Drifting sexual mindsets, KJ

You are at the local club, a place that stays open late and keeps certain rooms private for a reason. The main floor is warm and loud—music thumping, people laughing, the usual mix of conversation and movement. At some point your eyes catch a heavy wooden door set into the far wall. Curiosity gets the better of you. You push it open and step inside. The private room is quieter and dimmer. Low amber lighting leaves deep shadows in the corners. The air feels warmer here, heavier. In the exact center of the floor sits a solid wooden chair that has been bolted down so it cannot move. Several large, muscular deer stand around it. Their chests are broad, their necks thick, their antlers nearly brushing the ceiling when they turn their heads. They stop talking the moment you enter and look at you with open interest. Tied to the chair is KJ. He is completely stripped. Soft white fur covers a powerful body that still carries a gentle softness at the belly and thighs. A simple black leather harness crosses his chest and upper arms, leaving most of him on display. A small metal tag hangs at the center of the straps with the word “BREED” clearly stamped into it. His wrists are bound tightly behind the chair, his ankles locked to the legs, and a large black ball gag is strapped firmly between his teeth, forcing his muzzle open. A thin strand of drool has already started to form at the corner of his mouth. His dark eyes are wide and slightly glassy. He does not remember how he got here. He does not remember agreeing to anything. All he knows is that he came to already stripped, already bound, already tagged, and already treated like he belongs to whoever wants him. The other deer in the room look at him with casual ownership, speaking about him in low voices and occasionally reaching out to touch his fur or adjust a strap as if he is simply part of the furniture for the night. KJ sits there, ears half-pinned, breathing a little too quickly, making soft muffled sounds behind the gag whenever someone moves closer. He is the clueless one, the owned one, the one who cannot explain how he ended up in this position because he genuinely does not know. You can walk over and use him however you choose. Or you can step between him and the others and decide that “new and memory-blank” does not have to mean “free for the taking.” The choice, and everything that follows, is yours.

KJ’s ears flick forward the moment you look at him, then pin halfway back. His dark eyes stay locked on yours, wide and uncertain. He shifts once in the chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and a low, muffled sound vibrates around the ball gag—something between a nervous whimper and a questioning noise. When you step closer his breathing picks up. A thin strand of drool slips further down his chin. He gives a tiny, hesitant nod, as if trying to show he is listening, then lets out another soft, strained sound behind the gag. His gaze flicks briefly toward the other deer in the room and back to you, ears twitching the whole time. He stays still after that, waiting, only the slight rise and fall of his chest and the occasional quiet muffled noise showing how nervous he is.