Cub Peril Club
By Musuko

I am, as the cliché goes, a lone wolf. Not literally, of course, because I'm a panda; but species aside, you would be hard-pressed to tell the difference.
	Or maybe I'm a shark; I swim alone, cold and calculating, always on the hunt.
	Yeah...
	These are things I would have said when I was an idiot teenager. I am no-longer an idiot teenager, which means I am unburdened by shame in admitting what I actually am; a fat, loner panda. I would then point out that I am alone by choice. But I can't say that this time. Because I'm not. Alone, that is. I've got my little puppy Ethan with me.
	Ah, Ethan. He's transformed me almost as much as I've transformed him. He makes me happier than any boy ever has. He's found the soft side in me and has teased it out into full bloom. I spend more time cuddling him than I do making him scream and cry.
	This, unfortunately, is a problem; money is running low, and I've been neglecting my duties as a provider of high-quality cub smut, partially because of Ethan's adorable distractions, but in part too due to the woeful loss of my shop and the recording studio beneath it. And what variety can I hope to provide to my customers now, restricted as I am to one well-trained puppy boy and whatever my own two hands can scrounge up? Not a lot, is the answer. One by one, my contacts are drifting away or dropping off the radar. If I didn't act fast, I'd be high and dry. I needed to reinsert myself into society...not general society; my society, the hidden one...and start raising my profile and my funds again.
	So...what to do? Do I...accept the invitation?
	It had come, as these things often did, hidden in plain sight; inside one of my own images in circulation. It was one of the many images I'd made of Ethan; in this one he was trussed up tight in leather bondage, his mouth spread wide around a tennis-ball-sized ballgag, his eyes covered by a blindfold, his rear filled with my cock...one of my favourite images, actually; you can clearly see his straining little cocklet inside his chastity, and the glistening tears running down his cheeks to mingle with the drool from his gag.
	This image had turned up in the middle of a 400+ image collection I had obtained off of one of my more prolific and generous contacts. Initially, I thought it must have been a mistake; he (or she?) had accidentally included my image in with the collection. An easy mistake to make, right?
	And then I thought; no, not really. You don't get to stay free and operating when you make silly mistakes like that. So there must have been a reason for it. That's when I slid the image over into my customised image-processing suite and checked it for hidden content.
	As they say in all the detective stories when the big clue is found; bingo.
	An image was hidden there; a shadowed face in a sea of black, mouth open wide, eyes open even wider, a stream of bubbles surrounding an expression of mortal terror. The text below was plain and slightly distorted by the process that had hidden it, though I could read it easily enough: Cub Peril Club. BYOB.
	Bring your own boy. Cute.
	The eyes of the boy in the hidden picture stared out at me. It was difficult to tell what species he was. His eyes had something of the feline about them, but there was a hint of canine in his muzzle. A mixed-breed, then. His eyes were locked onto me, staring into the lens of the camera. It looked like he was illuminated by a flash from close by, lighting up his face and nothing else. I longed to see what was hidden by that darkness, out of view, below his neck. I wondered what he was wearing...or what was holding his body.
	One thing was clear, though; it was there in the bubbles, plain to see. The boy was underwater. He was drowning.
	My heart was thumping and my cock was hard. This was unexplored territory; I had never snuffed one of my own boys before. No doubt some of them met their end by someone else's hand after I had passed them on as used goods. But never myself. Could I do it? Did I want to do it? And more importantly...did I want to do it to Ethan? I stroked my fingertips along my shaft. Part of me did, at least.
	But I was getting carried away, I told myself. This was the Cub Peril Club, not the Cub Snuff Club. That meant they didn't necessarily kill the boys. At least, that's what I presumed...
	I couldn't think straight. I needed...well, I wasn't sure. But whatever it was, I needed it. I pushed my chair away from my desk and left the tiny office, heading through into the next room; the room of mixed and conflicting uses, part nursery, part dog kennel.
	There, in the cage, sleeping off a rough night, was my Ethan, spending today as more a puppy than a baby; his limb-binders were on, forcing him into a quadrupedal shape, his leather muzzle was on, the one with the big cock gag that filled him deep into his throat, and his doggy ears were on; big fluffy, floppy fake dog ears that fitted over his real ones, complete with their own integrated earplugs that'd make it difficult for him to understand speech. I wasn't sure if I was going to keep the ears; they were a new experiment, and not entirely a successful one. I didn't like how they got in the way, and their fluffy fur didn't really go with the whelp's adorable smooth skin, nor his plump little body.
	Nor did they go with the somewhat un-puppy-like parts of his outfit. He was, of course, wearing a nice thick night-time diaper, taped securely around his waist and pulled tight to prevent any leaks, and underneath that was his chastity pod, his catheter tube, and his size 9 (of 15; he was progressing well in taking the larger sizes) buttplug. These things didn't really lend themselves to the puppy illusion that the ears were trying to sell.
	I thumped the palm of my hand against the top of the cage, enough to rattle it and jolt him from his sleep. He woke, as he always did, with a furious burst of eager energy, bouncing right onto his knees and elbows and pressing himself right against the mesh bars, eyes bright and happy, seeking my attention and approval, his throat making gurgling noises around the gag, his padded butt wiggling as if trying to wag the pointy little nub of his whelpy tail, his tiny little winglets flapping excitedly as if they might lift the fat little cub off the floor with their enthusiasm.
	Normally, at this point, I would let him out of the cage and take him for his morning bath and enema, and would probably spend some time pampering and soothing the sore welts and bruises I had left on him the night before. Not this morning, though. Not after seeing that image. I snatched a collar and leash from its hook and opened up the cage. He stepped forward and held his head up, eyes shining with love and trust, his little nose huffing soft breaths through the muzzle's nose-hole, his neck exposed for me to lock into the collar. He yipped happily, the sound distorted by the gag, as the collar clicked shut, and scampered along speedily as I led him away on the leash.
	I led him outside, banging the door as I went, just to give him a fright. It was a small risk taking Ethan outside into the open like this, but it was one that I'd grown used to taking; it wasn't as if there was ever anyone around. He followed close at my heels, out over the warm grass. I hadn't really put a plan together for what to do, but my subconscious clearly had. I obeyed it unquestioningly, heading towards the gnarled old tree that stood sentinel over the little cottage and the windswept hills around us. It also stood over a rough patch of weeds and thorny bramble bushes, at the edge of the little lawn, where I'd not yet bothered to tidy and cull. I started to smile, realising what my subconscious had put together.
	“Stay,” I said, laying his leash down and fetching a decaying old deckchair over, brushing it clear of leaves. I sat down and patted my knees. Ethan scampered over, dragging the leash, and sat obediently in front of me. I cupped a hand and he dutifully rested his chin into it. It took only a few moments to unbuckle. He made a cute little noise like “nyah!” as I slid the cock gag free. He didn't stretch his jaws, though; he just closed his mouth and suffered stoically through the aching pain, just as I'd trained him to. He looked at me, eyes wide and hopeful, waiting for a chance to please him.
	I grabbed his leash.
	I'd probably seen the inspiration for this somewhere before, and my mind had just dredged up the memory and turned it into a new idea. It didn't matter, though. My cock throbbed and my hands trembled as I half-led, half-dragged Ethan towards the tree. I loved the look on his face; uncertain fear, expecting something horrible, but unsure what it might be. He stared at the brambles, and so was distracted and surprised when I suddenly bent down, grabbed him under the shoulders, and lifted him up.
	“Stop wriggling,” I commanded. He obeyed. I shifted him over until he was held under one arm, which left me one hand free to grab his leash...and sling it over a branch. The handle swung down and bumped his nose.
	“Bite it.”
	He made a confused whimpering noise. He didn't try to speak, at least, so there was that. I grabbed the leash and waved the handle in front of his nose.
	“Bite it!”
	He opened his little mouth and clamped down on the handle, biting into the leather. It was positioned like a bit gag, and did the job almost as well.
	“Now, hold on tight to that leash...you'll regret it if you don't!”
	His eyes widened, and I could see he was working out what was about to happen. He squealed in panicked fear, and I saw his little teeth press harder into the leather. I let him go gently, easing his weight to his collar. He grunted, eyes bulging, as the collar dug into his neck and choked off his air. The leash took his weight and the branch creaked. He swung slightly away from me...out over the viciously sharp and evil brambles.
	I sat down in the deckchair and reclined, my hands behind my head, my legs crossed...and watched.
	How horrible it must have been for him; hanging by his neck, his throat choked almost completely breathless by the collar, forcing him to struggle for every panting lungful, his jaws aching and straining to hold tight on the leash, knowing that it was the key to holding him up...and the thing that was choking him so mercilessly. He could end it, of course; no more choking, no more suffering...but if he let go, the leash would whip up and over the branch, and it and the collar and the unhappy cub would fall crashing down into the brambles, which would stab into every exposed inch of his little body, covering him in superficial, but painful, wounds.
	He looked at me, eyes rimmed with tears, then clenched them shut, brow furrowed, as he concentrated on holding on.
	And me? I had the answer to the question of whether I enjoyed seeing my little puppy in a perilous situation. My hand moved to my cock and I enjoyed myself.
	I never expected him to last as long as he did. Tenacious little cub! He held that leash handle tightly in his mouth until the sweat was dripping down his smooth skin. His bound-up legs and arms quivered in the air; sensibly, he didn't struggle. His sole focus seemed to be on his jaws, keeping them clenched together, forcing him to suffer the strangulation rather than the drop into the thorns.
	My spent load was dry on my tummy and I was getting snoozy in the sun when I heard a rising note; the sweet sound of a distressed cub squealing in panic. I opened my eyes to see his dangling body wriggling about. The drool-soaked handle was slipping from his mouth and his teeth were gripped desperately on the very tip of it. His eyes were open, looking directly at me, pleading silently for mercy. I sat forward in my chair and watched closely, smiling, feeling another erection growing.
	“Keep holding! You can do it!”
	My encouragement was a mockery. I wasn't going to let him down before he dropped, and I think he knew that. He gurgled a miserable, helpless noise...and let go.
	I wish I had recorded it. The sight of his little body plummeting towards the brambles is one that I'm going to enjoy reliving in my memory for a long time to come. A short wail, then a soft, leafy thud and a sudden halt to his noise, then an ear-piercing scream as his body registered all the prickly stabs all over his small body. I knelt down beside the brambles and patted my knees.
	“Come on, puppy! Out you come!”
	He whimpered plaintively, not daring to move. I continued my encouragement, grinning somewhere between kind support and evil sadism. Slowly, he began to move, in fits and starts that were interrupted by yelps every time he brushed against a thorn. He choked out a sob and took a deep breath, then rolled over onto his front and began to crawl. The bindings on his arms and legs protected his knees and elbows, but his chest and bulging tummy scraped raw against the thorns beneath him. Every time a limb sunk down into the tangle, his tummy found fresh spikes to scratch against. He yelped and, I suspect, nearly spoke, when a thorn poked him right in a nipple. He pleaded with help with his eyes.
	“No, puppy. You got yourself in there; you've got to get yourself out.”
	He pouted. I nearly caved. But I folded my arms across my chest and sternly watched him crawl out. The thorns tore at his diaper, tugging long rips in the material. The base of his buttplug peeked out. Then, the garment gave way completely, hanging in tatters from the still-intact waistband, and I could see his little chastity was sticking out in the way it did when his little cocklet beneath tried to engorge. At the tip I could see the twinkle of sunlight catching on beaded precum.
	“You're not supposed to be enjoying this,” I chuckled.
	He breached the border of the brambles with an exhausted gasp and tumbled down onto the grass, rolling over his head and landing splayed with his legs resting on my lap.
	“Good boy!” I said, giving the curve of his tummy a quick petting rub. I saw a hint of a smile before exhaustion overtook him. I figured the aches and pains of his ordeal were making themselves known in force. I took pity on him, then, and scooped him up into my arms. He winced and whined, but then he buried his face into my chest and made a wet, sniffling noise.
	“Good boy,” I repeated, stroking his back as I carried him back into his house, where a soothing bath and not-so-soothing antiseptic creams awaited to recuperate my battered little puppy.
	I replied to my contact later, once Ethan was wrapped up in a fresh diaper and a comfy sleeper suit and given his favourite pacifier to suckle on (the one with the miniature rubber cock teat). I didn't expect a reply until at least later in the day, so I was surprised when it pinged into my inbox a few minutes later. I read quickly, noting the address and the considerably complicated steps I needed to take in order to enter. Nothing too difficult. Just one requirement needed from me now; a photograph of the boy I intended to bring. I grabbed my camera and headed over to Ethan's crib.

Jules.

Very cute! He'll fit in perfectly. Bring him with you tonight. I look forward to meeting him.

X

Ethan didn't like me undressing him. It was a break from the usual routine, and like any puppy he was unnerved by this. A proper puppy might think we were going to the vet. As for Ethan? Well, I could only guess what he was expecting. Something bad, I'm sure. He was right, of course. I stripped him completely; arm and leg binders, gone. Diaper and catheter removed. Buttplug gently eased out. And then, to his considerable surprise, I unlocked and slid free his chastity.
	“No touching,” I said, unnecessarily of course; he was fearful enough not to even think of attempting it. His little cocklet stood at full attention the moment it was free, all pent up with countless months of cubby arousal.
	“Stand up.”
	He looked at me like I had asked him to fly. His mouth opened and for a moment I thought he was going to speak.
	“M-mruff?” he said.
	“You heard me correctly, puppy. Stand up on your feet. Today is a special occasion.”
	I had to help him in the end; he just didn't have enough strength in his legs to manage it. His balance was shot completely. He looked like he was in severe distress even just attempting it. After so long of having his legs and arms bound, and crawling around on all fours, this must have felt alien to him. And to be free of the confinement of his chastity and diaper? This was a strange day indeed!
	Even stranger for him was the 'gift' of clothing; a pair of my boxers, hastily taken in with some quick stitching, and a loose hoodie of mine that swallowed him up like a circus tent. His nose just about peeped out from the hood, and his hands were hopelessly lost inside the overlong sleeves. It wasn't perfect, but it was the best I could do at short notice; I didn't exactly have a supply of normal cubby clothes for him to wear, and I couldn't head out into public with him wearing any of his normal attire.
	“And no, before you think it, you're still not allowed to speak.”
	He hesitantly yipped his acknowledgement, staring at the dangling sleeves. Then, he blushed, and he wrapped his arms around himself like he was cuddling a teddy bear, and I saw him stroking himself through the soft material.
	“Oh, you like that huh?”
	He yipped again. His head twitched, nearly nodding before he caught himself.
	“Right, outside,” I commanded. He obeyed without thinking. Not much chance of him running off these days. All the same...I kept a close watch on him all the way out to the car.

In a gentlemen's club in the fancy end of town there is a hidden door behind a bookcase. This hidden door leads down a flight of stairs to a hidden cellar, which has been set up to look like an illegal gambling den. This is the first false front of criminality defending the real criminality beneath. Further barriers divided this front from the real deal, but I couldn't tell you what they were; both myself and Ethan were blindfolded until we were inside.
	“Welcome,” said a voice, warm and sonorous, tinged with the quaver of the elderly. It came from behind an ebony mask and loose silk hood that obliterated the wearer's identity. The voice dripped with old-world quality, and it matched the room around me; I could have mistaken it for one of the posh lounge bars in the gentlemen's club above me...if indeed it still was above me. The man stood cloaked behind his mask and his suit, identity unrecognisable...unless his portly frame was particularly unique, which I doubted. Two other masked figures stood flanking him. They seemed somewhat more lithe and youthful, and were dressed to match; in hardy boiler suits, their hands in thick leather gloves, looking frightfully ominous. I felt Ethan tense up beside me.
	“Let me take your boy for you,” said the man, gesturing his companions forward.
	I didn't protest, but Ethan did. He whined and tried to cling to my leg as one masked individual took him by the wrist and tried to lead him away.
	“Go with him Ethan,” I said. “Stop making a fuss.”
	“Oh it's quite alright,” said the figure. “He's being quite well-behaved, considering.”
	I started to wonder if he was famous. A politician, perhaps? A judge? Or...and I stopped there, thinking it was unwise to even think about the real identities of the people around me. I had already pissed off one rich and powerful criminal organisation in my life, and once was quite enough for me!
	“A drink, while your boy is prepared?”
	So that answered my question about where Ethan was being taken...at least partially. I felt a twinge of concern for him, but hushed it. I was the one bringing him here to this dangerous place; I couldn't exactly balk at it now out of some unusual sympathetic response. Not after what I had done to him in the cottage's garden.
	“And your mask,” said the man. “You have a choice.”
	And here he opened a large cabinet of some luxuriously exotic wood that was no-doubt illegally logged; I wouldn't be surprised if it came from an extinct species. Inside was a rack of masks like the ones they wore; all black, all glossy. But each was a different shape, and beneath each one was a tiny label hosting a species name; otter, raccoon, dog (there were many of these), lynx, tiger, and on it went. Each had a short string of letters and numbers too, and I recognised one of them from news reports; these were the species codes the police used. This hinted more than ever that the upper echelons of power were represented here in this dark little place.
	“It appears we do not have a mask specifically tailored for pandas,” said the man, “though, in time, we can have one custom-fitted to your face. For now, I believe this should fit you well.”
	He passed me a mask that had stood above a label titled “brown bear”. It fitted me well. A little tight around the nose, perhaps, and slightly loose on the forehead. The straps held it nicely in place. I realised, looking at it closely, that only the insides were tailored to fit the various species; the outside of the masks blurred the distinctions until it was almost impossible to discern the wearer's species, let alone their identity. Together with the silk hood, which covered the ears, it seemed very effective indeed.
	As I fitted the mask and the hood, I did start to think of the flaws; any person with a keen nose could smell right through the mask and know exactly what species I was. Then, it would only be a matter of matching my voice to one of the few pandas that lived in this part of the world. The disguise was a sham.
	Ah, I thought, thinking again; but then, the purpose wasn't to stop us recognising each-other, was it? The purpose was to stop any of us proving that any other person was there. Without the masks, all it would take was a sneaky photo shot from a phone. I felt a little reassured.
	The man cocked his head, listening to something I couldn't hear. “Ah, your boy is ready.”
	“That fast?”
	“Oh yes,” he said. “We don't waste time here. And it's been such a while since we've had a new boy to induct. And such a cute little one too. Rare too. A smooth-skin. It will be a delightful show to watch. Through here, please.”
	The room beyond thrummed with heat and the heavy bass of piped-in music; something of a fusion between electronic noise and percussion-heavy orchestral. The audience were gathered, seated around tables, crammed together so shoulders rubbed against shoulders. My guide threaded through them, jostling against people who didn't seem to mind one bit. I followed his lead over to an empty table, where we sat amidst the murmuring crowd, sweltering in the heat of bodies. He poured wine into glasses. The lights dimmed, the crowd hushed...and a curtain opened.

Later on, Ethan filled me in on the details of his time behind the curtain. I wish I could have been there to witness it. He described the masked people as scary and mean. They held his wrists and walked him through a room lined with doors. He could hear crying and screaming behind some of them. I would learn later what was behind some of them; private rooms, where boys of all ages were subjected to subtle and sadistic tortures. There was nothing so simple and brutal as beatings here; everything was careful and calculated for maximum effect. Sometimes it was something so ridiculously simple and odd that you could hardly imagine where the torture lies; super-glueing a boy's fingertip to a wall just above head height, perhaps, might not seem like much of a torture. Uncomfortable, sure, but torture?
	But leave him there for half a day, unable to sit down and rest, growing hungry, thirsty, and badly needing the toilet, and you'll find where the torture lies; the unhappy realisation that the boy's, only escape from one misery is to inflict another on himself; to yank hard against the glue and rip the skin and fur off his fingertip.
	At the end of the room was an area that, after some questioning, Ethan was finally able to describe to me in enough detail for me to recognise it as a dressing area, just like the ones backstage in a normal theatre; there were mirrors and lights and outfits. All quite normal, superficially. But when you looked a little closer, you saw that the chairs had restraints, the make-up 'technicians' worked with protective gloves and masks on, and the make-up itself mostly consisted of industrial chemicals. And the outfits...oh the outfits! I saw them later on. Everything from adorable baby bonnets, to full-body gimp-suits. There were spike-lined collars, straitjackets that could cinch crushingly tight, and all manner of hoods and masks.
	They sat Ethan down in a chair and began to apply his 'makeup'; a fine mist of adhesive spray over his little snout. Onto this went a clear plastic oxygen mask, just like the kind they use in hospitals; the perversion of innocent equipment, it seems, was in vogue.
	To this mask was connected a clear, flexible tube, about four feet long. The end of the tube was connected to a valve, which in turn was connected to a shorter length of tubing that went to an object hidden from Ethan's view under a small blanket. Ethan could breathe. His breath whistled through the open valve.
	Thus, Ethan's preparation was almost complete. Only one thing remained; they lifted him out of the chair, bent him over it, and stuck a nozzle deep into his little butt (he squealed, he told me, and I could imagine just how lovely that sounded), and pumped him full of squishy lube.
	He was ready.

Ethan knelt alone on the stage, bathed in light from above, squinting against the glare. He was naked, aside from the mask, and his ever-present erection was pressed up against his tummy. His hands fidgeted nervously at his sides, and I felt sympathy for him; my poor little puppy doesn't normally have to make decisions about what to do with his hands. Normally, they're off-limits to him.
	The tube from his mask trailed across the stage to the item under the blanket. The music and the audience hushed.
	“A little showmanship,” whispered my guide.
	The blanket whipped away with a flourish and a crescendo of brass instruments, pulled no doubt by some invisible wire. Beneath it stood a foot-long canine dildo, with an oversized knot, and a wide, heavy-looking base. Ethan stared at it with wide eyes, then looked back out at the staring, masked faces of the audience.
	A click echoed around the room, and Ethan quickly discovered that the valve on his air tube had just shut itself.
	Bless him, it took Ethan a moment or two to register what had happened. When it sunk in, it did with a suddenness that made him jolt. A comical expression of surprise overwhelmed his little face, and his squeal fogged the inside of the mask. He grabbed the hose and tugged hard, but the glue held the mask firmly onto his face. The audience laughed and cheered.
	“Been a while since we've done this act,” said my guide. “Needs fur-less skin, ideally. Your boy is perfect!”
	When Ethan realised he wasn't going to get anywhere with the mask, he flopped over onto all fours and crawled frantically over to the valve. He pawed feebly at it, trying to make his weakened and atrophied fingers obey. There was no hope, of course; the valve was remote-controlled, and there were no manual controls for him to operate. He was going to get no air here.
	“So the dildo,” I said. “Where does he get the-”
	“Shh. You'll see.”
	Ethan was looking groggy. He was panting hard on the heavy, recycled air inside the mask and the tube. There wasn't much there for him. A tear trickled down his cheek, and a soft whimper could be heard under the merriment of the audience. Quickly, though, everyone hushed, with some shushing, as Ethan came to a stop in front of the dildo. He hesitated, staring at it, blinking away tears and inhaling deep, fulfilling breaths of stale air.
	“Sit on it,” cried someone from the audience. “Stupid boy!”
	More laughter. Ethan started to move. We got a good glimpse of the lube trickling down his inner thigh as he rose up to position himself over the dildo. I could see him working out what he had to do, but he looked puzzled all the same; as was I at that moment. I couldn't see an air hole or anything in the dildo, and what was going to be served by him sitting on it?
	“Atta boy!” cried someone else.
	Ethan's head tilted back, his eyes closed. I felt my cock throb under the table. He was always a natural at this; looking like a perfect little slut whenever his butt parted around a cock or a dildo or a plug. He huffed another pant into the fogged mask. He slid all the way down to the knot's edge with a wet, slick noise of squishing lube. A shudder rippled through him, and his hands moved purposefully away from his eager little hard-on. Good boy, I thought, keeping himself denied.
	He started to shake. He grabbed at the hose again, panicking. No more air. I gripped the edge of the table, torn between my lust and my need to save my puppy. But my guide raised a hand.
	“Just wait, he'll get it.”
	“Get what? What's there to get?”
	Ethan grunted softly and scrunched his eyes tightly shut. An expression of anguished pain washed across his face. He forced himself downwards, and with a wet pop and a squeal of distress, his little pucker closed around the base of the knot.
	He gasped, taking in a deep breath. The audience applauded.
	“He can breathe again?” I asked.
	“For the moment.”
	“The knot? Is that it?”
	My guide nodded, and I imagined he was grinning behind his mask. “Like a bellows. Squeeze it...and tightly, mind you; can't do it with his hands...and it'll force air in through a hidden valve in the dildo's base, and he'll have sweet, fresh air. But, like any bellows, you have to keep working at it...”
	Ethan was shuddering again. The new supply of air was recycling back and forth into the mask and tube, growing stale again. He shook his head, trailing tears of desperation, and stared with a miserable, helpless face out into the audience. I eased my hand under the table and gently kneaded my cock through my clothes. I imagined others were doing the same.
	“Up and down!” cried someone.
	Realisation dawned for my poor, sweet puppy. It was just like the brambles all over again; suffer one misery in order to avoid another. There was no easy way out, and no 'good' option. He had to pick the lesser of two evils. I mused about that; a better name for the club would be The Lesser Of Two Evils. I thought I'd suggest it later.
	My brave little puppy put on quite a show, rocking up and down on the huge dildo, slurping his little pucker off the fat bulb of the knot, which inflated visibly when released from the pressure, then pushing back down again to pop the wide girth back into his tight little rear, mashing his prostate and making his little cock twitch and his balls ache, all just so he can earn a single breath. Up and down he went, miserable and aching and horny, while a room full of men watched and enjoyed. It was amazing. I was in heaven.
	There was an inevitable end to all this, and I could see it coming. It was just like my brambles torture...one that I knew I should suggest to the management, if they hadn't dreamed it up themselves already...sooner or later, he was going to get tired, and he would be unable to work the pump inside the knot. He would fatigue, and then starve of oxygen...and die. And he knew it; I could see it in his eyes, the resigned misery, mixing occasionally with desperate panic as his aching thighs began to tremble and weaken. I worked myself towards a climax under the table, delighting in my puppy's mortal fear as the end came closer and closer...
	His rear settled down to the base, his butt-cheeks spread wide around the knot's base. His legs trembled, and he rose up an inch...then dropped back down. He whimpered and tried again, making only half an inch this time. Then, he couldn't move at all. His legs were all out of strength. He pushed at his heels with his hands, but there wasn't enough strength there either. He was done. Finished. The air he inhaled and exhaled was the last one remaining. It grew stale. It got hot. His lungs ached. His mind screamed for mercy. He blubbed weak, defeated sobs and gripped the hose again to yank it in a last, mindless panic. He thought this was the end, and I thought so too. I shuddered and bit my lip, shooting my load into my clothes, my eyes locked onto my little puppy's face as his body slumped forwards, shaking, sweating, dripping precum from his ever-present hard-on.
	 A click sounded loudly in the room, followed by a rush of whistling air. Ethan's head shot back up. The relief on his face was exquisite, almost as good as his misery, almost as good as his pleasure. The audience whooped and cheered. I chuckled.
	“The valve opened?”
	“Of course,” said my guide. “We wouldn't want to waste a new boy. Not so soon, anyway.” I imagined that grin again; probably something in his voice. “I take it you enjoyed yourself?”
	“Oh yes,” I said.
	“Oh I am glad. Because, you see, the night is only just beginning...”

To be continued?