13
Jase
Iwoke up with warm air kissing my bare skin, the natural dim light of this topsy turvy dystopian world shining through a floor to ceiling window facing me. I blinked. I was in a damned dog kennel cage. That soft fabric beneath me? It was a damned doggy bed made to fit the collapsible cage. I couldn’t stretch out and I couldn’t sit up, so I rolled over. A luxurious four-poster bed and a dresser came into view. Damn it, I was in his bedroom, and he was nowhere to be seen. I grasped the bars and rattled them, hoping it would attract some attention, either from him or maybe a maid or something.
It caught the attention of something, alright, as a small woman with brown hair and eyes, wearing a brown dress, tan apron, and a peaked hat came into view.
She wrung her hands. “You’re awake,” she warbled. “I’ll let the master know.” She scurried away, the door swinging open for her as she approached it. That was a good thing, really, as she was maybe the height of an average two-year-old human child. I doubted that she could have quite reached the handle on her own. She returned a short while later.
“He said for you to relieve yourself and come to the kitchen to get something to eat. He’ll collect you from there when he’s ready for you.”
Right. I wasn’t surprised that I found myself prisoner again, left for others to tend to. Least these digs were more accommodating than my last ones.
She unlatched my cage and I rolled out. “Have a good stretch,” she advised. “You slept like the dead for two whole days. The groomer mixed a wee bit too much fairy dust in their will o’ the whisp highlighter.”
Hearing that, I had so many questions. Groomer? Will o’ the whisp? Fairy dust? What, what? I felt seriously lost, confusion warring with anger. The last thing I remembered was Lord Will O’ The Shit coming to get me, his voice chasing away the bugs trying to devour me. It sounded way too much like afterward, they’d sent me to a pet groomer and then put me in the kennel to sleep off some whammy they’d done to me there. All while I was out of it from being hung out to dry in a dungeon.
If there was a version of GlassDoor here, I so wanted to leave a bad review for my employer. Not that I could, if there was. He sucked, big time. I just knew if I left a review, I’d find myself back in that dungeon, having my fingernails pulled out because I broke some gods damned rule I knew nothing about. Knowing my boss, he’d look at me sadly, cluck his tongue, express fake sorrow at having to teach me to obey the rules, all while jacking off while I screamed in agony. He’d pause, dick still in hand, then do his eye mumbo jumbo thing so I’d sit there placidly while he came all over my face.
Wait. Why was I imagining him doing a sex act? He’d made a few lewd jokes at my expense and I knew that he found me attractive. Hell, he was gorgeous as hell and all, but no way was I attracted to him, right? He was a crazy fuck, a kidnapping trickster who locked me in a fucking dungeon to rot for days, then took me to a dog groomer, for Christ’s sake. I looked down. Bite me. I was hairless from the neck down and traces of pearlescent glitter shone against my skin. No way! I pursed my lips and huffed out of my nose, my hands balled into fists.
“Er, Ghost, Lord Willow was most adamant,” she said. I turned my attention back to the woman who barely reached my waist. She was looking up at me, her eyes full of consternation. My hands went down to cover my junk, which was right in front of her face, less than two inches away. I knew then that she was afraid of Lord Willow. I wondered what he had done to instill such a guarded look on her gentle face.
“Okay, sorry. I’m still feeling a bit spacey.”
“The bathroom is through there,” she said, pointing. “You’ll find a fresh loincloth in there. Let me know if you need any assistance putting it on. We took your other one off so you wouldn’t get tangled up in it.”
Loincloth? What fresh hell was this? I went where she gestured to, opening the door to find a very modern-looking bathroom with one of those toilets I’d only ever seen in that Pixar movie about the race car. The thing had a gazillion buttons with symbols I couldn’t decipher. Next to it on the wall was a toilet roll holder with a switch and holes for what I hoped was a speaker. I pressed it, hoping it was an intercom that would allow the small woman to hear me. I pressed the button, opening my mouth to speak only to shut it immediately as birdsong poured out. I pushed the button to turn it off only for the sound of rain to sound next. My bladder let me know just how badly I needed to go at that point. I flipped the seat up and aimed. This part had to work exactly the same, right?
The amount I let out and the color of it both told me that at least my boss had made sure I drank plenty of fluids while under his hocus pocus bullshit. I shook off my cock, hitting the button on the toilet roll holder one more time in a vain hope that would turn it off. Crashing surf and a thunderstorm greeted me. Great, just great. I couldn’t turn off the nature sounds to shit by soundtrack and had no idea how to flush the toilet. I glanced around, spying the sink behind me. A scrap of cloth with a set of ties sat on the counter next to the sink.
I washed my hands, feeling non-plussed when the sink dispensed pink foamy water that sparkled as soon as my hand hovered over the faucet. I bet Jerky Jackofferson probably had it piped in from Never Never Land or some shit, knowing him. I turned off the tap and shook my hands off as I looked in vain for a towel. That was when I realized my hands were completely dry. I’d say it was like magic, but with this place, it probably actually was. It didn’t sit well with me, either. The place looked like something out of a near-future dystopian nightmare, if it was set in fucking Oz or some shit, and had the weirdest blend of advanced tech, magic, and medieval lifestyle I could have never imagined. In other words, this place was seriously fucked up, and that was before you factored in all the rules b.s.
I picked up the loincloth. It was easy enough to figure out. The larger piece of cloth over my ass, the slightly smaller one over my junk. Tie the sides tightly and hope for the best. That done, I looked at my face. I still had my artistic stubble. That niggled at me. Why shave me everywhere else but leave my whiskers? I filed that thought away to mull over later. Right now, I needed to get that damned toilet roll holder to shut.the.ever.loving.hell.up.
I opened the door to find her standing there, looking uncertain. She brightened as she saw I had the stupid Tarzan suit on.
“Um,” I said, scratching my arm lazily. “I accidentally turned that thing on, and it won’t shut off.”
“Oh! You just press and hold the button until it falls silent.”
“Right.” I turned away and did that. “And, the buttons on the toilet?”
“You’ll probably only want to ever use two of them yourself,” she said. “This one,” she touched the button, “flushes and then this one,” she hovered her finger over another button, “washes you with warm water.”
Right. I didn’t want to know what the other million and one buttons did. But as long as I could flush the toilet, I was good, though I have to admit that the warm ass wash sounded good, too. Man, one of those would have been handy after a hookup. Not that I’d be using it for that here. Nope. Not attracted to giant pricks at all. Not that kind, anyway.
