Slave Training Pt 02

This is a short work of erotic fiction containing furry, or anthropomorphic, characters, which are animals that either demonstrate human intelligence or walk on two legs, for the purposes of these tales. It is a thriving and growing fandom in which creators are prevalent in art and writing especially.

All characters in all of my stories are over eighteen and legal adults in all sexual situations.

****

Slave Training

Part Two

The slave intake facility was set outside the city so that no one truly knew what went on in there. Not even the slavers, trainers and other staff members truly understood some of the time but that was by the by as long as they did what was needed for the slaves in the facility. And that was getting them ready to be sold by The Engineer at his state of the art premises in the centre of the city, the throbbing heart and lifeblood of the country, though money exchanged there could never have been said to be gleaned in fairly gained coin. After all, they were trading in lives.

But that didn't matter to The Engineer and those in his employ. They knew where the money was whether it was a quick buck or in the manner of playing the long game and the fates of those that passed through their paws and claws were none of their concern. Well, only if they came back later for further training, which only meant more fun for them. It was a hard job to take on as a slaver or one who trained slaves but one could say too that it was one of the most rewarding, moulding and shaping a mind and body until it suited the needs of many particular masters. It was an art and a skill woven together like the lash of a braided whip, which was most often doled out when punishments were given, even though they would not mark the stock permanently.

No... Most masters preferred to leave their own marks. The Engineer, with his constant collection of changing, personal slaves, knew that better than most, the hyena's smirk practically painted on his lewd, leering muzzle.

The intake facility had been set up on the edge of the mountain range (an excellent training ground for the slaves where some more naturally challenging terrain was required to spice things up a bit) but there were open fields too set up with obstacle courses too, all designed to show off the male physique and develop it to the very best of the slaver's abilities. It was state of the art but the exterior was not the only part that was deserving of attention, picturesque if not for the lives that inhabited it. A long driveway led up to the building, the main body of which was modern and clinical, giving off an air of a building that had been designed for a specific purpose with its white-washed bricks, though the buildings around the back clad in metal and wooden frameworks were more agricultural than anything else.

And it was there that it all began, slavers hustling slaves off the lorries as if they were nothing more than cattle, hollering and prodding, some even using an electric cattle prod (the zap of which was only turned down sometimes, if they were in a particularly good mood that day) to get them off the transporter. They didn't always want to come willingly, some holding up their paws and professing that there had been a mistake, some kind of mistake, though there never had been. Whether they had sold themselves or, somehow, been sold by another, they were just lives in the system to be ferried from one place to the next, their use measured in charts and on schedules, tape measures locking in their growth and physical fitness in tangible means too.

New slaves were introduced to the intake pens, metal and rigid and smelling faintly of something aromatic that may have been a spice and may have been a flower. By the time the new slaves, snarling and pounding their fists on the metal, threatening to climb where the pens were not electrified, realised that something was in the air, they'd fallen back, blinking dully, not quite remembering just what they'd been fighting against in the first place. Of course, the use of that little intoxicant of sorts was not something that could be used full-time in a willing slave but it nicely did the trick to get them amenable for starting things off, which, sometimes, was the most important part to bear in mind.

They wouldn't forever be softly sent into a state of low arousal - of course not. But it was better for them, yes, to ease into the life of being a slave, for they had already had the most upheaval in their short or long lives ever in being uprooted from them. Even those that came in with their heads down and hanging, trudging on weary hind paws, were treated the same, no slave different to the one beside him in the intake pens. They knew that they had sold themselves, that they'd signed the paperwork to make it so, but it was their families left behind or even friends that may or may not have appreciated their sacrifice that would benefit from something that took the life of the enslaved away. After all, an enslaved fur was no longer allowed any thoughts or feelings that would not benefit a master, no life of their own, a toy for another to use however they pleased.

Sometimes the sacrifice was worth it. Other times, well... That was a tale better left for those in the know to tell. Only they couldn't, not with The Engineer's training taking effect, warping and twisting their minds more and more as they became muscle-stud toys for the dominant creatures of society to make use of. Calling them "livestock" was almost too good a term for them in the eyes of the hyena slaver that ran the whole operation but that was something that he would have to work out with himself as to whether he had an even more demeaning name to give his studly little bois. His male, stud-slaves that were going to make him so, so very much money...

Inside, one could have been convinced that they were not slaves as the intoxicating fog, softening the edges of reality, was lifted. Brought inside, a slave was trained in many sexual tasks and activities, sometimes alone with a trainer and sometimes with a group, shown how to stretch their tail holes for larger and larger toys, all for a master's pleasure. There was teaching on leather and latex too, how best to care for it and, of course, wear it too, though there was a focus throughout on the pleasure of their master, always their master. If they had any kinks and fetishes, when it came to the sexual side of it all, that was not to be of any concern to them anymore. Leave those behind, they said, the words spinning and reverberating around many a slave's mind, night after lonely night out in the cold of the stock pens. They wouldn't need those anymore. Those were self-serving. And a slave, above all else, could never be self-serving.

They were worth more than that. At least, to the people who bought them for what value they could add to their lives through the service of their bodies. Ultimately, they were disposable, able to be gotten rid of at any point, but no one talked about that side of the slaving business unless there was money to be made from it too.

The halls may have been clean and swept, tended to by those slaves that were forever kept at the facility on-site as in-house slaves, but those that were merely passing through did not get a room inside the insulated walls away from the elements. The intake pens were one thing but those that were there longer-term got a mere cage of a steel pen in the barns outside, the metal structures rattling in the wind even if they would not come down in a storm. They had roofs if only to ensure that the slaves did not climb out in a fit of rebellion - sometimes it took the training longer to take effect than others - but the empty space between even the bars caging in the roof did not offer them any protection in a dry, dirt pen, everything about them and their bodies constantly on show, constantly on display. Those that were lucky got a pen that was undercover in the rattling barn. Those unlucky souls that were left in an outside pen when the weather was less than favourable, well...they would huddle together through the bars of the pens for what warmth they could glean from one another's fur, soaked through and sodden whether they had fur, scales or even feathers.

There was not solely sexual training to be undertaken inside the walls, however, but an expansive gym were slavers acted as particularly strict personal trainers, cracking a literal whip to get their charges and victims moving at an even quicker lick of a pace. Regardless of the condition in which the slaves arrived, it was granted that they would leave in peak physical fitness, suitable to be models on show with rippling swathes of hard muscle.

And it was there, in the world-class weight lifting gym, that Shane was found, blinking as he looked around, not quite understanding his sense of shifting reality. It was strange to be there and, fair enough, his beard was a little better trimmed than usual, but his normal baseball cap was gone, though he could not have said just where. The dragon frowned, lips turning down as his tail tucked down a little closer to his backside, though there was something hard pressed up under his tail that he could not put a name to.

The dragon was tall and already well-built, but he would be even more thickly muscled in times to come, his scales grey even though they were not the kind of scales that prevented him for sweating. Of course, he sweated more from the glands under his arm and around his groin, to name a couple, but that was simply to be expected as how his body worked. He was set to work out though was naked too, even if that didn't seem as strange to him as it may have once been. Shrugging, Shane ran his fingers back through his hair, his trainer counting the time down to his next set, all for the gain of hypertrophy. It couldn't be that strange when everyone else there was naked too, right?

To the dragon, it could have been just like any other gym back home, filled with weight plates and barbells, everything that he could have ever wanted. There were some machines but they were taught good form and how to stay safe in there, the cloying presence pushing down on his mind insisting that he obey. And just who wouldn't have wanted to obey something as simple as health and safety regulations when they directly affected him?

No... No. Even then, Shane knew that it was better to listen, hair clumped with sweat and grunting as he was forced through push-ups. He couldn't say no to them, of course, but he didn't have any kind of reason to say no. It was reasonable, very reasonable, to want to look good and be good, yes, very good...

Shane shook his head and glanced up, pausing halfway through a rep. Just where was he? What was he doing there? The bear training him snarled, quick to lash out with the whip, striking his backside. It took a moment after the crack for the pain to register and Shane yelped, collapsing nose-first into the mats, though they did nothing at all to ease the smarting, stinging pain from his buttocks.

"Who said you could stop?" The bear growled. He didn't have a name or, at least, he'd never bothered to tell Shane just what it was. "One-hundred more for that - get on it, boy!"

Shane could only obey, moving hastily out of fear of more pain. The whip would not leave a mark, that wasn't how it was designed, but it was made to cause optimal pain and pain was an excellent motivator, even when someone didn't know quite what they were doing. He huffed and puffed, arms trembling, working, focusing only on the task at hand, mind zeroing in from all else.

He had to focus, had to concentrate. There was nothing else for him, not if he let his mind slip.

Up-down, up-down, up-down. His movements became jerkier and jerkier, breath rasping in his throat even though it was hardly a cardiovascular activity. Shane's arms were not yet developed enough to support his weight through the triceps, his chest taking the brunt, pecs screaming, though anyone who had worked out for any length of time knew that muscles could not be isolated in compound exercises. The rest of his body was bruised from beating and aching from day after day in the gym, his body honed and primed while he was fed a basic but solid diet to give him the biggest gains. Once upon a time, he had taken a shake of protein powder and called it a day on that count but the slaver's whip kept him going, refusing to allow him to stop.

Wait... Shane blinked, not pausing in his reps. Like a machine, he had to keep going. But there had been something not quite right in that thought that even his faintly foggy mind wanted to cling onto.

Slavers?

It came back to him then and Shane hissed through his teeth, anger red-hot and curdling, weaving and winding through the pit of his stomach. Yes... Yes, that's what they were. How could he have forgotten that? He may not have remembered just how he had come to be in such a place, a horrendous facility of living souls, but he knew he was there and he most certainly did not want to be there! Who the fuck wanted to be a slave? Shane grit his teeth together, growling viciously through them as even the bear took a half step back.

"Eighty...eighty-one...eighty-two..."

Oh, how nice of him to keep count, that was really fucking helpful to a slave. Shane tried not to think of it, playing the part of an amenable one, one that was going along with the training as if it was the most normal thing in the world. His arms burned, his chest ached, even his legs were sore from the previous day where squats had borne him down onto a dildo. They hadn't even eased up on the weight for him during the course of that one. And it was not just pressure, a strange thing, up under his tail but a dildo - one that locked into him with a band around the base of his tail!

Shamefully, he tried not to think about the fact that his cock was out and hard, glistening even with drips of sweat from his scales. It was better to consider that he was working hard and sweating hard, not that his cock was hard. It was forced to remain swollen even as blood rushed to muscles that needed it far more than his dick, and he clenched his jaws hard until they ached, a muscle jumping and pulsing in the corner of them. He just had to bear through it, ignoring just how his shaft throbbed, how the fog of being there, being a slave, wanted to close in on him again, need coming up through a haze of sexual desire.

He squeezed down on the dildo in his tail hole. Fuck, that felt good! Yet it was not him, so very much not him.

God...

Shane shuddered bodily, trying to cover it up with a grunt and a gasp as his tail twitched, a shiver betraying him as it trembled down the length. The trainer must have noticed but he worked out twice as hard, lying back on a bench in a half-rack that would allow him to bench press with the safety pins on and secured in place. That would take up a lot of time even after the warm-up of push-ups, as the trainers called it, though his sourness and bitterness towards the burly bear with thick, brown fur that demanded his attention in every day of his life was not something that could so easily be forced away.

Even lying back on the bench brought his cock up into stark definition, standing out proudly and boldly as if, even then, his body was trying to draw attention to itself. But he had to arch his back and get into the proper form, acting as if he didn't notice his erection at all - well, at least until his trainer smirked and closed his paw around it, making him clank the bar back onto the rack, although there was no curse to flow forth from his lips. A slave under their control would not be able to curse like that, he was sure, and, so, Shane sucked it up and let out a moan, tongue hanging out, still obediently trying to bring the back down to complete the lift even as his shaft was groped and squeezed. There was nothing pleasurable, bar the natural reaction of his body, in what the slaver was doing to him, though his instinct to snarl and fight back was harder to tame than could have been expected.

The bear rumbled a chuckle, releasing his cock and wiping a drop of pre-cum off on his sweaty scales, the lingering musk of a male working hard lingering around Shane, along with something else too.

"Not a bad fuck-toy you're going to be, hey?"

Shane ground his teeth together, staring at the bar. One more, just one more.

"Your arse won't be tight after all this. But every stud is going to love looking at you on your knees."

He tried not to think. Just breathe, all he had to do was breathe.

"Maybe you'll even take two cocks at once, just to show what a whore-hole you'll have..."

He just had to get through the workout...and then he would go back to the pens. He clenched his teeth, pretending that it was the exercise that was getting to him, not seeing what he was doing, surroundings blurring in a haze of not-knowing. Out, out, he had to get out, but the only way to get out was through the day. And that was just the game, right there and then, that he was forced to play.

A game. No more than that.

There was not any further training scheduled for him that day and Shane was escorted with a grope and a slap to his firmly muscled arse back to the pens for the evening. The sun had gotten low in the sky but the dragon could not even remember what he'd been doing earlier that day, his mind twisted and broken, fragments of memories rising without anything to link them together. He let his head hang, as he'd been taught and saw other slaves doing, but the trudge of his weary hind paws was true and not faked. A collar and leash adorned him but he was not allowed any more than that. Even the dildo had been replaced and locked back up under his tail after he had been allowed to relieve himself and cleaned brusquely in a cold shower, his slave-trainer taking every opportunity to squeeze and grope and fondle every part of his body that he chose to.

But, in the pens, there was solace to be found, although a slave could never truly be alone out there. It may have been cold and, oftentimes, damp too, but it was a space where there were only a few guards out on patrol, keeping an eye on them and, sometimes, taking advantage of them too. It seemed that anything was alright with those in charge out there when it came to fucking a slave over the guard's desk, though the shudders and cries from that little hut carried far and wide.

Nobody came to help the slave being used. Not even the once. Sometimes, Shane had seen the guards taking bondage items from the facility too, stringing them up all night and fucking both holes they had to offer, leaving the slave in question shattered and exhausted when the light of dawn touched the sky. They didn't care that the slave that they'd used would be beaten if they did not perform up to standards the coming day. No... All they cared about was a quick fuck just like those in charge only wanted a quick buck.

There was something about being set in the pens with the stars twinkling above, the night brisk and crisp as spring leaned towards the encroach of summer (not quite there yet). His pen-mate, a German Shepherd named Drew, sat on the other side of the bars of the adjoining pen with his back to him, fur pushing through the gaps as if he was especially fluff that day. Maybe he'd been bathed and made to groom himself?

But he looked quiet, far quieter than he had ever looked before, even to Shane's untrained eye, his ears loose and floppy, not pricked as they usually were. The dragon squinted, scooting a bit closer, though he was already sitting where the slaver had deposited him and was not quite sure whether he chanced moving as yet with the sweet spices tickling his nostrils, begging him to take a deep breath that would render him useless and hapless all over again, unable to do anything about, well, anything.