Long Holiday, Part One
By Musuko

Take some time off, my brother had said. You need a holiday. It would do you good. Go somewhere. Relax. Take a break.
	Hell, like I even do anything that I need a break from! I haven’t worked a single day in my life. I’m a kept mouse, and it’s my brother Terik who keeps me. I’m his favourite twin. His little baby brother, younger by half an hour. From where he gets his money, I don’t know, but I’m happy to spend it if he’s happy to keep giving it to me. He loves me. I think. I think I’m the only one he does love. I suppose I’m close enough to being him without actually being him. Narcissism without having to face the fact that you’re a sadistic, twisted serial murderer.
	Yeah, I know full well what my twin brother is, and what he does. And no, I won’t lift a finger to stop him. He’s my brother.
	Besides, I learned long ago not to question or defy him. He knows exactly how to leave mental scars that only heal just so much, leaving a tender spot that he can prod as a reminder. I guess I have a touch of the Stockholm syndrome. I love him, and I’m terrified of him.
	So, he tells me to go on holiday, and off on holiday I go. I agree to his “suggestion”, and he just smiles. An innocent enough expression, but I know my Terik. He was plotting something. And no, there’s no way he’d have told me if I asked.
	I got in touch with an otter I’d been chatting with, on and off. He’s been dead keen on meeting me. Keeps trying to get me worked up with saucy talk. It’s the usual stuff. I get it all the time. Constant feeble attention from needy tops and begging bottoms, coming at me from all sorts of profile sites. Yeah, I suppose I get an ego kick out of it. How could I not? I ignore most of them. But this guy...
	This guy seemed like he knew his stuff. I dunno what it was about him. Just something in the way he said things, rather than what he said. Funny, I know, to talk about the way someone talks when you’re talking via instant messages. But it was true. He could give me goosebumps.
	He told me he had a couple of days free. Right in the middle of the week. Didn’t make a blind bit of difference to me. Every day’s a weekend for me! So on a train I hop, sleeping away a fortune of business-class travel. Out of the city I glide, all the way up the country, way up north, up into the bonnie highlands. I happily dream about a hunky otter in his latex speedo, grinning his winsome grin, wielding his riding crop and telling me just what a little toy I’m going to become. I wonder if he’d have a Scottish accent. That would be wonderful.
	The train dispenses me into the railway station. It’s Edinburgh or Glasgow, I forget which. The one that’s on the east side. Either way, it’s fucking cold as tits! I should have bought a coat. But no, I had to wear the skinny jeans and skin-tight muscle shirt. Not that I have any muscles of course. Buff’s never been for me. I wanna buff on the guy pounding me, not in the mirror.
	I really begin to regret my clothing choices when I get outside. Snow on the ground, and I’m bare-pawed! Yeep! This one at least is his fault all the way. Come bare-pawed, he says. I love bare paws, he says. I’ll clean them up nice and lovely when you get here, he says! And like the daft git I am, I does as he asks, because quite frankly the idea of wiggling my bare toes into the fucking filthy train carriage carpets, and then relaxing in some plush leather sofa while a solid hunk of otter stud kneels and licks them clean for an hour or so...well, that thought just makes me want to sneak into the station toilets and wank myself silly.
	I’m not left waiting long, but I’m fucking shivering when he pulls up. He’s driving some monstrously huge black four-by-four from China. Looks like a knockoff that’s got ideas above itself. Called a Hongadaboo or Changlee or something. I’ve never been good with cars. Who cares. It’s big and shiny and butch as fuck, and it’s all cream leather inside and holy hell does he look good sat in the driving seat, wearing absolutely nothing besides a shockingly small pair of denim cutoffs. He looks like his picture. Six foot and change tall. Early thirties. Built with gym muscles, not swimming muscles. One of the first things he said to me was to forget the stereotype. This guy doesn’t swim. He lifts. And fuck me does it show. His smile seems permanent. Lovely white teeth. Sweet eyes. Tempting bulge. And oh god, those paws, resting on the pedals, toes splayed. Thick, fleshy webbing. I want to get down there and nibble them right now, and who cares if there’s no way I’d squeeze down under the dashboard. Want want want!
	So yeah, I climb into the car. I’m satisfied he’s who he says he is and the photo wasn’t faked. I’m also thinking with my cock. And anyway, having a killer brother has its benefits; not many people mess with me and get away unhurt. So I figure it’s not really important to know his real name, or where he lives, or where he’s taking me. Nobody ever accused me of being a sensible mouse.
	He reaches over and gives my thigh a squeeze. I turn into a melty, gooey mess. Total embarrassment. I stammer like a giddy kid, like some jailbait getting his first flirty attention after sneaking into the nearest provincial gay bar. I don’t even really realise what I’m saying. Just some “Hi, pleased to meet you,” rubbish. I’m too deeply lost in his eyes. God I’m such a cliche.
	He just says “likewise” and lets go of my thigh. He puts the car into gear and off we go. I try not to stare at him, trying to pretend I’m looking out the window at all the historic snow-splattered stone buildings, pretending I’m some tacky tourist who wants to act like he’s interested in all that pap. In the end I give up the act, and just turn in my seat to stare right at him, no shame, watching him drive like a pro. I think dirty thoughts when his paw caresses the gear stick.
	A wild thought strikes me, and what the hell; I act on it. He undo my belt and turn fully sideways in my seat, resting my back against the door and lifting my legs up and across, placing my paws in his lap and using his thighs like a footrest. He takes his eyes off the road for a moment to look down. A nice long, lingering moment. I wiggle my toes. My normally white fur is grubby with dirt between my pink pads, which themselves are filmed with grime.
	“Looking forward to licking these?” I say.
	His eyes are back on the road. Probably a good thing. We’re shuffling through traffic. Wheels are spinning in the slush. Not ours, though. Big butch four-by-four. Powerful. Manly. Yada yada. Still, probably not a good day to drive distracted. Not gonna stop me tempting fate, though. I grind my heels against his crotch. Definitely a nice bulge. Getting plumper too, by the feel of it.
	“Oh yes. Very much so.” he says.
	He has! He has got a Scottish accent! I practically swoon.
	“I love your accent,” I say.
	“Thanks.” He glances away from the road again, shooting me that delicious smile. “Just don’t ask me to call you a bonnie lass and we’ll get along fine.”
	He turns down a quiet residential road. I get scared tingles in a good way. He might “rape” me in some dark alley. One can only hope!
	He pulls up outside some houses.
	“This your place?” I ask?
	“Nope. Wait here.” He opens his door and slides out from under my paws, getting out and closing the door behind him. I watch him circle round to the back of the car. He opens the boot. Cold air rushes in around me. He comes round to my door and opens it. I nearly fall out.
	“Come with me,” he says.
	I get out. Cold snow on my bare feet. I squeak in protest. He walks to the boot, and I follow. I nearly cream my jeans at what’s in there. Handcuffs, ballgag, blindfold, and lots of rope. Looks like I’m riding the rest of the journey in super economy class.
	I turn around and put my wrists together behind my back like a good little boy. The cuffs go on nice and tight, digging in a bit. He reaches over and brings the fat rubber ball to my lips. I open my mouth wide, then wider still. Fuck me this is a big one. I “mmph!” in protest, but he doesn’t ease up in pulling it hard into my mouth. Good thing too. I’d be pissed off if he went soft on me. I feel him buckle the gag, nice and tight, the leather strap cutting into my cheeks, the huge rubber ball stiff and unyielding, nestled in snug behind my teeth. I’m drooling already. My jaw is aching already. I let out another more emphatic “mmph!” for effect.
	He places a paw on my chest and shoves. I totter, and the backs of my legs hit the bumper, and down I go. I fall into the boot and smack my head against the floor. I hiss sharply, chewing the gag, but he just grabs my legs and yanks them in with me, then rolls me onto my stomach and starts lashing my ankles together with the rope. I wiggle my toes for him while he does. It doesn’t seem to distract him. He loops the loose end of the rope around the chain of my cuffs and pulls hard. I squeal into the gag. That really hurts! My back is bent in a tight hogtie. I can touch my heels with my fingers. He ties the rope off, well out of my reach, I’m happy to note.
	He stands there looking down at me for a while. I’m starting to shiver from the cold, but he doesn’t seem bothered by it. I’m practically pushing myself up off the floor with my straining hardon. I chew the gag and look up at him, waiting for the boot lid to close me in. My heart is racing. I’m loving this. I’m a kidnap victim! My arms ache. My back aches. My jaw really fucking aches. And god knows how long the ride will be.
	He grins. My eyes widen. “Mmmph!” I know that kind of look. My brother sports that look all the time. I love and fear that look. The look of sadism. Fuck me, I can’t wait to get to his place.
	The blindfold dangles from his paw. And then it’s over my eyes. Cool black leather, padded and soft against my eyelids, buckled snugly in place. Even so, I could probably wriggle enough to dislodge it. But I hear the thunk of the boot lid, and all sound is muffled, and the air gets just a little less chill. There’d be no point in getting the blindfold off. I wouldn’t be able to see a damn thing anyway.
	I roll onto my side and moan into the gag. I can feel myself leaking precum into my jeans. They’re too tight. They’re crushing my hardon and squeezing my balls. I flex my fingers and stretch my toes. The cuffs dig in. The rope doesn’t yield. I’m stuck. I’m maddeningly uncomfortable and fucking horny. I hear the engine start up and the car shudder around me, and I start to wonder just how big Scotland is and how far away his home could possibly be.

*     *     *

Hours and hours pass. At least, that’s what it feels like. Like I can have any real idea of time in here. I’m hot. I’m sweating. It’s stuffy in here. I’m drooling like a special needs kid, and every turn in the road jolts me about and makes my joints hurt. I want out of this hogtie so badly. I want to stretch. My head bumps against the boot lid as the car rocks through some potholes.
	And of course my cock is still hard, in its own little world of pain, crushed between my thighs and my tight jeans. Oh how good it would be to unzip and stroke it. Or better, shove it into the mouth of that damn otter and hold his ears while I paint his tonsils!
	Finally! The car judders and the sound of the engine dies away. I lift my head, listening carefully. I hear the car door thunk. Then some footsteps perhaps. It’s hard to tell. I could be imagining it. Then a loud clattering noise that goes on for a while. A garage door maybe? I guess we’re at his place. I wriggle in anticipation, readying myself.
	Then...nothing. Silence. No sound from the boot lid. No rush of cooler outside air. I’m still stuck in the fetid humidity of my own breath and sweat. I rock my body as much as I can, calling out muffled cries for attention. I bang my head against the boot lid, thud thud, trying to call out. Nothing. No response.
	I must have dozed off for a while. I come back to reality with a damp patch in the fabric beneath my cheek and an uncomfortable pressure in my groin. My cock’s gone soft, and I really, really have to pee. I try to wriggle again, to call out, to make some noise, but my joints feel like they’ve locked in place. I scream in pain as cramp assaults me, then break down into pathetic little sobs at the sound of my own voice, muffled and humiliated by the fat rubber ball stuffed achingly deep into my mouth.
	Still nothing. No sound. What the hell is going on? He can’t possibly have forgotten me in here, can he? It must be a game. He must be doing it on purpose, getting me scared and antsy. It’s working! But if he’s not careful, he’ll end up with a stink in his car. I squeeze my thighs tightly together and try not to think of waterfalls.
	More time passes. I don’t know how long. I can’t take it any more. I’m going to have to do it. God, this is so humiliating. He’ll be so mad at me. I pull the mental plug, let the flow go. I chew the gag and moan ever so quietly as I feel my cock surge, then the spreading wet heat in my crotch as I soak my jeans. On and on it goes, right across my thighs, down my legs, and bubbling out to soak into the fabric of the boot’s floor. The smell hits my nose. I tense up and instinctively try to turn my head away from the fumes, but there’s no escaping it. I’m stuck in an enclosed boot. The air fills up with the stench. I whimper into the gag. My bladder is empty, but now I have to suffer the smell. My eyes water! I pound my head against the boot lid and thrash about, squelching in the piss stain. Let me out you fucker!
	An hour passes. Or five minutes. I have no idea. My piss cools. My wet fur is clinging and uncomfortable, and my wet jeans feel like they’re welded to me. I roll about occasionally, trying to relieve the stress in various parts of my body. My wrists are throbbing and raw. My legs and arms keep cramping. My jaw feels broken. I’m thirsty. I must have drooled half my body weight past this damn gag. I feel dizzy and weak. I keep thinking I hear something, hope rising again, but nothing happens. Wishful thinking. Maybe I’m hallucinating? I start to sob. Miserable, cathartic release. I whimper into the gag, unintelligibly pleading to be free, beyond reasoning that nobody is listening.
	Then a thud, and a rush of cold, fresh air around me. Vague hints of light leak in around the edges of my blindfold. I lift my head and let out a wordless, meaningless wail of urgency through the gag.
	I hear his voice. That sexy, accented voice. But right now, I hate it. “Had an accident have we?”
	I growl through the gag and try to roll myself up over the edge of the boot hatch. I don’t care that I’d crack my head open if I succeeded and fell to the ground.
	“Do you want to spend another few hours in there?” he says, soft and quiet, but I can hear an edge of discipline in the voice. I go very still and shake my head quickly. “Nmmph! Nmmph!” I say, utterly failing to convey the simple word “no”.
	The blindfold must have slipped a bit. I feel him adjusting it on my face. Then his paws under my arms, hooking in my armpits and hefting me up. I feel like a toy, lifted up so easily. My knees bump against the boot hatch, then I’m swinging in empty air for a moment, before I feel hard floor under me. Concrete, perhaps. I’m laid down on my front. My cheek rubs against the floor. Yes, concrete. Dirty concrete, with loose grit. I grunt through the gag.
	The ropes around my ankles start to jolt and jostle. He’s untying me. Thank fuck! I lay still and quiet, not wanting to distract him. It takes an age. I wait impatiently. Finally, the hogtie loosens. He’s disconnected my wrists from my ankles, but not untied my ankles. I lower my paws to straighten my legs, and he doesn’t stop me. My toes touch the concrete.
	And I scream into the gag! My legs are on fire with cramp, and I roll about like a beached fish, struggling with the pain. My eyes stream under the blindfold, and I weep and blub. I’ve not got a single shred of dignity left. He makes sure of that; I hear him laughing. My shame is absolute. Piss-stained, sweaty, miserable and scared, totally helpless, rolling about on some dirty floor, sobbing like a baby.
	I settle down. Eventually. Just laying there, breathing. Panting more like. Still on my front. There’s dirt in the fur of both my cheeks. There’s even more dirt on my lips, caught up in my drool. I wait. I can feel him standing over me.
	I hear him shift. Then feel firm furless flesh against my cheek. A few hard somethings prod my ear. His toe claws! His paw! He’s got his paw on my face! I try to shift my head to slide away, but he presses down on me. I struggle, and he presses harder. I whine a protest into the gag. My cheekbone is grinding hard against the concrete. My skull feels like it’s going to crack. It hurts so badly!
	“I’m going to take your gag out,” he says. “You’re going to lick my paws. Both of them. And you’re not going to breathe a single word. Say anything, and the gag goes back in and you’ll get punished. Understand?”
	I lie still, unsure what to do. I wriggle and kick my feet. My head hurts! Oh god it hurts.
	“Just nod your head,” he says.
	I grunt with effort, straining to move my head. I manage to rotate it in a tiny nod. The hard grit from the floor grinds into my cheek like sandpaper. I fantasise that I can feel blood. Unlikely, but it still fucking hurts!
	He lifts his paw away. I lift my head up from the floor, holding it about an inch in empty, forgiving air. I want to plead through the gag. This is well beyond my comfort level! I want to safeword. Even though I know I never arranged a safeword, nor set any ground rules or limits. Stupid fucking mouse! In any case, silent obedience seems the best approach. Get the gag out, lick his paws, get a chance to beg some relief later.
	I feel his fingers at the back of my head, and I turn my head around to give him easier access to the buckle on the gag. He gets it loose and open smoothly, effortlessly, without the fumbling around like even most experienced tops end up doing. The strap tugs away from my face, and with a firm yank the slimy rubber ball pops free from my mouth. I keep my mouth held open, knowing it’s going to hurt when I close it. Slowly, slowly I ease it shut, whining quietly as the sharp ache shoots through my jaw.
	I’m given no time. I feel the firm press of his sole against my cheek once more, and I turn my head to meet it, blindly feeling with my nose. I inhale. Delicious manly musk. And dirt. Too much dirt. Dirt and the ozoney tang of melted snow. He presses down on my face, threatening to stand on my head again. I know what I have to do. And of course my cock is thinking for itself again, starting to stir under the cold, wet denim of my jeans, getting chubby from the slavish indignity of what I’m about to do.
	I part my lips and breathe a hot breath against his sole. Then my tongue, small and wet, smoothly extends to meet his sole. The first taste. The tang of dirt. Not too bad, if I’m honest. But knowing where it’s been...or rather, not knowing...makes me shudder. Dirt from some random streets, filled with who knows what, touching my tongue, dissolving into my saliva, and then disappearing down my gullet to become digested, to become part of me. I swallow, then extend my tongue again, slowly running it along his smooth pad, gathering up more of the grime, leaving his sole damp and tingly and clean. My cock’s as hard as it gets, wet denim clinging to it. I start to get into the headspace, feeling myself begin to spin and float in the dirty feeling of being a lowly slave to my shameful desires. And for a little while I forget my fear.
	I slowly work my way up towards his toes. This isn’t an easy thing to do. It involves me wriggling my whole body along the ground, scuffing my clothes and paws in the process, until I can get my nose in against his webbing. I rest there for a moment, enjoying the feeling. At that moment he clenches his toes, squeezing my nose between them, encasing it. My mouth waters. I desperately want to get that webbing between my teeth and nibble it! He starts pressing down on my head again, and I get the message; start licking. I pull my head back, nose free, and replace it with my tongue, lapping firmly between his toes, cleaning dirt and musk from his flesh and fur, going crazy with lust as I do. I feel like there’s more pre than pee in my jeans.
	By the time I’ve finished with his paw, my face fur is damp with my saliva, smelling of his foot musk, and no doubt streaked with faint smears of grime. I lay still as he shifts to his other foot, and I silently wish I wasn’t wearing a blindfold. The view from down here, beneath him, would be wonderful. He places his other paw on my face, dry and uncleaned, ready for the licking to start all over again.
	He presses harder this time. I struggle to move my head and get my tongue against his sole. I whimper. He presses harder. I quieten again, and he eases up again. I feel like I’m licking for an age. I zone out again, enjoying the feel of his paw even as I suffer my discomfort and distaste.
	He lifts his foot, eventually. I hear him walking around my. I tilt my head to follow him, listening closely. My head must still be swimming, as I don’t register him crouching down until I feel the still-wet rubber of the ballgag touch against my lips. I whine quietly, but open my mouth for it, wincing as my still sore jaw stretches wide once more. He hefts my head up to fit the buckle tight, then drops my head back with a thud that makes me squeal. I feel his grip, his paw holding the ropes bound around my ankles, and then my feet are hauled up. I start to shift on the floor. No no!
	My muscle shirt hikes up under my armpits, dragged up by the rough friction of the concrete. He’s dragging me along! I kick and wriggle, but I can’t get my feet free. The concrete grinds against my back, stinging, grazing. I yell abuse into the ballgag!
	A metal ridge bumps under my arse and rakes up my back, catching my shirt. I hear tearing fabric. Softer carpet slides beneath me. Still he drags me onwards. Another ridge, then a smooth, cool surface. Laminate floor. No, wait. A smell hits my nose. Rubber. Smooth, clean rubber flooring. He drops my feet. I hear a door thud closed. Then an explosion of light; my blindfold is pulled away.
	My eyes eventually adjust. The room is actually quite dark. Just not as dark as the blindfold. He’s standing over me, a dark mask against dim strip lights on a black painted ceiling. I don’t look at the room, not just yet, because he’s naked. Naked and hard. Nine inches and thick. I see him smirking in my peripheral vision. I feel like such a cock slut. But I don’t care, not really. Because right now all I really want is to suck on it, all previous cruelty forgiven and forgotten.
	He snorts in amusement. “See something you like?”
	I look away. Not because I want to. Because there’s only so much satisfaction I want to give him. I see the room. About the size of my living room. Black painted brick walls. Black rubber floor. A steel door in the corner, painted black. Metal cabinets all along one wall. They look like they belong in a mechanic’s workshop. I turn my head the other way. These are more familiar; bondage poles forming a lattice all along the other wall. Another cabinet, short and squat. An X frame in the corner. And in the other corner, a squat, expensive-looking cage with a padded floor. My kind of room. I nod, pointedly looking away from him.
	He moves into my view, walking over to the cabinets. I pull myself up into sitting position, my grunt of effort giving me away.
	“Lie down!” he says. I lay back down, very quickly.
	I watch him open the cabinet. I can’t make out much of what’s inside. Some drawers. Some loosely-stored leather bags and bits and pieces. Some lengths of rope hang on the inside of the door. He reaches in and...
	...fuck, scissors! I tense up. He walks up to me and I shake my head. “Mmmph!”
	“Now now, just relax little mouse.” He crouches down beside me. I get a fantastic view of his swinging erection, but I’m too focussed on the scissors to appreciate it. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to remove your clothes.”
	It’s my fucking clothes I’m worried about! These aren’t cheap clothes! I growl my protests through the gag. The mangled, muffled sound is embarrassing even to my ears. It wouldn’t scare a flea. He tucks the tip of a blade under the neck of my shirt and, with deft precision, starts to cut.
	I stay still, still muttering unhappy noise. He pulls the cut remains of my shirt out from under me.
	“Cute,” he says, flicking my nipple. Or rather, the shiny silver ring pierced through it. I glare!
	He starts cutting my jeans. I flex and stretch my toes, trying my utmost to distract him, but he seems singular in his purpose. My own cock springs free, hard and ready, the moment the fabric parts above it. Damn traitor! I try to rescue some pride by rolling away from him, but he plants his free paw on my tummy and presses me down with a level of strength I couldn’t hope to come near. My jeans, my lovely, stylish jeans, are soon gone like my shirt.
	I take stock. Naked, wrists in cuffs that are digging into my back beneath me, uncomfortable ballgag filling my mouth, at the mercy of a hunky, naked otter with a hardon. This could be a good or a bad thing, depending on what he has in mind. The main colour of my predicament is my complete helplessness. I close my eyes and huff around the gag. This reminds me of play sessions with my brother. Knowing his tendencies, I always worry that he might suddenly pull a knife. The same fear has me now; muted, tainted with judgement-clouding lust, but a fear all the same.
	I feel him shift, and I open my eyes to watch. Back to the cabinet he goes. The scissors are put away, neatly, back where they came from. He opens a second cabinet. Oh what a delicious sight. I can see only one item in it; a gleaming black latex bodysuit. My cock surges. He lifts it out and walks back over. I’m suddenly looking forward to this after all.
	In my excitement, I didn’t notice him pick up something else. He’s holding a plastic spray bottle. I make a quizzical noise. He lays the bodysuit down beside me and starts to shake the bottle.
	“Close your eyes, mouse. And you really want to keep them closed until I say otherwise.”
	I close them. I hear the “squit squit” noise of the spray bottle, then feel the cool tingle of misted liquid settle onto my feet. The sensation works its way up my legs, across my crotch, tickling my cock, up my tummy, my chest, then dousing my head and face. It’s a nice feeling. Pleasant, soothing, but confusing all the same. I make the same quizzical sound.
	“Roll onto your stomach. Keep your eyes closed.”
	I do as ordered, and the process repeats. A cool mist settling onto my fur, every spot covered from heels to head.
	“You can roll back now. Keep your eyes closed. You may feel a slight tingling.”
	I roll back. I almost open my eyes. I lay still for a few moments, waiting for the tingling. What is he doing? Conditioning my fur? Dying it? Oh hell, am I going to be going home pink?
	The tingle starts. On my balls of all places. I giggle into the gag. Slowly, the sensation spreads, out over my hips, up my timmy. My muzzle starts to itch. My ears too. Soon my whole body feels like it’s been doused in itching powder. My giggles become urgent squeals, and my eyes stay scrunched tightly shut while I fight to remember to keep them closed, not wanting to find out what the spray would feel like on my eyeballs!
	I notice something. Another feeling. Something on the floor underneath me. I press my heels into the floor and slide myself a little. I feel loose fur beneath my back. What on earth?
	A sudden whirring noise makes me flinch. I feel cold air rush over my body, wafting up and down from head to toes. More loose fur feeling. Oh no. Really no. Fuck him if he has!
	“You can open my eyes now.”
	I almost don’t dare too. I peek. One eye first. Oh god! I scream into the gag, angrier than I’ve ever been! The fucker’s stripped my fur off! Every last scrap of it! My whole body’s just bare pink skin! I’ll kill him! I’ll fucking kill him!
	I look up at him, and he’s laughing! Proper folding over belly laughing. I wriggle about on the floor, yanking hard against the cuffs, kicking at the rope around my ankles. I want to wring his neck! He simply takes a step back and stands, watching, smiling that damn smile. I give up and lie still. But my anger still burns!
	“Are you finished?”
	I glare. But I nod too.
	“Good. Now, I’m going to put this on you.” He nudges the latex bodysuit with his toe. “If you promise to behave, we’ll do it the easy way. Are you going to be a good boy?”
	I yell as loudly as I can, trying to make my thoughts clear through the gag. “Phffk ooh!”
	He shrugs. “Suit yourself.”
	Over to the cabinets again. I try once more to rip my wrists free of the cuffs. I wish I knew how to break my thumbs. He reappears, looming in my vision, and he’s holding another spray bottle.
	Squit...

*     *     *

I feel like I’m spinning on the spot. I’m convinced I’m a duck pond. I’m humming the theme tune to The Archers.
	Then my head sorts itself out. I’m upright. My arms and legs are spread. I’m fixed to the X frame, cuffed wrists and ankles. I feel a tight squeeze all over, and I look down, my head rolling heavily, and my vision blurring and struggling to keep pace.
I’m wearing the body suit. There’s a tailored hole over my crotch. My bare, denuded cock and balls hang free and limp. The zip is pulled halfway up my chest. My head is uncovered, but there’s a loose shape of rubber hanging down my chest, no doubt the hood ready for fitting. My feet and paws are inside shapeless rubber mittens, and my mouth is empty of that damn gag.
	“You’re awake.” The otter. But not in the room. I look around, trying to work out where he is. It takes me a moment to realise the voice is coming from all around me. “Hold tight. I’ll be down in a moment.” A click.
	A moment later, the door opens and he steps into the room. Still naked. His cock’s hanging and half hard, but as he strides over to me it’s already swelling back up. He’s holding another spray bottle.
	I open my mouth, inhaling deeply, ready to shower him with the worst, inventive abuse possible.
	“Squeak!”
	I blink. What the?
	“Squeak?”
	He reaches his paw up to my neck and taps a fingertip against my forehead. There’s something there, fixed to my skin. He moves his paw away just before my addled brain manages to suggest the thought of biting him.
	“Working nicely I see.”
	“Squeak?!”
	“It’s a vocal suppressor. From a friend of yours, actually. Or his company at least. Cost a pretty penny. You’ll only be making noises that are natural to your species while that’s on there.”
	I rock my body forward, my lunge caught short by my restraints.
	“Squeak! Squeak! Squeak! Squeak! SQUEAK!” Fuck sake. Such wonderful swearing reduced to timid little mouse noises. I close my mouth in what must be a frustratingly adorable angry little pout.
	“Hold still now, mouse. And close your eyes again.”
	I glare. No. Not this time. My eyes stay wide open.
	He holds the spray bottle up.
	“This is glue, mouse. Permanent glue. Seriously, close your eyes.”
	“Squeak?!”
	Because I still have the slightest hope of escaping here without being a complete messed up cripple...I close my eyes. After all, it can’t possibly be permanent glue, right? That doesn’t really exist, does it?
	“There’s a good boy. Hold still now.”
	I feel the mist settle on my chest and face, then across the back of my bald head. A touch of heavy rubber, first at my nose, then peeling over my muzzle and closing up over my face completely. I hear a zip, and feel the rough tugs of it being pulled up. The squeezing feeling that has my whole body in its grip now has my head. There seems to be an opening for my mouth. I can breathe clear air. And there must be a nose hole too. But my ears are crushed flat against my head, pinned under the rubber. I can hear, but only just.
	“You can open your eyes now.”
	I can see. Well, partially. There’s something over my eyes. Frosted glass. I see the otter’s blurred shape, as if through a thin layer of milk. I move my head, feeling the rubber move with it, already bonded to my skin by the feel of things. I exhale a distraught noise, once again rendered into a shameful “squeak”.
	“Beautiful. What a pretty rubber pony you’ll make. But for now, let’s focus on the essentials.”
	I feel his paw on my cock, warm and soft. I lean my head back and try to stay silent. His fingers close around my limp shaft and start to stroke. I fight him, as much as I can, but I know from the beginning that it’s hopeless. I’m soon hard, leaking and needy, and even through the murky plastic I can tell he’s grinning.
	“Another toy from our mutual friend’s company.”
	I feel a cold touch at the tip of my cock, then sliding down my shaft to nestle at the base. It feels like metal. A metal tube. Something wet and slick rings the base, forming a seal around my shaft.
	“Squeak!”
	A cock clamp! Fuck no. He can’t possibly be that evil! Musuko tried a cock clamp out on me once. Once! I lasted barely an hour before I was kissing his feet and begging for him to remove it. By the end of the second hour I was out of my mind and screaming, crying, offering anything to get out of it. I didn’t make it to the third hour before safewording.
	And now I’m getting fitted with one again, without a safeword, and without a contrite kitty to offer me his rear once it’s removed. He might not even remove it. Ever! My heart starts to race. I can feel the gel solidifying, sealing the tube onto my cock. The brushes are there somewhere, ready to start. I just know it. He’s drawing this out. I can see him move. His arm coming up. The dark shape in his paw. The remote. Ready to...
	...I spasm on the frame. Highest setting! It must be! There’s no way even Musuko would make this thing go any higher than this! It feels like toothbrush bristles, scrubbing all over my cock, tip to root! Oh fuck oh fuck!
	“Squeeeaaak!”

*     *     *

The bastard left me like that. Two hours he left me. He told me so himself when he got back. He took me down off the cross and pulled me down onto all fours. I couldn’t stay up. I collapsed on my face. I smacked my paws against the cock clamp, but it was no good. The thing was scrubbing away. It had got me to the edge of orgasm in no time, and then just...slowed down. Just a little bit. Then a little more. Always adjusting, making minute changes, keeping me on the edge. I couldn’t stand it. I don’t think I was thinking clearly before long. It was like being in sensory deprivation. My mind went to all sorts of random thoughts. I thought about supermarkets, and alien warships, and horses playing Monopoly. It was like being drugged. I felt broken.
	He offered me water in a dish. I must have drunk it, because my muzzle is still wet. My muzzle, hah. The rubber, I mean. The rubber skin I’m now glued into. I can feel the water dripping down, occasionally wetting my lips. I wasn’t offered use of the bathroom, and had no way of asking for it. I needed a piss, and still do. But with the cock clamp still keeping me dizzyingly hard, I wonder whether I’ll even be able to. Perhaps. If I can, it’ll make a mess.
	I’m in the cage, on my back, wrists and ankles cuffed and chained to the four corners. It’s relatively comfortable, considering the circumstances. The padding is nice beneath my back, and I’m warm. But the cock clamp is still on full strength, and I can feel the feelers of wandering thoughts probing up into my mind once more. I’m hungry. I’m exhausted. I need a piss. I’m horny and I really don’t want to be.
	But above all, I’m scared. Because just before turning out the light, he said one last thing to me.
	“I know you were only planning on spending a few days with me, mouse, but I’ve got other plans. Plans of a more...permanent, long-term nature. This holiday of yours is going to turn out to be a very long one indeed. Sweet dreams.”
	I replied in the only way I could.
	“Squeak!” 
Fuck.