CKC
By Musuko

“Good afternoon, United Ambiotech Servicedesk, Myles speaking, how may I help?”
I twiddle my pen above my notepad, resisting the urge to doodle. I must not doodle. The Performance Improvement Plan stares at me from below my monitor: must try harder not to waste company resources. The voice from my telephone headset fumbles through an explanation of yet another failed login attempt, and I ready myself with my prepared script.
“May I take your name please?” A pause. My fingers clatter on the keyboard. “How do you spell that? Thank you. May I take your username, please? Thank you. How long ago did you last successfully log in?”
My paw moves unbidden, back to my notepad. The pen writes “PEBCAK” and I try not to sigh down the line.
And so my day passes, like the day before, and the day to come. Login failures. Server failures. Connection failures. Constant, unremitting, boring failures. I suppose I can’t complain, though. I’m lucky, really. Unlike so many of my friends, who are off stacking shelves or signing on, I have a steady Monday to Friday job, with adequate pay, with no stresses to take home, I can potter on the internet when it’s q-word (the opposite of busy, a word not said lest it disappear, like the Lady), and then there’s David.
David the six-foot-and-change tall milk snake, smooth and firm, bipedal (but with a long, tapered tail meriting a special ergonomic office chair to accommodate it), with eyes that melt, and a quiet, soothing voice that turns unhappy callers into apologetic fans.
If I scoot to the left just so, I can see over my monitor, past Karen (when she’s in), past Jenny, past the printers, and see half of the back of David’s head. He sits on the route between my desk and the drinks machine (free cups of hot brown almost tea and could be coffee), and I just so happen to get awfully thirsty whenever he’s in.
I don’t talk to him. I just look. Occasionally, when he’s up and about, off to the loo or to get a drink himself, I nod and say hi, and he does the same. I wish I could do more. Isn’t that always the way? I know a few of his likes and interests from snooping around the net, but how do you just spring that into conversation without giving away said snooping? And, sadly, I’ve not found him on any of the relevant profile sites (unlike a few colleagues in the building). He doesn’t have a girlfriend, but I don’t know if he’s gay either. So what can I do?
So I just glance, and daydream, and imagine. Sometimes he’s a fiery, dominant top. Sometimes he’s a panting submissive in disguise. But mostly, he cradles me on the sofa and soothes me with that sonorous voice of his.
And I wonder. I wonder if, with the planets aligned correctly, and the right level of “fuck the consequences” in my mind (or booze, that works too), I might ask him out one day. I just need a little sign, a little hint, that a plain old brown and beige striped cat (sadly, not a big cat. Just regular. Pint-sized. Ordinary) like me can turn his head. Just a glance back when I’m looking at him. Just a recognition that he sees me looking, and he’s looking back, and a smile to say his thoughts are wandering close to mine.
I turn twenty-five in a few weeks. Perhaps I should do it then? I can always hand in my notice if it goes wrong and I can’t stand the shame.
As the day ticks on past five, with my calls petering off to a trickle, then to nothing at all, and with my clock-off time still two hours away, and my colleagues filtering away one by one until it’s just me holding the fort on the late shift until the night desk arrives, I turn as always to the internet to pass the time. I read up on an ancient empire. I divert off on a tangent to learn about some sophisticated siege weapon. Then cannons. Then penicillin. Then the dance rituals of an extinct tribe. Then an undersea atomic test. Then an aircraft carrier. It always, somehow, leads me to aircraft carriers in the end. It remains a mystery to me.
There’s only so much I can absorb in my bored half-interest before I just zone out and start staring at the ceiling tiles instead.
I could have a wank. Done that before. Altogether too many times. Pornography is blocked by the work’s filters, of course, but artwork, oddly, is not. I could have a little browse, see what’s new...
I slip my shoes off and put my socked paws up on the desk, reclining my chair right back until I’m in an almost horizontal sprawl. I can just about reach the mouse like this. I click about the recent posts, not really caring too much if something catches my eye. My free paw rubs idly at my crotch, just in case it’s needed.
My paw is just about working its way into my fly, encouraged along its path by a particularly-enjoyable drawing of a bunny girl (I’m an equal-opportunist pervert) being tickled in stocks, when I spot it.
I have a private message.
Maybe someone wants a commission? My drawings have been getting better, and I have opened myself to them. I look at their profile first. Blank. Well...that still might be...
I open the message. Untitled. The content is just a web address, a garbled string of letters and numbers.
Well fuck. I know a dodgy link when I see it. Like hell am I infecting my work computer with something.
I pause, however, over the delete button. Three letters catch my attention, right at the start of the address.
“CKC”.
There are rumours, legends, mythical stories spoken in hushed tones, related to those three letters. Those who speak of CKC talk of magical devices of erotic pleasure (and sometimes pain). The rumours circulate in the bars and clubs, because they die online: posts get deleted within milliseconds. Videos get taken down. Websites disappear. And sometimes, scariest of all, so do people.
“CKC”. The letters stare at me. Perhaps it’s just a random chance assemblage of letters, meaning nothing. Maybe. Or maybe something else? What do they say about cats and curiosity? It’s true. I stare at those letters and, with fear rising in my chest, I click on them.
The page goes blank. My heart thuds. I feel the heat of panic in my fur. I imagine the ground-swallowingly humiliating meeting that is surely to come. “Can you explain why your computer came to be infected with the BigPurpleSingingPenises virus?” I brace myself.
A page loads. Black. White text.
“Welcome to CKC”
This has got to be a hoax.
“Would you like to continue to the store, Myles Carver?” Yes. No.
The heat in my fur becomes a chill. I bang my ankle in my flurry to sit upright. I stare at the screen. There is my name. Myles Carver. How the fuck...
I stop myself. Relax. Breathe. You’ve seen this before, remember? Silly little scare sites that read your cookies or something. It’s doing something like that. Metadata stuff. You work in IT, you know some of this stuff. Well, a little bit. Enough to know that clever things like this are normal.
It’s okay. Breathe. Breathe. There you go. Right...
Just a silly little hoax site. Nothing to be afraid of. I click yes and the page refreshes...and loads up an ordinary-looking sextoys shopping website, exactly like any other, selling the kinds of overpriced lumps of latex that are currently sitting next to lube in my bedside cabinet.
Just another scam. Just cashing in on the CKC rumour. Crap.
I browse around anyway. Whips. Gags. Dildos. Plugs. I’ve seen it all before. Scroll scroll scroll, down I go. Endlessly, it seems. Haven’t these guys heard of categories?
Everything seems to just be lumped in togeth...
I stop.
The prices just became ridiculous.
As have the products.
I click on one. A picture of a canine-shaped dildo next to what look like two jelly cock rings, one red, one blue, all set on a red velvet backdrop. Very tasteful (well, ish), very ordinary.
 
Parallel Intimacies 6000 (male version).
 
£23,999. Free upgrade for Parallel Intimacies 5000 owners (see terms and conditions).
 
Feel every caress of your toy of choice in ways you have never experienced before. The Parallel Intimacies 5000 is an easy-to-install upgrade to conventional latex or metal dildos or plugs that provides the same bodily feedback as our LiveTouch Penetrator range, at a fraction of the cost! Fit the blue ring to the base of the toy, and fit the (adjustable) red ring around the base of you penis, and you will feel everything the toy feels, as if it were a part of you!

Features:

Removal lock: prevent your sub from removing the red ring and force them to feel what you want them to feel, whether they want to or not.

Toggleable safety parameters: ensure that no extremes of pressure or temperature are felt by the wearer...or not. The choice is yours.

300m range for sensation

Also included is a remote tracker, for locating errant toys, with a detection range of up to 10km, absolutely free! (see terms and conditions).
 
I blink, and reread.
“Twenty-four grand! The hell?”
This can’t be real. I mean, this is CKC. This is what the rumours all talk about. Magical sex toys. But it can’t be the actual CKC. These can’t be actual toys. CKC can’t actually be a real thing.
I keep telling myself all this, whilst really thinking “I wish I had twenty-four grand”. Then I see something, and my eyes must have done fair impressions of dinner plates. Up at the top of the screen.

Your balance: £100,000.00
 
“No way.” What the hell is this?
I stand up, darting my head up to peer over the desk dividers. If someone is pranking me, they’d be watching. But there’s nobody. An empty office. I get up to prowl around between the desks, hoping to catch someone ducked down somewhere out of sight, giggling away. Still nothing.
	I return to my chair and slump down into it. The screen still showed that baffling page.
	“Well,” I say, then struggle to think of anything else.
	I start clicking around, looking at the products. Some of them are more fanciful than others, and the prices range up into the millions. I scroll right back up to the top of the list, to the cheaper end, where the more conventional toys live. It couldn’t hurt to place an order, could it? It wasn’t as if it had my credit card details or anything. And even if it did, they’re welcome to steal away my £200 limit if they were really that desperate! And my bank account has pennies in it. And my email accounts already get plenty of spam. And it’s not as if this thing even has my address. Although, it did know my name. Hmm.
	I settle on my conclusion: a colleague is pranking me. Trying to embarrass me. Well, time to call their bluff! I start clicking on toys, half at random, half genuinely selecting things I like the look of. I soon have a collection selected that’d make the hardiest kink fiend raise an approving eyebrow, and I click my cursor on the “purchase” button.
	Are you sure? Yes.
	Thank you for your purchase.
	Your Balance: £12,016.00
	“Huh,” I say. It didn’t ask me for my address. All the more reason to consider it a prank. I close the page. And after a while of pondering, my feet back up on the desk, my paw idly drumming my hip, my attention drifts back towards the artwork, and I’m soon having a sneaky work wank.

My 7am alarm buzzes, and I press the button that turns it into a 7:10am alarm and roll back over.
	My nose bumps something hard, and I’m instantly awake. A large cardboard box sits incongruously amongst the duvet on the normally-empty half of my double bed. I flail away from it with an undignified squawking noise and fall in a tangle of bedding onto the floor, tugging the duvet and shuffling the box half a foot towards me. In my confused state it looks as if the box is making a lunge towards me, and I squawk again, scrambling onto all fours, kicking away the clutches of the bedding, and run in a terrified flounce into the bathroom, wearing nothing but my sleeping boxers.
	I sit on the toilet and brace the door with my feet, waiting for my heart rate to drop.
	Did...did I see letters on the box? An emotion grips me. Not fear, exactly. Nor is it plain astonishment, although that word does come close to describing it. In its failure to cope, my brain decides simply to shut down and let me creep back to my bedroom in a stupefied, emotionless state.
	A box. Cardboard. Sturdy. About a metre along each length. Brown.
	“CKC stamped in bold black letters.
	And a shipping invoice in a waterproof slip, taped to the side.
	I look at the windows. Locked. I retreat from the bedroom and creep downstairs. My living room basks in the early morning light, streaming in through a very locked window and the frosted glass of a very locked front door. I tour the house, checking everything. Locked locked locked.
	My 7:10am alarm goes off and I have a minor heart attack. Turning it off necessitates returning to my bedroom, and once again staring down the box.
	If it’s a prank, it’s a very elaborate one. By 7:12 I decide on opening, and at 7:13 I lift open the cardboard flaps to peer inside.
	Packing peanuts. Lots and lots of packing peanuts. I almost don’t dare to delve further. But, of course, I do. And the first thing my paw reaches, grips, and pulls free.
	Ultralatex Capture Pellets (pack of six)
	Six black capsules, the size and shape of Goliath’s headache pills, mounted in a blister pack with instructions on the back. I remember seeing this thing on the website. It cost fifty grand! And here it was, in the flesh, in my paw. And it might very well be a real thing; who would go so far as to make fake toys and break into my house to plant them just to further a practical joke?
	My mind reels with the stories of CKC. I try to imagine that shady, secretive organisation in my house, in my bedroom, placing this box next to my innocent, sleeping form. I get goosebumps and drop the pack back into the box. Where’s my phone?
	“Hi Jane. Yeah, not so good I’m afraid. I’m still in bed. I tried to get up and ended up having to vomit. Yeah, I don’t think I’m going to be able to make it in. Haha, yeah I wish it was a hangover; at least then I’d have had some fun before feeling bad! Okay, thanks Jane. I’ll ring you later about coming in tomorrow.”
	I hold the power button until it goes off, then toss the phone into my clothes pile. With that sorted, I return to the box and begin a proper, thorough, methodical search.
	Eventually, with it all laid out in front of me on the bed, the box discarded to the other end of the room, I am able to sit and look at it all...and whistle.
	“So that’s what ninety grand’s worth of CKC toys looks like.” About the same value as my little house.
	I reach for the first box. It was the first one I’d selected on the site. The MultiZeno. I only vaguely recall the text on the site. Something about multiple forms. I rip open the cardboard to inspect five grand’s worth of metal, plastic, rubber and mysterious technology.
	It looks for all the world like a plain old vibrator dildo. Eight inches long. Sensible girth. Black latex, little button and knob on the base. I have three just like it in a drawer three feet from me. But those three most definitely don’t have little animal symbols arrayed around their dials. Those three buzz. This one...
	...I turn the dial and click the button. There’s a soft “shoof” noise, and the latex shaft doubles in length, doubles in thickness, and swells with distinct ridges. I manage not to swear or drop it. At this stage, I’m feeling as if my surprise reserves are depleted, and nothing can shock me any more. Well, not too much at least.
	I turn the now-hefty shaft over and peer closer at the dial. The pointer rests on a small icon shaped like a horseshoe.
	“Nice,” I breathe.
	Click. Let’s see what canine looks like. The shaft shrinks, but not by much. The ridges disappear, but a hefty knot swells in their place. Perhaps the creator was a canine and thought pretty highly of himself and his species.
	Click click click. Feline. Much smaller. Down to about seven inches. The top few inches down below the head ring with small downwards-facing barbs. I feel myself on the cusp of a blush. It looks almost exactly like my own.
	Click. Snake.
	I do drop it this time.
	“Holy fuck!” I yelp, and then try to imagine David carrying something like that...correction, those, around in his trousers. I never knew. I scramble to my phone, turn it back on, and do a very hasty search on the internet, soon learning about the word “hemipenis”.
	I drop my phone, stunned, and quietly click the toy back to a more reassuring rabbit setting.
	“I think...I think I’m just going to look at something else now.”
	I don’t remember selecting the next item. It looks like a small metal button, about an inch across, with a non-sticky gel-like surface on one side. I breeze through the instructions. Something about modulation, modification, voice control. Place gel surface against forehead. Press to lock. Press and hold to unlock.
	I hold it against my forehead and tentatively move my paw away. The button sticks in place.
	Voice control huh? I flick through the pages, looking for a list of commands, finding nothing. Hmm.
	I say “turn on.” Or rather, I try to say this. Instead, what I actually say is...
	“Mew!”
	I clap my paws over my mouth. Slowly, very slowly, I move them away and try again.
	“Mewwww!”
	I fumble at the button before I remember: press and hold. It pops off without leaving the slightest bit of residue.
	“Testing...oh thank fuck.”
	I look through the instructions, a little more thoroughly this time. Oh. Not voice control. Voice control. Forced to make only the sounds of your species. Cats mewl, dogs bark, mice squeak.
	Now I do blush. And, with only a small amount of hesitation, I press the button back to my forehead and lie back on the bed, closing my eyes, my fingers sliding down into my boxers.
	“M-mew,” I breathe, feeling a goosebumpy shiver of shameful arousal at imagining being forced into such humiliating pseudo-muteness. I grip my cock and start to stroke. It’s not difficult. My interrupted morning hardon is ready and present.
	“Mewwww...m-mew...MEW!”
	My paw is sticky. So is my tummy fur, and my boxers soak up still more of it. The potent scent of cum reaches my nose and I sigh out another animalistic mewl. That felt good.
	And then I think, in my post-orgasm fog, of another item I remember ordering. In fact, two items. I rummage around for them.
Addiction
Flexibility
I hold them in both paws. Two little packs of pills. One that provides an hour-long addiction to the first taste experienced after taking the pill. The other provides up to six hours of artificially-induced suppleness. The package shows a photo of a cat not unlike myself, bent over and sucking his own cock, clearly enjoying himself.
I tear them both open and pop a pill from each. Then, before I can change my mind, I lick the cum on my paw.
	My pupils dilate.
	An ache grips my stomach.
	I start to shiver.
	I groan. “M-mewwww.”
	Ow. This hurts. Ow. I reach for the packages with trembling paws, but my eyes fix instead on the wet stain on the back of my paw. I feel sick. I feel like throwing up. And that wetness begs for my tongue, and the smell of it makes my head throb. I lap at my fur and moan out another mewl. The pain fades. The ache subsides. The shaking stops. I feel normal. I sigh.
	And then the feeling comes slowly back. I moan again and start wiping up the cum from my tummy. It lets me pass a few painless minutes. Soon I’m wriggling out of my boxers, trying not to cry from the pain, and stuffing the damp fabric into my mouth to suck out my juices, the heat of a blush burning in my face, my shamed noises emerging only as adorable feline mewls.
	And soon, very soon, I’m laid on my back with my body up and over me, my knees easily resting on the bed above my head, my own cock thrust all six inches down into my mouth, my saliva bubbling and dribbling down my muzzle as I franticly suck my own cock, feeling my stomach burn and my limbs tremble, desperate to taste my own cum.
	The hour passes. A whole fucking hour of sucking my own cock until it’s red and sore, until my throat is croaky and hoarse, until my breath reeks of cum. My face is soaked in saliva. My own saliva. And the pain finally eases, the craving subsides, and I’m left laid in a ragdoll heap on my bed, my balls spent after god knows how many unwilling orgasms. I drift off into a nap amongst the scattered toys.
 
I awake to the buzz of my phone. I’m being called. I don’t recognise the number. Still exhausted, still groggy, I paw at the screen and lift it to my ear.
	“Mew?” Fuck!
	I press at the button on my forehead, listening intently to the phone as I do. Who have I just humiliated myself to? Did they notice? I wrench the button off and fling it away.
	I cough. “Hello! Hello, sorry. Myles speaking?”
	“Hello Myles.”
	A quiet, soothing voice. My whole body locks up into a panic.
	“Who is this?” I quaver, knowing exactly who it is. Oh my god, is this really happening? How did he get this number?
	“It’s David, from work.” Oh my god, it is happening! “I got your number from your manager. She said you’re home sick today. How’re you feeling?”
	“Fine, fine” I squeak. “I mean...uh. My stomach’s still feeling pretty bad. But feeling better. Thank you for calling! I mean, uh...you didn’t have to. It was very nice of you! How are you?”
	I don’t hear much, but perhaps a small exhale of breathe; a silent chuckle. “She gave me your address too. I didn’t realise you lived so close. I can pop over after work if you like. I’ve got some old family secrets that really help a stomach ache.”
	I look around the bed. I think about double cocks. My throat clamps up tight.
	“That would be really nice, thank you,” I manage, eventually.
	“Great. I’ll see you at six.”
	Beep. Call ended.
	David...
	...my brain pauses, unable to comprehend. It reboots.
	David is coming. Here. To my house.
	I sit in silence for a long moment.
	“Shit! I’ve gotta tidy up!”

I throw myself around the house in a frenzy of cleaning and tidying. I’m not a messy type, but what normally looks clean to your own eyes becomes a cesspit when someone your heart thumps for is due to visit. The smell of bleach lingers in the kitchen. Lemon hangs in the air in the bathroom. Spring blossoms waft up from my bed. I flop down onto my sofa for a breather. Twenty past five. Phew.
	I catch my own scent. I reek of sweat and cum. Shower time!
	A further problem presents itself as I wash. My cock, dormant since its earlier exhausting workout, decides to pop up and say hi. My anticipation for David’s arrival must be involved. I try to ignore it, but the stubborn thing refuses to behave.
	Towelling off, I return to the box in my bedroom. I remember something that might help.
	Cock clamp.
	I turn the gleaming metal tube in my paw, feeling the weight of it, inspecting the smooth rubber-like surface on the inside. A chastity device of sorts, with a small pull ring near the base, looking disturbingly like one you might find on a hand grenade, but my memory of reading its description on the website reassures me that this is just the key: remove it to lock the tube, replace it to unlock. I can’t see how it’d actually lock, but my experience so far with these toys has me not questioning too deeply the magic within.
	Importantly, the tube is just the right size for my flaccid cock, and no bigger. Hiding away my hardon for David’s visit would be a very good thing.
	Ice. I fetch ice from my freezer and endure the wince-worthy burn of cold until my cock is limp. Then, working fast before it can warm and recover, I slide the smooth embrace of the metal tube of my cock, snuggling the base of it down to the root of my cock, then pull the key.
	A tightness grips my shaft instantly, bringing a gasp to my lips. I give an experimental tug to the cock clamp. My cock tugs with it. The base of the tube and the base of my cock are welded as one. The website said nanites. I vaguely understand what that means. Magic with machines. Ultimately, right now, it just means that my cock is snugly secured away inside the small metal tube, only dully able to feel the vibration of my tapping to the outside of it.
	Safe and discreet, prevented from embarrassing me with tented clothing. I set the ring key on my bedside table. Time to get dressed.

Twenty to six, and the thought dawns on me that I’m meant to be ill. Shit. I scramble through my drawer of bits and bobs and pull out the various pain and indigestion pills and scatter them over my coffee table. I throw a blanket over my sofa and put a random film on the DVD player.
	Then I flop. And wait. Knots in my stomach, almost as if I really am sick.
	The doorbell. I spring to my feet. Then pause. An ill cat would creep to the door. I count ten seconds, then open the door, peering around the door, trying to look tired.
	David’s gentle, concerned smile greets me. “Good evening. How are you feeling?”
	My knees threaten to drop me to the floor, and my stare locks with his. I grip the door and mumble through some confused greeting that, as luck would have it, convincingly sounds like I’m fogged on drowsy medication and not, as truth would have it, suddenly testing the tight confines of the cock clamp.
	I step to the side and wave him inside. He steps into my home with graceful ease, gliding his tall body through my door. I close it behind him and watch him look around my home. His gaze lingers on my fabricated nest on the sofa.
	“Have you been drinking a lot of water?” he soothes, turning to look at me. The same smile melts me a little more.
	“Yeah. Some. I should sit down.”
	I slump into the sofa and put my paw over my eyes, feigning wooziness to avoid having to look at him; I feel that if I do, the whole charade might collapse and I’d do something daft like fall at his feet and profess my infatuation. I shift my thighs together, clenching against the tiny metal prison keeping my dignity somewhat intact.
	I feel the sofa shift next to me, and I flinch when my ankles are gripped.
	“Relax. This will help you feel better.”
	Oh god. David is sat on my sofa, and has just laid my feet in his lap. I tense up, curling my toes. I imagine he misinterprets my spike of fearful excitement as straight prudery, because he lets go of my ankles.
	“I can stop if you think it’s weird,” he says.
	“No…it’s okay. If it’ll make me feel better.”
	His smooth, soft fingertips trace down my socked soles. I flex my toes in a ticklish response. The pressure increases, as he rotates his fingertips in firm circles, massaging the flesh of my pads. I splay my toes, stretching the thin black socks into translucency. I bite my lip and stifle a small noise. An odd feeling stirs in my thighs, like they’re being exercised. Then his thumbs grind against the arch of my feet, and I stifle a small gasp. That same throbbing, tingling tension migrates to my cock, and I feel myself strain against the cock clamp.
	“Is that helping?” he says. “It’s an old family trick. Pressure points.”
	I strangle a squeaky noise in my throat and just nod.
	His fingers roam my feet, and I sink further down into the sofa, laid in a fever of barely-hidden arousal. Fuck, this is a dream. A nightmare, maybe? Being teased by the object of my obsession. Unreal at any rate.
	He’s talking. I barely notice. His smooth, silky voice rolls around my head, devoid of words. Just a sound. A gentle, melodic sound. Wait, what? I open my eyes, trying to focus, trying to hear what he’s saying rather than just feeling the tone.
	My vision resolves itself just long enough to see the small button-like silver object on his throat, and the relaxed, father-like smile on his face, before my eyes helplessly close.

Waking from sleep, you can never pinpoint the exact moment you become aware of the world. I rise from the grog, my eyes slowly opening. I see my bedroom ceiling, and I tense in a panicked moment, my head rushing with all the terrible scenarios my imagination can produce.
	I lift my head. Normal so far. I’m clothed. I’m unbound. I’m in my bedroom. My belongings appear conspicuously unstolen. My fears morph into confusion.
	Sitting is easy. No headache. No hangover-like after-effects. No drugged feeling. Did I just fall asleep? Right there, in front of David? Oh lord.
	I swing my feet off the bed and stand. Perfectly normal, not feeling wobbly at all. The CKC box is still where I left it, hidden under a blanket next to the wardrobe. Perhaps I’m worrying for noth…
	The ring on my bedside table is gone.
	What.
	My paw flies to my crotch. Under my clothes, the cock clamp maintains its implacable grip on my cock, keeping it unwillingly soft and confined. I tug at it through my clothes. No key. No key!
	I rush downstairs. The house is empty. David is gone.
	Okay, stay calm. Think this through reasonably. I passed out. Probably just from stress. David carried me upstairs and laid me out on my bed to rest.
	I pause in my thoughts, thinking of that strong serpent carrying my sleeping body like a babe.
	So he puts me to bed. And then…what? Steals the ring and leaves? No, that won’t be it. How would he even know what it is? It doesn’t look like a key, and it doesn’t look like jewellery. Perhaps he knocked it and it’s just fallen down behind the table?
	Back upstairs I fly. I search all around the table. I strip the bed and shake out the bedding. I pull the table away from the wall, then the same with the bed. I search under them. I check in the drawers. I widen further to scour the bedroom, then the bathroom, then downstairs, just in case. Hope fades. It’s not anywhere I can find it.
	I sit on the bed, panting, paws limp in my lap. I take a deep breath, then exhale.
	You’ll just have to wait, I tell myself. Just…survive one night, then speak to David at work tomorrow. Just casually ask if he’s seen it. You’ll be fine.

David’s chair is empty the next day.

And the next.

The weekend passes in a frantic mess of anxiety. I shun the CKC box and its temptations. I avoid the internet and its inherent sexual torments. My balls remind me more and more of their presence, and my cock protests its imprisonment.

David’s chair is empty on Monday. I casually ask his manager where he is. He’s just disappeared. I ask if I can have his home number? He gives me the number, but tells me it’s coming up as invalid. I try it anyway. Invalid.

On Tuesday, his desk is cleared of his belongings and his nameplate. I try not to sob.

I lay in bed at three in the morning on Wednesday. My morning hardon is fighting the cock clamp, and I suffer as an innocent casualty of their struggle. I beat my paws at the metal tube, desperate to knock any kind of sensation into my aching cock. I can’t live like this. It’s torture. It’s hell.
	I turn the light on. My thoughts wander through fevered fantasies. Sex. Sex. Sex. I feel the mouth-watering feeling of a starving person, if such a thing can be felt for sex. My thoughts are getting more difficult to wrench away from fantasies of fucking, being fucked…
	I freeze. Why the hell didn’t I think of it before? I leap from my bed, bounding naked apart from the damned cock clamp, over to the wardrobe. I fling aside the blanket and scrabble my claws at the flaps of the CKC box, fumbling it open. I’ve cum from being fucked before! And this box is full of toys that can help me do just that!
	The packing peanuts greet me. And right on the top is a slip of paper.
	With a telephone number.
	And three words.
Call me. David.

I cling to the telephone receiver. It's my lifeline. I wait as it rings, my ear pressed hard against the plastic. Hopeful. Waiting.
 	The voice that makes me tingle comes on the line. "Hello, this is David."
 	"David! It's Myles! Listen, I know it seems..."
 	"This is a recording. Please listen carefully."
 	Shit!
 	"Please get a pen and paper ready, as you will hear the following address only once. Be at this address tomorrow at noon."
 	I have no time to be confused. I scramble for something to write with. An almost-dry ballpoint in the bottom of a drawer, and a takeaway menu. David's voice is halfway through the street name, and I scramble to catch up.
 	I stare at the address. That's about fifty miles away. Was David commuting that far every day?
 	"Be sure you are there," his voice continues. "You will not get a second chance."
 	I hold the silence of the phone to my ear for a full minute, before reluctantly setting it down. What the hell is all this about? David has my key, and he knows of the box, and he's set up this bizarre voicemail seemingly just for me. I tight feeling spreads in my chest, and I start to feel like how I imagine a mouse in the desert must feel when it sees the pair of serpent eyes watching it.
I read the address again. It's a trap, but I have no choice. My paw moves again to the torturous grip of the cock clamp.

My car rattles its way down the motorway, as fast as I dare. Visions of awkward explanations in a hospital come to my mind with every lorry I pass. My senile satnav guides me, eventually, to the address, and as the motorway fades behind me and the countryside rolls past with increasing remoteness, my dread builds.
I’ve read stories like this. The hero winds up enslaved in some horrifying sex dungeon. In stories, it’s a sexy read. But in reality? The butterflies are waging war in my stomach. Oh god oh god.
I slow to a crawl as I approach the last road. An Audi flashes angrily and overtakes. I’m too distracted to pay much attention. The village around me is altogether too affluent. It worries me. David’s a low-paid desk agent like me. How can he live here? Wealthy parents, perhaps? And in any case, this is fifty miles from work!
Visions of the sex dungeon again. My cock throbs worryingly in its prison. Fuck.
I creep to a stop outside the address; an exceptionally pricey and hopelessly soulless executive home, with a neat lawn, expansive driveway, probably about five bedrooms, and not a single sign of occupancy.
My car sticks out here, sat parked alongside a trim, manicured hedge. I advance slowly on the door, my ears pricked, my nerves tingling, ready to jump out of my skin at any tiny movement. But…nothing. I reach the door unmolested. I knock. I wait. And wait.
Nothing.
I raise my paw again, and hear it. A click. And in silence, without the ominous creak one might expect, the door slowly swings open in front of me. I step back, a frightened precaution. Ten seconds pass, and there’s nothing in front of me but an empty hallway, flanked by closed doors and featuring an impressively-expensive flight of stairs leading up into the lofty, well-lit atrium of the home.
“Hello?” I call, rather too timidly. This is stupid. I should turn and run and find some other way to get this damn thing off my cock. But I don’t. So stupid.
I creep inside, expecting the door to slam shut behind me. But it doesn’t. I close it myself and look around.
“Fuck it,” I whisper to myself, and start trying doors.
First one, to the left. Locked. I jiggle the handle as hard as I can. Somewhere, a heavy, sonorous clock is ticking. The next one is locked. And the next. The fuck?
The fourth swings open for me. I nearly faint. At least, that’s what I imagine the sudden sickening, gut-wrenching, light-headed feeling is that just hit me.
It’s a sex dungeon. A fucking sex dungeon.
It’s all there. A bed with red satin sheets. Dark-stained wooden bondage frames in the corners, with black leather padding and chromed restraint points. Storage chests. Whips and rope and leather restraints hanging from neat and ordered racks on the wall. Blush-inducing rubber toys of all shapes and sizes lined up in precise rows on numerous shelves. All bathed in rich, tasteful lighting from dozens of spotlights in the ceiling.
But none of this is the source of my gut-clenching feeling.
What is, is the sight of one tiny little thing, right there, sat on the bedsheets, on top of a small square of paper.
The key to my cock clamp. At least, I hope it’s for my one.
	I step forward, then pause. Trap trap trap. It’s got to be a trap. It can’t be anything but a trap. It’s a bad smutty story made real. I’ll wind up in some cage in the basement, ready to be shipped off to some underworld nightmare.
	This is the worst, most stupid thing I’ve ever done. I take another step, and now I’m fully in the room.
	And the door swings shut behind me. Of course it does.
	I yank hard at the handle. It’s locked. Of course it is.
	No other exits. But then, no other entrances either. I scan the room for anything weaponlike, and see about ten different possibilities. If this is a kidnapping, they’re damn sure of themselves. Or…have some hidden knockout gas or…
	Wait a minute. If any of this was true, then what’s David’s part in it? If he’s behind this, then why didn’t he just grab me when I fell asleep right in front of him in my house? None of this makes any sense.
	Well, one thing does. I lunge for my key, tug my jeans and boxers down to my knees, and thrust it into the cock clamp. The grip on my cock eases with a disconcerting rippling sensation, and the metal tube falls free, landing on the black rubber floor with a thud. I close my paw around my cock and close my eyes, savouring the freedom, exhaling a small sigh. For a little while, I don’t care about my situation.
	Soon enough, though, I do. I bend down to pull my clothes back on, and catch sight of the piece of paper the key was on. Or rather, I notice the writing printed on it.
	Be entertaining and the door will open.
	“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I shout to the ceiling. Wait, is someone watching? David maybe? I scramble to pull my clothes up and stuff my half-hard cock into my boxers.
	I tour the room again, searching more carefully this time, looking for something very specific. And before long, I find it. More than one it. Well, potential its anyway.
	The full length mirror on the wall.
	The black glass-like balls on each of the four iron bedposts.
	The glassy marbles set in the swirls of decorative woodwork on the cabinet full of latex clothing.
	And probably more I can’t see.
	This is some real Truman Show stuff!
	So, not a kidnapping. If the piece of paper can be believed. But something perverted anyway. Fine. If David wants something to watch while he strokes those two cocks of his, he’ll get it!
	I jump up onto the bed and plant my feet wide apart. I fix my eyes on the mirror and hold my gaze there as I cross my arms across my stomach and pull upwards at the hem of my t-shirt. I’m rather proud of my slim tummy, and I tilt my head back and stretch my torso taut and firm as I strip my shirt up, off, and away, tossing it down to the floor. I resettle my glare on the mirror.
	“This is fucked up,” I hiss.
	My jeans are already unbuttoned. I put my legs back together and start wriggling the denim downwards, then peeling them inside-out off my legs, finally kicking them away across the room. My cock’s tenting my boxers, and I can hardly pretend that some part of me is enjoying this. Specifically, that part of me. I hook my thumbs into the waistband of the boxers and slowly, teasingly, ease them down. First, over my hips, slipping off hipbones. One side lower, then the other, catching the fabric over my cock and stretching, stretching…
	…then springing free, letting my cock slap against my tummy. The boxers fall to my ankles and I step out of them.
	I stretch, arms up behind my head, then look back to the mirror, a little of the venom faded from my glare. Normally, this is where I’d be staring at the expression of whomever happens to be witnessing me naked, trying to read their opinion. With nothing except the assumption that I’m being watched, I’m a little lost. Nerves start to creep in at the edges; what if I’m just a joke to the person…or people…watching? Is it David? Does he like what he sees, or is he disgusted?
	I glance at the door. Be entertaining. Get free. Best get this over with. I jump to the floor and stumble a bit, caught off guard by the springy rubber. The room has so many options for me. What’s the most entertaining?
	My eyes settle on a square wooden post, running from floor to ceiling, dotted with bondage attachment points, and broken by a protrusion at waist-height; a foot-long, leather-padded saddle, with a shiny inch-wide screw hole in the seat, which just so happens to match the appearance of the screw bases of the array of dildos sat on the shelf behind it.
	An idea forms. Or rather, is stolen shamelessly from one of my favourite porn videos.
	I select a sturdy-looking pair of leather cuffs and buckle them to my wrists. I clip a snap hook between them, then hold my arms up above my head and practice unclipping it again. Success.
	So many sizes of dildo. I linger over them for a while. I catch my lip at the sight of one. I wiggle my fingers, uncertain. It would be stupid. So stupid.
	Fuck it. It’d be the least stupid thing of the day so far, and it would be entertaining.
	The dildo I pull from the shelf isn’t too scary…at the tip. From a slim, tapered point, the girth widens slowly and steadily, until it reaches its maximum, about the size of my fist, eight inches down. Then it snaps back to a thin base, and the screw. A very cruel-looking plug. I screw it into place on the little seat. Lube. I’ll need lube.
	And, of course, the room provides plenty. I slather the hard rubber with loads of it. Then, when I’m done, I pour a little more on for good measure.
	I stand next to the post, judging the height of the little seat. I stand on the balls of my feet, then on tiptoes. Hmm.
	A couple of small step stools solve my problem. They’re probably here for just this purpose. I set them either side of the seat, stand on one, and check the height again. Perfect.
	One last glare at the mirror, before I climb up and straddle the seat. The slick shaft of the plug slides against my cock, mocking it with its size. I take a deep breath, stand on tiptoes, and reach up towards a bondage ring just behind and above my head. I clip my wrist cuffs to eachother and to it. Then, very carefully, I ease myself downwards a fraction of an inch, and my bare rear presses against the tip of the toy.
	One of the stools slides fractionally on the floor. Shit, not yet!
	I try to hold as still as I can, my thighs trembling. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then let a little of my weight settle onto the plug. Obligingly, the tip sinks into my pucker, and I hiss under my breath. I’ve not practiced. I’ve not prepared. This is going to hurt.
	That’s the fucking point, I tell myself. You’re going to entertain this watching pervert. And you’re going to fucking love it, because you’re just as much of a pervert yourself and you’ve always wanted to do this ever since you saw that video! Now shut up and slide down.
	I part my lips for a shaky gasp. It’s probably one inch deep inside me. Feels like more. The stool slips again, and I jolt downwards. The feeble wail of distress that escapes me has got to be worth some freedom. My legs tremble with the effort of trying to stay on tiptoes, and they’re already aching. There’s no way but down now, and my tailhole slides relentlessly on the slick, widening shaft of the impaling toy.
	“F-fuck!” I gasp, falling onto the balls of my feet, relieving the ache in my toes, but spiking the burning, stretching pain in my rear. I try to lift back up again, but my legs just quake and give way. Down I slide, more this time, and my legs spread further apart as the stool slides a little more.
	And now it’s too late; the cascade has begun: the more the stools slide off to the side, the more I have to spread my legs to stay stood on them, and the more sideways force I place on the stools, making them slide more. This is it, the moment from the video that always makes me blow my load. My cock is rock hard, probably leaking precum onto the shiny rubber floor, but I can’t pay much attention because my rear is in agony and my chest is a knot of dread as I know just what’s coming. I rattle the snap hook in a panicked attempt to release my wrists. I can’t see what I’m doing. I can get free, but not quickly, and not in a panic. I start to cry out, wordless panic. I can’t do this! There’s nobody to hear a safeword!
	The stools skid away with a clatter, and my feet are suddenly standing on air. My body jolts downwards, and my butt cheeks kiss the leather of the seat. The slick, wet pop of my pucker closing around the fat bulb of the toy and sucking tight around the slim base echoes in my ears.
	I smack the back of my head against the post, and my head spins.
	I take a deep breath.
	And scream!

I have no idea how long it took for the pain to ebb away to an almost-bearable dull throb. I unclipped my wrists ages ago, but there was no way I could move more than that; every twitch of my body made pain shoot up inside me.
	I sit there, panting, feeling sweat prickle under my fur. I groan weakly, looking at the mirror through half-closed eyes. Time to get off this thing. This is not going to be fun. I reach back up and grip a ring on the post, higher than the one I bound myself too. Deep breath, then pull! Think of puppies. Think of asparagus. Think of…think of…aaargh it hurts! I clench my eyes shut and bite back a sob. Tears well in my eyes. My arms tremble at the strain, but I must not let go; I’ll sink right back down onto the agony again, and might never get back up. Keep pulling. Keep pulling!
	And then, all at once, my tailhole finally slips over the wide point and slides effortlessly up the rest. I pop free and haul myself up and off the seat, landing awkwardly on my heel and stumbling forward, collapsing onto the bed, arms sprawled, tail up, lubed rear no doubt putting on quite a show. I lay there panting, sniffling, for the longest time.
	The door! I jump up and hurry to it. I grip the handle.
	Locked.
	“For fuck sake! Wasn’t that entertaining enough for you?” I scream. Then, with a resigned sigh, I fall onto the bed.
	Something else, then. Bondage and pain. Those don’t seem to be the route to my freedom. I scan my thoughts for ideas.
	Oh god. My thoughts are horrible. No…not that. Really? You’re getting tempted by that, now? I bite my lip and feel my ears heat with shame. My very, very private kink, hidden away at the bottom of my wardrobe in a locked army surplus locker. Surely that would be entertaining enough?
	I don’t have my locker. And this room might not have…that. I get up. Aching, weary. And start my search.
	I shouldn’t have doubted the room. There, in a trunk, a selection that far outclasses my own. Pangs of shameful envy grip me. Can I really do this? Am I really going to let this person, possibly David, see me do this?
	But…if it is David, and he equipped this room, and expects me to perform in said room with said equipment…then that means he must want to see this. A jittery feeling comes over me, just like when I first met him, and when I first saw him sat in my own home.
	I reach into the trunk and pull out an adult-sized, ultra-thick diaper.
	I hug it to my chest and hurry back to the bed. My instinct is to hide, shamefully playing in private. But there’s no privacy here. The room is watching. I sit on the bed and lay the diaper out in front of me…and just look at it.
	“Jeez,” I whisper.
	It’s thick. Ridiculously thick. Three or four inches thick at least! I try to squeeze the padding, and it barely gives under my fingers. Anyone wearing this is never going to be able to put their legs together, and they’re certainly not going to be able to paw off with it on, unless they stick their paw in under the waistband. Which is exactly what I intend to do.
	I unfold the wings and set the tape tabs in place, then lay down on my back and dig my heels into the bed, lifting my rear up. I pull the diaper into place underneath me, then lay my rear down into it.
	I shiver. God that feels good. Fuck whoever’s watching, I’m just going to enjoy myself.
	I lift the front half up between my legs, spreading them wide, then wider still when that proves inadequate. Hell, I won’t be able to walk in this thing! I pull it snugly in place between my legs, and pause for a moment to enjoy the feeling. Then, wasting no further time, I pull the tape tags and stretch them across my front and press them down into place, snugly sealing the diaper around my hips.
	I roam my paws across the plastic outer surface, mewling softly. I can barely feel my touch through them. Just a wide, formless pressure through the thick, soft padding. My cock thrusts up against it, hard and eager, trapped between the soft cotton and my tummy. I close my eyes and lay back, gasping under my breath, paws exploring the diaper, feeling around the leg holes, feeling how thick and bulky it is, feeling how tight it has me in its embrace.
	I can delay no further. I suck my breath in and slide my paw down into the space between my tummy and the diaper’s waistband. I wrap my fingers around my cock and start pumping, awkward in the tight space, and noisy, making the diaper crinkle and crunch. I stifle a whimper. I love that sound. My free paw needs a job, and I give it one; I curl up my fingers and slide my thumb into my mouth, starting to suckle wetly.
	It doesn’t take long. It never does. My body seems to be wired to enjoy this far too much. I mewl like a girl when I cum, and my body bucks and writhes uncontrollably. Past partners have said they just have to hold on tight and ride me out. My cum pumps into the waiting padding and all over my paw. The scent rises out from the musky, damp confines of the diaper, reaching my nose and treating me to the perfectly unique scent of a defiled diaper. I collapse back against the bedding, panting hard. That was almost worth the days and days of denial. Almost.
	I hear a click, and instantly my exhaustion is gone. I rush to my feet and to the door, waddling like a crazed toddler with the thick diaper restricting my movements. I try the handle, barely daring to hope.
	Unlocked. Smoothly, it swings open, releasing me to that perfectly ordinary hallway, and freedom behind. I let out a little squeal of joy.
	I hold the door with my foot and reach for a heavy-looking buttplug on a nearby shelf, and use it to prop the door open while I return to the bed, for my clothes, and to remove the diaper. I lay down on the bed. Got to do this right. I smooth my paws over the lovely plastic for the last time, then unsheathe and hook a claw under the tape tab, grip it, and pull.
	It doesn’t budge.
	I pull harder. Still, it doesn’t budge. I start to panic. I extend my claws a little further and rake the sharp points against the plastic, which stubbornly fails to tear. I get a sinking feeling, and I guess the problem.
	A trip back to the chest confirms it. Three letters greet me from the plastic wrapping of the unopened pack of diapers beneath the one I took and wore.
	“CKC”
	Reluctant Baby Diapers.
	Unremovable and unbreakable until your baby has made full use of all 100% of this diaper’s truly astounding absorption capabilities.
	I bite my lip, paw resting on the padding sealed tight around my middle. A long, embarrassing car journey lies ahead of me in my imagination. There’s no way my jeans will fit over the bulk. I just have to hope I can tug my t-shirt down far enough, pray to not have a crash, and stay absolutely below the speed limit.
	I gather up my clothes and take a last look around the room, unsure of my thoughts. Reluctant to leave, but too freaked out to stay.
	After a short internal debate on the morality of stealing from someone who’s temporarily imprisoned you for perverted acts, I help myself to the extremely heavy unopened pack of diapers, and retrieve the wicked cock clamp (and key) from the floor.
	Weighed down, I hurry from the room, through the hallway, through the thankfully unlocked front door, to my car, and away, driving off in a fog of shame, sat high up in my seat with so much padding beneath my rear, doing my best to keep my feet planted on the pedals, trying not to think about the evening ahead of me. I’ll have to use this thing. And what if I can’t use it enough? I can’t go into work wearing this. I try not to think about it.

Home! Exhausted. Hurrying from my car to my front door, hoping no neighbours see me. I escape into the warm cocoon of my living room. Familiar and safe. I stroke my paw across the front of the diaper. If I weren’t trapped in it, I’d like it.
	Who am I kidding. I like it more because I’m trapped in it.
	I waddle awkwardly upstairs, and am about to collapse into my bed when I notice it.
	The CKC box is gone.
	I’m too tired to worry about it right now. The box snuck into my home without me seeing it, and it left in the same way. I still at least have the diapers and the cock clamp. With all that’s happened, it’s the smallest of the violations into my life. I close my eyes.
	Sleep.

It took three days to use the diaper to its satisfaction. I thought about cheating it, pouring water in or somesuch, but I reasoned it best not to try. It’d no doubt be far too sophisticated to trick.
	The diaper was a wet, stinking mess by the time I was able to remove it, far beyond my own levels of enjoyment…maybe. I felt weird without it on. Exposed. Unsafe. I caught myself looking at the unopened pack, with ten more diapers just like it, waiting to be used. Was this diaper getting into my thoughts, somehow, magically tempting me? With what I’d seen of CKC’s devices, it wouldn’t surprise me. Or, a scarier thought, perhaps it’s just my natural urges getting stronger as they’re exercised.
	
Work let me go. After all my absences, it’s not surprising. And agency staff don’t exactly have a lot of protections. I signed on and started my job hunt. The diapers called to me. They tempt me, but I have to resist; find a job first. But right now, I don’t have a job…no reason not to wear one. My resolve is ebbing away, bit by bit.
	My letterbox clatters, and I hear a thud. The unmistakable sound of a parcel. At first I think it’s something I’ve ordered and forgotten. It has the right kind of size and weight to be a DVD.
	And it is a DVD. But one with the letters “CKC” on the cover. And some pictures, artfully arranged, of a half dozen guys bearing the unmistakable expression of blissful orgasm. And one of them…is my own.
	Entertaining Boys, Volume XI
	By CKC Entertainments.
	And cheque. For five grand.
And a note.

Don’t show it to anyone. We’ll know if you do.
Ring me if you would like to be entertaining again.

David.

I had on my computer screen a half-completed form for the twentieth job application I’d made so far today. With a smile, I closed it. Then turned off the computer.
	And went to go open that pack of diapers.