Kitty

She crouched in the filth behind the overfull dumpster, slitted pupils wide with fear. Her breath rasped in her throat and she trembled against the cold, stinking metal, praying that this time they wouldn't find her. It was hopeless, of course, there was no help - divine or mortal - for her.
       She froze when she heard movement at the entrance of the alley, clamping her hands over her mouth in an effort to muffle her helpless whimpering.

"Here kitty, kitty…"

      The male's voice called her mockingly, soft and low, and she pressed her face into her hands wanting nothing more than to die.

"Jackson!"

      A second male voice sharply, but quietly, reprimanded the first. There was a pause, then she caught the sound of them walking slowly and steadily towards her hiding place: the urge to void her bowels was almost overwhelming.

"You can't hide from us, you know that."

      The second voice was authoritative, calm, it wrapped her around with the weight of inevitability. She dropped her hands, staring dully at the ground in front of her. It was hopeless.

"There you are! Bad kitty!"

      She didn't look up, didn't need to look at the trackers to know who they were - this wasn't the first time they'd been sent to fetch her back.
       The first male, Jackson, was slight and gangly, with a unruly mop of silky brown hair. You could describe him as 'boyish' - if you didn't look into his eyes. Cold eyes. He tortured for fun. She was afraid of him.
       She wasn't afraid of Lander, the second male, only of what he represented. The tall, lean, athletically built male looked like he'd be a nice guy outside of the job. His eyes weren't cold. He cared, and that made it worse.

Lander squatted in front of her, his sympathetic green eyes appraising her. He sighed and shook his head, pale blonde hair, clean and soft, brushing his shoulders.
       "Why do you run? Eh? You know we'll bring you back."
      She started to cry, gulping back the sobs; the compassion in his voice always undid her.
       "You're going to be punished again. Do you like being punished?"
      She shook her head, not looking at him.
       "Then why run? Mr Johnson's a good man - he doesn't like punishing you."
      In the background she could hear Jackson making the call that would bring the car to the alley; if she was going to run it'd have to be now.
      Lander's voice was soft. "Come on, let's get you home." He stood up.
       Lander was right: why run, why fight? This was the way her life was, she should just accept it; she stood up, graceful in spite of her despair.
      "Good girl." Lander's voice was a caress.
      Her hands hung limply by her sides, her head still bowed, her tears making dark tracks in the striped velvet fur on her face.
       "Shall we strip her now?"
      The eagerness in Jackson's voice made her shiver.
       "No." Lander said. "That's Mr Johnson's prerogative. Besides, he'll want to know where she got the clothes from."

She heard the car pull up, blocking the alley. Lander took the lead, she followed meekly and Jackson fell in behind her. As they approached the car, she peeked up through her lashes. She knew escape wasn't possible, but still, her last small flicker of irrational independence forced her to at least try and assess her chances.
      If she was quick, she could get over the car bonnet and away -
       "Oh no you don't, kitty-cat."
      Jackson was horribly close to her, one of his hands reaching surreptitiously under her stolen dress to fondle a velvet furred buttock. She froze, panting, trying to force down the unnatural, involuntary arousal his touch evoked even as her flesh tried to creep away from his fingers.
       "All clear."
      Lander beckoned them forward, opening the back door of the car. She stepped forward quickly, as much to get away from Jackson as anything else, climbing despondently onto the back seat.
             "Nice pussy." Jackson crooned and she blushed; the dress she was wearing was short and she hadn't had time to find underwear - the bastard was copping a good view of her groin. She instinctively curled her delicately banded tail, a beautiful example of bio-engineering, between her legs as she scrambled into the car, huddling against the far door with her eyes closed.
       "Jackson." Lander's tone was sharp. "You can sit in the front."
       She heard the younger tracker grumbling as he slouched his way to the front of the long, black car. He slammed his door shut with unnecessary force.
       "Mr Johnson will be very glad to have you back." Lander said to her as he slid into the car, closing the door quietly behind him.

Mr Johnson didn't seem very glad to see her. She cowered in front of her owner, her head hanging and her hands clasped nervously in front of her stomach.
       "This is the fourth time!"
      Mr Johnson was a big man, an imposing man with a voice to match. She cringed, expecting a blow, but his broad hand stopped short of her face and he gripped her chin instead, forcing her to look at him. Mr Johnson's flinty grey eyes bored into hers.
       "I'm going to have to think about this. In the meantime…" he glanced at the trackers, "As a bonus you can have her for four days. Subsistence rations. No permanent damage - " his smile was cool, " - and don't let her sleep."
       "Thank you, sir." Lander's quiet voice didn't mask Jackson's indrawn hiss of anticipation and she trembled. Her owner's eyes narrowed.
       "This is your own fault. You were warned."
      He brought his big hands up to the neck of her dress, effortlessly ripping open the seam that ran the length of the front. Mr Johnson pushed the garment roughly over her shoulders letting it drop to the floor behind her. She risked a look at him; he was very angry, even the sight of his prized possession naked wasn't mollifying him this time. He folded his arms across his barrel chest.
       "Get out of my sight."
      She bit back a sob as Lander's long-fingered hand closed around her upper arm. Four days - and for some of that she would have to be alone with Jackson, Lander couldn’t be awake the whole time…

She had no idea how big the building Mr Johnson lived in was, she was never allowed near a window to look out, likewise, she had no idea how long she'd been here and she only had a hazy impression of her life before she was brought to her owner.
       Landers and Jackson were part of Mr Johnson's permanent staff, that much she did know. The trackers had their own set of rooms in the building; this was where they were taking her now. She kept her head down as she walked between them, not acknowledging the congratulatory, or envious, comments the trackers received from other employees they passed.
       "She's our bonus." Jackson boasted to one of them. "We've got her for four whole fucking days."
       "Can I play too?" the third man laughed. "Us commoners don’t often get to play with the pets."
       "Sure!" Jackson was dripping with bon-homie, he flung an arm around Lander's shoulder. "Why should we have all the fun?"
      "You got any Jazz?" Lander asked quietly. "We could do with some. Part of her punishment is to be kept awake the whole time."
       "Yeah, I've got some." The man's voice was oily.
       "Fine. Bring it and you can join in." Lander was brisk. "But no one else. Especially none of your twisted mates, Jackson, understand?"
      Jackson's voice was a pouty whine. "Awww, Lander!"
       "'No 'permanent damage', remember?"
       "Whatever, let's just get home quickly, right," Jackson tweaked one of her nipples and she twitched, "I've been looking forward to this for a long time…"

She kept her eyes downcast as Lander gently fastened the stout collar around her neck then attached the long chain to the solid bolt set half-way up the wide, wooden door-frame. A small part of her wondered anxiously why the bolt was there, why they already had the gear - then she remembered Jackson's predilections and she tried to stop thinking.
      The door separated two areas, the only rooms she could see. The room she was in looked to be a small dining room; there was a swing door on the wall opposite her, the floor was drably tiled in brown and there was a plain round table with four matching chairs around it. She'd only glimpsed the other room but she got the impression of more drabness, of armchairs, or sofas, and an entertainment unit. There were no windows that she could see in either room.
      "Get the gloves on her," Lander called over his shoulder to Jackson.
      She made no effort to move as Jackson roughly slipped the thick leather mittens over her hands, fastening the straps tightly around her wrists, effectively sheathing her sharp, curved claws - the same claws that made it impossible for her to hold something even so simple as a fork.
      Not that she'd been given anything so civilised to use for a long, long time.
       "There we go," Lander said cheerfully, "safe and sound." He slapped Jackson on the back. "You go ahead, I'm going to put the kettle on."
       She closed her eyes tightly.
       Jackson walked around her, slowly, trailing his fingers lightly over her soft, tabby-striped pelt; she heard him sniggering as his touch, his nearness triggered arousal.
       "What's it like?" he whispered suddenly into her ear, making her jump, "Not being able to stop yourself getting turned on? Bet ya hate it." He licked her ear, wet and clammy, and she shivered with disgust, even as she writhed and mewled. Jackson pushed her to her knees, the movement unexpected and she landed heavily, wincing at the impact. She heard a zipper being drawn down.
       "Open your eyes, bitch."
      Trained to instant obedience, her eyes snapped open – Jackson's semi-erect cock was inches from her face. He put his hand under her chin and forced her head upwards.
       "Open your mouth."
      She did and he whistled, impressed with the neat, gleaming double row of small triangular teeth. He touched a finger tip to one of her prominent canines.
       "Look at all them little kitty teeth! They gave you a thorough overhaul, didn't they?" He fisted a hand painfully in her rich, dark-brown hair. "But you're not going to bite me, are you?" She shook her head as much as she could given the iron grip that kept her immobile. It had taken her a lot of time and practise and many cuffs over the side of the head before she'd learnt how to keep her teeth out of the way; no, she wouldn't bite, no matter how much she wanted to.

Her eyes had closed again as she concentrated on getting Jackson off as quickly as possible and his gasped 'You have got to fuckin' try this!' was the only indication she had that Lander had come back into the room. Finally, the young tracker grabbed the back of her head with a groan, holding her still, as he forced himself deep into her mouth and came. She was sure that sometime, a long time ago, she'd had a gag-reflex, probably around the same time she'd had useable fingers - but not anymore. She held still, throat working automatically to swallow Jackson's semen before it choked her.
       "Oh, fuck…"
      Jackson pulled himself out of her mouth and tottered over to a comfortable looking arm-chair, his limp cock still hanging out of his fly.
       "Good?" Lander sounded amused.
       "Fuck, yes…!" Jackson groaned, "Her tongue - I've never felt anything like it."
      Lander put his mug down on the coffee table and stood in front of her.
       "Open up, honey, let's see."
      Obediently, she lifted her head and opened her mouth, keeping her eyes closed. When she felt his finger press lightly against her lower lip she automatically snaked out her tongue, wrapping the long, flexible, and rough-surfaced organ delicately around the tip of Lander's finger.
       "I see what you mean."
       "It's like a real cat's tongue, yeah?"
       "Yeah."
      She heard the wondering lust in the tall tracker's voice and readied herself for another cock in her mouth; she wasn't disappointed. Lander, though, made it difficult for her. He was trying to be considerate, she knew that, pulling back when she tried to deep throat him. He probably thought it would be 'uncomfortable' for her, but dammit, in her experience it was the one thing that was guaranteed to get a guy to shoot their load quickly! Lander's misdirected kindness made it go on and on… She blanked her mind and kept going. Her jaw was aching by the time he came, and she swallowed hastily, suppressing a grimace: that was another benefit of having the guy in her throat, she didn't have to taste the stuff.
       Lander stroked her hair while he got his breath back, and she reacted involuntarily to his touch, purring and rubbing her face against his hand.
      "D'you want to come, honey?" Lander sounded like he was offering sweets to a child. No she fucking did not want to come. Not here, not now, not ever against her will. He knelt in front of her.
       "You've been very good." Lander's hand stroked down her body to between her thighs, and he leant in and kissed her neck softly.
       "I think you deserve it." he whispered.
      She wanted to cry: he thought he was doing her a favour.

She didn't know why, couldn't understand it, but every time a man touched her - no matter how repulsive she found him - she became aroused. Well, her body did, her mind was kept out of it, and while she could climax easily and frequently, there was no release for her in the empty experiences. She couldn't do anything for herself either, when she was alone in her cage, her claws made sure of that.
      Lander suckled on her neck as he gently manipulated her clitoris, and she writhed helplessly against him, yowling with every evidence of intense pleasure as she came, while in her head she was screaming - no, no no!
      She collapsed onto the tiled floor, huddling in on herself, shuddering.
      "Good girl." Lander indulgently patted her on the head.
      "My turn." Jackson hauled himself off the couch.
      She felt herself being roughly pushed into position - face down, arse up - at least she wouldn't have to look at him while he fucked her.

She had no idea what time it was, no idea how far into her punishment she was, and she was tired, so tired. Even before the trackers had brought her back she'd barely slept in two days, too hyped up with adrenaline as she tried to avoid capture. She really hoped they'd give her something decent to eat soon; she was hungry and thirsty to the point of faintness and several mouthfuls of semen wasn't going to keep her going.
       Eventually Lander gave her some water, holding the cup to her lips as she gulped the liquid down. He'd made her a sandwich too, ham and tomato, she almost choked on it in her eagerness to eat.
       "Steady on, honey." Lander chuckled, tousling her hair, being careful not to touch the large, pointed ears on the top of her head.
      The doorbell rang.
      "Enzo's here." She heard Jackson say.
      "Good. You got the stuff?" Lander asked him, "she's about to drop."
      "I've got it." Enzo chuckled.
      She felt the needle prick in her upper arm. Now what?
      "This'll help you stay awake, honey." Lander murmured, gently rubbing the injection site.

It did more than that: if she hadn't been chained down she'd have been bouncing off the walls. This 'Jazz' - she remembered them talking about it - filled her with energy, and a scary, manic enthusiasm. She prowled restlessly around at the length of the chain, not looking at the males who had stood back to see the effects.
       "How long's this going to last?" Lander asked Enzo. The overweight, swarthy man shrugged.
       "Up to ten hours, though that drops with every injection if the doses are close together."
       "Thanks, mate, I owe you." Lander grinned. "Go ahead, she's all yours."

She was almost glad to have something to use this nervous energy on, and she sucked and fucked the fat man until he could barely stand, and when he was done she took Lander again. She didn't know if it was the drug or the tiredness or the combination of the two, but her time sense became completely skewed - minutes, seconds and hours becoming randomly interchangeable. It was disorienting and relentless, and all she could do was endure. As the drug made its way through her system, she vagued out, losing track of who was doing what to her - it was kind of comfortable that way. Of course it couldn't last.

Enzo had gone, 'back to the missus' he'd said, but before he left he'd surreptitiously passed something to Jackson that had made the younger man's eyes gleam.
      Lander yawned.
       "I've got to get some shut-eye. Can you stay up with her for a few more hours, Jackson? Give her some more Jazz."
       "I'll be fine." Jackson grinned.
       "'No permanent damage', remember," Lander warned him. "You break her and Mr Johnson'll make you her replacement." He laughed and patted Jackson's bum. "I can just see you as a pony-boy…"
       "Get your fucking hands off me!" Jackson angrily smacked Lander's hand away, "you a fucking queer or something?"
      Lander sobered. "No permanent damage. OK?"
      Jackson rolled his eyes. "Fine. Sure. Whatever."
      The tall tracker stroked her hair.
       "You be good, honey."
      And then he was gone and she was alone with a sadist.

She knelt on the floor, head bowed, and waited.
      And waited.
      And waited.
      The dreadful anticipation got too much for her and she lifted her head a little, to find Jackson grinning smugly at her.
       "I wondered how long you could last."
      He strolled towards her, hands in his jeans pockets, looking pleased with himself.
       "I've got something special for you."
      With a small flourish, Jackson opened his palm under her nose. He was holding a small, glass vial filled with a clear blue liquid. She stared at it, mesmerised - it was such a pretty blue…
       "This is called 'Twister'," Jackson said conversationally as he drew some of the vibrant liquid up into a syringe, "it screws your pleasure/pain responses. I saw a guy kicked half to death while he was full of this stuff," Jackson smiled but his grey eyes were cold and flat, "he came every time a bone broke. Fascinating."

She clumsily tried to scramble away from Jackson as he approached her, syringe in hand. It was hopeless, she knew that, but she couldn't help herself - the young tracker terrified her and she had to get away from him.
      Jackson laughed, genuinely amused.
       "Just where do you think you're going?"
       He stepped towards her and she scuttled as far away from him as the chain would permit. Jackson frowned.
       "Fucking stay still!" He grabbed the chain and pulled, brutally jerking her off-balance so she fell, sprawling face down on the hard floor. Before she could move again, Jackson was sitting astride her back, and she slumped, defeated. He wrenched one of her arms up behind her shoulder blade, kneeling on her wrist and pinning her arm still while he injected the drug into her biceps; then he got up and stood to one side, watching her.
       She waited, hazily fearful for the drug to take effect. What would it do to her? Was it working? She didn't feel anything other than haggard. She closed her eyes - to sleep would be such bliss…
       "No catnaps yet, pussy."
      Jackson hauled her upright and she stood swaying in front of him, too scared to look him in the face. Because of that she didn’t see the blow coming, and the next thing she knew she was on her arse, her head spinning, looking up at him with no idea how she came to be there on the floor. She lifted a leather mittened hand to her cheek, it… stung, sort of.
      Jackson smirked down at her.
       "That didn't hurt, now did it?"
      He reached down and grabbed a nipple, pinching it hard. He had to be pinching hard, she realised, she could feel the amount of pressure he was applying, but there was no discomfort. She almost gasped with relief: maybe it wasn't working, maybe it was only going to deaden the pain…
       And then suddenly a warmth blossomed in her groin and before she could stop herself she'd spread her thighs wide and was thrusting her cunt towards her captor. Jackson met her horrified stare, and he smirked, eyes gleaming as he sharply twisted her nipple. She writhed against his hand, gasping and mewling, helplessly in thrall to her arousal.
       "Excellent." Jackson took his hand away; he sounded pleased. She panted, watching as he sauntered away from her, only thinking to pull her thighs shut once he was out of view. She was appalled, that had felt so good, better than anything had for a long time. She put her head in her hands and sobbed.
       Jackson returned momentarily, whistling happily and tunelessly to himself, carrying what looked like a small suitcase. He grinned at her, and she quivered, yearning for more of the pleasure, fighting the urge to go to him. He placed the case on the floor, unzipped it, and pulled out a soft leather blindfold.
       "Don't you go to sleep now!" Jackson said playfully as he tightened it around her head. He forced a gag into her mouth, the material dragging against the roughness of her tongue, then he was behind her, pulling her arms behind her back. She felt and heard the cold metal snap shut around her wrists. Jackson was almost gentle as he pushed her backwards down on to the floor, his touch almost a caress when he forced her legs apart…

None of it hurt of course, not to start off with, but as the drug began to wear off, the perverse, searing pleasure gave way to discomfort, then twinging spasms of pain as her brain was finally allowed to register what had been happening to her. She ached, fiercely, between her legs and inside, arse and cunt and breasts a conglomeration of burning, throbbing agony…

"Jackson, you fucking idiot!" she jumped at Lander's shout. "What have you done?"
       "There's no 'permanent damage'." Jackson sounded smugly replete.
       "Get that out of her and clean this fucking mess up," Lander snapped.
      She whimpered as something was pulled roughly from her body, instinctively rolling onto her side, curling protectively in on herself. She was only dimly aware of the activity going on around her; she was still blindfolded and it was easy to slip into the dark, retreat in to her body's pain.
       "Oh no you don't." Jackson was terse as he ripped the blindfold off, pulling a chunk of her hair with it. She blinked, her eyes adjusting slowly to the too bright light. She was still on her side, still gagged, still bound, and now that she could see, the smells she'd avoided thinking about made themselves known - blood, faeces, urine, all her own.
      Lander was standing there in a pair of loose, comfortable-looking drawstring trousers, his arms folded across his bare chest, scowling down at Jackson who was grumbling as he mopped the floor. The tall tracker was barefoot and his pale hair was sleep tousled.
      "Now undo the cuffs and get that gag out of her mouth." Lander snarled as he stalked away.
       "Spoil sport." Jackson growled under his breath, whipping the gag out of her mouth. He roughly pulled her to a sitting position and she winced as her stinging genitals made contact with the cold floor. Jackson knelt behind her and undid the cuffs. Suddenly he grabbed her chin, forcing her head around so she was looking at him over her shoulder.
       "We'll play again soon." She shivered when he smirked and licked along her lips, squeezing her chin hard before letting her go.
       Lander returned, irritably plunking something down on the table, then spreading a towel out over the laminated surface.
       "Stand up and sit on the table." He ordered her brusquely.
      She tried to stand, but it hurt to move and she was shaking so much she had no balance. Lander pursed his lips as he helped her off the floor, then lifted her easily to sit on the edge of the table.
       "Lie down."
      She lay back gingerly, suppressing a yelp when Lander manoeuvered her legs so he had a clear view of her groin.
       "It's not as bad as it looks." Jackson said cheerfully.
       "Shut up." Lander growled. "Get her something to eat and drink." She heard a 'snap' and jumped.
       "I'm just putting some rubber gloves on, honey," Lander's voice was soft again, then he muttered. "I'm going to see what that idiot's done to you."
      The tracker gently bathed her, the luke-warm water stinging her raw skin as he washed the blood and muck away. It hurt when he slipped his fingers into her, she cried out and tried to twist away from him.
       "Stop that!"
      She froze, sobbing, and forced herself to stay still, eyes tightly shut while Lander probed, his touch provoking the mechanical arousal in her despite her pain and exhaustion. The light shining on to her eyelids from the room's single overhead bulb, unexpectedly dimmed. She cracked open her eyes: Jackson's face loomed over her; he was eating something.
       "So? What's the damage?" he smirked, crumbs falling from his mouth to patter over her face.
      "Nothing major, no thanks to you." Lander was surly. "A couple of small tears, some abrasions, but - " he glared at Jackson, "Her urethra? You moron, if she gets an infection…"
       "Then we deny all knowledge. Simple. She must've picked it up while she was out." He leered down at her. "Who knows what the little slut got up to. Besides - " he grinned at the taller man, "it's not like she can tell anyone what's been happening."
       "You just don't give a shit, do you, Jackson? Not only is Mr Johnson going to skin us if she gets hurt, but now we can't fuck her anymore." Lander said sourly. "Go to bed. I'm sure you're knackered after all the effort."
      Jackson grinned again and sloped off: she closed her eyes again.

Lander was silent for the few minutes it took him to smear something cold and numbing over and in her.
      "Sit up, honey."
      She did, and he helped her off the table. Lander put the towel on the floor for her, she collapsed onto it as her legs gave out.
       "Eat now." Lander gave her a plate with a couple of sandwiches on it, unimpressed but patient when he had to hold the glass for her to drink from because she was shaking so much.
      She'd devoured her sandwiches long before he came back from the kitchen with his mug of tea. Lander sat at the table, watching her as he drank. Her head drooped - she was so tired, cryingly desperate for sleep. She did cry when she felt the pinprick in her arm and that weird, jangly energy began coursing through her…

She existed, dwelling in a mental twilight despite the hyper-awareness that was the legacy of sleep deprivation and drugs. Things happened to her, sensations and emotions advanced through her, but none of it made any sense, it was just random noise.
       The trackers fed her, took her to the toilet, did the bare minimum necessary to keep her alive. They made frequent use of her mouth because they couldn't use her body - though Jackson did fuck her when Lander wasn't there to stop him, and she experienced the pain from that as splatters and sprays of colour… so pretty. But most of the time she was left alone to prowl heedlessly at the end of her chain, or sit on the floor, rocking backwards and forwards, unthinkingly doing what she could to sate her body's chemical induced need for activity.

"Come on, honey, time to go home."
      She blinked, gazing vacantly and uncomprehendingly at the blonde man squatting in front of her. Landers… The name swam up from the depths somewhere.
       To the side, someone chuckled and their voice forced an involuntary whimper from her mouth.
       "Man, she is so out of it!"
       "Poor bitch." Landers said softly. "Maybe now you won't try and run away again, eh?" He gently stroked her hair and she rubbed against his hand, purring, her eyes closing in seeming ecstasy.
       "Oh, I don't know," the other, feared voice drawled. "It's been fun."

They took her home, back to her owner, almost carrying her between them. Somewhere deep inside of her a tiny voice was chanting 'it's over - it's over - it's over' - she smiled sadly, she didn't have the heart to tell it that just because 'it's over' doesn't mean things were going to get any better…

"Oh. She's back." The petite, smartly dressed Asian woman pursed her lips and frowned at the limp female hanging between the trackers. "What's the matter with her?"
       "She's just tired, miss." Jackson smirked. "She hasn't slept for a few days."
       "Oh great." The woman sighed heavily. "Fine. I'll need your help with her then."
       She stirred when she was held under the shower, the warm water reviving her enough to take in her surroundings. She was in Mr Johnson's ensuite, being perfunctorily washed by Makka, her owner's personal assistant. Makka looked even sourer than usual.
       "You couldn't have washed her while she was with you?" the woman scowled.
       "Wasn't in our brief, miss." Lander's voice came from behind her, and she realised he was the one holding her under the spray.
       "Would've saved me the bloody effort," Makka grumbled, shutting off the water. "Get her dried and into the cage."

"Wake up!"
      Something hard prodded her in the ribs, goading her out of sleep. She blinked, disoriented; she had no idea how long she'd been asleep.
       "Get up, you lazy bitch!"
      The prodding turned into a sharp kick and she struggled to stand, using the cage bars to haul herself upright.
       "Your presence is requested." Makka was acid as she turned smartly on her heel, stalking out of the small space to stand impatiently by the open door.
       "Hurry up, Mr Johnson's waiting!" Makka snapped.

She trailed along behind Mr Johnson's personal assistant: why was Makka always so hostile? A flash of inspiration almost stopped her in her tracks and she had to hurry to keep pace with the woman.
       Makka was jealous.
       Of her?
      She was bewildered: what was there to be jealous of? Did Makka honestly want to be treated - used - the way she was? And then another small jolt of understanding: Makka was jealous of her the way somone with a low opinion of themselves is jealous of anyone they see as being beautiful, desirable…
       Her musing was cut short as Makka opened the door to the 'reception room', her expression instantly changing from pissed off to deferential.
       "Mr Johnson?"
       "Bring her in."

She knelt on the richly carpeted floor beside her owner, eyes meekly downcast but surreptitiously peeking at Mr Johnson's guests. She was particularly interested in the pet kneeling beside the distinguished looking man comfortably ensconced in a wide, leather armchair. Sometimes the owners liked to watch the pets fuck each other.
      She was a white rabbit, a bunny, very pretty, so cute and sweet. Her body was curvy - small waist, large breasts, wide hips - and she was covered in a longish, soft-looking pelt of shimmering white. Her hair was white, thick and straight and styled into a bob-cut that curled delicately around her lovely, round face. Her nose was an upturned soft pink triangle and it twitched, charmingly, as did the long pink-tinged white ears on top of her head.
       Mr Johnson's guest finished his drink, putting the heavy glass down on table beside his chair with a gentle clink. Makka, who hadn't left the room, politely enquired if he would care for another. The man just as politely declined, and then Mr Johnson summarily dismissed his personal assistant.
      Her owner patted her, stroking her hair and she crept closer to him, rubbing herself sinuously against his leg, oddly glad of his touch, almost welcoming her body's reaction. Had she been forgiven? Mr Johnson wasn't so bad, she realised, he didn't deliberately hurt her at least. She resolved there and then to be good, to do as she was told, not run away again - the alternative didn't bear thinking about, not anymore.
      "Go to him." Mr Johnson ordered her in a low-pitched rumble. She stood up obediently, padding over to the other man without a second thought - it wasn't unusual for the owners to loan their pets to each other. As she sank gracefully to her knees in front of him, he ordered his pet to go to Mr Johnson and she got a glimpse of an adorable little fluffy white tail as the girl went past. The stranger stroked her cheek and she purred, rubbing against his hand. He smirked and undid his belt and fly…

She lay quietly curled up at his feet, trying not to move too much. Mr Johnson's friend hadn't been rough with her, exactly, but given she was still recovering from Jackson's treatment, the sex had hurt. She glanced over at her owner, disturbed to see the bunny-girl sitting in his lap, snuggling into him contentedly, one of her soft, four-toed paws idly stroking down his bare chest. Mr Johnson was fondling her breasts, looking down at her, a soft statement on his face. She felt a twinge of anxiety - she'd never snuggled like that with Mr Johnson, was that what he wanted? The bunny-girl looked happy too…
      The bunny-girl looked up and the pets' eyes met briefly. She went cold at the bleak despair she saw there in the girl's pink-eyed gaze: the bunny-girl was no happier than she was, she didn't like what was happening to her either and was just as powerless to stop it.
      Mr Johnson's guest stood up, tucking his shirt back in.
      "Satisfied, Owen?" Mr Johnson said.
      "Very, thanks, Frank."
      "We're agreed then?"
      "Absolutely," Owen grinned, then looked at his watch. "I've got to go, see you at the meeting Friday?"
      "Of course. Just remember what I've told you."
      Owen smiled grimly. "Won't be a problem, she'll learn her place quickly enough." He looked down at her. "Come on, we're going."
      She stiffened, not sure she'd heard right.
       "I said, come on." She yowled when Owen grabbed a handful of her hair and hauled her up off the floor, he was very strong. She looked wildly at Mr Johnson.
       "I've had enough of your nonsense," the big man said sternly. "Be warned that Mr Brown won't stand for any of it."
       "We'll get on just fine," Mr Brown patted her cheek condescendingly, "and if we don't, then I pass her on to someone else. No problem." He slapped her, hard enough to make her reel, then he turned to leave, calling over his shoulder to Mr Johnson: "See you Friday!"
       With no option but to obey, she stumbled after him. She shot a last, confused glance over her shoulder at Mr Johnson and his new pet: the shadowed look of pity on the bunny-girl's face wasn't encouraging.

She had no idea where they were going, no idea even if it was day or night. She'd been pushed into Mr Brown's car - it had been parked inside or underground - without preamble, and no chance to look around. The cars windows were blacked out as well so the journey was a mystery. She huddled apprehensively against the door, her face pressed to the cool, dark glass of the window. She was frightened and unsure… and angry. Her owner had given her away! Exchanged his troublesome pet for a soft, compliant one. She wanted to howl - how could he do that! She wasn't an animal, she wasn't an unfeeling piece of meat - no matter that she didn't look so human any more, she was human and she had rights!
       "I don't like the look on your face, pussy." Mr Brown growled, reaching over slap her again. She glowered at him, and he pursed his lips.
       "So that's the way it's going to be, is it?" His voice was soft and dangerous, and before she had a chance to react he'd grabbed her by the hair and slammed her face against the car window, once, twice. By the third time there was a ringing in her ears and her vision had blurred, she felt the warm drip of something, probably blood, trickling down from her nose, forcing her to breath through her mouth. Mr Brown dragged her face close to his own.
       "Fight, if you like," he smirked, "I don't mind."
       She wasn't stupid. She didn't fight when he shoved her down onto her back along the plush leather seat, lying as still as her involuntary responsive body would allow when Mr Brown fucked her maliciously hard. She blanked her mind and just let it happen, it was easier that way.

When he was done, and sitting back relaxing with a cigarette, she slowly dragged herself upright and away from him. He watched her, an amused look on his face, secure in the knowledge of his power over her. She ignored him, huddling again against the far door. They continued on in silence.

It seemed to be a long trip. She glanced furtively at her new owner – a soft snore alerted her to the fact he'd fallen asleep. Her heart raced with the feral thought of hitting him, disabling him, and escaping. She peeked around at the interior of the car. It was an old, prestigious model, there was a smoked glass screen separating the driver from the passengers and – she swallowed against a suddenly dry throat – the little tab set discreetly near the edge of the door was telling her the door was unlocked.
       She didn't think of the consequences, she just acted.
       In the space of only a couple of seconds she'd located the door handle, yanked it hard and shoved the car door open, propelling herself out of the vehicle and into a confusion of light streaked darkness and rain.
       She hit the ground, rolling and bouncing along the rough, wet surface, too stunned to make a sound. She rolled smack into a hard surface – a wall, brick, covered in graffiti, she realised dazedly – and lay there for a second, panting, looking up into a night sky made luminous by the lights reflecting off the cloud cover. But only for a second. She heard the squeal of brakes, and shouting, car doors slamming. The instinctive, animal part of her brain took over, she scrambled up off the ground, ignoring the pain signals from various parts of her body, and she ran...

It was daylight, just, and it had stopped raining though it was still overcast. She was exhausted. She'd run, and run, for hours it seemed, instinctively keeping to the darkened alleys, avoiding the few people about. It was a run-down area she'd ended up in, though she didn't have a clue where she was. But she was so tired now, too tired to run anymore. The pain and anxiety of recent events, on top of the past few days privations had worn her down. She crawled further down the alley she'd stumbled into, clumsily burrowing under a pile of rotting cardboard boxes. She had to sleep. She couldn't go on.

She jerked awake, the primal, animal awareness still operating through the exhaustion. Still daylight.
      There was somebody else in the alley.
      She froze, holding her breath, straining her ears for any sound.
      One person, deliberately treading towards her. She cowered under the boxes. The footfalls came closer, and closer, finally stopping so close to her she could hear the person breathing. The soggy box directly above her suddenly disappeared and a face peered down at her.
      Jackson.
      The tracker smirked.

"Gotchya!"

© 2002 September 14^th Lutra

Next: - Retribution.
It's very important to read this chapter, or subsequent ones won't make sense…

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© 2002 WordWrights

Darkside