#box boy 583299

[buildingcages]

Just a little watercolor as I try to break out of my winter artist’s block. Here’s 583299, being decorative at a nice party inspired by one of @whumpfigure​‘s posts! I was aiming for a strange and dreamlike vibe, as though the viewer might be enclosed in their own glass box, watching the guests from inside.

[buildingcages]

For Whumptober no 2, In the Hands of the Enemy

ink on hot press

Takes place between box boy enrollment part 6 and box boy shipping

box boy 583299 masterpost

[buildingcages]

BBU Masterpost

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. 

Daisy- run

face the music- part 1

face the music- part 2

be good- fade away

burn it down

walk away- the first night

walk away art

wake up- leave your name behind

come into the sun

[buildingcages]

Box Boy 583299

Training Facility: Day 30

(Warnings: dehumanization, modern slavery, humans as pets, institutional(ish) setting, trans whumpee, mental conditioning, hobble, noncon nudity, implied noncon touch, internalized victim blaming)

Masterpost

"Position 5."

The drill was familiar, almost comforting.

"Position 15."

He held each one until the next was called. It had been a struggle to remember them all at first, and then to move gracefully from one to the next with the short chain stretching between his ankles. He was getting better, though. There was a little pride there. He wasn't sure that was allowed, really, but he reasoned that it was ok to be proud of being a good pet.

"Position 23."

Besides, it was nice not to fall, and even nicer not to be punished all the time. He'd learned Handler could be really nice when 583299 had been good.

"Position 12."

The tile's texture still repelled him, but he was getting better at not showing it. Especially lately, since Handler had started having him train without his clothes. Handler said it was important to see the lines of his body without clothing in the way. He'd been so embarrassed at first that he'd forgotten all the positions he'd learned so far.

"Position 4."

Now he was so used to it he hardly noticed until there was nothing between his skin and the tile. Or his skin and Handler's hands, or one of the other trainers sometimes.

He waited, arms out in a perfect line. Handler was sitting behind his desk, scrolling one handed through his tablet. Not paying attention? Or was this a test?

A test, he thought. Maybe because he'd been doing better with the positions. Maybe they would teach him something new. He liked learning new things, most of the time. The tile dug into his knees. He focused on his breathing, keeping it deep and even, trying to draw his thoughts away from the way his arms were feeling heavier and heavier.

It was impossible to judge time here, under the unchanging lights. The only clock he had now was his heartbeat and the throbbing through his shoulders and down his arms. He tightened the muscles in his thighs to keep himself from wavering. Handler wasn't looking, maybe he could shake his arms out? But no, he'd notice the motion. He tried counting his breaths to keep time, but numbers slid away from him when they got too high.

Staying still was taking more and more concentration. There wasn't room for his own thoughts, when everything in him was focused on being good. His arms burned. He resolved to get through this breath, then the next. Sometimes when he concentrated hard like this he thought he could feel something tugging at him. It was like a hunger that didn’t belong to him. He tried to ignore it. 

"Position 10."

It was like his mind snapped back together. When he dropped his arms they felt weightless and strange, and they didn't want to support his weight. He locked his elbows. 

Later, in his cell, he practiced. Again and again he went through the positions, holding each one until he was weak and shaking. In the corner, the little red eye of the camera watched.

[buildingcages]

Box Boy Wipe

(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.

[buildingcages]

Whumptober alternate prompt #1: Punctured

(tumblr as per usual has butchered the image quality, please click for full view)

graphite and gold leaf on hot press 

[buildingcages]

For whumptober day 3: my way or the highway

Training Facility: Day 5

(Warnings: dehumanization, slavery, humans as pets, institutional(ish) setting, trans whumpee, referenced noncon body modification, memory loss, mental conditioning, training, punishment, it as a pronoun, sadistic whumper)

Box Boy 583299 Masterpost

“Do you know what your purpose is, 583299?”

He snuck a glance up at the boots in front of his nose. They were bulky, with a defined toe box. Steel toes, his mind supplied, but he didn't know why he knew. One of the boots lifted, and his face was pressed back down into the grit of the tile.

"Are you listening to me trainee? I asked you a question."

"I don't know."

The pressure on the back of his head doubled. The texture of the linoleum made him want to flinch away, but he'd already learned better. The bandages were gone now, but his nose and cheekbones were still swollen and tender, a reminder that his face was a stranger.

"Is that how you address your betters trainee? Try again."

"I don't know, sir," his voice came out smeared.

"Better."

The pressure let up, but he kept his face pressed down. He didn't like the sound of Boots' (no, not Boots, Handler, he'd been clear about that) thin cane as he swished it into his palm, and he didn't like the threat of those steel toes.

"A pet's purpose is to please its owner. It has no value outside of their enjoyment of it. Do you know what you are, 583299?"

"Um. A pet, sir?"

He laughed, then swished the cane through the air to leave a stinging welt on his arm where it had started to relax. 583299 corrected his posture.

"Hear that Ros? This little stain thinks he's a pet."

"Thinks awfully highly of itself, doesn't it?"

The other voice spoke for the first time. He didn't like the way she called him "it" but he didn't say anything.

"How can you be a pet, you can't even hold Respect for a reasonable amount of time. You think you're good enough to please an owner? No, you're just a cockroach. Do you understand what that means?"

"No. Sir." The position was pulling his shoulders and back. The muscles twitched in protest and he willed them to stillness.

"So you're stupid as well as incapable. You can't please an owner, you little piece of shit, that means you have no value." He tapped the end of the thin cane against 583299's back where it screamed from the position. "Try again trainee, what are you?"

"A cockroach, sir?"

"Very good, that's right. And what does that mean about you, do you know?"

"It means I. I have no value, sir."

His voice was so small it was almost lost in the tile. Hot shame was rising in his chest.

"I can't hear you. Try again, what are you?"

He forced the words out past his tight throat, and they felt true. "I'm a worthless cockroach, sir."

“Good boy. The first step to learning to be better is understanding what you are. You want to be a pet, don’t you? To learn to please your owner and have some value?”

That hot feeling was still rising, making his eyes flood and his nose run. He sniffed, trying to keep it in check. He knew the answer Boots wanted, but he couldn't drown out the part of him that wanted to say "I want to leave."

The nurses had told him he would have a lot of bad thoughts, false thoughts. That he needed to trust the handlers because they would tell him which thoughts were right. He couldn't trust himself, that was why he was here. Still, he couldn't make the right words come out of his mouth.

When the cane came down against his ear, he gasped. He thought he may have cried out, but it was hard to tell over the ringing in his head. He wanted to touch it to see if the hot feeling was flowing blood but he didn't want Handler to hit his hands again.

"The harder you make this for yourself, the longer it's going to take. I don't have anything else to do today, so if you want to keep crying with your face on the floor instead of learning something that's your choice."

"I'm sorry, sir," it came out on a sob that took him by surprise. He didn't want to be sorry. He wanted to take Handler's cane away from him and make him eat it, but that was probably a bad thought.

"Keep wasting my time and you will be. What are you?"

"A worthless. Worthless cockroach, sir."

"That's right. And what do you want to be instead?"

"I want to be a pet, sir."

It still felt like a lie. He didn't want any of this, he wanted to go home. But he knew that was a bad thought, and he didn't have a home. The only home he'd have would be his owner's, if he learned to be good enough and got out of this place. He wanted to get out of this place, so he would learn to be good.

"Good boy. Now I want you to repeat that on every breath until I know you understand."

“I am a worthless cockroach. I want to be a pet.”

It was a lot of words, for a single breath. He tried to breath deeper, but it was hard in this scrunched up position with that choked shame feeling still living in his chest.

“I am a worthless cockroach, I want to be a pet.”

It got easier as he repeated it, he got used to the rhythm he needed to get enough air. If he focused on just the words it made it easier to ignore the hot ache in his ear and the dull ache everywhere else.

“I am a worthless cockroach, I want to be a pet.”

Boots kept walking around him with the cane tapping in his hand. Sometimes he traced the edges of the little black shorts or ran it along his spine but 583299 focused on the words and did not flinch. The touches made him feel even more crumpled and dirty inside, and even more afraid.

“I am a worthless cockroach, I want to be a pet.”

Finally the boots stopped in front of him again, and he heard the rustle of clothing as his handler crouched.

“Sssh. You may look at me.”

He lifted his face, stained with tears and tight with misery, and his handler chuckled and stroked his hair.

“Look at you, what a mess! You really want us to make you better, don’t you?”

He leaned in to the touch, trembling. He'd been so lonely, would he be less lonely if he was better? Would these people touch him more than just to step on him or hit him with a cane?

“Yes sir. I want to be a pet. A good pet.”

“Good boy.” Hands cupped his face, gentle. He couldn’t seem to stop crying. “I know you don’t want to disappoint me do you? Just keep repeating that to yourself so that you remember.”

He nodded. The touch was comforting, steadying his breath and making him feel better than he had for as long as he could remember. He wanted to feel better, like this. He would learn to be good.

The door opened again, and another man in the white coveralls the orderlies wore came up beside Handler. He stood again, and handed off the lead. 583299 stayed on the floor. From Handler's nod of approval, that was right. He followed the white coveralls back to his cell.

[buildingcages]

Box Boy Enrollment, Part 4

Box Boy 583299 Masterpost

(Warnings: dehumanization, continued forced nudity (nonsexual), slavery, humans as pets, institutional(ish) setting, trans whumpee, sleep deprivation, psychological torture, indifferent whumper(s))

Crying was a problem. They still hadn’t given him any clothes and there were no blankets on the scratchy bunk, so he had nothing to wipe his face. He wiped his nose on his arm again, and tried to get himself under control. 

He was just so tired. There was no way to hide from the slight chill in the air, no pillow to use to block out the harsh and constant light. All he’d managed had been a light exhausted doze. Then, today (tonight? There was no way to know) he had finally managed to fall into a real sleep, only to be woken by a shock from his collar. His sheer frustrated hopelessness had turned to tears. It was hitting him over and over in waves, that these people could do whatever they wanted to him and there was nothing he could do to stop them. He could pretend it was his choice, but he was too tired for self delusion now. ‘Stupid stupid stupid self sacrificing idiot, there have to have been other choices and you just couldn’t figure them out because you’re so stupid-’ 

He rocked, searching for some avenue to send his mind down to stop it circling. Why had his collar gone off? Was it a glitch? Someone watching through the little camera eye who’d decided he’d slept enough? Or did it have some kind of biometric sensor that detected something too close to healthy sleep? That last was chilling, but possible. He wiped his nose on his arm again and then, after some consideration, wiped his arm on the sound proofing on the wall across from him. Urgh.

He knew that sleep deprivation was a tactic used by interrogators to break a prisoner down. He’d seen a documentary about it online at some odd hour of the morning last year. He tried to think if there had been any mention of a way to beat it. Probably not. The only way to beat it he could think of was to survive until they decided he was done. 

 If it was a biometric sensor, did it only respond to sleep? He suspected that it would go off if he left the property before it was turned off, possibly even if he left the room without his minders. He tried to think of what other stimulus it might be measuring. Sound? He yelled, a little hesitantly, and the soft walls ate the noise. He tried again, louder, and was rewarded by a stronger shock. He lay back, dazed and panting. 

“Ok self,” he muttered “not sure what you were hoping to accomplish there but at least you learned something.” 

It made sense, in a horrible way. Pets who yelled all the time couldn’t be in high demand. At least the distraction had gotten him to stop crying, even if none of this reassured him about his immediate future.

He thought it might have been a week. Sometimes a little flap in the door would open and food would be pushed through. Usually it was a bar of what he suspected might be dehydrated shoe leather, and a little paper cup of water. Sometimes the guards opened his cell and marched him out, and either Bossy or Baldy would stand in the open doorway while he used the bathroom. Once they allowed him to stand below the cold, stinging spray of a shower, and he’d been so relieved to feel clean that he’d barely noticed how chilled it made him.

They seemed utterly indifferent to his nakedness. It was almost worse than prurient interest, not because he wanted to be pawed over, but because that at least was something he could understand. This cold dismissal was alien in a way he'd never felt before. He was just a thing to them, something as boring and mundane as a screwdriver. He wondered morbidly what kind of tool that made him. 

The first time they fed him he had amused himself for a while by tearing the little paper cup into spiral shapes. The next time they fed him there was no water with the horrible shoe leather bar. After that he left the cup on the tray when he was done. Never let it be said that he was a slow learner. 

He thought there might be other trainees behind the other blank doors in the hall. If there were he never heard them, but if they were soundproofed too he wouldn’t. Once though, the door had shaken as though it had been struck by a body. He hoped it was Bossy tripping on his own shoelaces. It seemed unlikely though, and he couldn’t think what else those doors could be for. He had to admit it made him feel less lonely. 

He’d started telling stories to those imaginary neighbors. He knew they couldn’t hear him even if they were there, but it helped to ease the long sleepless stretches. Anyway, it felt less crazy than talking to himself. He whispered the plot of every one of his favorite books, the ones he’d grown up reading over and over until the glue in the bindings had fallen apart, to the blank and silent walls. When he ran out of those, he pulled bits and pieces of half forgotten folklore and movie plots together into colorful nonsensical constructions. They didn’t have to make sense, they just had to distract him from the phantoms on the edges of his vision. ‘It’s just REM rebound, it’s totally normal, you just need to sleep.’ 

But he couldn’t sleep until his captors granted it to him. He leaned his head back against the wall and tried again to clean up the snotty mess of his face without anything to wipe it on but his own hands. 

“Once upon a time,” he whispered, voice still thick with tears, “there was a warrior as beautiful as the dawn... “ 

[buildingcages]

Box Boy 583299

Training Facility: Day 59

Masterpost

(Warnings: dehumanization, modern slavery, humans as pets, institutional(ish) setting, trans whumpee, mental conditioning, leashed, internalized victim blaming, noncon body modification)

He had been leashed as long as he could remember. When he was in his room the end was locked to the door, so that he could be pulled out when it was opened and he was wanted. Sometimes, in the halls and the rare group training sessions he was part of, he saw trainees that walked without a lead. He didn't know why he was different, or if it was the same reason his feet were always hobbled, shortening his steps and making him slow. Sometimes when the others saw him they would flinch, or turn their faces away. He didn't know why they did that, either.

Now, Handler was doing something unusual with the leash. Sometimes, when he called out a position, he would pull it one way or another in short tugs. It wasn't until the first time he pulled, but did not speak, that 583299 started to understand.

"Well, trainee? Why aren't you in position?"

"I'm sorry sir, I don't know the number." His voice was small. He hadn't made a mistake in position drills in a while, but he hadn't forgotten the penalties.

"You don't know the number. Really, it's almost like you aren't even paying attention trainee. I'm disappointed."

He hung his head. His handler was always telling him how much he did for him, how much he had to sacrifice for this trainee who was so stupid and slow.

Handler sighed. "I blame myself, really. That collar is obviously too thick for you to feel the leash properly."

"Please give me another chance sir, I can do better, I promise," he breathed, voice gone small and tight.

Handler nodded thoughtfully, tugging gently on the leash in his hand.

"Obviously my expectations were too high for you. I should know by now you need extra help for even the simplest concepts. Up on the table boy, we'll see what we can do about that."

That made his hands immediately start to tremble. He moved toward it slowly enough that he risked discipline, but Handler only smiled at him tolerantly and pushed him back. It wasn't reassuring. He closed his eyes for one long moment while Handler set the buckles and straps in place, reaching for a peaceful memory to anchor himself to. All he found was an image of white walls in a bright room.

A new strap today, this time around his forehead. Fear was gathering again in his belly, and he felt his eyes growing wide and anxious. Handler smiled down at him, stroked his hair.

"Open your mouth, trainee."

He obeyed. Metal, cold and strange, clicked against his teeth. He struggled to keep his breathing even but couldn't help a gasp when his jaws were wrenched wide open. Instinct told him to twist his head, but the straps held him firm.

Somewhere, a door opened. Footsteps, low voices, the clink-scrape of metal against metal. Blood pounded in his ears. There was another face backlit above him. A stranger, who swabbed something harsh and foul over his tongue and then caught it in a vice. The stranger spoke to Handler over him, and he knew they were talking about him but he couldn't hear their words over his own ragged breathing.

The pain that tore though his tongue from side to side made the edges of his vision go white. It reminded him of something... A brief flash of a cheerful room full of colorful jewelry, hands like vices on his shoulders holding him down as a smiling young woman reached for an ear lobe, and then a sharp aching tug on the piercing brought him back. He blinked.

The stranger had gone while he was chasing the memory, and now Handler was loosening the straps. The metal still held his jaw achingly open, but even so he could feel the large ring resting against his lips, and the leash that trailed from it. He lay still, obedient, taking long slow breaths to keep himself from screaming.

Handler's hand was warm against his jaw when he finally released the catch that held his mouth wide open. Even with his mouth closed, he realized, the ring poked out between his teeth.

"There, now won't it be easier to pay attention?"

"Yes, sir," the words came from his mouth slurred and mushy. It was just as well, he thought, that he wasn't expected to talk much.

"Good boy. Begin again."

[buildingcages]

Box Boy Enrollment, part 2

whew, this got long! part one is here. 

masterpost

(Warnings: dehumanization, objectification, financial coercion, forced nudity (mostly nonsexual), slavery, humans as pets, victim blaming, psychological manipulation, corporal punishment)

The lady behind the desk was plump, comfortably middle aged with little gold glasses on a chain around her neck. She smiled brilliantly at him as he came in, gesturing to the chair across from hers. 

"Come on in sweetie, you're here to sign up aren't you?"

"Oh uh. Yeah. Is it that obvious?" He dropped into the chair, feeling embarrassed and transparent. God, but he must look pathetic. "I'm here about the uh, the debt forgiveness program?"

She chuckled. The name plate on her desk read 'Miss Delilah'. "In my line of work you learn to read people, is all. It looks like you've got some paperwork for me hon?"

Nodding, he slid the folder across the desk. The very sympathetic bank manager had given it to him when he suggested he come here. She picked it up and thumbed through the contents with pursed lips. He slid his hands under his thighs to keep himself from fidgeting. 'It's not going to work. She's going to tell you it's too much and you're not worth that much and they can't help you, and you will have humiliated yourself for nothing-'

She snapped the folder shut and smiled at him again. "You're doing the right thing sweetie. I'll just get some forms for you and we'll get you all set up." 

He slumped with relief and she chuckled again, reaching across the desk to ruffle his hair. 

"Aw were you worried? You're a good boy aren't you? You're gonna do just fine." She set a small stack of forms in front of him and then tapped something on her computer screen. "You just fill those out and I'll let the intake boys know to get a space ready for you ok?"

He closed his eyes for a minute. This was the last moment where he could turn back. He picked up the pen. Name, date of birth, medical history, fingerprints. The questionnaire about his sexual history, identity, and attraction gave him pause, but he decided not to think about it and filled it out as fast as he could. He hesitated for a long moment before signing, then pushed the paper back across the desk. His mouth was as dry as the desert he'd driven through on a road trip once. It was done.

The recruitment lady- no, Miss Delilah- looked up from her computer and smiled at him again. She pulled something out of her desk drawer and came around behind him before he could catch a good look at whatever it was. When he tried to twist and look at her she put a hand on his shoulder and he stilled. 

"Easy now sweetie, I'm just putting your collar on you. You understand you're going to have to wear this from now on, right?"

Oh. 

"Oh. Of course. Um. Can I ask. What’s next?" The collar was stiff, high enough that it kept pinching him when he slouched.

"Well just this once, since you've been so good for me. Next, someone will come from intake to bring you up to your temporary quarters, then after a little while you'll be taken to the training facility. Once you're there, they'll start teaching you how to be a good little pet. Won't that be nice?" 

He kind of doubted it would be. 'It's worth it, whatever happens, if this saves everyone else then it's worth it. Be good and maybe they'll go easy on you. Then when they sell you as a companion to some little old rich lady you can run away if she's mean.' He took a deep shaky breath. 

"Ok. Thank you for telling me."

"You can call me Miss, dear. It's important for you to learn how to show respect for your betters, isn't it hon?"

Meek, he reminded himself, you are going to be meek. He made his voice as small as he could.

"Yes, Miss."

While he sat there trying to steady himself, Miss Delilah was bustling around pulling a stack of 3 nested plastic bins out of another drawer. She set them on the desk and smiled again.

"Ok sweetheart go ahead and strip. Clothes in this bin, shoes and belt in this one, personal effects in here." 

He looked around the little office, at the glass door with all the people typing away in their cubicles behind it, at the lack of any clothing visible to replace what he was wearing. 

"Don't pets get clothes, um. Miss?" The question came out a little choked, and he knew he must be as red as a boiled lobster.

"You're not a pet yet honey, you're a trainee. You've got to earn the ability to call yourself a pet, and you do that by being good and doing what you're told. Come on hon, you've been so good, don't make me punish you already!"  

He took another deep breath, the way he’d been taught when he was overwhelmed as a kid. 'Just start with your shoes. You can do this. One thing at a time.' 

He slipped off his worn but comfy boots, and put them in the tray. Then belt and socks. His heavy rings, the leather bands he wore around his wrist. His hands shook so badly taking off his shirt that a button came free and pinged off into the corner somewhere. Miss Delilah made a disapproving "tsk" sound but didn't say anything. Finally he stood there in a collar and boxers. Maybe it would be enough. Miss Delilah raised her eyebrows at him and he knew it wouldn't be. He squeezed his eyes shut and slid them down his hips, setting them in the plastic tub. 

When his shoulders tried to rise defensively the collar bit into him. Miserably, he wrapped his arms around his middle. 

"See? that wasn't so bad was it honey? You just keep doing what you're told like a good boy and you'll be just fine. Now come sit by me--NOT on the chair, good heavens, you can kneel right here, and I'll give you a little something to calm your nerves. I've got a couple other things to set you up with and then you'll be all ready for intake and training." 

He knelt. He felt detached and cold, and like some distant part of him might be screaming, but he fought the prickle of tears behind his eyes and accepted the pill and the little paper cup of water. When he looked up again, Miss Delilah was holding something that looked a lot like those piercing guns you saw at the mall. Something on her computer beeped, and she took a little chip out of its slot and plugged it into the thing in her hand. Then she grabbed his ear, hard, and he flinched back on instinct and fell right over on his back.

"Oh, honey, and you were doing so good too."

 Her voice was sad, and she was reaching for something on her desk. The next thing he knew, the world whited out with pain. He heard a scream he belatedly recognized as his own, tapering off into pained gasps. A shock collar, of course, he should have known he was so stupid-

"Now are you gonna be good for me? Or are you gonna make me do that again?" 

"No, please, I'm sorry," he gasped, trying to coax his limbs to cooperate, "I'll be good Miss I promise." 

"Good boy. Up on your knees now, and hold still." 

He pushed himself up with arms that felt like overcooked noodles. It was a piercing gun after all, and when he raised a hand furtively to touch his ear he found a flat plastic tag like they used to mark livestock. It hurt, but not as much as the shock collar. He thought maybe the little pill she gave him was starting to work, because he felt kind of soft and floaty.

"There, see how much nicer it is when you do what you're told?" She patted his cheek kindly, "Now remember, the money to pay your debts is coming directly from your sale. If you're really good and we don't have to keep paying for extra training we can pay that debt off free and clear, ok? Just keep reminding yourself that this was your choice. Everything that happens to you now is something you signed up for of your own free will."

It was true, and he thought maybe it would make it easier to deal with, if he reminded himself that he’d had some kind of control. It wasn’t like he didn’t know this would be humiliating. He squeezed his eyes shut, and felt the tears sticking in his eyelashes. 

Behind him, he heard the door open. Miss Delilah smiled down at him again, and clipped a lead to one of the rings on his collar. 

"Here's intake now, you're going to be a good boy for them and do everything they say, aren't you?"

He nodded miserably. When he looked over his shoulder he saw two men in white with long batons hanging off their belts. He suspected he didn't want to know what those were for, and he also suspected it wasn't going to matter. Delilah handed one of them the end of his leash. 

"Up, trainee." His voice was sharp, and there was no warmth in it. He got up. It was dawning on him that he was about to be paraded naked in front of a whole office full of people, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.

Sure enough, the man holding his leash turned and walked back out the open door without so much as a backward glance. He stumbled and walked quickly to keep up, sure that any delay would be punished. As they passed the cubicles he could see that most of the office workers were ignoring him completely, but one had been watching through the glass door intently. He was smiling slyly, one hand rubbing his trousers under the desk. 

"Eyes forward trainee," the intake man behind him punctuated this by tapping his baton against his captive's turned cheek. It buzzed against his skin, clearly a warning. He snapped his eyes forward and concentrated on walking, trying to ignore the flush he could feel creeping across his chest. 

~*~

Please let me know if I’ve forgotten any warnings! A big thanks to all the folks involved in building this lovely whumptastic sandbox <3

[buildingcages]

Training Facility: Day 1

(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.

[buildingcages]

Box Boy 583299

Training Facility: Day 16 part 2

(Warnings: dehumanization, modern slavery, humans as pets, institutional(ish) setting, trans whumpee, mental conditioning, sleep deprivation, restraints, noncon touch, implied noncon threat, internalized victim blaming)

Masterpost

The first step he took almost sent him crashing back down to the floor. The chain was short and checked him mid stride, but he kept his feet. He would have to learn to walk with- what had Handler said?- grace and restraint. His legs shook like a new colt's and he deliberately shortened his stride. Now the chain only caught him when he forgot. The soles of his feet were still a little bit tender, but nothing like they'd been after he'd walked without permission. It felt like pins and needles, like he'd slept with his legs folded wrong. 'Like the little mermaid on land' he thought, and then wondered why. He was so tired of his thoughts going on without him and then running off into darkness and pain when he tried to catch them up.

When they reached the showers the burly orderly had to unlock his chain so that he could get undressed, then relock it. He thought he'd grown immune to the constant lack of privacy, but still it made him feel nervous and skittish to have him so close. As soon as the chain was locked in place he tried to move away at speed, but it jerked him up short again.

"It will help you be good," Handler had said. He guessed that running from the orderlies was probably not good. There was a little flighty burst of panic in his chest but he breathed through it, got under the spray of the water. It was warmer than the air today, luxurious on his tired grimy skin. He lost himself in the joy of soap for an indeterminate amount of time before he heard the warning buzzer cuing him to rinse.

It was harder the second time, to come close to the orderly and stand still as the chain was undone. He tried to distract himself with the freshness of the clean clothes he was given, but as he stooped to pull up the black shorts he felt a hand graze his bare back side. He yelled and toppled, tangling his legs in the shorts. The orderly laughed for a long time, then locked the chain tight again. He scrambled to pull the shorts up from where they tangled around his knees, shaking.

"I guess they haven't broken you in yet. Oh well, give them time."

Broken him in? He shook it off.

This time when he stood he struggled to concentrate. He wanted to lay down and sleep for a week and forget about everything, and he kept tripping himself up. Finally as they rounded a corner he fouled his leg in the chain and went down again. This time his ankle felt tender and hot under his hand, and when he tried to stand it wouldn't hold his weight.

Tears of frustration rose in his eyes. He didn't want to crawl again. Not when he'd just gotten clean, not when he was allowed to walk. His thoughts were petulant and useless, and he knew it. The orderly's smirk galled him. Carefully, he used the wall to climb up on his good leg. He couldn't walk, but he managed a little shuffling hop, and kept his feet even when the orderly yanked teasingly on his leash.

By the time they reached the door of his little room he was shaking from the effort, panting with his fresh clothes already clinging to his sweaty skin. It chilled him in the cold air. As soon as the door was open he made for the mat, sinking down in relief. As the lock clicked shut and he started to drift off, he realized that he was grateful. The thought unsettled him somehow, even though he knew it was the right way to feel. He deserved nothing, he knew, so to be allowed to shower and sleep was vastly more than he deserved. His tired mind refused to wrestle with it any longer, and he sank down into cold, bruised dreams full of fear and pain.

[buildingcages]

Training Facility: Day 16

(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.

[buildingcages]

Box Boy Shipping

(Warnings: dehumanization, slavery, humans as pets, paralyzed/immobilized, small spaces)

Box Boy 583299 Masterpost

It was dark, and so cramped in the box he was afraid his legs would fall right off him when they pulled him out again. The suspension on the truck wasn’t good, and every bump knocked him against the unforgiving sides. He still couldn’t move his limbs. At least, at the very least, the swelling in his mouth had gone down, and he wasn’t drooling on his own shoulder anymore. 

He heard sobs, from somewhere. He thought it might be the runner. The boxes muffled the sound a little but not much, not compared to the soft cell walls. Breathing, too harsh and fast. Someone out there was having a panic attack. Then, from somewhere in the dark, soft but getting stronger, a voice singing.

It was such an improbable sound in this tense dark place that for a moment he thought he’d finally cracked and started hallucinating for real. But no, the crying was tapering off and there was a soft murmur from around him so the others heard it too. ‘It’s one of us.’ he realized, mind sluggish from too long without enough to eat or sleep. It was a song he knew, it had been on every radio station the year he turned 18.

It overwhelmed him suddenly, this strange kinship for 9 strangers in the dark. They had been kept apart, isolated behind their soundproof walls without ever seeing each others’ faces, but still they reached out for one another. When the first voice fell silent, another took its place. He didn’t recognize this song but another voice joined in, so someone else must have known it.

He didn’t know how long they continued this way, voices rising one or two at a time, lullabies and kpop, hymns and top 40 pop songs. Slowly the voices grew rougher, then tapered off into exhaustion. His mind went back to that endless day in the little white room, whispering stories to the walls. To the worn pages of the books he’d read until he felt they were written on his bones. He couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, but he could use his voice in other ways. 

“In a hole in the ground,” he began, “there lived a hobbit.”

[buildingcages]

Box Box Enrollment, Part 3

part 1, part 2, masterpost

a bit shorter than the last one, about 700 words

(Warnings: dehumanization, continued forced nudity (nonsexual), slavery, humans as pets, institutional(ish) setting, trans whumpee, indifferent whumper(s))

He focused on his breathing, and the texture of the cheap carpet under his bare feet. He watched the heels of the guard in front of him, who he'd mentally nicknamed Baldy, and didn't think about the eyes of the man in the cubicle or the sick dirty feeling in the pit of his stomach. Stairs, the metal edges cold and the treads gritty and unpleasant. White tile, chilly and smooth. The cold florescent lights reflected off it in wavy squares.

Baldy stopped abruptly in front of him. He shook himself back to the present, trying to take in his surroundings before he did something to get himself shocked again. The short hall was punctuated by a row of blank white doors, and one of them stood open. The other guard didn't even give an order this time, just gestured through the open door with his baton. He went. 

This one could be Buzzcut, he decided. He liked alliteration, and the man had so far not shown any personality traits that could have earned him a more distinctive name. 

"Hands behind your head, trainee."

Then again, maybe he'd call him Bossy. He linked his hands behind his head. He expected them to unhook his lead, but instead Baldy locked the other end to a ring that stuck out of the door, then turned and left without another word. He felt like the door should clang shut dramatically, but the only sound was a soft click as the lock engaged. It sounded very final.

It was a relief at first, being alone. The lead on his collar had enough slack for him to explore the room, which wasn't much at all. 4 paces one way, only 2 paces the other because of the low bunk. The walls were oddly soft, with a texture like the inside of an egg carton. He thought it might be sound proofing, which he decided not to think about. At least it was comfortable to lean against. There was no toilet. That was worrying, but he resolved not to think about that either. Also worrying was the little black eye of a camera lens up in the corner. He tried to find some spot that wasn't so exposed to it, but quickly gave up. The room was just too small, and it wasn't like he was going to have any privacy going forward anyway. 

He'd exhausted the distractions offered by his surroundings, and it had taken him less than 5 minutes. That didn't bode well. He sank down on the bare bunk (it was scratchy) and tucked his cold feet up under his thighs. Closing his eyes, he rested his face on his knees.

 'Ok,' he thought, 'this sucks but there's nothing you can do about that. Plan instead, that's something you can control.'

If he acted the part of a good little mouse, could he come through training with his mind intact? He thought it might be possible. He couldn't escape before the bank got the money, but if he pretended to be a good broken pet he might be able to escape his owner after the warranty expired. Three months (he'd looked it up at the library before coming here) would be enough time to lure whoever bought him into a false sense of security, and then he could make his bid for freedom. 

He thought about the crude tattoo on the arch of his left foot, but didn't look at it. He'd done it himself, jailhouse style from instructions he'd found on the internet as a teenager. The odd spiky symbol was something he'd come up with back when he couldn't say the name in his heart but needed to mark it on the world somehow before he lost his mind completely. A stylized glyph in tengwar, because he'd always been an unapologetic little nerd. It was the name he'd just signed away, but he hoped that little tattoo might let him remember. If they didn't remove it. If he could remember how to read it. 

He was running out of distractions. It was just cold enough that he couldn't stop noticing, not quite enough to make him shiver. It kept reminding him of his own nakedness, his vulnerability in front of that little camera eye. His ear throbbed and he could feel the weight of the flat plastic tag. There was a spot in the corner by the door where the tile was layed unevenly. He fixed his eyes on it and tried not to think of anything at all

[buildingcages]

Box Boy Enrollment, part 1

Part two is here!

Masterpost is here!

(Warnings: dehumanization, financial coercion, modern slavery, humans as pets)

The ad played on almost every break, and he could probably have recited it in his sleep. 

"Are you or a loved one suffering under the strain of crippling debt? Could you use a little help lifting that load?" The narrator's voice was a soft concerned tenor, obviously chosen carefully to put the listener at ease. "WRU can help! If you've considered whether the life of a pet might be right for you, but you want to make sure a legacy is left for your loved ones, there's never been a better time than now! Come and talk to one of our consultants about our debt buying and forgiveness programs-" he changed the station, cutting the gentle voice off. 

 The thing was, he hadn't considered whether the life of a pet was right for him. If he'd considered boxies at all it was with the same distant disapproval he gave to little kid beauty pageants and those people who left their dogs chained in their yards all the time. It was gross that they existed, distasteful that they were so widespread and uncritically accepted, but at the end of the day he only had so much energy to spend on the world. He'd certainly never been rich enough to buy one.

He'd never thought he'd be desperate enough to become one either, but he was running out of options. The bank had made it very clear that the consequences of failing to pay would ruin not only him but every family member and friend who had backed him on his stupid business venture. After everything they'd done for him, supporting him through his transition and everything else, he couldn't repay them with that. He'd already sold everything of value he owned. This truck would probably get $200 from the scrap yard on a good day. There were no other options. 

He looked across the parking lot at the big WRU logo. This was mostly just an office building, but there was a recruiter on the first floor and the website said walk ins were ok. Was he doing this? He was. He didn't bother to lock the truck.