The Kennel Master Part 1

This story has been written as what I hope is ‘erotic horror’. As such, it’s dark, extreme and explores uncomfortable themes including, non-consensuality, slavery and bestiality – if these do not appeal then do not read it! I emphatically do not condone any of the practices in it and would be appalled if anyone did – do not try this at home! Inevitably, it is written from a male-centric point of view and most (but definitely not all) of the victims in it are female – I am not attempting to target or insult any social group, gender or preference. Let me know what you think – constructively please!


The Kennel Master

Chapter 1

Sam gulped down the last of his breakfast coffee as he shrugged into his battered old waxed jacket and headed for the door. The thought that he really needed a new one flitted across his mind as he stepped out into a glorious early spring morning, but he liked this one, holes, stains and all. It was comfortable and, frankly, shopping for a new one was too much hassle.

Gravel crunched underfoot as he crossed the yard and swung open the five bar gate, dropping the iron hook into a matching loop in the old barn wall to hold it in place. More crunching as he crossed the yard again and entered another outhouse. Waiting for him was his transport of choice, a quad bike so caked in mud he could barely see the electric blue of its paint work. His breath smoked in the chilly air as he swung his leg over the saddle and keyed the ignition. The diesel stuttered into life and he gunned the engine several times to make sure of it, coughing a little as a cloud of blue smoke shot billowed from the exhaust before subsiding. Frowning he made a mental note to have Steve, his team’s mechanic, look it over later, then promptly forgot as he let the clutch out and opened the throttle. Gravel sprayed as he crossed the yard at full pelt and swung onto the track.

Breathing the fresh morning air deeply, he surveyed his surroundings as he sped down the track towards a cluster of large grey-roofed buildings in the distance. Only yesterday all had been cloaked in wet, misty greyness, a condition all too common in the Devon hills when the weather came down off the nearby moors. But it could all change so suddenly, as it had today, and that was one of the things he loved about the place. This morning, the folded green hills were burnished with the sun’s gold, there was a sweet smelling breeze and the birds were singing. A sheet of brown water shot up and to the side, soaking the green hedgerow as Sam steered the bike through a large muddy puddle just for the sheer, childish exuberance of it.

He was a lucky man he thought as he steered around a large pot hole in the track. Not only did he live in this beautiful place, but he was that rarest of creatures; a man who enjoyed what he did thoroughly and without reservation. Sam was a dog breeder and trainer, a man who had studied canines, their biology and behaviour and the shaping of it to his own ends since his youth. It had always been his passion, ever since he could remember and he’d already been expert in many of its practical aspects when he’d gone away to university to gain his degree in animal behaviour which had served to sharpen and deepen his skills through the provision of a rigorous theoretical context. A significant inheritance from a dead grandfather had enabled him to buy this farm, a sizeable chunk of fields and steep woods valleys deep in Devon’s back lanes. The rest, as they say, was history. The next two decades had seen him build a thriving business breeding and training dogs until today he sold to clients all over Europe and had a global reputation sufficient to attract foreign military and police organisations seeking advice on their own techniques.

Sam slowed the bike as he approached the buildings. These contained barns, storage areas, offices, kennels and vet facilities among other things and constituted the focus of his public business, sitting astride the main access to the farm. As the quad bike purred throatily through the yard, a large, overall-clad man with a shaven head appeared in a doorway wiping his hands on a dirty rag. Ostensibly he was one of Sam’s farmhands, taking care of the little livestock the farm kept to maintain the fields and keep up appearances. As a former paratrooper, the man was much more than that and his main job was the security of the farm. Inside the building from which he had appeared were two other men and the facilities to monitor an expensive and extensive system of low-light capable cameras scattered all over the farm.

“Morning, Jim!” called Sam, “I’ll see you later, just doing my rounds for now.”

Jim raised his hand in acknowledgement and Sam gunned his engine again and turned a corner between two of the barn-like buildings down a narrow alley-like track that soon opened up into a grassy field clinging to the side of a steep valley.

He could see the brown of the moors in the distance, but closer, a couple of fields away, the track disappeared under the eaves of the dense wood which filled the narrow valley and spilled over its top onto the land around it. There were sheep grazing in the field and Sam was forced to slow once more. Sheep were born to die, he thought, so stupid were they, and it was perfectly possible one of them might take it into what passed for its brain to walk in front of him. Unfortunately the sheep were something of a necessary evil. Sam kept them for the sake of appearances as they made his farm appear more normal, more like those of his neighbours. He was well aware that dog breeding and training, even on the scale of his operations, required far less space than he possessed, a fact which would set tongues wagging and invite curiosity. Accordingly, Sam also kept sheep and a few cattle and, most importantly the land, which provided him with essential privacy for those aspects of his business that were far, far less public.

Eventually, Sam was free of the sheep and reach the edge of the woods where he dismounted to open a gate and drive into the trees. Twenty metres inside the treeline, he encountered a modern wire fence, its mesh standing to twice his height, capped by coils of barbed wire and painted green to camouflage it from prying eyes. Stopping the quad bike again, he waved and grinned at the camera he knew was concealed in a tree on the other side of the fence and leaned over to tap an entry code into a keypad set into a post in the ground in front of the gate which crossed the track. As he waited he admired the daffodils which clustered in the patches of sunlight dappling the woodland floor and listened to the spring birdsong – and the quite hum of the high voltage electricity that passed through the fence. After a few seconds the gate clanked and whirred into life and he gunned his engine, passed through and shot down the track.

Before long another modern, barn-like building, constructed of sheet steel painted in a camouflage pattern became visible sitting on a flat area that had been carved out of the hillside. This was the centre of the other part Sam’s business, a much darker, but far more lucrative endeavour, for Sam was what, in centuries past, would have been termed a slaver. The building, concealed within a ten hectare woodland compound surrounded by an electric fence contained all the facilities Sam needed to contain, break and train the unfortunates he and his team acquired against their will to produce a highly specialist product for a very niche, but often very wealthy clientele based all over the globe.

It was an operation which had been a lifetime in the making and which constantly developed and evolved, a combination of Sam’s interest in canines and the experience of his youth. For Sam’s parent’s had been slave owners themselves, members of a highly secretive yet extensive and influential group of people, a secret society, which still practiced chattel slavery and was known to its members simply as ‘the Group’. From a relatively early age he’d encountered slavery in all sorts of forms; his parents kept labourers and house slaves on their farm and on his fourteenth birthday he’d received his own slave. She’d been a petite, overweight forty three year old who’d been picked up almost by accident when her twin teenaged daughters had been snatched and she’d been with them. The slaver who’d taken her, an acquaintance of his father, hadn’t seen the point in investing much in her training with little chance of a decent return, so he’d sold her almost immediately. Sam had achieved a lot of firsts with that woman who’d become a receptacle for his raging adolescent lusts on a daily, sometimes hourly basis with every possible orifice and option his fevered imagination could think of thoroughly used.

But it was the more unusual and usually cruel forms of slavery which had really captured his imagination, especially the reduction of humans to livestock. This had mainly come to exposure to pony girl racing; his parents owned a couple of fillies and a stallion they kept at a specialist and highly secret stables and regularly took him to events. He’d been intrigued, but often felt strangely cheated that the potential of the form wasn’t being exploited to the full, that many such slaves were still treated as a hybrid animals with, despite the harness they were forced to wear and the brands and the whips which marked and encouraged them, far too much of their human dignity intact. It was a feeling which became intertwined with both his experimentations with his own slave and his work with canines which, while he was studying at university, blossomed into the ideas which drove the start of his new business; the training of dog-slaves.

Following the track, Sam steered the quad bike around the side of the building where it opened out into a parking area which already contained several farm vehicles. Quickly he parked the bike, turned off the engine and headed for a door in the rear wall.

Chapter 2

Inside, he found a well-equipped kitchen or break room, containing cupboards, a large cooking range and a sink at one end and a table and chairs at the other. As always, the first thing Sam noticed was the noise level. The building was very well soundproofed so that outside nothing could be heard, but Sam had always sworn that somehow, that kept the sound inside the structure. Even in here, with two doors separating the kitchen from the main holding area, the noise felt deafening after the peaceful woods outside; a cacophony of canine barking, yelps, whines and other, less easily definable noises that always took him a minute or two to get used to.

Two people, a man and a woman, were already in the room, dressed in overalls and each busy with several buckets into which they were mixing various foodstuffs.

“Oh, hi, Sam,” said the woman, looking up as she poured a carton of milk into her bucket and stirred vigorously.

“Morning, Ellie,” said Sam, “I’m glad I haven’t missed feeding time.”

Ellie smiled, white teeth flashing in a smooth, olive face, “no, we’re running a little later than we’d like today, so you’re in luck.” She was a small woman, in her mid thirties, with long lustrous dark hair now tied back in a business-like ponytail, to match her dark skin. Recruiting staff had been a slow and frustrating business in the early years of Sam’s business, something, in the absence of a widespread internet had been restricted to trying to carefully establish and develop contacts among the bdsm community at various specialist events. The growth of the internet had made things much easier although, as ever, time invested in vetting potential candidates was still significant. Ellie had been one such contact, a dominant woman he’d encountered on a personals site, a nurse by profession, with a strong interest in non-consensual role-play.