Just a note: the warnings on these vary. Most of them will work on their own, so if you need to skip one or only read a couple to stay safe they should still make sense if you’re at all familiar with the BBU. Expect BBU typical dehumanization for all of them.
Box Boy 583299
Summary: A young entrepreneur falls victim to a scam artist, leaving him mired in debt. As if that wasn’t bad enough, many of those closest to him will face dire consequences if the debt isn’t paid off. In desperation he sells the only thing he has left: himself. The WRU corporation offers a chance to save his loved ones in return for his freedom, his bodily autonomy, and his identity.
(CW: transmasculine whumpee, noncon)
The story so far:
enrollment part 1- the choice
enrollment part 2- signing it all away
enrollment part 3- hallways and cages
enrollment part 4- an unsettling discovery
enrollment part 5- the physical
enrollment part 6- shipping and receiving
shipping and receiving art
shipping- singing in the dark
wipe- the clean slate
take a break- lunch hour
training facility: day 1- try to sleep
training facility: day 5- cockroach
training facility: day 6- crawl
training facility: day 16- break
training facility: day 16- new legs
training facility day 30- pose
training facility day 59- leash training
Coral’s Story
Summary: She was sold as a domestic pet, but she knows she’s meant for more than this. She’ll do whatever it takes to forge her own identity.
(Warnings: dehumanization, modern slavery, humans as pets, mental conditioning, restraints, arson, implied noncon reference, dissociation)
Masterpost
The sugar popped as it caramelized. She was careful about it, her movements graceful as she torched each creme brulee, her face composed and smiling. The eyes of the guests were heavy on her. One of them kept staring at the neckline of her dress where it dipped down to show the stark scar. She retreated back to the kitchen as fast as she could, under the pretense of making more drinks.
"Box office numbers look promising..."
"... opening week"
"Not too bad if I say it myself!"
Their voices filtered faintly into the kitchen. One of the guests, the bald man with the broad shoulders she thought, had the sort of booming voice that carried easily between rooms. The rest were softer, bubbling up a few words at a time.
She took her time making the drinks. The guests were in good spirits, they wouldn't notice. Just like they wouldn't notice that the alcohol was getting stronger as the night wore on.
The chain at her feet clinked softly as she moved. She was used to it. She tried very hard not to think too much about what she was doing, knowing that her conditioning would jerk her back like a choke chain if she wasn't very careful. If only George hadn't made that bet, it wouldn't have had to come to this.
Daisy fixed the cheerful smile back on her face and served the drinks. She did not think about George's friends. She did not think about their roving eyes, or their wandering hands. She smiled, and ducked back into the kitchen. She did not think about the way Vera had yelled when George lost his bet, about how she didn't want her things getting dirtied by his friends hands.
She fixed her thoughts instead on how pretty the candle flames were, as she set each long taper under the draping curtains in the front living room. She had watched the world change through those windows as the lush trees flowered and then turned gold. She lit more candles with the torch. The laughter and genial conversation continued, and she focused on the sound of their celebrations as she turned the heat of the torch on the spot where her chain was bolted into the hardwood. The varnish smelled foul as it bubbled, and she turned her face away.
The wood smoldered, and she pulled with all the strength she could muster. They were playing music in the other room, loud and triumphant. An imperious voice called for more drinks.
She poured the drinks. She brought the drinks. Her owners were dancing in the clear space behind the dining table, close in each others arms. She set the drinks on the table, pretended not to see one of their friends beckoning her to dance with him. He would be tangled in the chain, and besides, he might smell the smoke on her hair. She tried the torch again. She did not think about what would happen if she failed. She did not think.
Flames began to spread, licking slowly across the floor. She seized the chain again, and did not think about the heat that was radiating up it. She did not think about it even as the shape of the chain seared itself into her palms and her eyes filled with tears. Smoke curled up around her, making her choke and gasp. The bolt came free.
She staggered back. They were still laughing in the dining room, but she didn't have long. The long chain clinked softly as she coiled it up. It draped over her shoulders like a heavy, gaudy necklace. She took the caps off the rum, the vodka, the tequila, set them down carefully on their sides on the floor. She didn't look back.
There were coats on the hooks in the foyer. Most of them were short, leather or shiny fabric, but one was a long drape of soft black fabric. A man's overcoat, cashmere. When she put it on it reached nearly to the floor. The door was unlocked. She closed it carefully behind her. She was well down the street by the time she heard the first window shatter.
(Warnings: dehumanization, slavery, humans as pets, institutional(ish) setting, trans whumpee, drugged, implied noncon body modification, brainwashing, victim blaming, memory loss)
Box Boy 583299 Masterpost
His head felt wrong. It was too far away from his thoughts, and he couldn’t reach them.
“What is your name, 583299?”
Was that him? He knew the answer, he thought. He should. He reached.
“It’s -- Aaaaagh!”
How could the pain be shocking, when he hurt so much already?
“You do not have a name. You are a trainee. If you are good enough to become a pet your owner may give you whatever name they choose.”
That sounded familiar. Because it was true? Because he had heard it before? He drifted away again. Sometimes he heard other voices, but he couldn’t follow them. Maybe later he would come back, and then he would understand.
“Ms. Renford says.... match for the Stratford order...”
Names. He didn’t think they were his. He had a name, didn’t he?
“Modifications...”
“...fucking weirdo”
“Rich as god now, though”
He didn’t think he was as rich as god. He thought he remembered something, that he wouldn’t be here if he was rich. Those names must not be his then.
“What is your name, 583299?”
His name? Did he have a name? He thought everyone had one but maybe he was wrong. His thoughts tapered away into thin white fog when he tried to look at them too closely.
“I don’t… I don’t know…”
The pain was less this time. Was he closer to the right answer? Or just further from his body?
“Why is this happening?” His voice was so weak he didn’t even realize he’d spoken the thought aloud until he got an answer.
“All pets choose to give up ownership of themselves of their own free will, because they cannot lead a happy life as a free person. You are here because you realized you couldn’t make good choices for yourself and needed someone else to do it for you. We’re going to make you better.”
His own fault. Yes, that seemed true. He couldn't remember, but it felt like a lot of things had been his fault. A thought tried to rise, but he lost it in the fog.
Time passed, he thought. Sometimes he saw blurry faces and lights passing above him. Sometimes it went dark for a long time. He didn't like that, because when he opened his eyes again his body felt sick and wrong and weird. He thought there might be bandages on his face, but it could have been more of the soft white cotton that filled his head. There was so much of it, so thick around him.
There was a hand, cuffed to the rail of the bed. A line of clear fluid ran into it. Was that his hand? Black bars marched across the inside of the wrist, stark. Wrong.
“What is your name, 583299?”
Name? He had a number, that was his number.
“I don’t think I have one.”
His voice was sad, but this time the pain stayed steady. Tears slid out of his eyes, disappearing into the soft white cotton.
"That's right. Good boy."
There were more questions. This time he didn't know the answers to any of them.
(Warnings: dehumanization, modern slavery, humans as pets, mental conditioning, restraints, referenced arson, dissociation, minor injuries)
Masterpost
She walked. There were sirens behind her, and then they fell away. The soft drizzle of rain came and went, slicking the leaves to the sidewalk and making the street lights reflect eerily. Her mind clung to the cold, to the beauty of the lights. Everything else was a careful, whirling blank. Her thoughts were like snowflakes, melting on impact. Sometimes a car would rush by, and she would turn her face away and shake with fear.
The moon glowed huge and orange, a haloed fingernail sliver suspended above the horizon. She fancied that if she walked toward it for long enough she could touch it, could climb up into the safety of its curve where no one could find her. It was her beacon until tall buildings began to rise up in front of it, and then she made for them instead. It felt like something out there was calling her, pulling her feet forward. With nowhere else to go, she followed that feeling. The chain's weight made her shoulders ache, and she told herself the wetness on her ankle was only from the rain and not blood from the chafing shackle. It dripped into her shoe.
She passed isolated houses at first, then grouped closer and closer, interspersed with more and more storefronts. Gusts came up behind her. They took her by the shoulders and pushed her forward, one step at a time as the sky grew lighter. She stopped for a moment and turned her face up to a tree still thick with rustling dripping leaves. A few drops fell into her open mouth and she swallowed them gratefully. Her throat was raw and parched from the smoke.
Apartments and restaurants, constructions of steel and glass. The cars were coming faster now, as the city woke up. Her vision swam with exhaustion. The thunder that had been distant behind her was close now, the wind stronger. It stung her skin, and it took too long for her to realize that it was hailing little pea sized pellets that bounced and skittered across the concrete. Watching them brought her back to herself a little, and she swayed on her feet.
There. A gap between two buildings barely three feet wide. She stopped to pick up a handful of little ice pellets and put them in her mouth, then retreated into the alley. It was so narrow that almost none of the hail fell down between its walls. A vent belched steam from one wall.
The graffiti caught her as she came out of the glow of the street lights. It seemed alive in its messy, colorful exuberance, like a miracle growing from the brickwork. Rain began to thunder down on the street as she sank down against the wall, still staring as though transfixed. The snake that wove through the incomprehensible letters was striped like a warning. Even so, it felt like a friend, and she lifted one hand briefly to touch it.
The ice that melted in her mouth seemed like the sweetest thing she'd ever tasted. The cold soothed and grounded her until she was able pull her floating, barely tethered thoughts back into herself. She was hurting, alone, and afraid, but she was free.
Her feet throbbed. The stupid little heels that Ms. Vera said made her look so stylish weren't shoes for walking through the night in. Slowly, carefully, she eased one shoe off. It stuck to the shredded remains of her stocking. She had to close her eyes and swallow when she saw the blisters and blood that crusted the tops of her toes and the backs of her heels. Her other foot looked worse, and the skin under the metal cuff was angry and raw.
The effort felt herculean, to heave herself back up to her feet. She leaned against the wall to slide the useless stockings off, then used both arms to balance against the walls as she limped back out to the mouth of the alley. When she brushed her fingers over the paint she imagined she was drawing strength from it. The rain was coming down in a sheet now, but it was dry between the buildings. The cold rain stung bitterly at first when she stuck her foot out into it, but the chill felt clean. When she sank back down next to the warmth of the vent she felt almost ok. Tucking her chilled fingers into the sleeves of the coat, she curled her side to the wall and closed her eyes.
(Warnings: dehumanization, modern slavery, humans as pets, institutional(ish) setting, trans whumpee, mental conditioning, sleep deprivation, restraints, sadistic whumper, creepy comfort)
Masterpost
The plush back of the leather chair creaked as Handler Benton leaned back in it. He'd paid a fortune for it, and it was worth every penny for the upper back support alone. His lunch was fresh and fragrant on his desk when the orderly led his newest trainee in.
He smiled. The boy was the picture of defeat. He crawled behind the white clothed orderly without raising his head to look ahead of him. His movements were halting and pained, and he swayed slightly as though he might collapse. Bathing was a privilege he hadn't earned, and grime from the floor mixed with the sweat on his skin. Benton nodded to the orderly, and the man stepped back out of the room.
583299 didn't respond the first time Benton told him "Come here, boy," but that was to be expected. He amused himself by counting the ribs he could see where the grimy tank was clinging to the trainee's back. Eventually the smell of the food reached him, and he slowly raised his head.
He crooked his fingers at the trainee and repeated himself, and this time he came forward slowly. He dragged his hands across the floor as he came as though he didn't even have the strength to lift them. When Benton kept beckoning he came forward until his face was rested on his handler's knee. It was breathtaking. The bandages had gone, but the bruises remained spectacular around his nose, under his eyes, and along his cheeks and jaw. There was a little swelling and it still must have hurt to lean against the rough fabric of Benton's pants but he seemed beyond caring or thought. His eyes were dull.
The lack of food and sleep had done their work. He was perfect, blank clay that could be molded into whatever shape his handler required. Benton stroked his hair and he made a happy little sound, eyes half lidded.
"What are you, 583299?"
"A cockroach, sir."
He'd been drilled in this enough times to know the answer Benton wanted. His voice was soft and paper dry, barely escaping his parched throat. Benton smiled benevolently down at him.
"Good boy. Here, have a sip of this."
He slipped the straw of his soda into the trainee's mouth, and let him drink for a long moment. When he pulled the straw back his eyes were perfectly round. It would have been the first real flavor he could remember tasting, and he looked like he was having a religious experience. Very gratifying.
"And what do you want to be?"
"I want to be a pet, sir. I can be good!"
He was surprised that he could muster that much vehemence when he was still so weak. The slightly flat root beer must have revived him a little. He stroked the boy's greasy hair again to reward him for such a good answer.
"Very good," he slipped a french fry between those dry lips. 583299 gazed up at him like he'd hung the stars in the sky.
"You've been such a good boy, learning to do as you're told. We've talked it over, and decided that you've earned a chance to learn to be a pet after all."
"Oh thank you, sir, I promise I'll be so good, I'll show you-"
"Shh, don't babble. Here, have another fry."
This time he followed the fry with a lingering touch to the lips. He didn't flinch away. Good.
They sat like this for a while, Benton feeding his trainee with increasingly lingering touches and caresses. He leaned into them, starved for gentle touch and praise and food. He fell asleep right there on the floor with his head in his handler's lap, and Benton kept on caressing as much of him as he could reach.
Eventually he shook his trainee slightly, bringing him back awake.
"Get up on the table, sit up with your legs out."
He hurried to comply, although it was clear he was still sluggish with sleep and weak. He hadn't been allowed to stand for over a week, even in his own cell, and his legs protested their use after so long. Finally he hauled himself up and did as he'd been told.
Benton pulled what he'd need for this next step out of his desk drawer and came up to the table. He took each stretched out ankle in turn, wrapping them efficiently and locking the restraints, then the 1 foot chain that stretched between them. 583299 looked up at him with puzzled, trusting eyes.
"This is the first step, trainee. Your owner requires that you move gracefully, and with restraint. This will help you learn to be good, now that you're allowed to walk some of the time. Just like your collar, you will wear this or something like it all the time. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good boy. I told the orderlies to allow you to go and shower, as a reward for being so good."
He nodded. He seemed to be at the end of his strength for now. Benton gave him one last pat on the head, ran a hand down his back, and signaled the orderly to come for him.
He'd remove the sleep restriction on the collar and give him a day of regular meals to get his strength up before he had him brought back in. He'd need every ounce of it.
The chain clinked softly with every shortened step, and he glanced longingly back over his shoulder as he left.
The great thing about the whole box boy concept is that the more you think about it the more whump possibilities there are. Like for example the way that male action stars have to eat nothing but steamed chicken and protein shakes and dehydrate themselves to get that perfect “cut abs” look. Obviously that’s not sustainable as a lifestyle, but for someone who cares more about the display than the person behind it that might not matter.
Or the whole concept of pets as status symbols, because in a world where a custom pet costs as much as a lamborghini they absolutely would be. There are just so many depths of psychological horror to play with just with that and it’s great.
(Warnings: dehumanization, slavery, humans as pets, institutional(ish) setting, trans whumpee, noncon body modification, victim blaming, memory loss, shock collars)
Box Boy 583299 Masterpost
The little white room felt familiar, and 583299 didn't understand why. He thought his mind was a little less hazy. He could tell the difference between the vague fog in his thoughts and the cotton on his face, now.
The nurse with the friendly smile had told him that the bandages were because they had taken away the ugliness of his face just the same way they had erased the ugliness of his mind. Something about that felt wrong. Everything felt wrong, though. Everything had felt wrong for as long as he could remember.
Was his face ugly? He tried to picture it, but all there was was a stabbing headache where the memory should be. He curled up tighter, hid his eyes from the light. His face hurt, but in a real tangible way, and he pressed the hard splint on his nose into his palms to ground himself.
He wished he had anything to use, to hide himself more thoroughly from the light. It felt dirty on his skin. The thought didn't make sense, and he knew that even as he couldn't stop thinking it. There was nothing wrong with the light, he knew. Nothing wrong with it except for it being too bright on his tired eyes. Still, it felt dingy in a way he can't describe. Like darkness without rest. He shivered, and decided to blame it on the chill air.
What could he have done? What had he been, that this was better? They told him that he chose this, that it was his own fault he was here on this rubbery bare mattress bolted to the floor with the light making his skin dirty. The soft walls ate all of the quiet sounds of his movements and breathing, and he felt monumentally alone. That was familiar too. Was he alone, before? Was that why he chose this? He was thinking about his past too much, running headlong into the dull panicky pain that was all that was left. He flinched away from following that mental trail and jarred his face against the mat. The walls ate his small cry of pain, too.
He wished he could see his own face. If frightened him every time he remembered that he didn't know what it looked like. Even if he could remember, the memories wouldn't match what he saw, would they? He gritted his teeth against the pain and ran his hands along his nose, his cheeks, his jaw. The skin felt hot and tight under the bandages, swollen. He dropped his hands, defeated.
Ok. He couldn't think about the past. There was nothing worthwhile to think about in the present. That left the future. He had a vague idea that if he could figure out what was coming and have a plan, that would help. So what was he here for?
There was nobody to ask, in the small white room with the soft walls and the bare bunk. No clues. The white tank top he wore had some symbols on it, but when he tried to understand them the pain shot up again. No help there. He let his head fall back against the wall, squinting up into the light. The only other clue was the collar around his neck. It was as wide as 4 of his fingers together, and bulky in the back.
He ran his fingers along the edges. It was mostly smooth, some kind of synthetic he thought, with rings on the sides and front. Curious, he felt something that might be the catch-
Pain bloomed from the back of his neck where it made contact with the collar. It stole his breath, loosened his limbs, drowned his thoughts.
He was flat on his back. The light left crazed glyphs behind his eyes when he blinked. His legs were hanging off the mattress, growing even more chilled against the white tiled floor. 583299 dragged himself back up onto the bunk with arms that felt like water. He put a shaking hand over his face, and told himself that the way the light felt even dirtier than before was just his imagination.
So what did he have? A collar, a number, symbols he couldn't read. The misty memory of a promise that his owner would give him a name. If he was good enough to have one. So he didn't own himself, and he didn't have an owner, either. There was something lonesome and sideways about the thought.
"Tell me what I'm here for, please," he whispered up to the little camera eye in the corner. He turned his face to the wall, hiding in the cave of his arms from the light. He didn't sleep.
(Warnings: referenced dehumanization, modern slavery, humans as pets, mental conditioning, restraints, minor injuries, homelessness)
tagging @killtheprotagonist
Masterpost
It was cold, the surface under her hard and unforgiving. Everything hurt, and the light pierced her even through her closed eyelids. She tried to put off the moment of waking, sure that all she would see was white tiles, white walls, white lights. There was something warm against her side. It moved.
She started awake all at once, frightening the little dog that had burrowed up against her into whining and backing away. She softened immediately, even though her heart was trying to beat out of her chest.
"Hey, it's ok," she whispered, holding her hand out for him to sniff, "Are you a runaway too?"
He slunk back toward her cautiously, then very carefully licked her hand. He was so skinny, she could see every rib through his filthy coat. She thought it might be brown under there. When she scratched behind one ragged ear he whacked his whip of a tail against her leg and gazed up at her adoringly.
"I'm gonna have to find food for you aren't I? And a bath, I guess."
Her voice was rough. She was going to need to find some kind of food for herself soon too, and water. It was going to mean dealing with real people. Maybe, she thought, the owner of the coat had left a slim jim or something in his pocket. You could feed a dog a slim jim, right? She dug through the pockets and spread her haul out on the pavement.
A sleek silver lighter and cigarette case (full) she tucked into an inner pocket with the pair of green stone cufflinks. Maybe she could sell those somewhere. She snorted when she found the black leather gloves, remembering her chilled hands the night before. They were far too big but decently warm, at least. Two half used chap sticks in different pockets, a little tin of mints, a handkerchief, her discarded stockings, and a crumpled wad of brightly colored fabric that turned out to be a neck tie. No food. She put a mint in her mouth so that at least she could feel like she was eating something and stuffed it all back in the pockets.
She couldn't let anyone suspect she was a pet. The sleeves of the coat at least covered her bar code, but the collar was going to be a problem. The idea of taking it off made her sick with horror. It was a triumph of conditioning, the way her gut twisted with the expectation of pain from even thinking about it. Closing her eyes, she fingered the little tag that hung from it. She knew it said who she belonged to, and she couldn't risk anyone connecting her to what she'd left behind.
The tie maybe? She knew how to tie one, it was part of her training. She pulled it back out and smoothed it in her hands.
After a few minutes of tying, adjusting, and retying, she gave a low growl of frustration that made the dog's ears twitch. Even snugged up tight to her neck she could still feel the smooth leather of her collar peaking out above the knot. Maybe... could she convince her conditioning that a tie was as good as a collar?
The first time she put her hand on the collar's buckle she convulsed reflexively. The little dog whined and tried to lick her face, and she petted his head while she took slow breaths. Try again.
On the fifth try she got the buckle undone and threw the collar away from herself violently. The dog took off after it, savaging the leather with a happy little growl. She laughed a little breathlessly and put her head between her legs, trying to calm her racing heart and shaking hands. It helped to pull the tie's knot tight, to feel the pressure against her skin.
"Okay dog. What should I call you? For that matter, what should I call me? I can't be Daisy anymore."
She frowned, contemplating her shoes. Her feet had swollen in the night, and they didn't want to go on. She noticed a few tooth marks on one patent leather heel and her smile pulled the cracks in her dry lips. While she wrestled with them she thought about snakes.
In the daylight the paint on the wall was flat and still. It was clearly the work of human hands now, not a shifting living thing the way it had looked in the misty light of dawn. Still she felt drawn to it, and her sleep must have shaken a memory loose because she recognized the colors now.
George had been watching a lot of nature documentaries while he worked on his last movie, and she remembered coming into the room and being struck by the stripes of the coral snake. She'd thought it must be nice, to be venomous enough that no one would dare touch her. Coral was a normal enough name, right? The meaning could be her secret.
"Red and yellow, kill a fellow. Ha. Maybe I'll call you King, since you're harmless even if you bite."
Her collar was apparently a worthy opponent, and he didn't seem to hear her. It was superstitious to name him in the hope that would make him stay. It felt good, though, not to be alone.
Her left heel finally popped into the shoe and she winced at the way it pressed at her blisters. The skin around her shackle was raw, and it occurred to her that maybe she could do something about that at least. Her stockings were thin enough to work under the metal and cushion her skin from the cold ring. The feeling of triumph when she wrapped and tied it felt outsized for such a small victory, but she would take it.
Even so, she wasn't going to be able to go very far today. When she stood, leaning against the wall for support, a wave of dizziness swept through her. Not very far at all.
King seemed to sense her distress and left off trying to kill her collar, depositing it instead by her feet. She had to laugh. She didn't know much about dogs, but she thought from the roundness of his face and his over sized paws that he might just be a puppy. Scooping up his offering, she scratched his ears again.
"What a brave puppy! Are you gonna stay with me then?"
Her voice was barely a whisper, but he didn't seem to mind. He barked once and gave a little bow before dashing off toward the back end of the alley. She dropped her collar into the pocket of her stolen coat and made sure the chain still draped around her shoulders was hidden. Then, much more slowly, she followed behind.
