😂Well, Danny has a special place i my heart since his story is the first whump story I ever read❤️. So no more hurting pls🥺

Hmmm who should we sacrifice?…..👀

Marco? No, wait he‘s not yours he‘s card-games-and-pain‘s. Does that still count? Luke could do the whumping…

drapetomania for Connor? :D

CW: Blackmailed whumpee, whumper turned whumpee, intimate whumper, creepy whumper, noncon touch, non-explicit noncon

John Ferrick belongs to @moose-teeth and is used with permission

At the head of the table, the presentation droned on, the visiting Senior Handler from Facility 22 speaking with a soft accent Connor couldn’t quite place as she clicked the mouse to change the slides. 

It wasn’t that the presentation was boring, exactly - it was on the difference in health outcomes for single pets versus bonded pairs, and Connor had been genuinely interested in signing up for the attached course, but-

But he couldn’t hear a fucking word she said, or at least couldn’t pay attention. Not with Ferrick’s fucking hand on his thigh, thumb rubbing little circles so high up he was nearly brushing the zipper of Connor’s work pants. 

They were hidden by the small table they sat back, the two of them with their backs to the wall. If Ferrick was sitting a little closer than anyone ever sat with anyone else in this fucking room, well, maybe the chairs were just already like that. Maybe.

There were two other handlers sitting across the table, turned to watch the presentation, and Connor kept waiting for one of them to drop a pen or something, have to bend down to pick it up, look under the table and-

Ferrick’s fingers shifted, undid the button on his pants, started to pull down his zipper. Connor’s hand snapped out to catch his wrist.

“Fucking don’t,” He growled, in little more than a whisper. “Don’t, Fer, this is the worst fucking time.”

John Ferrick laughed, just a huff of air, but it was enough to briefly catch the attention of a nearby handler. Connor felt his face burn as he looked down, trying to hide his expression, doodling little circles on the notepad he’d been given. 

He hadn’t taken a single fucking note on the presentation.

“Come on, Manning, you know you don’t get to choose when I touch you,” Ferrick murmured, better at keeping his voice down than Connor ever had been. It was a low rumble that twisted Connor around it, a subtle unspoken threat. One they both understood, in the end, Connor couldn’t find.

“If we get caught-”

“We won’t,” Ferrick said, lips barely moving. “If you keep your fucking mouth shut ‘til I want to use it later. Now open your legs a little for me.”

Connor sat frozen, glaring down at the circles he’d drawn. he drew two eyes and a frowning mouth and angry eyebrows.

“Come on, pet,” Ferrick whispered, lips nearly at his ear. No one was looking, but anyone could, anyone could look at them at any fucking moment. And Connor was the one who’d been fucking up his evals, having issues with training. Connor was the one who’d get hauled in front of Renford, and Ferrick’s record was getting better all the time. He’d get second chances.

Connor had already used all his up.

And, in one of the solitary rooms, B needed him, and if Connor didn’t play Ferrick’s game, he’d get wiped all over again and sold to some bottom-dollar pet resale place, and probably wouldn’t live for long after that.

Connor’s jaw tightened, but he relaxed his legs and let them fall apart under the table.

“Good boy,” Ferrick whispered. “So good for me.”

“Ferrick, I s-swear to God-”

“That’s not what you call me when I’m touching you.”

Connor’s face burned with humiliation, but he swallowed down his protests, his rage, and whispered, “Please don’t do this here, sir.”

God, he wanted to run the fuck away from here. Get in his truck and fucking drive until he crossed the horizon and keep crossing it until he’d gone so far even goddamn John fucking Ferrick couldn’t find him.

Ferrick laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you on edge, nothing messy. Just want you to really need me for a good time once this meeting ends, huh? You want me already though, you’re not exactly subtle.” His hand slid under his boxers to grip onto him, and Connor hitched in a breath as he stroked once, firmly. 

“I fucking h-h-hate you,” Connor hissed. But his legs spread even wider and he slumped a little in his seat so it wouldn’t be obvious when he moved, as little as he had to, into Ferrick’s hand.

“Sssshhhhh. No sounds, pet, or you’ll have a hell of a lot of explaining to do. Just be a good boy and take it for me.”

Ferrick turned to watch the presentation, his hand moving with casual expertise while his expression didn’t change at all, a polite if somewhat smug confident smile, taking in the presenter’s words with a look of perfect fascination.

Connor kept his eyes down at the table, on the grumpy face on his notepad, and tried to remember how to breathe. 

'Thought I trained you better.' for Connor and Ferrik, please?

CW: Intimate whumper, implied nsfwhump, masochism, pet whump, collars

Ferrick rubs at his jaw, eyes narrowed, but there’s no disguising the hint of a smile that still plays around the corner at his mouth. “Now, see, I thought I trained you better than this.”

“You didn’t train me, Fer,” Connor snaps, turning away only to have Ferrick grab him by the arm, yanking him back until his back knocks into Ferrick’s chest, the man’s other hand snaking around his neck and holding tight, until he has to gasp in breaths.

Ferrick’s hand is so warm it nearly burns everything it touches, except for the collar Connor’s already wearing, hidden by the neckline of his shirt. Ferrick had texted him this morning insisting he wear it, or else.

Or else... 

His breath is just as hot against Connor’s ear. “Oh, I didn’t, did I? Then why do you enjoy this so much?”

“I don’t fucking-... enjoy it,” Connor hisses back. They’re standing in a hallway, cool air blowing from the vents in the ceiling, in the blind spot created by two cameras that don’t quite come together. Connor knows all the spots the camera don’t touch.

So does John Ferrick.

Anyone could turn a corner and see them at any second, and both of them would have explaining to do, but fuck if Connor wouldn’t have to do a whole lot more.

“Oh, man, all those sounds you make sure fooled me, then,” Ferrick teases him, and tightens his hand, listening to Connor’s hitched breath, the way he struggles to get enough air. Ferrick huffs laughter and the sound of his mockery sends a shiver of pleasure down Connor’s spine. “I got two hours between sessions today, Con. You’re coming with me.”

“I’m not doing shit with you,” Connor says, but his voice is thinner.

“Oh, you definitely are. Once we get into that room, baby, it’s hands and knees only for you. I want to see you crawl today.”

(John Ferrick belongs to @moose-teeth and is used with permission)

We had a deal, remember? You have to let me hurt them.

CW: Intimate whumper, sadistic whumper, pet whump, whipping, noncon touching

“We had a deal, Connor.” Ferrick lets the tail of the whip drag along the plastic tarp they’ve laid out on the barn floor. Connor closes his eyes tightly, knowing that sound so well, too well.

Used to be because he was the one holding it.

Funny, how he can know all the tricks but it doesn’t stop them from working just as well on him.

One of the barn cats meows from the doorway and Connor takes a deep breath, gripping onto the long load-bearing wood column in the barn, on the outside of what was a stable stall, once, a long fucking time ago, when Connor’s grandfather owned this place.

The ropes that tie his wrists together on the other side of it are rough and rub him raw, and it’s hard not to really, really enjoy the feeling. He’s sparking all along his nerves, adrenaline pushing his heart to race. It’s hot in here, and sweat trickles down the back he knows won’t be unharmed for long.

“Remember?” Ferrick sighs, as if disappointed. One of his fingertips follows the droplet of sweat down Connor’s spine, making him shiver. “You have to let me hurt them, not just you.”

“Not... n-not our fuckin’ deal, Ferrick,” Connor says, leaning his forehead against the wood in front of him, trying not to give in to the urge to look back and see the single-minded focus and lust in Ferrick’s eyes.

Failing to not be a little turned on at the mental image.

“Master,” Ferrick says, voice low and quiet. Confident and smug.

Connor used to sound that way, with the trainees.

“Our... our deal is you hurt me... master,” Connor grinds out. B and his little friend, the black-haired one that had started this whole fucking avalanche years ago before the guard dog ever left training, they’re knocked out from sedatives in the bedroom, safely locked away. 

It’s just he and Ferrick, for now.

“Our deal is you hurt me, and not them.” 

“Well.” Ferrick walks away from him, plastic crinkling underfoot. “I guess I’ll just have to hurt you twice as hard to make up for it, huh?” 

The first crack of the whip lights Connor up in perfect, wonderful pain.

When his back arches and he gives Ferrick the breathless cry he knows the other man wants, he hears a hitched intake of breath and tries not to feel himself get even harder at the way Ferrick whispers, “Oh, good boy,” as he draws his arm back for the next one.

“it hurts” with connor and literally anyone? please i love him🥺

Sssshhhh, I am making a surprise for @moose-teeth. Ridley Lordin is hers and used with permission. Giovanni Rossi (referenced only) belongs to @slaintetowhump

CW: Pet whump, seriously dubcon touching and kissing

"It hurts."

Connor's eyes were dark, but Ridley liked them that way. His Vanni had dark eyes, too, almost the same as Connor's. Nearly black, or as close to black as it gets. It was sort of fascinating, the ways in which Rossi and his pretty pet were similar - and the ways in which they were so, so different.

Those dark eyes seemed even darker in moments like this. Nearly as purely dark as they were during the parties.

"Please," Connor said softly, and the little plea sent a thrill straight through Ridley, down his spine to pool heat in the core of him.

Just like Connor knew it would.

"Please," He repeated. "It hurts."

"Your pride, maybe," Ridley drawled, leaning forward to flick his finger and thumb against the perfect bell that hung off the front of Connor's tight black leather collar, just under the ring for a leash. It jingled, a pretty chiming sound, and Ridley watched the humiliated flush build in Connor's cheekbones with nothing shy of delight. "It's just a bell. I think it makes you look cute. Besides, kitty, you're the one who ran away. That's the third time and my Vanni's going to stop being so patient with you, eventually."

Connor swallowed, and Ridley hooked two fingers through the ring in his collar, pulling him closer with a merry jingling from the bell until he was kneeling between Ridley's legs where he sat at his desk.

He'd brought Connor to work in a full suit, relishing the looks the darkly handsome pet received - and the double-takes when they saw the collar around his neck and realized what Ridley Lordin owned.

"Is the way my back looks what it means when he's patient?" Connor asked, giving his sarcasm right back to him.

Ridley grinned, running fingers through dark hair. His sweet kittycat, all claws and fangs for everyone else, who purred for him.

"Yes," He answered simply. He kept petting Connor, each drag of his fingers moving the man's head further between his legs, until it rested against Ridley's inner thigh. Every movement brought the softest jingle of the bell. "You liked what he did to your back. Besides, kitty, does it really matter? How you feel about your back?"

Fingers stroking his hair shifted down, teased along the collar of his button-up shirt. Ridley flicked open the button with ease born from long experience, not even looking as he slipped his hands under Connor's shirt, rubbed in slow circles, and watched the flush shift and change in Connor's face.

"Asked you a question, kitty," Ridley murmured, and pinched, hard.

Connor let out a moan that he tried to bite back, then answered quickly, "N-no, sir, what matters is what you want him to do to me."

"That's right, good job, kitty cat." He rewarded Connor with gentle rubbing again, watching him arch his back to press into the sensation. Listened to the chiming of the little bell.

Ridley grinned, pulling away as an idea occurred to him. Connor's body leaned forward uncertainly, chasing the touch that had suddenly gone. Ridley sat back in his chair, looked down at those soulful dark eyes, that sparked and crackled but went meek just for him.

Like Vanni, and so entirely unlike him. Ridley really had the best of both sides of the coin. Strong black eyes to catch and hold him - and his pet's dark gaze, submissive. Dark haired, dark-eyed men. One the center of his world - and for the other, Ridley was the center.

Nobody on Earth lived a better life than he did.

"Get your pants off," Ridley said with a lopsided grin. "I want you to ride me until that bell is just one long fuckin' ring, kittycat."

Connor's mouth dropped open, just a little, and the bell jingled as he hurriedly shifted to drop his hands to the button just below his waist.

He'd been trained, though, and Connor kept those dark eyes right on him.

Ridley Lordin had a weakness for men with dark eyes. Telling him what to do or taking orders, it didn't matter. He just wanted to take those eyes and cloud them over, get what he wanted, what he loved. With his Vanni, it was love. With Connor, it was possession.

Nobody - nobody - lived a better life than him.

As Connor climbed into the chair to straddle him, already prepped and ready for him, Ridley reached up and flicked the bell again.

"Don't worry, kittycat. Now I'll always know exactly where you are. You'll never run away from me again."

He wondered if his secretary would wonder what the ringing sound was.

It occurred to him she could probably guess.

A little late, but maybe not too late. I'd love to see a defiant Connor, I bet he can take a lot before he gives in and starts begging.

CW: Discussion of future noncon, shock torture. Character feels pain and pleasure as essentially the same.

Contains a reference to @redwingedwhump‘ s Guard Dog David story, which you should absolutely be reading right this second. Contains reference to @moose-teeth‘s Ridley Lordin. Takes place in an Alternate Universe and has no bearing on Connor’s regular stories.

“Come on, Manning, you worked at WRU for, what… twelve years? Don’t pretend you don’t know exactly what’s going to happen now. I was here when you started as an eighteen year old intern, man. So come on, tell me what comes next.”

Connor’s eyes narrowed, so dark pupils and iris seemed the same color in the flat, cold white light in the white room. He was curled up in the corner, and Petrus thought he looked really fucking good in the trainee white shirt and black shorts. But then, Manning looked good in basically everything.

Nice to see that smarmy shit taken down a peg or two. Or seven.

“I tell you to go fuck yourself,” Manning snarled. “That’s what happens next.”

“Oh, sure, lots of them do. But after that…”

Petrus hit the button on the small remote he held in one hand and listened to Connor’s half-shriek, half-moan as all his muscles contracted at once, the electricity racing through nerves. As soon as he let the button go - one full second - Connor collapsed bonelessly onto his side on the floor, twitching with aftershocks, groaning to himself.

He grinned. “What do bad dogs get, Connor Manning?”

Connor’s voice was a hoarse, choked-off hiss. “Fuck you.”

“Mmmmn, I don’t think so, you’ve got plenty of experience and don’t need broken in at all. But don’t worry, you’ve got plenty of training coming up later. But first… what do bad dogs get?”

He hit the button again, and held it longer this time. 

One… two.

Connor didn’t even wait for him to ask. “Fuck yourself, you piece of shit,” he snarled, and Petrus didn’t bother with a response. He calmly hit the button again.

One… two… three.

Oh, Connor was starting to sing, now.

“Well, Manning? What do-”

“H-hope you rot in goddamn hell you piece of-”

The end of his sentence was cut off by the wail he let out when the next round of shocks began.

One… two… three… four.

“St-stop, stop, pluh-pl…. please, fuck, stop, ah-”

“Answer my question, Connor.”

Connor just pressed his face into the cool tile floor, the same flat white as everything else in the tiny little room. 

Petrus grinned. “Oh, Connor. I hoped you’d say that.”

He hit the button again.

One… two… three… four… five.

Connor was full on screaming, a sound that went straight to Petrus’s head, a mix of pain and pleasure twisting and twining, broken and bent. He tilted his head, watching Connor’s hips try to move into the feeling. Shit, no wonder the Director is selling him in a secret auction. He looks like he could get off on this whether he wanted to or not.

When he let his finger up off the button, Connor kept screaming for a whole second after the pain would have started to fade. 

Petrus waited until Connor had gone quiet again.

“What. Do. Bad. Dogs. Get?”

Connor whimpered, hands curled defensively against his chest. Luke had had fucking wet dreams that went this way about Connor fucking Manning. It was something else to get to see him all helpless and crying in real life. 

“Pl-please, please d-don’t, don’t d-do that ah, ah, ag-… ‘gain…”

“Then tell me what bad dogs get.”

Connor tried to take deep breaths but his muscles wouldn’t unclench enough to allow it, leaving him only little gasping sounds that went straight between Petrus’s legs. Finally, in a low voice, nearly unrecognizable from who he’d been before the Director had found out about Manning’s little secret, Connor managed, “Bad d-dogs get th’… th’ shuh-shock…”

“Good boy. Now, what’s your first rule?”

Connor’s shoulders shook in silent tears and without looking up, he stumbled through the words, fighting vocal chords that nearly refused to let him say anything at all. If anything, he curled himself into a tighter little ball.

“I ah-am a p-p-pet and a t-t-toy…”

“Good boy. See, you already know all the things you’ll have to say, don’t you? Let’s work on the next line. ‘I am an active participant in fulfilling my owner’s desires. Your turn.”

Connor looked up, a fathomless despair written across his handsome face. His hair was dirty, mussed-up, and he needed a shower three days ago or so. When Petrus waggled the little remote, Connor flinched and swallowed, hard.

“I… I am… am an ah-active p-p-participant… in fuh-filling… my oh-oh… ah, hurts… owner’s… d-desires-… fuck, ow, hurts…”

“Good boy. Say it again.”