Animalslave Rescue

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."