Stripped Down,Broken and Remade.

He woke not gradually, but with a violent, convulsive shock. An icy torrent of water slammed into his face, flooding his mouth and nose, shocking his system into a frantic, panicked state. He gasped, choked, and spluttered, his lungs burning as they rejected the invasive cold. The disorientation was absolute. It wasn't just the sudden, brutal awakening; it was the suffocating darkness. A tight, rubbery hood was pulled over his head, cutting off all light and muffling sound into a dull, distant roar. His arms were wrenched behind his back, locked together by some unyielding metal cuff that bit into his wrists. The extra level of sensory deprivation sent a spike of pure terror through him.

A sharp, brutal kick connected with his ribs, not a tap, but a forceful blow that drove the air from his already struggling lungs. "Scoot out of the kennel. Now." The voice was female, cold and clipped, with an accent he couldn't quite place but which sounded vaguely Asian, perhaps Korean or Taiwanese. It was a voice devoid of any warmth, a voice accustomed to being obeyed. "Get up." Another kick, this time to his thigh, urged him forward.

In that moment of pain and fear, something shifted in the back of his mind. A flicker of old instinct, a ghost of a forgotten life. He didn't know who he was, but some deeper, buried part of him did. This part recognized the situation not just as a random nightmare, but as an operational scenario. He had training for this. He didn't know what the training was, or when he'd received it, but the knowledge was there: bide your time, gather information, look for mistakes, look for complacency. Panic was a luxury he couldn't afford. He needed to survive. He needed to observe.

He struggled out of the kennel, his movements clumsy and hampered by his bound arms and the hood. He scrambled onto the damp grass, then forced himself to his feet, his muscles protesting. The moment he was upright, a sharp, metallic tug pulled at his neck. It wasn't a chain or a leash; it was a solid, rigid bar, attached to the collar, giving him no slack. He was being led like an animal. He stumbled along a cold, uneven concrete path, trying to find his footing in the darkness of the hood. His senses, starved of sight, began to hone in on other details. The faint, expensive perfume drifting from the woman in front of him, the sharp, rhythmic clicking of her heels on the concrete, and a slight, rhythmic creaking sound, like stiff leather. He didn't know why these details were important, but his instinct was screaming at him to notice everything.

A heavy door scraped open ahead. He stumbled as his foot caught the raised threshold, kicking it hard. A bolt of pure, white-hot agony shot up from his toes, and he cried out involuntarily. The woman pulling him was surprisingly strong; she yanked back on the bar, her grip firm enough to keep him from crashing to the ground. The bar was detached from his collar, and immediately, gloved hands grabbed his arm, pulling him roughly through the building. He was propelled forward until he was brought to an abrupt halt. Another chain was clipped to the ring on his collar, and it was pulled down, forcing him to his knees. He was bent over a padded bench of some kind, his face pressed into the rough leather. A thick strap was buckled tightly across his lower back, pinning him in place. The cuffs on his wrists were released, but his freedom was short-lived; his hands were pulled forward and re-secured to the front of the bench. His legs were kicked apart, and chains were attached to his ankles, spreading him wide and locking them to the bench's rear legs. He was completely immobilized, exposed, and vulnerable.

That's when the beating started. It began with a whistling cut through the air, followed by a line of searing fire across his buttocks. A cane. He gritted his teeth, his body tensing against the restraints. Another, and another. The blows were methodical, precise, and administered without a hint of emotion. He lost count after twenty, his world shrinking to the rhythmic agony and the sound of the cane slicing the air. Twenty-five slashes across his backside and the tops of his legs, each one a fresh layer of torment. Then the target changed. The cane fell with excruciating accuracy on the soles of his feet, ten times each. The pain was a different kind of agony, sharp and blinding, and he couldn't stop the cries that were torn from his throat. He was shaking uncontrollably by the time they stopped, his body slick with sweat. The respite was brief. A new, heavier sound replaced the whistle of the cane—a dull, solid thud. They were paddling him with a heavy leather paddle, each impact a deep, bruising blow that rattled his entire body.

Then, silence. The only sounds were his own ragged breathing and the frantic pounding of his heart. He smelled the acrid tang of cigarette smoke and heard the low murmur of female voices. He recognized the accent again, the same as his captor's. He strained to listen, but the words were muffled by the hood and his own pain. Suddenly, the bench creaked as someone sat on his back. A weight settled on him, and a hand, almost gentle in contrast to the violence, began to stroke the rubber hood covering his head. The tenderness was more terrifying than the beating. He flinched as a sharp, focused heat bloomed on his shoulder. A cigarette was being extinguished on his skin. He screamed, the sound raw and guttural. The weight remained on his back, an impassive observer to his agony. He felt a shift behind him, someone kneeling between his spread legs. He grunted, a fresh wave of humiliation and pain washing over him as a large, unyielding object was shoved slowly, deeply, and mercilessly into his virgin arse. He felt the weight of the person behind it as she began to fuck him with a strap-on, each thrust a violation that tore a fresh cry from his throat. Tears of pain, shame, and utter despair ran down the inside of the hood, and his mind, unable to bear any more, simply drifted away into a merciful, blank oblivion.