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Overstressed (Collaboration with TabyKat)
🕑 Added 2020-09-09 12:43:29 +0000 UTCAnother day at the meat market and Brandon already knew it was going to be the same old disappointment. Nothing but inferior specimens and cheap, undersized imports that could barely speak the language, much less be the sort of prize cow he needed. Without the hard cash needed to compete in the better-supplied auctions, it was down to sifting through the dregs and hoping to find a nugget that, with the right amount of polish, he could turn into something of… well, not beauty, but something. Hopefully enough to serve as a pass until he could get something better for himself.
It was hard for him to hide his revulsion at having to share the same space as the vermin scurrying around him. So many of them were lowborn themselves, elevated from the muck just barely enough to scrape by the funds for a single slave, and yet thinking themselves the hottest shit around. How quickly they winced and scurried away at the sight of him, towering at least a couple of heads above everyone and possessed of a broad, sculpted physique that only generations of careful lineage manipulation could achieve. How tragic that he was forced to resort to such lowly means. Just the sight of it all made him want to brush off non-existent dust from his shoulders, as if their mere presence was enough to dirty him. Well, that and all the ambient grease; washing his clothes would be a nightmare later.
The usual crowd was making the rounds, choking the warehouse’s limited space with bodies and uninformed opinions, all vying for control over what they considered to be the “best” sellers and the “best” hotties. Every moment he spent in there was a constant reminder of how little he deserved to be in it; how could it be that he had fallen so low, to have to resort to unregistered slave salesmen hurriedly setting up crust-covered stalls somewhere the corporate officers wouldn’t find them? How could he, of all people, have to compete with the unwashed masses, who wouldn’t be able to tell tits from ass if they hit them on the face? Rabble, all of them; it was a cruel twist of fate that he was forced to deal with their kind, possessed as he was of a mind far more attuned to the realities of slave-keeping than anyone present in that stuffed building. If only he hadn’t fallen on such hard times, maybe he wouldn’t have to look at a piece of meat that barely had any tits like he was supposed to think it was some big thing.
He was about ready to just give up early and go home, maybe think about taking up self-body modding as a kind of desperate last measure, when he saw something out the corner of his eye. It was no wonder he failed to notice it until then, being surrounded as she was by a crowd that made it nearly impossible to get a good look, but a chance movement in the tight grouping gave Brandon just the right window to observe what had to be his ticket out of misery and straight into the halls of fame he so desperately sought to belong in.
At first glance, it was a wonder how that cat was in a meat market of as low a quality as that one; her fur alone was groomed to such a fine degree of perfection that it practically sucked the ugly out of everything around it, obviously meticulously well-kept by whoever had decided to sell them in the first place. Her body as well was a thing of wonder, so at odds with the ignorant crowds and substandard stock surrounding her that it was no wonder she was trying to cover her nude self up. Brandon pushed through the thicket of avid buyers to get a better look, to see if his eyes hadn’t been playing tricks on him.
They hadn’t.
The feline was already very gifted, far more endowed with hip and bosom than any other product there, and his trained eye could tell that she was entirely natural despite how unlikely that would seem. Although average in height, her size eclipsed everyone around her. She possessed a pair of breasts that obscured most of her torso; nearly spherical, seeming to defy gravity, they stood proudly on her chest and protruded from both sides of it, hips noticeably wider than her shoulders, while her plump rear and plush thighs were well-padded enough to sink a hand into and just feel the flesh overflowing between one’s fingers. Her hourglass figure was so absurdly exaggerated that her entire form just begged to be groped and kneaded, like it was designed to be treated like the slave creature she was; the security personnel around the stage were having a hell of a time keeping grabby little hands away from the property, and a few tentative purchasers had already been carted away by force.
He was smitten. Such a beautiful, stunning young specimen, sold for a pittance to a crowd that would never truly understand her potential, and what they could achieve with her. It was hard to pin her species down as well, at least visually; there were elements of leopard in her overall frame, and yet Brandon could swear there was some tiger in there as well. All in all, a rather common mix, often crossbred precisely to enhance its feline traits. Could it be that the feline was a hybrid, of sorts, carefully bred to maximize her allure by whatever family owned her lineage? Gods, if that was the case, then it was just another reason to get her as far away from these dreadful customers as he could; if anyone were to buy her, she’d probably end up in some two-bit whorehouse, made to cater to hyper-freaks and people with a smothering fetish, rather than being elevated to the proper place of stardom and adoration she honestly deserved.
A place he could take her to.
Brandon gestured towards the feline being sold, whose emerald green eyes were drawn to the imposingly large wolf, the only one not trying to grab her tits or ass; difficult to miss him when he managed to easily tower over most of the crowd, after all. Their eyes locked for just an instant, but it was enough for the cat to stare at him with an expression that screamed her desire to leave as quickly as she could, and he agreed; such a lovely creature should never be allowed to exist under the control of such uncouth brutes as the ones trying to muscle their way in, and for once, he actually had a reason to flex his above-average influence.
“Five thousand.”
He didn’t scream or shout, didn’t need to strain his throat. All that was required was for Brandon to raise his voice and pull out the bass, and a wave of silence rolled through the many mouths around him, the whole meat market going quiet after just a few seconds of his presence being made known. He scanned the crowd for any signs of resistance, the slightest hint that someone was about to fight him for control of the bid; curiously, he actually did see someone who tried to do just that, only to give up when Brandon stared them down. A quick look over the sea of heads ensured that no one else would get any bright ideas, after which he was free to walk forward, slam a wad of cash on the seller’s table, and then grab the cat’s arm before turning around.
“Don’t speak to anyone. Don’t look at anyone,” he hissed at her, “don’t think of anyone. Not until we’re out.”
With those words, the wolf dragged his newest purchase through a group of very angry-looking louts, kept in check only by the watchful eye of the many armed guards standing watch over them.
“Y-your name, Master?” the cat whispered, just barely audible over the rising murmur of the crowd.
“Not now. Talk later.”
***
The trip out of the slave market was as uneventful as it could be when Brandon was towing behind him someone of the kind of caliber as that feline; every single eye turned with the amount of bounce her body possessed, to say nothing of the sway of her hips and the occasional slapping of her tremendous bosom against her chest. At the very least she was as eager to get out as he was; he didn’t even have to show her the door to his car for her to shove herself into it, struggling to get the belt over her bust for a few moments before being all-but forced to look at the wolf, silently begging for help.
Brandon, for his part, quite enjoyed the sight of the cat fumbling with something as simple as a seatbelt, but knew that any kind of scuff mark or blemish would spell disaster for what he had planned for her.
“Stop,” he sighed, rolling his eyes in mock disappointment, “hand it here, I’ll fix it for you. I expect you to learn how to handle yourself from this point forward.”
Despite his words, the wolf was secretly happy to help the feline out; it gave him the window of opportunity to explore the curves of his brand new acquisition, mercilessly sinking his fingers as deep as they could go before testing another part of her. The feline was as soft and pliable as she looked, and even Brandon had to marvel at how heavy her assets were; being natural, he had assumed they’d have some heft to them, but not to that degree. Her breasts had just the right amount of squish for the seatbelt to dig into them and have nearly half of the strap across her chest vanish into her cleavage after he pulled it snug. The cat didn’t show the slightest bit of discomfort, even if her face was as red as the neon lights of the many buildings passing by outside, flashing above their heads. Yet, surprisingly enough, her large bosom was impossibly perky and round; a pair of that size and weight should, by all means, hang enough to qualify as fleshy teardrops, and yet the feline in front of him sported a pair that refused to yield to gravity to an almost supernatural degree.
Her breasts were natural, clearly untouched by any doctor or gene therapist, but he refused to believe there wasn’t some kind of unnatural manipulation going on with her. There had to be.
The ride home was uneventful. They drove in silence, the feline keeping her hands in her lap and her head down, the occasional bump in the rode causing her assets to bounce or jiggle with their inherent momentum. Brandon for the most part feigned boredom, looking out the window while keeping an eye on her reflection; when the lighting was right, he studied her curves, the bouncing of her breasts, the colour of her fur. It was a good thing the feline was keeping her head down, most of her vision obstructed by a bust that was wider than her torso. If any corporate officers spotted him driving around with an extremely well-endowed, completely nude cat, they’d simply assume it was all above board; it wasn’t all that unusual for a slave owner to have to ferry their latest purchase around themselves, and few of them bothered to clothe or even try to hide whoever they were bringing with them. With no one to stop him, Brandon easily made his way into the garage underneath his home and took his sweet time helping the exaggeratedly proportioned cat out.
“You live here?” were her first words after stepping out of the car, emerald eyes wide in awe at the immense garage underneath the equally-giant apartment building. There was almost a hint of a smile on her face. Having ended up in a slum to wait for someone to purchase her, she had convinced herself that she’d be condemned to a fate far worse than what it was turning out to be.
“What did you expect?” the wolf teased, knowing full well that no one capable of living in a place like that would ever allow themselves to be spotted in the kind of establishment he’d just been in, “I’m aware my presence at that… place might’ve given you the wrong idea about my affluence, but I can assure you that I’ll expect you to live up to the highest possible standards… what’s your name?”
“C-Cynthia,” the cat replied, a certain note of enthusiasm coloring her stutter before she remembered her station, lowering her head until it was almost buried into her cleavage again, “a-and it’ll be fine. My previous owner used to be quite wealthy.”
The gesture was appreciated, not only because it served to highlight the cat’s well-honed obedience, but since it also allowed Brandon to analyze her motions for signs of previous education and conditioning. Despite the immense strain on her chest, she kept her back straight, arched a little bit to offset their weight and exaggerate her curves (not that they needed that help). Even under a soft layer of fur and padding, the definition of her back muscles could be seen, a testament to the weight she was expected to keep upright. Only her neck craned down, keeping her head bowed to express her deference (as Brandon expected, really), with her hands neatly folded in one another in front of her tremendously thick thighs; she kept her feet dutifully glued to one another, allowing her flared hips and equally impressive bubble butt to present themselves in a perfectly-rounded shape vaguely resembling a heart. Her ears, as well, kept themselves as low as they could go, slightly swept backwards against her shoulder-length blond hair, just the right length that the cat would have to occasionally move her bangs out of her face, an acquired habit that Brandon found… cute enough to be acceptable.
‘This one was good’, he thought. She knew the basics, at least.
“Ah, a fall from grace as well. At least I won’t have to teach you proper manners,” Brandon mused, scratching his chin and then mumbling more to himself, “can go straight to the filling.”
Cynthia’s reaction was obvious; whatever her former owner did to her, improving her already-sizeable natural gifts hadn’t been on the list, making Brandon wonder just who it was that had let such a priceless young thing go at a meat market of such low quality.
“You’re good, but far from perfect...” the wolf explained, “... unlike your former owner, I don’t intend to stop at what nature gave you. You’re going to be my ticket out of needing to visit shitholes like the one you were in, and I’m going to use you like one. Understood?”
He could tell the cat wanted to reply, to say something to the effect of him having found her in that “shithole”; but she was clearly well-educated, or at least knew enough about her place in society to keep quiet.
“Yes, Master,” was her polite response, issued with thankfully-familiar obedience without a drop of understanding as to what he had planned for her, “do you wish for me to get measured for a uniform, or am I to serve you as I am now?”
Oh, he liked this one. This one would do nicely.
***
It was always a treat when Brandon brought someone home from the lower-class auctions and got to see their reaction to a home that would, on initial appearance, look like it belonged to someone far higher up on the social ladder than the wolf actually was. Unfortunately for him, most of the eyes that gazed upon his abode ended up disposed of within a few weeks, or at best just turned out to be utterly unsuited for the kind of work he expected them to do; those were normally sold off quickly in the nearest auction house. However, he had high hopes for his newest project, who appeared at least disciplined enough not to let her mouth run, even if her eyes had a certain spark about them, telling him she wanted to do and say things she knew she shouldn’t. He chalked up her surprise to the sheer contrast between where she was purchased and where she ended up being, probably figuring that anyone willing to resort to a hastily-assembled street market wouldn’t have a penthouse in such a luxurious area of the city.
Unbeknownst to him at the time, her previous owner had given her the privilege of working in a country manor, far away from the constant avalanche of noise that were her current surroundings, before running into a bout of bad financial luck themselves. It just so happened that Cynthia hadn’t had the pleasure of being anywhere that high-class in quite a long time.
“Impressive, is it not?” Brandon mused aloud, waving out of the elevator and towards the end of the corridor, the two of them having emerged onto a landing with a magnificent view of the city, “A gift to me, from my deceased father. A house and a bank account, but nothing more.”
A number of thoughts ran through Cynthia's head, most of them a variation on wanting to point out how this ‘nothing more’ was already far in excess of what most people in her position would ever even get a glimpse of in their lifetimes. Her outspokenness had never been an issue in her old home, but her previous owner was well-aware that there was a lot more going on behind her pretty little eyes than it first appeared; there weren’t many attempts at stamping out her inconvenient penchant for thinking for herself, however, as Cynthia knew better than to act as if she was above her real position in the great chain. She was alone, with nothing to her name, no one to stand with or even clothes on her back, and thus it would be a bad idea to try and have an argument with her new owner.
Therefore, the best course of action was to let Brandon carry on with the introductions and only then make any questions known, as would be expected; interrupting the wolf would be rude, impolite, and thoroughly unbefitting of a proper slave girl. Brandon noticed this, raising an eyebrow and keeping it up when she glanced back, just to see if his recent purchase would get any bright ideas about talking back to him. With naught but silence heading his way, he nodded, allowing himself to smile once his face was turned away and she couldn’t see it.
“You, however, will make sure that I finally get to rub elbows with the kind of people I deserve to be around, rather than the rabble trying to fight over the lowest price for you,” the wolf carried on, the overly-practiced speech sounding duller with each repetition, “You will be molded, shaped and reforged by the best doctors and materials money can buy, and you will enjoy every second of it. You will become unrecognizable and still beg for further enhancement. I will pump you with whatever is required to keep you going if I have to. Do you understand?”
This was the first sign of her training faltering. She glanced up to him, ears high in alarm. She did understand. Although the exact plan Brandon had in store for her was still cryptic, it couldn’t be good… and yet she had no way to protest; the tears she was fighting back certainly made that quite clear. Cynthia should’ve known that something like this would happen; it’s not every day that someone like Brandon shows up to places of such vile repute as the one she was dumped in, and their presence always heralded the kind of depraved excess that only the higher classes could achieve. She had hoped it would just be more of the usual, something she was mentally prepared for: the grabby hands, the lack of concern for her personal safety, hell, she’d endure the same kind of “group activities”, as her previous master called them, just for the sake of having a home that wasn’t a hovel in some dingy alleyway.
But of course she ended up with someone like him. How couldn’t she? This was her lot in life. Her place in society.
“I asked: Do you understand?” Brandon repeated himself, far more forceful this time around.
“Y-yes, Master. Anything for you, Master,” the cat replied hastily, as if the response had been drilled into her in the past. Still having to choke down a lot of choice words she was sure would get her the lash.
“Good. Now come, we need to test a few things.”
***
The amount of procedures and testing Cynthia was subjected to managed to surprise her to no end; the cat had been used to the kind of expectations men like Brandon had regarding property like her, and yet the wolf managed to blow them clear out of the water with how much attention he paid to every detail of her body, always with the promise that it was merely a way to enhance it later.
Back at her previous home, the cat had been the culmination of her master’s family’s grand design: generations of careful breeding and animal husbandry in all but name had left her what her owner called a “perfect specimen”, the absolute best biology could produce without the slightest help from medical science. For her previous master, that was enough; she bought his way into a lot of places looking the way she did, but Cynthia could tell Brandon would never be satisfied with her until he literally could not “improve” her even more.
Everything was accounted for, down to the minutest detail; even her genetic code was sequenced just in case any “in-depth” manipulation was required, even if Brandon assured her such a thing would never be necessary. The file detailing her body’s capabilities and capacity for growth kept getting bigger by the day. The wolf was insistent that he wanted to see just what she could accomplish before anything was done to her, if only because he felt like he needed to flex his newest purchase a bit.
Thus, the two of them were scheduled to meet with some “friends-to-be” in one of the city’s finer gentlemen’s clubs. Outwardly, it was entirely respectable, a place for men of high class to gather and discuss business, golf and other things that would distract people long enough for them to prepare their true entertainment for each night. In reality, all one had to do was look closer for a few seconds to pierce the thin veneer of pretense and civility those people had built for themselves and see the depraved obscenity that lay within in all its oddly-alluring glory. Far from a place for reasonable discourse and networking, the club was designed from the ground up to cater to the same kind of crowd Brandon counted himself as part of, lovers of everything that was big, excessive and artificial.
“I expect you to be on your best behaviour, Cynthia,” Brandon warned her, “and to remember your place on the ladder… as well as mine. I’m not exactly as high up as I want to be, and won’t be suffering even more; you’re to be your absolute best, understood?”
“Of course, Master,” the cat replied enthusiastically, turning on a small display of her skills. Her eyes partially closed and she turned up the corner of her mouth, looking up to him in a clearly well-practiced sultry gaze. “if… that is the name I might address you as while in your esteemed company?”
“Master will do just fine” - the wolf answered back nonchalantly, triggering a thought in his own head. Calling a slave by their actual name was not only seen as overly sentimental, but would most likely stain his reputation even more than it already was. Nonetheless, it was impossible to deny that he had some degree of fondness for the feline in front of him, necessitating an affectionate nickname of sorts - “And just as you’ll keep that name for me, so too will you be my little Kitten. Understood?”
“Yes, Master!” Cynthia giggled, bouncing in place and even managing to produce a well-timed purr, “I won’t let you down!” The buxom and shapely feline canted her head, giving him a smile. The flip from obedient slave to flirtatious art piece in public once given permission was extraordinary. Almost caught off-guard by this sudden shift, Brandon craned his neck back and his eyebrows raised maybe a millimeter.
‘What the hell... Where did this come from? What else is she hiding?’ he thought while clearing his throat and regaining his composure.
Each night, the many members would bring their best “personal pieces” for everyone to meet: bloated fuckdolls that were more plastic than fur, carrying assets too heavy for their spines to deal with, riddled with enhancements both subtle and anything but, just so they could move around unimpeded. They were taught how to address their peers appropriately, even if the only interaction most of them got around to was to wrap their tits around a waiting cock and keep going until the eager customer couldn’t stand the creaking anymore. The sounds would be unbearable for anyone other than the fetish crowd the club attracted; overfilled implants were the norm, and if more than a minute went by without some cute little thing moaning like a whore when her chest began to groan ominously as they were being pumped fuller, then something was dreadfully wrong.
It was self-indulgence at its finest, all done at the cost of whoever the club-goers happened to have on hand. A few of the unlucky ones, those whose bodies had a higher predisposition towards the kind of enhancements their masters foisted upon them, had to be carted in and used as little more than disposable stress relief after becoming unable to move on their own; their owners were nonetheless incredibly high up in comparison to all others, as not everyone could afford those kinds of treatments on such a large scale.
For that night, however, Brandon had nothing to show but Cynthia as she was. Not that it wasn’t enough; the cat drew plenty of eyes when she strutted into the main room, fully nude with the exception of a small choker and a simple charm on it with her master’s name. She expertly flaunted her curves, whether naturally or through training. Brandon didn’t care; she knew how to turn heads with smooth motions and exaggerated poses, all while keeping a content smile as if nothing was wrong. A natural at showing off what she had while keeping by the wolf’s side and presenting a perfect contrast to the tall hunk she was accompanying. It’s just that Brandon had a mental image of what he wanted her to become, and while his little Kitten was undoubtedly beautiful, she was still far and away… incomplete. More had to be done.
Nonetheless, the evening was still a success. Brandon kept a short leash on Cynthia for the whole time, even if he did allow some of the other patrons to get their hands close enough where his Kitten got to show her dedication to the cause, as it were. Much to the wolf’s delight, the cat performed admirably, keeping her composure despite the obvious lack of finesse and care displayed by the men around her, and doing a surprisingly superb job of teasing the same people when given the command. There were very few things more delightful than seeing a self-assumed “alpha male” go from leering to helpless the moment their “prey” turned on the puppy-dog eyes and made good on their offers to let her feel them up. Made for a good couple of hours before Brandon took his leave and stashed a notebook into his coat.
Enough notes had been taken that the wolf could afford to forgo any visits to the club for some time; now that it was known that Cynthia was his property, it paid off more to let word and rumours spread, just so whenever he returned he could surprise everyone with an improved version of the already well-endowed feline. He had a head full of ideas for what to do with his Kitten, each more excessive than the last; but there was a single question he needed to ask of her.
It was inconsequential. Her answer wouldn’t matter, as it would happen either way, but after seeing the cat in action over the course of their stay in the club, how easily she flipped from obedient and subservient to flirtatious and irreverent, he needed to know what she would say, and how she said it.
They were in the car when he dropped the query. Cynthia was fiddling with the much-too-tight seatbelt again and Brandon was keeping his eyes on the foggy road. He cleared his throat.
“You did well tonight, I’m almost proud. Keep lifting me up the ladder and maybe, just maybe… if you work hard enough, get big enough, and keep being good enough… I’ll raise you up as well.”
Those words resonated with Cynthia far more than Brandon could have ever thought. Her previous owner was by no means negligent or abusive, but he never saw her as anything more than a tool, and was blatantly obvious about it as well. To them, she was a cog in the machine, to be discarded as soon as she was no longer necessary; it just so happened she was very good at making herself be necessary.
In Brandon, however, Cynthia saw something… different. Perhaps a kindness her previous owner had refused her, the slightest inkling of intimacy or acceptance, the thought that maybe, just maybe, the wolf saw her as more than a piece of meat. As starved for affection as she was, it was everything the cat needed to go along with whatever came out of his mouth next.
“What do you think of implants, Kitten?”
“Whatever is necessary to make Master proud of his Kitten of course~!”
The answer came immediately, and with a measure of excitement that succeeded in making the wolf’s eyebrows rise; he hadn’t expected her to deliver the correct answer so quickly and with such little hesitation… or so much enthusiasm… but there it was. His purchase had just paid for itself.
“Good,” he smiled back, “we’ll be working on that next.”
