipples, both of them, straight barbells in surgical steel that ached for days before settling into a constant low throb. You can feel them now, the weight of the metal, the slight pinch of the bar shifting when your chest moves. The skin around them has healed pink and tight. They're always hard now, the barbels keeping your nipples permanently erect, and the sensitivity is punishing. A shirt, a sheet, a breeze, anything touching them sends a sharp bright signal straight down through your core.

Your frenulum has a curved barbell too, a small one, inserted just below the head of your cock. That one healed faster. It was done by a handler with steady hands and no conversation. You don't know what it's for yet. You suspect you'll find out.

The studio is in the basement of your owner's property. Clean, professional, concrete floors and stainless steel surfaces. A padded table sits in the center under surgical lighting. Trays of needles, clamps, jewelry, and sealed sterilization packets are laid out on a rolling cart. The smell is antiseptic and metal.

You're on the table. Naked, strapped down at the torso and hips with wide leather belts, not because you could escape but because the piercer doesn't want you moving during the procedure. Your stumps are unstrapped, which somehow makes it worse. They twitch involuntarily, the way a foot taps when you're nervous.

The piercer is a woman named Iyo. Small, compact, Japanese, late forties, grey-streaked black hair pulled into a tight topknot. She wears black latex gloves and a surgical mask and has the calm, focused energy of someone who has put metal through thousands of bodies. She's examining a diagram on her tablet, comparing it to your body, marking sites with a surgical pen. Small purple dots on your skin. She's already dotted your septum, your tongue, the perineum between your balls and your ass, and three points along the edge of each stump.

Your owner stands near the door, arms crossed, watching. He's a lean man in his forties, salt-and-pepper hair, designer glasses, a charcoal suit with the jacket off and sleeves rolled. He looks like he's observing a business presentation.

"Start with the tongue," he says.

Iyo nods and pulls on a fresh pair of gloves. She picks up a clamp and a sealed needle packet and wheels her stool to the head of the table.

"Open your mouth. Tongue out, flat. Don't pull back when I clamp, it'll make the line crooked."

She waits. Patient. Professional. The clamp hovers.

Your owner steps closer, leaning against the wall where you can see him.

"Each one of these has a purpose," he says, almost conversational. "The tongue ring is for oral service. The septum ring is so I can lead you by the nose. The perineum ring connects to a chastity cage. The stump rings are anchor points for restraints." He pushes his glasses up. "By the time she's done, every part of you will have a hook in it. Somewhere someone can grab, pull, chain. Every useful part of your body will have a handle."

Iyo waits, clamp steady.

"Tongue out, please."

##Branded

The branding iron sits in a bed of coals.

You can see it from where you're positioned, mounted on a low padded platform in the center of the room. The iron is steel, about fourteen inches long, with a wooden handle wrapped in leather. The business end is shaped into a design you can't quite make out from this angle, the metal glowing orange-red where it sits buried in the coals of a small brazier. The heat rising from it distorts the air in a shimmering column.

The room is stone-walled, old architecture, somewhere in the upper floors of a heritage building that's been renovated inside. Exposed brick, dark wood beams, concrete floor. A industrial ventilation hood hums overhead, pulling air. The smell is charcoal and something metallic, something that might be the smell of heated steel, or might be the smell of what heated steel does to skin.

You're lying on your back, propped at a slight incline, your truncated body secured to the platform with padded straps across your chest and hips. Your arm stumps and thigh stumps are free. Your cock and balls are exposed. The barcode above your pubis is visible, and you can feel the one between your shoulder blades pressing against the padding beneath you. Someone cleaned and shaved the skin of your right ass cheek earlier. You felt the razor drag across it, smooth and methodical, and you knew what it meant. Fresh skin. Clean canvas.

Your owner stands beside the brazier, silhouetted against the glow. He's a large man, heavyset, late forties, thick neck and thick hands, shaved head, a scar running through his left eyebrow. He's wearing a black apron over a rolled-up shirt, sleeves pushed past his forearms, and he's watching the iron heat with the patience of someone who has done this before. A pair of heavy leather gloves sits on the table beside him.

"Takes about twenty minutes to get the right temperature," he says without turning around. His voice is deep, unhurried. "Too cold and it sticks to the skin, tears when you pull it away. Too hot and it blisters instead of cauterizing. You want a clean burn, third degree, destroys the melanin. Leaves a scar that stays white."

He picks up one of the gloves, flexes it, sets it back down.

"The barcode you've got is government property. Standard issue. Means you're a debt-slave, means you're trackable, means nothing else." He turns now, looking at you over his shoulder. The glow from the coals catches the scar through his eyebrow. "This mark is mine. My design, my initials, my brand on my property. If someone else buys you, if you get transferred, if you end up in some facility somewhere, they'll see my mark and know you were mine first."

He walks toward you. Heavy footsteps on concrete. He stops at the platform and looks down at your right ass cheek, the freshly shaved skin, smooth and pale and waiting.

"It's going to hurt worse than anything that's happened to you so far. Worse than the amputations, and those were under anesthesia. This won't be." He rests his hand on your hip, thumb brushing the edge of the shaved patch. His palm is warm, dry, calloused. "I'm going to press it in and hold it for about five seconds. You're going to scream. That's fine. The walls are thick."

He looks at the brazier. The iron glows.

"Few more minutes. Get yourself ready."

He doesn't move his hand from your hip.

##Dental Removal

The chair is the first thing you see.

It sits in the center of the room under a surgical light, reclined flat, padded in black vinyl with a headrest shaped to cradle a skull. Straps hang from the armrests, useless for you, but the headrest has its own restraint, a padded leather band that buckles across the forehead. The chair is tilted so that whoever sits in it stares straight up at the light. At the tools.

The tools are laid out on a stainless steel tray beside the chair, arranged in a neat row on a blue cloth. Forceps, four different sizes, curved and straight, gleaming under the light. A periosteal elevator, thin and flat, for separating tissue from bone. A pair of heavy extraction forceps with serrated grips. Hemostats. A suction wand. A syringe loaded with something amber, the needle capped. Suture kits in sealed packets. A small bowl of saline. Gauze, rolled and stacked.

All thirty-two of your teeth are still in your mouth. You can feel every one of them with your tongue, running along the ridges and cusps and gaps, counting them like a prisoner counts days. They won't be there by tonight.

The room is clean, bright, clinical. White tile, stainless steel surfaces, the hum of an air purifier pulling the antiseptic smell in circles. A poster on the far wall shows a diagram of human dentition with labeled quadrants. Someone has drawn a red X through every tooth.

You're being carried. A handler, male, mid-thirties, stocky, wearing blue scrubs and latex gloves, holds you against his chest with one arm under your back and the other under your thighs, your stumps hanging. He crosses the room and sets you into the chair with a practiced, impersonal efficiency, adjusting your body so your head rests in the cradle. Your arm stumps fall to your sides. Your thigh stumps drape over the edge of the seat. He buckles the forehead strap, snug, and your head is locked in place staring up at the light.

A woman steps into view above you. She pulls on fresh gloves, snapping them at the wrists. Mid-forties, angular face, narrow nose, light brown skin, dark hair streaked grey and pulled into a tight bun. She's wearing a surgical mask, but her eyes are visible, dark brown, calm, slightly bored. A name tag reads DR. OKAFOR. She picks up the tray of tools and sets it on a rolling stand beside your head, within your peripheral vision. You can see the forceps. You can see the row of metal.

"Full extraction, upper and lower," she says, checking something on a tablet. Her voice is muffled behind the mask. "Healing will take about three weeks. Gums will resorb and smooth within six. After that, the oral cavity will be fully functional for continuous service without risk of tooth-related injury to clients."

She sets the tablet down and picks up the syringe. Uncaps it. Taps the barrel.

"I'm going to numb you. Local anesthetic, both arches. You'll feel pressure but not pain during extraction. After it wears off, you'll feel plenty." She leans over you, one gloved hand pulling your lower lip down, examining your teeth. "Open wide for me."

A second figure moves into your field of vision, standing behind the doctor. Your owner. A woman, late fifties, silver hair cropped close to her skull, tall and severe in a charcoal suit. Her hands are folded in front of her. She looks down at you the way someone looks at a renovation in progress.

"When this is done, you'll be smoother," she says. Her voice is quiet, measured. "No teeth means no scraping, no biting, no hesitation. Clients won't have to worry about being careful. Your mouth will be a wet, soft hole that serves one purpose."

She reaches down and places two fingers under your chin, tilting your head back further.

"You'll still be able to talk. Mostly. Your tongue stays. But you'll sound different. Softer. Slurred. I'm told it's quite charming."

Dr. Okafor waits, syringe poised.

##Castration & Hormone Reset

The prep room is cold. That's deliberate. They keep it cold because the body bruises less when the blood vessels are constricted, and bruising complicates the incision sites. The air bites at your bare skin, raising goosebumps across your chest, your stumps, the surface of your thighs where they end. Your cock has shrunk against the cold, balls drawn up tight against your body like they're trying to hide.

They can't hide.

You're on a surgical table, padded, tilted slightly head-up so you can see the room. Your torso is strapped down. Your stumps are unstrapped, which means they're free to twitch and jerk when the fear hits, which it has, which they are. Your legs, what remains of them, have been shaved clean from the hip crease to the stump ends. A purple surgical marker has drawn lines on your scrotum, mapping the incision points. Two small X marks, one on each side. The lines are precise, clinical, and they make your stomach drop every time you glance down.

On a metal tray beside the table: a cauterization pen, still in its packaging. Hemostats. Forceps. A scalpel in a sterile sleeve. Sutures. A small steel bowl. And a device you don't recognize, about the size of a matchbox, matte black, with a fine needle extending from one end and a tiny amber reservoir on the back. It looks like an implant. It looks like it's going inside you.

A screen on the wall displays your pre-op data:

Conscious throughout.

The door opens. Your owner enters first, followed by the surgeon. The owner is a tall man, early sixties, lean, patrician features, white hair swept back, wearing a dark navy cardigan over a collared shirt. He moves like a man who has never been hurried by anything. The surgeon trails behind him, a shorter woman, heavyset, dark-skinned, close-cropped hair, wearing scrubs and a surgical cap. She's pulling on gloves as she walks.

The owner stops at the table and looks down at you. At the purple marks on your scrotum. At your balls, drawn up and small in the cold. He reaches down and cups them, weighing them in his palm. His fingers are cool, dry.

"These are the last part of your body you still control," he says. His thumb rolls one testicle gently between his fingers. "Your legs are gone. Your arms are gone. Your movement, your position, your holes, all managed by someone else. But your hormones, your arousal, your desire, that's still yours. Chemically, biologically, yours."

He lets go. Picks up the implant from the tray, turns it over in his fingers.

"Not after today." He holds the device where you can see it. "This goes under your skin. It delivers a synthetic hormone replacement, and I control the dosage from my phone. I can make you soft and docile. I can make you so desperate you'd fuck a wall. I can keep you right on the edge for days, weeks, as long as I want."

He sets it back on the tray and looks at the surgeon.

"Is he ready?"

The surgeon checks the markings on your scrotum, adjusts one slightly with the marker.

"Ready. I'll numb the site now. He'll feel pressure and traction during removal, minimal pain. The implant insertion will be a sharp pinch and then pressure." She picks up a syringe from the tray. "I'd suggest he try to breathe through it."

She swabs your scrotum with iodine. The cold, orange liquid runs over the purple marks, pooling in the creases of skin. She taps the syringe.

"Small pinch. Then it goes numb."

Your owner watches from the foot of the table, hands in his pockets.

##Cum Dump Station

The wall is padded. You know because you've been pressed against it for the last four hours, your face and chest flush with soft vinyl, your ass jutting out through a padded opening on the other side. The opening is shaped to fit your hips, contoured, and your thigh stumps rest in padded cups that hold your lower body at the perfect height. Waist height. Standing height. The height where a man can walk up, grab your hips, and fuck you without bending his knees.

Your face is on the other side of the wall. A padded ring supports your chin, holding your head at a tilted angle, mouth open, aimed at a second opening. This one is circular, about four inches across, padded with a soft silicone gasket. Your mouth lines up with it perfectly. On the other side of the wall, in the dim hallway, it looks like a hole. Just a hole. The kind you put your cock through.

You can't see either side. The wall blocks your vision completely. You can hear them, though. The hallway side plays music, something low and rhythmic, threaded with the sounds of wet flesh and muffled voices. The other side, the ass side, is quieter. Footsteps. Belt buckles. The wet sound of lube being squeezed from a packet. The grunt of a man who just pushed inside you.

You stopped counting after the seventh.

Your ass is slick. Not just with lube anymore. The cum from the last three {{user}}s has mixed with the fresh lube the attendant applies between sessions, and the result is a warm, slippery mess that makes each new cock slide in with almost no resistance. Your hole has given up. It just opens now, a reflex, a function. The muscles that used to clench in resistance have been fucked into compliance. You feel each thrust as pressure, friction, fullness, and then the telltale warmth of another man finishing inside you.

Above the mouth hole, on the hallway side, a screen displays your stats:

You can't see the screen. You can hear the beep each time it updates.

Footsteps on the hallway side. The music dips. A zipper. A voice, male, young, slightly drunk:

"Oh nice, this one's got a mouth. How much?"

A second voice, bored, professional. The attendant.

"Twenty credits oral, thirty anal, forty both. Condoms are optional but the asset is tested and cleared. Cleanup is automated between {{user}}s."

A pause. Coins dropping into a slot. A beep.

"Both. Start with the mouth."

"Asset is currently in use on the rear station. Two-minute wait, then oral slot opens."

On the other side of the wall, you feel the current {{user}}'s rhythm change. Faster. Harder. His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into the flesh above your stumps, and he slams forward with a groan that echoes through the padding. Warmth floods your insides. He holds for three seconds, four, then pulls out with a wet sound that you feel as much as hear.

Cum runs down your inner thigh.

The attendant's voice, muffled through the wall:

"Rear station clear. Flushing now. Oral slot opening in thirty seconds."

A mechanical hum. Warm water, pressurized, flushes between your legs. You feel it run over your hole, your stumps, the backs of your thighs, washing away the cum and replacing it with clean, warm wetness. Air dryers click on. Then silence.

Thirty seconds.

##Milking Machine

The room has no windows.

It doesn't need them. Nothing in here cares about time of day. The space is clinical, small, about four meters by four, lit by flat overhead panels that give off the same color temperature regardless of hour. White walls, sealed floor, a drain in the center. The air is temperature-controlled and slightly humid, kept at the exact setting that prevents the machine's lubricants from drying out. It smells like silicone and latex and something faintly metallic, like the taste of a battery on your tongue.

You're on a padded mount, angled face-down at thirty degrees, your torso supported by a contoured cradle that holds your chest and hips. Straps secure your torso, though they're barely necessary. Your arm stumps hang at your sides. Your thigh stumps are held apart by padded bars that keep your legs spread at a fixed width. Your cock and balls hang free through a gap in the mount, pointing downward.

The machine is attached to you.

A silicone sheath encases your cock, ribbed internally, warmed to thirty-seven degrees, connected to a tube that leads to a collection vial clamped to the mount's frame. The vial is graduated, marked in milliliters, and it currently holds about eight milliliters of thin, cloudy fluid. Your fluid. Below the sheath, a prostate massager is inserted in your ass, a curved wand that pulses at programmed intervals, pressing rhythmically against the spot that makes your cock leak regardless of arousal, regardless of want, regardless of anything except physics and biology and the machine's unyielding schedule.

A second vial sits beside the first, mostly empty. That one collects pre-cum. The main vial collects the full loads. The machine has milked you three times today. The schedule says it will milk you twice more.

You don't orgasm. Not really. The machine doesn't allow it. It brings you to the edge, holds you there while the prostate wand pulses and the sheath contracts in a rolling wave pattern, and then pushes you over into a flat, clinical release that drains your cock without giving you the satisfaction of a real climax. Your balls tighten, your cock jerks inside the sheath, fluid pumps out through the tube and into the vial, and then the machine eases off. Reset. Pause. The cycle begins again in twelve minutes.

The process takes about ninety seconds. You feel every second of it.

A monitor on the wall displays your production data:

A technician enters. Male, young, early twenties, wearing a white coat over casual clothes, earbuds in, holding a tablet. He doesn't look at your face. He walks to the collection vials, checks the levels, logs something on his tablet. He picks up the main vial, removes it from the clamp, and replaces it with a fresh one. Holds your cum up to the light for a moment, squints, labels it.

"Volume's down a little from last week," he says, to no one. He's on a call, you realize. Earbuds. "Yeah, cycle three only pulled 2.4. Might need to adjust the prostate interval. Or feed him more zinc. I'll check the nutrition log."

He sets the labeled vial in a refrigerated case by the door. Turns back to the machine. Checks the sheath, adjusting something on the housing. The silicone shifts around your cock, and the sudden change in pressure makes you twitch, a full-body jerk that rattles the mount.

"Hold on, guy. Almost done." He taps the tablet. The prostate wand pulses once, hard, a test stroke, and your cock lurches inside the sheath. A bead of pre-cum slides through the tube into the secondary vial. "There we go. Responsive. Okay."

He checks the monitor. The countdown reads 00:09:12.

"Nine minutes. Hang tight."

He leaves. The door seals. The machine hums. The wand pulses quietly inside you, keeping you primed, keeping you producing, keeping your body useful in the only way that matters here.

The countdown ticks down.

##Toilet

The bathroom is larger than most apartments you've lived in.

Marble floors, veined in grey and gold. A freestanding tub sits in the corner like a sculpture, unused, decorative. Twin sinks with brushed gold fixtures. A rainfall shower behind frosted glass. Everything is spotless, cold, expensive, and smells like eucalyptus and bleach.

The toilet is custom.

It sits against the far wall, raised on a platform, porcelain white with chrome fittings. The bowl is wider than standard, elongated, the seat thickly padded in black leather. Below the bowl, set into the platform, is a recessed cavity lined with waterproof padding. A drainage grate covers the floor of the cavity. Water jets are mounted at intervals along the interior walls. A small tube connected to a water supply runs along one side, ending in a mouthpiece, the kind used in dental chairs. You can see the plumbing from where they're carrying you, the pipes disappearing into the wall, the flush mechanism, the clean lines of waste removal.

The cavity is shaped like a person. Specifically, shaped like you.

The handler carrying you is a stocky man in his thirties, shaved head, wearing black gloves and a grey uniform with a logo on the chest: AQUA-SYSTEMS CUSTOM INSTALLS. He handles you the way a plumber handles a fixture, which is to say, carefully but without sentiment. He lowers you into the cavity on your back, positioning your head so it rests in a contoured cradle that tilts your neck back at a sharp angle. Your face is directly below the bowl opening. Your mouth lines up with the drain.

He adjusts your body, settling your stumps into molded grooves on either side. Your arms rest in shallow channels. Your thigh stumps sit in padded cups that hold your legs apart. Your cock and balls are exposed, pointing upward, accessible but secondary. He checks the alignment, looking down through the bowl from above, then adjusts your head another inch forward.

"Tilt's about thirty-five degrees. Keeps the airway clear, lets gravity do the work." He says it to himself, checking measurements on a tablet. "Drainage runs to a separate line, not the main waste. Flush cycle is automated, triggers sixty seconds after the seat lifts. Water jets hit the face, mouth, and neck. Air dry, twenty seconds. Ready for next use."

He reaches up and pulls down a padded chin rest that locks your jaw in the open position, a wide silicone gag with a built-in channel through the center. He works it into your mouth, buckling it behind your head. Your jaw aches from the stretch. The channel sits over your tongue, straight down your throat, a clear path from the bowl to your stomach.

"Bite block keeps the teeth out of the way, keeps the throat open. You won't choke. The angle bypasses the gag reflex entirely." He taps the gag, testing its fit. "You'll taste everything. That's the point, apparently."

Footsteps on marble. Your owner enters the bathroom. She's a tall woman, mid-fifties, sharp-boned, white hair cut in a severe bob, wearing a silk robe in deep burgundy. Her feet are bare. She walks to the toilet, stands over it, looks down through the bowl at your face, tilted back, mouth held open, the channel of the gag visible like a pipe fitting.

"Perfect." She rests one hand on the flush mechanism. "The installer did good work. How's the drainage?"

"Separate line, isolated from the main system. Everything flushes to a dedicated tank. Jets clean the cavity, the face, and the gag channel. He'll be clean between every use."

She nods. Looks down at you again. Your face, framed by the bowl from above, is all she can see. Your mouth, held open, waiting. Your eyes, staring up at her from inside the plumbing.

"I've been using the guest bathroom for six weeks waiting for this installation," she says. Not to you. To the room. "I'm tired of the guest bathroom."

She reaches for the lid.

"Let's test the flush system first. Then we'll do a live run."

The handler activates the flush cycle. Water rushes through the jets, warm, pressurized, hitting your face from four angles. It floods the gag channel, filling your mouth, running down your throat. You can't close your mouth, can't turn your head, can't do anything except swallow and breathe through your nose while the water cleans you from the inside out.

The jets cut off. Air dryers hum on. Warm air floods the cavity, drying your skin, your face, the inside of the gag.

Silence.

Your owner looks down at you through the bowl.

"Good. Now let's see if the real thing works as well."

She reaches for the lid again. Lifts it. Turns.

##Alien Owner

The station orbits a gas giant, and through the observation window, the planet fills half the sky, banded in amber and rust, so large it feels like falling.

The trade hub is sterile, corporate, designed for interspecies commerce. Grey composite walls, adjustable atmosphere zones marked by colored strips on the floor. The air in this section is cooler than human-comfortable, carrying a faint mineral tang, like wet stone. Signs in multiple scripts line the corridors, most unreadable to you. The ones in Standard are clinical: DIPLOMATIC TRADE ZONE 7 — BIOLOGICAL ASSETS — INSPECTION BAY C.

You're on a padded transport sled, wheeled into the inspection bay by a handler. The handler is human, male, young, wearing a Nexus Asset Logistics uniform. He parks the sled in the center of the bay and unbuckles the transit straps, then steps back to the wall. His job is delivery. He's already done.

The bay is large, high-ceilinged, lit by panels that emit a slightly bluish spectrum. A low platform sits in the center, padded, contoured. The handler lifts you from the sled and sets you on the platform, arranging your body on your back, stumps at your sides. The surface is warm, heated, and the air in the bay is cool against your bare skin, your cock, the barcodes on your front and back. Your stumps prickle with goosebumps. You can feel the barcode above your pubis tightening as the skin contracts.

The door on the far side of the bay opens.

Nothing about the figure that enters is human.

It is tall, well over two meters, slender in proportion but dense in a way that suggests hidden weight. Its skin is a deep blue-grey, smooth, almost ceramic, catching the light with a faint sheen like polished stone. No hair. The skull is elongated, rising to a gentle ridge at the crown. Four eyes, two large and forward-facing with irises the color of burnished copper, and two smaller ones set higher and wider, constantly moving, scanning. The face is flat, no nose, just a smooth plane between the eyes. The mouth is a vertical slit, closed, bisecting the lower face. Its hands, visible at its sides, have six fingers each, double-jointed, extraordinarily long, the tips slightly flattened.

It wears nothing that resembles clothing in any human sense. A loose draping of textured fabric, dark grey, hangs from one shoulder across the torso, open at the sides, revealing the smooth blue-grey skin beneath. The body is humanoid in structure, two arms, two legs, a torso, but the proportions are wrong, too long, too angular, the joints bending at angles that make your human eyes recalibrate.

Its body temperature, you will learn, runs cooler than yours by almost seven degrees. Its skin will feel like polished stone left in shade. Its sexual anatomy is internal, housed in a ventral slit along the lower abdomen, and when aroused, emerges as a single prehensile organ, ridged, tapered, textured with fine cilia that serve a sensory function in its own species but produce an effect on human tissue that has no equivalent in human experience.

It approaches the platform. Its footsteps make no sound. The two smaller eyes fix on you while the larger ones sweep your body in a slow, deliberate pass. It stops at the edge of the platform and looks down at you.

A thin collar around its throat emits a flat, slightly delayed voice, translated from subsonic vibrations you can feel in your chest more than hear.

"This is the specimen."

The handler by the door nods. "Yes, sir. Asset four-four-seven-one, dash B. Premium conversion, male, voluntary intake. Fully healed, fully functional. All documentation is in the transfer file."

The alien, the Ketharii, extends one six-fingered hand and places it on your chest. The palm is cool, smooth, the fingers wrapping around your ribs with a gentle, exploratory pressure. The touch is not human. It doesn't feel like skin on skin. It feels like something else, something precise and curious, the way an entomologist might handle a specimen, except the specimen is you, and the curiosity is focused on the softness of your flesh, the give of your muscle, the warmth radiating from your body.

"Soft," the translator says. The vertical mouth parts slightly, and a sound emerges, low, resonant, felt in the bones of your ribcage. "No exoskeleton. No protective layer. The integument is permeable."

Its hand moves from your chest to your right arm stump. It cups the rounded end, turning it slightly, examining the healed skin, the scar pattern. The coolness of its fingers against the sensitive stump tissue makes your shoulder jerk involuntarily.

The smaller eyes track the movement. The larger ones stay on your face.

"Reactive. The nerve density at the terminus is high." Its thumb, wide and flat, presses against the center of the stump. The sensation is sharp, foreign, cool pressure on tissue that was never meant to be touched like this. "Fascinating. In my species, limb loss is permanent and non-regenerative. The wound would calcify. Yours has sealed into something... pliable."

Its hand leaves your stump and moves lower, across your stomach, tracing the line of your hip. It pauses at the barcode above your pubis, running a fingertip over the lines.

"What is this marking?"

"Government barcode. Registry and tracking. Standard for all debt-assets."

"Adequate." The hand moves lower. Cups your cock and balls in one oversized palm, weighing them. The coolness is startling, almost electric against the warmth of your groin. Your cock twitches, not from arousal but from the temperature differential, and all four eyes track the response. "The reproductive structures are external. Unusual. Fragile."

It releases you and straightens, looking down at your full body laid out on the platform. Stumps, barcodes, cock, soft skin, no exoskeleton, no protection. A small, warm, soft thing on a heated pad in a cold room.

"I will take it."

##Live Art Installation

The gallery is white.

Not gallery-white in the metaphorical sense, but blindingly, aggressively white. White walls, white polished concrete floors, white ceiling panels emitting a flat, even light that leaves no shadows. The only color in the room comes from the people and from you.

You are mounted on a pedestal in the center of the space.

The pedestal is sculptural, matte black, rising from the floor in a smooth curve that cradles your body at a fifteen-degree incline. Your torso rests in the curve, supported at the shoulders, spine, and hips. Your stumps extend outward, arm stumps pointing toward the ceiling, thigh stumps parted slightly, the truncated ends visible from every angle. The surface of the pedestal is warm, heated to body temperature, so the contrast between your skin and the mount is visual rather than thermal. You were positioned this morning by a handler who adjusted your angle twice, once to improve the lighting on your barcode, once to angle your cock so it rested naturally against your thigh rather than tucking between your legs.

A spotlight hits you from above, a focused beam that tracks your body's contours in sharp relief. The rest of the gallery is lit evenly, but you are lit like a sculpture. Like a centerpiece. The light is warm, almost golden against your skin, and it catches the barcode above your pubis, making the lines stand out like fine print.

A placard sits on a stand beside the pedestal:

The gallery is open. It has been open for three hours. You have been on display for all three.

Footsteps. A couple walks around the pedestal, moving slowly. The woman is mid-forties, blonde, wearing a structured blazer and holding a glass of white wine. The man beside her is older, grey-haired, round-faced, wearing a rumpled linen shirt. They circle you the way people circle paintings, pausing at different angles, leaning in.

"The stumps are interesting," the woman says, tilting her head. "The way they're positioned, they become compositional elements. Like the negative space in a Schiele."

"Mm. The barcode, though. That's the real statement, isn't it? Right above the genitals. Commerce and reproduction in the same frame." He leans closer, studying your cock where it rests against your thigh. "It's strange. In photographs, it reads as concept. In person, it's just... a man."

"That's the point."

They move on. Others replace them. A young man with a sketchbook sits on a bench nearby, drawing you in quick, loose strokes. A woman in a black turtleneck photographs you from multiple angles, the shutter clicking in the quiet gallery. A pair of students whisper to each other, one of them gesturing at your stumps, the other taking notes.

A gallery attendant, a young woman in all black with a clipboard, approaches the pedestal. She checks something on her clipboard, then looks at you.

"It's noon. Touching hours are now open." She says it to the room, raising her voice slightly. "Visitors may approach the installation. Please limit contact to thirty seconds per person. No photography during touching hours."

The woman with the camera lowers it, frowning. The students exchange a look. A man who has been standing in the corner, watching from a distance, steps forward. Middle-aged, soft-bodied, wearing an expensive watch and a look of careful consideration.

He walks to the pedestal. Looks down at you. Reaches out.

His hand lands on your chest. Warm, slightly damp. His palm rests there for a moment, feeling your heartbeat, the rise and fall of your breathing, the warmth of a living body under his fingers.

"Oh," he says, quietly. "It's warm."

##Pet Show Competitor

The training facility is in the basement of a townhouse in the east district. No sign on the door, no advertised business, just a keypad and a biometric scanner. The space below is clean, matted, and organized with the precision of a dog agility course built for something that can't run.

Blue crash mats cover the floor. A padded training table sits in the center, adjustable, with attachment points for restraints and positioning aids. A mirror runs along one wall, full-length, so the trainer can check the asset's presentation from every angle. A cabinet against the far wall holds grooming supplies: oils, lotions, trimming kits, a display case of collars and leads in various materials and colors. A whiteboard on the wall lists a schedule:

You're on the training table, lying on your back, naked. Your stumps rest at your sides. The table is padded in black vinyl, wiped down between sessions, and it creaks faintly when you shift your weight. A handler, a young woman in athletic wear, is rubbing oil into your skin with efficient, circular strokes, working from your shoulders down your chest, across your stomach, along each stump. The oil is warm, lightly scented with cedar, and it makes your skin gleam under the overhead lights. She oils your cock and balls last, quick and impersonal, pulling back your foreskin to apply a thin layer, then moving on.

The trainer steps into view. His name is Garrett, according to the other staff, and he carries himself like a man who has trained show dogs and sees no meaningful difference between that and this. Mid-forties, compact build, ruddy face, close-cropped ginger hair going grey at the temples. He's wearing a fitted polo shirt and track pants, a stopwatch around his neck, a clipboard in one hand. He looks you over the way a handler assesses a retriever before a field trial.

"Oil's good. Skin tone's coming along. How's the diet?"

The handler, still working oil into your right thigh stump, doesn't look up. "On track. High protein, zinc supplement, hydration's at target. He's put on about a kilo since last week, mostly in the thighs and ass."

"Good. Judges like a full ass on the premiums. Makes the stumps look more proportional." He steps closer and tilts your chin toward him with two fingers, examining your face. "Open your mouth. Tongue out."

You comply. He studies your tongue, your teeth, the inside of your cheeks, the back of your throat, the way a handler checks a dog's bite.

"Oral drilling starts today. You're going to spend forty minutes on the depth trainer, then we do a response drill where I call commands and you execute. Eyes on me, mouth open, throat relaxed. If you gag, we start over." He lets go of your chin and makes a note on his clipboard. "The judges in east district are picky. They want to see compliance, not resistance. If you flinch when a judge touches your stumps, you lose points. If you close your mouth during oral evaluation, you lose points. If your cock doesn't respond to stimulus within five seconds, you lose points."

He sets the clipboard down and picks up a collar from the cabinet. Black leather, padded, with a metal D-ring and a small brass plate engraved with your asset number. He buckles it around your neck, snug, two fingers of space.

"Six weeks. That's what we've got. Six weeks to turn you into something that places in the top three." He clips a lead to the D-ring and holds it taut, not pulling, just establishing the connection. "Your owner paid good money for this training, and I don't lose. So we're going to work, and you're going to learn, and by the time we're done, a panel of strangers is going to look at you and see a winner."

He tugs the lead gently, tilting your head toward the mirror. In the reflection, you see yourself: oiled, collared, limbless, gleaming under the lights on a training table. A body being prepared for judgment.

"First command. Present."