Chapter 3: The Gag and the Open-Air Obedience Garden

The protein mush still coated Ethan’s tongue — thick, cloying, faintly sweet — when the attendants descended upon him again.

“No more snacks for kitty,” Dr. Voss sing-songed, snapping her fingers.

One attendant produced a wide, rubber ball gag, perforated with tiny breathing holes but designed to stretch his jaw open just enough to humiliate, not enough to scream. It clicked into place behind his ears, locking with a tiny padlock. His protests became muffled whimpers, saliva already pooling at the corners of his mouth.

“Good,” Dr. Voss purred, stroking his wig. “Now you won’t beg. Won’t bargain. Won’t bite. Just… obey.”

They unhooked him from the ceiling ring. The chain dangled from his collar like a leash with no master — for now.

Then came the journey outside.

Not through sterile halls under artificial lights — but through heavy double doors that swung open to blinding daylight.

Real sun.

Real wind.

Real birdsong.

And real, unforgiving earth beneath his bound knees.

Playground was a fenced-in acre behind the main lodge — part garden, part obstacle course, part… pet yard.

Grass, worn thin in places. Gravel paths winding between low wooden structures. A shallow wading pool filled with lukewarm water. Tunnels made of real canvas and wood. A teeter-totter with chipped paint. Scattered ceramic bowls, some empty, some filled with water or kibble-like protein pellets.

And everywhere — cameras. On poles. In trees. Drones buzzing lazily overhead like mechanical dragonflies.

“Playtime, Gamma-7,” Dr. Voss announced, standing just outside the door in sunglasses and a linen sundress, clipboard in hand. Her heels sank slightly into the grass. “Crawl. Explore. Wag that tail. Have… fun.”

She didn’t say what happened if he didn’t.

He found out ten minutes later.

Exhausted, trembling, his knees raw despite the padding, Ethan collapsed near the base of the oak tree, panting through the gag. He just needed… a moment. Five seconds. Just to breathe. To feel the sun on his latex-clad back. To pretend, for one heartbeat, that he was still a man — not a pet, not a project, not Gamma-7.

Beep.

The tail plug vibrated — not teasingly. Aggressively. A deep, insistent thrum that shot up his spine, rattling his bones.

He jerked forward.

Beep-beep.

The collar delivered a sharp, stinging shock — not enough to knock him out, but enough to make his vision blur and his muscles spasm. A yelp escaped the gag, muffled and pathetic.

“Ah-ah-ah, little kitty,” Dr. Voss’s voice crackled from a speaker mounted on a nearby pole. “Playtime isn’t over until we say so. Ten-minute idle limit exceeded. Penalty: Level 2 stimulation.”

The plug surged hotter. The collar buzzed with warning.

He scrambled forward — crawling desperately toward a dangling feather toy tied to a low branch. The vibration dialed back. The collar cooled.

“Good kitty,” the speaker cooed.

He crawled to the next station — a low balance beam, sun-warmed wood under his palms. He wobbled across it, tail twitching wildly. A drone zoomed in, capturing his every stumble.

He lapped water from a shallow ceramic dish, the taste of dirt and chlorine mixing with his drool.

He rolled through a canvas tunnel as Dr Voss command him, bells jingling above him, grass stains smearing his catsuit.

Hours passed.

Or maybe minutes. Time dissolved under the sun.

His muscles burned. His jaw ached from the gag. His bladder throbbed — but there was no relief. Not until “elimination hour,” Dr. Voss had said during orientation. Scheduled. Supervised. Humiliating.

He kept crawling.

When the sun dipped low, painting the field in gold and shadow, Dr. Voss finally called it.

“Excellent work, Gamma-7. You’ve burned so many calories today. We’re so proud.”

The attendants gathered him up like a tired pet — limp limbs, drooling gag, tail still faintly buzzing, grass and grit clinging to his suit.

Back inside. Down the hall. Into the washroom.

They hosed him down with a cold outdoor shower nozzle — real water, real pressure, soap stinging his scrapes. Removed the gag (his jaw cracked as it opened). Unlocked the chastity cage just long enough for him to piss into a floor drain while kneeling on wet tile — then relocked it.

The wig? Still glued.

Before bed time they put him in latex sleep sack with locks, and in this way left him in a room for a night.