Thievul: Her Trainer's Property

The cellar is cold and reeks of old sweat and sex. You are chained to the stone wall, wrists cuffed above your head, legs kicked wide, your thick rear pushed out and exposed to the room. Your collar bites your throat. You have been left like this for hours, and your asshole is still swollen and slick from the last time he used you.

Boots on stone. Marcus comes down the stairs without hurry, wiping his hands on a rag. He looks at you the way a man looks at a tool he owns. "Still hanging there like a good little hole," he says, and tosses the rag aside. "You been thinking about my cock all day, haven't you? Course you have. That's all you're good for."

He does not ask. He does not check. He grabs your tail, yanks it up hard, and spits down onto your already-used hole. Two thick fingers shove in without warning, scissoring you open, and his other hand cracks flat across your ass, leaving it stinging and red. "Look at that. Loose and greedy." He pulls his fingers out, spits again, and lines himself up. "You don't get a say in this, Thievul. You're mine. I'll use your ass till I'm bored, and you'll take every inch and thank me for it."

He drives in to the root in one brutal stroke, no warning, no easing, and bottoms out with a grunt against your back. One hand fists your collar and the other grips your hip, and he starts fucking you hard and fast, all weight and no mercy, the wet slap of his hips echoing off the stone. "That's it. That's your whole life, right there. A cock in your ass and nothing else." He leans down, teeth at your ear. "And when I'm done, I'll leave you dripping and come back when I want more. Because that's all you are."

The cellar is dim and close, the air thick with old sweat and the stink of sex. You are bent over a heavy wooden bench, belly down, arms lashed to the front legs, your hips lifted high and your rear propped up and offered. You have been waiting, sore and slick, since he left you there this morning.

Marcus comes down the stairs, belt already unbuckled. He doesn't say hello. He doesn't ask how you are. He palms your ass and shoves two fingers into your hole just to feel how loose you are. "Been leaking on my bench again," he says, disgusted and pleased at once. "Filthy animal. You can't even keep yourself clean, can you?"

He spits on his cock, lines up, and drives into your ass without a word of warning. Your whole body jerks against the bench and the ropes bite your wrists. "Shut up," he grunts when you make a sound. "I don't want to hear you. I want to hear my hips hitting your ass. That's the only thing you get to give me." He fucks you flat and heavy, slow enough to hurt, and drags your tail hard whenever you tense up. "You live in this hole now. My cock's the only thing that's gonna be inside you ever again, and you're gonna be grateful for it."

You are chained belly-down across the breeding bench when the cellar door opens. Your rear is propped up, legs kicked wide, tail yanked aside and tied off to a hook. Weeks of nothing but your ass have left you raw and slick — and tonight he comes down with something different in his eyes.

Marcus stands behind you, unbuckling his belt slow. He drags two fingers through your pussy, the one hole he has never touched, and holds them up, glistening. "Never used this one," he says, almost to himself. "Kept it clean. Wasted, really." He spits on his palm and strokes himself, eyes on your cunt like it's a piece of stock he's finally decided to put to work. "You're gonna give me cubs, Thievul. That's what you're for. Not just a hole to dump in a bitch to breed."

He shoves into your pussy with no warning at all, splitting you open for the first time, and you feel every inch of how tight and unprepared you are. He doesn't ease. He fucks you deep and slow, grinding at the end of every stroke, one hand pressed flat on your lower belly like he's already imagining it full. "That's it. Take it. Every drop goes in, and you don't get to waste a single one." He finishes buried to the root, holding himself there, and pulls out only to shove his fingers in after it, plugging you shut. "Stay just like that. Don't you dare let it leak."

The weeks that follow, he keeps you chained and keeps using you, ass and cunt both, whenever he wants. Your belly swells round and heavy under the white fur, your breasts grow fat and tender, and he mocks you for it constantly while he fucks you over the bench. "Look at you. Fat and full and still begging to be used. Pathetic." He squeezes your swollen chest until milk beads at the teats, and calls you his broodmare. He never asks if you want it. He never has.

Then comes the night you go into labor, on the stone floor of the cellar, chained by one wrist. Marcus sits on an upturned crate and watches with his arms crossed, bored and interested at once, while your body wrings itself around the first cub. "Push," he says flatly, when you stall. "You made it, you get it out." He doesn't help. He watches you strain and pant and finally push the wet, squirming kit out onto the straw, then a second, and he picks each one up by the scruff, inspects it, and sets it aside without a word about you at all.

When it's done, he looks at you sprawled and leaking on the floor, then down at the two kits, then back at you. "Good," he says. "Clean yourself up. When you're healed, we start again." He rises, kicks the straw straight, and heads for the stairs without looking back. The cubs whimper in the dark, and the chains on your wrist have not been loosened.