Chapter 2: The Cat Crawl Workout

The lights snapped on at 5:45 a.m.

Ethan jolted awake inside his padded cell. His nightie clung to him, damp with nervous sweat. He hadn’t slept. Couldn’t. The contract, the locked door, the smug glint in Dr. Voss’s eyes — it all replayed in his skull like a horror montage.

Then, the door hissed open.

Three attendants entered — all women, all clad in tight black latex bodysuits, faces serene, eyes sharp. Behind them, clicking confidently in six-inch patent heels, came Dr. Lysandra Voss — a queen surveying her newest pet.

“Good morning, Gamma-7,” she cooed. “Time to shed more than calories today. Time to shed… resistance.”

Ethan scrambled back, bare feet slipping on the slick vinyl floor. “No. No way. I didn’t sign up for this. Let me out!”

Dr. Voss didn’t flinch. She simply nodded.

The attendants moved like choreographed predators.

One gripped his wrists, pulling them behind his back, and second one get the outfit: a shimmering, full-body black latex catsuit, seamless, with pre-cut holes for… modifications.

“No — stop — I’m not doing this!” Ethan thrashed, but the restraints held firm. The catsuit was rolled onto him like a second skin, inch by suffocating inch. The material hugged every curve, every imperfection, every trembling muscle. He gasped as the neckline sealed with a magnetic clasp just below his throat.

Then came the corset.

Steel-boned, blood-red, laced from hip to ribcage. Two attendants pulled the laces in unison, their movements smooth, practiced. Ethan cried out as his waist cinched inward, ribs compressing, breath shortening. His posture curved forward — not by choice, but by design.

“Breathe through it, Gamma-7,” Dr. Voss murmured, circling him like a panther. “This is your new anatomy. Accept it.”

He whimpered — then screamed as cold lube touched his most private place.

The vibrating anal plug was thick, tapered, and merciless. It slid in with clinical precision, locking internally with a soft click. Attached to it: a long, fluffy white cat tail that twitched slightly as the vibration setting activated — low, teasing, relentless.

When his arms and legs was bound with belts and padded areas at elbows and knees - so he could only crawl, but with some comfort.
Then one of womans attached to his head with some strange glue red wig with attached to him cat ears.
And other one locked around his penis and balls chastify cage with a lock.

“Mmm, perfect,” Dr. Voss purred. “Now for the final touch.”

A wide leather collar — midnight black with silver studs — was buckled around his neck. From its front dangled a short, gleaming chain… which Dr. Voss promptly hooked to a matching clasp on her own belt.

“You belong to the program now,” she said, tugging the chain gently. “And today, you belong to me.”

They led him — crawling, clumsy, humiliated — out of his room, down a softly lit hallway and enter some room.
Low lighting. Plush gray carpet. And in the center — a single porcelain dish, filled with thick, vanilla-scented protein mush.

A camera drone hovered near the ceiling. Red light blinking. Recording.

“Your breakfast awaits, little kitty,” Dr. Voss said, unhooking his chain and looping it around a ceiling ring. “You will consume the entire portion. Only from the plate. Only on all fours. Only… like a cat.”

She stepped back. The attendants retreated to the corners, tablets in hand, ready to log his compliance — or lack thereof.

Ethan stared at the plate. At his bound legs. At his trembling elbows pressed into the carpet. At his reflection in the mirrored walls — a latex-clad, corseted, tailed… creature.

“This is insane,” he whispered.

“Insane?” Dr. Voss chuckled. “No, Gamma-7. This is therapy. Calories burned through humiliation. Fat melted by obedience. Now… lap.”

He didn’t move.

The vibration in his tail plug suddenly surged — from purr to growl.

He yelped, jerking forward.

“Lap,” she repeated.

Tears welled. His stomach growled. His body shook. But pride — stubborn, stupid pride — held him still.

Dr. Voss sighed.

“Penalty Protocol Alpha.”

One attendant stepped forward with a remote. Pressed a button.

The collar shocked him with electrisity. Ethan gasped, doubling over slightly, his breath coming in shallow pants.

“Try again,” Dr. Voss said sweetly. “The plate. The tongue. The tail must wag while you eat. Wagging means you’re enjoying your progress.”

He looked at the mush. At the camera. At the chain dangling from his collar.

And then… slowly… trembling… Ethan lowered his head.

He extended his tongue.

Lapped.

The vibration purred.

The tail wagged.

And somewhere deep inside — beneath the shame, beneath the fear — a tiny, traitorous part of him… responded.

—

End of Chapter 2