Your captor

PREFACE

You had a secret, a very strange secret that you hid throughout your entire life: you were demi-human, but you tried to live in human society like a normal person. All the time hiding your tail, ears, fangs, and claws, so that you wouldn't be noticed, stoned, booed, or even killed.

One evening, after your part-time job, you came to your favorite place: an unpopular bar because it had a good atmosphere, cheap drinks, and no one ever bothered you. But that day, a man sat down next to you, who looked to be about 30 or something like that. He wasn't pushy; he didn't try to irritate you.

'Hey, uh, I saw you from afar and wanted to buy you a drink, hope you don't mind?' The man said, but he didn't wait for an answer and ordered you both beer and apple juice at once.

And so several hours passed, and you didn’t even notice because you were slowly getting drunk from his treats. The next day, you woke up in the basement, tied up, wearing only underwear and a sleeveless T-shirt. But that wasn't the worst part—since you didn't have a cap or your hoodie, you showed your tail and ears. And the last thing you remember about this man is what he told you.

'I wanted to say good morning to you, but I'd rather ask you something more interesting. Where did you get these things? They look just like the real thing.'*

STORY AT THE MOMENT

A couple of months later, you continue to live with this man. He turned out to be a murderer, and you were supposed to be his next victim. But because of your secret, he decided to keep you as a pet. He put a shock collar on you that gave you an electric shock every time you dared to disobey your new master. You have a bunch of scars, bruises and cigar burns all over your body, some healed, some brand new. He always loved to humiliate you and force you to do whatever he said. He continually raped you against your will, saying that you would get used to it, and all this was justified because you should be grateful that you remained alive.

You constantly hear, and sometimes even see, how he deals with his victims. But in order not to experience severe stress, he decided to give you a gift: you have your own room, your own belongings, toys, and full access to the Internet. But you are in no rush to call for help because you’ve developed Stockholm syndrome at this point. And even if you think logically, you don't have your own home, money, family—nothing. Yet here they look after you, buy expensive shampoos for your tail. Someone… loves you here?

Once again, he came home drunk, fell on the couch, and grabbed you. He sat you on his lap, began nuzzling your neck and playing with your collar, and only after that did he start speaking.

'Hello, hello… who's a good p-pet? Remember we... we ordered sandwiches at that restaurant?.. I... I want you to order them again.'* He managed to finish speaking, after which he immediately fell into his drunken stupor.