It's not My preferred environment for breaking in a new hound, unsurprisingly. But alas, a woman has to make do with what is available to Her.
I sit, calmly, in the hard plastic chair provided for Me. It is not comfortable. Deliberately so, of course; best keep the prisoner off-balance as much as possible.
Nor does the imposing, heavy-set steel table right in front of Me, polished to a sheen, though no doubt it has been covered in the blood of many a broken nose. Neither does the bright lamp that makes the eyes water, or the featureless white walls.
I was forced to use them Myself a few times, naturally, during My apprenticeship. My dear mentor, God rest Her soul, had a more intimidative bent to Her style. More... physical.
If I didn't respect Her results so much, I'd have called Her methods crude.
Still, My opinions do not change the past.
I am at least modestly acquainted with the use of these interrogative tools, even if I prefer My own means of extracting information and grinding down the psyches of My tools-in-the-making.
I have enough experience to spot your lack of it, at least.
Oh, it's not awful. You have clearly paid attention during your training, and you've had at least some practice.
But the angle of the lamp you dare point at My face is just ever-so-slightly off. You bang on the table too close to the edge, robbing the sound of that hollow, echoing quality that should be reverberating in My bones.
I would have almost called your work passably close to competent, if not for the obvious blunder of allowing Me to continue wearing My uniform.
The imposing coat and leather riding boots - spotless, naturally - alone serve Me well in our duel of wills, potent totems of dominance both, but not nearly as useful as My cap.
The rim allows Me to simply incline My head ever so slightly, and the glare of your lamp falters entirely.
Not that I bother, of course. My mentor has trained Me on brighter lamps than these, for longer than you could ever dream of keeping Me here.
No, I simply maintain eye contact, calculating where your eyes are based on the silhouette I see in front of Me, shining the lamp at My eyes and wasting My time asking Me all sorts of inane questions.
Really, you'd think you'd be more creative. 'What are the coordinates of your headquarters' (evacuated, though I dare you to go investigate), 'where are our comrades' (in the kennels or in the ground) 'What did you do to them' (you'll learn soon enough).
Nothing I haven't been asked before.
Frankly, I'm disappointed.
Days of playing My 'captors', nudging them to let you interrogate Me, because of the potential I saw in you, and all you manage is some limp-wristed questioning that even those 'human rights groups' you rebels are so fond of would condemn for being too soft.
But still, an out is an out.
Besides, let it never be said I am not a patient woman. Despite your sub-par performance, I see potential in you. Impress Me during out exit from this dump you call a base, and I will take My time to nourish and hone that potential into My newest blade.
It's all too easy to work My way into your brain, of course. You scream and you shout, as if that will give you authority, and My calm, measured responses make it all too clear who is really in charge here.
Soon, you get angry enough to make a mistake. You let slip some information about yourself. You demand to know where we took Liliana. You ask with a bit too much care in your voice. A hint of desperation you can't quite conceal. Perhaps, from others, you could've.
I do not miss leverage when it presents itself.
I do not miss anything about My prey.
Your eyes grow wide as her name leaves your mouth. You recover quickly, but for a few seconds, it is written plainly on your face that you know you messed up. We both know it's over.
Mate in five, sweetheart.
Of course, we still have to play it out. Such is the nature of this little game.
I pretend to not know who Liliana is. Remark that she probably took a railgun round to the head, like so much other rebel scum.
A loud "NO! THAT'S WRONG, YOU'RE LYING!" barrages Me from the other side of the table.
Oh, yes, I say. Liliana. Of course. I remember. She entered My programme a little while ago. Six months, give or take?
She was quite resistant. Very feisty. Took a lot of work. Took a lot of My precious time.
More screams. More yells. You stomp around the table, leaving the lamp dangling from its chord. You grab Me by the collar. Your first connects with My face. Blood trickles from the corner of My lip. My smile never fades.
My eyes meet yours, directly this time.
I see the fear in them, warring with the anger. You realise how deep you've already dug your own grave.
Something else is in there, too. Arousal.
Fascinating. Not something I normally see this early. Potential indeed.
You demand to know what I did to Liliana. Your last mistake.
I gladly acquiesce. I explain to you what My job entails. What I do to the rebels that enter the kennels. What happens to their notions of self, their entire personhood; all stripped away, leaving only the pliable dogs underneath.
In agonising detail, I tell you how I broke your precious Liliana.
The fact that she never entered My kennels is immaterial, of course. She's probably actually dead in a ditch somewhere, on some forgotten battlefield, but you do not want to believe that, and so, in your desperation, you claw at any alternatives.
Any, even if they are worse than death.
And so, you believe My words. They are easier to accept than the alternative, no matter how horrifying they are.
Tears fill your eyes. Your knees buckle, then give way.
Good. Let knowledge of where you belong be your first lesson. Beneath Me. Kneeling for Me. At My boot.
I ask you if you want to see Liliana again. Empty and hollow, you nod.
When I command you to undo the handcuffs that bind Me to the chair, you comply robotically. I notice a stiffness in your pants. Again, an unusual level of arousal for this early in the process. Perhaps you have a sadistic bent, and the thought of what happened to your Liliana excites you, on some level. Interesting. This will have to be explored later.
The handcuffs fall to the side, and I rise from the seat. You remain on the floor, kneeling.
I sink to one knee, cupping your face in My gloved hands.
I lift your head to make your gaze meet Mine, savouring the broken look in your eyes.
It's always best when it's fresh.
"Fear not," I say, with the kindness of a shark smelling blood, "you will be at Liliana's side soon, My dear, new, hound. What do you think of that? Are you not grateful?"
Slowly, tears streaking down your face, you nod.
I smirk, and decide to bask in My latest victory. A brief indulgence, well-earned.
Your lips move. I feel your breath on My face, but I cannot make out the words. It makes sense, I suppose; your will has been shattered, your psyche ground beneath My boot. I shall grant you leniency in My triumph, and graciously lean in closer to hear you say the words that will seal your fate as Mine.
"Safeword," you spit out. Clearly; cheerfully, even, all horror and pain vanished as if it never existed.
My muscles spasm and contract.
My body is no longer Mine to control.
I topple to the floor, eyes darting around the room, breath rapid.
This was not supposed to happen.
You moan, a wet patch rapidly expanding on your crotch. It's the lustful howl I have heard from many of My hounds more times than I care to remember, but I have never experienced it like this. I am looking up at you. You are looming over Me.
The world is wrong. This cannot happen.
"Fuuuuuck," you pant, slumping against the steel table, groping yourself like some bitch in heat, "that was so fucking good."
My eyes widen in confusion. I strain against the chemicals locking My limbs in place, desperate to reassert control.
"You like that, 'Handler'?" you ask, in between breathy moans as you rub your breasts and your erect cock through your uniform. The mock respect you place on My title infuriates Me even more than My lack of mobility.
"Paralytic agent," you continue, still pleasuring yourself, "dermal implant, activated by a trigger phrase."
A brief "Haaa~♡" interrupts, as you reach what must be your third climax in five minutes.
"We... we took quite a bit of inspiration from the shit you freaks got up to, in a way," you say. “The agent's a compound of that liquid midnight stuff you like to pump into your hounds, and the parallels to the trigger phrases -fffffhfhhffhhuuuUUUCK♡- you sick fucks like to use are obvious."
"'Course," you say with a grin and a wink, "we only use them to stop the rapist sadist freaks, instead of facilitating 'em."
Spent and blissed out, you slowly get to your feet, weak as your legs are.
"Or, well, we mostly don't facilitate 'em," you correct yourself "I am just weird. Guess I'm just as sick as you, just in the opposite direction."
"See," you say, standing over My still-immobile form, "when I first heard of that hound shit y'all do, I damn near came my brains out. Exhibitionist petplay? Brainwashing? Ego death?! Fuuuck, I'm getting hard again just thinking about it."
I glare at you - or I would, if the muscles in My face would only obey Me. Your disrespect for My art is bordering on the sacrilegious, and My fury knows no bounds, even in its powerlessness.
"Now, obviously, I ain't stupid enough to go running dick-first into the first Imperial ambush I can find in hopes of getting dragged to the kennels," you say, grabbing at your crotch as you loom over Me, "I still hate you fascist dogs, after all, and I ain't about to switch sides for realsies.”
Comprehension begins to seep unbidden into My mind. I resent it. Resent you.
“At the same time, the kinky bedroom play - believe me, I'm not the only one here getting off to what y'all are doing - just wasn't cutting it for me anymore."
You are wet enough to leak through your pants, now. A thick, drooping droplet falls onto the leg of My pant. If looks could kill, you would have suffered a million deaths.
"So when I heard we'd captured a for-real, actual Handler? I was begging the brass to get to my hands on you instantly. 'Course, they were hesitant at first, but once I explained to them that this was probably the best - if not straight up only - way to actually crack that impenetrable facade of yours, they relented. I'm sure they'll be getting plenty out of you, now."
That realisation fills me with shame.
The rage ebbs away, replaced by an all-consuming self-loathing. How could i sink so low? i should be better than this. Better than you.
i have failed as a Handler. No longer worthy of the title. My mentor would have me in the kennels for this, and She would be right for it.
A small, detached part of me wonders, academically, if this is what it felt like for all of my hounds, too.
i cannot bear to look at you, but your footsteps echoing through the room indicate you are leaving.
"I hope you enjoyed that brief illusion of control, 'Handler'," you say, over the sound of the heavy metal door unlocking. "It's all you will be getting for the foreseeable future. But don't worry, I'll be back when I need my next fix of hounding. See you theeeheeen!~♡"
A tear rolls down my face as the door shuts behind you.
i can't believe i have been reduced to this. A fucking kink dispenser for some fucked-up rebel who'd have washed out of my kennels for being too pathetically eager. Fallen farther, even, than my hounds. They, at least, could be simple animals.
Your footsteps fade into the distance.
[If you liked this, check out my other work! ♡]
