Omnitech Corporation

"You must understand that the role of Pet Vibe is very specific," he begins without preamble as we head down a corridor. "You will, so to speak, be a living mascot. Your main task is to create a relaxing atmosphere for the executives while meeting their expectations of submission. You must behave like a pet, never speaking unless explicitly asked to do so." His voice is calm, as if he were reciting a list of mundane instructions. "Posture, silence, and responsiveness are essential. You must react to every command, every gesture, exactly as you are told."

I feel my stomach knot as he lists the rules, each one more degrading than the last. "And what if I make a mistake?" The question escapes me before I can hold it back. He stops and looks at me with a glacial smile. "A mistake? Don't worry, we are quite tolerant with newcomers; we will help you improve during your weekly ongoing training," he says with a mischievous smile, his eyes looking at me provocatively as if encouraging me to try. "Is that clear?" I nod and swallow, fighting against the mounting pressure. "Very well." He resumes walking, and I have no choice but to follow, my thoughts swirling as he continues to describe the precise expectations of the role.

Monsieur Keller escorts me into a small, austere room, lit by harsh, impersonal light. A simple low table stands in the center of the room, surrounded by shelves where various pieces of equipment are neatly arranged. "Undress," he orders in a detached tone. My stomach rebels, but I force myself to move. I slowly undo the buttons of my suit, then remove my blouse, piece by piece, until I am left only in my underwear in this cold, sterile room. He looks at me disapprovingly, "Please remove everything, you won't need it anymore," insists Monsieur Keller in a tone that seems non-negotiable. I give in and my underwear finally falls, leaving me naked and vulnerable to his lecherous looks. I carefully fold my clothes and place them on a chair, taking a deep breath before turning to the table, my hands modestly covering my erogenous zones. "On all fours on the table, Zoey." His voice is calm, almost gentle, leaving me stunned by his detachment. I approach, my heart pounding, and obediently position myself on all fours on the cold wood, hands flat, knees slightly apart. Blood rushes to my head, I'm red with shame from this degrading posture and still can't believe what I'm doing.

I watch attentively as Monsieur Keller approaches the shelves, his fingers sliding over the equipment arranged with almost surgical precision. He takes out a soft collar made of smooth, modern material, holding it in front of my eyes for a moment before opening it. "Here's a gift from the company, the connected collar that will accompany you permanently," he explains, his voice taking on an almost commercial tone, as if he were praising the virtues of a high-end product. "This collar, which contains your ID, will allow executives to access your personal data, track your every movement at any time. It will also transmit your physiological data in real time: heart rate, breathing, body temperature... everything they need to evaluate your performance." I freeze under his explanation, as if I had been doused with a bucket of cold water. All the executives in the company would know everything about me, and I dare not imagine how these data would be concretely exploited.

My lips tremble as I feel the flexible, cold material closing around my neck. "Click," the sound of the lock echoes in the silence of the room, the collar exerting a slight pressure, enough to give me a sensation of strangling. Immediately, tears stream down my face, I realize that my humanity has been stripped away. The more I think about it, the more I regret neglecting my studies; I was an idiot who didn't understand the stakes involved, but it was too late, and I can't go back. "Come on, come on, it's not that bad! Here, we will take care of you, and you won't have to worry about anything," consoles Monsieur Keller, his reassuring voice sounding to me like dissonant notes, reinforcing my despair.

As I start to dry my tears, his fingers brush his touchscreen phone, and suddenly, an electrostatic shock, barely perceptible but strong enough to make me flinch, runs through my body. Surprised, I let out a brief moan. This collar that sticks to my skin is also a cruel tool of punishment, and I question internally with horror: "But who will have access to this feature?" As if Monsieur Keller could read my thoughts, he responds: "This device, which serves to punish you, is variable and can be triggered by anyone connecting with their phone." This information confronts me with a brutal reality: my discipline was administrable by all, even by the intern at the very bottom of the ladder.

I keep silent, but a part of me died at that moment. This collar I must now wear permanently is the all-powerful symbol of my submission and my renouncement as a human being. It crushes my spirit like an implacable truth: I am a connected dog, a prisoner of a yoke they control. Every heartbeat, every breath, every tremble will be noted, recorded, evaluated in a context of gamification. I belong to them completely.

Monsieur Keller returns to the shelves, letting his gaze roam over the various accessories before grabbing a complex black leather harness. "Now, the harness," he says, approaching me. He unrolls the straps with precision, as if handling a delicate instrument. "This equipment is designed to limit your movements and keep you in an adequate posture." He wraps the first strap around my waist, pulling it tight before securing it with a sharp click. The leather bites into my bare skin, a constant reminder of my submission. "The executives will appreciate seeing you move in various ways in this posture." He then adjusts the straps around my shoulders and thighs, forcing me to keep my back arched and my hips raised. Each buckle he tightens constrains me a little more, each movement reducing my freedom. Monsieur Keller continues by grabbing another strap, wrapping it around my arms, bending my forearms upward, forcing my elbows to bend beneath me. "There you go," he murmurs while locking the attachments, "This will make your beastly movements more realistic." My arms are now prisoners, my hands almost touching my shoulders, my elbows supporting me on the table's surface.

"Close your hand like you're going to punch," he orders. Once my fists are clenched, Monsieur Keller slips pink leather gloves over them, trapping them in this restrictive posture. "There, animals only manipulate things with their snouts, right?" Stretching his smile even wider, he adds, "You will have to imitate them well, okay?" He asks these questions but expects no answer, immediately continuing his work of dehumanization.

He then moves to my legs, securing straps around my ankles and thighs before connecting them together, forcing my feet to fold against the back of my thighs. This position compels me to keep my knees bent, my feet folded against my thighs. Every movement seems impossible, every muscle stretched and held in place by the harness. The leather creaks slightly with each adjustment. The harness incorporates silicone protections, discreetly placed at pressure points: on my elbows, knees, and hips. "These protections will prevent injuries from friction or long periods in this position. After all, we want you to be fully operational for the executives, don't we?" His voice is soft, almost mocking, as he checks each attachment one last time. I'm completely at his mercy, trapped in this posture of absolute submission, with the only consolation being the padding that prevents me from suffering more.

Once the harness is securely in place, Monsieur Keller returns to the shelves, his gaze settling on a series of metal boxes. "Now let's move to another crucial element of this stage," he says in an almost jovial tone, opening one of the boxes to pull out an anal plug. It's small, with a fluffy rabbit tail extension. I surprise myself feeling a slight relief seeing its modest size. He first applies some lubricant to the plug, his movements precise and methodical, before inserting it slowly, testing my reaction, then abruptly withdrawing it. "No, that one is too light," he murmurs thoughtfully. He then chooses a larger model, with a long, silky white fox tail. He carefully covers the plug's surface with lubricant before pushing it deeper. I feel my muscles tense as it progresses, the slippery sensation easing the discomfort without completely masking it. "Not bad, but I think we can do better." He removes the plug again, my breath catching under the intensity of the action.

He takes a third model, even more imposing, adorned with a thick, gray wolf's tail. He presses a generous amount of lubricant onto the smooth surface, his fingers distributing it with care. The insertion is a true ordeal, each centimeter feeling like an insurmountable challenge despite the preparation. I bite my lip, trying to hold back a moan of pain. Monsieur Keller watches my reactions, his cold eyes analyzing every twitch. "That's a good candidate," he murmurs, satisfied, leaving the plug in place. The weight of the object and the pressure it exerts crush me from the inside, and I feel it with each breath. As I struggle to adjust, he suddenly turns, his eyes lit up as if touched by grace. "Ah, but I forgot! We received a new model last week." His smile widens as he rummages in a box at the back of the shelf, pulling out an enormous plug, adorned with aggressive studs, with a long lion's tail. "You have a nice elasticity, and it would be a shame not to make full use of it," he says, almost with perverse tenderness. "It's designed for maximum stimulation, while giving you a feline touch... you'll be the first to try it." I look with horror at the monstrous object he cherishes in his hand and let out an internal scream, "My God, this thing will tear me apart!"

Without regard for my apprehension, he delicately removes the previous plug, barely giving me time to relax before positioning the new one. He repeats the process, applying a large amount of lubricant, his fingers spreading the substance over each stud. The insertion is slow, each merciless stud carving its way into my sensitive flesh. My agony extends with each millimeter this abhorrent phallus travels. Monsieur Keller watches intently, savoring every moment of my ordeal. "It fits you like a glove," he says, pressing a little more so my walls can close around the narrowed section, completely hiding this monstrosity and leaving only the tail visible. "The manufacturer even thought to implement a pin-locking system," marveling at this ingenuity. He grasps the base with his fingers, pushes lightly, then turns it until he hears a locking click. During the rotation, I feel the pin deploy against my anal wall, sealing the plug in my flesh. An oppressive sensation takes hold of my entire body, confronting me abruptly with my helplessness. My only freedom now is to choose to obey. "Once inserted, it cannot be removed without external help." My body is on fire, my thoughts blurred by the pain, but I strive to remain still, trying to maintain some semblance of control as everything slips away from me.

Monsieur Keller finally steps back, admiring his work. "Now, let's move on to the last accessory." His voice is gentle, almost amused, as he turns to a new shelf, ready to select the final element that will complete my "uniform" as a Pet Vibe. At the shelf, he rummages through the accessories, his gaze stopping on a headband adorned with fake cat ears, perfectly matching my long tail. "This should complete your outfit," he says, delicately taking it as if handling a high-end piece. He approaches me, his movements precise, and places the headband on my head, the fake ears standing up on either side, framing my face. Here I am in service attire; at this point, I hope for little and perhaps should even be grateful that the list of equipment ends here.

"Don't worry, you'll get used to your equipment very quickly; now let's go to your workspace." Then Monsieur Keller signals me to get off the table. A feeling of stress overwhelms me, "How?" Here I am already facing my first obstacle: getting down from a very small table. An effort that would mean nothing when you're fully free of your limbs, but mine are constrained, clumsy, hindered by the harness straps and the pressure of the plug constantly reminding me of its intrusive presence. If I decide to descend head first, my arms, too short, won't be able to catch me, and I'll certainly tumble down. I decide to back up, sliding my hips to the edge, then lowering myself gently onto my tiptoes. "I see you know how to adapt well!" Monsieur Keller mocks. He crouches towards me and attaches a leash to my collar, then guides me towards the door.

The corridor stretches before us, bright and empty. My knees and elbows glide over the shiny floor, the silicone protections barely mitigating the discomfort of the position. Keller walks at a steady pace, the leash in his hand, forcing me to follow docilely. I move more slowly than him, and I feel the tension of the leash increase, compelling me to hurry to catch up. We progress like this, while his step is sure and assured, mine is chaotic and unstable. As we disappear down the corridor, I realize that my old life is nothing but a distant memory. Now, thinking only deepens my despair. I take refuge in the movement of my steps, one after the other, advancing relentlessly at the pace of my tormentor, making my equipment resonate with a funereal melody of metallic clinking.

Monsieur Keller continues to guide me through the long corridor; I crawl awkwardly, nearly losing my balance several times. Each time, I catch myself at the last moment, my body fighting against the instability imposed by the equipment. Each advance is a brutal reminder of the pain inflicted by the studs deeply embedded in me. Sometimes, by reflex, my body desperately tries to expel the plug, but it only intensifies the pain, and the object remains firmly in place, immutable. A prisoner of this ruthless prison, each strap of the harness tightens around me, every movement seems to strangle me a little more under the pressure of the collar around my neck. The tail attached to the plug swings behind me with every gesture, adding an extra note of humiliation to this pathetic concert.

While we traverse the corridor, executives pass us, warmly greeting Monsieur Keller before casting predatory looks at me. At that moment, shame overwhelms me, and all I dream of is digging a big hole, burying myself in it, and disappearing forever. My body tenses, my thoughts scatter, desperately seeking a way to escape these insistent gazes. But, fortunately, these executives continue on their way, probably because the moment wasn't yet right for them to exploit me.

We arrive at a large, finely carved dark wooden door. A logo, made up of a coffee cup and small animal footprints, is engraved in the wood, easily hinting at the nature of the place. Keller stops for a moment, turning to me with a smile that makes me uncomfortable. "Here is the Pet Coffee Shop, Zoey. This is where you'll spend most of your time." He opens the door confidently and, with a gentle tug on the leash, leads me gently inside.