She crawled, unable to stand or even sit. The slop given once daily—tasteless, salty—was nonetheless consumed by instinct. Unable to use her hands, she lapped it up; its thin consistency felt demeaning. Dust swirled, coating her palate and parching her throat. Crawling to a basin, she moistened her tongue, knowing the water was harmful but needing some relief for her chapped lips.
The world's cruelty, however, was on full display: men, pants down, violating new girls, praising their bodies. The sight was agonizing, crushing her heart. How could he? He, the supposed strong one, their love supposedly unbreakable, his promise of her being his number one—all hollow lies.
Better females, he'd found. Perhaps she'd become too docile, too predictable. As the king of vampires, he could have whomever he desired, and she, his wife, could not deny him.
Her reflection in the water revealed her pitiful skeletal frame: hands like claws, no nail polish, no manicured nails. Her gaunt face, hollow cheeks, pale skin, and chapped lips made her look like a starved prisoner, not a loving wife. Her once-full breasts now sagged pitifully. She hated her state yet craved attention, a word, anything. Surely, she wasn't so repulsive that everyone ignored her.
She was unaware of the small devices in her ears, which fed a constant loop of subliminal messages, making her yearn for contact. It was not her but insidious programming that the nasty doctor was trying to implant in her brain. Drifting in and out of consciousness, she awoke to find food and water beside her, never when she was awake. She fought to stay conscious, hoping for notice, but darkness relentlessly claimed her.
It was time for rounds. Claude von Herrringberg, or Dr. Death as he preferred, donned his doctor's coat as they began their rounds. Six new subjects had been there for two weeks, and it was time to escalate their treatment.
First, however, they methodically checked the various cages, his crisp, professional voice issuing orders and rarely altering drug regimens. They paused at a cage containing three succubi—tall, curvaceous females, shackled and glaring. They had been cleaned recently and fed, so they were not in a pitiful state, but they yearned for energy, and their greedy eyes measured each of the males as a potential source of energy.
He looked at them and said crisply, "These are to be used on the chairman. Bring him here; let these whores work their magic and see if he gains a new perspective."
The chairman, an old army man, had previously limited von Herrringberg's influence and blocked his cruellest experiments. But Dr. Death had reached his limit. He would no longer tolerate interference; this was his facility, and the board—appointed merely for formality—held no sway. The succubi had no enemies to exploit for rental revenue, but he saw them as tools. Sure, their bodily fluids were useful too, but they had other uses, and he wanted his rule over this entire facility, and it was time for the chairman to learn a few lessons, hard ones.
Managing the facility and its clients was difficult. For instance, General Dillinger, the army man, had confronted him repeatedly, angered that subject 789610, a chimera, was too heavily sedated for interrogation.
Von Herrringberg had explained the necessity of suppressing the chimera's supernatural rage to this pig-brained baboon. The drugs had saturated her system, and this morning's test results indicated she was ready for the next stage.
Unfortunately, the interrogation planned with the centre was canceled, delaying her use. They had a crisis, and there was no one coming to study her. Well, not too bad, as they hadn't yet paid for anything. Dillinger, however, had paid handsomely, as had some witches who, though unpaid, assisted and aspired to villainy.
Von Herrringberg scoffed at the notion of villainy. He considered himself a visionary, a defender of humanity, ensuring that humans remained the dominant species, not vampires or mixed creatures like the chimeras. There was in his world such a concept of villain and hero, not when the topic was supernatural. They were lower caste, animals, not worthy of villains, and certainly not in a position to judge him by their flawed standards.
He dictated to his subordinate, pointing to the next cage. Inside was a confused young werewolf female, brown-haired and snatched from a pack near Montana.
"This one," he declared, "I want bred. Start her on heat inducers—the strongest doses she can tolerate. Once she's in heat, we'll sell her services by the day. We'll create paperwork stating that the paternity of any cubs costs extra. If she gets pregnant, we'll test and sell the babies back to their father at a fair price, of course. If he doesn't pay, someone else will buy a werewolf hybrid. We can sell her heat to anyone: vampires, shifters, humans. Money talks; it's all that matters. I think one day of her heat could fetch 150-500 dollars, depending on her ovulatory status and her overall behavior. If we can be induced to say six weeks ' heat for her, sure, shorter would work too, profit would be decent. "
His man jotted down the orders.
From within the cage, the girl whispered weakly, "Please don't. I'm young; I don't have my heat yet. Have mercy…"
Dr. Herringberg sneered at the pitiful creature. "Mercy isn't on the menu here. You'll come into heat, accept your fate, and if you behave, perhaps someone will make it…enjoyable for you."
The girl cried, her sobs fading as the men moved on.
Reaching the alpha female chimera's cage—789610—he instructed, "Reduce the sedation; keep the acetorphine, but ditch the rest. Once she's slightly more aware, let Dillinger work on her. For God's sake, insert a nasogastric tube and feed her. I don't need skeletons; they don't bring in money!"
He practically yelled, noticing the subject's emaciated frame, dull eyes, and chafed skin. A man in the cage was trying to interact with her, but she remained unresponsive. Dr. Herringberg's irritation grew at his subordinates' incompetence.
Moving to the next cage, 826810, they found the female slumped, unconscious, as planned. No one would interact with her upon waking, but they would administer food and water laced with drugs while she was out. This was all part of her manipulation.
"This one seems ripe," he said. "Let her awaken a bit and up the ante. Let's see if we can heighten her desperation. Those witches can try to siphon her energy once she's ready, but I doubt they'll get much. As long as they pay, though, let them try."
A man beside him jotted down notes, his expression neutral.
"She's lost fifteen kilos, at least it appears so," he said, "and we've made the slop runny so she can't use her hands, but has to lap it."
The cold-eyed doctor simply nodded; for him, she was merely a tool, not a sentient being, just an asset, nothing more.
Five more cages lined the row, awaiting inspection—witches and several more shifters, already broken and desperate. He issued his orders with haughty indifference, his grey eyes cold and uncaring.
Meanwhile, men were constructing a large area in the center of the space, erecting sturdy walls and fences so everyone could see inside. This would be the next stage in breaking down the wolves, training them for their new lives; if the results were promising, they would become interesting subjects of study.
The hard concrete space offered little to look at; deep within the cave, or rather, inside a mountain of rock, its existence unknown. The stale air held a faint, hospital-like odor, overlaid by the pervasive stench of perversion and torture; desperation lent it a bitter tang, though humans couldn't readily detect it. To them, it was simply industrial air.
The men worked efficiently, speaking little. A twisted sense of anticipation hung heavy in the air, chilling several of the women with fear and disgust, for what followed was usually vile. A few hours later, a sturdy enclosure stood in the center, visible to all, with poles fixed to the floor.
The women watched as two wolves—formerly human, but no longer—were brought into the enclosure, muzzled and on short leashes. Despite their struggles, the guards held them firm. Men entered the enclosure and attached them to the poles with two strong chains linked to their collars, trapping them like cattle.
Von Herringberg entered the enclosure where the wolves were secured, sneering as he stroked their quivering flanks. They pulled, growled, and fought, but he dismissed their struggles with a sneer.
"Oh, come on, girls, save your energy," he said. "Master will give you treats later. Settle down."
He turned to address the females, particularly the six newcomers—or four, as two were now absent.
"We have quite a lot of canines working here," he explained, "males, and, you know, we boys need to… unload sometimes."
He glanced at the monitor displaying looped old footage, assuming the females were too dim to notice. He believed they were stupid and weak, and he could do whatever he wanted.
Circling the enclosure and observing the snarling wolves, he instructed a subordinate, "Bring the dogs—fifty or so, maybe more—and let them have fun. It'll do them good."
The man nodded, used his walkie-talkie, and soon a hydraulic door hissed open. Ten men entered, each leading several dogs on leashes. The dogs were a mixed breed—bully mixes, German Shepherd mixes, varying in size—and several men placed boxes near the wolves' enclosure. The dogs were released, sniffing and exploring.
Von Herringberg's voice, cold and loud, cut through the air. His grey eyes remained impassive.
"These are our watchdogs," he stated, "highly trained, reactive, aggressive. We've heightened their hormones, putting them in a state of heat. Not that the wolves are, but the males are, and all they see are…holes to use. And oh boy, will they use them."
A short, muscular bully breed, its dick partially out, pink and glistening, began sniffing one of the wolves. It jumped on a box, mounted the wolf, and attempted penetration. The wolf's struggles and the dog's frenzied movements prompted crude comments and laughter from the men.
They were confident the act would be completed. The men's enthusiasm ensured the wolves would be repeatedly mounted. A sharp yelp indicated the penetration of a taller, longhaired wolf. A bully hung onto its back, its tongue lolling as it became stuck. The wolf, unable to move due to its secured position, could only endure the repeated influx of dog semen.
Hours went by; dog after dog knotted, flooded, and panted, their eagerness unabated. As male dogs withdrew from the wolves, their enormous purple dicks, usually heavy and pendulous, shrank and retracted, only to reappear when the dogs had another chance to knot and fuck.
Making the scene even more perverse, several men openly masturbated, jerking off and ejaculating onto nearby females, who tried to evade them, upsetting the males.
Von Herringberg, however, was in his office doing paperwork and unable to hear the men's complaints.
She watched, though the drugs, even lessened, still held her in their grip, her feelings numbed, not like a vampire, but through sheer willpower. She had overheard snippets of conversation and acted accordingly, knowing it would fall to her to free them, to stop this, but she was so tired, so drugged, and a terrible helplessness threatened to overwhelm her.
She hadn't actually shut down her feelings, but directed them into the hive; as the hive queen, unable to act coherently, her instincts took over. Now, the males, enjoying the torture of the females, felt this powerlessness, enraging them further.
They were not powerless; they were in control, and those bitches would feel it. Yet, the males sensed someone else setting them free, so they didn't even try, as her influence over the hive spread, calming them, assuring them she would act, and they wouldn't have to.
Time passed—hours, perhaps days—and the drugs slowly dissipated, leaving only acetorphine, keeping her sluggish, but her mind began to clear. For the first time in three weeks, she could form a coherent thought: "How in hell's name am I going to get us free?"