That Hurts, Doesn’t It?

Whump writing. 18+ ONLY please, explicit whump stuff here we clown in this muthafucka

[isnt-from-around-here]

MASTERPOST

Hello, everybody! Long time listener, first time caller (intro post). Welcome to my whump blog! He/Him, and you can call me whatever.

Feel free to send asks and pretty much whatever.

Here will be the links to all my stuff!

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JACKPOT - my ongoing pet whump story

[isnt-from-around-here]

Wear & Tear

Chapter 14 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

Previous - Next

CW: Excessive use of semicolons, institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, dubcon, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so be warned please

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It’s easy for 37 to remember the first few days it spent at the hotel. Remembering important things is the easiest, and important things don’t happen very much. The days it remembers between now and then are few and far between. It doesn’t like to remember things; it doesn’t have much to remember, and the feeling of realizing that is not good.

The first few days had been scary. First days are always scary. 37 remembers knowing that despite not remembering the specifics of how it learned. Even through the drip, important things are the easiest to remember.

The drip.

37 really doesn’t like to think about that either. It’s tried, once or twice, to remember it’s life before it. Trying to reach through that fog feels impossible, and more importantly it feels wrong. Even so, its presence is bothersome. It doesn’t know why the thought of not having access to the other side of that cloud is so upsetting, but thinking about it too hard is always a bad idea. Thinking too hard in general is a bad idea. 37 knows it isn’t supposed to think; those awful feelings are just built in punishments.

The pet curls up in the darkness of the storage closet. If it stops thinking then it can only feel, and this is not a good feeling. A rock and a hard place. It doesn’t know where it’s heard that saying before. It doesn’t know anything.

Bad pet.

Being alone is the worst feeling. Romantics aren’t made to be alone, they’re made to be used and to be touched and to be held and-

37 starts crying. Fuck. It can’t stop itself. It doesn’t know what it’s doing wrong; lately every decision it’s made has been the wrong one. It just feels so alone, even when it isn’t. It can’t figure out why.

Nobody loves you.

That thought makes it cry harder. If it ever deserved to be loved, its first master wouldn’t have gotten rid of it in the first place. It’s always been bad. And for the past few weeks (months?) it’s been even worse. It’s been unsatisfying in bed, responding slow to orders, and zoning out more and more. It’s been struggling to get booked more and more often each night. The hotel has recently brought in a few new pets. They’re all used, but they’re younger. Prettier. In better condition. 37 is not in good condition. Nothing lasts forever.

————

Today is hot. Every day is hot, this time of year. Angel is used to heat; it’s not the first time he’s been sent outside. Thank fuck for the shade, he could only imagine master’s reaction if he let himself get sunburnt. Even so, it wouldn’t be a very good punishment if the shade made things too much better. The Arizona sun makes the air feel like the inside of an oven.

Angel knows he deserves it; that doesn’t make the feeling any less crushing. He can go a day by himself, the loneliness is bad but he’s used to master going to work during the week. The heat is another story entirely; almost as bad as the guilt.

His eyes return to the small cut on his hand from cleaning up the glass. During sex in the morning master had pushed him against a wall, where he had accidentally knocked down a picture frame while trying to steady himself. The mistake was entirely avoidable, had he not been caught so off guard he would have moved more carefully.

Don’t make excuses.

Master was angry when he finished. If anything, Angel is lucky he wasn’t punished harder. Being sent to the yard in the heat is bad, but by far not the most painful punishment. More importantly, it won’t leave any ugly scars or marks.

What it does do is force Angel to make the difficult decision of whether to try to keep his mind off of the feeling of the heat by thinking, or vice versa. A rock and a hard place. Master likes those kind of punishments.

It isn’t long before he hears a voice from the door. Master can’t stay mad for more than a few hours; he loves him. Angel is relieved to finally have something comforting to think about.

Master still loves me.

After all, he wouldn’t keep him around if he didn’t.

————

The door opens, filling the closet with light. Is it already time? Maybe it dozed off…

“Up.” The voice of the supervisor cuts through its thoughts like a knife, almost as jarring as it is relieving. 37 stands shakily before the supervisor’s hand yanks it forward by the hair.

“C’mon, we don’t got all day,” he says, annoyed. The pet blinks as it fixes its posture and walk, adjusting to the light of the prep room. A few other pets are being prepared for the shift already. After some time of waiting it’s given a bowl of food and some water which it most certainly doesn’t deserve.

“Thank you, sir.” It says, injecting as much gratitude into its tone as it possibly can. It gets washed and changed as efficiently as it can. Today will be better.

Afterwards, it sits down in the only chair in the building that it has the privilege of sitting in as the prep lady immediately starts work on its hair and makeup. Being prepped is almost… relaxing. It’s easier to turn off its brain when it has a stream of commands and cues to follow, even if they’re short and simple.

37’s brain is abruptly turned back on when it hears a conversation behind it. Bad pet. It tries not to listen but it can’t stop itself.

“…with the new batch, probably gonna cut two or three in the next couple weeks. Some of the older ones are pulling in complaints.”

“Well we already have a good buyback deal on 2302, but I haven’t looked into any of the others. Some of them already got re-wiped before we got them so I doubt we’ll get something like that again,”

“I’ll talk to Donna about setting one or two up for the raffle, last time we got…” The conversation drifts out of earshot.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Breathe.

“Turn your head, sweetie,”

37 turns its head. It can hardly feel the prep lady’s hands on its face as it forces itself not to breathe too fast.

In, out.

They’re cutting back. 37 knows what happens to pets that aren’t useful; to pets that are ugly, disobedient, worthless, shaky and off balance, to pets who think too much-

The hand on its chin turns its head the other way. Do not cry. Do not panic.

The cacophony of the casino floor barely registers as the pet begins serving drinks to guests. It tries its hardest to be noticeable but non intrusive. Nobody wants it. Why would they? It’s defective.

There’s no reason to keep around something that nobody wants. 37 forces itself not to think about that anymore.

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Tags: @stars-hide-our-fires @shadow-traveller @oldspruceinn @yourlocalgaefae33 @elegantinternethottub @hueningplushie @painwithoutplot @suchprettypieces @theloveofwhump @whumpzone

[isnt-from-around-here]

Friend

Chapter 13 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

Previous - Next

CW: You pretty much get what’s on the tin, Institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, dubcon, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so be warned please etc etc

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Pets aren’t allowed to speak to one another. This is an easy rule to follow; 37 hasn’t spoken a word to any of the other romantics since its arrival. It isn’t sure if it’s supposed to think about them, but sometimes it does anyways. The hotel owns quite a few of them; 37 isn’t sure how many, but there are some that it recognizes. When it had first arrived, there were a few pets that are no longer here. 37 doesn’t like to think about those pets.

There is one pet that 37 does like thinking about.

Pets do not like things, but it’s mind sometimes drifts to the subject of one of the other romantics. 37 doesn’t know its ID number, but remembers its face and occasionally sees it being prepped or serving guests in the casino. Some weeks ago, the two had been booked for the same group. The group was made up of 5 or 6 young men, and they were having a party or celebration of some kind in one of the large rooms.

37 had been particularly tired and hungry that night, and after serving the men for what was probably hours it finally had a chance to rest. It watched the other pet, who was laying with one of the men on a couch (a privilege that 37 had not been offered). Several of the guests were already asleep, drunk. When it was about to sleep, it felt something touch its knee and looked down to see a water bottle that had been rolled to it by the other pet. The two briefly made eye contact before 37 took it.

It still thinks about that moment at times, and that thought feels good. It isn’t sure why it took the water bottle even though it wasn’t offered by a guest, but that shame is outweighed by another feeling that it can’t place.

37 hasn’t seen that pet in a while.

Not that it matters; the two never interact. 37 would never interact with another pet because that is against the rules. Good pets don’t break rules.

It isn’t its business to care when a pet is sold. Romantics don’t last forever. 37 hopes the other pet wasn’t sold.

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[Sorry this one is so short! It was just a small idea I had. I’ve had a very busy month and haven’t had much time to write, but I hope to pick up the pace soon!]

Tags: @stars-hide-our-fires @shadow-traveller @oldspruceinn @yourlocalgaefae33 @elegantinternethottub @hueningplushie @painwithoutplot @suchprettypieces @theloveofwhump @whumpzone

[darkaviarymc]

This or That: Whump Trope Edition!

No tagging or being tagged necessary, play at your leisure (though do feel free to tag a friend you think would enjoy it)

Bold the option you like best:

Forced to watch or Separated from the Team? Defiant Whumpee or Conditioned Whumpee? Cold Whumper or Intimate Whumper? Clean Environment or Dirty Environment? Captivity or Domestic Whump? Broken Nose or Split Lip? Broken Ribs or Concussion? Fever or Drugged? Starvation or Dehydration? Hypothermia or Heat Stroke/Exhaustion? Interrogation or Ransom? Last Second Rescue or Found too Late? Scar Reveal or Trauma Confession? Hiding an Injury or Begging for Help? Methodical Torture or No-Holds-Barred Beatdown? Infection or Burns? Ropes or Chains? Blindfolded or Gagged? Stress Positions or Sensory Deprivation?

[ransom-or-rescue]

Some very difficult choices, and quite a few I want to answer with "both/and," but here's my thoughts for today! I think the common trend is that I prefer whichever option will let me write the most anguished dialogue.

Forced to watch or Separated from the Team? Defiant Whumpee or Conditioned Whumpee? Cold Whumper or Intimate Whumper? Clean Environment or Dirty Environment? Captivity or Domestic Whump?* Broken Nose or Split Lip? Broken Ribs or Concussion? Fever or Drugged? Starvation or Dehydration? Hypothermia or Heat Stroke/Exhaustion? Interrogation or Ransom?** Last Second Rescue or Found too Late? Scar Reveal or Trauma Confession? Hiding an Injury or Begging for Help? Methodical Torture or No-Holds-Barred Beatdown? Infection or Burns? Ropes or Chains? Blindfolded or Gagged? Stress Positions or Sensory Deprivation?

*This one's a both/and for me.

**I'm looking at my blog name and sweating.

tagging @starlit-hopes-and-dreams , @i-can-even-burn-salad and @whump-tr0pes if you want to play!

[starlit-hopes-and-dreams]

Thanks for the tag! Ooph, some of these are so hard. Let's see...

Forced to watch or Separated from the Team? (this one isn't hard. forced to watch will win against just about anything its put up against lol) Defiant Whumpee or Conditioned Whumpee? Cold Whumper or Intimate Whumper? (i guess intimate over cold, but i prefer creepy) Clean Environment or Dirty Environment? (either is fine really) Captivity or Domestic Whump? Broken Nose or Split Lip? Broken Ribs or Concussion? Fever or Drugged? (say hello to my newfound love of drugging) Starvation or Dehydration? Hypothermia or Heat Stroke/Exhaustion? Interrogation or Ransom? Last Second Rescue or Found too Late? Scar Reveal or Trauma Confession? (i can't choose!! so both is good lol) Hiding an Injury or Begging for Help? Methodical Torture or No-Holds-Barred Beatdown? (both is good here too, but there's just smth so good about beating the shit out of someone...) Infection or Burns? Ropes or Chains? (i like the sound chains make) Blindfolded or Gagged? Stress Positions or Sensory Deprivation?

No pressure tags for those I think might be interested: @suchprettypieces, @deerslayer14, @adeisinyourcloset (seriously, *no* pressure whatsoever) Anyone else is welcome to jump in if you'd like to play!

[suchprettypieces]

This or That: Whump Trope Edition!

No tagging or being tagged necessary, play at your leisure (though do feel free to tag a friend you think would enjoy it)

Bold the option you like best:

Forced to watch or Separated from the Team? Defiant Whumpee or Conditioned Whumpee? Cold Whumper or Intimate Whumper? (uhhhh, Cold and Creepy Whumper?) Clean Environment or Dirty Environment? (hmmm, actually I don't have a pref for either) Captivity or Domestic Whump? Broken Nose or Split Lip? Broken Ribs or Concussion? (both!) Fever or Drugged? Starvation or Dehydration? Hypothermia or Heat Stroke/Exhaustion? Interrogation or Ransom? Last Second Rescue or Found too Late? Scar Reveal or Trauma Confession? Hiding an Injury or Begging for Help? Methodical Torture or No-Holds-Barred Beatdown? Infection or Burns? Ropes or Chains? Blindfolded or Gagged? Stress Positions or Sensory Deprivation?

Whee! This was fun and quick! Like a whumpy speed quiz! Soft-tagging (absolutely no obligation to play) @penitent-stranger, @stars-hide-our-fires, @maelkirr and @blurryeyeswhump, @there-will-always-be-blood, @twigsofmanyfaces and @isnt-from-around-here @watsonbee

[isnt-from-around-here]

Thanks for tagging me! This was actually really tough, so many good choices here

Forced to watch or Separated from the Team? Defiant Whumpee or Conditioned Whumpee? (I can’t choose! I love both) Cold Whumper or Intimate Whumper? Clean Environment or Dirty Environment? (This one really depends I think) Captivity or Domestic Whump? Broken Nose or Split Lip? Broken Ribs or Concussion? (Head trauma !!) Fever or Drugged? Starvation or Dehydration? Hypothermia or Heat Stroke/Exhaustion? Interrogation or Ransom? Last Second Rescue or Found too Late? (Another really tough choice) Scar Reveal or Trauma Confession? Hiding an Injury or Begging for Help? (I’m too indecisive for this lmao) Methodical Torture or No-Holds-Barred Beatdown? Infection or Burns? Ropes or Chains? Blindfolded or Gagged? Stress Positions or Sensory Deprivation?

[isnt-from-around-here]

37 Does Something Bad

Chapter 12 of JACKPOT! (Masterlist)

Previous - Next

CW: Institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, self hatred including regarding appearance, dubcon, starvation whump, shitty writing, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so be warned please yall know the drill

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37 has been thinking a lot lately, and that is not good. It shouldn’t have the time, it should be busy being useful; but it’s been left alone more and more often lately. Despite having an abundance of time to wonder, it still hasn’t figured out the exact reason. Knowing things isn’t what it’s good at.

37 knows that it isn’t good; It’s hardly attractive enough to be wanted by anyone, and its behavior only makes things worse. Even knowing this, some part of it had hopes that it could hold out indefinitely. It should know better.

The door to the room opens behind it and the guest who it was currently staying with enters. 37 doesn’t know where he had gone, but it’s been several hours of agonizing solitude and it immediately rises to its feet upon seeing him.

“Hello, sir, may I-“ it begins as it steps closer and into his way without thinking, earning it a quick shove to the side.

“Not now.” The man says, annoyed.

37 returns to its knees ashamed. It had gotten too excited. After a while of silently going about his business and a change of clothes, the guest leaves again without a word to 37. This is how it had been for the two days it’s been staying with the man (who it still hadn’t figured out the name of). The first day he had left it alone in the room all day while going out, and today has thus far been the same.

The pet’s stomach rumbles, causing it a brief moment of panic before remembering that there isn’t anyone around to hear it. The reminder of that somehow only makes the feeling worse. 37 had last eaten 3 days ago (it’s been keeping count), which is much longer than it is used to. The day prior to being booked it was being punished for something it could hardly remember (just another mistake to add to the mountain gradually piling on top of it). Usually during longer stays it would be fed by the housekeeping staff, but this guest didn’t seem to want them coming in. 37 could still feel the way it’s stomach has dropped as the man muttered something about them “going through his shit” while placing the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the doorknob.

37 catches itself almost dozing off. It quickly stands up (without permission) and makes its way to the sink in the bathroom. It cups some water in its hands and drinks it slowly in hopes of easing the constant nausea. It doesn’t help.

Its face is ugly. This information isn’t new, but 37 always feels the same sting when it sees itself in the mirror. It doesn’t understand what exactly it is about it that’s wrong, but it knows. There’s a reason that it’s being booked alongside rooms rather than separately out in the casino lately; 37’s performance is awful. The only way they can get anybody to want it is as a package deal. It runs its fingers lightly over the faint burn scar on its neck. 37 knows how lucky it is that this one is so small and hard to notice. It has other scars, of course, mostly from before its time at the hotel. More visible scars. Thankfully not enough to make it completely unsellable, as they’re easy to cover. It forces itself to return to the floor where it belongs, fighting the urge to torment itself further at the mirror. The water wasn’t helping much anyways.

It’s probably been hours since he left. It appears to still be light outside the window. It’ll probably be alone for hours more. 37 would cry if it wasn’t so focused on its hunger and exhaustion. Stay still, stay awake, breathe. Its objective is simple, although that never seemed to stop it from failing before.

————

Any relief it would feel is almost entirely drowned out by the immense guilt as the housekeeping lady pulls a plastic bowl from the cleaning cart and fills it with the bland kibble. It glances at the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign, now moved from its place on the door knob and placed (not so) inconspicuously on the TV stand.

“Eat up, sweetie.” The lady says, drawing its attention back to the food that it doesn’t deserve. Permission is permission.

37 eats quickly, too quickly almost, finishing before the housekeeper even has the time to finish tidying up. This gave it more than enough time to feel the shame crushing it as she organized and cleaned up the guest’s things against his wishes.

Bad pet. Bad, disgusting, hideous-

“Oh, you must be hungry,” says the housekeeper, noticing the already empty bowl and adding a bit more. “Go ahead.” She says, probably noticing its (ungrateful) stare.

“Thank you, ma’am.” It manages to say quietly. The act of kindness somehow only amplifies its dread. 37’s nausea does not go away.

————

That night the guest returns late, and seems annoyed to find the room clean. He notices the small sign that was supposed to be on the door and grabs it, turning to 37.

“Did you move this?”

Every voice in its head screams at it to tell the truth, to admit it and accept whatever punishment it deserves.

“No, sir.”

“Mm.” He grumbles as he tosses it to the side, requiring no further convincing.

37 cries when he uses it that night, but it is quiet enough to go unnoticed by the guest. At least it’s good at that.

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Taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires @shadow-traveller @oldspruceinn @yourlocalgaefae33 @elegantinternethottub @hueningplushie

[doumidas]

dissociating as their limbs are maneuvered. someone is doing things to their body they don’t understand.

it doesn’t matter if they understand. it will happen anyway. it will probably hurt. (do not resist or it will hurt more.)

[isnt-from-around-here]

Family, pt. 2

Chapter 11 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

Previous - Next

CW: Institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, self deprecation/demeaning, referenced dubcon, shitty writing, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so be warned please yall know the drill

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“Okay, now roll over.”

37 does its best to roll over on the floor with as much grace as is possible, unused to such requests. The boy (who 37 had learned is named ‘Jason’) seems slightly amused from his vantage point atop the bed. When he had decided to stay back at the hotel room with the pet while his parents went to the hot tub downstairs, 37 had hoped it would be much easier to please him on his own than all 3 at once. It was wrong.

“Do you know any other tricks?” He asks, apparently unable to think of any more himself. The pet is unsure how to respond; it isn’t trained to amuse teenagers, and for obvious reasons hadn’t interacted with any in as long as it can remember.

“…No, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Well you’re not a very good dog then.” He says casually, leaning back onto the bed and looking at his phone. Despite not being a dog, 37 can’t help but shrink slightly at his words. Bad.

“I… I’m not a dog, sir.” It says, immediately regretting it. It had hoped that clarifying would help him understand why it was so incapable of behaving properly, but realized immediately that it shouldn’t be speaking at all. Bad pet. Its been slipping up more and more lately…

“Close enough,” Jason replies, not bothering to look up from his phone.

37 doesn’t know what to think or how to feel. The past day and a half has been torturously confusing and difficult to navigate. It felt useless most of the time, and when it was actually being given commands they were strange. 37 is reminded how easy it usually has it; all a romantic needs to do is make people feel good and take what it’s given. It knows how to do that. The pet reminds itself that this simply isn’t what it’s for, that it was never trained to serve families… but the guilt remains.

It can’t help but wonder why they haven’t sent it back yet. Clearly neither of the parents are interested in its (hideous) body, and what little service it has provided so far surely hasn’t been worth the trouble of suffering its presence. The boy’s mother did seem to like it though, and 37 almost got the impression that she was using this as an opportunity to sway her husband into buying the family a similar pet. That thought brings it a strange sort of pride before it reminds itself not to think so much about people’s business.

“So,” Jason randomly begins, interrupting 37’s never ending stream of anxiety. “Do you know any games?”

Games? It had never been asked anything like that before. Is it supposed to know games?

“No, sir.” It replies. Another disappointing answer. Jason pulls his bag up from the side of the bed, pulling out a small board. A chessboard. 37 doesn’t remember where it’s seen one before, but it recognizes it.

“Not even chess?” He asks. 37 isn’t sure. “I can show you how. Dad likes to play with me but I can never beat him.” He says as he sets the board up on the table in the corner of the room.

Is this allowed? Pets don’t play games, it isn’t what they’re for, but the boy seems to want it to. Maybe it’s something that domestics do? 37 knows better than to decline regardless.

“I… know how to play, sir.” It says, sensing an opportunity to please the boy. It can’t be wrong if it was asked to play.

It makes its way to the table where it stands, not allowed to sit. It stares at the now fully set up board, and to its continued surprise it remembers how the pieces move.

“Good. I’ll go first.”

————

Jason was not very good at chess, although 37 would never say that. The pet watches as he blunders a bishop without realizing it. It has no idea when it had played before, but the game comes naturally to it. It feels easy. There are right moves, and there are bad moves… it’s good at understanding which are which. It’s almost like a simple version of real life.

37s fingers hover over the knight that it could use to take the boy’s bishop, but quickly move to advance a pawn instead. Not the optimal move, but 37 wouldn’t dare actually beat him at the game.

Even though I could.

“Shit, you could’ve taken my bishop,” he says, noticing way too late as he stares at the board. He makes another move that the pet immediately clocks as a mistake (which it refuses once again to take advantage of).

The door to the room opens as the boy’s parents return, setting down their bags and towels.

“What are you two up to?” His father asks, looking over at the board.

“Chess. He sucks, we played three times and I won all of them.” Jason says as he makes another move towards the checkmate that 37 has been setting up for him.

“Well it’s not exactly fair, is it.” The father chuckles as he opens his laptop.

The game ends fairly quickly after that, with Jason growing bored and returning to his phone soon after. Part of 37 wishes he would play again, but pets don’t want things.

That night, it lays awake on the floor and feels relieved that the weekend was almost over. It feels guilty for feeling relieved.

————

Taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires @shadow-traveller @oldspruceinn @yourlocalgaefae33

[isnt-from-around-here]

Family, pt. 1

Chapter 10 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

Previous - Next

CW: Institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, self deprecation/demeaning, dubcon, graphic dubcon touching, shitty writing, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so be warned please yall know the drill

————

“You may move.”

37’s back arches immediately, perhaps a little too fast, into the fingers slowly running down the front of its torso. It whines as the handler’s other hand makes its way to its hair, running through it gently. It feels a sharp tug almost immediately, jolting it out of that blissful state.

“I never gave you permission to make noise,” he says, letting go of its hair. It should have paid better attention, focused harder. “Now relax, and be still.”

Be still. Those are the words that it’s repeated in its head for the past several hours (or so it estimates). It lowers its body into perfect position against the cold metal of the table, trying to relax its muscles. The urge to react is intense as the handler explores every inch of its skin. 37 couldn’t remember much of anything before being brought in for retraining, but whoever had owned it before must have been very lax given how prone to moving in response to touch it had been. It feels proud for a moment at the thought of how much it has improved.

It lets itself to enjoy the feeling of being touched, redirecting its focus to the one pleasure in life that it is allowed. The handler makes his way downward..

“Don’t move.” He says as his hand wraps around the pet’s chemically induced erection.

Don’t move don’t move don’t move-

The urge to react is strong. After several minutes of frustrating pleasure, he stops and 37 is able to relax.

“Good boy.”

A stronger, more potent wave of pleasure spreads through it at those words. Good boy.

————

“Hold still.”

The supervisor sounds annoyed as she turns its face this way and that, looking it over. Usually by now she would already be putting its makeup on, but she seems to be looking at something. Is something wrong with its face?

The past 3 days had been very long. 37 had spent them with a not exactly gentle guest who paid extra to have it for his whole stay. It wasn’t uncommon for guests with money to do that, but it had been a while and this particular guest loved to stay up late into the night. This was never a problem, but 37 is not allowed to sleep in and as a result had gotten little sleep the past 3 nights.

And then there was the hitting. The guest seemed to particularly enjoy slapping 37 around during sex, which the pet took perfectly and without complaint (it had learned its lesson from the last time it committed the sin of fighting back). He had been rough, but 37 had hoped not too rough so as to leave a mark.

Its attention returns to the supervisor in front of it, who was now calling to someone across the room. 37 tries not to pay attention to the fact that the other pets are already being prepped. Is something going on? The supervisor who was now looking at its face sighs.

“Yeah, that’s not going away for a few days at least,” he says, pressing a finger into a sore spot on its cheekbone. The touch hurts. A bruise. He steps back, speaking to the prep lady. Don’t eavesdrop.

“…probably just take it off the listing for today,” he says as he walks away, clearly busy with something else. 37 wants to cry, but doesn’t react.

————

It was a stroke of pure luck that 37 isn’t still in that closet right now. Where you belong.

There had been some problem with a family’s room, and the hotel had offered a new room as well as a service pet for the duration of their stay as part of the compensation.

“Listen to me,” the supervisor had told it after explaining what it was to do. “Do not initiate anything. You aren’t there to be fucked unless you’re told. You’re a domestic servant for now, understand?”

“Yes, sir.” 37 had replied, even though it didn’t really understand. It was a romantic; that’s what it was trained for. What if there are rules for domestics that 37 was never taught?

And now it stands in the elevator with a room service staff member, being delivered to the room. It tries to guess what floor based on the amount of time passing in an attempt to ignore the anxiety eating away at it. 6? 14? 20? It has no idea. It’s terrified, but anything is better than spending the night alone.

The clothes it’s wearing are uncomfortable, covering much more of its skin than the revealing outfits that it is usually dressed in. They had dressed it quickly in a suit which seemed to be one of the same one’s worn by the wait staff of the hotel restaurant downstairs. The thought that it may be covering too much of its body worries it, but it knows not to judge the decisions of its supervisors.

37 was so wrapped up in its thoughts that it didn’t notice the walk from the elevator through the hall, and is now standing before the door to the room. The room service woman knocks on the door, and after a moment a middle aged man with a balding head and glasses opens the door.

The pet hardly hears a word of what she says as she speaks to the man, something about 24 hour complimentary service. Breathe. Its mind is immediately pulled back to the present moment when it is ushered through the door.

Smile. Breathe.

“Hello, sir.” It says, forcing itself to maintain composure. Once in the middle of the room it immediately kneels. Make a good impression. In the room with the man is a woman in a light blue dress who looks about his age and a teenage boy staring at his phone one of the beds.

“Oh honey, he’s just like the one Jerry adopted!” the woman says, making her way to 37 as it kneels. “What’s your name, sweetie?” Already a curveball.

“You can call me anything you like, ma’am.” It says, voice as polite as possible. The woman seems to find it adorable, and it almost melts as she immediately starts petting its hair.

“They said we have him for the weekend, no charge.” The man, presumably the husband and father of the family, says. “I’m not really sure what he’ll do that room service wouldn’t. I didn’t even know this was something they had,” he says.

“He can help us with the bags,” the wife says. “You’re a good boy, hm? He can be helpful,” she says, turning to her husband.

“Yes ma’am.” 37 replies quickly, hoping not to sound too desperate. If it’s too ugly to be used, then this is the only chance it has to be useful.

The husband, already fumbling with the TV remote, waves his hand. “Free is free.”

37 eases up. It’s better than nothing. Anything is better than nothing.

“So does it just.. sleep in the room with us?” Asks the boy, now paying attention to the scene. The husband turns as if expecting it to answer. Hadn’t they been told this by the hotel staff?

“If that’s what you’d prefer, sir.” It answers, unsure of who to address or what to say. Where else would it stay? The thought that it may still end up downstairs tonight is cut off by the feeling of the wife’s fingers behind its ear.

“He can stay, look how well behaved he is!” She says. “He reminds me so much of Jerry’s pet.”

“Honey you know how expensive those things are,” the husband says, shutting the idea down before she says it as if this wasn’t the first time this topic was brought up.

“I know, I know,” she says, standing. The conversation continues around it, and 37 listens for any commands as they talk. It’s going to be a long weekend.

————

Taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires @shadow-traveller @oldspruceinn @yourlocalgaefae33

[isnt-from-around-here]

Hmmm… 37 recovery arc..

[isnt-from-around-here]

Thin Ice

Chapter 9 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

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CW: Institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, self deprecation/demeaning, implied dubcon/noncon, shitty writing, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so be warned please

————

37 was on thin ice. Those were the exact words that it’s supervisors had used when it was allowed to be booked again several days ago. Since then it had been much more careful than before, and as a result has made very few mistakes. Despite the faintly visible bruises it had in the days following its mistake, it has managed to get booked with less trouble than it had initially expected.

Despite all of its luck and the overwhelming generosity of the supervisors and guests which has allowed it to even still be here, things are not exactly as they were. 37 isn’t very smart (something it knows to take into account before having any ideas), but it can tell that the guests it has been staying with lately are of a slightly different demographic than usual. 37 is very careful not to think of them as poor. It has spent the past several nights in the cheaper rooms that the hotel has to offer.

This does not bother 37. It has no right to be bothered by it, or anything for that matter. Even so, it noticed.

————

Breathe in.

It hadn’t even realized it was holding its breath. It inhales carefully, not too slow but not too loud. The small spike of anxiety that has shot through it at the realization dissipates as it resumes its rhythm. 37 is grateful that the majority of its small mistakes and imperfections have happened when nobody was there to see. Being alone is no excuse to misbehave, but it was certainly better than inconveniencing a guest.

The arm around 37’s waist moves as the guest shifts in his sleep behind it. The pet forces itself not to move away as his arm briefly presses against the bruise left on it’s side by another guest the other day. The guests had been more rough with it lately, less careful. It didn’t mind, but it had noticed.

After what was probably several hours, 37 starts to worry. It never usually has trouble sleeping (especially when it’s allowed in a bed), but for whatever reason it’s still awake late into the night. It begins to feel guilty for not sleeping when it was given permission.

Breathe slow. Dont think.

It tries its best to turn its brain off. It decides that if that doesn’t help it sleep, at the very least it won’t be having any disobedient thoughts. It counts slowly in its head to 100, focusing on the numbers. When it finishes, it starts over.

37 didn’t even notice its mind wandering until it caught itself wishing that the guest would have lied down facing the opposite direction so that it could see the window. It couldn’t turn over without disturbing him (and even if it could, it wouldn’t). It imagines the night sky as it stares at the gray wall beside the bed. 37 had been having more and more thoughts like these lately; bad thoughts.

Bad pet.

The pet closes its eyes in frustration. It should be easy not to want such things, not to daydream and stay awake longer than needed. Not to breathe so loud, not to get dizzy for no reason and fall. It should be easy but for some reason it isn’t, and that scares 37 more than anything. What if it’s training really is wearing off somehow? What if it’s been broken from the start? There’s a reason he threw you out.

I am well trained. Good pets are quiet. Good pets don’t panic. Good pets don’t think more than they need to because thinking isn’t what they’re for. Good pets are pretty.

It tries to drown out any thoughts by repeating what it knows mentally. It forces itself to breathe slower.

There is something wrong with you.

37 cries as quietly and as still as it can, very carefully.

————

Taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires @shadow-traveller @oldspruceinn @yourlocalgaefae33

[livingforthewhump]

something that’s really itching my brain right now is the idea of a whumpee who sinks right back into their old ways the moment danger rears its head. maybe they’ve made a lot of progress—they don’t flinch anymore, they barely get nightmares or panic attacks, they’re living their life normally—but the moment whumper reappears, or something is similar enough to what they faced before, all that progress is gone in a second

[tracingthetapestry]

whumpee who was often put to rest in small, cramped places— cages, maybe. or in that narrow gap below the bed of the whumper. they were barely able to expand their lungs enough to draw in breathes, but over the years; they came to associate safety with the place, as abhorrent as it were.

once rescued, they are offered a whole room, and they are barely able to look at the bed, let alone touch it— trying to fit themselves beneath it, but unable to do so, lying on the floor and feeling too exposed. their mind keeps running around in spirals, so far removed from sleep that it's laughable. they try the bathroom, but even that feels too big. too bright, with the blue tiles and the sliver of moonlight. finally, they stumble into the long closet. it's small and cramped and they can't lie down but the anxiety dies down immediately and the exhaustion catches up to them. they sleep peacefully even as the position is hell on their joints and they wake up with an extremely sore body.

[towhumpornottowhump]

"Permission to see freely, sir?"

"Permission to see-. Oh for God's sake!"

"Please-"

"You have blanket permission to do anything you want. Anything."

"But..."

"If there is any exception, one of us will tell you. Okay?"

"Okay."

[isnt-from-around-here]

Tightrope

Chapter 8 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

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CW: Institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, self deprecation/demeaning, vertigo, somebody said ‘dead dove do not eat’ LMAO, shitty writing, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so be warned please

————

Something is very wrong with 37. In a way this is something that it has known for a long time; it never would have been damaged so badly in the first place if it was the perfect pet that it’s supposed to be. 37 has always had bad thoughts- disobedient urges, ungrateful thoughts, wants. Tha fact eats away at it, causing it immense guilt. It knows that deep down it’s defective and bad. Regardless, it always does its best to conceal these defects and make sure that they don’t cause it to misstep, a task which it has obviously failed miserably.

But this is different. Now something is physically wrong with it- it’s broken.

Not broken. Damaged.

37 has to remind itself of that fact repeatedly to avoid panicking. Just damaged. It can and will be fixed. It has to be.

“Come.”

The pet takes a shaky step forward, towards the supervisor. It begins walking as confidently as it can manage, maintaining the perfect grace that had been trained into it so well. It breathes in and out perfectly on time as it walks, attractive and confident but not cocky. Perfect.

And then the floor tilts.

37’s arms shoot out ungracefully to shield itself from the rapidly approaching floor. The supervisor watches, annoyed, as it faceplants once again. Fuck. Why is this happening? It had been perfectly fine up until the incident two nights ago, and now it’s as if it doesn’t know how to walk? Has it somehow forgotten its training? That thought sends chills down its spine.

“I- I’m sorry, ma’am,” it says with it’s voice not at all steady (not perfect), the anxiety that has been growing in its gut over the course of the day leaking into it. Fuckup after fuckup. The supervisor sighs.

“Just get up.”

It pushes itself up carefully, immediately returning to the spot she had designated as the starting point earlier with (thankfully) little dizziness. It breathes. In, and out. Perfect.

“Walk.”

It begins slower than usual (not the proper speed, but better than nothing). One foot in front of the other. It focuses on the feeling of the not so soft carpet beneath its feet. Easy. Its mind flashes back to the hours of training it took to get it to walk correctly; how could it have forgotten that? The form still comes naturally to it, but whenever it least expects it…

The room spins once again, and 37 closes its eyes as it steps forward. Why does it feel like it’s balancing on a tightrope? Its legs wobble, unable to stay stable, and it stumbles slightly. Fuck.

“Again.”

“Yes ma’am.”

It decides that no matter what happens, it isn’t going to put its arms out. If that isn’t enough to motivate it not to fall, then at least it won’t break form even if only for a moment longer. It makes it about 3/4ths of the way across the room before breaking form again, even if just slightly. The supervisor puts a hand up to stop it immediately. Why is it so hard to walk the correct way?

“Eyes.” She says, and it immediately makes eye contact. She looks stern, and frustrated. Bad pet.

“How many people are going to want to stick their dick in a bruised up, wobbling mess?” She asks. It hesitates. “Tell me.”

“None, ma’am.” It responds, voice even. Keep your voice steady. Breathe.

She stares it down for a moment. “Start again. Forward and backwards this time.”

It repeats this process repeatedly for the next 15 minutes, practicing. A few times it actually manages to keep its form perfect (or good enough) the whole way across and back, but every so often that dizzying sensation returns and it becomes impossible to behave itself.

Not impossible; you’re just not good enough.

Not once does 37 show its desire to break down into tears on its face. Its face is something that the pet still feels it has full control over, and it will not allow itself to misbehave further. To be any more hideous and pathetic than it already is. Than it always was. 37 continues walking.

For a while it starts to feel like it’s overcome whatever it is that was broken about it. It manages to stay perfect back and forth 6 times in a row, becoming more and more confident. Each time it performs correctly, it’s rewarded with a “good job” from the supervisor and sometimes even a pat on the head. It savors those brief moments, as the lack of touch since the incident on the night before last had been driving it closer and closer to breaking down with every passing minute. After so many months of being booked nearly every night for the past few months, it had almost forgotten the torturous feeling of being denied contact that had been so strongly instilled in it since training.

“Walk.”

It makes its way across the room confidently, perfectly. Perhaps this was all it took to get over it- but then, almost as if caused by that arrogant thought, the room violently tilts and 37 trips over its own feet. It doesn’t move its arms to shield its face when it falls.

37’s head is pounding, the returning headache that has plagued it for the past two days reawakened by the smack against the hard carpeted floor. Its nose it bleeding.

“Do you know how to walk?” The supervisor asks angrily as she tugs its face upward by its hair. She stares into its eyes, demanding a response.

“Yes ma’am-“

“Do you know how to walk?” She asks again, cutting it off. “Answer.”

“Yes ma’am.” It says, voice wavering. It wants to cry. Pets do not want.

“So you’re just doing this to fuck with me then?” She asks, clearly frustrated.

“I-“ its answer is cut off by a sharp smack to the face. It lets out a small gasp involuntarily. Ungratefully.

“Do you want to go back to training? We can send you back to learn if you really have forgotten how to act.” She threatens.

No. It’s eye widen. “N-No ma’am, I- I can walk.”

“Then why the fuck aren’t you?” She snaps. 37 doesn’t know. Being asked a question you don’t know the answer to is dangerous.

“…I’ll do better.” It says, not sure whether it’s a good enough answer. “Please, h-punish me.”

She stands up fully, rolling her eyes. “Up. Now.”

37 stands, straightening its back and fixing its position. It wonders if it’s forgotten the other positions too, if its been doing them wrong…

“Arms up.” She says. It obeys immediately, extending them forward submissively. She immediately slaps it again, before bringing an elbow hard into the large bruise on its hip left by the man who had grabbed it and later banged it against the bed frame. 37 whimpers (disobediently). The supervisors were usually rather merciful with their punishments, preferring the simple and effective method of hitting the pets over more high-effort punishments.

“I’m sorry ma’am, thank you ma’am.” It says. Take it.

“Good. Now, go back and walk.”

————

After practicing, the supervisors had once again decided it wasn’t ready for service that night. 37 tried not to show its dismay at this fact, apologizing and obediently entering the small closet once again.

It lay curled up silently as it had done the last two nights hoping, praying that whatever is broken will fix itself and that it won’t be sent back. It remembers the times it was left alone during training, and its nights spent in the closet are just a taste of that oppressive and hopeless loneliness that suffocated it and made every touch (no matter how painful) feel like heaven in comparison… It cannot go back.

You don’t deserve retraining. They’re probably going to put you down.

37 doesn’t know if praying is allowed, but it desperately hopes that it is no matter how much it tells itself that it wants and hopes for nothing. It feels guilty for wanting mercy; it doesn’t deserve it.

————

Taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires @shadow-traveller @oldspruceinn @yourlocalgaefae33

[isnt-from-around-here]

Impact

Chapter 7 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

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CW: Institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, VERY EXPLICIT AND VIOLENT noncon, self deprecation/demeaning, concussion, this one’s pretty violent guys, shitty writing, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so once again be warned please

————

37 is tired. It isn’t sure why; it’s not particularly late and it had gotten to sleep last night. It wonders if it’s even allowed to feel tired this early… isn’t that ungrateful? It stops itself from thinking too hard about that as it carries a tray of drinks to a table, breathing perfectly in rhythm.

It didn’t seem to catch the eye of anyone at the table (frustratingly), so it turns to continue making the rounds. As it walks, it feels a sudden pain as it’s grabbed by the hair by someone behind it. It shifts its weight, allowing itself to be tugged back easily.

“How can I help you, sir?” It asks, regaining its composure flawlessly. Perfect.

“Well aren’t you a pretty thing..” says the man who is now looking it in the eye, grabbing its chin. Finally, someone interested. He is relatively tall, and younger than a lot of the men that usually rent 37. He’s got a look in his eyes as he looks it over that is vaguely familiar to the pet, although it can’t place exactly where from.

It allows itself to be easily dragged along, handing the empty drink tray to another pet who went out of its way to pass the two. 37 is grateful for the touch- even if he’s rough, at least he’s helping it stay focused. Another easy night.

————

37 had been tired before, but now it was exhausted. The night had gone on longer than it expected- much longer. The guest, who had barely even spoken to it, had hardly been through the door when he began using it. 37 was used to this, and of course took it well even though he was much more rough with it than most guests. After finishing he had simply shoved it to the side, and not long later he was out the door again. 37 had been hoping for a chance to rest afterwards, but reminds itself to be grateful anyways as it cleans up in the room’s bathroom.

There are bruises forming on its hips where he had grabbed it… Don’t think about that. They’ll fade quickly, it’s sure of that. The guests know they aren’t supposed to leave permanent damage, it’ll be fine. 37 kneels quietly when it’s done, taking a moment to perfect its position. The man hadn’t said where he was going, but he could return at any moment. Please come back soon…

The room was one of the larger ones. 37 wonders if the man has a lot of money. His suit had seemed quite nice too, before he had removed it.

Suddenly, after an indeterminate amount of time (37 wouldn’t allow itself to sit facing the clock) the door unlocks and swings open. The guest strides in, looking more manic excited than before. He seems to ignore the pet, whose gaze follows him across the room as he approaches his bag next to a table. He spends a moment doing something over the table with his back to 37, before leaning down and snorting something. Did he just snort a line? 37 has no idea how it even knows what that is, but feels guilty for accusing the man of such a thing.

“…fuck!” exclaims the guest (who had undoubtedly just did a line of cocaine on the table) as he stands straight. He turns to the pet unexpectedly, almost causing it to flinch. He has a hungry look in his eyes. Again? It’s already so tired…

“C’mere,” he says, gesturing to it. It stands and quickly approaches, slipping back into the seductive routine. Before it could open its mouth he was undoing his zipper and roughly grabbing its hair to yank its head downward. It suppresses a yelp (not from pain; more so surprise) as it quickly fixes its position and gets to its knees.

He had hardly even begun with its mouth when he grabs it suddenly and pulls it upwards, slamming its back against the wall. Won’t that wake other guests? He grabs its neck as he begins to thrust. 37 isn’t used to this- won’t this leave more bruises? It tries not to think about that, instead focusing on repressing the urge to raise its hands to its neck. He pulls a hand away briefly to slap it in the face, groaning. 37 tries to gasp from the pain but can’t. It puts its hands on the man’s hips to give them something to do as it struggles to get air in.

It’s too much- it can’t breathe at all now. This is too much I can’t breathe I can’t breathe-

Its hands shoot up to its neck as its vision blurs, trying desperately to get the man to let go. He thrusts into it painfully; it’s much more difficult for it to ignore the pain than usual. It lifts a leg and tries to kick him away, now acting purely on instinct.

The man steps back as 37 kicks him and it collapses to the floor, losing balance. It gasps, struggling to pull in enough air. Fuck. Fuck- this is bad this is very very bad-

“The fuck are you doing?!” The man yells angrily. 37 flinches hard, whimpering. No no no please I didn’t mean to-

“..I-“

Its pathetic attempt at speech is cut off almost instantly by a kick to the ribs, which immediately knocks the wind out of it again. It cries out this time, struggling to pull it air and sobbing uncontrollably. Uncontrollably- no matter how desperately it tries to be good it can’t get a hold of itself. Not only had it tried to pull his hands off of it, but it had kicked him when it failed. The guilt causes it sob harder as he grabs it by the hair and painfully forces its head up.

“You what? Say it!”

“I- I-“ it gasps, unable to think as it struggles to hyperventilate, “I’m s-sorry-“

It feels its body being lifted again, pulled to the bed which he presses its face down into.

“Stand the fuck up!” He shouts, smacking its ass. It forces its weak legs to push its lower half upwards as he holds its face down. Please no more..

37 starts to beg. It can’t hold it in- it knows it’s wrong and that it shouldn’t but it can’t take this it just can’t

“S-sir please- please n-no more-“ it sputters, muffled by the mattress as he painfully fucks it. This is too much it’s all too much.

He pulls it back (had he even finished?), forcing it to stand on its now weak legs. 37 feels like it might shatter into a million pieces as the man shouts something that it can’t even discern amongst the cacophony of lights and sound that has become of the hotel room which had previously felt so quiet. It feels him shove it backwards, and its legs immediately give out from under it.

Everything goes dark as the back of 37’s head hits the edge of the table.

————

37 couldn’t stop crying. The supervisors had told it to already but it just couldn’t. Or won’t. Bad pet.

It manages to at least be quiet about it as it sits on the edge of the table. It is grateful to have not been taken to a hospital after such an already painful night; It isn’t sure that it could handle any more, especially knowing what will undoubtedly come later.

You kicked a guest. You pulled away. You begged him to stop. You’re a bad pet.

37 was going to be punished. Even without taking into account the fact that its damages might lower its value, it had acted unspeakably.

The sob it was holding in pushes its way out, thankfully not tooloudly. The two supervisors in front of it have been talking for several minutes, and the pet has tried its absolute best not to eavesdrop. It wouldn’t want to listen even if it was allowed; it had heard the words ‘value’ and ‘damages’ multiple times already, and it wants to do everything in its power not to vomit right then and there.

“…yeah, right on the back. Honestly we’re probably lucky he didn’t die right then and there.” One of them says with a frustrated sigh. The other turns and looks at 37’s pathetic form, shaking in place. He whistles to get its attention.

“Come here, boy.” he says, as if to a dog. 37 shakily drops from the table, ignoring the shooting pain in its legs and its head and everywhere else. It barely makes it 3 steps before the room spins violently and it trips on its own feet, falling painfully to the floor. Neither of the supervisors make a move to catch it.

Why had it fallen? Its legs are weak, but it can walk- it knows it can walk. There is never an excuse for imperfection. It slowly stands again, aided by the hand of one of the supervisors pulling on its collar.

“Come on, take it easy.” He says, pulling it along with them out of the small room and down the hall. They continue talking, and 37 focuses instead on the usually laborious task of keeping its balance.

“…I’ll talk to Jan about it tomorrow, but we’re definitely gonna have to lower his listing for good if he’s really badly concussed. He’s been pretty high for longer than they usually stay anyways, so I guess-“

37’s body is shoved into the dark closet that it hadn’t noticed it was being led to absentmindedly by the supervisor dragging it along. The door closes, leaving it in darkness and cutting off the conversation that it had caught itself listening to.

37 doesn’t bother begging. It doesn’t deserve anything else. It curls up in the dark closet, crying quietly and repeating training phrases in its head to distract itself.

Good pets do not beg. Good pets do not cry. Good pets do not want anything other than what is given. Good pets take it properly.

You are not a good pet.

————

Taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires @shadow-traveller @oldspruceinn

[isnt-from-around-here]

Please Don’t Forget

Chapter 6 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

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CW: Institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, EXPLICIT dubcon, some medical whump, self deprecation/demeaning, taser, shitty writing, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so once again be warned please

————

Angel is afraid- more afraid than he had ever been. He can hardly breathe, tears running down his face as he backs into the corner. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening-

One handler grabs his collar and yanks him forward while the other presses the taser into his side. He lets out a pained cry, tensing hard.

“Up.” The one with his collar says, forcing him to stand on his weak legs. She attaches a leash to his collar and pulls him forward roughly while the other smacks the back of his head.

“P-please- wait, I- I- can still b-be useful, I- please!” He cries, unable to stop himself from pulling away. Another blinding pain shoots through his side.

“I told you to shut the fuck up,” says the handler with the taser as he pulls the muzzle from his belt and forces it over Angel’s mouth. The metal mouthpiece designed to keep pets from speaking presses into his tongue, jabbing the sides of his mouth painfully. He lets out a strangled whimper as they practically drag it forward.

“Fuckin’ thing,” the woman grumbles. They walk for what feels like years through the WRU facility halls. They pass doors- this is the medical wing. Angel tries not to think about that, instead focusing on trying to slow his breathing and the feeling of the cold tile beneath his bare feet.

He starts hyperventilating when they finally round the corner that brings the hospital bed into view. Angel can see the IV bag, and the prospect of being injected causes his stomach to churn. He doesn’t know why they’re doing this- he can still be useful. He’s sure of that. He’s still young, someone will find him attractive enough? Right?

What makes you think that? You’re hideous. Nobody wants a used pet that wasn’t good enough.

He sobs as they force him down onto the bed, struggling weakly as they restrain his limbs. The male handler brings a fist down onto the large bruise master had left on his side, causing him to stop fighting and just sob pathetically through the muzzle. Master. He wonders what he could have done differently… but he knows that you can’t fix ugly. He’s worthless.

He begs with his eyes as the doctor comes in. This can’t be it this can’t be it this can’t be-

“We’re gonna start with a standard dose,” he says to the supervisor that Angel only just realized is standing in the room. The doctor is an older, balding man with a raspy voice. “We don’t wanna overdo it on the second time and fry its brain.” He says with a chuckle.

Dose? Second time? Angel’s head is spinning, unable to focus on the conversation around him. Is this not euthanasia? It finally occurs to him that he may be getting refurbished rather than put down. His exhausted muscles feel as though they aren’t sure whether to relax or tense at the feeling that information produces in his gut. He isn’t going to die, but…

He shouldn’t be so unhappy, he should be grateful. He knows that he should be grateful. But the thought of forgetting master; forgetting the man he was specially trained for and sold to, the man he was designed to be perfect for-

But you weren’t. You failed him. He never loved you, you didn’t deserve it.

He sobs again, whining through the painful metal forced into his mouth. He feels the doctor preparing him and sticking the needle into his arm. Angel feels numb from the overwhelming guilt and shame and fear that has become all that is left of him. He pictures his master’s face. Please don’t make me forget, please please please-

“Just try to relax, 37,” the doctor says, running his fingers through his hair. “Just go to sleep.”

He remembers the way his master touched him, used him, hurt him, held him… and for the first time in a long time he allows himself to want something.

Please please please don’t forget….

————

37 gets the sudden urge to cry as it’s face is pressed further into the pillow. It doesn’t understand why, but every thrust brings it closer to tears. It doesn’t hurt, not more than it could handle; so why? It doesn’t know. It arches its back the way that the guests always seem to like as he finishes inside of it. The man’s fingers loosen in its hair.

It gets the feeling again, moments later as the guest (Mr. Robert, he had introduced himself) pulls it into his arms. It should be feeling good, happy even; it had just pleased a guest and was now allowed to lay with him. Why does it have such a strong urge to start sobbing? Its eyes drift to the glasses that he had carefully removed and placed on the nightstand not long before using it. Whats so familiar about them? 37 doesn’t know, but it feels as though it’s seen ones like them before…

Why should that matter? Breathe.

“Fuck, that was great,” the man gasps, hand in its hair. Why isn’t it enjoying this?

It forces its eyes away from the glasses, regulating its breathing. It had probably been breathing wrong, but the guest didn’t seem to notice thankfully.

“Anything for you, sir~”

It feels a deep sadness that it can’t describe… it misses something. It can’t remember what.

It forces itself to stop thinking about that- it belongs here, to the hotel, and it has no right to miss anything. Good pets don’t have preferences, and good pets don’t cry. The feeling will pass, it’ll keep serving the guests as usual. It almost relaxes, but the feeling of comfort from being in the man’s arms is quickly stifled by the reminder that it’ll be servicing another guest tomorrow. And another after that, and another and another…

It blinks away a tear. You don’t get to be ungrateful. Who it is fucking you doesn’t matter. Your body is the hotel’s property, not his. This is what you’re meant for.

Is it?

37’s eyes drift to the window, which is within its view. The sky is beautiful today.

————

Taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires @shadow-traveller @oldspruceinn

[isnt-from-around-here]

Talking

Chapter 5 of JACKPOT (Masterlist)

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CW: Institutionalized slavery, pet whump, dehumanization, ‘it’ as a pronoun for whumpee, conditioned/brainwashed whumpee, referenced dubcon, self deprecation/demeaning, shitty writing, whumpee is basically a sex slave for rent so once again be warned please

————

37 was on its absolute best behavior. It had been incredibly lucky when they decided to let it off with just a punishment after what it had done last week; waking up a guest and being thrown out of the room. Since then, 37 hasn’t stepped out of line once and it is incredibly grateful to have another chance.

The past few days had actually been easy- 37 had little trouble getting booked for the night and sure as fuck didn’t wake anyone again. It was cautiously optimistic that tonight would be the same as it made its way carefully around the casino, serving guests and offering itself to anyone who would look. As it makes the rounds, however, a supervisor approaches it and stops it.

“Come.”

It follows her, unsure what could be the cause of this break in the routine. Was it in trouble again? She leads it to the counter, and to its surprise and relief all it sees there is a guest waiting. It’s a young man that 37 doesn’t recognize. Had it even served him? The two talk, and 37 makes sure not to eavesdrop (not a single step out of line).

“Did you hear me? Go,” she says, bringing it back out of its thoughts. Shit. “Yes ma’am.” It says as it turns to follow the young man, who is giving it a strange look. 37 still has no idea what’s going on. Had this man requested 37 specifically without even being served by it? That thought is exciting.

It follows him all the way up to his room, feeling elated to be booked so early in the night. The man looks kind of awkward, as if he isn’t sure what to say or do in the pet’s presence. 37 can always tell which guests have experience with human pets and which don’t, and the ones that don’t always act a little strange (not that 37 judges).

They enter the room, which is one of the smaller ones. The room is messy, with open luggage on the bed and floor. “So,” the man says. “What do you like.. do?”

37 tilts its head. If he didn’t even know the answer to that then why would he book it in the first place? “Anything you’d like, sir~” it says suggestively. It’s too soon to touch him, that much it can tell, but maybe it can get the ball rolling.

“Okay,” he says, sounding confused. “But like are you supposed to be.. like room service or a hooker?”

He’s very inexperienced. 37 questions what his motives for booking it were. It must have taken too long to respond because he quickly adds to his question.

“…cause I don’t usually go for this sort of thing, I kinda just won it,” he says. “I’ve never really like been around one of you.” He gestures vaguely at the pet.

Ah. It takes 37 a moment to get its bearings- it isn’t used to this, but it can take the lead if it needs to. “Well how about I show you what I’m good at?” It says, leaning into its training. Seductive, but submissive. It’s as natural as breathing. It steps forward looking up at him through its lashes as it puts a hand to his chest, toying with the zipper on his jacket.

“Woah- woah, hey,” he says, stepping back. 37 freezes immediately. Fuck. Shit. That was bad- you shouldn’t have taken action it’s not your place-

“I’m- uhh, not really.. you know,” the man stammers nervously, clearly taken aback. “..into that,” he finishes.

“I’m sorry, sir,” 37 says as quickly as it can, forcing its voice to stay smooth and perfect as it quickly kneels. It fixes its eyes on the floor. “It won’t happen again.”

Why would he want you? You’re disgusting.

What is it supposed to do now? There’s nothing for it to say, and unless the man has some other use for it then there’s nothing to do either. Breathe. 37 forces itself to stay calm.

“Look, sorry to waste you time, I don’t know what I was thinking even taking that offer,” he says, grabbing the phone. Is he going to call the office?

“I can do other things for you, sir,” it says quickly (too quickly). “Anything.” He looks back at it, expression indecipherable. What does he want? It should be able to know, a good pet always knows. The silence is palpable. He sets the phone back down. 37 tries not to show its relief to have another chance.

“I guess you could just hang out here,” he says. “I’m Adam, by the way. Do you have a name?”

Another strange thing to ask- 37 certainly has an ID number but it doesn’t think that’s what he’s looking for. “…No, sir.” Should it have said something else? Does he want it to have a name?

“Huh.”

What does that mean? 37 is overwhelmed. His tone is hard to read- is he angry? He doesn’t sound happy. It wishes he would just tell it what he wants it to do.

“I never really understood the whole pet thing to be honest.” he says. 37 is entirely lost.

Why can’t he just fuck me or hit me or tell me what he wants?

It kicks itself mentally for judging him. This is its own fault for being too stupid to answer his questions. “It’s just what I am, sir.” It says. Was that enough? It’s never enough.

————

Later that night, 37 can’t sleep. Much of the rest of the evening had been spent quietly, with 37’s brief and sub par responses quickly earning it the silent treatment. It did its best to zone out while Mr. Adam wasn’t speaking to it, and the night passed quickly. It wonders how it should have acted. It isn’t good at talking, it isn’t meant for talking-

It stops itself from continuing the line of thought. This is its own fault; whatever it’s meant for is irrelevant, if the guest wants it to talk then it should be able to do so properly.

Useless thing.

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