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“Rut, dog.”
Violent pleasure explodes behind Hound’s eyes at the words. It’s not Her voice, but it’s still a Handler, and Handler's voice is made of bliss.
Some kind of bliss, anyway.
Almost as brutal as the bliss that scratches between Hound’s thighs when it obediently grinds against the proffered boot, drooling messily through the bars of its muzzle. Almost. But nothing feels as good as the merest hint of Handler's approval. Not even winning. The only reason to win, after all, is so Handler might not throw it away just yet.
Handler's gaze slowly bores into Hound's skin, and its heart races with waves of barely contained panic. Fear twists its gut and brings guttural sounds to its throat. The fear never makes it stop rutting, but it does make the rutting feel like dangling over the edge of a cliff.
Hound will never be a good dog, only ever good enough for now. Good enough to rut, if it’s lucky, sometimes even good enough to cum. But then Handler will leave it out in the cold so it remembers to do better if it doesn’t want to go to The Room again.
The Room is very, very bad. Hound does not want to go to The Room.
Thinking about that place makes Hound’s throat tighten. Makes its vision blur behind red splotches that dance before its eyes. Bad dog. Even combat stims don’t make Hound's heart race this fast, or make all of its skin tingle and be so alive. Every touch feels so intense it almost hurts.
But Handler said rut.
Hound puts its hands on the floor, hunched over and grunting with a panic that swells as its pleasure mounts. Bad, bad, bad dog. Pleasure is for good dogs.
A loud whine echoes in the kennel. The scent of leather and the crushing weight of fear combine to leave Hound choking at the precipice of disaster. Bad dog. Bad dog.
“Good dog. Take your treat.”
Pleasure makes Hound's vision go white. Handler said good dog, and good dogs get treats.
Bad dog. Bad dog.
The shuddering orgasm comes without regard for Hound’s fear, making it whine and growl through the peak.
The moment its limbs stop shaking, it peels itself from Handler’s leg and scrambles away, panting in frantic horror as it cowers and crumples into itself protectively. Its pants are soiled with its mess.
Bad dog.
Handler's gloved hand touches its head, sending a fresh wave of terror crashing through its veins. The touch hurts even though it’s gentle, and Hound lets out a muted whimper. It’s too gentle. More gentle than Hound’s Creator ever touches it, and that just makes Hound more scared.
Bad dog. Bad dog.
Handler crouches down, and Hound is consumed by the hellfire in Her eyes, trembling violently under the weight of Her blaze.
Bad dog. Bad dog.
“Good dog.”
Hound blinks and makes a small, pained cry.
Bad. Bad dog.
Its heart is beating too fast again. Fear, sparked by confusion, clutches at its throat. Hound is a bad dog, but this Handler, who isn’t Handler, is touching the dog. Handler is petting the dog.
Handler stands up and peers down at the cowering hound. Hound looks back, shaking and shrinking into itself, its eyes wide and uncertain. God tilts Her head for a moment, and then turns and strides from the room.
Hound whimpers. It crawls to the corner of its kennel and curls up on the sheet there.
Warm bed.
Good dog?
Handler Amari refuses to let the frown cross her face. She has spent too many years cutting the pesky habit of instinctive expression from her features to allow this disruption to shake her now. Keeping her face composed makes Amari sharp, and sharp is the only way for a blade like her to be.
She reaches for the pocketknife at her hip, the small, handcrafted blade that she never lets far from her side. She flicks it open and holds it up to the light, watching the glint that reflects on its perfectly honed edge. As always, she has the instinct to put it on her tongue, but it will not do to have her mouth bleed, so she strokes the flat of the blade with her fingertips instead.
The hound she managed in the sortie today performed… adequately. It picks at Amari’s skin that she is still perturbed by the experience, even after the dog was returned to its kennel.and all her paperwork has been filed. She presses the knife to the pad of her thumb, intently watching the bead of blood that appears on her skin. There is a simple gratification to a knife sharp enough to split tissue, skin and paper alike.
The dog cut like a dull knife on its excursion today. It cut, and killed, but so utterly inelegantly. Messily.
Amari presses her bleeding thumb against the curled knuckle of her index finger and fixes her gaze on the crimson swell that blooms under the pressure.
The way the dog looked at her during its reinforcement session keeps piercing at the edges of her mind. Something in that hound's eyes unsettles her even now, hours after she walked away. The fact that the feeling still lingers makes Amari feel like a poorly wielded knife, and there is nothing more distasteful to her than that.
Steeling herself against the agitation, Amari forces her body to move with rigid precision. She plucks a handkerchief from her breast pocket and wipes the blood from her finger. With a slight intake of breath, she indulges herself to taste the lingering smear of red on her thumb. It is hardly enough to sate that particular appetite, but appetites are for dogs anyway.
Amari folds the knife cleanly and centers it precisely on the desk in front of her. She places her hands on either side of the weapon and narrows her gaze to the object of her greatest affection. The knife she conjures in her mind cuts through layers of viscera, slicing away extraneous material of emotion and thought. There is a core. There is always a core. Something sharp and elegant and sleek.
Orgasm has a way of revealing a hound’s truest nature, and something incomplete showed in that dog’s psyche after it rutted. The dog cannot be said to be a dull knife – no hound is a dull knife, even the ones crafted by her colleague are all impeccable weapons. She has seen her colleague's dogs before, managed them from time to time, but this one is different. This one does not cut perfectly.
Amari unfolds her own knife, moving it slightly to the left to balance its length within the center of her vision again. Her eyes trace the deadly edge of the blade, savoring the knowledge of its honed perfection. The weapon on her desk, just like her own Hounds, is perfect. Her Hounds are crafted to the utmost precision. Magnificently sharp. And the knife is a testament to the elegance of her creations, its blade brought to perfection by their hands. Sharpening it is her Hounds’ greatest pleasure, Amari has made sure of that.
Handler Amari closes her eyes again and pictures the air slicing through her lungs on the way down, clearing out the excess. There is something left inside that dog’s psyche. Something that was not formed by a Handler’s touch, something suppressed rather than excised. A dull spot on the blade.
She opens her eyes again and picks up the knife to press the blade against her tongue. An indulgence, to be sure, but it makes this victory taste more sweet.
The dog’s leash is made of fear, but the cowering hound can love.
Everything inside Hound’s body feels itchy. It wants to scratch inside its own throat and down its esophagus.
Everything hurts a little bit.
Bad dog.
The thought batters against the insides of its skull with bothersome force. A constant, unnerving buzz that keeps it quiet and always, always ready.
Bad dog. Bad dog.
Boots in the hallway. Handler is coming.
Sit, dog.
The hallway light is harsher than the dim glow in its kennel, and Hound winces at the sudden brightness. It makes Handler look like God Herself stepped down from the heavens.
And God is angry. God is always angry. It takes everything in the dog not to whine. Whining gets Hound hit.
Bad dog.
“Hound, heel.”
God is angry. God is so angry.
Hound scrambles to its feet, limbs shaky and awkward as it lopes to Handler’s side. Its eyes wander in frantic disarray, looking anywhere but the face of God Herself. It’s the other God, the one who had pet it and said “good dog”, but Hound knows God is always angry.
Handler turns and exits the room, leaving Hound to trip over itself as it tries to follow.
Bright, bright lights. Gleaming, angry floor. Everywhere Hound looks is the wrathful face of God.
They’re going to The Room again, Hound is certain of it. The labyrinth of hallways makes no sense, but every turn bends eternally towards The Room because The Room is where Hound learns about not being the worst dog.
The worst dog will go outside forever, and Hound doesn’t want to be cold.
Bad dog. Bad dog goes to The Room.
Except, when Handler finally stops in front of a door and opens it, it’s not The Room at all. It’s so, so much worse.
God strides through the doorway and enters Her inner sanctum.
Handler Amari does not look back as she crosses the room and lowers herself into a sleek, leather armchair. She can practically feel the dog trembling in the doorway, hear the breathless, subsonic terror that bleeds from its throat. She hears it shuffle forward, torn between the command to heel and the terror of entering where it knows it is not allowed to go.
Once she is sitting, she watches curiously to see what it will do.
Hound looks like it might pass out, sweat glistening on its brow and trickling down its neck. It touches its muzzle anxiously, presses the leather pads against its face, and then paws clumsily at the neckline of its shirt.
Amari is fascinated by the creature in front of her, the uniquely shattered form of its mind a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors. She slips the pocketknife from her belt and places it on the table next to her, gesturing the dog towards her feet.
“Come. Sit.”
The dog looks relieved for a moment, and then terrified again as it trots the distance between them to sit obediently. Hound will not look at her directly, and that seems like a very curious effect. Most hounds cannot bear to look away.
Amari lifts a sleek metal case from the table at her side and balances it in her lap, snapping the lid open gently without taking her eyes off the dog. The sound makes Hound flinch.
She lifts the syringe from its protective padding, curls her fingers in the loops, places her thumb on the plunger. The liquid in the barrel swirls and shimmers like a rich, sickly green sea. Amari depresses the plunger slightly, clearing any trapped air and producing a pearl of the liquid at the needle's tip.
Hound whines like it has been hit. It shrinks back in terror, folds in on itself with shaking hands and sweat beading on its upper lip.
Curious. Dogs usually like their medicine.
Amari makes a sound, and Hound lets out a loud, pitiful sound, but tilts its head to the side anyway.
“Good dog.”
Hound’s entire body quivers as the plunger goes down.
Bile burns in Hound’s throat.
Sick, bad dog.
God is angry again. The Room is different, but it’s still The Room, because God is in it, and God is angry.
Red bleeds in from the edges. A raging blaze.
God touches Hound, flesh on skin.
Bad dog.
“Bad dog.”
No. Wait.
Hound looks. Seething rage. Fire around Her.
“Good dog.”
Bile in its mouth now.
Don’t you vomit on my boots, you sick mutt.
Don’t vomit. Don’t vomit.
Swallow. Not the worst dog.
Hound shivers. Teeth on tongue. Bite. Bleed.
God’s hand. Ruffled hair.
“Good dog.”
Bad dog.
Knife? Pretty knife.
Maybe Hound is the worst dog. Maybe God wants Hound to be cold forever.
Cold stone. Smooth.
Water.
Focus. Hold it. Two hands.
“Like this. Good dog.”
Shaking hands. Skitch, skitch, skitch. Metal and stone.
“No. Up more.”
“Slower. Yes. Good dog.”
Don’t you fucking vomit on my boots. Worthless hound.
Swallow.
God must be angry? Fire still.
Warm though. Good dog.
Hands up.
Bad dog.
“Good Hound. Open.”
Muzzle’s gone.
God’s hand. God’s thumb. God’s blood?
Hound shivers. Cries.
“Good dog.”
The dog looks ill, but rapturously pleased, at the smear of Amari's blood on its tongue. She pulls her finger from Hound's mouth, and a thin dribble of fluid streams over its bottom lip, swirling with crimson. Amari smiles warmly when the dog opens its eyes, careful not to show any teeth.
“Good dog.”
She moves her body with fluid precision, plucking the handkerchief from her pocket and diligently tidying her thumb from the blood and drool. The warmth of it lingers on her skin even after she deposits the soiled fabric in the bin at her side.
Amari counts meticulously, paring down the seconds in her mind as she retrieves a fresh cloth from the side table’s drawer. She pauses for a moment to pet the dog before folding the clean handkerchief and tucking it into her breast pocket. It is important that the hound not go more than sixty seconds without reinforcement. There is much work to be done.
A slight tap on the hip is all it takes to prompt Hound’s body to move, allowing its pants to be pulled down to its knees. It whimpers at the unfamiliar feeling, but does not resist, and Amari gestures again for the dog to sit again.
“Paw.”
Hound looks ill and swallows as it complies. It still looks pitiful, but slightly less terrified than before, and Amari is pleased with the progress. It takes time to clear the excess material from a blade. She places her knife in its hand, curling its fingers around the handle when it trembles too much to that itself.
Fifty-seven seconds.
She uses her other hand to scratch behind the dog's ear, still holding Hound gently by the wrist.
“Good dog.”
There is terror in Hound's eyes, but awe too, and Amari can feel her heartrate spike when she sees those blown pupils staring up at her like she's a god. If she had not excised the impulse from her animal flesh, her mouth would curl itself into a cruel grin. Instead, she shapes her face into an expression of pride, offering the dog a mask of warmth and hiding the razor’s edge of her teeth.
“Good dog.”
The ragged curls of Hound's dark hair are like velvet in Amari’s fingers as she guides its head, directing its gaze to the knife under their hands. It is dangerously indulgent to enjoy this work, but the pleasure of carving a hound’s world rushes through her veins. It takes every effort to keep her breath steady when she sees her blade against the dog’s bare thigh.
Hound sounds panicked, but does not pull away when Amari angles the knife, using her own hand to guide the dog’s where it needs to be. The air feels warmer than usual, a fiery pleasure as Amari ratchets up the pressure, just enough to make Hound’s skin dimple underneath the blade.
Handler Amari takes a breath, and then presses down.
Hound makes a sound, quiet and wounded, but it follows the guiding nudge of its god to dig the knife into its own flesh. Amari's breathing hitches when the dog digs deeper with the blade, slicing cleanly through its skin to produce a thin streak of brilliant red. Tiny, scarlet beads well up along the carved path.
“This is a Handler’s love, Hound.”
The animal makes a noise, low and garbled in its throat. Gratification wells in Amari’s chest as her dog struggles through its drug-addled, terror-drenched psyche to repeat her conditioning. The knife’s edge of the hound’s broken mind is a little sharper now.
She reaches down to help Hound cut deeper, the ghost of indulgent pleasure twitching momentarily at the corners of her mouth. It is a violent satisfaction to watch the hound’s skin split beneath her blade.
“Good Hound.”
The dog gaze is steadier now, capable of beholding her, and its eyes do not quite blow with terror every time it sees Amari’s face. She lifts her knife from Hound’s grip, its fingers going slack in an instant.
“Good dog.”
Desire surges in her to taste the crimson smears left on the blade, but she cuts the hunger harshly before it can bloom. There has been enough indulgence tonight already. One of her own Hounds will clean the knife, make sure it is perfectly honed and correct any imperfections left by the bleeding thing taking shape in front of her.
She reaches to pet Hound’s hair again, forcing her thoughts away from its blood on her blade.
Its pupils are starting to shrink already, it will be time to take it back to its kennel soon. The honing is almost done.
Hound whines as Amari lifts the front of its shirt, revealing the quivering flesh of its stomach and the swell of its naked chest. But the whine is breathless now, more habit than fear, and Amari feels a cold pleasure in watching the excess material be filed away from Hound’s mind.
She presses her fingers against the wound on Hound’s thigh. It makes a pained sound, its eyes growing wider again, but she pays no mind to the distress and raises her blood-soaked fingers to the dog’s chest.
Hound’s tongue lolls from its mouth.
“Good dog.”
Amari presses her fingers against its skin, leaving a crimson smear over the dog's heart.
“God’s love.”
Hound lets out a string of bleating, gurgled moans.
It is difficult to cut through the garbled noise to extract the meaning strung together within the keening sound. The dog is trying to repeat its conditioning again, and Amari is certain tonight’s lessons are starting to sink in.
Hound doesn’t know how many excursions it’s fought since its new God set it free, but it is still breathless with excitement every time it returns to Heaven after a fight.
Blissfully, it dismounts its metal body and scrambles across the hangar floor. Handler is waiting, surrounded by the radiant red blaze that makes the dog’s heart leap wildly in its chest.
Good dog. Good dog.
Handler gestures, and Hound sits, staring with naked reverence and open awe into the face of God Herself.
“Good Hound.”
Pleasure explodes behind its eyes, and a rapturous grin bursts across its face. Its pupils blow wide with need, and hunger courses in its veins.
Hound pants, quiet but eager.
Handler takes out Her knife, and Hound moans with such a bright, plaintive hunger that a nearby pilot shoots it a look of disgust and shuffles away.
Hound cannot look anywhere but the knife.
Handler smiles, and the red glow around Her burns brighter. Her hands are so gentle when She lifts the muzzle from Hound's face.
Garbled, eager moans pour from its mouth as its body trembles with exhilarated need.
“Good dog. Take your treat.”
The knife slices a fresh cut across its cheek, and Hound wails as it looks up at the face of God.
Love. Love. Love.
Good dog.
God smiles, and Hound licks the blood from its own face. It is allowed to do that. It is allowed to taste God's love.
When the muzzle goes back, Hound can still lick its wound. Handler is so kind like that.
God is Good like that.
“Up, Hound. Heel.”
Hound's body is made of rapture as it scrambles to its feet. Love trickles down its cheek.
Good dog.