Timothy
By Musuko

And here he was. Another day, cold and alone, save for the mouse that came every day to forage in his food dish. Another day of aching arms and sore wrists. Another day of futile weeping. Another day chained to the wall.
	The bombs were falling. Bullets were flying in the streets. Buildings were tumbling and crashing to the ground. Any sane person fled if they could. But the weak and the vulnerable had no choice but to stay and watch and listen as their country collapsed around them. He had survived alone, hiding, praying, until the day the men came. The muzzle of a gun had touched the back of his neck, and his life was over.
	Occasionally, he could hear the muted rumble of the fighting, somewhere in the far distance. More often, he could hear the laughter and conversation of the men outside. This morning, they were trading dirty jokes.
	With a flick of his foot he shooed the mouse away and felt for the food dish. The men never placed it in the same place twice, and sometimes they put it at the very edge of his reach so he had to strain to reach it. It was within easy reach today, and he hooked a toe over the rim of the dish and dragged it over. Already he could smell it; wet cat food again. It slithered slimy and cold between his toes as he scooped up a chunk of miscellaneous meat and contorted himself to bring his foot up to his mouth. With his wrists chained above his head, and with guards who would swiftly kick him in the gut if they discovered him trying to lift the dish or stand up so he could use his hands, it was the only way he could eat.
	He coughed and gagged on the first mouthful. They had pissed on his food again. With tears welling in his eyes, and with the acrid taste burning in his mouth, he swallowed, and reached with his foot to scoop a second mouthful.
	The tortured shriek of grating metal told him that the door had just been opened. He lowered his foot to the floor, tilted his head down, and sat very still.
	“This is him?” said a voice that he didn't recognise.
	“Yeah,” grunted a voice that he did know; one of the more violent guards. He redoubled his effort to stay still.
	“Completely blind? Are you sure?”
	“Commander Carr sent over his medical records. Blind since birth. His name's Timothy.”
	Footsteps approached. Timothy felt movement right in front of him. He kept himself still. The familiar scents of gun oil and sweat filled his nose, and the unseen person lingered for a few moments. He heard a click, then a grunt.
	“Told you he's blind,” said the guard.
	“It proves little,” said the stranger. “Tough men can keep up an act even when you pull the trigger of a gun right in their face.”
	“Does he look like a tough man to you?”
	“No,” said the stranger. “He does not.”
	“So,” said the guard after a long pause. “You taking him? Or do I take him outside and put him down?”
	After an even longer pause, in which Timothy stayed as still and silent as a corpse, the stranger spoke. “Get him ready. The truck will be here in one hour.”
	More conversation, whispered now, at the edge of hearing and in a language that Timothy didn't recognise. The guard unlocked the padlock and unwound the chains from his wrists, flinging his arms down and unleashing fresh agony in his stiff and aching shoulders. A thick, gnarled hand closed around his throat and dragged him onto his feet.
	“Gonna miss having you around, little fox,” whispered the guard. “Have one more, to remember me by.”
	The fist hit his gut with a meaty thud, bursting pain into the very core of his being. The guard's other hand tightened around his throat and strangled the scream into a hoarse whimper. Timothy gripped the guard's wrist and tried to pull free, but it was like trying to fight a steel girder.
	The guard dragged him, coughing and wheezing. The tone of his footsteps changed, and Timothy felt cold, smooth tiles against his toes. They bumped over a grating and into a puddle that felt too thick and syrupy to be just water. The stench of a sewer lurked just at the edge of perception. The guard flung him forward and he stumbled, arms outstretched, catching himself against a tiled wall and dropping onto his knees.
	“Get up,” said the guard. Before Timothy could rise, a blast of freezing water impacted his bruised gut. He lurched backwards and cracked his head against the tiles. Wincing from the double-dose of agony, he wrestled against the torrent and pressed himself against the wall, shivering and gasping for air as the hose blasted every part of his body in turn.
	“Turn around. Tail up”
	Timothy squeezed his eyes shut and pressed his cheek against the tiles. The water blasted his back, his legs, and then his naked rear. Icy jets of water felt like needles as they stabbed through his fur and under his tail. He was shaking violently when it finally ended. The guard tossed a coarse, but thankfully clean, towel at him and barked an order to get dry.
	Then came clothes. Freshly-laundered jeans and a t-shirt several sizes too big for him. Someone else's body scent still lingered beneath the detergent, masculine and powerful. He hugged his arms around himself, still shivering, while people moved around him, and while he himself was moved, dragged here and there, made to lift his head, or turn this way and that, poked and prodded, a needle sinking into his arm, a wave of dizziness swelling and overwhelming him, weakness drifting into his body. In a daze, feeling half-awake, he was barely aware of the rumbling sound of an engine and the fresh breeze of the outside air, tainted by the faint scent of diesel and burning plastic. He lifted his feet onto steps when told to do so. He sat down when ordered. And on the metal bench, flanked by the stiff bodies of two guards, swayed and lulled by the rocking and bumping of the truck, he drifted away to oblivion.

A finger, soft and gentle, tapped his nose, over and over until he swirled back up to wakefulness.
	“Where do you think you are?” said a voice, as soft as the fingertip. A male voice, unlike any he had heard from the guards. This one was cultured and educated. It spoke carefully, with every syllable falling neatly into place, not one of them missed.
	The air was warm, with a heat source somewhere nearby, and his nose told him only of fragrant perfume and the gentle hint of bleach. Soft, thick-pile carpet caressed his bare feet. Timothy said nothing.
	“You may answer, Timothy.”
	There was another scent; fragrant and pleasant, and somehow familiar, though its identity eluded him.
	“Am I home?” he whispered, his voice harsh and dry.
	“Yes, little one, that's right. You're home.”
	But he had never had a carpet that felt like this. His heat came from an old gas fire that hissed gently when it was running, and he could not hear that hiss now. He owned no perfumes. He cleaned with lemon-scented cleaner, back when the stores still had any. And that other smell was alien, despite its familiarity. He knew it from somewhere, but not from his home.
	“But...”
	“Not, perhaps, the home you thought you meant,” said the voice. “But your home all the same.”
	He heard the creak of springs and the soft rustle of fabric directly in front of him. Dizziness came again, and he held an arm out to his side to steady himself. His hand swept through empty air, then knocked against something wooden. His fingers closed around it; a wooden bar, vertical, as wide as his wrist. He held himself up with its help and waited for his head to stop spinning.
	“Please,” he gasped. “You have to help me. These men came and kidnapped me, and they-”
	“Do you feel sick?”
	“They chained me up and beat me and...what?”
	“Do you feel like you might vomit?”
	“I don't...no, I don't.”
	“That's good. Tell me if you do. The drug that's inside you right now has some potentially unpleasant side-effects.”
	“I'm...a bit dizzy.”
	“That's one of the side-effects, yes. You'll be more comfortable if you sit down.”
	Swaying, Timothy slid down until his knees settled into the carpet. His hand reached a crosspiece of wood at the bottom of the pole, and he felt another like it right next to it. He felt along and discovered another, and another; a whole row of wooden bars. And beyond, when he pushed his fingers between the bars at their bottom edge, he felt soft fabric.
	“I don't...I don't understand what's happening? Where am I?”
	“I think I had better get you properly dressed, while it's still safe. Lift your head up, fox.”
	He heard a click and an electronic whine.
	“It's so nice to have the chance to make a record,” said the voice. “Of this one last moment of your old life. You look so very pretty, little fox. Like a gift. Hidden beyond a concealing wrapping. It's almost better just to wait a little while and imagine what's waiting underneath.”
	Timothy let his hand drop from the wooden bars. His body felt lethargic, and was getting worse. He slumped down onto all fours, and even holding himself there took an effort that made his arms ache. He lowered his head and groaned, feeling like he was spinning.
	“I'm not rescued,” he groaned, his lips feeling numb, his tongue feeling fat. “Am I?”
	“That depends entirely how you look at things,” said the voice. “Or not, as the case may be.”
	A sudden, wet heat blossomed and spread over his crotch. It ran down his inner thighs and radiated across the front of his jeans as the fabric soaked up the liquid. The potent tang of urine filled his nose.
	“Ah,” said the voice. “It looks as if I'm too late. No matter. No matter at all.”
	And Timothy heard something in the voice, an edge of predatory glee, that made him   shiver as if he were back in the cold and damp of his old cell.
	“Let's get those clothes off of you,” said the man, accompanied again by creaking springs. Then a pair hands were under his armpits, lifting him with strength that seemed not to falter as they hoisted Timothy into the air.
	He expected pain. He expected, perhaps, a beating, or the iron grip of a shackle, or any number of tortures, likely or unlikely. He did not expect to be gently undressed by careful, caring fingers. Nor did he expect the hot, silky water of a bath, scented with oils and foamed with bubbles that tickled his nose. The man was gentle and caring, his hands rubbing the soreness out of Timothy's weakened body and massaging the urine out of his fur with the help of a soft sponge.
	But when the man spoke, his voice carried that threatening edge, even as the kind, friendly words poured out. “Such a sweet little fox,” he crooned. “Let's get you lovely and clean. Smelling nice. So pretty. Pretty little fox.”
	The man lifted him out of the water and wrapped him in thick, fluffy towels. Fingertips stroked his cheek.
	“General,” barked a new voice. The fingertips on his cheek stiffened and dug into his fur.
	“Yes?” hissed the man, the General.
	“We have a situation in the-”
	“Not in front of the boy!” The fingers lifted away from Timothy's cheek. “I will be there in five minutes.”
	“But sir-”
	“Five minutes!”
	The General lifted Timothy in his bundle of towels and held him against his chest. Timothy could feel the crisp, starched cotton of his collar. He could smell the General's fur, distinct and equine. That could only mean...
	The General's arms suddenly fell away, and Timothy dropped fast. He had a half a second to yelp before the ground hit his hip, cushioned only slightly by the towels.
	“That hur-”
	“Don't you dare speak,” growled the general. His hands tore at the towels and stripped them away, exposing Timothy's damp, naked fur. Before he could cross his arms over himself, the General snatched up his wrists and slammed them against the floor above his head.
	“Keep them there,” he growled. “If you move them, I'll cut them off.”
	The General lifted his hand away. Timothy kept his where they were. He heard a short, sharp ripping noise that made him flinch. The General chuckled.
	“You have fascinating eyes,” he said. “Do you know that? They jump around as if they weren't completely useless. You have no idea what I'm about to do, do you?”
	Timothy shook his head and stifled a whimper.
	“I could have a knife in my hand, the blade an inch from your throat, and you'd have no idea, would you?” He laughed, and Timothy heard the ripping noise again, a noise like Velcro. Then he heard a rustle, like a plastic bag, and smelled the alien, yet familiar, scent, stronger than ever. And in a moment of clarity, a realisation clicked into place.
	“I don't need a diaper!” he blurted before he could stop himself. The stink of baby-powder filled his nose. The rustling noise went on. He clenched his eyes shut and turned his head to the side, expecting the impact of a fist.
	“Of course you need a diaper,” said the General, his voice soft and barely audible. “Blind baby boys who wet themselves need to be padded, don't they?”
	The General's arm scooped under Timothy's knees and yanked his legs upwards, squeezing his bruised gut and making him yelp. The General shushed soothingly. Timothy felt the soft, cottony lining of the diaper against his rear, which became a yielding cushion as the General slowly lowered his legs. The cottony feeling folded over to cover his crotch, and tightened around his waist with sharp jerks, accompanied by the crackle of tapes sticking into place. Timothy sucked his tummy in and quivered, holding it there, but still the waistband dug in uncomfortably.
	“There'll be no accidents,” said the General. “And the diaper won't be damaged, will it?”
	Timothy shook his head very quickly. There was ice in the General's voice.
	“Good! I will return soon.”
	A grunt, a noise of movement, the heavy thud of hooves, and the creak and slam and click of a door and its lock. Timothy rolled onto his side and curled up, hugging himself. He didn't dare touch the swollen bulge of cotton and plastic that clung to his rear. He lay still, trying not to cry, and concentrated on listening.
	The room around him was a mystery beyond his immediate reach, but he could glean a few details if he concentrated. He knew the room wasn't tiny, like his cell. Nor was it a giant hall or cavern. The subtle acoustics in every sound he and the general had made told him that.
	He knew he was alone. Either that, or there were people in the room who could sit very still, and could silence their breathing.
	He knew there was a crib somewhere nearby; the mysterious object with the wooden slats was so obvious now. It had been at his side when he had felt it. The General had picked him up and carried him...yes, off that way. Then he had brought him back, laid him down with a half-turn. His mental picture of the room filled in with a few tentative details; the crib should be somewhere...there.
	Slowly, he rolled onto his front and levered himself up onto his arms. They shook underneath him, as if they had been fatigued by exercise. His legs were just the same. There was no way he could stand. So he crawled, hesitant and slow, stopping after each shuffle forwards to hold an arm up and gingerly feel in front of him. With every movement, the diaper rustled noisily, utterly obliterating any hope of hearing any other subtle, quiet noises. An army could sneak up on him and he'd never hear them.
	Tentatively, he risked reaching down his back and prodding the padding under his tail, trying to edge it down an inch to relieve the pressure it was putting on his tail-base. It was no good. The padding was far too thick and stiff, and it was taped far too tightly. He couldn't shift it. Normally, it would've been so easy. But not now. Not in his weakened state. So he would have to keep shuffling forward, his tail bent uncomfortably high, as if he were willingly showing off his bulging, padded rear. At least there was nobody around to watch.
	He hoped...
	His fingers bumped against something. It was wooden, smooth and painted. But as he felt along its shape, it became obvious that it wasn't the crib. This thing, whatever it was, curved gracefully, horizontally, sweeping up to end in a rounded tip. It shifted as he pushed against it, rocking away from his hand and then back into it. He sat back on his knees, feeling the diaper compress against his heels, and explored the rest of the object.
	A rocking horse, he concluded, after he located the carved head. He dropped back onto all fours, his mental map now marked with a new detail, and shuffled to the side to skirt around it.
	He found the crib soon afterwards. It was easy to operate; the latches were loose and the bars dropped smoothly. The hardest part was reaching up high enough; he had to brace against the crib like it was a walker, as if he were elderly.
	Exhausted, drained, and still running on dazed disbelief, he heaved himself up over the lowered railing and collapsed onto his back on the soft mattress. He didn't need to sleep, not really, not after his holiday into the unconscious so recently. But the mattress was soft. The crib was the first bed he had felt underneath him in a long time. He curled up on his side, knees nearly touching his chest, head cradled in his hands, and tried not to think about...well, anything.

A whisper can be the loudest thing in the world when spoken with urgency and with the express desire of being unheard. The tiny sounds can cut right through sleep and stir a groggy mind. Timothy kept his eyes closed.
	“Crawled there all on his own,” whispered a male voice that did not belong to the General.
	“Messed up little freak,” whispered another, deeper, gruffer.
	“I'm gonna fuck him.”
	“You're going to what?”
	“I said I'm going to fuck him up. Beat the weird out of him.”
	“You can't do that. The General-”
	“He'll never know. All you have to do is choose the right spots and it'll never leave a mark. Just...here.”
	Timothy flinched as a fingertip touched his naked tummy. Thinking quickly, and wide-awake now, he shifted his arms and murmured under his breath in what he hoped was a convincing display of slumber.
	“Or here,” said the voice, while a finger prodded at the crotch of Timothy's diaper. “Makes them squeal nice and loud.”
	“Can this one even squeal?”
	“What do you mean?”
	“They can't speak, can they? Blindies I mean.”
	“That's deafies, idiot.”
	“Well, I didn't know!”
	“You don't have to know. It's obvious, isn't it?” The voice chuckled. “Can't believe you'd think he'd be dumb.”
	“I didn't say that! He might be really smart.”
	Timothy bit his lip and tried to stop his chest from shaking. Of all the times to get the giggles, this was not the best!
	“Hey, I think he's waking up. Where's the boss?”
	“Still out with the patrol, I reckon.”
	“Great. Get him up!”
	“You're not the boss of-”
	“Just do it, fucking hell!”
	Timothy's eyes opened. They stared, unseeing, focussed on nothing.
	“Ugh,” said the first voice. “Should cut those damn things out. Like looking at a doll's eyes.”
	“Pretty eyes, though.”
	“If you like that sort of thing,” scoffed the first voice. “Fairy.”
	“Hey!”
	“Please don't hurt me,” whispered Timothy.
	“We're not gonna hurt you,” said the voice. It chuckled threateningly. “Not much, anyway.”
	Hands slid under Timothy's arms and gripped. The pads were rough and the claws, though blunt, pressed hard into his fur. He yelped and wrapped his hands around the man's wrists. It only made the claws dig in harder. The padding of the mattress dropped away as the hands hauled him up to dangle, limp and vulnerable, stewing in the overwhelming smell of a pair of sweaty, unwashed canines, and the stink of boot polish and cigarettes.
	“He's so little,” said the first voice.
	“Like a little baby.”
	“Baby in a diaper.” A laugh, and a cough that Timothy felt on his face. “The General's got fucking weird tastes. Clear all that stuff off the table there.”
	“He'll notice that.”
	“We'll put it all back, idiot.”
	Air whooshed past Timothy as he spun in the air. His padded rear dropped onto something soft and yielding. The hands dropped him backwards and he felt a surge of terrifying vertigo before his hands shot back and established that he wasn't falling into thin air; the padded surface extended behind him. Soft, foam-like, and coated in smooth plastic. It squeaked as his hands slid over it, and cushioned his fall when a hand on his chest roughly shoved him down.
	“Hold him down while I get the diaper off.”
	“Wait a sec, won't the General notice?”
	“We'll put another one on! There's like a million of them in here.”
	“Eww, no way. You can do that.”
	“What, you're alright fucking him, but not putting a fucking clean diaper on him?”
	“You're the one that wants to fuck him. I'm not doing that.”
	“You're just gonna watch, right?” The voice laughed and Timothy felt fingers on the diaper's tapes, tugging and ripping. The waistband of the diaper loosened. “You know, that's freakier than what I'm doing, in a way.”
	“Shut up...”
	“Hit a nerve?”
	“I'll hit something in a minute. Oh wow...”
	Timothy heard a whistle. There was no way to tell which one it was. The urge to cover his naked crotch brought his hands down across himself, until they were abruptly knocked out of the way.
	“He's fucking huge.”
	“He's not that big.”
	“Big enough! Fucking hell. How's it always the skinny little fuckers who have the giant fuckers?”
	“Stands to reason. Makes up for the rest of them being so weedy, doesn't it?” A sharp tug yanked the diaper out from under Timothy's rear and a hand gripped each ankle, hauling them up. He tried to pull his tail up to cover himself, but two more hands gripped his wrists, pinning them to the padded tabletop, pressing claws hard against the sensitive inner side of his wrists. Timothy gasped in pain and let his tail drop.
	“Be good,” whispered a voice, “and I won't have to gouge your wrists open and spill all your blood over the General's nice clean baby-changing table thing.”
	“Pass me that bottle there,” said the first voice.
	“Baby oil?”
	“Yeah, it's perfect for this.”
	Timothy whimpered.
	“Shut the fuck up! And hold still.”
	The hands on his ankles pushed until his knees almost touched his chest. There was some shuffling, until both ankles were gripped in one hand, which seemed more than up to the job of holding him firm. He bit his lip and tried to stop another whimper from bubbling up, as a plastic cap clicked and a dribble of cold, oily liquid dripped down onto the furry cleft between his butt-cheeks.
	“Please,” he gasped. “Please don't do this!”
	“I said shut up, brat.”
	“B-but I'm a virgin!”
	The voice laughed. “So fucking what? I've wrecked a lot of virgins in this place!”
	“But...” Timothy hesitated. A finger prodded against his oiled pucker, smearing the liquid in a tight circle. “B-but...the General! He'll know! He'll punish you?”
	A fist thudded into his stomach; not hard, but every punch is unexpected when you can't see them coming, and an unexpected punch hurts the worst. He croaked out a breathless gasp, then wheezed in pain, fighting against the hands holding his wrists, desperate to massage the agony.
	“I told you to shut up,” growled the first voice. Timothy heard the clink of a belt-buckle and the rustle of fabric. “And the General ain't gonna know fuck all about this. He never does!”
	The weight of the guard came first; heavy pressure on his legs, smothering and hot. It pressed him down into the table, grinding sweat stink into his fur.
	“Love doing it this way,” growled the guard. “Get to see their face when you shove into them. They know it's coming too. Can see it on their faces. This one knows. Don't you, brat?”
	“I...I don't...please.”
	“Ah, shut up. You can't see what's happening, but you can feel it, can't you.” Something wet and warm and pointed touched Timothy's pucker. “You can feel that, can't you? Great big cock about to fill that sweet rear of yours and show you what you're truly made for.”
	“Fuck, man, tone it down a bit will you?”
	“Don't act like you're not loving it! I can see you there, you know.”
	“Please,” gasped Timothy. “Please don't fuck me! I'll...I'll...”
	“You'll what? You can't do a damn thing, little brat. Except lie there and take it.”
	The probing touch became pressure, and Timothy clenched as tightly as he could.
	“Just gonna make it feel better for me,” laughed the guard. His grip on Timothy's ankles tightened. His hot, stinking breath washed down over his face. The pressure built, grinding at his pucker, wearing down the tension in the muscle until, finally, it popped inside.
	“Ahh, fuck yeah,” growled the guard. He wasn't heard; he couldn't be heard. Timothy's scream filled the room and their ears.
	“Fuck he's loud,” said the other guard, somewhere above Timothy's head.
	“The tight ones always are! Sure you don't wanna go?”
	“I'm sure.”
	“You can use his mouth, you know. Bet he's a good little cocksucker.”
	“With those teeth? No thanks.”
	“Just wait, then. The General's probably gonna remove 'em.”
	Timothy howled and thrashed against the hands holding him down. The guard was thrusting, hard and fast, shunting his whole body on the table, thumping thighs against his rear. The pain filled everything. There was nothing else in the world but the pain. His mind went elsewhere; into a horrible hell of torture. Tears ran freely down his cheeks, flicked away as droplets with each desperate shake of his head.
	“You scare me a little, you know,” said the guard behind his head.
	“Yeah?”
	“That look on your face while you're fucking him. You look like a demon.”
	“Fuck yeah. That's what makes me a good soldier. Fuck and kill. Fuck and...” He thrust, hard, as punctuation, slamming deep into Timothy. “...kill. That's how you do it.”
	Through all the pain, all the mind-rending horror, Timothy's ears registered a tiny sound; a soft click. The guard stopped his thrusting.
	“Sir! What-”
	He didn't finish the sentence. A sound as loud as the ending of the world blasted in Timothy's ears. Then again, even louder. The hands loosened their grip, then fell away. The guard's cock slithered free from Timothy's rear. There were a series of heavy thumps and the foul taste of iron in the air.
	A pair of hands touched his shoulders. Timothy flinched and cried.
	“It's alright, my baby,” said the General.
	Timothy rolled towards his arms, which wrapped around and under him, lifting him up and away.
	Timothy couldn't remember much of what happened after that. There was another bath, he thought. And a lot of movement and the chemical stink of bleach. He clung tightly to the General at every opportunity, letting the sobs wash away into his controlling embrace.
	“Do you see why you need me?” said the General, softly.
	Timothy, through his tears, nodded, and buried his face in the General's shoulder.

Cigar smoke filled the air and lingered heavily in Timothy's lungs. The collar dug uncomfortably into his neck. The straps hurt his wrists, despite the extra padding of the fleecy sleeper suit between his wrists and the hard, sharp-edged leather. He struggled to keep his balance on the General's lap as the man jostled him, laughing and joking with his friends and colleagues, paying as little attention to Timothy as he might a pet cat.
	Timothy concentrated on staying upright. With his wrists cuffed to the sides of the collar, it was difficult. He couldn't swing his arms out to catch his balance. Every movement was truncated, uncoordinated. If he leaned too far one way, he would topple out of the General's lap, hopefully to be caught by him before he hit the floor. All other directions led to falling into the General's embrace, a prospect even more unwelcome.
	 “We don't talk about that here,” said the General to one of his companions. “The fight stays outside. In here, only fun.”
	He bumped his knee underneath Timothy's rear. The padding of the thick diaper and the fleecy sleeper helped to cushion the jolt, but nothing could stop the thick plug from pressing deeper into his rear. He squealed into the rubber teat of the gag filling his mouth.
	“Where did you find him?” said one of the voices. “He's adorable.”
	“In the usual places,” said the General. “My men say he was a natural; just a cowering little worm. So easy to snatch up. He was born for this.”
	“He certainly looks like he was! That outfit suits him. What's under it?”
	“Big fat plug in his rear.”
	“Hah! Poor little guy.”
	“Can we play with him?”
	“In good time,” said the General. He rocked his leg again, making Timothy shudder. Defying every mental attempt to make it go soft, his cock was hard against the soft, wet lining of the diaper. “Before we get to all that, I've got a show lined up for you all.”
	Cheerful conversation resumed. Bottles or glasses clinked. More smoke thickened the air. Timothy lost his balance and fell against the General's chest, finding naked fur, bare of clothing. He wriggled, trying to right himself, but couldn't succeed, until the General lifted him back up.
	“Comfy there, little one?” he said.
	“Mmmph,” said Timothy.
	“I'm glad to hear it.”
	Timothy tilted his head back and grunted into the gag. He could feel his own drool trickling down his chin. The diaper was wet and clammy, and the only thing stopping it from getting wetter was his erection. His bladder was full, and the drug made it impossible to hold it in. Perhaps, just perhaps, he might have been able to break the thin metal links connecting his wrists to his neck, or found the buckle on the back of the collar and released himself. But the drug-induced weakness in his muscles made the first impossible, and the padded, fingerless fleece mittens covering his hands made the other equally impossible.
	He shivered as the General moved his leg again. The plug was making it hard to think.
	“Can't we put a blindfold on him?” said one of the General's companions.
	“Don't be silly,” said the General. “Why would I want to do that? He's already blind.”
	“Yes, I know. But just in case...”
	“Just in case what? In case he's faking it?”
	“Well...”
	“I assure you he's not. And besides, why hide such pretty eyes?”
	“They keep staring,” said the companion. “It'd be alright if they moved about or properly looked at things.”
	“He might be faking,” said one of the other voices, with a cheerful, intoxicated lilt in his voice. “Might be an actor. He looks like one.”
	One of the others laughed loudly. “Like a sissy, you mean!”
	“He's not a sissy,” said the General, sharply. Instantly the laughter died, and for a moment the only sound was Timothy's muffled moaning. “He's a little baby!” said the General with a roar of laughter, which was mimicked a moment later, by the more nervous laughter from his companions.
	“And he's as blind as a bat,” continued the General. “And I'll prove it! Move that chair out of the way. In fact, stand up, all of you.”
	Feet shuffled and furniture scraped. The General stood and lifted Timothy with him, powerful arms carrying his weight like it was nothing. Timothy clung to him as best as he could with his arms bound and his legs frail. The dizzying feeling of vertigo made him yelp into his gag.
	The General lowered him down, and he felt floorboards beneath his knees. Timothy wobbled, steadied himself, and waited.
	Nothing seemed about to happen. He knelt very still, listening to the soft sounds of the General and his companions; breathing, sipping their drinks and sucking on their cigars.
	“Mmmgh?”
	“The door's open,” said the General.
	Another long pause while Timothy hesitated. One of the companions laughed.
	“Oh, this game! I love this game. Spread out, everyone.”
	“I think we might need to explain the rules to him,” said another.
	“It's simple, baby boy,” said the General. “The door's open. If you can find it, you can go free.”
	“Mmmh?”
	“It's not a trick. Go on now.”
	Hesitantly, and with his ears held high and listening for the slightest noise of incoming punishment, he shuffled forward on his knees. Nothing happened. He moved again, slightly further this time. Still nothing.
	“That's it,” said the General. “Go find the door, boy! You can do it!”
	One of the companions snickered under his breath. Timothy shivered. The world around him was an unknown void. All he could be certain of was it contained the General and at least three companions. And the furniture they had been sitting on. He tried, and failed, to build a mental map of the space. He simply hadn't learned enough about it.
	And now he was expected to navigate through it for a door that may not even exist. He chewed on the gag in indecision, shuffled his knee forward, and lost his balance.
	“Nnnnggh!” he squealed, falling forward. He clenched his eyes shut and turned his head. His wrists yanked at the cuffs, his arms instinctively trying to reach down and catch himself. His elbows did the job instead; smacking painfully against the floorboards. Even the fleecy padding couldn't protect them from the jarring pain of bone meeting wood.
	The companions roared with laughter.
	“Little baby can't waddle along on his knees?”
	“Perhaps he should crawl instead.”
	“Yeah, baby, crawl! Find the door! Go on, find it baby boy!”
	Timothy groaned and tried to fight his welling tears. Slowly, the pain in his elbows faded. There was no way he could lever himself back upright. He could, perhaps, flop onto his side and then wriggle upright from there. But what would they say or do if he appeared to fail even at crawling​?
	Slowly, he felt his way forward, crawling on his elbows and knees, his swollen, padded rear sticking up behind him, his tail thrust almost vertical by its bulk. Every movement made the plug shift deep inside him, grinding against sensitive spots, making his  cock twitch and his swollen bladder ache.
	“Oh, you don't want to go that way!” said one of the companions. Timothy hesitated.
	“Don't listen to him, baby boy,” said another. “He's trying to trick you.”
	Suppressed laughter came from all around him.
	“Play fair, gentlemen,” said the General, sounding amused. “It's hard enough for the little guy as it is.”
	Timothy's nose brushed against a fold of fabric and caught the scent of boot polish. He froze, then tried to back away.
	“Go easy on him,” said the General.
	“Mmmh?”
	The belt cracked down through the air like a whip. The inch-wide strip of leather impacted along the backs of Timothy's thighs and wrapped itself around his leg. Even with the padding of the sleeper, the pain was white hot. He screamed into the gag and jerked backwards, losing his balance and tumbling in a heap.
	“Try not to run into my colleagues,” said the General, his casual voice raised so as to be heard over Timothy's muffled screaming. “Sorry, I should have told you the rules. There are obstacles in the way. Obstacles armed with belts.”
	Laughter. The crack of leather against floorboards, somewhere close to Timothy's right. He sobbed, trying to right himself back onto all fours, trying to ignore the burning strip across his thighs. He focused his thoughts on the door. The door meant freedom. He turned slightly, now knowing where at least one of the General's companions stood, and crawled shakily forward.
	“Ooh, careful,” said one of the companions, somewhere behind him. “You might be heading towards one of our top snipers.”
	“Shush,” said another, with a laugh. “Don't spoil it!”
	“He can swat a fly out of the air with that belt. I wonder what part of you he'll pick to blister!”
	Timothy whimpered. He put his elbow back down, abandoning the next step forward. He strained his ears, but could hear nothing useful; the sounds of breathing and general shuffling came from all directions. He was surrounded, with no good way to pick out where the open path was, if there even was one.
	“What's the matter, baby?” said one of the companions. “Can't see where you're going?”
	“Don't be so mean to the poor boy,” said the General. “Just because he's a weak little sissy baby who can't see, or hold his bladder, or do anything to look after himself.”
	The group roared with laughter. Timothy blushed miserably, tears welling, and probed a hesitant elbow towards his left. When nothing terrible happened, he kept heading forward.
	“Big mistake...”
	The belt struck with neat precision across the middle of his left foot, carving a slice of agony right across the fleece-covered pad of his sole. Screaming, sobbing, Timothy fell onto his side and curled up into a tight ball.
	“What's the matter, little baby?” said the General. “Don't you want to find the door any more?”
	Timothy shook his head. He begged into the muffling barrier of the gag. Drool ran down his chin. His cock stayed maddeningly hard, even while the stinging gnawed at his thighs and foot.
	“You'd better keep crawling,” said the General. “Or my friends will come to you...”
	Timothy heard footsteps. A circle of men closing in around him, armed with vicious belts. He could do nothing to predict when and where they might strike. He was powerless, and they knew it. Every instinct begged him to stay curled up tight, to just give in and hope for mercy. But he knew there wouldn't be any. He hauled himself back up, trembling with weakness, muscles aching, welts burning, and shakily took another step in a different direction.
	Belts whipped down from every direction. They snapped sharply across his back and neck. They caught the mittens over his hands and bruised his fingers. Some hit the thick padding of his diaper, but that was no mercy; the impacts  banged against the base of the plug, jostling it inside him, peppering his agonised screams with lustful moans that made the men howl with laughter. Soon they were exclusively targeting his rear, and he wandered the room in a daze of pain and frustrated arousal, wishing for it all to end.
	He never did find the door.

“There there, little baby,” said the General. He sounded drunk. “I understand if you don't want to leave. You want to stay like this, don't you? Good little baby.”
	Timothy whined into his gag.
	“I'm so glad you've decided to stay.” His arms squeezed tighter. It seemed like he could almost crush Timothy's ribs without even meaning to. “My little baby.”
	He was being carried. Where to, he couldn't know. The heavy sound of the General's hooves was sometimes muffled by carpet, other times thudding hard on concrete, and still other times their sound echoed off of smooth surfaces in large spaces, bringing to mind grand marble halls and great palaces. The soft breeze and quiet creaks of doors told him they were moving through many rooms. The lack of arm movement on the part of the General told him that others, probably guards, were opening the doors. He clung close to the General's chest, trying to hide from all those unseen eyes, but nothing he could do would hide his diapered, sleeper-suited, shamefully-babied body. He pressed his face into the nook between the General's arm and chest, and felt the General shift a hand to pet the back of his head.
	“It's okay, little one. We're nearly there.”
	The air gained a different scent, but one that Timothy recognised; it was the General's own body scent, except it was multiplied and faded at the same time; the lingering imprint of a frequent presence, soaked into the furniture and the walls. Timothy felt and heard the door click shut behind them.
	“Now, where did I put...”
	The General lowered Timothy, who tried to hold on with his elbows, his wrists still bound to his neck. He felt something soft and yielding under his padded rear. Reluctantly, he let himself sink onto it. As he lay onto his back he heard the creak of springs. He was on a bed.
	“Aha,” said the General. A hand gripped Timothy's muzzle and jerked it to the side. “Hold still.”
	Clumsy, drunken fingers pressed something squishy into his ear. He bit down on his gag and whimpered, trying to keep still. Then, he relaxed as familiarity reassured him; the squishy thing was just an earplug, nothing more. It pressed against the tender, ticklish skin of his inner ear as the foam expanded outwards, sealing it off.
	“And now for the other-”
	Timothy heard nothing more as the second plug expanded into his other ear. He felt a dizzy wave of nausea wash over him, and he pressed his elbows in towards each-other, fighting the restraints with his urge to wrap his arms around himself, to cuddle away the fear. With no sight, Timothy had grown up with hearing as his primary sense. Now it was gone, and he was cut off and alone. He could feel and hear his own whimpers, faraway and distant, distorted, but only the faintest whisper of anything else breached the foam rubber. Weakly, he began to cry.
	Touch and smell. That's all he had left. His nose could only smell the General. His skin felt only the clothes forced onto him by the General, the bed owned by the General, and the General's strong hands, gripping under his arms, forcing him over onto his front.
	“Please, no!” he begged, garbled and muffled into indistinct noises by the gag. He could barely hear his own voice. He doubted the General was paying attention, or cared. His hands tugged at the back of the sleeper suit, popping the buttons and opening up the slit down his back. He felt the seat of the diaper stretch, then rip apart as strong hands savagely tore a hole.
	Warm air met his naked fur, but compared to the heat inside the thick sleeper fleece it was an arctic blast. Timothy dug his elbows into the soft bedding and tried to drag himself forward, but the General's powerful hand pinned the back of his neck and pressed him face-down into the bed.
	He had spent many long, miserable days chained naked and cold, a prisoner. But now this was different. Having just that one intimate area exposed, while the rest of his body was warm and clothed, felt even more exposing than being fully naked ever did. He squirmed, feeling lost in his own body. He cried weakly through the gag, lost and scared, and the General held him close, his chest pressing down onto Timothy's back, his breath hot against the back of his neck. The chill of cold liquid touched his pucker, making him flinch. The warmth of firm flesh soon followed.
	The General said something. Timothy couldn't hear the words. He could only hear the soothing tone. The smell of alcohol-laced breath filled his nose.
	Pinned, held, helpless and trapped, Timothy trembled as the General began to push. This was unlike the rough force of the guards. His thick, flat-headed cock rubbed against the lubricated entrance, gentle at first, slowly growing in pressure, while the General's arms closed around Timothy's chest and held him tightly, squeezing the breath from his lungs.
	The pain came, expected and unwelcome. It speared into him as his pucker gave way to the pressure and spread wide around the General's cock. But he didn't thrust inside with the impatience the guards had shown. For an eternity he didn't even move; just held the tip inside Timothy, waiting for something. His hands stroked and kneaded Timothy's chest. And slowly, ever so slowly, the pain eased from a raw, stabbing agony, to a tolerable throb. It still hurt. Oh how it hurt. But this was the pain of a bruise rather than that of sliced-open skin.
	Then the General moved. The mattress yielded under his shifting weight, as did Timothy. He was compressed down into the softness, massaging his whole body. The thick shaft of the General's cock eased into him, sliding slickly and controlled, a careful and caring penetration. This was the General when he had been drinking? When he was drunk?
	The breath at his neck became kisses, then gentle nibbles, tugging at his fur. The General's cock filled him, deeper and deeper, and just when he expected the end, it went further. Timothy made a noise into the gag that he never expected to make; a shaky moan. He felt the General's chest quiver above him and the pant of rapid breath against his neck; laughter. Timothy felt his ears glow hot.
	The thrusting came next. Timothy expected it, after the experience with the guards. But the General was slow and measured in his movements. It could barely even be called thrusting at all. This was sliding, smooth and almost pleasant. Timothy found himself biting into the gag to keep himself from squealing. At some point the pain faded away unnoticed, and in its place a new feeling grew; a pressure from within, growing stronger as the General rocked faster on top of him. The nibbles at the back of his neck became gentle bites, and Timothy found himself unable to resist tilting his head back, moaning his pleasure into the gag.
	A shudder, silent, and the General released into him. Timothy could feel the pumping swells in his cock. Then the man's weight sank down onto Timothy, compressing him in the sweaty heat between the General and the bed.
	A long while later, after the cotton-wool fluff of contentment had faded, and after the heat had become furnace-like and the comfort had morphed into aches and cramps, the General slid free from him, wet and slick, and fished in his ears for the plugs, tugging them free.
	“You enjoyed that, baby,” said the General.
	Timothy mumbled his weak protest into the gag. The General chuckled, and he rolled Timothy over onto his back. The ragged tatters of the diaper were no barrier for the General, who reached into the rear opening of the sleeper and felt around over Timothy's hip, down into the sweaty, urine-damp heat of his crotch to cup and squeeze his limp cock, to feel the sticky residue of the orgasm that had left it that way. Timothy whined and tried to bury his face in his folded-up and bound arms.
	“We must do something about that,” said the General, with a dancing wickedness in his voice.

Nudity was welcome. Everything peeled away from his fur, damp with sweat, stinking of body musk and cum and urine. Cool air bathed him, and then warm water did the same. He rested limp against the General's hands as he massaged the aches and soaped his fur. He bit down on the first few murmurs of contentment, before giving in and letting them flow. By the time he was clean again, the constant soothing touches and lingering scent of equine masculinity had coaxed his spent cock into hardness again.
	“Bad baby,” said the General, not sounding like he meant it to much, as he tapped the tip. Timothy yelped.
	“I...” he said, trailing off, unsure of what, if anything, to say. Of all the areas of his life now constrained and controlled by the General, his voice was one that remained free. He had choices to make, and consequences to deal with if he made the wrong choices. He could cause his own death if he said the wrong thing. His voice had the power to call upon the General's powerful fists, a grip around his neck, a click on a trigger. He bit his lip, hard, and stifled a whine. So much power. It seemed so utterly wrong for him to have it.
	It was...terrifying.
	So he stayed silent, but for the whimpering. Wordless, the safest way to be.
	“Good,” said the General. “You're learning. Let's get you dressed.”
	His still-damp fur felt the now-familiar embrace of the plastic-coated changing mat. Without thinking, Timothy lifted his legs. But the General nudged them back down again.
	“I'll put your diaper on you in a minute, baby boy. There's something else first.”
	Timothy flinched at an unexpected touch to his hard cock. For a few moments, fingers gently stroked, up and down the length of his shaft, feather-light. He murmured under his breath, unsure what to do. His hands fidgeted at his sides. Then the stroking stopped, and his world became agony.
	“Shh,” said the General. “It's alright, baby. Lie still.”
	He couldn't lie still. His hands shot down to fight the General's iron grip on his balls. The more he struggled, the tighter it seemed he squeezed. Tears prickled at the corners of his eyes, and he beat his fists weakly against the General's forearms. Even normally, it'd be no use to fight those strong arms. With his muscles weakened by the drug, the fight was even more lopsided. He was doing little more than brushing the General with his fists. Gradually, his erection wilted. Only when he was soft, and crying like a child, did the General finally let go.
	“That wasn't too bad, was it?”
	Timothy didn't answer. He was lost to tears, incapable of doing much else. He lay still as the General took hold of his limp cock. He felt the touch of something cold and hard, a pinch as more metal closed around the base of his cock and the underside of his balls. The metal warmed quickly, touching the whole of his cock, sealed inside a short cylindrical tube. Faintly, through the lingering fog of pain-filled distress, Timothy heard a quiet metallic click.
	“All better now,” said the General, petting Timothy's stomach. “Locked away like a good baby boy should be.”

Timothy crawled slowly around the room. He was getting used to the layout, growing more confident with every item of furniture he bumped into and added to his mental map. If he really thought about it, he would conclude that he didn't have much to be upset about at the moment. His arms were free to move, as were his hands. He could reach up and touch things, learn their shapes, more often than not recoiling in embarrassment as he discovered phallic rubber and clinking metal. Some of the items were complete mysteries. Others were worryingly obvious.
	He had been given a brief chance to explore the chastity device, while the General cuddled away his tears. Smooth, polished metal, a tube around his cock and a ring behind it, holding it in place. A padlock hung from the top and a small hole adorned the tip. Timothy soon learned its purpose as he felt the first few drips of his uncontrolled urine trickling out through it. A diaper protected it now; soaking up the leakage and stopping the padlock from clinking with every crawling step. He couldn't avoid the loud rustling of plastic, though, nor the disconcertingly-pleasant rubbing of the soft, cottony interior. He tried not to think about it; he had quickly learned how uncomfortable it can be to get an erection that has no room to swell into.
	The General was somewhere nearby, he knew. Or perhaps he wasn't. Maybe he had left the room hours ago. Or had left and come back. He prickled with anxiety every time he wondered if maybe the General had left him alone. Or worse; some other person had come into the room to watch him crawling about as a diapered baby. Worse still, they might be guards with the same intentions as the ones before. He tried to shake away the thoughts whenever they surfaced, but they kept coming back.
	Early on, he had learned to leave the diaper alone. He had sat on his knees and tentatively felt the bulge over his crotch. An instant later, the General had grasps his wrists and pulled his hands away.
	“Babies don't play with their diapers. They play with their toys.”
	The voice had been stern enough to not need a warning of what might happen if he disobeyed. So he obeyed, whether he was alone or not, just in case the General was there, watching him and waiting for misbehaviour. All the while, the diaper was filling up with the constant trickle of urine leaking from his useless bladder, weighing it down into a sagging mass between his thighs. The urge to reach down and rip it off was unbearable. Having his hands free and having to rely on willpower to fight against the very thing he wanted to do most in the world was almost worse than being bound. Almost. He didn't dare tempt fate.
	He sat, balanced on the soft seat of the diaper, a rounded, portable cushion, always following him, ready for him to rock back onto. The damp, cottony lining pressed between his thighs, wetting his fur. He tried not to think about it, but it nagged constantly at his attention, as did the ache of his cock inside its prison. On the carpet before him lay a jumble of blocks, of wood and plastic. Some were faced with carved letters and numbers, while others were smooth and blank. Probably printed with images, he thought.
	Idly, he picked one up, turned it over in his hands, then tossed it back down. Even this small exertion stressed his weakened muscles, like he had just thrown a bowling ball. With a sigh, he patted the carpet beside him, checking it was clear, then flopped down onto his side.
	What felt like hours passed, and without a clock to tell him the time, he had no idea if it really was hours, or just five minutes. Alone, perhaps, stuck with his tedium, with nothing to do.
	Well, there was something, but that was almost worse than having nothing to do.
	Almost...
	He reached over for the blocks, picked one up...and set it down on top of another. The blocks came together with a soft, wooden, “clack”.
	Soon, he was building a tower. He balanced on his knees and reached up as high as he could, not daring to stand on his feet. This was tiring enough as it was. Besides, babies crawled. At least...that's what the General said. And if he was here in the room, watching, he would be angry if he walked.
	“Clack”, another block added to the stack. He held his hands ready to catch them if they toppled. When they didn't, he smiled. He wondered if he could manage to make it one block taller.
	Was that the sound of someone chuckling, faint and stifled? Timothy flushed. Suddenly acutely aware of himself, he dropped back down onto his rear, wincing at the wet squish of the diaper, and turned away from the blocks.
	He decided to explore the room a little more. He found the rocking horse again, right where he remembered it was. It was like a landmark amongst the other objects in the room, a point that he could navigate from. It stood almost at the very centre. Occasionally in his life, Timothy would wonder what things looked like to people who could see. He imagined the rocking horse looked particularly impressive and ominous. He lingered, daring himself to reach up learn more about it, barely managing to fight back the urge; he shouldn't be curious about these horrible things, he told himself.
	“I'm looking forward to seeing you on there,” said the General, his voice making Timothy jump. “But you'll have to wait. That's for tonight.”

“Tonight” came very quickly.
	He had an audience again. He could tell by the faint murmurs and sounds of movement. How many there were, he couldn't tell. He could only imagine all the eyes fixed on him, watching his shame. He squirmed, uncomfortable in his skin, wishing desperately that the diaper wasn't so wet and heavy, along with so many other things. He wished he were at home. He wished...he wished he were alone with the General so he could just cuddle against him and be safe. He chewed on his lip and tried in vain to process that thought and figure out how he should feel about having it.
	“Lift him up,” said the General.
	Mystery hands grabbed him, gently. They didn't belong to the General. They pulled him up onto his feet, and Timothy swayed unsteadily, unsure of his balance. He was in no danger of falling; the hands supported him well.
	“Get him ready,” said the General. The coldness of his voice unsettled Timothy. This wasn't the warm, soothing voice he had heard before. But then, it also wasn't the cruel, sadism-laced voice he had heard so many times. He kept still and quiet. It was the safest thing to do.
	More hands tugged at the diaper.
	“No,” said the General. “Leave it on. Use the scissors.”
	This wasn't the rough tearing that he had experienced with the General. This was careful and neat, scissor-blades snipping slowly to cut a small, tidy hole in the seat of his diaper. Timothy caught the scent of urine, his own urine, and the odd chemical scent of the diaper's lining, unmistakable as anything else. He chewed harder on his lip and felt his ears and cheeks burn. Everyone was watching this.
	“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the General. Then, a laugh. “Who am I kidding? Gentlemen! Tonight, I am your host. Before you stands your entertainment. Those who know me well, and I hope I am right in saying that is most of you, will know exactly what tonight is all about. For those who don't, and for whom tonight is a new experience, you will do me the courtesy of shutting the fuck up and just watching.”
	A few forced laughs. Rough hands jostled Timothy. Arms hooked under his legs, cradling him, yanking him up off the floor.
	“Gentlemen,” said the General. “It is time to place your bets!”
	The lifting hands spread his legs wide. The diaper hung limp, split down the middle, threatening to unravel. But the tapes held, just long enough.
	“Is that a chastity under there?” said a voice amongst the murmuring throng. “Hah!”
	“He always has them locked up,” said another.
	“Poor thing,” said still another. Then the floodgates broke, and a babble of voices filled Timothy's ears, a few snatches of words rising above the tumult.
	“I'll give him five minutes.”
	“I say four.”
	“He's new, right? Two minutes at the most! You remember the last one.”
	“That was quite a night. What happened to that boy in the end?”
	“Quiet, you idiot. You know what happens when people ask too many questions.”
	The hands were unsteady underneath Timothy, and he gripped their shoulders for support, his free hands unsure what to do with themselves. They were moving him. One held him on each side, poised. Timothy started to shake.
	“Hush, please,” said the General. “Let's all enjoy the sounds he makes.”
	The hands lowered him.
	Timothy felt the firm, relentless push of something wet, slick, and hard, against his pucker. He tensed up, realising too late that this was a mistake. It was big. Very big. Bigger even than the General's equine cock, but with the same brutal flat tip that allowed no way to get used to the girth bit by bit; it was all or nothing. He scrabbled against the shoulders of the two men holding him, but their grip loosened and gravity took full control; down he sank, and the dildo speared into him.
	The audience applauded the scream of pain he treated them to. The dildo was larger than the General's cock. Or perhaps that was his imagination. It seemed to fill him more deeply, more firmly, but differently. This was without heat, without motion, without the General's strong body draped over him, enclosing him, panting at his neck. The pain was not so intense, the penetration not so sudden and raw, despite the size. It faded rapidly, and in its place came the unwelcome pleasure. He shuddered, eyes closed. The groundwork had been laid by the General's earlier thrusting. He was opened up and receptive to it, and this more than anything kept the heat in his blush. How long before he wanted this, rather than simply endured?
	“I give him one minute!” cried a voice. And now the hubbub began anew, men casting their bids. Timothy reached forwards, feeling for the curved wood of the rocking horse, trying to find something to push against to lift him off of this horrible thing. In that moment the two men grasped his wrists, and Timothy's weak whine of defeat was lost to the crowd as they roughly yanked his arms behind his back and cuffed them together with tight, police-issue handcuffs.
	The General's hand cupped his cheek. He recognised it instantly; that hard, rough palm, strong fingers able to close around his throat and snuff the light out of him, yet so tender and gentle. He whined and leaned into his hand.
	“Don't speak,” said the General. “Rock.”
	Timothy made a quizzical noise.
	The hand moved to his shoulder, gripping it, pushing downwards slightly. Timothy yelped as the dildo pressed deeper into him. Then, with a shove, the General pushed him forward, and with a shriek he rocked, and the horse rocked with him.
	The dildo, however, did not.
	Fixed, somehow, to a part of the rocking horse that did not rock with the rest of it; a subframe, perhaps, or a stand upon which the rest rocked. Timothy now regretted not exploring further when he had the chance. Just an ordinary rocking horse, he had thought, built to humiliate the baby made to ride it. Had he even dreamed that worse was possible, he might have found the mechanism and accessories that turned it into this.
	With a wet, slurping noise, the dildo slid almost all the way out of his rear. Timothy bent forwards, gasping.
	Then the cruel inevitability of gravity took hold. The rocking horse teetered at the apex of its swing, then started back the way it had come.
	“No, please no!” cried Timothy. The watching crowd roared their approval. He clenched his pucker as tightly as he could, but the momentum of the horse was too much to fight against; the dildo slammed back into him, hilting with a thud of padded rear against wooden seat. His cock twitched unwillingly inside the chastity device.
	The General gripped his shoulder, holding him in this position, squirming and impaled, his prostate squeezed, making him pant breathlessly.
	“Now, rock yourself,” he said quietly.
	“I can't,” gasped Timothy. “It's too big!”
	“Keep rocking,” hissed the General, “or you will regret it. I will drag you to my bed and take you again, without lubrication this time. I was gentle with you before, because you are my sweet little baby boy. But if you are disobedient, you can be my fucktoy instead. Do you understand?”
	Timothy whimpered. He heard a few of the men chuckling. Even though the General's voice had been low, perhaps there were some here whose hearing was keen enough to listen in. Timothy's cheeks burned. He turned his head, and before he even realised what he was doing, he nuzzled at the General's hand on his shoulder.
	“Good boy,” said the General, sounding satisfied, as if this nuzzle was an answer.
	“How...how do I rock it?” said Timothy, voice quavering.
	“Like any baby rocks their rocking horse,” said the General, voice raised for the audience. He patted Timothy's back, hard enough to start him swinging forward. “You throw your body weight back and forward! Be enthusiastic, now! Show all my friends how much you love your toy!”
	The dildo slid halfway free before he sank back, slower this time, the last inch settling inside him, the diaper crinkling softly against the wood. His cock throbbed again, and he could feel the warmth of liquid trickling down into the fur of his balls. Not urine this time; thicker, stickier, with an entirely different fragrance. He whimpered at the exact same moment as the men laughed and cheered, all of them catching the scent at the same moment; the scent of precum milked out of a horny boy.
	“Hell,” cried a voice. “He won't even make it to one minute!”
	The General's hand touched Timothy's shoulder; gentle, but warning enough. With a hard push of his unbound feet against the wooden pegs sticking out from the horse's flanks, Timothy threw his upper body forward, and yelped in pained surprise as his forehead connected with the horse's curved wooden neck.
	“Eager, isn't he?” laughed the General, to the delight of all the men gathered.
	The dildo almost completely pulled free as the horse rocked forward. Its tip nestled just inside Timothy's pucker as the horse jolted against the limit of its range of motion, sending a hard shudder up through the dildo. Timothy made a sound that was almost a squeak, heating his blush to molten-rock levels.
	Then, after a lingering pause of trembling anticipation, he rocked backwards, sliding down onto the dildo, growing faster as he descended, until he slammed into the seat with a bone-jarring thud. Another trickle of precum surged out of his aching cock, before the pendulum momentum started him once more forwards, and upwards, off of the dildo. He only needed to swing his body a little bit to keep the motion going.
	“H-how long...” He shuddered, distracted by the toe-curling, tingling pressure of the dildo's ridged tip raking over his prostate as it slid downwards. “How long d-do I need to keep doing this?” he panted.
	“Until I tell you to stop, baby boy,” said the General.
	Timothy's mind began to wander. For a moment filled with misery he remembered his old life, so distant now; nights spent alone with his hand and his privacy. He had never imagined this kind of feeling. He had been tasting a pleasure that he was now truly experiencing in its fullest. He mewled like a kitten, and another memory pushed out that old life; the memory of the General's embrace, of the world of crinkling plastic and the ever-present aroma of talc and urine and precum, of the General's musk and the stink of sex sweat. His head swam, and it was so easy just to ignore everything, to switch off the constant burden of thinking, and to just...enjoy.
	“It's happening,” cried somebody, whooping with leering delight. “He's getting into it, the little slut!”
	“You're right!” cried another voice. “Look at that little rear go. How does he fit it all inside?”
	Still more comments, in every hue of lewd, building upon one another until they formed a tidal wave of shame, tearing at Timothy's bruised and battered ego, shredding it, until something miraculous happened...
	He stopped caring.
	It wasn't a conscious choice. It was like tripping a breaker, blowing a fuse. At some point his humiliation had reached its peak. And then what else could the brain do except switch off to prevent overload?
	It was...liberating. The last freedom, the final control over himself, abadoned.
	Timothy's body took over, and he rode along with it, helpless. He had the rhythm of the rocking motion now, and he bounced back and forth, steady thrusts filling him, building the strange and wonderful pressure in his trapped cock. His hands wriggled at his back, clinking the handcuffs, trying to get free so he could slide his fingers down into the diaper and...then what? Tug pointlessly at the chastity tube, trying in vain to wrap his hand around his needy shaft, to cum like the old Timothy had so many times? This was new. This was the approaching boiling of orgasmic release driven only by the feeling of a cock thrusting into him, under his body's control, yet outside of the control of his will. He started to cry out, panting gasps of confused pleasure and weakness, needing...something. A comforting embrace. The soothing whispers telling him he was a good baby boy.
	“I'm gonna...” he gasped, then silenced himself. Talking felt wrong. So, wordless he remained, gasping his helpless emotions as the pressure hit the tipping point, as his whole body shuddered, the rhythm faltering, as a sweet and frustrating orgasm throbbed in his trapped cock, dribbling his sticky seed into the waiting absorbency of the diaper.
	“One minute and forty-six seconds,” said the General, to the combined cheers and groans of the audience. Coins and glasses clinked. Conversation washed thick around Timothy, faded into a distant hum as he floated on the fluffy clouds of release.
	“I knew it! I should have said two minutes.”
	“I said two minutes.”
	“Drinks are on me, fellas. Hah, only kidding. They're on the General. Three cheers for the General!”
	“Three cheers for the boy!”
	“The baby, you mean! Hah!”
	“He's falling asleep, look...”
	“I heard you say one minute! You were dead wrong.”
	When the General set his hand on his shoulder, arresting the slow, unsteady rocking, he turned his body towards him and gratefully leaned against the man's chest, his nose pressed against the fabric of his shirt, panting and murmuring under his breath. No words. Just emotion turned into pure sound. Like a good baby boy.
	“Gentlemen,” said the General. “If you will excuse me, I think my baby boy is ready for bed.”

Timothy didn't resist. He wasn't even sure he could. He murmured wordlessly, exhausted, as the General stripped off his diaper and laid a fresh one under his rear. He didn't clean his fur; cum and urine and lube still tainted it. He would be smelling it all night, beneath the comforting scents of the diaper.
	It was better this way. To just accept things as they were. Fighting wouldn't change anything. He found himself smiling, weakly, but a smile all the same. In the chastity, his cock finally stopped trying to break free, only half-satisfied after its frustrating release. Now soft, there was nothing holding back his bladder.
	“Oh dear,” said the General, half-surprised, half-mocking, sounding utterly unlike a man who commanded men to their deaths. He patted Timothy's naked tummy and chuckled, pulling the front of the diaper up, catching the last of the stream of urine that flowed uncontrollably from the tip of the chastity device. Timothy flexed his legs, heels pressing into the changing mat, blushing fiercely. The General hadn't even finished putting him into the fresh diaper and already he had soaked it. The soggy padding squished between his thighs, warm and oddly relaxing.
	And then it made sense. The drug had made him helpless, unable to use his body's strength, unable to control his bladder. The chastity had robbed him of the freedom of his cock. The various restraints the General placed him in, and his overall captivity, took away any remaining freedoms. Everything pushed him towards needing someone, or something, else to control and protect him; the General, the diaper, the crib.
	Timothy understood now why the General wanted a blind boy; he was already halfway to being what the General wanted him to be.
	Docile, he lay still and did nothing to resist when the General scooped him up and cuddled him to his chest.
	“Something the matter, baby boy?”
	Timothy shook his head, nuzzling the man's shoulder. The General's hand cupped his padded rear, holding him up, pressing the wet padding against his rear.
	“You can talk, little one. We're alone now.”
	Timothy shook his head again and whined.
	“You don't want to talk?” He sounded genuinely surprised.
	Timothy nodded.
	A long stretch of silence followed, and Timothy tensed up. He had experienced the General's anger. The gnawing ache of doubt began to form.
	The General started to walk, carrying him.
	“Well, alright then, little one. You can be a nice quiet baby for me.”
	Timothy sighed. This was good. Talking just dragged him back to the old life now lost. Much better to embrace it wholly.
	As the General set him down into the comfy enclosure of the crib, and nestled a plush toy under his arm, he reflected...or would have, if he were attempting to think at all...that things could be a lot worse, all things considered.

And from then onwards?
	Perhaps things would continue just as they had started. The General would win his battles and the war. Timothy would remain his baby boy, isolated from the unpleasantness of the world, insulated in the comforting simplicity of the General's control over every aspect of his life.
	Or would the General grow tired of him? Would Timothy's body wear out under the stresses of the drug, of the regular sessions in the General's bed, of the “entertainment” laid on for his guests? Where then would he go? What would happen to him? Would he live?
	Maybe the General will lose the fight. The tanks might roll, crushing his forces. Would he flee? Put his gun to his chin and take the coward's way out? Take Timothy with him?
	Then there were natural causes. A heart attack in the night. Or the murderous whim of a guard who might have been pushed too far by the General in one of his angry moments.
	Or any number of eventualities.
	Timothy didn't think about any of them. He slept the sleep of one untroubled by such concerns, because he had the General to do the worrying for him. Only one small part, practically vestigial, shrinking by the day, still held alive the flicker of doubt.