Human Pet Prison by Loki Renard

Human Pet Prisoner



That’s the sound my prisoner makes when pleasure overwhelms her. The music of this human’s desire is a grunting moan accompanied by quivering thighs and little humping motions of desperate hips, lower lips desperate to be wrapped tightly around the hardest thing she can find. But she remains empty for the moment. Her satisfaction will only come when she satisfies me. Through slow degrees and careful torment, I have made her ravenous for release she will have to earn.

She cannot rise from the floor thanks to light but strong chains, which run across her body in a way I find particularly aesthetically pleasing. There is something about a soft human curve weighted down by heavy metal which makes me stir.

The chains also serve to amplify her desire. As much as she fought them when I strung them about her body and used them to bind her to my will, I think she has come to enjoy them. This is a woman who has come to me to be broken. She has not surrendered one inch of ground in the battle for her soul, but I have claimed her body completely.

I let my gaze run over her bound form slowly, appreciating every inch of her human beauty. There is a reason we scythkin desire human females above all others, even over the matriarchs of our own species. A human female is evolution’s ode to lust. She is made almost entirely for the act of copulation. Her breasts are perpetually swollen, as if in milk, though there is no milk in them. Most species will only develop udders when they need to feed their young, but a human female always has her mammaries thrust proudly on display. Every part of her body is curved, every inch of it is in service to the tight little wet sex hole between her lips, guarded by the most delicate flowering of tender flesh, and a light down of dark hair which does nothing to hide the treasure beneath. The lips of her face pout red and full, reminiscent of her sex when it is in the full flush of desire.

Is she aware of the effect she has on males of our kind? I think so. This is no innocent captive wrapped in my chains. This is a woman who can respect no mate who cannot overpower her. Many have tried to tame this female. Some have been cruel. Others, kind. Neither approach works for a woman who needs to be owned.

I removed the gag her previous captors fitted her with. They found it impossible to silence her sharp tongue, but I have means of turning her rebellious curses into animal grunts and physical gyrations which tell the truth, something her tongue rarely does.

She is greedy and demanding. These are good traits for a pet. They will make her easy to train. For now, she still believes she’s free. Even trussed up in these bonds, begging me silently for carnal release, she thinks this is about a simple human obsession. She has mistaken me for one of her own. She thinks I want sex. But that is only the beginning of what I want, and it is the very least of what I will take from her.

It is my job and personal purpose to punish her. I have been charged with the task of breaking her will and remaking her in the image of a perfect pet. One who is obedient. One who will sit at her master’s feet and beg for scraps of attention, slavishly needing his approval.

It will not be easy. This is as wild a human as I have ever encountered before. Her flesh may be human, and therefore weak, but her mind is strong. She has resisted many attempts to tame her thus far, but where others have failed, I will prevail.

My fingers drift between her thighs, find the tight little nub which always telegraphs her desire. The moans increase as her hips rise and fall. I let my fingers, usually rough and devastatingly dangerous, toy with that little bud. With humans, it is always the smallest things which have the most powerful effects.

The chains jingle and dance as she shudders with desire. I know what she wants. She wants these soft nether lips to be spread around something hard. Preferably, my flesh. She wants to be violated. She wants to be taken roughly so she does not have to admit to her own desire.

She is gagged, but that does not mean we are not having a conversation. Her eyes blaze almost as intensely as mine, though they are a rich human brown in color and have none of the bright fire of a scythkin. I admire this captive. I may even be falling in…


An alarm sounds somewhere in the distance, and I am forced to drag my eyes away from her perfect form. This human has become an obsession. Kept in my most secure cell for her own protection, she is like a jewel only I am allowed to lay eyes upon. There is something romantic about her solitary captivity, and the desperation it creates in her. She has me, only me. That is by design. This woman has proven herself an agile and efficient corrupter of others. Even some scythkin have fallen under her spell. That is why I keep her to myself; or at least, that is a rationale for doing so which spares me the real reason: she is mine. All mine. Forever. She just doesn’t know it yet.

“I have to go.”

Those are the first four words I have spoken to her this session. She likes words. Humans always do. They can construct entire realities out of the little mouth noises and their scribbled counterparts. Voice is the key to human control, and that is why I use it sparingly. I want her to crave my words as much as she craves my touch.

“Be good, pet,” I tell her.

The whimper she makes as she is cast into bound darkness is almost pathetic enough for me to take pity on her.


I leave her where she is, bound and wanting. I want that desperation to sink inside her. I want her to remember how it feels to be held on the very verge of release and not be given it. I want her to feel loneliness, so that she can be saved from it when she is with me.

This may seem cruel to a casual observer, but the woman I have in my custody is not innocent. She may be the most guilty of all the prisoners here in my facility.

The siren is louder now that I am out of her presence. The realities of the rest of my world come flooding in. The others. Before she came here, they were all I thought about. Now sometimes I forget their very existence.


My broodkin, Tusk, is attempting to subdue a prisoner who has somehow managed to wedge themselves halfway out of their cell. Only a head is sticking out of a wall, which has phase shifted to make the organism more or less one with the ship. They are trying to free themselves, which is causing the wall to melt in and out of existence around the improbability field they are generating with sheer willpower.

It’s quite a mess.

“What are you doing, Ham?” I ask the question while leaning against the part of the wall which remains solidly real. I should probably be irritated at him for drawing me away from my human when we were in the middle of something so delightful, but it will not do any harm to her for her to wait.

The prisoners all have numerical designations, but I choose simple words to as to remember them more easily. This one is round and faintly pink, so, I call him Ham. It’s a human word. They’re very popular these days. There’s even a scythkin named John who I spoke to recently. My name is also of human origin. It means “to guard” and as that is what I do, I feel as though it is appropriate.

“Look what he’s done,” Tusk complains. “The bloody wall is never going to be the same again.”

“It’s a prisoner’s right to try to escape,” I remind him. “It is our responsibility to ensure that they cannot. This is the game which has been played since the beginning of time, or at least, the beginning of a concept of justice which was not limited to hitting others with rocks.”

Tusk is not at all mollified by my comments. He is trying to push Ham back through the wall, which is not going to work because Ham is not physically moving through the wall. He is understanding that there is no wall, and therefore he can pass through it. Unfortunately, the wall is asserting itself in return with a surprising amount of self belief for an inanimate object.

“Ham, get back in your cell,” I sigh, folding my arms over my chest. I don’t want to have to hurt him. He’s one of my favorite prisoners. Most of the others are here for acts of brutality. He’s here for acts of cleverness. I’ve enjoyed many interesting conversations with him over the years.

“I’m supposed to be out! I got my date! I got my date!”

To describe a Demtelf is to describe the impossible. They are round, bouncy little things with eyes all over their heads which makes most aliens they encounter very uncomfortable. Fortunately, they can only see out of two of them at any given time. Unfortunately, you never know which two are active.

They are incredibly wise, and able to access knowledge from all over the universe. This makes them exceptionally difficult to keep imprisoned, as they have a tendency to access that knowledge and use it to escape.

“What date?”

“January 17, 1934.”

“Look it up, would you, Tusk?”

Tusk sighs and walks away muttering about his wall. I am not upset by the wall. Since taking our human prisoner, I have not been upset about hardly anything. It is very un-scythkin of me.

“That’s a date in the ancient past,” Tusk says over the communicator.

“Exactly! That’s my date! I should have been out tens of thousands of years ago.” Ham gesticulates with dozens of brows.

“You get out when I receive notice in this timeline that you’ve been pardoned,” I tell him.

“Time is not linear. It’s circular. You think that’s the past. I know it’s the future.”

“Whatever it is, you need to get out of my wall, and back into your cell.”

“You know this cell is nothing but an illusion, and that you are not a warden of anything besides your own pain,” Ham says with all that wisdom he has at his disposal, wisdom which would be far more compelling if he were not still half sticking out of the wall. If I go inside the cell, I’m going to see his little feet hanging in mid-air, I just know it.

“I know. It’s all an illusion. But it is a persistent one.”

“True,” he admits with a sigh. There is a squelching sound as he slips back through the wall and then a hollow bouncing sound followed by a curse, as he boings from the floor and hits his head on the very persistent illusion of a bed.

We could keep Ham inside the concept of a small glass jar without causing him any extra discomfort, but we do it this way because this is more traditional, and it’s easier to keep track of a physical cell than the concept of one, which tends to get lost in the back of the cabinet among all the other concepts and ideas squirreled away by deviant and punitive species like our own.