Chapter 1: The First Feeding
The fluorescent light buzzed overhead, a relentless white hum that seemed to seep into Mesa’s bones. It etched every detail of the steel bars into his vision, the grid of his world. The newspapers strewn beneath him rustled with every small shift, the print smudged and forgotten. He kept his eyes down, watching a beetle of condensation trace a path down the water bottle bolted to the corner. Asala was curled beside him, her back to the room, her dark hair a curtain against the laughter filtering in from the hallway.The click of the living room door was his signal. Mesa’s body tightened before his mind could form the thought.Hani walked in, not alone. Two men followed—clients, Mesa guessed, from the sharp cut of their suits. They stopped short, their polished shoes just inches from the cage.One let out a low whistle. The other was silent, his eyes crawling over Asala’s sleeping form.
“Evening, pets,” Hani said, his voice a warm baritone that carried like a threat. He dropped a heavy plastic bag onto the polished oak table.The sound made Asala stir.Mesa forced himself to look up. Hani was smiling, holding up a can as if presenting a fine wine. “Dinner service.”
One of the men chuckled. “That’s not…”
“It is,” Hani confirmed, popping the tab with a crisp pfft. The smell hit Mesa first—a thick, meaty, metallic odor that coiled in his sinuses. It was the cheapest canned dog food, the kind with gravy. Hani made a show of sniffing it himself, wrinkling his nose in mock distaste before upending the can over two metal bowls.
The sound of the slop hitting the bowls was wet, heavy.Chunks plopped into the gravy.
“Come on,” Hani said, his tone turning cool. He used his foot to slide the bowls through the narrow gap at the bottom of the cage bars. The metal scraped loudly on the tile floor outside, then clinked against the steel.
Asala was moving now, pushing herself up onto her hands and knees.She didn’t look at the men.She didn’t look at Mesa. Her eyes were fixed on the bowl, her face a blank mask. Mesa mirrored her, the motion practiced, humiliating, his knees and palms pressing into the damp newspaper. They crawled forward, their movements synchronized in their shame.The clients had their phones out now. Flash burst, once, twice, bleaching the scene into stark relief.Mesa reached his bowl first.He didn’t hesitate. He dipped his head and took a mouthful. The texture was wrong, gritty and too soft at once, the saltiness overwhelming.He chewed, staring at a stray pea inches from his nose. Asala ate more delicately, lapping at the gravy first, her hair falling around the bowl. A glob of the brown slop clung to her cheek.
“Good bitch,” Hani murmured, watching her.He turned to his guests.“The wife was harder to train. Took months to break her of using her hands.Now, she’s perfect.”
One client lowered his phone. “And this is all… legal?”
“Ironclad contract,” Hani said, leaning against the table and crossing his arms.His gaze never left the cage. “They’re my domestic animals.Voluntarily.It’s a lifestyle agreement. Very specific.”
Mesa swallowed another lump of the food, his throat working against the urge to gag.He was hard. He could feel his cock, limp a moment ago, stirring against his thigh. The heat in his face wasn’t just shame; it was a sick, familiar pulse of arousal. The cameras, the laughter, the degrading slop in his mouth—it all twisted together inside him, a knot of self-loathing and electric need.Hani saw.Of course he saw.His smile widened.
“Asala,” he said, the command slicing through the room. “Come.”
Asala flinched, a tiny, almost invisible spasm in her shoulders.She lifted her head, gravy smeared on her chin. She crawled backwards out from under the cage bar, then stood up in a slow, fluid motion. She kept her eyes lowered, her hands hanging at her sides. The fluorescent light glared on her skin, on the soft curve of her belly, on the dark triangle between her legs. She walked the few steps to Hani, her bare feet silent on the tile, and then sank to her knees before him.
“The boots are dirty from the street,” Hani commented to his friends, extending one foot.“Lick them clean.”
Asala bent forward. Her tongue, pink and human, emerged and touched the toe of his polished leather boot. She licked a slow, deliberate stripe along the side, gathering a film of dust and city grime.She didn’t retch. She moved to the other boot, her hair sweeping the floor.
Mesa watched, his food forgotten, his breath shallow.His erection was full now, aching. He hated himself more in that moment than he ever had. He hated the traitorous throb between his legs, the way his eyes feasted on the curve of his wife’s back as she debased herself. He hated the part of him that wanted Hani to give an order to him next.
One of the clients shifted, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Christ, Hani.”
“She’s thorough,” Hani said, watching her work with a proprietor’s pride. He reached down and tangled his hand in her hair, not gently, and pulled her head back.Her neck arched, exposed. “Aren’t you?”
“Yes, Sir,” she whispered, her voice hoarse from disuse.“Show our guests how obedient you are. Show them what you do when you’ve been good.”
He released her hair and, with a deft movement, unbuckled his belt. He didn’t take his eyes off the clients, holding their gaze as he unzipped his trousers.His cock, already half-hard, sprang free. He gave it a few lazy strokes, his gaze shifting to Mesa, pinning him inside the cage.“Asala. Be a good hostess.”
Asala didn’t need further instruction.She leaned forward again, her mouth opening. She took him in, deep, her cheeks hollowing immediately. A wet, obscene sound filled the room, undercut by the relentless buzz of the lights.
Mesa’s fist clenched around a handful of newspaper, the ink staining his palm.He couldn’t look away. Her head bobbed, a rhythm set by Hani’s slight thrusts. A string of saliva dripped from her lip onto the tile. One of the clients cursed under his breath; the other just stared, his mouth slightly open.Hani’s breathing hitched. He kept talking, his voice rough around the edges.“The contract… stipulates sexual availability.For me. For approved guests.” His hand was back in her hair, controlling the pace now, pushing deeper. Her throat convulsed, a gag reflex she brutally suppressed.“Mesa watches.That’s his role. To witness.”
His hips stuttered. He shoved her head down hard, holding her there as he came, a grunt tearing from his chest.Asala took it, her body trembling with the effort. When he finally pulled her back, she was gasping, her eyes watering. She swallowed, the movement visible in her throat.For a long moment, the only sounds were her ragged breaths and the fluorescent hum.
Hani tucked himself away, buckling his belt with calm precision.He looked at his friends. “Anyone else care for a turn?She’s clean.Vet checked.”
The silent client cleared his throat. “I… I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself.” Hani gestured to the cage. “Back in your kennel, Asala.”
She crawled back, moving stiffly. She didn’t look at Mesa as she slipped through the gap and settled onto the newspapers, curling into herself. A different kind of quiet settled over her, a hollowed-out stillness.
Hani walked to the cage, looming over Mesa. He picked up the leather whip hanging from a hook on the wall beside the bars.He didn’t use it.He just tapped its handle against his palm.
“You enjoyed the show,” Hani stated, his voice low.Mesa said nothing. His rigid cock was confession enough.Hani’s smile was a cruel, knowing slice. “You pathetic fuck.You’re harder than I was.” He shook his head, a parody of disappointment. “Clean up this mess. Then maybe you can have what’s left of her when I’m done for the night.”
He turned to his guests, his demeanor shifting back to the gracious host. “Let’s get that drink in the study.The Scotch is eighteen years old. Far too good for animals.”
The men filed out, their footsteps fading.The door clicked shut.
In the sudden, suffocating quiet, Mesa listened to Asala’s shallow breathing. The smell of sex and dog food and leather hung in the air. He looked at the whip in Hani’s empty hand, still hanging on the wall, and knew the night was far from over. The pulse between his legs hadn’t faded. It beat in time with his heart, a dread-filled drum counting down to the next command.