Out in the middle of the desert, separated from civilization by fifty miles on every direction, there was an agglomerate of featureless buildings. Every week, a bus came from the single lone road containing the next batch of those that the world had deemed either dangerous, worthless, or both for rehabilitation and a slim chance at rejoining society.
James was on this week’s bus.
Shackled to his seat and under constant threat of electric shock from the heavy collar around his neck, the frightened dimetrodon hoped he would wake up at any moment now. The men in black and orange uniforms had come to his house in the middle of the night armed with cattle prods and a document of legalese so densely packed that a seasoned lawyer would have trouble making sense of it. All he knew is that it somehow bestowed upon them the right to pluck him from his home and send him on a ten-hour journey to the Asylum.
Asylum. The name seemed nonsensical to him. Being sent to an asylum inferred he had some sort of extreme psychological condition which James knew for a fact he didn’t. Unfortunately, his pleading arguments had been met with indifference and citations of obscure laws of which he had never heard about before.
The bus stopped by the gate and an armed guard stepped inside for a quick headcount of the two dozen or so frightened men. Then the man stepped out and opened the gates before the driver hit the accelerator again.
The newly arrived prisoners were unshackled one by one and ordered to step out of the bus in an orderly line. One particularly defiant wolf tried to make a run for it only to fall flat on the ground five feet from the group, incapacitated by a painful current delivered from his collar. A reminder to James and the others that disobedience had immediate consequences. The wolf was hauled off screaming.
They took James to a small room and asked him to strip. He was surprised when they told him to walk out and join the other inmates completely naked.
“Can I at least keep my shoes?” he asked innocently.
“You don’t get shoes,” they explained.
After he and the other prisoners had all been stripped of their clothes, they were marched off to a separate building wincing at every step of their bare soles on the scalding ground. They were separated and taken into cubicle-like examination rooms. James was strapped down on a padded table as he awaited the doctor. While he waited, he heard strange noises from the other prisoners. Screaming, moaning, laughing, begging… What the hell were they going to do to him?
The doctor was a tall, imposing crow in a white lab coat with a stethoscope resting comfortably around his neck.
“Dimetrodon, eh?” he said, barely acknowledging James as more than an animal. “Let’s see what makes you tick…” He touched the reptile’s bare foot with his feathery hands and smiled deviously as a giggle escaped James’ lips. “Ticklish?”
“A little. Please don’t tickle me!”
“No? Alright, then.” The doctor produced a wooden cane. “How about this instead? Ten smacks on each sole ought to teach you not to talk back.”
A frightened, wide-eyed James felt the smack of the cane right across the arch of his left sole. He yelped. Another painful smack fell across the sole of his left foot, this one closer to his curled toes. He screamed. Smack after smack was cruelly administered in quick succession. He began crying.
“How about now, dimetrodon?” The crow swiped his feathered finger down Jame’s sole, tickling the tenderized flesh while crossing all ten streaks of red in one swift motion.
“T-Tickle me!” sobbed James. “Please tickle me!”
“That’s more like it.”
The doctor unleashed a relentless assault of feathers and brushes on James’ poor, abused soles, causing to break down in sobbing laughter. James’ feet were ticklish on an average day. At that moment, after having his nerves shaken awake by the caning, they were far more sensitive than normal.
In his mind, he considered this torture one of the worst experiences he had ever been subjected to. His body, however, seemed to disagree.
“What’s this? Getting hard? And when did I say you could do that?”
Minutes later, his cock had been stuffed inside of a tiny aluminum chastity cage to which electrodes had been connected to deliver a non-painful yet extremely stimulating current. While moaned in abject pleasure, the good doctor noted down the results of his examination, namely that James was very ticklish, submissive, and prone to being teased. Chastity and sexual frustration were effective forms of discipline as they were for most males. Just before he left to tend to the next prisoner, he decided to try one last thing.
“Lick.”
James obeyed and bathed the crow’s meaty talon in his saliva just as the good doctor finished adding “foot slut” to the results of the examination.
His cell was a small six by six feet space which he shared with a T-Rex whose feet alone were almost as big as his torso. He knew that because he was forced to sleep chained to them every night, obediently licking their vast soles until the T-Rex was sound asleep and only then was he allowed to rest.
In the morning, after being fed his tasteless nutritional paste, he would be strapped down to the cleaning machine in the showers to be mechanically scrubbed with soapy water alongside every other prisoner in all the places where it tickled the most until he was squeaky clean. If by some accident he ended up making a mess of himself during the procedure, the machine would engage its discipline protocol and zero in on its victim’s most sensitive spots for an unnecessarily long amount of time. There was a particularly unfortunate raptor who always wound up climaxing during the part of the procedure when the machine scrubbed his feet.
After the cleaning, he was fitted with a straightjacket, blindfolded and bound on the ground outside next to a plaque that advertised him to all, guard or prisoner, as the Asylum’s designated foot cleaner. Feet and paws of every shape, size, texture and aroma were pushed into his face to the point where he could recognize some returning “customers” on subsequent days of service.
After another helping of nutritional paste, the first activity scheduled for the afternoon was usually some form of tight bondage ranging from a segufix to tight blocks of chemically inflated material that would mold to fit the contours of James’ body and leave him completely immobile for what was to follow.
Conditioning. A series of mind-altering and body-enhancing treatments tailored to turn every inmate into an idealized version of themselves (idealized as per Asylum standards, naturally.) For James, this meant computer-assisted hypnotherapy. An electronic visor would be strapped to his head and fill his brain with images and ideas of his own worthlessness juxtaposed with messages of what he should strive to become: a good foot slut.
Concurrently, his feet would often be subject to some sort of torment ranging from tickling to electroshock in between applications of a special sensitizing oil. Sexually, he was kept frustrated by being constantly teased and denied every time he was close to release. The Asylum had determined this aided in the hypnosis’ effectiveness while also keeping James docile and subservient.
Once his daily Conditioning (which was often a multi-hour affair) was complete, he was allowed no rest before being marched to the Group Milking room, not to join the many milkees but to be strapped down in the middle of the room and gagged with an apparatus that was connected to the output of five men’s milking machines.
As orgasm after painful orgasm was forced out of the men who made up that particular day’s rotation: tiger, allosaurus, falcon, alligator and (wouldn’t you know it) his T-Rex cellmate, their seed was routed through a complex tube system right into the poor dimetrodon’s maw until he had met his quota. Incentives were provided for the milkees to produce, like a vibrating dildo lodged right up against the falcon’s prostate and a mechanical feather roller mercilessly tickling the very same T-Rex feet James had gotten so used to worshipping every night.
His last task before being allowed to go back to his cell and sleep a measly six hours at his cellmate’s feet was one of great importance. Warden Ardeo himself had taken a liking to the meek foot slut and took him to his personal chambers every night before bed where he, his husband Clawd and his closest guards used of him like a toy.
They played cruel games.
In one, they slipped a tight latex hood over James’ head with only a tiny hose for air which they routinely pinched shut to watch him squirm and gasp for air. To add insult to injury, full-body tickling sessions usually accompanied this evil exercise.
They used his muzzle like a fleshlight, not even bothering to blindfold him as their cocks made themselves at home between his jaws. Biting was an option, but one that James was smart enough not to choose.
He became intimately familiar with the Warden canine paws, almost as much as he was with his cellmates’ stompers. Unlike the relatively tough soles of the T-Rex, the Warden’s paw-pads were quite sensitive and he had to be careful when worshipping them, as even the slightest tickle meant a harsh punishment for him.
It was after one of these sessions with the Warden, after being thrown back to his cell smelling like the bodily fluids of eight different men and taking his place at the feet of his demanding cellmate that he realized what was already obvious to you and I.
This was no place for rehabilitation.