Stripped Down,Broken and Remade.

The first thing that registered was the rough, splintery wood against his cheek. The second was the straw—scratchy, dry, and smelling faintly of animal and mildew—pricking at his naked skin. He was on his side, curled in a space too small to stretch out in. A heavy, metallic weight circled his throat, and a duller, more intimate ache emanated from his groin. He opened his eyes. Dim light filtered through the wooden slats of his prison, painting dancing stripes on the straw floor. He was in a large, crude kennel.

He tried to sit up, but the metal collar around his neck scraped against the wood with a harsh grating sound. He reached up with his hands, his fingers tracing the thick, seamless band of cold steel. There was no clasp, no hinge, no lock he could find. It was as if it had been forged around his neck. His other hand drifted down to the source of the ache. His cock, completely shaved, was encased in a similarly seamless metal cage, tight and unforgiving. A small lock nestled at the base, but it was smooth, with no keyhole visible. Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle at the edges of his consciousness. He was naked, collared, and caged, locked in a dog kennel.

He crawled forward, the straw rustling beneath his knees, and peered out through the kennel's opening. He was in a vast, sprawling garden, a wilderness of overgrown flowerbeds and ancient, gnarled trees. The air was cool and carried the scent of damp earth and morning dew. Beyond the garden, rising into the pale dawn sky, were the unmistakable spires of Rochester Cathedral, and beside them, the crumbling, imposing towers of Rochester Castle. The landmark was a beacon of familiarity that offered no comfort. He knew the name, knew it was in Rochester, but the knowledge was a sterile fact, like something read in a book. It meant nothing to him personally. He had no memory of ever being there, or anywhere else for that matter.

The urge to stand, to escape this ridiculous, humiliating confinement, was overwhelming. He shuffled to the kennel's entrance, his bare knees pressing into the cool, damp grass outside. He placed his hands on the ground, braced himself, and pushed up, trying to rise to his feet. He had only straightened his legs by a few inches when a violent, electric shock erupted from the collar. It was a searing, all-encompassing jolt that seized every muscle in his body. His vision went white with pain, and he collapsed back onto the grass, his limbs twitching uncontrollably. He lay there, gasping, the phantom of the charge still buzzing through his nerves. He was trapped not just by the metal, but by an invisible fence of pain.

Defeated, he crawled back into the darkness of the kennel. He huddled in the corner, the rough wood a solid presence against his back, and forced himself to examine his situation with a clarity that the panic had almost stolen. He ran his fingers again over the collar and the cage on his cock. They were expertly crafted, smooth, and heavy. There were no weak points, no edges to pry at. They were permanent fixtures. And then a far more disturbing realization washed over him, colder than the morning dew. He looked at his hands, his legs, his body. They were the body of a man in his thirties, with a few scars and a faint dusting of hair on his chest, but they felt alien. He searched his mind for a name, for a face, for a single memory of a life before this wooden box. There was nothing. A vast, terrifying emptiness. He didn't know who he was. He didn't know why he was here. The not-knowing was a deeper prison than the kennel.

His gaze fell upon the two bowls sitting near the entrance. One contained water, the other a small pile of brown, pebble-like kibble. A wave of hunger and thirst so intense it was nauseating crashed over him. His throat felt like sandpaper, his stomach a hollow, aching void. He was a man, he thought, yet he was contemplating eating from a dog bowl. The indignity warred with the primal need. The need won. He crawled to the water bowl, his movements clumsy and desperate. He picked up the heavy metal bowl, his hands trembling, and lifted it to his lips. The water was cool and clean, and it slid down his throat with a blissful relief that almost made him weep. He drank until his stomach sloshed, then set the bowl down with a clatter.

He turned his attention to the kibble. He poked at the dry pellets with a finger. It looked like pet food. It probably was pet food. He picked one up, turned it over in his fingers, and, with a sense of surreal resignation, placed it between his teeth. He bit down. The taste was bland, vaguely of meat and grain, but the texture was unpleasantly hard and chalky. He crunched it once and spat it out onto the straw. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't. He leaned his head back against the rough wooden wall of the kennel, the weight of the collar a constant, oppressive reminder of his situation. The adrenaline that had fueled his panic and his exploration began to fade, replaced by a profound, bone-deep exhaustion. His eyes felt incredibly heavy, the lids like leaden curtains. He fought it, tried to keep his gaze fixed on the sliver of light outside, but it was a losing battle. His head slumped forward onto his chest, his breathing evened out, and soon, the soft, rhythmic sound of his snoring filled the small wooden space.