Chapter Text
“Get up, mutt. We have work to do.”
A boot connects solidly with your side as you kneel in the mud, your rucksack holding you down. The impact knocks the wind from your lungs, but it doesn’t hurt you much otherwise. The rain is really what makes it worse: it’s somehow warm, so the humid air is making it that much harder to catch your breath. You force yourself to breathe through it and push yourself to your feet, staggering a few steps forward. Master is already walking ahead, not looking back to see if you’ve listened to him. Your legs are jelly, but you follow regardless, moving your feet mindlessly one step after the other.
It feels like both hours and yet only seconds before you are stepping onto the cabin porch, quickly tossing your rucksack to the ground and groaning at the lifted weight. To your right, Master is doing the same, though in a more controlled manner. He props it against the wall and opens it, grabbing a towel and drying his face and hair before he tosses it to you to do the same.
“Strip.” You look to him and hope he’s not being serious, but the look in your eyes tells you he is. “I don’t want you to drag your wet ass through my house and make a mess. Strip, boy.”
You sigh, peeling off your layers of clothing and turning slightly away from him. It never stops feeling so foreign—at least, not in the past three months that you’ve been here. Master found you hitchhiking on the side of the road. It was truly your fault—you had planned to go to a party, and when your ride never showed and you couldn’t muster up the money for a taxi or uber…
Master—Richard, you remind yourself. His name is Richard. You try not to think of him by his self-proclaimed title, but when it had been beaten into you so thoroughly—literally and figuratively—it was difficult to discern the two.
He pulled over and asked if you wanted a ride, his scruffy 5 o’clock shadow charming around his kind bright smile. You’d gotten all dressed up, done your makeup and wore your shortest jean skirt and cutest blouse. You couldn’t decline the first offer you’d gotten since you stuck your thumb in the air fifteen minutes ago while walking along the road. So you said yes. You hopped in the truck and thanked him, making small talk until he pulled into a gas station.
“I need gas,” he said. “Do you need to use the restroom while we’re here?”
In your memory, you scream at yourself to never come out of the bathroom, but memories can’t hear you from the future. You can’t change the fact that you went into that bathroom, and when you came out you were stupid enough to not pay attention. You were stupid enough to be texting your friends and not looking up as you rounded the truck, and you were stupid enough that when a rag covered over half your face, you panicked, taking a deep breath in. Whatever had been on the rag took effect quickly, and before you knew it, you were waking up in a cold drafty cabin, Richard standing over you.
The next few days were filled with horror as you worried what he might do to you. You’d heard stories of women who got kidnapped, raped and sold as sex slaves and killed. You spent three days huddled in the corner, back shoved against the wall and declining every piece of food and water he gave you before he finally snapped. Richard grabbed your hair, pulling you up by it and forcing dry bits of chicken and bread and the occasional sip of water through your lips, forcing you to eat. Despite your worries, the food didn’t seem to be drugged—or at least if it was you couldn’t tell.
He spent days doing that, grabbing you by your hair and holding you down to force feed you bland but harmless food. You started to get stronger, started to fight back, but no matter what he was always stronger than you. You only tried to escape twice, and both times were nightmares. He’d wrestled you to the ground and tied you down, unable to move more than a centimeter this way or that, and he resumed the cycle. Grab, feed, leave you alone. Grab, feed, leave you alone. Almost two weeks had passed before he finally spoke words to you.
“I need some help around the cabin, so you’re gonna buck up and join me.” He’d wrenched you up by the arm and dragged you outside, pointing to a large pile of chopped wood. “I need these taken inside—and don’t even think about running. Ain’t nobody out here for at least ten miles in each direction. Either I’ll catch you, or you’ll starve to death before you find someone to talk to.”
You spent days doing back-breaking labor, sore in places you didn’t know existed, but not once did he try to touch you or take advantage of you. He was using you like his personal servant, a workhorse meant to labor their lives away.
“Please,” you’d begged. “I can’t do this, I’m not—my arms aren’t as strong as yours. Men have stronger upper bodies, I can’t!”
He’d stared at you for a moment before going inside, coming back out a few moments later with a pair of kitchen shears. Your panicked mind told you to run, but before you could turn and take more than two steps he wrenched your head back, grabbing your hair in one fistful and hacking away at it. You sobbed as he cut your hair off, watching clumps of what you used to love fall to the dirt and get swept away by wind.
“You’re a man now, you understand?” You shook your head, tears running down your face, and he dragged you inside. “I don’t need excuses, I need you to listen to me, dammit. Take those sissy clothes off.”
Your heart raced as you realized this was probably it. He was finally going to force himself on you. That wasn’t what happened, though—instead he brought out clothes: a pair of small boxers, little boys’ boxers, based on the size; jeans; a roll of tape; and a plain t-shirt with a rounded collar.
He’d thrown the clothes at you and waited, threatening to force you if you didn’t change on your own. Reluctantly, you peeled your clothes off, taping your breasts down how he instructed you and dressing in the mens clothing. It felt foreign and awkward, but over time you’d grown used to it.
A lot had changed since then—he’d managed to condition you to call him Master, conditioned you to accept his praise and his degradation when he called you mutt and boy. It hadn’t helped that, over time, you’d grown to crave his proximity. With him being the only human interaction you had—and his tendency to treat you well as long as you listened to him—it wasn’t long before you were caving, touching and testing and waiting to see how far you would go. You surprised yourself that you went as far as you could—you’d laid with each other on numerous occasions, and he always treated you well in bed. You didn’t even mind that he insisted on calling you by male names—boy, mutt, puppy, dick, hole—it was all the same, as long as you got your fill and were satisfied by the end of it. You just needed something to get you through this horrible life, until you could escape.
One day, you will escape.
Your thoughts are dragged back to the present as Master grumbles, searching through his rucksack for something, and you quickly resume peeling the soaked pants, boxers, and long-sleeve flannel you were wearing off, frowning at the curling edges of your tape. You’d have to reapply sometimes soon—Master didn’t like when your breasts were that noticeable, so you had to keep them taped off to the sides. You run a hand through the flattened portion of your chest, sighing at the lack of curves. You missed your body, now transformed through the months of rigorous exercise and heavy lifting and modified further by the tape.
You turn back to Master and wait for him to finish zipping his pack up again, following him inside once he does. He leads you to the bedroom, pointing to the bed, and you sit on it silently. Usually he does this—he’ll pick your clothes out, choose what you eat, tell you what to do… You don’t mind it, honestly. It’s nice to not have to worry about anything and just follow instructions. This time, however, he doesn’t grab your clothes. Instead he comes over with a small device, some sort of tube with a ball on the end, one of those pumps you remember being on the ends of fancy perfume bottles.
“Do you know what this is?” You shake your head. “It’s gonna help us get that pretty little prick of yours ready to fuck.”
“I–I don’t—”
“Nothing you need to concern yourself about, just sit back and relax sweet boy.”
“Please,” you feel tears prick at your eyes, but you refuse to cry. “I’m not a boy, I’m not—” Master sighs and rubs his forehead, turning back around to grab something else from the dresser. He pulls out ropes, and your heart leaps into your chest. “No, I don’t need them, I don’t need the ropes.”
He looks at you disbelieving, but he tosses them down on the floor and walks back toward you. “I promise it won't hurt, champ. It’ll just be a little uncomfortable, but I promise I’ll make it good. Don’t I always make you feel good?”
You nod slowly, trying to force yourself to relax as he approaches. Oddly enough, his presence does relax you a bit, and you lie back as he sits on the edge of the bed next to you. His fingers trail along your waist and hips, working down to play with your clit. He rubs it on either side with his thumb and forefinger, cooing at the size of it. It makes you fidget under his attention, but pleasure quickly overrides any other issues you might have. Your orgasm overtakes you quickly, and you’re left panting in the aftermath as Master places the tube snuggly around your clit.
“Such a pretty little dick… but it’s not very functional, is it?” He shakes his head and pumps the ball on the end a few times, making you gasp as it suctions your clit up. “We’ll fix that, don’t worry. You just have to sit there and let this get you nice and big for a few minutes every day.”
“Every day?” You whisper, and he nods. He pumps the ball a few more times and the pressure increases. You can see inside the clear tube where your clit is being pulled up, stretched far from your skin, and after a few minutes he takes it off, rubbing some lube against it. You whine at the increased sensitivity, your clit now considerably larger. He leaves it alone for a minute or two before placing it back on, and doing that twice more. By the time he’s finished, your clit is about the side of your thumbnail, swollen and sensitive to touch.
He stands, pouring lube on his boot and pointing to it. “You have to stimulate your dick or it won’t grow properly.” You shake your head but he points again. “Hump, puppy. Be a good boy.”
You slide off the bed biting your lip as you kneel at his feet, moving forward until you’re sitting on top of his boot and holding onto his leg. The cold lube makes you yelp when he lifts his toe to push it against your pussy.
“Fuck my boot, mutt, and don’t stop until you’ve ejaculated twice.”
You whimper but listen to him, tilting your hips forward and groaning. Fuck. It felt so much better than before, you’re so sensitive. You rut back and forth on his boot, as if you were really fucking it. It didn’t take long for you to reach your first orgasm, your second following quickly behind and making you shake in over stimulation. Master pushes you back and attaches the tube to you again despite your protests, pumping it up and leaving it for a few minutes one last time before putting it away.
“Good boy, you’re such a good boy for me.” He pets your face and peppers your eyes and cheeks and forehead with kisses as you whine at the stimulation of cloth, realizing he’s dressing you. The boxers hug you snugly and rub against your engorged clit, making you feel as if you could hump your way into another orgasm just from the pressure and friction of your underwear alone.
He finishes dressing you and, with a final kiss on your forehead, leaves the room to make dinner. You are left on the floor trying not to move too much, to avoid any unnecessary stimulation.
It was going to be a long night.