The SPCP

"Welcome to the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Petslaves," Damian, the chief Investigator, said as he opened the door. Outside, on the step, was a man with a microphone and two cameramen. "As you no doubt know, we're an offshoot of the SPCA. This branch was formed when the overpopulation problem made it necessary for the excess of slaves to begin performing the duties and roles of certain animals usually considered pets. We take care of abused, neglected, and abandoned ponygirls and ponyboys, dog girls and dog boys, cat girls and boys, human cows and bulls, human pigs, and any other roles which the slaves' owners wish them to fulfill. Many times these owners force their slaves to assume a certain role, without providing for the needs that that role will entail; improper stabling of ponyslaves, inadequate shelter, water, food, or care for the canine slaves, litter facilities for the feline slaves, and improper holding and milking facilities for the bovine slaves. You'll be riding with two of our investigators, Mistress Felicia Lockhart and Master Joseph Snyder, today."

Two people stepped forward at the mention of their names. Felicia was a stunningly beautiful short, blue-eyed, blonde-haired woman dressed in the SPCP's uniform of black leather pants and black shirt with a black leather vest. Joseph Snyder was a big man, six and a half feet tall, with a neatly trimmed goatee and brown eyes that sparkled over the rim of his glasses under his mop of brown hair.

The man holding the mike extended his hand. "I'm Mike Skinner," he said, and indicated his cameramen. "This is Frank Milton and Lenny Hardaway. They're my cameramen. I'll be observing and describing things for the benefit of the viewers at home, and also providing any legal background if a seizure is necessary."

Damian nodded absently, his mind already on the requirements of the day. "Do you want to go straight out with the investigators, or do you want to tour the facility first?" he asked.

"I want to go straight out with the investigators, if that's okay with you," Mike said eagerly. 'I'm anxious to get out there and see what's going on."

Damian gestured to the door. "Well then, I think we're done here. Felicia, Joseph, you have your calls for the day. Good luck."

It took a little work to get all the camera equipment and the three people stashed into the back of the SPCP van, but eventually they managed it, and Joseph drove out of the parking lot of the SPCP while Felicia gave Mike some of the background. "Some of these slaves are willing, some aren't," she said. "The ones who aren't might have been sold into slavery by a family member strapped for cash, or they might have gotten into a disagreement or argument with someone who has enough money to have them kidnapped and turned into petslaves. But as you know, by law, once you're a branded petslave you're one for life. There's no going back. The role might change; an owner might turn his dog slave into a ponyslave, but that's very rare. If the owner wants a pony slave usually they just buy one. With the abundance of petslaves that's never a problem. There's always another one." She sobered. "That's part of what makes this job necessary. There are so many petslaves, and they've become so cheap now with the new drug therapies the training facilities are using to condition them that they've become rather a disposable item. I've seen abuse cases and neglect cases that are worse than any SPCA case you might have seen on TV. About thirty percent of the petslaves we pick up end up having to be humanely euthanized."

Mike digested this in silence, switching off the tape recorder for a moment, then turned it back on. "So where are we going?" he asked.

Joseph answered him. "We got an anonymous tip that there was an unlicensed breaking and training facility operating in an old abandoned house a few miles outside of town," he said. "So we're going to check it out. Facilities need to have a license to train the petslaves; we need the assurance that a petslave will be trained properly, without the use of excessive force or unnecessary stress on the slave animal. There are also ways to break a slave in without breaking the slave's spirit. Also, we're trying to cut down on the number of illegal petslaves; that is, petslaves that aren't there voluntarily and haven't signed their contracts willingly. It's a real problem."

Half an hour later, they pulled up in front of a dilapidated house. "It sure looks deserted," Mike said. "Are you sure the tip wasn't phony?"

Felicia looked around as she got out of the car. "I'm sure," she said. "Look. The ivy's grown over the house, but the windows are clear. And all the windows are intact. If the house were really abandoned, the lower windows would have been knocked out by homeless squatters." She took the radio off her belt. "Yeah, base, this is two-four, out on Lemmon Road. There's definitely activity here, please be advised backup may be necessary to remove petslaves."

The radio crackled to life. "So noted, two-four, want units to start heading your way?"

"There's no one here to ask, so I guess we chalk the animals down to abandoned," Joseph said. "But let's take a look before we ask for help." Felicia nodded and told the dispatcher to wait. Then the two investigators headed around the side of the building.

The sight that met their eyes was truly horrible. There was a makeshift, flimsy 'stable' in the back made of sheet metal and wood, and inside they could hear the neighs and whinnies of ponyslaves in torment. Toward the back of the property, they saw dogslave cages stacked on top of each other, some empty, most full; a naked, crouching male or female slave. There were no facilities for disposing of the dogslaves' waste; the waste from the cage above dripped through the space between the bars that made up the cage floors and splattered on the dogslave underneath. The occupants of the lower cages were so crusted with filth it was hard to bear the stench. Some of the occupants were small enough to have some limited movement; others, particularly some of the big males, were so cramped that the bars of the crates dug uncomfortably into the flanks and fleshy parts. Felicia saw the flanks of one big male were raw and oozing from rubbing continually against the bars. All the dogslaves were excessively thin and filthy, with matted hair, lice and fleas, and probably infections from the waste splattering into open wounds. Several of the slaves started barking frantically when they saw the investigators; most just stayed quiet, too beaten down and hopeless to put up a semblance of interest. Most of them bore fresh brands on their flanks or buttocks; they were too new to the petslave business to know that the SPCP uniform meant help. Felicia went to the big male who was barking, and reached between the bars to pet his shoulder. "There now, big guy," she cooed. "Hang on, we'll get you out of there in a second, okay?" he panted eagerly, whined and wagged the tail protruding from his asshole as best he could in the confined space, and settled back to wait.

Joseph walked on, past the dog cages to the ponyslave shed, and looked in. "Hot damn, Felicia, you're not going to believe this!" he shook his head and stepped back to allow Felicia, Mike, and Lenny the cameraman to look into the makeshift shed.

There were eight ponyslaves packed into the small shed, which couldn't have measured more than eight feet by eight feet. There were four 'stalls' built into the shed, and two ponyslaves were in each stall. The smell of waste and fecal matter was so strong the investigators were holding their noses.

There were six ponygirls and two ponyboys. All of them bore the telltale marks on their backs, flanks, and chest of a recent, severe whipping; most of the welts were still oozing blood. Instead of the usual cross-tie and brace supports used to keep a ponyslave on their feet, there was a web of rusted wire and poles standing upright on the dirt floor.

Mike's eyes were drawn to one ponyslave. A girl, he could tell by the small but full breasts on the figure. There were two poles under her, one shoved deeply into her cunt and one in her anus. Her legs were tied to the poles, keeping her on her feet and unable to move or lie down. Her head was wrapped in a web of straps that was clearly a makeshift halter, but the ropes were pulled so tight that the chin and throat straps were digging into the ponygirl's flesh. Her wrists were strapped behind her tightly with a web of ropes from her harness, which had been left on.

"Real horses don't sleep lying down," Felicia said from behind him. "So there are some who think ponyslaves shouldn't either. They're usually strapped into leg braces to keep them upright or sleep frames, which are what we use. This…"she shook her head. "This is inhumane." She turned to Joseph. "I'm going to radio base for help. We need to get a trailer for the ponies, and I guess we should check inside for cows."

The inside of the house was filled with the usual paraphernalia of illegal training facilities. Empty drug bottles and syringes for injecting the medications that would keep a slave docile until they had given up hope of rescue or had been broken. Whips, crops, canes, chains, and restraints of all sorts were piled neatly around the room, ready to be grabbed and used at a moment's notice. Joseph picked up a whip and showed it to Mike. "This type of whip is illegal. It usually causes too much damage to a slave to be used." He showed Mike a wooden-handled whip with three strands of barbed wire coming out of the handle. The wire was coated with old blood, a sign that it had been used many times. Mike shuddered.

"Hey, Joe!" Felicia called from the next room. "Come here! And bring the cameraman with you, they should see this!"

Mike blinked as he walked through the archway and saw what Felicia was looking at. This room had three cowslaves, tightly bound to frames that kept them on their hands and knees. Big swollen dangling udders drooped below two cowslaves' chests, dripping the sweet cowslave milk that had become so popular in recent years since petslaves were legalized. The third cowslave didn't have dangling udders, though.

A web of tight hemp rope crossed and criss-crossed the cowslave's upper torso, binding the breasts tightly to he cowslave's body. The udder flesh bulged out between the ropes, purple with trapped blood and swollen with milk that couldn't escape because of the tight ropes and the teat plugs. Teat plugs were thick metal probes that were inserted into the cowslave's teat to keep milk from escaping. This usually caused discomfort, but was sometimes necessary to keep the valuable milk from escaping. "But the others aren't plugged," he said.

Felicia sighed. "This is done by the illegals to begin production. On a well-regulated cowslave farm, lactation is induced by drugs, and regular frequent milkings are used to boost production. In an unlicensed facility like this one, when lactation is first induced, the breasts are bound tight and the teats are plugged for three days while the milk builds up. Afterwards the cow is milked and a lot usually comes out because it's the first milking, and the colostrum, the yellowish 'first fluid', is thick. They send first milkings to medicine labs, because the colostrum has natural immunities used to make medicines. Then after each successive milking the breasts are beaten or whipped or in some way subjected to high-impact stimuli to boost production. It's less expensive than the drugs, and takes less time, but it's extremely uncomfortable for the cowslave. Which is why this one is mooing." Mike listened, and sure enough he could hear a faint mooing sound coming from behind the ballgag inside the cowslave's mouth. "The slave is extremely uncomfortable. Let's untie those teats." The cow's mooing increased as they untied the ropes, and Felicia took the plugs out of the nipples. Milk dripped from the teats, and the cow's mooing diminished in volume.

Just then, they heard the sound of a vehicle on the road outside. "Trailer's here," Joseph said. "Let's get the petslaves loaded and on their way to the SPCP."

The Facilities

The van pulled into the unloading lot of the SPCP first, and Mike and his camera crew got out first. "Start rolling," Mike instructed Lenny as the investigators began unloading the petslaves that had been confiscated that morning.

The ponyslaves were the first ones out, since they'd been the last one loaded. They had been freed from the shafts impaling their asses and cunts, and they kicked out their feet as if grateful for the chance to be allowed to stretch.

Doctor Derring looked at the ponies cursorily as they were offloaded one by one. "Malnourished. Take that one," she said of a stumbling red-headed ponygirl, "to a stall and hook her to a drip feed; she needs some vitamins and fluids." Most of the others were ambulatory, and a few didn't look too bad except for their excessive thinness. "They look okay, most of them, let's get them settled in a stall, and fed, and we'll see if the owner took this 'stand-up-sleeping thing that seriously. And if any of them are backsliding, let me know." She turned to Mike. "The SPCP has a ponyslave training facility just outside town. Sometimes we get petslaves who have been neglected for so long that their former training has become rather fuzzy, and they start backsliding into improper habits. We send those to the training facility, to be 'reminded' humanely of what their responsibilities are as a petslave." She watched the last ponyslave being led out of the trailer and into the barn, then indicated that the catslaves should be brought forward. "They don't look too bad," she said with relief. "A little skinny, but not bad. Catslaves are the most expensive, so they try to keep them in as good a condition as possible before a petslave auction. Catslaves are usually destined to become pampered, spoiled pets to some rich person. Take them inside, to the cat wing," she said to the petslave handlers. "It's the dogslaves that are abused most often, the dogslaves and ponyslaves. Because they actually do work, they're in contact with people more often and people can be cruel to a petslave. I've seen petslaves.." she shook her head as she broke off, and Mike nodded sympathetically at the frown.

The dogslave cages had been loaded into the trailer, Felicia having found that in many cases (especially the big male canine that had barked at her) the slaves had been kept confined in their cages for so long that the flesh had garnered sores. There was a mechanical system in place behind the trailer that allowed for the stacking of cages, and now this was employed to bring the cages out one by one. "Ugh. The cages are filthy. You!" Dr. Derring said as she motioned to one of the handlers. "Get wire cutters and start cutting the cages apart. We can't leave them in there, the cages are simply too small. They should have puppyslaves in there, not full-grown dogslaves!"

She turned to Lenny. "It doesn't happen often, but occasionally we do get puppyslaves in here. The youngest we ever got was about eight years old, and had spent her entire life as a puppyslave. Her mother was apparently a bitchslave, and her owner chose to breed himself another puppyslave instead of buying one. Puppyslaves are illegal," she said harshly. "At that young age, they can't consent to what they're being told to do. But the advantage with puppyslaves is that they're completely docile; there's no backsliding with them. All they've heard is barking and whining; you'll never hear a born puppyslave talk. They're considered highly prized. But because of their value, people keep breeding them. That's why our female and male dogslaves are spayed or neutered before they leave, to prevent any unwanted puppyslaves from being born. Now some owners might get hold of a particularly submissive dogslave, and they'll try to find one of the opposite gender with the same submissive level in hopes of the bitch's puppy having an even higher degree of submissiveness. But the ones who are doing it legally have a license to do it, and they raise the puppy as a perfectly normal child until the child reaches the age of majority, at which time it chooses whether to become a dogslave or remain a human. In cases when the child chooses to become a puppyslave, the owners either train it themselves or submit it to a licensed training facility to be trained. And when it graduates from the training, it usually returns to the home of its Master, to serve the rest of it's life there because the owner has made a huge investment in its raising, training and care in terms of time and money. Rarely do we see puppyslaves here."

The big male that had caught Felicia's eye was whimpering and whining as Felicia maneuvered the wire cutters between the bars of his too-small cage. Felicia cooed to it, soothing it as the last bar was cut and the sides of the cage fell away. The raw, oozing sores on its flanks were readily apparent now, and the slightest movement seemed to pain him.

Felicia snapped a lead onto his collar and started to lead him into the building. Mike, curious now about where she was going to take the big male, signaled Frank to follow him as he followed Felicia.

They went down a white, well-lit corridor. Felicia walked down about three doors, and stopped in front of one marked 'exam room three'. She led the big male in, and Mike and Frank followed, Frank carefully taping everything he was looking at.

Felicia tugged on the leash gently. "Come on, Big Guy, come on up," she said, patting the steel exam table. The male followed her gesture, putting his hands on the table and springing off the floor with his hind legs, until he was situated on his hands and knees on the table. Felicia took a seat next to the exam table, still holding the end of the leash and cooing.

It wasn't long before Doctor Derring came in, and she went immediately to the table. "There now, let's have a look at you," she said. The male woofed happily and sidled up next to her, rubbing his head against her arm. She patted him gently and began to run her hand along the bony flanks. The dogslave whimpered as she got closer to the wound. "See all this inflammation?" Derring pointed to the red, swollen lines radiating outward from the sores on the male's lower ribs. "The sores are infected, and it's spreading into the bloodstream. He would probably have died in a week if we hadn't picked them up." She picked up a syringe, filling it with fluid from a bottle of medicine, and brought it over to the table. The male saw the needle and began to whine, his eyes wide with fear and pleading. "No, no, it's not going to hurt you," she said soothingly. "It's medicine, it'll help you feel better." The male's trembling eased, and he remained still while she injected its shoulder with the liquid. "It's a broad-spectrum antibiotic, to combat the bacterial infection, and also contains a mild anesthetic. It'll numb the pain enough for us to put stitches in his side before we put him in a holding cage for the night."

Moments later, when she touched the male's wounded side, he didn't even flinch. Derring nodded in satisfaction and took out suture needles and thread. She sewed up the male's side carefully, neatly, using the smallest stitches she could. "We don't want him to scar too badly," she said. "There are some owners who don't like their petslaves too badly scarred. It doesn't matter to some, but if they ever want to show him in a petslave show, scars will count against him in the judging." When she finished, she signaled Felicia to take him to the back.

Mike followed the female cruelty officer toward the back of the facility. There were the holding pens for the petslaves…and they were extensive. Each petslave had a narrow run, maybe ten feet long and five feet wide, with a pethouse, much like a regular canine doghouse, in the back of the run. Food and water dishes were provided, and a few of the kennel keepers were busy filling the water and food dishes for the new arrivals. "How many pens are there?" he asked. "And how many can you keep at any one time?"

Felicia smiled at him as she fumbled for the key to one of the empty runs. "We have adequate facilities for one hundred petslaves in the main building," she said. "Out in the back we have two other buildings with fifty runs each that we put the less-critical cases in, the ones that don't need to be watched. It's also close to the road, and those runs are open so they can wander out and run around in the fenced field behind the SPCP main building. It also fronts the road, so people passing by can see the petslaves at play, and can also see what we have up for adoption. The road outside goes directly to the petslave markets, but probably half the people who drive by the road outside and see our petslaves at play stop in and adopt one of ours instead. It's better to adopt than get a petslave from a breeder or seller at the market. We guarantee the petslave's heath, guarantee all their vaccinations, and there's always the satisfaction of knowing that they've rescued a petslave who has been cruelly mistreated." Felicia took the big male into the run, unsnapped the leash from his collar, and patted his head before she stepped out of the pen. "All right, sweetie," she cooed. "Eat, and rest, and I'll come up later and see how you're doing, all right?" The man wagged his tail, then bent over the food and drink, lapping thirstily. Felicia smiled, closed the run, and looked around for Mike, who had wandered down the row of pens, looking at the occupants. 'Wait, don't go near that one…" she said as Mike reached one pen and looked in. Her warning came too late, and Mike jumped back as the huge, muscled, heavily-scarred male dogslave inside leaped for him, snarling and barking ferociously, trying to reach him through the chain-link fence. Mike leaped back with a shout of alarm, almost colliding with the cameraman behind him in his haste to step back. The dogslave, sensing that they were satisfactorily intimidated, sat back on his haunches and growled intimidatingly.

"Surely you're not planning to adopt that big brute out!' he exclaimed as Felicia came up.

Felicia shook her head. "No. This male and two others were taken from the home of a petslave fighter. They surgically modify their petslaves, then train them to be ferocious fighters, just like some people do with dogs. Dogfighting has been mainly replaced by dogslave fighting, since there's more excitement." She directed Mike's attention to the dogslave's hands. "The owner grew those nails long, then had them filed to points. We clipped them when he came in, but he still tries to get at us. And there's always the teeth." She uncurled the whip she carried coiled at her belt and snapped it at the dogslave meaningfully. "Open!" she commanded. He opened his mouth and displayed a row of sharp white teeth, painstakingly filed down to sharp points and coated with silver and gold. "He was a pretty valuable fighting petslave," she said sorrowfully. "They don't put gold on the teeth until he's won at least ten matches. And to your question, no. We won't adopt him out. Dogslave fighting, just like dogfighting, is illegal here. We're only keeping him here until his owner's trial finishes up, and then he'll be humanely euthanized. We don't let those be adopted out." She sighed. "It's a pity. He might have made a good ponyslave."

The door at the far end of the runs opened, and a haed poked in. "Felicia!" Snyder called. "We got another call, an emergency one. Some neighbors reported hearing a petslave screaming for help, for mercy, from a compound that keeps big cats as well as petslaves."

Felicia turned away from the ferocious dogslave in the pens, coiling her whip and heading for the door. 'Coming," she said. Mike followed, after a last look back at the still-snarling dog.

Chapter 3: Big Cat Compound

Felicia explained as her partner threaded their way through the downtown traffic. "People lately have taken to keeping humans as pets along with big cats. Owning tigers and lions in this county isn't illegal; but the person who owns them has to have a license and the humans have to be kept separately. What some have been doing, and this sickens us, is taking petslaves and feeding them to the big cats to appease the cats' appetites, and also to appease their own appetites for cruelty. There are some petslaves who prefer that their lives end like that, as food for something or someone else; there are contracts for that kind of thing, and the petslaves are marked for that. But if the petslave isn't willing, and the owner feeds him to the big cat anyway, that's cruelty, and we can and will prosecute."

They pulled into the parking lot of a huge complex of buildings. The complex was on a flat plain; the sound of human screams would carry quite well in the still air. Mike, Lenny and Frank followed Master Snyder and Mistress Felicia across the lot to where a tall wire fence stood rimming what looked like a huge pit. And, when they got there, Lenny frantically taping everything, they saw that that was indeed what it was. Similar to the large pit/habitats one found in zoos, the concrete walls ran straight down for almost fifty feet, and far below them they could see two huge tigers worrying the carcass of some poor unfortunate male petslave. Felicia sucked in a deep breath.

Mike gasped as one of the tigers stepped back, licking its chops. The battered male in the bottom of the pen had plainly been tortured before being thrown to the big cats; his skin was marked with what seemed like hundreds and hundreds of open, bleeding cuts. Felicia said grimly, "What do you think, Joe? Knife or wire whip?"

Joseph stared at the body in the bottom of the pen, which was barely moving now; only a little twitching, which was probably just death spasms. "Hard to tell from here, there's too much blood. But it certainly looks like a whip."

Felicia whipped out her badge and marched determinedly to the front door, knocking. "SPCP! Open up!"

For a long time nothing happened, but as Felicia raised her hand to knock again, the door was opened very slowly, by a slave girl. Not a petslave, just a slave girl. Her eyes were cast downward as she whispered, "Mistress Donna is waiting for you in the back rooms. Please follow me." She turned, and Felicia bit her lip as she looked at the girl's posterior. The maid's uniform covered only the front half of the girl's body; this was sewn to her skin along the sides, but the entire back of her body was uncovered. And she bore the marks of constant, continual abuse; whip scars, bruises over her kidneys, and other bruises and welts in a variety of colors from red to purple-black on the rest of her back. And she had what had to be an extremely painful torture plug lodged in her anus. It was huge. She walked back down the hallway, stiff-legged, probably to avoid causing any unnecessary pain to her tormented asshole.

She opened the door to an opulently furnished sitting room, and Felicia and Joseph stepped in. Four fashionably-dressed women looked up at him, ceasing their conversation with a frown, as if upset that their afternoon had been spoiled by the two officers. Felicia ignored their frowns of annoyance, focusing instead on the male slave hanging on a St. Andrews cross on the far wall. The cross had been set with a number of long, very sharp nails, and the slave was firmly strapped to it with the nails impaling his flesh. The straps holding his arms and legs apart to the limbs of the cross were so tight that his feet and hands were almost purple with trapped blood. So was his genitals, wrapped in a web of metal bands clamped tight around his cock and balls. The male's head was hooded, but the muffled sounds coming from under the hood indicated he was in extreme agony. The great, bleeding gashes in the front of his body (no doubt left there by the whip one of the Mistresses was holding) was probably a cause of some of that anguished howling.

Mike saw something outside the huge windows, and directed his cameraman's attention to the window. Joseph stepped over to the window, beckoning Lenny and Mike with him.

The window overlooked the big cat pit that they had seen when they pulled up, but it was closer to the cats. From here they could see that the male slave was quite dead, and now mostly eaten. Legs and arms were gone, the head had been bitten into and one of the cats was licking out the cranial cavity while another was cracking open the dead slave's sternum to get at the soft tissue in the chest cavity. Felicia took one long look at the scene outside the window and turned to the Mistresses. "I'm Mistress Felicia, from the SPCP," she started without preamble. "Did that slave out there give consent to being used as animal food?"

The woman holding the whip gave Felicia a long, appraising look, and then raised one perfect eyebrow. "Of course," she drawled arrogantly.

"Can I see the papers? And take the hood off your other slave there, I'd like to ask him some questions."

"I'm not getting up to get any papers," the woman sat back. "And if you want the hog's hood off, get it off yourself. He's very vocal, though; he'll squeal your ear off." Felicia made an annoyed sound and stepped up to pull off the slave's hood.

Once the hood was off, they could clearly hear the muffled sounds the slave had been making were pleas for mercy. "PleasepleasepleaseMistressithurtsmakeitstopplease…"

The woman rose from her chair. "Pig! Are you not a pigslave?!"

"YesMistressplease…"

"Do pigs talk?"

"NoMistressbutithurtssomuchplease…" The woman brushed past Felicia and grabbed the purple-black genital trapped in the cruel cage, and squeezed. The man howled in agony, his hips rising away from the cross, pulling off the nails embedded in his flesh. "PLEASEMISTRESSPLEASE!"

Felicia snapped out, "That's enough. We're going to take the pigslave; he's in dire need of medical care, and if he's talking that means he's broken whatever contract he's had with you to become your pigslave. Joseph, if you would…" The man stepped to the cross and pulled the hood off the pigslave. Under the hood, he was crying in agony, eyes red and nose dripping. Joseph reached for the cage imprisoning the slave's genitals, and carefully released the lump of blackened flesh from its cruel imprisonment. The male howled again in anguish, and fell to his knees as Joseph released the shackles binding him to the cross. He crawled slowly across the floor to Felicia's feet, where he lowered his face to her shoe and started kissing it fervently. "Thank you, Mistress," he wailed.

Felicia stroked the sweat-soaked head. "You're welcome, pet," she said. "Can you tell me something? Who is that…who was that slave out there?" she gestured to the window.

The pigslave looked fearfully at Mistress Donna, but he knew that with the cruelty officers present she couldn't kill him for talking. "Mike, Mistress," he said tremblingly. "Pigslave Mike. He wanted to be used as food for the Mistress's table, but she violated her part of the contract and fed him to her big cats instead! She's been torturing him all morning, drawing blood to spur the tigers into a blood frenzy, and threw him in with them when he was too weak from the torture to fight them and get away." He looked into Felicia's eyes pleadingly. "Please, Mistress, please take me with you! Don't leave me here!"

"It's okay," Felicia patted the pigslave's head. "You're coming with us. Mistress Donna, we find you've violated your contract with your slaves, and therefore you're not entitled to keep them. If you'd just sign the surrender form, please…"

Donna ignored the paper held out to her. "He's mine! You can't just take him away from me!" she pointed to the slave. Slave Greg. Get back into your cage immediately!" The male cringed against Felicia's leg and whimpered.

Joseph interposed himself between Felicia and the pigslave, commanding Donna's attention immediately. "All right, so you're not signing the surrender papers?"

"Absolutely not!" Felicia said hotly, looking indignant. "He's my slave, I can do what I want with him! You people have no right coming in here and—"

Felicia interrupted. "Excuse me, we have every right. If a petslave is being mistreated, then we have the right to revoke the owner's right to possess one. Now, do you have any other petslaves here?" She turned to the cringing male. "Are there any other petslaves here?"

"There is a sowslave out in the holding pens. Mistress Donna has induced lactation in the sow and is feeding a litter of real pigs on the sowslave's milk. Other than her, Mike and I were the only ones."

"What about you?" Felicia addressed the maid wearing the torture plug. "Are you a petslave?" The girl stared at the floor and didn't answer, so Felicia turned to Greg. "Is she?"

Greg shook his head. "She's Mistress Donna's maid. She's a slave, but not a petslave."

Felicia frowned. "I'll have the regular slave assessors come out and look at her," she said to Mistress Donna. "Be aware; if she seems to be abused, you will probably lose her as well, and state regulations forbid the possession of any other petslaves or slaves once you have been found guilty of abusing any slave under your care. You'll be contacted soon about a court date for this petslave." Felicia unwound a leash from her belt and snapped it onto Greg's collar. "Joseph, if you'll go out to the barn to collect the sowslave, we'll take both to the SPCP."

Mike and Lenny followed Joseph as the man strode across the yard to the barn that stood at the end of a gravel drive and threw open the door. Inside was a female pigslave; a sowslave.

She was tied kneeling over some sort of machine. Milking cups were attached to the sowslave's teats, and were pulling on them unmercifully, extracting jets of thin, runny white lactose from the huge, dangling, udders. Tubes attached to the milking cups funneled the human milk to a retaining tank, which had artificial teats like those found on a real mother pig. Four squirming pink piglets were suckling greedily at the artificial teats, drawing out the milk that the human sowslave was giving.

It didn't seem especially cruel to Mike, who had seen sowslaves before…but then he noticed that the straps binding the sowslave to the frame were much too tight, cutting into the skin. The sowslave seemed to be in some pain, yanking back on the straps as if to free herself from the frame, and as Joseph leaned over and turned off the milking machine, the sow raised her head, and her tear-streaked face came into view. There was a large spiked ball thrust into the slave's mouth and between her teeth, and the spikes were cutting cruelly into the lips and teeth and tongue of the slave. Joseph hastily unstrapped the sowslave's front forelimbs, and Mike watched as the cups came free of the slave's breasts. The suction must have been fierce indeed, because the breasts flesh was all red and swollen, and there were hard 'teeth' around the base of each milking cup that must have been digging into the sow's udders. Joseph released the slave's back strap, then went to tend to the sow's rear legs. Mike went around back, and saw that the sowslave had been positioned in front of a fucking machine, which had been battering at the sowslave's sex. Joseph spoke grimly. "There's some thinking that fucking while the sowslave or the cowslave is being milked increases production and speed. The theory's so popular that people have built fortunes on machines that will fuck the milked slave relentlessly, and also cause a lot of pain." The sowslave's fuck hole was red and inflamed, gaping from the size of the phallus that had been shoved into it and rammed back and forth by the relentless machine. Joseph sighed. 'She may need some reconstructive surgery to tighten the hole back up. Let's get her back to the SPCP and see what the Doc says." He led the shuddering, silent sowslave out of the barn. "Don't worry about those," he said to Mike, who was looking at the piglets. "We'll have the regular SPCA come out and get them.